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Derek pulls out one of his nicer henleys and then turns to his side of the dresser — the neatly folded side — for a pair of jeans.
He can still hear the shower running from the bathroom. There won't be any hot water left for him at this rate.
He knows it'll be revenge for not joining Stiles in there, but they'd have been late to Scott and Kira's New Year's Eve party if he had. Stiles's argument that they'd save water and time by sharing would only have been valid if all they did was shower in there. Which is not a feat they've exactly managed yet. Derek had been late to a shift for the first time in five years just last week.
It's hardly his fault that Stiles forces him to be the reasonable one in this relationship.
He decides on his older black jeans. They're tight and worn around the thighs, and Stiles always complains when he wears them.
Revenge for Stiles's revenge, he figures.
Derek picks up his phone. There's a text from Kira asking if Stiles is still bringing his famous sugar cookies. He wonders how that's even a question. Holiday baking has been filling the counters for weeks and today's been no exception.
The water's still running. Derek's starting to suspect that Stiles might be having a spiteful jerk-off in there, too.
The shower is the best and worst thing about their new townhouse. Namely because, unlike the showers in their old building, it actually fits two grown men.
Sure, there'd be more room to spare if one of them hadn't let himself get over 300 pounds, but if Derek hadn't understood the appeal of sharing a shower before, it was only because he'd never showered with a fat guy. Pressing in close to a cushiony body, letting every inch of him filling the space between them, in order to share the water? An excuse to explore every roll and curve of his body in the name of helping him soap up? ...
It also makes the shower the worst part of moving in here. Because, for all that Derek has been craving a chance to properly re-explore Stiles's body, they've hardly even had time to take advantage of it.
Between the move, Derek having to pick up extra shifts at the station this month, and Stiles getting himself invited to what seems like every holiday party in Beacon Hills — as well as Stiles overeating at said parties and then declaring himself "too fat for sex" when he's come home with a stomach ache — it's been weeks since they've had time for much of anything.
Derek knows, logically, that the four-and-a-half days since their last rushed morning blowjob isn't actually that long. It's not like he hasn't gone longer than that before. Much longer. Long enough for Erica to threaten to buy him a hooker. But that was before he had an eager, fun — and utterly infuriating — man sharing his bed on a regular basis.
He imagines Stiles, just on the other side of the wall, soft and soap-slick, head tilting back, eyes falling shut as he reaches under his belly for his cock ...
Derek shakes himself. If he keeps thinking about this, he'll end up joining Stiles in there after all. And then they'll not only be late, but he'll have to put up with Stiles gloating about it.
His eyes light on the box in the corner of the bedroom, labeled with Stiles's scrawled "clothes", that Stiles still hasn't gotten around to unpacking. Finding a place in their already-crowded closet for whatever Stiles's got in there would at least give him a distraction.
He slits open the tape and upends it onto the bed. He frowns as he's confronted with a pile of logo t-shirts and jeans. There's a pair of khakis with missing button, and a couple of wrinkled, faintly musty, button-downs. A stray single sock with a googly-eyed dinosaur.
He only has to look through the first few pieces of clothing to realize why Stiles hasn't missed them in the month since they moved in.
He aims an exasperated glare at the bathroom door — and the man who is in all likelihood pleasuring himself in the shower behind it.
Their new townhouse might be bigger than either of their old apartments, but they'd still had to compromise and consolidate.
They'd ended up with Derek's kitchen table, Stiles's dishes, Derek's blender, and Stiles's baking pans. Stiles's flatscreen TV and Derek's free weights. Derek's books now share their bookcases with an extensive collection of superhero movies and video games. They'd kept Derek's bed, which was bigger. And Stiles's couch, which was showing its years, but Stiles had complained about having to bend over his belly to get up from Derek's lower one.
In exchange for Derek giving up the old weight bench he rarely used, he'd thought Stiles had agreed to donate his rather extensive collection of old clothes. And it's not as if they hadn't made enough trips to the charity bin at the fire station to give him ample opportunity.
Derek starts to wonder what Stiles has snuck into the other unpacked boxes around the house.
The water from the shower's still running. Derek sighs and picks up a red t-shirt from the top of the pile. It actually looks like it could be his own size. Which means it can't have fit Stiles in years.
