Actions

Work Header

Life's Not Fare

Work Text:

Download: MP3 [21MB] | M4B [11MB]

Length: 22:13

 

Derek was used to driving home intoxicated little brats from the clubs. Most of them hopped into his cab in groups and he dropped them off at a house way too big to belong to them; uppity children who were still surviving off their parent’s income. It made him sick. Sometimes it was a straggling business woman who had worked herself over time and was the last out of the building. But those were few and far between.

Derek hated working the downtown area. He never tried to take fares in that area because it was rare that he’d catch someone leaving late. Usually he was called to that side of town by the company he worked for, and they never tipped well.

Derek’s usual spot was on the corner of Sunset and Larrabee.

The Viper Room was always packed. They sold out shows every night and Derek was used to escorting droves of young men and women home after their evening. The club was the rock n’roll central of the city and Derek was sure to take at least two trip from the venue each night. It paid well to get a guest in the backseat who was too trashed to know whether they were overpaying him. Whoever was in the backseat usually threw the cash at him before falling out of the car and walking drunkenly to their door.

Derek likes to watch them slipping in their shoes across the pavement. Always women wearing heels too high for a night of drunken stupor. Derek likes it even more when he glances at them in his rearview and gets a peak of panties or bare pussy because they forgot to close their legs in their haze. Sometimes he gets a free show in the backseat.

Tonight is like any other. He’s just returned from taking home an early nighter. She had a headache and a handsy boyfriend that didn’t seem pleased to be leaving the show so early.

Derek can’t blame him.

Whoever is playing tonight sounds solid even if it’s just a gentle hum. The city is alive with other noises trying to block out the swell of the music.

It’s late, but L.A. rarely sleeps, especially in this part of town. Everyone wants to party til they drop.

Derek lights up a cigarette, flick of the lighter giving off a warm glow as it catches the paper. He’s not supposed to smoke in the car, but Derek doesn’t really follow the rules. Never really has.

Who’d a thought that being an omega in the big bad city would be more rewarding than a pack and family?

He inhales, cherry of his cigarette flaring to life as he pulls in a lungful of smoke and flavored tobacco. He only holds the breath a moment, letting the taste linger on his tongue. The nicotine calms his nerves before he exhales. A flood of smoke escapes out the driver’s window and Derek wishes it was worth the money. The hit only calms his nerves for a few minutes at most.

Derek pulls in again, sweet soft crackle of burning paper turning to ash, and then he sees the tiny redhead leaving the club. Derek probably wouldn’t have noticed her except she’s holding up a lanky looking guy who’s on the verge of collapsing. The girl gets an arm free and waves it, which has Derek tossing out his smoke and starting the engine of his car to pull closer.

He throws it in park once he’s in front of her and then steps out of the car to help her hold some of the weight she’s obviously too tiny for, especially in heels.

“Let me help you there,” Derek says, reaching out to slip under the boy’s other arm.

“Thank God,” the redhead responds. “Stiles is heavier than he looks and he becomes dead weight when he’s drunk.”

“Stiles, huh? That’s a weird name,” Derek muses. “How much did he have anyway?” he asks, watching the boy’s head loll. Stiles tilts his head up a little, looking up at Derek through vision that must be swimming.

“I swear he only had two shots. He must have taken something,” the girl says, handing off Stiles’ weight to Derek. The boy is entirely too pretty and Derek thinks it more likely that someone slipped something in his drink. It happens often, though not usually to a boy, in Derek’s experience.

Derek’s sure of it.

Stiles has pouty lips and long, dark lashes and this girl is helping to load her drugged friend into Derek’s backseat. He’s surprised when she shuts the door after Derek gets him buckled.

“He lives in Brentwood,” the redhead tells him, pulling a scrap of paper out of her purse and scribbling down an address. “It’s a big, white house, wrought iron fence.” Derek wants to roll his eyes because that describes about half the houses in Brentwood.

“You’re not going to escort him home?” Derek asks.

The girl scoffs. “I’m not giving up my evening just because he decided to get toasted.  I’ve been waiting to see this band all month.” She slaps the paper into Derek’s palm and then turns on her heel to head back inside.

Brentwood isn’t too far way, give or take thirty minutes depending on traffic Derek climbs back into the cab and pulls off of Sunset Boulevard in five seconds flat. It should be way too early to be driving home a lone drunk.

