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Stiles has been here a grand total of three days, aware of the sounds of life from the neighboring beach condo, before he actually sees his neighbor. Being a night owl by nature, Stiles has actually been awake going on thirty hours, blinking blearily at the sun rising over the watery horizon, and the sunlight bleeds yellow and orange around a figure moving slowly through different yoga poses on the porch.
“Huh,” he says, sipping at his coffee as the sunlight turns the man’s hair into a messy halo.
He watches for long enough to get the impression of lean muscle, catches the shape of sunglasses and long limbs, and a flexibility that invites envy and arousal in equal measure.
//
It’s not stalking if he barely has to leave his front door, right? And he really does enjoy the sea air, even if he has to stay awake for stupidly long periods to time it right (or worse, get up early). The guy either hasn’t noticed him or just doesn’t care that there’s a bleary-eyed grad student inhaling coffee and watching as he stretches and bends in ways that Stiles is definitely gonna be mentally revisiting in the shower later.
Maybe it becomes routine, even comforting in a bizarre sort of way. He stands slumped against the railing some mornings, the sun stroking across his face just like it is on the guy’s bare back and shoulders, on his arms and the pale, lithe lengths of his legs. He ends up pacing his giant mug of precious, perfect caffeine so he’s done at the same time Yoga Guy stands and rolls up his mat, takes a deep breath with it tucked under his arm while he faces off towards the tinfoil glimmer of the ocean.
On the day the guy turns on his way back inside and offers Stiles a tiny smile and an almost too amused two-fingered wave, Stiles literally inhales his last sip, and his response (which would’ve been totally suave, shut up) gets lost in a coughing fit.
He’ll have to do better next time.
//
“You should get a mat,” says Yoga Guy. “You can join me, if you want.”
This suggestion comes about in the middle of the routine, after Stiles has shuffled toward the screen door with his coffee and his caution but before the sun has fully risen. It means that Stiles has to answer or risk awkward, embarrassing silence. Stiles is a grad student — an adult. He can totally do this talking thing with older, attractive people that like to rise early and do all kinds of flexible things where everyone can see.
He clears his throat. “That– I, uh. I probably wouldn’t be all that good at it.”
Yoga Guy stretches his arms up up up. Stiles watches him lift one leg and tuck his foot against the opposite knee. A soft noise grunts past his teeth without his meaning to, muffled against the rim of his mug. His neighbor turns his head. Stiles thinks he sees a smile.
“No one’s good at it when they start,” his neighbor says. “I could teach you.”
Stiles laughs softly. “You don’t even know me.”
Yoga Guy drops the pose. “I could get to know you.”
//
If Stiles was right about just one thing, it was that he really is terrible at it.
Yoga Guy’s name turns out to be Deucalion, which all by itself is enough to get Stiles’ inner need to know things chattering away, and that’s before they even get to where he might be from with that accent or how he ended up here. Not to mention the blindness thing, even though Stiles is doing well at not blurting stupid shit about that out so far. Mostly because he spends a lot of time staring like the horniest of horny losers and toppling over. The one kind of leads to the other, if he’s honest.
“You’re getting better,” Deucalion insists, pulling Stiles back to his feet with a hand clasped on Stiles’ forearm. The way it makes the tendons in his arm flex and the muscle under the skin of his shoulder move almost makes Stiles go right back to the deck.
“You’re a terrible liar,” Stiles says, and Deucalion grins before he goes back to nudging Stiles into a pose again. Honestly it’s a wonder Stiles hasn’t an aneurysm or something.
Deucalion tuts at him, his hand stilling in the middle of Stiles’ back. “You’re overthinking,” he says. “It’s making you tense up.”
“You just described eighty percent of my personality,” Stiles mutters, trying to center his weight the way he’s supposed to, which makes him forget about his breathing. Seriously how does anyone do this and find it relaxing?
