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The first time it happens, Stiles is half-asleep and trying not to drip blood onto the rugs in his bathroom. It’s not his blood, probably, but with the way his clothes and the cold, clammy numbness are clinging to him, it’s impossible to tell. Although he’s very human, with an inconsistent and unreliable spark ability, Stiles still gets thrown into the fights sometimes. His training with Derek and Scott and Kira and Allison has been helping, sure, but this time Stiles only got in a few good hits with his baseball bat before Derek had shredded the enemy omega with his claws. Effective, both in killing the werewolf and saturating Stiles’ every fibre in blood.
Even though all Stiles wants to do shower and sleep, he forces himself to focus when his cheap apartment window opens with a creak. Loud footsteps hit the floor, and Stiles digs his fingernails into his palms. Even though his mind is fried and entirely drained, he manages to find a level of focus that feels like loud, buzzing static on his battered brain.
Derek is always silent when he comes in. Either he’s seriously off his game, or someone else is breaking in. Stiles has never been one to assume the best, even before he started nearly dying twice a month.
Slowly, silently, Stiles reaches under the sink for the hammer nestled next to the spare toilet paper. He’s gotten used to storing weapons anywhere and everywhere. If this thing is a supernatural threat, Stiles knows he has to maintain any advantage he has--including the element of surprise, hopefully. He slinks into the bathtub and tugs the shower curtain in front of him, keeping his eyes on the door and his hammer at the ready.
“Stiles?” Derek’s growly voice echoes from the bedroom, but Stiles fights back the instinct to relax. He tenses his muscles, getting ready to spring. Mimicking someone else’s voice is all too easy. “Fucking stupid,” maybe-Derek mutters, seemingly believing himself (itself?) to be all alone. “Shouldn’t have come, fuck, fuck.”
Maybe-Derek’s voice is rough, and he sounds stressed in a way that Stiles has never heard. Even as every inch of his brain urges him to remain hidden, Stiles slowly exits the bathroom and re-enters his bedroom with the hammer brandished in front of him. Maybe-Derek looks like Derek, although a very distressed version. His eyes are glowing blue and a shiny layer of perspiration clings to him. He’s standing in front of the window, his back to Stiles, with his shoulders hunched and head in his hands.
“What’s wrong?” Stiles asks, his muscles slowly relaxing.
“I don’t-” Derek stammers, keeping his front to the window. “I- I shouldn’t have come.” He sounds angry, borderline aggressive.
“You’re here,” Stiles replies simply, his patience thinning. He’s coated in blood that’s beginning to crust, he’s pretty sure his underarms are bruised, somehow, and Derek is apparently having some sort of breakdown. “Look, I seriously need a shower, alright? A change of clothes, at least .” Stiles grabs a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt from his drawers, pausing by Derek’s back. “Stay. I’ll be back in a minute, alright. Just… wait.” He’s met with silence in return, but Stiles figures that’s as good as a yes from Derek.
The shower that follows is possibly the most euphoric five minutes Stiles has ever experienced. By the time he’s done, his skin is a light pink. When he walks out of the shower, Stiles yelps in surprise. Derek is standing there in the middle of the slightly-bloodied bathroom. “Jesus Christ ,” Stiles hisses. “What are you doing ?”
Slowly, Derek blinks. “Sorry.” However, his eyes trace down Stiles’ body, and he takes a step forward abruptly. Stiles yelps in surprise, half from the sudden arousal that’s pooling in his stomach at the sight of Derek approaching him with that heat in his gaze. Stiles grabs his sweatpants and towels off as quickly as possible while maintaining coverage for his lower half. He yanks the pants on under his towel and tries not to notice the way Derek’s gaze keeps dancing between the floor and Stiles.
“What the hell is going on?” Stiles asks, carefully reaching out to grab Derek’s shoulders and hold him at arm’s length. The werewolf shudders at the touch, visibly melting. He catches himself after a minute, and Stiles watches him tense back up into almost-normal-Derek posture. His eyes, glowing vibrant blue, snap up to Stiles’ face.
“Fuck,” Derek mutters. “I shouldn’t have come.”
“Derek,” Stiles replies, squeezing the beta’s shoulders until he melts again. “What’s going on?”
“I’m in rut,” Derek spits out quickly. He takes a half-step back, as if to walk away, but loses the willpower before he can. Instead, he forces his gaze to the floor. The words that follow come rapidly and in a single breath. “The rival pack, they-- one of them smelled like heat. It triggered mine, and it’s stronger because of it and…” Derek trailed off, seeming to shrink under the weight of his confession.
In a strange new turn in his life, Stiles is relieved that his teen years included a few late night internet dives that ended in A/B/O fanfictions. Admittedly, the alpha, beta, and omega dynamics don’t really line up with reality at all, but apparently heats and ruts are real. At least doesn’t have to ask for any more clarification, because Derek might have combusted if he did. The werewolf is starting to turn dark red. His tousled appearance is suddenly making more sense, along with symptoms previously gone unnoticed. Stiles takes in the blown pupils, the flushed skin, the slightly heavy breathing.
