It’s...Okay. It’s 3:30 in the morning on a Tuesday. Stiles doesn’t need to be up for another three hours. He didn’t expect to be woken up by the familiar trill of his phone.
“Stilinski’s House Of Horrors,” he slurs out sleepily, phone pressed between his head and the pillow. “Office Hours are Monday through Friday, eight a-m through six p-m,” ha, Stiles thinks. As if. “In the event of an emergency, please hang up and call your local Alph---”
“Stiles,” Derek growls out, and oh. Oh. Derek never calls him. He usually comes over on his own, or has one of the betas call for him. “I need your help. For research.”
He doesn’t sound panicked. Stiles can’t hear gunfire or shouting. Or growling. Or cackling (witches, man). None of the betas are bitching in the background. “Something you don’t want to share with the class,” Stiles says slowly because there is no other reason he’d be calling at all, let alone at such a ridiculous fucking time. “So it’s either potentially dangerous or embarrassing. Lay it on me. Tell Papa Stiles your current life woes.”
Derek makes an infuriated little noise in the back of his throat. “How did you---” He growls, maybe at himself, maybe at Stiles. “The latter. It’s. There’s a....I can’t....I didn’t know--They never told me---”
“Derek,” Stiles cuts Derek off as he continues to cut himself off. Honestly, Stiles isn’t use to being on this end of the incoherent rambling. It’s nice. Refreshing.“You’re calling me personally, at three-thirty in the morning on a Tuesday. Either you can’t get here, or you can’t look me in the face when you ask. Should I come over?”
“I....No. No. Definitely not.” Which means Stiles should.
He sighs. Getting anything out of Derek is like milking a rock. Basically impossible and pretty painful. “Do you want to play twenty-questions. Is it bigger than a bread box?”
“No.” Derek huffs, and answers Stiles next question before he can even ask.. “No I don’t want to play twenty-questions, and no it’s not bigger than a bread box.”
“But it’s something,.” That narrows it down to....oh just about everything. Nouns, in general. “Person place or thing?”
“Stiles,” Derek growls. He sounds decidedly pained, but that’s not unusual. It alleviates some of Stiles inherent worry. “I’ll....Jesus. I’ll send a picture.”
Stiles is...not sure what he was expecting when his phone chirps, announcing a new text message.
He just kind of stares at it. It’s a lot to stare at, after all. Derek upgraded his phone to a Galaxy for quicker googling purposes (plus he owed Stiles like five phones), and the thing is like the size of a package of hot dog. The resolution is nothing to shake a stick at either.
There on it’s massive little screen, is Dereks’ dick.
Dick pics. That’s a thing they were doing now.
It’s...hard. Which. What? Why? What? Derek has it laid out in his open palm, on the bathroom counter. The lighting is soft and yellow, like an instagram filter but Stiles knows it’s just the shitty bulbs Derek buys. His nails are decidedly wolfish, thick and pointed.
He manscapes, so...he has that going for him. Among other things. It’s. Okay. So.
Yeah. No. Stiles’ has nothing. He has been rendered silent for what is possibly the first time in his entire speaking life. He’s been rendered silent by Derek’s dick pic.
Another text message chirps through.
That’s it. That’s all Derek has to say about his inexplicable dick-pic. So. Yeah. Nope.
He swipes the message away, and stares at the pic some more. With a decisive little nod to himself, he turns his phone off and goes back to bed.
In the morning, it’s still there. He carries the phone into the bathroom, lays it on counter as he brushes his teeth. He stares at it, toothpaste foam escaping the corner of his mouth. Nope. Nope, even with the light of day. Stiles has no idea why Derek sent this.
He tears his eyes away from the photo, and stares at himself in the mirror, purple toothbrush hanging out of his mouth limply. Limply. There’s a toothbrush in the photo - Stiles almost did not notice it what with all the penis taking up most of the frame. It lays abandoned to the left, perfectly parallel to Derek’s junk.
How big is a tooth brush anyway? He should google it. Stiles palms his toothbrush handle, and then on a whim, palms the top half with his other hand. A good inch peeks up from the top and Stiles drops it in the sink and leaves the bathroom without rinsing his mouth. He comes back a moment later, and grabs the phone and googles how long a tooth brush is. It’s not a whim.
