Fic: UST (An Unfortunate Series of Tropes) (16/20)
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)
Author's Note: Sexytimes ahoy!
Chapter 15: Coming Untouched (Or: What did I tell you about being funny)
“Derek!” Stiles turned and tried to open the bathroom door, but it was locked. “Derek, you asshole, you need to come out and talk about this!”
“Stiles, just-” Derek said, and he sounded so damn tired.
Stiles crouched down and placed his hand on the door, fingertips pressing into the wood. He closed his eyes, breathing in the air and feeling Derek’s skin prickling with goosebumps in the chill of the bathroom, the pads of his feet against the linoleum floor, the blood pulsing and thrumming through his veins.
“You can’t just run away from this,” Stiles said, and despite his best efforts, his voice cracked at the end.
“I know,” Derek said, and Stiles’ heart twisted in his chest.
“Do you think,” Stiles said, and then paused. He suspected an orgasm would do wonders for both of them, but he didn’t want to push Derek. He didn’t want to do what Kate had done, what Jennifer had done.
Derek shifted, and Stiles could feel him pressing his back more firmly against the closed door. “Do I think what?” he asked, his voice barely audible.
“Do you want to get off?” Stiles asked.
“I don’t want to have sex with you, Stiles,” Derek said, but he sounded more exhausted than scared.
“I know. If you could get off without-without physically touching me, would you want to?”
There was a beat of silence, the thrum of Stiles’ heartbeat loud in his eardrums.
“You don’t have to, okay? Just…if you did happen to, say, touch yourself, and get off, logically I would too, right? Through the bond?”
Derek hesitated. “Maybe.”
“So, uh, if I were to, you know, not touch myself at all, during the process, then you’d be in control the entire time.”
Derek didn’t say anything.
“Theoretically, if I were to not touch myself, while you were, uh, would you be…okay?”
Derek was silent, and even with the bond, Stiles had no idea what he was thinking.
“Forget it,” Stiles blurted. “It was a stupid idea. We should wait until the bond’s removed. That way you don’t feel like, weird, about me being connected to you, I mean, since, even if you were the only person touching in this scenario I’m still, you know, spying on you-”
“Yes,” Derek said.
Stiles stopped mid-ramble. “Yes?”
“Yes,” Derek repeated.
Stiles closed his eyes, forehead pressed up against the door, and breathed in slowly.
“Can you, uh, please clarify that?”
He waited, but Derek remained silent.
“Like,” Stiles said, “are you saying yes, Stiles, I agree that this is a terrible idea, now go away and leave me to my solitary brooding? Or…are you…”
There was a long pause, so long that Stiles thought that Derek was just choosing to ignore him, but finally Derek’s voice echoed in his head, soft and scared and sharp, all at once.
Stiles let out a shaky breath.
This time, Derek’s mental voice sounded amused.
“Oh, thank god,” Stiles breathed, and pressed the side of his cheek into the wood. “What do you need me to do?”
There was a pause.
“Not here,” Derek said from behind the closed door. “Get on the bed.”
And damn, if hearing Derek boss him around in that tone of voice didn’t make it that much harder not to touch himself.
Stiles barely suppressed a whimper and practically threw himself onto the bed. He clenched his hands into fists, in an effort to keep himself from shoving them down his jeans.
He waited for his beating heart to slow, but then he could feel Derek unfastening his jeans. He bit his lip before remembering that Derek would feel it too.
Stiles sucked in a shuddering breath.
“Very funny, asshole,” Stiles managed, but his throat was hoarse.
He felt Derek finish unzipping, the tug of cloth as it was pushed down his thighs; Derek’s bare ass touching the cool, slightly tacky texture of the linoleum.
Stiles thought, and Derek slammed his head back against the door.
He felt the ghost of fingers clamp around the base of his dick. say things like that,> Derek said, and then, after a beat,
“What did I say about being funny!” Stiles shouted.
Derek commanded, and then softer,
Derek responded by moving his other hand, fingers dipping into the slit to gather up the pre-come and smear it around the head.
Stiles barely managed to suppress his whimper, and his dick twitched painfully in his pants.
Stiles scrambled to comply, fingers fumbling against the button of his fly, hurriedly unfastening his jeans and raising his hips on the bed so he could slide them down his thighs. He stared at the damp spot soaking into his briefs, his heart rate climbing and his breaths growing shallow.
