Stiles doesn’t wear white on his wedding day.
There is a list of at least fourteen - very good - reasons for this; most of which are just variations of ‘It’s not really a wedding if it takes place in a forest without a minister’ or ‘Hey, not a girl, shut up Jackson’ or ‘You do know I’m not a virgin, right?’
Okay in hindsight, he probably shouldn’t have written it down. Or left it where his dad could see it. But hey, he’d gotten the white dress joke so many times after the invitations went out that he’d just wanted a concrete (or paper, whatever), irrefutable argument to shove in people’s gleeful, mocking faces whenever they brought it up.
And it totally worked; Jackson hadn’t said another word about it after Stiles had shown him the list. In fact, he hadn’t spoken at all for nearly two days. It broke some kind of world record. Danny almost bought him a cake.
So yeah; not wearing white, not a girl, and definitely not a virgin. All things he can proudly wear like a badge of honour on his not-white, not-wedding clothes. Under his clothes. So his dad won’t have to see them. Again.
Okay, so he’s panicking a little, can you blame him? He’s getting not-married to Derek freaking Hale, and no matter how long they’ve been together (most of it even happily, through some bizarre combination of stubborn-but-hot moodiness and more stubborn-but-adorable cheerfulness), or how many times Scott has pulled him aside; face all scrunched-up in what is either friendly concern, or a sign of not enough bran in his wolf-y diet, and asked; “Dude, you sure you wanna do this? I mean, I like Derek an’ all, but he’s. Well he’s Derek.” All while Stiles had tried not to laugh at that (sort of cute, in a puppyish way) expression, or had just grinned like the Cheshire Cat at the sound of Derek’s name (not a girl, remember? Also, cat metaphors probably not a good idea), this is still a huge freaking deal.
It’s not the not-wedding. And it’s not the clothes. It’s not even the fact that he has to stand in front of actual people and say actual words that make sense, all while looking at Derek in a suit and trying not to fumble or go off on a tangent about sartorial kinks or something equally horrifying in front of his dad. Or Allison’s dad. Or Lydia.
No, it’s what’s happening after that; after they eat the cake (and he is so smushing it into Derek’s face even if it does get him killed) and dance to the cheesy music (where Derek will lead and Stiles will pretend it bothers him, because after all these years who’s he kidding?) and Scott gives a toast that’ll embarrass him and his dad gives a toast that’ll make everyone tear up. Except Derek, because Derek is made of stone. Sexy stone. Really firm, growly stone. Like attractive granite. Or striking marble.
What was he saying?
Right, after all that stuff; when they finally reach their - ridiculously expensive - honeymoon suite that probably cost his dad a kidney (or at least whatever valuable stuff was in the evidence locker) he’s gonna bite the bullet and let Derek tie them.
It shouldn’t be a big deal. Except it is. Probably because he’s gone and made it one, but this is like, the ultimate commitment as far as Derek’s concerned; even with the platinum rings (not silver, categorically not silver) that his dad had insisted on (while holding a shotgun, which; subtle dad, really) and the pricey rental suits and the gathering of people to hear them talk about their undying love or whatever.
He’s not having a panic attack about that. Nope. No sir.
He should’ve done it years ago; way back when he’d had no idea what he was doing other than tripping over himself in his eagerness to get into Derek’s pants despite (or maybe because of) the continued threats of throat-ripping and biting and various other promises of bloody, messy carnage that were doled out in between all the pinning against walls and the bending over tables; or the tiny cracks in that armour-plated exterior that Stiles had pushed at and wormed his way into like water, because for reasons totally defying any rational explanation, he cared about the guy.
Or maybe he should’ve just gotten a lot of therapy instead? He wouldn’t have even needed to pay for it; the entire town was about ready to take him to a deprogrammers at one point or another (seriously, he‘d spent days waiting to be blindfolded and thrown into the back of a truck).
And it’s not like Derek hasn’t asked for it; hell he’s come as close to begging as Stiles has ever seen him when they’re both sweating through those last few desperate-awesome thrusts and Stiles can feel where Derek is, well, a little larger at the base than he was when they started. But it was one more freaky, alien thing tossed onto an ever-growing mountain of alien things, and it’s not like they couldn’t have non-knotting, relatively ordinary - very satisfying - sex anyway, so he’d ignored it and ignored it and now it’s this whole giant issue that he can’t stop thinking about, ever since he decided to improve upon their wedded bliss by letting Derek put that extra special part of his werewolf cock (ohmygod, his life, seriously) inside him for the very first time.
There’s really no way to romanticise that. He’s tried. There were notes.
Once the idea popped into his head; in that drive-by ‘hey this is insane and stupid and totally the best thing ever’ way that nearly all his ideas do, and it had gotten stuck there like gum on a sneaker, he just knew he was gonna do it; like he’d actually been waiting for the right moment this whole time rather than just being a big clucking chicken about it. He’d almost asked for Allison’s advice once, but there just wouldn’t be a deep enough hole anywhere in the world for him to hide in after that; because no matter how used to your ‘oversharing rambling’ (Jackson’s term) or your ‘co-dependent homoerotic clinginess’ (Lydia’s) your friends are; walking up to one of them and saying; “So that bulbous part of your husband’s junk? What’s that like?” Is forever going to be a step too far. Seriously, he’d have to move to a bigger planet just so there’d be more dirt to cover himself with.
