"This is weird," Isaac says, and, yeah. Yeah, it fucking is.
"Hey," Stiles says, clapping his hand to the other man's- boys, they're young again, here- shoulder, "we've been through worse. Can't be that bad, right?"
"Dude," Isaac says, narrowing his eyes, "my dad's alive."
"Fair, but... No zombies?"
When he dreams, he remembers. He remembers Stalghot, that ancient, divine, cruel man, acumen for necromancy some genius level, but his power not enough, never enough. He remembers how he and Scott were fighting at the time, something about life and death and people, it's all fuzzy around the edges now, whatever he did nothing compared to what Stalghot made him do.
The Necromancer had told him once, as Stiles lay bleeding, gasping, bound and ravaged with mutilated bodies convulsing all around him, trying to crawl ruthlessly back to life from whatever hellscape they were in, that he'd smelled Stiles' Spark.
He'd felt it miles away, his potential for power, and then the man, lines etched in his face, lips pale green flaky, teeth half rotted, had kissed him, filth, disturbing, bile-inducing, climbed on top of him and fucking laughed.
Raw, gross, agony, agony, no, stop-
"-iles, Stiles, shh, hey. I've got you, I've got you, you're here, safe. With me. Remember? Hey," Isaac is murmuring, Stiles in his lap, as he rocks them gently, back and forth, the bed creaking lightly under the weight of it.
"Yeah," Stiles croaks, sniffs, blinks his way back to reality.
"You with me, Mischief?"
"Hah! Yes. Yeah, I'm with you."
"Good, good boy." Isaac praises, and Stiles shivers. His eyes flash a murky purple when he checks his wards, soundproofing the room, wrapping the house in safety. Only he, Isaac, and his father can get through them.
Isaac brushes a hand through his hair and Stiles whimpers, "Isaac," he breathes, "Isaac, please."
"Okay, mon soumis, hush," Isaac soothes, taking the soft rope out from under the bed and pulling it up to them, "color?"
"Green," Stiles breathes.
Isaac kisses him, soft, then takes the rope, a pretty velvet blue, and begins binding him, arms across his chest, legs crooked up, knees out, the shift-rough sounds, the stillness he's forced into, steadies, grounds, makes him feel lighter, less frayed, less spilling out of his seams. Because he's held together, Isaac is holding him together, won't let him spool apart.
Then he's being maneuvered back into Isaac's lap, straddling, and he's asked again, rum-sweet voice thick and rough with arousal, "Color, baby?"
"Green, Sir, it's green."
"You're being so good for me. Such a good boy."
Isaac kisses him then, and his mouth chases away the ghost of another, repulsive man's. Their tongues slide together, gentle, kind, enticing. Isaac kisses languid and intent, pulls deep, shivering moans from Stiles, who feels his cock beginning to fill with the hot rush of blood, of lust and need, he sucks and nibbles at Isaac's tongue, causing his lover to groan.
"You want me to touch you baby?" Isaac purrs.
"Please, please, Sir. Please. Need, want- Isaac."
"I'm here, mon soumis," Isaac murmurs against his lips as he slides his hand past the elastic of Stiles' sweatpants, takes him in hand and makes a weak fist around him, teasing, gentle, as he drags his thumb around the head, the rest of his fingers shifting slow around his shaft, "right here."
Stiles whimpers against his shoulder, Isaac taking the whole of his weight, his other hand coming around Stiles' waist to cup his ass, he gives a little tap, light, not enough, and asks, "Color?"
"Please, green. Very, very green. Hurry, Isaac, more, please, ple-" A sharp smack against his ass has his hips jerking forward, causing delicious friction even as the white-hot sting of pain hurdles in bursts up his spine.
"Patience," Isaac tuts, "or I won't let you cum tonight. Only good boys get to cum, and good boys beg, they don't whine. You want to be good for me, don't you mon soumis?"
"Yes," Stiles cries, Isaac's hand on his dick becoming a more solid force, stripping up and down in a still too-slow rhythm that has him biting his lip and writhing to just get more, but Isaac hits him again, hard, fucking perfect, and Stiles gasps.
"Did I tell you to move? Do you need me to tie you to the bed, too?"
"No, no. I'll be good, Sir, I swear, please, please," he keens as Isaac's hand comes down on his ass with another loud thwap.
"Prove it," Isaac orders, squeezing the abused flesh, claws digging in ever so slightly, making him shudder and gasp, tears dripping down his chin onto Isaac's collarbone and sliding down, a little droplet of water he follows up to Isaac's jaw with his tongue, before biting at his jaw.
"I'll be good," Stiles whimpers, stilling his hips as much as possible, the ropes holding his arms, the rest of him, steadfastly in place, so secure, so safe. He moans as Isaac starts stroking him faster, his dick getting coated with precome, Isaac's thumb pressing a blunt fingernail just this side of painful against his slit with every upward slide. "Please, Sir, I'll be so good for you, I promise, I swear."
Stiles hides in that soft, dark-sweet, sleepy place, in the crook of Isaac's neck, breathing him in, his eyes fluttering closed, he can feel himself going slack, pliable, untethered. Floating, he's floating. A high pitched mewl escapes him as Isaac starts tugging his cock faster, harder, slapping his ass again with enough force to make his body jerk and his whole spine tingle with shock.
"Ah, ah, ah, please, uhn," he's gasping, whimpering, all muffled in the junction of Isaac's shoulder.
"That's my good boy, so good for me, baby."
"I'm- I'm cumming," Stiles mewls, and Isaac suddenly stops, Stiles whining high and loud, "S-sir. Mm, pl-please," Stiles slurs, body trembling uncontrollably.
"You've been so, so good, mon soumis. My good boy. Can you last a little while longer, for me? Just a little while, baby."
"Sir," Stiles pants, and because he's too far gone, slipping further and further away, "love you."
"I love you, too, Mischief."
Isaac brings his hand away from his ass, caresses the back of Stiles' neck, murmurs, "So far down already, hmm?"
"My good boy," Isaac whispers, kissing Stiles' temple, despite the awkward angle, as he starts stroking him again, slow. Stiles shivers. "So, so good. Perfect for me, aren't you baby? There you are, that's it."
"Sir, pleeaaasseee," he moans, planting a sloppy open-mouthed kiss against the skin under his lips, suckling there lightly, Isaac growls, soft.
"Okay, baby, okay. Cum for me, c'mon, you were already so close before. Cum for me, mon soumis."
"Ah, ah-nnhn!" Stiles' hips jerk in harsh, abortive motions, his whole body clenching and unclenching as orgasm washes over him. Breath leaves him in hot-damp, fast little pants, and his vision almost whites out. Isaac is hushing him, humming some soft melody against the shell of his ear as he comes down.
"Sir," Stiles slurs, "feels good."
"Yeah? That's perfect, baby. You were so, so good for me. Thank you, that was beautiful."
"What about Sir?"
"Tomorrow," Isaac promises. "Rest, baby. Sleep, now, I've got you."
"You've always got me."
"And I always will, Mischief."
When he wakes up again, he's unbound, clean, and pressed against Isaac's chest while the other boy cards his fingers through Stiles' hair.
"Did you even sleep last night?" Stiles murmurs against his collarbone.
"More than you," Isaac mutters, shifts away to look him in the eyes, crystals and water curling in his irises, "Your father's awake."
"Do you have to go?"
"We have school," Isaac reminds him.
"And you have Derek," Stiles teases.
"You have Scott."
"Oh, god, I do, don't I? Do you know how many steady heartbeat spells I'm gonna have to send his way?"
"Why don't you just get a rune for it tattooed, like you did for your scent?" Isaac asks, tracing the raven looking thing right under his collarbone.
"Because I can't key it to bypass certain people the same way, and I..."
"You don't want to lie to me."
"No, Isaac," Stiles admits, and curls back into him for just a moment, just to breathe.
"I've gotta go, baby," Isaac murmurs into his hair, Stiles sighs.
"I know. Remember the plan?"
"It's not hard to forget," Isaac tells him, wry, Stiles snorts and shakes his head, relinquishes his hold, watches Isaac creep out the window, easy and agile. Sighs again.
Face the music, Stiles, reads the text Isaac sends him minutes later, we're doing this to stop the apocalypse after all.
And I will rue the day when doing that made going back to high school a priority, Stiles shoots back as he heads into the shower.
When he checks his phone again, washed up, and eating the plain eggs he made for his father and himself, Isaac's replied with a:
We both will.
Is it weird seeing my ex with your bff? Bc she's never even actually dated me? But she has? Like
Stiles snorts, his father gives him a look.
We've survived everyone in the world turning into the undead, killed a terrifying rapey power hungry warlock to stop it, and we plan on killing him again to keep it stopped, and this is what you find weird?
His phone dings around ten seconds later which has his dad asking, "Is that Scott?"
I'm just sayin, babe.
Our lives read like a shitty sci-fi novel.
"Nope," Stiles tells him as he types out a response, "boyfriend."
Don't you mean fantasy?
Also, won't seeing any of them alive in general be weird?
"You have a- what about Lydia?" His dad asks, slightly bemused, but not overly concerned.
"Lydia is in love with a bully who needs extensive therapy and will probably need more by the end of the school year. She's intelligent and beautiful and, yeah, I was obsessed with her. But that isn't love, it's idealization. She's as fucked up as the rest of us. And, hey, she'd make an amazing friend, and if she'd give me the time of day, I'd totally worship her in all of her glory. But I'm gay. She doesn't have the right parts. And, I mean, I was confused about it for awhile, you know? Not because I didn't think other people would accept me, I have one of the best support systems in the world, you, Scott, and Melissa, you're three of the wisest most mature, healthy people in this town.
"But I'm not. And somewhere in my screwed up little head I thought that it wasn't real, or it was just-" he waves a hand around, trying to find words- "And Lydia is the only other girl my age who matches up intellectually, so I fixated. But shit happens, and once you figure out who you are, and you figure out that life isn't gonna stop fucking you over you just-" Stiles makes an odd sort of humming noise in the back of his throat, shrugs- "go with it."
"So." His dad says faintly, looking a little dazed, and it says something that he isn't even commenting on the cursing, "Boyfriend? When do I get to meet him?"
And that's just like his dad, isn't it? To just accept it like that.
"I'll ask, he could probably come over for dinner sometime next week."
"Okay," his father says, then chuckles, "okay, son. I gotta get to work."
Stiles gets up, wraps him in a bone-crushing hug. His dad grunts, before returning it full force.
"I love you, kid," he says, earnest and sincere, full of conviction. He probably thinks the desperation in this embrace means something different than it does. Stiles is just happy his dad is alive to touch at all.
"I love you, too, daddy."
[Fri, 7:34 AM] Yeah, well.
Putain de gosse
[7:40] Is that any way to talk to me, mon soumis?
I'll be good.
[7:42] Good boy.
[8:19] Wow, I forgot how many times Derek actually made me late for school.
Alpha thing. Poor guy.
[8:23] And wouldn't this technically be the first time he's made you late?
Here, I mean.
Stiles steps out of his first class to find Isaac waiting for him, and he smirks.
"You were late so you just skipped homeroom? Seriously?"
"I thought you said you were going to be good?" Isaac asks archly, teasing obvious in his sky-river eyes. Stiles snorts as Scott comes up behind him.
"Oh, uh," Scott flounders, "Hey?" To Stiles, he half-whispers, "Who's that? He smells... like..."
"Like a werewolf?" Isaac supplies with raised eyebrows, letting claws creep out on one hand and doing a little flourish.
"Derek's an Alpha, dude," Stiles tells him, his best friend looks so adorably lost, "he needs three Beta's, at least, to keep his power, and himself stable."
"I'm one," Isaac says.
"I'm two," Stiles continues, "it'd probably be useful if you became three."
"Wait, wait, you're two? Stiles are you going to-" Scott sounds horrified, Isaac is rolling his eyes so hard they might just fucking stick that way.
"No, Scott. You don't have to be a 'were to be Pack. So? What do you say?"
"What do I say about what?" Scott asks, still so confused, and just a little bit mulish, "I can't become a part of any Pack, Stiles. What about Allison? And why the hell didn't you talk to me about this?"
Stiles searches the teenagers face, sees all the life and love he has to offer, he also sees the righteous anger, and the immaturity. He sighs, he hadn't really thought asking straight up like this would work, but he and Isaac had agreed it was worth a try.
