Work Text:
Just Our Kind of Bedtime Story
The vibrating sound of his cell phone is way too loud in the quiet darkness of his room. Especially considering that he was on the brink of falling asleep (yes sleep, not death, and that has to be a good sign for once) and he could really do with a nice, undisturbed slumber, but apparently somebody else thinks differently.
Stiles shifts around in bed, his hand blindly searching for the phone.
What are you wearing? says the message and for a moment Stiles closes his eyes.
When he opens them, however, the message is still there and it still doesn't make any sense. Whatsoever.
He doesn't recognize the number and while he wouldn't think twice about a text telling him to come to, say, the graveyard ASAP and bring a shovel, this is just weird. And Stiles is pretty sure he was getting used to weird. He had plenty of weird, thank you very much.
And now this message...
He sighs and types a reply. Only about ten seconds later, his phone purrs in his hand.
So... nothing but a shirt?
Stiles grimaces and lifts the blanket to check before he realizes that this might only be humorous to himself because nobody else is watching. Because his life isn't a sitcom, even if it feels like one. A really cheesy one. Just with more wolf-action. And of course he's still wearing his boxers and that's what he's telling the anonymous message-writer.
Oh wait...
To be fair, it's kinda late. And while Stiles normally pretty much knows that he is clever and shit, well, when half his brain is asleep, nobody can expect him to catch onto things that quickly.
So apparently Scott is trying to pull his leg. Why not. Sooner or later it must be getting old to make out with Allison. Right. Right?
I bet you look great in black boxers.
Well, maybe it's not Scott after all.
Because Scott has seen him in boxers and if Scott were to think that he'd look great in them, Scott wouldn't try humping Allison's leg during history but Stiles' leg, and that is the point where his brain refuses to follow the train of thought.
And I bet you'd look great without them.
Okay, now he hopes it's not Scott. Because awkward much?
He grabs the phone and types: Nothing you haven't seen yet, I suppose.
The answer is there immediately.
But maybe it's you I want to see.
Stiles blinks at his phone owlishly.
Maybe, I want to take them off myself.
Definitely.
Not.
Scott.
His phone buzzes again.
With my teeth.
This... is so not okay for so many reasons. One of them being that Stiles doesn't know who in the fresh hell is texting him. The other is (and this is quite embarrassing) that this whole thing... it's starting to have an effect on him...
He's freaking young, okay? He just doesn't simply not get turned on by dirty texts. Or the tiniest bit of skin. Or just about anything.
This is not fair.
So he gulps down the treacherous hormones in his body and replies: Sounds a bit dangerous, if you're asking me.
This time it takes the other person a little longer to write and when they do, Stiles is almost sure he can read laughter in between the words.
Something's telling me you're into dangerous.
Stiles rolls his eyes at the ceiling: Has this something you mention met me? I try to avoid dangerous. But dangerous keeps coming back to find me.
That's because it's hard to stay away from you.
He can't help but giggle: Try telling that to a certain strawberry blonde girl...
The reply is there, seconds after he's pressed "send".
We're not talking about her.
Stiles stares at the phone in amazement, feeling the tiredness rolling off of him in small waves: Why not? he types and then jokingly adds: let me guess: because I'm yours?
A beat and then:
Yes.
Okay, enough is enough. And anyway, by now Stiles has a pretty good idea of who he's dealing with. And if Jackson's bored enough to do this in the middle of the night, he might as well see how far he can take it without mentioning Lydia again.
So what are you going to do about that? He writes, lying on his stomach, pillow tucked under his chin and gradually enjoying this little conversation.
As I was about to say... I'd take off your boxers...
And then? Stiles encourages, wriggling out of his blanket to let the night air caress his naked legs.
... your shirt...
"Of course." Stiles murmurs into the pillow.
Then I'd watch the way the moon light paints on your body.
Stiles raises an eyebrow. He never would have taken Jackson for the poetic type...
I'd start with your neck. It's such a pretty part of you... and I'd make sure to leave some marks... just so that everyone can see who you belong to...
"He's a bit possessive, isn't he?" Stiles asks his pillow but he doesn't get an answer.
Anyway, the fact that this is Jackson, trying to make him look like an idiot and being a bit creepy and possessive, doesn't help lessen the feeling in the pit of his stomach that has been there ever since the whole teeth-thing...
Alright then. He types. So I'm naked, but you're not. Seems a bit unfair, doesn't it?
Yup, he's definitely going to regret this in the morning.
I'd take your hands and put them under my shirt, so you can feel my skin when I lie down next to you.
Stiles realises that he's moving around in his bed a little awkwardly and the grip around his phone tightens.
Oh yeah?
Yes... You should feel me, breathing into your ear, on your skin, down your throat... can you feel it, Stiles?
Reading his name is weirdly electrifying. And what Stiles is meaning to say by that, is that it is as weird that he's electrified as it is weird that he'd use that term, but there is no other way of describing what's happening to his whole goddamn body right now...
He flips onto his back, holding the phone close to his face while he types quickly. Before he can allow himself to give it a second thought, he sends the message.
I can feel it.
The screen flashes brightly in the darkness and Stiles' breath gets caught somewhere in his throat.
Are you touching yourself?
Black words on the bluish burning screen and Stiles' brain is trying to come up with a logical explanation as to why Jackson is still doing this.
