Work Text:
Stiles is hunched over his desk, headphones around his neck, the Sheriff’s office CAD portal open on one screen and a half-finished Python script on the other. He’s sorting license-plate hits from the business district cameras into a neat little queue when the latch on his bedroom window ticks and the frame slides up without ceremony. Cold air bumps the back of his neck. He doesn’t jump; there’s only one person who still treats this window like a revolving door at this point.
“Stiles.” Derek’s voice is short, thick around something he’s chewing down. He lands silently on the floor and straightens. “Pull up trail cam twelve. Now.”
Stiles doesn’t turn right away. He taps a key, saves his place, and only then swivels, chair creaking. Derek’s in a tight black t-shirt, with damp hair and his jaw set. He looks like a problem Stiles wants to solve with a command line, and also a problem Stiles would very much like to solve by getting him out of that shirt and seeing if the rest matches. Stiles blinks once, deliberately slow, then drags a hand in a wide, unnecessary arc at the desk.
“Hi. Manners, ever heard of them?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Great. I’m busy. See this?” He taps the monitor. “It’s work. You want trail cam twelve, you can use these incredible tools called hands.” He flaps his own at the keyboard like a flightless bird. “Keyboard’s right there, big guy. Space bar, enter key, whole world at your fingertips. Go wild. Type your little heart out. I’ll be over here not being your personal IT guy.” He swivels back half an inch, then swivels forward again to squint at Derek’s face.
Derek’s eyes narrow as he steps closer, posture tight. “Do it.”
“No.” Stiles stands, chair wheels screeching, and then he’s chest-to-chest with Derek without giving an inch. His room is small; it makes everything loud, especially their breathing. “You can’t push me around like that anymore. That stopped working a long time ago. I’m not scared of you, big guy.”
Something flickers across Derek’s face, annoyance, heat, both. He moves before Stiles can fire back, one hand catching Stiles’ shoulder and trying to walk him backward. His grip is rough; a callused thumb slips over Stiles’ collar and drags across his collarbone. Stiles gives him two steps, hits the unpainted patch of wall by the closet, and grins.
“Really?” Stiles says, voice even. “We’re doing this?”
Derek pushes. Stiles lets him, for half a second, just enough to feel the intent, then turns, catches Derek’s wrist, pivots at the shoulder the way Parrish drilled into him, and flips it. Derek hits the wall with a grunt, his shoulders smacking plaster. Stiles is already there, forearm across his chest, hips in, weight pinning him to the wall.
“Yeah,” Stiles says, close enough to share breath. “See that, big guy? Two can play that game.”
Everything stops. The air in the room suddenly feels thick. Derek’s pupils blow wide; his jaw loosens. His hands don’t shove Stiles back; they spread against the plaster like he’s choosing to stay put instead. Stiles feels the heat of Derek’s chest under his forearm, the steady thud of a heartbeat coming up to meet his own. Derek’s gaze drops to Stiles’ mouth and stays. The set of his shoulders eases by a fraction, like something inside him finds its notch and settles. He swallows, breath hits Stiles’ cheek, warm.
“Oh,” Stiles breathes, quiet, a realization slotting home. "Oh." He didn’t plan it; he would’ve mocked himself if he had. But there it is: Derek likes the push. Not pain. Not fear. The pressure of being put, being held, being told where to be. The wolf that controls everything, letting himself be controlled.
“Okay,” Stiles says, steeling himself, heat running down his spine. “Don’t move.”
He doesn’t wait to see if Derek argues; he takes his mouth. The first kiss lands hard and clean, heat snapping between them. Derek opens without being asked, a low sound caught in his throat, one hand finding Stiles’ hip and staying there. Stiles keeps his forearm across Derek’s chest for one more beat—testing, daring. Derek doesn’t push; he eases into it, breath warm against Stiles’ cheek, fingers tightening at his waist. That’s when Stiles slides the brace away, slow, deliberate, because he’s already got Derek where he wants him and he doesn’t need the leverage anymore.
“Bed,” Stiles says against his lips; he doesn't phrase it like a question.
Derek nods once, breath rough. Stiles walks him backward by the waistband, turns him at the footboard, and pushes him down. Derek goes easily, a clean fold to sitting, then back until his head hits the pillows. Stiles follows, knee on the mattress, hands already under the t-shirt, dragging it up with no patience. Derek raises his arms, gives it up, and Stiles palms his chest with both hands and feels how warm he is, skin hot, muscle under his thumbs. He leans down and bites the curve where his neck meets his shoulder. Derek’s breath breaks on contact, head tipping to give Stiles more room.