"It's complicated," Stiles tells him, looks to Isaac who's offering a supportive little smile, Stiles returns it with a rueful shake of his head, "we're gonna be late for next period, man. Let's go. I'll see you, Isaac."
"À la lumière de la lune, mon amour!" Isaac calls after him, and Stiles grins while Scott continues to gape.
He endures the interrogation his friend- more of a stranger than anything, now, really- inevitably has for him with all of the poise of someone who has been tortured for information (among other things), and Scott, by the end of it, with no answers and a silence where there should be a babbling and ideas, looks nothing less than utterly betrayed.
Derek scents the air, and there's the distinct smell of his Beta, drawing closer, and with him, medicine candy-sweet honeycomb, Stiles. It's less like Stiles is actually with Isaac, and more like... Well.
He's not going to look too deeply into that at the moment.
When Isaac gets down the stairs and enters his line of vision the first thing he notices is confidence, his posture, his gait, even the light in his eyes is different.
He looks more haunted than he did before, if that's at all possible.
He also looks a hell of a lot more like he's willing to put up a fight.
It's an odd and confusing dissonance and Derek's not at all sure it has anything to do with his recent change.
"Isaac," he greets, "how did you do- first day back at school? How was your control?"
"I've got an anchor, aigre-loup-" What? Was that French?- "my control is fine. Three things cannot be long hidden: the sun, the moon, and the truth. Alpha, Beta, Omega. I've got my mantras, my anchor, and my control. You on the other hand? You still need another Beta."
"How do you-" Derek begins to ask, because he certainly hadn't taught him any of that, was never going to. It cuts too close to the raw, aching wound that is his past, his grief, his guilt.
"Deaton told me," comes another voice, and how the fuck did Stiles even know where they were? Except... That thing he wasn't going to read too deeply into? He can't not now that he sees it.
Stiles comes clattering down the stairs and Isaac's whole demeanor changes, just the slightest bit, softer, more reigned in and toned down, his wolf instantly content, his scent suddenly complete. His Beta smiles at the hyperactive teen as he comes closer, a real, full, untempered thing, eyes bright with it. Stiles returns the smile, beatific and kind and loving.
"And I told him."
"It wasn't the vet's place." Derek grouses, gruff, trying to figure out what the hell is going on. He suddenly feels like he does not have all the pieces to this puzzle.
Stiles shrugs, Isaac chimes, "It did help."
"Fine." Derek growls.
Stiles grins, "Sourwolf," he says, half sing-song, and then, apropos of fucking nothing, "will you be my Alpha?"
Derek is suddenly too shocked to recall how words work.
"You want the Bite?"
"Oh my god, no! Why does everyone think that?" Stiles asks, mouth opening and closing in his offense, hitting Isaac in the chest with the back of his hand, Isaac catches him by the wrist with a playful growl.
"Squishy human," he answers eyebrows cocked with a grin that's a little too sharp to be safe and a little too fond to be legitimately dangerous.
"I will have you know, I am perfectly capable of defending myself," Stiles sniffs haughtily. And suddenly, Isaac goes full body tense, eyes wide, like he knows he misstepped and is preparing for an attack. Stiles' scent gets stronger, too, fast and aggressive, and that's all the warning he gets before Isaac is suddenly tossed clear across the abandoned train depot, back slamming hard against the wall. He slides down with a grunt and a cough.
"Ugh," he groans, then, in absolutely fluent french, perfect and fluid and lyrical, "Pourquoi? Tu es si méchant! Nom de Dieu. Putain de gosse."
It sounds vaguely like cursing, no matter the language, and despite its musical quality.
Stiles just bursts out laughing.
"It's your fault, you've been avoiding sparring with me lately. You're rusty, dude."
"Yeah!" Isaac snipes, getting up with ease, not even slightly shifted. "Because you always cheat."
Stiles narrows his eyes, is suddenly somber where he was light-hearted and teasing before.
"You think our enemies won't?" He asks, voice suddenly deep and coated with steel. Even Derek feels the chill of it. And he wonders, looking at this kid who's suddenly- he's just as different as Isaac is, and it's not just the, well, whatever the hell that show of strength was, it's this too. It's the same haunted confidence, where you're being chased by the hounds of hell so dogs just don't fucking frighten you. Derek gets that, he feels it most days, but it's sharper in them, and he's left wondering how? When?
Isaac stills, becoming solemn in turn. He goes up to Stiles and wraps the boy in his arms, easy as breathing, "I'm sorry," he says, a soft, soothing whisper, but there's strength, determination, in the words, "you're right. Don't worry, baby. We'll figure it out."
Stiles heaves a shaky sigh, all the fight draining out of him as he goes oddly vulnerable, open and pliant in Isaac's arms.
"We have to," he murmurs, and Isaac just presses in closer.
"Sorry to interrupt your moment, but what the hell was that?"
"Magic," Stiles says pulling away from Isaac with a grin, whiskey eyes impish.
"Magic?" Derek questions.
"He's a Spark, Der," Isaac tells him, and that. That actually gives him pause. Makes air become ice in his lungs. The last person to call him that was Laura.
Jesus, what's even going on?
And since when is Stiles a Spark?
"Suffice it to say," Stiles explains, decisively, as he walks away from Isaac and comes right up to him, "I'm powerful. And I want to be a part of your Pack. Assuming you agree, you still need one more Beta, and we have the perfect person in mind."
"What about Scott?" He finds himself asking, though it's weak and they all know it. He honestly feels a bit gutted.
"Scott is my best friend," Stiles answers, honest and sure, "my brother. But you're my Alpha, Derek."
"If you want to be Pack, Stiles," Derek tells him, and he doesn't even feel the need to hesitate, "then you're Pack."
Stiles grins, bright and beautiful.
The Pack-bond slips into place, almost like it was always there and now is just the first time he's noticed it. It's a cool and vibrant thing, pulsing with knowledge and power.
"Oh! And we need a new place."
"C'mon, Sourwolf. You're not really gonna let the abuse victim stay with his abuser are you?" Stiles asks, only half teasing, and Derek barely manages not to wince, scowling instead. The boy claps a hand on his shoulder, but it's gentle, somehow reassuring, "We're Pack, Der." And now Stiles is calling him that too, and with his eyes so full of affection and nurture that it almost floors him. "We take care of each other. And we need a home. This-" he waves a hand, gesturing around them at the rusted, ancient, abandoned, moldy train depot- "this is not a home."
It takes the two boys around twenty minutes to convince him to buy out a building with a, pretty nice, considering, loft; that his third Beta should be a girl trapped in a body that has seizures; that he really, really needs to watch Jackson (he hadn't told anoyone he'd bitten the boy, or that neither the Bond nor the Bite were taking the way they should. How the two of them know is beyond him); and that Isaac's moving in with him.
By the end of it he's dazed and mostly accepting.
Together those two are like an emotional and strategic bulldozer.
In a way it's comforting that Stiles took so much control, he was, after all, never meant to be an Alpha, never meant to be burdened with so much responsibility. It feels somehow freeing to have his Pack so easily take up the mantle.
And it's not nearly as grating as it should be.
It's more relief than anything.
[Sat, 1:30 AM] How is it we come back to stave off the apocalypse and we end up fixing everyone else's problems?
[1:32] Hey, that's all you, princess.
You like to help people.
It's your calling, or some shit like that.
[1:40] Ugh, and I didn't even get to take you up on that raincheck
[1:41] I'm sure we'll have time enough, soon, mon soumis.
And if you're good, I may even reward you for your patience.
[1:43] We'll see ;)
Oh my god
[1:45] I'm laughing so hard right now
I think I'm scaring Derek
[2:32]So. In a few days we save my dad from Jackson, right?
I'm sorry, Isaac.
[2:43] No, don't be.
It was part of the plan from the beginning.
[2:44] But after, I'm moving in with Derek.
[2:50] And punching him in the face.
I mean, who are you punching in the face?
[2:51] I meant my dad, but. Both of them, probably
[2:56] Pictures are for good boys, mon soumis
You're always a brat.
[3:13] But I'll think about it.
[3:49] Thank you, Sir.
[3:50] Go to sleep, Stiles
I love you
"He's not going to sleep at all," Isaac murmurs, mostly to himself, as he pockets his phone. He and Derek are hanging out, lurking, creeping, around this dilapidated place. He couldn't go home, not back to the man he'd gladly kill and who would just as gladly maim, destroy, abuse.
Part of him had wanted to go to Stiles' again.
But Stiles had planned a night filled mostly with research, and they both needed to make sure Derek would be... Wouldn't run away, from this. Or go into it too half-cocked. Or just, in general, do something stupid.
"Stiles?" Derek asks softly, and he seems honestly curious, though there's more to that curiosity than he's letting on. To be fair, though, considering the way they're acting? Isaac's not gonna blame the guy for getting suspicious.
He's gotta give him something, he knows he does. And Derek, this Derek, doesn't know enough about the current goings on of Beacon Hills to really call him out on the lie of it, and if he keeps it vague his heart won't call him out either.
"My dad, he's a bad guy," Isaac tells him, and this, Derek already knows, so he just nods, "there are people worse than him though."
Derek goes eerily still. Isaac wonders if he's thinking of Kate, or if he's already connected the dot that Isaac's hinting at.
"Stiles is a Spark, and, before he knew how to hide his power, there was someone who found him because of it. And they. It was bad, Der, really, really bad."
It doesn't escape him that Derek doesn't ask when, and he's glad for that, he really is.
"A necromancer, Stalghot," and here, this is the part he really needs him to understand, the part he needs to get through. Because Derek, their Alpha, he's a part of this plan. So he looks Derek straight in the eyes, conveys as much seriousness as he can, and says, "When we find him, we're going to kill him. He deserves nothing less. Are you gonna be okay with that?"
"Stiles is Pack," Derek says, eyes flashing red, dark with conviction, "I'll help."
Ah, there it is. Isaac grins, because that is exactly the reaction he was hoping for.
"Thank you, Alpha."
For a moment, he closes his eyes, remembers Scott being his Alpha, and all of the mistakes he made, always thinking he was right. He remembers how angry Scott had been with Stiles for just protecting them. And how fucking long it took them to realize Stiles was missing, and by that time the dead were already rising.
And it will always haunt him, how Stiles looked, how he was when they finally found him. It took them longer than it should've to save him, and even longer, on the run, to bring him back to who he was.
In the end, because of Scott's hubris, along with so many other things, the only two people left after the final battle against Stalghot were he and Stiles.
And they had looked out at the world, covered in a sea of rotting, still half animated corpses, and even as broken as they were they had known what they needed to do. They couldn't leave the world like that, couldn't survive without a Pack.
He feels, distantly, Derek touching his neck, no doubt smelling his distress. He nuzzles into it, leans into the other man, unashamedly takes comfort in his Alpha, and breathes, "Fuck the apocalypse."
Derek barks a startled laugh, but doesn't question it.
Derek drives Issac to school, it's familiar and amiable in a way that only ever comes with Pack, a Beta who has completely accepted him, is fully settled with his wolf and his place in the hierarchy of the Pack.
Isaac's Pack-bond thrums with contentedness and that small nugget of always-there worry.
And though he does pick up residual anger and frustration from Stiles' Pack-bond, he isn't actually worried until he pulls up to the curb, hears his second Beta's heart beating wildly, hears him growling, not unlike a wolf:
"No! I'm not going to leave his Pack just because you don't want me in it! The only reason you're so stubbornly refusing in the first place is because of Allison, isn't it? Because you think you'll lose her if you involve yourself in any of this. Newsflash, man, you are what you are, and she is what she is, you either accept it and evolve your relationship or accept the fucking loss, man."
"Are you asking me to choose between you and the girl I love?" Scott hisses, Derek breathes out a harsh breath.
Isaac twitches beside him, doesn't make a move to leave the car even though they're already here.
"No, not at all, man. I'm asking you to accept what you are, and to ask her to accept it, too. If she can't..."
"She's fine with who I am! But she wants me to live through this, dude. And she told me, she said her grandfath-"
"I know about Gerard."
"Then you know the lines are being drawn. If you're in his Pack, Stiles, you could get killed. And I don't trust Derek, not enough to let him be your Alpha let alone mine!"
"Scott. Derek is my Alpha. I don't need your permission, and I do trust him. With my life." Derek's breath catches. "As for the lines being drawn? At least I'm on the right side of this war. You're hiding, dude. And not even well. Gerard knows about your past relationship Allison, he's not just gonna let that go. You're as much a part of this as I am, whether or not you want to believe it.
