Fic: UST (An Unfortunate Series of Tropes) (10/20)
Title: UST (An Unfortunate Series of Tropes)
Rating: NC-17
Genres: Humor, Angst
Setting: Post Season 3B, slightly AU from mid-season 3B
Pairings: Stiles/Derek, background Scott/Kira
Wordcount: 3.5k (this chapter); ~50k total
Betas: percygranger and desiderii
Stiles and Derek sitting in a tree, M-A-R-R-I-E-D.
Wait, what?
Or: Stiles thought he and Derek were finally getting to be bros, and then Deaton had to go and ruin everything with his stupid spell.
Chapter 1: Animal Transformation (Or: Lack of self-preservation instinct)
Chapter 2: Bed Sharing (Or: Don’t get drool on my pillow)
Chapter 3: Clothes Stealing (Or: My whole life is a lie)
Chapter 4: Unexpected Nerd References (Or: Carry on with your bad self)
Chapter 5: Gone Missing (Or: Scott is the worst)
Chapter 6: Sleep Deprivation (Or: Give my love to Rosebud)
Chapter 7: Bonding Ritual (Or: Zero of ten, would not recommend)
Chapter 8: Accidental Marriage (Or: Why does no one trust me?)
Chapter 9: Road Trip (Or: Screwed, and not in the good way)
Author's Note: This chapter has some seriously dubious sexual content, folks. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED. [For spoileriffic details, click here.]This chapter contains Stiles specifically disregarding Derek's prior request to not masturbate, and as a result, Derek interrupts him mid-session and some angry making out ensues.
Chapter 10: Dubious Consent (Or: Mother fudgesicles)
“You’re lucky there was a cancellation,” the lady behind the counter was saying, as she waited for Derek’s credit card transaction to go through. “It’s crazy this weekend, and accommodating someone at the last minute like this is always a tricky thing.”
Derek smiled at her with all his teeth showing, the super fake flirty smile that Stiles loathed. It made him want to punch Derek in his stupidly adorable bunny teeth.
“Room twenty-four, it’s up the stairs and to the left. Have fun, you two!” She sent them an exaggerated wink, and Derek’s smile widened before he turned on his heel and pushed Stiles out the office door ahead of him.
“So, uh, not bad, right?” Stiles said, craning back to look at Derek, who had dropped all pretense of pleasantry and was now sporting his usual serial killer expression.
He glared at Stiles from under his thick bushy doom eyebrows. “Not bad? Stiles, I just paid $130 for one night in a shitty motel. Are you expecting me to be happy?”
“You? Happy? Never. I just thought maybe you could try seeing the positives in the situation. For once.” Stiles pulled a face as he craned his neck back to watch Derek while they climbed the stairs to the second floor. “Clearly that was a mistake.”
“Clearly,” Derek said. A few seconds later, he added, “Watch where you’re going.”
Stiles turned around just in time to crash face-first into the wall. “Ow! What the fuck, Derek?”
“I warned you,” he said, tone mild.
“You did that on purpose!” Stiles cried as he clutched one hand to his nose. He was actually hoping for a little blood, because it might make Derek feel guilty. When he peeked at his hand, though, it was dry and clean. Damn.
“You didn’t break it,” Derek said, as he passed Stiles in the hallway, car key dangling from one hand and suitcase from the other.
“What do you mean, ‘I didn’t break it.’ How would you know?”
Derek turned back to look at him, one eyebrow raised. “Oh, maybe because of this.” He then stabbed his car key into his biceps.
“Mother fudgesicles!” yelled Stiles, as he felt a sharp, stabbing pain in his upper left arm, right where the bruise on Derek’s arm had quickly formed and was now just as quickly disappearing. “What was that for?”
“If you’d broken your nose, I would have felt it,” Derek said, shrugged, and started back down the hallway.
Stiles flexed his biceps as the pain dissipated. “God, you’re almost as bad as Peter. What the hell, Derek?”
He didn’t see that Derek had stopped in the middle of the hallway until he walked into him.
Stiles blinked as he fumbled for balance. Derek had gripped Stiles’ shoulder to keep him upright, and Stiles realized he’d dug his fingers into the sleeves of Derek’s henley in turn.
He let go as Derek stepped inside the room, but as soon as he moved to enter the room, he nearly collided with Derek again.
