Stiles is not going to mind Derek putting hickies anywhere. He rolls his eyes at the comment about his dad--he is twenty years old, a GROWN UP, thank you very much--and then makes a soft sound, not pain, exactly, since it's definitely arousal, and offers his wrist up easily. His other hand moves over Derek's skin--over his brow, down his nose, over his ear, down his nape.
"Do you have a TV?" he asks, suspiciously, because priorities. "Or like...a console made after 2000?"