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live a little louder, sleep a little sounder

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Stiles is woken around three in the morning by something crashing heavily into his window.

He flails around for a moment, trying to get himself untangled from his blankets, and then grabs his bedside lamp, possibly breaking the power cord as he wrenches it from the socket, and advances menacingly (or well, he can try) on the window.

"Whoever or whatever's out there, I have a lamp and also a police chief dad with a gun," he says.

"Stiles," growls Derek.

Stiles blinks and sets the lamp down.

"What the actual hell," he says, wrenching the window open.

Derek climbs inside, looking pissed. "Why is your window locked?" he says.

"Um," says Stiles. "Because of how the last time you rocked up unexpectedly you lectured me for half an hour about safety and stupidity and keeping my window locked."

Derek rolls his eyes.

"Psycho," says Stiles, without much heat. "What's going on, anyway? Do I need to get the Jeep?"

"No," says Derek. "I need somewhere to crash."

Stiles stares. "And…that somewhere is here?" he says eventually.

"Yes," says Derek shortly.

"Okay," says Stiles. "Um. Why?"

"My house is too dangerous," says Derek. "And the train car isn't…comfortable."

"Since when has comfort been right up there on your list of priorities?" says Stiles.

"Since I'm tired, okay?" Derek folds his arms and raises a challenging eyebrow at Stiles.

Stiles opens his mouth, but doesn't actually say anything. Derek…well, he does look tired, but he always does, that's nothing new. Stiles has always privately thought that the dude needs to get some proper, uninterrupted sleep, maybe, or take up yoga, start meditating-- anything to blur away the pretty much permanent, etched-in shadows under his eyes, to fill out his hollow-looking cheeks, so at odds with the heavily-muscled, carefully-honed rest of him. He just never thought Derek would actually admit to it, much less do anything about it.

That's probably why he gives up on arguing, or well, questioning and generally being a shit like he can't seem to help with Derek, and just shrugs and says, "Okay. Don't steal the blankets."

Derek blinks at him, this time. "I can sleep on the couch," he says.

"No you can't," says Stiles. "My dad will shoot you if the first thing he sees before he makes it to the kitchen for his morning coffee is you on the couch."

Derek purses his lips. "Fine," he says.

Stiles nods approvingly, then turns back to his bed and maybe actually realises what's happening here. "Um," he says. "It's-- my bed isn't huge. I-- sorry."

"Shut up," says Derek, pushing past Stiles to climb in.

Stiles just gapes at him stupidly for a minute. It's just so incongruous, Derek in his bed, Derek who still looks defensive and challenging and ready to run at any second.

"Lock the window," adds Derek, rolling onto his side.

Stiles makes a face but does as he's told, pausing another long moment before climbing back in next to Derek and pulling the blankets up over himself. "Um," he says. "Everything okay then?"

"Yeah," says Derek eventually. "Thanks."

"No problem," says Stiles. "I guess Alphas get tired too, huh?"

Derek makes a non-committal noise and Stiles thinks that's pretty much it, so he closes his eyes and settles in as best he can while trying to keep an appropriate distance from Derek-- it's hard because he doesn't know what an appropriate distance is, like, will Derek be pissed if he accidentally touches him? Stiles tends to move in his sleep, so that's…that's kind of a likely possibility-- but then Derek makes another noise and rolls over so he's slotted up right against Stiles' back, and tucks an arm over his waist.

"Um," says Stiles. It comes out slightly high-pitched.

"Shut up, Stiles," says Derek, and wow, okay, that's his mouth Stiles can feel warm and damp against the back of his neck. "Go to sleep."

"Yeah," says Stiles, breathing out. It takes a minute or so, but eventually Derek's arm feels more solid and comfortable than weird and heavy, and his really pretty intense body heat is-- well, it's nice, okay, and safe, seeping into Stiles' almost permanently bunched-up muscles and making his spine feel all languid and melty. He closes his eyes and feels stupidly brave when he lets himself kind of fall back against Derek, but Derek just shifts a little to accommodate him and tightens his arm, and Stiles decides he can save his questions for the morning.

*

It turns into a thing: any time Derek just can't deal with the crushing tiredness anymore he turns up in Stiles' room. After a while Stiles stops asking or even getting out of bed, just rolls over and flips back the blankets and Derek climbs in, slots himself up against Stiles with his head tucked into the arch where Stiles' spine curves under his hair, and sleeps. They don't talk about it, and most of the time when Stiles' wakes up in the morning Derek is gone. There's one time though, after it's been happening for a while, when Stiles yawns and rolls over blindly and Derek is still there.

