Warnings and further contents: This story contains: sexual assault, trauma and rape recovery, panic attacks, nightmares, ableisms (by a teacher); and also, werewolf!Stiles.

He's neck-deep in the crapper. Fact is, he's so fucking far under the surface, there's no way he'll be able to free himself before he's hit the bottom, and if the bottom looks unattractive from this position, it'll look like hell once he's there, he's sure.

Stiles is royally screwed.

He's not sure whether Scott being there with him makes things better or worse; though he's got no such doubts about Derek's presence.

"I'm human," Stiles says, and repeats it for good measure because these dumbfucks look, well, dumb as fuck. They don't react, just keep on arranging overhead lights and cables and cameras. And a box. The box. The one that has Derek Hale, Derek Hale, their resident I've-been-this-way-from-birth-and-know-s

hit werewolf, breathing in quickly and eyeing it with a pinched look that screams 'bad news for everyone in this wolfsbane-coated, silver-reinforced steel cage.'

It's a sad testament to Stiles's life that he now recognises the smell of wolfsbane without any problem.

"Look, I don't think I should be here. Or Scott, for that matter. Or even Mr. Growly over there in the corner. Being here is just not a good thing."

One of the men laughs. "Don't worry. You won't be here for long."

That wasn't ominous at all, nope. It also remains the only reaction he gets at all no matter what he says or does. The men just keep working, and Stiles finally throws his hands up and settles down next to Scott near the back of the cage, on the right. He tries not to think about the cameras and the equipment, and what they might mean. Honestly, he doesn't. But it's not like he can really stop himself when they're so very obviously there and trained at him and Derek and Scott from the other side of the bars.

So, cameras. Movie cameras. Lighting. Two werewolves and a human in a partially barred off room.

Stiles was all but born with a finger on the mouse, and xtube and a host of other websites, some more hardcore, showing up in his browser history (briefly, he deletes them meticulously because his dad doesn't need to know what he wanks to, not that his dad snoops – okay, he snoops. Sometimes.). Anyway, what can he say, he's curious. Still, there's some stuff that's hot and then there's stuff that's slightly sick and hot, and then there's stuff that makes him want to gouge his eyes out and forget he's ever seen it.

Like, say, snuff vids. Some with really weird shit happening like tentacles fucking some poor girl and choking her till there's no movement. Stiles had thought that the tentacles, at least, were some very good special effects and that maybe he hadn't seen what he'd thought he'd seen and the girl was still alive, but now Stiles knows about werewolves and kanimas and who the hell knew what else is out there, so why not Cthulu, too.

"Hey, eldritch abominations aren't a real thing, are they? Wait, no, you know what? If they are, don't tell me. Don't say a word."

Derek doesn't say a word, but Stiles kind of doubts it's because he asked him not to.

Beside him, Scott shifts restlessly. He'd been weirdly quiet ever since the sedative had worn off, and Stiles thinks it's probably because they're being kept by people who are treating them like freaks at a circus and can't wait to see what tricks they'd perform. That is, they'd looked at Scott and Derek that way; they'd looked at Stiles in a way that was even more creepy. At least, that's why Stiles is freaking out, only Stiles talks more when he's freaking out and not less.

Or maybe it's because Scott probably hadn't expected Gerard Argent – and it had to be him – to come after him seeing how he had agreed to trade information, and just...Stiles isn't going to judge, but God, no, actually. He's judging. Hard.

Water under the bridge, for the moment. He can be angry later.

Stiles climbs back out of his own head when he notices a decrease in activity outside the cage. The men begin to leave the room, all but the last one of them ignoring their captives completely. He opens the top of the box before turning to grin at Stiles in a way that has goosebumps rising on Stiles's skin almost immediately. Then he's out of the door as well.

Over in the other corner, Derek breathes out slowly. "There's two way this can go," he says, staring anywhere but at Stiles and Scott. "They'll be happy with either, and one of them might end with all of us making it out of this alive. At least for now."

"Awesome," Stiles says. "Let's go with that."

"I'm not a hundred percent certain I want that," Derek replies. His eyes flick to Scott rather unexpectedly because usually it's Stiles who receives the death glare of doom. Stiles wonders if he should be jealous before his brain catches up. Oh. Oh.

