“Oh, what a sight.”
Stiles wrenches around, almost dislocating his wrist. He winces in pain and in embarrassment, and then tries his best to look casual. Which isn’t that easy to do when one wrist is handcuffed to his dad’s desk.
It’s Derek Hale. Of course it is. Only the hottest deputy ever, and—although Stiles will never admit it—the reason he’s been hanging around the station so much this summer. Because Derek Hale is just so fucking hot. There’s hot, and then there’s Derek. Words are inadequate. Superlatives fall short. He’s just pure fucking perfection. Just ugh. Derek does things to Stiles’s admittedly scant self-possession and ability to successfully adult when he’s around, and turns him into even more of a gibbering idiot than usual. He also does things to Stiles’s dick.
Thank Jebus his pants are reasonably baggy today.
“Could you remove the cuffs?” Stiles asks, his face burning.
“No.” Derek Hale has a smile like sin. All the hot, dirty sins Stiles wants to commit. His smile is a thousand watts of pure fuck me, fuck me hard. At least that’s all Stiles can think when he sees it.
“Dude,” Stiles says, and then slumps against his dad’s desk. “Really?”
Derek steps into the office. He’s changed out of his uniform, and he’s in his street clothes. That fucking leather jacket. It’s screwing with Stiles just as much as its owner. Last night Stiles stopped at a red light behind a guy on a motorbike, and got an erection. Stupid Derek. Stupid Derek’s stupid jacket.
“What did you do this time, Stiles?” Derek asks, raising his eyebrows as he saunters closer. “Were you breaking into the records room again? No, wait, let me guess. You decided to borrow your dad’s cruiser?”
“His taser, actually,” Stiles says, feigning nonchalance. “And I had a damn good reason.”
Derek’s smile grows impossibly brighter. “Oh, this I have to hear.”
Because what seemed like a damn good reason maybe actually isn’t?
“Okay,” Stiles attempts. “There’s this raccoon—”
Which is as far as he gets before Derek starts laughing.
“It tried to bite me!” Stiles exclaims.
“Really?” Derek asks. “You were going to try to taser a raccoon?”
“In self defense!”
Derek steps closer, and Stiles can smell his aftershave. His smile vanishes. “You know what you need, Stiles?”
“What?” Stiles asks, and swallows.
Derek leans in, and breathes the words against his neck. “A spanking.”
Somehow Derek has got a hand on either side of Stiles’s hips. “You heard me.”
Stiles’s brain short circuits. He should laugh, right? That’s what should be happening here, because this is a joke. This has to be a joke. Hot leather-clad deputies don’t just appear out of nowhere offering up spankings. Which aren’t sexy at all actually, except why is Stiles suddenly shivering at the thought of Derek’s hand landing a stinging slap on his ass?
He tries to backpedal away from that image. “You—you think my dad should spank me? I’m eighteen, dude!”
“I know exactly how old you are, Stiles,” Derek tells him. “And I never said your dad should do it.”
The heat in the narrow space between their bodies is almost unbearable. Stiles knows that Derek can hear his breath hitching. He can feel the flush rising in his face. And he’s hard. Horribly, embarrassingly hard, and if Derek moves forward even a fraction, he’s going to be able to feel it.
What is even going on here?
“So what?” Stiles asks, and fuck knows where he even finds the courage. His tongue flicks out to swipe his bottom lip quickly. “You’re volunteering?”
Derek lifts his gaze from Stiles’s mouth. “Hell yes.”
Before Stiles can ever register what’s happening, Derek has stepped back and is turning him around to face the desk. The cuff pulls and rattles, and Stiles is breathless, dizzy, the way he gets before a panic attack, except this isn’t panic.
Derek puts his hands on Stiles hips, and jostles him forward so that he hits the desk. “Do you want this, Stiles?” He scrapes his stubble against the nape of Stiles’s neck, and Stiles’s vision almost whites out. “Answer me.”
“Y-yeah.” Whatever the hell this is, yes, he wants it.
Derek slides his hands around to Stiles’s fly, and tugs it open. Then he’s pulling Stiles’s khakis down, and hooking his thumbs into Stiles’s Captain America underwear to drag them down too. He leaves the fabric bunched around Stiles’s thighs. His hands are big and warm as they sweep over the globes of Stiles’s ass, and Stiles groans and squirms.
“I think five should do the trick,” Derek says, and Stiles can hear the smile in his voice. “Assume the position, as they say.”
As who says? English schoolmasters? Scary Doms in ridiculous porn? Who? Who says that?
Stiles widens his stance as much as his tangled underwear and pants allow, and grips the edge of his dad’s desk hard. Holy crap. His dad’s desk. With its World’s Greatest Dad mug sitting right there. Stiles is going to hell. Derek is going to lose his job, and Stiles is for real going to hell.
He tenses when Derek lifts his hands from his ass, but he’s still not expecting the blow. It’s loud, a short, sharp crack that shocks him even before it starts to sting, and Stiles jerks and makes a noise caught somewhere between a gasp and a shout of surprise.
Derek’s hand rubs over the stinging flesh, soothing the flash of pain.
Holy fucking Jesus. That hurts. And did Derek even close the door? Stiles tries to twist around and see, but blow number two leaves him whining. He turns his head and presses his mouth into his shoulder. Lets the sound out of him then.
“That’s it,” Derek says, voice calm. “That’s a good boy.”
Those words do something to Stiles’s dick. He pushes back into Derek’s touch, but then Derek’s hand is gone again. Stiles pants for breath, shuddering as Derek lands the third blow. It’s pain, but it’s warmth too, and Derek’s hands are back on his throbbing ass, touching him, gentling him, and Stiles’s dick is starting to leak. He’s into this. Holy crap. He’s actually into this, and not just in a theoretical way.
The fourth slap makes his body jerk. He squeezes his eyes shut, hot tears escaping, but it feels so good. So fucking good.
“More,” he rasps into his shirt.
“One more,” Derek says, voice as low as a growl.
Stiles sucks in a breath, shaking.
The fifth blow is the hardest yet, and the loudest, and it leaves Stiles trembling, his hips jerking abortively.
“Look at you,” Derek says, hands rubbing over his stinging ass. “Fuck. Look at you.”
Stiles gasps for breath.
Derek turns him around, hauls him forward. Stiles is straddling Derek’s jean-clad thigh. Derek holds him there, fingers digging into the tender, throbbing flesh of his ass.
“Come on,” he urges. “Rub yourself off on me.”
There is no actual way that Stiles can refuse that. Just like there’s no actual way he could have known what the fuck today was going to turn into. He curls his free hand behind Derek’s neck as he starts to move. The cuff rattles on his other wrist.
It’s good, and hot, and over embarrassingly fast. Stiles bites down on Derek’s leather jacket to muffle his cries when he comes, and then Derek’s setting him carefully down on his shaking legs again, and tugging up his underwear and jeans.
“You’re going to be good from now on, right, Stiles?” he asks in a low voice.
Stiles swallows, and glances at the door which, yeah, has been open this whole time. He drags his gaze back to Derek, eyes wide, and doesn’t really know how to answer that? Is the question still a part of whatever weird game they’re playing here? Or is it not a game at all? Stiles has no fucking clue.
Derek reaches forward and grips his chin. Tilts his head up so Stiles can’t avoid his gaze. “Stiles?”
“I’ll be good,” Stiles manages in a whisper.
Derek shows him that thousand watt smile again, and leans close. “Oh, I know you will. You’re going to be my good boy.” He brushes his mouth against Stiles’s in a gentle kiss that leaves Stiles more breathless than the spanking. When he leans back, he’s smiling again, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “My shift finished an hour ago. I’ll call you, I guess.”
“What?” Stiles blinks, and waits for the world to start making sense. “Wait. What about the cuffs?”
“I’m sure the sheriff will take them off you when he gets back from his patrol.”
“Derek! Seriously?” Stiles doesn’t think he’s talking just about the cuffs. Like, what even just happened here?
“I’ll call you, I guess,” Derek says, stepping toward the door. “And you’ll pick up, won’t you?”
Stiles gets the feeling he’s in way over his head right now. He also gets the feeling he’s going to love every fucking minute of it. “Yeah. I’ll pick up.”
“Good boy,” Derek says with a grin, and leaves him cuffed to the desk.
“I’ll call you, I guess.”
Like what the hell does that even mean? Stiles checks his phone for the tenth time in the last five minutes just in case Derek Hale has called in the meantime. He hasn’t. It’s only been two days since the Incident happened at the station, and Stiles doesn’t really know what the etiquette is for this sort of thing. Like if you let a guy spank your ass while you’re handcuffed to your dad’s desk, are you then supposed to wait at least a week to call so that you don’t come across as too needy or whatever? This is all new territory for Stiles.
As far as Stiles can tell, it wasn’t even some random hook-up or whatever. Derek didn’t even get off. Okay, so clearly he was very into spanking Stiles’s ass, but now that Stiles looks back, it seems strange that he didn’t even get a glimpse of Derek’s dick. He knows it was hard—he felt it—and he absolutely would have blown Derek in return, but Derek didn’t even ask. Is that weird?
The whole thing seems very weird.
Hot, but weird.
Stiles shoves his phone in his pocket and tries to ignore it.
Then he gets it out again and plays a few levels of Candy Crush.
Then he worries that he’s wasting his battery, and what if Derek tries to call?
Then he tells himself he’s an idiot.
But what’s going on here? Who is Derek anyway? All Stiles really knows about the guy is how hot he looks in his deputy’s uniform, and how much his hand stings when he spanks Stiles’s ass. And those things, no matter how great, aren’t really enough to form the basis of a character study.
And then Stiles comes up with his most idiotic idea ever.
Derek Hale lives in a converted loft over on Maple. Well, it’s partially converted Stiles guesses. Derek lives on the top floor. There’s some construction work going on during the day on the lower levels, and some sign out the front with pictures of bright, open apartments on them, but at this hour the place is empty. There aren’t any lights on when Stiles gets to Derek’s floor.
He knocks, but he knows Derek isn’t home. He knows Derek’s shifts as well as he knows his dad’s.
Stiles fumbles with his phone to get the flashlight on, and then fumbles with his lock picking kit. What? He’s only ever used his powers for good. Mostly. Like, this is probably his first actual break and enter, because it doesn’t count if it’s your own house.
It takes him a few minutes, but eventually Stiles feels the tumblers in the lock slide open. He wiggles the picks a little more, and the locking mechanism turns. The loft door rolls open.
Stiles feels up the wall until he finds a light switch, and flicks it on.
It’s a big space. There’s a kitchen, and an open living and dining area. Huge windows, and a balcony that looks to run the length of the place. There’s also an iron spiral staircase that leads upstairs. Bedroom? Probably.
Stiles pokes around Derek’s bookshelves for a while, looking for glimpses of who this guy is. He reads Keroauc and Kafka. But also Tom Clancy and John Grisham. There are DVDs on the shelf as well, but not many. Popular movies mostly. Nothing arthouse. Nothing black and white where the people wear turtlenecks and speak French. Clearly Derek Hale’s hidden depths aren’t going to be found here.
There are no photographs on the bookshelf either. The refrigerator is a bust as well. Just a couple of menus for local takeout places.
Stiles stands at the bottom of the stairs, and wipes his suddenly sweaty palms on his jeans. Like, he’s already broken in though? So he might as well go hard or go home, right? Bedroom it is.
He only makes it halfway up the steps.
Stiles spins around, catching himself before he falls, and of course Derek is standing in the doorway. He’s wearing a look that Stiles can’t read, but thinks means he’s probably about to be arrested.
“Hey,” he manages. “So, um, silent alarm system?”
“No.” Derek rests his hands on his utility belt. On his gun. “I was patrolling past and saw the lights on.”
“Oh.” He is the worst burglar ever. To be fair though, it’s his first time.
“Get down here.”
Stiles stumbles down the steps.
Derek stalks toward him. “I thought you were going to be a good boy, Stiles.”
The words do something strange to his insides. He gapes at Derek.
“Well?” Derek asks.
Stiles isn’t usually the silent type, but his brain sort of melts in close proximity to this much hotness. “Um. Sorry?”
“Did you come here knowing you’d be caught?” Derek asks, his voice low. “Did you come here looking for another spanking?”
Fuck he’s hot. Like ridiculous hot. Every question Stiles had—What is this? What are we doing? What is this thing that is happening even called?—flies right out of his head.
“Did you touch yourself after last time?” Derek asks, no more inflection in his voice than if he’s asking about the fucking weather or something. “Were you a bad boy? How many times have you jerked off thinking about my hand spanking your ass?”
Stiles’s face burns. “You didn’t say I couldn’t!”
What sort of answer is that? It’s none of Derek’s business. Derek’s not in charge of Stiles’s dick! Except . . . except for the part where Stiles just wants. Wants Derek to tell him what to do. Wants Derek to be in charge. Wants Derek to just use him. It’s dirty and it’s wrong, and the very idea of it makes his dick so hard that he’s probably going to come in his pants any second now.
Derek stares at him, eyes dark. “How many times, Stiles?”
“Um, four?” He shivers under the intensity of Derek’s gaze. “Five?”
Stiles opens his mouth, comes up with absolutely nothing, and shuts it again. Because what is even going on here? Is Derek going to arrest him? Why is he even asking how many times Stiles jerked off? Stiles is completely out of his depth here. He has been ever since the day in the station.
Derek prowls closer, and suddenly they’re standing toe to toe. Stiles is pretty much Derek’s height, but he suddenly feels so small. Like a trembling little bunny in front of a predator. Except if Stiles has a fight or flight response, it’s completely shut down at the moment. Just switched off entirely, and left him just . . . standing here.
“There are going to be rules, Stiles,” Derek tells him. “If we’re going to do this, you’re going to have to learn to obey the rules.”
“Wh-what rules?” Stiles stammers, when the better question would be: If we’re going to do what, exactly? But somehow, with Derek standing right in front of him, close enough that Stiles can feel the warmth of his body even though they’re not touching, it feels like it’s already a foregone conclusion.
Derek leans in close. His breath is hot against Stiles’s ear, and Stiles’s face burns. “You’re going to be my good boy, Stiles. That means no touching yourself unless I say. If you break the rules, I’ll punish you.”
“Spanking?” Stiles croaks, his eyes fluttering closed.
“Maybe.” He can hear the smile in Derek’s voice. “Or maybe I’ll put a cage on your dick until you learn how to behave.”
Holy shit. Stiles’s whole body jerks at the idea of that. He hates it. He thinks. Maybe? He can’t fucking tell. His responses are all messed up when it comes to Derek. He opens his eyes again, and turns his face toward Derek. His throat clicks when he swallows. “Is this like the kind of thing I need a safe word for?”
“Let’s start slow, hmm?” Derek raises his hand and cups Stiles’s cheek. “For now, no means no, and yes means yes. Okay?”
“Okay,” Stiles whispers.
Derek leans in and brushes his mouth against Stiles’s. Stiles shudders, and tries to put his arms around him, but Derek’s already stepping back.
“I’m on duty,” he says. “And it’s past your curfew.”
“It’s like not even eleven,” Stiles tells him.
“And it’s a school night.”
Right. Which means his curfew is at ten. But also, his dad is working late again tonight, and they both know that Stiles has always been a little elastic with his curfew. It’s amazing how often ten stretches out to midnight, or even later. Plus, it’s not even that late, and Stiles is pretty sure it doesn’t count as being out past curfew unless his dad catches him, right? Otherwise it never happened.
“Go home, Stiles,” Derek tells him. “Next time you come over, we’re going to discuss your punishment.”
“Unless you’d rather I march you down the station now, and you can explain to the sheriff how you got into my locked apartment?”
Stiles clears his throat and swallows. “Um, no?”
“That’s what I figured,” Derek says. “Go home, Stiles.”
Stiles nods, and trails toward the door.
He turns around, stomach clenching.
Derek smirks at him. “No jerking off.”
“You heard me,” Derek says.
Right. Stiles hesitates for a moment, but it’s clear Derek has nothing else to add.
“I’ll just, um, I’ll just go then,” he mumbles.
Stiles is home and in bed by the time his dad gets in. He’s not sleeping though. He’s lying there, his hand tucked into the elastic of his pajama pants. Derek wouldn’t know, right? There’s no way to tell, right? And it’s a stupid rule, right? It is. It’s stupid.
He doesn’t have to do anything Derek tells him. He doesn’t need to go back there and get punished. He can just put all this behind him, and pretend it never happened. Derek’s not going to tell his dad how he broke in. If he does, Stiles can just tell him exactly what happened in his office when he wasn’t there. And Stiles doubts that would end well for his dad’s favourite deputy.
This is what mutually assured destruction looks like, probably.
Point is, Stiles doesn’t have to go back, and he sure as hell doesn’t have to stop jerking off.
He squirms on the bed, and dips his hand lower.
Unless he wants to?
He wants to.
Yeah. He’s in way over his head now.
