Derek pulls on Stiles’ maroon sweater, grinning like the world’s hugest dork when he discovers the thumbholes in the sleeves. “This is mine now,” he informs him, tossing one of his white Henleys over. The sweater’s always been a bit big and it looks better on Derek anyways, so Stiles agrees to the exchange without a fight, smiling as he pulls on Derek’s shirt.
“I have some news,” Derek says as they’re settling into the couch, waiting for their Thai food delivery. “Something to ask you.”
He tells him about some new polls coming out soon naming BHU as the top college team in the country, and Derek as a likely first round draft pick. “It’s still early in the season, but it’s a pretty big deal,” he says.
“Dude, that’s awesome. Congratulations.” Now it’s Stiles’ turn to grin like a dork, because he’s stupidly proud, thrilled to see Derek get the recognition he deserves. He crawls into Derek’s lap and snakes his arms around his neck, kissing each of his unruly eyebrows. “My boyfriend is so cool,” he coos into his ear, cackling when Derek digs his fingers into his ribs, going right for his most ticklish spot.
“There’s more,” he says, adjusting Stiles more comfortably on his lap. “ESPN wants to do a primetime special on me…and you. A human interest kinda thing where they follow us around for a week, interview us and our friends, my teammates. The university’s PR people are thrilled about it.”
His tone is carefully neutral, and Stiles can't get a read on what he thinks about it. Granted, he’s also pretty distracted by his own surprise, not exactly sure why he’d be included in a special about Derek being awesome. “Is this about you as a ball player, or you as a gay ball player,” he asks finally.
“Both. It sounds like they want to take the whole ‘this guy’s about to make history’ approach.” Derek looks uncomfortable, but resigned to it.
“You are, you know,” Stiles says quietly. “It’s important, who you are, what you're doing.” Stiles realizes then that he’s never actually told Derek that, how proud he is that he’s stubborn enough to be himself, to be out in a career where it would be so much easier not to be, especially with his talent. “I’m proud of you,” he says, holding his gaze for a long beat before kissing him. “So,” he says, placing a small peck on Derek’s smile when he pulls away from the kiss. “They want me to be a part of this special to like, prove your gayness or whatever?”
Derek’s laugh is rich and warm against his neck. “I asked that you be a part of it,” he says, leaning back to look at him. “I told them that if they wanted to get to know me, they had to get to know you. That we’re a package deal. They loved it. Said romance makes the story even better.”
Stiles had always thought it was hyperbole when people said they felt like they were bursting with happiness, but he’ll be damned if that’s not what it feels like when Derek, eyes copper-flecked forest green, looks at him and says that. “Oh,” he breathes, a little stunned.
“I also told them that I’m not making any decisions about my career from here on out without talking to you first. I know it's a lot of me to ask, to put that attention on you, to ask you to commit to me when I’m going to have to leave soon, but, Stiles, I love you, and I can’t imagine my life without you.”
No, this is what bursting with happiness feels like.
It’s a chaotic couple of weeks after that, the team’s continued success bringing more and more attention. Word spreads fast, first about Derek’s rankings and then about the ESPN special, more and more people staring at them when they go out, which isn't all that often. Stiles loves every second of watching Derek play though, feels a little thrill every time he overhears someone whisper that’s Derek Hale’s boyfriend, feels dumb with excitement when a photo of them hugging in celebration after Derek throws a no hitter makes a lot of the national sports blogs.
It’s a lot of attention though, a lot of pressure, and they both have their moments of not handling the stress particularly well.
Derek drinks too much whiskey one night and cries, begs Stiles not to leave him. When Stiles asks him what in the hell he’s talking about, he lets loose with a panicked rant. “I feel guilty, Stiles,” he says, soft and sad. “For dragging you into this. It seems okay now but it might not always be. You shouldn’t have to deal with all this just because of me, because I’m stubborn and refuse to hide who I am. It’s not fair of me, just like it’s not fair that I’m asking you spend your college years in what’s probably going to be a long-distance relationship for at least six months out of the year, and I’m asking so much of you Stiles and I’m worried that you’re going to get tired of it or resent me for it.”
Stiles spends the night reassuring him, kissing him, drawing a bath in the clawfoot tub and holding him close to his chest until the water goes cold, telling him all the reasons why he loves him and why he’s stuck with him forever.
With all of the increased publicity, it’s not surprising that the old articles about Derek and Jackson resurface. Stiles tries to avoid them, but he can’t completely, can’t stop himself from looking at the comments on that photo of them in The Advocate, all those readers complimenting them on what a beautiful couple they make.
