Derek can’t keep his breathing under control.
It’s the simplest thing. The first thing every kid learns to control, when they’re still throwing tantrums to get their way. Derek’s been able to keep his breathing steady since he was running in the woods with too many others, tripping and laughing and almost managing to hide.
He can’t do it now, not when it’s like this, when he’s still mostly dressed and Stiles is on his knees. Not when Stiles is teasing him, giving him just enough to say it’s what he wants. Derek can run for miles, run until his calves are aching, and not be struggling to fill his lungs this way.
The scrape of Stiles’ stubble on his belly makes his breath catch, makes his knuckles go white against the dresser at his back. There’s something rattling around in his chest, caught up somewhere in the dangerous ground between a demand and a whine, and Stiles just rubs a soft, slow circle on the inside Derek’s buckled knee with his thumb—and it’s too dulled by the denim, even if it was meant to be soothing—to calm him.
Stiles stays focused, the wet drag of his tongue over the head of Derek’s cock, again, again, a steady and maddeningly slow rhythm.
He should be used to it, to these moods that Stiles gets into, should be able to keep his spine from curving toward Stiles, wanting more. Derek has an entire life’s experience in control, and he shakes with the effort of holding onto it every time Stiles does this.
When Stiles drops to his knees like he’s going to submit, and Derek knows—Derek always knows—the futility of that hope. Knows even better the hot rush of what will happen next.
Stiles doesn’t have to take his time, just has to use everything he knows about Derek against him in the best kind of worst way possible. And he does without mercy, with his eyelashes falling closed, like he can’t focus on anything but the taste of Derek under every flick of his tongue.
It’s been a long time since Derek has found anything hotter than Stiles’ focus. It’s been even longer since he could keep from panting in the face of it, loosening a hand from the dresser to scrap his nails against the back of Stiles’ neck. He tremors with effort of keeping his nails short, and Stiles’ rewards him, his nose against Derek’s belly and a quick, soft suck, a sloppy kiss to the crown of Derek’s cock.
“Stiles,” Derek says, rough and shaky and out of breath. His lip is bleeding, his teeth trying to lengthen, sharpen. “Stiles,” Derek begs, as Stiles’ tongue catches at the ridge of the head of his cock, rolls slow and filthy up and across. And fuck, fuck, Derek’s pretty sure Stiles is going to force him to come like this one day, pleading and teased to a frenzy. “Please,” Derek gasps, not able to get enough air into his lungs.
“Shhhh,” Stiles answers, almost with a hum, his fingers hooked into Derek’s belt loops to drag his waistband down another inch. “Shhhh,” he says again, a hot burst of air over Derek’s damp skin.”I’ve got you.”
Derek scratches his fingers through Stiles’ buzzed hair, and tries to remember to breathe.