Note: This chapter has a bit of dub-con/non-con due to an over-enthusiastic Alpha (no spoilers!) so tread lightly or do a complete full-stop if that kind of thing bothers you. Just a note, there will be a bit more of that kind of thing to follow. The Hunt is a pretty wild event, and werewolves can get handsy with adorable, brown eyed- definitely eighteen and not illegal- young men. But nothing actually traumatizing or angsty. I don't roll that way.
Enjoy!
After he dropped Scott off at his own home, Stiles went home to get a shower and wash off the over-hanging stench of failure that had been following him around since Jackson humiliated him –Twice!- on the field today.
It wouldn't have been SO bad if only there hadn't been a group of witnesses. Like, really? Any other time Stiles had his ass handed to him was fine. THAT he could get used to. But in front of a whole group of possible scouts? This was his CAREER for God's sake! He needed a damn scholarship! His dad's meager sheriff paycheck was spent trying to keep the house and put food on the table. That wasn't going to be paying Stile's way through college. Lacrosse was pretty much his only shot for a legitimate chance that didn't lead to massive student debts that he would spend the rest of his life paying off. And jerks like Jackson didn't even need to worry about shit like that. Life really sucked sometimes.
Stiles was just leaving the shower and heading for his room, still berating himself for getting distracted on the field, when he heard the sound of the doorbell.
Who could that be? A glance at the clock showed it was already eight p.m. Stiles made his way down the dimly lit stairs to answer it. His dad was still at work. Would probably not be home for the rest of the night- again. Stiles had almost asked Scott if he could just have another super-manly sleepover at his house. It sucked being alone all the time. There was only so much internet a teenage boy could explore. And only so many solo performance sexy times before ideas ran short and bordered on the weird…
When he checked the peep hole, Stiles immediately panicked.
Why the fuck was Jackson at Stiles' house late at night?! Crap, if he came all this way to beat him shitless, Stiles was going to…well, probably bleed and hurt a lot. But, after that, he was going to passive aggressively find ways to ruin the jock-wolf's remaining senior year!
Without opening the door, Stiles called out in a deep voice, trying hopelessly to imitate his father, "Stiles isn't home. And I have a big gun."
"Hilarious. Just…just open the damn door, alright?" Jackson's irritated (and slightly nervous?) voice demanded.
Stiles cringed, but figured that keeping the door shut wasn't going to do too terribly much to keep a werewolf out. Preparing himself for the inevitable pain that was sure to come, Stiles unbolted the door and opened it slowly, just a crack.
"Oh, hey! Jackson! Fancy seeing you here. I'd let you in, but-"
"NO! No- I- I don't need to come in. Really!" His eyes shot worriedly in the direction of the border of the woods nearby. Stiles tried to see what the hell the guy was looking at but Jackson was already speaking hurriedly, biting the words out in a fast flow. "I just wanted to come by and make sure you were good- uh, we were good. You know? I got a little, er, rough on you out on the field today and, you know, wanted to make sure you were feeling alright. You're totally fine, huh? No hard feelings?" He tried to laugh, but the huff of expelled air wheezed out of him almost in a whine.
Stiles' mouth was hanging open incredulously. What the-? In his mind, Stiles began combing through every possible shape-shifting entity that could possibly be wearing Jackson right now. Cuz no way was the stuck-up teen wolf ACTUALLY trying to apologize to him. Bullshit flag has been thrown. Not possible.
Jackson (or his crazed doppleganger) was shifting nervously, waiting for an answer. Stiles finally replied slowly, "Uh…I'm good? I mean, I am now. Scott did the whole 'groping/healing' thing on me, so I'm fine, I guess? Still pissed but-"
"He did what-?! Why would he-?" Jackson's horrified eyes snapped to the woods again. Stiles got annoyed by the guy's weird behavior. He stepped fully outside onto the stoop to get a better look at the woods. Was someone else out there, watching this? Was this all some sort of lame prank or lost bet? Jackson began to freak out even more as Stiles squinted into the shadows. "Oh, well, that's good news, uh, I guess. Um, it's great that he would, uh, do that for you. Well, have a – a great night then."
And he was gone like a bolt. His car was no where in sight, leading Stiles to believe that he had actually RAN all the way over to Stiles house, just to apologize for being his normal jackass-self. Stiles eyes followed his quickly disappearing form, then turned to scan the spot in the woods where Jackson had been looking. It was dark. He couldn't see anything in the tree line.
Frowning, Stiles turned back into the house and bolted the door back. Crazy shit like this should be standard operating procedure for Stiles at this point, but somehow the idea of Jackson trying to be nice to him was just way too far outside the scope of reasonable insanity.
Stiles flopped down onto his bed tiredly. Wolves, man. No explaining them. Scott was still pretty awesome, aside from the whole 'my girlfriend is a hunter and that totally doesn't make our relationship weird or anything' deal. But the others? Total nut-cases. Jackson was bad enough before the bite. After? Nightmare. Boyd? Quiet and reasonable. After? Quiet and slightly menacing. Erica? Completely forgettable. After? Terrifyingly hot and scary. Isaac? Shy and aloof. After? Crazy-outgoing and confident.
And don't even start on Derek Hale. Stiles had no idea what Derek was like when he was younger, but he knew that the dude had been born a werewolf. Did that mean the super-scary, scowling man had ALWAYS been like that? Stiles tried to picture a the sour-wolf as a toddler.
That would be…
Adorable...?
Yikes.
