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State of the Union

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1.

Being knotted was surprisingly one of the high pleasures of Stiles’s life. On paper it sounded awful, like the worst kind of butt torture, like one of those hentai videos on redtube that makes you want to scream “bodies don’t work that way, good night!” but being with Derek brought new and disturbing things to his life every day, so weird dicks were, in comparison, kind of tame.

He’d still waited before going for it. It was Derek’s first ever time with a dude, and Stiles’s first time ever, period, and he’d felt, strongly, that everyone needed far more familiarity with the mechanics of buttsex before he agreed to up the ante.

Derek had agreed, looked grateful enough to exit the conversation, as he was every time Stiles wanted to have a State of the Union about their relationship or anything involving normal human feelings, so they had waited. It wasn’t really a trial, having normal, everyday human sex. Stiles liked Derek, liked his body, liked touching him, because he was allowed to do that now. He could reach out and pull Derek in, and for awhile, that was definitely more than enough.

Eventually, though, on a random Saturday afternoon, after fifteen minutes of necking, Stiles had pulled back and said something incredibly romantic and appropriate like, “wanna stick your knot up there today?”

Derek bitched about it, had glared and grumped but he did want to do it, and so Stiles pinned him down and took charge, directed the whole procedure and nearly had a heart attack over how much how amazing it felt.

“We’re doing that again,” Stiles assured Derek, perched on Derek’s hips with his knees bracketing Derek’s waist. “Not like, today, obviously, but put it on the calendar, in like, permanent ink.”

“Right on your dad’s Hot Rods calendar in the kitchen,” Derek agreed, folding his arms behind his head lazily, reclining like the smuggest bastard to ever smug.

Stiles made a face and rocked a little, just enough to make Derek’s eyes flash, and knock his smugness level down a tad. It backfired, because he ended up gasping himself, as the knot brushed against his oversensitive prostate and both he and Derek both ended up going glassy eyed for a second.

Then he shook it off, and looked at the clock. They were stuck minimum twenty minutes, but honestly probably more like thirty, and it was one o’clock in the afternoon. He wasn’t one of those people who could instantly pass out after sex and he was sure as hell not going to fall asleep now. “I’m bored,” he whined, scratching his nails on Derek’s stomach.

“What are you, five?” Derek said, rolling his eyes. "It’s been two minutes. Enjoy the peace and quiet.”

“Fat chance,” Stiles said. He looked around for a moment, and spied the edge of a crossword puzzle book sticking out of his bookcase, left after one roadtrip or another and nearly forgotten. “Okay, hold my hips,” he said, guiding Derek’s hands.

“What? Why?” Derek said, but the rest of his protests were garbled when Stiles listed as far as he could to the left, reaching out and snagging the book. For good measure, he grabbed a marker off the nightstand as he came back up and held them up triumphantly. Derek was sweating a little, and the look he shot Stiles was death ray level.

“Don’t be a baby,” Stiles said. He opened the book. “Capital of Thailand, seven letters.”

“Mumbai,” Derek said, settling down.

“That’s six, stupid. Also, I’m pretty sure that’s India.”

“New Delhi is India,” Derek said. “I remember it from an episode of Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?

“Fuck,” Stiles said. “We should get a globe.”

2.

The least pleasant post-orgasm time was when they did it missionary. “Wait,” Stiles said, and Derek obligatorily stopped leaving the impressively large hickey he’d been working on to squint up at Stiles. “Do they still call it missionary when it’s gay? Missionaries probably aren’t doing it like this.”

“Gay werewolf missionaries probably are,” Derek said, and dipped his head down to start anew.

“No, no, come on,” Stiles said, beating him about the head. “I can’t stay like this, you’re gonna turn me into a ninety-year-old man with bad hips.”

“Ugh,” Derek said, relinquishing Stiles’s neck, the damn vampire. “What do you want me to do? You’re the one who wanted it like this.”

“We’ve had this conversation,” Stiles said, sighing. “I’m not allowed to make decisions in bed because I get sex stupid, and you’re not allowed to make decisions anywhere else because you’re regular stupid. We agreed.”

