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Stiles decides to work this summer, rather than lie around doing noting in his free time. Finding a job is not hard, he simply slots into a barista position at the coffee shop Derek owns, alongside Erica and Isaac who work there year round between going to classes. Derek, in the interest of moving forward with life, has bought and developed a few places around town, the coffee shop just seemed like the nicest one to spend time at for Stiles. Derek agreed, that is until something…rather someone changes his mind.
His name is Fitz, and he’s at the coffee shop every day, always smiling and suave and ordering sophisticated drinks with an unselfconscious enthusiasm. Fitz is the kind to wear printed ascots and monogrammed smoking slippers, the type of man who rolls his own tobacco and has a vinyl collection in a room with a wet bar and a billiards table.
“Afternoon Stilinski” he always says when he breezes in smelling heavily of smarm and too much Paco Rabanne, and Stiles will smile, wave, greet him back.
Derek first hears of Fitz over a pack dinner of pizza and more pizza, when Erica slyly drops the name into the conversation and watches as if it's a bomb that will explode. Derek doesn’t pay it much mind, it isn’t as if Stiles doesn’t have friends at school, it isn’t as if he hasn’t heard Stiles gush about this or that “awesome” person before. He brushes it off, there are more worrying things to focus on than a guy with a name like Fitz.
Then he happens to spend a day in the coffee shop.
“Afternoon Stilinski!”
The words pierce through the buzz of other conversation in the shop and Derek looks up from where he’s going over the shop layout (he wants to put in more book shelves near the windows) to see who had spoken. He has to admit the man is attractive, even with all his dandyish dress sense and ridiculous leather messenger bag. His sharp eyes take in the way the guy leans in to tell Stiles his order, and he doesn’t even need to scent the air to smell the attraction coming off him in waves.
“Ah, Fitz is here,” Erica says with wicked nonchalance, balancing a tray full of dirty mugs on her hip. “he’s kinda hot isn’t he? Even if his hair is dumb, but I bet someone’s long fingers running through it should fix that.”
Derek is too used to Erica’s baiting to do anything but raise an eyebrow at her until she huffs and gets back to work. Then he turns back to Fitz, whose hand rests casually on Stiles’ arm.
If his life was a movie, Derek would have stood up and strode over to where Fitz and his obnoxiously sculpted mini-pompadour hair stood stroking his filthy hands all over Stiles. He would have punched him in his ridiculous face and taken grim satisfaction in watching him trip back over his vintage brogues. Then he would have grabbed Stiles, hauled him over the counter, and kissed him right then and there, to show everybody looking who belonged to whom.
Instead Derek draws in a box on his floor plan and labels it “Bookshelf”. And if he snaps three pencils in the process, nobody is around to notice.
Stiles gets off work at 3, earlier than the others because he’s just a part-timer. He tells Erica he’s taking off and she just waves him away. Isaac smiles at him from where he’s scrubbing down tables.
Stiles looks for the hulking shadow of doom and gloom that Derek has been all day, but is surprised to find that he’s gone. He shrugs and heads to the back to hang up his apron and grab his things.
The break room of the shop is surprisingly nice, outfitted with a few lounges and one long plush couch that is clearly made for taking naps on. Stiles stretches and opens his locker, feeling a little stiff and tired after standing for the past 7 or so hours.
The door opens and closes, the lock clicking into place and Stiles doesn’t have to look around to know who has joined him. He feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up with the intensity of Derek’s gaze and he forces himself to remove the apron slowly, willing his hands not to shake. When he closes his locker again and turns around, Derek is upon him, kissing him with too much teeth and gripping his arms with took much force.
“Does he know?” Derek growls when they pull apart and he’s licked the pinpricks of blood from Stiles’ lips. Instantly Stiles forgets where they are, forgets the paper thinness of the wall separating the break room from the back hall. His world consists of Derek, looking stormy eyed and dangerous, gripping bruises into his skin.
“Does who know?” Stiles says and he knows he’s being coy, knows who Derek is talking about. He would have had to be blind not to see the way Derek glared at Fitz, as if he wanted to tear out his spine through his mouth.
