Derek thought the President had been exaggerating. He thought it had been hyperbole, one of the clever, folksy witticisms that made President Stilinski so likeable, so electable.
“It’s not your job to tell me if my son skips class because he’s hungover,” he had said, sitting behind his desk in the Oval Office while Derek stood at attention. “It’s not your job to tell me if he’s smoking pot and going to strip clubs. Do you understand, Lieutenant Hale?”
“Yes sir,” he had answered, biting back his desire to ask him, again, to just call him Derek. “It’s my job to protect Stiles, not babysit him or report on his behavior.”
That was three months ago. The President, who insisted on having final approval of the new head of his only son’s security detail, the infamous but universally adored Stiles Stilinski, had met with Derek, recently retired from Delta Force and recruited into the Secret Service. The evening following their meeting, Derek had moved into Stiles’ residence hall on the Georgetown campus. They share a suite, their rooms connected by a shared bathroom that Stiles insists on calling brady bunch style, and Derek goes to all of his classes with him, accompanies him to the library and to frat parties, and once to a godawful poetry slam that Stiles only went to because he was trying to screw one of the not-poets.
No one is really under the impression that Derek, at thirty-four, is a college junior; not with his full beard and ubiquitous earpiece, not to mention the Glock 19 he carries on his waist. But Derek’s supposed to blend in as much as possible while Stiles attempts to have a normal college experience, all the while protecting him from kidnappers and assassins and zealots of all political persuasion, not to mention the paparazzi.
But overzealous strippers? Derek didn’t really think that would ever be something he’s actually have to deal with as a Secret Service agent for the First Son. But here he is, standing arms crossed and stern-faced behind a tacky leather couch in a gay strip club, watching a guy in fireman suspenders attached to a red g-string grind all over Stiles’ lap while his friends laugh and buy bottle after bottle on his tab.
Derek isn’t a homophobe, at least he doesn’t think so, and it’s not like Stiles hasn’t been open about his pansexuality, and this isn’t even the first time he’s seen Stiles with guys. Hell, he’s heard Stiles fooling around with guys in explicit detail through their too-thin shared wall. And even though Derek’s never been with another man, he considers himself an open-minded guy, and it’s not like he’s never thought about what it might be like – which, shit, that doesn’t even matter, his sexuality is so not the point right now.
What matters is that this stripper is getting entirely too close to Stiles for Derek’s comfort – for security purposes – and Derek doesn’t like it, at all. He knows Stiles can’t hear him over the obnoxiously loud music, so he steps to the side, into Stiles’ peripheral to catch his eye.
Maybe it’s indecision, maybe it’s embarrassment, or maybe it truly is discomfort or fear; but there’s something in Stiles’ eyes as they meet his, and Derek doesn’t think: he simply acts, his training so ingrained that it’s pure instinct and adrenaline that launches him over the couch, calmly speaking the code word for an emergency extraction into his earpiece, pulling the dancer from Stiles’ lap and putting himself between them as he yanks Stiles to his feet.
Stiles yelps in shock, but that doesn’t stop Derek from charging ahead, leading him out the narrow hallway to the back exit, their path already cleared by Agents Reyes and Boyd. A black SUV, driven by Agent Lahey, screeches to a halt in the rain-slick alley behind the club just as Derek shoves open the door, and then they’re in the back of the car and speeding off into the night, only thirty-two seconds since Derek initiated the extraction.
He knows Stiles is safe physically, so Derek, body still tensed with adrenaline, takes a moment to check in with his team, getting reports through his earpiece from Lahey first, hidden from view on the other side of the dark glass partition, starting them on the drive home. He hears from Boyd next, who sounds slightly amused as he reports that Reyes is putting the fear of God into the stripper, and he and lets Derek know that he’s got the situation at the club handled.
Confident in his team’s efficiency, although frustrated with himself – his extraction time could have been better – Derek eases a bit, settles back into the seat and finally looks over to Stiles, whose expression is very easy to interpret now, but his glare is softened a bit by the way his ridiculous mouth is turned up at one corner in a curious smirk.
“So, you gonna tell me what in the hell that was about?”