“Dammit,” Derek swore, and Stiles looked over the contents of the room to see what was wrong. The room was a little cramped, with cheery nondescript landscape paintings on the walls, yellow and blue striped wallpaper, a squashy looking yellow armchair crammed next to a scratched coffee table, and a yellow and orange bedspread on the medium sized bed in the center.
It took Stiles’ brain a moment to catch up, and he groaned louder even than Derek had. There was only one bed.
“I’ll sleep in the chair,” Derek said.
“What the hell, we already went through this!” Stiles settled his hands on his hips and glared over at Derek. “You need a good night’s sleep if you’re gonna be driving early tomorrow. Don’t make me drag you to bed. Because I will.”
Derek looked singularly unimpressed by Stiles’ threat. He tipped his suitcase over onto its side without giving any indication of having heard Stiles.
“Ugh,” Stiles said, “whatever. Feel free to stay here and brood, or whatever it is you do, and I’m going to go forage for food.” He stuffed his hands in his jean pockets as Derek knelt over his suitcase and started unzipping it.
Stiles waited for Derek to say something, but he stayed silent.
“So,” Stiles said. “How far can I go without, you know, headache?”
Derek sighed, but looked up from his luggage. “I don’t know. Same building, maybe?”
“Okay,” Stiles said. “I’ll check the lobby. You want anything?”
“No.”
Stiles bit back a sigh. It was stupid to feel disappointed. “Okay, fine,” he said instead, “your loss. I’m just gonna. Go.”
He left the room before Derek could say anything in response.
***
Stiles slipped back into the room as stealthily as he could and exhaled a sigh of relief when he saw Derek’s silhouette tucked under the covers, just barely visible in the light that spilled from the crack in the door.
It had probably been excessive for Stiles to wait until after midnight in the hotel lobby, playing Robot Unicorn Attack on his phone, but he had endured enough drama during his twenty minute conversation with his dad. He didn’t need to deal with Derek as he got ready for bed. He certainly didn’t want to convince him that sharing the bed wouldn’t be as horrible as it sounded.
Because it was going to be. Horrible, that is. As Stiles’ eyes adjusted to the darkness, he let himself look like he’d been avoiding, like he’d wanted to, for the past two days (if he were being honest with himself, like he’d wanted for over a year now).
Derek really was beautiful in sleep. Softer, somehow, without the worry lines and the aggressive eye rolls. His eyes flickered beneath his eyelids, and his mouth had fallen slack. Every muscle in his face and neck looked relaxed, missing the awful tension of the daylight hours.
Stiles dragged his gaze away before shucking his shirt and jeans, aiming for the stuffed armchair but probably ending up on the coffee table, or something. He padded over to the side of the bed, throat working in a dry swallow, before pulling back the covers and sliding inside as gently as possible. Barely even breathing, he settled back against the pillows.
Now that he was up close, Stiles could see more detail than before. Derek’s stubble was a dark scruff, almost a week’s worth of beard growth at this point. His lashes occasionally fluttered against his cheek, and Stiles could see the rising and falling of his chest, the covers occasionally slipping a fraction of an inch down the curve of his shoulder.
Stiles shut his eyes, but he could still see the image of Derek painted onto the backs of his eyelids. He was looking at Stiles, smiling at something he’d said, the corners of his eyes crinkling up. Stiles opened his eyes again, and the image was replaced with the monochrome of Derek sleeping.
Stiles rolled over so he was facing towards the door, and tried counting werewolves.
***
It was still dark when Stiles woke up. His skin was prickly and oversensitive, and Derek was a hot line along his side, one arm thrown over his chest, anchoring him to the mattress.
He opened bleary eyes and turned to find the motel alarm clock. It wasn’t even three yet, and Stiles let out a sigh of frustration as quietly as he could.
Derek shifted in his sleep, nuzzling into Stiles’ neck, and suddenly, Stiles was completely, one hundred percent awake.
He was also so hard he ached from it. Judging from the hot length poking into his hip, so was Derek.
Stiles felt his own dick twitch at the thought.
There was no way he was going to just lay here in bed, awake, next to the object of his lust, while he slowly expired from a case of blue balls. It took him a few tries, but he finally managed to slip out from under Derek’s arm, and extricated himself from the tangle of covers. Derek made no sign of waking, just hummed quietly in his sleep and gathered a fold of blankets to his chest to fill the empty space where Stiles had been. Stiles tried not to feel insulted that he was so easily replaced.
