Work Text:
Derek finds the man in the lower level of his bookshop, poured over a corner desk there like some modern-day Auguste Rodin sculpture.
His chin is digging into the palm propped up on his elbow, long fingers gripping the lower half of his face in concentration. Loose tufts of tawny brown hair pull in a hundred directions away from his face, as though it had taken the brunt of the man’s visible agitation.
The man (who Derek had taken to calling ‘Bambi’ in his head) had arrived at Hale’s Bookish Tales painfully early that morning. Normally when he came in he would sprawl out in the desk under the large bay window up front, but today he’d made a bee-line for the lower level and hadn’t returned to the surface since.
Not even after the mass blizzard alert hit, and all the other customers had fled.
If it wasn’t for Derek’s increasingly unhinged infatuation with the man - and thus over-awareness of his presence - he wouldn’t even have noticed that a customer still remained in his bookshop. But Derek had been carefully watching the stream of customers filing out, and had noticed the glaring absence of one in particular.
Now, he’s coming to a stop in front of the desk Bambi has tucked himself behind, and the amber doe-eyes that raise to greet him are at least two sizes bigger than Derek imagines them in his dreams.
But that’s probably the fault of the mans visibly widening distress.
“You’re not closing early, are you?” He asks in a rush. The lilt of his voice is deeper than Derek had expected it would be, a roughness around the edges.
They’ve never spoken before.
The green emerald lamp atop the desk casts warm shadows over Bambi’s smooth, alabaster skin, accentuating his already upturned lip and Cupid’s bow.
“I’m afraid,” Derek says in a low tone, “The blizzard hasn’t given me much choice.”
At that, Bambi’s expression erupts into horror.
“The what?!”
Derek’s eyebrows crease. “Didn’t you receive the alert on your phone?”
Bambi turns to scramble for his satchel bag on the floor. He hauls it into his lap and rummages through it fervently until he extracts his phone with a groan.
“Fuck.” He flashes the blank black screen at Derek. “It must have died before the alert was sent out...” Scrubbing a hand through the mess of his hair, he turns his attention to the explosion of papers on the desk. “Sorry,” he winces sheepishly, and starts gathering them into a more orderly stack, “I have a habit of getting lost in my work...”
“It’s no problem,” Derek says, and means it.
Derek regrets that he had to interrupt him at all. One of his favorite pastimes was watching the man work. He shone like a painting when lost in concentration, and his pen-to-mouth oral fixation has pushed Derek to the edge of a crime of passion on more than one occasion.
Currently, there is a soft, stressed crease between Bambi’s eyebrows that hasn’t relented since Derek first spotted him sitting here, as if even now, he’s trying to hold in his head whatever equation he’d been working on. Derek’s eyes flash down to catch a peek at the scatter of papers, expecting to see math equations, formulas, maybe statistics. Instead, every piece of paper is filled top to bottom in a tidy, handwritten script.
Derek continues, “Although, we should probably be quick, unless you want to spend your weekend snowed in here.”
Bambi snorts as he pushes the chair back to stand, jagged stack of papers gripped in one hand.
“That would actually be an improvement to my plans.”
He reaches to grab the books on the desk - to replace them back on the shelves, no doubt - but there isn’t time. The snow has been falling since yesterday and now that the intensity of the storm has only increased, the accumulation will accelerate rapidly.
Derek’s hand shoots out to still him, “It’s okay, just leave them,” and his fingertips brush the skin of Bambi’s inner wrist.
He makes a soft noise at the contact, and then the papers are spilling into a puddle at his feet. He curses, as Derek comes around the desk to kneel and help. In close proximity like this, Derek can smell the lingering coconut in his hair, faint cedar on his clothes and the intoxicating warmth of a scent all his own.
Bambi says, “Do you really think the storm could get bad enough to snow us in?”
Shrugging, “The alert predicted a category four storm.”
“And that’s… bad?”
Derek chuckles, handing the clean stack of papers over as they rise to their feet. “I take it this is your first winter in Massachusetts?”
The man smiles like a declaration of guilt. “That obvious, huh?“
Derek’s lips twitch, and then he gives him a sage nod. “Yes. It’s bad.”
Bambi exhales heavily and swings his satchel over his shoulder, giving the surrounding area a final once-over and patting his pockets for his phone. When he seems satisfied, he motions for Derek to lead the way.
“After you, Mister Hale.”