He wonders what Stiles had looked like in it before he'd given it up as too small. He'd have been newly overweight, probably. Soft cheeks making him look younger than he was, and a small pot belly rounding out the 'What does the fox say?' written on the front. He wonders if his hips would have been soft enough to squeeze yet or if —
Derek's startled from his thoughts by a crash, and then a yelp, and then an "Ow, ow, ow."
He blinks at the bathroom door as it bangs open, and Stiles stumbles out of the steam.
"Stiles?"
"Ow," Stiles says. He's hopping and grabbing for his foot, thick mole-dotted rolls of his torso jiggling. He glances up at Derek. "Stubbed my toe on the scale."
Derek reaches out to steady him before he falls over.
"Are you okay?"
Stiles is moving too much to get a good look at his toe, but at least he doesn't seem to be bleeding.
"This is your fault," Stiles huffs out.
"My fault?" Derek says. "I'm the one who told you not to put the scale in the middle of the bathroom."
He doesn't even know why Stiles had insisted on having the scale out at all. Though he suspects it's less because he's planning on stepping on it again anytime soon and more because it gave him an excuse to buy a set of matching, garish pink towels as a prank.
At least, Derek hopes it's a prank.
"Hey, I'm the injured party here, dude." Stiles glares at him. "If you'd just joined me like I told you to, you could've saved California from a drought and me from being crippled."
As Derek's bends down to check out his toe — his EMT training might as well be good for something here — Stiles exclaims, "Hey, I've been looking for those!"
And then he's striding across the room, limp completely forgotten.
Derek straightens back up with a sigh.
Now that the apparent emergency is over, he can't help but notice how stark a contrast the Stiles digging through the pile of clothes cuts to the younger Stiles he'd just been imagining.
His belly and sides swell over the hot pink towel wrapped under his waist. A bead of water trickles down the crease of fat on his lower back. The waning daylight through the window softens the curves of his body even more.
Between their schedules and Stiles taking to covering himself up more lately — if he hadn't gotten distracted by stubbing his toe, Stiles would probably have a shirt on by now — it's been a while since Derek's gotten a good look at him.
But now that Derek has the chance to take in the bare expanse of his belly, he can see why Stiles has gotten a little self-conscious.
After putting on a few "relationship pounds", as Stiles decided to call it, his weight had levelled off for months.
He still ate too much and didn't exercise, but he'd stayed around 300 pounds long enough to get comfortable carrying the weight around. He got less shy about his belly getting in the way, and more shameless about teasing Derek with his size. Whenever he'd step on the scale, he'd not-so-subtly ensure Derek was paying attention, peeking for a reaction.
And he'd stepped on it quite a lot for someone who wasn't exactly watching his weight. He'd been fascinated by a piece of electronics not working like it should — "Defying its very nature just to tell me how much of a fatass I am!" he'd proclaim, impressed, whenever the numbers, which occasionally dipped back into the 290s, crept back up over the scale's purported limit of 300 pounds.
Ironically, he'd stopped gaining weight right after he'd finally gotten Derek to admit that it would be hot to watch him gain more.
But Derek could hardly blame Stiles's body for wanting to settle at 300 pounds. He'd looked amazing. Shamelessly sexy, with full, round curves that became plush and pliant under Derek's hands.
It turns out that Stiles hadn't been exaggerating about his tendency to put on holiday weight, though.
As far as Derek knows, Stiles hasn't stepped on the scale since the numbers crept from 297.5 to 308 and didn't know signs of slowing down.
And that was weeks ago, barely after Halloween. Those ten pounds had been more noticeable on the scale than to the eye. But whatever he's added to it since then isn't subtle anymore.
The thick curves of his body are giving way to softness. He's doughier in the middle now, and wider at the sides. Flabbier over his chest and —
A snapped, "Dude, stop ogling me," cuts through Derek's thoughts, and Derek blinks as Stiles snatches the red t-shirt from the pile and holds it protectively in front of himself.
"I'm not," Derek lies. He's about to add something about how nice Stiles looks — why he seems to think Derek minds how he's let himself go for the holidays is beyond him — but then he remembers that he's actually annoyed with his boyfriend currently. So, instead, he says, "You know, I thought we agreed we were going to give away anything we didn't need when we moved in."
