Title: All of me uncharted
Author: ANTchan
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Rating/Genre: Smutfic/E
Pairings: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Summary: I have this fantasy.

And maybe it's Stiles' favorite one. And maybe it's been buzzing under his skin for the longest time. So he makes a post about it. There's nothing shameful about that. That's what blogs like this are for. He expects most of the responses he gets - the supporters, the enthusiasts, the creeps.

But the simple message: Would you trust me to give you that?

After that, all bets are off.

This story includes (Safe, Sane, Consensual) BDSM, casual sex, anonymous sex, bondage, orgasm delay/denial, slight dubcon roleplay (in concept rather than practice), rough sex, prior consent, kink negotiation, aftercare, werewolves are known AU, intensely platonic/pseudo-romantic Sciles, and platonic Sciles kisses.

So this is what happens when I try to write porn, by which I mean it's ridiculously plotty and character-based.

As for the porn, the "slight dubcon roleplay" tag is a precautionary measure. Stiles has a fantasy where he gives up consent and lets a stranger fuck him however they please. Due to the nature of unasked consent, the fantasy is a little dubcon. In practice, though, it's all very heavy on prior consent and kink negotiation before the scene reenacting the fantasy. Safe, sane, consensual!

This fic is unbeta'd.

All of me uncharted

It starts with a post. A little something like this:

I have this fantasy. My favorite fantasy. I'm staying at a hotel, and someone follows me back to my room. Simple, right? Simple, but I've imagined it in so many ways. Maybe I find him in the lobby, and I can't help but want him. Maybe he catches me staring, catches me wanting him. Maybe he just sees me, and I don't even notice he's there, but he wants me so much that he just can't resist. I think that's the one I like best. Every time I travel, just thinking about it gets me hot. I'm always hard by the time I get to my room. And every time, I end up standing just inside the door, fantasizing about what could happen.

In my fantasy, I leave the door ajar. It's an easy mistake, to let the door get caught on the deadbolt instead of locking it. In my fantasy I undress, climb onto the bed, and just watch the door, playing with myself. Getting myself excited until I can't stand it. Then I get up, my legs shaking, and go get lube, my belt, and maybe a dildo. The belt is my favorite. I love to be tied up, restrained, pinned. I've had this brown leather belt that I've used so many times that it's gone soft and malleable. I love it. I love binding my wrists together while I fuck into my fist. Or behind my back while I finger myself open. So I get back onto the bed, wind the belt around my wrists, slick my fingers up, and have fun. Maybe fuck myself open on my dildo. And all the while I can't help thinking about it. About the door being left ajar. In a hotel, people always roaming the halls, anything could happen. Anyone could come in.

And that's when I hear footsteps coming up the hall. Slowly, slowly. Until they stop at my room. My heart is pounding. I have to bite my lip to keep from moaning. And then I hear the door creak open. Footsteps come into the room. And stop. It should be embarrassing. I'm there, wrists bound with my ass in the air, hot and open and desperate for it. But it's not, it only make me want it more. I don't see who it is. I just hear the door shut, and the lock slide into place. I can see his legs when I glance between my knees. See him coming closer. I can hear the sound of his belt buckle as he works it open, watch him slide his pants off his hips and get his dick out. And then it's the burn and sting as he shoves his cock into me. And then he's in control, and I love it. He uses me, he owns me, and there's nothing I can do to stop it. But I don't want to.

After he's finished with me, he doesn't say anything, just leaves me there, shaking and breathless on the bed, and walks out.

Stiles doesn't feel even an ounce of shame for posting it. The site is dedicated to that kind of thing - sexual fantasies and kinks and fellow enthusiasts thereof. All he does feel is excitement, and arousal so hot that he has to get up from his desk and go get his belt because now the fantasy is in his head and he wants.

It's a fantasy he's perfected over years. And even though Stiles has had a decent number of guys who want to get all up on this, the fantasy isn't something he's ever shared. For any number of reasons - including trust, timing, and that one time a guy got weirded out by Stiles suggestions to spice up their sex life. It's all uncharted territory in practice, and Stiles can feel it buzzing beneath his skin these days.

If it takes a more than a few hours to get back to the post, after fucking himself into a stupor and needing a nap and a re-energizing snack afterwards, he really can't be blamed for that. Thinking about the comments his post will have brings about a new wave of excitement, and Stiles finds his heart racing as he pulls up the page.

There's quite a few, as there always is when someone posts a fantasy like this. Some of them are from people he recognizes from the community, regulars to the site who post and comment frequently. There's nothing but support from them, even if the kinks he's talking about aren't theirs. He gets compliments from everything from his writing to his imagination. He gets "that's so hot" and "I wish I had someone who would do that for me" from them, and it brings a grin to his face. There's a whole handful of them that Stiles mostly ignores, or outright rolls his eyes at. The standard internet creeps who assure him that "I can do that for you, baby boy" and other far more explicit and creeptastic things. None of them are particularly alarming, but Stiles logs IP addresses for them anyway because he's the son of a cop and paranoia is kind of his thing. So just in case.

And then there's one that catches his eye. It doesn't belong in the creepy category at all, nor is it explicit. But it's…

Would you trust me to give you that?

It's definitely the least predatory of the propositions he's gotten on the post, and maybe even on the site as a whole. The username is one he recognizes too.

Airitech is someone he sees occasionally around the community, sometimes Stiles even talks to him on topics. He doesn't post much, maybe once or twice a month. Some of his posts are pretty funny - adventures in casual sex are sometimes ridiculous. Sometimes his posts are heavier, talking about what Stiles can only describe as trust issues and how his partners push for things he isn't ready to give. It gives Stiles he sense that the guy hasn't had the greatest experiences in his life.

So Stiles can't be blamed for getting caught off guard by the wording, featuring heavily on trust.

And so maybe Stiles fixates on it. Maybe he reads it over and over again for at least twenty minutes.

Maybe he actually considers it. He shouldn't consider it. This has serial rapist/murderer written all over it. It wouldn't be smart.

He does consider it.

Stiles is smart. But he doesn't make good decisions. Ask anyone.

Which is why he finds himself replying to the comment.

Trust based on a single comment is a bit much to ask, don't you think? Trust based on actual discussion, though, that may be a different story.

It takes approximately ten minutes (eleven minutes and forty-six seconds to be exact - he wasn't counting at all) to get a response. This time, though, it's a private message. Again, Airitech isn't the only one to have sent him one after his post. But Airitech's is the only one Stiles actually reads.

Airitech says: That's reasonable. What you want requires a lot of trust, if you want to go through with it like you wrote.

Stiles blinks at it for a few minutes, fingers hovering over the keys. There are too many things his brain wants to say at once. He starts his message in about six different ways before he finally just gives up and replies.

falling with stile says: You're one to talk about giving trust. Isn't that hard for you?

Airitech says: You've read my posts? Yes, trust is hard for me. But after reading your post, I realized I want that too. I'd like to give that to you, if you could find that you'd trust me enough for that.

falling with stile says: Right. And we're not going to talk about the fact that you could be a crazy serial killer or serial rapist or something?

