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The solid weight of Derek's hand pressed hard against Stiles' mouth as he bit back a groan. Derek hated him, full stop. This was not the action of a man who had an ounce of charity in his heart towards Stiles, not when-
“You make a sound and its game over,” Derek's breathless voice whispered in his ear as his other hand worked its magic, sliding and gliding beneath the soft, warm fabric of Stiles' boxers.
Stiles nodded, doing nothing to dislodge the heavy warmth of Derek's palm pressed against his lips. He had questions, he had so many questions, but Derek's hand was on his dick, fingers spooled around half the blood in Stiles' body, leaving precious little for things like rational thought.
Stiles' head thunked softly against the back of the closet as Derek crowded in close, eyes glowing between the bits of mothball-musty clothing that hung, long forgotten, in the closed of the house they'd broken into.
Pots clattered in the kitchen, a range whooshed to life as Derek mercilessly wrung him to completion. The thick smell of spices filled the air as Stiles spasmed, then stilled, still stuck as spilled seed dried across the length of Derek's fingers.
They stood, still, as Stiles' knees wobbled. A TV sounded in the next room over. Derek's hand didn't move, still circled around Stiles' dick as he softened, then stiffened again. Then, and only then, did Derek's fingers begin to move once more.
The faintest edge of a whine escaped through Stiles' close-clenched lips as Derek's voice sounded, soft and low, sliding through the shell of his ear.
"Shhhhh."