"Huh?"
"Like clothes that don't fit us?"
"Well, yeah," Stiles says.
Derek crosses his arms. "That means you got rid of all your old college clothes, then?"
"I told you I did, didn't I?" Stiles glances at the pile of clothes on the bed. "Wait. Are you talking about these?"
Derek raises an eyebrow.
"Dude," he says. "These clothes don't count. They all fit me when I graduated. I might need them again."
"Need them for what?" Derek asks, incredulous.
Stiles bristles. "To wear, obviously."
He props the red t-shirt under his double chin and smoothes it down over his torso. But if he's trying to demonstrate that wearing the shirt is a reasonable consideration, the attempt is ruined by how his upper belly pushes it out too far to cover his lower belly and his love handles spread out on either side of it.
Stiles is finishing up icing the cookies when Derek finally steps into the kitchen. A few more seem to have disappeared from the counters since the last time Derek had been down here.
"Nice penis," Derek says. Stiles had left him approximately five seconds of hot water, and a penis, complete with a pair of hairy balls, drawn in the leftover steam from his shower.
Stiles smirks at him. "Why thank you, thought you'd never notice."
"How many of these cookies have you eaten today?" Derek can't help but ask.
Stiles licks the icing off his thumb, and then says with prim authority, "It's important to taste test."
He picks up a snowman and holds it to Derek's lips.
Derek bites off the head but waves away the rest.
He can appreciate that Stiles is a good baker. The Christmas cookies he's had Derek bring into the fire station have been responsible for more than a few New Year's resolutions to hit the gym. But between the rich butter and sugar in the cookies — and more butter and more sugar in the generous layers of icing — he doesn't know how Stiles manages to eat so many.
Though he supposes Stiles does get year-round practice with the donuts at the police station.
Derek is just relieved Stiles doesn't prefer a soft tummy himself. He'd prefer to earn his appreciative looks with extra time on his arms at the gym than trying to eat like him.
Stiles shrugs and takes a bite of the remaining snowman. Then he halts chewing and narrows his eyes. "What are you wearing?"
Derek glances down at himself. On an impulse, he'd swapped his henley for Stiles's red t-shirt before coming down. He says, "If you're going to make us keep it, I figured someone should wear it."
"Do you even know what the fox says?" Stiles demands.
"What does it say?" Derek frowns at the 'What does the fox say?' on the shirt.
"Wouldn't you like to know?"
Derek wonders if he should rethink his decision. Stiles's taste is rarely intentionally offensive, but he's not always the best at ... reading the room.
"It's too tight on you, anyways," Stiles continues. "You look indecent."
Derek rolls his eyes. "This is actually my size, Stiles. You know, if we'd met when you were in college, we could've actually shared clothes."
"Well, they never fit me like that," Stiles complains. "As if it's not bad enough you're wearing those jeans. Why does anyone ever let you out of the house? Cover those up." Stiles gestures to Derek's biceps with his cookie.
"If anyone needs to cover up," Derek tugs down the hem of his shirt, "it's you."
The blue t-shirt slips right back up the helpless plop of Stiles's lower belly.
Stiles flicks his eyes down, cheeks flushing. "I just haven't worn this shirt in a while."
Derek raises an eyebrow. "You haven't worn these jeans in a while, either."
The jeans are the pair Stiles had bought to accommodate last year's holiday weight. They hadn't accommodated his subsequent "relationship" weight quite as well, though. He'd started sneaking on more comfortable sizes than these long before the holidays.
"That doesn't mean they don't fit." Stiles takes a defensive bite of the snowman and then reaches for the tupperware to start packing the remaining ones up. "They fit fine."
Derek hums, not entirely committed to agreeing with that. He strokes a finger over the roll of lower belly sneaking out under the shirt, and over his jeans.
People don't give Stiles a hard time about his weight very often, but when it happens, Stiles hardly needs Derek defending him. He shuts down unsolicited diet advice with almost as much scathing delight as he does the strangers who try to flirt with Derek.
But compared to how shamelessly chubby Stiles had been at 300 pounds, there's something vulnerable about these new, self-consciously soft, pounds.
It makes Derek feel oddly protective. Makes him want to wrap them in something warm and comfortable.
