Stay in the house, they said. You'll be safe there, they said. Yeah, tell that to the pissed off snake-thing staring at him like he was a bunch of delicious mice on a platter, or a nice, juicy murderer in the case of the Kanima.
Stiles stepped backwards, intending to run, which was stupid, he knew, but he never claimed to be the sharpest tool in the shed. Jackson sliced the back of his neck not a second after he'd turned, his hand leaping to touch the sliver. He winced, certain his face did some cringe-worthy gymnastics as the familiar symptoms of the toxin settled over his muscles, misting over the initial shock of pain. His legs transformed into flimsy sticks incapable of bearing his weight, and his face hit the decrepit floor of the Hale house, arms framing his head. He was really getting sick of being in this position, of being so weak. At least no one could blame his humanity this time. He'd seen Derek get taken down by his once normal, douche of a bully, so he didn't exactly feel too ashamed.
But he was going to die. Wasn't he?
Then the comforting sounds of growling, and, well, maybe he wasn't going to die after all. He listened to the struggle, internally cheering when the Kanima released a hissing shriek, audibly clambering the wall to escape.
“Oh thank jesus, is it you, Scott? Or Derek? Even Erica for christ's sake? You gonna help a guy up?”
Fingers – scratch that, claws - gripped his shoulder, turning him over. His typically steady breath went erratic, “Oh god. You... you can't be alive. You're dead. Derek killed you. This is impossible and I'm dreaming. Right? Dreaming.”
“Am I a common enough occurrence in your dreams, Stiles, that you actually believe that?”
Stiles didn't say anything, momentarily stunned by the question. He usually just blathered on when he was nervous, not really putting much weight in his exact phrasing, and this time, it had been quite the Freudian slip. If those things even actually existed.
Peter raised a brow, clearly getting the wrong idea, “Ah, well, I'm flattered.”
“Wait, what? No. I mean, yes, you can tell I'm lying, but it's just that I have nightmares in which you usually bite me and I die. Or I turn and then I get shot by Chris Argent or his freaky wife, though she's dead now, but then again, so are you. Are you going to kill me? You're going to kill me, aren't you? For throwing that Molotov cocktail on you. Shit, I shouldn't have brought that up. You're definitely going to kill me now.”
Peter was just looking at him. Not glaring, not scowling at him, or even smiling, just contemplating him. Weighing his options. Likely sorting out the pros and cons of Stiles' death. All the while, Stiles was doing the same, only, seriously, how the fuck was Peter Hale still alive?!
The ex-Alpha smirked, taking a chiseled finger and tapping it against his lips, “Does it matter how I'm here? No matter the reasons behind it, I can still tear you tear you limb from limb,” and Stiles could only watch and hyperventilate as Peter covered him with his body, hands at his shoulders, teeth lined up against his jugular, “I can still bite you.”
Stiles swallowed, wishing he hadn't the moment his skin rose to meet Peter's lips, “My answer is the same as before. I don't want the bite.”
“Stiles, you're a smart boy. You've heard me offer it before. Did it sound like I was offering you the bite?”
Stiles was panicking now, the evidence of which could only be seen in his wide eyes and heard in the rapid pace of his pulse. Peter laughed, but Stiles could not determine what sort of laugh it was. Amused? Bitter? Ironic? He was lost. If Peter was serious, no amount of babbling could protect him.
Didn't mean he wouldn't try.
“Wait, don't do it. I'd make a horrid werewolf, I promise. I'd be worse than Scott. I'm completely all over the place, distracted by the littlest thing. I'd see a rabbit and off I'd go. Seriously, you don't want me in your pack.”
Peter shot up from his throat, no longer looking at him as much as fucking devouring him with his eyes, “Now there you are wrong. I want you in my pack. I wanted you before, and this time, I'm not going to allow you to slip through my fingers only to come back and turn the tides. I'm not going to underestimate you again.”
To say that Stiles was freaking out at this point would be the biggest goddamn understatement in the history of the universe. Like, a Samwise Gamgee only had a tiny role in saving Middle Earth level of understatement.
Those deadly teeth were back at his throat, and Stiles thought that was it, this was the end. If someone had asked him if it could get worse, he would have said he doubted it. He would have been wrong. Beyond wrong, really.
