Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Dude," Scott says, his voice tinny and way too loud for a morning wake-up call. "Where were you?"

"Fuck off, Scott." Stiles groans and hits end call. The time glares back at him from his phone. He's got ten minutes to get to school and zero time to feel guilty for hanging up on his best bud.

He pulls himself out of bed, grunting at the ache of his every muscle, and he collapses back down again as the room swims. Holding his head in his hands, he tries to come to terms with the absolute hell his body's going through. He hasn't felt this bad since the whiskey-in-the-woods incident in sophomore year. His stomach lurches as he tries to stand again and he grabs for the last mouthful of coke in the bottle by his bed. It's stale and too sweet but it's wet and miraculously settles his nausea.

"Ugh, I don't have time for this shit," he says to no one.

He swipes his -- unfinished, fuck -- chem homework off his desk and into his bag, finds some clothes in a wrinkled pile on the floor and runs out of the house. He hopes he has a pack of gum in his locker because that's as close to personal hygiene as he's getting today.

He spends the ride to school wondering what the hell he'd done last night that wasn't his homework.

"Derek was yelling at Allison. She wasn't taking any of his 'I'm the Alpha' shit, and once they both started, everyone was screaming."

Scott's been talking for a bit now, still harping on some plans they had last night. He's not showing signs of stopping and Stiles' headache is about the size of the Harris' ego -- fucking enormous -- and each word he has to listen to feels like a kick to the balls.

"Isaac took Derek's side, which didn't go over well. And Lydia refused to come because Peter was supposed to be there -- and that asshole didn't even show up."

Stiles flings open his locker, not caring that it hits Scott in the elbow. At least it made the rambling stop. "Whoever controls the temperature in Beacon Hills High must be wearing shorts today; it's a goddamn sauna in here." Stiles peels off his flannel shirt, balls it and tosses it in the bottom of his locker before turning back to Scott. "I don't even know what you're talking about."

"How can you not --" Scott's voice does that frustrated cracky thing as he shakes his head. "You were suppose to be there! I waited for you for an hour."

"Oh!" Stiles forces his eyes comically wide, laying on the sarcasm thick. "An hour! Scott. Wow. How will you ever forgive me?"

"Dude, what the hell is your problem today? You know we've been trying for weeks to get everyone together to start sharing info."

It sounds familiar, and Stiles has a vague pang of guilt that he's forgetting something that was important to him. But his t-shirt is already sticky with sweat and his patience with this conversation has worn thin. "Whatever. Just tell me when you need me to be there next time and I'll be there."

He walks away, not waiting for Scott. If he gets to class early he might get enough of his chem work done that it'll look like he at least attempted the lab.

The classroom's not empty, but Stiles can't be disappointed when he sees who's sitting in the back. Slipping into the seat beside Danny, he whispers, "Yo, man. You got the lab done, right?"

Danny stops his review of what is clearly the completed lab in his hands, lifts his head and stares blankly at Stiles.

Stiles ignores that. "Let me copy."

Danny snorts. "I don't think so, Stilinski."

"Come on, asshole." Stiles' cheeks flash hot in a mix of frustration and embarrassment. "Give me a break. I'm having a shit day."

"How about no." Danny turns back to his paper, shaking his head like it's Stiles acting like a jerk.

"Cunt." He's not going to suffer through sitting beside Danny the Douche the whole class so he stands to find himself another spot. He adjusts his backpack on his shoulder, letting it swing out so Danny will have to duck. Except Danny's not paying attention, apparently.

There's a loud smack as his bag makes contact with Danny's skull.

"What the hell is your problem, Stilinski?"

The buzzing in Stiles' head reaches a fever-pitch. Anger floods his chest like a heavy weight pressing in on him. "You," he snaps.

Danny stands, kicking his chair aside. The scrape of it sliding across the floor is louder than any threat.

Behind them, a book slams on a desk.

"Gentlemen," Harris says, standing at the front of the room. "I'm not sure what's going on here, but I'm 100% positive it's Mr. Stilinski's fault."

People have started to file in and a few of his classmates are cackling at Stiles yet again getting called out.

Harris smirks, obviously getting off on the attention."How about detention after school today?"

Stiles' blood burns through his veins; the buzzing in his head makes his eye twitch. "How about fuck you?"

"Alright," Harris says, his lips thin and white. "We'll make it a trip to the principal's office then. An in-school suspension might teach you some respect, but I doubt it."

His mouth's already open to tell Harris what he can do with his suspension but Scott's suddenly beside him, slapping his hand over Stiles' mouth. "Just shut up, man. It's not worth it. You'll get yourself expelled."

Stiles struggles out of Scott's hold. "From this shit school? It'd be a blessing." He glares at Harris, then at Danny -- who's looking shocked more than anything -- before finally ducking out of class.

He doesn't bother with the principal's office. He's already suspended anyway. Instead, he heads straight home and crashes on his bed.

He's probably got an hour before his dad hears what's happened.

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

Stiles groans, scrubbing his face until his father's grim expression comes into focus. His eyes flicker to the clock; it isn't even noon. His dad must have come straight home after getting the phone call from school.

"Last night I tried waking you up and I couldn't. I almost called 911 before Melissa talked me down. Then today I get pulled out of a meeting to find out you've been suspended. Jesus, Stiles." His dad pauses and rubs his forehead before staring Stiles in the eye. "Are you on something?"