Stiles nods to himself as he hits "send." That's right. He's not stupid. He's going to play this smart. Nevermind the fact that his heart is racing in his chest and his hands are fidgeting nervously in excitement. No, don't mind that.

Airitech says: Fair enough. We also going to talk about the fact that you could be too?

He should be putting his paranoid mind to work, parsing out every possible motive behind those words. He's a criminology major, damnit. He's going to make a career out of how these things end. And yet here he is.

falling with stile says: True. Alright, so let's talk. How do you usually proposition anonymous sex from people? I've never done anything like this, dude, so I don't know the basic rules of engagement.

Airitech says: I've never done this either. I meet my one night stands the usual way. Would you be more comfortable with getting to know each other before roleplaying your fantasy?

And that's… that's really kind of generous at face value. Stiles should still feel uneasy about the whole thing. He kind of does, but more about the fact that he actually wants to go along with this than how Airitech is making him feel. It takes him a while to work up the nerve to respond.

falling with stile says: No. We can talk without revealing identities pretty easily. I'm not going to just agree to meet up with strange men just because they promise sex, though. I'm not that easy.

Airitech says: I'm fine with that.

So they do. Talk, that is. They agree to meet on Skype and talk until the sun has long since set. Stiles expects Airitech to immediately push him into arranging a meet up. From everything Stiles has heard about these kinds of encounters, that's how this should logically go. But he doesn't. Instead he asks Stiles about his fantasy, about which of his kinks makes him want it to be played out that way.

Airitech Mac Tire: Is it the bondage? Or the anonymous nature of it? Or something else?

flying is just falling with stile: It's... both of those things and then a little more? I like the thought of someone having that control over me, y'know? I like to fantasize about someone taking it from me.

Airitech Mac Tire: So you like being dominated.

flying is just falling with stile: Sometimes, yeah.

Airitech Mac Tire: That's not a real answer. You either do, or you don't. So why don't you find a Dom to give you what you want?

flying is just falling with stile: Because, dude, I don't want that all the time. And I may be a master at awkward conversations, but "Hey, nice to meet you. Do you like to sexually dominate people?" is a bit much even for yours truly.

flying is just falling with stile: Besides, I'm currently finding someone to give me what I want. So hey, nice to meet you. Do you like to sexually dominate people?

Airitech Mac Tire: Sometimes, yeah.

flying is just falling with stile: You're seriously not

flying is just falling with stile: Omg, you're one of THOSE assholes aren't you.

Airitech Mac Tire: Sometimes, yeah.

At that, Stiles lowers his head to his desk and laughs.

When Stiles doesn't make any overtures towards agreeing to meet him, he expects Airitech to push, or to become frustrated. But a week goes by, and they talk every few days - mostly about the fantasy. ('Their fantasy,' his mind whispers with a quiet thrill.) But sometimes they talk and it never leads to anything about sex at all. He learns that Airitech has seen all the Star Wars movies, but doesn't hold any special affection for them; that he doesn't buy into the whole Marvel vs. DC battle, but he does love the X-Men most out of all of them; that his favorite ice cream flavor is chocolate peanut butter ripple; and that he does not consider Miracle Whip real mayonnaise.

(Airitech Mac Tire: It says DRESSING on the jar. It's not mayonnaise.

flying is just falling with stile: It's literally used the same way as other mayonnaises.

Airitech Mac Tire: I WILL fight you on this.)

It's… fun. Airitech can be a grouch. Stiles has called him a grumpy old man in more than one conversation. But he's sarcastic and has this dry, deadpan sense of humor that Stiles can just play with all day.

(Airitech Mac Tire: I'm only 27.

flying is just falling with stile: Uh-huh sure. No such thing as a sexy guy under 40 on the internet. You're definitely balding and overweight.

Airitech Mac Tire: If we're following this cliche, that means you're 15 and rebellious, but "mature for your age."

Airitech Mac Tire: ….please tell me you're not underage.

flying is just falling with stile: I'm 21, dude. Chill!)

He didn't set out on this planning to know anything about Airitech. But despite what Stiles told him about wanting this to be as anonymous as possible, he learns things. And even though most of those things are only small details about Airitech, it makes him feel less like a stranger that he's agreeing to fuck without seeing his face beforehand. But sometimes he learns important things.

Airitech Mac Tire: I'm a werewolf. I hope that doesn't change things.

The message comes out of nowhere, and with such neutral wording that Airitech has obviously been agonizing over it for a while. Stiles has to set his drink down after reading it, wheezing and flailing his hands at the screen emphatically as if it will magically tell him how he should feel about that.

He gets up and paces around the room for a few minutes. In the end, he doesn't so much come up with a response rather than fumble his way into one. Because as he sits down to attempt to answer, he focuses on something else entirely.

flying is just falling with stile: OMG DID YOU USE WEREWOLF MYTHOLOGY FOR YOUR SCREENNAMES?

flying is just falling with stile: THAT IS SO RIDICULOUSLY DORKY.

flying is just falling with stile: You're adorable. In fact: adorkable. Seriously. Just. UGH.

Airitech Mac Tire: At least I didn't use a Toy Story reference for mine.

flying is just falling with stile: You shut your mouth!

flying is just falling with stile: But seriously, dude, I don't care. As long as this whole thing isn't a ploy to a) give me the Bite against my will

flying is just falling with stile: b) eat me

flying is just falling with stile: c) get me to think you're a Were so that you can fuck me without a condom. Because I am not trusting that blindly.

flying is just falling with stile: Other than that, we're good. My best friend is a werewolf. I am completely cool with it.

Airitech Mac Tire: None of that is happening. I wouldn't ask that of you even if you did trust me blindly.

Airitech Mac Tire: And I'm a Beta, so I couldn't give you the Bite anyway.

flying is just falling with stile: You're not gonna surprise me with a knot either, right?

Airitech Mac Tire: No! I wouldn't do that. And it's not the right time of the year.

flying is just falling with stile: Then we're cool, dude.

The moment he decides he's doing this is one of the most intense adrenaline rushes he's had since Scott tried to eat him on his first full moon. Stiles in an impulsive man, even when he takes his Adderall. The fact that he resisted for almost two weeks is a feat in itself. It says something about him that the risk gets him worked up in ways it probably shouldn't. Of course, this also means that he immediately tells Scott about it, not only because Scott is his best friend in the whole world, but also because if he's going to do this, Scott is going to be his lifeline in case this turns out to be an elaborate plot to kidnap, murder, or otherwise violate him.

Scott, however, isn't nearly as enthusiastic about the idea as Stiles is.

"No."

"What?" Stiles fails into Scott's space across the couch, grabbing him by the shoulder and shaking him. He barely moves. Stupid werewolf sturdiness. "Scott. Scott! Do you want me to be horribly accosted in some way? I need you, buddy!"

"Exactly. So no."

