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Stiles lets the door slam shut behind him, and kicks off his shoes with a tired sigh. He slouches out of his coat, hangs it over one of Derek’s hoodies beside the little cubby for their shoes. Dropping his bag beside the coat rack, he stretches, cracking his back with a satisfied groan.
“Honey,” he calls, lilting and sarcastic, twirling his keyring around one finger, “I’m home.”
No response.
Stiles drops his phone and lanyard on the side table with a sigh.
“I’m not smelling smoke, so I’m going to assume the cooking is going according to plan,” Stiles says, his voice raised to carry down the hall. Derek had sent him a series of texts throughout the week, reminding him of the dinner he’d planned to cook on Friday, with an odd amount of intensity. Stiles has a distinct memory of Derek’s culinary skill-and lack thereof- but he’s also aware that there is precious little he wouldn’t do for his husband. Eating burnt food included.
Still, he’s weirded out by the quiet, and so he calls out again. Nothing. Then, from the kitchen, there is a single, muffled thump. Stiles raises an eyebrow. Faintly, he can hear what sounds like scrabbling, or scratching, or something.
“Derek?”
Silence, then another, much louder thump. Stiles takes a slow breath, steadies himself.
He creeps along the hall in socked feet, and, as the rustling noises get ever-louder, he snatches up a heavy book from the side table. He’s just at the door when there is a burst of sudden noise, a flash of movement.
Stiles raises the book like a shield, backing away until his back collides with the far wall. He stares ahead with wide eyes, because there, on the ground, is his beloved husband, covered in blood and grappling with a pale, grey-skinned shape. His shirt is hanging off of him in ripped tatters, revealing a nasty looking gash along his back.
“Holy fuck,” Stiles gasps. His heart beats a violent rhythm in his chest, pounding hot and urgent in his ears.
Derek is half-turned, his claws sharp and his eyes sharper, and he’s pinning the monster to the tiled floor as it writhes, knocking its pale limbs against the floor, the cabinets. Only now can Stiles hear the low, angry growl emanating from Derek’s throat, nearly drowned by the sound of their struggle. The monster cranes its neck up at Derek, shards of glass caught in its decaying skin, and dotting the floor around its body. Derek swipes at it with clawed fingers. Stiles’ fingers tighten around the book.
The monster itself is unnervingly silent, accepting each blow from Derek without even an exhale. Derek’s eyes flash up to meet his, and despite everything, he seems relieved at the sight. Stiles manages a weak wave with his free hand, before the thing bares rotting teeth, and twists around in Derek’s firm hold, tearing his attention away again.
“We’re having guests for dinner, then?” Stiles says, and hefts the book up into a firm, two-handed grip. “You should’ve told me- I would’ve worn something nicer.”
“Terrible guest etiquette,” Derek snaps back, around the fangs crowding in his mouth. “Didn’t even bring a bottle of wine.” He seizes the thing, pulling it up and off of the ground, and with a surge of strength, he slams it back down onto the ground. It lands with enough force that Stiles is surprised that the tiles don’t crack.
The monster lets out a furious, violent screech, and he snaps his gaze back to the wretched thing. Then, with the honed instincts of the past decade pulling him into motion, Stiles drops to one knee, and slams the book against the monster’s skull with all the force he can muster.
The monster’s head slams against the floor with a sickening crunch, and it howls. Not willing to look, Stiles lifts the book and slams it down, again and again and again.
Eventually, the monster stops moving, twitches dulling down to nothing. Stiles lowers his arms, breathing heavily. Derek looks at him with wide eyes, still clutching the corpse to his chest. Stiles drops the bloody book with a wet thud, and falls back onto his ass with a gusty exhale.
“Hey babe,” he gasps.
“Hi,” Derek replies. He’s got blood smeared all over his arms, and down his bare chest. From the wetness splattered on his own face, Stiles suspects that he’s not much better.
“Rough day?”
Derek cracks a bare smile. A glint of his fang peeks out from his lips. “You could say that.”
Stiles sighs, wipes his filthy hands on his soiled jeans, and rolls up to his knees. “I’ll go get the body bag from the trunk,” he says, and Derek nods. “Then, you can explain to me what the hell just happened.”