Surprised heat pulses inside Derek at the title. He doesn’t usually have a reaction to the formality, but suddenly there is a fantasy swelling in his mind of the man pliant and soft beneath him, those same two words passing through his lips like a prayer.
Derek composes himself with considerable effort and spins around to lead them back up the aisle. It isn’t wide enough that they can walk side by side, so Derek has to look over his shoulder to check the man is following.
He is, and pulling a beige beanie down over his hair as they walk. The collar of his Jordache jean jacket is leaving a red mark where it brushes against his neck, his skin is so sensitive.
Derek feels the reverberation of his heart in his palms as he steps up the black spiral staircase.
“Is this your first blizzard?” he asks, if only to distract his thoughts.
Bambi huffs. “The only equivalent we have to something like this back home are dust storms.” Probably from the west coast, then. He had the look: a lithe build, a pretty face. “Any advice you can bestow on me?”
“Stay hydrated, stay warm, stay occupied.”
Bambi sighs, “That last part should be easy enough with my deadline tomorrow.”
Derek guesses, “You’re a writer?”
The man hums in concession, the corner of his mouth tweaking up. “Aspiring,” he says , “And If I don’t reach my deadline, hypothetical-”
He cuts off as they crest the ground level and see the sight awaiting them there. Derek pulls up short, hearing the man behind him do the same.
Against the glass front door of Derek’s shop, piled a third of the way up its length, are heavy layers of snow.
Bambi says, “Fuck.”
They’re snowed in.
-
When Derek returns to the staircase from the back office, Bambi isn’t waiting there anymore.
Derek spins in search of him and catches movement behind one of the bookshelves a few rows back. His feet move him forward without his brain making the conscious choice first, drawing him down the rows of books to the place the man has plucked one out and is holding it open in his hands, his touch consciously delicate.
His easy gaze blinks away and up to Derek as he approaches.
“Any luck?” He asks, closing the book without saving his place.
Derek knows the book he’s chosen off the shelf without having to see the cover.
Ishmael, by Daniel Quinn.
Derek says, “No luck. My guess is the whole city has lost internet connection.”
He’d tried sending a text to Laura about their dinner plans being destroyed by the storm, but it was never delivered. Something tells him, though, that she is already aware of the circumstances.
Bambi lets out a heavy sigh. “Well, at least now I don’t have to worry about my deadline.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “Do you think the power will go out, too? I have to warn you, I am not hardwired for the cold.”
He speaks like someone who has never experienced a regular snowfall in their life let alone a blizzard.
Derek can’t help but chuckle.
“If it does, we’ll be okay,” he says, “My apartment upstairs has everything we could need, and the whole building is hooked up to a backup generator, just in case.”
The man gives him a look, raising one eyebrow and smirking. “You were a Boy Scout, weren’t you?”
Derek coughs out a laugh. “That’s an unexpected segue.”
“You’re not denying it,” in a sing-song voice. “Their slogan is literally ‘be prepared.’”
Derek shrugs. “Respectable life advice, if you ask me.”
The man throws his head back in laughter, eyes squeezing shut as every molecule inside of Derek vibrates into overdrive.
He wants to make him laugh like that for the rest of his life.
He doesn’t even know his name.
Trying to tamp down on his blinding smile, Derek says, “Back-up generators are actually a lot more common here than you might be used to back in…?”
“California,” Bambi supplies, still smiling as he turns to replace Ishmael on the bookshelf.
“Have you read it?” Derek asks, nodding to the book in question.
He nods emphatically, “It’s one of my favorites.” His thumb brushes over the leather spine and he turns to Derek with a bemused sort of pinch to his brows, “I’ve never seen these editions before, though. They’re - gorgeous.”
He says the last word with the weight of a true book connoisseur and Derek’s head ducks at the compliment, feeling his ears burn.
“You wouldn’t find them anywhere else. Everything in this section has been restored or rebound by me. Or in the case of these,” he jerks his chin to the small selection of Ishmael’s, “Both.”
“He says, as though it’s oh-so simple.” There’s a twinkle in the man’s eyes. Derek can tell he’s impressed; He isn’t trying to hide it.
There is less than an arm span between them.
“Difficult processes can become enjoyable when they better something you love.”
The man’s eyes squint in playful consideration. “Who said that?”