"And if you really can't forgive me this, Scott, then just go. Stop being an ass, and just go."
There's the sound of the jeep creaking, and then hinges keening as a door is too abruptly slammed shut.
Isaac is out of the camaro a second later and Derek doesn't even hesitate to follow after him. They're both by Stiles' side, Isaac helping him out of his car, and Derek hovering, within seconds.
"You alright, mon soumis?" Isaac asks softly.
"I will be." Stiles sighs, wrapping his arms around Isaac's neck and breathing in a deep shuddering-wet breath, "I hope."
"Scott seems pissed," Derek comments, and he's kind of startled, honestly, that Stiles would be willing to basically push Scott away to have him as his Alpha.
Stiles pulls away from his hug with Isaac and, too fast for Derek to avoid, too uncharacteristic for Derek to expect, wraps his arms around Derek's middle and buries his face in his chest.
"Alpha," Stiles murmurs.
Isaac comes up behind the boy and puts a hand on his shoulder, looks Derek in the eyes over Stiles' head, nods, "Alpha."
When Stiles pulls away he looks exhausted, and Derek suddenly remembers what Isaac had said the other night, that Stiles wouldn't sleep. The boy rubs his eyes with a bone-weary sigh.
"Scott was always gonna be pissed about this," he says, "because it isn't something he can understand. Right now he can't think past his love for Allison and his grief at the loss of his humanity, not enough to accept a Pack or an Alpha or anything he thinks might lead to him losing his relationship with her, even though he's already as good as lost it.
"He's using our previous opinions of you as an excuse, he's using self-preservation as an excuse, but the truth is, he's just running away. And he expects me to be right there with him, like normal, but I just can't this time. I-" he stops himself, and then amends, gesturing with a flourish to indicate all of them- "we can't live without a Pack. It's not even just survival it's. It's an actual need."
His eyes are boring into Derek's and there's an understanding there that Derek wouldn't have honestly ever expected from anyone.
"We can't be alone," Isaac picks up, "not just because of what we are, but also because of the things we've been through-" he laces his hand in Stiles' and Stiles slumps a little, swallows, lets his eyes drift closed- "we're Pack animals. It's as simple as that, and also- not." He offers a bit of a bittersweet smile, and Stiles turns to look at him. "I'm sorry about Scott, baby."
"Yeah, me too." Stiles squeezes Isaac's hand, and then, clapping his together as if the loud and abrupt motion is enough to release all of the leftover tension in the air, he says, "Okay! Time for school."
Isaac rolls his eyes, but he's grinning now. Ten seconds later Derek is being assaulted by a giant hug from both of them simultaneously, Isaac snuffling at the left side of his neck, and Stiles at the other, scenting him. Then they're off, calling over their shoulder:
"Have a good day, Der!"
"Don't forget about the loft!"
"À plus tard!"
Derek is left stunned by the wisdom and vulnerability and family they've both just shown him. He's too shocked to move for several long moments, his brain helpfully supplying memories of his younger siblings and group hugs and puppy piles and what it all felt like, and despite the grief that rolls over him, threatens to pull him under, there's a warmth and a hope building in his chest that makes him want to howl with the joy of it.
It makes the odd looks other kids going into the school give him easier to ignore as he finally moves to leave.
[Mon, 8:43] whats 'moh-n soo me' in french???
[8:44] I think I'd need the actual spelling, Scott.
Lydia says that you might mean 'Mon soumis' which would be 'My submissive/ subject', in english
[8:51] Why, though? Where did you hear it?
[9:25] isaac keeps calling stiles that
Scott heads Stiles off right before lunch, he's practically purple in the face with some kind of rage, and it would be funny, Stiles thinks, on anyone other than his best friend. He knows he's changed. He had to, in order to survive what he did, but it's the fact that Scott always ends up like this with him, no matter what timeline, and that in the original? Around this time? He was kidnapped, tortured, and molested under Scott's nose.
And he never even noticed, he didn't notice the second time it happened either.
So, it's that Scott won't change, that he never will. That's what really kills him.
"Do you even know what he's calling you?" Scott hisses, making a big ado as quietly as he possibly can. Which isn't quietly at all. People are staring.
"What?" Stiles asks, genuinely confused.
"Mon soumis, do you even know what it means?"
"Yes," he says, slowly, and with deliberate pronunciation, because this feels like talking to a child, more than anything. Considering his actual age, which is honestly only a few years older, maybe he kind of is.
"And your pronunciation is terrible," Isaac tells him, coming up from behind like the sneaky little shit he can be. Scott jumps, scrambles.
"How did I- I should've smelled you!"
"And we wondered how Danny found out," Stiles murmurs, Isaac giggles, and Stiles beams at him.
"Danny found out?" Scott sounds appalled.
"Look, dude," Isaac sighs, sounding rather put-upon, he reaches out, and Stiles, without even thinking, because it's practically instinct at this point, just goes to him, falls into him, nestles in that safe space, the crook of his shoulder, "you didn't smell me because I smell like him. And you two may be brothers, but his relationship with me is none of your business, just like your relationship with Allison is none of his, right?"
"R-right," comes the dazed reply.
"And if you want to know why he calls me that," Stiles says against Isaac's skin, knowing everyone will hear him, not wanting to move, giving no shits about the other students watching this spectacle, "and why I sometimes call him Sir," Isaac represses a shiver, Stiles offers a little kiss to his pulse-point, "you can google healthy BDSM."
"Putain de gosse," Isaac hisses into his hair, drawing him closer despite himself.
"Nuh-uh," Stiles crows in a teasing whisper, "I'm a good boy, Sir. Pro-mise."
Both boys miss the chatter and pandemonium resuming, they miss how most of the chatter, that had been about the return of one Lydia Martin, is now almost entirely about the out couple who's apparently unashamedly kinky.
"He's gone," Isaac says after a few moments.
"We're never gonna be friends again, are we? Not really."
"I don't know, mon soumis he's a good guy, he's just-"
"-an idiot. You were close, though."
"Shut up, we're gonna miss Boyd." Stiles snorts, tapping on Isaac's shoulder with the back of his hand until Isaac reluctantly lets him go. Stiles snatches his hand and laces their fingers together, half dragging him to the cafeteria.
"We're seriously doing the ice skating thing?"
"Well. Lydia's having a shit time. She deserves some cheering up."
"Superhero," Isaac teases.
Stiles makes shameful indignant noises and faces at him until he's devolved into raucous bouts of laughter. He calls it a win.
Isaac stares at his father. They've only been back in this line for a little less than a week, and he's been spending most of that time actively avoiding the man.
Now, though, today. Today they'll be saving his life, or more accurately, using him as bait to save Jackson's life and deal with Daehler in the process which will have the unfortunate side-effect of saving his life.
His father pins him with a stare, and those eyes are mirrored in his, he thinks. The curls, the jaw, the lips, the anger that bubbles like magma underneath his skin waiting for one thing, anything, to set him off like some sort of unruly volcano. It doesn't escape him that at the first sign of real, tangible power within himself, he'd become something of a bully. It's true that Derek, with misguided intentions, had goaded him on, but the anger, initially, came from him.
Inherited from his father.
An ember that was coached with a firm, vicious hand, because what else do you do when you're helpless? What do you do except hate. Hate yourself for being so unlovable, hate the people around you for not seeing what you have to offer, hate being trapped and incapable of surviving, leaving, fighting on your own.
And hate just scrapes down all the good things, gives into rage and terror and sadness.
The people who had brought him back from that, evened him out, shown him that he could be loved without having to lash out first, that he could be okay, just himself, had been Scott, Allison, and, begrudgingly, Stiles.
And then Allison had died, and the kind of pain that that wrought, it stifled the rage, but it silenced the hope, too, the blooming capacity for joy.
And he'd run away from it all, with Chris, to France. Learned a new language, a new way of life as a Beta to a human Alpha. Had almost gone Omega a few times, it wasn't like his relationship with Chris- this pseudo father-figure, just as fucked up as him- had been perfect, and it wasn't as if Chris understood that he was Isaac's only Pack at the time. He couldn't have understood that, not ever, not really.
Stiles had called them back, fully aware that something was going on that would require the cavalry, not quite sure what. And it didn't matter that Isaac and Chris weren't necessarily close with Stiles before they left, why would it?
He was clever and they trusted him, implicitly. Stiles is, was, has always been the type of person to engender that sort of knee-jerk reaction. Because he loves and protects with his whole being, his loyalty is so bone-deep it cuts. And his intelligence is a loud, bright, bursting thing. So if it was him calling them back home...
And so they went. And Stiles was missing, and Scott had barely even noticed.
When they had finally found him, it was following a trail of bodies. Stiles had been leaving them breadcrumbs, zombies with messages. And the first time Isaac had seen Stiles, the boy had been naked and bruised and heaving with the effort of walking with so many injuries, he'd been skeletal, and his eyes so, so hollow. And then he'd seen that man, brutal, terrifying, tyrant, scrape nails over Stiles' scalp and bleed power from him with the contact, until Stiles was a whimpering sniveling thing at his feet.
Then the man had buried that same hand into the chest of a person, living, breathing, alive, terrified, and he'd scraped out their insides with the power he'd stolen, the whole time cackling 'Look what you've done! Look what you've done, child! Now, make it better.'
And Isaac had had to watch, heartsick, as Stiles was made to hold hands with that merciless bastard, their laced fingers entering the cadaver with a sickening squish, then a flash of pale purple light, and the dead woman snapped her eyes open, worked her jaw, stood up like her bones were made of slop, and every corpse within a 2,000 mile radius stood and walked with her.
And Stiles wept silently, kneeling at the man's feet as Stalghot pet his hair and watched a whole city panic, but, inevitably, fall. And the necromancer smiled, fucked Stiles open raw in the middle of the street next to strewn bodies that were becoming corrupt with raw magic, that twisted until their organs were on the outside and then crawled toward the nearest source of meat they could claim as meal.
Grotesque, blubbling blood, and shiny, glossy, oozing meat, mouths and spit-slick teeth. Loose limbed, disgusting things that would be half-rotting and attracting the flies within a day, bloated and split open puss within a month. The shelf-life of a zombie was never very long, but it didn't relly matter because even after they were nothing but an explosion of their own gluttony, they still heaved rattling breaths, still convulsed and gagged on their own sloppery tongues. Still hungered.
Stiles had lain there, lax, so close to dead that he could've been a zombie himself. He watched the people scream and run and get mauled and torn to peices only to become the very things that killed them. The guilt that rolled off of him, and the helplessnes, it was choking.
And Isaac had had to watch because they weren't in a position to save him then, not just yet, they just. They weren't.
And that was not the worst of what Stalghot did to Stiles, did to Isaac, to their friends, to the world.
But, after everyone had died, and it was only Stiles and Stalghot and Isaac left. Stiles clever, loyal, determined, Isaac himself enraged, but anchored, and strong, with knowledge of all the things the Hunters taught, all the things the wolves did. Together they still managed to defeat him, to stop the man who had started and relatively finished the apocalypse. And then they'd gone back in time, to revert it, to bypass it altogether.
In the face of all that, his father just seems... small.
It's mildly validating, if he's being honest.
And the fact that he is loved, that he has someone, devoted, trusting, loving him to an almost stupid extent... it just makes his fathers threats, his emotional abuse, seem less real, because it doesn't make sense in the face of what he knows he has.
Ha has Stiles, he has Derek, he will have Erica and Boyd, maybe even Jackson, and with him Lydia, Danny, hopefully even Scott (although he won't hold his breath on that one). And they'll get Peter, fingers crossed they can manage without traumatizing Lydia too greatly. Then Malia, maybe even Ethan and Aiden.
His Pack, his family, it will grow.
And here's his father asking in a deceptively sweet tone where he's been the past four days, the same tone of voice he used to use when he'd already decided Isaac would be spending the night in the freezer.
Saccharine, serpentine, and gravel.
"You are an abusive ass hole who locks his teenaged son in a broken freezer to feel powerful. You're a weak, vile, pitiful excuse for a human being and I can't believe I'm letting you live tonight."
His father looks struck, stunned, then fucking furious. The man is up from his seat and hurling the table- oh look, the china, at least it isn't the good china- across the dining room.
