Warning: This story contains graphic sexual content. No really.

Sometimes, as a wolf, you hear things you don't want to hear. They're either little things, like the slimy crackle of a cold, or big things, too many things, things that overwhelm - like a buzzing crowd, like a plane roaring overhead, or like a collection of people standing all at once, chairs scraping against the floor like the collective screeching of a horde of dying animals.

Sometimes Derek would just assume not be a werewolf and say he did.

There are moments, though, where he'll hear something that makes it all seem worthwhile, that makes it seems like maybe it'd be worth it to stick through 'til the end. It's usually something subtle, like a pretty laugh, or a steady heartbeat, or a sigh with a particular cadence; sometimes it's an interesting conversation, and sometimes, which is even better, it'll be a conversation that's interesting not because it involves Derek avoiding death, but because it's just fucking interesting.

He's hearing something now that he should ignore; he's hearing something now that he shouldn't like; he's hearing something now that he's surprised at himself for loving. He realizes for a brief moment that he maybe should have slept out in the woods, or risked going back to his own home - but at the time, those risks were too great.

They still are, if he's honest.

This, though, may have unforeseen consequences. Judging by the uncomfortable heaviness of his jeans on his dick and the barrage of noises that he'll hear for weeks, he doesn't know how he'll react around the person making these noises.

He puts an arm over his eyes and tries to focus, to not listen like he knows he can - but he wants to listen. He wants to listen to the low, desperate panting, to the hard beating heart, to the dirty, sloppy skin against skin, to the legs shifting and pushing back the sheets - Derek wonders if he's naked, or just shirtless, if his pants are shoved down past his hips, or none of that or some combination of all - to the almost imperceptible catches of breath of the back of his throat - are his eyes screwed shut, is he watching himself, or is he looking at something else? - to the dry shifting of a hand running up his chest - or maybe he's running his hand across his face? Or his thigh? Or through his hair? - to every single dirty noise he knows he'll be thinking of for weeks.

Derek sighs and looks down at himself. He's so hard it hurts, but like fuck he's gonna jerk off just because he's overhearing Stiles fucking jerk off.

He lays his head back down and taps his fingers on his ribs. He tries to focus on the noise of his fingers, though not every hard, when suddenly the sloppy noise of Stiles' hand on his dick pauses and is replaced by some kind of shuffling - is he just readjusting? - and then Derek hears a bottle pop open, and a slew of new noises.

Derek's eyes are wide and staring into the darkness. Stiles is making these tiny little open mouthed noises, these short little gasps or moans, and Derek knew if he weren't a werewolf he might not've even heard them if he were in the bed beside Stiles. Derek winces and sets his hands over his face at the thought. That's not something he fucking wants to think about, but there he was, thinking about Stiles showing him what he was doing like some fucking slut, and suddenly Derek is wrapping his arms together above his head and refusing to touch himself. No. No no.

Then Stiles outright moans and Derek can hear another kind of wet, sloppy noise, and he can hear Stiles jerking himself off again, and goddammit why couldn't Stiles keep it quick and simple? Derek knows that noise. It's the sound of something moving in and out of something wet, and so all he can think about is Stiles with his legs spread and one hand fucking his fingers into his ass and the other with his hand roughly grasping his dick. He's moaning, now, close-mouthed like he's trying to be quiet, lowly and desperately, and breathing through his nose, and subtly moving on his bed, ruffling the sheets, and Derek imagines Stiles spreading his legs further and arching his back and sucking his bottom lip into his mouth and turning his head to the side as he curls his fingers inside himself.

Stiles starts moaning and breathing open-mouthed and moving his arms and hands faster and harder against himself, and Derek can't fucking take it anymore so he nearly rips open his jeans to get to his dick and he's moving in time with Stiles, moving in time with his moans and whimpers and his ohfucks like they're some perverted metronome, and then -

"OhgoddamnDerekfuck-" and Stiles draws out the 'k' until it's cut off by a long, fragmented moan, and Derek is swallowing back his own moans when he cums hard in his hand.

They come down together, breathing gradually slower and slower, movements stilling, and Derek is reeling. Stiles said his name. He moaned his name. He said his name. He said it just before he fucking came. Derek wipes his hand on a Kleenex and sighs. Fuck. He'll be thinking about this longer than a few weeks. He's not sure if he's ever wanted to fuck anyone as badly, wanted to just tear their innocence apart with his teeth and claws and make them make the cum all over themse –

Fuck. Derek rubs his palms into his eyes and wishes that he slept in the woods.

Stiles is laughing. Derek opens his eyes. Stiles is laughing harder. Derek sits up. Stiles is still laughing. Derek's face begins to pull into a glare. Then Stiles is still having a good, healthy laugh, and Derek lies back down. Of course the little shithead knew a werewolf would be able to hear him. At first Derek is angry.

But then Derek is smirking, and if Stiles were able to see this smirk, he probably wouldn't still be laughing.