Derek laughs. “I did.” He straightens from where he’d propped himself against one of the bookshelf columns - unconsciously leaning into the man’s gravity - and jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “There’s a feast worth of groceries in my fridge that I was planning to cook tonight. Are you hungry?”
Bambi smiles. “I’m starving.”
-
Stiles is convinced that he’s dreaming. That, or he’s somehow been transported to the magical world where Netflix Christmas Rom-Com movies are made.
Not only has his deadline been narrowly avoided (for now) but he’s also somehow managed to find himself snowed in with the very man that has been haunting his nightly - and who is he kidding, waking - fantasies.
Stiles hadn’t even known he had a type until he first saw Mister Hale.
He’d gone into Hale’s Bookish Tales on a complete whim about two months ago, late in October. At the time he’d been experiencing the worst case of writer’s block he’s had all year and needed desperately to be anywhere but his apartment; The place inspiration goes to die. He ended up roaming the streets when he spotted the bookshop, the dark wooden door covered in whimsical, hand-carved engravings.
The first thing Stiles’ eyes had been drawn to upon entering had been the black, steel spiral staircase, twisting from the ceiling down into the floor. (Upon closer inspection it seemed customers were allowed, even encouraged to traipse between the ground and basement floors, but a polite sign hung on a chain higher up, restricting customers from venturing up to the second floor. The floor where Mister Hale lives, apparently.)
The second thing Stiles had seen that day, was Mister Hale descending those stairs.
He’d been wearing a black slouch beanie, book open in his hands and head ducked elegantly to read it. The spine of the book was centered in one of his palms, those fingers balancing the weight as the other hung suspended over the open pages like a swan hovering over a lake, waiting to land. A cornflower blue button up hung open over a tight white crewneck, the long sleeves rolled up to reveal toned, sinewy forearms with a shock of hair Stiles hoped matched his chest. A thick, dark beard groomed close to his face and a pair of slightly parted, pink lips. He’d made it to the ground level and stepped out before even raising his eyes from his book, and in the same motion, had locked eyes with Stiles in the doorway.
And as sudden as it was miraculous, Stiles’ writing block had melted away.
Stiles can feel the butterflies of anticipation laying waste to his insides as he ascends the staircase now, following after Mister Hale. The romantic atmosphere, paired with the knowledge of where he’s going and who he’s with, is proving to be an inebriating combination.
His eyes pan out over the shop the higher they climb. A mosaic of book spines spread out below, dark wooden shelves adorned with garland climb up the walls and deep, emerald curtains frame the tall windows.
When they crest the second level it’s to come into a small visitor foyer outside a heavy steel door. Mister Hale braces against said door and yanks to the right, the weight gliding on a pulley as his eyes fall over his shoulder back onto Stiles.
An eager thrill thrums up Stiles’ spine. He steps past Mister Hale into the intimate space of his apartment, and pretends not to notice the eyes combing over him, as he combs his eyes over the space.
A low whistle passes his lips.
The scent of honey ham is intoxicating in the air, slow cooking somewhere out of view, a few flickering candles melting cinnamon-apple through the air. The entryway leads directly down into a living space, a loveseat and a recliner poised around the hanging plasma TV and a coffee table with a miniature Christmas tree atop it. Behind that, two armchairs frame a fireplace with holly on its mantle. In that far corner, a king sized bed is elevated on a platform, sheer fabric hanging from four black-wood posts for privacy. Across from that, in the other corner, is the only walled off space in the loft that Stiles deduces to be the bathroom. The kitchen wraps around the corner to their left but from their position on the front door landing, all Stiles can see is an island lined with barstools. Large, floor length windows hang in interspaced intervals around the space, cascading snow falling past them in waves.
It is a haunting sight, but not even an active blizzard could kill the high Stiles is riding on.
When he speaks, Mister Hale’s voice fits the space like a harmony. “Do you want something to drink?”
He’s got his hands on his sleeves, rolling them up to his forearms as he starts down the front steps, not taking his eyes off of Stiles.
Stiles says, “Desperately.”
He drops his satchel by the door, stripping out of his jacket to leave it on top of it, and follows Mister Hale into the kitchen.
His broad back pulls the fabric of his Henley taut across his shoulders - Stiles catching the hint of black ink peeking out of the collar - and admires the flex of muscle as he reaches into a cupboard to grab down two thick bottomed glasses.
He sets them on the island and Stiles takes a seat in a barstool on the other side.
“Any special requests?”
