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no moral compass, pointing due north

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It starts at the unavoidable ‘Peter’s Not Dead Anymore. What Do We Do About it?’ meeting. Stiles turns blue in the face because, instead of using his oxygen to breathe, he’s shouting at Derek to kill him, kill him right now, while Peter leans casually against the doorframe and picks at the dirt under his fingernails, so very bored.

“He’s useful!” Derek’s clearly pissed at having to justify himself. “This isn’t up for negotiation.”

Oh, Derek, Peter thinks. Whenever you use your Alpha voice like that I die a little more on the inside.

“He’s about as useful as a big bag of dog shit!” Stiles yells, not budging an inch under the glint of Derek’s red irises. “What does Peter do except creep everyone out? He’s totally the handsy old molester all our parents warned us about. And you want us to share our personal space with him!”

“Handsy old molester?” Peter interjects, shaping his mouth around each word. “That’s uncalled for. Well, there was that time with Lydia.”

Peter smiles at her. She pulls a hidden knife.

“I will eviscerate you,” Lydia hisses, dear thing.

“And in the parking lot where you basically raped my arm and proposed to me!” Stiles accuses. As one, every single pair of eyes turns to stare at Peter.

I certainly didn’t suggest anything untoward,” Peter says, honestly perplexed but hiding it by widening his eyes innocently. “I can’t help it if you overreacted to my natural sexual magnetism.”

He really can’t. It’s always been a problem; his high school graduating class voted him “Biggest Cock Tease.” Unofficially, of course.

The eyes swivel back towards Stiles, who’s blushing furiously in a lovely shade of bright red. Oh, this is hilarious.

“Don’t look at me! He’s the giant pedophile!” Stiles spits, pointing an angry finger in Peter’s direction.

Peter rakes his gaze flirtatiously down Stiles' body. “Not yet.”

It’s like someone sucked the air out of the room. Stiles gapes, lost for words as his mouth continues to move silently. The rest of the children stand absolutely still, watching in appalled horror with no clue how to react to this situation appropriately. Except Lydia, bless her heart, who takes a threatening step forward with her knife raised.

“Jesus Christ, Peter.” Derek sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Just… Stop talking.”

Peter pulls his best, ‘Who? Me?’ expression - the one that Peter knows, for a fact, unfortunately, makes Derek want to punch him in the face. The whole interaction is the most fun Peter’s had in years. And he’s totally going to do it again. He’s not ashamed. Hell, he doesn’t even remember what shame feels like.

As the weeks drone by, Derek putters around the new apartment that Peter convinces him to buy after continually threatening to pee on the floor “if you keep insisting we live like animals.” Derek’s average day is a tedious combination of physical exercise and existential angst, and Peter livens up the duller moments by messing with the kids. He’s probably enjoying it more than is, well, sane (ha!), but listening to the Martin girl spit increasingly creative death threats whenever he manages to sneak up behind her, smiling pleasantly back at Scott’s death glare while asking after his mom, and steadily grating away at his nephew’s nerves until Derek throws an epic bitch fit, smashes the dining room table in half (Peter only irritates Derek around the ugly furniture), and finally goes out of the fucking house – all these moments warm the depths of Peter’s cold, malicious heart in a way nothing else can.

Does he feel bad about how easy it is? Are “your mom” jokes at Scott’s expense beneath him? Does he worry about how creepy he seems as he deliberately brushes against Stiles? Nope. Not in the least. He’s come back from the dead only to be stuck with an incompetent group of hormonal teenagers with the worst communication skills Peter has ever witnessed. And he’s spent six years in a coma.

There’s comes a time when you either go on a murderous rampage or you learn to create your own fun, and Peter hates repeating himself.

He develops a rotating schedule of which person he pisses off and how much based on a reliable formula of a) whoever's around at any given time, b) the level of posturing in the room, c) how strongly an individual smells of frustration, and d) how hard they can punch.

(b/a*c-d=x in case anyone was curious.)

There are exceptions.

Peter leaves Isaac alone because he recognizes a potential train wreck when he sees one.