"Not following you, Scotty."

Scott crosses his arms over his chest, and oh, he has that concerned little furrow to his brow.

Goddamnit.

"Scott…"

"You have any idea how dangerous that is?"

"It's not any different than meeting a guy at a party!" Stiles exclaims.

"Yeah, except when you meet a guy at a party you can tell that it's actually a normal guy and not some werewolf serial killer."

"Actually there are a pretty similar set of rules for deciding if people on the internet are really creeps. About as much as you can tell from meeting someone at a club or a campus party." He arches a pointed eyebrow at Scott. "Which is why you always designate someone as a lifeline just in case something goes wrong, Scotty. That's you, by the way."

Still, Scott seems extremely uncomfortable with the idea. He hems and haws over it for a bit, before venturing, "You're really determined to go meet this guy, aren't you?"

"Yeah, dude. He hasn't set off any red flags. Hasn't pushed to meet me. Hasn't done anything but talk about what we'd be comfortable with and what we aren't. It's honest-to-god kink negotiation, Scotty. But just because he seems okay doesn't mean I'm gonna agree to meet him without having someone ready to call the cops if it goes wrong."

His best friend mulls over that for a few minutes, his face scrunched up in the a thoughtful scowl that's actually downright adorable. Not for the first time, Stiles is struck with a burst of affection for Scott McCall, and kind of wants to kiss him right now.

Scott is wonderful and unbearably cute and his and sometimes that means Stiles has a sudden desire to smooch him.

"That's it," he voices the thought aloud. "You're getting smooches. C'mere!" He slides his fingers over either side of Scott's jaw to link at the back of his neck, drawing him in quickly and pressing fluttering kisses to his lips, and his chin, and his nose, and anywhere he can reach as Scott wriggles and laughs under the onslaught.

"Stop that!" he shrieks.

"Neverrrrr!" Stiles throws all of his weight against him, which would mean nothing to Scott's werewolf strength if he didn't want it. The world tips as they lose balance, and go tumbling off the couch in a tangle of limbs and laughter. They end up squished together between the couch and the coffee table, touching from shoulders to knees, legs tangled, and one of Scott's arm wedged under Stiles' head where he tried to protect him from the edge of the table. They're sharing each others breaths and kisses between giggles.

It's so sweet that it hurts.

"If you're gonna do this," Scott murmurs breathlessly once their laughter has subsided, "I want to know when you get there and I want to hear you're okay right after. If you don't text me in like… three hours, I'm coming to get you."

Stiles hums. "I can do that. And if he doesn't agree to that, it'll be a no-go anyway. Okay?"

"Okay. I just want you to be safe."

"Bein' as safe as I can, buddy. I've got you for the rest."

That seems to ease the rest of the tension, because Scott smiles, slow and easy. "I wanna scent you before you go too," he blurts out. And when Stiles lifts his head to stare at him, he flushes. "Not like… aggressively. Just enough for him to know you're protected. That you're my Pack and he'd better be on his best behavior."

Ah, werewolves. Stiles rolls his eyes as dramatically as he can manage. "I'll ask him, how's that? This kink negotiation of ours goes both ways."

"I can live with that." Scott presses his face to Stiles' neck and nuzzles him, so apparently he's in for a low-key scenting anyway. But hey, Stiles can live with that too.

After that, plans fall rapidly into place. Once Stiles tells Airitech that he wants to meet up, he gets… adorably professional about it, really. They go over everything they'd talked about over the last few weeks.

There's even a checklist involved.

flying is just falling with stile: You seriously want me to fill this out.

Airitech Mac Tire: This is your first time doing a scene, so yes. I want to make sure I do this exactly how you want it.

flying is just falling with stile: Doesn't that make all the dominating and me wanting the choice to be taken from me redundant?

Airitech Mac Tire: No. It tells me exactly what you're consenting to and what you're not consenting to and those are lines that won't be crossed.

Airitech Mac Tire: Look. Just… do the fucking checklist.

flying is just falling with stile: Ohhh yes, SIR.

Airitech Mac Tire: You're not funny.

"Excuse you," he says to the unheeding laptop, "I am hilarious. Screw you and your checklist."

He does the checklist anyway. Even does it all nice and neat and not too rambly or sarcastic, which Airitech clearly won't appreciate the immense effort that takes. He might demand a reward later. No, he's definitely demanding a reward later, with how long it takes him to work through the checklist. Even if it's sexy homework, it's still homework.

Aftercare preference:You don't need to stick around, dude. Just fuck me, make sure I'm a-okay, then leave.

Safeword: Whittemore? That's the best mood killer I can think of, HA.

Asphyxiation/Breathplay/Choking: No/No (not opposed to trying, but not for this)/Yes - but only for purposes of restraint.

Bodily fluids (saliva/comeplay/blood/urine/feces): Saliva is okay? But not excessive spitting, Christ. Allowing comeplay on skin but not inside me. Please wear a fucking condom, wolfman. Other than that, mark me up. Also NO, NO, and NO.

Bondage (general): 3 YES AND YES. I'm bringing my belt.

Bondage (rope): Never tried it, but I want to. Not in this scene though.

Bondage (bare hands): YES PLEASE.

Bondage (chains/handcuffs/bars/collaring/leashing): Willing to try all of these, but not comfortable with it for a first scene?

Dubcon/Noncon roleplay: Dubcon yeah. That's the whole point of this. We've discussed it a lot and I'm cool with you making the choices and making me go with it - but only as long as we talk about it beforehand like this and as long as you stop when I safeword.

Humiliation: Sweet Christ, yes. Use me and make me admit I love it, big guy.

Orgasm Delay/Denial: Yes for this scene in BIG NEON LETTERS.

Scratching/Biting: With caution? Get a little wolfy with me, dude, but I'd like to not be clawed up and gnawed on.

Shifted sex/knotting: Uhhh not against it? Just don't surprise me with it in the middle of this, okay?

Smacking: Uhhh. No idea.

Spanking (punishment/play): What, like telling me I've been a bad boy and taking me over your knee? Not sure if I like that in practice. A little bit during play might be okay though? Willing but uncertain, yeah.

Toys (dildos/plugs/vibes): I'm not bringing any of mine, but I don't have any problems with it.

The list goes on and on and it's only about halfway through it that Stiles realizes he's forgotten that this is supposed to be a one night stand and nothing more. For a few minutes he debates going back and redoing half the checklist, before just saying "fuck it" and sending it along. No one has to know he sits there with his heart in his throat for Airitech's response. The answer he get is not what he expects.

Airitech Mac Tire: It all looks good except for two things. First: your safeword. That's someone's name, right?

flying is just falling with stile: Yeah. Some jerk I've known for years. Guaranteed to kill the mood.

Airitech Mac Tire: The point of a safeword is that you can remember it even when you're deep into a scene and that it's never going to have a place in a scene. Not that it's unsexy.

flying is just falling with stile: So not Whittemore then?

