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Biological Imperative

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Stiles kinda wants kids.

He doesn't need you to tell him he can't bear Derek's fruit or whatever, this has already been mockingly explained to him by Scott and Boyd. Not by Derek. Stiles hasn't told Derek yet.

Because the point's moot. Derek's never mentioned kids. They're not even married, for one, won't be for a while, and for all Derek wears the ring Stiles got him, gets distracted by it when he's trying to use the computer—spends ten, fifteen minutes just looking at it dreamily—they still spend their time the way they did in high school. All petty arguments and video games and making out and eating ice cream out of the tub.

For two, the minimal family Derek has left doesn't know about—this, them, the five and a half years of dating, the rings—this whole thing where they're trying to marry each other, they don't know about that. Stiles met Derek's sister once, but it was only for about five minutes in high school, and she didn't seem to like him much.

For three… Stiles is still in college. They both are, now that Derek's going to grad school.

He and Derek share this shitty, perfect apartment with shag carpeting, a dishwasher that needs to be propped shut with the handle of a mop, and an incredibly angry guy living downstairs. Stiles got a two-cent raise at work, he's still at the diner. They mostly live off boxed mac and cheese, day-old bread, and deli ham.

He wants 'em real bad, though. Children, with Derek. He keeps thinking about it, having to wake up in the wee hours because their little kid is crying, having to work to feed the kid. Itty feet and trips to the zoo and noses to kiss—Stiles never pegged himself for a sap, but dang. How else do you explain dreaming of it, waking up miserable because you don't have it? Toys and blankets and halloween costumes and plastic placemats and Derek.

So he kinda wants kids. For all the good that realisation'll do him.


"Hello, my darling," Stiles slurs, and then he starts to tip forward like a cut tree. Derek catches him easily. "My love, I am drunk," he announces into Derek's chest.

Derek lays a flat, unamused look on Scott, who lifts his hands. "I dunno what you wanted, what you would have want for me to do," Scott tells Derek defensively. "It's a party. There's a drink—there is drinking. Everwhere."

"Uh huh," says Derek.

"I missed you," Stiles confesses warmly. He slides his hands down Derek's back, and Derek jumps when his hands squeeze on his ass. "I missed you sooo much."

"It's true," corroborates Scott. He leans casually against the doorframe. "He kept talking about you."

 "Yeah?" Derek sets about readjusting Stiles' clothes, righting him on his feet. Stiles is swaying like a sapling in the wind, humming happily, eyes on Derek's face. His glasses are askew. "Wha'd he say." As soon as he asks, he knows it was a bad idea.

"Your butt," Scott says like he has no idea why Stiles would mention that. Stiles gives a peal of laughter. "Your eyes, gross stuff. Stuff no one cares about."

"Everyone cares," Stiles retorts. "I care. You care." He points skyward and declares, "We all care!"

"Okay," Derek says mildly. "Anyone else need a ride home, Scott?"

"Not from you!" Scott yells. He and Isaac both start laughing uncontrollably.

Stiles doesn't seem to notice. "Jus' me," he says cooperatively. "Don' ride anyone else, Der. I love you so much, more than… Where's my ring."

His ring finger is bare. Stiles looks abruptly sober, nakedly terrified. Then he sighs. "Pocket. S'in my pocket." He addresses Derek. "Found it. We're engaged, to be married. We're gonna have all these babies: bup-bup-bup, tons of them."

"I got a college degree so I could do this," Derek sighs, and then he leads Stiles to the car.


Stiles sobers up enough under the spray of the hot shower that he cringes at the thought of what he said to Derek.

He thought he was being really subtle, he really did. It's clear now that he was not, and that Derek was obviously annoyed. Hindsight's always 20/20, though. With a groan, Stiles puts his face in his hands.


Hair still curling damply around his ears, the back of his neck, Stiles crawls silently into bed and lays there next to Derek. "Thanks for picking me up," he says eventually.