“You know who,” Derek leans in and whispers, and Stiles can’t hold in his gasp, not when his heart is beating a frantic tattoo against his ribcage. Sometimes he gets scared about how quickly Derek can rile him up, set his heart to thumping and his passage moistening in readiness. How easy it is for Derek to make his thighs tremble and clench, ready to spread wide at his word.
“I don’t think I do,” Stiles replies and ignores the slightly breathy quality of his voice because he can’t help it, not when Derek is full of possessive anger and raring to go.
Derek grits his teeth and the muscles in his jaw stand out as he struggles to retain control of himself, his eyes are always indicative of his mood, and they glow red now.
“Pants,” Derek says roughly, stepping back. It’s an order, one that Stiles knows well. He swallows thickly around the sudden dryness in his mouth and moves to obey, long fingers making quick work of his jeans. He pulls them down and off, removing his shoes in the process. Only when he stands in his oversize shirt, falling over his thighs and past his ass, does he look back at Derek, whose dark eyes are still burning red coals in a stormy face.
“What now?” he asks, trying for neutral but landing very far from it. Derek crowds him against the locker, using the pure bulk of his frame to make Stiles shrink. He breathes hard, nostrils flaring as he scents the air where Stiles knows he can smell it. The spice and petrichor shot through with hints of crackling ozone; the scent of arousal thrumming hot and wet between his thighs.
“Show me,” Derek murmurs almost gently, still looming. He braces his arms on the lockers, bracketing Stiles between them. His eyes track the movement of Stiles’ hands, deftly sliding down to the hem of his shirt, gingerly gripping the fabric between long fingers, and lifting it up. Slowly.
Derek takes a deep breath. Blood. And when he looks at Stiles he’s blushing satisfyingly red, but his eyes are unwavering and unabashed; two pieces of Montezuma’s treasure, shining tawny and enticing.
The shirt reaches the juncture of groin and thigh and Derek groans low at the sight that greets him. The innocent press of soft peaches and cream flesh against a slash of red silk fantasy; the subtle curve of hip upon which jauntily tied ribbon rests in bows, binding the red silk panties, he takes it all in with a mouth that is suddenly dry as cotton.
“Do you like them?” Stiles asks quietly, innocently, “I bought them all by myself, I’ve been wearing them all day thinking of you”
Derek thinks of Stiles’ long, capable fingers, delving eagerly into a riot of colored lace and silk and satin, lifting pair after delicate pair up to his eager eyes for inspection, sliding those slim legs into this red pair in the morning all while thinking of Derek.
“You’re…you’re so…” Derek says through gritted teeth, struggling to find the right words. Stiles drops his shirt, hiding where his dick is already swelling against the red silk, and slides his palms up Derek’s chest to rest his hands on tense shoulders.
“What? I’m so…what?” he challenges, and Derek’s eyes are back to full red, his voice already scraping and deep when he replies,
“Maddening” and hooks an arm around Stiles waist to pull him flush against his body, then kisses him.
They can’t make sound, at least not too much of it. Trying to conceal their actions from Erica and Isaac is a moot point, but they can’t let themselves be heard by the shop’s clientele.
Derek lifts Stiles up, hoists one leg on either side of him, and kisses him hard against the lockers as Stiles’ frantic fingers move desperately to undo the buttons of Derek’s shirt.
“You’re such a tease,” Derek pants, “such a fucking tease.”
Stiles’ smile is mischievous. He doesn’t deny it.
“You should know better Derek,” he admonishes, though the effect is somewhat lessened by the breathlessness of his voice.
“You should know there’s only you.” He kisses Derek’s face, licks the flat plane of his stubble-roughened cheek, and cups his hands around that strong angular jaw.
“You should smell it on my clothes, or smell it here” he pants and grinds his crotch against Derek to punctuate.
“I’m a good girl, yours, only yours.”
And Derek feels a roar of victory try frantically to escape his throat so he buries his face against Stiles’ chest and gets a mouthful of his shirt trying hard not to make sound. His heartbeat thunders in his ears and he wonders if Stiles really knows what those words do to him.
Stiles swears he’s never been so hot in his life, as he lay writhing on the couch, Derek looming above him, three fingers torturing stifled moans from Stiles’ lips as they move inside him. He’s naked except for the panties, which are soaked with his arousal but which Derek refuses to let him take off.
