Okay, so there’s a tiny possibility that Derek’s broken his dick. Not, like, literally broken, just figuratively. See, after that whole thing with Derek wrapping up his hands with his own belt — why hello there, bondage kink, so very nice to meet you — Stiles has kind of been a little obsessed. He’s jerked off while wearing it, jerked off while he’s got his hands wrapped up in it, jerked off to the smell of the leather, and jerked off to the mental image of Derek coming all over it while Stiles has his hands wrapped up in it.
Like the ocean is a little wet, the sun is a little warm, and space is a little big, he’s a little obsessed.
Which may be why he’s face down on his bed, leather pressed up against his nose and mouth, hand snaked under the band of his boxers, jerking off again. At this rate, he’s going to get friction sores, and it’s all Derek’s fault. He’s got his mouth on the belt, tasting the salty-bitter edge, imagining that he’s lapping up come. He has his hips up in the air, just enough to give himself access, just enough that he can roll and grind against the mattress.
He feels more than hears the window open, the puff of night air cool on his flushed skin, Derek’s sharp inhale making him jump and jerk and shiver.
“What,” he says, and Stiles can tell from Derek’s voice alone when his eyes start to blaze alpha-red, “are you doing?”
Stiles wonders how he looks to Derek, sucking on the edge of that leather belt, rutting into the bed, stripped out of his layers down to just his boxers. His dick is a little dry, but the dark rumble of Derek growling — sexy growling, not scary growling, though to be honest both get Stiles hot and bothered — has him leaking a bead of precome. Stiles angles his wrist, reaches up to catch the bead before it soaks into his boxers, rubs it into the head of his dick with his thumb.
“What does it look like?” Stiles groans from around the belt.
Where deputy Derek Hale finds Stiles handcuffed to the sheriff’s desk.
Plot bunny alert!
Good Boy
“Oh, what a sight.”
Stiles wrenches around, almost dislocating
his wrist. He winces in pain and in embarrassment, and then tries his best to
look casual. Which isn’t that easy to do when one wrist is handcuffed to his
dad’s desk.
It’s Derek Hale. Of course it is. Only the
hottest deputy ever, and—although Stiles will never admit it—the reason he’s
been hanging around the station so much this summer. Because Derek Hale is just
so fucking hot. There’s hot, and then there’s Derek. Words are inadequate.
Superlatives fall short. He’s just pure fucking perfection. Just ugh. Derek does things to Stiles’s
admittedly scant self-possession and ability to successfully adult when he’s
around, and turns him into even more of a gibbering idiot than usual. He also
does things to Stiles’s dick.
Thank Jebus his pants are reasonably baggy
today.
“Could you remove the cuffs?” Stiles asks,
his face burning.
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