His eyes landed on the wall as Peter nudged his throat to the side before he, honest to god, sniffed him. An approving whine rumbled down Stiles' spine and it took him a moment before he realized the noise had actually come from Peter and not his deranged imagination.
“What the fuck?”
The only response he got was a grunt before the werewolf nosed at his jawline, tilting his head back and good god was he licking him?!
“I say again, what the fuck?! Get off me! Now!” But he could do absolutely nothing to back himself up, as he had no motor function to speak of. He was only capable of angling his chin away in the hopes that Peter got the hint.
Wow, this sucked.
His only chance was that not all of the Pack had picked up the Kanima's scent and gone after him, that at least one of them had stayed behind to find him. … He could dream, right?
The wet sensation of Peter's tongue traveled up, curving around to his ear, hot breath eliciting a prickling sheen of gooseflesh across his body. His optimism was vanishing by the second.
“Do you know what made me like you, Stiles? Any guesses?” Peter's voice was tender, like he was speaking to a spooked animal. Perhaps the notion wasn't that far off.
His face was guided back into its original position, and he was unafraid to look Peter right in the eye.
“No, but I suppose you're going to tell me anyways?”
Peter smiled at him, “Because of that,” the gentle tone to his voice never faded as he spoke slowly, surely, stroking a single claw down Stiles' cheek, his gray-blue eyes just as soft as his lilt, “Because you don't flinch from me. You stood me down, even when I spoke loud enough to rattle your very bones, even when I held your fragile wrist in my grip and nearly made you mine... You never backed away. If anything, you kept pushing me just to see what you could get away with. And then, after you refused the bite, just when I thought you could not surprise me anymore, you leaned towards me.”
Peter visibly shivered, eyes shut for a moment, and good lord that alone was violating, before he slunk downward, his gaze disconcertingly close, “You play the same game as I, Stiles, and that alone makes you worthy.”
Stiles released a breath he had not been aware he was holding when Peter jerked back. The werewolf cocked his head to the side, one nail circling the mole to the left of Stiles' mouth. “But that isn't all, no, not by any means.”
Peter's voice was almost reverent; what the fuck was quickly becoming the mantra of the hour.
“You're brave enough to face an Alpha, and you're loyal to a fault. Not to mention that oh so intriguing mind of yours. I have personally been the recipient of your resourceful nature, and by the way,” he drew blood at his cheek, tugging a startled grunt from Stiles' closed lips, “I really do have to get you back for that – you should have realized that setting a burn victim aflame was cruel, especially for the so-called heroes. But that will be dealt with at a later date, don't you worry.”
Stiles huffed nervously, “If you're trying to compliment me and put my fears to rest, you're doing a pretty shitty job.”
Peter considered him, nodding, all too calm, “Yes, you're right. My point is that you are everything that I want in a packmate. More than that, Stiles, you are everything I want in a mate. Do you understand, or need I explain more?”
Stiles couldn't help it. He started laughing. He legit thought it was a joke. Just a way to throw him off, because, c'mon? Mate-material? For one, he was a dude. Couldn't exactly carry a litter of werewolf puppies now could he? Two, he was, well, unsuitable in every way. He was weak, he had ADD, and he chattered endlessly. Even Derek merely tolerated him (well, Stiles liked to think the grumpy wolf liked him more than he pretended to, since he had saved his ass a couple times).
Okay, if he had to be entirely honest, he wasn't all that bad if those were his worst flaws. But c'mon, he didn't exactly scream choice bedmate for a murderous vigilante zombie werewolf. He was sixteen for god's sake! This was ridiculous, and he said as much.
Peter just chuckled, yes, chuckled, all light-hearted and amused. Asshole. “It is just like you not to notice your own merit. But I'll show you. When I'm finished with you, there will be no doubt that I want you, that you were made for me.”
“Whoa, chillax for a sec and don't go crazy. Well, crazier then you already are...” That earned him his first glare, and ah, wasn't that the homocidal Alpha he remembered, “I mean, not that you're crazy, as such, more misguided and completely deranged,” Peter's lip twitched, fear lancing through Stiles' resolve, “but, uh, that's not helping is it? Nevermind, forget all of that. What I mean is that I don't want to be a werewolf. What about forcibly changing me is going to make me like you?”
