Chapter Text
Stiles couldn't sleep. It wasn't because he wasn't tired—he was utterly exhausted. But every time he closed his eyes, it felt like someone or something was watching him. The sensation was so strong that it prickled his skin and sent shivers down his spine. Yet, when Scott checked the surrounding area for the fifth time, he found nothing. No signs of danger. No lurking shadows. Nothing.
Maybe Stiles was just paranoid. Maybe there really was nothing outside. Scott had left with a reassuring pat on his shoulder, saying he was just a call away if needed. Now Stiles lay on his bed, trying to will himself to sleep, but the unease wouldn't leave. As soon as his eyes fluttered shut, it happened.
He was flipped onto his stomach, pinned to his bed by an overwhelming force. His heart slammed against his ribcage as he struggled against the grip, but it was no use. Whoever—or whatever—was holding him down was far too strong. Panic set in. He'd laid mountain ash around the windows, so no werewolf should have been able to get inside. That meant this was something else. Something worse.
Why? Why was every supernatural creature always after him? He was the weak, defenseless member of the pack—Stiles Stilinski, human, squishy, and completely vulnerable. He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the inevitable: a blow, a bite, something fatal. But nothing came.
Instead, the thing—or person—leaned closer. Stiles could feel their breath, hot and heavy against the back of his neck. He froze, his mind spinning. The way they were breathing, the way they hovered... it felt deliberate. And then he heard it—a deep, familiar voice, rough and gruff.
"Why didn't you call me instead of him?"
Stiles's brain screeched to a halt. "Huh?" was all he managed to croak out, his voice shaky with disbelief. Maybe he was imagining things. Maybe the sheer terror of the situation was making him hallucinate.
The grip on his wrists tightened, making him hiss in pain. "Answer me, Stiles. Why didn't you call me?"
Stiles's heart dropped. That voice. He wasn't hallucinating. "Derek?" he asked, his voice tinged with confusion and relief. "What are you doing? You're crushing me. Quite literally. Could you... maybe... get off me? I can't breathe."
Derek didn't budge. If anything, he pressed closer, pinning Stiles even more firmly against the mattress.
"Derek!" Stiles snapped, wriggling beneath him. He knew Derek wouldn't hurt him—at least, not fatally. But this? This was beyond weird.
Derek's grip loosened slightly, just enough for Stiles to take a full breath. Relief flooded through him, but it was short-lived. Derek's full weight collapsed on him, his body flush against Stiles's back. That's when Stiles noticed something... awkward. Something pressing against him.
Oh. Oh no.
Derek had a hard-on.
Stiles's face turned a fiery shade of red. This couldn't be happening. "Uh... Derek? Buddy? How are you? I would've called you if I'd known you were in the neighborhood," he babbled, trying to defuse the situation.
Derek lifted his head to glare at him, his expression a mixture of astonishment and... something else. "Really?" he asked, his voice laced with skepticism.
Stiles gulped. This wasn't going well. "Yeah! Totally!" he lied, hoping Derek would buy it.
And Derek did, he buried his face in the crook of Stiles's neck and inhaled deeply and said in a muffled voice "Glad to hear that." Stiles froze. This wasn't normal. This wasn't Derek. This is an impostor. Stiles was now petrified.
"I won't hurt you," Derek murmured softly, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. But the words only made Stiles more anxious.
"Derek, seriously. Get off me," Stiles said, his tone firm despite the trembling in his voice. He tried to squirm free, but Derek's grip was unyielding.
"Why are you so scared of me today?" Derek asked, his voice low and husky. "You're not afraid of anyone, let alone me."
Derek shifted, grinding his hips against Stiles. The friction sent a jolt through Stiles, and he bit back a gasp. This was beyond messed up. "Derek, my dad is sleeping downstairs," Stiles warned. "If I yell, he'll come up here with his gun. And he is not afraid to use it. You might not die but it will hurt like hell. You don't want to mess with the Sheriff, now do you?"
Derek's lips ghosted over Stiles's neck, and Stiles shivered involuntarily. "What if I cover your mouth?" Derek whispered. "What if I shift? Then what? Will your dad stand a chance against me?"
Before Stiles could respond, Derek's teeth grazed his neck in a light, teasing bite. The sensation sent a wave of heat through Stiles, and he gasped sharply. He struggled harder, but Derek was impossibly strong.
"Just once," Derek said, his voice barely audible.
"What?" Stiles asked, his mind racing.
"Let me fuck you. Just once," Derek said, his tone rough with desire.
Stiles's brain short-circuited. Anger flared within him, chasing away the lingering arousal. "Listen, mutt! Get off me right now, or I swear to God—"
Derek blinked, momentarily taken aback by Stiles's outburst. But then Stiles moved, unintentionally pressing against Derek in a way that made them both freeze. A moan escaped Stiles before he could stop it, and the sound seemed to snap Derek out of his hesitation.
"I know you like me," Derek said, his confidence returning. "You've always liked me. You've thought about this. Fantasised about it."
"I did not," Stiles lied weakly, his voice barely above a whisper.
Derek's lips hovered over Stiles's, and for a moment, everything else faded away. Then Stiles closed the distance, crashing his lips against Derek's in a desperate, heated kiss.
The rest was a blur—a tangle of limbs, heated touches, and whispered desires. For one night, they gave in to their raw, unspoken feelings. But they both knew that when morning came, things would return to normal. They'd go back to the bickering, the teasing, the pretending.
Tonight was theirs. Tomorrow didn't matter.
Stiles wraps his long longs around Derek and starts moving his hips. He starts grinding his ass on Derek's dick. Within a few seconds their clothes were gone and they were completely naked. Derek was losing his patience and tried to reach his pants so he could retrieve the bottle of lube that he brought just for this occasion. But Stiles beat him to it and reached for the bottle in his drawer.
The way Stiles hastily handed the lube to Derek sparked something primal in both of them. It wasn't just Stiles's actions—it awakened something deep within Derek's wolf. Stiles wanted him, and Derek's mind clung to the thought that Stiles was desperate for him, even though it was all Derek's relentless stimulation that had drawn such a reaction.
Without warning, Derek positioned himself between Stiles's legs, his movements swift and determined. He took Stiles into his mouth while simultaneously working to open the bottle of lube, pouring a generous amount onto his hand. Derek didn't hesitate as he slid one of his long, thick fingers into Stiles's tight, warm entrance. Stiles gasped sharply, the air seemingly punched out of his lungs as Derek skillfully worked both ends of him, leaving no room for coherent thought.
Stiles, without even thinking straight, grabbed Derek's hair and thrust deeply into his mouth. Not that Derek hated it—in fact, he loved it when Stiles took control like that. They moved like animals, both desperate to devour each other. Stiles was on the edge, about to climax, and so was Derek.
"Derek! If you continue, I'll... I'll..." Stiles tried to speak but couldn't finish his sentence as Derek shoved in two more fingers and started a scissoring motion, pushing Stiles over the edge. Stiles came with a sharp whine into Derek's mouth. He lay panting hard, completely missing the animalistic expression on Derek's face.
