"You have that face," Derek says. He's standing in front of the open refrigerator and eyeing the takeout container in his hand skeptically. Stiles never remembers to date those before he puts them in the fridge; Derek always carefully writes the date, the contents, and his initials, as if inscribing some sigil that will prevent Stiles or Isaac from poaching his leftovers. "Explain."
"You're not even looking at my face," Stiles says, which is a simple statement of fact. The box Derek's holding came from Thai Gai Yang two—no, three—weeks ago and probably contained drunken noodles. Stiles can smell them from over here, even cold, which is… unfortunate.
"What was this when you put it in here?" Derek says, nose wrinkling. "Larb nar?"
"I don't know what face you're talking about," Stiles says. He fiddles with his tie. "No faces here."
Derek tosses the box into the trash. "Pad see ew?"
"No," Stiles says, slouching against the counter.
They go out for real Italian because Stiles is not emotionally prepared for cleaning the fridge, not even to spare delicate werewolf noses. Also, it's Friday, so date night, yeah. Derek pointedly finishes both his own lasagna and Stiles's fettucini alfredo; Lydia texts Stiles twice during dinner.
Well? she says, and five minutes later, This is the most significant role you could ever hope to play in my wedding, Stiles.
Stiles fiddles with his phone while Derek is in the bathroom, checking his email, setting a reminder for Monday to pick up coffee on the way into work. He doesn't text Lydia back.
"You ready to talk about it?" Derek asks when he gets back to their booth.
"We could get cheesecake, or—we can do that thing you like," Stiles says. "Later. Both?"
Derek rolls his eyes.
The drive home isn't short—they have to swing by the grocery store because they're out of milk and laundry detergent—but Stiles can't bring himself to bring it up, even trapped in the enclosed space of the car. He probably smells like guilt and nerves and garlic bread; it's not like Derek has no idea what's going on. Derek doesn't seem that concerned, although he does make Stiles listen to the new Bon Iver record in the car (ugh). The silence between them grows less strained.
At home, Derek toes off his sneakers and carries the groceries into the kitchen while Stiles loosens the laces of his new hi-tops enough that he can tug them off. Isaac's scuffed Vans are missing from the cluster of shoes next to the door, so he's probably crashing at his girlfriend's place again. Stiles thumbs the carving on the door frame to check the wards and a wave of security and familiarity washes through him. This will be okay. Derek and Stiles have gotten through a lot worse things: injury, torture, getting the sex talk from Stiles's dad. They'll survive Lydia and Allison's wedding.
"Ready yet?" Derek calls from the kitchen.
"Nope," Stiles says, getting to his feet.
"I was serious about your freaky sex thing," Stiles says, later, when they're getting ready for bed. "Come on. I'm up for it."
Derek tosses his jeans at the laundry hamper and misses. "Stop calling it my freaky sex thing."
"Fat chance," Stiles says. He crosses the room to wrap his arms around Derek from behind, kiss the back of his neck. They've been together for five years, since the summer before Stiles's senior year of college, living together for two, and Stiles is still weirded out about what Derek likes most in bed, so he's not thinking that will ever change. Most of the time they have friendly, flexible, enthusiastic sex where no one cries. Indulging the weird stuff they judge each other for is generally reserved for surviving near death experiences (Derek), bank holidays (Stiles), and birthdays (respective). They have a system and it works.
"Not going to turn you down," Derek says, turning in Stiles's arms to catch his mouth in a kiss. He's gentler than usual, running his hands up Stiles's arms, skating his fingers over Stiles's bare shoulders, cupping his hands around Stiles's face. Stiles isn't an all-over blusher like Derek, but he goes red in the cheeks when Derek does this to him, self-conscious, exposed. He slips his fingers beneath the elastic of Derek's boxer briefs and Derek goes rigid for a minute, exhales sharply into his mouth.
