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Stiles wakes up to a pair of lips pressing their way down his shoulder. It can't be later than eight—the room still has that almost blue, almost too-bright sheen to it—and he's warm and lethargic, content enough that for a split second, he wonders if he should push Derek away so he can go back to sleep.

Yesterday was his last final for the semester—an hour-long multiple choice extrava-fucking-ganza on Botany—and he figures he deserves to sleep late. Deserves to sleep until, like, dinner time, if he so chooses.

But then again. Derek. In their bed. Kissing his way lazily down Stiles's shoulder.

So… priorities.

"What're you doing?" Stiles croaks, turning towards the inside of the bed. Derek is half-splayed over him, which is the norm, but it never fails to make him feel all warm and cozy and shit. Makes it hard to move, though.

"Nothing," Derek says against his skin. He sounds half asleep. He sounds warm.

"What time is it?" Stiles reaches towards the nightstand and his phone so he can check the time, but Derek grabs at his arm and pulls it back, threads his fingers through Stiles's because he knows it makes Stiles pliable.

"Don't know," Derek mumbles, pressing his face into the crook of Stiles's neck. "Don't care. Time sucks."

"Then why did you wake me up," Stiles groans and shoves his head under his pillow.

"I didn't," Derek mutters. Lies. Deceit.

"So you were just making out with my back in the hopes that I would—"

"I wasn't making out with your back," Derek protests, and Stiles feels the bed move as Derek shifts closer, so that his head is underneath the pillow next to Stiles's, his nose nuzzling up against the back of Stiles's neck.

Fucker knows how to be adorable when he wants something.


It took a while for Stiles and Derek to get comfortable with each other. After that initial kiss on the front porch, after that initial date, things got awkward. Not bad-awkward just… awkward. Derek wasn't the Derek that Stiles knew, and Stiles wasn't exactly the guy that Derek dreamed about. Except… except they were. So it just took some time to flesh out the specifics. Get to know each other. Get to like each other.

(Wanting each other wasn't a problem, though.)


 

"Dude," Stiles mumbles, "I love you, but if you're doing this just to get me out of bed so we can go to, like, breakfast or something I'm going to… I don't know. There's a ghost over in Wheeler Hall that likes playing pranks. We've got a—"

"Breakfast?" Derek starts mouthing at his neck, and despite himself, Stiles shivers, pushes back into it.

"As in what you did three weeks ago, before finals," Stiles reminds him. "You woke me up, and we went out and had pancakes. That was just—you need to know I'm still bitter about that."

"It was noon," Derek says, lips brushing against Stiles's neck as he speaks. "At most it was brunch."

"Ugh." Stiles leans up on his elbows, and watches, bleary-eyed, as Derek grins up at him. Fucker. Asshole. Sleep-ruiner. Scruffy-faced, bunny-eared morning person. "Love you," he says. No, wait, damn it. He didn't mean to say that. "I mean, stop tempting me with your stupid face and get back to hibernating because I want to sleep."

Derek just keeps grinning up at him. Oh god, if he does the nuzzle thing Stiles is going to be—yup, fuck. He's doing it. He reaches up, skims his hand down Stiles's jaw, his thumb rubbing at the sensitive skin behind his ear. Then, because obviously he's pulling out all the stops, he leans up on his elbows and bites, gently, playfully, at Stiles's bottom lip, knocks their foreheads together once, then plops back down.

The expression on his face can only be described as… extremely confident.

The fucker.

"Love you," Derek says, mid-yawn.

The double fucker.

"You—" Stiles lets out a growl of frustration, then just—okay, he jumps him. It's the nuzzling. And the general half-awake half-asleep thing that Derek's doing. It makes Stiles angry. He can't be responsible for what he does when he's angry.


The first time they had sex was awkward as fuck. A good awkward. Such a good awkward. But awkward nonetheless.

There were flailing limbs and Derek wolfed out at least three times. The wolfing out wasn't the problem—the incessant apologizing, even though Stiles was completely a-o-fucking-kay with the wolfing out, was a little annoying, though. Stiles came as soon as Derek's hand wrapped around his dick (in Stiles's defense, the way Derek did it was fucking obscene), and Derek came... uh, Derek came as soon as Stiles wrapped his hand around Derek's.

… Okay so maybe it wasn't just awkward. Maybe it was kind of a disaster. But it was an awesome disaster.

