Title: Sexual Gratification Coming Right Up, Sir
Pairing: Derek/Stiles
Rating: NC-17 (Explicit)
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.


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 plaster 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 taught 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.


"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

A/N: 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 was an obviously pathetic excuse for me to write pr0n.