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Anonymous asked:oh man, I would read melissa/peter so hard. Like a Mobster!AU with him initially just dating her to fuck with Scott, then just getting *fascinated* with her ruthless side and before he know it, she's halfway running the business and all Peter can do and sit back watch the queen conquer. *pelvic thrusts*

Peter doesn’t think much of Melissa at first. Because she’s a nurse - we’ve seen the respect Peter has for medical professionals - because she’s a single mom with a teenage son, because she seems tired, ordinary and pedestrian and boring, the kind of person Peter picks up to play around with, to fuck with Scott’s head, to make Scott angry. To cause suffering just because he can. Peter doesn’t really get enough of that on the business side of things these days - once you get a certain reputation people are afraid to step out of line; and you can’t just hurt people whenever you want, you can’t get a reputation for being crazy, right? - so he amuses himself where he can. He thinks Melissa is the ticket, for now (IDK how he knows Scott - maybe he’s a low-level messenger boy, trying to make some money as not-illegally as he can; maybe he lifts some ketamine from Dr. Deaton’s now and again; maybe Scott just knows who Peter is because Stiles’s dad is a cop. “He’s a criminal, Mom!” Scott hisses, and Peter raises his wine glass with a smirk. “Alleged criminal. Such an important distinction to make, don’t you think?” and Melissa admonishes Scott about his manners.) 

But Melissa doesn’t even accept when he first asks her out on a date.

Which. I’m sorry?

She smiles at him, pretty and sweet and just a touch apologetic, thanks but no thanks, you’re not really my type, I don’t think we’d suit, rushing him along and back out the hospital door before Peter knows which way is up, and he’s standing there, stunned, on the sidewalk.

and lbr, Peter is contrary enough to enjoy a no. Particularly one that came in such nice packaging and left his head spinning.

Thus begins the great seduction, flowers - which immediately go to patient’s rooms in the ICU - chocolates - carefully distributed among some of the children’s wards and the nursing home - little things he think she’d like, which are always sent back with apologetic notes (until, maybe there’s something that does catch her eye, something she really does want for herself. a little spiral charm on a thin silver chain?). and when she finally does accept - dinner! - Peter goes to pull out all the stops. The nicest restaurant in town, the nicest table. And Derek and Isaac are looking at Peter all WTF, raising their eyebrows and glancing at each other, like, what is even happening here? 

also Melissa totally hits that on their first date because hello, this was all just foreplay. Melissa has needs. 

and one night Peter goes back to Melissa’s apartment, bleeding from a run-in with one of the other businessmen in town, and Melissa pulls out an alarmingly well-fitted first aid kit. because what is she, an idiot? she works at the city hospital. She knows who the Hales are. and Peter probably falls in love there, not just infatuation, not just an interest in the game, but falls in love sitting in Melissa’s bathtub, blood swirling over the cheap fiberglass and down the drain, while she stitches him up in her fuzzy pjs. 

Scott hates Peter on sight, and the loathing only grows, even though Peter is totally involved in being the best stepdaddy ever. he buys him a nice new motorcycle for his sixteenth birthday, which Scott stubbornly refuses even though the one he can afford is a total piece of crap. 

"It’s good that he wants to make it on his own," Peter says, diplomatic, and Melissa sighs. 

Also! Scott and Stiles meeting Derek, Peter’s nephew and right hand man! Which goes about as well as can be expected, and all Hale-McCall events leave Derek twitchy and Scott sullen, because Derek doesn’t really know what to do with his new pseudo-cousin - the same things that work with Cora don’t work with Scott, like showing off knives, or scars. arm wrestling! - and Scott doesn’t want any part of this. At all. 

"Derek can’t follow me," Peter tells Melissa one night. "He doesn’t —"

"He doesn’t have the killer instinct," Melissa says, and Peter nods. Of course she sees it. Derek is great at what he does - looking scary, being scary, rough and angry and ready to crack a head when that’s what needs to be done. But he doesn’t have vision. Cora might be a suitable replacement, and Derek would be loyal to her. But Peter would be lying if he said that Scott wasn’t part of Melissa’s appeal. Perhaps Peter could win him over one day; Derek would be loyal to Scott too. Already is, all on his own. 

SO OKAY Melissa first starts taking over the hospital-doctor side of things, the drugs and the back-alley surgeons, all the little things Peter used to do to keep doctors, the administrators, the donors in his pockets.  And she’s very good at it - the gladhanding, smoothing over all the little bumps in the road; the logistics, what goes where and with who and when. She’s nice and pretty and pleasant, which is good enough for some; and when it isn’t she has a stomach for blood. She doesn’t skim off the top, she doesn’t need any product of her own to keep her going. So while it starts there, it’s certainly not where it ends. Once Scott graduates high school she quits her nursing job, marries her rich, attractive fiance, and doesn’t look back. 

who rule the world? MELISSA MCCALL COULD.

Chapter Text

Stiles is a commitment-phobe who meets the perfect guy, Derek Hale! He’s strong and bulky and weirdly sensitive emotions-wise and he’s got incredibly beautiful eyes and he thinks Stiles is great! Basically Stiles’s number one requirement! Stuff between them is getting serious when Stiles becomes convinced Derek is the Black Widow, a serial killer who murders his wives/husbands (Erica, Boyd, Isaac, sob sob sob). Stiles’s best friend Scott and his dad the Sheriff both tell him he’s being ridiculous, the Black Widow Murderer isn’t even a thing, its tabloid trash, but Stiles is CONVINCED because it ALL MAKES SENSE. Victim #1 was a leather enthusiastic! Derek loves leather!! Victim #2 worked at an ice rink! Derek know way too much about Zambonis!! Victim #3 lived in California! Derek lives in California!

"You need to see a therapist," Scott says, happily married to his wife of three years and expecting an adorable baby and pretty much well-adjusted in every way.

 

Stiles gets even more freaked out when Derek has a nightmare and moans out the name ‘Kate’! Disturbingly! What if he was remembering MURDERING HER? Stiles probably starts acting so squirrely that Derek breaks up with him preemptively. Which Stiles should be glad about, right? He doesn’t want to date a murderer! At least not one whose going to murderer HIM!!!

Then of course the Sheriff calls Stiles up and says that a precinct down in San Jose has a man in custody confessing to being the Black Widow killer. Scott gives Stiles one of his patented I-told-you-so looks, andStiles immediately runs to Derek’s place and begs Derek to take him back - he’s going to see a therapist, he promises, he got all freaked out ‘cause he was thinking of proposing, he’s an idiot, seriously. And Derek looks at him really seriously, because Stiles hurt him, he doesn’t open up that easily; and Stiles nods because he knows, shit, he knows, he’s so sorry.

They go back to dating, tentatively, and Derek introduces Stiles to his family - Laura and Cora and creepy Uncle Peter, who always seems to be around — who all think Stiles is just the cutest but tease him mercilessly, because obviously he needs to run through the gauntlet. And then they run into Kate at the farmer’s market, who turns out to be Derek’s evil ex! Totally normal! Everyone has an evil ex! God knows Stiles still has nightmares about Jackson! 

goddamn, Stiles thinks, I am so in love with you. only it turns out he said that part mostly out loud, and he proposes in the middle of Taco Tuesday.

The wedding is beautiful, and there’s probably still a bagpipe player because why not.

THEN on the way to the honeymoon - a lovely little b&b on the top of the mountain. in the woods. in the middle of nowhere - Derek starts getting quieter and quieter, and his eyebrows do that… thing.

"You okay?" Stiles asks, and Derek grips the steering wheel tighter and tighter.

MEANWHILE the Sheriff calls Scott in a panic, because the supposed Black Widow killer turns out to be a total nutjob who also confesses to kill Abe Lincoln, JFK, and Joan Fontaine.

Scott pauses. “Who?” and then WHO CARES because OH MY GOD, Stiles was right, Derek IS the Black Widow Murderer! They have to warn Stiles! They call him on his cell but the service is so bad only a few garbled words get through.

"Was that Scott?" Derek asks. 

"Yeppp," Stiles says. He’s pretty sure he heard the words Black Widow, and the hand sliding his phone back into his pants shakes. "Even on my honeymoon. What a dork!"

Stiles tries to dodge the two of them ending up alone - “Are you sure you don’t want dessert? They have creme brûlée!” but IT DOESN’T WORK and soon enough Stiles and Derek are in the honeymoon suite allll alone.

"I have something to tell you," Derek says hesitantly, after locking the door behind them. "I’ve - Stiles, I’ve been married before," and Stiles freaks out because HOLY SHIT. DEREK IS THE BLACK WIDOW. He flips out and manages to lock Derek in the closet, mostly through the element of surprise but also thanks to a few moves Allison had shown him once upon a time, thanks Ally, Stiles is going to get you a REALLY nice birthday present this year.

"Stiles!" Derek shouts, banging at the slatted closet doors. "Stiles, behind you!"

When Stiles turns around, Peter is there. With a giant AX. Holy shitsnacks.

Peter proceeds to take a few swings at Stiles and monologue like the old white dude he is, about all of Derek’s spouses taking Derek away from him, about how Derek was his, about how his plan was so clever - killing the husbands/wives, disposing of their bodies, leaving ‘Dear Derek’ letters behind to make Derek feel like an unloveable failure. Which - wow, that almost worked.

And then Stiles pushes Peter out a window because fucking villains and their dramatic monologues.

And he lets Derek out of the closet (heh), and the Sheriff and Scott show up in time to be really confused but glad that Stiles is still okay, and oh, Derek isn’t the Black Widow Killer? That’s great buddy, we’re gonna haul Peter’s broken body into custody, enjoy the rest of your honeymoon.

(long story short, everyone should watch So I Married An Axe Murderer and sub Peter in for Rose, its HYSTERICAL)

Chapter Text

"You know why you’re here," Deaton says, grave, and Scott can’t bring himself to say anything. Only nod.

He’s just a few weeks out of Quantico, a junior agent. Still green. He shouldn’t be assigned to a task force like this. On the off chance he was — is — he shouldn’t be doing anything besides pulling files, mapping out the details seniors agents don’t have the time for, mopping up the mess that gets littered behind them.

"The bodies," Scott says. "It’s Stiles."

| |

You tend to spend a lot of time reexamining your childhood when the kid you grew up with turns out to be a serial killer. Were there signs? Was there something you should have seen? Not even as a trained FBI agent, but as a person. How can you not have noticed? What kind of person were you? The large, dark woods Stiles’s pets kept disappearing into — the days he spent at his mother’s grave, like it was his favorite place in the world. You were his only friend, and was that part of the problem, or the design?

On the worse days Scott wonders if there was something he could have done. If he’d been a better friend. If he’d been a little better at protecting Stiles from bullies, asthma be damned. If he’d gotten Stiles some help.

Dr. Morrell says that’s normal. The questioning, the guilt, the 20/20 in hindsight. And Special Agent Scott McCall knows the Stiles was antisocial long before he slipped into psychopathy. Knows, now, that Stiles’s mother was his first victim.

He knows more about Stiles than anyone else on this planet, and now Scott’s going to use it to find him.

| |

"I don’t deserve it," Scott says. "The chance, I mean." It’s the kind of thing his father would say.

Deaton’s hand is heavy on his shoulder. “You’re going to help us catch a killer.”

I’m going to help you catch my best friend, Scott doesn’t say. It’s stupid to still think of him that way anyway.

Chapter Text

Ro: So I was just thinking on fake husbands and how it’d be perfect because a relationship seems more real when it’s not perfect, right? they can like each other, but not too much, you feel me?

1001 cranes: right. like, Peter’s eye rolls and Stiles’s snipping. it seems real because - well, it is, in a way. weird coupley fights but also hand holding and Peter being super proprietary and Stiles coming up with ridiculous nicknames to watch Peter’s eyebrows quirk.