"What?" He tries to sit up but, fuck, his head hurts. If he was doing drugs at least he'd feel good some of the time, right? "No, I'm not on something. I just -- I was tired. I guess I was in a bad mood today."

"A bad mood?" His dad folds his arms across his chest, looking as unimpressed as when Stiles had stolen the prison transport -- which is pretty epically unimpressed. "This wasn't just a 'bad mood,' Stiles."

"I'm sorry, okay? I'll apologize to Harris, even though he's an asshole who was overreacting. You know how he gets under my skin."

"Not an excuse. You know better than this."

"I'm sorry," Stiles says. "I am. Just... can I go back to sleep? I seriously feel like shit."

His dad stands there for a minute, the frustration on his face melting into concern. "If you want me to call the doctor--"

"Nah, really." Stiles tries to grin. "I'm just tired."

It's not very convincing, but his dad sighs and hesitates only a moment before leaving and shutting the door behind him.

Stiles is asleep before he can even hear his dad drive away.

"You look like shit, Stilinski," Danny says. The quirk of his lips says he hasn't forgotten or forgiven yesterday's backpack to the head. Petty fucker.

Stiles remembers the sunken, pale cheeks he'd seen in the mirror this morning and knows it's true. The kicker's that he feels ten times worse than he looks. "Thanks, asshole."

"Don't mind him," Scott says, leaning against his locker so he's blocking Stiles' view of Danny. "But you do look --" He stops at Stiles' scowl. He shrugs and goes with, "Maybe you should see a doctor?"

"Have you been talking to my dad?"

Scott's eyes dart to the floor. "He called my mom when you wouldn't wake up for dinner last night again. That's two nights in a row that you crash hard." He's looking guilty, as a bro should, for siding with the adults. "Just saying it's weird."

Stiles frowns and tries to remember eating dinner last night, or the night before and… nothing. He must have slept about twenty hours, clocking out yesterday mid-morning and not waking again until his alarm went off for school. No wonder his dad rolled his eyes and muttered teenagers as Stiles waved goodbye this morning.

"Ugh," Stiles says as he rips off the note taped to his locker -- classy as always, Harris. "The in-school suspension for Stiles Stilinski will be held today in the library, starting at first bell, ending at last bell. Use of a cellphone or laptop will be not be permitted during the in-school suspension." He crumples it. "Fucker."

"Sorry, dude."

"Whatever." Stiles slams his locker shut and the sound of it echos painful behind his eyes.

"You want me to--"

Scott's offer is lost in the noise of the crowd as Stiles storms off to his prison sentence.

Mrs. Kulkarni, the librarian, has a spot reserved for him by the reference desk. She gives him a stern look, repeats Harris' rules and adds a reminder not to speak with any of the students who will be in and out of the library throughout the day.

It's his first interaction with her, ever, and it's surprising how much hate Stiles can muster up on such short notice.

It takes about three and a half minutes of sitting in complete silence for Stiles to become restless. He can't settle, despite his mountain of homework to keep him occupied.

The first half of the morning is endless. The only change being the rotation of students each period, giving Stiles new faces to scowl at. There's a break for lunch, in which Stiles is given twenty minutes to grab something from the cafeteria, but Stiles finds he can barely eat. The temperature in the school is out of whack again, and all he wants is a cold bottle of water -- which he presses to his sweaty forehead instead of drinking.

Things take an odd turn by mid-afternoon.

He's doodling in his math notes, staring off into space instead of studying for the geometry test next week, when an ache starts to twist low in his belly. It's familiar and distinct-- the kind of slow-burn anticipation that he gets when he locks his door, draws his curtains and boots up his laptop in search of porn and orgasms. He can feel an itch along his skin, like it's over-sensitive to the soft cotton of his tee. He squirms in his seat, finding it impossible to get comfortable in his too-tight jeans. His sweat is making his boxers tacky.

He stares at the clock, helpless as it creeps forward. A few freshmen give him weird looks as he bounces his leg, shifting impatiently in his chair as the seconds tick by. He's jittery and horny and sweating. It's about as torturous as you can get while trapped in a public place.

By the time the final bell rings, he's ready to crawl out of his skin. He bursts through the doors, pushing past Scott who is waiting for him by their lockers. The parking lot is nearly empty of students. He ignores the look he gets from Derek who's sitting in his Camaro waiting to pick up Isaac.

He has a single focus: getting to his Jeep, getting home, getting his hand on his dick. Climbing into his Jeep, he wipes the sweat from his eyes. His hands shake as he reaches for the gear shift. It takes three times to calm his trembling enough to get a proper hold and slide it into reverse.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Derek out of his car, stepping towards him. Want flashes hot in Stiles' groin, and he clenches his ass at the thought of Derek approaching him now while Stiles' cock's hard and something burns in his gut to touch and take. Being horny around Derek is something Stiles is practiced at avoiding, and today, with his self-control a fragile, brittle thing, being near Derek will end in his utter humiliation.

Derek's face scrunches up as he calls out, asks Stiles what's wrong. It's enough to have Stiles hitting the gas and not letting up until he's squealing out of the parking lot.

He blinks as the road blurs in front of him, and he gives a passing thought to pulling over. Maybe he shouldn't be driving, maybe he is getting sick. But he's not about to call someone to drive him home when he's got a tent in his pants that isn't going away without a helping hand.