Stiles huffed a sigh. Derek was, like, the epitome of all things wolfy and terrifying. If they had an award for wolfiest- werewolf ever, Derek Hale would be walking around with a giant-ass medal around his neck 24/7. The guy was all sharp teeth and deadly hotness. Yeah- hotness. Because even with the constant aura of deadly threat that seeped from the man, even Stiles had to admit, DAMN. The guy was built like a Greek God! Ancient sculptors failed to achieve what Mother Nature bestowed upon Derek Hale. He was a fucking masterpiece of male perfection!
It was disgusting.
Guys like Derek shouldn't be allowed to interact with the rest of the world. They should be separated, put into glass cages, so people like Stiles could pay massive amounts of money to come in and just stare freely and be glowered at from behind the safety of VERY thick glass walls.
AND he was a WEREWOLF! On top of all that perfectly sculpted muscle and penetrating, heavy-browed green eyes, he was a dark, tortured creature of the night! Were there even 'fugly' werewolves, or did the wolf DNA really just do THAT much for a person? The others, Derek's betas had all been reasonably attractive before hand, just lacking that Austin Powers 'mojo' shit. Did werewolves even need to work out? Or did Derek do it just for the fucking novelty of it?
The idea that Derek could live off of Pop Tarts and energy drinks made Stiles pissed beyond belief.
It shouldn't be allowed. When guys with that much good looks and uninhibited sexual energy were free to walk amongst normal people, it caused huge, epic-level catastrophes.
Namely, mortifyingly graphic and wonderful sex dreams for certain healthy, women-loving teen boys.
If Stiles woke up ONE more time half-way through coming courtesy of Dream-Derek, he was going to have to avoid the man for the rest of eternity! It was bad enough that Stiles had to keep his horniness in check whenever the dude was around- thank you SO much super-werewolf senses. But, now there were completely unwelcome wet dreams starring the permanently pissed werewolf sex god! Holding Stiles down on a myriad of flat surfaces, pressing him up against vertical surfaces, touching very personal, sensitive horizontal AND vertical body surfaces-!
Stiles caught himself just in time to stop his hand from slipping past the waistband of his pajama pants.
NO! Bad Stiles! We do NOT have sexy times when thinking about Derek, damn it! Geez!
He pulled his hand back up to rest on his stomach, urging his erection back down unsuccessfully.
Shit. This is exactly what happens when you make it eighteen years and STILL have not gotten laid. EVERYONE becomes a possible candidate! How the hell he had landed on Derek Hale as the feature presentation for his fantasies there was no telling. But, seriously, what the fuck-?!
Stiles groaned angrily, tossing a hand out to flip his lamp off and flop onto his stomach. He needed to sleep. Clearly Scott's magic hands only worked to heal physical problems. If only there was a way to erase mental ones- like permanently ousting unhealthy, lustful thoughts of broody werewolves, with their magnificent jawlines and coarse, strong hands….
Stiles drifted off with a frown as his mind wandered to all the fantastic places hands like those could graze over.
…-^o^-…
The wolf was restless, growling and snapping under Derek's skin.
It hungered.
Needed.
Wanted.
Lusted.
Fought for control- for the reins that Derek held tightly, keeping the wolf in check.
The long-standing battle was exhausting on both Derek and his other half. It had been going on for so long, but only lately was the toll really being taken on him.
He stared from the safety of the forest up at the now dark window. He could just barely hear Stiles' heartbeat from the distance and threw the cracked window, steadying as he drifted to sleep. The now slow thumping was a blessed change from the strong beat of just minutes before.
Derek had been standing there in the cool silence of the woods with dread as his wolf howled inside him hungrily. They waited together, listening, with ears tuned towards the second floor bedroom. They heard the creak of the bed and rustle of sheets. Then the very faint quickening of a heartbeat, almost lost to the louder noises of nature surrounding him.
Would he do it again tonight? Would Stiles touch himself again?
They stood in the shadows, ears cocked and anticipation building with the increasing rhythm of Stiles beating heart.
Soon… The wolf was already writhing inside him, ears reaching eagerly to catch the first hitch of breath. The first low moan that escaped the young man's lips.
Derek allowed the excitement to build within him. No use trying to keep the wolf from basking in the stifled sounds that floated from the house. It would just be a waste of energy. Energy that Derek needed to conserve in order to fight the wolf's more ardent demands. To enter the house. To touch the young man. To take him and own those delicious grunts and keening moans. The moon was dangerously close to being full tonight, giving the wolf more and more power over him.
Mine… The wolf was pulsing with heat and need, pressing against Derek's mind and skin to find a weak spot. A chance to break free and take action as it wished.
Derek slammed it back down harshly.
But, to Derek's relief and the wolf's fury, the light cut off, and the rapid beat of the young man's heart slowed.
Derek released a grateful breath as the wolf retreated bitterly.
It was getting worse. Harder to fight. The wolf's strength seemed to be growing the more Derek held it back.
Prevented it from claiming the young man.
From taking its mate.
He repeated this torture, hiding outside Stiles' house and listening like a common voyeur, just to keep the wolf sated for another day. To keep it from breaking free and finally letting itself loose on the boy.
That couldn't be allowed.
Stiles was… a vulnerability. An unexpected and unwanted weakness.
Derek could not HAVE such a gaping whole in his armor. If it was discovered…
The absurdity of the situation was almost embarrassing.
Stiles? Really?
Of ALL the scenarios and imaginings that had played out in Derek's mind through out his life, NEVER had he considered that his mate would be…
Stiles Stilinski.
But it wasn't even a question. Not anymore.
At first, Derek had been able to deny it. To scoff at himself for the seemingly ridiculous behavior of his wolf around the young man.
This scrawny, spastic, loud-mouthed human boy? THIS was the wolf's choice?