He gets to his feet, nearly slips on a pool of the monster’s blood, and stops to give Derek a quick peck on the lips. Derek gives him a brief smile, and lets Stiles pull him to his feet.
As he does, Stiles runs a hand down his back, feeling the now-healing scratch along his shoulder. It puckers under his fingertips, and Stiles knows that it’ll be gone before he’s back from the car. Pulling back, Derek gives him a look, like he knows exactly what Stiles was doing. He raises a brow.
“Yeah, I’m going, I’m going.”
When he gets back, Derek’s managed to haul the monster’s corpse up onto the kitchen island- part of Stiles wants to protest, because hey, they eat there, but he also can’t really think of a better place for the damn thing, with the cramped square footage of their little bungalow.
Without the adrenaline of a fight coursing through his veins, Stiles can take in the rest of the room. It is, quite frankly, a fucking disaster. There’s flour and egg splattered all over the cabinets and floor, and the shattered remains of a vase lie in pieces by the doorway. Grimacing, he runs a sticky hand through his hair, then immediately regrets it.
Still, Derek waits for him, so he hops around a puddle of what might be mucous to join him by the corpse. Interspersed with the filth of the monster are scattered rose petals. Stiles raises an eyebrow.
“Did it come from a flower shop?” he asks Derek, searching for a wry smile. Derek just huffs and helps Stiles lay out the body bag on the ground. The monster’s head lolls at a sickening angle, and Stiles averts his eyes as he comes to stand above it.
“I’ve got the key for Deacon’s place, if you want to take it there,” Stiles says. “That, or we could go leave it at Peter’s, or something.”
That, at least, gets Derek to crack a little. “Tempting,” he says, “but I think Deacon’s is probably the better move.”
“Boo,” Stiles says, sticking out his tongue like he’s twelve.
They assume their usual positions for this sort of thing- Stiles lifting the feet, and Derek taking the head and shoulders. They lift together, and settle the grey body to be carried. It’s leaking out some sort of dark fluid. Thank God for waterproof corpse-carriers.
Stiles shuffles around the body to nudge up against Derek’s side. Derek lifts an arm to wrap around his shoulders, and they sag against one another with a heavy sigh. Stiles goes a little boneless, his head resting on Derek’s shoulder, and takes a deep breath.
“I’ve told you to close that window when you’re cooking,” Stiles says. “We’ve got a vent hood for a reason.” He elbows Derek lightly in the side. Derek lifts a hand to muss at Stiles’ hair in retaliation.
“The smoke alarm was about to go off,” he says tiredly, his hand coming to rest at the nape of Stiles’ neck. “I wasn’t expecting a ghoul on the other side.” When Stiles turns to look, he can see the deep scratches left in the wood of the windowsill, and their mug collection shoved into disarray across the counter. The window itself is pushed open, and the screen is ripped in a huge, open gash. Stiles doesn’t even want to picture the state of the back garden.
“Well, at least it didn’t break the glass,” he says. “That’d be a total pain to replace.” It’s not much of a silver lining, but he’s too tired to grasp for another one. “Ha. Pane.”
Dutifully ignoring him, Derek says, “I’ll get a guy on the screen later this week. And I’ll ask Lydia about getting stronger wards for the backyard.”
“Probably not ideal that we’ve got actual monsters wandering around our homes,” Stiles muses, tracing little circles in the tattered remains of Derek’s shirt- which he’s realizing is actually a dress shirt. Stiles can’t remember the last time he’s worn one of those. “Or that it’s happened so much that I’m not freaking out right now.”
“It might have been from that moon the other week,” Derek says. “Maybe I left my scent around where I shouldn’t have.”
Stiles hums. “In any case, I don’t think we’ll solve it tonight,” Stiles says. “I’ll shoot Scott a message, and we’ll see about sorting it out tomorrow. Besides, I think so long as we keep the doors and windows shut, we should be fine, at least for tonight.”
“Yeah,” Derek says. He untangles himself from Stiles, and bends to zip shut the bag. They carry it out to the car in companionable silence, and Stiles, still weary from work and everything that came after, tosses Derek the keys to the Jeep. He catches them with one hand, and they pull out of the lot in a smooth motion.
