Work Text:
“I know you didn’t like this last time, baby,” says Peter, his voice soothing and controlled, “but this time you know what to expect.”
Stiles was tied on his front, spread eagled as Peter tapped a cane on his ass. The gag in his mouth muffled any and all protests, not that it would have mattered. Not liking it last time was an understatement. Stiles had howled and safeworded out, and Peter had looked so disappointed, even as he reassured that he wasn’t mad that Stiles had safeworded. He’d only had to write lines the next day, reaffirming that he would trust Peter with his wellbeing. So this time, he had to trust Daddy to have his best interests in mind.
“Besides,” Peter murmurs, right next to Stiles’ ear. “This is a punishment. And you asked for punishments to keep you in line, baby boy.” It’s true, but it doesn’t alleviate the fear. Sometimes, Stiles wonders if Peter can’t smell his fear because the nightmares have saturated the room with the adrenaline smell, or if Peter just can’t smell it on him at all. But sometimes, Peter will tell him that he smells contented, or anxious, or horny, so it can’t be that Peter doesn’t smell him at all.
At the first crack of the cane, Stiles cries out, arching up off the bed, pulling desperately at his bonds. They dig into his wrists, just too tight, and he’s sure that he breaks the skin as the rope scrapes and stings. It’s a line of stinging fire across his ass cheeks, and his eyes blur with tears. He’s sure that Peter isn’t withholding his strength, and Stiles desperately tries to sob out his safeword around the gag.
It doesn’t matter, because the next crack comes down next to the existing line of fire, and Stiles howls. His muscles tense, even though he knows it’s worse to take impact like that, he’s learnt it in the fire of claws and teeth and hunters that was his teenage life. He should be trusting his Daddy, he knows that, but it hurts in all the awful ways. He tries to beg into the gag, clawing at the sheets.
But the hits keep coming, and eventually Stiles just sags into the ropes, his mind starting to pull away from his body, even with each line of razor sharp pain trying to pull him back to his body.
By the time Peter is done, Stiles’ eyes are hazy, and he’s not really in tune with his body anymore. Each blink feels weighted, eyelashes too heavy. Stiles doesn’t think this is subspace, but it feels remarkably adjacent to it. Peter is soothing him, running hands over flesh that burns, pressing claws into places where the hurt is more intense. “Good boy, Stiles,” says Peter, leaning down to press kisses into his hair. “You look like you’re flying there, aren’t you, baby?”
Stiles reminds himself that Daddy knows best, Daddy knows his reactions, and even if he hasn’t identified it as subspace, it probably is if that’s what Peter says it is.
“You gonna let Daddy fuck you, huh, baby?”
Stiles feels like he’s swimming through syrup, underwater, time stretching and constricting in equal measure. All he can do is take his too-heavy head and nod.
The smirk Peter presses into his hair feels like an oil slick running over his nerves.
The next day is probably the worst he’s felt in a while. Peter had cuddled for a while, had let him enjoy the afterglow of an orgasm. His ass had radiated pain, and Peter had pushed him out the door once his clothes were back on, telling him to get home before his Dad noticed he was missing.
“You’ll remember your lesson, won’t you, baby?” he’d asked at the door, gently pressing a kiss to his forehead. “It’s just because I care about you,” he’d said, patting Stiles’ ass, making the denim slide roughly across sensitive skin and smiling that slick smile. Stiles had cringed at the sensation, but walked away slowly.
Now he shivers under blankets, too cold and feeling empty and lonely, drinking hot chamomile tea because coffee is just too bitter right now. His ass still smarts, still hurts and burns and makes him regret agreeing to the punishments.
He’s just so lonely, thinks Stiles, wiggling his fingers and staring listlessly at the homework on his desk. So lonely, and no one ever wants anything to do with him, and why should they? He’s a fuck up, a failure and-
His phone rings. Stiles furrows his brows, thrown off by the call.
“Hey, Stiles, wanna get pizza and play mario kart?” asks Scott, as soon as Stiles picks up.
Stiles blinks in confusion, his brain still running slow. “Wh- I mean, yeah, sure.”
Scott hums in response, and Stiles makes an effort to inject more life into his voice. “Get that, you know, that one that I said is the best,” he says, trying to smile down the phone to make himself seem friendlier.
“Oh! With the chicken and the pepperoni and the bell peppers and-”
Stiles actually smiles this time, warmed by Scott remembering his favourite.
“Yeah buddy, that one.”