Derek’s looking in the rearview at his passenger. Stiles has his legs sprawled, and though Derek doesn’t think he’s hard, he can still see the line of his dick through his pants. Derek’s never really understood the appeal of those tight fitting, colored denim the kids seem to be wearing these days, but Derek makes an appreciative noise now. Stiles’ hand is lying right across his thigh, close to the bulge in his pants and it must be getting close to the full moon because Derek can feel himself chubbing up in his pants.

The boy’s head is turned towards the window, eyes glazed as he watches the city lights pass by. Derek taps on the brakes as a light changes from green to yellow to red.

“You okay back there?” Derek asks. He receives a groan in response. It’s not really an answer and Derek’s a little worried the guy is going to hurl all over his seats.

It wouldn’t be the first time.

Stiles closes his eyes, scrunching up his face and then a horn blares from behind Derek, jerking his eyes back to the road where the stoplight is back to green. He slaps on the gas, which jerks Stiles forward in his belt. It doesn’t seem to bother him though, and Derek tries to keep his eyes more focused on the road. He’d hate to get into an accident because his wolf is behaving like he’s a bitch in heat.

It’s a shame really that his dick only likes to sit up and pay attention to the clearly vulnerable. Stiles is definitely in that position. His little redheaded friend shouldn’t have left him alone.

It’s a challenge to divide his attention between the road and Stiles. They’re almost off of Sunset Boulevard when Stiles starts moving. Derek can see him in the mirror tugging at his collar, pulling it away from his neck.

“It’s too hot,” Stiles whines, but he looks too weak to actually be successful with getting his shirt away from his skin.

“Need some help back there,” Derek asks because he’s a terrible person. Stiles whines pitifully before nodding and Derek’s dick throbs. He takes a left on Western and says, “give me a minute to pull over and I’ll help you outta that. You don’t look so good. You might need some air.”

It’s another five minutes before he’s turning onto Fern Dell Drive and following the road until it turns into Western Canyon and he can turn his car off. It’s not a back alley, where he’d probably be more likely to be caught. Instead, they’re in Griffith Park and Derek’s out of the car without a moment’s hesitation.

He opens the backdoor and Stiles practically spills out of it. Derek’s impressed that he managed to get his seatbelt off. Derek catches him before his knees hit the pavement. He’s all wobbly in his chucks and clings to Derek’s shirt.

“Thanks,” he rasps against the fabric.

“Still need that shirt off?” Derek asks because he’s an asshole and wants to get right down to business. Stiles shakes his head no, but grabs Derek’s bicep, which flexes under the boy’s touch.

“I’m just…I think I need—“ He’s trying to talk but his speech is all slurred and sloppy from whatever is in his system

Definitely drugged.

“Just horny, huh?” Derek asks. “I bet you’ve been needing a dick between your cheeks all night.”

“Huh?” Stiles asks, tilting his face up. His eyes are all glassy, but they’re filled with confusion. Stiles is all amber and angles and he smells like sweat beneath the alcohol.

Derek is quick about sliding his hand between them and grabbing at Stiles’ dick. He’s not hard, not even close, but he’s still big.

Stiles shoves at his shoulder when he realizes what’s going on. He doesn’t stand a chance against Derek’s solid grip. Derek might as well be as unmovable as a building with how little force Stiles has behind his shove.

“What’re you—stop,” the boy says and now that Derek’s up in his face he can see he’s just that. Stiles is definitely not old enough to be getting served and Derek would wager a guess that he’s still in high school and fingering a fake ID.

“I think you know what I’m doing,” Derek tells him. “No use pretending, Stiles. I know how much you pretty boys want something in your ass.”

Stiles makes a noise of protest but his breath catches when Derek rides the cup of his palm up and down the ridge of his dick. It fattens under Derek’s hand, even without Stiles’ permission and Derek moans.

Christ—the boy might actually end up wanting it.

Derek makes quick work of the colored denim, unsnapping the button and rucking them down Stiles’ thighs. This would be so much easier if Stiles was a girl because all of them dressed for easy access.

More accurately, it was probably to look nice, but dresses usually afforded Derek a nice look up their skirt when they got drunk. A little flash of cunt without even coming into contact with them.

