The two of them had barely made it into Stiles' room before Scott had Stiles pressed up against the door. Scott huffed a laugh onto Stiles' lips before capturing them with his own. Stiles' eyebrows rose in surprise before his entire being melted into the kiss. It was slow and sweet, tender yet bruising as Scott applied gentle pressure. After a moment, they slowly broke apart.
"Wow," Stiles breathed, and he was positive that Scott could hear his heart pounding furiously against his ribcage. Scott grinned at him, and Stiles noticed how relaxed he was. All of the tension from the past few months had fizzled away, dissipating into the very air. This was the first time since their winter break that Stiles saw, well…
Was happy the word? Scott's asshole of a father was still in town, which put a major dent into achieving one hundred percent happiness. And it's not like Stiles was implying that Scott's relationship with Allison didn't make his friend happy. But that look he was giving Stiles right now was something different: he looked content. His eyes were lit up and—
"Dude, your headlights are on," Stiles said, pointing to his own eyes. Scott blinked, and the Alpha red returned to his dark browns.
Scott smiled, and it was contagious. "Sorry," he said sheepishly. God, only Scott McCall would apologize for gaining unimaginable power.
Stiles suddenly felt a slight pressure on his forearms. Scott's hands were sliding up and down them, and he was giving Stiles that look that made him blush fiercely.
"Right now?"
Scott frowned. He pulled back, his fingers trailing down Stiles' arms before slipping off with reluctance. "Sorry," he repeated, eyes averted. "I guess I jumped to conclusions."
"What do you mean?" Stiles asked, because he couldn't bear to see that look of shame.
Scott looked up by a fraction. "Your heart was beating like a rabbit's when I—" Scott swallowed nervously. "When I kissed you. I guess I misunderstood."
No, no more of that miscommunications crap; it's what always caused half of their problems in the first place. Stiles closed the gap between them, their chests just a breath apart now. "Isn't your hearing supposed to be supernaturally accurate at this point?" He grabbed Scott's hand, and pressed it against his chest. He kept it in place while Stiles' heart thudded out the truth. "I said 'right now?', not some lazy-ass rejection."
Scott widened in understanding. "You mean that?"
"As long as you mean it," Stiles said earnestly, "then I'm game for anything. Just don't leave me." His chest tightened just thinking those words. He was shocked that he had actually admitted that fear out loud. For years he wondered how he landed someone so good, so exceptionally pure for a best friend.
Stiles wondered why Scott hasn't left him. He would've been better off with him—
"Stiles," he heard Scott say, breaking him out of his dark thoughts. Stiles looked at him, feeling tears stinging his eyes. Scott gently eased his hand out of Stiles' grip and held either side of Stiles' face. He brushed away the stray tears that managed to escape. "I'm game," Scott said, surging into for another kiss.
This one was deeper, more intimate than the last. Stiles moaned into Scott's mouth. Scott's tongue swiped over Stiles' lips as he carefully navigated them both to Stiles' bed. Stiles fell back from a light push with Scott landing on top of him. Their legs tangled instantly, their mouths meeting once more as they both scrabbled for purchase. Stiles had a fistful of Scott's shirts in his hand, which he had used to pull Scott closer. Scott gripped Stiles' hips, grinding down onto him and smirking when Stiles eked out a few pleading moans.
"Scott," Stiles whispered breathlessly, "you're killing me here."
"I know," Scott replied, giving him a filthy kiss. He broke it off only to nudge at Stiles' chin with his noise. "Move up," he commanded, his eyes glowing red. "I want to use the whole bed for my next trick."
Heat pooled in Stiles' stomach, and he nodded frantically before obeying. He pushed himself up his narrow bed with his elbows with Scott climbing up and towering over him like an agile predator.
"I'm game," Stiles said as Scott stripped off his shirt, "Oh fuck, I'm totally game."
Scott leered over Stiles, bracketing his body beneath his. He was caging Stiles in like his would his prey, and Stiles felt himself harden from the lustful look Scott was giving him.
"Excited?"
