Fic: UST (An Unfortunate Series of Tropes) (2/19)
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: 2k (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)
On the third Wednesday in a row that Stiles came home late (because he’d spent over an hour after practice running with Derek in the woods), his father raised an eyebrow at him when he walked in the front door.
“Son,” he said, “is there something you wanted to tell me?”
Stiles blinked back at his father. “What?”
Stiles’ dad waved a hand in Stiles’ general direction. “You might want to change clothes. And wash your hair.”
Stiles looked down at his outfit, which was still muddy from when Derek, in wolf form, had snuck up behind Stiles and head-butted the back of his knees. Stiles ran a hand through his hair and winced when he determined that there were leaves still embedded in it. “Dammit,” he muttered, wiping his hand on the back of his jeans.
“Is this a pack thing?” his dad asked. In the past year, he’d been trying to be more understanding about Stiles’ involvement in werewolf shenanigans, but he’d also tried to be more involved himself.
“Sort of?” Stiles said, shrugging, and turned to start trudging up to his room. A shower sounded like a fabulous idea. His muscles were aching from the combination of lacrosse practice, bruises from rough housing with Derek, and cold mud seeping into his skin.
“Sort of,” his dad said. “Just like you’ve sort of come home bruised and covered in mud for the past three weeks?”
Stiles turned to look at his dad from over his shoulder and offered a shrug. “Yeah?”
His dad just sighed heavily, and Stiles fought the urge to apologize. There was nothing to apologize for. Hanging out with Derek wasn’t wrong, or unsafe. Maybe he just didn’t feel like sharing.
***
A week later, when Stiles walked up to their usual meeting spot, Derek was waiting for him in wolf form and chewing absently on a pinecone.
Stiles kicked at the pinecone, just to see Derek bristle in indignation, before stretching out on the ground next to him. He propped one arm behind him to lever his torso off the ground while the other dug inside his backpack to retrieve their sandwiches.
“I brought roast beef this week,” he said, sneaking a glance over at Derek. He saw the base of his tail twitch. Almost a wag. Soon he and Derek might even be almost-bros.
Derek almost always changed to human form to eat his sandwich, ever since Stiles had started cackling upon seeing wolf-Derek scarf down his meal in two bites. Stiles waited for Derek to slink back to wherever he’d hidden his clothes and sit down cross legged next to him before speaking.
“Why do you always come here to wolf out?”
Derek raised an eyebrow before leaning over to reach for his sandwich. Stiles jerked the baggies out of reach, crossing his arm over his chest and raising his own eyebrow in challenge. Derek would have to lean across him to get the sandwiches, and Stiles was pretty sure he wouldn’t risk that much bodily contact.
Sure enough, Derek sighed and sat back down, propping his hands behind him. “Why do you care?”
Stiles shrugged, crossing his legs and depositing the sandwiches in the space between his legs. If Derek wanted it, he’d have to come uncomfortably close to his junk. Well, uncomfortable for Derek, Stiles assumed. “It’s a pretty terrible place to be caught naked. Right next to the school, in sight of the lacrosse field? You’re just asking to be charged as a sex offender, buddy.”
Derek scowled. He made a half-hearted grab for the sandwiches, but Stiles leaned over to protect them.
“I’m just saying, you have how many acres in the preserve to use?” Stiles toyed with the corner of the plastic sandwich bag, flicking it up and down. “Why do you come out here?”
Derek huffed. “I need to be near pack.”
Stiles frowned at him.
Derek’s hand rubbed against Stiles’ crotch as he grabbed his sandwich, and Stiles scrambled backward even as his muscles clenched and blood rushed downward. “Not cool!” he shouted, but Derek just rolled his eyes and started eating. Stiles furiously thought about polynomial equations and Coach Finstock until his heartbeat returned to normal.
“Why do you need to be near pack?” Stiles asked, but Derek just glared at him and bit down on his sandwich with more force than was really necessary.
“Fine, dude, whatever, I was just asking.”
Derek swallowed his bite and frowned at Stiles. A little crease appeared between his eyebrows to signal his confusion. “Ask again next time.”
“Next time?” Stiles perked up. “Wait, does this mean you’ll actually answer me?”
Derek smirked. “I never said that.” He threw the now-empty plastic bag at Stiles’ head and slunk back into the trees. When he came out less than a minute later, he was in his now familiar wolf form, and Stiles didn’t try to suppress his grin.
