This is Stiles’ last night of freedom before he’s married to a man he hasn’t seen in over a decade - not even photos, not even Facebook. Hale basically dropped off the face of the planet after his family was murdered, and Stiles had thought the whole engagement was off, considering. Treaty or not, marrying a hunter can’t seem all that appealing after a psychotic hunter slaughtered most of your pack. Stiles doesn’t even remember this one’s first name - there had been so many, before, and the engagement had been a thing for grownups, then.
Stiles sighs and rereads the emails Hale had written to the Council that had mysteriously ended up on his phone. Hale’s kind of abrupt, but he’s reasonably articulate and doesn’t seem like he’s putting together an elaborate revenge scheme, so this probably won’t be the worst thing ever. Maybe.
Somehow his glass is empty. Stiles stares at it, then tries to catch the bartender’s eye. “Can I get another?”
A warm leather-clad body slides in beside him. “I’ll have what he’s having.”
Stiles looks over, and yes, wow, okay. The guy has sharp features, soft-looking stubble covering his jaw, and shoulders that very nicely fill out his jacket. Stiles smiles at him slowly, and the guy looks down and away, but the corners of his mouth turn up. Shy, maybe? That kind of makes Stiles want to draw him out of his shell on the way to getting him out of his pants. “Hey.”
The guy smiles at him, looking up through his lashes in what is unequivocally flirtation. “Hey.”
“Come here often?” Stiles has found that blatancy usually communicates better than any of his attempts to be subtle.
The guy shakes his head, and the shifting light on his irises makes them look blue and green and hazel - almost supernaturally pretty if Stiles weren’t used to spotting the real thing. “I’m just in town for - for business, for a few days.”
“Yeah?” Stiles licks his lips, and the guy watches his tongue. “What’s your name?”
“D - Derek,” he says, with enough hesitation that it might not be his real name. “What’s yours?”
“Stiles,” he says, because he’s not really big on hiding at least that much of himself.
This is Stiles’ last trashy one night stand before he’s married to someone who will probably hate him, so he fumbles the hotel door closed behind him with expectations. Hot, torrid expectations that Derek will fuck him blind. Derek presses him back against the door, not rough but all hot pressure, and kisses him slow and soft. Stiles tries to deepen it, make it filthier, but Derek keeps it in the realm of sweetness and foreplay. It makes Stiles feel a little squishy inside, because tenderness is - it’s a lot of what he wants and is never going to get out of his marriage. He doesn’t have the will to make this into something else when what’s on offer is something he’ll never have again. He melts into the kiss and shoves his hand into the hair at the nape of Derek’s neck.
They stand there just kissing for long minutes before Derek takes a step back.
Stiles sways towards him, a little drugged on his mouth, and then reaches for the hem of his T-shirt. He strips it off and reaches for his belt buckle before Derek gets with the program. Derek strips quickly. His body is ridiculous, all smooth toned skin over rippling muscle, and Stiles gets harder just looking at him. He steps back into Derek’s space before he’s even completely naked, his pants down around his knees, but Stiles can’t wait any longer. He carries Derek back against the sheets and runs his hands over Derek’s sides, up over his shoulders and down his arms until their fingers are laced together as they kiss. Derek’s hands are surprisingly soft and uncalloused, but they grip Stiles tight as their bodies press together.
Derek breaks the kiss and pants in Stiles’ ear. “You should fuck me,” he says, and nips Stiles’ earlobe.
Stiles’ hips stutter. “Yeah,” he says, biting Derek’s jaw. “Fuck yeah.” He lets go of Derek’s hands and eases back so he’s kneeling on the edge of the bed, knees bracketing one of Derek’s thighs. “Lube?”
“Yeah,” Derek says, and scoots back on the bed. He twists, going for the duffle bag beside the bed, and Stiles sucks in a breath. Derek’s got a big black tattoo of a triskelion on his back, riding between his shoulder blades. And, sure, people who aren’t werewolves sometimes hold triskelions as important, but the circle of people who like triskelions and people who have absolutely no callus on their hands overlap squarely in ‘werewolf’ territory. Derek pauses in his twist and looks back at Stiles, one eyebrow quirked in question.