He makes it exactly twenty-three minutes before he’s jerking off, thinking about Dereks’ dick. And okay, if it’s not the first time, sue him. But this is different. Now he knows. Now all his admittedly depraved fantasies have been proven brutally true.
Typically braced for rejection and disappointment, Stiles can’t say he’s accustomed to such validation. It’s kind of a culture-shock. Stiles’ world views are being re-written. He was right. Derek has a big (big-big-big-big-oh-god-that's-like-two-and-a-half-penises-worth-of-penis) dick.
Of which he has so graciously supplied Stiles a picture of. He may, or may not, accidentally come on his phone, a little. But hey, it’s certainly seen worse.
Derek launches himself through Stiles’ bedroom window an hour later, looking typically grumpy and unapproachable. Stiles stares at him, still wordless.
“So?” Okay, so maybe he’s not that wordless. “So? That’s all you have to say. So. You sent me a picture of your dick!”
“Are you telling me you didn’t notice it?” Derek reels a little, eying Stiles like he’s a moron. That’s not exactly unusual though, so Stiles ignores it. “It’s huge.”
Flushing a little, Stiles manfully resists the urge to throw something at him. “Yes I noticed. it’s kind of hard not to when you send me a fucking picture of it. The important question is why you sent it in the first place?”
“Because it’s not normal!” Dereks’ eyes are wide in his head; he looks dangerously close to bursting a blood vessel. “It’s never happened before. Last night, I just woke up and it was there.”
“You’re telling me you’ve never gotten morning wood?” He’s calling bullshit. That’s bullshit.
Derek scowls, the tips of his ears burning a deep, dark red. “Not...not that. I mean, the other thing. The thing... the bump.”
“If you have bumps on your dick, I’m really not the person you should be talking to.” It’s Stiles turn to frown. “Wait, I thought werewolves couldn't get diseases?”
“Not that kind of bump!” Derek’s voice rises, almost hysterically. “The bump Stiles! The bump at the base!”
Stiles slumps back on his bed a little, bewildered. “I think I’m missing something.”
With a wild, wounded noise, Derek snatches Stiles’ phone off the desk and pulls up the picture. “This,” he hisses out, pointing at the fucking dick pic. “This bump, see? Jesus Christ.”
And okay, now that Stiles isn’t staring at the dick -which, in his defense, appears to be the center focus of the picture okay - there is a rounding to the base of Derek’s junk. It’s tucked up tight, swelling from the low pubic-hair area, down. It’s not that noticeable, not in the shitty bathroom light, not when the dick is stealing the show.
“Okay,” he says slowly, looking away. Derek looks flushed, and angry. “Okay I will admit, that’s not exactly normal. I can’t...really tell, in the photo though. Was it hard? Soft? You said it’s never happened before.”
Derek makes a weird noise, kind of choked and frustrated. “It happened again this morning, when I was taking a shower.”
“Recurring! Okay, I can work with that. Um.” He twitches, feeling wriggly and weird like his skin is on inside now. There's a heat, low in his belly. He doesn't want to put a name to this, he doesn't. Who needs lables? Not Stiles. “Once is an accident. Twice is a coincidence. Three times is a pattern.”
“You want me too----” Derek looks to horrified to finish his sentence. Stiles is okay with that.
“To be fair, I can’t really tell from the picture what I’m looking at. I think I need to see it.” He tries not to look/sound/smell to excited at the prospect. “I won’t like touch it or anything---”
Derek makes the noise again, the choked one, and his cheeks burn red. “It’s....Fine.” He makes to reach for his jeans and holy shit this is really happening---
“Wait, don’t you want to like---take a moment for yourself. In the bathroom,” Stiles rushes to add. “I’m assuming you need to be hard.”
“It won’t take long,” Derek grinds out between his teeth. “It just keeps happening.” He thumbs the button on his jeans with an arched look, and doesn’t wait for Stiles to answer, before unzipping.
And there it is. Derek’s dick. Just.... Hanging out, in Stiles room. It plumps up even as the air hits it, zero-to-sixty just like that. He had no idea an erection could look so angry, but nope...Derek’s dick totally looks angry. It's kind of purple too. Like the Hulks pants.
