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Stiles knows immediately what’s happened, knows in the bubble of warmth in his gut and the sting of blood in his nose and the fading scent of Alpha, the growing scent of Beta. He makes a show of fake fear when Scott’s eyes first flash the soft gold of wolf, fights the urge to bare his own fangs, to press them against Scott’s skin like a comforting hand on a shoulder.
He makes sure to slather himself in as many scents as he can, pretends to trip and catches himself on a discarded plate of spaghetti in the cafeteria, walks through a cloud of horrid perfume, smears a drop of hand soap down the length of his torso. He skips chemistry and hides out in the bathroom, puts an out of order sign on the door, locks it behind him. A wet growl escapes him, mouth stretching around insistent fangs and he drags his tongue over one, swirls it around, impales it sharply to feel the rush of pain and the flow of foreign blood in his mouth.
It calms him enough that he makes it through the rest of the day void of the urge to rub his lack of scent into Scott’s soft puppy fur but he knows he needs to feed, needs to feel his father’s steadying hand on the back of his neck, needs to be forced not to reveal their secret until they know they’re safe.
He snuggles into his father’s side that night, carefully grasps the smooth dark skinned arm offered to him, lets a copious amount of venom flood his mouth as he bites to turn the pain into soft tingles, to turn the instinctual panic into slow drifting contentment.