Derek is hard, Stiles realizes abruptly. Even with the long-practiced instincts to avoid checking Derek out--excruciatingly formed to hide the massive crush Stiles has--it’s a miracle he hadn’t noticed earlier. Stiles is made heavily aware of just how much Derek is packing.
“What do you-” Stiles trips over his words, struggling to maintain eye contact. “What do you need?”
“Just-” Derek stammers. “My instincts. The wolf, it wants- um. Just…” He grabs Stiles’ shoulders and slowly tugs him closer, leaving more than enough room for him to pull away. The touch makes Stiles’ skin heat, working in tandem with the thought of the rut and the sight of Derek. When Derek merely presses his nose into Stiles’ neck, the teenager is almost disappointed. The immediate gasp and soft moan that Derek let out quickly resolve it, though. The werewolf growls, low and possessive, and he wraps Stiles in what’s eerily similar to an embrace.
“Oh,” Stiles murmurs. “Okay. Cuddles. I can do cuddles.”
“Please,” Derek whispers, so softly that Stiles isn’t sure if he’s imagining things. Gently, he leads the werewolf towards the bed. When they hit the edge of the mattress, they collapse under their shared weight. Stiles ends up half-under Derek while still remaining wrapped around his broader frame. Sometime between the floor and the bed, Derek starts lazily humping Stiles’ thigh and snuffling his neck.
“Der,” the 19-year-old mumbles. His mind is whirling, and struggling to decide whether or not he’s willing to let Derek rut against him. If he’s being entirely honest with himself, Stiles is more than okay with having the stupidly attractive werewolf, that he’s been lusting after for months, rub off against his leg. Watching said werewolf, however, with his blown pupils and foggy gaze, brings Derek’s consent into question. “Derek,” Stiles repeats, and he pokes Derek’s thigh.
“Fuck.” Derek gasps softly, and he yanks his hips back. “Sorry, sorry. Fuck . Hate this. Can’t control my fucking instincts,” he whines weakly, frustratedly, apologetically.
“Can you consent?” Stiles asks. He tilts his head absently, allowing more access to his neck. “Just- just to rub against my leg. Very clothed and-” he stutters when Derek lets out a lewd moan, “-and chaste.”
“It’s usually not this bad,” Derek groans. “I don’t know.” He buries his face in Stiles’ neck and lets out something that’s between a groan and a yell. His hips start inching closer, seemingly without his knowledge. “Can I?”
“Y- yeah,” Stiles stutters. He shudders, fighting back his responding hard-on. “Yes, okay, yes.”
Derek grinds against him until he comes with a stuttering mess of moaning and cursing. “Thank you,” he pants, nosing Stiles’ neck with a whimpery snuffle.
The second time Derek goes into rut, the pack is in the middle of a meeting, and Derek subtly slides away from the other werewolves. If Stiles hadn’t seen it before, he probably wouldn’t have even noticed. Even with their advanced senses, the betas and Scott don’t even spare him a glance. It’s strange, Stiles thinks, watching how naturally Derek slides far enough away that his pack won’t smell his building arousal.
Stiles wonders how many times Derek has gone into rut without anyone noticing. If the omega from the enemy pack hadn’t triggered a stronger rut, would anyone from the pack even know? Since the night that provided some of the best jerk-off material of Stiles’ life, he’s since figured out that only born werewolves experience ruts or heats. None of the other werewolves would ever know without Derek telling them; the thought of Derek living the rest of his life suffering alone through ruts makes Stiles’ chest hurt a bit.
As much as he wants to follow Derek over to the other side of the room, he knows that he’s too involved in pack meetings to sneak away without being noticed. Instead, Stiles wraps up as quickly as he can; he doesn’t bother waiting to interrupt when someone is wrong, and he hurries through his explanations and theories without the usual slow, unsure cadence. By the time they’ve figured out exactly why the ‘wolves have been smelling something “off” while on patrol, the pack is shooting mildly shocked glances at Stiles. Only Scott looks normal, long-used to Stiles being the smartest in the room.
“Were you that smart in high school?” Lydia asks bluntly.
“College has done me well,” Stiles replies with a shrug. In truth, he probably could have been this smart in high school if had the sleep he gets now. The gap year he spent researching anything and everything supernatural--spending hours poring through Derek’s dusty books and accidentally establishing a few surprisingly good inter-pack relations in his attempts to find more resources--probably helps too.
“Movie?” Isaac asks, and he melts into Derek’s stiff couch that came with the house as if someone had removed his spine.
