A/N: Rated for language, explicit sex, and homophobic slurs.

My entry for the 2015 Sterek Big Bang over on LiveJournal. Art is linked on my own journal, username PBsAlienGirl.
First of all, shout-out to my bestie Nath for being pretty much amazing and beta-ing this within, like, a weekend. And for also putting up with my usual whines and complaints and bitching when it comes to my writing and for also being the best Scott any Stiles could ever ask for. Second shout-out goes to my amazing artists: Xa and Tasha. Thank you both, ladies, for picking my fic and creating art for it. Means a lot. Third and final shout-out goes to my dad (although he'll never see this) for instilling in me a love of baseball and the Metsies. Oh, and of course, a shout-out to the Mods over at the Sterek Big Bang for hosting such a great Big Bang and for giving me an excuse to write over 30K of baseball related porn and angst starring one of my OTPs. :)

I own nothing in this fic except for the idea. Teen Wolf and its characters are property of Jeff Davis and MTV; I just borrowed them and made them do other stuff as I saw fit. The New York Mets are property of Major League Baseball and the Wilpons (unfortunately). I use the name with love. Mets Extra is property of SNY and, I believe, in turn, property of the NY Mets itself. Strawberry's Bar and Grill is property of Daryl Strawberry (I'm pretty sure) and is also referenced with love. Citi Field is property of CitiBank and is used by the NY Mets in reality and me with the name. The awards and accolades mentioned in this part are property of whoever owns them. Fic title from The Quiet Things That No One Ever Knows by Brand New. Anything else is property of whatever else. And Linkin Park are GODS!


"Now batting: shortstop, number four, Dereeeek Ha-ale!"

Citi Field erupted at the public address announcer's declaration, the ballpark filled with a cacophonous symphony of applause, cheers, screams, and whistles, all drowning out the familiar chugging riffs of Linkin Park's Wretches and Kings.

Derek blocked out the noise, a skill he'd adapted after five years in the bigs. Now, in his twenty-eighth year on Earth, he was a major piece of the New York Mets organization, a Gold Glove and Silver Slugger award winner, former Rookie of the Year, three-time All Star, and a huge fan favorite. And while he liked to think the thunderous applause was because the crowd recognized that the opening riffs of his walk-up song meant he was now making his way to the batter's box, he figured it probably had more to do with the situation.

Nodding at the ump and opposing catcher, he tried everything in his power not to think about what was happening in the game, about how the cliché fantasy of every baseball player from little league on up was playing out before him.

Two outs. Bottom of the ninth. Bases loaded. Home team down by a run.

Only this was Opening Day, not game seven of the World Series.

Still, it was a pressure filled spot that he once again found himself in.

God, he loved this game.

Cracking his neck, Derek stood in the left-handed batter's box, digging his foot into a well-worn hole. He got into his stance, eyes narrowed in focus as he stared at the opposing pitcher.

The wind-up.

The pitch.

Ball outside.

He stepped out the box with one foot, looked towards the dugout for his signs as he swung the bat about, keeping loose. Derek knew his part, knew not to do anything too fancy or try to be a hero. Just get on base through any means, whether a hit or a walk, didn't matter. Because with the bases full of Mets, there was nowhere to put him without the tying run scoring.

Getting set once more, he waited on the next pitch.

Ball two.

Derek fully stepped back, adjusted the straps on his batting gloves, cracked his neck again. He scanned the field, noting Lahey at third, Whittemore on second, Boyd at first. Lahey had hit a double, Whittemore walked, Boyd put on intentionally, an out recorded between each man who reached base.

Now Derek was up as the Mets' last chance of at least tying.

A well placed single could possibly bring in Whittemore. The guy was speedy, if not cocky as fuck.

Back in the box, Derek swung at the next pitch, bat swooping over a breaking ball that dodged out the way at the last second.

Shit.

After mentally regrouping, he watched the next pitch miss outside. Knowing the closer needed a strike, he swung at a fastball, sending it into the seats over the visiting team's dugout, a little late in his timing.

Three-two count.

Definitely a cliché.

Derek stood outside the batter's box, practiced his swing, adjusted his glove straps, cracked his neck. He tuned out all the claps, the chants, the cheers. He ignored the situation and the pressure. He forgot about the pageantry of Opening Day and how they needed to start the season on a good note for the sake of the fans.

He thought about getting on base, about being one pitch away from a walk, about how he refused to let his teammates down or let McCall's one-hit complete game go to waste.

Feeling back in the zone, he stepped into the box, got in his stance, and focused.

Everything seemed to fade away, his entire world zeroed in on the pitcher, all other things going fuzzy. Time seemed to slow down as Derek watched the pitcher pull his arm back then throw it forward, ball flying out his hand towards the batter.

Derek lifted the back of his foot, tapped it down in a much-used method of keeping time. Not that it was needed. It felt as though he had the rest of eternity before the ball would reach home plate, that there was no need to rush anything.

The slo-mo continued as he swung the bat, arms straight, head down so he could keep the ball in his line of sight. Years of practice, endless hours in the cage and on the field, countless instructions and tutorials and tips, it all lead up to that moment, to the perfect angle of the bat and line of his body.

Time returned to normal speed when he made contact, when the crack of the bat hitting the ball reached his ears. The white leather sailed over the infield, his teammates watching its flight, already in motion themselves.

Which really...

Derek dropped his bat before turning on his feet and hightailing it to first. The right fielder was running towards the wall, eyes focused up at the ball flying across the late afternoon sky. But Derek wasn't paying any attention to it, to anything. He was barely aware of the crowd's roar, barely aware of Lahey heading home, barely aware of the fielder running out of room, reaching the fence...

Of the ball smacking against the Pepsi sign on the second deck for a long home run.

For a game-winning grand slam.

Citi Field exploded, the roar of the crowd now impossible to ignore, having reached deafening levels. His fellow Mets burst out the dugout, some jumping over the fence, all crowding around home plate, high-fiving those who scored.

Derek threw a fist in the air as he rounded first, making sure he stepped on the bag as he went. He slowed to a jog, huge grin on his face, adrenaline pumping through his system. His first career grand slam, and it was of the walk-off variety, helping his team win the first game of the season.

Only a hundred-sixty-one to go.

