
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/14032677.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski, Stiles_Stilinski_&_The_Pack, Vernon_Boyd/
      Erica_Reyes
  Character:
      Derek_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski, Sheriff_Stilinski, Erica_Reyes, Vernon
      Boyd, Isaac_Lahey, Peter_Hale, Scott_McCall_(Teen_Wolf), Allison_Argent,
      The_Alpha_Pack_(Teen_Wolf), (canon-divergent_Alpha_Pack)
  Additional Tags:
      teen_wolf_bingo, Witch_Curses, Curses, Alternate_Universe_-_Canon
      Divergence, Canon-Typical_Violence, Character_Death, except_not_really,
      Stiles_is_Kenny, Peter_Ships_It, Erica_Reyes_Ships_It, Sheriff
      Stilinski's_Name_is_John, Sheriff_Stilinski_Finds_Out, The_Alpha_Pack
      aren't_assholes, Scott_is_a_Bad_Friend, Puppy_Piles, Group_Hugs, Pack
      Dynamics, Pack_Bonding, Pack_Family, Pack_Mother_Stiles_Stilinski,
      Emissary_Stiles_Stilinski, Hurt_Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Fluff, Happy
      Ending, Crack, (if_you_squint), Cuddling_&_Snuggling, First_Time,
      Frottage
  Series:
      Part 1 of TW_Bingo♘
  Stats:
      Published: 2018-03-20 Words: 10014
****** The Kenny Situation ******
by Whispering_Sumire
Summary
     He hears the grate of Erica sliding the window open, hears her call
     after the homeless man, muttering far off now, "Hey! You killed
     Stiles!"
     She sounds vaguely annoyed more than anything.
     Derek wants to howl with the agony he's in.
     "You bastard!" Isaac chimes from somewhere deeper in the Loft.
     Derek feels sick.
     He rocks the body in his arms, holds the hand in his over the wound,
     shakes with sobs he doesn't let free, and wonders how this was the
     thing who got the boy who runs with wolves? How was it just another
     meaningless act of violence? How is that fair?
     Why doesn't anyone seem to care?
     [Or: The one where Stiles gets cursed by witches, keeps dying and
     coming back to life, and the only one even vaguely cognizant of this
     is Derek.]
Fucking Stiles.
Stiles who isn't even a part of his fucking Pack, but is always, always the
clever one. Even with the Alpha Pack already lurking on their borders, of
course, of course they'd garner the attention of a homicidal Coven. And, of
course, Stiles would find out as easy as anything who they were and what they
were doing and how, theoretically, to stop them, of course he would be ignored
by Scott who can't even imagine the murders were done for supernatural reasons,
of course he would then come to Derek with all the research and information
whilst second-guessing himself the whole time even as he demands something be
done.
("You're the Alpha in the house, dude- you got all your Betas back, you,
unwittingly and forcible and I'm still very sorry about that, helped take
Gerard down. It's all coming up Derek! And I may be wrong, I mean, everyone
else thinks I'm wrong, Scott, Dad, whatever. Point is, you're the Supernatural
go-to, and if I'm right about this, then these witches? They'll be gunning for
you. It's your territory, protect it!")
He wasn't wrong.
He also, unfortunately, decided to come with them to evaluate the threat,
whether they liked it or not. Although, to be fair, Jackson only objected to it
because of his innate dislike of the boy, Erica had laughed and accepted it
readily, Boyd had been as stoic as ever (Erica and Boyd's relationship with
Stiles was a little different after their time held captive by Gerard, Derek
assumes it has something to do with him freeing them, but none of the three
teenagers have ever really disclosed more than the two 'were's getting captured
and the human saving their asses), Isaac had mostly been a douche about it but
hadn't seemed to care one way or another, Peter had just snarked and... leered.
Derek was the only one truly against it.
He understood Stiles' tenacity, loyalty, and bravery, but he was still human,
and that loyalty made the bare minimum of sense considering he wasn't even
Pack. Still, with a defiant glare and a stuck out chin he declared he not only
needed to see if he was right about this, but make sure none of them got killed
following up on something he asked them to.
The idiot made no sense.
To make matters worse, as soon as they found the hideout ("An abandoned
warehouse? Seriously? Of all the possible clich-" "Shut up, Stiles."), they
were ambushed. A coven of seven against a Pack of five (Peter had claimed
zombie weakness, yet again, and ditched) and a wayward human.
They weren't screwed necessarily, the coven had only managed two sacrifices,
and their power wasn't so extreme as to kill them all right off the bat, and
they were arrogant, which gave the wolves an advantage. The hardship was,
though, despite the fact that Stiles had surreptitiously armed himself with a
gun (he had surprisingly good aim, unless he was trying to kill, not maim, in
which case...), that the witches immediately zeroed in on him. Calling him a
Spark, as Deaton had once, and trying to grab him among the chaos of the
battle.
Derek did his best to protect him, Erica and Boyd even flanking Stiles' sides
with low, threatening growls in their throats. But a spell still managed to get
past them. Or, more accurately, Stiles grabbed Erica and shoved her behind him
whilst shooting the witch who had thrown the spell down. She fell with a roar
of outrage, screaming at the top of her lungs that a 'blaenatem' had hit the
Spark instead of a wolf while she cried tears of frustration.
Immediately after that everything went fuzzy, hazy memories of bloodshed and
gore and screaming and trying to keep Stiles out of the line of fucking fire.
By the end of it, every single witch was down, three by gunshot wounds and
bloodloss, four by werewolves and general unconsciousness. Some of his Pack
were still healing from wounds or spells that were quickly wearing off without
their castor to uphold them, but mostly, everyone had made it out okay.
"So... What do we do now?" Stiles asks, surveying the damage, "I mean, we can't
really hand them over to the authorities, can we?"
"I'll deal with them," Derek tells him, gruffly, barely even hiding the fact
that he's scenting the air for Stiles' flavor of blood and pain.
"Yeah, but how? I mean, use your words Sourwolf. You're not gonna kill them are
you? Because. Well. I guess that would work, actually, but it would also suck.
In general-" he waves his arms around, for emphasis or punctuation or what
Derek doesn't know- "suckiness fashion."
"I'm not gonna kill them, Stiles."
Some Pack-members seem surprised by this, Jackson seems a little disbelieving,
but he heard the truth in the heartbeat, so it doesn't matter.
"Really? Then, seriously, what're you gon-" his words are cut off with a choked
noise of surprise when a witch, who had been feigning unconsciousness, rises,
pulls him back toward her by the throat, and reaches around to stab him in the
heart.
"No one survives blaenatam." She declares, Stiles' eyes go wide and terrified
for one second before steadily losing their fire, their laughter, their life.
