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They're in class when it happens for the first time.

Scott is just sitting there, minding his own business, when suddenly, Jackson turns and looks at him. But it's not the creepy far-off stare that he's been rocking over the past few days -- the one that clearly says "Kanima here to kill you, thanks." No, it's a positively bewildered stare, like something doesn't quite add up, and then Jackson turns up his nose a little bit and sniffs the air -- actually, sniffs, like a fucking dog or something -- and his eyebrows crinkle even more in confusion and he quickly turns back around in his seat.

What the fuck?

Scott thinks about saying something after class -- something like "Hey dude, why were you sniffing in my direction during class?" -- but deciding that it would sound awkward, and remembering that Jackson is a homicidal kanima out to kill them all, he decides not to. But the next day, Jackson once again turns around and stares in baffled indignation in Scott's direction, as if Scott has done something to personally offend him. He sniffs the air once again and actually has the gall to look at Scott in a decidedly accusatory way. Like Scott hasn't showered or something. Like his BO is infiltrating the air and irritating Jackson's dainty olfactory system. Jackson, once again, turns around -- but this time, Scott has the wherewithal to sniff underneath his armpits. Just in case.

Nothing. Just a whiff of Old Spice. Nothing that would make Jackson look at him like . . . that.

The kanima strikes again that night. Rips another member of the 2006 swim team into multiple pieces -- blood and entrails splattered all over the walls like someone got a little crazy with the interior decorating. But that is the absolute least of Scott's problems. When he wakes up that morning, the sheets on his bed are positively soaked through -- like he wet the bed or something. But that hasn't happened in years. And this definitely isn't urine. It's clear and has the consistency of vaseline. When Scott goes to get out of bed and feels the slickness between his legs, he realizes that the goo is dripping out of him. Specifically dribbling in a steady stream from his ass. As he wraps a towel around his waist and scampers to the bathroom as quickly as he can, he feels the greasy mess coating the hairs of his inner thighs, the backs of his knees, even his ankles. By the time he turns on the water, the dribbling has stopped and his head feels clearer. But it doesn't change the fact that Scott's more than a little bit disturbed by this new development.

The moment he walks into the classroom, Jackson's head bolts up from his desk and he stares at Scott with something more than confusion. No, Scott recognizes this look because he's shot the same one in Allison's direction many times. That's a look of wanting. With his heightened senses, he registers the way that Jackson's pupils dilate, the gulping noise that Jackson makes in the back of his throat. Which doesn't make any sense because Jackson's straight. But that doesn't stop Jackson's eyes from following Scott all the way back to his seat -- those eyes that are part arrogant jerkass jock and part primitive homicidal reptile. But right now those eyes look all the way like they want to devour Scott. In the dirtiest way possible.

Gross.

It only takes Jackson a few minutes to snap out of his lust-induced haze. And then he shoots the most frigid glare ever in Scott's direction. Hold up, Scott thinks, you were the one undressing me with your eyes a few seconds ago. But before he can give any sign of indignation, Jackson has already turned around and gotten back to his classwork. He's sitting a little bit straighter though and Scott notices how he keeps tilting his head just slightly, to catch the scent coming from over his left shoulder.

Wait a second.

It only then occurs to Scott that what Jackson might be smelling is the ooze that was dripping out of him that morning. (No one ever accused Scott of being Ivy League material.) Maybe that's some kind of . . . kanima-attracting solvent or something. Maybe it's like kanima-crack. Coming out of his ass. At that point, Scott just sighs and puts his head down on his desk because seriously. What the fuck.

It's later that day, after lacrosse practice, when Isaac Lahey mentions something to him. "You smell kind of . . ." Isaac hesitates, as if he's afraid of what comes next.

"Smell kind of what?"

Again, Scott sniffs his armpits.

Just to make sure.

"You smell . . . kind of good."

They look at each other awkwardly for a few moments, kind of shuffling from foot-to-foot and shoving their hands into their pockets.

"Well," Scott blurts out when the tension becomes too much.

"See you tomorrow."

"Yeah, see you."

They go their separate ways. Scott notices Jackson watching him out of the corner of his eye.

When Scott wakes up the next morning, he's rutting against the sheets of his bed. He's gasping and grunting and scrabbling to get some friction up against his cock. His ass is leaking again and, for some reason, it feels . . . empty. (Woah, wait a second. Things are supposed to come out of there, not go up in there. Physics, McCall.) He takes himself firmly in hand and jerks a few times, bringing himself off in a matter of seconds. But he still feels like something's missing.

Jackson.

His mind not-so-helpfully volunteers the name and he physically recoils. No, not Jackson. Definitely not Jackson. But despite all of his mental protestations, he can't help the way that he shifts in his seat when Jackson walks into the classroom that morning. His cock almost immediately hardens against the fabric of his boxers.

And Jackson notices.

Scott's certain that they can smell the arousal all over each other. Jackson lifts up his arms in a faux-yawn, stretching them over his head. His polo shirt rides up, revealing an impossibly-tight set of abs -- the result of thousands of hours of lacrosse practice and strength training. Suddenly, Scott feels something warm and wet in the seat of his pants.

Oh. Fuck. No.

He's . . . oozing again. And not a little bit either. The seat of his chair is quickly becoming a puddle of greasy goop. Not to mention the giant wet spot on the back of his pants that everyone in 10th grade chemistry will be staring at. That will follow him around for the rest of his high school career. He clenches his eyes shut, trying to force the dampness to recede. But his ass seems determined to bring about his destruction. It keeps leaking and gaping and sliming all over.

But when Jackson turns slightly, once again scenting the air, and makes eye contact with Scott -- all of those concerns evaporate. Instead, Scott finds himself desperate to . . . bend over for Jackson? That can't be right. But for some reason, his mind provides the image of him bent over one of these desks with Jackson Whittemore plowing into him. And then his mind provides the image of him on his bed, grabbing desperately to the headboard, his thighs spread as far open as they possibly can be, while Jackson fucks him hard. And then his mind provides the image of him sitting in Jackson's -- no, not Jackson's, the kanima's -- lap, scaled tail wrapped around him, claws retracted, fucking him with its bulbous violet-tinged co . . .

And suddenly, Scott's grabbing his sweatshirt and wrapping it around his waist, ignoring the sloppy mess that he's leaving on the seat for the next poor jackass who sits down here. He's tossing his backpack over his shoulder and high-tailing it out of there, heading straight to the boy's locker room. Clothes off, shower on. And he's jacking off harder than he ever has before in his life. So hard that he doesn't notice the sound of the door opening and closing.

He doesn't notice anything until he realizes that he's not alone in the shower. Because suddenly, his cock is being palmed by someone who's strong and forceful and . . . scaly.

Jackson's not completely turned. Scales spread up the side of his face and across the expanse of his torso. His hands are rough and reptilian; his eyes are golden-brown with slit-thin pupils. He's not noseless though, which must be a step in the right direction. (Although, Scott's mind not-so-helpfully reminds him, when you were fantasizing about him, he was all kanima . . . and that was enough to send you in here to jerk off . . .) But, whatever the case may be with his twisted and perverted mind, Scott arches into Jackson's touch with a heretofore unknown desperation and urgency. Jackson wraps his arms around Scott and hoists him up against the tiled wall; Scott helpfully wraps his legs around Jackson's waist and feels . . . the insistent push of Jackson's cock on somewhere that, before a few days ago, he never would have imagined it going.

"Wait," Scott manages to sputter out and Jackson surprisingly . . . waits.

After a few moments: "What, McCall?"

It's the first time that Jackson's spoken in his half-kanima form. Like as himself. Scott didn't even know that he could.

"I'm not sure if I want to do this."

In response, Jackson shoves his scaled index finger roughly up Scott's ass. There's no resistance whatsoever -- and the fullness feels . . . right.

"You're ready," Jackson murmurs against the flesh of Scott's neck. "You're so fucking wet."

"Yeah, about that . . ." Scott gingerly disengages, loosening his legs and dropping himself back down to the floor. Jackson looks like he's about to punch Scott in the face. But it's that mildly-humorous pissed-off entitled teenager look. Not that kanima-about-to-eat-your-intestines look. "I don't know what's happening right now. I just started . . ."

"Gooping?" Jackson supplies with mock helpfulness.

"Yeah. For lack of a better word. It must be some kind of werewolf thing."

"Whatever. As far as I'm concerned, it's lubricant. I mean, can you smell yourself?"

"Why does everyone keep smelling me?" Scott snaps, tossing up his hands in defeat.

"Because you smell like sex."

Jackson moves in closer and shoves his knee in-between Scott's legs, enabling them to grind up against each other. Jackson's body is a kaleidoscope of scales in shifting hues and tones -- greens, blues, violets, and browns. It might be interesting, even attractive . . . if it wasn't for the fact that the kanima's a giant fucking lizard whose favorite hobbies include killing and maiming. Still, Scott takes a moment to fully appreciate the long, languid, scale-coated body of what will probably become his new fuck-buddy as he rubs himself desperately against Jackson's upper thigh. He wraps his arms around Jackson's shoulders, pulling their chests together and nuzzling into the leathery neck.

"Fuck," Jackson exhales, increasing his pace.

And before either of them knows what's happening, they're both coming -- spurting indecent amounts of semen onto the floor, the walls, and each other. They linger underneath the shower, washing themselves clean, before turning off the water and heading out.

"This been a problem for a while, McCall?" Jackson asks.

Scott shrugs.

"Because" -- and here Jackson rests a hand on Scott's lower back -- "we could make this a regularly-scheduled event."

Scott doesn't respond but Jackson doesn't seem too phased by that. He just gets dressed, slings his backpack over his shoulder, and heads out into the hallway. Scott grabs his shorts and a T-shirt out of his locker and changes into those, covertly shoving his pants into a plastic bag and sticking them in his backpack.

