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Get Off (Me)

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In the end, it’s not as bad as Peter thought it might be. The lust demon’s primary method of torture is orgasm denial, building up the pleasure until it becomes excruciating pain. While orgasm delay is, unfortunately, one of Peter’s major kinks, he can live without that a lot more easily than he can live without ever having sex again.

Of course, having been forced to react to the incubus’ advances caused a number of emotional issues that Peter is smart enough not to try to fix. He lets Stiles work through the unwarranted (in Peter’s opinion) but understandable shame and guilt with his therapist. Stiles is intelligent enough to know that it isn’t his fault, that magic was used, that he wasn’t responsible. Knowing and feeling, however, are two different things. Peter doesn’t say anything about it, but quietly writes ‘you know you want it’ out of his vocabulary, never to be used again. There are certain scenarios that they’ve enjoyed in the past that are simply going to be impossible now.

Stiles doesn’t leave the house much, and nobody pressures him to. They’re always in and out. Even Derek learns how to make a social call, so he can stop in and check on Stiles. Lydia is there frequently, and of course, so is Scott. Peter tolerates Scott’s presence because it seems to genuinely help Stiles. Scott has been his friend for a long time. He’s more confident, less prone to panic attacks, when Scott is around. Besides, some of the things that Stiles loves to do, like play video games and watch superhero movies, Peter doesn’t have much interest in. He’ll let Scott do those things with Stiles.

Then, unexpectedly, the other shoe drops.

Since Stiles hasn’t been out with the others, they bring the news to him. Lydia is telling him some story about a nymph they encountered, while Peter does the crossword puzzle. Stiles is on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket. He always has to be covered these days, and the more layers the better. Peter is glad it’s winter. Lydia mentions, “Of course, I’m not speaking to Scott right now, so I might have missed a detail or two.”

“Wait, why are you not speaking to Scott?” Stiles asks, taking a sip of his cocoa.

Lydia’s gaze flickers uncertainly between Stiles and Peter. “You don’t – nobody told you?”

“Told me what?” Stiles asks, frowning.

Lydia is gaping at Peter. “You didn’t tell him?”

Peter arches his eyebrows at Lydia and says, “I neglect to tell Stiles things all the time, since you ask.”

“Oh my God!” Stiles bursts out. “What?”

Lydia squares her jaw. “This is . . . something that happened while you were . . . gone, you know? We didn’t realize you were missing until about noon the next day, when you didn’t show up for work. Your dad called Scott, Scott tried to track you down . . . the rest of us found out maybe an hour later, and we were working all sorts of leads, and . . . Scott said he had called Peter, but he hadn’t.”

Stiles just looks blank. “Why not?”

“Primarily, because he didn’t think I deserved to know,” Peter says dryly.

Lydia sighs but doesn’t actively argue. “You know that Scott has never . . . approved. Of you and Peter being together. I think he was just like . . . he didn’t want to need Peter’s help to save you. He didn’t want Peter to get to be the hero.”

Stiles’ jaw is slightly agape. “He . . . that’s what he thought?” His voice has gone slightly reedy.

“Yeah,” Lydia says.

There’s a pause while Stiles swallows hard. Finally, he says, “Did it matter?”

“Probably not,” Lydia says. “Even after Peter knew, we still couldn’t find you. We . . . God, Stiles, we tried, you know we tried, we tried everything, but until the incubus called us, we had nothing. I mean, I don’t know how different the timing would have been, I don’t know if we could have saved you any earlier. I just don’t know.”

Stiles nods and says, quietly, “Okay.”

“It isn’t,” Lydia says. “It’s anything but. And I’m not speaking to him. Hell, hardly anybody is speaking to him. Derek’s so tired of being mad at Scott that he just can’t muster up the energy, so he’s just avoiding him. And Allison is super pissed that Scott didn’t just misled the rest of us, but lied straight to her face. I mean, they’ll get through it, they always do, but . . . I didn’t realize you didn’t know. I guess I should have, since Scott was still over here all the time.”

Stiles nods again. He gets off the sofa, dropping the blanket on the sofa and walking over to Peter. He extends both hands. Peter regards him for a moment, then takes them.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Stiles asks.

“His being here seemed to help you,” Peter answers. “You were more comfortable with him around. I didn’t want to set back your recovery in any way, so I decided not to mention it.”

Stiles thinks about this, then nods and lets go. “Okay,” he says again, and then leans against Peter for the briefest of moments, before returning to the sofa.

“That’s it?” Lydia asks, arching her eyebrows at them.

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “Peter’s Peter, you know? He hides shit from me all the time, when he feels like challenging me, when he’s being a jerk, when he just wants to see how long I’ll take to figure something out. Wouldn’t really be fair to be pissed at him for hiding something from me the one time he really did have my best interests in mind.”

“Fair enough,” Lydia says.