Airitech Mac Tire: You going to some asshole's name when things get intense?

flying is just falling with stile: Okay, fair point. Rowan, then.

Airitech Mac Tire: As long as you can remember it. Second: the aftercare. I'm not leaving you without it.

flying is just falling with stile: Dude, we're not doing anything that hardcore. You're not like whipping me or anything.

Airitech Mac Tire: It's your first real scene. And EVERY scene requires aftercare.

flying is just falling with stile: Oh come on!

Airitech Mac Tire: Look, either you agree to let me stay and check up on you for a while afterwards, or this isn't happening.

Stiles throws himself back in his chair with a curse.

flying is just falling with stile: ugh FINE

flying is just falling with stile: I guess the part where you leave me hard and desperate for it after you get off will just have to be left out of the roleplay.

Stiles nods resolutely to himself. "There," he mutters, "Take that, asshole."

Airitech Mac Tire: Look, we can have both. What if I leave directly after, just long enough to get some ice or a drink or something, and that can signal that the scene is over. And then I can come back and we can do the aftercare.

Stiles purses his lips, rocking back and forth in the chair for a few moments.

flying is just falling with stile: Fine. Still don't think it's needed. But whatever.

Airitech Mac Tire: Thank you.

Making the arrangements to meet is the hardest part, which is kind of amazing. For all the cautious talking that he and Airitech have done over the past few weeks, it was actually pretty easy and fun. Finding a hotel on the other hand, is frustrating to the point that Stiles wants to pull out his hair.

Luckily, they're both in the state of California.

Unluckily, they both apparently have schedules that don't condone impulsive sex vacations. So it takes some wrangling before Stiles can find a day where his classes and internship will allow him to get away; and for Airitech to find a free day from… whatever his life includes. They eventually settle on a hotel that's within a reasonable distance of both of them. And even though the room rate is a little higher than Stiles would normally go for, he's still willing to pay it. Once all the arrangements are made, Stiles sits down and steels himself for this to all go tits up.

flying is just falling with stile: I'm going to make a post about our meet up.

It takes a while for Airitech to get back to him. Enough time that he's already worked out his post and is hovering over the post button, fingers itching to click.

Airitech Mac Tire: Are you going to blog about the whole thing?

flying is just falling with stile: I won't make one after if you don't want me to. But I'm definitely announcing that I'm meeting you so there's witnesses. You know, just in case I disappear.

Airitech Mac Tire: Okay. Just… no pictures of me. I don't want my face on the that site. Do you want me to make one too? Admitting that we're meeting?

flying is just falling with stile: You play to my paranoia so well. 3

Airitech Mac Tire: I just want you to feel safe.

"I.. ffff-" Stiles makes as if to grab the laptop and shake it. "Stop saying things like that! God." He's not blushing. His stomach is not doing exhilarated little flips.

Nope.

Airitech Mac Tire: I'm here. Call me-

-is the message Stiles gets a mere block from the hotel. It's attached to a number. An actual phone number, fuck, this is actually happening. He taps it out as he's stopped at a red light, and bounces his leg as it rings. His heart pounds, mouth dry and it's so fucking stupid. Get it together, Stiles, it's just a phone call.

"Hello?"

And that's… that voice is much softer, younger than he expected. He expected a deep growl, a gritty voice, hell, even a creepy voice in his worst states of paranoia. But not this.

"A… uh… Airitech?"

"Hey." No. Nope. That tone of awe and excitement should not be coming from a voice like that. Stiles will die. "You almost here?"

"Y-Yeah, yeah, just a few minutes out. Are you checked in?"

"Mhm. I'm waiting to see you." The words are so simple, yet they send a rush of heat through Stiles.

"Are you like… waiting in the lobby? Should I make a hand signal or… or tell you what I'm wearing or-"

"I'm where I can see you when you come in. But I'm not telling you where," Airitech says playfully. His voice dips lower in a growl and that, that isn't allowed either. "You don't have to tell me anything. I'm sure you'll be the one smelling like low-key arousal. You'll be easy prey."

A whimper crawls past his parted lips. He almost misses the turn off into the hotel.

On the other end of the line, Airitech chuckles quietly. "Are you hard?"

"Getting there," he says in a rush, his voice cracking.

"Good. It'll be easier to hunt you down that way."

'There is something wrong with me,' Stiles decides, then and there. There has to be, because no one should react to something that primal and predatory - no matter how casually it's said - and immediately have to adjust himself in his pants. "I'm… I'm here!" he says. "I'll be in, in a second."

"Alright. I'll give you a ten minute headstart after you check in."

"Right. Got it." He hangs up before he can do something stupid, like let his mouth run away with him or moan right into Airitech's ear. But then it leaves him in a silence that's only broken by the rumbling of the Jeep's engine. Stiles is afraid to turn it off; afraid it'll leave him alone in his thoughts. He grabs his duffel and hops out of the car just as he kills the engine.

He makes sure not to stop to look at the hotel as he goes in. If he does, he might lose his nerve.

Stiles is forced to stop, however, as he waits for his turn to check in. The hotel is nice without being ostentatious. It's all clean lines and soft colors. There's a lounge off to one side, and a secluded bar on the other. And, as Stiles peers up, sitting areas up on the large balcony overlooking the lobby. There are people of all types dotted around them, and Stiles can't help but wonder. His eyes dart between them, skin prickling, wondering if the eyes he senses on him is as obvious as it feels, or just imaginary.

"Sir?"

His heart jumps so forcefully his fingertips tingle. "Oh, right, hi. Uh, reservation for Stilinski?" He hands over his ID and his card, taking a moment of derisive pleasure when the desk attendant's eyes glaze over just a bit at the sight of his first name. "So, uh," he begins conversationally, "there any werewolves staying tonight?"

'Don't fidget. Don't fidget! Don't turn away from the desk, you're probably showing through your jeans, fuck.'

The attendant's expression closes off completely. "Sir," she says, her voice flat, "this is hotel is owned by Hale Ltd., and is a safe space for werewolf clientele."

Shit.

"That's- no, no, I wasn't asking because of that. I'm meeting a friend here and I was just wondering if he was here yet."

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he pulls it out to avoid the judgmental eyes of the desk attendant that clearly doesn't believe him.

That's cheating, the text says. And pointless.

Stiles swallows around the lump in his throat. "Nevermind, you know, I'm sure he's here. I'll run into him later. Thanks!" He takes the keycard and his things off the desk and makes a beeline for the stairs. The idea of having to stand still in the elevator makes him jittery. Stiles completely misses his floor the first time, having forgotten to look at his room number before climbing the stairs. His face burns, not completely from embarrassment, as he doubles back to the correct floor and towards his room.

It's only when he's stepped inside room 314, and ready to close the door, that the reservations he's been trying to avoid strike him.

He's actually doing this.

He's meeting someone anonymously for sex.

Someone he's talked to for less than a month. For anonymous sex.

He could just shut and lock the door. Stiles could just keep the man out. Leave the hotel. Go home.