No. It wouldn't be allowed. Look at how weak the boy is. Look at how silly and helpless. He would never make a good mate. There is nothing worthy in him. See how he talks to us, mocks us. He will not do.
Choose another.
But the wolf had stayed intent on Stiles. Never wavered. Just watched and bided its time from its place inside Derek's soul, under Derek's skin, watching through his eyes and hearing through his ears.
Derek had countered in full force- lashing out at the boy, pushing and shoving at every opportunity to make him leave. To scare him off. Building up the stone-façade of his personality to keep the boy out. If the boy disdained him, the wolf would have no choice but to seek another.
Then it had all backfired in spectacular Stiles-fashion.
Stiles hadn't backed down from Derek's ferocious attacks against him. He rallied. Pushed back. Challenged.
His wolf had craved him even more.
And then, likely just to spite Derek's efforts, Stiles had changed.
The skinny, defenseless boy that had near-debilitating panic attacks at the slightest mention of monsters or pain, evolved into the lithe-framed man who charged in full-force towards danger, facing off against supernatural forces that should have sent him cowering.
He became a hunter. A brilliant tactician. An ally who stood beside his friends and even Derek without a thought for his own safety.
And the wolf had become more insistent. Hungrier. More desperate and demanding. It had coveted Stiles. Yearned to take the young man more than ever.
And Derek's many arguments against Stiles as a mate had petered out. All that was left for Derek to use against the wolf was reason.
They could not have Stiles, because that would put him in great danger, he argued. Did the wolf want to see the boy hurt? If Stiles was claimed, he could not be hidden. Kept safe. All other werewolves would know of him. Smell his scent on him and know that he was Derek Hale's. He would be put at great risk.
And Stiles couldn't have his normal life anymore. He couldn't live out his dreams. Go to college. Marry a beautiful, funny woman who laughed at his jokes.
Have a family...
No, claiming him would be a mistake. It would ruin Stiles' life. He would hate them. Did the wolf want that? To be hated by Stiles?
The wolf had protested weakly, but shrunk back. It would keep it's head down, it's needs and desires at bay. It would content itself with these late-night visits where it watched from the shadows and whimpered with want.
It would NOT put Stiles at risk.
A small, hard-won victory for Derek.
And if he had to repeat the reasons to himself repeatedly, and force himself to avoid the young man, glare at him and insist that he was useless, then that was fine.
Even if it wasn't all just for the wolf's benefit, but his own. He would never admit it. Never accept it.
Stiles could not be his, even if he was a great hunter. And smart. And weirdly funny. And had incredibly deep, amber pools for eyes that Derek felt like he could drown in.
Even if Derek did LIKE Stiles, he was stronger than his wolf. He could fight it.
Derek pulled himself away from the window, ignoring the pouting wolf. There was no reason to stay longer. His task was accomplished.
Only an hour earlier, when Isaac had recounted the events of the lacrosse practice to the rest of the small pack, Derek AND his wolf had been livid.
Since Isaac was not in control of his powers yet, it was a reckless to allow him to participate in the practices until he could keep himself from exposing them all. But, he was allowed to watch. It was a solid pretense to have him spy on Stiles while the young beta thought he was just staying up to date with the newest plays and drills. He could attend and watch, but he must stay out of sight. He must practice his scent-masking in the process. Not let Jackson or Scott sense that he was there. Those were the rules.
When Isaac had accepted the policy easily, and Derek was able to keep an eye on Stiles. The young man was, after all, a walking-talking natural disaster. Somebody had to watch over him...
However, when Derek heard Isaac detail Jackson's attack on Stiles, his composure slipped. He was on his feet with Isaac shoved against the nearest wall. His wolf was ready to tear the boy's throat out, then seek out Jackson to do the same. Derek kept him in check, instead grinding out, "And you did not stay to see if Stiles was injured?"
Isaac stared at Derek, terrified as the others watched on in equal fear. "I-I saw him get up. He looked okay. I mean- I'm pretty sure he was. He was yelling at Jackson and stuff so-"
Derek shoved Isaac away angrily, trying to calm himself.
Stiles was fine. This time.
Next time, though...?
He growled lowly. Jackson would not be allowed to continue harming (my) Stiles. Derek felt the wolf pushing his claim of ownership into his thoughts. He forced it back down.
Jackson would be dealt with- immediately.
After just a small amount of threatening and and bit of healthy pain, Jackson had enthusiastically agreed to go apologize to Stiles.
It may have looked suspicious, to Jackson and to Derek's pack, but he didn't care. There was nothing to suggest that he wanted to claim the boy. Derek had made SURE of that. He kept his scent masked, preventing the heady air of lust from being picked up. He stayed far from Stiles to keep his scent off the young man at all times. He barely acknowledged him when they were forced into situations where they HAD to be around each other. And even then, he made sure he radiated distaste and annoyance so no one would suspect anything. An outside observer was sure to think he had no interest in the boy.
Which was exactly what he wanted. Not just to keep the secret from the pack, but also from the Others.
Although it was unlikely that any other Hale Pack members or wolves from the other families would dare cross into the territory that Derek had marked off as his own, he still wouldn't risk it. He was already being scrutinized by the the heads of the other families for his decision to eschew The Hunt for a third year in a row. The Hale Pack was being led by Peter, largely disliked and now a mere beta, which would not go over well for much longer.
The Board may take action...
The Hunt was paramount. It was the deciding factor for practically all politics among the werewolf families, not just in the U.S., but all over the world. Families fell, new pack leaders rose, feuds were concluded, and mates were selected from amongst the participants. It was a massive battle royale played out over the course of one full moon's night each year. Wolves were freed completely to act out their natural inclinations with the only repercussions being that ANYTHING that happens during The Hunt stands.
