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You're Mine

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you’re mine.
peter/stiles teen wolf au.

“You’re a slut.”

“Harsh. Not exactly the words I’d say to someone whose pants I’m trying to get into,” Stiles replies, leaning leisurely back against his jeep. One or two people slip by, giving a strange look to Peter, or maybe to Stiles. Probably to both of them.

“You’re mine.”

“I’m not.” And he isn’t. He’s a teenage boy with a teenage boy libido and teenage boy hobbies. Being the mate to the Alpha just because he smells good is at the bottom of his bucket list.

“You won’t take the bite, you won’t be my mate, but you’ll fuck everyone in town. I can smell the entire lacrosse team on you,” Peter snarls. He goes for the kill, too, right at Stiles’s throat.

“Don’t bite! And it’s not the entire team. Danny, Jackson, Scott, can’t get them.” He’s lying. Of the entire lacrosse team, it’s only with two of them that he’s been on the receiving end of a handjob. One of them he’s let go all the way. That’s not even bad.

“Greenberg,” says Peter’s growl rumbling through his chest. Kind of turns Stiles on a little, and it’s right in his ear.

“Whoops?” Stiles tries, tilting his head to catch Peter’s eyes. He grins. Peter flashes sharp, jagged teeth.

“Stiles?” Scott’s voice rings out through the parking lot. Stiles just has time to turn his head before Peter disappears, slips away and slides into the shadows.


“You smell like him. It’s really weird,” Scott protests on the way home, nose scrunching up in a way that reminds Stiles of a lost puppy.

“Dude, he was kind of pressed up against me. I think I would smell like him a little bit.”

“It’s different,” Scott says, shaking his head. “It’s the reason I noticed Allison.”

There he goes.

For the next fifteen minutes, Stiles drives from school to home. Scott talks about Allison, how he knew that they were made to be the second he caught her smell. It’s fine and dandy, really is, and Stiles honestly likes the sound of Scott’s voice. They’ve been best friends since diapers. The sound of Scott’s voice soothing him kind of just comes with the package.

“You have work tonight?” Stiles asks, turning to Scott. He shrugs.

“Alan kind of wants me to come in, but I don’t have to. Game night?”

“Game night.”


They play a menagerie of games from Stiles’s collection until almost two in the morning. By then, they’re so drained and exhausted, they end up sitting against Stiles’s bed with pop in their hands and controllers in their laps as one of the first-person shooters they were playing sits on pause.

“So. Peter,” Stiles starts. Scott lolls his head onto his own shoulder, eyebrows shooting up on his head.


Even though Scott goes on his Allison sprees, he’s really good at listening sometimes. Usually when he’s on the brink of exhaustion or drunk, but he really does listen. Stiles doesn’t have enough fingers or toes to count the times he’s talked to Scott about his one-sided crush on Lydia this year, and this is miles worse.

“He kind of tells me that we’re soulmates or something. Says that we’re meant to be and nothing I ever do will stop it so I might as well just accept it.”

Scott laughs. Full body laughs. “The Alpha wants in your pants because you smell good,” Scott says, laughing again. Stiles sneers.

“Something like that,” he says back, drinking from his can of whatever pop his dad picked up from the grocery store this week. “I told him no. He’s creepy. And I’m sixteen, dude! I don’t want a relationship with a thirty year old guy just because we smell the same!”

“I know what you mean,” Scott says, tilting his head back on Stiles’s bed. “I just- Stiles, you know if Allison did that, told me we coudn’t be together, I’d go crazy. I’m surprised he doesn’t have you tied in his basement or something.”

That’s a... well, it’s an image. Under the right circumstances, Stiles would be totally okay with it. Under the ones that Scott’s implying... Probably not, to be honest.

“You’d get over it,” Stiles says after a long minute. Scott shrugs next to him.

“I guess I’d have to. I wouldn’t push anything on her, you know? I love her. I love Allison.” Scott pauses, then gets a big grin on his face. “I really love Allison.”

“Gross, I get it.”

“Like.... really.”

“Stop. Leave my house.”

Scott laughs all the way out Stiles’s window.