Derek has told him enough about his relationship with Jackson. How they had been dating for two years and Derek never really got over the feeling that Jackson was a placeholder, a temporary fill-in for whoever he was really supposed to be with. When Jackson started talking more about making plans for the future, Derek realized that it was unfair to stay with him when he didn’t feel the same way, so he broke it off. He said that Jackson hadn’t taken it very well, but he didn’t go into specifics, and Stiles didn’t want to ask. He knows that Danny is still friends with him, but he doesn’t want to put Danny in that position, so he doesn’t ask him either. He doesn’t really need to know, not really, but he’s still curious about the guy.
He knows he shouldn’t do it, both Scott and Lydia tell him not to, but that doesn’t stop him. His curiosity is insatiable, even when knows he’s going to regret what he learns.
Jackson’s Instagram isn’t private, so he starts there. He has to go back quite a ways, over a year, until he finds pics of Derek, and then he kinda groans and his stomach heaves because once they start they don’t stop. There’s photo after photo of Derek, dozens of them, often with Jackson, sometimes just him. It's clear that Jackson was infatuated with him. Derek looks different, younger of course, not quite as muscular, more like a bro. He’s smiling in a lot of the pics, but it’s different somehow, not the smile that Stiles knows.
He doesn’t have any facial hair in the oldest photos, which mesmerizes Stiles, and he stares long and hard at one photo in particular that Jackson had captioned “D practices his best Blue Steel.” In it, Derek is wearing one of his ubiquitous sleeveless workout shirts, arms crossed to show off his biceps, hair perfectly styled and eyes glowing jade as he stares off into the distance, face all hard, angular lines. He’s completely clean-shaven, showing just how strong and knife-edged his jawline really is.
Stiles realizes that’s he’s never actually seen Derek clean-shaven in person before, and for some reason that bothers him, even though he adores Derek’s beard. He can’t imagine kissing him without the whisper of it against his face, loves waking up to that gorgeous dark thicket rubbing against his stomach as Derek’s mouth seeks his morning erection. Loves seeing it streaked with his come afterwards, Derek’s sweet little smile when Stiles reaches for him so he can lick, sighing at the taste of himself in the soft tickle of hair against his tongue.
So yeah, Stiles is more than a little into Derek’s beard, but it still irks him that there’s this other Derek, this clean-shaven, younger Derek who Jackson has kissed but he hasn’t. This Derek also seemed to be shirtless a lot more, but Stiles can’t even enjoy looking at those pics because Jackson is in most of them too, and while he’s smaller than Derek he’s almost just as cut, and fuck, they do make a beautiful couple, and his gut twists with jealousy.
Lydia and Scott were right, of course.
He doesn’t say anything to Derek about it, but late that night after hours of quiet, languid love making, Derek holds him close, body radiating heat and happiness. “I’m so excited to show the world how much I love you,” he murmurs into his neck, and Stiles is okay again.
About a week before the camera crews are scheduled to show up, Stiles decides that they need to relax and he convinces Derek to meet up with him at the party Danny’s throwing at his boyfriend Ethan’s house. Stiles heads to the party with Lydia and Erica, who met a couple of weeks ago when Derek and Stiles had a barbeque and have been inseparable ever since. Scott and Allison are there too, and before he knows it Stiles is pleasantly crossfaded, pot and cheap beer making him feel loose and giddy, his snaps to Derek getting more and more lewd as the night goes on.
Stiles is in the kitchen, standing around the keg with Allison and Danny, watching Scott get his ass kicked in beer pong. He’s still waiting for Derek, who texted awhile ago to let him know that he had to stay late to go over scouting reports for next week’s games. He’s disappointed, but he’s learned that one of the reasons Derek is so good is because he doesn’t do anything half-way. He’ll be reviewing tape and reading reports until he’s memorized the batting history for every player in the opposing team’s lineup, staying up all night if he has to.
Stiles seriously hopes that tonight is not one of those nights, because he’s delightfully stoned and happy and needs to put his mouth all over Derek’s like, soon. From his spot in the kitchen he can see the front door and has to stop himself from running to it every time it opens.
Thank fucking Christ he does too, because the person who walks through it this time is most definitely not the man he wants to see. Jackson Whittemore, in the perfectly-molded flesh, all gelled hair and expensive cologne and clothes that probably cost more than Stiles’ Jeep is worth. There’s a bored-looking guy trailing in behind him, a little unsteady on his feet like he’s trying not to show how drunk he is, and once Jackson gets closer Stiles can see that he’s a little bleary-eyed too.