The thing about the embarrassing shit that Derek is into is that Derek is really into it, hypersensitive to Stiles's every touch, unusually vocal and incredibly responsive, which—Stiles can get into that, enough that things turn into a feedback loop of mutual pleasure pretty quickly. And if Stiles has a little bit of a humiliation kink, well, so much the better, right? "Derek," he whines, drawing the soft pads of his fingers up from the swell of Derek's perfect ass to the small of his back. "Come on, let's—"
Derek pulls back a little to smirk at him, easy and affectionate. "Don't rush me. Unless you're changing your mind—"
"Fine," Stiles says. "Geez."
He lets Derek tug his pants off his hips, follow them down with soft kisses pressed against the inside of Stiles's thigh, the tender hollows of his knees (that tickles, and Stiles's knees start to buckle: Derek catches him and holds him up with his ridiculous werewolf strength, it's like a Danielle Steele novel), the knobby parts of his ankles. When Derek starts mouthing Stiles's dick, twitching to life beneath Stiles's boxers, Stiles forces himself to look down and meet Derek's eyes, which are beaming right up at him, bright and hazel, earnest. Derek Hale is the only person in the entire world who can give earnest blowjobs, or in Stiles's world, anyway, and right now he's tugging Stiles's boxers down, too, breathing hot and wet on Stiles's dick.
Stiles has a lot of feelings about blowjobs, and the truly impressive degree to which Derek enjoys giving them, and he's a big fan of both the torturously slow and the fast and sloppy varieties. What Derek likes most to give, though, is something in between: the platonic ideal of blowjobs, with just the right amount of gentle suction and no teeth. Sometimes Stiles feels a little sad, in the abstract, about depriving Derek of a more appreciative audience for the swoonworthy bedroom action Derek endeavors to provide. Fortunately, his dick has no such compunctions.
"Yeah." Stiles carefully cards his fingers through Derek's hair while Derek teases the head of Stiles's dick with his tongue. "That."
Derek pulls off and glares (which is an excellent look on him) at Stiles for a moment. "You are the worst at—you can just be quiet, okay? Enjoy it?"
"I didn't say stop, asshole," Stiles says sweetly. "Get back to having your deep emotional moment with my dick so I can fuck you while we listen to bad jazz music."
Derek pushes him back onto the bed, slowly enough that Stiles has time to brace himself before he hits the pillow top mattress. "Just for that," Derek says. "We're skipping ahead to the main action."
"I veto Ella Fitzgerald," Stiles says, lazily jacking himself while Derek fumbles with the iPod in its little speaker dock next to the bed. "Fripp & Eno? At least?"
Derek tosses the lube at him. "In your dreams."
(They have sex to Adele. Stiles survives.)
"Ready yet?" Derek mumbles, maybe to the pillow, maybe to Stiles's shoulder. He's lying half on top of Stiles, so Stiles can still breathe and only one of his legs is going numb from prolonged pressure.
Stiles has been putting off this moment all day, ever since he checked his email this morning. "Mmm," he says, lazily stroking Derek's shoulder. He loves this part, the part with no Adele because Derek is too blissed out after getting laid like a Harlequin romance novel to complain about Stiles muting the soundtrack. "So… Lydia asked me to do the father-daughter dance with her at the wedding. Because she's not speaking to her dad right now and also, you know, forties theme, I can do the fancy lifts and shit, I think she feels like she's competing with Allison and Chris."
"So?" Derek says. "She's your friend. You should do it."
"Yeah, I know." Stiles brings his hand up to scratch the scuff at the nape of Derek's neck. "But, uh, she—before that, she wants to open with a couples dance? Her leading and Allison following, Nora and Rob, Erica and Boyd, and… maybe you and me?"
Beneath Stiles's hands, Derek stiffens. "What did you tell her?"
"That I'd have to ask you?" Stiles says. "Do you seriously think that I would—"
Derek rolls off Stiles, away, tugging his pillow with him to the opposite side of their king size bed that they always end up curled in the middle of. "No. You know my answer's no."
"Fine, then." Stiles says to the ceiling. "Peachy."
