TW fic: 8.7 Megapixels
Title: 8.7 Megapixels
Author: nightanddaze
Rating: R
Pairing: Stiles Stilinski/Derek Hale
Word Count: 2094
Summary: Derek's not up-to-date with phones.
The first time Stiles sends him a picture of his dick, Derek is mortified. Although, at first he can’t get to it. He fumbles around with the phone Erica and Stiles picked out for him, swiping his thumb across the screen, plucking at the applications, trying to find the thing that made his phone buzz.
He gets it wrong three times. The fourth time brings up a little bubble under the heading Stiles, holding a tiny picture. It’s pink and black, indistinct. Derek pokes at it and it blows up. It’s a dick, hard, flushed in the light from a bedside lamp.
It’s Stiles’ dick. If Derek didn’t recognize it on its own then he’d definitely recognize Stiles’ long, thin fingers supporting it, his thumb resting lightly on it. He’s seen Stiles do that in person, showing off, trying to be sexy.
Derek stares at it, his face warm, stomach squirming, until another bubble pops up.
like it?
He jerks when the phone vibrates, almost drops the damn thing on the concrete. He tries to type a message but there are no keys, just the screen. Derek hates it, can’t do anything fast enough. Clicking on Stiles’ name gets him the option to call.
“No,” he says when Stiles picks up the phone, flustered.
He can hear the wet noise of Stiles catching the tip of his tongue between his molars. It’s what he does when he’s turned on or thinking of something smart to say.
“’No,’” Stiles guesses, “’I love it’?”
“No,” Derek says slowly. “Don’t.”
Stiles’ reaction is instantaneous. He takes a snorting breath and his teeth click together faintly.
“Why?” he asks, moving the phone from one ear to another.
“Because,” Derek says.
Stiles is silent, but Derek can hear-see his body moving, personifying an indignant What?
Derek takes a calming breath. “I’m asking you not to.”
“Fine,” Stiles says, in a way that means it’s not fine and not the end. “I won’t.”
“Good,” Derek says, the phone screen slick on his cheek.
*
Stiles is annoyed about it the next time Derek sees him, but he still shows Derek his dick in real life, lets Derek touch and suck him, and doesn’t complain about it.
*
The second time Stiles sends him a racy picture, the top left corner of Derek’s screen has a little crack in it. It’s from Derek being thrown into a tree, but the crack on the phone isn’t much compared to the crack in Derek’s femur. It’s healing, but slowly, and it still hurts like a bitch.
His phone vibrates against his bad leg, sending little painful shocks down to the bone that wake Derek up. He scrapes at the phone until the little bubble appears.
Stiles
you alright?
He’s no wizard but he’s getting better at the touch keyboard, so he types Yes. Autocorrect helps.
The response is instantaneous: Good. this is good too, and a little pink picture.
Derek blows out a rough breath, but opens it anyway. Stiles’ erect cock, the long plain of his belly, and half his face awkwardly looking down at the camera fill the screen. Derek doesn’t close it right away, the pain in his leg warring with the arousal in his guts.
Still, he types, Told you not to do that
Shh, just come
Annoyed, he starts painstakingly typing about a message about why he can’t come, mostly having to do with the longest bone in his body, that Stiles saw break. He’s in the middle of not at your beck and call when his sticky front door opens. Someone scuffs over the mat on the floor, returning the spare key to its place.
“Isaac?” Derek calls.
“Nope,” Stiles responds. “Me.”
“Hmph.” Derek drops his phone on the couch beside him, ignoring the choice between beck and beckoning on his screen. Stiles saunters into view, hands in his pockets.
“You healed yet?”
Derek stretches his leg out, frowning. It’s still dully, deeply sore, but the jagged pain has dissipated. “It’s on its way.”
Stiles comes over, flopping down next to Derek. Derek winces when Stiles jostles him, and grunts when Stiles digs his fingers into his thigh.
“Quit it,” he barks, pushing Stiles’ hand away.
“I was just seeing,” Stiles protests.
Derek flicks his wandering fingers. “You see with your eyes, not your hands.”
“It works that way for you,” Stiles says. “But maybe I do see with my hands.”
To prove it, he gets up on his knees, puts his palms flat on Derek’s chest. He closes his eyes and opens his mouth, going, “Ohhhh.”
Derek rolls his eyes, but doesn’t bat Stiles away this time. His hands are warm through Derek’s shirt and smell like the leather of the Jeep’s steering wheel mixed up with ocean-salt of sweat, lightly worried.
Stiles lightly feels his chest, his shoulders, finally cupping his neck. He hums again shortly, then opens his eyes, blinking owlishly, like he’s been gone for a long time.
