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Hale Sandwich

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Stiles has never been so cold in his life. He’s so cold he’s not even shivering, and he knows that’s not a good thing. That’s what Derek’s saying, maybe; Stiles can hear his increasingly worried tone as he speaks, but he can’t actually make out any of the words. It’s like he’s underwater still.

It should be funny.

It’s not funny.

Maybe it is.

Stiles blinks, and tries to remember what he was thinking about. He can’t.

He blinks again, and his vision grays out.

That seems like something he should be worried about.

Also, he can’t feel his hands.

And then he can’t feel anything.




Of everything that could have gone wrong tonight, this didn’t even make Peter’s list. He likes to think he can plan for every eventuality, but Stiles is nothing if not surprising. Still, when Derek had managed to distract the wendigo and Peter had dived in and torn its throat out, that should have been the most perilous part of the night done with, right? Except guess which irritating little human had to find a random disused well, and fall straight through the rotted cover into fifteen feet of freezing black water? In December? On one of the incredibly rare nights that it’s actually snowing in Beacon Hills?

Well, not in Beacon Hills. If they were in Beacon Hills, they’d be fine. Instead, they’re about forty miles north of Beacon Hills, the aforementioned wendigo ripped the engine out of their car, and now Stiles is rapidly succumbing to hypothermia. And Derek, even if nobody would know it to look at him, is rapidly succumbing to panic. He might look as sour and unimpressed as always, but Peter can smell the fear curdling his nephew’s scent.

“We passed a cabin on the way in here,” Peter says, keeping his voice calm. “We’ll take him there.”

Peter leads the way as Derek carries Stiles.

The cabin is a mile or two away. It doesn’t take long to get there. It’s someone’s fishing cabin, Peter thinks, although it smells stale enough that he knows nobody’s been here for months. Perfect. He breaks the lock on the door easily enough.

The place is small but comfortable. It’s a single room, not much on amenities, but beggars can’t be choosers. There’s a bed with musty-smelling covers. There’s a bookcase with a few dog-eared paperbacks, and a photograph of some beaming fool with a big dead fish. There’s a fireplace, and the owner—probably Big Dead Fish Guy—was kind enough to leave firewood as well. That’s good. Stiles can use the heat. Peter starts the fire while Derek just stands there like a lump, still holding Stiles. Stiles is pale and unresponsive.

“Jesus,” Peter says, a growl rising in his throat. “Don’t you know anything about humans? Get his clothes off, now.”

“What?” Derek lowers Stiles gently to his feet, holding him close still. Stiles mumbles something, and Peter sags a little in relief. He’s still with them, more or less.

He glares at Derek. “He’s got hypothermia. Get his clothes off him.”

Derek gapes, looking as surprised as the big dead fish.

Then Stiles surprises them both by giggling.




“Get his clothes off him,” someone says, and Stiles giggles and slaps at the hands fumbling at the fly of his jeans.

“Nuh uh,” he says. “Buy me a drink first.”

“Stiles Stilinski,” the voice says again, and ohhhh, it’s Peter. Creepy Peter. Creepy but hot Peter. “You little tease.”

“Peter!” Derek snaps.

“Omigod,” Stiles says, because suddenly he’s not wearing pants. “Uh oh.”

Then his wet hoodie and shirt are being peeled off him as well, and Stiles doesn’t really know what’s going on. He’s vaguely concerned because he thought that the first time this happened he’d be enjoying it a lot more. And also that there’d be fewer people involved. It’s okay though. He’ll just roll with the punches or whatever.

His shoes and socks are next, and yeah, he’s totally naked now.

“Peter,” he says, reaching out for the man in front of him and somehow missing. “Am I okay? Am I hot?”

He can hear the smile in Peter’s voice. “Delectable, darling.”

“Peter!” Derek snaps again.

“What?” Peter sounds hurt.

Stiles giggles again. Nobody does that whole wounded innocence shtick like Peter. Which is hilarious, because he’s so, so far away from innocence that he probably can’t even see it from whatever black shore of moral decrepitude he’s beached himself on. Yet somehow he can still sound like an angel.

Stiles likes that.

It’s kinda hot.

Actually, it’s totally hot. Peter would be totally filthy and depraved, in a really good way.

Derek is…

Derek is complicated.