Derek said, and an image flashed in Stiles’ mind, just briefly, of himself, standing in the shower, water coursing down his chest.
Stiles didn’t bother replying explicitly, just yanked his shirt up and off, cursing as it caught on his chin and ears. He flung it to the side, uncaring, before kicking his jeans completely off and hooking his fingers in the band of his underwear.
Derek said, as the grip on the base of his dick tightened.
Stiles hitched up his hips and pulled his briefs down and off. He watched as his cock bobbed in the cool air, a strand of pre-come stretching from his stomach.
“Fuck,” Stiles said, his whole body clenching.
He closed his eyes and balled his hands into fists. The urge to touch himself was overpowering, but he had made a promise, dammit, and-
Derek said.
Stiles’ mouth fell open and he darted a glance over to the closed bathroom door, even as he followed Derek’s instructions. done this before?>
The reply came a half-beat later.
Stiles could picture it: Derek laid out on a bed just like Stiles was right now, his arms stretched above his head, trying desperately not to touch himself.
Despite the feeling of Derek’s hand still clenched around the base of his cock, a spurt of pre-come dribbled out at the thought.
The hand gripping Derek’s cock disappeared, and the other started working up and down with long, rough strokes that caught against the foreskin on its way down.
It wasn’t as satisfying as when Stiles took himself in hand, certainly. The sensations flickered in and out like a television with poor reception, sometimes strong enough to feel that Derek was on the bed next to him, stroking Stiles’ cock, but mostly just whisper soft touches that were barely sufficient to tease.
To be honest, it was the most frustrating sexual experience he’d ever had, and that counted the time in seventh grade with Scott.
Stiles was still a teenager, though, and he hadn’t gotten off since Thursday, so it wasn’t going to take much. He could feel his orgasm building in the pit of his stomach, shocks of pleasure shooting through him every time he remembered that it was Derek’s hand he was feeling, Derek’s dick that was being stroked, that Derek was jacking off with only a door to separate them.
Derek moaned, low and warm and wanting, the word echoing inside his head and filling up the space.
With his eyes shut, Stiles saw images flash against the back of his eyelids: Derek’s hand moving up and down on his cock, flushed and dark at the tip; Stiles in the shower, as Derek must have seen him when he’d walked in, caught in the act with water streaming down his chest and one hand fisting his dick; Stiles’ mouth, shiny with spit as Derek dipped his thumb inside.
That last image made the breath catch in Stiles’ throat. Was that how Derek saw him?
Damn, Stiles was hot.
Derek said, and conflicting waves of emotion pulsed along the bond. He was amused and irritated, fond and just a tad flustered.
Stiles giggled in between gasps. like me,> Stiles sing-songed in his head, sexy, you want to fuck me->
A new image formed-Derek laid out on his back and Stiles straddling him, smirking down at him as he gyrated his hips.
The image flickered and Derek’s grip faltered on his cock. up, Stiles!>
Derek’s mental projection suddenly rolled Stiles over and onto his back-and Stiles would protest, because there was no way Derek could do that move still inside of Stiles without tearing something-but then fantasy Derek leaned over to cover Stiles’ mouth with his hand and Stiles felt heat shoot through his belly and groin.
this more realistic?> Derek asked.
Stiles felt like his blood was on fire. god.>
Stiles tried to send back his own image in response: Derek fucking into him roughly, one hand braced against the mattress and the other covering Stiles’ mouth as he screamed into Derek’s palm.
Derek’s mental projections turned into a stream of curses and the pace of his strokes increased, his hand jerking up and down, just this shade of too dry. Stiles had started thrusting his hips off the bed now, seeking out friction that didn’t exist, his breaths coming in short gasps. His nails scratched and scrabbled against the headboard even as he tried to keep them still. His mouth closed off against the whimpers that kept trying to emerge from his throat.
He wasn’t sure if he was feeling Derek’s orgasm, or his own, but the pressure built up until he almost felt he was going to split in two, and he finally recognized the tingle that he’d come to anticipate just before coming.
Behind the bathroom door, he heard a low gasp, at the same time that Derek cried out his name in his head: one long, low syllable that dragged on forever.
Pleasure sparked through Stiles’ body like lightning, and it felt like every muscle was clenching all at once.