“Oh I doubt that,” Deucalion says, laughing a little. His hand moves to the small of Stiles’ back, a guiding pressure, and Stiles has never hated the apparent need to be shirtless for this more. “You just need to trust your body, and let your mind quiet down.”
Stiles puffs a laugh between his lips, shaky with the exertion of staying balanced. “My body’s not exactly trustworthy,” he says, his leg trembling under him. “Seriously, it’s a total traitor, just waiting for its chance. And my mind never quiets down, you’d have to hit me in the head with something heavy.”
He wobbles like a spinning top minus the helpful momentum, and Deucalion’s other hand comes up to the middle of his chest, spanning wide and strong. It’s unbearably hot, the feel of long fingers and warm skin on him, and Stiles wishes he’d had to the foresight to jerk off before coming out here, his board shorts aren’t gonna hide a damn thing.
“Well then I’ll have to be vigilant,” Deucalion says, and was he always that close? “And make sure it stays in check.” He’s smiling faintly, liquid orange light glancing off the sweat on his skin, his hair moving slightly in the breeze, and he’s so warm Stiles suddenly thinks his bones are gonna melt, that he’ll have a handprint on his back and his chest when Deucalion finally lets him go, like bookends. Or brands.
“I’d appreciate it,” Stiles says, fighting the urge to cough when it comes out rough.
Deucalion’s smile gets a little wider.
//
He spends so many mornings being touched by Deucalion, getting his stances corrected – and of course, being blind, Deucalion has to touch him to be sure that he’s doing them right, hands smoothing over his skin from his fingertips to his toes. It’s a miracle that he hasn’t chafed his own hand, jerking off so much as soon as they’re done. He wonders if Deucalion knows. Stiles’ has heard things about how a deprivation of one sense means the enhancements of others, and it’s not like the walls of their split beach condo are thick, exactly. It wouldn’t be difficult for Deucalion to notice, if he was listening for it – the sounds Stiles tried to smother against his pillow as he fucked into his fist, with the phantom memory of Deucalion’s touch roving all over his body.
Aside from little tidbits here and there – a smile, a suggestive lilt to his words, a squeeze over his hip… Oh, it’s enough to drive Stiles crazy. He’s sure that he’s not reading things wrong. People don’t just teach other people yoga. They don’t tease Stiles like this. They don’t–
Stiles plops his head down on his kitchen counter, listening to his coffee brew. It’s dark. Any second now, Deucalion will be getting up, rolling out his yoga mat, and calling Stiles out. And here he is, over thinking things again, letting his mind go to crazy places.
“What are you doing, Stiles. Don’t be stupid,” he tells himself, tapping his forehead against the counter for good measure. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.”
Deucalion’s front door swings open, and he steps out sans mat – same tight yoga shorts, flip flops and everything, but he’s got a shirt on. It’s loose, a little wrinkled, open wide at the collar. The sleeves are rolled up to just below the elbow. His hand keeps touch along the wall as he makes his way toward Stiles’ door. “Good morning,” Deucalion says, all sweet English drawl. “I heard your coffee maker.”
It takes a moment for Stiles to even register the words, he’s so caught up how much he wants to get his hands under Deucalion’s shirt – never mind taking it off, just sliding his hands under and feeling like he’s touching something he shouldn’t. He has to shake himself, and then immediately fumble toward the cabinets. “Oh! Yeah, come on in,” Stiles invites. “Wanna cup?”
//
Breakfast is— well it’s not really breakfast, since all Stiles has is Pop-Tarts and a bowl with a few suspect oranges. And the fixings for about a bathtub of coffee, of course. He’s barely even used the kitchen, usually just eating on the sofa or outside, since the place is basically designed to be a few walls to stand and sleep between while you’re not enjoying the beach or the nearby town and its tourist traps.
But now he’s got Deucalion sipping coffee and peeling an orange less than an arm’s length from him, smiling at the random crap Stiles comes out with like it’s all so fascinating, like he’s got nowhere better to be.