Also, Derek is currently crowding against Stiles’s back, and holy shit, he’s naked too. There’s a lot of skin pressing against Stiles. Lot of bare skin, and muscles, and other bits. So maybe that filthy depravity runs in the Hale family or something, which, okay, is not something Stiles has thought about.


Okay, he’s thought about it. Lotta times. Lotta special alone times.

But it’s not like he’s thought about Peter and Derek at the same time, in the same scenario. Which, really, why not? He’s kind of disappointed in his own lack of imagination.

Stiles blinks as Peter’s annoying hot face comes into focus.


“Mmm?” He arches away from Derek toward Peter.

“Let’s get you on the bed, okay?”


Gravity shifts, and suddenly Stiles is lying on the bed—there’s a bed?—and everyone is naked, that’s a thing that is apparently happening, and Stiles is pretty sure things are about to start feeling really good any second now, except he’s actually kind of tired, and he can’t feel his body, and if he can't feel his body then how can he tell if he’s got a boner or not? He can’t really feel Peter or Derek’s bodies either, and he’s a bit aggrieved by that. But he’s mostly tired.

“Nooo,” he mumbles. “Wanna stay awake for the Hale sandwich.”

The last thing he hears before he slips into unconsciousness is Peter’s surprised laugh.




He wakes up hot.

He’s covered in an itchy blanket.


No, that’s not right.

Stiles peels his eyes open.

He’s actually wedged between two wolves. Wolves. Two fully shifted wolves. They’re big. One is black. One is brown. They’re big. He thought that already, right? Doesn’t matter, because it actually bears thinking twice. The muzzle of the brown wolf, pressed against his throat, could very, very easily snap his scrawny little neck. It’s fucking huge.

Stiles shifts a little and the black wolf snorts.

Stiles turns his head, and finds himself staring into its very red eyes. Derek.

He wriggles, and Derek gives him a warning growl.

“I’m hot,” Stiles mutters, and tries to shove Derek off him.

Derek growls again. He’s pressed so tightly to Stiles’s back that Stiles rumbles with the vibrations of the growl.

“I’m hot!”

Derek bares his teeth.

Stiles gives up and goes back to sleep.

He was only dreaming he was naked, right?




Derek shifts back to his human form some time before dawn. Stiles is still wedged between him and Peter, one arm slung over Peter, his fingers curled through the long hair of his ruff. He’s breathing okay. Snoring a little, actually. Derek presses his nose against the back of Stiles’s neck and inhales. Stiles smells a little off, the way he does when he’s carrying some small injury that’s annoying him. There’s a faint sourness to his scent that Derek knows means sickness, but he’s not too concerned. It’s almost faded now, and it was a hell of a lot worse last night. Stiles is warm, and his heartbeat is steady.

Derek’s hand is resting on Stiles’s hip. He tells himself the only reason he doesn’t move it is that he doesn’t want to wake Stiles. He tells himself that’s the only reason he doesn’t climb out of the bed either.

There are plenty of things he should be doing. He should be checking their clothes—laid out in front of the fireplace—are dry. He should be seeing if there’s any food or water in the cabin. And, if not, he should be heading outside to get some. There’s a small lake close by, and he could sniff out a rabbit or two, and collect some more firewood. He could have the water boiled and the rabbits cooking on the fire by the time Stiles even wakes up.

The thought of it both warms him and horrifies him.

Oh Jesus. He wants to provide for Stiles. He can actually imagine himself beaming proudly as he hands over a brace of dead rabbits and, because this is his fantasy, Stiles doesn’t even look faintly disgusted. Instead, he smiles, delighted, and thanks Derek with the sort of quiet sincerity that, honestly, Derek has never seen Stiles display in all the time he’s known him. Sincere? Sure. Quiet? Fuck no. Derek needs to work on the quality of his fantasies, or at least learn to better suspend his disbelief.

And he really, really should get out of bed.

Not just because he could be doing things, but also because the blankets smell faintly like old Bengay and mothballs.

Then Stiles sighs deeply in his sleep, and Derek can’t even think about moving yet.

He’s too comfortable here with Stiles.




Peter shifts back to his human form as he stretches awake and opens his eyes.

Well, well, well.