“What do you mean?” Derek asks, deflecting, although he’s not sure why.
“Since when am I not allowed to get a lap dance?”
“It’s my job to protect you, Stiles,” Derek explains, again.
Stiles scoffs and slumps further down against the seat back, long, khaki-clad legs stretching over towards Derek’s. “The only thing I was in danger of from that guy was coming in my pants.”
Over that guy, Derek can’t help but think, which, what the fuck? Thank God he doesn’t say it out loud. “You gave me a look,” he says instead, clenching a fist against his thigh.
“A ‘look’,” Stiles repeats, an eyebrow crooking up. “A look that said ‘whisk me away like a damsel in distress?’”
“It was a routine extraction. There was no ‘whisking’.”
“Whatever dude, you totally damseled me.” Stiles grins and kicks Derek’s ankle. “You need to relax, big guy.”
Derek looks out the window and shakes his head. “No, Stiles, I don’t. It’s my job to not relax.” He stops himself from kicking Stiles back, barely, but he does look back to him when he says, with utter indifference, “because when I relax, you get kidnapped or shot, and then I’m out of a job.”
Stiles cackles, throwing his head back, exposing the long column of his throat, skin a pale blue in the hazy moonlight falling in through the window. “Well what do you know, G.I. Joe does have a sense of humor.”
Now it’s Derek turns to scoff. “’G.I. Joe?’ Really?”
“SEALS?” Stiles guesses, continuing his ongoing obsession with trying to guess which special forces unit Derek had been in. “Oooh, maybe I’ve been on the wrong track this whole time. Maybe you were French Foreign Legion. You do have a debonair roguishness about you. And fuck knows you’re arrogant enough.”
Derek actually laughs, relaxing a bit despite himself. “How many times do I have to remind you that my military records are classified, Stiles?”
“How many times do I have to remind you that you work for me, Derek?”
“I don’t work for you.”
Stiles rolls his eyes. “Fine, whatever, you work for my dad. Same diff. Come on, tell me. I know you weren’t a PJ. There’s no way you were Air Force, as much as you hate to fly.”
Derek is surprised at that – he had thought he’d been doing a good job of hiding his hatred of flying from everyone. “I don’t work for your father,” he answers.
For some reason, Stiles scoots closer across the bench seat. “Oh really? He might be surprised to hear that.”
“I work for the Department of Homeland Security. I serve as the head of your security detail at the recommendation of my superiors and at the pleasure of the President,” Derek recites, stomach fluttering.
Stiles’ laugh is lower this time, a little breathy, unnerving and intriguing all at once, and he shifts closer across the seat, dark eyes mischievous and narrow. “Uh-huh.”
Stiles bites at his lower lip, holds it between his teeth for a drawn-out moment, and Derek knows he should look away from the kid’s mouth, but he can’t seem to; he just lets Stiles move even closer, so close their thighs are pressed together, hip-to-knee, the obnoxiously beautiful little shit leaning in close, his liquored breath warm in Derek’s beard.
“And tell me, Agent Hale,” Stiles goes on, voice lower and throaty now. “Who serves at your pleasure?”
“Stiles,” Derek warns, but he just takes it as encouragement, which, if he’s being honest with himself, is probably the reason he says it.
Stiles slides a hand up the inside of Derek’s thigh and leans in closer. “Have you ever kissed a boy, Agent Hale?” There’s a lilt to his voice that sounds like teasing, but Derek knows, can feel it in the frisson of something between them, that Stiles is completely serious, and maybe even nervous too.
Derek shakes his head, swallowing hard, not trusting himself to speak.
Stiles smiles, seemingly quite pleased. “Do you want to kiss me?”
Derek tries to unclench his hand, still fisted tight atop his thigh. He doesn’t know why his palms are so sweaty, why his heart is racing so fast and loud it feels like it’s going crack his ribs. He’s felt calmer while bound and gagged by terrorists; but then again, he tries to reason, he was trained for those situations.
And he’s never once felt this kind of fear, this fear of finally admitting – to himself, to Stiles – what he so badly wants. “Yes,” he finally says, and it’s barely a whisper, but it echoes in his ears even louder than his heart.