“I didn't actually say I was going to bite you, Stiles, but I don't need to ask your permission to do so. I'm disappointed that you need to be reminded.”
Something didn't add up... Derek was still an Alpha, Stiles had just seen him. He had taken the rank from Peter himself, and here Peter was, alive. That mean he couldn't be an Alpha anymore, right?
His eyes lit up in the place of his usual flailing excitement, “Oh my god, wait. You're not an Alpha anymore. You're lying. You can bite me all you want, but you can't change me, can you? Derek took your power. There's no way you got it back. Being an Alpha has to be an all or nothing kind of deal, right?”
Peter didn't so much as blink, giving nothing away. Stiles once more cursed the Kanima's venom or whatever the hell this shit was, because he would have really liked to move right now. At least moving kept him busy; now all he could do to occupy himself was catalog every miniscule gesture and pray Peter hadn't lost his patience. At least he could pretend Peter's silence meant he was right and he was in no danger of turning into a hairy wolfman if Peter bit him.
But what if he was wrong?
Yeah, he'd gotten nowhere with that one. Welp, new tactic then.
“Have you realized that I'm not gay yet? Because I'd love to go home now. Well, after this poison-stuff wears off. See, I skipped dinner, and I know for a fact that there is mac and cheese waiting for me.”
Peter shook his head, frowning, and yeah, this was bad, “No, do not try to distract me. It will not work. I have told you what I want, and that isn't going to change. I've been honest and open with you, can't you at least do me the favor of believing me?”
“No, actually, I can't. Hello. Not gay, remember?”
“We both know that's more than a lie, Stiles. I've been watching you. I've been watching Derek. Don't play me for a fool.”
Stiles was really confused now.
Any further vindication of his heterosexuality was swallowed by Peter's mouth, by the crush of teeth and the exhilarating press of fangs against the vulnerable skin that was his lips– cuts wouldn't be enough to turn him, would it? It didn't matter, it was just a kiss, a rough one, albeit, but bloodless. His first kiss at that... but Stiles wouldn't give Peter the satisfaction of knowing that.
Stiles fought to regain his stolen breath as Peter retreated, straddling his thighs, glancing about the room before resettling his hungry, glowing eyes on Stiles – and he had been right, they weren't red. They were orange.
Fuck, what did that mean?! Was he a super-Alpha or something? Was he even a werewolf anymore?
Peter aligned himself over Stiles again, this time with his palms massaging his hips over his shirt before slipping underneath, sliding the cloth upward until it was at his collarbone, Peter's mouth quickly following suit.
The bitch about being paralyzed like this was that yeah, he had no motor control, but his senses were perfectly intact. He would have been willing to bet that they were heightened, considering they were all he had left. His body was reacting as though he was not immobilized, in spite of the Stiles' nonexistent consent. His skin got hot, flushed, pressure starting at his groin.
He kept his eyes cast downward and his head lifted as much as he could before he exhausted himself, attempting to capture every flicker of cloth and motion. He was failing miserably.
This was getting out of hand faster than he had anticipated, and he had no clue what to do about it. So, like always, he talked. “Hey, you know, Derek is going to be back soon. He killed you last time, he can do it again...”
Peter pulled at his nipple with his fangs in response. Stiles grunted his discomfort; he would have given anything to at least be able to shrink away.
Peter's tongue hastily soothed the sore nerves, which was, if anything, more awkward than the pain.
“Okay, geez, you can stop it now. I get it, you think I'm hot,” Stiles said, hoping that admitting his evident attraction, whatever his crazy reasons for it, was enough to convince Peter that being rapey was not the answer.
No such luck. Peter's free hand began to fiddle with the zipper on his jeans, the sound setting off every alarm he possessed.
“Molesting me really isn't going to help your case. What ever happened to asking someone out on a date before trying to get into their pants?” Stiles was well aware that his desperation was showing, but he was running out of ways to avoid just breaking down and begging Peter not to take his virginity.
Of course, it didn't work. Stiles still couldn't see him, but he could feel every deliberate tug on his jeans and boxers until, oh christ, they were gone – shoes too, and Stiles groaned, “What the fuck are you doing, give me back my pants, you creeper, you've made your point.”
Peter was between his legs now, still ignoring him, one hand curled around the his thigh while the other unceremoniously scraped lightly over his groin. He didn't go as far as to put any pressure there, yet, but his nails were a threatening weight.