Rounding third, he slipped his batting helmet off and tossed it in the air, completely uncaring about where it landed. He jumped up, landing on home plate and immediately being swarmed by his teammates. His head was slapped, back pounded, hair ruffed, ass smacked. He felt himself being jostled about inside the makeshift mosh pit, his jersey pulled out his pants, the first couple buttons undone. The roughhousing was sure to give him a few new bruises but it would all be worth it in the end.

After all, they'd won the fucking game.


Two hours later, Derek found himself at Strawberry's Bar and Grill, surrounded by his teammates and countless drinks, not including the beer McCall had shoved in his hand the second Derek had sat down.

"I owe you," the pitcher insisted, staring at him in a way that was pure puppy dog, all brown eyes and total earnestness.

Derek rolled his eyes, accepting the drink nonetheless. "The only hit you allowed over nine innings was a solo shot in the first. Pretty sure you don't own anyone shit."

McCall snorted then opened his mouth to argue, only to be cut off by someone yelling out a "Scott!" And judging by the way his entire face lit up and a huge goofy grin formed, the shortstop had a damn good idea who had called for his teammate's attention.

Turning his head, Derek soon discovered he was right, finding McCall's girlfriend Allison making her way over. Her dark hair bounced around her shoulders as she worked on unbuttoning her black trench, huge smile on her face displaying two deep dimples, pride shining in brown eyes. Derek could hear her delighted squeals over the drone of countless conversations, over the music playing in the background, turning away as she latched onto her boyfriend and hugged him tight.

'Course giving that couple their own privacy during their reunion meant he was able to see all the other pairings in his team: Whittemore with his ginger-haired girl Lydia, Boyd and his blonde fiancée Erica, Lahey with a petite Asian named Kira. Hell, glancing around, he could see that damn near everyone had paired up, either with a female they were actually in a relationship with, or one they were hoping to spend the night with. And even those without a romantic partner or groupie were paired up and chatting—loudly—about anything and everything. Derek seemed to be the only one not with someone.

Well, at least he had his beer, he thought with a shrug, putting the bottle to his lips and tipping it back.

"Hey, man!"

Or maybe he wasn't as alone as he thought.

The sound of a familiar male's voice had the corner of his mouth turning up, hidden behind the lip of the bottle. Stiles.

Hands clamped down on his shoulders, jostling him about, and he had to pull the beer away before he smacked the glass against his lips or teeth and hurt himself. But his smile grew, knowing the shaking meant Stiles was happy, stoked, proud, and that he was showing those emotions through physicality—pretty much the only way he knew how.

"Awesome game!" he cheered louder than necessary before releasing the player and sliding down onto the stool next to him at the table. "That slam at the end? Holy shit!"

Derek put his beer on the table, feeling the tips of his ears heat up, ducking his head to hide his embarrassment. "Not that big a deal," he murmured, getting shoved for his statement.

"Fuck that! Dude, that was a huge deal! You won the fuckin' game! MV-fucking-P right here."

"Hey!" McCall objected from somewhere behind Derek and the shortstop could imagine the kicked puppy look he was currently sporting.

"And you, too, Scotty," Stiles added, reaching over to fist bump his childhood best friend. The two started a discussion over McCall's pitching performance that day, Allison joining in with her usual pride-filled comments, making her boyfriend's goofy grin grow into something even dumber.

Derek let their conversation wash over him, turning to face the threesome, mind running over how they'd all reached that place. Stiles had grown up with McCall, the pitcher drafted right outta high school. And while McCall had headed off to the Arizona Fall League, Stiles had headed to New York for college, eventually being introduced to Derek after his best friend had made his major league debut two years later.

Allison had come into the picture only a few months prior, currently interning at her grandfather's agency, McCall and Derek being two of their clients. McCall had shown up for a meeting and had left with stars in his eyes and a belief that Allison was the reason why the sun shone all the time. Derek figured shit had to be awkward, dating the granddaughter of the guy who owned the company that represented you, but he didn't exactly have room to diss anyone's romantic situation.

With that, he let his eyes drift over to Stiles, who was busy talking animatedly, hands flailing, voice too loud, eyes wide, his only way of communicating really. Derek took in the sparkle in whiskey colored eyes, the way his lashes seemed too long, tawny hair spiked up in every direction, most likely having been pulled on in frustration during the game. His pale skin was littered with moles, cupid's bow lips stretched into a grin, cheeks slightly reddened from the sun that day.

'Course the idiot wouldn't have put sunscreen on. He never fucking learned. Didn't matter that Derek had left the stuff in front of the coffee maker before he left for the stadium, sticky note with "USE IT" in block letters taped onto the bottle.

"What?"

Derek snapped out of his revery, shaking his head to get with the program, muttering out a "what?" of his own.

"You're staring, dude," Stiles pointed out, smirking in a way that conveyed he found it both creepy and endearing. "Why?"

The shortstop wanted to say it was because he just flat out liked looking at the guy, that he loved studying the contours of his face and the minute twitches of his eyes and lips, that he wanted to spend the rest of his life learning every inch of him and then relearn it over and over and over again.

But he couldn't. Because as far as anyone else on the team—with the sole exception of McCall—knew, Derek and Stiles were just roommates, that the college student was living with the athlete while at school because it was convenient and cheap and staying with his childhood best friend and girlfriend was just weird and uncomfortable. No one knew Derek and Stiles were a couple, because no one even knew Derek was bi.

The two had met at a gathering similar to one they were currently at, one that had taken place after McCall's major league debut, a game the Mets had also won. Derek had homered, a two-run shot that added to their lead and put the Marlins away for good that day, helping them also win the three-game series. Stiles had approached Derek and laid it on thick, stating that home run hitters get blow jobs. The athlete had taken him up on that offer, the two returning to his loft and spending most of the night fucking.

The next day, after Stiles had made them both breakfast, he'd admitted he honestly didn't think his line would work and that he had no clue Derek would've even gone for it—or him. Derek then admitted to being bi, but not ready to come out, although he wanted to keep seeing Stiles. The student had returned the sentiment, the two starting a secret relationship with the younger man willing to wait for the older to be comfortable enough to go public with his sexuality.

Two years later, the couple were living together and happier than Derek could've ever imagined. He still wasn't ready to come out, but Stiles understood and remained by his side no matter what, going along with the charade that they were just roommates and buddies and that was all.