It’s Friday afternoon when Stiles next finds himself outside Derek Hale’s loft. He’s come straight from school, and it feels a little weird. Like this is something he shouldn’t be doing in the daylight? Except Derek works weird shifts. Stiles knows he finished nightshift this morning and he’s got the weekend to go. Still, it was a surprise to get the text: Want to come over this afternoon? Stiles was mostly surprised it was a question, he thinks. He sort of expected the imperative, he thinks. Come over this afternoon. No question mark. Just an order. It might actually have been possible to refuse if it had been an order, because Stiles is nothing if not contrary. But a question? Like maybe Derek didn’t know the answer before asking? That’s a whole other thing. Stiles doesn’t know why, but it is. He feels like maybe he’s dealing in nuances here that he doesn’t know how to read. At all.
He swallows, his throat clicking, and knocks on the door.
It rolls open.
Derek is wearing sleep pants and a wife-beater. He looks half-asleep still, his hair sticking out at odd angles, and he just looks so soft that for a moment Stiles completely forgets to feel the frisson of fear and excitement that usually accompanies a glimpse of the man. Derek is normally hard planes and sharp angles.
And then he smirks, and his gaze fixes on Stiles with the intensity of a predator’s, and there it is. There’s the little shiver running up his spine.
“H-hey,” he says, swallowing again.
Derek’s smirk turns up a dial, and he steps aside to let Stiles in. Rolls the door shut without saying a word, and turns the lock.
Stiles sets his backpack down. He wasn’t going to leave it in his Jeep and have some asshole steal his chemistry notes. He wipes his hands on his jeans. “So, um…”
“You been thinking about me?” Derek asks, his voice low and warm.
“Yeah.” The word comes out as a rasp.
“Were you a good boy, Stiles?” Derek circles around behind him, and then leans so close his breath is hot against the back of Stiles’s neck. “Or did you jerk off?”
Stiles fights not to turn and look at him, even if he doesn’t understand why that is. “I, um…”
Derek presses his face against the back of Stiles’s neck and inhales.
“Okay,” Stiles says, shivering. “So I didn’t technically jerk off?”
“What did you do, Stiles?”
“Um.” Stiles can feel his face burning. “I kind of, um, woke up this morning and rubbed one out against my mattress.”
Derek’s hands settle on his hips. “Did you do it because you needed to come, or because you wanted to see what would happen when you told me about it?”
Kind of both.
“Because I already owe you a punishment, don’t I?” Derek asks.
Stiles closes his eyes as his dick hardens in his jeans. “Y-yeah.”
“Is that why you did it? You wanted another spanking?”
“I don’t know what I want.” It’s the truth. Stiles has no fucking idea what he’s even doing here, except there’s something inside him that’s compelling him to be here, to do whatever Derek wants, to lose himself in whatever the hell this is. It’s terrifying.
Derek presses his mouth against the side of his neck, and slides one hand up to his chest. “Your heart’s as fast as a rabbit’s.”
Stiles swallows. “That’s because I have no fucking idea what I’m doing. What we’re doing.”
Derek turns him around, and puts his hands on his hips again. His expression is serious. “I’m not going to do anything you don’t want. I want to explore you. Want to fuck you too. But mostly I want to take you apart, over and over again, because you look so fucking wrecked when you come.”
Stiles can hardly hear the words over the buzzing in his brain.
“I’m not vanilla,” Derek says. “I’m gonna push you a bit, if you let me. If we do this, then you’re giving control over to me. And I like control, Stiles. I like to tell bratty little boys what to do.”
Oh fuck. Stiles feels like he’s going to come in his pants.
“And if we do this,” Derek continues, “we’re exclusive. You don’t fuck around with anyone else while you’re fucking me.”
Ha! Like there’s a line up around the block or something!
“That’s not going to be a problem,” Stiles manages. “Believe me.”
Derek smirks. “And if we do this, you’re going to let me make the rules, and you’re going to let me punish you when you break them.”
“Yeah,” Stiles says, and lifts his chin. “That’s what I’m here for, right? To be punished?”
Derek’s smirk broadens into an actual smile, and his eyes shine with delight. “Good boy. Now get upstairs and get your clothes off, and let’s see how many times I can make you say sorry.”
At first Stiles thought he was going to suffocate with embarrassment, but no, it turns out that he’s going to drown in his own sweat. He’s lying naked on Derek’s bed with his legs spread and Derek kneeling between them, and he’s dying. He’s honest-to-God fucking dying, because Derek has been slowly jerking him off now for at least half an hour, and Stiles has been to the edge so many times he could map it out, build a snack stand, and sell ice-cream to the tourists. It’s fucking ridiculous. He’s so close to coming, but every single time Derek stops him. Just grabs his balls tight enough to put the brakes on, and then he does it all over again. Stiles is a sweaty, gibbering mess.
“Please, Derek! Please!” He squirms, his voice hitching, and stares up at Derek through tear-filled eyes. “M’sorry!”
Derek slides his tongue over his bottom lip, and strokes his dick gently. “You don’t get to come, Stiles. Not yet.”
Stiles full-on sobs. “Derek!”
Derek lets go of his dick and reaches for the lube again. Squirts a blob on his palm, and cups Stiles’s balls.
“Want me to stop?” Derek asks, the corner of his mouth lifting in an evil smile.
“No, I want you to let me come, you fucking asshole!”
Derek stills, and raises his eyebrows. “Is that any way to talk to me?”
Stiles slams his fists against the mattress. “Derek! Please!”
“Tell me you’re sorry, baby boy.”
Stiles closes his eyes against the rush of heat those words inspire. “I’m sorry!” He’s pretty much wailing like a little kid right now. His dick is so hard that it hurts, and he’s hot and thirsty and his brain is drowning in sensory overload, and he just wants to come. He needs to. “I’m sorry I broke in! I’m sorry I came when you said I couldn’t! I’m sorry!”
“Open your eyes, Stiles. Look at me.”
Stiles stares up at him through clumped lashes. He’s shivering and shaking, and too exhausted to fight it.
“You hate me right now,” Derek tells him with a smile. “But one day, you’re going to love this. Love how I can keep you on the edge for hours.”
Stiles moans and shakes his head.
“You are,” Derek promises him, closing his fingers around Stiles’s dick and rubbing his thumb over the head. “You’re going to be such a good boy for me, Stiles. You’re going to wait for permission to come, and you’re going to thank me when I give it to you.”
“Please,” Stiles croaks, his breath shuddering out of him as that horrible pleasure builds higher and higher, coiling inside like a spring. “Please, Derek!”
Derek slides his other hand down to Stiles’s ass, and presses his fingers against his entrance. “Do you play with yourself when you jerk off, Stiles? Do you put your fingers in here? Or maybe you’ve got a toy, huh? Something that lights you up when you angle it just right.”
Stiles arches off the bed as Derek slips the tip of a finger inside him. “N-no. I don’t have anything. Jus’…just my fingers.”
Derek raises his eyebrows.
Stiles shudders. “H-had a dildo once, but I couldn’t…couldn’t make it fit.”
“Poor baby,” Derek murmurs. “Don’t worry. I’m going to make you stretch before I fuck you. Make you wear plugs for me until you can take my dick like you’re supposed to.”
Stiles shivers as Derek swipes his thumb over the head of his dick.
“You like the sound of that?” Derek asks. “You want me to show you how much you can take?”
“Mmm!” Stiles tries to hold back as the pleasure inside him tightens, already anticipating the bitter frustration that’s sure to follow when Derek won’t let him finish.
“You’re going to look so good when I open you up on my dick,” Derek tells him. He strokes Stiles faster. “So pretty for me.”
Stiles starts to cry. Loud ugly sobs that are wrenched from some place deep inside.
“It’s okay,” Derek tells him. “Come on, Stiles. Come for me. Come on.”
He tightens his grip and twists his wrist and that—combined with his permission—is all it takes for Stiles to arch off the bed, shooting out ropes of cum all over his aching abs, his chest, and Derek’s fingers.
He can’t stop shaking when it’s over.
“It’s okay,” Derek tells him, climbing off the bed and dragging the comforter over him. A moment later he’s settling down beside Stiles, and Stiles curls toward him, still shaking uncontrollably. Derek put his arms around him. He is a warm and solid presence. “Good boy, Stiles. Good boy.”
Stiles drifts off to sleep, too tired to question, for once in his life, what the hell just happened.
It’s still dark when Stiles wakes up to a finger tracing his lower lip. He sucks in a quick, surprised breath.
“Don’t move,” Derek murmurs, leaning over him.
He aches. Legitimately aches. His abs haven’t had a workout like that in, well, ever. Neither has his dick. It tries its hardest to rally when Derek dips his thumb into Stiles’s mouth, but he’s really too wrecked and wrung out for much to happen.
It’s dark. Stiles has no idea how long he’s slept for. The only light in the room is coming from a lamp on Derek’s bedside table. It makes everything seem a little unreal, a little dream-like, and lets Stiles relax when he probably should be freaking the fuck out instead. He sucks Derek’s thumb into his mouth, and lets his eyes fall closed.
“Good boy,” Derek murmurs, and Stiles warms with the praise.
Derek looks gorgeous in the low light. It paints the planes of his body in soft gold. Of course, Derek would look gorgeous anywhere. Literally anywhere. Stiles has no idea what someone like Derek sees in a pale, scrawny mole-spotted guy like him, but he’s not going to question his luck right now. Not when it makes more sense to tighten his mouth around Derek’s thumb and flick his tongue over the end of it.
Derek’s mouth curves in a smile. “You’re going to be such a good cocksucker, Stiles.”
Stiles feels a jolt of shock at the words, and then that same burst of warmth again. His whole life he’s only heard that word used as a negative, but when Derek says it? Yeah, Stiles wants to be a good cocksucker. The best.
“Wish I could teach you right now,” Derek says, his voice low in Stiles’s ear as he shifts closer. “Wish I could put you on your knees and watch you try and swallow me down.”
Stiles moans, his dick twitching at the thought.
“It’s almost eight,” Derek tells him. “I’m on nights, and you’d better be getting home before your dad starts wondering where you are.”
Derek pulls his thumb out of Stiles’s mouth, and Stiles swallows down his disappointment.
“Yeah,” he says, his voice scratchy. “I guess so.”
“I want to try something before you go,” Derek says.
Stiles’s stomach twists in anticipation, and his heart beats a little faster. “What?”
“I want you to wear a plug for me,” Derek tells him. “Just a small one. Can you do that for me, Stiles? I want to start opening you up so that soon you can take my cock like you’re meant to.”
“Yes.” The word is out before Stiles can take it back. He’s not sure if he wants to or not.
Derek climbs out of bed. He’s wearing a pair of tight boxer briefs, and nothing else, and nobody has the right to look this hot after he’s been sleeping for a few hours. Especially not when Stiles knows he looks like he’s been dragged through a hedge backwards. Stiles watches him cross the room, his gaze fixed on his ass, and on the way his muscles bunch when he bends over to open the small armoire on the opposite wall. When he straightens up and turns, he’s got a plug in his hand.
Stiles shifts anxiously, fighting the urge to reach down and pull the comforter up to his chin. Possibly over his head entirely.
Derek snags the lube off the bedside table as he returns.
“You can do this,” he says, and Stiles actually believes him.
Derek draws the comforter back, and the night air feels chill against Stiles’s skin. He breaks out in goosebumps.
“It’s just a small one,” Derek tells him.
Stiles lies there and tries not to flail for no reason.
He never knows what to do around Derek, how to act, unless Derek tells him. That’s not normal, right? Just… it feels right the way Derek lays everything out like he does. The way he says the hottest fucking things like he’s commenting on the weather, and somehow it manages to do something that all the Adderall in the world struggles to manage: it makes Stiles focus. His scattered thoughts and weird twitches and his pinball brain and his word vomit--they all just crumble away as Stiles fixates on Derek.
It’s not normal.
“Draw your legs up,” Derek tells him. “Hold them open for me.”
“That shouldn’t sound so hot,” Stiles mumbles as he obeys.
Derek flashes him a smile. “Are you embarrassed, Stiles? Holding yourself open like this?”
Stiles’s face burns.
“Because you shouldn’t be,” Derek tells him, and opens the lube. “You’re so hot like this. Giving yourself to me like a good boy.”
Stiles shudders as Derek kneels between his legs and reaches down to touch his hole. The lube is cold at first, but then Derek pushes a finger inside him, and Stiles’s senses are so confused that he completely forgets how to distinguish hot from wet and slick and full and burning and tight.
“Relax for me,” Derek tells him, his finger inching deeper inside. “Bear down.”
Okay, so that’s a little harder to obey, because gross? But Stiles takes a breath, and forces his muscles to move, and suddenly Derek’s finger is sliding fully into him. Nothing hurts, but it feels weird. And then Derek moves, crooking his finger slightly, and Stiles knows exactly what he’s looking for, but nothing can describe the way he’s lit up from inside when Derek actually finds it.
Stiles didn’t think he had it in him to get hard again.
Derek smirks down at him. “No coming, Stiles.”
“What?” Stiles finds himself pushing back against Derek’s finger. “Why?”
“Because the first time you come with something inside you, I want it to be my cock.”
Stiles huffs out a sound caught between laughter and disbelief. Because Derek saying shit like that? Is not going to help with the whole not coming thing.
Derek withdraws his finger slowly, then reaches for the lube again. This time he slides two fingers into Stiles, and Stiles moans and arches off the bed. There’s an ache this time, but it’s not sharp enough to really consider pain. And totally worth it when Derek pegs his prostate again.
Derek removes his fingers slowly, and holds up the butt plug. It’s plastic, and has a curve to it. And even though Derek said it was small, it doesn’t look small now.
“You’ll love this, I promise,” Derek tells him, and Stiles relaxes a little. Derek lubes the plug up, and leans down to press the head of it against Stiles’s hole.
Stiles groans and twists the sheets in his fingers as Derek begins to push it in slowly. He can feel himself stretching around the bulbous shape of the plug, and he wonders wildly if this is what Derek’s dick will feel like. It’s hard not to try and clench against the plug, to try and push it out. And then suddenly the pressure lessens, and Stiles can feel himself closing around the narrower base of the plug.
He presses a hand against his stomach, breathing heavily.
“You won’t feel it there,” Derek tells him with a smile. “It’s only a few inches.”
“Okay,” Stiles says, breathing heavily while he tries to sort through the sensations washing through him. His dick is still at half mast, and his ass feels really full, and mostly he’s just aware that this isn’t enough to push him over the edge, and he wants more.
Derek leans over him and brushes a gentle kiss against his mouth. “Get dressed, Stiles.”
Derek stands up, watching with a smile as Stiles sits. His eyes go wide as everything shifts inside him, and the plug grazes against his prostate.
Derek laughs, and heads for the small bathroom off the bedroom. “Get dressed, Stiles.”
Stiles groans as he reaches down for his jeans and underwear. He struggled into them, trying not to jostle the plug too much, while he listens to Derek wash his hands. Derek pads out of the bathroom with a towel slung over his shoulder.
“You think your dad’s got your dinner ready for you?” he asks, tilting his head.
Stiles tugs his shirt on. “Um, maybe. We eat late on Fridays.”
“Fuck. I wish I could be there to watch you sitting down at the table with him, squirming and flushing.”
Stiles feels heat rise through him. “Do I have to?”
“You don’t have to,” Derek says. “Do you want to?”
The breath shudders out of Stiles. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”
Derek’s smile grows. “Good boy.”
Dinner with his dad is excruciating. It’s fucking torture, that’s what it is, and Stiles is going to hell because it’s so stupidly hot, and his dad knows something is wrong, but he’s never going to guess what it is, because how could he?
“Did you take your Adderall today?” he asks at last.
Yes, Dad. But also one of your deputies shoved a butt plug in me, and it feels so fucking good.
Stiles escapes to his room as soon as he can, claiming he wants to get a start on his homework.
There’s a text from Derek waiting for him:
Take the plug out before bed and clean it. Don’t come or you’ll be punished.
There’s a link as well.
Pick three things.
Stiles’s finger trembles as he touches the link and the website opens. It takes him a moment to realize what he’s looking at. It’s lingerie. Lingerie for guys. Stiles sits down way too hard on his bed, shocked, and groans as the plug hits his prostate.
He’s Derek’s good boy.
Could he… could he be Derek’s good girl too?
Three days later Stiles is standing in Derek’s bathroom, a tangle of nylon in his shaking hands, and no idea what the hell he is even doing here. And that’s just logistically speaking. Stiles hasn’t even started to unpack his complicated feelings about this thing with Derek yet. He’s got to figure out how to put these stockings on first.
Stiles unpeels one stocking from around the cardboard thing it came wrapped around, and sits down on the edge of Derek’s bath while he tries to figure out how to do this. He has a vague memory of watching his mom put stockings on when his dad was taking her out to a fancy dinner or something. He remembers the way she pointed her toes like a ballerina.
Stiles chews his lip and stares at the limp stocking in his hand.
