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Jackpot

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Derek could swear it was not his fault. He had been trying to cook, a perfectly harmless activity. He had picked the tomatoes and onions he’d need to slice for his sauce (the garlic being already properly prepared) when Stiles sauntered into the kitchen, phone in hand.

 

“See -- you’re a lucky man. Erica says you’ve hit the love life jackpot.”

 

The irony of it wasn’t lost on Derek. He merely raised an eyebrow, looking at Stiles. The younger man shook the phone in front of his face, the group chat clearly open. Derek hated the damn thing. Lydia had said it would be a good way to exchange information and keep the intimacy of the pack while they were scattered in different cities because of college. As he always worried a bit too much, he had agreed. The thing was, really, that most of the time there was nothing of substance being said, just teen -- well, young adult, he supposed -- angst and pure chit-chat.

 

Derek wasn’t a person who enjoyed chit-chat.

 

Stiles, on the other hand, could turn the most serious and relevant conversations into it, and naturally he spent a big part of the day babbling on it, much to Derek’s chagrin.

 

(“Babbling? I don’t think you can babble without speaking.”

 

“You manage it.”

 

“No -- no. You may say flooding. I flood a lot, it’s true - but not babble. Don’t say I blabble, people will think I’m one of those weirdos that send voice messages.”

 

“Because no one can understand anything when you do.”

 

“My diction is perfect, I’ll have you know that there are some people who find the way I speak adorable. Honestly, this classmate of mine...”)

 

It wasn’t endearing at all. It as annoying.

 

The same way it was annoying that Stiles was then turning him and stealing a kiss, slithering himself between Derek and the counter, stalling the whole cooking process. Stiles threw his arms around the werewolf’s neck and kissed him.

 

It would have been rude not the return the kiss.

 

(That Derek was usually rude and had never done or stopping doing things because of it was not something he was about to confront right then).

 

“You lucky, lucky man” Stiles said again, giving Derek a loud kiss on the cheek.

 

“Really?” Derek asked, with an amount of humor he couldn’t have imagined having when referring to this a few years before -- a whole life before. “How, can you tell me, was my love life lucky, like, ever? I think the foundation of this whole pack lies on how terrible, terrible -- I cannot stress it enough -- terrible my decisions on this area were.”

 

“True” conceded Stiles, and stopped for a moment to remind the group of just that, arms still hooked around Derek’s body as he typed over his shoulder, enunciating each word. The werewolf huffed, extremely bothered that he wasn’t preparing dinner -- and he would surely be hungry soon -- but made no move to untangle himself.

 

(He didn’t want to hurt Stiles’ feelings, and god knew the boy would sail through some of the harshest insults as if it were nothing only to take offence at unexplainable things).

 

“But, to answer your question” Stiles continued, as he finished typing. “Now. You’re lucky now. I’m your love-life jackpot.”

 

“Right” Derek said with a snigger. “A college student with ADD and a cop for a dad, seven years younger than me and who doesn’t let me cook in peace but will moan and be insufferable when there is no food” he knew his voice was heavy with irony, but Stiles was used to it; it was their basic form of communication, sarcasm and irony, almost a private language in which they were fluent as a “couple” -- well, may well be the very reason they were a couple (of sorts). “Yeah. Jackpot.”

 

That made the guy giggles. Gone were the days Stiles thought he was scary or imposing -- and in that moment, Derek missed those days terribly.

 

“Of course I am” he said, still smiling and kissing his cheek again. “Erica says I meet all the criteria. After all, I’m funny…”

 

“...or think you are…”

 

“Good in bed…

 

“How would she even know that?” he growled and was ignored.

 

“... and I’m completely crazy about my boyfriend.”

 

That silenced Derek, killed any sort of dark, possessive feelings that had threatened to come to the surface with the previous sentence. That, of course, meant also that Stiles had more opportunity to ramble.

