The Howling

v0|vw0wv|0v

A/N: So, I feel obligated to tell you all that Dylan O'Brien [the guy who plays Stiles Stilinski] found one of my Derek/Stiles videos on YouTube and tweeted the link to his fans.

He thinks it's "so fucking awesome".

I feel special.

But lol some people take that show seriously. Dylan obviously doesn't, but his fans do. And some of them don't quite understand slash, or that I don't think Dylan O'Brien is gay [but Stiles is a litte tootie fruity at times]. xD

Video Link: http:/www(dot)youtube(dot)com/watch?v=doAy3AYOvHc

Dylan's Twitter (which now I have to follow): http:/twitter(dot)com/#!/dylanobrien

I'm serious you guys. He found my video of Derek/Stiles and tweeted it. I mean, he's THAT awesome. Lol. :D

Now onto the fanfiction I pray he isn't reading (because I linked this story in one of my other videos. Dylan go away! I can't write slash properly with all this pressure! D:).

Also sorry that this chapter is so short, have a lot going on. Hope you enjoy it anyway, and thank you for reading!

v0|vw0wv|0v

Stiles' muscles ached and twitched, like lacrosse practice in overdrive. Or, like werewolf date-rape. He groaned, closed his eyes, and failed to will that memory away. Scott over him, eyes glowing, teeth and ears pointier than usual. The smells and heat, God, Stiles could barely take it all in again—

But he had more important matters to focus on. His body wasn't acting right. One minute he was feeling nauseas, the next he was fighting off lust in his shorts. It just didn't make sense, none of it, and it was getting worse. After trying to kick his socks off, twice, he realized he had less control of his leg muscles by the minute.

If he wasn't bed-ridden he'd have figured the solution out on his computer.

"Great, just fucking great." He slammed his head back into his pillow, the thin bed beneath him shaking.

His boxers tightened, uncomfortably, and it was happening again.

"Fuck," he groaned, running a hand over his face. He couldn't keep going on like this.

And then, footsteps echoed from somewhere on the second floor. Stiles managed to turn on his stomach, groaning once more with the need he was fighting, and froze in mid-agony. It was probably his Dad, but oh shit, what would Stiles say? Could he even talk? The footsteps were getting louder.

Then, nothing.

And more nothing.

Stiles held his breath. Apart of him knew he needed medical attention, but the boy wasn't sure if that was in either his or his father's best interest. He tried not to think of the explanation he'd have to give. Or the awkward ride to the hospital with his father's sirens blazing. Or the straight-jacket they'd eventually place him into, because werewolves don't exist or mind-fuck their best bros.

Shit.

His life was over. This was it, the end, game fucking over. No more lacrosse, no more jeep, no more Lydia, or, well the back of her head. But still, she wanted him, he knew it, he—stopped himself short and turned onto his side, so his was facing away from the door, and quickly pulling his knees to his chest. Another wave of nausea was washing over him. It was full of the same vibrant energy, only stronger and sourer.

After a few seconds he realized he was having trouble breathing. Was he having a panic attack? Oh God, he was going to die.

His life sucked, it really, truly, honestly fucking did.

"Stiles."

And when he heard his name Stiles jerked away from the sound, but he didn't pay attention to the physics part of that action either. So, off his bed he tumbled, and right into the wall he rolled.

"Hello wall," he groaned and rolled onto his back. Now he was paralyzed between his bed and wall with a boner and a stranger in his room. Because that sure as hell wasn't his father lurking in the dark.

No, Stiles had a pretty damn good idea who it was.

"Scott?" he croaked, fists balling, and hey, he wasn't paralyzed. "You got some nerve," he struggled between moans and groans, his feelings switching from his pants to an even stronger feeling in his stomach.

"What the fuck…did you do to me?"

Whoever it was, it wasn't Scott. His footsteps were heavier, louder too. He was wearing boots. Or, Stiles realized, a dominatrix could be in his room. He wasn't sure how that last part was possible and covered his face. The fear of the intruder was nothing compared to his sickness. It was like eating all day at Thanksgiving and then riding an endless rollercoaster. He wanted to puke, so, so badly.

"Stiles," the masculine voice repeated. There was a figure, Stiles realized, standing directly in his line of vision, which was getting worse. The darkness of course didn't help, nor did him laying on his back and digging his chin into his chest, but still, Stiles knew he was fucked in so many ways—

The figure took a step forward, and Stiles watched with half open eyes. And then another step was taken, and another, and then whoever was there reached the window. Artificial light from outside bounced off his body, and Stiles swore, several times.

"Stiles, shut up," growled Derek as he stood over him. Who else could it be? Stiles inwardly cursed and struggled to move but to no avail.

"What… What do you want?" he was legit trying to hold it together and act as casually as possible, but he knew that Derek knew that he knew he was fucked—and now would be a perfect time to panic, but he wanted to throw up instead.

Derek crouched down, each foot planted on either side of Stiles' body, and soon Stiles was back on his bed. He didn't realize it until Derek sat down on a small sliver of mattress, dangerously close to him.

"Look at me," he said, a thumb and finger grabbing the boy's jaw. It hurt, and Stiles did look, or at least tried to, before ripping away. He lurched his torso over to the other side of the bed, finally puking, and let out a muffled gasp. Behind him he felt the mattress shift, as Derek had jumped back, but Stiles really wasn't focused on him or his loud boots.

Because something was wrong, yet again. Vomitting did nothing for the sick feeling, and this time there was no boner to replace it.

"Oh," Stiles whispered, voice cracking. "Oh, God."

His body was twitching, practically convulsing, and what was this? A weight, two palms connected to fingers and arms pressing him down into the mattress, holding him there.

"Stiles, breath, breath, stay calm," said Derek, but Stiles could only answer with a sob. He titled his head back into his pillow and screwed his eyes shut, letting the black abyss take him.

v0|vw0wv|0v

A/N: Stay tuned for the next chapter, and once more, thank you for reading and/or reviewing! :]