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Get Off (Me)

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The worst thing about being human, Stiles thinks, is how he’s always left behind when the others expect a fight. He knows he’s fragile, and he doesn’t regret not taking the bite, and he knows that they aren’t going to take him breaking into bank vaults or storming alpha strongholds or anywhere like that. Ninety-five percent of the time, he’s okay with that.

It’s actually not being left behind that annoys him so much. It’s being left behind with Peter that annoys him. Because any time the idea of physical damage comes up, the former alpha suddenly ‘remembers’ that he’s not up to fighting speed yet, and fucks off somewhere. That’s the ninety-five percent of the time that Stiles is just fine with behind left behind. The other five percent, though, he hangs around, and suddenly Stiles is stuck with him, which irritates him because Peter’s an annoying jerk who really should be set on fire a few more times.

To be fair, absolutely nobody believes that Peter’s anything but a lying liar who lies, and that he’d be perfectly capable in a fight. But they let him beg off because nobody really wants to bring him along anyway. They don’t trust him, and to quote Scott, ‘why give him more opportunities to stab us in the back than is really necessary?’ And that’s from Scott, the optimistic believer in the good of all mankind, or wolfkind, or whatever.

In short: Stiles really hates Peter Hale.

And the more complicated and violent things get, the more tense he gets, which is not a good mood for him to be in when he’s stuck in an enclosed space with Peter. Both because Peter gets on his nerves more than usual and because he gets on Peter’s nerves more than usual. If that’s what they call it. After his resurrection, he’s never seen Peter so much as bothered. Even his suggestions to beat Stiles unconscious are made in that casual, offhanded voice. Sometimes he gets, well . . . intense, Stiles supposes would be the best word for it. Usually when they’re planning something. But it’s never emotional intensity. It’s always just intellectual. Even when Stiles asks Peter if he had his emotions surgically removed, Peter just gives one of those classic Hale eye rolls and makes a snarky comment.

How badly things go depends on what sort of mood Peter’s in, and how long the others are gone. If it’s less than an hour, they can typically just ignore each other. But if it’s over an hour, Stiles’ nervousness and running mouth get the better of him, and sometimes Peter is a sassy bastard, and sometimes he threatens Stiles with violence, although he never quite dares actually commit any. Sometimes he’s feeling mellow and actually makes a half-hearted attempt to distract Stiles, and sometimes he’s feeling malicious and decides to drop hints to what might be going on that really would have been much better revealed before Scott and the others had left.

And sometimes he just watches Stiles with this little glint in his eye that makes Stiles very uncomfortable.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

“Someone’s coming.”

Stiles’ head jerks around to look at Peter, who’s sprawled out in the armchair in his usual nonchalant pose. The loft’s obnoxious alarm goes off mere moments later, and Peter is already on his feet. He has Stiles by one arm and drags him across the room, ignoring Stiles’ half-formed protests. He shoves the teenager into a closet and then ducks in after him, closing the door almost all the way.

Stiles ducks down a little so he can see through the gap. What comes through is a pair of Hellhounds, black and sleek, eyes glowing like embers. He curses mentally. Hiding won’t do them any good, the hounds will smell them in an instant. Then he hears a small noise of Peter shuffling around, and there’s a sudden, sharp, acrid smell. Mothballs. His nose wrinkles involuntarily.

He can just barely see Peter’s face in the dim light, his head cocked to one side, listening, that blank but intense expression on his face. He opens his mouth and Peter abruptly puts a hand over it, pushing him back against the wall. Stiles only barely holds back a grunt. He’s also suddenly, uncomfortably aware of their close quarters. Peter is leaning against him, practically breathing in his ear, so he can continue looking through the small gap in the door.

The sound of the hounds fades, and then there’s the booming noise of the door to the loft closing. Stiles pushes Peter’s hand away from his mouth, but doesn’t say anything. He waits. In a situation like this, he’ll trust Peter’s senses over his own. Just because he thinks the Hellhounds are gone doesn’t necessarily mean they are. In fact, it might be good that Peter’s there with him. If he’d been alone, he would have been stuck in the closet until the others got back, just to be on the safe side.

But just because he has to wait doesn’t mean that he has to wait with Peter two inches from him. He reaches out and puts a hand on Peter’s shoulder, giving him a shove backwards. In the dim light, he sees Peter arch an eyebrow at him. He responds with a silent glower. This makes Peter give him a toothy grin. “Asshole,” Stiles mouths at him, which isn’t the best comeback he can come up with, but it’s pithy, which is important since he can’t actually say anything out loud.

Peter responds by actually taking a step closer, so their bodies are pressed together. “So,” he says, in a normal tone, so apparently he’s decided they’re alone, hellhound free. “This is nice.”

“Oh my God, you are the worst,” Stiles says, trying to squirm free. “And you didn’t need to put your hand over my mouth, I wasn’t going to say anything, I don’t want to get eaten – ”

Then Peter’s mouth is on his, and of course the bastard has to kiss him while he’s talking so his lips are parted and he feels Peter’s tongue against his teeth. And it’s not like he hasn’t kissed before, because he has, but this, this is different, this has intent to it, and he feels his knees get a little weak. He’s too stunned to fight back at first, which Peter takes as an invitation to proceed, and he kisses Stiles with bruising force, deep and rough and apparently exactly the way Stiles likes it, if the rush of blood south is any indication.

Peter pulls away with a smirk, and Stiles thinks about saying something – he has a dozen smart retorts, really – but he doesn’t trust his voice to be steady so for once he just keeps quiet. He can feel Peter’s weight against him now, Peter’s thigh pressed against his groin, which is – really good, actually. He grits his teeth and musters the willpower not to just start rolling his hips against it.

“O-Okay, the hounds are gone, can we – ” he starts, and then Peter’s nuzzling his neck, one hand curling in the short hairs at the back of his neck. He breaks the words off with a startled curse. Peter’s other hand is on his waist, sliding up underneath his T-shirt a little, and he thinks that he should probably put a stop to this, it’s creepy for a huge variety of reasons, but it feels really good, and he makes another strangled little noise as Peter’s tongue finds a particularly sensitive spot on his throat. He tilts his head back and mentally throws in the towel. Then he feels teeth.

“Hey!” Before he can think better of the idea, he shoves Peter backwards and slaps a hand over his mouth. “Don’t break the skin.”

Peter gives him an amused look before reaching up and pulling Stiles’ hand away. His eyes gleam momentarily blue in the darkness. “I’m not an alpha anymore, Stiles. I can’t turn you.”

“That’s great, asshole,” Stiles says. “Don’t. Break. The skin.”

“Mm. Your wish is my command,” Peter says, and then kisses him again. He catches Stiles’ lower lip between his teeth but doesn’t bite down, and his entire body just molds against Stiles, and the teenager closes his eyes, sees stars, and thinks about how wrong this is. He doesn’t do anything else, though, keeps his hands to himself, but just kisses Stiles like there’s nothing else to do, nothing else to want. When he finally pulls away, Stiles is trembling and gasping for breath.

“Well,” Peter says, and lets him go. “I think it’s probably safe now.”

He leaves the closet without another word, picks up his magazine, and sits back down on the couch.

Stiles stands in the closet and wonders what the hell just happened.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

“No, Stiles, you should stay here. It could be dangerous – ”

“Okay, no, you are hunting pixies, there is nothing dangerous about pixies,” Stiles argues. He can feel Peter smirking at him from across the room. The werewolf hasn’t said a word to him in the two weeks since the incident in the closet. Stiles just knows that he’s up to something. He can feel it.

“We don’t need you,” Derek says brusquely. He gestures to the others and says, “Come on.”

“You’re such a dick,” Stiles snaps after him. Scott gives Stiles an apologetic look, but obviously he’s going to go, because he’s the only one who’s actually seen the pixies. “Okay, fine, just leave me here with Uncle Fenster,” Stiles shouts after them. “Don’t worry about me or anything! I’ll be fine! It’s not like there were Hellhounds last time I got – ”

The only response is the noise of the door slamming shut.

“Jerks,” Stiles says, scowling.

“Nobody appreciates you,” Peter drawls behind him.

“Damn straight,” Stiles grumbles, and when he turns around, Peter’s right behind him. “Oh my God! I’m going to put a bell on you, creep.”

Peter just gives him that toothy grin. “I’m going out,” he says. “God help my nephew if he and his little ragtag pack of misfits can’t handle a dozen or two pixies.”

“Yeah, great,” Stiles says. “Have a party.” He waves as Peter leaves the loft, and then practically melts with relief. Whatever was going through Peter’s mind that night, it apparently wasn’t going to have long-term consequences. It shouldn’t surprise him, really. Peter likes to play head games, and all in all, he’s pretty weird. He had probably expected that Stiles would freak out, and when he seemed okay with it, lost interest.

So he’s a lot more relaxed as he kicks around Derek’s loft, plays on his phone, and receives periodic updates from Scott. Minutes tick by and turn into hours. The updates stop. He groans and settles in for a long night. It’s nearly midnight when he gets a short series of texts from Scott. ‘All done. Had to chase them out of town. Couple hours away. Nobody wants to drive. Getting a couple motel rooms. See you tomorrow.’

“Yeah, because crashing in a sketchy hotel worked so well for us last time,” Stiles says, but he texts back ‘ok’ because Derek has to have better taste in hotels than Finstock. Almost anybody on the planet would have better taste than Finstock.

Now it’s late and he’s tired and he can’t go home, because he already told his father that he was spending the night at Scott’s. Trying to sneak in without waking his father is like trying to cross a river filled with piranha. You can hope they won’t notice you – but they will. Then they’ll have one of those non-talks again, the kind filled with awkward silences and skeptical looks that are quickly growing to be Stiles’ least favorite thing on earth. Screw that. He’ll just stay here and crash on Derek’s couch.

He needs a shower, though. Lacrosse practice was brutal, and then he had spent two hours helping track the pixies in the forest. Derek won’t care if he uses the shower, and he always carries a spare set of clothes in his bag now – one never knows when his will get stained with blood or torn to shreds or suffer some equally horrible fate. So he prowls around the loft until he finds a stack of towels tucked away in a bureau, then ducks into the shower. The pipes rattle and wheeze, and it takes ten minutes for the water to become even vaguely tepid. This is Derek’s idea of upscale living.

It’s only a quick shower, because the hot water starts to run out about three minutes in, but it’s enough time to give himself a quick scrub. Then he gets out and dries himself off before reaching for his clothes. They aren’t on the back of the toilet where he could have sworn that he left them. He wonders if he had left them out by the sofa and forgotten about it.

With a sigh, he wraps a towel around his waist and heads back out into the loft. Just outside the bathroom, sitting on Derek’s bed, is Peter. He’s holding Stiles’ clothes in his lap. Stiles lets out a yelp and nearly falls over backwards. “Oh my God!”

Peter tilts his head to one side and gives him a look. “Why do you always wear plaid?”

“What business of that is – oh my God, you totally came into the bathroom while I was in the shower, do you have any idea how creepy you are, ugh, give me my clothes.”

“What will you do to get them?” Peter asks, smirking.

“Well, I have all sorts of ideas that involve fire and wolfsbane and mistletoe, but – ”

Peter moves so fast that all Stiles manages to do is stumble backwards a few steps before he’s pinned up against the wall with one of Peter’s hands pressed flat against his chest. The tips of his claws dig in, just a little, and Stiles lets out a hiss that’s mostly pain before Peter’s mouth is on his. It’s another one of those hot, demanding kisses, and Stiles sinks into it, opening his mouth to let Peter in. One hand desperately clutches at the towel, but the other comes up to – he’s not sure, but to do something, he aims vaguely to tangle it in Peter’s hair, but then Peter has him by the wrist and slams it against the wall.

