Chapter Text
“How am I supposed to introduce you?”
“As Derek?”
“Jesus, yes, I know. But I mean, what are you?”
“Please don’t tell them werewolf.”
Stiles throws up his hands. “Nevermind, you asshole.”
Derek shakes his head, reaching out. “Sorry, sorry. I don’t know—how do you want to introduce me?”
Stiles perks up, and Derek immediately regrets the question. “Lover? That sounds kind of romance novel-y, like you’re a Viking warrior and I’m the fair maiden you rescue from a band of pirates, so no, probably not.” He grins. “Is Sugar Daddy inappropriate?”
“That’s probably what they’ll think no matter what you call me,” Derek says, already dreading the evening. They’re going out for drinks with friends of Stiles’ from Coffee Call, and Derek is fairly certain that he’s going to feel—and be—a decade older than everyone else.
“Oh, shush. More like they’re gonna wonder how I landed you at all.”
“Partner?” Derek suggests.
“Oh my god, Derek, are we lesbians in our forties? Do we shop for fucking kale at the organic food co-op and teach a women’s studies class? Ew.”
Derek snorts. “That was kind of sexist, kiddo.”
“It was accurate is what it was. You’re not my partner.”
“Mmm, no?” Derek leans over, tugging Stiles toward him on the couch until Stiles is partially in his lap, straddling one thick thigh.
“God no. Never.”
“What, then?”
Stiles hums, riding Derek’s thigh a little bit, letting one hand come to rest on his belly, the other his shoulder. “I think it’s gotta be boyfriend, big guy,” Stiles says, pretending like it pains him to say the word. Derek knows it doesn’t—knows the little shit has been dying to throw that term around for months now.
“Ugh, kiddo. I haven’t been anyone’s boyfriend since I was in high school.” Derek frowns, mostly for Stiles’ benefit, just to tease him a little. “Sounds like we’re going to the prom.”
“You so should have taken me to the prom,” Stiles says, bouncing harder on Derek’s thigh and sliding his hand down to where Derek’s belly sits over his waistband, slipping cool fingers under the hem of Derek’s t-shirt and pushing into the curve of his tummy. “I would have totally been your boyfriend.”
“Yes, because teenagers have boyfriends. Because they’re boys. See how that works?”
“Mmm, but you call me boy all the time,” Stiles argues, tugging fruitlessly at the button of Derek’s jeans with one hand. Derek shifts, leaning back a little to give Stiles more room to maneuver his waistband. Stiles reaches down with his other hand, pushing Derek’s beer belly up and undoing the button. The jeans aren’t too tight, but Derek’s belly still shifts forward as soon as the tabs part.
“I do.” Derek pulls Stiles in for another kiss. “But you don’t call me that, do you?”
“Dear god, no. Do you want to be my manfriend? Is that what you’re saying?” Stiles asks, kissing along Derek’s jawline, biting at the soft pudge that sits there.
“Manfriend is not a thing.”
Stiles hums. “No, but boyfriend is a thing.” He pulls back, sweeping his eyes over Derek from his face down to his belly and back up. “Believe me, baby, I don’t think anyone is gonna think you’re the boy in this relationship.”
Derek snorts. “Boyfriends is fine, kiddo.”
Stiles blinks, all wide-eyed and rosy-cheeked. “Seriously?”
“Sure. I was just fucking with you, mostly.”
“You asshole.”
Derek grins.
*
Derek tries to have a good time. And when that fails, he tries to be sure that Stiles doesn’t know he’s not having a good time.
They’re in a tiny, hipster bar in a converted shotgun style house. Of course this is where Stiles’ hipster friends would choose. It’s quintessential New Orleans, but it fairly screams gentrification. Derek hates it.
It’s not that he’s “sucking the fun out of any given situation,” which Stiles has accused him of doing more than once. It’s just that the kids Stiles works with are just that—kids.
The girl co-worker, Lola, is wearing an aggressively short crop top and her hair is dyed gray. Gray. When she stretches her hands over her head at one point, Derek catches a glimpse of the bottom of her breasts. Is there a word for cleavage that appears from underneath? Is that a thing?
He stares down into his third beer, wishing that it had an effect on him, while the boy co-worker, whose name Derek has somehow missed, launches into a detailed story about taking Molly at a show. He sneaks a glance up at Stiles to gauge his expression, relieved that Stiles appears only politely interested.
Derek swears to himself on a near-daily basis that he won’t cramp the kid’s style, rob Stiles of his carefree youth, but he will absolutely Dad the fuck out of the little shit if he decided he wanted to go roll with this douchebag.
