He can’t begin to explain how this has happened. Just five days since Stiles had shuddered to completion alone in a bathroom stall during luch, and his entire life seems to have spiraled into a Fantasy. Because this can’t be real. This can’t actually be real.
...But whatever it is, he sure as hell isn't giving it up.
Phantom hands trail up his sides, teasing across his ribs.
Stiles bites down on a grin and lets his eyes flutter for the barest second, enjoying the sensation.
But he’s in math class again, fuck. What is it about ten in the morning that gets Derek all hot and bothered? Sighing, he slides his eyes closed and imagines his index finger tapping over Derek’s lips.
Five days earlier…
After lunch, Stiles can’t stop thinking about it. How is he expected to stop thinking about it, seriously? Is there a way to make imagining Derek’s hands all over him – and not just his hands, not just his hands at all – a full time job? Or an internship, maybe, because he might not be getting paid but he’s definitely getting some valuable life experience out of these Fantasies.
He tries to keep his mind quiet throughout the rest of the school day, makes a serious effort to stay attentive to the class discussions. But focus has never been his forte, and he’s used to Fantasizing in class now. He’s kind of made an art of it, honestly, getting himself hot enough to keep things interesting, without letting it show.
(Scott's made faces at him more than once, but the other betas seem happy - or desperate - to ignore the desire wafting off him in waves whenever a class discussion gets particularly dull.)
But that was all back when Derek had been more of a theoretical factor than a real one, back when it had been idle daydreams instead of an actual person that’s responding to him, wanting him back. It’s more than he can handle while he’s in a room with 30 other students and a grim looking teacher, and they’re reading The Awakening of all things, which is exactly the opposite of helpful.
And now every time his mind drifts to the roll of Derek’s hips, the hot, wet slide of their mouths, he finds his body tingling with a thrill of an echoing touch. As though every thought he has about Derek is making Derek think about him right back.
And that sends a whole new kind of thrill through Stiles, because this back and forth, this sending and receiving, is possibly the greatest concept in the history of the Fantasy.
A spark of heat as their hips grind together.
Just that and Stiles pulls himself back from the Fantasy. His tongue flicks over his lips as he waits for-
A pair of hands gripping his thighs, tugging him closer.
And that’s it, just a flash before Derek's Fantasy fades out as well. A slow grin slides over Stiles’ lips.
Better than sexting.
(Not that he’d know from experience, but still.)
Before now they had always taken turns: indulging in one person’s Fantasy to completion, the Object just taking whatever the Dreamer doled out. But now they’re trading back and forth. Now they’re sharing in one Fantasy, driving it forward together. Now…
…Now really isn’t the time.
He drops his head down to the desk with an audible thump, and tries to think of a way to tell Derek yes, god yes, but not right now.
It doesn’t occur to Stiles until he crashes into his (thankfully empty) house and presses a kiss into Derek’s waiting jaw that Derek’s going to figure out pretty damn soon that Stiles is a high school student. The timing of the Fantasies… even if he didn’t have his betas coming home after school around this time every day as a reminder, it hasn’t been that long since Derek had been in school too. He probably remembers the schedule.
And what will Derek do when he realizes? Will he care? Will he start wondering about the high school students he actually knows, piecing it together?
And… shit, the betas are a whole other issue too, aren't they? If they come home to Derek's loft the same time Stiles is finally free...
Stiles leans back against his closed front door, squeezing his eyes shut, and prays that Boyd and Erica actually have social lives or bunnies to chase in the preserve or something because Stiles has been waiting for this all day, pointedly not thinking about anything concerning this or Derek or sex (through three whole classes) and he doesn’t know what kinds of things his starved mind will let loose with if he ends up getting Fantasy cock-blocked by a couple of leather wearing were-teens.
But only a few seconds pass before Derek answers back: Stiles’ mouth still against his jaw, a hand coming up to clutch at Stiles’ nape, massaging into his scalp and coaxing him on.
