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I'm Dead Asleep Dreamin'

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Derek is lying facedown in bed after what has possibly been the longest day of his life when he hears the bedroom door shut quietly.  He’s been napping for maybe a half hour, long enough that he’s dazed and loose but not so long that he’s actually well-rested.  He’s still just…tired.  As he nuzzles in against the pillow again, he hears Stiles putter around in the room, taking off his shoes, dropping his bag, and then reaching up to the ceiling fan to turn it a notch higher.

Even if school is back in session, it still feels like summer, and it’s a hot one.  Hence why Derek is lying against the cool sheets in nothing but his boxer briefs.

Even as Derek drifts off again he can hear Stiles taking off his clothes, throwing them in the hamper, and then he can feel the bed dip with Stiles’ weight, just to his right.

“Hey,” Stiles says softly, running his fingers through the hair at the nape of Derek’s neck.

Derek grunts.


Another grunt.

Stiles’ lips come down over Derek’s shoulder, his hand moving down to rub at his back, and that’s how Derek drifts off, content and sleepy.

When he wakes up again, Stiles’ mouth has progress to his tattoo.

“Stiles,” he slurs.

“Relax,” Stiles says.  He’s shifted his body now too, one knee of either side of Derek’s tiny waist, hands by Derek’s shoulders.  “I’m gonna make you feel good.”

“Stiles, I just wanna sleep.”

“Mhm.”  He licks over the tattoo again and slithers down, licking a line straight to the small of Derek’s back.  “You can sleep.  I—we talked about that.  If you want.  You can sleep.  Or—or we don’t have to, I mean, I don’t have to—”

“Stiles.”  Derek is too hazy, drifting back already, to really think, so he just says, “It’s okay.  You can.”  And then he’s unconscious again, muscles relaxed and legs spread.

Sleep is a kind of grey area to Derek, always has been.  He’s been unconscious enough times in his life without sleep being the cause that it’s always wavering between terrifying and freeing getting to collapse and drift off.  He still has nightmares sometimes. Not as much since he’s moved in with Stiles and not as much since he’s been getting older, but they happen, and they suck.  Sleeping is comfortable when he has Stiles there, a joint effort at times, and then…there are situations like this.

Stiles has said a million times how gorgeous Derek looks when he’s sleeping.  How his body is relaxed and pliant, how when he sleeps on his stomach his ass looks magical—not that it doesn’t always, but that’s not the point.  And they’ve tried somnophilia only twice before, and it’s never quite worked out.  Derek has hopes for it this time, though.

The first time, Derek had been snoozing on his back and Stiles had tried to ride him.  And while Derek easily got hard, it was too much for him to sleep through.  He was awoken and unable to go back to sleep, not that he really wanted to at that point, and even though the sex had been great, Stiles had been upset that they hadn’t completed their quest.  The second time, Derek found, was a little easier, but still unsuccessful.  Stiles had been the one sleeping, but it was on his back and Derek feared that if he tried to roll him over, it would rouse him.  So he’d settled for going down on him, only Stiles was too sensitive a sleeper and the blood rushing to his dick woke him up just in time to start fucking Derek’s mouth.  Again, good.  But not what they were looking for.

Derek’s read stories and watched the occasional video and it seems clear to him that it’s nearly impossible to stay asleep through the whole thing without some use of a sleeping aid.  He wouldn’t be against it, not if it was something Stiles wanted, but Derek is happy to wake up a few times and nod off again.  It makes him feel more involved, and it gives him a chance to check up on Stiles’ progress.

The next time he wakes, Stiles is sliding his underwear down and licking between his cheeks.  Stiles’ saliva that was left on his back has cooled, thanks to the ceiling fan, and Derek shudders slightly—both at the sensation of Stiles’ tongue and the chill.  Stiles’ hands hold on to either cheek as he nuzzles at Derek’s hole, flicking his tongue out to lick.  Rimming has always been a thing for Derek in a way it never was for Stiles.  They both enjoy it, but it’s so intimate, so intense, that it can make Derek come in minutes.  He always goes boneless, limp except where it counts, during it, and Stiles likes to abuse this knowledge.

He almost wants to stay awake that time, fuck down onto Stiles’ tongue, but the weight of the day presses down on him and he’s gone within the next minute, falling asleep to the rhythmic lapping of Stiles’ tongue inside of him.

It’s his own dick that wakes him up later, twitching and hard and trapped between his thigh and at the bed, aching to rise to the occasion but being held down by the mattress.  He lifts his body just for a moment so it can spring up and then settles down with a plop.  Already that is too much strain.  What the movement does, however—besides make him even more exhausted—is alert him to the presence of fingers inside of him.

He moans weakly, hugging the pillow tighter.

“Shh,” Stiles reprimands playfully, kissing the swell of Derek’s ass.  “You’ve been doing so well—go back to sleep.”

He does.

It’s almost like there’s a veil, just hanging between the two realms, conscious and unconscious, and Derek is floating in unconsciousness for a long time, but still able to somehow, distantly, feel the things in the conscious realm, feel the way Stiles touches him, but it isn’t until he’s already waking up that he becomes aware of this sensation.

This time, Stiles is inside of him.

“Fuck,” Derek croaks into his pillow.

Stiles doesn’t stop thrusting, slow and steady.  That’s how he always starts, slow and easy and working up to it.  Derek’s always thought it was a tease, payback for how many times Derek has held Stiles down and tortured him until he allowed him to come.  Of course Derek wouldn’t be able to sleep through the most agonizing part of this.

Stiles’ hand is on the back of his neck, heel of his palm on the center of Derek’s shoulders.  “Don’t—fuck, Derek.”  He wants to arch his hips, rub back against him to get more inside him, but he doesn’t.  He just lies there, focuses on his breathing, and it’s easy enough to fall back asleep when that’s all his body wants him to do.

Through that veil there are thumbs holding back muscle, Stiles’ thumbs and hands and fingers spreading Derek’s cheeks so that he can watch himself inside of Derek.  There are hands and lips and Stiles touching him and kissing him and fucking deeper inside of him, rolling his hips, stuttering and stopping when he gets a little tired—they’re all aspects of sex with Stiles, ones that Derek knows fairly well, and that makes him wonder if everything he’s actually feeling is real, or if he just made it all up in his dreamland so that he could convince himself he’s experiencing what’s happening to him.

It’s good, though, Derek decides, that he’s giving up control.  He’s done it before with Stiles, been the submissive Alpha under Stiles’ dutiful care, and it’s always good, always freeing.  But this is both of those things in a totally different way.

The next time he comes to, Stiles is shooting inside of him.  And Derek realizes for the first time Stiles didn’t even bother to grab a condom.  It doesn’t matter anymore—Stiles isn’t a kid, they’re not as young as they used to be, and they often don’t use condoms.  But the mess is still sometimes enough to send them both grabbing for one when they know they’re going to be too tired to really clean up.

Derek moans softly, rubbing his dick up against the sheets, but it’s fruitless.  He can already feel the weight of his head pulling him back under.




The lights are out and Stiles is curled up behind him when he wakes up next.  The clock on the bedside table tells him that it’s just past 3 in the morning.  His dick is resting quietly against his thigh and he still feels a little slick and strange inside but, for the most part, clean.  And Stiles’ arm is around his middle, his nose sticking pointedly in the back of his neck.

That’s the last time he wakes up that night, squirming down against the sheets and into Stiles, nearly asleep again when Stiles squirms back, his breath on Derek’s neck, his voice hushed as he says, “Love you.”

Derek drifts.  “Love you, too.”