1. He’s horrible about remembering to do laundry.
It’s perfect. Practically a match made in heaven.
Or that’s what Scott would have said about renting an apartment with Stiles, if you’d asked him a month ago. As it is, well.
“Scott, have you seen my red plaid boxers?” Stiles hollers, voice blasting through the small space to reach Scott where he’s munching on a piece of toast in the kitchen.
“Aren’t they in your hamper?” Scott asks, turning to look towards Stiles before he realizes what he’s doing and is able to stop himself.
Because if Stiles is looking for his boxers, that means he isn’t wearing boxers.
Scott tries not to stare, but he can’t help the way his eyes track the steady path of a water droplet down Stiles’ bare chest before being absorbed by the soft material of the towel clinging precariously to his waist. It’s not like he hasn’t seen Stiles shirtless before – or even fully naked! – considering how many years they’ve shared a locker room, and, well, shared a life, basically, but somehow this is different.
And maybe part of it is because of how broad Stiles’ shoulders are now, how full his lips are, how much more comfortable he looks in his own body, now that he’s grown into it, but it’s not like Scott hasn’t been noticing how beautiful Stiles is for years.
If only he’d stop wandering naked around their apartment. This is the third time this week.
“I already looked there,” Stiles whines, running a hand through his still-damp hair. “And now I don’t think I have any clean pairs.”
“Didn’t you do laundry last Friday?” Scott asks, scrunching up his nose. It’s Tuesday.
Stiles mutters something under his breath about his boxers getting dirty too quickly, and Scott fights down a blush at his implications.
“Can I just borrow a pair from you?” Stiles asks, which, alright, they share a lot of things, but this is crossing some sort of line, isn’t it?
“Bro…” Scott sighs, and wonders for the millionth time why he thought it would be a good idea to room with Stiles. “Just do a load of laundry.”
“Dude, I have class in an hour!” Stiles protests, looking at Scott with big, amber eyes. It only takes a few moments for Scott to give in.
“Fine, whatever,” he says, waving Stiles off.
“I totally owe you,” Stiles replies with a huge grin as he turns to make his way to Scott’s bedroom. Scott can’t quite help but stare at his ass the entire way as the towel slips ever lower on his hips, revealing the dimples just above the swell of his ass. It’s the worst sort of rom-com cliché, and Scott wonders how the hell it’s become his life.
It’s even worse when Stiles reemerges, thankfully fully clothed this time, but smelling distinctly of Scott. As casual as they were about sharing clothes when they were younger, it’s… different now, at least partially due to Scott’s new werewolf sensibilities. Because here Stiles is, in Scott’s territory and smelling like him, and it’s difficult for Scott to remind himself that Stiles isn’t actually his, not really.
His friend, his pack, but not his.
Scott averts his eyes, mutters his excuses, and leaves for class before Stiles can get so much as a word in edgewise. Which, considering how much Stiles talks, is quite a feat.
He does his best not to think about it as he goes about his day. And he’s actually successful, for the most part – so much so that he even manages to forget about it entirely.
Well, until he gets back to the apartment, that is.
“Hey,” Stiles greets him as he steps through the door, poking his head out of the small kitchenette area. “Sorry about this morning.”
“It’s fine,” Scott replies, even though it really, really isn’t. Even now he can practically feel his wolf clawing at his insides, whining pathetically, as the steady stream of mate, mate, mate runs through his head. As he steps closer to Stiles, he feels dizzy for a moment as he realizes how quickly their scents have mingled, even though all Stiles has done is wear his boxers for a few hours. Then again, that’s where their scents are thickest, most primal.
“Yeah, well, I tried making your mom’s guac,” Stiles says, indicating a bowl on the kitchen counter. “I mean, it’s probably not as good as when she makes it, but.” He shrugs.
“Thanks, man,” Scott answers, smiling and accepting the apology for what it is, even as it makes his wolf go even more haywire with how his mate is providing for him.
Still, two days later, Stiles is back to wandering around the apartment in a state of undress after spilling a cup of coffee down the front of his shirt, and Scott finds himself wondering what he ever did to deserve this.
2. He’s loud.
Scott squishes the pillow harder down over his head.
“Hnnnn, fuck,” Stiles gasps, voice rough and low.
