Work Text:
It might make sense that Derek isn't a morning person. It's not unreasonable; mornings are hard on anyone who spends their nights chasing after supernatural creatures, and Beacon Hills definitely has its fair share of those. Night is harsh for werewolves, and that makes mornings difficult. It nearly justifies Derek's anger at the morning sun's existence. Almost.
"Are the blinds open?" Derek demands to know, his eyes screwed shut. "Fucking close them."
"They are closed," Stiles mumbles, barely audible in the face of his own sleepiness.
"Don't lie to me just to avoid getting up."
Stiles groans quietly, burying his face in Derek's shoulder and carelessly flinging an arm over his chest.
"You know I'm not lying. And it's not even that bright. We can go back to sleep."
Derek shoves himself away to throw an arm over his eyes.
"I'm going to rip the useless curtains to shreds, Stiles."
"They're not useless," Stiles counters. He squirms back into Derek's space to press a gentle kiss on his collarbone, and another on his throat.
"Stiles," comes the warning, because Derek uses Stiles' name like a reprimand or a weapon. "Stop that."
"Stop what?" Stiles asks, feigning innocence.
"I know what your throat kisses mean. Don't."
Stiles smiles up at him, thrilled at Derek's observations of habits, but his expression is mostly concealed. Still, his jaw is uncovered, and Stiles nips at him there, following it with a wet kiss just to spite him. "You can't tell me you'd rather sleep than have morning sex."
"Want to bet?"
And that is definitely the wrong thing to say to Stiles. Derek really ought to know better than that.
"Is that a challenge? I'll take that bet."
He practically throws himself across Derek, limbs still loose and clumsy from sleep, but his body is too interested in touch and skin and closeness to sleep now. Stiles clings to him tightly, because he wants to and he can. Also, the movement makes Derek grunt, and he likes to hear that. It pushes a burst of laughter from Stiles. Derek shoves against him, but neither of them seem willing to release the other, and they land on their sides, facing each other. At least Derek's eyes are open now.
"Good morning," Stiles mock-whispers, smiling softly.
"Not yet," Derek insists. He pulls Stiles closer until there's no longer space between them. "No more moving. Go back to sleep."
Derek wraps an arm around him and kisses him once, gentle. Stiles melts, snuggling closer, and he wishes they could stay in bed forever. But now he's awake, and no matter how much he'd like to, there's no going back.
"Go to sleep," Derek murmurs, already half-asleep again.
"I can't," Stiles whines. "There are important things to do. Like kissing you."
"Don't care. Too early. Not now. Stop fidgeting."
And he does try. He tries to relax, and he tries to ignore his own restlessness. It's impossible. He squirms against the tightening grip of Derek's arms until he finally frees himself.
"I should go home," he says, but he places a hand on Derek's knee and doesn't indicate any sign of moving.
"Stop talking, Stiles."
"But I'm leaving."
"At least you'll be quiet then."
Stiles gapes at him for a moment, unsure how to react, fleetingly self-conscious. A tiny upward quirk of Derek's lips is the only thing that gives him away.
"Oh, you're just asking for trouble, Hale," he warns before he leaps back on Derek.
Even in his sleep-addled state, Derek wastes no time in twisting them around until Stiles is beneath him. Derek's mouth skims over his jawline, barely touching, and sending a chill through Stiles' body.
"I thought you didn't want to start anything."
"I'm starting nothing."
"Then what do you call—ugh."
Derek slumps, weighing heavily down on him, and smothering Stiles' protest in the process. His eyes drift shut. Stiles struggles uselessly to pull himself free.
"Oh, screw you. Even if I could go back to sleep, you're crushing my lungs."
Derek rolls off him without a word, his arm back over his face. Stiles rolls his eyes, but throws the blankets back on top of Derek.
"Go back to sleep," Stiles whispers in his ear. "I'm going back to my dad's."
"'M trying t'sleep. Shhhh."