“Hmm,” he says, tapping his middle fingers on Derek’s neck. “I see.”
“You didn’t see anything,” Derek tells him, annoyed. “Those are your hands.”
Stiles squeezes his neck, just lightly. “I see lots of things with my hands, Hale.” He squeezes again, and then drags his hands down Derek’s chest, jumping onto his wrists. He tugs them up, pulling Derek’s hands to his hips, holding them until Derek holds them there himself.
“And let me tell you what,” he says, leaning in close to Derek’s face, easing over Derek’s lap, hovering above his thighs. He cups Derek’s right hand in his left and works on his zipper with his right. He spreads the sides of his zipper one-handed, revealing black boxers and the start of an erection. Derek pulls on his hand, but Stiles holds him, starts drawing his fingers closer.
“You can see with your hands too,” he whispers close to Derek’s mouth, pressing Derek’s fingers against his cock.
“Oh, God,” Derek groans, partly because that’s so stupid and partly because Stiles’ dick twitches under his fingertips.
Stiles guides his hand closer, into the slit in his boxers to touch warm skin.
“See?” he breathes.
Derek grips him, testing him with a stroke. Stiles’ eyes go heavy and pleased.
“Yeah,” Derek says, watching his own hand touching Stiles, “I see.”
*
A week later, Derek really does drop the phone on the concrete. It’s not because of anything dangerous; he’s just at home and he makes the mistake of trying to get his phone out of his tight hip pocket and it slips out of his fingers. He makes a grab for it, but misses and it hits the floor and bounces two times before clattering to a stop. Derek can hear tiny parts breaking and glass cracking the whole time.
He picks it up and does all the swiping and holding his thumb he was taught, but the screen stays resolutely black. A little piece of glass even falls off.
“Fuck,” Derek says sourly, gingerly sliding the phone into his jacket pocket.
*
The cell phone store is too bright, and the salesman is too chipper for Derek. He also asks too many questions.
“I just want the same thing,” Derek insists, holding the phone in his cupped hands.
“But the newest model just came out-“
“The. Same. Thing,” Derek growls. The salesman shrinks back, looking worried under the weight of his gelled hair and black-rimmed glasses.
“Okay, sir,” he says, hands up. “We can definitely do that for you.”
“Good,” Derek says, and lays his broken phone down on the counter carefully. “And…can you…get everything off of it? I have things on there.”
“Contacts?” the salesman asks. “Pictures?”
“Yeah,” Derek says. “That.”
“Sure,” the salesman says, inching the phone closer to himself, mindful of Derek. Somehow he extracts a tiny black piece from the phone, as big as Derek’s pinky nail. “We can just put this in your new phone and it should be fine.”
Derek squints at the piece. It doesn’t look like much. Still, when it’s all said and done and Derek’s walking out of the mall with another expensive phone he doesn’t understand, it’s just like his old phone, all the messages and pictures in place. Derek checks.
*
“Can I see this?” Stiles asks him, already lifting Derek’s phone out of the mess of the sheets.
Derek lifts one shoulder. Both his mouth and his cock are wet from Stiles’ mouth, so his phone is the last thing he cares about.
Stiles swipes over the touchscreen and then raises a judgmental eyebrow at Derek. “No password? Tsk tsk. What about all your important werewolf secrets?”
Derek stretches, rubbing his arm against the freckled thigh nearest to him.
“I don’t have any secrets,” he murmurs. “Not on my phone.”
“No?” Stiles asks, but his attention isn’t fully on Derek now. The way he’s scrolling, how his eyes are moving, Derek would bet Stiles is reading his messages.
Stiles smiles after a minute, impishly happy. “You didn’t delete them.”
“I don’t know how,” Derek grouses. “You never showed me.”
“That sounds like me,” Stiles agrees.
He watches Stiles play a little more, then sit back, sliding Derek’s phone under one of the pillows, where it will be safe. He grabs his own phone off the bedside table and starts tapping away. Then he holds the phone up, bracing it on multiple fingers. He starts checking the angle.
“Hey,” Derek says, when he realizes what’s happening. He sits up enough to dislodge Stiles’ shot, holding Stiles’ wrists, the phone pulled aside.
“Just your dick,” Stiles says. “Come on.”
“No,” Derek says.
“No one will know,” Stiles coaxes. “And, may I remind you, you have pictures of me.”
“That I can’t get rid of,” Derek reminds him. Still, he loosens his hands when Stiles tugs.