When he finally felt coherent enough to open his eyes, everything seemed fuzzy and out of focus. When he looked down, he saw that his chest and stomach were spattered with thick white strands of come.
“Fuck,” he said, thumping his head back against the mattress. He didn’t remember feeling this full body ache after orgasm before.
The bathroom door opened with a soft click, and Derek staggered out, looking a little stunned. He was wearing boxer briefs, and Stiles tried his best to keep his eyes open, so he could appreciate the view. Derek’s chest was damp, happy trail clinging to his abdomen. Stiles wanted to be that hair.
“Too perfect,” he murmured. “Shouldn’t exist.”
Derek ignored him, kneeling next to the bed and bringing up the cloth in his hand to Stiles’ stomach.
Stiles squirmed away from the cold and damp. “Tickles,” he said.
“You won’t want to wake up with this still on you,” Derek said, and his eyes were soft.
“When did you get soft?” Stiles asked, reaching towards Derek’s face with one hand.
Derek just shook his head and finished wiping up the last traces of come from Stiles’ chest.
Stiles let his fingers brush against Derek’s stubble. “Scratchy.”
Derek smiled at that, and Stiles felt his eyes widen. Had he ever seen Derek smile before?
When Derek finally pulled away, Stiles whined. “Come back.”
“You’re so come-drunk,” Derek said, but he was still smiling, and his eyes were still looking at Stiles like he was something good.
“Sleep with me,” Stiles said, patting the sheets beside him.
“In a bit,” Derek said, and his hand brushed Stiles’ hair away from his forehead, before something dark and sad crept into Derek’s eyes, and he turned around.
Derek told him, as he walked back into the bathroom.
So Stiles did.
***
Stiles flexed against the sheets, letting his knuckles graze against the headboard and stretching out his toes until they curled off the edge of the mattress.
It was nice and warm underneath the haphazard pile of sheets and blankets that had been lumped on top of him, and Stiles squirmed onto his stomach and slunk deeper into the makeshift nest.
He eased himself back into consciousness slowly. The room was filled with the warm glow of mid-morning, and Stiles could hear birdsong through the open window. When he cracked open one eye, he could see the expanse of yellow floral bedspread, only slightly wrinkled.
So, no Derek, then. Stiles supposed he hadn’t really expected to wake up next to him, but it might have been nice.
Stiles pressed his face into his pillow and groaned when he remembered the events of the previous night. It had seemed like such a good idea at the time.
Now, not so much.
Stiles tried, reaching out through the bond.
He frowned into his pillow. Something felt off about the bond this morning. He couldn’t feel Derek.
Stiles asked.
Stiles rolled over and sat up abruptly when he realized that not only was he not hearing any reply from Derek, but he also wasn’t sensing anything. No images, no thoughts, no physical sensations. He just felt that weird tug in the center of his chest that he felt whenever Derek wasn’t nearby. Which meant the bond was still present, at least partially.
So was their bond half-nullified, or what?
“Dammit,” he muttered under his breath.
Kicking off the sheets, Stiles got out of bed and padded over to where he’d left his backpack, rooting around for a clean shirt and underwear. He was still naked, and the chill air of the room pricked at his bare skin.
It was odd to think that Derek couldn’t feel what he was feeling, for the first time in days.
Stiles shook off the thought and focused on getting dressed. His undershirt was cool against his skin, his jeans slightly wrinkled from where they’d been sitting in a crumpled pile on the floor overnight.
Without bothering with socks, Stiles cracked open the bedroom door and padded downstairs.
He saw Derek before he felt him, and it was odd to think that was odd. Stiles must have gotten more used to the bond than he’d thought.
As one final test, he thought, as loudly as he could,
Derek didn’t say anything, and his ears didn’t turn pink, so Stiles sighed noisily. To his surprise, Derek flinched, craning his neck back and setting his mug on the kitchen table.
“Morning,” Derek said.
“What happened to the bond?”
Derek shifted uncomfortably in his chair, hand gripping the back arch tightly. “Apparently Willow finished brewing the potion early this morning.” He nodded over at his coffee cup before grimacing. “It’s the first part of the ritual.”
“Right,” Stiles said, still hovering at the bottom of the stairwell.
“Are you going to sit down?” Derek asked, but he wasn’t using his angry eyebrows, so there was that.
Stiles grabbed the seat caddy-corner from Derek, stretching out his legs under the table. “So.”
