Work Text:
Derek’s morning was going great.
Fantastic, even. He’d just poured himself a cup of coffee—black, like his soul, as Stiles always said—and was leaning against the counter, watching his betas argue about something that had started as “pack training strategies” and devolved into “who would longest on a desert island.” (The answer was Lydia)
It was peaceful.
Then, of course, Stiles happened.
“Okay, before anyone says anything,” Stiles said, stepping into the loft kitchen, “I didn’t ask for a rogue sprinkler system to attack me. It just happened. And, to be clear, I am a victim here.”
Derek sighed, turning to look at the younger man, who was sporting a pair of sweatpants that hung dangerously low on his hips, and a Henley.
The sweatpants were black.
The Henley was grey.
Both pieces of clothing were Dereks.
The moment Stiles had stepped into the kitchen, the entire pack froze. Scott, Isaac, Malia, Lydia, and even Boyd paused what they were doing, eyes immediately locking onto the shirt. The fact that Stiles was wearing it, walking around in Derek’s clothes, made the whole pack aware of one simple thing.
Derek was struggling.
And Derek—who had been mid-sip of coffee—forgot how to swallow.
The mug slammed onto the counter a beat too late. “Why are you—?”
“Your wardrobe was, like, open, dude,” Stiles explained, as though this was the most logical thing in the world, “and I figured, you know, better than hypothermia.” He gestured to himself with both hands. “Ta-da. I have no dignity left, but I am warm.”
Warm.
Derek’s claws itched beneath his skin. His wolf twitched.
Because his mate was standing there in his shirt, smelling like him—like pack and pine and Dereks goddamn fabric conditioner—and the wolf inside him was clawing for release, whispering mine mine mine like a low, endless hum in the back of his mind.
Derek was so glad that Erica was out right now. Because she would have no qualms about ripping into Derek about this.
Stiles rubbed at his hair with a towel. Derek’s stomach did a thing that felt wrong, or maybe it was too right. “This thing is comfy as hell, by the way. Like, I get it now. The Henley obsession? This is a lifestyle.”
Derek didn’t answer. He couldn’t.
He was too busy trying not to lose control. Trying to wrestle his wolf into submission while also not jumping across the kitchen island and licking Stiles’ neck like a goddamn lunatic.
Because it wasn’t just the shirt. It wasn’t just the pants. It was the way Stiles smelled right. Like home. Like Derek. Like everything the wolf in him had ever wanted.
He looked perfect.
He smelled right.
And Stiles had no idea.
No idea what it meant for a werewolf to see their mate in their clothes. No idea how hard Derek was fighting not to press Stiles against the nearest surface and snarl mine into his throat like a fucking psychopath.
Derek had known for a while now that Stiles was his mate. The moment had come out of nowhere but had been so obvious at the same time. Stiles had been hurt (yet again) on a stakeout, and Dereks life had flashed before his eyes, watching Stiles’ limp body, bloody and unconscious on the dirt ground in the preserve.
It was the longest second of his life, focusing all of his senses onto the boy, making sure there was still a heartbeat. Still life inside of him.
And now here they were. Stiles was alive, warm, wrapped in Derek’s scent like a gift, and Derek himself vibrating with the effort it took to not pin his mate to the counter and make his intentions very, very clear.
Instead, he cleared his throat and muttered, “You’re dripping on the floor.”
Stiles blinked. “Oh. Right. Your floor. Sorry. I’ll—uh—towel that. Or something.”
Derek stared as Stiles turned around, giving him a view that definitely wasn’t helping. He absolutely did not watch the way the Henley rode up his back. He definitely did not note the bare strip of skin that appeared, that made Derek want to taste it. The fabric that pulled tight against his ass. That would be inappropriate. Uncool. Dangerous.
Fantastic. Morning ruined.
Derek clenched his jaw, taking everything in his power to just not blurt it out. Because he hadn’t told him. Because Stiles deserved to choose. To live his human life without some supernatural tether dictating his feelings. Without pressure or expectation. Without the weight of this.
Derek didn’t have a choice. He didn’t want a choice. But Stiles still had a choice.
