areiton:

There’s a lot of things about sleeping with Stiles that you expect, once you get past the whole unexpected part of sleeping with Stiles.

Because that in itself is unexpected. You don’t plan on that, had tucked the want for him so deep and dark, you thought you’d forgotten it–except that he came home from college and dragged it out of you with nothing but a smile and a hey, sourwolf.

You’re helpless against that smile, that happy scent pouring off of him.

Maybe that’s why you don’t expect it. Because you never expected to be the reason someone is happy, haven’t been that since before Laura died, since before your stupid choices got your whole family killed.

But there’s Stiles, right up in your space, eyes bright and scent happy and demanding everything you’ll give him, and you want to tell him, everything everything I’ll give you everything.

You want to whisper, just don’t let go. Don’t ever let go.

You don’t expect that, the deep rush of emotions, the want that tangles with need that reeks of love.

You fuck him and bury that deep and when he never does quite leave, you try not to let those emotions out because it’s sex, it’s sex and people have been using you for sex since you figured out what sex was, and sometimes it doesn’t even get people killed.

And this is Stiles who you trust against all fucking logic, so maybe–maybe you can have this and what he wants won’t hurt you and everyone around you.

You watch him sleep next to you and think, maybe.

But you expect a lot, sleeping with him.

You expect the flailing, the way he can’t ever be still.

You expect the nonsense murmur, the words he can’t quite quiet in his sleep.

You expect the the way he’s shameless in his pleasure, his voice high and pleading when you fuck him, the way he begs for more.

You expect him to hog the blankets, a selfish cuddle monster you’ve seen on your couch too many times to count.

You expect the crumbs in bed, and the stacks of books on your floor, and the lingering scent in your sheets.

You expect his teasing, the way he pokes at your eyebrows and calls you grumpy, his voice fond.

You expect the admiring stares, the casual compliments, the way he can’t get over your looks.

You expect all of that, because you’ve known him for years and loved him for just as long, a thing you slid into so slowly and effortlessly, you were already gone when you realized you were even in danger of falling.

And you think you’re stupid, because you know him, and you don’t expect this.

You don’t expect his failing to still, his body boneless and peaceful when you wrap him in your arms.

You don’t expect his quiet sigh in his sleep, pleased and longing and soft and sweet, and shaping your name.

You don’t expect the way he’s generous, careful to watch you, and brilliant, remembering exactly what will get you there, drive you mad with pleasure until you’re coming in him, spilling down his throat, whining as you stripe the bedsheets with your come.

You don’t expect the way he clings to you in his sleep, the blankets wrapped around you both, a fucking octopus that grumbles sleepily when you crawl from the bed, the way he stumbles out of bed to find you, curls in your lap and falls back asleep there, mouth slack and breath warm against your skin.

You don’t expect him to bring you breakfast in bed, to read to you while you fall asleep, to steal your clothes and wear your scent when he goes home.

You don’t expect the way he caresses you, his hands gentle and his voice awed, calls you precious and when he’s holding you, you almost believe it.

You never expect the quiet confidence, the way he believes in you, the way he tells you that you’re a good alpha, how he comes to you for advice and listens to you when you talk, like maybe you are more than just a slab of meat and a good fuck.

You don’t expect Stiles, and even as you fuck him, as you finger him open and fill him up, press yourself so deep in him that no one will ever be able to replace you, even as you let him twist your lives together so tightly they’ll never be separate, you don’t quite believe it.

Because this isn’t what you expected, when you slept with him.

It’s what you hoped for, what you didn’t let yourself dream you’d ever have–but it’s not what you expected.

So the morning he rolls to you, and kiss your shoulder, the sun streaming in behind him, bedsheets messy and hair sticking up in every direction–

When he peers up at you with a squinty eyed smile and says, voice rough and sleepy, Love you, Der, before he curls closer and falls asleep–

It feels expected. And like the most unexpected thing in the world.

Maybe that has always been true of this thing you have with him, because you know it’s always been true of Stiles.