That night, he dreams of the kanima. He dreams of that long forked tongue being shoved up his ass. He dreams of that prehensile tail being shoved up his ass. He dreams of that massive reptilian cock being shoved up his ass. Around four in the morning, he starts to notice a pattern and gently rubs his index finger back and forth across his . . . well, normally his dainty little pucker but right now it's opened up into more of an engorged gaping canyon.

"Want some help?"

He startles up from his bed but . . . it's not Jackson. No, it's Derek Hale being a creepy stalker in the corner of his bedroom.

"Fuck, man!" he shouts, pulling his covers up around his neck. "Really?!"

"You should stay home for the next few days," Derek comments, taking no notice of the fact that Scott has come just a few inches short of dying of embarrassment. "Or else the Argents will get the news."

"What news?" Scott wants to add "the news that I'm fucking around with Jackson?" but manages to restrain himself.

"That you're in heat."

Huh?

"Heat?"

Derek looks at Scott like he's dumber than he actually is. Which is saying a lot.

"You haven't noticed? Aren't you . . . you know . . . lubricating?"

Fuck. Jackson was right.

"That's what that is?" Scott asks in disbelief.

"Your body's telling you to breed," Derek explains. "You're at the beginning of your cycle. The feelings that you're having are just going to get more intense over the next few days."

"Wait a second, breed?"

"You're a werewolf, Scott. You can have pups."

"But I'm a boy werewolf."

"Doesn't matter."

So that's what your body's doing, Scott thinks to himself. Your body is telling you to make little werewolf babies with Jackson. Little werewolf-kanima hybrid babies with pointy ears and lizard tails. The image makes Scott smile for a moment. At first, he thinks he's smiling because it's so fucking ridiculous. But then he realizes that he's smiling because the thought is actually . . . kind of nice. Like the kind of thought that warms you up somewhere deep in your gut. That's the feeling he gets from these werewolf-kanima hybrid babies who would probably slaughter their teachers and drink steaming hot pints of their blood for lunch. Warm fuzzies all around.

"So what do I have to do? Wait it out?"

"No, you need to take action here, Scott."

"But I don't want to have any pups," he protests weakly.

"Use protection." Derek hesitates for a moment before adding: "Look, I'm your alpha. If you want me to --"

"Ewww, god no!" Scott shouts, crawling beneath the blanket so that he doesn't have to think about Derek Hale naked. "That would be like fucking my uncle or something."

"I'm just saying that if you don't have any other alternatives --"

"I'll find one," Scott says with a finality that has Derek sighing like an aggrieved parent and leaving the room.

Scott decides to go to school early (like middle-of-the-night early) and spend some time pitching balls out on the lacrosse field. About thirty minutes into his makeshift practice, he notices someone else on the field. Jackson. In shorts and cleats with his hands wrapped firmly around his lacrosse stick. Automatically his mind supplies the following: I wish he had his hands wrapped firmly around my stick. Because his mind is helpful like that.

"How'd you know I'd be here?" Scott asks, tossing the ball to Jackson who catches it easily.

"Just knew," Jackson shrugs, tossing the ball back again. "Wanna practice?"

Hours pass. The feats of athleticism displayed on that field are unprecedented in the history of Beacon Hills. Scott literally jumps over Jackson's head in an attempt to get the ball down to the goal; Jackson does half of a backflip and catches the ball in midair, effortlessly landing on his back and rolling smoothly up to his feet. By seven, they've attracted a small crowd, which only grows during the following hour. They barely notice -- so engaged with each other that everyone else simply fades away into the background. It's only when Jackson checks him hard in the shoulder, knocking him to the ground and landing on top of him (both of them erect and panting), that Scott becomes acutely aware of their audience.

"We should get up," he whispers.

"Or I could just fuck you in the middle of the lacrosse field in front of everyone," Jackson suggests, pressing his hips down so subtly that no one in the stands will notice.

"Fuck you," Scott groans as he notices a now-familiar dampness between his thighs. "Let me up."

For a moment, Jackson looks like he's about to say "no." Looks like he's actually about to rip off Scott's shorts, pull his knees up, and shove his cock inside the slick warmth of Scott's body. And for a moment, Scott (his hormones and instincts kicking into full gear) wants him to. Because producing pups is more important than his education and . . .

Where the fuck did that thought come from?

But Jackson lets him up. Helps him to his feet. Even brushes some of the grass off of his clothes. And Jackson smiles at him -- a kind of tight-lipped smile but a smile all the same -- and says: "Let's do this again sometime, McCall." And then Jackson's grabbing his backpack and heading to first period and Scott's thinking about those werewolf-kanima hybrid babies again and getting those warm fuzzies again and what the fuck is happening to him.

Stiles sidles into step alongside Scott. "What was that?"

"What?"

"You're playing with Jackson now? Have you missed the part where he spends his spare time eating crickets and hanging out under a heat lamp?"

"We were just practicing."

"I just think it might be dangerous is all I'm saying . . ."

Scott can't argue with him. They walk, side-by-side, in silence to their first period history class.

At the end of the school day, Jackson is waiting outside for Scott. He's standing next to his Porsche, keys dangling from his index finger. He has a pair of couture sunglasses on and looks every inch the privileged son. That doesn't stop Scott from walking up to him and leaning against the passenger door. "You waiting for me?"

"No," Jackson responds, rolling his eyes. "I'm waiting for Stiles."

"Going to drive me home?" Scott asks, a small smile creeping up onto his lips.

"Going to drive you home and then let you ride me when we get there," Jackson mutters under his breath. He opens the door and gestures for Scott to get into the car.

Scott obliges.

They drive most of the way in silence. Scott watches Jackson out of the corner of his eye though and notices that he keeps shifting back and forth slightly. Scales emerge and then recede on the side of his neck. His eyes flicker in and out of their amber tone. It's like being with Scott brings out something primal in him. His claws extend slightly and then detract, making little half-moon indentations on the steering wheel. Scott knows that those claws are loaded with tranquilizer, could put him down in three seconds flat. But for some reason, he itches to feel them scratching down his back. He wonders if being helpless, completely at Jackson's mercy, would be as sexy as it sounds.

"You okay with this?" Jackson asks and Scott sees that his teeth are slightly pointed and that blackness has begun to creep along his gum-line.

"Okay with what?"

"What's going to happen when we get back to your house."

That's all Jackson needs to say. Scott knows what he means. He slouches down in his seat, slightly embarrassed. Logically, he knows that there's nothing to be embarrassed about -- that Jackson wants this just as much as he does -- but it doesn't change the fact that he's going to have Jackson's cock inside of him in less than fifteen minutes and there's something a little bit awkward about that.

"Yeah," he says. "It's . . . it's something that I have to do."

Jackson's eyebrows scrunch up a little bit: "You don't have to do anything."

Scott sighs and slouches down further, hunching his shoulders over. "I have to do this. Derek came to see me last night."

Claws are all the way out now, puncturing the rubber of the steering wheel. Eyes are solidly amber; scales have traveled up to cover half of Jackson's face.

"He told me that I'm in heat."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that I have to do this. It's the reason for the . . ." Scott makes a vague motion towards his privates.

"Oh." Jackson almost looks guilty. "But . . . I mean . . . do you want to?"

Scott thinks about saying something like: Yes, of course I want it. Because the seventeen million gallons of hormones flooding through my body right now make it impossible not to want it. But he thinks that probably wouldn't go over too well with Jackson who's already looking a little bit uncomfortable with the whole situation. And Scott hasn't even told him about the whole breeding thing. He silently thanks God that he has a fresh box of condoms on his dresser.

"Yes," Scott exhales. His eyes meet Jackson's. Scott doesn't understand this whole breeding thing -- but, in that moment, he knows there's more to it than just fucking and pushing out pups. (How does that even work with boy werewolves? He makes a mental note to ask Derek more -- and then promptly deletes that mental note because fuck no.) Recently, there's something in him that just sort of . . . ignites whenever Jackson looks at him. He hasn't looked in a mirror recently but he knows that his eyes are just as golden-honey brown as Jackson's.

There something primal in him too, after all.

They pull into Scott's driveway and hop out of the car. His mom won't be home for hours. Scott fumbles with his key but eventually gets the front door open. And then they're crossing the threshold and both of them know that there's no going back now.

"Bedroom?" Jackson asks, looking towards the stairs.

Scott leads the way.

Scott has barely flipped the lights on when he finds something wrapping around his waist. He looks down to discover Jackson's prehensile tail gripping at him. He allows the appendage to encircle him a few times before pulling him forward. Jackson's still mostly human -- gelled hair, strong jaw, sculpted nose -- but those scales are still ebbing and flowing across his flesh and the tail has apparently popped up for an appearance.

That's not the only thing that's popped up, Scott thinks, noticing the distinctive bulge in the front of Jackson's jeans.

Jackson pulls Scott firmly against him, the tip of the tail rubbing up and down the small of his back. "Is this okay?" he asks, and Scott knows that he's referring to the whole kanima thing. The fact that when Scott says that he's "about to get some tail," he's going to mean it literally from now on. It makes sense that Jackson might be a little self-conscious about it because . . . hey.

"Wait a second," Scott starts, taking a few steps back. Jackson allows him the distance but keeps his tail loosely wrapped around Scott's waist. "I didn't think that you . . ."

"Didn't think that I what?" Scott notices the tail tightening slightly, pulling him back in inch by inch. He doesn't fight it.

"I didn't think that you had a lot of control over your shifting, that's all. I didn't even think you really knew about your shifting."