So he’s on his own. Which he should be used to, Derek or no Derek, but somehow just reminds him of the less-than-stellar aspects of his childhood, and then makes him feel like a total jackass for inadvertently knocking his dad’s parenting skills.
And now they’re past the vows and the exchanging of the rings and the pretty speeches and the - really tasty, he needs to find out if there’s any left - cake, and they’ve danced their dances and hugged everybody (okay, Stiles hugged everybody while Derek supervised and graciously shook a few hands; pointedly not murdering people for touching Stiles) as they left the reception and got into the big fancy car that’s not quite a limo - and it’s black, of course it’s black - but still has a driver, and are on their way to the hotel. Where their suite is. And their bed. Where they’re going to have just-married sex. And Derek is going to knot him. Jesus.
“Why are you nervous?” And of course he picks up on it, not like there’s been an emotion Stiles’s had for past however-many years that Derek hasn’t picked up on, so why should pre-knotting jitters be the exception? Just because he clicked his heels together and wished real hard? No, of course not.
“I’m not nervous. Nervous? Me? Ridiculous. Look up ‘ridiculous’ and you’ll see a picture of me being nervous, which is the only time you’ll ever see it. How much champagne did you have back there, anyway? Maybe it screws up your scent radar, huh? You ever think of that?”
No answer. Derek is the king of silent communication. Stiles is co-king. Not the queen.
“Okay fine, so I’m a little nervous.” Or he’s just learned to let Stiles unspool the crazy all on his own.
“I know. Why?” Slight frown and tilt of his head, flare of his nostrils like he’s trying to sniff his way past the obfuscation, which, okay wouldn’t exactly be unprecedented.
“I’m just anticipating the first-time-as-a-married-couple thing, you know? It’s a big deal. Or, to humans it is, I know you guys think weddings are stupid. Not that it was a wedding, ‘cos. No.”
“Our ceremony wasn’t stupid.” Still not calling it a wedding either then, that’s good, that’s fine, but the Neanderthal way his eyes briefly spark to red before he finishes the sentence kind of gives him away.
“No.” Can’t help the smile, lets it grow when Derek’s now non-glowy eyes drop to it. “No it was kind of awesome and perfect and Lydia was so jealous I thought she was going to set me on fire with the power of her envy. And did you see how much Allison cried? I totally thought Scott would be the one who-”
“Stiles.” Low note of something he’s never been able to define that creeps into the air and silences him.
“Yeah?” Well, not completely silent, even Derek isn’t that imposing. Victoria Argent wasn’t that imposing.
“Why. Are you. Nervous?” Slinking across the cushy, leather seat like a. Well, like a big cat, really. Which again is not a great comparison to be making.
It‘s Pavlovian (and hey, finally a canine metaphor!) the way he responds to that look; hitch in his chest and abrupt change in the direction of his blood flow, sudden gathering of sweat at his lower back. “B-Because we’re. And you’re. Because we’re gonna have sex.” Settles on the answer he’d already given, and Derek’s mouth does that tiny twitch that means he’s either fondly exasperated or resisting the urge to fang-up on him.
“We have sex all the time. We had sex this morning.” That twitch again, and Stiles is willing to put his money on fond exasperation. With just a hint of smug.
“That was your idea.” Weak protest, but it totally counts.
“You seemed amenable.” More than a hint of smug.
“You were naked, have you seen you naked? And before all the naked you were in a suit. That’s a double threat. Triple if you count the way you looked when you saw me in the suit. I can‘t be blamed for wanting to get a little action.” Flawlessly logical. Spock would be proud. Though obviously he wouldn’t show it.
His Vulcan non-crush might just explain some of his thing with Derek, but he’s so not looking at that right now.
“So why does having sex make you nervous?”
“You don’t have to say it like that! I’m not some blushing prom date. Maybe I’m just worried the magic’s gone; that now we’re all officially, legally committed on paper and everything it’s not gonna be as hot anymore.”
“That’s not what you think.” The least questioning thing anyone has said ever; all while he’s edging close enough that Stiles’ back is nearly flush with the door, and he’s never not going to respond like a startled deer when Derek is staring him down like this.
Doesn’t stop him running his mouth though. “Okay no, that’s total BS, but it could happen, it’s totally a real problem! And before you know it we’re sleeping in separate rooms and you’re having an affair with your secretary.”
Just gets a barely-there growl and a Frown of Doom that manages to communicate ‘you’re an idiot’, ‘we’re not sleeping in separate rooms’ and ‘I don’t have a secretary’ all at the same time.
Derek totally has Spock beat on the eyebrow thing. Stiles is proud. He made Derek watch the Original Series after all; he should get the credit for that.
“You still haven’t answered me.” And okay he’s really pinned against the door now, and given that they’re still several miles from the hotel and going pretty fast he doesn’t really want to try bailing from the vehicle. Plus Derek is really warm; firebrand lines of his fingers creeping under Stiles’ jacket, between the pants and the already half-untucked shirt.
That’s. That’s just dirty pool is what that is.