By the time Stiles has put himself together, Scott arrives, three pizzas in hand. They used to order one large between them and polish it off, but now they most definitely need the three. Stiles thinks that Scott would order five if he could afford it between his dates and his bike.
It doesn’t take them long to get set up in front of the tv, pizzas spread across the coffee table.
Scott crinkles his nose at Stiles, and Stiles has that momentary pang that he usually had, even days after seeing Peter. It was anxious, stressed, scared that other people would find out and force them apart. “Are you alright, bro?” asks Scott, holding a Wii controller out to him. They don’t play Call of Duty together anymore, but Super Smash Bros or Mario Kart is fun, easy.
“Yeah,” says Stiles, flopping to the floor in a pile of limbs with a slice of pizza in one hand, reaching out for the controller with the other. He works very hard not to show it on his face when his rump meets the carpet, aggravating the lines that Peter laid on his ass.
Scott looks at him weirdly, and Stiles focuses on the screen. He picks Princess Peach, and Scott sighs and navigates to Yoshi. They’re quiet as Scott picks the first track.
Eventually, Stiles gets tired of the weird looks. “What?” he snaps, when Scott sighs at him for the fifth time.
“You’re hurt,” says Scott, face twisting up. “And you smell of Peter. You’ve been smelling of Peter a lot.”
This is it, Stiles thinks, setting his face in a cautious blank and breathing to bring his heart rate under control. The moment Peter had warned him about.
Scott frowns at him. “Is he hurting you?”
“Only in ways I ask for,” Stiles says, carefully not thinking about the fact that the cane was given to him anyway.
Apparently Scott’s vanilla little heart can’t take that. “Are you- are you okay?” he asks, frowning harder. “Like, that’s not really normal to ask to be hurt like this.”
Stiles slams the controller down. “Yes it fucking is,” he hisses, seething. “BDSM, asshole.”
Scott frowns harder. “But you smell miserable too.”
“It’s just- it’s an endorphin crash, sub drop. It’s fine, I have it handled.”
Scott hums, and tries to focus on the game, it seems, even if neither of their hearts are in it anymore. “I just, I don’t understand why you’d want to be hurt, after everything we’ve been through.”
Stiles grits his teeth, trying very hard to keep his eyes on the screen, to not look over.
“It gets me off, Scott, what else is there to get?”
There’s movement out the corner of his eyes, and Scott pauses the game, grimacing. “You get it’s unhealthy, right, dude? He’s old enough to be your Dad; he is Malia’s Dad. Isn’t that weird?”
Stiles, impulsive and impetuous and short-tempered, flings his controller to the floor. “You don’t get it, you don’t get to criticise me. Get. Out.”
“But Stiles-”
“But nothing.”
Scott looks wounded as he gathers up a single untouched pizza. “You can, uh, you can keep the rest,” he says, before fleeing.
And fuck you too, thinks Stiles, viciously biting into a cooling and congealing bit of pizza.
He goes to Peter again that night, skin feeling too tight. He wants to submit, needs to submit, get out of his head where the stupid blowout with Scott cycles through it. The anger itches under his skin still, his sadness because it was over something so shitty and stupid.
Peter looks surprised when he opens the door, and steps back quietly to let Stiles in.
“Are you okay, baby?” he asks, concern lacing his voice.
Stiles chokes on his words and tries not to shout or cry with all the emotions that seem to be cresting, suffocating him. “I just- Peter, I need, I- Daddy,” he says, stepping towards Peter, being folded into the circle of his arms.
“It’s okay,” Peter coos, slipping his fingers into Stiles’ hair, massaging at his scalp. Stiles feels the first of the knots draining out of his muscles. “I’ll take care of you, pup.”
“Yeah, please,” says Stiles, placing his head against Peter’s shoulder, bending, fitting himself into the spaces around Peter. Warm hands cup and move and make sure that Stiles is breathing in Peter’s scent, nose pressed to collarbone.
Humming, the wolf noses into Stiles’ hair, and just for a moment, everything feels right, and Stiles feels small, protected. “Go take your clothes off and kneel beside the bed,” says Peter, and Stiles breathes out, grateful that he knows exactly what’s needed.
“Yes Daddy,” he says, disentangling himself, tripping over his own feet as he heads for the bedroom.
As he waits for Peter, he breathes slowly, taking in the scent of the room, his mind slipping from its constantly running and angered state into something softer, slower. It’s enough that he misses Peter entering the room, only realising once Peter places his hands on Stiles’ back and stomach, gently pushing him into position.