With a final yank, Jackson pulls Scott all the way in once again. The tip of his tail reaches up and deftly brushes the hair out of Scott's eyes and caresses his cheek. It's the sexiest thing that Scott's ever experienced. Ever.

"I'm getting better," Jackson says vaguely, cupping the back of Scott's head with his claws, being careful not to puncture the skin.

"Do you want to . . .?"

And Scott doesn't have to ask the question because Jackson leans in, right at that moment, and kisses him.

It doesn't taste good. That black gunk that's all over Jackson's teeth? That shit tastes toxic. It's gritty and granular and sticks to his tongue. And Jackson's teeth are sharp little points that unknowingly scrape against his tongue and his lips, giving him paper cuts all across his mouth. And Jackson's forked tongue is about three times the length of any normal tongue and sticks way too far down Scott's throat and makes him feel like he's about to gag.

Holy fuck, it's like the worst kiss ever.

Scott is about to pull away. He's about to tell Jackson to go back home and he'll find another way to deal with the whole heat situation. (He shudders a little bit when he remembers Derek's offer. So gross.) But then something happens. Maybe some of that nasty black gunk gets into one of the tiny cuts and triggers some sort of chemical reaction. Or something. Because all of a sudden, Scott's on fire. It must be another chemical, like the tranquilizer in Jackson's claws. Except this one must be an aphrodisiac. Because everything about Jackson -- his lips, his teeth, his tongue -- all feel fucking perfect right now. And Scott can't get Jackson inside of him quickly enough.

Jackson pushes Scott backwards until his thighs are flush against the mattress, forcing him to fall onto his back. And then Jackson's on top of him, tail rising up behind his head and undulating fluidly. Without even thinking about it, Scott spreads his legs and lifts them slightly off the bed, pulling his knees back towards the headboard. He knows that Jackson can see the dark splotches on the back of his pants. He knows that Jackson can see the damp, greasy residue that's soaked through the fabric. Something about that turns him on and a fresh pulse of liquid emanates from inside of him. He arches his back and Jackson moves quickly to rest between his thighs.

With a single claw, Jackson rips through the fabric of Scott's clothes -- divesting him first of T-shirt then jeans then boxers. He watches while Scott awkwardly kicks off his shoes and starts to rip off Jackson's clothes using brute lupine force. Soon, there's a shredded pile of rags lying next to the bed. And Jackson and Scott are both naked.

Jackson's thumbs move to Scott's inner thighs, massaging the oily fluid that he finds there into Scott's skin in small, soothing circles. Then he moves an index finger to the opened hole that's waiting for him. He sticks a single finger inside, feeling no resistance. Scott pushes back, trying to get more inside of him. "Another," he grunts, reaching his hands above him and grabbing onto his headboard. Jackson bypasses two fingers and thrusts three fingers inside of Scott. He's tight but slick, ready to be fucked.

Jackson grabs the back of Scott's knees and pulls so that his cock is lined up right against Scott's entrance. Jackson hisses softly when he feels the tip of his cock slide just a couple millimeters inside of that tight, wet warmth. "You sure?" he asks one more time -- and when Scott nods, Jackson pushes forward.

And it's the single greatest moment of Scott McCall's life.

He has never, ever felt anything this good before. Getting to play on the lacrosse team? Not this good. The moment he started to control his shifting? Not this good. The first time he screwed Allison? Nowhere near this good. Jackson starts thrusting and Scott pushes forward to meet him halfway. Jackson's tail whips back and forth violently -- knocking the lamp off of Scott's dresser, ripping one of the posters on Scott's wall, even shattering one of the windows. (Fuck, how am I going to explain this to my mom afterwards? . . . Don't think about your mom right now, Scott.) Jackson's running the twin tips of his tongue across the expanse of Scott's neck and all of a sudden, both of them know what has to happen.

Jackson opens up his mouth, black grit still affixed to his teeth, and bites into the side of Scott's neck. It's not a gentle love bite. He actually rips into Scott's flesh, the same way that alpha turned him all those months ago. He hangs there, feeling Scott's blood washing over his tongue -- metallic and warm. And that black grit must be working its magic because Scott is coming so hard that he's practically blacking out. That's all it takes to push Jackson over the edge; he's coming hard inside of Scott and . . .

Oh no.

Scott pushes at Jackson, trying to get him off, but something's wrong. Scott feels a stretching sensation, as if Jackson's cock has inflated inside of him like a helium-filled balloon. "What's happening?"

"I don't know," Jackson murmurs but he doesn't look overly concerned. In fact, he appears to still be in the middle of a mind-blowing orgasm.

"Are you still . . .?" Scott asks, making a gesture that he hopes vaguely represents "jizzing inside of me."

"Yeah. I . . ." It's only then that Jackson realizes how strange it is that, after over a minute, he's still spurting out just as much semen as when he first started orgasming. Jackson attempts to pull out.

"OW!"

"I'm stuck," Jackson says through gritted teeth because he has, in fact, become firmly lodged inside of Scott. And there doesn't appear to be any getting out. Over the next few minutes, Jackson and Scott make numerous attempts at disentangling themselves -- everything from "you pull forward, I'll push backward" to "maybe we just need some more lube" to "visualizing Grandpa Argent's O face." But no, none of that works. Jackson's still orgasming; Scott's still stuck underneath him. Finally, they decide to just make themselves comfortable and wait it out. Using all of their athletic prowess, they manage to contort themselves into a semi-comfortable spooning arrangement. By that time, Scott's begun to feel a little bit sleepy. Something about the constant pulse of Jackson's cock inside of him, the warmth of the semen flooding his passage. He cuddles into his comforter, Jackson's chest pressed firmly against his back, and quickly dozes off.

When Scott wakes up a few hours later, Jackson's cock has softened and slipped out of him. Thank fucking god. He gently untangles himself and sits on the side of the bed. He thinks about what Derek told him -- about breeding and pups and all that stuff that sixteen-year-old shape-shifters shouldn't have to worry about . . . He starts wondering if there's a morning-after pill for werewolves. Specifically boy werewolves. Who really aren't ready to start their interspecies families yet. He glances in the mirror on his wall. He looks good and fucked right now -- hair mussed up every which way, lips swollen from all the kissing and reddened from those pointy little teeth. But he also notices the spot where Jackson bit him the previous night. The bite has started to turn into a jagged ridge of blackened scar tissue.

"That looks . . . not so good."

Scott turns around to look at Jackson. He's sprawled out on the bed, looking both entirely human and entirely too pleased with himself.

"Yeah," Scott agrees. "I should probably get it looked at today."

Jackson sits up and runs the length of his tongue across the wound. "Doubt it's anything serious." He kisses the bottom edge of the scar and Scott begins to feel a little dribble leaking from his ass.

"No way," he exclaims, jumping off of the bed and putting some distance between him and Jackson. "I'm not going for Round 2 tonight, thanks."

Jackson looks slightly disappointed. However, he just shrugs and makes his way over to Scott's dresser where he pulls out a T-shirt and some sweatpants. "I'm borrowing these," he declares, pulling them on. Like Jackson Whittemore would ever ask for permission.

He looks good in Scott's clothes. He looks better than Scott looks.

"I'll see you around," Jackson smiles, running down the stairs and letting himself out through the front door. Scott listens to the sound of the Porsche pulling out of the driveway.

Fuck. What's he going to do? He probably has some kind of half-breed fetus growing inside him right now. He probably has an infected wound spreading poison throughout his bloodstream. He's probably 100% screwed. He tosses on some clothes and heads out to see the only person who can help him right now: Dr. Alan Deaton.

The moment that Dr. Deaton sees Scott, the first words out of his mouth are: "Oh no." That shit never bodes well. He rushes over to Scott and immediately places one hand on the side of his throat, where Jackson bit him last night, and one hand on the flat tightness of Scott's belly. (Which might not be so flat or so tight if Dr. Deaton can't do something to fix this, he thinks to himself.) Dr. Deaton sighs, as if the palms of his hands alone could confirm the worst. Maybe they can. Scott has no idea at this point.

"Jackson?"

"What?"

"Jackson's the father, right?"

"How did you know that?" Scott's too surprised to make denials and accusations.

"The mark on your throat. It's black, which means you've been claimed by one 'not of your kind.' It's basically a warning signal to other werewolves that come sniffing around when you're in heat. Just letting them know that you've mated with something that they might not want to mess with."

"Mated?"

"They really did a bad job of explaining this to you, didn't they?" Dr. Deaton says, grabbing some disinfectant and gauze out of the cabinet. Scott sits down at the edge of the examination cot. Gingerly, Dr. Deaton starts cleaning the wound. "You let Jackson ejaculate inside of you last night." (Awkward. Awkward. This is awkward.) "You let Jackson bite you. When he did those two things, he claimed you -- mated with you."

"What does that mean?" Scott asks, recoiling a little bit at the sting of the peroxide.

"It means that, like it or not, you're stuck with Jackson now. And this --" he once again presses his hand against Scott's belly " -- means that you two are going to be starting a family soon."

Scott feels like he's going to throw up. He doesn't want this. He never wanted this. He doesn't really want Jackson. And he doesn't really want a werewolf-kanima hybrid baby. He just wants to get back to his heteronormative high school existence where he's co-captain of the lacrosse team and dating one of the hottest girls in school. Now that his heat has ebbed away, appeased by the fetus growing inside of him, he just wants to get back to normal. He definitely does not want to be some knocked-up teenager who ruins his life before it's even started.

"You're not to blame for this," Dr. Deaton says firmly, as if sensing what Scott's feeling right now. "It's not like with humans. You weren't being irresponsible or immature. When a werewolf goes into heat, its body is being flooded with hundreds of chemicals -- all of which are sending the same message: 'Produce offspring.' Now normally, you might have been able to remember to use protection and avoid pregnancy. But your body decided to mate with Jackson, a kanima. I'm going to assume that you and Jackson were kissing last night."