Stiles shakes his head, then stands and pulls Derek’s pants off the rest of the way. When he gets back on the bed, Derek hands him the bottle of lube. He slicks up two of his fingers as Derek spreads his legs in invitation. Stiles slides one finger in, and Derek jerks back, not letting him go slow. “Another,” he demands.
Stiles opens him up fast and sloppy, and Derek tilts his head back, baring his throat. He’s gorgeous coming apart like this, and Stiles aims for his prostate, wanting to make him come undone.
Derek threads his fingers through Stiles’ hair and yanks him in for a rough kiss. “C’mon, fuck me.”
“Yeah, okay,” Stiles mumbles, going in for another kiss. His fingers are still in Derek’s ass. Derek pushes a condom into his free hand, and part of Stiles twigs to the fact that as much as he’s enjoying fingering Derek, he could be fucking him, and he’d really, really like that.
He has to sit back all the way to rest on his heels to avoid crashing face-first into Derek while he puts the condom on. “How do you want to do this?”
Derek pauses. “Hands and knees,” he says decisively, and starts to turn over.
Stiles kind of wants to watch Derek’s face, but it’s another tick in the werewolf box: if his eyes chanced changing color when he came, he wouldn’t risk it either. So he nods, says, “Sounds good.”
It’s not like looking at Derek’s back while they fuck is a hardship. He’s all sculpted muscle, and he makes a gorgeous whining noise and drops his head to his arms when Stiles slides in. Stiles fucks into him again, sliding in until his hips are flush with Derek’s ass, then doing it again and again. Derek matches his rhythm and moans beautifully every time Stiles bottoms out.
When he feels like he’s getting close, he reaches around to get his hand on Derek’s dick. He jerks Derek off nice and slow in time with the way he’s thrusting into him. He doesn’t want this to be over too fast, though the part of his brain that’s watched too much porn says all of this should be more sordid, quick and dirty. They both seem to be enjoying it, though, and Stiles licks idly at a drop of sweat on the back of Derek’s neck. He bites down, and Derek’s dick twitches, so Stiles sucks there, suddenly determined to leave a hickey no matter how quickly it will fade. He licks at it, and Derek makes a noise high in his throat.
“Fuck, Stiles,” Derek says hoarsely, and Stiles is coming, fucking as deep into Derek’s ass as he can while his dick pulses.
Derek hasn’t come yet, so Stiles keeps his hand moving, but even the sudden shock of orgasm can’t hold off the observation forever: Derek’s dick is swelling at the bottom. Derek is popping a knot in his hand.
Stiles hasn’t seen one before, definitely hasn’t touched one, but he’s read about them. They’re in the books he’s had access to most of his life, spread out and violent mentions. A mated pair are vulnerable after copulation because they are physically tied like dogs and Usual infiltration hit a snag: K.’s target says she’s his soulmate, cites phallic mutation. They’re in the books he’s started to have access to under the treaty, too, couched in far more tender terms. This is something special, and the first time it’ll have happened to Derek in company - maybe the first time at all.
Which explains why he’s scrambling to get away from Stiles even as he comes, pulling sharply off Stiles’ dick in a way that has to hurt him even more than Stiles.
“No, no, it’s okay,” Stiles is babbling. It’s not, of course. This might end in his mauling. “I know you’re a werewolf. I wasn’t - I didn’t expect, but it’s fine, you’re fine, please God let me touch you.”
Derek still hasn’t come, and panic and adrenaline don’t seem to have done much to kill his boner - which, frankly, is a feature Stiles hadn’t thought to look for in a partner, but will probably come in handy. “How did you know?” Derek’s voice is harsh and uneven. His claws are out, but his eyes aren’t shining, which is something.
“No scars, no callouses, and a triskelion on your back.” Stiles says, holding still as the condom gets cold and slimy on his flagging dick. He’s been having a good time, and Derek is ungodly hot: he doesn’t want everything to go horribly sideways at this point.
Though it kind of has already, the stretched-taut skin at the base of Derek’s dick testament to that.
