Stiles wishes he could say that the fun and excitement never stops over at Stilinski Auto & Ride, but no. That would be a lie. There is no excitement to be had here. There are only soccer mom minivans and the occasional oil change. There is no fun. There are a lot of those soccer moms running around Beacon Hills though, and Stiles definitely does not remember that from the days of his youth. He guesses it would be really creepy if he did though.
Stiles is living the dream, fulfilling his hopes, completing his goals; let no one say differently He’s a one-man operation, small business owner, member of the community roots go deep all that jazz. It’s awesome. Completely. So much awesome. The kind of awesome that only bill-paying adults get to have.
Scott and his puppy gaze teamed up with his Dad’s exasperated sighs can go shove it. Stiles is fine. Work is fine. Everything is fine. He’s just, at this particular moment, bored out of his freaking mind. Stiles needs excitement, he craves danger and oil and lube and the devious workings of complex machinery. He needs sweat and something to get his pulse pounding.
Stiles needs to get laid, is what his subconscious is saying, apparently. He snorts. That’s not likely to happen anytime soon. Stiles is equally terrible at both relationships and one-night stands. He doesn’t have enough ‘feelings’ for a relationship, (Aaron’s words, not his), and he has far too many of them for casual sex. He flops backwards onto his desk and lolls around, scattering office paraphernalia every which way.
“So bored,” he groans. The oscillating fan hums at him thoughtfully.
Stiles wishes he could just call it a day, but come five PM, all the oil changes are gonna pull up and he does need to make some money today.
He’s hearing it before he realizes he’s even hearing it, his eyes fluttering closed and a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He feels it thrumming in his bones and then realizes he feels a thrumming in his bones. Stiles flails off his desk with a yelp and flings open the door into the garage. There it is, pulled up into the garage, its kickstand just being flicked into place by its rider. A Ducati Monster. Stiles feels weak at the knees and a whimper may or may not escape him.
Then the rider of the holy piece of machinery dismounts with one slow swing of a long muscled leg encased in a pair of really fucking tight jeans. Then the rider pulls of his helmet and Stiles wheezes out some sort of high pitched sound. Stubble, jawline cheekbones angry eyes dark messy fuck-me hair. What looks to be six feet of pure muscled leather jacket wearing hunk.
Cha-ching, Stiles thinks, the Boredom Gods have heard my pleas halle-fucking-lujah.
“Fuck,” he says aloud, barely even a whisper, but the guy’s head snaps in his direction.
Then Stiles is stumbling forward and falling on his knees before the bike and making inarticulate needy sounds. That’s not a Ducati Monster. It’s a fucking Ducati Angel.
“Oh God,” he croaks, and his fingers twitch forward to stroke it along its’ flank.
“Don’t touch my bike,” a flat voice intones from above.
Stiles looks up to see the bike’s rider looming over him. “But, you brought it to a garage,” Stiles says, somewhat confused, “I’m gonna hafta touch the bike at some point to fix--” Stiles gasps in horror, “What’s wrong with--oh my god, what did you do? Did you break her? Is she broken?” Stiles turns his horrified gaze back to the bike. “It’s okay, baby,” he croons, “I’ll fix you, Stiles will make it all better, you’ll see.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my bike,” the guy grits out through clenched teeth.
Stiles gives him a confused look. “Then why did you--”
He cuts him off curtly with, “I just need an oil change.”
Stiles hears swears he hears the Hallelujah Chorus resound through his mind. “Yesssss,” he crows, “I can do ‘zat.”
“No,” the man growls firmly, “I will.”
“I’ll pay you for the oil and time and labor, but I’m the only one who will be touching my bike.”
“Wha-?” Stiles squawks. “Dude, this is my garage, I do the oil changes around here!”
Ducati (Stiles has to call him something, and it doesn’t look like names are forthcoming) gives an unconcerned grunt.
“Please let me change the oil?” Stiles tries for politeness.
“I’ll give you such a discount you wouldn’t even believe--” Customers love discounts.
“No,” Ducati cuts him off again.
There is a Ducati Angel sitting in his garage Stiles will be damned if he doesn’t get his hands on that bike somehow. “Jesus Christ, I’ll do it for free!”
