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oh how now the cold seeps in

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“I don’t know what it is,” Deaton says, and as much as Stiles is sure Deaton never shares information unless it suits him, Stiles also has it on good authority that Deaton doesn’t actually want to see him with a boner, so he’s feeling inclined to think the guy’s currently trustworthy.

Because right now he’s seeing Stiles’s boner. A lot.

“So how do we fix it?” Stiles grits out, leaning harder into the examination table. The cold straight edge of it rides against the ridge in his jeans, where his cock is trapped, and every werewolf in the vicinity—that is, Isaac, Derek, and Scott, who dragged him out of the witches’ hovel while Lydia distracted them—winces. Isaac goes so far as to wrinkle his nose, the asshole. Stiles glares at him so he’ll know he’s been found out. Adds, “You can’t seriously expect me to go home like this.” He gestures to his dick.

Is pretty sure he can feel it spurt precome in response.

Isaac’s nose wrinkles again.

“You know what, dude,” Stiles says, rounding on him. “If you don’t wanna smell my junk, go outside.”

“I can smell it from out there, too.” But Isaac’s posture softens a little, like he’s found some deep, deep well of empathy and decided he can spare a drop. Then he glances at Scott and says, “Do you think Melissa would have something . . .?”

Deaton cuts that one off at the pass. “No. It’s definitely supernatural in origin,” he says. He starts going on about Stiles’s eyes or something. He talks a lot.

He has a nice voice. Stiles has never noticed that before.

Whoa. Fucker, no. No way. He jerks his head away, concentrates on something else. Anything else.

Like the cut of Derek’s stiff shoulders.

Isaac’s long, graceful neck.

Scott’s uneven jaw.

Derek’s beard, which has grown long enough to look soft now instead of bristly. Stiles could get off on that, he thinks. If Derek would suck him off, he could come on that, smudge where the hair looks like it’s drawn on with thick strokes of a marker tip. Lick it off. Lick down his chest. Down his stomach. Down to—

“Oh my god,” he and Derek say at the same second. Their eyes meet, and then Stiles looks down at the examination table, heat in his face. No. No. Maybe a few months ago, he would’ve hit that—who wouldn’t?—but not now. There’s too much between them, and Stiles is afraid if he got inside Derek just as much, he would ruin something of him forever. Stiles is good at that. So, no. He looks down at the table and wills his stupid body to kill off that particular branch of attraction.

“Is this a fucking love spell?” he gasps, white-knuckling the edge of the table. “It is, isn’t it?”

“Are you in love with Derek?” Scott asks.

“Uh, no,” Stiles says.

“Then it’s not a love spell.” Deaton taps on the table, drawing Stiles back to his smooth, questionably moral, smooth voice of reason. “But if it’s making you sexually attracted to werewolves . . .”

“Uh,” Stiles says. “Not just werewolves.”

Deaton pauses. “Ah.” Another pause. “Is it only men?”

Stiles blinks at him. “Do you see any ladies for me to try, dude?”

Think of one,” Derek says, sounding strained. Stiles bets he’s not so happy he’s got his wolf powers back now.

He closes his eyes, though, and thinks of Malia. Lydia. Malia only dredges up a mournful ache he wasn’t even sure he was capable of feeling before she left. Before it all became too much for her. He doesn’t blame her, but it still hurts.

“He smells sad,” Scott whispers urgently. “Dr. Deaton—”

“Shh,” Isaac hisses.

So he thinks of Lydia instead. Soft red hair. The swell of her chest under her dresses. The way she walks. The way her lips move. And he’s attracted, he is, but it’s not the same.

“I think they have to be here,” he says eventually, opening his eyes. He has to blink to clear the haze from them. “I—fuck!” His knees give out without warning, and he gasps, caught by Isaac and Derek, suspended between them. They haul him up on the table at Deaton’s direction, let him spread out on his back.

Heat’s started spreading out from his hips. It feels like . . . like the one time he got in his cousin Brandon’s hot tub and spent way too long there, and then got out and felt heated from the core while the rest of the world was cooling by gulps of degrees. It feels like that now, like Stiles is hotter than everything else, like he’s searing a mark on the air around him and he needs, he’s burning inside

“Stop it,” Derek says suddenly. He sounds scared, wholly un-Derek-like. “Make it stop. Alan, give him something.”