"Here," he says. He brings the sides of Stiles's flannel together. It's the only new thing Stiles is wearing, and the sides meet easily, even where Stiles's belly is stretching out his shirt.
Stiles lets him button it, even sucks in a little to help, and then asks, "How do I look?"
"Nice," Derek says. He gives his middle an affectionate rub through the cotton, and then steps back.
Stiles's jeans are snug over his chubby thighs and bottom, but the flannel is round and comfortable over his belly. It's a sexy kind of adorable that makes Derek want to kiss the icing off his lips.
And then possibly drag him back into the bedroom and forget about the party entirely.
Derek adds, "Really nice."
"I can't believe it's already been a year since you tried to pay Stilinski for sex."
Derek glares at the woman he still holds responsible for that misunderstanding.
Erica just laughs and takes a drink of her champagne. "He's already told the story twice tonight. For your sake, I hope there's a statute of limitations on solicitation."
Derek sighs. There are at least half a dozen police officers at this party. So, yes, Derek hopes so, too.
"You know, when you first brought him around the fire station, you were like total opposites," Erica muses. "Who would've guessed you'd still be together a year later?"
"Why? You thought I needed a new gym buddy more than a boyfriend?" Derek asks, unimpressed. The hundred pounds separating himself and Stiles is a tired observation by now.
"Not because of that." Erica snickers. "I mean, just look at you guys. Look where he is, and look where you are."
Derek follows her eyes to the center of Scott and Kira's living room, where Stiles is currently holding court.
He supposes he has to concede that point.
It's not unusual to find Stiles in the middle of any party — or, rather, to find parties centering wherever Stiles's exuberance happens to be. Derek will occasionally seek him out to put a not-so-casual arm around him whenever one of his exes — namely Jackson tonight — gets too flirty. But most of the time he'd rather evade Stiles's attempts to drag him around with him in favor of nursing a beer or two away from the crowd. If he has to talk, let it be with the one or two people he actually knows.
"But you do look really cute together," Erica adds, with a sly look. "And he's looking even cuter these days."
Derek sighs, and takes a sip of his beer. He glances over to where Stiles is gesturing with a half-eaten pig-in-a-blanket to illustrate something in his story.
There's no doubt what "cute" is supposed to mean. The vulnerable softness of his new weight is hidden under his flannel, but his waistline is obviously wider than when Derek had first introduced him to Erica.
His chin's softer, too. Stiles had complained about having two chins in the pictures Allison had showed him at lunch the other day. Allison had assured him it was "cute". Stiles had grumbled that she could have at pretended to deny it.
Isaac had just given Derek a knowing look. As if he knew that Derek would kiss Stiles's jaw later, and murmur that he liked having an extra chin to kiss.
"I wish I had Stilinski in my bed at night."
"What?" Derek turns back to Erica sharply.
She just rolls her eyes. "Not for that. He just looks warm and comfortable. You know the heat in my apartment's broken."
Derek still glares.
"Jesus, possessive much?" She laughs. "It's not fair to keep him to yourself. I bet he's great to cuddle with." She drinks her champagne. "I wish Boyd would get more comfortable."
"Boyd's gotten plenty comfortable," Derek reminds her before she gets too many ideas. Boyd might not be as big as Stiles, but he didn't exactly have an easy time making the department's weight regulation this year.
Stiles finds Derek again at midnight, and, as the New Year's ball drops on the TV, he drags him into a dirty, open-mouthed kiss. It probably involves a little more tongue that is strictly socially acceptable for a party with all their friends, but Derek can't bring himself to care.
He just holds onto his lush waist, the curves of Stiles's body obscene against him.
When Stiles pulls away with an unsubtle grope of Derek's ass, the smirk in his eyes looks like a promise of more to come later.
But when later comes, Derek, already stripped down to his boxer briefs in anticipation, just stops in the doorway to their bedroom and stares.
"What are you doing?"
Stiles pauses where he's jumping up and down, trying to tug far too-small jeans up over his chubby thighs. "Couldn't get these on before we left."
"And what makes you think you can now?"
"Perseverance," Stiles says. He hops around some more, round belly bouncing under his flannel.