Stiles brain is a weird place, he fully acknowledges and accepts this.
“Hmm?” Stiles looks up, blinking wildly. Then he looks back down. And there it is. The bump. “Oh. Right. Um. It’s not that big. Does it hurt?”
Derek’s hands clench at his side and his dick jerks. “No.”
“Does it....do anything?” Honestly, Derek isn’t giving Stiles much to go by here.
“It was bigger, when I first woke up.” Derek doesn’t move as he speaks, but his dick bobs anyway. It’s really distracting. “I was about to...”
“Come,” Stiles supplies, with an uneasy feeling in his stomach. “Um. I’m guessing you didn’t come.”
“No.” Derek sucked in a breath. “But I also haven't had a wet dream in like ten years. It’s ...sensitive.”
“Yeah.” Stiles...has theories. “You’re...going to need to finish.”
“What.” Not even a question. Never a question.
“I have an idea, but I can’t be sure until you come and okay, this is weird. I get it. You think it’s weird for you? This is the closest I’ve ever been to a dick that isn’t mine and I’m analyzing it for defects.” He takes a deep breath, and sits back on his bed. “So. I’m going to need you to finish.”
Derek...looks pissed. That’s understandable. But he takes himself in hand regardless. Which....not what Stiles meant. He doesn’t need to see. He meant the bathroom! The en-suite bathroom, it is literally right there, to their left. But...now that Derek’s started, Stiles can’t....he really can’t bring himself to tell him otherwise.
Stiles is...a bad person, probably. Definitely. Whatever. There’s about three feet between them and Derek is furiously jerking it. Stiles has lived through worse.
“Are you always so rough with yourself?” Stiles asks before he can help himself but to be honest, it seems like a fair question. Stiles dick twitches in sympathy. Totally in sympathy.
“I just want this over with,” Derek bites out, looking up at the ceiling. He takes a step back, putting a little distance between them. Stiles takes a moment to revel in the oddity that is Derek Hale masturbating in the middle of his room. This is his life. This is his life now. “I want it fixed.”
Stiles doesn’t tell him his suspicions. There’s no confirmation yet, anyway. “How long does it usually take?”
“I’m not sixteen Stiles,” Derek grits out, gaze dropping down to him to meet Stiles’. “There’s this thing called stamina--”
“Now really isn’t the time.” Not that Stiles isn’t enjoying the show. He is. He really is. So much so that he’s about to make everyone in the room deeply uncomfortable. Stiles can smell Derek’s junk and he’s not even a werewolf. He can’t imagine what Derek must smell.
“I’ve had a near constant hard-on since I called you.” Derek’s hand slips down his shaft, the heel digging deep into the slight bump. He makes the noise again, the choked whiny noise. “It shouldn't take long okay, now shut up”
“I think you should touch it,” Stiles says, strangely bold. It’s not weird okay, he has a theory! “Grip it, as soon as you feel like you’re about to come.”
“Shut up,” Derek snaps, again, but his hand drops down to the bulge with his free hand, even as his other hand continues its brutal stroke. Stiles can’t help it, he squeaks. Derek’s grip is fierce, palms going white with the force of it. He moans this time - there’s no choke about it. “Stiles....Stiles what, why....I think---”
“I think it’s a knot,” Stiles tells him, a little dazedly. It's...Okay. So. Stiles is learning all kinds of things about himself. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure it’s a knot. Wait, shit, don’t----”
But it’s too late. Derek comes with a roar, wolfing out just enough to lose control of his teeth, and ears. Like a fucking geyser, Derek comes and because Stiles has the worst/best luck, it hits him straight in the face.
He scrambles back but it doesn't serve to do anything but re-direct the spray down his front, across his shirt, and the crotch of his jeans. Jesus Christ. He can now cross bukakke off his list of life accomplishments.
Once out of the fire-zone, Stiles hazards a look at Derek, probably risking an eye in doing so. Derek is....Derek has checked out, from the looks of it. His face is blank, but not the empty kind of blank. He looks blissed out, hand still clenching around what Stiles’ can confirm is yes, a knot. He’s not done coming either, weak little spurts spraying out across Stiles bed and carpet. Stiles can’t even...He is officially a Tumblr Girl. He can’t even.
That, of course, is how Scott finds them.