Stiles glances over at Derek, only to find an empty space where the werewolf had once been. A look back at the pack confirms that they’re all already in the midst of a heated argument about movie choice, with Scott whining that he’s the alpha and shouldn’t have to watch The Notebook for the sixth time. Stiles sneaks away without issue, disappearing up the stairs towards where the bedrooms wait. Everyone in the pack has a room in Derek’s house, although most of them live in apartments near their respective colleges or workplaces since the house is just barely furnished. Stiles ducks into his room to grab the hoodie he left before he forgets it--not because he’s scared to face Derek. Definitely not.
Clutching the red sweater like a support blanket, he slowly makes his way around a corner until he reaches the werewolf’s master bedroom. Tentatively, Stiles raises his hand and clatters his knuckles against the wood. “Derek?” A low, rumbling noise comes in response, and Stiles steps a few feet back before the door is opened just wide enough to reveal glowing blue eyes and a dark sliver of the bare room. “Hi,” Stiles says, digging his nails into his hoodie. “Are you okay?” He instinctively moves closer, and Derek reels back like he’s been punched.
“Wait,” he growls, and Stiles watches through the tiny opening in the doorway as Derek curls into himself against the wall farthest away and pants. “Just… fuck .” He hisses sharply and slides down to the floor, burying his face in his hands. Stiles watches, nose scrunched in confusion, as Derek seems to cover his nose and huff like he’s been running for hours.
“What’s wrong?” Stiles asks, taking a half-step forward. Derek lets out a choked moan and squirms against the wall like he was electrocuted. Freezing, Stiles stumbles back until there’s a few feet of space between him and the door. “ Derek ?” His voice takes on a semi-frantic tone. “Why is this rut so intense?”
“Not… just-” Derek stammers. “Instincts, and the wolf-” A shudder rolls up his body. “Your smell,” he manages, before rolling into a tight ball against the corner. “From last rut. Still thinks… mate .” Stiles has to look away from the stupidly attractive werewolf in order to think. The conclusion to be drawn feels obvious, but Stiles still finds himself reeling at the mere thought of what he thinks Derek is suggesting.
“Your wolf thinks that I’m…” Stiles feels his mouth open and shut, even as no words come free. “It thinks that I’m… your… mate?” he spits out, voice increasing in both pitch and volume. “Because I was with you for your rut?” He can hear the hysteria in his tone.
“Yes,” Derek groans. “ Fuck .” He sounds pained, and Stiles finally darts his gaze back to the werewolf. It looks like Derek is fighting himself, both attempting to rush towards Stiles and holding himself back.
“Does the wolf want, like, to… mount… me,” Stiles curses internally and his voice cracks. “Fuck, I mean. Do you want just… like, what we did last time? Is that enough?” His words are shaky, and they keep pitching awkwardly.
“ Please ,” Derek groans immediately, as it was forced out before he could consider it. Following suit, Stiles stumbles into the bedroom as his legs move without his consent. As soon as he passes through the doorway and his scent infiltrates, Derek darts across the room and slams into Stiles. It probably should be alarming how quickly it makes the younger man’s lower stomach bubble with arousal, but Stiles has long since accepted that in a world of werewolves and magic, his sexual preferences are the least of his worries.
Derek buries his face against Stiles’ neck, gulping in heavy breaths like his life depends on it. “ Mine ,” he hisses, voice muffled in Stiles’ collarbones until the younger man isn’t sure if he heard it right.
“Yeah, Der,” he replies anyways. “Yeah, whatever you want.”
The third time around, Stiles and Derek are wandering around Ikea when Derek’s pupils start dilating and his gaze goes hazy. Slowly, lazily, the werewolf drifts closer to Stiles and hugs him from behind, chin on his shoulder. Still unaware of the building rut, Stiles rests his hand on Derek’s and tangles their fingers, their joined hands resting gently on his stomach. Even though any affection is out of the ordinary for them, Stiles’ attention is spread too thinly between twelve different thoughts and pieces of furniture to notice.
“Do you want a coffee table that opens up? Like, the top lifts if you want a higher table,” Stiles offers. He’s been standing and staring at a variety of coffee tables for far too long. Derek rumbles fondly against his neck. Finally, the strangeness of their position registers and Stiles leans to the left to try and look at the werewolf. “What’s happening right now?” he asks, even as he continues to stand with his back pressed against Derek’s chest, their hands linked.
There’s a pause, strangely reminiscent of the pause in childhood Sunday morning cartoons when Wile E. Coyote would freeze in the air before falling. Derek abruptly pulls four steps back and starts growling out an apology with his expression resignedly braced as if waiting for Stiles to hit him. “Wait,” Stiles interrupts, and he grabs Derek’s hand again before the ‘wolf can retreat any further. He looks Derek up and down, taking in the familiar signs of a rut. “Are you okay? Like, should we go home and… you know.” Cringing at the awkward wording, Stiles tries again. “Cuddle and dry hump- no. I should stop trying,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “We can buy stuff later. Home?”
