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Taste The Bright Lights

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“No. No. Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“Because Derek Hale is a dick.”

“Yeah, but—”

“What?”

“You’re a dick as well.”

Stiles sticks his tongue out at Scott, passing the bottle of vodka over. “Why does he want to work with me?”

“Fuck if I know. Aren’t you talented or something?”

“Shut up,” Stiles says, laughing at Scott swaying on the couch. “Do I have to do it? I’m successful, I don’t have to work with people like him. Stupid 80s throwback dickhead.”

“Like I haven’t caught you staring at his photo shoots.”

“So he’s hot. Whatever. I judge anyone who wears tight leather pants. It’s 2013.”

Scott protests loudly when Stiles snatches the vodka bottle back, the tip of his sneakers barely connecting with Stiles’ leg. “I hate you.”

“Your wife will hate me more if you pass out on my sofa again. I’m calling you a cab, buddy.”

*

“Did you decide?”

“Scott?” Stiles enlarges the photos Rolling Stone commissioned for their Miley cover and squints at the screen. “Decide on what?”

“Derek Hale.”

“Ugh. When does he want to come in?”

“His manager said as soon as possible.”

He hates the photo that Rolling Stone will likely choose and thinks about not letting them see it, but his desire to keep in their good graces wins out. Maybe Miley has copy approval and will overrule them. He can only dream.

“Stiles?”

“Yeah, okay. Call Isaac, he can find some time for the Lord High of Dickishness to come in.”

*

“Stiles, Derek Hale is booked to come in Tuesday at three. He said he’s fine with a studio shoot and has no special requests. Look, I know you said he was a dick, but he seemed like an okay guy to me. Remember that GQ needs the suit photos by the end of the week, so can you please make a final decision or else they’re going to be up my butt. Bye.”

*

“So I heard you don’t like my client.”

Stiles has had just about enough of everyone trying to get him to believe Derek Hale is a good guy. Ignoring Erica, he motions to Boyd to get ready for whatever make up Derek wants done.

“Hey, Stilinski. Seriously, why don’t you like him?”

“None of your business.”

Her red lips twist into a smirk, her JC boots tapping against the hardwood floor of his studio. “Touchy. I know you didn’t fuck him, so it’s not a bitter one night stand thing.”

“It was a long time ago, okay? Now will you fuck off so I can set up?”

A shadow spills across the lens when he finishes speaking and Stiles knows, just knows, that Derek arrived in time to hear that. Erica’s already walked away, her arm threaded through Derek’s as she laughs off Stiles’ remarks.

“Smooth, Stiles. Really fucking smooth,” he mutters under his breath as he finishes setting up.

“Derek wants to talk about what you’re going to do today,” Erica calls over to him.

Folding his arms, Stiles glares over at them. “And Derek has lost the ability to speak?”

“Oh my God, I do not get paid enough to do this shit.” Erica twirls a lock of long blonde hair between her fingers, eyeing him speculatively. “Fuck it. You can both sort this out yourselves. I’ll come back for him when he calls me.”

Stiles’ mouth drops as she turns on her heel, grabs her Birkin bag, and walks out of his studio. Okay, that’s never happened before.

*

Derek’s folded in on himself, the complete opposite of what Stiles thought he’d be dealing with today, and he’s two steps away from tearing his hair out because Derek’s not fucking talking.

“If you don’t tell me what you want from this shoot, all you’re paying for is sitting around in my studio. Which, no skin off my nose, but can you at least tell me if we’re going to get around to shooting today? Because if not, I’ll send Boyd home, I can do some editing and you can call your delightful manager to pick you up.”

Derek’s hands are linked, resting on his black jean clad crotch. “You really don’t like me, do you?”

“Seriously?” Stiles tips his head back and glares at the ceiling for a moment, wondering why he even bothered to let Scott talk him into doing this. So Scott hooked him up with his first successful cover shoot. That doesn’t mean anything. Ugh. Loyalty. It’s Stiles’ biggest weakness, it really is.

“Why?”

“Why do you care that I don’t like you?”

“Because I don’t know you.”

