(PSA: if we’re ever out for lunch together and I kind of zone out and stare at my wine glass for half a minute, there’s a 99% chance I’m mentally recasting what you just told me about your sex life as Sterek crack porn.)
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Stiles gasps out. “That was the best sex of my life.”
Derek doesn’t respond. His forehead is still pressed to Stiles’ collarbone, right where it landed after he went rigid mid-thrust and came with a low, strangled moan.
After a moment’s hesitation, Stiles starts carefully raking his fingers through the bristles of hair at the nape of Derek’s neck. He hopes this isn’t crossing some sort of boundary – you never know with Derek – but Derek doesn’t seem to mind. “Best sex of my life, dude, I’m telling you. You’ve been holding out on me. We should definitely do this again sometime. Wanna do this again sometime?”
Derek kind of hmm-hmms and nestles closer, so Stiles continues, “Didn’t really peg you for a cuddler, to be honest.”
Derek murmurs, “Chopsticks.”
Stiles’ fingers skid to a halt. “Say what now, big guy?”
“Nnnnnmh,” Derek says, shifting a little. Fuck, he’s heavy. “We forgot to bring…” The soft pads of his fingertips slide inertly against Stiles’ sex-damp skin. “Chopsticks.” Derek turns his head and nudges his nose into the hollow of Stiles’ throat with a deep and contented sigh.
“Oh my god,” Stiles says, not sure whether to be amused or appalled. “You totally conked out on me, didn’t you?”
"How’s that essay going?"