She changes the subject, and they talk about something else for a little while, and then Lydia leaves. Stiles is exhausted, as he often is after a social visit, and decides to take a nap. Peter sits on the end of the sofa and reads a Stephen King novel while Stiles curls up, half on his lap. He’ll need to be there when the nightmares start, as they always do.

Unfortunately for Scott, the dreams are worse than usual, and by the time that he gets there for his usual evening visit, Stiles’ mood has shifted. He’s prone to quick mood swings, and Peter has learned to wait them out, learned to soothe him when he’s distraught, absorb the blows when he’s enraged, redirect him when he’s panicking, savor the rare moments of calm. But this, he doesn’t think there will be any redirecting Stiles from this.

He looks up when Scott comes in, and flinches. Scott sees it, and slows his movements down, giving Stiles a somewhat questioning look. “Hey, bro. I brought – ”

“Get out,” Stiles hisses, fists clenched at his sides.

Scott lifts his hands in surrender. “What’s wrong? Talk to me, Stiles.”

“You don’t want me to talk,” Stiles says. “You don’t want me to say anything, because once I get started, I might never stop, and neither of us wants that.”

“Dude, if I don’t know what’s wrong, I can’t fix it – ”

Stiles laughs. It’s a bitter, hysterical laugh. “Fix it? You think this is something you can fix? You think the fact that you don’t respect me, or trust me, is something we can fix by talking about? Unless you’ve got a time machine you can jump into to go back in time and kick yourself in the ass, then you’re pretty much out of luck, bro.”

Scott takes a step back. “Please,” he says, “just tell me what’s wrong. Just give me a chance.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, and nods, huffs out a breath. “Okay. You get one fucking chance. Explain to me why you didn’t call Peter when you found out I was missing. Explain to me why you lied to the others and told them you had done it.”

Scott swallows hard. “I was wrong,” he says, “I know that. I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.”

“No, ‘sorry’ doesn’t fucking cut it, Scott,” Stiles snaps. “I accepted ‘sorry’ the first dozen times you told me that my relationship wasn’t worth your respect. I want to know why.” When Scott just looks away, he says, “Lydia thinks you’re jealous. That you wanted to get credit for saving me.”

“What? No!” Scott protests. “That’s not what – ”

“What, then?” Stiles presses. “Don’t tell me you honestly thought he didn’t care. I know you’re smarter than that. You thought he didn’t deserve to be notified. You thought he doesn’t deserve me. And you thought that if you could rescue me, you could convince me that he’s not worth my time? Did you think I wouldn’t find out that you had kept it from him?”

“No!” Scott says, frustrated. “I just – we didn’t need his, his help, we could – ”

“You had no idea where I was!” Stiles shouts. His raised voice has drawn his father into the room, but he’s standing in the door to the kitchen, not interfering. “I could have been hurt, I could have been bleeding or freezing to death, I could have been suffocating, I could have been, I don’t know, being sexually tortured, but it didn’t matter, because you were gonna find me, right? It didn’t matter to you how long I was gone or how badly I was hurt when you got to me because you were gonna be the one to do it, you sanctimonious piece of shit!”

“That’s not it!” Scott says. “For all I knew, he was the reason you were missing, he could have, have killed you and buried your body or something, or been holding you hostage for one of those sick games he plays with you – ”

Stiles gives a strangled scream and punches Scott across the face. He’s shouting something, it’s unintelligible but sounds like one word over and over again, while he tries to get his hands locked around Scott’s throat. Peter thinks about intervening, but then decides against it. Scott can take care of himself, and he’s not fighting back, just trying to defend himself and keep Stiles from actually murdering him.

“Whoa, whoa!” Sheriff Stilinski is the one who pulls the two of them apart. “Stiles, it’s okay, you’re okay – ” he says, getting an arm around Stiles’ chest and abdomen, trying to hold him without hurting him. Scott straightens up, the cut on his lip healing but leaving a trail of blood behind.

“We!” Stiles screams again, and everyone looks at him blankly, even Peter. “We play the games! He doesn’t play them with me! We play them with each other! That’s what you’ve never understood no matter how many times I’ve tried to explain it to you!”

“I – I just didn’t – ”

“No, you didn’t!” Stiles shouts. “You didn’t get it because you didn’t want it and I tried, God, Scott, I tried, I knew you didn’t approve so after a while I just stopped saying anything and I thought maybe we could just go the rest of our lives without ever talking about it. And I know Lydia talked to you, but she didn’t fucking get through either because you, you were so sure that you knew what was best for me, that you should be in control of my life! So explain that to me, Scott, explain to me how you could look at how happy I was with Peter and still think that I would have been better off without him.”

“Because he – he’s Peter!” Scott protests. “He’s a murderer!”