And, that’s it. Stiles is done. “Out.”

Derek’s eyes are wide, his mouth dropping open. “I—what?”

“You heard me. Out.”

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Uh, yeah you are. My studio. I get to decide who—get your dirty feet off my table—stays and you are not someone I want here.” Stiles glances over at Boyd, who is very pointedly not paying attention to them. This is why Stiles likes working with Boyd. Derek’s boots are still resting on the table and Stiles sees red, his foot hitting Derek’s knee with a hard blow.

“What the fuck, Stiles?” Derek cries out, grabbing his knee.

“You weren’t leaving.”

“So you thought assault was the best idea?”

“Apparently so.”

Rubbing his knee, Derek stares up at Stiles. “Seriously, what did I do to you? I—I’m sorry that I don’t remember, but I obviously did something that you can’t get over.”

“Boyd?” Stiles raises his voice slightly. “Take an hour.”

“Whatever you need.”

When he hears the heavy studio door shut, Stiles walks away from Derek, needing to not be near him for this.

“You played my hometown when you were just starting out,” he starts in a low voice. “I was there to take photos, starting to make a local name for myself, but the only camera I had was my mom’s. She’d died a few years before, photography was the only real thing I had that she passed on to me. That camera was all the connection I had.” Stiles stares at the print of his first magazine cover on the wall, sticking his hands in his pockets when he hears Derek get off the couch. “I don’t know what was wrong with you that night, but you lashed out at everyone, you threw shit offstage, you kicked out at the security guards... you were a fucking asshole. Your mic stand hit my camera. Broke it. It couldn’t be fixed. So, yeah, I think you’re a dick. I think your pathetic rockstar tantrums ruined the one thing I had from my mom. And I think I want you gone.”

*

“What the fuck happened with Derek, Stilinski? Why has my client been moping around like he killed puppies? And why did this shoot not happen? FUCK. Why do I have to work with idiots?”

*

“Stiles, Erica’s requested I set up another shoot for Derek since the last one fell through? I booked him in for Friday. If you don’t want it, then... I don’t know, just don’t turn up or whatever. I’m not getting involved.”

*

Fine. Fuck them all. He’ll do the shoot.

*

“Can we talk?” Derek’s hidden behind a sheet as he changes into whatever clothes his stylist put in the bag Erica threw at Derek before she left. Stiles can see the long lines of his body in shadow as he moves around and it’s more appealing than he’d like to admit.

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Stiles.”

“Just go and see Boyd when you’re done.”

A quick glance at the shelf holding his mom’s camera, Stiles takes a deep breath and checks the set, adjusting the chair slightly so it’s angled away from the camera.

“Ready.” Derek walks onto the set and Stiles absolutely does not find it hard to swallow at the sight of him. Leather pants laced up over his crotch, white vest contrasting with his tanned skin and is that eyeliner? Stiles wants to know how much it would cost to take a hit out on Boyd. Derek’s still a dick, Stiles tells himself as he points to the chair and guitar laying on the floor. Still a fucking rockstar asshole.

After firing off some quick test shots, Stiles directs Derek through some basic poses that feel uninspired and boring. He hates that. Wiping his hands on his jeans he walks onto the set, looming over Derek. “These photos suck.”

“I thought you were meant to be good.”

“Cute. There’s no fire in them. Like you don’t want to be here.”

“You hate me, I’m not exactly comfortable with you.”

“Then why the hell did you let Erica book you with me again?”

“I didn’t.”

“What?”

“She did it herself.”

Stiles rubs his fingers against his eyes and shakes his head. “Say what you want to say.”

“I—”

“You obviously think you can excuse what you did, so talk and then we can get on with the shoot.” Turning on his heel, Stiles walks off the set. “Coming?”

Stiles takes the seat behind his workspace because he’s fully aware he’s an asshole and doesn’t really give a shit if Derek is comfortable for this conversation.

