A/N: This chapter comes with a trigger warning for sexual assault.

A/N2: Many thanks to everyone who's left a review and to all you lovely readers out there. I'm sorry for not replying individually, but real life has been a real killer these last several months. /o\

There's something familiar and comforting about the way Derek reacts to Stiles telling him about the upcoming lacrosse game.

"You're not playing."

It's like Stiles isn't anything special.

"If I see you there, I'll drag you away by scruff of your neck."

Like maybe Derek's coming around to that way of thinking. That 'we don't blame ourselves for saving people's life because that would be stupid' way of thinking.

"Hah, I never play." He starts pulling his legs up onto the seat of the car but stops when Derek lets out a low growl. "And also, you're getting soft in your old age. Scott got a death threat."

"Stiles," Derek says calmly. "If you show up at the game, I will rip your heart out with my bare hand and crush it before your lifeless eyes."

And here it is, werewolf humor. Stiles wonders if he'll ever become that blase about gruesome deaths. "You're a laugh a minute. Anyway, I'll be sitting on the bench, though. I want to keep my place and I missed practice this week."

"The place where you don't get to play."

"Oh, rub it in, why don't you." Stiles huffs. He's not actually irritated, but arguing about lacrosse is a lot safer than arguing about anything else. Once their hugfest - and it's a hugfest if Stiles says so - ended because Derek started twitching and pulling away, Derek put Stiles through the motions a few more times before suggesting Stiles attack him. Because new werewolves apparently need to learn how to use their new strength and speed to crush possible enemies. Stiles attacking Derek was just a really hilarious proposition, though.

And Stiles would have totally been up for some quality lesson in humiliation and pain except oh, hey look at the time. Wow, wasn't it getting late?

Derek looked at his watch, frowned at Stiles, then turned on his heel and walked out of the old depot. Which Stiles so had not expected, but he wasn't going to look a gift wolf in the mouth. It was likely to bite his head off.

"You're not playing."

That might be an order, but it also sounds like a concession. Either way, Stiles's answer remains the same. "Nope, I'm not."

"Fine," Derek says. He turns right and stops the car two streets down from where Stiles lives. "When is your dad's next shift?"

Stiles has to take a moment to think about this. With all the dead police officers at the station, his dad has been pulling double shifts all week and working overtime and - that's good for Stiles and his little furry problem, but it's not good for his dad's health, Stiles thinks guiltily.

Stiles starts as Derek calls his name. "Um?"

"I asked when your dad will work next."

"Sorry," Stiles mumbles, flushing. "It's been a bit harder to concentrate lately, and - crap." Oh, hell. The Adderall. It wouldn't work so well with a faster metabolism. "Isn't lycanthropy supposed to help with...?" He trails off, waving his hand to include ADHD and epilepsy and asthma.

"It's not a cure-all. If you're under a great deal of stress, these things can return briefly."

Like with Erica - and Stiles had been under a ton of stress lately.

"Stiles. Your dad."

Oh, right. "I think he's, um, working in the afternoon. Till ten pm-ish."

Derek grunts. "Get going then."

The google search turns something up.

Stiles stares at his screen, heart racing.

It's not a vid, it's just an announcement - a promise of a teaser later that week even - but from the description, it has to be it.

Really how many werewolf porn flicks can there be?

Stiles reaches for his mouse again, flinching as he knocks over the glass of lemonade he put down next to it. The liquid spills over the table and towards the edge, dripping down on the floor. It misses his laptop by an inch at most. Stiles swears and jumps up, grabs a used t-shirt and begins to mop up the mess.

He doesn't bother doing more than that, just drops the shirt in the trash can at his feet so it can't drip on anything important. His hands are sticky and kind of gross, but if he has to wait another second to start hunting down more information about the username he's going to throw up.

Cryptozoologist11's profile looks legit at first glance - a birthyear, some kind of rambling about … Jesus, their thing for creature fucking, with a fucking winking smilie face. 147 comments made, obviously not a bot, and the avatar is not exactly tasteful, but not NSFW either. Stiles ignores the birthyear - it's probably untrue anyway - and starts digging through the posts for the other comments. There might be something useful in one of them; some kind of hint about who these people are and how to find them.

It's slow going since he can only guess which threads might interest cryptozoologist11. While the next page on the forum loads, Stiles opens another tab, typing in the username into the google engine and hitting enter.

Then he opens a spreadsheet on google docs and stares at it for about five minutes before his brain decides to get back online and provide him with more than just 'oh god, oh shit, I think I'm going to throw up, oh god'.

After two hours of reading ever grosser discussions of creature fucking and goddamn death matches, holy fucking hell, Stiles has a pretty good idea of what cryptozologist11 has been up to in the past two years.