“I’m okay right now,” Derek mutters, glancing at his feet and curling into himself even as his arm is extended to hold Stiles’. “Just… the wolf. It’s extra, um,” his voice drops to a near-whisper that Stiles has to struggle to hear, “affectionate. For now.” A red flush darkens Derek’s face down to his neck before disappearing into his shirt, and he turns his head awkwardly--an attempt at turning his back without releasing Stiles’ hand.
Stiles narrowly resists the urge to coo. Instead, he steps into Derek’s space and releases his hand in order to wrap both arms around one of the werewolf’s. “Okay. I can do affection. Let me know when we need to go home, okay?” Derek looks absolutely awestruck that anyone would be willing to hold his hand, and Stiles makes it his personal mission to shower Derek with as much affection as he can take.
“Okay,” Derek whispers out, sounding choked. He tentatively rests his free hand on Stiles’ and uses it to pull him into a hug, snuffling against his neck. Instantly, Stiles wraps his arms around Der’s waist. First, he focuses on hugging as tightly as possible and burying his face in the werewolf’s neck, just long enough to forget about the other people surrounding them. Next, Stiles loosens his embrace and instead rubs his palms over the muscles that frame Derek’s back. The sound that the werewolf responds with is almost a purr, and Stiles revels in it.
Adorable , he thinks, and just barely resists the urge to voice it aloud. Instead, he hugs Derek until passing shoppers begin to catcall and shout for them to “get a room!” Only one passing teenager mumbles something homophobic, and Derek flashes his teeth until the kid runs away with a yelp. Stiles hides his giggles in the werewolf’s shoulder.
Together, the pair links hands and weaves their arms together to walk through the store. Stiles picks out essentially every piece of furniture, along with the rugs and curtains and cutlery and whatever else he deems necessary for Derek’s house. The closest Derek gets to choosing something is when he eyes a fluffy blanket without the layer of hazy boredom and dazed fondness that he’s been wearing. Stiles was melting under the fond expression, but the vague interest is enough to make him bounce excitedly. He tries to convince Derek to buy twenty, one for each pack member with spares, and Derek tries to bargain him down to two. Eventually, after an increasingly heated argument that draws coos from a mix of older ladies and a few teenagers, Derek agrees to five--and Stiles sneaks four extra into their cart.
By the time they’re done, Derek’s hands are starting to slide towards Stiles’ ass and he’s listing towards the bed displays. The werewolf can barely focus on their furniture boxes long enough with his attempts to press his nose to Stiles’ neck. “Strong alpha taking care of me,” Stiles teases while Derek is lifting the boxes into the back of his Jeep.
The ‘wolf growls lowly, his eyes dropping until they’re half-lidded. He stares at Stiles with a look that makes the younger man’s stomach clench with warmth. “Don’t,” he groans. Stiles bites his lip alluringly and steps closer until he’s close enough that he can look up at Derek through his eyelashes. “ Stiles ,” the werewolf groans. “You’re driving me- driving the wolf insane .”
Stiles turns his gaze away and steps back, breathing slow enough to cool the warmth boiling in his stomach. “Use all your hot werewolf energy to hurry this up,” he whines, gesturing at the furniture boxes stacked in their cart. “Maybe we can take our shirts off this time. Second base, maybe?” Derek huffs loudly and lets out a quiet groan. “Fuck, that’s actually so hot. Thinking of second base with me is enough to get you hot and bothered?”
Derek mumbles a quiet “Shut up,” with no actual disagreement, and he packs the remaining furniture away with a reckless speed that already has Stiles wondering when they should schedule their return to replace whatever breaks.
Half an hour later, they make it to second base.
An hour later, Stiles comes in his jeans, and Derek moans into his neck loud enough to echo through the house.
The fourth time, Stiles is already in Derek’s house when the rut hits. He’s lying on the couch, book in hand and throw pillow resting on his stomach. Derek’s house, after a few days of light bickering and confusing construction manuals, looks fucking incredible, if Stiles does say so himself. Ever since, he’s been spending nearly all his free time there. It’s helpful, in that he doesn’t have to go for a drive every time he wants a new bestiary during research spells. Additionally, Stiles has noticed that his levels of stress and general mental health has improved vastly in the constant presence of people.
In the few weeks since Stiles emptied Derek’s wallet at Ikea, he’s already gotten much closer with Isaac and Boyd and Erica. As it turns out, being domestic with the betas that frequent the house most often does wonders for their pack bonding. Another benefit for the pack came in the form of Stiles drawing more people to the house; now that Scott had to run to Derek’s if he wanted to see Stiles, the decent friendship between the alpha werewolf and previous-alpha has improved vastly.