Stiles savors the flash of sensation and drops his head forward against the tugging grip, kisses sliding across Derek's stubbled jaw…
…the hand on his nape just this edge of controlling, guiding him to a hungry mouth. Stiles pushes himself off the door as Derek’s tongue sweeps into his mouth, the other hand coming to rest on his hip, fingers clenching just slightly in rhythm with the movements of his mouth…
…And Stiles’ hands are sliding up under Derek's shirt (he decides at the last second that they’re still dressed, because he’s not in his room yet and he’ll probably just collapse halfway up the stairs if he feels Derek’s naked body grinding against him), fingers digging into the small of his back.
Derek leans in at the press of Stiles’ fingers, and Stiles will never cease to be impressed by the sensation in these Fantasies because he can feel the heat radiating off Derek’s skin, feels Derek moan into his mouth, the vibration of it against their pressed-close chests…
And Stiles makes it to his room, kicking his door shut, hands fumbling with his jeans as…
…He fumbles with Derek’s jeans…
…the button catching…
…the button sliding smoothly open and his hand ducking inside to palm at Derek’s cock…
…His bare cock, Derek's mind informs him and isn’t Derek the impatient one, not imagining himself any briefs for Stiles to work through. …Unless maybe that’s just normal for him. Maybe he doesn’t wear any in reality.
Stiles whimpers at the thought, sinking against his wall and palming himself hard.
Oh god, a wall. They should absolutely be imagining wall sex right now.
He stumbles backward, dragging Derek with him…
Five days of this, and they’ve developed a finely honed system. Whenever one of them wants to start a shared Fantasy, they’ll prompt with something small – a hand running down an arm or a side – that won’t get their Object in too much trouble if they’re busy or in public. Which is good, because Stiles has already had enough in-class embarrassment for about three lifetimes and he’s not sure what he’d do if he suddenly felt Derek’s mouth on his cock while sitting down to dinner with his dad.
If the Object is busy they could just ignore the prompt, but that gets Stiles’ insecurities going like nothing else – why wouldn’t Derek respond? Is he sick of him? Did Stiles step over some line in the last Fantasy and offend him horribly? - so Stiles eventually came up with a basic method of communication he’s actually pretty proud of. A system of simple taps to explain when the other will be free to engage. After all, preparation, planning, and communication are essential to the success of these sorts of things.
(Whatever ‘this sort of thing’ is.)
It had taken a few days (and a ridiculous amount of stress) to get Derek to understand what the taps meant, though. It was beyond ridiculous that he had the guy's number programmed into his phone and went by his loft twice a week for pack meetings, but had to resort to clumsy touches to communicate an idea when he was playing the role of the Dreamer. There were points when Stiles had just thought about writing Derek a note and mailing it to him, explaining his idea. But then Derek would probably smell Stiles on the envelope and come over and rip Stiles' throat out with his teeth. Or possibly something slightly more creative, but almost definitely just as violent.
So Fantasy communication it was, and it had definitely sucked. But Stiles was the pack’s planner for a reason, and he’d finally worked it out in the end.
Last Saturday night… or Sunday morning.
At promptly midnight, Stiles sets his plan into motion.
He squeezes his eyes shut and pictures himself spread out across Derek’s naked body, rocking into him, kissing him fast and dirty. Not exactly playing by their new rules of a casual start to a Fantasy, but this isn't exactly a casual situation. So Stiles spends a few seconds indulging in the frantic, wild kiss, before pulling back and tapping Derek’s lips once with his finger. Just one time, one tap, and he breaks free from the Fantasy.
And then he spends the next hour distracting himself with too-loud music and the internet, ignoring Derek’s attempts to respond. There are two of them, fast and harsh and reeking of frustration before he seemingly gives up. And then finally, what feels like a dozen hours later instead of one, Stiles’ clock finally clicks past 12:59 and then…
He slides his knee between Derek’s thighs, pressing his shoulders back onto the mattress, scouring his mouth with a hungry tongue. It's so fucking good, feels like the start of something amazing and then… he pulls back groaning, momentarily loathing his own plan as he taps twice at Derek’s gasping lips.