“I didn’t agree to anything,” Derek said, and braced his hands on the mattress next to Stiles’s head, taking some of the weight off of his hips.

“Better,” Stiles allowed, shifting under him. The magic marker was on the nightstand, still tucked into the crossword puzzle book where Stiles had abandoned it, and he grabbed, uncapping it with a flourish.

“What are you doing,” Derek said warily.

“Marking my territory,” Stiles said, and drew a hot air balloon floating over Derek’s nipple.

3.

Stiles flat out refused to do it like that again, kicked at Derek’s side to pull out at the last second if he happened to forget.

“I hate when you do that,” Derek said once, grumpily. “Makes me feel like a horse.” Stiles had laughed so hard at that he’d choked, and had to flail for a half-filled bottle of Nestea to suck down before he could catch his breath.

“Listen,” he said, when he could talk again. “I wouldn’t have to spur you into action if you’d remember what a delicate flower I am.” He snickered at his own joke.

“Not flowered anymore,” Derek said, pointedly, and avoided Stiles’s retaliatory fists like a pro.

“Stop screwing around,” Stiles instructed and squirmed until he was on his stomach, facing the wrong way on the bed, with a pillow wedged under his hips. “Do it to me this way.”

“So sweet,” Derek said, nudging his legs apart.

“Sorry,” Stiles said. “Do it to me, love muffin,” and he jumped when Derek slapped him on the ass.

When they were done, both fully spent, and Derek was locked within him, hot and heavy against his back, Stiles squirmed his hand out from between his legs, wiped it on the comforter and fished around for his x-box controller.

“Are you kidding me?” Derek said from behind him, appalled.

“Oh my God,” Stiles said, “Like you were going to do anything except heavy breathe and bite my neck.”

“You suck at afterglow,” Derek said, but he didn’t deny it, and in fact, blew out a warm gush of air behind the shell of Stiles’s ear and ran the edges of his teeth along the back of Stiles’s hairline.

“Yes,” Stiles crowed, as his team scored another touchdown in Madden. He reached behind him and scratched Derek’s hair, lightly and affectionately. “Love you,” he said.

“Play your stupid game,” Derek said, but leaned into Stiles’s hand.

4.

They didn’t actually knot that often. Derek didn’t need to, neither of them always wanted to, and anyway they both had busy schedules, what with the life-or-death adventures, psychotic geriatric murderers, and lacrosse games. They probably wouldn’t even do it much at all if it didn’t feel so damn good.

It’s been awhile, this time, long enough that Stiles has forgotten the stretch and the burn of it, the feeling of making room in your own body, of having someone else stake a claim there too.

He couldn’t help it, he loved it, and it left him with an air of benevolence worthy of a saint. He didn’t even complain when Derek swelled up while Stiles was still on his back, just petted Derek through it and let him pepper him with kisses all over his face.

“Sorry,” Derek said eventually, clearly remembering Stiles’s many complaints about how heavy he was. “Hang on, let me,” and he rolled, holding Stiles tight against his body until Derek was lying underneath Stiles, hands cupping the backs of his thighs.

“Thanks, buddy,” Stiles said cheerfully, and spotted one of the Star Wars novels sitting on Derek’s makeshift bedside table. “Are you reading that?” he said incredulously.

Derek flushed. “I borrowed it from Isaac,” he said. “Don’t judge me.”

“Please,” Stiles scoffed. “Like that’s not the most lost cause ever.” He snagged it anyway, and flipped to the first page, mouth moving soundlessly over the words as he skimmed the page.

“Are you just going to read now?” Derek said, amused.

“I was,” Stiles said, glancing up. “I could read out loud.” Derek shrugged in acquiescence, and so Stiles started, saying dramatically “our story begins, a long long time ago, on planets far far away...ten thousand years before our time.” He made up voices for each one of the characters, and by the time Derek slipped out, they were both in hysterics, laughing until their sides hurt.

5.