“Better,” hums Peter, trailing his fingers down Stiles’ spine. “You’ll feel so much better if you stop slumping all the time, darling.”
And even though it’s a little uncomfortable for his core muscles and his back, using the muscles to hold himself differently, his chest can expand more, he can breathe deeper, easier. Stiles arches into Peter’s touch anyway, like an oversized cat. Peter laughs, and pushes Stiles back into position. “Like I put you, baby.”
It’s easy to shift deeper into that space where all he can think of is Peter, the way he touches Stiles, the way he moves and breathes and takes up space. It’s easy when Peter’s fingers are like heated brands, his body temperature higher than Stiles’. It makes Stiles smile, eyes a little glassy from something so easy and simple.
“You smelt so angry when you came in, darling, and now look at you,” Peter says, a hand cradling Stiles’ jawline, thumb pressing at his lips. Stiles sucks the digit in, watching when Peter smirks wickedly. “Going to let me fuck your pretty face?” he coos, holding Stiles’ tongue down in his mouth, trapping it. Stiles nods, enthusiastically, hollowing his cheeks as he sucks.
Peter groans, withdrawing his thumb, and Stiles can feel it forcefully tugging against the suction he’s applying. He bats his lashes, looking up at Peter. There’s definitely a bulge in his pants, and his fingers have a wisp of claws. His face might be categorised as mildly amused, but he’s more affected than he’s letting on if the wolf is shining through already.
“Open my pants,” says Peter, his easy air of command carried through his voice, the line of his body. Stiles goes to obey, and Peter catches his wrists. “No, baby. No hands.”
Something about the instruction makes desire twist in the pit of Stiles’ stomach, that wonderful delight rolling through him. He leans forwards, concentrating on popping the button from Peter’s jeans, his tongue rolling along the metal zipper to capture the tab before he takes it in his teeth and pulls.
Peter hums, gratified. It’s not the ‘good boy’ Stiles had been hoping for, but the sound warms him, licks him in satisfaction anyway.
Pushing down his briefs, Peter grasps Stiles by the hair, tugs just enough to make him gasp. “Open wide, pup,” he says, pushing his cock onto Stiles’ tongue. Tilting his head, angling just right, Stiles lets the heaviness anchor him as he starts to come adrift, letting himself be lost to the current of Peter’s need. There's a moment where he chokes, and Peter pulls back, soothing fingers through his hair. “You needed this, didn’t you, baby?” Stiles hums in response, his eyes starting to water, tears gathering on his lashes. “Needed your Daddy to look after you, like I always do.” His voice is low, quiet, and his fingers keep moving.
As Peter’s cock drives deeper and deeper, to the back of Stiles’ throat, he chokes again, nose starting to run, sweat and spit and snot dripping down his chin. The gag forces his tongue up, pressing forcefully into Peter’s length, pushing it to the side of his mouth, and Peter hisses. “Keep your teeth to yourself,” he mutters, “or I’ll pull them all out.”
He doesn’t mean it, Stiles tells himself, shivering. The threats get under his skin, make him heated and make him want in all those horrible perverted ways. His cock always throbs in response to the power Peter wields over him. But he makes sure his lips are tucked over his teeth, starting to swallow needily whenever Peter’s cock reaches the point where he’d gag. He knows how to do this, he knows better than to hurt Peter while he’s on his knees. He has to show Peter he’s good, that he’s learnt and understood.
The wolf tugs on his hair, angles himself, his hips moving at a steady pace. The anchor of Peter surrounding him lets Stiles drift, knowing that he won’t come untethered. This is what he’s needed, the push and pull and give and take of their dynamic, and his damp eyelashes flutter.
"There we go," says Peter, his voice smug. "You'll do anything for me like this, won't you?"
Stiles hums in response, letting the words wash over him with pleasure. He chokes a little again, but manages to tamp down on the full body response, so it's only his throat fluttering around the head of Peter's cock.
It doesn't take long before Peter pushes forward, buries himself in Stiles' throat, throbbing with each shot of cum. He groans, fingers tightening in his hair and refusing to let Stiles off, even when his throat starts to try rejecting Peter again. But he has to be patient, Peter will let him off when he's finished, and the fleeting panic is tucked behind his sternum, squirreled away for another time, especially when Peter releases him. Stiles pants, drool stranding between his lips and Peter's dick.