"Well, he has to get over it," Lydia says at lunch the next day, stabbing her salad with her fork. She's doing some vegan cleanse related to the Vera Wang wedding dress she's on her second fitting for; judging by the perforation of the mixed greens, it's not going well. "Allison's self-conscious about being out there by herself. I can fob her off on Chris for the patriarchal approval jig, but she doesn't want to do a dance with—just me."
"You're pretty competitive," Stiles is obligated to point out. "I mean, would you want to team up for Allison for an archery competition? I don't think she wants to, like, mess up your groove. It's a lot of pressure."
Lydia glares at him over the rims over her Versace frames. "You keep up."
Stiles rolls his eyes. "Well, yeah, because I train."
Three years ago, Lydia started going swing dancing one night a week because she "needed to tone her legs," and she dragged Stiles along because the Historical Dance elective he'd taken junior year of undergrad made him the most attractive victim. They've been reigning regional champions for the last two years because Lydia doesn't do anything halfway and Stiles is still unable to resist the sway of her doe eyes and perfect pout. Allison is the one who wants the big wedding; apparently, their compromise is to turn the reception into a showcase for Lydia's dancing skills.
"Are you sure you can't negotiate?" Lydia spears a slice of pear with her fork.
"It's Derek," Stiles says, like that's an explanation. "He—he probably has some awful, like, traumatic thing, or he used to do ballroom dancing with Laura, or—I mean, I don't want to go there."
"Derek needs therapy," Lydia says. She says that every time they have this conversation.
Stiles sighs, scrubs his hand over his face. "I'm not sending Derek to counseling to get him to dance at your wedding."
Lydia nibbles a pecan angrily.
"Have you ever considered therapy?" Stiles says later, while they're folding laundry, Daily Show rerun on low in the background.
Derek puts a neatly folded pair of jeans next to Stiles on the couch. It took Stiles a while to accept that Derek is not only the kind of guy who folds jeans instead of having a clean laundry pile, he's the kind of guy who pairs up the seams at the ankle and flattens them out sideways before folding them over and over again. He used to hang his jeans up in the closet, but Stiles staged an intervention. That was going too far. "Lydia's about to start her psychiatry residency," Derek says. "She thinks everyone should go to therapy."
"True," Stiles says. He reaches over to the table for another hanger.
Stiles is an actual grownup now, with a MLIS and a job at the private K-12 girls' school a town over, where he wears a lot of sweater vests and Gileses it up. As Stiles found out after landing the job, Derek has a previously undiscovered kink for sweater vests and jackets with leather elbow patches, so there's a lot of up-against-the-door frottage in Stiles's life as well as wash-and-wear pants. The first time he wore a bowtie, Derek blew him in the car in the driveway. Stiles misses his t-shirts, but he can't really complain.
Derek hands him a button-down. "Therapy for my dance problems?"
"Therapy for your life?" Stiles shrugs. "Look, I don't want you to do anything you don't want to do. I just—I don't understand. The problem with dancing."
"I've noticed," Derek says sourly, scowling at the blazer in his hands.
Stiles passes him a hanger.
Allison teaches social studies and coaches field hockey at Beacon Heights Academy. She usually eats lunch with Stiles in the staff room or in his office, which has better coffee but no microwave. Today, she's brought a sandwich and potato salad, so they're in the back of the library, door cracked so Stiles can keep an eye on two kids who've convinced Dr. Singh to give them a pass.
"Man, someone's in doghouse." Allison gives his houndstooth bowtie a meaningful look. "Really? It's that bad?"
Stiles sighs. "Lydia thinks that if she can convince you to shake it in front of your gathered friends and family, the sky's the limit. That's not—I mean, Derek and I just, we have to agree to disagree about some stuff."
"Olive Garden," Allison says knowingly. "Car maintenance. Scott."
Sometimes, Stiles gets the whole thing with Scott and Allison—it's kind of hard not fall head over heels for her, unless her aunt murdered your entire family, Stiles has to give Derek a break on that one. Scott's been an alpha for years, took Jackson and Danny and Greenberg down to Davis for college and stayed there. Stiles Skypes with him a lot, but they're never going in each other's pockets the way they were in high school, even without the pack thing. "Let's get Olive Garden tomorrow," Stiles says. "We can send Cindy, she's got a free period before lunch."
