#*s:steo

[msmischief101]

[msmischief101]

incorrect quotes: 47/?

[msmischief101]

chapter 58: it's not the devil at your door Warnings: violence

You can read it on AO3 as well.

[a/n: sorry for the very long wait. Life got in the way. Thank you so much for your patience. I hope you're enjoying the new chapter💖]

---

“John, with all due respect, I don’t think you have any idea what you’re dealing with.”

“I’m dealing with two traumatized teenagers, Noshiko.”

Stiles watches the spot on the ley line where his father most likely stands, watches as Jordan puts his head in his hands. The conversation must’ve been going on for longer than he’s awake. They’re all exhausted, Stiles can hear it in their voices.

“I think,” Brett pipes up from where he sits on the kitchen counter, “you’re underestimating Sheriff Stilinski.”

Noshiko makes a small impatient noise. “I think your personal feelings are clouding your judgement.”

“Funny, I could say the same about you.”

“Brett.” Satomi’s voice is calm, but it does have the desired effect of shutting her second in command up. Still, there is anger vibrating through the ley line connected to Brett. It’s not surprising. Although Satomi has always seemingly maintained a neutral balance. This time, however, it feels as if she’s choosing a side – a side Brett does clearly not agree with.

Stiles can’t blame him. He’s not agreeing with Noshiko either, but that’s nothing new. They haven’t really agreed on anything for most of the time. Well, aside from killing him in case he’s going to become a hazard for the people around him. That has been the case only a couple of days ago. Now, however, things are different again. Plus, killing him always comes with the price of killing every single chimera still alive and kicking.

Jordan leans back in his chair. “Locking him up in the Hale Vault is only going to re-traumatise him.” He curls his hands around something. A mug, perhaps, or a glass. If Jordan were alone, it might’ve been a glass of whiskey but with Stiles’ dad, Satomi, and Noshiko around, it’s probably some sort of calming tea.

Stiles wonders if he wishes for something stronger. He certainly would.

Noshiko doesn’t sound happy with that, “if we don’t, we put the whole town at risk.”

“You make it sound like Stiles is some sort of monster,” Brett remarks icily.

“He killed-“

“Enough!” His dad slams his hands on the table. The sound startles Stiles enough to pull away from the ley lines accidentally, returning to the quiet of his bedroom with his heart hammering as if he’s run a marathon – not because he’s scared or surprised. Noshiko has proven more than once that she’s absolutely willing to kill him if the need arises, or perhaps as a precaution. While he would’ve agreed with her a while ago, now, the thought of it only makes him want to rip her head off.

Maybe that’s proof enough of her being right.

“You know, it’s rude to eavesdrop.”

Stiles nearly jumps out of his skin. He whips around, spotting Isaac sitting on a mattress on the floor next to his bed. He’s wrapped in a blanket, wearing a sheepish grin. Stiles stares at him, speechless for a while then he settles back into his pillow. The movement jostled his wound, and he grinds his teeth. With a soft sigh, he closes his eyes, trying to ignore the pain. It feels as if someone set his whole upper body on fire.

Next to him, Isaac shuffles under his covers. “I’m angry too.” Again, he’s silent, and the night grows heavy around them. “She’s got no idea what you had to do down there.”

A tight first curls around his heart. No. She doesn’t know. Not everything, that is. But neither does Isaac. Nobody knows the full story of what happened in Eichen House’s basement. Isaac is aware of most of it, but he’s got no clue about the worst part of the story.

Without replying, Stiles pulls his covers up to his chin, fighting the urge to roll onto his side and hide away from the world for a little while longer. He’s not ready to face it yet, or anyone in it.

-

Tracy screeches as she steps on a broken flashlight in the darkness and loses her footing.

“Quiet,” Theo snaps. There’s an edge to his voice. It’s not quite fear yet, but he’s certainly worried.

Once Stiles is done with Tracy, he’ll deal with Theo. Mates or not, nobody will take away his food ever again. Some lessons clearly need to be taught as early as possible so shit like this will never happen again.

Stiles turns his head to the right. Even if Tracy were as quiet as a statue, he wouldn’t have any issue finding her in complete darkness. The scent of her sheer panic acts like a neon sign.

“Quiet!” Theo orders again, and his voice carries through the dark hallway. “Stiles, stop it.” Red eyes flash in the darkness, darting back and forth as if looking for him. They pass right over him, but his aura doesn’t give him away like it would Kira or perhaps even Noshiko and other foxes. The night is his kingdom. It bends to his will.

Tracy shrieks then hits the ground hard. She makes it almost too easy.

“Miecio!” Theo’s voice is calm, but his scent is spiked with fear now. Is he afraid of him, or what he might do? “You wanna be pissed at someone, be pissed at me. I killed Deaton, remember? She didn’t do anything.”

Stiles whips his head around and stares at the vague shape of his boyfriend, his mate. It’s getting easier to see him by the second. He can almost make out his features now. Under normal circumstances, Theo wouldn’t have any issue finding him. But now, Stiles doesn’t want to be found. By anybody. He narrows his eyes, following Theo as he moves to the left as quietly as possible. Away from him. Towards Tracy. He grinds his teeth. “Don’t tell me you’re protecting her.”

Theo’s red eyes snap towards him, and he stops moving. It’s hard to tell if he sees him or merely fixes on a spot in the dark, he assumes to be Stiles. “I’m protecting you.”

“From her?” Stiles scoffs. “Don’t insult me.”

“I’m protecting you from yourself.” Theo takes a step forward. Judging by the groan of pain, he hit one of the orderlies instead of the ground. It doesn’t deter him from moving, much less talking. “I know you’re angry, but-“

Stiles shoots his hand out, curling his fingers around Corey’s throat. “Do you consider me stupid, Theodore?” He tightens his grip, digging his fingertips into the soft skin without looking away from Theo. It would be easy, so very easy. But Corey is innocent in all this. He’s merely following orders. With a sigh, he lets go of the kid. “I’m awfully sorry about this,” he says, and, for what it’s worth, he actually means it, before shoving his hand against Corey’s chest.

A surge of energy rushes through Stiles’ body and hits Corey square in the chest. It sends him flying and crashing straight into Theo.

Stiles chuckles. “Now,” he whispers, finally stepping out of the doorway. “Oh, Tracy.” If only he could hear her heartbeat now. He can only imagine it would match the panic filling all his senses. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.” As if she could hide from him. Nobody can. Not in here. However, there is nothing quite as sweet as the taste of hope ripped away.

“Tracy~” he sings. He raises his brows. He can see her now, crouching next to one of the guards, a hand pressed over her mouth. She’s holding out her right hand, claws dripping with venom, probably hoping Stiles is stupid enough to run into her.

Stiles stops on the other side of the body. “Boo,” he whispers and kicks her in the face.

She screams out in pains as she sprawls on the floor.

Could he have used magic? Yes. But this is so much more satisfying.

“Theo, please. Help!”

Stiles sets his jaw. Without hesitation, he grabs her by the hair and slams her into the wall. “I’m done with this.” Done with her dragging Theo into her business. Done with her acting like Theo cares about her. She isn’t even supposed to be here. She was supposed to rot. “Just because he got you out doesn’t mean you’re going to stay.” He leans closer and places his mouth right next to her ear. “I’m going to get rid of you one way or another.” But not quite yet, first, he is going to have a fun time with teaching her a lesson. Everything would’ve been so much easier for her if she finally realised that Theo isn’t hers to touch.

Something shifts in the darkness, striding closer by the second. Flames lick around the corner and illuminate Theo, staring at him, and Corey, both hands pressed against the wall but now frozen like a deer in headlights.

“Welcome to the party.” That certainly makes everything a lot easier. Smirking, he slams Tracy’s head against the wall and lets go of her, not bothering to wait until she’s crumpled to the ground, whimpering softly. Instead, he returns to his spot by the door, watching in amusement as Corey shuffles towards Theo again. Keeping his distance isn’t the worst idea. There will be a point when even following orders isn’t an excuse for getting to Isaac any longer, and Stiles really doesn’t want to hurt Corey.

Theo reaches out for him and puts a hand on his shoulder. “Jordan,” he calls just as the hellhound rounds the corner, “we need your help.” It’s not hard to imagine how much this admission must’ve hurt his ego.

Try as he might, Stiles cannot suppress a bark of laughter. Does Theo truly believe Jordan would follow his orders?

“Stiles,” Jordan breathes, almost surprised to see him unharmed and alive. Perhaps not an unusual reaction after being gone for so long.

“Jay,” Stiles replies with a small nod, “Cerberus.” It’s fascinating to see how Jordan’s face morphs into a nearly expressionless mask. If not for Isaac, Stiles would feel bad for using him like this. However, it isn’t about revenge, it’s about a rescue, and Cerberus is the only person Stiles trusts to get Isaac out of here. Jordan would understand. He will understand. “Bring Isaac to safety. Just you. Nobody touches. Nobody stops you.”

Theo shakes his head. “Jordan…” But he is smarter than to step into a hellhound’s path. All he can do is watch. He clenches his jaw, narrowing his eyes as he’s reduced to stand by, unable to do anything else. As great as Tracy’s panic may be, there is something about Theo’s anger, that’s so much more tempting, something Stiles just can’t stay away from – and he refuses to allow anyone to come in-between them.

Gently, Jordan lifts Isaac into his arms. The werewolf makes a soft pained noise, but he is safe with Jordan – most likely a lot safer than he would be with Stiles. He could leave with him, just walk out of here, and end this nightmare once and for all.

His gaze snaps to Deaton. It’s over.

It’s over.

Stiles curls his hands into fists.

But he’s not done. Not yet anyway.

-

“Hey.” Someone shakes his shoulder.

Stiles startles awake, fist aiming blindly in the direction of the sound.

Luckily, Jordan has quick reflexes. He catches his wrist before his knuckles had the chance to connect with his nose. “Nice aim.” Jordan cocks a brow, studying his face for a few moments before his expression softens and something akin to regret sneaks into his features. He probably should’ve known better than to wake Stiles up like this.

Drawing his brows together, Stiles slumps into the pillows. He is still exhausted, but that’s not what’s keeping him glued to his mattress. It’s the past and the memories. The reality of what happened and what he did. It’s the blood on his hands. It’s the crushing realisation of having gone to far.

It’s also the fucking pain in his chest.

“Josh is here.” Jordan places his hand on the blanket next to Stiles’ arm. “He wants to know if you want to join them.”

Pressing his lips together, Stiles pushes himself into a sitting position although he’d rather burrow deeper into his blanket and hide from everyone and everything forever. He winces at another zap of sharp pain cuts through his chest and back. Stiles notices the twitch of Jordan’s hands, but he seems to know better than to baby him. Turns out having one silver eyes makes for a good death glare.

Stiles clears his throat. “Theo?”

Jordan avoids his eyes.

Stiles drops his gaze to his hands then shakes his head.

Bed sheets rustle as Isaac props himself up. As much as Stiles would prefer to be alone at the moment, Isaac’s presence keeps the panic at bay. His dad joked about the co-dependency, but it was a half-hearted attempt at lightening the mood after he found out Isaac moved into Stiles’ bedroom. The days aren’t even the issue. It’s when the nightmares creep in.

Jordan runs a hand through his hair. “You can’t hide forever.”

-

“Come on, Stiles!” Theo’s frustration is palpable. “You can’t hide forever!”

Oh, but he can. Especially down here where it’s pitch black. Watching Theo getting more and more angry is like getting an early Christmas present. Stiles doesn’t want to miss it for the world. In fact, he’d like to make it worse. He wants him to explode, to taste all that pent-up rage his mate has been holding on to forever.

“Stiles, please.”

“Begging, really?” Stiles laughs softly, watching as Tracy and Corey work their way along the walls, probably to get behind him. It’s not a stupid idea to surround him, but in the end, Stiles can see them while they still have no clue where he is. With Cerberus’ fire gone, they’re back in complete darkness. “Come on, Misu, you’re an alpha now. Begging should be beneath you.”

As expected, Theo’s anger spikes briefly. His short fuse if truly a gift. “And you’re a nogitsune now, everyone is afraid of you.” His tone shifts. The storm of anger turns to a cool breeze. It’s nothing more than a façade. “Yet you’re hiding.”

“I’m not hiding.” Stiles moves to stand right in front of Theo, brushing his fingers lightly over Theo’s cheek. The simple touch makes him dizzy with want. A soft gasp falls from Theo’s lips. How long have they not touched each other? How long has he been down here? “I’m playing,” he adds in a low voice.

Before he has the chance to get a hold of him, Stiles puts distance between them. He’ s not stupid enough to risk being caught. Real kitsune or not, once Theo’s got him, it would be game over, and he’s not quite ready to end it.

Not until he’s done with Tracy.

Stiles watches her shuffle further down the wall and draws his brows together. It doesn’t seem like they’re trying to surround him.

“You play with your food?” Theo asks, his voice mocking, almost cruel – it’s the same he’s used on Scott whenever they interacted lately. “I thought your mother taught you better than that.”

Stiles whips around. “What?”

“You heard me.”

Rage licks at his insides. Stiles curls his hands into tight fists. Nobody is putting his mother into a bad light, not even Theo.

Before he can move, however, the lights come back on. A soft curse falls from his lips, and he shields his eyes. For a moment, it disorients him badly. Blood rushes in his ears.

His muscles ache.

He’s starving.

Badly.

“Tracy, no!” Theo yells.

Without the warning, Stiles would’ve been caught blindsided. This, however, allows him to sidestep her attack. Still, the claws miss him only narrowly, and he nearly falls on his ass. He rights himself the second Tracy attacks him again. There’s blood smeared under her nose and cheek. Her nose doesn’t look quite right either. Her fangs bared in anger. Good thing that anger makes her just a stupid as it does everyone else, so he manages to catch both her wrists easily.

She snarls, trying to free herself.

As luck would have it, strength-wise they’re pretty evenly matched. It’s alphas that will forever be the bane of his existence. Not only can they kill him with a single bite, they also overpower him as if he’s nothing more than an ordinary creature.

Which he most certainly is not.

Grinding his teeth, he kicks Tracy in the stomach. He’s done playing with her. This fucking kanima needs to get lost.

Now.

As she folds in on herself, Stiles lets go of her arms and grabs her head instead.

“No!” Corey’s voice echoes in the hallway.

Footsteps approach rapidly from his left, but it doesn’t matter. Stiles snaps her neck. Hardly anything could be more satisfying. Too bad she’s going to heal from that. Too bad she’ll wake up and continue to be a fucking menace in his life. Maybe he should end it right now. That would spare him a lot of problems in the future.

Theo crashes into him, and it’s like being hit by a wrecking ball. They hit the ground hard. Stiles grinds his teeth together, trying to keep the grunt of pain safely tugged away. Instead, he wedges his arm free and elbows Theo in the face. The impact sends another wave of pain through his arm. The shock, however, startles Theo long enough that Stiles manages to get out from underneath him before he’s able to pin him down.

With narrowed eyes, Theo spits blood on the ground and gets to his feet.

Behind him, Corey disappears into thin air, Tracy slung over her shoulder.

Stiles fixes his boyfriend with a glare. “You’re still protecting her?” How could he? After what she did? Not to him, but to Theo. She nearly got him killed. Her jealousy almost ended the life of the one person she claimed to love.

“I don’t care about what happens to her.” And yet, Theo is shifting into the middle of the hallway, making his intentions absolutely clear. There is no getting past him. He’s helping her get away. “I care about you.” Yet he curls his hands into fists and narrows his eyes. He’s ready to stop him if push comes to shove. An unstoppable force. “And that you can still look at yourself once you’re out of here.”

“How nice of you.” Stiles cocks his head to the side. How far would Theo really go to stop him, is the real question. There was a time when he would’ve hurt him. Not too long ago, Theo was more than willing to use violence to get his way. Things are different now, but how different is Theo when someone defies him for too long?

-

“Sorry,” his dad whispers, pulling his hands away. “I’m sorry.”

Stiles glances at him in the mirror then back at his chest. The wound is still red and aggressive. He’s still bleeding whenever he’s moving too much, or his bandages are changed. “It’s fine.” Jordan didn’t have any more luck yesterday either. The bandages stick to his skin, tugging on the scabs. He’d prefer if nobody touched it, but with how aggressively red his skin already is, he also doesn’t want to risk an infection. Not with how slowly he’s healing at the moment.

Slow enough, in fact, that people are questioning his intentions. He is trying to heal himself.

But getting run through with the sword of a thunder kitsune is nothing to shake off that easily.

Carefully, he pokes one of the scabs and winces. Yeah, there’s no shot he’ll risk an infection.

“Should we call someone?” his dad inquires with furrowed brows.

The things Stiles would give to see his dad relax. But until he’s fully healed, and the Dread Doctors are dealt with, there’s not exactly much he can do to help that. “Who, Deaton?” his tone is mocking, bit his dad’s glare shuts him up quickly. Although his father understands that Stiles and Theo had to do what was necessary, he’s still the sheriff of this town. “I don’t think so. I’m healing just a little slower than usual.” And that’s more annoying than something to worry about.

His father sighs. “I don’t know anything about this.” As it is, he isn’t the only one. Stiles is pretty sure nobody here knows what the hell is going on either – and the only people who might have an inkling are either wanting to kill him or dead. That’s not exactly comforting.

There’s also Morrell, but the last time they ran into each other, she wanted to kill him. So, he doesn’t exactly trust her either.

When his dad holds up the bandage, Stiles raises his arms compliantly. He just wants to go back to bed and sleep, or at the very least rest his eyes.

“You should stay home for the rest of the week,” his dad muses as he carefully wraps the bandage around Stiles’ chest. Only someone attuned to the supernatural world would suggest that resting for a week is enough to deal with a wound like this. A few months ago, Stiles would’ve easily died like a normal person after someone drove their whole fucking katana through his chest.

Now, he’s merely sleeping it off.

“You know,” Stiles says in a soft voice, “I do have enough credits to graduate early.” Attending summer school to be a good friend to Scott helped wit that.

His dad purses his lips. “No.” That doesn’t come as a surprise. His health and education are two things he’s never not extremely serious about.

“I can’t go to college anyway.” They don’t even know if he’s able to leave the nemeton’s territory at all, but they’re pretty sure he won’t be able to stay away for as long as any college would require him to. Once his grandparents are too old to travel, Stiles is never going to see them again.

His dad pulls the bandage tighter almost passive-aggressively. “What happened-“

“Dad, I’m a walking and talking time-bomb.” Stiles locks eyes with him in the mirror, and he knows he’s won the argument before it really began. “I’m a nogitsune now. I need to get a handle on this, or I’ll accidentally turn my school into a warzone because I’m in a bad mood. I can’t go back and play lacrosse like nothing’s changed. I can’t be that irresponsible.” And he most certainly won’t be. He was flying off the handle bad enough that he- Stiles shakes his head. Best not to think about that. Besides, there is still the issue with the Dread Doctors. If they haven’t gotten what they came for, there’s always the possibility they’ll come back for him again. A school full of students didn’t stop them before, and it’s not going to stop them now.

“I just want you to have a normal life.” He secures the bandage and drop his hands.

Stiles hates seeing him like that. He hates that his father has always tried his best to keep Stiles’ life as normal as humanly possible. Ever since his mother passed away. It has never been normal, but they found their new normal. They’ll be able to do that again. “I could start working for you,” Stiles offers with a small grin. He’s wanted to become an FBI agent, but with the trajectory his life is going, becoming a deputy might be the next best thing.

His dad offers him a small smile in return. “We’ll figure something out, kiddo.”

-

“Let’s figure this out, okay?” Theo’s new reasonable side is seriously starting to piss him off. He is burning with anger, and yet he’s just standing there. Again. Trying to defuse the situation.

Stiles wants to rip his head off. Instead, he moves his fingers in a beckoning gesture, and the four broken flashlights raise into the air, lifted by the few shadows Stiles has access to. “Oh yeah?” He’s not interested in talking this out. He’s interested in getting rid of Tracy for good. Sighing deeply, he points at a flashlight. Without a second of hesitation, it shoots directly at Theo’s face.

His eyes narrow as he swats it away like an annoying housefly. “Stop it.”

But Stiles doesn’t. “Or what?” he asks as the next flashlight rushes towards Theo.

Again, he slaps it away. “I said, stop.”

Stiles grins and hurls the next one at him. “And I said, or what?” There’s got to be a way to push Theo over the edge. He needs him to move out of his way before Corey gets too far away. He might be able to deal with Theo by himself as long as Theo won’t be able to grab him, but there’s no way in hell he can deal with the whole rescue squad.

Not right now, that is.

Not when he’s weak.

Theo bares his teeth in a snarl. “Stiles, stop.”

“Make me,” Stiles taunts before sending the last flashlight in his direction.

Finally, Theo breaks into a run, his anger boiling over, becoming stronger than his logic. Because he knows what he’s doing is stupid. He’s got to know; Stiles is having the upper hand the very moment he’s giving him an opening.

Stiles can see the realization on his face the moment he’s twisting away and out of reach. He doesn’t wait around to bask in Theo’s frustration. Instead, he breaks into a run. He doesn’t know where all his friends are, but he can pinpoint the ones he’s worried about the most – Theo, behind him in the hallway, running but not gaining on him. Brett, standing guard by the showers, the easiest way in and out, and then there’s Peter, waiting in the tunnels.

Corey hasn’t reached Brett yet, but Stiles is running out of time.

He’s doubling his efforts, rushing past mostly paralyzed guards. The chimeras didn’t even try to be sneaky on their way in. That makes it a lot easier to catch up, and thanks to Jordan burning every line of mountain ash he came across, nothing else is stopping him. Nothing at all.

As he runs, Stiles breaks every light he can find. The hallway plunges into darkness, reinvigorating him with every step he takes.

Somewhere in front of him, Corey gasps.

Gotcha.

Stiles gathers his strength and make a sweeping motion towards the ground. It takes a few seconds until the rumbling starts and a couple more until the ground is breaking apart right in front of his feet.

And more importantly, right underneath Corey’s feet.

The chimera yelps when he loses his footing in the darkness. Only a heartbeat later, Tracy tumbles into view.

“What the-“

“Jackson!” Theo yells. “Stop him. Stop him!”

Brett is moving now. Seems like he’s not been guarding the showers alone. Great. Then again, who is he told to stop? Guards, or Stiles.

Traitors. The lot of them.

Stiles brings his hands up, using the shadows to hurl the rubble towards the remaining lights in front of him.

They’re plunged into complete darkness just as Brett and Jackson round the corner.

Stiles heaves a breath and moves out of the doorway. Fuck. He was so fucking close. There’s no way to- Stiles blinks. But there is. There is a way to kill her quietly and get some power back. After all, she doesn’t need to be conscious to be terrified.

Two sets of footsteps come to a stop near the other gate. “What the hell?” Jackson repeats, sounding utterly confused. “I just saw him. He was right there.” Unbeknownst to him, he is pointing directly at Stiles. Being utterly invisible will never cease to amaze him. Werewolves aren’t usually this easy to fool.

Still, that’s his cue to move. Slowly, he tiptoes towards the wall and inches his way towards Tracy. Their confusion might be the last chance he’ll have to get to her.

“No,” Corey breathes, sitting on the ground and holding his ankle. “He’s here. He can vanish in the dark.” As he moves, a small wince of pain echoes in Stiles’ ears like a gunshot.

Hunger and guilt twist in his stomach. Corey wasn’t meant to get hurt, but following orders means that you could end up as collateral damage. The world isn’t fair, not even to someone as innocent as Corey.

Stiles crouches down next to Tracy. He places a hand over her mouth, forcing the darkness to swallow her up too. All that’s going to give them away now would be a sound.

“Tracy.” Theo comes to a stop somewhere behind him. “He’s going to kill Tracy.”

Heart hammering in his chest, Stiles places his other hand at her temple. There are no defences keeping him out. He sinks into her mind as if swallowed up by the ocean.

“She’s-“ Brett cuts off.

“She was right there!” Jackson sounds more confused than worried as Stiles makes his way into the swirling of world of Tracy’s nightmares – of the Dread Doctors and what they did to her, of her father’s death, all the other night terrors that used to plague her.

Of Theo looking at Stiles.

Of Theo sending her away.

Of Theo in his bed, unresponsive and fighting for his life.

Her fault.

Stiles grinds his teeth. That was her fucking fault, and it’s going to be the last thing she’ll ever see. He digs his fingers into the nightmare, dragging it up to the forefront of her mind, twisting it, showing her how truly alone she really was.

Because that’s the thing she’s most afraid of.

Loneliness.

Of everyone she cares about leaving her forever. A room full of people with no one to turn to, a pack, a family that doesn’t care if she’s dying right next to them.

“Phone!”

The terror tastes exquisite. Panic like that, panic stemming from love rejected, from being left behind is something he could get used to.

“Phone, someone get a fucking phone.”

And the best thing about it? She’ll never wake up from it. The last moments of her life will be filled with everything she’s utterly afraid of.

How fitting.

Bright light rips him out of the nightmare.

Stiles blinks, raises a hand to protect his eyes.

Theo crashes into him again, ripping him off Tracy. It feels like what Stiles can only imagine to be hit by a wreaking ball. The impact makes his bones ache. Unfortunately, this time Theo is also prepared for Stiles’ trying to hit him. He grabs his arm in a painful grip. “Don’t,” Theo warns in a low growl.

But Stiles has one hand free. He slams it to the ground. The nemeton reacts faster this time. Roots curl around Theo’s ankles and rip him away before slamming him straight into Jackson, whose phone clatters to the ground. It lands flashlight down, taking part of the light with it.

Brett’s phone is still directed at him, and he’s standing only a foot away. “Don’t even think about it.” His stance is clear. Brett will fight him, no questions asked. He’s come a long way since their last run in down in the tunnels.

“You people really need to stop telling me what I can and can’t do.” Stiles jumps to his feet.

Brett huffs. “Go on, throw your rocks at me. You can’t kill me with your powers.”

“Oh, but I can.” Stiles smiles, cocking his head to the left as he pulls the roots back towards him. “And I have.” And he will again.

Just not yet.

Now, he needs to leave. Preferably fast and before the werewolves manage to pin him down. He is going to walk out of this place with his head held high or not at all.

Stiles flicks his wrist, and four phones are grabbed by shadows and pulled towards him. Four, but it’s only five people. He looks at the phones, drawing his brows together. Theo didn’t bring his phone. He’s also wearing sweatpants. Someone is prepared to hunt him down as a wolf if he has to. 

Of course, Theo isn’t about to give up easily.

Fun.

Stiles crushes their phones and throws the remnants back at them. By the sound of it, his aim wasn’t off.

Now, to distract them. A little bit of strife can never hurt anyone. All he has to do is-“

“I’m going to fucking strangle him,” Jackson snaps, fidgeting with something right next to his left eye.

It takes Theo a second to react, but he grabs his brother by the throat and slams him into the cold stone wall. “Touch him, and I’ll rip your head off.”

Never mind.

With anger issues running so deep in the family, Stiles doesn’t have to do anything. No wonder he’s so drawn to all of them, and especially Theo. Theo’s anger, his rage, it’s like crack. If they weren’t mates already, Stiles would’ve guessed they were destined to be anyway.

Brett growls in annoyance. “Guys, you know-“

“Don’t start, Prep School,” Jackson snarls. “You don’t get to act all high and mighty just because Satomi had pity on the poor little orphan.”

That snaps Brett to attention. Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t take much, but with how aggressive Jackson and Theo are, this fight works without much of his input. Good. Makes it a lot easier for him to slip out unnoticed.

Stiles grabs Corey by the back of his collar and pulls him to his feet. “Time to go,” he whispers, watching as the three guys barely resist to jump each other’s throat. Maybe they’re finally getting it out of their systems so their childish bickering will stop. “It’s gonna get ugly soon.” Too bad, Stiles has to leave. He would’ve preferred to stick around and watch everything blow up, but alas…

“You fuckin-“

“What?” Brett taunts, “you fucking what, Theodore. Speak your mind.”

Stiles doesn’t hear the reply, if there even is one. Instead, he slips into the showers and ushers Corey out of Eichen and into the tunnels. His second least favourite place on this godforsaken earth.

Corey drops to the ground with a wince and crouches down to hold his ankle.

“Sorry about that,” Stiles says, and he means it. The kid wasn’t supposed to get hurt. “Wait here. I’m sure the others will come soon.”

Sitting down, Corey frowns at him. “Why are you so nice to me?”

Nice is debatable, but in comparison to the others, Stiles supposed he’s right. “You didn’t stand in my way… at least not out of your own free will.” He shrugs and turns away. Time is a limited resource, one he’s not planning on wasting any longer, not even for Corey.

Sighing, he hurries down the corridor in the direction of Peter. He’s not sure who is stationed at the other exits, and although Peter may be strong, Stiles is pretty sure he’s his best bet of getting out of here before his influence over the others is completely gone.

Whoever decided to put Jackson and Brett together wasn’t exactly a genius. No wonder Stiles is usually the one making the plans.

“I know you’re here,” Stiles calls, slowing down as his eyes dart around the intersection. He has absolutely no intention of getting jumped by Peter Hale so close to freedom. “You might as well come out now.” After all, he can’t evade what he cannot see.

“My, my.” Peter chuckles. “So angry.” Slowly, he’s sauntering around the corner, placing himself in the middle of the intersection with his hands in his pockets.

Stiles curls his into fists. Peter seems almost bored and not the least bit concerned about Stiles getting past everyone on his own. “You’re alone?” Stiles asks, forcing himself to relax his shoulders. “Are you that full of yourself?” To be honest, he wouldn’t put it past him.

“You’d be surprised what a little family time can change.” Peter’s smile is unpleasant as during his worst days.

And Stiles doesn’t trust it or the fact that he’s all alone down here. That just doesn’t seem right. Loyalty to his family or not, Peter is the one most likely to let him walk away if it benefits him in some way.

“Get out of my way.”

“Unfortunately, I was told not to let you pass.” Peter is standing his ground, and with how narrow the tunnels are, getting around him might become an actual challenge. The thing is, if Peter doesn’t move to ensure Stiles isn’t turning the other way either.

He narrows his eyes. “What do you want?” because this is Peter Hale, and Peter Hale always wants something.

His smile broadens, and Stiles only barely resist the urge to step away when Peter closes in. “Your anger.” Peter raises his hands as if to grab Stiles’ face but thinks better of it. All that rage holds so much raw power, and you’re wasting it on my son’s incredibly uninteresting plaything.”

Stiles stiffens and curls his hands into fists. “What?” he asks through gritted teeth

“Oh, she hates you.” Peter leans in and lowers his voice. “Every day, she was sitting in his home, hoping you’d rot somewhere. She never wanted you to be found, Stiles.” Every single word is a match struck, slowly burning away the threads holding Stiles together. “And then,” Peter continues, putting his hands on Stiles’ shoulders, “the worst part, the utmost insult, Theo brought her here. Not to knock out those guards, oh no. She was his failsafe.”

Footsteps echo in the corridor, and Stiles looks over his shoulder, watching Jackson and Theo rush towards them at breakneck speeds.

Peter puts his mouth right next to Stiles’ ear. “She was supposed to paralyze you in case you lost your mind.” A chuckle ripples through his body. “Theo didn’t trust you, so he-“ Peter makes sure to lower his voice even further “-brought-“ and yet every single word feels like a godforsaken punch in the gut “-her.”

Stiles turns around fully, curling his hands into fists.

Without a second of hesitation, Jackson yanks Theo to a stop. “What did you do?”

Stiles’ gaze is locked on Theo. Angry churns in his stomach, spreading its uncomfortable heat throughout his whole body until there is nothing else left.

“I was told not to harm him,” Peter replies as he steps away from him. “I happen to be formidable at improvising.”

Stiles reaches a hand towards the shadows. There is terrible lighting down here, yet enough for him to vanish completely. Still, there is plenty to use to teach Theo his lesson once and for all. He pulls his hand back, dragging six shadowy throwing stars into the light.

“Do you- uh.” Jackson stops himself, glancing from Theo to the throwing stars and back again. “Are they real?”

Theo merely scoffs. “He’s a nogitsune.” The idiot might have not been said, but it’s very clearly heard.

Idiot, indeed.

Stiles throws the first star.

Although Theo seems to believe all of this is merely a hallucination, he moves his hand to swat it away like he’s previously done with the flashlight – unlike those, however, the throwing star buries itself in the back of Theo’s hand, drawing very real blood. A gasp of pain falls from his lips. For a moment, he stares at his hand, watches the thin line of blood forming on his wrist. He grinds his teeth, blue eyes narrowing dangerously as they lock with Stiles.

Rage.

Finally.

“Fine,” he snarls, pulling the star out of his hand. “Have it your way, little fox.” Blood drops into the dust at his feet before his skin closes up.

Stiles raises his brows and snaps his fingers, dissolving the stars in front of him.

“Theo, don’t fall-“

“Stay out of this,” Theo snaps without as much as a glance at his brothers. “Get the others and get out of here.” For merely a second, Theo looks at Peter. “You too. This is personal.”

While Peter is listening to Theo, Jackson doesn’t seem convinced. “Listen, Theo. This is a terrible idea.” He puts a hand on Theo’s shoulder and watches Peter as he all but saunters over to them. He couldn’t pretend to be more unbothered if he tried, yet, merely a moment before he passes Theo, he shakes his head. The movement is so small, Stiles would’ve never noticed if he hadn’t been looking for it.