He crept into the bathroom and stared at himself in the mirror, the door open wide to let in the few rays of light that were spilling in from the hallway. He looked awful. His hair was sticking up on one side and his face was pale, emphasizing his weird moles and the way his nose turned up. He ran a finger over his lips, which were slightly chapped, and scraped his tongue against his teeth in an attempt to get rid of the lingering taste of morning breath.
All of which did nothing for his ridiculous, persistent, aching erection.
He didn’t care what Derek had said; he had to do something about this. Either he’d wake up in the morning with a hair-trigger hard-on, or at some point during the night he’d shoot his load onto the bed sheets, and probably Derek himself. With any luck, Derek would be too busy in dreamland to notice when Stiles started stroking himself off. Heck, he could play it off as Derek having a wet dream. He might have to sleep in a wet spot, but at least they’d be in separate rooms when the wet spot happened.
Stiles bit his lip. Derek had asked him not to, but surely this was an emergency? Besides, people had wet dreams all the time. It wasn’t Stiles’ fault. Really, he was saving them both from the humiliation of coming at the same time in the same place. Being in a separate room for this was a service. One which Stiles would gladly provide.
Mind made up, Stiles shucked his boxers and stepped into the shower. Even with his night vision, though, he couldn’t really see the knob, so he got out, closed the door, and flicked on the light switch. Swearing quietly to himself, he leaned against the sink as he waited for his eyes to adjust.
The shower was the one high point in the crappy hotel room. Roomy enough to stand in without being hit by the spray, it was a full cube with a hinged glass door. It had an adjustable shower head and a single rotating lever to adjust both temperature and pressure. Stiles pointed the shower head at the wall before turning the lever to as hot as it would go.
Lingering in the corner as he waited for the water to heat up, Stiles glanced down at himself. His erection had already left a few sticky spurts of pre-come onto his stomach, one strand stretching from the slit to just above his belly button. He folded his hands behind his back to resist the temptation to touch himself. This was probably the only chance he’d get to jerk off for the next day or so, and he wanted to make it count.
The water was starting to heat up now, the shower filling with steam, and Stiles closed his eyes and flexed his shoulders as he tried to relax. It was a little weirder to fantasize about Derek when he was in the next room. Stiles bit his lip as he concentrated on the bond. Underneath the warm humid air of the shower, he could feel the ghost of cotton sheets rubbing against Derek’s skin; the friction of his boxer briefs rubbing along Derek’s cock, trapped as it was between Derek’s body and the mattress.
What Stiles wouldn’t give to get his hands on that cock.
Stiles could feel his thigh muscles clenching, and he tightened the grip on his wrist so he wouldn’t reach around. He could remember what Derek looked like from that first day of seeing him naked in the woods. He still hadn’t seen him hard, though. How much bigger was he? Were the texture of the strokes different with foreskin? They must be different, that extra piece of skin slipping up and down the shaft as Stiles closed his hand around it and pumped. Maybe even stretching over the head once he’d played with it enough.
Stiles’ throat was suddenly dry, and he opened his mouth to breathe in a cloud of steam. Opening his eyes and unwrapping his hand from his wrist, he reached around to test the water temperature. It was good and hot, almost scalding, just like he liked, and he reached up to adjust the shower head before stepping fully under the spray.
Despite his best efforts at silence, he let out a moan as the hot water sluiced over his skin. He swallowed a few mouthfuls to wet his parched throat.
Stiles spread his hands under the spray, waiting until water started dribbling down his forearms, before closing his eyes and reaching down.
He let himself imagine Derek’s hand sliding up and down his shaft, catching lightly on the crown, Derek reaching down to massage his balls, middle finger sliding back to stroke the sensitive flesh behind.
“Derek,” he breathed out, blood pulsing hot in his dick, the world narrowed to the wet slide of his hands and the pleasure building in the pit of his stomach.
He was getting close, the pleasure building almost too fast, and he bit his lip, relishing the jolt of pain.
“Dammit, Stiles,” Derek growled, and Stiles tensed, his hand stilling on his dick mid-stroke.
Derek’s chest was heaving as he stared at Stiles from the doorway. He was wearing a white wife-beater and dark grey boxer briefs, the angled outline of his cock clearly visible, a dark spot at the tip. Stiles could feel his mouth water as his gaze ran up Derek’s body, noting the details. His legs and arms were covered in a sheen of sweat, the left strap of his shirt knocked off kilter and revealing the sharp cut of his collarbone. His mouth was cracked open, a hint of fang visible. His eyes were flashing with lust or anger or both, pupils expanding from pinpricks as he looked over at Stiles, irises flickering electric blue.
