[BEACON HILLS NAVAL PORT, BEACON COUNTY, CALIFORNIA]
The USS Seawolf is a beautiful thing. It’s three hundred and fifty feet of reinforced steel infused with the highest, most advanced technology that the United States can offer.
Derek stands on top of its sail as the boat navigates smoothly through the thick waters of Beacon Hills harbour. Derek’s team, a small collective of six sailors, tread carefully on the wet surface, making the final checks before the submarine is to be submerged completely.
The wind is brash, cold – splattering Derek’s face with fat rain droplets intermittently. His lips are chapped, his freshly shaved cheeks stinging red with exposure but Derek stands firm, watching as Reyes crosses the surface of the bow in wide strides, the rubber soles of her boots passing evenly over the washes of water on the metal.
Straying locks of her hair, tied up in its regulation bun, whip and fray in the strong wind as she peers up at him, gloved hands clinging his as he pulls her up the last few steps of the ladder’s rungs.
“All done?” he says, raising his voice a little to be heard.
“Yes, sir,” she says, looking small and rumpled beside him as she nods, brief and succinct– a far cry from her sharp giggles when teetering on delicate-boned, velvet cased stilettos.
Turning to the rest of his team below, Derek hollers, strict: “Round up!” and he eases open the bow hatch and ushers Erica in. As per protocol, Derek is the last to leave the surface, taking care to seal the hatch before continuing down.
The Commanding Officer of the Seawolf, Captain Stilinski, stands in the sub-control room, solid and unyielding, as he oversees.
“Last man down,” Derek says, as Stilinski’s attention turns to him. “The hatch is secure, sir.”
Stilinski nods at him, “Thank you, Hale.” He runs a calloused hand over the strong line of his jaw, watching the screen intently even as he addresses the youngest members on board the boat. “Submerge ship to one-hundred and sixty feet.”
Boyd, the ship’s diving officer, leans forward to press the warning siren twice; his voice is bold and thick in the crowded room as he speaks into the telecom mic, straining to be heard over the wailing echo of the horn. “Submerging to one six zero feet. Dive! Dive! All vents are open.”
McCall controls the Seawolf’s fairwater planes - located at the sail – to regulate the angle of the boat as it dives. His fingers are short and thick, gripping steadily the time-softened leather of the steering wheel as he pulls it gently towards him.
The bow of ship turns down, and with it turn’s Derek’s stomach, a shiver of excitement snaking up his spine. He clenches his gut, pressing down into the heel of his shoe so as to not fall forward with the incline.
Parallel to McCall is Stiles, stabilising the angle of the dive by keeping a tight control on the ship’s rear planes. He’s skittish even now, his foot bouncing beneath the jutting surface of the watch-station, whisky-coloured eyes flitting from the depth gauge to McCall and to his own navigation wheel.
McCall and Stiles work in tandem, almost anticipating each other’s movements, their descent is calm and smooth, water lapping over itself to submerge the Seawolf; the effervescent bubbles of air popping around the air vents the only sounds to accompany them into the deep of the pacific ocean.
The attack centre is located towards the rear of the ship, away from the mess hall and the control room, so it’s usually quiet and it usually features only a limited number of personnel.
Today, while Derek is overseeing the newest sailors, the room is unexpectedly crowded and stuffy.
Lydia, the sub’s head scientist is sitting beside Derek, observing the ice recording machine, keeping careful track of the thickness of the ice in the waters above them. Her hair is pulled up in a ponytail, frizzing up in the heat.
Derek whiles his time glancing over at Lydia and back over at the rookies, who are simulating the assembly of a torpedo into its deployment shaft.
He has a timer in his hand, and the rookies are still making good time. Argent and Whittemore guide the smooth cylinder of the torpedo into the chute.
“Missile shut,” Whittemore says, after he shuts the hatch behind it, turning to catch Derek’s eye for approval.
He waits until Derek announces the numbered identification of the procedure – as this practice is being recorded – before nodding to his crewmen. “Two-two, ready in all respects.”
“Solution ready,” McCall says in response.
Stiles is on his other side, viewing his monitor carefully, only one of side of his headphones placed over his ear. “Ship’s ready.”
Argent is, by now, over at her own monitor, squeezed in between McCall and Whittemore. “Weapon’s ready.”
Derek looks over their shoulders, making sure everything is in order – even though they won’t be getting second chances or much time to dawdle when it comes to the real thing. “Shoot two-two.”
“Set,” Stiles replies, addressing himself to McCall.
McCall leans over, speaking into the telecom mic, voice loud and clear, “Fire two-two.”
The shower room is small but roomy, the lights fitted into the ceiling are bright but it gets hazy, diffused lazily through the thick smog of steam that curls around the room. Ventilation is heavily regulated in a submarine ship and therefore slow, but Derek's not complaining. The steam pushes out the cold air, wraps around his head like balmy comfort.