Stiles didn’t even mind when, half an hour in, Derek leapt on top of him and knocked him face first into the mud.
***
Three days later, Stiles came home to find Derek asleep in his bed.
More accurately, when he got back to his empty house at three in the afternoon on Saturday, after spending the morning playing video games with Scott, he tromped up the stairs to his room only to find a large black dog-wolf thing asleep in his bed. When he shrieked accordingly, it blinked open sleepy eyes and huffed at Stiles in a familiar fashion.
“Ohmigod,” Stiles babbled, sagging against the doorframe in relief. “Warn a guy.” He rubbed a hand through damp hair and tossed his jacket on the computer chair as his heart slowed down from its double-time beat.
Derek rolled his eyes and buried his muzzle back into the nest of bedsheets, his tail dragging slowly back and forth across Stiles’ pillows. His left ear flicked lazily and Stiles was struck by the overwhelming urge to leap on top of him and hug the stuffing out of him.
He glanced at the rain streaking down his window and quirked an eyebrow at Derek. “Couldn’t get your wolf on in the rain storm, so you decided to break into my bedroom instead?”
Derek snuffle-snorted and Stiles’ insides turned to a puddle of goo. “Fine, fine, but you better not get any mud on the sheets. Or drool on my pillow.” He slung his backpack under his desk, settling into his chair with legs splayed wide, and opened up his laptop to start work on his English Lit assignment. He couldn’t help glancing back at his bed every few minutes though.
A few hours later, the rain outside slowed to a trickle before stopping entirely. Derek stretched, shaking out his coat, before jumping off the bed and padding over to his neatly folded henley and jeans. He pointed his muzzle directly at Stiles and stared.
It took Stiles a few seconds to realize that Derek wanted him to turn around while he changed. “Don’t see why I’m the one who has to turn my back,” he muttered, “seeing as how you’re the one who invaded my privacy.” He stared at a black smudge on his desk and tried not to think about the soft rustle of cloth from behind him.
Stiles heard the window sliding open just as Derek said, “Good night, Stiles.”
By the time Stiles turned around to gape at him, the window was open and Derek was long gone.
***
That Wednesday, Derek was waiting in human form, sitting propped up against a tree trunk, reading a book. He licked his thumb before turning to the next page. “Stiles,” he said, without looking up.
“Yo,” Stiles said, swinging his backpack off his shoulders and flopping onto his stomach next to Derek’s tree. “Whatcha readin’?”
“Kafka’s Metamorphosis,” Derek said. Stiles craned his head to read the book cover, which had a picture of a green ball with skinny arms and a toothy smile, and read The Ultimate Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.
Stiles rolled onto his back and started rummaging through his backpack for their sandwiches. “What part are you at? Did Arthur Dent just get turned into a giant insect?”
“Gregor is reciting terrible poetry to his sister, who can’t properly appreciate it because he’s a giant fly, and she hasn’t gotten a babel fish yet.” Derek thumbed to the next page.
“Vorlon poetry?”
“Vogon poetry,” Derek corrected.
“Wait, where did I get Vorlon from, then?” Stiles threw a sandwich at his face.
Derek caught it without looking. “Not from any book I’ve read.”
Stiles sighed and pulled out his math textbook and flipped to the current week’s assignment. “Dude, do you have anything for me to rest this on? I don’t want to get dirt on it.”
“Use your backpack,” Derek said.
Stiles spread his backpack on the ground, balancing his textbook on top. “Ugh, fine. You know, if you were in wolf form I’d just put it on your back.”
“All the more reason to stay a human.”
“I’m glad we have these little chats,” Stiles mused, uncapping his highlighter. “It reaffirms why I come out here every week.”
When he glanced out of the corner of his eye, Derek was smiling.
***
On Saturday evening, Stiles wasn’t terribly surprised when Derek slipped in through his cracked window. “Hey,” he said, not looking up from his laptop screen.
Derek toed off his shoes and walked out of the bedroom without saying anything. When the door creaked back open, wolf-Derek padded in.
“You going to do this every Saturday?” Stiles asked, but Derek just ignored him and jumped up on his bed, turning twice before settling down on top of the covers. “Oh, just make yourself comfortable, not like I was planning on using that.”
Derek huffed, and Stiles could have sworn he was smiling. Not that wolves smiled.