“Fuck, Derek,” Stiles said, but his voice cracked mid-syllable, and it sounded more like a moan than anything else.
Derek strode forward and yanked the shower door open, stepping into the stall and crowding Stiles up against the wall. Stiles could feel the water beating down on Derek’s skin now as well as his own, and his dick pulsed hot in his hand as he felt the water soaking into Derek’s underwear.
If Derek had been trying to get Stiles to lose his erection, he was doing a piss-poor job at it. Stiles gasped as Derek stepped forward, pinning Stiles to the ceramic of the shower wall, their chests touching. Every tremble rubbed Stiles’ slick cock against the bulge in Derek’s soaked underwear.
Derek’s eyes were steadily glowing blue, now, and he growled deep within his throat.
“Derek,” Stiles whimpered, and apparently that was enough to make him snap, because he buried one hand in Stiles’ hair, the other closing around his shoulder hard enough to bruise, and he leaned in to kiss Stiles.
His mouth was hot and wet and punishing. Derek bit at Stiles’ lips, sucking Stiles’ tongue into his mouth and invading Stiles’ mouth with his own tongue. He was growling deep in his chest, the rumble shaking through Stiles’ torso where they were pressed together. Even if Stiles had been capable of coherent speech, it wouldn’t have mattered, because Derek was claiming his mouth with teeth and tongue and all Stiles could do was writhe under the onslaught.
Stiles shifted so that the hand on his cock was now gripping the base tight, trying to stave off orgasm as he moaned into Derek’s mouth. Derek pulled away, and Stiles whimpered at the loss, but then Derek started biting and sucking at the join of Stiles’ neck and shoulder, the sharp flare of pain going straight to Stiles’ groin. Still holding the base of his cock with one hand, Stiles moved the other to scratch at Derek’s back, his leg coming up to wrap around Derek’s hips, heel nudging against Derek’s cloth-covered ass.
Derek jolted, hands moving down to grip Stiles’ bare ass with wide, hot palms, and Stiles gasped as he lifted upward, supporting all of Stiles’ weight.
Stiles was babbling now, an endless stream of “oh god” and “Derek” and “more” and “please” and long, drawn out utterances of “fuck.” He looped his free arm around Derek’s shoulders, clenching his eyes shut as he pulled himself tight against Derek’s body, not daring to release the grip on his cock for even a second. He couldn’t come yet. If he came, this would be over, and Derek would probably just drop him and run, if it meant he could avoid confronting his feelings.
Derek shifted, and Stiles flailed in his grip, the back of his hand knocking against something cold and metallic.
The water turned frigid, blasting both of them in an icy spray.
There was a muffled shrieking-which Stiles would later realize was coming from his own throat-followed by a loud crash. Derek, in his attempt to scramble away from the source of the cold, jerked backwards and into the shower door. Unfortunately for both of them, it opened outwards, and Stiles clung to Derek like a Rhesus monkey as the two of them fell out of the shower.
His legs, still wrapped around Derek, slammed into the tile floor, followed by Derek’s back, Stiles’ arm, the back of Derek’s head. He could feel freezing water still spraying onto Derek’s legs, which were half in the shower. The strip of plastic below the door was digging into Derek’s ass.
Stiles buried his face in Derek’s chest and started laughing helplessly.
Derek tensed under Stiles. “Get off.”
Stiles paused mid-giggle. “What?” He lifted his face to look. Derek’s face was pale, his eyes wide.
“Get off,” Derek repeated, before convulsing and shoving Stiles off of him.
“Derek?” Stiles asked, sitting up and frowning over at Derek, who was pulling himself to a standing position and avoiding eye contact. As soon as he was on his feet, he bolted from the bathroom, and Stiles scrambled to follow him.
By the time he’d made it through the bathroom door and out into the bedroom, Derek had ripped off his wet clothing and yanked open the door. He cast one last look at Stiles before stepping through, naked and dripping, highlighted by the flickering lights of the hallway.
“What the hell!” Stiles yelled, running over to the door and throwing it open. He poked his head around the doorframe, and he saw a black tail disappear around the corner.
“Derek!”
The light in the hotel room across the hallway flicked on, and Stiles stumbled backwards, slamming the door shut, before they could open the door and see him in all his sopping wet, naked glory.
He fell back against the door, breathing in rapid pants, as he felt Derek’s paws slap against the concrete. The tug in his chest grew sharper with every passing moment.
“Shit.”
