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Stiles wakes up to Peter Hale petting his head.

This is definitely not a normal occurrence.

It's two in the morning. Stiles has finally finally finally dropped off to some well-deserved sleep after spending most of the night trying to rescue Scott and Allison while maintaining a proper distance from Allison's werewolf hunting family; not to mention working on convincing his father that he's not off his meds or doing drugs or otherwise losing his mind, which is a pretty hard case to make when he spends all his time running around in the middle of the night and suddenly getting really good at lacrosse but also nearly failing all of his classes.

Especially the part where Peter Hale is petting him.

Stiles actually doesn't freak out immediately - he's majorly sleep deprived, for one, and he's a teenager, for another, which means he'd rather fall into death than actually wake up. He wakes up by degrees, warm comforting sleepy feelings gradually fading to cranky sleep-deprived ones, and when he open his eyes to see Derek lurking on the other side of his room, it starts to make even more sense.

"What're you doing here?" he slurs out. "Where t'hell have you been?" Derek is always around, and lurking - its weird when he disappears with no word. Well, at least without popping out of the shadows sometime soon after.

"Oh, we've been doing a little reminiscing," a voice next to Stiles says, and that pierces right through the warm comforting sleepy feelings. And - yeah, someone is petting his head. "You know how it is when family gets together."

Peter Hale is petting his head.

Peter Hale is petting his head.

Peter Hale is petting his head.

"Calm down," Peter says, and there's an order in it - Stiles can't help but do what he says, initially. He feels his heart slow down. His fists unclench.

"Why are you in my room?" he asks, and tries - he really, really tries - to ignore the whirl of Peter's fingers just behind his ear.

"I told you, Stiles," and Peter really needs to stop saying his name like that, because it sends out all sorts of vibes Stiles doesn't need. His head is nearly in some dude's lap - not just any dude, but an Alpha werewolf who murders people and broke into his bedroom - and he's supposed to not be having a breakdown. "We're pack. There's no getting rid of me."

"I'd really like to try," Stiles says, somewhere between unbelievably sincere and insanely sarcastic. He has a death wish. Maybe that's the vibe Peter gets from him. "Derek? Seriously?"

In the corner of the room, Derek shifts from foot to foot. "He didn't do anything wrong, Stiles. Not to anyone who didn't deserve it. Not when he was in his right mind."

"Your ability to rationalize anything amazes me," Stiles sighs, but that's not entirely true. Derek is - honest to fucking God - lonely. Or maybe more specifically, alone. The only werewolf around besides Stiles, who is only sort of getting a handle on this werewolf thing, and the Alpha - and when the Alpha turned out to be Derek's uncle? His uncle who had been stuck in a coma for six years? And was actually only murdering the people who murdered his family in turn? It's not that Stiles doesn't see the logic, it's just - murder, okay, that's a biggie sort of sin to forgive.

"Why are you here?" Stiles finally asks, wary. "What are you doing?" Peter's already tried to turn his dad - who is a significantly better hand with a shotgun than Stiles ever gave him credit for, go dad! - and threatened to turn Scott before Peter realized that would be akin to punishing himself, and made a dozen speeches about pack and protecting his family and killing the Argents, all I AM YOUR ALPHA, blah blah blah, and Stiles just wants to know what to expect next, honestly.

"Hmm," Peter says. "Did you know we were waiting for you in the locker room after the game? But you weren't there," he continues, and Stiles suddenly has a really bad feeling about this next part. "At least... not alone."

Lydia, oh God...

Peter sighs. Presses a finger to the corner of Stiles's lips and traces his way around the curve. Wiping some phantom trace of Lydia off. "Don't you remember who you belong to, Stiles? Don't you know yet?" and over the pounding of his own heart, Stiles hears Derek growl from the corner of the room.

"Please," he says, because he knows Peter has got him here. Stiles has been playing pretty good defense, but Peter always seems to have the upper hand anyway. Even with werewolf super-speed Stiles can't be everywhere at once - with his Dad, with Scott, with Allison, with Lydia - not against the new champion tag team that is Derek and Peter. He never thought having so few friends was a blessing, but now he sees the disadvantage in caring. "Please, I'll - " but he doesn't get the chance to even finishing begging.

Peter pushes two fingers into Stiles's mouth - slips, because it's open and begging, but shoves because there's force behind it, pressing down Stiles's tongue, hearing him choke over the bargain he's about to make. Stiles feels his fangs grow, can't help it, pushing up from his gums and pressing against Peter's fingers.

Peter's eyes glint laser red. "She's fine," he says, and he sounds amused. Though in Peter's case, amused definitely does not mean non-violent. "She's fine, Stiles, because I'm not worried about her at all. It occurs to me I might have been going about this the wrong way," he continues, pulling his hand away from the front of Stiles's mouth, and Stiles frowns because in this moment Peter sounds actually, sincerely apologetic. "I only want to get to know you better."

And one of his hands slides under Stiles's bedcovers.

Stiles squeaks. "Dude, whoa, you can't just -" and he is fully prepared to protest and, like, fight for his manliness or manhood or whatever the hell is being threatened here, but Peter's fingers ghost over the bite mark, and press -

"That's it," Peter murmurs, no problem, no big deal, even as stars explode behind Stiles's eyes, a white-hot burst of them, and he whimpers in the back of his throat. "There you are."

Stiles has a fairly disturbing urge to roll over onto his back and flop belly up. Offer up his - whatever. "Whaaaaat -"

Peter growls, and Stiles shivers under the sound of it, and the way Peter's fingers dig into the curve of his hip. "I'm your Alpha," and wow, is he ever, Stiles thinks, and it's not entirely with despair.