Derek’s a long line of tension, but he nods minutely, and Stiles takes it as permission. He’d take almost anything as permission, now, because Derek’s gorgeous and the idea that they’re tied in some kind of more-than-human way is as fascinating as it is terrifying and hot. He slides into Derek’s space, one knee on the outside of his thigh and one between, drops his forehead to Derek’s shoulder so he can look down at Derek’s dick and let Derek smell the vulnerable skin of his neck. He wraps his hand carefully around Derek’s dick, letting his fingers brush gently against the knot. Derek gasps when he does, so Stiles makes sure to wrap his hand around it on the downstroke.
It takes a couple minutes to get him there again, to get him to moan Stiles’ name, but he does, and then comes all over both of them. Stiles keeps stroking him through it, though more gently. He’s fascinated by the texture difference and the way come keeps dribbling out of his dick.
Eventually, though, Derek pushes Stiles’ hand away. “Too sensitive.”
Stiles wants to just flop down beside Derek and have a nap, but he’s got a condom to - oh, a condom to find and then get rid of, and Derek could use a cloth. He locates the condom, which miraculously hasn’t spilled, and carefully climbs out of bed for the bathroom. When he brings back a damp hand towel for Derek, he says, “So we should probably talk about this, right?”
Derek glares down at his dick like it’s a traitor. “I didn’t expect you to be my mate. I don’t want anything from you.”
“Well, that’s insulting.”
Derek turns the glare on Stiles. “I didn’t - did you want to meet your soulmate in a bar?”
Stiles shrugs, and is gratified by the way Derek’s eyes dip down to his shoulders and chest. “Hadn’t expected it to happen at all. But this is - it’s some kind of big deal for you guys, isn’t it?”
A muscle in Derek’s jaw twitches, and he looks out and away. He folds his arms closer to his body defensively. He swallows convulsively. “Yeah. I - I’m not going to be able to be with anyone else while you’re alive.”
Stiles sits on the edge of the bed. “Okay. So that’s kind of a thing.”
Derek seems, suddenly, to mind his nudity, and drags a pillow over his crotch. “How do you even - you don’t smell of wolf.”
“My alpha’s finishing up vet school at UC-Davis, so we don’t see each other much.” Stiles hesitates. If Derek can’t have sex with anyone but Stiles during his life, probably the easiest way to be free of that is to kill him. Stiles doesn’t know what compunctions Derek would have - hasn’t even seen his eyes, for all that they can only say so much - and doesn’t know if he’s about to make it better or worse, but lying about what he is can’t be a good idea. “I’m a hunter, too.”
Derek’s eyes flare red, and he heaves up and away, almost falling off the bed.
The only reason Stiles doesn’t do the same is that he’s braced, though he hadn’t been prepared, quite, for Derek to be an alpha, so he tenses. He doesn’t move, though, doesn’t want his throat ripped out. “I work directly under the Hunter’s Council. Mostly I research and police other hunters.”
Derek’s eyes fade as fast as they’d flared. He runs a hand over his face, the scrape of his stubble on his palm audible in the quiet room. “Do you ever feel like Fate really enjoys fucking you over?”
Stiles laughs, startled and insulted and a little hysterical. He’s supposed to be marrying a completely different alpha in the morning.
Derek reaches over and puts a hand on Stiles arm, silencing him. Derek’s eyes are soft. “Not - you’re not fucking me over. Fucking me again, yes, please, a lot, but meeting you isn’t a bad thing. Complicated, but that’s just politics. I - I don’t want to ask anything of you, but -”
“I’ll stay the night,” Stiles declares, heading off any further discussion of what things mean or feelings or whatever. He’s had too much sex and alcohol tonight for the conversation he’s already had. “So what were you saying about fucking you again?”
Derek smiles and drags Stiles in for a kiss.
This is Stiles’ worst idea ever. He can’t not make this phone call, though, not with what happened, not when Derek’s everything he could want and is obviously primed to stick around and at least get breakfast, and probably anything else Stiles could ever want. He’s Derek’s mate, for fuck’s sake, Hale’s not going to want him even for the sake of the treaty, with that hanging over them. So Stiles drags himself out of bed and leaves Derek sleeping while he closes himself in the bathroom.