It’s doesn’t change his model looks though, big blue eyes still dreamy, blowjob lips still pouty. Stiles hates him, is too stoned and buzzed to rationalize his jealousy away, wants to just punch the guy in his smug face, even though he’s never hit anyone before ever, has never wanted to, even the jerks who used to push him around in high school.
Jackson, his date disappearing to the living room, comes into the kitchen and heads straight for them. “Danny, how the hell are you?” He slaps him on the back and Danny grimaces slightly. “Who’s your friend?”
His bloodshot eyes fall to Stiles, looking him up and down, appraising him openly. Usually, under such a stare he would fluster and fidget, try to make himself disappear. Maybe it’s the booze and the weed or maybe it’s whatever fragile confidence being with Derek has given him, or maybe it’s just his own stubbornness, refusing to let Jackson see that he gets to him, but Stiles just stands taller, crosses his arms over his chest. He knows he looks good too – he’s wearing the skinny slacks that drive Derek crazy, and Derek’s threadbare white Henley, loose and soft and Derek-y. “I’m Stiles,” he says, not offering Jackson a handshake. “Stiles Stilinski.”
Suddenly Stiles realizes that they’re surrounded by people, a lot of people, all of whom seem be noticing the showdown or whatever this is. Danny and Allison are flanking him, and Scott, having finally admitted beer pong defeat, is next to Allison now, clutching her hand. Even Erica and Lydia have reappeared from whatever bedroom they had found, lipstick perfectly reapplied. A lot of people he doesn’t know are staring too, silent, watching Jackson, waiting for his reaction. With all of the buzz around campus about the team and the upcoming special, Stiles’ name is almost as recognized at BHU as Derek’s is these days, and wow, this is weird.
“So you’re Derek’s little freshman plaything,” Jackson says finally, dismissively. A small murmur ripples through the crowd and Stiles just smiles, lets his eyes narrow.
“Jackson, don’t be a dick,” Danny says quietly before Stiles can respond.
His smile is too practiced to be sincere. “Sorry, just joking. Nice to meet you, Stiles.” He says his name like it tastes bad, like it offends him. “So,” he says with an exaggerated sigh, clearly loving all the attention on him. “You’re the one Derek wants next to him when he makes history. That’s fucking great.”
“What the fuck’s yer problems, fucker,” Scott slurs from behind him, leaning heavily on Allison. Stiles laughs despite himself. Actual angel Scott McCall, barely sober enough to stand but still trying to come to his rescue.
He watches Jackson for a second, the ugly sneer on his face telling Stiles everything he needs to know. This Abercrombie-looking motherfucker is jealous. Of Stiles. He’s fairly certain he’s never been the cause or focus of anyone’s jealousy, like, ever. And he knows he shouldn’t gloat, shouldn’t take pleasure in someone else’s unhappiness, but Jackson is a total dick, okay? And it may be juvenile and selfish, but Stiles is used to guys like Jackson either ignoring him or shoving him against the nearest locker. So the fact that he’s drunk, making a scene and throwing a fit because Stiles has someone he wants? Well, Stiles is only human.
“Tell us, Stiles, are you enjoying your time in the spotlight with Hale,” Jackson continues. “I imagine he’s a real pain in the ass to deal with these days, diva that he is.” Stiles wants to wipe that fucking arrogant smile off his face, wants to destroy his smug confidence, wants to prove to this asshole that he doesn’t know a goddamn thing about Derek.
He steps forward, surprised at how calm he feels, at how his heart isn’t racing in fear. He gets close to him, close enough to smell the scotch on his breath, close enough that he can peer over his glasses and into his cloudy eyes. “You know, Jackson, we haven’t really noticed it all that much. I guess Derek’s just been too busy sucking my dick.”
He pushes past him, shoving him hard with his shoulder, smiling at the chorus of laughter and hushed exclamations that he leaves in his wake.
Stiles doesn’t freak out until he gets to the empty backyard, sighing heavily and taking a long swig from a beer he grabbed from a cooler on his way out the door. He has a text from Derek from a few minutes ago, right when he was letting Jackson bring out the worst in him, letting him know that he’ll be there soon. His stomach flips. He’s thrilled Derek is finally on his way, but after what he just pulled, he’s not sure Derek’s going to be entirely happy with him.
And of course he’s going to find out, what with the audience they had. Hell, people are probably tweeting about it right now. Holy shit, how is this his life?
It was almost worth it though, for the look on Jackson’s face, surprise and anger and jealousy distorting his pretty features.
