Archive of Our Own ^beta

(Or: Stiles Stilinski Decides That Today Is the Day Deucalion Will Know True Suffering)

It’s late evening. The kind of night where everything is quiet, peaceful, deceptively normal.

Stiles is wrapped up in a hoodie—Deucalion's, judging by how ridiculously oversized it looks. His feet are tucked under Deucalion’s thigh on the couch, as if he’s entitled to the warmth of his big bad wolf.

Deucalion, for his part, is the picture of refined dignity. Tea in one hand, a book in the other.

The vibes are good.

The vibes are calm.

…Until.

Deucalion notices it immediately.

Stiles is scrolling on his phone, face too blank, too calculating. His shoulders tense, barely noticeable—but Deucalion has spent enough time in battlefields to recognize the subtle shift before something goes terribly, terribly wrong.

His survival instincts activate.

"You're quiet," Deucalion remarks, eyes narrowing at his mate. His book is still open, but held loosely now—forgotten.

"Am I?" Stiles replies, too casual. Too much like a liar. "Huh. Weird."

Silence.

Deucalion’s wolf senses scream at him to leave the room immediately.

He does not.

And that is his first mistake.

Stiles is still scrolling, still... calculating.

Deucalion, for all his experience and intelligence, returns to his book.

That is his second mistake.

Because then—without warning—Stiles strikes.

"So... why do people call you the Demon Wolf?"

Deucalion pauses.

Too long.

The weight of the entire supernatural PR disaster crashes down on him.

Stiles, watching him freeze, immediately knows.

He leans in, grinning. Knowing.

“Ohhh, that was a REACTION. You hate it, don’t you?”

Deucalion closes his eyes.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

He puts his book down with the controlled precision of a man who is about to commit murder.

"No."

Stiles' grin widens.

"Liar."

Silence.

A standoff.

Stiles' eyes sparkle with mischief.

Deucalion's glimmer with regret.

And here’s the thing:

Stiles could stop.

He should stop.

But he will not.

He sits up, fully invested now. Phone tossed aside. Legs crossed. Detective mode: engaged.

“No, but for real," Stiles pushes, voice dripping with mock sincerity.

"Who wakes up one day and just goes—"

He gasps.

“Yes. Today, I shall be the Demon Wolf™.”

Beat.

He gestures dramatically. "Like, was it a board meeting? Did someone run a focus group? Was there a PowerPoint??”

Deucalion pinches the bridge of his nose.

“It was… a misunderstanding," he says, voice measured, controlled.

It does not calm Stiles' curiosity.

“OH? Do tell.”

Deucalion exhales. The deep, long-suffering sigh of a man who has seen some things.

He leans back against the couch and begins his tragic tale.

Years ago.

A rogue pack spiraling out of control.

The supernatural council sent his team to handle it.

One young beta, witnessing Deucalion's sheer ruthless efficiency, panicked.

“Oh my god, it’s like he’s a demon—"

Someone overheard.

Someone else exaggerated.

Before Deucalion could even blink, rumors had spread.

Suddenly, he wasn’t just a council operative handling rogue packs.

No.

He was “The Demon Wolf.”

The boogeyman.

The monster other alphas feared.

He had tried to correct it.

The damage was already done.

Silence.

And then—

Stiles SNORTS.

WHEEZES.

FULL-ON CACKLES.

“So you’re telling me… your whole intimidating presence… is based on a GAME OF TELEPHONE?”

Deucalion just closes his eyes.

Stiles slaps his knee.

Tears. There are tears.

He is dying.

“Oh my god, babe. BABE. Your ENTIRE BRAND is a LITERAL ACCIDENT.”

Deucalion has never known peace.

Stiles stops laughing.

And then—his expression changes.

Deucalion inhales sharply.

He knows that look.

That is a predator catching the scent of blood in the air.

Stiles squints. His heartbeat spikes.

"WAIT."

"No," Deucalion says, much too quickly.

Wrong move.

Stiles' feral grin spreads.

"Then explain 'Alpha of Alphas' ."

Deucalion freezes.

Full-body lockup. Sharp inhale. No exhale.

