A/N: It's been a long time since I started a multichapter fic that wasn't for a big bang, but what can I say? I was inspired by all the fun Teen Wolf AU fics I've been reading, and figured I'd try my hand at one. This is loosely inspired by Kyo Kara Maoh, but has been changed a lot beyond the initial premise, so even if you've never heard of KKM, you can follow along like anyone else. Enjoy! :D

Title: Flushed
Disclaimer: I own neither Teen Wolf nor Kyo Kara Maoh. Pop-culture references are also not mine. Please don't replicate my silly work without permission.
Warnings: PG-13 for mild language, some violence (of the swords and sorcery variety), some sexual content, bullying, innuendos, anachronisms, some war imagery, mentions of past abuse (Isaac), minor character death, slow buildup of plot, vague spoilers for S2, and creative license taken with both show canons. More to be added as needed.
Other Notes: ~1846/40k. Derek/Stiles, Jackson/Isaac, Boyd/Erica, Scott/Allison, past Derek/Kate, one-sided Stiles/Lydia, Lydia/Peter, etc. Pretty much everyone will either be mentioned or make a full appearance, because I love every single character. Also, other pairings may be implied.
Summary: Sometimes, being a good friend and having sound moral values can suck. In Stiles's case, it sucks him right down the toilet, into a magical alternate universe where he's demon king, has magical powers, and is engaged to a surly prince. ...His dad really should have borrowed parenting tips from the Whittemores.


Chapter One: The Porcelain Throne


Stiles's father is already gone by the time he wakes up, but that's nothing new. The message Stiles overhears on the police-scanner wired to his beat up jeep, however, is.

"Scott, Scott, Scott!" Stiles exclaims, as soon as he sights his best friend peddling into Beacon Hills High School's parking lot. There may be some arm flailing and jumping involved, as well.

"W-what, Stiles?" Scott asks upon arrival, bent in half with his hands on his knees, leaning against his bike.

You'd think he wouldn't be so out of breath anymore, after biking to school for about two years and everywhere else for at least ten, but Stiles blames the asthma, not Scott.

He waits for Scott to regain his bearings and lock his bike onto the nearby stand, before blurting out, "They found a body in the woods," perhaps an octave too loud for comfort. Other students and a couple of teachers stop to stare at them, but Stiles shoos them away. "Nothin' to see here, folks."

"A b-body?" Scott mimes, brown eyes round enough to dwarf his face. He's always been a little slow on the uptake.

Stiles allows him to process the idea for a few seconds, then says, "Yes, Scott, a body. Or, well, half a body. You know what that means, right?"

Scott picks at one of the large pockets on his red hoodie. "Someone died. Maybe they were murdered?"

"A girl, actually, and yeah," Stiles says. He doesn't mean for it to come out callous, as if he's saying 'duh', but good intentions pave the way to hell, or whatever. If nothing else, he thinks he deserves props for not rolling his eyes, as he settles an arm around Scott's shoulders to lead him up the school steps. "It means–" he continues, voice dropping to a furtive whisper, "–that they haven't found the other half yet. They're keeping the search up parties all night and weare gonna help them after school."

Scott sucks in a sharp breath and digs his heels into the marble floor prior Jackson Whittemore's locker. "Stiles, no!"

"Yes," Stiles says, gesticulating wildly again. "This is our chance to become somebodies, even heroes. Don't you wanna be a hero, Scott?"

"I-I guess, but can't it be on the lacrosse field?" Scott inquires, which receives a snort from Stiles. Scott pouts. "No, seriously. I'm gonna make the team this year, I know it."

The determination in his tone gives Stiles pause, then elicits a wan smile, more fond than mocking, despite him recalling the debilitating asthma attack Scott had last year, that knocked him off his feet before tryouts even began.

"If that happens, bro, you'll have to let me in on what kinda magic you worked," Stiles says, "'cause here I was thinking you'd be the Captain America to my Iron Man, but apparently the Scarlet Witch is your real alter ego, eh?"

"No, I–" Scott tints red enough to genuinely pass for 'scarlet', but rough claps against both of their backs silence his defense. His eyes widen again.

"Listen to your Best Freak Forever, McCall," Jackson says, suddenly behind them. He must have arrived to check his locker and had eavesdropped. Stiles wonders how they missed his Clive Christian stink for so long. "Just embrace your inner, PMS-ing super-woman."

Stiles grits his teeth. Only he can tease Scott; that's, like, the first unwritten rule of the Best Freaks Forever code. He shrugs Jackson off and whips around.

Danny and Lydia are at Jackson's rear. The former shoots Stiles an apologetic glance. It's obvious he gets the code, at least. Lydia, on the other hand, doesn't bother to look away from her portable makeup mirror. Any other day, Stiles would take the opportunity to compliment the perfect, precise application of her Cle de Peau lip-gloss, but not now.

"Yeah, Scott, listen," Stiles says. Jackson's fair eyebrows vanish into his hairline, then furrow together, little war trenches, when he continues, "If anyone knows a thing or two about embracing their true self, Jackson. He embraces his inner dick several times a day, in fact. Outer, too."

"Why, you little..." Jackson growls, releasing his grip on the strap of Scott's backpack to reach out for Stiles, who flits out of his grasp, back toward Danny.

"Why, me?" Stiles asks, his own eyebrows arched to play incredulous. "Jackson, dude, employing the tired threats of B-list villains everywhere is a little weak, even for you."

"Stiles, come on," Scott protests feebly, facing Stiles now and flashing him his infamous puppy eyes.

