Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of this work of fiction. No profit, monetary or otherwise, is being made through the writing, and online publication of this.
A/N: Written solely to please my muse. This is what email conversations can lead to.
The Banana Poem
Let me peel your banana;
I'll let you peel mine.
Can you peel me,
Like I peel you?
Skinless, sink your teeth right in -
Feel the shiver?
C'mon, make me quiver.
Peel me,
And, baby, I'll peel you.
(original work; inspired by the following story)
Derek's eyebrows encroach upon his hairline and he holds the boxers up by his fingertips, as though it pains him to even touch them, and he shakes his head, no.
"Stiles, I am not going to wear these," Derek says.
His lips are in a decisive line, and Stiles' lower lip quivers in a very impressive pout.
"Ever," Derek adds for emphasis, and crosses his arms over his chest, inadvertently stretching the monkey-banana patterned material of the boxers across his abdomen in the process.
Stiles blinks and he makes this little sound that sounds like it's coming from the back of his throat that makes Derek's mouth go dry. Stiles' eyes latch upon the monkey/banana adorning the crotch area of the boxers that Derek's holding up, and he licks his lips.
Derek takes a step backward. He watches Stiles warily as the boy stalks toward him.
"Put them on?" Stiles' voice is a hungry whisper, and Derek tries to swallow, but his throat has kind of dried up.
His mouth opens and closes soundlessly when Stiles places a hand on his arm, sending an electric shock through him (as Stiles' touch always seems to do to him lately). His Alpha brain is protesting, sending up a mantra of, Don't you even think of it, even as his hands hasten to comply with Stiles' wishes.
It's like his body has a mind all its own, and he's helpless to do anything other than obey. Derek's mind is shouting at him to stop, but his hands remove the sweatpants he'd worn to bed the night before, and they pull on the ridiculous boxers that Stiles gifted him for his non-birthday that very morning. They aren't even shaking, the traitorous appendages.
A strangled sound reaches his ears, just as he's tugged the elastic band of the boxers into place on his hips. The boxers are a little snug, but not uncomfortable. Another strangled sound causes him to look up, but, even though his mind registers the movement, it's a split second too late for him to stand his ground as he's tackled by a very horny Stiles.
Derek lands on his back, body bouncing from the impact that he makes with the bed that he'd just vacated mere minutes ago. His breath is knocked out of him with a loud, "Umph," when Stiles lands on top of him, straddling his boxer-clad hips with thighs which are surprisingly strong for how wiry the boy is. Stiles' lips and fingers are raking over his body with a flurry of feverish movements that scream: need, need, need, and Derek has no idea what has hit him, because Stiles has become a wild animal.
Later, when Stiles - teenage hormones and all - is finally spent, his hair a sweaty, matted mess sticking to Derek's chest, Derek eyes the garish boxers where they cling to the lampshade that Stiles flung them on, and he muses on the power that monkeys and bananas have over Stiles. He wonders what would happen if he picked up a Curious George movie, or read one of those kids' books to Stiles before bed.
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