
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/550315.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Derek_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      Stiles_trying_to_tell_Derek_what_to_do, it_doesn't_really_work,
      Masturbation, PWP, Hurt_Stiles, Fingerfucking
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-10-30 Words: 5189
****** Sexual Gratification Coming Right Up, Sir ******
by wednesday_d
Summary
     Stiles has learned two things in his short but decidedly adventurous
     life. One, being a teenager sucks ass if you can't even jerk off.
     Two, being Bruce Wayne is not nearly as cool as it sounds if your
     appointed Alfred refuses to do what you tell him to. Somehow, though,
     he still manages to get off in the end.
Notes
     This was supposed to be a silly little 800-word ficlet that I wanted
     to gift someone. But then, when I wasn't looking, it somehow grew on
     its own and turned into this. It's an obviously pathetic excuse for
     me to write porn.
See the end of the work for more notes
It’s almost funny how this time it isn’t technically Derek’s fault and yet how
easy it is to choose to blame him now. Not exactly fair, but Stiles is pissed,
in pain, frustrated, uncomfortable and drugged and Derek is susceptible to
guilt. Besides, he was still in his Jeep on his way to help Derek so at least
that makes him partially responsible. Stiles is willing to overlook petty
details if no other party will bring them up.
Besides, with the current arrangement he is fulfilling two of his life-long
ambitions, haters and jellies to the left; one, he’s become the goddamn Bruce
Wayne of Beacon Hills, possibly the only teenage American with a butler of his
own. Yes, a butler. He’s picky about terminology. Two (and this is not so much
a ‘life’-long ambition, more like a recently developed obsession that has
swallowed up his brain and spit out the pathetic remains), he gets to tell
Derek what to do.
One week of telling Derek to fetch him this and clean up that and ‘be careful
with the zipper’ and ‘no, no, it needs more salt, Derek, haven’t you ever made
tomato soup before?’ and Stiles is about ready to go out of his mind. In his
initial almost vicious-like excitement to get Derek appointed as his personal
butler he insisted he needed him at all times. Drugged up to his eyeballs and
with allusions to a Bruce Wayne-esque life, it made Stiles forget that above
all, he’s still a seventeen year old boy who hasn’t gone so much as a couple of
days without some quality self-love time. And now, with his left wrist in a
cast covered in Scott’s chicken-scrawl and Allison’s smiley faces, ten stitches
under a couple of tons of gauze on his right palm and a werewolf hovering over
him as per Stiles’ own request, this very teenage body has chosen to defy all
laws of physics and manage to retain a perpetual erection for the past three
days.
He can’t jerk off. He can’t even properly rub against his mattress. He can’t do
anything but sit there, frustrated, orgasm-deprived and think about how much he
hates super-duper werewolf senses. Because it’s not like he can suddenly tell
Derek to go away. No one else has enough free time to help him and he’s
refusing to ask his Dad to take a leave just because there’s no way Derek’s
nose isn’t constantly filled with Stiles’ scent of arousal.
And then there are these kinds of thoughts; thoughts involving Derek and
arousal in the same sentence. Thinking of how Derek is helping him with mostly
everything nowadays, surely he could spare a helping hand in other ways, too.
Stiles soon discovers that this is a slippery slope, a vicious never ending
cycle fuelling his arousal; thinking of Derek’s hands on him, thinking of how
he should stop because he’s getting himself worked up and there’s nothing he
can do, except maybe there’s something Derek could do- it just goes on and on
like this.
It seems it will never end and coming in his sleep against the mattress a
couple of times like he’s freaking thirteen years old all over again does
nothing but make him aware of how fragile certain blood vessels near his
temples are and how he thinks he will never manage to get rid of the goddamn
blush that has been grazing his cheeks.
And then one afternoon, while sitting and pretending he can focus on his
chemistry textbook on his desk, it all comes to a head when out of nowhere a
hand comes around his waist and cups his dick and Stiles has barely enough
brain matter left to think ‘wha- who-?’ before he’s coming so hard it’s almost
like a religious experience. Derek – because who else could it be? Big hand,
strong and sure and annoyingly overconfident as if he already knew exactly the
way Stiles likes stroking and handling his own junk – works him through it,
soundlessly, with the same determination he applies to everything else and
Stiles is starting to get dizzy by the time he finally comes back to himself
and feels a steady, soft breath against his left ear.
“I swear to God,” comes Derek’s voice, low and controlled, “there are cats in
heat down the street that smell less than you. Stop getting worked up.”