It’s not every morning that he wakes up to something quite so pretty. And Stiles is certainly pretty. It’s not like he’s never noticed before. Peter has eyes. It’s just that usually Stiles is in such a flurry of frantic motion that Peter hasn’t ever been afforded the opportunity to observe him quite so closely. Asleep, he’s really very lovely. And, sure, Peter would enjoy it a hell of a lot more if Derek wasn’t crashed out while plastered to the poor unfortunate boy’s back, but he’ll take it. He can just pretend Derek’s not here. It’s incredibly easy to do, actually. Peter’s been practicing ignoring Derek for years.

Stiles’s dark lashes lie against his mole-dotted cheeks. He snuffles, like a puppy dreaming of chasing a squirrel, and his mouth quirks. He has a gorgeous mouth. Peter has often wondered if the only way to shut it up is to shove something in it—his tongue, perhaps, or perhaps something a little more substantial—and he raises a hand and gently traces his thumb against the arch of that perfect Cupid’s bow. Then against Stiles’s full bottom lip, testing the drag. He’s delighted when Stiles’s tongue darts out and briefly touches his thumb before disappearing again.

Oh yes. The things he could do with that mouth.

A low warning growl tells him that Derek’s awake.

He meets his nephew’s narrow gaze above the curve of Stiles’s shoulder. “What?” he whispers.

“Peter.” Derek’s tone is low and threatening.

Peter rolls his eyes, and makes a show of moving his hand away again. He’s immediately gratified when Stiles smacks his lips and frowns a little in his sleep. Somebody has an oral fixation. Peter could help him out with that.

Derek growls again, and Peter sighs.

His nephew is no fun at all.




Stiles wakes up hot. He wriggles, and hears a sharp intake of breath from somewhere very close behind him. His eyes flash open, and sweet holy baby Jebus, Peter Hale is grinning at him.

“Good morning, princess.”

Stiles opens his mouth to say something. A kind of a squawk comes out instead. Because he’s naked. And Peter looks like he might be naked under the blanket too, and that is twice as much nakedness as Stiles is comfortable dealing with first thing in the morning. Or, honestly, at any time. Because it’s Peter. Peter Hale. What the hell even happened last night that he’s naked in bed with an also very naked Peter?

Stiles pushes back, away from Peter.

God, why couldn’t it at least have been—

He hits another body. Another naked body, and twists his head.

“Derek! Jesus! Oh my fucking god.” Stiles is this close to freaking out. This close. Why the hell is everyone naked? How the fuck did this happen? “Did I get drunk?”

“Why?” Peter asks. “Do you think you’d need to be drunk to get into bed with us?”

Stiles gapes at him for a second, because there is no way in hell he knows how to answer that question.

“Stiles,” Derek says, glaring at Peter. “You had hypothermia.”

“Oh,” Stiles says, and suddenly remembers waking up in the middle of the night between two wolves. “Oh.”

Is it weird that a part of him is actually a little disappointed?

Yeah, it’s weird.

For a second there he actually thought he had game.

“Um, okay then,” he says, because the longer this drags on the more awkward it’s going to get. He mentioned everyone was naked, right? And that’s when it happens. Of course it does. He’s in a bed between two hot naked men, so yeah, okay, his dick wakes up. It took a little longer than the rest of him, but there is it, popping up to say hello and jabbing Peter Hale in the thigh.

Peter smiles at him, and Stiles’s face burns.

“I’ll just, um,” he says, but he’s got nowhere else to go. If he turns around, he’ll just slap Derek with his morning wood instead. And then it doesn’t even matter, because Derek sniffs, and Stiles knows he can smell his arousal, and how is that even fair? “Oh god.”

For a second Stiles thinks he’s going to die of embarrassment.

The second after that, he feels Derek’s erection pressing against the crack of his ass. Big. Hot. Damp. Stiles’s brain shorts out.

“I’m sorry.” Derek sounds mortified. He tries to roll away.

“Well now,” Peter says, reaching over Stiles to grip Derek by the hip. “Let’s not be too hasty to throw this opportunity away, hmm?”

Stiles’s breath catches in his throat.

Derek is silent.

“Stiles?” Peter asks, quirking a brow.

“Um,” Stiles says, his heart beating faster. “Um, yeah, okay. Yeah.”

Peter’s smile grows.

Smug fucker.




This is not a good idea.

