Would you mind doing a Derek Hale x f!reader where she’s on top for the first time and it is sending him to another level of feeling good? Thank you!
Letting go
Derek Hale x fem!reader
Summary: Derek never lets you get on top, so you convey a plan to get him to bend to your will.
Warnings: smut, sub leaning derek, praise kink, riding, unprotected sex whoops. no use of Y/N
Note: I am finally done with my exams oh my god. Also this writing style is a little different from my usual I think? I went more prose-y and less smutty I guess. sorry if this is not how you wanted it anon :(
Derek Hale didn't let go. He didn't relinquish control, and he definitely didn't beg.
That was the code he lived by, the unspoken law of the loft.
But the air had been growing thicker, charged with a static that had been building for days. It was a game you'd started, a deliberate stoking of a fire you refused to let him extinguish. For the past week, you'd been the architect of his frustration; tracing the hard lines of his abs just to hear his breathing hitch, or pressing your lips to the pulse point in his neck until his hands tightened dangerously on your hips, only to pull away with a breathless excuse about a friend expecting you or some errand in town that couldn't wait.
You noticed the confusion in his eyes every time you stopped, the dark flicker of rejection that he tried to bury under his usual stoicism. But you knew better. Derek Hale wasn't rejected; he was being primed. He was so used to taking, to steering the ship with a heavy hand and a heavier silence, that he didn't know what to do when the helm was suddenly empty.
It's not that you weren't satisfied—Derek was a very good lover, and he always took care of you in every way, from sweet cuddles to mind-blowing orgasms. But a heat had been simmering under your skin, a strange kind of desire. You wanted to see him break. For once, you wanted to see him let go completely.
So you had been deliberately working him up all week, but never giving him what he wanted. And Derek was teetering on the edge—you could tell.
Tonight, the storm that had been brewing in the atmosphere finally broke.
You could feel the thrum of his tension before you even touched him. Derek was standing by the bed, his back to you, his shoulders a rigid line of defeat and anticipation. He looked like a man waiting for a sentence, expecting you to deliver another breathless blow about a sudden midnight emergency.
You didn't speak. You simply stepped up behind him, pressing your chest against the hard plane of his back, and wrapped your arms around his waist. He went rigid, a muscle in his jaw jumping as he felt your hands splay across his stomach, drifting low.
He didn't turn. He didn't reach for you. He just stood there, vibrating like a plucked string, waiting for the other shoe to drop. For you to leave him wanting.
"Derek," you whispered against the fabric of his shirt, the heat of your breath seeping through to his skin. "Relax."
He let out a sound that sounded suspiciously close to a scoff. "Easy for you to say."
You smiled against his shoulder blade, feeling the way his heart hammered a frantic rhythm against your palms. He was expecting you to leave. He was expecting the gentle push away, the sudden remembered obligation that had left him aching and alone for five nights straight.
But tonight, there was nowhere else you needed to be.
"You're so tense," you murmured, letting your hands drift upward, tracing the ridges of his ribs through the thin cotton of his shirt. "You're waiting for me to run."
"I'm not waiting for anything," he lied, his voice a low rasp that vibrated against your chest. It was a terrible lie, and you both knew it. His entire body was strung tight, a bow waiting to snap, simply because he couldn't predict your next move. Because he felt out of control.
You hummed, a low, soothing sound that seemed to contradict the intent of your hands as you slid them back down, hooking your fingers into the waistband of his jeans. "Liar."
Usually, by this point, Derek would have turned around, scooped you up, and taken charge. He would have pinned you to the mattress with that heavy, grounding weight of his and worshipped you until you forgot your own name. But you didn't give him the chance. You stayed glued to his back, one hand drifting to palm him through the denim, just enough friction to make his hips jerk instinctively.
"Let me," you whispered, when his hand came up to cover yours, trying to guide you or still you—you weren't sure which.
"Let me take care of you tonight, Derek."
He hesitated. You felt the war brewing behind his ribs, the instinct to grab the reins warring with the exhaustion and the growing pleasure. "You don't have to—"
"I want to," you cut him off, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. "Trust me?"
The question hung in the air. After a beat, he nodded, his throat working on a swallow. "Always."
With that permission, you guided him to sit on the edge of the bed. He resisted for only a fraction of a second—a reflex born of years of needing to be the pillar, the wall, the unshakeable force—before his knees hit the edge of the mattress. He sat down heavily, the mattress dipping under his weight, and looked up at you.
You didn't lie down. Instead, you straddled his lap, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his thighs. It was a bold move, but he didn't push you away. His hands settled heavily on your waist, his grip tight, grounding him as he looked up at you.
The look in his eyes was dark, blown wide with lust, but there was a flicker of uncertainty there too. He was out of his depth, and you both knew it.
You took your time, peeling the cotton fabric of your dress up with an agonizing deliberation, inch by inch exposing the curve of your legs, then the soft skin of your stomach. The friction of the material sliding over your skin seemed deafening in the quiet room.
When you threw it on the ground behind you, letting it land with a soft thud, his breath hitched—a sharp, audible intake of air that sounded like it had been punched out of him. Despite the shadows obscuring your view, the lamplight caught the flush rising on his cheekbones.
He was burning up. His eyes, usually a guarded hazel, were swirling, darkening rapidly into that burning beta blue that only emerged when his instincts were overriding his control. It was a territorial color, a predator’s color, yet here he was, the predator pinned to the earth by nothing more than your gaze and your naked body on top of his.