There’s a bubble of drunken laughter from behind him, and Stiles starts, spins around to see that he’s not alone, that Jackson’s date is sprawled across a lawn chair, muttering to himself.
“You alright over there,” Stiles calls, relieved for the distraction.
“Fuck man, tonight sucks,” the guy slurs, arching up to look over the back of the chair at him.
Stiles walks over and falls heavily into the patio chair next to him. “It’s a fucking weird one, that’s for sure.”
“Was supposed to be on a date tonight. We got trashed at the asshole’s apartment and then came here because he wanted to see his ex. Fucker’s like, totally hung up on him because he’s some baseball sex god or something.”
Stiles laughs, because it’s not an entirely inaccurate description of Derek. “I’m sorry, dude. That sucks. I don’t know you, but you deserve better.” Stiles is pretty sure everyone deserves better than Jackson, but he’s not going to kick the guy while he’s down.
“It’s my own fault,” the guy sighs. “Fell for a pretty face. Why are the pretty ones always such dicks?”
“Not all of them,” Stiles reassures him, smiling into his beer.
“You’re not a dick,” he says, smiling now too. “And you’re very pretty.”
Stiles snorts into his beer now, rolling his eyes. Because of course this night just needs to get more absurd. “And you’re very drunk. Do you know anyone else here? Do you want me to find you a ride, call you a cab?”
“You inviting me over, gorgeous?” The guy’s uncoordinated but quick, up and out of his chair and launching towards him before Stiles has a chance to realize what’s happening.
He’s saved from the guy’s sloppy kiss and eager hands, though, by Derek, towering behind him out of nowhere, hand twisting in the back of the guy’s shirt. He hauls the guy up easily, dragging him away while he yelps in surprise and protest.
Derek looks pissed. Angrier than Stiles has ever seen him, and Stiles has watched – several times – the clip from his freshman year when he charged the mound after the ASU pitcher intentionally threw at him. The anger on his young face in that moment seems positively cuddly compared to the look Derek is giving this guy right now, eyes narrowed and fierce, eyebrows downright murderous, mouth in a snarl that’s almost feral in its ferocity. “He’s definitely not,” he growls into the guy’s face, teeth bared. “Get the fuck outta here,” he spits, releasing him with a small push.
Derek doesn’t turn back towards Stiles until Jackson’s poor date has disappeared back inside, stumbling. His expression softens considerably when he does, the anger gone, walking back to Stiles with quick strides.
“Holy shit, that was hot,” Stiles says, words spilling from his mouth before he can stop them. He can’t help it. Derek’s angry face just does something to him, just like Derek’s everything just does something to him. And Derek mad - jealous, even - because some drunk was throwing himself at him? Yeah, Stiles is man enough to admit his flaws, because that kinda does it for him too, is definitely part of the hot buzz of arousal that's coursing through him, making his mouth water. “I’m glad you’re finally here,” he says when Derek gets close. Stiles wraps his arms around his neck, settling against his chest as Derek gets his arms around his waist, beard tickling his cheek as he kisses hotly against his temple, smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.
“I would have gotten here sooner, but I was too busy sucking your dick.”
“So you’re really not mad,” Stiles asks again, falling to his knees as he pushes Derek against the side of the house. The grass is wet and will probably stain his pants; he’s sure that will make Derek like them even more.
“That you announced to a room full of people that I like sucking your dick? I’m pretty sure most people have probably figured that out by now.” Derek’s hands fall to his head, tug at his hair a bit.
Stiles gets Derek’s jeans open with his teeth, laughs as he licks the thick line of dark hair underneath his belly button. There’s a din of music and loud voices coming from inside, but here, in the narrow strip of grass between the side of the house and the fence, it feels quiet, secluded. He gets Derek’s jeans down around his hips, sliding his boxer briefs down too, freeing his cock, hard and flushed already. Stiles licks his lips, hungry for it.
Derek fits his hand along Stiles’ jaw, runs a thumb over his lip and looks down at him, smiling softly. “When we get home,” he whispers, voice scratchy, “I’m going to ruin you.”
Stiles groans and palms at his dick through his pants as he falls forward, burrowing his face in Derek’s groin, breathing him deep before taking both of his heavy, softly bristled balls into his mouth, pressing his tongue against them and sucking gently. When Derek’s broken moans start turning into sobs, he takes pity on him, pulls off with a wet pop.
He tries to smirk up at him, but Derek’s too fast, his thumbs at the corners of his mouth already, leaking cockhead sliding across his lips. “Please,” he begs. “Please Stiles, let me fuck your mouth, your perfect goddamn mouth.”