Last, and most important in Stiles’ opinion, somewhere along the way he and Derek have somehow turned into an old married couple--minus the sex and kisses. Well, sometimes they press chaste kisses to one another’s foreheads in passing--which is enough to make Stiles’ heart and stomach flutter with butterflies, but not near enough to satisfy the building sexual frustration. Another effect of nearly living in a house full of werewolves: Stiles hasn’t been able to jerk off in days . He’s beginning to worry about permanent shrinkage if he takes one more cold shower.
It all becomes worth it, though, when Derek drops onto the couch by his feet and pulls them onto his lap. “Hi,” Stiles greets, marking his page and carefully placing the bestiary on the coffee table. Absently, Derek rubs his feet with one hand and leans on Stiles’ thigh with the other arm. “How’s your day going?”
Derek hums sleepily and shifts around until he’s less so sitting up and more lying across Stiles’ legs, head propped up on the throw pillow on his stomach. Stiles buries his feet under the werewolf’s thighs. “Rut,” Derek murmurs softly, and he throws his arm over Stiles’ waist. It’s something that the younger man has noticed--Derek gets more affectionate in the calm phases of his rut. Before, in between, and after wild bouts of getting off, he’s languorous and soft . Stiles’ brain supplies the obvious sexual connotations, enough to make him smile at the double entendre.
He settles in more comfortably on the couch, carding his hands through Derek’s fluffy hair. “You want to nap?” Stiles asks softly, absently rubbing the spot behind Der’s ear that he knows to be particularly sensitive. The werewolf rumbles pleasantly, almost a purr, and nuzzles closer. After enough time together, Stiles has realized that although Derek can’t manage emotional confrontation in words, if given enough time he can show his emotions through action.
“I hated ruts before this, um, thing,” Derek mumbles, rolling abruptly to bury his face in Stiles’ tummy. The movement is stupidly adorable. “The first one came after…” He trails off, and Stiles rest a comforting hand on the back of his neck. After the Hale family house fire. After Derek lost almost his entire family in one night. After his baby sisters and brother died because Kate manipulated him. “I was miserable and angry and scared and so guilty I couldn’t breathe , and suddenly it was like. Like my body was betraying me. It felt like I was betraying their memory by-” Derek growls lowly under his breath. “By fucking my hand while they were dead . Too dead and burnt to even have a body to bury.” He chokes out a gasping sob against Stiles’ stomach and grips his hips tightly.
It takes everything Stiles has not to tell Derek all the reasons that he shouldn’t feel guilty. Stiles knows it won’t help--knows that nothing helped his own irrational guilt after his mom died except for someone to just be there--but it’s so fucking hard. It physically hurts to know how much Derek suffered, how much he’s still suffering. Stiles wants to apologize for every mean quip he’s ever made, every time he agreed with and watched the betas blame Derek for ruining their lives, when Stiles knows that the once-alpha only wanted to help. Only wanted to carve out a family to try and fill the gaping hole left behind by his own.
“I slept with people I didn’t care about and spent the rest of the rut hating myself until I was tempted to see how much blood I could lose before my healing stopped working.”
Stiles wraps his arms around Derek and tugs him closer until they can embrace properly. “I’m so glad you’re still here,” he murmurs. “I’m so fucking thankful to know you, Derek.”
“The wolf has never liked anyone the way it likes you,” Derek says softly. “I lo- it loves you.”
The fifth time Derek’s rut comes around, Stiles is six hours away. He’s visiting a nearby pack to renew their peace agreement, something that pack politics dictate should be handled by the alpha’s second. Scott or Boyd had been Derek’s, but Stiles is Scott’s. He may be human, he may be an admittedly weak spark and slightly above average with physical combat, but the second is meant to be the alpha’s most trusted pack member. Derek, a born and raised ‘wolf, chose his second based on his trust in the person to be able to hold their own in a fight. It’s an unspoken agreement, however, that Stiles is the co-alpha no matter who’s in charge.
Thus, when Derek hides away in his bedroom behind the scent- and sound-proofed walls and refuses to speak to anyone, the pack only waits half an hour before calling Stiles. “Derek is freaking out,” Erica announces, and she’s feigning annoyance but Stiles can hear the worry in her tone. No matter what the pack has been through, they all still love Derek. She relays the situation, with other voices chiming in from the background. Scott keeps making frustrated whining sounds. “What do we do?”
“When are you coming home?” Isaac yells from somewhere in the background. He’s making no attempts to disguise how overwhelmed he is by his past-alpha acting strange, his current-alpha being at a complete loss for what to do, and Stiles being miles away.
“I’ve signed all the necessary documents,” Stiles replies, rolling over nervously in his hotel bed. He knows what’s going on with Derek, and it kills him to be away. “I’m supposed to stay the night to show trust and strengthen the bond between our territories.” The pack groans and it crackles over the phone, in sync with Stiles imagining a distraught, horny Derek alone in bed. “I can tell them there’s an emergency,” he offers. “Scott, you have to call and sound very strong and able. I can say there’s an emergency in need of the spark, since being the second and the spark is mostly unheard of. You have to show that our alpha is strong, though.” Werewolf politics are stupidly complicated, but enough casual chatter with Derek has turned Stiles into something of an expert.
