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a year in sleepovers

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The first time Stiles ended up in Derek’s bed was New Year’s Eve. He was seventeen, a little drunk, and he begged. Scott and Kira had gone back to Scott’s with Isaac, Allison was staying at Lydia’s. Stiles turned to Derek with wide eyes, cheeks drunk flushed.

“Please don’t make me go home drunk,” he said, tiredly, “My dad might actually kill me.”

Derek looked down at his feet, smiling fondly and wondering when he developed such a soft spot for Stiles Stilinski, of all people.

“Sure, c’mon,” he said, gesturing towards his car, and Stiles happily (sloppily) followed, slouching down into the front seat, “I’ll take you back to mine.”

“Thanks,” Stiles murmured as Derek buckled his belt in for him, and then his own, and then started the car.

Stiles stumbled into the apartment, didn’t seem to even think twice about shucking his clothes and climbing into Derek’s bed. Derek had a sneaking suspicion that Stiles did this all the time (and sometimes he would come home and smell traces of rain and paper and sugar in his sheets, the scent of fresh air like the windows had been flung wide open –he didn’t necessarily mind).

Derek made him drink a large glass of water before he climbed into bed himself next to Stiles, comfortable enough to share the bed and thinking how far they’d come in the past year. He fell asleep to the sound of Stiles’ breathing next to him.

Derek woke with Stiles sprawled across his chest, snuffling into his shoulder. He lifted his head but didn’t offer any kind of apology, just sighed and slumped back down as Derek’s hand came up to stroke over his back, spreading between his shoulder blades.

“I love wolves,” Stiles said, quietly, and Derek snorted as he stretched out his legs.

“Are you still drunk,” he asked, deadpan.

“No, you guys are so tactile, it’s great,” Stiles hummed, “You may not necessarily like me but you’re totally cuddling me.”

“I like you,” Derek said, sounding a little put out even to his own ears.

“I know,” Stiles murmured, “You’re one of few.”

“You’re a grower.”

“I’ve heard that before,” Stiles said, and then promptly burst out laughing. Derek sighed deeply and fondly squeezed the back of Stiles’ neck, who hummed happily through his giggles and nuzzled in closer still. After a moment, he started talking again.

“Even Scott is very into cuddles since he got bitten. I mean, we used to have sleepovers and stuff but since his furry little problem, we were so busy and Game Nights were put on the backburner. We got back into that lately. But I can just tell, he’s happy when people touch him. And I figured, you might be happy if I touched you too.”

Derek paused, fingers against the nape of Stiles’ neck and thumb resting below his ear.

“Are you sure that you’re not still drunk?”

“I have fantastic metabolism. I might be a little dehydrated though.”

Derek grunted and rolled Stiles off of him to a noise of protest.

“I’ll get you a drink and then we’ll go out for breakfast,” Derek said as he stretched and lumbered towards the kitchen. Even with the noise of the running water from the kitchen tap, he couldn’t help but smile as he heard Stiles’ soft groan and the rustle of sheets as he murmured;

“Good talk, Der. Good talk.”

 

At the beginning of March, Derek was enjoying a well-deserved personal day in the comfort of his bed with a movie when he heard keys in the lock of his front door. There were exactly three people who owned a key to Derek’s apartment; himself, Cora, and Stiles. And to be honest, none of those options really required Derek getting out of bed and making and effort to be hospitable.

He knew before the door was open that it was Stiles, that mad frantic heartbeat regardless of his emotional state, the scent of sugar that laced his skin and sweat. Knowing it was Stiles didn’t make Derek any more inclined to leave his bed. Since New Year’s Eve, the frequency at which Derek came home to sheets that smelled like Stiles had increased, and he was surprised he hadn’t witnessed the habit in person yet.

Stiles stood in the doorway of the bedroom, looking absolutely miserable and dripping wet. Derek lifted his head from his cocoon of pillows and comforters, and had to force down a bark of laughter.

“Raining out?” he asked, and Stiles sort of sneered, and started stripping, wet clothes hitting the wooden floors with a loud slap wherever he dropped them.

“Hey, put them in the tub,” Derek protested, and Stiles, in his briefs, stooped to pick up his sodden garments. Something about the long, pale length of his legs, the curved muscle of his thigh, made Derek’s stomach swoop. Occasionally he would remind himself that Stiles was just seventeen so he could pretend he had some morals regarding the guy, but it really wasn’t one of those days.