He probably shouldn’t be thinking of his mom right now, right?
He bunches the stocking up and slips it over the end of his foot.
Oh god. He’s really doing this.
He takes a deep breath and holds it as he rolls the stocking up his leg.
“Stiles?” There’s a knock on the door. “You okay in there?”
Well, that’s a loaded fucking question, Derek.
“Y-yeah,” he says, wishing his voice wasn’t shaking. “I’ll be out soon.”
Derek had sent him the link to the lingerie site and told him to pick three things. Stiles is already wearing the blue panties and the weird corset things that’s not actually a real corset, but probably some sort of corset for dummies. It has laces at the back and everything, but it actually zips up at the side. Stiles isn’t sure he would have been able to get it on otherwise. He doesn’t know why he picked the corset. It looked good on the androgynous model on the site. Maybe it hadn’t seemed as pretty and girly as the lacy camisoles? Like Stiles is drawing a line somewhere, or something. Although it’s a pretty wobbly line, given that he’s wearing panties and stockings as well. And a lacy garter belt. Stiles hadn’t ordered it, but Derek had handed it to him with a smirk, and okay, yeah, he’s going to need it to keep his stockings up.
If he can ever get them on.
He rolls the second stocking over his foot.
In the past three days Stiles has been working on this fantasy that he’ll wrap these tiny pieces of lace and satin and nylon around himself, and suddenly he’ll look sexy. It’ll be seamless and perfect, like a makeover montage in a movie. Except, when he finally manages to get his stockings pulled up and the little clips hanging from the garter belt fastened, it’s no beautiful, fae creature staring at him from Derek’s bathroom mirror, is it? No. It’s just Stiles, red-faced and sweaty, wearing lady’s underwear.
He looks ridiculous.
His heart races, and he bends down and scrabbles for his discarded jeans. He manages to knock his knee against the cabinet in the process, loudly.
“Stiles?” Derek opens the door. “Are you okay?”
Stiles’s face is burning. “This is stupid.”
“What’s stupid?” Derek asks, forehead creased a little.
Stiles gestures to himself vaguely. “This. I feel stupid.”
Derek holds his gaze. “Why?”
“It’s dumb,” Stiles mutters, fixing his gaze on the floor instead of on Derek or, worse, on his own reflection. “I look dumb.”
Derek steps closer, sliding his hands onto Stiles’s hips from behind. His thumbs trace over the smooth satin and lace of the garter belt. “Lift your head up, Stiles.”
Stiles obeys, and catches sight of himself in the bathroom mirror.
“I don’t think you look dumb,” Derek says, his voice as low as a whisper. “I think you look incredible.”
It’s not a lie, clearly. Stiles can feel the bulge of Derek’s dick pressing hard into the small of his back.
“I’m too hairy,” he blurts out suddenly.
Derek huffs out a laugh, and traces his fingers across the narrow band of skin of Stiles’s abdomen between the garter belt and the panties. It tickles, and Stiles squirms a little. “You’re perfect, Stiles. But if you want to shave for me one day, we can do that.”
“We?” he asks, voice shaking.
Derek leans in and licks a stripe up the side of Stiles’s throat. “Mmm. I’d make you hold yourself still while I shaved you clean. Make you all pink and soft and smooth as silk.” He slides his hand down over the panties, and cups Stiles’s aching dick. “You’d be so pretty for me, wouldn’t you? So pretty and sweet.”
“Y-yeah,” Stiles whispers, swallowing as he watches the both in the mirror. Imagines himself as pretty as Derek wants him to be, instead of this hairy, awkward boy.
Derek keeps one hand on his dick, and lifts the other one to his throat. He curls his fingers around Stiles’s neck gently, and tilts his head back so it’s resting against his shoulder. “Know what I see right now, Stiles?”
Stiles shakes his head minutely.
“I see a boy who’s uncomfortable, and scared, a boy who doesn’t think he’s anything special.” Derek grinds the heel of his hand against Stiles’s dick, and Stiles jerks against him hard. “I see a boy who pushed through those thoughts in his head and put the lingerie on anyway, because he knew that’s what I wanted. I see a boy who wants to serve me.”
Stiles dick is straining hard against the constricting fabric of the panties. “Pl-please, yes. Please let me, Der.”
Derek rubs his thumb against the hinge of Stiles’s jaw and holds his gaze in the mirror. “Want to learn how to suck my cock, baby girl?”
Stiles doesn’t even know which of those words it is that causes a blast of heat to rush through him. “Please,” he whispers. “Yes, please.”
Stiles has sucked guys off before, in back rooms and back seats and, once, in a back alley. Not like this though. Stiles should have known Derek would be different than every one of Stiles’s scant previous encounters. He should have known it from the second Derek drops the pillow on his bedroom floor, and then sits on the end of his bed, legs wide apart. This isn’t some quick race to the finish, is it? No. Derek is going to teach him how to do this properly.
Stiles sinks to his knees on the floor, heart beating fast, and Derek leans forward and cups his cheek. Rubs his thumb along his bottom lip as though he’s testing the drag.
“Look at you,” he says in a low voice. “So good for me, Stiles. So gorgeous.”
The way he says it, Stiles almost believes it.
Everything feels new today. Stiles’s hands are shaking as he reaches out to pop the top button on Derek’s fly and tug the zipper slowly down.
He’s big. Big and uncut, and the head of his cock is already wet with precum.
Derek curls his fingers through Stiles’s hair. “Lean in, baby girl. Taste it.”
Stiles has wanted to get his mouth on Derek’s dick since the day in his dad’s office when Derek spanked him. He shifts forward, his dick aching in his tight panties, and opens his mouth. Laves his tongue against the sensitive head of Derek’s cock. The bitter taste of it bursts across his tongue, and they both shudder at the contact.
Derek’s fingers tighten in his hair. “Okay, baby. Now, if you show me how good you can be, how well you can listen, I’ll let you come when we’re done. Will you be good for me, Stiles?”
Stiles nods, breathless, aching, tremors running through his body. He’ll be good. He’ll be whatever Derek wants.
Stiles loses all track of time. And that, he thinks, it what Derek wants most of all. He wants Stiles’s focus to narrow so much to Derek, to sucking Derek’s cock, that the rest of the universe falls away like dust. It could be minutes or hours. Stiles doesn’t know anymore. His knees ache despite the pillow, his face is wet with tears and with drool, and he’s gagged more times than he can count. Each time it happens Derek talks him through it, his voice patient and calm, and then withdraws so that Stiles can breathe again. Every time he does, Stiles follows his cock, open-mouthed, desperate to try again.
His throat is sore and his lips are numb. He blinks up through his tears at Derek.
“Such a good girl,” Derek tells him. “Such a good little cocksucker.”
He rubs the head of his cock against Stiles’s bottom lip, and Stiles sucks him in.
“Swallow for me, baby,” Derek says, and tugs Stiles’s head lower.
Stiles’s throat contracts around Derek’s cock. His lungs burn, and he makes ugly choked sounds. Derek doesn’t let go of his hair though, and Stiles doesn’t try and pull back. He squeezes his eyes shut, wonders fleetingly how fucking mortified his dad will be if everyone finds out he choked to death on dick, and just when he feels like he’s right on the edge of blacking out, Derek is pulling back and Stiles is choking down a mouthful of hot cum.
“So good,” Derek tells him, sounding breathless himself. “So good for me.”
Derek leans up against the headboard of his bed, and pulls Stiles into his lap. He gets his legs between Stiles’s, spreads them, and Stiles squirms in mortification as Derek slides his hands into his panties.
“I told you I’d let you come if you were good for me, didn’t I?” Derek asks, nipping his earlobe gently. One hand cups Stiles’s balls, squeezes them briefly, then moves lower. “These panties are too tight.”
Stiles is too wrung out to complain as Derek jostles them both, slotting Stiles’s legs together again long enough to tug his panties down, at least until they get caught in the things holding the tops of his stocking to his garter. Stiles snorts as Derek grumbles and snaps them. Then his panties are hanging off one ankle, and Derek has his legs spread wide again, holding them apart with his own.
“That’s better,” Derek says, jostling them briefly again, and Stiles hears the snick of his bedside drawer. A moment later Derek’s lube-slick fingers are probing at his ass, pressing against his rim, seeking entrance.
“Oh god,” he whispers, dropping his head back onto Derek’s shoulder. “Please.”
“Pinch your nips for me, baby girl,” Derek whispers. “Show me your pretty tits.”
Stiles slides his shaking hands up his corset. “Touch my dick, please, Der.”
Derek pushes a finger inside him, making him shiver. “Maybe I want to see if my baby girl can come on my fingers.” But he curls his spare hand around Stiles’s dick. “Come on. Fuck yourself on my hand, Stiles. Make yourself come.”
It takes him less than twenty seconds.
“Good night?” his dad asks him when he gets home.
Stiles stares at him blankly for a moment. Right. He said he was going to a movie with Scott. He answers a fraction too late. “Um, yeah.”
His dad looks at him narrowly, and Stiles escapes upstairs before he can call him on the lie.
He sits down heavily on his bed, and checks his phone. There’s no message yet from Derek, and Stiles swallows down a tiny pang of disappointment.
“Tell me I’m not fucking crazy, Derek,” he whispers to his phone. “Tell me that you won’t cross any lines with me. Even if I don’t know where the lines are.”
His phone stays silent.
Stiles doesn’t like not knowing what’s going on. He doesn’t like it when he doesn’t understand something. If there’s a thing Stiles doesn’t understand he picks at it like a scab, and doesn’t quit. It’s why he’s spent half his life online, going on strange research spirals about the weirdest things. The history of male circumcision. Tulipomania. Shared psychotic manic syndrome in monozygotic twins. Stiles knows stuff. He thinks about stuff. Which is why it’s so incredibly frustrating—and more than a little frightening—that this thing with him and Derek Hale? It’s a thing he doesn’t understand.
It’s hot. Oh, fuck, it’s hot.
Just the thought of the stuff he’s already done with Derek is enough to make him hard. Not enough to make him jerk off though, since Derek hasn’t said he can. And what’s that about? Like, objectively, Stiles knows it’s totally hot that Derek makes him wait, and he comes so much harder when he doesn’t jerk off at least twice a day. More, on a weekend. But also, Stiles knows what it means. It means he’s giving up his control, his autonomy, and how is that not terrifying? What is it inside him that makes him like this? Crave this?
And how is he supposed to protect himself when he’s so vulnerable?
The sub is the one with the real power, all his research tells him.
And objectively that’s true. He knows he can stop any scene, walk away at any time.
What scares him is that he doesn’t want to.
What scares him is that he feels like Derek can see right into his soul, into every hidden corner of him, but when Stiles looks at Derek he still sees a stranger.
On Wednesday afternoon after school, Stiles heads to the station to take his dad some dinner. Not because he’s being all altruistic or anything, but mostly because someone needs to eat those leftovers in the fridge stat, before they go off, and it’s not going to be Stiles.
“Really, kid?” his dad asks him with a sigh. “We’re still on this meatloaf?”
“Yeah,” Stiles says, apologetically.
His dad gives a long-suffering sigh. He usually loves meatloaf. The problem with this meatloaf is it’s not actual meatloaf. It’s a vegan chickpea recipe, and it’s… well, it’s been a struggle.
“Fine,” his dad says. “But on Sunday night I want steak.”
“Deal,” Stiles says.
“Go on then,” his dad says, waving him away. “Get the hell out of here.”
He’s halfway through the bullpen when he bumps into Derek Hale, Literally. Derek is a wall of muscle, and Stiles bounces off him like a pinball. Derek reaches out and grabs him by the shoulders to steady him.
“Careful, Stiles,” he says, his eyes crinkling when he smiles.
Stiles flushes and forgets how to use his words.
Tara laughs. So does Parrish.
Stiles mumbles something about always tripping over his own feet, and escapes the bullpen. He detours to the bathrooms down the hall on his way out, and leans against the sinks while he splashes some water against his face. Jesus. He stares at his reflection in the mirror. He looks wild-eyed, as spooked as a rabbit that’s just had a close call with a wolf. His heart is pounding, and his dick is hard in his jeans. Stiles glares at his face in the mirror and reaches down to adjust himself.
“Hands off what doesn’t belong to you, baby boy,” a voice says from the doorway, and Stiles flails so hard he almost smacks himself in the face. Derek laughs and saunters forward, the door swinging shut behind him. He plasters himself to Stiles’s back, curls his fingers around Stiles’s hips, and pulls him tight. Stiles can feel Derek’s hard dick pressing against his ass. “Are you hard for me, Stiles?”
“Derek.” Stiles’s face burns. “My dad’s right outside!”
Along with the rest of the Beacon Hills’ Sheriff’s Department.
Derek slides a hand into the waistband of Stiles’s jeans. “So?”
“Fuck.” Stiles squeezes his eyes shut.
“Bend over for me, sweet boy.”
This is crazy. Verifiably fucking crazy. If they get caught like this…
Stiles will be grounded for the rest of his natural life. His dad won’t care that he’s eighteen. And Derek? Derek will be in a world of shit too. Because it’s never a good career move to fuck your boss’s son in the bathroom of your workplace, right? Okay, so it’s not in any of the job orientation packages, probably, but only because nobody thought it needed saying. Because it’s crazy.
“Derek,” Stiles says, but finds himself bending over the counter anyway. He opens his eyes to stare at himself in the mirror, and meets Derek’s eyes in the glass. Derek looks so fucking hot in his uniform, and that’s weird to realize, because Stiles’s dad is a cop so he’s never had a uniform kink. Maybe this isn’t a uniform kink though. This is probably just a Derek kink.
Derek reaches around to unzip Stiles’s fly, and slides his jeans down over his ass. Stiles turns his head and looks frantically toward the door.
“Derek! What if someone comes in!”
“If you don’t shut up, they probably will,” Derek says, his voice low and amused.
“Oh, Jesus.” Stiles sucks in a panicked breath, and tries to ignore the way his dick is already achingly hard. He closes his eyes again as Derek tugs his underwear down, exposing his ass, and the thin plug he’s wearing, to the cool air.
Stiles bites down on a whine as Derek eases the plug free.
“D-Derek,” he moans, and there are two fingers in his mouth. Stiles sucks on them, swiping his tongue around them, getting them slick with spit because it doesn’t take a clairvoyant to know where they’re going next, right? “Mmm.”
“So good for me, baby boy,” Derek growls in his ear. “So fucking good.”
Stiles’s hips jerk, and he presses his hard dick against the edge of the counter There’s a little pain, but the pressure is too good not to want more. His eyes flash open as Derek pulls his fingers out of his mouth, and he sucks in a shuddering breath as those fingers slide down the cleft of his ass, seeking out his hole.
Oh god. Oh holy fuck.
Stiles pushes himself up onto his toes as Derek shoves his spit-slick fingers inside him, and the drag is a little dry because spit is a terrible lube, but the zing of pleasure when Derek nails his prostate makes everything else shatter into nothing. Stiles arches his spine and pushes back against Derek’s fingers, his toes scrunching, his balls throbbing, and every nerve on his body set alight.
“Derek,” he whispers, frantic, and Derek claps his spare hand over his mouth.
For a moment they both freeze.
Stiles can hear his heart pounding, and, outside the bathroom, he can hear voices, and a sudden burst of laughter that—oh fuck—sounds exactly like his dad.
“Shh,” Derek breathes against Stiles’s ear, his fingers still moving, still pressing, still pushing incessantly inside him, stroking against that bundle of nerves.
Stiles has never been more terrified. His dick’s also never been harder.
His dad’s going to walk in and discover Stiles with Derek’s fingers up his ass.
This is not okay!
“Shh,” Derek murmurs again. “Come on, sweet boy. Come for me. Can you do that? Can you come for me?”
Stiles squeezes his eyes shut and bits down on his lip.
He comes so hard he sprays jizz halfway up the bathroom mirror.
Derek swipes it off with his hand.
Derek drags him into a cubicle and holds him there while he closes the door. The outer door to the bathroom opens with a squeak, and someone walks in. Whistles. Pisses in the trough, and Stiles hopes it’s not his dad, because he’s sucking his cum off Derek’s fingers like some greedy little bitch.
“You’re so ready,” Derek whispers in his ear. “So ready for me to finally fuck. Do you want that, baby?”
Stiles moans in agreement.
The hand dryer outside starts up with a blast.
“You want me to split you open on my dick?” Derek asks, voice low. He nips at Stiles’s earlobe with his teeth, and Stiles’s hips jerk again. He must be leaving damp spots of cum all over Derek’s uniform pants. “I’ll take you like a bitch first, sweet boy. Face down, ass up, because you know your place, don’t you?”
Stiles licks Derek’s throat, his face burning.
“And then I’ll let you ride me,” Derek tells him. “Make you scream as you come, like a dirty little whore.”