“I think Deacon will have gone home by now,” Stiles says over the low hum of the radio. “We might just need to shove it in a cage and call it a night.”
Derek glances over at him, eyes crinkling in the corner. “You don’t want to dissect a body right now?”
“Forensics has seen enough of me this week,” Stiles says, and to punctuate his words, he stops off into a jaw-cracking yawn. “It’s bad enough that they’ve had me stay late for about ten days straight. If I have to see another autopsy form today, I think I’m going to scream.”
“Well, I can understand why they’re doing it.” Derek says. “You’re the best person they’ve got.”
“You’re saying that like it’s a compliment, but it’s really a matter of how few people still work on that damn force,” Stiles complains. “I should never have let my dad retire.”
Derek takes a hand off the wheel and reaches over to lay a comforting hand on Stiles’ thigh. “He’s proud of you. We all are.”
Stiles reaches down, interlacing their fingers. Derek runs the pad of his thumb over Stiles’ ring. He smiles a small, private smile down at their hands, and Stiles catches it. “You’re going soft on me, sour-wolf.”
Derek flicks on his turn signal as they approach the clinic, eyes back on the road. “Keep telling yourself that.”
They get out, and start the slow process of dragging a monster’s corpse into a veterinarian's office. The ghoul is heavy, and everything is made worse by the pooling liquid at the bottom of the bag. They don’t make it four steps before Derek’s hands slip and the body goes lurching to the side. Stiles can’t help it- he bursts out into peals of laughter.
“God, we must look like the worst pair of murderers ever,” he gasps. “Imagine looking at the security cameras right now.”
Derek hoists the body up higher into his arms, shaking his head. “I’d be insulted if this is what finally gets us arrested.”
Still stifling giggles, Stiles walks them back over to the door, then has to perform a grotesque balancing act while he fumbles for his keys. He really hopes that they’re not in view of the security cameras right now.
The key works after a good amount of jiggling the lock, and they let themselves into the back room. Derek dumps the body on the table, unzipping it from the bag and Stiles secures a few of the restraints around its extremities, just to be sure.
“So, what’s the bet?” he asks, once they’ve strapped the thing down to the metal gurney. “Ghoul or zombie?”
“You and your bets,” Derek says, voice muffled as he rummages around in one of Deacon’s cabinets. “I’m not encouraging you.”
“Aw, c’mon,” Stiles wheedles, leaning back against one of the counters. He enjoys a gratuitous eyeful of Derek’s ass, as he bends to get some of the monster-repellant powders from the lower shelf. “It’s a 50/50. Those are great odds.”
“No.”
“We could do a is-the-blood-poisonous one? I’ll take the yes option.” Stiles blinks. “Speaking of, toss me one of those syringes, yeah? Should probably get a blood sample before we leave.”
Obediently, Derek tosses him a packaged syringe from the cabinet. “I’m also not taking that bet.”
“Tch.” Stiles extracts a murky-looking sample from the monster’s arm and squirts it into a sterile tube. He caps it with one hand, and dumps the needle into the sharps bin with the other. “Scott would take that bet.”
“Scott likes to lose money to you,” Derek says. “I know better.”
“You’re no fun, babe.”
They leave the monster on the gurney at the back of one of the empty kennels, locking the cage door for good measure, and send off a few emails to cover their bases. Stiles cracks his neck, sighing, and they make their way back to the Jeep.
“Do you think we’ll be able to salvage anything for dinner?” Stiles asks. Derek winces. “I’ll take that as a no, then.”
Derek sighs, clipping his seatbelt on. “I don’t think this is how I expected our anniversary to go.”
Stiles freezes. A few things click together in his mind all at once. Derek’s insistence on a home-made dinner. The rose petals on the kitchen floor. The torn-up dress shirt. He tries his best poker face.
“Yeah,” he says, dragging out the vowels. Derek gives him a look.
“You forgot.” He sounds vaguely amused.
“I forgot,” Stiles confirms, dragging a hand down his face. “Fuck, I should’ve known something was behind the dinner date invite.”