“Stiles, where the hell are you?”
Stiles leans his head against the wall. “Hey, Dad. How are you?”
“You’re supposed to be getting married in four hours and you’re not at your apartment.”
“So how open to renegotiation do you think the Council would be?”
His dad goes very quiet. “This is really not the time, son. I know you’ve been having -”
“Allison’s already godmother to Scott and Kira’s hellspawn, and Argents and a True Alpha are way more impressive than little old us.”
His dad’s silence is unfairly judgmental. Stiles hasn’t had his coffee yet. Stiles sighs, knowing that - well, it was Allison’s family who had pretty much even odds of being awesome or being psychopathic killers, and Scott’s bitten, not born, and it’s not the same thing at all. Stiles sighs again, and thumps his head against the wall.
“Yeah, I’ll - I’ll show up, at least.”
His dad sighs deeply, like he’s giving up. “This is important, son, but you come first. First, last, always. We’ll figure it out. Come by the hall - some of the people you’ll need to talk to are here.”
“Love you, too, Dad,” Stiles says, and hangs up.
Derek is gone when he gets out.
Stiles leans against the wall next to the bathroom door and slides slowly down it, feeling stupid and dirty and small. Derek must have heard that Stiles is supposed to be getting married and decided that celibacy was a better option than dealing with the kind of guy who’d have a one night stand before his wedding, stay the night, and say nothing. Stiles can’t really say he blames him. He gathers his clothes and goes to take a thorough shower: he can’t help that his clothes smell like other people, but his dad has his suit, and he can at least do Hale the courtesy of not smelling like he spent all night fucking someone else.
His car’s still in the lot at the bar across the street, and he slips on the sunglasses he keeps in it and drives exactly at the speed limit to small, neutral event hall they’d rented. He’d rather do it at a crawl, put everything off as long as possible, but that’d be cowardice.
There’s a sleek black Corvette parked haphazardly in front of the hall, taking up two spots. It’s the only car he doesn’t recognize: his dad’s cruiser is there, Allison’s sedan, the massively stereotypical SUVs three of the Council drive. So his fiancé parks like an asshole. Stiles parks. Not like Hale will be his fiancé much longer. Or maybe he should go through with it, since Derek had just up and bailed.
Stiles sighs and thumps his head once against the steering wheel before he makes himself get out.
Inside, there’s tasteful swags of white around the door and signs directing people to the Stilinski/Hale wedding. The signs also, conveniently, point in the direction of what sounds like a bunch of angry and confused shouting. Ah, the song of his people.
“Not a trap? How am I supposed to trust anything you say with an Argent here?” someone is saying with a surprising amount of venom as Stiles approaches.
He raps his knuckles on the half-open door, opening it further. “Hey, now, Al-”
Stiles knows he’s gaping like a fish, but has no idea what he was in the middle of saying. Derek’s standing with his dad and Allison and some pissed off-looking Council members in the room they’d set aside to use for the wedding. “Der?”
Derek is staring at him, wild-eyed, hands clenching like he wants to slip out his claws. “I don’t know what’s going on,” he says quietly.
“Jesus Christ,” Stiles’ dad mutters disgustedly. “Ladies and gentleman, why don’t you let Ally get you some coffee. I think think we can work this out just fine.”
Stiles can feel Madeline’s glare without even taking his eyes off Derek. “This is why men should never lead,” she says. “Try not to fuck it up completely.”
She sweeps out, and Stiles steps automatically out of the way. Since he was already more than halfway through the doorway, that means stepping closer to Derek. Derek, who is here, and shouting at people. How had he known to come here? Stiles has been the most colossal idiot - they both have. “I never got your last name,” Stiles says dreamily.
Derek’s face flickers through a kaleidoscope of emotion, settling on shock and tentative hope. “So Stiles is a -”
“Nickname, from my last name. No one can pronounce -”
Derek comes at him so fast that Stiles’ back hits the wall at about the same time their lips meet. The kiss is voracious, and Stiles slides his hands into Derek’s hair to keep him in place. Dimly, he hears his dad mutter about kids, then leave, calling out, “Don’t worry, the wedding’s back on!”