Work Text:
1) cream and two sugars
When Stiles wakes up, he smells coffee.
It’s disorienting, because he hasn’t woken up to the smell of coffee in years—two years, in fact, since he lived with his father. For a moment, his olfactory confusion is so profound that he forgets where he is.
Then he stretches himself awake, feels the unfamiliar aches and twinges in his body, and remembers: he’s not at home, and he’s not in his dorm room. He’s in Derek’s loft.
He spent the night with Derek. Having sex. Like, really a lot of it.
“Okay, be cool,” he says out loud to himself, and then rolls his eyes because great job, Stiles, he can probably hear every word you say, could you be more of a pathetic virgin right now. “Damn it,” he sighs, sitting up and throwing one of Derek’s stupid decorative shams against the wall. “Damn it.”
“Are you okay?” Derek appears by the bed, fucking resplendent in dark boxer-briefs and nothing else. Stiles wants to throw another pillow. “Are you hurt? Last night, you asked me to… but you should tell me if I hurt you.”
Stiles’ skin goes hot everywhere. Derek didn’t hurt him last night. Derek destroyed him. Stiles isn’t sure if he’s ever going to be able to go about his normal everyday business without flashing back to it—the heavy sighs and unselfconscious groans, skin sliding against skin and Derek’s voice in his ear, Stiles, Stiles, oh, and Stiles answering him, yes, fuck, damn it Derek, harder.
“I made coffee,” Derek offers, when Stiles is silent for a few moments. “Here, I hope that’s not too much sugar. Are you hungry?”
Stiles takes the mug. He wants to cry into it. “You ruined me,” he says before he can think better of it, looking down into his coffee instead of at Derek’s face. “I didn’t think. That wasn’t supposed to happen.”
Derek is at his side in an instant, laying a cautious hand on Stiles’ thigh. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have been so rough.”
“Yes, you should have, oh my god, you’re not listening.” Stiles slams back almost the entire mug, relishing the burn. “You didn’t hurt me, you were perfect, you were…” He raises his eyes to meet Derek’s, which are wide-open and confused and infuriatingly beautiful. “You were amazing. Don’t worry about it.”
“You too,” Derek says, and Stiles snorts derisively. “No, stop that. You were. You are. I… want to say I’m honored. That you chose me.”
Honored. Stiles deserves this. He deserves to suffer, because coming home for summer break after his sophomore year of college and walking up to his emotionally-unavailable longtime crush and saying I’d really like to lose my virginity, wanna help me out? was the dumbest thing he’s ever done. And he’s done a lot of dumb things.
“You don’t have to do the whole morning-after coddling routine, dude,” Stiles says, his throat stinging. “That’s not what we agreed on. But uh, thanks. You’re good at making coffee. And you’re really good at, well. You know. But you don’t need me to tell you that again, probably. Oh jesus.”
“What we agreed on?” Derek takes his mug from him. “Stiles. What exactly do you think this is? Because I thought…”
“What? You thought what?”
“I thought we were finally… you chose me,” Derek says, making emphatic gestures with his eyebrows. “I thought you were, you know. Choosing me. Was that not…” He searches Stiles’ face, looking uncertain. “I’d planned to make you pancakes for breakfast. Chocolate chip, with whipped cream. Do you like pancakes?”
“I… yes?” Stiles reaches up, heart pounding wildly, and touches Derek’s morning-stubbled jaw with his fingertips. “I like pancakes a lot,” he confesses. “I love them, a little, maybe. I missed them, when I was at school. Pancakes totally should have Skyped with me more often.”
“Maybe pancakes were sick of your fucking mixed messages,” Derek says, and his smile looks relieved and joyful before he leans in and presses it against Stiles’. “Come on, let me feed you. You’ll need your strength for later. I hope you don’t have any plans for the next 48 hours or so.”
“Well, now I have plans.” Stiles runs a hand down Derek’s bare chest, vibrating with caffeine and elation. “Did you say something about whipped cream?”
::
2) flight risk
“Excuse me! Excuse me, ma’am!” Stiles waves his hand into the aisle until one of the flight attendants shuffles over. She looks markedly unenthusiastic, but it’s not her fault; it’s the twelfth time Stiles has pressed the call button. Derek’s been counting.
