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Title: Heat
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Characters: Derek/Stiles
Words: ~2,900
Rating: R
Warnings: underage
Summary: "Roadtrip!" Stiles had said. "It's going to be fun," he had said. If he survives this, Stiles thinks, he hopes nobody will hold those words against him. Everyone knows he says a lot of crap anyway.
Beta: none
Notes: For the prompt famous last words @ [ profile] stop_drop_howl. Also for the prompt cold of COW-T 3 @ [ profile] maridichallenge. Established relationship, clichéd hypothermia-as-an-excuse-for-porn plot. TY Sas for handholding and telling me to keep up the word vomit.

He should have known, Stiles thinks, as he falls downwards. Nothing in his life ever goes smoothly, especially since Scott was bitten. Okay, maybe his life wasn't that great before, but at least his worries had been normal teenage worries, like was he going to play in a game this year, and was he going to get suspended for blowing up stuff in chemistry class, and when was Lydia going to notice him.

Easy questions. Normal, healthy teenage questions. The answers, for those interested, are no, yes, and never. Or, at any rate, those ought to be the answers. Now he's played in a game (because a werewolf incapacitated all of his teammates), Lydia noticed him (because they're both humans caught up in a lot of werewolf shit), and he only wishes that suspension was the worst thing that could happen to him.

When Stiles hits the water, it's icy cold. The shock of it makes him gasp, which, bad move. He chokes on a mouthful of water, gets it in his nose, he can't breathe and he can't see and his whole body is in pain. The current is pulling at him. Stiles tries to move his limbs, to swim up, even though he's not sure of which way is up, but his arms are numb. His right side, where he hit the water going in, hurts like hell and Stiles just knows that there's going to be bruises tomorrow. Not that it should matter, since he's going to drown anyway. He doesn't feel any particular emotion at the thought. It's getting hard to focus, and everything around him is so cold and dark.

Then suddenly there's a sharp pull around his midsection, someone moving next to him, and Stiles is dragged through the water, up and up and up, until he's out of the icy river and into the icy night air. He gasps for breath.


"Roadtrip!" Stiles had said. "It's going to be fun," he had said. If he survives this, Stiles thinks, he hopes nobody will hold those words against him. Everyone knows he says a lot of crap anyway.

How was he supposed to know that there would be midnight swims involved? Only a few hours ago he was sprawled in the passenger's seat of Derek's Camaro, munching on cheetos and dropping crumbs all over the map while he tried to navigate and at the same time try to explain why his foolproof plan was foolproof and nothing could go wrong despite Derek's misgivings. In the light of recent events, maybe Derek had a point, but Stiles will never ever admit that to his face. Especially because he's so cold, his teeth are clattering together and he can barely speak.

Derek gives him a weird look. He hasn't said anything since pulling Stiles out of the river, tossing him in the car and driving away. Which is not a surprise, but usually Stiles compensates for the lack of conversation with enough chatter for three people, and now the silence feels heavy between them. It would be easier if Stiles could think of anything but the chill he feels in his bones, as if his blood has frozen solid.

Stiles musters all of his strength and tries to say something. "C-c-cold," he stutters, wrapping the canvas jacket around himself. It doesn't help much, since the jacket is as sodden as the rest of his clothes, he's a human puddle, dripping water all over the Camaro's leather seat. Derek doesn't say anything. It doesn't take super werewolf senses to realize that Stiles is turning into a human icicle.

Derek probably regrets taking him along, Stiles thinks, regrets taking the runty human instead of one of his betas. A werewolf could probably swim naked in a frozen river in january without catching as much as a cold. Come to think of it, a werewolf could have fought off the other pack instead of being picked up and thrown bodily into said river. So much for Stiles's early confidence this was an easy trip, no problem, and what could possibly go wrong?

Har har. Stiles would laugh if he wasn't so cold and miserable. As it is, the only thing he feels like doing is sleep. The leather squeaks under him as he slides a couple of inches sideways. His eyelids drop close. Sleep seems like an incredible idea. His thoughts are already fuzzy, so much that when someone grabs his arm and shakes him he wonders who that might be. It takes Stiles a while to remember that Derek is the only other person in the car with him.

Of course it's Derek, Stiles thinks, who else would bother him while he's trying to take a nap? He tries to swat him away, but his hand feels heavy and won't move. Even opening his eyes is beyond him. All he wants is some sleep, why can't Derek leave him be? Derek is saying something. Calling Stiles's name and telling him to wake up. Stiles wants to tell him to shut up, but the words won't come. Even through all the layers of wet clothes, Derek's hand feels warm. Stiles leans into the touch and falls asleep.


Some part of Stiles's brain informs him that he's being hauled to his feet and dragged around. Stiles doesn't know why his brain would let him know. He's not interested. He'd much rather go back to sleep, but it's hard to sleep on his feet. Unless you're a horse. But Stiles is not a horse, so nope, no can do. Besides, someone is poking him not-so-gently in his bruised side, and that hurts.