“So am I!” Stiles shouts back, and the sheriff winces but doesn’t argue. “Oh my God! Do you have any idea what you’re talking about? You think you’re so, so moral and so amazing and you’ve put yourself up this pedestal of how much better you are than the rest of us and then you blamed Peter for the fact that I’m not up there with you, well, let me explain something to you in small words, Scott: I don’t want to be there with you. And it has nothing to do with Peter, it never has.

“Do you have any idea how many times we’ve had to go behind your back and tie up some loose end that you left hanging with your, your principles and your ‘second chances’ and your ‘everyone can change’ attitude? And I don’t just mean me and Peter, I mean me, Peter, Derek, Lydia, even fucking Allison. It’s not being unethical, it’s being fucking realistic. What would you have done to the incubus if Peter hadn’t been there? Would you have let him go, too?”

Scott goes white. “No, I – ”

“No? I’m supposed to believe you would have changed your entire routine just for that? That you would have come down off your pedestal? Just for my sake? You hypocritical, self-righteous asshole! Don’t you dare blame Peter for the fact that your holier-than-thou attitude pisses me off. I don’t want to be on your fucking pedestal, okay? Because it’s constructed out of bullshit, and it’s starting to stink!”

“That’s not how I meant it,” Scott says. “I mean, yes, I wanted you with me. Of course I did. You’re my brother, man. I love you.”

“You love me,” Stiles says, tears starting down his cheeks, “but you don’t trust me, you don’t respect me – you don’t love me like your brother, you love me like your fucking dog. I couldn’t know what was best for myself because you knew better. I couldn’t make my own choices because you had decided I was wrong. So you left me.” His voice trembles. “You left me, alone and scared and suffering, by not going to someone that you knew could help me.”

“I’m sorry,” Scott says. “I’m just – I’m sorry, Stiles, what else do you want me to say?”

“I want you to tell me that Peter’s good for me. I want you to tell me that you’re happy I’m with him. I want you to tell me that you understand that he loves me. I want you to promise you won’t try to come between us anymore.”

“Oh,” Scott says. “Oh, uh, yeah, I – ”

“If this happened to Allison, what would you say to her?” Stiles asks, so abruptly that Scott blinks, trying to keep up with his train of thought. “Would you wait for her?”

“Of – of course,” Scott stammers.

“How long?” Stiles demands. “How long would you wait until she was willing to let you touch her again? A year, two years, ten years, a lifetime? How long would you wait?”

“As long as it takes,” Scott says, regaining some of his confidence.

“And that’s because you love her, right? Because only someone who truly, deeply loved someone else would be willing to wait forever. Right?” Stiles presses, and Scott nods. “So when I asked Peter if he would wait for me, and he said exactly what you just said – as long as it takes – only I know he meant it because we used the spell, which I might remind you was his idea and he prompted me to use it so I would know he meant it – what does that mean to you? Does it mean Peter loves me as much as you love Allison?”

Scott swallows hard. “I – I guess, yeah?”

“Where’s your conviction now, asshole?” Stiles asks. “You seemed so sure of yourself a minute ago.”

“Yes, okay? Yes,” Scott says.

“Say it,” Stiles says, and when Scott flinches, he shouts, “Say it, you asshole.”

“Peter loves you,” Scott says, “as much as I love Allison.”

“Okay.” All the fight goes out of Stiles abruptly, and Peter can recognize his mood shifting, that the rage has left him and all he’s left with now is pain and sorrow. “Okay. Now just . . . just go away, Scott. I don’t want to see you. Not tonight, not tomorrow, not . . . I don’t know when. Maybe someday I’ll be okay . . . seeing you again. But not now, not when I’m spending every fucking minute just . . . just trying to remember that I’m safe now.” He rubs a hand over his face, makes a suspicious snuffling noise. “Just go away.”

Scott nods, turns, and leaves the house. The noise of the front door closing sounds very loud in the sudden silence, but Peter doesn’t really notice that because Stiles is dissolving into tears. He curls up on the floor and cries so hard that he can’t breathe. Stiles’ father glances at Peter, there’s a moment of silent debate, and then Peter walks over, cradling Stiles against his shoulder. “Shh, shh,” he says.

“He – he w-was my – my bruh-huh-hother,” Stiles sobs into Peter’s shirt.

“Shhh, I know,” Peter murmurs.

There’s a delicious irony here that he can’t help but savor. That Scott, in trying to drive a wedge between Peter and Stiles, only succeeded in driving Stiles away from him, perhaps permanently. Given how angry he is at Scott – and how generally worthless he’s found Scott over the years – he’s amused at this despite himself.

“Quit smiling, you asshole,” Stiles finally mutters, and wipes his nose on Peter’s shirt to punctuate this.

“Sorry,” Peter says, smiling a little more.

“You’re such a jerk.”

“Yes, I am,” Peter agrees.