“Okay.” Scott breathes out loudly. “Okay. Go talk to them and then call me.”
Stiles agrees and hangs up, already scrambling around the hotel room and cramming his things back into the new suitcase that Derek bought after catching sight of Stiles’ old, ratty, blue bag, held together by duct tape. Once all his possessions are packed away, Stiles yanks his hoodie on and heads for the door. He calls a car, since he elected to take a flight here rather than drive. Since werewolves generally prefer to remain on land, the choice had earned him a lot of worry from Derek before he left. At the last minute, Stiles texts Scott to tell Derek he’s coming home without mentioning the flight.
The car takes a painfully long time to arrive, and Stiles practically throws himself into the backseat and rattles off an address. He calls the pack that he’s visiting and gives them a condensed version of what’s going on. “My alpha will call to speak with you,” he says, glancing up at his driver to wonder what she’s thinking of him. “I can be there in a few minutes, if you agree.” The alpha gives her consent to his arrival and Scott’s call, and Stiles finally feels his shoulders begin to relax. Scott may have thought that the sun revolved around the earth until eighth grade, but Stiles knows that he’s a good alpha.
When he arrives the pack’s house--a sprawling mansion that still can’t rival the acres of woods that the McCall pack has--Stiles barely resists the urge to run inside. He texts Scott quickly, letting him know that the phone call is incoming soon, and knocks on the door. Two betas answer together, and Stiles offers them an easy grin. “You’re leaving?” the taller one prompts.
“Yes, I apologize. I don’t mean any disrespect, but a situation has come up at home and my pack needs their spark.” The formal tone feels strange in his mouth, and Stiles is relieved when they reach a private office. One of the betas knocks, and their alpha opens the door.
“Stiles,” she greets kindly. “Come in. Put me on the phone with your alpha, and you can sit while I speak with him. Yes?” Stiles nods, and walks into the office. Watching the alpha shut the door feels foreign to him; most other packs put more importance on the power structure. He dials Scott’s number and hands his phone to the alpha, before taking the offered seat. As he listens to one side of the conversation, Stiles begins to relax more and more. He’s already booked an early flight, his car is waiting outside to get him to the airport, and--Stiles lets out a sigh of frustrated relief. The phone call sounds like it’s wrapping up.
It takes every ounce of patience and pack diplomacy that he possesses to calmly bid his goodbyes to the whole pack before he leaves. Once back in the car, Stiles is too preoccupied with thoughts of Derek, burning with instincts and feeling miserable and alone, to notice just how much the wait racked up his bill for the ride. He drags his suitcase into his lap in preparation to leave the car as quick as possible, even though the airport is twenty minutes away.
“Hurry please,” he begs the driver. Stiles needs to get to Derek.
-
Derek needs Stiles, desperately.
He’s only been in rut for a few hours and the pack told him that Stiles is coming home, but Derek has never been the most patient person. Already, he can feel an urge itching at his skin insistently. Derek knows he shouldn’t, he knows . Stiles isn’t his mate, Stiles isn’t a werewolf, and Derek should not be doing this .
Still, he finds himself collecting blankets and pillows until his arms are full. One glance at the bed confirms that even the California king size won’t be large enough for everything to fit. Derek chooses a wide open spot on the floor that allows for what he wants. He stacks the blankets and pillows until they form an adequate nest--subconsciously, he notices that it’s large enough to fit both him and Stiles. The deep-seated ache and desire to have his mate--no. The deep-seated ache and desire to have Stiles is dulled by the soothing action of nesting.
It’s instinct for any werewolf, though especially strong for born ‘wolves. To provide for the mate, for a goddamn baby. Derek hates it, hated the stupid urge even before--before. He hasn’t given into it since he was living with his whole family, and Laura and Cora had made fun of him for months after.
After he’s adjusted every pillow and blanket to perfection, Derek rests his hands on his hips and stares at it thoughtfully. Lost in a happy haze of nesting, it only feels natural to reach for Stiles’ clothes that somehow migrated into his laundry basket. He spreads them evenly throughout the nest, filling the space with Stiles’ scent. Immediately, Derek can tell that it’s not enough to replace the real thing. Nests are meant to be shared with mates .
He looks thoughtfully at the door, considering the endless supply of Stiles’ clothes waiting in the room just down the hall. Some part of his brain knows that the other pack members are lingering in said hallway, wondering what the hell is wrong with him and wishing Stiles was home--Derek gets it. Distantly, behind a fog of lazy arousal and loneliness and thoughts of StilesStilesMateStiles , Derek gets it. He knows that wandering into the rest of the house to grab supplies for his nest from Stiles’ room will only confuse them more. He knows that, when he’s clear-headed and normal, he’ll regret it.
