Title: couldn't ever get enough
Author: kototyph
Pairing/Characters: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Rating: R
Word Count: 1114
Warnings/Tags: Got Together, Morning After, Romance, Coffee, Past Tense Pining, Derek in Sweaters, Ugly Sweaters
Summary: Stiles' warm, slightly bony pillow is being eased out from under his ear. Slowly and carefully, yes, with a hand under his head to keep it steady, but the fact remains that his pillow is moving and that is wholly and totally unacceptable.
Notes: Originally posted on tumblr for fauvistfly and the 2014 Teen Wolf Summer Exchange.

Stiles' warm, slightly bony pillow is being eased out from under his ear. Slowly and carefully, yes, with a hand under his head to keep it steady, but the fact remains that his pillow is moving and that is wholly and totally unacceptable.

"No," he mumbles, wiggling forward until his forehead is pressed into a shoulder again. "Mmm."

"Stiles." He's pretty sure his pillow is laughing at him, now. "My arm?"

"Nnm. No."

The pillow and the shoulder shake. Definitely laughing. "But I need it."

"Nuh-uh."

"I promise I'll be right back." Unbelievably, the pillow starts moving again. When vague noises of disapproval fail to stop its progress, Stiles latches on and refusing to let go. Even when it sighs and mumbles, "Coffee, Stiles. I need coffee."

"No, don't," Stiles answers, more towards wakefulness in general than the idea of coffee.

"I also need to piss."

"No."

Another quiet laugh, and someone plants a stubbly kiss to the side of his nose. "Come downstairs when you're awake."

His pillow is extracted, despite Stiles' continuing inarticulate protests, and the solid body beside him disappears from the bed completely. It leaves behind a warm hollow that Stiles rolls into with a deeply aggrieved noise.

Footsteps pad away, and hinges creak as the closet door opens, and a few moments later, closes. The door to the hallway opens, too, but stays open, and the footsteps fall out of earshot.

The room on the other side of his closed eyelids is bright but cold on his suddenly-exposed skin, something that makes him screw up his face and wiggle deeper into the cocoon of flannel and quilted cotton he's made. It would be better if he still had his pillow. Where did it say it was going again?

"Hngah?" he asks the room.

No answer.

Stiles risks cracking open an eye and blind, he's blind, the sunlight is evil and awful and must be avoided at all costs. "Nngh," he whines, pulling his face back under the covers and curling there resentfully. Stupid pillow.

He would have liked to drift again, but he has this nagging, nudging feeling that there's something he's missing— something he's supposed to be doing, something that's happened that he should be paying attention to.

It's still probably fifteen minutes later before he suddenly freezes in bed, eyes flying open to stare in shock at the open door. "Derek. Oh my god."

He can't find his underwear so he drags his comforter off the bed with him, draping the thick, heavy goosedown over his head and wrapping it around his body. He nearly trips over the duvet doing down the stairs, and it's cold and even more sunny down here, and he regrets ever leaving the bed almost immediately. But Derek.

Derek, who's standing and frowning down at the coffee pot as it gurgles and drips its way towards fullness, yesterday's five o'clock shadow verging into true beard territory. He's wearing Stiles' boxers and a bulky handknit monstrosity of a holiday sweater Stiles distinctly remembers being buried at the bottom of his closet. Even on Derek, the sleeves are bunched up at his elbows and the hem droops past his thighs.

"Hey," Stiles says, smiling helplessly.

Derek glances up, and an answering smile slowly spreads across his face. "Hey," he says, and opens his arms invitingly.

"That sweater's horrific," Stiles says, instead of how are you real, and steps up to him. Derek's arms loop around his waist, easy as anything, and Stiles is pulled in tight against the ugly sweater. Exactly where he wants to be, even if it is horrific. "Ugh, my eyes are watering."

"It was the only one that looked like it might fit," Derek says, nosing into the crease between Stiles' neck and shoulder. His beard tickles. "Didn't want to run into your dad in just my underwear."

"Probably should have grabbed your own boxers, then." Not that Stiles minds. They're deliciously tight on him. He leans in a little more, hands sneaking out of the comforter to slide over body-warm cotton and elastic, and a little under. Nothing's going to happen in his dad's kitchen, but a boy can dream.

Derek yips and twists, and that plus their combined weight makes him stumble back against the counter. "Hey!"

"Oh, really?" Stiles says, wiggling his fingers and feeling Derek twitch. "I seem to remember Danny getting a lot more handsy than this with that Halloween costume a couple weeks ago."

Derek sighs. "For the last time, it was a really difficult costume to get into, Stiles, he wasn't—"

"He made batcave innuendo for ten straight minutes. He literally asked if your batmobile was ready for action—while buckling your utility belt."

"I… wasn't he talking about the Camaro?"

Stiles raises his eyebrows. "Babe. No."

Derek raises his eyebrows right back, smoothing his hands up and down Stiles' duvet-covered back. "Babe?"

Stiles licks his lips. "Honey? Darling? Sweetie? Dear?"

"I was just getting used to dude," Derek says dryly, but his eyelids have shyly dipped and Stiles is delighted to see the beginnings of pink spreading across his nose.

"Dudebabe," Stiles says solemnly. "Like dudebro, but a hundred times better."

Derek makes a face. "Ugh, that's awful."

"Awful is watching you get hit on by every lonely soccer mom and redblooded gay man in this town, for years," Stiles says semi-seriously. "Even if you were completely oblivious." Derek's obliviousness was the only saving grace of the whole situation, really.

Derek stares at him. "Are you— do you have any idea how many people flirt with you a week? Everywhere we go, there are these weirdoes popping out of the woodwork, asking you out on 'study' dates or— for help with their stupid tumbling page—"

"What, Walt? He's a sweet kid, he wasn't—"

"He was," Derek growls, "he was breathing down your neck and you never noticed."

"Well, of course not!" Stiles protests. "I was already—"

"… you were already?" Derek prompts, softly, after Stiles bites back what he was going to say, hiding his suddenly hot face in the awful sweater.

"Already pretty gone on you," Stiles admits, mumbling the words. "I'm so freaking glad we figured it out. I was dying over here."

Derek's hand up comes to grip his neck, thumb stroking over his cheekbone. "Stiles. Look at me?"

Stiles really, really doesn't want to, but he makes himself lift his head and open his eyes.

"Oh, god, stop looking at me like that," he says reflexively, and Derek's almost unbearably tender expression melts just a little more. Stiles swallows, and doesn't look away.

He's rewarded with a soft, soft closed-mouthed kiss and Derek's hushed and reverent, "Love you too."