Photo credit: Still from Guys in Sweatpants (Dale Cooper and Felix Warner)
The sight of Derek doing anything is generally a turn on for Stiles. But coming home from college to see Derek--dressed only in his underwear--folding their clean laundry into neat piles on the bed that they share every night? Well. That’s hotter than anything has a right to be.
Stiles pauses in the doorway, and he knows that Derek must be aware of his presence. But Derek’s playing the game and pretending that Stiles isn’t there, and Stiles is happy to go along with that. He leans against the door jamb, arms folded and watches, appreciating the high curve of Derek’s ass and the muscles in his back that shift under the skin as he moves.
Derek is careful, folding each item precisely, matching socks to their partners. But with each item that comes out of the basket he sniffs it first, nose wrinkling. Then he brushes it against his cheeks, rubbing it over his stubble a few times and sniffs again. Sometimes that’s enough and the item gets placed on the bed, but other times he repeats the action before it passes his wolfy smell-test.
A slow grin spreads across Stiles’ face. Suddenly the time that he found Derek allegedly asleep--‘napping’ in a pile of laundry that Stiles had folded--makes a lot more sense.
“Dude.” Derek carries on, not turning at the sound of Stiles’ voice. “You can just put them in a pile and then roll on them if you want, that would save time.”
Derek turns and fixes Stiles with a glare, a flare of red that warns him not to tease. But seriously, this is too good to resist, and winding Derek up--just a little--usually ends well. In a sexual way.
Derek moves so fast that Stiles barely registers. One moment Stiles is standing in the doorway, the next he’s tossed over Derek’s shoulder and smacking at his ass in mock-protest. Then he’s flat on his back in the middle of the laundry, staring at the ceiling as Derek rips Stiles’ pants open and sucks his dick into his mouth.
“Whoa. My dad always told me my smart-ass mouth would get me into trouble, but I don’t think this is what he--fuck! Derek, fangs away for sexy times, we’ve been through this--is what he... Oh Jesus!”
The growl in Derek’s throat vibrates around Stiles’ cockhead and Stiles’ words disintegrate into whimpers as he winds his fingers into Derek’s hair and hangs on for dear life.
He’s just adjusting to the hungry sucks and pulls of Derek’s mouth, and calculating that at this rate he might manage to last two minutes tops, when Derek grabs his hips and flips him over onto his belly and all bets are off. Because with Derek’s tongue probing his ass and his spit dripping down Stiles’ taint to tickle his balls, Stiles feels like he might just come right-the-fuck-now. His dick is rubbing against the piles of laundry--clean laundry that’s currently getting less clean by the minute--and it’s just on that edge of painful, but it’s good pain. Stiles buries his face in one of Derek’s folded T-shirts and bites down hard, trying to hold off a little longer.
“Nnnghhhh!” Is all Stiles can manage with his teeth clamped around fabric, but Derek obviously gets the gist, because in one disorienting lurch Stiles is facing the ceiling again and Derek’s kissing him. He licks into Stiles’ mouth, wet and filthy and tasting of Stiles’ ass; and that really shouldn’t be hot but somehow it is, and Stiles is past caring why. Derek’s hand is hot and tight around his cock and every muscle in Stiles’ body is drawn up tight, his balls aching with the need for release.
“Yeah. Oh God, Stiles. Yeah.” Derek’s voice is gravel-rough as Stiles comes, shooting hot and thick over his belly and chest. He’s dimly aware that Derek’s other hand is on his own dick, jerking himself steadily as Stiles takes over stroking his own cock, squeezing out the last few drops.
Derek moves up to straddle him, scooping up Stiles’ come to use for slick before stroking himself again, faster now. Derek’s eyes are glowing red and his fangs show as he throws his head back and growls, coming in thick spurts that add to the mess on Stiles’ belly. And Stiles really isn’t thinking about laundry now, because Derek is way more exciting than laundry. But he does just fleetingly wonder whether Derek was being careful on purpose. Because although they can get away with wearing ‘clean’ laundry that just happens to smell of the both of them, laundry that’s inundated with eau de jizz would probably cause a few raised eyebrows from the rest of the pack. Either way, his boyfriend is awesome and laundry sex is awesome and they should totally do this every time there’s laundry to fold. If it makes Derek happy then who is Stiles to refuse?
Derek’s kissing him again now, all stubble and tongue and hungry little sounds that are for Stiles and Stiles alone. And Stiles kisses him back, loving it, loving him.
They finally separate and Derek’s eyes are back to their beautiful murky-green as he stares down at Stiles in his nest of scattered underwear, balled socks and now slightly crumpled T-shirts.
“You are such a freak.” Stiles grabs a pair of underwear from under his head--Derek’s--and wipes himself down. “Obviously these need to go back in the wash”--he swipes at Derek with the sticky, crumpled pair of briefs--“But is the rest now to your satisfaction?”
Derek’s nostrils flare and he inhales deeply, closing his eyes. When they snap open there’s a glint of red again, just for a second. He grins. “It’ll do.”