“Love you,” Stiles says, and closes his eyes, leaning into Peter’s embrace.

Peter kisses his hair. “I love you too.”


~ ~ ~ ~


Month after platonic month goes by. Stiles recovers slowly, but he does recover. Peter spends a lot of nights at his place, soothing him from the inevitable nightmares. He doesn’t invite Stiles back to his apartment, knowing that the memories will probably trouble him. Most of their best sex has been in Peter’s apartment. He waits out the emotional storms, endures the days when Stiles is angry to the point of rage, the days where he cries for hours or curls up in odd places like the bathtub or under his desk so he can hide from the world, comforts him as best he can.

They watch movies and read books and research whatever supernatural trouble is plaguing Beacon Hills. They fight trolls and ogres and chase away vampires. They work with Derek, with Allison, with Lydia. They rarely see Scott. It’s easy to avoid him, because everyone knows Stiles doesn’t want to see him, and they put in effort to keep the two of them separated. This probably means Scott gets left out of the loop a lot of the time, but Peter is fine with that arrangement.

Peter watches the life bloom in Stiles again and finds it genuinely satisfying, watching him come back a piece at a time, relearn who he is and what his place in the world is, watching him remember how to have confidence in himself and get back to their usual snarkfests.

Peter waits. He jerks off to the memories of Stiles underneath him, to the memory of the noises he makes while his cock is in Peter’s mouth, to the memory of the way his back arches while Peter fucks him. He says nothing about it, lets Stiles work through it, and waits.

It takes six months for Stiles to even be comfortable with the concept, and finally he says the rape survivor’s group is nice but it’s no good for advice on this subject. “Everyone’s just like ‘take it slow, don’t worry about going all the way, sex is a journey, not a destination’,” he says. “And for people who were actually raped – ”

“You were actually raped,” Peter puts in.

Stiles ignores him. “That’s fine because what they’re actually afraid of is the act of having a dick in their vagina. Or butt. Whatever.”

“That’s a gross oversimplification,” Peter says.

Stiles sighs and pushes both hands through his hair. “They – they’re afraid of the pain. I’m afraid of the pleasure. It’s not the same at all.”

Peter shakes his head. “You’re afraid of the point where the pleasure becomes pain. Which is understandable. But probably unnecessary. You know that I can make you come in about thirty seconds if I want to.”

Stiles stares at him for a long minute. Peter can smell the want on him, the lust and the months of pent-up hormones, but he doesn’t say anything about it. Finally, Stiles says, carefully, “I’m going to . . . go home and think about that. And if I can jerk off while thinking about it without being sick afterwards, we can talk about it a little more.”

“Okay,” Peter says, and Stiles departs.

Two days later, Stiles texts him. ‘u wouldn’t mind?’

‘Mind what?’ Peter replies, although he knows exactly what Stiles is talking about.

‘if I came in 30 seconds,’ Stiles says.

Peter considers his reply very carefully before he sends back, ‘At this particular moment, I can think of nothing more gratifying than making you come in 30 seconds.’

‘ok’, is all Stiles says.

Three more weeks pass.

‘would you still be able to do it if you couldn’t use your mouth?’ Stiles finally asks out of the blue. This time Peter doesn’t bother to pretend he doesn’t know what Stiles is referring to. He knows that Stiles is thinking about what the incubus said, thinking about how as soon as Peter goes down on him, he’ll be thinking about it again.

‘It might take me an extra sixty seconds or so,’ Peter says, because he figures honesty is probably important at this stage in the game.

‘ok,’ is the reply again.

Blowing Stiles is not something Peter wants to give up, but he figures they’ll probably have to work on that later in the game. Much later. And it’s not something he’s going to mention. They still have times – about once a month – where Stiles tries to convince Peter he’s not worth this, that Peter should just go find someone else. Peter just tells him that he’s clearly incapable of rational thought and that he’ll have to trust Peter to make the decisions for them, at least for now.

Two weeks after that, they wind up out late chasing off an obnoxious pack of rival wolves. They collapse back at Peter’s apartment with a pizza and a movie. Stiles falls asleep on the sofa in the curve of Peter’s arm. Peter thinks about moving him, but in the end just falls asleep himself.

He wakes sometime in the middle of the night to feel Stiles squirming against him, his breath coming hot and heavy on Peter’s cheek. Peter opens his eyes and gives him a questioning look in the dim light. “I was dreaming,” Stiles whispers.

“Mm, yes, I can tell,” Peter says. He can feel Stiles’ erection pressing against his hip.

Stiles rests his forehead against Peter’s shoulder. “Make me feel good, Peter. I want to feel good again.”

“You’re sure?” Peter asks, even though his hands are itching to just grab Stiles and throw him onto his back. Stiles nods and gives a breathy ‘uh huh’, and Peter is suddenly very glad that he started carrying lube in his pocket after his first conversation with Stiles about this. He’s afraid that if he has to leave Stiles on the sofa, he’ll change his mind. And it’ll make things easier on Stiles to have it.