Stiles wonders if he should recoil from words like that. Wonders if there’s something wrong with him that he doesn’t. It’s just dirty talk, right? Dirty talk’s okay, right? Except the heat curling in his belly when he hears it isn’t all pleasant, because he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know if Derek means it or not. He doesn’t know if Derek wants him to feel good about the things he’s saying or not. And that seems like something he needs to know.
The bathroom door swings shut again.
“Good boy,” Derek tells him, and leans down to kiss him. “Such a good little slut.”
“Stiles!” his dad exclaims, a frown furrowing his brow. “Didn’t you already leave?”
“Oh, yeah.” Stiles is sure his face is beet red. “I got caught up talking.”
“Well don’t forget you have to study tonight,” his dad says.
“Okay.” Stiles backs away before his dad pulls him in for a lazy hug, and smells the cum all over him. He pretends not to notice the way his dad’s eyes narrow in concern. “I’ll see you later, Dad.”
“Okay,” his dad says. “Have a good night, son.”
Stiles doesn’t do his homework. Well, not the stuff the school set. He finds a text message from Derek instead: Put your plug back in. Send me a photograph. Don’t touch your dick.
He thinks about refusing.
He doesn’t, in the end.
He worries it’s because he can’t.
Remember guys, keep telling me what kinks you want to see in this one!
It’s a few days until Stiles hears from Derek again. Which is okay, since Stiles has school, and he knows Derek’s been on nights again. The Beacon Hills Sheriff’s Department roster has been stuck to the Stilinski refrigerator forever, so it’s not really stalking if Stiles checks what Derek’s shifts are.
He gets the text on Friday at school: Tomorrow night. Can you stay over?
Stiles snorts. A question! From Derek Hale! Not an instruction, or a statement of fact, but an actual question. It’s almost unprecedented, and possibly a sign of the Apocalypse or something. And maybe it’s because Stiles is in the cafeteria, surrounded by his friends in familiar territory, but he rides a sudden wave of bravado and texts back: Why should I?
It’s a few minutes before Derek texts him back: I thought I made myself clear exactly what I wanted last time.
Stiles’s face burns. Right. Something about wanting to split Stiles open on his dick. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat as he gets hard.
Lydia looks at him curiously. “Are you alright?”
Is he? That’s a loaded question, and Stiles really doesn’t know how to answer it.
“Fine,” he says at last, and stares at his phone again.
Apparently he’s been too long replying, because there’s another text from Derek: I don’t like games, Stiles.
And well, if that just isn’t a red flag to a particularly snarky bull. Because what the hell is all this to Derek except some big game, where he ties Stiles up in knots and leaves him twisting in the wind?
Do you know what’s not a game, Derek? Communication. Also, fuck you.
He turns his phone off before Derek can answer, and digs into his tater tots.
By eight p.m. the last of Stiles’s bravado has completely vanished, and he’s skirting the edge of an actual panic attack. Because there was a line with Derek, and there were rules, and even if Stiles doesn’t exactly understand where that line was or what those rules were, clearly he’s fucked up big time. Because that’s Stiles all over, right? There is literally nothing that he can’t fuck up. It’s the cornerstone his personality is built on. And being with Derek was confusing, but it was also hot as hell, and when is someone else as hot as Derek Hale going to even look at Stiles? All he had to do was keep his mouth shut and do what Derek told him, and—
Keep his mouth shut? Do what Derek told him? What the hell? Who thinks like that? What is wrong with him?
Stiles groans and shoves a stack of books off the side of his desk onto the floor to see if it’s cathartic at all. It isn’t. It’s just noisy.
Stiles sighs and flops down on his bed.
Stiles closes his eyes and tries to think through things. Ha! As if he hasn’t been trying that for weeks, actually. If he didn’t get a handle on it then, he’s hardly likely to figure things out now, right? He’s fucked things up, and that’s all he needs to know. Maybe this is one of those life lessons that needs at least a decade or so to actually make any sense. Or maybe Stiles will still be puzzling this thing out—not even Derek, who is confusing enough, so much as his own unfathomable reactions to Derek—when he’s old and gray.
Stiles is still lying on his bed when the doorbell rings. He wonders if his dad’s lost his key again.
His dad is working tonight. He’s the sheriff, so he doesn’t have to work Friday nights, but he still likes to work the occasional Friday and Saturday night, just to keep his finger on the pulse. He’s never been the sort of man who likes to drive a desk.
Stiles drags himself upright and stomps down the steps just as the doorbell rings again.
“I’m coming!” Stiles yells, striding up to the front door and wrenching it open.
It’s not Dad.
Stiles stares at him, and blinks, but it’s still Derek.
Except, no. No, Derek can’t be here with that face of his, and that way he looks at Stiles, and Stiles can’t be staring at him, at his mouth and his hands and thinking of all the ways Derek’s taken him apart over the past few weeks. Not after today, not after everything. Because being close to Derek does exactly what it’s always done: it shuts down Stiles’s higher brain function, and he can’t think. Except in the beginning it was fun. It was giddy and breathless and exciting. And now it scares him, the not knowing. It scares him more how much he wants it.
And Derek is as fucking unreadable as ever.
“What do you want?” Stiles asks, fighting not to look down, to break his gaze.
“An explanation,” Derek says, raising his eyebrows.
Well, that makes two of them, right?
Stiles opens his mouth to say exactly that… and he freezes. What the hell is wrong with him that he always fucking freezes in front of Derek?
Derek’s forehead creases. “Stiles?”
Stiles swallows. “I…”
Tell me what to do.
“Your text.” Derek stares at him intently. “I thought you were angling for a spanking. Were you?”
Stiles’s dick stirs, and heat rises in his face. “I…” He shakes his head. “I don’t know.”
Derek’s frown deepens.
Stiles rasps out a laugh. “See? I don’t know. I never fucking know with you!”
“What do you mean you don’t know?” Derek’s expression is suddenly blank.
“I mean I don’t know, Derek. I have no fucking idea what’s going on here!” His voice rises to a yell without even intending it.
Across the street, a porch light flickers on.
“I told you from the start, you can stop this any time you want,” Derek says, his voice even. “Is that what you want?”
“I…” Stiles has never felt so out of his depth before in his life. Talking? Words? Those are Stiles’s jam. He can talk underwater with a mouth full of concrete. But with Derek? He doesn’t even recognize himself. He feels sick. “I don’t know!”
Something shifts in Derek’s expression, and he steps forward into the house. Stiles backs up, and Derek closes the door.
“Have you felt this way since we started?”
“Yes,” Stiles says, and then: “No!” He almost laughs at the look of confusion on Derek’s face. “No, because when you’re standing right in front of me telling me what to do, then I want to do it, and it’s easy, but then afterwards I think about it, and that’s when it all goes to shit!”
“You don’t know what you want.” It’s not a question.
“I want…” Stiles drags his fingers through his hair. “Don’t look at me, okay? It’s really fucking hard to concentrate when you’re looking at me!”
Derek takes a step back.
“I want to know what you want, Derek,” Stiles says, his heart thumping. “I want to know what you’re thinking. What you think I am.”
Derek’s mouth presses into a thin line for a moment, and then he takes a step forward. “I’ve known you for years, Stiles, and you have never once had a problem telling anyone what you think. About anything.”
Stiles folds his arms over his chest and looks at the floor. “Maybe I always knew before now!”
“This wasn’t meant to be…” Derek sighs. “Jesus, Stiles. I didn’t know you were struggling with this.”
“Yeah. Well.” Stiles still doesn’t look up.
Derek moves forward into his space, and reaches out. The touch of his fingers is warm on Stiles’s jaw as he angles Stiles’s head up gently so their gazes meet. “You are the most loud, irritating, noisy person that I’ve ever met. I thought if you weren’t sure about something, you’d tell me. I’m sorry I didn’t realize.”
This is not what Stiles was expecting. The sudden rush of warmth, of relief and gratitude that floods through him is startling. He feels shaky and weak, like he’s just spent the afternoon doing suicide runs at lacrosse practice.
“I like what we do,” Stiles says. “I like when you tell me I’m good. Some of the other stuff though, I don’t know.”
“Like what?” Derek’s voice is soft.
Stiles’s face burns. “Like when you called me a slut.”
Derek flinches a little. “You don’t like that kind of dirty talk?”
Stiles wants to punch him, just a little bit. “Not when I don’t know if you mean it or not!”
“Stiles.” Derek rubs his thumb along his jaw. “You’re the only person I’m doing this with, and I’m the only person you’re doing this with, right?” He waits until Stiles nods. “I love it when you get so turned on you can’t stop yourself from moaning and pushing back. I love it when you let yourself go and let me wreck you. I love it when you get filthy, but I know I’m the only person you do that for.”
Stiles closes his eyes for a moment. “Okay.”
He opens his eyes again. “Your slut. Nobody else’s. Right?”
Derek nods. “Right.”
“Okay.” Stiles breathes again for what feels like the first time in hours. “Are we…” And then he clamps his mouth shut.
“Are we dating?” he asks, because use your words, Stiles. Turns out that’s something they both need to do.
“Do you want to date me?” Derek asks, his voice softening with something that sounds almost like surprise.
“Um.” Stiles chews his bottom lip for a moment. “Kind of?”
Real straightforward there, Stiles. Good job.
For a moment Derek’s expression is unreadable, and then he smiles slightly. “Okay.”
He leans forward and kisses Stiles gently.
Stiles has a kind of boyfriend now. A kind of kinky-as-fuck boyfriend who kissed him softly again before he left, and then sent him a text message telling him he could finger himself as long as he didn’t come. So it’s not going to be a flowers and chocolates sort of deal, probably.
Stiles shivers at the low burn of heat he gets in his belly when he reads Derek’s text.
Who the fuck wants flowers and chocolates anyway?
In some respects, this newfound communication thing that Stiles and Derek have makes the whole situation a lot more complicated. Talking has never been a problem for Stiles before in his life. Shutting up has. Except when it comes to Derek—when it comes to sex—forcing the words out seems excruciating.
Like, what was so bad about just letting Derek set the pace with everything?
Stiles hates himself for even thinking that question, but seriously, why is it so hard to talk?
“I can hear you thinking too loudly from over there,” Derek says in a conversational tone. The asshole.
“Are you going to fuck me tonight?” Stiles blurts out, and oh, there they are. Those pesky words he was looking for.
Earlier today Stiles got a text inviting him to come over to Derek’s loft this evening. Stiles assumed that meant that Derek was DTF, except when he arrived, wearing his plug and everything like a good boy, Derek just smiled at him gently, brushed their lips together, and went back to the kitchen where it appears he’s making pizza.
Apparently Derek is taking this ‘boyfriend’ thing to heart.
Also, apparently nobody ever told Derek that you get pizza delivered.
Derek sets the knife down and turns around the face Stiles. “Is that what you want?” he asks carefully.
Stiles throat is suddenly dry. He jerks his head in a nod. “Y-yeah. I cleaned myself out, and I put my plug in. I want you to…”
Derek swipes his tongue over his bottom lip. “You want me to what?”
“I want you to make me your bitch.”
Derek steps toward him.
So much for pizza.
In all his fantasies, and in all his favorite porn vids, some twink is getting his brains fucked out by a bigger, hotter guy. And in the videos the twink’s face is always screwed up, and Stiles can never tell if it’s because he’s in pain or not. Sometimes it looks like the twink can’t tell either. And Stiles wants to know what that feels like, but he’s also legitimately terrified. What if it hurts, and not in a good way? What if it’s the sort of hurt that leaves him feeling sick and scared?
“Tell me I’m good,” he whispers as Derek pushes him down onto the bed.
Derek pauses, fingers tugging at the button on the fly of Stiles’s jeans. His eyes widen. “You’re good, Stiles. You’re so good for me. My good boy.”
Stiles sinks into the mattress, a little of the tension bleeding away. He lifts his hips when Derek gets his fly undone, and helps shove his jeans and underwear down to his thighs. He flushes with heat as Derek’s gaze rakes over him. He’ll never get over the embarrassment of baring his body to someone else’s scrutiny, probably.
Derek tugs his jeans and underwear off. Stiles feels stupid just lying there in a shirt, so he sits up for just long enough to pull that over his head and fling it onto the floor. The movement jostles the plug buried in his ass, and his breath shudders out of him.
“Show me,” Derek says, his voice that same low tone of command that Stiles has never been able to disobey.
He rolls over onto his belly, his aching dick throbbing underneath him, and somehow manages to get his knees under him. He lifts himself up and spreads his legs so that Derek can see the base of the plug nestled between the cheeks of his ass.
“So pretty,” Derek murmurs, and Stiles groans as Derek presses the heel of his hand against the base of the plug and pushes. “Look at you. You’re so ready for my cock, aren’t you?”
Stiles moans his agreement into Derek’s comforter.
“It’s going to fill you up, baby boy,” Derek tells him. “It’s going to make you scream.”
Stiles sucks in a breath, and twists his head to look at Derek. “Is it going to hurt?”
“No, Stiles,” Derek says, holding his gaze. “It’s going to feel so good.”
“Okay.” Stiles nods. He can do this. “Okay.”
Derek’s made him come so many times with his fingers inside him, or with a toy inside him, that Stiles doesn’t really know why he’s so nervous about finally getting his cock inside him. This is what all the other stuff has been leading to, right? This is the moment Derek’s been training him up for, isn’t it?
“Der?” he asks, sucking in a shaky breath. He twists around to he can look at Derek.
“What?” Derek rubs a thumb down the crease of Stiles’s ass, nudging the end of the plug.
“After you do this, are you still going to want to do other stuff with me?” Stiles asks.
“What?” Derek’s forehead creases and he looks perplexed. “What do you mean?”
“I mean have you never seen a high school movie in your life?” Stiles asks him. “Where the hot guy fucks the plain girl and then dumps her because he already got what he wanted?”
Derek raises his eyebrows. “Are you comparing me to an asshole high school boy?”
“A hot one,” Stiles clarifies, and suddenly it seems really stupid to be having this conversation when he’s naked with his ass in the air. He curls back around and sits—carefully—on his ass. He tugs Derek’s comforter over his lap to cover his dick.
“Stiles, for starters, you are not the plain girl,” Derek says. “I—” He stops and shakes his head. “Me getting my dick in you isn’t the ultimate goal here, Stiles. I mean, it’s a goal, don’t get me wrong. You’re going to be so fucking tight.”
A flush of heat races through Stiles, and his dick twitches. He squeezes down on the plug.
“But it’s not the only goal,” Derek continues. “There are so many things I want to do to you, and with you. And there are so many things I want you to do to me as well. I told you when we started this that I want to take you apart. And I do. And there are so many ways that I can do that, Stiles, if you let me.”
“Like how?” Stiles asks, breathless.
Derek smirks, and reaches out to tweak Stiles’s left nipple sharply. “Clamps. You’d look so pretty in clamps, Stiles. Whining and twisting, and wanting them off. But you’d keep them on, wouldn’t you, if I asked?”
“Yeah.” Stiles’s eyes flutter shut as Derek squeezes his nipple more tightly. His dick jerks.
Derek releases him, then leans in and laves his tongue against the abused flesh. “I want to tie you up. I want to cuff you. Get you in a spreader bar so you’ll be open for me. I want to blindfold you. Edge you for hours.”
Derek reaches under the comforter and closes his fingers around Stiles’s aching dick. “Do you know what a sound is, Stiles?”
“N-not a noise,” Stiles mumbles, arching his back as Derek squeezes.
“Not a noise,” Derek agrees with a smile, rubbing his thumb over the head of Stiles’s dick. “You’d be so full, Stiles, in ways you can’t even imagine right now.”
A full-body shudder rolls through Stiles as Derek thumbs his dick again.
“Fuck me,” he whispers. “Please, Derek.”
Derek leans away from him. He grins, and raises his thumb to his mouth. It’s shining with Stiles’s precum, and Stiles’s heart skips a beat as Derek opens his mouth and licks it.
“Derek,” he groans, bunching the comforter up in his hands and pressing down on his dick.
“You don’t get to come until I’m inside you,” Derek says. He stands up and reaches for the hem of his shirt. He’s fucking incredible. His abs ripple as he rids himself of his shirt. He has muscles in his shoulders and arms that Stiles doesn’t even know the names of. Because surely they are secret muscles that regular people don’t have. Stiles finds himself holding his breath as Derek unfastens his jeans. Derek has an incredible dick. The memory of the weight of it against his tongue, the taste of it, makes Stiles’s mouth water.
Derek shoves his jeans down and steps out of them. His dick is already half hard, and he gives it a few lazy tugs. Stiles could watch it curve up toward his abs for hours.
Derek steps toward the bed again. “You ready for me, Stiles? Ready to be my good boy?”
Stiles nods, shoving the comforter aside and rolling back onto his stomach.
Stiles is having flashbacks to the first time Derek fingered him and he slipped into some sort of weird fugue state. It’s happening again now. Derek’s taking so much time stretching him, and working his fingers back and forth, scissoring them. Stiles’s ass feels gross and slippery with lube, and he’s pretty sure he’s leaking so much precum that he’s ruined Derek’s mattress. He’s got his forehead resting on his crossed arms, his knees spread, and the entire universe is centered on his ass right now, and on the way Derek is opening him up. Every second or third push in he hits Stiles’s prostate, and Stiles shudders and tightens around his fingers, and he wants more. He definitely wants more.