All sun-soaked amber bright whiskey-burn steadily darkening until they crumple
into the light golden-brown death of fallen leaves in autumn. His smell, over
the blood and carnage of the room, all stress and anticipation, freshly baked
bread, melting butter, honey, and medicine-plastic, churns and becomes bitter-
acrid terror-agony, and then nothingness as it dissipates amongst the strong
tang of blood and bile and sage that has accumulated here.
His heartbeat lasts three seconds after the stab, three time-slowed, moment-
saturated, painful seconds where it goes from hummingbird fast to thready thump
to an exhaustive absence of sound. A horrifying sort of nothing that's cloying
and intense in Derek's ears, makes him deaf and numb to everything else as he
rushes forward to catch Stiles, his body, when the witch drops it.
He's vaguely aware of someone screaming something about bastards, and the
murderous witch being killed in her own right before she has a chance to make
any more of a stand.
But it doesn't matter.
Stiles is gone.
===============================================================================
He really had meant it when he said he wasn't going to kill them, he may not
trust Peter much but his Uncle had been his mother's Left Hand, it had been
part of his job to have powerful contacts among every circle. It would've been
the matter of a text to have the seven witches transported to New Orleans to
face the High Council and be dealt with as they should.
That plan turned to dust the moment he felt Stiles, limp and lifeless and
bloody, in his arms.
Seven bodies scattered throughout the woods, skin and meat left flayed and
abandoned for animals and scavengers and the like, bones burnt to ash and
thrown into the river.
Stiles... left where he was with an anonymous tip to the Sheriff's department
because what else were they to do?
It doesn't really strike him until he's already gone to bed that none of his
Betas were or are reacting to this as strongly as he thought they might, there
is no intense grief or mourning throughout the Bonds from anyone but him, they
all feel as they would, victorious after a fraught battle, if their friend
hadn't died in front of their very eyes, it makes little to no sense, but he
can barely breathe, now, can't think past the ice-cold in his veins.
Stiles.
Stiles is gone.
His wolf screams with it.
===============================================================================
Stiles paces his room chewing on the pad of his thumb and running a hand
through his hair, wondering how the hell he even woke up this morning, in his
bed, alive, even with the phantom pain of a blade running through his heart.
But his body's fine, everyone else seems fine. He called Erica as soon as he
woke up, and she just said he was badass with the gun yesterday, but she didn't
mention any stabby-witchy-crazy-you-should-be-dead-right-now things. The fight,
though, that still happened. He was right about the witches, and they took down
the coven responsible for the murders, so, yay. Not so yay? The fact that he
hadn't survived that.
He'd seen Derek's constipated-horrified possibly teary-eyed face and then he'd
died.
He knows, he remembers.
So how come nobody else does?
How is he even alive?
And what was that word she'd said?
Oh, right: Blaenatam.
Time to steal from Deaton, and possibly Peter, again.
Google has no reference for obscure possible death negating spells, no it does
not.
===============================================================================
Derek didn't get much sleep last night, haunted as he was by visions of Stiles'
eyes, empty and dark and desolate and gone. Just fucking gone.
And now he's staring at the contents of his freezer. Curly fries and waffles
and something meaty and gorgeous in tupperware that Stiles pre-made, all things
that Derek hadn't even noticed migrating into his freezer. There are things in
the fridge, too, and cupboards. The coffee he keeps is an amalgamation of
Stiles and Peter's favorites because they're the only two who really drink it,
he also has at least a dozen boxes of caffeinated sweet iced tea because it
'helps me think, dude, lay off the Stiles.'
Twizzlers and cookies (both homemade and storebought) and obscure polish
candies, an extra laptop and cell phone charger, pages upon pages of notes.
He's not even Pack, how is it possible for him to leave so much behind? Was it
all just a build-up from the days he spent at the Loft researching? Which begs
the question, why did he do that research here? Not with Scott, or Lydia, even,
but here.
When did it start? Why?
A hummingbird heart enters the peripheral of his hearing, and his own heart
threatens to stop because, no. Just no. It's not possible.
It's coming closer.
He's coming closer.
And Derek wants to know but at the same time he's petrified because it's not
possible.
===============================================================================
Stiles is at the elevator just barely having pressed the button when he hears
thundering footsteps, paired with a couple of jumps from the sound of it.
Curious, he goes to the bottom of the stairs only to see Derek come rushing
down, his steps stuttering to a halt when his eyes, Alpha red, light on Stiles.
"Um, hey? You okay, man? You look a little-" he gestures to his own face and
makes a faux-wolfy-snarl.
Derek looks... lost. Wide-eyed and lost in a way Stiles has never seen him.
"Stiles?" He breathes faintly, before so obviously scenting the air that Stiles
would make some indignant noise of protest if it weren't obvious that Derek, he
can't even help himself. And with a high pitched whine, actual, animal, whine,
Derek jumps the last twelve steps.
"Woah," and Stiles would follow that up, he would, with some sort of snarking
joke about that totally unneeded move, except now he's got an Alpha werewolf
all up in his personal space, getting closer, "Derek?"
He's never seen the man's eyes do that, they're still glowing vermillion but
they're so full, honest and defenseless and cracked open so Stiles can see the
soul behind the walls Derek has always kept up. God, he looks like someone
flayed him, shredded every muscle and left him this vulnerable, torn apart,
approximation of living.
Stiles swallows as Derek takes another step towards him, their chests almost
flush now. A clawed hand reaches up and gently, so, so gently, cups his cheek,
Derek searching his face with those eyes, Stiles can barely keep himself
breathing just looking at them because suddenly it's all put into stark relief,
how much Derek has lost.
And Stiles has really been an idiot this whole time, hasn't he? Losing a Pack-
member is like losing a limb. Derek lost 21 of them and then Laura and had to
kill Peter himself. And Stiles knew that, it's part of the reason...
But it's not the same, it's not the same as seeing it bare and broken and naked
like this. He shouldn't be allowed this glimpse, he has done nothing to deserve
it.
And maybe it's because he doesn't want to see anymore, maybe it's that his
brain and his heart are both too full and too frayed right now, but when
Derek's hand caresses down his cheek to his jaw, when a clawed finger tenderly
moves his head to the side just so, he lets it, goes with it, doesn't even care
he's baring his throat to a wolf right now, can't bring himself to pull away.
Derek, as soon as Stiles' neck is arched the right way, bends down, leans into
the space between them, what little there is left, and snuffles a breath right
underneath Stiles' ear before making the most pitiful fucking whimper and
just... nuzzling there, breathing and rubbing his face in the crook of Stiles'
neck.
"You're scent marking me," Stiles breathes, just a little awed, letting his
head fall further, arching into it, kind of adoring the feel of stubble and
damp-hot breath.
"Stiles."
