Work Header

The Gloryhole Incident

Work Text:

It’s staring at him like a gigantic, judgmental eye. Except there’s a half-hard cock sticking out of it, so the similarities only go so far. Stiles can’t take his eyes off of it, his limbs refusing to listen to commands as the hole just looks at him.

He really needs to get away from the whole eye comparison, it’s creeping him out.

Maybe it’s more like a mouth, gaping wide, with the cock hanging out like a tongue. Look, it’s even drooling a little! God, he really needs to stop. He’ll never be able to unsee that, ever, ever, ever, ever.

“You going to suck me, or what?”

And nope. Nope. Stiles can’t do that. He can’t. He was just coming in here to pee because he drank like five Piña Coladas and got caught in the rain. (Ha. His brain is on fire even under dire circumstances.)

“Many, many apologies,” Stiles says, fumbling for the door out of the toilet stall. “I think I went down the wrong yellow brick road.”

Maybe Stiles is being rude. He doesn’t know the proper protocol for accidentally stumbling upon a gloryhole at Jungle. Honestly, he’d been pretty sure that shit only happened in pornos, or at least in significantly bigger and more badass places than Beacon Hills.

But then, Beacon Hills is overrun by supernatural and human crazies, so why not gloryholes too?

Stiles makes his escape before the guy attached to the cock can say anything else. He staggers back through the crowd until he finds Scott jumping up and down in complete discord with the music.

“Shit,” he says, and Scott stops jumping, mouthing, “What?”

“I still have to pee.”


There’s a slight problem.

It’s only tiny, really, in the grand scheme of things. There are bigger problems too, like Isaac’s budding interest in Allison and, oh boy, is that going to end in every kind of terrible. There are also the harpies that tried to kill Derek last Thursday. Peter is, in general, a gigantic pain in the ass.

However, the fact that Stiles physically can’t stop thinking about that damn gloryhole is somehow worse than all of it, even if it’s insignificant in comparison. He’s jerked off to the abstract thought of gloryholes after watching porn, but this is different. This is something that exists. This is something he can do.

He spaces out in class a lot, which he really tries not to do because he gets tired of hearing Harris say his name. It makes him feel dirty. Besides, if he gets too into it Scott is going to smell it on him and let’s not make things even worse, Stiles, seriously.

It’s just that the thought won’t leave, now that he has it. He can have a mouth wrapped around his cock if he wants to. All he needs is his fake ID and a willing person in the stall next to his. That’s never been a possibility before. He’s made out with a couple of girls, and one of them rubbed him off through his jeans, but this is an entirely different level. This just got real.

It becomes too hard to ignore, and he gets to the point where he can’t stop himself from jerking off in the shower while thinking about it. He tries to keep his thoughts to something general: just flickers of bodies and random fantasies he’s had before, but in the end it doesn’t work. Bowing his head under the steady stream of water, feeling it press into his neck, he thinks about sliding his cock through that hole and into a waiting mouth.

He has to steady himself against the wall, his hand splayed over the tiles as he squeezes his dick, letting out shaky breaths. Water slips down from his hair, down his face and over his lips, dripping down into his hand. He wonders what it’d feel like to fuck into that hot mouth.

He wants to know.

When he comes, he nearly slips on the wet floor and has to reach out with both hands to keep himself steady as come goes everywhere.


He’s gotten in with his fake ID a hundred times before and this is the only time he’s been nervous about it. It’s almost like the bouncers can see every depraved thought running through his head, and those thoughts are currently very graphic and specific. Stiles never even knew his brain was capable of this level of graphic.

And still, they let him through this time too, just like every time before. Stiles doesn’t know whether to be relieved or terrified, if he’s being honest with himself.

He dances through the crowd, pushing back a drink just for the sake of it, and tries to pretend that he’s only here to get his moves on. For a little while it’s familiar, almost like always, but then there’s that low hum of anticipation that pulses through him. It has nothing to do with the music and nothing to do with the drink.

His gaze is drawn to the bathroom door every so often, his heart beating oddly every time he does. Part of him figures that he can still leave, but it seems like the impossible choice at this point. What is he going to do if he chickens out? Is he going to keep obsessing over this until he can barely see straight?

Considering the things he has to deal with around Beacon Hills on a regular basis, that shit won’t fly. He’ll be a sitting duck for every Tom, Dick and Murderous Asshole passing through town if he’s going to walk around in a haze of sexual frustration.

There’s no one in the bathroom when he gets there. And thank fuck for that, or he probably would’ve sprinted in the other direction. Leaning against the sink, he takes several deep breaths and eyes the stall all the way to the right. It’s tucked in next to the wall, all hidden at the back. That’s where he went in the last time, but it’s definitely empty now. The stall next to it is too.