So. Derek Hale.

Dark, broody, leather jacket, my-whole-family-died-I-hate-everyone Derek Hale.

He’s not too bad, actually.

Stiles spends a little bit of time with him, mostly when he’s with Scott, but he’s actually pretty... freakin’ awesome.

Peter’s usually lingering in the corner whenever Stiles and Derek try to have a civil conversation. Little hint of red eyes, snap of teeth, maybe. But Stiles tries to spend as much time as he can with Derek because he knows it pisses Peter off the most.

“You smell like him,” Derek says one night, they’re sitting on the porch passing back and forth a bottle of bourbon.

“Like Peter?” Stiles asks. You can only get told it a million times before you know exactly what everyone means.

Derek nods, tilts his head back with the bottle on his lips. Stiles watches, eyes flicking from the bottle, to his neck, to back up to the bottle.

“I’ve heard that a few times. You’re not the first.”

“He wants you.”

“I don’t want him.”

“I know.” Something about Derek’s eyes scream the same thing Peter’s. “I want you,” he says.

Stiles... Stiles is okay with this.


Started with a drunk kiss on the porch of their family home. Ended up a little more than that. Dry humping on the jeep is maybe where he ends that story, because it just gets a little too embarrassing to tell about changing his pants when he got home.

Now, a couple weeks later, they stopped playing coy, blushing virgins.

It actually doesn’t really take long for Stiles to realize that he’s basically fucking a guy six years older than he is. It’s such a big thing, the age difference between him and Peter, but with Derek it’s like it doesn’t matter.

“He says I’m his mate,” Stiles mumbles between kisses one night, biting Derek’s jaw, rubbing his sides. “I think you’re mine.”

Derek scoffs and pinches his hip, mutters something about how, “humans can’t have mates,” and fucks him to sleep.


“Dad has a meeting tonight,” Stiles grunts at his computer screen when Derek crawls in through his window. “So... You know. Be quiet.”

“I’m not the one who has to be quiet,” Derek grumbles when he grabs Stiles’s hand and hauls him to bed.

Stiles does try his best not to make any noise. Derek has him on all fours, he’s biting him from behind, biting his thighs, his ass, slipping fingers inside him and clawing at his calf. Stiles sucks at being quiet. He should win medals for his voice.

The door downstairs opens and slams shut. Actually slams. Stiles can feel the vibration. Whoever’s down there has anger managemeeeeent-

Oh my God,” Stiles moans into his pillow, teeth digging into the fabric. Derek pulls away. Entirely away. Not even touching him anymore. “Hey, wait. I didn’t mean it like tha-”

“Shut up,” Stiles hears Derek whisper. “It’s Peter.”

“What?” Stiles pushes himself up off of his forearms and twists to look back at Derek. “Really?”


“Oh my God.” This time, it’s not a moan. “Oh my God!” This time, it kind of is. “Fuck me,” Stiles says, eager, bending back down and burying his head back in his pillow.

Derek doesn’t even question him.

He likes that about Derek. No questioning. He just does it. Beta of the pack, willing to take orders and dish them out, too, which is awesome in bed.

Derek fucks him, slides right up in him and fucks him into the mattress. Stiles makes noise. Not a lot, or enough to get his dad noticing strange moans going on, but enough that Peter, with his extra sensitive, I-can-hear-your-heart-beating, werewolf hearing can.

Derek jerks Stiles off, keeps him from humping the mattress. Stiles keens into his elbow and begs for Derek, breathily.

They both come, Derek with a moan, low and ragged that might be a little too loud, and Stiles with a hitch in his breath and a grunt.

Stiles flops onto his back after, legs framing Derek’s hips. Derek stays up on his knees, sits back on his heels, and watches. He reaches forward, runs his hand through the mess on Stiles’s chest.

“He’s gonna know, now,” Derek hums. Stiles shrugs.

“Let him know. I don’t care. Why do you care?”

Derek doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even shrug. Just sits on his heels and looks at Stiles with this expression like he’s waiting for the punchline.

It never comes, but they do end up making out on Stiles's bed until Stiles falls asleep with Derek’s lips on his shoulder.