Derek's voice catches on the name, said with such desperation that Stiles
doesn't even try to stop himself from wrapping his arms around the man's back.
"Shh, hey, I'm okay, I'm-" and Derek's putting his arms around him too, curling
into him, protective and childish all at once, just a little crushing but in a
good way, in a way that makes him never want to leave these arms- "Jesus,
Derek. You remember, don't you? Me... dying?"
"Yeah."
A slightly self-deprecating laugh, "No one else does."
Derek doesn't seem to give a shit about anyone else right now, too caught up in
just holding him, so Stiles lets it go, murmurs sweet, small, consoling sorts
of things.
He wouldn't have thought Derek would be this broken up over him dying. But
knowing that he isn't in this alone, at least? It helps.
Just a little.
It helps.
===============================================================================
Stiles smells good, and warm and alive.
Like a gorgeous bakery and home and sleep and life.
Derek doesn't know how, barely wants to question it even as he makes himself
let Stiles go so the boy can go up the elevator and beg some tomes off of
Peter. He understands they have to figure this out because not knowing will
always be worse than knowing.
Derek's wolf is simple, though, and Stiles smells like heaven-safe, so Derek
lets his instincts ride for the moment and just stays as near as the boy will
allow. And considering the fact that Stiles seems oddly pliable, and is only
welcoming where he might've been uncomfortable before, Derek basically stays
plastered to his side.
Peter is obviously intrigued, asks about the closeness once with a leer and...
Derek doesn't see the expression Stiles gives Peter, but it's surprising and
threatening enough for the older man to back off, which is. Nice.
===============================================================================
Stiles researches at the Loft, as he usually does, but right now it's less
because it'll be hard to explain to his dad, less because he still wants to
keep an eye on Erica and Boyd after the whole Gerard thing. More because of the
Alpha clinging to him half-desperate, half-feral. The idiot almost bit Erica's
head off for getting too close, almost clawed Isaac's hand into smithereens for
trying to steal a piece of Stiles' pizza.
And Stiles guesses he gets it, somewhat, because maybe they're not friends or
Pack, but they're close enough, apparently, for the loss to hurt.
And Derek has been through so many losses.
Besides, it's, maybe, (read: extremely) adorable and endearing.
Sourwolf being sweet, though the reasons may be somewhat bitter. There's a joke
in that somewhere. When he says so out loud Derek half chokes on a laugh and
Stiles feels inordinately proud of himself.
===============================================================================
The tomes and ancient scrolls in butchered Arabic and Romanian bring up...
nothing. Nothing, and it sucks, but he'll just have to get back to it because
his dad's going to be home any minute and he's already running late as it is.
He really shouldn't be surprised when Derek insists on walking him to his car,
but he is, and by the looks on his Beta's faces (with the exception of Peter
who just smirks as he turns the page in his own book), they are too.
===============================================================================
It happens fast, within the space of time it takes Derek to recognize the
threat- a homeless man who often lurks in the alley beside the loft who
managed, somehow, to get a gun- and growl at it threateningly, Stiles has
already gotten an egregious gun shot wound in his gut and the homeless man is
screaming about monsters as he peals away, terrified.
"Stiles!" Derek barks, already sliding to his knees to catch the boy's weight
in his arms, again.
Again.
Blood, sticky-wet and scorching squelches against the fabric of Stiles' shirt
when Derek presses his hand against the wound, Stiles grimaces and more blood
mingled with saliva bubbles up as he groans, coughs, and his mouth is stained
red. It eerily and grotesquely reminds Derek of careless days in the backyard,
stained with the meaty juice of berries from their garden when he was young, so
young.
"Ugh, I'll be-" Stiles strains, huffs some approximation of a laugh, shakes his
head. "No, I won't be fine, heh, fuck."
"Stiles," Derek's trying to hold it together here, he really is.
Stiles looks up at him, murky-muddied-honey eyes drowned in pain and fear and,
like always, bravery. That spark of willfulness that makes him the clever one,
and human. So human it aches. His hand covers Derek's own, laces their fingers
together, painting moon-silk peppered with cinnamon and lightly tanned pale
skin with maroon, blood running in rivers down the boy's side.
"You'll be okay Derek, alright?" He says, and why? Why is he worrying about
him? "I'm not Pack, you won't even feel it. Just another human, you know?
Another mildly suspicious death in Beacon Hills, hey, can't believe it's not a
mountain lion this time!" Stiles jokes with a blood-soaked wretched sort of
laugh. Derek manages a weak facsimile of a smile as he presses harder.
He's been trying to take the pain, but there's nothing to take.
"I'm not... I don't know if coming back twice is in the cards. So." "Stiles-
" "Take care of my dad? And Scotty, I know he's an-" A cough, blood spluttering
up, ignored as he continues- "ass, he's an ass, but he's my. My brother. I
trust you." And how? When? He never did anything to deserve something so
profound. "So take care of 'em."
Derek leans forward, closes his eyes against the burn of tears, and kisses
Stiles on the temple just as his heartbeat begins to slow, "Okay, promise."
Stiles squeezes his hand, and just like that, he's gone again. Derek's head
pounds, he feels an onslaught of emotions he'd thought he'd locked away after
the fire and he shakes under the weight of them.
He hears the grate of Erica sliding the window open, hears her call after the
homeless man, muttering far off now, "Hey! You killed Stiles!"
She sounds vaguely annoyed more than anything.
Derek wants to howl with the agony he's in.
"You bastard!" Isaac chimes from somewhere deeper in the Loft.
Derek feels sick.
He rocks the body in his arms, holds the hand in his over the wound, shakes
with sobs he doesn't let free, and wonders how this was the thing who got the
boy who runs with wolves? How was it just another meaningless act of violence?
How is that fair?
Why doesn't anyone seem to care?
===============================================================================
Stiles wakes up again, in his bed, no one seeming to know he'd just gotten shot
last night.
Well, maybe Derek remembers, again?
And wouldn't that just suck? A man he only ever knew as stoic and strong and
completely divorced of all emotion except anger had been vulnerable with him,
hurt by another loss, too surprised by the return to tuck himself away again,
and Stiles is almost positive he cried. Holding hands over the wound that was
killing him Derek had choked on a small little laugh and let tears fall, he'd
looked so fucking hurt, and then he'd squeezed his eyes shut tight, left a
lingering kiss on his forehead, and promised with a wavering, distraught sort
of voice.
Stiles' temple still tingles with the afterglow of warmth.
He swallows thickly against the sudden lump in his throat. Is this part of the
spell too? Is he going to die every single day? Jesus.
He needs to fix this, get it sorted, figure out why Derek is the only other one
affected.