Stiles sees it. Pointed.

"Oh my god."

“YOU HATE THAT ONE EVEN MORE.”

Deucalion moves.

Immediately.

With purpose.

He stands up.

Stiles reacts with the instincts of a man who has been in too many life-or-death situations.

His hand shoots out.

Grabs Deucalion’s wrist.

And—

YANKS him back down.

“NOPE. NO ESCAPE. TALK.”

Deucalion exhales through his nose.

The long, weary, “I have lived too many years for this” kind of sigh.

His fate? Sealed.

His peace? A lie.

His mate? A demon in human skin.

Through gritted teeth, he mutters, “You will not let this go, will you?”

Stiles, practically vibrating with excitement, doesn’t even hesitate. “Nope. Spill, babe.”

Deucalion’s expression darkens.

And then— he admits it.

“It was… Peter.”

Silence.

...A mistake has been made.

Then—

Stiles absolutely loses his mind.

“I’m sorry. I think I misheard you.DID YOU JUST SAY PETER??”

Deucalion nods.

Stiles throws his head back and SCREAMS with laughter.

“OH MY GOD. OH MY ACTUAL GOD. OF COURSE IT WAS PETER.”

Deucalion exhales like a man who has had to live with this reality for far too long.

“He started calling me ‘Alpha of Alphas’ years ago. I ignored it. I assumed it would fade."

His voice is flat, resigned.

Stiles is absolutely delighted.

“AND IT DIDN’T. YOU LET IT STICK."

Deucalion closes his eyes, rubbing his temple like this will somehow erase his supernatural branding disaster. “He made sure it wouldn’t.”

Stiles leans forward, eyes sparking. The PR scandal is unraveling before him in real time.

His grin is dangerous.

“How, exactly, did he make sure?” He tries to keep his voice calm. He fails. Because this? This is good.

Deucalion pauses. Like he’s making a decision. Like he knows the next words will ruin him.

And then—

“He made it official in Council documents.”

The weight of a thousand regrets settle over Deucalion’s shoulders.

Stiles stops breathing.

Just for a moment.

Then—

LAUNCHES for his phone.

Opens up the supernatural forums.

STARTS TYPING.

“What are you doing."

Deucalion’s voice is flat. Dreading.

He knows exactly what’s about to happen.

Stiles doesn’t even look up. Typing at speeds considered illegal in several countries.

“Confirming this absolute nonsense, obviously." 

It takes 0.2 seconds.

The receipts are there.

Stiles gasps dramatically. Hand clutching his heart.

“OH MY GOD, THERE’S A FORUM POST.”

Deucalion closes his eyes.

He knows.

Stiles reads aloud, dramatic as hell.

‘Deucalion Blackwood, known as the Alpha of Alphas, is the single most feared leader of our time. His strength is unmatched, his presence undeniable. A wolf among wolves.’

Stiles stops.

Then wheezes out:

“THIS IS BASICALLY A THIRST POST.”

Deucalion pinches the bridge of his nose. Like he can somehow physically block out the shame.

Stiles scrolls further.

His gasp is louder this time.

“OH. OH, NO. DEUC. BABE. LOOK AT THIS.”

He shoves the phone in Deucalion’s face.

And there it is.

A scanned image of a PHYSICAL DOCUMENT.

An actual supernatural council memo.

WITH THE WORDS “ALPHA OF ALPHAS” IN FORMAL COUNCIL LETTERHEAD.

Stiles is gone.

Absolutely, completely lost.

“PETER GOT IT INTO GOVERNMENT PAPERWORK!"

He screams.

Does not bother to lower his voice.

Deucalion puts his head in his hands.

Stiles falls off the couch from laughing.

Still on the floor, breathless, wheezing.

“This is the single funniest thing I’ve ever seen in my LIFE!"

Deucalion does not move.

Won't move.

Can't.

His soul has left his body.

Stiles is still wheezing.

Tears are streaming down his face.

Deucalion is motionless, resigned to his fate.

The council memo is still OPEN on Stiles’ phone.

The words “ALPHA OF ALPHAS” staring back at them in bold, serif font.