It's general rule that door to the communal showers are opened and closed quickly, in order to avoid the mess of sticky steam spilling out into the corridors. So Derek doesn't even bother to try to shield himself from frigid new air as the door opens a few minutes after he's entered, because it closes just as quick.
He doesn't even need to turn around to know who's just entered the bathroom; he can recognize those clunky, heavy-footed steps from a mile away.
The shower stall next to Derek's clunks to life and a hand sticks into the stream, gauging the temperature. Derek follows the arm right back up to Stiles' eyes, mischief crinkling in the corners.
"How do?" Stiles says, stepping into his shower, fingers itching at the temperature control.
Derek raises an eyebrow, palms slow in the lathering of his chest. He watches with smug satisfaction as Stiles' eyes drop to follow the motion, Adam's apple bobbing with a hard swallow. Derek waits until Stiles’ gaze wanders back up to his before saying, "That water is too hot. You're going to burn yourself."
Stiles snorts, he's always been fond of hot showers, turning up the heat until it's just shy of unbearable.
"Mind your business, Hale," he says. "Leave me to mine."
He takes in Derek's judgmental raise of eyebrows with a countering stubbornness.
Derek bites down on an indulgent smile, not two minutes later, when a yelp of scalded pain emanates from Stiles besides him.
Like a wounded pup, Stiles slinks over to Derek, fingertips sliding across wet skin and his mouth ghosting across the wide splay of Derek's shoulder blade.
Derek hums, deep in the back of his throat, leans back into the touch without even meaning to.
The gently rounded tip of Stiles' upturned nose, always slightly cooler than the rest of his body, even now, nudges beneath the crest of Derek's cheekbone.
"I missed you," Stiles says; quiet, so quiet that Derek has to strain his ears.
It's been a long few months, filled with preparation, re-training, and long arduous meetings of strategizing and organizing. All they've had between them has been the stolen glances and fingertips grasping at each other as they pass by one another on base.
Nothing, not even the stolen moments they had of deep, debilitating, kisses hidden in dark, isolated corners, can compare to being able to have Stiles here - just touching him, breathing with him.
"I missed you, too." Derek replies, just as quietly. He turns then, facing Stiles fully, reveling in the opportunity of being able to look at him without shame, without hiding anything - honest and pure.
Derek angles his head so that the stream falls over his shoulders rather than his face. He catalogues Stiles' face, a thumb running over Stiles' pale skin, the mottled red blush spilling over his cheeks, the moles dotting his skin.
"You should be asleep," Derek says.
"So should you, Officer," Stiles returns; his eyelashes spiky with water drops, his mouth pink and smooth and ever recalcitrant.
It comes as no surprise then, when Stiles shuffles forwards, turns his face to kiss Derek. It’s soft, but not hesitant. As if Stiles is simply reacquainting himself with the shape of Derek’s mouth.
Stiles is, undoubtedly, the more impatient of the two, but this time it’s Derek who pushes back for more. It’s Derek who’s hands fit around the dense weight of Stiles’ trim hips, their chests pressed together as Stiles’ long arms drape over his shoulders, body curling into him with a long, indulgent stretch of his spine.
Stiles’ mouth is warm, eternally inviting, and Derek is greeted with a sigh as he slips his tongue inside, brushes it alongside Stiles’, tastes him. When they part, mouths sticky sweet, their chests are heaving, but their longing for each has not even come close to being sated.
Derek is fixated on Stiles’ mouth, the slight uptick in the corners. He’s always had a thing for Stiles’ mouth, even way back when they first started this relationship – in the days of secluded Beacon Hills hideouts, hidden deep in the preserve, with fumbling adolescent hands and overeager hips rolling into one another.
Now Derek can’t help himself but trace his fingers over Stiles’ lips as they blush a deep, kiss-bitten red, slackened on heavy breaths, and it’s so sexy – so incredibly sensuous. But Derek likes them in other ways, too. He likes the shape of them when Stiles is relaxed, or when he’s concentrating on his job – irresistible in his khaki colored fatigues – it’s a dulcet rose then, lips slightly dry. Derek likes the way that they curve when Stiles laughs; they frame his smile beautifully, his lips.
Derek likes the flush they take when Stiles presses them together, when he’s hiding laughter and when he’s being stubborn, or annoyed. He likes it best of all, though, when Stiles slides to his knees, broad hands palming heavily at the thickly corded muscle of Derek’s thighs.
Derek’s only half hard at this point, but the long, dexterous pulls of Stiles’ mouth on his cock are quickly ushering him to his peak.
His hands pull delicately at Derek’s balls as his tongue rolls slowly around the weight of Derek in his mouth.