“Ow, motherfucker,” Stiles protests, and then Peter’s mouthing at the side of his neck, all teeth and tongue, biting hard enough to leave bruises. “Ohhhhfuck,” Stiles breathes out, trying not to whimper. “Oh, fuck, you asshole. I said no biting.”

“You said don’t break the skin,” Peter murmurs, right in his ear, his teeth catching at Stiles’ earlobe and sending white-hot sparks down into his groin.

“What the hell,” Stiles chokes out, and he wonders what in God’s name is wrong with him. He can’t even begin to list all the ways that this doesn’t make sense, but he really, really wants it. “We can’t – in here – this is Derek’s room, he’ll – ”

“Shut up, Stiles,” Peter says, but he wrenches the teenager away from the wall and they stumble towards the door out into the rest of the loft. Well, Stiles stumbles. Peter is in perfect control, and Stiles suspects that he would land on his ass if not for the werewolf half-guiding, half-forcing his steps backwards. They fetch up against the door with enough force that it almost knocks the wind out of him, and he lets out a little grunt. Peter’s hand behind his head keeps him from concussing himself, as the werewolf twines his fingers through Stiles’ hair.

Somehow Stiles keeps the towel through all of it, which he thinks is probably some sort of miracle. Then Peter opens the door with his free hand and Stiles falls through it, landing flat on his back on the floor of the living room. Peter controls the fall enough that it’s only mildly painful, but Stiles knows he isn’t going to be going anywhere with Peter’s weight squarely on top of him.

“Unnnh, get off me,” he gasps out, but he isn’t really fighting back as Peter works his teeth and tongue along Stiles’ collarbone. Stiles tilts his head back and makes another grab for Peter’s hair. His wrists are unceremoniously knocked aside again. “Jerk,” he chokes out, and Peter responds by rolling his hips against Stiles’. The teenager makes a shocked little noise as his body gives an uncoordinated spasm.

“Very nice,” Peter says into the crook of Stiles’ shoulder, and grinds forward again.

“Oh,” Stiles says weakly, unable to muster anything more articulate. “Oh, fuck, you bastard, this is so wrong – ”

“Do you want me to stop?” Peter asks. His body eases off Stiles just the tiniest fraction. “Tell me to stop and I will.”

“Oh, God, shut up,” Stiles retorts, straining upward for more contact. He’s suddenly, abstractly glad that Derek’s towels are soft and fluffy. Otherwise he’s pretty sure he would be getting a really weird sort of rugburn in a really awkward place. And he somehow hates Peter even more for giving him the option of backing out, like now he can’t quite avoid the fact that he wants this, that he’s a willing participant despite how rough Peter is being. “Shut up, shut up,” he repeats, even though Peter didn’t say anything else, and tries to grab Peter by the hips and pull him down again. Peter pins his wrists down again. “God, let me – ”

“No,” Peter breathes out, right into his ear, and Stiles lets out a frustrated whine that’s cut off when Peter’s hips roll against his again. Then he can’t do anything, Peter has him pinned down in pretty much every way. All he can do is writhe underneath Peter’s weight, struggling for purchase, trying to get in some sort of rhythm. Finally, Peter gives him at least that much, letting Stiles buck his hips upward in a steady, rocking motion that has him making choked little noises in the back of his throat.

“And you wanted me to give your clothes back,” Peter murmurs, and then kisses him hard, biting down on his lip, and Stiles comes with a strangled shout. Peter’s weight keeps him pinned all the way through it, but by the time he’s starting to recover, it’s gone. He lays there on the floor for another minute with the towel still draped over his waist, bunched up in places and considerably more sticky than it had been before. His body is still giving those little post-orgasmic shudders, but his breathing is steadying out.

It’s almost five minutes before the jelly in his legs solidifies back into muscles, and he manages to get to his feet. “Peter?” he calls out, uncertain, holding the towel around himself for no particular reason. But the loft appears to be empty. Peter is nowhere to be seen. “God, I can’t even count all the ways you’re such a fucking asshole,” Stiles says to nobody. He heads into Derek’s bedroom to get his clothes. He’ll have to take the towel with him, and wash it, or maybe just burn it and buy Derek a new one.

He catches a glimpse of himself in a mirror on the way by, and actually stops, startled. He looks wrecked, disheveled and thoroughly fucked out, with strings of red-purple bruises down his neck and collarbone, lips swollen and hair a disaster. He’s pretty sure that he has never, in his seventeen years and change of existence, looked anything like that.

“Not really how I figured that would happen,” he mutters, gathering up his clothes. He’s going to have to find excuses not to be seen anywhere by anyone for the next few days. He suddenly feels the flu coming on. He makes a mental note to try to figure out exactly how far one has to go before they’re no longer a virgin in supernatural terms. Peter might never have touched or even seen his dick, but he’s not feeling very virginal at the moment. That sort of thing is important to know in Beacon Hills.

He slowly pulls himself together and puts on his clothes.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles sometimes wonders if the Beacon Hills supernatural world has some sort of newsletter they get from the school about when he has tests and/or big assignments due. It seems like every time he’s got a project that needs to be finished, some bizarre denizen of the night pops up to make his life hell. It’s vaguely funny the first few times, and then it starts to get annoying.

“Because Shakespeare, that’s why!” he snarls at Derek when the werewolf asks why he’s late.

“What play?” Peter asks.

“Othello.”

“One of my favorites,” Peter murmurs.

“It would be,” Stiles mutters darkly. He’s determined not to even look at Peter if he can help it. Isaac’s already talking about some weird glowing lights he saw, and there’s a general debate over what they might be before finally they decide to go try to take a look at them. “Aliens,” is Stiles’ opinion, but nobody’s asked for his opinion.

“You should stay here,” Derek says.

Normally Stiles might argue – glowing lights, for fuck’s sake – but if he stays behind, he can keep working on his paper. “Okay, sure, fine,” he says, “but take Creepeter with you. I don’t want to be stuck with him again.”

“Don’t be such an infant,” Derek retorts.

“Derek – ” Stiles protests, but the others are already on their way out the door. “Ugh, why,” he says, already seeing Peter’s considering gaze on him. “You,” he says, and points to the table and chairs on the other side of the room. “Sit. Stay. I have work to do.”

“Woof,” Peter says, in that amused, snarky tone he gets. He hauls himself up to sit on the table. Stiles tries not to look at the gap between his legs, the inseam of his jeans. “So. What’s your paper on?”

“It’s about a manipulative asshole who lies to everyone around him, exploits their weaknesses, and is generally a gigantic bag of dicks,” Stiles says. “Sound familiar?”

Peter’s smirking. “I do like Iago.”

“You would,” Stiles says. “Now shut up.” He takes out his laptop and sets it down on the table, getting back to what he was doing before the glow cloud had descended to fuck up his day. Surprisingly, Peter actually obeys. He picks up a book of his own and stays where he is. It adds a kind of silent tension to the room. Having him there but not doing anything is maddening. Stiles almost wishes they could start making out, if only so he could stop wondering when it was going to happen.

It’s been over a month since their last encounter, and he’s done his best to put it out of his mind, which is to say that he only jerks off to the memories three or four times a week, rather than three or four times a night. It had been difficult keeping what had happened from everyone, but somehow he had managed it. He just doesn’t want to hear what they would have to say about it.

On the occasions when he and Peter have been forced to interact, Peter just acts like his usual self, and Stiles tries not to let anyone catch him looking at Peter’s ass.

After a while, he forgets that Peter’s there, or at least is able to ignore him. Supernatural fireflies and creepy zombie werewolves aside, a third of his English grade depends on this paper, and he means to make it a good one. He startles back to awareness when he hears Peter’s feet thump to the floor as the werewolf gets off the table. He firmly does not look over to see what he’s doing or where he’s going. As far as he’s concerned, Peter doesn’t even exist.

So when he feels Peter’s fingertips trail across the back of his neck, he jumps so hard that he nearly flails his way out of his chair. “Oh my God!” He turns and glares at the werewolf. “Go away, I’m working.”

“Mm, I see,” Peter says. “Put it away.”

“What, I’m sorry, I think I just heard you telling me what to do, and let’s list all the ways that isn’t acceptable to me,” Stiles says. In response, Peter leans over his shoulder, one arm coming around so his forearm is rather uncomfortably snug across Stiles’ throat. The other starts fiddling with the buttons on Stiles’ shirt. Stiles determinedly ignores him, continuing to type.

“I’m bored,” Peter says.

“That’s swell,” Stiles says. “I’m busy.”

Peter leans down, his teeth scraping over the back of Stiles’ neck, and the teenager holds back a shudder. “You’re very tense,” he murmurs.

“Let’s try to work out why, you fu – ffff,” Stiles says, as Peter’s hands suddenly dig into his shoulders. “Oh. Ohhhh.” He can’t help it. He is tense, is always tense these days, and the strength in Peter’s hands just makes him want to melt into a puddle on the floor. When was the last time he got a backrub? Never? Yeah, never sounds right. “You fucker.”

“Later,” Peter says. “If you ask nicely.”

“You’re the actual worst and I hate you, seriously, I hate everything about – right there,” Stiles gasps out, as Peter’s hands work on a particularly bad knot. “I hope you get hit by a bus and stuck between the wheels like some Loony Tune, I hope you fall into a meat grinder and come out as paste, I hope you – nnnnnhkg. Okay.”

“Do you know why I like you, Stiles?” Peter asks.

“Actually, I have no clue,” Stiles pants, “and I don’t want to know, so just, just stop talking and keep doing what you’re doing.”

“Because you’re not afraid of me,” Peter says. “You never hesitate to tell me exactly what you think. It’s very refreshing.”

“Are you kidding, nobody around here is afraid of you, maybe they used to be, but now you’re jut some zombie werewolf has-been that Derek keeps around out of some weirdly misplaced guilt – ” Stiles’ words break off as Peter’s hand closes around his throat.

“I could kill you right now,” Peter reminds him.

“But you won’t,” Stiles chokes out.

“Mm. And why not?”

“Because – you like me, remember?”

Peter laughs and releases him. He walks across the loft to the fridge, getting himself a beer. Stiles stays where he is, gasping for breath and trying to regain his equilibrium. “I don’t get this,” he complains.

“Sex isn’t rocket science, Stiles.”

“No, but you having it with me is pretty God damned weird,” Stiles says. “I mean . . . why?”

Peter sighs, that put-upon sort of ‘why must I put up with people whose intellect can’t compete’ sigh. “Wouldn’t answering that take the fun out of it?”

“God, you’re such an asshole,” Stiles says, letting his head drop back against the armchair and closing his eyes. “I’m five hundred percent done with your bullshit for tonight. You can play with your new fucktoy some other time.”

Everything’s quiet for a long minute. He can hear Peter moving around in the kitchenette, and for once Peter doesn’t reply to him. Stiles rubs a hand over his face and tries to calm down enough that he’ll be able to get back to his schoolwork. Then, quite abruptly, Peter’s hand is on his inner thigh and there’s rough pressure against his groin. He lets out a yelp despite himself and his eyes fly open to find Peter on his knees in front of the chair, nosing at Stiles’ cock, half-hard underneath his pants. “What the actual fuck, Peter – ”

“Shut up,” Peter says, his eyes wolf-bright blue. He’s working on Stiles’ belt, his movements deliberate, unhurried.