Whatever his reaction to his first handjob – no matter the over-the-clothes
thing, it still totally counts – Stiles might have thought would’ve been, it
sure as hell isn’t to burst out laughing. “Dude,” he exhales, “I’m seventeen,
that’s like asking the sun to set in the east.” And then, because there hasn’t
ever been a moment Stiles couldn’t at least try to ruin, he adds, “I sure as
hell hope Alfred wasn’t that kind of butler, though.”
Derek withdraws his hand (Stiles refusing to analyze why it lingered so long on
his crotch) and cuffs the back of Stiles’ head. “I am not your fucking butler.
And your voice is not nearly as deep for you to pull that Bruce crap off.”
Stiles is promptly left alone in his room, Derek going silently back to
whatever he had been doing prior to their happy little encounter – probably
scowling at random, unsuspecting furniture – and he contemplates the merits of
hara-kiri when he feels his spent dick twitch and harden at the realization
that Derek not only caught the Batman reference, he even responded to it.
--
Stiles is not an idiot. One handjob doesn’t suddenly mean ‘I am here for the
sole purpose of your sexual gratification, let’s ride off into the sunset
holding each other’s dicks’. No, Stiles knows Derek did what he did in order to
get rid of the stench of wild, underage and probably unwelcome pheromones. But
try convincing Stiles’ dick of this when it will do nothing but stand in
attention whenever Derek so much as passes Stiles’ mind.
Which okay, admittedly it’s not worse than before. But Derek has taken to
glaring at him constantly, as if Stiles’ hopeless boner is a personal affront
to him. In all honesty, Stiles thought they were past this practiced little
dance; Derek glaring and brooding and Stiles pushing his luck with the
stubbornness of the truly gifted.
The light at the end of the tunnel can be seen however, as it is only four days
before Stiles’ designated appointment with the doctor (and apparently his
savior) that will take out the stitches. Four days. He can totally do it. And
if Derek’s mood sours any more then he can very well suck it up and wait it out
because seriously, who is the one in pain and need here? Stiles is, thank-you-
very-much.
Only things never work like Stiles wants them to and Friday evening there’s a
huge accident just outside Beacon Hills an his Dad, the traitor, calls Derek
without checking in with Stiles first. You’d expect more from the so-called
Sheriff of Beacon Hills than to abandon his only son at the hands of an ex-
murder suspect. No matter the Intervention organized by Stiles himself in order
for his Dad to stop fingering his handcuffs every time he caught sight of Derek
in the vicinity of Stiles and to actually give him a second chance.
The point is, Scott could’ve come to babysit him. Hell, he could’ve brought
Allison with him if that’s what it would have taken to avoid Derek glaring at
him with knowing, dark eyes when it wasn’t even Stiles’ fault. If Derek wasn’t
around with his broad shoulders and chiseled jaw and unfairly defined abs and
all his general Derek-ness, Stiles wouldn’t have to get hard and inconvenience
His Majesty (note the heavy sarcasm here, because far as Stiles is concerned,
Derek still is his butler). It is Derek, though, that shows up ten minutes
after his Dad leaves and they’re stuck with each other till morning.
Stiles gets up from the couch where he’s been sitting as far away as possible
from Derek trying to avoid any and all contact and wanders around the room,
randomly rearranging some stuff with the tips of his fingers, straightening
pictures and the papers on his dad’s desk. He taps his foot several times in a
rhythm stuck in his head while looking for other distractions, but finds none.
He sits back down for ten minutes, tries to watch the program on tv, but then
gets up again and this time he doesn’t miss Derek’s sigh of annoyance. He goes
straight to the fridge and shoulders it open (a maneuver he perfected a couple
of days ago) and hides his face there.
“We’re out of milk,” he announces gleefully and leans back to watch as Derek
turns his head and raises his eyebrows. “You should go to the store, buy some.”
If subtlety was a planet, Stiles would be living in a whole different universe.
“You’re kidding,” Derek states, his faith in Stiles’ humor almost adorable.
“I never kid about milk.” The ‘no’ spit out in his direction doesn’t even take
Stiles by surprise. He’s really starting to lose patience and there’s only so
much fidgeting he can do to keep himself from humping the couch, or god-forbid,
Derek’s strong, muscular thigh. Damn.
He turns towards the sink and thinks of opening the tub and sticking his head
under it in a last effort to distract and calm himself, but he hasn’t gone so
far as stretching out his hand before he’s pinned against the counter, the edge
of it digging hard into his skinny hips, hipbones looking forward to a nice
bruising by morning.
