Fic: UST (An Unfortunate Series of Tropes) (15/20)
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: 2.5k (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)
Chapter 10: Dubious Consent (Or: Mother fudgesicles)
Chapter 11: Hurt/Comfort (Or: A sign from above, fate, and all that jazz)
Interlude
Chapter 12: Mixed Signals (Or: The light, it burns)
Chapter 13: Magic Spells (Or: Like the oracle, but with fruit)
Chapter 14: Soulbond (Or: Something out of a horror movie)
By the time they got back to Willow’s mansion-house, it was already dark outside, the stars shining faintly and the moon a perfect orb overhead. Stiles lingered in the driveway for long minutes, staring up at the sky, until Derek hissed at him to come inside.
Stiles followed Derek up the spiral staircase to the second floor, past the seriously creepy doll collection bedecking the hallway, and to a door sporting a cheerful wooden sign proclaiming “Rest Your Head.”
“This is something out of a horror movie, I swear,” Stiles stage-whispered. Derek shushed him with a baleful glance and pushed open the door.
It looked like the kind of room you’d find in a bed and breakfast. In one corner a floral-patterned antique armchair was layered with hand-crocheted blankets, pastel throw pillows, and yet another porcelain doll.
Stiles slipped his backpack straps off his shoulders, letting it drop to the floor with a solid thunk, and walked over to the armchair to inspect the doll more closely.
“Hey, this one looks a little like Lydia,” Stiles commented, prodding at the doll’s strawberry curls. “Seriously, this is creeping me out, I don’t know if I can sleep with this in the room.”
Derek rolled his eyes, plucked the doll out of Stiles’ grasp, and stuffed it under one of the throw pillows. “Happy now?”
“Oh, yeah, murder the doll, that won’t cause it to seek revenge or anything.”
“You’re so weird,” Derek said, but he looked like a mix of bemused and fond.
Stiles felt the words warm up his insides. “You know it,” he said, throwing Derek a wink, before turning to stare at the rose-patterned bedspread. “This bed is definitely smaller than the last one.”
“It’s the same size as your bed at home,” Derek said, toeing off his shoes and laying his leather jacket over where he’d hidden the doll’s lifeless body.
“What, really?” Stiles asked, inspecting the pink and yellow monstrosity. “It looks smaller. Like, super small.”
Derek shrugged, padding over to the bed and lifting up the covers. “Your bed’s small, too.”
“Not that small,” Stiles said, walking over to the foot of the bed. He dropped down on the carpet, his feet splayed out in front of him, his back propped up against the footboard.
Derek just sighed, dropping the covers and walking over to inspect the crooked wooden cupboard standing in the opposite corner of the armchair. There were more dolls sitting on top, posed to have their arms looped around each other. “TV in here,” he commented, opening the doors with a creak of the hinges.
“The TV is small, too,” Stiles complained, because hey, he had nothing better to do. “Is everything in this place small? The beds, the dolls, the televisions?”
“The fruit tray was big,” Derek said, his hands tracing around the outer edge of the television, presumably searching for a power button. He grunted and stepped back as the screen bloomed to life. He pulled open one of the drawers, rifling through it until he emerged with a remote control grasped in his fist.
When he turned around and looked down at Stiles, his eyes lingered just a bit too long.
Stiles could feel his cheeks heating up as Derek walked over and settled on the floor next to him, crossing his legs and leaning forward with his elbows propped on his thighs.
“You wanna watch something?” Stiles asked, willing his voice not to crack.
Derek shrugged, but pointed the remote upwards in a loose grip and started flipping through channels.
Every so often, Stiles would shift, and Derek’s knee would brush up against Stiles’ thigh, warm through the layers of denim.
They settled on the History Channel, some show about pirates, and Stiles felt his eyes fluttering shut more than once. He finally gave up fighting it, letting his head loll back against the footboard and his eyes drift shut.
“Stiles,” Derek said, breaking through the warm haze.
Stiles tried to open his eyes, but his head felt fuzzy. “Der’k?” He shifted until he could feel the warm press of Derek’s thigh against his own. “Time is it?”