Ro:

Peter’s hands are under his shirt — not where people can see it, and certainly where they wouldn’t need to be. They’re sitting next to each other at dinner, and Peter’s fingers just creep along his waistline, scratching claws lightly against the dip of his spine. It makes concentrating on the conversation remarkably difficult, so Stiles sits back hard in his chair. Peter’s hand snaps away.

1001 cranes: also please tell me there is bed sharing for ~authenticity~

Ro: ALWAYS. SCENT MARKING. STILES HAVING TO WANDER AROUND THE HOTEL ROOM IN PETER’S CLOTHES

1001 cranes: oh, are there werewolves involved? BECAUSE I WOULD READ ABOUT HAVING TO COME ON ONE ANOTHER. YOU CAN’T TELL ME THAT SCENT JUST WASHES AWAY. bed sharing and morning wood. that’s all I need.

Ro: WELL IN THAT CASE

Stiles wakes up to Peter’s fingers squeezing at his waist, petting over his hip, and he goes tense in response. Peter merely hums and nuzzles at the back of his neck.

"We’ll have to work on that response," he says.

"I don’t want to get used to you touching me," Stiles whispers.

"You’ll have to," Peter replies, hand scooping in front of his belly and hugging him close. Stiles curls up, feeling vulnerable, and Peter’s hand moves down, forcing him to lay out with his elbow while his hand finds exactly what Stiles was hoping he wouldn’t. "Ah, what’s this," Peter says lightly. He rumbles warmly. "I know. Opportunity.”

Stiles expects for Peter to jerk him off right then and there. He’s done it before and left Stiles feeling off-kilter and embarrassed. But just as a humiliated noise starts building in his chest, Peter turns them, hefting Stiles into his lap.

"Time to take advantage of what the day has given us," Peter says.

Stiles sputters. “What?”

Peter guides Stiles hands between his legs. “Come on me,” he says.

1001 cranes: Stiles probably gets way, way too turned on by that and Peter can tell

Ro:

"Fuck, seriously?" Stiles breathes, grabbing his dick way too readily.

Peter slides his thumb along the underside of Stiles’ cock and rubs around the tip before bringing it to his mouth, licking it clean. “Do I really need to spell it out for you?”

He doesn’t. Stiles knows why it’s a big deal without having to ask. He knows about scent marking and Peter’s given him all the nasty little details about the different ways it can be done. But when he’s got his dick pointed toward Peter’s throat and his hand moving over his length, it’s hard to keep the facts at the forefront of his mind.

Frankly, he gets caught up in the dark, expectant look in Peter’s eyes. The way he lifts his chin and licks his lips. The way his fingers tighten around Stiles’ hips, giving encouraging squeezes that make Stiles’ cock jerk. Peter’s face starts to turn red, the longer it takes for Stiles to come — like he’s waiting, like he’s holding his breath for it.

"I’m close," Stiles whispers, too aware that their hotel room probably has werewolves on either side.

Peter shudders underneath him, throat bobbing as he swallows. When Stiles finally comes, the white streaks straight up Peter’s throat to his chin, laying starkly against the dark flush of his skin. It slides thickly down either side and puddles in the hollow between his collarbones.

"Fuck," Stiles breathes and before he knows it, he’s got his hand on Peter’s chest, smearing the come that had gotten on his fingers all over the skin that’s rising and falling hard with Peter’s breathing.

1001 cranes: pretty sure the way to Stiles’s heart is, in fact, through his dick. by which I mean indulging any and all of his (self) destructive tendencies

Ro:

Stiles is… he’s rubbing his come into Peter’s skin. He’s got his hand all over Peter’s neck. He pushes his softening dick against Peter’s belly. “Was…” He shivers. “Was that good? Enough, I mean?”

1001 cranes: Stiles clamoring for attention and vindication  - Stiles is the neediest little thing, I think - look at the way he bothers Danny, ffs, and Danny doesn’t even LIKE him

Ro: man i think it’d be easy for peter to just finger him right there until stiles comes on him again. just lick his fingers and press them in until stiles is braced and trembling above him. breathing hard while his dick fills out and hardens against his breastbone

1001 cranes: one of my favorite things is just… when characters get WRECKED, you know what I mean? Overwhelmed, and tired, and shivering. Full of blind need. I would like Peter to WRECK Stiles, do you know what I’m saying. that is all I want from life

Ro: SO ORGASMS APLENTY

1001 cranes: ALL THE ORGASMS

Ro: MARATHON SEX

1001 cranes: and in the beginning Peter is smart enough to be only a LITTLE selfish - he can’t be selfLESS, Stiles would suspect that more than anything - so it’s one orgasm for him to ever two or three for Stiles. insisting that Stiles wear his scent, his clothes, his closeness

Ro: STILES WOULD MELT OVER THIS PERCEIVED GENEROSITY someone wanting him? hell yes

1001 cranes: wanting him and being NICE about it? like - sometimes when he fantasizes about Lydia, he recognizes the only way it’s going to happen is if she uses him, one and done, because she wanted to. people like Lydia, like Danny, they don’t want to DATE him. Peter is pretending to be WEREWOLF MARRIED TO HIM. it’s hard to fight that, deep down

Ro: because he wants it. and fuck it, it feels good and god stiles is all over getting to come on peter, getting his cock sucked by peter, getting to touch and kiss peter all he wants. stiles has never been able to figure out all the different things he likes in sex. there’s only so much that he can do on his own, only so many limits he can find before his hand gets tired. peter is merciless in his pursuit of getting stiles to come his brains out, even when stiles thinks he couldn’t possibly. surely stiles has worn out his dick, but then peter just holds him down and slides his fingers in and milks stiles’ prostate until his orgasm slides weakly out of him with a whimper

1001 cranes: I mean, Peter is TRYING but oh, the energy of youth. and I think Stiles breaks down and begs Peter to fuck him almost as a DEFENSE. surely that’s the only thing left, right, holding Peter’s attention? the thing that might distract him

Ro: but even that’s something that’s great for stiles. even when peter’s rutting into him, face tucked into stiles’ neck, mouthing hot and wet — panting really while stiles has his legs splayed  wide around peter’s waist. he’s getting the pounding of his life right here, no doubt, and all he can do is take it. hold on to peter — his hair, fingers digging lines over his back

1001 cranes: Peter whispering things in his ear in between bites. carefully digging his teeth into Stiles’s shoulder, his wiry biceps. probably hard enough to bruise, for everyone else to see. Whispered threats about keeping him. Are they threats? Stiles can’t keep up.

1001 cranes: and maybe this added layer of real/not real to everything they do and say. can the werewolves next door hear them? the ones passing by in the halls?

Ro: the answer is yes. how could they not with peter making stiles cry out like this?

1001 cranes: Peter also tells Stiles that — that everyone can hear him.

Ro: it makes stiles quiver underneath him, shaking with how much he likes it

1001 cranes: Stiles hates that, ugh, hates liking it, hates that weird little nose quiver when werewolves scent Peter on him. hates being marked, and owned. by which I mean he loves it, and hates that he does and Peter is damned smug about it.

Ro: must be quite the consolation that peter is covered with the scent of his come. after all there’s got to be loads of it. he came the most, between the two of them. the bed is smeared with it

1001 cranes: Peter comments on THAT too. maybe they shouldn’t let housekeeping change the sheets. keep the smell in them for a day or two. come back to Stiles’s crusted mess. Stiles is blushing furiously, his face, his chest, the back of his neck. when he pinks up Peter wants to eat him.

Ro: it’s disastrous, being in this hotel, being here with peter. it all just builds up until stiles is riled up — angry at peter for putting him in this position, angry at himself for liking it, angry at his body for betraying him every. step. of the way. and peter, who was just playing before — he’d be lying if he said he minded being paired up with stiles. he’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy the way stiles responds to him, touches him, pushes him — makes him want to give as good as he gets

1001 cranes: I want Stiles to just BREAK - yell at Peter, and call him names, and try to punch him even though he knows it’s only going to feel like he broke his own goddamn hand, and get so overwhelmed with it he’s got hot angry tears building up in the corners of his eyes

Ro: ugh what does peter do. does he comfort him? does he kiss the tears and then kiss stiles?

1001 cranes: and I can’t decide - Peter either takes it, the yelling and the punching, until Stiles calms down enough for Peter to make a cutting remark about his little adolescent temper tantrum, ‘this is what I get for choosing a mate still in high school’, pulling their asses out of the fire but also not pulling any punches - or holding Stiles down on the bed while he struggles, until the fights all out of him, and Peter snuggles up against Stiles and Stiles just lets him because god, he’d probably cuddle GERARD right now, fuck, if it was human(ish) contact, holding Stiles close and wiping away his tears and murmuring soothing things

Ro: let’s be real, it’s probably a mixture. taking it and then making a cutting remark before he hustles stiles to the bed and force cuddles him while making backhanded compliments. and then slow love making where stiles comes so hard he cries again

1001 cranes:

"I’m sorry," Stiles says, after, drowsy. "Sorry," slurred out against Peter’s chest.

"I know," Peter’s clever fingers running through Stiles’s hair. Stirring up the scent. "I know, sweet boy."

Ro: this would be the last night where they have to fake it or maybe the night before, so that they have a full day afterward where they have to be all over each other.

1001 cranes: is Stiles worried about what happens after?

Ro: i should think so. i would be, if i’d been set up in a fake relationship with someone who was a practiced liar

1001 cranes: also he’s a little pissed that he’s worried about that to begin with. what happened to LOATHING this?

Ro: stiles thrives on knowing things. he wishes he could know peter. if maybe his kisses are a little hesitant that last day, if he shakes, stiles pretends he doesn’t notice

1001 cranes: does Stiles push, a little? wait it’s Stiles. of course he pushes. sooooo yeah, he… I don’t know, what do you think would push Peter’s buttons?

Ro: i thought first that maybe stiles would suggest something more permanent. something peter would avoid because of their actual circumstances. it’s something that helps peter remember the fine line he’s walking. a few hickeys here and there are nothing. a bit of scent marking, no matter how many days it lasts, will eventually fade. does peter ever think of biting stiles? he couldn’t turn stiles anymore but—

1001 cranes: probably only ALL THE TIME. Peter is the type who can appreciate scars. he understands the price of them, the permanence. at least for humans.

Ro: even if peter didn’t actually bite stiles, maybe just dragging his teeth — his real teeth — across stiles’ flesh

"you’ve been holding out on me," stiles whispers. "don’t."

1001 cranes: ain’t no difference between beta and alpha teeth, really. Stiles has imagined this before

Ro: if stiles thought he was wrecked before, well… and then maybe he’s quiet on the drive home

1001 cranes: even Peter knows Stiles being quiet is baddddd

Ro: he thinks, it was a good act while they had it. a dream that couldn’t survive beacon hills. under normal circumstances, peter wouldn’t want it — he wouldn’t say the things he’d said to stiles when they were safely away from the rest of the pack. even if he did want it, deep down somewhere, peter surely wouldn’t risk it, too aware of how it would rock the boat, shaking whatever fragile truce he has with derek and scott especially.

1001 cranes: because ‘tolerated’ is really the best label for how the pack feels about Peter

Ro: to be fair, peter’s thoughts aren’t much different. stiles is willing to do a lot of things for the sake of the pack and peter had happily taken advantage. but those last couple nights had especially shaken him. they both try so firmly to fit back into their usual swing of things. for weeks it persists, an awkward play of themselves.

stiles never thought he’d be so terrible at pretending to be himself. fighting every urge and instinct he has to lean into peter or touch him or greet him with a kiss, and peter’s pretending he doesn’t know that stiles stretching out like that means that tonight would be a good night to fuck.

1001 cranes: the jittery tap of his fingers on the table that Peter knows justthe cure for

Ro: and then they’re left behind again while the rest of the pack goes off to fight something. business as usual, that. they get into an argument too, except that stiles and peter both are holding back, and peter sees that it’s pissing stiles off even more. stiles just clenches his teeth and hides a retort and doesn’t say anything. they were so close to it feeling normal again, and then stiles’ gaze drops down to look at peter’s mouth.