Scott doesn't respond. Because he's currently making plans for curling up in a ball and dying of embarrassment, thanks.

"That means that you were exposed to the kanima's silt, the black coating on their teeth, which is a powerful aphrodisiac." (Knew it.) "Between your human hormones, the werewolf chemicals, and the kanima aphrodisiac, you didn't stand a chance. If you came to me today and weren't up the duff, so to speak, I'd think that there was something wrong with you."

"So I'm . . ." Scott hesitates because saying it makes it true.

"Pregnant. Yes."

"Can I . . . get rid of it?"

Dr. Deaton sighs and Scott worries for a moment that he might get the abortion lecture. "Unfortunately, due to the werewolf's complex anatomy, no one has ever successfully performed an abortion on one of your kind. If it was an option, believe me, I'd offer it to you in a second. But I'm afraid that you're going to have to see this through to its logical completion."

"Having the baby."

"Yes."

Dr. Deaton cuts a swath of gauze and affixes it to the wound. "For what it's worth, there are many options for what to do with the baby after it's born. Some parents turn the baby over to their alpha, allowing the entire pack community to raise it. You obviously can't give the baby up for adoption because of its . . . interesting biology but if you don't want to be in its life at all, many packs are willing to take in outsiders' babies. It brings an infusion of new blood into the community, especially with this baby being an extremely rare hybrid." Dr. Deaton sticks a thermometer into Scott's mouth, underneath his bruised and battered tongue. "Or you could always keep the baby. Even if you feel like your parenting instincts are nonexistent, your body chose to mate with a kanima. And they're notoriously good at caring for their young."

Scott spits out the thermometer in indignation. "We're talking about Jackson here."

"Just trust me on this one," Dr. Deaton smiles, picking the thermometer up off of the floor and checking the temperature. "You're fine. The wound will probably take a few days to heal. That black scar will always be there and it's never going to be the best-looking thing in the world. But that's mating." He fills in some information on a chart. "We should set up a regular appointment time. One of the key things to know about werewolf pregnancy is that it's quick. You should only gestate for about seventy days."

"Huh?"

Dr. Deaton caps his pen and sticks Scott's folder into a metal filing cabinet. "You'll give birth in a little over two months."

"I guess I should be glad that there's only three weeks left of school."

"You'll be showing by then. You might want to take the last few weeks off."

Showing. Scott's hands grip the side of the examination cot, touching anything except his stomach. Which is going to swell and bloat and expand, allowing something that he doesn't even want to take up residence inside of him. He feels disgusting -- like his body has betrayed him, has allowed him to be used and violated and disgraced.

"How do I explain this to my mom?" Scott suddenly wonders out loud.

"If you're not planning on keeping the baby, it might be best to just pack a bag and tell her that you need to stay with Derek for the next few months. Tell her that there's some pack business that needs to be taken care of."

"And Derek . . .?"

"He'll know what to do with you."

Scott wonders if anything like this has ever happened to Derek. Not the whole sleeping-with-a-lizard thing. More the whole pregnancy thing. He wonders if Derek Hale ever had to worry about how people would look at him when his abdomen distended unnaturally over the waistband of his jeans. He decides not to ask. He hops off of the examination cot and grabs his backpack.

"Come and see me next Wednesday. Eat healthy. Get lots of rest. Take some of these." Dr. Deaton tosses him a bottle of multivitamins. "You'll be fine."

No, he thinks. I definitely will not be fine.

He texts Jackson with the address of the railroad yard and tells him to come as soon as possible. And then Scott braces himself for what will probably be an interrogation from his alpha.

"Who's the father?"

That's the first question that Derek asks when Scott saunters into abandoned warehouse.

"No fucking way."

"What?"

"There's no way that you can tell I'm knocked up from all the way over there."

"Wait a second," Isaac interrupts. "Scott's pregnant? How's that even possible?"

"He's a werewolf," Derek snaps, as if that explains everything. Whatever. It shuts up the betas and that's all that matters.

"So who's the . . ." It's at that moment that Derek catches sight of the bandage on Scott's neck. The growl starts deep in his chest, a low reverberation that travels up the back of his throat. He lunges across the floor and rips the gauze bandage off, taking in the pitch blackness of the tissue there.

Derek takes a few steps back, almost as if Scott has just sucker-punched him. As if this was the one thing in the world that he'd never counted on.

"Oh." That's all he says. As if there's nothing more that could possibly be said.

"Dr. Deaton said you would help --"

"Yes."

"Scott?" Jackson's voice rings out loudly through the warehouse.

"What the fuck?" Erica hisses. "You brought him here?"

"We're in here, Jackson," Derek calls out, trying to replace the bandage on Scott's neck. As he presses down the tape, Scott takes a good look at his alpha. He looks exhausted, resigned -- as if the weight of the world has suddenly been pressed down on his shoulders. As if he really doesn't know how he's going to make everything all right this time around. Scott hates that look.

Jackson enters the living area cautiously. With good reason.

"Scott, what's going on?" Jackson's voice is timid in a way that Scott hasn't heard before. The voice of an outsider, one who so desperately wanted to be an insider but, hey, we can't always get what we want. And now, Golden Boy Jackson Whittemore doesn't fit out in the real world -- but he sure as hell doesn't fit here either.

"Jackson," Derek sighs, keeping his eyes locked on the cement floor. "We should probably talk."

"About what?"

"Not here." Derek leaves the living area, moving towards the back of the warehouse so that the others won't be able to hear their conversation. Jackson automatically looks to Scott who nods his head, indicating that, no, Derek's not trying to get you alone so that he can disembowel you and turn your intestines into lanyards. Jackson quickly follows.

"What's happening?" Erica asks, completely bewildered.

"I don't want to talk about it."

"So . . . you're pregnant." Isaac's having a hard time wrapping his mind around this. Scott supposes that he'd be having a hard time too if it wasn't happening to him. What with the gooping and the fucking and the biting and everything, Scott definitely understands what's happening.

Besides, they live in Beacon Hills. A giant dog bit him and he turned into a werewolf for fuck's sake. Clearly, anything can happen here.

"Jackson's the father?" Boyd speaks up for the first time, surprisingly non-judgmental about the entire thing.

"Yeah."

"Holy shit," Isaac laughs. "Is it going to be a little lizard-baby or something?"

"Or something."

"I didn't even know that you liked Jackson."

"I don't."

That sobers them all up slightly. It's not quite as funny when you're pregnant with a baby that you don't want by a guy who may or may not be trying to kill you. Scott notices that the area where Derek and Jackson are talking has been surprisingly quiet. He was expecting a lot of shouting and cursing and blaming to happen but . . . silence. "I'm going to see what's happening back there," he says suddenly.

"Do you think that's the best idea?" Boyd asks. "Maybe you should just let Derek take care of this . . ."

But Scott's already halfway across the living area, pushing forward into the abandoned depths of the warehouse. When he finally reaches the two of them, he hides behind one of the railroad cars. Because this is not a moment to be intruded upon. Jackson is slumped on the floor; Derek sits next to him, arms firmly wrapped around him. It looks to Scott like the way an older sibling might protect and comfort a younger one. Which makes sense because Derek was, after all, the one who was responsible for turning Jackson. So even as a kanima, Derek probably still feels some sense of loyalty to him.

Of course, Scott also doesn't doubt that if Jackson suddenly started shifting, Derek would kill him in an instant.

"You can stay here with us," Derek says. "Pack a bag. Take the city bus, not your car. You don't want to be found. You're running away from home." He gently runs his fingers through the sharp spikes of Jackson's hair. "You can go back when it's . . . over."

"But why do I have to be here?" Jackson protests weakly. Something about that strikes Scott as a cowardly thing to say.

"Because Scott's going to need you," Derek says firmly.

"But Scott doesn't even like me."

"He will." The certainty in Derek's voice makes Scott feel uncomfortable. "But regardless, Scott's going to go into heat again. And he'll need you for that."

"But he's already pregnant!" (Would that statement ever not make Scott feel like throwing up?)

"Werewolf anatomy is different," Derek sighed, as if they should have already known this. As if there was a book called Werewolf 101 or Werewolves for Dummies or What to Expect when You're a Werewolf at the library or something. "When Scott has an orgasm, it floods his uterus with chemicals that are essential for the pup's development. So every few days, he'll get a little bit restless and he'll need you to take care of him."

Where "restless" means "horny as hell." And "take care of him" means "fuck his brains out."

"And that's not going to hurt the . . ." Jackson gestures vaguely, not wanting to say "pup" because that shit is weird.

"No. Trust me, you two will probably be mating right down until the day he gives birth."

"Why does it have to be me? I mean, couldn't you do it?" And Scott feels like he's just been punched in the gut. Punched right where the cells, the ones made up of his and Jackson's DNA, are multiplying and creating something that will belong to them one day -- even if it's only for a little while, even if it's just until someone comes to pick up the pup and take it away to another pack. Something about Jackson not even wanting to touch Scott really hurts.

"You two really don't get it," Derek sighs, letting go of Jackson and rising to his feet. "You've mated. I'm not saying that you've done anything wrong; that's the natural order of things. But you have to accept the consequences of what's happened."

"I know. He's pregnant."

"Not just that," Derek corrects. "When werewolves mate, it's a permanent thing."

"But I'm not a werewolf," Jackson argues. "Unless . . ."

"No, not now. You're never going to be a werewolf now."

Jackson looks like he's about to cry. "What?"