“I didn’t think you were the type to skip a workout,” Stiles says, turning his mug against the island counter with one hand, half a Pop-Tart in the other. As long as he keeps them busy maybe he won’t slip and reach out, run his fingers along the smooth bulk of Deucalion’s forearm.
Deucalion shrugs. “A little deviation,” he says. “Good for the soul. And how could I pass up a little insight into my favorite pupil?”
“I’m your only pupil,” Stiles snorts. “Unless you’ve been running evening classes too.”
“Well,” Deucalion drawls, “maybe you are my lone student. That doesn’t mean I can’t prefer your company. Too much silence can be… disheartening, when you live alone in the dark.”
Stiles flushes. “If I’m the best you can do for company, then I think I feel sorry for you, dude.”
“You undervalue yourself,” Deucalion says, slipping an orange segment between his lips.
“Yeah it’s kind of a consistent character trait.”
Deucalion shakes his head. “It’s a shame. You’re a remarkable young man.”
Stiles’ face is burning a little now. “Even if I suck at yoga?”
“No one’s perfect,” Deucalion chuckles, finishing off his coffee. “And I haven’t given up on teaching you yet.”
“Maybe that’s your flaw,” Stiles says lightly, and yeah okay, this is definitely flirting now. He might not be an expert but the way they’re both leaning towards each other and almost knocking knees under the counter speaks for itself.
“I’m not so sure,” Deucalion mutters with softness around his mouth. He raises a hand between them, gesturing slightly at Stiles’ face. “May I?”
“Uh, sure,” Stiles says, swallowing. It shouldn’t be a big deal, not when Deucalion’s already touched him so many times, but there’s a too-human little impulse in his head that says this means something.
The fingers Deucalion moves towards his cheek smell lightly of orange peel, slightly of sunscreen, and Stiles’ eyes close without his input when the tips brush along his jaw and up to the edge of his brow. He’s breathing choppily, way too aware of each pull and push his lungs are forcing like a bellows. Deucalion’s thumb follows a line along his forehead, back to the middle and down the bridge of his nose to the tip. When he touches Stiles’ mouth, even-pressured sliding touches across the bow of his lips, Stiles gives up breathing all together, clenches his bare toes in the empty air and tries not to shift in his seat.
By the time Deucalion’s cupping his chin, Stiles knows they’ve switched from the thin ice cover of innocent touching and into something with intent. Deucalion’s hand is warm and firm on the underside of his jaw, just barely above his neck, and Stiles is sure he can feel how fast his heart’s beating, how hot he’s blushing. That the desperate pleasepleaseIwant is visible even to Deucalion’s unseeing gaze.
“I’d like to kiss you,Stiles,” Deucalion says, upfront enough that Stiles almost laughs, but the heat turns it into a heavy swallow. “Would that be alright?”
Stiles blinks and manages, “Y-Yeah,” and he hardly sees the smile on Deucalion’s lips before they’re pressed to his, warm and smooth and sure, and he makes a small noise that trips into Deucalion’s mouth.
They never do make it outside that day.
//
Waking up to someone else in his bed is a new experience for Stiles. Not a brand new experience – he’s had some action, come on – but it wasn’t like this. Deucalion is bleeding heat into the long line of Stiles’ body, and Stiles has a leg thrown over both of Deucalion’s from tipping off to the side after riding him until they both came. He’s still sticky with lube and jizz. It’s not… comfortable, per se, but it’s not uncomfortable, laying tucked against Deucalion's side like this.
Stretching out, Stiles feels the little twinges of his body – all signs of being well used. There are aches all over his skin, places where Deucalion’s fingers held on too tightly or his teeth bit too hard. In the dim lighting of the bedroom, with the bright afternoon sun blocked by the thin slats of his blinds, it’s difficult to tell whether Deucalion's sun-kissed skin shared the same problem. Any kiss marks Stiles left behind – and he tried leaving behind lots – were probably lost against all that bronze.
