A/N: Written for the Teen Wolf Kink meme prompt: "...Maybe they're having dinner (...) whatever it is, Stiles sneakily starts jerking Derek off, who isn't in a position to, or doesn't want to stop it. (...) +Derek gets off and returns the favor to Stiles via a blow job. +Derek doesn't get off, and is frustrated and angry as hell about it."
No Betas were harmed in the making of this ficlet.
.
.
Jesus Christ. Is that- OH. OH GOD. Don't touch it, don't touch it, for God's sake don't fucking-
There is obviously no connection between his brain and his hand because Derek scuffs his thumb over the pink frill, flattens it, then lets it bounce back into shape.
He does it again, just because.
And again.
This time, his thumb worms in under the frill. Derek watches carefully as his thumb rubs tiny circles in the snug sandwich between pink lace and warm hip.
Stiles' warm hip.
The same Stiles who is deathly still and inexplicably, suddenly silent right next to him, when he's been babbling almost non-stop for the fifteen minutes they've been here, waiting for the rest of the rabble to arrive. Frankly, it's weird.
Until Derek realises that he's effectively caressing Stiles, while sitting at a table in a diner full of the dinnertime rush. The goalposts of weird shift a little into Oh Shit.
Which would be crazy anyway, but having added the secret ingredients of a) Stiles apparently wearing girly underwear and b) Derek apparently liking it, the whole situation escalates to David Lynchian proportions.
Derek snatches his hand back so fast, he elbows the booth's padded backrest. He looks up into startled Bambi eyes and his stomach clenches, lazy heat spreading in a thick, pulsing layer under his skin.
Suddenly feeling caged in, Derek straightens in the diner booth, clearing his throat to communicate this didn't happen in the best way he knows how- by underlining it with his sternest eyebrows.
He finds himself alarmed when Stiles grins like an imp, and downright uncomfortable when Stiles drops his eyes. Derek can almost feel them, settling like lead weights in his lap.
Uh.
Still looking at Derek's crotch, Stiles' sly grin turns cheesy.
"Hello."
Abruptly, he perks up like a prairie dog, popping his head up over the back of their booth to look around the diner. Before Derek can so much as blink, Stiles has apparently completed his recon, and settles back in the booth, quite a bit closer than before. So much so that the heat of his body is like a lick all along Derek's arm and thigh. A long, hot lick. Derek swallows a chunk of breath like it's a rock.
Then, he very nearly swallows his own tongue when Stiles' hand sneaks in under the tabletop and cups him through his jeans.
"Jesus," he hisses, scooting back into the booth like his ass is trying to dig them both out of the mess. "What are y- God, Stah-aah!"
Clapping his hand over the spider-deft fingers busily besieging his belt buckle, he bares his teeth. "The fuck?"
Calmly, as though he hasn't just been touching Derek's dick, Stiles twines their fingers together and lifts them to his own hip, where a carelessly hitched up shirt just revealed something Derek didn't know he'd always wanted. Stiles is still smiling as he flexes, inviting himself right into Derek's palm. Derek flattens his hand to the frilly pink waistband, the tickle of lace rushing straight up his arm and into his gut, making his insides clench with something scalding and sharp.
"Just hang on, big guy," Stiles says, and Derek does, tightening his fingers in the elasticised lace, wondering if he's suffering from shock.
Stiles' hand snakes back into Derek's lap where he makes short work of the belt and fly, looking around at the folks in the diner like he's a regular guy and not on a mission to make Derek's mind go buh-bye. Overhead, the tiny speakers crackle and pop through the best of Elton John, while below, Stiles' bony fingers relentlessly work their way into Derek's boxers.
Nostrils flaring like a racehorse, Derek flattens to the backrest as Stiles' hand finally, finally closes tightly around his cock. Stiles isn't hiding it, not really, just sitting alongside Derek with his hand down his pants like it's the most natural thing in the world, and Derek has to give him props; he had no idea the annoying little shit was capable of this kind of stupid courage.
