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It is a truth universally acknowledged that werewolves in possession of a pack must be in want of a mate.
Or, at least that is the case in Beacon Hills.
Stiles didn’t understand where the proclivity for the werewolf gene came from in Beacon Hills. The Hales were the predominant pack, considered the werewolf version of royalty. To be given the bite by a Hale was to elevate so far on the social hierarchy that you became untouchable.
Stiles hated them all.
Oh, they were nice enough. Laura Hale was the shining star of the Hale siblings, Homecoming Queen and Senior Class President. She would smile while biting into your flesh, convincing you that you liked it.
Cora was rougher, taking on a dark horse, don’t fuck with me appearance that exudes cool. Even so, she managed to integrate herself into the popular clique, indispensable due to her snark and relationship with Lydia Martin.
The worst (or best, depending on who you asked) was Derek Hale, middle child and everything Stiles wished he could be. He was aloof, but still as popular as his sisters, his model looks shielding his extreme intelligence. His only fault, really, was his disgust at everyone he deemed beneath him. During Homecoming, he had taken one look at Stiles and had rolled his eyes, proclaiming him to be passable, but not worthy of his attention.
Stiles hated to admit how much that stung.
Now, here they all were at Homecoming, and Derek blushed every time he saw Stiles. He wished he could pretend he didn’t know why, or that the attention was positive; if anything, being the person to hold Derek Hale’s affections led to every potential suitor of Derek’s hating him on sight.
He wished he had known when he rejected Derek so thoroughly just how great of a person Derek was underneath his gruff exterior. It might not have changed his answer, given that he was still unwilling to forgive him for his part in driving Isaac away from Scott, but he might have been nicer in his response. Everything felt too large for him to handle, and his complicated emotions surrounding Derek were just waiting for the moment to spill out.
“Stiles,” a voice called, and he jumped, having missed Derek’s steady walk in his direction. “I was wondering if you would like to dance.”
“I seem to recall you mocking my dancing,” he teased, but the attempt fell short; the light dimmed in Derek’s eyes and his shoulders slumped, shuffling away from him slowly.
“Wait!” he exclaimed, reaching for Derek’s arm without thinking. Even if he couldn’t explain or express it, he wanted Derek closer. “I’m sorry for being an asshole. I do want to dance.”
Pink settled across Derek’s cheeks, warming Stiles from the inside, and they made their way to the center of the floor. Everyone around them watched in bated breath, Laura and Cora in barely concealed excitement with the rest of their classmates looking a mixture of envious and bored.
They moved as one, a harmony Stiles never thought he would feel with another, and suddenly the truth came to him; why Derek has reproached him, why he fought so hard now. Derek was wary of humans after the attack on his family, and he was wary of Stiles for his nebulous position with Scott. But, Derek had seen past that to the core of Stiles and found that he not only loved him, but that they were mates.
As the feeling rushed through him, calm that only certainty could bring followed. He knew the truth now, and nothing could separate them again.
“Derek,” he whispered, not wanting the others to hear. Derek tilted his face slightly, subtly revealing his ear to Stiles.
“Stiles, I know I have not always been fair to you. But, I feel that things between us have changed. If not, say no more and I won’t bother you again. If so, please make me the happiest man and accept me as your mate.”
Silence descended between them, the music fading into background noise in the wake of Derek’s speech. Moments passed, with each staring into the eyes of the other, until finally Stiles moved closer into Derek’s arms.
“Der, I want to,” he began, and noise exploded around them before he could continue. Because that was the other thing about Beacon Hills; aside from its propensity for werewolves, it was also a hellmouth for zombies.
They came from each direction, moving to catch each frantic student before they passed by. With an expertise that had been drilled into him since birth, a stake descended from Stiles’ sleeve. “Later,” he promised, kissing Derek square on the mouth for a few second before both turned to stand together, ready to face the hoard.