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There's a saying out there, listen to your heart, that you think is all kinds of stupid. The heart can't speak. It's an organ with a simple, straightforward function. The heart has no mind, and people who do "listen to their heart" are full of shit, because they're thinking the same way as everyone else, listening to the same parts of their brain that want what everyone else on the planet wants. People are stupid, and so are their sayings.
But your heart speaks. Your heart is the wolf. And it's getting harder and harder not to listen to.
It's easier in the beginning, when Scott refuses to come when you call. The wolf gets angry, because Scott is pack, Scott must obey, but you ignore it. You've stolen his last chance at a cure, and as much as he resents you for it—even if he always does—he's a wolf now for good, and he'll come to you in the end because there's only so long a wolf can go without pack. But really, you're glad he doesn't come by because that means Stiles won't either. Stiles, who makes the wolf hungry for something other than blood. Stiles, who you can smell from across town just by stepping outside.
Scott does come by, once, to yell and scream and growl at you. For what you did to him, and what you've done to Jackson now. You look for the car he came in—the wolf expects a Jeep, worn down and familiar—and you see the Argent daughter's sedan down behind the trees. Your shoulders relax, even though he's still yelling.
"Jackson asked for the bite," you point out, slow and patient, "He had a choice."
"Yeah, and where was my choice?" Scott snarls, and the wolf peeks out then, because you can forgive him many things, but disobedience is not one of them. He backs down at the sight of your eyes, but he's still angry.
He leaves soon after, back to Allison with his tail between his legs. He smells like her, but he smells like Stiles, too, and you walk back into the broken, burnt-out shell of a home that's all you have left and try to ignore the wolf, telling you to go and claim what's yours.
Months go by, and Jackson is the only one you see.
You stop going into town as part of the truce with the Argents, and also to pacify the police who still suspect you for all the things your uncle did. The wolf hates being stuck in one place, not being allowed to hunt or kill when it wants more blood than the deer you feed it. But you manage, and you send Jackson in your stead, for food and gas and other things. You don't leave the woods or your house, spending the weeks that blur the winter into spring and eventually into summer slowly rebuilding. You thought you'd never see it again when you left the first time, but now you can't imagine leaving it behind. You finish covering the holes in the roof first, and then repair the broken walls. You replace the windows and clean away the dust and burnt, busted furniture, using what's left of the money your family left you to restore the house they died in.
Inside, it doesn't smell like death or flames, the way you used to dream about. It smells like the woods instead, like rain and cool, summer air.
One day, you wake up and it smells like Stiles.
"Uh, hello? Anybody here? I, um, let myself in. Please don't kill me for that, but see, it's just that, uh. You weren't answering when I knocked and Jackson's not here, soooo..."
You rub a hand over your eyes and hate the wolf inside you for a moment, wondering why him, of all people? Why should I want him?
The wolf doesn't answer, and you pull on some clothes before leaving your room, stopping at the top of the stairs.
"What."
He looks up at you, and the holes in the roof are covered now, but you can still picture the sunlight hitting his eyes and making them shine. Your eyes glow red and your claws start to extend, and you quickly clench your fists and hope he doesn't notice.
"What, not even gonna bother with a 'hello'? No, 'Hi, Stiles, the guy who saved your life at least twice and helped you kill the old alpha'? No nothing?"
"What do you want?" you growl, and it makes him flinch, but he shakes his head and stands firm.
You can smell him from where you stand, nervous and uncomfortable, but his face is certain and you have no idea why he's here. The wolf doesn't care, but you do because it's not safe for him here with you so close to snapping. With the wolf in your ear and his scent in your nose, it's a wonder you haven't leapt the length of the staircase and pinned him to the floor, fucking him to pieces against your new carpet by now.
"I-I wanted to thank you. And apologize."
That startles you, but you don't move or say anything. He keeps talking, something about giving Scott space and making Jackson less of a douchebag, but it's his heartbeat you're listening to. It's starting to quicken, and you don't know what he's building up to, but it's big.