He parks like he's drunk; he'll hear about that the second his dad gets home, but there's no way he's taking the time to straighten up. He stumbles upstairs to the bathroom, peeling his clothes off as he goes.

The warm spray's a relief, but does little to wash away the urgency that's been growing steadily worse since the library. His hand wraps around his cock and the frissons of desire that twists down his spine from the simple touch make him light-headed. His hand flies out to steady himself; the tiles feel like ice beneath his palm.

He pumps his cock with unusual care, unsure what's happening with his body but the intensity of the reaction he's getting is freaking him out a bit. With each stroke he gives his cock, his hips jerk forward and his ass cheeks clench. He's going to need more than a regular toss-off. He's never felt so… empty.

He sometimes uses a finger, and if he can get the right angle, it's pretty amazing. He needs to now, though, in a way that's unfamiliar and desperate.

He reaches back, his finger traveling the cleft of his ass and stopping the moment he finds his hole. He blinks against the water pouring over his face, trying to understand what he's feeling. The rim of his asshole is already sensitive and swollen. He taps at it and the barest touch has him gasping. Circling the muscle, he finds it's not sore, just soft and loose, tender like he's already been playing with it for hours. His finger slips right in.

The analytical part of his brain wants to explore why and how he could be so stretched -- it's been at least a week since he last fingered himself. But the part of his brain that currently lives in his dick is having none of that. The sensation that's flooding his body from a single fingertip has his thighs trembling; logical thinking right now is impossible. He presses the finger deeper and it goes easily. His eyes squeeze shut.

Inside, he's wet and slippery like he's gone crazy with the lube. He slides his finger in and out, already pumping with a steady, focused pace that has him panting in the steamy air of the shower.

His cheek is pressed against the shower wall, trying to keep himself upright. He adds another finger and there's barely a stretch - just the eager way his ass adjusts, sucks in the fingers like they belong there. His other hand is tugging at his dick, trying and failing to match the rhythm of the fingers pumping his ass. He lets out a frustrated whine.

Lifting his leg to the edge of the tub improves the angle, let's him get deeper, but it's not nearly enough. He wonders if he's ever going to manage to come. He feels it building. He's pumping his cock like he's just learned what it does and he's racing to the finish. But the finish line keeps getting pushed out, constantly unattainable.

He needs something… he just can't figure out …

He tries three fingers, which is more than he's ever attempted, and he prepares himself for the burn. Fuck, he's not even using lube. But the third finger slides in along the other two like it's nothing.

The stretch is good now, better. So much better. But for the first time he's wishing he'd had the guts to buy that dildo he'd wanted on etsy. It was huge. God, he needs something like that today.

He's desperate and suddenly looking at his shampoos bottles, but the shape is painfully wrong. He's smart enough to know without trying. Maybe a hair brush handle? But knowing his luck lately he'd get the fucking thing stuck.

He's getting too dizzy to stand.

Kneeling on the tub floor, he spreads his legs as far as he can manage. One hand's still on his dick and the other with as many fingers as he can fit up his ass.

He wishes he weren't alone. He needs more. Someone. Someone bigger, stronger than himself. He shuts his eyes and can almost feel the massive hands all over him. The touch is claiming and possessive. Claws grip his hips as he's taken, mercilessly on the werewolf's cock. The beast's only care is for his own pleasure, using Stiles' body until he's spent.

Stiles loses himself to the fantasy, letting his own touch turn brutal until he finds what he needs and his body is singing and his balls begin to stir. He tips his head the side, like it's instinct to bare his neck, and phantom teeth clamp down, breaking through the last of his control.

He arches his back and sobs through his orgasm.

He's wrecked, sitting in the bottom of the tub, cold water splashing down on his over-heated skin. He's left stunned, unsure what's happening with his body, what's happening with his mind.

It's a long time before he drags himself, naked and trembling, into his room. He crashes on his bed, only bothering to pull up a sheet in case his father comes to check on him.

He's drifting in and out of consciousness when a chirp from the pile of clothes that he'd left in the hallway rouses him. He drags himself out of bed to fetch his phone and winces at the tender ache of his abused ass. He's hot again and despite the weird stretched-out and slick feel of his ass, he doesn't feel like putting on his boxers. The idea of clothes makes his skin itch.

He scrolls through a few texts he missed, all from Scott. The last one catches his attention:

Call me. Derek's worried. Said you smelled funny in the parking lot.

derek can go fuck himself with a cactus, he types back.

Then he shuts off his phone and lets his exhaustion pull him into a deep sleep.

His dreams are strange that night. The smell of the forest prickles his nose -- wet leaves and mud, animal urine sprayed on a nearby tree not fully washed away with the rain. The details are vivid. His senses feel even sharper than if this were real.

He can hear the sounds of every scurrying animal finding shelter from the brightness of the moon. He blinks up at the sky as he enters a clearing. The moon's not quite full yet -- tomorrow, maybe -- but it's awe inspiring in its size anyway, filling the sky.

He stares up at it, mesmerized, until a scent caught in the wind gives him focus again. He darts back into the thick of the preserve. The scent calls to him: find me.

The underbrush can't trip him; he's agile and single-minded in his goal. He doesn't realize what he's chasing until he's caught sight of it. The werewolf's eyes flare red and Stiles knows he should be frightened by the warning growl that carries through the expanse of forest between them. Instead, it sends his pulse racing for different reasons.