But he doesn't want to. The anxiety in his veins is coursing right alongside a burning want. He wants this so badly.

Stiles flips the deadbolt out, and shuts the door on it, leaving it open just a sliver. His phone is in his hand immediately, texting Scott like he promised.

I'm here and smelling suitably like Pack. And doing this.

Be safe! is the immediate reply.

As safe as I can be.

So he has ten minutes - probably a little less by now. Stiles' heart races in his chest, his hands shake as he unzips his duffel. Less than ten minutes to showtime. Oh god. His eyes are glued to the door as he drops his belt and the lube onto the bed, the only tools he's brought with him. Stiles wonders, idly, if Airitech brought anything. The possibilities have his hands fumbling with his clothes, tangling himself up as he attempts to undress.

His dick doesn't seem to be fazed by his anxiety, however. It pops free of his jeans almost happily, flushed pink and ready to play. Stiles gets a hand on it he's out of his clothes, stroking over his length to soothe the unbearable need for touch. Insecurity strikes just as suddenly, and he stumbles into the en suite to make sure he's absolutely clean. (He'd already done a thorough job before leaving, but he has to make sure.)

With a trembling sigh, Stiles wanders back out and climbs onto the bed. It takes everything he has not to kneel there staring at the door, waiting on bated breath. The silence around him is like a blanket in the heat of summer, pressing, suffocating, making his skin feel itchy, too tight around his bones. Stiles breaks himself away from listening to it; knows that if he sits here, focusing on the silent, he'll fall into it, latch onto it for the desire of even the quietest sound.

Playing with the belt always calms and excites him at the same time. Stiles wraps both ends around his wrists, not enough to restrict movement, but enough to feel the tight coils around his hands, to still them of their nervous trembling. He runs the slack middle of the belt over his stomach, his hips, his thighs. The soft, worn leather sends shivers coursing through him. His skin prickles. Biting his lip, Stiles loops it around his cock, stroking it in ever tightening movements. Just a little, to help relax him. He's allowed that, right?

There's probably not much time left. He swallows hard, before turning his back to the door. Just like he was instructed (like he wanted). It takes some maneuvering to get his hands bound comfortably behind his back and slick with lube. He drops the bottle twice, cursing and arching back to blindly search for it. By the time he's pleasantly restrained, kneeling, and hand slick with lube, he's lost track of how much time he has left. His heart pounds in his chest, a heavy thud that he's sure every shifter on the floor can hear.

His hands are in the perfect position at the small of his back. He doesn't even have to stretch to rub wet fingers down his crease, shivering as he toys with his rim. There isn't any time for teasing. He needs to be ready because in a few minutes there's going to be a werewolf barging into his room and fucking him without mercy.

Stiles pitches forward onto the bed, ungraceful and uncaring as his stomach does a hot, dizzying flip. Oh yeah, his cock definitely likes that thought. And so does the rest of him. He spreads his legs wider on the bed, canting his hips up enough to get his fingers past his rim. The nerves makes it harder to open himself up, but the stretchburnache is enough to drive his worries from the forefront the longer he keeps going. He can't get his fingers very deep, the angle is too awkward for that. But it's enough to spread two fingers and then three, breathing deep and coaxing himself to relax. Imagining being found like this helps, imagining his werewolf watching him stuff his fingers into his ass in preparation for him helps because just thinking about it gets him shivery and hot all over.

He even manages four, moaning quietly despite the cramp in his hand, when he hears the stairwell door shut. The floor is dead silent, and the sound is as startling as a gunshot. His heart freezes, and then takes off.

There are footsteps. Slow, deliberate, not a hotel guest making a straight line for their own room but ambling down the hall in measured, searching steps. Stiles forgets to breathe. He props his head up on the bed so he can stare between his spread legs at the door. He clenches his teeth around a whimper as he twists his fingers out of his hole, instead clenching both hands around the belt.

The footsteps go quiet too soon. Stiles loses track of them, and bites his lip in frustration.

The sound of the hinges creaking open makes him jump. He watches in complete disbelief as the door eases open, just enough for his intruder to slip into the room. All Stiles can see from this angle is a pair of legs and the barest hint of hips all in dark, tight jeans. And those are… well, those are some nice legs, okay? Stiles isn't exactly an expert on legs but he definitely appreciates this pair.

The click of the lock makes him flinch. He's acutely aware of his panting breaths in the silence of the room. He knew this was going to be intense, but not even his fantasies prepared him for how exposed he feels. How vulnerable. How hot the feel of another's eyes on him would be.

"Look at you. I could hear your heart from a floor below. Your scent is stinking up the hall." The tension in his hands relaxes. That's Airitech's voice. Deeper, rougher with desire, but it's the same voice. "It's like you want every shifter in the building to come fuck you." His face heats, and he wants to hide it in the sheets. But he can't look away. Not when the other man is moving closer, palming the the bulge in the front of his jeans.

"I-" He jolts at the smack rather than the sting, more startled by the feel of a hand coming down on his ass than anything.

"Quiet."

And Stiles can't help the whimper that crawls up his throat at the command. Because that voice should not be allowed to growl like that. It doesn't earn him another smack, but a breath of laughter instead. His heart ratchets up another notch as he hears the metallic click of a belt being worked open, and arches up enough to watch the man's hands - large, elegant, fuck those forearms - deftly undo his fly. His jeans are shoved down quickly, and Stiles only vaguely pays attention to the man divesting himself of his shoes and pants, because his eyes are latched onto the dick swinging hard and heavy between the man's legs. It's not a monster per se (Stiles is a pornography conessiuer and he's seen what porn has deemed "monster cock") but it's certainly bigger than any dick Stiles has braved taking before. He's caught between trepidation and need just looking at it.

The next time a hand comes down on him, it's to brush right over his exposed hole, sliding in the lube and massaging it until it gives under his thumb. It breaches him with ease, and the man lets out a hungry growl behind him. Stiles' shoulders shake, fighting not to squirm. The moment of silence seems to stretch on forever, with the man leisurely fucking his fingers into Stiles until he wants to burst, to beg for something, nothing, anything.

The tell-tale rip of a packet startles a heady moan out of him and he promptly flushes and shifts to press his face into the sheets. The werewolf doesn't make a sound, but Stiles can feel the smug air radiating from him. Fingers are pulled out of him, leaving him hollow and vibrating with nerves and need. Stiles can hear him moving, rolling the condom on and the snap of the bottle's cap; wants to lift up onto his knees and look but he's off balance like this, with his shoulders pressed to the bed and his ass in the air - presenting to this werewolf. The anticipation is nothing like he'd fantasized about. He'd always just skipped straight to being fucked when he thought about this.

A whine, high and shaking, leaves him.

"Hush. You're going to get exactly what you wanted." The bed dips behind him and hands grip his hips, the tips of claws digging into the thin skin just enough to sting and Stiles yelps. He barely has time to get his breath back before the blunt head of that dick is pressing into him. He chokes, and tries to cry out but the air is forced from his lungs as the man pulls him back onto his cock in one sure, mind-bending motion. The stretch is just on this side of too much. But the man doesn't quite still, instead rocking into Stiles in small, fluid thrusts, fucking him open.