"Rub yourself on my foot, baby," Peter says, looking pleased with himself. "Daddy will always give you what you deserve."
"Daddy," says Stiles, pressing his forehead against Peter's thigh, his brain finally disengaging, his pent up emotions quickly leading him to the edge. Almost cruelly, Peter pushes his foot into Stiles' crotch, the edge of pain and danger sending adrenaline through his nerves, synapses pulsing a brilliant pleasure-pain. He nearly cries when he orgasms, pulsing white over Peter's skin.
"Lick up your filth," Peter demands, voice seeming a little colder, dropping the bottom from Stiles' stomach, but that must just be his own imagination now that he isn't swimming in a soup of arousal, right? He doesn't meet Peter's eyes as he complies anyway, grimacing at the salt in his mouth.
Finally, everything is cleaned, and Stiles sits back on his heels, wincing at the sting in his rear from the caning yesterday. He doesn't feel totally tethered, but it's… it's enough. Peter stares at him, before stepping away, gesturing to the bed. When Stiles doesn't immediately move, he sighs. "I have a busy life, Stiles, if you want to cuddle you have to meet me halfway."
That has Stiles scrabbling to his feet, launching towards the bed even though his limbs still feel a little like lead, weighted down while his torso feels light as air. He trips, and Peter doesn't even laugh at his clumsiness, instead rolling his eyes. "I cannot believe you are allowed out of the house," Peter scolds, pulling Stiles into his arms and absently petting his hair. "You are a danger to yourself."
Shivers race along Stiles' skin, and he burrows into the warmth of Peter's skin, the cotton of his shirt almost too rough against Stiles. It's only as the shivering starts to subside that Peter pulls his phone out of his pocket, squinting at it and tapping at the screen. His arms are still around Stiles, a hand still resting in Stiles' hair, but he can feel the void opening in the base of his stomach, some whispering voice that pleads for attention. It's ridiculous, needy, but Stiles makes a discomforted sound anyway and buries his face into the crook of Peter's neck. The werewolf tightens his fingers in Stiles' hair, almost threatening. It's just a second, but there's a clear message in that movement, and Stiles falls still.
His skin is warming with every breath Peter takes, and he can feel his eyelids drooping. If Stiles were with anyone else, he'd ask to stay, warmed by body heat and worn out by good sex, but he can feel tendrils of unease sneaking in. He never stays with Peter afterwards, not for long, even though times like right now, he'd like to. He'd like to spend a night not thinking about Scott, not having to look at the same four walls that have been host to so many memories with his best friend that, right now, make him spitting angry still. He'd like to not be alone, to ruminate and replay their argument over and over again.
Peter extracts himself soon anyway, pushing an energy bar into his hand. "Eat up, put your clothes on. I'll have a bottle of water waiting for you downstairs."
The word stay gets caught in Stiles' throat, heavy and thick, clogging up his lungs. He feels like he's not properly grounded, about to float away, desperate for Peter's weight back on his body.
"Put your clothes back on," Peter repeats, "and go home. Your father will likely be waiting for you."
It's too soon after the hormones started swimming through his veins, so Stiles stumbles through getting dressed. The bottle of water is on an expensive—probably antique—end table at the bottom of the stairs, and he guzzles down the liquid before going any further. The plastic crinkles under his fingers as he gulps. Peter isn't there, doesn't watch him. As he finally goes to leave, Peter is curled up in an armchair with a book, and merely raises a dismissive hand when Stiles tries to stumble through thanks. "This arrangement is beneficial to us both," he says, voice flat and apathetic. "Go home before your father finds out about it."
Despite the pleasure chemicals swimming through his veins, Stiles feels colder than before, but at least he isn't trembling with rage anymore. At least he knows that Peter will always take care of him.
He starts Roscoe on his third attempt, shivering and trying to ignore the hole widening in his gut.
By the end of the pack meeting in Derek’s apartment the next day, Stiles is starting to feel that tidal wave of emptiness, of loneliness that sometimes engulfs him. He’s still mad at Scott, and Scott can barely look at him.
Asshole alpha, thinks Stiles, angrily stuffing his notes into his messenger bag. He doesn’t notice Derek looming behind him until he clears his throat.
“Jesus fuck,” gasps Stiles, holding his hand over his racing heart. “I am putting a bell on you.”
