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"Don't you think the twitching is a little much?" Derek asks from the bedroom doorway, leaning his shoulder against the frame.
Stiles' feet give another little twitch. His hands, too, though the effect is blunted by the sheet they're trapped it. "Save me," Stiles begs.
"You are ridiculous. How do you even get tangled up in these things?" Derek mutters, working to free Stiles' hands and his frustrated, pouting face. Derek gave up on trying to tame Stiles' sticky-out hair a long time ago. He's resigned himself to its charm and copes as best he can. Most days.
"It is a sheet, Derek. Why can't I fold it? I have a Master's degree. Surely I'm smart enough to know how to fold a fitted sheet by now?!"
With his full attention on Stiles, Derek wrangles the sheet into some semblance of order and proceeds to fold it. "My mom was the smartest person I know, and she still left the laundry to my dad." Which is how Derek learned. Derek's seen the sheriff wrestle with folding things a time or two as well; it seems a little cruel to point out to Stiles he was probably too young for his mom to teach him those things. And as long as Stiles has his own underwear drawer, far away from Derek's, there's no point to it, either.
The sudden quiet draws his attention back to the task at hand, to the neat pile of sheets on the bed and Stiles sprawled out next to them, leaning back on his elbows, his legs open in a wide vee, drawing Derek's eyes up his slim thighs to the bulge growing in his pants. Arching an eyebrow is a reflex by now, Derek's sure.
Stiles smirks. "I never thought I'd have a domesticity kink," he says by way of explanation, and throws in a quick flourish with his fingers. "And yet here we are."
"I was folding a sheet!" Derek argues, trying to ignore the flash of heat in his groin and his face.
"And looking hot while doing it!" Stiles hooks a heel behind Derek's knee and draws him close. "Now get over here so I can suck your dick."
"Such a sweet talker," Derek murmurs, but his hands are in Stiles' soft hair, Stiles' fingers working his jeans open, Stiles' palms skimming down Derek's bare legs. Between one breath and the next, Derek's dick is in the hot wet clutch of Stiles' mouth and all Derek can do is ride it out, eyes closed to better ignore Stiles plump red lips and dark, teasing eyes.
Stiles uses every trick he knows; his tongue swirling at the tip, sucking Derek's balls, dragging his fingernails through the hair on Derek's thighs. It has Derek wishing he were on the bed with Stiles on his knees; he's kind of wiped from moving (from Stiles leaving all the heavy lifting to Derek) and Stiles' mouth is devastating on a good day. Like this, Stiles tugging at Derek's foreskin with his lips, Derek can only fist his hands in Stiles' hair and hope for the best.
Stiles' fingers are what does it, in the end; brushing warm and dry over Derek's hole, paired with a pleased hum, a wordless request for Derek to open his eyes. The look on Stiles' face is too much, too open, and Derek's orgasm hits in a slow, sweet wave, Stiles' rhythm softening to keep up with Derek's stuttering hips.
Derek's legs feel like jelly, and it's nothing for him to collapse into Stiles, for Stiles to use the momentum and roll them onto their sides, away from the pile of clean sheets. The hot press of Stiles' dick against Derek's thigh is unmistakable, but Derek doesn't quite have the coordination to help, even though he wants to. So much.
"It's okay," Stiles breathes into Derek's ear, squirming around. Derek tilts his head toward Stiles' face, toward the earthy scent of come on his breath, but can't open his eyes to see what Stiles is doing. And then he doesn't have to. The sticky press of skin-on-skin is unmistakable, and it's kind of nice to lay there and let Stiles do the work.
Less nice is the mess Stiles makes all over Derek's thigh. Made worse by one slim finger dragging through it in random circles. A telltale sign that Stiles is plotting.
"I wonder what other household chores are going to turn me on," Stiles says, sly. It's a bad sign if Derek can hear the grin without seeing it.