He hears the snick and lurches for the window, wrenching it up with the help of
a clawed hand, and then there's a werewolf on top of him. Derek somehow manages
to wrap his arms around Stiles in a way that keeps him from hurting himself
when they hit the floor, but it doesn't stop the harsh exhale that leaves
Stiles because, "Dude, you're heavy."
Derek doesn't say anything, just holds him as close as gravity will allow and
presses his face into the crook of Stiles' neck, nosing his jaw, breathing
harsh, uncontrolled breaths. He's trembling all over, small little whines
escaping him every other minute.
He definitely remembers, Stiles thinks, letting his hands travel to shoulder
blades, fisting them into the soft black henley Derek is wearing.
"Hey, shh, it's..." But it's not this is so far from okay. "I'm here, I've got
you. Shh, hush. Derek."
"Why?"
"What?"
Derek swallows with a click, takes a deep, ragged breath, noses up and down his
jaw, nuzzles his cheek against the spot, "You said you trusted me," he says,
voice rough and raw and teased painful around the edges, "why?"
"We save each other's lives," Stiles says without hesitation, and maybe it's
not that simple, but it also kind of is, "and you're a good man."
Derek sucks in a sharp breath, he holds it for a long, long moment, and then he
sighs, an awful, cracking, broken sort of thing.
"Tell me that isn't going to happen again."
"I wish I could, but... I'm starting to get the feeling this is part of the
spell- curse, Derek, I was cursed. Once is an accident, twice is a coincidence,
three times is a pattern- so if I die again today-" a low subvocal growl
erupts, somehow tremulous even in its saw-shred violence- "If I die again
today, and I wake up in my bed tomorrow and no one remembers but you, Derek,
what does that mean?"
Derek's arms wrap tighter, the growl increases, but he says nothing.
"It means that dying? Is a part of this, and this, it doesn't stop until we
break the curse. So, that's what we do, alright? We find out what blaenatem
means, figure out what this curse is doing to me, and then we fix it."
Derek literally, literally, cuddles in deeper, nuzzles, and Stiles might be
getting beard burn but it actually feels unexpectedly good, and he is
surprisingly okay with that.
"Or we could just- we could just snuggle?"
===============================================================================
It's been around thirty minutes since the werewolf tumbled into him, and this
position? Stiles is a healthy teenaged boy, and Derek is extremely, unlawfully
gorgeous. He's like one of those statues of the greek gods, Michaelangelo would
weep, he's sure.
Derek, this close, and still scenting as he is, can probably smell the
beginnings of arousal, but he just nuzzles in, doesn't make any move to leave
him.
Stiles half-wonders what this means for his oddly besotted fascination with
Lydia, but in all honesty, with all of the supernatural crazy going on he
hasn't had much time to think about her like that in a while. She helped raise
Peter from the dead and she's gotten involved, what with saving Jackson and
figuring out how to have a werewolf for a boyfriend on top of everything else.
And she loves him, and Jackson? He is a douche-canoe, sure, but there's
something sort of beautiful about that, about the way they are together, and
it's gotten so much more profound since. Stiles finds himself not wanting to
ruin it.
He still loves Lydia, he thinks he always will, but it's different now, a
different flavor.
And here's Derek, all marble and oak hair and stubble, on top of him, pinning
him down, slotted in between his legs.
Derek inhales deep and Stiles has no idea what he smells but he just starts to
sort of... rumble? Only it's a little musical?
"Dude," Stiles breathes in delight, awed and transfixed as he lets his hand
travel up into Derek's hair, scraping at his scalp, the sound only intensifies,
"are you purring?"
Derek just hums, keeps snuffling against the side of his neck, and that? It's
starting to feel really good, the sound and the vibrations and the scrape of
stubble against his skin.
"Derek," Stiles manages in a desperate little whimper, and the man above him
actually moans, his hips moving down just the slightest bit, a tiny, minute
thrust.
"Fuck, are we actually doing this?"
Derek takes another deep breath, leaves a kiss right underneath his jaw and
says, voice deeper and more gravelly than he's ever heard it, "Do you want to?"
"Yes, fuck yes. All of the yes, please, yeah." Stiles doesn't even care how
desperate he sounds, because now Derek is grinding down slow and hard and
fucking delicious, "Uhn, y-you? You definitely want this too, right? Want-want
me?"
Yeah, he's a little insecure, sue him.
Derek's answer though, is maybe the most surprising thing he's ever heard.
"Always," and he sounds a little wrecked, "I always want you, Stiles."
Then he pulls back a little, shocked by his own admission, but Stiles can't be
having with that, not right now, not when he needs every inch of Derek pressed
up against him, so he wraps his arms around the 'were's neck and pulls him in
for a kiss. It's uncoordinated, teeth-clacking clumsy at first, and then Derek
moves just so, his hips rocking against Stiles' again, and when Stiles gasps
Derek just dives.
Wet-warm, togue-slick, deep slide, and oh. Derek tastes like flower-wine and
snow and olives and something thicker, more intoxicating, that's just Derek.
Stiles moans into the kiss, tantalizing and disarming and wonderous.
His leg worms its way between Derek's, providing more of the friction they
need, and shit. This is definitely going to be over fast.
"Mmn," Stiles gasps as Derek sucks on his bottom lip, then leaves his mouth to
nibble half-desperately at Stiles' pulse point, both of their thrusts
stuttering and harsh because, god, it's not just him, Derek's close too. Nips
of teeth against his flesh send white-hot sparks down to the coil of warmth
building in his rock-hard dick and Stiles whimpers, moans, whines.
"It's okay," he groans, because he can feel Derek holding himself back, and he
doesn't want him to. "Don't break the skin, but, please. Jesus, fuck, just bite
me!"
Derek shakes, his hips crash down with a shudder as his teeth sink in a little
further and he sucks, bites, laves at the skin there until the tingle-spark is
a flame and the feeling makes Stiles arch and writhe and lose himself.
He comes embarrassingly quickly after that, Derek still rutting against him,
not going over the edge until Stiles breathes, boldly, in his ear, "C'mon, Der,
come for me."
Stiles kisses him, sound and happy, as he comes down, rubs his back through it,
smiles into the kiss, deepens it. And Derek lets him, both of them exploring
each other like that for awhile until the sticky mess in Stiles' pants becomes
too much to bear.
"You wanna shower first, shower last, shower together?"
Derek huffs a laugh at that, noses at Stiles' cheek, lifts himself off of him.
"You first."
"Okay. Hey, Derek?"
"What is it, Stiles?"
"That wasn't just- I mean, heat of the moment, one time, never meant it to
happen won't ever happen again, it wasn't like that, right?"
"No."
"And- and we can figure the rest of it out later? Like, the us part of it?"
"Yes, Stiles. Go take your shower."
Stiles beams at him.
"Cool."