Chapter 11: Hurt/Comfort (Or: A sign from above, fate, and all that jazz)
Rating: NC-17
Genres: Humor, Angst
Setting: Post Season 3B, slightly AU from mid-season 3B
Pairings: Stiles/Derek, background Scott/Kira
Wordcount: 3.5k (this chapter); ~50k total
Betas: percygranger and desiderii
Stiles and Derek sitting in a tree, M-A-R-R-I-E-D.
Wait, what?
Or: Stiles thought he and Derek were finally getting to be bros, and then Deaton had to go and ruin everything with his stupid spell.
Chapter 1: Animal Transformation (Or: Lack of self-preservation instinct)
Chapter 2: Bed Sharing (Or: Don’t get drool on my pillow)
Chapter 3: Clothes Stealing (Or: My whole life is a lie)
Chapter 4: Unexpected Nerd References (Or: Carry on with your bad self)
Chapter 5: Gone Missing (Or: Scott is the worst)
Chapter 6: Sleep Deprivation (Or: Give my love to Rosebud)
Chapter 7: Bonding Ritual (Or: Zero of ten, would not recommend)
Chapter 8: Accidental Marriage (Or: Why does no one trust me?)
Chapter 9: Road Trip (Or: Screwed, and not in the good way)
Author's Note: This chapter has some seriously dubious sexual content, folks. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED. [For spoileriffic details, click here.]This chapter contains Stiles specifically disregarding Derek's prior request to not masturbate, and as a result, Derek interrupts him mid-session and some angry making out ensues.
Chapter 10: Dubious Consent (Or: Mother fudgesicles)
“You’re lucky there was a cancellation,” the lady behind the counter was saying, as she waited for Derek’s credit card transaction to go through. “It’s crazy this weekend, and accommodating someone at the last minute like this is always a tricky thing.”
Derek smiled at her with all his teeth showing, the super fake flirty smile that Stiles loathed. It made him want to punch Derek in his stupidly adorable bunny teeth.
“Room twenty-four, it’s up the stairs and to the left. Have fun, you two!” She sent them an exaggerated wink, and Derek’s smile widened before he turned on his heel and pushed Stiles out the office door ahead of him.
“So, uh, not bad, right?” Stiles said, craning back to look at Derek, who had dropped all pretense of pleasantry and was now sporting his usual serial killer expression.
He glared at Stiles from under his thick bushy doom eyebrows. “Not bad? Stiles, I just paid $130 for one night in a shitty motel. Are you expecting me to be happy?”
“You? Happy? Never. I just thought maybe you could try seeing the positives in the situation. For once.” Stiles pulled a face as he craned his neck back to watch Derek while they climbed the stairs to the second floor. “Clearly that was a mistake.”
“Clearly,” Derek said. A few seconds later, he added, “Watch where you’re going.”
Stiles turned around just in time to crash face-first into the wall. “Ow! What the fuck, Derek?”
“I warned you,” he said, tone mild.
“You did that on purpose!” Stiles cried as he clutched one hand to his nose. He was actually hoping for a little blood, because it might make Derek feel guilty. When he peeked at his hand, though, it was dry and clean. Damn.
“You didn’t break it,” Derek said, as he passed Stiles in the hallway, car key dangling from one hand and suitcase from the other.
“What do you mean, ‘I didn’t break it.’ How would you know?”
Derek turned back to look at him, one eyebrow raised. “Oh, maybe because of this.” He then stabbed his car key into his biceps.
“Mother fudgesicles!” yelled Stiles, as he felt a sharp, stabbing pain in his upper left arm, right where the bruise on Derek’s arm had quickly formed and was now just as quickly disappearing. “What was that for?”
“If you’d broken your nose, I would have felt it,” Derek said, shrugged, and started back down the hallway.
Stiles flexed his biceps as the pain dissipated. “God, you’re almost as bad as Peter. What the hell, Derek?”
He didn’t see that Derek had stopped in the middle of the hallway until he walked into him.
Stiles blinked as he fumbled for balance. Derek had gripped Stiles’ shoulder to keep him upright, and Stiles realized he’d dug his fingers into the sleeves of Derek’s henley in turn.
He let go as Derek stepped inside the room, but as soon as he moved to enter the room, he nearly collided with Derek again.
“Dammit,” Derek swore, and Stiles looked over the contents of the room to see what was wrong. The room was a little cramped, with cheery nondescript landscape paintings on the walls, yellow and blue striped wallpaper, a squashy looking yellow armchair crammed next to a scratched coffee table, and a yellow and orange bedspread on the medium sized bed in the center.
