a/n: hi everyone! just something quick i wrote as a gift for someone. thought i'd share here :D
Stiles is flying high.
Stiles is flying high because today is his bachelor party, there are no strippers present, and, in exactly one week, he's going to marry the love of his life.
Forever.
"It's gonna be so great," Stiles sighs dreamily and says to no one in particular, too gone on thoughts of his wedding day and what forever will look like to notice his friends rolling their eyes at him.
Expect for Scott.
Scott, who is the best friend Stiles could ever ask for.
Scott, who actually listened to him instead of whining (Isaac) or complaining (Erica) when he told everyone he didn't want any exotic dancers on his bachelor party.
Scott, who assured him he wouldn't have to see anyone—outside of his future spouse—dancing and taking their clothes off.
And Scott, who now actually grins at him and claps him on the shoulder and says, "You have no idea, dude."
Stiles grins back, getting an arm around Scott's shoulder and bringing their foreheads together.
"You're the best, bro," Stiles tells him. "The bestest. The most amazing bro to ever bro."
"And you're drunk," Scott points out, not losing his smile.
"I'm also getting married," Stiles whispers, and then giggles helplessly. "I'm getting married to the most amazing—"
"Stop," Isaac cuts him off, going as far as placing a hand over Stiles's mouth. "We don't want to listen to how in love you are. We already know."
"Oh, no," Erica says, inching forward in her seat, eyes glinting. "We do want to know. Please, continue."
"No, we don't," Boyd says flatly, kissing the tip of Erica's nose in apology when she pouts. "We already had to listen to this two days ago. At the other party."
"I'm with Erica on this one," Allison says, fishing her phone out of her pocket and aiming it at Stiles and Scott. "I want to hear everything he has to say."
Isaac's eyes go from Allison's phone to Stiles and back again, and it doesn't take much convincing before he's smirking and dropping his hand. "Sure, why not?"
"Stiles," Erica starts, grinning. "Why don't you tell us a little bit about the person you're marrying in a week?"
"You mean—," Stiles stops, licks his lips, eyes glazing over. "You mean about how wonderful they are? And smart? And how much I love them? And the way their hair is always a mess after they wake up? Kind of like a bird's nest?"
"I don't think they'll like hearing that part," Allison mutters, but doesn't stop filming him.
"And that even though I hate all the hair products taking up half our bathroom counter I'm cool with it because that means the bathroom kind of always smells like them? And about how I never know if their eyes are really green or this stupid rainbow color? And how I can't believe I get to be with someone with such a smoking hot body and who knows how to do that thing with their tongue and my di—"
"Okay!" Scott says loudly, getting an arm around Stiles's shoulder. "Not that I'm not happy for you, bro, but how about we talk about other things?"
"Please," both Isaac and Boyd add, one looking horrified and the other looking like he'd rather be anywhere but here.
Stiles frowns. "But I like talking about—"
"Other things," Scott says over him, booping Stiles's nose when Stiles sticks his tongue out at him.
"What other things?" Stiles asks, resigned, blinking rapidly as he leans against Scott's side and lets his head fall back against the couch.
"Well, how about- Oh," Scott stops, pushing Stiles off of him so he can grab his phone from his pocket.
"What is it?" Stiles asks, trying to peer over his shoulder to see what the text is about.
"Nothing for you to worry about, buddy," Scott says, punching him lightly on the shoulder.
Stiles doesn't believe him.
Mostly because Scott has that grin on his face.
You know, that grin he always gets when he knows something you don't, and that something will probably lead to either very good things or very bad bad things.
Stiles doesn't want bad things to happen.
Because this is his bachelor party.
And he's getting married in a week.
And the person he's getting married to will never ever forgive him if something goes wrong between now and the wedding.
Well, I mean, okay, that might be an understatement.
Since, you know, with love comes forgiveness and all of that, but still.
Stiles doesn't want bad things to happen.
And Scott's grin is kind of making him think that they will.
Especially when Scott's eyes scan over the table and he nods minutely, as if giving everyone a secret signal for whatever secret thing it is that they have planned.
A secret thing that involves all of his friends break into smirks and Allison outright giggle.
A secret thing that involves them getting up and start walking away and leaving Stiles all by his lonesome in the middle of his living room.