“I don’t, don’t think this is how sexual assault works,” Stiles says through numb lips. He sees Peter roll his eyes. “No, I just, I mean, never thought I’d see you on your knees, I, heh, oh my God,” he stammers as Peter undoes the button and zipper of his jeans. “Like, you seem the type that would never, am I right?”

“You don’t understand the positions of power,” Peter remarks casually. “To you, it looks like I’m on my knees. But I have you completely at my mercy. I could do anything I wanted to you, and even if you could stop me, you won’t.”

“How very Machiavelliiiiiiii,” Stiles moans as Peter lifts him up enough to yank his pants and boxers down to where they bunch around his thighs. “Oh,” he says, as Peter wraps a hand around him, strokes him slow and easy. “Ohhh. Fuck.” He’s not going to give Peter the satisfaction of hearing him beg. “At your mercy, my pasty white ass,” he says, and puts a hand over his mouth, biting down on his knuckles to hold back the whimpers. There would be plenty of them otherwise. He strains upwards into Peter’s grip, trying to get more contact.

Peter’s other hand snakes out and grabs his wrist, pulling his hand away from his mouth. “No cheating now,” he admonishes, the bastard. Stiles bites down on his lips instead, but Peter’s tongue flicking over the head of his cock prompts a strangled gasp. His hips jerk upwards, and Peter just laughs at him. “I like the way your toes curl,” he says, glancing down at Stiles’ bare feet.

“Unnnnnh,” Stiles pants, “can you, can you not use your mouth for talking right now?”

Peter just laughs again, and leans down to lick at Stiles’ cock in slow, lazy strokes. Stiles’ eyes flutter shut and his body arches upwards despite his best efforts. Peter doesn’t try to keep him pinned this time except for holding his wrists, so he winds up thrashing around on the chair. “Oh, God, you son of a bitch, you suck,” Stiles says.

“Your wish is my command,” Peter says, and Stiles can hear him smirking before he goes down and takes Stiles all the way into his mouth, then pulls back in one long suck. He makes a high, whining noise in the back of his throat, and thinks randomly that it’s a good thing he’s not invested in impressing Peter or anything, because he’s pretty sure he’s going to come any second now.

He actually lasts about thirty, swearing vigorously and mindlessly the entire time because that keeps him from moaning too much. Then he’s shaking apart and coming in Peter’s mouth while the wolf has him pinned to the chair with one broad hand against his stomach.

Afterwards, he’s lying there liquid and boneless, letting out small, hitching gasps as he comes down from it. “Mm,” Peter says, sitting down on the coffee table across from him. “I do enjoy taking you apart, Stiles.”

“Get bent,” Stiles says weakly, closes his eyes, and waits until Peter’s gone. It doesn’t take long.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

He never gets to see Peter come, and that starts to annoy him after the fourth or fifth time the werewolf pins him down and has his way with him. Hell, he doesn’t even know if Peter is physically aroused or not, because he never gets anywhere near enough to tell. Peter just takes exactly what he pleases and then leaves Stiles with nothing, every single time.

Stiles can assume he’s enjoying it, or else why do it, but he doesn’t know, and Peter never lets him touch, never lets him take. It’s about control, and Stiles knows it. Peter will always be in control of the situation, and it doesn’t matter that Stiles is the one having an orgasm; Peter is the one getting off.

 And of course, it’s not like there’s anyone he can talk to about it. Scott is, well – Stiles loves him like a brother and he knows that Scott is a lot smarter than people give him credit for, but sometimes, he’s just oblivious. And in this situation, Stiles would prefer to keep him that way. Derek probably doesn’t even realize Stiles has a dick, and Stiles will in no way be discussing what his zombie uncle is doing with it. His father would freak at the concept of Stiles having sex with anyone, let alone someone like Peter.

Sometimes he thinks Lydia knows, if only because Lydia’s the smartest person on the planet, and because, well, she knows him pretty well. But if she does know, she doesn’t say anything, and he’s not going to be the one to bring it up.

So he’s stuck fuming in silence, and pretty much every time something happens, he spends the next several days lecturing himself on why it’s never going to happen. The worst part is, he’s pretty sure that Peter knows it bothers him, and that only amuses the older man more. He’s stopped being quite as subtle in his . . . appreciation of Stiles when the others are around. He’ll run his fingers across the back of Stiles’ neck when walking by, lean into his personal space, and on one memorable occasion while they were all gathered around the table, put his foot in Stiles’ lap.

Stiles can’t stop him, and a part of him doesn’t want to stop him, and on the whole, he’s confused and pissed off, but every time he tries to smack Peter upside the head, they wind up making out, which is counterproductive at best. He knows that for Peter, this is all part of the game. The fear of being discovered just intensifies the high.

It’s not that Stiles is ashamed of it – well, not exactly. Peter is damned attractive, and to a certain extent, Stiles’ ego is actually increased by the fact that Peter is not only having sex with him, but initiating it every time. And it’s not like they have an actual relationship – there is no universe in which he can picture the two of them out on a date, let alone having feelings for each other that are not either a) grudging respect, b) intense loathing, or c) in his pants.

He just knows that the others wouldn’t approve, and he doesn’t feel like being lectured. He’s eighteen now, so he can have sex with whoever he wants. Peter is using him, okay, yes, but, well. Stiles is enjoying it. A lot. Or at least most of it. It seems to be a pretty even trade.

Of course, that doesn’t mean that there are occasions when he still wants to beat Peter’s face in. Like the time they wind up fighting kelpies and all crash back at Derek’s loft wet, chilled, and exhausted. The werewolves are all fine; their healing has kept them warm and they don’t seem bothered by their wet clothing. Stiles, however, is shivering and annoyed.

When the others ignore his discomfort to start tallying up the kelpie attacks to see if they think they got them all, Stiles announces loudly, “I’m going to go change,” and then slams his way up the stairs, to where there’s a spare room. He takes a spare set of clothes out of his backpack and grabs a towel from the bathroom. “Go away,” he says, as soon as he hears footsteps.

Peter tsks. “Keep that up and I’ll think you don’t like me anymore,” he says.

“Gee, where would you get that idea?” Stiles stops with his T-shirt half over his head. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all,” Peter says, sitting down in one of the few rickety chairs in the room, resting his chin on his hands with the obvious intention of watching Stiles change.

Stiles groans, pulls his shirt over his head, and chucks it in Peter’s face. “The others will notice that you’re gone,” he points out.

“Well, they certainly won’t look for me up here,” Peter replies. “After all, they know you’re up here changing. They’ll just figure I wandered off.”

This is true. It annoys Stiles, but he’s well-acquainted with Peter’s tendency to come and go whenever he wants, often without notifying anybody that he’s leaving. “Well, I don’t need an audience and I certainly don’t need your help, so how about you get out?” he suggests. He already knows it’s a lost cause. Peter’s going to do whatever Peter wants to do. His heart is already racing, and he knows that Peter can hear it.

“Mm hm,” Peter says. He hangs Stiles’ wet shirt on the back of his chair and starts towards the teenager, every move slow, predatory. Stiles undoes his belt and slides his pants down, trying to ignore Peter watching him, feeling the anticipation build up in his stomach, a feeling that’s both pleasant and unpleasant at the same time. Then Peter has him by the wrist and shoves him up against the wall. Instead of going in for a kiss, he leans in and starts licking the water that has beaded on Stiles’ neck.

“You’d better be quick,” he says, right into Stiles’ ear, as one hand comes down to cup over the bulge in Stiles’ wet boxer briefs and give it a squeeze. “They’ll wonder where you went if you take too long.”

Stiles’ breath catches in his throat. “P-Peter,” he says, “c’mon, they’ll hear.”

“Then be quiet,” Peter says, working the tips of his fingers underneath the waistband of Stiles’ underwear.

Stiles swallows a whimper. “Put your hand over my mouth,” he pants.

Peter laughs at him. “No.”

“C’monnnnn,” Stiles says, trying to stop his body from shuddering into Peter’s grip. His knees are starting to feel a little shaky. He tilts his head back so Peter can move his mouth along the cords in his neck.

“Say the magic word,” Peter tells him, teeth closing on Stiles’ ear.

“Nnnngh, now, you asshat,” Stiles says, barely swallowing a more virulent curse as Peter wraps a hand around him and squeezes hard.

Peter lays two fingers over Stiles’ mouth. His gaze is fixed on Stiles. “Is this what you want?” he asks, one of them easing Stiles’ lower lip down.

“Hah,” Stiles says, more of an expulsion of breath than a word. “Y-Yeah.” He lets Peter slide the fingers into his mouth, closes his teeth on them, sucks hard. His eyes roll back in his head as Peter works him into a rhythm, holding all his weight now, keeping him pinned against the wall. A hand job shouldn’t feel so good, he doesn’t think, but the contrast between the warmth of Peter’s hand and the clamminess of his underwear still clinging to him plus the thrill of knowing the others are right downstairs, that they could hear him, has him twisting and shuddering in less than a minute. He knows better at this point than to try to get his hands on anything Peter considers important, but claws at his back anyway, twisting his hands in the fabric of Peter’s shirt, holding back his moans with sheer force of desperate will.

He bites down on Peter’s fingers as he comes, as hard as he can, and he hears Peter gives a hiss that sounds like as much pleasure as pain. It’s immensely satisfying, and his body gives another writhing shudder as Peter strokes him through his climax.

Somehow, he winds up sitting on the floor, feeling relaxed and boneless and just really, really good.

“Better get downstairs,” Peter says, laughing at him. “The others will be wondering where you are.”

Instead of a witty comeback, Stiles just gives a little groan because his brain has officially turned off, and he doesn’t even care.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

“Okay, first things first,” Stiles says, as soon as the door closes behind Scott and the others. “No shenanigans tonight. I’m not in the fucking mood.” He realizes as soon as that came out of his mouth that he probably shouldn’t have used the modifier. Peter’s eyebrows quirk up, amused. “Shut up. I’m not dealing with your bullshit today.”

“Rough day?” Peter asks.

“Wow, so you do know how to fake concern, I’m super impressed with you, shut up.” Stiles drops his backpack on the floor with a thump. It has been a rough day. First he had gotten in an argument with his father, mostly because he had snuck a look at his cholesterol test results. They weren’t, well, bad, but they weren’t great either. He had tried to bring it up, and that had led to an argument about privacy versus concern, and his father had finally put his foot down and said ‘if I’m not allowed to be worried about you and butt my nose in, you can’t do it to me, either’.

Which is fair, at least to a certain extent. His father knows about the supernatural stuff now, so they don’t have to have arguments about lying, but he thinks that Stiles shouldn’t be involved, so they have arguments about that instead. Stiles tells his father that he would love not to be involved, if everything would stop messing with his supernatural friends, that would be great. His father counters that he could at least be a little more careful, and usually the argument ends with both of them fuming in frustrated silence.

After that, Scott had – finally – left his Allison-induced haze long enough to notice the bruises on Stiles’ wrists from his last encounter with Peter. They’re fading, he’s kept them covered by wearing long-sleeves, but just when he thought he was home free, Scott noticed. When Stiles didn’t want to talk about them, Scott went off on one of his impassioned, ‘I’m just worried about you’ speeches, which Stiles cut off with an angry retort about ‘oh now you’re worried’ and that argument had ended badly, too.

On top of all that, trolls underneath bridges, why is this his life, and now he’s stuck with Peter and he’s pissed off about everything.

“I know something that might help with your stress level,” Peter says, tilting his head to one side and giving Stiles that little smirk.