“This is what you get,” Derek says roughly, eyes intent on Stiles’ face as he brushes persistently against his prostate, “you’ve been a very bad girl.”
“Nnnngghhggkk” Stiles says.
“Fuck Stiles, your pussy is so wet, just from my fingers” Derek’s other hand strokes slow patterns against the inside of Stiles’ thigh,
“Derek,” and “Please” force themselves from Stiles’ lips, always pleading. He can never help it when he’s brought to this level of madness. When his dick is hard and weeping and his entrance is soaking wet and ready for the thick, hot, slide of Derek’s cock inside him.
“Fuck” Derek groans, pulls his fingers out and sits back, looking darkly down at Stiles.
“I wish you could see yourself lying there like this, moaning my name like you’re hungry for it,” he says, and it's a testament to how far gone Stiles is that all he does is spread his legs more and tilt up his hips,
“I want it, I want your fat cock inside me, fuck my tight little cunt Derek,” he moans and drops a hand down, biting his lip hard but never breaking eye contact as he slips a finger inside with ease.
“I’m so ready for you, fill me up, make me scream”
And he’s pleading but he’s challenging, rousing the alpha inside Derek to full awareness.
Bend him over and watch him take you inside like a greedy little slut. Fuck him until you’re both spent then hold him down and give him your knot. Breed him and watch him grow heavy with your s….
Derek cuts his wolf off, impossibly aroused, and shocked out of his mind at where his thoughts and instincts were leading him. Then Stiles lets out a sharp little moan and he’s brought back to the present. Back to the room that’s sodden with the scent of Stiles’ wetness, saturated with the sounds of their desperation.
“Fuck me Derek,” Stiles says.
And he does.
He enters in one smooth stroke, eyes squeezed shut at the feeling of that grasping heat around him. He grips Stiles’ slender ankles, keeping his legs spread up and wide apart as he fucks into him. Stiles is tossing his head from side to side, one arm stuffed against his mouth to keep the sounds muffled; his other hand glides furiously over his weeping length, catapulting himself towards release even as Derek finds his prostate and pounds against it, sending electric shocks racing down his spine.
“Derek, Derek, I’m so close, I…” Stiles pants, words garbled by desire, and Derek snaps his hips hard into him, grinding mercilessly against Stiles’ prostate.
“You look so good like this, so tight for me,” he grunts, “you wanna come baby?” he asks, and Stiles nods frantically,
“say it for me” Derek teases,
He slides his grip down to the milky paleness of Stiles’ thighs, squeezes them in his hands, kneading the flesh.
“I want to come, please” he says, nearly sobbing. Derek leans down, fucking into Stiles’ grasping wetness hard and fast. They kiss, open mouthed and breathing hard; Derek feels the tensing of Stiles’ body in his arms before he’s coming, mouth gaping open in a soundless scream, head thrown back so the tendons in his long neck stand out. Derek mouths along that pale column of flesh and bites down as his own orgasm hits him like a brick wall and he releases deep inside.
Almost immediately the instinctual urge to knot rides hard on his release, nearly overwhelming him in the moment his control is at its weakest. This time it comes up even harder than ever before, almost escaping his grasp; but he stiffens and regroups his senses, once more getting a hold on the wildness of the wolf within.
There’s a knock on the door,
“I need to get something from my locker”
Its Isaac, sounding supremely embarrassed. Derek grunts, filing his odd behavior away for later analysis. For now he and Stiles need to get cleaned up, he looks down to Stiles and feels inexplicable loss at the sight of his cum sliding out of his entrance and down his leg. Stiles wipes at it, scrunching his nose a bit in disgust,
“Gotta get home to a shower like, yesterday” he says, and goes about putting on clothes.
“Hang on Isaac,” Derek says.
No use making a big deal about the strange moods of his wolf at the moment.
It’s not like Stiles will know the answer either and, frankly, Derek is a little too skittish about the implications of his instinctual behavior when Stiles is involved.
He and Stiles work well in bed; they know what turns the other on. But Stiles does not belong to Derek. He loses hours and sweet dreams between peaches and cream thighs and ambrosial wetness, rejoices in the suck and pull of that delicious pucker on his cock; but he’s learned that sex doesn’t mean much.
They fuck, Stiles leaves, Derek lives life until he comes back and they repeat. That’s all.
Isn’t it?