“No,” Theo snarls in response to something Stiles didn’t hear. “I want you both to leave.”

And they do, even if only reluctantly.

Theo doesn’t move, but his claws spring free with a soft snick. “Not exactly how I imagined our reunion to be.”

“That makes two of us.” Stiles crosses his arms behind his back and smiles, head cocked slightly to the left. “I wonder whose fault that is.” After all, Theo came here not only disrespecting but also insulting him by bringing Tracy along like she’s never done anything wrong in her life ever – like she’s never done anything to them.

Red bleeds into Theo’s eyes. “Your little game ends here.” Without wasting any more time, Theo charges at him.

Predictable.

Stiles avoids him at the last second. Smirking, he dips his hand into the shadows again. A rush of power courses through his as the darkness bends to his will and around his fingers to create a slim chain. Stiles grabs it with both hands and wraps it around Theo’s throat. A snarls fills the silence of the corridor as Stiles yanks him back.

Theo’s breath hitches. His hands fly up to grab the chain, but for a moment, Stiles is stronger. “You know,” he breathes, pressing his mouth against Theo’s ear, “you should just give up.”

“On you?” Theo makes an odd sound in the back of his throat. “Over my dead body.”

Stiles lets go of the chain as if it burned him and steps away from Theo. His chest is suddenly too tight, his heart at least two sizes to big. He opens his mouth, but the words get stuck in his throat.

The chain dissipates.

“Miecio.” Theo raises his hands. His movements are so unbelievably slow – like he’s dealing with a caged animal.

And in some ways, perhaps he does.

Stiles shakes his head. “I don’t want you to die.” The words come out broken and angry. His heart hurts, and he wants to punch Theo until his knuckles bleed.

“Really?” Theo’s lips quirk into a grin. “I wouldn’t have guessed.” He moves closer, one step at a time. So dreadfully slow. The grin doesn’t reach his eyes.

Stiles’ body goes cold.

Theo doesn’t trust him.

But he trusted Tracy.

The rage returns like a tidal wave, drowning Stiles, consuming him. He rushes forward, slamming into Theo at full speed. It’s like running into a brick wall. But the anger numbs his pain. They’re crashing to the ground in a tangle of limbs.

“Stiles!” Theo bares his teeth, sharp, a death sentence. It’s one bite, that could kill him. Maybe even less. “Snap out of it.” He reaches for his arms.

But Stiles gets his hands on him first. He grabs Theo’s face and straddles him, slamming his head against the unforgiving stones once then twice. “Fuck you,” he spits. The soft groan, the pain thrumming under Theo’s skin – it’s like a drug. “Fuck you.” He could’ve already been out of here, but Theo had to make it complicated. He had to kill Deaton and, worst of all, he had to bring Tracy to stop him. Not only did he think that she could beat him, out of everyone, he chose the one person disrespecting Stiles and their relationship – and he’s not going to allow that again.

Stiles digs his fingers into Theo’s skin, almost blind with rage. “And you call yourself my mate? His eyes burn, tears prick at their corners. He’s been kidnapped, starved and experimented on.

And Theo allowed her back.

“You disgust me.”

Theo’s grips around his hips tightens as Stiles forces his way into his head. Another soft groan falls from his lips, one that might have very well be his name.

Stiles hits a wall in Theo’s mind. He didn’t expect this to be easy, not at all, but this one makes his head spin. Stiles closes his eyes and takes a breath. “Let me in,” he whispers, locking eyes with Theo again, and presses his thumb to the corner of his mouth. His stomach flutters as somewhere, deep inside him, the desire to kiss and hold Theo takes root. He’s missed him, desperately. His body craves his touch, his warmth so much more than everything else.

There.

The flash of an image. The woods. A bridge.

His sister’s death.

Stiles grinds his teeth and latches onto it, hooks his fingers into the crack to pry it open. “Let me in.”

“Please,” Theo growls, but the sound is weak, almost soft.  “Miecio, please.” Pain swims to the surface. Emotional pain. The one Theo loves so much.

Stiles gets it. He really does. It’s beautifully raw and nearly overwhelming, especially as Theo’s defences finally break open.

Another pained groan falls from Theo’s lips, but he’s stubbornly fighting back and sinks his claws into Stiles’ sides.

He hisses in pain.

Bastard.

The image flickers again, but Theo isn’t the only one who’s stubborn. Stiles pushes harder against his mental barriers, refusing to be forced out again – and then everything around him shifts into focus.

He’s standing on the bridge, looking down at Tara pleading for her life. She’s dying. Slowly and alone because Theo doesn’t care.

Or rather, he didn’t.

The little boy next to him is void of any feelings but pure hatred. He couldn’t care less about his sister’s death. Things are different now. The image flickers without Stiles’ doing. Little Theo is gone, replaced by Theo as he is now – damaged and unable to help. He is trying, however, pounding his fists against an invisible wall.

But there’s no way through.

No way to help—

Stiles blinks. There is Tara, dead in the water, his biggest regret. Next to her are the Dread Doctors, each of them holding one person.

Stiles, Jackson, and Peter.

After his sister’s death, Theo’s biggest fear remains the same; losing his family all over again.

“Stiles…”

He blinks again. The image in front of him flickers. What is he doing? What was the thinking? Theo would never hurt him. He’d never break his trust. Why- No. No. This is all wrong. This isn’t what he meant to do.

He’s hurting Theo over nothing.

Stiles pulls back and lets go of Theo, nearly throwing himself off him in his haste to get away. “I’m sorry,” he breathes, reaching out but hesitant to touch as Theo rolls onto his side, eyes squeezed shut tightly. “I’m- Theo, Misu, I- I didn’t- I’m sorry. I-“ didn’t mean to do that? Didn’t know what came over me? But he does. He knows the answer to that very question. Rage. Jealousy. The simple fact that he believed Theo disrespected him.

And Peter’s words finally made him snap.

“Theo, I-“

“Mom. Mom, no!”

Sharp, raging hot pain burns in his chest. Stiles opens his mouth, but no sound escapes him as he blinks down at the katana coated in his own blood sticking out of his chest.

-

“I’m going to kill her.”

“And that, dear brother, is why you need a babysitter around the clock.”

Theo glares at Jackson but doesn’t stop his pacing. His shoulders have been one rigid line ever since Stiles’ dad dropped him off here. Theo didn’t act particularly surprised about the early visit. He even had Stiles’ favorite breakfast ready at this ungodly hour in the morning. They didn’t even try to hide that they’ve planned this.

That, at least, means his dad stayed in contact with Theo despite Stiles avoiding him after what happened in Eichen.  

Huffing, Theo all but throws himself onto the couch and puts his head on Stiles’ lap. The way he is able to bounce back from everything – the way he trusts Stiles so much more than Stiles does himself – it’s almost too much.

Stiles swallows around the heart lodged in his throat. “Comfortable?” he asks, trying to sound casual, like he’s joking, but his voice is quiet and brittle.

Enough so that Theo studies his face with knitted brows before he smirks at him, “always.”

Jackson groans. “Can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’d rather be in school right now.”

“Why aren’t you?” Stiles asks as Jackson slaps Theo’s legs for some room.

His brother doesn’t fail to respond with a kick before scooting up a little higher.

“Because he-“ Jackson points at Theo without looking at him “- is a homicidal maniac, and you are the most unstable person I’ve ever met.”

Theo scoffs. “Why do I get flack when everyone in here killed someone?”

Jackson shoots him a sharp look.

Stiles pushes Theo off and gets to his feet.

Theo’s eyes widen slightly as he sits up. “Babe—”

“Don’t.”

“That wasn’t you.”

“I said don’t!” Stiles has never been able to handle insults very well, but on a normal day, he was able to wrap the insults up with a neat little bow to obsess over at a later time. “Don’t fucking tell me who I am, okay?”

Jackson eyes him warily, not moving from his spot on the couch. He won’t even give them the illusion of privacy.

Narrowing his eyes, Theo all but launches himself over the back of the couch. Although being smaller than Stiles, he seems to be towering over him. “You want me to call you a murderer instead? A monster?”

Stiles balls his hands into fists. “Don’t try to take away my accountability, jackass.” His heart is pounding in his chest as his anger rises like a tidal wave.

“You killed Tracy,” Theo shoots back without a second of hesitation. “Is that what you want to hear?” He sounds like it didn’t matter when it most certainly does.

It wasn’t self-defense. Not this time.

With Tracy, it was murder.

Stiles runs his fingers through his hair. “I killed her in a fit of jealous rage.” Who knows what else could put him in a state like that? He’s a ticking time bomb.

“It’s kind of hot when you say it like that,” Theo smirks, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I can’t believe I’m related to you,” Jackson mutters as he gets to his feet. “Anyone want a drink?” He points in the direction of the kitchen.

For a moment, Stiles stares at him. Yeah, sure, how could they ever be related. More so to clear his head than as a response. “Was it still hot when I tried to kill you?”

“Not really, no.” Theo cocks his head to the side almost contemplatively. “But I nearly killed you once too. I’d say we’re even.”

Stiles closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “If you want to be technical about it,” he remarks icily, crossing his arms over his chest, “I almost killed you three times already.”

Theo huffs out a breath. “The time you threw me across the room hardly counts.”

“I should’ve stayed in London,” Jackson mutters as he wanders into the kitchen, shaking his head.

“This isn’t funny,” Stiles snaps.

“I know.”

“Then stop making light of this!” Stiles curls his hands into fists again and presses his arms tightly against his chest. He wants to throw something. He wants to hit something, someone. Theo, more specifically.

Theo stares at him for a moment, lips pressed together then he lets out a breath. “I’m not.”

“Trust me, Stilinski,” Jackson chimes in, tossing Theo a water bottle which he catches effortlessly, “we’re all taking this very seriously.” Raising his brows, he offers Stiles one as well.

Stiles can’t help but think of his babcia for a moment, who strongly believes that a good herbal tea can cure everything. Sighing, he takes the bottle and sits down on the edge of the dining table – if not to drink it, then at the least to give his hands something to do. He fidgets with the label, suddenly feeling utterly exhausted mentally. The urge to hide in his room returns in full force, and all he can do now is try not to shrink into himself.

Scrunching his brows together, Stiles rubs his chest. The pressure on the not fully healed wound helps grounding him.

“Does it still hurt?” Theo asks in a soft tone.

Stiles only nods. It’s been a week since Noshiko tried killing him, and he struggled to heal for the first couple of days. His body took over in the end. Now, the only mark on his body is the one on his chest. Everything else is gone, even Donovan’s bite. He’s hated and loved his scars, but in the end, they were proof of everything he’s endured – they made this carbon-copy of his body his very own, they made him feel human.

They’re gone now, and Stiles feels like a stranger to himself.

Theo sets the bottle of water on the table next to him. “Babe,” he all but whispers and cups his jaw, gently forcing Stiles to look at him, “I know you’d prefer to blame yourself for the rest of eternity, but I’m not going to. Things like that happen.”

Scoffing, Jackson sits down on the table next to him.

Stiles quirks a brow. “You mean a lot of people try to kill their significant other?”

“You were turned into a nogitsune hardly an hour before killing Tracy,” Jackson reminds him, twisting the cap of his water bottle as he stares out the window. “Losing control is kind of an initiation ritual for supernatural creatures. All your senses are heightened, your instincts crank your emotions up to a hundred – even Theo struggled to adjust to turning into an alpha, and he is still technically human.”

Technically.

Believing them is easy, hiding behind their words is not. Stiles swallows and looks everywhere but Theo’s face. “It’s no excuse.”

“No,” Jackson agrees.

Theo shoots him a look. “But we did learn what triggers you, so, we know what to avoid for now.”

“Hitting on your boyfriend for example, which is a mystery to me anyway.” Jackson smirks at Theo, clearly satisfied with himself.

“Killing your food,” Theo continues, not deigning the dig with a reaction. “Speaking ill of your mother.”

Under normal circumstances, Stiles wouldn’t have reacted badly to Theo implying his mother didn’t raise him well. Theo liked his mother, a lot. There were days when they hung out in the kitchen and watched her bake or cook or just drank hot chocolate together. During her stays at the hospital, Theo constantly kept asking if she’s okay and when she’d be coming home, and he’d be there on the days they’d pick her up. Theo never even spoke badly about his dad, and he’s given him a hard time.  

Jackson grimaces, “don’t go around insulting people’s mothers. You’re asking to get jumped.”

Stiles presses his lips together to hide his smile.

Judging by Theo narrowing his eyes ever so slightly, he’s probably failing miserably. “Glad you think this is funny.” He squeezes Stiles’ cheeks for a moment before smiling himself. Genuine, soft. He leans down to brush their lips together.

And that’s almost all it takes for Stiles’ heart to nearly combust.

“We’ll figure this out,” Theo whispers.

Stiles nods, slowly, and buries his face in his chest.

[msmischief101]

[msmischief101]

Steo Prompt Request:

When Character A turns up at his rivals's door to yell at him, but Character B has a fever and mistakes him for a dream, then when Character A checks his temperature Character B leans into his hand, covering it with his own and says, "Stay ... You never stay."