Stiles’ lips are soft, softer than Derek expected, and they’re full and warm and whiskey-soaked and Derek wants, wants so badly he can’t be bothered to be embarrassed by the noise he makes, a hungry groan that escapes from the back of his throat that Stiles greedily swallows up, deepening the kiss. It’s unlike any kiss Derek’s ever experienced, at once so strangely new yet curiously intimate, powered by that uncanny current of tense attraction that’s always simmered between them, all the more forceful now that they’re stoking the flame, giving in. Derek feels a rush warmth filling him up and urging him on, his hands finding his hips and pulling him closer, licking hungrily into his mouth, starving for Stiles.
Stiles, who’s in his lap now, who pets his hands down Derek’s chest, long fingers curling under the hem of his shirt, teasing at the hair around his navel. He pulls back from the kiss to bury his face his Derek’s neck, brushing his cheek along his beard along the way, a pleased groan rumbling from his chest. He leaves a trail of kisses from Derek’s ear to his shoulder, hands still exploring, fingertips dipping into the ridges of his abs. “This okay,” he mumbles, toying at the button of his jeans.
Derek answers in the affirmative by dragging his mouth across Stiles’ stubbled cheek to catch his lips in another kiss, nearly insatiable now that he’s allowed himself this beautiful, perfect weakness.
Stiles falls back into the kiss effortlessly, and wastes no time opening Derek’s pants and freeing his cock, already hard and throbbing. Stiles cradles him in hands, thumbs teasing his foreskin. “Can I suck you off?” he asks, resting his forehead against his and biting his lip, like he’s the one who’s going to get off on it.
Derek nods, and Stiles smirks, and then he’s slipping down and stretching out along the seat so his head is in Derek’s lap. He accidentally kicks the glass partition, and if Lahey didn’t know what was happening already, he sure as hell does now, but Derek can’t seem to care about that at the moment, can’t think about anything but the feel of Stiles’ tongue, hot and slick, teasing the base of his cock.
Derek is pretty sure he can feel Stiles smiling, which, fuck, that turns him on even more, that maddening smirk, wet with spit, sliding up his shaft, opening to suckle softly at his tip, tongue dipping gently into his leaking slit. Derek whines and twists his fingers in Stiles’ hair, trying not to rock his hips up. Stiles makes a noise, something like encouragement, but Derek still tries to hold back, but Stiles makes the noise again, louder this time, demanding.
Derek lets himself give in, rolls his hips up until his cock hits the back of Stiles’ velvet-soft throat, gasping and grunting. His mind goes blissfully blank, his entire world nothing but Stiles, his lips and tongue so incredibly talented, his hunger voracious, slurping and sucking on his cock while he lets him fuck up into his mouth. It’s a pleasure Derek’s never known before, his body enlivened and awakened in ways he didn’t know possible by the pulses of heat Stiles is igniting in him.
He’s so caught up and so far gone he can barely choke out a warning, but Stiles pulls off just in time, eyes glittery in the low light, upturned and watery while Derek spills thick spurts of come across his face.
Derek’s lightheaded, dizzy with shuddering waves of pleasure that keep pulsing through him, and his hands fumble to pull Stiles back up in his lap so he can kiss him some more, his come bitter and salty between their lips. Stiles smiles and groans into his mouth while popping open his fly and freeing his cock, which Derek reaches for on instinct.
Stiles breaks the kiss and looks down at Derek in what seems like sincere surprise. “You wanna?” he asks, searching Derek’s face, rectangles of foggy-blue light slipping over them as they speed down the highway.
Derek nods, wrapping his fingers around Stiles’ hot length, nerves flaring again, heart still racing. “I’ve never…” he drifts off, suddenly embarrassed at his inexperience in this particular area. It’s the first time he’s ever touched another man’s dick and he has no idea what he’s doing.
Stiles pets Derek’s beard, smiling again. “Just touch me like you touch yourself,” he whispers.