As the heir-apparent of one of the largest wolf packs in the U.S., Derek was making a very public statement by laying low in Beacon Hills and keeping his own beta's away from the other wolves.
He did it partially because he wanted nothing to do with leading the enormous Hale Pack. He shouldn't have even been in line for it. But, after the fire that destroyed most of the real heirs, only Laura stood between him and the position.
Then, of course, Peter had killed her- his own niece- during The Hunt four years ago and claimed her Alpha power.
And that was when the entire fiasco had unfolded...
Peter bit Scott. Derek's wolf discovered Stiles. Kate Argent- the she-bitch from Hell- reappeared. Derek became the Alpha, sending a petulant Peter scurrying back to join the rest of Hale pack at the High-Den. Then shortly after he found himself called in front of the Board and being ordered to establish his authority as Hale Pack Leader as soon as possible.
So, naturally, he fled. He returned to the burnt out husk of his family's once picturesque home. He didn't want to be the new leader, to have more people that he could fail, like he failed his family. Let Peter deal with them. He actually LIKED the attention. Derek wanted nothing to do with it.
As if somehow knowing what Derek was thinking, his phone began to buzz, indicating a call from none other than Peter, himself. The older wolf checked in occasionally, taking time to remark snidely about how much of a disappointment Derek was proving to be, and how the entire werewolf population around the world knew of his cowardice.
"What?" Derek bit out, casting a final glance back at Stiles distant window before re-entering the dark forest and making his way home, to the old train station, where his pack waited.
'Oh, come on. What kind of greeting is that?' Peter's smug voice asked.
"I WILL hang up, Peter." Derek threatened. He already suspected that his uncle would call to insist he attend The Hunt. Derek was already prepared for it. "I am not attending The Hunt. Don't bother asking."
'Easy, now. As it turns out, I already assumed you wouldn't. No skin off my back there- literally. I wouldn't want my wolf trying to attack you and get my Alpha powers back. The odds wouldn't exactly be in my favor, now would they.'
Derek chose not to ask what Peter would do if the odds WERE in his favor. "Then what could you possibly want the day before The Hunt? You want me to wish you good luck?"
'That hurts. As a matter of fact, although 'I' don't particularly want you at The Hunt, others are not as accepting. You should know that the Board is unhappy, as are the heads of many families, including several leaders inside our own Hale pack.'
"I think I'll survive their disapproval." Derek snapped, slightly uncomfortable at the amount of unrest he was apparently stirring up. It really was pushing it to stay away this long...
'Yes…about that. I have been asked to inform you that the Durst family alpha heir wants to pay you a visit.' Derek felt a chill run through him. The Durst family was one of the most powerful packs in both the U.S. and Europe. The heir and future Leader of the pack was an old friend of his, Mischa. They had grown up together and gotten along fairly well- considering they were from different packs and extremely competitive- until the fire and Derek's self-imposed isolation these last years. "He's coming here-? To Beacon Hills!?"
Where Stiles was. Derek fought for calm, his wolf already rising again to stake his claim on the young man before anyone else could. MINE...
'Oh, heaven's no. You marked that whole area off limits. He isn't crazy enough to go there. No- he's apparently in the next county over, waiting to make contact with you. Wants to chat, I imagine.'
Derek released a grateful breath that he didn't realize he was holding.
"Fine. I'll meet him and tell him I wont be attending- in person, if that's the only way he'll have it."
'Fabulous!' Peter's grin could be heard through the phone. 'I'll send word to him and set up the meeting. You'll need to go immediately, of course. He needs to hurry back to make it in time for the start of The Hunt.'
"Whatever. I'll leave right now." Derek agreed. He'd head straight over to meet Mischa and be back by morning. He needed to keep the man from coming into Beacon Hills to seek him out. His wolf would not tolerate another wolf near Stiles. Better to clear this up quickly...
…-^o^-…
"Did you get it?"
"Yes. We would have had it sooner, but he stayed on it for over four hours talking to a female. We had to listen the whole time. It was terrible. I forgot how ridiculous teenage romances can be."
"Did you mask your scent? Are you sure there is no chance of him noticing that you were there?"
"Yes, Mischa. He is still a pup. Poorly trained, at that. He is already asleep and will not notice the cell phone is missing until morning."
"…Good. We need as much of a head start as possible. As we speak, Peter Hale has lured Derek away. We will make our move now, and be at the High-Den by noon tomorrow with our cargo."
The rest of the group appeared from the forest, light steps barely making a sound as they moved closer in the darkness. The gleam of their eyes caught the nearly full moon reflection.
"Send the message. Everyone take their positions and prepare to move out as soon as the boy is in hand. Go."
"Yes, Mischa!" Came the obedient chorus of voices around him.
And without any further words, they went- swift shadows rushing across the field towards the dark, empty high school in the distance.
…-^o^-…
'GO-GO POWER RANGERS! Dunduh-dun-dun-dun-dunduh! GO-GO POWER RANGERS! YOU MIGHTY MORPH-'
"EUUAAARRGGG-!" Stile threw his hand out towards the noise, slamming his fist painfully into his nightstand lamp and sending it crashing loudly to the floor. Yikes-! Good thing his dad was on the nightshift tonight.
Fumbling hastily, his eyes glued shut from sleep, he finally managed to grab onto his cell phone and silence it.
"-the fuck?!" He groaned, squinting his eyes to peer at the bright screen.
It was a text from his (suddenly not nearly as awesome) bestie-best friend.
