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Gentle Roar

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Stiles knows Spring has arrived once it’s warm enough for bare, winter-softened flesh to withstand the coolness of night, and the town starts erecting “Seasonal Run Registration” signs in store windows. The two years before, Stiles hadn't paid them any mind, shrugged off the barest hint of tingles spreading occasionally up his thighs at night with rigorous masturbation. This year, though, Stiles feels his body clench in anticipation of the Run, his mouth salivating at the mere mention of the four day event.

Which is why he’s sitting on a freezing tabletop in a flimsy robe getting a physical to approve his registration. He’d been made to run on a treadmill, use an elliptical to monitor his cardio for problems, had his blood drawn to check for disease or vitamin deficiencies, and been given a fertility inhibitor shot.

Dr. Deaton unstraps the blood pressure cuff and makes a note on his clipboard.

“Any previous sexual encounters since your last check-up?” he asks without looking up, in that perpetually smug tone.

Stiles chokes.

“N-no.”

“You reported pre-heat symptoms last year; sensitive skin, hot flashes, heightened arousal and senses. How are you feeling compared to that?” Deaton asks, looking up.

“Yeah,” Stiles stutters, “all of that. Um, but stronger.”

Deaton nods, and his pen scribbles accordingly. “And how about your secondary sexual characteristics? Are you noticing your arousal accompanied by natural lubrication and differences in appetite?”

Stiles’ dad had caught him in the kitchen at 3am, emptying everything in the refrigerator into his mouth, and when he had returned to bed after making his dad promise to go grocery shopping in the morning under threat of tears, he had jerked off until dawn. He foggily recalls the delicious slide of slick foaming from his hole and down his thighs. He’d had to air dry his mattress on the back porch for a week.

Stiles’ face feels so hot with blood he isn’t sure if his tongue can even form the words. He clears his throat with a cough.

“...Yeah.”

Deaton takes a seat across from Stiles in that rolly-chair all doctors seem to have, and looks at him. “You know, just because your heats are fully realized, you don’t have to participate in the Run. It’s voluntary for a reason.”

“No!” Stiles says, then rubs his sweaty hands down his jeans. “I mean, I’m just a little body fluid shy. I do want to participate. A lot.”

Stiles might actually go insane if he doesn’t, he’s so horny all the time.

“All right,” Dr. Deaton says, signs off on his documents. “You have a history of good health and your examination today is normal. As expected, your blood tests came back negative for sexually transmitted diseases.”

He passes over the papers. “Just be sure to turn these in before the 16th and attend the Friday morning seminar before the Run starts. Your father will tell you everything else you need to know.”

Deaton pats his arm and leaves the examination room so Stiles can put his pants back on.

He closes the door behind him, papers in hand, and walks chest-to-chest into another body. Stiles flails, as he is wont to do, loses his medical approval and bangs his elbow against the wall before he can regain control over his errant limbs.

“Stiles,” a mild voice says.

He glances up, and really, the v-neck should have given him away.

“Do I know you?” he snaps.

“Don’t you?”

Peter Hale leers at him, leans his hand against the wall, a smirk on his face. He holds Stiles’ lost papers out. Stiles snatches them back.

“I see you’ll be participating in the Run this year,” he says softly, and even Stiles can see how pleased he is.

“I guess you are too. Again. For the twentieth time.”

Peter grins. He’s got a bit of a reputation in Beacon Hills as a sort of insatiable, unscrupulous wolf who could probably have sex with anyone he wanted. Still, without fail, he participates in the Mating Runs as though clinging to his days of youth, and doing so with vigor.

It isn’t illegal for adults to participate in Mating Runs. It’s even required for at least two government-sanctioned, experienced overseers to enter every year to help ensure safety within the perimeters of the Runs. Beacon Hills’ Talia Hale, Chris Argent, and newly appointed Jordan Parrish; and he’s twenty-four.

Peter is definitely older. Like, late thirty-something, probably.

Stiles has inevitably seen him around town, because there are only a couple thousand people living in the district in the first place, and every time he has, Peter has been sure to send him the sort of smile that makes the hair on his neck rise, the smile, in fact, which he is currently sporting.

And even though any consenting heat-ready person can enter a Mating Run with the approval of a doctor to account for their health, it’s usually frowned upon for older adults to enter them instead of seeking other, socially acceptable, venues for companionship. It’s seen as slightly predatory for a grown adult to participate in a function meant to help teens cope with and exhaust their new and uncontrollable urges. You’re supposed to have slowed down by a certain age.

“I never miss the occasion,” Peter explains.

Peter seems like he probably hasn’t slowed down at all with age. Maybe it’s a wolf thing. Stiles, being human, only has elevated senses and energy during heat season. It’s how humans in the Run keep up with other creatures while running, hunting, mating.

“And I had a feeling you’d be joining me as well,” Peter continues, and he’s still speaking in an undertone, leaning into Stiles’ space. He inhales deeply, audibly. “You’re either a little clueless or a very, very greedy boy, hanging your come-soaked mattress out in the air like an open call.”

Stiles swallows, his mouth dry.

Peter reaches out and runs a finger under Stiles’ chin. Stiles is sweating under his shirt. He hasn’t been able to get comfortably cool since the season changed, and Peter is the opposite of a helping hand.

“You, um,” Stiles licks his lips nervously. “You’ve been hanging around my house looking out for my sexual awakening like some creep?”

Peter laughs, blowing warm air against Stiles’ tingling face, tilting his head thoughtfully. Their chests are touching. “I don’t need to get that close to smell your desperation, Stiles. I just like to.”

Stiles shudders. Peter’s eyes glow electric, a rolling sound echoing from his chest.

“Do you have remaining questions about your physical, Mr. Hale?”

Peter looks down the hall and draws away from Stiles as waves from the shore draw back to the sea.

“I was only congratulating Stiles as he traverses through puberty, Deaton.”

Deaton’s expression is clear enough in his distrust. “Perhaps you should move along, Stiles. You still have school today.”

Stiles nods, for once speechless, and heads back out to the waiting room. He looks over his shoulder.

Peter is watching him, his eyes glowing and teeth gleaming inside his mouth. Stiles pants for breath all the way to his car, more embarrassed than ever. Since his heat’s confirmation, he doesn’t just have to worry about popping a hard-on in public. The seat of his pants is damp. He doesn’t go back to school.

Stiles tries to avoid every conversation with his dad diverting back to heats and the Mating Run. It isn’t that he doesn’t value what his dad needs to teach him. Sexual education and all that. It’s just that his dad doesn’t know how to tell him anything without making it profoundly humiliating.

It goes like this.

“You’re going through some… changes."

Stiles looks at his dad from across the dinner table in horror.

“I happened to notice a spike in my water bill. Maybe from all the sheets you’ve been washing?”

“Dad, no.”

John Stilinski gestures with his fork. It has a piece of lettuce (Stiles’ demand) slathered in Ranch dressing (his dad’s) hanging from it.

“It’s all right, Stiles. I remember what it was like when I was your age. Wouldn’t leave my bedroom for anything unless it was your mom knocking.”

“Dad, I will literally say anything if it will preemptively and permanently put this conversation to rest.”

“Dr. Deaton called to tell me about your physical.”

Stiles picks at his salad so he can avoid looking into his dad’s eyes.

“He said everything checked out. I still can’t believe you’re old enough already. Seems like kids hit it young, these days.”

Stiles doesn’t say anything. Better to avoid giving his dad anything he can use against him. It’s a tactic common criminals rarely appreciate.