a/n: sorry, it took me a hot second to write this. I hope you like it. And thank you so much for the prompt! 💖

~~~

“Theo, I swear to— fuck.”  Stiles bangs his fist against the door once more for good measure.  

Three rooms down, a door swings open. Out pops the disheveled head of Donovan, Theo’s feral frat brother. He’s still sporting a black eye from the lacrosse ball Kira not-so-accidentally chucked at his face after one too many stupid comments on Stiles’ behalf. 

Stiles pins him with a glare. “You want another one of those?” 

Donovan opens his mouth, ready to argue, then purses his lips. A variety of emotions crosses his features — too fast for Stiles to decipher, but most likely none of them good. He probably still has a lot to say about yesterday's humiliation, but he slams the door shut instead. Surprising, albeit better this way. There is no way this would’ve been resolved peacefully with how pissed Stiles is at Theo, who still hasn’t opened is fucking door.  

Narrowing his eyes, Stiles whips around again, glaring at the immovable object. He could break into Theo’s room easily enough, but even Stiles has enough decency not to do that — especially if he’s running the risk of watching Tracy lounge in Theo’s bed. Naked, probably. He scrunches up his face. 

This really needs to stop. 

“Theo!” Stiles bellows once more, ignoring someone else yelling at him. He doesn’t care. Not at all. They’re lucky he waited until 6 am because he would’ve been ready to strangle Theo at 3 am too. Maybe he should’ve done it. It is entirely possible Theo’s door would have been open at that time.  

Fine.

He’s going to get into this room one way or another. 

Before he’s got the chance to move away, however, the lock clicks and the door creeps open. 

Theo looks, for the lack of a better word, terrible. His skin is pale, his eyes glossy, and he leans heavily on the door, almost like his legs won’t be able to support him for very long. He blinks at him, slowly, and leans towards Stiles for a moment before swaying back. It takes everything in him not to grab Theo before he falls on his ass. Come to think of it, Theo wasn’t really himself yesterday. Usually, he is the one to step in when Donovan takes it too far. Yesterday, however, Kira ended the argument.

Maybe that’s why.  

All of Stiles’ anger evaporates at once. That would certainly explain Theo’s weird text message. ‘Can you stop looking at me like you hate me?’. Sure, that text message could’ve been sent to him by accident – except Theo doesn’t make accidents like that. He lets out a breath and reaches for Theo’s face. His pink cheeks are already telling Stiles everything he needs to know, yet he’d rather make sure.  

Carefully, he brushes his fingertips over Theo’s forehead. It’s slick with sweat, and strands of hair cling to it. Stiles barely resists the urge to run his fingers through Theo’s hair. All the feelings he’s buried deep, deep threaten to spill out at once. Stiles grinds his teeth, forcing himself to swallow each and every single one of them, and puts the back of his hand against Theo’s forehead instead.  

As expected, he’s burning up. 

Theo makes a soft sound in the back of his throat and grabs Stiles’ hand, keeping it pressed against his skin – almost as if it helped him cool down somehow. “Stay,” Theo mutters, eyes closed. “You never stay.”

Stiles opens his mouth, ready for a scalding remark. The words, however, get stuck somewhere just underneath his jaw, refusing to roll over his tongue. He can’t even bring himself to pull his hand away. After all, Theo isn’t wrong. Stiles never stays, but Theo was the one who left. Sure, Theo was ten and didn’t exactly have much of a say in his parents’ plan, and while not living in the same city hurt like hell, what broke Stiles was the radio silence. Theo simply up and vanished as if he never even existed in the first place. 

And then he returned, acted like nothing ever happened, like he didn’t break little Stiles’ heart. 

“Please.”

It’s breaking all over again, just for an entirely different reason. “Okay,” Stiles whispers, allowing Theo to drag him into his bedroom. If Stiles is entirely honest, he’s doubts Theo has been fully aware of what’s happening around him. Considering he’s asleep before his head hits the pillow, Stiles wonders if he's even been fully awake at all. He drags the blanket over Theo’s sleeping form and turns away. Leaving would be the right thing to do. Theo probably didn’t mean for him to stay. Maybe he couldn’t even tell who was standing in front of him.  

Nevertheless, he can’t bring himself to leave. Growing up with a sick mother made Stiles hesitant of leaving sick people unattended. Most of the time, he is overreacting. Still, Theo seems completely out of it, and a high fever could turn bad quickly – and Stiles doubts Donovan is going to take care of Theo, or anyone here, really. The people Stiles would consider Theo’s friends aren’t part of this fraternity. Stiles would like to believe that not even Theo would be here if not for his father’s insistence on keeping up appearances. 

Or maybe he’s just hoping that’s the case. After all, Stiles hasn’t seen Theo for eight years. 

Sighing, Stiles strolls through Theo’s room. It’s clean, almost sterile, with white walls and no personal belongings aside from the stuff related to his studies. When Theo was a kid, his bedroom was full off clutter, little league trophies, pictures of his friends and sister, books and DVDs, clothes, and half-finished paintings. His bedroom used to be lived in. Now, everything’s at its designated spot and the room feels as if someone sucked out all its life. 

No thanks to Mrs. Raeken’s influence. 

He is still snooping quietly, flipping through books, opening drawers – when else would he have the chance, right? Maybe he can find something to kick Theo out of the lacrosse team. The guy loathed lacrosse when he was younger. Besides, he’s also on the football team. If he quit lacrosse, his coach would make him captain at once – and who wouldn’t want to be captain of the football team? It comes with glory and lots of sex.

Then again, Theo can probably get his dick wet whenever he wants.

Stiles grimaces at the thought, hating that he immediately thinks of Tracy. It’s hard to tell how Theo feels about her, but Tracy is head over heels. Just thinking about it makes Stiles’ clench his teeth. His stomach hardens. He hates her. Irrationally so, he’s fully aware of that. They’ve met twice at parties, and all Tracy did was hang onto Theo’s arm as if she turns into dust the second, she lets go. If only she weren’t so fucking pretty with her long brown hair and perfect figure. Then again, she’s not particularly smart. Kira mentioned she’s failing a few of her classes because she struggles with the general coursework and is more interested in everything that’s not her studies. That’s a big fat minus in Theo’s book. If he took anything to heart his parents drilled into him from a young age, it’s that a good education, determination, and the pursuit of a goal are extremely important.

Even if they were in any form of relationship now, it would never last. Theo would never settle down with someone like her. He’d be more interested in someone like-

Stiles gives his head a shake.

Nope. Not going down that road.

It’s probably a good idea to get his mind off Theo for a while. He spent so much time snooping; the sun is already setting.

Scrunching up his face, Stiles sits down at Theo’s desk and drags the laptop towards him. It’s a long shot, really, but his passwords for everything used to be his nickname for his sister and Theo’s grandmother’s birthday. Knowing his luck, it might be a different one now. Still, it’s worth a shot if he doesn’t want to end up spiraling until Theo wakes up again. He opens the laptop up, trying to remember Grandma Raeken’s birthday, when the background picture causes his heart to skip a beat. 

Oh.

Staring back at him are Tara, with the biggest and proudest grin on her face, ruffling her little brother’s hair. Theo is mid-movement to put his Little League cap back on, scowling up at his sister. Then there is Stiles himself, just nine-years old, Little League trophy clutched in his hands, doubling over laughing. 

This very moment happened exactly two months before the Raeken’s move, and six months before Tara’s death. She looked so incredibly happy here. 

“I hated it when she did that.”

Stiles jolts and slams the laptop shut, wincing a little at the sound of the impact. “You’re awake,” he says and pushes his hands in the pocket of his hoodie. Although Theo doesn’t look much better, the additional couple hours of sleep he’s gotten seemed to have cleared his head. His eyes look a lot more focused now; their intense stare rooting him to the spot on his chair.

“You’re here.” Theo’s tone is even, calm. His eyes narrow slightly, assessing the situation as his gaze flicks from Stiles to the laptop and back again, now focused on Stiles’ hand as he makes a dismissive gesture. “I didn’t think you were actually here.”

Furrowing his brows, Stiles lowers his hands into his lap. “You thought I was a fever dream?” Stiles quirks a brow. If that’s the case, it probably wouldn’t be a bad idea to get Theo to a hospital to get checked out. Now, however, he seems a lot more awake and aware of everything going on around him. “Is that why you sent me that stupid text?” Because that is why he’s here. Not to take care of Theo. Not to drive him to a doctor. He’s here because Theo has the fucking audacity to act offended by Stiles’ glaring at him.

Theo visibly winces and turns to look out the window. “That’s why you’re here.”

“You know,” Stiles says, getting to his feet with a shake of his head, “if you didn’t constantly try to upstage me in everything I do, I wouldn’t look at you like that.”

“Upstaging you?” Theo stares at him again, brows raised in utter confusion. “I’m not upstaging you.”

Stiles huffs out a breath and sits down again. That’s just ridiculous. Theo is and always has been one of the most competitive people in the world. He wants, no, he needs to be on top. Always and in absolutely everything he’s doing. While in the few classes they’re sharing, Stiles remains to be the winner – although Theo is very close behind – there’s nothing he can do in Lacrosse. Theo came in, rained on his parade, and too his spot as Co-Captain from him with no issue at all. That’s absolutely no cause for concern regarding his scholarship, it was still a nice feeling after his shitty high school experience. Plus, it’s Theo. Who hates lacrosse. Who is already co-captain of the football team. Who is just pissed that Stiles hasn’t welcomed him back with open arms.

“I’m just trying-“ Theo stops himself, pressing his lips together. “We used to be best friends.”

“And then you fucked off and acted like I didn’t even exist,” Stiles whispers.

Closing his eyes, Theo sinks back into his pillows. “I thought it was easier to lose you all at once than over time.” The words are sharper than any knife could ever be. It's a talent Theo has always possessed. Looks like he’s got the chance to refine it over the years.

Stiles isn’t any less successful in hitting where it hurts, but the words took all of his fight away in one foul swoop. He presses his hands together and stares at the ground. “Why’d you never—” but Stiles cuts himself off with a wince. How could Theo have ever said anything at all? Stiles made sure to flee the scene as quickly as possible whenever he appeared.

You never stay.

Swallowing around the lump in his throat, he gets up from the chair and crosses the room. Stiles kicks off his shoes without hesitation. It’s either now or never; if he doesn’t stay this time, Theo is not going to give him another chance, not when he’s opening the door this wide.

Theo draws his brows together. “What are you doing?”

Stiles tosses his jacket over the chair. “I’m staying,” he says resolutely, briefly glancing at Theo before he climbs over him and settles next to his head.

“Stiles, I’m sick.”

“Yeah, well…” Stiles doesn’t really have anything to say to that. Staying now most definitely will only make him sick as well, but he’d rather get sick than lose Theo like that again. “Just sleep,” he whispers, gently tugging the blanket up over Theo’s shoulders. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Theo raises his brows, and his eyes roam over his features almost as if he’s trying to catch him in a lie. Then he smiles. “Okay,” Theo whispers and closes his eyes, settling into a comfortable position next to him.

Despite knowing better, Stiles runs his fingers through Theo’s short stands. It would be best for him to ignore the way his heart rejoices at the way Theo smiles because of this simple touch. Stiles closes his eyes and leans his head back. He’s fucked. He’s so thoroughly fucked.

Stiles glances down at Theo again, unable to hide his smile this time.

Unless… maybe he’s not.

[msmischief101]

[msmischief101]

♞Pairing: Steo ♞Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Theo Raeken ♞Tags: kidnapping, secret relationship ♞Words: 3319 ♞Prompt: inspired by "Rude" - Magic! (for @amatchinwater )

ao3

---

with heart in my hand

“Theo?” Stiles hovers his hand over his gun, heart hammering in his chest as the door falls closes with a soft click. Thanks to his job, he’s walked into too many homes that look like a crime scene — he just didn’t expect to walk into his own apartment looking the same. His clothes and other belongings are everywhere, bookshelves completely empty. There are drawers yanked out of dressers. His kitchen cupboards are opened. Someone even went through his pots and pans. The pillows on his couch have been sliced open. His mattress, Stiles realizes, has suffered the same fate as it leans against the railing of his loft, threatening to topple over. His TV is gone, but his laptop is still sitting on the desk on the corner of the room — the only place seemingly untouched.

Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Stiles pulls his gun out. “Theo?” He calls again, gaze darting from the closed bathroom door to the loft area. The mattress is blocking his view. Just today he was called to two break-ins, and as high as his adrenaline was during those times, his hands weren’t sweaty, and they certainly weren’t shaking. But this is different. This is his home, his life, and his boyfriend on the line. “Theo!” Even his voice is shaking, and Stiles wants to kick himself for it. Panicking doesn’t help, especially not when the intruders can tell he is.

Stiles carefully steps over a pair of shoes and a lonely boot, gaze darting back and forth between the mattress and the closed bathroom door. He’s not about to get jumped; not by hunters, supernatural assholes, or mundane criminals.

When he can finally see his bedroom area, it’s empty. The drawers have been ripped out of his nightstands. His lamps are on the ground, light bulbs most likely broken. Someone came into this place looking for something, and they were very determined to finding it.

But what?

Stiles doesn’t have anything valuable in his apartment. He’s not stupid enough to keep his supernatural artifact in a place where his colleagues from work are hanging out, sometimes with their nosy toddlers — and no one besides Theo know he’s rented a storage room for it. Unless someone figured it out? But how? And how did they learn where Stiles lives? He’s careful, and he went the extra mile to secure this place with magic.

Witches?

“Theo?” Stiles asks, his heart pumping fear through his body with every beat. Fuck his apartment. He can move. He can replace shit, but if someone dared to touch Theo— Stiles shakes his head. No. Absolutely not. Theo is going to be fine. Maybe he just stepped out to grab some food. He didn’t seem too thrilled about cooking earlier today.

Stepping over books and shoes and a bunch of apples, Stiles slowly makes his way towards his bathroom. The main reason he rented this place is that there are no spaces to hide besides the bathroom. He could shoot first and ask questions later, that is always an option, but if they’re not crouching behind the door like an idiot, all he does is alert everyone on his floor and waste bullets he may later need.

When he passes his desk, his gaze catches on things that are very clearly not his belongings. “What the fuck?” he breathes, his voice eerily loud in the heavy silence of the apartment. Handcuffs — not the fun kind — a gag, and an empty vial of… something. Stiles reaches for it, panic chocking him slowly. He brushes his thumb over the blue letters. Diazepam.

Great.

He’s been running out of nightmare fuel anyway.

The good news is, however, that it wouldn’t do anything to Theo. If someone did inject him with this shit, all they did was make him very angry. Bad news? An overdose will knock him on his ass very quickly.

Stiles drops the vial and aims the gun at his bathroom door again. He should shoot. Waltzing in there is an unnecessary risk. Stiles licks his lips, finger itching to pull the trigger. “Come out, come out wherever you are,” he mutters, more to himself than whoever is waiting to jump him behind that door.

Without warning, his apartment is plunged into darkness. Stiles whips around, aiming his gun to where he knows his light switch is. Before he’s even got the chance to shoot, someone crashes into him. The back of his head bounces off the hard wooden flooring. Stiles groans as pain explodes in his skull. The impact sends his gun flying, and by sheer fucking luck, there’s no shot going off.

A cool leather glove his covering his mouth as a needle sinks into his neck.

The pain barely registers, but the panic snaps him out of his haze. One minute. Stiles remembers everything he read on Diazepam during a case he worked two months ago. This shit is going to work in one to three minutes. Barely enough time to fight them off and get away. But Stiles isn’t going to give up.

He moves his left hand, inch by inch, feeling for anything he can use to hit their head — and luck is on his side. His little finger bumps into the fruit bowl. It’s made out of glass and sturdy enough to do some damage. He curls his fingers around it and slams it against their head with as much might as he can.

Stiles hears a pained groan mere heartbeats before the grip on him loosens. Gathering all his strength, he shoves the person off him and rolls onto his stomach. His world tips around him, even in the dark. A wave of nausea rolls over him as he struggles to his feet. The ground is unsteady underneath him, and Stiles stumbles, flailing his arms to fight for balance. His ears are ringing.

He’s not going to make it out of here.

No.

Stiles shakes his head. The movement makes him nearly throw up and lose his balance. All his attention is zeroed in on the sheen of light coming from the ajar front door. That’s his way out. If he manages to get there— but the first step makes him loose his balance again. His concussion makes it impossible to walk. Or maybe it’s the drug. How much time has passed?

Or maybe it’s both.

He just needs to—

--- --- ---

Consciousness creeps up on him, slow, sluggish, a snail on its way to an unknown goal. It’s hard to stay awake, even harder to figure out if he’s passed out again. The room is dark all the time. At least, he thinks it is. Maybe he hasn’t opened his eyes yet. What time is it? What day is it?

Stiles blinks his eyes open.

Soft rays of sunshine are painting the ceiling with peaceful strokes, yet something about them makes dread pool in Stiles’ stomach. Unease pushes into his veins, taking over every inch of his body and quenches the exhaustion. With every tick of a clock somewhere close by, Stiles becomes more and more awake – and more and more aware.

This isn’t his home.

Because someone kidnapped him.

His heart lurches in his chest as panic takes hold of him. It’s not just the presence of a window that’s wrong. The mattress is too soft, the blankets too thick. It’s too warm.

There is someone lying right next to him. Asleep, judging by the sound of their soft breathing. What the fuck is going on? Who- Stiles doesn’t have a stalker. Right? Theo would’ve surely noticed if someone were following him. He did last time.

And what happened to Theo?

Okay, one step at a time.

Stiles turns his head to the side. There’s an alarm clock on his side of the nightstand, bright red numbers informing him that it’s 7:23 am. Next to the alarm clock is a lamp. That’s going to be helpful. Stiles reaches for it, curling his fingers around the cool metal, and slowly inches closer and closer to the edge of the mattress. It’s best to just take the lamp with him. Maybe he can get out of here without waking the freak that kidnapped him in the first place. But- but who is it?

His fear is stifled by reason. If he leaves, and he doesn’t get a face of a name, what’s stopping them from doing it again? The address won’t be enough. They might be long gone when the police arrive, and Stiles isn’t planning on waiting around. The more he wakes up, the worse the pain gets in his head. That’s a concussion. Someone gave him a fucking concussion and then drugged him... only to do what? Play happy family?

Stiles grinds his teeth and turns around again. The person is mostly blanketed by the darkness of the room and facing away from him. Should he turn on the light? Sneak around the bed? Should he-

“I can feel you staring at me.”

Light floods the room, and Stiles covers his eyes with a groan. His grip tightens around the lamp. He yanks it off the nightstand. For a second, there’s resistance but the then cable gives and Stiles is willing to swing it at everything that moves.

A hand clasps around his arm before the lamp connects with anything, however. “I still have a headache from the fruit bowl.”

Stiles freezes. His whole world stops, zeroing in on the sound of the all too familiar voice despite his head screaming at him. “What the-” Stiles open his eyes, sucking in a deep breath as his gaze falls upon none other than Theo “-fuck?” he finishes, yanking his arm back. The lamp hovers above his head, knuckles turning white as he debates to hit his boyfriend over the head with it anyway. “What the fuck?” he repeats because saying it once doesn’t put nearly enough emphasis on how much he wants to whack him with this lamp.

“Okay.” Theo gets onto his knees, hands raised almost defensively. “Before you get mad-”

“Before I get mad? Theo, I am mad.” Stiles slams the lamp back onto the nightstand and crosses his arms. At this point, he’s ready to do worse than hit him with a goddamn lamp. Strangling him sounds like a wonderful alternative. “What the fuck were you thinking? Are you insane?”

Theo scoots closer to his side of the bed. “I thought you like that about me.” The guy actually has the nerve to look amused after scaring the living hell out of Stiles, give him a concussion and drug him. Neither his smile, not his body – beautifully on display and only wearing boxer briefs that leave nothing to the imagination – can get him out of this easily. He knew Theo’s ideas are usually a little different, but this is taking the cake.

Sucking in a breath, Stiles glares at him. “If this is your idea of a practical joke-” Because he is not in the mood, not with his head feeling as if someone’s using at as a fucking trampoline. He needs pain meds, or a doctor; actually, a visit to the ER sounds great after a fucking overdose and a concussion. That’s going to be fun to explain.

“In my defense, it was your dad’s idea.”

Stiles stares at him. That is a joke. Theo cannot be serious. “Dad told you to turn my apartment into a crime scene and kidnap me?” While his dad’s humor can be quite questionable at times, this does not at all sound like him. Never, in a million years, has any of this been his dad’s idea.

Theo runs his hand over the back of his neck. “Well...”

Closing his eyes, Stiles sinks back into the pillows. “You better have a very good explanation for this.” Although what could explain kidnapping him? Sure, they’ve role-played before, and it’s not like they’re kinks are necessarily something a lot of people are into — probably, it’s not like he knows. But using actual drugs? Giving him a concussion? That’s not like Theo.

“If you let me talk.” Theo flicks something against his chest.

Stiles squints down at his lap. Tylenol. Good.

Offering him a bottle of water, Theo watches him with his brows raised expectantly. “As I was saying—”

Snatching the bottle of water from him, Stiles shoots him a look. As he was saying, yeah, right.

“I wanted to make it official.” Theo visibly deflates, shoulders hunching slightly as his gaze drag from Stiles’ face to the Tylenol between his fingers. His face darkens, eyes narrowing slightly. For a few seconds, it seems that he’s far away, somewhere deep in the corners of a memory that refuses to let go of him. “I’m not going to hide us any longer.” Without warning, he gets off the bed and starts pacing the room, his shoulders a tense line.

Stiles cannot tell if it’s the concussion, or if Theo is just not making any sense. It’s true that not everyone knew about their relationship. His dad does, so do Kira and Lydia, but for the sake of keeping the piece within their packs, Stiles and Theo decided that it’s easier to pretend they’re merely getting along. They’re both good enough actors that nobody noticed anything or over a year. “So, you kidnapped me to…” he trails off, hoping Theo would fill in the gap.

“He threatened to kick me off his territory,” Theo snaps, eyes flashing yellow as he struggles to control his anger. There aren’t many people who could piss him off like that, and there is only one person who would have the ability to essentially exile Theo.

“And instead of talking to me about it…” Stiles shakes his head, instantly regretting the movement, and decides to take the Tylenol at last.

Theo lets out a long breath. “I was scared.”

Stiles snaps his head up, staring at Theo in bewilderment. Those three words aren’t something his boyfriend would throw around lightly. “Babe-”

But Theo doesn’t seem to hear him. He’s standing still, looking strangely lost as he continues talking, “I had it planned out. I talked to your dad. I talked to Lydia about the ring. I bought a ring.”

“A ring?” Stiles echoes before he can stop himself. They’ve been dating a year, why would Theo- his heart leaps into his throat. I wanted to make it official. Theo wasn’t just talking about telling everyone about their relationship. Stiles swallows and sits up straighter. “Theo, why didn’t you come talk to me?” he asks, patting the bed. They’re usually pretty good when it comes to communication, which honestly surprised Stiles more than anyone else. They work, perfectly, and it’s not even mad that Theo staged a very real kidnapping, it’s that he didn’t talk to him about it beforehand.

Which probably says more about him than he’d like to admit.

“I wanted it to be perfect!” Theo throws his hands in the air, frustration returning in full force. “I asked your dad for your hand first, of course.” Of course. Theo acts like it’s normal. Sure, there are still a lot of traditional people out there, and it is a sweet gesture, Stiles can’t deny that. He still didn’t expect it. Not from Theo. “Then I went to Scott. I tried to bury the hatched for you. Lydia helped me talk to him. We told him about our plans, but he said ‘no’.” Their eyes met, and Stiles can see the same fury burn that must have enveloped Theo when he decided to take what he considers his and make a run for it. “And that it’s time for me to leave his territory.” His hands are curled into tight fists, but his shoulders slump, and he bows his head, staring at the ground with a suddenly unreadable expression.

Stiles lets out a breath. His concussion doesn’t exactly make it easy to think. “Well,” he says slowly, drawing his brows together, “I’m glad to hear a kidnapping wasn’t in the original proposal plans.” He massages his temple, waiting for the Tylenol to set in quickly so he can focus on Theo alone instead of having to deal with this pounding headache on top of everything else. “Or giving me a concussion for that matter.”

“You broke a fruit bowl over my head.”

“Because you gave me a concussion!” Stiles raises his hands in defensive. They’re going to go in circles. Theo isn’t any less stubborn than he is. The only reason for Stiles’ winning most of the time is that Theo is insanely easily distracted by the prospect of sex. Not that Stiles is much better, but he does have the edge – at least for a little while. “Still… why didn’t you just talk to me?” The one thing Theo might love almost as much as Stiles is complaining about Scott’s incompetence. So, it doesn’t make any sense that he’d keep this to himself. None whatsoever.

Theo runs a hand over his face and pulls his shoulders up for the slowest shrug this side of the universe. “I panicked,” he says, having the nerve to sound mad about it.

“Because Scott told you to get lost?” Stiles squints at his boyfriend. It’s hard to tell if Theo doesn’t make any sense, or if his concussion makes his fail to see it. “He does that twice a week, and you laugh in his face. I don’t get-“

Theo shoots him a look, cutting Stiles off mid-sentence. It’s impossible who he’s angry at – himself for overreacting, Stiles for not getting it, or Scott for having the audacity to try and order him around. Not a single possibility makes a lick of sense. “He told me to leave you!” Theo snaps, crossing his arms over his chest defensively.

Stiles blinks, staring at his boyfriend in bewilderment. “You think I care?” If he weren’t so utterly baffled by Theo’s words, he’d point out that Scott and he haven’t been the same since long before Theo returned to Beacon Hills. It doesn’t matter to him what Scott thinks. He certainly wouldn’t be dating Theo if that were the case. Plus, as a human, no alpha can boss him around. “Last time I checked, I decide who I’m going to marry.”

For a few heartbeats, Theo doesn’t say anything. His wide blue eyes are fixed on him, almost contemplating. What’s going on in his head is anybody’s guess, but the smile tugging on the corner of his mouth is almost sheepish. Theo releases a breath and crosses the room. “I panicked,” he repeats. An explanation, not an apology. He might not apologize at all.

Stiles doesn’t expect one. Sighing, he lifts his blanket and shakes his head as Theo crawls on top of him. “You’re an idiot,” Stiles tells him. “Talk to me before you kidnap me next time.”

A chuckle ripple through Theo’s body. He wraps his arms around Stiles’ waist. “Fine,” he whispers, leaning his head against his chest. It's probably not the most comfortable position, but Stiles isn’t about to argue. “Next time I’ll make sure to get your consent before I kidnap you.”

“That’s not-“ Stiles lets out a breath. There’s not really any point in arguing. “You’re impossible.”

Theo laughs again, it’s soft and gentle, and a sound to fall in love with. “But you’re going to marry me anyway.”

Rolling his eyes, Stiles bends down to kiss the top of Theo’s head softly. “Yeah,” he breathes, almost a little surprised how sure he felt about his answer. They might not have dated for long, but he’s not doubting his decision at all. “But only if I get the proposal you planned with Lydia.”

Theo tightens his embrace for all but a second. “And a ring.”

“I love you.” Stiles runs his fingers through Theo’s hair.

“I love you too.” 

[msmischief101]

for @steoevents' SteoDay - Fighting for Love

When Prince Theo has not shown any interest in marriage or any sort of relationship by the age of 25, his parents invite every eligible son and daughter they deem worthy of their second-born son. Theo is less than thrilled but knows he can't get out of this party. He has, however, no intention to find a suitable partner.

That is until he meets Stiles, one of the bartenders working the night of the party. He spends the evening at the bar, finding himself unable to leave. They even keep talking after Stiles' shift is over. The same night, their messy but intense relationship starts.

While it's strictly about sex at first, Theo finds himself falling for Stiles harder and harder with every night they spend together. For the first time, Theo is in love, and Stiles reciprocates his feelings even though Theo's love can be a bit much at times.

The King and Queen are aware of Theo's feelings as well, but as much as they want their son to find a partner, they refuse to accept that Theo might bring a mere bartender into her family — and they're willing to do whatever it takes to separate the two.

[msmischief101]

chapter 57: chaos rising Warnings: violence, blood

You can read it on AO3 as well.

“Isaac.” Stiles kneels beside him. The cold blood drenches his sweatpants. What happened? Who is this? What are you so afraid of? Or rather, who? But none of these questions roll over his tongue. “Are you hurt?” Stiles asks instead. His fingers tremble as he reaches out to touch him. If anyone dared to hurt him-

His hand does not connect with Isaac, almost like he doesn’t exist.

Unless it’s Stiles who doesn’t exist.

At least not here.

Stiles touches his face, strangely relieved when his fingers brush over his warm skin. There’s no guarantee with the supernatural. The Dread Doctor’s mask might as well have killed him, and he simply didn’t notice. He’s no longer in pain. Still, why would he be in a different room in a completely different situation? Besides, he feels alive. Very much so. His heart beats in his chest. The room makes him feel cold.

“What do you see?” Valack’s voice seems to echo around the white room, coming from everywhere.

The mask is supposed to allow him to see the future. Is that where he is? The future? Or a path that may or may not become their new reality in hours, days, perhaps weeks. Unless they get out, unless they’re saved.

Or they save themselves.

Stiles stands up again, gaze wandering across broken glass and destruction, over blood splatters on the wall, until it catches on a person shrouded in shadows that could not possibly exist in this room. His heart skips a beat as their eyes lock – one bright and amber, a color he got used to seeing in the mirror every day – the other dark and silver. They both crinkle in amusement.

Before he can stop himself, Stiles takes a step back. “What did you do?”

A chuckle fills the room.

Isaac whimpers softly.

“Pożyjemy,” Stiles hears his own voice breathe, “zobaczymy.” He watches his future self get to his feet, shadows moving with him, around him, until he stands – and Stiles recognizes they aren’t shadows.

It’s his fox’s aura.

Stiles swallows. “How’s that going to help me?” This isn’t the time or place to drag his babcia’s favorite quotes to the forefront of his mind. He needs to focus on things that matter, like how they can get out of this, for example.

“This has not happened yet.” The fox spreads its arms wide, an almost manic glint in its eyes. “But it could.” Suddenly, it’s right in front of him, the shadows blocking virtually all the light. “Pożyjemy, zobaczymy.” It grins, eyes flashing in amusement.

Then it shoves him.

Stiles crashes to the ground hard. His head ricochets off the stone floor. Pain explodes in his head, and the stench of leather and blood fills his nostrils. He struggles to remove the mask as he tries to control his breathing. A panic attack down here isn’t a fucking option.

“Get this thing off!” Valack bellows, his voice barely audible over Stiles’ blood rushing in his ears.

“Stiles!” Isaac’s voice is coming from somewhere to his right. “It’s okay. We’ll help you, but you need to calm down.”

Despite the edge of anxiety in his voice, hearing him talk dislodges the panic in Stiles’ throat. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. It’s okay. It’s okay. Whatever he just saw doesn’t matter. Isaac is fine. Everything he just saw might become nothing more than a nightmare.

Stiles takes another breath as he lowers his hands.

Only a moment later, he’s ripped to his feet. The sweet stench of alcohol mixed with the scent of leather. Stiles recoils, but the grip on his left shoulder is nearly unforgiving. Stiles grinds his teeth until the mask finally falls off a moment later.

It hits the ground with a thud too loud for the silence in the room.

Stiles stares at Schrader, who stares right back at him, fingers digging painfully into his shoulder. Stiles twists his mouth into a smile. “I saw you,” he whispers, knowing full well he’s lying. “Dead.” Unless he isn’t lying. With the amount of blood he saw, he might be telling the truth because it wasn’t Isaac’s. “You’re going to die down here, Schrader.”

Without hesitation, Schrader grabs him by the throat, anger burning in his cheeks.

“Schrader!” Valack’s voice is pure steel.

For the flicker of a second, Schrader very clearly considers defying the orders. Then he steps away and crosses his arms over his chest. Something about his face tells Stiles they shouldn’t end up alone in a room with him again. Only one of them will make it out alive that time.

“Mr. Stilinski,” Valack sounds a little too much like Stiles’ old chemistry teacher, “what did you see?”

Stiles doesn’t answer immediately. He glances at Isaac, holding his wide-eyed gaze for a few seconds. If he’s honest, Stiles is not entirely sure what he’s seen besides Isaac and too much blood. He can’t tell if that other Stiles is him in the future or simply a manifestation of the nogitsune.

But the eye.

Stiles barely resists the urge to reach his hand up. It wouldn’t matter anyway. He’ll have to wait until they’re back in the cell. Last time he checked, however, there was merely a blotch of silver in his iris.

Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Stiles turns to face Valack. “You and everyone who works for you, dead.”

---

“It looks normal.” Isaac tilts his head a little to the side, squinting at him. “I think.” Smiling apologetically, Isaac lets go of Stiles’ chin and pulls his shoulders up. “Theo would probably see a difference.”

Stiles pulls his legs to his chest. “Yeah…” His heart aches just thinking about him. They haven’t been apart this long since Theo returned to Beacon Hills. The distance is wearing him down, mainly because Stiles has been nearly disconnected from the ley lines since wearing this fucking collar. Theo’s spark made him feel safe; now, he can’t even tell if Theo is still alive. It makes him feel lost and alone despite having Isaac by his side.

“Do you think you can find him with that thing?” Isaac leans back on the mattress, hands folded on his stomach as he contemplates the ceiling. “It’s one of their masks. Shouldn’t it help you track chimeras?”

And then what? Stiles wants to ask. What good will it do them if they know where Theo is? Perhaps knowing Theo is okay would ease his mind for a moment. But without a way to talk to him – even if he could talk to him. Valack is expecting their friends to rescue them. Stiles would end up leading all of them into a trap.

“I don���t even know if it showed me the future.” Stiles lies beside Isaac, feeling weirdly protected between the wall and the werewolf. “Maybe it showed me what I wanted to see.” But what it truly did show him was only blood and no bodies. So, did it really reveal what he’s been fantasizing about? Because all he wants is to kill Valack and Schrader in the worst possible way.

For a moment, Isaac is quiet. “And you want them dead?”

Stiles nods slowly, unsure. It’s easier to talk about this with Theo. His views on violence and murder, especially premeditated, are a lot more relaxed.

“Okay.” Isaac pauses, tapping a finger against his wrist, “how do we do that?”

“Do… what?” Stiles eyes Isaac with raised brows.

Isaac shrugs, a sheepish grin tugging on the corner of his mouth. “How do we kill them? We can’t do anything from in here.” Either he’s misjudged Isaac’s opinion on murder, or perhaps the time spent down here has changed his mind.

Whatever it might be, Stiles isn’t going to complain. “Well, if I could get out of this collar…” he trails off, grinding his teeth. If only. That’s not going to get him anywhere. They need something concrete. A plan. A way to get Stiles out of the collar and Isaac out of this cell. They’re useless in here.

They’re going to die in here.

Isaac nods. “Any idea how we’re going to do that?”

“I’m working on it.” Stiles gets back to his feet. There’s no way he can come up with a plan while he’s lying down. He needs to move. Fuck, he needs some fresh air. He needs the sun, his friends and family. Most of all, he needs Theo. His absence hurts. The distance is a constant ache he’s not able to shake. It’s slowly but surely burning a hole in his sanity. Not being able to feel him, it makes him feel so fucking empty. But it’s not just Theo. It’s everyone. His dad. Kira, Lydia, even Brett, Jackson, Danny, and the chimeras. He’s gotten so used to being around them all the time. Right now, he’d sell his soul for a glimpse of Peter Hale.

Further proof that he’s losing his mind.

Stiles lets his gaze trail over everything in the room. A sink, a toilet, a mattress, and some poor excuse for bedding. That’s all they have to work with. “What if you don’t touch it?”

Drawing his brows together, Isaac props himself onto his elbows. “Touch what?”

“The collar.” Stiles sits down next to him and grabs a fistful of bedding. It’s thin enough that Isaac could wrap it around his hands and grab the collar, but maybe that also means it’s too thin. With as much poison as this collar has, it’s highly likely no fabric in the world might stop it from hurting Isaac. That’s probably why they aren’t worried about leaving them unsupervised. “Forget it.”

Isaac grabs him by the arm, not allowing him to stand up. “At least let me try it.” If he’s offended by the lack of confidence, he doesn’t show it. Isaac is nothing but stubborn. Whether or not he believes he can get the collar off himself, he is not going to drop it before he’s tried it at least once.

“Okay.” Stiles nods. “Don’t overdo it, though. You won’t be getting help down here.”

“I really love your optimism,” Isaac retorts as he tests out the thin fabric of the bedding. A moment later, he drops it with a little shake of his head and looks around the room. There is not a lot in there he could use. He sighs, “don’t tell Theo about this.” Then he yanks his shirt over his head.

Stiles squints at him. “Are you afraid of Theo?”