===============================================================================
Derek closes his eyes to just listen, the sound of Stiles' heartbeat and
flailing the most beautiful reassuring thing he's ever heard. The scent of
Stiles' arousal, melting butter warmth and fresh sugar cookies still lingers
heavy around the room, mingled with his own to make it something even more
intoxicating.
He had no idea that would happen, had no idea he'd wanted it that bad. But it
makes some sense, now, why the deaths hit him so hard. He admires Stiles, likes
him despite how aggravating he is sometimes, in fact, the only reason he can be
so irritating is because he so easily gets under Derek's skin.
Pushes him, pulls him, is loyal to a fault even when he barely knows you. Loyal
and brave and tenacious even more so when he does, when he trusts and likes the
person he's putting his life on the line for.
Jesus, Derek is already so far gone.
Always, he'd said, and maybe that was true, maybe he really has always wanted
Stiles. As a friend, maybe, as Pack, definitely, as this? A lover, a partner, a
Mate?
Yes. Yeah. He wants that, he really actually does.
And, surprisingly, not knowing if Stiles is going to live through the day? It
makes it impossible to ignore these feelings, impossible to worry at whether
this love will be doomed and horrible and something dangerous for them both
because it already is. It already was, would continue to be even without them
being together.
And he wants this. And he might lose it, but he doesn't even care anymore.
He is nothing if not a selfish man, selfish enough to have loved Kate, to have
made a Pack amidst a den of Hunters when he didn't even half know what he was
doing.
Selfish enough to keep Stiles for as long as he fucking can?
Probably.
===============================================================================
After Derek's shower, and subsequent borrowing of the Sheriff's sweatpants, he
finds Stiles cooking something foreign and mouthwatering.
"Smells good," he comments, hooking his chin on the top of Stiles' head.
He can hear the grin in Stiles' voice when he says, "Couldn't have my first
time without borscht."
Derek hums, maybe in agreement, maybe in question, he doesn't know. Just. What
does borscht have to do anything?
But it tastes as good as it smells, and being with Stiles, living, breathing,
clever, miraculous Stiles, is one of the best things, so he doesn't mind. He
doesn't mind at all.
===============================================================================
The end of the day brings with it the Sheriff, and it's only then that Derek
realizes they've spent the whole day here, no researching, just. Watching
superhero movies and spending time together. He wonders if this is a calculated
move by Stiles, to avoid danger for the day, keep it coincidence instead of
pattern.
He agrees wholeheartedly either way.
When he hears John Stilinski's cruiser coming down the road he informs Stiles
and makes to leave, but Stiles just shoves him back down and tells him he's
staying for dinner. Derek is... dubious, about that, but he isn't about to
argue.
When John comes inside, he's just as dubious.
"Derek... Hale? What are you doing here?"
"Derek," Stiles says cooly, almost defiantly, "show him."
"Are you sure?"
"After the past two days? Yes, now, do the- the thing-" he makes claws and a
grossly exaggerated face, Derek snorts.
Then he stands, faces the Sheriff, and he shows him.
The gun is out of his holster and pointed in a millisecond, "What the-"
"Werewolves dad, it's not drugs, and it's not any shady stuff, well, it's
supernaturally shady stuff."
"Jesus Christ, Stiles."
"Yep," pop of the p, "we maybe need to talk."
===============================================================================
"So, let me get this straight. Peter was a Beta, but the fire left him
incapacitated and feral, and in a bout of insanity (which none of us entirely
believe) he killed Laura, who had inherited Alpha powers from Talia after the
fire."
"Yes." Derek agrees.
"Then, as a newly anointed Alpha, he bit Scott during your little incredibly
stupid escapade into the woods."
"Yep." Stiles agrees, obnoxiously popping that stupid fucking p.
"Scott became a werewolf, and you went on that study tangent, I remember that,
to help him figure it out."
"And then," Stiles picks up, because he can't stay quiet for more than five
minutes, "Sourwolf here was all lurky and stuff and we totally innocently
misunderstood."
"And you made me arrest a grieving man for murder?"
Derek's surprised at how offended the Sheriff seems for him, and Stiles, he
even has the decency to look chagrined.
"Yeaaaahhhh, sorry about that, by the way, to both of you."
"It's okay," Derek tells him immediately, because it is, he didn't know, and
Derek? Well, Derek didn't use his words. Stiles smiles up at him a little
sheepishly.
"No. It's not, but it will be," John amends, Stiles bobs his head in a loose
nod. "Moving on. A lot of crazy hunters versus werewolves things happened, you
helped Scott figure it all out, including helping him find his Anchor which is
part of the only reason he probably managed the full moon without the help
Derek offered-" Stiles makes a slightly indignant defensive noise, because
Scott- "Oh, don't give me that, you know I'm right."
Stiles subsides, because yes, yes he is.
"Peter went after everyone behind the fires, then, final showdown, a bunch of
teenagers, a woman who burned a family alive and tortured a man, a psychopathic
killer, and- and a molotov cocktail, really, Stiles? You set a man who'd
claimed to have been burning and trapped inside of his mind for six years on
fire?"
"Yeah, I still feel shitty about that."
"Language." John admonishes lightly.
"Really?" Derek feels the need to ask.
"Well, yeah, I mean. The Laura thing, the Scott thing, those were horrible,
evil, terrible things to do. And he's a smarmy manipulative slimy sort of guy
on the best days, but seriously? He went through hell, and- no offense- but he
went through it alone." Derek flinches, Stiles grips his shoulder, "And if I
had been him? I would've done the same to all the people who hurt my family,"
he glances at his father, and though the Sheriff doesn't seem surprised by the
ice that enters Stiles' eyes, Derek is. It chills him to the bone. "Worse."
John nods, Derek swallows.
"Okay, so he died, Derek killed him, and in so doing became the Alpha."
Derek flashes his eyes, and gives a noise that could pass for approval, Stiles'
hand stays resting on his shoulder.
"Got it. Then, Lydia, who Peter had bitten, went steadily crazy until Peter
used whatever essence he left inside of her to, what, resurrect himself?"
"Yeah. The spell he used was actually really, really interest-"
"You know what spell he used?"
"How else did you think I found out Lydia was a Banshee?"
"Lydia's a Banshee?" the Sheriff asks faintly, then he shakes himself out of
it, "Nevermind, later. Later. Okay." Deep breath. "The three deaths that
happened this summer were the result of a coven of homicidal witches?"
"Yep."
"And, because of the whole Alpha transference thing, you now have an Alpha Pack
encroaching on your territory to, what? Test your Pack?"
"Yes."
"And who is all that again, the Kanima thing still.... really confuses me."
"Jackson got better," Stiles says helpfully. Derek levels him with a look, he
sighs and quiets.
"I have five Betas-" "Six." Stiles tells him, Derek is wary, "Six?"