Stiles answers by swallowing him down, relaxing his jaw the best he can, hands reaching up to cup Derek’s ass, taking him deep. His eyes water but he doesn’t gag, focuses on breathing through his nose, basking in the rich salty taste of him. Derek’s thrusts are small but sure, hard little groans shaking from his chest, hands clutching Stiles’ head reverently.
It’s not long before Derek’s rutting harder, gasping. “Gonna come,” he warns, and Stiles squeezes his ass harder and hums around his cock, swallowing just as Derek starts to spill down his throat. He sucks him all the way through it, mouth dripping when he finally pulls away, hands scrambling for his own dick.
Still on his knees, he frees himself and spits into his palm, makes quick work of getting himself off, his spit and Derek’s come hot on his cock as he spurts all over the grass, the hand not furiously stroking himself wrapped around Derek's muscular thigh, holding himself up, sloppy mouth pressed against his jeans, hands tender and soft in his hair.
They manage to slip back inside to the bathroom to clean up before rejoining the party, finding Danny and Ethan in the living room talking to Erica and Lydia. They tell him that Allison got Scott home safely only after being reassured several times that Stiles was okay. "More than okay," Stiles says, kissing Derek's cheek. A few of Derek’s teammates have shown up too, so they decide to stay for a bit longer.
Derek is practically glued to Stiles’ side, hauling him onto his lap when he moves to sit on the couch, murmuring into his neck and biting his earlobe, kissing him at every opportunity. Stiles thinks it might have something to do with the fact that Jackson and his date are still here, probably stubbornly trying to save face or something. They’ve both been glaring at them since they came back inside, but they keep their distance.
Until they pass by them on their way out, Jackson’s appraising sneer focused on Derek this time. He’s got his arm hooked around Stiles’ neck, their hands intertwined. Stiles hopes Jackson can see the come stain on Derek’s thigh.
“The beard’s a little much, don’t you think, Hale,” he asks, voice dripping with condescension.
Derek shrugs, smiles. “Stiles likes it.”
A couple of days later, after Danny leaves for Ethan’s for the night, Stiles settles into the couch with a beer from their fridge and a bottle of lube from Derek’s nightstand, ready to start his scheme.
Derek should be done with practice any minute, is probably making his way to the locker room right about now, getting ready for Boyd to massage and ice his arm. Stiles pulls off his sweater and shirt, unzips his khakis halfway, just enough to show that he’s not wearing any underwear.
The memories of Derek’s teasing, utterly wicked and totally, unfairly hot snaps that led to Stiles’ blowing a load underneath his favorite table on the sixth floor of the library are bright in his mind. It’s been a month since Derek returned from that trip, and Stiles has been waiting patiently to get his sweet revenge.
Leaving his glasses on, he leans back against the arm of the couch, tucks the hand not holding the phone behind his head. He smirks and narrows his eyes a bit, a look that never fails to make Derek sigh happily and kiss him. He angles the camera just enough to show that he’s shirtless, catching one hard pink nipple. at your place. gonna start without you.
He reaches into his pants to palm his dick, picturing what Derek’s face might look like when he opens the snap. He’ll be in the locker room, getting undressed to shower probably, maybe talking to his teammates. Stiles wants to distract him, make him stutter and blush. He strokes himself until he’s good and fat, shifts his hips and angles his dick up so it’s half sticking out of his pants. He rests the phone just above his belly button, getting the path of dark hair that Derek likes to come across, lets his index finger tease at his slit. I have a surprise for you.
Unzipping all the way, he shoves his pants further down his hips, fully freeing his cock, grabbing for the lube. With what he’s got planned for when Derek gets home, he wants to come once now, wants to be able to last as long as he possibly can once he gets his hands on him.
Hand slick, he gets to work jerking himself quickly, videoing his hand sliding up and down his shaft, sending it without a caption. Slowing his movements, he flips over to the saved screenshots of Derek’s snaps from his road trip, gripping himself tighter as he drools a little bit. There’s his sculpted, hairy chest, sweaty from exertion; his wide, uncut cock dripping with syrupy slick; his heartbreakingly perfect face, sleepy-eyed and soft, a ribbon of thick white hanging from his beard. Seriously, if Derek’s baseball career doesn’t pan out, he definitely has a future in porn, because holy fucking shit.