He almost says it out loud, but when he opens his mouth, out comes a throaty grunt, squeezed out of him by the nimble, needy fingers down his pants. He can see Stiles smiling out of the corner of his eye and grits his teeth against any more undignified sounds, because damn, Stiles is either at just the right angle, or he's really fucking good at this.
And then, Stiles opens his mouth.
"So you must think I'm blind or something," he says conversationally as Derek's eyes roll back, the hot clench of Stiles' hand robbing him of speech. He's being jerked slowly, rhythmically, like they've got all the time in the world. "You think I haven't seen you stalking me."
"I don't stalk you," Derek protests as best he can while his cock's being manhandled in public. It's a calculated risk.
Stiles nods and sucks on his teeth, then inches closer, like he's about to whisper in his ear. Graceful at the wrist, he glides his palm over Derek's cockhead, smearing it with the fluid he finds already beading there. Derek's head falls back on the faux leather headrest and he bites down on his lip because if he moans now, he'll sound like he's dying. Stiles will never let him live it down.
"So let me get this straight, you haven't been watching me at all."
"What? No," Derek grunts, sucking air as Stiles' hand fits to his cock in a perfect grip. So perfect that he's momentarily forgotten the diner, the patrons, his own name.
Clutching the flimsy waistband of Stiles' girly underpants, Derek wills him to stop talking and finish him, so the blood supply can be diverted back to his brain where he's desperately floundering to understand what's actually fucking going on.
Absurdly, Stiles might be reading his mind, because the little fucker slows down and Derek thinks his mind might actually be blowing up, segments falling away into oblivion.
"Oh, okay," Stiles breathes hotly along Derek's ear, raising hackles on the back of his neck. "I'm sorry man, my mistake."
And he lets go.
He lets go, removes his hand from Derek's jeans and sits back in the booth like nothing's happened, leaving Derek's dick standing proudly, if a little absurdly, out of his pants.
Derek stares at him, wondering if he can actually burn holes in Stiles' head just with the strength of his glare.
Oblivious, Stiles raises his hand and Derek's eyes are saucers as Stiles licks his own palm. He flattens his tongue and really cleans it, flicking between his fingers and screwing his mouth down on his thumb like he's savouring some kind of delicacy and that's just. Not. Fair.
Shucking Derek's hand from his hip, Stiles inches out of the booth with a nonchalant smile. "'Scuse me, off to powder my nose," he says, and disappears behind the door of the Mens before Derek recovers enough to put his dick away and actually suck in air to oxygenate his obviously feverish, hallucinating brain.
Fuck.
FUCK.
Derek's out of the booth and barrelling through the restroom door within seconds, slapping it shut behind him, only to find Stiles standing calmly against the sinks, his reflection in the mirror wearing that same shiteating grin.
Derek stalks forward with hands clenched at his sides, stands much too close behind him and glares at his reflection.
"Show me," he chokes out, eyes following the square of Stiles' shoulders down to the taper of his waist, finally resting on the place where he can never unsee pink satin from his mind's eye now.
Ever.
Contorting his ridiculous mouth into his version of a human smile, Stiles simply undoes the button of his jeans and peels back his fly. Mesmerised, Derek watches silently as Stiles pushes his jeans down a little, smooths the satin over his ass, runs a skinny finger under the waistband. He squeezes himself with his whole hand, and Jesus Christ, it's the hottest thing Derek's ever seen; Stiles' perky little ass in these tiny pink underpants, perfectly fucking lickable.
Before he even finishes thinking it, he's manoeuvring Stiles into one of the stalls, hands like claws on his shoulders, and here, finally, he's getting some sort of reaction- Stiles is breathing hard through his mouth and all of a sudden his eyes are more hungry than impish.