Without giving Stiles a moment to catch his breath, Derek flipped him over, positioning himself at Stiles's twitching hole. Stiles yelped and tried to look back at Derek, but Derek firmly grabbed his perky buttocks and drove himself in fully in one swift motion. The pain made Stiles muffle his scream into his pillow, whimpering, "Derek, it hurts. You're hurting me. Slow down a little." He pleaded, trying not to cry. But Derek wasn't listening; his glowing eyes and bared canines made him look like he was on the brink of shifting entirely. Stiles struggled weakly, trying to free himself.
"Don't test me, Stiles," Derek growled in a deep, slurry voice, his control teetering. "I WILL tear you apart with my bare teeth. Now be a good little bitch and let me fuck you senseless."
Derek's rough words sent chills down Stiles's spine. He tried to muffle his grunts and groans, but Derek's unrelenting pace and sheer force made it impossible. As Derek pounded into him, the pain slowly gave way to intense pleasure when Derek hit a spot inside him that made his body arch involuntarily.
Stiles's muffled screams of pleasure filled the room, and his vision blurred with stars. He was teetering on the edge of another orgasm. "Derek, slow... slow down a little... I'm about to..." Stiles managed, but Derek growled a warning. "Don't you dare cum before me."
Stiles tried to hold back, but he was at his limit. "Derek, please! I'm about to... I can't control it anymore... Let me cum!" Stiles begged, his voice laced with desperation. In response, Derek dug his nails into the soft flesh of Stiles's thighs, making him cry out in both pain and pleasure. Stiles hated to admit it, but he liked how Derek manhandled him with such dominance.
"Together," Derek growled, his voice guttural and raw. Picking up his already brutal pace, Derek aimed every thrust to hit Stiles's most sensitive spot. The attempt to stay quiet was long forgotten by both.
Stiles's eyes rolled back as he felt Derek's cock swell, stretching him even further. It was almost too much. "I can't take it, Derek. I can't anymore. Please, I'm begging you. Let me cum!" Stiles cried, tears of frustration pricking his eyes. He tried turning to meet Derek's gaze, but the sight sent shivers through him. Derek's beta form was fully visible now, his body hairy, his teeth elongated, and his amber eyes glowing with intensity. No wonder his cock felt like I grew twice its size.
Derek grabbed a fistful of Stiles's hair, pulling hard to expose his neck. He looked completely feral, an animal fuelled by primal desire. Derek was about to bite Stiles. But Stiles quickly covered his neck with his hands and said "I'll yell for help, Derek. Don't do it. My dad's downstairs. He'll come and Scott has super hearing as well. He'll know too that something is wrong. Don't do this to me. Please I'm begging you don't bite me. DEREK!" Derek covered Stiles mouth with one of his hands.
Derek leaned down and growled, "How dare you mention other men in my presence, bitch? Do you have a death wish? Huh? Answer me, whore. Just a little grinding, and you spread your legs for me. Do you think you have any say here? You shameless little cunt."
Derek punctuated his words with a sharp slap to Stiles's already sore ass, making him hiss in pain. "You should be grateful I'm marking you as mine. It's the highest honour any bitch could dream of. You're worthless, Stiles. No one else would want you like this. You should be thanking me."
Stiles was shocked. This wasn't Derek. Derek would never degrade him like that. But before he could say anything, Derek forcefully removed Stiles's hands from his neck and bit down hard, drawing blood. The pain sent a shockwave through Stiles, and just as Derek bit him, he thrust in deeply, releasing inside him. Stiles felt uncomfortably full, as if Derek's release would never end. His abdomen felt swollen, but he was too drained and overwhelmed to confirm it.
Exhausted and in too much pain, Stiles's body gave out, and he let the darkness take him.
The morning was rough for Stiles in more ways than one. He groaned as the sunlight streamed through his bedroom window, illuminating the chaos of his room. Clothes were strewn across the floor, his bedsheets were tangled, and the distinct scent of sweat and sex still lingered in the air. As he tried to stretch, his body instantly protested.
Every muscle ached, but it was the sharp, almost unbearable pain in his lower back and thighs that made him wince. The moment he attempted to sit up, he realised just how thoroughly Derek had wrecked him.
"Oh my God," Stiles muttered, flopping back down onto his pillow and staring at the ceiling. "I can't even sit, let alone walk. This is not what I signed up for"
He gingerly moved his legs, testing his range of motion, but it only resulted in a hiss of pain escaping his lips. His hips felt like they had been pulled out of alignment, and there was a dull, throbbing ache in a very specific area that made his cheeks burn with embarrassment.
"Okay, staying in bed. Definitely staying in bed," he mumbled to himself.
Stiles reached for his phone on the nightstand and groaned again as the movement sent another jolt of pain through his body. When he finally grabbed it, he saw several missed texts from Scott, asking where he was and if he needed a ride to school.
Scott: Yo, dude. Where are you? Thought you said you weren't skipping today.
Scott: You good? Text me back.
Stiles typed out a quick response, biting back another groan as he shifted on the bed.
Stiles: Not coming. Feeling... uh, under the weather. Tell the teachers I'm dying or something.
He tossed his phone aside and closed his eyes, trying to block out the ache radiating from his body. He thought back to the night before—how Derek had taken control, how intense everything had been, how utterly unprepared he had been for the sheer physicality of it all.
The memory sent a shiver down his spine, part mortification and part something else he wasn't ready to admit yet. "What even was that? Does Derek not believe in easing into things?"
A knock at his door jolted him out of his thoughts.
"Stiles? You awake?" It was his dad.
Crap. Stiles panicked, scrambling to pull the covers up higher over his body, even though his dad couldn't see him through the door. "Uh, yeah, Dad! I'm awake! Just... not feeling great, so I think I'm gonna stay home today."
There was a pause on the other side of the door. "You sure you're okay? You sounded fine yesterday."
"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," Stiles replied quickly, wincing as he adjusted his position again. "Probably just something I ate. Nothing to worry about."
Another pause. "All right. Rest up. I'll be at the station if you need anything."
"Got it. Thanks, Dad."
As soon as he heard his dad's footsteps retreating, Stiles let out a sigh of relief. The last thing he needed was his dad poking around and asking too many questions about why he was suddenly incapable of walking properly.
Pulling his blanket tighter around himself, Stiles resolved to spend the day in bed. He wasn't sure how he was going to face Derek after this—or Scott, for that matter. But for now, he decided to focus on surviving the aftermath of what could only be described as a monumental lapse in judgement.
"Next time," Stiles muttered to himself, "I'm bringing a goddamn safety manual to bed. And maybe a physical therapist."
Derek came and went at night, slipping into Stiles's room with the silence of a predator, his presence commanding and impossible to ignore. The nights were hot, frantic, and full of passion, Derek's hands and body mapping every inch of Stiles as if he were the only thing keeping him tethered to sanity. It was intoxicating, this secret, no-strings-attached dynamic. Stiles thrived on the intensity of their encounters, his body responding to Derek's every touch as if wired specifically for him. But then, morning would come, and with it, Derek's icy detachment. He would disappear before the sun fully rose, leaving nothing but the faint scent of him on Stiles's sheets as evidence that he had even been there.
