Disclaimer: Not mine.

A/N: Post-Fireflies (3x03). Based off a tumblr post.

Virgins. Shit.

It's not that Stiles hadn't realized he was in danger the moment he'd gone all Sherlock and solved the puzzle, but he hadn't truly realized it realized it. He was a bit too preoccupied freaking out about Heather, and Jesus, isn't that still a kick in the balls. Heather —she's been his friend since, god, forever; when they were little they used to play Power Rangers, and she always wanted to be the red one because red was just so much cooler than pink, and now she —Heather—

No, Stiles isn't thinking about her right now. He's in pain, fine, whatever —look, he's acknowledging it, and that's the important part, right— but he'll deal with it later. Instead, he'll focus on the problem until the whole heartache thing goes away. He's good at that.

Stiles tunes back into the conversation going on around him —and immediately wishes he was back in his mindpalace. Because this conversation sucks.

They're in Deaton's office (because of course the closed-mouth, enigmatic bastard knows everything about ritual human sacrifice), and Derek's leaning one arm on the table across from Deaton, trying to get the guy to be a little clearer (ha). Creeper-wolf Peter is posing leaning against the wall, half-hidden in shadow, and a still somewhat shaken Cora and Boyd are half-hiding behind Scott and Isaac in the doorway. Then there's Allison and Lydia, gorgeous, never-his Lydia, who's somehow managed to weasel her way into their not-pack.

Virgins, jesus. And finally, there's Stiles, who's desperately wishing for the ground to open up and swallow him.

Actually, scratch that last thought; it might be a far too real possibility.

"Maenads," Derek says, disbelief dripping from his voice. "We're dealing with Maenads."

Deaton nods.

"Like the ones from Greek mythology?" Stiles asks. Deaton nods again, so Stiles asks hopefully, "So, what? We just give'em a bottle of wine and they leave, right?" Ha, as if it would be that easy.

Peter snorts, and Stiles can practically hear Lydia's eyes roll behind his back.

"No, Stiles," Deaton says. "I'm afraid wine isn't exactly what they're looking for."

"So what do we do?" asks Allison.

"They've sacrificed three virgins already, so they'll be needing one more."

"One more?" Stiles can't stop himself. "I thought three was one of the magic numbers. You know, three, seven, thirteen…?"

"Four seasons, four sacrifices, Stiles," and oh boy, Stiles really doesn't like the meaningful look Deaton just gave him. Nope, clearly it was meant for someone else.

Derek sighs. "Well, at least none of us are—" He cuts himself off and looks around the room.

His eyes pass over Peter without a thought (and woah, Stiles doesn't wanna touch that even with a ten-foot stick), Lydia just rolls her eyes, Scott and Allison glance at each other, their eyes skittering away from each other far too quickly, Isaac blushes, Cora glares, and Boyd, well, Boyd's shit-eating grin says it all.

And then Derek looks at Stiles.

Now would be an excellent time for the floor to open up and swallow him. Literally.

"Um."

"Stiles," Derek says, and oh god, did his mouth just twitch. Is Derek laughing at him!?

"No, absolutely not. I'm not. I've been deflowered. Totally. In fact, I myself have been deflowering people left and right, here and—"

"Dude," says Scott, and Stiles's mouth snaps shut.

And fuck, Peter's opening his mouth to talk. No. "Pet any unicorns recently, Stiles?"

Oh, god, Stiles's cheeks are beet red, aren't they? "Unicorns are real?" he asks.

"Nice deflection, and no," says Peter. The asshole.

"Someone needs to keep an eye on you, then," says Derek.

"Or, someone could just deflower him," says Peter, examining his fingernails. The creep.

What's even creepier is that Derek seems to be considering it. And so are the rest of the people in the room.

Even Stiles considers it for a moment. Except there's no way in hell that Lydia's going to volunteer, so… no. Absolutely not. Stiles throws up his hands. "Whoa, whoa, no. Look, there are plenty of virgins in Beacon Hills, and out of all of them, I really doubt—"

"The last sacrifice needs to have a spark," says Deaton.

Fuck.

"A spark?" asks Peter, and again, Stiles can feel Lydia narrowing her eyes at him thoughtfully. Great. Attract the attention of the crazy masterminds. Thanks, Deaton.

"So someone really does need to—" Scott, Stiles's best friend, starts to say, and Stiles is going to stuff a handful of wolfsbane down his throat next time they hang out, but then Stiles gets an idea.

"Bait," he snaps out. "I'll be bait."