Stiles is trying to be considerate, Scott knows he is. It’s long past the time Scott should have fallen asleep, and Stiles is keeping quiet enough that his murmurs are probably barely a whisper, but to a werewolf’s sensitive hearing, he couldn’t be louder unless he was screaming at the top of his lungs. The distinct tang of sex permeating the apartment doesn’t help anything either.
Squeezing his eyes shut, Scott tries to steady his breathing. He’s rock hard in his pajama pants as he listens to Stiles keen and whine, slick hand working on his cock, a rapid slap of skin against skin. Stiles attempts to choke back another moan, and Scott finds himself sinking sharp fangs into his pillow, eyes flashing red.
His wolf is restless again, whining at him to go help his mate and give him what he needs. The annoying animal doesn’t understand why he can’t just go take Stiles and care for every single one of his mate’s needs, like a good alpha should.
Stiles moans softly again and, guiltily, reluctantly, Scott snakes a hand down under the waistband of his pants to palm his hard cock. He knows he’s being creepy – practically Derek levels of creeper – but he can’t help it, not with Stiles’ every whine as clear as if he was lying right next to Scott.
Normally Scott likes to take his time with himself, but guilt gets the better of him. He tugs on his cock roughly, quickly, hard jerks almost the wrong side of painful as Stiles’ sweet moans ring in his ears. Just a minute or two later and he’s spilling into his hand, biting into his mangled pillow again.
Stiles follows only a little while later, coming with soft, overstimulated sobs. Scott can’t help but let out a small sigh of relief. A couple of weeks ago he’d woken up to the sounds of Stiles teasing himself for hours, edging himself, probably. It was a special sort of torture Scott never wants to repeat.
After listening for a few more moments to confirm that Stiles isn’t going to try for a second round, Scott closes his eyes and falls into a fitful sleep.
“Dude, you look exhausted,” Stiles says when he saunters on into the kitchen the next morning, looking perky and revitalized. Scott almost has to laugh at the irony.
“Didn’t get much sleep last night,” Scott mutters, and he doesn’t miss how Stiles stills for a split second.
“That sucks,” Stiles finally replies, his tone sympathetic.
“Yeah,” Scott echoes, wondering if he should broach the reason for his lack of sleep.
Their conversation lulls for a moment as Stiles moves around the kitchen, going up on his tip-toes to dig a box of poptarts out of the back of the cupboard. Scott averts his eyes, staring back down at his bowl of cereal.
“Hey, uh, Stiles,” he starts, stirring his cereal to occupy his hands. “Do you think you could maybe…” He pauses, unsure how to phrase it.
“Yeah?” Stiles asks, looking at him curiously.
“You were kind of… loud, last night,” Scott finally settles on, hoping that his face isn’t too red.
“Fuck, sorry, dude,” Stiles replies, and Scott frowns slightly. There’s something not quite right about Stiles’ tone, but he can’t quite put his finger on what it is. He’d almost say that Stiles doesn’t sound apologetic, but that can’t be right.
“It’s alright,” Scott sighs, waving off Stiles’ concerns. “I just – do you think you could maybe do it when I’m out, or something?”
“Yeah, sure,” Stiles answers.
Scott lets out a small sigh of relief and hopes that puts an end to his problems.
3. He never empties the dishwasher.
Unfortunately, it doesn’t.
Stiles has been noticeably more restless lately and has a near-constant, bitter scent clinging to him, which it took Scott about a week to identify as sexual frustration. Even though Scott doesn’t have to listen to it anymore, he can still always tell whenever Stiles has gotten himself off, because he comes back to an apartment stinking of hormones and to Stiles smelling happy and sated, the bitter scent gone.
Whenever Scott goes too long without giving Stiles some time to himself in the apartment, invariably Stiles works himself up to practically a hair trigger, arousal wafting off of him at every little thing. It’s getting a little ridiculous, really, and Scott finds himself attempting to study in the library, while trying not to wonder how Stiles is getting himself off that day.
Unfortunately, sometimes he actually finds out.
Scott opens the dishwasher in order to put his coffee mug inside. However, as he pulls out the top rack, he has to stop and stare. Briefly, he wonders if this is some sort of strange hallucination due to sleep deprivation or something. Considering how often sex has been on his mind lately, it wouldn’t be entirely out of place.
“Stiles!” he yells.
“Yeah?” Stiles answers, sticking his head into the kitchen.