That gets Ducati’s attention. His thick eyebrows pull down and his eyes narrow in suspicion.
Sensing weakness, Stiles goes in for the kill. “In fact, I will pay you to let me change the oil on this bike.” Stiles is certain that right now, both his Dad and Scott sense a disturbance in the force, but what they don’t explicitly know won’t hurt them.
After a moment of glaring suspiciously at Stiles, the guy grins (somewhat evilly), and says lazily, “Fine. $75.”
Stiles’ mouth opens and closes soundlessly for several seconds before he finally gets his voice to say, rather shrilly, “For an oil change?”
Ducati shrugs. “Take it or leave it.”
Stiles’ hands lock into a claw shape and he can feel his eye start to twitch. “$50,” he counters, “And you can hover over me and nitpick my technique to your heart’s content.”
“No deal,” he says.
“Well, if you won’t let me do it, then you can’t use my facilities,” Stiles says indignantly.
Ducati stiffens and glares at Stiles. “Well I’ll just take it somewhere else then,” he growls.
Stiles snorts. “Where, Jiffy Lube?” He snickers.
Now it’s the other man’s turn to develop an eye twitch. “Fine,” he grits out, “You pay me $50 and I will monitor you. Extensively.”
“Hot damn,” Stiles crows.
Ducati looks like he regrets this already, and true to his word, he monitors Stiles’ every move. Well, it’s not so much monitoring as it is hovering. Looming. Lurking, if you will. Every time Stiles turns, Ducati’s stupid angry, hot, fuck me with your cock Stiles, face is right there. And what even are his eyes, who has eyes like that? Fucking - kaleidoscopic - eyes are not natural and it’s all making Stiles very uncomfortable in areas of mechanic’s coveralls that he usually likes to leave to mystery.
“Dude,” Stiles says exasperatedly, after the third time he elbows the guy in his stomach, “buffer zone, personal bubble, give me something, anything, come on.”
He doesn’t even twitch.
“I will laugh so freaking hard when you get elbowed in the nuts next,” Stiles mutters as he does his best to stroke the Ducati fondly, without actually looking like he’s stroking the Ducati fondly.
“Stop that,” the other man snaps.
“Stop what?” Stiles is all innocence.
“Stop that--that fondling.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Stiles says loftily. And then promptly gets his fingers covered in oil and says, “Yeah, that’s it baby, get nice and slick for Stiles.”
Ducati stiffens beside Stiles and grits out, “That, stop that.”
Stiles snickers. “Daddy doesn’t realize his little baby is all grown up and a real woman now,” he croons as he unashamedly runs his fingers all over parts that have nothing whatsoever to do with oil changes.
Ducati reaches out and very lightly, but deliberately, slaps Stiles’ hands away from non-mission critical components. “Would you just change the damn oil already?” he growls.
Stiles heaves a gusty sigh, but figures he’s pushing his luck, considering that this guy could probably take three Stiles, braid them together, and still snap them in half.
He changes the oil. When it’s over he sighed mournfully, and reaches out to give the bike one last, lingering pat farewell. Or he would have, but Ducati reaches out and grabs his wrist.
“Nope,” the guy says.
“Pretty please?” Stiles tries, bats his eyes and tries to look sweet and innocent.
Dude doesn’t even blink. Not buying it, then.
“Damn,” Stiles mutters, with real regret.
Stiles turns and gets all his mechanic gear squared away, cleans off his hands with a rag and unzips to shuck off the top half of his mechanic’s coveralls irritably. It’s usually cool and dark in Stiles’ garage (Stiles’ dad will go on about Stiles living out his Batman wish fulfillment) but it’s a little warm in here today.
When he turns back, Ducati is standing with his legs braced and his arms crossed over his chest. Scratch that it’s hot like the motherfucking sun in here today.
“Um,” Stiles starts to say, but the other man cuts him off with, “Fifty bucks,” and a smug grin.
Stiles feels an eye start to twitch. “Right,” he says, “this way,” and he turns on his heel to lead the guy into his office.