“There’s nothing,” Deaton says. His hands hover over Stiles’s body. Touch me, Stiles thinks, but doesn’t—won’t—say it. “Call Satomi.”

Derek leaves the room. Stiles writhes in place on the cold table. Writhes. Writhes. He’s so hot inside.

“Fucking witches,” he hears Isaac mutter.

“Are you sure they were witches?” Deaton asks. Then it all fades away for a sweet, blissful few seconds, until Stiles is yanked back into being, still staring up at his shitty hospital cream ceiling. They’re all staring down at him. Deaton’s expression is odd.

“What?” he croaks.

“Uh,” Scott says. He leans over Stiles’s face. “Derek . . . uh, found someone. In the lobby.”

“Is it Jesus?” Stiles asks, snappish. “Is it fucking Jesus himself come down to obliterate all the witches in this town off the face of the fucking Earth? Because I hope so.”

“Don’t ask for things that will come back to bite you later,” Deaton says serenely, which, what. His face goes serious again for a moment, and then he nods at someone Stiles can’t see, and Isaac steps forward, holding up . . .

. . . a fox.

A cute fox.

Not cute in a sexy way. Thank god for that. If this stupid curse made him want to walk down the street and wiggle his ass for like, stray dogs or something, he might as well just call it quits now. Out. Done. Living alone in isolation with his laptop forever.

The fox opens its slender white muzzle and says, “You’re an idiot, do you realize that?”

Shit. It’s his voice. Stiles’s own voice. And he’s not far gone enough yet to have trouble figuring out what that means.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he groans. Isaac’s wrinkling his nose again, but for good reason this time.

Void glances over his shoulder at Isaac with an undeniably bored look on his face, for all it’s not human. “Let go of me,” he says.

Isaac does, shaking his hands off. Void leaps up on the examination table a moment later. He really is tiny—tiny and snow-white all over, except for a few oblong black splotches on the side of his muzzle and on his paws. Why he chose to look like this, Stiles has no idea, but he would assume it’s so Void can more easily lure innocent children, squirrels, and small house pets to their deaths.

“The trees were talking about what happened,” Void says, like that’s a totally normal thing that happens all the time. Stiles feels a little less like he’s been sex-drugged and a little more like he should be asking Deaton to blood-test him for LSD. “You upset a clan of witches, mm?”

“They were assholes.” Stiles glances above Void’s soft, pointy fox ears and at Scott, Deaton, Isaac, and Derek, all of whom are apparently at a loss as for what to do. It isn’t like Stiles is any better. Once Scott had become Beacon Hills’ resident alpha and had summarily dismissed Deucalion like a naughty puppy, it had become a policy of theirs—well, of Scott’s—to talk things out, give everyone a fair chance, blah blah blah, so they’d sat down with Void, who had been happily chewing scenery in Stiles’s body, and made a deal with him. He’d get his own body to do with as he liked, and in exchange, he’d leave Stiles alone.

“That’s all I wanted,” he’d sighed. “This half-existence is tiring.”

Stiles had spent the three months after that calling him Voldemort every time he saw him at Deaton’s clinic, where he was to “report in” or whatever, since Deaton had been the one to fashion his body for him. It didn’t look like Stiles’s, then.

In the beginning of the fourth month, Stiles had woken up from one of his frequent nightmares to find himself sitting in his desk chair. He’d assumed it was a nightmare, too, and Void had, to the best of Stiles’s memory, encouraged his theory. But then he’d also talked to Stiles: about what it had felt like to be called, instructed to be vengeful, and then disrespected when he did as told. About how he craved things like all other creatures did. About how Stiles’s essence had called to him.

“You look like me,” Stiles said.

“Oh.” Void looked down at himself. “Yes. I missed your body.”

Stiles blinked, just once, and in that span of time, Void was gone.

Six months later, here they are.

“Most witches are used to commanding the world around them,” Void says matter-of-factly. “You interrupted that ability.” He sits at Stiles’s side, where his hip curves in to meet his stomach, and curls his tail primly around his speckled paws. “I can fix this.”

“Does no one else see a problem here?” Isaac says.

Deaton holds up a hand. “How?” he asks Void.