Derek tosses his book onto the floor (there is a responding thud from the guy downstairs a moment later). Looks at him.

"I embarrassed you," Stiles guesses, and Derek shrugs.

"I'm used to it." Stiles wilts; this was the wrong thing to say. Derek reaches for him. He doesn't come on his own, so Derek takes hold of him and pulls him across the mattress, where there's a slight dip in the middle from the fact that they've spent every night right there for a year and a half. "You said you loved me and reminded me we were engaged," Derek tells him drily. "I can think of worse things to hear from you."

"Yeah," says Stiles softly. After a moment, he steals one hand over to Derek's middle. Clenches his fingers lightly in Derek's shirt.

"Did you mean what you said?" Derek asks presently. "About having a bunch of kids."

Stiles doesn't answer for a while. He shrugs sullenly, fidgets with the hem of the comforter. It was a rich, dark navy blue when they bought it in on clearance at Ross three years ago, but now it's sort of a dully indigo grey colour. They have to wash it a lot; Derek can't stand leaving it after they've gotten it dirty. Stiles doesn't particularly care. In fact, he likes it to smell like them. He's a pervert.

They compromise. They leave the pillowcases longer than Derek would like.

"Yeah," Stiles says again suddenly. It takes Derek a second to remember what he asked him. "Sorry."

"Why are you apologising."

Stiles goes angrily red in the face. "I'm sorry."

"That doesn't even—"

"I'm sorry for wanting babies, and I'm sorry for bothering you with my sorries."

"Stiles, that's not—"

"It's no big deal, whatever."

Frustrated, Derek presses his palm over Stiles' mouth. Stiles' eyes go wide with shock—outrage, maybe. "Would you stop for a second?" His eyes narrow into slits. "You took off running before I could fucking react."

Stiles rolls his eyes animatedly, and then folds his arms. He's such a little shit. Just for that, Derek leaves his hand there.

"Did it ever once occur to you I'd want kids, too?"

That shuts Stiles up. Or—since his mouth is still covered, it disarms him. Temporarily; he pinches Derek's hand, hard. Derek yanks it back, hissing in pain. "Really?" asks Stiles vulnerably. "I mean—really? You're not just—?"

"Not just what?" grumbles Derek irritably, but Stiles tugs at him. Keeps pulling until Derek props himself up over Stiles. "Not just lying to you? Why can't I want kids?"

"Now you're being defensive," Stiles says breathlessly. "First it was me, then—then it was—"

"I want to have children with you someday," Derek interjects firmly. A giddy laugh bubbles out of Stiles, and then he covers his mouth with both hands; Derek casually straddles his waist. "Not that I know why I seem to think that would be a good idea."

"God, you're amazing," says Stiles sincerely, hands slipping to Derek's hips. "You're a dick, but you're perfect. Lemme—lemme make love to you."

Derek freezes.


"That good?" Stiles asks, and his voice is wretchedly tender; Derek can't look at him, not with Stiles' fingers up his ass. "You want more?" After a moment, Derek nods. Stiles bites his lip, works a third finger into Derek. "God, you're so good," Stiles tells him. "You take it so good—"

"Stiles," Derek says sharply, because they have discussed this. Rather, they've discussed it insomuch as Derek has said Stiles' name sharply whenever Stiles starts dirty-talking him, but Derek thinks the message is clear. He grits his teeth and shoves himself down onto Stiles' fingers, to make a point.

The point is lost on Stiles. "You embarrassed, baby?" he croons, pushing in a fourth finger without warning. Derek's elbows shake from the strain of propping himself up over Stiles like this. "I'm just being honest. You know how I get when you take four fingers for me, just like that—"

"Stiles," snaps Derek, jaw clenched.

"I can't help it, Der, this is what you do to me." Stiles thrusts his fingers in harshly, making Derek gasp and shiver in spite of himself. "You consume me, mi amor—"

"Put your goddamn dick in me now or I'll climb out the window and leave," Derek grinds out, which Stiles rebuts with a sunny laugh.