A disaster of epic proportions.

And plus, they both got off in the end, and it had been fun. Hilarious and fun. So all in all, Stiles chooses to see it as a success.


Stiles can't be responsible for what he does when he's angry. No, wait, he can.

Like kissing Derek until he chuffs—god, Stiles loves the chuffing, it's so fucking adorable, damn it—and moans, grabs at Stiles's face with clawed hands and fucking just… devours him. Stiles will take responsibility for that.

Derek licks into his mouth and grinds up against him, humming out little pleasurable huffs of air and gasping in short breaths, moaning low at the back of his throat.

Stiles loves it when Derek moans, and he tends to moan a lot.

Stiles loves that they can do this, despite it being godawful early in the morning. He loves that they can just wake up (or, that Derek can just wake him up) and do…what they're doing. Move closer to each other until they're plastered together, no space in between their chests, until it's almost uncomfortably hot. He loves that this is familiar, that Stiles knows how to push and pull and touch and linger just enough to drive Derek crazy, and vice versa.

He loves that it's this easy with Derek. That Derek is a warm, corporeal body, that now, as Stiles shifts until he's lying half on top of him, Stiles can feel him. He can feel Derek's muscles contracting and bulging, his bones underneath, the velvet smooth glide of his skin against Stiles's, the heat of his dick against Stiles's thigh, and the humid puffs of air against his face as Derek breathes.

"Fuck, you feel good," Derek mutters, nipping at Stiles's jaw. Both of his hands are under Stiles's briefs now, on his ass, squeezing.

Stiles hums in agreement and sucks a slow, sloppy trail down the side of Derek's neck. Because he can. Because Derek shivers when he does that, arches up into him and grinds their hips together, makes a low noise—not a moan, but something… grainier—deep in his throat. Because he wants to.

"You feel horrible," Stiles mutters between kisses. "Disgusting, even. There's no spark whatsoever."

"We can stop, if you want." Derek tilts his head to get to Stiles's mouth. He keeps the kiss open-mouthed and hot, and Stiles would laugh, if he weren't so distracted by the slick sounds and hums of approval coming from the both of them

"Yeah," Stiles says, eventually, once he's somehow maneuvered himself to straddle Dereks' hips and the both of them are grinding, slowly but without any fucking qualms whatsoever, against each other. "Yeah we better. This is just,"—Stiles forgets how to speak for a second or two when Derek grabs at his ass, grinds him down against his dick, which is now unquestionably hard, and scrapes his nails down Stiles's back—"this is just horrible."


In senior year of high school, Stiles got a broken nose and a couple of bruised ribs courtesy of some douchebag poltergeist haunting the abandoned warehouse outside of town. Derek didn't like that. Stiles didn't like it either, because it hurt and poltergeists are fucking terrifying.

They had an argument—Stiles doesn't remember what the hell they said, he just remembers that to the seventeen year old him, it was intense, and heartbreaking—and then they didn't speak to each other for two months.

Two fucking months.


 

"Horrible?" Derek murmurs. He's in full seduction-mode now, his eyes half-mast, his voice low—almost a whisper—and intimate, his mouth turned up in a languid grin, his hands running over Stiles's skin, pressing and scratching and kneading just hard enough to make Stiles want more.

"Abysmal." So Stiles is trying his best at seduction, too. He's never been as good at it as Derek is, but he's at least doing something right, because Derek is hard and leaking underneath Stiles, and his hips are thrusting up in these little aborted movements that mean he's not entirely aware that he's doing it.

"You want to get breakfast, then?" Derek asks. His hand skims across Stiles's hip and wraps, slowly, teasingly, around his dick, making Stiles gasps and rests his forehead against Derek's. Their noses bump together, and Stiles' eyes are closed, but he can feel the puffs of air against his face as Derek laughs.

"You have morning breath," Stiles comments, trying to act nonchalant, even though he sounds breathless, so the illusion is all but gone. "You ate something raw and bloody last night, didn't you? Attacked a hiker in the wo—the woods."

Derek's hand does a… a twisting thing, and Stiles's hips thrust into it so abruptly it's almost (no, not almost; it is) pitiful.

"No." Derek tilts his head, starts pressing soft, lingering kisses down Stiles's jugular. "I was here all night. With you. Obviously."

God.