Derek gives him a wry smile, ducks his head a little like he’s hiding it, and slides his hand over Stiles’ forearm. His hand is large, warm, and Stiles almost immediately melts into the soft touch. “Has Peter checked in on you today?” he asks, voice low and soothing.
Stiles blinks at him, and wrenches his arm away to carry on stuffing his notes away. “Why, have you lost him?” he asks, airy, feigning ignorance. Derek rolls his eyes.
“He should be checking to make sure you don’t drop too hard,” says Derek, and Stiles’ hackles go straight up. Fuck. Another conversation like this.
“Whatever Scott said, it’s not fucking like that.”
The wide hand slides back over Stiles’ arm, gently closes over his wrist. “Come on, I’ll make you something warm to drink and we can watch something together.” Stiles shivers, looks up to be caught in hazel eyes, and he tucks the corners of his papers into the bag.
“Okay,” he says, voice caught in his throat, croaking through a suddenly dry mouth. Derek is gentle but firm, constant warm pressure around his wrist, humming quietly in approval as Stiles stumbles alongside him. It doesn’t escape Stiles’ notice that he changed the subject, but it feels nice to perch on the stools at the kitchen counter (despite the continued sting of his ass), watch as Derek fills and turns on the kettle, reaching for mugs, opening a cupboard that holds a veritable mountain of tea. A warm little ball is forming in his stomach, and Stiles simply watches Derek take up this space. It’s all a little surreal, given the fact that when they had first met, Derek was squatting, too frightened and scared to exist in anything other than the most painful memories.
The werewolf sniffs in a few boxes, before settling on a particular blend. Both mugs get a tea bag, and it’s not long before Stiles has his hands curved around the ceramic, breathing in the scent.
“Lavender, lemon? Must be verbena. Chamomile too? Derek, are you trying to knock me out? Is this the herbal equivalent of a roofie?”
Derek, for his part, throws his head back and laughs. “It soothes anxiety, Stiles. And if you sleep, you need it.”
Very maturely, Stiles responds by sticking his tongue out. “Any honey?” he asks, avoiding talking about his feelings. Derek nods, pushing a jar towards him.
“When you’re done, join me on the couch,” he says, wandering away. Stiles is left feeling off balance, off guard, staring at the teaspoon he holds in the kitchen.
It takes him longer than strictly necessary to join Derek, spending a little time snooping in the cupboards. He almost dreads walking in, so clearly not having followed Derek's word to the letter, but that's stupid because what's Derek even going to do about it?
Before he can work himself up, he steps into the doorway, and Derek almost absently pats the sofa next to him, all manner of blankets stacked in the seat furthest from him. He's got the remote, working through Netflix. "Any suggestions?" he asks, and Stiles flounders. Derek doesn't look away from the screen, but pats the seat again. "Doctor Who or Avatar?"
That decision, Stiles can do. "Avatar for today," he says, flopping against the cushions and tugging the blankets over him, around him. Derek makes a sad little noise and grabs at the air in front of Stiles for a blanket.
"You have a lot of these, Derbear," says Stiles, and Derek elbows him good naturedly.
"I think I prefer dude," he grumbles, starting the cartoon.
The next two hours pass easily. Stiles is warmed through, by blankets and the way he's ended up plastered to Derek's side. They've barely talked, only pressed closer and closer together. Derek's fingers have made their way into the hair at the nape of Stiles' neck, fingers rubbing circles in the stubble there, and Stiles just feels himself losing bones, becoming jelly and warmth across Derek's broad chest.
"We have to talk about it, you know?" says Derek, as he backs out of Avatar. Stiles groans, but doesn't move. He's comfortable, and when Derek talks, he can feel the rumble.
"Talk about what?" mumbles Stiles, fixing his eyes on the weave of threads in Derek's shirt.
There's a sigh, and Derek's fingers slide into Stiles' hair, cupping the back of his head. "Scott gave his perspective, and was mostly wrong," he says, soft. "But he was right about you smelling miserable."
Stiles raises his head a little, squinting at Derek. He looks back, stoically. "'S just an endorphin crash, it's normal," says Stiles, feeling a little vindicated that Derek says Scott is wrong. He might well be more liable to criticise Scott than he would be another alpha, but Scott is still an alpha, and it kind of goes against Derek's entire being to outright say that he's wrong.
Derek hums in response to Stiles, and smooths his fingers through his hair some more. "It is normal, but a Dom has the responsibility to care for their sub, to look after them when they drop," he says, with the kind of force that comes from knowledge.