GREAT SCOTT!: Emergency! Meet us at the school immediately. Everyone is here.
Stiles stared at the text, waiting for his brain to shift from being pressed against a wall and licked from his ear down to his-
...Uh, yeah. From his dreams about a certain broody-wolf who- for the love of GOD!- needed to stop dropping into his dreams and wreaking homo-erotic havoc!
Stiles tried to shake the image from his mind and focus. So, Scott and the others were at the school? At one a.m. in the morning? Geez, he needed to associate with people who understood the meaning of 'working hours'!
With only a minimal amount of groaning and muttered curses, Stiles managed to get dressed and into jeep in under five minutes.
Because he was hella-awesome, and his friends had damn-sure better appreciate the sacrifices he makes for them.
Still blinking his bleary eyes, Stiles pulled out of the driveway and gunned it towards the school.
…-^o^-…
He parked his jeep a short distance from the school vocational hall, unsure what kind of threat he should be prepared for and definitely not wanting to draws it's attention to him. From his spot, he could make out the Freshmen Hall Men's Bathroom window, or as Stiles and the others were apt to call it, Old Faithful. The window had a broken latch for years, a well-kept and passed down secret from seniors to freshmen as part of the Beacon Hills High tradition. It had served the gang well in the past, particularly when being chased by Generic Evil Monster numbers one through two hundred, or whatever the hell they were on now.
The question was- where the hell was everybody? Inside or out?
Stiles scanned the the buildings quickly as he ducked out of the jeep. Scott's text had said meet them AT the school. What the hell did they mean? Leave it to the dude to be as vague as possible at the most inopportune times. Then again- fleeing for your life while texting with razor sharp werewolf claws probably didn't make for easy going.
Actually- wait. Stiles came to a stop just outside Old faithful, crouched low. With a frown, he pulled his cell out and re-read the text from Scott.
Grammar? Punctuation? Correct spelling?
Scott DID NOT send the message.
"Stiles Stilinski."
A low, powerful sounding voice sent a shudder down Stiles' spine. He turned with slow horror in the direction it came from.
His eyes fell upon the massive form of a man standing just a short distance from him, beside his jeep. At first, in the dim lighting of the street lamps, the bulky silhouette looked almost like Derek. But the voice was about ten shades less nice than Derek's (which was impressive) and the faint features of the face that were visible seemed significantly sharper and more serious (breaking Stiles commonly accepted belief that Derek was the master of the Sour-face).
Stiles' entire focus was so intent on the man who spoke his name, that it was several seconds before he realized that he was being carefully surrounded. His back pressed against the brick wall as his eyes darted around the menacing, shadowed figures closing in around him. He had just enough wherewithal to make the connection between the looming faces and the suspicious crowd that had been scoping out the lacrosse practice earlier.
Not good…
So very, VERY not good...
The first man spoke again, his voice rolling out from his mouth closer to a bark than words. "Your presence has been requested at the High-Den. You will come with us- quietly."
Witty retort-! Come on, spit it out! Something. Anything! Buy time with sarcasm, or at least don't scream like a petrified man-child!
Stiles eyes finally locked- against his will- with the shadowed speaker's icy blue ones and an almost paralyzing, cold horror seemed to shoot through all of his veins.
Luckily, it really was 'almost' paralyzing, because despite his words freezing in the face of his imminent doom, Stiles' body had zero difficulty taking action.
It reacted so fast that even HE was stunned when he lurched over and into Old Faithful's small opening, slamming into the glass and feeling it give way to dump him onto the tiled floor in a heap.
The air being knocked out of him was like a shot of adrenaline to his system, kicking his brain back on. He was up on his feet with his first deep inhale, and out the restroom door by the exhale.
Suddenly, the familiar sound of infuriated howls filled the silence, reverberating off of all the surfaces around him in the dim lighting.
Holy fuck was he EVER sick of werewolves! OF COURSE they were werewolves! No chance that a biker gang or opposing lacrosse team would decide to corner Stiles and make cryptic threats- Oh, no! Where was the fun in that?!
His sneakered feet echoed loudly off the walls and lockers as he sprinted down the dark hallway. When he was rounding his first corner, he heard the heavy thud of the bathroom door bursting open behind him. Shit, they were fast! He had been hoping that their bulky bodies would be slowed by the small frame of the window. No such luck! Not for Ole Stiles. How in THE HELL was he supposed to outrun werewolves in narrow school hallways?! Why didn't contractors and architects exercise just a little bit more practicality when designing these death-traps!?
He needed to think quick! He had the advantage here! He knew every nook and cranny of this place, and- somehow as an upside for once!- this was actually NOT his first time being chased up and down these halls by insane homicidal supernatural entities.
He swung a quick right around another corner and shouldered his way through the heavy cafeteria doors. Skidding hard to come to a stop, he slid on his side a few feet and bounced up. Grabbing the nearest cafeteria chair, he flew to the doors to shove the metal legs of the chair into the push-bars, sealing them.
Just in time, too. A heavy crash caused the double doors to shudder on their frames and noticeably bend the legs of the chair. An angry whine of pain followed by a threatening growl sounded on the other side of the door, but THANK GOD they held firm. Okay, point one for school designers. But they're still in the negatives as far as Stiles was concerned.
"Ohoho! That sounded painful! Maybe now'd be a good time to scurry off and lick your wounds, huh?" Stiles chirped happily as he began digging his phone from his pocket to call in reinforcements.
The sound of several more- deeper- growls rumbled from the other side and suddenly the doors almost split from the force of a heavy blow.
Stiles' smug grin dropped fast as he instantly hopped nimbly over tables and chairs making for the far exit.