During the day, Derek pretended as if Stiles didn't exist outside their roles within the pack. Even if no one was around, Derek's behaviour was the same—cold, distant, almost indifferent. Stiles had grown used to the way Derek's intense eyes never lingered on him during meetings, how he spoke to him only when necessary and always in a clipped, professional tone. It was as if the Derek who kissed him breathless, who growled his name like a prayer in the dead of night, didn't exist.
And surprisingly, Stiles was okay with it. He had no delusions about their dynamic. Hot, no-strings-attached sex with a brooding, insanely attractive werewolf? Yeah, that was something he could live with. Relationships weren't on his radar—he wasn't looking to complicate his already chaotic life.
But there were moments when Stiles wondered if Derek felt anything more. If the way Derek's hands lingered on his skin during those fleeting nights meant something deeper. And then, in the harsh light of day, Derek would shut him out completely, acting as though Stiles was nothing more than another packmate—a necessity in their shared mission under Scott's leadership. It stung sometimes, even if Stiles would never admit it aloud.
Because while Derek's behaviour screamed indifference, Stiles couldn't help but wonder if there was something more beneath the surface—something Derek was too stubborn, or too scared, to let him see.
This routine continued for a week before Stiles finally snapped. He couldn't take it anymore—the hot nights, the cold mornings, the way Derek ignored him like nothing ever happened. He needed answers, and there was only one person who could give them to him: Derek.
Determined, Stiles drove to Derek's loft, a box of donuts balanced precariously in his hands. It was his usual peace offering—or bait, depending on how you looked at it. He flung open the door without knocking, stepping into the large, sparsely decorated space.
"Hello, puppies! It's me!" Stiles called out, his voice echoing off the walls. "I brought donuts. Come and get some! Just leave the two plain ones for Sourwolf." He emphasized the last part with a smirk, knowing it would irk Derek.
For a moment, there was silence, and Stiles raised an eyebrow. "What? No takers? Fine, I can always take them to the station. And you know how everyone loves donuts at the sheriff's station."
That did the trick. Erica and Isaac appeared almost instantly, practically sprinting toward him. Erica grabbed the box first, shooting him a sly grin. "You drive a hard bargain, Stilinski."
Isaac hovered beside her, already reaching into the box to snag a donut. "You know we can't resist these."
Right behind them, Boyd strolled in, more composed but still eyeing the box with interest. "We're only tolerating you because of the donuts," he teased, though his hand was already halfway in to grab one.
Stiles grinned triumphantly. "That's fine. Keep them coming. But, uh, leave the plain ones alone. I need to have a chat with your fearless leader."
Erica raised an eyebrow, her grin widening. "Oh? Trouble in paradise?"
Isaac snorted, and Boyd smirked but said nothing.
"Shut up," Stiles muttered, his face flushing slightly. "Just—go eat your donuts somewhere else."
"Whatever you say," Erica drawled, grabbing Isaac's sleeve and leading him toward the couch. Boyd followed without another word, leaving Stiles standing alone in the doorway.
With the pack distracted by their sugary treats, Stiles squared his shoulders and turned toward the stairs leading to Derek's private space. He had come here for answers, and he wasn't leaving until he got them.
Stiles climbed the stairs with determination, his footsteps echoing through the quiet loft. When he reached Derek's room, he pushed the door open without knocking. Derek was leaning against the window, his arms crossed, brooding as always.
"Derek," Stiles said firmly, drawing the werewolf's attention.
"Stiles," Derek replied flatly, his expression unreadable. "What are you doing here?"
Stiles slammed the door behind him, startling Derek's wolf ears. He wasn't in the mood for pleasantries or Derek's usual aloof attitude. "I'm here for answers, Derek. No more sneaking around, no more pretending like nothing's going on between us. I want the truth, and I want it now."
Derek raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Oh, don't give me that!" Stiles snapped, his voice rising with frustration. He yanked down the collar of his shirt, exposing his neck. There, stark against his pale skin, was the faint but unmistakable imprint of a bite mark. "Does this ring any bells, Derek?"
Derek's eyes widened, his sharp features softening with shock. He stepped closer, his gaze locked on the mark. He could smell it now—his scent, his claim, unmistakably his. But...how?
"I—I didn't do that," Derek said, his voice low but firm. He was as perplexed as Stiles. "I haven't touched you, Stiles. Not like that. I was with my pack. They can vouch for me. I've been with my betas all week. You can even ask them if you think I'm lying."
"Then explain this!" Stiles demanded, pointing to the bite. "It's not healing like every other werewolf bite does, and I'm not changing either. So what the hell is this? Did you mess up? Or is this something worse?"
Derek took a step back, his brow furrowing deeply. The mark wasn't just any bite—it was a mating bite. He could see it now, clear as day. The distinct shape, the placement—it wasn't meant to turn Stiles. It was a mark of claim, of permanence, meant to tie someone to a werewolf for life.
"This..." Derek hesitated, his voice unusually shaky. "This isn't a changing bite, Stiles."
Stiles frowned, confused and more than a little irritated. "Then what is it? Because I didn't exactly sign up for a werewolf hickey that's freaking out my body!"
Derek ran a hand through his hair, his mind racing. "It's a mating bite," he admitted finally, his voice barely above a whisper.
Stiles froze. The words hung in the air like a bomb waiting to explode. "...A mating bite? What does that even mean?"
Derek swallowed hard, his usual confidence wavering. "It means I claimed you, Stiles. As mine. Permanently."
Stiles's jaw dropped, and he stared at Derek like he'd grown a second head. "Permanently? Are you kidding me? I didn't agree to this! I didn't even know this was a thing!"
"I don't remember doing it!" Derek shot back, his voice rising defensively. "I swear, Stiles, I was with my betas. They told me themselves—I didn't leave their sight."
"Well, someone left their sight because this didn't just magically appear!" Stiles yelled, pointing to his neck again.
Derek's eyes darkened as he took a steadying breath. The situation was spiralling out of control. If the bite wasn't healing, that meant it had bonded to Stiles's human essence—but it should've started the change or faded if the bond wasn't complete.
Stiles crossed his arms, his frustration boiling over. "So, what does this mean for me? Am I going to turn? Am I going to start howling at the moon? Or did you just screw me over for life?"
Derek shook his head, still trying to process everything. "If you haven't started changing by now, you won't. But the bite... It's not supposed to linger unless..."
"Unless what, Derek?" Stiles prompted impatiently.
"Unless the bond was... accepted," Derek admitted, his voice low.
Stiles's eyes widened, the weight of Derek's words settling on him. "Accepted? What the hell does that mean? I didn't accept anything!"
Derek's lips pressed into a thin line. "It doesn't have to be conscious. If your body didn't reject the bite, it means...some part of you wanted this."