Stiles glares back. “No.”

Peter advances on him slowly, but Stiles refuses to give any ground. “You know that there’s no point in lying,” Peter reminds him. “I can smell the want on you.”

“Smell this,” Stiles snarls, and aims a punch right at Peter’s face. Predictably, Peter grabs him by the wrist before he can connect, spinning him around and pushing him up against the wall. He can feel Peter’s forearm across the back of his neck, keeping him pinned there, and he struggles but it doesn’t do any good. Peter’s strength is far superior.

“Is this what you want?” Peter asks, right into his ear. “Do you want me to force you? Would that make you feel better, like you’re an innocent victim, like you never wanted this in the first place?”

“Yeah,” Stiles pants into the wall, “but if you do that, for once you’re going to have to use your dick as well as mine.” He tries to push back against Peter, but the werewolf won’t let him. He doesn’t have the leverage. “Come on, give it to me, why won’t you, is it tiny? Is that the problem, do you have a three-inch dick? Is it erectile dysfunction? I could score some Viagra for you, probably – ”

Peter snarls at him and spins him around, catching his mouth in a bruising kiss. Stiles moans into it, surrenders completely with his mouth, but still tries to thrust his hips forward, trying to feel Peter’s body against his. Peter pulls back, both hands clenched in Stiles’ shirt, and throws him down onto the floor. Stiles hits the hard concrete with a grunt and tries to push himself up to his hands and knees, but Peter’s already on top of him, and won’t let him. He pushes Stiles shirt up so it bunches underneath his armpits, running his hands up and down the smooth skin of his back. Stiles can feel the tips of his claws scratching at his spine, and he lets out another groan.

“What are you going to do from back there?” he gasps out, pressing himself harder into the floor so Peter can’t get to his groin.

“I can be creative,” Peter says, kissing and biting his way down Stiles’ spine until he gets to his pants, where he considers for a moment before mouthing at the cleft of Stiles’ ass through the fabric.

“Oh, fuck,” Stiles says, feeling all the fight go out of him pretty much instantly. His back arches despite himself, which allows Peter to get his hands underneath his body and undo his belt and his pants. He yanks them down without ceremony, pulls them off entirely, and throws them to the side.

Somehow he winds up on his hands and knees, bracing himself on the sofa, and he’s not even sure how he got there, let alone when Peter had the time to go find some lube. “Why did you even, ugh, I don’t wanna know,” Stiles manages, pressing his face into the fabric of the couch. “Oh, Jesus,” he says, a small whine escaping his throat as he feels Peter’s fingers, now claw-free, pushing into him. “I still want your dick,” he gasps out.

“Some other time, perhaps,” Peter says, but his voice is a little rougher than usual, and Stiles decides he’ll take that as a victory. He just moans and pushes back against Peter’s fingers, bending and arching until Peter finds the right spot and he chokes out new profanities. Peter makes a pleased noise in the back of his throat as Stiles’ entire body jerks gracelessly beneath him. He pushes in another finger, and Stiles’ hands curl around one of the cushions, gripping so tightly that his knuckles are turning white.

He tries to say something, although he’s not sure what – faster, harder, more – but all that comes out is, “Unnnnh,” in a little half-sob, and he arches back against Peter as the older man works them into a rhythm, lingering at just the right moment every time. Stiles presses his face into the cushion and comes so hard that his vision goes black around the edges.

Peter’s laughing at him as he basically oozes off the sofa and onto the floor. He lays there for a long moment, catching his breath, completely sated and unable to move, he feels so amazing. Then Peter, as always, stands up to go. He never sticks around afterwards, no matter what else is going on.

It takes every ounce of willpower that Stiles has ever possessed, but as Peter steps past him, he rolls onto his side, grabs the werewolf by the ankle, and yanks hard. If he had been expecting it, he might have been able to keep his feet, but it’s probably the last thing he anticipated Stiles doing. He lands hard on his back with a grunt and Stiles is on him, pressing his hand into Peter’s groin and feeling the unmistakable hardness of the older man’s cock beneath it.

“Hah!” he says, just before Peter hits him so hard that his head snaps around and he goes rolling several feet away. It doesn’t dampen his glee. He sits up, pressing a hand against his cheek, which is already swelling. “I knew you were getting off on this.”

“Then there was no need to check,” Peter says coldly.

Stiles just grins at him. “You can’t stand the idea of coming in front of me. The idea that I might take you apart the same way you do to me. The idea that you might lose control.”

“Are you done?” Peter asks.

“No. Let me jerk you off.”

Peter gives him an unimpressed look. “Honestly, Stiles,” he says. “You should do some thinking about what exactly you think you’re going to get from me. Because that isn’t it.”

“Maybe not today,” Stiles says, as Peter walks out of the loft. “But we’ll see.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Less than two hours later is when Stiles decides he’s done taking Peter’s bullshit. As it happens, it’s a confrontation with his father that leads to this decision. Sheriff Stilinski predictably hits the roof when he sees the massive bruise and swelling on Stiles’ face. Stiles tries to pass it off as some supernaturally-oriented injury.

“I thought we were done with lies,” his father says, giving him that look that’s a mixture of confusion and disappointment, and Stiles can’t fucking stand that, so he tells his father the truth. Not all the truth – but he tells his father that he’s having sex with someone, someone older, and he doesn’t want to say who because he doesn’t want anyone in trouble. His father reminds him that he’s eighteen now, so there wouldn’t be legal trouble, but Stiles persists, saying that it’s supernatural stuff and there are – complications – and his father lets it go. He tells his father that sometimes things get a little rough but it’s always mutual, and he’s enjoyed every bruise.

There is no universe in which Sheriff Stilinski wants to know that much about his son’s sex life, but he listens, and they talk a little about what’s a healthy coping mechanism for his extremely frustrating, exciting life, and what isn’t. Stiles promises his father that he’s being safe, and promises to come to him if things get out of hand.

Scott calls him not long after that to tell him how it went with the trolls, and Stiles apologizes for snapping at him, and Scott says he’s already forgiven him, and they’re bros again, so that’s okay.

Now it’s only Peter that he has to deal with. He doesn’t want to stop having sex with him – and doesn’t even think he necessarily should – he just wants Peter to stop being a manipulative asshole.

So the next time there are bad guys in town, about three weeks later, and Stiles is summarily called to Derek’s loft, he walks in, views the gathered assembly, and makes his move.

He walks right over to Peter and kisses him on the mouth.

Peter is so surprised that he doesn’t even react until Stiles pulls away and says, “Hi.”

“Dude!” Scott says, staring in what looks like horror. “What was that?”

“Oh, I’m just kissing Peter hello,” Stiles says. “I figured it’s a thing we should do now, since we’ve been having sex for like three months,” he adds, and everyone stares at him. “Yeah, all those times I said ‘don’t leave me alone with Peter?’ We had sex pretty much every single time while you were gone.”

“Dude,” Scott repeats, faintly, while Peter just looks at Stiles with arched eyebrows. “He’s twice your age! He dated my mother!”

“Oh, get over it, Scott, he only did that to threaten you,” Stiles says, and when he sees Peter open his mouth, probably to offer his opinion on Melissa McCall’s attractiveness, he hastily continues. “Yeah, apparently I’m attracted to creepy middle-aged men. It’s been quite a journey of self-discovery, trust me.”

“You never cease to amaze me,” Peter murmurs.

Stiles smirks at him. “Thought I’d keep it a secret forever? You thought I was ashamed? Hell no. You’re hot. I think I’m going to make posters and hang them at my high school.”

Derek glowers at both of them. “Must you do that here?” he asks.

“Uh, yeah,” Stiles says. “Since pretty much every time I told you not to leave me here with him, you called me a baby, yeah, I think we’re gonna do this right here, right now. And if you don’t like it, that’s your problem.” He hooks a thumb in Peter’s belt loop and pulls him in for another kiss. This time, Peter returns it with his usual hunger.

“Oh, gross,” Cora says. “I’m outta here.”

“Right there with you,” Isaac says, and the two of them head for the door.

“Have fun!” Allison calls out over her shoulder, pulling Scott along with her as he lets out another faint, ‘dude!’

Derek is the last to go, giving them another sour look as he slams the door behind him with much more force than could possibly be considered necessary. Stiles walks forward slowly, until the back of Peter’s knees hit the couch and he winds up sitting down. Surprisingly, Peter allows this, although his smirk is just as amused as ever. “Do you know why I like you, Stiles?” Peter asks, as the teenager climbs onto the couch and settles astride his lap.

“Because I’m not afraid of you, remember?” Stiles asks.

Peter gives a little shrug as Stiles’ hands start working on his belt. “Because you’re one of the few people I’ve ever met who can still surprise me.”

“Cool,” Stiles says, getting the belt out of the way and starting in the button and zipper. “Are you gonna take my hands off for this?”

“Mm,” Peter says, considering. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Even cooler.” Stiles doesn’t want to kiss Peter or do anything that might somehow make this an intimate moment. He just sits back on Peter’s thighs, with one of Peter’s hands on the small of his back to support him, and wraps a hand around Peter, drawing him out of his pants. “Well, it certainly isn’t tiny,” he observes. “You won’t be needing that Viagra, either.”

“You talk too much,” Peter murmurs.

“Earth to kettle, come in, kettle, this is the pot calling. This just in: you’re black.”

Peter gets a hand on the back of Stiles’ neck and pulls him in for one of those harsh, bruising kisses. Stiles lets him, works his hand up and down Peter’s cock until Peter lets him go and he winds up gasping for breath. Peter isn’t out of breath at all. He could be watching television rather than getting a handjob, for all that the current events show on his face. As always, Peter is perfectly in control. Even his hips are perfectly still, despite what Stiles is doing to him.

Stiles works him slow and easy, then hard and fast. He varies the pace, changing things up every time he can feel the tension in Peter’s body beneath him start to grow. Peter never protests, never growls at him, but little things give him away. His pupils are blown wide; he can’t control that, and his hips might be still but his cock is twitching in Stiles’ grip, slick with precome that Stiles gathers with his thumb every third or fourth stroke.

“You know,” Peter says, and his voice wobbles just the tiniest bit. “You are every bit the sadist that I’ve trained you to be.”

Stiles smirks at him. “You didn’t train me to be anything. I’m like this naturally.”

“Is that so,” Peter says, and then he’s coming in Stiles’ hands, body arching involuntarily. He doesn’t make a sound, but one hand grips the arm of the sofa, claws digging into the fabric. He tilts his head back so it’s resting against the back of the couch and lets out a long, slow breath.

“And that,” Stiles says, “is what you get for being an asshole.”

“Quite a punishment,” Peter says.

Stiles swings his leg over Peter’s thighs and stands up. “Well, on that note, I’m going – ”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, never expected to finish the sentence, before Peter grabs him by the wrist and pulls him back down. “You,” he says, “are not going anywhere.” He leans in close and nips at his ear. “I’m nowhere near done with you yet.”

Stiles’ eyes flutter shut. “Bring it, asshole,” he says. “I’m ready for you.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

 

Chapter Text

The first time Peter was alone with Stiles, he wasn’t really in the mood to notice how attractive the teenager was. He was right at the crux of his plan, then. Revenge was within his grasp, and he meant to take it. Stiles stood between him and it, but in the end he did what Peter wanted. He had spirit, and even as wound up as he was, Peter made a note of that, offering him the bite.