Okay, so insulting werewolves? Terrible idea! They're supernatural creatures with insane-strength- of course a door isn't going deter them!
ShitShitShitShitSHIT-!
Stiles jumped as doors bent under the blow of another jarring shove.
A loud crashing sound from the direction of the doors that led outside the building indicated that more wolves had broken the locked chains that secured those exits. A slam and the sound of panting growls was all the motivation Stiles needed to cover the remaining twenty feet to the doors in front of him in record time. He crashed through them hard, landing with a painful THUMP! against the lockers across the wall. Ricocheting off them with a new burst of energy drawn from fear and the sounds of tables being upended behind him, he scampered from the noises.
He bolted fast to the stairwell, praying his legs didn't fail him as he took them three at a time up to the second floor. He arrived on wobbling legs to the Senior Hall and moved fast for the opposite side of the building. If he could make it to the far stairwell, he could take it down to the basement. The boiler room had thick doors- point two school designers. From there he could hole up and call for help.
His breaths came out as shallow gasps as he continued through the halls a full speed. Thank GOD coach's go-to punishment was suicide runs! Stiles knew he would be a heaping pile of wheezing wolf-bait by now if he hadn't trained so hard. He was never going to ever gripe about sprints again. Hell! If he survived this, he was going to volunteer to do them every chance he got! AND he was going to give coach a huge, sloppy, grateful kiss for hating him so much!
He made it to his final turn, feet sliding as he lost tread and ate shit hard on the polished floor. Unfazed, Stiles shoved himself up and attempted to build back up his momentum to reach the far end of the hall, where the stairwell sat practically bathed in a holy ray of angelic light.
He could hear more howling, more panting, and running feet back in the direction he had come. They were gaining on him fast.
The sound of shattering glass came from a room somewhere nearby, and almost immediately after a door fifteen feet ahead of Stiles crashed open as three enormous, furry bodies exploded into his path, golden eyes locking onto him instantly.
Almost without thinking, Stiles tucked his head and hunched his shoulders, letting his momentum drive him solidly into the first dense mountain of a werewolf that was in his way. To his surprise- and apparently all three of the werewolves, as well- the force of his tackle knocked the first one off his feet, slamming the huge body hard into the others. Taking advantage of his sudden element of surprise (or shock, judging by the incredulous looks on the wolves faces) Stiles stiff-armed the second wolf, feeling the extremely satisfying crunch of a nose- snout?- breaking under his hand. He kept his arm extended and tight, as he brought his feet down, stomping heavily on the first wolf's stomach then throat, and pushing forward past his prone body to clothes-line the last wolf. He went down with a choked cough and an 'UMPH!'.
Stiles felt a exhilarating rush of pure awesomeness pump through him as he turned momentarily to glimpse the wreckage he had left in his wake. He briefly wondered in his euphoric state if this was anything like how Jackson felt during lacrosse matches as he barreled over competitors.
Stiles couldn't help but smile at the sight of the huge, manly, wolfed out figures doubled over in pain and confusion where they lay on the floor. But his victory was short-lived as an entire stream of werewolves flooded around the far corner and howled with frenzied rage at the sight of their fallen brethren. The same brethren who were now rolling back onto their feet-FUCK YOU VERY MUCH SUPER-SPEEDY HEALING POWERS-!
Stiles decided to screw personal-safety in the overwhelming shadow of an impending bloody demise, and jumped down the bank of stairs, hitting the next landing down with an ankle-crushing thump that he ignored as he repeated the process on each remaining landing. He sent up a short, but nonetheless sincere, prayer of gratitude when he toppled onto the basement level with no apparent broken bones.
The basement hallway was bathed in a red glow from the filtered lights, making it difficult to see. Luckily, Stiles had been down here enough times to move confidently and swiftly through the narrow paths and around sharp-edged equipment. The mechanical gear was loud, and the further he went, the more steam hissed and obscured his vision. He couldn't tell if he was still being followed by the angry pack.
The Boiler room was just up ahead, the metal-grated door a beautiful sight to Stiles aching chest and sore muscles. He picked up speed, ignoring the pain as his arms and shoulders slammed into valves and pipes he could barely see. He was so close-!
From just past the Boiler room door, in the direction of the back hallway and the old locker rooms, two small beams of red light appeared in the steam mist.
The beams became brighter as a dark shape began to emerge.
Stiles flung his arms out, hitting multiple metal casings and pipes painfully, but effectively stopping himself from getting any closer to beast.
Over the rattling and hissing of the gear, the unmistakeable sounds of howling echoed along the passageway behind him.
FuckingFuckityFuck-!
An even more close and threatening growl resonated from the figure in front of him, red eyes boring into him as it slunk closer, crouched and ready to pounce.
He was trapped.
He was going to die in the damn creepy-ass boiler room, for fuck's sake! Never had a ghost been forced to haunt a more pathetic and unseemly location since Moaning Myrtle. Stiles was going to be stuck pulling trite ghost parlor tricks on the damn janitor for all eternity!
Gasping for breath and pulling all his remaining strength together, Stiles shouted an angry curse just as the dark figure charged him and pounced.
Stiles pitched himself backwards, allowing his feet to swing up with as much energy as he could muster. His upper back and shoulders hit the concrete floor as his feet caught the creature in it's soft underbelly. He continued rolling backwards, sending the heavy form flying helplessly over his body.
He felt the brief rake of claws trying to grip onto his shirt and arms before they were gone and the sound of two hundred-plus pounds of angry, squawking werewolf collided with steel piping behind him.
