Chapter Text
It had taken Viscountet Hale a great deal of effort to convince his various well-wishers that a trip abroad was precisely what he both needed and deserved.
His own husband, in his devoted but slightly idiotic and alpha-ish way, had initially been foremost amongst these protestors, but now he had learned better, and Derek had been forced once again (and only slightly against his own will) to accept that Stiles had once again known what was best.
Derek was the one who had almost needed his cane to support him through the long days in which they had denuded galleries (in preparation for a renovation to their townhouse, in reference to yet another argument that Stiles had finally won), purchased extravagant amounts of confection, admired architecture, and walked through miles of museums.
And only once had Derek been obliged to rescue his overzealous husband from toppling over headfirst into a canal, which was surely an unanticipated record.
No, and for all that he had so feared sea travel, and had come, insensibly, to a city so elated by its eternal damp, there was something about Venice that had brought out Stiles’ bloom. This might have merely been the several potted branches of the Nemeton that their servants had been obliged to lug along with their luggage.
But it might, Derek thought, as he sat up in bed and stared, have something to do with the light, which was wonderful even in the middle of February.
The way the morning sun slunk through the window and fell upon Stiles - who was sitting at the table by the open door of their hotel’s balcony, toying absently with the last pastry on a plate full of crumbs - almost made an angel of him, as it stroked his pale cheeks with color and haloed behind his unplaited hair.
To have his eyes met by a sight like that, even as he blinked the sleep from them, did take Derek’s breath away. It was no bad way at all to begin a morning.
Though, even a sight as fine as that one - Stiles loose-limbed and dreamy, his bare shoulder cresting like a wave above the silk of his haphazardly slung dressing gown, leaning on his elbow as he bathed in the golden sunlight - was not quite sufficient to resign his poor spouse to the unhappiness of waking up alone in a cold and husbandless bed.
"But it is late and I was hungry," Stiles retorted, his tilt-tip nose high in the air even as he obediently abandoned his roll and the last dregs of chocolate to toss himself back down onto his side of their bed.
It seemed to Derek that 'late' was an unfair way to describe a time that could not be much more than two hours past dawn, but he was not quite so unwise as to say so. Not when his husband was increasing, and it was all his fault.
"You were taking forever to wake up, you know,” complained Stiles, shifting himself to make it easier for Derek to comb lazily through already disheveled hair. “You hardly even stirred when Greenberg came in with my tray."
"As if it was not you who wore me down into a mere nub," muttered Derek. He added, glancing briefly away from Stiles to admire the almost violent disorder of the bed sheets, "And in more ways than one."
Stiles caught the direction of his gaze and followed it home to its destination. He rolled over onto Derek, hooking a leg over Derek's sheet-clad thigh and draping a bare arm across an equally bare waist. His lashes beat a slow rhythm against his cheeks as the very tip of his tongue poked out from between pink lips.
"Are you still tired, husband?"
It came to Derek's attention that he was waking up very rapidly indeed.
"I could, I think, be persuaded into some mild activity, though I’ve no idea how long my endurance will last, since my exceedingly ruthless husband, in sating his own hunger," Derek made a great pantomime of peering over Stiles' shoulder, and stealing a kiss against it as he did so, "has apparently left me barely more than a crumb with which to sustain myself."
"Perhaps that was a trifle short-sighted of him," Stiles admitted. "Still." He sniffed theatrically, and blinked away a non-existent tear. "I believe that you must owe me my own apology, for lingering in the arms of Hypnos and leaving me to break my fast all alone." His lovely mouth took on a nearly irresistible pout. "And in my condition-"
"I will gladly apologize to you both, if it will make you feel any better," Derek said, and shifted to press a conciliatory kiss against the swell of Stiles' stomach. It was not yet much of a swell, but this time around, his husbandly experience had made Derek long aware of this important addition to the Hale’s ever-expanding menagerie.
It did not really take very much in the way of experience, it was simply the case that Derek so often had his nose burrowed happily against the crook of Stiles' neck that he was inevitably aware of the least change to his scent.
