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Domestic Bliss

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“The fuck?”

Derek stops in his tracks two steps into the kitchen of the new house. It’s still a mess, full of his own neatly packed, carefully labeled moving boxes and Stiles’ overflowing shopping bags and laundry baskets. They moved in two days ago, and have been making slow progress in getting things organized.

Derek’s not surprised to find Stiles in the kitchen, cleaning and organizing. He is surprised to find that Stiles is doing so half-naked, his bare ass showing beneath an ancient Beacon Hills High School t-shirt.

“Hey,” Stiles responds, looking back over his shoulder as he finishes washing a frying pan. “Welcome home.”

Derek’s heart skips a beat at that--home. Stiles has spent most nights at Derek’s apartment since he came home to Beacon Hills after graduating from college, but it was always Derek’s place. This little bungalow they picked out together, after going through fifteen open houses and fifteen million online ads, this is their place.

“Hey. What are you doing?” Derek pushes aside a half-empty box with his toe, moving behind Stiles so he can hug him from behind. Stiles tilts his head, exposing his neck automatically for Derek. Derek’s not sure if Stiles knows how much he loves that, or if Stiles just likes the scratch of Derek’s stubble against his tender skin. He’s fine with it either way.

“Washing these pans--I packed them up when I left Santa Cruz and I think there’s still some taco meat crust on this one.” Derek hums and wraps his hands around Stiles’ waist, starting with the least crazy part of this scenario--Derek’s old t-shirt.

“Where’d you find this?” he asks, tugging at the fabric.

“In a box labelled ‘cleaning supplies.’ This shirt is seriously awesome, Derek. Please tell me you don’t use this as a rag.”

Derek snorts. “That is exactly what I use it for, Stiles. Considering it hasn’t fit me since the late 90s.”

“It fits me!”

“It barely fits you.”

“It’s vintage.”

Derek rolls his eyes but gives up the argument. It looks ridiculous, but that’s okay. Stiles is allowed to be ridiculous here, in their home. Derek’s allowed to like it.

“Do you always do the dishes like this?” he asks, sliding his hands down to Stiles bare hips. “Is this the way college boys do it?”

Stiles barks out a laugh. “No, I just got distracted.”

“Distracted? You forgot to wear pants? Did you leave the house like this?”

Stiles sighs, sets the frying pan in the dish drainer, and turns to face Derek. “You were late. I came home and thought you would be right behind me, so I stripped and got all sexy-like for you in the living room, because it’s the only room we haven’t christened yet. But then you texted to say you’d be half an hour late, so I picked up my clothes and threw them in the hamper. The hamper was full, so I put in a load of laundry. I had to go through some boxes to find the detergent, and that’s when I found this awesome t-shirt. And the dirty pans.”

“Sexy-like?” Derek asks, grinning.

“That’s what you got out of that story? No ‘hey, good job being responsible with the laundry and the dishes and shit?’”

“I don’t care about the laundry and the dishes and shit.” Derek’s hands slip down to cup Stiles’ ass, squeezing his cheeks and pulling him closer.

“You say that, but that one time at your apartment when I left a half-empty bowl of cereal out for one day--”

“Stiles, that bowl was under the bed. For a week. It was... growing things.”

“There was hardly any mold!”

Derek lifts one eyebrow, and Stiles acquiesces. “Okay, there was like, a new species of mold. The point is,” he says softly, lifting his hand to Derek’s chest to pluck a piece of lint off of his t-shirt, “I’m trying.”

Derek bows his head, touching his forehead to Stiles’. “I appreciate it.”

“We are crushing this relationship stuff,” Stiles says, tilting his head for a quick kiss. “Scott and Allison can suck it.”

Derek laughs and kisses Stiles again, and this time it lasts a little longer, turns a corner from a quick-and-happy kiss to a lingering, sexy one.

“So the living room, huh?” Derek asks, when Stiles finally pulls away to suck in a deep breath.

“There’s some lube in the end table.” Stiles’ eyes are bright with excitement. “Can I keep the t-shirt on?”

“Sure,” Derek says, turning away from Stiles before he rolls his eyes. He reaches back and takes Stiles’ hand, pulling him through the kitchen towards their half-unpacked living room. “It makes you smell like lemon pledge. I’m into that.”

“God, you’re weird,” Stiles says, laughing happily.

“So’re you,” Derek counters, flopping down on the brand new sofa. He pulls Stiles into his lap and kisses him just below his ear. “It’s why we’re perfect for each other.”

Stiles settles back on Derek’s thighs and starts kissing him in earnest, already half hard and squirming. Derek’s hands roam Stiles’ back under the t-shirt, rucking it up to reach his shoulder blades and scratch his blunt fingernails over the sensitive spot between them.

After a while, Derek drops his hands down to Stiles ass, kneading it until Stiles whines and lifts up on his knees. Derek slips one finger between his cheeks, just to tease, but finds that Stiles is already stretched there, a little slick with lube.

“Jesus,” he breathes, his head falling back against the couch.

“I told you I got all sexy-like.”

Derek lifts his head just enough to look Stiles in the eye. “You were in here fingering yourself? Waiting for me?”