Stiles rolled himself up, aching shoulder sending bolts of near-crippling pain through him. He stumbled from the pain, feeling light-headed and nauseous for a moment as he sucked in the damp, hot air.
A furious, blood-curdling howl ripped through the hall from behind him and rattled everything. Stiles winced from the proximity, his ears ringing painfully.
If ever there was a motivation to run like hell, Stiles was SURE that was it.
He threw himself at the Boiler room door, shaking hands fumbling to open it as he expected to feel sharp claws shredding into his back at any moment.
The heavy door creaked open-
-just as an enormous clawed hand grabbed his shoulder and dug in tight.
Stiles felt that entire side of his body give under the clenching pressure. He was yanked backwards as if he weighed nothing and spun around to be thrown bodily into the grating of the door, slamming it shut again.
His vision was suddenly full of hair, sharp teeth, and a penetrating red stare. The werewolf's huffing breaths brushed warm heat across his sweating face as their eyes met again under the dim red lights.
Stiles winced as the pressure on his shoulder increased and a second, huge hand gripped his free arm tightly, pinning him to the door.
A low growl started somewhere deep in the creature's throat and worked it way up and out of it's mouth.
Stiles heard himself choke out a whimper, body shuddering with fear. His legs- apparently the only part of his body that could operate under extreme terror, kicked out furiously, aiming for a solid strike to the groin because fighting fair was OFF the table when a werewolf's jagged teeth were only inches from your jugular!
He felt his feet making contact with the werewolf but apparently not successfully falling on his most sensitive region. It was, however, a good enough effort to further infuriate to beast in front of him. His grip tightened to the point that Stiles was sure his bones were going to be crushed to powder.
Stiles cried out, a pain-wracked shout that rang out into the loud den of the air.
To his surprise, the werewolf seemed startled by the yell, the grip on him immediately loosening.
Stiles sucked in a deep breath, and tried for one final, desperate Hail Mary.
He stretched his neck forward, opened his mouth wide, and sank his teeth into the werewolf's exposed collar.
Stiles expected the attack to be about as damaging as a flea bite- annoying the massive beast, at best.
Instead, the creature shot backwards so suddenly that he pulled Stiles with him, still attached by the teeth.
Releasing his mouth, Stiles had just enough time to take a step back, and kick his leg forward as hard as humanly possible into the vicinity of the creature's gut.
The werewolf dropped to his knees hard, then pitched forward with an almost humorous wheezing sound erupting from his lips.
But Stiles was already hauling ass away from the doubled-over form, and down the hall in the direction of the old locker rooms. Screw the Boiler room-! He'd never get inside with the werewolf crumpled in front of the door and the flickering shadows of the others already arriving where he lay crumpled.
He needed to get the hell out of the school-! Surely they were all inside by now?! How many had he seen? He wasn't exactly going to run back for a head-count, but there was a very good chance that his jeep was unguarded at this point and THAT was his best chance of survival. If he could just get to a window and make it outside-!
He burst into the old locker room and and hopped up onto a bench by the wall in one fluid movement. To his everlasting horror, his hands were shaking so badly that he couldn't swing the window latch open. Every precious second was counted off by the rapid pounding of his heart in his throat. He imagined he could hear the fast patter of feet closing in from down the hall outside the door. He cursed his useless hands for failing him at such a critical moment.
Worse, the insidious thoughts were already beginning pour in, distracting him.
He almost just died.
-AND he pissed off LOTS of fucking werewolves!
-AND he REALLY pissed off a fucking ALPHA!
He had BIT the thing!
MY GOD-! I BIT AN ALPHA! I seriously NO SHIT bit an Alpha! Like I'm a-a wild animal or- or something! I BIT HIM!
OHMYGODHE'SGONNAKILLME-HANDSSTOPTRYINGTOGETMEKILLEDANDWORKDAMNIT-!
Stiles clutched the piece of rusty metal and yanked it like his life depended on it- BECAUSE HOLY FUCK- IT DID!- and the latch suddenly snapped off in his hand. Stiles threw it to the ground and half-shimmied, half-jumped up and out the high window. Furious howls rattled the glass as the sounds of bodies moving quickly came from just outside the locker room door.
He landed ungracefully on the ground just two feet under the basement-level window and sprung to his feet to bail-
-only to have his trembling legs give out underneath him, pitching him forward. He gave his heaving body only a second to recover before trying again.
This time his legs, though numb and wobbly, managed to support him. He did a quick inventory of his aches and pains as he sprinted. There were definitely going to be bruises and maybe a few small cuts, but surprisingly, he didn't seem to have any serious injuries. Nice change from the usual. Maybe he WAS getting better at this...? He took long strides towards the corner of the building, trying to figure out the fastest way to his jeep from where he was.
The sound of a growl and shattering glass behind him told him it would be TOO far.
He didn't even have a chance to spin around and SEE the creature before he felt two huge, strong arms wrapping themselves tightly around his thin frame and dragging him roughly to the damp ground. His entire body was crushed between the hard, grassy surface and the bruising weight pressing heavily into his back.
A rumbling growl sounded only an inch from Stiles ear and he knew it was over.
He had nothing left.
His breath was choking gasps that he just couldn't seem to get enough of.
Every inch of his body ached.
His muscles were over-exerted and he KNEW he wasn't going to be able to run ten more steps, even if he had the chance.
The lack of air was exacerbated by the weight on top of him (seriously- how much did this dude weigh?!) and it was starting to prevent his brain from processing anything more than the fact that he couldn't breath. He could feel darkness edging his vision, closing around him as his brain buzzed weakly. With the last breath he could muster, Stiles forced out a wheezing groan of protest, hoping that werewolf would understand that he was fucking squashing him half to death. Hopefully that mattered. Like, they were trying to capture him right? That's what they said, wasn't it? They wanted to take him somewhere? Not turn him into a lifeless pancake?!