“You wanted to give orders,” Stiles says, mouth warm on his neck. “You’re going to take them instead.”
Derek’s answer is a sound he doesn’t make for other people. “Yeah.”
“Good man.” Stiles doesn’t give him room to posture. “Up,” he says, fingers in Derek’s hair as he steers him. “Back. Right there.” Derek’s head meets the headboard with a dull creak; the frame taps the wall once. He goes without a word, thighs spreading on instinct. Stiles swings a leg over and settles on Derek’s chest, knees bracketing his shoulders, weight pinning him to the wood. He hasn’t even dragged his sweats down yet, but Derek’s nose flares, sharp inhale, pupils blowing wide, like he can smell the warm musk and the thin thread of precome dampening the cotton.
Stiles is already heavy in his sweats, heat pushing at the thin cotton, a dampness at the front. He drags the waistband down with one hand and frees himself, the sudden rush of cooler air pulling a hiss from between his teeth. He’s thick, long, and the head is flushed bright pink, with a wet shine on the tip—a slow bead of precome gathers and tips over to mark the vein that runs along the undershaft. Derek’s eyes go there like he’s been caught staring, then climb back up to Stiles’ face.
“Open,” Stiles says, soft and unarguable, thumb rubbing along Derek’s jaw hinge to loosen it. “Let me in.”
Derek does. His mouth parts obediently, lips already a little red from Stiles’ earlier kiss, the plush lower lip kicked out just enough to look indecent. Stiles angles himself with his fist, the slide of his own palm slicking the crown, then feeds Derek inch after inch, slow the first breath just to watch it happen—the way Derek’s lips stretch around him, the way the beard at the corners catches on Stiles’ skin with a rasp that goes straight to the back of Stiles’ knees.
“Yeah,” Stiles murmurs, voice roughening, his hand settling at the nape of Derek’s neck, warm and steady. “Just like that. Breathe through your nose.”
He rocks his hips, a slow but sure pace, and Derek meets the pace by holding still the way Stiles wants: shoulders pinned to the headboard, chin tilted, mouth open. Stiles watches his own thickness disappear past Derek’s lips and reappear wet, watches the head drag over Derek’s tongue with every pullback, then pushes deeper, past the first stubborn catch of muscle. Derek coughs softly, eyes flaring—a flash of red—and then he swallows around it, lashes lowering in concentration, nose bumping Stiles’ lower belly. Stiles feels it, a hot clutch-glide that nearly blanks his vision.
“Good,” Stiles says, voice hoarse, and his thumb strokes the short hairs at Derek’s nape like praise. “Stay still.” The headboard taps once beneath Derek’s skull when Stiles urges him closer, a dull thud that makes Derek’s hands flex where they’ve landed on Stiles’ thighs: fingers spread, heat pressing through sweats, a strong grip with capable hands. Stiles can see his hands flexing, the veins on Derke's hands popping.
Spit slips over the corner of Derek’s mouth and trails into his beard. Stiles thumbs it back across Derek’s lower lip and smears it there, the sight punching a groan out of him. “Derek,” he says, breath hitching. “God, that’s—look at you.”
Derek keeps his eyes up, the green almost completely gone, his eyes wide and dark, rimmed wet from the stretch. His pupils blown, cheeks hollowing as he seals his mouth and draws Stiles deeper, tongue flattening in reflexive welcome. Another string of spit bridges from the underside of Stiles’ shaft to Derek’s lip and snaps when Stiles rocks forward again. The room fills with the sound: wet, obscene, Stiles’ breath turning ragged, the faint creak of the frame against the wall.
“Wider,” Stiles commands. Derek unlocks his jaw and opens, obedient and eager. Stiles rewards him by pushing further, the head gliding past that tight place until his cock sits heavy on Derek’s tongue and kisses the top of his throat. Derek’s breath flares hot through his nose; his eyes blur for a second, then refocus on Stiles like he’s pinning him in place. Stiles keeps him there with a gentle pressure at the back of his head. “Pretty,” Stiles says, and the word lands between them. Derek shudders. “Jesus, look at you. You take it so well. So pretty for me, aren’t you?”