“Oh I’m pretty sure I answered you. A few times. There were structured sentences and everything.” Voice wavering and face heating up, he’s not afraid, it’s Derek; and the odds of Derek doing any real damage to Stiles have been dropping steadily for years now, even before the word ‘mate’ started getting used like it was something people said about their maybe-significant-other. He’d had a graph somewhere with the declining curve on it; he’d even got Lydia to proof the math. But Stiles is still the Little Red Riding Hood to Derek’s Big Bad Wolf (it’s true, he has the hoodie, and they’ve done the role-play) and he knows where the line between banter and ‘human should back down before werewolf hackles go up’ is.
Most of the time he knows. Occasionally he knows. There is a line somewhere that he’s aware of.
Derek is leaning into his space enough that Stiles can smell the hint of chocolate from the cake on his breath, even under the slightly smoky, outdoorsy smell that’s just pure Derek, and how is he supposed to resist that?
Clearly he isn’t, from the way he ends up licking at Derek’s - thankfully non-pointy - teeth while Derek runs the distinctly pointy tips of his nails over Stiles’ sides, hands creeping up to run over the delicate-feeling arches of his ribs until he can’t quite step down on the urge to shudder like a leaf in a hurricane.
Derek bites at his lips as he pulls back, eyes hovering somewhere near crimson, and runs his nose along Stiles’ jaw like he doesn’t have the scent of him memorised by now, growling in satisfaction when Stiles tilts his head up to bare his neck; more out reflex or habit that he can’t even spare the energy to pretend indignation over, especially when he’s contemplating whether coming in these pants means he won’t get his deposit back.
He’s almost too busy thanking various innumerable deities for the opaque glass panel between them and the driver to notice when Derek’s teeth take on a decidedly predatory shape, and scrape up the side of his jaw, and when he does notice he’s fighting the urge to beg too hard to push Derek away. Seriously, he wouldn’t have lasted ten minutes in prehistoric times before getting devoured or becoming some rival cave’s trophy wife. And okay he’s emasculating himself in his own head so the deprogrammer thing might’ve been nearer the mark than he’d thought.
The hand that isn’t scrabbling franticly at the edge of the seat is futilely trying to grip onto the back of Derek’s head; short hairs slipping between his fingers as he tries to draw the hot, wet heat of the werewolf’s mouth closer to his skin, and not-husband or not not-husband (they’re gonna need a better term. One that he can use around human beings) that’s still an insane response to fangs on your neck. The ‘no hickeys until after the photographs are taken’ policy has obviously been shredded like so much wet tissue, considering the epic one Derek is leaving just below his ear (too high to cover, too big to miss, the bastard) at this very moment. Stiles’ nether regions seem in favour of the whole idea though; judging from the way they’re doing a really good impression of Raising the Flag like his pants are Iwo Jima.
Apparently satisfied with marking Stiles up like some kind of kinky leopard; Derek turns his attention to the little minions of evil that are Stiles’ buttons. Stiles figures they must be evil; or else Derek wouldn’t be hurling them right across to the other side of the seat, because Derek is nothing if not dedicated to protecting his mate. From evil. Evil buttons.
Yeah, he’s never seeing that deposit again.
Somewhere between Stiles’ jacket getting shoved behind his head to cushion it from the door - see? Most considerate mate ever - and Derek’s shirt being tugged open by nimble fingers that just might be attached to Stiles; they arrive at their hotel. Which the driver informs them of. From the front. Which is no longer hidden by the conveniently opaque privacy screen.
Derek decides to act as the noble protector of Stiles’ virtue (like that’s not ironic in the slightest) by glaring the poor old guy to death with ember-dark eyes and teeth that had been mostly blunt until about a second ago. But the guy must either be a total badass, or he’s been paid enough to feed a small nation; because he keeps his eyes well clear of Stiles’ semi-nakedness and wishes them a pleasant stay in a voice so calm and non-challenging-to-the-Alpha’s-authority that Stiles thinks butter could be kept safely in his mouth for a gazillion years.
Maybe he’s an android. That’d be cool. And would require appropriate geeky appreciation when Stiles isn’t still mostly hard and entirely turned on, and Derek isn’t pulling the Terminator routine on a perfectly innocent (if conceivably positronic) chauffeur.
Derek doesn’t carry Stiles from the car to the front desk, but they do seem to arrive faster than they would’ve if Stiles’ feet and the sidewalk were more than just passing acquaintances, so he‘s prepared to forgo commenting on the grip his mate-spouse (spate? Mouse?) has on his collar, because he doesn’t have a scruff okay? Compromise. That’s important in relationships. He definitely read that somewhere.
Where their nerves-of-adamantium driver succeeded; the prim little receptionist epically fails at not looking Stiles over like he’s been the victim of some awful-good-bad-terrific sex torture. The goofy smile Stiles aims at her seems to miss ‘everything is fine and yes I am here consensually’ and instead lands somewhere near ‘please widen your eyes and move your hand toward the telephone in preparation for alerting the authorities’. The low, unmissable snarl Derek is emitting like a incensed lawnmower isn’t helping either; until the sound morphs and shapes itself into the word ‘key’ and suddenly one (hopefully the right one after how much his dad forked over for the suite, and that wasn’t a dowry was it?) is being handed over. Or maybe summoned through the air like something from Harry Potter. Stiles is too busy feeling-up Derek’s back beneath his shirt to pay close enough attention.