So many things had happened after that, that when he next ran into Stiles, he had all but forgotten about the teenager’s existence. It was about two months after his resurrection, and he was at Derek’s loft when Stiles came in, bearing some news about Erica, some lead that he had been following. He didn’t really react to Peter’s presence; Peter gathered that Scott had told him about his return.

Over the course of the summer, Peter got used to the twitchy, intelligent boy who hung around Derek and Isaac, trying to help out, trying not to let on how much Scott’s preoccupation with other things hurt his feelings. He bitched and moaned and made sarcastic comments, he sniped with Peter when Isaac was afraid to do so, he memorized everyone’s coffee orders, he knew trivia about the strangest things and thrived on research, he lectured Derek on the state of his refrigerator.

Then he turned around and did something that surprised Peter. It was the second time they were alone. Derek had gotten some sort of hot tip from a supernatural source, and he and Isaac had rushed off to check it out, leaving Peter and Stiles in their literal dust. Once they were out of earshot, Stiles turned to Peter and said, “I know how you did it, you know.”

Peter gave him a questioning look. “Oh?”

“Came back from the dead. I found the spell you used. So let me make this perfectly clear. I haven’t forgotten what you are or what you’ve done. So the next time we have to kill you, if there is a next time, I’m not going to let Derek bury you in the ruins. I’m going to chop you into itty bitty pieces. Then I’m going to burn a third of them to cinder, throw a third them in a river, and feed the remaining third to some hungry wolves. Try coming back from that, asshole.”

Peter’s gaze had followed him out of the loft, and he began to make quiet plans for Stiles’ removal, should it become necessary. He hoped that it didn’t. It’s not often he meets a challenge. Or that he meets someone who would say that to his face.

As things continued to thaw between him and Derek – he did terrible things, Derek knows that, but he’s family, the only family Derek has left (or so he thinks at the time) – Stiles stopped looking at him with that homicidal gleam in his eye. Once or twice, he smells interest on Stiles, which is somewhat fascinating. Well, he is a teenager. Sometimes it’s directed at Derek, too, or even at Isaac. But more often than not, the pheromones come into play when he and Peter have been working closely together, poring over a book, looking through some website, translating some ancient runes.

So he started making different plans.

And as usual when Stiles is involved, nothing went as expected.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles’ room is much like Stiles himself, Peter finds. Untidy and cluttered, but stuffed with information, sometimes conflicting, a place for everything despite looking like a mess. There are books and computers, lacrosse equipment, clothes, and other assorted belongings piled and scattered everywhere.

Peter takes his time looking through the books to see what Stiles has been researching lately. He’s gotten somewhat absorbed in one of the texts when the door opens and Stiles comes in, calling over his shoulder, “G’night, Dad!” He reaches for the light switch as the door swings shut behind him and realizes that it’s already on.

His blink of confusion turns quickly into a full body flail of surprise. “Oh my God!” he says, nearly falling over. Then he lowers his voice to a hiss. “What are you doing here?”

“I was bored,” Peter explains, giving the teenager a look up and down. “And lonely,” he adds, with a charming lack of sincerity.

Stiles considers this for a long moment. “And . . . you’re waiting for me to freak out and insist that you can’t be here, so you can push me around, then tear off my clothes and have your way with me?”

Peter thinks about this. “Yes,” he says. “That’s a fairly accurate summary.”

“Uh huh.” Stiles tugs his shirt over his head and tosses it towards the laundry basket in the corner. It’s a little discomfiting to see him so casual about things. “You know my dad owns a gun, right? Actually, he owns several guns.”

“Well,” Peter says, “then I hope you can keep quiet.”

Stiles holds up his hands as Peter approaches. “Hold the phone,” he says. “We’re not doing this here.”

That’s more like what Peter wants to hear. He takes another few steps forward, backing Stiles against the wall, watching the rapid rise and fall of his breath. “Is that what you think?” Peter asks. He leans in to nip at the side of Stiles’ neck, and is rewarded by feeling Stiles’ body go limp and pliant underneath him. He starts work on his belt buckle.

Then Stiles is squirming free. “You – stay. Just – ” He edges over towards the door while Peter arches his eyebrows, wondering if the teenager is actually going to run. Then Stiles pulls the door open and shouts, “Hey, Dad, if you hear noise up here it’s just because my creepy boyfriend can’t respect boundaries and we’re having sex, okay?”

There’s a long, long silence while Peter simply stares at Stiles, as the teenager closes the door again, muffling the response his father makes (Peter hears the word ‘condoms’ and decides he’s probably better off not hearing the rest of it). Then he decides there’s really only one thing he can say. “Boyfriend?”

“I can’t say ‘fuckbuddy’ to my dad, really,” Stiles says, with a shrug that’s almost apologetic.

Peter considers. “He wasn’t surprised.”

“No. I told him about you around the same time I told the pack.”

“Why?” Peter asks, tilting his head to one side curiously.

“A lot of reasons.” Stiles walks over to his stereo and starts to fiddle with it. “I’m sick of secrets and sneaking around. It’s too much fucking effort and it hurts my dad’s feelings and with you leaving bruises on me it was going to be impossible anyway. And I was sick of you presuming that my silence meant I was ashamed of myself because I was fucking you. I’m not. And if I’m no longer an attractive target because of that, so be it.”

Honestly, Peter isn’t sure what to think of it. He supposes it shouldn’t surprise him that Stiles has done this. He’s not the sort of person to be passive. One counter-attack strategy hadn’t worked, so he’s taking on another. “Your unwillingness was never what attracted me to you,” Peter says, “given that you were never unwilling.”

Stiles rolls his eyes dramatically. He presses another button on the stereo and rock music starts to blare from the speakers. It will cover up all but the most egregious of noises. “Are we gonna split the consent hairs, seriously? I thought you were here to fuck me. We haven’t seen each other in weeks and I’m really God damned horny, so can we just get to it?”

In response, Peter reaches out and just shoves him down onto the bed. Stiles hits with an ‘oompf’ noise and starts trying to squirm backwards to make himself more comfortable, but Peter doesn’t let him. He’s on top of him in an instant, so he’s pinned awkwardly on the diagonal, his right shoulder and left leg from the knee down both off the bed entirely. Even his head is half off the mattress, and it’s a position that affords him practically no leverage. He struggles against it, but then Peter’s got him pinned down by his wrists and is biting along his collarbone, and the fight goes out of him abruptly.

“Fuck yeah,” he breathes out, eyes fluttering shut. Peter rolls his eyes a little but doesn’t let Stiles bother him. He lets go of one of the teenager’s wrists so he can reach up and trace fingers along his jaw and throat, lingering on the pulse point in his neck. He presses down, just a little, and gets a satisfying little grunt out of Stiles.

Peter works on his belt and his pants, but he keeps his touches light, teasing, enjoying the sound of Stiles’ breath, quick and desperate beneath him. When he gets the teenager’s pants off, Stiles rolls his hips upwards but encounters nothing but air, and whines. Peter ignores him, dropping gentle kisses on his abdomen and hips.

“You’re the fuckin’ devil,” Stiles proclaims, staring at the ceiling with glassy eyes. Peter hums in amused agreement, hooking one hand underneath Stiles’ knee, pulling his legs apart to give himself more room to work. He leans in and starts sucking and biting a line of bruises on the inside of Stiles’ thigh. Stiles makes a strangled noise and then puts a hand up to his mouth, biting down on his knuckles. Peter decides to allow it. He’s feeling magnanimous, seeing Stiles sprawled out underneath him, equal parts pliant and desperate. He rubs his hand over the front of Stiles’ boxers, slow and gentle, and Stiles lets out a fervent string of swears around his hand. His hips buck up desperately, but Peter just pushes him back down.

Still moving slowly, he peels off Stiles’ underwear and drops it on the floor. Stiles makes a little whimpering noise as Peter trails two soft fingertips down his cock. Then Peter goes back to the pattern of red-purple bruises he’s making on Stiles’ thigh.

“Oh, God,” Stiles says, voice shaky, then bites down on his hand hard enough to leave marks. He’s trembling, now. Peter smirks at him, then drags his tongue along the underside of Stiles’ erection, and the teenager lets out a yelp despite himself.

Peter thinks he could do this for hours. One firm stroke, then back to tracing his fingers along Stiles’ hips. One flick of his tongue, then back to pressing kisses into his stomach. Stiles gets more and more desperate the longer it goes on, clawing at Peter’s back, hips flexing upwards to encounter nothing but air. Peter keeps doing what he’s doing, and waits.

Stiles holds out for a while, but he can’t hold out forever. “P-Peter,” he finally says, voice hoarse and scratchy. “I – I need – ”

“Tell me,” Peter murmurs, rubbing his cheek against Stiles’ hip. The rasp of the stubble there makes Stiles shudder. “Beg for me. Let me hear it.”

“Oh, God,” Stiles says. “Please, please let me come, please, Peter, I need it so bad . . .”

Peter feels his own breath coming short and quick. It’s an unbelievable rush, just looking at Stiles, normally so determined and obstinate, reduced to this. There’s very little that Stiles wouldn’t do right now, and they both know it. He holds Stiles right in the palm of his hand. Will he grant what he wants? Or leave him hanging?

“Tell me,” he purrs, “that you’re sorry for being a brat earlier.”

“Was . . . was I?” Stiles asks, hips still moving in tiny, frustrated thrusts.

“Well, you did threaten to have your father shoot me . . . and call me your boyfriend.”

“I d-didn’t do anything I shouldn’t have,” Stiles says, eyes rolling back a little as Peter licks a line between his navel and his groin.

“No, you didn’t,” Peter agrees, “but you’re going to apologize anyway, if you want to come.”

“Oh, fuck,” Stiles says. “Okay, I’m sorry, I was a little shit, I’m always a little shit, won’t happen again, now please, Peter, please – ”

Peter gives a satisfied smile and goes down on him, taking him all the way in. Stiles has just enough sense left in him to slap a hand back over his mouth before he can shout. His entire body twists and shudders upwards, and he half-sobs in relief as he comes. He’s out of breath when he collapses back against the bed, completely dazed by the intensity of it.

Peter watches him for a few moments as he comes down from it, then fumbles at his own belt with sudden intent. He hasn’t done this before, but Stiles isn’t paying attention, so now seems as good a time as any, and the sight of the teenager, lying there giving quiet little shudders, wrecked and completely fucked out, is too much. He takes his own cock in his hand and jerks himself off quick and rough, knowing it won’t take much and wanting to get it over with before Stiles gets himself together.

It’s only a few minutes before he comes, all over Stiles’ chest and stomach, and the teenager gives another little shiver but doesn’t protest. His eyes are only partly open, half-lidded as he watches Peter. Peter takes a moment to catch his breath, then admires the sight of Stiles lying there, thoroughly marked as to who he belongs to. He draws one finger idly through the mess he’s left on Stiles’ stomach. Stiles gives a little groan, and then just closes his eyes. His chest rises and falls slow and steady.

Peter leaves him there like that, departing through the window to avoid awkward encounters. Stiles is going to be sore and sticky when he wakes up. The thought makes Peter smile.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

“Out,” Derek says, pointing at the door to the loft.

“Oh, are you actually going to let me come along?” Stiles asks, feigning surprise even though it’s obvious he knows that’s not what Derek means. “Awesome, let me just load up – ”

“No, you’re not invited,” Derek says, with a dramatic roll of his eyes. “I just don’t want the two of you violating my loft while we’re gone.” He gives a little shudder. “Seriously. I had to buy a new sofa, I had to buy a new table, I needed to steam clean my floor – ”

“And just think,” Peter remarks, as he heads out the door, “you don’t even know half the places we had sex.”

