“You have to buy a new suit.”
Derek sighs, giving Stiles his best “you exhaust me” expression. “I do?”
“You know you do!” Stiles scoots across the bed, wriggling until he’s half straddling Derek and tracing the curve of his lower belly, where it rises up from the elastic of his boxer briefs. “You gave your old one to St. John’s.” Stiles grins a little, looking deviant as hell. “Remember, you tried it on for me before you donated it?”
“I remember you being an insufferable pervert.”
“I remember you looking like you were going to pop a button and it was hot as fuck.”
Derek rolls his eyes. “So tell me again why I have to buy a new suit?”
“Because Lydia wants to go somewhere fancy for dinner.”
“Does she already have somewhere in mind?” Derek asks, knowing the answer full well.
“La Vie?” Stiles shrugs. “Never heard of it. But she says it’s jackets preferred and ties required.”
Derek scoots up a little, until he’s partially sitting up against the headboard. The position makes his belly—which is bigger than ever, a beach ball that sits in his lap—protrude further, and Stiles hums happily, pushing it up and bouncing it a little, watching it wobble. “You know I can’t get a suit by tonight, right?”
Stiles frowns. “Why?”
“Because I’m not buying one off the rack.”
Derek doesn’t live like a millionaire. His apartment is modest, the Camaro is meticulously cared for but not anything excessive, and he doesn’t really spend money on much of anything else besides frequent takeout. But he’ll be damned if he’s buying a suit off the rack. He wouldn’t have done it when he was skinny, and he damn sure isn’t doing it now, when he’s carrying around an extra sixty—more, it’s more than sixty, but he’s not ready to acknowledge that—pounds around his waist. He used to be a hard fit for a suit because of his shoulders. An off the rack suit still won’t fit right, although the problem has shifted. Now any jacket that fits around his tummy will gap in other places unless it’s tailored specifically for him. It’s a little embarrassing, honestly.
Stiles wrinkles his nose. “Snob.” He slides up and over, so that he’s straddling Derek completely, rocking his half-hard cock against Derek’s big gut. “But Lyds wants to go and they’re only here this weekend. What are you gonna wear?”
Derek rests his hands on Stiles’ pretty little hipbones, pulling him forward against his tummy. “I’ve got slacks and a shirt,” he says, pretending it’s a great hardship. “It’s summer. No jacket won’t look that bad.”
“With a bowtie instead of a pointy tie?” Stiles grins. “Oh, shit, and suspenders. You should totally get suspenders.”
Stiles nods enthusiastically.
“Like for old men and hipsters.”
“Yes!” Stiles puts a hand on either side of Derek’s gut and squeezes a little. “It’ll look so fucking hot. Like—like lingerie, only for your belly.”
Derek snorts. “Jesus Christ, kiddo. You know I’ll have a shirt on under them, right?”
“Yeah, yeah. It’s still gonna look hot. Please?”
Derek moves his hands to Stiles’ shoulders and pushes him down. “Convince me I should, baby.”
Stiles slithers down Derek’s body and mouths at his cock through his briefs, one hand still gripping Derek’s tummy. “Deal.”
Stiles is more or less beside himself by the time they get to Chris and Lydia’s hotel room—Derek is hot all the time, but he looks particularly, ridiculously hot tonight. His dress slacks are a size too small, slung low on his hips to make room for the belly he’s carrying around these days, and while his white button-up fits, there’s not an inch of extra room anywhere. The suspenders are the finishing touch, and they might as well be a picture frame around Derek’s tummy, highlighting it for the world to see.
Stiles tugs at his own collar, more interested in seeing Derek dressed up than having dressed up himself. They certainly fit in the with the hotel’s clientele, though; Lyds, of course, hadn’t booked any regular kind of hotel. Two Magnolias Inn is a converted mansion, built around the turn of the century, and the rooms don’t even have numbers. Chris and Lydia are renting “The Oak Room.” It’s all ridiculously pretentious and Old South to the core, but Stiles has to admit that it’s also kind of cool. The third floor is rumored to be haunted.
Stiles catches a glimpse of himself and Derek in a big beveled mirror as they ascend the enormous staircase to the second floor—Stiles briefly entertains the idea of faking a Scarlett O’Hara fall to see if Derek will catch him, but he stifles the idea, knowing how unamused Derek will be—and does a bit of a double take. He’s been eyeing Derek all night, but somehow seeing him like this, reflected and standing next to Stiles, drives home exactly how great their size disparity is. Derek, striking with his close-cropped beard and bright eyes, is broad and thick all over, prominent belly giving him just the slightest of arches in his back, affecting his stride in a way that also affects Stiles. In contrast, Stiles looks—and is—slim and almost waifish, all narrow hips and lean muscle, his dress clothes accentuating that fact. Derek had tied his tie for him before they left the apartment, laughing when Stiles had admitted he had no idea how to do it. Told him that such a pretty boy should learn how. Stiles had retorted that he didn’t need to learn because he had Derek.