He tugs Stiles’ pants down and wraps a hand around him. Stiles moans and rolls his hips into it without holding back at all. Peter lets him set the pace, knows he’ll do it just how he wants it, how it feels best. He leans in and licks at that spot in the crook of Stiles’ shoulder that’s always been incredibly sensitive. He hasn’t forgotten Stiles’ body in the intervening months; he still knows exactly how Stiles likes it. He tilts his head up and mouths at Stiles’ ear. Stiles moans again, and his thrusts become sharp and erratic. His hands grip hard at Peter’s biceps and then he’s coming in the older man’s hands.

Peter kisses him as he comes down from it, slow and easy. Stiles shudders a few times and Peter asks, “How was that?”

“Was good,” Stiles murmurs, and he leans more heavily against Peter. Peter rubs his back until he falls asleep.


~ ~ ~ ~


It’s a two-steps-forward, one-step back game for quite a long time. After each encounter, Stiles will retreat for a few days, not wanting Peter to touch him or even be too close to him. But he works through it, every time. They get settled into patterns. They’ll fool around for a little while and then when Stiles starts to feel edgy, he says, “Make me come,” and Peter does. He actually starts to find the demanding tone pretty sexy, starts to get turned on by Stiles giving him orders in the bedroom. It surprises him a little.

After Stiles is done, and he’s stretching and moaning and just generally feeling good for a while, Peter jerks himself off and then they’re done for a little while, a few days, while Stiles works through the shame and the fear that lingers after every encounter.

It’s all right for a while. More and more, Peter becomes a permanent fixture at the Stilinski house, and the sheriff starts to get used to seeing him there. They keep fighting evil and Stiles starts attending his college classes again.

Peter’s careful not to push, lets Stiles set the pace, despite how frustrating it can be. He starts to have trouble getting off after their encounters. It was easier before they were being intimate again, when he could use his memory alone. But all the grinding and handjobs has him near the point of insanity a lot of the time. He tries to keep Stiles from seeing it; the teenager doesn’t need any more of a complex about sex than he already has.

What that means in the long run is that he’s even more sarcastic and impatient with the others than usual. They’re snarky right back the first few times, but someone – probably Lydia – seems to figure out what’s at the root of his short temper and the others ease off him a little.

It’s late at night in Stiles’ room and Peter’s trying to get himself off. He’s been trying for about twenty minutes now, watching Stiles sleep in the wake of the orgasm he had. He varies the pace, varies his grip, tries everything he can think of. Sometimes when this happens he just gives up and takes a cold shower, but he’s so tense that he feels ready to snap and wants desperately to finish.

Stiles’ eyelids flutter and Peter holds still for a few moments as they open, trying to control his harsh breathing, knowing that his face is flushed and sweaty and he probably looks awful. Stiles blinks at him a few times, then says, huskily, “Hey.”

“Hey,” Peter says in return, forcing himself to let go of his cock so he can lean over and smooth Stiles’ hair, hoping he’ll fall back to sleep.

“Y’okay?” Stiles murmurs.

“I’m fine,” Peter tells him.

Stiles is waking up by degrees, and he studies Peter’s naked body with some combination of understanding, regret, gratitude, sadness. Then he says, “Can I try somethin’?”

“Sure,” Peter says, thinking that Stiles’ hand probably won’t get a much better outcome than his own, but if Stiles wants to offer, he’s not going to say no. Stiles hasn’t really touched him since the incident with the incubus.

Stiles leans over and gives him a breathy kiss on the corner of his mouth. Then he gets on top of Peter, straddling him, and eases himself down onto Peter’s cock. Peter makes a choked little noise, because that was not what he was expecting, and fights to keep his head through the sudden wash of pleasure. Stiles rocks a little, getting himself settled. “Jesus,” Peter says. He’s a little surprised at how easy it seems to Stiles. Then he realizes he’s probably been ‘practicing’ at home, just like he did before their first fuck. It’s somewhat nostalgic, and he almost wants to laugh.

“You want to fuck me?” Stiles asks, eyes half-lidded. “Flip me over?”

“Yeah,” Peter groans, trying to hold back as much as he can, but unable to help the enthusiastic agreement. “Yes.”

“You can if you want,” Stiles says. “I’m okay.”

Peter doesn’t, can’t, say no to that. But he’s at least careful as he rolls Stiles over and gets them resituated, then thrusts into him slow and steady. Stiles lets out a little sigh that sounds content, and his scent echoes that. There’s no smell of fear or pain that Peter has gotten somewhat accustomed to. He’s relaxed, almost sleepy, letting Peter fuck him without any sort of resistance.