Thankfully, as soon as the weak noise left him, he felt the heavy weight leave immediately. Once the air was available he sucked in deep gasping breaths as his lungs burned for more.
He was suddenly flipped roughly onto his back.
His vision cleared slowly, and he was blinking up into the sharp red eyes of the Alpha again. Hands dug into his arms, though much less roughly than before, and Stiles felt the werewolf shift his body over his own, pinning Stiles to the ground.
With his breathing finally stabilizing, Stiles' brain began working again, sluggishly at first, but speeding up quickly.
The Alpha was still staring intently into his eyes from just inches away, as if watching Stiles closely, following his thoughts as they slowly returned. It's breathing was ragged, much like Stiles' own, and the warm huffing breaths were tickling his face.
The hands on Stiles arms moved slowly, up and down, almost soothingly. At the same time, the Alpha's head dipped lower, it's nose seeming to sniff lightly over Stiles prone form.
It's head dropped lower still, nose rubbing along Stiles' throat, where he was still gasping shallowly.
Suddenly, Stiles felt the sharp drag of teeth ghosting over his throat, sending a jolt through his body. He instinctively cringed from the feeling, mind helpfully supplying terrifying images of ripped out throats. What the hell was this?! A sampling? An appetizer?!
The wolf gave a short- but very clear- warning growl that froze Stiles in place.
The teeth returned, traveling slowly and lightly down the sensitive flesh of his neck to his collar, then back up, where it gave a quick nip just below his ear. Stiles couldn't help but jump at the unexpected twinge of pain, a small, unstoppable whine coming from somewhere inside him.
The wolf made a almost gleeful sound, nipping again, then licking the sharp sting away. The creature rolled it's hip once, grinding them against Stiles crotch, and forcing a surprised, breathy moan from the young man.
Which was weird. Right? Like, yeah, NOT being mauled and turned into a wolf dinner was totally awesome, but, uh... what WAS happening, exactly...?
Stiles bit his lips, twisting his neck away from the warm mouth as he began desperately trying to slide himself free from under the bulky form. Even dazed as he was, it was becoming increasingly clear to Stiles that the werewolf on top of him was NOT ripping him to shreds. In fact, he seemed to be taking an entirely different approach.
Unfortunately, his twisting and bucking was only causing the creature to become more excited, judging by the breathy grunts, happy keening sounds, and- oh, yeah- the raging hard on that was pressing against him through their clothes.
And he seemed to be taking the sounds coming from Stiles- despite his best efforts to muffle them- as encouragement.
It wasn't that being dry-humped by a heavily-muscled, hairy Alpha was necessarily a turn on. It was just a matter of biology. Stiles was a teenager for God's sake. This was the most action he had gotten from another ANYTHING since his last annual Sports Physical! He couldn't control his reaction- it was just happening.
And, as a last little bit of irony, a very similar scenario involving a different muscular Alpha had very recently played out in his dreams...
So, if Stiles happened to become disoriented from the rocking thrusts and silky-smooth mouth gliding over his soft throat, it was completely reasonable and acceptable and fuck anybody that was judging him because-shititfeltsogood- and was WAY better than a slow and painful death-!
Fact: Stiles has issues. LOTS of issues.
"Mischa! Stop at once!" A loud voice cut through Stiles' fuzzy thoughts like a knife. He opened his eyes- when the hell did he close them?!- and saw several worried looking faces staring at them from a safe distance away, shuffling around nervously as if they wanted to do something, but were not going to be the stupid person who actually DID. Stiles couldn't see the speaker from where he lay with his head turned. The werewolf on top of him lifted it's head, just barely, to growl a low warning before returning with renewed vigor to Stiles neck. The voice sounded desperate as it tried again, "MISCHA! You must get off of that young man! This is not the time or place to stake your claim! If Derek Hale finds out-"
Stiles eyes widened at Derek's name, his mind clearing suddenly.
Derek-! If Derek finds out..what? That Stiles was- was practically sprinting to third base with a werewolf that hadn't even bought him dinner yet?! Holy shit-! What the hell was happening? A werewolf – a GUY/MALE/DUDE/PENIS-POSSESSING WOLF MAN- was NO SHIT on top of him getting freaky, and he was LETTING HIM. Not to mention already sporting an obvious and embarrassing erection as a result!
If dying from embarrassment was possible, it would happen right now. And it would be SO welcome.
Panic helped give Stiles a sudden burst of strength, which he used to shove forcefully against the strong arms and heavy chest holding him in place.
Which had absolutely no effect. Unless you counted really pissing the dude off. The wolf pulled back angrily with a grunt to stare at him again, and Stiles thought he saw something close to hurt in the glowing red eyes.
And then the weight abruptly lifted from him, and the very hairy, terrifying face changed into a much less scary face that was nonetheless threatening and furious. The red eyes faded to their previous bright shade of blue and Stiles recognized him as the man who spoke to him by his jeep earlier.
Stiles was so stunned by the man's actions, by what had just happened, and by the entire horrifying situation that he didn't move an inch from where he lay on the ground, gaping.
The large group that was circled around them didn't make a sound, their wide eyes all on the Alpha as he shook his head several times, almost like he was trying to clear it.
Finally, several deathly-silent moments later, the Alpha lifted his eyes, sharp blue glaring accusingly at Stiles, and he bit out, "Take him to the van. NOW. We are leaving at once!"
And that furious, steely glare was the last thing Stiles saw before everything went black...