Stiles starts thinking that maybe this would be a great addition to their morning routine. A quiet moment of yoga, some breakfast – better breakfast, god maybe he should go shopping for food that isn’t microwavable – and then…
Peeking up at Deucalion’s sleeping face, Stiles licks his lips. Yeah. Yeah, that could make his summer vacation just about the best it could be.
//
He’s not awake long before Deucalion shifts a little, makes a few sleepy noises Stiles will deny finding adorable under pain of torture. He stretches, all those muscles and strong bones rolling under his skin. His hand meets Stiles’ hip and he smiles slightly, not totally coordinated yet.
“Good morning,” he says, a little hoarser than his usual smoothness. His thumb skims over the jut of Stiles’ hipbone, where he’d left a mark somewhere around five the previous afternoon, between a blowjob and when he’d decided to lick Stiles’ open for their third round.
“Definitely,” Stiles says, and maybe the pull of his smile carries into his voice - or maybe it’s just the shudder in the word like a really delayed aftershock - because Deucalion offers him one in return.
“Did you have plans for today?” Deucalion asks, and for some reason Stiles wasn’t expecting a warm look from eyes that can’t really see him, that aren’t actually aimed at him, and something twinge-flips in his belly. It’s probably just a hernia.
“Uh,” he blinks, “Nope, no plans. My calendar is– well, okay I don’t have a calendar, but if I did it’d be wide open.” Smooth, Stiles, he thinks. I’m sure the sophisticated older dude who’s slumming it in your bed will love that.
“Good,” Deucalion murmurs, and then he’s leaning close to plant a kiss on Stiles’ lips, close-mouthed like Stiles hasn’t lived in shitty dorms on shittier meal plans and tasted things way worse than a hot guy’s morning breath. He hums into Deucalion’s mouth and opens to it, pushes back until Deucalion’s tongue is sliding against his and he’s left trying not to grind against the mattress.
Deucalion rolls them over until Stiles is lying basically on top of him, his legs between the V of Deucalion’s and his dick more than halfway hard. He licks into Stiles’ mouth and strokes his hands up the arch of Stiles’ ribs, presses the blunt ends of his nails up the pale softness under Stiles’ arms where they’re trembling, holding him up. It drives Stiles out of his mind, the way the small bruises littered across his body ache when he leans on them, how sleep-warm and smooth Deucalion’s skin is under his fingers; how Deucalion kisses him like he never wants to stop.
“Want,” he mumbles between their lips, taking a breath. “Wanna suck you.”
Deucalion groans into his mouth and bites at Stiles’ lower lip, making his dick twitch and blurt precome on the already none-too-clean sheets.
Stiles grins his way out of the kiss, and then most of the way down Deucalion’s body, pausing to kiss and suck at a nipple, then a bite mark he’d left yesterday above his hip, presses open-mouthed to the muscle leading down to where Deucalion’s hard and tight against his own belly. He did this yesterday, and it’s one of his favourite things to do in bed in general, but the way Deucalion’s hands move through his hair, not pulling but just touching him, like a reminder, makes it better.
His lips part around the head, and he sucks half the length into his mouth, bobbing a little and glancing up at the strain of Deucalion’s neck as he tips his head back and moans, low and hot. Deucalion keeps his hands in Stiles’ hair, adding a few tugs with his fingers when Stiles nudges into the ones he can’t help, encourages him to push a little harder. He’s smearing slick onto his mattress, trying not to rub down enough that he comes, not easy when the warm and heavy weigh of Deucalion’s cock opens his throat and slides across his tongue.
Just when Stiles thinks he’s gonna end up coming on the bed, Deucalion’s fingers slip down to his face, just barely reaching his mouth and pressing against his cheek as his dick swells and pulses, a long moan echoing in the room and Stiles swallowing around him. He pulls off with a gasp, runs his tongue up the softening length of Deucalion’s dick where it’s resting on his stomach again, and smirks when it sends a heavy shudder up his body. Halfway there already, Stiles kneels up and spits into his palm, saliva and what’s left of Deucalion’s come slicking the way while he jerks himself.