When Stiles eyes did open, he saw Derek’s face, just a few inches away. Derek’s eyes were dark, only visible through the dim light of the lamp on the nightstand and the soft glow of the television screen.
“Late,” Derek said, before turning his face away.
Stiles sighed, the breath coming out in a low hiss as he exhaled. “Don’ wanna go to bed.”
“So you’re just going to sleep on the floor?” Derek asked.
“Don’ laugh at me,” Stiles protested. “I’m too tired for bed.”
Instead of laughing, or rolling his eyes, or leaving him alone, Derek reached over and scooped Stiles into his arms.
Stiles held his breath as every muscle in his body froze up.
Well, not quite every muscle. It was hard-okay, bad choice of phrasing-to control himself when Derek was so close. He smelled like sweat and pine trees, or what Stiles imagined pine trees would smell like if they were accompanied by sculpted abdominals. Abdominals which were pressing up against Stiles’ side, because he was being cradled to Derek’s chest.
Oh god, Derek Hale was carrying Stiles to the bed, bridal style.
Derek walked over and deposited him gently on the left side of the bed. He stood there for a moment, staring down at Stiles with his eyebrows creased and his shoulders drawn up nearly to his ears.
“Um. I’m really sorry,” Stiles said.
“It’s fine,” Derek said, before turning and fleeing.
Stiles swore, low in his throat, and smacked the back of his head against the headboard for good measure. “Derek, come back,” he said, but there was no sound of acknowledgement.
“It wasn’t on purpose,” Stiles continued, trying to ignore the slowly rising sense of helplessness. “I’m sorry I freaked out about you carrying me. It was nice.” He realized what he had just said, and panicked. “Nice of you! Not, like, nice, as in I enjoyed it. I mean, I did enjoy it, obviously. Which I’ve already apologized about.”
He squeezed his eyes shut.
On the plus side, the mortification seemed to have resolved the problem in his pants. “I think it’s gone now,” Stiles added.
Derek was suspiciously silent.
“Derek, please just say something, oh my god, I’m going to have to commit seppuku after this. This is so embarrassing.”
Derek said, his mental voice sounding vaguely irritated.
Derek replied, but there was something weird in his mental-voice that gave Stiles pause.
“Okay,” Stiles murmured.
“Look, just, shit, I should probably brush my teeth anyway.”
Stiles flung himself off the bed and made a beeline for his backpack.
Derek said, as Stiles was still searching for his toothpaste.
Stiles frowned as he rifled through his bag, feeling fleeting echoes of Derek’s own fingers rubbing against denim, thumb and forefinger gripping against metal and the tips of his fingers brushing against fabric-
“Oh my god, I can feel you peeing,” Stiles complained, and the phantom sensation of hands on his dick stopped abruptly.
“Stiles,” Derek growled, sounding utterly mortified.
Stiles burst through the bathroom door as Derek was still fumbling with his zipper.
Stiles ignored the dirty look Derek gave him. “It’s getting worse.”
“Of course it’s getting worse!” Derek hissed. “The damn thing is still forming.”
“Does this mean your parents could feel each other pee?” Stiles asked, horrified.
“No!” Derek snapped. He sagged backwards against the countertop, his elbows braced against the corian. “Well. In the beginning, maybe. They must have learned to control it over time.”
Stiles sighed. “Great, just fantastic. I’m guessing they didn’t tell you how they coped with the short term issues, since, you know.”
Derek actually looked confused at that. “Since…they were murdered?”
“Oh my god!” Stiles said, holding up his hands in front of him, placating. “Not what I meant! I was just going to say that most people don’t immediately annul their magical marriages.”
Derek raised a dubious eyebrow.
Stiles rolled his eyes, seeing his reflection mimic him in the bathroom mirror at Derek’s back. He flashed his mirror-self a grin before his eye caught on a dark patch of skin near the collar of his t-shirt.
“Oh, my god,” Stiles said, staring at the very obvious bruise and bite marks Derek had left on his neck. “No wonder the chick working at Orange Julius kept staring at me!”