The elevator ride to their floor is a syrupy blur of big, strong hands and additional hickeys, and Stiles doesn’t want to think about the squeaking noise that may have been made by someone else who positively isn’t in the car with them when the doors ping and slide open. Maybe he imagined it with all the biting and sucking on his flesh going on. Or maybe they jumped from the moving elevator to their deaths in order to escape the pheromones and Derek’s Death Glare.
Upon reaching the big, shiny-white door (complete with Honeymoon Suite in sweeping gold lettering which may be actual gold), Derek spins them with a bruising grip on Stiles’ hips and hands him the ornate, old-fashioned - also gold, jeez - key so he’s free to further molest Stiles’ neck and dismantle his suit unimpeded. The emptying of all Stiles’ red blood cells into his one non-poseable appendage, combined with Derek pressed to his back like a giant, lusty limpet is probably why they stumble through the suddenly open door and crash to the - thankfully plush - carpet; werewolf agility and reflexes obviously no match for the intoxicating fragrance of Stilinski, by Stiles.
The impact with the ground may not have even registered; given that Derek is working Stiles’ shirt down and off his body even while said body is being pinned beneath the dense mass of weremuscle and teeth that caused this little predicament in the first place. Stiles pushes up in an effort to at least get the carpet fibres out of his mouth, but it clearly comes across as play-fighting; from the way Derek shifts a hand to the middle of Stiles’ chest and flips them fast enough that the key sails through the air and knocks into the wall. They are not losing this deposit as well; Stiles’ dad only has so many vital organs to sell off.
“Derek. Derek!” Second, louder utterance accompanied by a firm smack to the back of the other man’s head (it’s not spousal abuse okay?) until those distinctly phosphorus eyes meander up his mostly-naked chest until they - eventually - reach his face.
“There’s a really nice bed, right over there.” He points it out with a slightly jerky, uncoordinated wave (seriously, no blood available, please try again later) like it’s not the largest bit of furniture in the room. Derek looks from the bed to him and back a few times; and Stiles can see the indecision on his flushed, dark-eyed face. Tempting as it is to let Derek maul him right here right now, Stiles doesn’t really want carpet burn for the rest of their honeymoon, thanks. Not everybody has super-duper werewolf healing powers.
His hand slides around to Derek’s face; taps gently enough to warrant attention without also getting a snap of teeth. “Hey, c’mon, your mate wants to be on the bed.” He says in as serious a tone as he can manage when Derek’s hips are nudging at his like his dick needs the encouragement, and like always the m-word seems to drive some little barb of focus - of purpose - into Derek’s lizard brain. He maybe makes an undignified yelp as he’s hefted up and deposited onto the mattress (way more comfy than the comfy carpet, thankfully) with enough abandon that he actually bounces a little. Then he’s scrabbling up the bed in an attempt to reach the big, fluffy pillows while Derek stalks up after him; eyes like hot coals and nostrils flaring as Stiles feels the blurt of precome from his dick. Being with Derek has seriously damaged his fear response. A giant, looming, supernatural being regarding him like the juiciest steak in all the land should not cause sounds like the illegitimate children of whines and groans to be coming from his lips. Or have his legs parting in blatant invitation. Or make his arms do a pathetic come-hither thing that earns him a glimpse of gleaming white teeth and a deeper flash of red from Derek’s eyes.
After about forty days and nights he does finally reach the pillows, and they are undeniably fluffy; but with the way Derek’s form is now hovering over his, mere inches above; thick, corded arms on either side of Stiles’ head; formerly crisp white shirt now hanging open around his ridiculously defined chest (not helped by the sheen of sweat outlining every muscle like a sculpture, like he’s been oiled), and wow there’re those noises again.
“You don’t smell nervous now.” Words a low, resonating burr against Stiles’ bones, hot breath fanning over already hot cheeks, and, nervous? Why would he be-
Right. The whole ‘wanna lock us together as the grand finale of our post-marital coitus?’ thing.
What’s the opening line for that, exactly?
“I uh. Well you make a really good distraction. Honey.” Seems there isn’t one, and trying to inject cockiness just makes him blush that extra bit harder (and how is there any blood left for that) and Derek’s kiss-swollen mouth twists up into that knowing little smirk before it gets pressed into the curve of his throat again, sudden cooling sensation of Derek drawing a giant breath into his lungs; like a cartoon vacuum that sucks up the entire carpet instead of just the dust.
With a primal growl and what is unmistakably the sound of seams rending, Stiles finds himself stripped down to his skin with an equally naked body grinding down into his from neck to toes. The sound he makes then could possibly qualify as kittenish, but good luck getting him to admit that. Or remember his own name.
It really shouldn’t hit him like a bucket of boiling want in his gut that the only thing either of them is wearing are the rings; unfamiliar weight of his suddenly very present as it knocks against Derek’s when their fingers wind up interlaced against the stark white pillowcase.
Kittenish. Definitely kittenish. Maybe beseeching.