“Weirdo,” Stiles said.
***
At half past midnight, Stiles scrubbed his hand over his face and blinked at his laptop screen. His vision was fuzzy and his mind kept drifting in different directions, like a balloon without a tether. He was halfway out of his jeans before he turned and saw the large black fur ball that was still lying on his bed.
“Derek,” he croaked, stumbling the rest of the way to his bed and stepping on his own feet to pull off his socks. “Derek, oh my god, why are you still here. Get off my bed, fuzzbutt.”
Derek made no indication of rousing from his slumber, just twitched before settling further into the covers, and Stiles sighed. He was too tired to deal with this. With a huff, he hoisted himself into bed, collapsing half on top of Derek. He was pleasantly warm, his chest moving up and down with each breath.
Stiles crawled over until he was wedged in between Derek and the wall, his back pressed up against Derek’s side. It was kind of weird, but not much different than sleeping with a full body pillow. A heated, gently shifting, furry body pillow. Okay, it was a lot different, but Stiles was tired.
“Guess you can stay,” Stiles mumbled, vaguely wondering if Derek would try to eat him in the middle of the night, before he shut his eyes and let sleep carry him off.
***
When he woke up, he was alone in the bed, but there were black hairs sticking to the comforter, and a patch of drool on his pillow. Gross.
He stumbled into the bathroom and there were black hairs in his comb as well. Stupid, vain werewolves.
Of course, the rest of the day Stiles was stuck thinking about what Derek would have looked like if he had stayed, instead of sneaking out of bed while Stiles was still sleeping and climbing silently out of the window. He wondered what would have happened if Stiles had woken first, able to look down at Derek, his face slack from sleep, his hair flattened on one side from a bad case of bed head. Derek probably would have sported pillow creases on his cheek, and as he yawned and stretched, his muscles flexing in the sunlight, Stiles could have run his hands through his hair. Seen how it felt without all that dumb hair gel.
Stiles ended up taking an extra-long shower as soon as his dad left for his shift.
Stupid, sexy werewolves.
Chapter 3: Clothes Stealing (Or: My whole life is a lie)
Rating: NC-17
Genres: Humor, Angst
Setting: Post Season 3B, slightly AU from mid-season 3B
Pairings: Stiles/Derek, background Scott/Kira
Wordcount: 2k (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)
On the third Wednesday in a row that Stiles came home late (because he’d spent over an hour after practice running with Derek in the woods), his father raised an eyebrow at him when he walked in the front door.
“Son,” he said, “is there something you wanted to tell me?”
Stiles blinked back at his father. “What?”
Stiles’ dad waved a hand in Stiles’ general direction. “You might want to change clothes. And wash your hair.”
Stiles looked down at his outfit, which was still muddy from when Derek, in wolf form, had snuck up behind Stiles and head-butted the back of his knees. Stiles ran a hand through his hair and winced when he determined that there were leaves still embedded in it. “Dammit,” he muttered, wiping his hand on the back of his jeans.
“Is this a pack thing?” his dad asked. In the past year, he’d been trying to be more understanding about Stiles’ involvement in werewolf shenanigans, but he’d also tried to be more involved himself.
“Sort of?” Stiles said, shrugging, and turned to start trudging up to his room. A shower sounded like a fabulous idea. His muscles were aching from the combination of lacrosse practice, bruises from rough housing with Derek, and cold mud seeping into his skin.
“Sort of,” his dad said. “Just like you’ve sort of come home bruised and covered in mud for the past three weeks?”
Stiles turned to look at his dad from over his shoulder and offered a shrug. “Yeah?”
His dad just sighed heavily, and Stiles fought the urge to apologize. There was nothing to apologize for. Hanging out with Derek wasn’t wrong, or unsafe. Maybe he just didn’t feel like sharing.
***
A week later, when Stiles walked up to their usual meeting spot, Derek was waiting for him in wolf form and chewing absently on a pinecone.
Stiles kicked at the pinecone, just to see Derek bristle in indignation, before stretching out on the ground next to him. He propped one arm behind him to lever his torso off the ground while the other dug inside his backpack to retrieve their sandwiches.
“I brought roast beef this week,” he said, sneaking a glance over at Derek. He saw the base of his tail twitch. Almost a wag. Soon he and Derek might even be almost-bros.