"You've mated during a shift -- more than that, you've bred someone during a shift. That means that you're going to stay locked into that kanima form, probably for the rest of your life." When Jackson's bottom lip starts quivering uncontrollably, Derek quickly interjects: "But it'll be different now. You've started noticing and remembering your shifts, right? You're going to have a lot more autonomy now. You're not going to be under anyone's control; no one can make you do anything that you don't want to do."

"But . . . but . . . you've seen me!" Jackson wails. "I'm disgusting!" And Scott rolls his eyes because of course that's what Jackson Whittemore would be worried about.

"You're fine," Derek snaps. "You're strong and you're powerful and you're exactly what a healthy young kanima should look like. You didn't ask for the bite so that you could get girls."

"No, and I didn't get girls. I got Scott."

"Who you should be grateful for. Because, even if he doesn't right now, he's going to come to love you. And, even if you don't believe it right now, you two are going to be happy spending the rest of your lives together."

Jackson doesn't say anything, his lips contorted into an adamant pout.

"When you've decided to grow up, come and join the rest of us."

Derek leaves Jackson sprawled out on the floor. Scott tries to conceal himself as Derek walks by. But he hears Derek say, under his breath: "Give him some space. He needs some time to sort all of this out."

"What about what I need?" Scott whispers.

"What do you need?"

Scott opens and closes his mouth a few times, trying to formulate an answer.

"Exactly. You both need some time and some space."

And, without further ado, Derek stalks back into the living area.

Jackson does as he's told. He goes back home, packs a bag, and takes off in the middle of the night. He leaves a note to his parents saying that he needs to be on his own for a while and tells them not to come looking for him (even though he knows that they will anyway). All of the werewolves have been sleeping on the cold cement floor of the railroad station, except for Derek who has managed to procure an actual mattress along with some blankets and pillows. Derek immediately turns the set-up over to Scott because, apparently, being pregnant has some perks. Derek assigns Jackson to his own slab of cold concrete but there's an unspoken understanding between everyone: when Jackson feels comfortable, he'll be joining Scott on the mattress. And there's another unspoken understanding as well: Scott's mattress has been shoved away from the rest of the group because Scott and Jackson will be fucking on that mattress. Frequently.

After about a week, Scott starts to notice his body changing. It's very slight and insignificant -- but it's still a change. His belly has become swollen, like he's eaten three pizzas for dinner or something. There's something alive in there, Scott thinks, almost letting a hand graze over the area but pulling back at the last moment. He turns around to see Jackson staring at him from his concrete bed. Almost immediately, Scott feels his hole begin to dilate, expanding and widening, and a warm wetness flows into the back of his pants. Jackson scents the air and, sensing that Scott has gone into one of those short spurts of heat, makes his way over to the mattress. It's not as frantic this time, which makes sense since Scott's already gotten himself knocked up. There's no rush to get a pup inside of him anymore. They each take their own clothes off, remaining steadfastly in their human forms the entire time. Jackson lifts Scott's legs up so that they're wrapped around his back and gently slips inside. They both shudder at the intensity of the feeling. This is powerful, much more powerful than anything they had with the girls back at Beacon Hills High. This is something driven by millennia of evolution; this is the survival of the fittest.

This is beautiful, Scott thinks as Jackson starts to move inside of him. It's a soft, shallow thrusting, which leaves them both wanting so much more. Jackson leans down and kisses Scott. And, without the grit and grime and sharp edges, Jackson's actually a phenomenal kisser. He takes the lead in a way that Scott's not used to, that triggers something in Scott's mind to submit to this creature on top of him. (Because not one of them could be considered a man anymore -- what with the fur and the fangs and the claws and the scales. Even with all of those things being miraculously tucked away at the moment, neither of them can fool themselves into thinking that they're anything other than monsters, shape-shifters, animals.) As the two of them press deeper into the kiss, Jackson speeds up his pace.

When Jackson moves his lips down to Scott's neck, down to the bandaged bite mark, Scott cannot help the sounds that he starts making. Despite the fact that they both know the others are awake and hanging out in the living room a few yards away from them. Scott keens and whimpers and moans -- loudly. And Jackson, his teeth dulled with humanity, bites down once again on Scott's neck, aggravating the wound through layers of gauze and reinstating his claim.

They both come. Hard.

There's no swelling this time. Jackson pulls out immediately after and rolls onto his side next to Scott. They're both sticky with semen and sweat. But within a few seconds, Scott feels a soaking-wet washcloth land on his jizz-stained stomach. He looks up to see Derek standing by the edge of the mattress.

"What are you doing?" he asks, wishing that he was surprised to see Derek creepily watching him.

"Taking care of my pack."

Scott knows that he should argue, should tell Derek that he's not his alpha and never will be, but when Jackson pulls him closer, cuddling him, he forgets all about that argument and quickly falls asleep.

Jackson continues to fuck him once a week after that. When Scott wakes up after their post-coital nap, Jackson has always gone back to his concrete. (Why? Scott wonders. It's so much more comfortable on the mattress. And it's so much warmer sleeping next to someone else.) By the end of the third week, Scott looks like he's packed on quite a bit of weight. He doesn't necessarily look pregnant but he definitely looks like he's fallen out of shape. By the end of the fourth week though, that's when everything changes. There's a definite bump underneath his T-shirt. It's not just a few rolls of pudge that have crept up due to inactivity.

It's a baby. Growing inside of him.

He can't help himself. He presses a palm over the space where his skin has stretched tightly. He feels the unnatural distention of his abdomen but no signs of life underneath. He removes his shirt and stands in profile in front of the full-length mirror that Erica put up soon after moving into the warehouse. He's tanned and trim and . . . just slightly pregnant. Once again, he turns around to find Jackson staring at him.

Except it's not quite Jackson.

The others are out, prowling the woods as werewolves are sometimes known to do. Leaving him and Jackson behind for the night. Those scales are ebbing and flowing across Jackson's skin once again and a quiet ripping sound makes Scott aware of the tail that has forced its way out of Jackson's jeans. It lifts up behind Jackson, twitching in anticipation . . . But Scott's heat hasn't started yet. There's no sticky-sweet smell in the air that indicates that Scott's ready for him. There's no lubricant sopping through his pants; his hole isn't widening in anticipation. But still . . . Jackson looks almost painfully aroused.

"Fuck," Jackson sighs, his eyes locked on Scott's belly. "Fuck, McCall."

"It's not time," Scott responds, his voice clipped.

"Does it always have to be time?" Jackson asks, coming up behind Scott and cupping his belly in his hands. He nuzzles into Scott's shoulder.

. . . your body chose to mate with a kanima. And they're notoriously good at caring for their young.

Definitely seeing that in action, Scott thinks to himself as Jackson continues to lick and bite gently at Scott's shoulder, his hands caressing and fondling his swollen belly. He feels himself getting hard despite the lack of heat. (Then again, he's a teenage boy. A gust of wind could probably make him hard.) Jackson works his fingers underneath the waistband of Scott's sweatpants and grips his cock.

"Jackson," Scott gasps, pressing himself into Jackson's fist.

"Let me take care of you," Jackson murmurs against Scott's neck, lips pressed against the ridges of pitch-black scar tissue that jaggedly cut across his flesh. It's an ugly looking wound -- diseased and putrid. It runs in a drunken diagonal line from right below Scott's jawline all the way down to his collarbone. It's impossible to miss it -- but then again, Scott supposes that's the point. The other werewolves are supposed to be able to clearly see that's he's been claimed, that someone "not of their kind" has mated with him. And feeling Jackson's tail slowly work its way beneath the waistband of his sweatpants to prod against his puckered hole definitely reinforces that, no, Jackson is definitely not of his kind.

"Oh god," Scott gasps, feeling the tip of Jackson's tail penetrate him. Even though he's not in heat, his body has managed to produce a small amount of lubricant that slicks the way, allowing Jackson to get a solid half a foot of tail into Scott's ass before he starts thrusting the appendage in and out. Jackson has a prehensile tail, which means that he has an unbelievable amount of control over what it does and how it moves.

Jackson's currently using that control to explore the inside of Scott's ass.

And just when that idea is starting to seem a little bit weird, Jackson flicks his tail slightly to the left and Scott almost collapses onto the cement. Jackson wraps his left arm firmly around Scott's waist, his right still being used to administer an exemplar hand job. Jackson bats his tail back and forth, repeatedly tapping against that spot inside of Scott that makes fireworks light up behind his eyes, until Scott's coming all over Jackson's hand.

"Did that feel good?" Jackson asks, brushing his lips against Scott's cheek.

"Yes." (Understatement of the century.)

"Good."

And, without further ado, Jackson returns to his spot on the floor, leaving Scott feeling as abandoned as the warehouse.

At five weeks, Scott can only wear sweatpants and T-shirts. Nothing else fits. His ankles are swollen and his back aches. He also spends most of his time halfway through a shift. "Why is my body doing this?" he asks Derek one day, tugging at one of his pointed ears.

"Because it's your natural state. Your body's trying to conserve energy."

He cannot imagine that his body's trying to conserve energy because his heats have become much more frequent. Every few days, he finds himself leaking and gasping and panting for Jackson. Their fucking has reached new degrees of athleticism. With his newly-rounded belly constantly getting in the way, Scott has become more open to . . . experimentation. Whether that means crawling astride Jackson and lowering himself onto his cock or getting down on all fours to take it from behind, Scott has become more open -- pun intended -- to new positions.

Scott knows that the others watch them sometimes. More than once, he's looked up while Jackson's ramming him from behind to find one of the betas "looking around" for a lost belonging in their part of the warehouse. He doesn't mind so much anymore. Between the boy-pregnancy and the kanima-fucking, he'd probably be curious too.

It's in the sixth week that the shit really hits the fan.