"Well, me, duh."
"You?" Derek asks faintly, "But you're in Scott's Pack."
"Scott's an Omega, and he should've joined your Pack sooner. Should've joined
as soon as he found out that all of our assumptions were, like, stupid wrong,
dude. And we may be brothers but... Scott's been kind of. Ever since Allison,
you know? He just, he doesn't listen to me anymore, he doesn't notice when- you
know what, it doesn't even matter. You. Are my Alpha."
And just like that the Pack Bond slides into place, Derek feels it, a thrumming
echo of loud emotions and a cacophony of thoughts, neverending, just as fast as
his hummingbird heart. Derek's eyes flash at the boy, and Stiles' eyes... they
flash back. Lavender and sparkling, soft and a sweep of catching light like sun
reflected on water or flower petals dipped in honey.
Then they're whiskey-burn amber again. Stiles blinks.
"Woah," the boy says dazedly, and Derek can feel the tug on the bond, like
Stiles is- is playing with it.
"Does that- I thought you were human, still? Is that normal?"
"Spark," Stiles, clever, always catching on faster than any of them, "I'm human
but I have a Spark. That's what that was, right? And- and-" another tug, then
something Derek can't quite explain, like he's twirling his fingers into it
while he squeezes Derek's shoulder, "That's the Pack-Bond, isn't it?"
"Yeah," Derek breathes.
"Spark?" John questions, "That's what let you make the mountain ash circle?"
Only, neither of them has a chance to answer that because suddenly Stiles' eyes
go wide, and he's clutching his throat, choking on nothing at all.
"Stiles," Derek hisses, feeling fear and something like resignation travel
through them before Stiles pulls back, shuts him out with whatever strength he
has left, and Derek can almost hear him saying; 'I don't want you to feel me
die.'
"Sti-" he chokes on the word- "les."
The boy uses his hold on Derek's shoulder to collide into him, and Derek's arms
go automatically around him. Stiles makes an awful, terrible, choking moaning
sound, and then the Bond is gone, and Stiles is limp in his arms.
"Hum," the Sheriff, who should be anything but calm and unimpressed by this,
says, "They killed Stiles... Bastards."
Derek throws a horrified look his way, and suddenly the man is as uninterested
as anything.
And he realizes, then, that this must be part of the curse too. But he doesn't
care.
Because this fucking hurts.
===============================================================================
Stiles awakes in his bed with a gasp, and then a coughing fit because his lungs
honestly hadn't been prepared for that much air. As his breathing calms down he
notices the steel bars of muscle holding him, one around his chest, curling
diagonally up to his shoulder, the other around his waist, both in a vice grip
pulling him back against Derek's chest. The older man already nuzzling the side
of his throat from behind.
And he can feel through his bond with him, so much stronger than the distant
hums of the cluster that he assumes is the other Beta's, a drowning riptide of
grief and relief and need and terror and so, so small he can barely taste the
ghost of it on his tongue, hope.
"Jesus," he begins, for lack of anything better, this is, after all, the third
time he's died, "do all your Beta's feel this?"
"No. I put up- walls, like you did last night. But. I can't- not with you- not
when-"
"No, yeah, I get it." So much pain, so much sorrow, nearly as suffocating as
whatever strangled him to death last night, he wonders if that's going to
happen every time no external force rips him from this world until the curse
breaks.
"Hey, hey," he tugs Derek's arm until it loosens enough for him to turn so that
they're both laying on their sides, facing each other, "I'm alive. I am."
"Not for long," Derek says, and it sounds like it fucking killed him to say it,
cut him apart even more, and it feels that way too, despite however blank Derek
is keeping his face. Stiles whimpers quietly.
"Der," he whines, and then, because he literally can't not, he kisses him, deep
and full of regret and melancholy and desperation, Derek kisses back, just as
desperate, just as terrified.
It's a long while before they pull apart, and they're both breathless when they
do. Derek licks away the tears staining Stiles' cheeks and Stiles offers a wet
little laugh in return.
"My family," Derek tells him, and that's shocking enough on its own, without
him even continuing, "used to call me that."
"Der?"
"Yeah. How did you?"
"I don't- it just. It felt right."
And then they're kissing again.
===============================================================================
"That's what they said? Every time?"
Stiles is incredulous. How? How is this his life?
"I think so?" Derek sounds a little unsure. They're in the loft again, both of
them banging their heads against any and all books Deaton, Peter, Lydia, and
their various mystical connections were willing to offer. The puppies are half-
distracting as fuck, playing around, and half-seriously trying to help them
even though they can't seem to get a grip on the problem. Stiles has explained
it to Peter, Peter, of all people, at least fifteen times, but it keeps
slipping out of his mind as soon as it connects.
Peter is... surprisingly frustrated in the face of this, which would be funny
under any other circumstances.
Erica is too busy cackling and leering at them to be helpful, because,
apparently, they smell. Isaac is kind of just side-eying them and furiously
texting the hell out of Scott, which. Yeah, Stiles will deal with that later.
Boyd is. Quiet? Helping, anyway. He's helping. Lydia dropped off the books she
had to offer, grabbed Jackson, and left. Scott and Ally are off honeymooning
together or something.
Peter did manage to growl out "Perception filter," before he lost his train of
thought again at one point, and that. Actually makes sense. Especially when
Stiles had learned his dad hadn't even freaked out in the face of whatever that
was last night. Although he was still miffed this morning about being kept in
the dark so long, and he wishes his son would just stay out of it and stay
safe, but Stiles had said:
"You aren't safe. You have the means and a way to protect and defend the
people, the place you love. These are my people, this is my place, and I may
not have the means yet but I will. You can't stop me from protecting them, you
can't keep me from them, and you certainly can't keep me safe forever."
"No," his dad had agreed, "but I wish with every ounce of my being I could."
"I know."
"You really love them, don't you?"
"Yes. Yeah, I do."
And that had been the end of that.
So, now, he's sitting with at least fourteen books opened to various pages all
around him, notebook in his lap, pen twisting through his fingers, and he is...
"I'm Kenny!"
"You're what?"
"I'm Kenny," he hisses, "from fucking South Park, what the fuck?"
"South Par-" "No. No, don't even. I am responsible for your reintroduction to
pop culture, Der, and we're not even close to there."
Peter raises his eyebrows at the name whilst something, inexplicably, softens
in his little piece of the tangled Pack-Bonds cluster. Huh.
"So, okay, what kind of perception filter makes people damn whoever was
responsible for the death in front of them, and then seem to forget that that
person existed enough to die in the first place? Even if that 'forgetting' part
is only temporary, and the death is rectified before they have a chance to
question it?"
Everyone is staring at him now, they all (with the exception of Peter, who just
seems curious) look a little sick. And the sick look isn't stopping.