“There was,” Derek says wryly. “It was a monster.” He’s looking over at Stiles, his expression soft. He doesn’t seem particularly offended, which is a point in Stiles’ favour, but still.
“I’m sorry” he says, and Derek shrugs it off, looking unbothered. “I’ll make it up to you.” Derek nods, clearly humoring him. “I’m dead serious. You name it, and I’ll make it happen. Dinner and a movie, or we could do one of those paint and wine nights-”
“It’s fine, Stiles. I don’t really care about this sort of thing.” Derek says honestly. Stiles groans. “Besides, we have dinner together every day.”
Stiles is undeterred. “A month in the Bahamas. Matching face tattoos. A miniature pony.”
“Alright, alright,” Derek says, hiding a smile as he starts the Jeep. He looks over at Stiles, eyes crinkling in the corners. “Surprise me. If you must.”
“I do!” Stiles gestures vaguely. “It’s the principle of it- I just. Like, I know we don’t do much for anniversaries, but I want you to know that I’ll actually do it. For you. Because I love you.”
Derek’s face softens a little bit, and he leans over the centre console to pull Stiles into a sound kiss. They separate, leaving only a faint amount of distance between them, and Derek says, “I love you too. And I think I’ll live with a delayed anniversary celebration.”
Stiles smiles at him, still a bit sheepish. “We can still try for dinner?”
Derek, it seems, was right. Dinner isn’t really salvageable.
From the maybe-ghoul’s innards excreted all over the kitchen table to the wealth of ingredients spilled all over the floor during the fight, there’s not much left to use for the pasta that Derek had been trying to make. Hearing this, Derek just sighs, and, stripping off the tattered remains of his shirt, he gets the broom out from the pantry. Stiles snags a rag from the countertop, and crouches down to deal with the wet mess.
He deals with the blood splatter, and is starting on the eggs-and-maybe-mucous, and Derek sweeps up the broken glass and rose petals. He closes and locks the window, sprinkling a handful of undead-repellant along the countertop for good measure. Stiles shuffles along the floor, rag in hand, and wields a spray bottle of cleaner like it’s a gun.
There’s splatters all along the baseboards, which makes Stiles grimace. “Why can’t we fight something clean, for once? Like a ghost, or something.”
“How the hell would you fight a ghost,” Derek says, deadpan, and Stiles huffs a reluctant laugh. Derek steps around him to better sweep up the mess he’s crouching amidst. Stiles cranes his neck to look up at him appreciatively.
He’s unfairly gorgeous, even splattered with blood and flour. His furred chest gleams with sweat, and Stiles rocks back on his heels, watching as his pecs shift with his movements. Derek turns, catching his eye, and raises a single eyebrow.
“You’re staring,” he says. Stiles rocks back on his heels, drags his eyes slowly back up to meet Derek’s.
“A man’s not allowed to look at his own husband?”
“When you’re looking at him like that, the husband might start getting ideas,” Derek says. Stiles rises to his feet, wiping his hands on the now-filthy rag, and leans back against the counter.
“Those wouldn’t be the wrong ideas,” Stiles replies. “You can’t blame me- I got to see you fight a monster earlier tonight. That would raise anybody’s blood pressure.”
Derek looks at him for a long moment, and Stiles meets him evenly. Invitingly. “Seeing me get bloody all over gets you going?”
Stiles reaches forward to wrap his hand around the handle of the broom, his fingers overlapping with Derek’s. He offers a salacious grin. “You could say that.”
Derek deposits the empty dust pan on the counter, and takes the step-and-a-half to close the distance between them. He’s still smiling, but his eyes have gone half-lidded and dark. Stiles reaches out to meet him as he approaches, trailing one hand down his muscled arm.
“It’s not ideal, but there are worse sights to come home to than you covered in blood,” Stiles says. “And I’m certainly not complaining about seeing these.” He gazes up at Derek through his lashes, running his palm down the bulge of Derek’s bicep, all the way to link their fingers together loosely. “I should’ve just hung back and watched you kill it-- I’d have been really entertained by that.”