His balls are already aching, tightening, starting to throb. He takes himself right to the edge before scrambling to open snapchat back up, gets his thumb on the button and holds it down. His orgasm rocks through him in quick little bursts, but he manages to steady his hand on his stomach, getting a video of his dick as he spurts hot dribbles that coat his head and pour over his fingers. Stilinski: 1, Hale: 0
He brings the camera back up to his face, adjusts his glasses a bit, licks his fingers and closes his eyes, smiling, snapping another selfie. Grinning, he types a caption and sends it, hoping that Derek watches all the snaps in quick succession. hurry home, baby.
Feeling smug and come-dumb, Stiles doesn’t bother cleaning up, wants to be messy when Derek gets home. Tucking himself back in his pants but keeping them open, he wipes his hand on his stomach and settles back into the wide, comfortable couch, trying not to check his phone too often, waiting for Derek’s inevitable response. He hopes he sends a picture of his exasperated eyebrows, the right one crooked up extra hard, mouth in a half-snarl, half-smile.
Stiles starts to get a little anxious after about twenty minutes go by without a response though. He can see that Derek opened his snaps just minutes after he sent them, is surprised and a little confused that he hasn’t replied already.
The distinct rumble of the Camaro rouses him from his shame spiral, and before he can even decide if he’s relieved or nervous Derek is there, throwing the front door open and slamming it hard behind him. He’s still wearing his practice uniform, hat and everything, even his cleats, which, how in the hell did he drive with those on?
Stiles starts to rise from the couch but Derek is faster, gets across the room in two long strides and then is on him, pinning him down, brim of his hat knocking into Stiles’ glasses as he attacks his mouth with a fevered, hungry kiss. Stiles slides the hat around on his head so it’s backwards, so he can kiss him better, arches up into his dirt-covered clothes, recovering quickly from the surprise.
“You,” Derek pants against his mouth, smiling, “are evil.”
Stiles laughs, anxiety all gone, breathing him in, hands clutching at his back. “Mmm, good thing you love all my evil plans.” Derek hums in agreement while he sucks a hickey into his collarbone, beard – borderline-unruly these days, something about a winning streak – soft in the hollow of his throat. “How’d you get away from Boyd after practice,” he asks, licking up the sweat on his temple, the cap rough against his tongue.
Derek groans into a laugh. “Told him you were having an allergic reaction and that I had to take you to the ER. If he asks, you’re allergic to peanuts, okay?”
“But I love Reese’s!”
Derek just laughs into his chest. “Fine. Then I’ll let you explain yourself to him.”
“Whatever it takes to get you like this.” Stiles kisses him hard, pulling him in close by the neck. “This is even better than I hoped,” he admits, smiling into another kiss. “I like you all sweaty and dirty.”
Derek pulls the glasses from his face, tosses them behind him on to the coffee table without looking. “Speaking of dirty,” he murmurs, falling to his knees on the floor, tongue sloppy and thick, licking the dried come from his stomach. “You made a pretty little mess of yourself for me.” His voice is husky, sexy in a way that only Derek can be, rough and soft, laughing and utterly sincere all at once. Stiles runs his hands down his neck, kneads his fingers into the tender spots behind his ears, smiling when Derek groans and sighs.
“Tell me more about this surprise,” he purrs, nuzzling into his belly. He’s still got the hat on backwards, and Stiles loves it shamelessly, loves how fucking cute he is, loves how much this adorable, brilliant, obscenely strong man can’t seem to get enough of him.
There’s nothing more incredible in the world than Derek looking up at him from under thick dark lashes, green-gold eyes big with lust and love. Stiles presses his thumbs into the sharp lines of his cheekbones before running them over his lips, letting him catch one between his teeth, sucking gently. “You don’t get it yet,” he manages to answer eventually. “You gotta catch up with me first.”
Derek laughs and jumps to his feet in one quick, absurdly athletic motion. “You’re a vixen,” he growls, bending over to pull off his cleats and socks. He yanks off the hat and leans over him, smirking, clapping it down backwards on Stiles’ head. It’s moist with his sweat and too big and he feels ridiculous, snorting lightly, but he loves Derek’s goofy grin as he looks down at him, tugging off his shirt and tossing it to the floor.
Stiles moves to pull off the hat, but Derek stops him with whiny little moan. “Don’t,” he huffs, sliding his pants and underwear down his gorgeously hairy legs, stepping out of them and kicking them aside. He’s wearing a black jockstrap today, fabric straining hard. “You look so cute, keep it on.”
Stiles rolls his eyes, even though he’s smiling just as goofily as Derek is now. “Okay, but this means that next time you’re wearing my glasses.”
“Deal,” Derek smiles, planting a knee on either side of him, caging him in. “Just to make sure I have this right,” he pants, thrusting his hips as Stiles’ fingers wrap around the straps cupping his ass. He pulls hard, letting them snap loudly against his skin. “The sooner I come, the sooner I get this mysterious surprise?”
