Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/5590426.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M, Multi
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Deucalion/Stiles_Stilinski, Ennis/Stiles_Stilinski, Kali/Stiles
      Stilinski, Aiden/Ethan/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Stiles_Stilinski, The_Alpha_Pack_(Teen_Wolf), Scott_McCall, Derek_Hale,
      Peter_Hale, Alan_Deaton
  Additional Tags:
      Canon-Typical_Violence, Non-Traditional_Alpha/Beta/Omega_Dynamics, Omega
      Stiles_Stilinski, Boypussy_Stiles_Stilinski, Mating_Cycles/In_Heat,
      Morally_Ambiguous_Stiles_Stilinski, Pheromones, Gender_Issues, Sexism,
      Menstruation, Knotting, slight_daddy_kink, Unreliable_Narrator, I_Wrote
      This_Instead_of_Sleeping, Claudia_Stilinski_Feels, This_is_becoming
      progressively_darker_and_I_cannot_stop_it, Magic_and_Science
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-12-31 Updated: 2016-01-30 Chapters: 4/? Words: 3901
****** Tying Knots in Frayed Nerves ******
by LittleWriterWitch
Summary
     But, Stiles can deal. He is fine with what he is, who he is. He
     bleeds once a month or so, dealing with cramps and the undying urge
     to rip his uterus out. He has a few days every year that he spends
     cooped up in his bedroom with porn and his own hands to keep him
     company.
     His driver’s license reads “Beta Male.” No one is any the wiser. Life
     is going well…
     Until suddenly it is not.
Notes
     *ba dum tiss*
     I have no idea what I am doing.
     Feel free to yell at me on tumblr.
     Happy New Years!
     (This work in unbetaed. All mistakes are my own.)
See the end of the work for more notes
***** Half Hitch *****
Stiles had come to terms with what he is long ago. He has been at terms since
he was seven, when his mother first explained to him what a “special” boy he
was. She was sick then, wilting like flowers without water. She had held his
hand that day, her fingers gentle around his tiny appendage.
He had been at terms when he went through his first heat at age eleven, curled
up in his bed for three days. The pain he had expected, but not the blood. He
had screamed when he saw the red smears between his thighs after the cramps had
first woken him up. His father had called the school with a claim of the flu.
The thing is, while Stiles is fine with what he is, the rest of the world is
not. Society is made of an overwhelming majority of Betas— normal  humans
without reliance on pheromones and mating bonds. Betas marry other Betas, and
have little Beta babies.
Yet, sometimes exceptions happen. Sometimes, oh so very rarely, a Beta couple
will have an Omega baby. Genetic anomalies according to  normal  society. Soft
creatures with sharp minds and even sharper pheromones. One in a few million
are ever born genetically Omega.
Stiles is one of the  lucky  few.
Although, he would not call Omegas in general  lucky . Being an Omega does not
mean someone will get special treatment as described in many YA and harlequin
novels. He has seen news stories about hate crimes against Omegas, has read
about the horror stories of government experiments done in the early twentieth
century.
So Stiles keeps it a secret. No one needs to know what lays between his legs,
anyway.
The only people who so much as have a clue are his father, Mrs. McCall, Dr.
Deaton and Scott. His mother had confided in the people she trusted best with
the secret about her son’s gender. For as long as Stiles can remember, his
checkups have been done under Deaton’s gentle and watchful eye. Scott is not
sure about his best friend, only ever catching a glimpse of Stiles when they
were younger. It is a confidence that he knew of but never asked, and Stiles
never told.
With the help of Deaton, Stiles has been on suppressants since his first heat.
Really, the man is a saint when it comes to Stiles’…  omegan needs . The herbal
concoction decreases his pheromone production and slows his cycle altogether.
Rather than having heats every few months like he normally would, Stiles has
them once a year at worst. Periods, however? Stiles has those on the regular.
Hey, he has a vagina and a fully functioning uterus. Mother Nature still does
her duty and visits him every so often.
But, Stiles can deal. He is fine with what he is,  who  he is. He bleeds once a
month or so, dealing with cramps and the undying urge to rip his uterus out. He
has a few days every year that he spends cooped up in his bedroom with porn and
his own hands to keep him company.
His driver’s license reads “Beta Male.” No one is any the wiser. Life is going
well…
Until suddenly it is not.
Apparently, werewolves are a thing.
Stiles did not see that coming, but sometimes he feels like he should have.
The first time Stiles meets an Alpha, he is equal parts silently terrified and
turned on. Peter Hale is something out of a bodice ripper, with strong hands
and razor smiles. He is also a level of batshit insane that Stiles refuses to
touch with a ten-foot pole.