"Okay, dude, chill," he says, pulling his fingers out. Wiping them arrogantly on the bedspread. Derek scowls, still hot behind the ears, and Stiles beams—so Derek snatches up Stiles' wrists, presses his hands against the headboard on either side of his head.

Making eye contact, Derek says, "Don't move." Stiles' lips twitch at the command, but he waggles his fingers, makes a show of obeying. Derek rolls his eyes. Takes Stiles' dick in his hand and eases himself down onto it.

"Mmm," Stiles sighs, wrists arching helplessly off the headboard. "That's… yeah."

An apt assessment, Derek thinks, but he doesn't say it, because he's sure if he were to speak, all that would come out is some kind of embarrassing noise. He shuts his eyes, moves his hips marginally. It's been a while since they've done this in particular, a few months, maybe. Derek takes his time remembering what he likes. Soon, he picks himself up, and then slides back down.

"Oh, jesus," pants Stiles, eyes fluttering shut when Derek strikes up something of a rhythm fucking himself on Stiles' dick. "Fuck, would you just—"

"What happened—" Derek takes a ragged breath "—to the talking?" Stiles' hands skitter to Derek's hips, thumbs pressing flatly into his pelvic bone. "Thought I consumed you. Your words."

Stiles laughs weakly. Looks at Derek, his chest and his stomach and the thick smattering of hair there— "You did. Done deal. Fully consumed, nothing left—"

Despite the sarcasm, words dissipate then, for favour of chasing their own pleasure—chasing each other's pleasure, really. If Derek shuts his eyes, he can pretend they're in high school, a Thursday or Friday night, and maybe they're in Stiles' bedroom, with that awful cartoon dude on the wall that Derek took down—it was creepy, having that thing watch them have sex. Or maybe it's that first night again, the back of Stiles' stupid Jeep, on a full moon. Seventeen years old and Derek leans down to bite at Stiles' collarbone.

He opens his eyes, and it was obviously never high school again. This is better, clearly. First of all, they're both supremely better at sex, now. Both taller and broader. Stiles pushing shamelessly against Derek's mouth because he knows now, unbidden, that he'll like it. And that he doesn't have anyone to hide it from. They've got their own place, a bigger bed. Stiles' eyes open, and they look at each other, and this is so much better than that.

Derek manages to make the headboard clatter against the wall, and Stiles' fingernails drag across his hips. That should not push Derek closer, but it does. "I, I need you to," Stiles says desperately, "I need you to come, I need—"

"Close," says Derek, "I'm so—" Their rings bump together audibly when they both go for Derek's dick at the same time. The hands give Derek something to thrust up into; it isn't long before he's coming, hot and thick across Stiles' body.

"God, yeah. Oh, god—" With a yell, Stiles tenses up, and Derek swears muzzily. Finds he rather missed the feeling of Stiles' come filling him up, spilling out of him. Tingling all over, Derek lets himself flop bonelessly next to Stiles. Over the sound of the rushing in his ears, Derek hears Stiles say raggedly, "I love you so fucking much."

Derek is still too out of breath to answer, so he just reaches over and presses his palm against Stiles' belly. It's sticky with come, but the heat is what Derek's after, the feeling of Stiles breathing.

After five or ten minutes of catching their breath, they hear the downstairs neighbour start a slow clap.

They both chuckle smugly. Stiles bellows, "Fuck yeah."


Stiles sprawls out on their living room floor, near a stale Cheeto and a Wiimote, giggling uncontrollably because there's a kitten licking his ear. She won't permanently curb Stiles' desire for progeny, but she'll certainly do the trick for now. As she'd goddamn better, Derek thinks, leaning against the wall and watching them; the pet deposit they paid to the landlord alone was an entire paycheque.

She's a fluffy, determined tortoiseshell with a blue, belled collar. She hops around a lot. Pounces on Stiles' face with a jingle.

"We're calling her Odolwa and you're not saying shit," Stiles announces with delight.