Yeah, Stiles could think of a few, and most began with the premise of Mister Hale being a few articles of clothing shorter than he is right now.
I’ll have one gin and tonic, prepared shirtless, please.
Aloud, Stiles says, “Surprise me.”
Mister Hale hums thoughtfully before seemingly coming to a decision.
He grabs down a cocktail shaker and muddler and places it by the glasses on the counter, a mason jar of sugar soon following. He fetches club soda from the fridge and white rum from the cabinet beside it, going next for a pair of limes on the fruit tier in the corner. Beside that, on an inside window ledge, he plucks some mint sprigs from a motley of fresh herbs growing there under temporary artificial lights.
He drops the mint into the shaker then cuts the lime into wedges on the butcher-block countertop, tossing a few in to join the mint and using the muddler to crush them together, the scent of fresh citrus erupting into the air.
The sugar is sprinkled in next. Mister Hale crushes it into the mixture before filling the cup almost to the top with ice. Then the rum, its spiced scent lashing the air as it crackles the ice on its cascade down over the cubes. He finishes it off with the carbonated soda, giving it a good, neat stir before splitting the concoction between the two glasses and sliding one over to Stiles.
“Bon appetit.”
Stiles’ head shakes with amused incredulity. He curls his fingers around the chilled glass to draw it towards him and lifts it to his lips. The shock of the cold rim is quickly followed by the sweet, refreshing taste of a perfectly constructed mojito. He makes a noise of appreciation, pulse quickening when he glances up to see Mister Hale already watching him with avid eyes.
Stiles swallows, tongue coming out to swipe along his bottom lip. “Book conservator, shop owner, and mixologist? You’re a man of many talents, Mister Hale.”
As far as flirting attempts go, it’s pretty weak, but Stiles mostly wants to test how receptible the man is to the attempt. If he acts uncomfortable, Stiles will drop it and bite his tongue the rest of their entrapment together, no matter how badly he wants to tangle himself around the man like a fresh sheet of Saran Wrap.
But Mister Hale doesn’t act uncomfortable. Instead, it’s as if Stiles has stoked the fire.
“Derek,” he says, a strain to the tone of his voice, “You should - My name is Derek.”
“Derek,” Stiles repeats, purposefully letting his voice rasp over the name. Derek’s eyes fall to his mouth as he does. “I’m Stiles Stilinski.”
Derek’s eyebrows raise, half dubious, half playful. “Really?”
Stiles laughs. “Well, It’s what I go by. Most people can’t, or don’t try, to pronounce my real first name. It’s a Polish nightmare.”
“Try me,” says Derek.
Stiles swallows. “Mieczyslaw.”
Derek’s gaze feels like it could light Stiles on fire. He carefully enunciates, “Mieczyslaw Stilinski.”
His pronunciation is perfect.
-
Derek makes them dinner.
He navigates the kitchen with fluid muscle memory and ease, throwing spices into mixing bowls without checking recipes and mincing vegetables with expert speed. He cooks like he does everything else: Effortlessly.
And seriously, how many talents can one man have?
Stiles is relieved when he’s tasked with peeling and cutting the potatoes because it gives him something to do other than ogling Derek’s Herculean thighs in his dark wash jeans.
Not that the task is able to distract him completely.
Even when his back is turned to Derek, fantasies of him crowding in behind Stiles or wrapping his arms around his middle or pressing him into the counter fill his mind. It doesn’t help that any time they find themselves within the other’s personal space - inevitable in a kitchen this size - their bodies angle a little too close, their hands bump a few too many times, their gazes lock a little too often.
Derek smells like pine tar soap, faded parchment, and rugged heat, and Stiles is quickly finding the combination to be his own, personal kryptonite.
He wants to bury his nose in Derek’s neck and frot against him like some adolescent teenager. He wants to push his shirt up over his no-doubt washboard abs and nuzzle the hair he imagines grows there, dark and thick and intoxicating. He wants to shove Derek down and splay his thighs open to mouth at his bulge through his jeans. Wants to dig him out through his open zipper and swallow him until he’s a gagging, drooling mess and Derek is bowing off the ground in pleasure.
Alcohol does have a tendency to heat up Stiles’ libido, but something tells him it has a lot more to do with the kaleidoscopic color of Derek’s eyes and the low timbre of his laugh and the way he looks at Stiles like maybe, Stiles is causing all the same reactions inside of him.