At this moment, Stiles’ rich scent of primeval undergrowth had begun to take on a very familiar sweetness, as though an adjacent tree had sprung a leak and begun dripping sap everywhere-
-and it would be but the work of a moment to push aside the robe that Stiles hardly wore, to reach between his husband's thighs and see whether that metaphor held any literal truth-
-if only his wandering hand had not been seized and made impotent in Stiles' grasp.
"Now, husband," Stiles purred. "It seems to me that you are in search of a different sort of breakfast entirely."
"Only if you would not object," Derek began, curling his own fingers around his captor's grip, widening his eyes and striving to make himself appealing.
"I am sure I could not, only-" Stiles rose suddenly, to his knees, and then scrambled out of the bed entirely in the direction of his case, throwing open the lid. He stood before it for a moment, tossing around a few of his shirts in obvious thought, and then turned back towards Derek. The silk dressing was in greater disarray than ever; one side dipping well below the level of his breast, and barely tied, so that Derek could nearly catch a glimpse of-
"Husband? Derek?"
Shaking himself free of his reverie, Derek managed a shaky, "Yes?"
"I wonder," Stiles mused, all innocence, but with his mouth curving into a faintly alarming grin, "if you would mind some company throughout the meal?"
He had been right to be alarmed, Derek thought. "Stiles-"
"It is only," Stiles cooed, stepping back towards the bed, "that I have been forever waiting for the perfect occasion to introduce the two of you-"
"-and that occasion is to be our honeymoon? Stiles-" Derek dragged the sheet up protectively across his chest. He had seen that look in his husband's eye before.
"Our second honeymoon," Stiles corrected. "Have you never worried, Derek, that we might grow bored with one another?"
"Not even for an instant," said Derek, and with perfect sincerity.
"Well, nor have I; not in earnest," Stiles admitted, seating himself upon the bed and looking down with open admiration at whatever bits of Derek were visible beneath the linens, "but I do know that you have been forever plagued by curiosity over your only rival, though I had nearly forgotten that until I unearthed him while Greenberg and I were packing, it has always been my wish for the two of you to meet on better terms. To that end, and even though it was naturally a very great trial to persuade him into another sea voyage, I did invite Odysseus-"
Derek let go of his linen armor and attempted to rise, only for Stiles to push him back down and take a new seat, straddling Derek in such an indecent manner that the sheet grew almost immediately damp enough to cling.
"-and here he is!" Stiles announced, taking full use of his strategically advantageous position to draw the legend free from where he had been tucked away in one of Stiles’ voluminous sleeves.
Odysseus, the rumored paragon, was much as Derek had imagined, though he had only once been in the sort of shop that catered almost entirely to ostensibly unmarried omegas. He was a gleaming instrument of leather and well-polished brass, and not precisely small; though Derek was relieved to see that his husband had not been overly ambitious in his youth.
Without his knotting attachment, Odysseus was both a shorter and slimmer instrument than Derek’s own. Had it been otherwise, Derek thought, he would have been left with no recourse but to fling himself from the balcony and into the canal.
Stiles, unaware of his husband's inner turmoil, smiled sweetly down at him. "Is he not a most attractive figure?" He gave Derek's thigh a fond pat. "I am certain you'll be thanking me for the introduction in no time-"
"If you intend, husband, for me put the horns on myself while I watch you please yourself with that vile usurper in my stead-" Derek began, unhappily.
"That," Stiles dropped his aid onto the bed and pressed a finger against Derek's mouth, neatly silencing him, "is not at all what I had planned. You see," Stiles shifted obscenely where he was perched atop Derek's stomach, "while I have no complaint about last night's masterful conduct, and indeed, I thought it exactly how any alpha in good standing should assert himself-"
He gave Derek a very meaning look.
"-you did, husband, leave me rather tender in places I must never mention in company. We will not count Odysseus in that regard,” he went on, before Derek could point out his hypocrisy, “for he was always used to be privy to my deepest secrets."