Scott is only a second behind. "Why are you looking at me?" He's not doing 'innocent' convincingly. Stiles doesn't have a werewolf nose, but he doesn't need one to tell how fake the outrage is. The guilty slump to Scott's shoulders is very authentic, though.

Derek only stares at him. It's the 'you're seriously trying to pull this?' look in combination with the 'you've seriously disappointed me so much' look that Stiles's dad has (had to) perfected to an art form. Stiles is happy to notice that Scott is just as susceptible to it as he is because after only, like, a second Scott begins to squirm. There's a flush rising to his cheeks, and he's lowered his eyes.

Classic submissive behavior, a part of Stiles's brain offers up before listing every other gesture of submission he's ever researched for – reasons. Good reasons like werewolf behaviour; not bad reasons like having fodder for masturbation fantasies involving their resident alpha werewolf because that would be kind of pathetic or something.

Stiles misses Scott's reply, but going by Derek's expression it's another attempt at denial, and Stiles has to admit, Scott has guts. It's just not a good time to be having them.

"Dude," Stiles says, "I don't think you're helping with the whole keep-everyone-alive option, and I gotta say that seeing as how I'm the one most likely to bite the dust, I don't appreciate that one bit." Scott looks at him, giving the appearance of a kicked puppy, and Stiles decides to take control of the conversation. "Look, Derek, he's really sorry, he is. The whole thing with the meeting was to, you know, tell you." He hopes it was because if Scott double-crossed him, then he'd freaking help Derek kill him.

Scott lets out a breath that sounds more like a whine than anything else. "I didn't know they were going to turn up. I really wanted to talk and–"

"You knew about this." Derek is looking at Stiles, making his stomach drop to the bottom of his shoes; Stiles wants to hit himself for ever feeling vaguely jealous of not being glared at. It's not a glare exactly, anyways. Stiles is about 90 percent sure that there's a lot of hurt feelings in there, too. It makes him feel like shit.

"Afterwards," he blurts. "Scott didn't tell me till yesterday." He's not sure Derek believes him even though he should be able to smell that Stiles is telling the truth or whatever. Werewolf senses. It's just that Derek is turning his head away, not really giving him an answer or any indication about what he thinks.

After about a minute of silence during which both Stiles and Scott twitch like mad and Derek seemed to be doing breathing exercises or something, Derek finally asks, "Was it worth it?"

"He threatened my mom," Scott answers in a small voice, and yeah, that, that right there is why Stiles couldn't actually be totally angry with him. Stiles knows about moms and the idea of losing them and, more than that, the reality of it.

It occurs to him that Derek does, too.

Derek rubs a hand over his face and mumbles something too low for Stiles to make out, which is really kinda unfair. Stiles wants to know what he said. He looks at Scott, but Scott refuses to meet his eye or anyone's eye, really, and a moment later it's a moot point anyway, because Derek's deigned to say something again and this time it's loud enough for Stiles to hear.

Only, going by the face that Derek's wearing, Stiles probably doesn't want to hear this; it's a bad face, the kind you show a kid when you tell him his mom is dead.

"You probably don't know, but alcohol doesn't work on werewolves," Derek says, and Stiles bites his tongue because actually, yeah, he does know that, but now's not the time to mention that. Or ever. "Our metabolism's too fast."

Okay, that didn't sound too bad yet. In fact, that sounded totally irrelevant to anything that's happening at the moment, but Stiles is fine with that.

"But that doesn't mean that there aren't some things," he nods toward The Box, "that work to lower our inhibitions. Kind of 'bringing your baser instincts to the fore'." Derek's sorta intoning the last part, like he's quoting something or someone.

"So you're going to get drunk. That doesn't sound too bad. I mean, the hangover might be hell, but – wait, baser instincts?" Stiles pauses, running that through his head. "Like killing and maiming and going rawr?"

Derek, that fucking asshole, nods.

"Dude. I know you're angry, and you have every right to be, yeah, but can't we talk about this? Like can we all have a group therapy session and work out all our issues before we share a group hug and a snuggle? Do werewolves have snuggle instincts? Because I'd so totally approve the shit out of that." Stiles can get down with snuggling. It fills him with a certain amount of glee to think that these cameras would film, like, hours of a hardcore werewolf hugfest instead of his violent and bloody death. That would totally serve those assholes right.