“Afraid,” Isaac tells him while awkwardly wrapping his shirt around his hands, “might not be the right word.” Goosebumps cover his skin, but Stiles doubts they have anything to do with Theo and more of the clammy cold down here. Isaac’s expression, however, seems troubled all of a sudden. He lowers his shirt-clad hands and studies Stiles for a moment. “He wasn’t exactly stable last time I saw him. Satomi mentioned it’s not uncommon for new mates to lose it when separated for too long… and with Theo’s history…” Isaac shrugs briefly, gaze dropping to his hands. “I’m worried that by the time we’re out of here, Theo will have done something he won’t be able to come back from.”

It’s a worry they share, even though Stiles hasn’t allowed himself to think about it yet. While Theo may not require an anchor to stay grounded, his human side certainly does. Theo’s first instinct will always be violence. There is no doubt in Stiles’ mind. He will always struggle with possessiveness and over-protectiveness, and he will never fully fit into any pack structure — not even one he leads as an alpha. As much as Theo craves a pack, the Dread Doctors molded him into a lone wolf. It will take years to undo that damage. Maybe they will never truly “fix” him. Stiles is okay with that. He doesn’t want to fix Theo. It doesn’t matter to him either way.

But that doesn’t make Isaac any less wrong.

Although Stiles hopes Jackson, Peter, and the chimera pack will be able to ground Theo, he isn’t stupid enough not to expect the worst.

“You know he’s coming,” Isaac says softly. “Sooner or later, nothing’s going to stop him… if he knows you’re here.”

Stiles nods. If his message got through, if anybody could sense him being at Eichen and told Theo, there will be a point of no return for him. He’ll come here. He’ll run right into the trap Valack set up for everyone trying to save Stiles, the same trap Isaac walked straight into by deciding to go on a solo mission. “Even more reason to get out of here as fast as possible.”

“Right.” Isaac moves his fingers and rolls his shoulders. “Let’s do this.” He hesitates, just for a moment, then grabs the collar. Neither of them moves, waiting for something to happen. When Isaac doesn’t tear his hands away in agony, Stiles allows himself a flicker of hope. Maybe they can get out like this. Maybe, for once, it’s easy.

But it’s not.

It never is.

The collar doesn’t budge, not even when Isaac pushes his fingers between it and Stiles' neck, making it uncomfortably hard to breathe, and he tries his hardest to break it apart. The collar presses against the nape of his neck, making the constant burn more noticeable than usual. A thin sheen of sweat glistens on Isaac’s forehead. The werewolf’s expression twists into pain for nothing more than a heartbeat. It’s gone so fast Stiles might not have noticed it if he wasn’t looking for it. “Stop.”

Isaac presses his lips together.

“Isaac, drop it.”

The first response is a snarl of frustration, but then Isaac pulls his hands away.

“Show me.” Stiles reaches for the shirt, surprised and highly irritated when Isaac pulls away. It’s pointless. Unless Isaac wants to sit with his hands wrapped up in his shirt until dinner arrives, Stiles will see how much damage this stupid idea caused. “Please, just— show me.”

Huffing out a breath, Isaac holds his hands out. “It didn’t hurt at first,” he mutters, “I thought I could do it.” The fact that he’s defending his action doesn’t exactly bode well.

Stiles carefully tugs the fabric away, expecting the worst. A sigh of relief escapes him when he finds the palms of Isaac’s hands an angry red. It’s surely not bad, but at least the wolfsbane didn’t break his skin. It would’ve, surely, if Isaac kept going. “You should hold them under cold water. That should help a bit.” Although he couldn’t imagine Deaton being so careless, part of him hoped it would work. Pushing this would only mean Isaac getting more and more hurt, and the last thing they need is Isaac being defenseless down here. “You think we got to wash this too?” He gets up and follows Isaac to the sink, holding out the shirt.

“Probably a good idea.” Although Isaac does not look too happy about sitting shirtless down here. He takes the shirt from Stiles anyway. “So, what’s Plan B?”

Good question.

“I’ll figure something out.” What he needs is a reason for Deaton to take off the collar. A medical emergency would probably be the easiest way to achieve that. After all, both Valack and Deaton need Stiles alive. If he dies, the nemeton dies with him, and so do the chimeras. He can’t gamble their lives away like that.

Stiles folds his arms over his chest, watching Isaac rinse out his shirt with cold water.

It’ll be a while until he can wear it again, but it’s probably the better option than to risk getting a reaction all over his chest an back. The amount that’s in his shirt won’t kill him, but it will certainly be highly uncomfortable — maybe even painful. Down here, a little goes a long way.

“We have to convince them to take this thing off you.” Isaac wrings out his shirt and looks around the cell to find the best place to let it dry. Unfortunately, that would be the side of the sink.

Glancing around the room again, Stiles weighs his options. Aside from banging his head against the edge of the sink or toilet, there aren’t exactly many. “Maybe if we ask them very nicely.”

Isaac looks two seconds away from smacking him with his shirt. Instead, he drops it on the edge of the sink and studies his hands again.

“How bad is it?” Stiles draws his brows together. The idea was stupid, and he should’ve never brought it up in the first place.

“Not too bad, but it might take a couple of hours to heal.” Isaac wriggles his fingers and then looks up, shooting a small smile in Stiles’ direction. “I got shit like this all over my body from some herbal coughing syrup I took as a child. Still don’t know what caused that.”

Stiles chuckles, collapsing back on the mattress. “Yeah, Mom grew herbs in our yard for her tea. The chamomile gave me the worst allergic reaction…” He trails off, staring at Isaac’s hands.

“That’s the scheming face I’m afraid of.” Isaac crouches down in front of him, arms crossed over his thighs. “What are you thinking about?”

“An allergic reaction.” Stiles blinks slowly and then springs to his feet. That’s surely a way to get this collar off. “Deaton doesn’t just need me alive. He needs me strong enough to survive long enough to separate the nemeton from me.” And Valack needs him strong enough to use the mask because Stiles doubts he’s happy with the answers he gave him.

Squinting at him, Isaac stands up, too. “If you haven’t noticed, your neck’s been an angry red since he put that thing on you.”

Stiles waves his hand around. “I need you to bite me.”

“What?” Isaac stares at him as if he’s grown a second head.

“I need you to—“

“No,” Isaac interrupts him. “I heard you. I don’t get it.”

“You’re a werewolf.”

“Fascinating, but I still don’t have any clue what you’re talking about.” Isaac raises his brows and crosses his arms, pulling his shoulders up for a shrug. “How about you start at the beginning? I don’t speak leaps of logic very well.”

Stiles blinks. Right. “Sorry.” He’s so used to talking to Lydia when making plans. She usually understands where he’s coming from and what he’s aiming for. Her calculating logic brings order to Stiles’ thoughts. “Like I said, Deaton needs me healthy. This collar is effective enough to keep my powers in check, but it’s not hurting me enough to make me weak the way the injections did.” Injections he could heal from simply by feeding. With Isaac close by, that’s not going to be an issue; in fact, it won’t be an issue no matter who’s close by. They will get out of here, and God help whoever decides to stand in their way. “If I get weaker again, Deaton will have no choice but to take this thing off. When Theo accidentally nicked me, it was basically an allergic reaction.”

“Yeah, one that almost brought the school down on everyone,” Isaac points out, running a hand over his face, “and nearly killed you.”

“Because Theo’s an alpha.”

Isaac stares at him, lips pressed into a thin line. It doesn’t take a genius to see that he is not a fan of this idea. “And I’m not. It might not even work.”

It has to work. They have to do something to get out of here before Deaton gets to start his ritual. Stiles can’t die down here. He refuses to die down here. “Then you bit me, and we figure something else out.” Whatever that might be.

Sighing, Isaac sinks onto the mattress. He’s not happy. Not even a little bit, but he nods to himself as he stares at the empty hallway outside of their little cell. “We should do it after breakfast tomorrow.” Isaac sets his jaw resolutely, locking eyes with him. It’s a mystery to Stiles how he can keep telling the time in here. “People here are afraid of you. If you heal, we can pretend someone’s trying to poison you.”

Absolutely nobody down here would be surprised if one of the orderlies slipped some shit into his food — unless Deaton is personally checking it every time. “Okay.” Stiles sits down next to Isaac. “Yeah, that’s a good idea.” At least, he hopes it is. If this doesn’t work, all he can cling on to is Deaton fucking up the ritual.

Isaac studies him for a moment. “You think Valack wants you to put on the mask again?”

“Of course.” Stiles crosses his arms over his knees, staring out into the hallway. “I’m surprised we’re not still down there.”

“Sounds like you’re not expecting a good night’s sleep.”

Stiles snorts out a laugh. “No, no, I’m not.” In fact, he’d be very surprised if they had the chance to put their plan in motion before Valack drags him back and puts that mask on him, expecting different results. Still, Valack wants him to find something, and he most likely wants him to do so before Deaton is finished setting up his little ritual. “I give him two hours.”

“I’m going to sleep for a week when we’re out of here.” Isaac closes his eyes, scrunching his face a little as he tries to get comfortable.

When they get out. Stiles leans his head against the cold tiles behind him. When. Letting out a long breath, Stiles closes his eyes as well. Yeah, they’ll get out of here, one way or another.

---

When Stiles opens his eyes, he’s surprised to find himself in the same room he’s just left. Well, technically, he’s still in there. However, the last time he put on the mask, the room was white and covered in blood. This time, Valack is lying on the chair, staring at nothing. His eyes and mouth are wide open, almost as if he’s died screaming. There’s no wound on his body, no blood coming from him, yet it’s splattered all over his body. None of it seems to be his own.

Stiles turns to the corner Isaac would be standing in. Isaac is gone, but Schrader is slouched there, throat ripped open by what can only be claws. Isaac. Part of him hates seeing it. Not because Isaac killed someone. They both knew it would come to that if they had to fight their way out of here. It’s just that Stiles wanted to be the one to rip his head off. Still, he’s glad Schrader will find his demise violently and with no hope of survival. He doesn’t deserve anything less.

He turns further, gaze following the blood drops on the ground, until he’s facing the door. Isaac stands there, claws out, ready to strike yet frozen in time.

“That’s where the fun begins.”

Stiles whips back around.

The fox is grinning back at him, still wearing his face, still shrouded in the aura of shadows. Its arms are crossed over the back of the chair.

Stiles distinctly remembers not seeing him there. Then again, he doesn’t remember anything being like this. “Why is everything different?” If he saw the future, or at least a possible outcome, something must’ve changed to cause this change.

“Because we’re at a crossroads.” The fox snaps its fingers, plunging them into momentary darkness before they return to the white room. “And this is all in your head.” At first, everything seems the same. There’s blood on the ground, but nobody in the room. Then he sees it: Isaac, sitting in the middle of the room, holding Stiles’ lifeless body in his arms. Tears have left lines in the dirt and blood on his face, but Isaac isn’t crying anymore. He’s staring into space, seemingly unable to move and refusing to leave Stiles’ body behind.

His heart hammers in his chest, and Stiles grabs the table's edge to hold himself up.

The fox snaps its fingers again.

This time, Stiles sees himself bending over Isaac’s body, a single arrow sticking in his chest. His eyes are wide and empty, staring at the ceiling and seeing nothing. Deep down, Stiles knows it’s his fault. He can tell he did something wrong. He’s failed Isaac, and now he has to suffer the consequences. Stiles doubts he’ll ever be able to forget his screams as he begs Isaac to wake up, but the black lines have reached his heart. The poison has killed him. Slowly. Agonizingly.

In this scenario, neither of them will make it out alive. They’re both going to die in the basement of this fucking hellhole.

“Stop,” Stiles breathes, his voice shaking from unspilled tears.

Another snap of fingers, and they return to Valack’s little hideaway. “You needed to see the risk in poisoning us.” The fox looks disinterested while studying Valack’s dead body, as if nothing that happens really matters to it. Perhaps it doesn’t. Kira’s fox took a life of its own as well, not caring about who it hurt as long as it got its way. He wonders if Noshiko still struggles with her fox or if she has managed to become one with it.

Stiles takes a steadying breath before he asks, “It would work?”

“It would.” The fox snaps its gaze, boring into Stiles’, “but we’d be too weak. If we were to survive Deaton’s ritual, we wouldn’t be strong enough to protect Isaac. One of us will die.”

And that’s out of the question. Stiles won’t allow Isaac to die. They’re both getting out of this hellhole alive. “How do you know? Does the mask-“

“Show us the future?” The fox’s laughter is cold. “There’s no object capable of that. This mask, however, offers us the ability of extrasensory perception. The psychic power to-“

“Acquire information without the help of any known senses, I know.”

The fox all but smiles. “We made a good choice with you,” it whispers, pushing away from the chair. “We could’ve been unstoppable.” It sounds almost fond of the idea, but its features darken again as it steps forward. “We still can be.” Its promise is more than tempting right now. Being unstoppable would surely get them out of here in no time, or at least once the collar is off.

But at what cost?

Stiles noticed a difference in his powers after fully accepting the nemeton. However, part of him still refuses to take down the mental barriers that keep the nogitsune out. It feels too soon, too dangerous, no matter how helpful it would be to access even the smallest amount of its power. The thought of letting it in still feels like it won, after all. Stiles isn’t sure he’s ready to face all the consequences of becoming one with the nogitsune in his head. 

“Why am I seeing this?” Stiles gestures around. At this moment, it seems best to ignore the promise. While he’s accepted being a nogitsune and using its powers, feeding on pain and chaos, part of him remains uncertain of the fox in his head. After all, it is a remnant of the nogitsune that once possessed him. It’s most likely not any less murderous than it used to be.

If it's offended by Stiles ignoring it, the fox doesn’t show it. It merely folds its arms over its chest, standing eerily still as it regards Stiles. “Because we’re looking for a way out. The mask helps us see them.”

“I don’t see how my or Isaac’s death is helpful in that matter.”

The fox chuckles again, cocking its head to the side. “Death is a way out.”

But not the one Stiles wants. Biting the inside of his cheek, he studies Valack’s face. He wonders what happened to him. Is it his doing? Is it the fox’s?

Is it theirs?

There are no signs of strangulation, no snapped neck, and no indication of any other trauma to the head or body that could’ve caused his death. Something killed him. Stiles darts his gaze back to the fox, who has not looked away from him for a second. “How do we get here?” Even if there are more outcomes, perhaps even safer ones, this is a way out that leaves Isaac unharmed physically and mentally.

This might be their best chance.

“You trust us,” the fox replies, stressing every single word by stepping closer until they’re almost nose to nose.

Stiles raises his brows. “Trust you?” His heart hammers against his chest. Trusting it seems like the doing of a madman — or of someone out of options. His gaze darts back to Valack.

Perhaps Stiles is both. 

“Yes.” The shadows darken at the response, drowning nearly all the light from the room as anger swells like a wave — anger so ancient, it makes the nemeton’s power feel insignificant. “We have proven ourselves to you. We helped save Theo’s life, or do you think the nemeton could’ve done it without us?”

“And you have proven to be willing to murder my friends.” Although Stiles doesn’t remember much, he does recall the urge to kill anyone who dared even thinking about taking Theo away from him. His fear of losing him might have made him irrational, yet Stiles doubts that if he were entirely himself at that moment, he would’ve allowed any harm to his friends.

The darkness vanishes after a sigh, and the fox looks tired. Perhaps the collar is affecting it more than it lets on. “We’re not your enemy, Stiles.”

Stiles exhales and turns away, focusing on Isaac standing frozen in the doorway, claws dripping blood. There’s determination on his face, eyes slightly narrowed. He’s alive. He’s unharmed. He’s good. “How do we get here?” What do I have to do to kill Valack and Schrader and keep Isaac alive? Because that’s what matters. That’s the only thing that matters, and if he has to bring his fox into the fold, then so be it.

“We need to get the collar off. You need to trust us.” Shadows are licking around Stiles’ shoulders. The fox is standing so close he can feel its breath on the nape of his neck. “We can trick them.”

Yes.

Stiles widens his eyes. Yes, they can. Isaac doesn’t need to bite him. All Valack needs to think is that he’s dying.

“We’re too valuable to Valack,” the fox whispers, dark laughter clinging to its every syllable. “He won’t let us die.” 

It’s tempting. So very fucking tempting, but Stiles knows it’s dangerous too. Kira’s told him all about it, about how the fox is not easy to subdue — and if she already struggled with it, Stiles has little doubt that he’s going to fail miserably. But it’s their ticket out of here, Stiles knows it is. Perhaps it’s also time to fully embrace every single part of him. If he needs help, he can ask Noshiko and Kira. They both went through this, and they both succeeded. Keeping the fox out will only get him so far, especially after accepting the nemeton with open arms.

“How do we do this?” His stomach twists when the word rolls over his tongue. We. The nogitsune, the nemeton, and Stiles. Them. Together. A team. One force to be reckoned with. It still feels like a bad idea, but it’s going to be fine. They’re going to get out of here with everyone unharmed.

Because they have to.

The fox chuckles, a dark sound so unlike Stiles’. “We shake on it.” It appears in front of him, grin wide, hand outstretched.

But there is still the issue of losing control. It might not happen, yet it is a very likely possibility. He’s been a kitsune, or at the very least part kitsune, for only a few months. Keeping the lid on the remnant of a thousand-year-old nogitsune won’t be a walk in the park. Not at all. “Isaac—”

“We won’t touch him,” the fox says, sounding sincere — as sincere as a fox can sound in his mind. “We won’t make the same promise for anyone else standing in our way.”

“I don’t care about anyone else,” Stiles replies and grabs the fox’s hand. Everyone else can go to hell for all he cares.

Shadows wrap around him instantly, drowning him and everything else in darkness. He closes his eyes, letting himself fall and be caught by something ancient, something nightmares are made from.

Stiles snaps his eyes open, returning to a room of silence. The pain the mask usually causes is gone. He feels strangely calm, his heartbeat steady in his chest. He tries to move his hands, but Valack made sure to lock him down — for his own safety, of course. They’re hot against his skin. Poisoned too. It’s not just the collar they need to get rid of.

He curls his fingers around the armrest. First things first, he needs to act the part until he’s able to spit out the hallucination. Because if he can’t do that, then there’s no getting out of here.

But this should be easy. Manipulation, after all, has become his second nature. All he needs to do is concentrate. Under normal circumstances, that would be an issue, but even his brain cooperates in life-and-death situations.

Stiles closes his eyes, remembering the diary of the girl Theo gave him what feels like ages ago. All the things he can do with just his mind – and he can see it already; himself, having a seizure, bleeding from his nose and mouth.

It takes seconds for Isaac to call for him, panic painfully clear in his tone. Hearing him makes it almost impossible to keep the hallucination up, but Stiles can’t risk stopping – not now. Not when he’s this close to finding a way out.

Because Valack is panicking too, just for an entirely different reason, “I cannot lose the nemeton.” Although it is the fox he needs. But Valack doesn’t care about details. He wants to keep him locked up down here for selfish reasons, power, an advantage, perhaps even to keep an eye on supernatural creatures or to have someone who can tell the future with the help of this mask; such a pity he didn’t believe Stiles when he told him he’d die. It would’ve prepared him better for this very day.

The mask is pulled from his face, allowing Stiles to see past the darkness and his hallucination. Isaac is staring down at him, eyes wide and filled with panic. Schrader and Valack are there as well. While the latter worries he might lose his newfound prized possession, Schrader seems more entranced, almost as if he’s enjoying his view a little too much. It wouldn’t be surprising if that were the case.

“Get it off.” Valack gestures in the direction of his neck.

After a moment, Schrader looks up. “Boss, I don’t think-“

“Listen to me,” Valack snaps, yanking Schrader closer by the collar of his shirt while he keeps staring down at him, seemingly frozen in fear, “I don’t care what your business with torturing this kid is, but I want him alive. Take that damned collar off!” He shoves him off before returning his attention back to Stiles, probably worrying about what he’ll tell Deaton if this goes south.

Good thing he won’t have to worry long about this.

Schrader fumbles with his keys, and Stiles makes sure to change his hallucination enough for him to lie still. He can’t risk this going wrong now. It’s easy. Bending the illusion to his liking feels like second nature, like something he’s been doing since before he learned to walk. Schrader pushes the key into the little lock, believing nothing amiss.

Good.

The collar opens with a soft click, and the second the cold metal leaves his skin, power rushes back into him so fast it makes him dizzy. It’s bad enough that Stiles doesn’t have the energy to get up immediately. Since Schrader is currently unlocking his handcuffs as well, it probably isn’t the worst idea to remain still for just a little longer – even though looking up at Isaac’s distraught face makes it hard to keep the illusion up along with the power rushing back into every fiber of his body. He didn’t expect this much power, although he should’ve probably expected it. He’s holding more than just the nemeton’s power now. Having unlimited access to the nogitsune’s power does make a huge difference.

Schrader steps back, metal clanging against metal. Stiles doesn’t move. Not immediately.

“Check his pulse,” Valack orders.

But Schrader shakes his head. There’s no way he’s getting close to Stiles again without any security. His precaution is smart, and a little bit unsettling – and Stiles has an inkling as to why that might be. Although nobody is pointing a weapon at him any longer, Isaac remains calm and unmoving. Stiles can manipulate what he sees, but he cannot hide his steady heartbeat. Isaac caught on.

Good.

Muttering something under his breath, Valack approaches him, probably trying not to look like a coward in front of his most unhinged orderly. His movements are slow and hesitant. Stiles can smell his fear, spice and sweet. Noticing it comes with a surprising hunger. As much as he would like to draw this out, to make Valack shiver and fear, he’s too starved to enjoy this for long.

The very second Valack bends over him, Stiles grabs his face. Instantly, the illusion shatters.

Isaac is on Schrader, all his anger culminating in the attack. He doesn’t hold back. Not for a second. The first punch breaks enough bones in his face to make Schrader nearly unrecognizable. If that hasn’t killed him, the second punch for sure does.

One less person to worry about.

Stiles cocks his head to the side, returning his attention to Valack. “That was easy.” He chuckles before slamming Valack onto the chair, keeping him down with a hand around his throat. Valack opens his mouth, but he doesn’t say a single word. How very surprising to see him speechless. People who say Stiles talks a lot haven’t met Valack. If someone’s in love with hearing themselves talk, it would be Gabriel Valack. “Let’s see, Gabriel, what are you afraid of?”

“I have Theo!”

Although part of him expected this to be nothing more than a weak attempt to distract him, Stiles can’t help but hesitate. There is the possibility of Valack getting his hands on Theo. It’s Theo, after all. Stiles wouldn’t put it past his boyfriend to go on a solo mission, doing exactly what Stiles would do – and what Theo keeps trying to stop him from doing. Recklessness might be Theo’s least favorite trait about him, but that goes both ways. “Do you?” Stiles asks, narrowing his eyes. “Let’s check that really quick.”

Accessing the ley lines happens in a heartbeat. Stiles doesn’t even have to close his eyes. He finds Theo within seconds, and while he’s not at home, he’s also not inside Eichen. But close. A little too close.

The operating theatre.

At least he’s not alone.

“And here I thought we’d be honest with each other, Gabriel.” Stiles sighs. “How disappointing.” With a single shake of his head, Stiles presses his fingers harder against the vulnerable skin of Valack’s throat. He can feel his heartbeat pick up, can sense his panic filling the room. Slipping into his mind comes just as easy. There are no barriers, no defenses to keep him out. Valack’s mind is a blank canvas for Stiles to create his worst nightmare.

Interestingly enough, the thing Valack fears the most is being locked up down here again. In the dark. All alone. It’s easy enough to create after being locked up down here himself for a while. No food. No company aside from the monsters Valack left down here, lurking in the shadows just outside of Valack’s view, vanishing whenever he turns his head to catch a glimpse of them. Stiles puts him into this nightmare, not allowing him a way out – until Valack’s screams disappear, and the man is nothing more than an empty shell.

Stiles pulls his hand back and turns to look at Isaac, who is standing in the doorway, watching, waiting. “They’re in the tunnels.”

“Idiots,” Isaac mutters, rolling his eyes.  

“Are you surprised?”

Isaac doesn’t reply immediately. He studies him, almost curiously, for a few moments. “No,” he replies then, curling and uncurling his fingers. His skin is still covered in blood. He didn’t even bother to wipe Schrader’s blood off. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah… why?”

“Because I’ve yet to encounter a spontaneous eye-color change that occurs naturally.” Isaac raises his brows. The smile on his lips does not reach his eyes. He’s skeptical. He doesn’t trust him.

Stiles doesn’t find it in him to judge Isaac. Although he’s not been possessed, he went through shit because of the nogitsune too. It was an infection that was caught by everyone Stiles has ever touched, and he wishes he could make it better. “I’m me, if that’s what you’re wondering.” Stiles crosses and uncrosses his arms, suddenly weirdly self-conscious about fully embracing the nogitsune. “But I guess that’s what everyone would say.”

For a moment, Isaac doesn’t reply. It’s almost impossible to know what’s going on in his head. “I reckon, yeah.”

“I was right, by the way.” Stiles is aware there’s probably nothing he can say to make Isaac trust him fully, and while this does hurt a little, he can’t blame him. “Your bite will poison me.”

“You could be lying.”

“I could.” Stiles pulls his shoulders up in a slow shrug. It’s fair of Isaac to be careful around him. After all, he just killed Valack with his powers – something he wasn’t supposed to be able to do. It wasn’t supposed to be in his nature. “But we both want to get out of here, right? So, how about we call it a truce until we’re with the others?”

Isaac clenches and unclenches his jaw. His gaze darts from Stiles to Valack’s body. It lingers there for a few seconds as Isaac’s probably considering the chances of getting stabbed in the back or abandoned. They’re both aware he needs Stiles to get out of here. Isaac narrows his eyes slightly before he locks eyes with him again. “You think we can still get out through the showers?”

“Yeah, we can.” And if not, Stiles will make them a way. He caused quite some damage the last time. Surely he can do it again.

After another few seconds of silence, Isaac nods and slips out the door.

Stiles follows him instantly. It’s probably a good idea to use the time they have before everyone figures out what happened down here. Although he is ready to clear them a path, it doesn’t mean Stiles is hoping he’ll have to. If he’s got any say in this, he’d prefer to get out of here as quietly as possible. Their chances of doing so would be easier if he knew the time of day. He’d prefer to break out at night because that’s when the basement should be completely empty.

As they’re rounding a corner, the hallway in front of them is completely empty. Their first hurdle is the door a few feet away. Although it probably shouldn’t be hard to break the lock and get them through.

“Is the electric lock going to be an issue?” Isaac asks, stopping next to him. He keeps his distance to the gate, glancing at the invisible line of mountain ash with a sneer. If not for that, Isaac could break the lock, and they’d be out of here in no time.

Stiles wonders if he can somehow rip it off. There’s no way he will be able to break it. Supernatural strength or not, he’s not as physically strong as Isaac. “I doubt it,” he says anyway. If he’s not strong enough to do it by hand, he’ll use magic instead. They’re getting out of here, even if it’s the last thing he does.

But the moment his fingers nearly touch the bars, they bump against some invisible force. A glimmer of blue light emanates from absolutely nowhere, leaving a soft prickle upon his skin. Stiles yanks his hand back.

“What was that?” Isaac asks, an edge of panic in his voice.

Stiles’ heart pounds in his chest. They both know exactly what that was. But that’s impossible, right? He was able to walk in and out of Eichen House multiple times now. The mountain ash was never a problem. Why now?

 Still, Stiles reaches for the electric lock again. Maybe he was accidentally brushing against one of the bars. He’s stressed and running on adrenaline. Maybe he just imagined this.  His fingertips brush against an invisible wall once more, and again, even if only for a brief second, he can see the mountain ash flash at the contact. This isn’t his imagination.

They’re locked in.

“No.” Stiles pushes his hands against the bars, watching as the wall of mountain ash glows in the otherwise dark tunnel. The touch doesn’t hurt. It’s merely a weird tingle, but that isn’t exactly a relief right now. Because they’re stuck. They’re locked in. But that’s not possible. It shouldn’t be.

How can they be locked in?

“Magic, mate. You can still use magic.” Isaac grabs Stiles’ shoulder and yanks him around. Despite his reasonable tone, he looks just as panicked as Stiles feels. They were both banking on Stiles being able to walk out of this place without any issue because that’s how it’s supposed to be.  

“Right.” Stiles nods, trying his best to calm himself. “I’ll break the line. It’s going to be fine.” Peachy even. This is nothing more than a minor setback.  

“Yes,” Isaac agrees as he steps away to give him more space. “Destroy the floor, break the line.”

Sounds easy enough. Plus, he’s done that before. Multiple times. He’s good at destroying the ground. It shouldn’t be a problem. They’re standing right on top of a bunch of telluric currents. The ley lines are powerful here. He can absolutely break the line. A little bit of mountain ash won’t be able to stop the nemeton’s power, right?

Taking a steadying breath, Stiles crouches down and presses his trembling fingers to the cold stone. He closes his eyes, forcing himself to take several deep breaths. His heartbeat slows as he finds the ley lines responding to his call. It takes seconds until the ground rumbles and roots break through, bringing back memories of the night Theo got hurt. Stiles opens his eyes. He can’t dwell on that now. The past is the past. Now, he needs to focus on getting him and Isaac out of here.

And they’re close, so very close. It will take only a few seconds until the roots have reached the gate and destroyed the line of mountain ash.  They’re so close to getting out of here. Once they’re through, they’ll only have to get upstairs and get to the showers. They’re basically out of here.

But then the roots slam against the wall of mountain ash and crumble to nothing.

Stiles grinds his teeth and stands up again, ignoring Isaac’s cursing. No. No. Absolutely not. Stiles darts his gaze around the room, looking for anything that might help. He will not be bested by fucking mountain ash. The roots have left some rubble behind. Fine. That might work. He lifts his hands, focusing on the biggest pieces around him. His muscles ache, almost as if he’s trying to lift the rubble with his bare hands. Merging with the nogitsune clearly doesn’t mean he won’t have to feed anymore.

And he’s starving.

Badly.

Since being down here, he was only able to feed just enough to heal. Using his powers, especially the nemeton’s magic, takes its toll on him. Still, the rubble rises off the ground even if a little hesitantly. It works regardless, and that’s all that matters right now. They can figure the rest out once they’re out of here.

Stiles takes another deep breath and hurls the rubble forward with all his might. Once again, the stones slam against the wall of mountain ash. The gate is left standing without a scratch.

Stiles is about to scream.

“Guess you’re not a chimera any longer,” Isaac deadpans, running his fingers through his hair.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it? Stiles said ‘yes’ to the nogitsune and turned himself into a kitsune, a real one. Not a chimera. He didn’t even know that was possible – and isn’t this what Noshiko and Satomi have been afraid of when they tried to poison him all those weeks ago? He doesn’t get it. Why would they be afraid if he’s stopped by a single line of mountain ash?

Stiles curls his hands into tight fists. “Lucky me.” He kicks one of the larger stones next to him, wincing at the pain coming and going in flashes. They’re out of their cell, and yet, they’re still very much locked up. All because Stiles trusted the nogitsune. He was so desperate to get out of here, to protect Theo, that he trusted the fox in his head and got himself into an even bigger mess.

“What now?” Stiles stares at Isaac, hoping he’d come up with another idea. Maybe there is something Stiles is missing. As powerful as everyone thinks he is, right now, he’s nothing if not fucking useless.

“We probably shouldn’t stay here.” Isaac grabs Stiles by the arm without missing a beat and leads him back into the room they’ve just come out of

His gaze catches on Schrader’s completely unrecognizable face, and his breath catches in his throat. Stiles knows Isaac doesn’t shy away from a fight, but he’s never seen this level of violence from him. Not that he’s got any room to judge. Stiles glances at Valack’s body. He’s enjoyed doing that, and he’d gladly do it again.

“Someone’s going to check out what happened after that commotion.” Isaac closes the door behind them. “Can you hide us?”

“We need to get out, Isaac.”

“We need a plan,” Isaac snaps back, “and that means we need time. So, if someone comes looking, you need to hide us, got it?”

Stiles stares at the werewolf. For all the times Isaac hated being in charge of anything, he has zero qualms ordering him around. “Yes, I can.” He crosses his arms over his chest and glares at the ground. “But they’re going to know something’s up when they see what I did.”

“Then you should come up with an idea fast,” Isaac suggests cooly. “That’s something you can’t screw up.”

What the fuck?

Stiles stares at him.

Isaac blinks a couple of times, and then his face falls. “I’m sorry.” His tone softens just as his expression turns guilty. “I don’t know why I said that.”

But Stiles does, or at the very least, he’s got a hunch. “Not a chimera anymore, remember?” While he’s always been able to cause strife within others, it used to take more time until it affected the emotions of everyone around him. Looks like now he’s got full access to the nogitsune’s powers instead of a mere fraction of them.

Great. Nothing beats learning about all these changes while they’re in Eichen House’s basement of horrors with no way out.  

“Bloody hell.” Isaac sits down in front of one of the shelves and lets out a breath. “I didn’t mean that. I just want to get out of here.”

That would make two of them. Stiles sits down next to Isaac, scooting close enough that their arms and legs are touching. “I did fuck up though.” If he’d known what would have happened by accepting the nogitsune, he’d never have done it. His being a chimera was their ticket out of here. The only other way of leaving Eichen House is being escorted out by one of the orderlies, and they all know that’s not going to happen anytime soon. Deaton made that very clear.  

Isaac shakes his head. “You couldn’t have known.”

But maybe he should have. Before letting the nogitsune fully in, they were two separate entities. Stiles was nothing more than the glue holding them together. They were co-existing, all needing each other to survive. Stiles would’ve died back in junior year if the nogitsune didn’t leave remnants of itself inside of his new body. The nogitsune and the nemeton would’ve killed each other if not for Stiles being their vessel. They were sharing a body, and Stiles just so happened to be able to benefit from both of their powers. Now, they’re one and the same. Now, a nogitsune is wielding the nemeton’s power, and Stiles doesn’t want to think about what might happen if he ever loses control.

“Who knew I’d ever be excited about seeing Theo.” Isaac grimaces.

Stiles stiffens. “I can talk to him.”

“Yes,” Isaac says, eyes widening in delight, “yes, you can.”

“I might not be able to hide us at the same time, though.” Stiles draws his brows together, watching as Isaac scrambles to his feet.

The werewolf gestures dismissively. “I’ll figure something out. Want me to turn off the lights?”

“Yeah, that would help.” Stiles pulls his legs to his chest and closes his eyes. If he’s entirely honest, he’s not super into the idea of asking Theo to come to him mere moments before all of Eichen figures out two supernatural creatures are on the loose. However, if they don’t get out of here, Isaac is going to die, and Stiles might too. Valack might’ve been interested in keeping him alive for his own benefit, but Deaton wants the nemeton. He doesn’t care what might happen to Stiles as long as he gets it.

Moments after the room is plunged into darkness, Stiles can feel himself slipping into the in-between that connects him to the ley lines. The place is welcoming him home still. There is a sense of safety in this realm that Stiles is unable to put into words. Maybe it’s the proximity to the ley lines, or maybe it’s Theo’s spark. It’s stronger when touching him directly. Just feeling him in the first place fills Stiles with so much longing it hurts everywhere. He’s missed Theo this whole time, but now that he’s so close to him again, it’s impossible to ignore the distance between them.

When he finds them, Stiles settles onto a ley line closest to Theo. He wishes he could kiss him, hug him, or at the very least see his face instead of merely a silhouette. Instead, he has to watch him sit on something, arms crossed over his thighs. He’s keeping his distance from the others. Even Tracy is pacing on the other side of the room.

Stiles lets his gaze travel over the people he can see; Peter, presumably leaning against a wall, arms crossed over his chest, is the one closest to Theo. It’s nice to see that the two of them are at least managing to be in the same room. Stiles wonders if Jackson is here as well. Brett is standing in the middle of the room. Judging by his stance, he’s propping himself up on a table, studying something lying on top of it. Corey, Josh, and Hayden are standing on the other side of it.

“Since we know he’s alive-“

“We knew he’s been alive the whole time,” Brett interrupts Theo without looking up from whatever he’s studying, “because your betas didn’t drop like flies.”

“Since we know he’s alive,” Theo repeats, sounding a little more pissed off than usual when being in the vicinity of Brett, “I don’t get why you refuse to let me in there.”

Brett lets out a long breath and turns to look at Theo. “Because I value my existence. If anything happens to you, Stiles is going to have a field day with me.” It would almost be funny if it weren’t true.

“So?” Theo pulls his shoulders up.