"Scott?" Stiles asks, a bit panicked, because this is not right. "Why are you leaving? Where are you going?"
"Your surprise is here," Scott waves him off, ignoring Stiles's confused look. "So sit tight."
"What do you mean my surprise is here?" Stiles blinks at him once, twice, three times.
And kind of starts to wonder if he's too drunk to understand whatever it is that's going on.
"You'll see," Scott gives him a significant look and points a finger at him. "Just don't move. And we'll all see you tomorrow."
"Oh my god!" Stiles yells, getting up and making his way to his best friend. And also feeling a bit proud of himself when he doesn't sway in place or trips over his own feet is his haste to get to him. "Are you leaving because something inappropriate is about to happen? You better not have gotten me a hooker or I swear to fucking god, Scott Melissa McCall."
"My middle name isn't Melissa," Scott rolls his eyes.
And Stiles's stomach churns.
Because Scott didn't deny the hooker part.
And this is—
This is the exact opposite of Stiles wants.
Not that he gets a chance to say anything or fire Scott as his best man and as his best friend, because as soon as he opens his mouth he can hear someone else's voice coming from the doorway.
A voice that says, "I'm not a hooker, but I've gotten some noise complaints."
And Stiles—
Stiles almost chokes on his own tongue.
Because right there, standing by his front door, is—
Yeah, okay.
Stiles is definitely way too drunk to deal with any of this.
He doesn't even notice Scott leaving, too busy taking in the hazel eyes and black hair and sharp cheekbones covered in stubble and the slim hips and chiseled chest and muscled arms, all wrapped up in—
Oh fuck.
In a cop's uniform.
At least not until Lydia slides right up to him and pats him on the cheek, smiling sweetly before saying, "You're welcome."
And then walking right out after Scott.
And leaving him alone.
He thinks he mumbles out a weak, "Oh my god," if considering the way the guy's lip twitch up as he stares expectantly at Stiles.
"It's Derek, actually," he says, all amusement. "Are you going to let me in?"
"Oh my god," Stiles says again, all wide eyes. "I can't believe this is happening."
Most of the amusement vanishes from the man's face, giving place to a frown as he asks, "Do you want me to go?"
Stiles makes a noise in the back of his throat that is not a whine, fuck you very much, and steps aside, letting Derek in.
Derek.
In a cop's uniform.
Stiles is torn between thinking this is the best thing that's ever happened to him or the worst.
As he watches the way the tight uniform clings to Derek's pretty much entire body, he settles for thinking it's the best.
But there's still a voice in the back of Stiles's mind—a voice that sounds surprisingly a lot like his dad's—telling him this is a bad idea.
A terrible, no good, very bad idea.
You know, mostly because he thinks that if he watches Derek strip he'll end up only imagining that whenever he jerks off for the rest of his life.
Not that Stiles can bring himself to do anything but let Derek direct him to one of the empty chairs in the middle of the room and push him down on it.
Stiles goes.
Like a pile of bricks.
And swallows hard when the faint sounds of music start coming from his stereo, his breath hitching and heart beating faster as what's about to happen finally sinks in.
Stiles makes a mental note to never trust Scott with these things again because he specifically said no to any form of entertainment that didn't come straight from a bottle or Isaac's board games closet.
Not that Stiles plans on ever having a bachelor party again, but that's besides the point.
The point is that Scott did not listen to him and got Stiles a stripper for his bachelor party.
And not just any stripper, but a cop stripper.
A hot as fuck cop stripper.
A stripper who has his back to Stiles, his muscles rippling under his shirt, the fabric of his pants molding perfectly over his ass as he starts rolling his hips to the rhythm of the song.
"Oh my god," Stiles repeats faintly.
"I already told you that's not my name," the guy looks at him over his shoulder, eyebrow raised.
And that's—
Not only is this guy fucking hot, but he also goes ahead and makes one of the lamest jokes ever.
"Right," Stiles clears his throat, squirming in his seat when the guy twirls around, fingers hooked on his holster belt, and takes a few steps forward. "Derek."
"That's it," he says, fingers sliding along the belt to mess with the buckle, hips still moving to the song as he starts to slowly pull his belt free from his uniform pants.