“You said you lost your mom. I got both my parents killed. My ex... she wasn’t a nice person. When I broke up with her, she frayed the brake lines in my car. I was meant to be driving it, but my parents took it to visit my sister at college because their car was low on gas. They didn’t know until they were going down the highway and the brakes gave out. It—they died on impact.” Derek’s eyes are shadowed, his lips red from being bitten while he talks. “The night you saw me play, I’d found out that she was being released from the psychiatric unit she was in. That they thought she was rehabilitated. I—there’s no excuse for what I did. I was drunk, I was high and I was a dick. And I’m sorry.” Derek’s eyes flicker towards the shelf. “If I could take back what I did, I would.”

Derek’s shoulders are slumped and Stiles kind of hates himself a lot right now. “Okay,” he says. “You’re forgiven. Let’s get back to work.”

*

“Spread your legs more, rest the guitar between them... yeah, like that.” Derek’s mouth is parted, lips wet, fingers curled around the neck of the white Gibson Les Paul resting against his thighs.

“Is there a reason you’re shooting me like a whore?”

And, fuck, does Stiles ever not need those words coming out of Derek’s mouth. “Sex sells, Derek. Surely you know that by now? Okay, I’m happy with these. Take your top off.”

“What?”

“There’s something I want to try.” He walks into the set and looms over Derek, his hand gripping the warm leather of Derek’s pants as he moves the guitar, not noticing when Boyd takes it from his hand. “Trust me.”

The words barely leave his lips before Derek’s stripping his vest off and, yeah, Stiles can work with this. “Boyd? Touch up his make up, not too much, I want him rough. And get me the spray bottle for later.”

“Spray bottle?” Derek winces.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Derek.”

Boyd snorts as he smears black liquid eyeliner at the very edge of Derek’s eyes, and Stiles grins when Derek purses his lips. Throwing clients off edge is Stiles’ favourite part of his job. That, and the sights he gets to shoot. Tearing his eyes away from Derek, he gets rid of the chair and leans the guitar against the nearest wall, just in reach incase he needs it.

“Done,” Boyd says. “You need me to stick around?”

“No, I think we’ll be okay. You’re listed for The Heavy’s show tonight, aren’t you? Go, have fun, get drunk, get laid, come back and tell me stories on Monday.”

The door shuts, closing off Boyd’s laughter. Removing his camera from the tripod, Stiles takes steady steps towards Derek. “Lie on the floor. On your back.”

Derek’s legs spread easily, the thin silver chain around his neck falling into the hollow of his throat, black hair a stark contrast with the white rug. Stiles stands over him, feet nudging against Derek’s solid thighs, wordlessly pushing him into position as he shoots photo after photo.

“Turn over. Face against the rug, look up at the camera.” The rug tickles Stiles’ bare arms when he joins Derek, all he can see through the lens are Derek’s wrecked eyes, the dark shock of his hair. “Move your right arm, rest your face against it.” And that’s—perfect. It’s fucking perfect.

“Okay.” Stiles scrambles to his feet, dick throbbing in his jeans as he tries to regulate his breathing. “Would you—”

“What?”

“Stand up. I want to. Hold on.” Stiles sprays water across Derek’s chest, hitting the sprinkling of chest hair he has, drops running down his abs. “Unlace your pants.”

“I’m not doing nude shots, Stiles.”

“It’s a tease, Derek. Just, here.” Stiles’ hands ghost against Derek’s stomach, the firm muscle contracting at his touch and, oh, that’s interesting. He does it again, hiding a smirk as he pulls at the laces, undoing them just enough that the tease of dark hair that was visible before turns into a little bit more than that. Enough that Stiles can tell Derek’s at least half hard. “Okay?” Derek’s pupils are blown wide, lips rosy red and Stiles really believes it’s a testament to his professionalism that he’s not on his knees with Derek’s cock in his mouth right now.

The loss of body heat is noticeable when Stiles steps back behind the tripod and snaps a few full length shots so his hands have time to stop shaking.

“On your knees,” he says quietly, biting his lip when Derek obeys immediately. Stiles walks closer, sneakers nudging Derek’s thighs further apart as he steps between them with his camera. “Lean back on your hands, look up at me.” His leg brushes against the bulge in Derek’s pants and the camera captures Derek’s mouth falling open. “Yeah. Just—a few more.”