"God, breadsticks." Allison says. "Don't tell Lydia."
Stiles mimes zipping his lips.
The thing about Derek, about his thing with Derek, is that Derek never stops fascinating Stiles—he's frustrating and exasperating and sarcastic and patient and affectionate and sincere, a bundle of contradictions, it's impossible for Stiles to be bored by him or stay angry at him. Derek's also extremely hot and extremely into Stiles, which, after five years, he's mostly gotten used to. Still, Stiles does have those moments mid-fuck where he's like, Derek Hale's dick is in my ass or my dick is in Derek Hale's ass or Derek Hale is eating out my ass and he's totally lubing me up with his werewolf drool, and he can only pause for a moment in wonder before he snaps back into his body and gets back to doing it. Then there are the mornings where Stiles wakes up when Derek crawls out of bed before dawn to go jogging with Isaac and he's not sure if he hates Derek or loves the way Derek kisses him and pulls the covers back up over him before leaving, like Stiles will somehow be able to fall back asleep for the hour before his alarm goes off.
Overall, Stiles would have to rate their life together as pretty great.
They've been together long enough now, that they don't have arguments over the big stuff anymore: there's a few things they've each accepted as fact. Derek hates Olive Garden. Stiles refuses to let Derek work on the Jeep. Derek doesn't dance. They're never going to get werewolf-married because Stiles is never going to do the thing where Derek locks his werewolf dick in Stiles's ass and jizzes all up his colon while they lie on a bed of rose petals and listen to mood music.
45 minutes of Adele.
Like the jeans on hangers, that's just one step too far.
Lydia is tense and irritable at swing on Tuesday, perfectly on-beat and precise in her steps, but tight around the mouth and the eyes. Stiles dips and twirls her to Glenn Miller and Benny Goodman, does a few lifts and picks Lydia up at the waist like the delicate creature she isn't. He loves her more and better as a friend than he ever did as her distant admirer, and dancing has only strengthened that. Putting yourself in someone else's hands takes a lot of trust. Lydia swings back; he pulls her in, takes her hand, spins. They're a good team.
"Hey," he says, fishing a water bottle out of his messenger bag after they finish up. "Got a moment?"
Lydia takes the bottle from him. "Sure. Allison's out with Mae, I'm not in a hurry."
"I think Raw's still open, if you want," Stiles says. "Almond milkshakes, yum yum."
"Fine," Lydia says, like he has to talk her into embracing her wedding dress vegan or something.
The waitress at Raw beams at Lydia and tells her that their union will totally be blessed by her ethical commitment; Lydia, who was trying to ask about the calories in the portabello tartare, glares. They end up splitting a strawberry banana almond shake and a raw taco, which is tasty even to Stiles's thoroughly omnivorous palate.
"What's going on?" Stiles asks. He sips at the dregs of the shake. "You're being weird."
Lydia's shoulders slump. "Allison wants us to get married by an actual minister even though we asked Danny to officiate months ago, it's like she's forgotten that I'm an atheist, and today she brought home leftover tortellini and put it in the fridge."
"Ah," Stiles says guiltily. "Yeah, that sounds rough."
"It's been 45 days since I had dairy," Lydia says. "No cheese. I have three more months to go." She glares at her shake.
Stiles takes a moment to consider his words. Over the years, he's learned to—occasionally—think before he speaks. "Lydia, you're—perfect. And tiny. Don't you already fit in the dress? Didn't you fit into it before you decided to live off grass for months and months? Can't you at least, like, incorporate some cashew ricotta into your diet? I had some of that last week on the polenta, it was great."
"Clearly, you don't understand," Lydia says through gritted teeth. "Allison wants to invite all of her murderous, old money relatives to our wedding, so I have to invite all of my awful, new money relatives to our wedding, let Chris pay for things, and her mom is dead and she cries about it at least once a week, and—Stiles—if I have to do this, I'm going to look good doing it."