“Maybe too young,” his dad says, glaring. “It’s common for Runners to find someone they want to partner up with before the Run. Scott and Allison, Lydia and her flock of suitors… Do you have someone who’s caught your eye, Stiles? Or someone who’s got an eye on you?”

Stiles puts his fork down, a burst of too loud, flustered laughter escaping.

“What? No. No. I mean, Lydia maybe, as you know, but she’s only into total assholes like Jackson so.”

Dad looks at him silently, eyes narrowed. Stiles can feel the tension rising. He isn’t going to cave; he is an excellent liar.

“Not that the heat is making me choosy; I’d get down with just about any...”

Stiles cuts himself off, now more embarrassed than ever. His dad raises his eyebrows,  waits, patiently tapping his fingers on the tabletop. Stiles isn’t going to give him the satisfaction. He isn’t.

“Peter Hale,” he blurts. “Umm, I mean, Peter Hale was a little. Forward, at the clinic.”

“A lot forward, is what Alan told me.”

Stiles twiddles his thumbs.

“It’s no big deal,” he mumbles.

“I don’t like it. A man like that, preying on you like…”

“Dad, come on. It’s not that bad. Or, you know, bad at all? It’s kind of...”

His dad glares at him sharply. Stiles coughs, his throat suddenly hot.

“I’ve already talked to the proctors about it.”

“What?” Stiles gasps. “Why?”

“Talia was very receptive to my concerns. They can’t kick him out of the Run, since he’s actually gotten, well. Glowing reviews from past participants.”

Stiles kind of glazes over at that thought. It’s a turbulent time for him, and Stiles is allowed a little moment of weakness.

“But they’ll make sure Peter Hale doesn’t take advantage of you.”

“What if I want him to Run with me?” he asks boldly. His dad’s face morphs into one of great distaste. Stiles shifts in his seat a little guiltily.

“Look son,” his dad reaches across the table to cup his shoulder in a warm palm. “I’m not saying I’ll arrest him for Running with you. Anyone should be honored to even get that chance if you decide to give it to them... I’ll arrest him for something else.”

Anything else, really. His dad doesn’t seem like he needs much provocation.

“He was probably just messing with me today, anyway.”

His dad gives him his patented Sheriff look.

Three days before the Mating Run’s seminar and about eighty hours of furious masturbation later, the entirety of Stiles’ generation is testy and aggressive, falling into all out brawls or piles of humping at the slightest provocation. It’s like open season on everyone’s ass, whether to beat it or beat off on it. It’s kind of awesome, since Stiles leaves the house and gets in three fist fights with other kids which all devolve into rutting. School is understandably on Spring Break, a two week suspension; not to stop unruly teens from expressing their frustration, but to ensure they do it anywhere but on school grounds.

Stiles stands in line at the pharmacy. Scott’s mom has advised he get a protein booster for human omegas to bolster himself against dehydration and exposure. It seems like everyone else in Beacon Hills has the same idea though, because Stiles has been standing at the end of this queue for half an hour, and it’s making him twitch like crazy. He just wants to get home and roll around in his sheets some more. He tugs at the collar of his tee. It’s been itching insanely, his neck scratched scarlet. He’s even elected not to put on his usual layers, finding the weight of the fabric unbearable.

“You seem tense,” a voice whispers against his raw neckline. Stiles turns around, not at all surprised to see Peter standing behind him, shopping basket in hand. It’s weighed down with a carton of milk and a pack of honey-glazed almonds. “Feverish, even.”

Peter runs a hand over Stiles’ hairline, and it makes him nearly bow over.

“Yeah,” he groans. A few people before him in line glance back in discomfort.

“You know,” Peter sighs, pointing directly at the protein powder in Stiles’ hand, “I have this exact kind back at my apartment. Imagine that.”

“Oh,” Stiles’ voice cracks. He looks back at Peter in amazement, holding his protein powder aloft. “I should put these back?”

“Drop them,” Peter growls, and something inside locks on to the rumble in his command. His hand is relaxing before he even decides. The packs fall into Peter’s basket. He discards it on a nearby shelf and smiles winningly.

“Good boy.”

Stiles actually melts.

He follows Peter out of the store in a daze, practically drooling, his legs shaking and his crotch tingling. Peter is hot, like Wet Magazine cover hot, gifted with the infamous Hale genes which have successfully bred the beautiful for generations. Stiles just wants to touch his hair, if he can.

They are walking away from the direction Stiles had come earlier, through the parking lot. Peter turns around faster than Stiles’ eyes can follow, and he is being pressed against a car, Peter between his thighs and biting into his lip. Stiles practically hyperventilates as he ruts against Peter’s hips. He can feel a dampness spread in his pants, dripping from his dick, sliding between his ass cheeks as his arches his pelvis up in offering.

“Oh my god,” he croaks, Peter’s teeth on his ear, his hand on his ass, squeezing. “Oh my god.”

“Such a pretty boy,” Peter murmurs against his earlobe. “Are you going to run from me in the woods? Until you’re so desperate to fuck you just fall down and show me your belly?”

“Yesyesyes,” Stiles is chanting, rolling his hips fast.

“You can come now,” Peter purrs. “I’ll lick you clean when we get to my place. Ever had someone eat you out?”

Stiles whimpers, moaning helplessly as Peter’s hands grind down on his ass and cock through his sweat pants. The sun is hot on his flushed skin, the metal of the car baking his shoulder blades, sweat beading along his hairline which Peter immediately laps up. His head falls back on Peter’s car as he comes, his body going lax and trembly. Peter continues to rub against him until Stiles feel tears in his eyes and he’s wheezing.

Peter’s lips trail against Stiles’ cheek and mouth, his hands steadily stroking Stiles’ flesh until he loses all ability to stand and shakes out a second, shattering orgasm. His breath rattles through his body as he looks up at Peter. He notices that his own fists are tangled in Peter’s shirt, showing off his chest and the dark hair laying there, and wow Stiles can go again, probably.

“Peter!”

Both Peter and Stiles startle.

Talia Hale stands in the parking lot, her arms crossed.

“I’m gonna die,” Stiles groans, punching Peter on the shoulder.

Peter sighs, removes his hands from where they really matter and holds them up to his sister in surrender. His palms gleam with wet come.

“Go home, Peter,” Talia tells her beta. Peter seems to struggle with himself before rolling his head around his shoulders as if working out a kink. He takes Stiles’ face in his hand and mashes their mouths together. Stiles tries not to be so obvious about enjoying it what with Talia freaking Hale standing there, but Peter’s mouth is wet and warm and

“Peter!”

Peter isn’t quick about it, his tongue stroking one more time over Stiles’ before retreating with a salacious wink.

“Let me drive you home, Stiles,” Talia says. Though Stiles would rather lay down in the road to accept death with dignity than sit in Talia Hale’s car covered in his own ejaculate, it isn’t really a request. He rolls down the windows hoping it won’t be quite so obvious, but then he remembers Peter’s open call comment about his mattress and rolls them back up.

“I’ve assured your father that Peter is mostly harmless,” Talia says in the car. Stiles doesn’t remind her that Stiles had walked to the pharmacy for a reason; his house is only fifteen minutes around the corner on foot. They’re idling in his driveway before Stiles can figure out if he’s supposed to comment. “Am I wrong?”

“Are you--? Um, no. No harm done here,” he gestures to his body. His pants are tacky, totally gross, but he tries not to think about it. “This is a complete harm free zone.”