"What did you just say to me, kid?!" He shrieks, and Isaac catches the man's fist in his palm easily when the punch is expectedly thrown. His father gapes, and Isaac is so done. He rolls his eyes, twists his father's arm behind his back, forces him to kneel and has him in a chokehold all without even standing up.
"Man, I can't believe I was ever afraid of you," he mutters to thin air as his father scrabbles with the arm not currently twisted behind his back, pinned between them. He lets the man fall to the floor with a heavy thud after he passes out and sighs before pulling out his phone.
[Mon, 6:54 PM] Pops is out, you got the stuff?
Yes. You called Derek yet?
Do we need him?
But he's our Alpha
[7:02] And it couldn't hurt
[7:02] On it, mon soumis
Upon walking into the Lahey house, Derek is immediately concerned by the sight he sees. The table's upturned, plates shattered on the floor, meal splayed out messily, one steamed baby carrot having rolled all the way over to the doorframe that leads into the dining room.
And there's Isaac, sitting in his chair nonchalantly, staring off into the middle distance, one foot resting on the unconscious body of his father, his hand tapping a restless rhythm on his knee.
"Did you lose control?" Derek feels the need to ask.
Isaac looks up at him slowly, blinks, raises his eyebrows.
"No? It was self-defense, but I stayed purely human the whole time."
"Oh-kay, then why did you call me here, Isaac?"
"Because I asked him too!" Stiles calls out, huffily, as he careens through the back door and just barely manages not to trip over himself and fall precariously into Derek. Isaac is standing and there in seconds, gently nudging Derek out of the way to help Stiles with all the luggage he's carrying.
"You got everything?" Isaac asks, and Stiles rolls his eyes, panting, offers a nod and a shit-eating grin as he unzips the bigger duffel he was sporting and gently pulls out what looks half like a sniper and half like a toy. It's pink and plasticy.
"Will this do?" Stiles asks.
Isaac takes the thing, surveys it, sniffs it, then faux-aims, and nods with a small smile.
"What are you two up to?" Derek suddenly has this odd feeling, the feeling he used to get when Cora and Cat were coming up with some horrendous plan, the feeling he got that one time they replaced all of Aunt Shy's homemade jam with jelly moonshine, just to see what would happen. He still doesn't know how they did it.
"Well." Stiles intones, and then waves a hand in the air as if that will make the question dissipate like smoke or something, then, as he picks the table up, swipes the plate shards and food away, he asks, "Did you ever talk to Erica Reyes?"
"No," Derek says slowly, still incredibly suspicious, "her parents are always with her, and she's never alone at school."
Stiles snorts, opening the second and third heavily laden duffel bags, pulling out jars and pouches and scrolls.
"Is that... faerie dust?"
"And the eye of a Kelpie, twig from a Pheonix nest, Naga eggshells, yada, yada, yada..."
"My Uncle-in-law," Derek is shocked to find himself revealing, "was a Kelpie."
Stiles freezes for a moment, Isaac turns to look at him steadily in the eye, blue eyes kind, but unpitying.
"Okay," Isaac says, and then resumes messing with the- Derek is assuming it's some kind of advanced long-distance paintball gun.
"Anyway, it's probably better you haven't yet," Stiles decides, going back to the previous topic, Derek is still kind of unsure why he's here, let alone what the hell they're doing, "maybe you should leave the sales pitch to us, big guy."
"Why? I'd be her Alpha."
"Okay, yeah. But you're also an older guy, and, sorry, dude, but you're kind'a a creeper. And those eyebrows make you look like a serial killer. She's a minor. Like. Think about it, for just a second."
Stiles giggles, Isaac smiles at him fondly.
"Look," the other 'were says, "Stiles is right." "Thank you, Sir," Stiles hums, Isaac ignores him and continues: "It might be a good idea to let people her own age talk to her about this. And, no offense Alpha," he gentles his tone, "but you can be a little pushy."
Derek raises his eyebrow, Isaac shrugs as if to say 'It's the truth, dude, deal with it.'
"We still love you!" Stiles crows sweetly over his shoulder as he starts using some sort of marble mortar and pestle to crunch some herbs and other... indiscernible, mildly garish things together.
"We still love you," Isaac agrees, and Derek feels warmth bubble up in his chest, because they're being so flippant about it, like it's a foregone conclusion. He hadn't even known they would, or could, and part of him wonders how and why, because for a whole year Stiles at least moderately disliked him, and he's only really known Isaac for half a month.
Somehow, it still feels good, though it maybe doesn't feel entirely earned.
"But we want her to feel like she has a choice, in whether or not she wants the Bite, and in whether or not she wants to be Pack. Because she can still be your Beta, even human, and she can still choose another Alpha, even 'were." He explains it slowly, softly, like he's talking to some easily startled animal that's going to run away the first chance it gets. Funny, he's pretty sure he used that same tone on Isaac when they talked about how his father would beat him and lock him in freezers.
Somehow, this Isaac seems years away from that one, years older.
"And we're going to need to explain a lot of scary things, you know, like magic and hunters, all the bad that comes with the good. There's going to be culture-shock and desperation and probably a lot of other things warring in her mind. We just want her to make an informed decision, right? And to make the transition into whatever she decides as safe as possible."
Derek takes a moment to really think about it, how wise these two children are, and for a moment he feels unfairly jealous of them, of their capability, of how well they seem to be at handling, managing it all.
"You two are much better at my job than I am, it seems," he murmurs with a heavy sigh.
Both of their heads whip up, and then they trade a long look that probably holds all the nuances of an entire spoken conversation, held mute between them. Then they're both leaving their things for the moment and walking over to where he's been leaning his back against the wall.
Stiles puts his hand on Derek's shoulder, Isaac puts one on his arm and lets the other run through his hair.
"Oh, Der," Stiles says, "you're such an idiot."
He says it so sweetly, and with such affection, Derek is surprised to feel nostalgiac, wistfully remembering Philip saying that to him, in exactly the same way. He blinks back the sudden sting of tears in his eyes.
"I'm your Right Hand," Isaac proclaims.
"I am your Left," Stiles smiles.
"And you're our Alpha," they say in unison.
He feels this surge in the Pack-bonds, like an untangling, and then a snap, and suddenly they're taut, glowing, powerful, a-thrum with promise in his mind. Then they go loose again and he lets out a breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding.
But it feels right, better, correct. Like they were always meant to be this for him. And their bonds feel near unbreakable now, sharp, diamond-points.
"It's our job to help you with shit like this," Stiles grins, tapping his shoulder twice, before moving off to finish his preparations for whatever the hell they're doing.
"And your job to let us, and lead us," Isaac tells him, ruffling his hair, squeezing his arm, and then going back to his seat, and his gun, and-- filling little ball-pellets with water?
Somehow, though, whatever they're doing doesn't really matter, because the feeling of whole and Pack is suddenly so overwhelming that he doesn't really have any other choice but to just surrender to the tranquility of it. For a moment, he just closes his eyes, scents salted caramel with hints of jasmine (Isaac), honeycomb and sugarcane (Stiles), rain and loam (himself), all of it mingled together (ignoring the aroma of Isaac's father) to create the smell of Pack and safety and home.
He's snapped out of his reverie, literally, when Stiles clicks his fingers at him.
"Come help me with this?"
"What. the. hell?" Derek sounds very, very aggrieved. Isaac doesn't blame him, necessarily, Stiles never explained what exactly was going on.
It's still amusing as hell.
He's trying not to laugh, really, he is.
He's in the air vent, high up and out of the way, his gun aimed perfectly. Stiles is maintaining his little station while shouting at Derek to get the older Lahey the fuck out of the way, and Isaac just shoots three more water-instead-of-paint-balls at the giant, hulking, Kanima that is currently destroying his house with its claws.
"Okay, Jackie boy!" Stiles yells over the reptilian hissing and chittering, animalistic sounds of true terror that follow being soaked like that, and then he's throwing the heaviest sleeping spell he's ever created at the beast, and Jackson skitters, tail whipping, makes some odd moaning sound, and then he's down for the count, slowly shifting from bescaled monstrous to posh arrogant humanity.
"That was Jackson?!"
Derek is adorable.
"Sometimes the shape you take reflects the person you are," Stiles recites with a long-suffering sigh as he walks over to the perfectly naked, covered in water and red dust, teen, "Really, what were you thinking? Turning such a- a- douche-conoe?"
Derek shrugs helplessly.
Stiles claps him on the shoulder, "Well, now we just wait for psycho-stalker-Matt."
Isaac snickers, stays in his nest. It's good they knew the weakness before-hand, it makes things easy. Honestly, the next few months should've been a waiting game more than anything, if he'd had his way, they would've been.
But Stiles. His greatest love really isn't the type of person to stand idly by.
And, he guesses, that's part of the reason Isaac fell so deeply for him.
Well, that and the fact that Stiles needed him- needs him.
Derek watches in mute astonishment as a boy with dark hair and fury set on his face walks in, knife in hand. He looks around wildly for a moment before his eyes light on Jackson, and then, fast, there's a snicking sound, and the whizz of a pellet filled with water hurtling through the air.
When it hits, and it hits true, like every other shot Isaac's taken, and the kid gets soaked in water, he screams. Then Stiles walks over and just- just decks him. The kid is out like a light, bruise blooming across his cheek, as Stiles goes "Owwww, ah," and swings the hand he used to punch the guy around while he stomps his feet through the apparently profound pain.
Isaac climbs deftly out of the air vent, lugging his gun with him. He walks over to Stiles and takes the abused hand into his, small grey lines instantly snaking up his veins.
"That was easier than I thought it would be," the younger 'were confesses, rubbing soothing circles into Stiles' knuckles.
"How did you--?" Derek begins to ask, pointing at the pain draining Isaac is doing with a furrowed brow. Another thing he knows that Derek wasn't even close to teaching him yet.
"Scott," he answers noncommittally, and all Derek can think is when?
"And about Jackson?" He asks instead, eyebrows raised, they both just kind of give him a look, one that says something along the lines of: That's need to know, and you don't need to know.
Too many perplexing things have happened today. Derek's getting a headache. Werewolves shouldn't be able to get headaches, but he's getting one anyway. Jesus, these two are going to be the death of him, he's sure of it.
"Alright," Stiles says decisively, manhandling Isaac toward Matt and then pushing Derek to Jackson, "I need 'em both on the table."
Derek wants to protest, and maybe he would, but fuck it. What's he got to lose? And this is his Pack, his Left and Right Hand, maybe he should just give up and fucking go with it. Asking questions and second-guessing isn't getting him anywhere and... they seem to know what they're doing?
This day has given him emotional whiplash.
It's the matter of four spells, and all that previous preparation to unbind the two souls, making Jackson a Kanima without a Master. Then it's the matter of another, more intricate spell to make Derek his Master, though Derek looks wary, after Stiles explains what he's doing and that this is Derek's responsibility, anyway, he complies easily enough.
Then Stiles sends Derek off to creep into Jackson's house across the street, with Jackson in tow, and put the reptilian teen to bed. Derek is not happy about this. Stiles is not happy that his Alpha was stupid enough to offer the Bite to a bully. Derek concedes.
Then Isaac and Stiles stage the house, cleaning some stuff up, destroying other stuff.
When they're done Isaac backs him into the wall and kisses him, slow and sweet and- relieved, like he always is when their plans play out well. Stiles smiles against his mouth and lets him.
John checks the caller-ID, and, half worried, half fondly exasperated, he answers the phone.
"I'm at work, Stiles, and shouldn't you be asleep by now? It's late, son."
"Um, heh, heyyy dad, so, guess what?"
"What?" John asks suspiciously, because Stiles sounds nervous. Nothing goes well when his son sounds nervous.
"I was over at my boyfriend's house, and- and- before you get upset over that piece of information, I should probably tell you that some kid from school, Matt Daehler, he's on the lacrosse team, I think? Well, he-"
"Stiles." He says, aggrieved, and far more concerned than he was a second ago.
It's a little unexpected, he'll think later, how easily Stiles goes from nervous-am-I-in-trouble-dad? To business, like he's reciting a grocery list, or like he's one of his cops reading off of a report. And, even in the beginning, there hadn't been any fear in his voice.
"He came in and assaulted my boyfriend's dad with a knife. In the ensuing fight, both parties fell unconscious but neither one was mortally wounded. If you could come and arrest both of them it would be much appreciated."
"Both of them?"