Never mind the jeans in last year's size that he'd barely squeezed himself into tonight. Derek had left Stiles alone for barely five minutes and now he's apparently trying to get himself into a pair at least a size smaller.
He watches, incredulous, as Stiles finally manages to tug them up over his bottom. He grins triumphantly as he reaches for the fly. "Tada! Look. Now I just need to button them."
Derek thinks his celebration is a little premature. There's photographic proof that this particular pair of jeans had stopped buttoning even before he'd weighed 300 pounds. He wonders if Stiles has had more champagne than he thought. He had lost of track of him a time or two.
"No, you don't need to button them," Derek tells him, unable to keep the impatience out of his voice. He collapses back down onto the bed. "All you need to do is get them off."
"You're not going to help?" He can hear the pout in Stiles's voice.
Derek sighs. Stiles has apparently gotten himself into a mood to prove a point, which is decidedly not the mood Derek had been hoping for.
If it wasn't so late or Derek's balls hadn't practically been blue for days, he'd probably be more patient. Or at least have appreciated the tease of his overweight boyfriend squeezing into too-tight clothes.
But the last thing Derek needs tonight is more teasing.
"Derek." Derek feels the bed shift under him and then the heavy weight of his boyfriend plopping down on his thighs.
And then the weight of said boyfriend shifting forward to settle with his bottom right over his crotch.
Derek cracks open an eye.
Stiles gives a little squirm and Derek grips his thighs tight to make him sit still.
"Stiles," he warns.
Stiles just gives him an innocent look. Then he continues on what is apparently the topic at hand, "You used to help me button them."
He lifts up his flannel-clad belly to show off how the jeans are unbuttoned and unzipped. Even riding low and with the fly open, they're still digging tight into the flesh of his stretchmarked hips.
Derek stares.
When he doesn't make a move to help, Stiles lets his belly drop back down into his lap. "I was wearing these the day you tried to pay me for sex, remember?"
"Of course I remember."
"You used to like how I looked in them," Stiles reminds him, moving in a bouncy little torture over his crotch.
Derek tightens his grip on his hips, gritting his teeth. "They used to look really good on you."
"And they don't now?" Stiles pouts.
Derek runs his hands over the insides of the thighs straddling him. Stiles had been chubby with last year's holiday weight when Derek had first seen him in them. They'd been snug over his bottom and tight under his belly, and Derek can't exactly deny that the way he'd filled them out hadn't played a part in deciding to invite him inside that first day.
But now the denim's worn, seams frayed. Stiles's flannel-clad belly rests heavy on top. Derek thinks about all the extra inches keeping the buttons from meeting underneath.
"Do they even qualify as being on you right now?" Derek asks.
"They would if you helped me button them like you used to," Stiles argues.
"You got too big for that, Stiles," Derek says.
"I'm not that big."
"You are. Jesus, you're getting so —" Derek shifts — trying to ignore the way his dick rubs against Stiles's bottom — and reaches for Stiles's flannel.
Stiles looks down, watching Derek unbutton it. His plump second chin pooches out. He asks, "I'm getting so what?"
Derek pushes the flannel off his shoulders without answering. The t-shirt underneath has ridden up to Stiles's belly button, leaving his soft, vulnerable lower belly spreading into his lap.
He strokes a thumb gently over the helplessly fat flesh.
"What's going on with the small clothes today?" he asks.
"Nothing's going on."
Derek raises an eyebrow.
"I just wanted to look good." Stiles wraps an arm around his stomach. "I mean, it's New Year's. Everyone was going to be there. And my new jeans are a lot bigger."
"They're a lot bigger because you're a lot bigger." Derek wonders just how much many pounds Stiles has put on this year. It was getting closer to 30 than 20 last time he'd stepped on the scale. If the soft spread of his middle is anything to go by, it might be closer to 40 than 30 by now.
He nudges Stiles's shirt up to take a better look.
But Stiles fists the edges of it in his hands, shoving it back down.
"I'm not that much bigger," he snaps.
"Look," Derek covers the hands gripping the shirt with his own, "I know you're shy about your stomach lately —"
"I'm not shy."
"— but you don't have to be shy with me," Derek says. He slips a hand over the roll of Stiles's lower belly that's still exposed. He lifts it a little, making Stiles squirm. "I think it's sexy that you're getting so much —"
"I'm getting so much what, dude?" Stiles demands. "Fatter?"
