Work Text:
“Sooooo- what are you wearing?”
Derek pulls his phone away from his ear, staring at the screen in disbelief.
“You have the wrong number, Stiles.”
He ends the call, asking himself- yet again- why he formed a pack full of teenagers. They may be college freshman now, but the idiocy lingers.
His phone rings out in his pocket. And then rings again. And again.
“Stiles. You have. The wrong. Number.”
“Are you sure about that?”
Of course he’s sure. There’s no way Stiles would be calling Derek for phone sex. Not when he’s spent the last six months hearing all about how college girls (and boys) enjoy the white-and-nerdy type.
“Sleep it off, Stiles.”
This time he flips the ringer off decisively. Derek ignores the way it vibrates across the coffee table, trying to settle back into his book.
Until the phone shimmies its way off the edge of the table and onto the floor.
Damn it.
He can’t even just turn the thing off. Derek only set a handful of rules when the pack split up for college, and one of them was that everyone was to keep their phone turned on and available at all times. He snatches his phone up from the carpet, mentally preparing the blistering lecture he’s going to deliver once the little brat sobers up.
The string of text messages on his screen drives every thought of his impending diatribe from Derek’s head.
Probably because the blood in his body has taken a sudden and unexpected dive southward.
Derek.
Derek.
I spent an hour today thinking about what your cock would taste like, Derek. How it would fit in my mouth, on my tongue.
I saw the way you watched me, when I was home last month. How long have you been dreaming about getting me on my knees?
Apparently not all of his blood has rushed to his dick, because Derek can feel a hot flush flaring across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose.
He, ah, really thought he’d been more subtle than that.
There’s a series of vibrations against his palm and Derek fumbles, trying to decide if he should pick up.
The call disconnects before he can make up his mind, and shame battles a sick sense relief in his stomach. Stiles is obviously sobering up, coming to his senses, and they can both pretend like this whole thing never fucking happened.
Instead he chokes as another text comes through.
Please, Derek. Please?
Oh, fuck. Fuck. His body is buzzing, cock a thick, heavy weight between his legs. Is he... are they really going to do this?
Come on, don’t you want to fuck me?
He’s hitting the call button before he actually thinks about dialing.
“Stil-” he swallows past the crack in his voice. “Stiles?”
“Well, hello there. What’s up? Something I can help you with?”
That little shit. Stiles’ voice is cool and friendly, like a hundred other phone calls and check-ins and updates they’ve exchanged over the years.
“I- I got your texts.”
“Oh? Something you wanted to say to me, then?”
He can’t. He can’t take that final step, can’t drag Stiles into his own mess of issues. It’s the same reason he didn’t kiss Stiles any of the hundred times he’s considered it in the last year. But god, he wants.
“You can’t say it, can you? At first I figured you were just being a douche about the whole thing, but your face-” and here Stiles’ tone goes low and smooth, reverent, “your face when you look at me, Derek, it’s something else. I can see every fucking thing you want to do to me, you know that?”
“Shit, Stiles.” His palms are sweaty, so he props the phone against his shoulder and scrubs his hands across his thighs, meticulously avoiding anything... else... that he might come across down there.
“How many times have you thought about my mouth? I like it, sucking cock. It gets me hard like you wouldn’t believe. You want me like that, down on my knees for you?”
Holy hell. Derek can hardly think past the haze of lust, more turned on than he’s been in years. It’s not like he’s been celibate, since- since everything, but nothing’s crawled inside him the way that Stiles’ voice is doing.
“Yeah, yes, yes.” That’s it, the words are out and there’s no taking them back.
The pleased hum it earns him echoes in Derek’s ear as if Stiles was right there next to him.
“Come on, Derek, tell me how you like it. I wanna, wanna make it good for you.” For the first time, Stiles stumbles over his words, and it hits Derek like lightning.
“Are you, fuck, Stiles, are you touching yourself?”
Stiles hums affirmatively, hot and pleased, and the need to hear that sound again, to force more sounds out of those plush lips, absolutely roars through Derek.
He unzips his jeans, scrambling to tug his dick out.
“That does it for you, huh, the thought of my fingers wrapped around my cock, all wet and full for you? Because of you?”
Fuck yeah, it does. Derek can just imagine what Stiles looks like, sprawled out across his bed, cock flushed and slick, mouth open and panting. Ready to give it up, ready for Derek to take.
He doesn’t realize he’s saying it out loud until he hears Stiles’ response.