Where and when was another question that threw them off. Stiles was still living at home, and Derek was deathly paranoid that the Sheriff was going to catch them one day, walk in on the one moment Derek couldn’t run away. Stiles mostly thought Derek’s stark terror of his dad was hilarious but on this topic they fully agreed. Derek’s loft was generally full of betas, whose many varieties of intrusive senses made that a less than ideal location as well.

But then Derek’s birthday came around, and Stiles cheerfully warned everyone off. Lydia and Allison just laughed at him, and Scott had held up a hand, refusing to let the conversation go any farther. He cleared the betas out with a few well chosen hints, gracious and sweet.

“Bye, I’ll febreeze all your stuff when we’re done rolling on it,” Stiles called down the hallway to the betas’s retreating backs. Three identical fingers were held up in unison, and Stiles snickered as he shut the door behind them. He crossed the room to where Derek was standing, hooking two fingers in his belt loops. “Okay birthday boy,” he said, grinning. “We’ve got ourselves two hours. How do you want me?”

Derek responded by picking him up, throwing him over his shoulder, caveman style. Stiles thought of five zingers without even trying, but bit them back, in deference of the occasion. Derek dumped him on the bed, none too gently, and Stiles arched his hips, about to wiggle out of his jeans when Derek stopped him, crawling over him to kiss him first. “Let me,” Derek said, pulling back eventually.

Since it was his birthday, Stiles did exactly that. “Whatever you want,” he breathed, and relaxed into the bed.

What Derek wanted was to do it gently, with soft jazz floating through the radio. Stiles was pretty sure that a) it was an actual CD in an actual CD player, and b) it was the musical stylings of Kenny G, but again, birthday, so no comment.

They ended up on their sides, with Derek folding one of Stiles’s legs up towards his chest to be able to thrust deeper and harder. Stiles sobbed with it, fisting the sheets and overloaded, cursing Derek for how long he took breaking Stiles apart before even getting down to business. He was a mess before Derek’s knot even started to swell, and Derek had to soothe him, hold him tighter until Stiles didn’t feel like he was going to shatter into a million pieces.

“Whose birthday was it, again?” Stiles asked, once he was finally tuned back into the planet.

Derek hummed, satisfied and clearly pleased with himself, and Stiles didn’t even feel the need to tease him about it. He just reached behind him and patted Derek’s face a few times approvingly, and then reached for one of the emergency knotting entertainment tools he had stashed near the bed.

“Wait,” Derek said. He grabbed for Stiles’s wrist and held it captive. “It’s still my birthday.”

“Oh, I’m not going again for like, an hour,” Stiles protested. It was only sort of a lie. Give him a grilled cheese sandwich and a good stretch and he could probably play another inning in half that time.

Derek huffed. “Can you just lay here? For once?”

Stiles grumbled but relaxed into the bed, letting Derek take a little of his weight. Derek kept hold of Stiles’s wrist and with his thumb, touched a mole Stiles had, right above the bone there. He swept the pad of his finger down and sideways until he’d reached another one, this one on the underside of Stiles’s forearm.

“Are you playing connect the dots?” Stiles said, shivering.

“I’m playing ‘you said I could do what I wanted,’” Derek retorted, and Stiles snapped his jaw shut. That was accurate. That was what he said.

It wasn’t as hard as it usually was, just lying there with nothing to do. His mind went peaceful for once, and he closed his eyes, tracking Derek’s movements on his skin lazily.

He could only take so much of the quiet though. “I hope you’re entertaining yourself at least.”

“I’m making constellations,” Derek said, unembarrassed. He sketched a line on Stiles’s shoulder. “Here’s the Big Dipper, here’s the North Star, and here’s the Loup-Garou.”

“I don’t remember that last one from Astronomy,” Stiles said, skin pebbling with goosebumps where Derek was touching him.

“Must not have been paying attention,” Derek said loftily. “It’s a good story.”

“Oh yeah?” Stiles said, laughing. He shivered against the knot. “We’ve got time.”

“There once was a mouthy ass kid,” Derek drawled and Stiles grinned and settled in for the long haul.