That didn't mean things were perfect between them and that they didn't have moments where they fought. And then there were times where Derek could just tell that Stiles wanted them to be out, that he wanted them to be like McCall and Allison, Boyd and Erica, Whittemore and Lydia, that he could drape himself all over his boyfriend and brag about what a great game he played and how amazing he was and everything else all the girls said to their athletic men. And while Derek wanted that, too, he just couldn't quite bring himself to come out yet. Because it was scary as hell, despite having an amazing support system behind himself. Because coming out to friends and family who loved and accepted you no matter what was one thing; coming out to a world that only cared about how you played your last game, where your value was measured in RBIs, slugging percentages, and fielding range, where your job required you to be tough and a hardass and a "real man", it was a totally different thing.

A much bigger, much scarier thing.

So he kept his sexuality hidden until he felt he was ready for it to be out there. Although he had no clue when that would be or what exactly would need to happen in order to make him comfortable enough to be out. He just figured he'd know it when the time came.

Shrugging his shoulder, he ran a hand through his black hair, feeling the water still clinging to the strands from his post-game shower. "Just never seen that before," he muttered out the lie, pointing to the blue jersey Stiles was currently sporting.

The younger man let out a confused "huh?" before looking down at himself, smoothing the cotton out and putting the "Mets" script logo on full display—along with the number 4 on the left side. "Oh. Got it today during the game," he explained, grin on his face as he looked up and met green eyes. "Figured we needed a rally so I bought it." He shrugged like it wasn't a big deal, like he hadn't drop a hundred bucks on something at the spur of the moment, before stealing one of Derek's shots and downing it.

Derek cocked at eyebrow at the explanation, not really caring about the drink that'd been stolen. He hadn't really ever been one for liquor anyway, only ever taking the shots when he was forced. Most of the time his teammates drank them for him, not wanting to waste free booze.

"Most people buy a cap," he pointed out, bringing his beer near his lips but not drinking yet. "Ya know, a rally cap, not a rally jersey."

Stiles scoffed, rolling his eyes and stealing another shot. "Losers. Clearly lacking imagination." He paused to tip the drink into his mouth, making a face at the bad taste of it. "Tequila, yech," he commented before going back to his original point. "Besides, I'd like to point out that after I bought my new rally jersey, we rallied and won, so nyeh." He concluded his argument with the highly mature move of sticking out his tongue and making a noise.

Derek just rolled his eyes and took a long drink from his beer, wondering how and why he'd managed to fall in love with someone who was essentially a tall child. But then someone brought up Derek's grand slam and Stiles peered at him out the corner of his eyes, the same pride that had been in Allison's brown orbs shining in his, a bragging smirk hidden behind a shot glass, and then the shortstop knew exactly why he was in total and complete love with this guy.

And that was never gonna change.


Derek nursed his beer for as long as possible, giving in to McCall's insistences that he have a second. Stiles quit stealing his shots, settling for a plain cola and sipping from it, all the while chatting with the other members of their group. But as the night wore on, the shortstop noticed a change in his boyfriend, realized he had grown quieter, the light in his eyes dimming, his grin not quite as wide or as genuine.

It didn't take Derek long to figure out why, considering how Stiles' eyes kept lingering on all the couples, on the way Lydia was draped all over Whittemore, on how cuddly McCall and Allison were, on Erica and Boyd returning from the bathroom with rumpled clothes and smudged red lipstick. It was clear the younger man was none too happy with having to hold back on his own PDA, despite countless teammates and random fans congratulating Derek on being the hero of the game.

Shit.

Drinking deep from his second beer, Derek wondered why exactly it was that they had to hide everything, only to remember the exact reasons. Because pro-sports apparently weren't the place for homosexuals—figure skating notwithstanding. Because he was heckled and harassed at visiting ballparks enough without the added discrimination over his sexuality. Because gay slanders were already thrown at him by ignorant haters who took his lack of New York playboy status to mean he was batting for the other team.

And, yeah, technically, that was true, but still. He wasn't gonna give any of those assholes more fodder to throw at him whenever he dug in at Philly or Atlanta or whatever other stadium full of smack-talking fanatics.

He placed the bottle back on the table, picking at the edge of the label as his head hung. God, he was a dick. Stiles was so open, so caring, free with love and hugs and proclamations of how much he adored someone, no matter the extent of those feelings. Yet Derek was forcing the guy to remain closeted and keep quiet on their relationship, on their love. Behind the door of their shared apartment, the hugs were free-flowing and frequent, the words "forever" and "soul mate" and "the One" thrown around and meant every time they were used. But in public, all of that had to be kept inside, Derek wincing at so much as a shoulder bump for fear someone would notice and think the action was from a place that was more than just friendly. And keeping everything hidden from the world was obviously taking a toll on Stiles, had been for a while, and it was showing again that evening. But Derek was still making them keep their relationship on the downlow, all because he was too chickenshit to come out.

And Stiles, sweet, wonderful, amazing, understanding Stiles went along with it, despite how much he obviously hated it and how much it was clearly wearing him down.

Derek didn't deserve him. But he was determined to spend the rest of his life making it up to his boyfriend and show him that everything he was going through was appreciated and would be worth it in the end.

At least, the athlete hoped it would be.

Draining the remnants of his beer, Derek tapped Stiles' on the shoulder, waiting for the other man to turn his head to him before speaking.

"I'm getting tired," he lied, honestly just needing an excuse. And really, it seemed like Stiles could use one, too, could use a reason to get away from the crowd and his slowly diminishing good mood. Claiming exhaustion after a game was pretty damn plausible, especially after the stress induced one they'd just been through. "Wanna head home?"

Stiles nodded, taking several deep gulps of his soft drink before depositing the glass on the table. Goodbyes were exchanged all around, Derek getting more pats on the back and "good game"s, teammates all stating they'd see him in a couple days for game two. With a final wave at the group, he and Stiles made their way out the bar and towards the shortstop's Camaro.

The purchase of the sports car had turned into a question of his sanity by his older sister Laura, who didn't see the point of owning your own vehicle when living in New York. But Derek liked the freedom of having it, liked not having to rely on subways or taxis when heading to the stadium or back home. Trains broke down, cabs were damn near impossible to get at times, and he always preferred to show up to practice early rather than on time. Having the Camaro allowed him the opportunity to arrive when he wanted and not be late for anything.

Plus it was convenient as hell to just get in and drive off when wanting to escape his teammates and fans.