So Derek had kept it to himself.
Even when it hurt.
Even when it burned.
Even when Stiles had come to the pack movie night smelling like a stranger, and it had taken everything in Derek to keep his control. To not claim. To not take what was his and make him smell right. Like Dereks.
And now Stiles was in his shirt, casually humming to himself as he mopped the floor, and Derek could barely breathe.
“You’re wearing my shirt.” Was apparently all that Derek could say without blurting everything else out.
“Yeah, I just explained that. Are you worried I’m gonna stretch it out or something? Because like, I know you’re into your sarcasm, Derek, but that’s just rude.”
“No.” Derek ground out. “That’s not it.”
“Okay,” Stiles said, peering at him, “then why are you looking at me like that? Did I break something? Did I offend the sacred morning coffee ritual? Is this really about the shirt? Because if so, I’m sorry. Well, not really. But I’ll wash it. I’ll wash the pants too. I’ll even dry-clean them if you’re fancy like that.”
“No.” Derek snapped. The words were too sharp, too jagged, like he’d bitten his tongue just to keep himself from biting.
Stiles blinked. “No?”
“Don’t wash them.”
“Dude…” Stiles said slowly like he was taming a feral werewolf. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Derek muttered, but the words came out a little too quickly. A little too rough.
The pack—all of them—were still watching him, like he was some kind of live bomb, and maybe he was, because every time Stiles moved, every time he adjusted the hem of that goddamn Henley, Derek could feel his self-control peeling back like old paint.
The scent of Stiles—of Derek on him—was thick in the air. Familiar. Comforting. Mine.
Control, Derek reminded himself. You have to control it. But the wolf inside him was relentless, wild-eyed and restless, pacing just under the surface. Let me have him. Let me claim. Let me mark.
The moment Stiles plopped down on the couch—still humming to himself, still completely oblivious to what he was doing—Derek’s attention zeroed in. Everything else in the room blurred. His eyes tracked the lazy shift of soft cotton across Stiles’s chest, the way the sleeves pushed up his forearms, the exposed triangle of skin at his throat.
The scent of Stiles, tangled up with Derek’s own, was practically singing to his wolf. Sweet. Sharp. Right.
A low growl rumbled in Derek’s chest before he could stop it. He swallowed hard, throat suddenly dry.
He wanted—needed—to pull Stiles into his lap, bury his face in his neck, and scent every inch of him until there was no mistaking the truth. Until the whole goddamn world knew.
But instead, Derek’s jaw clenched so hard it ached. He forced his eyes away—away from Stiles, away from temptation—and locked his gaze on the kitchen counter. A napkin holder. The uneven edge of a wooden shelf. Anything but him.
Still, it wasn’t enough. The second Stiles laughed at something Malia said, Derek’s focus snapped right back like a rubber band. The sound wrapped around his chest, pulled something taut inside of him until it burned.
His fists clenched at his sides, fingers curling tight, nails biting into his palms. The space between them was minuscule, but it felt like miles. Miles of tension and restraint and ache.
Derek had never been so aware of wanting. Not like this. This raw, gut-deep, gnawing need that hollowed out his chest and filled the empty spaces with a bone-deep ache.
He could feel it—the bond. Subtle, steady, always there. It tugged at him, constant and quiet.
And Stiles. Was. Oblivious.
“Stop staring,” Isaac muttered beside him, leaning in with a grin that was a little too smug for Derek’s liking. It’s fine. He’d put him in his place during the next training session.
Derek didn’t respond, didn’t even look away at first. But eventually, with monumental effort, he dragged his eyes toward the far wall. There was a smudge on the brick.
Stiles shifted again.
The shirt lifted just slightly.
Derek’s wolf growled.
Mine.
He didn’t realize he’d taken a step forward until someone—probably Lydia—made a noise of warning.
The only thing that stopped him from closing the distance completely was the sharp pull of restraint in his gut, like a leash on his control. His entire body was vibrating now, fists clenched, jaw locked, breath shallow.
And then—
“Derek?” Stiles said, voice bright, unaware, like he hadn’t just tilted the axis of Derek’s entire world. “You good?”