“That’s the idea. I want you good and relaxed, warmed up and ready for how I’m gonna wreck you.”
“Jesus, Stiles, your fucking mouth,” he groans, freeing his dripping dick from the jock, stroking quickly. His other hand finds the lube and drizzles it over his cock before tossing it aside and then tugging at the low-slung waist of Stiles’ pants, impatient little grunts punctuating his heavy breathing. “I wanna feel you.”
Stiles is starting to get hard again already, shifts his hips up so he can shimmy his pants down around his thighs. Derek adjusts him how he wants, settling his warm, sweat-sticky cleft around Stiles’ cock, letting him slide between his cheeks as he ruts into his hand. Derek falls forward to catch his mouth in a sloppy kiss, hips snapping harder.
His hands twist into the straps and pull hard enough to change the pace of his thrusts, to make Derek collapse with bubbling laughter against his neck. He untangles one hand so he can help Derek finish, entwining his fingers with his along his flushed shaft, licking at his sweaty hair.
Stiles knows by the shape of his mouth and the timbre of his moans that he’s about to come, so he scoots down the couch a bit, taking away the friction of his dick against his ass but giving him his mouth, getting far enough under him to open wide just as Derek starts to spill, his silky hot come puddling on his tongue. Stiles wraps his mouth around his head, sucking the last of his orgasm out of him, spit and come seeping from the corners of his mouth as he slavers over his slit, dizzy with the bittersweet taste of him.
Derek pulls away from him with a whine, falls next to him on the couch with a heavy thud. “Goddamn, look at you,” he mumbles, hand going up to pet at the hat, still on backwards but askew, running his fingers through the mess on his chin. Derek looks sleepy, eyes heavy, mouth soft and open.
“Don’t quit on me now, Hale. We’re just getting started.”
“Is this…?” Derek lifts the double-ended dildo from the box, sparkly purple silicone bouncing slightly in his big hands.
Stiles answers with a smile and a questioning raise of his eyebrows, heart pounding a bit. “I figured since, you know, we both like bottoming so much, it’d be fun to…you know, do it together,” he chews at his lip a bit, searching Derek’s face for his reaction.
When he finally looks up from the toy in his hand, his eyebrows are up but he’s smiling. “Purple,” he laughs. “Glitter.”
“It was the prettiest one,” Stiles exclaims, leaning over to kiss his smile. They’re in Derek’s room now, naked and wrapped up in each other on the bed. “So, is this something you want to try?”
Derek answers him with a kiss, the flexible dildo rubbing against Stiles’ stomach as his hands grapple at his waist.
“It’s washed and ready to go,” Stiles says into his ear, licking at the lobe, smirking at Derek’s answering groan.
They make quick work of readying each other, filling the room with their laughs and moans and sweet declarations, fingers slipping and sliding and stretching. “How do you want to do this,” Derek asks when they’re both three-fingers wide.
“I was thinking on our backs, maybe? Does that sound –“
“Yes.” Derek kisses him again, lube-shiny hands cradling his jaw before falling to tease at Stiles’ nipples, eyes dark and hot, sucking a mark into his chest before pulling away.
They get situated with their heads on opposite corners of the bed, legs splayed wide, Stiles’ thighs notched over Derek’s, feet by each other’s heads, wet, stretched holes almost touching. It should feel awkward, and maybe it does but they don’t care, are too busy smiling softly as they lock eyes and reach for each other. Distantly, in the less-manic part of his brain that is still slightly capable of logical thoughts at the sight of Derek, naked and open and spread wide, Stiles thinks maybe that’s what love really is.
He slicks both ends of the dildo with lube, probably using more than they really need, feeling the heat of Derek’s eyes on his every move. “You ready,” he asks softly, smiling when Derek answers by sighing and turning his head to kiss his ankle, big hand curling around his calf.
Watching Derek’s tight, pink pucker open and take the dildo like his whole body is thirsty for it would be enough to make Stiles come right then and there if he hadn’t gotten off earlier. He presses the toy into him, grateful for his forethought, reaching up his other hand to pet at Derek’s cock. Derek’s breathing a little heavily, hand squeezing tighter around his leg, entrance clasping. Stiles tears his eyes away from that unspeakably erotic sight to the equally devastating shape of Derek’s mouth, red and twisted between his uneven teeth. Slowly, maybe the slowest, most controlled he’s ever moved, he fucks him with the toy, basking in the way his obscenely chiseled abs flex and roll as he twitches, powerful body taut, quivering.