Stiles shivers at that, reaches down and gets a hand around Derek's cock, which is hot and leaking and markedly harder than it was however long ago they started this. Thirty minutes. An hour. Six minutes. Three years. Not important, really.

"Fuck," Derek says, arches up and starts fucking into Stiles's hand, his movements slow and careful until Stiles squeezes, twists and bends to bite a trail of kisses down the middle of Derek's chest. He shudders then, groans out a noise that sounds like it comes from deep down, and starts rocking up into his hand faster.

It feels like Derek doesn't know what to do with his hands, because they're roving everywhere—down Stiles's back, up his sides, tracing the curve of his ass and then—

"Holy shit," Stiles gasps out, maybe accidentally squeezes Derek's cock a little too hard when his finger rubs against Stiles's hole with definite… intent. "Lube," he croaks out, ignoring Derek's protesting noise when he lets go of his cock, flops over Derek to reach for the nightstand on Derek's side of the bed. "It's in here, right?"

"I—" Derek clears his throat. Stiles manages to open the nightstand drawer, pulls himself forward a bit so that he can reach his hand in, except the bottle he grabs is fucking empty.

"Fuck," Stiles says.

"There's a—there's another one in the bathroom," Derek grits out. "I'm pretty sure."

Stiles deflates, which leaves him sprawled—top half on the mattress, hand still inside the nightstand drawer, bottom half on Derek's legs—across the bed. "Rock, paper, scissors for who has to get it?" he suggests, a little desperately.

Derek does the "are you serious" face, then pushes him off and carefully, gingerly, stands up, adjusting himself and wincing as he goes.

It would be funny, watching Derek waddle towards their bedroom door, if Stiles wasn't, a) ridiculously turned on by the obvious boner underneath Derek's sweats and the wet spot over it, and b) wincing in sympathy because he's had lube-retrieval duty before.

Not pleasant. Lube retrieval, that is.


There wasn't any dramatic event that made them pull their heads out of their asses and stop avoiding each other. It was a gradual thing, one spurred by text messaging and being alone enough to think about how stupid all of it was.

And it was pretty fucking stupid.

So there wasn't some dramatic moment in the rain, but there was a kind of… a stilted carefulness. Which still sucked, don't get him wrong, but still—

Still it made it easier to talk about it, as out of character as talking about feelings was to both of them. And it's not like it changed anything, it just made it—this thing between Derek and him—feel more real. More normal. Feel less like a paranormal romance and more authentic. Better, even.

So yeah. That happened.


Stiles uses Derek's absence to pull his sweatpants off and kick them onto the floor. Which leaves him naked. Finally. It's slightly cold, now that the sheets are tangled at the bottom of the bed; now that Derek is in the bathroom (Stiles can hear him cursing and fumbling around with bottles and slamming drawers). There's no body heat or anything else, really, to distract him from the way his skin is tingling and how his dick and balls are starting to ache.

By the time Derek rushes—hobbles as quickly as he can, really, past his boner—back into the room, Stiles has already wrapped his hand around his dick, and is thrusting up into it, slow and leisurely. It's not enough to make him come or anything; just enough to make the aching stop.

"There was half a bottle underneath the—" Derek freezes just inside the door, blinks, his gaze going from Stiles's face to where his hand is wrapped around his dick, and Stiles just… grins.

"Anytime, dude," he says, and can't resist bending his leg at the knee, arching his back as he thrusts up, once, slower than he had been, making a show of it. "Anytime."

"I hate you," Derek says, but he's already tossed the bottle of lube onto the bed and is tripping out of his pants as he walks over. Stiles lets himself watch, resting his head on the arm not wrapped around his dick. Derek is all… naked, his skin slightly red, his hair mussed and his dick hard. It's a beautiful sight, and it's ridiculously heady to know that all of it is Stiles's to play with.

"The feeling's mutual," Stiles says as Derek gets a knee on the mattress, lowers himself down to start kissing a trail up from Stiles's naval, to his chest, up his neck to his jaw, his lips featherlight and dry, his hands splayed on Stiles's ribcage. "I mean who doesn't prepare lube when they're obviously planning on waking up their significant other to engage in the coitus."

"We have lube," Derek says, grinning at him. "It was in the bathroom. See? Prepared."

"So it was all part of your plan?" Stiles asks as he gets a hand in Derek's hair. It's soft and smooth and Stiles knows for a fact that it's not werewolf genes that make it like that, but Derek's obsession with top-of-the-line hair products.