If it really is Jackson...
He's biting down on his bottom lip, feeling the cool air where his shirt is riding up, revealing the soft flesh of his belly. The sensation is too familiar by now to ignore it, the flame-like burning in his toes, the tugging and pulling on his scalp...
Are you? He replies, squeezing his eyes shut and waiting with a fast-beating heart.
He doesn't have to wait for long.
Yes. The message says plain and simple and Stiles gasps when the fingertips of his left hand come to rest on his chest, trailing down to his belly button.
He is so absolutely screwed.
Me too. He licks his lips and grins despite himself. You should have heard the noise I just made.
You should hear the noises I can make you make.
It's not right that the trace of arrogance causes a little shiver to run down Stiles' spine.
You would like that, wouldn't you? Me, moaning and screaming your name?
Just don't wake the neighbours.
Stiles lets his head sink deeper into the pillow while his hand reaches the waistband of his boxers. His skin feels a bit feverish, definitely too warm for clothing. He can hear his own breathing in the otherwise quiet room.
It's pretty easy to push away the knowledge that he has no idea what is going on. Of course it is, because it feels damn good and why the hell would he destroy that with thinking?
But wouldn't you making me make noises require, well, noises? And then the neighbours would surely register that I'm getting laid and yeah that could result in some sort of "Way to go, Stiles" party, you know?
Yeah, he would destroy it with thinking because that's who he is. That's just how Stiles Stilinski rolls, cockblocking himself...
Surprisingly, there is a reply.
Shut up, Stiles.
Promptly followed by:
I'm pulling you close to me, until your legs are wrapped around my waist and you can feel that I'm just as hard as you are.
Uh.
Oh.
Stiles' fingers curl around his boxer's waistband, pulling down just a little and his breath is hitching in his throat when it dawns on him that the writer is so very right about this one. He lifts his hips a little, the smallest of movements, just as if he were about to meet an invisible body halfway. It's not difficult to imagine the feeling, he's done it before but this time it's different. He can almost sense the warmth of another person's skin, the dark smell of a leather jacket and--
Wait, what?
Stiles shakes his head, his fingers flying over the keypad: I'd move against you, trying to get you out of these clothes you're still wearing.
Another text with hidden laughter but it sounds weirdly affectionate.
Yeah, of course you would.
Come on, man. I'm trying to keep up the mood.
Are you sure you want this?
The mattress squeaks lightly when Stiles shifts once more. The phone is warm in his hand, kinda like a living thing and his whole body is humming in anticipation, waiting to be touched, waiting for more...
So it's not even a question he needs to think about.
Just stop being such a tease.
I'm a tease?
"Well yeah." Stiles mutters, letting his hand slip down his boxers and shivering at the contact.
You have no idea what you're doing to me, don't you?
Well, that is just a little unfair. Just because I don't have that much of experience, doesn't mean I don't know how these kinds of things are working in general...
Stiles.
Somehow, fascinatingly, the message manages to sound threatening.
And Stiles starts having a hard time believing in his own theory that this is really Jackson. Which leaves such a range of frightening possibilities. Then again, it would be also kinda disturbing to get off to Jackson's texts...
I want to feel the length of your body stretched out against mine. I want to taste the sweat on your forehead, when you grind against me.
Stiles feels his mouth going dry.
Uhm, sounds good to me.
I want to push you into the sheets and trail my nails across your skin and kiss you on every spot where I scratched a little too hard.
Not-Jackson is kind of a kinky bastard...
Then do it. Stiles' fingers are so not trembling. Look into my eyes because I want you to see that I'm waiting for you. Waiting for you to do whatever you want to do to me.
There is a longish pause before the next text.
I don't think I can go on for much longer.
Stiles feels his back arch, his heels digging into the mattress and he doesn't remember when he wrapped his hand around himself but the feeling deep down in his stomach is boiling, the heat radiating through his whole body.
The images are oh so vivid behind his half-closed eyelids. Muscles flexing under hot skin, stubbles pressing into his cheek, long limbs around him, holding him close and the smell of the forest after the rain, dark hair, surprisingly soft under his fingers...
Oh shit.
The incoming message gets a little blurry before his eyes.
Are you still there?
Yeah just having a hard time breathing.
Let me help you with that...
It's completely involuntary that Stiles opens his mouth, imagining lips touching his own, the kiss deepening until he opens up, breathes and tastes something so entirely Derek that he ---
No. Oh no, no, no.
Everything's so hot, your hips stuttering against mine and your skin and your smell and oh god...
His orgasm hits him before he can think about taking off his boxers and all he can do is turn his head and bury his face in his pillow to suffocate the name on his lips.
Afterwards, he just lies there, breathing in the darkness and feeling sticky and happy and freaked out.
Finally, he brings the phone up to his face again, ignoring the sweaty prints his fingers have left on the screen.
Derek?
An endless moment and then it buzzes.
Mhm?
You've got a new phone? Nice way of letting me know.
Are you going to ruin the moment?
Stiles sighs and pulls his blanket on top of him, settling under it. No, no of course not. Perfect moment, brilliant moment. Everything's A-ok.
What is it then?
He takes a deep breath and decides to deal with all the big questions in the morning. For now there is only one that interests him.
So... what are you wearing...?