mojoflower:

“Come on, Derek,” Stiles gasped. “Dude, this is killing me.”

Derek undulated over him again, grinning in his fierce, mean way, so that it looked more like a threat than a joke.  “Seven more months, Stiles.  Pants on until you’re 18.” But, he couldn’t disguise that his own voice was a little shaky, that he was affected just as much as Stiles.  Well, even if his voice hadn’t wavered, the steel rod in his pants would have been a good clue.

Stiles keened when Derek got the angle just right, all his weight pressed hard against Stiles from thigh to chest, the slow rolls of his hips dragging across the fly of Stiles’ jeans, and wow, did he ever regret armoring himself in denim that day, rather than soft cotton sleep pants.  Or possibly fishnet. Fishnet with big holes.  (Pride?  What is pride?)

“De–

Derek.  Ssss–

” Stiles lost language altogether when Derek buried his face at the side of his neck, the stiff prickles of his scruff scraping against skin so sensitized that it felt like nothing so much as… fishnet… over his jumping nerves.  When a hot mouth closed over the thundering pulse there, Stiles’ eyes literally rolled back in his head. “Ohgod–”

Stiles lifted his legs, shifted until his hips were angled further up, wiggled with abandon under Derek’s body, rubbing against anything that felt good.  He could feel his skin heating up, his face turning red, the little hairs on his arms and his neck rising with the heat and electricity in his body.

“Yeah,” Derek coaxed, slipping a hand under Stiles head, weaving it through the short strands of his hair and tugging just this side of too hard.  “Come on, baby.  Let go.”

Stiles choked on his own spit. (Graceful as ever, Stiles.)  “Der–

 Dude.  I.  I don’t wanna sling yogurt in my pants.”

Everything stopped.  Possibly time itself, but certainly Derek, most of his weight held up with the bulging muscles of his shoulders.  His hips were frozen.  So was his expression.  While this wasn’t a new thing for Derek, having only one expression, it usually wasn’t one of naked incredulity.  That’s not the kind of naked Stiles was hoping for.

“What.”  Yep.  There was the Real Derek^TM, all disdain for the superfluity of punctuation. “What did you say.”

Stiles froze as well, the rising tide of his blood taking a sudden turn for the more… icy.  “What?”

“Did you just… refer to an orgasm as… slinging yogurt.”

“Um…”

“Mother-of-wolves, Stiles.”

“But.  You know.  The old yogurt slinger.  The pocket weasel.  The puffed adder.  The–”

Derek dropped his head, face first into the pillow beside Stiles.  His body was shaking… but in all the wrong ways.  This is not how Stiles had imagined the next five minutes proceeding.

“I was just–”

“No!” Derek surged back up and slammed a palm across Stiles’ mouth.  “No more.  Not.  Another. Word.”  But his whole face was twitching, and his mouth was pulling up hard at the corners, and then an actual snort escaped him.  Derek was laughing.  Frankly, this was almost as good as an orgasm, because it was so rare, and made Stiles just float on the knowledge that he could do that, make Derek laugh.

Derek shook his head and moved aside to sit on the side of the bed, face buried in his hands.  “Seven more months, Stiles,” he said.

Inspired by this post.