Deucalion’s hand grips his hip. “Come here,” he says, still more than a little out of breath. “Stiles.”
When he plants his knees either side of Deucalion’s chest, a reminder of how he’d ridden him like this on the couch just hours ago, he strokes himself faster, tightens his fingers on the head and lets his thumb sweep over his slit.
“Do it, Stiles,” Deucalion murmurs like it’s right against Stiles’ skin. “I want to feel it when you come.”
Stiles whines and his head tips back, hand a little dry now and the heat of the friction shooting to the base of his spine. He comes like that, thighs shaking and sweat prickling at his hairline, stripes of white on Deucalion’s tanned stomach, his chest, like score marks or something left by claws. He breathes out, “Fuck,” while he shakes and tries not to fall forwards, leaning on one hand he flattens to the bed above Deucalion’s shoulder.
Deucalion’s rubbing a thumb absently through the mess Stiles has left on him, his other hand mirroring the movement on Stiles’ hip, grounding him. They’re both even more desperately in need of a shower than they were when they woke up, and with the endorphins slowly wearing off the come and lube from yesterday that’s still on him is starting to itch, made worse by fresh sweat.
But collapsing down next to Deucalion, the bed’s frame creaking in protest, Stiles honestly can’t make himself care that much.
They’ll move in a minute.
Maybe a few minutes.
//
Stiles wakes one afternoon to Deucalion kissing down his spine, and squirms out from under the sheets, twisting so that he can get those kisses on his lips instead. “Is this how you intend to spend every day of summer vacation?”
“As many days as possible,” Deucalion tells him with a bit of amusement in his voice. His words are mildly muffled against Stiles’ mouth. They kiss again and then again, and Stiles smiles into them, toes curling. “Did you want to do something else?”
Deucalion’s fingers have slipped down to cover Stiles’ bare cock, stroking him a few times until he’s hard. Stiles shivers in a helpless response, glancing down between them to watch Deucalion’s hand move around him. He curses, biting his lip. “It’s not— It’s not that I don’t want to have sex.”
“Oh good,” Deucalion says, sliding his mouth across Stiles’ chest until he finds a nipple to bite and suck at.
Stiles bites his teeth against a moan. Deucalion’s been trying to wean him of the habit, but after years of living with his father and then living in the dorms at college, trying to come quietly has been his modus operandi for his entire life. It takes effort to make him unclench his jaw, to let the sound out in a breathless groan. “You’re relentless,” he gasps, tossing his head back and getting a face full of pillow. He probably looks stupid, coming so quickly, but luckily, Deucalion doesn’t give a shit. “I’m gonna have to air out this place because of you.”
Deucalion hums. “Sounds tedious.”
“Little bit,” Stiles agrees, laughing softly when Deucalion’s bristly cheek rubs against his belly while his come gets licked up. “Wanna go to the beach?”
//
They wait until nearer sunset, and even though the beach isn’t empty, it is quieter. Stiles is trying not to think about how that’s likely down to summer being almost done, that soon he’ll be back at school and Deucalion will be– well, wherever he goes when he isn’t here. Honestly, Stiles could fill the ocean in front of him with all the questions he isn’t asking. Maybe drowning them would shut them up.
“Your seem distracted,” Deucalion says, which wow, Stiles must be seriously moody if his blind– if Deucalion’s noticed it.
“Sorry. I’m just… I dunno. Maybe you broke me.”
Deucalion laughs. “I’m sure the vigor of youth isn’t so easily dampened.” Stiles can’t help smiling at the flirtatious dip in his voice. “You’re sure you’re still comfortable with the way things are now?”
Stiles sighs, ‘cause the way things are is kind of the problem isn’t it? He just says, “Sorry,” again, leans into Deucalion’s shoulder. They’re sitting on the sand near the creeping line of the tide, knees tucked up near their chins. “It’s really not you.”
“I don’t think it’s you either, though, is it?” Deucalion says gently.