(Both of them smell like jasmine a lot, because the conditioner Derek buys smells like jasmine, and it's not like Stiles is not going to use it.)

"All part of my plan," Derek says against his skin, starts sucking a hickey right under his collar bone.

"Well, I mean, it would be great if you would actually use it," Stiles gasps out when Derek bites down, tugs at Derek's hair to make sure he's paying attention.

Derek snorts and makes to sit up, except Stiles reaches for the bottle first and shoves it in his face.

"Smooth," Derek says, grabbing it.

"I am the epitome of fucking smooth," Stiles says. Except he doesn't feel smooth as he watches Derek squeeze lube onto his fingers. He feels… things that are the opposite of smooth. Frantic. Pathetically excited. Jittery.

Because seriously, going without sex—okay, okay, not counting handjobs and blowjobs and one or two heavy make-out sessions—for a week is wrong. Just wrong.


Stiles moved in with Derek a year ago. Or a year and like, four months ago. Slightly more than a year ago, is what he's getting at.

For the first two years of college he dormed, even though he and Derek were both at Berkeley. It was the principle of the thing, really, that made him dorm. The whole dorm experience.

What he found, after two years of dorming, is that the dorm experience is vastly overrated and that living in an apartment with a) a living room, b) a bedroom, and most importantly c) a private bathroom, is amazing.

All of that is multiplied by five when you're moving in with the dude you've been in love with for… for a long time. Neither of them have ever tried to pin down the specifics of whether or not they should count the six years Derek knew about Stiles and the two months Stiles knew ghostly Derek as them being them, or if it was just something else. Foreplay, or something.

Anyway, Stiles moved in with Derek, and since then it's been terrifyingly nice, even though Derek squeezes the toothpaste tube from the top, and Stiles may or may not have an aversion to washing his dishes.

They work it out.


Stiles loves the way Derek works him open. He would say something, except he's pretty sure he's already said that once or twice, and plus, all he can get out now are stuttered out moans. Derek isn't actually faring any better, though, which is both amusing and hot.

It's always amusing. It's always hot.

His cheeks are flushed and he's panting, biting at his bottom lip while he finger-fucks Stiles and works his dick—slowly, teasingly, tilting his hips up into it and biting at the inside of Stiles's knee absently—with his free hand.

It's fine, though. It's good, because Stiles has his hand around his own dick, and pretty soon one of them—Derek, he bets it's going to be Derek—is going to need to, uh, escalate.

One of them better fucking escalate, because Stiles—he needs… something. He needs Derek. He wants Derek.

He always wants Derek, but right now, right here, the need is immediate and almost painful, and—fine, damn it, he'll give in.

"Derek," he gets out between teeth that he hadn't realized were clenched so tightly together, "if we could—"

He doesn't even need to finish before Derek gives Stiles a shit-eating grin and manhandles him into a position that has his legs up in the air and his back on the mattress. Derek leans down, kisses him quick and happy because sometime during the manhandling Stiles started laughing, and Derek has a thing about Stiles laughing like this, then he's pushing in, stretching Stiles just right, one hand on Stiles's dick, the other holding onto his right hip, thumb rubbing against his skin in absentminded circles.

Stiles may or may not breathe out a sigh, may or may not push back into him and run his hand up Derek's forearm, may or may not feel, for the first time since he walked out of that goddamned fucking lecture hall, like he can finally let go and relax.

"God, I love this," he murmurs, letting his head fall back and shifting until he's comfortable—until Derek's thighs are under his, until his legs are wrapped around Derek's waist, until he feels sated—and then glancing up to see Derek smiling down at him.

And it's—nope. Too much. His hair is sex mussed and bed mussed and it's just… mussed, all flat on one side and slightly curled. He's sweating, fucking glinting in the light that's coming through the window, shadows making the hard lines of his muscles stand out even more. As Stiles stares, his smile turns into more of a dopey grin, with one side of his mouth hitched a little higher then the other, and Stiles doesn't know if it's purposeful or not, but his hips move just enough for Stiles to feel it, for him to huff out a laugh and tighten his grip on Derek's wrist.

"Yeah," Derek says after a while of just staying like that, and he sounds sex-stupid, "yeah this is good."

