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We Sign in Red

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"It's not so bad, Scott," Stiles says after the full moon. His heartbeat sounds light, easy. "Peter wants you to come with us next time."

"Right," Scott says.

"He asked how Allison's doing," Stiles says, and kicks back in his chair.

Scott swallows, trying not to get angry. "She's fine."


Scott was Peter's first, the one he didn't get quite right. The bite had lacked the necessary intention—had been made more out of instinct than anything—and he doesn't think the bond has properly taken, even now. There is anger in Scott's eyes when their gazes meet, and one thing has always been true among wolves: it is a very foolish idea to show anger to your alpha.

This is what Peter tells Scott, gentle, on the days when they fight with claws. Peter's considered letting him win one day, but for now he likes pinning him too much—and really, it's only when Scott's face is in the dirt and Peter's claws are in his skin that there is any hope of him listening. Peter drags his fingers around, digs up little noises of pain, and teaches him with his teeth.

You'll be mine in time, Scott. I can be very patient.


These little tussles—more insulting than anything—leave Scott feeling disoriented, swimming in a haze of maybe it wouldn't be so bad, to trust him.

But Scott can be patient too. He grits his teeth and waits it out.

Afterwards, once his head has cleared, he feels sick to his stomach. He misses Allison. He thinks of Stiles and Lydia, who don't hunch their shoulders under Peter's gaze like he does, and just wants to take them away. He wants to kill Peter. He wants to hurt Peter.

(When these thoughts cross his mind, he thinks of what happened to Derek.)

He wants them all to be free of him, back to the way things were, but Stiles and Lydia have... changed. Something—Peter—has happened to them. Some nights the dark is terrifying, full of faint howls, and Scott thinks there might be no going back.


Peter thinks of it more like:

Stiles and Lydia have changed. He put his heart and soul into them with his bites, and the result is perfection. They have taken his gift and run with it, grown with it. They are his, and they will never leave him.

He will never let them.


Sometimes Stiles' wrist hurts. He wears long shirts most of the time, and the cuffs sometimes chafe, like the bite wants to be free. Like it wants to be where Peter can see it.

"Dude, it's winter," Scott says once, when they show up to meet Peter. "What are you wearing?"

Stiles looks down at himself and plucks at his t-shirt—he thought he remembered putting his jacket on before he left. It's fine though, really. It's not that cold, and also werewolf powers.

"I like it," Peter says from too close behind them. Scott jumps, and Stiles turns slowly.

Peter looks down, steps in, and takes Stiles' hand. Long fingers brush at his wrist at a very particular spot. Stiles feels his face and something in his stomach fill with heat; his wrist tingles and his breath stops up in his throat, sticky.

He has a sudden thought, of Peter pushing him into the door or the front walk, pinning him and biting at his wrist again and again, until his mouth is red with it. Until they are both red with it.

"I'm going inside," Scott says quickly.

Peter is still looking at him. "After you, Stiles," he says courteously.

"Right," Stiles says, blinking, feeling as though Peter has somehow seen—everything.

He pulls his hand away. It's surprisingly difficult.


"Will you—" Stiles tries to ask.

"Of course," says Peter, and pulls him in.

Stiles bares his neck, his forearms, his belly. He feels vulnerable, completely unsafe, but Peter's body is warm against his and the weight of his red-eyed regard is something tangible, almost reassuring. His claws prick a little, and that just feels good.

"Ready?" Peter breathes, lifting Stiles' wrist.

"Oh—god—" Stiles says, all nerves, and closes his eyes tight.


Peter licks his lips, after.


He likes Stiles like this: dazed, sticky with blood but without a scratch on him.

Peter is very safety conscious. He takes Stiles home personally, a gentle hand on his shoulder as he leads him inside. He strips him and tucks him into bed, arranging his wrist carefully against the sheets. He strokes Stiles' temple a few times, until finally Stiles blinks and looks up.

"Tell Lydia I'm sorry," Stiles says, voice hoarse.

"She'll be upset that she missed it," Peter tells him, fond, "but she'll forgive you."


She does forgive him.