“Say I go to the store,” Derek says from behind him, hands coming up to hold
Stiles’ waist, “what exactly do you plan to do? Hump your mattress? The couch?
Huh?” It is followed by a firm squeeze of his waist and Stiles has to
concentrate in order to keep his body still.
“I got needs, man, not like I can do anything else,” he manages to breathe and
oh, boy, was it the wrong (right?) thing to say. Derek growls at him and Stiles
flinches, but then he feels Derek’s stubbled cheek next to his when he leans in
to whisper, “all you had to do was fucking ask.”
Stiles is not sure when exactly this evening took a left turn towards Bizarro
Land, but he’s willing to go with it when he’s tugged backwards as Derek’s
right hand drops to his fly.
“Oh fuck, oh my God, are you- you’re not- holy Hell, I-” Stiles mouth is
covered by Derek’s free hand and he can’t be anything but thankful for it
because he was about to embarrass himself by saying something ridiculous like
‘I love you’. As it is, he stays mostly silent, low moans and surprised gasps
forced out against Derek’s palm, his head thrown back to rest on a shoulder
that shouldn’t be as comfortable as it is while Derek tugs his boxers down and
grabs Stiles’ dick without so much as a second’s hesitation.
For reasons unknown to the universe, but which Stiles will be eternally be
grateful for, he doesn’t come on the spot. He shuts his eyes and lets Derek’s
hand stroke him steadily, moves practiced and precise and wishes he could
prolong this moment until it stretches eternally.
Stiles’ hands are limp on his sides, but his hips are starting to roll and
Derek seems to adjust instantly, his fist tightening, a thumb sweeping over
Stiles’ slit and smearing the precome that’s been leaking there since the
moment Derek rang the doorbell over his cock, the slide down wetter, rhythm
getting faster and if Stiles had more presence of mind, he would marvel at the
way Derek’s hips seem to follow his own with every other thrust. It seems like
it lasts hours, but Stiles realistically knows it can’t have been more than a
couple of minutes before he’s trying to warn Derek, muffled noises behind the
hand keeping his mouth shut getting more and more frantic.
When he comes, his whole body arches, lifting on his tiptoes, hips thrusting
forward hard and a broken moan leaving his lips as Derek drags his hand, moist
and slick by Stiles warm breath, away, fingertips rubbing against Stiles’ wet
lips.
It’s not nearly as awkward as Stiles would’ve thought it could be. He’s still
trying to catch his breath and Derek is letting him lean against his chest
until he’s sure his own two legs won’t fail him if he tries to walk. His
fingers are trembling when he tries to tuck himself back in and his left hand
has gone numb from where he curled the tips of his fingers over the edge of the
cast. Derek silently pushes his hands away and takes over the task himself.
Once Stiles is somewhat decent, especially given the circumstances (and he
totally avoids looking at his t-shirt that’s bound to have streaks of come
decorating it), he takes a step away from Derek and turns only to accept a
glass of water he balances awkwardly against his chest and his night pill.
Derek watches him down it and gulp down the water and when the god-forsaken,
stupid blush is threatening to make a re-appearance, Stiles, despite it only
being 10 pm, announces it’s time for bed.
Derek doesn’t say anything (and seriously, does he know that his voice could
legit disappear from lack of use? Growls don’t even count), just raises one
eyebrow, hip resting against the table and watches him walk away.
Stiles refuses to see it as hiding or running away. He just wants to avoid a
conversation he knows doesn’t need to happen. That’s all. Seriously.
He falls asleep roughly half an hour later with his lips bitten raw over
worrying about things that don’t matter, or at least shouldn’t, and wakes up
two hours later with a muffled scream when he turns over in his sleep and
crushes his left hand underneath him.
“Motherfucker! Fuck, shit.” He can do nothing but cradle it against his chest
and wait for the pain to pass. Not surprisingly, two seconds later his door
bangs against the wall as Derek storms inside like the force of nature he is
when in Alpha mode.
“Stiles?” he asks frantic, hair mussed and soft from sleep.
“It’s nothing, just rolled over my hand,” Stiles assures him. Derek seems to
deflate and after the obligatory scowl and reprimand for scaring him (well,
excuse Stiles for being in pain and bothering him. Rude), he walks over to
Stiles’ bed and sits down.
Stiles tries to remind his dick that his left hand is still in pain. It doesn’t
seem to make any difference, especially since Derek decides to inspect it
himself by sniffing it like the weirdo he is.
“Seems, okay,” he says, “do you need any painkillers?”