Derek almost always changed to human form to eat his sandwich, ever since Stiles had started cackling upon seeing wolf-Derek scarf down his meal in two bites. Stiles waited for Derek to slink back to wherever he’d hidden his clothes and sit down cross legged next to him before speaking.
“Why do you always come here to wolf out?”
Derek raised an eyebrow before leaning over to reach for his sandwich. Stiles jerked the baggies out of reach, crossing his arm over his chest and raising his own eyebrow in challenge. Derek would have to lean across him to get the sandwiches, and Stiles was pretty sure he wouldn’t risk that much bodily contact.
Sure enough, Derek sighed and sat back down, propping his hands behind him. “Why do you care?”
Stiles shrugged, crossing his legs and depositing the sandwiches in the space between his legs. If Derek wanted it, he’d have to come uncomfortably close to his junk. Well, uncomfortable for Derek, Stiles assumed. “It’s a pretty terrible place to be caught naked. Right next to the school, in sight of the lacrosse field? You’re just asking to be charged as a sex offender, buddy.”
Derek scowled. He made a half-hearted grab for the sandwiches, but Stiles leaned over to protect them.
“I’m just saying, you have how many acres in the preserve to use?” Stiles toyed with the corner of the plastic sandwich bag, flicking it up and down. “Why do you come out here?”
Derek huffed. “I need to be near pack.”
Stiles frowned at him.
Derek’s hand rubbed against Stiles’ crotch as he grabbed his sandwich, and Stiles scrambled backward even as his muscles clenched and blood rushed downward. “Not cool!” he shouted, but Derek just rolled his eyes and started eating. Stiles furiously thought about polynomial equations and Coach Finstock until his heartbeat returned to normal.
“Why do you need to be near pack?” Stiles asked, but Derek just glared at him and bit down on his sandwich with more force than was really necessary.
“Fine, dude, whatever, I was just asking.”
Derek swallowed his bite and frowned at Stiles. A little crease appeared between his eyebrows to signal his confusion. “Ask again next time.”
“Next time?” Stiles perked up. “Wait, does this mean you’ll actually answer me?”
Derek smirked. “I never said that.” He threw the now-empty plastic bag at Stiles’ head and slunk back into the trees. When he came out less than a minute later, he was in his now familiar wolf form, and Stiles didn’t try to suppress his grin.
Stiles didn’t even mind when, half an hour in, Derek leapt on top of him and knocked him face first into the mud.
***
Three days later, Stiles came home to find Derek asleep in his bed.
More accurately, when he got back to his empty house at three in the afternoon on Saturday, after spending the morning playing video games with Scott, he tromped up the stairs to his room only to find a large black dog-wolf thing asleep in his bed. When he shrieked accordingly, it blinked open sleepy eyes and huffed at Stiles in a familiar fashion.
“Ohmigod,” Stiles babbled, sagging against the doorframe in relief. “Warn a guy.” He rubbed a hand through damp hair and tossed his jacket on the computer chair as his heart slowed down from its double-time beat.
Derek rolled his eyes and buried his muzzle back into the nest of bedsheets, his tail dragging slowly back and forth across Stiles’ pillows. His left ear flicked lazily and Stiles was struck by the overwhelming urge to leap on top of him and hug the stuffing out of him.
He glanced at the rain streaking down his window and quirked an eyebrow at Derek. “Couldn’t get your wolf on in the rain storm, so you decided to break into my bedroom instead?”
Derek snuffle-snorted and Stiles’ insides turned to a puddle of goo. “Fine, fine, but you better not get any mud on the sheets. Or drool on my pillow.” He slung his backpack under his desk, settling into his chair with legs splayed wide, and opened up his laptop to start work on his English Lit assignment. He couldn’t help glancing back at his bed every few minutes though.
A few hours later, the rain outside slowed to a trickle before stopping entirely. Derek stretched, shaking out his coat, before jumping off the bed and padding over to his neatly folded henley and jeans. He pointed his muzzle directly at Stiles and stared.
It took Stiles a few seconds to realize that Derek wanted him to turn around while he changed. “Don’t see why I’m the one who has to turn my back,” he muttered, “seeing as how you’re the one who invaded my privacy.” He stared at a black smudge on his desk and tried not to think about the soft rustle of cloth from behind him.
Stiles heard the window sliding open just as Derek said, “Good night, Stiles.”