Not that he hated the fans, because he didn't. But sometimes he just wanted to be left alone and not have to deal with a whole bunch of random strangers asking if he was the Derek Hale of the New York Mets and holy shit, can I have an autograph/ picture/ hug/ your phone number? The first three always got a "sure" and a fulfilled request. The last one had only been followed through once and it was given to the guy currently sitting silently in his passenger seat, chewing his thumbnail as his leg bounced up and down and his eyes focused on the city outside the side window.

Derek reached over and took Stiles' free hand in his, linking their fingers on top of the gear shift. Brown doe eyes flipped over to him, small smile forming as he squeezed the shortstop's hand, not minding the callouses from years of ball handling and working out.

"Sorry," the athlete stated, sighing softly with his eyes focused out the windshield, feeling a thumb absently rub over the back of his hand.

"For holding my hand?" Stiles' voice was genuinely confused, thumbnail still being chewed on, eyebrows creased together.

"For back at the bar," Derek began, pulling to a stop at a red light. "I know it's gotta suck not being able to be open and affectionate like everyone else and—"

"Hey," the younger man interrupted, jostling their joined hands in order to make the other look at him. Derek did just that, noting the openness on Stiles' face, the earnest look in his eyes, the seriousness of his words reflected on his face. "It's fine. I told you back when we first got together that I was fine with keeping this quiet and that if shit ever changed, I'd tell you. And considering I haven't said anything, obviously nothing's change."

"Just because you don't say it doesn't mean you don't feel it."

Stiles see-sawed his head, conceding the point, before meeting green eyes with his whiskey ones. "How 'bout you just trust me when I say I'm fine with the way things are and we drop it?"

Derek sighed once again, turning to the front when the light changed to green. Shifting his foot from the brake to the gas, he nodded, deciding to just go along with it. But that guilt at forcing Stiles to do something he didn't want to was still gnawing at him, still making him feel like a dick for affecting his boyfriend's happiness in such a negative way.

"And just so you know," Stiles spoke up when the older man remained quiet. "I am so jumping your ass the second we get home."

The shortstop breathed out a swear at the mental image that statement created, imagining the younger man literally pouncing on him in a rush to get naked and get fucked, the two celebrating the team's win—and Derek's grand slam—the way they always did: with lots and lots of sex.

Stiles giggled wickedly, huge shit-eating grin plastered on his face as he turned to look out the windshield, clearly pleased with himself over the effect he had on his boyfriend. Derek hid his smirk, squeezing the younger man's hand a little too tight as payback, continuing the drive to their apartment building.


Derek's building featured its own underground parking deck, each resident given an assigned space. He parked his Camaro alongside Stiles' clunker of a Jeep—which really had no business being in NYC but the younger man was too attached to leave it back home in California—killing the engine before getting out, his boyfriend following suit. After making sure his car was locked, the two made their way to the elevators, Derek hitting the 'UP' button before being forced to wait.

Out the corner of his eye, he noticed Stiles glancing around, head turning this way and that, seeming to be searching for something. Derek cocked an eyebrow, giving the other guy a questioning look, wondering what the hell he was doing exactly.

It was an expression he wore often around his boyfriend.

"Stiles," he began calmly, evenly, waiting until the mentioned male made a noise of acknowledgment to show he was listening. "What're you doing?"

The younger man still didn't look at him, eyes continuing to roam the place, hands in the pockets of his jeans as though he was just casually hanging about and not visually assessing the place like a paranoid freak.

Then again, considering he was a sheriff's kid, he probably had been searching for threats, raised to be hyper-vigilant and constantly aware of his surroundings, especially in a place as big as New York.

"Checking the coast is clear."

Nailed it.

Derek's eyebrow lowered, joining the other in a confused frown. "Why?"

"So I can do this."

The athlete didn't get a chance to question his boyfriend again; Stiles had grabbed his face and smashed their lips together.

An entire evening of tamping down urges and ignoring desires came rushing as Derek returned the kiss with equal ferocity, wrapping an arm around the leaner male and hauling him in close. He kissed him for every bragging comment Stiles'd had to bite back, for every touch they'd wanted to give, for every small peck to one another's lips they'd had to resist. Witnessing all those couples and their PDA had triggered something in Derek, a need to be just as affectionate with his own romantic partner. But he couldn't.

Until that moment.

Because now they were alone in that parking deck and he had Stiles to himself, allowing him to be open and free with the physicality. And after holding back during that hour in the bar, he was gonna make up for lost time.

Derek soon found himself pushed up against the wall beside the elevator, Stiles' lips at his throat, nibbling at his pulse point hard enough to be felt but soft enough to not leave a mark. It was a skill he'd perfected, a necessary one considering the gossip hounds in the Mets clubhouse, and the athlete loved him for it.

The shortstop got lost in the sensations, eyes closed and head tilted back to give his boyfriend more skin to play with. He cupped the younger man's ass, pulling him even closer, their similar heights allowing their groins to line up. He could feel the hardening bulge of his boyfriend right on his own, his hips bucking in response and causing them both to groan. Stiles' pelvis didn't hesitate to grind right back, teeth dragging along a collarbone exposed by Derek's v-neck tee.

Mind gone, all Derek could focus on was getting his boyfriend naked and opened, hand slipping inside the leaner man's boxers. He was totally oblivious to where they were, why he should be holding back, all the blood draining from his brain to his cock, the throbbing organ rapidly plumping. He slid a finger between two cheeks, rubbing against the hole he was dying to be in, mind still functioning enough to know not to push in dry.

Stiles' head raised on a gasp, meeting Derek's eyes, his pupils blown. His mouth hung open, lips parted in an invitation Derek could never turn down, connecting their lips. His tongue slid inside the younger man's mouth, being met with another, the two tangling in well-practiced motions. He swallowed moans as his finger circled and rubbed Stiles' entrance, pushing but never entering.

Derek felt as though his skin was on fire as arousal rushed through his veins, his entire world zeroed in on the guy pressed against him.

Which meant that the ding that signaled the elevator's arrival scared the crap out of him.

Okay, maybe not scared, but definitely shocked and surprised him.

He wasn't sure who broke the kiss, only knew that it ended. Stiles stared at the elevator looking stupefied, looking like he was just as dazed as Derek felt. The shortstop made the move, slipping his hand out his boyfriend's pants and grabbing the front of his jersey before dragging him onto the elevator.