Derek frowned.
“How’s it going,” Stiles said.
“Fine.”
Ugh. Of all the morning-after regret scenarios, Stiles hadn’t pictured being forced to spend the morning with someone who’d rather be doing the walk of shame.
Derek drained the last of his mug, wincing. “That was terrible.”
“Yeah?”
Derek glanced over at Stiles. “I think it had rotten fish in it.”
“Gefilte fish?”
“It tasted fermented.”
“Gross.”
Derek attempted a smile, then. Stiles wasn’t sure what his face did in response, but Derek’s smile disappeared and he looked down at his hands, fingers still wrapped around the coffee mug.
“Is there any cereal?” Stiles asked.
Derek shrugged. “All I’ve had is the fish-drink.”
“Okay,” Stiles said. “Do I need to drink something too?”
“I didn’t ask.”
Stiles reached up behind his head to tug at the hair at the nape of his neck. “So, this is awesome.”
Derek bit his lip. “I’m sorry.”
“Ugh, don’t apologize,” Stiles said. “You’re not the one who pushed.”
“You didn’t-” Derek closed his eyes, fingers convulsing where they were gripping onto his mug.
“I didn’t what?”
Derek pushed away from the table and carried his mug over to the sink.
“Do you…want to talk about it?” Stiles asked.
“Do you?”
“No, but we probably need to.”
Derek rinsed his mug in silence.
Stiles felt irrational anger rise up in his throat, pressure building up in his temples and pricking the back of his eyelids.
he thought.
he thought.
But Derek couldn’t hear him.
“Fine,” he snapped, getting out of his chair. “If you’re not going to talk to me, then I’m just going back to bed.”
Derek’s head jerked around to meet Stiles’ gaze. He opened his mouth.
He closed it again.
Stiles crossed his arms over his chest and waited.
“Willow said-” Derek turned back to the sink. “She needed your help with something.”
Stiles felt another wave of anger rush through him. “Did she? Well, I guess I’m glad that someone wants to talk to me.”
“What do you want me to say, Stiles?” Derek snapped, shoulders hunched defensively. “That last night was ‘the best night of my life’? That it was ‘special,’ and ‘magical,’ and ‘everything I’d ever dreamed of’?”
Derek paused for a long moment, his whole body still and his hands clenched around the rim of the sink.
“I dunno, Derek,” Stiles said, his muscles trembling as he forced the words out. “Maybe that you enjoyed it? Or that it wasn’t just a stupid mistake?”
“I can’t.”
Derek’s voice wavered on the last sentence, barely audible. Stiles felt the breath rush out of him.
“You know,” Stiles said, refusing to let the pin pricks behind his eyelids turn into tears, “I had no delusions about my first time being special, but it might be nice if you’d look at me when you tell me how horrible it was.”
Derek whirled around, staring at Stiles with bright blue irises and his fangs bared. “I’m looking now, are you happy?”
A loud cough sounded behind them. Willow was standing in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed over her chest and raising a very judgmental eyebrow.
“Good morning, boys,” she said, her tone indicating it was anything but. “No shifting in the kitchen, please.”
“Sorry,” Derek said, sounding cowed, as his eyes dimmed and his fangs retreated.
Stiles breathed in, trying to slow the beating of his heart, but it still felt like a jackhammer beneath his ribcage.
Derek looked over at Stiles as though he wanted to say something.
Stiles turned away, towards Willow. “Derek said you needed my help?” Stiles asked. He managed a wide smile, hoping it came across as cheerful, rather than deranged.
Willow narrowed her eyes at him, silently assessing. “I’m sure I can find something for you to do.” She walked over to Derek and set a sheet of paper on the counter beside him. “Do you know where the grocery store is?”
Derek squinted down at the paper, grasping it between his thumb and index finger and bringing it closer to his face.
When he spoke, his voice was hushed. “You need all of this for the spell?”
“No,” Willow said, before turning back to Stiles. “Have you eaten yet?”
“Not yet,” Stiles said, eyes flicking back to Derek as he slunk out of the kitchen.
“I have oatmeal,” Willow said, rifling through the cupboards.
Stiles nodded absently, keeping his eye on the doorway until Derek’s form was long gone, and all that remained was the dull ache in his chest.
Chapter 16: Wise Old Woman with Unsolicited Advice (Or: What kind of spell uses red onion?)
