Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/603853.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Derek_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      Explicit_Sexual_Content, Sexual_Frustration, Phone_Sex, Sexting,
      Somewhat-ironic_use_of_the_phrase_"wants_the_d", the_drabble_that_took
      over_the_world, being_law-abiding_citizens, Humor
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-12-22 Words: 1828
****** With Age, Comes Wisdom (And Derek) ******
by vodkaanddebauchery
Summary
     He manages to last two minutes, jittery and itchy beneath his skin,
     before he slides his phone back out and texts without really looking
     at the screen.
     'I AM IN CLASS WHWAT ARE YOU DOING DICK PICS WHY NO O'
Notes
     A little drabble for an anon on tumblr that went completely out of
     control.
     Oops.
     Posted without beta-ing; any mistakes are mine.
     ....I'm so sorry.
If Stiles had to write a poem about the week leading up to his birthday, it
would go something like:
Roses are red,
Violets are blue
So are my balls
but we are law-abiding citizens so we are waiting
fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
He didn’t know why Derek was so twitchy about the waiting-until-18 thing, but
he respected Derek’s choice (see! he respected his boyfriend’s choice! that’s a
responsible adult thing to do!) and so a very passionate, very sexually
frustrated celibacy paved the road up to the big 1-8.
But Stiles was apparently a masochist because just waiting was boring, and he
might as well channel that sexual frustration into something productive - which
may or may not have been a series of compromising cell phone photos,
unceremoniously snapped on a whim and sent to Derek as if to say, I love you
and respect your decision to honor statutory laws, but you are missing out on
this awkward hotness.
And then he didn’t think anything of it, because of course Derek would take it
out on him the night he turned 18. Derek was better with his impulse control,
which meant that he would bide his time.
.... Maybe.
...Hopefully.
It’s in the middle of English, five days away from his birthday, that his phone
buzzes in his pocket, and, like every other 17-year-old trying to while away
some classtime, he discreetly pulls it out and checks the message under his
desk.
And then he nearly drops the damn thing because yep, that’s a picture message
of a cock. And thighs, and feet, and what the fuck they were all on his couch
at home and Stiles can’t close his phone and shove it back into his pocket fast
enough, lest someone see Derek’s very, very, poorly-timed picture.
He manages to last two minutes, jittery and itchy beneath his skin, before he
slides his phone back out and texts without really looking at the screen.
I AM IN CLASS WHWAT ARE YOU DOING DICK PICS WHY NO O
Okay, so it’s not his finest masterpiece in the art of SMS, but he thinks he
gets his point across. He closes out of the texts and shuts his eyes, trying to
listen to whatever’s going on in class - seriously, fuck education, his joke of
a sex life is way more important at this point - and all he can see is the
image that Derek had sent him like it’s burned into the backs of his eyelids.
Derek obviously angled his phone up high to get as much as possible into the
frame - the trail of hair starting at his navel and leading down like an
invitation, the half-erect curve of his cock (and here Stiles barely manages to
keep himself from slamming his head on his desk, oh yes, Stiles will not deny
that he wants the d), the dark sparse hair on his thighs, the muscular curves
and angles of legs and knees. Even his toes were sexy, his fucking toes. And
all of that naked, horny werewolf is currently lounging in his home, on his
couch, and there’s not a damn thing he can do about it.
Stiles is so, so tremendously fucked and he hasn’t even handed in his V-card
yet.
He’s probably hyperventilating like a lunatic and there is no calming down from
this. He’s on the precipice of losing his mind. He has never wanted to break
the law so badly in his entire life, and that’s counting the times that he’s
actually broken the law.
And then the phone buzzes again. With trepidation, Stiles pulls it out and
glances at the screen.
You have one [1] new video message!
Stiles suppresses a scream and lurches out of his seat, well aware that now
everyone’s staring at him. Even the teacher has paused, chalk in hand, mouth
gaping open.
“Bathroom,” he manages, voice strangled. “I think - Flu -” and speeds out of
the classroom like he’s fucking Steve McQueen tearing up the streets of San
Francisco, but only if Steve McQueen was getting sexts and trying to wish a
sexy werewolf into his pants then and there by sheer force of will alone.
Okay, so it’s not the best metaphor, but Stiles’ mind is racing until he gets
to the (thankfully, mercifully) empty Men’s and crashes into a stall, slamming
the door shut and locking it.
He doesn’t even bother opening the video message, because the last vestiges of
his sanity insist that it will probably end him physically. He calls Derek
instead.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing,” he hisses into the phone when Derek
answers, before Derek even speaks. “Are you trying to kill me with the sexy
picture and the sexy video that I haven’t even watched yet?”
The answer is no. No, Derek was not trying to kill him with the sexts, because
Derek is now trying to kill him just by talking.