"That's staying? You're keeping that in those noggins of yours? Huh. So maybe
talking about the perception filter itself instead of the thing it's filtering
out negates it?"
"That would narrow it down extremely," Peter muses.
Boyd is actually the first to ask, out loud, "Who died?"
"Me." Stiles tells them, and then they're all back to blank, confused, adorable
puppy slates, jesus. He groans.
"Oh my god."
===============================================================================
He gets strangled to death in the middle of the living room by an invisible
force, yet again, which gives proof to that theory, and he dies in Derek's arms
again, which gives a little proof to another that he hadn't even noticed he was
thinking.
When he wakes up, Derek is cuddled up behind him again, an open, raw, seeping
wound, nuzzling into his neck and scenting like he can't stop or help himself
and, Stiles thinks, he probably can't. They snuggle, they kiss, Derek leaps out
of the window and Stiles walks out the front door.
The weekend is over, time to face school, which may well be more terror
inducing than the death he'll be given at the end of the day.
Ah, he shouldn't have worried about it. Drunk driver takes care of that, cool.
Except he's pretty sure he's gonna miss a test, fuck.
He wakes up, head crushed into Derek's chest, and thinks he would be able to
get used to this, waking up next to him, were it not for what precedes the
waking.
They really need to break this fucking curse.
===============================================================================
Three weeks, three weeks and Scott hasn't asked him if he's okay or why he's
worried or why he looks like shit or why he smells like Derek all the time,
although he has dropped by to play CoD and be perplexed-unnoticing when Stiles
chokes to death in front of him.
Stiles has long since learned that he doesn't always die in Derek's arms and
he's a little sad for it, because this way? It's so much more fucking lonely.
Scott moons over Allison and either ignores or doesn't care or, more likely, is
entirely oblivious to any other goings-on. And that's alright, Stiles thinks,
Scott didn't even notice when he got captured and tortured by Gerard Argent,
barely even noticed that Stiles was the one who broke two of Derek's cubs out
along with himself. Derek's asked, of course, but the pups, thankfully, take
Stiles' lead, and since no one has told him, he's waiting quietly about it now.
Derek's Pack all seem worried for him, they went from jeering (Erica),
disgusted and vaguely curious (Isaac, Jackson), understanding (Boyd, Lydia),
and amused and, oddly enough, highly accepting (Peter) of Stiles and Derek's
fragile budding relationship to exceedingly concerned for Stiles' and Derek's
state of mind (all of them).
It would be so much easier if they could just remember.
But they all seem to notice something bad is happening, and that it's caused by
an outside force, and that there's a reason why the two are spending all of
their free time researching the hell out of death curses and perception filters
and trying to find blaenatem amongst, well, anything.
And so, even unknowing and uncomprehending the why, they help.
Even Allison has asked a few times what's up, though she's almost always swept
away by Scott before he can tell her.
Stiles is beginning to think that, perception filter or not, his best friend
wouldn't notice his death. The thought is like a stab in the gut and he feels
awful and wrong-footed for the rest of the school day. He isn't even surprised
to find the Pack flanking him in the halls, during classes, Peter and Derek
waiting for him by his jeep at the end of it. He just falls into them and drags
them- whether they like it or not (Jackson)- into a huge group hug in the
school parking lot.
===============================================================================
"Hey," Lydia says, tossing a book at him. Derek catches it easily mid-air
before it finishes its trajectory toward his face, "you were looking for
'blaenatem', right?"
"Yes! Yeah, did you?"
"That's some old Gypsy book I found in the attic of the lake-house, it's all
about weird death and sickness curses, I saw that word come up a few times and
decided you might-" "Totally, yes! Thank you! You are a goddess of everything
good and right in the world!"
"Oh? Does that mean Derek's within my dominion?"
Derek makes a vaguely threatening growl in the back of his throat as Stiles
starts flipping through the book eagerly.
"Yes! Yep, oh my god, she found it! She found it! I might not have to die
tomorrow! Someone hug her, I'm too busy."
To everyone's utter shock and Peter's absolute delight, it's Derek of all
people who complies. But Stiles isn't too surprised, because the hope soaring
through the bond between both of them is kind of worth all the hugs.
===============================================================================
The spell in and of itself isn't hard, because the curse itself was meant to
strangle a werewolf, and it wasn't even that strong, it was the perception
filter paired with it, meant to reveal the death at the most strategic moment,
that was. But, nevertheless, no one is meant to survive it. The only reason
Stiles had is because it backfired, horribly, because of his Spark, the
perception filter wonkily becoming a bad luck charm, the death negating death
over and over again.
It's like two magnets, repelling each other, his magic repelled the witches,
and then the curse slid, misfired, and screwed him six ways to sunday in the
process.
Derek managed to evade the perception filter simply by being in his bubble
during the time of his first death.
So breaking the curse is easy. Waiting, after, to see if it worked? That's the
hard part.
===============================================================================
Stiles had grinned at him after he'd fully purified himself, eyes still a
shocking lavender, and declared that he was magic and that that? Was awesome.
He then proceeded to drag all of the werewolves into a game of poker because he
was too restless to wait this out alone and too daunted to believe that
anything could really be that easy.
Stiles is surprisingly good at playing poker against werewolves, Peter was kind
of smugly proud and Derek... was okay with that.
By the end of it, Stiles had a little over 300 bucks, two watches, a shoe, and
a ceramic figurine of a squid.
Movies were suggested, Jackson still whinging plaintively about his loss, and
Lydia called out for the Notebook. Everyone groaned.
After the Notebook, which they did watch, and Jackson managed to only get a
little teary-eyed throughout, whereas Stiles was openly sniffling and cuddling
into Derek's side for comfort, which. Was honestly adorable, how could it not
be?
They got chinese, watched Iron-Man, then Iron-Man 2, managed to fall asleep all
tangled up in each other.
Derek was pleased to be woken up by Stiles, straddling his lap, kissing him
senseless.
"I didn't die, Der," he breathes, and he didn't.
"Stiles," another kiss, and then another, deeper, "my Stiles."
Stiles laughs breathlessly.
"My Sourwolf."
And Derek thinks, so grateful, so disgustingly happy, maybe things will be
okay. Maybe they really will be okay.
"Get a room!" Erica calls, and they both laugh against each other's lips.
===============================================================================
The Pack is called by howls and roars out to the Preserve. It's been two and a
half months since they broke the curse, a week since Scott finally called him
out on smelling too much like Derek for his liking, three days since Scott-
literally- tattled on him to his dad, two days since Scott and Allison broke
up, and this is the very first time the Alpha Pack has made a move.