“No,” Stiles admits, grimacing out towards the massive shiny coin of blue water. The sun’s almost down now, the air slightly chilled as it slips under his shirtsleeves and whispers against his bare legs. “We were young, we were merry…” he murmurs, and Deucalion chuckles.
“But maybe not so wise? Or is wisdom counterproductive when one is… learning yoga?”
Stiles smiles a little. “Probably.” He sighs, digs his toes into the sand a little deeper. “I’m being shitty company, aren’t I?”
“Never,” Deucalion says easily. “And you aren’t the only one feeling a little melancholy.”
Stiles doesn’t want to be surprised. Doesn’t want to be glad that Deucalion feels– well, feels something. More of those stacked-high questions.
“Pretty sure making out on the beach is considered a universal cure for melancholy,” he says, more of his weight tipped towards Deucalion’s strong frame.
He watches the skin at the corners of Deucalion’s eyes crease with his smile, the curve of his mouth in profile along with the shadowy stubble on his jaw, the lengths of his fingers in a loose clasp on his knees. If it was just want, just basic heat and the urge to do something about it that Stiles feels when he notices all this stuff, then that would’ve been easier. Maybe.
Stiles puts his hand into the smooth, cooling sand behind Deucalion’s back, clenches his fingers like making a handhold, rolls his weight to the side as Deucalion leans in to kiss him, easily confident in Stiles to move with him. It’s slow, and patient, every slick slide of Deucalion’s mouth on Stiles’ measured out deliberately like handing over something valuable or fragile. Or both. Stiles’ hand finds Deucalion’s jaw, the backs of his knuckles running along the hair at his throat, breathing like a metronome between kisses where Deucalion licks at his bottom lip.
At some point they tip themselves back on the sand, Deucalion half leaning over him. They’re both hard, their hips occasionally glancing together, making Stiles groan into Deucalion’s mouth. He tilts his face to the sky, almost black with a bare trace of blue now, the moon chilled with its scarf of clouds, baring his throat for Deucalion to kiss down, suck marks into. He’s never without hickeys, these days, has gotten used to looking in the mirror and seeing them there.
“We should– fuck, hah, we should go inside,” he manages, body levering up off the ground into the warmth and pressure of Deucalion’s. “Sand, y'know. Gets everywhere.”
Deucalion hums into his skin, then they stumble and unfold upwards, Deucalion with a hand on the small of Stiles’ back. Suddenly the air is obviously night air, and the tide’s snuck up on them like a vast predator foaming at its curved and shifting mouth.
“Lead the way,” Deucalion murmurs into the shape of Stiles’ ear, following it with a nip of teeth that make Stiles’ knees twitch like they want to buckle.
Stiles swallows hard and makes for the direction of his bed.
//
It feels as if they spend the rest of the summer doing everything except talking about themselves. Deucalion doesn’t ask why he’s here for the summer, doesn’t ask about what he’s going to be heading back to when it’s over. Stiles talks about things his friends tell him about but nothing about his friends, talks about the weird mysteries that his dad has had to solve in Beacon Hills but nothing about his dad.
Stiles knows that Deucalion is working a little. There are mornings where Deucalion brings out a laptop, listens to his emails through his headphones, and spends an hour or two responding. He knows that Deucalion is smart, well-read and informed. He includes Stiles in “today’s youth” in a way that implies that he interacts a lot with that section of society – more amused than cynical. Stiles would make guesses as to the kind of life that Deucalion is probably heading back to, but that’s not the point of a summer fling.
They date, in a manner of speaking. They take walks into town, shopping and eating alongside the other tourists. They swim, they cook together, and they keep doing the yoga. But Stiles will be honest, most of the time it’s this: their bodies lying next to each other, splayed hot and fucked out across the bed sheets. There are days when they do nothing but that, like they both feel the end coming on and want to forget that it’s going to happen. Stiles seizes these moments to get his fill of Deucalion, learning the other man’s body almost as well as his own and saying nothing about how he’s going to have to guard himself against how much he’ll miss this easy physical knowledge of another person.