Derek blinked. Slowly. Turned to face him. Stiles cocked his head, shifting as if to stand.
His heart slammed against his ribs. His wolf surged up, licking at his skin, at his throat. Wanting out. Wanting him.
“Don’t—” Derek’s voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. “Don’t move.”
Stiles frowned. “Uh. Okay?”
But Derek wasn’t looking at his face anymore. He was staring at the way the shirt clung to his chest, at the soft dip of his collarbone, at the patch of exposed skin that Derek suddenly needed to scent, to taste, to own.
And then Boyd, of all people, took a step toward the couch—to pass Stiles a throw pillow or something equally stupid—and Derek snapped.
His eye twitched.
“No one touch him,” Derek growled, low and lethal.
The entire room stilled.
Scott blinked. Malia tilted her head. Lydia’s eyebrows rose in delight.
Stiles just gawked. “Wait. What?”
Derek didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
His wolf was too close to the surface now, too loud, too wild.
“Everyone out.” Derek growled, eyes narrowing as Stiles started to move. “Not you.”
The silence after Derek’s command was deafening.
No one moved. No one breathed.
Then Scott, of all people, cleared his throat. “Uh. Should we—?”
“OUT.” Derek’s voice was a snarl now, barely human, rumbling from somewhere deep in his chest.
The pack scattered like mice. Isaac actually tripped over the couch trying to escape, Malia shoving Scott into a wall in her haste. The door slammed shut behind the last of them.
“Oh… kay,” Stiles said again, voice pitching higher. “So. You’re… vibrating. And doing that intense serial killer stare. Which is new. And weirdly hot? But mostly terrifying.”
Derek didn’t respond.
He stalked forward.
Stiles scrambled away from the couch like it had caught fire. “Okay, hang on. Let’s talk about this. Words first, then whatever… murder-y thing you’re doing with your eyebrows.”
“You’re wearing my shirt,” Derek growled, as if it was both an accusation and a confession.
“I explained the sprinkler thing!”
“You smell like me.”
“Well, yeah, that’s kinda how shirts work, big guy. They’re like… fabric transfer devices. For scent.” Stiles was backing up now, hands up, bumping into the kitchen island. “I’ll wash it. I’ll burn it. I’ll—”
“Don’t,” Derek growled, moving closer. “Don’t wash it. Don’t burn it. Don’t you dare.”
Stiles paused. Blinked. “Okay. Seriously. Derek. You’re kind of… freaking me out. Are you having, like, a werewolf breakdown? Do I need to call Deaton? Do you need a chew toy? A calming walk? Belly rub?”
Derek stopped.
Closed his eyes.
Breathed in.
Fuck it.
“You’re my mate,” he blurted.
Stiles froze. “I’m your—wait, what.”
Derek opened one eye. Then the other. He looked like he regretted everything he’d ever said in his life, starting with the first word he ever muttered.
“I said you’re my—”
“No, no, I heard it. Just… need a sec.” Stiles held up a finger, then spun in a circle like he was buffering. “Okay. Okay. So. You’re telling me that all this time you’ve been—what— into me? While I’ve been over here wanting you to bend me over any and every surface, and —fuck—there’s no way you haven’t smelt my arousal. Dude. You should’ve said something!”
“I was trying to be respectful,” Derek muttered. “To give you a choice.”
“Respectful?” Stiles squawked. “What about respecting my choice to decide whether I wanted this, knowing it’s actually on the table?”
Derek’s shoulders tensed. “I didn’t want to trap you. You’re human, Stiles. This world already pulls you in a dozen directions you didn’t ask for—hunters, banshees, druids. I didn’t want to be another supernatural anchor around your neck.”
Stiles scoffed, incredulous. “Are you serious right now? Derek, I’ve faced down kanimas and alphas and a freaking nogitsune. You think you are the part that overwhelms me?”
“You didn’t know what it meant,” Derek said quietly, jaw clenched. “Not really. Not the instinct, or the bond, or how it feels to—” He cut himself off, but his voice was low and rough when he added, “To want someone so much it hurts.”
Stiles stared at him. “Yeah, no kidding. Welcome to my entire teenage existence.”