He wants to move, but he doesn't think Peter will let him get away, if the hand pressed to his stomach is any indication, way too close to what is a rapidly filling erection; and showing his belly seems right but wrong - he tries to flip onto his stomach, but Peter drops Stiles's head to the pillow and slides further down the bed. Covers kicked to the floor.

"You and Derek are the only family I have," Peter explains, one hand stroking Stiles from neck to the lower curve of his stomach. Pausing infinitesimally over his nipples, the bite mark on his ribs. Occasionally brushing against the root of his dick, scratching through the hair there. Like a belly rub, only with a side of the world's most tease-worthy handjob and plenty of material for future therapy. "I won't abandon you. There's no point in being a wolf without a pack, Stiles. It's no good for anyone. It's not how we work."

"It's how I work," Stiles protests, still halfway to a shriek, and tries to ignore the way he's gone still. Face pressed deeper into the pillow.

"It's how you've worked until now," Peter corrects. "But now you're mine, Stiles. You're part of this pack. I created you."

And somehow 'created you' sounds like 'love you', sounds like a caress, or a brand, maybe, or a bite, which for a werewolf it's probably all of those things, and Stiles shoots back, "you sound like Regina George," resentful as hell, because he can hold onto resentment. You can hold onto resentment in the face of anything- even love. Even acceptance. Resentment is a teenager's final line of defense, and it's a good one.

Except Peter's fingers are still tracing the scar. Light as a breeze, barely there, barely able to be felt except every cell in Stiles's body is straining towards him. And Peter - Peter pushes at Stiles's shoulder, rolls him onto his back, and presses their mouths together. Soft, but still strange; the scent of something that Stiles might call forest, all the rich-smelling things you find in damp spaces, but the wolf in him knows is Alpha, and he gasps for air he doesn't really need.

"Good boy," Peter says, and it doesn't sound the way Scott says it. Not joking. And it doesn't make him feel the same way, either, because he generally feels like punching Scott in the face. It is good, and it gets better when Peter continues, when he wrenches Stiles's mouth open, licking inside, making him moan. Making him reach up for Peter's face before he realizes what he's doing.

Peter pulls back, briefly. Nudging his face up against Stiles's the way a dog might, before moving down to the line of his throat, before Stiles can nuzzle back. The edges of his teeth - his wolf teeth, his real teeth, Stiles is starting to think - pressing in until the pinpricks stretch out tight across Stiles's skin, and Stiles feels his body shudder. Go limp. "It's not the same with humans," Peter explains, mouth to the side of Stiles's neck, "not like with your own kind," and Stiles only has two points of reference, but so far he has to unwillingly agree. Lydia had been good - really good, because Lydia never does anything at a level less than exceptional - but it had been practiced, and Peter is a mass of instinct. Peter has been surviving on instinct, and it beats practice all to hell.

"What are you going to do to her?" Stiles asks, bob of his Adam's apple against Peter's face. Just because he's so hard he thinks he's going to pop doesn't mean he isn't concerned about Lydia's well-being. And just because Lydia survived tonight doesn't mean it's going to continue. Jesus, his life is complex.

Peter shrugs. "Nothing. I won't hurt her. I don't think she's going to be a problem, do you? Any of them," he continues, tracing the edge of Stile's mouth with his fingers. The curious little curve to his lip. "You wouldn't let anyone take you away from us, hmm? You know, Stiles. You know this is exactly where you belong."

"It's my room," Stiles chokes out, deliberately obtuse, and Peter must know it, because he rears back down to catch Stiles's bottom lip. Suck it into his mouth. Trapped between his teeth.

"This is what pack is. Your body knows.  Your body wants to be among its own kind.  Why don't you. Why do you fight it?"
he says, and that is totally Alpha voice, oh God, Stiles can't help his reaction to that. Can't help the whimper, or sliding his eyes shut, or pushing his head back to bare his fucking throat. Peter pushes his face there, bites down until Stiles starts to worry about breathing. Until it feels like the burn of forgiveness. Peter's body is a weight on his, unbelievably solid, and Stiles wants to sink under it.

"I don't want this," he says, and the lie is so obvious even Stiles can't sell it.

"Stiles," Peter says reproachfully. "What have I said about lying?"

Stiles does not want to relive that conversation. "D-don't do it."

"Very good," Peter hums. Licks at the line of Stiles's throat.

"I m-mean," as Peter's hand wrings at Stiles's hip, slides dangerously close to - places - "I don't want it like this."

Peter pauses at that. Pulls back to look Stiles in the face. Let him breathe. "You think I'm being harsh."

Stiles can't help the slightly hysterical bark of laughter that escapes. Coming after his dad, after Scott, even the Argents, and it's not like he really enjoys their company, as it is. "So far your behavior hasn't been exactly friendly. It's not exactly sane."

Peter sighs. Slides mostly off Stiles; next to him on the bed. Pushing the short curl of hair just behind his ear. "Oh, it's the Alpha in me, Stiles. Harder to control than you might think - all the things it wants." And yeah, those are definitely Peter's crazy Alpha eyes coming out to play. "What it wants to do to you," and Stiles can only imagine right now. How he looks, how he smells; fear and submission and arousal and sleep, even the lingering smell of when he got himself off yesterday morning before school. The scent of Scott on his hands and the smell of Lydia on his face, his neck. Sweat from both lacrosse teams all over his body. Showers only do so much, as Stiles has unfortunately discovered.

In retrospect, maybe he's lucky Peter isn't pissing all over him right now. Much less doing worse.

"But I think," Peter continues, and shit, Stiles might have zoned out there for a minute. "That if you can be good, so can I."

And what in the fuck does that mean?