That thought is the most devastating of them all.
Throughout dinner, Stiles can feel the unspoken tension build between them. They feast on ham and mashed potatoes and green bean casserole, fluffy rolls that release steam when ripped into and Derek’s homemade apple butter that melts without needing to be spread.
It’s dark outside by the time they’ve finished.
They float over to the fireplace and Stiles sinks into one of the armchairs poised around it, waiting for Derek to join him. He does so with another pair of delectable handcrafted drinks in hand, passing one to Stiles as he deposits himself in the twin armchair.
And Stiles, feeling sated and hotter than the flames, suggests, “We should play a drinking game.”
-
Derek is by no means well-versed in drinking games.
Under normal circumstances, (non-Stiles related circumstances) he never saw the appeal. But he is quickly learning just how inclined he is to give Stiles anything that he wants.
“Never have I ever,” Stiles drawls, nursing his fourth -fifth? - drink of the evening, “Skipped class.”
Derek concedes and takes a sip of his whiskey - they had decided to opt for hard liquor after their first couple drinks - and Stiles fist bumps.
“I have a hard time believing that,” Derek says once he’s swallowed, “You have the face of a trouble maker.”
Stiles’ smile is blinding and jubilant and more than a little tipsy. “And the town sheriff as a father.”
Derek grimaces sympathetically, making Stiles laugh.
Throughout the game Derek has also learned that Stiles: has terrible taste in movies - but has read Derek’s favorite sci-fi series, Dune; had chicken pox at the same time as his childhood friend, Scott; likes oldies rock, his favorite song being Bad Moon Rising by Creedence Clearwater Revival; has broken every toe and his nose, twice; can speak fluent Polish; and had learned how to drive manual when he was fourteen (his mother had taught him in her beloved jeep the summer before she died, having known she wouldn’t make it to his sixteenth birthday).
Derek wants to learn more.
He wants to know everything there is to know about Stiles. Wants to spend all of his nights like this, with him, tucked away in his apartment feeling sated and invincible and unreachable by the outside world. He wants to draw Stiles behind the curtains around his bed and press him down onto the cool, clean sheets. Wants to spend hours peeling him out of his clothing and slowly, savoring each brush of skin and shaky exhale.
He just wants, insatiably.
“Your turn,” Stiles says.
His smile is more intoxicating than the alcohol in Derek’s hand.
“Never have I ever,” says Derek, purely spitballing, “Gotten a piercing.”
But that makes Stiles choke on a laugh, before taking an obligatory sip of his drink.
Derek’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh?”
Stiles blushes suddenly, and swallows. “Yeah, it was back in college” - he clears his throat and chuckles awkwardly - “the person I was dating really had a thing for Prince Albert’s.”
It’s not at all what Derek is expecting him to say. At once the image of Stiles with a Prince Albert flashes into his mind, the cool, heavy steel glistening with precum, hips making tiny, aborted thrusts upward.
He said it had been back in college - did that mean that he no longer had it?
Derek pulls himself from the fantasy and forcibly swallows. Stiles’ eyes fall to track the movement, his eyelids dropping low.
Derek’s voice is hoarse when he finds it. “Your turn.”
Stiles’ expression has turned heady, an unspoken understanding of the new territory their game is veering into. “Never have I ever gotten a tattoo.”
Derek doesn’t even hesitate to take a drink.
“Show me.” The reflection of the fire is dancing in Stiles’ eyes.
Derek sets his drink down and stands. He reaches an arm back to yank his shirt over his head, Stiles’ gaze going hungry over his chest before Derek is turning to reveal the triskelion on his back. He isn’t expecting the immediate press of insistent fingers against the ink there, and it makes him gasp softly.
Stiles' warm touch raises goosebumps on his skin, and Derek’s eyes fall shut. He’s tracing the design of the tattoo, maybe simply for a reason to caress Derek’s back.
Derek turns and Stiles’ hand drops. They are scant inches apart, Stiles’ lips sheening from the alcohol.
Derek’s voice comes out no louder than a whisper. “Never have I ever had a one night stand.”
He says it because he needs Stiles to know that sex with him is never casual. He needs Stiles to know that with Derek, it’s all in, or not at all. He’s been hurt too many times to give his heart out freely. But Stiles doesn’t feel like someone he has to be brave for. Stiles feels like someone he could kiss, and it be the only solution.