He’ll save that for later, much later.
Stiles doesn’t like that he’s got to keep track of how many days he has left – and it is days now. The calendar on his phone tells him that he’s got less than a week to enjoy Deucalion’s company. He’s got a reminder email from the airline already, so he should probably start pulling together his things. Maybe clean up the condo for whoever’s renting it after.
“I can hear you thinking,” Deucalion murmurs. “Also the buttons on your phone are starting to stick.”
“Gee, I wonder why,” Stiles snarks back fondly. He folds his arms over Deucalion’s chest and props his chin over his fingers. His next words stick in his throat, but he manages to squeeze them out. “I should start packing.”
“Already?” Deucalion asks. “I thought I would get more warning than this.”
“My flight’s in a few days,” Stiles tells him.
“Convenient. Mine is too.” Deucalion sighs. “Well, let’s not waste the day,” he says, rolling Stiles under him until he’s got his belly pressed to the sheets. “I think there’s still parts of you that my mouth hasn’t touched yet.”
Stiles makes an indignant squawk as Deucalion spreads him and proceeds to lick him open. “You– I can’t believe you,” he groans. “You’re a demon.”
Deucalion laughs. “I’m just terrible,” he agrees and playfully bites down around a mouthful of Stiles’ ass. “I’ve got to eat my fill of you while I still can. Can’t have you leaving without some good memories of me.”
As if I’d forget, Stiles thinks but can’t say – not yet, not yet.
Deucalion holds him open, tightly gripping his ass and pulling him wide, tongue curling into him until Stiles is sucking the fabric of the pillowcase between his teeth and whining around it. He’s bucking between the bed and Deucalion’s mouth, the clasp of his hands on Stiles’ skin, trying not to shake apart as Deucalion’s tongue wriggles deeper, slips out and flattens against his hole before working back inside him.
It’s like a game Deucalion plays, or a test, seeing how long Stiles can stand it before he either rubs off against the sheets or begs to be fucked, begs for Deucalion to cover him and fill him with something more than a tease of slick muscle. Stiles knows he’s making noise, probably a whole fucking chorus of high and snapping grunts, whimpers, the heavy catch of his breath like metal striking stone. Deucalion likes this, making him lose control, proving that Stiles is helpless when Deucalion wants him to be.
Which is why Stiles gulps back the pleas and the frustrated insistence, packs it down into his chest and leans his weight there as he presses his ass back into Deucalion’s face, impaling himself over and over.
Deucalion hums, deep and long, and Stiles’ eyes roll, dick twitching and leaking, precome cooling where he’s spread it over his belly and into the hair below his navel. His hands are slipping and gripping to the sides of his head, sweating from his palms and trembling in his digits. It feels like his face is on fire, rubbing his cheek over where he’s drooled and mouthed at the pillow he’s mashed into.
Another hum, bordering on a low laugh, and it ricochets up the core of Stiles’ body, into the spaces between the notches of his spine until it buzzes against the backs of his teeth. His arms are shaking, and he keeps tipping so he’s held up between his face and his splayed knees, nerves catching on the trail of spit following down to his balls from where Deucalion has him soaked and spread apart around his tongue.
“B-Bastard,” he murmurs around a mouth of sheets or pillowcase or both. Deucalion squeezes him harder, stabs his tongue in and crooks it, and Stiles almost swallows his own tongue as he groans. A whimper leaks out of him when Deucalion pulls back and sucks around his hole, tingling that spreads outwards and makes him whine. “Either fuck me or I’m jerking off,” he manages in about four broken pieces.
He feels open, gaping and empty when Deucalion leans up over him, cool air on the places he’s damp with sweat or licked wet between his ass cheeks. The heavy slide of Deucalion’s cock pours more tacky heat over his face and down his back, his body sluggish when he does his best to shove his ass up towards where Deucalion’s rolling a condom on one-handed, his other hand moved to Stiles’ hip and squeezing there.
