Archive of Our Own ^beta

The fluorescent lights of the Beacon Hills Sheriff’s Station buzzed faintly overhead as John Stilinski trudged down the hall, his boots scuffing against the worn linoleum. It was late—too late for anyone to still be here, he thought, especially since he wasn’t sheriff anymore. That title belonged to his husband, Derek Hale, now. John had retired a year ago, handing over the badge with a mix of pride and reluctance. But tonight, something had drawn him back. Call it intuition, call it a hunch—whatever it was, it gnawed at him.

He’d been home, restless, flipping through channels, when he decided to swing by the station. Derek had mentioned working late on a case, and John figured he’d surprise him, maybe drag him home for a quiet night. What he didn’t expect was the faint sound of muffled grunts echoing from the interrogation wing as he approached. His brow furrowed. The interrogation room was soundproofed—state-of-the-art, installed during his tenure—so why could he hear anything at all?

John’s gut twisted as he rounded the corner to the observation room, the one with the one-way mirror designed to watch suspects squirm under pressure. The blinds were half-open, and the sight that greeted him through that glass stopped him dead in his tracks.

There, in the harsh glow of the interrogation room’s overhead light, was Derek—his husband, the new Sheriff of Beacon Hills—bent over the metal table, his uniform pants yanked down to his ankles. His broad, hairy back glistened with sweat, and his massive, fat, hairy ass was on full display, cheeks spread wide as he took it hard. And the one giving it to him? None other than John’s own son, Stiles Stilinski, now a deputy in the department. Stiles’s uniform shirt was unbuttoned, his lean, muscled chest heaving as he pounded into Derek with a ferocity John hadn’t seen in years—if ever.

Stiles was hung. Hung like a goddamn horse. John’s jaw tightened as he registered the sheer size of his son’s cock—thick, veiny, and bigger than John’s had ever been, even in his prime. It glistened with lube and Derek’s slick, slamming into Derek’s wrecked hole with a rhythm that was rough, primal, and unapologetically manly. Derek’s grunts were guttural, his big hands gripping the edges of the table as he pushed back into every thrust, his hairy thighs trembling. Stiles had one hand fisted in Derek’s dark hair, yanking his head back, while the other gripped Derek’s meaty hip, fingers digging into the flesh.

“Take it, Sheriff,” Stiles growled, his voice low and commanding, a smirk playing on his lips. “You’ve been begging for this all fuckin’ day, haven’t you?”

Derek groaned, a desperate, needy sound. “Fuck, Stiles—harder. Don’t stop.”

John’s breath hitched. Anger surged through him, hot and sharp, betrayal slicing deep. His husband and his son—his son—fucking like animals in the very room where John had once upheld the law. But beneath the rage, something else stirred, something he hadn’t felt in months. His cock twitched in his jeans, straining against the zipper. He hadn’t gotten hard in ages—not since the stress and age had started catching up to him. He’d chalked it up to life, to growing older, but now? Now, watching Stiles dominate Derek with that massive dick, John’s body was waking up in a way he couldn’t ignore.

He stumbled back a step, pressing himself against the wall of the observation room, his hand instinctively dropping to his crotch. He was hard—painfully hard—and it shocked him. His fingers brushed over the bulge, and a shiver ran up his spine. He shouldn’t be turned on by this. He should be storming in there, breaking it up, yelling, anything but standing here like some pervert. But he couldn’t move. He couldn’t look away.

Stiles’s thrusts grew more brutal, the sound of skin slapping skin reverberating through the soundproofed walls—or maybe John was just imagining it, his senses heightened by the scene. Derek’s ass jiggled with every impact, the thick hair matted with sweat and lube. Stiles leaned forward, his bearded jaw clenched, and spat onto Derek’s hole, watching it drip down before slamming back in. Derek cried out, a mix of pain and pleasure, his cock swinging heavy and leaking between his legs.

“You like that, huh?” Stiles taunted, his voice dripping with arrogance. “Big bad Sheriff Hale, getting fucked stupid by his deputy. My old man ever do you like this?”

John’s heart stuttered. The mention of him—him—sent a jolt straight to his dick. He fumbled with his belt, yanking his jeans open, and wrapped a trembling hand around his erection. It wasn’t as big as Stiles’s, nowhere close, but it was hard, throbbing, and leaking pre-cum onto his fingers. He stroked himself, slow at first, eyes glued to the mirror as Stiles railed Derek within an inch of his life.

Derek came first, a hoarse shout tearing from his throat as ropes of cum splattered onto the table beneath him. His body shook, his hole clenching around Stiles’s cock, and that seemed to push Stiles over the edge. With a feral growl, Stiles slammed in deep, hips stuttering as he unloaded inside Derek, filling him up. John could see it—Stiles’s balls tightening, the way Derek’s ass twitched as it took every drop.