It looks different in the light of morning, like, less gritty and tied in with everything Stiles associates with werewolves, things like danger and dirt and desperation. Derek's cheeks are kind of pink under his stubble and his mouth is slightly open and Stiles is struck by how soft he looks like this, how young. There's a sudden tightness in his chest, this sudden anger over how it's not fair, really, everything Derek has to deal with, when he should be sprawled out like this in Stiles' bed instead. All the time.

It's a kind of terrifying thought, but it's also tempered by this cocoon he's in right now, this little fort of his own bed and his blankets and the visceral dawn light and Derek, all the heat trapped between them, and he reaches out, feeling stupidly brave, to spread his fingers, oh so light, over Derek's cheek.

He winds up just staring at his hand, and he can't get over the feel of it, stupid as that sounds for something so simple, but just the roughness of Derek's stubble over the incongruous, petal-soft skin beneath it, how it feels so warm and alive.

He's maybe so caught up in it that he doesn't realise Derek's awake, eyes open and sharp and watching him. He jumps when he notices and snatches his hand back, stutters out, "Sorry, I-- sorry, I'm not really awake and you're not usually still here, so I-- not that we're talking about it, we're totally not, I'm. I'm going to go and uh, get dressed. Shower? Something, please don't kill me."

Derek looks-- he looks almost amused, like, the usual ingrained edge of pissed-off and angry and him-against-the-world just isn't there, and yeah, Stiles meant to move away but he just can't, suddenly, and he says, kind of desperately, "Dude, stop looking at me like that, stop-- bring out the sour wolf face or something, I can't-- "

Derek says, "Shut up, Stiles," and there it is, or some of it at least, his usual long-suffering, you're such an idiot, Stiles tone, and that's-- Stiles likes that, he realises, he likes Derek's stupid angry face and he likes the way he looks now, too. He likes the way that, for some reason that will probably always elude him, he's the one who can bridge the gap between these two seemingly mutually exclusive sides of Derek.

While he's thinking Derek has apparently decided to-- to bridge some kind of literal gap between them, or something, because he leans in and fits his mouth over Stiles'. And that's-- they're kissing, Stiles realises kind of stupidly, Derek Hale is kissing him, and he opens his mouth to, he doesn't even know, point it out or something, but Derek takes that as an invitation and licks his way inside, and oh God, it's so hot, like, literally, there's all this heat and Derek's tongue and everything Stiles was just contemplating under his hand pressed against Stiles' cheeks instead. Derek rolls them over really slowly so they end up with Stiles on his back and Derek's weight all over him, pressing him down into the mattress, and that's-- Derek's hard, Stiles can feel it against his hip, and Stiles is hard too, like, he's just woken up so of course he is, but he would be anyway, how could he not, with the way Derek is touching him, kissing him, blanketing his body all over Stiles'.

Eventually Derek pulls back a little and says, frowning, "Is this-- " and Stiles grabs the first bits of him he can reach-- his hair and his left ear-- and says, "Don't you dare stop, don't you dare." Derek stares at him for a moment before going right back to kissing him, and then, oh God, he rolls his hips, gets their dicks lined up through his jeans and Stiles' sleep pants. It's not quite enough friction, not really, but Stiles doesn't really give a shit and Derek doesn't move to get them naked or anything, just keeps grinding, and it makes Stiles stupid, he just needs more. He starts making these really embarrassing gasping noises, starts pleading for-- he doesn't even know what for-- and Derek whispers, "It's okay, Stiles, you're okay," and keeps going, keeps going, rolling all his weight onto Stiles' cock, and Stiles says, "You're okay," randomly, and Derek kisses him so hard then, a kind of promise about what it would be like if they were naked, if they hadn't just woken up and this wasn't some kind of balanced-on-a-knife-edge, tucked away from the world first time.

The kiss is all stinging teeth and fierce, wet pressure, and Stiles is shaking all over, he can't-- he can't, it's still-- it still feels like he's riding a knife-edge between not enough and oh god right there, and it's just building up inside him and he holds onto Derek like a lifeline and gasps out, "I'm going to come, Derek, I'm going to come."

Derek growls, "Yes," and Stiles does, shaking like a leaf, pulling Derek's weight down just to keep him grounded, because he feels like he could melt or float away or something equally insane.