Derek’s bent all the way back, his crotch to the sky, chest still damp from water and sweat, throat a long expanse of skin Stiles wants to bite. And if Stiles wants to bite it, so will the rest of the world. He ignores his dick pressing against his zipper, ignores the way Derek’s hands are digging into the rug, and fires off the last lot of shots with a mournful sensation. He doesn’t want this to end.

Swallowing around the lump in his throat, he steps away from Derek and puts the camera on his desk. “We’re done.” Derek hasn’t moved from the floor, his legs outstretched, hands resting on his stomach and God, the picture he makes is irresistible. If Stiles were a better person, he wouldn’t be kneeling next to Derek, wouldn’t be reaching a hand out and touching Derek’s heated skin, and he definitely wouldn’t be grazing his fingers through the dark curls above the still unlaced pants.

“Fuck.” Derek’s voice is hushed, his dry mouth clicking as he swallows. It’s all Stiles needs to know he’s not the only one in this, and he tugs at the laces, loosening them until Derek’s cock springs free, thick and curving up towards his stomach. A groan spills from Derek’s mouth when Stiles runs his fingers along the silky smooth skin, his thumb smearing the pre-come beading at the slit.

“I’m gonna—” Stiles ends up between Derek’s legs, his face nuzzling at Derek’s groin, inhaling the musky scent, bracing his hands on Derek’s strong thighs, fingers digging into the leather. Working his tongue up Derek’s cock, Stiles savours the broken moan that Derek makes, his tight grip on the rug making it curl underneath them. Sloppily kissing the head, he teases the tip of his tongue against the slit, backing off a little when Derek bucks his hips. Stiles gets right back down there, sticking his face against Derek’s crotch, nosing at the base of his cock, occasionally opening his mouth to lightly suck at Derek’s balls. It’s fucking intoxicating, Derek’s squirming, the rug beneath them is bunched up from Derek’s constant tugging at it, and all Stiles wants to do is swallow Derek’s cock down.

So he does.

He takes as much of Derek into his mouth as he can without gagging, letting saliva slip down the shaft to his hand, working the rest of Derek’s cock with a firm grip. The sounds spilling from Derek’s mouth are fucking hot, whimpers that are nothing like the image he presents to the world when he’s onstage, whines that tell Stiles he’s falling apart, he’s losing control and all because of Stiles. Stiles wriggles around a little, frees his other hand so he can play with Derek’s balls; if he loses his balance, he’ll end up choking on Derek’s cock, but he doesn’t care. He admits that’s a little fucked up.

The whines coming from Derek’s mouth get more and more strained, his cock growing heavier against Stiles’ tongue. Stiles moves his hands so they’re both working the shaft as he rises up a little, his lips wrapped around the head, tongue circling and licking until finally—finally—Derek’s spunk spurts into his mouth, body arching underneath him. Swallowing as much as he can, Stiles pulls off, letting the rest of Derek’s come spill over his fingers, his eyes travelling up Derek’s sweat drenched body. He makes such a gorgeous image, Stiles’ fingers itch to get his camera, capture Derek spread out on his studio floor, cock softening, come smeared across his groin, chest heaving as he catches his breath.

Derek’s fingers clumsily grab at Stiles, tugging until Stiles crawls up Derek’s body, until they’re face to face, flushed faces staring at each other. The eyeliner Boyd put on Derek is smudged beyond repair, dark tracks run down the side of Derek’s face, Stiles presses his thumb against the mess, smearing it even more. Derek laughs, “What’re you doing?”. His hands slip underneath Stiles’ shirt, calloused fingers rubbing against Stiles’ hot skin.

“Making you look like Alice Cooper.” Stiles smirks, repeating the action on the other side of Derek’s face.

“Got a thing for old rockstars?”

“Maybe got a thing for young rockstars.” He stares down at Derek, not quite believing he said that, and not wanting to take it back at all.