“Stiles,” he grits through his teeth, reaching to stop the movement of his hand on his dick.
He wants to say something clever, something teasing and playful, but he can’t find the words, is too stunned that he gets to have this, wants too badly to be feeling exactly what Derek is right now.
He pulls the dildo out of Derek a bit, lies back down and gets comfortable, Derek’s hands still anchored to his calves. Shifting his hips to get lined up, he reaches between them and guides the other end of the toy towards his hole, moaning at the sweet-soft burn as it pushes him open, his body taking it as eagerly as Derek’s. He bears down, scooting closer to Derek and taking his end deeper, both of them gasping and grunting now. It’s fucking unreal, how hot this is, feeling so full, the firm head of the dildo teasing his prostate, knowing that Derek’s right there with him, connected in this new way, feeling just as full, every twitch and thrust felt by them both.
After awhile, Derek sits straight up, graceful even with a dildo in his ass, another move that makes Stiles shamelessly grateful for his easy strength and athleticism. He leans his weight on his hands and throws his head back, hips rutting and cock leaking, each thrust rocking the toy deeper into both of them, Stiles going dizzy with hot pleasure.
Derek reaches over with one hand to grip Stiles’ cock, eyes locking on his as he strokes messily, trying to find a rhythm while still rolling his hips. His eyes are dark and narrow, like he’s about to lose control but is holding on, is intent on making Stiles come first. Stiles is so close, so fucking close, especially with Derek looking at him like that, like he knows that Stiles had set out to wreck him tonight but not now, it’s Derek that’s ruining him with every squeeze and stroke and thrust and heated look and flutter of his eyes.
Derek laughs bit, sweat starting to shine on his chest, and Stiles realizes that he’s been talking, for how long who the fuck knows, but his mouth has been spilling every worshipful thought as he lies back in a daze, fucking and getting fucked, Derek’s hand working hard on his throbbing dick. Stiles laughs too, isn’t embarrassed, wants Derek to know exactly what he does to him.
His orgasm surges through him with blistering pulses, body clenching and arching, gushing thickly onto Derek’s straining and flushed cock. Stiles is out of it for a minute, eyes rolling back in his head with how good he feels, with the noise Derek makes, with his broken, growly, “oh fuck yes, Stiles.”
When he comes back to himself, he’s still on his back, legs spread but empty, gaping, the dildo gone. Derek is on top of him then, kissing him forcefully, tongue fucking hard into his mouth. And then Derek’s pressing into him, Stiles’ hands scrabbling at his back to spur him on, body loose from coming, pulling him in eagerly.
The dildo had felt good, so fucking good, but Derek feels even better, hot and alive and slick with Stiles’ come, rutting into him hard and fast. Derek is wild and fevered, lost in his body, chasing his orgasm with a fervor that Stiles has never seen from him before. His face is buried in his neck now, mouth hot and teeth biting, one arm hooked around his shoulder, the other reaching up to pull at his hair. Stiles feels like he’s melting, dissolving with the pure pleasure he feels, aftershocks of his orgasm still twitching through him as Derek fucks relentlessly, his cock still mostly hard, sensitive and twitching as it rubs against the granite wall of Derek’s abs.
Stiles drops his hands to his ass, wants to pull him in even closer, harder. He gasps when he feels the warm silicone still wedged between his cheeks, losing his mind just a little bit to realize that Derek is fucking him like there’s no tomorrow with the dildo still in his perfect ass. Stiles keeps his hand flat, runs it over his cleft to nestle the toy between his fingers, holding it in place, pressing it in a just a little farther.
Derek bites hard into his neck when he comes, shuddering and groaning, slamming into him and stilling, sobbing a bit as he fills him up. He goes still, body limp, dense weight pressing Stiles heavily to the bed, cock buried, warm come leaking between them.
Stiles can’t bring himself to move, smiling into Derek’s shoulder where it’s pressed against his mouth, both of them equally wrecked.
Later, after they eat and shower and crawl back into bed, Derek settles on his stomach, sighing with contentment when Stiles rests his head on his back. He looks down his body, admiring his elegant slopes, dotting his fingertips into the dimples at the base of his spine, runs his fingers up the curve of his ass and back down again, smiling. He’ll never get tired of admiring him like this, of the delicious little thrill it gives him just to touch him.
“Do you think it will always be like this,” he mumbles into his back before moving back to the pillow to look at Derek’s sleepy face.
“Yeah,” Derek answers, eyes half-closed, hand reaching up to pet at his hair. “I know it will.”