“You have no sense of self-preservation,” Derek says, and it doesn’t even come close to being a proper reprimand. “One of these days, you’re going to get into danger that you won’t be able to watch your way out of.”
“Don’t underestimate yourself, darling,” Stiles says, teasing. “I keep you around for a reason.”
Stiles can feel the warmth radiating off of Derek, that too-hot feel of him that keeps Stiles perpetually aware of his inhuman nature. It’s an intoxicating feeling, and one that Stiles wants to dive head-first into, never to come up for air.
“Is this the reason?” Derek says, then closes the distance between them properly. He kisses with energy that Stiles didn’t know he still had- enough to make his knees weak. Stiles lets out a gasp, and returns in kind.
Derek’s hand is hot on Stiles’ waist, dipping down to grope at his ass. Stiles hitches a leg up around Derek’s hip, pressing them up together from chest to thigh, and kisses him fervently. Derek tastes like blood and sweat, and Stiles finds that he can’t get enough of it. He lets Derek lead them, content to be pulled in any way that Derek wants him.
The broom clatters to the floor between them, as Stiles gets his hands around the back of Derek’s neck, palming at the thick muscles of his back, his shoulders. He’s grateful for the ruined shirt, and for the way that Derek’s sweat-slick skin feels beneath his hands. He sucks on Derek’s tongue, trying viciously to elicit soft sounds from his lips.
They part reluctantly for breath, panting into each other’s mouths. Stiles leans forward until his forehead is resting against Derek’s shoulder, and can feel Derek shift to accommodate him, can feel as he presses a kiss to his temple.
“We’re filthy,” Stiles says, voice hitching as Derek’s mouth moves lower, to the hinge of his jaw, then down to his fluttering pulse point. “I’m not letting you get anywhere near our bed when you’re covered in ghoul goop.”
He can practically hear it as Derek smiles. “I can work with that.”
Then he’s manhandling Stiles out of the half-cleaned kitchen, and down the hall, big hands taking up all of Stiles’ attention as they sweep up from his hips to his chest. With nimble fingers, he unbuttons Stiles’ work shirt, leaving it in their wake as they go. Stiles lets himself cling to Derek, lets himself be swept away, laughter trailing down the hall.
They end up half-dressed and hanging off of each other in the bathroom, feet slipping on the bath mat in their eagerness to touch. Stiles leaves what’s left of his clothing in a heap on the floor. He watches hungrily as Derek strips down to nothing, leaving an endless expanse of tanned skin on display. With one hand, he turns on the shower, gasping as the water leaves a cold shock along his shoulders.
Derek stands on the tiles, and stares unabashedly at Stiles- finally dragging his eyes up to meet Stiles’ gaze after a long moment. Stiles raises an eyebrow. “Enjoying yourself?”
Derek smirks. “Not yet.”
Stiles snatches up Derek’s hand, and pulls him into the stream of the now-warm water, dragging him down into a searing kiss. Derek’s hands feel huge and searingly hot on his body, trailing down his waist and cupping the swell of his ass. Derek backs him up until Stiles’ back is up against the wall, and only then do they part for breath again.
“We’ll never get clean at this rate,” Stiles says, panting.
“You’re such a diva,” Derek says, with a roll of his eyes. Still, he reaches around him for a dollop of shampoo, and scrubs it into Stiles’ hair. His fingernails leave soft scrapes of pressure against Stiles’ scalp, and he sighs contentedly.
Wanting to reciprocate, he reaches for the soap on the shelf, and works a good lather up between his palms. With Derek still concerned with his hair, Stiles busies himself with running his soapy hands up and down the muscled curves of Derek’s body.
Derek makes a soft noise when Stiles cups his hand around the swell of his pecs, thumbs brushing over his nipples. Stiles cranes his neck to look up, and does it again, deliberate. Derek tries and fails to scowl at him in return.
“Someone’s eager,” he says, and slides a hand down the back of Stiles’ neck, holding him with firm, insistent pressure. Stiles sighs, bites his lip to keep himself in check.
“Can you blame me?” Stiles asks, reaching up to stroke along the stubbled edge of Derek’s jaw. “I haven’t had you alone in days.”