“Okay,” Derek says at last, and Stiles realizes he must have been begging aloud. “You’re being so good, Stiles. So good.”
Stiles only has a moment to register the blunt, hot head of Derek’s cock against his hole before it’s pushing inside, and he’s so big, and a spike of panic runs through Stiles before he realizes that he’s okay, that’s it’s not hurting despite his brain’s insistence that it should. There’s pressure, but no pain. Stiles has never been so full. Suddenly all that playing with plugs makes a lot of sense.
“That’s it,” Derek says as Stiles bears down. “You’re taking it so sweetly. You were born for this, weren’t you? Born to take my cock?”
Stiles mumbles his agreement into the comforter as Derek begins to pick up the pace.
It so fucking good.
There’s so much happening that Stiles can’t sort through it all. The fullness, the pressure, the way he sees white when Derek nails his prostate. Stiles is rocking back and forth into Derek’s thrusts, and Derek’s fingers are digging into his hips. Stiles can’t get the desperate friction he needs against his dick, and his balls are aching with the need to come, and it’s too much for his brain to sort through at once. He’s close to sensory overload when Derek finally reaches around underneath him and closes his hand around Stiles’s dick.
“Come for me, Stiles,” Derek says.
Stiles, shuddering and crying out, obeys.
He’s pretty sure he blacks out for a moment there.
Derek goes to the bathroom to dispose of the condom and comes back with a damp washcloth. Stiles is too wrung out to be embarrassed when Derek wipes him down. He’s covered in lube and cum.
“Good boy,” Derek murmurs, running the washcloth over his hot, sensitized skin and bringing him out in goosebumps.
“I should…” Stiles mumbles, gesturing toward his discarded clothes.
“You should stay,” Derek tells him softly.
Stiles squints at him.
“Stay,” Derek repeats, and this time it sounds like a question.
“Okay,” Stiles murmurs, and closes his eyes. He drifts off to sleep while Derek is still gently wiping him down.
Possibly the smuttiest chapter yet?
Stiles wakes to sunlight on his face and the sound of the shower running in Derek’s bathroom. He stretches, and the ache in his ass—not unlike a pulled muscle after a particularly brutal session of lacrosse training, except in his ass—reminds him that he’s not a virgin anymore. Holy shit! Stiles wants to text everyone he knows.
Except his dad. Definitely not his dad. This falls firmly into the category of Things John Stilinski Does Not Need To Know. And not just that Stiles has finally got a dick up his ass, but that the owner of said dick is one of his dad’s deputies. That’s… well, that’s a conversation Stiles never wants to have, actually.
Stiles rolls out of bed and rises to his feet. He’s naked, and maybe he’d be embarrassed about that except that Derek Hale totally hit that, and look at Derek! If Derek thinks Stiles is hot enough to fuck—and to be his boyfriend—then who is Stiles to second-guess him?
Stiles pads across the bedroom floor towards the ensuite bathroom. He opens the door and steps inside the steam-filled room. For a moment he’s blind, and then the steam clears a little and he sees Derek standing behind the glass shower screen, washing himself.
It might just be the closest thing Stiles has ever had to a religious experience.
There are probably angels singing right now.
Stiles’s gaze follows a trail of suds that slide down Derek’s chest, over the ridged landscape of his abdomen, and snag in the dark hair around his dick before being washed away. His breath catches in his throat and he steps forward and slides the door open.
“I was hoping you’d wake up,” Derek says, and holds his hand out.
Stiles lets himself be tugged under the water.
“Stay still,” Derek says, and turns him around to press him against the warm tiles of the wall.
Stiles rests his forehead against the tiles, and shivers as Derek sweeps his broad hands over his shoulders, down his spine, and finally reaches his ass. His thumbs slide into the cleft of his ass, tugging him open gently.
“Stay still,” Derek repeats as Stiles tries to push into the touch. Stiles groans and squeezes his eyes shut. “Good boy.”
What the hell is it about those words that feels so damn right?
He goes up onto his toes when one of Derek’s thumbs slides into his hole. “Derek!”
“Stay still,” Derek says again, sliding the tip of his thumb out again, then in, and then out. “Are you sore?”
“N-no!” Stiles gasps, and then relents. “A little?”
“ I want to play with you again today,” Derek tells him. “Maybe edge you for a while. Maybe restrain you. Have you got anywhere you need to be?”
It’s Saturday. Stiles shakes his head.
“Good.” Derek turns Stiles around and leans in and kisses him softly, once, twice, and then, just when Stiles is expecting a third gentle kiss, he latches his teeth onto Stiles’s bottom lip and pulls it roughly at the same time he reaches up and tweaks one of Stiles’s nipples.
Stiles’s dick jerks and he whines at the sudden sharp pain.
Derek releases him. “Good,” he says again. “And maybe if you’re a very good boy—” He smirks. “—or girl, I’ll let you come when I’m done with you.”
Stiles nods, wide-eyed and lost for words.
Derek dresses Stiles in his blue corset and his matching panties and stockings, and arrays him on his bed like he’s some sort of strange sacrifice. Stiles offers up his wrists to the cuffs. They’re not like police cuffs. They’re thick and leather, and the act of Derek buckling them into him makes his insides melt at the same time as his dick grows impossibly hard. He feels more vulnerable then he ever has in his life when Derek raises his arms and locks them in place on the chains looped through the headboard.
“You can say stop at any time,” Derek tells him.
Derek is still naked from the shower and fucking gorgeous. Stiles isn’t going to say stop.
“Understand?” Derek asks.
“Yeah,” Stiles says. “I can say stop at any time.”
It settles something in him that he didn’t even know needed that reassurance.
Derek produces some other piece of equipment next: a bar with thick leather cuffs on either end.
“This is a spreader bar,” Derek tells him. “It will keep you nice and open for me. You can squirm and struggle all you like, but won’t be able to stop me from touching you.”
“Okay,” Stiles says, breathless with anticipation already.
Derek doesn’t buckle him straight into it. Instead he leans over Stiles and hooks his fingers into the elastic of the blue lace panties. “Don’t want to ruin these, do we?”
Stiles shivers as Derek draws them slowly down. The fabric is already soaked in his precum, and his dick is straining to escape. He jerks his hips when Derek tugs the panties over his dick, and almost comes right on the spot.
“Not yet, baby girl,” Derek says with a smirk. He leaves the panties hanging on one of Stiles’s ankles and then buckles him into the spreader bar. “Look at you. You’re so open for me. Dirty girl.”
“Derek,” Stiles moans, squeezing his eyes shut. “Fuck! Just do something!”
“So impatient,” Derek says. “I’m going to lock you in a cock cage one day, Stiles, just to see you cry and beg.”
Stiles rocks his hips and huffs out a breath. He’s pretty sure it won’t take that much to make him cry and beg, and he’s also pretty sure Derek knows it. “What are you going to do to me today?”
Derek’s smile is a beautiful thing. He settles himself on the end of the bed and lifts the spreader bar onto his lap. “Today, I thought I’d just look.”
Stiles feels the sudden shock of Derek’s words. Heat flushes through him, and leaves him feeling cold. “Wh-what?”
“Shh,” Derek says, curling the fingers of one hand around Stiles’s stocking-clad ankle. “You’re so pretty, baby. So open and so pretty.”
And then he falls silent, his gaze fixed firmly on Stiles’s ass. On Stiles’s dick and balls and hole.
Stiles tugs on the cuffs, his face burning.
Derek lifts his gaze and meets Stiles’s eyes. “Can you stay still for me, baby girl? Just for a little while?”
Stiles sucks in a breath and nods. He drops his head back onto the mattress and squeezes his eyes shut. Why… why would Derek just want to look? He feels weird and gross and exposed.
Derek taps his fingers against Stiles’s ankle. “You’re so beautiful. I like the way the lace on the top of your stockings stretches. I like your pretty corset, and the way it pulls your waist in. I like the way it frames your tits.”
Stiles tries to pull his legs closed.
“I like your ass,” Derek says, his voice dropping low. “I like the way it’s open for me, the way your rim is twitching when I look at it. I want to fill you with lube, baby. Make your hole as slick and shiny as a girl’s.”
Stiles rocks his hips, but there’s nowhere for his body to go.
“Do you want that, baby?” Derek asks him. “Do you want me to fill you up with lube?”
“Yeah.” Stiles opens his eyes again. “Make me…make me be your baby girl.”
The shock of hearing the words come out of his own mouth—the shock of meaning them—causes a flash of heat to race through him. He dick is so hard right now, and his balls are tight. He wants to come, and Derek hasn’t even touched him.
Derek shifts, and stands up briefly to get the lube from the drawer of the bedside cabinet. He gets something else too—Stiles sees a flash of brightly colored plastic, and his hole clenches around nothing. Whatever it is, he wants it in him.
Derek sits on the bed again, and lifts the spreader bar up and up until he’s resting Stiles’s legs on his shoulders and Stiles’s spine is curled half off the mattress. He pops the lube open, and then his slick fingers are pushing into Stiles’s hole.
Stiles keens, and tugs on the cuffs.
“Still sore, baby girl?” Derek asks him. “Is your little cunt still aching?”
“Shit!” Stiles shudders as the power of that word rips through him. It’s shocking, and it’s nothing he’s ever even dreamed of wanting to hear, but it’s also incredible. In this moment he’s Derek’s baby girl—needy, dirty, dressed in lace—and Derek has two fingers buried in his cunt.
Then Derek is sliding something hard and plastic inside of him, and Stiles clenches down on it tight, reveling in the soreness.
Derek lowers the spreader bar again, and Stiles’s heels hit the mattress. “That’s my good girl.” Derek straddles his him, and begins to crawl up his body like some sort of narrow-eyed predator. Stiles loses himself for a moment in the sight of him: he’s all muscle and swagger, and then Derek straddles his chest and tilts his pelvis forward. “Open up, princess.”
Stiles opens his mouth, sticking his tongue out to lap at the head of Derek’s dick before Derek pushes into his mouth, into his throat.
“Good girl,” Derek says. “Good baby girl.”
The angle isn’t great, but Stiles sucks and swallows around Derek’s dick, frantically trying to make him come. Throughout it all Derek keeps up a low litany of praise: good, tight, sweet little slut, baby girl. And Stiles has no idea how Derek even knows this about him. How can Derek know that Stiles loves being spoken to like this, when Stiles didn’t even know himself? That he likes being helpless, that he likes being humiliated (here, just them, just Derek, no-one and nowhere else…not yet?) when Stiles never even knew before now.
“That’s it, baby,” Derek croons. He grips Stiles by the hair, and pulls his dick out. Angles Stiles’s face just how he wants it. “Keep your mouth open, princess.”
Stiles does, panting for breath, and strings of Derek’s hot cum hit him on the face.
“Look at you,” Derek says, smiling down at him. “Look at my pretty girl.”
Stiles cries when Derek twists the bottom of the vibrator to turn it on. He cries, and thrashes and jerks but, just like Derek said, he’s got nowhere to go. Derek kneels on the end of the bed and watches his hole clenching around the vibrator, watches his dick twitching and jerking against his abdomen, and curls his fingers around Stiles’s ankles as he cries and begs to be allowed to come.
“Please! God, please, Derek!”
Finally, after what feels like hours, Derek turns the vibrator up to its highest setting, and Stiles comes apart in a million pieces.
Derek cooks brunch, and Stiles curls up on his couch to eat it. He leans against Derek and they watch Saturday morning cartoons together.
“Okay?” Derek asks him, making twists out of his hair.
“Yeah.” Stiles yawns. “My life is so weird right now.”
Derek looks at him seriously. “Too weird?” he asks.
Stiles considers that for a moment. Upstairs in the bedroom, the cuffs are still lying open on Derek’s stained sheets, and there’s a lube-covered vibrator tangled in the comforter. Only half an hour ago Derek was calling him a sweet little slut and coming all over his face, and now they’re eating Eggs Benedict and watching Steven Universe.
“No,” he says at last. “Not too weird.”
Derek’s small smile fills him with warmth.
Stiles has never been more terrified in his life—and that includes clicking on the link that Derek sent him last night and being hit right in the face with a video of some guy getting sounded. Like, call Stiles a coward or whatever, but he is really not into the idea of someone sticking a metal skewer up his dick, thanks. Just… and then he’d made the mistake of watching the whole thing, and watching the way the guy writhed and moaned, and his cum came bubbling out of him like a fountain when his Dom withdrew the sound. And the chill that prickled Stiles’s skin wasn’t revulsion at all. It felt a lot like anticipation.
But no, he’s not doing that, and yes, this moment is way more terrifying than that video.
This is his dad stopping midway with his fork to his mouth, his eyebrows raised, saying, “Sorry, are you saying have a boyfriend?”
“No,” Stiles says. “No, I am not saying that at all!”
Dad narrows his eyes. “You said you were going to see that new Marvel movie with someone. Not Scott. Someone.”
“Oh, and from that you think I’ve got a boyfriend?” Stiles tries to laugh at the ludicrous suggestion. “That’s a hell of a leap, Dad!”
“Is it?” Dad asks. His eyebrows go up again. “Stiles, do you have a boyfriend?”
“I…” It’s weird. Stiles has spent his entire life opening his mouth only to have beautiful, elaborate, intricately-constructed lies tumble forth like poetry, and now? Now he fucking freezes like a raccoon in the porch lights.
“Dad! It’s…” There is no way Stiles can explain this to his dad, and that’s not even counting the weird kinky shit that Derek does to him and Stiles loves. No, first there’s that whole thing where Derek is in his mid-twenties, and is one of his dad’s deputies. Stiles can feel his face heating up just thinking about his dad’s reaction to that. “It’s new! It’s new, and I don’t want to jinx it, okay?”
His dad gives him a careful look, like he’s evaluating what Stiles has told him against the possibility that he’s dating some skeevy back alley drug dealer who rides a motorcycle and has three ex-wives and six hundred tattoos. “Well,” he says at last. “When you’ve decided that it’s not new, I’d like to meet him.”
“Okay,” Stiles replies, stabbing his beans repeatedly with his fork and ignoring the way his stomach twists at the idea. “Great.”
“Great,” Dad echoes suspiciously.
Fuck his life.
Stiles arrives at Derek’s loft on Wednesday night at eight. It’s a school night, but his dad is working a night shift and Stiles has already told him he’ll be staying over at Scott’s place, just in case he comes home in the middle of the night for some reason. Derek was supposed to finish at six, but he must have got overtime because when Stiles arrives he’s still in his uniform. Stiles doesn’t have a uniform kink. Not when he’s grown up associating them with his dad, but that doesn’t mean he can’t appreciate, objectively, why other people do. The uniform fits Derek in all the right ways, no question. And pair that with an authoritative look and some handcuffs, and sure, Stiles gets it. It’s just his first reaction to seeing a man in uniform isn’t ever going to be bow chicka bow wow.
“Did you have to work late?” he asks, dumping his backpack on Derek’s floor.
“Yeah. The lights went out on Main and Maple, and I had to do traffic control.”
“Man, that sucks,” Stiles says.
Derek shrugs, and starts to unbutton his shirt.
And just like that Stiles is done with the small talk part of the evening. He’s like one of Pavlov’s least self-controlled dogs. The second Derek slides that top button through the fabric of his uniform shirt, a bell rings somewhere in the corner of Stiles’s brain and he starts drooling.
Derek smirks at him, and turns to walk up the spiral stairs to his bedroom.
Stiles follows, already dizzy with anticipation.
In the bedroom, Derek shrugs his shirt off and drops in onto the floor. The muscles in his back shift and ripple under his skin, making his triskelion tattoo dance. Then he unbuckles his pants and slides them and his underwear down, revealing an ass that could have been sculpted out of marble by a Renaissance artist. Then he turns, revealing a dick that definitely wasn’t. Derek’s dick is way too big, way too heavy and thick and long for that. Way too real.
Derek sees Stiles staring, and smirks again. He curls his fingers around his dick and jacks himself lazily. “You want to ride this, baby? You want me to lay back while you show me how you can fuck yourself on my dick? Make yourself come while I’m splitting you open?”
“Use your words.”
Stiles swallows. “Y-yeah. Yes, Derek.”
Derek moves to the cabinet beside his bed, and takes out a condom and lube. He tears the condom open and rolls it on. Slathers it with lube and then stretches out on the bed, his arms behind his head. “Come on then. Show me how good you can be.”
Stiles’s hands are shaking as he tugs his clothes off, fingers fumbling with buttons and zips and laces. “I, um, I used a plug before I came over. And lube. Lots of lube.”
Derek runs his tongue over his bottom lip. “You got yourself ready for me?”
“Did you come?”
