"No," Derek panted. He was pleased to see Stiles conscience--that it had been a temporary blackout, but that didn't mean he was going to reward the boy. In fact, he was getting annoyed that Stiles. Kept. Asking.
"You lay there, and think about how much you want this cock, how much you want this come," he ordered, his eyes flaring, voice a low growl. He kept pumping his fist, sticky with Stiles' come and his own fluids, and quickened his pace.
The first splash of come landed on the boy's chest, but Derek aimed higher, managing to paint the boy's cheek, his hair, clumping his eyelashes, dripping down his nose.
When finished, he slumped forward, planting his hand on the blanket as he caught his breath, and studied Stiles beneath the dark fringe of lashes.