Christ, Derek is old.
Stiles squirms beside him, gives him his best sweet smile, like he knows just how little fun Derek is having. He then proceeds to slide closer to him in the booth and put his hand up high on Derek’s thigh, the little slut.
It can’t be obvious that Stiles is touching him—and it’s a pretty innocent touch, at least right now—but something about their body language must have changed, because Lola gives them an appraising look and then says, “So how did you guys meet?”
“Same hometown. I’ve known Derek since I was sixteen and he was lurking around my high school,” Stiles chirps happily.
Lola and Nameless Boy both jerk their eyes toward Derek, mirror expressions of disapproval on their faces.
“We didn’t date then,” Derek says pointedly.
“Because it would have been illegal,” Boy mutters.
Derek shoots Stiles an I-told-you-so look, and Stiles just shrugs. “My dad’s the sheriff of our hometown, but I would have totally risked it to date him back then.”
“You wouldn’t have been the one risking anything, kiddo.”
Lola raises her eyebrows at the ‘kiddo,’ which Derek promptly wishes he could take back; he’s so used to referring to Stiles that way that it just slipped out. Her eyes flit back and forth between them for a moment, and then she smirks a little, like she knows the score.
Stiles just grins, snuggling closer to Derek, looking like a cat in sunshine. He moves his hand up from Derek’s thigh and worms it under his shirt.
Derek suffers through another round, just because he loves the kid.
*
Stiles is a little drunk, a lot happy, when they get home. He roots through the fridge and finds leftover Chinese takeout and pizza, only bothering to warm up the Chinese. Brings the lot of it into the living room and plops down on the couch, passing Derek reheated kung pao and a couple cold slices of meat lovers, swiping a wonton for himself.
“Thanks for coming tonight.” He grins. “On a scale of 1-10, how miserable were you? Be honest. Your eyebrows did not look best pleased.”
Derek rolls his eyes, but Stiles can tell he’s not really that bothered. “It was fine, kiddo. But could you possibly figure out a way to explain how we met that doesn’t make me sound like a pedophile?”
Stiles snorts. “Would you prefer the version where my dad arrested you for murder? Or the one where you kept crawling through my window like the creepiest wolf to ever creep?”
“I did not creep.”
“Derek. You are the king of creep. You’re just really, really hot, so people let you get away with it.” Stiles grabs the pizza box from the coffee table and just sets the whole thing in Derek’s lap. “And I would have let you do unspeakable things to me when I was sixteen.”
“Like you’re trying to get me to do unspeakable things to this pizza right now?”
“God, yes.”
By the time Derek works his way through the leftovers, Stiles is nearly in his lap, hands lazily sliding across his belly. “So do I owe you for going out and being such a Social Wolf tonight? Can I pay you in sexual favors?”
Derek gives him a predatory look, perfectly at odds with his sated, relaxed position on the couch, t-shirt rucked up over his gut, jeans unfastened. “Mmm, yes, you definitely can.”
Stiles shifts a little, starts to slide down to his knees, but Derek stops him with a hand on his arm. “Go in the bedroom and get the lube, baby boy.”
Stiles’ heart picks up at the endearment, and by the quirk of Derek’s eyebrow, Stiles can tell that Derek hears the uptick and knows why it happened. “Go on.”
Stiles scrambles up, returns with lube in record time. In the time he’s been gone, Derek has pulled his shirt off and tossed it aside, and fuck, he looks gorgeous, all bulky muscle and rounded curves. He looks big and safe, like home.
“Now what?” Stiles whispers. And yeah, he knows what, really, but he wants to hear Derek tell him. Wants to do what Derek says.
Derek eats for him, and he does this for Derek. They’ve never talked about it—Stiles isn’t even really, fully aware of it as an exchange, not in such stark terms. But it’s right. It’s the way he likes it. The way it feels the very best between them.
“Get naked, baby,” Derek instructs. His eyes are heavy and hooded, and he looks powerful, a little dangerous. Like everything Stiles wants.
Stiles does exactly as he’s told, not even bothering to try to be sexy. Quick and efficient is all he cares about, and he’s out of his clothes in all of ten seconds.
Derek looks him up and down, a blatant eyefuck that makes Stiles shiver, makes his already hard dick jerk a little higher. “Good,” Derek says, and it’s just one simple word, but Stiles feels warm all over from it.