This is probably the worst idea in the history of the world, because Derek likes Stiles, okay? Sure, he’s emotionally stunted enough that the only way he’s ever been able to show it is by growling and smacking him into things—the werewolf equivalent of pulling a girl’s braids—but he really likes Stiles. And no. Just no. He is not going to do anything to Stiles when:

a.     Stiles is still sick.

b.     Stiles is still a few weeks shy of eighteen.

c.     Peter is involved.

d.     All of the above. But mostly c. Actually, c times infinity.


“Peter,” he growls. “No.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Derek,” Peter says, rolling his eyes. “Are you seriously going to tell me you don’t want a piece of this?”

A piece?

No, Derek wants the whole damn thing, all right? And he doesn’t want to share.

Derek’s just about to open his mouth to tell him that when Stiles twists his head around, and he looks so fucking hopeful that in this moment he could ask Derek to rip his own heart out of his chest and present it to him on a silver platter and Derek’s not sure he could refuse.

He resists the urge to growl and pull Stiles away from Peter. “Are you sure?” he asks, keeping his voice soft.

Stiles jerks his head in a nod, and squirms in a way that reminds Derek that his erection is pressing up against his perfect, naked, perfectly naked ass. “Yeah.”

Yep. Derek would rip his still-beating heart right out of his own chest.

Of course, he’s always had terrible judgment when it comes to getting laid.




Peter smiles as Derek folds like a cheap suit. And, under the weight of Stiles’s wide-eyed hopefulness, who could blame him? Peter’s certainly not enough of an asshole to refuse the kid, is he? It would be a downright cruelty to deny him. No, Peter’s being the picture of selfless generosity and charity, offering Stiles his dick. He’s Mother Fucking Teresa right now.

“Come on, princess,” he murmurs. “Give me a kiss.”

Stiles smells of sudden anxiety. Peter wonder if it’s because this is his first kiss, although that seems ridiculous. If he’d been one of Stiles’s peers, he would have been all over that long before now, but there’s no accounting for the peculiar taste of teenagers, and Stiles is, according to those in the know, something of a loser, or a nerd, or whatever. Oh well, their loss.

Or maybe—Stiles’s breath hitches as Peter presses their lips together—his anxiety is from another source altogether. Maybe it’s because Peter is taking this kiss, when Stiles had wanted it to be Derek.

Well, Peter’s quite capable of sharing.

He keeps the kiss soft and gentle and, when he’s done, takes Stiles’s jaw and angles his head so that Derek can reach him too.

Stiles squirms and moans, his dick jabbing into Peter when Derek kisses him.

When they pull apart, they both look a little shell-shocked. Both wide-eyed and breathless.

Ah, young love.

Aren’t they lucky he was here to apply enough gentle pressure to make that happen for them?

Peter’s smile grows.

Mother Fucking Teresa.

“Derek,” he says, but he keeps his gaze fixed on Stiles, “in the pocket of my jeans you’ll find some lube. Go and fetch it.”

Stiles’s tongue flicks out to dampen his bottom lip. “You carry lube around with you?”

“It pays to be prepared,” Peter tells him.

Actually, Peter had been intending on heading to The Jungle after what he’d expected would be a simple wendigo hunt the night before. There’s a bartender there Peter’s hooked up with in the past but, frankly, he’s been getting a little clingy. Seriously. Put your dick in a guy a few times, and suddenly he wants your phone number? What the hell is that about?

The mattress dips as Derek rolls out of bed.

Peter’s hears the shift in Stiles’s breathing. He’s nervous again. Can’t have that.

Peter kisses him, more forcefully this time, and seals the deal by reaching down between them to grip Stiles’s erection. Stiles jerks, and gives a high-pitched whimper that’s music to Peter’s ears.

“Peter.” His breath is hot against Peter’s lips. “Peter, Jesus, I—”

Peter leans back in and tugs Stiles’s earlobe with his teeth, sending a full-body shudder through him. “I want you to suck me off,” he says in a low voice, “while Derek fucks you.”

“Oh my god,” Stiles whispers, and Peter tightens his grip on his dick. Stiles rocks his hips back and forth urgently. “Oh my god.”

Peter takes that as a yes.




This is crazy.

This entire situation is crazy, and Stiles is crazy too. And, if he’s crazy, it’s probably good that he’s not in charge, right? Except apparently Peter is in charge, and Peter is actually crazy. Or was. Okay, yeah, he probably still is. It’s not that long ago that he was a homicidal maniac. That’s something that just doesn’t go away, Stiles guesses. Still, he lets Peter flip the blankets off them and arrange him so that— Oh fuck. So that Stiles in on his hands and knees and Peter’s kneeling on the bed in front of him.