"oh fuck it," peter snarls and then he’s picking stiles up and laying him out over the table and climbing on the edge after him, squeezing between stiles’ legs and kissing him stupid

1001 cranes: "you still —" stiles blurts out, cutting himself off a little too late, because god, could he be more of a terrible, romance novel heroine?

Ro: "don’t be deliberately obtuse, stiles. it’s not attractive," peter says and then promptly shoves his hand into stiles’ pants

1001 cranes: Stiles momentarily thinks about defending himself - he’s neverdeliberately obtuse, thanks; which also doesn’t sound like a great defense - but Peter’s knuckles scrape over the curve of his Stiles’s belly, Peter’s fingers sliding down to wrap around his cock

Ro: it’s a little alarming just how much the scent of stiles’ come puts peter at ease — near pavlovian.

Ro: ugh peter fucking stiles and staying in him for the duration of his supernaturally short refractory period and then fucking him all over again

1001 cranes: and Stiles whimpering while he does it because he’s all out of PRACTICE, now.

Ro: and now they have to take the effort of dodging stiles’ father. most of the pack too, lbr. they’d have to hole up in peter’s apartment if they wanted to fuck. the rest of the time, it’s frantic handjobs and blowies or peter’s fingers circling around his hole until he’s on the verge of embarrassing himself

1001 cranes: peter likes that. likes rimming Stiles until he cries, too

Ro: likes risking a little bit of fang around the furled skin. the way it makes stiles jolt and then push back for more. maybe he gives stiles the key to his apartment and gets surprised every now and then when he comes back to stiles on his bed or his sofa or anywhere really.

"fuck me against the door," stiles whispers filthily into peter’s mouth. "wanna— ah," he gasps. "wanna make this place reek of me. drive you crazy."

peter doesn’t tell him that his apartment already smells obscenely like stiles

AND THEN THEY LIVE HAPPILY EVER AFTER OR SOMETHING

Chapter Text

Stiles practically lives at Peter’s apartment, draped over whatever piece of furniture is closet, lounging and languid and never quite asleep or awake. Derek comes over every few days, open hand outstretched, and Peter raises an eyebrow. 

"Hmm," Derek says, and sighs, and throws his jacket over the back of the couch.

"Derekkk," Stiles says. He stretches it out a new way every time. "Derek, Derek, Derek. You’re back."

"I am." He lowers himself on top of Stiles, carefully, and Stiles squirms underneath him. "Sore?" 

"Nah," Stiles says. He pulls at the back of Derek’s shirt, yanks it up over Derek’s head while Derek shrugs out of it. "Are you gonna fuck me? You should fuck me." 

Derek glances at Peter, who says nothing, does nothing. Sometimes he wants Derek to blow Stile, or Stiles to blow Derek, though it might generally be more apt to say Derek fucks Stiles’s face. Fucking seems to have tentative approval for now. No one would ever say Peter isn’t capricious. 

"I’ll fuck you," Derek says. The word always stumbles out over his lips, barely used, uncertain, but Stiles smiles anyway.

Stiles’s unbuttoned jeans pull off easily, and underneath them Stiles is still a little slick. Recently fucked, though by Peter or by someone else, Derek doesn’t know. He doesn’t know if this — if what Peter wants him to do is just because its Derek, or because of Stiles. Or both. Derek’s not sure what one of those choices he finds more disturbing. And in the end, it doesn’t matter. Derek needs his fix. Peter will give it to him. 

"Mm," Stiles says, barely bothering to open his eyes. "I’m good, I promise," and he goes for the front of Derek’s jeans while Derek leans down the kiss him, tilting Stiles’s head back and his mouth open to tongue-fuck him, to put on a show. "You’re — Derek, c’mon," and yanking Derek’s jeans down, fumbling to pull Derek’s cock out of his underwear, stroking him to full hardness. "Come on come on come on," and Peter chuckles. 

It’s not exactly a slow fuck, but it’s forceful; pulling nearly all the way out and slamming back in, Stiles laid out on the sofa like a little rag doll, moaning and whining, arching his back while Derek holds him down with one hand around Stiles’s neck. Stiles doesn’t come until after, until Derek jerks him off, still holding him down.

Derek steps back into his clothes and takes the baggie Peter holds out for him. A few grams. Enough.

"Bye, Derek," Stiles says, sleepily. He’s sitting up a little now, scratching at his tousled hair, still naked. "See you around, dude."

"See you around," Peter echoes, mocking, and Derek doesn’t look back when the door shuts behind him.

 


 

Peter makes sure to get up and bolt the door. It’s a nice enough apartment but a shitty neighborhood, as befits his needs. You never know who might be on the lookout for trouble. ”Well,” he says. “Derek was certainly angry today.” It’s a joke, in a sense. Derek has a very limited emotional palate of angry, depressed, remorseful, resigned, self-loathing and very occasionally jittery, when he manages to stay away long enough to get the shakes.

"Hm. You won’t like him when he’s angry?" Stiles laughs, and then shakes his head. "I do, though. I like him when he’s angry. Very… rawrrr." Stiles makes little clawing motions in the air, and Peter smirks. "He tries so hard not to look at you.”

"I know," Peter says. There’s triumph there, but something like sadness too.

"Come here," Stiles says. He’s sitting up on the coach, back against one of the arms, which is high and plushy. Good for sitting against or getting fucked over, because Peter considers the possibility of all his pleasures. "Come heeeeere," he insists again, and Peter finishes his moping by the door to join Stiles on the couch. "Come see what your big dumb nephew did to me this time."

Peter rolls his eyes as if the whole thing is beneath him, as if he isn’t dying to come over and press his hands where Derek’s have been, put his mouth where Derek’s was, fuck Stiles the way Derek fucked Stiles all while Stiles tells how it felt, how Derek smelled, how gentle he was, how kind, even though the muscles in his back were tight under Stiles’s hands. Derek is always so nice, never takes it out on Stiles, even though it would be easy too, fucking his uncle’s doped up little slut —

Peter growls.

"He was so tense," Stiles murmurs, smoothly switching tracks. Peter’s mouth is on Stiles’s neck but his eyes flick to Stiles’s face, watching him carefully. "He’s tense every time, you know, like he just needs - I think he just needs someone to care for him, you know? He’s—”

"All alone," Peter finishes. Stiles is carefully spread out beneath him now, on display, though Derek rarely leaves any permanent marks. 

"Yep." Stiles lets the ‘p’ on the end pop, drawn out. "He should let us take care of him," and Peter makes a noise like a wounded animal when he comes.

Chapter Text

 

consider rule63!stiles bringing home successively older men and the sheriff just sees where this is going tries to mentally prepare himself for the day when the men she brings home will be his age

Stiles starts with Derek - older, though not too much, not terribly unlike other teenage girls, if the Sheriff is being honest. He’s been on the end of more than one angry phone call from a parent, wanting to know about stat rape charges, can they get some kind of restraining order? John doesn’t go that far. Mostly because he knows Derek is a decent guy underneath the leather get-up; because Stiles is smart; because she’s already seventeen anyway. There’s nothing he can prove. There’s only so much he can do, and certainly none of it without ruining his relationship with Stiles.

In her sophomore year its her TA. 

In her junior year its her professor. 

By her senior year they’ve mutually agreed not to talk about it, that John won’t be meeting them; that if Stiles is going to spend Spring Break with them in Vermont or New Year’s in Aspen or anywhere or anything else, she’ll just say she won’t be coming home.

There are nice guys your age, John wants to tell her. Look at Scott, look at Boyd. Hell, he almost has fuzzy feelings about Derek these days. 

John tends to think its his fault. He went off the rails a little after her mother died. He had a tendency to use alcohol as a crutch, out of sight but not out of mind. He wasn’t always a great father. She’s looking for some kind of… replacement. Someone older, someone who seems steady. Someone she probably calls daddy in bed, Christ.

It’s something he thinks about when he’s been drinking. Something he always wants to ask but never does, thumb hovering over her name on his cell phone screen. 

The holidays where she does come home and while he doesn’t ask why she isn’t with her… boyfriend, she offers up this instead: that she isn’t sure they’re what she’s looking for, that there’s only one man she needs in her life.

John just doesn’t know how to take that. It’s a puzzle he’s spent too much time over, been to close to. He can’t tell if he’s starting to really understand or just mashing the pieces together.

"Dad." Stiles sighs. "Daddy.” She gets up from where she’s sitting opposite him at the kitchen table. She made him scrambled fake eggs, but real bacon. He should have seen something coming.

"Stiles, I—" The air in the room feels thick.

"You know," she says. She’s got her lips pursed out like she’s summoning up her resolve. Holding back tears, or trying not to get angry. "You know. You can’t pretend you don’t know. I hate that. I hate when you - why don’t you just say what you’re thinking?”

It’s on the tip of his tongue, but it means the loss of everything if he’s wrong.

"I was never as brave as you," he says instead.

 She pulls his almost-empty plate away from him with the tip of her finger and then comes around the table, leans against its edge — so close to him that her knees are barely a finger’s breadth away from touching his thigh. 

"Do you need me to be brave for you?" she asks, voice so soft that John nearly swallows his tongue. "I can— I want to. You know that, right?”

"You were always the brave one,” he says, a half-hearted dodge. Bravery was never her problem. She went looking for insects, stray dogs, dead bodies. She snuck into crime scenes and leafed through cold case files and somehow always had information she shouldn’t have. She never looked before she leapt, and John was always trying to keep her from the edge of the cliff. 

This doesn’t feel like a cliff. Is there such a thing as a cliff, if the bottom’s already fallen out?

"C’mere," he says, just like when she was a child. "Come sit on Daddy’s lap." 

Chapter Text

so for some reason all the Teen Wolf crew was at a party, and Stiles was drunk off his ass because I feel this is something he does. he thinks he’s like, bigger than he is, or that he handles his alcohol better, and all of a sudden its like, whoops, octopus Stiles all over everything. 

only this time Scott wasn’t around, right, probably because he’s off making out with Allison, the traitorous rat bastard, and SOMEHOW Jackson is the one dragging Stiles somewhere to sleep it off - home, or just upstairs to a bed, I don’t know - but clearly Stiles is, indeed, a human octopus, so Jackson is getting groped a little all up the stairs, and he’s definitelygetting groped when he puts Stiles to bed - Stiles is just like, mmmm snuggles, snuggles sound good, body heat is THE BEST, and it would probably end with Jackson running away - running away from his FEELINGS, the FEELINGS IN HIS PANTS - but it could also end cute, like, Jackson just sighs and shuts the fuck up and cuddles - somehow I think Danny has trained him a little, at this point, like, dude, get in touch with your emotions and accept the goddamn hug because fuck knows that Jackson probably cannot actually accept a goddamn hug, goddamn it Jackson - so he ends up in bed with Stilinkski, how is this his life, he did not sign up for this.

or it could also end really dirty.

because if you don’t think Stiles would be okay with just about anything stuck in his mouth, YOU ARE WRONG.

I mean, it could be mostly Jackson’s fault. Like, Stiles is just so - still, when he’s drunk. He doesn’t make any more sense than usual, but he’s not flying around like he usually is, doing a dozen random things, like he’s got more limbs than other people. And he’s so - pretty, really, it curdles something in Jackson’s stomach - probably something ridiculously expensive he stole from his dad’s liquor cabinet, because why not - Stilinski’s so pretty, big dumb eyes and soft dumb mouth and when he’s drunk he not-sarcastically calls Jackson ‘Jacks’ like they’re friends, like they’re anything, and Jackson kisses him to shut him up, just to see if it would work, and Stiles makes this sweet surprised sound, and he’s so warm, and he latches onto Jackson like a limpet, and I think they make out for forevvvvvvver and maybe just fall asleep there, or rub up against one another, and when they wake up in the morning all curled around one another, Stiles still clinging to Jackson, wrapped up all around him, Jackson is the one who is like “jesus, stilinski, I have to piss,” and Stiles wakes up and like FREEZES, holy shit holy shit holy shit, until he realizes Jackson is laughing at him - and not like his evil prince jock laughter, either, its like liquid sunshine, okay, happy laughter that Stiles has never heard from Jackson before, ever, and boom, like getting hit with a freight train of love and holy shit his life just got complicated.