Because, while his body says “yes”, Stiles’ mind says “Politely fuck off.” When
Peter offers the Bite, every cell in his body screams for it. Yet, his mind
shudders at the idea. No matter how his blood may warm under the Alpha’s touch,
Stiles refuses.
Peter is the werewolf that turned Scott. The monster that mauled Lydia. The man
that had threatened his friends and family. And Stiles refuses to open himself
to that kind of person.
He does not tell anyone about the excitement he feels as he watches Peter burn.
No one ever thinks to ask.
Derek is not much worse for Stiles than Peter was. Sure, there is a connection,
something somewhere between allies and begrudging friends. There is a spark,
and sometimes Stiles likes to think that it could give way to flame under the
right circumstances.
However, he knows that those circumstances will not come any time soon, or at
least not with the way that things have gone as of recently. Between kanimas,
murderous old men, and the hell that is high school, Stiles barely has enough
mind to make sure that he takes his suppressants every day.
Then the Alpha Pack comes to town, and it all goes spiraling down from there.
***** Sheepshank *****
Chapter Notes
     Thank you all for your support! I greatly appreciate it.
     While I am not as lost as I was before, I can admit that I still am
     not 100% certain of what I am doing. [The internet should be taken
     away from me on a good day, really.]
     (This work is unbetaed. All mistakes are my own.)
 
****   ****
There are few things in the world that Stiles truly hates. Periods are one of
them. The cramps, the blood, the cravings, the cramps.
They are hellacious. It is as if his uterus is punishing him for every asshole
thing he has ever done to anyone. Sometimes Stiles swears that one day he is
going to wake up to a tiny baby alien bursting out of his stomach.
Stiles knows that he is only a few days away from his period. The levy is about
to break. Repeat, the Communist flag is on the horizon. He can feel it in his
bones, not unlike the way he can feel a sneeze coming up. Only, this is more of
a “Help me, my body is turning on me” feeling and less of a “oh goodness, my
nose is awfully ticklish” feeling.
His skin feels taut, pulled too tight over his flesh. His stomach is somehow
both in knots and insatiable all at once. Really, he is not trying to be a
bitch—wow, pun appreciated but not intended—but if Scott talks about Allison
one more time, Stiles is going to rip his best friend’s furry little throat out
with his teeth.
(Stiles will be the first to admit that maybeDerek has rubbed off on him. No,
not in thatway; not that Stiles would mind.)
He wants to groan and nearly does when he feels heat bloom in his gut. Oh, yet
another wonderful part of his pre-red-waterfall week. He is horny. Like, really
horny. “Take me on the floor, I swear I’ll be a good boy, Daddy” horny.
It is worse this time, mainly due to the sudden surplus of Alphas in Beacon
Hills. His hormones? Yeah, they want a piece of that—never mind that said
Alphas are all Hannibal Lecter levelpsychopaths, but then again his vagina has
not cared in the past (see: Peter Hale).
Stiles can feel the pull in the depths of him. The pull that he felt with
Peter, later with Derek, amplified to eleven. He has woken up to wet sheets and
a fire in his belly, the sweet scent of Omega soiling his bed. If this keeps
up, he will have to invest stock in Gain, Summer’s Eve, and Kotex, just so he
can keep up his charade. He has all but rubbed his skin raw with Beta
pheromones— bless Deaton, may he forever be his lovely and archaic self—in
hopes of masking his own scent.
Under normal circumstances, he would not worry as much. Beta olfactory senses
are not strong enough to truly differ between secondary genders based on scent
alone. They have no need to be able to detect Omega or Alpha pheromones,
because they have no need to bond. But werewolves? Beta or not, they could tell
you if Beta Joe a few blocks down the street has a hard-on using onlytheir
noses.
So, yes, not only is Stiles in pain and horny as absolute fuck, he is afraid.
Knowing his luck, the truth will come out any day now, and it will come out in
the worst way possible. Because, fuck werewolves.
“You know, I would seriously suck a dick for some curly fries and a milkshake
right about now.” The words slip out of his mouth unbidden, garnering the
attention of not only Scott, but a few members of the student body as well. At
this point, he cannot bring himself to care. If he is going to be known for
something, it might as well be the bromance of the century he has with Scott.
Speaking of Scott, he looks like he may be choking on his own saliva. Wait, can
werewolves even do that?
“Hey, buddy, I’m kidding. No dick is getting anywhere close to this mouth.
Although, in allseriousness, curly fries. The food of champions.”
It is going to be a long day.