“Whole days?” Derek says, raising a teasing brow. “I can’t believe you survived.”
Water streams down his face in rivulets, dripping down from his hair to get caught in his eyelashes. Smiling, Stiles brings a hand up to cup his cheek, affection blooming in his chest as Derek turns to lean into his touch. Leaning forward, he captures Derek’s lips in a brief kiss, before pulling back again. Derek shifts after him, chasing his touch.
As he does, the thigh he’s got wedged between Stiles’ legs moves, making him aware again of the pulse of arousal in his gut. Running down over the sharp cut of Derek’s abs, he takes him in hand. He’s not fully hard yet, but he’s certainly starting to get there as Stiles strokes him in long, slow movements.
Derek sighs, voice hitching over a quiet noise, and his head drops to rest on Stiles’ shoulder. He moves impossibly closer, water pooling in the crevices where their bodies aren’t pressed together, skin on skin like they want to become one. Stiles’ wrist is held at an awkward angle, but he can’t bring himself to care, not when Derek is gasping in his ear, pleased sighs and bitten-off noises.
Stiles feels drunk on all of it, on having Derek in hand, against him, closing off any sensation that isn’t him, and the water that slicks the movement between them. Derek presses open-mouthed kisses to the side of Stiles’ throat, mouthing down to press his lips right to the centre of Stiles’ clavicle.
Stiles wraps his arms around Derek’s shoulders, cups the back of his skull, holds him right against the fervent beating of his heart. His arousal is a persistent ache, and his hips hitch up against the air. Derek holds him steady. “Derek,” Stiles says, carding his hands through the soft hair at the back of his neck. “Derek, c’mon.”
Derek goes when Stiles pushes him, falling to his knees under the hot spray of water. He noses along the trail of hair below Stiles’ navel, but turns before he can properly touch him where he wants it most, instead turning to suck a bruise into the pale skin of Stiles’ thigh.
“Derek,” Stiles whines again, and can feel his own hardness ache. He’s warm and slick all over, and desperate for Derek to touch him, to give him what he really wants.
“What do you want?” Derek asks, looking up at Stiles between the cradle of his thighs. His voice is a low rasp, one that has Stiles’ heart beating double-time in his chest. “You’ve got to ask for it, baby.”
“Fuck,” Stiles gasps, rolling his hips up, desperate for anything. “Touch me,” he pleads. “Anywhere.”
Derek drops a hand to the underside of Stiles’ thigh, pulling it up and over Derek’s broad shoulder. It gives him better leverage, lets him lean in close, his breath ghosting hot over flushed skin. Stiles drops his head back against the wall, and finds that he has to avert his eyes before he ends everything all too soon.
He can’t help it- he looks back, drinks in the sight of Derek, strong, powerful, beautiful between his legs, holding Stiles completely at his mercy. Derek takes Stiles’ cock in his hand, finally, and gives it a perfunctory stroke, before moving away again.
Stiles moves to take himself in hand instead, but Derek bats him away. “You don’t need to touch yourself,” he says. “I’ll make you come without it.”
Stiles’ eyes widen, and his breath hitches in his chest. He can imagine that his face is flushed a blotchy red. “If you insist,” he manages.
“I do,” Derek says, wrapping his hand around the base of Stiles’ cock for the barest of moments, before pulling away again, leaving Stiles desperately rutting up against the air again.
“Stop teasing,” Stiles complains. Derek leans forward, his face obscured by the water and Stiles’ thigh. Desperate, Stiles reaches down, gets a hand on the back of his neck again. “I can’t take it- you have to-”
His voice shatters off into a moan, as Derek presses his mouth to the hot pucker of Stiles’ hole.
“Oh my- Derek,” Stiles gasps, voice hitching up. Derek licks up against him, wet and utterly filthy in a way that has Stiles’ knees buckling. With one hand on Stiles’ thigh, hitching it up higher on Derek’s shoulder, Derek tongues at him, licking from the tender skin behind his cock all the way over to his hole.