Stiles returned from the bathroom and pulled open one of Derek’s drawers, slipping on a dark olive Henley and pushing up the sleeves as he moved towards the bed.

“What are you watching?” was the first thing he asked (said, for that matter), as he sat down and swung his legs up onto the mattress. Now that Stiles was closer, the scent of sugar was mottled with something more cloying, something like sorrow. Derek lifted the covers for Stiles to worm in next to him, didn’t ask what had him down. It was best not to pry, he found, with Stiles; getting inquisitive about his moods often led to a shut-down expression and uncharacteristic silence.

Scott said that after the sacrifice, the months of panic and hallucinations that followed had changed Stiles. Derek had missed a lot of that chaos at the beginning, he’d left Beacon Hills knowing a snarky and clever boy called Stiles and come back to what seemed like a bad imitation of him at first, but longer and leaner and more weathered.

“Back to the Future,” Derek said, in answer to Stiles’ question.

“Michael J. Fox, 1985. Good year,” Stiles mused, working his way under Derek’s arm. His cold feet brushed Derek’s shins, cool hands tucked down between their bodies, and Derek was reminded of something his mother used to say. Cold hands, warm heart.

After a moment, he inquired, “Aren’t you supposed to be at school?”

Stiles nodded, shuddered, seeming to think about his answer before giving it.

“Sometimes, I can’t be there. Sometimes I can’t be anywhere that reminds me of the bad stuff.”

So you come here, Derek thought. It made more sense to him, suddenly. He knew just as well as Stiles did that it felt good to escape the things that reminded you of past pain, but also that complete unfamiliarity could destroy you. Stiles used Derek’s apartment, because it was fresh and untainted, but it was also Derek’s. Not one of his friends or loved ones had died on these floors, and therefore it was safe.

“What do you do here, anyway?” he asked after a moment. Stiles shrugged, his eyes on the TV, and Derek’s eyes on him (the faint sounds of Johnny B. Goode in the background).

“It’s quiet, so I read. Study and homework usually. Sometimes actual books, fanfiction, Wikipedia.”

He sensed Stiles’ discomfort, the heat rising off him as he twisted to turn his face into Derek’s chest.

“You know I don’t mind, right?” Derek asked.

Stiles nodded again, eyes shut, long and dark lashes against his red cheeks and hair falling damply across his forehead. He looked young, peaceful, so Derek let him sleep. He didn’t mind, he liked the contact.

 

Summer brought heat and free time, and a sweaty teenager in Derek’s bed when he returned from a trip to New York to see Cora.

Stiles was splayed out on his stomach, just the top sheet draped over him and pooling around his waist, feet poking out the end.

Derek dropped his bags inside the door, and Stiles lifted his head. He smiled, stretching his arms underneath the pillows, his toes curling. Derek heard joints popping, Stiles sighing happily as he relaxed again.

“You’re back.”

“I’m back,” he said, “You slept here last night?”

Stiles nodded, “Dad’s gone away for a conference, suspiciously the same weekend as Melissa has a course to attend. I was supposed to stay with Scott but he sexiled me, and I don’t really like being alone at home anymore.”

It was a lot of words for Stiles in one morning, Derek could tell by the way he grunted and flopped down face first gracelessly.

“That’s fine,” Derek murmured, staring to unpack his things, “How long has the weather been like this?”

“A few days,” Stiles said, into the pillow, “We’re all going to the lake out near the preserve later, you should come.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Derek said, and continued to unpack his duffel, sorting between what needed to be laundered and what didn’t.

“Can I go back to sleep?” Stiles asked, and Derek looked back over his shoulder to see Stiles looking at him through one eye, half his face hidden by the pillow he’d face-planted into.

“Of course.”

“Will you join me?”

Dangerous territory, Derek thought, but Stiles was eighteen now so it wasn’t like he had to feel guilty about it anymore. And anyway, they were kind of pack, and pack craved contact. Even if Derek wasn’t as touchy with the others as he was with Stiles, it didn’t mean that Stiles was the only one he touched. And he’d been away over a week.

“Yeah,” he said, “Yeah, if you want.”

“Mmm, good,” Stiles hummed, wriggling against the sheets. Derek slipped off his boots and his t-shirt, followed by his jeans as he rolled onto the bed next to Stiles.

It was hot out, but that didn’t stop Stiles from curling up next to Derek with a happy noise.