***** Bowline *****
Chapter Notes
     This is slowly becoming much darker than I originally intended.
     Chapter Warnings: Stiles' thoughts about himself and his gender are
     dark. Self-deprecation, sexism, and other not-good things ahead.
     (This work is unbetaed. All mistakes are my own.)
On the list of things that are not okay, Stiles is fairly certain that he is
somewhere amongst the top fifteen.
He should find Scott. He should call Derek. He should warn the others, do
something other than hiding like a coward in the boys’ bathroom. But, no, here
he is, holding back whimpers as he tries to calm down his damn ovaries.
The Alphas are in the school.The Alphas are in the school.
Stiles is all but shaking, hands unsteady as they grasp the off-white tile of
the bathroom sink. His stomach churns in his panic, head pounding to the war
drum of his heart. Minutes earlier, he had passed them in the hallway. Twins,
not much older than himself. He had only seen them in passing, profiles barely
caught when he turned his head. Yet, he did not need to look at them to know.
Their scents had been enough to knock the wind from his chest. Sharp, yet
heady, not exactly unlike gasoline. The smelled of power, of violence and of
potential.
Stiles shudders at the memory, grappling to turn on the cold water. A few
splashes on his face, and his breathing is somewhat back to normal. The water
slips down the sides of his face in icy rivulets, in reality doing very little
to quell the heat bubbling in his flesh.
A glance up to the mirror tells him exactly what he worried would be true. His
skin is flushed, a dusty rose skimming over the tops of his cheeks. His pupils
are blown wide, the whiskey brown a thin ring around the endless black. His
mouth is parted as he pants for breath, lips an almost obscene red.
He looks like the spitting image of an Omega about to go into heat.
He looks like a whore.
His stomach clenches at the thought, a chill running down the length of his
spine. Because that is what he would be in everyone knew, right? One hundred
and forty-seven pounds of pale skin and fragile bone, just made to be someone’s
little bitch.
The mirror nearly shatters under the force of Stiles’ hand, a spider web of
cracks destroying his reflection. The sound echoes through the almost empty
bathroom, the thump and hiss of breaking glass followed by the gentle pitter-
patter of a few pieces falling into the sink.
His hand aches, red blooming over his skin from where a few shards sliced too
deep.
Good. The pain is as good as it can get. Stiles has something to focus on other
than the unfurling warmth in his belly and the dampness between his thighs.
One. Breathe in.
He digs his thumb nail into the wound, partially to dig out a tiny sliver of
glass and partially just to feel.
Two. Breathe out.
He dips his hand under the running water, washing the red down the drain.
He hears the bathroom door open, the soft squeak of rusty hinges protesting and
the thump when it closes. Stiles does not pay it much attention, too focused on
his hand for the moment. Too focused on his attempt at focusing on what should
matter more.
One, two. Breathe in, breathe out.
He stops breathing altogether for a good twenty seconds. His hands shake in
full force now, eyes trained on the shiny glass in the sink below him.
The brothers bracket him, one at a sink on each side. Stiles can just see them
in his peripherals, while their scents blanket him.
“You don’t look so good,” the one on his left comments. He does not sound the
least bit concerned—not that Stiles expects him to be. If anything, the Alpha
sounds mildly curious.
“Maybe you should go to the nurse. That might need stitches,” Righty says, and
suddenly he is all too close, reaching down to grasp Stiles’ wrist with gentle
fingers.
Stiles yanks his arm away as if he has been burned, body tense and hands balled
into fists. His teeth are bared, hackles raised as he snarls out, “Don’t
fucking touch me!”
The Alphas look almost as shocked as Stiles feels about his outburst. The one
on the right backs away, seemingly cautious. Any other time, Stiles would have
laughed—the big bad werewolf backing away from the little, defenseless human.
He is out of the bathroom before either twin speaks, retreating with his hand
clutched to his chest and his tail between his legs.
The nurse believes him when he says he tripped and accidentally collided with
the mirror. She is sympathetic when he feigns a migraine and is happy to send
him on his way home.
Stiles has Deaton on the phone by the time he is pulling out of the school
parking lot.
***** Sheet Bend *****
Chapter Notes
     I apologize for the late update, but unfortunately, my internet has
     been cut off and school just started back. (So many assignments, so
     little time!)
     Thank you all for your comments and kudos; they make me unbearably
     happy.
     (This work is unbeated. All mistakes are my own.)
See the end of the chapter for more notes
The drive to the Animal Clinic is quite possibly one of the longest rides of
Stiles’ life—or, in the very least, it feels like it. He is already on the
verge of a panic attack by the time he reaches the first stop sign. He holds
the steering wheel in a death-grip, gritting his teeth at the sharp, grounding
pain that shoots through his hand.