A sound hums around Stiles, affirmation, want, Derek’s answer without language. It vibrates along the sensitive underside, and Stiles’ thighs jump under Derek’s hands. He sets a tighter rhythm because he can; he draws nearly all the way out, feels cool air kiss the wet of his crown, then pushes back to heat, to slick, to the soft choke Derek swallows down like he means to keep it quiet. Spit pools and runs; it falls down Derek’s chin in a glossy spill, tracks along the curve of his throat to the hollow between his collarbones. Stiles catches one droplet with a fingertip and presses it to Derek’s lip, taps once, indulgent. “Keep your hands where they are,” he adds when those fingers twitch. “That’s right. Hold on.”
He can smell himself now, salt and skin, the faint bite of soap from that morning already drowned under sweat. Derek’s beard scrapes just enough to make Stiles’ breath stutter; the pull of it is wicked, a rasping ring around softness that keeps him painfully present. He can feel Derek’s tongue, the way it flattens and cups, the little reflexive press against the underside as Stiles glides in; he can feel the heat of Derek’s cheeks sucked hollow, the seal of lips clinging when Stiles slides back, and then the wet kiss when he pushes forward again.
He tightens the pace, shoulders rolling with each hip thrust, thighs trembling now, breath gone to heat and fractured exhale. Derek’s lips have gone slick-red, raw by use, plush and greedy and ringed with drool; his chin shines, his beard is wet, and every time Stiles pulls back the head sits glossy on his tongue for a heartbeat—pink, obscene, helplessly inviting—before Stiles fills him again. Stiles tries not to watch and fails. He’s shameless about it, chasing the sight and the sensation, chasing the way Derek keeps his eyes up even when they blur, the way his hands clamp down on Stiles’ legs like a seatbelt.
Stiles can feel his own pulse in his cock now, a heavy beat that threatens his control. He rides it. He makes Derek take shallow tilts and then deep-set drives, alternates until Derek’s breathing syncs with the pattern and Stiles can feel the way Derek’s chest manages each push, tightens, lets go, tightens again. When Stiles pulls nearly free, the head drags hot across Derek’s tongue and rests there, wet weight on an open mouth; Derek’s lips cling, pretty and swollen, and Stiles almost comes from the sight alone. He crowds back in with a ragged noise and feels Derek’s jaw open just enough more to take it.
“That’s it,” Stiles says, voice frayed. “Keep looking at me.” He coasts to the edge on the shine of Derek’s eyes and the sound and the drip and the rasp, on the handprints he can already feel blooming under Derek’s hair where his grip holds, on the way Derek stays good under him and lets Stiles use his mouth exactly like this, exactly right. Saliva strings and snaps between skin and lip; a fat bead creeps down Derek’s throat and disappears down into the dip of his collarbone. Stiles chases it with his eyes and then locks back on Derek’s gaze, merciless.
He knows if he doesn’t slow, he’s going to spurt down Derek’s tongue and jaw and beard, and the thought winds him tighter. He lets himself have three more filthy, perfect thrusts that knock his breath out in stuttering pieces, then drags his cock wetly from Derek’s mouth with a slick pop. Derek sucks a breath in through swollen lips, eyes still on Stiles like he’s waiting for the next instruction.
“Good,” Stiles says, thumb stroking over that flushed bottom lip, smearing spit across it, rubbing until Derek’s mouth opens again on reflex. “Stay right there.”
He leans in and kisses him, slow and obscene, licking into the mess he made and humming when Derek gives it back, pliant and eager and shaking a little in the shoulders where the headboard pinned him. Stiles pulls away on a breath, pupils blown, hands already restless with the need to push further, do more, take apart what he just arranged and then arrange it all over again.
Stiles eases off him, drops to the mattress, and finally goes where he’s wanted to go since the first time Derek stepped out of the trees and said, this is private property. His hands fit hard at Derek’s hips, greedy, certain, fingers splayed in a hold that keeps him right there.
Stiles slides down, pops Derek’s fly, and shoves jeans and briefs down and off. Heat hits his face and makes his mouth water. Derek’s thick in his hand, heavy and hardening; dark, coarse hair runs up strong thighs. When Stiles squeezes the curve of his ass to drag him further down on the bed, his palm lands on the thing he clocked once when Derek shifted and hasn’t stopped thinking about: a handful of heat and weight and hair, dark and soft across both cheeks. Stiles groans.
“Turn over,” he says. “Now.”
Derek turns without complaint, arms folded under his forehead, shoulders wide in the lamplight. Stiles kneels between his spread thighs and puts both hands on his ass, thumbs digging, spreading him open. The hair across Derek’s ass cheeks is thick and soft, the crease warm, the tight ring of muscle flushed and already easing. It hits Stiles low and hard. He leans in and licks a long stripe, slow and sure.