Derek grumbled a little underneath the admonitory fingertip, which prompted Stiles to protest, pouting, "I did not think you would be at all adverse at taking him into your . . . confidence. In fact, I hoped you would allow him to keep you company-"
Stiles shifted once more, in a very deliberate fashion, and bit his own lip as he curled his fingers around Derek's jaw and rubbed a thumb across his mouth, pressing the tip of it in just far enough for Derek to lap, and added, in a sweet, breathless hush,
"-while I declaim my latest translation of Catullus."
"Now, my dear, I know Odysseus has much grander proportions than anything you are used to take," Stiles pulled free all three of his well-slicked fingers and gave his stiffening cocklet one quick squeeze as an example, "but you must be brave for me, and take generous breaths."
Derek nodded, which was as much answer as he felt himself capable of giving, and Stiles leaned to capture his husband's mouth in a distracting sort of kiss even as he pushed the first few inches of Odysseus into the breech.
"Now that is about my own length, and as for the rest-"
Derek bucked a little as Odysseus was fully seated, but he settled quickly, honoring his promise to take deep breaths. Stiles gave him another quick kiss as he spread a hand over Derek's stomach. "You are so good for me, husband. How do you feel? You must tell me at once if he is too much for you."
"I - I am very well," Derek said, an edge of petulance. "I assure you, husband, that you are not the only one who can take whatever he is given."
"Oh!" Stiles eyes lit up, and something positively wicked flitted across his face. "If that is the case, husband, then I am sure you will not mind if I ask you to kneel?"
It was not precisely a comfortable position - even on the thick mound of folded of blankets Stiles had insisted on laying down - not with something of Odysseus' size creating a constant pressure against that one particularly electrifying spot, but never with quite insistently enough to let Derek see the stars he knew to be beyond the fog . . .
. . . But, once again, the view made things more than worth it. There was something inexpressibly regal in his husband as Stiles stood above Derek, stripped shamelessly bare, with his hair tumbling loose around his shoulders. There was nothing here of the stiff costume of 'Viscountet Beacon' Stiles would put on for parties.
He looked like a fledgling emperor, haughtily deaf to all opposition. Or a proud young god. Or even or the wild creature of the forest that he really was - at least on his mother’s side. Derek was all at once both humbled and thrilled to kneel at his beloved's feet, knowing that his own devotion had been in some part responsible for drawing this side of Stiles out.
With Derek’s lips parted in honest awe, the lithe, lovely being far above him wasted no time in taking advantage. This intrusion was never from an unwelcome one, but for a moment Stiles nevertheless held himself still, letting Derek grow used to the heat and the concentrated scent of him; the perfect weight atop his spread tongue.
And then Stiles began to thrust, shallowly at first, gently at first, but with a rising emphasis that soon demonstrated how even a modest instrument could be enough to bring one to tears.
"So good," murmured Stiles, canting his hips with even greater force, so that the slick gushing out of him left a glistening smear across Derek's chin and jaw that perfectly matched the streaks running down his cheeks.
With the masterful air that Derek had been long gratified to know that Stiles could take on at will, Stiles played Derek like a fiddle until the moment he came with a glorious crescendo down his throat.
He had been too distracted to notice until Stiles drew his softening cocket back over his swollen lips, but Derek's own cock was red and straining between his thighs, aching for touch even as the weight of Odysseus kept him full (almost too full). The king of Ithaca brought along new sensations with every desperate twitch of Derek's hips against empty air, none of them enough to bring him anything remotely resembling relief.
"Stiles-"
The name came out as a sob, a broken hitch in Derek's cocklet-rasped voice. Stiles sank down to his own knees and took Derek's face in his hands, peppering it with several kisses before drawing back and visibly reminding himself that he was meant to be stern.
"I do hope, husband, that you do not intend to spend without my express permission," he huffed, "especially not after having the audacity to steal my only lover from me."
Before Derek could object to this blatant mischaracterization, Stiles had pushed his hips forward, and with that one fluid motion, taken Derek inside himself to the hilt.