“Boys.” That’s his father, and he sounds more than resigned. Judging by his tone alone, it’s pretty clear that their interactions have not become any friendlier with Stiles out of the picture.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Good to know nothing’s changed.”

Theo whips his head around, staring straight at him. Something that didn’t happen the last time. He kept looking in his direction, but now? Now, it’s like Theo can actually see him.

“Well, you know Th-“ Brett cuts off, glancing around the room as if he’s not entirely sure he heard that right. “Stiles?” That didn’t happen the last time, either.  

“You can hear me?” Stiles blinks in confusion. He thought it was the mating bond that made all of this possible. Then again, he does share this weird connection with Brett as well, and who knows what changed because he’s essentially leveled up. Somehow, he has the feeling that there will be a bunch more surprises awaiting him in the near future. “Never mind, I-“

“Kiddo?” The hopeful tone in his father’s voice nearly shatters his heart. “Can you hear me? Are you okay?”

As much as he missed Theo, he also missed his father. It was easier to ignore his feelings when he had Isaac to keep him company. They stopped each other from wallowing in their misery, but that doesn’t mean Stiles didn’t have moments, especially just before falling asleep, when he naively wished his father could tuck him in again even though he’s not a little child anymore. It was way worse before Isaac became his cellmate.

“I’m okay, Dad,” he says, even though he knows his father can’t hear him. Perhaps if he could, he would’ve tried to keep his voice steadier.

Theo slips off his seat. “He said he’s okay,” he says as he walks towards him, and Theo only stops when he’s standing right in front of him. Nobody says anything. They’re all watching Theo as he’s raising a hand as if to cup Stiles’ cheek – only to touch nothing but air.

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, trying his best to keep it together.

“How is Isaac?” Brett asks, looking in his general direction but not directly at him.

Taking a deep breath, Stiles opens his eyes again and looks from Theo to Brett and back again. “We’re stuck.” He would love to linger, to spend more time right here, right now. But Isaac is waiting for him. Time in this place is complicated. “We’re not in our cell any longer, but we can’t get out.”

“What,” Theo starts, then stops, most likely furrowing his brows in confusion. Stiles didn’t have any issues going anywhere the last time they were down there. “That doesn’t make any sense. Why can’t you get out?” The question ‘what’s wrong’ hangs heavy in the air. The only reason Theo isn’t asking about it might be the presence of Stiles’ dad.

Stiles wishes Theo wouldn’t ask so many questions for once. “I can’t cross mountain ash anymore.”

“What?” Brett asks, pushing away from the table completely. The alarm in his voice makes everyone in the room clearly nervous.

“What’s going on?” his dad asks, panic sneaking into his voice.

Stiles focuses on Theo and Theo alone. “I need you to listen to me,” he says in a low voice, fingers itching to grab Theo’s face, to cup his cheek and press their foreheads together, “I would never ask you to come and get us, but– Deaton wants the nemeton. If he finds us, he’s going to kill Isaac, and I’m going to be thrown back into this fucking cell, and I– I can’t go there again, Theo.” Despite his best efforts, his voice finally cracks.

Theo reaches for him again, this time for his hand, and he growls in frustration. “I’ll get you out, I promise.”

“We’re holed up in an old office–“

“Stiles.”

He whips around and then looks up, trying to locate the direction of the voice. Then it hits him. Isaac.

“I have to go.” Stiles swallows, forcing himself to step away from Theo. “An old office on the lowest floor.”

“Stiles!”

“Please, be careful.” And he pushes himself away from the ley line. Within seconds, Stiles snaps back into reality, gasping for air like a drowning person.

Isaac grabs his shoulders, worry etched onto his features. “Someone’s coming.”

Part of him is still clinging to the ley lines, refusing to let go. Stiles shakes his head, trying to get rid of the drowsiness that comes with surfacing from that other realm. His gaze darts across the room as he grabs Isaac’s shirt and pulls him next to him. It’s easy to pretend it’s empty, easy to see it right in front of his inner eyes. Valack is no longer lying on the chair. Schrader’s body doesn’t exist. The collar doesn’t exist in this version of the room, and neither does Stiles and Isaac.

When Isaac mutters something under his breath, Stiles knows he’s been successful.

And not a moment too soon.

The door bangs open, followed by the light turning back on. Nobody says a single word. Nobody enters the room either. For what feels like forever, nothing at all happens. The silence is almost more unnerving than anything else. Stiles isn’t good with silence, especially not the one that means someone is lurking in the darkness.

Waiting.

Stiles gets why Valack was afraid of that.

Something metal clangs against the ground. Stiles digs his fingers into Isaac’s arm, blood rushing in his ears. The silence drags on. It’s impossible to tell how much time is passing. Seconds are most likely creeping by as Stiles holds his breath, waiting for the inevitable to happen – whatever that may be.

The silence is suddenly broken by a loud pop and Stiles breathing in a mouthful of dust. Or sand. Or a powder. Whatever it is, it burns his mouth and, nose, and throat. It burns enough to destroy his focus. The illusion shatters within seconds around them, and there is nowhere else to hide.

Stiles raises a hand, trying to shield his face as he’s still coughing up his lungs. What the fuck?

Next to him, Isaac gets to his feet. A low growl fills the room.

Every fiber of Stiles’ body wants him to stop, not to approach, to sit right next to him where it’s safe. But Isaac doesn’t. He moves fast, his footsteps echoing next to Stiles’ coughs.

Until they don’t.

Isaac howls in pain, and Stiles is pretty sure his heart stops for a few seconds. Still coughing, he lowers his hand and tries to focus on what is happening while his throat feels like he’s choking on sandpaper. No. Stiles’ gaze catches on the arrow sticking out of Isaac’s chest. While the arrow itself would not be a problem, the yellow substance clinging to it sure the fuck is. He’s instantly going through everything he knows about yellow wolfsbane. Mostly, he’s considering how much time Isaac’s got left. Brett was merely nicked, and everything went bad for him fast.

That arrow is way too close to Isaac’s heart.

“I can help him.”

Stiles shoots Deaton a look. It’s no surprise he’s the one behind this fucking powder. When people realized they were out of their cell after Stiles caused a commotion a while ago, Deaton most likely expected Stiles to try to hide them. In that sense, he’s a lot more dangerous than Valack. Deaton knows what he’s up against and how to deal with it. Since the powder didn’t affect Isaac, it’s most likely wolf lichen.

Grinding his teeth, Stiles scrambles to his feet. He doesn’t feel weaker than before, but his throat and mouth are burning.

Powdered wolf lichen will stop him in his tracks. Good to know.

“I’m going to kill you.” Stiles is aware he probably doesn’t look all that threatening as he all but stumbles over to Isaac, voice shredded as if he’s been screaming all night. Even though all he wants is to crouch down, to help him., Stiles knows he won’t be able to do anything. Not alone. But Theo is coming for him. All they have to do is hold out until Theo is here, and Isaac’s going to be fine. “I’m going to kill all of you.” He curls his hands into fists as he assesses his situation; Isaac is dying behind him, and Deaton is surrounded by six guards – two on his left, two on his right, and two right behind him.

There’s a line of mountain ash in the door.

They’re locked in.

Deaton raises his hands. “There is no need for violence at this point,” he says as if there aren’t six armed hunters surrounding him.

“You shot Isaac.” Stiles can feel his nails bite into the palms of his hands.

Isaac wraps his hand around Stiles’ wrist, and the amount of pain he’s in makes Stiles almost jump out of his skin.

Swallowing around a lump in his throat, he turns to the werewolf. He’s still aware of everything surrounding him, apparently, but he’s sweating, and his face is red. There are no black lines, no visible poison. But Stiles doesn’t need to see it to know it’s working overtime, not as long as Isaac’s grip is vicelike around his wrist.

“Take it,” Isaac says, using his other hand to drag the arrow out of his chest. It only doubles the pain. “Take it and get us out of here.”

“Stiles, you know you won’t be able to cross mountain ash.” Deaton doesn’t even sound surprised, almost like he knows exactly what happened to Stiles, what he did. Perhaps he’s been hoping this would happen.

Then again, “You won’t be able to separate the nemeton from me any longer.” Stiles looks back at Deaton as he grabs Isaac’s hand just as tightly. He’s not going to take a lot of his pain. Just enough to take the edge off, maybe give Isaac more strength to fight the wolfsbane. Taking too much from Theo has taught him a lesson. There’s a point where Isaac’s body would simply stop fighting the poison, and Stiles is not going to risk this. He can fight them off as long as it takes Theo to get here – and once he gets here, it’s not going to be pretty for Deaton.

The smile he gets in return is more than just unpleasant. It seems as if Deaton has been able to mask his real feelings better than Stiles expected. “I don’t need to.” He pushes his hands in the pockets of his white coat. “All I need is for you to get back in your cage.”

With how relaxed Deaton acts, Stiles doubts he expects anyone to come to Stiles and Isaac’s rescue anytime soon. Which, in turn, begs the question of how much Deaton truly knows about his powers. Valack and Deaton both have their own approach. While the latter has learned how to deal with the supernatural himself, Valack relies on the people around him.

But with Valack dead and Deaton thinking he’s got him cornered-

A scream echoes through the basement. Loud and shrill enough to make Isaac wince and duck his head despite the wolfsbane putting him through some of the worst pain Stiles has felt as a nogitsune.

Stiles smirks.

Lydia.

“You’re so fucked.”

Deaton’s smile finally vanishes. His new expression is cold. “Take the fox. Kill the wolf.”

Six arrows point at Isaac. Not a single hunter dares to step over the line of mountain ash.

“Nice to see what you really think about us.” Stiles lets go of Isaac’s hand and tugs his arm free from the concerningly weak grip. Without hesitation, he steps in front of Isaac. He promised him they’d get out of here together, and he’s got every intention of keeping that promise – no matter the lengths he will have to go to. After killing Valack and Donovan, a few more won’t make much difference. “You want to kill Isaac?” Stiles curls his fingers slightly, feeling the familiar heat of his energy against his palms. “You will have to go through us.”

Deaton cocks his head to the side, watching Stiles for a moment as if to contemplate his next steps. Then, he gestures for the hunters to lower their weapons. “If you let me in, I can help him.”

Stiles isn’t that stupid. “No one is going to touch him.” Narrowing his eyes, he targets the light in the room first. The bulb explodes into a thousand tiny shards. Some of them hit Stiles, but he’s hardly bothered by it. They’re plunged into momentary darkness. Fear spikes in the room as everyone scrambles to find their flashlights.

Pathetic.

Even with a line of mountain ash separating them firmly, everyone cowers.

Stiles hurls a ball of energy at Deaton. It crashes into the shield of mountain ash, illuminating everyone on the other side for a few moments. Someone shrieks.

There we go.

Stiles does it again, and when the light illuminates Deaton’s face for the flicker of a second, he looks genuinely concerned. Probably because he knows mountain ash isn’t foolproof. Scott got through it with the help of the nemeton. It nearly killed him, but he got through. So, Stiles could too – or he could, at the very least pretend to try until Theo gets here.

Three pairs of flashlights turn on. Full kitsune or not, Stiles prefers the darkness. Perhaps he does so now more than ever.

“Get in there,” Deaton orders, gesturing for the hunters to move forward. “Shoot him too, if you must. But make sure not to kill him.”

Stiles quirks a brow.

Isaac coughs behind him. Coughing wasn’t a good sign for Brett. Coughing meant he was vomiting, too. And that meant he was close to death.

Stiles whirls around, and his heart lurches in his chest when he sees Isaac slumped over, body spasming viciously. He drops next to him, frantically grabbing his face. His eyes move rapidly behind his lids. His breathing is too shallow. Fuck. Sharp. He needs something sharp. A knife. A shard of glass. Anything would do right now.

His gaze cuts to Schrader’s body. Stiles is sure he’s carrying a knife, but running over there means exposing Isaac. No matter how quick he is about it, he’s not going to risk leaving him defenseless. Not for a single fucking second. “Isaac.” Stiles grabs his face again, shaking the wolf. “Isaac, please, open your eyes.” This wasn’t supposed to happen. Isaac was supposed to stay untouched.

Glass crunches next to him.

Stiles is on his feet in a heartbeat. Four of the hunters are in, and two have stayed with Deaton. Without a second thought, he’s on them. There’s no time for nightmares. There’s no room for niceties. The first hunter he gets to is young, maybe in his mid-twenties. He’s the one who’s enjoyed pointing wolfbane arrows at Isaac. Stiles snaps his neck and grabs the collar of the next before his body hits the ground. He’s older. Maybe in his late forties. Maybe he’s a father. Maybe he’s not. Stiles knows they think they keep monsters locked up, but the reality is quite different.

His plea for life makes Stiles grin.

Then he smashes his face against the wall with all his might. Twice for good measure. His body drops like a puppet. His face warrants a closed-casket funeral.

“We told you,” Stiles says without turning to Deaton, “you’re all going to die.”

Terror is the poignant stench in the air. It matches his anger.

Stiles grabs the knife from the younger hunter’s belt and crouches down next to Isaac again. They won’t try again to interrupt him. Not anytime soon. Deaton could try to send an army into this room. Not even one would make it out alive. Stiles would make sure of that himself. “Thanks for teaching us, by the way.” He’s not forgotten how to help someone poisoned by yellow wolfsbane.

Carefully, he lays Isaac on the ground. Seeing him right next to the dead hunters makes him feel queasy, but he knows it’s only for a few moments. With a flick of his wrist, the ground rumbles once more as a couple of roots shoot out of the ground, wrapping around Isaac’s shoulders and hips. The bruises will be worth it in the end if it means he’ll survive because there’s no way Stiles will be able to hold him down and make an incision.

“Stiles!” Deaton bellows, the edge in his voice betraying his desperation. Healing Isaac will take away his leverage. “You could kill him. Let me help you.”

“Come in,” Stiles whispers, snapping the knife open, “see what happens.” He doesn’t take his eyes off Isaac for a single second. No one is going to do anything stupid, not with how terrified they all are – frozen in fear, that’s how he likes them best.

For now.

Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Stiles presses and cuts Isaac’s shirt open with a surprisingly sure hand. He pushes the fabric aside. His heart is pounding in his chest. His own anxiety starts to match his wrath. Yes, he could kill Isaac very easily. But he would also kill him if he did nothing. Isaac is not going to die tonight, not by his hands or anyone else’s.

And he won’t allow that.

Isaac will get out of here alive.

Stiles licks his lips, then presses the blade into Isaac’s skin right between his collarbones. It sinks in so easy, only emphasizing how vulnerable Isaac has become. Stiles releases a trembling breath and then drags the knife down. Yellow dust releases into the air, and with every inch of skin he cuts open, Isaac’s body relaxes more and more – until he stops moving completely, and Stiles pulls his hand away.

For what feels like an eternity, the cut doesn’t heal, and Isaac doesn’t breathe.

“Come on.” Stiles whispers, looking for a pulse. It’s there. Weak. But it’s there. Stiles stares at his own bloody fingers pressing against the stark pale skin. Time feels frozen as he waits for something to happen.

And then Isaac gasps for air. His body starts healing. His breathing becomes regular again, but Stiles remembers how long it took Brett to regain consciousness after being poisoned. The worst is over, but the things ahead of them might not be much better.

Stiles lets out a shaky breath, allowing the roots to vanish as he gets back on his feet. Now that he knows Isaac will be perfectly fine. He can focus on the issue at hand again.

Getting them out of this hellhole.

Flicking the knife between his bloody fingers, Stiles watches Deaton – and Deaton does nothing but look back at him. Although he is still tucked safely behind the line of mountain ash, Stiles figures he seems a lot more concerned now that his only leverage is gone. Even with four hunters pointing their weapons at him again, he looks like someone who knows they’ve lost.

With Lydia causing chaos somewhere in Eichen, it won’t take long until everyone is here.

“Isaac still needs treatment.” Deaton’s voice is steady, but his expression is unconvincing.

Stiles narrows his eyes and stops flicking the knife. Instead, he points it at Deaton. “We’re going to kill you.” He might not have gotten to kill Schrader, but he sure as hell will not allow anyone to get his hands on Deaton but him. All of this, it’s his fault. He locked him up down here, separated him from everyone he loves, and put a collar on him like he’s a fucking dog. He’s not going to get away with that.

Grinding his teeth, Stiles throws the knife right at Deaton’s face. He didn’t expect anything to come from it. The mountain ash is still separating them after all. Yet Deaton flinches out of the way, and the knife hits the wall directly behind him, sinking into stone instead of hitting the wall of mountain ash.

Stiles blinks.

Huh.

Looks like there is a way through the mountain ash after all – and Deaton knew that anything not touched by his magic can still pass through.

“Alan,” Stiles croons, watching as the hunters exchange nervous glances, “you kept secrets from us.” Their fear keeps escalating, and Stiles wonders how much of his influence the mountain ash truly keeps out. If he can sense them that much, perhaps he can play little tricks on them, too. After all, the mountain ash isn’t quite as impenetrable as it once seemed. “That’s not very mentor-like of you.” Then again, he probably should’ve expected it. Deaton has never been particularly forthcoming with information unless it was strictly necessary or beneficial for him. Maybe Deaton didn’t want anybody to know about the mountain ash’s biggest weakness in case he ever needed to lock up a supernatural creature. If they’d known about this, a lot of things could have been avoided tonight.

“Stiles, I need you to think about what you’re doing.” Deaton steps closer to the door but doesn’t dare cross the mountain ash. “You’re not in control.”

“Oh, no, Alan, we’ve never been more in control than we are now.” Stiles crosses the room. With every step he comes closer, the hunters take one back – right up until one of them hits the wall and flinches when his head hits the knife. “We’re going to get out of here,” Stiles whispers, cocking his head to the side. His anger is still burning out every other feeling. There is nothing he wants more than to return the favor and become Deaton’s worst nightmare before tearing him limb from limb. “This is your only warning: run.” Stiles grins as he pushes away from the doorframe.

The longer he drags this out, the more he can feed.

And he’s been starving for so long.

The hunters don’t waste a single second, but before they’ve made it out of Stiles’ sight, the first one drops like a stone. His face smashes against the ground, eyes wide in panic as his body refuses to cooperate.

Tracy appears out of nowhere, nicking the other three before they have the chance to realize what happened to their partner.

For the first time Stiles has known him, Deaton is truly afraid. It’s a sight to see, something he wishes he could relish in it for a little longer. However, Deaton whirls around.

Only to be stopped in his tracks immediately.

“Boo,” Theo smirks and grabs Deaton’s throat. His claws dig into the vulnerable skin in a way that’s too familiar — and just like that, Theo rips the man’s throat out like it’s made from paper.

It’s too easy. Too fast.    

Stiles steps away, curling his lips in disgust as Deaton falls to the ground, one hand pressed against the wound as if that could stop him from bleeding out. Just like Valack and Schrader, Deaton only thought he held any power over him. No, he’s not powerful. Not like this. He’s dying in seconds, bleeding out right at his feet.

There’s nothing satisfying about watching the light go out in his eyes.

Pursing his lips, Stiles nudges Deaton’s lifeless body with his foot. “That’s not very nice,” he whispers and snaps his gaze up to lock with Theo’s. “You don’t steal other people’s food, Theodore.”

“What’s wrong with his eye?” Tracy asks as she steps next to Theo, brows furrowed slightly.

Corey shifts a little behind Theo. “Are you sure you’ve got this under control?”

Theo rolls his eyes. “Just get Isaac.”

Stiles narrows his eyes and shifts in front of the door again. No one is going to touch Isaac. No one.

“Theo?” Tracy asks, eyes darting back and forth between him and Stiles before she grabs his arm as if to pull him out of harm’s way.

Thisbitch.

After everything she’s done, not just to him but to Theo as well, Tracy still has the nerve to act like nothing at all has happened — like she has the right to touch what’s his.

Stiles raises his hands. The hunters’ flashlights lift off the ground at his mere command. He can feel the exhaustion nag at the back of his mind. The nemeton’s powers are still costly, but it’s about time Tracy learns a lesson. He smirks. “Let’s have some fun, shall we?”

“Great,” Theo mutters, “I hate when he’s right.”

Without waiting another beat, Stiles crushes the flashlights and plunges them into darkness.

[msmischief101]

♞Pairing: Steo ♞Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Theo Raeken ♞Tags/Warnings: mentions of rape, mentions of murder, explicit content ♞Words: 6233 ♞BTHB - Breaking a Promise | Kinktober '23 - Cock Warming

ao3

---

this thing between us

“You’re fucking yourself up like this.”

Stiles closes his eyes and lets out a breath. It’s almost five in the morning. His body aches, he hasn’t eaten in almost a day, and all he wants is to collapse into his bed. He doesn’t need a lecture from Theo Raeken of all people. Scoffing, Stiles shoves his key into the lock. “You always preferred the fucked-up version of me.” His door clicks open, and he pushes it out of the way of his escape.

“You know that’s not true.” Theo gets to his feet.

Stiles considers slamming the door in his face, but the thing about Theo is, he used to appreciate a lot of his persistence. “What are you doing here?” Although his first question should’ve probably been ‘how did you find me?’. But this is Theo, and Theo always finds a way. It was just a matter of time until they crossed paths again.

Dodging questions is another of Theo’s strange talents. “Why do you keep doing that?”

“Because the tips are fantastic.” Stiles turns around, trying to fill out the doorway as much as he can. Theo doesn’t need to get the impression he’s allowed in.

The message seems to be clear because Theo’s expression darkens with annoyance. But the worst part is, Theo still looks hot as hell and so much better than anyone Stiles has ever hooked up with in the past four years. “You don’t need the money,” he accuses in a hushed tone.

“And since when do you know what I need?” Stiles knows he’s right. After everything that has happened, he doesn’t have to lift a finger for the rest of his life — he doesn’t have any friends or family either. So, what good does all of this money do? It doesn’t erase the memories. It doesn’t stop the nightmares from finding him in the darkness. It doesn’t prevent people from whispering about him behind his back. “I haven’t seen you in almost five years, and now you’re here, acting like— acting like you’re my savior or some shit.” He’s been alone for too long now, he doesn’t need anyone; especially not Theo.

Drawing his brows together, Theo studies him for a moment. “You’re drunk.”

“Stellar conclusion.” Stiles rolls his eyes, “if only I drank alcohol.” And that’s true, although it’s not always easy as a bartender when everyone else around him is hammered.

Theo uncrosses his arms. The worry carved onto his handsome features makes Stiles want to punch him. “Did you take something?” As if he couldn’t be any more condescending. Looks like the past few years without him caused Theo to pick up some of his mother’s annoying mannerisms.

“I haven’t slept in 48 hours, I’m starving, and I just had mind-blowing sex—“ which isn’t entirely true, but Theo doesn’t need to know that “—not that that’s any of your business, by the way.” Although Stiles knows he doesn’t need to explain himself to Theo or anyone, really, he cannot deny himself the petty revenge — and he knows it hit home, can see it in the way a flash of pain cuts through the worry on Theo’s face. If only it would make Stiles feel any better or could undo what happened to and between them.

Unsurprisingly, Theo doesn’t deign this with a response. Instead, he doesn’t hesitate and wrestles Stiles into the apartment. It doesn’t take him a second to overpower him, easily forcing Stiles back enough so he can kick the door closed with his foot — like he owns the place.

“Get the fuck out,” Stiles snaps, nearly elbowing Theo in the face as he wrenches himself free from his ex-boyfriend’s all too familiar grasp. It’s a shame he missed.

The light flickers on. Theo neither moves nor reacts when he’s faced with a flight of stairs. He shoots Stiles a look before climbing them, making it abundantly clear he’s not going to leave any time soon. Because why would he? He’s Theo Raeken after all. Beloved and cheered on by his adoring fans. Everybody loves him. Everybody wants to be with him — even the person he hurt the most by breaking his fucking promise.

Stiles hates how much he still yearns for his touch.

Too tired to fight him or deal with the cops, Stiles shoves past Theo and hurries up the stairs. He hates them with a passion, especially after long nights, but they’re a pretty good advantage if someone decides to break in.

“So, what. You let random strangers fuck you for a few extra bucks every night?” There it is. Of course, Theo couldn’t just let it go. Five years, and the jealousy is still as strong as it used to be.

Stiles spins around at the top of the stairs. The moment Theo popped up at his bar, he should’ve had him kicked out. But that probably would have caused even more issues. “Are you pissed about me having sex, or are you pissed it wasn’t you who bent me over the bar and fucked me?”

Theo’s face darkens, which is already answer enough. As well as he may be able to hide his feelings, anger has never been an emotion he could control. “I’m not here to argue,” Theo tells him coolly as he steps onto the main floor. His gaze scans the room, slowly traveling from the immaculate and pretty much unused kitchenette, to the dining table with a bowl of fruit, the clean couch and empty coffee table, and the little office in front of the French windows.

Stiles can see the things Theo is seeing, the black exposed brick walls, the half empty shelves, the way his loft apartment doesn’t seem to be lived in if it weren’t for the clothes thrown over the steps of the ladder leading to the bedroom, and the mouth wash by the sink. No pictures. No personal items. Nothing that needs to be packed in case of a hurried departure.

“I’m going to bed,” he says, kicking his sneakers under the coffee table. “Make sure to be gone when I wake up.”

“You need help.”

Stiles whips around, and Theo can only consider himself lucky, he doesn’t own anything he could potentially throw at him right now. “No,” he snaps. “I needed you. Needed. You hear that? Past tense. So, you can fuck off.”

Theo’s anger visibly deflates. “Stiles—“

“You know what I needed? You, keeping your promise five years ago.” Stiles advances on Theo, and he’s never realized how much he wanted to get everything off his chest. “I needed you by my side, but instead you’re in your private clinic while I’m being stitched up and sent home. I was fucking alone, and you didn’t bother returning a single call or text. Instead of getting through everything together like you promised, I got a money-hungry guardian who sold the rights to my life to a journalist who gets off on other people’s trauma. I had to get a lawyer who couldn’t do anything to stop the publication of the book, but hey, at least I got a bunch of money while my worst nightmare is being read and discussed by people I’ve never seen. So, I was eighteen, and I was alone because my friends and family have been slaughtered by a fucking psychopath. I fired the person who got paid to make sure I stay alive, and the person who I thought loved me hadn’t bothered to talk to me in over a year.” Sties shoves Theo, and Theo doesn’t do anything. He merely stumbles back a couple of steps, catching himself on the railing. “I moved to LA only for your cunt of a sister to release the snuff film her psycho fiancé filmed. Just that he didn’t get to kill me like he wanted to. No, instead the world gets to see how I stab him twenty-five times. I packed my shit up again and moved to New York, and after I went through all of this by myself, you have the fucking nerve to come here, take one look at my life and decide I need help?” Stiles grabs Theo by the collar of his expensive leather jacket and slams him against the kitchen counter. “Your fucking family ruined everything for me. I’m 21. I should have a college degree. I should be on the way to the FBI, but do you think they’d hire the guy who stabbed someone over twenty times? No, they don’t. Not when the world doubts it happened in self-defense because Tara only released what she wanted the public to see.” Taking a shaky breath, Stiles yanks Theo closer. “So, get the fuck out of my life.”

Tears start burning in his eyes, but the last thing he wants is allowing Theo to see how he really feels. Stiles shoves him once more for good measure and turns around. Part of him hoped he would feel better after finally getting to tell Theo most of the shit he wanted to throw in his face for years. But he isn’t. Not even a little bit.

Stiles is about to climb the ladder to his bedroom when Theo finds his voice again. “I never knew.” His voice is soft, almost inaudible.

It makes Stiles stop in his tracks regardless. “I wonder why,” he mutters under his breath, fingers tightening around the ladder. Just move. Still, his body refuses to cooperate. Something keeps him drawn to Theo, like a part of him refuses to let him go. Stiles lets out a breath. “Knew what?” But he knows the answer, deep down, he knows exactly what Theo is going to tell him.

“That you tried to contact me.”

Stiles lets go of the ladder and decides to collapse onto the couch instead, face in his hands. He’s tired and exhausted and not even close to ready to have this conversation. His life got turned upside-down five years ago, but his wounds are still bleeding as if it happened mere hours ago.

Theo crouches in front of him, one hand gently placed on Stiles’ knee — a touch just as familiar as the pain. “You were the first person I asked for when I woke up. My parents said you didn’t want to see me, and when I finally got my phone—“

“I had changed my number.” Stiles crosses his arms over his thighs. “I didn’t want to believe your parents when they told me you thought it would be better to go separate ways, but the silence from you… it got to my head.” Perhaps he should’ve tried harder. Perhaps he was the one who broke their promise.

Theo is shaking his head lightly, gaze fixed on something over Stiles’ shoulder. “I never saw any calls or texts… I don’t…” He draws his eyebrows together and looks at Stiles again. “I don’t understand why they would delete them.” When it comes to trusting Stiles or his parents, Theo doubts his family.

It should make Stiles feel good, instead he feels hollow, like someone carved out every single emotion. Theo never particularly liked his parents because they had his life planned out for him, yet he never distrusted them, always believed that they wanted what’s best for him. Becoming a famous football player deviates from that what they wanted. So, his parents either changed their tune after almost losing him, or Theo stood up to them.

Stiles smiles, and he knows it looks as empty as he feels. The Raekens didn’t want their son to pursue a career in football, and they had very specific expectations for his partner — expectations Stiles didn’t even come close to. “Theo,” he says in a soft voice, cupping the other man’s cheeks, “your parents despised me.” While they never cared for Theo dating a guy, they very much disliked that said boy was not from the same social bracket and struggled with ADHD and anxiety, which was decided not up to their standards.

“They never said anything.”

“To your face.” Stiles bites his bottom lip and puts his hands in his lap, tugging at a loose thread at the hem of his hoodie. Swallowing heavily, Stiles looks down at his fingers. “Do you know why… he did what he did?” All those years, he can’t bring himself to say the name. It’s easier to think about him in describing factors.

Tara’s fiancé.

He.

The monster.

Theo grabs his hands, squeezing his fingers gently. The touch alone makes Stiles’ heart beat in a way it hasn’t in a long time — almost like it just now remembers how to be alive. “He had a criminal record.” Which really begs the question why he was welcomed into the Raeken family with open arms, after all, his criminal record was impressive. Then again, he came from a family with old money, and boys that age simply make mistakes. Nothing to worry about. Theo squeezes his hands softly. “People think he wanted to get back at your father… but it doesn’t make any sense because…” Theo trails off, unable to look Stiles in the eye any longer.

It’s something people tend to do mid-conversation when they suddenly realize who their bartender really is. Theo doing it hurts more than he’s ready to admit. He swallows the pain, something he’s accustomed to do. “Because why keep me for last?” Stiles finishes the question in a hoarse whisper. The tears threaten to return, and he pulls away from Theo, curling into the corner of his couch he’s always hiding in when thing become bad. His throat aches with unspilled tears, but he can’t stop. Not now. Not when he can finally say all the things he’s buried for too long. “Your mother knows the truth.” Stiles wraps his arms around his shins, pulling his legs to his chest. “You can ask her.”

“My mother?” Theo repeats slowly, drawing his brows together in confusion.

Stiles nods, staring at a single drop of coffee in the white fabric he’s never noticed before.

“Why would my mother know?” Theo stands up and sits down next to him, the dip in the cushion almost causing Stiles to fall into him.

He curls his fingers into his jeans, barely resisting the urge to get up and leave. Where would he go? Where could he go knowing exactly what’s going to happen in a matter of minutes? The dam broke open. This isn’t the first time. It won’t be the last. The memories will return whether Stiles says it out loud or not. “Do you remember Tara’s 21st birthday?” Every word feels as if it is ripped out of his throat.

Theo nods slowly. “You left that night. I still don’t know why.”

Taking another shaky breath, Stiles keeps his gaze fixed on the coffee stain. He can’t look at Theo, not now. “I excused myself to the bathroom because I needed a break from everyone.” Social gatherings still get to him. His job as a bartender doesn’t make it easy to deal with but the bar separating him from everyone else helps. “He followed me upstairs.”

Next to him, Theo stiffens — either because he remembers that night, or because he can tell where this story is going.

“I went into your room. I didn’t lock the door.” Why would he? Why? At that point, Stiles didn’t need to be afraid. He licks his lips, curls his fingers tighter into his jeans. “He found me there. At first, he was sweet and understanding. He tried to coax me back down… but then—“ The words get stuck in his throat, choking him; one of the dirty secrets nobody is allowed to hear.

“Miecio.” There’s a crack in Theo’s voice, cutting the nickname in half Stiles hasn’t heard in more than five years. Fingers dance ghostlike over Stiles’ back, waiting for a reaction, for permission. Theo understands what he’s trying to tell him.

“Your mother came upstairs. That’s when he stopped.” His knuckles turn white, his joints aching from the pressure. The coffee stain is the only thing he sees. “I tried telling her what happened. She told me to leave before I ruined her daughter’s party. So, I left, and I didn’t tell anyone, and eight days later, Melissa found her son’s body on the front porch.” Stiles wishes he could point a finger at Theo’s mother, blaming her for his secret, for the silence that killed everyone he loved.

Almost everyone.

Theo cups his cheeks again, gently tilting his head and forcing Stiles to look at him. “This isn’t your fault.” He knows him too well, knows the inner working of his mind — sometimes better than Stiles does himself. “You couldn’t have known.” But Theo doesn’t know the whole story, and he certainly doesn’t know the ending.

The memory hits hard, but it doesn’t come out of nowhere. It does, what it always does when his mind can’t stop wandering; wrecking him.

Stiles tears away from Theo and rushes to the sink, throwing up bile and guilt, but the memory claws itself into every fiber of Stiles’ being, refusing to leave, ready to make him suffer for the rest of his life. It burns his body with shame, and it’s something he can never purge, no matter how many strangers he’s going to fuck in the back of his bar.

In an instant, Theo is by his side, trying to calm and comfort him. But there’s nothing he can do, nothing to stop the memories from coming back, from reality crashing in on him like an avalanche.

When the worst is over, Stiles runs the water and rinses his mouth with the mouthwash until he can’t taste the bile burning on his tongue any longer. Then he collapses in the corner of his kitchen, the one space in his apartment that lets him see everything and pulls his legs to his chest again. He really hoped the high of an orgasm would help him through the night. It barely lasted long enough to get home.

Theo kneels next him, brushing sweaty strand from Stiles’ forehead. “Something else happened that night,” he says, and his voice is even, almost as hollow as Stiles felt mere moments earlier. “And my sister knows.”

For a long time, Stiles wanted to tell Theo exactly how fucked up his family is. Theo’s always been aware they’re far from perfect, but Stiles doubts he knew how far they’d really go to protect their reputation. Now, that he knows the truth, Stiles doesn’t feel any better — not with the flashbacks, and most likely not without them.

Stiles leans against Theo, pressing his face against his chest. Then he’s in Theo’s arms, shuddering, curling his fingers into his soft shirt. A strong contrast to the rough hands tearing off his pants and boxer briefs, rolling him round and pressing his face against the dirty floor, an arm’s length away from Theo bleeding out. He told him Stiles could save his life as long as he behaved. So, he whispered, “okay,” and didn’t make another sound, didn’t dare to move as the monster claimed his body, tainting him for the rest of his life. But that was okay as long as he got to keep Theo. Because that’s what he promised; Stiles’ body for Theo’s life. It seemed like a simple trade at that time.

Theo rocks him softly, protecting him from ghosts.

“We’re going to get through this,” he had promised, bleeding from his wounds. None of them lethal. They were supposed to kill him only if Stiles didn’t behave.

“You promised,” Stiles whispers.

Because he behaved. Stiles behaved. He said so too only to decide that Theo needed to die anyway. It would be better that way, he’d said.

To this day, Stiles doesn’t know why the knife was left on the ground next to him. Maybe he thought Stiles to be too broken to do anything. But he forced himself to move, and he got dressed, grabbed the knife, and hid it behind his back.

You promised.

The words ring in Stiles’ ears, making it impossible to understand anything Theo is saying to soothe him.

Because he’s stuck in the past, stuck with Tara’s fiancé crouching in front of him, smiling as if he’s won their little game. Stiles didn’t smile back. He rammed the knife into his throat instead. He still remembers the feeling of the warm blood on his face just as much as the rage that took a hold of him as he stabbed him twenty-four more times before he collapsed, unable to move for what feels like an eternity.

Just like he is now.

Theo kisses the top of his head. “I’m here,” he whispers reassuringly. “I’m not going to leave, okay?” It’s a promise he’s heard before, a promise that was broken by outside force — it’s a broken promise, nonetheless. But Theo’s arms feel safe, and Stiles wants to believe him, wants to trust that this time nothing is going to come between them again. “How about you go to bed, and I find something to eat for you?”