Stiles nods, shifting restlessly. “Yeah, but that was like, half an hour ago, so if you could make with some more lube...”

Derek growls and flips Stiles onto his back, crawling on top of him and kissing him fiercely. He bites at Stiles’ lower lip, grinds down against him, and reaches blindly for the little drawer in their end table that holds the remotes and, apparently, a bottle of lube.

“Ouch, Derek,” Stiles says, wrenching his head away. “Jeans. Belt. Off.”

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” Derek says, jumping up. He strips down in record time, kicking his jeans away as he pulls his t-shirt off. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine, just... c’mon, just come fuck me.”

Derek retrieves the lube and kneels on the couch, ready to lower himself back over Stiles, but the idea of Stiles fingering himself open is just killing him and ... it’s not too late.

“Will you?” he asks, flicking open the bottle of lube and reaching for Stiles’ right hand.

“You’re better at it,” Stiles argues, even as he holds out two fingers for Derek to slick up with lube.

Derek lifts Stiles’ leg and rests it on his shoulder. “C’mon, show me.”

Derek’s hand is slick from spreading the lube over Stiles’ fingers; he takes his own cock in hand and strokes himself as he watches. Stiles pushes two fingers in, already relaxed enough to scissor them as he fucks himself slowly.

Derek makes a sound like he’s choking, and Stiles smirks. Derek isn’t embarrassed, though, loving everything about this. They’ve had sex a thousand times--mind-blowingly hot sex, lazy Sunday morning sex, quick and desperate your-dad-could-come-home-any minute sex when Stiles was home between semesters. None of it compares to fucking-on-their-very-own-couch-they-bought-with-a-joint-credit-card sex. It feels... settled, permanent, certain, things that make Derek feel warm from the inside out.

“I’m good,” Stiles says, lifting his hips to fuck himself on three fingers. He’s beautiful, chest flushed red and stomach muscles straining as he moves. “I’m good, I’m good. Come on, Derek.”

Derek falls over Stiles, rutting down against him and scraping his teeth over the cord in Stiles’ neck. “Yeah,” Stiles breathes, reaching down between them to line them up.

It’s fast and messy, too much lube and Stiles isn’t really stretched enough, but he can take it--takes it so well, takes it like he was made for Derek’s cock.

They never talk much during sex, preferring to kiss and bite and moan, but Derek murmurs “Good?” and “Here?” and “Like this?” a few times, just to hear Stiles’ breathless replies.

“Yes,” he moans. “Fuck, Derek, yes.”

“Can you come like this?” Derek finally asks, not sure if he can hold on.

“I don’t think so,” Stiles says, locking his hands together behind Derek’s back so he won’t try to shift their position. “Want you to come first, anyway.”

“Stiles,” Derek gasps, dropping his head to Stiles’ shoulder.

“Want you to come inside me,” Stiles says, lips pressed against Derek’s ear. He always gets good at the dirty talk when he knows Derek’s close. “Come inside me and then lick me out, yeah?”

Derek thrusts in hard, coming with a deep growl that Stiles feels everywhere they’re connected.

He ignores the instinct he has to stay buried in Stiles’ ass, forced himself to pull out and lower himself to the floor. He pulls Stiles’ body with him, arranges his hips so they’re right at the edge of the couch and buries his nose in Stiles’ groin.

“No teasing,” Stiles warns, but ruffles Derek’s hair affectionately.

Derek throws Stiles’ leg over his shoulder and sucks a trail of kisses down his inner thigh, stopping to mouth at his balls. He pushes a finger inside Stiles, so slick now with lube and come that it goes in easily. He loves this, loves his own scent on Stiles--inside him, dripping down his thighs, where Derek will be able to smell it for hours, even after he cleans Stiles up like this.

He licks around his finger, starting off gently. Stiles already has a hand wrapped around his cock though, is already squirming and opening his thighs wider for Derek. Derek pulls his finger out and licks into Stiles, tasting himself there and moaning.

“Fucking... Derek, fuck. You just... fuck.” Stiles gets pretty bad at the dirty talk when he’s close himself. “More,” he demands.

Derek’s not sure what he wants more of, but he guesses it’s everything. He presses two fingers into Stiles, crooking them expertly and dragging them out slowly until he hears the choked-off groan that tells him he’s found the right spot. He laps at Stiles’ rim until he can feel him start to tighten, until he hears Stiles gasp one final “fuck” and knows he’s coming.

They end up splayed on the floor, Derek on his back and Stiles folded against his chest. They’re quiet for a few minutes, catching their breath and calming each other with lazy, tender touches. Derek’s trying to think of a way to put his feelings into words, a way to tell Stiles how happy he is that he’s finally back for good, that he’s chosen to make his home here with Derek.

“Did we pay the extra seventy-five dollars to get the Scotchguard?” Stiles asks, scratching his fingers through Derek’s chest hair.

“What?” Derek asks, laughing. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m pretty sure we got come on the couch.”

Derek laughs, remembers the argument they had in the furniture store about the necessity for things like Scotchguard and extended warranties. He’s pretty sure they didn’t pay the extra seventy-five dollars.

“I’ll clean it up,” he says, tugging Stiles in closer and kissing him sweetly. “Later.”