There is suddenly a lot of skin on display.

And muscle.

And other things.

Stiles blinks, and yeah, that’s Peter Hale’s dick waving in front of his face, half-mast.

This would be an excellent time to freak out.

What does Stiles do instead?

Licks his fucking lips.

Then, his face burning, he makes the mistake of looking up at Peter’s face. Peter’s smirking. Of course he is.

“That’s it, princess,” he says, his smirk cranking up a notch into an actual smile. He curls his fingers around his dick and juts his pelvis forward. “Show me how much you want it.”

Stiles is pretty sure he’s going to hell. His face still burning—Derek’s somewhere behind him, possibly even staring at his ass—he ducks his head and opens his mouth a little. Peter paints his lips with precum, and it’s warm, and bitter, and it tastes pretty much how Stiles always figured a dick would taste. What? He’s checked a few times, when he jerks off, for science. What he never expected was the jolt of lust that thrills through him just by having someone’s thick, heavy dick bumping against his tingling lips. Stiles’s own dick is so hard it almost hurts. He opens his mouth wider and sucks the head of Peter’s dick in. Lets the taste of it burst over his tongue.

Peter tangles his free hand loosely in Stiles’s hair. “That’s it, Stiles. That’s it. So good.”

A shiver runs through Stiles at the praise.

He closes his eyes and sucks harder.




Derek can’t move.

He’s standing there, staring, as Stiles blows Peter. Fairly inexpertly, if Derek’s any judge, but somehow that just makes it hotter. And Peter doesn’t seem to mind. His eyes are half closed and there’s a smile on his face, and he looks so fucking smug that Derek kind of wants to punch him in the head. He will too, if Peter pushes Stiles in any way. Tries to gag him on his dick or something. Because Derek wouldn’t put that past him.

Peter’s jeans fall from his numb fingers to the floor.

He’s got the lube.

He’s got the lube, and he’s staring at Stiles’s ass. Really, this is a two part jigsaw puzzle but Derek’s still having trouble putting the pieces together. Because Stiles’s ass is as fucking amazing as Derek’s always imagined it would be. He’s stared at that ass a lot before, but it’s usually been encased in jeans and hidden under several layers of baggy shirts as well. Except for lacrosse days. Derek really does love lacrosse days. But now, for the first time, he’s seeing it in the literal flesh.

He’s seeing everything.

Stiles is slim, but he’s not scrawny. He always jokes he is, but he’s not. He’s got the long, lean lines of a runner. He’s got muscles. He’s got swathes of pale skin dotted with moles. He’s got scars, too. It’s the scars that draw Derek closer. He wants to trace them with his fingers and put his mouth on them, in a silent apology for every single one.

A visible shudder runs through Stiles as Derek climbs back onto the bed. When Derek reaches out and touches a faint white scar on his hip, Stiles jerks and moans around Peter’s dick.

“Come on,” Peter says in a low voice, and Derek isn’t sure which one of them he’s talking to.

Derek slides his fingers down Stiles’s spine as Peter feeds him another inch of his dick.

Stiles’s skin is warm. Derek trails his fingers from his spine to the cleft of his ass. Then, his hands shaking, he tears the lube open and drizzles some onto his fingers. Stiles flinches when Derek touches his hole, and his heartbeat races.

“Is this okay?” Derek asks him, his voice rasping.

“Mmm!” Stiles pulls away from Peter. “Yes!”

Peter strokes his cheek, and then angles his head back down toward his dick. Stiles latches back on eagerly.

Derek circles his tight rim before pushing a finger inside slowly. Stiles clenches down reflexively, and Derek’s suddenly so hard he’s certain he’ll come before he even gets his dick inside that hot, tight body.

He closes his eyes and draws a deep breath. Holds it.

He can’t rush things. He wants Stiles to enjoy this.

He needs to be slow, to be patient.

Which is a pretty tall order once he slides his finger deep enough to crook it and hit Stiles’s prostate. Stiles jerks like Derek’s put a few thousand volts through him—a sensation Derek is unfortunately familiar with—and gags when he accidentally takes too much of Peter’s dick down his throat.