"You can take it," he assures Stiles. The drag of his hips is slow and dirty, and Stiles squirms, not sure if he wants to get away from the relentless pressure or thrust back into it. His bound hands are quickly grabbed, manhandling him into place with his hips hitched higher, changing the angle so he can get deeper.

He's thrusting with a little more purpose now, making Stiles take his cock and Stiles' breath hitches brokenly. The burn is less, leaving him feeling stretched open and full. "There you go," the man rumbles. "Now you're enjoying it, aren't you? You want me to fuck you properly?"

The question isn't rhetorical, but Stiles doesn't realize that until the claws drag along his side, making him gasp and arch away.

"I said, do you want me to fuck you properly?"

"Y-Yeah," he whispers.

The claws pinch at his hip. "What was that?"

"Yes!"

"Prove it to me." He pulls out a bit, and pats Stiles' thigh. When Stiles doesn't move, he actually snarls, and the sound sends a shiver down to Stiles' toes. "Fuck yourself on my dick; show me just how much you want it," he instructs.

Stiles is sure he's flushing all the way down his neck, with how hot his face feels. He bites his lip to keep quiet, to keep from somehow ruining this with something stupid, and tries to do as he's told. It's awkward, though, as his position doesn't offer him much leverage. His hips mostly sway back the slightest bit, not managing to thrust back so much as grind in place.

The werewolf tsks at him. "You can do better than that."

Shame burns white hot in his chest. He grits his teeth and shoves, breath shuddering as he slides down on the other's cock, further than he expects. He falters before moving his hips in tight circles. Stiles can feel the eyes on him, and just knowing the man is watching his length ease in and out of Stiles' body has his thighs shaking.

"That's it. Look at you. You like that?"

"Mmpf," Stiles has to suppress a heady moan. "Yeah…"

"You want more?"

This time Stiles doesn't trust his voice. He nods.

It only seems to amuse his partner. Stiles can hear the smirk in his voice. "Then ask me."

Stiles' voice cracks. He slows down his movements, and jolts back into rhythm when the other man pats his thigh reproachfully. "F-Fuck me." He knows where this is going almost as soon as he says it.

"Nicely."

"Please, fuck me!"

"That's better."

And that is the end of his mercy. A hand presses down between Stiles' shoulder blades, forcing his chest lower against the bed, holding Stiles immobile as he snaps his hips forward. There's no chance to recover from the shout wedged in his throat before he's being fucked relentlessly. The hands pinning him keep him from sliding across the bed with the force of them. The ruthless pace is unlike anything Stiles has had in his life.

"Oh, god!" he gasps, straining against the man's hold. Each slam into his body sends a stab of intense, aching pleasure zinging up to his heart and then back down to his dick. The only thing drowning out the obscene smack of hips against his ass is his own loud gasps and bitten off moans. "Ah-- oh fuck- fuck!"

"Just what you wanted - exactly what you wanted," the werewolf snarls behind him, his voice huskier now, his words drawn out between breaths. "First one to hunt you down gets the prize. Gets to use you up and wreck you. You would've presented your ass to anyone who walked in, wouldn't you? You don't give a damn who it is, as long as you get a dick in you. Isn't that right?"

"Unngh, n- I-" It's too intense, it's just so much he can't think.

"Say it!" The swat to his ass actually means business this time, and sound deafening in the room and it burns and then tingles and Stiles is trembling.

He lets out a sob. The sound surprises even him.

The next thing he's aware of is the hot weight of the other man's body over him, flattening him to the bed, blanketing him. The ridge of his nose caresses just behind Stiles' ear, the hands that had been holding him down going around him instead. "What's your safeword?" the man urges, voice gentler, softer.

What comes out of his mouth is pre-verbal. His mind blanks. All he can think about is the hard, hot lines of the body pressing him down, around him, in him.

"Safeword." The repeated order startles him.

"R-Rowan!" he finally manages to whimper. He gets a hum of approval for it, the sound soothing his nerves.

"You going to use it?"

Stiles shakes his head, and then croaks "Green!" as soon as he remembers that's even a thing. Hot breath fans down his neck - a sigh, relief maybe? But what follows is the lightest brush of lips just behind his ear as the werewolf sits back. And that, that has Stiles arching towards the sheets, desperate to feel something on his aching dick than anything has. And just like that, the softness is gone. His arms are wrenched further up his back, a hand tugging his hips back up in a grip so tight Stiles knows there's going to be bruises. "I did not give you permission to rub yourself off. The only way you're coming today is on my cock." He starts moving again, drawing almost all the way out before pushing his entire length back into Stiles in one slow, toe-curling thrust. "Think you can do that? Come from being fucked?"

Stiles shakes his head.

"Tch. Then you aren't coming at all."

Stiles can't help it. He whines, breath hitching on the end of it. Desperate.

"You love it, don't whine." The bed shifts as the man adjusts his stance, leaning more of his weight over Stiles's back. A hand squeezes the back of his neck and Stiles keens. The pace builds again, each thrust sending him so deep inside Stiles that pleasure jerks in his belly. "Maybe I should keep you," the werewolf rumbles, voice going raspy - almost breathless. "Keep you tied to the bed all weekend. Use you however I like. Teach you how to come untouched. No one would look for you. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

Stiles thinks he might beg. He can't be sure if there's actually words coming out of his mouth. But whatever it is, it gets him a breathy huff of a laugh in response.

Stiles loses track after that. The world narrows down to points, to the hands pinning him down, to the dick spearing into him over and over again, ruthlessly taking him, using his body as this man sees fit. It's dirty and wrong and so right, letting himself be wrecked like this. He can't hear his own shouts anymore over the rush of adrenaline and lust and sensation, though he thinks he may beg "There- right there! More!" when the man angles his thrusts just right against his prostate. Despite being held down, Stiles feels light. Almost dizzy. He's close, he can feel it, but he can't come like this - maybe if he had a little more, just a little more - but it's okay. It's perfect. It's intense and too much, but it's perfect to used for this man's pleasure.

And then suddenly the werewolf is pulling out of him so fast that he flinches and cries out. His hole clenches around nothing, and being so empty is fucking distressing, okay? His own noises come back to him in a rush, and it's with a jolt of humiliation that he realizes he's mewling and practically sobbing for it and he's not entirely sure if his face is wet with sweat or tears. Just one of the other's hands leaves him, and Stiles is irrationally glad it's not both. Because if he stops touching Stiles, Stiles is going to die. There's a snap of rubber, an urgent growl, and the werewolf is back, covering him with his body again. This time grinding his bare cock - warm and slick - between his cheeks. He ruts, erratic thrusts grazing right over Stiles' oversensitive hole, making him shake.