"He looks after me afterwards?" says Stiles, ignoring the way he'd been kicked out the night before. "We cuddle a bit and, you know, Peter isn't exactly the cuddly type."
Derek frowns down at him. "And does he look after any bruises and wounds he gives you?"
Stiles startles a little bit, and looks back at Derek's shirt. It's more comfortable to not make eye contact. "Isn't this weird to talk about your uncle like this?" says Stiles, thinking about the ointment that Peter had pressed into his hands early on in this arrangement that ran out 3 months ago. Stiles hasn't mentioned it yet, and Peter hasn't offered any more, so he's been forgoing it.
Derek sighs. It must be obvious he's deflecting because he pushes onwards. "Has he ever made you feel uncomfortable or unsafe?"
And isn't that the million dollar question. Stiles tenses up, fury pulsing through him, pushes himself away from Derek. The werewolf lets him go, hands dropping to Stiles' forearms again. This time he doesn't hold anything, just rests them there, big warm hands letting Stiles know that he's there.
Stiles shuffles further away, and Derek seems to clamp down on a wolfy noise.
"This is none of your business, Derek, and I don't appreciate what you're insinuating," says Stiles, quiet and icy.
"Then I'll stop insinuating it. I think Peter is a bad Dom."
Stiles bares his teeth at Derek, and Derek instinctively bares his right back. "You don't know a damn thing, Derek," Stiles hisses, pushing himself off the sofa, stalking towards the table his messenger bag is still lying on. "And I will fucking show you."
Derek looks distraught as Stiles walks away, and that's absolutely fine by Stiles. No guilt whatsoever, none, not a single little pinch of remorse for yelling at someone trying to help and asking questions that probably needed to be asked. He feels nothing.
And all that nothingness leads to him turning on his laptop that night and carefully typing out 'signs of a bad dom' into Google. Several hours later, Stiles comes out of his rabbit hole, panicky at the edges. He dials Lydia's number, knowing that she'll answer, that she'll provide Stiles knowledge and support.
When she picks up, before she can speak, Stiles jumps in.
"I've been fucking Peter Hale," he says, breathing shallow. "And it turns out he's a bad Dom."
Lydia is silent, and Stiles thinks it might be a stunned moment of quiet.
"Lyds," he says, black creeping into his vision, "say something, please."
"Well," she responds, prim and proper. "I always knew he was an asshole."
Stiles chokes on his laughter, desperately trying to keep his voice down. “This is serious, Lyds, I think I really fucked up here,” he says, his anxiety creeping into his voice.
She sighs, and the line crackles a little. “If you had come to me first, I could have told you who would’ve been good to contact,” she says, as always, knowing too much. “Chris was very good, very polite, it’s almost a shame it went nowhere.”
It feels like he can breathe, the offering of information acting as an olive branch, a balm on his jangling nerves. “Not like you, to let go of the things you want,” says Stiles, tapping his pen on the edge of his desk.
“It wasn’t to my tastes,” says Lydia with a little sniff.
There’s a moment of quiet between them. “What do I do, Lydia?” Stiles eventually whispers, eyes starting to fill with tears. “Some of it- There’s things that- He took away my safeword.” His voice is choked, and he knows his eyes are threatening to spill over.
Lydia sucks a breath in. “Stiles…” she says in warning. “If you cry, I shall cry, and then my face mask will be ruined.”
Stiles lets out a wet laugh, lamenting the fact that it’s too late to save himself from the tears.
“Do you want me to come over?” Lydia asks, her voice soothing against his skin. “I can bring ice cream, we can plan out your next move, we can cuddle if we really have to,” she says, and it’s only because Stiles spent several years being quite so obsessed with her that he can tell she’s starting to spiral into anxiety.
Even so…
“No,” says Stiles, decisive, if a little watery. “I need to- I want to shower and curl up in bed until next week.”
Humming, Lydia makes some odd noises in the background. “Talk to Derek,” she says, eventually. “He’ll understand.”
“Yeah,” Stiles chokes out. “Okay.” It doesn’t feel like he would, but he remembers all about Kate Argent, remembers how old Derek was at the time, and feels the old rage build in his chest, almost separate to his current self.
“You know we all love you, right, Stiles?” she says, a strange quality to her voice. “I’ll be over tomorrow afternoon.”
Stiles smiles down the phone, even as his lips quaver. “Thanks, Lyds,” he says, violently wiping at his eyes. “See you then.”