Scott is pregnant. Really pregnant. Like there's no way that anyone could see him and not immediately know that he's pregnant. "I can't believe you have three weeks left," Jackson comments sometimes, staring at the belly that now extends out from underneath the hem of Scott's T-shirts. "You look like you're ready to pop, McCall."

Scott does not want to be "ready to pop." Scott has gotten used to pregnancy -- to his rapidly-changing body and all of the subsequent problems (sore ligaments, poorly-fitting clothes, constant cravings, etc). Locked away in this warehouse, Scott doesn't mind his "baby bump" so much. What he minds is the thought of that baby bump someday becoming a real baby. That will really need to be dealt with. That's not something that Scott's looking forward to.

He's standing at their makeshift kitchen counter, sipping a glass of pomegranate juice, when he hears the sound of the steel door slamming open. "Derek?" he calls out. "You home?"

But it's not Derek.

No, he finds himself face-to-face with Allison Argent's crossbow.

"Allison!" he sputters, dropping his glass, which shatters on the concrete floor.

"Scott," she says, crossbow still aimed between his eyes with her finger firmly planted on the trigger. She hasn't looked down yet, trained to focus only on her target. Which, in this situation, would be Scott McCall's forehead.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm waiting until Derek comes back. And then I'm going to kill him."

"So . . . why are you pointing that crossbow at me?"

"Leverage."

"Allison . . ." Chris Argent has come up behind her, gently putting his hand on top of the crossbow and lowering it towards the ground. Allison looks at her father, clearly puzzled, and then follows his eyes straight to Scott's belly. Her eyes widen in obvious shock as she tries to come up with some logical explanation. Scott can see her running through the possibilities in her mind: weight gain, disease, supernatural parasite . . . If Stiles were here, he would probably mention Occam's Razor, telling Allison that the simplest solution (i.e. Scott's pregnant) is usually the right one. But Stiles isn't here and Scott's failing out of school so the chances of him knowing about Occam's Razor are slim to none.

Chris takes a few steps forward, reaching out to inspect the scar tissue on Scott's neck. "Where's Jackson?"

"Out."

"What . . .?" It's the only word that Allison can manage to sputter out.

"Scott's been bred," Chris responds. "Werewolves go into heat, just like dogs. When a bitch goes into heat, then the nearest available male mounts her and breeds her."

Scott wants to punch Chris Argent. Scott wants to punch Chris Argent so badly. But that probably wouldn't be the best idea. At least, not while Allison's still holding that crossbow.

"But . . . Scott's a boy."

"Werewolves are different from us."

At that moment, Scott hears the sounds of his pack returning. The laughter and chatter of a group of teenagers fresh back from a sprint through the woods. He scents the air and notices that Derek isn't amongst them. As soon as they enter the living space, Allison has her crossbow trained on them. Jackson doesn't care; he quickly bounds across the room to plant himself directly in front of his unborn pup.

"I don't think so."

And in the blink of an eye, Jackson's tail has whipped the crossbow out of Allison's hands.

"Protective parent," Chris comments, nodding approvingly.

The shift happens so quickly that Scott doesn't even quite know what's happening until it's over. Until Jackson is down on all fours, scrambling towards the Argents with his claws extended. Until he's hissing and spitting with that forked tongue and those grit-stained teeth. Allison shoots a crossbow into Jackson's shoulder, which he quickly pulls out, slashing at her kneecap. He rips her skin open -- a long, shallow scratch -- and she almost immediately collapses to the ground. Jackson stares down Chris Argent and the message is clear:

Yes, I'm a protective parent. Are you?

Apparently Chris' answer is "yes" as he holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender. He slowly moves over to Allison and grabs her underneath both of her arms, dragging her dead weight out of the warehouse. No one goes after them.

Scott turns his attention back to the kanima who's slowly circling him. "You should go back out," Scott says, addressing the betas but never taking his eyes off of the creature in front of him.

"Are you sure that you can handle him?" Erica asks, looking decidedly nervous as the kanima rises onto his hind legs, putting himself at eye-level with Scott.

"He was protecting him, Erica," Isaac points out. Then after a pause: "You're not going to fuck him like that, are you?"

"Get out, Isaac."

The betas leave.

Scott closes his eyes, trying to forget the look of nauseated disgust that flashed through Allison's eyes when she looked at him. Trying to forget how she'd looked at his belly like he was something repulsive. He isn't paying attention when he feels a scaled claw gently wrap around his distended abdomen, cupping the bulk of it in its palm. He focuses on the kanima in front of him who's watching him expectantly. "I don't know, Jackson," he whispers, linking his forearms over the kanima's shoulders, drawing him slightly closer. "I don't know."

He doesn't know exactly what he's referring to there. But it's what he's feeling.

When the kanima kisses him, he lets himself go. He knows that, sooner than later, that grit will infiltrate his mouth and he'll be lost on a wave of chemically-induced euphoria. He knows that as soon as that aphrodisiac hits his bloodstream, he'll be on his back and begging for it. And that's all he wants right now. He wants to forget. The kanima pulls him closer, so that they're pressed tightly against one another, and Scott feels the bulge of its erection digging into his upper thigh. It's about then that the chemicals kick in and he's moaning and grinding and grasping at every inch of scaled flesh he can get his hands on.

The two of them stumble over to the mattress. Scott works his way out of his baggy clothes and maneuvers himself so that he's up on his hands and knees. He's expecting the kanima to push in at any moment, fucking him with its bulbous violet cock, so he's surprised when he instead feels that forked tongue lapping at his thighs, right below the crease of his ass. The kanima's licking us the droplets of lubricant that are dribbling out of him, scooping them on onto its tongue and then immediately coming back for more. Scott shudders and braces himself on his forearms, turned on beyond belief by this new development. Slowly, the kanima moves its attentions upwards towards the cheeks of his ass. It swathes both rounded globes, one at a time, not missing an inch of slicked flesh. Finally, when Scott's convinced that they're going to get to the fucking any second now, he feels a warm, wet appendage toying around the edges of his hole.

Jackson's tongue.

Scott's eyes roll all the way back in his head as he spreads his thighs further apart, desperate to feel that tongue all the way inside of him. Jackson kindly obliges. And suddenly, Scott is oh-so-thankful for that three foot long tongue that's awkward to kiss but absolutely vital for what's happening right now. Jackson works his tongue with the thoroughness of a typical overachiever: lapping at the muscled walls and flicking at the prostate gland. By the time, Jackson's finished, Scott's almost sobbing into the mattress from the intensity.

"Please," he begs Jackson.

The kanima pulls its tongue out and lines itself up with Scott's hole, pressing its cock deeply inside of him. It lets out a grating chirp that comes from deep inside its throat, the sound that Scott imagines a dinosaur must make. And Scott is being fucked by the kanima and holy shit, it's the best feeling in the world. He glances up from the worn-out mattress to see Derek standing by the doors, watching them.

Scott doesn't realize that his own shift has happened until he's growling around pointed fangs, his claws shredding the side of the mattress. This only seems to spur the kanima on; he's thrusting harder, deeper, faster into the moist passage. Scott gives himself completely over to instinct, which clearly tells him: Submit to your mate. Submit to your alpha. Run with the pack. His belly bounces against his upper thighs as he pushes himself backwards, trying to take more of Jackson inside of him. His eyes lock with Derek's -- Derek who's refusing to touch himself despite the rather impressive erection that's being cupped snugly by the fabric of his jeans -- and he's coming.

Submit to your mate. Submit to your alpha. Run with the pack.

Jackson follows soon afterwards, collapsing next to him on the mattress. Scott growls and pulls the kanima towards him so that they're face-to-face. They wrap scaled and furred limbs around each other, hunkering down into the safety of their otherness, and fall asleep.

When Scott wakes up, Jackson's still there.

They haven't shifted back yet. But Jackson looks . . . peaceful. His tail twitches slightly as he dreams, his nostrils flaring out with every breath.

"You know what you're doing with it yet?"

Scott's not especially surprised to hear Derek's voice coming from the armchair in the corner. He looks at his alpha, sprawled out and taking up space like the dominant motherfucker he's become.

"Doing with what?"

"The pup."

Scott's hand automatically moves to rest on his belly.

"I'm not going to keep it," he says firmly. "I don't know how to raise a kid."

"Jackson will," Derek says matter-of-factly.

"Everyone keeps telling me that."

"Kanimas take care of people. It's the most fundamental part of their nature. They're always going to serve a master."

"Gerard." Scott slowly reaches out to run a thumb down the kanima's cheekbone. The creature leans slightly into the touch.

"Not anymore. When he mated with you, you earned his allegiance. The kanima now serves you and the pup inside of you." Derek slides out of the armchair and comes closer. "Leave home, Scott. Run with the pack. We can raise your pup together."

"You and me?" Scott asks, arching an eyebrow.

"All of us."

"Jackson's not even a werewolf," Scott snorts.

"I'll accept him into the pack. Kanimas aren't that far separated from our kind."

Scott sighs, leaning back against the threadbare pillows, his hand still pressed against his belly. "He has nobody," Scott repeats, glancing over at the sleeping kanima next to him.

"Not anymore," Derek says. "He has a pack now."

At the end of the seventh week, Scott cannot believe that there's another two weeks to go. He's massive. That's the only word he can think of to describe the belly that stretches out so far that he no longer even remembers what his feet look like. "Are you sure that this is normal?" Scott asks Dr. Deaton during their weekly appointment. Jackson's standing in the corner, flipping through a fascinating pamphlet on osteoporosis. "I don't look seven weeks pregnant. I don't even look seven months pregnant."

"Shapeshifter babies tend to be . . . larger than normal babies."

"Oh."

It's not Scott's first ultrasound but it's the first one that he's been interested in seeing. When you're that large, it's only natural to want to know what's taking up all that space.