Peter tries to make it last as long as he can, not knowing when he’s going to get to do this again, knowing that even if he enjoys it, Stiles will probably retreat from him afterwards. But he’s just too tense and sexually frustrated to make it more than a minute or two. He leans his forehead against Stiles’ collarbone and makes more than a few unmanly noises when he comes.

Afterwards, he’s lying limp and boneless next to Stiles, watching Stiles watch him. “Better?” Stiles asks.

“Mm. Much.” Peter tries to stay awake. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah. I wanted to.” Stiles lets out a breath. “For you. Because . . . you’ve been so patient with me, and I . . .” He trails off, then just repeats, “I wanted to.”

“All right,” Peter says, and slides into sleep despite his best efforts.


~ ~ ~ ~


By the time a year has gone by, things are mostly back to normal. They’re having regular sex again, and Stiles seems to enjoy it although there’s always the odd encounter which shakes him. Sometimes there isn’t even a reason for it. He’ll still retreat from Peter sometimes, or tell Peter that he should find someone else, but the emotional storms are coming less frequently now, and are less intense.

He’s confident in himself again, speaks without hesitating, goes out alone when necessary although it’s never his preference. When it comes to a fight, if anything he’s even more aggressive than before. He has an edge of fearlessness to him now, a hint of ‘after what I’ve been through, everything is small potatoes’, that Peter finds attractive despite knowing where it came from.

Their group has more or less coalesced back into a whole. Scott and Stiles can be in the same room now, and act normally, even if it’s not the same and everyone knows it never will be. Give him ten, twenty years, and Peter thinks that Stiles may forgive Scott some day. But he’s in no particular rush to speed up the process. In a way, he thinks, Scott has done him a favor with this. Before now, the question was always if the pack split up, if Peter became an alpha, who would Stiles choose? Now Peter knows. And he throws it into Scott’s face as often as possible. The words “when I have my own pack, Stiles and I,” become some of his favorite vocabulary.

So overall, things are good. He knows it’s going to be a while, probably a long time, before they can work back to some of the kinds of sex that they were having before, but Stiles has really made tremendous progress, and he has no complaints.

Well, almost no complaints.

He still can’t give Stiles a blowjob, and it irritates him. He wouldn’t admit it to anybody, but he loves doing it, loves undoing Stiles with his mouth, loves listening to the sounds he makes and the way his body twists under it. Sometimes he thinks about the very first time he did it, that day in Derek’s loft, and it makes him hornier than ever.

But they just can’t get there. Every time he even goes near it, Stiles goes tense and rigid and starts to smell of fear and disgust and pain. It’s the one thing they don’t talk about. Stiles can’t talk about it, it seems, and Peter doesn’t really blame him. He, too, sometimes hears the incubus in his dreams, saying ‘from now on, every time you suck his cock, he’s gonna be thinking about me’. It’s like the act itself is now cursed to be a constant reminder of what Stiles went through.

Once Peter even pushes the issue – he feels like Stiles isn’t happy giving this up either – but Stiles winds up a crying mess for hours after the first few moments. So there’s nothing he can do about it, it seems, nothing but wait and hope that time will help heal that wound as it has all the others. But he doesn’t think it will. He doesn’t think Stiles will ever forget.

And things are busy as usual, with all the denizens of the night that Beacon Hills attracts. They keep things together as best they can. Then, towards the end of summer, an alpha shows up. He’s somehow convinced that they have something he wants, no matter how much Derek tries to tell him that they don’t. Some magical artifact that even Peter has never heard of.

The alpha is more than a little bit crazy and picks a number of fights and twice Peter gets ambushed, though he manages to escape both times. It seems like Derek and Scott are never available for back-up when he would most need them. He would almost suspect that they’re trying to get him killed, except that Scott seems to have finally accepted his and Stiles’ relationship, so Peter doesn’t think he would.

Stiles finally figures out a weakness that the alpha has, a childhood injury that’s left lingering damage to his right ear, and between that and his own strength, speed, and cunning, Peter finally manages to take him down.

The rush of power is so strong that for a few moments he almost loses track of what’s going on. He’s an alpha again. Finally. It’s taken him years, but he has the power that he’s always wanted, that he once lost.

He obviously can’t just waltz up to the others and tells them, so he uses his newfound skill to mask his presence until the next pack meeting. Derek mentions something about, “We still have to do something about that God damned crazy alpha.”

Peter smiles and looks up, letting his eyes flare crimson, and says, “Oh, I took care of that.”

There’s a moment of shocked silence, a collective intake of breath, and then Lydia says tartly, “Peter Hale. You are such a drama queen.”

Stiles lets out a whoop that’s half-laughter, half-excitement, and jumps on Peter. Peter catches him with a snort of laughter and returns Stiles’ enthusiastic kiss.

Derek is staring hard at Peter. Once the noise dies down, he says quietly, “What are your intentions?”