“I just really like you next to me,” he said, openly, and Derek looked over in surprise, “I don’t know if that’s weird, or normal, or if I’ve been living with wolves for too long, but it felt weird when you were gone. I’m glad you’re back.”

Stiles smelled happy and content, so Derek turned on his side, leaning his forehead against Stiles’ shoulder.

“Me too,” he said softly. “All of it. Me too.”

 

By the time Stiles started his senior year, not even the pack found it weird anymore that Stiles and Derek would show up to meetings/pack breakfasts/family lunches together in Stiles’ Jeep or Derek’s new mustang or- whatever. It suddenly became odd when someone said ‘Stiles’ and it wasn’t followed by ‘and Derek,’ or vice versa. Derek wasn’t sure how that happened, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about it only he knew that he didn’t hate it.

“We should have a Halloween party here,” Stiles said, flopped across the foot of the bed with his calculus book open. Derek, who was conversely reading for pleasure rather than his education, looked up in surprise.

“We?”

“Yeah, well. You know. We.”

“One, it’s September. Two, this is my apartment.”

“You gotta plan ahead! Duh,” Stiles laughed, rolling over onto his back, “But I’m here like all the time. So if a party was to be thrown, I would help with most of it and therefore it would be us throwing the party.”

Derek felt a sigh coming on, but more contented than frustrated. He always did admire Stiles’ logic, even if he had no idea where he got it from.

“Fine, we’ll talk about it at the next meeting.”

Stiles fist-pumped, rolled off the bed altogether, and swept his books into his bag.

“Fanstastic. I’m going to go out and get celebratory pumpkin hot chocolate. I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”

“Are you gonna stay the night?” Derek asked, not even looking up from his book until he realised Stiles wasn’t answering, just looking at him in surprise from where he stood in the door.

“Uh, I- Yeah. If you want me to.”

“Wouldn’t ask if I didn’t want you to,” Derek muttered, going back to his book, and Stiles flashed a grin at him, leaving without another word. Derek gave up trying to read maybe three minutes before Stiles returned, windswept and grinning, with a leaf in his hair.

He slid off his jacket and shoes, climbed up next to Derek with his laptop, and a cardboard cup holder with their drinks in. They researched party decorations and masquerade masks and punchbowls and Halloween music mixes until Derek dozed off against his shoulder.

Stiles smelled like pumpkin and satisfaction and home.

 

Late November saw a red-cheeked Stiles in scarves and hats and furry-lipped coats that framed his face like a lion’s mane. Derek loved Winter.

He loved that Stiles trampled into his apartment, kicking snow (Snow! In California!) off his boots and leaving them by the door, the loved the way Stiles cursed under his breath as he peeled off sodden gloves and damp jeans, loved the way he shuddered as he pressed himself back into Derek’s chest under the covers.

He found there was something incredibly intimate about holding Stiles like that. It was one thing to sleep chest to chest, or even back to back, but Stiles submitted to him so easily, trusted him by turning his bare back to him in the dark.

“Hi,” Derek said, a little surprised by his guest. Stiles was a regular fixture in the apartment now (lounging, eating, babbling), but Derek could still count on one hand the number of times Stiles had climbed into his bed with him there too.

“Long day,” Stiles muttered, “Needed-”

Derek waited for Stiles to finish the sentence, never more aware of how important one word could be, never more understanding of the difference between this and you.

Stiles didn’t answer, his breathing evening out slowly as he let go of the day he’d seen. His hand reached up to rest over Derek’s on his chest, crossed over his sternum like a shield.

“Sometimes it feels like I’m inside myself, trying to escape me, y’know?” he said, voice unusually quiet, weak like Derek had never known Stiles to be. He nodded silently, waiting for Stiles to continue, “And I don’t know why, but you’re- see, Lydia helps. She was my anchor, whatever that meant, she’s one of my best friends. But she’s not… you.”

Derek’s fingers curled, pressing in to Stiles’ chest like he wanted to reach in and grab his heart, hold it, protect it. He had a feeling Stiles would trust him. He held him steady, exhaling softly against the nape of his neck where his hair was getting a little too long, curling against the skin. So white, perfect.

“Sometimes, I just need- you. Here.”

It was almost like a confession, and with it, Stiles’ body went lax and pliant against Derek. Derek pressed a leg between Stiles’, let his head fall forward against a cool, pallid shoulder.

“Okay,” he said, pressed his mouth there without another word.

Stiles didn’t tense, but Derek felt him move a little.