“My nephew, Stiles?”

“He’s great in bed.” This is awkward.

“He’s my nephew. My brother’s only son.” Even more awkward.

"Yeah, but, you can't help who you love, am I right?" Yeah. He's kind of come to the conclusion that he's maybe in love with Derek. Maybe. He doesn't know what love is really supposed to feel like, but it has to be something like this.

"You're not in love with him. He will never be in love with you. Funny story," Peter sneers, getting the most psychotic grin on his face, "he's already found his mate. Six years ago, when you were barely out of diapers. And she burned down our home. Killed our entire family. Derek doesn't do love any more."

Stiles knows about Kate. Everyone knows about Kate, or at least everyone who gives two shits about the news. Stiles knows about the fire, about the hunters and the wolves, the wolfsbane bullets that lodge themselves into a wolf's arm. He didn't know she was his... mate, or whatever.

“I wouldn’t kill his family. Or his sister.”

Peter looks like he’s kicked in the gut, even lets out a small, “Oof,” and smiles. He doesn’t address it, or even so much as look at Stiles after he’s said it. Derek’s sister still died because of this guy. It was meant as an insult.

“I’ve got it bad for this guy, Peter. So bad. He’s got it bad for me, too. That’s what bothers you, isn’t it?”

“Listening to you get fucked by my nephew is what bothers me, Stiles. Not your sappy teenage feelings. There’s no one else.” Peter moves in close, Stiles stands his ground. “You can waste your life fucking all the men and women in the grand United States and in the end, you’ll come crawling to me.”

Stiles stares up at him, cocking an eyebrow. “All because I smell good, huh?”

Peter chuckles. “All because you are mine.”


Fucking Derek gets boring after a while. A routine. It’s vanilla and yeah, kind of fun to gross out Scott with, but it’s... Not the same.

Kind of stops being fun. There’s no spark.

“You don’t smell like him as much,” Derek says one night, straight into Stiles’s ear. They’re laying in bed, and Stiles gawfs.

“Alright. I’ll buy it. What do I smell like?” Stiles grins and bumps his nose on Derek’s cheek.


Oh shit.


Breaking up with Derek actually goes a lot better than expected.

Derek just rolls his eyes and leaves Stiles’s house. Doesn’t come back. It’s not horribly awkward, though. But then Peter is around a lot more, creeping in the corners, slipping into the shadows, popping up out of nowhere.

“Nice goal,” Peter purrs from behind him after a particularly stressful lacrosse game. Stiles is tired, run down. He’s first line and got pushed around by Jackson and Scott.

No one’s around. Stiles... Leans back.

Arms snake around Stiles’s waist, pluck at the lacrosse pads. “Mm. You smell wonderful.”

“What is it with you guys and smell? I mean, I started watching the Dog Whisperer after Scott got turned. Nose, eyes, ears, and all that junk.”

Peter chuckles and Stiles feels it right through his lacrosse equipment. “It’s noticeable. I see you in your scent. Just you.”

“Because I’m special.”

Peter hums.

“So,” Stiles starts. “Tomorrow. My house.”

“Your house what?”

“You know what.”

Stiles can hear Peter grin.


Peter’s kind of strange. He’s got these big hands and these piercing eyes that scared the shit out of Stiles the first time he saw them.

But he’s really attentive. He touches Stiles’s knees, his fingers, each fingertip, his chin. Stiles... feels self-conscious, actually.

When Peter fucks him, honest to God pushes inside him and presses Stiles down against the mattress, Stiles feels that spark that he’d been looking for with Derek.

“Shit-” he moans, screams, almost. He can’t stop making noise and there might actually be tears in his eyes. Everything just feels right. It feels so much more intense, like the sex is permeating every sense he has, assaulting him from every angle.

Peter laughs and lays completely against him, hips rolling and hand on Stiles’s cock. “I’m the only one. The last one. There won’t be any more.”

Stiles nods.

“You’re mine.”

“Kind of cheesy, man,” Stiles groans.

“Say it.”

“I’m yours, I’m yours. Whatever, just fuck me.”

Peter laughs.