Peter just smiles at him. “Don’t worry, nephew. I don’t have any designs on your territory. I’ll carve out my own, somewhere.”

Derek nods at him, and then returns to the conversation at hand. He doesn’t bother saying anything about whether or not Peter will continue to help them with the problems in Beacon Hills. Everyone knows that Peter will – as long as it’s not too far out of his way or too dangerous, as has always been his wont. He loves Stiles, they’ve all accepted that, so as long as Stiles is involved in Beacon Hills, Peter will be. Even so, the change to the landscape is undeniable. Nobody is asking whose pack Stiles belongs to. They don’t have to.

Much later that night, Stiles is accompanying Peter back to his apartment. He seems quiet and fidgety. Peter lets him be for a while, until they’re in the apartment and he’s considering whether or not it’s too late to order pizza. He decides that it is, and starts slapping a sandwich together. “What’s on your mind?” he finally says.

Stiles chews on his lower lip and then says abruptly, “I want you to take a memory from me.”

Peter blinks at him, then gets it. “Stiles, I can’t just erase what you went – ”

“Not all of it,” Stiles says. “I know that if you take big memories like that, it can leave a person unstable. I wouldn’t want to, anyway. Everything that happened . . . afterward . . . knowing what I am to you, remembering how patient you were with me . . . I wouldn’t want to forget that. It’s just . . . just one little memory. The phone call that he made to you.” He looks up at Peter. “That’s all I need to forget. Now that you’re an alpha again, you can do it.”

Peter frowns for a minute. He thinks about the alpha he had just killed, so convinced that they had something he wanted. He thinks about the way that the others never seemed available when he might have called them, thinks about the way Stiles just happened to know the alpha’s weakness. “Stiles,” he says slowly, “what did you do?”

Stiles rubs a hand over the back of his head and says nothing. The expression on his face is a strange combination of embarrassment and defiance.

“Are you telling me,” Peter finally says, “that you lured an alpha here with the express intent of getting him killed, manipulated the others into being other places when I was going after him, manipulated me into killing said alpha, all without me being aware of what you were doing . . . just so you could enjoy a blowjob again?”

“Well, geez, it sounds terrible when you put it like that,” Stiles says, two spots of color high up on his cheeks.

Peter considers. “That,” he says, “is the sexiest God damned thing I’ve ever heard.”

A slow smirk starts to spread out over Stiles’ face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Peter says. “It’s moments like this that remind me why I fell in love with you.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s terribly unhealthy,” Stiles says cheerfully, leaning in for a kiss. Peter returns it with interest. When Stiles pulls away, he’s serious again. “Are you sure you’re okay doing it? I know that sometimes it can be . . . difficult. Like you actually experience the memories.”

Peter nods. “To a certain degree,” he says, “but only in the moment. They blur afterwards, like waking up from a dream. No more traumatizing than any of the nightmares I’ve had since your return to me. I want to do it.”

“Okay. Now?”

“What better time?” Peter gestures to the sofa and Stiles sits down. “You know,” he says, trailing his fingers across the back of Stiles’ neck, “I’m a little surprised, even now, that you trust me to do this. I could do anything while I was playing around in your head.”

“Oh, I know,” Stiles says, with confidence. “That’s why I told Lydia what I was asking you to do. So if you take more from me than you should, she’ll be able to tell.”

Peter smirks a little. “Of course you did,” he says, and embeds his claws at the nape of Stiles’ neck.

It’s every bit as horrible as Peter would have expected. The memories are disjointed at this point, fragmented by time, but no less potent. He can feel Stiles’ surge of panic when he wakes up in the hotel room, bound and gagged. He’s there when the incubus comes in, there when he pins Stiles down to the bed, there for every time that the incubus assaulted him. And there were a lot of times.

Sometimes it’s rough and painful, an excruciating intrusion that he fights against with all his strength. Sometimes it’s gentle, sensual, pleasure that he can’t just not feel. And sometimes it’s both, starting as one but building until it’s an agony and he’s desperate to come but also desperate not to, because giving in would be a betrayal, both of himself and of Peter.

He never knows which it’s going to be, never knows how long a respite he’ll get after the incubus is finished with him. Sometimes it’s mere minutes, other times as much as an hour. But he always comes back. Always. And Stiles loses track of how much time passes, loses count of how many times the demon has raped him.

He breaks Stiles down piece by piece, and Peter along with him. He makes him beg, makes him sob, makes him moan. He takes everything that Stiles was and grinds it into the mud. The part of Peter that’s still conscious that these are memories wishes he could go back in time and kill the incubus again, over and over, a hundred times more slowly and painfully.

When he finally sorts things out enough that he can find the phone call, he’s not surprised to see that this memory is crystal clear, perfectly preserved. Every syllable of what the incubus said echoes in the chamber of Stiles’ mind.