"Yeah, Stiles. Fatter." He gives his lower belly a gentle pinch. He clears his throat, but his voice is still hoarse when he confesses, "I didn't know you could get so soft."
"Oh." Stiles fiddles with the hem of his shirt. His cheeks are flushed in that way they get when he can't seem to decide whether to be embarrassed or complimented. He ventures, "I am getting fat, aren't I?"
"It's sexy," Derek tells him. "Really sexy." He squeezes the pliant flesh, earning himself a little whine. He licks his lips and amends, "No, it's obscene. You really let yourself go and — it really shows, Stiles."
Stiles's breath hitches. "Derek."
Derek strokes the soft skin reverently. Stiles has always been sensitive over his softest parts. And even more, it seems, now that his soft parts are so much softer. Jesus.
"You can tell, can't you? How good it feels?"
"No," Stiles denies, even as he squirms into Derek's touch. The squirming must make how hard Derek is against his bottom pretty obvious because he accuses, "You like it."
He says it like it's supposed to be a secret.
"You like that I gained more weight," Stiles pushes.
"You know I do," Derek says.
Stiles bites his lip. "I was thin when you said that, though."
"You weighed 304 pounds when I said that," Derek points out.
"Thinner," Stiles says. He hesitates, staring into Derek's eyes. He fiddles with the hem of his shirt again then offers, quietly, "You want me to take this off?"
"Yes. And the fucking jeans, Stiles."
"You know," Stiles says, as he wiggles out of his too-tight clothes. "If you wanted to see how much more of a fat-ass I am, you could've just joined me in the shower."
"And do you think I actually could've let you out before midnight?" Derek asks.
Stiles's mouth curves up, pleased.
He's never mastered the art of a striptease. And Derek is fine with the lack of finesse, seeing as it gets him naked faster. The circulation in Stiles's lower half is probably grateful to find that the jeans come off a lot faster than they came on, too.
Derek's barely shoved his own boxer briefs off when Stiles plops back on top of him.
The sudden weight punches a breath out of Derek's lungs, and his tortured cock was not prepared for the soft wiggle of naked bottom.
He supposes he should have guessed where this was going. But Stiles hasn't ridden him on top like this in a while. Derek isn't sure how tonight's fit of insecurity over his new weight turned so quickly into him willing to show off how much that new weight jiggles, but Derek's hardly going to complain.
Stiles grabs for the lube as Derek takes in his body. He watches him twist around to slick himself up.
It's got to be 40 pounds. At least 40. He's so fat.
His belly spreads out, helplessly doughy. There are new stretch marks low on his tummy, standing out pink next to the older, faded ones. The pot belly which had always given the fat over his middle its round, stubborn shape is on the verge of giving way to soft rolls. There's small roll of flesh folding between his chest and upper belly, and there's a hint of a crease in the puffiness around his belly button, dividing his upper and lower belly.
"You're staring," Stiles complains.
Derek can't help but complain in return, "You haven't let me look at you lately."
"Oh." Stiles looks away. "It's not because I'm shy or anything. It's just because. I mean. I know I'm —"
"I think you look good," Derek interrupts.
Stiles's eyes snap back to him. There's a vulnerability in them.
Derek strokes his round cheek. Stiles doesn't normally slip so easily back into insecurity about his weight. Not around Derek. And especially not since he got Derek to admit to having a chubby kink all those months ago.
He wishes he had better words to give him.
He cares about Stiles. He'd barely made it five minutes that first day before he started caring more about the man in front of him than that his body was something straight out of his fantasies. So he tries to imagine how it would feel to gain so much weight. To wish he could resist the temptation of the food that's getting him so heavy.
But he still doesn't get it. Doesn't get how Stiles could look in the mirror and see the same new softness Derek does and find it embarrassing.
So it's been a year and he still doesn't have better words than, "You look really good."
Stiles bites his lip.
"Stiles." Derek props himself up onto an elbow, and reaches over to stroke the side of his plump belly. He thumbs over a new stretch mark, and then he sits the rest of the way up, shifting for an angle so he can lean over Stiles's belly to kiss him.