"Do you want to know what it is?"

And it's a tribute to the fuck-up'edness of Beacon Hills that Scott isn't sure exactly what that question means.

"Sure," he says half-heartedly.

"You're going to have a little boy."

And that's the moment when it hits them both hard. Scott and Jackson are going to be fathers. They are going to have a Baby McCall-Whittemore. They aren't just two teenagers fucking their way through an impossible situation anymore; they are going to be adult partners raising their own child. Scott suddenly finds himself unable to even look at Jackson and he's not sure why.

"Looking very healthy," Dr. Deaton says, examining the image on the screen. "Strong limbs. All fingers and toes intact. Good tail growth --"

"Wait. What?"

Dr. Deaton smiles, shifting the screen so that both Scott and Jackson can see the pup. "It looks just like Jackson."

Scott doesn't quite know what to think at that moment. Because he's not looking at a baby up there on the screen. He's looking at a monster. He's looking at something that's hideous and repulsive and grotesque and not anything that a parent wants to see when looking at an ultrasound monitor. But when the pup shifts slightly and starts sucking on the tip of its own tail . . . Scott falls just a little bit in love with it.

Jackson, meanwhile, looks mortified.

"That's not . . . I mean, I don't . . ."

He sprints out of the room at breakneck speed. Scott knows that he has to go after him. But, honestly, getting up from the examination cot is a bit rough and it takes some pushing and pulling on Dr. Deaton's part to get him to his feet. "It's okay," Scott shrugs. "He's still trying to get used to the whole shape-shifting thing. Low self-esteem."

"I'm not worried."

And it's good that Dr. Deaton says that. Because Scott kind of is.

Scott shuffles outside to find Jackson frantically pacing back and forth across the driveway.

"I don't want it," Jackson says immediately. "Whatever that is inside of you, I don't want it."

So much for kanimas being good parents.

Scott somehow manages to stay calm. Maybe it's the hormones that the pregnancy has sent coursing through his system. Or maybe he's just gotten used to Jackson's epic douchebaggery. "Why not?"

"Did you see it?"

"Yes."

Jackson's breath is hitching in a way that tells Scott that he should brace himself for a long ugly-cry.

"Don't you see?" he asks, obviously panicked. "I did that to him! I'm the reason why he looks like that, why he's never going to have a normal life, why he's never going to fit in."

"Hey," Scott interrupts. "We're a bunch of mythological werebeasts. None of us fit in."

"But you're a pack!"

"You're part of the pack too!" Scott insists, maybe a little bit too defensively to be reassuring. "Derek wants you to be part of the pack. He wants us to stay with them and raise the pup."

"I'm always going to be different from all of you!" Jackson motions to Scott's belly: "We're always going to be different from all of you. You saw that baby, McCall. Maybe when it learns how to shift, it'll be the spitting image of you but for now . . ."

Scott presses the palm of his hand to his belly. Tries to feel the soft little claws that he saw on the ultrasound monitor. Tries to feel the flat nose and the tiny cylindrical tail.

"It's a fucking monster!" Jackson shouts. "It has a fucking tail. And claws. Who the fuck could love that?"

"I could."

The words slip out of Scott's mouth before he's even cognizant of what he's saying. And it's not so much that Scott's saying that he could love the pup (although he might -- who knows?). It's more him saying that he could . . . love Jackson. With the tail. And the claws. And the scales. And everything else that he might come with.

Jackson's really crying now and shaking his head violently back and forth. "I need to get out of here," he gasps.

And he runs.

It's the end of the eighth week and Jackson still hasn't returned to them. Scott understands that maybe he needs some time and some space . . . but Scott's mini-heats have become unbearable without Jackson around to appease them. Like when Scott goes to lie down at night, his mattress actually squishes underneath him -- sopping wet from the slick gushing out from between his legs. He recruits Isaac to go out and buy him a dozen pairs of black sweatpants because everything else is stained with greasy residue within five seconds of him putting them on.

"You need to do something, Scott," Derek tells him.

And Scott glares at Derek. Because they both know what's coming.

Scott manages to hold out ten days before he comes to Derek for help. He's in the final weeks of pregnancy. He's beginning to feel overwhelmed, even a little bit frightened. He can barely shuffle around the warehouse nowadays -- his back and ankles constantly sore and aching. His pecs have begun to swell, becoming painfully tender. When he asks Derek what's happening, his alpha simply responds: "Well, what do you think the pup's going to eat?" And Scott's amazed that he's actually able to maneuver himself to the bathroom before he throws up. Seriously? Breast feeding? But he could deal with all of these new developments . . . if he wasn't alone. It's having to hold himself up all the time, not having anyone else to lean on, that's gnawing away at him.

He misses Jackson.

He misses Jackson more than he ever thought he could miss anyone. But he still manages to make his way over to where Derek's asleep on the floor and gently prod at his shoulder.

"Mmmph?" Derek rolls over to look up at Scott.

"I need help."

He will be thankful forever that Derek doesn't ask for more information. Instead, his alpha gets up off of the floor and leads Scott over to the mattress. If he's disgusted by the squelching sounds that the mattress makes when he sits down, he doesn't show it. Instead, he grasps Scott by the waist and pulls him close, resting his forehead against the now obscenely-large bump. There's so much longing in the way that Derek just holds him there. It's a longing that clearly messages what Derek's thinking: I wish this were mine. Scott doesn't begrudge him those thoughts. He knows that fucking a kanima was probably a strange choice. He knows, even though Derek has never told him, that it's probably traditional for betas in heat to go to their alphas. He knows that, for all intents and purposes, Derek expected that any pups born into the pack would belong to him. That same way Derek always expected that Scott, the honey-eyed beta, would immediately become a member of the pack without any resistance.

Perhaps that's the reason why Derek hasn't said anything. Because he knows that Scott never does what's expected.

He feels Derek's hand reaching around to slip beneath the waistband of his sweatpants. He pushes his hand downward until he feels the slickness between the cheeks of Scott's ass. Scott keens, a high-pitched noise that broadcasts his want throughout the entire warehouse. He feels his hole dilating and a splash of fluid gushes out onto Derek's hand.

"What do you want me to do?" Derek asks roughly, massaging the lubricant into his fingers, marking himself with Scott's scent.

And Scott knows that he shouldn't. Because he's kind of falling in love with Jackson. (Who took off at the worst possible moment so it's kind of his own fault that I'm cheating and . . . Nope, logic not working here, Scott.) But what his mind wants and what his body wants are two completely different things right now and, as the belly that extends far over his thighs clearly shows, he tends to think with his dick.

All the time.

"Inside me," Scott sighs and that's all it takes for Derek to toss him down onto the mattress (squishing and squashing) and crawl between his thighs, shrugging out of his henley and unbuttoning his jeans with one hand. "It's okay," Derek says hurriedly, shimmying out of his jeans and his boxers. "I'm your alpha. I'm allowed to do this. If for whatever reason your mate can't take care of you, I'm supposed to step up and make sure that you're all right."

Derek grabs the backs of Scott's knees and pulls him forward. "I don't think we can . . ." Scott gestures down at his belly, the thin trail of hair that circumnavigates the fleshy sphere down towards his cock. His cock which has hasn't seen in weeks. Which he wouldn't be sure even existed if it wasn't always half-hard nowadays. (Thanks for nothing, heat.)

"Yes, we can," Derek declares, pushing Scott's knees up further until he's almost bent in two. And then Scott knows why he's always pushing out such an inordinate amount of goop during every heat cycle. And Scott knows why his hole always seems to dilate to three times its normal size. Because Derek is fucking huge and making him feel full in a way that Jackson never could. He lets out a shuddering sob that racks his entire body.

"Oh god," he moans, deep in his throat. "Oh fucking god."

He's so full. Full of Derek's cock and full of Jackson's pup. And he's panting and gasping, responding even though the girth and density of his body doesn't really allow him to "arch into Derek's touch" or anything sexy like that. Even though the most he can do is rock back and forth like some inflated beach ball and even that's difficult. But Derek sets up a steady rhythm, fucking him with a ferocity that must be typical of a hyper-aggressive alpha.

"This is why betas should mate with alphas," Derek proclaims, thrusting in so deeply that Scott can feel Derek's cock brushing against his womb. His womb which must be made of fucking steel to allow him to get fucked this deeply and this forcefully without injuring the pup. The pup who sucks on his own tail. The pup who beats his little soft claws against the padded lining of the womb. The pup who has yet to open his squinty little slit-thin eyes and look out at the world. His little boy.

His little kanima.

And yes, it feels good to have Derek inside of him -- but it's not Jackson. And even though Derek's cock stretches him wide open, he misses the whip-quick cleverness of Jackson's tongue and Jackson's tail. It doesn't stop Scott from orgasming, semen coating the underside of his belly, when Derek starts pounding relentlessly into his prostate -- but it does make him miss Jackson all the more.

Derek rolls off of Scott and pulls him close, gathering his beta into his arms. "It's okay," Derek soothes.

Scott hadn't even realized that he'd started crying.

"It's okay." Derek's palm runs over the expanse of Scott's belly. "I'll take care of you. No matter what happens, I'll take care of you."

And Scott knows that he means it.

But it doesn't make it any easier.

Scott wakes up, sopping wet and sobbing with the force of his need. He climbs on top of Derek, who's still half-asleep on the moist sheets, and presses himself down onto his cock. He wails out in desperation, wanting something desperately but not sure exactly what. He wants that fullness again. No, he wants more than that fullness.

Derek's eyes gradually open as he feels himself surrounded by warmth and slickness. He immediately brings his hand around to grasp Scott's hip, pulling him down even farther. Scott drops his head back and moans.