He's naked and hard, his ass still stretched and wet. He creeps closer. The alpha's nostrils flare and Stiles knows his scent is calling out, begging for this potential mate to make a move. But the alpha's resisting for reasons Stiles can't understand.

Stiles isn't so patient; in a single pounce, he tackles the alpha.

The fever Stiles felt in the shower is nothing to this. He grinds himself against the alpha's denim-covered crotch and marks him with his scent. It's not a bite but it's a claim nonetheless.

The friction is delicious and not nearly enough. He claws at the alpha's clothes with blunt useless nails. The alpha is shouting at him, saying his name. His hand pushes at Stiles' chest. He wants to yell at the alpha for not helping, but the need to mate is too strong and words are beyond him.

He reaches for the alpha's belt just as the alpha swings his fist and the world goes black.

Stiles wakes from the dream with the same painful regret as he has for the last week, like unconsciousness is the only relief he can find. It's even worse today with a throbbing in his temple that doesn't appear to be dissipating any time soon and a cramp in his shoulder from the angle he slept in.

He shifts and everything registers at once: the cold metal around his wrists, the damp cement beneath his ass, and how his arms are bound above his head. His eyes snap open.

He's in a basement -- a freakin' dungeon, from the looks of it. Pale morning light streams from a small, filthy window by the ceiling, illuminating the room and showing off the black, ash-like dust covering everything. The manacles binding him are attached to a barred cell. At least he's on the outside of it.

The last thing he realizes is Allison Argent standing in the corner with a crossbow pointed at him and a cool, detached expression that Stiles recognizes from watching her target practices.

"What are you?" she says.

Stiles almost laughs -- he might've if it weren't Allison, who walks in shades of grey that have run pretty dark in the past.

"Uh, human?" he says, hoping the punch line is coming and not the arrow.

"He's awake." She raises her voice just enough that Stiles knows the words aren't meant for him. She doesn't take her eyes off him or lower her bow.

He assumes their conversation is done for now. He's naked except for a pair of boxers that he's sure don't belong to him. His chest and arms are marked with angry red scratches -- he has a vague memory of tearing through the forest with more speed than care. But that had been only part of his dream.

The door bursts open and Scott comes rushing in. Relief crashes over him until Scott stops himself from going to Stiles. With a look of regret, he stands by Allison.

"Scott?" Stiles tugs on his chain, the sharp cut at his wrist distracting him from the hurt in his chest. "Is this a prank, man? Untie me."

Scott just shakes his head. "Stiles, did you get bit?"

"Bit? What? No." Stiles forces out a laugh, hoping he can turn all this into a joke by sheer force of will. "God, look at me." He glances down at his marked, not-healing skin. "One hundred percent human. I could probably use some polysporin for these. And I have a serious cramp in my shoulder, so if you could let me out…"

"Stiles." Scott looks like a kicked puppy. "I can't, dude. You attacked Derek last night."

"What?"

"You were running through the woods… naked…"

A buzzing starts in Stiles' ears, blocking out the rest of what Scott is saying; he knows it anyway. If part of the dream is real, it wasn't a dream at all. When he closes his eyes, he remembers stalking an alpha, pouncing and tackling him to the ground. Only now, in his right mind, it's Derek's face to go with the glowing red eyes.

He flushes at the memory, the way he'd straddled Derek and grinded his naked ass against Derek's crotch. Now he's tied up in what must be the basement of old Hale house.

And he's hard in his borrowed boxers.

Scott makes a sound like a dog whining. "There's something wrong with you."

Stiles turns his head, mortified. Unable to cover himself, a flush spreads over his body until he's prickling with sweat.

"Please leave," he says, squeezing his eyes shut. He can't stand to know they are staring at him.

To his surprise, when he opens his eyes again, they're both gone.

It's not much of a victory. He's tenting his boxers and his cock isn't going down anytime soon. It's ridiculous because there's nothing sexy about this situation; he can't even think why he's turned on. His skin's tight and the room's too hot the way it had been in the library and each time he shifts his weight he feels the dampness between his ass cheeks. He's loose and empty down there, like he's still stretched-out and wet from fingering himself in the shower.

He's left alone with his thoughts and frustration for what feels like hours before the door finally opens again.

It's Derek who enters and Stiles' body arches toward him before he can stop himself. Stiles hopes it goes unnoticed.

Derek's not even looking at him. He twists open a bottle of water and puts it by Stiles' knee. He drops a plate of pepperettes and crackers beside the bottle and unlocks the manacle on Stiles' right wrist. Instead of leaving again, he sits in the corner Allison had stood.

"I'd rather talk to Scott, if it's all the same to you," Stiles says.

"Too bad." Derek's face is expressionless, unnaturally so. Stiles hates that dead-eyed look Derek's giving him, hates even more that he's drawn to it. His heart's thudding madly with the need to pull Derek closer.

Stiles stares at the far wall and grits out, "Sorry for… well."

"You weren't yourself."

Stiles watches Derek's fists open and close in a tight clench. It's easier than meeting his eye.

They've never been friends exactly but there's something between them -- a mutual respect of sorts, and, on Stiles' side at least, a bit of unrequited lust. It's humiliating enough to know he'd attacked Derek, tried to force himself on a guy who wasn't at all interested. But to see him now and still be attracted to him, to still want what Derek refused, it's torture.

"I'd like to be alone," he says and hopes Derek at least pities him enough to give him that dignity.

Derek acts like he didn't even hear. Instead, he stares at Stiles while he eats, his eyes burning into him and doing nothing to help Stiles' hard-on go down.

