Word: Epithalamion
...
"Derekkkkk!"
The slurred voice is far too familiar for Derek's liking at three in the damn morning, but the owner of said slurred voice doesn't seem to be concerned with Derek's 'you'd better be dead or you will be soon' expression. In fact, Stiles just grins at him a little goofily and sidles past him into the loft.
"We're gonna get married; I've told Scott, and that means it's gotta happen now. That's the way it works, y'know. Tell Scott something, and it happens. For real, every time."
Derek's dealt with Stiles' drunken ass over the years enough times to be able to translate that mess of slurring speech into something coherent at least. It's the first time in a long time that he's seen Stiles this plastered though, Derek can admit that. He sighs and goes to his bedroom to get his phone; Scott should've been with Stiles tonight.
"Hey, Derek. I want... I wanna have sex! With your dick," Stiles clarifies loudly. "Like, forever. Except not at the wedding. Or the reception. That'd be weird. And we'd miss Scott's epi-epithalamion. He promised he'd sing, and we even started writing the song. Wanna hear?"
"Stiles, no. You can't sing, don't even try," Derek groans, wishing that Scott would pick up his damn phone already. "Scott, where the fuck are you? Stiles is here as drunk as a skunk, and you were meant to be looking after him tonight, you jerk." He ends the voicemail on a sigh and hangs up.
"Derek! I'm thinking about sex again. When we get married, you'll make sure I don't think about sex, won't you?"
Derek figures it's probably better to humour Stiles while he's like this. Besides, he has no desire to deal with a drunk and crying Stiles again - it dehydrates him even worse than usual, and Derek knows Stiles will be as grumpy as all hell if he wakes up like that again.
"Come on, Stiles. Let's get you some water and juice, then get you in bed, okay?"
"For the sex?"
"Yes, Stiles, for the sex," he lies.
He knows that Stiles will be asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow, so Derek doesn't feel too bad about lying. He manages to get a glass of water and two orange juices in Stiles before leading him to bed. Stiles decides that being drunk and talking dirty is a good idea, and Derek is hard as a rock by the time they make it to his bedroom. Fucking hell; Stiles might fall asleep, but now Derek's going to be awake picturing what he detailed, and this is not how he wanted to spend his night, fuck it all.
Stiles kisses Derek in a way that feels purely obscene, and he wonders where the hell he learnt that tongue move, even as his knees go weak at the action. Then, as predicted, after Stiles throws his jacket to the corner of the room and gets on the mattress, he falls right asleep. Derek groans and adjusts his sweatpants, telling himself very sternly that he's going to hell for taking advantage of a drunk Stiles. He settles in beside Stiles, wrapping an arm around his waist to make sure he won't flail off the bed, and tries to will himself to sleep (and his erection to go down. Pressing up against Stiles probably isn't the best way to achieve this, but he can't bring himself to move away).
...
In the morning, Derek wakes up to a high-pitched scream, and Stiles clambering over his body to get out of the bed. Derek groans tiredly, sitting up (his hair sticking up in various directions), and goes to look over at Stiles.
"Ah, no! No looking at me! I'm all gross and icky. Besides, it's bad luck," Stiles added with a pout.
"Pretty sure that's restricted to brides only, Stiles. And if you'll recall, it's not the first time I've seen you all gross and icky," Derek deadpans, a grin almost on his lips.
"That's not the point," Stiles mutters, patting his pockets and rummaging in his jacket for his phone. "Where the hell was Scott? He was meant to be looking after me. I told him not to let me leave the bar, damn it."
"So, I'll take it you had fun at your bachelor party then?" Derek asks, smirking.
"Yeah. Ginger and Candy showed me this tongue thing that made me all weak just watching them. I'll do it later... Ohh, I already did it, didn't I? God damn it, past me, that was meant to be for sexy times," Stiles mutters.
"It would've been sexy times if you'd stayed conscious," Derek mutters in return, a bit too loud, and Stiles' expression falls completely.
"You mean I fell asleep on sexy times too? Oh, god. I'm officially the worst fiancé ever. Why are you marrying me?"
"We don't have enough time for me to list all of the reasons, Stiles. Let's just stick with the fact that I love you - " Stiles goes heart eyes here, and Derek ridiculously falls in love with him all over again " - and if you don't get to Lydia's in the next hour, she will hunt you down."
Stiles looks at the clock beside the bed, wincing as he pulls his jacket on. "Fuck. Who's bright idea was it to have my bachelor party the night before our wedding?" Stiles groans.
"Should've made it a week like I did," Derek counters, grinning.
He gets out of bed and kisses Stiles firmly. Derek even does the tongue thing just to hear what kind of noise Stiles will make (he has all of Stiles' noises catalogued, and knows that anything nearing breathlessness or a whimper is decidedly good); he's not prepared for the pure orgasmic sound he makes.
Fuck it, Derek decides, Stiles is just going to have to be late for their wedding preparations, even if Lydia will probably kill them both tomorrow.
...
End of word challenge.
Thanks for reading!