Derek kisses him through it, waits until his eyes are open and somewhat present, and then starts pressing himself desperately against Stiles' hip. It's so hard Stiles knows he's going to bruise and doesn't care, he just wants Derek to come too, and when he does he makes this-- this animal noise, desperate and wrenching and totally helpless, and holds onto Stiles' head so hard, his fingers spread out huge and possessive, keeping Stiles anchored in place so he can kiss him and breathe wetly against his cheek and eventually slump down with his head tucked under his jaw. His heart is hammering like crazy, Stiles can feel it because of how they're pressed so close together.

"Wow," says Stiles eventually. He cards a super-tentative hand through Derek's damp hair. "I-- wow. So that-- that happened."

Derek huffs a laugh-- an actual laugh-- into Stiles' neck and says, "Shut up, Stiles."

Stiles says, "Okay, sure, yeah, in a minute, but just-- is this-- was that-- what was that? Apart from, you know, awesome. Like, just-- are we on the same page? Or actually, what page are you even on, for starters? Like, I know I-- but--" He trails off, flushing a bit.

Derek says, lifting his head to give Stiles this weird look, like, part smirk and part fond and part pissed-off, "Alphas get tired too."

Stiles frowns at him, like ugh, seriously, does he have to go all cryptic supernatural being on him now? But then Derek adds, "Of waiting," and Stiles says, "Oh."

Then Derek frowns some more, and says, "That's not the right-- not waiting. Not-- not knowing, maybe."

Stiles, like, he's done a lot of brave things today, he thinks, but he feels bravest of all when he tightens his hand in Derek's hair and angles his head so they're eye to eye and says, "But you know now, right?" and just. Doesn't look away.

Derek just-- just looks at him for ages, and Stiles gets kind of distracted by his eyes, like, if anyone had asked him before today he would've said they were just dark, and they are, in a scary, werewolfy kind of way, but they're also so pale and startling, right on the edge between grey and green and hazel, like a sky that doesn't know whether it should rain or shine or a churned-up stretch of sea.

Derek says, "Stiles," and Stiles blinks, says, "Yeah?" swallowing.

Derek shakes his head and leans in and kisses Stiles again, tugging at the corner of his mouth with his thumb, and says, "Right," into his mouth.

They just stay there like that then, or at least until Stiles' dad pounds on his door and says, "Stiles, get up, for the love of God, I'm not writing you a fake sick note again," and Derek rolls silently off so Stiles can shout out, "I'm up, I'm up," without sounding too strangled.

Derek just sits there like a total asshole when Stiles moves, with his arms folded and his eyes on Stiles while Stiles makes grossed-out faces and hops out of his pants and flushes because, uh, hello, he's naked and Derek's just watching him like a total creeper, and also he's sticky and covered in his own come and this is seriously not the ideal naked-for-the-first-time-in-front-of-someone-else situation.

Or maybe it is, he revises when Derek makes this noise low in his throat and jerks upright and crowds Stiles back against the wall, still naked, rough hands bracketing his hips.

He presses into Stiles hips-first and bites his mouth open, and it's different this time, out of bed and that weird little suspended world in there, but no less awesome.

It's just-- more real, almost, like before Stiles could probably have convinced himself he was dreaming, but this time it's-- the wall is kind of painful where the points of his shoulder blades are pressing into it, and Derek's hands are calloused and restless, moving over his sides, and he's sticky, still, like it's more than a little gross, and Derek doesn't seem to care, which is…interesting. Like, he lets his mouth wander to Stiles' neck and kind of breathes in and bites down at the same time, and then he growls, "Can you come again?" and Stiles gasps out, "Of course I can, dude, hello, teenage refractory period," and Derek makes an approving noise and wraps a hand around Stiles' come-sticky, hard-all-over-again cock.

It's-- it's more intense than before, a) because that's an actual hand that isn't Stiles' own on his dick, and b) because he's already come once, so he's all sensitive on top of the regular turned-on, and God, he's shaking again but he can't help it, he doesn't know if it's just the fact that he's having sex and it's kind of blindsided him or because it's Derek and that's just the way things work with him. Derek seems to get it, anyway, or at least he responds instinctively to the way Stiles' pulse is stuttering all over the place by nudging a thigh between his legs and curling his free hand around Stiles' waist, and Stiles can feel all the strength there, all of it coiled up and holding him in place, and he just relaxes into Derek and lets him hold Stiles there, lets Derek jerk him off with his mouth pressed open and wet to his cheek.

When he comes-- again, he thinks, holy shit-- he digs his nails hard into Derek's shoulders and feels his toes curl, feels his legs come up entirely involuntarily to wrap around Derek's thighs, and Derek doesn't even miss a beat, just slides his hand from where he's jerking Stiles slowly through it to hold him upright, and whispers, grating and so-- so helpless, almost, "I want your hands on me."