“Uh, no, no, I’m good,” Stiles says averting his eyes and focusing on the far
wall trying to play it as nonchalantly as possible. God, he’s so hard again
that it’s getting ridiculous.
It doesn’t help at all because all Derek has to do really is sniff the air.
“Seriously?” he asks exasperatedly. Stiles bites his tongue and tries to think
of all the awesome ways he could disappear right the fuck now if he were
anything but a mere human muggle.
“Alright then,” Derek makes a move to get up, but there’s something in his
voice, something Stiles is not sure he can identify, “I’m going back to sleep.”
But before he can actually stand, a noise escapes Stiles’ lips despite his best
efforts to keep it locked back inside and Derek turns curious, glinting eyes on
him. “Yes, Stiles?”
And fuck him, the bastard, he knows exactly what he’s doing and Stiles is not
strong enough, not nearly strong enough to- “Please.” It’s not what he was
thinking, not even what he wanted to say, but it comes out earnest and
embarrassingly desperate and Stiles can’t take it back. “Don’t go,” he says and
he’s insanely proud of the fact that his voice doesn’t crack.
When Derek cups him through his pajamas this time, it’s completely expected,
but no less overwhelming. A whimper makes it past his parted lips and Stiles
can’t bring himself to care.
“Lie back,” Derek says and Stiles complies wondering briefly which of the two
will be more disastrous for his brain; keeping his eyes open and burning with
the image of Derek getting comfortable on the bed next to him, or closing them
and missing the chance to know what they both look like this.
Derek drags his hands up Stiles’ thighs and lets his fingers hook on the
waistband of his pants and slowly, so damnably slowly that Stiles wants to kick
him, he pulls them down along with his boxers but lets go before they are even
past his knees. It doesn’t give much room for Stiles to move around but he
doesn’t think he cares enough because as soon as his erection hits his stomach,
Derek’s hands are there.
It’s soft touches at first, not tentative or hesitant, just slow and
deliberate; one hand loosely wrapped around Stiles’ cock and the other
caressing his upper thigh, deft, soft fingers rubbing at where his hipbones are
sore and probably edging towards bruised. He follows a light path up to Stiles’
belly and bland nails scratch over the happy trail leading down from his navel
and it takes every last bit of self control for Stiles to keep his breathing
steady and his body still.
Derek makes an absentminded humming noise in the back of his throat and Stiles
realizes that he’s enjoying this, too, and if Stiles lets him, he’ll take his
time and it will be morning before Stiles gets to come. “You’re an asshole,” he
says breathlessly.
“You should talk better to the guy who’s currently handling your dick,” is
Derek’s response, but his hand finally starts to move, dragging up and down
Stiles’ erection. It’s hardly what he needs right now, but it’s better than
lying still with no friction whatsoever.
He’s starting to get hot, the need and desperation from before coming back to
him with every soft, leisurely stroke of Derek’s fist and he’s starting to
sweat, feeling it on his forehead and under his arms, warm pressure like his
blood is trying to make his veins and arteries burst. Tiny noises he can’t hide
reach Derek’s ears and the jerk has the audacity to smirk at him obviously able
to sniff and hear every single reaction Stiles’ body has.
Stiles likes talking, he’s good at it, but there are times when actions speak
better and louder, so in retaliation (although admittedly it’s not a plan
thoroughly thought through) he spreads his legs as far as they will go and
rolls his hips upwards. He’s rewarded by the tightening of Derek’s fingers and
the catch of his breath that is even audible to Stiles’ ears.
“Better,” Stiles bites, as if he’s rewarding Derek and he doesn’t miss the
narrowing of suddenly red eyes, but he doesn’t have time to react as Derek’s
other hand abandons where he’s stroking Stiles’ stomach and instead grabs his
balls and squeezes.
Stiles squeaks. There’s no denying the sound as there’s no denying the way his
cock jumps in Derek’s hand. A violent shiver runs down his spine that’s not
solely due to the sensitive of his balls; it’s rather the thought of Derek and
being manhandled by him that causes Stiles’ eyes to roll back and his lips to
part and abandon any pretenses of control.
“Better,” Derek mimics, but the mockery is lost in his low voice, filled with
want and lust and approval.
“Derek,” Stiles says and he sounds exactly as needy as he feels, but he doesn’t
care anymore about anything other than getting off and- it’s not enough. He has
a routine, there are things that get him off hard and he misses them and he
needs them and no one but Derek can take care of him right now. “Derek, please,
take them off,” he says trying to kick his pants away and, miracle of miracles,
Derek obeys instantly and without any comments.