BUT ALSO same beginning scenario but with Stiles grabbing for Jackson’s drink - practically fellating it, jesus, and Jackson should be trying to take it away because a) its his drink and b) Stilinkski has had more than enough, but its weirdly freakishly hot, and Jackson figures he’ll let it slide until he gets Stilinski into bed. At least it keeps him distracted. But when he tries to take the bottle back, Stiles slides his mouth over Jackson’s fingers instead.

And that’s - 

Weird.

Surprising.

Hot.

Jackson tries to shake it off, that thought - pulls his hand away, pushes Stiles onto the bed. Once Stiles is there he just flops back, drifting off.

But Jackson can’t quite shake that thought.

Can’t quite shake it.

He gets halfway to the door and starts back again. Back to the door. Locks it. 

Sits on the edge of the bed.

Watches Stiles doze. Not quite awake, not quite asleep. Eyes closed but moving a little. Restless. His body is all loose and lax but he’s still drunk, not quite passed out, not quite a doze.

And Jackson sets one thumb to the plush of Stiles’s bottom lip. Just - sets it there. To rest.

And Stiles’s tongue flashes out, lightning quick. Wet. Sends a shock up the base of Jackson’s spine. Gets him hard.

(loooooooook I just have a really vivid picture of Stiles sucking Jackson’s thumb - sucking his own thumb, because come on, Stiles is the most horrendously orally fixated person in the world, he probably never stopped, and Jackson has no fucking clue why this is turning him on, no fucking clue that it would ever turn him on, no place of reference, lost at sexual sea)


so sucking Jackson’s thumb, sucking on Jackson’s fingers, and Jackson watching Stiles’s mouth work around him. He can’t even explain why, except maybe Stiles mouth is finally being put to good use after all these years. But Stiles is so loose and pliant - so easy - it barely takes any effort to pull off Stiles’s pants, to push his legs apart, and Stiles goes back to sucking his own thumb, sucksucksuck, soothing and perfectly distracting and satisfying, Jackson can’t fucking take it, he can’t - he groans, he shoves his fingers into Stiles’s ass, hard and not nearly wet enough, but Stiles just moans a little around his own fingers, and Jackson has to reach down and grab hold of himself, hard, so he won’t come.


and - 
Jackson opens Stiles up, uses spit, uses his fingers, maybe no lube because Jackson didn’t bring Stiles to his bedroom, just upstairs to the guest, and Stiles hasn’t actually done this before, and Stiles - he’s drunk but he’s not dead, he’s moaning constantly, little uhn uhn uhn noises that slip out around his thumb, make him such harder, and Jackson watches the hollow in his cheeks as he sucks. 

and Jackson fucks the shit out of him, okay.

it’s epic.

it’s brutal.

it’s a wonder the poor kid can walk the next day, probably

but Stiles gets off, Jackson fucking him as hard as he can, hands on hips hard enough to bruise - and Stiles still gets off, still sucking his thumb, curled on his side, and that’s what makes Jackson go, in the end, the self-satisfied little sigh, the way Stiles’s thumb pops free of his mouth for a moment. covered in spit. 

Chapter Text

Charlie grabs India’s hand to steady her, and that she needs to take it surprises her. Her clumsiness surprises her. She has a strong sense of balance, her eyes and ears and her body’s sense of space usually working in tandem. Her ankles are strong, her calves especially, but the elongation of them, the pronounced pressure of standing on her toes - 

It’s new. As new as breaking in any pair of shoes, and as different as wearing shoes for the first time entirely. She reminds herself: it’s new.

He keeps looking up at her as he kneels, a smile that is not a smile on his face. He is the picture of a saint: the bright light streaming down from above to hit upon his head, the fervor in his eyes, the name on his lips.

"India," he says, and he presses his face into her skirt, open-mouthed. She feels the heat, and the moisture, and she hears the rustle of fabric when he breathes in. There are a myriad of scents she keeps so close to her: the mostly inoffensive laundry detergent, hypoallergenic and as ostentatiously expensive as the rest of the house; the chiffon of her skirt, the soft and thread worn cotton underwear; her skin, like dust and blood; her pubic hair, like warmth and sweat; and the strong, sharp scent of where she is growing wet in the part of her legs.

She realizes he is still holding her hand, and she untangles her fingers to move them through his hair. His hair feels different from the fur of an animal, different from Whip’s hair, different from India’s or her mother’s, and when he moans it echoes through her body, through her bones. 

He touches her ankles again, her shins, her calves, her knees, her thighs. First with her hands, and then with his mouth. She could name every muscle, she’s sure she could, she’s certain she knows them, and the bones and tendons underneath besides, but their names feel far from her when his head disappears under her rucked up skirt. 

He pulls her underwear off as reverently as he put the shoes on. 

Chapter Text

ohhh, i really like your ideas for chris/rule63!stiles. mostly because i like chris being well aware scott will know he totally got stiles off. like "oh, you don't want me to fuck your best friend? well i don't want you to fuck my daughter. funny how these things keep happening."

 

it’s sort of extra dirty if you imagine its early to mid-S1 and Chris knows / suspects Scott is a werewolf, but its not out in the open. Stiles doesn’t really put all the pieces together until its a bit too late, like - she’s making all these whining noises, she’s kind of loud, she is, and Chris is sitting next to her with the lopsided little smirk he gets, crinkled up eyes; one arm around her shoulders, the other in between her legs, his thumb stroking over her clit and two fingers inside her, where she is wet, opened up and making all these slick noises every time Chris moves, and oh fuck, Scott can probably hear this, shit, Scott’s going to be able to smell this at the very least, this is the most awkward Stiles’s life has ever been, and yet — there’s nothing to gain from stopping is there? and Stiles honestly can’t come up with much of an excuse, like, hey, get away from my vagina pre-orgasm, it’s been fun but I don’t want to have too much fun so she lets Chris Argent, Allison’s married dad, werewolf hunter, dude who once shot her best friend with a crossbow bring her off at the kitchen table while she bites down on her hand hard enough to bruise.

meanwhile Scott is upstairs, hearing everything and trying not to but he can’t stop - the only thing worse than staying up here and listening would be to go downstairs and catch them in the act, oh my God

Chapter Text

Melissa and John’s present had been the honeymoon to Hawaii, prepaid and all-included. It had seemed stupid to waste, after everything, and Stiles had already taken the next two weeks off of work anyway.

"Do you think I should—?" he’d started to ask, looking at his already packed bag parked near the door, and Scott had brightened.

"Dude, absolutely! Just let me buy my ticket!"

And that was that.


"I can’t believe I didn’t see this coming," Stiles said. He slurped noisily on his straw, chasing one of the chunks of pineapple that had fallen to the bottom of the glass. The bartender was giving him looks but fuck that guy anyway. 

Scott slapped him on the back in sympathy. “I mean, I think we all sort of saw it coming? And then… chose to ignore it.”

"I was surprised she agreed to marry me in the first place!" Stiles had loved Malia - loved how mischievous she was, her ‘rules what rules?’ attitude, her complete disregard for most social mores - and they’d matched, that way. But Stiles was a homebody, when you got right down to it, tethered to his dad and his house and Scott, and Malia had never stayed in any one place for more than a year. She had an estranged dad, a dubious job history, and a beat-up Rocker C - Stiles wasn’t sure she even filed taxes. But she’d picked Stiles up at the bar where she’d worked and fucking blown him away, right from the beginning, she’d stayed, she’d stayed for a two years in Beacon Hills, she’d said yes when he asked.

And then he’d woken up alone the morning of his wedding, a note settled under his mother’s ring on the kitchen table.

Scott was intently studying his drink.

Stiles sighed. “You were all so surprised, I know.”

Well—”

"Next time someone is about to leave me at the alter, you have my permission to tell me and crush my feelings." 

"I think Allison had to physically hold Lydia back at one point," Scott confessed, guilty.

Stiles gently let his head rest on the bartop. 

"Isn’t that—"

"It is so sticky and gross,” Stiles said, muffled, and groaned again.


"I am officially declaring this the worst honeymoon ever," Stiles said. 

The guy next to him raised an eyebrow without looking up from his book.

"I don’t have the coordination for surfing, if I spend more than ten minutes in the sun I turn into a lobster, and my tongue is doing that weird fuzzy thing from all the pineapple. I like pineapple, but why is it in everything?” Never mind that whatever delicious fruity drink was currently sitting at Stiles’s elbow probably had pineapple in it somewhere.

"At least your husband’s hot," Eyebrows said after a pause, and tilted his head towards where Scott was frolicking in the waves. Frolicking. Who does that. "Congratulations." 

He did look hot, Stiles had to admit, even if the thought of tapping his best bro made him feel a little weird, and not in the good way.

"That’s my best friend," he said. "My fiancee left me at the altar. Well. No. She at least had the decency to leave the morning of the wedding rather than pulling a runaway bride, so I guess there’s that."

This time Eyebrows snorted. Then looked a little stricken. 

Stiles waved it off. “Go ahead, laugh at my pain. Why are you stuck in this sandy tourist trap?” A nice tourist trap, sure, but Beacon Hills was next to wine country. Stiles recognized some of the characteristics.

"I capped out my vacation time," Eyebrows said. It came out mostly sulky. "My sister thinks I need to learn to relax."

"You totally seem like the relaxed type," Stiles said earnestly, widening his eyes, and he was at least 73% he saw Eyebrows fight back a smirk.

Chapter Text

Will does it because if Beverly tries to hook him up with any more of her cop friends he’s going to scream.

He might also have been a little drunk.

Temporary Boyfriend Needed - 

I’m intelligent, decently good-looking, not a serial killer - har har, Will thinks - but I’m not great with eye contact and my day job is gruesome and involves law enforcement, which really cuts down on my dating opportunities. My friends think I’m going to die alone eaten by my dogs. I’m looking for someone to show up with me to a few departmental parties, and to have a few drinks with my friends. Absolutely no strings. 

That was only the first paragraph.

"Ugh," Will says, and goes to look for more aspirin.


His email is full of responses, most of which are horrifying in both grammar and content, many of which contain obscene pictures. There are a few better ones, but they seem to come mostly from college students - boys too nice and too flighty to even pretend to date someone like Will. It wouldn’t be worth the teasing he’d get from Beverly.

There is one that’s… well.

I find your proposition intriguing, the email begins, and I believe we may be able to help one another. I am a doctor of psychiatry and often consult for the FBI, so not only will 'gruesome' topics of conversation not rattle me, but I, too, have little time for relationships, to the worry of my peers.

Payment would not be necessary - Will winced a little. He had insinuated he’d be willing to offer as much near the end of his post. He’d been thinking perhaps a grad student would see, someone intelligent, short on money, willing to give up a little of their time - but if we are both amenable I would not mind a companion for some social events. The Baltimore high society circle, as intelligent and well-bred as it might be, can become rather repetitive and tedious. 

Will skimmed the rest of the email - a bit wordy, maybe, florid, but -

"Hannibal Lecter," Will said aloud. And after a moment, he hesitantly clicked ‘Reply.’ 

Chapter Text

some of Erica’s friends are looking for a wedding planner, Cora texts him one day. you free Thursday morning? 11?

Derek sighs, checks his schedule, and texts back y but no friend discounts

fine fine I owe you one


Stiles and Allison turn out to be one of the cutest couples Derek has seen in a long time. Allison shows up first, in jeans and a bright red sweater, and insists on paying for his coffee. 

"Don’t worry," she says, and flashes a dazzling smile. "Cora told us about your initial fee too."

Derek finds himself unusually charmed. “I can probably waive that for a friend,” he finds himself saying, and her smile grows wider.

"I won’t tell Erica," she says. "Or Cora."

"You have met my sister,” he says dryly, and they're both still laughing when Stiles walks in.