“Good,” Talia replies. She nods toward the house. “I’ll see you at the seminar.”

The night before the Run, Stiles is almost convinced that Peter is going to come crawling through his window. He doesn’t know where the idea came from, outside of his late-night fantasies, but he’s even left his window unlocked. It’s made him more tense, the thought of the Run hanging over him and Peter coming to instigate his own private one. It’s been known to happen between adults, Running along the Preserve, outside the parameters, no proctors, no rules. Stiles imagines chasing Peter out there, the burn in his muscles and ache in his body, propelling him toward his target.

He wakes up to his shrill alarm, body soaked. His dad pokes his head in. “Time to get ready, kiddo.”

He rolls over with a groan of relief.

Putting on clothes is actual torture, and after trying to leave the house completely naked five times, his dad finally wrestles him into some basketball shorts and a soft t-shirt. It feels like steel wool on his back, and he squirms the whole way to the preserve.

“I’ll be out here at the cabin the whole time, okay? You’ve been running in these woods with Scott since you were just a little kid, so you know your way. If you need me, you know where to find me.”

They step out of the car, and the scents bowl into Stiles like a freight train made out of sex and wilderness. He breathes greedily, open-mouthed and hard. His father clasps his shoulder, then leads him through the doors of the cabin, though Stiles thinks ‘cabin’ is a little underwhelming for the reality of the huge welcome center. There is a desk in the welcoming foyer, and a line of kids from Stiles’ year, all in various states of antsy and undress.

Stiles gets in line.

“Last name?” the woman behind the desk asks.

“Uh, Stilinski,” he says, nodding to her. She rifles through some papers, before reaching the S list.

“There must have been a typo,” she says in question.

“No, nope, that’s right,” Stiles mutters, holding out his hand to get tagged.

She looks up at the Sheriff with her eyebrows raised before taking Stiles’ wrist. She reveals a little plunger with a needle and jabs his wrist. She inserts one last fertility inhibitor and a GPS tracker in case he needs emergency aid. It rests like a knot between his ulna and radius bones. He feels a little faint watching all those needles.

“Good to go, young man. Seminar auditorium is just behind me through that door. Parent’s lounge is upstairs. Have a good Run.”

Stiles enters the auditorium to find piles of furs and four huge tables piled with food. His mouth waters. He finds Scott and Allison after stacking a couple of plates for himself, but it’s kind of gross watching them, so he just takes a seat alone. The room is mostly filled already, as it’s only a few minutes before it starts. He stuffs his mouth full of whatever high carb casserole he’d spooned out and waits. He watches people talk, growl, eat. Kate Argent is already naked, drinking a bottle of water. She’s another rare adult like Peter who just enjoys the adolescent stench of hormones, or something like that. Her jaguar fangs are already glistening. She winks when she catches him staring, and Stiles nearly chokes on his cantaloupe cube.

“Attention, please,” Talia Hale calls over the boisterous noise of about fifty people waiting to get wild. Her voice, like the other day when she had been commanding Peter, is laced with a power Stiles can’t pinpoint but understands as Alpha. She and the other coordinators, Mr. Argent and Deputy Parrish, stand at the back of the room on a platform.

“Welcome to the Spring Mating Run,” Parrish says with a smile, as the room’s noise softens to a hush. “In a few hours, we’ll be opening the back door to the Preserve for you. In the mean time, enjoy the food, conserve your energy.”

“During the four days of the run, you may return here at any point, to eat or replenish. You are welcome to stay here for the duration for recreation. There is a wrestling mat and cotts for sleep. If you wish to leave the Run at any time, you may do so by intercom at the door in which you came, or by informing one of us. Just know that if you leave, you cannot come back in,” Chris finishes. He looks at everyone shrewdly, though Stiles is half convinced that’s just his natural face.

“In the Preserve, there are ample opportunities to hunt game. We encourage you to do so,” Talia says with a comforting smile. “There is a river that runs through the middle of the area that is cleansed for drinking, and there are several empty dens. All dangerous residents of the Preserve have been temporarily relocated outside the bounds. The area you have access to is outlined by Mountain Ash and a chainlink fence. If you make an attempt to breach either of these, you will be removed and banned from participating. It will be marked on your Run history for other districts as well. If you see the fence broken or damaged, report it immediately by returning here. There will always be at least one proctor at the center.”

Stiles is half listening, half gorging. He drinks down the sweet honeysuckle juice they’ve provided in gallons.

“You’re going to give yourself a cramp.”

Stiles looks up, mouth stuffed with who knows what, sticky juice running from his lips, and gulps. He isn’t ashamed, not when it feels so natural to keep eating, like his body needs to. Isn’t what this whole thing is about, anyway? Doing what’s natural?

“I’m just...”

He just feels so…

“Empty?” Peter rumbles, and Stiles realizes that Peter has taken a page from Kate and is completely naked. Stiles is staring at his dick.

“Yeah,” he pants. It’s a nice dick. Long, a little plump and flushed, but not erect. Stiles himself has been rock hard for a solid, oh, month, so it really is a testament to Peter’s age and control that he isn’t waltzing around with a knot popped. Like Scott. Stiles tries to feel grossed out, but really it keys him up even more. The anticipation might actually be the worst. Especially so, since there are people pairing up or piling together to groom, rut, fight.

“You look a little uncomfortable, Stiles,” Peter tells him, crouching down on the furs with him. Stiles feel an irrational urge to yank his food closer to himself and growl, but all Peter does is play with the hem of Stiles’ shirt. He makes no move for Stiles’ plate, and he relaxes and lets Peter pull the tee off. His shorts follow, peeling off his skin soaked from his ass. God. They must have the ventilation directly from the Preserve, because the cool air is woodsy and excellent on his flesh.

“Wait here,” Peter says into the soft skin behind his ear and picks himself up.

Peter goes back to the food tables where there are hordes of young adults and teens chowing down. Stiles spends a lot of time watching Peter’s ass flex with his strides. He looks around, has accidental eye sex with Kira as she and Isaac rub against Allison and Scott, who are sweetly feeding each other fruit. He thinks about getting up and joining them, as it looks like an awful lot of fun, and he’d have a perfect view of Lydia taking her shirt off.

Peter returns, somehow balancing four full platters and arranges them around Stiles. He immediately shoves his hand in the pulled meat and fills his mouth with it. It’s got that barbeque sauce that Stiles doesn’t like, but currently is in love with. It drips between his fingers messily and smells like perfection. Peter sits behind him and begins licking his neck and back, and at that, Stiles hears himself purr, soft trills as Peter’s tongue oils him up. Stiles stretches out on his stomach, the furs rubbing against his raw cock like a velvety hand as he chews tender pork and Peter continues to groom him lower and lower.

Stiles’ toes curl, resting his cheek against the soft pelt and watching from across the room as Braeden pins Derek down with a feral growl. It makes him ache to grapple with Peter, but he can’t do anything but writhe and whine as he lathes over his thighs to the crease of his ass. He thrusts against the furs beneath him in agony, shouting in frustration as Peter’s stubble scrapes against his hole but never gives it the attention he wants.

“Peter,” he sobs. Peter heeds his plea, presses his tongue right where he’s burning and sucks. Stiles feels the slick, searing stroke of Peter’s tongue and lips, the rasp of his facial hair. Peter pulls his cheeks apart, spreads him so that he can speer him through on his tongue, and Stiles’ whole body quakes.