Derek just scowls after him, even more so when Stiles just gives an unapologetic shrug and follows Peter out of the loft. Peter watches the teenager as he watches Derek and the others leave. He’s vibrating with tension. It is a dangerous job that the others are going to do, so Stiles is obviously antsy about it. It’s a good mood for Stiles to be in. It tends to make the sex exceptionally good, as he throws himself into it in an effort to distract himself.

“Come on,” Peter says, as he starts walking down the alley to where he’s left his car.

“Where are we going?” Stiles asks.

“My place,” Peter says.

“You’re going to let me see your lair?” Stiles asks. He sounds a little excited. Possibly even flattered.

Peter rolls his eyes. “I might remind you that it’s not a lair. It’s an apartment. There’s absolutely nothing exciting there that might lead me to think that you shouldn’t see it, and since I don’t plan on letting you out of my sight until . . .” He recalls Derek’s words and smirks. “Until I’ve thoroughly violated you, it seems to be the most sensible destination.”

“Jesus Christ.” Stiles stumbles as he gets into the car. He stares out the window as Peter starts to drive. “D’you think they’ll be all right?”

“They’ll be fine,” Peter says, somewhat sourly. It seems that they somehow always are, no matter how many little tricks or traps he sets up for them. He doesn’t want Stiles thinking about them. He wants Stiles thinking about him. He reaches over and starts rubbing at Stiles’ knee.

“Hey, watch the road,” Stiles says. “I’m just a scrawny human with fragile bones.”

“I can watch the road and do this at the same time,” Peter says, demonstrating. It’s actually tempting to just pull the car over and do this where anyone might happen upon them, but he doubts Stiles would really enjoy it. The teenager isn’t much of an exhibitionist, despite Peter’s repeated efforts to show him how much fun it can be. He’ll put up with it on occasion, although since he told the others about his relationship with Peter, it hasn’t really come up. In any case, it’s not the best way to take him apart, and that’s what Peter wants right now. He wants Stiles in pieces underneath him.

Thinking about that actually is a little distracting, hearing the way Stiles breathes and enjoying the way his scent changes from tense anxiety to tense arousal. Peter focuses on the road, to get them to their destination quicker.

As he had half-expected, Stiles becomes completely distracted from the prospect of sex by seeing the interior of Peter’s apartment. “It’s like you’re an actual person,” he marvels, looking at the coffee maker and the toaster like they came from another planet. Peter rolls his eyes dramatically and waits for him to get it out of his system. “There are like . . . pictures on the walls and dirty dishes in the sink and a television. You have a television. Somehow I wouldn’t have guessed that.”

Peter sighs and folds his arms over his chest. “Are you quite finished?”

“No, I mean, I have to tell you, this is completely destroying your image,” Stiles says, with a straight face. “It’s like, I bet you leave little hairs on the edge of the sink and cut your toenails in bed. I’m not attracted to you at all right now, I’m so disillusioned.”

“Well, it’s a good thing that I don’t need you to be attracted to me for what I have in mind,” Peter replies. All the air just sort of stutters out of Stiles, and Peter takes advantage of his momentary defenselessness to grab him by the wrist and tug him ungently into the bedroom. It’s just as normal and mundane as the rest of the rooms, but Stiles seems to have lost interest in gawking. In fact, he’s already working on his belt buckle. Peter stops him cold with a look. “Since when are you allowed to do that?”

“Oh, fuck,” Stiles says faintly, as Peter pins him against the wall and firmly moves his hands away, then starts on the belt himself. He tilts his head back as Peter leans in to nuzzle at his neck. “Nnnnhg, so, when are you going to fuck me?”

“Really, Stiles?” Peter murmurs, and bites down on his ear.

“Yeah, r-really,” Stiles says. “I f-figure, now that your big secret about actually enjoying what’s going on is out, there’s no – no reason for you not to. Right?”

The idea is tempting, Peter has to admit. He knows that Stiles is – technically – a virgin. The idea of taking that away from him is . . . appealing. The idea of doing it when Stiles asks is less appealing. Then again, now that he’s made his desire plain, it would always seem like Peter was doing it at Stiles’ behest. Waiting would just be . . . petty.

“Still don’t want to let me see you lose control?” Stiles asks, the words a taunt more than anything else. “Just fuck me from behind if you don’t want me to see your O face, presuming that you have such a thing.”

“Actually . . .” Peter says, and leaves Stiles hanging there for a few moments, breathing hard. “That sounds like an excellent idea.” He pulls Stiles away from the wall and shoves him over towards the bed, hard enough that Stiles does in fact go stumbling to his knees. He doesn’t try to get back up, and in fact both hands fist in the blankets when Peter gets down behind him and starts roughly pulling off his pants and underwear.

“There’s, uh,” Stiles says, his voice breathy, “lube in my pocket. Condoms.”

Peter can’t help but give him an amused look. “You know,” he says, licking down Stiles’ spine, “werewolves can neither catch nor carry STDs.”

“And I’m supposed to take your word on that, you sadistic son of a bitch?” Stiles gasps out. “Fuck. No. Wear the damned condom.”

“I’ll think about it,” Peter says, but he does grab the lube. Stiles groans as he feels Peter’s fingers press into him, and grabs one of the pillows with a flailing arm. He squirms a little and then rocks back against Peter, breath coming in short little gasps.

“I’m s-serious,” he says, voice trembling. “No glove, no love. Don’t be a fool, cover your tool. You can’t go wrong, if you – ”

Peter pulls one of Stiles’ arms up behind his back and gives it a little twist, pressing him more firmly into the bed. “I’ll agree to wear the condom if you agree not to share any more pithy little slogans with me.”

Stiles laughs into the mattress. “Okay.”

Annoyed, but strangely aroused by Stiles’ insistence, Peter gets the little square wrapper open and contemplates the condom for a moment. He’s never actually worn one before. The fact that werewolves can’t catch or carry STDs is true, and although he doesn’t blame Stiles for not believing him, he’s never before been with a partner who has insisted. Still, he knows the general idea in theory, and it turns out not to be difficult in practice.

He’s a little surprised by how easy it is to thrust into Stiles, slow and steady. Stiles moans, muffled in the pillow, long fingers grasping it tightly. Peter lets out a breath. “Have you been cheating on me?” he asks, only partly kidding.

“Y-Yeah, with things I bought on the internet,” Stiles gasps.

“Stiles. Really?” Peter asks, pulling back before thrusting harder.

“Didn’t trust you – ” Stiles’ voice cracks. “ – to be nice – so I wanted to be prepared.”

The thought of that, of Stiles ‘preparing’ in the privacy of his room, is so attractive that it’s practically obscene. Peter curls one arm underneath Stiles’ armpit and puts his hand on the back of Stiles’ neck, pressing him down into the bed. Stiles just lets out a little grunt and squirms, trying to find a better position, shifting his hips upwards. On the next thrust, he chokes out, “Oh, yeah,” and his body shudders underneath Peter.

It’s been a while since Peter has done this, not that he has any plans to admit that to Stiles. Quite a while, actually. Not since the fire. That had left him crippled both in body and spirit. Even once his body had recovered, he had been too intent on revenge to be distracted by petty things like sex. That was how many years, now? Seven? Or maybe a little more.

So it’s really no surprise to him that he finds himself setting a quick, rough pace without even thinking about it. Stiles is gasping and shaking underneath him, but Peter has to admit that he’s glad that the teenager can’t see him. Fucking him into the mattress definitely has its perks. He manages to restrict the noises he makes to a few grunts that Stiles probably can’t hear over the sound of his own moans and profanities. Peter curls his head over him and presses his forehead into Stiles’ back between his shoulder blade and comes hard, his claws digging into Stiles’ skin.

“Fuck,” he says, despite himself, when he gathers himself enough to pull away. They should do that more often. A lot more often. He stands up and finds his legs admirably steady.

“Hey, where’re you goin’?” Stiles asks, half-rolling over. “I din’t come yet.”

Peter arches an eyebrow at him. “That’s not my problem.”

He expects Stiles to get irritated with him, and maybe Stiles is, but then the teenager just lets out a little chuckle, pressing his cheek into the pillow. “Well, who would’ve thought,” he says. “Peter Hale, the minute man.”

It takes effort not to scowl, but Peter keeps his face a blank mask. He opens his mouth to make a snarky comment about Stiles’ ability to tell time, but realizes that anything he says will just look defensive, and thus give Stiles more ammunition against him. Even a comment about how he doesn’t care about Stiles getting off won’t make a difference.

So instead he kneels down next to where the teenager is still draped over the bed. “You still talk too much,” he says, gently running his hand over Stiles’ hair, down his spine. Stiles shivers slightly. Peter leans over him, his weight pressing Stiles down into the mattress. One hand reaches around to stroke Stiles’ cock. The other rests on the back of his head, pushing his face into the pillow. At this, Stiles shudders, his hips jerking into Peter’s grip. Two more strokes and Stiles lets out a muffled moan, coming in Peter’s hand.

He relaxes for a bare moment, but then starts trying to push himself up. Peter won’t let him. Stiles makes a small, animal noise and struggles. Peter just keeps his face pushed into the pillow. Stiles flails and kicks, but he has no leverage.

Peter leans down and says into his ear, “Never forget what I can do to you.”

Then he lets Stiles go.

Stiles rolls to one side, coughing and choking. “Asshole,” he gasps out.

Peter gives a nonchalant shrug and gets to his feet. “I’m going to shower,” he says. “Get out of here before I’m done.”

Stiles glares daggers at him, and Peter leaves the room.

He half-expects Stiles to still be there when he gets out, probably sprawled wantonly across his bed like some pornography, but the apartment is still and silent, and the teenager is nowhere to be seen. Peter breathes in the scent of sex and pain, then goes to lock the front door, and smiles.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

“We really should have a safe word, you know.”

“I beg your pardon?” Peter asks, turning from the refrigerator with his beer in one hand. It’s been two weeks since their previous encounter, and for a while he had thought it would be their last. Then Stiles had turned up on his doorstep, nervous and twitchy but saturated with the scent of sexual frustration.

Stiles quirks an eyebrow at the werewolf. “Are you unfamiliar with the concept, or just baiting me?”

“Well, I have to admit I’m a little puzzled, Stiles.” Peter sets the bottle down and moves towards Stiles at a slow stalk, smelling the teenager’s excitement, arousal, fill the air between them. “I think you’re a little confused about what exactly is happening here.”

Stiles bites down on his lower lip. It’s a little distracting. “Mmmm, nope,” he says. “Not confused. We’re having sex, and it gets rough, and sometimes you do things that could damage me, so, I’m pretty sure that this is exactly the situation that safe words were invented for.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Safe words were invented for people that care about each other’s safety. That’s a rather large presumption you’re making on my part.”

“I think we should use Finstock,” Stiles says, decisively. “It’s the least sexy word in my vocabulary.”

“Let me think about that.” Peter pushes Stiles back against the wall. “No.”

“No? You don’t like Finstock?” Stiles is playing dumb. “Okay, what do you suggest?”

“I suggest that you be quiet for once.” Peter leans in close, pressing his body against Stiles, enjoying the way his pupils dilate, the way his lower lip trembles. “Safety is not what you signed up for.”

Stiles holds his gaze for a long minute, then heaves out a gusty sigh. “Okay,” he says, “no safe word.”

“Good,” Peter murmurs, leaning in to bite down on Stiles’ earlobe. He feels a shiver go through the teenager. Then he feels something else. Something hard, plastic, pressed into his side. He jerks back, ducking out of reach just before the surge of electricity would go through him, and a snarl rises to his lips, unbidden.