There have been five movies put online since he joined the forum. From the enthusiastic discussions of the plots on the board, Stiles has gathered that all five ended in the death of at least one person per movie - he refuses to use the common jargon of 'creature' - sometimes more. And that's not even taking into account what might have happened to the survivors because, because.

Why let them go?

Why did they let Stiles and Scott and Derek go? Why? It doesn't make any sense. These fuckers obviously don't give a damn about what happens to anyone as long as they can get their rocks off, so why? Stiles hisses and jumps up from the chair to pace the room. He neatly sidesteps his backpack even though it's dark outside and the only light is the one that his computer screen casts on the room. Werewolf senses, werewolf reflexes.

Werewolf growling, too.

Stiles stops mid-pace and closes his eyes. He thinks of Derek and the way he smelled as Stiles hugged him, warm and safe and strong despite the misery and vulnerability coming off him.

The anger leaves him in waves, like the tide retreating, drawing his energy from him. Stiles flops onto the bed, suddenly exhausted. He watches his computer switch to the screensaver and thinks that he should really get up and go turn it off, but he can't be bothered right now. He'll do it...later, clear the browser history, too. Again.

Later.

His dreams are a confusing mess.

He's in school, alone, talking to Gerard Argent. Argent is touching him. A hand on his arm, rubbing softly, gently, while the other drifts down to open the fly of Stiles's jeans, and all Stiles can do is stand frozen, immobile.

"Don't," he whispers, "please," and he's crying, and Argent echoes him, mocking him. He leans forward until his breath is ghosting over Stiles's ear, pushes his hand inside Stiles's underwear and cups Stiles's dick, starts fondling him until it's hard and pulsing. "Come for me."

Stiles cries out.

Derek cries out.

Kate laughs at them, a happy, wickedly delighted cackle. It's the most awesome sound Derek's ever heard. Her eyes are gleaming and her head is thrown back as she rides him through his orgasm.

"You didn't-," Derek groans, and she shakes her head and says, "Tell me to." And her teeth flash in the dark of her bedroom.

"Come," Derek moans as she wriggles and he moves his hand towards her clit, thumbs at it. "Come for me."

She shudders above him.

"I came for you."

He doesn't reply, and she pouts at him. It still looks as tantalizing as it ever did, but he feels no sudden urge to please her, to bare all his secrets and that of his family. This desire has long since been burnt out of him.

"For you and for all the other filthy animals in that house."

She reaches for his belt buckle and Derek snarls at her, hips jerking back as far as the metal frame at his back will allow.

She ignores him, of course, pulls his pants down. He's not wearing anything underneath, never really does. One layer of clothing is usually more than enough in his opinion, but right now he's wishing he'd be wearing more: ten, maybe twenty layers. He doesn't want her hands on him ever again. Doesn't want to feel her eyes focusing on his cock as she licks her lips, drops down to her knees.

"I've always liked your cock, sweetie. It's the best part of you."

Her mouth closes around him, and Derek -Derek closes his eyes, and turns his head away, and feels so fucking disgusted with himself for getting hard in the mouth of the psychopath who killed his family. Disgusted, and dirty. He keeps hardening as she blows him and it's either his grief or the humiliation or both that has tears stinging at his eyes as he comes down her throat.

He keeps his head turned away as she pulls his pants back up, tugs his dick back inside and gives it a light pat.

"Now that was fun, wasn't it?"

"Go away, Kate," Derek replies tiredly, and she laughs that same beautiful, ringing laugh.

His alarm goes off and Stiles wakes up, gasping for breath, heart racing. He feels icky and smells worse, of fear and tears and the snot that partly clogs up his nose. The scent mixes with that of ashes and burnt flesh, and then he hears Kate laughing, feels her mouth on his cock, feels Gerard Argent's hand on his arm, and throws up over the hand he clamps in front of his mouth.

It's not a lot. He didn't eat much last night. Stiles pulls off his shirt, cleans his face, his hand, his chest as well as he can, and tries not to curse Derek and his horrific life and his apparent inability to keep his fucking memories to himself because, fuck, Stiles doesn't want them. There's enough horror occupying his mind; he doesn't need more, doesn't want more, can't take more.

They'll need to talk about this. There has to be a way to turn it off.

There's a knock on his door. "Stiles?"

"Dad," Stiles rasps, and it's too late to tell him not to come in because the door is already opening.

"We've run out of-," his dad begins before he gets a good look at Stiles and stops mid-sentence. He's at Stiles's bedside a moment later, hand going towards Stiles's forehead. "Are you ill? What did you eat last night?"

"Sandwich," Stiles replies automatically, then stutters out, "I think it might have been the mayonnaise." He's not going to explain what made him throw up, not ever.