"Should I be worried about this?" he asks, a smirk curling the corner of his mouth. Derek has dealt with his share of macho posturing from grooms who can’t handle a male wedding planner, but this guy is relaxed. Only a joke. "Stiles," he says, holding out his hand. Derek shakes it, mentally correcting the list in his head from Scott and Allison to Stiles and Allison. This is why Cora doesn’t work with people.

"Oh, go get some coffee," Allison says, and he swoops down to kiss her on the cheek. 

They look good together, Derek decides. 

Over the rest of the meeting he finds out that Allison giggles where Stiles snorts, and she likes to smack him on the arm when he makes off-color jokes. “Jesus Christ, woman,” Stiles would say, “Put the guns away,” and Allison would laugh again. 

They seemed relatively in-tune about what they want for the wedding - Allison has most of the vision, with Stiles popping in on what he felt was important - and their budget for the big day was respectable, both of which always make Derek’s job easier. 

That Derek finds Stiles really, really attractive shouldn’t throw that much of a wrench in the works.  


If Derek was being honest, he’d probably had a crush by the end of the first meeting. By the end of the second, he was smitten. And by the end of the third, he’d seriously considered passing the wedding on to one of his sisters. Derek generally handled the day-to-day meetings, while Cora handled the venders and inventory and Laura the financials, but either of them would have stepped in if he’d asked. Derek had done it before - sometimes grooms couldn’t handle a male wedding planner, whether they felt threatened by his presence or because they couldn’t stop making offensive jokes - but Derek didn’t want to have to explain that he couldn’t handle it because he wanted to fuck the groom into next week. His romantic history was already enough of a family joke. 


"Okay," Derek said. This was their fourth meeting, though the first where Derek and Stiles had met alone, while Allison was out of town on business. "You’ve finalized the guest list?"

"Yep!" Stiles said, the last consonant popping out of his mouth with force. "It’s a long list, but most of Allison’s family lives in France so we’re thinking those are polite invitations they’ll mostly turn down? I think at last count the list was a hundred-fifty-ish, but we’re expecting a lot of no’s."

Derek turned back to his computer screen. “Well, you can generally assume 25% of guests won’t actually come to the wedding. If you’re really counting on most of Allison’s family not coming… this part near the top?”

"Yeah," Stiles said, tapping the paper, and Derek was unfortunately, excruciatingly aware of how close Stiles’s fingers were to his. "We’re basically assuming anyone with a last name of Argent or Brisbois isn’t going to come, excluding Allison’s actual parents."

Derek tilted his head. “Are significant others included in the list? Are you planning on offering plus-ones to the single names?” 

"I’m pretty sure Allison noted all the SOs. I’d say most of our friends and family are paired off?" Stiles’s brow furrowed. "There might be a few plus ones, hm."

"That still leaves us with… about a hundred-twenty guests. Which is good, based on what Allison told me she wanted for the ceremony and the reception space." In Derek’s opinion, anything in the hundred to two hundred range was the sweet spot. Smaller and larger were difficult both in terms of location and dealing with the venders. 

"Great!" Stiles said, and beamed. "Man, I’d never forgive myself if I screwed this up."

"It’s fine if the list changes a little," Derek offered. "Right now we’re just trying to find a reception space to reserve so the Save-The-Dates can be sent out. We’ll worry about the set in stone invitation list closer to the wedding, when the caterer and the reception staff will need to know an exact count. I’ll make some calls about availability this afternoon, and I’ll email you and Allison." Derek flipped to the ‘Reception’ tab. "You were aiming for sometime next fall?"

"Yeah, or winter, if need be."

"A Saturday?"

"That’s best, right?" 

"Generally. Especially if anyone needs to travel." Saturday ceremony, Friday rehearsal dinner, Derek wrote. ”It’s a coveted time, but fall and winter are less popular than summer, and we’re far enough north that we don’t get much wedding spillover from the cities.”

"Good ole Beacon Hills," Stiles said, and leaned back in his chair until the front legs came off the floor. The movement tugged his shirt up just a little, and Derek hated himself for looking.

He resolutely turned back to his computer. “You should still move fast,” he warned. ”I’ll check availability tonight, and then I recommend you and Allison clear up some time for us to check the spaces out in person.”

"Oh." Stiles said. He leaned forward, and chair went back into place with a clunk. "Can we push that back about three weeks, or is that asking for trouble? I know we have to book a lot of stuff really far in advance, but Scott won’t be home until then."

Derek paused. “Scott… McCall?”

Stiles raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

"Oh." Derek had never planned around the best man specifically, but from what Stiles and Allison had let slip in their meetings thus far, Stiles and Scott had met in the sandbox and been inseparable ever since. Derek had had one couple who consulted their astrologer before making every decision, so he could work with this. “Well, three weeks shouldn’t be the end of the world, but the sooner you can put the deposit on a location the better. I’ve been five minutes too late before.” And hadn’t that led to a breakdown of epic proportions. Derek involuntarily shuddered.

Stiles shrugged. “I’ll talk to Allison, but I think she’ll want to wait for Scott too. I know he kind of gave us the go-ahead on getting the ball rolling, but I think he’d like to have some actual input on where he’s getting married.”

Derek blinked. 

"Dude." Stiles was squinting at him and frowning. "Are you okay? I’m not sure exactly what your eyebrows just did, but it looked almost painful."

"Scott is getting married," Derek said slowly. 

Now Stiles looked genuinely concerned. “Yes.”

"Scott is getting married… to Allison?"

"Yes?" 

"I thought he was the best man," Derek said faintly. He’d certainly heard the name Scott, over the past few weeks —

I’m the best man!” Stiles said. “Scott’s in Doctors Without Borders? I thought Cora told you? He’s been in Bolivia for the last six months, and Allison wanted to get the wedding plans on track so they didn’t have to push the wedding back again…”

"That… makes sense." That makes so much sense. Stiles and Allison had always been comfortable with one another, but never overly affectionate, never sexy, for lack of a better word. Derek had thought they’d just been that kind of couple, but. “Oh my god that makes so much sense.”

"You though Allison and I…?"

"You showed up to the wedding meetings!"

"Yeah, as like. Scott’s proxy.”

"I didn’t know that!" Derek hissed, and then ran his hand over his face. Jesus. Jesus, this whole meeting had gone off the rails in the space of three minutes. "I’m sorry, excuse me, I’m just rattled."

"I see that," Stiles said, and suddenly he looked amused again. "I thought Cora explained everything, but -"

"Do you know Cora?” Derek asked. People had described Derek as taciturn from kindergarten on, but Cora was like a steel vault when it came to personal information. 

"Point."

They sat in silence for a moment.

"So."

"So." Derek cleared his throat. "Then, uh, yes, I don’t think waiting a few more weeks is a problem."

"Cool." Stiles drummed his fingers. "Do you want to go on a date with me?"

This time Derek’s eyebrows almost shot off his face.

"I had a hard time reading you before. Like, you seemed interested sometimes, but overall professional? Which is fine, we’re having professional meetings, you’re planning my best friend’s wedding for what is a goddamn obscene amount of money - uh, sorry - so I could see why you didn’t want to waste time or whatever, but now that I realize you thought I was gettingmarried, I’m just gonna go for it.” Stiles took a deep breath. “So. Date?”

"Date. I - yes, definitely," Derek said. And the realizes, holy shit, “let’s never tell Cora about this.”

Never.”


Cora eventually gets Derek drunk and pries it out of him, but it does make for a great speech at their wedding. 

Chapter Text

You must be Stiles.

When Peter first meets Stiles - meets again, meets in the present, the future-present, that sharp divide between the place where Stiles visited and the place he comes from, with a fire in the middle - he can tell Stiles can’t remember. That it isn't Peter’s Stiles yet. Peter sees it, too; the shorter hair, the wider eyes, the gangliness of a body not yet grown into. A body that hasn’t proved it’s worth. A body that doesn’t know it’s limits. This Stiles isn’t as close to the edge as his Stiles was, worn down, worn in. Not his Stiles at all. 

And so Peter waits - quite patiently, he’d like to think, though he finds it harder than all the years before it. Like an eternal Christmas Eve, and in the meantime Peter is trying to be ever so good a boy. Is there something he has to do, he wonders? Does he only have to wait? Will there ever be a his Stiles, a different kind of monster in human clothing, or has that Stiles been written over, erased? Does Peter have only the bare bones of this Stiles to love? Is the Stiles that traveled back in time only one of a multitude of potentialities, a singular possibility lost in the universal shuffle? Peter has always recognized the poetry of physics, even if it was never his native language. 

But it does happen eventually. Peter knows the minute he sees him, that Stiles is back. Or is it here for the first time? There’s something in his eyes that shines a little brighter, a fever, and he looks at Peter as though he hasn’t seen him in years.

Nearly twenty years, to be precise. 

The smile on Peter’s face threatens to split it open. "You must be Stiles,“ he says again, and the pack’s confusion when Stiles launches himself into Peter’s arms is nothing, at all, now that they are here together.

Chapter Text

(Peter opening his door to Stiles without thinking about it, because it looks like Stiles and smells like Stiles and trips over the doorframe as it comes in just like Stiles, and Peter doesn’t go out of his way to help Team True Alpha but he doesn’t need to overly antagonize them either, and he and Stiles have barely exchanged their usual barbed greetings before Peter smells electricity, like a thunderstorm has suddenly sprouted in his living room, and by then its too late)

Stiles shouldn’t be stronger than Peter, but he is. Peter knows that he’s weaker now than he was before his death, but he’s hardly gotten weaker since his return — certainly not enough to account for the way Stiles is able to throw him across the room, throw him down, hold him down

“Nothing personal,” Stiles says, easy and soft and casual. “You’re just in my way.”

Stiles’s new, improved, and not exactly human strength is a clue, but ‘nothing personal’ is what really seals it - everything is personal with Stiles, he’s incapable of impersonal. Not the same way Scott is (bleeding heart, huddled masses, blah blah blah), but because Stiles delineates between yours and mine so very clearly. He couldn’t give less of a fuck if you’re not on his radar, and he wouldn’t waste a second thinking about the consequences of burning the world down around you if you were. Peter has never discounted this happening, precisely, but in this scenario either Peter is personal, or this is Not Stiles.

And if this isn’t Stiles, then what? Who?

“Then again,” Not-Stiles ponders. His hand tightens thoughtfully on the back of Peter’s neck, edging Peter’s face a fraction closer to the floor as he keeps one of Peter’s arms pulled behind his back. “Then again, it’s not like you’re out to stop me, are you? Perhaps you could be of use.”

Peter struggles, but Not-Stiles’ grip is absolute. It feels like it digs in deeper, past the skin — sliding into his nerves, into his bones, into his brain and crushing the resistance right out of him.

Not-Stiles clicks his tongue. “Behave,” he says, “or I’ll change my mind again.”

“Maybe if I knew who or what I was supposed to be helping.” Peter wheezes a little when he says it. Whatever’s on top of him is strong, strong and heavy, magical, too much shoved into too little a space. Ozone after a storm. “I don’t do anything blind, and if there’s anything left of Stiles up there, you’d know that.”

Not-Stiles pauses. “Yes. Yes, you’re - mercenary.” It almost sounds like a compliment. The hand on the back of Peter’s neck curls, gently. Nearly a caress. “I think there are quite a few things we could offer you.”

Peter would feel better bargaining if his face wasn’t still a second from getting smashed against his hardwood floors. “For?”

“Your cooperation,” Not-Stiles clarifies quite patiently, “in exchange for your life.”

Peter huffs a laugh — politely. It wouldn’t serve him to piss off something so powerful, even if it grates at his nerves for it to be wrapped up in a form so innocuous. “It would be suspicious if I turned up dead.”

“That would require something left of you being found,” Not-Stiles replies. “All we want you to do is be yourself. Take advantage of the opportunities we give you.”