It's been a long time since Stiles has thought about the other Derek—the ghost—and how he hadn't been anything like this. He had been Derek, of course. He had been… amazing and beautiful and shit, Stiles had fallen in love with him as a ghost, but this Derek—the one that's in him right now, the one that's warm, that's inside a corporeal body, the one that isn't (as) broken—this is the Derek he can't see himself living without.

Derek starts moving, leans forward until his forearms are resting on the mattress on either side of Stiles's head, biting a trail of hickeys down the side of Stiles's neck, and Stiles laughs again, tilts his hips and grabs at Dereks' sides, letting his nails dig into the skin of his shoulders so he has something to hold on to.

This Derek has a penchant for depressingly confusing indie movies. He's a fucking furnace to be in bed with, and once in a while he kicks in his sleep. This Derek sometimes has nightmares—dreams about what it was like when he was dead, dreams where he feels how it felt to be burnt—and wakes up sweating, pawing at the air until Stiles wraps his arms around him and holds on. This Derek is afraid of fire, snarls at it when he thinks no one's looking. He despises reality TV and gets morose when he wants something but doesn't know how to ask for it.

This Derek has problems. Has flaws, has little things that he hates about himself and things that he loves. He does things that annoy the fuck out of Stiles, and yet there are more things about him that Stiles loves.

Little things. Stupid things. Inconsequential things that actually end up being very fucking consequential because they add up to this big huge… something. This something that has Stiles constantly wondering how someone can be so frustrating and amazing and perfect for him.

Fuck. He's getting sentimental.

Derek has a hand around Stiles's dick, now, is fucking into him slow and steady, drawing the pleasure out, making it into more of an incessant, intensely pleasant buzz all over than anything else. His other hand is tracing the line of Stiles's jaw, fingers dipping into his open mouth and tracing the line of his lips.

"Fuck," Stiles hisses, and Derek huffs out a laugh against his neck, nips at his collarbone and ups the tempo just enough to have Stiles curse again. "For fucks sa—"

"That's what I'm doing," Derek breathes out. "Or trying to, at least."

Stiles huffs, gets a hand in Derek's hair and tugs, licks into Derek's mouth when he can tilt his head enough. "Keep on keepin' on," he mutters between kisses. "Whatever you want, dude, I'm fine where I am."

He's only slightly lying, because as much as being as close to Derek as he can get is a heady experience, perpetually being on the verge of coming would probably be considered torture if it could be, like, chemically induced.

Derek either grunts or laughs—a mix of the two maybe—and god his hips tilt just right, and the pleasant buzz turns into a really pleasant buzz, almost too fucking pleasant, and Stiles curses, tightens the grip he has in Derek's hair, and only just manages to open his mouth as Derek (clumsily, because he looks about as wrecked as Stiles feels) sucks at his bottom lip.

There's more grunting—Stiles doesn't care because his eyes are closed and everything is just… white; white hot and pleasure-pain and the deliciously frustrating agony of an orgasm that is like, this fucking close. There are hums and the slick sounds of their kisses and the slap of skin against skin. The bed starts creaking, and Stiles's blood starts pounding in his ears and—fuck, fucking finally he's coming, with a hand (his hand) squeezing at his dick, and his back arching off the bed and he might pull at Derek's hair a little too hard, might let out a high-pitched choked-out gasp.

Derek curses, maybe even whimpers a little, and pulls out of him, starts jacking off over Stiles's stomach, quick and desperate, a look of furrowed concentration on his face. Stiles would lift a hand to help, but his limbs are heavy and languid, and even if he did, Derek is looking at his face and the come that he hasn't wiped off his chest and abs like they're the only help he needs.

He comes in streaks across Stiles's balls, his dick, his stomach, collapses forward until he's holding himself up on one arm, face inches away from Stiles's, the two of them stuck to each other with come and sweat and yeah, it's nasty—is going to be nastier in a couple of minutes, when everything dries—but it's also nice.

It's nicer when Derek hums, kisses at his cheekbone, buries his head in the crook of Stiles's neck and breathes in.

"Morning," he says.


The last time Stiles got injured mid-exorcism was five months ago. There was flying furniture, an angry (dead) old woman, and bam, one antique fainting couch to the head later, and he was waking up in a hospital with Derek glaring at him and a killer headache.

(People were called; lectures were given. When Derek brought him home, he put Stiles in bed and wrapped himself around him and didn't leave until Stiles got up to pee. There had been werewolf-mojo powered pain-suckage; it had been been strangely nostalgic.)