"Isaac's father likes to beat him and lock him up in the freezer for fun, Jackson will be able to corroborate. Either way, I have no idea how long they'll be out, so coming sooner rather than later would probably be helpful."
"Jesus, kid. Okay. But we're talking about this later."
"Love you, dad."
"You're a pain in my ass, but I love you, too, kid."
John is bemused, a bit, by Isaac. Tall, fairly muscular, innocent blue eyes, light sandy brown curls and an easy, disarming smile. His son leans into Isaac's side like he's always belonged there, like there's nowhere else more comfortable. And neither looks shaken by the events. Stiles, if anything, looks disgusted by Matt and the older Lahey both, and every time he starts with that narrow-eyed half-seething frown, Isaac kisses his temple and uses the arm wrapped around the other boy's shoulder to haul him in closer, all without once taking his eyes off of the paramedics carting the unconscious bodies away. And every time Isaac does that, Stiles eases, brightens some, and sighs.
When John goes up to them and waves off the deputy initially trying to take their statements, Stiles offers him a wan smile with eyes looking far older than they have any right to.
"Hey dad," he greets amicably, then he pokes Isaac in the cheek, Isaac frowns down at him, but the action seems familiar, sweet, "this is my boyfriend."
Isaac takes the time to nip at Stiles' offending finger reprimandingly before stepping away from him entirely and offering a hand to the older Stilinski.
"Isaac Lahey," he says, polite smile warming eyes that are just as old, and have the same kind of haunt in them that Stiles' have had the past few days, "pleased to meet you."
"Likewise," John says easily enough, shaking the hand Isaac offered him. "Now would you boys like to tell me what the hell is going on?"
The freezer, Jackson's statements, and the Nurses who've been treating unexplained injuries since Isaac was four is more than enough evidence to get the elder Lahey just as arrested as the boy who tried to kill him last night.
And the various promises and cajoling Stiles offers up to the overworked CPS lady is more than enough for John to end up being steamrolled into very temporary custody until, either, a home opens up, or John actually decides to make it more permanent.
And honestly, he doesn't even know how this happened, let alone how that option ended up on the table, and he wants to yell at Stiles for it because this has his handprints all over it. But, when he finally gets home that night and the two boys are curled into each other on the couch, asleep, and Isaac is somehow cuddling protectively when you'd think it would be the other way around, well...
John gives up.
He's been going along with Stiles' plans for years, however unwittingly.
Why stop now, huh?
Stiles awakens slowly to Isaac kissing him, his tongue possessively mapping Stiles' mouth. Stiles opens up for him with a moan, lets the taste, wine-rich honey-thick, drown him as pleasure curls white-hot in his belly.
"Isaac," he whimpers as hands wrap around his waist. When Isaac picks him up, arms gentle but firm around him, mouth never leaving his, he has no choice but to wrap his legs and his arms around the other boy. He trusts Isaac to carry him wherever they need to go, not to let him fall, so he doesn't even open his eyes, just keeps kissing. Desperate and needy, shivering little mewls escaping him with every breath.
"I've got you, baby," Isaac murmurs, setting him down on the bed tenderly, "You've been such a good boy for me, mon soumis. So good, my perfect Mischief."
Stiles trembles, the praise making him feel full of cotton-fuzz, happy and reborn with it, he hums with pleasure, palming himself through his jeans. Isaac tuts, grabbing his wrist and pinning it above his head. Stiles hears the shffft of the rope being brought up from underneath the bed, almost opens his eyes, but Isaac kisses his eyelids before he can.
"So eager," he whispers, before grabbing Stiles' other wrist and wrapping them both deftly above his head, then pulling, and tying him to the headboard. "Now, we don't have your blindfold, so you'll have to keep your eyes closed on your own. Do you think you can do that for me, mon soumis? Keep your eyes closed until I give you permission?"
"Yes, Sir" Stiles gasps, arching up when Isaac's hands flutter down his stomach, ruck his shirt up to expose his nipples. Isaac licks, tentative at first, but Stiles can feel the smug smirk that overtakes him when Stiles keens at the attention. Isaac laves, sucks, bites there until Stiles is a shivering, writhing, nonsensical mess.
"Oh, baby," Isaac groans, "you're so beautiful. Do you even know how beautiful you are?"
Stiles shudders, whines high and thready when Isaac bites down just shy of painful on the pebble of his nipple. Then the weight, the warmth above him leaves, just for a moment, and he's crying out, unintelligible, scared, can't do this without him, wants to open his eyes if he's going to be left alone, but he can't. He wants to be a good boy, doesn't want to be punished, and he needs him, needs him-
"Hush, shh, it's okay, mon soumis. I'm just getting the lube. I'm right here. I'd never leave you, you know that right?"
"Sir wouldn't leave," Stiles whispers, and it sounds more like a plea than anything.
"That's right," and Isaac's weight is there again, safe, grounding, "that's just right. Sir would never leave mon soumis, say it for me, baby?"
"Sir would never leave mon soumis."
"That's it, there you are," Isaac caresses his cheek soft and tender and sweet, Stiles nestles into the contact. "What's your color, Mischief?"
"'S greeeen, it's green, Sir."
"Good boy," Isaac purrs, kissing him chaste, not enough, Stiles whines when he pulls away and Isaac chuckles softly, but gives in, coming back with a press of lips that Stiles chases until it's tongue and teeth and nibbling and sweet, sweet pressure, Isaac's whole body caging him in in the darkness of this moment.
He feels Isaac tug his pants down, and his limbs are pliant, gooey, useless. It feels good. He doesn't have to worry about it, Isaac will take care of him, Isaac always takes care of him. Isaac saves him, from his monsters, from the end of the world, from himself.
His legs get spread wide, and he feels Isaac shift above him, slotting more securely into place.
"Stiles," Isaac pants against his lips as a finger circles his hole, slick and tender and Stiles can feel the tears starting to run down his cheeks because he's ached for this, for weeks, wanted so badly to be filled, shattered completely and remade whole by this man, and Isaac is still being careful. Is always careful and kind and there, and it fills his heart near bursting just how tender he is, even when he's offering pain.
"I love you," Stiles slurs, because he has to get it out, because it'll kill him, feeling this much so intensely for another will kill him someday. But he doesn't care. It'll be a good death, just like it's good pain, just like everything Isaac gives him is just so, so good. "I love you, Sir. So much, so, so much," he sobs, and Isaac kisses wet eyelashes, takes a shuddering breath against tear-soaked skin, "I love you. I love you, I love you, Sir."
"I know," Isaac murmurs as his finger slowly breaches the tight ring of muscle, Stiles mewls, Isaac growls, low, "I love you, too, baby. So good, so beautiful. I love you, my Mischief, love you."
"Hurry, please, Isaac. Need you inside, want to feel you."
Isaac captures his mouth with his, opens him up eagerly, and Stiles revels in the burn, the stretch, the liquid slide inside his inner walls. Isaac swallows the whine that escapes him when another finger is pressed in, and devours the cry that Stiles makes when Isaac finds his prostate, his hips stuttering up, seeking friction.
He takes his time opening him up, has all of the patience of a saint even now, and Stiles is entirely wrecked, writhing and begging indecipherably into Isaac's mouth by the time he actually pulls out his fingers and replaces them with his dick.
Stiles pants and pleads through the small, shallow thrusts that go infinitesimally deeper each time until Isaac is finally, finally bottomed out inside of him. Stiles clenches a little, just to feel him inside, and Isaac groans. Stiles lets out a breathy laugh, wrapping his legs more securely around his lover's hips, just keeping him there for a moment.
Both of them breathe.
But Stiles kind of wants Isaac to take control of that, too. Stiles wants him to take control of everything.
"Sir," he murmurs, "take my breath away?"
Isaac's hips jerk, almost like he can't help it, and he sounds thoroughly wrecked himself when he predictably asks, "Color?"
"Deep breath, baby," Isaac says, and Stiles obeys, filling his lungs until they burn, "just like that. Good boy."
And then Isaac presses his forefinger and his thumb to Stiles' pulse points. Not even suffocating him, just cutting off circulation to his brain. Isaac pulls back, thrusts in deep and hard, sending an electric shock throughout his body when he hits his prostate.
"Exhale, mon soumis," Isaac orders, voice a rough rasping timbre, "that's it," and Isaac's fingers leave, making Stiles gasp, his head suddenly feeling light as a feather as blood rushes back, "that's it. So good for me baby."
Stiles breathes like that, an inhale with Isaac's hand around his throat and an exhale before he's freed as Isaac pistols in and out of him, his whole body alight with sensation, the darkness makes his focus a spitfire, noticing the way Isaac's muscles move underneath his legs, the way sweat and tears travel down his face, the way he can feel Isaac's breath hot on his cheeks and his nose, cooling the wetness there, the temperature of it weaving back and forth, mezmerizing as the rhythms overtake him.
Movement and breathing and sensation, all of it amplified an exaggerated amount, until orgasming itself is almost an afterthought, the pleasure coiling in his abdomen until his whole body is jerking and shuddering and trembling as he cums in sticky threads between them, Isaac tumbling along after him not long after, Stiles' insides coated and filled with his cum making Stiles' dick twitch valiantly.
"Sir. My Sir."
"I know, shh. So good, you were such a good boy Stiles," Isaac tells him in a throaty, breathless voice before unbinding his wrists. "Do you want to open your eyes, baby?"
"No," Stiles murmurs in a small voice as he wraps his arms around Isaac's neck, buries his face in the crook of his shoulder.
"Okay," Isaac says soothingly. "Okay, mon soumis. You were so good for me, so good, and you can open them whenever you want, okay?"
"Yes, Sir," Stiles mumbles, feeling the muscle of Isaac's shoulder bunch up as he reaches over to the nightstand, hearing the crinkle of plastic as he picks up the water bottle.
"C'mon baby," scritch, scritch, as he untwists the cap, "I need you to drink for me, mon soumis."
"Mmm," Stiles pulls away enough for Isaac to get the nozzle against his bottom lip, Stiles opens his mouth, takes the cool, refreshing liquid in deep, long pulls. When he empties it Isaac reaches for the second, and he only drinks half of that one before his stomach is comfortably cool and full, all of him filled, his ass, his belly, his mouth when Isaac leans in to kiss away what is most likely the dopiest smile.
"Let's get you clean, mon soumis," he says, and picks him up to carry him to the bathroom.
That voice, it was Stiles, but it was different. She'd heard Stiles before, admired him, had a crush on him the size of the sun, and she knew what he sounded like. But now? He sounded knowing, understanding, sympathetic, commanding. It made her stop short, it made her turn to look at him. He was standing, eyes tender, arms crossed over his chest, Isaac looming behind him with a small, forgiving smile.
"What?" She asks, and she hates how her voice wobbles, "I just want to climb the stupid wall. Like everyone else."
"I know," Stiles says, not unkindly, and then, apropos of nothing, he sits on the cold hardwood floor. Isaac sits next to him. They both motion for her to sit with them. It feels more like a demand than a request.
"There are things I want to tell you Erica," Stiles begins, and his knee bobs against the floor agitatedly, "and choices I'm going to ask you to make, because I- we want your help. And if you say yes? Well, that stupid rock-wall will be the least of your problems."
She narrows her eyes, suspicious, curious, suddenly desperate to know why someone like Stiles would need her help. No one's needed her- well, anything, before.
"First things first, and I don't want to shock you, so no matter how crazy it sounds, I'm going to tell you, before I show you."
"Isaac's a werewolf."
Isaac snorts, Stiles smacks him in the chest with the back of his hand admonishingly, Erica makes a face.
"See?" He says, pointing at said face. "Crazy, right," right, "but I don't want you to have a seizure, and I know, that sucks to hear, but I don't. I care about your physical well being, and I don't want you hurt, do you understand?"
He sounds so serious, so fucking earnest and sincere. Erica's overwhelmed, but still, he's waiting for an answer, so she blinks back the sting of tears and croaks, "Yeah."
"Isaac's not gonna shift, he's just gonna flash his eyes, okay?"
Isaac's eyes flash, golden and incandescent where once they were innocent and human blue. They glow in the dark gymnasium, two irises, two little orbs of honeyed light.
"... beautiful." She murmurs, and they both grin at her like she's something precious. Like she's a gift or something. The beginnings of hope bubble in her chest, and she can't even fathom why.