Stiles blinked, utterly baffled. "Wanted this? Derek, I didn't ask to be your...whatever this makes me!"
Derek sighed heavily, his usual stoicism cracking under the pressure. "I need to figure this out, Stiles. But one thing is clear: that mark means you're mine. And whether you like it or not, you are tied to me now."
Stiles groaned, running a hand through his hair in exasperation. "Great. Just great. So now I'm magically bonded to a guy who won't even acknowledge me during the day. Fantastic."
Derek flinched at the jab but said nothing. He had no idea how this happened, but one thing was certain—Stiles was his, and he'd do whatever it took to protect him.
"Fine," Stiles said, throwing up his hands. "Figure it out, Derek. But until you do, I want answers. And I want them soon."
With that, Stiles turned on his heel and stormed out, leaving Derek staring after him, the weight of his actions—or lack thereof—heavy in the air.
Derek stood in the doorway of the study, his piercing gaze sweeping across the loft. His arms were crossed over his broad chest, his body language radiating frustration and authority. The tension in the room was palpable, and Derek's patience was wearing thin.
"Everyone, in the study. Now," Derek barked, his deep, commanding voice echoing throughout the loft.
The betas—Erica, Boyd, and Isaac—were sprawled out in various parts of the living room, each indulging in the rare luxury of downtime. Erica was lazily flipping through a magazine, chewing on a chocolate bar. Isaac was sprawled across the couch with a bowl of chips balanced on his chest, and Boyd was seated on the floor, scrolling through his phone while working on a sandwich.
At Derek's command, they collectively groaned in annoyance, their synchronised complaints forming a chorus of dissatisfaction.
"Seriously? We just sat down," Erica whined, tossing the magazine onto the table and glaring at Derek. "Can't this wait? I'm in the middle of a very important article about fall fashion trends."
Isaac groaned louder, shoving another handful of chips into his mouth before muttering, "I just got comfortable. This better be good, Derek."
Boyd didn't say anything, but the way he dramatically sighed and gave his sandwich a regretful look spoke volumes.
Derek's eyes narrowed, his jaw clenching as his patience reached its breaking point. He took a deliberate step forward, his presence alone enough to make the air in the room feel heavier. His expression was a mix of simmering anger and unrelenting authority.
"Did I stutter?" Derek growled, his voice low and dangerous. His glowing eyes flickered for a brief moment, a warning of what would happen if they didn't comply. "Get in the study. Now. Or I swear I'll drag every one of you in there myself."
The betas exchanged nervous glances, the unspoken understanding passing between them that Derek was not in the mood to be tested.
Erica rolled her eyes dramatically but stood up, grabbing her half-eaten chocolate bar and muttering under her breath, "Alpha's orders, I guess. Who needs chocolate and relaxation anyway?"
Isaac reluctantly followed suit, stuffing a handful of chips into his mouth and abandoning the rest of the bowl on the coffee table. "This better not be another lecture about responsibility or pack loyalty or whatever."
Boyd took one last mournful bite of his sandwich before standing up, his expression stoic but tinged with irritation.
As they trudged toward the study, Derek's piercing glare followed them, making it clear that any further complaints would not be tolerated. The betas shuffled into the room with the energy of kids being forced to attend detention, each of them clearly irritated but unwilling to risk Derek's wrath.
Derek closed the study door behind them with a definitive click, crossing his arms as he turned to face his pack. His expression was cold and unyielding, his eyes scanning each of them as though daring them to challenge his authority.
"Sit," he ordered, gesturing to the chairs around the room.
They obeyed without protest, their earlier defiance replaced with wary compliance. Erica slouched in her chair, Isaac fiddled with the hem of his hoodie, and Boyd stared straight ahead, his jaw tight.
Derek paced like a caged animal, his anger simmering just below the surface. His betas—Erica, Boyd, and Isaac—stood nervously in front of him, exchanging wary glances. They had never seen Derek this agitated before, and the tension in the room was suffocating.
"You told me you had eyes on me the entire time," Derek growled, his voice dangerously low. "But now you're telling me there were gaps in your surveillance?"
Erica, bold as ever but clearly shaken, crossed her arms defensively. "Look, Derek, we're not robots. We need sleep too. Maybe you left and came back without us knowing. We didn't hear anything, okay?"
Derek's eyes narrowed, his glowing amber irises flashing in the dim light. "You think I left? Do you understand what this means?!"
Boyd tried to calm the situation, raising his hands in a placating gesture. "Derek, we're telling you the truth. None of us know what happened. We're just saying it's possible you—"
"Enough!" Derek roared, his voice echoing through the loft. He turned on Erica, who had been inching toward the stairs, clearly uncomfortable with the confrontation. "You're supposed to have my back, Erica. If you can't even keep watch properly—"
"We're not your babysitters!" Erica snapped back, her fear overridden by her sharp tongue. "Maybe you should figure out your own issues instead of blaming us for your mistakes!"
That was the last straw. Derek's control snapped. In a blur of motion, he lashed out, his fist connecting with Erica's chest. The force of the punch sent her flying across the room, slamming into the wall with a sickening thud.
Isaac and Boyd froze, their eyes wide with shock and fear as Erica crumpled to the floor, gasping for breath. "Derek!" Isaac finally yelled, stepping forward but hesitating when Derek turned to him, his teeth bared and his claws extended.
Downstairs, Stiles was talking to Scott, trying to explain the situation as best he could. The muffled sound of shouting caught his attention, and his brows furrowed. "What's going on up there?" he muttered, standing abruptly.
Scott listened for a moment, his werewolf senses picking up the chaos upstairs. "It's Derek. He's...angry."
"No kidding," Stiles snapped before bolting for the stairs. "Stay here. I've got this."
"Stiles, wait—" Scott called after him, but Stiles was already gone.
Bursting into the loft, Stiles skidded to a halt at the sight before him. Erica was slumped against the wall, clutching her side, while Isaac and Boyd stood frozen, clearly terrified. Derek, glowing eyes and claws extended, looked like he was on the verge of tearing into them next.
"What the hell is wrong with you?!" Stiles shouted, his voice cutting through the tension like a whip.
Derek turned to him, his expression still feral. "Stiles, stay out of this."
"Stay out of this?" Stiles repeated, incredulous. He stormed across the room, placing himself between Derek and his cowering betas. "You're beating the crap out of your own pack! Are you insane?!"
"They lied to me," Derek growled, his claws twitching as he struggled to rein in his wolf. "They said I didn't leave, but they don't know. This is their fault."
"No, Derek," Stiles shot back, his voice rising. "This is your fault. You're the alpha. You're supposed to protect them, not turn them into punching bags because you can't handle your own mistakes!"
Derek's eyes flickered, a brief flash of guilt crossing his face before his anger returned. "You don't understand, Stiles. This—this is bigger than you or me. That mark—"
"I don't care about the mark right now!" Stiles interrupted, his hands shaking with barely contained fury. "What I care about is you acting like a psycho and taking it out on the people who trust you. Do you think this is what an alpha does? Newsflash, Derek: this isn't leadership. It's abuse."