Derek flinched, but Stiles pressed on, voice tight. “Do you have any idea how many nights I spent overthinking every look you gave me? Every second of eye contact? Wondering if it meant something or if I was just some stupid kid with a crush?”
“I wasn’t ready,” Derek admitted. “I didn’t trust myself. I didn’t want to scare you away. And I thought… maybe if I waited long enough, the bond wouldn’t matter.”
“That’s bullshit,” Stiles snapped. “You don’t wait out fate, Derek! You face it. You should’ve told me.”
“I was trying to protect you,” Derek bit out, frustration bleeding into his voice.
Stiles took a step closer, eyes sharp. “Newsflash: I don’t need protecting. I needed honesty. I deserved that.”
“I know,” Derek said softly, and there was so much raw truth in his voice that it made Stiles falter. “I know. And I’m sorry. I just... I didn’t want you to feel like you didn’t have a choice.”
Stiles took a breath, some of the heat draining out of him, but his eyes were still fierce. “I always had a choice, Derek. You just didn’t trust me enough to let me make it.”
And that hit harder than any punch Derek had ever taken.
He swallowed, eyes flicking down, guilt settling heavy in his chest. “You’re right.”
“I didn’t want to steal your future,” Derek continued slowly. “But it’s killing me not to be part of it.”
Stiles was flushed now—cheeks pink, chest heaving a little. His hair was still damp, curling slightly at the ends. He looked exasperated and slightly amazed and very, very turned on.
Derek's wolf took notice. Derek took notice.
“Okay, okay,” Stiles said again, running both hands through his hair in a helpless sort of gesture, “so just to recap, for the record, I’m your mate.”
“Yes,” Derek said without hesitation. Then, because his wolf was snarling for honesty, he added, “And I’m also physically restraining myself from dragging you into my bed and keeping you there for a solid week.”
Stiles stared at him.
Then blinked.
Then made a noise—somewhere between a laugh and a wheeze—and doubled over, hands braced on his knees. “Oh my God. I knew there was a reason you glared harder than usual that time I came over after a study session with Brad.”
“Who calls their kid Brad?”
Stiles straightened up again, eyes wide. “You were jealous.”
“It wasn’t right,” Derek corrected, voice low and rough. “You came in smelling wrong, laughing like nothing was wrong, and I—” He broke off, jaw tightening. “I almost lost it.”
Stiles stared at him, lips parted. He looked overwhelmed. And considering Derek had just confessed that they were cosmically bonded soulmates, it made sense.
Then he stepped forward.
And Derek didn’t move, barely breathed, terrified that any wrong motion would send the moment spinning away like ash in the wind.
But Stiles didn’t run. He came closer, close enough that Derek could feel the heat of him, the beat of his heart. He tilted his head, expression unreadable.
“Derek,” he said, voice quiet now. “You should’ve told me. You think I wouldn’t have wanted this? That I haven’t been…” He shook his head, laughing softly. “Jesus, dude. I’ve been in love with you for years. Do you know how many fantasies I’ve had that start with me in your clothes? And then you taking them off me?”
Derek’s heart stopped.
Literally, just—stopped.
“Wait, what?”
“I said—” Stiles took another step, and now they were chest to chest, so close Derek could smell the coffee on his breath—“I’ve been fantasizing about you for years. Your Henleys are basically the star of the show. Do you know how soft and hot they look on you?”
Derek made a strangled sound in the back of his throat.
“And now,” Stiles continued, dropping his voice to a near whisper, “you’re telling me I’m your mate, that your wolf wants to mark me, and you still haven’t let him? You still haven’t even kissed me?”
Derek blinked. “You want me to?”
Stiles arched a brow. “Take a wild guess, Sourwolf.”
Derek didn’t need a second invitation.
His hand cupped the back of Stiles’s neck and pulled him in, and the kiss was everything—hot and claiming and years overdue. Stiles melted into him, fingers fisting in Derek’s shirt, and Derek growled low in his throat as his wolf howled with satisfaction.
Mine, it sang.
And finally—finally—Derek let it be true.