“Sure,” Stiles whispers, although he’s neither hungry nor tired, however, he’s aware when people need a minute to breathe. Theo’s life has been crumbling too when Stiles was having his mental breakdown. His life will be falling apart for a little longer while the truth carves its place.

Stiles gets to his feet, Theo’s hand secure at the small of his back, and then he crosses the room, alone and feeling just as empty as every single day of his life.

Upstairs, Stiles tosses his clothes in the hamper and slips into his sweatpants. He doesn’t go to bed though, instead he crouches by the opening, listening to Theo looking through his kitchen. For a few moments, that’s all he hears.

Then Theo’s icy voice cuts through the apartment. “I don’t give a shit about how early it is, Tara.”

Stiles swallows and backs away. He should’ve known. Squeezing his eyes shut, Stiles curls into bed, trying his very best to block out Theo’s voice. It should be easy. Theo doesn’t yell when he’s angry after all. But his cold tone crawls into his consciousness, and there is nothing Stiles can do about it.

“You know exactly what video I’m talking about.” A drawer slams shut, the only outbreak Theo will allow himself to have. A Raeken does not lose his temper. They are composed and always in control of the situation. That’s why Theo is made of repressed rage. “Tell me what he did, and don’t you dare lie to me.”

Biting back a sob, Stiles curls into a ball and pulls the blanket over his head. That’s how the monsters stay away. He covers his ears with his hands. That’s how Theo’s words won’t reach him.

That’s how he stays until the mattress dips.

Stiles lowers his arms, moving the blanket enough that he spots the sandwich Theo placed on his nightstand. He doesn’t say anything, neither does Stiles. Both waiting for what will happen next. Theo told him he wouldn’t leave, but that was something he said before he knew the full extent of what happened.

The mattress dips again. This time, Theo is crawling into bed with him, slipping under the blanket and back into his life as he wraps an arm around Stiles’ middle. His warmth and body are familiar, safe, a remnant from a time that was easier, happier, hopeful.

Sleep refuses to come regardless. Theo doesn’t fall asleep either, Stiles can tell by the way his body never fully relaxes, and how he tries to breathe softly enough as if not to startle him. With the truth out in the open, Theo considers him fragile. Stiles wonders what the world would think about him if they knew the whole story.

When the first rays of sunshine find their way into his bedroom, Stiles turns around only to find Theo already looking back at him. “Hey,” he whispers.

Theo’s eyes crinkle slightly. “Hi.”

Stiles watches as the soft morning light draws patterns on Theo’s cheek. He traces one, unable to stop himself, and smiles as blue eyes flutter shut. He looks peaceful like this, as if nothing bad ever happened in his life. But his body speaks a different language. Stiles trails his fingers down Theo’s chest, eyes never straying from his face when he finds his scars; scars he got because of Stiles, because he’s stubborn and needed to learn which battles to pick.

Before he can talk himself out of it, Stiles kisses Theo. Everything from the shape of his lips to the way they fit against his makes his whole body ache — and Theo kisses him back, arm tightening around his waist. The familiarity is breathtaking. Suddenly, no time has passed. They’re in Stiles’ bedroom, trying to be quiet, trying not to wake his dad.

But when Stiles slips his fingertips underneath the waistband of Theo’s boxer briefs, he grabs his wrist and stops him inches away from his dick. He doesn’t pull away. Not yet, at least. “What are you doing?” he asks, lips moving against Stiles’.

Drown out the memories. Reclaim his past, his body. Trying to be whole. “What do you think?” Stiles replies instead, casual, like this is something that happens every other day. It doesn’t. Not like this. People don’t usually stop him when he tries to hook up with them. Usually, they can’t fuck him fast enough. Theo used to be like that. He couldn’t get inside him fast enough, and usually, he enjoyed his afterglow still buried deep inside of him.

This is new.

Stiles doesn’t like new.

Theo pulls away, not far, just enough to study his face. “Stiles…”

“I’m not broken.” Stiles dragged himself out of the gutter too many times to be broken. He won’t deny that he’s damaged, but he is fine. After all, he has survived so far – and most of it, he did on his own. Stiles doesn’t need to be coddled, especially not by Theo; not years after everything has already blown up in their faces. 

Smiling, Theo brushes his thumb over the back of Stiles’ neck. A soothing gesture. The exact opposite of what he needs. “I know.”

“Do you?” Stiles yanks his hand free and sits up, anger and shame and desperation swirling inside of him. This is why he fucks strangers. Commitment causes issues. Commitment means people look at him and see him for how fucked up he really is. Commitment means allowing someone in the way he let Theo in, and Stiles can’t go through that again. “Maybe you should leave.” Stiles closes his eyes and falls back into the mattress.

Theo rolls over and leans over him. “I don’t think so,” he whispers before bending down again and crashes their mouths together. It’s too hard, a bit to clumsy, not the way Theo would usually kiss him. But there’s something desperate in the way clings to him; almost like he’s afraid that if he lets go, Stiles will force him out.

Perhaps he would.

But Stiles is just as desperate for this than Theo. “Good,” he mutters into the kiss, pushing a hand between them again. This time, Theo doesn’t stop him when he reaches for his dick. “Then fuck me like you mean it.”

Theo shudders above him, either because of his words or because Stiles is dragging his thumb over the tip of his dick. He still remembers what Theo enjoys, what gets him hard the fastest, how to wrap him around his little finger and make him cum so hard he forgets his own name. Today, however, isn’t about Theo.

And Theo is aware of that.

He pulls away and grabs Stiles’ waist, easily turning him onto his stomach. “Lube,” he commands in a low voice as he pulls him onto his knees. There’s nothing particularly gentle about it, not his touch, not the way he opens Stiles’ pants and yanks them over his ass, or the way presses a finger against his rim.

This time, Stiles shudders and closes his eyes. It’s easy to forget how well Theo knows his body too. He needs a few seconds to remember that he’s supposed to grab lube. Although Stiles doesn’t take anyone home with him, he keeps a bottle of lube in the box next to the bed. He pushes the lid open just enough to push his hand in, fingers brushing over pill bottles before he manages to fish out the lube, which he tosses unceremoniously at Theo.

The hands vanish from his ass, and Stiles uses the time to get rid of his clothes. In his hopeless dreams, his reunion with Theo always ended up being a bit softer, full of longing and love. There’s love still, somewhere deep inside of him, but as of right now, there’s lust and despair, the desire to drown with hard sex what he’d usually use pills for.

Theo’s hand returns, grip tight on his hip and stilling Stiles, as two wet fingers push against his rim without any hesitation. He pushes into him until his second knuckle, making a sound that’s somewhere between annoyance and want. It’s not too hard to figure out that Theo’s thoughts are wandering to what he saw earlier tonight.

‘Your fault,’ Stiles wants to say, but he merely groans and pushes his face into his pillow. “Warn a guy,” he utters against the fabric, sounding way too breathless already. They’ve barely started.

Theo huffs and pulls his fingers back. There is even less softness now that Theo is clearly pissed off at Stiles sleeping around – as if he has any right to be angry or hurt. Nobody forced him to watch. He’s free to leave. But he doesn’t. He stays and buries himself in Stiles with a quiet grunt. When they’re pressed together so close nothing could fit between them, Theo stills, and Stiles reminds himself to breathe because he forgot how good it felt to have Theo inside him.

There used to be a time when Stiles could relax like this after a stressful day. Sometimes, he even managed to fall asleep with Theo balls deep inside of him – for a while, at least. Usually, he woke up to his boyfriend’s resolve breaking.

Ex-boyfriend.

Stiles licks his lips and looks over his shoulder, watching Theo staring down at him. “Do you need any help?” he asks and quirks a brow. “Or are you going to fuck me anytime soon?”

For a few heavy heartbeats, Theo simply looks at him, eyes almost searching for something. His lips curl into a disapproving line as he isn’t successful – and then he pulls back, only to snap his hips forward in a way that’s so familiar, so achingly hard, so right. Theo fucks him confidently and without further hesitation. His mouth explores every inch of Stiles’ body he cans reach – as if he doesn’t know him inside out. His fingers leave marks, reclaiming ownership of something he thought has left him.

But it’s worse.

Someone stole it.

The desperation and anger are clear in every thrust, in the way his fingers press into his skin, short nails digging in enough to leave little half-moons.

It’s hurts just right. The edge of pain making him harder than he’s been in the past few years – since he’s lost Theo. There could probably something be said about him, said about the way this type of sex feels so much better than all the other random hook-ups with strangers in the back of his bar. Maybe it’s the pain, or maybe it’s simply Theo; his body remembering everything.

His name rolls over Theo’s tongue, and this hurts in a different way. It cuts deeper, memories cursing him, a future that could never be trying to drag him under.

Stiles bites into his pillow and squeezes his eyes shut, trying to match Theo’s thrust as best as he can. Although he doesn’t have to do much. The hands holding his waist in an iron grip are doing the work for him. They’re having sex, yes, but in a way, they both are chasing their very own needs that simply seem to line up in some way.

Theo keeps fucking him in the same all but violent pace. Hips snapping forward, slapping against his own with an almost obscene sound, and nailing his prostate with almost every thrust.

Stiles spits the pillow out, propping himself up enough that he can see. A gasp escapes him, every sound punched out of him by Theo's dick. He grabs his own, fingers cool against the hot skin. Opening his mouth, Stiles watches the muscles in Theo’s thighs work, how his fingers dig deeper into his skin – as if he’s scared, he might vanish. Theo is chasing something, something he lost years ago, something Stiles gave away to protect him.

Part of him hopes he’ll find it again.

Maybe it’s better if he doesn’t.

Squeezing his eyes closed, Stiles moves his hands up and down his dick, fingers tightening near the tip. He’s chasing his release, the moments of freedom it gives him from his thoughts.

His muscles tighten when Theo’s thrust turn shallow, more irregular, and he’s so fucking close to cum. But Theo beats him to it. He moans his name, a sound somewhere between a curse and a moan.

Stiles cusses under his breath, struggling to keep up on his legs and arm with Theo’s weight splayed on top of him. He’s jerking himself off, desperate for his orgasm. His brain all but short-circuits when it finally hits him. For a few blissful moments, Stiles is in heaven – no thoughts, no memories, just his body, unchained.

Perhaps that’s part of the reason he’s chasing this so much.

But the return to earth is never fun.

This time, however, Stiles feels Theo’s hands brushing over his sides, his mouth placing soft kisses over his back, on his shoulders, the very bottom of the nape of his neck. He’s also still buried deep inside of him.

Stiles lets out a breath. For the first time, he prefers that his hook up hasn’t moved an inch. He embraces the weight of his body on top of his, although he’s gained some muscles in the past few years while Stiles isn’t much more than skin and bones. “Theo,” he says anyway, trying to get the word ‘move’ out of his mouth but it refuses to pass his lips. Things can’t be like they were before. Theo can promise him to stay all he wants, too much has happened, too much has changed. Stiles is too much.

But he can’t bring himself to end it.

Very carefully, Theo eases them both on their sides without pulling out. “What happens now?”

Stiles closes his eyes. So much for his afterglow. “You go back to being a football star, I go back to fucking myself up further. Everyone’s happy.” The lie burns on his tongue, but it’s easier to pretend than to open himself up emotionally only to lose Theo again. He’s not going to survive that. It’ll be a miracle if he survives this night.

“What if I don’t want that?” Theo runs his left hand up his chest, resting it above his heart. “I didn’t come here to walk away from you again.” His breath is hot on the back of his neck, the arm around him pulling him closer. 

Despite himself, Stiles grabs Theo’s hand and intertwines their fingers. It comes so easy, so natural. “You don’t want that.” He would like to pretend it’s more instinct than his fear of losing Theo as well. Everything with Theo feels so natural, like nothing ever happened, like they’ve never been apart for even a fucking second. “My life’s a shitshow, and the world’s going to drag you into it.” I’m going to drag you into it a nightmare.

Theo kisses his shoulder. “I don’t care.”

“Don’t—“ There’s a part of him that wants to pull away, to get out of bed, but Stiles doesn’t want to lose the feeling of Theo against his back or his dick inside of him – despite a bit of cum sticking to his thigh, cooling against his skin.

“I promised we’d get through this together,” Theo whispers, running his fingers up and down Stiles’ sternum.

“It wasn’t your fault.” Even though it still feels like it. Five years of believing Theo simply dropped him aren’t going to vanish overnight. Stiles places his hand on top of Theo’s again, squeezing his fingers tightly.

Theo kisses his shoulder, lips curling into a smile against his skin. “I’m never going to leave you again.”

“It’s not worth it.” Stiles can see the headlines, can already tell what the world is going to think if their golden boy is seen with him. The stories they spin. They’re going to dig deep. They’re going to find out Theo’s been there too; keeping his name out of the media is the one thing Stiles and the Raekens could agree on.

But Theo pulls him closer, body so warm and safe and comforting. “You’re worth it. You’re worth everything and more.” 

Stiles hums and closes his eyes, allowing himself to believe Theo.

At least for one day.

---

[msmischief101]

♞Pairing: Steo ♞Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Theo Raeken ♞Tags: slice of life, alpha!Theo, future fic ♞Words: 1754

ao3

___

The blaring of an alarm startles him awake. His hand grasps at nothing, and he topples to the right. A noise rivalling the sound of the alarm escapes him. His stomach drops like a stone as the ground comes to meet his face at lightning speed – and then it stops moving, or rather, he does when the arm around his waist tightens and pulls him back on the couch.

Fuck.

It’s too early for his heart to pound as hard as it does right now. Holy shit.

The alarm stops, and Stiles sucks in a breath, craning his neck to check outside. It’s still dark. Why the hell did he wake up to an alarm? It’s fucking Sunday.

Wait.

He squints. “What time is it?”

Theo nuzzles the nape of his neck, scruff scratching the sensitive skin. “8 pm.”

Goosebumps spread across his skin. Stiles shudders at the sensation. He honestly wouldn’t mind if Theo kept doing that for the rest of the day, well, night.

Stiles groans. “I was supposed to call dad before work.” It’s a thing they started doing after everything they’ve narrowly survived in Beacon Hills, especially before the nightshifts, and after Stiles left for college. Knowing he’s spoken to his dad in case of a shift gone wrong makes him feel at ease.

“He called,” Theo whispers against his neck, “told me not to wake you up. Apparently, he’s got a full night of paperwork ahead of him.”

Frowning, he shuffles around until he can face Theo without craning his neck. They’re squished together on Stiles’ couch, almost nose to nose now, breathing each other’s air. Only nine months ago, Stiles was willing to throttle Theo on sight. Now, they’re spending almost every night together, and Theo is answering his calls, apparently. It snuck up on him, slow and steady, and sometimes, Stiles still waits for the other shoe to drop.

And then Theo brings Wedel chocolate and Delicje and his favorite butter and salt chips to their movie nights, he cuts out pork on during pack dinner night because Stiles allergic, watches Star Wars and comic adaptions without complaining, and listens to Stiles’ info-dumping on random topics with the patience of a thousand saints. He even makes sure he eats and drinks when he can’t bring himself to stop doing whatever he’s invested in at the moment.

He indulges him.

So much so, that his pack complains about Theo playing favorites.

Theo brushes hair out of Stiles’ forehead, small frown wrinkling the skin between his eyebrows. “what’s going on in that pretty head of yours?” He cups his cheek, brushing his thumb over Stiles’ mole.

The crush he has on the guy is already unhealthy enough, all this caring alpha act is going to drive Stiles up the wall. Theo wasn’t supposed to be a good alpha, he was supposed to be the lethal solution to all of his problems. That’s how their relationship of convenience started. Stiles was sick of allowing hunters and monsters to walk away, Theo was willing to dispose of all those problems.

Voila.

Then the feelings came.

And decided to stick around.

Stiles scowls, “you should’ve woken me up anyway.”

“You seemed like you needed sleep.” Theo curls his fingers around his chin and tips his head slightly back. “And you looked soft, like someone I'd ruin with a touch.” He brushes his mouth against Stiles’, more a whisper than a kiss, before pressing his lips to the corner of his mouth. Fucking give him a break. Seriously.

His fingers find Theo’s collar, and he tugs at it, holds him close. “That ship has already sailed, trust me.”

Theo growls, deep and low, a dark rumble in the evening of his apartment; it’s the hottest thing Stiles has ever heard. The grip on his hip turns vice-like as anger and frustration fill the air around them. It’s a warning, a saving grace, the only thing keeping Stiles’ sanity intact while every fiber of his body tells him to take what’s offered.

The is unstable, even more than Stiles himself.

He combs his fingers through Theo’s messy strands instead. “What’s wrong, buttercup?”

Theo curls his lips disapprovingly. Turns out, he’s not a fan of nicknames – even less when used mockingly. But he’s given up pointing that out long ago. So, he sighs instead, a sound only capable of being produced by someone who resigned himself to his fate. “I don’t want to go.”

Stiles runs his fingers up the nape of Theo’s neck. A low heat spreads from his chest to the rest of his body, almost as if his heart is slowly replacing his blood with molten lava. “What do you want instead?” Because, truth be told, as much as this started out as using Theo’s obsession against him, Stiles wouldn’t mind spending every night for the rest of his life just like this; limbs tangled, pressed together as close as possible, and their hearts beating in sync.  

“My teeth,” Theo whispers, brushing his closed mouth over sensitive skin, “in your neck.”

Fucking hell.

Stiles hooks his left leg around Theo’s and pulls him between his legs. “Sexually or violently?”

Another growl fills the silence around them before Theo nips Stiles’ jaw. “You really have to ask?”

Hands wander under Stiles’ shirt, and he shudders, pulling his shoulders up as goosebumps spread all over his body. The power this man has over his body should not be allowed — it wasn’t even planned. But Theo just showed up and turned Stiles’ whole world upside down, and when it comes to the chimera, Stiles is a weak, weak man.

He leans up, brushing their noses together, and presses a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Then stay?”

Theo lets out a breath. “I can’t.”

Stiles tries his hardest to keep his disappointment buried. “The duties of an alpha.”

Sighing, Theo sits up. “It’s more about keeping Donovan out of prison.”

“If you ask me—“

“I’m not asking.” Theo grabs Stiles by his shirt and pulls him back onto his lap. It is fascinating that, out of all the issues that could have possibly arrived between them, Donovan is the only one that constantly causes an argument.

Stiles huffs but as he tries to get up, Theo pulls him back down, a hand tightly around his neck. “He tried to eat my legs. Sorry, for still holding a grudge.”

Theo chuckles, dark and strangely enticing. “You’re not sorry.”

“Just saying,” Stiles mutters and scrunches up his face, “I’m not getting him out of prison.” If he’s entirely honest, he’s just waiting for the moment Donovan fucks up royally, and Theo admits that he’s more trouble than he’s worth. Donovan is constantly two seconds away from doing something stupid. All Theo needs to do is let him take the fall for once. Stiles’ dad can’t wait to put him behind bars again either.

This time for good.

“Hence why I need to be there.” His smirk doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but Theo tugs him closer by the nape of his neck regardless, curling his free arm around Stiles’ waist to pull him as close as possible once more. “You could join me,” he whispers pressing short little kisses from the left corner of Stiles’ mouth to his right. It such an intimate gesture, like they’ve known each other for years already, like they’ve known each other all along, and they haven’t just started fucking two months ago.

It would be their first outing as whatever they are, but that’s not the reason Stiles is more than willing to decline that offer. He’s not exactly in the mood to be around people today – aside from Theo, that is. Besides, “so, I’m one stupid comment away from getting my face rearranged?” They both know Stiles wouldn’t be able to keep his mouth shut, and Donovan wouldn’t be able to control himself – not even for Theo.

Theo narrows his eyes. His grip tightens to a point bordering on pain. “He’d be dead before he touches you.”

“Then maybe I should join you.” Stiles quirks a brow and puts a finger under Theo’s chin, raising his head – fully unimpressed by the red eyes glaring back at him. While it is more than unlikely that Theo will be voted “most-caring alpha” anytime soon, he’s not the biggest fan of jokes about weakening his pack; killing Donovan, unfortunately, means exactly that.

Instead of arguing, Theo huffs out a breath.

“Fine.” Stiles moves off Theo’s lap and flops onto the couch next to him. “Then maybe consider getting him laid. It would do him some good to get rid of all that pent-up up rage.”

Theo narrows his eyes. “I hope you’re not offering.”

“I’d rather make out with a dung beetle than let this guy get anywhere near me, thank you very much.” Stiles gets to his feet, stretching languidly.

Chuckling, Theo wraps his arms around Stiles’ waist and runs his lips along the side of his neck.

A shudder runs down Stiles’ spine. He hates Theo has to leave, and he hates that he hates it so much. If he had any energy left, he’d probably drag himself into the club and play nice just to make sure Tracy isn’t trying to climb Theo like a tree again.

Under normal circumstances, he lives to disappoint, and watching Tracy’s face fall whenever he strolls onto the scene is a special kind of pleasure.

But work has been torturous for the past few weeks. He’s drowning in overtime and doesn’t have any percent left in his social battery. He’d only end up moody and grumpy and be pissed at Theo for agreeing to come along, ruining a perfectly good weekend filled with sex, cuddles and good food.

Not necessarily in that order.

“I’ll come back later,” Theo whispers against his skin. “Just going to get Donovan through the night then I’ll be yours for the weekend.”

Stiles smiles, trying to ignore his heart dancing in excitement. “Sounds promising.”

“I’ll make it worth your while,” Theo whispers.

“I’m expecting nothing less.” Stiles closes his eyes, enjoying the last moments before Theo leaves to hang out with his pack. Turns out, he’s gotten embarrassingly attached already. “Make it quick.” Stiles doesn’t like how needy he sounds.

Theo laughs. “I haven’t left and you’re already missing me?”

“Don’t ruin the moment.”

Theo lips curve against the nape of his neck.

Stiles’ heart skips a bit. Yeah, he’s never going to live that down.

[msmischief101]

♞Pairing: Steo ♞Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Theo Raeken, Mason Hewitt, Liam Dunbar ♞Tags/Warnings: - ♞Words: 5320 ♞ @steodiscord's SteoSpooktober Vol.5 - Costume ♞Part 1 - House of Darkness / Part 3 -

a/n: This fic can be read without reading Part 1, but there will be references to what happened in "House of Darkness".

ao3

***

once upon a do-over

Stiles pushes his hands in the pockets of his jeans, squinting at the old structure maybe 250 feet away from them. It might have been a castle once. The sand-colored bricks and tower still left standing seem to hint at it. There’s no shot it’s from royalty; there would have to be records of that. Biting the inside of his cheeks, Stiles squints at the tower. He can’t quite figure out why, but something about it makes him feel a bit… queasy? Perhaps. He just doesn’t like the feeling it causes in the pit of his stomach. There’s something wrong about it, Stiles can’t put his finger on what. Although, it could very well have everything to do with the no-trespassing signs all over the goddamn place.

What he knows for certain, however, is that he’s been right. Not the biggest surprise. He didn’t expect Mason to calm him months after the Conjuring House debacle to invite him to a costume party. Luckily, Stiles will be going on a costume party later today, so, Lydia’s three hour-long makeover will not be for nothing. Her very recent obsession with American Horror Story’s first season has translated into his costume, and since she wasn’t allowed to paint Jackson’s perfect face white, Stiles ended up as the Tate Langdon to her Violet Harmon. The good thing about this costume is, the skeleton make-up does make his face unrecognizable, something he’s still very much interested in. The bad thing? His clothes – especially his black jeans – are tight, much tighter than any clothes he owns.

Still, since Mason and Liam clearly lied to him, questions need to be asked. “Why are we here?”

Mason turns to him, beaming like a thousand watts. “Because this is Satan’s Castle.”

Liam bounces on his heels, clearly sharing his best friend’s excitement. They’re infuriatingly happy about absolutely everything. It’s terrible.

“No,” Stiles says, gesturing back and forth between Theo and him – because, yes, Theo joined this trip as well – “why are we here?” This isn’t an emergency, especially none that required Stiles and Theo. Together. Joining Liam and Mason on their stupid little exploration. They’re not friends. Never have been. Lydia asked Stiles to keep an eye on these shitheads during their visit to the Conjuring House. That does not mean he’s required to be around all the time whenever they go to some shady sounding places.

It's not that he wouldn’t, Stiles simply hates that Theo is here too after he finally stopped being pissed at him.  

But, hey, this is what he gets for taking a gap year and deciding to live closer to home again. Not that Los Angeles is that close. Ever since the Conjuring House adventure, Stiles isn’t sure he wants to become an FBI Agent. That was his dad’s dream until a kid was in the picture. Stiles gets the appeal, and part of him still wants to help the living. The more time he spends away from Harvard, working jobs most people don’t even know exist, he wonders if perhaps the dead and other creatures not fit to be around the living are his forte – and it pays more than well. People are giving him surreal amounts of money even if he just tells them they have rats in their walls instead of a poltergeist.

Mason exchanges a quick glance with Liam. “Well,” he says because the latter decides that his camera is a lot more interesting than the conversation, “you’re brilliant and mysterious and can see dead people, and you—” Mason cocks his head to the side a little and shrugs, “you’re hot.”

Theo raises his brows. “You mean I have the money.” That he's ignoring the comment about his appearance says a lot about what type of mood he's in. Although Stiles doesn’t have any idea why Theo is mad. He’s not the one who’s been ghosted for seven fucking months.

“Our viewers don’t exactly care about that,” Liam says barely loud enough to be heard.

Stiles folds his arms over his chest. “There’s no costume party.” Mason is a terrible liar, but Stiles agreed to this because as angry as he’s been with Theo, part of him wanted to see that asshole again – either to draw a line in the sand officially, or to give this another shot. He’s not quite sure yet. He’s not exactly proud of it – and he's even less proud of allowing Lydia to put him in these ridiculously tight jeans.

But it’s working; he’s caught Theo looking more than once.

Mason tugs on his own costume – Count Dracula, judging by the impressive cloak he keeps stumbling over – and pulls his shoulders up. “It’s a Halloween special.”

“It’s a—" Theo cuts himself off and turns away with a roll of his eyes.

“You didn’t even come in costume,” Liam snipes, who – very lazily, mind you – threw on a pair of scrubs and a doctor’s coat.

Theo bares his teeth, fangs looking as deadly as always. “I don’t need one.”

“I think the more pressing issue is that you guys lied to us.” Stiles isn’t the biggest fan of being used. It’s fucking rude in general, but after being a meat puppet for a 1000-year-old fox demon, shit like this hits very differently. “You could’ve just asked.” Although Stiles isn’t entirely sure he would’ve agreed after the disaster the Conjuring House ended up being. He really didn’t appreciate being flung around like a ragdoll.

Fucking demons and their audacity.

“I wouldn’t have come—”

“You agreed the moment I mentioned Stiles,” Liam shoots back, clearly done with everyone’s attitude.

Stiles glances at Theo, who resolutely stares in the other direction. Even his gnashed teeth don’t hide the slight tinge of pink on his cheeks. Fuck. What the hell does that mean? Theo never called after the night they spent together, and Stiles gave up after his second text went unanswered but read for months – and that’s why he should have said ‘no’ instead of ‘sure, why not?’ the moment Mason brought him up.

Yet here he is.

Sighing, Stiles raises his hands in mock defeat. “Fine,” he says, trying his hardest not to sound as delighted as he feels, “we’re already here. Give me your research.” He beckons for the phone Mason has been clutching to his chest like his prized possession.

The huge grin on his lips certainly proves that he’s been waiting for his request. “The story is wild,” Mason tells him as he hands over his phone.

Stiles draws his brows together. “The first sentence states that—"

“I know.” Mason waves his hand around dismissively. “But every legend has a kernel of truth, right?”

“I mean… in theory, I guess, yeah…” Stiles trails off, understanding why they wanted him to come so desperately, they dragged Theo here as well. They want to figure out the truth, or rather, they want someone to confirm this research. Frowning at the phone, Stiles sighs. He’d like to be a bit more optimistic, but everything Mason found points in a very different direction. Nothing is known about this place, not even who built it; the best guess is some random tycoon living in the late 1800s. They can’t even say what it was used for — only that Robert Atkinson apparently owned it at one point. Otherwise, the usual rumors are attached to these ruins, dark rituals, satanism, secret tunnels, and— “fucking hell.”

“400 kids?” Theo asks, startling Stiles as he leans even closer to continue to read. “They flew them back and forth and nobody noticed?”

“Not at once.” Stiles rolls his eyes. Still, Theo does have a point. “Also, it’s the ritualistic assault that’s concerning me more, but good to know where your priorities lie.” Shaking his head, he hands the phone back to Mason. There’s not really anything in there that’s remotely helpful. It sounds as if people are desperately trying to fill the history of ruins that should have plenty already. Of course, they want to believe that means some bad shit went down here. People are wired that way. But the ruins are part of somebody’s backyard, and it doesn’t look particularly decrepit. So, whoever owns it, takes pretty good care of it — and unless they’re a Satanist, too, it’s hard to imagine something’s going on here.

Besides, Tara, who once again decided to follow her brother around, has no qualms inspecting the place. She’s been quite nervous at the Conjuring House. She’s completely different here. Perhaps, she is enjoying the view as well.

The Rim of the World is undoubtedly breathtaking.

Staring at the horizon isn’t going to get him any faster to the party, though. Stiles sighs again and heads towards the ruins. “This better not be a waste of a good costume.”

“And my priorities are out of whack?” Theo asks with a snort.

Stiles shoots him a look over his shoulder. He grimaces a little when he spots Liam already handling the camera. There’s no way he’s ever going to enjoy or get used to being always filmed.

“Are you seeing anything?” Liam asks.

Now that Stiles has stopped ignoring every single ghost, it has gotten significantly easier to see and hear them. It’s quite unsettling, if he’s entirely honest, because blocking them out becomes increasingly harder. Here’s to hoping the same doesn’t go for anything else. “Aside from the ‘No Trespassing’ signs?” Or the aggressive neighborhood watch sign informing them that the police will be called immediately. Stiles is very glad his face is obscured by paint because there are most likely more cameras around.

“Ghosts,” Liam deadpans. “Demons. Entities?”

“Take your pick,” Theo adds with a bark of laughter.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “No, there’s nothing.” Well, aside from Tara roaming the grounds, but she hardly counts. Her relaxed state and the absence of other ghosts can only mean one thing; nothing happened here. If there had been as many satanic rituals as the research suggested, the place would be crowded. They are dawn to evil places, to places with a brutal history; all those lingering negative feelings are like catnips to the spirits who refuse to move on — or to the entities who have no business being here.

“We’re not even there yet,” Mason mutters, sounding more than annoyed as he walks off the street and heads towards the field, his cloak swooshing dramatically after him.

Liam follows his friend, panning the camera slowly away from Theo and Stiles, over the ruins, and to where Mason is now awkwardly stumbling downhill. Someone clearly has no intention of getting too close to the person owning the castle. Probably not the worst idea. If they have to trespass, it’s most definitely smarter to do it from below. They’re taking a risk, overall, and it would suck if they did so for nothing.

But Stiles doesn’t want to play pretend or straight-up lie, and he doubts they would want that either. He doesn’t know the guys very well, but their final product about the Conjuring House has been pretty honest. It was more of a documentary than a scare-fest, littered with solid history spoken over beautifully shot B-roll of the house. Maybe that’s why people enjoyed it so much. There was no script, no weird sound effects — just the raw footage cut together into a mostly coherent narrative. They’re probably planning to do the same for this place.

“You don’t have to feel guilty.”

“Keep your nose out of my chemo signals, Theodore.” Stiles narrows his eyes and studies the other boy for a few moments; the fact that he looks amazing in his leather jacket, tight jeans and skintight purple tank top suddenly pisses him off, although it’s not Theo’s fault Stiles got his hopes up. “You lost that right when you couldn’t pick up the fucking phone or text me back.” He’s not usually this aggressively honest about his feelings, but Theo’s behavior really got to him. It felt different. He didn’t sound like the usual dickhead trying to talk his way into someone’s pants.

And usually, Stiles is a magnet for those exact dickheads. He should’ve listened to his gut, but no. Trust the jock with the sad childhood story, why would he end up as a cliché? Clearly, Stiles was very wrong about that, and he’s not planning on making that mistake again.

“Okay,” Theo amends, the smirk betraying his apologetic voice, “I know, but I—"

Stiles holds up a hand and turns away. “Save it.” This discussion can wait, or even better yet, it does not need to happen. It was clearly a misunderstanding, although Stiles isn’t entirely sure what could be misunderstood when they’d both exchanged numbers. Theo changed his mind, or maybe he simply did it to placate Stiles, thinking he’d never see him again.

Whatever.

Stiles turns away and heads down the hill to join Mason and Liam. The last thing he needs is being alone with Theo any longer than strictly necessary. They’ll have enough time to pass between each other when Mason and Liam gather some B-roll.

The hill is a lot steeper than it looked from up top, and the ground underneath his feet isn’t exactly sturdy. Rocks and dirt roll down the hill. Neither his Vans nor the tight jeans Lydia forced him into are helpful in this endeavor.

What was he even thinking? That Theo would magically change his mind just because his ass looks great? He’s such an idiot, and soon, he might be an idiot rolling down a mountain on camera. This evening is going swimmingly. But at least he’s not sweating his ass and makeup off.

“Fuck,” Theo curses softly. A moment later, he falls past him, a bunch of rubble joining his tumble down the hill. He ends up on his ass and slides a bit further down until he manages to stop himself on a bigger rock jutting out of ground.

Stiles presses his lips together, trying his best not to laugh.

Heaving a breath, Theo glares at him over his shoulder.

Liam and Mason are still engrossed in a conversation, checking something on the latter’s phone.

“Pay me enough, and I didn’t see a thing,” Stiles tells him, carefully continuing down the mountain. If he falls, his pants are toast, and he’s certainly not going to be on camera with his jeans ripped in unfortunate places.

Brushing off dust and dirt, Theo huffs out a breath. “Name your price.”

“You wouldn’t be able to afford me,” Stiles shoots back instantly, although he’s not entirely sure about that. Judging by all his comments, Theo seems to be loaded. He’s usually the one driving, and he was the one paying for the hotel back in Rhode Island.

He’s almost reached Mason and Liam standing by the tower when something catches his eye. It’s a flurry of motion, drained of color like ghosts usually are. Stiles cranes his neck to see where it went, unsure if it’s Tara or someone else. In this moment of inattentiveness, he puts his foot on rubble and dirt that instantly gives way underneath him — his balance goes straight out of the window. Stiles curses under his breath as he frantically looks around for something to catch himself on.

There is nothing.

Of course.

Liam turns around, probably alerted by noises of stones rolling down the hill right behind him. His eyes grow wide, and he presses the camera into Mason’s hands. Before he has the chance to move, however, strong hands grab Stiles’ waist, stopping further disaster from happening.

“Careful now, we don’t want you to ruin your costume, do we?” Theo’s voice is barely a whisper. It’s sending shivers up and down Stiles’ spine.

He loathes the effect this guy has on him regardless of the months of frustration he suffered. But that’s in the past. Stiles let his guard down once, he’s now learned from his mistake, and he will not do it again — although Theo’s hands on his waist feel amazing regardless of his current resentment of the guy. He certainly wouldn’t complain if his hand slipped under— no. Absolutely not. “I think I saw something.” Stiles straightens himself, his foothold just secure enough that the ground won’t give away under him, and elbows Theo in the ribs. Sharp pain travels up his arm. He grimaces.

Fucking werewolves.

Mason’s eyes light up. “Where?” he asks, pushing the camera back in Liam’s hands.

“Somewhere over there.” Stiles points in the opposite direction of the ruins. “It might’ve been Tara. I’m not sure.”

“Where’s she now?” All the playfulness has left Theo’s voice. His sister remains a sore spot. It probably hasn’t gotten any easier now that he knows she’s following him around; if he believes it, that is.

Stiles shakes his head. “I can’t see her right now.”

“And that’s a good sign?” Liam inquires, glancing around the mountain.

“I don’t know yet.” Although the place doesn’t necessarily feel as evil as the name Satan’s Castle would suggest, now that Stiles is up close and personal with it, something feels… weird. Not inherently evil. This is nothing like the Conjuring House, but there is something. He just can’t tell if it’s bad history or something entirely different.

Mason rubs his hands together. “Could fire cleanse this place?”

“You mean ‘burn it down’? Theo asks, stepping so close his shoulder bumps against Stiles’.

It’s almost impossible to shut down the shouting match between his brain ordering him to move away and his body begging to step closer. Instead, Stiles crosses his arms. “That depends on how they did it.”

“With fire?”

Stiles turns to glare at Theo. “Do you ever shut up?” Despite everything he went through at the Conjuring House, he’s still a fucking shithead. Unbelievable. How the hell can he still be so doubtful regarding everything that’s going on?

The grin spreading on the other’s lips doesn’t bode well. “Feel free to use kisses as a method to shut me up any time.”