When the food's gone, he grabs Stiles' wrist and raises it back into the manacle. Stiles lets him without complaint; his brain's too fogged from Derek being in his space while he's hard and nearly naked to try to think of escape.

He bites the inside of this cheek to keep from closing the distance between them and nipping at Derek's stubbled jaw. The only thing holding him back is the memory of Derek's rejection last night -- Derek's knocking him unconscious to stop Stiles' advances. It's playing on his mind and keeping him frozen in place while Derek hovers over him. He just prays Derek backs away soon because it's taking every ounce of control to not move.

It feels like an eternity. The lock's giving Derek trouble; Stiles can feel his hands tremble where he holds Stiles' wrists. When he finally gets the latch hooked, his hands linger, sliding slowly down Stiles' forearm in a way that leaves Stiles breathless. Derek's nose brushes behind Stiles' ear and there's a whimper, but he's not sure which of them made the sound. His skin's lit up; the barest touch travels through him like an electric current.

"Stiles," Derek whispers, like he's in pain, like it hurts him to be holding back. Stiles opens his mouth to answer but the sound of a throat clearing behind Derek startles them both.

"Derek," Deaton says, loud and sharp. Stiles isn't sure how long Deaton's been watching from the doorway but his voice snaps Derek out of his daze.

Derek growls and visibly shakes himself as he steps away. His claws cutting into his palms, he stalks out the door without looking back.

"Enjoy the show?"

Deaton squats down to Stiles' level, flicking a light in Stiles' eyes as if he hadn't just interrupted the most erotic moment of Stiles' life. "Did you know," he says, conversationally, "werewolves sharing a territory will instinctively rally around a born-werewolf infant, and protect it with their lives? They'll form a makeshift pack with the alpha whose mate produced the child as the undisputed leader."

"Fascinating."

"I agree," Deaton says, ignoring Stiles' snark. "Furthermore when a territory is without a stable pack for years, nature helps things along, if you will."

An ominous 'life finds a way' echoes in his head; Deaton's as cryptic as the mathematician from Jurassic Park, too. "I don't think I want to know."

"How are you feeling, Stiles?" Deaton says, and Stiles is smart enough to know that the topic isn't really changing.

"I gotta admit, I'm a little nervous that it's bad enough you're doing house calls."

Deaton gives him a small smile that's more indulgent than any attempt at comfort. "I took some blood samples while you were unconscious. I must say the results were… unexpected."

"But I wasn't bitten! I mean…" He tries to think, but there's been so much unaccounted for the last few days that it's hard to be sure. "I don't think so. I've been losing time lately."

Deaton nods. "I don't think so either. But you are going through a kind of transformation. And I imagine is hasn't been pleasant. Scott mentioned you haven't been yourself for a few days."

"Acting like an asshole doesn't mean I'm not human anymore."

"You're still human," he says, then like he feels he needs a qualifier, he adds, "essentially human."

"I don't follow."

"You're what my books call a human omega, a wolf-breeder." It's said so matter of factly that Stiles has the urge to punch Deaton in the face. The idea's absurd. Even after everything -- werewolves, kanimas, hunters -- Stiles being turned into any kind of breeder is ridiculous. He feels the stretch of his wide-eyed stare as Deaton continues, "Before you say it, yes, I know you're male. Nature doesn't seem to care about that technicality."

Technicality. Him being male is now just a technicality when it comes to producing werewolf babies. He let's out a breathy, hysterical laugh. "Oh my god, this is not happening."

He pulls at his chains, needing to curl in on himself at the thought of his body morphing into something it's not supposed to be. He wants to scream his denial but he already knows it's true, feels it in the burning of his skin. "This was not in the your bestfriend's a werewolf pamphlet."

"It's a surprise to me as well, if that's any comfort. This hasn't happened--"

"If you say a hundred years I swear to God--"

"Let's just say it's suspiciously rare."

Stiles' head snaps up to catch any deeper meaning written on Deaton's face. He doesn't like the sound of that.

"We found a series of needle-marks along your spine. My theory is during your recent time losses you were given some kind of injections to trigger the change and set things in motion."

"That's… that's really fucked up." He suddenly drained, sweaty and uncomfortable, wanting this all to be over. "Who the hell would--"

"An alpha."

"It's pretty obvious it's not Derek. He had his chance to get all up in this and turned me down with a left hook."

"We think there's a new alpha in town," Deaton says, and Stiles' brow furrows, "someone wanting to take advantage of this territory's instability. My theory is someone wants to use you to control of both Derek's pack and Scott."

"Fuck."

"Scott, Derek and Peter are out right now searching for him," Deaton says. "He'll be sticking close, trying to call you out so you will go to him while you're in your heat."

His heat -- now that he has a word for it and understands what is happening to his body, it's impossible to ignore that warmth of his skin, the restless ache that makes him squirm. His cock's heavy against his thigh. He wriggles, feeling the wetness between his ass cheeks, realizing the purpose for the first time. His body is preparing itself for mating, for breeding.

Maybe it shouldn't shock him after everything, but the capability of getting pregnant blows Scott's aptitude for jumping high fences out of the water.

"Can't you reverse it? Can't you at least untie me?"

"The second stage of your heat is starting, timed to coincide with tonight's full moon. You won't be able to resist going to him when he calls for you." Deaton's lips press tight as he exhales. "The best I can do is sedate you. Lydia, Allison and Isaac are guarding the house. I'll place mountain ash along the doors and windows upstairs to keep him away from you."