With ill grace, he jerks his petty cash drawer open and rifles around in it, stalling for time in an effort to pretend that he’s not about to fork over $50 bucks to some jerkoff who Stiles is paying for his own oil change, and who didn’t even let Stiles pat his bike goodbye. He’s not sure what’s going to be worse, the way Scott’s going to say, “Stiles!” all shocked and appalled, or the way his dad is going to fling his hands in the air and lecture him on business management. For hours. Hours. Stiles hopes Ducati appreciates this, because Stiles’ entire evening is going to be eaten up by a Dad lecture, because he can’t lie for shit and say, ‘nope nothing interesting happened at the garage today,’ and be believed.
Vaguely, Stiles registers the sound of the office door closing. He hears the click of the lock and he’s so caught up in his thoughts it takes a moment to process that sound, but once he does his body stills, and he slowly turns his head to look at Ducati. He’s leaning against the closed door, one leg crossed over the other, hands sunk in his pockets. He’s doing that thing, that leaning thing where he’s angling his hips up and forward, and his hands in his pockets are dragging the material of his jeans tight across his crotch. Stiles himself has used this position a few times. It generally brings in favorable results.
“You still want your fifty bucks?” he asks, voice gone hoarse.
Ducati takes a moment, like he’s thinking really hard about it, but they both know better. Stiles licks his lips. “Or you could just blow me,” He says, casual as all fuck.
There’s a moment where Stiles inhales a deep breath, then stands, and then suddenly he’s sliding down on his knees in front of Ducati, not quite sure how he got there, but good to go.
He puts his hands on Ducati’s knees, then slides them up his thighs. “Fuck,” Stiles whispers as he feels the hard muscle through the jeans, feels the heat of his skin and damn this guy runs hot.
He’s always liked that. Stiles licks his lips as his hands reach the edges of the leather jacket the other man is wearing. Ducati’s hands slip out of his pockets. He grabs the edges of the jacket and pulls it to the side, until it’s hanging off his shoulders, almost trapping his arms against his side. Ducati hisses out a breath at that and Stiles flicks his eyes upwards to meet his heated gaze.
Stiles brings his hands down to rest lightly against the first button of Ducati’s jeans, lets his fingers curl under the waistband and press against the skin of his abdomen. He feels the muscles of his stomach contract against his fingertips. Stiles grins, then leans forward farther to press his open mouth against the growing bulge in Ducati’s jeans. His hips jerk against Stiles’ face in an aborted movement.
Stiles hums against the other man’s hardening erection in agreement. He mouths at it, teasing presses of his lips and the heat of his breath as his fingers pop open the first button on his jeans and then work the zipper slowly down. Stiles pulls his head back slightly to get a better look. Ducati is half hard, and he’s going to have a really nice dick, Stiles can tell. He licks his lips again.
“Fuck,” the guy states above him, but doesn’t say anything more.
Suddenly Stiles is overcome with the desire to not just blow Ducati’s dick, but his mind too. Stiles wants to ruin him. Fuck, just the idea of that is enough to make him dizzy.
Without warning, Stiles grabs a fistful of jeans and black boxer briefs in each hand and yanks Ducati’s pants down over his thighs and to his knees. Stiles notices with a feeling of pride and smug victory that his knees bent slightly and then held at that, like Ducati’s legs almost buckled but he caught himself at the last minute.
Stiles turns his attention to Ducati’s dick, freed from the confines of his clothing. Stiles was right. It’s a really nice dick, hardening against his thigh, heavy and thickly veined, twitching slightly under Stiles scrutiny. Stiles keeps his hands fisted in the material of Ducati’s jeans and boxer briefs as he leans forward again, and licks up the side of his cock.
Ducati hisses out a breath from between his teeth.
“Yeah,” Stiles murmurs distractedly as he turns his head slightly to lick up the other side.
Ducati’s flesh is heated against his tongue, flavored with musk and smelling slightly of soap. Stiles slides down a little lower to flick his tongue at his balls, teasing and stimulating as his mouth starts to salivate in anticipation. Ducati’s thigh muscles are jerking against the back of Stiles’ fingers.