And, whenever Allison Argent dares stand in the same space as him, Peter doesn’t say a word. He just stares unblinkingly at her, drumming his claws against the closest hard surface. Occasionally, she musters up the courage to meet his gaze with a glare of her own, but Peter doesn’t so much as quirk an eyebrow. Words do not convey his lack of gives-a-shit about her false bravado. She and what’s left of her family can go die in a fire.

And then there’s Stiles. Stiles is Peter’s favorite. He reacts to Peter so beautifully that it’s difficult not to enjoy their interactions a bit more than is probably healthy.  The boy reeks of sexual frustration all the time, and it’s pathetically easy enough to scandalize the boy, but Peter saves his truly smarmy moves for the best situations. After all, he wouldn’t want Stiles to become desensitized.

The first time Peter pulls out the big guns, they’re being chased down some side streets by the Alpha pack. Derek sent Peter and Stiles to negotiate a truce. Peter knows strategy was never Derek’s strong suit, but, seriously, Stiles was born without the ‘Thinks Before Speaking’ gene and Peter’s already famous for killing one Alpha. They last about five minutes before they have to run for their lives, which is about three minutes more than Peter privately bet on with Boyd. He owes that little shit fifty dollars.

Stiles keeps up as best he can, but Peter can hear his exhaustion, and as amusing as another episode of Derek Hale’s Classic "Woe is Me; I Only Hurt the Ones I Love" Guilt Trip would be, Peter doesn’t think he’d live long if he returned to base sans one human.

Peter smells the dumpster before he sees it. He grabs Stiles under his armpits, and, ignoring his indignant squawk, tosses him inside, leaving just enough time to jump in after him and pull the lid down on top of them before the Alphas come tearing around the corner. 

The dumpster isn’t quite large enough for one full grown man and one freakishly tall seventeen-year-old. Peter ends up crouched over Stiles, their faces close enough together that Peter can feel puffs of Stiles’ breath against his cheek.

“Get off of me!” Stiles whispers in a piercing tone. Peter slaps his hand over Stiles' mouth as the Alphas run past the outside of the dumpster. He listens until their footsteps fade before glancing down at Stiles, who’s trying to gnaw off the fingers near his mouth. It’s adorable. Peter can’t help himself.

“We might want to stay here. Until it's safe.” Peter says, lowering his body until he’s firmly inserted himself between the v of Stiles' legs. Stiles' protest is muffled by Peter’s hand. He swings a fist that Peter catches easily and holds down.

“I enjoy your company immensely,” Peter whispers into Stiles’ ear, “I’m glad we’re having this chance to get closer.” He shifts a little. Not enough to be obscene, but enough to make Stiles’ eyes narrow into angry slits. Stiles bucks, probably in an attempt to throw Peter off, but all he succeeds in doing is rubbing their hips together.

Peter shakes his head sadly, “Oh, Stiles, stop before you embarrass yourself.”

He bends his head, having every intention of stopping inches away from Stiles’ outraged face, but, alas, he doesn’t get the chance. In all the merriment, he forgets about Stiles’ other hand until it smears a fistful of garbage into his face. Peter gags as rotting tuna is thrust up his nose. By the time he’s done spitting out the aftertaste, Stiles has climbed back out into the alley and is speed dialing Derek.

“I hate him!” Stiles screams into the phone. “I hate him so much!”

Peter laughs silently to himself as he gracefully hops out of the dumpster. He adores people who understand the importance of giving back as good as you get. Sadly, it’s not a talent found in most people these days.

Another time, Stiles is drinking milk straight from the carton. Peter feels totally justified in walking silently up behind Stiles and fisting a hand leisurely through his hair, tugging hard enough to pull Stiles’ head back and expose his throat. Stiles shrieks and spills milk all over the floor. Peter frowns a little at the mess; the smell of milk takes forever to fade. His exasperation fades in favor of focusing on how Stiles is currently pressing himself back against the kitchen counter in an exaggerated attempt at increasing the space between them.

“Bad touch!” Stiles wheezes. “That is a bad touch! My dad taught me all about those. You know? My dad. The Sheriff. Who has a gun and will shoot you in the face.”

“Terribly sorry,” Peter purrs. “But the new hairstyle accentuates your features perfectly.”

“I need an adult!” Stiles screams towards the living room, where Derek has almost reached a long fought for truce with Scott. 

“I’m an adult,” Peter responds silkily, caging Stiles into the counter with his arms.