“No.” He’d been close though. So fucking painfully close. “Had to—had to stop before I did.”
Stiles’s spine melts at the words, and he clambers onto the bed. His face is burning and he can see his blush extending all the way down his chest. He can’t help but feel inadequate under Derek’s scrutiny, even though Derek has never made him feel that way. This is all Stiles. Scrawny, flailing Stiles. Being naked with Derek just throws his own deficiencies into sharp relief.
“Beautiful,” Derek murmurs as Stiles straddles him, and Stiles shoots him a sharp look. “You’re so hot, Stiles.”
He’s… he’s not stupid enough to contradict Derek, even though he knows he must be lying. Stiles has eyes. He hums instead, and hopes that sounds enough like agreement, and then reaches out for Derek’s dick. It’s hard, and hot, and he wants it inside him. He angles it, lifting himself up and notching it against his hole before very slowly pushing himself back down.
The sting as it breaches him feels so good, and then it’s inside him, forcing him open, forcing his body to take it. Stiles’s breath shudders out of him, and his eyes roll back in his head. “F-fuck.”
He’s so full, and it aches. It’s not sharp enough to call a hurt, but it’s something with an edge. Derek’s so big that Stiles can’t help pressing a hand over his stomach to see if he can feel Derek’s dick inside him.
“Move, baby,” Derek says, his voice low. “Fuck yourself on me.”
Stiles rolls his hips, gasping as Derek’s dick hits his prostate. He levers himself up onto his knees with difficulty, leaning forward, and then pushes back down again.
“Sit up straight,” Derek says, and Stiles shifts back, moaning. “Come on, baby. Don’t be lazy. Fuck yourself.”
Stiles lifts up again, his muscles squeezing Derek’s dick. Jesus. His thighs are going to give out and he’s only just started. The burn in his legs matches the one in his ass, and Derek isn’t helping at all. He’s not even rocking his hips up to meet Stiles on his next downward thrust.
Stiles bites his bottom lips and squeezes his eyes shut. He can’t… he’s pretty sure he can’t get off like this, but he knows better than to quit trying yet. He’s Derek’s good boy, and Derek wants him to do this.
“Open your eyes, Stiles.”
When he does, he’s blinded for a moment by tears of frustration, exertion. He pants, rolling his hips, keeping his spine straight.
Derek straightens his arms. Puts one hand on Stiles’s hip, as hot as a brand against the sweat-slick skin. Wraps his other one around Stiles’s aching dick. “Did you watch the video I sent you?”
Stiles lifts up and sinks down again, shuddering. “Mmm.”
Derek rubs his thumb around the head of Stiles’s dick and Stiles gasps and lifts himself up almost reflexively. He’s already over-sensitive and he hasn’t even come yet. “You’d look so pretty, taking a sound for me, wouldn’t you?”
Stiles shakes his head.
“Oh, but you would. So. Fucking. Pretty.” Derek smirks, and presses his thumbnail against the slit in Stiles’s dick.
Stiles lights up as though electricity has gone through him, and his orgasm hits him so fast he hasn’t even got time to realize it’s happening before he’s crying out and spurting cum all over Derek’s abdomen and chest. He falls forward onto Derek’s chest, panting for breath, and Derek rolls him over onto his back, pushes his knees up and open, and fucks into him with hard, long strokes that Stiles, dazed and floating, barely registers.
Stiles lays there while Derek finishes, staring up at him.
It’s finally happened.
Derek broke him with sex.
Derek comes, and then kisses Stiles gently and murmurs something to him. Stiles grumbles when Derek pulls out and pads away from the bed, but he’s back moments later with a warm washcloth. He cleans Stiles off, and vanishes again. Then he’s back with a plate of apple slices, and he feeds them to Stiles and doesn’t let him move until the plate is empty.
“Holy shit,” Stiles says at last, blinking up at the ceiling. He stretches, feeling like himself again, and side-eyes Derek. “You didn’t mean that stuff about sounding, did you?”
“I did,” Derek says. “But it stays in the category of dirty talk for now. I’d never make you agree to anything in the middle of a scene like that.”
“Oh,” Stiles says. “That’s good.”
And it is good. He knows that, objectively. But also, describing what they just did as a scene? The word seems oddly impersonal. They’re boyfriends, right? Boyfriends don’t call having sex a scene, do they? A scene implies something that has to be set up, planned out. Not spontaneous and fun. Shouldn’t boyfriends having sex be spontaneous and fun? But of course Derek had already planned how they were going to have sex before Stiles arrived, hadn’t he? Every time, actually. Can Stiles have a boyfriend and a Dom? It feels weird.
“You’re thinking so hard I can hear the gears turning in your brain,” Derek says at last.
“Oh.” Stiles scratches his nose, and wonders if Derek has ever had normal sex, like without being in charge of someone else, and if he’d like it if he did. But he’s not sure how to phrase that without sounding like he doesn’t like what they’re doing. And he loves what they’re doing. “Um, I should probably tell you that my dad guessed I have a boyfriend, and he wants to meet you.”
Derek blinks. “Oh.”
“Yeah.” Stiles huffs out a laugh. “So how do you feel about that?”
“I think I’m probably going to end up going to every shitty noise complaint we get for the rest of my career,” Derek says, and leans in and kisses Stiles gently. “But if you’re ready to tell him, then so am I.”
Warmth blooms in Stiles’s chest. “Yeah,” he says. “I think I am.”
The next day after school, when he’s waiting for his dad to climb out of bed after his night shift, Stiles watches the video that Derek sent him again. Again and again and again, fighting the urge to jerk off without permission, and wondering what it feel like to have Derek slide a metal sound into his dick.
He wants to try.
The Sheriff has Friday evening off. It’s unusual for him. He could work nine to five, but he doesn’t. He likes to work the same shitty shifts he always has, just to keep his finger on the pulse, he says. Stiles thinks it’s because he doesn’t know how to work nine to five, he’s worked shifts for so long. Whatever the case, a Friday night off is a rare event, and Stiles and his dad order pizza and watch a movie on TV. Stiles fidgets through most of the first part, and, when it gets to an ad break, his dad mutes the TV and turns to stare at him.
“Well, what?” Stiles asks.
His dad fixes him with a look. The look. “Well how about you spit out whatever the hell it is you’ve been trying to say since before the pizza arrived?”
“Okay,” Stiles says. He wipes his sweaty palms on the knees of his jeans. “Okay, so that boyfriend of mine you wanted to meet?”
His dad waits.
“Um, funny story,” Stiles says. “You work with him.”
Okay, so maybe not a funny story, because his dad does not look amused at all. And he doesn’t sound it either. “Jesus Christ, Stiles!”
“I’m eighteen,” Stiles says.
His dad pinches the bridge of his nose. “It’s not Hooper, is it?”
“What? Who? No!” Stiles gapes. “It’s Derek. Derek Hale.”
His dad is quiet for a very, very long moment. Then he rubs his hand across his forehead like he’s trying to dispel a tension headache, and sighs heavily. “Derek Hale?”
Stiles nods and fidgets.
“Oh, kid,” his dad says with another sigh.
“No!” The denial is too sudden to ring entirely true. “I like Hale. He’s a good officer. It's just…” His dad looks shifty all of a sudden. “Are you sure that you’re compatible?”
“What? Yes. Why would you ask that?”
Stiles’s dad sighs again. “Jesus. Okay, listen. Guys talk, okay? On stakeouts. We talk. You spend hours sitting together in a car, and the conversation can get a little personal, you know?”
Oh no. Stiles does not like where this is going.
“And from a few things that Hale has said, I get the impression that he’s into some… some stuff that maybe you’re not.”
Stiles just stares at him blankly and prays for the earth to open up and swallow him. “Stuff?”
“Maybe it was just locker room talk, but…” The only consolation here is that his dad looks as mortified as Stiles feels. The rest of his words come out in a rush. “He once told me that he used to tie his ex up and spank her! Okay? You happy?”
“Oh.” Stiles’s face must be bright red. “Um… oh.”
“Yeah,” his dad huffs. “Oh.”
“Um.” Stiles chews his lip.
His dad glares at him suspiciously. “What?”
Watching the realization dawn on his dad’s face is the most awkward things Stiles has ever done. And that includes all the weird stuff he’s done with Derek. “Oh, Jesus. You already know.”
“Yeah.” Stiles swallows. “I already know.”
“I’m going to choose to believe that’s because this is a discussion you’ve had.”
“Sure,” Stiles agrees slowly. “A discussion.”
“And I don’t ever want to hear otherwise.” His dad closes his eyes briefly. When he opens them again, the naked horror has been replaced by something else—concern. “Do you know what you’re doing, kid?”
“Yeah,” Stiles says with more confidence than he actually feels.
“Be safe,” his dad says. “And don’t tell me the details.”
“Okay,” Stiles says.
His dad picks a piece of green pepper off his pizza. “Can we talk about something else now?”
Stiles sags with relief. “Oh, god, yes. Please!”
Stiles spends Saturday with Scott and Lydia. They have a group project for English. Stiles and Lydia could do it in their sleep, but Scott’s struggling a little and Stiles wants to make sure that Lydia doesn’t strangle him for threatening to bring her GPA down. He spends the day running interference between them, and sending texts to Derek, who’s stuck at work.
I told my Dad, he admits by text. Are you still alive?
He gets a winky face emoji in return, which he has no idea how to translate.
When he gets home just in time for dinner, he’s shocked to see Derek’s Camaro parked in the driveway. He almost faceplants out of his Jeep in his rush to get inside, and barrels into the house to find his dad and Derek standing in the kitchen with a beer each.
He looks between them warily. “Dad. Derek.”
“Stiles,” his dad says evenly.
“What are you doing here, Derek?”
“John invited me for dinner.”
Stiles feels like a raccoon caught in a porch light. “Okaaaay.”
Is this going to be some weird dick measuring thing? Is his dad going to get his guns out and clean them in front of Derek? Is he going to try and pull rank at the dinner table? There are a million ways this could be a total disaster, and why doesn’t Derek look more terrified? How on earth does he have the audacity to do the things he does to Stiles, and then stand here and casually chat with his dad about some case they’re working on at the station?
Stiles fights down the crazy urge to blurt out something like: Dad! Guess what Derek wants to stick up my dick?
God. His impulse control and his brain-to-mouth filter are non-existent at the best of times. How the hell is Stiles supposed to ignore the elephant in the room when it’s wearing leather bondage gear and carrying a flogger?
“I’m firing up the grill,” his dad says. “Grab some plates and stuff.”
“O-okay.” Stiles hides his face in the cupboard gladly, and hears the back door swing open and then shut. A moment later there’s a hand on his shoulder, and a warm body pressing against his.
“You’re freaking out,” Derek says in a low voice. “Stop it.”
“You stop it!” Stiles hisses back.
“I’m not the one freaking out.”
“You should be!”
“Stiles.” Derek slides a hand around him, pressing it against his waist. “Calm down. It’s okay. We’re good.”
Stiles tries to draw a breath.
Derek slides his hand inside the waistband on his jeans, and then lower. His fingers graze the hair of Stiles’s happy trail, and Stiles’s dick jumps to attention like a good little soldier. “You like that?”
Yes, but also no! Not when his dad is right outside on the porch. He squirms, because he can’t answer.
Derek presses his mouth to the back of Stiles’s neck. “Calm down, baby. It’s okay. God. Know what I want to do?”
“Wh-what?” Stiles stares blindly at the plates on the shelf.
“I want to jerk you off right here,” Derek says, his voice more like a growl. “Want to make you come, while your dad is right outside. And you’d try so hard not to make any noise, wouldn’t you? But, baby boy, you’d want to scream for me.”
Why does everything Derek says sound so hot? Except Stiles would scream, probably, and then his dad would come in to find him with his dick in Derek’s hand, and no fucking way has Stiles got the money to pay for the sort of therapy he’d need to work through that kind of psychological trauma.
He grabs Derek’s wrist and pulls his hand out of his pants. “Stop it.”
Derek laughs softly, and puts his hands on Stiles’s hips.
Stiles turns in his grasp, and dares to steal a quick kiss. “Why don’t you be a good boy for once?”
Derek’s eyes widen in surprise, and then he flashes Stiles a beautiful smile. “I can behave.”
Stiles nudges him with his hip. “You’d better, Deputy Hale.”
“Stiles!” his dad yells from the porch. “Bring me the burgers?”
“Coming!” Stiles yells back, and then takes twice as long as he should because he and Derek are both trying not to die of laughter.
Dinner is actually weirdly fun after that. Stiles relaxes enough to enjoy himself, and he and Derek and his dad end up watching a game on TV. It’s a little weird when his dad sits in the armchair and lets them have the couch, and also a little weird that Derek puts his arm around Stiles’s shoulders, but it’s also nice. It’s good. His dad glances at them a few times, but it’s not as awkward as it could be.
“I’m off to bed,” his dad says at halftime. “Hale, you’ve got an early shift in the morning, don’t forget.”
“I’ll be there, Sheriff,” Derek says, but he makes no move to leave once Stiles’s dad goes upstairs.
They watch the rest of the game.
“So,” Stiles says when it’s over.
“So?” Derek raises his eyebrows.
“Want to fuck me in my bed while my dad and your boss is sleeping down the hall?”
Derek reaches out and cups Stiles’s cheek. Then he slides his hand lower, and grips his throat. It’s tight, but not so tight that Stiles can’t breathe, and Stiles finds himself leaning forward so he can really feel it. “Oh, baby boy, I thought you’d never ask.”
Stiles’s dick is already throbbing in his pants, and his breath shudders out of him. He climbs to his feet, takes Derek by the hand, and leads him upstairs.
Stiles’s bed has a Captain America comforter on it, and Stiles stares at it for a moment like it’s personally betrayed him. How could he forget something like that? Like, how could he forget that he might be legal age, but somehow his bedroom still belongs to a fourteen-year-old boy? Fuck. He has a Lego AT-ST on his bookshelf. Make that a ten-year-old boy. He thinks of Derek’s loft, with its neutral tones and bookshelves filled with actual books, and dies a little inside.
Derek closes the door behind them, and looks around the room. “This is where you sleep?”
Stiles makes a non-committal noise, like maybe Derek will believe he’s got a second bedroom somehow hiding behind this one, where the comforter is plain brown, and there’s not a collection of Pop! Vinyls on the computer desk.
“It’s very you,” Derek says, the corners of his mouth turning up in a smile as he picks up Stiles’s copy of Batman: Shadow of the Bat Vol. 1 from beside his laptop.
Stiles feels the back of his neck heat up.
“It’s very you,” Derek repeats, his voice soft, and he reaches out and hooks his fingers into the belt loops of Stiles’s jeans and reels him in. “Did you ever jerk off thinking about me in this bed?”
“Y-yeah.” Stiles breath shudders out of him. “Before you said I couldn’t.”
Since the day he first went to the station and ran into the newest deputy, to be honest.
“Fuck.” Derek makes a sound that is almost a growl. “Such a good boy, aren’t you?”
Stiles closes his eyes. “Mmm.”
He likes how he can be Derek’s good boy at the same time as everything’s so filthy. Like, he never thought he was allowed to like stuff like this. But he likes giving up control to Derek, and he likes the things Derek does to him, and he likes that Derek likes it too. For the first time since all this started, Stiles is starting to get his head around the idea that he’s giving Derek something too. Something of value. There’s a certain power in that and maybe it’s the real power in this relationship.
“Do you want to come, baby? Derek murmurs in his ear.
Stiles shivers. ‘Yes, Derek. Please.”
“Okay.” Derek presses his mouth to the shell of his ear, and bites softly, sending a frisson of arousal down Stiles’s spine. “If I let you come tonight, will you do something for me?”
“What?” Stiles whispers. He’s so hard he wants to reach down and adjust his junk in his pants, but he knows Derek won’t like that, so he curls his hands around the back of Derek’s neck instead. “What do you want me to do?”
“Baby, you’re so good at not coming,” Derek says. “I want to put a cage on you so you can’t get hard. Make you wear it for a week. Do you think you can do that?”
Stiles shivers again. “I don’t… I don’t know.”
“How about we try?” Derek asks. “And if you can’t handle it after a few days, we can take it off.”
We? Because it sounds like Stiles is going to be the one doing this, not Derek. We is a bit of a fucking stretch.
“You’d be so desperate for me, baby boy,” Derek says, licking a stripe up his neck. “So hot and needy.”
Like, is that possible? Is it actually possible that Stiles could be more needy? He kind of wants to find out. “Yeah. Yeah, we can try.”
“Oh, fuck, baby.” Derek grips a handful of his hair and tugs his head back. “You’re so fucking good for me. You’re incredible.”
And then he kisses Stiles. It’s rough, and hard, with an edge of aggression, and Stiles rocks his erection against Derek’s hip and whimpers against the push of his tongue as Derek jostles him backward onto his bed. He lands in a sprawl of limbs, and then Derek’s tugging at his jeans. Stiles lifts his hips so Derek can pull them off.