Stiles bites back a whine.
And curls his hands into fists on top of his thighs, all he can do to keep himself from reaching out and tugging Derek closer by his belt loops.
"Well, Der—," Stiles cuts off, eyes widening and hands dropping by his sides, back pressing against the chair as Derek promptly makes himself comfortable on Stiles's lap, straddling his legs.
"You were saying?" Derek asks, like him giving Stiles a fucking lap dance is nothing out of the ordinary for them.
And like he's not untucking his uniform shirt from his pants and flicking buttons open.
"What are you doing?" Stiles aks faintly, holding himself utterly still, eyes going from the skin of Derek's collarbones now peeking from his half opened shirt to Derek's face and back again.
He can't help it.
It just looks so soft and smooth and like it'd bruise up so prettily if Stiles decided to just bend down and bite and—
That's a line of thought Stiles is absolutely one hundred percent not going to think about.
No sir.
Not when he has Derek sitting on his lap with his ass really close to Stiles's dick.
So close he'd feel if Stiles were to get a boner from thinking about marking him up.
Not that Stiles is not close to getting a boner from other reasons.
Like maybe all the new and bare skin Derek's showing as he finishes unbuttoning his uniform shirt, all the while never stopping moving his hips to the music.
But still.
That'd be bad.
Or really, that'd be worse, because things are looking pretty bad already.
Especially when Derek lets his shirt slide past his shoulders and down his arms, his chest and abs now in full view.
And fuck. Derek's abs.
All hard muscle and more smooth skin and a trail of hair that goes down from his navel to—
Stiles is pretty sure he doesn't manage to bite back a whine at the sight.
Mostly because when he looks up at Derek it's so see him trying to suppress a smile. And also trying not to show how incredibly pleased with himself he looks for getting that reaction from Stiles.
Stiles kind of wants to yell at him.
He only ends up blushing up to his hairline instead.
And getting distracted when Derek starts running his hands over his own chest, down his stomach, fingers coming to rest against his utility belt.
Stiles is transfixed.
And fighting down the urge to touch and trace the same path with his fingers, wanting to know just how Derek feels under his hands.
But it's not until Derek starts messing with his belt buckle that Stiles gives in and reaches out; not to enjoy Derek's bare skin on his, but to grip at Derek's wrists and stop his movements, eyes wide in surprise.
"What are you doing?" Stiles repeats his question for earlier, this time with more strength to his tone.
Not that he gets an answer.
What he gets instead is Derek freeing himself from his grip, only to stare down at Stiles at the same time he reaches for the pair of handcuffs secured to his belt.
"No touching the dancer," Derek reminds him. "I don't want to have to cuff you."
Stiles's mind goes blank.
Because did Derek—
With the cuffs—
Did he just—
"What?"
"Do you think you can keep your hands to yourself?" Derek asks him, voice low. "Because like I said, I don't want to have to cuff you."
Stiles blinks.
And blinks again.
And two more times, for good measure.
Derek's lips twitch up.
"Oh my god," Stiles breathes out.
Derek totally wants to tie Stiles up.
And that's—
That's just—
Fuck.
"I'll take that as a yes," Derek says, amused. "But next time, I'll have to restrain you."
Stiles makes a choked-up sound at the back of his throat, hands falling to the sides, fists curled so tight his nails are digging into the palms of his hands.
He doesn't know how he'll survive this.
Which is a pretty sad thing, considering he's supposed to be getting married in a week.
Derek just keeps on dancing, and unbuckling and pulling off his belt, like Stiles doesn't look like he's about to have a heart attack.
He does pause to offer Stiles a small but still positively wicked smile as he unattaches the cuffs from the belt, though.
"Just in case," Derek tells him, hanging them on the back of Stiles's chair, right by his left shoulder.
Stiles gulps.
And glues his arms to his side.
And keeps silently telling himself, over and over again, don't touch don't touch don't touch.
He manages not to until Derek starts unzipping his jeans, hips moving sinuously with the music, the obvious line of his dick so close to Stiles's own that—
That Stiles can't help it.
He needs to stop this.
He needs to reach out and grab Derek by the hips, halting his movements, keeping Derek from hooking his fingers under the waistband of his uniform pants and dragging them down until mid-thigh.