The words feel like a slap. Whatever is pumping through his blood is making him rage at the thought of being separated from the alpha. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to shake off the reaction but his mind's spinning on the thought of being found, being pinned down and stretched wide around a cock until he's full. Suddenly he's struggling with the manacles for a different reason.

Deaton must read it on his face because when Stiles opens his eyes, he's already got the needle ready. "I'll be down in a few hours to give you another."

Stiles wakes in a daze. He blinks the world into focus only to find himself still in the Hale's basement. The room feels like a furnace and his body is molten, like liquid metal looking for something to give it shape and purpose. He squirms, helpless to remain still while his body is calling him to move, to find relief.

He tugs roughly on the manacle and it snaps open. He stares at it a moment, disbelieving. The metal isn't bent or anything implying super-strength -- which he's sure he doesn't have. The latch is intact.

He looks up at his other wrist and finds the manacle is not even clasped together. The room is empty, and after a moment's confusion he takes advantage of his freedom and stands.

He stretches his stiff muscles before pushing open the heavy steel door he'd been held behind. He's dizzy and off-balance, needing to lean against the wall to clear his head. Just about to call out a thank you to his friends upstairs for setting him free, he catches a scent.

He inhales deeply and his eyes fall shut.

It calls to him, he realizes as his higher brain function begins to shut down and instinct takes over. Alpha, his mind chants as he darts from the room, turning down a dark passageway he'd never seen before rather than heading towards the stairs where his friends are likely waiting.

The tiny corridor goes on for several feet until it turns into a dank, black tunnel. He has to duck down while he walks, keeping a hand along the muddy wall, tracing the mark the alpha had left for him like a trail of breadcrumbs.

He stops abruptly as he jams his knee on a cement block that makes the bottom of a rough set of stairs. It's nearly impossible to see in the darkness, but he climbs, feeling his way until he reaches the top and comes to a wooden door.

It swings open with the barest push of his fingertip and he finds himself somewhere in the forest of the preserve.

The moon's full, lighting everything clearly after the darkness of the tunnel.

The fresh air is a relief from the ash-filled air of the Hale basement. He closes his eyes and lets the scent of leaves and mud bring back the memories of the last time he was out here. He was delirious then, thinking it was all a dream. It was freeing to just give in and let nothing but instinct control him completely. He slips under the influence of the heat and can't find the strength to fight it when giving in is so much easier.

He catches the scent from the tunnel again, far closer now, and desire stirs within him to find the alpha who'd led him out here. He searches the darkness, breathes deeply and takes off in a run.

His mind blurs in the lust-fog of his heat as he races through the trees. The alpha's scent is familiar, mixing in Stiles' mind with Derek's from the night before. It drives him faster, wanting to find his alpha again. In the back of his mind, there's a ping of danger; Deaton's warning rings in his mind, but it no longer holds a meaning Stiles can understand. There is only the need to be mated. Want courses through his body; the dull ache along his spine drives him forward.

Red eyes break the darkness of the thick forest to his left, and Stiles stumbles.

"Hello, Stiles." The greeting echoes as a rumble through the trees.

Stiles steps towards the voice and the eyes flicker to a bright blue, turning back to red again the next instant. Stiles frowns, shaking his head to clear it. Something isn't right. He needs to focus, to remember why he'd agreed to be chained up, why he hadn't wanted to be out here.

The werewolf in front of him steps into a patch of moonlight and his face comes into view.

"Peter," Stiles whispers.

Peter smirks, red eyes making Stiles' breath catch.

"You're an alpha again."

"I've always been an alpha." Peter's eyes flicker from red to blue again, as if calling out his lie.

"But you're not."

Peter grins, eyes full red and fangs bared. "An omega," he says, scenting the air, "is all I need. A mate to secure my status and --" He leers and Stiles shivers, sweat gone cold. "-- a child to secure a pack." There's a gleam in Peter's eye, a predator about to devour his prey.

It makes Stiles scramble back but Peter grabs his wrist so he can't get any further.

"You're ripe for it," he says, pulling Stilles to him, burying his nose in Stiles' neck. "I made sure you'd be ripe for it."

A weight presses in on Stiles as he struggles not to give in to panic. An attack now will leave him helpless. He punches at Peter's chest and Peter just laughs.

"Don't you think Scott would join us? Lydia, even Allison?" Peter's grip tightens and Stiles whimpers, falling to his knees with the pain of it. "Certainly, Derek. Derek will always be there when it comes to you. They'll follow me to keep our child safe."

"No!" His throat's raw and he hates how weak the word sounds, like it's nothing. "I won't let this happen."

With a growl, Peter shoves him into the dirt. "Let's find out." He's on top of Stiles in an instant. Claws pierce his shoulder. They're chest to chest and Peter's weight on him is oppressive.

Stiles legs fall open involuntarily, and he wants to cry for how easy he's making this. His body is so ready, so willing. Even if it's only to be used and humiliated. He's a pawn set up to take the fall, a sacrifice to better the king's chances. But if playing chess with his dad taught him anything, it's that even a pawn can do damage if the attack's unexpected. He bites the inside of his cheek to find focus again, and he swings his hand out, clawing Peter's face.