“God, yeah, Derek, do it, take me, tell me what you want. How do you want me, Derek? How?”
“You know how,” Derek purrs, and he’d be embarrassed by the sheer amount of sex in his voice if he wasn’t so fucking turned on. “On your knees for me, baby boy, with your lips spread wide, ready to take my cock in your throat.”
“Jesus fuck.” For a moment there’s nothing but harsh breathing and a sloppy, wet sound on the other end of the line.
He smirks, feeling back on his feet for the first time since his phone rang. He rubs his tongue along his palm, slips his fingers in his mouth until his skin is soaking. The first touch of his hand on his own dick pulls every muscle up tight.
“I’m going to feed you my cock until you can’t remember anything but the taste of it. Just curl my fingers into your hair and make you take every last inch of it. And you will, won’t you? You’ll take it all, let me choke you on it.”
Stiles whimpers. “Yeah, please, fuck, I wanna taste it.”
Derek rolls his hips, pressing up into his fist and imagining the tight press of Stiles’ mouth.
“I don’t know, Stiles, you haven’t exactly been a good boy tonight. I don’t know if you deserve it.”
What he doesn’t know is where the fuck all this is coming from, but he sure as fuck isn’t stopping, not when Stiles is gasping across the phone line.
“Take your hands off your dick, Stiles.”
“Wait, what, no-”
“Do it,” he snarls.
Stiles keens, edgy and full of disappointment, but the sounds stop and Derek knows he’s obeying.
“Roll over and put your ass in the air for me, show me what’s mine.” He hears Stiles suck in a breath at that, at the word and what it means, everything they haven’t talked about, but it’s true and they both know it.
After this, after tonight, Stiles is his.
“Get one of your fingers wet for me, good and slippery. Now, I want you to reach behind you and rub that tight little asshole for me.”
“Ah, ah, Derek, I need more, please,” Stiles moans.
“Oh, no, baby. You thought you could get away with teasing me, didn’t you? Thought you could text me like that, run your mouth off with no consequences? You asked for this, whoring it up like that.”
He closes his eyes, sliding his other hand down to cup his balls. He can picture Stiles’ pert, firm little ass, spread open and waiting for him. He wants to get his mouth on that soft pink flesh, work it open with his tongue.
“Does that feel good? Slide two fingers in for me, good boy. You touch yourself there a lot, don’t you? Like to feel how full you can make yourself?”
“Mmhmm.” Stiles takes a deep, sobbing breath. “It’s never enough, though, not even when I’m riding all four fingers. I think about you, then, about taking your whole goddamned hand. I’ve never, oh, shit, never done that, you’d be the first.”
Derek’s fingers tighten on his cock until he’s growling with it.
“Fuck, Stiles, I’m going to ruin you, no one’s going to give it to you as good as I can, are they?”
If he strains, he can hear the drenched, sullied sound of Stiles working his fingers into his own ass.
“I’m going to take that sweet little ass of yours until you can’t even speak; it’ll be the only thing that will shut you up, won’t it? I hope you’re ready, ‘cause I’m going to fuck you whether you are or not. Do you want that, want me to shove my dick into you when you’re still tight, make you burn for me?”
Stiles’ voice shakes, and it stirs something in Derek’s hindbrain, primal and fucking smug as hell, hearing how wrecked his boy sounds.
“You know I do, Derek, make me come, please, please.”
“What do you need, baby boy? What do you need to come?”
“My- my cock, please, fuck, Derek, I need your hands on me.”
Derek groans, deep and guttural, working the head of his dick in quick jerks, stroking a finger in the sweet spot behind his balls. He’s so close at just the idea, the sound of Stiles; he can barely imagine what it’ll be like to have him there, surrounded in his scent, lapping up the taste of his skin.
“Do it, do it now, Stiles. Make yourself come for me. I want to hear it; you sound so good right now, come on.”
Stiles lets go with a wail that reverberates down the phone line as Derek strips his cock furiously, picturing the hot, damp clench of Stiles’ ass around him. Christ, he wants to fill him up, shove him full of spit and lube and come and plug it up with Derek’s cock, make him smell like Derek for days.
It’s that idea- Stiles filthy, dripping come and covered in his scent- that shoves Derek over the edge.
He lies there, panting, listening as Stiles comes back down to earth. There’s a long stretch of silence, long enough that he starts to get nervous, to reconsider what just happened.
Fuck, what just happened?
“Derek?”
He coughs. “Yeah?”
“I’m coming home next weekend.”