The past few months have been crazy, what with the curse and Derek and Pack. It
was fun to find out that his place in Pack hierarchy- as the Alpha's Mate which
he is quickly becoming if not already there, and the Pack's Emissary, which was
what the whole eye flashing thing was, Peter ended up telling them, mock smug-
makes it so that his orders are meant to be heeded in close relativity to their
Alpha's, and providing for him is something they want to do. The first time
Jackson offered Stiles his pretentious high-end protein bar he'd squealed, like
a little girl. He's not proud.
They want to touch and scent him and protect, they instinctively preen when he
praises them, or provides for/ protects them in turn. The Pack-mom jokes don't
even affect him anymore, because it's awesome, and he is so down. He's always
loved taking care of people. And, besides, teaching his Pack to be better
people through positive reinforcement? It's a beautiful, beautiful thing.
So are puppy piles, Stiles loves the puppy piles. Which is probably how his dad
begrudgingly got used to coming home to Derek, Stiles, and all the Beta's
curled up in and around each other (even Peter), watching the Notebook. Again.
And further, became a part of it, because Stiles dragged him into their pile
unashamedly. It's also probably how the Sheriff realized who Stiles was so
easily and quickly falling in love with. He wasn't extraordinarily happy about
it, but Stiles had told him, straight up:
"He's the one who saves my life, I'm the one who saves his. Taking me away from
him will not engender my safety. Besides, we aren't going to do anything
naughty until I'm legal, for so, so many reasons, not the least of which being
fucking Kate. So. And, hey, you're calling him son on the regular, anyway.
You're warming up to him, I just know it."
After that, his father had been somewhat mollified.
It's precisely because of this that when Scott came, running his mouth about it
all, fully expecting to get Stiles into trouble for it, and protect him from
the big bad Alpha in the process, well. Dad had just shaken his head and told
him to get out. It was... bittersweet. Validating. Hurtful.
Too much and too little and a friendship slowly breaking apart.
That Allison broke up with Scott the next day, seemingly infuriated with him
over something somewhat similar, Stiles had just felt... pity? Maybe, because
Scott was alone, now, for the most part, an Omega without even his Anchor.
And Stiles had felt like that many, many times because of Scott.
But now? Now he had his Alpha, his lover, his Mate, he had his Pack, his
friends, his family, he had his dad. So much more, more to lose, more to hope,
more to be freely happy about.
And there was every possibility Scott would go feral soon. The stubborn ass he
was, mulish and insubordinate and, and, lost, so lost.
When the roars and howls shook the Preserve, Stiles was worried, of course he
was. He exchanged a quick glance with Derek, kissed him on the cheek and then
called: "All right, puppies! To the jeep with the lot of you, and to the camaro
with the rest- Ah, ah, ah! No fighting, rock-paper-scissors it, c'mon, go, go,
go!"
===============================================================================
In a semi-circle before them stand animals, larger than their species should
allow for, and all of them canine with the exception of a pure, glossy black
lion, fur like twilight and a jaguar, sleek, vicious. There are 12 of them,
eyes Alpha red, the felines on the outermost of the semi-circle and then
jackal, coyote, dingo, dhole, several foxes and several wolves- but the wolf
who stands in the epicenter is undeniably the biggest, most ferocious, and
kindest looking. She is smooth elegance, pure white, long tail and wide ears
and she is... so fucking fluffy.
And then she stalks forward, while the rest stay back, and she shimmers, her
fur slides easily away, and with grace that is inhuman and godly she steps
forward again in human skin. She is dark, eyes almost black, and freckled with
sharp, dark honey all over her naked earthy skin, hair dyed a girlish sort of
pale pink, long and curly over her breasts and around her waist. She looks
young, she looks older than any of them, but she looks young.
In a voice like rocks and mountains and ash she speaks to them, her words
lyrical and poised.
"Alpha Hale, you and your Pack have seen many trials this season. My brothers
and sisters and I, we have watched you. You have passed your tests, and now
receive your boon.
"The land of the Nemeton is yours to protect and guard, the Pack you have
created is yours to command and love, this is your Fate, your burden, and your
gift. Do you accept?"
There is no small amount of awe in his voice when he says, "Yes."
"Emissary Stilinski, Alpha Mate, the land of the Nemeton is yours to protect
and guard, your Pack and your Alpha are yours to provide love and care for,
this is your Fate, your burden, and your gift. Do you accept?"
Stiles is pretty sure his voice is no less wrecked than Derek's was when he
says "Yeah, yes. Yep. Totally down for that."
And this lady, ancient and glorious and beautiful, she smiles at him. Like his
mom used to. His breath catches, and Derek, knowing something is happening, but
not exactly what, laces their fingers together. It's exactly what he needs to
ground him.
She goes through this with the rest of them, with slight variations throughout,
and they all, even Peter, accept. All of them honored and in wonder at this
crazy awesome thing happening to them.
"My children," she says at last, "submit to your Alpha."
And just like that, all but Derek kneel, heads thrown back and throats bared.
"My child," she tells him, "take them as yours."
And Derek, on instinct or something else, something more, something
undefinable, Stiles doesn't know, bites them all, not hard enough to bleed but
hard enough to bruise, right at the crook of their necks, and scents them,
pulling their heads toward him to be scented in turn. The bonds get stronger
after that, thicker and more... unbreakable.
"There you are, pups," she says sweetly, "there you all are."
And then she returns to her fur and her snout and her own Pack, and they are
left dazed and blissful as the Alpha Pack runs off into the night.
After a long, considering, content silence, Erica finally chirps, decisively,
"Boyd, I love you, but that was better than any sex we've ever had."
At least half of them laugh, the rest groan, Peter smirks, Boyd just raises one
very judgemental eyebrow, though his eyes, and the feeling he's giving the
bond, are amused.
"I'm not even a wolf," Lydia muses, because, yeah, the wolf lady did call them
all her children, didn't she?
"Neither am I," Stiles calls out to her, because she is a decent distance away,
"but we're Pack!"
And then he shrugs and lifts up the hand holding Derek's to shake it around, as
if proving a point. Now Peter's smirking at him, along with a bit of a leer.
Stiles rolls his eyes, kisses his mate sound and then calls out: "Who wants to
play poker?"
"No!!" "Ugh, Stiles." "You always win, it isn't fair." Among other dissenting
grumblings can be heard and Stiles just laughs and laughs until he feels
muscular arms wrapping around his middle and a stubbled cheek nuzzling into
his.
"I love you," Derek says, softly, quiet, secret, between them and raw and
honest and miraculous. Stiles knows the other Beta's are still close enough to
hear, knows they're only still bickering amongst each other to allow for the
illusion of privacy, but he doesn't care. It's somehow perfect, for it to be
here, like this, their Pack all around them.
"Yeah," Stiles says, leaning back into the warmth behind him, "I love you, too,
Der."
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