Lips are mashed right against his ear, breath damp and imperfect and electrifying all the same, because he's letting out these little whimpers directly into Stiles' ear - "Fuck, fuck, fuck-"

"Please!" Stiles gasps in return. "Oh god, please-" And then wails as blunt teeth sink into the soft flesh between his shoulderblades, masking the muffled cry of the man coming over his back in hot spurts.

The werewolf collapses onto his elbows, bracketing Stiles and the space between their bodies sizzling and Stiles can't stop trembling and he thinks maybe, just maybe the other man is shaking a little too. The only sounds in the room are their panting breaths.

The weight shifting back leaves him cold. It startles him. Fingers drag down his sides and over his hips. "Stay still," the man orders, his voice no more than a breathy sigh. "I don't want you to move until I'm gone. You got that?"

And he must take Stiles' complete silence as confirmation, because he gets up from the bed - and stumbles into it just slightly, his legs must be shaky - and Stiles hears him dress.

"Thanks," the man says flippantly, from much further away. The hinges creak open, and then shut again. And the footsteps retreat back down the hall.

It's not until his chest burns that Stiles realizes he's holding his breath.

"Nnn." The whimper is utterly pathetic and he bites his lip to stop another one from slipping out of his mouth. His entire body is burning and yet it feels lighter than air, like he's going to go up in smoke and just float away. And there's nothing to keep him on the ground. Nothing to keep him from burning. He wriggles on the bed, but his limbs feel disconnected from his will. Tangled. The belt isn't a comfort anymore. It's only a trap.

It's a real sob that leaves his mouth next.

He thought he wanted this. This is what he asked for. But there's nothing here but him and the silence and Stiles can't. He can't, he can't.

"Shhh."

Stiles jumps so badly that his knees slip on the bed. And then the relief hits, and he melts against the sheets with a wavering cry. Almost immediately, hands are at his hips, not bruising this time but firm, holding him down with fingers tracing soothing circles over his hipbones. "I've got you."

The voice is so soft again. Stiles wants to cry. "Don't," he pleads wetly, "don't, dont-"

"Don't what?"

"Don't leave."

There's a sharp intake of breath behind him, and then the hands are smoothing up his sides, as high as his ribs, and back down again, as if trying to chase the tremors away. "I won't," he reassures Stiles. "I'm right here. I've got you." He shushes him gently, rubbing in calming, repetitive circles. The touches anchor him, give Stiles something to latch onto. "Do you want to come?"

"Yes! Oh god, yes, oh, oh fuck please-"

"Shh. I'll give you what you need," he says. Three fingers slip into his fucked out hole, and it aches but sets his body alight all over again. "There you go," the man soothes, "That's it." He fucks Stiles easily with his fingers, no resistance whatsoever, and lets Stiles sloppily thrust back onto them. "You were so good for me. You took it so well. Everything I could give you. So you can come, whenever you want to, sweetheart." The endearment seems to shock the both of them and Stiles sobs, rocking back onto his fingers, breath catching as one messy roll sends them jabbing into his prostate.

"Touch me!" he begs. "Please, please I need it- I can't-"

"I know." The hand on his hip caresses it's way under him, wraps around his throbbing dick without warning, and Stiles is sure his eyes roll back.

"Ah-ungh." He can't speak. His entire body is curling tight, his legs curling up from the bed, the telltale hot spike of orgasm building.

And then the werewolf leans in, his tongue swiping at his puffy, slack rim, tracing around his fingers, scraping his beard against Stiles' sensitive skin, and Stiles screams. He doesn't even complain as Stiles fucks wildly into his fist and back onto his fingers and tongue, until all he can do is convulse his hips. He comes so hard his voice gives out. His body does a strange kind of dip, where everything goes numb and he feels likes he's falling, and then is engulfed in a warm tingling sensation.

His head is fuzzy for a while after that. Nothing seems to exist in reality and the floating feeling is rapidly turning into a falling feeling, but there are hands on him this time. Strong, sure hands that only leave him for an instant before returning to wipe up the mess all over his back and his ass and his thighs with a damp cloth. They untangle the belt from his arms and straighten out his limbs, fingertips digging into the muscles until he's relaxed and spread out on the bed. The sensation of weightlessness isn't nearly as terrifying this time, because those hands are gently guiding his descent back to earth, making sure he doesn't crash and burn.

It's only when the hands leave him again and room is engulfed in darkness that Stiles puts his lethargic brain to use. "Mm?"

Well, he at least he makes the attempt.

"It's okay. Just closing the curtains so you can relax. Come on, budge up. Out of the wet spot." And when Stiles can barely get his liquified bones to cooperate, he's scooped up and moved up the bed as if he weighs nothing.

The werewolf doesn't just rearrange him, though. Stiles is stopped from just flopping against the pillows by a hand at the back of his neck. Stiles blinks, but it's too dark and his eyes aren't quite working properly yet. "Take a drink before you lie down," the man says quietly. A straw is placed to his lips. And Stiles, Stiles had no idea he was this thirsty because he takes greedy gulps of it. "Hey, hey, slow down. Don't choke." He's guided through it, through taking breaths between each drink, until the burn in his throat has lessened. And then he's lowered back onto the bed, the warm pad of a thumb brushing the last droplets of water from his face… and it's so fucking tender.

He settles on the bed after Stiles, slipping an arm under Stiles' shoulders and guiding him down. Which is how Stiles finds himself draped across a firm, muscular, deliciously furred chest with a steady heartbeat in his ear and there's no way Stiles is complaining about that. At all.

"Get some rest," the man says. "We'll talk after you wake up."

As if Stiles could protest that when there's a hand tracing patterns up and down his spine and over his shoulders. "Mmkay." He's just starting to drift off too, when a thought strikes him and he groans. "Wait. Uh. Ph'ne. Phone. Bedside table." He pats at the firm plane of the chest beneath his head. His voice is a barely mumbled, slurred mess, but it gets his point across. "Gotta t'll Scott m'okay."

His phone is pressed into his hand after a moment. "He your backup?"

"Y'h. S'gonna call th'cops if I don'." The bedside lamp clicks on, which makes the phone screen just slightly less second coming of Christ but still blinding. He squints at the screen, fumbling to get his camera app open. The first few attempts to take a picture fail miserably, as Stiles just taps wildly at the screen in hopes he can hit the shutter without actually looking, until his companion reaches down to hold the phone steady for him. Stiles doesn't wait to see how it turned out, just sends it to Scott and tosses the phone to his side. He curls into the werewolf's side, flinging a leg over one of his. "There," he mumbles. "Gonna nap now. 'Kay?"

"Okay. I'll be here when you wake up."

He thinks he tries to respond. But he's asleep before it even comes out of his mouth.

The first thing he's aware of is that it's like he's cuddling a furnace.

The second is that it feels like he's been fucked by a jackhammer. He's sore in places he wasn't aware you could be sore.

Which brings him right back to thing number one. Because thing one - read: the werewolf that runs almost uncomfortably warm - is the reason thing two exists.