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)
Author's Note: Sexytimes ahoy!
Chapter 15: Coming Untouched (Or: What did I tell you about being funny)
“Derek!” Stiles turned and tried to open the bathroom door, but it was locked. “Derek, you asshole, you need to come out and talk about this!”
“Stiles, just-” Derek said, and he sounded so damn tired.
Stiles crouched down and placed his hand on the door, fingertips pressing into the wood. He closed his eyes, breathing in the air and feeling Derek’s skin prickling with goosebumps in the chill of the bathroom, the pads of his feet against the linoleum floor, the blood pulsing and thrumming through his veins.
“You can’t just run away from this,” Stiles said, and despite his best efforts, his voice cracked at the end.
“I know,” Derek said, and Stiles’ heart twisted in his chest.
“Do you think,” Stiles said, and then paused. He suspected an orgasm would do wonders for both of them, but he didn’t want to push Derek. He didn’t want to do what Kate had done, what Jennifer had done.
Derek shifted, and Stiles could feel him pressing his back more firmly against the closed door. “Do I think what?” he asked, his voice barely audible.
“Do you want to get off?” Stiles asked.
“I don’t want to have sex with you, Stiles,” Derek said, but he sounded more exhausted than scared.
“I know. If you could get off without-without physically touching me, would you want to?”
There was a beat of silence, the thrum of Stiles’ heartbeat loud in his eardrums.
“You don’t have to, okay? Just…if you did happen to, say, touch yourself, and get off, logically I would too, right? Through the bond?”
Derek hesitated. “Maybe.”
“So, uh, if I were to, you know, not touch myself at all, during the process, then you’d be in control the entire time.”
Derek didn’t say anything.
“Theoretically, if I were to not touch myself, while you were, uh, would you be…okay?”
Derek was silent, and even with the bond, Stiles had no idea what he was thinking.
“Forget it,” Stiles blurted. “It was a stupid idea. We should wait until the bond’s removed. That way you don’t feel like, weird, about me being connected to you, I mean, since, even if you were the only person touching in this scenario I’m still, you know, spying on you-”
“Yes,” Derek said.
Stiles stopped mid-ramble. “Yes?”
“Yes,” Derek repeated.
Stiles closed his eyes, forehead pressed up against the door, and breathed in slowly.
“Can you, uh, please clarify that?”
He waited, but Derek remained silent.
“Like,” Stiles said, “are you saying yes, Stiles, I agree that this is a terrible idea, now go away and leave me to my solitary brooding? Or…are you…”
There was a long pause, so long that Stiles thought that Derek was just choosing to ignore him, but finally Derek’s voice echoed in his head, soft and scared and sharp, all at once.
Stiles let out a shaky breath.
This time, Derek’s mental voice sounded amused.
“Oh, thank god,” Stiles breathed, and pressed the side of his cheek into the wood. “What do you need me to do?”
There was a pause.
“Not here,” Derek said from behind the closed door. “Get on the bed.”
And damn, if hearing Derek boss him around in that tone of voice didn’t make it that much harder not to touch himself.
Stiles barely suppressed a whimper and practically threw himself onto the bed. He clenched his hands into fists, in an effort to keep himself from shoving them down his jeans.
He waited for his beating heart to slow, but then he could feel Derek unfastening his jeans. He bit his lip before remembering that Derek would feel it too.
Stiles sucked in a shuddering breath.
“Very funny, asshole,” Stiles managed, but his throat was hoarse.
He felt Derek finish unzipping, the tug of cloth as it was pushed down his thighs; Derek’s bare ass touching the cool, slightly tacky texture of the linoleum.
Stiles thought, and Derek slammed his head back against the door.
He felt the ghost of fingers clamp around the base of his dick. say things like that,> Derek said, and then, after a beat,
“What did I say about being funny!” Stiles shouted.
Derek responded by moving his other hand, fingers dipping into the slit to gather up the pre-come and smear it around the head.
Stiles barely managed to suppress his whimper, and his dick twitched painfully in his pants.
Stiles scrambled to comply, fingers fumbling against the button of his fly, hurriedly unfastening his jeans and raising his hips on the bed so he could slide them down his thighs. He stared at the damp spot soaking into his briefs, his heart rate climbing and his breaths growing shallow.