First, though, she pins Stiles to the couch and gets him to tell her what had happened. She requires nothing less than excruciating detail: each press of teeth that he can remember, how Peter had held him, the smells of it. The itch and hot burn of his healing skin.

It's hard. He'd been trying to forget, he thinks, but she won't let him. Now he's got phantom hands on his waist, phantom teeth in his wrist again. When he tells Lydia this, she smiles, slowly.

When she's drained him of every sensory detail, she leans down and gives him a quick kiss on the cheek.

Then a slower one, on the mouth.


Lydia is not like Stiles, trying to dodge her memories. She remembers the bite. She remembers everything.

It comes in different facets on different days. There are parts she's memorized like a favorite film but still hasn't pieced apart—it had all happened so fast, after all.

claws in her side, tearing, a scream from her throat her flesh from her bones, teeth almost delicate so deep in her shoulder, not delicate at all, Peter's bloody mouth his bloody teeth against hers—

She stores these away for further review.

Other, more coherent parts, she remembers as Peter.

Little red, you're so beautiful, so good. I've got you. Come now, Stiles. Have a taste.

She remembers the wrecked sound of Stiles sobbing that night, crying as Peter had rubbed his face into the mess of her. She remembers his glassy golden eyes, her blood all over his cheeks. She's not a wolf but she's marked him now, and she thinks she likes it. They're bound this way: blood siblings, closer than pack, with the same light in their eyes even though hers don't change color.

Yes. She likes it.

"Do you remember?" she whispers to him one night, in the dark. She pulls his hand over the faint scars of her shoulder, meaningful.

He shivers and shakes his head. "Not... well."

"Hmm." She draws her fingers down his cheek, across his lips, where she remembers the spatter of blood.

He curls away and says, hushed, "I remember cleaning up afterward."


Peter tells her, "Isn't he sweet? Isn't he perfect for us, our Stiles?"

Her voice trembles when she answers but her hands hold steady on the knife. Stiles is still and quiet beneath them, breathing shallowly, his pale skin a perfect canvas.

She's writing their names into him. He's letting her. She likes to watch his flesh swallow them back up, like he's holding their entire pack inside himself, where they cannot be hurt.

"You're ours," she says to him, and traces a deft S into his left cheek, just under his eye. He watches her, lips parted, as she writes in the rest: t-i-l-e-s. It has started healing before she even reaches the L, and by the time she finishes and takes a breath it is all gone, only little specks of blood around the edges to mark it.

"I know," he says.

Lydia, she writes in the hollow of Stiles' throat, and Scott just over his heart. Those ones he arches into a little, making the knife slip a little deeper than she intends.

He's groaning by the time she gets Peter into him, a ring around his wrist, a matched set into the divots of his hips, into his thighs. They go deeper each time, taking longer and longer to heal, and they're both breathing faster now, Stiles crying out as she presses her fingers into the marks. Her fingers—little human claws. Stiles smells like salt and sweat and blood and she needs more of it, she needs to break him open, she needs—

"All right," Peter says, tapping at her shoulder as if to wake her, and she doesn't think, just grabs him. She bares her teeth and slices a line into his palm so deep it bleeds enough to drip.

He stares at her, eyes red and almost surprised as if—for the first time she's ever seen—he doesn't know what to think. She's not holding onto him very hard, not for a werewolf, but he doesn't pull away.

She looks down and keeps writing: L-y-d-i-a.

"You're ours too," she whispers, small and fierce, though what she means is you're all mine.

He pulls her in, and kisses her forehead.


"Scott," Lydia says from behind him, the little lift in her voice the only hint of warning. "Where are you going? We're your pack."

His hand shakes on the doorknob. His head turns almost against his will, even though he knows what he'll find when he looks back: Lydia's crossed arms and tapping foot, Stiles sprawled on the couch with his laptop, Peter's knowing gaze.

"He's going to visit Allison," Peter says. Scott flinches, and Peter smiles, indulgent. "Would you like me to turn her for you?"

The echo of his voice is throaty and low, and behind him Stiles' and Lydia's hearts both jump. Stiles looks up from his computer screen, eyes wide with either fear or—excitement. Scott can't tell.

He swallows and unclenches his fingers from the doorknob, something inside him going cold.

"No thanks," he says. "I'll stay."