 

“And Erica says that everything anyone ever wants in a guy, so -- BAM. You’re in love with your jackpot. No -- wait -- that makes no sense; I’m the jackpot because I am in love with you; wait -- no -- this is…”

 

But Derek couldn’t wait or care less about the conclusion of that sentence because -- well, he might have suspected, imagined, smelled, but Stiles had never said those words before, they had never defined what on earth was going on with them besides sex and food -- and suddenly there was nothing he could do to silence the growl being torn out of his chest or the hot, burning feeling in his belly that made his eyes flash red and his mouth move to capture Stiles’s in a kiss that already started as filfhy and demanding. Derek licked more than kissed, an order of Stiles’s lips to open, plunging inside mercilessly, swallowing the moan that floated out of his throat. It was his; his; his -- his to hear and his to have, his very own creation. He bit the other man’s lower lip and was rewarded with more sounds of pleasure, with arms pulling him closer and he was completely and totally gone, drowning in the moment.

 

For a long while, it was all that there was to it -- kissing and being kissed, exploring, feeling, tasting, until Stiles hooked his leg around Derek’s own leg, sliding through it as he moved up, bringing their hips closer together. There was no mistaking the hardness poking at this bone, or what caused it. It was all him -- all his.

 

Stiles rubbed himself on him shamelessly and Derek allowed it, his lips travelling down to explore the younger man’s body, to rub his stubble against his neck, enjoying how it made his boyfriend both ticklish and shivering at once, before he started licking and sucking around each one of the moles that peppered the pale skin, sinking his teeth around it, not caring in the slightest if there would be a mark.

 

There should be a mark -- a sign -- a whole billboard to warn people that this -- Stiles -- was his and his alone.

 

Derek didn’t even know how it had happened -- but he was back to kissing Stiles mouth, his hands working to open his pants, pulling them down. Stiles laughed a bit as they tangled around his knees and needed to hold himself on the counter. Derek took a step back, out of Stiles’s arms, allowing him to properly remove his pants. He observed for a while, taking how beautifully the navy boxers clang to his (newly declared) boyfriend’s hips, delineating the form of his cheeks, the line of his hard cock -- and licked his lips in anticipation.

 

“This has to go” he groaned, pulling the elastic down, and Stiles laughed, but complied.

 

“This is not very sanitary…”

 

“OFF” Derek repeated, and he knew his eyes had just flashed red again from the way Stiles’ pupils suddenly were blown wide with lust.

 

He was never fast enough, so Derek just had to help. He circled his boyfriend, stopping behind Stiles and kissing his nape, while his fingers sank inside the boxer, pulling it down. He kissed down Stiles’s back, passing his lower lip through them as his right hand circled to take hold of the freed cock. He smiled with the moan that followed, the moving of hips, desperate for friction.

 

“Any complaints?” he whispered against Stiles’ ear, and he just whimpered.

 

“Derek…”

 

He knew he was out of control as he pulled down the front of his sweatpants, allowing his own hardness to be out, the warmth of Stiles skin tantalizingly close. He pulled himself down with his left hand while Stiles kept on moving against his right one, using all concentration he had -- but he couldn’t do what he wanted if the younger man didn’t stop, so he just let go of Stiles, holding his hip firmly as he guided his dick to nest itself under the swell of his boyfriend’s ass.

 

So soft. So warm. Derek bit Stiles’s shoulder, taking a deep breath. He needed -- he loved the feeling of holding Stiles’s cock in his hand, the way it filled it, his fingers so completely wrapped around it, pressing it, controlling it, feeling his pulse, the way his muscles were taut, the wetness that leaked out of it into his hand, the obvious desire -- this was for him as much as it was for Stiles, with his shaky breaths and slower moves.

 

And yet -- yet, he wanted more than that, he wanted to see him sob with want, he wanted to feel Stiles all around him, and he wanted it now. He tried to still himself, to keep his head clear, to give him a caressing brush of fingers through the hips before his hands spread his boyfriend’s cheeks and gave him access to his hole. Derek knew he could have just pushed in, but this boy -- this man, now -- was his, and he’d have all he could. He circled the area with his finger, once, twice, three times until Stiles called his name with a sort of desperation that spoke of need. Even the, he pushed his finger in tantalizingly slowly, bending him more with his left hand as his right one was otherwise engaged.