He looks up to find several others sniffing in his direction, watching Peter work him over with vivid interest. Chris Argent’s gaze is electric as his prowls nearer, and Stiles can’t tell if he’s about to tell Peter off or compliment his technique. The hairs on the pelt below his dick are clumped and made rough from the constant drip of cum he’s leaking, an almost unbearable contrast to Peter’s mouth as he fucks himself between the two.

“Are you all right, son?” Chris asks, and Peter laughs. Stiles has to wonder why until he hears his own ragged breathing, blinking the tears from his eyes.

“Stiles,” Peter breathes against his ass, teeth grazing over the furled skin. Stiles gurgles, meat-greased hands curling by his face. “Tell Daddy Argent you can take it.”

“I can take it, Daddy,” Stiles parrots to Mr. Argent, and he feels Peter growl against his insides, vibrating deep. Chris stumbles back a step.

“No rules against coordinators participating,” Peter whispers between long, dirty licks into Stiles’ sopping passage. “Right Stiles? You could probably use two knots, as open as you are right now. He’d probably slide right in.”

Stiles can’t breathe. He’s looking up at Mr. Argent, mouth gaping, unable to voice how much he is down for exactly that, his ass drooling at the thought. Peter moans, runs a finger alongside his mouth, petting over his prostate. Stiles clenches his eyes closed, groans loud and deep, and finally rubs himself to orgasm. He sobs with relief as Peter turns him over and starts to clean up his cock, suckling the delicate, swollen flesh.

Chris is still standing over them intently, as Peter sucks the come out of the dark hair around his red, abused cock.

“Stiles, tell Daddy you’re still hungry,” Peter demands, tongue pressing mercilessly against the tip.

“Daddy,” he gasps obediently, and Chris watches avidly, wide-eyed. “Daddy, I’m hungry.”

Mr. Argent crouches, grasping the stem of a dewy, ripe cherry. He presses the purple fruit to Stiles’ open mouth, watching him slowly suck it inside and chew. Pink runs over his lips.

“Such a good boy,” Peter rumbles, sliding up Stiles’ body and licking the juice from his lips and chin. Stiles lolls his head back into the pelts, the smell of sweet fruit and mating making it hard to feel anything beyond Peter’s teeth pulling at his skin.

“Make sure he drinks another 8oz water before running,” Chris snaps, stalking away from them. Stiles watches his retreating back with a distant feeling of disappointment.

“Shh,” Peter tuts, petting his sweaty hair. Stiles looks up at him. His mouth is red, working hard, but he otherwise looks normal; like he hasn’t been prepping Stiles for his cock. “You’ll be just fine without him, I assure you.”

Stiles spends the remaining wait in leisure. Peter feeds him water, and for once, he doesn’t feel the need to crawl out of his skin to get reprieve. The heat is pleasant, fun. He can feel the energy rolling through the gathering, as they grow more alert, as the sun creeps to noon.

“Those of you who wish to run, please approach the back door,” Talia calls, and Stiles rushes to his feet, heart pounding. He sees his classmates spill onto their feet and scramble themselves getting to the door, but when he glances back, he sees Peter still lounging.

“You’re not?” His words get stuck in his throat.

“I will,” Peter assures him, and Stiles raises his eyebrows. “Go run, tussle and mate with your friends. I’ll find you.”

Stiles still hesitates. “How can you be sure you’ll find me? The Preserve is huge.”

Peter grins. “You can try to make it difficult for me.”

Stiles rolls his eyes and turns to run. Peter catches him and licks one more time into his mouth.

When he gets to the door, he finds nothing but bare skin for miles. Scott is standing in a circle of bodies bumping against him, running their hands over his chest, and even Stiles feels the pull. Must be a True Alpha thing.

He goes to them and is immediately enveloped in the group, right between Lydia and Jackson. Jackson must be way gone, because he actually puts Stiles in front of him and Lydia and cages him in, mouth on his shoulder.

The door is huge, like the entrance to a garage, if the garage were for an airplane. It slides open slowly, filling the room with bright orange sunlight. It’s warm outside in the sun, the grass and leaves already Spring green. Perrish stands off to the side in the lawn before it splits into trees, naked as everyone else and beaming. He holds a toy popper gun up.

“On your mark!” he shouts, pulls the trigger. “Go!”

They run.

Tree branches reach out to them, arms beckoning, and Stiles hears himself laughing with his friends, and yes, Scott’s ass has dimples to match Allison’s smile.

He doesn’t feel the sharp pine needles or pebbles on his feet, only the blood rushing in his head and the call of the Run. They spread out but maintain a cluster as they hop over fallen log and root, until the noise of the cabin and road is far behind them, and all is howling and leaves rustling.

Stiles isn’t sure how long they run, but they are deeply south east of the cabin. They jump in the river, still winter chilled, and it feels like heaven on Stiles’ heat bitten hide. Jackson dunks his head under the water, and they wrestle in the shallow end until Stiles’ human teeth grow a tad sharper and he pins the wolf. Jackson writhes, and Stiles can’t resist fucking into his slick heat, and Jackson claws at him, moans.

It’s a bit formulaic after that but no less satisfying; running off their feast, playing on the forest floor, bathing one another. Lydia and Allison have a tree climbing contest then fuck against the bark. Stiles has been pinned down and sucked off at least half a dozen times. They’re loud and insatiable.

As dusk settles, Scott goes still and tilts his head. Everyone, even the humans, pause.

“There’s a buck,” he whispers, and points. “It’s got an old injury in one of its legs; I can hear it in its gait.”

He looks at all of them with his puppy-ish smile, and they hunt. Half the fun is corralling the deer, circling his path and steering him to their Alpha. Scott leaps on the animal and tears into its throat. They make a fire and dine on what the Preserve has provided for them.

It is at nightfall, as Stiles lies in a pile with his friends to keep warm in the still cool night, some of his pack still rutting, grinding, that a long, reverberating howl slithers its way across their thicket of trees. Stiles sits up, no longer drowsy.

“Is that--?” Scott whispers.

“Peter,” Stiles breathes. Scott looks at him from over Isaac’s curly head and looks at him with wide eyes.

“You’re not going to Run with him are you? I saw you in the auditorium...”

“Everyone saw me in the auditorium,” Stiles retorts, rolling his eyes. “And hell yeah I’m Running with him. See you in a few days, Scotty.”

Stiles dashes out of sight, trying to pinpoint the origin of the echoing call and run away from it. He has a plan. Peter might think he’s chasing after Stiles, and he’s going to be surprised when he’s duped into being the prey.

He scrubs himself down in the river, teeth chattering, then rolls in the underbrush until his skin and sweat glands are coated in fresh earth. He runs in different zigzagging directions rubbing his hair on trees to muddle his path. Eventually, he finds a mossy, hollowed out tree that he can wiggle into. He pulls the moss and leaves over the opening and breathes the comforting scent of damp wood and soil. He falls asleep to the lullaby of mating bugs crawling and buzzing around him.

The sun isn’t up long, the earth still showered in perspiration when Stiles claws out of his fallen tree. His body is aching and in need once more, sweating, so he straddles the log and grinds against the soft moss. His little knot is swollen and sore, his ass leaking all the way down to his calves.