“I am hallucinating, or is there a dildo in the dishwasher?” he asks, still staring a little. The dildo is patterned with multicolored, neon stripes, and it’s far more artsy than realistic. It’s a reasonable size, maybe a little smaller than Scott’s own –
Nope, not going there.
“Oh! Yeah, dude, the guy at the sex store told me it’s dishwasher safe,” Stiles answers, his face lighting up. “You know, because it’s, like, made completely of silicone.”
Scott must make a face, because Stiles barrels on.
“Yeah, I know, I was wary of it too, even though the guy seemed to know his stuff, but then I checked online and apparently it’s legit,” Stiles continues, cheeks a little flushed. “I mean, Brown University’s website on sexual health said it was cool as long as you put it in the top rack, and they seem like a pretty good source, you know?”
“So you’re gonna clean all of your toys in the dishwasher?” Scott asks, trying not to grimace. It’s bad enough imagining Stiles getting himself off with his hands – Scott certainly doesn’t need to know what his sex toys look like. It’ll only fuel more hopeless fantasies.
“Only the silicone ones are dishwasher safe, apparently, and this is my only one,” Stiles replies, shrugging. “I’m thinking about getting another one, though. Seriously, Scotty, whoever designed it is my hero – you should totally get one too!”
“Uh – ” Scott says, his face flushing.
“Dude, matching dildos,” Stiles continues, eyes bright, like this is the best idea he’s ever had. Scott’s pretty sure it’s the worst. “Or, well, not quite matching, because they’re handmade in Spain or whatever, but seriously, you have to try one – they’re like – ” Stiles lets out a happy moan “ – because the silicone is like, it’s hard, but not too hard, and it has the perfect amount of flexibility and – ”
“I have to go,” Scott blurts out before Stiles can get further into his list of the amazing qualities of his dildo. “To class.”
“Isn’t your – ” Stiles starts, but Scott’s halfway out the door before he can finish, cheeks flushed with heat as he tries to will his traitorous dick into submission.
He tries not to think too hard about what Stiles is doing, now that he’s out of the apartment.
4. He has no sense of personal space.
As much as Scott hates to be a hypocrite, sometimes he jerks off while Stiles is in the apartment. Of course, it’s kind of hard not to, when it seems like Stiles is always around, talking a mile a minute and crowding into Scott’s personal space. Not the Scott minds much, but sometimes it’s hard to write essays and lab reports when Stiles is peering over his shoulder, practically pressed up against his back, smelling like mint and earth and the sort of baseline level of arousal that’s pretty much a constant for him.
So most of the time Scott only bothers after dark, when he’s certain Stiles is fast asleep. But occasionally, like today, Scott indulges in the shower, palming himself languidly as the warm water runs down his back. For a moment, his hearing automatically focuses in on Stiles’ heartbeat, rabbit-quick but steady, and Scott has to grit his teeth and pull himself back, tries to focus in on the steady drum of the water instead.
He tilts his head back and clears his mind. As he relaxes again, he continues to stroke himself, not imagining anything in particular. But then his fantasies turn to soft lips, a hot, wet mouth around him, and he finds himself biting back a groan.
He doesn’t think of a specific person at first, just hot suction and a skillful tongue, but then in his mind the lips become a little pinker, a little more bow-shaped, and before he can reign himself in, his mind supplies an image of Stiles, obscene mouth spread wide around Scott’s cock.
Scott feels his breath catch in his throat, and he tries to banish the image, but now that it’s in his mind, he can’t get rid of it. And fuck he’s tried to be so careful about this, tried his best not to fantasize about Stiles and make everything irreversibly awkward, but he finds himself sinking into fantasy anyway. Imaginary fingertips dig into his thighs, and soft, plush lips slide further down his length –
He moans just as the bathroom door bangs open and a familiar scent floods his senses.
“Stiles?” he squawks, hand stilling on his cock, hoping to god that Stiles doesn’t push the shower curtain aside. Not for the first time, he’s grateful that Stiles doesn’t have werewolf senses. “Dude, what – ”
“I have class in like fifteen minutes,” Stiles whines, and Scott hears the telltale sounds of Stiles rummaging through the medicine cabinet. A sharp, minty tang hits his nose. “I need to brush my teeth and you’re taking too long.”