Derek swears into the pillow, a blunt sound. Stiles smiles into him and does it again, then pushes his tongue in and works him open with his mouth the way he wants to be doing with his hips. He adds a finger, slicked with spit, pushes it in beside his tongue, curls to find the spot he wants. Derek jerks into it. Stiles hums praise against him and feels the shiver run the length of Derek’s spine.
“Look at you,” Stiles says, pulling his mouth back just enough to be heard, two fingers moving slow and precise inside him. “You take it so well, don't you?”
Derek’s breath is harsh, “Yeah.”
Stiles adds a third finger when the tight ring finally gives for him, working Derek until his hips start to move without finesse, pressing back to chase the curl. It’s hot and snug, and it probably stings with just spit; Derek’s breath bites off sharp around it.
“Yeah, I know,” Stiles murmurs, sliding his fingers out. “Hang on.”
He reaches into the nightstand and comes up with the silicone lube he keeps there for nights alone, and snaps the cap one-handed. A clear ribbon spills over his fingers and Derek’s rim, slicking everything to a clean, glassy shine. It glistens in the lamplight; the first push back in makes a wet sound that turns both of their breaths rough. Stiles works two fingers in, then three again, slow, deep, precise, until the stretch trades sting for smooth, until Derek’s body starts to take,
Derek tries to drive onto it, a helpless shove backward.
“Keep still,” Stiles says, palm flattening on Derek’s hip to hold him in place. “Be good for me.”
Derek swallows, exhales, stays.
“Good,” Stiles praises, fingers scissoring, then curling; the silicone turns it obscene and easy, slick noises filling the room. Derek’s breath shivers; his thighs tremble, when Stiles finally finds the sweet spot. Derek pushes back again, instinct, and Stiles tightens his grip, voice low at his ear. “I said, hold still. Be a good little alpha for me, Derek.”
Derek goes pliant, obedient. Stiles drags the pads of his fingers over that spot again and again, steady as a metronome, until Derek’s mouth falls open and his hands curl in the sheets without moving his hips an inch.
Stiles pulls out, smacks one cheek—quick, more sound than sting—and rubs where he hit. Derek’s breath catches, then evens under his palm. Stiles bends, bites lightly just above, kisses it after, then taps his hip.
“On your back,” he says, voice warm and sure. “I want to see your face.”
Derek flips. He looks at Stiles like he isn’t sure how he got here, but doesn’t want to be anywhere else. He slicks himself with what's left on his fingers, and lines up with one hand; the other palms Derek’s thigh and pushes his knee up and out to open him wide.
“Look at me,” Stiles says again, not letting Derek go under. “Stay right here with me.”
Derek does. Stiles finally presses in, steady. The heat grabs and holds, a tight burn giving on every inch, and Stiles’ breath breaks; he plants one hand on the mattress by Derek’s ribs and uses the other to keep Derek open. Derek breathes out through his nose, jaw clenched, and then Stiles bottoms out. The room goes quiet. Stiles presses his mouth to Derek’s and feels the answer— just a low sound that lands in Stiles’ chest and stays there.
He moves when Derek’s body relaxes a fraction. He pulls back slowly and pushes in with intention, deep enough to keep Derek open, hard enough to erase everything else, until there’s only this: Stiles inside him and Derek taking it. Stiles finds the angle that lights Derek up and leans on it. The bed ticks the wall. Derek’s hands climb Stiles’ shoulders and hold their place, a grip that will leave marks Stiles will wear like a secret all day tomorrow.
“That’s it,” Stiles says, hips rolling, breath hot. “You feel me? You’re taking it so well, aren’t you? Like you’re made for this, for me.” He laughs, wrecked. “That’s it. That’s a good alpha. Be good for me.”
A rough sound tears out of Derek thorat in answer, animalistic, like his wolf is taking over. Stiles loves it. Stiles presses their foreheads together and talks right into him.
“No one gets this,” he says. “You come apart for me—here, under my hands, in my bed. Let me hear you.”
Derek gives it. It’s not theatrical; it’s honest and deep. Stiles slides a hand down, wraps his long fingers around Derek, and strokes him in time with the rhythm that’s tearing them both open. He squeezes hard, slick and sure, thumb catching under the head every upstroke like it was made to go there. Derek’s hips stutter and then chase. Stiles bites the hinge of his jaw and feels him shake.
“Say it,” Stiles pushes, voice rough.
Derek’s answer is breathless and clean. “Just for you.”