Abruptly, Derek finds himself with his hand on the door handle. He watches as he turns it and steps outside, only to be met with the rowdy chatter of his pack. With a single minded focus only reinforced by the emptiness in his chest when he can no longer smell Stiles, Derek brushes past the concerned questions. He pushes into Stiles’ room, with the pack following him closely and speaking over each other.
Quietly, calmly, Derek empties Stiles’ closet and laundry basket into his arms. He strips the bed and piles blankets around his shoulders until he can hold the pillows on top of the clothes. “Derek!” Erica snaps, her voice high and frantic. “What the hell is going on?”
Derek pauses, and a part of his brain yells at him to explain. The rational, leftover alpha instincts tell him to say something, anything, to ease their building panic. Still, Derek can only manage to drown himself in the scent of Stiles . He gently pushes past the pack and back towards his room, dragging everything with him until it clears the doorway. He closes the door on his pack’s concerned faces and works on constructing a nest worthy of the best mate in the universe.
-
When Stiles finally gets home, he sprints up the front walk and drops his bags on the lawn. He runs into the front door in his haste, fingers shaking as he punches in the lock code and flies inside. His sneakers pound against the floors and he barely manages a “Hi, it’ll be fine, don’t worry,” as he passes the pack.
Stiles tries to open Derek’s door, already trying to run in when he turns the handle and it doesn’t turn. He collides with the door, his nose hitting the wood hard enough to make him yelp. “Derek!” he yells, voice already squeaky from the blood rapidly filling his nose.
The door flings open and Derek drags him in like a frog snatching up a fly, slamming it in the pack’s faces once again. “Hi,” Stiles says, face flush from both excitement and his nosebleed. “Missed you. You can- you can fuck me, if you want. I just- I feel like it’s right, right? We should fix this nosebleed first, though.” Derek sticks one hand down the back of Stiles’ sweatpants, groping his ass and mouthing at his neck. “Oh,” Stiles breathes. “Yes, Der, oh fuck.”
After a few minutes, the nosebleed comment seems to register. Derek looks up, and suddenly his low-lidded, aroused expression transforms into one of worry and what could almost be soft fondness. He gasps nervously and rushes Stiles over to a pile of bedding and--are those Stiles’ clothes? Stiles lets Derek push him into the… floor bed? The nest? Whatever it’s called, it’s surprisingly comfortable when he sits down and Derek clambers onto his lap with a box of Kleenex. “Tilt your head forward,” the werewolf orders, and he presses a tissue to Stiles’ nose. With the other hand, Derek drains his minimal pain. “It’s not broken, right? It doesn’t feel broken.”
“It’s okay,” Stiles confirms, looking up at Derek with wide, fond eyes. He’s so relieved to see the werewolf that he feels almost giddy, even with blood dripping from his face. “It just has to stop bleeding and then we can- we can fuck, if you want. Only if you want to.” It feels right , for reasons Stiles can’t quite explain. Even if he knows he’ll regret it, after Derek is level-headed and can’t even pretend to have feelings for Stiles. Even though Stiles knows that he’s falling for Derek. He didn’t just spend the past three hours doing everything he could to get here, only to lie fully clothed next to Derek--not if the werewolf wants more.
“Yeah, yes,” Derek agrees, dropping his head to rest on Stiles’ shoulder. He sighs loudly, and mouths at the collarbone. “Don’t talk about it until your nose is good,” he orders, but the tone makes it sound almost like a plead.
“You’re cute,” Stiles murmurs suddenly. The comment doesn’t quite have the same effect when his voice is nasally and muffled by tissue, but he still watches as a blush spreads across Derek’s cheeks.
“Shut up,” the beta mumbles.
“Look! You made this nest and you’re taking care of my nose. It’s all very cute, Der. I love the nest, by the way. Thank you.” Carefully, Stiles guides the tissues away and carefully touches around his nose to see if there’s any more blood. Upon finding it clean, Stiles presses a hand to Derek’s jaw and guides their faces close together. “Hi, cutie.”
Derek flushes bright red and wraps his arms around Stiles’ middle. “Hi,” he says softly. They kiss, slow and sweet, almost like lovers. Like mates. When they sleep together, it’s not the quick, hot and dirty fuck that Stiles expected. It’s slow, with Derek checking that Stiles is okay and petting his hair and scent-marking him.
When they finish, together, Stiles almost says “I love you.”
Unbeknownst to him, Derek almost does too.
A few hours later, Stiles wakes up with Derek’s head under his chin and their bodies tangled around one another. The ghost of a confession dances on his lips, making itself known through the urge to fondly kiss Derek awake--as if they’re lovers. As if Stiles is wanted by Derek himself, not just the wolf.