“No safe word,” Stiles says, his breath coming rapid and shallow, “no sex.”

Peter stands back, frowning at Stiles. “You’re serious about this.”

Stiles grins and gestures with the taser. “Maybe it’s not my safety I’m concerned about,” he says, and Peter gives him a withering look.

The stand-off lasts several long seconds. Then Peter nods and says, “All right. Finstock it is.” He grabs Stiles by the wrist and twists until he lets out a yelp and drops the weapon. Then he uses it to pin the teenager to the wall. “Of course,” he says, low, right in Stiles’ ear, “you really have no guarantee I’ll actually listen if you use it.”

“You will,” Stiles pants, squirming against him. “I know you will.”

“You won’t be able to use it if I’m smothering you again,” Peter points out, claws delicately tracing the muscles of Stiles’ abdomen. “I hope you realize that you’re basically daring me to see how far I can push you before you beg for . . . safety.”

“Nnnn, bring it,” Stiles replies. Peter drags him into the bedroom and starts stripping Stiles out of his clothes, rough and efficient. Once he’s naked, he pushes him down onto the bed.

Stiles hits it hard and starts to roll over, onto his stomach. “Don’t,” Peter tells him, and Stiles freezes, surprised, as Peter pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it into the floor. He likes the way Stiles watches him as he undresses, much more slowly than he had taken the teenager’s clothes off. “No condoms this time?”

Stiles swallows and says, “I heard that werewolves can’t catch or carry STDs.” His voice is a little breathy, nervous.

“Did you, now?” Peter lets out a snort of laughter as he steps out of his pants. “That must have been a fun conversation with Derek.”

“I didn’t ask Derek, are you tapped?” Stiles asks, still watching him. “I asked Deaton.”

“He would know, I suppose,” Peter says. He gets down on the bed, his weight pinning Stiles down, enjoying the scent of arousal mixed with fear. It’s . . . intoxicating, really. He puts his hand on Stiles’ chest, right over his heart, and hears Stiles breath hitch in his throat. Peter looks at the boy sprawled out underneath him and thinks about how to go about this. A wolfish smile touches his face, and Stiles’ breath hitches again. He knows that smile, knows that it’s dangerous. Stiles’ gaze is fixed on his hands as he reaches out and picks up the little bottle of lube. “You are probably going to regret challenging me like this,” Peter tells him.

Stiles huffs out a little air and wraps a leg around Peter’s waist. “Looking forward to it,” he says, his voice cracking.

Peter laughs at him, leans down to suck hard at one of Stiles’ nipples. He chokes out a little noise and his body arches into Peter’s touch. Peter distracts him by dropping bites and kisses down his collarbone, bruises along his ribs, as his hands reach down to open Stiles for him, stretching him out. It’s as easy this time as it was the first time. He can’t say why, exactly, he finds that so attractive. Stiles wants to make sure Peter can’t hurt him. Stiles doesn’t trust Peter not to hurt him. He likes that.

Stiles hisses a little as Peter pushes into him, then lets out a weak moan, his hips rolling upwards. Peter takes a minute to get them into a better position, adjusting Stiles’ hips so he has the teenager arranged to his liking. Stiles throws one arm above his head, his entire body shuddering, eyes half-lidded. Peter grabs his other wrist and pins it down to the bed before driving forward hard and fast. Stiles lets out another gasping cry.

Peter keeps up that rhythm until Stiles comes, making high, shocked little noises, body spasming and tightening around Peter. It takes effort to keep himself in control while it happens, but he does it. Then he continues to thrust into him, slower now, while Stiles moans through the aftershocks. “Uhhhnnn,” he says, his leg dropping back down.

“I’m not done yet,” Peter says into his ear, and then bites down hard. Stiles makes another little noise. “You did want a demonstration of my stamina, didn’t you?”

“Is . . . your pride at stake?” Stiles asks. When Peter doesn’t answer, but just continues moving inside him, he says hoarsely, “My leg hurts.”

“I don’t care,” Peter tells him. “Use your precious safe word if you want me to stop.”

“Nnng, fuck you,” Stiles says, shuddering again. Peter reaches out and strokes the teenager’s soft cock, keeping things slow and easy until he starts to recover. Then he starts to speed things up again. It takes a while, but he’s in no hurry. Before long, Stiles is moaning underneath him again. His other leg drops down because he’s losing the coordination and muscle strength needed to keep them wrapped around Peter. Peter just shifts Stiles’ hips and holds them up himself to compensate.

Stiles’ second orgasm has nowhere near the energy of the first, and he only lets out a wheezing little grunt when he comes. Then he goes limp underneath Peter, his entire body trembling. Peter keeps pushing into him, knowing that he has to be oversensitive by now, that he’s not going to be able to sit down for a while. Stiles flails vaguely with one hand and slurs out, “Stop, stop.”

“No,” Peter tells him, thrusting harder, and Stiles makes a noise that’s definitely pain, more of a whimper than anything else. Peter looks down at him, daring him to say it, to use the safe word and see if he’ll stop. Their gazes lock for a moment, and Peter sees the fear in Stiles’ eyes, and it’s too much, and his own orgasm takes him by surprise. He holds onto Stiles’ hips throughout, fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises. Then he pulls out, and Stiles lets out another whimper, this one of relief.

Peter’s a little too tired to move after that, although he doesn’t want to admit it, so he stretches out next to Stiles, leans over and kisses him on the mouth, gentle and easy. “Good boy,” he says into Stiles ear, and Stiles lets out a weak grunt and flips him the bird.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

It’s a good thing that Peter’s apartment is on the first floor, or he doesn’t think he’d be able to make it inside. His hands are shaking as he undoes first the bolt lock, then the spring lock. Everything between his hip and his ankle feels like it’s being stabbed with red hot pokers. He slams the door behind himself, locks it, and goes into his bathroom, trying to put as little weight on it as possible. He has some painkillers there, heavy duty enough that they’ll affect even a werewolf.

If he was an alpha, his knee wouldn’t be hurt like this. He could have avoided that blow and not sustained the injury in the first place, or even if he had gotten it, he would have healed it already. Wounds from an alpha to a beta take longer to heal. From one alpha to another? Not the same problem. Of course, it irks him to have been involved in physical combat at all, but sometimes it’s necessary. If he wants Derek to trust him, he can’t skip out of the fights all the time. Particularly when they’re ambushed.

He hisses in pain as he tries to slide his pants off. His knee is too swollen. He gives up and just lies back on his bed, leaving his pants bunched around his thighs, waiting for the drugs to kick in.

He’s not sure how much time has passed when he hears noise out in his apartment. It figures. He has his share of enemies, and it’s possible that someone could have noticed his injury and come to take care of him. He closes his eyes and centers himself, willing the pain away, forcing himself to focus. He’s already starting to shift when he hears Stiles say, “Wow, you look like shit.”

Peter’s eyes fly open. “What are you doing here?”

“I saw that you’d been hurt.” Stiles shrugs. “Had to make sure Scott and everyone else was okay first, but that alpha snapped your leg like a twig, looked like.”

“It’ll heal,” Peter says. He frowns, feeling sluggish, dazed. “Did I forget to lock the door?” He can’t have. He’s as religious about his security as he is about his Machiavellian plans.

“Psh, no,” Stiles says. “I copied your keys.”

Peter blinks at him, slow, uncomprehending. “You. Copied. My keys.”

“Yep,” Stiles says. “Three weeks ago. You were arguing with Derek. I knew we were all going to be sitting around the loft for a while because of, well, reasons, so I just grabbed them from your jacket and ran to Wal-Mart with them. Ninety-nine cents a copy, bitch.” He’s pulling a chair over while he talks, and sets down a first aid kit. “Hope you didn’t like these pants,” he adds, taking out a pair of scissors.

“I should kill you for this,” Peter says, staring up at his ceiling in dreamy lassitude. He wishes he hadn’t drugged himself quite as heavily.

“Cry about it,” Stiles says, cutting up the leg of his jeans and parting them to look at the injury. He shakes out a cold pack and gently presses it against Peter’s knee. Peter grumbles but manages not to flinch. “You’re lucky,” Stiles finally says. “He got you just below your kneecap, so it isn’t shattered. If it was, even you would probably be laid up in here for weeks. As it is, it looks like a clean break. Should heal up pretty fast.”

“You seem very knowledgeable,” Peter says. “Are you actually, or do you just fake it really well?”

Stiles lets out a quiet snort as he gets Peter’s pants the rest of the way off. “I’ve done some EMT training. A condition my dad insisted on when he found out about the supernatural stuff. Deaton has helped out some with how things are different for werewolves. And since your apparent idea of first aid is to down a bunch of narcotics and then collapse onto your bed with your pants half-off, I must look like quite the skilled doctor.” He grabs an extra blanket from the closet. “This is gonna hurt, grit your teeth,” he says, and Peter does so while Stiles lifts his leg up and props it up on the folded blanket.

“Any other injuries?” Stiles asks, and ignores Peter’s answer in the negative. He runs his hands over Peter’s chest and abdomen, then down his arms and other leg, in a firm, professional manner. “Yeah, you seem okay,” he says. One hand lingers on Peter’s hip, thumb rubbing at the bone underneath his underwear.

Peter’s eyes open. “Stiles,” he says. “Really?”

“What, I’m a teenaged boy, you can’t blame this on me,” Stiles says. “This is the first time I’ve ever gotten to take your pants off myself.”

Peter can’t help but roll his eyes at that. “Not exactly a romantic setting.”

“When is it ever, with the two of us?” Stiles says, and laughs a little. Peter gives a little snort of agreement and doesn’t really react when Stiles eases his underwear down a few inches, enough to pull his cock out, although it’s completely soft. “Hey, I . . .” Stiles’ voice is soft, a little husky. “I’m going to use my mouth. Is that – okay?”

“You know,” Peter murmurs, “I am under the influence of powerful narcotics right now, and even if I say yes, I can’t technically give consent.”

“Well,” Stiles says, stroking him gently, “I was seventeen when you first molested me, so I was underage and couldn’t technically give consent, but that didn’t seem to stop you.”

“Fair point,” Peter says. His mind wanders for a few moments, blurred out by the drugs and the exhaustion and the pleasant sensation of Stiles working him, not quite arousal but certainly enjoyable.  “Mm. Ll’right. But if you try to fuck me, I will tear out your throat.”

“Noted,” Stiles replies. But he doesn’t go right to it. He leans upwards instead, pushing Peter’s shirt up to give him more to work with, dropping easy kisses and nips on the skin. Peter can hear his breathing, heavy and excited, and thinks that this is probably a bad idea, introducing Stiles to the idea that Peter can be touched, that Peter can be made hard, and he thinks about putting a stop to it but then decides against it.

Stiles works his way down slowly, and he seems a little nervous when he gets there, but experiments with his mouth and his tongue, trying to figure out what works and what doesn’t. He’s not particularly good at it, obviously a first timer, but Peter finds he doesn’t mind. He would prefer Stiles inexperienced, even though he’s by no means naïve.

Everything’s a little hazy, warm and distant, and Stiles has to stop every few minutes, pull away and catch his breath, sometimes rub his jaw a little like it aches, which it probably does. The third time he does this, he puts his hand back on Peter, looking down at the way he’s still only about half-hard. “Is it not . . . good?” he asks, a little hesitant.