“Have none of you smelled him?” Void asks. He casts Deaton a disdainful glare—he hasn’t forgiven him for the poisoning incident, Stiles knows, no matter how frenemies polite they were to one another during negotiations.

“Yeah,” Isaac says. “He smells like sex.”

Void hums, ears flicking back and forth. Tracking Derek, who’s circling slowly, watching them like the overprotective mama hawk he is deep inside. “Yes. He does. Need and magic and a new energy, here . . .” He presses his black nose to the center of Stiles’s chest, where the two halves of his ribcage join together. “A new energy that isn’t his.” He lifts his head, blinking once at Stiles, who stares back at him with no idea what to do, no idea how to think.

Derek finally speaks up, sounding irritated. “So your solution to this is?”

“Steal the energy away from him,” Void says. “Remove it altogether.”

Deaton sighs suddenly, loud and long.

Void’s mouth cracks open, showing off two rows of Sharpie tip-sized, bright white teeth. “Exactly,” he says.

“What?” Scott says, looking back and forth between the two of them. “What? Exactly what?”

“Exactly,” Deaton says reluctantly, “he’s the only one who can draw this out of Stiles in the near future. Until we can reach Satomi and ask her to bring her emissary, or until we can bring in the incubus contact I have in San Francisco, Stiles will have to wait.”

“No.” Stiles hates how he sounds: desperate and wrecked already, his voice thin. But he can’t. He hates being trapped, hates it more than anything, and he can’t imagine spending more than the next few minutes like this, every inch of his skin itchy and squirmy and needy. He’s putting it together fast enough to know Void’s not talking about the energy drain he did with Scott. And . . . and Stiles doesn’t care. He’s not sure what kind of person that makes him.

He just wants this needing, empty feeling to go away.

“No, I don’t want to wait.” He hears Void’s pleased sigh and cracks his eyes open, glaring. “You better look like a person when we do this.”

“Agreed,” Void says instantly. He glances at the rest of them, bushy white tail flicking. “Privacy.”

“Stiles . . .” Scott. “Are you sure this is what you want? I mean, he’s . . . You don’t have to do this.” His sweet, concerned face swims into view. He touches Stiles’s arm, and Stiles grits his teeth, puts up with the spike of terrible awful badwrong desire that surges at the back of his throat.

Void ducks his head and nibbles on the inside of Stiles’s other elbow with his needle-sharp little asshole teeth.

All Stiles’s sexual attention diverts there in an instant.


He ignores the smug look Void gives him. “Yeah, Scott. It’s fine. I’m good, buddy.” He pats Scott’s shoulder carefully. “I swear,” he adds, when Scott’s eyes narrow. “It’s one hundred percent me, dude, I swear up and down. Remember that time in third grade where you said, ‘Stiles, eat that slug,’ and I did?”

Scott frowns at him. “No, I said, ‘Stiles, don’t eat that slug,’ and you said, ‘Fuck you, Scott, you don’t control my life’. Then you ate the slug. And got sick.”

“I just wanted to shove it in Malfoy’s face,” Stiles moans. That gets a grin from Scott, who nods and backs off. Isaac and Derek back up with him, and eventually Deaton does too.

But not before he gets a tube of lube from god knows where and drops it on Stiles’s stomach, along with a pair of thick, fluffy towels and a dark sheet. “Use these wisely,” he says. His eyes linger on Void for a moment. “I want to speak with you afterward.”

“But of course,” Void agrees. He waits until the door to the examination room is closed—the paper blind pulled, thanks much—to sigh again. “No one trusts me.”

“You’re starting to sound like Peter,” Stiles tells him. Void’s ears flatten against his skull at the mention. He hates Peter, and oh man, Stiles is going to milk the shit out of that until his dying day. “No one trusts me, wah wah wah, but I just killed fifty people, wah, and I mean I know I tried to kill you yesterday, wah—”

“Do you want to be fixed?” Void asks. He leaps onto Stiles’s chest and sits all fifteen pounds of him right over where he indicated the energy is huddled. “Or do you want to keep talking about the Hale whelp?”

Whelp,” Stiles echoes. “Oh, I gotta use that one next time he comes around. The look on his face will be amazing. Instagram-worthy.”