Then he hangs up the phone and the torment begins again, but it’s different this time, because now Stiles knows that Peter is coming. There’s a tiny kernel of hope, of absolute faith in Peter and his friends, and Stiles is determined that this time, the incubus won’t win. This time he won’t give in. He’s still clinging to the last shred of that hope when Peter kicks down the door.

Peter’s calm now, as calm as he can be in the aftermath of the psychic tumult. He takes the memory of that phone call, curls it in his hand, and pulls it into himself. He leaves only the memory that a phone call happened, so Stiles can keep the hope he felt, the determination. He doesn’t want to take that away from him. It might be the one thing that kept him sane under that last assault.

After that, he makes a brief search for the times he’s tried to blow Stiles and failed, takes each of those and pulls them out, so nothing of that particular anguish remains. Then, finally, he opens his eyes and sags with weariness. He’s vaguely aware of Stiles kissing his forehead and his hair. “I’m sorry,” the teenager says.

“Don’t be sorry,” Peter says. “Nothing about it is your fault.”

He wants to start tearing Stiles’ clothes off even as he sits there, but he’s exhausted, and he knows it. And to be fair, he feels like a little time to settle his nerves after what he witnessed might be a good idea. So instead, he guides Stiles into the bedroom. They undress in silence and curl up in the bed together.

When he wakes up in the morning, Stiles is still asleep. Peter watches him for a little while, wondering how any of this happened, how this young man had carved a way into his heart and made a home there, all without his permission. He’s an alpha again, something he would have given up almost anything for. And while he knows that in time he would have accomplished it on his own, Stiles is the one who helped him get there.

He studies him, the pulse in his throat, the rate of his breathing, his scent, all of these things that are so familiar to him now. When Stiles is edging back towards consciousness, Peter leans over and kisses him. Morning sex has always been good for them, and has been more frequent after the incubus, while Stiles is relaxed and not overthinking things.

Stiles stirs a little and kisses back, slow and languorous, enjoying the attention even as he’s still half-asleep. One hand comes up and curls in Peter’s hair. Peter kisses his way down Stiles’ neck, keeping things gentle, easy. He senses a bit of tension when he’s worked his way down to Stiles’ stomach, but it’s the tension of arousal, of anticipation, not of fear or shame. Without hesitation – without wanting Stiles to figure out anything might be amiss – he tugs the teenager’s boxer shorts off and tosses them aside. Stiles moans as Peter goes down on him, arching his back and hooking one leg over Peter’s back.

Peter makes it the sloppiest, noisiest, most enthusiastic blowjob he’s ever given. He does everything he remembers that makes Stiles sigh or bite his lip or twist his fingers in the sheets. Peter glances up to see Stiles’ head thrown back, one arm tossed casually over his face so his elbow is over his eyes, the cords on his neck clearly visible. He makes a sharp, panting noise as Peter pulls back, holding his hips steady.

“Move your arm,” Peter tells him. “I want to see your face.”

Stiles pants out a senseless reply and lets his arm drop to his side. He moans again as Peter drags his tongue up the length of his cock. “Peter, make me come,” he demands, and Peter does.


~ ~ ~ ~


They go back to sleep for a while. Peter wakes up first again, with Stiles’ legs twined through his, the younger man’s forehead tucked against his shoulder. As soon as he stirs, Stiles does, too. They kiss a few times. Peter’s exhausted; after giving the best blowjob of his life, Stiles had left him with no complaints. He feels like he could sleep for a week. Or have several more rounds of sex. Either would be okay with him.

“So,” Stiles finally says, “what now?”

“What now indeed,” Peter replies, thinking of everything that’s changed in the past seventy-two hours. He’s an alpha again. He’s no longer part of Derek’s pack, and Stiles is going to have some choices to make. He knows that Stiles will never abandon his friends, but the vague annoyance he felt about that in the past has faded with time.

Stiles is quiet for a minute. “I heard there’s this bunch of hunters giving beta packs a hard time in Oregon. They’ve got a pretty good protection racket going on there. You know, extorting money in return for keeping hunters off their backs.”

“Is there, now,” Peter purrs. “Maybe someone should do something about that.”

“Maybe so,” Stiles says. “Oregon is nice this time of year.”

“It is,” Peter agrees. “What about Scott?”

Stiles shrugs. “What Scott doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

Peter’s smirk becomes wider, more predatory. “A sentiment I’m sure he doesn’t appreciate,” he says.

“Serves him fucking right,” Stiles says.

Peter gives a snort of agreement. “That sounds like fun,” he says.

“Then let’s go,” Stiles says. “You and me. Let’s be bad guys.”

“Later,” Peter replies, and rolls them over, leaning into the crook of Stiles’ shoulder to breathe in his scent and bite the sensitive skin there. “Later.”