It takes Stiles a good five minutes to convince his dad not to take him to the doctor and by the time his dad is out of his room and Stiles is standing under the shower, he's back to being exactly as exhausted as he was last night. Mentally, not physically. His body's telling him he could run a marathon, twice, if he wanted to. Only Stiles would rather go back to sleep, but if he does that his dad will drag him to the doctor, he's sure of it.

When Stiles gets downstairs, his dad's sitting at the kitchen table, frowning into his cup of - tea, if Stiles's nose isn't lying to him. He almost opens his mouth to ask before remembering he probably shouldn't be able to smell that from across the room.

Or maybe he can. Crap. Stiles has never really paid all that much attention to what a normal human being can and cannot smell because what the fuck for?

"We've run out of coffee, but you shouldn't be drinking that anyway if you feel sick." His dad is frowning at him. "You should stay home."

That...sounds absolutely awesome. "Right," Stiles replies. "I'll do that." He turns towards the fridge; then figures that milk would probably be just as bad as coffee, so cereal's out. He's pretty sure he can eat anything he wants to without throwing up a second time, but it's no hardship to eat toast instead. He's just sat down at the table when his dad clears his throat awkwardly, reaching inside his breast pocket and pulling out the keys to the jeep. He pushes them towards Stiles wordlessly, then goes back to his tea, pulling a face as he takes a sip.

Stiles pockets the keys.

"You're still grounded," his dad says gruffly, and Stiles nods.

Just when Stiles thinks his dad isn't going to say anything else and they can not really enjoy their breakfast - god, tea, seriously - his dad opens his mouth again. "You were safe, right?" He's staring at his own hand, the one that is holding the mug with the white and blue stripes on it, and Stiles's mind needs a moment to catch up.

"Sure. I mean, yeah. Yes." He trips over the words, flushes. Hopes his dad will put it down to the terribly embarrassing topic of conversation and not think Stiles is lying his head off because he can't remember what he and Derek did the second time and none of what happened that day could ever be considered safe.

But his dad doesn't know that; he thinks Stiles has had a one night stand with some random guy, and yeah. Staying safe. Anything else would be stupid.

"You used-"

"Oh my god. Yes, dad! We did. All the protection."

His dad nods, still avoiding actually looking at Stiles, and - and he's actually slightly red in the face himself.

"Can we talk about something else now?" Stiles squeaks. "Or, you know what? I think I'll go and...do my homework, yes."

Stiles is up the stairs and almost back in his room by the time he hears his dad whisper, "Christ."

In between clearing his browser history, doing his chemistry homework, and ignoring the smell of lemonade and vomit - he's thrown his clothes and all his sheets in the laundry, but the scent lingers - Stiles is hit by an epiphany.

Argent is baiting them; poking and pushing, so that they'll come after him. It's the only explanation that makes any sense at all, and Stiles figuratively pats himself on the shoulder for going with his instincts yesterday and not telling Derek about his run-in with Creepard Argent.

The question of why remains. It's not like the hunters have any compunction about, say, shooting up a police station and Gerard Argent seems more the Kate type than the Chris type: fanatical and totally unconcerned about innocent people getting caught in the crossfire.

The images from his nightmare swim back up suddenly, and Stiles suppresses a shiver. Fucking fuck. 'Come for me,' alright. His subconscious is awesome when it isn't torturing him. Hell, it's awesome and just as smart as Stiles himself is even when it's torturing him.

So, Argent wants Derek to come after him.

And he doesn't just simply attack Derek because - fuck. Stiles wracks his brain trying to come up with an answer, but draws up short. Unless it's to do with his son and his Code. Is he afraid Chris won't help him if Derek doesn't strike the first blow?

Would Chris Argent defy his own father over, quote, rabid dogs, unquote?

A sudden beep startles Stiles out of his thoughts and he glances towards his computer screen to see an incoming Skype call.

"Yeah?" Stiles says after he clicks on the window. "What's up, man?"

"Nothing much," Scott replies. "Just, have you done English yet? I'm...kinda stuck."

Stiles hasn't yet, as a matter of fact, but he doesn't mind pushing his chem books aside and fishing his English notes out of his backpack. They go through the assignment together, though Stiles pays only about half a mind to it. Most of his thoughts still stuck on the Argents. His distraction must be obvious enough for even Scott to pick up on because Scott interrupts Stiles's mumblings about Hamlet and asks, "Are you alright?"

And no, Stiles is not. He opens his mouth to ask Scott about insight into Gerard Argent's motivations - because Scott has had the most interactions with the man prior to the kidnapping - but what actually tumbles out of his mouth is, "Do you remember?"

Which is, of course, also something he's wanted to know, but he did think he needed to kind of lead up to it and not just blurt it out.

"Remember what?"

And Stiles could lie nor, or deflect, or whatever, but the more he thinks about it, the more he's convinced that Scott is the person to ask - not Derek - and, well, he's already started this line of conversation, so might as well.

Before he loses courage.