“You’re a fucking undead creep.” Stiles puts both his hands against Peter’s chest and shoves. Peter leans more of his weight forward and watches Stiles’ face turn pink.

Peter has a fantastically inappropriate comeback for that, but Scott cuts him off as he barrels into the kitchen and tackles Peter through the brick wall. Suddenly, there's dust and bits of brick everywhere and someone in the kitchen has a direct view into the study via a gaping hole in the wall. The next few minutes are filled with howls, curses, and the smell of blood until Stiles manages to drag Scott, a yelling and spitting half-shifted, bloody mess, out of the house. Peter's cheerfully unscathed, listening to Scott swear that they'll never help Derek, never ever ever, with a smug smile. 

Derek stands in the kitchen, staring at the damage with a distraught expression.

“Why?” he asks, in a voice reserved for the despairing and hopeless. “Why are you ruining my life?”

There are so many ways to respond. Ways that could break Derek, and send him into the woods for the rest of the day. But Peter just dusts off his sleeve and adjusts his jacket around his shoulders. “Don’t be melodramatic. It’s childish and upsets the Betas.”

Derek buries his face in his hands, shoulders heaving as he takes several deep calming breaths.

Peter lays off for a while because he understands the subtlety of causing general annoyance versus outright anger and the consequences of each.

But he does replace all of Isaac’s Internet bookmarks with really kinky pornography sites whenever the kid leaves his laptop unattended. He’d hate for Isaac to feel like he wasn’t being included.

But then Stiles and Boyd are arguing about fantasy novels in the living room. Peter’s tuning them out until Boyd mentions Harry Potter.

“Peter, what do you think about Harry being the seventh Horcrux?” Stiles asks in a shit-eating tone. “Oh. Whoops. That book came out in 2007. Weren’t you in a coma? How sad for you.”

“Dude,” Boyd says, shaking his head. “Uncool.”

Maybe that’s why Peter can’t help himself next time.

He’s walking down the street on his way back from the graveyard when he spots Stiles being dragged out of a house by a stranger. Peter catches something about “breaking and entering” and “get your ass thrown into juvie.” Stiles has a trapped, desperate, look on his face, and is trying to stutter out an excuse. He considers sitting on the street corner and waving to Stiles as the Sheriff is forced to handcuff his only child for a Class One Felony, but only for a second or two. 

The stuttered apology dies in Stiles’ throat when Peter’s hand lands firmly on his shoulder.

“Where have you been?” Peter demands in his best ‘responsible adult’ voice. He’s out of practice, but it’s still there. “Your mother and I have been worried sick!”

“Is this kid yours?” the man demands. He smells like Mountain Ash. Ah. No wonder Stiles was so interested at getting a look inside the house.

“Yes, I’m so sorry.” Peter shakes the man’s hand, squeezing just enough to draw a faint wince. “My son -”

“Son?” Stiles exclaims loudly. “I’m not -”

Peter slides his hand to the back of Stiles’ neck, squeezing in warning. “My son has some memory issues. We used to live here, you see. A while back. He gets confused.”

“Confused?”

Peter nods. “It’s very upsetting.”

Stiles squirms a little under Peter’s grip, elbowing him in the side where the man can’t see. Peter keeps his smile fixed, but he pulls Stiles firmly into his side and digs his fingers into Stile’s ribs. He can feel the boy’s heart pounding rapidly where they press together.

The man looks suspicious. “You don’t look related.”

“I’m his step-father,” Peter says without skipping a beat, patting Stiles condescendingly on the head.

"You don't look old enough either."

"We eat vegan."

Stiles snorts, quiet enough that only Peter can hear.

“Keep him away from my house. If I see him again, I’m calling the police,” the man snarls and stalks off.

“Have a wonderful day!” Peter calls after him, already dragging Stiles down the street. He rubs his nose, the smell of Mountain Ash itching at his nostrils.

“The guy’s a witch,” Stiles exclaims frantically as they walk down the street, Peter’s arm over his shoulder in a fatherly gesture. “I saw some seriously weird shit through the window.”

“And you thought you’d just break in and take a closer look?” Peter inquires sarcastically. “Excellent plan. Well done, Stiles.”

