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“How do you feel?” Derek asks, voice rough and very close.
“Heavy,” Stiles finally answers. Because that’s what he feels. Like his bones are weighting him to the soft bed beneath him, like he’s an anchor sinking deep into silt and water. “Am I high?”
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Werewolves start sleeping in Stiles' bed, when Stiles is still in it, because that's what packs do. Weird, but it does give him nightmare-free sleep. And Derek seems to be dropping hints, maybe. Or maybe Stiles is just imagining that, since his Alpha-sized crush on Derek is getting out of hand. Or maybe not.
It is a unique and somewhat unhelpful talent, but Stiles can fall asleep anywhere.
Stiles isn't sure why all these werewolves think they have access to his bed. The explanation is just. Weird.
Stiles hasn’t slept in… a long time.  A long, long time.  He can’t actually remember the last time he slept peacefully through the entire night.  These days, if he sleeps long enough to wake up screaming and crying, tormented by the memories left to him by the nogitsune, he almost counts that as a win.
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The first time Stiles ended up in Derek’s bed was New Year’s Eve. He was seventeen, a little drunk, and he begged.
Stiles gets hit by a spell that makes him extra super duper cold. He needs constant heat to survive until someone finds a cure.
“I’ll bring it to the cleaner’s and give it back to you,” Stiles said, and then Derek didn’t see his jacket for three weeks and just assumed Stiles forgot all about it.
Only then he does bring it back and, well. It doesn’t smell like smoke anymore, that’s for sure. It holds a weeks-old sort of chemical scent, he assumes from wherever Stiles brought it to be cleaned, so faint Derek would hardly notice if he weren’t looking for it. Under that, a hint of Derek’s own scent. All overlaid with a whole lot of teenage boy. Like Stiles threw it on the ground and rolled around on top of it for a year or so.
Stiles keeps scent-marking Derek, and it’s going to drive Derek crazy.