"There are no 'snuggle instincts'," Derek replies, looking like it physically pains him to use the word 'snuggle'. "But you're right that we have a better chance of redirecting our, our desires."

It only takes a second for that to sink in, but Stiles keeps holding off reacting to it because he cannot have heard that right. He cannot have understood this right.

"To what?" It's Scott asking, for which Stiles will forever be grateful because he doesn't think he could have.

Derek eyes flash to red. "What do you think, Scott?" he roars.

Stiles's heart just about jumps up and into his throat, and there's some kind of rushing sound in his ears and he can't tell if it's because he's never seen Derek this furious and frightened or if it's because he – they, that that is their only option. "I, look. Okay, I seriously don't wanna have sex with you. Either of you. No offense, but dude, like, fuck no." Okay, partial lie, but also not. Because this right now? So not how he pictured things going. If he'd thought about things going anywhere for real, which he hadn't, not really, because this was Derek "I'll-rip-your-throat-out-with-my-teeth-Stiles" Hale.

"Yeah, that's – isn't there another way?" Scott asks. Derek looks about ready to either murder them both or bash his head into the wall. He launches into a monologue about being straight and Allison – a lot of Allison – until Derek interrupts.

"That's the other way; unless you can come up with a way to get us out of here."

Stiles bites back a laugh because if he starts he doesn't think he'll ever stop and this isn't funny, it's just hysteria. It's fuck or die; fuck or die. Stiles is caught in the middle of werewolf pon farr. "Am I Kirk or T'Pring?" He kinda wants to be Kirk; Kirk has to fight but he survives and doesn't have to have sex with Spock or that other guy, Stenn, Stonn or whatever.

He has a feeling he's probably T'Pring though, and Scott is Kirk. Stiles never gets to be the hero.

Derek's Spock, of course. There are similarities, like the stony expression.

Stiles starts to laugh.

Scott elbows him in the ribs, hard. It's not helping, so Stiles shoves a fist into his own mouth and tries to calm himself before he starts sobbing. That won't change anything and would make him feel embarrassed on top of it, and Stiles foresees a great amount of embarrassment in his near future anyway; he doesn't need to add to it by crying just before he loses his virginity in a porno, oh God.

"Right," he says, when he no longer feels like his brain will fly apart if he doesn't hold onto it. "Right, so we think sexy thoughts now?" He's never been less interested in sex. It's not that he doesn't think that Derek is attractive, you have to be blind not to see that. It's not even that Scott is his best friend and head over heels for Allison. It's just – he doesn't want to have sex, like that. In front of cameras, with a bunch of skeevy creepsters watching him. And he doesn't want to do it because he'd die otherwise. That's a shitty reason to have sex.

He says it out loud, and Derek sighs and leans back against the wall. His face kinda does this thing where it goes from being one big frown to just...looking tired. Tired and unhappy. Stiles can sympathize.

"What do you want me to do, Stiles? Baser instincts mostly come down to eating, fighting and fucking and the first two won't end well for you. So I ask again: what do you want me to do?"

Fix it, Stiles thinks. Fix it, so we don't have to do this. Do some funky alpha werewolf power thing and get us out of here.

But he doesn't say any of these things because they won't help and Stiles absolutely knows that if Derek could, he would, because he looks about as wretched as Stiles is feeling. He's probably never even thought about Stiles that way. And Scott. Oh God, Scott, too. "Okay," Stiles says. "Okay. So, how do we–?" He waves a hand, trying to mime what he means without actually miming what he means, or saying it.

Derek's looking at Scott now, though, and doesn't answer. It's only when Scott says "Yeah, okay. I guess, we gotta," that Stiles understands that Derek has just asked for Scott's consent, however dubious it is under the circumstances, and that the option of eating Stiles had still been on the table, at least for Scott. "I mean," Scott continues, "I don't want to, you know, not really, but I don't wanna kill Stiles either." He grimaces. Of course, Stiles remembers, Scott has experience with thinking his wolf got the better of him and he killed someone.