They didn’t stop there. Stiles pulled out, his cock still half-hard and slick with cum, and shoved Derek onto the table. Derek climbed up, straddling Stiles’s face as Stiles lay back, grinning wickedly. Derek’s huge, hairy ass lowered onto Stiles’s bearded face, and John watched, mesmerized, as Stiles’s tongue darted out, lapping at the mess leaking from Derek’s wrecked hole. Derek groaned, grinding down, his fat cheeks smothering Stiles as he took Stiles’s cock into his mouth, sucking it clean. The taste of cum and Derek’s own ass mingled on his tongue, and he moaned around the thick shaft, bobbing his head.

Stiles’s hands gripped Derek’s ass, spreading it wider as he ate him out, his fingers slipping into the sloppy hole to scoop out his own cum. He fed it to Derek’s ass, then pulled back to lick it up himself, a filthy cycle that had John panting. His hand moved faster on his cock, the wet sound of his strokes filling the observation room. He was a cuck—he knew it now. The betrayal, the humiliation, it all twisted into something unbearably hot, and he couldn’t stop.

Derek and Stiles shifted again, coming up for air, and locked lips in a messy, open-mouthed kiss. John could see their tongues tangling, swapping the taste of cum and ass between them, and it was too much. His orgasm hit him like a freight train, cum spilling over his hand and soaking into his jeans. He bit his lip to stifle a groan, his knees buckling as he slumped against the wall, chest heaving.

In the interrogation room, Stiles and Derek were still catching their breath, oblivious to John’s presence. Stiles slapped Derek’s ass playfully, smirking. “Good work, Sheriff. Same time tomorrow?”

Derek chuckled, hoarse and sated. “Only if you bring that dick again, Deputy.”

John couldn’t take it anymore. He staggered out of the observation room, his pants sticky and ruined, his heart pounding in his ears. He burst out of the station into the cool night air, leaning against the wall as he tried to process what he’d just seen—what he’d just done. He’d liked it. Fuck, he’d loved it. And that realization scared the hell out of him.

John Stilinski hadn’t slept in two days. Not properly. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Derek—his husband, the man he’d built a life with—bent over that interrogation table, ass up, taking Stiles’s horse-hung cock like it was the only thing keeping him alive. The sounds haunted him: Derek’s guttural moans, Stiles’s taunting growls, the wet slap of skin. He’d stumbled home that night, jeans ruined, shame clawing at his chest, and spent hours staring at the bedroom ceiling they’d shared for years. Betrayal should’ve been the only thing he felt. Should’ve. But his dick had other ideas, twitching awake every time the memory hit.

He didn’t confront them. Didn’t have the guts—or maybe didn’t want to. Instead, he found himself back at the Beacon Hills Sheriff’s Station by mid-afternoon, a thermos of coffee in hand as a flimsy cover story. Derek was in his office, door ajar, scribbling notes with that furrowed brow John used to find endearing. Stiles lounged in the bullpen, feet kicked up on a desk, scrolling his phone with that cocky grin plastered on his face. John lingered by the coffee machine, watching them through the glass partition. They didn’t know he’d seen. Didn’t know he’d stood there, hard and helpless, jerking off to their filth.

“Afternoon, honey,” Derek called out, spotting him. His voice was steady, warm—like nothing had changed. “Didn’t expect you today.”

John forced a smile, lifting the thermos. “Thought you might need a pick-me-up. Long shifts, right?”

Stiles glanced up, smirking. “Yeah, Dad. Sheriff’s been keeping me busy. Real hands-on boss.”

Derek’s jaw tightened for a split second, a flicker John might’ve missed if he wasn’t looking for it. “He’s a good deputy,” Derek said, voice even. “Keeps things… interesting.”

John nodded, sipping his coffee to hide the way his gut twisted. He should’ve said something—called them out, demanded answers. But his tongue felt heavy, his resolve brittle. Instead, he mumbled some excuse about checking the old case logs and slipped down the hall, boots quiet on the linoleum. He didn’t plan to end up at the observation room again. Not consciously. But his feet carried him there, drawn by that sick, gnawing pull he couldn’t shake.

The blinds were down this time, but one slat hung crooked, a sliver of a view into the interrogation room. John hesitated, thermos trembling in his grip. He could walk away. Go home. Pretend he’d never seen. But he didn’t. He pressed close, peering through the gap, and his breath caught.

They were in there. Of course they were. Derek stood by the table, still in his sheriff’s uniform, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Stiles leaned against the wall, arms crossed, that predatory glint in his eye John hadn’t noticed until now. The air between them crackled, thick with something unspoken. It wasn’t frantic—not yet. Just a slow simmer, like they were savoring the buildup.

“You locked the door?” Derek asked, voice low, a little rough.

Stiles smirked, kicking off the wall. “Yeah, Sheriff. Wouldn’t want anyone walking in on us. Again.”

John’s heart stuttered. Again? Did they suspect? No—they couldn’t. He’d been careful, silent. His hand brushed his belt, a reflex, and he clenched it into a fist instead. Inside, Stiles stepped closer, towering over Derek despite their height difference being slight. It was all in the posture—Stiles’s lazy confidence, Derek’s subtle shift, shoulders loosening, head tilting just enough to signal surrender.