There’s that heady look of understanding again, and instead of taking a drink, Stiles sets his cup down altogether.
Derek’s heart knocks hard against his chest.
Stiles says, “Never have I ever wanted someone as desperately as I want you.”
The confession obliterates every reservation Derek still has in place and it isn’t thought but compulsion that has him finally reaching forward to yank Stiles against him.
Their mouths crash together and Derek swallows the sweet noise of pleasure Stiles makes.
Stiles kisses like an explosion and Derek wants to be consumed.
He wants to devour.
They’re both already achingly hard. Derek can feel the hot weight of Stiles’ cock against his and it sparks dragging heat through his body. His hands fall to Stiles’ hips and he yanks them flesh against his, Stiles’ arms coming to wrap around Derek’s neck as he grinds against him.
They push against each other in a battle for friction.
Stiles’ mouth detaches from Derek’s to find the junction of his shoulder and neck, making a litany of noises that shoot straight through Derek’s abs while mouthing wet kisses down his shoulder.
Derek groans, feeling untamed. He pushes them three resolute steps forward to pin Stiles up against the wall by the fireplace.
Stiles gasps as his back hits the bricks, and it’s Derek that dips to kiss Stiles’ neck this time. Blunt canines drag over the sensitive skin, marking his neck up all red and pretty. He presses a knee between Stiles’ legs and thrills at the groan that earns him, feeling the hot outline of Stiles’ cock against his thigh as he sucks a throbbing hickey just below his jaw.
Stiles’ tiny, breathy noises are devastating.
Derek pulls back to admire his work, mouth wet and eyelids heavy as his thumb presses to the purple mark.
His voice comes out a rumble. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen you downstairs and wanted to fold you over your desk, right then and there.” Stiles shivers, his hand coming up to splay through Derek’s chest hair. “Can’t tell you how many times I’ve fucked you open in my mind while you didn’t even know I was watching.”
Stiles moans at those words, grinding forward against Derek’s thigh as Derek finds his own purchase against the jut of Stiles’ hipbone.
“I would have let you.” Stiles’ voice has a new shade of desperation to it, “You think I haven’t thought the same?” He pushes his hand down between them to cup Derek’s bulge and squeezes, smile tweaking when that makes Derek hiss. He says the words against Derek’s lips: “I’ve wanted you since the first moment I saw you.”
That knowledge wraps through Derek like a red-hot nylon string, tangling low and pulling taut.
I would have let you.
He grips Stiles and kisses him like how he wants to fuck him: deep and without abandon.
He kisses, and kisses, and kisses him.
Stiles exudes impeccable multitasking skills in the meantime, working Derek’s zipper down and his hand inside. They both groan into the kiss when he wraps long, capable fingers around Derek’s cock and tugs.
Stiles breaks the kiss to moan, “Fuck, you’re so hard.” Derek inadvertently thrusts forward into his grip, mouth parting soundlessly. Then there are sudden, hot lips at his neck and Stiles’ low, burgeoning whispers: “Let me hear you, I want to hear you.”
Seemingly coming to a decision, Stiles retracts his grip and spins Derek so that he’s the one being pressed into the wall. Then he drops to his knees and pulls both the waistband of Derek’s jeans and underwear down.
Derek’s cock springs free from its entrapment, leaving him now completely naked while Stiles hasn’t even lost his socks, yet. Which feels wildly unfair, but Stiles is watching his cock as if entranced by it so Derek doesn’t really want to break that concentration, quite yet.
Stiles’ hot gaze rises to lock with Derek’s as he moves forward to place a kiss against his glistening tip. Derek groans, cock twitching encouragingly as Stiles’ hands star out on his thighs.
Derek’s cockhead brushes Stiles’ cheek as he moves down Derek’s length, leaving hot, wet kisses in his wake. Stiles hasn’t broken eye-contact once. When his trail of kisses lead him back up to the tip he grips the base with one hand, and his eyelids finally flutter shut as he engulfs Derek to his limit.
One thing Derek hadn’t learned about Stiles during their game, was that he lacked a gag reflex.
Derek’s head knocks back hard against the wall as a guttural moan rips from his throat. The reverberation of Stiles’ answering moans around his cock have him inadvertently thrusting forward in short, aborted jerks. He’s not all the way inside Stiles’ mouth, but that has more to do with the lack of lubrication than a lack of Stiles’ talents.
