Pillow forts and blow jobs and cold hands for Renqa. I love you, bby. I hope your day gets better.
Derek comes home to find a blanket fort in the middle of the living room. It’s well built, walls fortified with couch cushions, canopied with the spare sheets from the hallway closet. It’s a good fort, one of the best he’s seen, and he’s seen quite a few lately. He can hear the faint sounds of what sounds like Battlestar Galactica coming from within. The whole structure radiates tension. Derek stands still for a long moment, watching the blankets, and then he goes into the bedroom. He takes a long shower, washing the grime of the construction site off, and changes into a t-shirt and sweatpants.
The air is cold when he steps into the living room; their furnace has been running at half power and they’re waiting on the landlord to come fix it. Derek eyes the tent for another long moment before getting to his knees, lifting a sheet, and crawling inside.
Stiles is inside, curled on his side, cocooned in the eiderdown from their bed, watching tv on his laptop. He doesn’t look at Derek; he’s concentrating a little too hard on the computer screen, but Derek knows it’s not him Stiles is mad at by the way Stiles shifts over, leaving a space between his back and the front of the couch. Derek slides into it, worming his way into the bundle of blankets with Stiles, draping a heavy across over his stomach. He watches what he can see of Stiles’ face for a moment and calculates it to be another hour or two before Stiles is ready to talk. Derek presses his forehead to the smooth stretch of skin between Stiles’ shoulder blades and goes to sleep instead.