Author's Note:

So one day on such a beautiful day on my Tumblr where my dash was filled with a lot of Stiles' emo gifs, an Anon asked if I could be inspired to write Omega!Stiles.

Who am I to refuse such a nice suggestion...

Oh and look who loves me so much that she stole her father's laptop to beta-read this story =TRISHA

None Of It Was Ever Worth The Risk

Chapter 1

Stiles is alone in the world, he has nobody. Well, he had somebody, but they were taken away from him. He came from a prosperous pack of twenty four werewolves, his parents were the alpha pair and Stiles was a happy pup. But it was all over when a vicious nomadic pack attacked them to steal their territory. Stiles lost everything at the age of eight because of another pack's hunger for power. Stiles was the only survivor, everyone else had been killed. His mother pushed him into the waterfall as the attackers' alpha, Phanterius, shoved his claws into his mother's chest. Stiles let the river current carry him as he wept, for his parents, for his family. For his lost home. At the age of eight, Stiles became the youngest omega to ever exist.

Stiles had spent his life running and hiding. Phanterius knew he was alive and he assigned his betas to dispose of him. Stiles realized Phanterius was afraid one day Stiles would pay him back for killing his family, and honestly, that was the only thing that kept Stiles going. Revenge. If Stiles didn't have it, he was afraid he might lose the will to live, because he could barely hold on.

Stiles was now sixteen years old. He had spent eight years on his own, trying to stay alive. He moved from one place to another, nothing he could call home. He hunted for food, sometimes got a part time job for little pay, and sometimes Stiles stole to pay for a meal. He would sleep anywhere, sometimes in the woods, sometimes in shelters, and sometimes in abandoned buildings. Stiles didn't have anybody, because he couldn't trust anybody. The last werewolf he made friends with, appeared to be Phanterius' paid omega assigned to kill Stiles in his sleep.

The loneliness was what killed Stiles inside the most. He used to be a cheerful and talkative pup, the silence around him now made his heart feel so cold. Part of Stiles couldn't take it anymore. Part of him wanted to just die. Sometimes when he missed his family, he would shift and run deep into the wood at night. He would just run and run until the tears on his face got dry. But he liked it more when it rained. The raindrops covered his face, he could shed more tears and he wouldn't even notice. The thunders would cover his angst filled screams and sobs. Then his trembling body would just collapse on the forest floor out of exhaustion. He would let the exhaustion drag him to unconsciousness, making him forget about the pain he felt from his heartache, a pain that no werewolf power could heal.

And that was his state when Derek Hale found him.

Derek Hale is the youngest alpha in North America, claiming the title at the age of twenty-three from his own crazy uncle who killed his older sister for the title and bit the most innocent teenager in town. In a year, he got himself four betas plus the pup his uncle bit and trained them himself. They turned from useless pups into proud and strong werewolves. But Derek's dark past left him trusting no one, he needed a year of reassurances from his faithful betas before he finally trusted his own pack.

Derek never chose to have a cold heart, but life chose it for him. Having your family burned alive would do that to you, especially when the person that you loved was the one who lit the fire. He killed that person with his own hand, and when he did, he didn't even drop a single tear. But since then, Derek has never hesitated to kill anybody who crosses his way. Derek Hales name roars its way into the werewolves world as Beacon Hills' pack once again raises its claws under its heartless alpha. Every werewolf knows who Derek Hale is.

So to say that Derek is pissed to smell other werewolf in his territory is an understatement. Does this stupid wolf want to die? The alpha follows the scent of the werewolf, which is surprisingly easy to follow because the scent is strong, warm, and nice. It's not that it will save the ignorant werewolf from Derek's deathly claws and teeth.

Derek finds the werewolf, who happens to be an unconscious boy laying on his side. The boy's clothes are soaked completely. His skin is pale, decorated by contrast moles, and his face shows he had been crying. But Derek doesn't give a shit about that.

'How dare he sleep on MY forest floor.'

Derek roars gloriously at the limp body of the other werewolf, but the boy doesn't move at all. Derek still hears the heartbeat so he knows this werewolf is still alive. Derek moves closer to the boy. He then shoves the boy's shoulder with his leg. Instead of gaining consciousness, the boy's body just limply falls on his back. His hand makes a thud as it drops to the ground lifelessly.

Derek stares at the boy's tears-stained face. In a glimpse, Derek sees himself crying for his dead family years ago but he shakes his own thoughts away. The boy reminds him of his deepest scar that he never wants to open again, and it boils the anger inside of him even more. This boy is not even conscious but he already gets on his nerves. He shakes the boy's body with his leg, but the boy is not waking up.

Derek scowls in irritation.

'Great, just fucking great.'

Derek is too proud to kill someone in his sleep, he's not a coward. But Derek would better kill himself than letting an unknown werewolf wander in his territory. The consideration leaves him with the last option, keeping this trespasser as hostage until he wakes up. Then, he would have to leave the territory or suffer a painful death at the hand of one Derek Hale.

Derek has made up his mind. He lifts the scrawny boy onto his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and carries him home.

To be continued...

Author's Note:

Thank you for reading and let me know what you think.

Request box is always open.