Derek picks up the lube from the couch and pops the cap, gestures for Stiles’ hand and covers three of his fingers, generous to the point of sloppy with it.
Then he leans back, propping one hand behind his head. The other he slides under the curve of his own belly, cupping it gently, and Stiles is nearly undone before he even does anything. “Now lay down right here and get wet for me,” Derek says, nodding his head toward the couch.
Stiles jerks, looking at Derek, at his own slick fingers. “While you watch?”
“Yes, baby. While I watch.”
Stiles feels like he’s moving through cotton as he sits down, facing Derek on the couch and pulling his legs up, bending his knees. He’s worked himself open for Derek before—lots of times, in fact. But always when they’re tangled together in the bed, or Stiles is straddling him. Not like this, without touching. He feels on display. Vulnerable.
It’s not hard to get himself ready, and he slides in two fingers nearly from the start. They had sex already today, in the morning—Stiles is going to be sore by tomorrow. Not that he cares.
“That’s so good, honey, so good,” Derek says, and his voice is already trashed, raspy and wolfish. He doesn’t usually call Stiles honey, that’s a new one, and fuck if Stiles doesn’t like it.
Now Stiles is just blatantly riding his fingers, shoving down on them as much as he can.
“Stop,” Derek says, and it takes Stiles a minute to actually comply, and even then he doesn’t pull his fingers free, just stops moving them.
Derek has the lube again, and he gestures for Stiles to move over to him. “Slick my cock.”
So he does, and now they’re both slick, both wet and messy, and they haven’t even touched yet, not really. Stiles starts to straddle Derek, the way he so often does when Derek’s eaten right before they fuck. He loves it, loves the way Derek will just manhandle him into position, use his upper body strength to tug and lift and pull Stiles into place, ram him down onto his cock relentlessly, leaving bruises everywhere, still strong and powerful, even when he’s bloated and full, too lazy to get up and fuck him properly.
Tonight, though, Derek stops him, stands up instead. Taps the back of the couch. “Lean over. Hold on.”
Oh fuck. Stiles barely has time to think before Derek is behind him, lining up and fucking into him hard. It’ almost too much, the sudden sensation of Derek’s cock slamming inside him, of Derek’s belly resting on his lower back, heavy and full. The weight of Derek’s arms bracketing his own, of Derek’s whole big body covering his from behind and above.
Stiles can’t help whining, the noise he makes sounding like wailing even to his own ears.
“It’s okay, I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” Derek mumbles, his voice that sweet scratchy singsong it always is when he’s fucking Stiles hard, when he’s telling him how good he is at taking cock.
Stiles just keens, lets his head fall back. Concentrates entirely on just holding himself up, lets Derek do everything else.
“That’s so good, honey, that’s so fucking good, so beautiful.” Derek’s breathing is heavy and harsh in his ear, punctuated by bursts of filthy praise. “So little and good, kiddo, so fucking perfect under me, so fucking good.”
It hurts, the way Derek’s fucking him, deep and rough, not exactly fast but just hard, each stroke taking his breath away. It’s fucking perfect, and Stiles’ hand is wrapped around his cock like his life depends on it.
“Gonna make you come so good, baby boy, make you see stars,” Derek says, his voice cracking and broken.
“Yes, yes, Derek, yes,” Stiles chants, and his own voice is broken, too, ragged and harsh.
When his orgasm hits, Stiles is crying a little, just a few hitching, overwhelmed sobs.
Derek comes too, filling him full and then immediately maneuvering them over and down to the floor, pulling Stiles into his lap, not bothering to try to avoid making a sticky mess but at least steering them clear of the couch. “Shh, shh, shh,” Derek mumbles, wiping the little stray tears from Stiles’ cheeks.
When they can move again, he carries Stiles directly into the shower, and they stand under the spray until the water runs tepid.
*
In bed, Stiles rubs Derek’s belly in big, lazy circles, a leg thrown over Derek’s wide thighs, keeping their bodies touching from nearly head to toe.
“So tonight I took my boyfriend out to meet my co-workers,” he says. “Dude, I am so grown up.”
“Kiddo, your co-workers dye their hair gray and take club drugs, and your boyfriend is unemployed. I’m not sure this counts as grown up behavior on any level. “
“Nonsense. My independently wealthy lover took me out for drinks with my free-spirited, artsy co-workers. Adult as fuck.”
Derek huffs laughter, and Stiles treasures the way it makes his belly jiggle. “If you say so.”
“The fuck you just gave me was pretty adult.”
“I’ll give you that one.”
“Yeah, you did.”