Not-Stiles’ grip slackens slightly, shifting to scoop across the front of Peter’s throat. He swallows against the curve of Stiles’ fingers and ends up looking up into eyes that seem the same but for the chilly lack of feeling behind them.

“What’s keeping me from telling anyone the truth?”

Not-Stiles barely manages a shift in expression. “Who would believe you?”

Peter snorts. “I doubt you’ve been as careful as you think.” Not Stiles’s strength was a clue, certainly, but in retrospect even coming over here alone, at night, wasn’t particularly run of the mill. “You’re not - very much like him, when you’re like this.”

“He’s so wonderfully capricious, this Stiles,” Not-Stiles says instead, and smiles. It looks like Stiles, Peter can admit. Enough like Stiles. “And so human, so delicate. Prone to acting irrationally. You might be surprised at what we’ve already gotten away with in front of his friends. Even the Alpha.” 

There’s a slyness to his tone that is quite a bit like Stiles - but, then, they’re sharing the same vocal chords right now, aren’t they? Bound to be similarities. 

"Clever,” Peter says instead, because a bit of flattery never hurt either. “When you say ‘opportunities’…”

Not-Stiles tightens his grip on Peter’s wrist and twists his arm up by a fraction, to the point of hurt. He’s not a complete idiot, then. Cooperation hardly means surrender, and strength doesn’t mean that Not-Stiles is invulnerable to a werewolf’s claws.

The hand across Peter’s throat slides up until there’s a thumb pressing under the swell of his lip. “Nothing you wouldn’t seize naturally,” Not-Stiles says. “Though perhaps we could be persuaded to give you something you wouldn’t otherwise receive.”

Peter, very carefully, does not blink. 

The hand twisting his arm loosens, and Peter’s fingers twinge, spasm. He flexes them discreetly, his wrist still loosely circled by Not Stiles iron fingers, and does his best not to bare his teeth. He’s not sure it works.

“We like this body,” Not Stiles says. “It suits our purposes. But it is not the only one we could possess." Translation: kill Stiles and we’ll be back to kill you. "And I imagine the Alpha would be quite angry at the murder of his best friend,” Not Stiles continues, off-hand. “You’ve never been very good at cleaning the blood from your hands, have you?”

“No,” Peter says shortly. With a singular exception, he’s always been quite proud of his kills. “I think I see your point.”

Not Stiles smiles again. His thumb, the one resting just under Peter’s lip, slides up to press just where his mouth parts. “I think you’ve missed it entirely.”

“The point?” Peter echoes.

Not Stiles hums, stepping away and around him. Peter rocks forward on his knees at being so abruptly released and catches himself with a splay of his fingers across the floor. There’s an emptiness behind him that feels like a vacuum of space – a palpable absence that had once been occupied entirely.

“We’re here to be persuaded,” Not Stiles says. He taps lightly at his brow, smirking as he drops into a chair. His legs kick out in a loose sprawl, all long limbs and carelessness. “Stiles remembers you suggesting that you were quite good at persuasion once.”

The little shit, Peter thinks, and Not Stiles reads his irritation, somehow. It only seems to make him more amused. 

“Did he tell you that himself?” Peter asks. The hair on the back of his neck is still raised, hackles up, even though Not Stiles is across the room.

Not Stiles shrugs. “He’s more forthcoming about certain subjects than others. He tends to remember you very clearly. Your hands on his wrist, the back of his neck.” Something in Not Stiles’s eyes flickers. “Your mouth.”

“Really.” Peter narrows his eyes, suspicious and not wholly satisfied by what’s being offered.

“We could prove it to you,” Not Stiles says, beckoning Peter with a crook of his finger.

Peter shuffles forward on his knees, which seems to please Not Stiles. Peter’s imagined moments like this before without harboring any hope that it would ever happen — the idea of his hands on the inside of Stiles’ knees, spreading his legs wide enough to let Peter settle between them.

Not Stiles threads his fingers through Peter’s hair, cupping the back of his head. His other hand slides down the front of his body, pulling up his the hem of his shirt before flicking open the top button of his jeans. The zipper drags roughly open from the pressure of having a hand shoved underneath. Peter drags in a heady breath, tempted.

Above him, Not Stiles’ eyes flutter as he sighs, body rolling as he brings himself pleasure. His heart stutters as its beat kicks up, and his breath goes rough, and he tosses his head to the side, cheeks turning pink—

Peter,” he whispers, twitching abruptly and blinking as if waking from a dream. His fingers tighten briefly in Peter’s hair.

Peter licks his lips and waits.

“Peter?”

And that’s —

That’s Stiles’s voice.

Not Not-Stiles, borrowing Stiles’s vocal chords and throat and tongue and lips and none of his words or sarcasm but Stiles, the weird way he pushes out what he’s saying, the way he licks his lips. His slow blink of confusion, the way he shakes his head as if to clear the cloud of disbelief - Oh. Oh, but whatever has its hooks in Not-Stiles is clever

“Stiles,” Peter says, and runs his hands from the inside of Stiles’s knees higher, up his thighs, holding onto his hips. Thumbs catching in the top of Stiles’s jeans and pulling, slightly. 

 

Chapter Text

two peters of the same age or older and younger peter, is the question.

oh man, I bet Stiles would trust younger Peter almost instinctively, even as he says he doesn’t trust either of them. Younger Peter doesn’t seem that bad, can’t be, twenty years younger, no fire, no scars, no murder. Still with yellow eyes.

he couldn’t be that bad, stiles reasons. he hasn’t killed anyone. even if younger peter seems sort of disingenuous sometimes, he smiles more and laughs louder….

Younger Peter can keep up with Stiles, with his wisecracking, with his frenetic and occasionally irritating energy. Younger Peter wants to catch up on the last fifteen years of Batman movies, wants to learn how to play xbox. Fills the spaces that Scott seems to leave behind more and more often.

Stiles can’t believe how easy he made everything. How easily he fell for it.

He should have been suspicious, probably. Older Peter hadn’t really needed to do anything at all. Sure, Stiles had seen him exchanging glances with Younger Peter — that strange mental connection that came with being the same person, no matter how many years apart. Stiles shouldn’t have been surprised that they were after the same thing in the end.

Younger Peter still enjoyed the thrill of a hunt. Older Peter had more patience. He could let his younger self do all the work.

And Stiles… He’d been primed to be the perfect prey.

Stiles’s blind spot had been figuring out what (Older) Peter was after. Getting Scott in his pack, by hook or by crook? Sure. Becoming the Alpha again? Obviously. Driving a wedge between Stiles and the rest of the pack, Younger Peter inserting himself into Scott and Stiles’s friendship, using Stiles’s spark for his own nefarious purposes - all possibilities Stiles had considered. Had guarded himself against.

Finding himself sandwich between naked Older Peter and naked Younger Peter was not something he had considered.

Not that he’s complaining! Really! Of all the consequences of keeping an eye on these two, this is easily one that Stiles has the least problem with. In theory, anyway — because even though he’s got one Peter kissing up the front of his throat and the other dragging his claws lightly over Stiles’ belly from behind — Stiles is pretty sure he knows where this is heading. 

And ah… Well… he’s not all that certain that they’ll fit.

“Not at first, no,” one of the Peters says silkily - has to be Older Peter, Stiles thinks, Younger Peter doesn’t have the tone down yet. “We’re notjust going to fuck you, Stiles.”

"We have a little more finesse than that,” Younger Peter adds, and presses another kiss to the side of Stiles’s throat.

“Reassuring,” Stiles says, and tries not to think of why it actually is.

The two Peters together are even more than what Stiles thought they would be. The younger one is fast, eager, a smidge rougher, more careless — like he’s not here, really, to do anything but show off that he can make Stiles shout and claw at the sheets.

Older Peter is more methodical. He’s exacting. He slow and purposefully, and he drives Stiles so crazy that he begs for more. Older Peter is here to make Stiles admit that he wants this. He takes enjoyment from breaking down what little resistance Stiles had in him.

“Okay,” Stiles says, “okay okay okay,” trying to blink the sweat out of his eyes. Younger Peter has him pinned, one of his hands easily holding both of Stiles’s arms behind his back. “I think you both need to fuck me now.” He’s already had two orgasms - one with each Peter - and if they decide to get into a contest over who’s better at making Stiles’s come like a geyser and lose all rational thought, Stiles isn’t sure he would survive that little display of dominance. “I’m ready, I’m good.”

“Oh?” Older Peter asks. He tilts Stiles’s face up, towards his own. Tantalizingly close.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, though he’s still catching his breath from the second one. “Don’t tell me you’re backing out now.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Younger Peter murmurs, and Older Peter just smiles, leaning in to kiss him languidly while the other slides back inside him.

He’s so fucked out that there isn’t even a stretch anymore. It feels good, regardless, to have something filling him up, and Stiles moans softly against Peter’s mouth.

“Good,” Older Peter says, “Good boy.” He could be talking to Stiles or to his younger self, Stiles thinks - Peter seems self-centered enough to not even find it weird. Behind him, Younger Peter goes still, pressed firmly inside Stiles, as Peter lubes up his fingers again. Runs them gently around where Stiles’s rim as Stiles tense up, instinctively.

“Let me in, let me in,” Older Peter teases, and Younger Peter’s snigger sends little shockwaves up and down Stiles’s spine.

Chapter Text

Peter’s spending a perfectly pleasant evening basking in the presence of Derek’s continued self-hatred and the increasingly obvious ineptness of the three betas he’s chosen when suddenly Stiles plops down in the seat next to him.

An unusual occurrence in and of itself, but more so when Stiles says, “I’ve been thinking,” in the tone of voice that means that he’s looking for input and/or cooperation – neither of which Peter is greatly inclined to give him.

“I hope it didn’t hurt you too badly,” Peter says dryly.

“Ha, funny,” Stiles returns without rancor as he settles in more closely. “Seriously, though, I have a proposition for you.”

Interesting, Peter thinks. Interesting and strange.

“I’m all ears,” he says, trying to appear as if he’s quite bored at the prospect of any idea that may come from Stiles’ direction.

“You’re bored right?” Stiles says. “Well I’m pretty bored too, so whaddya say we help each other with that?” And just when Peter opens his mouth to ask how, exactly, Stiles plans on them doing that, Stiles’ hand covers his knee and slides upward. “You catchin’ what I’m throwin’ here?”

I JUST KIND OF WANT A FIC WHERE STILES IS LIKE, “YEAH, LET’S HAVE SEX.” AND HAVE TO GO ABOUT CONVINCING PETER THAT IT’S A GOOD IDEA.

 

because on the surface it seems like just the sort of irresponsible thing that Peter would like, but really? Virgins, not nearly as much of a kink as might be expected - sometimes they cry, and not in the fun way, and that’s if they don’t back out halfway through; Stiles is underage, which is in fact illegal, and by necessity often with the physical evidence to back that claim up; building upon that, Stiles is the Sheriff’s son, for God’s sake. Peter does actually know better than to fuck where he eats, even disregarding that Derek might tear Peter limb from limb first. Peter doesn’t have time for that kind of drama, and frankly, he prefers to spend his intellect elsewhere. 

Stiles probably wears him down, though.

It's a slow process, too, probably. Peter knows a bad idea when he sees it and can be pretty quick on the brakes, but Stiles keeps putting himself out there, keeps suggesting things. While at first Stiles is stuttering around his frank confessions, he gets better at it — gets better and picking his timing too, learns how to get his hand around Peter’s elbow and his mouth by Peter’s ear, learns how to whisper the things he wants when no one else can hear.

And admittedly, Peter starts off arrogant — so sure that there’s nothing that Stiles could do to make it worth his while. If he’d been less certain, maybe he would’ve taken pains to avoid stiles. Instead, he toes the line right along with Stiles without ever having the intention to cross it, but then… 

mmm crossing the line. BEST BIT OF ANYTHING EVER. transgressions. I love them.