Stiles opens his eyes and tries to focus. He expects the world to swim in front of his eyes, or some other clichéd phrase, but it's too dark to see what the world is doing. The world seems still to Stiles, which is more than can be said about him. He's got one arm slung around Derek's shoulders and Derek is half-carrying, half-dragging him along what looks like a parking lot. Unsurprisingly, Derek's not being too gentle about it, and Stiles would make the appropriate disapproving and hurt noises if only his teeth would stop clattering for one second.

There's a blurry neon sign to his left, flashing pink and white. Well. It's probably not blurry, it's Stiles's vision that's blurry. Because he's sleepy and just woke up, Stiles hopes, and not because he banged his head and has a traumatic head injury or something like that. He's heard enough tales about ER patients who lost a leg and were so in shock that they didn't realize until they tried to stand up.

...Okay, he's heard that tale once, when he was eleven and Scott's mum had wanted to scare them out of the idea of building a tree house in the backyard. But it's a scary tale. It has stayed with him all those years. So Stiles glances back, just in case, and yes good he's still got both of his legs even if they don't appear to be working very well at the moment. He stumbles over a step. Derek grunts and stops him from faceplanting on the concrete, manhandling him inside.

Inside is a seedy motel. Stiles doesn't have a lot of experience, but it seems to him as if this is the kind of motel that the word seedy was made to describe. There's nobody around to witness the suspicious man in the bloodstained leather jacket carrying the semi-unconscious teenage deadweight, but even if they did Stiles has a feeling that they wouldn't care, which is both good and scary.

He blacks out. When he comes to, it takes him a while to realize that he's not sitting in Derek's car. Derek, his brain supplies. Motel. River, cold, hypothermia. Good to know that he can still remember what he's slowly dying of.

Derek is sitting next to him on the edge of the bed, trying to strip Stiles of his wet clothes. That usually would grab Stiles's interest, but he's cold and shivering and he's sure he'll die if he has to expose his tender naked self to the unforgiving elements. Or to this motel room, which isn't much warmer than outside. His superman t-shirt clings to the skin uncomfortably. He hugs himself but it doesn't help, his own hands feel like icicles.

"Stiles," Derek says, tugging at the hem of his shirt. His voice is a low grumble, makes him sound just as usual, angry and threatening and annoyed, as if that voice ever worked on Stiles. "You have to get out of those clothes and dry yourself." Derek doesn't say or else, but it's pretty much implicit in the worried looks that he keeps shooting Stiles.

The shirt tangles around Stiles's arms and head before Derek manages to toss it aside. He looks at Stiles and grimaces, which makes Stiles upset because dude, it's not his fault if he's a bit pudgy around the middle, okay, not everybody can look like an underwear model, and it's not as if Derek complained the other times he's seen Stiles naked.

Then Stiles follows Derek's stare, looks down at himself, and he's glad he didn't run his mouth. The bruise on his side is huge, already purpling, running from under his arm to his hip. How is that even a thing that can happen while falling into a river?

Derek hands him a towel, tells him again to dry himself while he finishes taking off his sodden jeans and underwear. Stiles nods, and then starts shivering so violently that his head keeps bobbing up and down and he wonders if his neck is in danger of breaking. He doesn't manage to do anything but huddle under the towel. It's scratchy and threadbare and a couple of washes away from clean, but it's also dry and marginally warmer than him, so that's good enough for Stiles.

"Stiles," Derek says again, this time more urgently, but Stiles's hands are frozen and won't obey him. They look more yellow than blue, which is a good sign, since blue would mean frostbite and yellow just means crappy motel lamp, or maybe his hands really are blue, Stiles doesn't know any more. So Derek towels him dry instead, with enough force that Stiles is sure he's scraping away skin as well as the water still clinging to him. Stiles doesn't have the strength to complain.


This time when Stiles wakes up it takes him a while to remember what's going on. He feels warm and... and warm. Nothing else really matters at the moment. He presses into Derek's warmth next to him, buries his nose in the crook between Derek's neck and his shoulder. Breathes in his smell. It's got to be Derek, Stiles thinks without opening his eyes, because who else would be naked in bed with Stiles?

Which. Uh. Interesting. So he's naked in bed with Derek. Which isn't an unprecedented situation, per se, even though it's not a terribly common one either. And usually it's Derek's bed, and Derek doesn't cuddle, because he's too busy getting up at the crack of dawn to do push ups or go boss his betas or lurk around the town or whatever it is that Derek does with his life.

So Stiles knows for a fact that Derek doesn't cuddle. But Derek is kind of cuddling Stiles right now, he's all wrapped around Stiles's body, one arm around his shoulders and the others splayed against his back, keeping him close. It's... it's kinda... it's really nice, actually.

There's a grunt from the other half of the bed, and Stiles realizes that he's spoken out loud. Oh well. Stiles is not a grumpy wolf, he has a right to express his emotions. "So," he says. His voice is scratchy. He licks his lips and tries again. "Looks like I haven't turned into a human icicle after all."