He forces himself to stop, hoping maybe Derek will catch on. One tap the first time, and he'd come back at one o'clock. Two taps now, so that must mean...
Derek doesn't catch on. Stiles paces his room restlessly, takes a long, cold shower as Derek arches into him impatiently, as Derek grabs him by the nape and flips them until Stiles is on his back instead, as Derek growls against his neck, taps a frankly ridiculous number of times against Stiles’ mouth, proving he still has absolutely no clue what Stiles is trying to tell him… and then the Fantasies stop.
Stiles stays in the shower for the better part of the hour, shivering away his erection but not his desire, and wondering vaguely if Derek even has a clock anywhere near his bed. If these attempts are going to generate anything at all besides an incredibly pissed off, confused werewolf.
But Stiles isn’t one to give up on a plan once he’s started, and at 2:00 sharp he’s curled up beside Derek, both of them clothed this time, and pressing tender, apologetic kisses into his neck. Caressing soothing hands through his hair, doing all the work because it seems supremely unfair to imagine Derek responding when he's most likely completely pissed at Stiles.
Maybe the middle of the night hadn’t been the ideal time to try and teach Derek something.
When he drags himself from the Fantasy this time, leaving three slow, caressing taps against Derek’s lips, he doesn’t get any response.
He spends the next hour curled up on his side, waiting for 3:00, scrolling mindlessly through Tumblr and trying to convince himself that he hasn’t completely screwed everything up. He knows a few things about Derek by this point, and not a single one of them points toward patience. He’s straightforward, he gets frustrated quickly, and he doesn’t like mind games.
Stiles might have just accidentally transformed himself from a fun diversion to an annoyance. Or worse.
Derek might hate him. Derek probably hates him.
Taps, what a stupid system. He should have drawn the time on Derek's palm, or actually learned sign language (does Derek know sign language?) or licked the numbers onto his chest, or...
Stiles tries to console himself with the knowledge that Derek doesn’t know it’s Stiles he hates, but it’s cold comfort when all the time he’s been spending with Derek lately has been as his faceless Dreamer.
Maybe it’s just sex, but it feels like more than that. He feels closer to Derek now than maybe he ever has as Stiles, and if he loses this… Fuck, he hadn’t realized he was in so deep. It was just daydreams, just sex. When had he fallen this hard?
He squeezes his eyes shut and focuses on his breathing, and completely misses the clock on the screen ticking to 2:59 and then 3:00 and then—
Derek’s cupping his face with one hand, the other gently smoothing over his bare hip. His breath hits Stiles’ cheek in a way that sends a full-body shudder through him, and then he’s nosing his way across Stiles’ jaw, gentle and searching, like he’s trying to scent Stiles through the Fantasy. He draws back, then presses his lips to Stiles’ gently, tentatively, like he’s not sure of himself. And that tentative touch, so unlike anything he’s seen from Derek as Stiles, leaves him aching to tug the other man close. To wrap him in a reassuring grip, deepen the kiss, just go over to his loft and talk to him for real but he can’t, can’t for so many reasons, most notably because this is Derek’s Fantasy, this is his moment, and Stiles owes him at least that after the crap he’s put him through tonight.
And then the touch of Derek’s hand leaves his skin and his mouth draws back and Stiles whimpers at the loss.
And Derek’s fingers tap deliberately – one, two, three, four – against his lips.
Four times. Four o'clock. Derek gets it.
There aren’t tears of joy in Stiles’ eyes. There are absolutely no profoundly inappropriate Helen Keller references running through his head.
He does throw his hands up above his head, whooping victoriously, tapping three frantic fingers against Derek’s lips because like hell is he going to wait another hour to continue this. It's three o'clock and Derek understands the system. And Derek doesn't hate him. And when he presses Derek against the tile of his shower stall, steam and water running down their skin in rivulets as he rocks their bodies together, pressing elated kisses all over his neck and throat… well, that’s not an inappropriate reference at all. It's just because he’d been deprived of a hot shower earlier.