“Mine.” No less a rumbling, possessive tone than the other non-words he’s been speaking until now, but there’s still a noticeable leap of Stiles’ cock where it’s slip-sliding against Derek’s though the mess of precome between them, and wow talk about ingrained responses.
“Yours. C’mon just. Do something.” Desperation and pure need that takes his voice and wrings it until its cracked and vulnerable, which of course feeds into Derek’s need and desperation like a vicious-but-pleasurable circle.
“Tell me what you want.” And it’s the Alpha talking, not just Derek; not just his mate, it’s the part of Derek that needs so badly to keep Stiles happy (or sated; same thing about 90% of the time, he is a guy after all) that Stiles can’t bear the to think about the power that gives him most of the time. Guys like Stiles weren’t meant to have power over guys like Derek; something in the natural order just says so.
But it’s them, and they have such an inexplicable tapestry of emotion and want and lonely need and god-knows what else between them that he can’t start picking at threads without unravelling the whole thing, and just. No. Not happening.
“You.” He ends up saying, way more pleading than he meant to, because it’s the truth, it’s always been the truth even when he hated himself and resented Derek for it, when he didn’t want it or couldn’t accept it, didn’t understand it. It just is. And now; technicalities and non-human traditions aside and all this time and familiarity between them, they’re married; and of all the insane things he’s done in his life that’ve somehow worked out anyway this has to be the insanest, wackiest, most ludicrous of all of them.
It’s fitting, he thinks.
He forces his head up and plants a wet, messy kiss at a bad angle across the pink swath of Derek’s lips, and Derek pushes right back until their teeth are knocking and their whole bodies are gliding together as well as their tongues and Stiles can’t move and it’s absolutely, totally fucking perfect.
“Tell me.” Words gutted of anything soft or gentle as Derek’s fingers tighten in his and Stiles’ legs go around his waist, and Derek presses down hard enough that it hurts and makes him want to come all at once.
“God, you bastard. Fuck me.” Has to force the words out past the dryness in his throat and the lack of air in his lungs, body bowing up in a near-painful arch as Derek hums a contented little note of approval and nips at his chin almost hard enough to draw blood.
The burning weight of Derek’s body moves off of him in a long, sinuous curve as he reached for his discarded pants and rummages through one of the pockets until he produces a. A bottle of lube.
“Have you been carrying that all day?” Ignoring how awesome Derek’s body feels sliding between the grip of his calves where they’re still wrapped around him, and Derek has the distinct look of a proud hunter as he holds the bottle up; like he’d had to track it across the wilderness for days with nothing but his nose to guide him.
“Ever since this morning.” Derek says, like that’s not the exact same thing, and through the fog of his own arousal and the self-satisfied tone in Derek’s voice comes the memory of their little pre-wedding quickie before they’d left the house, which instantly makes him flush the colour of a ripe tomato, and Derek’s little smile to become a full-blown grin.
“Dude, you danced in those pants. You danced with Lydia in those pants.” He points out, only slightly hysterical thank you, and Derek doesn’t even look a bit cowed, only more pleased with himself, shameless freaking caveman that he is.
“I wanted to be prepared.” The hunter-gatherer of personal lubricant says, as he kneels up between Stiles’ thighs again; and whatever (really impressive) comeback Stiles had been brewing completely fizzles out as two of Derek’s strong, slick fingers rub around the rim of his hole where he’s still a little sensitive from earlier. Every thought that isn’t more or please or why Derek; what awesome fingers you have gets reduced to a cloud of particulate nothingness as one long digit works it’s way inside and goes right for that spot like a prostate-seeking missile.
Trying to keep his eyes open is a Herculean effort, but it’s worth it for the open look of what he can only call worship on Derek’s face; which is somehow only enhanced by the way his eyes are like ruby-hued headlamps; the way his mouth is being shaped by the elongated canines hidden behind his lips, and how his jawline is darker where the coarse fur is trying to push through.
He looks preternaturally beautiful, incredibly dangerous, and he’s Stiles’.
The addition of a second finger and then a third is like fire in his veins, fire in head, fire from Derek’s eyes and there are no claws right now, of course there aren’t, but they’re under there somewhere, all that raw power and animalistic strength and God can they get to the ‘insert tab-A into slot-B’ portion of the evening now please?
“I’m ready. God I’m so, so ready you fucking tormenting tease, c’mon already.” Tightening his leg-fu grip around Derek’s waist - which is absolutely useless given how much stronger Derek is - and practically flinging his legs open like the goddamn harlot that Derek turns him into at times like this, and Derek draws his fingers out seconds before the hint of razor-sharp claws make their appearance.
He shouldn’t whimper. Whimpering is the least appropriate response he could have to that sight. Which is probably why it’s exactly what he does.
Derek slicks himself one-handed; his other claw-fingered mitt planted firmly on Stiles’ damp chest, right above his thundering heart as if he can’t hear it anyway. He’s trying to keep Stiles still, so he doesn’t slip and accidentally behead him or something. That doesn’t stop Stiles from arching into the touch though, oh no. He arches into it like a cat. A suicidal cat. A cat about to get fucked by a wolf. He immediately sends a mental apology to felines everywhere for that thought. Derek’s dick makes him a bad person.