"The time when - with the wolfsbane, you know? Do you remember anything?"

Scott lets out an explosive breath that has the microphone emit a really uncomfortable thumping sound and Stiles slaps his hands over his ears. "Geez."

"Sorry," Scott mumbles, but it sounds more like a reflex, like he's not even aware he's saying it. "I'm sorry," he repeats, clearer this time, and Stiles can tell from the tone of his voice and the way he hunches his shoulders that he doesn't remember much of all. "It's blurry; just fragments. Smells and sounds, but … I can't make them make much sense at all beyond - beyond 'ow' and 'arousal'." Scott flushes and looks away. Right, well. It was too much to hope anyway.

The mood that settles over them is tense and awkward, so Stiles lets his mouth run away with him again. "And 'oooh, yummy human', I hope."

Scott snorts at him. "You hope what?"

"Hey, I'm awesome. I probably even taste awesome. Are you saying I wouldn't?"

"I'm not sure that's something you should be happy about."

"I take comfort in the small victories in life."

"The Tastiest Human Award."

"Yup." Or werewolf now; whatever. "So," Stiles says after a pause while Scott looks like he's trying to think of what to say or maybe trying not to say something he wants to say. "You needed something?"

Scott sighs and slumps back into his chair. "Yeah, about that. I-" he trails off, rubbing the base of his hand over his forehead and squeezing his eyes shut. "Gerard Argent was here."

"Here," Stiles repeats blankly, feeling his cheeks go numb and tingly as the blood drains from them.

"In my room, yeah, and the kanima was strangling my mom. He's got control over it, him, now."

"Oh my god, is she-?"

"She's fine," Scott interrupts. "Well, 'fine'." He does the scare quotes around fine, and Stiles knows that kind of fine really well. "She says she wants me to do whatever Gerard wants me to do."

And now they're back to square one. Stiles lets out a short barking laugh and buries his face in his hands. Fuck, he wouldn't even really blame Scott if Scott did whatever Gerard wanted from him, like drawing Derek into a trap.

"I'm not going to, though," Scott says, belligerent like he thinks Stiles would think he would, which Stiles does. "I mean, I am, but not like that."

Yeah, that made total sense. "And now again in English, Scott."

Scott leans forward towards the screen and drops his voice like they're sitting next to each other, talking in class, and not over the internet. Stiles finds himself leaning in, too.

"I think, he's sick. He smells of cancer."

"Cancer has a smell?"

"Yeah, it's..." Scott makes a face. "Doesn't really matter. I got my hands on his pillbox and I swapped the contents out. I meant to tell you - and Derek - but then the whole, the whole kidnapping thing happened."

"Okay," Stiles says slowly, grappling with the fact that Scott is apparently trying to kill Gerard Argent.

He tries to find some sense of maybe scruples or horror in himself at the thought, but there's nothing but a slow burn of satisfaction.

"Okay," he repeats, "but I don't think we can wait that long. And he's going to fill up his prescription at one point."

"We're not. We'll have to get Derek to go after him now."

"Dude," Stiles hisses. "You know that this is what he fucking wants. He'll be prepared for him!"

"Yeah, exactly!"

Stiles stares at him for a moment, then pulls off his headphones and disconnects from Skype. He doesn't know, can't remember, the point when the thought of Derek getting hurt or dead went from 'that wouldn't be good' to 'cannot even contemplate', but he's in that state of mind now and if he has to hear Scott talking casually about throwing Derek to the wolves - hah. Hah! - for a second longer he's going to do something. Like maybe start howling because that little ball of instincts inside him is screeching in fear and terror at the thought. And Stiles would think that maybe the wolf inside him is responsible for all of what he's feeling, but it's not. He knows it's not.

"This isn't some kind of Stockholm thing, is it?" he says out loud. He pokes at the thought, trying to distract himself and the wolf from the Alpha might be hurt, do something, danger, do something.

Not that possibly feeling more than simple attraction, more than a simple crush, for Derek is in any way a soothing thought. The only other non-family member he's ever been this worried about is Lydia (and Scott, but Stiles doesn't think about Scott because the wolf starts to snarl and rage at the name now).

Man, Stiles thinks. And, fuck, and then he actually whimpers, a low whine that doesn't sound very human at all.

At about seven p.m. Stiles starts to get a bit jittery. His dad'll be home in four hours and if they want to get in some practice, Derek will have to show up soonish.

At eight p.m., he's given up on doing anything but reading a webcomic because he keeps looking at the clock every sixty seconds or so.

At eight thirty, he's staring at the screen of his phone, trying to convince himself that Derek is totally fine – fucking thanks, Scott – and just maybe forgot or something.

At 8:45 he sends a text.

Ten minutes later, Derek replies with "busy. tomorrow".

Stiles goes to sleep early.

On Sunday, Derek cancels on him again.