Then they explain to her, Stiles mostly, but Isaac pitching in, about hunters and rage and full moons and hard-fought control and Anchors and Packs. They explain that werewolves can heal, that if she accepted the Bite and became one, it could kill her, or it could heal her, change her irrevocably. They explained that the Argents, the hunters currently in Beacon Hills, were drawing battle lines, that there was a war to be fought, that it would be dangerous no matter what.
And then, then, they both made absolutely sure that she knew they wanted her in their Pack, werewolf or no, but they would understand, if she didn't want that, if she wanted another Alpha to Bite her or another Pack in general.
And they'd help her no matter what she chose.
What kind of miracle was this? How could she deny them, when it was plain to see that more than anything they wanted her, just for who she was?
"I-I want the Bite," she says, tremulous but stubborn, already decided, "and I want to be in your Pack."
Isaac grins, a loud sort of thing, big and genuinely joyful.
"If you still feel that way tomorrow," Stiles says, "we'll take you to meet our Alpha."
"Your Alpha," Isaac amends, and Stiles whacks him in the chest with the back of his hand again, but it's more playful than anything. And then he reaches out and hauls her into a huge hug, Isaac crowding into it too until she's being squished between two warm bodies.
"You're gonna be awesome, Erica!" Stiles squeals excitedly, and for the first time in years Erica laughs. She feels Isaac smile into her hair.
"Pack protects Pack," he says, "no one's gonna fuck with you ever again."
And even though they still want her to wait until tomorrow, it seems that conversation was all it took to be a part of their Pack, their lives, because for the rest of the day, they flank her. Stiles talking non-stop, Isaac snarking every once in awhile, both of them elated to spend time with her which just... It makes her beyond happy. And they're always touching her. It's not even sexual, not anything like that, it's comforting, familiar, this feeling of safety and kindness that envelops selflessly.
A wolf thing, she thinks, and smiles.
Derek spends the initial night, and the next in Jackson's bedroom, explaining. Not just what's going on with the boy, and that he hasn't rejected the Bite, just reacted to it differently, but also about Masters being a Kanima, and about Pack. Jackson doesn't take to the idea of Pack very well, doesn't take to the idea of being a Kanima well, hates that Derek is technically his Master now.
Hates all of it.
And Derek can't force him. Well, he could, but he won't. So he just leaves the offer open, and has Stiles text him everything he needs to do to make Jackson as aware of his Kanima side as possible.
"I can't do much else without your cooperation, Jackson. And that strength you want? You'd have that, and so much more, with a Pack. Even if it wasn't my Pack."
"I don't need you. Or your silly band of wolves, Hale. You couldn't even get the Bite right, what kind of Alpha are you? Just- just get out."
Don't worry, Stiles had texted later, he'll come around.
Derek wasn't so sure.
He felt suddenly and painfully deserving of the minor tongue lashing he'd gotten earlier for turning the 'douche-conoe'.
Derek had already gotten the loft by the time the boys told him they were bringing Erica over, and he had to admit he was glad for the stable place to bring a new Pack member. And, honestly, it was easier than he thought it would be. Isaac and Stiles brought her in, introduced them to each other, re-hashed a few things about werewolfiness, gave her several outs.
But she didn't take any of them. He didn't think she would. He could smell sickness and desperation and hope rolling off of her in waves.
Giving her the Bite was easy, and he felt comforted, somewhat, to know that Stiles and Isaac would be watching over her throughout the night, to make sure that the Bite took and that she was okay both.
Stiles called over his shoulder as they were leaving, "You better be prepared for furniture and appliance shopping with your Beta's tomorrow Sourwolf!"
"Pack Bonding for the win!" Isaac crows happily, and, with Stiles and Isaac both draped over her shoulders protectively, Erica had laughed, loud, bright, happy and meaningful.
A Pack-Bond coated in the smell of vanilla and bunny-soft and rosewater had steadily slipped into place, joyful and hopeful as anything.
Stiles smacks a fifty dollar bill down on the cafeteria table, Boyd leans away from his sandwich to raise his eyebrows at him. Only, the sight he's greeted with is a little different from what he expected. There's Stiles, sure, a bit more confident these days, with Isaac his ever-present shadow, no longer any sign of Scott. There's some gossip about a bad break up and weird kinks and possible kink-shaming, but no one really knows the true story.
And then, there's Erica. She's wearing some sunny yellow dress with spaghetti straps and a soft cotton blue jacket, lips a glossy cherry-red, grinning from ear to ear like she hasn't got a care in the world. Isaac's got his arm around her shoulder and Stiles is loosely holding her hand.
He feels his eyebrows climb higher.
"I said a hundred," he claims, even though he didn't. But he figures, the three of them, they probably have enough happiness to go around. Besides, carrot and stick, and all that.
Stiles narrows his eyes, "No," he says, even as he pulls another fifty, from Isaac's pocket, not his own, Isaac doesn't seem to mind, though, "you said twenty. But I have, in fact, seen the piece of shit bus you take, and am unwilling to have this argument again."
He slaps the extra fifty down and Boyd offers a shit-eating grin, tosses him the keys to the rink. Isaac catches them for Stiles pointedly, and then smacks a kiss on Stiles' temple, saying:
"Stiles, my good boy. I'm going to do recon."
And then he's sauntering off toward, unlikely enough, Scott's table.
"'Kay!" Stiles calls after him and then, well. Then he sits. And Erica sits with him, leaning into his side.
"Hey Boyd," she greets him softly.
"We have some things to discuss," Stiles tells him, serious and half teasing all at once.
Boyd is wary, but. It's been awhile, since anyone has sat and talked with him like this. And maybe it's odd, and maybe they just want something, but he has a hundred dollars in his pocket and they seem amiable enough, so he lets it go.
"Discuss away, then," he decides, before tucking into his food and half ignoring they're there at all.
"Meet us at the rink," Stiles suggests, a little coy, before bringing out his own lunch. Burgers and curly fries from some obscure diner, he hands both Erica and Boyd some of his fries, dispenses a whole burger into Erica's eager hands and grins at them both like he's just won the lottery or something.
"Fine," Boyd agrees, and takes the proffered fries for his troubles.
Scott's face is kind of hilariously horrified upon seeing Isaac coming up to his table, Lydia standing at the end of it with her eyes narrowed in Erica's direction. Isaac twirls the keys on his finger and tells them:
"Stiles got access to the rink. That is, if you still wanna go?"
Scott sputters for almost a full three minutes before finally hissing, "What did you guys do to Erica?"
"They gave her a makeover," Lydia says, curt, "obviously."
"Something like that," Isaac agrees with a teasing wink to Scott, who gapes at him like he's just done something heinously offensive. Then his jaw sets, mulish. And he darts a pointed look toward Boyd that has Isaac thinking, wasn't this the breaking point last time, too? Turn one, fine, turn two, okay, but turn a third? Well, then, Scott won't just sit idly by.
Isaac wonders if it's because Scott secretly does want to be a part of the Pack, wanted to keep a spot open for himself, which, this time around, is kind of rude to Stiles, since, technically, they already have three Beta's, they just want Boyd, too. But it's like, subconsciously, Scott's mind can't reconcile Stiles' humanity with his Pack status. Isaac supposes that being a Bitten wolf who shuns any and all mentors to his supernatural station, it makes sense that he wouldn't be fully capable of understanding it.
But in the end, what Scott's doing right now, wanting no one else to be turned even if the act of being turned could help them or save them- wanting no one else to be in Derek's Pack even when he knows full well the Derek isn't a bad guy, he may be (as Stiles would put it) a totally creep-tastic lurker who hangs around a bunch of broken teenagers because he's too broken himself, but he isn't a bad guy- at the same time he claims not to want to be a part of any of it?
It's all just passive aggressive territorial bullshit.
"You're not gonna give Boyd a makeover, too, are you? He doesn't even need one!"
Lydia makes a face, at what, exactly, though, Isaac doesn't know.
"We'll ask him first," Isaac says, "and we'll tell him everything he needs to know to make an informed decision. If, after we go through everything with him, he wants the makeover, then we'll give it to him."
"But you can't-"
"-That isn't your choice to make, Scott. And besides, he might not want the makeover at all, he might just want to be a part of our club. Either way. It's not. Up. To. You."
Scott grinds his teeth, Lydia has a calculating look on, like she understands that there's more going on here than what's at face-value, but she hasn't figured it out yet. Knowing her, it's only a matter of time before she does. He twirls the keys on his finger again and shakes his head.
"Whatever, Scott, if you're so anti-makeover you can just stay home. Lydia, on the other hand, would probably even help."
"I do have better fashion sense than all of you combined," she declares haughtily, Isaac grins. The point of the ice rink is to cheer her up, not to rankle Scott, however much enjoyment he's taking out of the latter.
"Exactly," he laughs, and offers his arm, she takes it with a winning bitchy smile, "so come sit with us and tell us all where we went wrong. Start with plaid."
Her eyes sparkle, "Oh, I've been wanting to insult Stiles' wardrobe ever since I noticed he existed."
[Thurs, 1:32 PM] Oh my god, Erica and Lydia, why have we never thought of this?
[1:35] Like a house on fucking fire
Scott doesn't show up at the ice rink, neither does Allison, although she does call to apologize to Lydia, who tries to brush it off like it's nothing when it's really, really not. So, in the end, it's the Pack (Stiles, Isaac, and Erica), along with Boyd- who, of course, they invited (much to his bewilderment)- and Lydia.
Lydia skates like a goddess, and it's the matter of a simple slip, a tiny nick with Isaac's claws and a blood-spell to steal the little death knell Peter left her and transfer it to Stiles. Her Banshee powers are still there, newly awakened no matter what they've done, but they're a problem to deal with at a later date.
Stiles feels quite proud when Isaac and Erica tell him after she leaves that she smelled ten times happier by the end of it than she did at the start.
"Are we going to invite her into the Pack, too?" Erica asks, plainly delighted. She and Lydia had clicked like nothing else, and it was more than obvious that they were going to be fast friends.
"Probably," Isaac snorts, and Stiles hits him in the chest with the back of his hand.
"Maybe someday," Stiles amends, then, "I want to talk to Boyd first."
She smiles a confident, blooming smile that's loud and proud and determined.
"He'll make a good wolf," she says, sounding extremely sure.
"Yes." Isaac agrees, and Stiles grins, "He will."
They give him the same speech they gave Erica, with Erica explaining her own experiences as a newly Bitten 'were, and they offer him the same choices. It's funny, he actually takes the weekend they offer to decide, he seems extremely sure about the Pack, wanting to be a part of it wholeheartedly, but the Bite actually gives him pause.
Well, they are changing the timeline, and Derek is a little pushy. Either way, he's Pack, now, Bitten or not. So he gets invited, on the weekend, along with Lydia, although she isn't in the know yet, and Jackson who outright refused them, to go furniture shopping with their Alpha.
Derek looks exceedingly uncomfortable at the beginning, then mildly growly in response to bossy-bad-ass-bitch team-up Erica and Lydia, then exasperated by babbling and flailing Stiles, mildly disgusted by Stiles and Isaac's PDA, commiserating with Boyd in his broody stoicism, and, somehow, by the end of it, comfortable and amicable and loose with all of them.
They go on another shopping extravaganza the next day, for appliances and clothes, Lydia demanding that her friend's wardrobes be better than plaid and sweats, and Stiles faux swooning at being considered a friend, and Boyd and Derek, in general, being the only responsible two of the group. It's fun, it's better than fun, it's fucking amazing.
By the end of the weekend, the loft looks downright homey, there's a mountain of new clothing by the door and all of them are sat on the couch, exhausted, watching movies and snacking on junk food. Isaac curled into Derek's right side and Erica curled into his left with Stiles sprawled out on their laps, Boyd sitting on the floor leaning into Erica's legs with Stiles' hand in his hair and Lydia with her head in his lap.
Easy and natural as breathing.
"Pack-bonding for the win," Isaac whispers, the other werewolves and Stiles snort. Boyd and Lydia give them all looks, Boyd more knowing, Lydia more assessing.
On monday, Boyd says he wants the Bite, and Stiles has to wonder what it was that decided him, but he already knows that Erica and Isaac will be right. He'll make a great wolf.
The moment Peter smelled her he had had a plan, just in case he were to fail, because even death would not stop him. Although, in truth, his revenge was already finished, there was no need for such a contingency, now, but he didn't care.
He still wanted to live.
Traumatized Banshee be damned.