Stiles shifts closer, and looks up at the other man again, deliberately meeting his gaze as he opens his mouth and presses his tongue against the head of his cock, flicks it against the underside, and draws it slowly into his mouth. Stiles breaks eye contact when his eyes flutter closed as he slides his mouth down, taking Ducati’s cock as far into his mouth as he can.
He makes a muffled exclamation above Stiles and in a flurry of movement sheds his jacket and sinks his hands into Stiles’ hair.
Which, that may or may not be a thing that Stiles has so he’s pretty sure he makes some kind of high-pitched embarrassing noise around Ducati’s cock. Stiles’ hands release their hold on his jeans and Stiles reaches up to wrap them around Ducati’s hips and dig his thumbs into the skin around his hipbones.
He groans at that, deep from his chest and then Ducati thrusts his hips forward shallowly, then jerks back. Stiles makes a noise of agreement and uses his grip to pull the other man back into his mouth, and then they have a rhythm going, Stiles using his grip to set the pace and Ducati keeps it steady.
God, it’s been a long time since Stiles has felt anything remotelyas nice as the dick in his mouth feels. He flexes his fingers against Ducati’s hips and speeds up the pace, relaxes his mouth, tilts his body down and back just the slightest bit and just takes it. Ducati appreciates this, if the drawn out groan he gives is any indication. Stiles returns the sentiment with a muffled moan of his own.
God he’s hard, his flesh hot and unyielding in Stiles’ mouth, and Stiles has to take a hand off of his hips to press his palm against his own aching erection. Fuck, it feels good. Raw and surreal, the silence of Stiles’ office punctuated by a soundtrack of the spit-slick sounds of Ducati’s cock sliding in and out of Stiles’ mouth. Stiles can smell the musk and heat of him, skin and sweat and leather and it’s driving him crazy. He’s never been so into someone in his life. Someone that he’s never danced with, someone whose name he doesn’t even know.
Then Ducati’s cock swells inside his mouth, stretching his lips wider as it slides in, pressing harder against his tongue and starting to hit against the back of his throat. Stiles’ eyes fly open and he looks up to meet Ducati’s burning gaze, giving another aborted moan as he takes in the flush along his cheeks and neck; the sweat gathering at his temple. He looks wrecked. Stiles takes that as a compliment as he blinks away the sting of tears and effort.
“Fuck,” the other man says, then, “Close,” he grunts.
Stiles has time for a few seconds of panic and then he gets his free hand back around Ducati’s hip, and pushes against the grip he has on Stiles’ head and in his hair. He has another moment of black spots across his eyes kind of terror, where he thinks that Ducati isn’t gonna pay attention to Stiles’ wishes, then his hands are releasing their hold and Stiles pulls off and tilts his head back just in time to have Ducati come in long hot pulses against his neck.
“F-fuck,” Stiles rasps out, panting for air.
Ducati’s orgasm tapers off, and then they’re just sitting, suspended in the moment; Stiles on his knees, the other man recovering from his high, eyes blank and chest heaving.
Fuck yeah, Stiles has completely rocked his world.
“Fuck yeah,” Stiles hisses, “I rocked your world.”
Ducati’s gaze focuses back on Stiles with laser-like intensity. Then, in a flurry of movement, he yanks his jeans and underwear back up on, reaches down and grabs two fistfuls of Stiles’ hair, and pulls Stiles up and turns until he’s slammed Stiles against his office door.
“Yes,” Stiles whines, like a teenager instead of the grown man he is. Fuck, Ducati’s strong, holding Stiles almost completely up off the ground like it’s no effort at all, and this is right after Stiles is pretty sure he just made him come his brains out. God, and he’s picked up on Stiles’ hair pulling kink, fuck. Then Ducati shoves his thigh in between Stiles’ legs and Stiles is gone. His own arousal has taken a backseat almost this whole time, but now it hits him in full force and he grinds his neglected cock down against the hard muscle of the other man’s thigh.
Stiles brings his arms up, clutching at Ducati’s shoulders, scrabbling for purchase as he rocks his hips, rutting against the other man’s thigh like he’d die without it. And fuck if it doesn’t feel like Stiles might. His breath is coming out of him in short, shallow pants and all his nerve endings are registering is pleasure. Christ, Stiles is about to come in his mechanic’s coveralls like he’s seventeen years old again.