Phone sex, maybe, or just talking to Peter when Stiles knows he can hear - when no one else can, obviously - but stuck together on stakeout, hunting for the Alpha Pack, or when Stiles knows Peter is home alone in the creepy abandoned train station. Might even walk right past Peter in the main room, poured over some tome and ignoring Stiles so studiously, and Stiles tucks himself into Peter’s bed, sticks his hand down his pants, and goes to town. Leaves his scent all over the place. Walks back out and Peter is on the same page. Or not there at all.

Pride won’t let Peter run either, even though he’d really be better off doing so. He’s not saying yes, mind you — but he’s not saying no either, and that’s like leaving a door ajar for a thief. And no one can push the way Stiles can push.

and uuuuuuuugh, i hate you, Peter having to go back into his room afterward with Stiles’ scent pervading the entire room — so thick that he feels as if it’s sticking in his pores, in the back of his throat. The irritating ache that settles in his bones as he goes through the cleanup, and oh, he knows that he’s going to be short with everyone for the next day or so because he responds to the blanket scent desire helplessly, with no way to satisfy it or appease it. And he’s going to hate the way Stiles is going to smile when he recognizes it.

Jerking off in Peter’s room is a work of evil genius. Scott has let werewolfy things spill a time or two and Stiles is good with out-of-the-box solutions. Stating his intentions won’t work? Fine. He’s good with refusal too. Knows his scent will soak into fabric, if left long enough; that it lingers in the air unless that air can be fully replaced or circulated. Peter can change his sheets, but he can’t remove the scent in the air. Not in the train station. 

For the next few days, there’s a little twitch to the corner of Peter’s mouth, one that’s completely Stiles’s fault. Is nearly always Stiles’ fault these days - it’s probably something more like ‘intense and inextricable frustration’ than 'Stiles’ fault’, technically, and neither has to continue to be true. Stiles is smart enough to realize that it wouldn’t bother Peter nearly so much if Peter didn’t want Stiles as well, in some measure or another. 

Stiles has been after Lydia since the third grade, and she never even talked to him. If this is Peter’s way of telling Stiles no, he needs a better way to go about it.

Peter has the patience of a saint — so to speak — but after a while, even he starts to feel the raggedness of his nerves. Stiles is impossible to ignore — with his scent invading Peter’s nights and his whole presence invading Peter’s days. Trying to rein it all in gives Peter migraines. 

He picks arguments when he knows he shouldn’t. When opportunities to do something extraordinarily violent turn up, he volunteers for them so quickly that Erica and Isaac start fighting him for them. He gets bloody and sweaty and physically worn out and he’s grateful for it, so help him. At least this way he’s doing something useful instead of something as potentially detrimental as pouncing on Stiles as soon as he sees him.

Does Peter give in? Does Peter turn the tables? Does Peter try to wait - valiantly, oh so goddamnvaliantly wait - until Stiles is eighteen? 

Does Peter try to scare Stiles - take him up on one of his stupid flirtatious dirty offers, too fast and too scary and too hard and too painful, even, and Stiles should be running for the hills, begging Peter to stop, tears clinging to his lashes and scrabbling away, heart beating like a tiny animal caught in a trap, and maybe the tears and the heartrate are right on target, but Peter doesn’t expect Stiles to say please?

Caught in a trap of his own goddamn making.

I imagine that Stiles would be a little disappointed if Peter just surrendered without some kind of struggle in the final hours of this war. Turning the tables would just encourage Stiles to up the ante.

(and one of these days, we should do the one where Peter does wait oh so valiantly for that eighteenth birthday, and the wait is so long that there’s a stretch where Stiles actually gives up on driving Peter crazy, and against his better nature, Peter actually misses it and gets more bitchy than ever because of it before Stiles bitches back, “don’t be an idiot, Peter. Just because I'm giving you a breather doesn’t mean that I intend on leaving you there.”)

BUT BACK TO SCARING STILES. Where one evening, when Peter is trudging back to home or headquarters or whatever he’s calling that abandoned train station where he sleeps. He’s got that sweaty bloody thing going on, with his hair pushed back away from his face and smears of red under one eye. He looks a bit wrecked, a bit dangerous, and Stiles is standing between him and home, smelling like unsatisfied need and it just hits Peter right in the gut.

Maybe he very nearly takes Stiles right there in the dirt. Maybe he definitely tears Stiles’ clothes open. Maybe he kisses with too much teeth and too much snarl. Maybe he hears Stiles’ breath hiccup in a sob and thinks that he’s going to show Stiles what he’s asking for. Maybe Stiles says “please” and Peter growls as he bites at Stiles’ nipple and suddenly Stiles is coming all over himself and then Peter’s fucking gone.

nnnnnngnnnnnnssdnfjs and Peter doesn’t fuck him, not right then. Not with the spit Stiles has so helpfully sucked onto Peter’s fingers, or the come Peter has scraped off Stiles’s stomach - but it's enough to finger Stiles with, the look on Stiles’s face raw and open, no longer stunned with pleasure but cautious, a little fearful of the newness of it, of Peter’s fingers and the angle and the hard, full jabs that are unlike the exploratory pushes Stiles no doubt has tried. It’s uncomfortable, a little painful, it must be - Stiles whimpers, makes shivery little noises better left to children having nightmares, writhing in their beds under the thrall of dark and unnamed things. 

If Stiles could think past everything he’s feeling, maybe he’d tell Peter to stop — or slow down at least — but Peter isn’t sure that he’d be able to even if Stiles did. No, he licks the sounds right out of Stiles’ mouth and lets Stiles’ blunt, flat nails dig into his shoulders, his scalp. He bites marks all over Stiles’ body, has enough restraint to keep from breaking skin while still letting Stiles feel the threat of it. Stiles denied him that once — long ago, now — but his heart just pounds and pounds and his pulse jumps up to meet Peter’s tongue.

I like the idea, too, of Peter’s hand sweeping across the back of his neck. Or perhaps taking off his shirt, and finding spots of blood in the fabric because even though his skin doesn’t show a single mark, that’s proof right there that Stiles nearly clawed his way inside Peter, and if Peter hadn’t stopped, hadn’t managed to dredge up some manner of restraint…

The thing is, Stiles wouldn’t say he’s coerced, precisely - he’s been panting after Peter like a dog in heat, pun totally intended because there is a serious lack of canine humor in his life, considering - but part of him doesn’t want to say ‘stop’ no matter what happens, because if Peter stops, he might not start again. Stiles has caught him at a weak moment, at a gloriously opportune moment, and he hates to waste it, even if it’s more than what he wanted. We all pay the price for things, don’t we? This could be his.

Oh, Peter wants to bite Stiles. Wants to bite him badly, as much as he wants to do anything. Peter wants - has wanted, no denying it. Everyone wants something, and at least Peter has the sense to admit it to himself. Even if now he only bites to scar, not to transform. Peter has traded one power for the other, and though he usually finds the bargain lacking, in this he is pleased. Stiles’s body, dotted with his teeth. Pinpricks to tears.

Stiles’s hipbones are tempting. His collarbones, the erratic jugular above them even more so. One of Stiles’ hands is twisted in Peter’s hair, ulnar and radial arteries beating strange tattoos in Peter’s ears, and he feels the shift in his jaw, the way his teeth sharpen and descend.

Stiles isn’t like Peter at all in this respect. Peter hasn’t been gone from the scene for five minutes before the cut of Stiles’ nails and teeth are just a memory. But for Stiles, he’ll carry the bruises and marks for days — a week, maybe, for some of it. He’ll spend the rest of the day with an ache in his body where Peter's fingers stretched him out too roughly, and maybe Peter had been rough enough that the ache causes a certain shift in Stiles’ step. Not a limp, per se, because that kind of description feels cliche, but a carefulness that betrays him.

It might become obvious after that — that Stiles and Peter are up to something. Derek may have suspected before, when Peter was so irritable that he practically tore down whole sections of the abandoned station before rebuilding them, when it was hard to ignore the way Peter would sometimes storm into town with his sheets folded messily under his arm — always, always reeking of Stiles. 

But the point is that we’d be hardpressed to find a Scott that isn’t going to be concerned about his best friend being covered in bruises, or a Derek who isn’t going to notice that Peter sweeps through to his bedroom smelling like he’s covered in Stiles and spunk as well as blood and dirt — and gee, small mystery how that might happen because it certainly can’t have been by accident.

Part of me is never really sure how Derek would react to this sort of thing - go into an Alpha rage and beat the shit out of Peter, like he still wants to, sometimes, underneath everything? Or go see Stiles in his most overbearing Alpha-knows-best mode, looking like a darker Stefan Salvatore? Or both? I think he hates Peter, he hates what Peter might have done, and even when Derek is trying to punch right through Peter’s face, Peter just laughs and laughs and laughs because Stiles wanted it so badly, Derek, why don’t you ask him. And Derek does go ask, embarrassment coming off of Stiles like a cloud, and Derek tries to talk to him in his particularly stunted way -

“Are you giving me the Bad Touch Talk?” Stiles yelps, “oh my god, Derek, stop - seriously just stop, are you kidding me,” and probably tries to hide inside of hoodie, holy shit, how did this become his life. He blames Peter for this, definitely at least for this.

And Derek wants to say something - tell someone, tell the Sheriff - but what good is his word around here, and what good would it really do, in the end, for all that attention to be on Peter and Stiles? He tries to say that Stiles can come to him, whatever happens, Peter doesn’t get a free pass, Derek can take care of it -

“Oh my God,” Stiles moans again, face buried in a pillow. “Stop with your - everything. Yeah. Your everything,” and Derek jumps out the window as silently as he came in.

And when he’s gone - really gone, not that Stiles can tell with his weak human senses, but as good as he can guess - Stiles closes his door, latches his window. Takes off his hoodie. Catalogues the bites and the bruises, the aches and scratchy, irritated places. Runs his fingers over them. Sometimes just the feel the difference between the patches of skin. Sometimes pressing down. The occasional scrape. Fitting his nails to the remnants left by Peter’s claws. Getting hard is almost secondary, and Stiles cants his hips - this way, then that - just for that little twinge.  The reminder Peter left blooming inside of him.

I thought earlier of Derek finding out when it was still about Stiles jerking off in Peter’s room. I thought of Derek waiting long enough to see if there’s something there, of him lurking around suspiciously and watching Stiles sneak into Peter’s room and waiting to see if Peter will follow.

I thought of Derek doing nothing because Peter was doing nothing and that Derek might be grateful, at first, that Peter’s frustration with Stiles meant that he was more willing to be a violent thing pointed in the direction of something that needed beating. That Derek would be glad that Stiles’ relentless pursuit was very nearly taming Peter — right up until it becomes clear that Peter is getting a little reckless with himself. His control slipping just a touch after months of Stiles wearing him down, wearing him thin, grinding him until he’s gone from rock to dust and too weak to fight it anymore, and how Derek can’t just let that slide because he needs Peter, though he wishes sometimes that he didn’t.

And yes, then, I think, Derek going to Stiles in an attempt to get him to back off, but by then it’s too late. (It’s always too late.) All the reasons that Peter resisted in the first place are still good reasons — they’re the same reasons why Derek can’t say a damn thing, to the Sheriff or to anyone. But anyway, Derek showing up to convince Stiles to wait, at the very least, but Stiles sort of laughs over his horror as he covers with his hand the side of his neck that Peter’s teeth bit over and over until it felt raw and burned. As if that would be enough to hide anything when Derek gets slammed with Peter’s scent almost as soon as he enters the room.

And later again, when Derek confronts Peter about that — about how Derek had been certain that Peter was resisting and holding out in the way that Derek had never been able to with Kate — and Peter laughs, bitterly… resentful, perhaps, at the idea that Stiles has him in check, that it’s only a matter of time before this child picks off the last of his pieces and corners him entirely.

(check and mate.)

“You’re supposed to be stronger than him,” Derek says, which just wrenches another choke of laughter out of Peter. “He has no idea what he’s doing.”

“Oh, he knows,” Peter corrects, still smiling — or grimacing, it’s hard to tell with Peter’s face. “In over his head? Definitely, but he knows that too, now.”