“You’re one to talk about excellent plans,” Stiles grumbles. “Pretending to be my father, Holy Christ.”

“I’ll have you know I’m very good at discipline,” Peter says, lowering his voice to a deeper register - the one he used in clubs and smoky bars, back in the day, whispering into the ear of whatever body was pressed hard against his own. Stiles' jaw works soundlessly, too shocked to even draw away from where they’re still touching. The arm around Stiles’ shoulder shifts from fatherly to suggestive as Peter slides his fingers across the nape of Stiles neck, too-long nails scraping lightly against the short hairs there. He feels Stiles shiver against the sensation.

“Do you need a spanking, Stiles?” Peter asks curiously in the same intonation. “You look like you do. You look like you’d enjoy being held down and punished.”

Stiles swallows hard. “I – What?”

Peter reaches out, caressing Stiles’ cheek gently before turning the gesture into a mean pinch.

“Ow!” Stiles jerks away. “What the fuck?”

“I’m sorry to ruin our little tête-à-tête,” Peter says, not even bothering to sound sincere. He lets his eyes glow slightly in the fading sunlight. “But I was so looking forward to that seventh book after all this time. I’m not the kind of man you want holding a grudge against you, Stiles. Consider this a friendly warning.”

Stiles stares for a moment before shrieking, “Are you serious? It’s a children’s novel, you sociopath!”

“Sociopaths read too,” Peter responds coolly. “We’re very multifaceted.”

“Your mom’s multifaceted,” Stiles retorts.

“My mom’s dead,” Peter reminds him, just to be an asshole.

Stiles pauses and an unnamable emotion briefly contorts his features. “Well, that’s a mood killer.”

“Sweet boy, do you want to get me back into the mood?” Peter asks, stepping close enough that their chests brush. He closes his hand around Stiles’ wrist and gently rubs his thumb along the pulse point there.

Stiles’ only reaction is to roll his eyes and shrug him off. “Shut up, Peter.”

Peter’s disappointed. He thought for sure that move was worth a horrified quiver at least.

But it turns out the man is indeed a witch. And he’s not a fan of werewolves.

It doesn’t end well.

For the man.

For Stiles’ eighteenth birthday, Peter sends him a bouquet of flowers, a box of condoms, and a card that reads, “Congratulations, Jailbait Stiles!”

Stiles storms into Derek’s house, card clutched angrily in his fist. “I don’t want your pedophile flowers!”

Derek doesn’t even bother looking up from the hideous cabinet he’s busy putting together.

“Now, now,” Peter says, placidly turning a page in his book. “Those flowers are legal in the eyes of the law.”

After Stiles leaves in an irritated huff, Derek sighs, “I know this is how you get your kicks and all, but you’ve got to stop messing with Stiles. I think he’s taking it the wrong way.”

“You’ve got to stop messing with Stiles, please,” Peter corrects and dodges the cabinet Derek throws at his head.

Then the kids go off to college and leave Peter with Boyd, who’s a Deputy or whatever. And it's. So. Boring.

Peter tries everything. Standing too close, smiling creepily, catching him off guard in the bathroom, emotional manipulation… Boyd either doesn’t notice or nods along with a distracted, “uh-huh.” Once Peter lectures lousdly about how cult leaders often target the friendless and lonely, but he’s sure Boyd's never experienced vulnerability like that, only to glance over a solid twenty minute into his monolgue and discover Boyd is nearly asleep.

Boyd actually apologizes. He claims Peter’s voice is soothing.

Boyd sucks.

And Derek’s too easy.

It’s almost a relief when summer rolls around and everyone returns, and not just because Derek stops oozing his fears of abandonment all over the place. The best part is that a gang of Banshees starts terrorizing the town after following the scent of three werewolves across the state. It’s like Christmas.

They end up burying the bodies in the next town over. Stiles and Peter stand lookout to the east while Boyd and Isaac patrol the west. Scott draws the short straw and has to help Derek cut out and burn the tongues.

Stiles keeps watching Peter out of the corner of his eye. Peter scratches his jaw and tries to project an aura of boredom while ignoring the smell of fire. He almost succeeds.

Stiles clears his throat. Peter turns his head and arches his eyebrow.

“Yes?”