He recognizes what he’s doing, and from all the time Void’s spent in his head, he knows he isn’t the only one. He had sex with Malia, but this is different. He’s babbling because he’s nervous. Irritated. He can feel the beginnings of a migraine slinking around in the back of his head.

He pauses. Concentrates on that feeling.

Makes sure it isn’t Void.

Can’t be too careful.

“Okay,” he says, when he’s sure it’s a migraine. “Let’s do this thing.”

Void’s ears flatten again, but he steps off Stiles to sit on the table. “Take your clothes off.”

Stiles’s body has never heard a more amazing sentence. He scrambles to obey, almost falling on his face more than once while Void watches him with that familiar still curiosity. Good to see he’s as creepy as ever when he wants to be—which is approximately all the time.

Void says quietly, “You have a scar.”

Stiles stops in the middle of dropping his Spider-Man briefs on the floor. “Get off the table,” he says before he can forget. Void does as asked, letting Stiles spread the sheet out over it. When he clicks his paws on the floor in obvious demand, Stiles sighs, but gives in, too wary of Void vanishing in a puff of smoke and leaving him here to whine and whimper until Deaton’s contact gets here. He touches the scar on the back of his shoulder—it’s a bad one. Three long, deep gouges almost to the middle of his back. “It’s from Malia.”

“Peter’s daughter.”

“Yeah.” Stiles blinks at him. “How did you . . .?”

“I pay attention,” Void says, rolling his eyes. Maybe Stiles rubbed off on him more than he thought. “Did he send her to attack you? Is that why she returned to the woods?”

The fact that he knows that makes Stiles pause for a second time. “You didn’t . . .”


Stiles relaxes. Minutely. “I scared her one night while we were sleeping. Wasn’t her fault.” He hops up on the table, moves to spread out flat on his back, but Void makes a jarring, disagreeable noise.

“On your stomach,” he says, leaping up.

Stiles sits cross-legged instead, watching him warily. “What did I say about you being a person?”

“I will be a person,” Void murmurs. He pricks his ears and takes a step toward Stiles, planting one tiny paw on Stiles’s knee to lift himself so he can lick once, delicately, over Stiles’s mouth. Then he puts his other paw on Stiles’s chest, tilts his head, and rubs his whole face down Stiles’s cheek to his jaw, nuzzling him hard, the way a cat would.

Shit. Scenting him.

“Okay, dude.” Stiles pushes carefully at his thin chest. “Person time.” His cock is still hard, and he’s so not here for the vague shades of bestiality thing. He moves Void off his lap and twists around to lie on his stomach, trying to tempt him to turn human, come over, and get him the hell off.

It works.

There’s a whoomp in the air, a massive sucking void—haha—that displaces everything above him for a spare second, and then cool hands come down on his hips and squeeze.

“Hello,” Void breathes against his ear. He grazes his teeth along the shell of it a moment later, flattening his very naked body on top of Stiles’s equally naked, mostly identical one. “Give me your hands,” he says. Stiles does. Just wants to be touched. That’s all he wants at this point. The fact that it’s not a total stranger (or Becca, Satomi’s terrifying emissary) is a big plus, though.

Void presses his hands down until his curled fingers brush the thick metal legs of the examination table. “Hold on,” he commands. Stiles does. “Don’t move your hands. Do you understand? I need you to be still if I’m going to do this properly.”

“I suck at being still.”

“Which is why you’re like this.” Void kisses the back of his neck, his shoulder. Where the Lichtenberg figure once was, and where now the skin is shredded from Malia’s claws. Kiss, kiss, kiss. Down between Stiles’s shoulders, over his spine, down, down, Stiles’s back arching as that burning feeling kicks up again.

Void’s hands slip over the curve of his ass, clever fingers putting pressure on him, massaging for a moment before he dips the tips of them farther and spreads Stiles’s ass open for him. Stiles’s face burns. He buries his face into the cool metal, leery of the way he’s being displayed. He’s convinced Void is going to do something cruel—demand Stiles answer a riddle to get fucked is at the top of Stiles’s list—and is about to ask him to just not, please not right now, when Void hums happily, leans in, and licks.