"Hey!" the student objected, brows furrowed in displeasure. "Easy on the merch."

Derek hit the button for their floor with more force than necessary, scowling at the panel like it was its fault he lived on the twelfth story. "I'll buy you another," he grumbled, voice now carrying the distinct husky tone of arousal.

Stiles smirked, whiskey eyes twinkling in the fluorescent lights above them. "I'm sure it's fine," he argued. "Just wrinkled." As if to prove it really wasn't a big deal, he began smoothing his hand over the fabric covering his chest. But all Derek could focus on were those long fingers and large palms and the memory of how good they felt on his own body—especially his cock.

Then he started thinking about the jersey itself, mainly the name stitched into the back of it. It hit something possessive inside of him, some caveman need to claim and show the entire world who exactly Stiles belonged to.

A devious grin spread across his face, a dimple deepening beneath a month's worth of stubble. "Yeah, but I'm gonna fuck you in it, so it'll most likely get covered in come."

Stiles' own smirk grew as he stepped closer, the shortstop grabbing his jersey again and hauling him in the final three steps. "Kinky."

A brief chuckle was Derek's only response, kissing his boyfriend hard. His hands moved down, slipping under the younger man's jersey and resting on his hips, thumbs laying along the line separating his pelvis from his legs. Their tongues tangled once more, the shortstop feeling his being sucked on in what was hopefully a preview of what was to come.

For the second time in as many minutes, Derek got lost in the kiss, something that seemed to happen a lot with Stiles. It was like the rest of the world completely disappeared and the only thing that existed was the man in his arms. Probably pretty dangerous, but like everything else at that moment, Derek just couldn't bring himself to care.

The elevator slowed to a stop, letting out a ding as it reached their designated floor, effectively ending their make-out session once again. The couple stepped back from one another, Stiles smoothing down his jersey again, Derek clearing his throat before cupping his hands in front of himself. Probably drew more attention to his erection than hid it, but whatever. Made him feel better at least.

Although judging by the smirk his boyfriend wore, it was clearly pointing it out more than anything else.

The doors slid open and Derek stuck his head out, peering into the hallway and checking the coast was clear. Both sides of the corridor were devoid of life, doors all closed, not a single soul to be found.

Thank. God.

He grabbed hold of the younger man's hand before practically dragging him down the hallway, not pausing until they reached their door. Stiles already had his keys in hand, hip-bumping the other man out the way in order to unlock the door. Derek moved behind him, hands on his hips, lips attached to his neck and nibbling on a weak spot just behind his ear. He began grinding his hips, dick rubbing between the student's ass cheeks, making him groan.

"Fuck," Stiles breathed out, head tilting back, free hand reaching back and clutching Derek's hip.

"Door. Open. Now," the shortstop ordered in harsh pants, words gusting against the shell of his boyfriend's ear. He'd been reduced to monosyllabic grunts, his need to be inside the other man too overwhelming for anything more than just a quick utterance. Because seriously, why were their clothes still on and why wasn't his cock rutting between his bare cheeks?

The younger man whimpered as he bit his bottom lip, hands shaking as he finally got the key in the slot and unlocked the door, followed by the deadbolt. "Finally," he breathed out, pushing the door open before being shoved inside.

Derek kicked the door shut behind them, pinning Stiles' front against the sidewall, lips sucking a mark just below the edge of the jersey at the base of his neck. His hips were still moving on their own accord, practicing for later acts, making his boyfriend keen and roll his own hips back against his.

"Jesus."

The shortstop smirked, hands sliding around slim hips and cupping the bulge at the front of the younger man's jeans. "Just 'Derek' will do."

"Prick," Stiles muttered, smirk fully evident in his voice as he pushed away from the wall, causing the older man to take a step back. With more room, the student was able to turn around, splaying his hands on the athlete's flat chest before shoving at him, not stopping until Derek was the one pinned to a wall.

The smirk remained on his face, tongue darting out to lick his lips, green eyes looking his boyfriend up and down. Stiles' hair was already slightly mussed, lips kiss-blurred and reddened, skin flushed. His pupils were dilated, barely a ring of brown around them, although Derek wasn't sure if it was from arousal or the lack of light. Either way...

"Told you," the younger man began, hands now on the other man's belt and undoing it. "Home run hitters get blow jobs."

"Think I should get extra," Derek suggested, voice rough, hips bucking as the button of his jeans was pulled out the hole. "Grand slam. Walk-off hit. Definitely should get at least two."

Stiles grinned, tongue sticking out at the corner of his lips as he concentrated. Although how much concentration the guy needed to pull down a zipper wasn't something he fully understood. "Oh, you get four for the grand slam alone," he stated, hand sliding between the parted denim and cupping Derek's erection through his boxer-briefs.

A groan left the shortstop's parted lips, head lolling back until it hit the wall. "And the walk-off hit?"

"That means you get to fuck me any way you want."

More smirking, Derek lifted his head and looked down as his boyfriend lowered himself to his knees, pulling the athlete's jeans and boxer-briefs down with him. "Doggy style," he decided, pausing to swallow hard. His chest was pumping up and down at a rapid rate, breathing shallow as his cock twitched in anticipation. "And in the jersey."

"As you wish, Walk-Off Hero." With that, he wrapped a hand around the base of Derek's cock, pumping it a few times before wrapping his lips around the head and sucking.

The athlete moaned at the sensation, hips bucking to slide more of his dick into the warm wetness of his boyfriend's mouth. Only Stiles prevented it from happening, putting his hands on the older man's hips to hold him still and control the tempo. Derek bit back a whine at that, teeth sinking into his lower lip, head tilting down to watch the action.

Fucking hell, what a sight, too.

Stiles' lips were stretched, his cock slowly disappearing into his mouth as the younger man took more of him in. Whiskey eyes flicked up, tongue fluttering on the vein on the underside, lips curving up at the corner in a smirk.

Fucking tease.

God, Derek loved it.

When about half of Derek's cock was in his mouth, Stiles pulled back, leaving the head between his lips, repeating the action several times before sliding it out. He flicked his tongue along the slit, ran it along the vein, rubbed it under the crown. He laved the entire length, paying extra attention to any and all weak spots, not pausing until it was all shiny with saliva. Then he slid it into his mouth again.