It feels like such a relief when his pajamas are off and he can spread his
legs, make more room for Derek’s hand that goes instantly back to cupping his
sac and tugging gently even before he’s back to fisting Stiles’ dick.
Stiles presses his head back on the pillow and arches against the bed, getting
more comfortable because he’s missed this and he freaking deserves every single
second of it; he’s a teenage boy and he wasn’t kidding when he told Derek he
actually needs this.
It’s hard but he tries not to repeat Derek’s name every couple of seconds or
every time his thumb rubs right under Stiles’ crown at the most sensitive spot
and then gathering precome to coat the shaft, make the slide down slick and
easy.
His fidgeting is getting worse and he’s close, but not close enough and he
wants more and he’s not sure he knows how to ask, he’s not sure he even can,
not when Derek is already seeing so much of him (and God, the way Derek is
watching him, set expression on his face but eyes red and hungry and intent, it
makes Stiles breathless every time he dares to look at him).
“What?” Derek asks and his left hand comes up to rub at Stiles’ stomach where a
few drops of precome have dropped, smearing them around. “What do you need?”
the raw quality to his voice breaks Stiles and he brings one hand up, clumsily
taking hold of Derek with the tips of his fingers as he lifts his leg, foot
planted on the mattress and wordlessly guides Derek’s hand as low as it will
go.
A beat, Derek’s right hand pausing on his dick as a soft groan makes its way
out of his mouth and then Derek’s fingers are where Stiles needs them, rubbing
against the tight pucker of his ass, sweet, perfect pressure and dry skin
against dry skin not even taking away from the pleasure.
“Lube?” Derek asks and he sounds almost as frantic as Stiles feels. He vaguely
motions at the shelf above his head and Derek is leaning over him, searching
behind books and papers as Stiles watches the play of muscle under the t-shirt
Derek is wearing. It’s so unfair that he can’t use his hands to push it up,
press his palms against the hot skin there and drag his nails over his nipples
and those perfectly defined abs. He hopes Derek doesn’t try to kill him when
his hands are healed and he pushes him down just to grope him properly. This is
now Stiles’ new life-goal.
Derek settles back on the bed with a minimum of fuss and Stiles would be self-
conscious at the very least of how his legs open wide in order to accommodate
Derek if he weren’t going out of his mind with arousal. He’s still wearing a t-
shirt and he needs it off, he needs to take a deep breath for a moment and he
needs a hand back on his cock that it’s starting to ache.
It doesn’t seem that Derek shares any of Stiles’ sentiments, though, as he
makes a point of opening the lube slowly, coating his fingers and taking his
freaking time in warming them as best as he can. It makes something build in
Stiles’ chest, this heavy feeling, not very dissimilar to anxiety and his
eyelids are drooping and he’s ready, he’s so ready he pushes with his feet
until his ass in the air, thighs a literal open invitation that Derek shouldn’t
be able to resist.
“Fuck, yeah,” it comes out of Stiles like a prayer, like a curse and his whole
body goes taut at the first touch of slick fingers circling his rim. “Come on,”
he begs and Derek seems to be far away, gaze locked on the dark space between
Stiles’ thighs, movements almost indulgent and curious as if he’s trying to
memorize everything by touch. He doesn’t go in, not immediately, he just lets
his fingertips apply pressure like a sweet promise, just barely parting the
tight ring of muscle before going back to rub along his perineum.
The first finger, when it breeches him, almost brings a sob out of Stiles and
Derek finally closes his fist around his dick again and the sensation assault
has his mind reeling.
He loves this part, a single finger sliding in and out of him with no hurry,
just stretching and filling him, but not nearly deep enough to reach his
prostate. His hips are starting to get the rhythm Derek has set and he takes a
moment to wonder at the fact that he’s so comfortable with  making such an
obscene picture right now, opening him self wantonly for Derek who’s still
clothed and collected, but so very obviously hard.
The finger is gone for a moment and Stiles clenches at the feeling of emptiness
before it’s back with another one, both rubbing over his rim as if trying to
get him to relax which is the most ridiculous thing; if Stiles relaxed any more
for this, he would probably turn into jello.
“’M ready, come on, Derek,” he breathes and for the first time Derek’s eyes
leave the place where his hands are playing so expertly with Stiles and meet
his own.