Derek visibly flinched.
“You knew!” Stiles punched Derek in the arm, startling backward when he felt the echoing thump in his own. “You asshole! You knew, and you didn’t say anything!”
“What was I supposed to say? ‘Hey, Stiles, you have a giant hickey on your neck, but you can’t actually do anything about it, since we don’t have any makeup and you didn’t bring any turtlenecks’?”
“Oh, I don’t know, a heads up might have been nice. Oh, fuck, that’s why the guy at Taco Bell told us congratulations.” Stiles glared. “You are the worst werewolf husband ever.”
Derek just glared back in response.
“Can I brush my teeth now?” Stiles gestured towards the toilet. “Or do you still need to, uh, drain the lizard?”
Derek’s entire face pinched inwards, as though he couldn’t decide between being horrified and laughing out loud. “Did you really just say that?”
“Sorry, shall I come up with some synonyms for you? Empty your bladder, pee, let loose the dam, urinate, whizz, piss, do you want me to go on? Because I can-”
“Shut up, Stiles,” Derek said. “And no.”
He stepped towards Stiles, who instinctively moved backwards. “Uh-”
“For god’s sake,” Derek said, before muscling his way past Stiles and back into the bedroom.
As Stiles brushed his teeth, he kept thinking about the way Derek could probably feel it too, the bristles rubbing up against his gums. Did werewolves get gum disease? Probably not, considering their magical healing properties. But what about, like, halitosis? Surely they must brush their teeth, if only to prevent bad breath and yellow teeth.
Stiles gripped the edge of the counter with both hands and spat into the sink.
“Stop reading my damn mind!” he shouted from inside the bathroom.
Stiles just wanted his mind to be his own again, his body to be his own, so he could have his stupid rambling internal monologues without being judged by stupid non-rambling werewolves.
Fuck, he didn’t have enough Adderall, did he? He’d only packed three days’ worth, and they were definitely going to be here for longer. He needed to call his dad. He needed to call Scott. He needed to call the school.
But forget his mind-he just wanted his own dick again! Maybe if he could touch his dick without triggering a panic attack, he wouldn’t be so damn scattered in the first place! He just wanted to jerk off, just once, nice and slow, like he’d missed out in the shower-
And as much as Stiles appreciated the thought, he was still surprised to find himself already hard. What the hell?
“Are you kidding me?”
His dick twitched again. Dammit.
Stiles shut his eyes as he rinsed his toothbrush, trying to think of something unsexy.
Unfortunately, all the images he came up with somehow led back to Derek. Thinking about his Dad? Arresting Derek, who stared out of the cruiser at Stiles with his sexy murder-glare. Thinking about his lacrosse teammates and their sweaty jockstraps? Derek in the locker room, wearing his soaked jeans. Thinking about Scott and Kira in flagrante? Derek was standing in the corner, glaring at them, and what the hell, brain? Why was Derek’s creepy looming suddenly sexy?
Derek projected, and even through the telepathic bond he was radiating misery.
Stiles swallowed the rest of his glass of water before opening up the bathroom door. Derek was flopped stomach down on the bed, his face buried in the pillow. The pillow where Stiles had been lying a few minutes ago.
“It’s not your fault, Derek, stop that.”
“Everything’s my fault.”
“Oh my god, was that self-pity I just heard? You sound like Scott. Seriously, cut it out.”
Derek shifted on the bed so he could glare at Stiles, and the friction sent a jolt through Stiles’ groin.
“Holy!” Stiles said, and stifled a moan. “Okay, this is awkward.”
“It’s the full moon,” Derek said, his lower lip pushed out in a pout.
He still managed to look angry, thanks to the eyebrows, but Stiles was hard-pressed not to leap on top of him. (Heh. Hard-pressed.)
For snuggling, obviously. He didn’t want to leap on top of him for any other, more nefarious purposes. Nope.
Stiles’ dick twitched again, and it was definitely not through the bond, this time.
Derek glared.