“Gonna fuck you,” Derek says. “Right here in this bed where you’ve jerked off thinking about me. Where you’ve rubbed your dick against the mattress wondering what my cock feels like inside you. Did you shove your fingers up your tight little ass, baby?”
Stiles swallows. He feels dizzy with need as Derek hooks his fingers in his underwear and pulls them down. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Yes, Derek.”
“Dirty boy.” Derek leans up again. “Get naked, baby, then lie on your stomach and hold yourself open for me.”
Stiles scrambles to obey. When he’s finally in the position Derek wants him in, holding his ass open, his fingers digging into his cheeks and his face burning, he twists his head to look at Derek.
Derek’s still clothed, except his dick’s hanging out of his jeans. It should look stupid, but somehow it doesn’t. As Stiles watches, Derek pulls a condom out of his pocket, tears it open, and rolls it on.
“Where’s your lube, baby?” Derek asks him softly. “Because I’m gonna go hard and fast on that pretty ass of yours. Split you open.”
Stiles swallows, mouth dry. He nods to his nightstand. “Top drawer.”
Derek grabs the lube, and settles himself on the bed between Stiles’s knees. The denim of his jeans rasps against Stiles’s skin, and Stiles’s dick throbs.
That’s it, baby,” Derek whispers. “Keep yourself open for me, like a good boy.” He presses two lube-slicked fingers against Stiles’s hole, and Stiles jerk and bites off a moan. “You’re so tight. So tight for such a little slut. Don’t let your daddy hear you, baby.”
And he shoves his fingers deep inside.
Stiles turns his face and hides it in his pillow and whines.
God. His dad’s room is just down the hall. This is such a bad idea. Except Stiles is the one who suggested it. What the fuck is wrong with him? Thinking about how his dad might hear them--might catch them--shouldn’t be so hot. But he’s the one who brought it up downstairs, and it suddenly occurs to him that Derek’s taking his lead from him, not the other way around.
“That’s right,” Derek says. “You’re my baby, but I’m not the daddy you’re thinking of right now, am I?”
Stiles moans into his pillow again.
“What would your daddy say, I wonder?” Derek scissors his fingers, and then pulls his hand free. “What would he say if he could see what a cock-hungry slut his little boy is?”
Stiles whines again as he feels the hot press of Derek’s dick against his hole, and then one of Derek’s hands is on his hip, pulling him back, and Stiles goes so fucking willingly. Spreads his legs as Derek pushes inside him, angles his hips, tries to get his knees under him so he can take Derek deeper.
That’s not what Derek wants though.
“No, baby,” he whispers, and then his body is covering Stiles’s. Stiles can feel the scratch of his zipper against his ass, the buttons of his shirt pressing into his back, the outside seam of his jeans digging into his inner thigh, but most of all he can feel Derek’s dick pushing into him, forcing space to open up inside him. “Stay still for me.”
Derek keeps one hand on his hip, fingers digging in. He puts his other hand on the back of Stiles’s head. Turns it so he can bite his ear and whisper filthy things to him.
“You’re so tight. So tight for me. Does your daddy know how dirty you are?”
Stiles bites his lip to keep from crying out as Derek starts to thrust, hitting his prostate every damn time. Stiles’s dick is so hard it’s aching, but it’s trapped between his body and his mattress, and Derek won’t let him move to get enough friction.
“Does he know, baby?” Derek murmurs. “Does he know the dirty things you think about in this bed? Does he know that you hump your mattress like a dog? Does he know you put your fingers inside you?”
Stiles swallows a desperate moan.
Derek tightens his grip in hair, pulling his head back. “Did you ever want him to walk in and see you?”
Stiles makes a sound that he hopes is denial, but he doesn’t know. Maybe he’s thought things like that. Maybe he had a dream once. Maybe. Fuck. He feels hot and sick and thrilled all at once, and his body is too wound up for his brain to even start untangling all his competing emotions right now. Pleasure is building in him, coiling tighter and tighter, and he doesn’t know if it’s in spite of the things Derek is saying or because of them.
“Stiles, baby,” Derek asks, his voice as dirty as sin. “When my cock is filling you up, fucking you just the way you like, do you ever imagine it’s him?”
Something short circuits in Stiles then. He comes, hard and fast, shuddering under Derek’s weight, gasping for breath. He pushes his head into his pillow, and lays there, boneless, while Derek finishes.
His body is wrecked. He knows it isn’t possible, but he feels like he’s in danger of floating right off the bed. He curls his fingers into his mattress to try to anchor himself.
His brain is…
Whatever he’s feeling right now, his first instinct is to run away from it.
“Hey.” Derek lifts his weight off him. “You back with me?”
Stiles lifts his face from the pillow. His cheeks are damp.
“Come here, baby.” Derek tucks his dick back into his jeans and zips up, and sits on the end of the bed.
Stiles clambers into his embrace.
“Too weird?” Derek asks quietly.
“I… I dunno.” Stiles’s brain still can’t get a handle on what just happened.
“Talk to me,” Derek murmurs.
“I…” Stiles rubs his hands over his face. “I love my dad, but not like that.”
“I know that.”
Stiles chews his lip. “So why did it get me hot?”
“Because fantasies aren’t reality,” Derek says. “Took me a while to figure out too, but you can get off to the fantasy of something even if in real life your balls would crawl so far up into your body that it’d take exploratory surgery to find them again.”
Stiles can’t help his snort of laughter. “I guess.”
“For the record though.” Derek leans in and kisses him softly. “Anything that makes you come without touching your dick is something you might want to explore more fully.”
Stiles glances at the wet spot on his comforter. “I just violated Captain America.”
Derek’s smile makes him feel warm all over. “Cap’s seen worse, I’m sure.”
“Probably.” Stiles takes a moment to breathe. He’s okay. He feels okay. He feels good. It was dirty and it was hot, but Derek’s not looking at him like he’s a weirdo. “Um… so you said something abut a cage?”
Derek’s smile widens. “Well, I didn’t exactly bring it with me to dinner with the Sheriff. Come see me tomorrow before you go to school. I’ll put it on you then.”
“Does it hurt?”
“It doesn’t hurt,” Derek says. “You’re gonna hate it, but it’s going to make you so fucking hot.”
“Okay.” Stiles takes a deep breath. “I want to try it.”
Derek kisses him again, gentle and sweet. Then he leans back and cups Stiles’s face with his hands. “You’re amazing, Stiles. I hope you know that.”
Stiles flushes. He doesn’t, not really, but he sure likes the way that Derek says it.
Stiles is sexually frustrated by the end of first period.
“Dude, what is wrong with you?” Scott asks, leaning over to peer at Stiles’s history notes as though the answer might somehow be found there.
The answer is in Stiles’s pants. More particularly, it’s around Stiles’s dick. It’s a couple of bits of plastic that Derek smirkingly fitted together around Stiles this morning, like the jigsaw puzzle from hell, and it’s driving him mad. It makes no sense. Stiles can easily go hours without thinking about sex, or having his dick remind him that hey, it’s here, but now? Right now it’s all Stiles can think about. His dick can’t get hard because of the cage, and it’s taken it as a personal challenge or something, because it keeps trying to fill, and it can’t, and Stiles wants to dive into an ice bath or something because this is ridiculous.
He wants the cage off. He’d rip it off himself if he wouldn’t tear his balls off trying. It’s been on for a little over an hour. How the fuck is he supposed to last a week? It’s driving him insane! He keeps fidgeting, and trying to surreptitiously adjust his junk as he sits, but of course any movement makes it worse. It’s like a persistent fucking itch that he can’t scratch. He hates it, and he hates Derek, and he’s so frustrated that he legitimately wants to cry. Or, failing that, fall on the floor and scream and kick until everything feels better.
He wants it off. He wants it off. He wants it off.
“Dude?” Scott asks, his forehead creasing with concern.
“I’m fine,” Stiles says through his teeth, and snaps a pencil.
He is not fine.
Jesus, he needs to relax. Maybe he should ask if Scott can steal him some ketamine from Deaton’s, just to take the edge off. With like, a coma that lasts the entire week. Scott could probably do that, right? And Stiles is crawling out of his skin here, and all because his dick can’t get hard in a place where he doesn’t even want it to get hard. How the fuck is that even fair?
Unable to take it anymore, Stiles lurches up from his seat, rushes past a startled Mr. Harris, and crashes out of the classroom door, yelling back that he’s going to throw up.
He hides in the bathroom, checking the stalls are empty before he digs his phone out of his pocket and dials Derek.
“Stiles,” Derek says, sounding calm and unruffled, the fucking asshole.
“Derek, I need you to take this thing off,” Stiles hisses into his phone.
“Is it hurting you?” Derek’s voice sharpens with concern.
“Yes!” And then he relents, because he knows Derek will call him on his bullshit if he’s lying. “No, but I hate it!”
“Hang on a second.” There’s silence on the other end of the phone, and when Derek speaks again, his voice is echoing slightly. Stiles wonders if he’s hiding in the bathroom too, at the station. “Okay. Take a breath, Stiles, and tell me how you’re feeling.”
“I hate it!” He feels like a toddler about to have a tantrum.
“I didn’t ask if you hated it. I asked how you’re feeling.”
Stiles squeezes his eyes shut, and shoves his spare hand down the front of his pants, attempting to adjust himself to no avail. Stupid fucking cage. Stupid fucking dick. “I hate it,” he says again, forcing himself to stay calm. He lowers his voice. “I keep trying to get hard, and I can’t, and it aches.”
“That’s normal, Stiles,” Derek says, his voice soothing. “You just need to take your mind off it, and it’ll stop.”
“I can’t!” Dumb tears sting his eyes.
“You know what we should do?”
“What?” Stiles asks grudgingly.
“After school, and after my shift, we should watch a movie. Curl up on my couch, and order some takeout, and relax.”
That… that sounds like nothing Derek has ever suggested before, actually, and Stiles isn’t quite sure how to take it. “You want to cuddle? You?”
He can hear the smile in Derek’s voice when he answers. “Kinky, right?”
Stiles snorts with laughter, and some of the tension in his shoulders loosens. He straightens up a little. “For you? Hell, yeah.”
“Okay,” Derek says. “Well do that, then. Can you hang in there until school is done?”
Stiles swallows. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I can try.”
“Good boy, Stiles.”
Stiles groans as the words make his dick stir.
Movie night with Derek is domestic as fuck. They cuddle up together under a comforter, and watch The Avengers. Stiles is still feeling jittery, but Derek holds his hand, and sometimes smoothes a palm down his forearm, and those light, gentle touches are weirdly comforting and, thankfully, not at all sexual. Well, just being in the same room as Derek Hale is automatically at least eighty percent sexual, but Stiles has been dealing with that awkwardness since they day he met his dad’s newest deputy, so he can deal with it now.
Midway through the movie, Derek presses something into Stiles’s palm, and Stiles looks down half expecting it to be some sort of weird new sex toy. He hopes it’s not, because it is really the wrong shape to be inserted into any of his orifices. He grins when he realizes what it is: a fidget cube.
He clicks and presses and spins his way through the movie, and barely even notices his dick.
By day three, Stiles thinks he’s got things almost under control. His frustration has died down from an angry boil into a gentle barely-there simmer, and he hasn’t punched any walls like he did yesterday. Progress! Also, his body has finally got the message that there’s no point trying to get hard, so even when a flush of arousal floods through him—he’s eighteen, it happens at least every hour, and not always for any particular reason—his body somehow turns it inward, instead of the sensation traveling directly to his dick. It’s like the cage has rewired his hardware or something. And Stiles is feeling pretty damn good about himself—he’s like some sort of mystical mind-over-matter sex energy guru or something, and he could probably start a religious movement about being one with the universe right now—when Derek totally fucks everything up by inviting him over to the loft.
Stiles is expecting a movie.
This is not a movie.
Derek is smirking at him, and when he walks toward him he swaggers like a big cat. “Want me to tell you what we’re doing this evening, baby boy?”
“What?” Stiles asks, his mouth suddenly dry.
Derek tugs him close, and licks a stripe up Stiles’s throat. “I’m gonna fuck you. Get my dick inside your hot, tight ass, and remind you how to take it. And baby?”
“What?” Stiles breathes, his heart racing.
Derek’s smile is evil. “You’re not going to come. You’re not even going to get hard. You’re just going to take it, like my good boy.”
It sounds like hell, but somehow it never even occurs to Stiles to refuse.
Uh. Uh. Uh.
The noise is punched out of Stiles with every one of Derek’s thrusts, part pleasure, part distress, and part a desperate need to vocalize that something is happening to his body, even if he can’t articulate what. Stiles is on his back, his shaking legs wrapped around Derek’s hips, and Derek is a looming presence above him, around him, in him. Stiles’s vision is clouded with tears as he’s rocked back and forth. It feels good, but not good enough, and all he’s got to hold onto are the noises he’s making.
Uh. Uh. Uh.
“Good boy,” Derek tells him, his voice strained. “That’s my good boy. Taking so well, baby. Feels good, doesn’t it, even if you can’t get hard?”
Stiles moans in response. It’s not enough. He doesn’t know if wants more, or he wants it to stop. He just knows that he wants something to give, but Derek won’t let it.
Derek won’t let it.
The sudden realization flips a switch inside him, just like that.
He’s five, and Babcia has dragged him to churh.
“We offer up our suffering,” she says. And God, Stiles is going to hell later, but that’s what this feels like it. It feels like transcendence, like the ecstasy of the martyrs. Stiles gives himself over to the will of another. He stops fighting to control his body. He stops fighting at all. He offers everything up to Derek, everything he wants from this moment, and everything he is in this moment, and all his frustrations bleed away in a sigh. He tilts his head up for a kiss as Derek leans down, and then he’s floating, his body undulating as Derek fucks him. He feels warm, and safe, sunk deep in the moment but also somehow a step removed. He feels no urge to come. His dick isn’t straining in the cage. He’s here, and he’s safe, and he’s warm, and Derek is his entire universe.
He feels good.
He’s floating, and then he’s drifting, and then maybe it’s over? Because Derek is wiping him down, and bundling him up in the comforter, and telling him over and over how good he is, how special, how lucky he makes him feel.
The words burst like sparks inside him, and he smiles as he drifts off to sleep.
“How are you feeling?” Derek asks, hours later, Stiles tugs on his underwear.
Derek fixes him with his stare. “Stiles?”
“Still a bit floaty?” He chews on his bottom lip for a moment. “That was sub space, right?”
“Oh, okay. Because the only time anything like that has happened before was when I accidentally took too much cold medicine and spaced out for a whole afternoon.” He steps into his jeans, and pauses with them halfway up his legs. Under his underwear, his dick is an odd shape because of the cage. “Is it weird it felt good even though I didn’t come?”
Derek’s mouth quirks. “That was kind of the point.”
“Right!” Stiles flushes. “But you’ll take the cage off at the end of the week like you said? Because I really do still want to come and stuff.”
“Four more days,” Derek promises. “Unless you need to safeword first.”
“No, um…” Stiles shrugs, and flashes him a smile. “Is it weird that I like not being able to get hard? Almost as much as I hate it?”
Derek laughs, the sound low and soft. “That was also kind of the point.”
“Okay,” Stiles says. “Yeah, I can do four more days.”
Stiles equilibrium doesn’t last.
On the third day Stiles breaks, and phones Derek at work, and demands he gets back to the loft to free him, before he starts trashing the place.
It’s worth the spanking he gets, for throwing a tantrum instead of safewording. And it’s totally worth the mind-blowing toe-curling orgasm he has the moment Derek takes the cage off and sucks Stiles’s dick into his throat.
After the incident with the cock cage, Derek takes it away with a smirk and doesn’t mention it again. And Stiles isn’t sure how he feels about that. Sure, he wanted it off, hence his tantrum, but also, it felt weirdly good to have something to fight. And yes, he knows how dumb that sounds, and how it makes no sense, but he sort of misses the frustration as much as he misses falling into sub space that time Derek fucked him when he was wearing it, and it’s weird.
He tries to explain all of this one evening at Derek’s, when his dad is on a late shift and Stiles is only allowed over at Derek’s on the proviso he does his homework. But figuring out something about himself seems a little more important than the themes in As I Lay Dying, right? His dad probably won’t agree with that, and neither will his English teacher.
Still, Stiles blurts it all out as he sits at Derek’s kitchen counter with his books spread in front of him.
“Hmm,” Derek says. He’s making omelets. They’re kind of his signature dish. “There’s nothing wrong with being a brat. And there’s nothing wrong with enjoying it.”
“But I didn’t?” Stiles removed his pen from his mouth. “Well, I sort of did, but I sort of didn’t too, and I don’t know which one it was.”
Derek plates up Stiles’s omelet and sets it down on the counter. “It can be both. When you want to try the cage again, we can do that.”
“Maybe not for a whole week this time?”
Derek’s mouth quirks. “Maybe two weeks?”
Stiles snorts. “Like hell!”