“Peter,” he whispers, unable to stop himself. He grips his knot and rocks back against his fingers until they slip inside, the tree rough on his inner thighs. He arches his back until he can rub his puffy hole over the coarse, wet moss, and it is torture, but perfect. Stiles cries but keeps rocking back and forth because to not is even worse. He feels himself clench on the inside, tighten in a way he never has before, as his orgasm approaches. He’s locking for the first time, he just knows it, his internal muscles clenching so tight, and oh, he wishes he had a knot in there to trap, to squeeze around. Stiles gasps wretchedly as he just barely twists his fingers inside where it’s suffocatingly tight. It’s so good that he comes from it, makes a mess all over the fallen tree and turned over roots. The log between his thighs is thick, and he wonders if this will be like having Peter spread his legs open.

He goes to climb down, legs wobbly. This will be a nice treat for Peter to find as he tracks him. Stiles wants to make it hard, but he isn’t ungenerous.

He knows Peter will have covered a lot of ground overnight while Stiles had been sleeping, is probably closing in on where he separated from Scott and the others, so he makes himself straighten up and trekk on. His body is covered in a layer of grime, blending him with the lushness around him. He runs again, the thrum of the Preserve’s life calling for it.

He’s cresting a hill, just about to leap up to a low hanging tree branch to see if he can scent Peter in the wind, when he is snatched right out of the air and held to the ground.

“What’s this? The Sheriff’s son!”

Stiles looks around, craning his neck to see. He doesn’t recognize the British accent.

“Who are you?”

The man above him leans down, presses his body against Stiles’. His eyes glow red, and Stiles feels his whole body clench, squirming.

“Deucalion.”

“The Run’s pretty popular with old men this year,” he snaps, voice cloistering with his omega growl. Deucalion affects the look of a smile, but doesn't quite achieve it, and Stiles’ mouth hangs open, breathing him in.

“Talia owed me a favor. It’s good for Alphas to run every year. We have so much energy.”

Stiles looks at the other wolves gathered around, their scarlet eyes.

“You’re the Alpha pack,” he says, throat working, mouth dry.

Deucalion hums, pushing his nose into Stiles’ neck and inhaling.

“Have you ever been fucked, omega?”

Stiles makes a startled coughing noise, hands clenching in the loose soil beneath him. “No.”

In an instant, he’s flipped over on his hands and knees, and oh god, he’s leaking, can see the tracks his slick makes in his dirt covered legs, and his shoulders drop on their own accord. It feels...

“Do you want to be?” Deucalion asks, petting Stiles’ hair. He leans his body over Stiles’, and he can feel the burning heat of an Alpha cock against his ass. He feels weak. Wanting.

“Yeah,” he breathes into the dirt, unable to close his mouth. He feels like he might die of the embarrassment, but he wants it so bad, he’s thrusting his ass up, hole gaping and searching for what Deucalion wants to give him.

Claws find his hips as there is a searing heat against his omega cunt, smearing in the dripping lubricant, before a certain pressure circles his rim, unfamiliar but impossible to not recognize.

“Please, please, anything. Just the tip!” he begs, and Deucalion laughs as he thrusts.

Stiles shrieks, split wide and unyielding, every nerve touched coming to life and making Stiles lose his vision. He can only feel the tug of Alpha cock in his ass, the heat and strength as Deucalion plows against him. His breath comes out a high pitched wheeze, the thick cock pulsing against his swollen insides.

“I’m so deep, little omega,” Deucalion growls, “I can feel my cock in your stomach. You’re a lanky one, so you’ll swell up so easy on my pack’s come. How does that sound? Taking the knots of all my pack?”

Stiles moans, reaches back to claw at his own asscheeks because it’s not enough. Deucalion laughs, thrusts harder, and Stiles feels tears in his eyes as the pressure inside him increases. He shakes his head in dysphoria.

“You tighten up quick. Are you going to milk my cock with your cunt?”

Stiles wails. It feels so good, his legs are tingling with promise, his stomach is spasming. His hole is stretched so deliciously wide and open, clenching sporadically as it prepares to lock.

“Your knot,” he gasps. “Let me have it. It’s mine.”

"Greedy," Deucalion growls, and Stiles finally feels the swell, his hole mouthing greedily over it as it teases his rim, just barely beginning to catch. Finally, he has enough, clenches a final time so that Deucalion doesn’t have a choice but to bury himself deep. He pops his knot then, its full size taking Stiles’ breath away. He comes, bearing down as Deucalion howls and empties his seed inside.

Stiles relaxes, grinning dopely into the dirt. He gives Deucalion a sloppy thumbs up before passing out.

He wakes up to a different Alpha cock fucking into him, his hole sloppy and gushing wet come noisily. Stiles is belly-up, laying back on the Alpha’s chest. He can feel  him growling, his stomach muscles bunching against his back as his omega cunt is spayed. Stiles moans helplessly, head falling back on a thick shoulder and neck. It hurts in the best way, his insides lush and swollen with need, pliable to the knot he’s begging for.  Stiles can feel the length of it in him, the thick, solid base forcing him wide, pressing against the inside of his rim where the flesh is raw and too sensitive. The flare of the Alpha’s cockhead catches against his gorged  prostate with every thrust and when Stiles looks down, he can see it rising below his belly button every time he bottoms out, and Stiles presses his hand there, imagining how it must be ramming into his cervix as though demanding to be let in.

The Alpha groans when the heel of his hand presses where he’s speared on his cock, and Stiles’ whole body goes liquine at the first feel of his knot forming.

“Fuck, please,” he whines.

He jolts when a delicate hand runs down the line of his tender thigh to his inflamed arousal, and Stiles stops breathing when a sharp claw teases his shaft. It burns and makes him clench around the Alpha inside him. He forces his eyes open, and an Alpha woman leers down at him.

“Why don’t we share, Ennis?” she asks, stalking closer and sliding a leg over Stiles.

“Pack always shares,” a deep voice growls against his ear. Stiles’ breath quickens as he nods; yes, please share, do it do it.

The woman spreads her thighs and crouches, her folds thick with blood and slick. Her cock isn’t unsheathed, but Stiles can see its head throbbing, peeking from under her thick  curls. Her cunt is poised over his cock, and Stiles salivates. He can see the milky froth of another wolf’s come dripping out of her and down her thickly corded thighs. His own internal muscles twist and tighten up on Ennis’ dick. The Alpha lowers herself, and Stiles trembles through the searing heat as she swallows him up, his knot slipping right inside. It isn’t big enough to catch, and she grinds down on his little omega knot, her teeth bared and gleaming. Stiles cries as he is worked between the two Alphas, and Ennis licks his tear tracks and stuffs his thick fingers in Stiles’ mouth. Every sound he makes is amplified as the woman’s cunt ripples and locks so tight, he doesn’t think he can come.

He sobs when the Alpha beneath him knots him, his internal muscles too fatigued to lock a third time so soon, only clenching sporadically before falling lax, teeth nipping his neck in admonishment.

“We’ve exhausted him Kali,” Ennis purrs. “His little hole is so tired, it won’t even lock down on me. Aren’t you better trained, boy?”

Stiles feels his face burn as Ennis’ spit wetted fingers trail down to his ass.

“I bet I could wiggle my fingers in, you’re so loose.”

A fingertip brushes against Stiles’ stretched rim, and he hiccups as it slides right inside next to his knot. He heaves great breaths, the Alpha woman, Kali, rolling her hips, circling his knot and tugging on it. Stiles shakes, his own hips spasming in between the places he’s stuck, fucking himself until he can’t stand it anymore. He shouts raggedly when he finally comes, Kali massaging his cock with her pelvic floor through the whole ordeal.

Ennis forces another two fingers inside Stiles, and he really does start to sob great wretched breaths, overwhelmed. Kali leans down and kisses his forehead, pets his face.