“Yeah,” Stiles says, and drives hard, two, three, four strokes that knock sound out of Derek like he owes it. “Taking it so good for me, aren’t you, alpha?”
“Yes,” Derek says, the word gone to gravel. “Yes.”
“Then come for me,” Stiles says, cruel and kind at once. “Now.”
Derek goes tight everywhere and then breaks, hot ribbons spill across Stiles’ fist and his own stomach, mouth open on a roar that Stiles will hear in his head in every quiet room for the next year. He clamps around Stiles at the same time, hard, rhythmic, and Stiles loses whatever was left of control. He drives deep and comes on a gasp that rips his throat, hips grinding through it because he can’t help it. After all, Derek’s body is still pulling on him, asking for more even while he shakes apart.
After, it’s slow. Stiles keeps himself inside until the bright goes down to warm, then eases out, breath catching at the drag. He uses a T-shirt from the chair to wipe Derek’s stomach and hand clean, then wipes his own, then tosses the shirt at the hamper like he’ll remember to do laundry tomorrow. He lies down shoulder to shoulder and stares at the ceiling long enough to feel everything settle into place.
Derek is quiet, but not the bad quiet. The good kind. The one that says the wolf’s happy. He turns on his side and hooks a hand over Stiles’ waist without looking. It’s the most casual thing either of them has done in years. Stiles smiles into the pillow and lets his mouth turn into a honest smile, soft eyes crinkling in the corners.
“That was not a one off” he says.
“No,” Derek says. “It wasn’t.”
“Cool.” Stiles nods at nothing. “So, dinner sometime?”
Derek snorts, the corner of his mouth easing. “Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow’s good.” Stiles turns his head, puts his mouth to the underside of Derek’s jaw, kisses skin that’s still warm. “Stay,” Stiles says, because he can. “My dad’s on nights this week. You can go before he gets home, and I’ll pretend I don’t know why there are fingerprints all over me.”
“Stiles,” Derek says, exasperated like he’s supposed to be, fond like he can’t help it.
“Shh,” Stiles says, and drags the blanket up over them. “Sleep.”
He doesn’t remember dropping out. He remembers waking once with Derek’s weight curled warm behind him, an arm heavy across his stomach, and falling straight back down because nothing in the room needed him to be clever.
The shower in the hall runs at 6:20—his dad’s text buzzes the nightstand at 6:32, all quiet—and stops. The back door clicks softly at 6:55. Stiles pushes his face deeper into the pillow and smiles, lazy and satisfied and a little sore in every useful way.
Scott’s in the kitchen by the time Stiles stumbles in later, sweatpants, inside-out shirt, hair like a crime scene. Scott sets a paper tray of coffees down, takes one breath, and his face does the whole move—shock, eyebrows, dude.
“Dude. What.”
“Morning,” Stiles says, serene. He takes a coffee off the paper tray. “Say ‘good morning’ like a normal person, or I’m going back up and pretending I’m asleep.”
Scott blinks hard, tries to reset. Fails. “Derek. Derek. Here. Now. Last night. Both? You smell like—”
“Finish that, and I start sending you voice notes of me breathing,” Stiles says, pointing. “On loop. For a week.”
Scott makes a strangled noise, then plants his hands on the table like he’s going to alpha a chair. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” Stiles says, and lets it show. “I’m excellent. Which is upsetting for the entire Pack, because the smug levels are going to spike.”
Scott scrubs a hand through his hair, squints at Stiles’ neck, fails not to notice things, and looks… sour, a little. Shocked, a lot. He chews his cheek, then exhales. “If he—”
“I’ll tell you,” Stiles says, steady. “And then you can do your earnest puppy thing at him and I’ll do my mouth thing and between the two of us we’ll manage. But that’s not where we are.”
Scott deflates into a reluctant smile. “You’re impossible.”
“Correct,” Stiles says, beaming. He takes a long drink of coffee and sighs like a sitcom dad. “Also dating. Tomorrow. Don’t plan a pack night, we won't be there.”
Scott points a donut at him. “I hate this.”
“You don’t,” Stiles says, delighted.
Scott glares for form’s sake, then softens. “I’m happy for you,” he admits, heavily. “Still. Dude. What.”
Stiles claps him on the shoulder, obnoxious with joy. “Get used to it.”
Stiles walks away humming while Scott makes the exact noise Stiles was hoping for and mutters into his coffee about boundaries and bleach for his brain.
Stiles texts Be there in thirty. Be good for me and wait. The read receipt pops; the three dots appear, then a reply: Don't be bossy. He grins and pockets his phone.