Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1878411.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Stiles_Stilinski/Malia_Tate
  Additional Tags:
      Spooning, Grinding, Hand_Jobs, Finger_Sucking, Vaginal_Fingering
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-07-01 Words: 791
****** right on ******
by sarcasticfishes
Summary
     It’s been happening for weeks now, but never three nights in a row,
     and he’s— he doesn’t mind. She slides into his bed uninvited but not
     unwelcome.
Notes
     (denies to no avail that author does not ship the ship) here's a
     thing. little-spoon!stiles is a thing and it's a wonderful thing.
     totes unbeta'd, apologies.
It’s the third night in a row. It’s been happening for weeks now, but never
three nights in a row, and he’s— he doesn’t mind. She slides into his bed
uninvited but not unwelcome.
Sometimes she’s still a little cold to the touch when she plasters herself to
his back and curls her arms around him, but tonight he’s left his shirt off and
the covers kicked down – not that it’s hot out (it’s December), it’s just that
he’s hot, and she’s so cool (naked... huh), that he presses himself back
against her, like he hasn’t really ever done before. She makes this soft noise
of surprise and nuzzles his shoulder blade, curling one leg around his hip and
pressing up against him – oh, and there is one part of her that’s not so cold
at all. It’s hot, and, and slick against his bare thigh, and he can’t hold in
his moan at that.
She says his name, quietly in his ear, and he shudders. Barely a morsel of
control between them, he presses back, tries to get his thigh firmly between
hers, press back and up into that heat and give her something to rub off on.
He’d turn over, give her his hand or his fingers (god, his mouth if she wanted
it) but she’s clutching had him, tight, whispering “don’t move, please,” like
he could if he tried. She doesn’t know her own strength yet, but it’s okay.
He moves his hand, the arm he’s lying on, down to cup himself over the heather
gray of his boxer briefs, and she shudders hard and paws at where the material
has rode up into the crease of his thigh, then the waistband, pushing it down
and freeing his cock so he can get a hand around himself as his other goes to
her hip.
He slowly strokes himself, she rubs off against him, shuddery breaths and
little pants, little moans that make his hair stand on end. When he says her
name too, it’s tentative. He doesn’t want to break the spell of her chanting,
the rhythm of her grinding against him, but he says it anyway, and is rewarded
with her fingers brushing over his knuckles.
“Show me?” she says, breath hitching with the question, and he takes her hand
in his, lifts it up to his mouth and sucks her fingers into his mouth,
eliciting a shocked noise from her, and quelling a deeper need within him if
only briefly. He shows her how to wrap her fingers around him, shows her the
pace he’s perfected over the years, because he knows better than anyone how to
get himself off. When she’s lost in it, the pulse, the simplicity of stroke-
twist-tight-fist-flick-wrist, he reaches back for her, behind her. The angle is
awkward but it doesn’t stop him from sliding two fingers inside her, just to
the first knuckles because he can’t reach farther. It kills him.
It doesn’t take him long after that, now that he can feel her wet heat around
him, can feel the way she shakes with each roll of her hips, it’s— he’s coming.
With a choked off moan, face pressed into the pillow, shaking hard, he’s
coming.
She growls lowly, he tries desperately to push deeper into her, to feel her
come around his fingers, feels the soft pricks of claws against his skin.
She chokes out his name again, and he’s says, “Yeah, come on. It’s okay,” low
and gravelly, and remembers the first time he’d made her come, how she’d
blushed, looked away, refused to meet his eyes straight away afterward. It’s
enough to make his cock twitch valiantly again, but –
“C’mon, it’s ok. I want you to.”
That’s all it takes, and she cries out, like a hiccup and a sob all at once,
and he drops his head back against her shoulder, relishing the way she loses it
for him. Just for him. Her arms curl up around him as she rides out her orgasm,
across his chest, clutching him back against her so tight he can’t— there’ll be
bruises, he’s sure. He likes it.
She’s so wet against him, it’s perfect. They’re breathless and shaking and it
has never felt like that before.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” she breathes when she finally lets go of him, and he
wheezes a little laughing.
“It’s okay. It was good.”
He feels her smiling against his shoulder blade again, the soft kiss she drops
there, and he tries to turn over to face her— to no avail.
“Do I ever get to be the big spoon?” he hisses, trying to wipe the smile from
his face, and failing. Teasing.
“Maybe tomorrow,” she whispers, same answer every time.
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