It was chaos magic, it would require at least the temporary madness of a big group of people, the full moon, and the claws of the one who had killed him, along with copious amounts of wolfsbane. And the Banshee, of course.
So, imagine his surprise, with barely any ado at all, no haunting to even be spoken of, and a half moon hanging high in the sky, to open his eyes in a field of non-lethal wolfsbane and Stiles, of all people, looming over him.
"What's up, Zombiewolf?" He grimaces right after he says it.
"That nickname has been ruined for us, hasn't it?" chimes a tall blue-eyed boy with a soft chuckle, and a positively disarming smile.
"Yep," Stiles agrees, studiously popping the p.
An even greater shock? Both boys then help him up, hand him clothes, and grin at him like he's a long-lost friend.
"Welcome back, Peter, sorry I molov'ed you."
"Yes," Peter drawls, very suspicious but... something's different, Death isn't some cloying thing in his veins, rage and revenge and power aren't thrumming in his soul like the only things he can cling to to survive and...
"What did you do to me?"
"Purified you," the- 'were, he smells like a wolf- supplies.
"You were feral when you died, dude, you've been feral for a long time, now. So I just, I made you a Beta, and I purified you from the resurrection spell and from all the other shit you've done to yourself in the past seven years. It's not a complete fix, I mean, your mental health is still dubious at best-"
"- but you'll be better, now. Only if you have a Pack, though. So I'm going to give you three options."
The boy glares at him, his eyes flash a dark violet. And, oh, he knew this boy was powerful, and he'd have to be to perform necromancy of this level with little to no repercussions, but that powerful?
"Only three," the boy who isn't Stiles growls, but it's a little too kind to be a threat, which is... odd. What reason would either of these two have to be kind to him. But this was a kindness, well, probably more so for the lovely Lydia, to keep him from breaking her mind in his desperate need to resurrect. Still.
"One, you can come with us and see if Derek will be your Alpha," Stiles starts, Isaac chimes in with a: "Which he will. You're the only family he has left." "Two, you can come with us and search for another Alpha to pledge your fealty to. Or three, you can stay until the Alpha Pack comes, help us kill them, and become an Alpha in the process. If you choose door number three, though, you will be banished from Beacon Hills.
"Peter, you know what these eyes mean, you may be one of only three or five people alive who knows what they mean. If I banish you from here, there will be no coming back. Decide."
Peter gives him a long, hard look. This clever, clever boy, and -if he's reading their scents right- his Mate. The first High Sorcerer blessed by an Old God this world has seen in a dog's age, and, though the need to be Alpha no longer screams in his veins, he still likes the idea of being a legend. Of power.
And, perhaps... Perhaps after having completed the goal he set out to, perhaps... Family. Pack. Maybe it just wouldn't be so bad?
"And are you in my dear nephew's Pack?"
"Yes," he says, like silk rubbed just the right way.
"Then door number one. Together we shall make the Hale Pack all that it once was, and more, so much more."
"Cool," Stiles' Mate smiles, "now let's go get your daughter."
Derek is honestly beyond astounded, and just beyond himself, when Stiles and Isaac come ambling into the loft with a dirt-covered, disheveled, but very alive Peter carrying a girl clothed in baggy men's clothing, passed out, just as filthy and disheveled as him, piggybacked on his back.
"Hello, dear nephew," Peter purrs, the picture of propriety even in his current state.
Yeah, he's officially at a loss for words.
Isaac snickers, Stiles puts up his hands in a placating way.
"So," the boy starts, "don't freak out, but I kinda resurrected your Uncle. Also, meet your cousin, Malia Tate, resident werecoyote."
Derek gapes, blinks.
"Oh, nephew," Peter sighs, and he sounds... like he did before the fire? Sane, fond, distantly annoyed at everything. "Do close your mouth, you'll catch flies."
Stiles does jazz hands with a sheepish little smile, Isaac's snicker turns into a full-blown cackle.
Two showers and some explanations later and the three rooms upstairs are completely filled (Isaac, Peter, and himself), he's got two new, extremely, terrifyingly strong and wild Pack-bonds, two new Beta's, and... Family. He has family again.
He doesn't know whether to hug Isaac and Stiles or to kill them.
John watches as a shaken, half-wild teenage girl breaks down in her (adoptive) father's arms. And how on earth she came out of the woods knowing that particular piece of information, he will never know, but she's apparently Derek Hale's cousin, which... clears up nothing.
But this case had been on his mind long after it should've, it was that one. The one that never felt right. And, in some ways, it still fucking doesn't.
But it feels complete, at least. And a child has been returned to relative safety.
So. There is that.
Teaching Malia control is... frustrating. And he's actually glad he has Peter with him, glad that Peter may not actively care that she's his daughter, but he cares enough to teach her like he won't with the other Beta's. He's even more appreciative of Stiles and Isaac, Isaac who has way more control than he should have (but he's not going to look a gift horse in the mouth, no he is not), and Stiles who knows enough about wolves that Derek questions sometimes if he isn't one himself. Honestly, between his Right and Left Hand, himself and his Uncle, Malia, Erica, and Boyd all take to the full moon exceptionally well.
Or at least, better than he would have thought.
The Preserve is their territory, and even overrun by hunters, Stiles says it's not fair to run and play anywhere else, so he takes them to some deep obscure part of the forest, runes the hell out of it, sets up a mountain ash line, and then... They play. Coyote, wolves, and Mage, all running around, wrestling, laughing, the Pack a whole, living, breathing thing, filled with contentment and joy and light.
Derek feels, suddenly, so whole and powerful and true, that it's seamless.
It's suddenly the easiest thing in the world to let two legs become four, mouth become maw, skin become fur, man become wolf.
Peter's looking at him, stunned, Stiles looks elated, Isaac looks smug, Maila goes right up to him and licks his snout like it's perfectly normal (for her, it probably is), and just like that, all of his Beta's are tackling him. Erica is giggling and cooing, Boyd is even snuggling into smooth, sleek, black fur, Malia is snuffling and licking him, Isaac and Stiles are tangled somewhere in the giant tackle hug, too, kissing over him from the sound of it.
He laughs, he howls, he runs and his Beta's give chase with howls and yips of joy in return. It's the best full moon he's ever experienced.
There are battles to be fought on the horizon.
Gerard Argent is in town and he's building up to a war.
Malia is the most obvious out of all of them and it may take her years to really settle in, especially considering the trauma she's endured.
There are secrets Isaac and Stiles are keeping, secrets that will have to come to light eventually.
Lydia is apparently a Banshee, and... they'll have to deal with that, they will, eventually.
Scott and Jackson are in the wild, almost, one seconds away from going Omega and the other too stubborn for his own good.
And Derek doesn't know if he'll ever really trust Peter again, ever, but...
His wolf is a simple creature, and the full moon sings in his bones, his howl vibrating in the sky, his Pack all around him.
For now he doesn't worry, for now he runs.
Scott has been trying to talk with Boyd, to no avail, trying to stop him from taking the Bite. But he's pretty sure the boy already did, and there's another, too, now. Malia Tate, she barely even acts human!
Derek's arrogance really knows no bounds.
And no way in hell would Scott let the man become his Alpha.
The point is, other than continuing to date Allison, he's been good, he's even been trying to convince Derek to be good, even though it rankles that for some reason, now, he can't seem to find the man. In fact, whenever school lets out, it's like the scent of them, Erica, Isaac, Boyd, Derek, Malia, Stiles, even Lydia! It's like they all disappear. And Allison's been helping, with the sick feeling of betrayal that settled in his gut after Stiles chose Derek over him, but it still feels like a punch to the gut.
So he's not really prepared to be kidnapped by Victoria Argent.
It's not like he's hurting anyone! He's just in love! Why is that so wrong?
It goes as smooth as icing on a professional fucking wedding cake. Stiles videotapes the whole interaction between Scott and Mrs. Argent while Isaac sets up with a sniper on one of the ceiling beams of the huge warehouse. Once they have all the information they need recorded Stiles texts Isaac the go-ahead, and with one well-aimed shot with the kanima venom Derek got from Jackson (however pissy the ass may have been about giving it- Stiles still maintains that he'll come around), he paralyzes Mrs. Argent.
Then it's just the matter of another text and Stiles, Erica, Malia and Peter are swooping in to neutralize the aerial wolfsbane and unbind Scott, Scott who isn't very grateful, at all.
And Mrs. Argent, who Stiles put a temporary blinding and deafening spell on first chance he got, because no way in hell is he even chancing her finding out that Peter is still alive. He's pretty sure the Argents know who the rest of the Pack is, it's not like they're very good at hiding it, it's not even as if they're trying, but Stiles is keeping as many secrets as he can from the psycho-hunters for as long as he can, thank you very much.
"Mind your manners, Scott," Peter drawls, dodging a swipe while he studies his cuticles, completely indifferent, "I just saved your life."
"You ruined my life!" Scott roars.
Isaac hasn't climbed down from his nest yet, and they had more than one dose just in case, so Stiles just texts his loving beau to shoot his idiot ex-best friend. He hears loud cackling from the ceiling somewhere, and then Scott's going down in a ball of loose, ineffective limbs, growling his frustration.
Erica is cackling a moment later.
"So." Malia pipes up brusquely, "The hell do we do with them?"
"Well, you, Erica and your bio-dad can drop Scotty off at Deaton's-"
"What? Why? That's going to suck!" Malia growls, kicking Scott in frustration. She really doesn't like him, part of it being instinct, part of it just being the fact that he's kind of been a dick to her ever since she showed up for the simple fact that she's part of Derek's Pack.
"Yes, it is, dear. Why on earth is the Left Hand giving us such atrocious jobs, hmm?" Peter drawls.
"Hey," Erica growls, "you didn't even have to come."
"Why, of course, I did, how on earth could I let my daughter go against an Argent without me? What kind of father do you take me for?"
"You're not my dad," Malia says, but there's no heat in it, there used to be, but at some point, this kind of interaction between them just became... what they do. It's almost cute, now.
"I'm literally just asking you to drop him off, I'm the one who's going to have to have a long, drawn-out discussion with Chris and Allison Argent whilst simultaneously trying to avoid the fuck out of creepy molesty Gerard."
"I see your point." Malia sighs, and Peter just sweeps the vulnerable Scott up in his arms.
"To Deaton's, then," Erica grins, waving a goodbye to Isaac who whoops in return. Her laughter follows the four of them all the way out of the warehouse.
None of the Pack had particularly liked this part of the plan, but, it was better to have as many allies as possible, and, yeah, it sucked, allying themselves with Argents considering the history, but Chris and Allison were arguably the most just of the clan.
And if they could get through to them, if they had two Argents on their side, well. Then, maybe, bagging Gerard and staging a coup to make Allison the new Matriarch would be easy, maybe creating some sort of treaty with them, after, wouldn't be out of the cards, maybe there could be werewolves and hunters working together and peace in our time. Having put it out there reasonably like that, and reminding Derek that Gerard wasn't even their biggest problem, that they had an Alpha Pack already heading their way and that he still had a very real very powerful adversary in Stalghot, Derek decided that their plan, however emotionally draining, was reasonable.
But, they needed this, seriously, they needed as many people in their corner as fucking possible. And some part of Derek knew that, and he was getting good at this whole Alpha thing, so he'd said he'd trust them to do it, because he didn't know if he'd be able to face up to any Argent and remain stable.
Isaac climbs down from his nest, weapon-duffel slung over his shoulder, and then he stoops down to pick up Mrs. Argent in a fire-carry.
"Earth to mon soumis?"
"Huh? Uh, oh, yeah, sorry, just. Thinking everything through."
"Mmm, you good?"
"I guess. Just worried. What if it's not enough?"
"You and I were enough," Isaac reminds him.
"Well, yeah, but he was already severely weakened from having done what he did, and so was I, but. Part of the only reason it worked was because he'd thought he had already broken me, and he was high off of his victory, off of pulling off the fucking apocalypse, Isaac."
"Stiles," Isaac murmurs, ice darkening in his eyes, "fuck the apocalypse."
Stiles barks out a startled laugh, and then Isaac leans down, kisses the laughter off of his lips, licks inside like he can taste it. Stiles moans. Victoria, mood killer that she is, squirms between them, kicking her legs abortively, still mostly paralyzed. Isaac pulls away rolling his eyes.
"Let's get this show on the road."