“You could have just asked me to hurry up!” Scott protests, cheeks heating. He bites his lip, trying to ignore how his cock hasn’t softened in the slightest. If anything, Stiles’ scent flooding the bathroom has made him harder, his wolf reveling in the extra dimension it adds to his fantasy.
“This is easier,” Stiles argues, but his words are slightly muffled by the toothbrush in his mouth. “And it’s not a big deal, is it? I’ve seen you naked a bunch of times, and there’s, like, a whole shower curtain between us this time, so.”
Scott wants to protest, but Stiles has a bit of a point, and arguing further might make him suspicious of why Scott is suddenly so sensitive to the subject.
“Stiles, maybe just – boundaries?” Scott groans. “I need some time to myself, man.”
The sounds of Stiles brushing his teeth stop abruptly.
“You need more time to yourself?” Stiles asks, tone dangerously sharp. “Scott, I hardly see you anymore, which should be impossible considering we fucking live together.”
“Stiles – ” Scott starts, but Stiles cuts him off.
“Half of the time you’re at classes, and the rest of the time you’re either studying in the library, working at the veterinary clinic, or out with your other friends,” Stiles interrupts, the bitterness of his tone catching Scott off guard. “I never see you except for, like, ten minutes in the morning before classes and ten minutes at night before you go to bed.”
Scott wants to protest, but he’s surprised to find that what Stiles is saying isn’t entirely untrue. Stiles is his best friend, above everyone else, and Scott would absolutely spend the rest of his life with him. But in his effort to hide his less than platonic feelings, to avoid losing Stiles, it looks like he’s losing him anyway.
“Look, just – ” Stiles sighs, sounding defeated and frustrated in a way that pulls on Scott’s heartstrings. “Maybe living together was a bad idea. I’ll leave you alone now.”
The bathroom door slams shut behind Stiles, and Scott can’t quite suppress a flinch.
5. He doesn’t actually want to be Scott’s roommate.
Scott spends the entire day worrying that he’s going to come home to find all of Stiles’ stuff packed back up in cardboard boxes – or worse, already gone. When he returns after his last class, though, the apartment is dark and empty, but everything is where he left it that morning. He doesn’t know if that makes him relieved or only more anxious.
He bides his time watching Netflix. He tries to do some homework, but he finds himself too distracted, glancing at the clock and door every few minutes.
It’s eight pm when he finally decides to try texting Stiles. He only sends a simple, Where are you? because he wants to apologize in person, but when an hour passes and Stiles hasn’t even read the message, much less replied, Scott finds himself typing out apologizes. All of them go unread.
It’s almost midnight when Scott gets desperate enough to call. To his increasing worry, it goes straight to voicemail. He starts calling around to see if anyone else has heard from Stiles, starting with Lydia, then Erica, then Derek, making his way through the pack, but no one else can get ahold of him either.
Scott’s about to form a search party when there’s a loud knocking on the door.
Scott’s hearing immediately tunes in on the familiar rabbit-quick thump of Stiles’ heartbeat, while his nose picks up on Stiles’ scent, sour and alcohol-soaked. There’s another scent with him, though, unfamiliar and musky, which makes his wolf’s hackles rise.
It takes Scott mere moments to stride across the room and swing the door open to confront the two people outside.
“Fuck, Stiles,” Scott says, mouth falling open as he gets a good look at them, because he’s seen Stiles wasted before, but never quite like this.
“You Scott?” the stranger with Stiles grunts, adjusting his grip on Stiles to try and prop him up a little better, arm wrapped firmly around Stiles’ waist.
“Yeah,” Scott replies, and it takes actual effort to avoid flashing his eyes at the guy. “Who’re you?”
“Just a concerned citizen,” the man says with a slightly wry smile. “I was just going to drop him off. Not sure he’s going to remember me, but when he’s sober, do you think you could remind him that I’m the new ‘Jake’ in his contacts? If he’s still interested?”
“Sure,” Scott replies, trying to ignore the tightness in his chest as Stiles’ head lolls against Jake’s shoulder. Part of him wants it to be a lie, but Stiles deserves someone in his life, and Jake seems like a decent enough person, if the fact that he brought Stiles home without any expectations is any indication.