“Yes, sir?” the flight attendant says venomously. She introduced herself as Bernice at the beginning of the flight. Derek feels pretty sorry for Bernice.
“It’s a little chilly,” Stiles tells her, shuddering dramatically for effect. “I think my husband and I would be more comfortable with some blankets?”
“We might not have two blankets left. There are a lot of elderly passengers onboard.”
“That’s fine!” Stiles says with a sunny smile. “My husband and I can share.”
“Jesus christ,” Derek mutters, running his hand over his face. It’s been like this pretty much nonstop for the past three days; Stiles is ludicrous.
(Derek wishes he could say he minds it, but he really doesn’t.)
“Excellent,” Bernice says, grinding her teeth.
“Sorry, we’re newlyweds,” Derek explains, holding up his ring. Stiles beams and flashes his too. “Also, he’s an idiot.”
“You know what else I am?” Stiles asks Bernice, leaning close to her like he’s about to tell a secret. “I’m his husband.”
“I want a divorce,” Derek announces, going back to absently thumbing through his Sky Mall magazine. “As soon as possible; we’re getting our bags and then it’s straight to the county courthouse.”
“You’ve changed,” Stiles sighs, widening his eyes sadly. “You’re not the same man I married. Ooh, you’ve got another pack of pretzels? Gimme!”
“If your husband presses the call button again,” Bernice tells Derek, “I’m going to make sure your luggage never makes it off this plane.”
“Tell you what, Bernice,” Stiles says, steepling his fingers together. “I’ve got a pretty extensive sexual bucket list, so just give us ten minutes in the bathroom and you’ve got yourself a deal.”
My husband, Derek thinks, and grins into his ginger ale.
::
3) you don’t bring me flowers
“We should light a fire,” Stiles says, completely out of nowhere.
“What?” Derek lowers his book, setting it upside-down so that his thigh marks the page, and straightens up in his chair so he can look at Stiles where he’s lounging on the floor with his laptop. “It’s 83º outside. Are you cold?”
“No!” Stiles’ eyes widen. “Oh my god, no, stop with the mother-hen face, I just meant—”
“If you’re getting sick, you shouldn’t be lying on the floor,” Derek says, setting his book aside and sliding off the chair so he can kneel next to Stiles’ prone body. He presses a palm against Stiles’ forehead, huffing when he tries to squirm away. “You’re going to be sore everywhere.”
“Well if someone hadn’t insisted on going with the polished hardwood floors instead of the carpeting I wanted—”
“I won that coin toss, get the fuck over it. And have your own chair right there.” He does, too; it’s an expensive recliner, upholstered with dark red buttery-soft leather, and Stiles loves it so much that he slept in it three nights in a row after they brought it home.
“My chair is way over there, though,” Stiles whines—and then he stops squirming away from Derek’s touch, even scoots closer and moves into it so that Derek’s hand is slipping into his hair. Derek rests his other hand low on Stiles’ back, letting it slide along his waist as Stiles rolls on his side to face him. “Remember the night we first got this place? We put sleeping bags on the floor, and we lit a fire, and we huddled together and stressed out about how we were never going to pay off the mortgage.”
“It was the middle of an unseasonable cold spell, and we had no furniture,” Derek says. “And then you saw our credit card debt and I thought you were having a heart attack. I almost called 911.”
“It was romantic,” Stiles insists, and then he does a neat little tuck-and-roll that ends with half his body sprawled out over Derek’s thighs. Derek tries to make a token sound of protest; it probably ends up coming out more like a contented rumble, if the smug grin on Stiles’ face is anything to go by. “You used to cuddle me all the time,” Stiles sighs, grin fading. “Has the spark already gone out of this relationship?”
“I fucked you literally five hours ago,” Derek reminds him. “In the kitchen. Twice.”
“Sometimes I think you’re just being dumb on purpose,” Stiles grumbles, snuggling down into Derek’s lap. Derek shifts into a more comfortable position, propped up against the bottom of his favorite chair, and starts rubbing his fingers against Stiles’ scalp the way he likes. “Mmmmyeah. Okay, we don’t have to light a fire. But we do have to order pizza from that terrible place on Vine and we have to eat it on the floor with only a cardboard box as a table.”