“Okay,” Stiles said, shifting to try and minimize the pressure of his jeans on his crotch, and failing spectacularly, “so it’s the full moon and you’re feeling super horny? Or what?”
Derek groaned, and Stiles couldn’t tell if it was due to the unexpected friction, or because Stiles was a dork.
Derek grit his teeth, glaring at Stiles. “The pull of the wolf is strongest right now.”
“And?” Stiles asked.
“And I’m having a harder time controlling myself!” Derek snapped.
“Huh, so it really is that time of the month.”
“Stiles!”
“What? I’m just saying.”
Derek dropped his face down onto the pillow, muffling his groan. This one was definitely frustration.
“Okay, just, I’ll get into bed, we won’t talk about it, eventually the mutual boners will go away, right?”
Derek twitched.
“Right?”
Stiles waited for Derek’s reply, getting more and more panicked as time went on, and the tips of Derek’s ears and the back of his neck turned red.
“Derek! Please tell me the boners are going to go away!”
Derek finally rolled over, into the middle of the bed, and looked at Stiles with a defeated expression. Which really, really, should not have been as much of a turn-on as it was.
“Okay, no, it’s fine, we’ll just both think about Finstock-”
Stiles’ dick twitched through the bond.
“Finstock?”
Derek glared. “I had a crush on him in high school, so sue me!”
“You-”
“He was younger then!”
“Oh my god,” Stiles said, “I’m going to need brain bleach for that image, which, yay, less boner, except, why isn’t it going away?”
“Because now I’m thinking about you and Finstock!”
“Wait, and that’s a good image for you? Are you kidding me?”
“Shut up, Stiles.”
Stiles stumbled away in a panic as Derek leapt off the bed and stalked towards him.
Holy crap, this was it. Derek was going to eat him. And there was only a fifty percent chance of it being in the sexy way.
Except, there was no mauling, or making out, or touching of any kind. Instead, Derek skirted completely around Stiles and walked into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.
Chapter 15: Coming Untouched (Or: What did I tell you about being funny)
Rating: NC-17
Genres: Humor, Angst
Setting: Post Season 3B, slightly AU from mid-season 3B
Pairings: Stiles/Derek, background Scott/Kira
Wordcount: 2.5k (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)
Chapter 10: Dubious Consent (Or: Mother fudgesicles)
Chapter 11: Hurt/Comfort (Or: A sign from above, fate, and all that jazz)
Interlude
Chapter 12: Mixed Signals (Or: The light, it burns)
Chapter 13: Magic Spells (Or: Like the oracle, but with fruit)
Chapter 14: Soulbond (Or: Something out of a horror movie)
By the time they got back to Willow’s mansion-house, it was already dark outside, the stars shining faintly and the moon a perfect orb overhead. Stiles lingered in the driveway for long minutes, staring up at the sky, until Derek hissed at him to come inside.
Stiles followed Derek up the spiral staircase to the second floor, past the seriously creepy doll collection bedecking the hallway, and to a door sporting a cheerful wooden sign proclaiming “Rest Your Head.”
“This is something out of a horror movie, I swear,” Stiles stage-whispered. Derek shushed him with a baleful glance and pushed open the door.
It looked like the kind of room you’d find in a bed and breakfast. In one corner a floral-patterned antique armchair was layered with hand-crocheted blankets, pastel throw pillows, and yet another porcelain doll.
Stiles slipped his backpack straps off his shoulders, letting it drop to the floor with a solid thunk, and walked over to the armchair to inspect the doll more closely.
“Hey, this one looks a little like Lydia,” Stiles commented, prodding at the doll’s strawberry curls. “Seriously, this is creeping me out, I don’t know if I can sleep with this in the room.”
Derek rolled his eyes, plucked the doll out of Stiles’ grasp, and stuffed it under one of the throw pillows. “Happy now?”
“Oh, yeah, murder the doll, that won’t cause it to seek revenge or anything.”
“You’re so weird,” Derek said, but he looked like a mix of bemused and fond.
Stiles felt the words warm up his insides. “You know it,” he said, throwing Derek a wink, before turning to stare at the rose-patterned bedspread. “This bed is definitely smaller than the last one.”