“Thanks, man,” Jake says with a grin. Scott bites the inside of his cheek and moves to take Stiles from him, looping Stiles’ arm up over his shoulder and trying to ignore how Stiles’ body is pressed up against him. Stiles makes a small noise of protest at the movement, but then blinks his eyes open, relaxing as his gaze comes to rest on Scott.
“Goodnight,” Scott says, a little pointedly.
“Night,” Jake echoes, finally tearing his eyes away from Stiles.
Scott closes the door and manhandles Stiles further into the apartment. It shouldn’t be difficult with his werewolf strength, but Stiles doesn’t even bother trying to keep himself upright, flopping against Scott like an oversized ragdoll, all long, jumbled limbs.
He manages to get Stiles into his room, though, settling him on the bed as gently as possible. Before he turns to leave, though, Stiles mumbles, “Sorry.”
Scott freezes for a moment, but then crouches down next to Stiles’ bed.
“You just worried me,” Scott replies, watching as Stiles reaches out with fumbling fingers to hold his hand.
“No, not – that too, I mean, but – ” Stiles slurs, brow furrowing in adorable confusion and frustration as he tries to form the proper words. “’m sorry for being too clingy.”
“Dude, no, it’s fine,” Scott says, squeezing Stiles’ hand back. “You’re right, I haven’t been around much. I didn’t mean to avoid you, but – ”
“But you know,” Stiles mumbles, ducking his head and hiding his face in his pillow.
“Know what?” Scott asks, frowning in confusion, because he really doesn’t.
“That I don’t wanna be your roommate,” Stiles answers, and Scott’s pretty sure his heart stops for a terrifying moment. Because shit, it looks like Stiles does know, and he’s creeped out, and –
“Wanna be your boyfriend,” Stiles murmurs. “’nd I thought – so I tried – but you’re not interested.”
“What?” Scott blurts out, before his brain to mouth filter can kick in.
“Love you, Scottie,” Stiles slurs, eyelids drooping.
“I love you, too,” Scott echoes softly, but Stiles has already passed out.
Stiles wakes up the next morning when Scott comes in to set a glass of water on his bedside table.
“Oh my god,” Stiles groans, squishing a pillow over his face. “Please never let me drink again. Ever.”
“Dude, you know I can’t promise that,” Scott laughs, hoping the slight nervousness in his voice isn’t too obvious.
“What did I even do last night?” Stiles asks, and Scott’s heart sinks a bit. He was kind of hoping that Stiles would remember, so that he wouldn’t have to go over it again.
“Well, a guy named Jake brought you home. Apparently his number is in your contacts now,” Scott says, trying to keep his voice steady. “And you said you love me.”
“So about par for the course,” Stiles snorts.
“No, I mean,” Scott says, heartbeat speeding up a little. “You said you love me. And want to be my boyfriend.”
Stiles goes very, very still, and his scent becomes bitter with anxiety.
“Shit, Scott, I – ” Stiles starts.
“I said I love you too,” Scott interrupts quickly. “I think you passed out before you heard me, though. And I’d rather be your boyfriend than your roommate.”
“Really?” Stiles asks, peeking out from under his pillow, face flushed red.
“Yeah,” Scott says, sitting down on the side of Stiles’ bed and twining their fingers together.
“Oh,” Stiles replies, blinking up at him. “But you didn’t – ”
“Dude, you’ve never been good about boundaries,” Scott interrupts with a slightly lopsided smile. “I didn’t think you were intentionally trying to give me blue balls.”
“I can make it up to you,” Stiles suggests, waggling his eyebrows, and Scott can’t help the snort of laughter which escapes him.
“You can make it up to me when you’re not hungover,” Scott says, squeezing Stiles’ hand.
“Can’t I at least get a kiss?” Stiles asks, pouting slightly. Scott obliges, leaning down to press his lips softly to Stiles’. Stiles deepens it slightly, tongue delving into Scott’s mouth and one of his hands coming up to grab at Scott’s hair. Scott breaks the kiss before it gets too hot and heavy, though.
“Brush your teeth and then we can make out some more,” he says with a small grin, and Stiles lets out a small, affronted, “Hey!”
“And you should delete Jake from your contacts,” Scott adds, leaning down to rub his face against Stiles’ neck, scent marking him in a way he’s been aching to do ever since Stiles came home coated in Jake’s scent.
“Who’s Jake?” Stiles asks, breath hitching slightly as Scott nips at a spot just below his jawline.