“Fair’s fair, Derek,” Stiles says, reaching out to knuckle Derek’s belly gently, before raising his index finger. He swipes that finger across Derek’s belly, from his right hip to his left. Derek’s body follows it, rolling slightly under the touch. Stiles watches, curious. Next, he rubs his finger from the base of Derek’s dick to the tip. Derek’s cock swells a little, thickening against his thigh.
“I’m the only one who’ll see,” Stiles promises, eyes flicking from Derek’s face to his dick. His mouth starts to set stubbornly. His fingers press into the soft skin around Derek’s cock, sending ticklish warmth into Derek’s stomach.
Derek looks up at the ceiling, then at Stiles’ bratty, hopeful face.
“One,” he says.
Stiles grins, then holds his fist up to his mouth to cover it. He raises his phone again, framing it with his fingers again.
“I’ll even show you it,” he swears gleefully.
He seems to know what he wants, so it doesn’t take long before Stiles is going as still as Derek’s ever seen him, his tongue-tip poking out of the corner of his mouth. He looks at Derek’s face one last time before the obnoxiously fake shutter-click sounds.
Stiles looks at his work, appraising it, tilting the phone this way and that before nodding at it.
“Here,” he says, handing his phone over.
Derek looks at the screen. On it is a picture of a flat, muscular belly and hairy thighs framing a half-hard cock, leaning to the left. The sheets under the left hip are white. Nothing about it is special.
“Nice, right?” Stiles asks proudly when Derek hands the phone back.
“It’s a dick,” Derek says, laying back. If someone saw it, one of Stiles’ friends that knows Derek, they might guess it’s him, but there’s no way to prove it.
“A nice dick,” Stiles corrects, still looking at the photo. He spreads two fingers in a wide vee, then brings them together again. He holds the phone up again, hidden camera pointed at Derek.
Derek puts a hand on his knee. “No more, Stiles.”
Stiles snuffles, annoyed, but lowers the phone slowly.
“No one will know,” Derek repeats, knuckling Stiles’ knee, less gentle. “No more phone. Let’s just fuck, okay?”
Stiles presses something once on the phone, then again, before turning his phone to face Derek. The background is some logo, indistinct. In the foreground is a selection of numbers and four empty boxes. A lockscreen. Stiles clicks the button yet again and the screen goes black.
“I have lots of secrets,” he tells Derek, dropping the phone off the bed, kicking the sheets down. His long, thin fingers drag confidently across Derek’s stomach again, and again, until Derek lays back, giving Stiles free rein to explore.
Author: nightanddaze
Rating: R
Pairing: Stiles Stilinski/Derek Hale
Word Count: 2094
Summary: Derek's not up-to-date with phones.
The first time Stiles sends him a picture of his dick, Derek is mortified. Although, at first he can’t get to it. He fumbles around with the phone Erica and Stiles picked out for him, swiping his thumb across the screen, plucking at the applications, trying to find the thing that made his phone buzz.
He gets it wrong three times. The fourth time brings up a little bubble under the heading Stiles, holding a tiny picture. It’s pink and black, indistinct. Derek pokes at it and it blows up. It’s a dick, hard, flushed in the light from a bedside lamp.
It’s Stiles’ dick. If Derek didn’t recognize it on its own then he’d definitely recognize Stiles’ long, thin fingers supporting it, his thumb resting lightly on it. He’s seen Stiles do that in person, showing off, trying to be sexy.
Derek stares at it, his face warm, stomach squirming, until another bubble pops up.
like it?
He jerks when the phone vibrates, almost drops the damn thing on the concrete. He tries to type a message but there are no keys, just the screen. Derek hates it, can’t do anything fast enough. Clicking on Stiles’ name gets him the option to call.
“No,” he says when Stiles picks up the phone, flustered.
He can hear the wet noise of Stiles catching the tip of his tongue between his molars. It’s what he does when he’s turned on or thinking of something smart to say.
“’No,’” Stiles guesses, “’I love it’?”
“No,” Derek says slowly. “Don’t.”
Stiles’ reaction is instantaneous. He takes a snorting breath and his teeth click together faintly.
“Why?” he asks, moving the phone from one ear to another.
“Because,” Derek says.
Stiles is silent, but Derek can hear-see his body moving, personifying an indignant What?
Derek takes a calming breath. “I’m asking you not to.”
“Fine,” Stiles says, in a way that means it’s not fine and not the end. “I won’t.”
“Good,” Derek says, the phone screen slick on his cheek.
*
Stiles is annoyed about it the next time Derek sees him, but he still shows Derek his dick in real life, lets Derek touch and suck him, and doesn’t complain about it.
*
The second time Stiles sends him a racy picture, the top left corner of Derek’s screen has a little crack in it. It’s from Derek being thrown into a tree, but the crack on the phone isn’t much compared to the crack in Derek’s femur. It’s healing, but slowly, and it still hurts like a bitch.