“Shh,” she hushes. “Just take what you need.”

Stiles nods, eyes shut tight as he feels another orgasm chasing the heels of the last.

He collapses his full weight on Ennis, and they caress his aching skin until  Kali unlocks around him and they carry him to a pile of leaves and moss to rest.

Stiles spends the rest of the day with them, and they feed him their water and venison for dinner. He warms Deucalion’s cock with his hole while they eat, holding it’s thickness  inside as he’s fed.

He stumbles away from them after dark reluctantly, a lingering glance to Ennis’ shoulders and Kali’s calves. She smacks his ass, winking. With a wave, he continues through the Preserve, full, leaking come and slick, sated for the moment. His legs are sore, but he isn’t finished yet. Peter is probably closing in; there is something prickling on Stiles’ scratched, bitten skin that says so.

He rolls around in the mud one more time, knowing he smells nothing like himself, practically invisible in the moist earthiness of his second skin. He smells more Alpha now, anyway.

He snickers to himself and climbs the nearest tree as high as he can go and breathes. It’s a nice break, fresh and clean air, but it also gives him an idea of how stirred up the wolves are. He jumps down. He’s just short of his final resting ground.

When he was with Scott, chasing the deer, they had never chased it directly behind, always looping off to the side, so their chances of catching it would be better. Instead of catching him from behind, they got him by cutting him off. Peter is probably doing the same while hunting Stiles. Stiles, despite his efforts to make his path obscure, knows his destination is fairly obvious; the big cave by the waterfall. It’s been his ideal destination since he heard of the Mating Runs. It’s one of the few landmarks within the Preserve. Peter definitely knows of it, and Stiles will be profoundly disappointed if he doesn’t.

Now, Stiles turns in the opposite direction and runs, trying not to disturb his previous tracks in any way. He runs back through Deucalion’s camp, where they’re lounging, still picking meat off bones, all the way back to where he jacked off on a fallen log. Peter’s scent is everywhere there, the sharp scent of urine and spunk marking where he’d slept. Stiles circles his nook until he finds claw marks in the dirt leading slighting west of his own trail. He can see where Peter has gone and follows it swiftly, hooking further east until he can see the edge of the territory, a chainlink fence.

He uses it as his guide, the area cleared and easy to navigate. The moon is high when he decides to slow down and climb another tree, making sure he’s downwind of Peter’s trail. He breathes deeply once more, squinting in the dark, waiting for any sign of his Beta’s blue eyes. He thinks he might not have gone far enough, that Peter is still ahead, but then, he hears that howl. It sends shivers down his spine. It’s probably meant to make Stiles feel surrounded, like Peter is closing in and moment of the confrontation is imminent.

It comes from just where he’d hoped, a little northwest, and Stiles climbs back down and runs. He is hoping Peter’s too focused on the goal, to notice him running alongside him, and sure enough he sees Peter through the trees, a dark shape. He’s coming closer, veering to the left in preparation for what he thinks is Stiles’ trajectory. Stiles lunges.

He collides with Peter’s side, and they roll into the leaves. Stiles looks down at his catch and grins, panting.

“Got’cha.”

“You smell like a jockstrap,” Peter complains,  rolling them over and cradling Stiles with the whole of his bulk.

“Yeah? I call it Au d’ejaculate.”

Peter laughs, stroking Stiles’ skin, catching on the tacky spots where come and dirt have mingled.

“Did you fuck the entire Alpha pack? I knew you were greedy,” Peter whispers, licking over Stiles’ mouth.

“Not the whole pack.”

The twins had just watched.

“How was it?” he asks, as Stiles kneads his hands into Peter’s chest. His pecs are full, and he really wants to play with is his nipples. “Did Deucalion give you his knot?”

“Y-Yeah,” Stiles stutters through a loud exhale. He feels the rough pads of Peter’s fingers brushing his ass, dipping into the crease.

“You must be tired,” he coos, “having all of that attention. Locking for the first time. ”

Stiles’ heart thuds. “Not too tired,” he mutters as Peter’s fingers sink into where he’s loose  and drenched. It feels so good, he can hardly believe it.

“I can smell them on you,” he breathes into his ear, fucking him slow on his fingers. “I can smell their contented pleasure, how well they served you. I’ll have to tell Talia to send them a thank-you gift for taking care of you. Maybe we can set up a playdate with them when the Run is over. I can even invite Mr. Argent if you want.”

Stiles is breathing heavily, his breath muggy in the dark. Peter’s eyes are brighter now, sinister and hungry.

“You caught me,” he growls with pride, and Stiles laughs.

“Yeah I did.”

They’re compelled to nest, Stiles feels it in his body like a craving, so Stiles allows Peter to lead him to their intended den. The river has narrowed to a soft trickling creek, where it drops a gentle slope. There is a small nook, hollowed out by the flow of water before its natural shift, deep enough for two human sized creatures to crawl inside.

Peter leads him to the bank of the creek,  until they wade in up to their chests. Peter runs his hands over Stiles’ shoulders, the grime and dust turning dark against his skin before rinsing off. His thumb runs over the spot on his neck, just under his jaw, and leans in, putting his nose to the goosebumps that rise there.

“There you are,” he murmurs, scenting him.

Stiles groans as Peter rubs his wide palms across his abused flesh.  The water is frigid,  just a touch too-cold, even to his fatigued muscles, but Peter’s heat soothes the chills spidering across his chest. He can feel the sweat and crusty things on him being carried away by the gentle coax of Peter’s massage and a lazy current.  They meld and undulate with the beat of the water until Stiles is soaked through and pink. He feels purified, in the cold water and moonlight, and Peter takes deep inhales indulgently as Stiles’ scent is unimpeded by contaminants.

Stiles can feel his hair curl with the weight of moisture as Peter runs his hands over his fringe.

“Can we fuck now, or…?”

Peter laughs, gripping Stiles by his thighs and hoisting him to his waist.

“You’re a little blue around the edges, so I think we should get out of the water first.”

They crawl back up the mossy embankment, dark soil staining their palms and toes. Stiles watches Peter’s slick, drenched body with renewed gluttony. The  push and pull of roiling muscle beneath skin has him slavishly following Peter to their cave, not minding the breeze if it only means he might get to touch those deltoids. He watches that body work, gathering a rock, and a few branches. He stacks them at the entrance to their alcove, trapping them inside and casting them in darkness.

Stiles doesn’t see Peter move, only glimpses the suggestion of it, until his stomach is pressed in the damp soil on the ground, and Peter is searing against his arched back. “You’ve been dripping since I caught you at Deaton’s office. I can smell your sloppy hole from miles around.”

Stiles keens, just a little. He feels Peter’s hot cock resting heavily on his lower back, throbbing, making him wiggle.

“I can smell your desperation from across the continent, so will you fuck me already?” Stiles snaps, thrusting his ass higher, aiming for relief, or even better, Peter’s thick, dark cockhead.

It bounces against his hole tantalizingly, glancing off his rim. Stiles huffs, preparing to complain some more before Peter’s teeth find his neck and bite. Stiles loses his breath, upper body sagging into the dirt, and he can feel the flutter of his hole as it completely relaxes, opens with a loud squelch.

Peter moans, teeth vibrating in Stiles’ skin, hands gripping Stiles’ thighs and spreading his pliant body. Stiles feels the oily drip of slick lubricant tickling under his baby knot. Peter’s thick fingers fondle the tender flesh there, and Stiles feels stuck, his body paralyzed for the wiles of his wolf.