The thing is, he should probably get in there before someone appears. Because if someone finds him just loitering, they’ll definitely know what he’s up to. Oh, God, he definitely can’t face that humiliation.

He stands there staring at the door until he’s sure he hears footsteps outside. Panicking, he runs into the stall the other guy had occupied the last time and slams the door closed.

Sinking back against it, his heart beats so hard in his chest that he can’t fucking breathe.

He has no idea what to do now. There’s no one on the other side and he can’t very well stick his cock in and just stand there all night. It comes to mind that, maybe, no one will be there. Or maybe it’ll be someone like him – someone who just goes in the wrong one and makes a terrible joke before running off.


He ends up sitting down on the lid, playing Candy Crush on his phone. After he’s lost twice he hears the door to the toilets open and he tenses, palms turning sweaty as he grips his phone. Whoever it is goes into another stall and he slumps back, worrying his lip with his teeth.

Wow, this idea is the fucking worst. What if someone goes into the other stall and it’s, like, Greenberg? He’ll die. And then resurrect himself just so he can stab himself in the face. Or maybe he’ll end up ruining his friendship with Scott through ill-advised gloryhole shenanigans.

He’s so busy thinking about every horrible scenario (Oh, God, what if it’s Harris?!) that he doesn’t realize someone is moving into the stall next to his until the door slams shut. He jerks in place, nearly dropping his phone onto the floor.

There’s movement in the stall, and when he looks down… fuck. Someone’s kneeling on the floor, their dark jeans visible in the gap at the bottom.

Stiles might actually faint.

It’s so quiet that he can hear the other person breathing and that means they’re definitely real.

At least his knees don’t look like Harris’s. That’s always something. (And yes, Stiles thinks he has a pretty good grip on what Harris’s knees look like, if only because school is boring and Stiles needs a place to rest his eyes.)

Putting his phone back into his pocket with shaking hands (level only half-played), Stiles gets up from his seat and approaches the hole.

It’s no less intimidating than before, all wide and judgmental like it knows what he’s about to do. He traces the edges, shivering a little at the feel of it, knowing what it is and what’s on the other side. Holding his breath, he hooks his finger over the edge.

There’s the soft press of lips against the tip of his finger and he sucks in a breath, pressing his other hand to the wall. Opening his lips, the guy lets Stiles’s finger slip inside, his tongue swirling around it. Stiles gives an embarrassing whimper, his whole hand tingling.


Even if there were a way back at this point, Stiles wouldn’t take it. He wouldn’t leave the warmth of that mouth if someone paid him. He drags his finger across the tongue, wondering at the way it feels under his skin.

When he pulls it out, there’s a parting flick of the tongue over the tip and he shudders, reaching down to press his hand against the bulge in his jeans. His finger is slick with spit, making it difficult to pop the button open.

Admittedly, gloryholes are a bit more awkward than they seem. When he guides his dick through the hole, he ends up pressed up against the wall with his hands splayed out. It’s strange, but maybe it’s just as well that he can lean into it and keep himself upright because his legs are already shaking a little.

He waits, body pressed against the wall. It feels weird, and a little vulnerable, to offer himself up like this, just waiting for the other guy to give him what he wants. It’s only when he feels hot breath over his skin that he stops feeling so incredibly self-conscious.

He expects lips to open over the head of his cock, but instead the guy licks at the base of him and drags the flat of his tongue along his length. Stiles twitches, partly in surprise and partly from the reaction spreading under his skin. Pressing his heated cheek against the wall, Stiles bites back a needy whimper. The tongue slides over the head: soft, unfamiliar and nothing like Stiles’s own hand.

The guy is going to know immediately that Stiles is the biggest virgin on the planet, which will potentially be awkward, considering how fast he’s going to come. His head is already swimming, his legs shaking from how good it is to have the tip of the guy’s tongue teasing his slit.

Eyes falling shut, Stiles balls his hands into fists and cries out when the guy takes him in. Wet heat envelops his cock, silky smooth around him as he can feel the guy hollows his cheeks. Stiles pushes himself as close as he can, his breath getting stuck in his throat. It’s ridiculous, it’s nothing like he’d thought it’d be, but somehow it’s better anyway simply because it’s real.

The flat of a tongue drags against the underside of his cock when the guy pulls back. When he sinks down again, Stiles shudders against the wall. His entire body thrums under the attention his cock is getting, every single part of him hyperaware. He wonders what it’d be like to finger himself, open himself up with his own fingers while fucking into the other guy’s mouth.