 

He knew he was giving into his not-so-human instincts as he licked the man’s shoulder and neck, but he smelled delicious and tasted even better -- urge, desperation, desire -- and plain need once he curled his finger to brush the sensitive area inside. Derek chuckled and Stiles, who was usually so good-humoured, just huffed in impatience.

 

“More” he demanded, and Derek loved that, he loved that even in a situation like this Stiles could be bossy, demand back, not simply lay there and take it, but to push back with body and words at once.

 

He couldn’t deny Stiles anything.

 

(That, at least, had always been true).

 

It was too much and not enough the rubbing of his skin on his dick, and Derek just held himself in his hand for a moment, as he pulled off his finger, before pushing in, sinking deliciously into the cramped, eager heat of Stiles. The other man yelped in surprise, before letting out a small moan and pushing back.

 

“Yes…” he whispered, trying to turn in for a kiss, but they were too far apart. “Oh, Derek…”

 

He needed no more than that to move, going deeper and deeper, still working as slow as he could. His boyfriend hissed, throwing his head back and raising his left leg to step on the barely open drawer, giving him better access as he finished moving inside, his body flushed against Stiles’s, his mouth back on his nape. For a moment, the two of them didn’t move, apart from the licks and bites Derek was spreading through the neck and shoulder ahead of him, until Stiles got tired of waiting and pushed, urging him to move.

 

He pulled almost all the way back out before slamming in again, ripping a loud moan out of the younger man. Derek chuckled, holding his hip, moving faster and faster, chasing the pleasure and the warmth of Stiles’s body; his hand back to the work of holding his hips still until he felt his leg was about to explode from the movement and he held still.

 

“Wait” Derek ordered, before moving backwards and half-leaning, half-sitting on the kitchen’s table.

 

“Gross” Stiles said, analysing the situation, but Derek was too far gone to care, all thoughts of dinner having disappeared from his head -- all that mattered was Stiles, and having him, and marking him, and wrapping him in his scent while he was held close in his body.

 

The complaint wasn’t serious, though, and after shuffling Derek’s legs to the sides and positioning himself, Stiles sunk back in, wonderfully, fully, his outer thighs nested inside Derek’s inner ones, their soft, silky skin sliding through his and his dick disappeared inside. Stiles leaned back, his head resting for a moment against Derek’s shoulder before Derek ran his fingers through the strand of hair (smooth, so smooth) and grabbed a fistfull of it, yanking it back, moving his head for a kiss that was all tongues and pushing and led Stiles to start moving again.

 

It was a sight to behold, the flushed skin, Derek’s hand possessively on his hip, strong enough to leave a bruise, as the fingers from his other hand wrapped themselves back around Stiles’s cock, flush and firm and marvellous, just the perfect fit for him. It was a moment to remember, as Stiles flailed, lost, not knowing which sensation he was about to chase, sinking in only to push back forwards, quick and hard and dirty as a litany of words that made little sense but with an unmistakable tone of a lust haze were spilled in true Stiles fashion.

 

Didn’t take long for it to be too much, for Stiles to cry out, pulsing and spurting, spilling all over the place, over Derek’s fingers, his ass clenching around Derek and -- yes, he might be past thirty, but he was only human  (ish)-- and he came, blind and hard, deep into Stiles as the younger man held his hand, pulling it up, away from his spent body and into his hungry lips, licking it clean.

 

Jesus Christ, the boy was filthy.

 

And Derek loved it, loved him, loved every single second.

 

It was after -- long after, after they were back from their high; after Derek had cleaned the mess around them and both of them had showered; after Stiles had already moved back to his assignment and when the food was (finally) almost ready that Derek finally responded to Stiles comment.

 

“Jackpot indeed.”

 

Stiles just smiled, short and sweet like he’d do once in awhile (but not when anyone was looking, not when anyone could see, private, personal, open -- his) and kissed his mouth lightly.

 

“I know” he agreed, looking at him from under his eyelashes (that boy was going to be the death of him). “I hit it too.”

 

And there was nothing to be done but smile.

 

(Well, not true. There was Stiles do be done, again, later that night and damn, this rambling thing was contagious or what? Would he have it forever if he kept on with Stiles? Somehow, now, he didn’t really worry about it anymore).