Peter howls as Stiles' blunt nails leave angry scratches along his cheek. It's nothing, not nearly enough, but it's a momentary distraction and timed well as a crash breaks through the brush.

Suddenly Peter's tackled and pinned by a dark figure.

The darkness makes the fight all shadows and silhouettes and the occasional glint of claws in the moonlight.

Stiles is frozen, his back pressed up against a broad trunk, his panic a temporary distraction from his heat.

The battle rages only feet from him, but he's mentally separated from it -- a movie playing out as if the outcome has no direct impact on his life.

He's snapped out of that notion as Peter breaks from the fight long enough to lunge for him. Stiles gasps and scrambles back, but can't quite get around the tree before claws close around his ankle.

He kicks out, catching Peter under the chin but only gets a bloody grin in return. Another yank has Peter half over him, his weight pinning Stiles down.

Then Derek's there, swiping Peter across the back of the neck, pushing him off to the side. The weight no longer holding Stiles captive, he crab walks backward. Every inch of space from Peter is a tangible relief.

Derek's head snaps up, catching Stiles with a red glare; blood drips down his chin. "Run," he says, sounding far from human.

Stiles is up and running through the forest without a backward glance. The heat makes him dizzy and clumsy, and a fallen branch sends him face first into a tree. He curses, but the adrenaline pumping through him blocks any pain he should be feeling. He drops to his knees, trembling. Peter's blood is still beneath his fingernails.

A howl echoes through the trees behind him. It's impossible for him to tell whose. The next time he hears it, the howl is cut off halfway, stopped unnaturally short. One of them is down; he's sure of it.

He struggles to his feet, debating what to do next. His gut tells him to go and check, because even like this Stiles is recklessly curious. He can't trust his decision making now anyway. He leans up against a tree, unsure.

His cock's heavy in his boxers, despite everything that's happened. It's a hinderance to his running and a constant distraction. He grips it tight and bites his lip over a moan. He shouldn't have touched himself-- now he's helpless to stop. He slips his hand below the waistband of his boxers as if in a trance, but stills as he hears a snarl in the distance.

Something's headed his way, crashing through the forest at a good clip. With a yelp, he darts in the opposite direction.

He'll never outrun him. Not at the speed he's coming. But there's a stream up ahead and maybe he can make the alpha lose his scent. He's sure he's seen that in movies.

He makes it to the stream, but knows it's already too late the minute he breaks the cover of the trees. The moonlight is bright in the clearing, lighting everything, his pale skin a beacon in the darkness. He can hear the alpha coming just behind him.

The closer he gets the less Stiles feels the need to keep running. His body calls him to submit but fear has him fighting it. He stumbles a few feet closer to the stream as the alpha steps past the tree line, a massive black shadow with glowing red eyes.

One last ditch attempt to escape has him spinning and taking off again. He doesn't even get ten feet. He braces himself as he's tackled from behind. His knees hit hard and the bulk of the man on top of him is enough to push all the air from his lungs.

"Don't run," is growled into his ear and Stiles' eyes snap open. It's not the voice he was expecting.

"You told me to run," he says, craning his neck to see Derek's face. It's blood stained still, and his eyes wild are like he hasn't come down yet from the high of the fight.

"Stop now."

"Why?"

"Because I'll chase you. It's instinct. And I can't..." He's brushing against Stiles' ear again, and it's like in the Hale basement where all the world seems to shut down with the soft tickle of Derek's breath at his nape. "Your scent…"

There's a wet lick behind his ear and Stiles chokes in shock.

Derek whimpers, pressing his forehead against Stiles' shoulder blade. "I'm losing control," he says.

"Derek." Stiles lifts his ass, grinding against Derek's crotch. The hardness he finds there nestles perfectly between his butt cheeks. And Stiles' ass needs the attention. He's swollen down there, slick and aching to be fucked. He's sure he's soaking Derek's jeans through.

"Stiles, stop," Derek says but his hips jerk forward in the most delicious way. Neither of them make any attempt to even slow down. Derek's hand curls on Stiles hip, a possessive bruising hold.

Stiles tilts his head forward, baring his neck and moans. "Can't."

"Peter did this to you." Derek struggles to get out each word. His claws extend on the hand by Stiles' head, and he digs them into the dirt. "He wanted you for..."

Stiles reaches up and put his hand over Derek's claws, intertwining their fingers. "I know what he wanted me for."

"He's dead," Derek grits out.

"Good." Stiles squeezes Derek's hand tighter. He doesn't want to think right now, doesn't want to go back and face the others. Not while he's like this, with his body on fire. "Don't take me back. I can't… I can't take it if they tied me up." The thought of being left alone while he's like this springs tears to his eyes.

Derek lifts up so Stiles can turn over. When they look at each other face to face, it's almost too much, too intimate. Derek's thumb reaches up to wipe at the wetness of Stiles' cheeks. "What do you need?"

Whether it's the post-trauma shock, or the shit that's pumping through his veins and forcing him into heat -- maybe both combined with his long standing crush -- but there's only one thing he needs right now. "Don't stop touching me."

"Don't. God, Stiles," Derek says, dragging in a ragged breath. "Don't say things like that. I can barely…"

Stiles cups his face, takes in the restrained desire. They're both dosed on pheromones or whatever it is that's happening that neither of them understands. The smart thing -- the safe thing -- to do is to get back to the Hale house, get himself locked up and endure this heat alone until Deaton finds a way to reverse it. If there is even a way.