“I don’t—”
“It’s our anniversary,” Stiles says, glaring up at him. “We bought this house one year ago, today.”
“Oh.” Derek slides his other hand around Stiles’ chest, tugging him a little closer. “I thought we… don’t we already have an anniversary? That we don’t celebrate? I brought you flowers last year and you laughed at me for days.”
“Yeah, sorry about that, those were actually really pretty,” Stiles says, reaching up to pat Derek’s cheek. “But no, this is going to be our real anniversary, okay? The day we stopped dicking around and decided we were going to be adults together. Mortgages. Water bills. Homeowner’s associations.”
Derek shudders. “They yelled at me for weeks because I wanted to paint the shutters green.”
“They’re the deadliest enemy we’ve ever faced,” Stiles says solemnly. “But it’s worth it, right?”
Derek gazes down into Stiles’ bright, trusting eyes, and his heart rolls right over in his chest. He stretches toward the coffee table for his phone.
“It was Angelo’s Pizza, right? Two large, plain cheese?”
Stiles beams and pats Derek's stomach. “I’m gonna go find a cardboard box.
::
4) adventures in babysitting
In the years since he married Derek, Stiles has come home to a lot of surprises. Some have been bad ones (like Derek trying to fix the sink and flooding the entire kitchen), but most have been the good kind (like Derek waiting on their bed in a rented Navy uniform on Stiles’ birthday).
This, though. This might be even better than the uniform thing.
“I didn’t think you were coming home for another hour,” Derek says, swiveling around in his tiny chair. A plastic tiara slips off his head and onto the floor.
“Nooooo!” Cece, Scott and Allison’s daughter, scrambles for the tiara and rearranges it in Derek’s hair. “You hafta wear your princess crown! This is a tea party for princesses only.”
“Of course, Princess Cecelia,” Derek says, offering her a solemn head-bow before taking a measured sip of imaginary tea. “Would you like another crumpet?”
“Yes please, Princess Derek,” Cece says graciously, holding out a little pink plate.
“You’re wearing clip-on diamond earrings,” Stiles points out in a choked voice. “They’re shaped like hearts.”
“They’re the crown jewels,” Derek says. “I’m first in line for the throne of Werewolfia.”
“Oh my god.” Stiles is too overwhelmed with delight to breathe. “Is this like your thing? Is this what you two do every time she comes over and I’m not here?”
“No,” Derek says, smoothing out the ruffles of his purple tutu. “Sometimes we’re astronauts.”
“Princess astronauts,” Cece corrects. “There’s a difference.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Derek agrees, reaching over to tuck a stray curl behind her ear.
“Oh my god,” Stiles whispers. “We need one of these.”
“What?” Derek’s head whips around, and his tiara falls off again. “What did you say?”
“What?” Stiles shifts his weight from foot to foot with exaggerated nonchalance. “What? No. Nothing.”
Derek narrows his eyes at Stiles, and then picks up Cece’s hand and bows over it. “I’m afraid I must escort you home now, Your Grace. Important matters of state have arisen, and it is my royal duty to attend to them.” Cece pouts, so Derek adds “You can have a fruit roll-up from the pantry.”
“Yaaaay!” Cece leaps out of her chair and runs toward the kitchen.
Derek leaps out of his chair and kisses Stiles so hard that his knees go weak and he drops his workbag.
“Two of them,” Derek breathes when he pulls back, wiping the smears of his princess lipstick off the corners of Stiles’ mouth. “We need two of them. At least.”
“Two kids, got it,” Stiles agrees, nodding frantically. “Okay. Okay. Let’s do this. Oh god. How do we do this.”
Derek shrugs. “Royal decree? I am the future queen of Werewolfia, after all.”
“Oh man,” Stiles says, beaming. “We’re idiots. Someone would have to be insane to let us have babies.”
“Yeah,” Derek says, beaming back. There’s a thud from the kitchen.
“I dropped the juice and there’s juice everywhere!” Cece calls, sounding relatively unconcerned about it.
“Awesome!” Stiles yells back. He jumps into Derek’s arms, his smile growing impossibly wider when he feels the giant earring digging into his cheek.