***
The pack was seated in the loft, some sprawled across the couch, others perched on armrests and mismatched chairs. There were snacks. There were drinks. There was tension.
Because Stiles was vibrating with barely-contained energy, and Derek… well, Derek looked like he’d rather chew glass than speak.
“So,” Scott said slowly, looking between the two of them. “You called a pack meeting. On a Saturday. In the morning.”
“Yes,” Stiles said, leaning forward like he was about to present a meeting. “Because there’s been a development. A revelation, if you will. A seismic shift in inter-pack relations.”
“Oh my God,” Lydia muttered, sipping her latte. “Did you two finally hook up or not?”
Stiles froze.
Derek sighed. “Yes.”
Isaac squinted. “Wait, what?”
“I knew it,” Malia said, looking disgustingly proud of herself. “There was no way Derek would’ve been able to keep his control with Stiles smelling that much like him.”
“Excuse me?” Stiles said, scandalized. “You were sniffing me?”
“You were practically marinated in Derek,” Lydia added. “We all knew.”
“I didn’t know,” Stiles said, looking genuinely betrayed.
“That’s because you’re emotionally blind,” Lydia said gently, patting his arm.
Scott looked wounded. “Even I knew dude.”
“Whatever. Anyway” Stiles said. “Derek had a minor wolf meltdown over me wearing his shirt and told me I was his mate, and now we’re in this weird pre-dating phase of emotional co-dependence.”
“…Romantic,” Boyd muttered.
“It was romantic,” Stiles insisted. “There was tension. Growling. Hot make out sessions after Derek kicked everyone out.”
“Stiles,” Derek grumbled.
“What? You did, and there totally was,” Stiles said, beaming. “You were like, 'Everyone out.'” He deepened his voice in a comically gruff impression. “‘Not you.’” He waggled his eyebrows. “Not you, Derek. That was some Jane Austen shit.”
“I regret everything,” Derek muttered into his hands.
“I don’t!” Stiles chirped.
Isaac leaned forward. “So… wait. Are you, like, dating now? Or are you in a werewolf bond? Is there a ritual? Do we have to sacrifice a goat? I feel like there should be a goat.”
“No goats,” Derek snapped.
“Shame,” Lydia sighed. “Goats are very symbolic.”
“We’re… figuring it out,” Stiles said. “Emotionally. Romantically. But also, like, maybe spiritually? I don’t know, there was a lot of pheromones in the air yesterday, and I might’ve blacked out.”
Malia wrinkled her nose. “Are you going to start scent-marking him in public? Because I draw the line at Derek licking faces during movie night.”
“I would never—” Derek began, horrified.
“Yet,” Lydia said, deadpan. “You’d never, yet.”
Stiles leaned into Derek’s side, grinning. “You’d scent me though, right? Like, a tasteful neck nuzzle? Not in front of Scott, obviously.”
Scott was actively dying. “Why am I here.”
“To bear witness,” Stiles said grandly.
“To what?”
“To us,” Stiles said, gesturing between himself and Derek. “We’re like, a thing now. A real thing. Not just unresolved tension and side-eyes. There’s hand-holding. Eye contact. Deep emotional vulnerability. Derek let me eat the last cookie last night. That’s love.”
“It was oatmeal raisin,” Derek muttered.
“It was symbolic,” Stiles whispered back, clutching his heart.
Scott looked at Lydia. “Do we, like, do something? Clap? Do we clap for them?”
“No,” Derek said immediately.
“Yes,” Stiles said, standing up and raising his arms. “Clap for our love, peasants!”
Isaac actually started clapping. Malia joined in with a delighted whoop. Lydia did a slow clap, her expression a perfect mix of sarcasm and affection.
Derek stood up, walked out of the room, and muttered, “I’m leaving this pack.”
“You’ll be back,” Stiles called after him, still beaming. “You’ve imprinted on us!”
Scott watched the door swing shut behind Derek. “So… are we getting a new alpha, or?”
“Give him five minutes,” Lydia said. “He’s probably just going to the hallway to growl. Just pretend to smack Stiles or something. That’ll get him back.”
“What? No! I don’t wanna die!”