And… Stiles is cuddling with the man he arranged to anonymously fuck him.

The man who wanted to anonymously fuck him is still here. Cuddling him.

'Okay. Okay, you've got this.'

"I can hear you freaking out."

Stiles freezes. "Uh." He dares to crack an eye open, and finds himself staring down at a very muscular torso. There's a sheet hanging low on hipbones that look like they've been carved from marble. And the rest of him may be covered, but the sheet is pretty thin, okay? It doesn't hide much. "Uh." His mouth waters.

"Well that's better than freaking out, at least."

His face heats. He doesn't even want to know what he smells like to the werewolf right now. "You're still here," he deflects.

"I told you I would be." He did, actually. Multiple times and throughout the entire process, he's said he wanted to stay. But asking to stay is vastly different from the gentle assurances of "I'm here, I've got you, I'm right here" that had been whispered to him. Just remembering it makes Stiles' heart do a shivery flutter in his chest.

"How long was I out?

"Only half an hour. How are you feeling?"

Stiles shifts, taking gleeful inventory of the aches and protests of his muscles. "More fucked out than I have ever been in my life, I think."

Somewhere just above him, the werewolf hums. "Good thing?"

"Fuck yeah, that's a good thing!" He stretches again, as far as he reach before the strain intensifies to just this side of pain. "Gonna have to take a long shower before I go, though."

"I think we can manage that."

Stiles grins, settling back down. But the content bubble he's descended into bursts a moment later, once he nearly glances up on instinct.

He realizes that he's yet to see the man's face. He hasn't even thought to look.

He really wants to.

And he's making himself painfully obvious, because his entire body has gone still, and so has the body beneath him. He raises his head slowly, mind flitting through the possibilities of what he's going to find when he finally sees him. His brain, as always, is not especially kind, and he gets stuck on images of hilariously large noses or scars or unflattering moles (which is kind of hypocritical, given Stiles' own liberal skin spots).

His eyes latch onto a freckle on the man's chest. Because that's kind of adorable. And then onto the defined ridge of collarbones, up the hollow of his throat and by the the time he gets to that sharp jawline his eyes shoot up the rest of the way, unable to take it any longer.

He stares.

The most brilliant, mesmerizing green eyes stare back. Except they aren't just green, because Stiles is close enough that he can see the rings of golden brown and flecks of gray and blue in them, and they're framed by these obscenely long, dark lashes and… and…

Stiles is keenly aware that this mouth is hanging open.

The man's lips - which are pink and cute and kind of pouty - quirk up just slightly at the corners. "Hi," he says after a minute.

Stiles is pretty sure his brain short-circuits. The man, at least, shows mercy and lets him mentally reboot.

"Did I hook up with a porn star?"

He feels the laugh vibrate under him rather than hear it. "No."

"A prince?"

"No…"

"A god? A figment of my imagination?"

The laughter is so strong now that Stiles can barely stay propped up on his chest. He watches in rapt fascination as the man covers his mouth, turning slightly as if to escape him.

"No, seriously, you can't be real! Look at you oh my god. I have never been sexually attracted to eyebrows ever until now, how do you- and your cheekbones, Christ-"

"Uh."

"-and how do you get your beard this perfect, it looks photoshopped oh my god-"

"Practice?"

"-you even have bunny teeth, what, you seriously can't be this attractive and cute!" He's aware that he's thumbing the werewolf's lips to get a look at said bunny teeth, and that's probably not the smartest idea, to get up in a werewolf's business without permission, but the man only looks amused and… and is that a blush on his face?

"I'm dreaming," Stiles concludes. "Yup. I hooked up with a reasonably attractive looking guy and just dreaming that he's actually a 25 out of 10-" His voice cracks, trails off in a squeak as the man below him turns and closes his lips around Stiles' thumb, eyes sparking mischievously as he suckles at it. "Stop that!" Stiles hisses. "You're not helping!"

He lets Stiles go with an obscene slurp. "So you are as rambly in person."

"And you really are one of those assholes."

The way his eyes crinkle at the corners tells Stiles exactly what's coming. "Sometimes, yeah."

That should not be that attractive. It should not make Stiles want to jump him all over again. "So, uh, I'm Stiles." And then he winces. "Is it weird to ask your name after I said I wanted this to be anonymous? It's weird, isn't it? But it also feels weird to, like, talk to someone who just fucked me six ways to Sunday and not know his name."

The other man shakes his head. It ruffles his inky black hair even more. Which- even his bedhead is gorgeous. How. "Derek."

"I- Derek. Hey, hi."

"Hi." He - Derek - sits up slowly, bringing them close again and oh, those are definitely honest-to-god bedroom eyes. "Stiles?"

"Y-Yeah?"

"I… booked my room for the weekend. You want to stay with me?"

"Yes!" The words try to leave him all at once, nearly choking him with excitement. "Yes, I- I have to tell Scott I'm staying longer. But yeah, totally! Just lemme…" Stiles fumbles for his phone, which ended up buried under the pillows at some point. He's halfway through texting Scott with his change of plans when he glances up at the screen, and pauses.

He hadn't looked at the picture before sending it. It's a little blurry, a little dark. But there he is, sex-flushed face propped on Derek's chest, his eyes half-lidded and blissed, with his hair a mess and his lips bitten and puffy. He looks completely fucked out.

And there's Derek, or Derek's jawline to be more precise, with an arm around his shoulders and his nose pressed into Stiles' hair. The camera caught the barest hint of a grin on his lips.

All the breath rushes out of him. "Wow," he whispers. Stiles glances up at Derek and back down at the photo again. "I wanna post this. Can I? I know you said you didn't like pictures of you online. And I get that. But your face isn't even really showing and it's really nice." He passes the phone over, watching Derek's expression closely as he studies it. There's a curious wave of emotions that pass over his face in quick succession. Surprise, desire, embarrassment, and startling uncertainty. And then it all slides into a blank mask a few seconds later.

Stiles is sure he's going to say no. Which is understandable, of course, if the guy values his privacy, but still disappointing. Instead, after a long stretch of silence, Derek shrugs. "Yeah. Go ahead. My face is hidden enough."

"Great!" Stiles leans forward for the phone, pauses when he thinks about how close it brings them, stares into Derek's eyes and at his lips, considers closing the distance for a kiss. And… ultimately chickens out and pulls away.

A wide hand grasps his jaw, holding him still as Derek chases after him, bringing their lips together in a firm, searing, toe-curling kiss for the briefest second. "I'll get that shower going," he mumbles as he leans back. There's something smug in the faint curl of his lips.

Stiles feels downright dreamy as he watches the man slide out of bed and lope towards the en suite. Shamelessly ogles at every inch of bare skin.

Damn that ass is as brain-meltingly hot as the rest of him.

It takes him a while to actually post the picture at all.

Everything went PERFECT. Airitech was better than anything I could ask for, and SMOLDERING on top of it! We're staying for the whole weekend. ;)

End. Walk on, Traveler of Worlds.