Derek flinched at the word, his claws retracting slightly. Behind Stiles, Erica struggled to her feet, glaring at Derek through the pain.
"Stiles is right," she spat, her voice hoarse but defiant. "You're supposed to be better than this. If you can't keep yourself in check, maybe you're not as fit to lead as you think."
The words hit Derek like a punch to the gut. He looked around the room—at Erica's bruised form, at Isaac and Boyd's terrified expressions, and finally at Stiles, who was practically vibrating with anger.
Derek took a step back, his hands trembling as the weight of what he'd done sank in. "I..." He struggled to find the words, his voice cracking slightly. "I didn't mean to—"
"Save it," Stiles snapped, cutting him off. "If you want to fix this, start by apologising. And then figure out how to get your act together before you lose everyone who actually gives a damn about you."
Derek lowered his head, his shoulders slumping in defeat. For the first time, he looked less like the fierce alpha and more like a man who had no idea how to fix the mess he'd made.
After the explosive confrontation with his betas, Derek had kept his distance from Stiles. He didn't return to his window at night, didn't sneak into the boy's room, and didn't indulge in the tangled, messy intimacy that had once consumed them both. The nights were eerily quiet now, devoid of whispered moans and shadowed visits. Stiles had returned to his usual routine, albeit with an odd sense of relief and a pang of loneliness he refused to acknowledge.
The pack had also settled back into its rhythm, with Derek focusing on training them harder than ever, as if he were trying to exorcise his own frustrations through their sweat and bruises. The tense energy that had once hung over the loft dissipated, replaced by the old camaraderie. It was as if the chaos with Stiles had never happened—or at least that's what Derek wanted everyone to believe.
Then came Jennifer Blake.
She was the new English teacher at Beacon Hills High—charming, intelligent, and undeniably beautiful. Her warm smile and easy demeanour quickly won her favour with both the students and staff. Stiles had even overheard Scott and Allison talking about how kind she was, how she always had time for her students and genuinely cared about their success.
Derek met her by chance one afternoon while picking up Erica from detention. Jennifer had been overseeing the session and struck up a conversation with him, curious about why someone like Derek—a brooding, leather-clad enigma—was responsible for a high school student. Their banter was awkward at first, but Jennifer had a way of drawing people out, and Derek found himself intrigued by her warmth and gentle persistence.
It didn't take long for their relationship to blossom. They were spotted together around town—at the coffee shop, at the movies, and even at the park. Jennifer's presence seemed to soften Derek's edges. He smiled more, spoke in lighter tones, and appeared... happy.
But the pack was anything but thrilled.
The first time Erica saw Derek drop Jennifer off at her car with a lingering kiss, she nearly lost it. She stormed into the loft that evening, her golden eyes blazing with fury.
"Are you serious, Derek?" she snapped, slamming her bag onto the couch. "Jennifer Blake? Really?"
Isaac chimed in, looking equally appalled. "What the hell are you thinking, Derek? You can't just—after everything with Stiles—"
Derek glared at them, his jaw tightening. "There is no 'everything with Stiles.' It's over. It's been over. Move on."
But his pack wasn't convinced. Boyd, the most level-headed of the group, crossed his arms and fixed Derek with a hard stare. "You might think it's over, but we saw the way you looked at him. We saw the way he looked at you. And now you're parading some new woman around like it's nothing? What the hell, Derek?"
"Stiles doesn't even see me that way anymore," Derek growled, his voice low and dangerous. "He's moved on. He's fine."
"Has he?" Erica challenged, stepping forward. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're the one running away. You're trying to convince yourself that Jennifer is the answer, but she's not Stiles, and you damn well know it."
The loft erupted into chaos as the pack voiced their anger and frustration. They weren't just angry about Derek's new relationship—they were angry about what it symbolised. To them, it wasn't about Stiles or Jennifer or even Derek's happiness. It was about loyalty, about trust, and about the unspoken bonds that held them all together.
Derek, however, refused to back down. "This is my life," he snapped. "I don't owe any of you an explanation for who I choose to date. Jennifer makes me happy, and that's all that matters."
But the pack wasn't buying it. To them, Derek's actions felt like a betrayal—not just to Stiles but to the pack as a whole. They saw the way Stiles had been hurt, even if he wouldn't admit it. They saw the cracks in Derek's facade, the lingering guilt and regret he tried so hard to bury. And no matter how much Derek tried to convince himself otherwise, they knew he wasn't over Stiles.
The loft remained divided, the tension between Derek and his pack growing with each passing day. Meanwhile, Stiles remained oblivious to the turmoil, his focus on school, his friends, and the strange sense of peace that had returned to his life. He didn't think about Derek much anymore.
But deep down, in the quiet moments when he was alone with his thoughts, he couldn't help but wonder why Derek had disappeared so completely. Why he hadn't looked back. Why it felt like something between them had been left unfinished.
The revelation that Jennifer Blake—Beacon Hills' charming, kind-hearted teacher—was, in fact, a darach sent shockwaves through the pack. The woman Derek had allowed into his life, into his heart, turned out to be a manipulative, power-hungry killer who had been sacrificing innocent lives to fuel her twisted rituals.
Erica had been the first to suspect something was off. Jennifer's constant probing questions about the pack's dynamics and their weaknesses had raised red flags. Isaac, ever the skeptic, dug deeper, uncovering a trail of inconsistencies in Jennifer's background. It all came to a head when the pack intercepted one of her rituals in the woods—a grotesque display of dark magic that left no doubt about her true identity.
The battle against Jennifer was brutal. She was powerful, her connection to the nemeton amplifying her abilities far beyond what they had anticipated. The pack worked together like a well-oiled machine, their bonds of trust and loyalty stronger than ever. Scott, as always, led with courage and determination, while Derek fought with a ferocity fuelled by anger and betrayal.
It was Stiles, however, who tipped the scales in their favour. Armed with his quick thinking and an uncanny ability to spot weaknesses, he devised a plan to sever Jennifer's connection to the nemeton, effectively cutting off her power source. It worked, but not without a cost. Jennifer, cornered and desperate, lashed out with everything she had, injuring several members of the pack before Derek delivered the final blow.
When it was over, the pack stood in the aftermath of the chaos, bruised and bloodied but victorious. Derek, however, was unusually silent. He stared at Jennifer's lifeless body, his emotions a swirling storm of guilt, anger, and regret. How had he allowed himself to be so blind? How had he let her get so close?
The pack, despite their earlier anger, didn't say a word. They knew Derek was punishing himself enough already.
In the days that followed, the pack worked to rebuild, both physically and emotionally. Derek threw himself into training and strengthening their defences, determined never to let something like this happen again. But even as he tried to focus, his thoughts kept drifting back to Stiles.
At first, he couldn't understand it. He told himself it was because Stiles had played such a critical role in defeating Jennifer. The boy's intelligence and bravery had been invaluable, and Derek was simply grateful. But deep down, he knew it was more than that.