Stiles has never been so happy to wear makeup because nobody can see his cheeks flushing under all that white covering his whole face and throat. Maybe he should consider wearing costumes more often — especially when he’s around Theo. He’s not at all interested in giving the guy any inclination about his feelings for him. Once this is over, the first thing Stiles is going to do is teach himself how not to be hung up on people who only give a shit about him whenever he’s conveniently around.

After a moment of silence, in which even Mason and Liam stared at Theo in surprise, Stiles merely shrugs. “If they salted the place, then yes, they might have cleansed it.”

Although the evening sun is still having enough strength, a shiver runs down his spine. It’s too quiet for something to be here. Maybe it’s just the place itself that gives him the creeps. Ruins often have this effect on him. There’s something strange about being in a place that used to be full of life, that was a home to someone; its history lost, and all that’s left are rumors that can’t be disproven. The tower with its five points — so easy to believe it’s meant to be a pentagram — does the rest. Stiles wonders if it’s the shape that gave birth to all the horrors people believe happened here.

“So…” Liam trails off, the camera still facing Stiles and Theo. “It’s not haunted?”

Stiles sighs. “It might not be no.” It’s not the answer either of the boys wants to hear — Theo most likely won’t care — but it’s the only one he can give them if they keep standing beneath this goddamn tower. Seeing a stray ghost, that may or may not have been Tara, isn’t proof for anything. “Wait here.”

“What? Why?” Mason asks, his voice stuck between frustration and hope.

Raising his brows, Stiles gestures past the scrub surrounding the tower — probably to keep people out. “Because I’m going to go there.”

“There’s a ‘No Trespassing’ sign right next to us,” Theo points out, raising his brows and looking at Stiles like he’s seen him for the first time.

Stiles snorts out a laugh. “Aw, are you worried? That’s so sweet.”

Unsurprisingly, that hits a nerve. Theo narrows his eyes. “It’s your trespassing charge. Have fun.” He really acts as if he’s never done anything wrong before in his life. That sounds insanely boring.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” Stiles promises, watching as Liam and Mason exchange a look that’s more than a little loaded. It’s not like they could technically stop him from “I’m just going check for any activity. If anyone asks, you tried to stop me.” It’s not the first time Stiles trespassed. So far, he hasn’t been caught, and now, he’s got a few more tricks up his sleeve. He’s going to be in and out. Well, not really in. Still, he should probably remind them to cut this part out. Although nobody can see his face, his trespassing doesn’t need to be on video for the world to see.

Giving the two boys a thumbs up, Stiles presses as closes to the tower as possible to shimmy between the scrub and the wall. He’s not interested in going any further down that mountain with his tight jeans — even this is a terrible idea.

“Theo!” Liam snaps.

“Go get some B-roll,” Theo calls over his shoulder.

Stiles glances at him. “Shut up.” Although people are most likely aware that they’re sneaking around here, they really do not need to announce their trespassing. Carefully, he pokes his head around the tower and surveys the area. The castle must’ve been huge before they burned it down, but the thing that interests him the most is the doorway across from him. He doubts that’s where he’s going to find the entrance to a tunnel, but for now he at least wants to check if this place even has graffiti that could potentially be satanic. The tower itself is suspiciously clean for an abandoned and allegedly haunted location.  

With Theo right behind him, Stiles hurries along the old path, his steps silenced by the overgrown grass. He ducks under the ivy covering the top of the doorway and steps into the room. The drop in temperature is noticeable, but that’s pretty much the most exciting thing. It doesn’t take more than two people to make this room almost a bit too claustrophobic for Stiles’ taste. The charred walls don’t exactly ease the tight feeling in his chest.

This part of the history is plain to see. People have burned this place down. Stiles swallows around the lump in his throat while brushing his fingertips over the cold stonewall. Nobody burned, at least not in here.

“Well, that’s anti-climactic.” Theo steps next to him, nudging the leftover chain-link fence on the floor. “Anything on the ghost radar?”

For a moment, Stiles contemplates elbowing Theo in the face, but it’s not going to be worth the pain he’ll feel. “If you think it’s so funny, try living with it.” Stiles turns away from the unused fence and furrows his brow at the graffiti on the opposite wall. ‘Spikey Kelly’ in bright red. That’s really the only thing of note in the whole place. All the other graffiti is worn with age.

Stiles has no idea what that even means. Is that a name?

“Sorry.” Theo offers him an apologetic smile. “I’m still trying to wrap my head around your whole thing.” He gestures around, and for what it’s worth, he seems genuine.

Stiles opens his mouth, tempted to ask, ‘is that why you never called me back?’, but he shakes his head instead. “There’s nothing here.”

There’s absolutely no way he’ll have this conversation in the burned down ruins of an allegedly satanic castle — a satanic castle with no satanic symbols whatsoever. An evil place is easy to recognize by the shit all over the wall. Spikey Kelly, however, doesn’t exactly invoke fear. Stiles shuffles around Theo and pushes the ivy away.

“At least the view is great.”

That’s hard to deny. The view from up here is breathtaking, almost like they’re in a completely different world with the sky and a picturesque landscape as far as the eye can see. It’s hard to imagine Los Angeles is just a little over an hour away. They’re standing on top of the world, free, ready to fly at a moment’s notice.

Stiles wishes it were that easy.

Theo steps next to him, his body warm. “I bet the sunset is beautiful up here.”

Yeah, it’s probably worth the drive.

Ignoring the loaded statement, Stiles turns towards the tower. There’s a white wooden door leading into it, so new it ruins the image of the castle — as does the light just above it. This would be the first place Stiles prefers to be by day. “Let’s check out the tower.” Knowing his luck, the door is locked.

“Stiles.” Theo grabs his arm and pulls him back in, pulls him almost too close. “I know you’re mad—"

“I’m not mad,” Stiles interrupts, and he’s very clearly lying. The thing is, he is more pissed at himself for falling for the same bullshit over and over again. “You made your choice, whatever. Just don’t expect me to fucking swoon because you’re gracing me with your presence.” He pulls his hand free, not ready to admit out loud that Theo is still very successful at working his magic, and Stiles very much could swoon every time he simply smiles at him. That pisses him off even more than Theo not having the balls to tell him he wanted sex and nothing more. “Let’s go. I don’t want to hang out here any longer than I have to.” There is still the risk of being found, after all.

Without waiting for a reply, Stiles turns on his heels and hurries towards the white door. Here, he is very much out in the open. The light above his head turns on, but the door doesn’t budge.

Fuck.

“Why does that lamp have a motion sensor?” Theo asks, hovering directly behind him. Looks like he still doesn’t have any respect for personal space or boundaries.

Stiles covers most of the door with his body, brushing his thumb along the lock. “Try sneaking in at night when this place lights up like a Christmas tree.” Anger and spite have been surprisingly great teachers. Instead of wallowing in self-hatred, Stiles spend his time leaning into what he can do post-nogitsune. If he didn’t accept himself for who he is, how are other supposed to take him seriously? So, he buried his nose in books and has gotten the hang of little magic tricks, like opening and locking doors. It has worked on his apartment door every time so far, and this can’t be too complicated a lock.

He hears a soft click.

Yes.

Stiles pushes the door open just enough to slip into the room behind it.

“How,” Theo asks, closing the door swiftly behind him and plunging them in total darkness, “did you do that?”

A moment later, light illuminates most of the room and confronts Stiles with an almost disappointing reality. He didn’t exactly have his hopes up high, but he still hoped to find something. This? This is a waste of everybody’s time. No doors, nothing that even hints a secret door. No pentagrams, no 666, no graffiti that could even remotely been considered satanic. But the room isn’t looking too clean either. There are random graffiti smeared all over the walls, and the room itself looks like a bomb went off on it. Clutter is lying all over the ground, and the shelves are filled with it as well. It’s a miracle they didn’t step on anything.  

It’s nothing more than a storage room.

Stiles scrunches up his face. “That was a bust.”

“Excuse me?” Theo snaps his fingers in front of Stiles’ face. “How’d you get that door open?”

“It was stuck.”

“I heard the lock click.”

Stiles makes a dismissive gesture. “You imagined that.”

With an exasperated sigh, Theo points the flashlight directly in his face. “I get it. You’re still mad—"

This again. “Put the fucking flashlight down.” Stiles cannot believe he has to tell him that. He blinks and squints a little, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dimness of the room.

“Stiles—”

“Fine.” He barely resists to throw his hands in the air. “I thought you giving me your number meant we’d stay in contact. You didn’t call or text me back. I moved on.” Quite literally, in three occasions. Well, four if he counts the thing with Lydia and Jackson. It took him longer than he’d care to admit, but it’s not like he broke down crying. His mind simply liked to play the ‘what if’ game. What if Theo did call back? What if Stiles just tried one more time? What if he visited Beacon Hills and accidentally bumped into him? Endless possibilities, none of them happened. “I thought you were different. That’s why I was mad at first, but if you think I cried my eyes out because a jock doesn’t want me back, you’re dead wrong.” And that’s the truth. As angry and a little heartbroken as he was, his dignity wouldn’t allow to shed a single fucking tear for Theo Raeken.

Theo raises his hands defensively. “I want you, but the whole thing with my sister…” he trails off, staring at the ground for a moment.

Stiles stares at him in shocked silence. I want you. Three simple words that shouldn’t stun him, that certainly shouldn’t get to him. But they do because he can’t shake his attachment to people no matter how much he likes to pretend that’s not the case. He swallows drily. Those three words aren’t what he should focus on. He takes a deep breath. “You think I wouldn’t have understood if you told me?”

Theo glances up at him, smiling apologetically. “I regret ghosting you. No… no pun intended.”

Rolling his eyes, Stiles carefully steps away from Theo. He’s pissed. Again. This time because Theo is essentially opening the door, Stiles fully intended to keep shut. “Yeah well, I regret a lot of things too,” Stiles mutters, trying his best to shut his feelings off. “Having this conversation? It’s at least in the top five.” It’s uncalled for, Stiles knows that, but he’s not interested in talking about this any longer — even less inside this disappointed, entirely non-satanic storage room.

Theo stares at him, opening his mouth before deciding against whatever he’s intended to say first. A mask slips onto his features as he steps closer, a hand reached out to grab his arm. “I wanted to see you again, desperately, so I could apologize.” The smirk returns in full force, eyes flashing almost mischievously as he inches closer. “But maybe my tongue can do a better job of saying sorry than my words can.”

Stiles’ heart stutters in his chest, cheeks flushing hotly once again. Fucking hell. Theo shouldn’t be allowed to have this much power over him still, but it’s like his body is drawn to him, impossible to get away, impossible to fully let go. Get it together, Stilinski. “Tempting offer,” he replies, hoping that his voice won’t give away how he really feels about the words — even though it doesn’t matter, Theo can probably smell how bad he wants him too, “but I’m not going to waste this costume on you.”

The response startles the smirk off Theo, and he lowers his arm, brows drawn together. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Relieve flushes through Stiles when he realizes control is firmly back in his own hands. Now, all he needs is to get out of here. “We’re going to a costume party.”

[msmischief101]

for SteoDay @steoevents

incorrect quotes: 39/?

[msmischief101]

♞Pairing: Steo ♞Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Theo Raeken ♞Tags: first son Stiles, bodyguard Theo, secret relationship ♞Words: 949 ♞Prompt: “I assume I deserve this, but can you tell me why you want to kill me this time?” ♞Mini Fic Roulette: 34/∞

---

“Okay, put the lamp down.” Theo’s voice is heavy with indifference. At least, he has half the mind to keep his hands in the air because that at least means Stiles managed to cause a bit of unease. It’s not even that he wants to end Theo’s life and then some; it’s more about scaring some sense into him. 

Stiles slams the lamp back on the nightstand, the sound too loud in the brief silence of the room. “One day, when you least expect it. I swear-” he cuts off and crosses his arms tightly over his chest.

Sighing deeply, Theo lowers his arms. “I assume I deserve this, but can you tell me why you want to kill me this time?”

“You are—” Stiles isn’t exactly surprised by Theo’s ignorance. It’s not his responsibility to keep up with social media or other publications — that’s what Lydia has been hired for. Unfortunately, he isn’t even interested in staying connected to his friends and family living on the other side of the country. Otherwise, he most likely would already been aware of doing something wrong. Which, he technically didn’t. It’s still a stupid fucking mistake. Exhaling sharply, Stiles unlocks his phone and tosses it at Theo, who catches it with his stupid, lightning-fast reflexes. If only Theo’s brain would work as fast as the rest of his body.

Furrowing his brows, Theo reads the headline of one of the various articles Stiles has chosen. He blinks. Reads it again. The weight of the situation finally seems to sink in as Theo pales and sinks to the edge of Stiles’ bed. “You dad is going to end me.”

“Oh, so you’re scared of my dad?” Stiles retorts, unable to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

“Your dad,” Theo snaps, his frustrations more than clear as he drops Stiles’ phone beside him, “is the fucking president.”

“And you’re a fucking idiot.” Stiles rounds the bed, huffing out a breath. “I mean, seriously... your wallpaper?” He flicks Theo’s forehead, merely raising a brow as his dear boyfriend glares at him. As adorable as it is, Theo should’ve known better than to use a picture of them as his phone’s background. His private phone, yes, but his phone, nonetheless. People know who he is. They look at him too, even though Theo doesn’t like to think about that. Someone was bound to see and take a picture and from there on out, it spread like wildfire.

Theo tugs on his suit jacket, his expression adorably helpless as he looks up at him. Usually, Theo doesn’t fuck up. Perfect Theodore Raeken is not accustomed to making mistakes. He’s the best at his job, and Stiles’ dad’s biggest hope at reigning his son in. It worked, to a degree. Mostly because they started dating, and Stiles’ priorities shifted away from hooking up with random strangers.

Letting out a breath, Stiles cups Theo’s cheeks. “When I said I’m tired of hiding our relationship, I didn’t mean ‘tell the whole world’.” Stiles can keep himself from smiling as he leans down and kisses Theo’s forehead. “It’s cute though.” Despite his frustration with the situation, Stiles can’t really stay angry now that Theo looks so defeated.

Theo slumps forward, burying his face against Stiles’ stomach, and groans softly. “I fucked up.”

“Happens to the best of us.” Stiles runs his fingers through Theo’s shorts strands. They’ve been dating for four months, and while Stiles can’t deny that he’s fallen pretty damn hard for him, he didn’t expect that Theo is the one messing up by having the two of them as his wallpaper. He wasn’t aware they’ve reached that stage yet. “I hope this teaches you to be more careful from now on.” And if this situation doesn’t get it through Theo’s head, his father’s tirade most likely will. After all, he hired Theo to be Stiles’ bodyguard and dating his only son isn’t exactly part of the job description.

As if on cue, Stiles’ phone vibrates with a very short text message from his dad.

> My office. Now.

Stiles pats the back of Theo’s head gently. “Time to put on your big boy pants, babe, the boss is demanding our presence.” He’s not looking forward to this conversation. Not even a little bit, despite knowing that his dad is cool with them dating. Learning about them through tabloids is what he’s mad at. As well as knowing that the press is going to have a field day with the first son dating his bodyguard. Lydia is not going to be happy either because all of this means she’s got her work cut out for her.

Theo whines softly and wraps his arms around Stiles’ waist as if that could save him from facing the music.

As much as Stiles would love to continue cuddling his boyfriend, experience taught him that avoiding the lecture will only make everything worse. They might have the chance to do some damage control if they don’t hide from the consequences. “It’s going to be fine,” Stiles assures Theo, running his fingers over the nape of his neck, “once he’s done yelling.”

Theo whines again, a little louder this time, but he lets go of Stiles and stands up, looking like he’s about to throw up. How strange that he’s ready to stand in front of a gun without breaking a sweat, but Stiles’ dad being angry with him terrifies him.

Smiling faintly, Stiles brushes his lips against the corner of Theo’s mouth and intertwines their fingers, squeezing Theo’s hand gently. “Let’s go.”

“Okay,” Theo breathes, holding onto Stiles’ hand so tightly, Stiles doubts he’ll let go of him anytime soon.

[msmischief101]

chapter 56: a touch of despair Warnings: needles

You can read it on AO3 as well.

---

“Isaac!” Stiles can hear his panic echo inside the cell, down the hallway. It travels so far, but Isaac remains unconscious. “Please,” Stiles whispers, struggling to figure out what to do. “Isaac, please, wake up.” With trembling fingers, he reaches out in an attempt to shake him. But he can’t touch him. He can’t, not after what happened to Theo. They beat Isaac up and threw him in his cell as if he’s nothing more than a midnight snack. But he is. Not just to Stiles. He knows they’re going to use Isaac as leverage; they’re going to use him to make Stiles behave. “Wake up.” Stiles kneels on the cold tiles, hands outstretched. His heart races in his chest. There is nobody to ask for help. Not here. Not in Eichen House. “Isaac, please.” But begging won’t wake him up. Taking a deep breath, Stiles crawls closer. The thought of touching Isaac makes his throat close up. The memory of almost killing Theo is too fresh in his mind. It’s too easy to lose control, especially with how starved he is. He needs Isaac awake to know when it’s too much.

He needs him to wake up.

Stiles needs him to be okay.

He moves to sit next to Isaac and curls his fingers into the bloody shirt. “Hey.” His voice trembles as he starts shaking the other boy. “Isaac, wake up.” He shakes him stronger, sensing the pain he’s in through the thin fabric. “Come on, wake up. I need you to—“ Stiles cuts off, frustration and tears making it hard to speak, even harder to think.

And he’s so fucking hungry.

A soft groan reaches his ears.

“Isaac?”

Blue eyes flutter open. For all but a second, Isaac is looking at him. His split lips move into a grin, and he mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like ‘found you.’

“Isaac!” Stiles yells, but the werewolf has slipped right back into unconsciousness. “Fuck. Fuck.” Fucking idiot. Did he really try to find him all alone after the Dread Doctors dragged him off? What was he thinking? He shakes him again and even risks slapping him across the face.

Once.

And that alone already gives him a taste of the pain the other boy is in. It should worry him, but his body responds like a starving person finding food for the first time in days. Days. Has it been days? Stiles has no clue how long he’s been in here. How long ago did the Dread Doctors take him? Why did they leave him here?

What did they do?

Isaac groans again, and Stiles looks down at him, trying his best to smile. “There you are.”

Grunting an incomprehensible response, Isaac closes his eyes again.

“No, stay—“

“I’m awake,” Isaac mutters, his voice so low it’s hard to tell how long he will stay awake. “I’m awake.”

Stiles swallows and scoots back onto the mattress, tugging Isaac by his shirt. Moving him with only a bit of help already brings him to the edge of his strength. He’s on his last two legs, and as much as he’d love to get as weak as possible just to spite Deaton and Valack, this place is the last he wants to be defenseless in. There are worse things down here than the two wannabe scientists.

Schrader is one of them.

“Do you want me to take some of your pain?” Stiles feels selfish asking it, but he also knows werewolves won’t heal when they’re in too much or no pain at all. It’s a win for both of them, really.

Isaac nods. “That would be nice.”

“Okay.” Stiles licks his lips, curling his hands into tight fists before letting out a breath. “But you need to stay awake. Can you do that for me?”

For a moment, Isaac’s so still, Stiles isn’t sure he passed out with his eyes wide open. Then he nods slowly, and only once. “If you help me sit up.” That’s probably a good idea. The relief of pain can be overwhelming. It’s a feeling Stiles has gotten quite used to now, but there’s still a huge difference between someone taking the pain away from you or the pain vanishing because you’ve healed.

Stiles shifts onto his knees again and hooks his arms around Isaac’s shoulders. It shouldn’t take this much effort. He’s a fucking supernatural creature, but he couldn’t even have gotten Isaac into a sitting position if the werewolf didn’t help him. If Isaac notices it, he doesn’t say anything. Just like Stiles doesn’t say anything about the little whimpers, Isaac can’t keep away. His heart aches for him, and the question slips past his lips before he can stop himself. “Why?” He sits back on his heels. “Why did you follow them?”

Pushing himself a bit further upright, Isaac raises his arm almost as an offering. “Because Theo would’ve killed me if I didn’t.”

While that’s probably true, Stiles can tell that Isaac is lying to him. “Fine,” he mutters, swallowing once more before curling his fingers around Isaac’s wrist. “Don’t tell me.” For a few seconds, Stiles forces himself to hold back, just so he knows that he can. He can control this. His hunger does not get the best of him. But his resolve breaks much quicker than he would’ve liked.

And he doesn’t care.

Not when it feels so good to finally feed again. His whole body is flooded with renewed strength, and his muscles relax as the pangs of hunger finally diminish.

The relief, however, doesn’t last long enough. Stiles struggles to believe he fed more than a few seconds before the collar around his neck starts burning him again, sending hot flashes of agonizing pain through his neck, head, and chest. Stiles drops Isaac’s arm as if that’s the whole reason for his pain. Instinctively, he reaches for the collar.

But Isaac grabs his wrists. “Don’t.”

“Let go.” Stiles tries to yank his arms free, but Isaac’s grip is iron around his wrists. Slowly, the bruises on his face heal. The pain vanishes too, something Stiles would be relieved about, but that sends his body into a panic after having been starved for so long — and, now, this fucking— “get it off,” Stiles begs. “Please, please, get it off.” He can feel something running down his neck. As much as he wants it to be tears, Stiles can tell it’s blood. He can feel his body trying to heal the damage the collar is causing.

Isaac tightens his grip, eyes widening ever so slightly. But for the most part, he seems to be able to keep his expression in check. “I can try. Don’t touch it, okay?”

It’s going to be impossible not to, but Stiles nods anyway. He just wants this thing gone. He needs it gone. He can’t deal with—

But Isaac hisses when his fingers as much as brush against the collar. He yanks his hands back, watching as his skin takes its time to heal. “What the fuck is in this thing?” His gaze flicks up, staring at Stiles, the collar, and then his fingers again.

Stiles would laugh if he weren’t in so much fucking pain. He grabs the poor excuse of a sheet, knuckles turning white under pressure. Of course, Deaton lied to him. He said it himself. He wouldn’t make the mistake of underestimating Stiles. It’s hard to imagine Deaton hasn’t known about Isaac beforehand, so all he had to do was making sure Isaac couldn’t so anything about the collar either. “Highly concentrated mistletoe, wolf lichen, and, apparently, wolfsbane,” Stiles says through his teeth. Maybe it’s time Stiles stops underestimating Deaton, too. He may not know everything, but he knows enough to make his life down here very fucking hard.

“Come here.” Isaac pats the spot next to him.

Stiles follows the suggestion almost instantly and slumps against the werewolf.

“I can take the edge off.” Isaac grabs his wrist, and Stiles watches his veins turn black as the pain leaves his body.

A laugh bubbles out of him, and if it hadn’t, he probably would’ve cried. Not being alone in here should make him feel better, but Stiles is stuck in the place of his worst nightmares, and Isaac is stuck here with him. There’s a reason why Valack allowed them to be in this cell together. Stiles has an idea of what that might be. After all, he and Deaton have been complaining about him not cooperating.

Isaac is their leverage.

“You should’ve stayed away,” Stiles whispers, pulling his hand away when his skin stops knitting itself back together. The hunger hasn’t returned, but he feels hardly any stronger than before feeding — and that’s what this was about. They don’t want Stiles to be strong. They just need him to stay alive long enough to do whatever they think they can do.

Shaking his head, Isaac bends his legs and crosses his arms over his knees. “I couldn’t find Erica in time. I wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice.”

Stiles sinks a little further down the wall and leans his head against Isaac’s shoulder, staring out into the bright, empty hallway in front of their now shared cell. “I wish you would’ve.”

Scoffing, Isaac leans his head against his. “Guess we have to disagree on that.”

---

They’ve gotten food four times before Schrader returns to the cell, this time accompanied by two other guards — both heavily armed with crossbows.

Isaac stiffens next to him and scrambles to his feet. His spirits are still up despite having been here for as long as Stiles must be. Four days. Maybe five. Stiles isn’t entirely sure how many meals he’s missed by simply refusing them or being punished for not cooperating. It’s hard to keep track of time in a place that always looks the same, that never gets fucking dark. Sleeping is a little easier now that Isaac can offer him a bit of relief from the light by lying on his side in front of him. But overall, it doesn’t do a lot. Isaac considered propping the mattress up, but Stiles knew the few moments of relief wouldn’t be worth the consequences.

Stiles grabs Isaac’s arm. “Stay calm,” he whispers, squeezing his wrist in warning. “Do what they say.” He doesn’t want Isaac to get hurt, not when he’s going to be the reason for it. Stiles would prefer not to have that guilt piled on top of everything else. As much as he misses Theo, maybe it’s a good thing Isaac is down here with him.

“Corner that mutt,” Schrader orders the two other hunters before opening the door.

The hunters slide inside, their eyes darting from Stiles, who steps away with both hands raised, to Isaac, who does exactly what Stiles asked — he stands in the corner. He doesn’t move, although he looks like he’s two seconds away from ripping everyone’s head off.

“What do you want?” Stiles watches Schrader enter the cell, holding a small satchel.

Schrader raises a brow at Isaac. “You got him trained well.”

“You don’t train your friends,” Stiles remarks before he can stop himself, “but you wouldn’t know that.” The moment he says it, Stiles wishes he could take his words back. There’s no telling of what Schrader will do — or who will be punished for his mouthing off.

Schrader chuckles, and then, not even a heartbeat later, he backhands him so hard Stiles’ head flies to the right. “Watch your mouth.” His voice is low and threatening, the manic glint in his eyes the only warning Stiles gets before Schrader grabs his jaw and slams him against the wall. “It would be a shame if something happened to it.”

A low growl fills the cell.

“Or him.” Schrader smiles.

Stiles swallows. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles as best as he can. His heart jackrabbits in his chest. The hand vanishes, but Stiles doesn’t exactly feel any sort of relief. His state of panic comes and goes with Schrader. It seems like his body remembers what his mind does not. He barely remembers seeing Schrader the last time he was here. All he knows is that he’s met him before and been scared of this place ever since he set foot in here for the first time. Stiles always thought Brunski was to thank for that, but he starts doubting that Brunski was the only person to blame.

“Doc wants your blood.” Schrader pulls out a tourniquet, dangling it in front of Stiles’ face like a threat. “I recommend you do what I tell you from now on. I don’t draw blood often.” The smirk makes that statement a clear lie.

But Stiles nods anyway. “Sure.”

Schrader doesn’t move away, not allowing Stiles an inch of freedom. They’re too close, almost chest to chest, and at this point, Stiles wouldn’t be surprised if Schrader heard his heart judging by how hard it’s hammering against his ribs. “Give me your arm.”

As requested, Stiles follows the command and turns his head away, fixing his gaze on the corner of the mattress. The thought of needles is enough to make him squirm. The last few times, they came with an injection down here. Nobody cared much about being gentle. Stiles doubts Schrader will do much better by drawing blood. Not that it matters. A needle is a needle, and Stiles would prefer if it stayed away from his body as far away as possible. Not looking at it is the best course of action if he doesn’t want to faint or throw up. He doubts Schrader would be very happy about that.

His sleeve is pushed up roughly, the tourniquet pulled too tight.

“Pump your fist.”

Stiles leans his left cheek against the cool tiles and does as he’s told. It’s impossible for him to relax or to keep his mind occupied with something that isn’t the fact that one of the people he’s terrified of is about to push a needle into him.

“Issues with seeing blood?” Schrader asks, sounding terribly amused as he disinfects the hollow of Stiles’ elbow.

“Issues with—“ Stiles grinds his teeth, forcing himself to take a deep breath and not go through with what he wanted to say. “No,” he says softly, looking up to find Isaac smiling at him. Looking at Isaac might be the better option than staring at the floor.

Schrader pats his cheek. “Good boy.”

Stiles wishes he could kick him in the balls for that. Instead, he takes a deep breath and keeps looking at Isaac, who tries to smile even though his eyes are murderous.

At least until Schrader pokes him with the needle, only to pull it out again with a chuckle. “Missed it.”

Swallowing another insult, Stiles opts for a short chuckle himself. “Happens to the best of us.” It’s fine. As long as he doesn’t look at it. It’s going to be fine. So, he looks at Isaac. Looking at Isaac is safe. He grinds his teeth as Schrader repeats the process twice, just to fuck with him, but Stiles also knows that a lack of a response is something that bores people like Schrader endlessly.

And he seems to be right because Schrader happens to be successful the fourth time and draws his blood without further comment. He opens the tourniquet.

Stiles forces himself to open his fist. Despite having gone through the worst of this procedure, he still feels a bit like throwing up. He gave his doctors hell as a child, and now he wishes he’d be at a hospital because he doubts any of this equipment is sterile. Then again, it’s not like it matters anymore. The only shit that’s actually harmful to him is already wrapped around his neck.

“That’s it for now.” Schrader pulls the needle out and yanks the tourniquet off unceremoniously. After putting everything back into the satchel, he grabs Stiles’ jaw again. “Next time,” he says as his grip turns painful, “you’re going to behave exactly like this from the beginning, or your dog’s going to get hurt. Are we clear?”

Stiles wouldn’t have pegged Schrader as someone who gives second chances, but he takes what he can get at this point. So, he nods.

Narrowing his eyes slightly, Schrader stares at him for a little while longer. It’s almost like he’s waiting for a reason to hurt Isaac or Stiles. He’s got to be under strict instructions not to because Stiles wouldn’t put it past him to find an excuse. But he leaves without doing or saying anything else, and his hunter buddies follow him dutifully.

Isaac lets out a long breath. “I’m going to kill him.”

“Get in line,” Stiles mutters, checking his arm for any marks, but they’ve already healed like nothing had happened. He swipes away a drop of blood that’s escaped.

“Any idea what they need that for?” Isaac sits back down on the mattress.

Stiles shakes his head. It’s a good question. “They wanna separate the nemeton from me.” Even that is still a fucking mystery to him. How the hell are they’re going to do that? “Maybe they need to see if I’m anemic.” He collapses next to Isaac and puts his chin on his knees. Whatever they need it for, it’s probably not going to be good.

---

Stiles drops the stale piece of bread on the tray and pushes it away from him. If he makes it out of here, he desperately needs something real to eat. He can’t stand another day of bread and whatever they add to it. “You think they’ll come for us?” Stiles would prefer to sound less hopeless, but the light and the quiet and this fucking place is getting to him.

“You think anything’s going to stop Theo?” Isaac’s lips quirk into a tired smile. It’s probably not a great time for him either, locked up in a small cell in the basement of a nightmarish place.

Sighing, Stiles hugs his legs to his chest. Although Isaac isn’t wrong, he hopes that Theo listened to him when he told him to stay away, if he even heard him. After all, he was asleep. It’s entirely possible Theo couldn’t hear him or thought it was nothing more than a dream. It’s also very possible Theo knew it was him, but he ignored his request. If he’s being perfectly honest, the latter sounds the most like Theo. Nothing will stop his boyfriend from getting to him, not even fully armed hunters, who are expecting them to come. “They might not even know where we are.”

Isaac breaks his bread apart and studies it for a moment. “Brett can feel you, can’t he? And Jordan can track the nemeton.”

“I guess, yeah.” Stiles leans his cheek against his knee and studies Isaac’s face. His body language wants to say, ‘Everything’s fine,’ but something about his face tells the exact opposite. Stiles can’t blame him. He feels the same way. “But I haven’t been able to feel the ley lines since wearing this shit.” He points at the collar around the neck, and the last time he was in touch with the others through the ley lines, it didn’t sound like they had any idea where he was. “How did you find me?” Stiles remembers hearing him talk when he first realized that Theo could hear him.

Almost tentatively, Isaac nibbles on the bread. He scrunches up his face in disgust but doesn’t drop it. “I saw them walk into the tunnels. It’s where I lost them.” Isaac shrugs, glancing at him before returning his attention to his food. “Corey mentioned there used to be one of their operating theaters down here. So I went looking… and before I knew it, I woke up here. It’s like they’ve been waiting for me.” Yeah, that’s not surprising. They were probably posted up in the tunnels after figuring out where they got in the last time. 

Or maybe the Dread Doctors lured him here.

Stiles still doesn’t quite understand why the Dread Doctors just… gave him up. Either they can’t use the nemeton’s power as long as it’s connected to him, or they’re already done with whatever they needed from him. But Stiles didn’t feel another chimera the last time he connected to the ley lines. Does that mean they failed? Or does that mean they succeeded? But he can feel Theo, and Theo is a success. The chimeras need the nemeton. They can’t exist without one. It doesn’t make sense.

Sighing, Stiles falls back onto the mattress. “Why’d you go alone?”

Isaac plops down right next to him, shoulder pressed against his. Having him down here with him is most likely the only thing keeping Stiles sane at the moment. “Because everyone’s been too busy coming up with a plan. I lost the Dread Doctors in the tunnels and went straight to Satomi. I should’ve gone to Theo instead.” Isaac grimaces a little. “He wouldn’t have waited, but now Jackson and Peter have him on lockdown. They’re worried he’d do something stupid.” Great, Theo is never going to forgive them.

“So, you decided to do something stupid instead.” Stiles wants to be grateful, but he wishes Isaac would’ve been smarter. Thankfully, he went to his alpha, though, because otherwise Valack would’ve gotten his hand on Theo.

“Someone had to.” Isaac chuckles and crosses his arms over his stomach.

Stiles sighs. “You know Jordan and my dad will never let us go anywhere alone ever again.” Theo will most likely never let him out of his sight, either.

“Guess we can kiss colle—“ He sits up without warning, cocking his head slightly to the side. “Schrader’s coming back.”

Fuck.

Stiles pushes himself into a seating position. As much as he would like to pretend that Schrader has found himself down here to torture one of the other inmates, he highly doubts it. Knowing his luck, Schrader has been assigned to him and him alone. And lo and behold, this walking nightmare turns the corner with a smile. Following him are the same two hunters from the last time. One of them has a different hairstyle, so one day seems to have passed between then and now.

He can’t wait to see the sun again.

“It’s shower time.” Considering how excited Schrader sounds, it’s almost hard to believe Stiles really has the chance to finally clean himself up. He hasn’t seen fresh water since he broke out of that fucking tube, and who knows how clean that’s been. “Let’s go.” He claps his hands.

Isaac and Stiles exchange a glance as they get to his feet.

“Both of us?” Isaac asks. It’s a good question. There’s no way they allow them to go into the showers together.

“You think I’m stupid?” Schrader opens the cell door. Like yesterday, the two hunters step inside and corner Isaac, who doesn’t fight back once again. “We’ll do this one by one, and you’re coming with me.”

The last thing Stiles wants to do is follow Schrader anywhere, much less shower when he’s close by. But he’s not having much choice, and Stiles really wants to shower. He’d kill for a set of fresh clothes as well. Maybe today is his lucky day. To be fair, every day he doesn’t have a supernatural nose is his lucky day. It’s not the prettiest smell down here by human standards. Isaac’s most likely not having a great time.

Schrader produces a little key and unhooks the chain from Stiles’ collar. “You don’t need that any longer, do you?”

Stiles cuts his gaze to Isaac for a moment. Under different circumstances, freeing him would be a stupid idea. But Stiles wouldn’t abandon Isaac. “No.” He’s not about to do anything that could risk Isaac’s life. They’re both bound here by keeping the other person safe. It’s such an easy way to control them, Stiles is almost mad about it. He takes a breath. “After you.” He focuses on Schrader again, who leaves the cell with a chuckle, and Stiles follows him.

The hunters step out and close the door, but they’re not leaving with them — not because there’s a risk Isaac could run. It’s because that way, all Schrader has to do is call them, and Isaac will be punished for Stiles’ wrongdoing. 

Or just because Schrader is in the mood.

Stiles keeps his eyes locked on the man before him, trying to block out the other supernatural creatures in the cells surrounding him. He remembers the sluagh he saw when they visited Valack down here. Stiles has absolutely no interest in seeing Donovan again, or maybe even Caitlin. It’s enough if their deaths are in his head. He does not need to be reminded of them by seeing something that pretends to be them for no other reason than fucking with his head.

Schrader leads him through a door and down another short hallway. Stiles knows the way. He’s mapped it out for days before they broke Peter out. At this point, he’d probably find it in his sleep — and Schrader probably knows that. Perhaps that’s why they are going to the exact showers they used to break in. It’s another way of proving to Stiles that he has the upper hand.

As if that isn’t clear enough yet.

When they reach the showers, Schrader unlocks the door and gestures for him to walk in first.