“That’s it,” Ducati leans into Stiles to whisper into his ear, “show me.”
And that’s it, Stiles is gone, swallowed up by heat and lust and the need to come right fucking now. He’s got his hands fisted desperately in the other man’s shirt and he knows his mouth has fallen open in a silent ‘o’, and all he can do is stare helplessly at Ducati’s insanely beautiful eyes; blue and green and gold and avidly drinking the sight of Stiles in.
Then Stiles flings his head back so hard he cracks it against the door and he’s coming, coming hard and fierce; silent and bright behind his eyes. It leaves him light headed and shaky, and it feels like he just satisfied every need he’s ever had, all at once.
It’s the best fucking orgasm he can remember having in years.
Stiles comes down from his high to realize he’s slumped forward and down against Ducati, who’s just holding him there, his chest filling in and out with deep breaths against Stiles’ ear.
“We offer 100% customer satisfaction guarantee here at Stilinski Auto & Ride,” Stiles mutters smugly against his chest.
“Really,” Ducati says, unimpressed, “that’s the line you’re gonna go with there?”
“That’s the one,” Stiles slurs out happily.
Ducati loosens his grip on Stiles and levers Stiles until he is standing up under his own power. It is a tragedy, the loss of Ducati’s thigh between his legs, it really is.
“So now that we’re better acquainted and you can vouch for my character,” Stiles grins as he says, “You gonna let me go for a ride on your bike?”
“Nope,” Ducati says without even a moment’s thought as he tucks himself back in and fastens his jeans.
Stiles grins wider. “You like me, admit it.”
“Nope,” Ducati says again in the same blase tone. He leans down and in one graceful move, swipes his jacket from off the floor and shrugs it back on.
“I like you too,” Stiles simpers, giving him a coquettish look with full-on eyelash batting and lip pouting.
Ducati glares at him, and Stiles beams back. The other man rolls his eyes at Stiles and reaches around him to unlock the office door and open it, striding out into the garage towards his bike without a second glance.
Stiles gives it a moment then calls out, “I give even better rimjobs,” putting just the right amount of wicked into his voice.
Ducati stumbles and catches himself against his bike. He turns back to look at Stiles, and he’s gonna hafta label that look, ‘angrily aroused’ or ‘aroused angrily’.
Stiles smiles innocently and points to a car up on the rack that is actually in for a rim job.
Ducati looks like he is in actual physical pain when he turns his gaze back to Stiles.
“Eh, eh?” Stiles grins and waggles his eyebrows.
Ducati gives him the offended look of those who just don’t appreciate a good pun.
But when he mounts his bike, he clearly does it for Stiles’ benefit, draws it out and lets the swing of his leg over the seat show off his fabulous, tight ass.
“You’ll be back,” Stiles calls, brings his thumb up to his mouth, presses it between his lips to look like he’s nibbling on it thoughtfully and parts his lips so the other man can see how it’s caught between Stiles’ teeth.
Ducati’s hand fumbles as he slides the key into the ignition. He says something as he turns the engine over but Stiles doesn’t quite catch it. He throws the guy a questioning look and gives his head a negative shake.
Ducati gets a sort of constipated look on his face and then jams his helmet over his head, flips the visor up and then childishly refuses to meet Stiles’ gaze. “What’s your name,” he grunts out, glaring at the pavement to the left of Stiles’ shoes.
“Stiles. It’s Stiles,” he answers and waits for the inevitable ‘your name is Stiles Stilinski?’ but it doesn’t come.
“What’s your name?” he calls out, just before the guy turns the bike to leave.
“Derek,” he says, and flips the visor closed.
“You’ll be back, Derek,” he yells as Derek opens up the throttle and peels out.
Stiles has to go change his underwear, pants, and his uniform, then the five o’clock off from work crowd comes in and he has to pretend to like changing the oil on minivans and SUVs, but it’s all kind of worth it.
Stiles might just be a little bit in love. In a completely carnal and he thinks he might like the name Derek kind of way. Stiles grins smugly to himself. The fun and excitement really does never stop at Stilinski Auto & Ride. Hot damn.