"You could elope?"
Lydia's mouth tightens. "It wouldn't be the wedding Allison's mother always wanted."
"Okay," Stiles says.
"Come on, finish the shake," Lydia says, nudging his foot under the table. "When I get back from the honeymoon, we're going to In 'N Out."
Derek works from home, writing copy for an advertising agency in San Francisco. He'd been in marketing in New York, spent six months in Beacon Hills freaking out before he stopped squatting and started freelancing out of his new apartment. That's why he's home to crush Stiles's ties and wreck his pants when Stiles comes home from work; Isaac usually works second shift at the hospital, which Stiles continues to hope is a coincidence. Today, Derek's on a tight deadline, so Stiles has to go upstairs to his office under the eaves of their house to sexually harass him.
"I have to work," he grouses when Stiles kisses him behind the ear. "If this isn't in by six—"
"I'll blow you under the desk," Stiles says. "You can come on my face if you want. Try to dodge the tie."
"Fuck," Derek says, scooting back from desk.
Stiles leaves Derek all noodly-limbed in his chair, washes his face, and goes downstairs to start dinner. Isaac's off early tonight, so Erica and Boyd are coming over with their two-year-old in tow. Jess is going through a phase where everything she eats has to be covered in cheese or peanut butter; hopefully broccoli mac-and-cheese and peanut butter brownies will fit the bill. Stiles makes the cheese sauce from scratch, starting with a roux and adding milk, gruyere, and swiss until it's thick and delicious. The brownies come from a box, but that's okay. He's got to compromise somewhere.
"There's something on your ear," Erica says after Jess and Boyd get settled in the living room with Stiles's stash of Lincoln Logs. "Might want to clean that up."
Stiles sighs. He's kind of beyond embarrassment about his sex life at this point, thanks, werewolves. "Keep an eye on the green beans, okay? Turn off the heat when they boil and—"
Erica rolls her eyes. "I know how to cook vegetables, Mom."
"Right," Stiles says.
Derek kisses his cheek when he comes downstairs, then licks his ear, because he can't deal with Stiles not being covered in his bodily fluids at all times or something. Then he licks the brownie batter off the beaters Stiles set aside and wanders off to the living room to play with Jess.
"You guys are, like, disgustingly married," Erica says affectionately. "Seriously, it's gross. Also, you are an asshole, you totally lied to me about how raw egg in brownie batter could kill me despite my supernatural digestion."
"Yup," Stiles says. "Hey, are you—dancing? For Lydia?"
"Sure." Erica frowns. "Wait, did she get you to ask His Broodiness?"
"Don't call me that," Derek says, raising his voice so it carries from the living room.
Stiles grabs the bowl of brownie batter. "Can I distract you with potential salmonella and chocolate?"
"It's like you know me or something," Erica says. Surprisingly, she doesn't press further.
"It's not what you think," Derek says, later that night, while Stiles is turning his pockets inside out to rescue the washing machine from loose change. "I'm just—" He's silent for a moment. "Bad at it."
"At what?" Stiles says, prising a nickel from the coin pocket of his pants.
He looks up to find Derek grimacing. "Dancing," Derek says.
"Seriously?" Stiles says. "That's it?"
Derek sighs. "There's—there was a video, of me dancing at my cousin Susannah's bat mitzah, when I was 8. Laura and my dad used to put it on every year, at Christmas, when they'd do the embarrassing home video show. And then, when I was in New York, I used to go out sometimes and—get fucked up, go to clubs. Not great memories."
"Because of the dancing?"
"Don't be an asshole," Derek says, sitting down on the bed. "I knew you'd be—that's why I didn't—"
Stiles drops his pants in the laundry bin. "No, fuck, I didn't mean—I'm not, I don't want to make fun of you. I just thought it was, you know, something bad, not—something normal. Embarrassing." He sits down next to Derek, close, so he can lean against Derek's shoulder, press his thigh against Derek's.
"Is that normal?" Derek says.
