i am having a terrible day so here is a list of things i like:
- fic about masturbation
- birds that talk
- wearing socks in grass
- coke that isn’t overly fizzy
- fatty, rare steak
- soft tacos
- teen wolf
“What the HELL, Stiles.” In the cramped darkness of the janitor’s closet Derek’s voice is incredulous and Stiles can practically hear the eyebrows judging his life choices.
Stiles tries to muster up some dignity in his response, “Arousal is a perfectly normal response to surviving a near death experience.” The effect is ruined by the soft, frustrated hitch in his voice.
“Oh, so that’s a -normal- response to a magical flock of murderous birds.” Derek’s giving him sass voice now, all light and sneering and not helping at all. “Get rid of it.”
Stiles’s indignant squawk blends harmoniously with that of the murder birds outside the door. “Oh sure, can do, Derek, no problemo. Boner, boner go away; come again some other day.” Was that that the sound of teeth grinding? Did werewolf healing cover dental? “It’s not as if I want-“
“Use pain.” Derek fucking Hale, everyone.
“Wow, yeahhhh. No.”
But suddenly he was being slammed up against the closet wall, glowing red eyes staring into his own, Derek’s breath hot against his face. “Then how about fear.”
And okay, he could understand logic here. Like maybe he could scare the fear-boner away like the fucking hiccups or whatever. Plus needless dramatics. Derek is the guy who decided the Kanima was immune to its own venom. Derek is the guy who thrives on theatric posturing. Derek logic is unique and often alarming and Stiles was becoming something of an expert in it. Sadly, Derek was not an expert on the logic of Stiles’s dick. They both pause a moment to silently acknowledge that the resulting reaction was the opposite of what Derek wanted and then the werewolf was carefully releasing him and moving away.
Oh god. He was going to die from an inappropriate erection due to some asshole’s fucked-up Hitchcock tribute. “Oh my god. Just…give me a minute.” Stiles palms himself through his pants, pressing hard as he could stand. He tries to steer his thoughts to his dad possibly being out in this, to Scott who was running to find Deaton, to Finstock’s random sex-ed lectures that had successfully prevented more teen sex than the school’s attempts at abstinence education. But none of that could make him ignore the fact that he was trapped in a closet, achingly hard, with danger on the other side of the door and Derek Hale -right there- paying attention to -his- increasingly adamant erection.
After several minutes of this, Derek finally just huffs and grinds out a clipped, “Just do it, then.”
And maybe Derek is trying to use reverse psychology on his dick because, once again, -Derek Hale logic- but that doesn’t prevent the wave of heat that courses through Stiles. Not even bothering to verbalize his answer, he just leans back against the wall, feet braced, and pulls out his cock with a relieved sigh.
This should be awkward. He should be talking nervously, making bizarre assurances and maybe faltering with performance anxiety. But Stiles has always enjoyed being a little shameless, taken pleasure in doing what he wants despite censure and social norms. Beating off in an enclosed space with an irritated Derek Hale is as easy as breathing. Easier even, because just thinking about this -actually happening- leaves Stiles forgetting to breathe with anything close to regularity.
Soon everything just fades into the background against the grip, drag, and pull of his fingers. Everything except the big leather elephant in the room. The other man isn’t touching him, isn’t saying anything, and maybe he’s trying his level best to ignore Stiles working his cock a mere foot away. But Stiles can hear Derek’s breath, is aware of his smallest movements, and then there’s the sheer heat of the werewolf’s body washing across his own. There’s a loud crash outside the door and Stiles doesn’t bother stifling his groan as that warmth moves closer, Derek slipping between his legs, arms bracketing him protectively. They’re still not touching and there’s something almost unbearably careful and controlled about it that has Stiles twisting his wrist just so in reaction.
The imminent danger outside doesn’t cause his hand to falter or hips from grinding into it with abortive little jerks. So yeah, maybe this really isn’t a normal response to having his life threatened, and it’s definitely not an appropriate one, but he can -feel- Derek just inches away and the other man is exhaling heavily and everything is -so close- that his breath slips hotly into Stiles’s mouth and the entire world goes white and silent. As far as orgasms go, it’s a trainwreck (this whole situation is) that has him slamming his head back against the wall, everything twisting and breaking as it courses out of him. When Stiles finally comes back to himself, back to the noise and the danger and the fact that he probably just came on Derek’s jeans, it’s with an abrupt, shocked laugh. Because this was a thing that just happened.
It doesn’t take long for his body to go back to some semblance of normality, even if his mind is still working through events with sluggish incredulity. Neither of them says anything to the other, not until well after the day is saved, explanations of avian terrorism explained, and they’re walking back to their respective cars.
Stiles had been careful not to look while the others were been present, but now that they are alone again he just -has- to see it. And yes, yes that’s definitely a tell-tale stain streaking across Derek’s thigh. Stiles doesn’t bother to fight the small, smug smile that crosses his lips and slips into his posture. There’s also several bloody, torn slashes in the denim like it had been clawed and huh, when did he get…?
Catching his gaze, Derek follows his line of sight, raising his increasingly judgmental eyebrows and answering the question before Stiles can even ask, “Some of us can actually -control- ourselves, Stiles.”
He climbs into the camaro and is driving away before Stiles can do anything other gape, his mind turning over the implications of that answer in ways that leave him palming at his crotch once more.