“You’re gaping for me,” Peter whispers, his canines relinquishing his neck and leaving it to sting. “Your little cunt is sopping wet and wide open, begging for a knot.”

Stiles feels tears rising, sticking to his eyelashes, though he isn’t sure why.

“Well, I’ve got a pretty good line-up if you don’t get on with it.”

Peter ignores that.

“It probably thinks it’s about to be bred,” Peter growls, and Stiles finally feels the line-up, the heat of Peter’s body everywhere and especially where he wants him most desperately. His cock nudges against Stiles’ hole and sinks in without effort. Stiles grunts, the frictionless thrust stealing his breath.

“You’d be good breeding stock, wouldn’t you boy? You’re fertile; I can taste it in your sweat. I could fuck a litter in you, and you’d take it so sweetly.”

Peter’s length slides to the limit of Stiles’ cervix, pulsing and overlarge. His hips undulate, the unyielding rod scraping his insides to liquid warmth. Chills spread over Stiles’ lower body as he pants in the smell of soil and moss, his face pressed in the dirt. He can’t even clench his fists or tense his core, simply left boneless and wide eyed, Peter fucking into him slow and firm. He brushes his prostate every time like a promise, a dirty kiss from the flare of Peter’s cockhead to his greedy gland.  

A hand grips his leaking cock, too dry and coarse, but it is perfect and tugs on the swell of his knot until Stiles is shooting his creamy come into the dirt. He shivers, but Peter doesn’t stop, strokes his soft little cock until Stiles is finally squirming and clenching. Peter pounds into him, grinding his dick deep.

“Yeah, Peter,” he gasps, imagines his belly full and growing. “Breed me, make me, do it.”

His dick is still soft in his grasp, fucked out despite left still wanting, but Stiles feels this peculiar coiling, burning in his gut, like he’s about to come anyway. He makes a confused noise, the exquisite glide of Peter’s cock becoming interrupted by his gradually swelling knot.

“Are you going to come again before you lock on me, sweet boy?” Peter asks.

“I can’t,” Stiles whines. He’s tightening up, but it feels differently, more. Every push of his hips against Peter’s jars him, a scream perched in his throat as the grand pleasure boils.

“Daddy,” he gasps, wailing. The feeling crests, internal. His cunt, he realizes hysterically; he’s going to come just in his hole, just from Peter fucking him. Stiles shouts, and Peter has to hold his legs tight as they shake and Stiles sobs. He orgasms for long seconds, and Peter’s knot grows rapidly, yanking on his messy rim. Peter emits a deep groan as his fucks into Stiles until he can’t pull out, and keeps pushing his hips back and forth within Stiles as his body seizes. When Stiles locks down on Peter, it actually hurts with how intensely good it feels. His knot is trapped, sitting tightly against his prostate and abusing it with every tremor.

He can feel the heat of Peter’s come as it pumps into his hole, the hard throb of his knot as it flexes, working to fill Stiles up with a litter. Peter’s teeth are imbedded in his shoulder again, his claws like briars around his wrists. It feels like completion or a bit like defeat. Peter’s knot swells and pulses in turn, fills Stiles until he can feel the strain of his belly stuffed. Peter pets a hand over the swell and trembles.

“I...” Stiles licks his own lips, as though to smooth out the roughness of his voice. “I might come again.”

He can actually feel the prickling of Peter’s fur as it sprouts from his chest and scratches his back. “My knot satisfying your hungry cunt?” he slurs through fangs.

Stiles wishes he could turn around and see, but Peter circles his hips, rolling his knot, and Stiles loses the train of the thought. “Daddy, Daddy,” he chants for mercy, pity, for anything. He can feel the come inside him sloshing, warming him. He imagines his pink womb, flooded with seed, with Peter’s load, and his heart stutters in his chest. Peter works Stiles’ body, steadfast and sure, until the rippling corkscrew of Stiles’ inner muscles becomes unbearable, and he’s coming again.

Stiles thinks he passes out after that, and doesn’t wake up until there is sunlight streaming into their little cave, and Peter has his cock sucked to the back of his throat. The day is spent in similar fashion; rinse and repeat.

“So,” Stiles asks as Peter nibbles along his ankle. “Do you have a thing for young, nubile boys or are you trying to fuck your way through all of Beacon Hills?”

They’re knotted together, Stiles on his back, legs resting against Peter’s shoulders. Peter bites one of his toes, and Stiles yelps.

“That’s a pretty pedestrian accusation. I’m not a pedophile.”

"Pedestrian," Stiles repeats with a sneer. “Reading up on those SAT words? You’d get along great with Scott.”

Peter rubs his hips in circles in such a way that makes words fall right out of Stiles’ mouth in a messy jumble.

“He’s not really my type.”

“Scott is everyone’s type,” Stiles says, defending his best friend even as he forgets what they’re talking about. Something about sex does that to him.

When it’s midday on the fourth, Peter escorts him half-unconscious back to the cabin. The clean geometry of architecture and the reminder of civilization is a bit startling to Stiles, the last few days a celebration of feral bliss. Peter feeds him a stream from a bottle of water until the whole thing is empty then deposits him safely into the slumbering pile that Scott’s pack makes. Peter kisses Stiles’ temple and tosses a fur over his body. He wants to savor the moment, the content fondness on Peter’s face, but he’s out the second he puts his head down.

Stiles wakes up as he’s lifted, the familiar scent of his father wrapping around him. He’s carried away from the smells of come and sweat and trills a little at the loss.  The coordinators are passing out soft, thin robes to everyone and Stiles’ dad drapes one over his shoulders. Stiles squirms uncomfortably, the fabric pulling against the tacky parts of his skin and contouring to the wetness between his thighs.

“Come on, kiddo,” the Sheriff sighs, pulling him back off his feet and to the car. Stiles looks over his father’s shoulder dazedly, eyelids sticky and weighted. He finds Peter in an open bathrobe watching his dad settle him in the passenger seat and buckle him in. Peter grins, and Stiles wiggles in his seat.

“Hungry?” Dad asks, as they roll in reverse and trade the rocky driveway for the smooth drive of a paved road.

“Curly fries?” Stiles asks in a chapped, small voice.

His dad smiles at him, claps his hand on his shoulder. His palm presses right against the raw place where Peter had spent the last few hours gnawing. Stiles shifts a little.

His dad convinces the diner to let them get a to-go order, probably because he’s got his uniform on, and Stiles stuffs his face the rest of the way home with greasy, processed carbs that chase away the wild taste of unseasoned game and small river fish. He drinks what must be a two liter Dr. Pepper.

He has to force himself into the house and up the stairs into the shower. The dirt pours off of him even in places he’d thought himself relatively clean, and the sour stench of spunk and perspiration submits to Head and Shoulders. He’s a little sad, hollow. Dr. Deaton had mentioned a crash, physical and emotional, was to be expected after the Run. He flops down naked and shiny wet on his soft, pillowy bed, the fluffy comforter delectably soft. He moans and rolls around, happy to lay down and not get stabbed by tiny rocks or twigs, to not feel the itchy grain of dirt sticking to him.

Stiles sleeps.

He drives to the doctor’s office for the mandatory After-Run check-up after waking up in a puddle of drool, his ass in the air as though searching even in sleep to be knotted up. He tries to remind himself his heat is supposed to be over.