"It's normal," Stiles says. He reaches over and takes Derek's hand. "I thought maybe, you know, you didn't trust me. With that."
Derek cups his face, not too gently, kisses him. He used to kiss like this instead of using his words, but they've made progress. After a few moments, he pulls back, rubs his thumb along Stiles's cheek. "I trust you," he says.
Stiles finally cleans out the fridge on Friday after work, because he's coasting on a post-coital, sweater-vest-related high and he doesn't want that to get spoiled when Derek comes back downstairs to look for a snack. He chucks all of takeout containers that aren't Derek's into the trash unopened, puts a new box of baking soda in the fridge, and takes the whole bag to the bin outside when he's done.
"I was going to suggest we go out," Derek says when he comes down a few minutes later. "But we could stay in."
"Hmm," Stiles says. "My refractory period is not that short, dude. Netflix?"
Derek shifts on his feet. "I—I had another idea. A surprise, I guess?"
Stiles raises his eyebrows. "Sure. Blow me away. Oh, wait, you already—"
"Don't ruin it," Derek says ominously.
It takes a few minutes for Derek to set up his surprise in the living room. Then he comes back with an actual blindfold and Stiles goes a little weak in the knees, and not in a ticklish way. "It's not my birthday," he says, racking his brain. "Valentine's Day isn't until—"
Derek leans in to slip the blindfold—it has an elastic strap, no ties—over Stiles's head. "Do I need a holiday to do something for you?"
"No," Stiles says, letting Derek take his hand and lead him out of the kitchen. "You can—you do stuff for me all the time, just—"
They stop in the middle of the living room, and Derek steps away for a moment. To cue up 'My Funny Valentine.'
"Wait, seriously?" This is creative, Stiles has to admit, and adventurous for Derek, who likes to negotiate everything in advance. He's totally pushing Stiles's boundaries, and not in a bad way. Ella Fitzgerald could grow on him if she was the soundtrack to, like, some serious flogging and predicament bondage.
"Shut up," Derek hisses. He takes Stiles's hands, and—shuffles. It's so bizarre that it takes Stiles a moment to realize what's happening.
Automatically, he brings up Derek's hands, puts one on his own shoulder and holds the other, brings Derek in with his free hand on Derek's waist. "Holy crap," he murmurs, and… tries to lead.
Derek's not kidding. He is a terrible dancer. Stiles could lead Lydia blindfolded without a problem, but he can't see Derek, and Derek might as well have his eyes covered, stepping on Stiles's feet, wobbling to the side off-beat, almost tripping when they bump into the coffee table. That Stiles manages to keep them both upright for the entire song is a testament to three years of rigorous training.
After the song ends, Derek brings them to an abrupt halt, and they stand in the living room, just—holding each other. Stiles leans forward to rest his head on Derek's shoulder. "Derek," he says. "Jesus. Just—wow."
Derek tries to retreat, but Stiles has a good grip on him. "Like I said, I'm awful. I couldn't—not in front of, people, not with Lydia—"
Stiles frees one hand to push up his blindfold and lifts his head to meet Derek's eyes. "I get it," he says. "But you're not terrible."
"You're lying," Derek says.
"Not terrible to me," Stiles amends, because he's feeling gross and mushy, and also because he's not talking about Derek's dancing anymore. "You're awesome."
"You're ridiculous," Derek says, and shoves him back onto the couch.
(There's no spanking, but there's no soundtrack, either. Stiles approves.)
Stiles and Lydia go out for a lot of almond milkshakes. Derek ties Stiles up and doesn't let him come for hours on Valentine's Day. Allison starts coming to swing on Tuesdays and Thursdays so she can get some practice with Lydia, and by the time the wedding rolls around, she's in no danger of embarrassing herself. Stiles ends up opening the couples dance with her dad, which is kind of weird, but Chris is a total DILF and as intense as Lydia when it comes to dancing; Stiles can jelly roll with that.
