When Stiles set up the playlist for Derek, he meant it to be a joke poking at Derek's age and old-man mannerisms. The laughter died before it could reach his lips though when Derek went pale, distraught, and then let out a shaky breath.
With a heartbreaking smile, a lowered head, and the harsh blinking of eyes, he said quietly, "My dad liked jazz," and then he pulled Stiles into a quick hug that wasn't as quick or violent as the ache that bloomed in Stiles' chest because...
...because Stiles hated being a fucking asshole.
Stiles just shrugged and played it off, ("Yeah, mine too!") and resolved to get his dad out of classic rock and into jazz--at least part-time--to cover all his bases.
Now, two months later, the music has become a constant in the loft, and no one ever asks Derek to play anything else. Stiles has become so accustomed to it that he finds himself unable to focus without the slow, sultry hum of saxophones or the triumphant blast of trumpets.
As he stands from the floor, where he's been hunched over Peter's laptop trying to translate the bestiary, the background music flows through him and his stretch turns into a little bump and grind. He's about to laugh at himself when he feels a tug against his waist and jumps, startled. He whirls to see Derek standing behind him, a little smirk tilting his lips.
"Dude, seriously, a collar with a cow bell or something! I will superglue it to your ridiculous body!"
Derek just eyebrows at him and says, "Well, if you don't want it..."
Hiding his grin behind his hand, Derek just slides his other hand around behind Stiles, groping at something just north of his butt. Stiles tries not to react to the feel of Derek's arm winding around him, but it's hard (hur, hur), and not entirely his fault when his breath freezes in his lungs and his body goes unnaturally still.
Derek pulls his hand away, and Stiles sees a $20 bill held lightly between his first and middle fingers. "For the dance," Derek says when Stiles just frowns, confused.
A variety of responses flash through Stiles' mind, but it's the stupid one that could end up exploding in his face that he goes with. Of course it is.
"Twenty bucks?" He grabs the money and pushes at Derek's shoulders hard enough to send him stumbling backward into the couch, which he falls onto with a surprised expression. Stiles mentally high-fives himself at being able to push around a big, bad werewolf before he begins to shimmy his hips. "For that much, mister," he says, lowering his eyes coyly, "you get a lap dance."
He kinda expects it to go like a really fast game of gay chicken, where Derek growls and stands up, stomping away before Stiles can even do anything. But Derek gets a look on his face--one Stiles has never seen, so has no way to identify--and relaxes back against the seat cushions. When Stiles just stands there, gawking, Derek makes a get on with it gesture.
Stiles grins shakily, but holds up one finger. "This song's almost over. Don't want a well-paying client to feel short-changed," he says, waggling his eyebrows.
Derek's lips quirk, but he remains silent, just resting his hands on his splayed thighs.
The song changes and this one is one of Stiles' favorites. It's got a rhythm that just screams sex, so of course his stupid face starts turning red with a blush before he can even make a move. But he powers through it, slowly slipping his plaid over-shirt off his shoulders and letting it slide down to his wrists before he unhooks one hand and sort of flings it on Derek, who rolls his eyes and bats it away.
Then Derek looks at his shirt, gets a funny look on his face, and huffs out a laugh before covering his face and actually chuckling. "Jesus," he mutters.
Stiles looks down and cackles. He'd completely forgotten he was wearing his I Support Single Moms! shirt. If he could go back to this morning and meet his past self without creating a time destroying paradox, he'd so do it just to shake his own hand.
But the music winds through him, sobering him up a bit, and he lifts the hem of his t-shirt, teasing it up and down over his belly button before losing his nerve and letting it fall to bunch up above his belt. Feeling more uncertain with what he's doing by the minute, Stiles closes his eyes, finding the rhythm to the music, and rolling his hips to it. He can't dance for shit normally, but this music sort of brings out a weird kind of grace in him.
Derek's eyes drop to where Stiles' fingers are resting on his belt, and he licks his lips, wriggling just the tiniest bit on the couch.