There is a crowd of adolescents in the clinic, all grumbling but generally happy zombies. They have bruises, bitemarks and cuts. Stiles takes particular pleasure in seeing Jackson with a black eye. When Melissa sees him, she takes him back immediately, checks his blood pressure, hydration levels and takes his blood for screening.

“Hello, Stiles,” Deaton greets in the examination room ten minutes later. “Feeling well sated?”

Stiles immediately feels his neck grow heated. He nods wordlessly. He’d been made to change into a hospital robe so that Deaton can examine him, but even that feels suddenly too hot.

“How about sore? Are there any places you sustained injury? Wounds, pulled muscles, bruises?”

Stiles gestures vaguely. “Um, my...”

He pulls the collar to the side, showing Deaton the wide oval of teeth marks, scabbing over. Dr. Deaton prods at the scabs with a q-tip, his gloved hands squeaking.

“They aren’t showing signs of infection or deep enough to require stitches, as they’re already healing up by themselves. However, if you notice any sudden inflammation or mucus, come back for an antibiotic shot. If you pick at the scabs, you’ll run the risk of it scarring. Anything else?”

Stiles steels himself, shrugging his shoulders. “My uh… It’s sore um.”

Deaton watches him patiently, hands clasped in front of his lap.

“My ass is sore,” he blurts finally, closing his eyes.

“Ah,” Deaton laughs a little. “That is to be expected. Any bleeding? Sharp pains?”

Stiles shakes his head through it all.

“Should I still be… leaking?” Stiles chokes out.

Dr. Deaton considers. “As long as the discharge doesn’t have an alarming smell or color, it’s perfectly normal. You must remember that in the last few days you have presumably taken a large volume of sperm, going by your papers you filled out. Some of it is absorbed, the rest expelled.”

“Oh my god,” Stiles wheezes. He’s made a wet patch just from sitting here. The questionnaire he’d been given had asked for all of his partners during the Run, to safely track any possible disease, and he wonders if he’d had a large number comparatively.

“If you are still concerned, I can always take a look. That is what these check-ups are for.”

Stiles hesitates before giving a jerky nod. Dr. Deaton has him lay back and settle his ass against the edge of the examination table, his feet resting on the extensions made specifically for this purpose. Deaton pulls Stiles’ robe aside and adjusts a hanging light right over his groin.

“I’m going to test the give and sensitivity now. Tell me if anything hurts.”

A cold instrument prods at the puffy rim of Stiles’ hole. He knows what it looks like, swollen and shiny, steadily dripping. The instrument slides inside, uncomfortably inorganic and hard on his prostate. He squeezes his eyes closed. A finger circles the inside of his hole, searching for tears or bruising, before withdrawing. Deaton replaces his robe and backs away.

“You are a little red and swollen, but no more than what is expected. You’ll experience periods of engorged sexual organs during arousal and a short time after, but it should return to normal in a few days.”

Stiles sits up and sighs in relief.

“From today’s inspection, you are a perfectly healthy young man. If a little banged up.”

Stiles leaves after redressing and receiving a hug from Melissa. His right hand finds its way to his shoulder as he drives home, pressing into the row of bumps thoughtfully. He should have asked for Peter’s number, he laments. Something about being fucked ten ways to Sunday had made the notion slip his mind. Where does Peter work? Does he even have a job? Where does he live?

Stiles veers off the path back home and takes a left toward the Preserve.

He drives to the Hale house before he can change his mind or panic, and sits in their driveway until he can gear himself up enough again. The Hale house is gorgeous, like the people who live in it, and is coifed with flowery ivies and dark scaffolding.

He knocks on the door.

He hears a muffled banging of footsteps before the door is ripped open to reveal his classmate Cora. Her lip curls.

“You smell like a sex shop.”

Stiles, whose senses have returned to plain old human, sniffs at his shirt in curiosity. Cora hadn’t participated in the Run, one of the only teens seemingly unaffected by the season. Like Derek, who only experiences aggression with the heat rather than sexual frustration and who spends the Run hunting and wrestling with his girlfriend, Cora is asexual.

“Cora, who is it? Oh, hello Stiles,” Talia says from over Cora’s shoulder. She looks at him like she already knows what he’s here for.

“Is um, is Peter around?”

Cora rolls her eyes and makes a gagging noise, retreating into the house. Talia sighs, glances behind her and eases the door closed as she steps out on the porch.

“Stiles, honey,” she says. “Peter is the last person you need right now. You’ve just undergone your first Run, and that’s a big deal. It’s understandable for you to feel attached to the person with whom you spent it, but right now, it’s best if you wind down and get ready for school to start again.”

“You can’t just tell me where he is?” Stiles needles.

A small smile worms its way on Talia’s face.

“He’s at home, an ice pack on his hip because Dr. Deaton told him he’s pulled a muscle. An omega wore him out.”

Stiles snorts despite himself.

“But where is that?”

Talia smiles enigmatically. “We’re about to have lunch, Stiles. Why don’t you stay for a slice of homemade pizza before you go?”

Stiles huffs, but he does stay for pizza. It seems like his already substantial appetite has been made even greater by his heat, and isn’t in a hurry to settle down.

The afternoon finds him at home on his computer, searching Peter Hale. He’s looked him up in the phonebook, but it turns out, house phones are out of style with everyone having a cell. He berates himself for the thousandth time for not having the forethought to ask Peter his damn number.

There are sixteen variations of Peter Hale on Facebook, and Stiles wonders what it is about the name that makes them all have different shapes of goatee.

Distantly he hears the house phone ring from downstairs, as he considers paying one of those sketchy websites for information on people. It’s usually something ridiculously reasonable like $2.99 for an address. Stiles has $2.99. His cursor hangs over the link as he weighs the magnanimity of ethics over personal satisfaction.

His dad knocks on his doorframe, and Stiles hastily closes the window.

“There’s someone on the phone for you,” his dad says tersely, and something about the scowl, the crossed arms, makes Stiles think… but no, it couldn’t be.

He takes the phone from his dad.

“Hello?”

“Good to hear you haven’t died from the punishment of my cock,” Peter says through the receiver.

Stiles grins, wide and shameless, and his dad groans.

“You’re the one nursing the ice pack, old man.”

Peter laughs, and Stiles looks meaningfully at his dad and mouths go away.

“He’s too old for you,” the Sheriff says seriously, not budging and at the same time, Peter says the same thing, mockingly.

Stiles snorts and shakes his head rapidly.

“I’m just old enough,” Peter insists. “You need a firm, experienced hand, don’t you Stiles?”

“Don’t you have a night shift to prepare for, Dad?”

He pushes at his hesitant father until he can wedge his door closed and lock it.

“Is that an invitation, son?” Peter asks in a sultry whisper. Stiles nearly drops the phone and flops down on his bed.

“How did you get this number?” he can’t help but ask.

“I do own a phone book.”

Oh, duh. Stiles had just been sifting through the yellow pages himself. He moves on.

“Can we go out sometime? Like for food. And sex at your place?”

“Are you sure you were in heat, and you’re not just really a little slut?” Stiles can hear Peter laughing on the other side.

Stiles rolls his eyes, arranges his pillow so he can rest his chin on it.

“I can’t help it. My hole is still achy and dripping your come, Daddy.”

He hears a clatter over the phone and laughs.

“How about I come pick you up this evening, and if you’re really good when we have dinner and see a movie, I’ll put some more in there.”

“Sounds good,” Stiles breathes.

His dad nearly erupts when he opens the front door to Peter’s smug face an hour later.

Stiles hopes he gets used to it.