The guy is sucking him with a steady rhythm, driving Stiles to the brink of insanity. He should’ve been doing this so, so long ago. Like, every day, all day. Of course he knew in some abstract sense that blowjobs are awesome, but it’s something else entirely to know it in such a specific way.

This is absolutely going to become a problem.

Stiles is going to have to go into blowjob rehab.

Which is a thought he would totally elaborate on if the guy wasn’t doing something completely maddening with his tongue. Stiles bites down on his fist, muffling moans against his knuckles as he thrusts his hips uselessly. The wall won’t let him get any closer, or at least not as close as he wants to be. He wants to bury his cock in this guy’s mouth, as far as it’ll go, until his lips are spread around the base and Stiles’s balls are slapping against his chin.

Jesus fucking Christ.

“Your mouth,” Stiles says, still audible even if he’s talking into his fist. “Fuck, your mouth.”

He’d tried to keep it back, but now he doesn’t know why he’d possibly want to, because the guy groans around his dick in response and Stiles is about to die.

He’s actually going to cease to exist. The groan travels up his spine, turns him into a shaking mess and pulls a choked cry out of him as the pressure inside him builds until he doesn’t know what to do anymore. He struggles to keep himself upright, sagging against the wall as he can focus on nothing but the lips wrapped so tight around him.

All of a sudden, the guy’s rhythm falters and his mouth goes slack. It’s not until the guy moans, strangled and muffled by Stiles’s cock, that he realises what’s happening.

“Oh, shit,” he says, eyes going wide as he looks down and sees come on the knees of the guy’s jeans.

Someone sucked Stiles off in a public bathroom. Someone fucking came on their own jeans because they got off on Stiles’s dick in their mouth.

Stiles gives up on pretending he can hold it together and slams his hand against the wall, spurting come into the sinfully fantastic mouth as he struggles to breathe. Thank God the wall is there, because there’s no way he can stand on his own right now. He just slumps against it, unable to stop the embarrassing whimpers at how wrung-out and spent he is.

When he finally gets himself together the guy is long gone. Stiles tucks himself in and throws water on his flushed cheeks. He doesn’t look any different than he did before, but he feels different. He feels like a blowjob addict. Yep, it’s definitely going to become an issue.

He staggers out of there on shaky legs with one last look at the gloryhole (what is his life?) and it’s kind of a shock to come back into the club, realizing that everyone’s been dancing as if he didn’t just get his brain sucked through his dick.

He really needs to go home. He doesn’t want to dance or drink or talk to anyone. All he wants to do is go to bed and think and probably jerk off again.

Of course, since this is Stiles we’re talking about, and he can never catch a break, he literally runs into Derek Hale of all people right outside Jungle. He was so damn close.

“Hi, hello. You.” His voice comes out like a squeak.

Derek grunts. He looks more tense than usual, like Stiles just caught him red-handed doing something extra creepy.

“Would stay and chat, but I’m kinda…” Stiles trails off, his eyes suddenly noticing those dark jeans Derek are wearing. And the spot on his knee, very visible under the lights.

Stiles sprints away.



Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.



He should be surprised when Derek throws himself down into the passenger seat of the Jeep, but somehow he’s not. It probably says a lot about his life that having an Alpha werewolf crash his evening grocery run barely makes him lift an eyebrow.

“Sup,” Stiles says, patting himself on the back for sounding like he gives zero fucks.

Derek sits stiff in the seat, staring ahead. “Drive.”

“Well, I was going to before you came diving in here.”

“What are you even out this late for?”

“I’m not twelve,” Stiles says, giving Derek a look.

“Might help if you were. The harpies could leave you alone.”

“Right. The harpies. The ones that we chased out of town three weeks ago. That’s totally why you’re in my car.”

Derek grinds his teeth, and they drive in silence. Stiles feels like he might jump out of his skin, his fingers tight around the steering wheel. They haven’t been alone since what probably happened. Stiles had pretty much planned to keep it that way, because this shit is awkward.

As hell.


“What?” Stiles whips his head to look at him, nearly forgetting to watch the road.

“Stop,” Derek says again, his brows furrowed.

“Why on earth should I stop?”

“Just do it, Stiles, for fuck’s sake.”

Stiles hits the brakes harder than necessary and pulls over to the side of the road.

What?” he says, loud and annoyed.

Derek just looks at him. Stiles might punch him in the face.

“Derek, I swear to God,” he says, hands still gripping the steering wheel. “You hijack my grocery run and tell me to stop in the middle of nowhere and now you’re just staring at me like a creepy creeper. The least you can do is tell me what your fucking deal is.”

“Jesus, just shut up,” Derek growls.

And then Derek’s hand is on the back of his neck, pulling Stiles close until their lips are smashed together almost painfully. Stiles makes a strangled sound, flailing his arms.