Groans filled the air, Derek's head tilting back against the wall again, gasping at the suction he felt encapsulating his cock. His left hand lay flat against the wall beside him, scrabbling to hold onto something, the fingers of his right hand sliding through tawny brown locks. His eyes drifted closed, enhancing other senses, mind inundated with it all. He could hear the slopping sucking noises Stiles was making, the hums he let out, the satisfied "mmm"s that sounded like he was the one receiving the oral rather than giving it. He could feel the warm wetness enveloping him, the gentle scraping of teeth, the teasing flicks of his tongue swirling all around him.

Jesus, he was good.

And he said as much, moaning out a "Stiles. Fuck. Your mouth," as he struggled to keep his hips still, to not give in to the temptation of just thrusting and taking what he wanted.

Stiles pulled him out with an obscene pop, moving a hand to stroke the spit covered length, swallowing hard before speaking with a rough voice. "God, I hope you do."

With no blood in his brain left, Derek had no clue what the hell that meant, his head popping up from the wall and looking down at his boyfriend, who was currently smirking with stretched lips. "Huh?"

"I hope you fuck my mouth," he clarified before sliding the hard cock back between his lips and putting his hands on the other man's hips once more. Only this time, instead of holding him in place, they were resting there gently, more for something to hold onto.

Finally catching up, the athlete gripped either side of his boyfriend's head and slowly moved his hips forward, sliding more of his cock inside that warmth. His jaw went slack, harsh breaths forced out through gaping lips, wide green eyes staring down at the sight of his dick disappearing between teasing lips. He felt the head tap against the back of the younger man's mouth, felt the flutter of his throat as he swallowed around it, making him groan loudly.

"Oh shit, Stiles," he gasped, watching the mentioned male shift the angle of his head and pulling his hips closer, until the head of his dick started down his throat. More groans, more disbelieving swears as he was deepthroated, as his cock completely disappeared into his boyfriend's mouth, the student not stopping until his nose was pressed against the athlete's pelvis.

He held still, lost in the sensation of a flutter around the head of his cock, the massaging walls as Stiles swallowed around him. He felt his own body trembling, felt his blood rushing throughout his body—which seemed like a miracle 'cause Derek was pretty sure it was all in his dick at that moment—felt the entire thing overwhelming him. Slowly, he pulled back, until just the head was left inside, allowing Stiles to take a few deep breaths.

Then he started moving.

He built up to it, of course, began with slow thrusts and smooth glides in. But as momentum started to build, he sped up, went deeper, harder, tapping the back of his boyfriend's throat, hitting it harder, getting off on the younger man's own moans. Because as much as Stiles loved getting blown himself, he loved blowing Derek even more. It led to countless comments on what a cockslut he was, dirty talk over Stiles having an oral fixation and needing to be shut up by something. And while the student would groan and nod and beg to be silenced like that, they both knew it was just heat of the moment bedroom talk.

Although there was that one time after a few too many shots of Jack and way too much oversharing that Stiles went on a fifteen minute ramble over Derek's dick and how much he loved having it in his mouth. Derek honestly didn't think McCall would ever go drinking with his best friend again, but he supposed the pitcher was probably used to it.

Okay, thinking about his teammate at that moment wasn't exactly a good idea. Shutting his brain down so he thought of nothing but how fucking good Stiles and his mouth were, Derek focused solely on the physical sensations, on the wet suction, on the way fingers were digging into his hips.

He sped up, fucking into his boyfriend's mouth in yet another preview of what was to come later on. Stiles tightened his grip, groaning loudly, his own hips bucking and trying to gain friction of their own. But not yet, not when Derek was so close and he only needed a few more thrusts and—

And Stiles was sucking harder, hand sliding down to play with Derek's balls, squeezing and rubbing and rolling the twin weights. The athlete gasped out, a pleasure-filled laugh leaving him as he stuttered in his motions. Still cupping his testicles, the student reached back with two fingers and began massaging his perineum, pressing against his prostate from the outside.

That fucking did it.

Derek damn near doubled over as he came, crying out his boyfriend's name as he shot off inside his mouth. The orgasm wracked his body and made him shudder with it, air punched out his lungs, waves of ecstasy washing over him.

And that was just from the guy's mouth. God only knew how great it would be when he finally got inside his hole like he wanted to be.

Stiles slowly pulled off, giving Derek's cock kitten licks to clean it up, until all his come was gone and the sensation was too much. He slowly rose up to his full height, the athlete immediately grabbing hold of him by the back of the neck and hauling him in for a searing kiss. He could taste himself on his boyfriend's tongue, another flavor added to the alcohol and cola and pure Stiles that was already there. The taste went to his head, making his still spinning mind swirl faster until he felt dizzy-drunk with lust and Stiles.

He wanted in him. Now.

Pulling back, he rested his forehead on the younger man's, both breathing hard, air mingling between their lips. "Bed," he managed to pant out. "Now."

Stiles nodded vehemently, pulling away and stumbling through the apartment on shaky legs. The guy moved with the grace of a newborn fawn on the best of days. Add arousal and a hard-on that couldn't be ignored and walking wasn't something he appeared capable of.

Derek yanked up his jeans, leaving them open before following after him. The apartment was a blur and he barely saw the cherry floors, the white and chrome kitchen, the black sofa set and flatscreen TV in the living area. All he could see or focus on was the bedroom door at the end of it all, left open so he could easily join the younger male inside.

Stiles had already kicked off his shoes and had one sock off as he sat on the end of the bed, trying to pull the other off. Derek smirked, toeing his own shoes and socks off before stalking over, pushing his boyfriend down onto his back and laying on top of him. Their lips reconnected, the athlete bracing his weight on one forearm as his free hand cupped the younger man's face. He poured every ounce of emotion he had into the kiss, showed how much he loved the man below him, how much he appreciated his understanding and support, how much he needed him in his life. And he got every bit in return.

Hands crept up his back, pushing his t-shirt up and Derek sat up to remove it. Stiles licked his lips as his hands roamed his torso, splayed fingers rubbing over ridged abs and flat pecs.

"How are you real?" he murmured, not seeming aware that he'd spoken it out loud, nails raking their way over toned obliques.

Derek grinned, stomach flipping at the flattery. Two years later, and this guy still got his heart racing and his stomach tying itself in knots with a few sweet words. He figured that had to mean something, had to be some sorta sign that their relationship involved the words "forever" and "soul mate". And really, he'd be damned if he was letting this guy go.