Derek said, and an image flashed in Stiles’ mind, just briefly, of himself, standing in the shower, water coursing down his chest.
Stiles didn’t bother replying explicitly, just yanked his shirt up and off, cursing as it caught on his chin and ears. He flung it to the side, uncaring, before kicking his jeans completely off and hooking his fingers in the band of his underwear.
Derek said, as the grip on the base of his dick tightened.
Stiles hitched up his hips and pulled his briefs down and off. He watched as his cock bobbed in the cool air, a strand of pre-come stretching from his stomach.
“Fuck,” Stiles said, his whole body clenching.
He closed his eyes and balled his hands into fists. The urge to touch himself was overpowering, but he had made a promise, dammit, and-
Derek said.
Stiles’ mouth fell open and he darted a glance over to the closed bathroom door, even as he followed Derek’s instructions. done this before?>
The reply came a half-beat later.
Stiles could picture it: Derek laid out on a bed just like Stiles was right now, his arms stretched above his head, trying desperately not to touch himself.
Despite the feeling of Derek’s hand still clenched around the base of his cock, a spurt of pre-come dribbled out at the thought.
The hand gripping Derek’s cock disappeared, and the other started working up and down with long, rough strokes that caught against the foreskin on its way down.
It wasn’t as satisfying as when Stiles took himself in hand, certainly. The sensations flickered in and out like a television with poor reception, sometimes strong enough to feel that Derek was on the bed next to him, stroking Stiles’ cock, but mostly just whisper soft touches that were barely sufficient to tease.
To be honest, it was the most frustrating sexual experience he’d ever had, and that counted the time in seventh grade with Scott.
Stiles was still a teenager, though, and he hadn’t gotten off since Thursday, so it wasn’t going to take much. He could feel his orgasm building in the pit of his stomach, shocks of pleasure shooting through him every time he remembered that it was Derek’s hand he was feeling, Derek’s dick that was being stroked, that Derek was jacking off with only a door to separate them.
Derek moaned, low and warm and wanting, the word echoing inside his head and filling up the space.
With his eyes shut, Stiles saw images flash against the back of his eyelids: Derek’s hand moving up and down on his cock, flushed and dark at the tip; Stiles in the shower, as Derek must have seen him when he’d walked in, caught in the act with water streaming down his chest and one hand fisting his dick; Stiles’ mouth, shiny with spit as Derek dipped his thumb inside.
That last image made the breath catch in Stiles’ throat. Was that how Derek saw him?
Damn, Stiles was hot.
Derek said, and conflicting waves of emotion pulsed along the bond. He was amused and irritated, fond and just a tad flustered.
Stiles giggled in between gasps. like me,> Stiles sing-songed in his head, sexy, you want to fuck me->
A new image formed-Derek laid out on his back and Stiles straddling him, smirking down at him as he gyrated his hips.
The image flickered and Derek’s grip faltered on his cock. up, Stiles!>
Derek’s mental projection suddenly rolled Stiles over and onto his back-and Stiles would protest, because there was no way Derek could do that move still inside of Stiles without tearing something-but then fantasy Derek leaned over to cover Stiles’ mouth with his hand and Stiles felt heat shoot through his belly and groin.
this more realistic?> Derek asked.
Stiles felt like his blood was on fire. god.>
Stiles tried to send back his own image in response: Derek fucking into him roughly, one hand braced against the mattress and the other covering Stiles’ mouth as he screamed into Derek’s palm.
Derek’s mental projections turned into a stream of curses and the pace of his strokes increased, his hand jerking up and down, just this shade of too dry. Stiles had started thrusting his hips off the bed now, seeking out friction that didn’t exist, his breaths coming in short gasps. His nails scratched and scrabbled against the headboard even as he tried to keep them still. His mouth closed off against the whimpers that kept trying to emerge from his throat.
He wasn’t sure if he was feeling Derek’s orgasm, or his own, but the pressure built up until he almost felt he was going to split in two, and he finally recognized the tingle that he’d come to anticipate just before coming.
Behind the bathroom door, he heard a low gasp, at the same time that Derek cried out his name in his head: one long, low syllable that dragged on forever.
Pleasure sparked through Stiles’ body like lightning, and it felt like every muscle was clenching all at once.
When he finally felt coherent enough to open his eyes, everything seemed fuzzy and out of focus. When he looked down, he saw that his chest and stomach were spattered with thick white strands of come.