“Did you just kiss my shoulder?” he whispered. Derek lifted his head so he could see the outline of Stiles’ cheek and lips, the glimmer of his eyes in the dark.

“Yeah,” he said, sensing no unease in Stiles words, just- interest. He saw Stiles swallow, saw his mouth open to take a breath as if to speak and then fall short. After a second, he lifted his hand to his neck, touching two long fingers to the pale stretch of his jugular. He pushed his head back.

“Why not… here?”

Derek’s pulse skipped a little, he lowered his head and rest his lips against the curve of Stiles’ neck, open mouthed and a little wet just below his fingers. Stiles exhaled slowly, moving his fingers up further, to the tender soft skin just below the cut of his jaw, between his ear and his throat. So vulnerable.

“And here?”

Derek’s mouth followed the path Stiles’ fingers had took, and Stiles moved his hand away as Derek pressed a sucking kiss to the softness, tongue sweeping out over the salty skin. Stiles murmured quietly in approval, the palm of his hand  reaching back to cup the back of Derek’s head, curling in his hair.

Derek pulled away with a wet noise, and Stiles turned his head, had barely breathed out the word, “here,” before Derek was kissing him, Stiles’ lips cold but his mouth hot and wet and sweet. Stiles groaned, pushed his hips back against Derek, who realised he was hard, pushed himself up on one elbow and wrapped his other arm around Stiles’ waist and rutted forward against him, against the perfect swell of his ass.

“God, Derek, please,” Stiles whispered breathlessly, taking Derek’s hand and guiding it down over his briefs, hips straining for friction, cock hard and hot under Derek’s palm. Derek scrabbled to push Stiles’ boxer-briefs down to his thighs, and Stiles just closed his eyes and moaned as Derek got a hand around him, dry as fuck at first but quickly wet from the precome Stiles leaked.

“Oh fuck,” he breathed, grinding back against Derek as best as he could, fucking into his fist simultaneously, “C’mon, Derek, need- you.”

Stiles blindly dragged Derek’s briefs down, groaning at the new skin-to-skin contact of Derek’s cock against the backs of his thighs. He tried to wrap his long fingers around the girth, making a noise of loss as Derek slapped his hand away and pushed his legs together, his cock slipping in between.

“Lube, lube,” Stiles panted, reaching out for the beside locker (and Derek didn’t even want to know (okay maybe he did) how Stiles knew what was in there) and returning with a little bottle, slicking the space between his thighs that Derek was slowly fucking into.

Derek groaned, grunted out a “Fuck, Stiles,” as he continued to jerk Stiles off, every so often feeling the head of his cock nudge against Stiles’ balls, feeling Stiles shudder and moan in return.

 They weren’t kissing any more, why weren’t they kissing?

“Stiles,” Derek huffed, and Stiles turned his head back, capturing Derek’s mouth as best as he could, keening into the kiss and digging his fingers into Derek’s thigh.

“Fuck, I’m, oh my god, Derek-”

“C’mon, come for me,” Derek murmured, a little desperate, almost like he wanted Stiles’ orgasm more than his own, and Stiles released an absolutely wrecked cry as he came into Derek’s fist, stomach and thighs taut as his back arched. Derek swore, thrusting three, four more times before he was coming too, toes curling against Stiles’ ankles, panting against his jaw, thick, white drops against Stiles’ soft, slick thighs.

Derek pressed his face to Stiles’ shoulder blade, trying to catch his breath, enjoying the way his blood rushed, the way Stiles’ practically vibrated next to him.

“Fuck, that was perfect,” Stiles whispered, a little hoarse, but ultimately gratified. Derek hummed in agreement, kissing the skin beneath his mouth, most of the right side of Stiles’ face and shoulder already pink with stubble burn, the dark messy bruise of Derek’s kiss below his jaw – stark and purple against porcelain white. Perfect was the word, yeah.

“Shower?” he asked, after a moment.

“Also perfect,” Stiles replied, sitting up, spreading his legs where Derek had come all over him. Derek kind of wanted to hold him down and lick it off, pinken up his thighs too. That might have to wait.

They cleaned up as quickly as was possible when they couldn’t keep their hands off each other for long, pulling off the dirty sheets and sleeping under the cleanest, topmost cover, curled around each other like always. And if they woke in the morning just to get dirty again, well. Derek didn’t mind a little laundry for the sake of his and Stiles’ happiness.

 

By the time New Year’s came around again, Stiles was eighteen, a little drunk, and this time he didn’t need to beg.