Derek’s left hand finds Stiles’ hair and fists it there, squeezing so hard that it causes another moan to tumble from Stiles’ mouth down over his cock. Stiles’ other hand slides up Derek’s thighs to his abs to splay out there, and then he starts moving.
He makes it wet, sloppy, and it isn’t long until his nose is brushing the coarse black hair of Derek’s pubes.
Derek fights his way back from the afterlife and opens his eyes to gaze down on the marvel transpiring below.
A shiver racks down his spine at the sight.
Stiles looks absolutely wrecked, as if he’s the one receiving the best blowjob of his life. His eyes are glassy and low-lidded and he’s watching Derek through the dark sweep of his eyelashes. Derek still has a hard, possessive grip in his hair that’ll no doubt leave it in ruin when he lets go, and lifts his other hand to brush Stiles’ hallowed out cheek - damn near reverently - before skating over the corner of his lips, made redder by the stretch of Derek's cock working in, and out.
“You’re fucking gorgeous,” Derek tells him.
Stiles’ rhythm stutters as his eyelids flutter shut, and then he’s hitching into a devastating speed.
Derek is going to come.
There is no way in hell he is coming before he even gets Stiles’ shirt off.
Stiles makes a noise of protest as Derek pulls him off his cock with the grip on his head, but it’s quickly masked by Derek's mouth when he pulls him forward and to his feet.
Derek breaks the kiss to say, “My turn,” against Stiles’ lips, “Strip off your clothes.”
Derek walks over to an armchair and sits with his knees spread wide, hand lazily stroking his cock as he watches Stiles come to stand in front of him.
Derek has lost count of how many times he’s fantasized about this very scenario.
But none even came close to the real thing.
The fire dances behind Stiles as he reaches for his hem and drags it up over his head. Derek’s pulse spikes eagerly all the way down to his cock, hand quickening as Stiles’ slender fingers start on his belt loop. His eyes are everywhere; sinewy forearms and toned biceps; elegant collarbones and a slender waist; a tightness of physique that alluded to a workout regime and a splattering of moles over his torso that matched the irregularity of the beauty marks on his face.
God, he is beautiful.
Stiles has finally undone his pants, and shoves them down with his underwear, stepping out and kicking the pile aside to stand fully, and gloriously naked in front of Derek.
He does, in fact, still have his Prince Albert.
And the sight is like a cattle rod to the spine.
Stiles is already moving forward to meet him when Derek rises. They collide into passion, any timidity they might’ve had before now long gone. Derek finally gets a hand around Stiles’ pretty pink cock, his thumb compulsively finding and rubbing the place he’s pierced. The drag of it pulls shaky, wanton noises from Stiles, and Derek feels a new level of carnal desperation rip through him like a whip- crack.
He bears Stiles down onto the white faux-pelt in front of the fireplace and fucks forward against him, their cocks sliding together in a deliciously maddening drag. There is hardly an inch of their skin not touching, but it still isn’t enough for Stiles. His hands scramble for purchase against Derek’s back as he fucks up to match Derek’s pace.
Every thrust hits Derek like a match head striking stone. Any minute now, he would catch flames. The roaring fire beside them makes that prospect seem all the more plausible, all the more inevitable.
Stiles makes a litany of mindless, wanton noises and gasps, “Derek, I’m gonna -”
That’s all it takes for Derek to ignite.
His moan punches out of him as hot cum pours between them, pressing his face hard into Stiles’ neck to muffle his noises.
Stiles is making sweet, whining noises of his own, hips stuttering. Derek quickly shoves up and down Stiles’ body before he can come. The new position drags a gasp of surprise from Stiles, as Derek catches his gaze and sucks the throbbing tip of his cock into his mouth. Stiles’ head thumps back hard against the rug, back bowing deliciously off the floor.
“Oh, god, Derek -”
Derek tongues Stiles’ slit, pierced with the Prince Albert, before dropping his jaw and enveloping him entirely. He constricts his mouth around the intoxicating taste and heat of Stiles, and strips his cock with fast, reckless abandon.
And with a choked cry, Stiles’ hips jerk, and he follows Derek into the heat of their twined bliss.
-
Later, after they’ve showered and stoked the fire, they lie together under Derek’s enormous comforter. They tuck their toes together to warm them from the encroaching chill and watch the snow falling past the nearby window. The flurries cast scurrying shadows over them on the bed, and they fall asleep like that, easier than breathing.
F . I . N