He waits for a moment before leaving Derek alone, distracted for a long moment, still unbelieving that this view of Derek belongs only to him. When he finally gathers his wits and clothes, he finds Derek's shirt before his own. After a moment of hesitation, he pulls it over his head. How Derek is likely to react is an unknown factor, but he can't resist. He glances over at the bed, and Derek is mostly unconscious and hasn't noticed anything, so he leaves before his theft is discovered.
He fills his Saturday with a plethora of lazy activities – video games, his homework, several episodes of his favorite shows, and anything else he can cram into his day. Anything to distract him from driving straight back to Derek. He sees Scott briefly, who kindly doesn't say anything, but he does wrinkle his nose and cast several strange glances his way. That's manageable. When he's again left alone, Stiles locks himself in his room, tugging the collar of his shirt – Derek's shirt, he reminds himself – to his nose. It doesn't smell like much, but to Scott, it must have been particularly strong.
When his window is forcefully shoved open, he flails a lot more than he ought to. If he hadn't been caught, he would have vehemently denied it.
"You!" he yelps, then leans back on his forearms in an attempt to reestablish calm. "You need to stop doing that."
"Then maybe you should lock your window," Derek suggests as he crosses the room. He freezes, one knee on the bed as he half-hovers over Stiles. An odd look crosses his face.
"What?" Stiles demands to know, impatient, and he grabs at Derek's arm. "Get over here."
Derek lets himself be pulled along, but drops his face to Stiles' neck. He inhales deeply, nose pressed to his shirt collar.
"You're wearing my shirt," he mumbles as he slides his nose back and forth, then up along Stiles' neck.
"Yeah," Stiles confesses, refusing to apologize. "Problem?"
Derek shakes his head, his mouth ghosting over Stiles' throat with the movement.
"You smell like me. Like us."
Stiles breathes in sharply, shaky. "That's okay?"
"Definitely."
He stops moving, relishing the thought and enjoying the feel of Derek's body pressing against his own. A thought occurs to him, and while he tries to squash it, tries to think only of the present moment, \he can't wait, and he can't keep it to himself.
"If I smell like us, do you?"
Derek lifts his head, meeting Stiles' eyes, as if he ought to know the answer to that question. Stiles forces himself to wait for Derek to speak.
"I'm as marked by you as you are by me, if that's what you mean."
And that's... different. Not what Stiles had been looking for. But the thought sends a pleasant shiver down his spine.
"If me wearing your clothes makes it worse," Stiles begins, unsure how to speak his thoughts without sounding crazy. "If wearing this shirt makes Scott wrinkle his nose and give me looks, if it makes you go crazy... I just don't think I should be alone in this."
"Are you asking me to wear your jersey, Stiles?" Derek asks with a grin, but his sarcasm is almost the shield it once was between them. Before.
"I'm asking..." Stiles trails off, and he has to look away, even more uncertain in the face of Derek's hesitation. "I'm asking if you would do the same. I can't smell it, but I wouldn't mind. I'd like that."
"Why?" The question speaks of genuine curiosity. There's no teasing in his tone – just real interest in why a human, who can't smell it, would want to have Derek's scent on them.
"I want something of mine on your skin. With you. When I'm not. When I can't touch you. I want that."
He skims a hand over Derek's shoulder, brushing away imaginary debris to distract himself. Derek grabs his hand, but he still won't look up again.
"Don't be embarrassed," he pleads. "I understand. I want that too."
"Yeah?" Stiles finally meets Derek's gaze again.
"Yeah," he breathes out in a quiet voice, but there's a smile on his lips. "I always want you with me, in whatever way is possible."
Stiles reaches a hand behind Derek's head, drawing him closer until their noses bump and looking into Derek's eyes makes him slightly cross-eyed.
"I hope that means you're going to wear my Batman shirt," he whispers.
"I'll think about it," Derek murmurs into his mouth.
Stiles smiles into the kiss that follows. At least there's a chance.