Stiles had always had a way of getting under Derek's skin, of challenging him in ways no one else could. He was infuriating and reckless, but he was also loyal, selfless, and fiercely protective of the people he cared about. And despite everything that had happened between them, Stiles had never truly turned his back on Derek.
One evening, as Derek stood on the balcony of the loft, staring out at the Beacon Hills skyline, he found himself thinking about Stiles.
The truth was, he missed Stiles. He missed his snarky comments, his ridiculous humour, and the way he always seemed to know exactly what to say to pull Derek out of his head. He missed the way Stiles looked at him, like he saw something more than just the brooding alpha with a tragic past.
Before he knew it, Derek was grabbing his jacket and heading out the door. He didn't know what he was going to say, or if Stiles would even want to see him. But he had to try.
When he arrived at the Stilinski house, he hesitated for a moment before knocking on the door. Stiles opened it, his expression shifting from surprise to confusion as he saw Derek standing there.
"Derek? What are you doing here?" Stiles asked, his tone cautious but not unfriendly.
"I... I needed to see you," Derek admitted, his voice low. He looked at Stiles, really looked at him, and for the first time in months, he allowed himself to hope. "Can we talk?"
Stiles raised an eyebrow, folding his arms across his chest. "This better not be some weird wolf thing where you apologise for leaving bite marks on my neck or something."
Derek huffed out a quiet laugh, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. "No. It's not that. I just... I need to make things right. With you."
Stiles studied him for a moment, his gaze softening. "Alright, sourwolf. Come in. Let's talk."
And just like that, the door opened—not just to the Stilinski house, but to the possibility of something new, something real.
The relationship between Derek and Stiles was... complicated, to say the least. Awkward, definitely awkward. Derek, being the emotionally constipated alpha he was, didn't know how to navigate his feelings, much less articulate them. Stiles, on the other hand, was as vocal as ever, using sarcasm and humour to deflect the tension. Together, they were like two puzzle pieces that fit but didn't know how to align just yet.
The rest of the pack, however, found their dynamic amusing—and a welcome distraction from their usual chaos. The tension between Derek and Stiles had lightened considerably since their reunion, and the pack couldn't help but notice the subtle, and sometimes not-so-subtle, moments between the two. Stiles's quick-witted remarks often left Derek grumbling under his breath, his ears tinged red, while Derek's rare, softer looks at Stiles didn't go unnoticed.
Scott and Isaac, however, took things to a new level. They began competing for the title of "Stiles's favorite pup."
"Stiles, come on, you like me better, right?" Isaac would say, leaning against the couch dramatically. "I mean, I'm loyal, charming, and I've got the best curls in the pack. Admit it."
"Please," Scott would cut in, rolling his eyes. "I've been best friends with Stiles since we were kids. He's practically family. Right, Stiles?"
Stiles, caught between amusement and exasperation, would laugh at their antics. "Oh my god, you two are like toddlers fighting over a juice box. How about this? You're both equally annoying, but in totally different ways."
This, of course, only made them double down, turning every little interaction with Stiles into an opportunity to one-up each other. It wasn't long before Allison and Lydia joined in on the fun, much to Stiles's dismay.
"Obviously, I'm his favorite," Lydia declared one day, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "I'm brilliant, I saved his life like, what, five times? And let's face it, he's obsessed with me."
Allison laughed. "Lydia, you're not even in the running. Stiles knows I've got his back in a fight. That kind of trust is unbreakable."
"Okay, first of all," Stiles interrupted, hands raised, "none of you are my 'favourite.' I don't play favourites, alright? And second, if you keep this up, I'm going to start charging you for emotional damages."
But even as he complained, Stiles couldn't help but enjoy the playful banter. It was nice to feel like he belonged, to be part of this strange, dysfunctional family that had formed around him.
Even Derek, though he rarely joined in, couldn't entirely suppress the faint smirk that appeared when Stiles was laughing with the pack. It was in those moments that Derek felt the closest to something resembling peace. Watching Stiles bring the pack together with his unrelenting humour and warmth reminded Derek of why he was drawn to him in the first place.
The dynamic between Derek and Stiles might have been awkward, but in its own way, it worked. Slowly but surely, they were finding their way back to each other. And with the pack rallying around them, teasing and supporting in equal measure, maybe—just maybe—they'd figure out how to make it work for real.
The pack had settled into a rhythm that felt, for the first time, like a family. Even Jackson, the pack's perpetual wild card, had mellowed out under the unlikely influence of Stiles. If someone had told Stiles a year ago that he'd be the one taming Jackson "King of Snark" Whittemore, he'd have laughed in their face. But here they were, and somehow, Stiles had become the glue holding the pack together.
It wasn't just Jackson who responded to him, though. Stiles's uncanny ability to calm the wolves around him had become almost legendary in Beacon Hills. He was like a wolf whisperer, though he'd vehemently deny it if asked. The real test of this came one day at school when things took a nasty turn between Isaac and Jackson.
The tension had been building for days. Isaac's snark and Jackson's arrogance were like flint and steel, and it finally ignited during lunch in the middle of the crowded cafeteria. What started as a heated exchange of insults escalated into a full-blown physical fight. Claws extended, and their eyes glowed with fury though the transformation was very subtle and hardly noticeable it sent all the students scrambling to the edges of the room.
It was chaos. Lunch trays went flying, tables were overturned, and no one dared to get between the two betas. Even the teachers stood frozen in fear, unsure of how to intervene. Erica, watching from the sidelines, pulled out her phone to call Stiles, the one person who could diffuse the situation.
"Stiles," Erica said urgently when he picked up, "it's Isaac and Jackson. They're about to kill each other in the cafeteria. You need to get here. Now."
Stiles didn't hesitate. He bolted from his class, ignoring his teacher's protests, and sprinted toward the cafeteria. By the time he arrived, the fight had reached its peak. Isaac had Jackson pinned to the ground, his claws dangerously close to Jackson's throat, while Jackson snarled and thrashed beneath him. The entire room was silent except for the growls and the sound of furniture being dragged across the floor.
Without thinking, Stiles marched straight into the chaos, planting himself right in the middle of the two betas.
"HEY!" Stiles shouted, his voice cutting through the noise like a whip. "WHAT THE HELL DO YOU TWO THINK YOU'RE DOING?"
Isaac and Jackson froze, their glowing eyes snapping toward Stiles. The raw authority in his voice, the sheer force of his presence, made them falter. It was like their instincts overrode their rage, compelling them to listen.
"Get up. NOW," Stiles demanded, pointing at Isaac. When Isaac hesitated, Stiles added, "Don't make me say it twice, Lahey."
Isaac released Jackson immediately, backing away with his head lowered in submission. Stiles turned his glare on Jackson, who was still sprawled on the floor. "And you, Whittemore—on your feet. Unless you want to explain to Derek why you're acting like a rabid idiot."
Jackson scrambled to his feet, looking almost sheepish. The entire cafeteria watched in stunned silence as Stiles stood between the two betas, his hands on his hips and his glare sharp enough to cut glass.