Lowering himself, he kissed Stiles again, tongue sweeping inside and getting tangled with his. His hands started working on the buttons of the student's jersey, determined to gain access to more skin, determined to exploit weak spots and turn his boyfriend into a groaning, writhing, begging mess.

Except when the jersey was completely unbuttoned and the sides parted, Derek came across more fabric.

Sitting up again, he scowled down at the white tee blocking his path. "You and your fucking layers," he grumbled, pulling it up and revealing the pale flesh he was so desperate to get his mouth on.

Stiles chuckled as he lifted his own upper body into a sitting position, tugging both shirts up in an attempt to take them off. Instead, he ended up tangled with his tee over his face and his arms sticking up in the air. Awkward as always.

His hands flailed, Derek laughing at the sight of his boyfriend stuck in his clothes, deciding to lend a hand before he started complaining. Shirts removed, the student untangled the jersey from the tee, slipping his arms back in the sleeves and leaving it dangling off his shoulders.

"There," he huffed out, like he'd spent the past five minutes sprinting rather than taking clothes off.

The shortstop laughed more, cupping his boyfriend's face in his palm and kissing him sweetly, completely endeared by his awkwardness and spastic behavior. Pulling back, he ran his hands through mussy hair, strands sticking every way except the right one, loving the feel of the silken locks running between his fingers.

The couple returned to their kiss, slowly moving so Stiles was on his back again, Derek laying atop him. Their hands battled at the younger man's belt buckle, the athlete winning and undoing it before setting to work on his jeans. Not an easy job, given the way Stiles' hips were rolling, cock straining at the fly in a desperate need to be freed and be touched.

Jeans opened, Derek maneuvered them until the student was on all fours, the shortstop kneeling behind him. He tugged down the denim and his boxers in one move, getting cooperation from his boyfriend as he completely removed them and tossed them aside. On a last minute decision, he took off his own, leaving them both naked—save for the jersey covering the younger man's upper body.

And fucking hell, the sight before him was beautiful.

Stiles had dropped down onto his forearms, ass on display, wiggling it enticingly. The jersey hung open on either side of him, royal blue contrasting nicely with his pale skin. And the orange name stitched onto the back was a gorgeous image indeed, striking that possessive side of Derek he'd felt moments before in the elevator. Because his surname on Stiles' back seemed like a mark of ownership, a sign to the entire world that he belonged to the shortstop and no one else. And really, the reverse was true, too. Derek was Stiles', just as much as Stiles was his.

Kneeling behind his boyfriend, he cupped his ass, spreading the cheeks and revealing the tight pucker he'd had his finger on earlier. The student gave another wiggle, a silent invitation, a wordless plea to touch, to enjoy, to do something. So Derek took the hint, diving right in and licking the crease between his cheeks with the flat of his tongue.

Stiles gasped loudly, head rearing back, body shuddering at the sensation. The sound went straight to Derek's cock, the organ twitching, letting him know that if he kept that up, it'll have no problem coming back and joining the fun.

Smirking, the athlete went back to licking his boyfriend's hole, quick little kitten licks that served to tease more than anything. The younger man whimpered, pushing back against his tongue, trying to get more, to feel more. Normally, the athlete would grip his hips and hold him still, but considering the mind blowing oral he'd just gotten, he was feeling more generous, deciding that the student had earned it.

Flattening his tongue, he pressed against his hole, lapping at it repeatedly. Stiles was gasping for air, head hanging, chest heaving beneath his open jersey. Moans left him, fingers clutching at the comforter below him, inhaling sharply when Derek's tongue slipped inside him.

Derek lapped all around his rim, flicking his tongue around the inside of his hole, stretching him with his tongue. He pulled back and sucked on a finger, slicking it up before sliding it inside, biting his lip at the tight grip. Arousal flooded his veins, heating him from the inside out, blood rushing to his cock once again.

He moved his finger in and out, tugged at the tight rim, stretched him out. His tongue was added to the mix, keeping the ring moist, helping to further loosen it. A second finger was soon added, making his boyfriend gasp out once again. The two digits were worked in and out, scissoring, opening him up. And all the while, Stiles was a shaking, panting mess, begging Derek for more, for faster, for everything.

And fuck if Derek didn't wanna give it to him.

"Lube," he demanded gruffly, free arm reaching forward and making grabby hands, as Stiles would call them.

The younger man groaned in annoyance and frustration as he leaned forward, barely able to get his hand in the nightstand drawer where their supplies were kept. He tossed the bottle back at the athlete, whose speedy baseball reflexes allowed him to catch it with one hand.

Slipping his fingers free, Derek lubed all four on his right hand up, sliding two back inside and making his boyfriend's passageway wetter, easier to move in and out of. A third finger was added, wrenching a long moan from the younger man.

"Oh god, Der," he breathed out, head hanging again. His hips began moving in rhythm with the fingers, bucking back. His hole was clenching around them even as it was loosened, as though it wanted to keep them inside, keep him full.

Derek rubbed his stubble-covered jaw over the sensitive skin of Stiles' ass, making him hiss, smirking at the way the flesh reddened. His cock was fully hard once more, watching his boyfriend fall apart at his ministrations a good majority of the reason why. Witnessing his fingers disappearing into his body and knowing his cock was soon going to be held within that tight grip was definitely helping, too.

"I'm ready," Stiles moaned. "God, I am so very fucking ready. Just fuck me, fuck me, fuck me."

The shortstop slipped his fingers free, snatching up the condom box that had been tossed onto the bed at some point. Freeing one, he rolled it over his cock, slicking it up with more lube and making sure he was covered.

Reaching back, the student lifted the bottom of his jersey, putting his ass on display. "Derek, please." He was whiny, desperate, hole clenching around air and trying to pull something in. The sight of his boyfriend being so needy made the athlete moan, his own hips bucking into his fist as he tried to line himself up with the place he wanted so badly to be in.

"Fuck. Yes," Stiles breathed out when the tip of Derek's dick touched his hole, a brief tap, a kiss of sorts. Figuring they'd both been teased enough, he pushed forward, meeting very little resistance as his cock slipped inside of his boyfriend.

Both men groaned as he bottomed out, pausing when he was fully sheathed inside. It was like sliding into home, every time, and there was no way he could ever get tired of the feeling, of the sights and sounds and feels as he was fully enveloped.