By the time Stiles turned around to gape at him, the window was open and Derek was long gone.
***
That Wednesday, Derek was waiting in human form, sitting propped up against a tree trunk, reading a book. He licked his thumb before turning to the next page. “Stiles,” he said, without looking up.
“Yo,” Stiles said, swinging his backpack off his shoulders and flopping onto his stomach next to Derek’s tree. “Whatcha readin’?”
“Kafka’s Metamorphosis,” Derek said. Stiles craned his head to read the book cover, which had a picture of a green ball with skinny arms and a toothy smile, and read The Ultimate Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.
Stiles rolled onto his back and started rummaging through his backpack for their sandwiches. “What part are you at? Did Arthur Dent just get turned into a giant insect?”
“Gregor is reciting terrible poetry to his sister, who can’t properly appreciate it because he’s a giant fly, and she hasn’t gotten a babel fish yet.” Derek thumbed to the next page.
“Vorlon poetry?”
“Vogon poetry,” Derek corrected.
“Wait, where did I get Vorlon from, then?” Stiles threw a sandwich at his face.
Derek caught it without looking. “Not from any book I’ve read.”
Stiles sighed and pulled out his math textbook and flipped to the current week’s assignment. “Dude, do you have anything for me to rest this on? I don’t want to get dirt on it.”
“Use your backpack,” Derek said.
Stiles spread his backpack on the ground, balancing his textbook on top. “Ugh, fine. You know, if you were in wolf form I’d just put it on your back.”
“All the more reason to stay a human.”
“I’m glad we have these little chats,” Stiles mused, uncapping his highlighter. “It reaffirms why I come out here every week.”
When he glanced out of the corner of his eye, Derek was smiling.
***
On Saturday evening, Stiles wasn’t terribly surprised when Derek slipped in through his cracked window. “Hey,” he said, not looking up from his laptop screen.
Derek toed off his shoes and walked out of the bedroom without saying anything. When the door creaked back open, wolf-Derek padded in.
“You going to do this every Saturday?” Stiles asked, but Derek just ignored him and jumped up on his bed, turning twice before settling down on top of the covers. “Oh, just make yourself comfortable, not like I was planning on using that.”
Derek huffed, and Stiles could have sworn he was smiling. Not that wolves smiled.
“Weirdo,” Stiles said.
***
At half past midnight, Stiles scrubbed his hand over his face and blinked at his laptop screen. His vision was fuzzy and his mind kept drifting in different directions, like a balloon without a tether. He was halfway out of his jeans before he turned and saw the large black fur ball that was still lying on his bed.
“Derek,” he croaked, stumbling the rest of the way to his bed and stepping on his own feet to pull off his socks. “Derek, oh my god, why are you still here. Get off my bed, fuzzbutt.”
Derek made no indication of rousing from his slumber, just twitched before settling further into the covers, and Stiles sighed. He was too tired to deal with this. With a huff, he hoisted himself into bed, collapsing half on top of Derek. He was pleasantly warm, his chest moving up and down with each breath.
Stiles crawled over until he was wedged in between Derek and the wall, his back pressed up against Derek’s side. It was kind of weird, but not much different than sleeping with a full body pillow. A heated, gently shifting, furry body pillow. Okay, it was a lot different, but Stiles was tired.
“Guess you can stay,” Stiles mumbled, vaguely wondering if Derek would try to eat him in the middle of the night, before he shut his eyes and let sleep carry him off.
***
When he woke up, he was alone in the bed, but there were black hairs sticking to the comforter, and a patch of drool on his pillow. Gross.
He stumbled into the bathroom and there were black hairs in his comb as well. Stupid, vain werewolves.
Of course, the rest of the day Stiles was stuck thinking about what Derek would have looked like if he had stayed, instead of sneaking out of bed while Stiles was still sleeping and climbing silently out of the window. He wondered what would have happened if Stiles had woken first, able to look down at Derek, his face slack from sleep, his hair flattened on one side from a bad case of bed head. Derek probably would have sported pillow creases on his cheek, and as he yawned and stretched, his muscles flexing in the sunlight, Stiles could have run his hands through his hair. Seen how it felt without all that dumb hair gel.
Stiles ended up taking an extra-long shower as soon as his dad left for his shift.
Stupid, sexy werewolves.
Chapter 3: Clothes Stealing (Or: My whole life is a lie)