There is a current just beneath his skin, buzzing and thrumming like a swarm of
bees. His distress is nearly palpable; poor, little fucking helpless Stiles.
He can only imagine how he looked to the twins back in the bathroom. Angry and
scared, bleeding in more than one sense of the word, all snarls and bared teeth
and hints of too-sweet pheromones. They had seemed shocked—though, the question
is, were they shocked because of his reaction to them or because of what he is?
Dr. Deaton is already prepared when he arrives, haphazardly parking and all but
bolting to the door on trembling legs. The door is closed and locked behind
him, the welcome sign flipped over to read ‘Closed.’
It only takes a minute or so for the good doctor to herd him into the back, and
Stiles is all too happy to let him, taking shelter behind the mountain ash
barrier that protected the clinic. He sits on an examination table, watching as
Deaton went to fiddle amongst a cabinet of something—Stiles is not certain what
the doctor keeps in his clinic, nor is he in the mood to inquire.
“I need you to breathe for me, Stiles, or I may have to administer a sedative,”
comes the detached tone when Stiles’ shaking does not stop.
He spares the doctor a wry smile, showing more teeth than necessary and shoving
his hands into his pockets. “I think I may need that sedative if today gets any
worse, Dr. Deaton.”
There is a fondness in the elder man’s gaze when he turns back, returning to
the examination table with a tray of items: a small bag of mountain ash, a
pendant of some sort, herbs and spices Stiles can neither recognize nor name.
“You are going to be fine.”
The words are meant to reassure, Stiles thinks, but all they do is stir a
blistering ire and bitter antipathy in the pit of his stomach. “Maybe if I
could have my sexual organs removed, I might be.” Laughter dies on his tongue,
stuck partly in his larynx, acrid and harsh. “I mean, Omega’s are only good as
baby-makers and bitches, right? There would be no use for an Omega without the
parts needed. No womb, no problem.”
Deaton sighs softly, wordlessly, and an uneasy silence flutters about the room.
Against his better judgement—not that Stiles really has any of that at times
like this—he continues talking, “I thought that the suppressants would work.
They’ve always worked. I stopped producing pheromones, my periods and heats
were becoming shorter and farther between. I was so close to being normal!”
He ran his uninjured hand through his hair, breathing just on the ragged side
of quick. “And then the Alphas come to town over the summer, and I swear, I
could feel them the day that they came to Beacon Hills. I can feel them now,
and it hurts. My heat is coming too early, my cramps feel like I’m fucking
dying. I don’t know what to do—”
Stiles effectively manages to silence himself when Deaton turns and gazes at
him expectantly. “What you are feeling now is normal, Stiles,” and, oh, do
those words through Stiles for a loop the size of roller coaster.
He goes to ask—how, why, really what the absolute fuck?—only to be silenced by
the doctor asking a question of his own, “Do you know what the purpose of an
Omega in a pack is?”
“To carry on the Alpha’s legacy, make little baby werewolves?” The words drip
with sarcasm and bite, but only draw a small snort from Deaton, who is
currently mixing a concoction of rather pungent herbs in a bowl.
Stiles is met with dark eyes for a moment, and he recognizes the affection in
that gaze—he remembers it from the days when his mother brought him to the
clinic when he was barely able to tie his own shoes. “You aren’t wrong,” Deaton
admits. “Yet, that is but a small part of what Omegas do for a pack. An Omega
is the core of their pack. While many stigmatize them as defenseless and solely
sexual beings—bitches,as you put it—they are much, much more than that.”
The herbs are set down for a moment, the doctor turning to look at him
directly. “Omegas, both human and shifters, have a peculiar talent when it
comes to magic. They are the cement that binds a pack, the maker and breaker of
bonds amongst pack members. There is a pull between unmated Alphas and Omegas,
yes, but that is due to genetics. Your body recognizes the possibility of a
mate, the potential of a strong pack. While your suppressants may have worked
before, your body is working overtime to make your interest known.”
“So my body is basically telling my suppressants to hit the road while trying
to tip the Alphas off about my Omega-bits?”
“Essentially, yes. Your body has forced a resistance to your suppressants,
which is uncommon but not entirely impossible given the situation. The
pheromones you are beginning to create are to pique the interest of potential
mates. Your heat coming early is simply a side effect of your suppressants no
longer working as they should.”