Stiles makes this kind of what the hell is my life slash this is so awesome face at the opposite wall, and says, "Yes," and of course that's when his dad pounds on the door again and shouts, "Stiles, seriously, five more minutes or I'm coming in with a starter pistol."

Stiles groans silently and shouts back, "You're the worst, you know that, right?" and his dad says, "Tell someone who cares," and then Stiles hears him walking down the stairs.

Derek sets him down and looks contemplatively down at his hand, which is-- oh, hey, it's covered in Stiles' come, and then he pulls Stiles away from the wall and pushes him towards his desk and says, "Get dressed."

Stiles blinks. He can't really dredge up the force of will to look away from Derek's hand, just keeps staring and says, "But what about-- " and Derek says, "Later. I can take care of myself now."

Stiles should have realised straight away that that spelled danger, d-a-n-g-e-r, or maybe more like D-e-r-e-k, because he's got his pants on and is halfway through digging up a clean t-shirt when Derek shucks off his jeans and sprawls out all-- all naked on Stiles' bed and starts jerking himself off.

Right here. In Stiles' room. While Stiles is trying to get dressed for school.

"Um," he squeaks.

Derek doesn't even acknowledge him, just closes his eyes and lets his head fall back and wow, Stiles kind of wants to get his mouth on Derek's neck. It's all-- all long and stubble-coated and working with every breath and swallow and muffled noise.

He's also, like, the hand he's using is the one he used just a minute ago to get Stiles off, which-- obviously, but knowing and realising are two different things entirely, never mind seeing it, the way Derek's all slick from how he got off earlier and also Stiles' come.

Stiles stands there stupidly with a t-shirt hanging from one hand and has no idea what to do, like, does he keep watching? Does he go over and help? Is Derek actually expecting him to continue getting dressed like he doesn't have his own private personal porn show going on right here?

Apparently he is, Stiles guesses when Derek opens his eyes and looks at him with his blown-out pupils and says, "Put your shirt on," and well, Derek's jerking off for him, so Stiles has to do what he says, doesn't he? He has no idea how this is supposed to work at all.

"Are you-- you're insane," he says, pulling his shirt on backwards and inside-out. "I can't-- what-- Derek, you can't just-- what am I supposed to do? Do you want me to-- to touch you, or, because I want to, freaking hell, you're all naked, and, and I want-- "

Derek grits out, "Later," and then, "Fuck, Stiles, keep talking."

Stiles opens and closes his mouth dumbly for a second before he manages to get out, "I-- okay, talking, great, I can do that, that's like, my number one skill, I can totally-- uh. This feels-- I'm standing here like an idiot, dude, and you're all-- porn starring it up on my bed, which is-- I don't even know, how is this even happening, I, shit, I think it'd actually be easier if I was touching you, like, you're kind of melting my brain here, do you even know what you look like? I want to-- your dick, and-- and-- " and that is apparently all he needs to say, because then Derek's coming. He doesn't make a sound, just closes his mouth tightly and almost wrenches his head back and comes all over his chest, stroking himself frantically through it, and fuck, fuck, that is the hottest thing Stiles has ever seen, hands down, and he's seen a lot of porn, so that's.

That's pretty fucking impressive. He just stands there stupidly while Derek uncurls his fingers slowly and opens his eyes, and has this kind of panicky moment where he tries to just…remember what the hell is going on with like, anything.

Derek says, "Come here," and God, his voice is so raw, so spent, and Stiles goes because he can't not, it's Derek and God, all he wants to do is crawl back onto him, back into his bed and do this all day and possibly forever.

Derek reaches up with his-- his hand that's covered in all this come and pushes a finger into Stiles' mouth, and that's-- okay, if he'd thought about this before he probably would've been grossed out but it's more like ridiculously fucking hot, like, that's Derek he can taste, and the way Derek's eyes go all dark and focused and promising is kind of awesome too, especially when Stiles flicks his tongue out to catch some more and bites down a bit.

"I," he says, when Derek slides his finger out.

Derek says, "Go to school. I'll come back later."

"Yeah?" says Stiles, accidentally a little more hopeful than he maybe wanted to sound.

Derek just almost-smiles though, and says, "Yeah. Alphas get tired too, remember?" and Stiles beams. He must look so stupid, but he doesn't really care, just trips down the stairs thinking dazedly about Derek, Derek sleeping in his bed, Derek naked in his room right now, Derek the Alpha who gets tired and wants Stiles and trusts Stiles with both those things, which objectively doesn't seem like much but, well.

Stiles knows Derek, and he knows better.