Because Derek is trying to be smarter about things - he’s starting to realize that just telling people to do things, that throwing them up against walls and even saving their lives now and again doesn’t breed as much obedience as he might think. Peter was smarter. Crueler, maybe, but willing to leverage things that Derek never thought about. 

It’s a devil’s bargain, letting Stiles tease Peter that way, but it keeps Peter here, keeps him irritated and snappish but unexpectedly leashed. And Derek needs Peter, as much as it pains him. The Alpha Pack have made that terribly clear.

Looking back, Derek isn’t sure what he expected to happen in the end - for Peter to be stronger, or for Stiles to be smarter. For Stiles to be scared, because anyone with half of brain should be scared of Peter; Derek’s hackles rise just being in the same room with him, and he’s the Alpha.

“He’s a child,” Derek is reduced to growling, by the end - they’re all children, they’re all just children - and Peter’s laugh is bitter, bitter.

“If you think that’s true, you haven’t been paying attention at all.”

With all this disappointment going on in Derek’s life, it should come as some relief then for Stiles and Peter to be almost docile through the next few days — while Peter is still dealing with his loss in control and Stiles is still dealing with his physical recovery. The two of them avoid each other for those few days, but it’s not driven by shame. No, there’s a fresh awareness now. They’ve crashed together and shown their cards, in a way, and so here’s the reassessment.

Peter wants Stiles — they both knew this before, but joined with it is the new knowledge that Stiles won’t run from that want. And that is frightening, isn’t it? To both of them.

So they circle each other without getting close. You get them watching and not-watching each other from across the room. Mild dialogue from either. The way Peter’s attention wavers from whatever he’s doing or saying whenever he sees Stiles in his periphery, touching his throat or holding his arms tight across his body and squeezing his own ribs where Peter remembers leaving marks like signatures of possession in Stiles’ skin.

It feels to the entire pack — because Stiles may be able to wash away Peter’s scent, but everyone has to be able to sense that there’s something go on — as if it’s the eye of the storm or the hush before an explosion.

Do you think the rest of the pack have any ideas what’s going on? They might have picked up on the tension, but are they thrown off the scent, so to speak, because Derek is just as stressed and weird as Peter or Stiles? Scott might notice that something is going on with Stiles, but Stiles does okay with deflecting - well, in the way it’s obvious that he’s deflecting, but they’re friends, so Scott rarely pushes. Erica might bitch and complain, poke randomly at everyone trying to unearth what’s happening, but she doesn’t know. Boyd pays more attention to Derek, and Isaac tries to stay out of everyone’s way.

Stiles goes through patches of quiet, intense focus, and periods of nervous, almost itchy restlessness. He jerks off a lot, more than usual, and Stiles is a pretty healthy teenage boy, okay, healready jerks off a lot, but he can’t stop touching himself now. Not when his body’s giving him all this feedback - still blooming bruises, phantom aches, and static in the back of his head whenever Peter looks at him. 

He doesn’t jerk off in Peter’s bed again, but he really, really thinks about it.

Peter, meanwhile, watches Stiles like he’s an unsprung trap, because nothing about the boy makes sense at all. Peter always expected Stiles to run - for his attention to wander elsewhere, to finally realize what he was playing with, to realize that Peter wasn’t playing at all. Because it’s simple, really. Peter is a monster. He accepts that about himself. He knows he wasn’t the person he was before the fire, not the same way he was, and he’s even worse now, isn’t he? Shattering a young girl’s mind just to worm his way inside, piggybacking to life on his nephew’s power - biting children, fucking them open with fingers and their own come, making them beg for it, those can’t be the worst of his sins. Did Stiles really think Peter wouldn’t commit them?

They wait. For a long time, they wait. Long enough for Stiles’ body to get itself back in order and for Stiles to start forgetting what it was like to ache from Peter’s touch. Long enough for Peter to have built and ordered and ranked the list of things he wants to do to Stiles and how. Long enough for that and then a little bit more, to make sure that Derek has finally relaxed.

Peter’s the one who pushes first, this time. It’s no gentle nudge either. Gentle would be brushing up behind Stiles during a pack meet in order to hear his heart rate spike in sudden visceral memory. Gentle would be Peter echoing the things he remembers saying That Night during the most innocuous of conversations. Peter’s in no mood for gentle.

Derek really has no idea that he’s playing some convenient cards Peter’s way when he mentions an omega wandering into their territory and could Peter handle it. It’s a simple task — either kill them or drive them off, and Peter always leans heavily on the former. Peter takes it and then takes his time amount it. Makes sure that he’s gone from the usual get together. Someone will mention him — out of curiosity or suspicion — and Derek will have to explain (and he’s getting better about that, keeping everyone in the know, though there are some things he still plays close to the chest still… obviously). 

Hours and hours later, when Peter comes back on the tail end of the meeting, Stiles finds him leaning over the wide plastic sink near the back of the station, pumping water out of the faucet to wash the blood off his hands. And there it is, the way Stiles goes still while his heart rate picks up, and Peter dries off his hands with a towel.

“So you were busy,” Stiles says as he drifts closer and leans against the sink. His grip on the edge is white knuckled. “Derek didn’t give us details.”

Peter shifts to bracket Stiles between his arms and scents along Stiles’ hairline, feels Stiles sigh against his throat, rests his mouth near Stiles’ ear. Hunger is a constant, stirring feeling in Peter’s gut these days. Can he help it if it edges every word when he asks, “Do you want to hear the details?” in a rumble so promising that Stiles’ leans into him?

He doesn’t wait for Stiles to say yes. Just yanks the back of Stiles’ shirt up and slides his hand down the back of his jeans and rubs his fingers against Stiles’ hole so hard that Stiles nearly climbs him in surprise.

“Or perhaps you’d rather experience them,” Peter says.

One thing Stiles and Peter have in common is that neither of them really pretend to be better than they are. Peter is inarguably worse, certainly, but Stiles is no angel. Stiles is prone to violence, even if he’s not always physically capable of it; Stiles relishes the easy way out, delights in breaking the rules because why not?, and is only getting more accomplished at lying. Stiles is getting worse and worse, in everything he does and everything he chooses, and even though he sees it, sees the fractures in his relationship with his father, even sometimes with Scott, he doesn’t see himself stopping. He can couch it in terms of lives and monsters, or great responsibility, or origin stories, trying to be the Badass Normal when you’re surrounded by Superheroes, but Stiles knows, and Peter understands. Peter understands that more than almost anything.

“Do you?” he asks, Stiles’s jaw working around words that aren’t coming out. And Peter wants them, those words - wants Stiles to look back and know, to be unable to deny his own part in this.

“Yes,” Stiles says, a minute later. Long enough for Peter’s heart to race, to pick up in speed and intensity. For him to rub his fingers against Stiles again, for Stiles to flutter against him, to flush and press his mouth to the underside of Peter’s jaw even as his arms tighten around Peter’s neck. “Yes, I - tell me,” he says, and it’s not quite begging. Not even a request.

“There was an omega,” Peter says, conversational, and Stiles’s whole body shudders, just under the edge of Peter’s fingers, wrapped beneath one arm.  

Peter tells him everything and then some. He presses the gruesome descriptions into the shell of Stiles’ ear and marks off the details with his touch. He embellishes a little — surprisingly little — to make Stiles tense and shiver at the vivid images Peter paints with his words. 

Stiles likes the perspective that Peter gives him — a powerful wolf overcoming what is a comparably small threat. Peter gets that; he figures that Stiles is not used to having the upper hand, except lately with Peter (or perhaps not). So he tells Stiles about the rush of the kill and what it’s like to cut into another wolf with just his claws. When Peter tells him about the blood and the heat, Stiles is pressed flush against Peter’s front, face in the folds of Peter’s collar — no doubt able to smell the sweat and blood for himself — and he moans a little when Peter drags his claws along his waist.

“I got him here,” he says, and when folds them down to the floor so that he can have room to ruck up Stiles’ clothes to get to more skin, Stiles’ belly quivers against his fingers. “The sound he made—” and here, Peter dips his fingers between Stiles’ legs, knuckles under the bulge of his dick, and Stiles makes a choked noise, “—was much like that, actually.”

“Of course,” Peter says, “for him, it didn’t end nearly so pleasurably,” and Stiles bucks up against his hand, back slamming against the metal pipes, his head against the edge of the sink. Peter can smell the places Stiles’s blood pools beneath the skin, the way it rushes to the surface. Stiles’s scent is thickening - is changing, maybe more precisely, layering with fear and lust and pain. Intoxicating. Won’t be easy to hide, after, but Peter is beginning to feel they are far, far beyond that now.

Peter sighs. “But it did end. Disembowelment is very cruel, for werewolves. The body constantly trying to heal itself - even at only an omega’s strength - but it never quite can when the entrails are lying everywhere. Very warm,” Peter continues, hand pressed still to the hard line of Stiles’s cock, trapped within his jeans. ”They let off steam, in the night air,” and Stiles throbs beneath him, shivers in the night the same way the omega had. 

“What did you do with the body?” Stiles asks. He’s half in Peter’s lap, now. An arm around Peter’s neck like a vise, a noose - the other hand digging into the fabric of Peter’s shirt, still spattered with blood. 

Peter lifts his attention lazily, quite attracted to the heave of Stiles’ chest and the darkening color of his skin. He hums thoughtfully over the possibilities of his answer and licks his lips. Stiles chases the sweep of his tongue with his fingers, and Peter nips at their pads, at their prints, bites paths of red all the way to Stiles’ palm before holding fast to Stiles’ wrist and biting there as well. Oh, how his teeth itch with the urge to bite harder, to scar and mark Stiles irreparably. 

He pins Stiles’ arm to the floor and remains braced above Stiles in an effort to show some restraint. There are some lines that he can’t cross without consequences and that is one of them.

“What would you say,” he begins and scrapes his teeth over Stiles’ jaw, over the thin skin of his collar bones, “if I told you that I ate him all up?”

Stiles says nothing at all, but he holds his breath and his fingers dig into Peter’s shoulder.

“I was gone a long time, you remember.”

“Maybe,” Stiles concedes somewhat breathlessly. He can’t take his eyes off Peter’s mouth. “You could have buried him.”

Peter’s grin is feral. “Do I look like I dug a grave for an omega?”

The only thing Peter’s covered in is blood and sweat, and Stiles’ legs loop around his as this observation settles. Then Stiles is pulling Peter over him and pushing up on one elbow and kissing at Peter’s mouth — sucking at his lips, at the corners of them before finally kissing Peter properly, tongue chasing Peter’s like he’s searching for the taste of blood.

(Stiles never will find out, one way or the other, and Peter will never tell him.)

When Scott finds them, Stiles’s hands are set on Peter’s hips, legs sprawled out for Peter to fit neatly between. Peter’s mouth at Stiles’s Adam’s apple, teeth gnawing at the cartilage, and Stiles only realizes what’s going on right about when he starts to be able to breathe again. When he realizes the weight of Peter’s body is off him, the warmth removed, the prick of Peter’s claws and the bite of his mouth and oh Jesus -

“What the fuck!” he hears Scott say, high and gritted out, his utterly-caught-off-guard tone, and that doesn’t bode well for anyone. By the time Stiles drags himself up on his elbows, Scott and Peter are already in their beta forms, flashing yellow eyes and piercing blue. Growling low enough that Stiles’ chest feels tight and circling one another like the predators they are. 

“Stiles doesn’t exactly need you to defend his honor,” Peter says, something like smug, and Scott launches himself at Peter with a roar.

It doesn’t take long for the scuffle to end, as it turns out - not when Stiles tries to get in between them. Scott and Peter both stop. Still growling, Peter’s claws still dug into the meat of Scott’s upper arm. A fresh cut on Peter’s chest, however rapidly healing. But stopped.

“So,” Stiles says. Yanks down his shirt and adjusts his pants, all while avoiding as much eye contact as he could. “I guess I’ll - bring Scott home now."