It's at that moment that Stiles realizes they're not joking around here. If he goes any farther, he has to be prepared for going farther, and what that might mean for their weird little friendship. He traces his fingers around the square face of his belt buckle, slowly, as he grinds closer and closer to Derek, finally planting one sock-covered foot on the couch beside Derek to allow him a little more room.
Huh, apparently he's doing this.
His belt comes undone with a rattle that somehow sounds like a perfectly-timed accompaniment to the wailing of the saxophone in the background. A thought strikes him and he smiles before slowly sliding it free of his belt loops, feeling his pants fall low on his waist as he leans over and loops his belt around Derek's neck.
"We'll add a bell later," he whispers.
Derek's pupils expand at his tone until his eyes are abnormally dark with just a ring of palest green. He reaches for Stiles, who slaps his hands away with a tsking sound.
"Customers aren't allowed to touch the dancers."
"Stiles," Derek warns, his voice a soft growl.
Derek narrows his eyes, but sits back again, letting his hands drop until one is wrapped around Stiles' ankle. He raises one thick eyebrow, as if daring Stiles to challenge him.
Stiles just grins and pops the button on his pants. Without unzipping, he slides his fingers under the waistband, teasing at the trail of hair below his navel and watching as Derek's mouth falls open. The more he rolls his hips, the lower his pants sink until they're barely clinging to his ass, his hipbones and the pale line of his stomach bared to Derek's hot gaze.
Fuck, actually, maybe it's his boner his pants are caught on. His breath kind of stutters when he looks down and sees how incredibly obvious his arousal is (not that Derek wasn't being assaulted with the scent of it since the instant his ass hit the couch).
He reaches between his legs, wraps his fingers around his inner thigh and then slowly rolls his shoulder back until his hand is forced to drag up and over his crotch. A low whine pierces the air, and Stiles honestly couldn't say if it came from him or Derek, but it still makes his dick twitch, which in turn makes Derek's nostrils flare and his eyes flash, briefly, blue.
"Take them off," Derek says, his voice raspy and almost too low for Stiles to hear.
Stiles licks his lips nervously, but honestly, that's pretty much his end game here. Of course, right about then is when the song fades to silence. Stiles stops dancing, not that he was doing a whole lot of it toward the end there. "You first," he says, and wonders where the fuck he found the nerve.
But Derek isn't one to back down from a challenge any more than Stiles is. A bright trumpet solo starts up just as Derek whips his shirt over his head--sweet baby Jesus, that is so unfair--and he crooks an eyebrow at Stiles as if to say, your turn.
Stiles answers the silent challenge by taking off his own shirt and then sort of regretting all his life choices because his chest just comes across as pale and skinny next to Derek's perfection. But the flare of Derek's eyes says he isn't disappointed, so Stiles mentally shrugs and slowly lowers the zipper on his pants. He drops his hands away from his body then, and just stares down at Derek's lap, trying to dredge up a spark of magic within himself to make those tight-ass jeans disappear.
Just call him Harry Potter, because no sooner does he start wishing than Derek grows impatient and starts stripping them off. It takes a minute--they are seriously tight, hello low sperm count--but soon he's just sitting there in his ridiculously sexy black boxer briefs. He leans forward and before Stiles knows it, his own pants have been yanked down to pool awkwardly low on one thigh and high on the other due to his position with one foot perched on the couch.
Falling forward, he braces his hands on the back of the couch, his forearms lightly resting on Derek's shoulders, and wriggles until he can kick his pants off. He toes his socks off just in time, because apparently Derek is tired of waiting.
With a short huff, Derek grabs him around the waist and wrestles him down to the couch until he's straddling one of Derek's thighs. He damn near swallows his tongue then, because Derek's thigh is thick and hard with muscle and kind of fucking perfect for him to rub up against.