And then—

Stiles sits up.

Eyes glinting.

A new, terrible idea forming.

Deucalion feels dread creeping up his spine.

“Whatever you’re thinking—” His voice is almost panicked now.

“Nope," Stiles denies swiftly, "No take-backs. You are what you are, babe. You are The Alpha of Alphas.™ And I, for one, think it’s time to start embracing that.”

Deucalion whispers, hoarse from horror.

“No."

“Ohhh yes," Stiles confirms, thumbs already flying over his keyboard.

Texting Peter.

[Stiles: 11:48 PM] PETER. YOU MAGNIFICENT BASTARD.

[Peter: 11:49 PM] Oh? What did I do this time?

[Stiles: 11:49 PM] WHAT DIDN’T YOU DO. I HAVE JUST UNCOVERED YOUR MASTERPIECE. YOUR MAGNUM OPUS.

[Peter: 11:50 PM] …Go on.

[Stiles: 11:51 PM] YOU GOT “ALPHA OF ALPHAS” INTO GOVERNMENT DOCUMENTS.
IN MEMOS.

[Peter: 11:51 PM] Oh. That.

[Stiles: 11:52 PM] “Oh. That.” SIR. DO YOU UNDERSTAND THE LEVEL OF POWER YOU HOLD??

[Peter: 11:53 PM] Why, thank you, Stiles. I do appreciate being recognized for my efforts.

[Stiles: 11:54 PM] Peter, Peter, Peter, we are no longer enemies. We are BUSINESS PARTNERS.

Deucalion leans over.

Despite himself.

Despite the terrible, dreadful horror pooling in his gut.

He sees the texts.

Sees Stiles and Peter exchanging high-fives with stickers over the phone.

Realizes he has lost all control of his life.

“Stiles. No.” His voice is almost begging.

“Stiles YES."

And then.

Just to make it worse.

Just to ruin Deucalion's entire existence.

Stiles turns back to his phone.

And starts posting.

Updates supernatural forums.

Sends emails.

By midnight, the following message is spreading like wildfire:

“BREAKING NEWS: Did you know that the Alpha of Alphas is actually a government-recognized title? That’s right, folks—our very own Deucalion Blackwood isn’t just a legendary figure, he is LITERALLY a documented supernatural leader. The council has OFFICIAL FILES. There is an ENTIRE DIVISION. This man is not just a werewolf, he is an INSTITUTION.”

The supernatural internet EXPLODES.

Werewolf Twitter is in flames.

Someone starts a WIKIPEDIA PAGE.

Meanwhile, Peter and Stiles are having the time of their lives.

[Stiles: 12:10 AM] Peter. Peter. What if we make MERCH?

[Peter: 12:11 AM] Stiles, I take back every insult I’ve ever said about you. Let’s discuss licensing rights.

[Stiles: 12:12 AM] Limited edition Alpha of Alphas™ coffee mugs?

[Peter: 12:13 AM] WE CAN HAVE MATCHING “Demon Wolf” ONES TOO.

Deucalion is gripping the sides of his head.

Watching in real time as Stiles and Peter—his husband and his worst nightmare—become an unstoppable PR dream team.

The worst part?

He is powerless.

“Stiles.” His voice is weak now, pleading.

“I am BEGGING you to stop.”

Stiles doesn’t even look up. Just keeps typing.

“Babe,” he says solemnly, as if this is a sacred duty.

“Love of my life. Branding is important.”

And the next day:

The supernatural council is calling.
Alpha packs are requesting meetings.
Someone has commissioned an artist to paint him in a Renaissance-style dramatic portrait.

Deucalion logs into his email.

The subject line stares back at him:

“RE: Official Title Verification – ALPHA OF ALPHAS.”

He closes the laptop.

Takes a very slow, very deep breath.

Then he looks at Stiles.

“You are an absolute menace."

Stiles doesn't even blink.

He just grins, completely unrepentant.

Like his new ‘Alpha of Alphas’ mug.

Takes a very smug sip.

“And you love me for it.”

Deucalion exhales long-suffering, exhausted, resigned.

He really, really does.