Allison knows Stiles, knows that he flails and babbles and he's a good guy, sweet. She knows that he was Scott's best friend, and then, suddenly, he was running off to be in Derek's Pack, and she knows that betrayal cut her boyfriend deep, and she knows that there didn't really seem to be any reason for it.
She also knows that she loves Scott, and she wants him alive and happy, and she hopes that she can be with him, to watch him grow, to watch him come into himself the way she knows he will. She admires how good he is, how kind. Which is why she decided to stay with him against her parent's wishes, how could she not?
So she's freaking out, reasonably in her opinion, when Stiles calls she and her dad out to the Hale house. The place where so many bad things have happened. She has no idea what to expect, especially since Stiles specifically said no Gerard. It feels weird, and she's apprehensive, and, and what if he tells her dad? About her and Scott? What then?
"Don't be nervous," her father tells her with a short smile as he parks the car. She darts her eyes at him, responsibly stops chewing on her thumbnail and smiles, small, fleetingly, back.
"I'm not," she lies. And then they're getting out of the car and trekking up to the charred skeleton of a house.
Chris has his hand hovering over his weapon, but is honestly too surprised to do anything but grab ahold of her when Victoria is half thrown at him, his gun temporarily forgotten in its holster.
"Thank god, you're here," Isaac grouses. "She tried to bite me, twice."
"In all fairness," Stiles pipes up, "the irony of that is pretty... Yeah, nope. That's just an immature move when you're human. Sorry, lady."
"What the hell did you do to her?" Chris growls, Victoria completely unable to stand or move anything but her mouth, but she's too angry to really be coherent.
"Kanima venom," Isaac supplies, and then he's pressing a button on the computer placed open and bright on the table in between the hunters and the two boys.
The video plays.
Chris is stunned silent.
Allison is shaking and sobbing beside him.
Victoria settles, going still with her jaw stubbornly set until the footage ends.
"She attempted to kill an innocent teenager," Isaac says, "that's so far off the reservation from your Code it's not even in the same area code."
"And as for whatever screw the Code bend your father is on because of Kate? I'll have you know that Peter- who is dead as a doornail, now, I might remind you- was well within his rights to kill your sister. Kate Argent seduced Derek Hale, a minor at the time, into giving her every ounce of information she needed to trap the werewolves and humans that resided in the Hale Pack, and burn them all alive.
"There were children in this house, and humans, and all of them innocent, not one with blood on their hands. Still she killed them, for no reason other than hatred." Stiles' eyes sear him, flay him to the core.
"We hunt those who hunt us. It's an unfair Code at the best of times," Isaac says softly, "and I don't think there are many Hunters who think of the people they hurt, or of how Beta's need Alpha's and vice versa, or how taumatizing it is to lose a Pack-mate, a Pack-bond... But in this case, even adhering to that Code, we did nothing wrong."
"Peter killed the people who killed his Pack, and Derek killed him in return. The Code is appeased, Kate Argent and Peter Hale's deaths were enough to satisfy it." Stiles' mouth is a grim line as he watches Victoria start screaming obscenities that, under the circumstances, are just vile.
"This is your wake-up call, Chris." Isaac says, gentle. "You and Allison are good people, you are, we know you are."
"So please realize. If the reason you were going after us wasn't because we were werewolves, or members of a Pack, but because we were gay... and we haven't hurt anybody, we're even in hiding for the most part. What does that look like to you? Is our nature- something we can't control, for the most part- is that enough to sentence us to our deaths? Enough for a war?
"Because that's what your father wants. That's what your wife," he waves a hand at her, and she hasn't even tried to quiet, "wants. We don't want to fight, we don't want any more deaths. But we will fight back if we have to."
"And, also, maybe," Isaac pipes up, offering the still weeping Allison a small smile, "let your daughter love who she loves, huh?"
Chris slaps a hand over his wife's mouth, the glare she shoots him is nothing short of murderous, but he just. He just wants her to stop.
"You have a lot to think about," Stiles says softly as Isaac packs up the computer, but not before sliding out the tape, the evidence and handing it over. "Take your time."
Chris is a little dumbfounded by how they blatantly, both of them, at the same time, hug Allison, soothing her and offering her a kiss from each on both of her cheeks, saying that it'll be okay, before leaving. As easy as breathing, like they hadn't just put her in position to become the next Matriarch, or maybe exactly like they had.
But that isn't what really matters right now, is it?
The next few days are going to be hard.
[Wed, 1:23 AM] It's done. Let the Hunters worry about the Hunters for a change
Or at least for a day
[1:24] Do you really think it's going to be that easy?
Chris sends the video to the Council, just like they thought he would, or, more accurately, like Isaac predicted he would. And Victoria gets demoted, Allison inheriting her post early. Gerard seems delighted, thinking a younger Matriarch, one that's easier to manipulate will bode well for him.
What he doesn't know is that Chris and Allison are already pretty much entirely on their side, Allison more than willing to play spy.
The lucky side-effect of this being that with Allison on their side, grudgingly, comes Scott, although he still balks at the idea of being Pack, and he hates them for having Peter around, he doesn't just generically and mulishly detest them all just for being Pack in the first place.
Victoria, of course, poses problems, but she still does love her daughter in spite of everything, and Allison apparently stood her ground, saying something along the lines of, 'I'm your boss now, and my life is on the line. If you want my grandfather to kill me, just go ahead and tell him everything.'
Needless to say, she remains silent, glaring and hating and spewing venom, but silent nevertheless.
Gerard is too arrogant to see that his Machiavellian plans are being used against him every turn. And it's that hubris, along with Stiles and Isaac's knowledge of the man, and Allison being the best spy, that ends up being his downfall.
Erica and Boyd play the restless teenagers who hate their Alpha (they spend the whole day prior at the loft showering Derek with hugs and praise and telling him he's the best Alpha they could ask for and it's all for the con. Stiles has never seen Derek blush so hard, it was adorable, even Malia got dragged into the cuddle-hug fest, and then Isaac and Stiles dove in for shits and giggles, and then Peter went along with it grumblingly because he's secretly a cuddle-slut and if everyone else was doing it....) to Allison's brainwashed granddaughter.
Gerard takes them back to his creepy molesty kidnapping and torturing basement, and the Pack follows, then ambushes him when he's seconds away from supposed victory. They even manage to get Jackson and Scott to help. Derek doesn't even have to go full-shift, the other hunters weren't expecting a surprise attack, let alone a fucking kanima, and the Pack, having been training with Derek, Peter, Isaac and Stiles, work together seamlessly. None of them bat an eye when Stiles starts throwing out spells and runes and dissipating mountain ash, but the hunters sure as hell do (Scott and Jackson do, too).
Chris is the one to kill Gerard, surprisingly, after learning the real reason the sociopath was after an Alpha. Considering the cancer, it might've been a mercy killing.
Allison is fully on board with this, the killing of Gerard thing, especially since she'd been spying on him for a month. She knows the type of person he is. But Scott doesn't care, because murder is wrong, the ensuing fight... shouldn't be hilarious?
Stiles and Isaac end up inappropriately laughing anyway.
"It's not funny!" Scott roars, "Someone's dead!"
"He would've tortured two innocent teenagers, Scott!" Allison yells back, ignoring their tittering, "And he probably would've gone farther. He was- god! You don't understand, he got off on this! He wouldn't have stopped at just hurting them!"
"It's never right to murder someone!"
"Not even when it's a rapist?! A murderer?! A psychopath?!"
"He was going to kill me," Peter points out, interested in the drama, the couple ignores him.
Victoria, on the other hand, looks savagely pleased with the breakup that seems to be on the horizon. Chris just looks... tired.
"Ugh," Stiles groans at the blood now speckling his shirt, "let's go home, we all need showers, and, besides. There's a lacrosse game tomorrow."
Jackson suddenly can't wait to get out of there, but he pauses for a beat, and says, "You know, maybe joining this Pack won't be so bad." Like he doesn't care.
Stiles rolls his eyes. Jackson. Douche. Idiot. In need of love but too capricious and self-interested to show it.
"Told you he'd come around," Stiles reminds Derek as the rest of the group moves to leave.
"I don't want him to come around," Malia says, honest in the way she always is, brutally. "He sucks."
"Aww, my dear, have you found someone you detest more than me?"
"Shut up, Peter."
Erica comes up behind them, loops an arm in Malia's and an arm in Peter's and crows, "Oh my god, you guys are the cutest father and daughter ever. You love each other, just admit it!"
Boyd falls in step beside Derek who's shaking his head and looking heavenward as if to ask why he got saddled with this particular bunch of idiots. But he's smiling, which kind of ruins it.
And Isaac grins before he leans down, pressing a sweet kiss to Stiles' mouth.
"Regarde-les. Nous avons fait du bien, n'est-ce pas, mon amour?"
"Yeah, Isaac. Nous avons bien fait."
The Alpha Pack comes to find a strong, united Pack.
Scott is still decidedly absent from them, having broken up with Allison and blamed Derek and his Pack (and subsequently Stiles) for their relationship's destruction. Allison has come into her own as the Matriarch of the Argent Clan, and, because of course, has kind of started a fling with Malia. Chris is going along with it, apparently resigned to his daughter's werewolf fetish. Chris and Victoria are getting a divorce, the she-hulk of an Argent having decided to run off to pursue better, more murderous things (good for her, right? Not)- which leaves Allison and Chris Pack-adjacent, the treaty between the Hales and Argents printed and signed and agreed to by both parties.
They brought Lydia and Danny in, since everyone was pretty sure Danny already knew (Stiles had planted that little nugget of truth in Peter's head, and Peter had sewn the seeds of drama, because if Peter's reliable for anything, it's that.), and Lydia was a Banshee, and obviously needed to be informed of this. They settled into the Pack smoothly and happily, Lydia delighted to be clued in, happy to have things to research and study and put her mind to, although she wasn't so pleased with her supernatural status, but Stiles had promised to help her with that. Danny was surprisingly just... mellow about it all.
And with those two, well, Jackson came relatively easily, having already grovelled at Lydia's feet to get back with her.
Bringing the sheriff into the fold had been... agonizing. Necessary. So much better in the long run, and with him came the loyalty of the local law enforcement. Which. Always a plus.
So when the Alpha Pack prowled into Beacon Hills and immediately hit Stiles' wards, well, they were expecting a fight. They weren't expecting such a full-fledged completely stable Pack. Or the kanima. Or the Banshee. Or the sorcerer. Or the hunters and the sheriff both working with said Pack.
It still wasn't an easy win. Alphas are still Alphas, after all. But after Stiles blindsided Deucalion with a spell that gave him his eyesight back, and Derek used the ensuing distraction to tear the guy a new one, and after Kali and Ennis got, well, slaughtered, the twins gave in easily, and they all headed over to Deaton's to sleep for a week.
The vet was not very happy with them.
The vet could go screw himself, they just beat the Alpha Pack! Yay them!
"Another one for team Fuck the Apocalypse," Isaac says groggily, struggling against the slow-healing wounds.
"Fuck yeah," Erica breathes, so utterly out of it, head in Lydia's lap and feet in Boyd's.
"Fuck yeah," Malia agrees, curled into Peter's side. Allison, who's unabashedly sprawled out on top of the two of them, grunts an affirmative.
During the week they take to recuperate, one Jennifer Blake discovers her revenge has already been carried out, and quietly decides to fade away, her purpose lost to her. She gives herself up to the Nemeton, and the peace she finds when she does it is nothing short of a miracle.
When Stalghot comes, and he does, inevitably, come, Stiles gets... Well. PTSD is an awful thing, and coming face to face with the tyrant who used you to start and finish an apocalypse? No matter what timeline you're in, it sucks.
But, funnily enough, Derek, who remembers clearly the conversation he had with Isaac all those months ago, now- as soon as their Alpha hears word of Stalghot coming into their territory he wolfs the fuck out and seriously tears the decrepit necromancer from limb to limb.
That it was so easy kind of... It throws Stiles, knocks him breathless, makes him feel numb and dissonant. So Isaac calls a Pack meeting, calls in the Pack-adjacent, calls in the sheriff, gets them all to the loft.
Puppy piles may never fix anything necessarily, but they do make damaged, broken people feel a hell of a lot better.
"Fuck the apocalypse," he murmurs, and the wolves, humans, kanima and banshee around him all agree, and it feels good, tangled up with all these warm, breathing, living people.
Isaac smiling down at him, love overflowing in his eyes.
They made it.
They saved everyone.