“Come here.” One of Derek’s hands cups the back of Stiles’ neck, and Stiles gladly tips his head forward until their lips meet, his arms resting on the floor around Derek’s head, fingers tangling in Derek’s sweaty hair. Tongues sliding against each other, Stiles groans in appreciation as Derek seeks out his taste in Stiles’ mouth. He’s keenly aware of his hard cock still trapped in his jeans and he rolls his hips, kissing Derek with an urgency he hasn’t felt in a stupidly long time.

“Derek can you—I don’t want to come in my pants.” Stiles pulls back a little, his mouth still resting against Derek’s. Sucking Derek’s bottom lip into his mouth, he bites down for a moment before rolling off Derek.

“What do you want?” Derek’s fingers are on Stiles’ jeans, unbuttoning them and tugging the zipper down, hands pawing at Stiles boxers.

“Any—fuck,” Stiles yelps when Derek gets a hand around his cock. “Anything, anything just do it, oh fuck.” He’s so turned on his cock is practically leaking pre-come, and Derek’s smearing it all the way down his cock, a firm and steady grip, and Stiles can’t help bucking up into his hand. The rough calluses on Derek’s fingers stop him from shooting his load when Derek meets his eyes and kisses him, open mouths falling against each other, breath mingling as Derek works him. “Derek, Derek, gonna—”

Derek kisses him, resting their foreheads together, eyeliner across his face. “I got you,” he whispers, and it’s that which sends Stiles over the edge. He comes with a cry, tears prickling the corners of his eyes because he’s so fucking overwhelmed.

“I think I’m going to have to throw the rug out,” he says when he comes back to himself, the rug sticking to his ass, Derek nestling against him, laughing quietly. Derek’s hands are roaming underneath Stiles’ t shirt, fingers ghosting over his nipples. “What was this?” Stiles wants to kick himself in the balls for asking that question now, with Derek a warm weight beside him.

“I—what do you want it to be?” Derek’s hands still their movement, but don’t leave Stiles’ skin.

“More than this,” Stiles admits quietly, his heart pounding against his ribcage.

“Okay,” Derek says, leaning over and kissing Stiles like it’s that easy.

*

“Nice work, Stilinski.” Erica taps a purple coated fingernail against the cover of Spin, Derek’s half naked form staring up at them from the magazine.

“I know. What do you want, Erica?”

“I’ve got a proposition for you.”

“Not sure if you know this, but I’m sleeping with your boss, and I’m pretty sure neither of us want to share.”

“First off, I’m Derek’s boss and don’t ever think otherwise. Second, as if. You’re cute, but you’re not that cute.”

Stiles raises his eyebrows and looks at the platinum records on the walls of Erica’s office. “At least you admit I’m cute.”

“What’s your schedule like through August?”

“That’s... why?”

“Answer the question, Stiles.”

“There’s things I can move around. Some I can’t.”

Erica leans back in her chair, wide grin on her face. “How do you feel about joining Derek on tour as the official photographer? And, before you think I’m only asking because you’re boning my client, know that I’d ask any photographer who got those shots.”

“This was always your plan, wasn’t it? You booked Derek with me as a test, to see if we could work together.”

“I booked Derek with photographers who I thought would get him past the usual, boring standing by a wall shots. I wanted something new for him, you just happened to be the top of my list. Besides,” Erica twists her lips into a smirk. “You can’t tell me you didn’t get something out of this as well. You’re talented, Stiles, you know this, I know this. If you were simply Derek’s boyfriend, I wouldn’t be asking you if you wanted this. So do us all a favour and take the damn job.”

“Does Derek know about this?”

“Derek knows I’m asking. It’s not his idea. Talk to him about it if it’ll make you feel better, but I’m already drawing up the contract because you’re going to say yes.”

*

“Do you want me with you on the road?” are the first words out of Stiles’ mouth when Derek answers the phone.

“Is this a trick question? Do you not—you spoke to Erica, right?”

“Yes, I spoke to Erica.” Stiles brushes past the tourists clogging up the sidewalk, ducking into a side street to take a moment. His head brushes against the concrete wall behind him, Derek’s breathing coming down the line a comfort. “Do you want me with you?”