Dread curled like a bundle of snakes in Stiles' gut, rattling and nauseating. What could he do? Absolutely nothing; like he told Scott, sarcasm was his only defense.
“This is just stupid, you know that, right? You're so breaking the law. You're a fucking cradle robber, not that you care. You can't just -”
“Shut up, Stiles. This is happening no matter how much you try to yap my ear off, as endearing as I generally find your little antics... Just relax, and enjoy this.”
“Just, wait -” he interrupted himself by sucking in a huge breath when Peter went promptly from hovering over his dick to stroking it. Yep, this was a fucked up situation. “Whoa, oh my god, stop. Stop that.”
The fact that his voice didn't squeak was an accomplishment in itself.
Stiles' breath was just hitched puffs of air now, his heartbeat consuming his mind as he shut his eyes tightly, all the while, Peter didn't stop. No, he sure as hell didn't stop, he just kept pulling and coaxing and kissing his stomach. Stiles had no influence over his movements, instincts kicking his muscles into gear, his legs twitching and his hips jerking like a well trained toy; holy jesus, this was really happening.
“Your body is relaxed, oh yes, if only you could see yourself right now, but I can tell that you are not. Perhaps this is not intimate enough to reassure you.”
His eyes snapped open, “You're insane. I don't need reassurance, you sick fuck. I need you to get away from me. I don't want you, not anywhere near me, and definitely not fucking touching me.”
Peter lifted himself so they were eye-to-eye, giving him one of those disapproving expressions that the Hales must have ingrained in their DNA, “You'll change your mind, with time and experience. You're still young, and I have so much yet to teach you.”
Then he was gone again. And - “Oh. Oh, dear lord, are you really?” Yep, that was Peter's mouth on his dick. He grimaced, “Oh jesus, you are. This is disgusting.”
By this point in any movie or tv show in the history of the world, he would have magically recovered his ability to move in order to make some daring escape. But this was no movie, this was no tv show, and that damn toxin was still rife in his veins. He couldn't do anything significant. Talking was more than ineffective. If anything, it encouraged Peter all the more. The Pack had seemingly abandoned him – though he knew he couldn't really blame them, but it seemed like a good idea for the here and now. He was helpless, truly and wholly, and he could not even pretend to defend himself.
It was almost instinctual to call for Scott, for Derek, for any of them, and he started too, but then a scene began to play in his mind. Even if they miraculously heard him, they would see him like this, splayed out, his body cooperating and loving this. Peter would run, and this image would be branded in all of their minds forever. No, better to suffer alone; as long as he survived, right?
How pathetic was that? He was acting the martyr, but only to protect himself from any further humiliation. If he had the emotions to spare, he would have been sickened by himself, but he was too busy, y'know, being raped and all to give a shit. He'd have plenty of time for self-loathing later.
He wanted to cry – could he even cry?
Yep, he could, because there were tears leaking from his eyes. He was so pitiful that he couldn't even stop himself from crying.
“No, damn it, no! Would you please just stop!?” He was begging now, he couldn't help it, because, god, he could feel his hips snap upward, Peter's tongue doing all kinds of mind-warping tricks, and he was so far gone. He rolled his head back and forth in a semblance of a fit, because it was all he could do.
He found himself moaning, twisting the noise with anger and shame. Peter groaned around him, appreciative, while his nails dripped down Stiles' chest, leaving behind a prickling trail of fire that could only precede blood. He focused on them, thankful for the distracting burn, but it wasn't enough.
He pushed his head back as his body tensed up, back naturally arching ever so slightly, preparing itself. He was babbling again, a litany of words that he had no control over, “Please, let me go, don't do this, I don't want this. No, Oh god, oh god.”
He was coming, and Peter did not so much as attempt to move, taking every bit that Stiles had to give him. If the circumstances had been different, it would have been hot as hell. As it was, though, it was disturbing to know that some of himself was inside the monster still latched around his cock.
He shuddered, breathless and speechless for once, his muscles contracting and a deafening hum in his ears. It was supposed to be over now, but the roar that shook the walls was indication enough of the contrary. Peter was quite literally torn from him, accompanied by a porn-worthy wet pop and all.