Stiles can't fight back a moan at the feeling of riding Derek's thigh. His hips are once again moving to the tune of the softly-playing music, urged on by Derek's hold on his hips. He just knows he's going to come messily in his Green Lantern boxers, but he holds off just long enough to dig his fingers into the nest of coarse, curling hair that lays thick on Derek's chest.
The man is the very definition of hirsute, and Stiles is very, very appreciative. His palms tingle and itch as he rubs them over Derek's chest and down the hard, flexing planes of his abdomen until he's cupping Derek's dick through his underwear.
Derek hisses and bucks up, which does interesting things to the thigh Stiles has been grinding against. The muscles flex and jump and he clamps down with his own thighs, rocking back and forth, searching out the friction that feel so delicious. The coarse hair on Derek's thighs rub deliciously against the sensitive skin of Stiles' inner thighs, and he kinda wishes he knew what that felt like against the bare skin of his dick, but maybe that would be too much? Stiles can't think about that, can't do anything but ride Derek's thigh until he flexes it on purpose and startles a shout of pleasure from Stiles that is only silenced when Derek swallows it down with his tongue.
And fuck, yeah, they're kissing and grinding against each other, and the world is spinning--oh, no, that's just Derek flipping them over and laying Stiles out on the couch. A ripping sound signals the destruction of Stiles' underwear, but he can't be mad. First, because Derek also shreds his own, and second, because that means Derek is able to angle their dicks together and grip them both in one large hand.
Which is, Stiles has to admit, mind blowing. Fucking fantastic. Earth shattering. Insert adjective of choice here.
Holy fucking hell, it's a good thing Derek is sucking on his tongue because otherwise, Stiles is pretty damn sure he'd be embarrassing himself with the noises he'd be making. Is making, actually, but at least they're muffled.
And since Derek is taking care of their junk, that leaves Stiles' hands free to squeeze those ridiculous pecs and tangle his fingers all in Derek's chest hair. If he earns a lost noise or two from Derek when he rubs over tiny little pebbled nipples, hey. No one's judging.
Derek rips his mouth from Stiles' just as the music changes again. Stiles has kinda lost count of how many songs have played since this whole thing started, but he's sorta hoping it's at least three or four, because he's about to go off like a Roman candle on the Fourth of July and it'd be a little bit of an ego bruise to last less than five minutes.
Derek kisses down Stiles' neck, teeth sharp and beard rough in delicious counter-point. It isn't until he reaches Stiles' nipple and begins to suck harshly on it that Stiles feels his orgasm rush up to meet him like a goddamn tidal wave. Derek bites down on his nipple and tightens his grip on their dicks at the same moment, and Stiles is just... gone. He's gone, bye-bye, shooting off into the atmosphere, no forwarding address.
He's pretty sure he screams. He's positive he yanks on Derek's chest hair. But that's okay, because apparently that works for Derek, whose hips stutter against him twice before his come starts pulsing out to join the mess Stiles made.
Derek groans and collapses against him, which kinda makes things squish unpleasantly, but Stiles doesn't have enough brain yet to complain. Hell, he's pretty sure his tongue is rolled up somewhere half-way down his throat. Either that or it's hanging two feet out of his mouth.
Best. Orgasm. Ever.
Stiles wriggles his hands until they're free, then wraps them around Derek, who's still heaving, trying to regain his breath. That? That's a fucking accomplishment, and Stiles is giving himself a gold fucking star later. Because Derek can run like fifteen miles without breaking a sweat.
Stiles might mention that out loud, gloat about it in fact, because Derek leans up enough to give him a flat look and say, "Yeah, because I did all the work."
"Hey, fuck you, I did some!"
Derek snorts and drops a brief kiss on his somewhat gaping mouth--shut up, he didn't know it was coming--before resuming their post-coital cuddle.
And Stiles? Yeah... Stiles could get used to this.
"Should we talk about it?" he asks, just musing aloud.
"As if I could stop you." Funny, Derek almost sounds fond when he says that.
Holy shit, this must be love.