“Oh, fuck,” Stiles breathes. Void’s answering hum is throatier than the first. He keeps holding Stiles open, but this time it’s for his tongue, which he laves in long strokes over Stiles’s hole, the flattest, fattest part of it dragging with agonizing slowness, rasping and soft and warm and wet all at once. It’s too much—sensory overload. Too hot, too good.

He means to tell Void to stop, but he comes before he can.

It’s punched out of him, coaxed longer by Void’s relentless touch.

Void doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow. Keeps going in the same pattern. For forever.

Stiles could scream.

“What are you doing,” he sobs finally. His whole body is buzzing. “Void, Void, come on, I just want it out.”

“I’m taking it out,” Void murmurs, hot breath fanning over Stiles’s loose hole. “Slowly.” He goes back to what he was doing, filthily kissing Stiles, his hands forcing Stiles’s thighs apart for his face. “Be grateful I’m relieving its effects for you.”

Stiles chokes on nothing, rubs his forehead on the table. Whimpers. Burns.

Void digs his fingers into Stiles’s flesh. “Be grateful,” he orders. Spreads Stiles wider and slides his cool tongue inside him.

“Thank you!” Stiles yelps, helpless. “Fuck. Fuck. Void, fuck, just fuck me, just do it.”

The slide of Void’s stupid delicious strong tongue stops. Void takes his time removing it from Stiles’s hole, then sucks on his rim to his heart’s content before saying, “I am fucking you.” He goes immediately back to licking Stiles, kneading his ass, his thighs, and coaxing Stiles’s hips into rocking against the table, the friction bringing him up to orgasm again.

And again. And again.

“My dick’s going to fall off,” he pants after the fifth (?) one. The sheet under him is so covered in come it’s probably going to crack in half when it dries. “Void, god, just—please, just—” Maybe he should be ashamed of how easily he falls apart, how he moans for it, begs for it, how everyone’s waiting for him in the front room and can hear him. How they must think he’s in here slutting it up for Void’s cock.

And, well, he is trying to. It’s gotta be the spell, he thinks, how much he wants Void in him. How much he thinks right now if he doesn’t get Void to fuck him here on this table, he’ll go looking for him in the woods, ask him to finish what he started.

“Did you not hear me?” Void bites one side of his ass. “I am fucking you, Stiles.” He must take some pity on Stiles, though; his fingers move away, both hands, and there’s the sound of a cap popping, and then his hands are back, one spreading Stiles open and the other—

Oh, oh, fuck.

Void starts right in with three fingers, and not to be egotistical and everything, but no wonder Malia was always asking Stiles to put his in her. His fingers are great, they’re fantastic, and Stiles is going to take all of them, he’s so going to.

He’s going to.

His weak, shaking fingers slip from the table legs as Void gets four fingers into him. He lets them hang, dizzy and unable to feel anything that isn’t his ass or his dick, mostly.

“No,” Void says, stopping immediately. “Put your hands back, Stiles. I’m almost ready. I need you to stay still.” His voice has taken a darker tone, no longer quite Stiles’s.

Stiles obeys.

Void kisses the sweaty small of his back. “Good.” He moves his fingers again, all four, then slides them almost entirely out. Then he hooks his fingers just inside Stiles’s rim and puts his forehead to the spot on Stiles’s spine he just kissed. “Relax,” he murmurs. “Be quiet, and I’ll help you shake this shadow.”

Stiles is so boneless from his orgasms, but he concentrates, pushing the last of the tension out of his muscles. “Please,” he says softly. “Void.”

“Mmm.” Void’s fingers twitch once. Twice.

A pull flexes inside Stiles’s chest. This isn’t the gentle drain from before, when Void’s mouth was on him. This is a vicious jerk, and Stiles cries out.

Void strokes his side soothingly. Kisses the skin under his mouth. The pull grows more insistent. Void’s fingers twitch for a fifth time, a sixth, a tenth, but the pull isn’t ending there. It’s pooling where Void’s face is resting.

Void’s breathing is deep and even. He’s concentrating. He’s fighting for Stiles. He’s sitting in the darkness of Stiles’s bedroom again, in the doppelganger body of a boy he once said he felt more intimately connected to than any other living thing in the universe. He’s watching Stiles sleep, waiting to wake him when the nightmares come.

Stiles hangs on to the table and tries, for once in his life, not to make a sound.