He'd noticed Stiles's belly more in the way lately, but with his new pounds soft and accommodating, Derek had thought it was mostly from all the nights of being stuffed with too much holiday food. But Stiles hadn't overdone it with food tonight — not more than his usual amount, at least — and it still takes more maneuvering than it used to.
He meets Stiles's mouth in a tender kiss. For all that he's been hard for so long it's starting to hurt, he tries to keep it slow, sincere. To put all the right words into it.
His good intentions don't last long, though. Not when Stiles melts into him, all heat and hunger, little moans and squirming closer.
So instead he takes Stiles's lube-slick hand and brings it to where his cock is trapped between them.
He murmurs against his lips, "Your body's driving me crazy."
Stiles tightens his grip on his cock. "It has?"
"My balls have been fucking blue for days."
"They wouldn't have been if you'd have come with me in the shower," Stiles says. "And if you think I don't mean 'come with me' literally, you should know —"
"Stiles," Derek groans. He didn't need his suspicions confirmed.
"Okay." Stiles pulls back, the usual mischief back in his smile. "Okay."
He tosses the lube away, bottle clattering onto the floor, and then positions himself over Derek.
Derek looks up at him, licking his lips as he reaches for his hips and finds bigger, more pliant handfuls than ever.
He guides him down, and then needs to take a steadying breath as the tight, slick heat takes him in.
"Derek," Stiles breathes out, eyelids fluttering shut as he adjusts to the stretch.
And then Derek gets to finally, finally, explore his new body.
He seeks every curve and roll, cups the wobble of his chest, fondles the helpless spread of his belly. Stiles might be self-conscious about it but his body loves being fat. He groans and guides him to every newly responsive pound, as his self-consciousness about his body's flabbiest parts being exposed gives way to shamelessly seeking his own pleasure on top of Derek.
Just as Derek is starting to worry he's not going to be able to stand this for long, Stiles, as out of shape as he is eager, slows down.
Panting, he bends forward to catch his breath, propping his weight up with his hands on Derek's shoulders. His belly slumps heavy onto Derek's.
"Jesus, Stiles," Derek says, still overwhelmed.
"Gimme a sec," Stiles pants out.
"Okay." Derek rubs his chubby thighs, feeling the tremble of muscle under the softness.
"I didn't know I was this out of shape," Stiles confesses.
"Me either."
He pushes Stiles's hair, damp with sweat, back off his forehead.
He wants to kiss Stiles's cute, sheepish smile, but this angle won't work with his belly, not with Derek still inside of him. His runs his fingers over Stiles's parted, plump lips instead. Stiles's wet tongue chases his thumb, and then he sucks it down.
Derek is unable to stop his hips from a small thrust up into him. Stiles releases his thumb with a loud pop and smirks at him.
Derek exhales a long groan, then he reaches down. He lets Stiles's heavy belly fill his hands.
"I love you, Stiles," he says. He squeezes the pliant fat. He's heavy, but supple. And impossibly soft. Stiles makes a contented sound. "I love your body."
"Ditto, dude," Stiles says.
Derek lets Stiles finish catching his breath, with each breath his belly expands and then relaxes against him.
After a moment, the tight heat of Stiles's ass contracts around Derek as Stiles sits back up, thick thighs straddling him. "Want to switch positions?"
Derek shakes his head. He gives his sides a soothing rub. "You know that I don't mind if you're out of shape."
Stiles shoots him a chagrined look. "That's just because I've been eating too much."
"I know you have," Derek says, amused. Stiles has been eating too much on top of the 'too much' he already eats. Jesus. He weighs so much more than he probably should. "I don't care. I want to see you."
"Yeah?" Stiles says. He looks down at himself and pokes an experimental finger into the fat covering his tummy.
"Yeah," Derek says. "If you're going to try to fit back in those jeans, I have to enjoy your holiday figure while I can."
"Oh." Stiles bites his lip. "You should know I've never, um, actually lost my holiday weight before."
Derek raises his eyebrows in mock surprise. "Is that right?"
"Shut up." Stiles shoves his shoulder. "I'm just saying."
"Just saying."
"Just saying." Stiles glances over to where his old jeans are discarded on the floor. "That I might never actually fit back in those."
"I know."
"You know?"
Derek squeezes his soft hips. "Of course I know."