“I want you happy.”

“That’s not an answer, Derek.” Stiles slips his hand into his pocket and watches people in business attire rush around.

“I don’t want you to do this because of me.”

“If it wasn’t because of you I wouldn’t have this offer. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, Derek. I want to do this.”

“I know.”

“Asshole.”

“Back at you.”

Stiles smirks in spite of himself. “How’s Michigan?”

“Cold. I’m back tomorrow night.”

“Is that a request for something?” He walks along the sidewalk, shaking his head when he sees a large display of Spin on a newsstand.

“That’s a request for you in my bed tomorrow night,” Derek says bluntly.

“Demanding. Tell me more.”

“I—shit—I’ve got to go.”

“Life of a rockstar.”

There’s a pause, the background noise coming from Derek’s end vanishing. “Stiles, sign the contract Erica offers you, okay? I want you with me on the road. Full access. It’ll—I’m coming, fucking hold on—you can put together a fucking coffee table book with the photos, whatever you want. Just. Come with me.”

“I’m gonna jerk off in your bed tonight.” Stiles says conversationally, laughing when Derek groans down the line.

“You’re a fucking asshole. I have to go and do an interview.”

“Try not to talk about my dick.”

“Not helpful. Shit, I really have to go.”

“So go.”

*

The photos from soundcheck are uploading onto Stiles’ Macbook and Stiles—Stiles is face down over the side of the couch, clothes discarded in a corner of the room, Derek a satisfying weight on top of him, hips bruising Stiles’ ass as he fucks into him. Backstage noises fade away to nothingness underneath Derek’s relentless thrusts, the fabric of the couch rubbing against his skin, Stiles’ fingers digging into the dirty cushions.

“Keep this—fuck—up, and you won’t have any energy onstage.”

Derek’s hot breath hits the back of Stiles’ neck, laughing, his lips brushing against the skin. “I’ll risk it.”

Blunt teeth scrape across Stiles’ neck, Derek’s hands gripping at Stiles’ hips, using his strength to lift him up enough so he can wrap one hand around Stiles’ cock. “Oh, fu-uck, yes. Please,” Stiles sobs when Derek slams into him, his hand jerking Stiles, thumb ghosting across the head.

“Please, what?”

“Make me come, you fucker.” Stiles’ moan turns into a whine when Derek twists his wrist, once, twice, and on the third twist Stiles’ come spills over Derek’s hand, drops falling onto the arm of the couch. The loud skin on skip slapping sound echoes in the room as Derek keeps fucking him, any elegant rhythm he once had lost in the need to get off. Derek’s hands run down Stiles’ arms, linking their fingers together tightly, squeezing as he stutteringly slams into Stiles, groaning and gasping as he comes.

Stiles basks in the afterglow for approximately 20 seconds before he detangles his hands from Derek’s and elbows him in whatever body part he hits. “Get off me, dickhead,” he says fondly. “This couch is disgusting.” Wincing as Derek pulls out, he turns over, slumping to the floor, come and lube uncomfortably mixing together as he watches Derek tie off the condom and toss it in the trash.

“Hey.” Derek joins him on the floor, pushes his face against Stiles’ temple and kisses his face over and over, his beard scratching lightly against Stiles’ skin.

“There’s a shower in here, right?” Stiles’ fingers run along the expanse of Derek’s thighs, scraping his fingernails through the hair, leaving red lines in his wake.

“Uh.”

“Derek.”

“It’s down the hall,” Derek mumbles into Stiles’ neck.

“I really hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

*

Stiles readies his camera, the braying crowd behind him reaching a fever pitch when the lights go out, the intro tape starting. They’re screaming, sections of the crowd chanting Derek’s name, occasional high pitched yells breaking through. Then the lights go up, and Derek’s in the middle of the stage, guitar slung around his neck as he stalks towards the mic stand. A grin crosses Stiles’ face as he holds his camera up, capturing the wink Derek shoots his way before he launches into the first song.

Asshole. Utter asshole. Stiles kind of loves him.