With admirable presence of mind, Stiles pressed one hand to Derek's chest and wrapped the other around the back of his husband's head, all so that he might safely push him down to the floor and ride him in earnest. And though he knew his back would not thank him for it, now that he was just shy of thirty, Derek welcomed this rough treatment with enthusiasm.
Though he did say, with his voice still ragged, "I thought you too sore-"
"Oh, well," Stiles adjusted himself, both hands braced against his husband's chest for leverage, sinking even deeper down onto Derek with an obvious intent to torture the husband he had not given leave to spend, "it would such a waste to not eat a meal so prettily set before me."
In that case, Derek thought - though he did move his hands to Stiles' hips, just to steady them, so that he might not fall and crush their growing child between them - a good dish should lie on the table and let itself be eaten in whichever way its master preferred.
Using him as he must have once used No One, Stiles quickly proved to be nearly as on edge as Derek, and within a short time he had ridden himself into a familiar set of convulsions that instantly set off Derek's own climax.
Stiles tilted gently forward to collapse, panting, against his husband's chest, and graciously murmured that he would allow, just this once, to have that counted as a kind of sotto voce consent.
With a grateful sight, Derek nuzzled against Stiles' sweat-damp hair and thanked him for his forbearance.
"And I am not quite done being kind. Here, raise your back so that I may put these cushions beneath it-" Stiles rose from the cushion he had made of Derek's breast and created a chilly distance between the two of them. Enough space that he could sit back on his knees and circle his fingers against the much abused flesh surrounding the cave where Odysseus had hidden himself, and in a way that made Derek immediately forget having ever been cold. “You have not had your turn.”
"Stiles,” Derek gasped, “I have only just-"
"Mmm?" Stiles hummed, as he pulled Odysseus back an inch of two and pushed him immediately back in. "Yes, I know," he conceded, with another experimental thrust, "and you were so patient and good in the matter that I cannot stint in the matter of your reward."
The thrusts of Odysseus took on a quality that sent sparks along Derek's spine, and set his abused back arching.
"Stiles!"
"No matter how it may strain my poor, delicate, omega wrists," Stiles said, conversationally, and demonstrated his willing sacrifice by twisting his poor wrists in some ingenious fashion that had Derek seeing whole constellations.
"What I should have," Stiles went on, "is some manner of harness. I imagine they must make them for this very purpose, but even if they do not I am sure Toby and his master could contrive something.” He shook his head, tossing his hair away from where it had fallen in a curtain around his face. “The view would be even better, my wrists would be preserved, and I would be able to concentrate on all those very sweet cries spilling from your lovely mouth-"
Derek whimpered.
He would have thought he could grow so desperate again in such a short time, but he had not been at all prepared for the force of Odysseus' undivided attentions, or the effect of Stiles' watchful gaze fixed on him as he scrabbled for purchase against the floorboards, thrusting up as uselessly as ever into the air-
"You have none of my natural advantages," Stiles said, looking down at his husband in wonder, "and yet you take him so very beautifully. Do you think that you might come untouched? I would be happy to aid you in any way you require, husband, because you have been so very good, and this is meant to be your reward, but I admit I would very much like to see-"
He bent, and breathed one warm exhalation over the head of Derek's cock.
It proved more than enough.
"That was very nice, was it not?" Stiles asked, as though the answer were not self-evident.
Somehow or other he had hauled them both back up into the bed, and they were lying with their feet warmed by the stream of sunlight creeping its way across the room, limbs all tangled up like a pair of exhausted kittens.
Derek mumbled something he was sure was incoherent, but it still prompted Stiles to announce that they had certainly earned their second breakfast, though perhaps it was his third, and he was sure that he might at any moment find it within itself to summon both tray and basin, that they might wash and eat and dress to set out on their way to a very sylvan grove he was determined to visit, which was nearby some interesting ruins, and he did not intend to waste this second honeymoon when who knew when they might ever have another, if Derek insisted on continuing to breed so prolifically, and really Stiles might rise up to attend to all of this at any moment if only Derek would cease to nuzzle at him in the very agreeable manner, because it threatened to put him right back to sleep, and that would never . . .