Once more, two creatures of the night endeavored to rip each other apart right next to his frozen and now half-naked and debauched body, and he couldn't see a damn thing. He felt like some prize being fought over, except, ha, no wait – it was true. Peter wanted him, and it didn't matter if Stiles thought he was batshit, he still wanted to kidnap Stiles and brainwash his sixteen-year-old-ass into loving him. That much was clear, and Stiles was not going to fall for that bullshit “I'm not good enough” routine that so many chicks swear by.
His own opinion of himself, whatever it may be on any given day, had no relevance to begin with. Peter Hale would not be swayed from his decision. He had just proven it by sucking Stiles off amidst the ruins of his family home; practically on their deathbeds. Hell – he was by the fireplace – Peter had just given him a blowjob on top of his own damn grave.
Good lord, if his best friend wasn't a werewolf, he wouldn't believe this shit.
The air was cold against the perspiration dotting his trembling form, aftershocks still pulsating through him even as clammy hands – no claws this time, thank the lord – brushed against his sides, checking for injuries.
He wasn't sure who had saved him, but it was one of the Pack, and god, he had come right in front of them – could he just die now?
Finally, Derek came into view, his eyes still artery-red, and the laugh that ripped itself from Stiles' throat could be described as nothing other than utterly broken.
“Derek. Jesus christ, I, Peter, he... I just....”
Derek was just staring at him, reminiscent of his uncle, and Stiles just couldn't handle that. “Could you at least fucking cover me up or something? I'm not a zoo-animal. Have some goddamn decency.”
He could not believe that every syllable remained complete, that he did not stutter or simply stop talking – was he traumatized? Had everything that happened just not registered yet? Because he was freaking out in his mind, but his mouth seemed to be on auto-pilot. Maybe that was for the best, so Derek might treat him normally.
Too bad that wasn't going to happen. He wasn't precisely certain how Derek was treating him, but it was weird. He had disappeared again, tracing the scratches on his chest, all the way down to - “What in holy hell are you doing?!”
“He touched you... I can smell him on you, he... He claimed you.”
Stiles had never heard him sound this way – shocked, totally despondent, as though he were in a trance. His eyebrows knitted together, not quite comprehending why Derek would behave in such a way. Claiming...
“Wait, he did say something about wanting me as a mate. He didn't... did he? Derek, explain. Everything. Now.” Stiles needed to not be confused, just for a moment; he needed it for his sanity.
“No, you are not his mate. Not yet. But he has marked you, and he will come back for you.”
“That's fucking fantastic. Just great. Hey, while we're on the subject of awesome shit, how is it that he is still alive?”
“I don't know.” Well, there was no room for argument there.
“Okay. That's wonderful. Do you know anything at all?” Stiles couldn't refrain from snapping. He needed answers and he wasn't getting any, and he was a little goddamn stressed, so sue him.
Derek was silent, and Stiles began to get anxious, not that he wasn't anyways. “Derek? I still need you to cover me up, please, this is getting creepy.”
Hands circled his hips, and still, he could not move. “Derek?”
“I can't let him claim you, Stiles, I can't. If I lose you, too, I... You're pack. Just like Scott. But you're more than that, you're... Please don't hate me for this. Please understand, if I don't, then he has every right to you.”
“What are you talking about? You're scaring the hell out of me, and I think I've been scared enough for one night.”
“I'm sorry, this is not how I wanted it to be.”
He didn't fucking sound sorry. And wait, not how he wanted it to be? “What?”
Derek's fingertips trailed through the mess of welled up blood on his chest, drawing away only to be replaced with his tongue. Stiles' mind went blank, everything stopped, except for Derek, who was moving downward, and then he understood.
“Oh god, you're not going to... You can't. Seriously, Derek, don't you fucking dare! I will never forgive you for this – I don't care why you're doing it. You're not doing me a favor!”
Derek's mouth closed over him, and he gasped, holding in a gulp of air for as long as he could before he adjusted himself back into a stilted breathing pattern. It was happening all over again, only this time, it was Derek, and wasn't that a kick in the ass. They had finally started to work together. Stiles had just begun to earn his respect, and now it was all lost. Now Derek was on his hands and knees, sucking his cock, and not in a fun way.