It took Stiles’ brain a moment to catch up, and he groaned louder even than Derek had. There was only one bed.
“I’ll sleep in the chair,” Derek said.
“What the hell, we already went through this!” Stiles settled his hands on his hips and glared over at Derek. “You need a good night’s sleep if you’re gonna be driving early tomorrow. Don’t make me drag you to bed. Because I will.”
Derek looked singularly unimpressed by Stiles’ threat. He tipped his suitcase over onto its side without giving any indication of having heard Stiles.
“Ugh,” Stiles said, “whatever. Feel free to stay here and brood, or whatever it is you do, and I’m going to go forage for food.” He stuffed his hands in his jean pockets as Derek knelt over his suitcase and started unzipping it.
Stiles waited for Derek to say something, but he stayed silent.
“So,” Stiles said. “How far can I go without, you know, headache?”
Derek sighed, but looked up from his luggage. “I don’t know. Same building, maybe?”
“Okay,” Stiles said. “I’ll check the lobby. You want anything?”
“No.”
Stiles bit back a sigh. It was stupid to feel disappointed. “Okay, fine,” he said instead, “your loss. I’m just gonna. Go.”
He left the room before Derek could say anything in response.
***
Stiles slipped back into the room as stealthily as he could and exhaled a sigh of relief when he saw Derek’s silhouette tucked under the covers, just barely visible in the light that spilled from the crack in the door.
It had probably been excessive for Stiles to wait until after midnight in the hotel lobby, playing Robot Unicorn Attack on his phone, but he had endured enough drama during his twenty minute conversation with his dad. He didn’t need to deal with Derek as he got ready for bed. He certainly didn’t want to convince him that sharing the bed wouldn’t be as horrible as it sounded.
Because it was going to be. Horrible, that is. As Stiles’ eyes adjusted to the darkness, he let himself look like he’d been avoiding, like he’d wanted to, for the past two days (if he were being honest with himself, like he’d wanted for over a year now).
Derek really was beautiful in sleep. Softer, somehow, without the worry lines and the aggressive eye rolls. His eyes flickered beneath his eyelids, and his mouth had fallen slack. Every muscle in his face and neck looked relaxed, missing the awful tension of the daylight hours.
Stiles dragged his gaze away before shucking his shirt and jeans, aiming for the stuffed armchair but probably ending up on the coffee table, or something. He padded over to the side of the bed, throat working in a dry swallow, before pulling back the covers and sliding inside as gently as possible. Barely even breathing, he settled back against the pillows.
Now that he was up close, Stiles could see more detail than before. Derek’s stubble was a dark scruff, almost a week’s worth of beard growth at this point. His lashes occasionally fluttered against his cheek, and Stiles could see the rising and falling of his chest, the covers occasionally slipping a fraction of an inch down the curve of his shoulder.
Stiles shut his eyes, but he could still see the image of Derek painted onto the backs of his eyelids. He was looking at Stiles, smiling at something he’d said, the corners of his eyes crinkling up. Stiles opened his eyes again, and the image was replaced with the monochrome of Derek sleeping.
Stiles rolled over so he was facing towards the door, and tried counting werewolves.
***
It was still dark when Stiles woke up. His skin was prickly and oversensitive, and Derek was a hot line along his side, one arm thrown over his chest, anchoring him to the mattress.
He opened bleary eyes and turned to find the motel alarm clock. It wasn’t even three yet, and Stiles let out a sigh of frustration as quietly as he could.
Derek shifted in his sleep, nuzzling into Stiles’ neck, and suddenly, Stiles was completely, one hundred percent awake.
He was also so hard he ached from it. Judging from the hot length poking into his hip, so was Derek.
Stiles felt his own dick twitch at the thought.
There was no way he was going to just lay here in bed, awake, next to the object of his lust, while he slowly expired from a case of blue balls. It took him a few tries, but he finally managed to slip out from under Derek’s arm, and extricated himself from the tangle of covers. Derek made no sign of waking, just hummed quietly in his sleep and gathered a fold of blankets to his chest to fill the empty space where Stiles had been. Stiles tried not to feel insulted that he was so easily replaced.
He crept into the bathroom and stared at himself in the mirror, the door open wide to let in the few rays of light that were spilling in from the hallway. He looked awful. His hair was sticking up on one side and his face was pale, emphasizing his weird moles and the way his nose turned up. He ran a finger over his lips, which were slightly chapped, and scraped his tongue against his teeth in an attempt to get rid of the lingering taste of morning breath.