"What the hell is wrong with you two?" Stiles continued, his voice dripping with frustration. "You think this is how civilised members of society behave? Do you think Derek—or Scott, for that matter—would be proud of this? Because newsflash: they wouldn't. You're supposed to have each other's backs, not tear each other apart like rabid dogs."
Isaac and Jackson both muttered apologies, avoiding Stiles's piercing gaze.
"Good," Stiles said, his tone softening slightly. "Now, shake hands or hug or whatever you need to do to make up, and then clean up this mess. And if I hear about anything like this happening again, you're both going to regret it. Got it?"
They nodded quickly, their postures subdued, and set about cleaning the wreckage of their fight. Stiles turned to the rest of the cafeteria, who were still watching in awe.
"And you," he said to the crowd, "stop staring and go back to your lunch. Show's over."
As the students hurriedly obeyed, Erica sidled up to Stiles, a smirk on her face. "You know," she said, "you could probably rule the world if you wanted to."
Stiles snorted. "Yeah, well, someone's gotta keep these idiots in line. Might as well be me."
Beacon Hills had always lived up to its name—a beacon for the supernatural. It was as if the small, unassuming town called out to every supernatural creature within a hundred-mile radius, drawing them in like moths to a flame. From kanimas to nogitsunes, it seemed like there was never a moment's peace for the pack. And then, of course, came the Alpha Pack.
The arrival of the Alpha Pack brought challenges that tested not just their strength but their trust in one another. This wasn't just a group of rogue werewolves—they were powerful, ruthless, and calculated. The pack had heard whispers of the Alpha Pack before, but seeing them in Beacon Hills was another thing entirely. Led by Deucalion, a man whose charisma was only outmatched by his ruthlessness, the Alpha Pack exuded danger with every step.
Their arrival wasn't just a test of strength—it tested the very foundation of the pack's bond. For the first time in a long time, everyone was on edge. Jackson, who had only just started to find his place, began acting out again. Isaac became more withdrawn, haunted by memories of his abusive past, which Deucalion seemed to exploit at every turn. Even Scott, ever the hopeful leader, seemed uncertain about how they could possibly defeat a pack of alphas.
And then there was Braeden.
Braeden wasn't like anyone else they'd met before. A mercenary with a mysterious past, she seemed to exist in the grey areas of morality, a stark contrast to the pack's usual black-and-white worldview. She was hired to protect someone—though the pack couldn't figure out who at first—and her initial run-in with them was less than friendly. She was strong, skilled, and more than capable of holding her own against supernatural foes. But there was something about her, something that made it hard to tell whose side she was really on.
Derek was the first to trust her, though he didn't say it outright. He saw in her a kindred spirit—someone who carried the weight of her past like armour, someone who had survived more than anyone should have to. The pack, on the other hand, wasn't so quick to welcome her. Stiles, in particular, was suspicious of her motives, and he wasn't shy about voicing his concerns.
"So, let me get this straight," Stiles said one night after Braeden had helped them fend off an ambush from the Alpha Pack. "We're just supposed to trust the badass mercenary who just happens to show up in town when everything's going to hell? Yeah, because that's not suspicious at all."
"Stiles," Derek growled, a warning in his tone. But Stiles wasn't deterred.
"I'm just saying! We don't know anything about her. For all we know, she's working with the Alpha Pack."
Braeden smirked, leaning back against the wall with her arms crossed. "If I were working with the Alpha Pack, you'd already be dead, kid."
Stiles opened his mouth to retort, but Scott stepped in before the argument could escalate. "We don't have time for this," he said, his voice firm. "Right now, we need all the help we can get. Braeden's proven herself—she saved Lydia and Allison tonight. That's good enough for me."
The tension between Braeden and the pack slowly began to thaw as they faced the Alpha Pack together. She wasn't just a skilled fighter—she was resourceful, knowledgeable, and unflinchingly brave. Her presence challenged the pack to think differently, to adapt in ways they hadn't before.
But it wasn't all smooth sailing. The Alpha Pack's arrival brought more than just external threats; it unearthed old wounds and created new rifts. The pack's bond was tested like never before. Arguments broke out over strategy, trust, and the mounting pressure of keeping the town—and each other—safe.
Through it all, Braeden remained an enigma. She never revealed more than she had to, but there were moments when her guard slipped—fleeting glimpses of vulnerability that made the pack realise she wasn't as invincible as she seemed. And despite his initial doubts, even Stiles began to see her in a different light.
"Okay," Stiles admitted one night after a particularly gruelling fight, "maybe you're not the worst thing to happen to this pack."
Braeden raised an eyebrow, a small smirk tugging at her lips. "High praise coming from you."
"Don't get used to it," Stiles shot back, though there was no bite in his words.
As the battle against the Alpha Pack raged on, the pack grew stronger—not just as fighters, but as a family. They learned to trust each other in new ways, to rely on one another even when the odds seemed impossible. And though the challenges were far from over, they faced them together, bound by the unshakeable bond that made them more than just a pack.
Derek's unexpected return from his hunt with Braeden caught the pack completely off guard. The loft was a mess of music, laughter, and discarded cups, remnants of the impromptu party the pack had thrown in his absence. But all of it came to a screeching halt the moment Derek walked through the door.
His glowing red eyes scanned the room, and every muscle in his body was taut with fury. He radiated danger, his energy almost suffocating. The pack froze in their tracks, none of them daring to speak until Derek growled, low and menacing, "Out. All of you."
The pack didn't need to be told twice. They quickly gathered their things, muttering apologies as they filed out. Stiles stayed behind, his pulse racing as he watched the alpha barely keeping himself in check.
"Scott," Stiles called out to his best friend before he left, "take everyone to your place. I'll... I'll deal with this."
"You sure?" Scott asked, concern clear in his tone.
"Yeah. Just go," Stiles insisted, though his confidence was more of a front than anything else.
When the loft door finally shut, leaving them alone, Stiles turned to face Derek. His glowing red eyes and the way his chest heaved with ragged breaths were enough to tell Stiles what was happening.
"Oh," Stiles said, realisation dawning. "Your rut's started again."
Derek's jaw clenched, his body visibly tense as he struggled to keep himself from losing control. "You knew?"
"Deaton told me the first time," Stiles admitted, cautiously stepping closer. "He explained how painful it can be if you're away from the person you... want."
Derek growled low in his throat, a sound of frustration and desire mingling together. "I couldn't stay out there," he muttered, his voice rough. "I had to come back. I couldn't... I couldn't stay away from you."
Stiles's stomach twisted at the admission. He'd been through this once before with Derek, and it had left him conflicted. The intimacy they'd shared that night hadn't been just physical; it had been overwhelming, almost consuming. And now, Derek was back, asking for more.
"Derek," Stiles started, his tone hesitant. "I get that this is hard for you—literally, no pun intended—but this isn't exactly easy for me either."
Derek's gaze softened slightly, though his body remained tense. "I know," he said quietly. "But I need you, Stiles. You're the only one I trust with this."