Stiles’ hands flex on the tile, on Derek’s skin, desperate for any means of purchase. Derek seals his mouth around the rim of Stiles’ hole and sucks, and Stiles nearly shouts. Part of him thinks that if it weren’t for Derek’s hand on his thigh, that he’d have collapsed into a pile on the ground by now.
He arches his back, clutching at Derek, running his hands along his broad shoulders and then back up to the firm muscle of his neck. He can feel the tendons flex and shift beneath the skin as Derek mouths at him, pressing his tongue to the most vulnerable parts of Stiles’ body.
Pleasure zips hot and electric up and down his spine at the slick feel of Derek’s mouth on him. He’s talking, he realizes, babbling whatever nonsense he can think to say, between moans and drawn-out breath.
Baby, he calls Derek, sweetheart, lover, and he thanks him, tells him what a good boy he is, what a good husband. He drags his nails through the downy hair at the back of Derek’s neck, and tells him that he feels so good, that Stiles wants him, wants to become part of him, wants to fuse their very atoms and become one.
“You’re mine,” Stiles says, curling his fingers in Derek’s hair and using that grip to hold him. “You’ll never touch anyone else like this.” he says, lashes fluttering as his eyes roll in pleasure. He can feel it when Derek moans against his skin, and feels the sound vibrate through his very bones.
“You like that?” he asks, and Derek doesn’t respond, doesn’t even come up for air. “You like knowing that you’re it for me? That you’re everything I want, that I want to keep you here, like this, forever?”
Derek practically redoubles his efforts, licking and sucking and kissing up against him. Stiles gasps, can barely speak-can barely think at all. His hips grind against nothing. “You’re so perfect on your knees, for me, baby.”
His cock lays untouched and aching on his stomach, and despite the pooling, molten pleasure in his gut, Stiles doesn’t touch himself. “I want you to make me come, baby,” he says. “I want to come so badly.”
Despite everything, he’s not ready for Derek to press a finger to his hole, right alongside his tongue. Stiles inhales sharply, as Derek slowly pushes inside with one finger, and then, slowly, a second. The stretch burns, and Stiles bites his tongue, so hard that he suddenly can taste iron.
Derek’s fingers reach deeper than his tongue can, and they stretch him open slowly. Derek brushes the bundle of nerves deep inside of him, just for the barest of seconds, and then away again. Stiles whines in protest, cock twitching against his stomach.
“Are you going to make me beg for it?” he gasps, chest heaving, and Derek doesn’t say anything at all.
Instead, he slips his tongue in between his fingers, and Stiles sees stars.
He sets off in a violent rhythm, fingers curling up against his prostate, and his tongue pushing wicked and slick between them. Stiles loses track of himself, scrambling for Derek, for his thoughts, as Derek meticulously works to pull all sense from his mind.
Derek lets go of Stiles’ thigh, and finally, finally, he touches Stiles’ cock. He strokes him in time with the thrusts of his fingers, the push of his hot, wet tongue, and the friction is all-consuming. Stiles thrusts blindly into his hand, and can’t think of anything more than how badly he wants it, more than he wants the breath in his lungs. He’s drowning in it, in Derek’s hands on his skin.
With a gasp, he comes all over Derek’s hand, all over the golden band on his ring finger.
Derek holds him through the shuddering aftershocks, lets him rock up against him, even as overstimulation creeps up on him. Lowering Stiles back to his own two feet, Derek pulls out, his fingers leaving Stiles with a wet noise. Stiles pulls Derek to his feet, or he falls down to meet him, and catches him in a hungry, desperate kiss.
He tastes himself on Derek’s mouth, and he finds himself wanting it, wanting to chase it. He can feel that Derek is hard against his hip. Pulling back, he reaches over and shuts off the shower.
“Our water bill is going to be a thousand dollars,” Stiles says into Derek’s mouth, and Derek huffs out a laugh. “So I’m going to take you to our room, and you’re going to fuck me into next week, alright?”
Derek’s hands come to close around his hips, and he dips down to kiss Stiles, once, and again, and again, before finally parting to speak. “I think I can manage that,” he says, and Stiles grins, and pulls him out of the shower.
“Happy anniversary,” he says against Derek’s lips, and feels the answering smile more than he sees it.