“Oh my god,” he says, their lips brushing. “Okay, wait. Let me turn off the car, at least.”

His hands shake as he turns off the ignition. Derek buries his face into his neck, teeth nipping at his skin and hello, Stiles is into neck things. Neck things equal good.

Sinking back into the seat, he tilts his head, shamelessly presenting more of his neck for Derek to press his lips to.

Stiles has, admittedly, been thinking about Derek pretty much every waking minute of the day since The Gloryhole Incident. He’d have to be a much bigger man than he is not to jerk off to that memory about three times a day. Derek is many things (including terrifying), but he’s also really hot and apparently gives head like he was born to do it.

He’s also long since come to the conclusion that Derek must’ve known it was him all along, because he knows Derek can smell him from, like, a hundred miles away. But he hasn’t really wanted to analyze what that means.

He doesn’t want to analyze what this means either, not when Derek is pressing open-mouthed kisses to his skin and that perfect tongue is licking paths along his neck. Stiles twists his fingers into Derek’s hair, the softness of it almost surprising.

“Derek,” he mutters. His eyes fall shut because he can’t handle how real this suddenly is.

“Stiles,” Derek responds as his hand slips under Stiles’s T-shirt to rest warm and heavy on his stomach.

Stiles sighs and bites his lip. He wants it again. He wants other things too. Even if it’s complicated as fuck and he no longer has a wall to hide behind. Derek seems to get it because he flicks the button on Stiles’s jeans open. His hand brushes against his erection when he lowers the zipper, making Stiles’s breath hitch.

It’s cramped in the Jeep and it makes for an awkward angle when Derek’s hand wraps around the base of his cock, but it still feels unearthly good. He opens his eyes and looks down, giving a strangled groan at the sight of Derek’s fingers circling him. Derek kisses him, messy and demanding as he pumps his fist once. Pushing his hips into it, Stiles’s breath stutters into the kiss and his fingers twitch on Derek’s neck.

His mind goes comfortably blank as Derek strokes him steadily, pressing his lips to Stiles’s mouth and chin and jaw.

“God, Derek,” Stiles says, his voice barely there. “I… Fuck.”

“What?” Derek says, lips moving against Stiles’s cheek.

It takes everything he has to say, “Please suck me off.” His cheeks burn when Derek lifts his head and looks at him. He forces himself to meet Derek’s eyes for the first time since this whole thing began and something swoops low in his stomach.

Derek has to get up on his knees in the passenger seat and steady himself as he bends low over Stiles’s crotch. It’s like someone punched him in the stomach at the sight of it. Because, fuck, not seeing anything is pretty hot, but seeing everything is even hotter and Stiles will forever prefer that.

This time he can see Derek’s mouth opening wide, his lips wet and full. Stiles has always found his own dick fairly average looking, but it looks really fucking good against Derek’s mouth. It looks even better when Derek’s lips are wrapped around it.

Stiles turns his head and presses his cheek into the seat, whimpering at the relief of finally getting that perfect heat around his cock again. He’s been thinking about it for days, trying to recreate it in his head to little success. It’s even better than he remembers, all perfect suction and pressure that makes his skin tingle.

For once, he can’t find the words, but he seems perfectly able to find sounds. They keep pouring out of him, unstoppable, as he tries to meet Derek’s mouth with little hitches of his hips. Derek holds him down, his hands warm, controlling the rhythm until Stiles whines in frustration.

His cock slips out of Derek’s mouth with a wet pop that’s way hotter than it’s allowed to be and Derek takes him in hand, jerking him off at a speed that takes Stiles by surprise. Stiles’s hips surge up and he grips the seat, teeth sinking into his lip.

Derek turns his head slightly, eyes dark and intense when they meet his. The way Derek looks at him is too much combined with the hand on Stiles’s cock, pre-come making his grip slick. Stiles gasps and pushes up into Derek’s hand, the muscles in his stomach jumping when it all wells up inside him.

His come hits Derek’s jaw and splatters across his lips. It looks like it belongs there.


Stiles ignores the gloryhole the next time he’s at Jungle, because when he gets home Derek sucks him off and he gets to see the whole thing. He can see the way Derek’s jaw goes slack, how his eyes look when they turn upwards to find Stiles’s, and the way his cheeks hollow.

Blowjob rehab can fuck off.

It’s only two weeks later he realizes that Derek actually wasn’t using the harpies as a bad excuse to assault him in the Jeep.

“I’m deeply wounded,” Stiles says, harpy blood splattered across his face. “Our relationship is based on a lie.”

“I’ll let you fuck my mouth when we get home.”

“Shutting up now.”