The slide of two fingers inside him is tighter, wetter and slower than before
but so much more intense too, if only for the way Derek is watching him, as if
he’s acknowledging how much Stiles loves this, how much it turns him on and how
close he already is to shooting. It feels like there’s an intimacy that was
lacking from all their previous happy times.
“Harder,” Stiles doesn’t mean to say but it looks like Derek approves because
he picks up his pace, fucking Stiles with short, sharp snaps of his hand and
while Stiles has been fingering himself for quite some time, it has never felt
like this, the angle so much better, the movements more controlled, more
precise that his body feels like it’s riding on the wildest of waves.
Derek’s breaths are coming as fast as his own and Stiles is pretty sure that
Derek is trying to drive him mad, fingers just barely grazing his prostate and
Stiles knows it’s deliberate; it has this asshole, wanna-do-it-my-way quality
Derek manages to add to every single thing he does. Well, screw him, because
he’s supposed to be following Stiles’ orders, as any good butler should, and
Stiles is so ready to come, so close and so desperate for it he will do
anything.
In this case, anything means bracing himself on his shoulders, body forming a
perfect arc over the bed and lifting his ass enough to fuck down on Derek’s
fingers and- “Yes, fuck, there!” it’s a shout and a moan and everything in
between as he comes over his stomach, his t-shirt and Derek’s hand. His ass
clenches tight around Derek’s fingers that don’t stop moving despite Stiles’
sneaky attack and it’s getting almost too much, his cock valiantly trying to
spurt every last drop it can.
He collapses back on the bed, eyes shut tight and breath catching in his throat
with every other mouthful of oxygen he tries to get to his lungs. His last few
braincells seem to have migrated south and shot out of his dick because there’s
nothing that exists for him outside the bright, hot sensation of satisfaction
and tiredness.
That is, of course, until Derek’s tongue drags a path from his navel to his
left nipple and just like that Stiles is alert again, eyes open wide and mouth
even wider. They stare at each other for a moment before Stiles drops his gaze
to Derek’s crotch and gives a struggled moan when Derek’s cups himself and
asks, “can I?”
Stiles has absolutely no idea what that is supposed to mean, but he wouldn’t
have said no if his life depended on it. What Derek meant apparently, was if he
could take his dick out and jerk off over Stiles. When he starts stroking his
cock barely an inch away from where Stiles’ spent dick is lying on his belly,
Stiles thinks that this is a whole world of yes.
A million possibilities run through Stiles’ mind, suggestions and ideas that
include the words ‘fuck’ and ‘me’ and ‘now’, but he gets none of them out.
Derek has been so worked up obviously that he comes after half a dozen strokes
and he angles his cock just over Stiles’ stomach and paints him with white
stripes of come. It’s quite possibly the hottest thing Stiles has ever
experienced.
Derek collapses next to him, trapping one of Stiles’ legs underneath his heavy
body, but it’s the most comfortable Stiles has been in ages. They don’t talk
and the silence that envelopes them is comfortable enough that even Stiles
takes a while before he disrupts it.
But disrupt it eventually he definitely does.
“Sleep. It’s something we should do,” he says nudging Derek’s chest. “But after
we clean up! I am so gross, all thanks to you, no less. Towels are in the
bathroom.” It’s not an order so much as a suggestion, but he’s feeling so
boneless right now that Derek would have to carry him out of the house if there
was a fire.
“I know where the towels are. Last I checked, it’s your hands that are
incapacitated, not your legs.” And it seems that not even sex can turn Derek
into a decent human, color Stiles surprised.
“But-”
“I swear to God, if you say that I’m your butler, I will-”
“Rip my throat out. Yes, I know. You really need to find new threats, Derek,”
Stiles huffs and folds his hands over his chest trying not to pout.
“Actually,” Derek says with a smirk as he moves so he's lying on his side,
facing Stiles and looking way too smug to make Stiles feel at ease, “I was
going to say that I would never touch your dick again.”
Oh no, he didn’t. Stiles lets out something that could pass for a growl in
another lifetime where he was born as a cool creature of the night, and rolls
over, pushes Derek and climbs on top of him and starts rubbing their stomachs
together.
“If I have to lie in a gross puddle of jizz, then so are you, mister,” he says.
Five seconds later and as Derek wraps his hands around his waist to grab his
ass and thrust up against him, he realizes that he should start thinking these
things through at some point. But it doesn’t really matter because round two of
sex sounds so much better than making Derek clean him up.
--
The End
End Notes
     If you notice any horrible mistakes, please point them out. I tried
     to go through it a few times, but it was written in a hurry and
     English isn't my mother tongue :D
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