Stiles is brought back to the bathroom for a moment, the look on the twins’
faces. The way they hovered around him, as if they were drawn to him. He
shudders, and looks away from the man before him. “I guess they’re interest is
pretty piqued at the moment.”
Deaton nodded, the movement caught in the young man’s peripherals. “I am
putting you on a new suppressant. It will be enough to stave off your heat for
another few months. However, it will not meddle with your pheromone secretion;
doing so could cause negative side-effects on your immune system, as your body
will try to fight off these suppressants as well. For that, I have a charm that
you will need to wear. While somewhat rudimentary, it will be able to hide your
scent, from werewolves or otherwise.”
Some days, Stiles feels like he could just hug Deaton. Today is most certainly
one of those days. Yet, all he can do is sit on the examination table, staring
wide-eyed at the doctor. “I… really don’t know what to say, doc.”
“You don’t need to say anything, Stiles.” His voice is gentle, and his smile,
small. “I told your mother that I would help take care of you. I don’t plan on
breaking that promise any time soon. You are a good soul, like her.”
Stiles takes the charm when Deaton holds it out, feeling the buzz of it in his
palm, not unlike the way the mountain ash had felt at the Jungle back when
Jackson went crazy-lizard-man on everyone. He places the chain around his neck,
tucking the charm under his shirt so it rests comfortably against his skin.
“Thank you,” he whispers, voice thicker than he had hoped.
Deaton’s hand becomes a warm, settling weight on his shoulder in the next
breath. “There is something else I should tell you regarding Alphas and
Omegas,” he admits, the detachment he had earlier now gone. “I know that this
may sound outlandish, but if you are in a situation alone with the Alpha pack,
do not be afraid to reveal that you are an Omega. Alphas are… designed, per se,
not to cause harm to Omegas. As I told you earlier, the core of a pack is an
Omega, and hurting an Omega goes against the very nature of Alphas.”
“That doesn’t sound outlandish at all; it sounds insane. Both Peter and Derek
have hurt me plenty—”
“But did they know, Stiles? You weren’t creating pheromones at the time, were
you?” (Honestly, he hates to admit that Deaton is right.) “You told me about
the night Peter Hale offered you the bite. You said no, and what did he do?”
Stiles swallows at the memory—the look in Peter’s eyes, he had never been so
afraid that someone knew than he had been when his wrist had been held up to a
mouth full of fangs. “He listened to me.”
“Exactly. While Peter may not have been explicitly aware of your status, even
in his half-feral and blood-drunk mind, he took your rejection without protest.
His instincts knew enough, and he stopped with you, when he had not with any
before.”
After a few moments of silence to allow the words to sink in, Deaton continued,
“Omegas are not the feeble creatures you have been led to think them to be. In
the times of ancient Sumer, Omegas were raised to be priests and priestesses
and were revered as gods. They ruled entire civilizations. There has been
evidence found at temples where Alphas were sacrificed. It wasn’t until more
modern times that the way of thinking you are familiar with arose. When Omegas
began to become scarcer amongst humans, they were suppressed. You have power
that no other person here has, Stiles, whether you realize that now or not.”
And, suddenly, it clicks, a moment of vivid and beautiful Technicolor behind
Stiles’ eyelids. And he knows.
Stiles leaves the Animal Clinic with a bag of mountain ash and a bottle of
pills in his backpack, a magic necklace thrumming over his heart, and a plan
already formed whirring in his head.
Chapter End Notes
     Regarding the talk of the role of Omegas in Ancient Sumerian culture,
     I will admit that this was inspired by the Epic of Gilgamesh.
     In Tablet VI, Ishtar (the goddess of fertility, love, war, and sex)
     proposes to Gilgamesh, asking him to be her husband. He responds with
     a refusal, mentioning the fates of her previous lovers in which she
     turned them into animals. In truth, it means that she killed them in
     the end.
     During the times of Ancient Sumer, priestesses truly were revered.
     The high priestesses had choice of the men in the cities, and would
     take one as a "husband" for a period of time. During this time, the
     man would lay with the women to produce offspring. At the end of the
     period, the husband would be sacrificed, and a new man would be
     chosen as to broaden the gene pool.
     Women were, in fact, rulers. One fine example of this is in The
     Descent of Inanna. Inanna (which is actually another name for Ishtar)
     is described as a ruler of seven cities. It has been debated if some
     of the gods and godesses described in texts such as this were
     actually high priests and priestesses--often times, rulers and people
     of high stature were seen as divine. If interested, you can read one
     translation of The Descent of Inanna HERE.
End Notes
     A big thanks to the Steter_Network for all of their help with this.
     I would love to hear what you think!
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!