Hands on slim hips, Derek pulled out until just the head was remaining inside, pushing back in. His rhythm started out slow, easy, allowing them both to revel in the sensations of it all. He was gripped perfectly, held tightly and squeezed for all he was worth. And fuck, if it wasn't as perfect as it was every other time they did this.

Stiles arched his back, practically mewling as Derek went deeper, the angle shifting and causing him to graze his prostate. His hand shot out, scrabbling to grab hold of the athlete's...anything really, before settling for gripping the sheet once again. The older man shifted, laying his torso along a leaner one, left hand covering his boyfriend's and slotting their fingers together. His forehead rested at the base of his neck, eyes blurring but able to partially make-out the stitched name spread across his shoulder blades.

His name.

Or his surname, to be exact. But it was his nonetheless.

His hips moved with more purpose, driving, pounding thrusts rather than the smooth glides they had been before. The sight of his surname was the ultimate propellant, spurring him into faster actions. All he could think about was how fucking incredible those four letters looked on Stiles, how perfect they'd be attached as a hyphenate in front of "Stilinski." Or behind it, didn't matter, he wasn't picky. As long as the two of them were officially joined together with a shared last name, then Derek was happy.

Beyond happy. So happy there wasn't really a word for it.

Stiles began moving with Derek, pushing his hips back to meet his every thrust, the two of them colliding with every pound. The air was filled with the sounds of their fucking, their pelvises slapping together, their panting, their moaning. The scent of lust hung heavy in the air, and as the athlete lapped at his boyfriend's neck and tasted the salt on his skin, he felt like all of his senses were completely overtaken by all things Stiles.

The student whimpered beneath him, gasped out moans escaping him with nearly every exhale. His entire body was trembling out of his control, shudders wracking him, passage spasming around the older man's cock and massaging him on his every thrust in.

"Oh, god, Der," he breathed out, swallowing hard. "Fuck. So close."

Derek shifted his hand from his boyfriend's hip to wrap around his cock, stroking him in long slow motions, completely out of sync from the fast hard pounds he was driving into him. His muscles were tightening up, balls drawing up close, the base of his spine tingling as his body told him he was close, too, that he was almost there, that he was seconds away from blowing his load.

But not before Stiles.

"C'mon, baby," he urged in the younger man's ear, voice gruff, panting a few times before continuing. "Come for me. Lemme see it. Lemme hear you call my name as you fall apart."

A high pitched whine left Stiles, followed by a shaky exhale, head nodding vehemently. Derek's hand sped up, stroking him faster, motions sloppy but effective.

"Shit, Derek!" the student cried out, free hand shooting forward and slamming against the headboard. His head reared back, nearly slamming into the athlete's on accident, a long drawn out groan leaving his gaping mouth. And as his entire body seemed to spasm and flail, Derek felt his cock twitch in his hand, ropes of come shooting out with every stroke, his inner-walls clenching hard around his own dick.

Derek kept thrusting through Stiles' aftershocks, through the trembling that was still wracking his body, both to prolong his boyfriend's orgasm and to spur his own on. His thrusts were erratic, no rhythm to them, no real pace. Just out of control motions as he brought himself closer and closer, higher and higher, until finally...

"Ah, fuck, Stiles!"

His entire body tensed up, muscles tightened to a point that would be painful if he was still able to feel the sensation. He panted out against his boyfriend's neck as he trembled, feeling his dick twitch and jerk, filling the condom covering it until his balls were empty.

It took both of them a long moment before either really felt like moving, although Stiles tried. His knees slid outwards, upper body falling before Derek grasped him around the waist.

"Oh no, you don't," he muttered, holding his boyfriend up with weary arms.

"'M tired," the younger man slurred, head hanging again, this time out of fatigue.

"Me, too, but I'm not listening to you bitch all night about laying in a wet spot."

The student grumbled under his breath, syllables that were meant to be words and therefore went completely misunderstood by the older man. Instead, Derek slowly pulled out, keeping hold of the condom, before rolling Stiles onto his back. A lazy grin was on his face, cheeks flushed, eyes half-lidded, and he looked thoroughly fucked out.

Job well done.

With shaky legs, Derek stood up and shuffled to the bathroom, tying off the condom and tossing it in the trash. Gathering what he needed he headed back to the main part of the master suite, finding Stiles still laying on his back, jersey splayed open, just like his legs. It was an incredible sight, one Derek would take a photo of to constantly look at so he could always remember this moment.

Or maybe not. Who the hell knew what kinda shit would happen if that pic fell into the wrong hands?

Nothing good, for sure.

Shoving aside all thoughts of photos, Derek set about cleaning his boyfriend then himself before disposing of the washcloth in the bathroom. On his second trip back, he found Stiles now without the jersey—which was laying in a heap near the closet, pretty much as close as Stiles got to putting things in the hamper—remote in hand as he switched on the TV.

Derek groaned as he climbed in next to him, maneuvering them both until they were under the covers, sheet up to their waists. "Seriously?" he questioned dubiously. "Even after sex?"

"Tradition," was the student's "duh" response, more focused on pulling up the DVR list and clicking the Mets post-game show he'd had set to record earlier.

The shortstop sighed in exasperation, wondering how the hell that had even become a thing in the first place. Then again, the slender male sidling up next to him and using the crook of his arm as a pillow was pretty much the answer to that. That, plus the fact that he'd give Stiles damn near anything he wanted. He was that in deep with the guy.

Although he kinda wished he wasn't so in deep that he'd spend every night—or evening—after a home game watching Mets Extra. Unless it was a loss. Stiles refused to watch recaps of a loss. Sometimes he'd fast forward through it to see highlights if Derek personally had a good game, but other than that, he wanted nothing to do with them.

The Mets having won their game and Derek having hit a grand slam meant he was forced to watch the highlights and in-depth analysis, Stiles chiming in with his own commentary.

Because tradition, as the student had stated.

Sighing once again, he settled in against the pillows, arm wrapped around his boyfriend and holding him close. Replays of his grand-slam played on the flatscreen on the opposite wall, Stiles grinning widely, practically beaming up at him in a way he couldn't hours before at the bar.

"So proud of you," he praised, pride dripping off every word.

Derek smiled just as big back, barely hearing the analysts breaking down his hit and rambling on with praise of their own. He didn't need to hear it. As long as he had Stiles saying those very things to him, that was all he needed to hear.