Lydia is all glowy and airbrushed under the warm lights of the reception hall when Stiles takes her into his arms for the patriarchal approval jitterbug. She's changed out of the Vera Wang gown into a knee-length dress with a full skirt, silky and soft beneath the hand he rests at her waist. "Holy crap, you're married," Stiles says wondrously as they get into place opposite Allison and Chris on the dance floor.
"You were there, dumbass," Lydia says, squeezing his other hand as the horns come in. They've done this routine tons of times—it's the one that won them regionals this year—so Stiles's response is automatic; he spins Lydia out beneath his arm, brings her back in, swings her out open and pulls her in close.
After Lydia turns the dance floor over to the plebes who want to do the Macarena, Stiles takes a break to sit with Derek at their table. Isaac's there, too, crayons out and coloring book open; he and Jess are trading off on filling in Spongebob and Patrick. "Hey, Stiles," Isaac says, passing Jess the cerulean blue crayon that always comes out disappointingly light no matter how hard you press. "Those were some sweet moves."
Stiles reaches over to high five Isaac before he sits down next to Derek. "Thanks, dude. Where's Nina?"
"Cake raid." Isaac nods over at the table next to the buffet where his girlfriend is hovering. "You want more?"
Jess pokes him in the side. "Green," she says seriously.
While Isaac hunts for just the right shade of green, Stiles turns toward Derek, who's been fiddling with his unused dessert fork this whole time. "You okay? Dying from embarrassment by proxy? Which, honestly, would be understandable, because the Macarena—"
"No," Derek says, looking up. He reaches over to cover Stiles's hand, resting on the table, with his own. "No. You were great, you're— you're always great."
"Practice makes perfect," Stiles says with no modesty at all. He turns his hand under Derek's so he can weave his fingers with Derek's, pull their hands down into his lap.
After the Macarena, Lydia and Allison are back out on the dance floor together, shaking it to Frank Sinatra and the B-52s, surrounded by their friends and family (oh god, is Chris dancing with Erica? Stiles wants to unsee that); Stiles lets Isaac off Jess-minding duty so he can hang out with Derek for a while.
"Purple?" Derek holds up blue violet, mulberry, plum, lemon yellow.
"Yes!" Jess says, reaching for yellow.
Stiles ducks his head so he can kiss the mop of curls on Jess's head. "Hey," he says to Derek. "We should do this some time."
"Coloring books?" Derek says, shuffling the crayons back into a 64-color rainbow. "There are some at the house, but—"
"No," Stiles says. "The getting married thing."
Four days after Allison starts loading Stiles up with brochures and Derek starts chucking them into the recycling bin with increasing horror, they agree to get hitched at the courthouse and spend a weekend in Sonoma County drinking wine in bed. That's the easy part.
"Maybe we should give it a dry run," Stiles says, because it's Memorial Day, Derek is tying him to their bed at home with oiled jute and a familiar air of resignation, and Stiles is feeling all charitable and turned on and stuff. "Figure out the mechanics."
Derek reaches over Stiles's head to draw the rope through the headboard. "It's not that complicated."
"Excuse you, not your ass," Stiles says. "It's big, right?"
"Yes," Derek says patiently. They've had this discussion before: Stiles is plenty interested in the nuances of werewolf anatomy when they're not about to get up and personal with his own. "It shouldn't hurt you. You've had bigger stuff up there. The green—thing."
Stiles cranes his neck to the right to eye the clear tupperware bin on the floor. The plug is almost the size of Derek's fist and glows in the dark. "Really."
"That does it for you?" Derek leans in, lips brushing against Stiles's neck just beneath his ear; Stiles squirms under him, shameless. "You want me to fill you up, huh?"
"Yeah," Stiles breathes. "Just—not the bed of flowers and mood lighting and music part. Which, you know, I kind of assumed you'd—"
"I could do it right now," Derek says, running his nails up Stiles's taut, vulnerable inner arms. "Just like this. Keep you like this, make you come and jerk you off again while I'm still in you—"
"I love you," Stiles says, pushing up into Derek's touch. "Knot me, you asshole. I'm yours."
(They're stuck together for an entire hour. It's great.)