They look, weirdly, like they belong together.
And also like Stiles might call Derek Daddy. But still. They look matched.
It takes a moment before Lydia answers the door, but when she does, she promptly wraps Stiles up in a hug, arms thrown around his neck.
“Look at you guys!” She pulls back, admiring them both. “Look, Chris, they clean up so nice,” she coos.
Chris, lounging in a huge, ornate chair by the window, lifts a wine glass in a salute and offers them an easy grin. “Indeed they do.”
“You too, Lyds,” Stiles says, stepping inside and looking Lydia up and down. Her dress, as per usual, is about five inches shorter than it should be, but it’s a soft, romantic pink that manages to make her look both sophisticated and frightfully young. Her hair is piled up on her head in some complicated knot, and her shoes—nude pumps that Stiles assumes cost more than he makes in a month at Coffee Call—give her a good four additional inches of height.
She waves a hand at the compliment, the easy dismissal of a girl who is used to being told she’s beautiful, and tugs them inside.
They have a good hour to kill before their dinner reservations, and they end up sitting on the balcony, watching the sun set over the Garden District. There are four chairs on the balcony, but when they file out to take a seat, Chris lays a hand on Lydia’s hip—just lays it there, the lightest of touches—and Lydia promptly climbs into his lap. Her dress rides up another precarious inch or two, and Chris drops one lazy hand on her pale, pale inner thigh, almost indecently high. He doesn’t acknowledge her in any other way, though, all the while still leaned forward, talking to Derek.
It’s the most casual display of—Power? Authority? Ownership?--that Stiles has ever seen, and he can feel his eyes widening. He sneaks a glance over at Derek, but the bastard is just calmly answering Chris’s questions about New Orleans nightlife.
Stiles tries to listen to the conversation, but then Chris lights a cigar. And smokes it, with Lydia sitting there on his lap.
Lydia Martin, the girl whom Stiles had once watched verbally eviscerate some unsuspecting partygoer who’d dared to light a cigarette in her house, is sitting on Chris Argent’s lap while he blows cigar smoke all around her. And she doesn’t seem to mind a bit.
When Chris produces another cigar and offers it to Derek, who lights it and puffs away like smoking cigars in $500 a night hotel suites is part of his every day routine, Stiles can barely contain himself.
Derek doesn’t need to look over at Stiles to know the kid is about to vibrate out of his chair. He can smell it, a mix of tension and interest, overlaid with confusion and a hint of arousal.
Derek doesn’t always do well figuring out Stiles’ emotions—in general, emotions aren’t Derek’s strong suit, even with the advantage of his werewolf nose. He’s good with action. Good with sex. Good with physical stuff as a whole, really. Figuring out what Stiles is thinking or what he wants, though, is usually a little outside of Derek’s wheelhouse.
Not today, though. Derek knows, without even looking at Stiles, that the kid is unsure how to respond to the glaringly obvious nature of Chris and Lydia’s relationship—Derek is surprised she’s not calling Chris “Sir” tonight, to be completely honest—and that Stiles is a little miffed that he wasn’t offered a cigar.
Derek puffs a little bit on his own cigar and exhales not exactly toward, but in the general vicinity of, Stiles, just to jerk his chain a little bit.
Stiles blinks and wrinkles his nose, and Derek shifts in his chair, resisting the urge to do it again just to enjoy Stiles’ discomfiture.
Chris obviously assumes that Derek and Stiles have the same sort of dynamic as he and Lydia. It’s not a surprising assumption; Derek is fairly certain that most people who see him with Stiles make similar assumptions. And they’re not wrong, exactly. Derek is in charge in his relationship with Stiles. He does top, and he does call Stiles his baby boy, and the fact that Stiles doesn’t refer to him explicitly as Daddy is more of a question of terminology than power dynamics.
Actually, Derek thinks he might like it quite a bit if Stiles did call him Daddy, although tonight is probably not the best time to broach that subject.
Derek leans over slightly and drops a hand onto Stiles’ knees and squeezes. It’s satisfying, how quickly Stiles’ heartrate slows.
He leans back in his chair, wiggling to try to adjust the waistband of his slacks—which are too fucking tight even though they aren’t that old, damn it—and just enjoys the moment, a good cigar and better wine in hand, Stiles dressed up all slick and sharp beside him. He might as well enjoy the evening while it lasts. Derek isn’t much of a gambler, but he’d bet every bill in his wallet that he and Stiles are going to end up having a Serious Discussion about all of this when they get home tonight.