“It’s the same size as your bed at home,” Derek said, toeing off his shoes and laying his leather jacket over where he’d hidden the doll’s lifeless body.
“What, really?” Stiles asked, inspecting the pink and yellow monstrosity. “It looks smaller. Like, super small.”
Derek shrugged, padding over to the bed and lifting up the covers. “Your bed’s small, too.”
“Not that small,” Stiles said, walking over to the foot of the bed. He dropped down on the carpet, his feet splayed out in front of him, his back propped up against the footboard.
Derek just sighed, dropping the covers and walking over to inspect the crooked wooden cupboard standing in the opposite corner of the armchair. There were more dolls sitting on top, posed to have their arms looped around each other. “TV in here,” he commented, opening the doors with a creak of the hinges.
“The TV is small, too,” Stiles complained, because hey, he had nothing better to do. “Is everything in this place small? The beds, the dolls, the televisions?”
“The fruit tray was big,” Derek said, his hands tracing around the outer edge of the television, presumably searching for a power button. He grunted and stepped back as the screen bloomed to life. He pulled open one of the drawers, rifling through it until he emerged with a remote control grasped in his fist.
When he turned around and looked down at Stiles, his eyes lingered just a bit too long.
Stiles could feel his cheeks heating up as Derek walked over and settled on the floor next to him, crossing his legs and leaning forward with his elbows propped on his thighs.
“You wanna watch something?” Stiles asked, willing his voice not to crack.
Derek shrugged, but pointed the remote upwards in a loose grip and started flipping through channels.
Every so often, Stiles would shift, and Derek’s knee would brush up against Stiles’ thigh, warm through the layers of denim.
They settled on the History Channel, some show about pirates, and Stiles felt his eyes fluttering shut more than once. He finally gave up fighting it, letting his head loll back against the footboard and his eyes drift shut.
“Stiles,” Derek said, breaking through the warm haze.
Stiles tried to open his eyes, but his head felt fuzzy. “Der’k?” He shifted until he could feel the warm press of Derek’s thigh against his own. “Time is it?”
When Stiles eyes did open, he saw Derek’s face, just a few inches away. Derek’s eyes were dark, only visible through the dim light of the lamp on the nightstand and the soft glow of the television screen.
“Late,” Derek said, before turning his face away.
Stiles sighed, the breath coming out in a low hiss as he exhaled. “Don’ wanna go to bed.”
“So you’re just going to sleep on the floor?” Derek asked.
“Don’ laugh at me,” Stiles protested. “I’m too tired for bed.”
Instead of laughing, or rolling his eyes, or leaving him alone, Derek reached over and scooped Stiles into his arms.
Stiles held his breath as every muscle in his body froze up.
Well, not quite every muscle. It was hard-okay, bad choice of phrasing-to control himself when Derek was so close. He smelled like sweat and pine trees, or what Stiles imagined pine trees would smell like if they were accompanied by sculpted abdominals. Abdominals which were pressing up against Stiles’ side, because he was being cradled to Derek’s chest.
Oh god, Derek Hale was carrying Stiles to the bed, bridal style.
Derek walked over and deposited him gently on the left side of the bed. He stood there for a moment, staring down at Stiles with his eyebrows creased and his shoulders drawn up nearly to his ears.
“Um. I’m really sorry,” Stiles said.
“It’s fine,” Derek said, before turning and fleeing.
Stiles swore, low in his throat, and smacked the back of his head against the headboard for good measure. “Derek, come back,” he said, but there was no sound of acknowledgement.
“It wasn’t on purpose,” Stiles continued, trying to ignore the slowly rising sense of helplessness. “I’m sorry I freaked out about you carrying me. It was nice.” He realized what he had just said, and panicked. “Nice of you! Not, like, nice, as in I enjoyed it. I mean, I did enjoy it, obviously. Which I’ve already apologized about.”
He squeezed his eyes shut.
On the plus side, the mortification seemed to have resolved the problem in his pants. “I think it’s gone now,” Stiles added.