Peter moans. His fingers tighten in Stiles’s hair, but he makes no move to force him to take more. Derek’s almost impressed at his self-control. Or he would be, if he could think about anything other than the way Stiles is clenching around his finger, and starting to rock back and forth.

One finger becomes two, become three, and Stiles is breathing heavily and making small, urgent noises as he pushes back onto Derek’s hand.

“Come on, Derek,” Peter says, his voice straining. “Some of us don’t have all day.”

Derek swallows around the sudden tightness in his throat, and withdraws his fingers. He holds his dick in one hand, and curls the fingers of his other hand over Stiles’s hip. Holds them both steady when, at last, he pushes in.

Stiles keens around Peter’s dick. The sound is thin and high-pitched, and Derek freezes.

“No, no,” Peter says, pulling back. “Are you good, Stiles? You need to tell us you’re good.”

“‘m’good,” Stiles manages, his voice wrecked. “Oh, Jesus, Der. Keep going!”

Derek thinks he probably imagines the relief he sees reflected in Peter’s gaze. Since when does Peter give a fuck about anyone apart from himself?

“Good boy. Such a good boy.” Peter rubs his thumb against Stiles’s swollen lips. “Give him what he wants, Derek.”

Derek pushes in deeper, and Stiles opens up around him. It’s incredible. Beyond incredible. It’s everything he ever imagined, and more.

“Derek.” Stiles is trembling. “God, Derek!”

Derek leans over him and presses his mouth to his shoulder. “Stiles.”

Stiles shivers underneath him.




Things are going exceedingly well, even if Peter does say so himself. Really, the moment they’re done here, Peter’s going to give himself a well-deserved pat on the back. Stiles is incredible. A little unpracticed, a little clumsy, but enthusiasm like his can’t be taught. The kid is a natural, and Peter deserves a medal for encouraging him to divest himself of that pesky virginity. Or at least a gift certificate or something from Derek. Because he has no doubt whatsoever that Derek’s the one who’s really going to benefit from Stiles’s personal growth. As long as he doesn’t open his mouth and say the wrong thing and completely fuck everything up. Which, knowing Derek, is entirely possible.

Peter strokes Stiles’s wet lips while he adjusts himself to Derek’s rhythm and murmurs enough gentle praise to soothe the trace of the worried frown off his forehead. He’s not hurting—Peter can tell that from his heartbeat and his scent—but he’s definitely feeling it, and his inexperience is still working against him at this point. He’s not in pain, but he’s undoubtedly worried that he might be, any second now. Over thinkers. What can Peter do except gentle him through these first fraught minutes until he’s happy to get his mouth around his dick again?

See? Peter’s a saint.

It doesn’t take long for Stiles to start rocking into Derek’s thrusts. His mouth goes slack and his lovely eyes glaze over. Peter grins at him, and presents him with his dick again. Stiles laps at the head, and sucks it back in.


Peter doesn’t push. He comes up against Stiles’s gag reflex once, then twice, and Derek’s low growl warns him not to force it. Really, Derek’s like a protective mother hen instead of a wolf. He’s a hopeless case, but Peter’s a saint and a gentleman, so he cedes to his nephew’s authority. Peter’s known, probably since before Derek even did, that Derek’s wolf has claimed Stiles. He respects that, and it’s not as though he needs Stiles to deep throat him in order to get off. Not at all. He’s got his hand wrapped around his shaft, stroking it, and leaving the rest for Stiles to take care of. And Stiles is taking care of things admirably. His mouth is hot and warm, and sweet Jesus, the suction. Peter’s skin prickles with goose bumps, and pleasure is coiling tight in his belly and his balls.

He idly wonders whether to come in Stiles’s mouth or on his face.

Stiles would look fucking wrecked with Peter’s cum all over his pretty face.

So maybe Peter’s not really a gentleman about everything.




What is his life, even?

He’s sucking Peter Hale’s dick, and Derek Hale is fucking him.

Who the hell is he?

Stiles really, really doesn’t care, because it feels so good.

This is awesome. Stiles doesn’t even have words for how awesome this is. He’s not even touching his dick, and he’s ready to come. This is better than any dirty fantasy he’s ever had. This is better than fucking Christmas.

He’s moaning Derek name, and how filthy and wrong is it that it’s muffled on Peter’s dick?

Holy fucking hell.