Right now, pinned under Derek Hale in the moonlight, their hard cocks rocking against each other and Derek looking like Stiles is absolutely everything to him -- right now, he wants none of those safe things.

He wants to play with fire. He leans forward and presses his lips to Derek's like he's striking the match. They light up like easy kindling, fueled further with the first touch of their tongues, tentative and searching.

Derek's body melts into Stiles, slotting perfectly between Stiles' legs -- too heavy to keep this position for long but enough for the stretch of Stiles' thighs to slice through the haze of his heat.

Derek attacks his neck with marking kisses just the right side of painful and Stiles cants his hips up to grind against Derek's hard cock. "Yeah, fuck."

"Damn you, Stiles." Derek lifts off and in the blink it takes Stiles to miss his weight, he's been flipped over so his cheek is tickled by the cool grass. "I want…"

"Tell me," Stiles says, as if he doesn't already know.

"I want your ass."

"Yeah, good," he rasps, laughing at his own understatement. He's already shoving his ass back in offer, eager for more, for anything Derek's willing to do to him. He hears Derek's dark chuckle and his cheeks flame. "That's, uh, okay with me."

Stiles lifts to his knees, getting his boxers yanked down to his thighs, not needing to wait for an invitation. The minute his ass is bared, Derek's face is buried between his cheeks.

"Christ," Stiles gasps, all the air escaping his lungs. Derek's thumbs are spreading him open, playing with the slick as his tongue wriggles its way around the swollen muscle and eases inside. Stiles squirms, every inch of his body taut at the frissons of pleasure travelling through him until even his fingertips are burning with it as they claw at ground by his head.

Derek hums contentedly as he feasts, showing no signs of stopping anytime soon; the wet sounds of his lapping are rude and loud in the quiet of the forest.

It's too much for his over-sensitive hole and not nearly enough for his aching dick. Reaching back, he tugs at Derek's hair and gets a whine in protest. "I need… more, fuck. Now."

"Demanding little shit," Derek says, but it works. He sits up and after rustle of clothing, Stiles can feel the blunt tip of Derek's cock pushing at his entrance.

"Shit," he hisses, his eyes already rolling back. Derek's holds him tight, grounding him, like Stiles might float away if he's not held down. He pushes in with one sharp thrust until Stiles is full and gasping for breath.

The burning need he's been struggling with for hours, days, seems to implode on itself as Derek thrusts in brutal jerks of his hips. The world blurs and Stiles comes with a strangled cry that tears from deep inside him.

He's not quite recovered -- not even soft yet when he feels something wrong. He's numb, mostly, letting Derek finish off with another few snaps of his hips. But as Derek's rhythm falters and he buries himself as deep as he can, Stiles feels a sharp stretch at his rim. "Oh God. What is that?"

"I -- I don't know." Derek's still holding him in a bruising grip. His words are spoken through clenched teeth, still in the throes of his orgasm. "I've never..."

Stiles had four fingers up his own ass only last night, while he knelt in the shower. Even that was no comparison to what he's feeling in his ass at the moment. Tears spring up and spill down Stiles' cheeks as he's stretched beyond anything he could imagine.

"It's a knot," Derek says, but it sounds like he can barely believe the words himself. "Like a wolf mating."

A knot. Stiles tries not to visualize it, but his brain flashes up images from some late night googling he'd once regretted. "Oh shit." He tries to breathe through it. "It's--"

"I'm sorry," Derek says. "I can't stop it. If I try to pull out--"

"Don't!"

"Sorry." Derek's still shuddering through his orgasm, Stiles realizes. He's still coming. The fullness he feels in his ass takes on a whole new meaning.

"No. I--" Once the panic starts to fade, and Stiles evens his breathing, his body's reaction to what is happening immediately shifts. "It feels -- it's huge, fuck. But it feels amazing."

"Adrenaline," Derek says, still sounding stunned and orgasm-drunk.

"Yeah." It has to be because it doesn't actually hurt. It's more of a constant presence keeping him fuller than he'd ever imagined. It makes him feel tied, and far more than physically. Like he's claimed.

Derek hums in agreement, even though Stiles is sure he didn't actually voice that outloud. But he kisses Stiles' neck, sucking a mark over the knot at the top of his spine. "It'll be a bit before this goes down," he says, and carefully rolls them to the side.

They settle in, with Derek's strong arms holding them close, his hand falling possessively over Stiles' belly.

Stiles goes rigid. "Do you understand what Peter's plan was?"

Derek's quiet for a long time, and Stiles wonders if they weren't knotted together, if Derek would be turning away and trying to get dressed right now. "Yeah. Yeah, I know," he says at last and strokes the flat planes of Stiles' abs, his large hand warm and comforting.

And maybe he wouldn't be trying to escape, Stiles thinks. Still. "I shouldn't have…" He can't make himself say the words. He doesn't regret this. Not now, even with all the unknown that lies ahead of them.

"I knew what I was doing tonight." Derek's still holding him tight, like he needs to let Stiles know he's not letting go. He's close enough that his lips brush Stiles' nape as he speaks. "I chased you down, Stiles. I didn't do that to bring you back and lock you away from me."

His guilt abates somewhat at that. They went in willingly, at least to a point. They'll share the blame as well as the consequences, it seems.

"We'll figure it out," Stiles says. He places his hand over Derek's and together they cover his belly, protecting it from the cool night air. "Whatever happens next, we'll figure it out."