Because he knows that once Derek gets up to get rid of them all together, this is gonna be all over.
For him.
In a really embarrassing way.
What he's not counting on is how quickly Derek moves.
How quickly he gets a hold of Stiles's wrists, grabs the cuffs hanging on the back of the chair, and restrains Stiles's hands behind his back.
"Derek," Stiles protests, muscles straining when he tries to move.
Only to go completely still when Derek leans in close, breath ghosting over Stiles's lips, eyes dark when he says, "I warned you. Now sit still and enjoy the show."
Stiles whimpers.
There's no other word for the small sound that leaves his mouth.
Especially when Derek does exactly as Stiles didn't want him to do and gets up, leaving him feeling suddenly cold without the warmth of Derek's body so near.
And making it so fucking obvious how hard he is in his jeans now that Derek isn't hiding his crotch from view.
Not that Stiles gets to feel that embarrassed about that.
Not when Derek drops his pants and stands there in front of him, only in a pair of black boxers briefs so tight they kind of make Stiles want to cry.
Or fall mouth down directly onto Derek's cock.
Then he's just really fucking turned on.
And when Derek goes back to dancing, to giving him a fucking lap dance in only his underwear, it gets a thousand times worse.
Because Derek has no qualms about grinding his ass down on Stiles's dick whenever he rolls his hips.
Or rubbing his own hard-on against Stiles's stomach.
Or cupping Stiles's jaw with his hand and tilting Stiles's head up to catch his lips in a kiss, licking his way into Stiles's mouth when Stiles gasps in surprise.
"Oh my god," Stiles groans when Derek pulls back, fighting against the cuffs, waiting to reach out and touch, to push him away or maybe pull him closer and never let go.
Derek seems to get it.
Because he molds his body to Stiles's as best as he can while straddling him, losing all pretense of giving him a lap dance in favor of just rutting against him, hard and fast and so fucking good all Stiles can do is let him.
And rock up as much as he can while he has his hands cuffed behind his back.
And kiss Derek's jaw, his chin, down his neck, teeth scraping over Derek's collarbone. He's finally being able to do as he's been dying to, sucking a bruise into the skin, marking Derek up, leaving Derek something that'll remind him of Stiles after all of this is done.
It doesn't take much after that.
Actually, it only takes Derek's hands tangling on Stiles's hair and tugging his head back so he can kiss him at the same time he bears down for Stiles to come in his pants, Derek's tongue in his mouth, breath hitching in his throat.
And for Derek it only takes Stiles going slack in his seat, head dropping to rest on Derek's shoulder, Stiles's teeth clamped against the side, and Derek's been tipped over the edge.
They don't move or talk for a couple of minutes, too sex stupid to do anything but catch their breaths, the playlist Derek put on when he arrived still playing softly in the background.
And then Derek's getting up and off of him, picking up his pants from the floor and fishing a key from one of the pockets.
Stiles sighs when Derek uncuffs him, makes a pleased sound when Derek settles back on his lap, smiles softly when Derek rubs circles against his wrists with his thumbs and places butterfly kisses against the reddened skin.
And then tries not to think about the cooling mess in his pants and how uncomfortable it makes him feel.
Since, you know, he doesn't want to ruin the moment and all.
"You okay?" Derek asks him, resting their foreheads together and rubbing his nose against Stiles's.
"Yeah," Stiles breathes out. "But I'm gonna be really disappointed if it turns out I got so drunk I hallucinated Derek Hale, the cop stripper."
Derek snorts, kissing the corner of Stiles's mouth. "Scott told me you didn't want to see anyone but me taking their clothes off for the rest of your life."
"So here you are," Stiles shakes his head at him. "I can't believe you did that."
"Consider it an early wedding gift."
"From the best husband ever," Stiles grins, pulling him in for a kiss, longer and sweeter than the others.
"We're not married yet," Derek reminds him, hazel eyes sparkling.
"We're gonna be in a week, though," Stiles tells him, pressing his smile against Derek's cheek. "In seven days. In one hundred and sixty-eight hours. For the rest of our lives."
"Can't wait," Derek says quietly, right before brushing their lips together.
And that's—
Yeah.
Stiles can't wait either.