Then Derek is sliding inside him, deep and hard and inexorable, and fuck if Stiles cares about his callous vitium cattus anymore. Or breathing. Or anything that isn’t related to making Derek move.
Evidently some of that came out of his mouth rather than staying ensconced inside his brain where it belonged (microcosms anyone?) because Derek draws back; slow pull and grip of internal muscle as his body tries to keep Derek in him, and then he’s shoving forward with the weight of his whole damn body, and Stiles is keening loud enough to - almost - drown out the harsh, guttural noise of pleasure Derek makes as he’s fully seated again.
Stiles shoves back; Derek shoves forward, and the spark-flush-flood of heat every time the head of Derek’s dick nails that awesome little spot, drags along his insides, is gonna make him lose it in minutes. Seconds. Probably more than once.
The pace builds and builds; like they’re racing for some undetermined finish line, and Derek drops down over Stiles as he fucks into him harder, deeper; draws all the way out and then slams back in again; angle perfect and torturous and everything Stiles ever wants. There’s sweat from Derek’s brow dripping onto Stile’s neck and chest, sliding over the bruises and bite marks he can only feel because they’re somehow hotter than the furnace of the rest of his body; slight sting where the salt meets the skin, throb of the marks with his heartbeat and the obscene slap of their bodies colliding in the otherwise silent room.
Stiles comes without a touch in a hot, harsh wave that builds and crests so fast it locks his spine and steals his breath; makes him clamp down on the iron-hard length still moving with the undulations of Derek’s body, and he thinks he screams, yells, something; can’t hear it over the rushing in his ears as he spurts up his chest and gets both of them filthy-wet where they’re jammed together as Derek ruts into him.
The smell of his release hits Derek like a bullet; and he grips Stiles by the soft insides of his splayed thighs; claws catch-dragging on the thin skin, thin lines of deep red welling up, bruises already forming; and leans up enough to really drive into him, and Stiles can’t get hard again yet, but damn if his spent cock isn’t doing it’s level best anyway; oversensitive twitch and tingle of nerves as he’s bent almost double, Derek’s gaze unwavering on the place where they’re joined together in a way that should be embarrassing but at the moment is just mindlessly hot.
Stiles fists his hands into the sheets, grip a little lax with post-orgasmic weakness as he tries to stop his whole frame from jolting up the bed; slippery feeling of his back on the - incredibly high thread count - sheets under him, and that’s when he feels it; the slight, gradually widening pressure where Derek’s knot is forming at the base of his dick, and okay; decision time Stiles.
It’s habit to force himself still, to watch Derek wrest for that last ounce of well-practiced control that’ll have him pausing just before he finishes; coming but not tying them together, even though every wolf-y instinct he has is probably screaming at him to just do it. But he won’t. Because Stiles has never said he can.
Having a mild attack of conscience is really inconvenient when you’re spouse’s - very impressive, it’s difficult not be smug about that - erection is making you lose your everloving mind. The bone-shattering, mild-altering, paradigm-shifting thrusts are slowing, that telltale sign of ‘Stiles-rocks-my-world-and-is-gonna-make-me-come’ roll of his waist, and it’s now or never Stilinski.
“Do it.” He says, and wow is that his voice? ‘Cos if so somebody obviously took a belt sander to his larynx when he wasn’t paying attention.
Derek freezes. Like; full-on; hit-by-a-freeze-ray freezes. He’s Mr Freeze. Which makes Stiles Mr Freeze too, technically. That’s actually pretty cool (duh). And great, now he’s got the Snow Miser song stuck in his head. So not the time or the place, seriously.
His mate-husband-whatever is giving him this look, like he’s waiting for the punchline (yet another habit) but doesn’t really wanna know what it’s gonna be. So Stiles forces one hand (aching from his death grip on the sheet) to whatever bit of Derek he can reach, which in this case happens be a forearm. It’s a really nice forearm though. He’s not complaining.
“It’s okay.” He says, breathless and trying to push ‘I want this but let’s not have the epic discussion right now okay?’ into his scent by sheer force of will.
“You. You don’t mean that.” Epic fail Stiles, really. Derek is doing some complicated thing with his face that Stiles so doesn’t have the brain cells to interpret right now (it’s a wedding ring, not a Hale-facial-muscle decoder ring) so he squeezes the trembling - and ohmygod Derek is trembling - forearm as much as he’s able, and tries to lift his hips up into the half-formed shape of Derek’s knot.
“Don’t!” Alpha bark of an order, and that’s not really the reaction Stiles was aiming for to be honest.
“Derek, it’s okay.” Derek jerks his head in a robotic-but-emphatic refusal, like he’s shaking the words off, and yeah Stiles should’ve known it wasn’t gonna be that easy.
“Don’t. I can’t control. Why?” He finally settles on, and Stiles isn’t sure about the focus of the question, so he just sorta goes for broke.
“I want it, the. The knot. I want you to knot me.” Voice only wavering a little, and Derek shudders like a few thousand volts just went through him, and wow that’s a glaring reminder of how very not soft and still buried inside him Derek is right now.