Stiles ran a hand through his hair, trying to calm the whirlwind of thoughts racing through his mind. "It's not just about the rut, is it?" he asked, his voice dropping to a whisper.
Derek shook his head. "No. It's not." He hesitated, as if weighing whether to continue. "You're a spark, Stiles. The most powerful one anyone's seen in centuries. You can will anything into existence. You know that."
Stiles stiffened, already knowing where this was going. "Derek," he warned, "don't."
"You could," Derek said, stepping closer. "You could will yourself to get pregnant."
Stiles blinked at him, his jaw dropping. "Are you serious right now? You want me to—what? Magically make myself a baby factory because your wolfy instincts are acting up?"
"It's not like that," Derek said, his voice strained. "This isn't just about the rut. I... I want this. With you. If there's anyone I trust to do this with, it's you."
Stiles turned away, pacing as he tried to process what Derek was asking. "Do you even hear yourself right now? This isn't some random magic trick, Derek. You're asking me to fundamentally change my life. To—" He stopped, his voice breaking. "You don't just ask someone for that."
"I wouldn't ask if I didn't mean it," Derek said, his tone firm but not unkind. "You're more than a packmate to me, Stiles. You always have been."
Stiles closed his eyes, his heart aching at the sincerity in Derek's voice. He wanted to say no, to tell Derek that this was too much. But deep down, he couldn't deny the pull he felt toward the alpha, the way their bond seemed to defy logic.
After what felt like an eternity, Stiles finally turned back to Derek. "If I do this," he said, his voice quiet but steady, "it's not just for you. It's because I..." He hesitated, then sighed. "Because I care about you. More than I probably should."
Derek stepped closer, his gaze locked on Stiles's. "I'd never ask this of anyone else," he said softly. "And I'll never take it for granted. I promise."
Stiles nodded, swallowing hard as he prepared himself for what was to come. "Alright, sourwolf. Let's do this. But if you ever pull something like this on me again, I swear to God, I'll—"
Derek silenced him with a kiss, pulling him close as he poured every ounce of gratitude and longing into the embrace.
That night, as they came together in a haze of heat and magic, Stiles focused every bit of his power, willing his body to do what Derek had asked. It wasn't easy, and it wasn't without hesitation. But for Derek—for the unspoken connection they shared—he was willing to try.
Derek was different this time. There was a gentleness in the way he touched Stiles, a calmness in his movements that contrasted with the usual intensity that came with werewolf instincts. It wasn't rushed or desperate, but it was still overwhelming in its sheer rawness. Werewolf sex wasn't something Stiles thought he'd ever get used to, no matter how many times it happened.
The aftermath was always the hardest. By the time morning came, Stiles was in agonizing pain from the waist down, every muscle in his body screaming in protest. It was the kind of pain that reminded him exactly what he was dealing with—a supernatural partner whose strength and stamina far surpassed his own.
Derek had offered to help, but Stiles, stubborn as ever, waved him off. "I'm fine," he'd said, gritting his teeth as he tried—and failed—to get out of bed without wincing.
Derek didn't buy it for a second. "You're not fine," he muttered, his voice low but tinged with concern. He moved closer, his hands gentle as he helped Stiles back onto the bed. "You should rest."
"Rest, right," Stiles huffed. "Because lying here totally helps with the fact that I feel like I've been hit by a truck."
Derek sighed, clearly trying to hold back a smirk. "I told you I'd go easier this time."
"You did go easier," Stiles admitted, flopping back against the pillows. "Doesn't mean I'm not regretting every life choice that led me to this moment."
Despite the teasing, Derek stayed by his side, bringing him water, painkillers, and even a makeshift breakfast when Stiles complained about being hungry. For all his gruffness, Derek had a surprisingly soft side, one that he rarely showed but that Stiles had come to appreciate.
By the end of the week, the pain had started to fade, and Stiles was able to move around without feeling like his body was falling apart. He was sore, sure, but it was manageable. When the week finally ended, Stiles found himself somewhat grateful—not just for the reprieve from the physical toll, but for the fact that, despite everything, Derek had been there.
Still, as he lay in bed that night, staring up at the ceiling, Stiles couldn't help but think: Werewolf sex might kill me one day. But at least I'll die knowing it was worth it.
Derek had an uncanny ability to frustrate Stiles, but this time, it was different. When Stiles finally brought up Derek's request—that he use his spark to will himself pregnant—Derek froze. The usually confident werewolf faltered, his eyes darting away like a guilty child caught in a lie.
"You shouldn't take anything I say during my ruts seriously, Stiles," Derek said, his tone clipped. "It's just... instinct. Nothing more."
Stiles stared at him, the words hitting him like a bucket of cold water. "Instinct?" he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper. "That's all it was to you?"
Derek sighed, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "I wasn't thinking clearly. You know how it is. It doesn't mean anything."
It doesn't mean anything.
The words echoed in Stiles's mind, cutting deeper than he cared to admit. He had agreed, despite his reluctance, to consider Derek's request because, on some level, he thought it meant something more. That maybe Derek saw a future between them, something worth building together. But now, standing here, hearing Derek so casually dismiss it all, Stiles felt like a fool.
"Right. Of course," Stiles said, forcing a laugh that sounded hollow even to his own ears. "Why would I expect you to mean anything you say? My bad for taking you seriously, Derek."
Derek flinched at the bitterness in Stiles's tone, but he didn't say anything to stop him as Stiles turned and walked out of the loft, slamming the door behind him.
For days, Stiles tried to shake the disappointment that weighed heavy on his chest. He told himself it didn't matter, that Derek's inability to communicate like a normal human being wasn't his problem. But the hurt lingered, festering like an open wound.
And then, as if the universe wasn't cruel enough, Stiles found out about Braeden.
It was Erica who let it slip, though not intentionally. She had been chatting with Stiles about pack dynamics when she mentioned how Derek had been spending more time with Braeden lately.
"Wait, what?" Stiles asked, his heart sinking. "What do you mean, 'spending more time'?"
Erica blinked, realizing her mistake. "Oh, uh, it's nothing. Just... you know, Derek and Braeden have been working together on stuff. Supernatural hunts and all that."
But Stiles wasn't stupid. He saw the way Erica avoided his gaze, the hesitation in her voice. It didn't take much for him to put the pieces together.
When he confronted Derek about it, the werewolf didn't deny it.
"It's not what you think," Derek said, his voice low, almost pleading.
"Really?" Stiles snapped, his hands clenched into fists. "Because it looks a hell of a lot like you were sleeping with me one minute and then running off with Braeden the next."
Derek's silence spoke volumes, and Stiles felt the final piece of his heart break.
"You're unbelievable," Stiles said, his voice shaking with anger and hurt. "You don't get to ask me for something as huge as what you did and then turn around and act like it didn't happen. And now this? I don't even know why I'm surprised."
"Stiles—" Derek started, but Stiles held up a hand to stop him.
"Don't," Stiles said firmly. "Just... don't. I'm done."
And with that, Stiles walked away, leaving Derek standing alone in the loft. This time, Stiles didn't look back.