Derek nods and waits for both of them to look at him before saying seriously. "I'm the alpha; if there's going to be any chance of this not turning into a bloodbath, you need to submit to me."

"Woah, woah. Stop, wait." Scott raises his hands. "You're the alpha, and I joined your pack. Shouldn't this be a given?"

"Is it, Scott?" Derek asks, and he sounds just a little bit snide.

It so blatantly isn't, it's not even funny. Scott flinches a bit and drops his gaze; his eyes, Stiles notes, have turned wolf yellow, and Derek's never turned back now that he thinks about it.

"There's not much time left; it's already beginning to work."

Oh, God. Shit, shit, shit.

"Right," Scott says, breathes in deeply, and shifts forward onto all fours.

Scott's crawling towards Derek, head bent low, and Stiles can't really bear to look at him. It gives him a kind of weird feeling in his stomach, sort of somewhere between uncomfortable and involuntarily aroused. Not because of Scott exactly. More because he knows it's his turn in a moment, and even though this situation is beyond fucked up, Little Stiles still indicates a faint sense of interest at that, and Stiles hopes that neither of the werewolves with their super-noses notices. Fat chance of that.

There's no reaction from either of them, though, and Stiles thanks whatever being is running his shitshow of a life for small mercies.

Scott is, Scott is sort of hunching down now, and he's whining a little, sounds like. Stiles can't see his face because he's laid it down on the floor, sort of turning it to the side, but his nails have formed into claws and Derek's wolfed out, so there's a fair chance Scott has, too.

Derek's growling and flashing his teeth; he moves onto his hands and knees, too, and bends over Scott to – sniff him? No, more like hover over him with teeth at the ready, like saying, 'I could. I could so totally kill you, you know. You're pwned.' Though he probably wouldn't say pwned.

Scott rolls onto his back, and his legs drop to the side and even though he's wearing clothes it really looks kind of obscene. And yeah, he is totally wolfed out. Then Derek moves to kind of straddle Scott, blocking Stiles's sight

A few moments later, Derek's retreated and Scott is rolling onto all fours again. He moves to the left, giving Stiles room to approach Derek, who's looking at Stiles with an almost empty expression. No, not empty. Patient. Like he's got all the time in the world and is totally confident that Stiles will come and submit, too; like, no doubts. None.

Stiles would like to feel this confident about getting his way once in a while.

"Stiles."

"Yes. Coming." Fuck, mind, don't go there. Stiles shoves the thought back down and begins his own four-legged crawl forward. He's certain he's just looking entirely awkward, but he can't help that. The floor underneath his hands is cool and smooth, but there are a few long and deep scratches here and there and some rusty-coloured flecks. Stiles's heartbeat picks up speed. He reaches Derek and is just about to drop down and roll over too, when Derek stops him.

"Lick along my bottom lip."

It's less total submission and dominance than the display that Derek and Scott put on, which makes sense because Stiles isn't the one who pissed off Derek. Stiles crawls another inch forward and tilts his head. When his mouth's about a nanometer from Derek, he sticks out his tongue and draws it along Derek's lip. It's strange; the stubble is sort of making it stranger, though he thinks that if Derek's face were covered in fur, that would be even stranger and he'd probably freak out. Stiles keeps on licking at his lip and chin while Derek remains unmoving, looking straight ahead, and if Stiles didn't know that this was normal behavior for the dominant wolf, he'd be freaking out.

Correction, Stiles is freaking out. He's not stopping though.

After a while, Derek moves his head and begins to nuzzle his cheek. "I can feel the wolf pulling at me. When I lose the ability to speak, do not do anything to make me angry. Or Scott."

Stiles nods because he doesn't think he can speak right now.

"We'll have to fast forward through the courting behavior," Derek rasps, for the first time showing that he's been affected by the licking – or maybe by the airborne drug. So, mating; that looked a little like submission or maybe greeting, Stiles knew, racking his brain for the differences.

Beside him, Scott approaches, bumping his cheek against Derek's and rubbing. Derek keeps nuzzling him, sometimes alternating and snuffling at Scott, and sometimes all their heads bump together. Then Derek draws back slightly, grabs Stiles's neck, and God, those claws on his skin. He smashes their mouths together, and they're kissing. Derek is kissing him and there's a rumbling sound from his chest like he's getting impatient and he keeps pressing forward, so Stiles opens his mouth and lets him in.