Derek was suspiciously silent.
“Derek, please just say something, oh my god, I’m going to have to commit seppuku after this. This is so embarrassing.”
Derek said, his mental voice sounding vaguely irritated.
Derek replied, but there was something weird in his mental-voice that gave Stiles pause.
“Okay,” Stiles murmured.
“Look, just, shit, I should probably brush my teeth anyway.”
Stiles flung himself off the bed and made a beeline for his backpack.
Derek said, as Stiles was still searching for his toothpaste.
Stiles frowned as he rifled through his bag, feeling fleeting echoes of Derek’s own fingers rubbing against denim, thumb and forefinger gripping against metal and the tips of his fingers brushing against fabric-
“Oh my god, I can feel you peeing,” Stiles complained, and the phantom sensation of hands on his dick stopped abruptly.
“Stiles,” Derek growled, sounding utterly mortified.
Stiles burst through the bathroom door as Derek was still fumbling with his zipper.
Stiles ignored the dirty look Derek gave him. “It’s getting worse.”
“Of course it’s getting worse!” Derek hissed. “The damn thing is still forming.”
“Does this mean your parents could feel each other pee?” Stiles asked, horrified.
“No!” Derek snapped. He sagged backwards against the countertop, his elbows braced against the corian. “Well. In the beginning, maybe. They must have learned to control it over time.”
Stiles sighed. “Great, just fantastic. I’m guessing they didn’t tell you how they coped with the short term issues, since, you know.”
Derek actually looked confused at that. “Since…they were murdered?”
“Oh my god!” Stiles said, holding up his hands in front of him, placating. “Not what I meant! I was just going to say that most people don’t immediately annul their magical marriages.”
Derek raised a dubious eyebrow.
Stiles rolled his eyes, seeing his reflection mimic him in the bathroom mirror at Derek’s back. He flashed his mirror-self a grin before his eye caught on a dark patch of skin near the collar of his t-shirt.
“Oh, my god,” Stiles said, staring at the very obvious bruise and bite marks Derek had left on his neck. “No wonder the chick working at Orange Julius kept staring at me!”
Derek visibly flinched.
“You knew!” Stiles punched Derek in the arm, startling backward when he felt the echoing thump in his own. “You asshole! You knew, and you didn’t say anything!”
“What was I supposed to say? ‘Hey, Stiles, you have a giant hickey on your neck, but you can’t actually do anything about it, since we don’t have any makeup and you didn’t bring any turtlenecks’?”
“Oh, I don’t know, a heads up might have been nice. Oh, fuck, that’s why the guy at Taco Bell told us congratulations.” Stiles glared. “You are the worst werewolf husband ever.”
Derek just glared back in response.
“Can I brush my teeth now?” Stiles gestured towards the toilet. “Or do you still need to, uh, drain the lizard?”
Derek’s entire face pinched inwards, as though he couldn’t decide between being horrified and laughing out loud. “Did you really just say that?”
“Sorry, shall I come up with some synonyms for you? Empty your bladder, pee, let loose the dam, urinate, whizz, piss, do you want me to go on? Because I can-”
“Shut up, Stiles,” Derek said. “And no.”
He stepped towards Stiles, who instinctively moved backwards. “Uh-”
“For god’s sake,” Derek said, before muscling his way past Stiles and back into the bedroom.
As Stiles brushed his teeth, he kept thinking about the way Derek could probably feel it too, the bristles rubbing up against his gums. Did werewolves get gum disease? Probably not, considering their magical healing properties. But what about, like, halitosis? Surely they must brush their teeth, if only to prevent bad breath and yellow teeth.
Stiles gripped the edge of the counter with both hands and spat into the sink.
“Stop reading my damn mind!” he shouted from inside the bathroom.
Stiles just wanted his mind to be his own again, his body to be his own, so he could have his stupid rambling internal monologues without being judged by stupid non-rambling werewolves.
Fuck, he didn’t have enough Adderall, did he? He’d only packed three days’ worth, and they were definitely going to be here for longer. He needed to call his dad. He needed to call Scott. He needed to call the school.