Derek laughs at that. “Eat your dinner, Stiles, and finish your homework, and then we’ll watch a movie, okay?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Stiles won’t lie: he’s expecting a Marvel movie or something, because this afternoon has definitely felt like they’re just hanging out, and Derek hasn’t called him his baby boy or his good boy all afternoon, and usually that’s what he says to let Stiles know they’re going to be doing something hot and amazing and filthy that is going to blow Stiles’s mind.
The move is not Marvel.
“You okay with this?” Derek asks.
Stiles nods, a shiver of heat running through him. “Yeah.”
It turns out that watching porn with Derek is really weird. Because usually when Stiles watches porn it’s with his bedroom door locked and his dick in his hand. He’s never watched it with another person, and Derek watches it like he’s watching the fucking golf or something—like he’s considering all the angles and the plays in a mildly interested way. Stiles sneaks a look at him and he doesn’t think he’s even hard. So, like, what’s the point?
They’re about ten minutes into the porn—a guy is getting rimmed on a pool table—before Stiles realizes exactly what the point is. Derek doesn’t give a fuck about what’s happening on screen, but he keep sneaking glances at Stiles as Stiles squirms next to him on the couch and keeps readjusting his position to hide just how turned on he’s getting.
“You okay, baby?” Derek asks him with an evil smile.
Stiles glares at him and presses his hand against his aching dick.
“No touching,” Derek says, voice as low as a growl. “That’s mine.”
Stiles’s dick jumps at that and he pulls his hand away.
Derek folds his arms across his chest, looking relaxed as hell, and looks at the screen again.
Stiles shifts his weight and squirms again as the guy on the screen gets eaten out, and tries not to think about how fucking amazing it feels when Derek does that to him. Stiles splays his hands on the couch, but the more he thinks about not touching himself, the more difficult it gets.
This is what Derek likes. Everything he does is designed to make Stiles fall apart, and fuck him, he’s good at it. Expert fucking level.
Stiles fixes his gaze on the bottom corner of the TV and tries not to see, but he can still hear. The slick, wet sounds of a tongue in a guy’s ass, and the high-pitched whining moans that the guy is making.
Stiles digs his fingers into the couch and tries to regulate his breathing. His dick is aching now, pushing up hard against his underwear, and he needs Derek to touch it. Needs Derek to get him off because he’s not allowed to do it himself.
“You look a little flushed,” Derek says mildly.
Stiles rolls his eyes. “What was the point of putting the cage away if I’m still not allowed to touch my dick?”
“I told you, baby,” Derek says. “Your dick is mine now, and I’ll play with it when I’m good and ready.”
Baby. There it is.
And Stiles knows that he could put an end to this at any time. He could tell Derek that he wants to stop. He could leave and go home. But he won’t. He won’t, because as much as he hates this, he loves it more. He loves that Derek can rile him up like this. Loves that it comes with the unspoken promise that Derek will wreck him in the end.
He squirms again, and Derek’s eyes narrow like a predator’s.
On the screen, the guy getting rimmed is wailing now, and Stiles wants to be the one making those noises.
“I want you to do that to me,” Stiles says. “Want you to rim me. Want you to fuck me. Please, Der!”
Derek is unmoved.
Stiles’s breath hitches. He swipes his tongue over his lower lip. “I want you to touch my dick. I want you to do what you want with it.” He’s been watching videos online with sounding, because he knows Derek wants to do that. And those guys online seemed to like it, right? “Whatever you want to do!”
“You know what I want to do with your dick, baby,” Derek says softly.
“Yeah.” Stiles juts out his chin. “Yeah, you can do it!”
For a moment there’s silence apart from the guy on the screen.
“Not tonight, baby,” Derek says at last. “I want you to think about that, and not just agree to it when you’re turned on. I want it to be something where the thought it of it makes you hot, not just something you’ll agree to because you want to come. Do you see the difference?”
Stiles sucks in a breath, and his arousal fades a little. “Yeah.”
“But I’ll blow you tonight,” Derek says, reaching over to grip Stiles’s dick through his jeans. “And I’ll make you come so hard you scream my name. Deal?”
Stiles wakes up the next morning loose limbed and smiling. He crawls out of bed, wakes up in the shower, and then heads downstairs for breakfast. His dad is already up, eating toast and raspberry jam for breakfast.
“Are we out of eggs?” Stiles asks, gesturing at his plate.
“Nope,” his dad says. “I just wanted something different.”
And well, isn’t that just a life philosophy that Stiles can get behind? If raspberry jam on toast can in any way be likened to having someone shove a metal rod up his dick. Stiles is pretty sure the analogy is sound though.
Last night, after Derek dropped him home, he told Stiles to think seriously about sounding, and to be honest if it’s something he wants to try or not. So Stiles is thinking about it.
Derek says it doesn’t hurt. Stiles isn’t sure he can really believe that, but Derek hasn’t lied to him yet. And the thing is, Stiles has always been curious, to a somewhat reckless degree. He rode on his first rollercoaster the moment he was tall enough, even though he was mostly terrified. Because his curiosity won out. And Stiles is pretty sure that it’s going to win out this time too.
He knows that if he tells Derek he doesn’t want to do it, that Derek will accept it. He also knows that if he tells Derek he doesn’t want to do it, that Stiles will wonder about it and obsess about it forever.
“Did you get your homework done last night?” Dad asks, crunching into the toast.
“Yep,” Stiles says.
“Because if your grades start to slip…”
“I know! I know!” Stiles rattles around in the fridge, looking for the orange juice. “If my grades start to slip, you won’t let me spend time with Derek after school.”
It’s cute that his dad thinks he can stop them seeing each other.
“That’s right,” Dad says. “I’ll put Derek on back to back shifts so he’ll be so exhausted all he has time to do is sleep.”
Huh. Maybe he actually could stop them seeing each other.
“Not gonna happen,” Stiles promises, pouring himself a glass of juice. “I’m on top of my grades, Dad.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Dad looks at the clock on the wall. “But if you’re not out of this house in ten minutes you’re going to be late for school.”
Stiles chugs his juice and books it.
Derek is on late shifts for the next three days, so Stiles loses himself in a research spiral. Derek has a rare weekend off after his late shifts, and Stiles has actually got all his homework out of the way by Saturday afternoon. He texts Derek, and turns up at his loft mid-afternoon. He was going to stop and grab a pizza on the way, but it turns out he’s way to nervous to even think about eating.
“Hey,” Derek says, a soft smile on his face. He leans in to brush a gentle kiss against Stiles’s mouth, and then nods at the backpack slung over his shoulder. “You staying the night?”
“That’s the plan,” Stiles says. “And, um…”
Derek raises his eyebrows.
“And I’ve decided,” Stiles says. “I want to do it. I want to try sounding. I’m ready.”
Derek is silent for a moment, looking into Stiles’s eyes as though he’s searching for a lie. He doesn’t find one, because Stiles is absolutely sure of this.
“Okay,” Derek says at last. “Come inside, baby, and show me how good you can be.”
Stiles shivers, his dick hardening, and follows him inside.
Does this count as an evil cliffhanger? :)
Stiles doesn’t think he was this nervous the time he lost his virginity to Derek. He showers, because he likes Derek’s shower, and because he thinks the steam will make him relax at least a little, and when he pads back into the bedroom, a towel wrapped around his hips, there’s a bundle on the bed. Derek unrolls it to reveal three silver sounds of increasing diameter.
Stiles’s stomach swoops, and he has to force himself to breathe.
“We don’t have to,” Derek says immediately.
Stiles stares at the sounds and tries not to think of shish kabobs. “I want to.”
“Do you want to think about it some more?”
Stiles shakes his head. “Nope.”
He wants this, he does. He stares at the sounds. He wants to know what they feel like inside him. He wants to lie there, open and completely submissive, while Derek fucks his dick with a sound, opening him wider, invading his body more deeply than he ever has before. It won’t be like spanking, or even like fucking. He won’t be able to turn his face and hide. With the sounds, he will be at the mercy of his own closeness with Derek. This will be like the time that Derek put the spreader bar on him and then just stared. He will have to let Derek see him. And maybe that’s what scares him the most. Not to downplay the utter fucking terror of having a metal rod shoved in his dick, of course.
Stiles sits down on the bed as Derek pulls more stuff out. Lube. A bottle of rubbing alcohol. A plastic syringe.
“What do I do?” Stiles asks, nerves thrumming.
“Lie down on the bed. Diagonally. I want the corner of the bed between your legs, and your legs hanging off the bed. We’re just going to use the smallest one today.”
It’s easier, once Derek tells him how he wants him, and Stiles gets into position, already breathing hard.
“You’re so hot, baby boy,” Derek says, his eyes hooded. “So fucking hot.” He picked up the syringe and lube. “You know,” he said, “there are the straight sounds and the curved ones. We’re using the straight ones, because I can’t use the curved ones if you’re hard. And I know this is going to make you so hard, Stiles.”
Stiles swallows, his throat clicking.
Derek fills the syringe with lube.
Jesus. He’s gonna shoot that down my dick. And that’s not even the worst part!
He sucks in a breath and reminds himself that Derek promised this wasn’t going to hurt.
Derek sits on the edge of the bed, the syringe in one hand. He rubs circles on Stiles’s stomach with the other, and Stiles wonders if Derek knows just how scared he is, and how much trust he’s putting in Derek here. And then he chides himself for being an idiot. Of course Derek knows.
Derek always knows.
Derek takes Stiles’s dick gently in his hand. He pushes his thumb around the head, the touch more soothing than sexual. Then he squeezes a little, forcing the slit open, and Stiles tries not to jerk off the bed.
“I’m gonna put some lube down in there,” Derek says quietly. And before Stiles can even think about whether or not to protest, the tip of the syringe is in his slit. It’s a bizarre sensation as the lube shoots into him, and his bladder throbs.
There’s a slight burn in the tip of his cock as Derek withdraws the syringe, and Stiles shifts uncomfortably.
“Okay?” Derek asks, rubbing the sides of his dick gently. Stiles feels like he’s about to shoot the lube right back out, but the more Derek rubs, the more the feeling fades.
“It’s weird,” Stiles decides at last.
“You might feel a little soreness from the alkaline balance in the lube. It’s normal. It’ll go away in a second.” He keeps stroking. “Just the small sound today, remember? Whenever you’re ready.”
“I’m ready,” Stiles says, hoping the quaver in his voice doesn’t invalidate that. He squirms, trying involuntarily to get Derek to pump him harder, touch his balls.
Derek leans down and kisses him, and Stiles lets go of that need, and sinks into the kiss instead.
Derek picks up the sound and swabs it thoroughly with alcohol. He stands and positions himself between Stiles’s legs. Stiles eyes the long, thin piece of metal worriedly, a part of him still unable to believe he’s agreed to let Derek put that inside him. That part of him is scared, but a growing part of him is perfectly relaxed. He’s kind of floaty and drifty, the way he got that time he discovered sub space.
Derek pinches his slit open again. “Deep breaths,” he says. “I won’t hurt you.”
Stiles expects the sound to be cold, but it feels warm as Derek slips it into the head of his dick. Stiles inhales slowly, and the sound drops down a half inch. Derek doesn’t push, just lets the sound fall inch by inch, and Stiles can’t stop staring at the place where the metal goes into his dick. There’s a feeling of fullness, almost an ache, like he has to piss. And then the sound falls another half inch, and there is just warmth, waves of it, moving from his bladder through his cock, and he's afraid he is pissing.
He tightens his jaw and spreads his legs farther.
“Der,” he whispers, as Derek rubs the sides of his shaft again and makes Stiles’s dick fill. It’s such a weird sensation, getting hard around the metal. He arches his back. “Oh fuck.” He can feel the sound all the way in the lower part of his dick. Can feel the slight resistance as Derek tried to navigate the curve there.
“Yeah?” Derek asks.
“Feels…weird. Good. Oh fuck!” Derek gets the sound around the bend, and then—is the thing in Stiles’s bladder? It feels like it. There is an enormous pressure, like he has to piss so fucking bad, but also like he’s just about to come. And he doesn’t want to move too much, because that whole fucking thing is inside him, but he also wants to thrust his hips, wants to squirm, wants to make something happen.
“Derek…” Stiles grips the comforter.
“Holy shit, Stiles.” Derek’s whisper is shocked, reverent.
Stiles’s hand is clenching and unclenching, his stomach muscles quivering. “I don’t know what to do, Der!”
“Do you want it out?”
“N-no. I don’t know! What if I piss myself?”
“Does it feel good?”
“I don’t know! Yes! God, Derek, it’s so good. Let me come. Please? I need to come. Derek, I need it.”
“You can’t,” Derek says softly. “Not while it’s in you.”
“Then take it out!” Why the hell can’t he make Derek understand that he needs…needs… he doesn’t know what the fuck he needs, but the pressure is driving him crazy.
Derek grins. He starts to pull the sound out, and it pulls a soft cry out of Stiles. His whole body shudders, and he tries to press his legs together. It’s like having an orgasm but so much slower. Fuck, it’s painfully slow, when what his body is screaming for is a quick, hard release.
But once it’s out, yeah, once the damn thing is out, he’s gonna come, and it will feel so good.
Except the sound stops moving. Then it drops down again.
Stiles stares at Derek, unable to understand what just happened.
“Oops,” Derek says, but he doesn’t sound sorry at all.
“Asshole!” Stiles exclaims, his burn of righteous anger lost to another wave of warm need.
Derek draws the sound up again, and Stiles works on breathing. God, it’s almost out; Stiles can feel it in the tip of his cock, just under the head, sending little shock waves through that sensitive area. And suddenly Stiles tenses, tries to clamp himself around it, because he’s absolutely sure if Derek takes it out, he’ll start pissing. “No!”
“Keep it—keep it in.”
God fucking damn it. He needs it in to stop himself from pissing, and he needs it in because if it leaves him, then this constant flood of pleasure will recede. He's a mess already; conflicting needs tugging at him, and there's nothing he can do. Nothing except give up control of all of this, of all of him, to Derek.
The sound descends again, and Stiles moans and rocks his hips, silently pleading with Derek to keep going.
Derek lifts the sound an inch, then drops it.
Stiles’s eyes roll back. He doesn’t give a fuck what he looks like; he spreads his legs, arches his back, and opens his mouth. Again the lift and drop, the deep, all-over heat, the overwhelming pleasure.
Derek runs his fingertips in circles around Stiles’s navel, his touch so light the muscles flutter. Then he presses lightly on Stiles’s bladder, and Stiles lets out a half groan, half cry. Derek presses harder. Stiles gasps and squeezes his eyes shut.
Derek takes hold of Stiles’s dick again, except this time he places his wrist and part of his forearm over Stiles’s bladder and keeps a steady weight there. It feels like the metal sound is stretching him even wider, forcing everything back down. Stiles lets out a low, continuous hum as Derek lets gravity pull the sound down into him once more. It hits that place again, and Stiles sighs, letting the pleasure wash over him instead of tangling himself up in it.
Stiles drifts, stomach muscles rolling with the movement of the sound. Derek draws it up and lets it fall over and over again, the repetitive motion somehow soothing. It’s fine. It doesn’t hurt, and he’s safe, and Derek is doing this for him, so that he’ll feel good.
Derek’s hand is on him. Derek is making him feel all these sensations. Derek is in control of everything he feels. Derek has a lot of power. But maybe Stiles has more.
Because he can make Derek want to do these things to him. Can make Derek’s whisper sound like worship. He can make Derek need just as much as he makes Stiles need.
He thinks Derek says something to him, but he doesn’t care what. He groans deeply as Derek fucks him with the sound, eyes closed, thoughts unfocused. Then Derek pulls the sound out and there is a white flash of sensation, and Stiles barely has time to panic with the knowledge that he’s going to lose control of his bladder before Derek’s fingers clamp around the base of his cock, steadying him first, and then pumping him quickly, twice. Stiles gives a small cry and tries to grab Derek’s wrist, because his body’s wires are still crossed, and he has no idea if he’ll piss first or come first.
But Derek doesn’t stop, and Stiles’s cum fountains suddenly over his fist. Stiles goes limp, letting the orgasm happen, too tired to do anything else. He pants a little as it goes on; he had no idea his body could produce this much cum. Plus Derek is milking him gently, forcing the lube out of his cock. Stiles shivers, his throat tight, eyes prickling. He lifts his legs again and wraps them around Derek, who takes a step closer to him. Derek wipes his hand on a washcloth, then touches Stiles, simple, soft touches all over his body, until Stiles has settled down and can breathe again.
It takes a long time before his legs stop shaking and Derek helps him into the bathroom.
After that, Stiles faceplants on Derek’s bed and dozes, warm and relaxed, with Derek's arms around him.
He only wakes up when Derek brings him dinner.
So, this chapter borrows very heavily from an original novel called The Boy Who Belonged. I co-wrote that one, so the words are mine. No plagiarism issues here! Basically I knew there was no way I could write a sounding scene as intense as that one again. So I stole it from myself.