His phone vibrates against his bad leg, sending little painful shocks down to the bone that wake Derek up. He scrapes at the phone until the little bubble appears.
Stiles
you alright?
He’s no wizard but he’s getting better at the touch keyboard, so he types Yes. Autocorrect helps.
The response is instantaneous: Good. this is good too, and a little pink picture.
Derek blows out a rough breath, but opens it anyway. Stiles’ erect cock, the long plain of his belly, and half his face awkwardly looking down at the camera fill the screen. Derek doesn’t close it right away, the pain in his leg warring with the arousal in his guts.
Still, he types, Told you not to do that
Shh, just come
Annoyed, he starts painstakingly typing about a message about why he can’t come, mostly having to do with the longest bone in his body, that Stiles saw break. He’s in the middle of not at your beck and call when his sticky front door opens. Someone scuffs over the mat on the floor, returning the spare key to its place.
“Isaac?” Derek calls.
“Nope,” Stiles responds. “Me.”
“Hmph.” Derek drops his phone on the couch beside him, ignoring the choice between beck and beckoning on his screen. Stiles saunters into view, hands in his pockets.
“You healed yet?”
Derek stretches his leg out, frowning. It’s still dully, deeply sore, but the jagged pain has dissipated. “It’s on its way.”
Stiles comes over, flopping down next to Derek. Derek winces when Stiles jostles him, and grunts when Stiles digs his fingers into his thigh.
“Quit it,” he barks, pushing Stiles’ hand away.
“I was just seeing,” Stiles protests.
Derek flicks his wandering fingers. “You see with your eyes, not your hands.”
“It works that way for you,” Stiles says. “But maybe I do see with my hands.”
To prove it, he gets up on his knees, puts his palms flat on Derek’s chest. He closes his eyes and opens his mouth, going, “Ohhhh.”
Derek rolls his eyes, but doesn’t bat Stiles away this time. His hands are warm through Derek’s shirt and smell like the leather of the Jeep’s steering wheel mixed up with ocean-salt of sweat, lightly worried.
Stiles lightly feels his chest, his shoulders, finally cupping his neck. He hums again shortly, then opens his eyes, blinking owlishly, like he’s been gone for a long time.
“Hmm,” he says, tapping his middle fingers on Derek’s neck. “I see.”
“You didn’t see anything,” Derek tells him, annoyed. “Those are your hands.”
Stiles squeezes his neck, just lightly. “I see lots of things with my hands, Hale.” He squeezes again, and then drags his hands down Derek’s chest, jumping onto his wrists. He tugs them up, pulling Derek’s hands to his hips, holding them until Derek holds them there himself.
“And let me tell you what,” he says, leaning in close to Derek’s face, easing over Derek’s lap, hovering above his thighs. He cups Derek’s right hand in his left and works on his zipper with his right. He spreads the sides of his zipper one-handed, revealing black boxers and the start of an erection. Derek pulls on his hand, but Stiles holds him, starts drawing his fingers closer.
“You can see with your hands too,” he whispers close to Derek’s mouth, pressing Derek’s fingers against his cock.
“Oh, God,” Derek groans, partly because that’s so stupid and partly because Stiles’ dick twitches under his fingertips.
Stiles guides his hand closer, into the slit in his boxers to touch warm skin.
“See?” he breathes.
Derek grips him, testing him with a stroke. Stiles’ eyes go heavy and pleased.
“Yeah,” Derek says, watching his own hand touching Stiles, “I see.”
*
A week later, Derek really does drop the phone on the concrete. It’s not because of anything dangerous; he’s just at home and he makes the mistake of trying to get his phone out of his tight hip pocket and it slips out of his fingers. He makes a grab for it, but misses and it hits the floor and bounces two times before clattering to a stop. Derek can hear tiny parts breaking and glass cracking the whole time.
He picks it up and does all the swiping and holding his thumb he was taught, but the screen stays resolutely black. A little piece of glass even falls off.
“Fuck,” Derek says sourly, gingerly sliding the phone into his jacket pocket.
*
The cell phone store is too bright, and the salesman is too chipper for Derek. He also asks too many questions.
“I just want the same thing,” Derek insists, holding the phone in his cupped hands.
“But the newest model just came out-“
“The. Same. Thing,” Derek growls. The salesman shrinks back, looking worried under the weight of his gelled hair and black-rimmed glasses.
“Okay, sir,” he says, hands up. “We can definitely do that for you.”
“Good,” Derek says, and lays his broken phone down on the counter carefully. “And…can you…get everything off of it? I have things on there.”