“You, uh, all right over there?” Stiles asks uncomfortably. “With the… smell of burning flesh?”

Peter raises his other eyebrow.

Stiles winces. “Okay, I could have phrased that better.”

“Well,” Peter says, touching the tip of his tongue to his upper lip thoughtfully. “I could always use a distraction.”

Stiles shakes his head back and forth in quick, jerky movements. “No. Nope. No, sir. Not happening.”

Peter pouts. “But Stiles, what if I have a traumatic flashback and regress into my murderous ways?”

“I’ll stab you in the throat and watch you bleed out into the grass.” Stiles says, pulling a knife from his jacket that stinks of wolfsbane. “Lydia made it herself.”

Peter tries to leer, but it dissolves into an honest grin. He’s never enjoyed anything so much as a quick wit and a sharp mind. Even the corner of Stiles’ lip twitches upward, although he hides it with a sneer.   

A twig snaps in the woods. Peter curses as a flashlight sweeps through the trees. He’s been distracted, first by the burning smell and then by Stiles, and missed the approach of two people until they were practically on top of them.

Moving fast, Peter reaches out and grabs Stiles by the waist, pulling Stiles close. Stiles eyes are wide and dark, staring into his own.

“Follow my lead.” Peter winks.

“Oh, good,” Stiles says tonelessly, but tucks the knife away and wraps his arms around Peter’s neck. “Glad to know you don’t change. I was worried you’d become less creepy.”

“I’ll never change when it comes to you, Stiles,” Peter promises and drags Stiles’ hips flush against his own.

The light traps the two of them in its glare. Peter knows his eyes reflect the light, and cause the gasp. That or whoever’s there didn’t expect to find two men embracing in the woods. He squints to lessen the effect and can barely make out two figures behind the glare.

“S-sorry,” a woman stammers. She sounds surprised and uncomfortable. Peter wishes he could get a scent on her but the stench of fire is too overpowering. “We thought we smelled smoke.”

“That’s just our friends back at the camp site. We snuck away for a little privacy if you know what I mean,” Peter says, sliding his hands down the small of Stiles’ back, only stopping when Stiles’ knee twitches up near Peter’s balls warningly.

The two campers slink away, calling out embarrassed apologies as they go.  Peter releases Stiles, not noting the way Stiles’ hands uncurl reluctantly from around his shoulders or the way Stiles fidgets restlessly the remainder of the night.

Not until the next day, when Peter’s alone in the house and he hears the front door slam open and closed. He recognizes Stiles’ footsteps and figures he’s here looking for Derek when the door to his bedroom bursts open.

“It’s polite to knock.” Peter tells him, standing up from his desk.

“Shut up,” Stiles says and kicks the door shut with the heel of his foot. Peter has time to blink twice before Stiles shoves him against the wall and kisses him.

His first instinct is to shove Stiles away in surprise because, as much as he relishes reactions brought about by inappropriately sexual overtures, the last person he kissed was his wife. But Peter’s brief moment of panic is drowned out when Stiles’ tongue shoves aggressively into his mouth. Might as well go with it, Peter decides and grabs a handful of Stiles’ hair, forcefully tilting his head into an angle that causes Stiles to moan. The sound is enough to make Peter forget his past discomfort and his cock hardens as Stiles’ tongue licks hot and slick against his own.

Stiles thrusts his erection into Peter’s hip - once, twice - before sliding his hand down Peter’s pants. His hand wraps around Peter’s dick, firm and perfect. Peter tries not to groan when it pulls away, but he can’t help the small, animalistic growl that escapes his mouth when Stiles drops to his knees.

Hands work at the buttons of his jeans quickly, and, before he understands what exactly is going on, Peter is receiving the angriest blowjob he’s ever gotten in his life. Stiles’ mouth sucks tight around him. Peter tries to card his hand through Stiles’ hair and receives a hint of teeth, scraping warningly against his vulnerable flesh. Peter hisses and drags his claws against the wall instead, scratching deep lines in the wood. Stiles' eyes glare up at him, but the smell of arousal is thick in the room. Peter inhales, letting his head fall back against the wall with a thuck as the pressure around him becomes too much and not enough.

Carefully, Peter rolls his hips and attempts a slow thrust. Because this is how it is, how it always has been, between them – with Peter pushing at the boundaries and Stiles setting the limits.