Derek lifts Stiles weight, manhandling him against the door of his cab. The kid doesn’t fight him on it, too weak and so much like a ragdoll. It’s probably better that Derek do it because Stiles’ pants are trapped around his calves and he’d probably be tripping all over himself.

Derek flicks open his own jeans and then shoves up the back of the boy’s shirt, exposing the knobs of his spine and the delicate dimples right above his ass. He pays no mind to his litheness, however, shoving him forward with a thigh. It spreads Stiles’ knees as far as his pants will allow and Derek makes quick work of getting his fingers between his cheeks and touching the pucker of his hole.

Stiles flinches away from him. “What’re you—”

Derek shushes him and shoves in a finger dry. Stiles cries out. It’s probably out of surprise more than anything because he’s probably not feeling much pain right now. Derek reaches up with his other hand anyway, clamping it around the boy’s mouth to quiet him. Derek doesn’t need Stiles drawing attention to them.

Derek doesn’t bother stretching him any further and instead pulls his finger out, lining up his dick before shoving in. the push is harder than expected, but Derek’s not used to the absence of natural lubrication. Stiles mustn’t be either because he lets out a scream that’s muffled by the palm of Derek’s hand.

“God, you’re so fucking tight,” Derek tells him and pulls out just a fraction before rocking back forward. It becomes a steady in and out motion, only made easy by the fact that Stiles’ is probably bleeding. It’s the worst kind of lubricant because it dries too quickly. There’s enough to make the slide easy, though Stiles’ groans beg to differ. Derek can feel something wet sliding across his knuckles, and it takes him a moment to catch the scent of tears. The salt in them is heavy.

“If you stop screaming, I’ll let you come,” Derek promises against Stiles’ nape. He thrusts forward and this time Stiles bites down on his hand, which is better than drawing attention to them. “Do you want to come you little slut?” he asks and Stiles doesn’t answer. When Derek moves his other hand from the boy’s hip to his cock he is hard, which must mean Derek isn’t him that bad.

“Good, you are a little slut. Look at how much you’re enjoying this.” He down strokes on Stiles’ dick as he pulls out, and then he shoves back in. Stiles shakes his head, probably embarrassed to admit it. “I bet you were hoping this would happen tonight. Made eyes at some skeevy guy across the bar and he thought he might as well slip you something to make you loose.”

Stiles whines as much as he can while his teeth are digging into Derek’s flesh. He starts pulling on Stiles’ cock to match the steady pumping of his hips, and it’s almost a surprise when the boy arches his back to meet them.

Derek moans and rubs the scruff of his beard against Stiles bare neck. He can hear the siren of an ambulance erupting in the distance and he starts fucking in time with its wail. It doesn’t take long.

Derek is rocking against Stiles’ prostate, stroking his dick, and despite the tears that are rolling down Derek’s wrist and elbow the boy comes all over his hand and the car door. Derek doesn’t waste it.

He lets go of Stiles’ dick and shoves the hand between their bodies, sure to rub the spunk over his own cock before it cools. When he pushes back in the slide is even easier and he can see a tinge of pink when he rocks back out, more proof that he’s made the boy bleed. That right there makes Derek fall over the edge, shooting his load in Stiles’ ass.

Derek bites at the boy’s neck. It’s brief and not very hard, but it makes Stiles throw his head back and gasp. Derek makes quick work of pulling out and tucking himself away. When he pulls Stiles’ jeans and underwear up from around his knees, the boy falls back against him for a second.

Derek breathes at his neck and then they’re pulling apart. Stiles climbs into the backseat and Derek in the front. Neither of them speak and when Derek pulls up in front of the big white house that matches the address, Stiles leaves without a backwards glance. He doesn’t even pay, but Derek can’t fault him for that. He does note that he can actually walk now, and Derek wonders if he fucked Stiles into being sober.

He pulls away without ever thinking he’ll see the kid again.

 

 

 


 

Stiles waits outside The Viper Room often, hoping to see the cabbie, but it’s always someone different. It’s never that dark haired asshole that fucked him into oblivion. He doesn’t even remember what the cab number was.

It’s disappointing to say the least, especially since Stiles came twice today with bloody, come stained boxer-briefs pressed to his nose. He can still smell the guy’s jizz that soaked into the fabric. Sometimes, he swears he can still feel the rough slide of his dick in his ass, but that was weeks ago.

Stiles just hopes he sees him again before he forgets his face.