“Contacts?” the salesman asks. “Pictures?”
“Yeah,” Derek says. “That.”
“Sure,” the salesman says, inching the phone closer to himself, mindful of Derek. Somehow he extracts a tiny black piece from the phone, as big as Derek’s pinky nail. “We can just put this in your new phone and it should be fine.”
Derek squints at the piece. It doesn’t look like much. Still, when it’s all said and done and Derek’s walking out of the mall with another expensive phone he doesn’t understand, it’s just like his old phone, all the messages and pictures in place. Derek checks.
*
“Can I see this?” Stiles asks him, already lifting Derek’s phone out of the mess of the sheets.
Derek lifts one shoulder. Both his mouth and his cock are wet from Stiles’ mouth, so his phone is the last thing he cares about.
Stiles swipes over the touchscreen and then raises a judgmental eyebrow at Derek. “No password? Tsk tsk. What about all your important werewolf secrets?”
Derek stretches, rubbing his arm against the freckled thigh nearest to him.
“I don’t have any secrets,” he murmurs. “Not on my phone.”
“No?” Stiles asks, but his attention isn’t fully on Derek now. The way he’s scrolling, how his eyes are moving, Derek would bet Stiles is reading his messages.
Stiles smiles after a minute, impishly happy. “You didn’t delete them.”
“I don’t know how,” Derek grouses. “You never showed me.”
“That sounds like me,” Stiles agrees.
He watches Stiles play a little more, then sit back, sliding Derek’s phone under one of the pillows, where it will be safe. He grabs his own phone off the bedside table and starts tapping away. Then he holds the phone up, bracing it on multiple fingers. He starts checking the angle.
“Hey,” Derek says, when he realizes what’s happening. He sits up enough to dislodge Stiles’ shot, holding Stiles’ wrists, the phone pulled aside.
“Just your dick,” Stiles says. “Come on.”
“No,” Derek says.
“No one will know,” Stiles coaxes. “And, may I remind you, you have pictures of me.”
“That I can’t get rid of,” Derek reminds him. Still, he loosens his hands when Stiles tugs.
“Fair’s fair, Derek,” Stiles says, reaching out to knuckle Derek’s belly gently, before raising his index finger. He swipes that finger across Derek’s belly, from his right hip to his left. Derek’s body follows it, rolling slightly under the touch. Stiles watches, curious. Next, he rubs his finger from the base of Derek’s dick to the tip. Derek’s cock swells a little, thickening against his thigh.
“I’m the only one who’ll see,” Stiles promises, eyes flicking from Derek’s face to his dick. His mouth starts to set stubbornly. His fingers press into the soft skin around Derek’s cock, sending ticklish warmth into Derek’s stomach.
Derek looks up at the ceiling, then at Stiles’ bratty, hopeful face.
“One,” he says.
Stiles grins, then holds his fist up to his mouth to cover it. He raises his phone again, framing it with his fingers again.
“I’ll even show you it,” he swears gleefully.
He seems to know what he wants, so it doesn’t take long before Stiles is going as still as Derek’s ever seen him, his tongue-tip poking out of the corner of his mouth. He looks at Derek’s face one last time before the obnoxiously fake shutter-click sounds.
Stiles looks at his work, appraising it, tilting the phone this way and that before nodding at it.
“Here,” he says, handing his phone over.
Derek looks at the screen. On it is a picture of a flat, muscular belly and hairy thighs framing a half-hard cock, leaning to the left. The sheets under the left hip are white. Nothing about it is special.
“Nice, right?” Stiles asks proudly when Derek hands the phone back.
“It’s a dick,” Derek says, laying back. If someone saw it, one of Stiles’ friends that knows Derek, they might guess it’s him, but there’s no way to prove it.
“A nice dick,” Stiles corrects, still looking at the photo. He spreads two fingers in a wide vee, then brings them together again. He holds the phone up again, hidden camera pointed at Derek.
Derek puts a hand on his knee. “No more, Stiles.”
Stiles snuffles, annoyed, but lowers the phone slowly.
“No one will know,” Derek repeats, knuckling Stiles’ knee, less gentle. “No more phone. Let’s just fuck, okay?”
Stiles presses something once on the phone, then again, before turning his phone to face Derek. The background is some logo, indistinct. In the foreground is a selection of numbers and four empty boxes. A lockscreen. Stiles clicks the button yet again and the screen goes black.
“I have lots of secrets,” he tells Derek, dropping the phone off the bed, kicking the sheets down. His long, thin fingers drag confidently across Derek’s stomach again, and again, until Derek lays back, giving Stiles free rein to explore.