The room is cold and empty, but Stiles spots a set of fresh clothes — light gray sweatpants, a dark blueish gray shirt, and a pair of socks and boxer briefs in dark gray — as well as a towel. At least he can get rid of the clothes he’s currently wearing. He didn’t exactly expect something that nice from the people down here. Folding his arms over his chest, Stiles can’t help but glance toward the gutter. Even from here, he can see that it’s been screwed shut again. There's no way for him to get out, but maybe Isaac’s got more luck. If only he’d leave if Stiles told him to.

“Looking for something?”

Stiles all but jumps out of his skin. He stumbles forward, bringing distance between him and Schrader. “No, I just— no.” He shakes his head and then glances at the closed door. Is he going to stay in here while Stiles showers? That’s not necessary. There’s nowhere for him to go, and there’s nothing he can do in here aside from showering.

“Good.” Schrader sits on one of the benches, stretching and looking like he’s getting as comfortable as possible. “For a moment there, I was worried you’re thinking about doing something stupid… like trying to escape.” Of course, he knows. That’s exactly why they’re here. That’s exactly why he got that chain off him. Schrader is waiting for him to act up just so he can punish Isaac.

Without replying, Stiles retreats further into the showers. He goes for the one farthest away from Schrader and turns it on. The water hitting him is ice cold, and for a moment, he worries it’s going to stay that way. He seems to be lucky for once because it turns warm only a few moments later. Stiles breathes a sigh of relief. With the water running, he hurries back to the clothes and the towel. There’s not much he can do about privacy, but the low walls, at the very least, give the illusion.

He places everything on the bathtub before stepping under the shower. The feeling of wet fabric sticking to him makes him want to peel his skin off, but Stiles has absolutely no intentions of undressing in the middle of the room. He’s never been the biggest fan of locker rooms, but this situation is a whole new level of fuck that.

Slowly, Stiles gets rid of all his clothes, tossing them onto the cold tiles in front of the poor excuse of a shower stall before stepping back under the water and allows himself to close his eyes and relax for a moment. He hasn't received a time limit, but Stiles doubts that the water will stay warm for long down here — or that Schrader will let him relax for more than five minutes.

“You know,” Schrader says, sounding so conversationally, strangers could think they’re old colleagues, “I’ve been wondering. Do you remember me?”

Stiles opens his eyes. The words make his heart speed up, and for a few moments, he’s not sure if he should respond.

Schrader continues talking before he gets the chance to. “Because you looked pretty spooked that first day.”

No matter where this conversation is headed, Stiles has no interest in having it in the shower. Since there’s no soap, he starts scrubbing himself off as best as he can with just water. “I thought I saw your face before,” he replies quietly, unsure if his words are even audible over the sound of running water. But he never knew his name, and he doesn’t actively remember anything else — or anything about Schrader that he might’ve heard. He wonders if Oliver talked about him, or if the nogitsune saw something, or if perhaps Stiles just connected his face to the time he spent at Eichen, a time he’d prefer to forget after what happened with Malia and Oliver, Meredith and the nogitsune in general. He hates how sketchy his memories of everything are because he hadn’t slept in days, was hopped up on multiple drugs, and was possessed by a goddamn fox demon. Sometimes, he isn’t even entirely sure what happened did happen.

But that goes for most of his possession. Stiles thought he witnessed everything the nogitsune did. The more time passed, however, the less sure he was about it.

That still doesn’t explain why Schrader makes him feel so damn anxious.

Why not Brunski? Because he’s dead?

And does he really want to know?

“That sedative should’ve knocked you out completely.”

Stiles hears the bench creaking as Schrader gets up. He turns the water off and rushes to the towel, wrapping it around himself before turning to face the other man again. “So it was you,” he says when the real question refuses to roll over his tongue.

What did you do?

“Who sedated you? No.” Schrader seems highly amused at that. “We never met while you were awake. Or so I thought.” He just stands there, looking at him, with his arms folded over his chest and a grin on his lips. Stiles would love to punch clean off.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he steps away and grabs his clothes. Stiles doesn’t much care about being dry as long as he’s dressed. “So what?” he asks, unable to hide the panic creeping into his voice, “You came creeping into the room while I was knocked out?” Well, only mostly, apparently, because some part remembered Schrader’s face enough to be afraid of him. If they never met otherwise, Oliver must’ve told him something, but the kid said so much Stiles only half-listened most of the time. Not that it matters because it turns out he’s not wrong to be afraid of Schrader.

“Brunski talked about you.”

Stiles freezes after putting on the boxer briefs. The way Schrader’s voice grew cold did not go unnoticed.

“Mostly about how much he’d enjoy punishing you. Probably because of who your father is.”

That wouldn’t be the first person who hated him because he happens to be the sheriff’s kid. Swallowing, Stiles reaches for the pair of sweatpants.

But Schrader curls his fingers into his hair and yanks his head back. “And then you killed him.”

How ironic. Stiles created a nightmare from a face he saw while heavily sedated, and now that nightmare became reality. He can’t decide if he’s more pissed at himself or Schrader, who continues to prove there is a reason to fear the darkness creeping into Stiles’ dreams. “I didn’t kill him,” he whispers, not trusting his voice to betray his anger. “He did that himself.” His mouth does it for him.

“Your friend is lucky,” Schrader whispers, “that this is going to stay between us.”

Before Stiles can ask what ‘this’ is, his head is slammed against one of the tiled half-walls. Pain explodes behind his left eye, spreading quickly throughout his whole head. Blood gushes from his left brow, covering his sight. The fingers leave his hair, and when Stiles tries to move, his whole world shifts to the right, and he slams to the ground. His left brow pulses like a fucking epicenter of pain.

Stiles curls his hands into fists, biting back the whimper trying to escape his mouth.

A foot connects with his rips.

Again.

And again.

Stiles screams out in pain, not sure how to fight him off with blood in his eyes clouding his vision — not sure if he should fight him off or if that would make things so much worse, not just for him, but for Isaac too.

When Schrader stops, Stiles isn’t sure how much time has passed. It’s hard to keep track when pain ebbs and flows as his body deals with the damage. Perhaps that’s what made Schrader even more mad. The bruises don’t last. There’s nothing to marvel at but his memories.

“For my sake,” Schrader spits, kicking Stiles’ shoulder to roll him onto his back, “I hope you survive.”

Stiles grins up at him, exhausted and with the first pangs of hunger echoing in his bones. “I’m going to kill you,” he whispers, tasting blood in his mouth as he pushes himself to his feet. The movements still hurt, his body not entirely done with healing him. “But before I do, I’ll make you cower and whimper and beg for your life like the pathetic waste of a human being that you are.” He curls his hands into fists, eyes locked on Schrader, who retreats a single step before he catches himself and straightens to his full height again. Not once does he reach for the walkie-talkie to punish Isaac for Stiles’ threat. “Even Valack knows what you are.” And Valack is the one making the decisions around here. He is the one who decides if Stiles’ behavior is worth punishing Isaac. Schrader used Stiles’ fear against him. Simple psychology and Stiles fucking fell for it. “That’s why you’re down here, aren’t you? Did they catch you watching inmates in the shower?” Every single word makes Schrader angrier and angrier; the room is full of his rage, giving Stiles enough to draw from. But he’s learned his lesson. He won’t take too much. Not this time. This fucking collar has brought him to his knees the last time.

And so has Schrader.

“Watch your mouth,” he seethes, crossing the room, still not reaching for the radio.

Stiles was right. His word means nothing down here. “Or what?” he drawls, smile widening as Schrader abruptly stops. “You gonna stick me with needles again? Or are you going to stick me with something else?” 

Schrader’s face flushes red with anger. It comes as no surprise when he brandishes a syringe, no doubt filled with wolf lichen. He didn’t bring a weapon, probably thinking that Stiles would comply, that he would sit here and take it and not put two and two together. He shouldn’t have given him a second chance the first time Stiles mouthed off to him. He should’ve never told Stiles what really happened. It’s the mystery that kept the fear alive because now Stiles knows who Schrader really is.

A pathetic man, desperate for power over those who already have none.

Before either of them can move, the door to the showers flies open, and Valack bursts in, followed by at least four other nurses, who instantly point their weapons at Stiles. Two of them, he realizes, are the guys Schrader left behind with Isaac. Looks like one of them called the big boss.

Stiles raises both of his hands. He’s not stupid enough to mouth off now, but he can’t help but smile.

A vein ticks very visibly at Valack’s temple as his gaze flies from the blood on Stiles’ face to the syringe in his subordinate's hand. “Schrader,” he says in a dangerous tone, then turns to the others. “Bring him back to his room.”

“May I get dressed first?” Stiles asks, pointing briefly at the clothes behind his back.

Valack gestures briefly, something that could potentially mean, ‘Do as you wish.’

Stiles doesn’t waste a second.

---

“I really want to tell you how bloody stupid you are, but—“

“You don’t really have any room to argue.” Stiles rolls his shoulders and leans back against Isaac’s shoulder, closing his eyes with a sigh. Although he’s not necessarily afraid of Schrader any longer, this place is still scaring him. For multiple reasons. Waiting for the inevitable, for Deaton or Valack to do whatever they brought him here for — and see them fail. Hopefully, or succeed, if that means the chimeras will stay alive. Stiles can’t do much more than hope. After all, it’s all he can do besides running his mouth. He can’t use his powers, and he can consider himself lucky he’s still able to heal, or the whole thing with Schrader could’ve ended very differently.

Isaac leans his head against Stiles’. “What do you think everyone’s doing?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles says as he opens his eyes again, squinting a little as he adjusts to the light again. There’s no way to tell what they’re up to right now. Planning, maybe. If Peter and Jackson are making sure Theo can’t do anything stupid, Stiles at least won’t have to worry about that. With Isaac missing too, however, the Ito pack got dragged into this whole mess, and Stiles doubts Brett will take very kindly to people kidnapping members of his pack. “But maybe I can find out.” He very much doubts it since he’s felt cut off from the ley lines ever since Deaton put this collar on him, but he can, at the very least, try.

Isaac squints at him. “And how are you going to do that?”

“Remember when you thought Theo lost his mind?”

For a moment, Isaac simply stares at him. “You’re kidding. You talked to him?”

Stiles shrugs. He did something for sure. “When I got in touch with the ley lines, I somehow managed to hear you… through Theo. Maybe because of our bond. I’m not sure how it worked, but it did.” With how badly Stiles usually clings to Theo’s spark, it’s possible their bond evolved into something else entirely.

Isaac opens his mouth, then thinks better of it and shakes his head. “Fine, what’s the plan?”

“Put the mattress against the wall. Maybe hiding in the shadows…” Stiles trails off with an almost helpless shrug. Hope is the only thing they’ve got left, but he doesn’t want to waste it on something that has nearly no chance of working. “If we get caught, we might lose the mattress, though.” Unless Valack is trying to make up for what happened with Schrader, which is highly doubtful but not entirely out of the realm of possibility.

Most likely considering the possibility of having to stay here indefinitely without a mattress, Isaac looks out into the hallway, arms crossed over his knees. Eventually, he sighs and stands up. “Fuck it.” He pulls Stiles to his feet as well. “Let’s try it. Whatever.” Without further ado, he grabs the mattress and props it against the wall, leaving just enough space for Stiles to crawl behind it.

Which he does.

The reprieve from the light is already worth the risk of losing the mattress. His muscles relax for the first time in days, even his heartbeat slows down. A world of stress and anxiety falls from his shoulders. If he hadn’t known before how much light could affect him, this would certainly be his awakening. Sighing, Stiles shuffles around until he’s on his back and fully hidden behind the mattress.

“And?”

“Could you please give me a minute?” Stiles rolls his shoulders and folds his hands over his stomach. After taking another deep breath, he closes his eyes. But his hopes are pretty quickly quenched when he’s feeling nothing. Not a tug. Not the whisper of a ley line. All he can feel is the collar around his neck, almost as if it’s trying to strangle him, to drag him under and keep him away from the ley line at any and all costs.

He’s trying to remember the wildness of Theo’s spark, to grasp onto this feeling, but he can’t hold onto it. All he finds is emptiness.

Taking a shaky breath, Stiles opens his eyes again. Sure, he expected it. He knew he wouldn’t be able to get in touch with the ley lines, but he hoped— he fucking hoped — that he could at least get a glimpse of Theo, a brush of his spark. He’d take anything right now to find Theo, feel him, and know he’s still there. It’s a stupid thought. Of course, Theo is still there. Theo would never abandon him. Not even Tracy being back worries him in any type of way.

But he misses him.

Painfully.

“Stiles,” Isaac says only a second before he pulls the mattress away, “someone’s com— are you okay?”

The answer to that would be ‘no.’ Not even in the slightest. But Stiles doesn’t want to worry Isaac any more than he necessarily needs to. They don’t exactly have time for heartbreak right now. “I’m fine.” Stiles gets to his feet, wishing he could take this collar and shove it down Deaton’s throat. “Who’s coming?”

Isaac grimaces. “Valack.”

“Great.” As much as Stiles clings on to the hope that they get out of here because their friends somehow manage to break in and out a second time in only a short amount of time or luck is on Isaac and his side for once, the far bigger thing that gets him going ever since Schrader attacked him in the showers is revenge. He’s out for blood, and he will kill everyone who’s involved in this plan. Thinking they can control him and push him around, it’s going to be their downfall.

But Valack remains confident, at least judging by the smile he wears when he comes to a halt in front of the cell. “Am I interrupting something?”

“My inner peace.” Stiles steps right up to the glass and crosses his arms. He’s not particularly interested in having a conversation with him at the moment. He’d prefer to smash his face into a wall.

“It’s always a pleasure to talk to you.” Valack pushes his hands into the pockets of his expensive suit pants. “I regret to inform you that Schrader will continue to be responsible for you.” Regret isn’t exactly a feeling Stiles gets from the other man, and judging by Isaac rolling his eyes, he’s probably right about that. “Nobody else is willing to take care of you. It seems like you frighten them.” His last words are accompanied by a wrinkle of his nose as if the mere idea disgusts him.

Isaac steps next to him, cocking his head to the side. “You’re frightened, too.”

Valack clenches his jaw, the only response he allows himself before continuing the conversation as if Isaac never said anything. “Schrader will be under the supervision of me or Deaton, so there won’t be a repeat of what happened earlier today.”

Drawing his brows together, Stiles studies Valack. He never even considered that it might have been a possibility to get rid of Schrader. That’s why he never mentioned or demanded it. However, Valack trying to get another orderly to work with him is interesting. After all, he never looked particularly invested in Stiles’ well-being, much less his survival. “What do you want?” Stiles smiles at the man, watching as surprise crosses his features for all but a second before he tries to cover it up by fixing his tie.

“There is something I need you to test tonight,” Valack informs him, not quite looking at him but trying his best to make it seem like he does. “I think it would be wise to feed beforehand.”

Isaac scoffs.

Stiles raises his brows. “Feeding is useless with this thing around my neck.”

“Of course.” There’s a bitter edge to his voice, but Valack smiles through it. “Well, then you might as well feed right before.” He straightens his jacket. “You two will join me after dinner.” With a nod, more to himself than Isaac or Stiles, he turns around and returns to wherever he came from.

“The fuck does he want?” Isaac mutters, pushing the mattress back into the corner with a frown.

Good question.

---

“Ah, wonderful. Come on in.” Valack waves them into a room that should not exist anywhere in a 20-mile radius of a health facility. It seems to have been a former cell, but the glass wall has been partially removed. There’s a chair in the middle of the room, the walls are filled with desks and cabinets filled with various different things.

Most of all, filth and cobwebs.

“How was dinner?”

Stiles and Isaac exchange a glance over the orderlies' heads. Even they seem a little confused by Valack’s facade. “Stale.”

“Predictable,” Isaac adds, pulling his head away when one of the crossbows gets a bit too close to his face. They’re dripping wolfsbane. It’s hard to tell which one, but there is absolutely no outcome of Isaac getting poisoned down here that could have any chance at a happy ending.

“Speaking of predictable.” Valack puts a hand on Stiles’ shoulder and pushes him not so gently towards the chair in the middle of the room. “What do you think about predicting the future?”

Stiles sits down, not any less confused now than when Valack first told him he wanted to see them after dinner. “Like… fortune-tellers?”

“Clairvoyance.”

“So, like a psychic.”

Valack stares at him with a frown, clearly annoyed that Stiles is missing the point — which he is, very much so. They locked him up here to separate the nemeton from him. Now he’s in a room that violates every hygiene regulation for a hospital, talking to a madman about the possibility of predicting the future. It doesn’t make any sense.

“Did you go to a psychic, Gabriel?” Stiles raises his brow.

“It seems,” Valack says, sounding more than unamused about the turn this conversation took, “something lifted your spirits again.”

Stiles chuckles. “I just can’t imagine you falling for card tricks, is all.” Even though he doesn’t like to admit it, Valack is too smart for that. He can’t see him believing anything said to him in a tent at a fair for a horrendous price.

“If I remember correctly, Lydia Martin is able to predict death.”

“Death we’re able to avoid if we’re fast enough. The future isn’t set in stone, Valack. Things can always change.” There are exceptions to the rule. His mother, who assured him his fate was not written down by three old women who share one eye, was such an exception. She couldn’t change her future, no matter how hard she and her doctors tried. “Is that why you wanted me down here? Because the nemeton can’t predict the future. I can’t help you.” There may be many things the power of the nemeton might be able to achieve, but none of them have anything to do with psychic abilities.

Valack shakes his head with a chuckle. “It’s the fox I need, specifically, your powers of electromagnetokinesis.” He turns around, humming in a way that seems too delighted for Stiles’ liking and pulls something out of the set of drawers right behind him.

The thing turns out to be a Dread Doctor’s mask.

Stiles all but jumps off the chair, stumbling over his feet as he does so. It’s not hard to imagine what’s supposed to happen with this mask. The Dread Doctors have similar powers to kitsune’s that much he’s managed to gather. After all, Stiles, Kira, and Noshiko are immune to what they can do. It’s no surprise that all of their gear would need similar powers to function.

But Stiles is not about to touch any of that shit. “Get that thing away from me.” 

Two people grab him, holding him in place, as Valack lifts the mask a little higher. “This mask was created by The Surgeon. He managed to harness electromagnetic fields within this very mask, giving the wearer the ability to utilize clairvoyance.” He sets the mask onto the abandoned chair, fixing Stiles with a smug smile. “Unfortunately, only those possessing similar powers can wield this power. Which means that you will put on this mask and tell me what you see, or Mr. Lahey will die a very slow and painful death.”

Stiles presses his lips into a thin line. That threat doesn’t come as a surprise, and he really wishes they’d be more creative. Unfortunately, this is all they need to have Stiles do exactly what they want. “It would probably be easier without this collar.”

“Certainly,” Valack agrees, propping his hands next to the mask, "I managed to extract your DNA from your blood. Rest assured, even without full access to your powers, you're still very much a fox." The smile falls from his lips as he picks the mask back up. “Sit, or you will be seated.” Time for fun and games is very much over.

Grinding his teeth, Stiles yanks his arms free from Schrader and the other orderly. One day, he’s going to kill this man, and he’s going to enjoy every single fucking second of it. He returns to the chair, sitting down and glancing in Isaac’s direction. There’s no room for him to move, either. One wrong move and the two orderlies will poison him. 

“You see,” Valack says as he steps in front of him, “some things are set in stone.” The smile returns, and it’s the last thing Stiles sees before the mask is put on him.

For a few seconds, nothing seems to happen. All Stiles senses is the smell of old leather — and hopefully nothing more than that, as well as the crackle of electricity. It’s impossible to see out of the goggles. They’re broken and dirty and—

Without warning, a sharp pain starts at his left temple, spreading extremely quickly until it feels like Stiles’ head is splitting open. He screams in pain, trying to grab the mask, to rip it off. But someone grabs his arms. He’s pulled up and pressed against the chair. Someone is yelling something he cannot hear over his own screams. There is no future in this mask. There is nothing in this mask.

Only pain.

“Please,” Stiles screams.

There’s more yelling. More screaming. Something is crashing.

And then, there’s silence.

Stiles blinks his eyes open.

“What do you see?” Valack’s voice is distant and quiet, like he was talking to him through a wall.

Carefully, Stiles raises his hands to his head. The mask is gone, so is the chair, the room, and everyone else inside it. He’s alone in a different room. It almost looks like the one he’s woken up in a few days ago. But why would he be here again? A shudder runs down his back. It’s so awfully quiet, so wrong.

Stiles takes a step forward, but his foot catches on something on the ground. Furrowing his brows, he looks down.

And there’s Isaac, cowering at his feet, hands folded over his head, almost as if he’s protecting his face from something — or someone.

Stiles crouches down, about to grab Isaac’s shoulder, when he catches sight of something else.

Blood.

There’s blood everywhere.

[msmischief101]

♞Pairing: Steo ♞Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Theo Raeken ♞Tags/Warnings: explicit sexual content, mentions of alcohol ♞Words: 3229 ♞Kinktober 2023 - Swallowing

ao3

***

Stiles weaves through the crowd, feeling strangely at ease between so many strangers. As much as ghosts enjoy to be close to the living, a gathering like this would be too much for the strongest of them. Tara, too, decided to hang back, clearly not particularly thrilled about the amount of people inside. It looks like there are at least a hundred people who decided to attend the party. Jackson is going to be so awfully pleased with himself. He was the one who pushed Stiles to use his connections so they could have a party at this abandoned mall — well, rather so Jackson could have a party here because Stiles doesn’t know a single person aside from his friends. Jackson bought the alcohol and paid for the venue, and Stiles hired a few people — a couple of bartenders, security, and students working the cloakroom. He also set the rules; no cameras, no phones, something Liam and Mason accepted only begrudgingly.

It’s not a rule he set up because Stiles didn’t want his face all over social media. The owner of this mall specifically asked that they don’t go around advertising it because he’s struggling with trespassers as it is. Stiles is the last person to complain about that, if he’s entirely honest. This is supposed to be a party, nobody needs to be on their phone the whole time.

“Stiles!” Lydia’s voice cuts through the music, and Stiles cranes his head to the left.

He’s not been around while they were preparing the mall for the party, but he’s not at all surprised to find Lydia waving at him from the gallery above. It looks like the ground floor has been turned into the dance zone with a bar at the side, while the seating areas have been moved upstairs. It’s a good idea since the whole ground floor is exposed from the next level. Climbing up the non-working escalators, however, is another adventure in his tight jeans. Wearing these really is an absolutely terrible idea.

“Is that Lydia?” Theo calls from behind him.

“Yeah.”

“Good, I’ve got to thank her.”

Stiles shuffles off the escalator and shoots Theo a confused look. “Why?” They don’t know each other, after all, and Stiles is the one who dragged Theo and the other two here. It’s not like he’s got anything to thank her for.

“For your jeans.” Theo steps closer, so close, in fact, that Stiles can feel his warm breath on his neck. “Your ass looks phenomenal.”

At this point, Stiles doesn’t even know why he’s bothering to ask Theo anything. Ignoring the heat creeping up his neck, he starts walking again — otherwise he might be tempted to shove the guy back down the escalator.

“Stilinski, nice jeans.” Jackson raises his brows with an almost appreciating smirk. Although his bisexuality came less of a surprise after the many comments he made about guys and girls, Stiles is still not entirely sure what’s more of a shock – the supernatural, or the fact that Jackson wanted to get some experience with him. He very much gets why Jackson didn’t want to sleep with his best friend – Stiles is too close to Lydia to want to have sex with her – but that doesn’t mean he expected to make the top of Jackson’s list; or that he actually approached him while being engaged to Lydia.

Stiles scrunches up his face. “I’m never going to wear tight jeans again.”

“Oh, please.” Lydia rushes to his side and hugs him. Her giggle makes it abundantly clear that she’s had more than once cocktail already. “You look amazing.” Her eyes roam over his face, probably checking if his makeup is still fully intact.

Theo clears his throat behind him.

“Right.” Stiles gestures at him dismissively. “That’s Theo.”

Lydia’s mouth curves into an oh.

Yeah, ‘oh’ probably sums it up the best. Stiles doesn’t stick around for any more introductions. Lydia knows exactly who Theo is after he cussed him out for hours in end; that probably means Jackson is very aware as well. The two haven’t kept anything secret between them ever since they got back together. That’s why Lydia knew Jackson wanted to sleep with Stiles before Stiles has been made aware of that. He still can’t believe he agreed to that. While it wasn’t a threesome – because he very much drew the line in the sand at sleeping with Lydia – they negotiated him down to letting her be in the room. He’s not sure he’d like to repeat that anytime soon; not that sex with Jackson was bad, but Lydia watching him made him feel decidedly weird.

Kira nearly crushes him with her hug, pulling him out of his thoughts effectively, before launching into how she’s planning to move to LA like ‘the rest of them’. It’s not the first time he heard about that, so Stiles assumes the pack is planning to locate to LA as well. Which is fine and all, by moving away he intended to bury his past.

Danny shakes his hand. “I’m going to get drinks.”

Unsurprisingly, Jackson made sure they’re having a bar close to their VIP area. Good, because Stiles isn’t in the mood to go up and down those escalators more than he needs to — not in these jeans.

He drops onto a chair next to Isaac, who ruffles his hair as a greeting. The wolf was the first to follow him to LA after starting a modeling career in Paris. It’s strange how they all slip into jobs they haven’t planned for. Isaac wanted to become a doctor. Lydia achieved her dream in becoming the smartest person at MIT, yet decided that her passion is with fashion and has been starting to work towards her own company in the past year. Kira meant to work with children, and now is instead about to get her degree in photography. Only Jackson stayed on his path on becoming a lawyer.

At least all of them are sure what to do in the future. Stiles is still on the fence about it. He likes what he’s doing now, but he’s not sure if that’s something he can do forever. He's not Ed Warren.

Yet.

While Mason and Liam are chatting with Lydia, Stiles watches Theo’s interaction with Jackson. They seem tense, and Stiles wonders if Jackson’s protective bubble now includes him as well. But instead of saying, ‘I’ll rip your head off’ Jackson snorts out a laugh, pats Theo’s shoulder and says, “good luck.”

Rolling his eyes, Stiles sinks into his chair.

———

Overall, the night is going great. Stiles missed partying with his friends. There’s something freeing about it, something relaxing, pushing him back into the comfort of his very own life — the part of his life he had before the nogitsune. Nothing has been the same, but in the middle of the crowded dance floor, Kira, Lydia, and Isaac brushing and bumping against him, and the ghosts scared away by the living, Stiles feels better than he’s done in a long, long time.

He's leaning his head back, catching Theo’s staring back at him. It’s hard to make out his expression, but his eyes flash yellow for only a brief moment. Even from a distance, Theo radiates possessiveness. It’s hot. Infuriatingly so.

Cocking his head to the side, Theo beckons him to come back up. A shudder runs through his body, and he has to actively fight his own instincts because every part of him wants to run up to him. He knows what Theo wants; the touches, the words, the flirting – the guy has never intended to be subtle.

But Stiles’ pride keeps him rooted to the dance floor, even as Theo pushes away from the railing and walks away.

“If you’re not going to accept that invitation…” Lydia trails off with a chuckle.

Stiles shoots her a look. Although he’s more than aware Lydia would never dare to go after someone he’s interested in, he couldn’t deny the burst of jealousy burning in the pit of his stomach. It leaves as quickly as it arrived. There’s no need to be jealous, after all, they’re talking about Theo.  

“Go.” Lydia shoves him not so gently.

Huffing out a breath, Stiles peels away from his friends and pushes out of the moving crowd. He wipes his hands on his jeans, hating that he’s suddenly nervous about allowing Theo close again, but he’s way too curious about the apology Theo promised him. He hasn’t forgotten that yet — just like he hasn’t forgotten that Theo ghosted him like a fucking asshole.

Still, he very much remembers all the things Theo’s tongue can do, he’d be stupid to pass up on an offer like that. He wants him so bad; it will take all his willpower to keep him an arm’s length away while simultaneously hooking up with him.

This is going to end in disaster.

Stiles hurries up the escalator, or rather, he climbs it as fast as his jeans allow him; at this point, he’s still not sure why being a skeleton for Halloween required skintight jeans. He does appreciate it for what it did to Theo, who seems to have magically disappeared once he’s made it upstairs.   

Fantastic.

He didn’t read that wrong, right? No, he can’t have. Lydia saw it too, and she is a weird detector for dead people and living people who want to have sex with him. Plus, Theo’s made it very clear that he’s still interested. Theo beckoned him to come to him. But where the fuck—

Someone snatches him by the hood and drags him into one of the abandoned shops to his right. Despite himself, his heart jumps into his throat as his foot catches on debris on the ground. He stumbles but doesn’t fall because an arm wraps tightly around his waist. Before he even has the chance to get his feet under himself, he’s crowded against a dusty old jewelry display cabinet.

Unsurprisingly, it’s Theo, who is pressing against him. “Didn’t expect you could dance like that,” he says barely loud enough to be heard over the bass of the music outside, shamelessly pressing his groin against Stiles’ ass. That Theo got hard just from watching him dance is equally surprising as it is fucking hot. “It should be illegal,” Theo continues, grinding against him as his fingers work on his belt and zipper without hesitation. “I don’t think anyone else should be allowed to see that.”

There’s that possessiveness again. Stiles hates how easily it’s getting to him, how Theo just dives right through his defenses and sweeps him up. If he asked, he’d probably let Theo bend him over this stupid cabinet and fuck him senseless. If he waits any longer, Theo won’t even have to ask.

So, he grabs Theo’s hands and pulls them off, ignoring the grumble of discontent. “I was promised an apology,” Stiles remarks, turning so he can look at Theo and lean against the cabinet. His tight jeans have become even more of a problem now than they were before. It does not help that they’re face-to-face, and so close, Theo’s warm breath ghosts over his skin. It’s easy to remember the last time they were this close.

Good times.

When Theo leans in for a kiss, Stiles keeps him at a distance with both hands on his chest. “Lydia put in too much effort into this costume for you to ruin it.” He taps his thumb against Theo’s collarbone, raising his brows. “And again, you promised me an apology.”

Although the light from outside barely reaches into the former store, Theo’s smirk is visible enough. “How demanding.”

“Demanding?” Stiles moves his hands up to cup Theo’s jaws. “No.” God, he wants to kiss him so, so bad. “You promised. Take it or leave it.”

Chuckling, Theo moves closer again. “Fair.” He cocks his head to the side, eyes roaming over Stiles’ face. It’s clear he’s debating on kissing him anyway – part of Stiles wishes he��d do it because he refuses to let him close, but if he pushes enough.

It’s so fucking stupid.

Theo flashes his eyes again, bright yellow in a face hiding mostly in shadow. Like that, he looks exactly like the predator he is.  

It does things to Stiles’ dick he’s not at all ready to admit.

But Theo notices. It’s obvious by the smirk deepening on his features. He’s so fucking full of himself, and it’s painfully hot — although admittedly, it’s not as hot as watching Theo getting on his knees right in front of him. That’s a sight to see, and a sight that makes his dick twitch in his pants. It’s not fair Theo can see so plainly what he does to his body with little to no effort.

And yet.

Thankfully, Theo doesn’t seem to have any interest in teasing him any further. He makes quick work of his zipper and pushes Stiles’ pants and boxer briefs down just enough to have easy access to his dick. Before he knows it, Theo’s mouth is on him. His lips wrap around the tip of his dick, and his tongue- fuck, his tongue.

Stiles can’t help but moan. He leans his head back, curling his fingers around the edge of the cabinet. Theo’s mouth felt way too good on him. There’s no way he could stay silent.

Good thing he doesn’t need to, not with the music drowning out his sounds.

Even when people are happening to look into this shop, all they will see is someone standing in the darkness like a weirdo. Nobody will care too much.

Theo moans around his dick, and it nearly pushes Stiles over the edge, which would’ve been the fastest he’s cum in his life; there’s no need for that embarrassment to happen when he should savor having Theo on his knees, pleading for forgiveness. He never thought the day would come, so, Stiles really wants to make it last.

But Theo is trying his very best to make it as hard — ha — as possible for him.

Closing his eyes, Stiles leans his head back. Watching Theo suck him off would not do him any good, or well, it would do him too much good. He curls his fingers into Theo’s hair, not trying to stop him, but, fuck, he really needs to hold onto him.

Theo is going to make him forget his own name if he keeps going like that, if he grabs and squeezes his ass shamelessly, pulling closer and taking him deeper into his mouth.

Moaning, Stiles tightens his grip on the display. Theo’s mouth has no right to feel this good. Fuck. Theo’s tongue has no right to make him feel like this. But it does; pressed flat against the underside of his dick or swirling the tip — if he keeps going like this, Stiles will meet his Polish ancestors a lot sooner than he anticipated. He can feel his orgasm building deep in the pit of his stomach already.

And Theo is having the time of his life with it. His fucking chuckle makes Stiles almost cum on the spot.

There’s no way his going to last much longer.

“Theo,” he breathes, forcing himself to open his eyes, and tugs carefully on the other’s short strands. Locking eyes with Theo is a terrible decision. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he mutters, squeezing his eyes shut again. His heart seems ready to jump straight out of his chest, it’s beating so fast.

Theo takes more of him into his mouth, and when the tip of his dick hits the back of his throat, Stiles barely resists the urge to yank Theo even closer. His fingers twitch in his short strands, and he breathes through gritted teeth. He can feel his muscles tighten. “Theo—" he warns, despite knowing that werewolves are usually able to tell when he’s close.

Humming, Theo squeezes his ass again and doubles his efforts.

Stiles lets go of him, curling both hands around the edge of the display cabinet instead. He’s staring down at the other boy, unable to look away and holding his gaze. Somehow, Theo manages to look unbearably smug while sucking on the tip of his dick. Stiles hates that this is one of the hottest things he’s ever seen. The asshole has the nerve to fucking smirk, and Stiles just knows this will haunt him in his dreams for days to come.

Theo takes him into his mouth again as he rubs a finger along his perineum then pushes it ever so innocently against his rim.

And that’s the end of it.

Stiles cums with a shout that may or may not be Theo’s name, arching his back. For a few blissful moments, his brain completely short-circuits, and all he can feel is his dick pulsing in Theo’s throat and his own fucking high.

But then, he returns to reality, a bit too quickly for his liking. Theo’s hands are on his thighs, holding him up, and his mouth is still on him. What was heaven a few seconds ago, quickly gets too much. Scrunching up his face, Stiles grabs Theo’s hair again and pulls his head back.

The first sound out of Theo’s mouth is a laugh.

Stiles wants to slap him. Instead, he puts himself back together. “You have cum on your chin.”

“And here I thought I swallowed it all.”

Fucking hell. Stiles shakes his head, hating that another flush is already creeping up his neck. “I hate you.”

Chuckling, Theo stands up and crowds Stiles against the display. “No, you don’t.”

Stiles shoots him a look. Of course, he doesn’t hate Theo. He wouldn’t be here if he hated him, fuck, he wouldn’t even have invited Theo to tag along if he didn’t at least like him. But he’s not going to admit to that. “You’re so full of yourself.” And it’s infuriatingly attractive.

Theo hums and wraps his arms around him, pulling him close — most definitely trying to point out that he’s still hard, and Stiles should do something about it.

See, if Theo hadn’t ghosted him for months because he didn’t have the guts to tell him the truth, Stiles would gladly do something about his not so little problem. He probably would’ve let Theo do whatever he wanted. But Theo did ghost him.

Smiling, Stiles cups Theo’s cheek, wiping the cum off his chin then cleans his thumb on the other boy’s shirt. “I think that’s what people call a ‘you problem’.” He pats his cheek once more before pushing the chimera off. “Have fun.”

For a few seconds, Theo circles through a bunch of emotions from anger to surprise, to something hard to decipher before he eventually settles on a trademark smirk that does not quite reach his eyes. “I’m going to get you back for this,” he promises in a low voice, and the only reason Stiles can hear it is because they’re still standing close.

“I’d like to see you try.” And that’s true, in every sense of the word. Maybe the key to Theo’s attention is making him chase him. If that’s the case, it’s exactly what he’s going to do.

Blowing Theo a kiss, Stiles pushes himself off the display and walks out of the store.

Things just got a whole lot more interesting.