It feels nice. Warm and wet and tender, and as long as Stiles doesn't think about where they are, and who's watching and about the cameras, he could almost fool himself into believing he's just making out with Derek fucking Hale because he wants to.

A weight drops onto his back, and Stiles grunts, tries to move his head. "Don't," Derek whispers against his lips.

"What's he doing?" Actually, Stiles has a pretty good idea of what Scott's doing, so really, stupid thing to ask.

Derek pauses. "He's almost completely gone."

Stiles gasps, and tries to tell himself that this is good. Scott's mentally in a place where he's thinking 'gotta tap that' and not 'gotta chew on that'. "He's not good at aiming."

Derek drops his voice. "That's...he's riding up. He hasn't really started."

"Oh," Stiles says, and then freezes as Scott suddenly stops moving.

Derek, very slowly and softly, swears, and, and that just doesn't inspire confidence.

"What's going on? Derek?"

Derek shakes his head, gaze set on something behind Stiles, probably, likely, Scott.

"Should I, should I be concerned? Cause that's your oh-shit-face, so I think I should be."

"Don't move."

"That's not very reassuring."

Derek grits his teeth. "I don't think he's in any way attracted to you. Now will you–" There's a rumble from behind Stiles.

A blink-and-you'll-miss-it moment later, Derek is gone and so is the weight from Stiles's back. There's a thump from behind him, and several growls and yelps, and Stiles turns to see Derek and Scott fighting each other like two dogs, or wolves, a twisting, turning, biting, snarling mess of limbs and teeth.

He freezes before scrabbling away, pressing himself into the corner Derek had occupied previously and hoping no one flings anyone else through the room. After a tense minute, it looks like Derek has the upper hand, pinning Scott to the ground and snarling in his face. Scott snaps his teeth and Derek clamps his own teeth down on his neck.

It doesn't last long, but it feels like an eternity while Stiles is trying to figure out if he should intervene – bad, bad idea – and how. He doesn't want Derek to kill Scott, but he doesn't want either of them to kill him either and Derek's warning is still fresh in his mind. In the end, though, Derek lets go and Scott retreats to the opposite corner with a whine and starts licking his numerous wounds. He doesn't move out of it.

Derek shakes himself and turns his gaze towards Stiles. If Stiles had thought his eyes were empty before, it's nothing to how vacant they look now. There's no one home; no one human at least. Stiles tries breathing normally and innocuously in a please-don't-notice-me kind of way, but he's afraid he sounds like Darth Vader and his heart is so loud, he thinks it's going to burst out of his chest any moment.

Derek stalks forward, and Stiles wants to say something like, "Please don't kill me; oh God, I'm sorry if I ever thought you looked like you wanted to kill me before because it's nothing to how you look right now, and I think I'm going to wet myself if you don't say anything; please, please, please, say something. Snap out of it." The words get stuck in his throat, however, and all he can do is clamp his arms tighter around his knees, draw them closer, and try not to embarrass himself.

About an inch from his knees, Derek stops. Stiles stops breathing entirely. His eyes lock with Derek's even though he knows that that isn't a good idea, that that's considered a challenge but he can't look away, hoping against hope to find some tiny sliver of humanity left.

Derek's gaze narrows and his lips begin to draw back. He starts to growl. Stiles's eyes do some kind of weird flickering and rolling thing, as if he's lost control over them, but it breaks the staring contest and Derek's growl subsides again. He leans forward, closing the distance, and begins to sniff at Stiles and lick his cheek where tears have started to trail down. Cleaning him, Stiles realizes and finally exhales, starting to breathe shallowly again. The black spots dancing in front of his eyes recede.

"Derek?" His voice is barely above a whisper, but he can't seem to squeeze more air past his lungs.

Derek doesn't react, just keeps licking his cheek. Stiles's muscles begin to unfreeze and he cautiously moves his hand and lays it on the back of Derek's head. That's apparently taken as a sign of encouragement, which yeah, okay, sorta, but not, because Derek moves even closer, pressing himself against Stiles and beginning to lick at his mouth again in a decidedly oh-by-the-way-I'm-thinking-of-sex-again way.