"... and, look. You've threatened to kill me, rip out my throat, and all this other stuff, and I've been so fucking terrified of you, especially since the alpha thing, because of it all. But that's not what you're like, is it?"
You're practically gawking now and the wolf is silent. You don't understand.
He takes a step forward, and you tense. He takes another, reaching the bottom step, and pushes upward. He's climbing the stairs, closing the distance between you, and you think, No, no, this is dangerous, scare him away, do something, do anything, make him stop before it's too late, but he's already at the top before you can try to stop him.
He's not quite as tall as you, but he's close. It amazes you, how bright his eyes are for a human. Bright and big and staring right through you.
"I wanted Scott to kill you, back when Peter was still alive. I wished you were dead because I thought you would do all those things you always threatened to. But I get it now, that you'd never hurt someone you didn't have to. So, I'm sorry for that." You grimace, but his heart's still pounding and you can smell the sweat building up on his palms, and you wait for him to continue.
He licks his lips and glances down at your mouth, then back up at your eyes as he says, "And sorry for this, too," before reaching up to grab your face and slam your mouths together.
It's awkward and slightly painful and clearly one of his first kisses ever, because Stiles has no idea what he's doing as he breathes against your face, but the wolf is howling in victory and his lips taste so good you want to stay there forever. Your hands move without thinking, sliding up his neck and cupping his jaw, adjusting his angle to make the kiss more comfortable. You open your lips and poke at his mouth with your tongue, and he opens to you instantly, letting you guide him until the kiss is less teeth and hard pressure and more tongue and soft heat. He moans against your tongue when you dance it around his own, the sound of it shivering through your body, and he tastes better than he smells. You're drowning in it as you suck his bottom lip between your teeth, your canines poking up but not enough to pierce the skin. Your mouth leaves his to start kissing down the smooth skin of his jaw, the hot skin of his neck, the sharpness of your teeth teasing across his veins while he hisses your name. You want to bite down, turn him, make him yours and only yours, claim him and fuck him until he stops smelling like Stiles and instead smells like you from the inside out. But it's the wolf talking now, starting to control you, and you have to stop now before it takes over completely.
You push him away as you snap back to yourself, making him stumble backwards and nearly slip back down the steps. His mouth is bruised bright red from how long you've been kissing, and you can see the light indents of your teeth against his skin. It makes you want to grab him again, kiss him more and mark him more, but you shake your head against the thought. You almost let the wolf get out, and you curse yourself for it.
"Stiles," you breathe, and your hearts are pounding in sync in the space between you, but whether out of terror or hope or both, you're not quite sure.
"Derek, I—"
"This is a mistake," you interrupt, and he makes a face, about to protest, but you continue, "If you do this, I won't be able to let you go."
Stiles blinks at that, looking confused.
"The wolf wants— No," you say, shaking your head and correcting yourself, "I want you. I want you so bad, I can't step out of this house without wanting to run straight to you and make you mine, because I can smell you. Every day, I can taste you in the air, and I don't know why it's you I want this much, but it is. It takes everything in me to keep away, and if you do this—if you tell me I can claim you—I won't be able to anymore. And I'll kill anything that gets in the way of my having you."
Stiles stares. He stares for a long time, the two of you silent at the top of the staircase for several minutes, the wolf impatiently whining in your ear to claim him now because he wants us, he's ours to have, but the little restraint you have left keeps you still. You want him to say yes anyway, to say he doesn't care what it takes, that he wants to be with you, but you know he won't.
When he speaks again, his voice is small.
"Even... even if it was my dad who said no? You'd kill him, too?"
You nod, eyes turning down to the floor, because even if you would never hurt the sheriff, the wolf would rip him apart if it meant getting what it wanted.
You know the decision is made without looking up, and Stiles leaves your house and drives away without a word, leaving behind the sharp scent of his arousal and fear. His want for you is not the same as the wolf's for him, and any hope you had is gone, leaving you angry, hurt and hollow. When you're sure he's gone, safe and far away, you let the wolf out and wreck the home that you've repaired, until all you can smell is the blood of your bruised and busted skin and the sweat of Stiles' palms, cautious but still daring where they pressed against your face.