"You don't get what you want," Derek growled, a low rumble against Stiles' back, his grip tight, sticky with the boy's come. He knew the teenager was sensitive, probably at the edge of his limit, if he hadn't already been pushed beyond--but he was still talking, and his sounds were desperate, not pained. "You get this plastic cock, you get my hand, and you get to watch me make myself come, and if you beg prettily enough, I'll let you lick it up."