Stiles has less trouble telling himself that this is better than being killed this time around.

He's still far from happy, though. Derek's kinda insistently pushing against him now, which probably means he's getting impatient. Impatient werewolf? Not good, so Stiles gets back on hands and knees, and Derek immediately moves to – sniff at Stiles's dick, oh God.

Seriously, oh God.

Stiles crawls away from both Derek and the walls a little, but Derek immediately follows, pushing his nose against Stiles' jeans-clad ass.

Scott is watching them.

Stiles notices this because his line of sight is clear now; also, he can't miss the way Scott's eyes just bore into him. There's a low rumble from behind him, and Scott averts his gaze, going back to licking his arm.

The whole thing just serves to remind him of the fact that they're being watched, not only by Scott, which alone is pretty weird, but by cameras and the people filming them, who're probably watching this on some fucking studio screen right now.

He, he so does not want to have sex in front of these perverts.

Derek, though, has no such compunctions, and Stiles feels really, really jealous right now because he'd really like to just not notice the cameras and Scott and, and, and the microphones and everything. Derek's moving on from sniffing at Stiles's butt to half crawling underneath him and licking. With his tongue.

A kind of gurgle escapes Stiles's throat and his fingers twitch. Derek picks up the pace, licking harder and Stiles's jeans are getting kinda wet right now, wet and warm. Stiles fixes his eyes on the floor and tries to think happy thoughts.

Like, what if this is Lydia – no, no, doesn't work. Okay, it's Derek, fine, it's Derek, and they're at the Hale house. No scratch that – doesn't smell like ashes here. Okay, a warehouse; they're at a warehouse – werehouse – and Derek's just professed his undying lust for Stiles and now he's trying to show that, but because he's an antisocial creeperwolf, he doesn't do normal human sex.

Yeah, Stiles can work with that. As a fantasy.

It helps that Derek is attractive, and that Stiles sort of finds him attractive in a might-have-wanked-to-fantasies-about-him-like-one-or-two...hundred-times way.

There's a sudden pause from the licking, and Stiles blinks and turns his head – ignore the bars, ignore the fucking bars – to see Derek retreating a bit and then – oh fuck.

Derek's weight settles on him from the side, and it's all Stiles can do not to hit the floor, because, Jesus, that guy is heavy. Derek sniffs at his neck and ear and humps against Stiles, who just doesn't have the strength to resist, like, three fucking tons of werewolf. He slides and his elbows hit the floor, and he thinks his back's about to break because fucking heavy, but then Derek gives a sort of yip and scrambles off his back.

Stiles gets a second to breathe, like, a second because then Derek is – he's mounting, no other word for it, mounting Stiles from behind, and if Stiles had thought that Derek was humping him before, it's nothing to what he's doing now, going at it like a bulldozer.

Stiles has never been so glad to be wearing clothes; he's also almost crying with relief because apparently Derek forgot how clothes work or how to take them off and this is quite possibly the weirdest kind of protection ever, but it is protection, so, fuck yeah, clothes.

He's going to write a love letter to Mr. Levi as soon as he gets out of here.

Derek's rubbing and pushing against his ass, forearms clamped around Stiles's body like a vice and the pressure on his ribs adds to Stiles's breathing problems. He swallows, blunt fingernails trying to dig into the concrete floor while Derek pants and grunts in his ear.

His knees are killing him; fuck, his back is killing him, and he's still aroused and he just knows he's not going to get off because he can't; no, he won't. Not while someone else is watching.

And there he goes thinking about this again.

Derek starts humping harder and more irregularly, and Stiles can tell that he's close, and thinks, shit, because, well, Derek is kind of a private person and this whole thing must be about as horrifying to him as it is to Stiles and Stiles's faculties are all still pretty intact while Derek and Scott have been – roofied. No other word for it. Then Derek shudders above him, arms clamping around him, teeth sinking into his neck above the line of his shirt.

Stiles's jeans are getting damp, but Stiles can't think of that right now because–

– because Derek bit him.

Shit.