“We don’t have time for this, Stiles,” Derek says, syllables catching harshly around his heavy breaths. Most of the crew is asleep, as they still operate on Beacon Hill’s time zone despite being outside of it. But the doors of the shower rooms in the sub don’t lock, and Derek is left praying that nobody is intrigued by the sound of the shower running. They cannot afford to get caught, not by their fellow crewmen, and much less by Stiles’ father.
But Stiles seems blissfully, or purposely unaware, eyes closed – his dark eyelashes casting shadows on his cheeks, pink mouth puckered only to release deep, saturated groans as his mouth works Derek over.
Derek leans back on to the wall of the shower, pawing control that allows him to turn the temperature down. He feels hot all over, scorching heat prickling at the inside of his skin and the coolness of the wall provides only a little relief. His head falls back, his eyes flutter closed and he cards his fingers through Stiles’ soaked hair, exhaling sharply through his gritted teeth when he feels the head of his cock bump gently against the back of Stiles’ throat.
Stiles disconnects with wetness still clinging to his red lips, the shower spray washing it away in moments. His hand curls around Derek’s shaft as he pulls the foreskin over and back again, easing into a slow rhythm.
He stands slowly, into Derek’s willing embrace and breathes a shattered moan into the crook of Derek’s neck, when Derek’s hand move to touch him – one hand on the curved slope of his ass, and the other on his cock.
Stiles ruts into Derek, slim hips bunching up to push through the tight circle of Derek’s hand. He’s beautiful like this, eyes scrunching up, mouth stuttering open, and he all but forgets to keep his hand moving on Derek. But Derek doesn’t mind, instead, he pushes Stiles away some, before turning, pressing him into the wall.
With an easy burst of strength, Derek, with his hands hooked securely beneath Stiles’ legs, jerks him upwards. Stiles wraps his legs securely around Derek’s thighs, impatient mouth seeking out Derek’s even as his fingers sink into the wet hair at the nape of Derek’s neck.
Derek pushes his weight into Stiles, making sure the other man is securely held before he starts rolling his hips forward. Stiles’ kisses are clumsy and wet, interrupted by streams of water that pool in the small crevices of space between their faces and attempt to run up their noses when they tilt their heads a certain way.
Stiles bursts into laughter the third time this happens, chest heaving with his lighthearted chuckling. He can barely concentrate on kissing Derek, so he settles for just pressing their mouths together, arms tightening his grip on Derek.
Derek moves his arm to wrap around Stiles’ waist, pressing him close, and the other is planted firmly on the wall – leverage for when he starts to push his hips into Stiles, working up to a frenzied that is matched by Stiles.
Derek watches as Stiles head tips back, eyes gluttonously cataloguing the jut of Stiles’ Adam’s apple in the wide expanse of his pale neck, the red blush flooding over to his chest.
Stiles’ mouth hangs open, slack – loud, thick groans spilling out. Derek has to shush him, because as much as he loves hearing Stiles, loves how loud and unabashed he is, they’re in a submarine filled to the brim with sailors, in the midst of a very intimate, extremely private moment.
“Good?” Derek asks, pushing his face into Stiles’ neck, hips jerking into Stiles.
Stiles’ breathing is loud in his ear, and he can’t formulate a sentence, so he hums in answer – jittery and disjointed. Derek feels his hand insinuate itself between the tight space between their bodies, and Stiles comes with his hand wrapped hot and wet around himself, thighs twitching around Derek.
He stands like a newborn calf when Derek finally eases him down, all quaky knees and a shaky grin. He uses both his hands in tandem on Derek’s shaft, taking advantage of his knowledge of Derek’s body, of what he likes, to push him over that sharp crystalline precipice of gratification.
In the aftermath, they slump into each other, residing in familiar comfort. The water is much cooler now, so Stiles reaches over to turn it off after it has cleaned them of the residue of sex. The shower-room seems much stuffier now, and Derek can’t breathe in too deep because of the heavy dullness of the steam.
Stiles kisses him, slow. His soft, pink mouth gathers Derek’s bottom lip into his own, biting down gently before he soothes it over with his tongue.
He licks over his lips when he pulls away, as if chasing the lingering taste of Derek. Stiles steps back and slicks his hair – dark with water – back with the flat of his palm.
He looks tall and capable, with broad shoulders, work-roughened hands and a strong, masculine jaw. He’s a man now, in every sense of the word, and has already outgrown his stubbornness, his aversion to authority and the puppy fat that had clung to his soft face growing up.
When he smiles, however, he looks all of sixteen again, eyes bright and full of mischief – catching Derek’s heart for the first time.
“Come on, sailor,” Stiles says, grin catching on the edge of his words as he walks back towards the door. “We’ve got a war to win.”