"Might've been... watching you. A bit." Derek pushes him against the door of the stall, coming in close, breathing him in, knowing he's so, so fucked. He's quite good at the watching thing. Not so good at the. Um. Other thing.
Stiles folds into the door like he's been waiting for this, letting Derek hold him in place with hands that look so big on him, spread over his shoulders like that. "I might have been able to tell. A bit. What, with all the constant stalking."
Derek leans in, noses along Stiles' cheek, flicks out his tongue tasting him on the air. "You smell delicious," he says, and nope, no idea where that came from. All the parts of him are freerange tonight, just running around doing their own thing. Well, fuck it. Derek can work with that. His face wants down, so down he goes, kneeling on the motherfucking floor at Stiles' feet, his hands clawing at the already opened jeans, desperate to see and smell and taste.
Well, fuck.
Stiles is panting now, shallow, desperate little breaths that make the silky satin flutter and stretch over his hard cock, the swollen head peeking through under the frilly waistband, the fabric beneath it damp and dark with glistening precome. Derek can't tear his eyes away from the dark hair curling out from beneath the stretched pink triangle, the swell of Stiles' balls uncontained by the tiny underwear.
He can't help it, just slumps forward into Stiles' groin, nosing along the crease of his thigh with one hand splayed on his sternum to hold him in place, the other stretched out over Stiles' satin-covered cock and balls, rubbing up and down with the heel of his palm.
"Oh God," Stiles moans, "I need to put my dick in your mouth right now. Right now. Fuck, now now. Now, fuck."
He knocks the back of his head into the door groaning like he's in pain, and that's it, that's fucking it. Derek absolutely has to put his mouth there, has to mouth along the bulge, lick him through those tiny panties, making the pink shiny-dark with his spit and his tongue. Open-mouthed and hungry, he clutches at Stiles' shirt and his hip and his ass, wetly kissing his satin-covered cock until he's at the waistband, forcing it down with his fingers as his lips finally close around it and he can swallow Stiles down to the fucking root.
Stiles whimpers and bucks, a constant litany of Suck me, God yeah, suck me you fucking stalking bastard, his inability to shut the fuck up even while being blown in the Mens room only making Derek hotter and impossibly harder, pulsing and heavy in his pants.
It's fast and filthy and his dick's so hard in his jeans that he undoes the button fly with one hand just to ease some of the pressure. The weight of his own blood feels like a wet, hot, thump all through his body, and with his own cock in his hand, he sucks Stiles down again and again, licking and moaning around it like it's the best thing he's ever had in his mouth, and shit, maybe it is.
He makes no effort to be quiet, and above him, Stiles is chanting fuck yes, oh my God, oh my fucking God-with his eyes closed and heavy, black lashes scuffing his cheeks in the soft caress Derek knows intimately now, having been watching indeed, and for some weeks now.
He hollows his cheeks and sucks wetly, one hand still clawed in those tiny pink panties, the stretch of them digging into Stiles' hips from how hard Derek's clutching them. And then, Stiles hands are in his hair and he's pulling at it, almost shouting, coming hard and fast like it's a huge surprise and he wasn't quite ready.
It's enough to wrench Derek's own orgasm out of him, come slicking his fist, and the door between Stiles' legs, and the floor between his own.
A few minutes, or maybe a few years later, they're leaning heavily into each other, trousers still around their ankles, grasping hands and clawed fingers turned softer, gentler in the aftermath.
Kissing Stiles' neck, Derek traces the waistband of the satin panties with his fingers, feeling the frayed edge where he's almost torn them apart in his rush to get inside.
Stiles is humming along to the piped-in elevator music, something Derek can't quite place, but he kisses the sound right through Stiles' skin anyway, until he hears the words filter through.
"...so hold me closer, Tony Danza..."
In between kissing him raw and laying Stiles out every way he can think of, on every available flat- and some not-so-flat- surface, Derek doesn't stop laughing for three days.
.
.
Thank you for reading.