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Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy
Ron Burgundy: Discovered by the Germans in 1904, they named it San Diego, which of course in German means a whale’s vagina.
AU: Stiles finally convinced Derek to have phone sex with him.
“This,” Derek says for the third time, “is stupid.”
“You’re going to keep saying that, I’m going to keep touching my dick, I’ve really got it now.” Stiles sounds…unsettlingly unperturbed. “Go on, complain some more about how this is a terrible plan, I think I could actually go for a spite orgasm.”
“Nobody’s having a spite orgasm, Stiles.”
“Oh my god, you actually don’t know me at all. Seriously, it is sad that you think that. Well, sad for you, anyway; I’m pretty much good.” Stiles’ voice has gone from unsettlingly unperturbed to unsettlingly breathy, which is, while Derek’s on the topic, unsettlingly familiar. “Go on, talk bitchy to me.”
It would be so easy to just follow along and…no, Derek reminds himself, shifting against the couch. This is not their house! This is not his territory! This is a room in a hotel in a whole different state and he is absolutely not going to let his guard down and—
“Oh come on,” Stiles says, “this is horrifying, I can actually hear you brooding over the phone. It’s been two weeks, Derek, okay, if you’re not going to have any fun at least share some fun with the rest of the class—”
“You haven’t masturbated in two weeks?” Derek cocks a disbelieving eyebrow at the ceiling. “That’s…incredibly hard to believe.”
“Of course I’ve masturbated that’s not what I’m talking about would you just stop being weird about the phone sex thing, ” Stiles almost yells. “Seriously! Stick your hand in your pants like a man, Derek, I know you want to.” Derek does want to. But… “And if you give me another speech about like, your pack duties or whatever, I will remind you that you are basically at a werewolf business retreat. A werewolf business retreat you are hiding from in your hotel room. I think they can spare you for a quick, uh, mutual good time.”
“Maybe I just find it embarrassing,” Derek mutters. “In addition to unnecessarily risky.”
“Wait, which part do you find embarrassing?” Stiles sounds almost offended, which, Derek thinks, is pretty rich. “Because I swear to god, man, if you’ve been waiting all this time to tell me you don’t like my, I don’t know, my sex noises or something, I will kill you. That’s so not even fair.”
“No, Stiles, god, the…phone sex thing.” Derek’s nearly whispering even though he’s alone; seriously, definitely embarrassing. “Not your sex noises, what the hell, who says things like that? I just—I mean. I don’t, you know. Know how it would even work. Or anything.”
There is silence on the other end of the line. Derek thinks it’s awkward silence until Stiles says, “Hand in the pants, Derek,” in a warm, laughing voice Derek hasn’t heard in awhile.
“Ugh, fine.” Derek catches the phone between his shoulder and his ear, reaching down to unbutton his jeans. He slides one hand down under the worn elastic of his boxers, wrapping his fingers around his dick—which, yes, if he’s going to be honest, has been hard since Stiles started trying to get him geared up for this twenty minutes ago. “Done. Are you happy now?”
“Not as happy as I’m about to be,” Stiles says. He sounds dangerously cheerful, but the voice that replaces it a second later is darker and lower and hotter, guiding Derek through an increasingly filthy list of demands.
Which…it’s still embarrassing. Of course it’s embarrassing; there’s absolutely nothing dignified or composed or even remotely-alpha like about this sort of behavior, and Derek is, obviously, appalled. It’s just that it’s sort of hard to remember that, isn’t it, when Stiles is walking him through it this way, his breathing coming hotter and harder through the phone as he talks. Derek can almost see him, spread out on their bed and grinning up at the ceiling with his dick in his hand, pulling at himself lazily as he says, “Go on, Derek, one more finger, do it for me.” He always has gotten off on this kind of thing, says it’s because it’s the only time Derek ever listens to him; just now, Derek can’t quite bring himself to argue.
“Dude, you don’t have all day here, come already,” Stiles chokes out after twenty minutes. It’s ragged and riding the hard edge, like he’s waiting on Derek and less than pleased about it, and Derek feels the built-up need in him coil and release, staining the inside of his boxers. He must make a sound, must choke on it a little, because he hears Stiles unravel on the other end of the line; for a while Derek just keeps his eyes closed and listens to that, the staccato rush of his breathing and they way it steadies back out.
“You might have a point,” Derek says eventually. “About phone sex. Might.”
“So it’s the kind of thing that merits further study, then,” Stiles says. Derek can hear the smile. “How’s four o’clock? That work for you?”
“Stiles, it’s 3:30.”
“4:15?” Stiles suggests brightly. “If pressed, I could even be convinced to push to 4:45, but I really think that’s not in the best interest of science.”
Derek hangs up. He’ll call back at five.