“You’ve never. I thought it was like the bite. That you didn’t want it because it’s not.” Human. The word striking clear as a bell and okay, upgrade that attack of conscience from mild to nuclear. Derek isn’t judging him; Stiles can tell that much, he’s just genuinely confused. Baffled. Totally perplexed. Which is pretty reasonable given the 180 Stiles is pulling literally in flagrante, here.
He flops back onto the bed, tries not to shift or moan at the way that causes Derek to move along with him.
“That’s not why I. Okay I was weirded out by it at first, but hey I was being weirded out on a daily basis back then, I just. I wasn’t ready and then I wasn’t sure if I was ready and it just got easier not to think about it. I mean, we had great, awesome sex without. Without knotting. So I kinda, made myself ignore it?” Derek’s one eyebrow has been climbing steadily through that whole ramble, and Stiles can’t avoid the wince when he replays it in his head; ‘cos yeah it doesn’t exactly sound great does it?
“And now you’ve changed your mind?” Putting every ounce of ‘my-mate-is-an-ass’ into the words. Derek has that tone patented.
“It’s not. I don’t think I ever made up my mind. But it snowballed into this whole big thing and I didn’t even know what we were or what you wanted or anything most of the time, and I figured it’d hurt or whatever and you know that despite my unparalleled heroism; I’m not actually great with real, physical pain.” The second eyebrow has now joined the first. Poor thing probably called for reinforcements when Stiles wouldn’t just shut up already. If he sounds a touch frenzied, it’s only because Derek is still hard and pressing against all kinds of interesting places. Stupid werewolf biology.
“We’ve been mated for years. You could have said something.” Derek - not unreasonably - points out; claws mostly retracted and eyes only simmering rather than blazing now, sounding more disappointed than anything else, and could he not just get angry? That would be much less gut wrenching.
“I know! I wanted to, okay? But it wasn’t. It just didn’t feel right.” Last part making him sound approximately 3.8 years old, and wow that’s not a thought he should be having when he’s naked, sweaty and mid-coitus. Derek is staring down at him like he’d whack him on the head if he weren’t busy holding up Stiles’ legs, and while he isn’t sure what’s showing on his face right now; he knows it’s at least 31 flavours of awkward.
“And now you’ve changed your mind?” Asked again, but more of a genuine question than a statement of Stiles’ - totally unintentional! - douchebaggery this time.
“Yes.” Confidence in tone if not feeling. Or smell. “I want this. I’m still kinda freaking out a little, but yes.” Little twitch of Derek’s nose (and don’t be thinking it’s adorable, now isn’t the time, Stiles) that must tell him he means it, and some subtle weight seems to melt off Derek’s brow.
“Why now?” Only to be replaced by more stubbornness, apparently.
“Because I wanted to be sure you’d stick around without it!” And o-kay, hello uncomfortable moment of self-discovery, where’ve you been all this time anyway?
Derek’s expression now could only categorised as gobsmacked (and thank you BBC America) “You. You’re an idiot, you know that? You’re mine. My mate. I wouldn’t just. I wouldn’t.” Sounding pained and not just because of what has to be the bluest case of blueballs ever by now.
“I know, I guess I wasn’t ready okay? I was young and stupid and I didn’t exactly have a lot of. Experience.” Oh and now he’s looking smug again beneath all the bemused puzzlement. That’s great, really. That’s helpful. “And you didn’t even mention the word ‘mate’ for like a month and even then I didn’t really understand it. So could you maybe forgive me being a tad reluctant to do the whole werewolf docking manoeuvre until I. Until I was sure you meant it.” Winding down like one of those cymbal-clanging monkey toys until he just lets his head fall flat to the bed, staring up at the ceiling in lieu of Derek’s face.
“That was a long time ago, Stiles.” If Stiles didn’t already know Derek isn’t human; the way he can sound that disaffected when his dick is in Stiles’ ass would a dead giveaway. Albeit a pretty risky hunting technique.
“Yeah well, I might be a little oblivious sometimes, okay?” Whining is not sexy Stiles, honestly.
“I’ve noticed.” Faint trace of amusement like a physical tug lifting his head, and it’s stupid how much the slight crinkling of Derek’s eyes loosens the lump of ‘oh-fuck-how-badly-did-I-just-mess-things-up’ sitting in his chest.
“So.” He says after what is probably a creepy amount of unblinking eye contact; draws the vowel out into the silence like a lifeline.
“So.” Derek replies, smirk growing - along with other things, don’t think he hasn’t noticed that - and word cut shorter if no less goading.
Stiles huffs, because it’s expected; and because it makes Derek’s smirk become a genuine smile. “We doin’ this or not?” Drawled out as slow as possible; dare and challenge and all those other things one should never give to Derek Hale. Hale-Stilinski. That shouldn’t be hot.
“Are you sure?” He means the question, even if he is distinctly um, firmer now, and his eyes are starting to change a little around the edges; tiny forest fire spreading inward.
“Yes.” Said slowly and clearly, and he knows Derek’s paying more attention to his heartbeat than his voice right now; but words are important to Stiles; always will be; and he feels better for saying it anyway.
Derek’s chest is rising a little quicker, his grip on Stiles’ legs a little stronger, and then there’s the soft noise of sheets sliding beneath Stiles’ back as he gets tugged down and yanked deeper onto Derek’s cock, and okay conversation apparently over.
