dizzzylu asked: how about some lazy afternoon, nothing is trying to kill us, nobody's around to bother us derek/stiles porn. with lots of kissing. doesn't have to be afternoon, either! i just want downtime enjoyment for our boys.
Derek wakes up late on Sunday. It’s not even late, really— just past ten when he surfaces into consciousness coherently enough to blink at the alarm clock on the bedside table. But it’s later than he’s slept in— years, really. He could probably even sleep more if he put his mind to it. His body is sticky and sore and exhausted in a way he almost doesn’t recognize, a quiet kind of tired that radiates out through him, a pleasant lulling ache.
He fumbles his phone off of the bedside table and texts Stiles still in bed, come back. They haven’t quite gotten around to letting the Sheriff know about the most recent development in their, um, relationship yet, which means that Stiles sneaks off home at some point after every night and then comes back in the morning and grumps about the fact that Derek is up and showered and dressed. (He doesn’t usually grump so much about the coffee Derek makes him, or the breakfast, or the fact that lazy post-lunch sex is nothing to sneeze at, really.)
On my way, Stiles replies.
Don’t text and drive,Derek sends automatically. He slept in later than Stiles. This has to be some kind of record.
He’s kind of dozing off again by the time he feels Stiles’ weight pressing down onto the bed, his long, warm body rustling through the sheets in search of Derek’s. He took a shower and he’s wearing clean clothes and he smells both foreign and familiar, like soap and shampoo and detergent, like his dad and his house, like his own salty skin.
“Mmmm,” Derek says, because that seems to pretty much sum it up.
“Mmmm,” Stiles agrees, pressing a slow, chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth.
“Clothes,” Derek says, keeping it simple.
“Sorry.” There’s a lot of shaking and shuffling as he wriggles himself back down to nothing, the soft sounds of skin and cloth scraping together in a quiet, sunny room. “Better?’
Derek opens his eyes properly, regards Stiles’ serious face hoving above him. He can’t remember anymore, when it went from strange to familiar, from comforting to necessary, when he started wanting to be able to kiss the fine lines that form around Stiles’ mouth when he smiles. And maybe it doesn’t matter, when or how it started: he can, now, he can lean up and reach up and draw Stiles down, so that they meet in the middle, kissing long and slow and soft.
“Dad wanted to know where I was going,” Stiles murmurs, slotting his limbs into place and curling himself up around Derek’s side. “He’s really starting to wonder.”
“You can tell him,” Derek says, and then, because that doesn’t sound quite right. “We can tell him. Whenever.”
“He has a gun.” Stiles sounds so sweet and serious. Derek can’t help laughing, though, thinking about all of the things they’ve faced together, the terrors that have come after them in the night.
“I’ve got teeth,” he says, finding Stiles’ mouth, reminding him.
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- dizzzylu said: Doesn’t matter that there’s no porn. This was PERFECT. I MEAN. Derek laughing! I think I squeaked. Thank you <333
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- ladyofthelog said: your drunk writing is beautiful and so is this fic, WARM FUZZIES UGH I’M SUCH A SUCKER FOR ESTABLISHED RELATIONSHIPS, AND HAPPY SMELLS, <3
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