As soon as he breathes it’s obvious what he’s doing. “Not kill,” he admits,
sounding spaced out and breathless. “Teaching you a - fuck - a lesson was what
I was going for.”
Stiles definitely does not strain to hear the sounds of his boyfriend jerking
off - on his couch, no less - over the phone in the bathroom of his high
school. “What kind of lesson is that,” he asks faintly, feeling like he’s going
to burst out of his skin. Derek must, oh god, he must be doing something with
his hand (apart from the obvious), he can see the image clear in his mind’s eye
- the swipe of a palm over the leaking head of his cock, the deft twist of a
wrist at just the right angle - because he takes a shaky inhale and bites back
a noise that could generously be called a keen but more accurately be called a
needy whine.
“You - you fucking started it,” Derek says. “You sent me pictures of your -
your fingers in your damn mouth, fuck, your mouth, and -”
Stiles remembers the pictures he sent Derek. He remembers them vividly, as
people do with things that come back to bite them in the ass. There may or may
not have been a lot of tongue and saliva involved, because Stiles is definitely
a masochist, and payback is a bitch.
“So I -” Derek exhales and sounds like he’s collecting himself. “I had to do
something and this was the only thing -”
Stiles groans a little, despite himself, despite the fact that he’s still at
school. He leans back and slams his head against the tile wall. “I hate you, I
hate your werewolf guts right now, oh my god I hate you so much.”
Derek laughs, sharp and breathless. Stiles can hear his smile. “Tell me how
much you hate me, Stiles.” His voice shifts a step deeper, quieter. “Please.”
Squirming, Stiles inhales a shaky breath - he sees this for what it is, can
picture Derek quietly, desperately, writhing on the couch, hand fisting his
cock and toes curling, waiting for Stiles to prompt him closer to orgasm. He
definitely groans this time. “I - fuck, is phone sex with the underaged
technically illegal or - “
“Stiles,” Derek growls, “Please.”
And that’s his Achilles’ heel, because Stiles starts babbling every filthy
thought he’s had ever since he and Derek had that conversation about waiting,
all those months ago, every impulse and want he’s saved up like dirty pennies
for a rainy day. Offhandedly, he really hopes no one’s waiting outside the
restroom when he starts saying things like, “I was gonna let you finger me,
suck your fingers into my mouth and get them nice and wet, but you fucking
ruined my day with your sexting so I’m just gonna do that myself -”
Derek makes a broken noise and Stiles takes that as an indication that he plow
ahead. “And you’ll have to watch but you won’t be able to touch,” he says into
the phone. “I could do that for hours, getting myself so ready and open while
you just watch and keep your hands off, and it’ll all be because you thought it
was a brilliant idea to send me video of you masturbating while we were
analyzing King Lear -”
“Stiles, shut up about King Lear,” Derek says. Stiles wonders what his
expression is, if his face is screwed up in concentration, or loose in rapture.
And he desperately, desperately wants to find out for himself.
“But maybe,” he blurts, ignoring the lust hitting him like a punch to the gut,
“maybe if you ask really nicely I’ll let you fuck me, because I’ve been
thinking about it for months and I might actually die if we don’t do it soon -
and god Derek, I don’t know what I want to do first, to ride your cock or to
have you lick me open and then fuck me into the mattress, or - who am I
kidding, I want you to fuck me, I want to be able to feel it for days -”
The sound that Derek makes doesn’t even sound human, like all the desperate
lonely things in the world rolled up into one intangible sound, and Stiles
wants to be right there with him, to kiss him and bite the tendons in his neck
and whisper filthy, loving things in his ear as he strokes himself, straining,
into orgasm. He wants to ask if Derek is close but the desire is barreling any
hesitation, any tentative questions out of his way. “Derek,” he says, skin
itching, “Derek, I need you to come now. You can come, do it for me -”
Derek does. Stiles shuts his eyes and tries to imagine how messy it is, the
improbable curve of Derek’s back arching, the streaks of cum painting his skin
all the way up to his chest as he comes and comes, breath pounding out of him.
He imagines the fine sheen of sweat that would be all over him, and finds that
he’s actually sweating himself, palms damp and throat dry. They sit in silence
for long moments, Derek’s breath coming slower and slower.
“What,” Derek’s voice drags in a groan over the line, “the fuck was that.”
Stiles isn’t quite sure, but laughs shakily. “That? Is how much you suck.
Because I’m still at school and I’m supposed to be throwing up with the stomach
flu right now, and miraculously, I don’t even have a hand down my pants.”
“I suck? I think that was generous,” Derek shoots back, sounding more alert
than he did for the entire duration of the call. “You’ve got something to fuel
you for the next five days.”
“Four.”
“Five.”
“Birthdays start at midnight, we are going to be ready to go by 12:01 in the
morning and not a moment later," Stiles says, trying to put as much finality as
he possibly can into it. A moment later he adds, “And I’m not ever letting you
on my couch again."
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