Derek doesn't say anything, but he turns around and suddenly there's a definite lack of Derek in bed with Stiles and cold air where he used to be. "Stay under the covers," Derek instructs him, so of course Stiles opens a bleary eye and pushes himself up on his elbows to watch Derek pad around the room. It's a nice view.

Of course, it's freezing without his personal werewolf furnace warming him up, and Stiles immediately shivers and sneezes. He slinks back under the blankets, wrapping them tightly around himself. Derek is back almost immediately, pressing an almost empty pepsi bottle into Stiles's hands. The pepsi has gone flat after being tossed around in his backpack, but Stiles drinks it all anyway. He hadn't realized that he was parched.

He watches as Derek does something incredibly hot in which he crumples the empty plastic bottle with one hand and tosses it away. He probably missed the trash bin by miles, there probably isn't even a trash bin in this room, but who cares. Hot. Stiles stares, because he's still not used to seeing Derek naked. He'll probably never get used to it, because hello, have you seen Derek?

Stiles is torn between wanting to look at Derek for the rest of the day and wanting Derek to come back to bed and warm him up. He's leaning towards the latter since it's really fucking cold under the threadbare blankets, but luckily he doesn't have to ask and sound like a needy boyfriend. He sneezes again, and Derek makes a pained face and slides back under the covers, wrapping himself around Stiles again.

"Thanks," Stiles says, pulling him closer. So much warmth. He wants all of the body heat, all of it. "Not for the pepsi. I mean. For that too, I'm not ungrateful... Oh god," he says, making a pained face, realization dawning on him, "are you thirsty too? I just drank all of it, I didn't think, I'm sorry..."

Derek snorts and cuts him off mid-ramble. "Stiles," he says, the werewolf equivalent of a pout. "It's okay. I'm not thirsty."

"Okay," Stiles says, still not convinced, but he doesn't stop because he means it. All of it. "Really, thanks for saving me." Derek shakes his head, like he doesn't want to listen to this, but Stiles can't stop. "I thought, this time I really thought I wouldn't make it, I would be dead if it wasn't for you..."

"Don't," Derek says, and it's as if the word is wrenched out of him, physically painful, heavy with all the things that Derek has forced himself not to say since last night. Then they're kissing, desperate and messy, gripping each other tightly because this time it was too close and it was too scary and next time they might not be so lucky. "Don't talk about it," Derek whispers.

Stiles pants against his mouth and thinks that Derek sounds too young, he's so used to thinking about Derek in terms of older than him that he forgets that Derek is not that old after all. That Derek is barely more than a kid who had to grow up too quickly and acts tough because he's scared people will realize that most of the time he has no idea what he's doing.

"Derek," Stiles says, in a pleading tone, not even sure of what he's pleading for. He pushes one leg between Derek's thighs, feels Derek's chest rise and fall as he tries to stifle a moan. Derek grabs his hips and rocks against him, hard, he's probably forgotten about Stiles's bruises already or forgotten that humans don't heal so quickly. Stiles doesn't care. Not this time. He needs this, the assurance that Derek was worried about him too, that he's holding on to Stiles as tightly as he can.

It takes him a ridiculously short time to get off, just humping Derek's leg, while Derek mutters nonsense in his ear. It's officially Stiles's shortest time ever since their first time, but Stiles doesn't care, because he's seventeen and his best friend is a werewolf and his life is so fucked up that he needs to act like a teenager in some way, and if that way is in how long it takes him to come, then so be it.

Also he's got one hand tangled in Derek's hair, and Derek's hair smells amazing, which should be a logical impossibility since Derek spent the last night rolling around in a forest and killing other werewolves, but there you are.

He slides one hand between them, ignoring the sticky mess on both their stomachs, and wraps one hand around Derek's dick. Feels Derek buck into the touch, impossibly warm against him. "Fuck, Stiles," Derek gasps, arching his back, like it's Stiles that makes him sound like this, so desperate and broken. Stiles will never, ever get used to the idea that it's him who makes Derek sound like that.

Stiles breathes in Derek's smell and jerks him off, quickly and messily, because taking your time is awesome but taking your time is also overrated. And right now he needs this as much as Derek needs it, he needs to see Derek choke back a growl and grip him tight enough to leave a fresh set of bruises on his skin. Needs to see Derek's face as he comes over Stiles's hand and his chest and the blankets, that split second in which Derek is completely open.

The room goes silent, save for their labored breathing and racing heartbeats. Derek's heart is already slowing down to normal, Stiles's will take a while longer to settle down. For once, Stiles doesn't have anything to say. He lays there without moving, letting Derek drape himself over him. For once, he doesn't complain that Derek is pinning him to the bed with all of his weight.

Date: 2013-02-04 09:34 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
got to read it this morning, finally :) nice work on making me feel even more frozen :D I got soaked on my way into work ;)

but aside from the real cold outside, this was a great fic! poor Stiles and Derek must have been out of his mind! nice work!!!


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