"Oh, you have no fucking idea."
Scott attacked his neck with kisses. Stiles' head fell back into his pillow, his whole body arching and allowing Scott more access to his throat. Scott's hands were everywhere: palming Stiles' sides, then his arms, his stomach. Stiles', however, was exploring every inch of Scott's bare chest, groaning with pleasure as he traced the hard muscles and blistering hot skin.
Scott was now straddling Stiles' hips and his hands suddenly grabbed Stiles' wrists, pinning them above his head. Scott grinned down at him, and Stiles noticed the hungry look on his face. His eyes were still red, but with a measure of malevolence within them.
"You like being dominated, Stiles?" Scott purred. "Do you like having an Alpha in control of you?" His thumbs were circling the inside of Stiles' wrists, sending a shudder up his spine. It was a warning. Stiles winced when he felt a crushing pain as Scott's grip tightened. His eyes squeezed shut for a long second before he reopened them.
"I could've given you that, Stiles. I knew you wanted that, and yet you refused me."
Scott was gone. Peter was now looming over him, holding him down by the wrists. He was wearing the clothes from when he had attacked Lydia on the field, and blood was dripping from his mouth. Stiles felt a growing wetness blossoming underneath him, and nearly passed out when he saw that it was blood. It spread across his sheets, staining them a dark red. He tasted copper in his mouth, and nearly gagged on the metallic stench filling the air.
Stiles struggled, trying to kick Peter off of him. Peter held him down with little effort. Blood was now dripping down the walls, streaking down the posters and photographs that hung there.
"Jesus Christ, I should've known," Stiles hissed out.
Peter cocked his head, giving Stiles a quiet, speculating look. "Care to explain?" he asked mockingly. "Should've known—?"
"That you would pull this kind of shit," Stiles spat. The pressure from Peter's weight was suffocating. "I knew that you weren't sticking around to help Derek out of the goodness of your cold, black heart. You were up to something, as if that's new."
"And yet you did nothing," Peter sighed happily. "You went along with it, didn't you? You played oblivious, just like everyone else."
"Oh God, just please tell me the reason for invading my sex dream before you bore me with one of your fucking monologues," Stiles groaned. He tried another bout for escape, but Peter merely sliced into his wrists with his thumb's claws. Blood welled up, pouring onto Stiles' sheets. The cuts were stinging like crazy, but he refused to let them distract him.
Peter rolled his eyes, as if Stiles was being the unreasonable one. "I need a pack," Peter said, and Stiles' heart hammered against his ribcage. The werewolf's eyes were a nightmarish red.
Peter pushed Stiles up against the headboard before crawling into his lap. Stiles couldn't move; his body was petrified either by some weird werewolf mojo or his own crippling fear.
"I need a pack," Peter repeated, his hand grasping Stiles' right hand before drawing it to his lips. Stiles' eyes widened as Peter pressed a kiss into the blood-slick skin on the inside of his wrist. "Last time I gave you a choice out of generosity. This time, I'm not feeling as charitable."
"No," Stiles began, but his protest was cut off by his own scream as Peter sank his fangs into his wrist. He was holding Stiles' arm with both hands now as he took a long, hard bite into his flesh. A cascade of blood billowed up and sprayed across Stiles' face when Peter's teeth finally tore free.
Stiles cradled his wrist into his chest, staining his shirt crimson. Peter drew back to admire his handiwork.
"Beautiful," he whispered, and Stiles shuddered uncontrollably. Peter reached forward, placing a finger underneath Stiles' chin. He pushed it up with ease. "Look at me," he ordered coldly. Stiles had no choice but to obey.
"They're blue, just like mine."
An icy sensation filled Stiles, coursing through his veins and threading into his heart. He couldn't breathe. He felt a panic attack coming on.
Peter tsked, shaking his head. His eyes, however, glowed with triumph. "A killer at such a young age," he said. "Now tell me, sweetheart, who was it?"
Stiles never answered, because he woke up at that moment, screaming until his lungs were raw from the effort.