He stills at Deucalion’s breath skittering behind his ear and over the back of his neck, shivers when his back meets Deucalion’s chest. All Stiles’ air gets pushed from his lungs when Deucalion works his dick into him with slow and steady shoves of his hips. Rimming isn’t really prep, but it’s not like Stiles hadn’t still been open from last time anyway, and he groans at the burn when his body parts under the relentless weight.
“There now,” Deucalion murmurs, not quite as steady as he’d like to be, and Stiles would wave that like a victory flag if he wasn’t panting and shuddering and desperate to get him deep sometime yesterday.
He forces his arms to take his weight, pushes up towards Deucalion where he’s letting Stiles play with the idea that he’s not pinned to the mattress by the cock resting hot as a brand in him. “C’mon,” he says with his useless dry voice made of kindling and scraping edges. “Fucking give me what I want.“
Against the dip between his shoulder blades, around moles and date stamp hickeys, he thinks he feels Deucalion smile. Deucalion takes him apart slow, driving him along the sharp edge of pleasure until Stiles feels like he’s bursting at the seams. Stiles whines underneath him, and moves to jerk off while he’s got Deucalion pushing deep inside him. He gets off one or two strokes before his hand gets caught and dragged up to his side.
"Fuck,” he breathes. “I wanna come.”
“You’ll get there,” Deucalion promises. He leaves wide, wet kisses along Stiles’ shoulder blade, over the nape of his neck when he drops his head to the pillows. “I’m going to take my time though.”
Deucalion laces their fingers together and covers him wholly, pinning him to the sheets. Every grinding thrust punches a noise of Stiles, and though he can feel the heat in his face, he can’t bring himself to be embarrassed by his reaction. The fold of Deucalion’s hand over his is right in front of his eyes. He tightens his grip as he arches into Deucalion’s body and spreads his legs a little further. It’s maybe a little silly to be more affected by the sight of their fingers lined up next to each other than the feel of a dick inside him, but a part of him thinks that he could always get sex. This, on the other hand – this casual gesture of intimacy…
Stiles twists to look behind him, gasping Deucalion’s name.
Deucalion has always had a fairly expressive face – a broad mouth that smiled easily, laugh lines at the corners of his eyes, a stern nose. His usual sunglasses are gone when they're together like this, and his eyes are closed, lashes fanned out across his cheekbones. His mouth is slack, his breath hot as he kisses Stiles’ shoulder. He looks lost, overwhelmed, and Stiles has to kiss him – has to feel that mouth against his own, feel his breath and his voice. He only has to lean in a little to get what he wants. Deucalion kisses him with trembling lips, and Stiles pushes up on one elbow to get closer. Stiles would like to touch Deucalion’s face as they kiss, feel the rough scrape of his stubble against his fingertips, but he doesn’t dare let go of Deucalion’s hand. He’s grounded there. He doesn’t want to feel like he’s letting go too soon.
Stiles sags back to the bed after a few exchanged kisses, and a high moan is torn out of him as Deucalion follows him down, lying so firmly against his back that Stiles can feel the sweat making their skin slip and slide. Deucalion finds the place inside him that makes him quiver in helpless pleasure and relentlessly grinds against it until Stiles coming, clinging to the arms that have squeezed tight around his shoulders. He slips over the edge with a surprising noiselessness, blinking sleepily already as Deucalion shudders above him and follows.
Deucalion withdraws reluctantly, breathing in at the bolt of Stiles’ jaw. They kiss as Stiles turns underneath him, laughing softly at the discomforted noise he makes when his ass plants itself in the wet spot, and Deucalion settles between the splay of his knees. Stiles doesn’t say the million stupid things he’s thinking of saying, like asking which flight Deucalion’s going to be on or which city he’ll be heading to. He doesn’t ask for a phone number or an email, either, but the temptation is there, especially when Deucalion brings their linked hands to his lips so that he can kiss the back of Stiles’ hand and the sharp angles of his knuckles.
It feels like goodbye.