It's been quiet since then, and Stiles is glad. Lydia helped a lady crossover last month, but there hadn't been anything violent about it.

The last couple of months have been beatifically normal. Or, as normal as a life can be for someone who lives with a werewolf.

What Stiles is saying is that there haven't been any ghostly happenings, and he's glad. That's what he's saying.


"How about," Stiles offers, hand carding through Derek's hair—he's rolled onto his back next to Stiles, but hey Stiles likes his hair (and he likes the expression Derek makes when he has his hands in it), "we wash up, right? Go back to bed. Wake up for breakfast in a couple of hours. Then, and here's the kicker, then we go for round two."

Derek snorts. "Seriously?"

"Seriously," Stiles says. "I see a half-shower, a two hour nap, your famous pancakes, and then more sex in my immediate future."

"I don't think we have pancake mix," Derek says.

"So cereal. Whatever. Compromises; I can make them. The important thing is more sleeping and more boning."

"Are you trying to convince me or—?" Derek looks at him with raised eyebrows.

"No? Do you need convinced?" Stiles runs his finger down the ridge of Derek's nose, gets his hand back in Derek's hair before he can say anything. "I just finished finals yesterday; this could be one of my presents."

Derek laughs at that. "One of them?"

"The others I haven't thought about yet," Stiles says with a shrug, takes his hand back so he can stretch, except Derek grabs it, uses it to pull him over until Stiles is half on top of him. He mouths at his neck, makes a sound in the back of his throat that's definitely contentment.

The fucker.

"Fine," he says, after he's moved to nudge Stiles's jaw with his nose, is pushing into his hand as Stiles traces his ear with a finger.

"Fine," Stiles agrees, nips at the skin of Derek's neck in a habit he's definitely picked up. It's a Derek thing, the neck business.

(Back in high school Stiles had gone through a research phase, but he's still not sure if the neck stuff is a Derek thing or a werewolf thing.)

"Great," Derek murmurs.

There's a pause, and then, "so one of us has to get up first, or are we going back to sleep with spunk-covered sheets?" Stiles asks

"It's not like we haven't done it before," Derek points out, but he has that look on his face that means he's dodging the question. And, okay, Stiles knows. He thinks it's kind of fucking hilarious that Derek doesn't have to even say anything, and still, Stiles knows.

"Or we could just go back to sleep," Stiles sighs, like it's a hardship, makes sure to whisper it into Derek's ear just so he can feel him shiver. "And let you indulge your, uh, kinky werewolf sex-smelling fantasies."

"Fuck off," Derek says, and Stiles laughs, rolls off, and is about to set his feet on the floor when Derek pulls at his arm and pouts.

"The curtains, asshead," Stiles points at the window, where the drapes are letting too much light in for either of them to get any sleep. "I'm closing the curtains."

"Oh." Derek lets him go, and Stiles snorts, walks the five steps to the window and doesn't even glance outside when he closes the curtains. They're heavy—not quite black-out drapes—and suddenly the room is a grey-blue, calm and intimate and markedly cooler.

(And Derek is staring at his ass. He can feel it. It's a testament to how grown up he is—hah—that he's not beet red all over and rushing to cover himself with a throw pillow. Not that they have any throw pillows.)

He doesn't do a very good job of ignoring the appreciative look Derek gives him as he walks back to the bed—he doesn't want to—and then he's being pulled down and Derek is all over him. Hands everywhere and face smashed against his neck, mouth open, breathing out over his skin.

"I'll make breakfast for dinner," Derek mumbles, and Stiles is so out of it as he lets his hands grab at Derek's ass, gets himself situated in the position that's going to get him back to sleep as quick as possible, that he lets out a surprised laugh.

"What?"

"Breakfast," Derek says, slowly, not even bothering to lift his face. "For. Dinner."

"Are you going to make me eat your—"

"Don't say it."

"—make me eat your sausage," Stiles finishes, preens when Derek groans and shoves his hand over Stiles's face.

"Bacon," Derek mumbles, and for fucks sake, is he seriously already getting drowsy? "No sausage. Bacon."

"Fine, whatever, no eating your—"

"—and fruit," Derek continues over him. "Nothing phallic… phallicy."

"You're no fucking fun."

"I am fucking fun," Derek protests. "You have lots of fun when you fuck me."

And Stiles laughs until he falls asleep.