But forget his mind-he just wanted his own dick again! Maybe if he could touch his dick without triggering a panic attack, he wouldn’t be so damn scattered in the first place! He just wanted to jerk off, just once, nice and slow, like he’d missed out in the shower-
And as much as Stiles appreciated the thought, he was still surprised to find himself already hard. What the hell?
“Are you kidding me?”
His dick twitched again. Dammit.
Stiles shut his eyes as he rinsed his toothbrush, trying to think of something unsexy.
Unfortunately, all the images he came up with somehow led back to Derek. Thinking about his Dad? Arresting Derek, who stared out of the cruiser at Stiles with his sexy murder-glare. Thinking about his lacrosse teammates and their sweaty jockstraps? Derek in the locker room, wearing his soaked jeans. Thinking about Scott and Kira in flagrante? Derek was standing in the corner, glaring at them, and what the hell, brain? Why was Derek’s creepy looming suddenly sexy?
Derek projected, and even through the telepathic bond he was radiating misery.
Stiles swallowed the rest of his glass of water before opening up the bathroom door. Derek was flopped stomach down on the bed, his face buried in the pillow. The pillow where Stiles had been lying a few minutes ago.
“It’s not your fault, Derek, stop that.”
“Everything’s my fault.”
“Oh my god, was that self-pity I just heard? You sound like Scott. Seriously, cut it out.”
Derek shifted on the bed so he could glare at Stiles, and the friction sent a jolt through Stiles’ groin.
“Holy!” Stiles said, and stifled a moan. “Okay, this is awkward.”
“It’s the full moon,” Derek said, his lower lip pushed out in a pout.
He still managed to look angry, thanks to the eyebrows, but Stiles was hard-pressed not to leap on top of him. (Heh. Hard-pressed.)
For snuggling, obviously. He didn’t want to leap on top of him for any other, more nefarious purposes. Nope.
Stiles’ dick twitched again, and it was definitely not through the bond, this time.
Derek glared.
“Okay,” Stiles said, shifting to try and minimize the pressure of his jeans on his crotch, and failing spectacularly, “so it’s the full moon and you’re feeling super horny? Or what?”
Derek groaned, and Stiles couldn’t tell if it was due to the unexpected friction, or because Stiles was a dork.
Derek grit his teeth, glaring at Stiles. “The pull of the wolf is strongest right now.”
“And?” Stiles asked.
“And I’m having a harder time controlling myself!” Derek snapped.
“Huh, so it really is that time of the month.”
“Stiles!”
“What? I’m just saying.”
Derek dropped his face down onto the pillow, muffling his groan. This one was definitely frustration.
“Okay, just, I’ll get into bed, we won’t talk about it, eventually the mutual boners will go away, right?”
Derek twitched.
“Right?”
Stiles waited for Derek’s reply, getting more and more panicked as time went on, and the tips of Derek’s ears and the back of his neck turned red.
“Derek! Please tell me the boners are going to go away!”
Derek finally rolled over, into the middle of the bed, and looked at Stiles with a defeated expression. Which really, really, should not have been as much of a turn-on as it was.
“Okay, no, it’s fine, we’ll just both think about Finstock-”
Stiles’ dick twitched through the bond.
“Finstock?”
Derek glared. “I had a crush on him in high school, so sue me!”
“You-”
“He was younger then!”
“Oh my god,” Stiles said, “I’m going to need brain bleach for that image, which, yay, less boner, except, why isn’t it going away?”
“Because now I’m thinking about you and Finstock!”
“Wait, and that’s a good image for you? Are you kidding me?”
“Shut up, Stiles.”
Stiles stumbled away in a panic as Derek leapt off the bed and stalked towards him.
Holy crap, this was it. Derek was going to eat him. And there was only a fifty percent chance of it being in the sexy way.
Except, there was no mauling, or making out, or touching of any kind. Instead, Derek skirted completely around Stiles and walked into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.
Chapter 15: Coming Untouched (Or: What did I tell you about being funny)