Whatever is happening here, however he got to this point, Stiles just wants it to last forever.




Derek thrusts, feeling Stiles clench and push back against him. He smells so good: arousal and sweat and heady desperation. He’s beautiful. So beautiful.




The face. Definitely the face.

Peter pulls out as he feels himself start to come. His dick slips out of Stiles’s mouth with an obscene pop, and then he’s spurting thin ropes of cum over Stiles’s face. Stiles is wide-eyed and open mouthed, panting. He blinks as a glob of cum slides down his cheek and catches on the corner of his mouth. His tongue darts out to scoop it up.


Peter sprawls back and tries to catch his breath.

Just gorgeous.




Derek growls. He slides his arms under Stiles’s, and leans back, drawing Stiles with him. The sudden shift changes the angle of penetration, and they both gasp. Derek hugs Stiles tight to his chest, rolling his hips. Stiles shudders and moans.

Peter, narrow-eyed, shifts forward. He licks his palm, and reaches down to wrap his fingers around Stiles’s dick.

Derek growls again, possessive, but allows it.

Stiles cries out as Peter starts to jerk him off. The scent of his arousal, and of Peter's cum, is sharp in the air. Derek feels his fangs start to drop.

“Not his first time, nephew,” Peter says in a low tone. His eyes flash.

Derek huffs a breath against the juncture of Stiles’s throat and shoulder, but he knows Peter’s right.

“Wh-what?” Stiles manages.

“He wants to knot you,” Peter says.

“Th-that’s a thing?” Stiles tightens around Derek’s dick. “Holy shit!”

“Oh, princess,” Peter tells him with a grin, “you have so much to learn about wolves. But all in good time, hmm?”

Stiles moans as Peter continues to jerk him off. He swivels his hips, trying to urge Peter to go faster, to match Derek’s rhythm. Peter’s smile says he knows exactly what he wants, but Peter’s an asshole and refuses to give him what he needs. He’s obviously having too much fun keeping Stiles on edge.

An asshole or a genius, Derek’s not sure.

Probably both.

Derek licks a line up Stiles’s throat, feeling his pulse beat fast against his tongue. He’s close. They both are.

“Peter,” he growls. “Make him come.”




Stiles screams when he comes, he thinks.

He possibly even passes out.

All he knows is that there’s suddenly cum everywhere, and at least some of it is his, and it should be disgusting, but he feels too good to be disgusted. And way too fucking tired.

Everything is sticky and tingly and awesome.

Stiles wants that on his headstone.

He tries to tell Derek that, but Derek only huffs what might be a laugh against his throat, and then he’s rolling them over so that they’re lying down again and he’s cuddling Stiles against his chest.

He’s a cuddler.

Could Stiles’s day get any more awesome?

They kiss lazily, and Stiles drifts off to sleep.




Derek lies awake listening to Stiles’s heartbeat, and to Peter humming as he dresses.

Oh god.

What the hell just happened?

And what the hell happens next?

“Don’t,” Peter says in a quiet, amused tone.

Derek twists his head to glare at him. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t piss all over the afterglow,” Peter says, then purses his mouth thoughtfully. “Unless that’s something you’re into. In which case, piss away.”

Derek curls his lip.

Peter raises his brows. “Don’t over think it, Derek. You want him, and he wants you. It literally could not be simpler.”

“And where are you in this equation?” Derek asks, hating himself for the resentment against Peter that’s already growing inside him.

“Well, I wouldn’t refuse a repeat performance,” Peter says. “But that’s up to both of you. Until then, I’ll be a perfect gentleman.”

Derek really doesn’t believe that. Not for a second.

Peter fishes his cell phone out of his pocket. “In the meantime, I’ll leave you two alone and see how far I have to walk to get a signal.”

Derek nods curtly, and tightens his grip on Stiles. Stiles snuffles like a little animal when he sleeps. It’s sort of adorable.

“I’m serious, Derek,” Peter says. “Don’t over think this. This could be good for you.”

Derek doesn’t really have an answer for that.




Peter whistles to himself as he heads toward the ruined remains of the car.

Not that he needs to get that far to get a signal.

Really, if Derek hadn’t been panicking last night, he would have thought to check his own phone, and seen that they had service this whole time.

But where would the fun have been in that?

Okay, maybe Peter’s not such a saint after all.

But he gets the job done.