"I need . . ." Scott cries but can't continue because he doesn't know what the fuck he needs.

Derek's eyes widen and he lifts himself up slightly, stilling Scott's jerking movements. He presses the palm of his hand to Scott's belly and that's when Scott feels it:

The kicking.

He can visualize it so clearly in his mind. His pup, beating his little clawed feet against the walls of his womb, trying to get free -- its little tail twitching and flailing and curling up. "Am I . . . Am I going to . . .?"

He can't bring himself to say it. Go into labor. Have a baby. Be a parent.

"No," Derek says. "Not yet. Your body's trying to prepare itself though. It's almost time."

"Prepare?"

"Just keep doing what you're doing. You'll see."

Scott couldn't stop even if the Beacon Hills Police Department descended, guns a-blazin', and threatened him with rape charges. He continues to bounce up and down on Derek's cock, sweat coating the ends of his hair and dripping down into his face. Just as he's about to come, he feels that swelling inside of him once again. He tries to pull away but Derek grabs him, locking him in place. He feels Derek's already massive cock swell and inflate, plugging up his hole. "What's happening?" he asks.

"Knotting."

"This happened when Jackson . . ."

"Yeah, that was to keep the semen inside of you until you conceived a pup."

"But I'm already pregnant."

(Fuck. Werewolf anatomy is confusing.)

"I'm stretching you right now. We're going to stay locked like this for probably the next forty-eight hours."

"What?"

"And every few hours, I'm going to swell a little bit more, which will stretch you out and prepare you for delivery."

"Wait . . . what?" Scott's eyeballs threaten to bulge out of their sockets as he processes what Derek has just said. "You mean, I'm going to . . . I'm going to . . . I'm going to poop out my baby?!"

"How else is it supposed to get out of you?"

And that is just so fucking gross that Scott almost wants to tell his baby to just stay safe and sound, cuddled up inside of his womb, so that it doesn't have to claw its way down his poop chute. He wonders if his baby will come out coated in fecal matter that they'll be cleaning out from under its claws and from inside its bellybutton for weeks to come.

"That is disgusting," Scott comments with the utmost maturity. "Like seriously. Ewww."

With a smug little half-smile, Derek pulls Scott downwards so that they're spooned together on the bed. "It's going to be an intense few days," Derek whispers, his breath warm against the rim of Scott's ear.

"Can't wait," Scott groans, already feeling Derek's cock press outward another few centimeters.

If he thought the idea of being conjoined with Derek was bad before, he thought it was worse about three hours later when the rest of the betas woke up and sought out their alpha. They found the two of them on the mattress, Derek Hale's cock firmly stuck inside of Scott McCall's ass. While Derek explained the physiology of stretching and birthing, Scott prayed to sweet, sweet death to take him away from his unending humiliation.

"So . . . basically . . . you're just going to keep getting bigger until Scott's stretched out enough that the pup can get through?" Boyd at least has the decency to look a little embarrassed by the entire situation. Erica and Isaac, meanwhile, keep staring at the way that Derek's cock pulses and twitches where it meets Scott's opening. Scott guesses that he doesn't blame them. It's like a live-action porno in their own home.

A really fucked-up live-action porno.

Which ends with him pooping out a lizard baby.

So. Fucked. Up.

But at least the betas bring them smoothies every few hours, which keeps them nourished. Around four in the afternoon, Scott starts feeling sore. If he had to judge the size of Derek's cock by feeling alone, he would guess that it's expanded to almost twice its normal size -- about eight inches in diameter. "We still have a long way to go," Derek comments when Scott mentions that he's feeling a little bit uncomfortable.

"How many inches is this thing's head?" Scott asks.

"About twenty."

"No fucking way."

And, as if in unspoken response, he feels Derek's cock twitch and swell another few centimeters -- preparing him for something that will never ever not-in-a-million-years be able to come out of his butt.

Around six in the evening, he begins to feel intense tenderness in his pecs. So much that whenever his nipple brushes against the bed sheet, he unconsciously makes a whimpering sound. He feels Derek reach around him and grasp one firmly in his hand. Scott is shocked -- shocked -- to look down and realize that Derek has one very full palm. He remembers grasping at Allison's breasts like the horny teenage boy that he was. (Was -- way to use the past tense when someone's cock is currently stuck inside your ass.)

Yeah, never had a fist-full like what Derek has now.

He must be a fucking C cup or something. But all of that pales in comparison to the feelings that run through him when Derek squeezes.

And a little dribble of white flows out of his nipple.

"No fucking way."

"You're lactating."

"Yeah, I can see that."

Derek lets go of his . . . breast? And brings his hand back around. Scott turns slightly to watch Derek lick the milk off of his fingers.

"Gross! Don't drink that!"

"Your pup's going to be drinking it soon."

"Yeah, well, it doesn't know any better. You do."

Derek smiles and closes his eyes slightly while his cock pulses and expands some more. He's at about eleven inches now.

Twenty inches. How the fuck am I going to take twenty inches?

Derek and Scott drift in and out of sleep for the rest of the evening. When Scott wakes up, he feels like his ass is about to split in two. No amount of lubricant could ever make what he's feeling all right. He grits his teeth and scrunches up his eyes in pain.

"You have about five more inches to go."

And Scott says something that he never thought he'd say, especially not in this situation:

"I want Jackson."

Derek sighs. And Scott knows that his alpha will take care of him no matter what. But Derek probably wanted to hear something more along the lines of: "Oh Derek, you're so big. I love how you fuck me right."

"I'd be doing this part for you anyway, even if Jackson was here. This is something that, biologically, only alphas can do."

Figures. No wonder Derek was so quick to volunteer when Scott went into heat for the first time. He was going to end up with his cock up inside of Scott anyway.

"But still . . . I want Jackson."

"I know."

By three in the afternoon, he feels like his life is ending. Derek's at almost eighteen inches and has to keep reaching around and squeezing the milk out of him. His belly feels raw and chaffed from being held in such an uncomfortable position for so long. He has cricks in all of his limbs and wants nothing more than to get out of bed and stretch. He keeps crying for no reason at all. (Well, except for the intense pain and discomfort -- and the fact that you're about to poop out that lizard-baby. Can't forget about that.) He barely even notices Erica and Isaac and Boyd going back and forth to bring him cold, wet towels and ice chips. Scott screams and moans and cries.

It's five in the evening when Jackson arrives.

Apparently, Isaac tracked his scent and found him crashing in a motel right outside of Mystic Falls. When Jackson comes into their section of the warehouse, Scott is so far gone that he doesn't even notice. He's shuddering with exertion -- sweat coating his face, muscles convulsing in spasms, breasts and ass both leaking with various fluids. And he's crying -- harder than he can ever remember crying before.

"It's okay," Derek soothes, not even bothering to look up at Jackson, his mind completely focused on his beta.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Jackson shouts -- and that finally gets Scott's attention.

"I'm stretching him, preparing him for delivery," Derek responds, looking up at Jackson with an accusatory scowl. As if to say: Where the fuck have you been for over a week?

"Stretching him with your cock?"

"Yes."

"You came back," Scott says, his voice hoarse and worn.

"Yeah, I came back."

"Are you staying?"

A pause.

"Yeah, I'm staying."

Scott smiles, his head falling back against the pillow. Sweet fucking god, thank you.

"It's time," Derek suddenly announces and, like a pressure valve suddenly was opened, his cock begins to deflate. Scott exhales deeply, feeling the gaping emptiness left behind -- the passage that the pup will soon be pushed down. He reaches out his hand, grabbing blindly, and finds Jackson -- fingers twining around his, palm pressed tightly against his. Finally, Derek's able to pull himself out from Scott, lying flat on his back for the first time in almost two days. Scott sobs with relief.

"It's not over for you yet," Derek says, turning to look at his beta.

And Scott knows that.

It's only beginning.

The first contractions come about fifteen minutes later. Because apparently his body doesn't want to give his hole time to return to its normal size (instead of being stretched out like someone shoved a watermelon up inside of him). Scott's in and out for most of the birthing process, his mind alert enough to register when someone tells him "push" (Derek? Jackson?), but otherwise detached, disengaged, elsewhere. He knows that Jackson never lets go of his hand; he knows that Derek never leaves his side; he knows that Isaac, Erica, and Boyd come and go throughout the process. He knows that there's a lot of pressure -- but nothing that the forty-eight hour stretching session hasn't prepared him for.

He passes out soon after he hears the first sounds of his pup.

It's a shrill, loud chirping.

Of course.

Fucking Beacon Hills.

Scott wakes up a few hours later in a darkened room. He blinks his eyes a few times, trying to get his bearings, before he hears a high-pitched trilling coming from the chair next to his bed. It sounds like a bird -- but more gravelly, more guttural. He turns around and sees Jackson sitting next to him, a bundle wrapped up in his arms. From a gap in the fabric, a little tail hangs -- swinging back and forth, occasionally curling upwards.

Oh my god. It's fucking adorable.

"Hey," Jackson says, when he realizes that Scott's awake.

"Hey."

"Want to see your . . ."

"Son, I guess."

"Yeah, your son."

"Our son."

"Yeah."

Jackson looks inordinately proud of himself as stares down at the little kanima in his arms. So much for it being a monster. "Do you want to hold him?" Jackson asks -- and, for a moment, Scott wants to say "no." No, I don't want to hold him. No, I don't want to look at him. Because if I do that, there's no way that I'm ever going to be able to give him up. And I don't know how we're going to manage as teenage parents to a shape-shifting baby who will need tons of care and attention and support. How are we going to take care of someone else when we can't even take care of ourselves, Jackson?

But he holds his arms out anyway.

And a few seconds later, he's looking at his son for the first time.

FIN