It’s alarming how quickly tears find their way onto Stiles’ cheeks. He scrambles out of the nest and into the bathroom before his teary, miserable scent can wake Derek. Once he’s separated from the slumbering werewolf, Stiles allows himself a minute or two to hunch over the counter and watch the tears flow into the sink. It’s an awful, resigned type of cry, the kind with fewer sobs and more weary anguish working its way through Stiles’ body. He swore he was done falling in unrequited love after Lydia; crushes, sure. Infatuation, even, is something he can handle--so long as it didn’t bloom into something bigger, scarier, the way it had for Lydia.
This, though. This isn’t drooling over Derek’s abs or watching his ass as he walks away. Stiles wants a life with Derek. Morning kisses and sleepy cuddles at night, the whispered I love you ’s and learning everything about each other. Stiles wants more than the easy friendship they’ve developed and the shared ruts when Derek’s wolf can’t stand to be apart.
It’s easy to forget how much it hurts to be in love without reciprocation, and Stiles hates it. Mere hours ago he was lain out beneath Derek, legs around the older man’s waist while they kissed and Derek’s hips thrusted as if it was second-nature. Mere hours ago, Stiles came with a delighted moan and a barely stifled “I lov-.” If Stiles’ heart wasn’t so insistent and catching feelings in the wrong places, Stiles could be doing that again and again. He and Derek could fuck whenever the rut rolled around, share cuddles, and part as bros when it was all over.
“Fuck,” Stiles whispers. He has to end this; he knows he does, knows that continuing is unfair to Derek and bound to only cause more pain for himself. Stiles knows , but it doesn’t change how fucking much it’s going to hurt. He won’t ever get cuddles again, won’t get to see Derek’s bliss face when someone scratches just right behind his ears, won’t get to sleep in Derek’s nests. “Fuck,” sums it all up fairly well in Stiles’ opinion.
He knocks his head repeatedly against the wall and curses under his breath. Stiles isn’t sure how long he continues like that, but by the time Derek knocks on the door Stiles’ forehead is beginning to go numb. “Yeah,” he calls, pressing a palm across the sore skin. “Sorry, one sec.”
It hurts how cute Derek looks when he opens the door. Blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a cape and Stiles’ hoodie clutched to his chest, Derek looks like a dream. “Are you okay?” the werewolf asks, reaching for what must be a growing red mark on Stiles’ face.
“I- no,” Stiles admits. “I can’t do this anymore. You- you can have my clothes or whatever for your next rut, until the wolf is back to normal, but. I just- I can’t. I’m sorry.”
He thought that saying it quickly would lessen the pain, like ripping off a bandaid. Instead, Stiles feels like he just tore his chest open. Derek’s expression looks awful; his slight flush from the warmth of the nest has gone white, skin looking pale and gaunt. He suddenly looks ten years older, yet his eyes betray the hurt of someone young. Worse still, his lower lip is quivering and his mouth is half-open in shock. Stiles can’t be sure, but those pretty grey-blue-green eyes look watery. “What?” Derek mutters, voice soft and broken.
“I-” Stiles stutters. This… does not look like someone who just lost their somewhat-fuck buddy. “It’s- it’s just your instincts, right? Like, that’s the only reason you… hung out. With me.” He stumbles over the wording, head beginning to ache. “Just… wean the wolf off of my scent, or whatever, and. And you’ll be fine.”
“But-” Derek stutters. “That’s not… the wolf thinks you’re my mate. It won’t just…” he trails off and rubs a hand down his face. He changes tack abruptly. “You don’t want to do this anymore.”
“God, I want to,” Stiles says, the words falling free before he can contain them.
“Then why are you ending it?” Derek asks, voice weak and frustrated and desperate. He keeps stepping back and swaying forward, as if he wants to run away but can’t let the argument go.
“Because I love you, okay?” Stiles finally snaps, grabbing the edges of the doorway as he instinctually leans closer to Derek. “I can’t just be your rut-buddy anymore. I’m sorry. I didn’t- I don’t want to ruin this friendship because I can’t control my feelings-”
Derek growls, but it’s whimpery and upset. Stiles suddenly remembers that he’s still in rut; all the wolf probably wants is cuddles and affection right now, and Stiles is trying to end things. Fuck, he didn’t realize he could feel any worse.
“But I love you too!” Derek yelps, and Stiles’ whole world is thrown sideways.
“ What ?”
“The wolf wants you to be my mate, Stiles! I want you to be my mate.” Derek flushes red. He stares down at his fingers, suddenly looking smaller than ever.
“You- really?” Stiles’ heart can’t take this much turmoil. He feels like his chest has been pumped full of air, leaving him floaty and off-balance.
“Yeah,” Derek mumbles. “Please don’t leave me.”
Stiles wraps him in a hug and doesn’t let go.
The sixth time, and every time after that, Stiles and Derek climax together with panted I love you ’s.