“Fuck,” he said, thumping his head back against the mattress. He didn’t remember feeling this full body ache after orgasm before.
The bathroom door opened with a soft click, and Derek staggered out, looking a little stunned. He was wearing boxer briefs, and Stiles tried his best to keep his eyes open, so he could appreciate the view. Derek’s chest was damp, happy trail clinging to his abdomen. Stiles wanted to be that hair.
“Too perfect,” he murmured. “Shouldn’t exist.”
Derek ignored him, kneeling next to the bed and bringing up the cloth in his hand to Stiles’ stomach.
Stiles squirmed away from the cold and damp. “Tickles,” he said.
“You won’t want to wake up with this still on you,” Derek said, and his eyes were soft.
“When did you get soft?” Stiles asked, reaching towards Derek’s face with one hand.
Derek just shook his head and finished wiping up the last traces of come from Stiles’ chest.
Stiles let his fingers brush against Derek’s stubble. “Scratchy.”
Derek smiled at that, and Stiles felt his eyes widen. Had he ever seen Derek smile before?
When Derek finally pulled away, Stiles whined. “Come back.”
“You’re so come-drunk,” Derek said, but he was still smiling, and his eyes were still looking at Stiles like he was something good.
“Sleep with me,” Stiles said, patting the sheets beside him.
“In a bit,” Derek said, and his hand brushed Stiles’ hair away from his forehead, before something dark and sad crept into Derek’s eyes, and he turned around.
Derek told him, as he walked back into the bathroom.
So Stiles did.
***
Stiles flexed against the sheets, letting his knuckles graze against the headboard and stretching out his toes until they curled off the edge of the mattress.
It was nice and warm underneath the haphazard pile of sheets and blankets that had been lumped on top of him, and Stiles squirmed onto his stomach and slunk deeper into the makeshift nest.
He eased himself back into consciousness slowly. The room was filled with the warm glow of mid-morning, and Stiles could hear birdsong through the open window. When he cracked open one eye, he could see the expanse of yellow floral bedspread, only slightly wrinkled.
So, no Derek, then. Stiles supposed he hadn’t really expected to wake up next to him, but it might have been nice.
Stiles pressed his face into his pillow and groaned when he remembered the events of the previous night. It had seemed like such a good idea at the time.
Now, not so much.
Stiles tried, reaching out through the bond.
He frowned into his pillow. Something felt off about the bond this morning. He couldn’t feel Derek.
Stiles asked.
Stiles rolled over and sat up abruptly when he realized that not only was he not hearing any reply from Derek, but he also wasn’t sensing anything. No images, no thoughts, no physical sensations. He just felt that weird tug in the center of his chest that he felt whenever Derek wasn’t nearby. Which meant the bond was still present, at least partially.
So was their bond half-nullified, or what?
“Dammit,” he muttered under his breath.
Kicking off the sheets, Stiles got out of bed and padded over to where he’d left his backpack, rooting around for a clean shirt and underwear. He was still naked, and the chill air of the room pricked at his bare skin.
It was odd to think that Derek couldn’t feel what he was feeling, for the first time in days.
Stiles shook off the thought and focused on getting dressed. His undershirt was cool against his skin, his jeans slightly wrinkled from where they’d been sitting in a crumpled pile on the floor overnight.
Without bothering with socks, Stiles cracked open the bedroom door and padded downstairs.
He saw Derek before he felt him, and it was odd to think that was odd. Stiles must have gotten more used to the bond than he’d thought.
As one final test, he thought, as loudly as he could,
Derek didn’t say anything, and his ears didn’t turn pink, so Stiles sighed noisily. To his surprise, Derek flinched, craning his neck back and setting his mug on the kitchen table.
“Morning,” Derek said.
“What happened to the bond?”
Derek shifted uncomfortably in his chair, hand gripping the back arch tightly. “Apparently Willow finished brewing the potion early this morning.” He nodded over at his coffee cup before grimacing. “It’s the first part of the ritual.”
“Right,” Stiles said, still hovering at the bottom of the stairwell.
“Are you going to sit down?” Derek asked, but he wasn’t using his angry eyebrows, so there was that.
Stiles grabbed the seat caddy-corner from Derek, stretching out his legs under the table. “So.”
Derek frowned.