Stiles' eyes flutter. Peter feels the vibration of a muffled groan around him. Peter takes that as permission to slowly rock his hips, watching as his cock disappears into the perfect, stretched ring of Stiles’ lips and then draws back out. Stiles allows it for a long moment, shuddering from his kneeled position on the floor, before pinning Peter’s hips to the wall. Peter snarls, but allows Stiles to hold him down. For now.

As if sensing this toleration, Stiles narrows his eyes up at Peter, flicking his tongue against the head of his cock before sinking down and sucking in his entire length, tonguing relentlessly at the spot underneath the head of Peter’s dick.

The hot, white flare builds in the pit of Peter’s stomach. The muscles in his stomach tremble and he bites back a gasp. Stiles grins around him. It’s enough to push Peter over the edge, and he comes down Stiles' throat without so much as a warning.

Stiles stands up, wiping his mouth. Peter wraps a hand around the back of Stiles' neck, pulling him in and kissing him, wet, deep, and messy – tasting himself on Stiles’ tongue. Stiles is making delicious sounds as Peter bites at his bottom lip, licking the corner of his mouth where the taste is the strongest. He rubs his cock against Peter’s thigh desperately.

“How soon can you go again?” Stiles whines, clutching Peter’s shoulder. “I know you’re, like, ancient and everything, but I really, really want you to hold me down and fuck me.”

Peter drags Stiles to the bed by his hair. He punishes Stiles by rimming him until he’s openly sobbing against the sheets, drawing it out with his lips and tongue until he’s begging before Peter lets him come. The next orgasm is just as slow – Peter using his fingers while blowing Stiles with never enough pressure or speed for what feels like hours until Stiles’ hole is stretched open wide with spit, lube, and Stiles' own come. Stiles is limp and boneless by the time Peter pushes inside, meeting no resistance. Peter starts with short, shallow thrusts until Stiles is hard again, whimpering as he reaches for his own cock. Peter bats his hand away and, using one hand, pins Stiles' wrists, holding them down over Stiles' head.

Peter uses his other hand to tilt Stiles’ hips into the perfect angle as he thrusts hard, bottoming out each time his hips snap forward.

Stiles bites down on a scream as he comes, thighs clutching tight around Peter's waist. Peter buries his head in Stiles’ neck and allows Stiles to drag desperate nails down his back. When Peter comes it feels like a fist in the gut, leaving him breathless and aching.

Stiles shoves him off, punches him in the mouth, and jumps off the bed, gathering up his clothes from the floor.

“Not a cuddler, then,” Peter drawls, leaning back against the pillows. He breathes in, nostrils flaring as he inhales how wrecked, how used, Stiles smells.

“Fuck you.”

“Maybe next time.” Peter yawns, stretching out on the bed. “I’m flexible.”

He grins, watching as Stiles’ eyes glaze over as they track the movement of the sheet across Peter’s bare hip.

The clothes drop back to the floor.

Sometimes Peter wonders if he should be doing something more productive with his time. He did come back from the dead, after all. Seems like a shame to waste such a perfectly planned scheme. One day, he makes a list of ‘Evil Ways to be Evil,’ but the only two things he manages to put down are ‘killing the Argents’ and ‘stealing Derek’s Alphahood.’

Peter writes those off as ‘repetitive’ and ‘too predictable.’

Stiles finds the list when he comes back during his winter break. On the desk. Face up. Where Peter left it.

“Alphahood? Seriously?” Stiles demands, waving the paper in Peter’s face. “Three years and this is the best you can do?”

Peter shrugs unapologetically. “I’ve been distracted.”

“This is just lazy!” Stiles scolds, crumpling up the list and throwing it to the ground, but he lets Peter reach out and pull him into his lap. As Stiles settles his legs around him, Peter scrapes his teeth gently against Stiles’ collarbone, fingers tracing the crack of Stiles’ ass.

“You should keep distracting me.” Peter breaths out against Stiles’ lips. “For the good of the pack.”

Stiles scowls, but his next words are a bit strained and Peter can feel him hardening where they're pressed together. “You’re just a hilarious asshole, aren’t you?”

Peter beams, glad to have someone else in on the joke.