Danny's hands fall on Stiles's shoulders to brace him. "Jackson, you're being an idiot," he says. Stiles attempts to nod in agreement, but Danny's fingers clench and instead evoke a flinch. "Why don't we all head to class? No point being late, right?

Danny's likable, sensible Danny-ness halts Jackson's warpath. He scowls between Scott and Stiles, nostrils flared like he'll breathe fire through them any minute, but relents.

"Fine, let's go," Jackson spits out, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles out of one of his sleeves.

Danny pushes Stiles back to Scott with a gentle shove and beams. Although Stiles loathes to think he could have anything in common with Jackson, he has a feeling Danny's dimples and Scott's puppy eyes reside on a realm of best friend guilt-trippery that nothing else can broach. Danny's dimples have soothed the savage dragon for the moment, anyway.

Lydia hums, however, thumbs quicksilver now on the keypad of her cellphone. "The captain of the lacrosse team, outwitted by a – what did you call him? – freak. That'll make for a charming anecdote one day, hm?"

Even Stiles flinches at that. So close. He thinks she must still be punishing him for his crush on her. For all her incomparable beauty and brains, she can be coldblooded enough that his being unable to help his feelings doesn't matter to her.

"Jackson..." Danny says again, but Jackson's skin drains pale, then flushes rage red all over.

He forces a smirk and his tone is level, but Stiles notices the way his balled fists tremble, knuckles white. "You know what, Lydia? You're right. I think I'mma show Stilinski here exactly what goes down in the locker room, since he's so curious about it."

"Who's curious? George, not me," Stiles definitely does not squeak.

No, he says it with utter masculinity, thank you very much, and squawks with that selfsame machismo when Jackson's fingers close around the collar of his plaid shirt.

"Think of it as a favor. Not like you or McCall will see the inside of the locker room any other way, right?" Jackson says, with a hard jerk to Stiles's shirt that makes him stumble and choke. Other students part in a hurry, a Red Sea of cowards, to let them pass.

"Jackson, come on," Danny calls after them, but doesn't follow.

Lydia finally deigns to look away from her trinkets, up at Stiles. He wants to believe there's a bit of remorse in the sulky purse of her lips. He's always been an optimist, after all.

Scott ends that fantasy, possibly Stiles's very last fantasy, by shouting, "H-hold on, Stiles, I'll get the coach," as if Finstock, who thinks Stiles's name is 'Bilinski', for God's sake, will actually care what his star player-cum-team captain does, so long as it doesn't affect Jackson's ability to score a good goal or three come game night, but dammit, Scott follows the vociferation with a puff of his inhaler, and that's friendship for you.

Too bad Scott's affirmation merely curls Jackson's full lips into a cruel sneer, as he propels Stiles into the dank, dark depths of the boys' locker room, giving his shin a little kick for good measure.

"This is a, uh, nice place," Stiles says. He slaps the gaping door of a proximate locker shut and listens to the resounding clang. "If I had some authority, I'd write it a rave review. An A+. It's a worthy locker room for a worthy team."

Jackson's resultant chuckle huffs warm against the nape of his neck, a startling contrast to the icy cold of his fingertips. "Oh, now you're sucking up to me? Don't'cha think it's a little late?"

At that, Stiles catches his bottom lip between his teeth, abruptly aware that he had being doing that, that he'd actually been kissing Jackson 'Douchebag' Whittemore's ass. Well, imminent pain or not, no more. It's never too late to gather up the remaining vestiges of his pride, because what else would he have, without that?

"Just get on with it, man," he says, taking a deep breath through the mouth to avoid the acrid smell of sweat-socks so early in the morning. "Cut the diva act and do what you're gonna do or get lost, 'cause I've got a chemistry quiz I can't miss today."

Jackson laughs again and gives Stiles a hard shake by his collar. "I thought we'd go sorta old school – do an oldie, but a goodie."

"Elvis?" Stiles inquires, half-hopeful. He'll rock willingly to some King. Jackson doesn't respond, though, so he takes a second stab at it. "You gonna stick me in a locker? I'm flattered if you think I have the figure for it, but really, I don't."

"Nah," Jackson replies, as he pulls Stiles, backwards, out of the hall of lockers and into the shower area. "We'll try that some other time, when McCall isn't there to play tattletale, 'mkay?"

Rather than push Stiles into one of the empty shower stalls, he corners him into the only stall with a toilet, built for last minute emergencies before games. Stiles's jaw drops at the revelation.

"Hey, er, Jackson, pal, buddy, you don't wanna do that," he says, trying to poise his palms against the walls on either side of him. "What if you get pee on your Polo or something? Cologne can't mask that, no matter how pricey, ya know?"

"I'll take the risk, thanks." Jackson's fingers inch up to octopus around Stiles's scalp and thrust him forward.

Stiles takes a moment to thank whatever deity is listening – whatever dick deity it may be, who obviously prefers cheekbones that cut diamonds over decent guys like him – that the toilet seems recently cleaned and has been freshly flushed. It emits a faint, lemony scent. Lysol, baby.

Stiles barely has enough time to observe that and nothing more. He doesn't even get to screw his eyes shut or properly hold his breath, before he's immersed in a mire of rancid water, which proceeds to whirl around his face, a miniature cyclone.

He hears Scott yell his name in the distance, emphasized by the thud of footsteps, but it's too late, too far away, and his vision pitches black.

His last thought is, "Death by swirly. What a shitty way to die."

Literally.


To Be Continued!


A/N: This chapter was a pretty standard introduction, an AU of the pilot, but things start to shake up from the next one on. Hope you're having fun. Let me know what you thought? More soon. :)