“How’s it going,” Stiles said.
“Fine.”
Ugh. Of all the morning-after regret scenarios, Stiles hadn’t pictured being forced to spend the morning with someone who’d rather be doing the walk of shame.
Derek drained the last of his mug, wincing. “That was terrible.”
“Yeah?”
Derek glanced over at Stiles. “I think it had rotten fish in it.”
“Gefilte fish?”
“It tasted fermented.”
“Gross.”
Derek attempted a smile, then. Stiles wasn’t sure what his face did in response, but Derek’s smile disappeared and he looked down at his hands, fingers still wrapped around the coffee mug.
“Is there any cereal?” Stiles asked.
Derek shrugged. “All I’ve had is the fish-drink.”
“Okay,” Stiles said. “Do I need to drink something too?”
“I didn’t ask.”
Stiles reached up behind his head to tug at the hair at the nape of his neck. “So, this is awesome.”
Derek bit his lip. “I’m sorry.”
“Ugh, don’t apologize,” Stiles said. “You’re not the one who pushed.”
“You didn’t-” Derek closed his eyes, fingers convulsing where they were gripping onto his mug.
“I didn’t what?”
Derek pushed away from the table and carried his mug over to the sink.
“Do you…want to talk about it?” Stiles asked.
“Do you?”
“No, but we probably need to.”
Derek rinsed his mug in silence.
Stiles felt irrational anger rise up in his throat, pressure building up in his temples and pricking the back of his eyelids.
he thought.
he thought.
But Derek couldn’t hear him.
“Fine,” he snapped, getting out of his chair. “If you’re not going to talk to me, then I’m just going back to bed.”
Derek’s head jerked around to meet Stiles’ gaze. He opened his mouth.
He closed it again.
Stiles crossed his arms over his chest and waited.
“Willow said-” Derek turned back to the sink. “She needed your help with something.”
Stiles felt another wave of anger rush through him. “Did she? Well, I guess I’m glad that someone wants to talk to me.”
“What do you want me to say, Stiles?” Derek snapped, shoulders hunched defensively. “That last night was ‘the best night of my life’? That it was ‘special,’ and ‘magical,’ and ‘everything I’d ever dreamed of’?”
Derek paused for a long moment, his whole body still and his hands clenched around the rim of the sink.
“I dunno, Derek,” Stiles said, his muscles trembling as he forced the words out. “Maybe that you enjoyed it? Or that it wasn’t just a stupid mistake?”
“I can’t.”
Derek’s voice wavered on the last sentence, barely audible. Stiles felt the breath rush out of him.
“You know,” Stiles said, refusing to let the pin pricks behind his eyelids turn into tears, “I had no delusions about my first time being special, but it might be nice if you’d look at me when you tell me how horrible it was.”
Derek whirled around, staring at Stiles with bright blue irises and his fangs bared. “I’m looking now, are you happy?”
A loud cough sounded behind them. Willow was standing in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed over her chest and raising a very judgmental eyebrow.
“Good morning, boys,” she said, her tone indicating it was anything but. “No shifting in the kitchen, please.”
“Sorry,” Derek said, sounding cowed, as his eyes dimmed and his fangs retreated.
Stiles breathed in, trying to slow the beating of his heart, but it still felt like a jackhammer beneath his ribcage.
Derek looked over at Stiles as though he wanted to say something.
Stiles turned away, towards Willow. “Derek said you needed my help?” Stiles asked. He managed a wide smile, hoping it came across as cheerful, rather than deranged.
Willow narrowed her eyes at him, silently assessing. “I’m sure I can find something for you to do.” She walked over to Derek and set a sheet of paper on the counter beside him. “Do you know where the grocery store is?”
Derek squinted down at the paper, grasping it between his thumb and index finger and bringing it closer to his face.
When he spoke, his voice was hushed. “You need all of this for the spell?”
“No,” Willow said, before turning back to Stiles. “Have you eaten yet?”
“Not yet,” Stiles said, eyes flicking back to Derek as he slunk out of the kitchen.
“I have oatmeal,” Willow said, rifling through the cupboards.
Stiles nodded absently, keeping his eye on the doorway until Derek’s form was long gone, and all that remained was the dull ache in his chest.
Chapter 16: Wise Old Woman with Unsolicited Advice (Or: What kind of spell uses red onion?)