His tongue darted out to wet his lips. When you leaned in to kiss him, it wasn't the hungry, dominating kisses he usually gave you. It was slow, deep, and lazy. You explored his mouth at your own pace, swallowing his groans when you rolled your hips against the growing bulge in his jeans.
He was getting desperate. You could smell it on him—the sharp, tangy scent of arousal, the way his breathing was turning ragged. His fingers dug into your hips, bruisingly hard, trying to urge you faster, but you resisted. You kept the torturous, slow rhythm, listening to the whine building in the back of his throat.
"Please," he gasped against your mouth, the sound barely audible but devastating.
You pulled back just enough to look him in the eye, your hand coming up to cup his jaw, thumb stroking his cheekbone. "What do you want, Derek?"
He stared at you, his chest heaving, his eyes darting over your face like he was seeing you for the first time. He didn't know how to ask. He didn't know how to say more or faster or I need you to ruin me without shattering that stoic image he clung to like armor.
"Let me..." he started, his voice cracking, before he grit his teeth and tried to regain control. He tried to pull you closer, to take back the momentum, but you held firm, your hands pressing against his shoulders to keep him pinned.
"No," you said softly. "Stay still."
He froze. The command hit him like a physical blow. His eyes widened, a flash of panic warring with a rush of heat so intense it made your head spin. He didn't move. His hands trembled slightly where they gripped your waist, but he didn't push. He didn't take back control.
He was letting you.
With a slow, deliberate movement, you reached between your bodies to unbutton his jeans. The sound of the zipper lowering in the quiet room was deafening. You freed his cock, wrapping your hand around it to give him one long, tight stroke that had his head falling back, a guttural sound tearing from his chest. He looked beautiful like this—vulnerable, at your mercy, but still trying so hard to hold it together.
You shifted your hips, lining him up, and slowly sank down.
The sensation was overwhelming. Derek let out a sound that was half-growl, half-sob, his head thrashing against the headboard. His eyes squeezed shut, his jaw clenching hard enough to make the muscles jump. You took a moment to adjust, watching him fight a losing battle against his own composure.
You started to move.
It was slow at first, a deliberate rise and fall that allowed you to feel every inch of him. But the heat was building fast. The angle was different than you were used to; you were in control of the depth, the speed, the pressure. And Derek... Derek was losing his mind.
His hands were everywhere now, clutching at your back, your hips, your arms, like he was drowning and you were the only solid thing in the world. He was trying to be still, trying to let you set the pace, but his body was betraying him. His hips jerked up involuntarily to meet you, chasing the friction, before he caught himself and forced them back down, a low curse falling from his lips.
"Look at me," you commanded softly.
His eyes snapped open instantly. They were wet, rimmed with red, completely unfocused. He looked wrecked. The sight of him—Derek Hale, the unbreakable Alpha, falling apart beneath you—sent a jolt of electricity straight through your core.
You picked up the pace, riding him harder, faster, chasing your own pleasure now. The friction was incredible, and the way he was looking at you—like you were a goddess and he was your devoted worshipper—was pushing you closer to the edge.
"Good," you breathed out, the word falling from your lips before you could think better of it. "You're so good, Derek."
He choked out a moan, his face crumpling. He didn't know what to do with the praise. He didn't know how to handle the pleasure without the buffer of control. He was just feeling, raw and unfiltered, and it was too much.
"Come on," you urged, leaning forward to brace your hands on his chest, giving yourself more leverage to grind down on him. "Let go. I've got you."
His control snapped.
His hands flew to your hips; not to guide you, but to anchor himself. His back arched off the mattress, a string of profanities falling from his lips as he spilled his cum into you, his body shuddering with the force of it. You followed him over the edge moments later, crying out as the pleasure washed over you, your cunt clenching around him as you rode out the waves.
For a long moment, the only sound in the room was your combined breathing, heavy and loud in the quiet loft. You collapsed forward onto his chest, burying your face in his neck. He wrapped his arms around you immediately, holding you tight against him, his heart beating a frantic rhythm against your ribs.
Slowly, the world came back into focus. You waited for the shift—for him to roll you over, to take back the physical dominance, to make a joke or deflect with a grunt to re-establish his equilibrium.
But he didn't.
He just held you, his face buried in your hair, his hand stroking up and down your spine in a gesture that was surprisingly tender. You felt the rapid thud of his heart begin to slow, but he didn't let go. He didn't move.
You lifted your head to look at him. His eyes were closed, his expression peaceful, almost slack. He looked soft. Open.
"Derek?" you whispered.
He opened his eyes slowly. The guarded look was gone, replaced by something raw and a little spooked. He stared up at you, his gaze tracing your features like he was memorizing them.
"I..." He started, then stopped. He looked away, a flush rising on his cheeks that had nothing to do with sex. He looked almost embarrassed.
You reached up, brushing a stray lock of hair off his forehead. "What?"
He hesitated, then looked back at you, his jaw tightening as he forced the words out. "I didn't... I didn't hate it."
A small smile touched your lips. "I know."
He huffed a breath that was almost a laugh, his eyes dropping to where your bodies were still connected. He shifted slightly, a wince crossing his face, but he didn't pull away. "It was... different."
"Different good?" you pressed.
He looked at you then, really looked at you, and the vulnerability in his eyes made your breath catch. "Yeah," he whispered. "Different good."
He pulled you down for a kiss, but it wasn't the hungry, demanding kisses of before. It was slow, sweet, and full of a terrifying kind of surrender. And when he pulled back, resting his forehead against yours, you knew that while Derek Hale didn't beg, and he didn't surrender... he might just be willing to let you catch him when he fell.