All of which did nothing for his ridiculous, persistent, aching erection.
He didn’t care what Derek had said; he had to do something about this. Either he’d wake up in the morning with a hair-trigger hard-on, or at some point during the night he’d shoot his load onto the bed sheets, and probably Derek himself. With any luck, Derek would be too busy in dreamland to notice when Stiles started stroking himself off. Heck, he could play it off as Derek having a wet dream. He might have to sleep in a wet spot, but at least they’d be in separate rooms when the wet spot happened.
Stiles bit his lip. Derek had asked him not to, but surely this was an emergency? Besides, people had wet dreams all the time. It wasn’t Stiles’ fault. Really, he was saving them both from the humiliation of coming at the same time in the same place. Being in a separate room for this was a service. One which Stiles would gladly provide.
Mind made up, Stiles shucked his boxers and stepped into the shower. Even with his night vision, though, he couldn’t really see the knob, so he got out, closed the door, and flicked on the light switch. Swearing quietly to himself, he leaned against the sink as he waited for his eyes to adjust.
The shower was the one high point in the crappy hotel room. Roomy enough to stand in without being hit by the spray, it was a full cube with a hinged glass door. It had an adjustable shower head and a single rotating lever to adjust both temperature and pressure. Stiles pointed the shower head at the wall before turning the lever to as hot as it would go.
Lingering in the corner as he waited for the water to heat up, Stiles glanced down at himself. His erection had already left a few sticky spurts of pre-come onto his stomach, one strand stretching from the slit to just above his belly button. He folded his hands behind his back to resist the temptation to touch himself. This was probably the only chance he’d get to jerk off for the next day or so, and he wanted to make it count.
The water was starting to heat up now, the shower filling with steam, and Stiles closed his eyes and flexed his shoulders as he tried to relax. It was a little weirder to fantasize about Derek when he was in the next room. Stiles bit his lip as he concentrated on the bond. Underneath the warm humid air of the shower, he could feel the ghost of cotton sheets rubbing against Derek’s skin; the friction of his boxer briefs rubbing along Derek’s cock, trapped as it was between Derek’s body and the mattress.
What Stiles wouldn’t give to get his hands on that cock.
Stiles could feel his thigh muscles clenching, and he tightened the grip on his wrist so he wouldn’t reach around. He could remember what Derek looked like from that first day of seeing him naked in the woods. He still hadn’t seen him hard, though. How much bigger was he? Were the texture of the strokes different with foreskin? They must be different, that extra piece of skin slipping up and down the shaft as Stiles closed his hand around it and pumped. Maybe even stretching over the head once he’d played with it enough.
Stiles’ throat was suddenly dry, and he opened his mouth to breathe in a cloud of steam. Opening his eyes and unwrapping his hand from his wrist, he reached around to test the water temperature. It was good and hot, almost scalding, just like he liked, and he reached up to adjust the shower head before stepping fully under the spray.
Despite his best efforts at silence, he let out a moan as the hot water sluiced over his skin. He swallowed a few mouthfuls to wet his parched throat.
Stiles spread his hands under the spray, waiting until water started dribbling down his forearms, before closing his eyes and reaching down.
He let himself imagine Derek’s hand sliding up and down his shaft, catching lightly on the crown, Derek reaching down to massage his balls, middle finger sliding back to stroke the sensitive flesh behind.
“Derek,” he breathed out, blood pulsing hot in his dick, the world narrowed to the wet slide of his hands and the pleasure building in the pit of his stomach.
He was getting close, the pleasure building almost too fast, and he bit his lip, relishing the jolt of pain.
“Dammit, Stiles,” Derek growled, and Stiles tensed, his hand stilling on his dick mid-stroke.
Derek’s chest was heaving as he stared at Stiles from the doorway. He was wearing a white wife-beater and dark grey boxer briefs, the angled outline of his cock clearly visible, a dark spot at the tip. Stiles could feel his mouth water as his gaze ran up Derek’s body, noting the details. His legs and arms were covered in a sheen of sweat, the left strap of his shirt knocked off kilter and revealing the sharp cut of his collarbone. His mouth was cracked open, a hint of fang visible. His eyes were flashing with lust or anger or both, pupils expanding from pinpricks as he looked over at Stiles, irises flickering electric blue.