Eyes locked on Stiles’ cock, hands circling his shaft, mesmerized by the sight of him, of his fingers on him, of them, Derek nods again and starts to stroke him, awkward and stilted at first, unaccustomed to the angle, but Stiles is leaking sticky precome and he’s starting to thrust into Derek’s fists, setting a rhythm. He drags his nails down Derek’s neck, hard enough to leave marks, squeezes on to his shoulders, using them for leverage so he can rock his hips harder, faster, until he’s twisting his fingers in Derek’s shirt and coming with a long, low whine, spilling all over Derek’s hands.
Stiles goes limp on top of him, collapsing onto his chest and resting his head on his shoulder, hot wet breath on Derek’s neck.
He should be reeling, should be freaking out; he could be fired for fraternizing with a protectee, the First Son, nevermind whatever this might mean for his apparently not-so-stable sexuality.
But he doesn’t care. Maybe it’s the adrenaline, maybe it’s the afterglow of the best orgasm he’s ever had, maybe he really does just need to relax: it doesn’t matter, because he doesn’t care. All he cares is about how good is feels to have Stiles strewn atop him, finally, his languid, nimble body curving itself to fit against his, like he’s trying to get even closer, and fuck, Derek wants him to.
“Bet you never got to do that in Delta Force,” Stiles says finally, mumbling into his shoulder.
Derek huffs a lazy laugh, his come-slick fingers dragging along Stiles spine. “You knew the whole time? How?”
“I have my ways.” Stiles shifts in his lap, sticking his legs across the street and cradling himself on his thighs, resting his head on Derek’s chest. “I just wanted to see how long you could put up with my pestering.”
Derek snorts, drags his fingers across Stiles’ back and down to his hip, can’t help but pull up his shirt so he can get his hand back on skin. “Not very long, apparently,” he murmurs into his hair.
“I did, you know,” Stiles says. “Back at the club. I did give you a look.” He rests a hand over Derek’s heart, seemingly tentative all of a sudden.
“A damsel look?”
Now Stiles snorts. “More like a ‘this is allright, but I’d rather be getting it on with you’ look. It worked pretty damn well, if I do say so myself.”
“I just figure you should get to know the difference between the two. Between my ‘save me’ look and my ‘fuck me’ look.” Stiles taps his fingers against Derek’s pec. “That is, if you plan on, uh, continuing to save me and maybe someday fucking me.”
He’s teasing, as usual, but there’s an undercurrent of nervous seriousness to his voice that stabs into Derek’s heart, right next to the place Stiles has managed to lodge himself. “I do,” he answers, because the only thing he is sure of is that he wants this, more of this, more of them, he wants there to be a them, he wants to keep spending his life at Stiles’ side, whatever that might mean.
“Good,” Stiles sighs, slumping further into him. “Of course you are. You think I’m adorable and fun and can’t wait to jump in front of a bullet for me to prove your love.”
Derek pinches the skin at his hip, making him yelp and giggle. “I’m going to let you get kidnapped just so I can get a break from you.”
“Nah, you’d miss me after a day or two, and then come riding in on your white horse to save me, Prince Hale.”
“White horse,” Derek scoffs. “You know it’d be a Black Hawk.”
“Aw, baby, you’d steal a helicopter just for me?”
Stiles giggles again, but then he sighs, still smiling, but that thread of seriousness is back. “Let’s face it, Derek. If I get kidnapped, I’m as good as dead. You’ll have to learn how to live without me.”
Derek knows that when he does this, when he's cavalier about his safety, about the risk he’s constantly in, it's his way of dealing with it. “Stiles there’s not much about your life, or my job, that I can guarantee, but I can guarantee you one thing.” He kisses his forehead and pulls him closer. “If you’re dead, it’s because I am first.”
He feels Stiles’ smile against his heart, steadying now. “That’s so romantic,” he murmurs. “And really fucking depressing, dude.”
Derek’s laugh ruffles his hair, tickles his lips. “I know.”
“But we’ll try to make it work?” Stiles asks, quiet and hopeful.
“Yeah, we’ll figure it out,” Derek promises, and Stiles arches up to kiss him, hand reaching up to cradle his jaw, tender, sweet and soft, and for the first time in his life, Derek feels like he’s the one being rescued.