Like new kindling tossed onto dying flame; the force of Derek pushing into him again reignites every nerve in a sudden, consuming flash of too-much-not-enough that has Stiles arching and moaning and almost biting through his tongue at the abrupt shock of how full he is. He can feel himself hardening again; drag-shift of sensitive flesh across his stomach through the tacky marks of his own come as Derek lifts his hips enough to jab into his prostate with every thrust.
“God you. Fucking evil sonof-. Come on.” He winds up saying; futilely lifting his weight into the scalding pressure between his legs, and Derek gins like a shark around a rough grunt that might be exertion - doubtful - or just plain enjoyment.
He can feel Derek’s knot nudging at his hole; the heat of it each time Derek plunges deep enough, and then it’s there; pressing hard and so fucking big as Derek grinds his hips in a slow, tormenting, serpentine move that instantly fries Stiles’ brain and makes his cock slap against his belly, pearly line of precome trailing from the head to below his bellybutton.
It hurts, but not like he thought it would; intense pressure as he’s worked open even further, widening shape of the knot as Derek spreads his legs to the point of pain. Pain he can’t even feel for how every sensation in his body is tunnelled to where he’s stretched and tight God he can’t think and his dick is gonna explode.
He whimpers as the roundest, thickest part of Derek’s knot slips into him; part relief, part strain; part begging for something he can’t name or wrap a single thought around. His body wasn’t meant to take this, he’s sure; so full he can’t breathe and it’s everywhere and Derek has to have gotten bigger for it to’ve been going on this long.
And then he feels himself clench around the base of the thing; unrelenting push against his insides and he’s sucking in air in a gulping heave of his chest that only makes him more aware of the fucking pool ball in his ass, and Derek grunts like he’s the one losing grip on his control, his sanity.
“Stiles.” His name, but partly subsumed by an outright howl that he really hopes won’t have the cops busting down their door in a few minutes, since he doesn’t know how long they’ll be like this. Or if his dad is on-duty at the station right now, Christ.
Then Derek wraps a hand around his dick, tightens his fingers just once; and everything explodes in a torrent of white like a waterfall crashing onto rock, or a whole factory of fireworks going off, and then he’s the one howling as he empties what has to be every bit of moisture in his body out of his dick like he’s never had an orgasm in his life. He’s gripping down on the impossible weight inside him with every surge of pain-pleasure, and it’s feeding back into itself over and over, muscles seizing and cramping-up and it’s not gonna stop and he’s gonna die but he doesn’t fucking care.
He comes around slowly, rising toward the surface of consciousness like a balloon drifting into the clouds, and it’s only when he tries to move that he realises Derek is coming. His eyes snap open, and even though it aches with the sudden light he can see how wrecked Derek looks; body quivering and face pinched in a total rictus as he fills Stiles up even more, and it should be gross the way he can feel all that hot-wet mess held in place by the knot, but everything is so distant and far away and his eyes are so heavy.
The next thing he knows; he’s on his side, facing the far wall; long line of Derek’s body pressed to his back, curved around him with the jut of his chin atop Stiles’ head and their legs thrown over each other.
He makes some sort of noise; like a purr but without the supernatural talent for it, and Derek presses his nose into Stiles’ hair and breathes him in as shifts his hips, and yeah that’s definitely Derek’s knot still keeping them tied together; though now that the indistinct blur of his monumental orgasm is over, it’s not actually that overwhelming anymore.
“H’w lng?” Mumbled through the veil of fatigue draped over him like a blanket; like Derek’s body heat is seeping into his bones, mouth dry and lips sticking together as they move.
“Not sure.” Comes the eventual, soft reply between the kisses to the back of his head. “Maybe half an hour.”
“You don’t know?” Tired, idle curiosity as he shuffles back into the S-curve of Derek’s body; plays with the fingers resting spread-out over his heart.
He feels the slight shrug even though he can’t see it; brush of Derek’s chest against his back, shift-twinge of the weight inside him, and even half-asleep his Hale Silences Dictionary kicks in.
“You never did this with anyone else, huh?” Can’t turn his head to look at Derek’s volume-speaking eyebrows, but he knows awkwardness when he feels it pressed against his skin.
“No. There was never anyone I. I never wanted to before.” There’s a novel in the gap between those sentences, and Stiles is maybe a little perversely glad that Derek literally can’t avoid him right now.
“Not even Kate?” Awkwardness becoming another person in the room, but hey ignoring issues clearly hasn’t been the gold standard practice they’ve been treating it as.
“No.” More finality in that tiny syllable than Stiles can bear to hear, but he doesn’t need more than that. Derek was his first, and now he’s Derek’s; in a way that probably means more to him than most human’s virginity does to them; even after they lose it.
“You’re doing the cleanup.” He says, as much lightness as he can possibly put into the words as he digs one foot underneath Derek’s calf; wraps their legs up in a way that’s gonna be uncomfortable after a while, but he’s close enough to dozing that he can’t make himself care.
“Yes dear.” Dry as the desert words mingling with a huff of breath against his crown, and Stiles grins a little dopily as his eyes close again.
They’ll be fine. Better than.
They’ll be Stilinskis.