Not that there could be a fun way for Derek to touch his dick. Sure, he'd entertained the concept, especially after Derek had slammed him into his own door – so much strength – but he'd never taken it seriously. He wasn't gay. Didn't every guy think about it, once in a while? Although, he did have an unhealthy obsession with finding out if gay guys found him hot, but, well, that was more of an insecurity thing than a “I want to touch a cock” thing. Wasn't it in the bro-code that one had to masturbate to dudes to be classified as gay? Well, there was that one time...
Now it didn't matter if he'd thought about it or not, with Derek or otherwise. He knew what it was like, and, in this context, he hated it. He didn't want to be touched, not now, not for a long time. He simply wanted to just curl up in his familiar sheets and be blessed with dreamless sleep.
But no, instead, he was being given the second blowjob of his entire life over some territorial power-play between fucking werewolves, and he would have preferred being stabbed in the gut.
This was not okay, alright? None of this was okay.
Werewolf best friend or not, being raped was not supposed to be part of the agenda. Ever. Not by the undead Peter, and certainly not by his Alpha, because, yes, the moment Derek became Scott's Alpha, he became Stiles' as well.
And as his Alpha, he was supposed to protect him, not molest him, right? No matter the predicament. Derek obviously wasn't being a very good Alpha.
He realized that his brain was doing a great job with that defense mechanism shit, because it wasn't until Derek's fingernails dug into his hips that he felt himself jolted back to reality. The reality wherein his Alpha was going to town on his cock, oh god, why couldn't he have just stayed in his mind...
“You fucking asshole, why are you doing this?! Why couldn't we have talked this through...”
What he really meant to ask was why the fuck did he have to be lucid for this? Why couldn't he just drift? But being able to say that would require articulation, and that sort of thought was far from his grasp.
Derek was not as skilled as Peter, his mouth a bit too dry and his teeth too sharp and close, and Stiles didn't know what to garner from that horrifying knowledge. He just filed it away, hopefully never to revisit it. But he had to get past this first. Had he been able to control his own body, he would have tried to help this along, because if he couldn't stop it and wasn't allowed to ignore it, he sure as hell wanted it over with.
So he let himself concentrate on it. He really didn't even need to. His body was on overdrive, and he still had no say in his reactions. Getting off a teenage boy who could not counter said stimulation in any way was likely the easiest thing in the world.
That being said, Derek had clearly never sucked someone off before, but lucky for him, he was oversensitive. Yet, it was closer to the raw part of sensitive and thus, it did take a lot longer than before, but soon his body was like play-doh in Derek's hands, just as he had been for Peter. That was all he was for them, he was sure of that now. Just a plaything, something to bend and break and fashion anew.
He closed his eyes and just surrendered, feeling so unbelievably close to shattering, just like they wanted him to. If he wasn't given room to breathe soon, he would. But thank the lord for being a hormonal boy with quick down-time.
Derek did not even try to swallow as Peter had, the slick heat gone, substituted by a gentle hand which guided him to completion. He could not hide his expression, muffling a whimper as well as he could. He could tell that Derek's judgmental gaze was on him the whole time, tracking every fracture as he broke, head pushing back into the floor, back off the ground, just as before, but this time... this time...
He blinked his eyes open, barely caring to notice Derek lapping up the evidence of his own touch. He was sure he'd have a not-so-minor panic attack about it later.
He opened his mouth to say something, but the supposedly soothing sensation of his own climax bogged him down enough that he was simply too weary to yell, to scream, to tell Derek just how much he despised him.
He was still crying though. He was honestly too exhausted to even feel ashamed about it.
Derek was above him now, his eyes back to an indecipherable blue-green shade. That was good, that was comforting... A little. Stiles turned his head to the side and continued to cry – why couldn't he stop?! It was muted tears, just a sign of stress, he knew, but it was weakness, wasn't it? The soft pad of Derek's entirely human finger suddenly brushed his cheek, collecting tears and a speckle of blood from the puncture inflicted by Peter.
“I'm so sorry, Stiles. I never meant for this to happen. I...”
Stiles wasn't listening. He didn't want to hear excuses. He just wanted someone to knock him out at this point, because he was so, so tired. With his eyes shut, his mind on 'let's contemplate oblivion', he tuned out the numbing reminder of his own paralysis and the rustling sound of clothes as Derek dressed him. There was plenty of time to dwell in the morning.