“Fuck, Derek,” Stiles said, but his voice cracked mid-syllable, and it sounded more like a moan than anything else.
Derek strode forward and yanked the shower door open, stepping into the stall and crowding Stiles up against the wall. Stiles could feel the water beating down on Derek’s skin now as well as his own, and his dick pulsed hot in his hand as he felt the water soaking into Derek’s underwear.
If Derek had been trying to get Stiles to lose his erection, he was doing a piss-poor job at it. Stiles gasped as Derek stepped forward, pinning Stiles to the ceramic of the shower wall, their chests touching. Every tremble rubbed Stiles’ slick cock against the bulge in Derek’s soaked underwear.
Derek’s eyes were steadily glowing blue, now, and he growled deep within his throat.
“Derek,” Stiles whimpered, and apparently that was enough to make him snap, because he buried one hand in Stiles’ hair, the other closing around his shoulder hard enough to bruise, and he leaned in to kiss Stiles.
His mouth was hot and wet and punishing. Derek bit at Stiles’ lips, sucking Stiles’ tongue into his mouth and invading Stiles’ mouth with his own tongue. He was growling deep in his chest, the rumble shaking through Stiles’ torso where they were pressed together. Even if Stiles had been capable of coherent speech, it wouldn’t have mattered, because Derek was claiming his mouth with teeth and tongue and all Stiles could do was writhe under the onslaught.
Stiles shifted so that the hand on his cock was now gripping the base tight, trying to stave off orgasm as he moaned into Derek’s mouth. Derek pulled away, and Stiles whimpered at the loss, but then Derek started biting and sucking at the join of Stiles’ neck and shoulder, the sharp flare of pain going straight to Stiles’ groin. Still holding the base of his cock with one hand, Stiles moved the other to scratch at Derek’s back, his leg coming up to wrap around Derek’s hips, heel nudging against Derek’s cloth-covered ass.
Derek jolted, hands moving down to grip Stiles’ bare ass with wide, hot palms, and Stiles gasped as he lifted upward, supporting all of Stiles’ weight.
Stiles was babbling now, an endless stream of “oh god” and “Derek” and “more” and “please” and long, drawn out utterances of “fuck.” He looped his free arm around Derek’s shoulders, clenching his eyes shut as he pulled himself tight against Derek’s body, not daring to release the grip on his cock for even a second. He couldn’t come yet. If he came, this would be over, and Derek would probably just drop him and run, if it meant he could avoid confronting his feelings.
Derek shifted, and Stiles flailed in his grip, the back of his hand knocking against something cold and metallic.
The water turned frigid, blasting both of them in an icy spray.
There was a muffled shrieking-which Stiles would later realize was coming from his own throat-followed by a loud crash. Derek, in his attempt to scramble away from the source of the cold, jerked backwards and into the shower door. Unfortunately for both of them, it opened outwards, and Stiles clung to Derek like a Rhesus monkey as the two of them fell out of the shower.
His legs, still wrapped around Derek, slammed into the tile floor, followed by Derek’s back, Stiles’ arm, the back of Derek’s head. He could feel freezing water still spraying onto Derek’s legs, which were half in the shower. The strip of plastic below the door was digging into Derek’s ass.
Stiles buried his face in Derek’s chest and started laughing helplessly.
Derek tensed under Stiles. “Get off.”
Stiles paused mid-giggle. “What?” He lifted his face to look. Derek’s face was pale, his eyes wide.
“Get off,” Derek repeated, before convulsing and shoving Stiles off of him.
“Derek?” Stiles asked, sitting up and frowning over at Derek, who was pulling himself to a standing position and avoiding eye contact. As soon as he was on his feet, he bolted from the bathroom, and Stiles scrambled to follow him.
By the time he’d made it through the bathroom door and out into the bedroom, Derek had ripped off his wet clothing and yanked open the door. He cast one last look at Stiles before stepping through, naked and dripping, highlighted by the flickering lights of the hallway.
“What the hell!” Stiles yelled, running over to the door and throwing it open. He poked his head around the doorframe, and he saw a black tail disappear around the corner.
“Derek!”
The light in the hotel room across the hallway flicked on, and Stiles stumbled backwards, slamming the door shut, before they could open the door and see him in all his sopping wet, naked glory.
He fell back against the door, breathing in rapid pants, as he felt Derek’s paws slap against the concrete. The tug in his chest grew sharper with every passing moment.
“Shit.”
Chapter 11: Hurt/Comfort (Or: A sign from above, fate, and all that jazz)