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Stiles had been a bit loopy the last few days. Witch spells had that effect on people.
He'd told Danny that he was pretty and wanted to suck on his cheekbones so had hickeys for rogue before bursting into a song from Moulin Rouge. He'd told Lydia she had the mouth of a goddess and he's give his life to press his own mouth against her lips, and that she wouldn't not be half as pretty, not, if she were not as half as smart as she wasn't; /false/. Lydia had smiled. He'd told Allison he wasn't her type, but he was still jealous of Scott and hers' relationship and she was scary when she was firing arrows at people and would she please not do it to him or become her aunt. He'd told Scott he missed him and the pizza his mum made and nights of endless video games so they slept through the whole day. He'd told him he didn't think they were those kids anymore and if they did it again, it wouldn't be the same, but he wanted it anyway. He'd told Isaac that Allison got a free pass because she had nice hair, but could he please kindly back the fuck away from his best friend. He'd told Boyd, 'hi'. He'd told Erica, 'boobs'. He'd told Jackson, I don't care how many abs you have, you're still a douchebag. And he'd said, perhaps unwisely, that if you put a wig on Jackson, he might physically become a girl because that's how pretty he was… to Jackson's face… in the middle of a crowded cafeteria. He'd told Greenberg, 'Get away from me, Greenburg, god, who lets you near people?!' He'd told Coach Finstock he could shove his plagiarised speeches up his – and then Scott's hand had muffled the rest. He'd told his dad he was sorry he was a disappointment and had cried when his dad hugged him and wouldn't let go. He'd told Peter Hale to keep his hands and weird creepy eye-fucking to himself thank you very much, Mr Pedowolf.
And Derek, well…
They'd said the spell would wear off after three days.
It was the second night that found Stiles in the middle of the woods, spell still messing with his head with a manic grin on his face.
The butcher had given him the weirdest look as Stiles had bought the jar of pigs' blood. He'd wanted goat's, just to be unique, but they hadn't had any. Sheep's might have been good, but pig's was readily available and cheap.
Did he need clothes other than the red coat he had on? Maybe. Which is why he had on a pair of briefs, just in case someone other than Derek found him.
Like his uncle.
The symbolism was hardly subtle. But if you want an emotionally-constipated handsome werewolf to fuck you into the ground, you're better off making your intentions explicit.
Red hoodie, completely unzipped. Favourite blue boxer briefs that he'll miss when they're hopefully shredded off of him. He'd thought about sneakers. But he wanted to be barefoot. He couldn't explain it. Reason didn't have a lot to do with anything right now. Barefoot seemed more… poetic.
He hiked into the forest, feet hurting from stones and sticks by the time he got about a kilometre in. Then he unscrewed the jar of blood and tipped it over his head. Rivulets of the liquid, thick and not warm which he hadn't expected, ran down his face and neck, slipping in streams over his torso like rain down a window. He blinked, a blood drop flicking from an eyelid. He tossed the empty jar to the side.
He started running.
A wolf tackled him, eyes bright and red, after about maybe a kilometre of sprinting in random directions.
He gasped as he was rolled onto his back. Peter looked down at him, eyes hungry, morphing back into human form.
"Hello Pedowolf," Stiles gasped, out of breath.
"Is this for me?"
Peter sounded excited, almost flattered. Stiles laughed in face.
He giggled until he could control himself, smile still painted wide across his face. He closed his eyes and rolled his head around in the softness of the dirt. "Derek," he called out. "Don't you like my present?"
Stiles opened his eyes, smirk provocative. Peter's face fell and he glared at something in the distance.
"Deeeeeerrrrek," Stiles called. "If you come and get me… you can have me." And to make his point explicitly clear, he swiped his hands over the slowly congealing red mess of his stomach and smeared hand prints on the insides off his thighs, drawing his hands upwards. Peter's eyes glowed as Stiles had to spread his legs beneath him to do it.
"Oh my, Mr Wolf," Stiles muttered, seeing the light of the stars dance around behind the eclipse of Peter's head, the way light sometimes did after that spell hit him two and a half days ago. "What large… *fangs* you have," Stiles said, voice at a moderate volume so Derek could hear him from the distance he was maintaining. He sighed, feeling a shudder of heat course through him and make him squirm in the dirt. He met Peter's eyes and held the gaze, Peter's fangs slowly extending, as Stiles canted his head back, neck bared. "Put them in me, rip me open. Make me yours." He spread his knees apart wider, just in case someone missed the double meaning.
Peter's pelvis thrust down into the space between their bodies a half-second before a wolfed out Derek tackled him from the side.
Stiles turned his head to watch the two wolves bite and snap at the other's muzzle. He looked back up at the dancing stars, fingers digging into the dirt beside him as he wished someone would dig into him, and laughed.