“Been thinking about this all day,” Stiles said, voice dropping to a gravelly murmur. He reached out, fingers grazing Derek’s jaw, then sliding down to tug at his tie. “You?”

Derek swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Yeah. Couldn’t focus for shit.”

Stiles chuckled, dark and knowing. “Poor Sheriff Hale. Big tough guy, falling apart ‘cause he needs my dick. That it?”

Derek didn’t answer—just let out a shaky breath as Stiles yanked the tie free, tossing it onto the table. John’s pulse hammered in his ears. He shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t be watching his son undo his husband, step by filthy step. But his feet stayed rooted, eyes glued to the slow unraveling.

Stiles unbuttoned Derek’s shirt next, deliberate, popping each one with a flick of his fingers. Derek’s hairy chest came into view, broad and muscled, heaving with every breath. Stiles dragged a hand down it, nails scraping lightly, and Derek’s head tipped back, a low groan escaping. “Fuck, Stiles…”

“Patience,” Stiles teased, smirking as he shoved the shirt off Derek’s shoulders, letting it hang at his elbows. “Gonna take my time with you today. Make you beg for it.”

Derek’s knees buckled slightly, and he gripped the table behind him for support. John’s throat went dry. He’d never seen Derek like this—not with him. Not this needy, this pliant. Stiles stepped back, peeling off his own uniform shirt, revealing that lean, wiry frame dusted with chest hair. He tossed it aside, then palmed himself through his pants, the bulge obscene even from this angle.

“On your knees,” Stiles said, voice firm now, no room for argument.

Derek dropped. No hesitation, no fight—just sank to the floor, thighs spreading as he hit the linoleum. His hands hovered, unsure, until Stiles stepped forward and grabbed his hair, tilting his head up. “Open that mouth, Sheriff. Show me what a slut you are for this.”

John’s dick twitched, straining against his jeans. He didn’t touch it—not yet—but the pressure was unbearable. Derek obeyed, lips parting, and Stiles unzipped, pulling out that massive cock. It was as big as John remembered—thick, veiny, already half-hard and dripping. Derek moaned, a desperate, slutty sound, and leaned in, tongue flicking out to lap at the tip.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Stiles growled, guiding Derek’s head closer. “Worship it.”

Derek did. He wrapped his lips around the head, sucking slow and deep, eyes fluttering shut like he was tasting heaven. Stiles let him set the pace for a moment, then tightened his grip and pushed, sliding deeper until Derek gagged, throat working around the girth. Drool spilled down his chin, but he didn’t pull back—just took it, eager, hungry.

John’s hand slipped to his crotch, brushing the bulge. He shouldn’t. He wouldn’t. But the sight—Derek’s submission, Stiles’s dominance—it was too much. His husband was a cock slut, broken down and begging for his son’s dick, and John couldn’t look away. Stiles started thrusting now, shallow at first, then deeper, fucking Derek’s mouth with a rhythm that had Derek’s hands clutching his thighs for balance.

“Fuck, you’re good at this,” Stiles said, smirking down at him. “Bet you’d suck me off under the desk if I asked. Let the whole station hear you choke on it.”

Derek groaned around him, the sound muffled but raw, and John’s resolve cracked. He yanked his belt open, hand diving into his jeans, gripping himself. He stroked once, twice, slow and shaky, eyes locked on Derek’s wrecked face. Stiles pulled out suddenly, a wet pop filling the room, and slapped his cock against Derek’s cheek, leaving a smear of spit and pre-cum.

“Up,” Stiles ordered. “Table. Now.”

Derek scrambled to his feet, pants still on but unbuttoned, and bent over the table, ass out, waiting. Stiles didn’t rush—just stepped behind him, tugging Derek’s pants down to his ankles, exposing that fat, hairy ass John used to know so well. It was slick already—lube, probably, from earlier—and Stiles ran a hand over it, spreading the cheeks wide.

“Look at this,” Stiles murmured, almost to himself. “Fucking perfect. Built for my dick.”

Derek whimpered, pushing back, and Stiles chuckled, lining up. He didn’t slam in this time—just pressed the tip against Derek’s hole, teasing, letting it twitch and beg. John’s hand moved faster, breath hitching. He hated this—hated how much he loved it. Stiles pushed in then, slow, inch by inch, and Derek’s moan was long and broken, his body trembling as he took it.

“Goddamn, you’re tight,” Stiles grunted, bottoming out. “Even after all the times I’ve wrecked you.”

“More,” Derek rasped, voice wrecked. “Fuck me, Stiles. Please.”

Stiles started moving—slow, deep thrusts, dragging it out, making Derek feel every inch. The table creaked, Derek’s grunts filling the room, and John watched, mesmerized, as his husband turned into a whining, cock-hungry mess. It built like that, steady and torturous, until Stiles picked up the pace, slamming in harder, and Derek came undone, shouting as cum splattered the table beneath him.

John didn’t last—spilled over his hand with a choked gasp, slumping against the wall. Stiles kept going, chasing his own end, and John stumbled away before he could see it finish, heart pounding, mind a tangle of rage and want. He knew now: he was hooked, and there was no going back.