Peter’s gaze flickers up to him, and knows that in this moment, he holds the power to completely destroy Stiles’ sexual confidence in his hand. It’s a sensation that’s thrilling even through the drugs. He blinks at him lazily, but then surprises himself by saying, “It’s the drugs. Makes everything . . . a little removed.” His head drops back and he lets out a sigh. “Just takes more time is all. Don’t stop.”

At this, Stiles gives him a delighted grin, and now Peter knows he’s really in trouble. “So . . . you’re actually enjoying yourself?”

“I would be, if you’d put your mouth to better uses,” Peter replies. Stiles just laughs at him, but gets back to what he was doing. Peter’s annoyed, now, which somehow makes him more aroused. The dual sensations are something he’s growing used to when Stiles is around. He reaches up with one hand, running his fingers through Stiles’ hair absently, not entirely aware of what he’s doing. The world is going into sharper focus, now, as the arousal builds up, a pleasant curl in his gut. He gives a little grunt as Stiles puts in a particularly firm suck, and his hips flex upwards. Stiles’ thumbs dig into his hips, a nice counterpoint to the pleasure.

A minute later, Stiles pulls back to try to catch his breath again, but Peter’s hand tangles in his hair and pulls him back down. Stiles makes a muffled little noise but then, apparently encouraged, he redoubles his efforts. Peter’s orgasm takes them both off guard, and Stiles makes a startled little noise, pulling back and away. Peter doesn’t really care.

He drifts for a few minutes, and then comes back to himself when he feels Stiles cleaning him off with a washcloth he’s wet down with warm water. “Very Florence Nightingale,” Peter says, though he thinks he misses a few syllables in there.

“Yep, that’s me,” Stiles says. “I’m a beacon of tenderness and caring.” He tucks Peter back in and pulls his underwear back up. “You scratched up the back of my neck with your claws.”

“Did I?” Peter asks, half-asleep already. “Take it as a compliment.”

“I am,” Stiles says, and Peter can hear the smirk in his voice. He sighs a little as Stiles shakes a blanket out over him. “Get some sleep.”

“Mm,” Peter says.

“I’ll see you later.”

“Lock th’ door,” Peter says as he leaves.

“Okay.”

“Both locks,” Peter calls after him.

“Okay,” Stiles repeats, his voice a little distant.

“Make sure you lock both,” Peter persists. “Double check.”

“I will.” Stiles’ voice floats back into the bedroom. Then he’s gone. Peter hears the door close behind him. He sighs. He’s going to have to get up and check, to make sure that Stiles did as he was told. His safety might depend on it. Any moment now, he’s going to get up. But it won’t hurt to close his eyes. Just for a minute.

Eight hours later, the sunlight comes through the window and hits him right in the face, the ice pack has completely melted, his knee feels much better, and Peter is starting to wonder if maybe he has a problem.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Derek is so easy to manipulate that, to be perfectly honest, sometimes Peter feels a little guilty about it. He’s two parts survivor’s guilt, two parts martyr complex, four parts devotion to his family, three parts self-hatred. Add a dash of envy, a sour attitude, a quick temper, and the uncanny ability to always make the wrong choice, and Peter can play him like a violin. It takes less than three minutes to convince him to give up his alpha powers to save his sister, all with the appropriate amount of reluctance so that it never occurs to Derek that Peter has him dancing on puppet strings.

Which is why Peter is somewhat annoyed and possibly even a little unnerved when the door to the loft flies open and Stiles dashes in. “How is she, is she okay?” he asks, skidding over to Cora’s bed. “Scott said he thought she was dying.”

“She certainly isn’t getting better,” Peter says, giving Stiles a look that is at least half ‘what the hell are you doing here’. He had gotten Stiles out of the way, sent Scott to bring him on an errand. He doesn’t want Stiles here for this. He doesn’t want anyone here for this.

“It’s okay, I can help her,” Derek says, lifting up a hand to stay Stiles’ growing panic.

“Help her, help her how?” Stiles demands.

“It’s like drawing out her pain, but . . . more so,” Derek says. “It’ll be fine, Stiles.” He speaks with firm confidence that he obviously doesn’t feel, has probably never felt. “Just keep quiet. I’m going to need to concentrate.”

Stiles is frowning. “I know that you feel the pain when you pull it in. Are you going to get sick?”

“Peter said that if I’m willing to give up my alpha power – ”

Peter said?” Stiles’ gaze tracks over to Peter and pins him like a butterfly to a display board. “This was your idea?”

“It’s something that I’ve heard alphas can do,” Peter says. “I told him it was a bad idea.”

“Oh, you did, did you?” Stiles asks, his eyes narrowed. He looks between the two of them for a long moment, listens to Cora’s weak coughing. “Who becomes the alpha if Derek loses the power?”

“How should I know?” Peter asks.

“You honestly expect me to believe that you don’t?” Stiles asks. “That you suggested this plan, with what I’m sure was exactly the appropriate amount of reluctance, without knowing where that power would go? Who gets it? Does it go to Cora, would she be the alpha? Or does it revert back to whoever he took it from? Let’s see, who was that again?”

Derek is staring at Peter with that mixture of confused betrayal and building rage on his face. “Is that what you were trying to do?”

Peter is beginning to think he can’t talk his way out of this one. Not while Stiles is there, at least. So he goes for the low blow and the hasty exit. “Would you believe me if I said any different? No. Because apparently I’m not allowed to want to save my niece’s life without an ulterior motive.” He turns and walks out of the loft. Stops. Listens.

“Fuck him anyway,” Stiles says. “I’m calling Deaton. He’ll know what to do.”

Which is undoubtedly true. Peter gives a sigh and heads out. Stiles and Derek will make sure that Cora is taken care of. He has some things he needs to do.

Much later that night, he’s waiting in Stiles’ bedroom. He’s been home for an hour, but hasn’t bothered to come up to his room. Peter is annoyed, but willing to wait. Nobody else is home. The sheriff is working night shift. Stiles is downstairs watching television. Peter thought about going downstairs to join him and have their little discussion, but decides against it in case the sheriff comes home.

Stiles comes into the room around ten, and he looks not at all surprised to see Peter there. The werewolf has done some thinking about how he’s going to handle this. “How’s Cora?” he asks.

“Better,” Stiles says. “Not great, but better. Deaton did some Druidic voodoo on her or something, filtering out the mistletoe, blah, blah, blah.” He pulls off his plaid shirt and tosses it in the vague direction of the hamper. Then he sits down on the edge of the bed and toes off his shoes. For once, Peter can’t scent the usual drift of arousal that comes off him whenever Peter ambushes him in his room. “Is that all you wanted?”

“Maybe,” Peter says, stepping forward, “I want to fuck you into your mattress until you’re screaming my name.”

“I doubt it,” Stiles says, “you’re not much for talking when you want to do that.” He rubs a hand over his face. “I’m tired as fuck, okay? Can we just not, for once?”

Peter just gives him a considering look.

“You’re pissed at me, okay, I get that,” Stiles says. “But don’t fucking tell me you’re surprised. You sent me and Scott on that errand because you knew I would see your manipulative bullshit a mile away.”

“Yes, one wonders why you were there at all,” Peter agrees.

“Scott saw how worried I was about Cora and told me he could handle it himself, if I wanted to go check on her.” Stiles pulls his T-shirt off and throws it in the same direction as the plaid. “So yet again, what you have failed to anticipate is human kindness. Go figure.”

Peter takes care to keep his face neutral while Stiles stands up, takes off his belt, and tucks it into a drawer. Then he shucks off his pants and just leaves them in a puddle on the floor before crawling into bed.

“Would it have worked?” Stiles finally asks.

“You know, I actually don’t know,” Peter says. “It would have made Derek a beta, that’s certain, but there were no records of what happened to the alpha spark. My guess is that it would have just burned off into nothing, to be honest, but it was worth a try.” He sits down on the edge of the bed. Stiles is lying on his side, his cheek pillowed against his hand, looking young and vulnerable. Peter brushes his fingers along Stiles’ cheekbone, then leans down and kisses him. “Do you want me to go?” he asks.

“I don’t know what the hell I want right now,” Stiles admits.

Peter takes that as an invitation to push the blankets back and crawl on top of him.

“At least take your shoes off, for fuck’s sake,” Stiles grumbles, and Peter manages to kick them off without getting back up. He kisses Stiles long and deep like there’s nothing else into the world. When he pulls away, Stiles is breathing heavily, chest rising and falling underneath Peter’s weight. “I’d say I don’t understand you,” Stiles says, as Peter presses his hand against Stiles’ abdomen and runs his fingers along his skin, “but the scary thing is that I actually do.”

“Oh?” Peter murmurs, leaning down to bite at his ear.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, groaning as Peter’s thigh presses against his groin. “You’ve got so many different faces you show to the world. And none of them are real. Not even the one I get to see. It’s all masks and mirrors. Shadow and smoke.” He makes a little gasping noise as Peter nips at his throat. “But you don’t realize that every face gives away little bits of you, enough for someone who’s watching to put together a complete picture.”

“And what picture have you put together?” Peter murmurs into his throat.

“That you love your family.” Stiles shifts restlessly underneath him. “But you think you’re better than them. That everyone is just a piece on a chess board to you, to move where you like. That you love a challenge. That you’re smart enough to know that there are people out there who are just as smart as you. That you like to take care of threats before they grow teeth.”

“I like that last one,” Peter says, flicking a thumb over Stiles’ navel and getting a satisfying grunt.

“But seriously,” Stiles says, his voice strained, “if you started fucking me as a way to manipulate me into not seeing the way you play the rest of us, hoping you could keep me distracted, it’s not going to work.”

“Is that so?” Peter kisses him again, then gets off him, rolling off the bed and onto his feet. “That’s a shame,” he adds, and he sees the way Stiles’ eyes widen with surprise and anger and – yes, it’s there, with hurt. He gives a little shrug and walks away, leaving Stiles hard and aching behind him.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Peter expects that he won’t see Stiles for a while after that. As long as there are no supernatural disasters, or possibly even if there are. He’s proven right, or at least so he thinks, the very next day. He goes to the loft to check on Cora. Stiles is there when he gets there, and when Peter arrives he tells Derek he’s suddenly remembered something he has to do, and takes off. Cora’s doing much better – “no thanks to you,” Derek snarls at him – so Peter doesn’t stay long.

He’s feeling sour about everything as he heads back to his apartment. As soon as he opens the door, he knows Stiles is inside. He can smell him, the edge of nervousness mixed with anger but something else – that stubborn as cement smell that Stiles gets sometimes. Perfect. He hadn’t forgotten that Stiles had a copy of the keys to his place, but hadn’t figured it would matter. He can’t imagine why Stiles wants to see him.

But he shuts the door and shrugs out of his jacket before turning to face Stiles, who’s sitting on his kitchen table, long fingers absently tapping at his knees. Peter ignores him in favor of going into the kitchen to get a beer, which he pulls out of the refrigerator. The silence between them stretches out to uncomfortable lengths.

Peter breaks first, mostly because he wants Stiles the hell out of his apartment. “Stiles,” he finally says, “why are you here?”

“Because we need to talk,” Stiles says, “and then you need to fuck me.”

Peter arches his eyebrows and takes a long pull at his beer. “Admittedly, that’s not what I would have expected you to say.”

“Yeah, because you thought I’d be crying in my room writing bad poetry about how you broke my heart?” Stiles retorts. “For fuck’s sake, Peter. I’m not a thirteen year old girl. And given that we just had an argument about how I can see through your manipulative bullshit, did you honestly think that your little stunt last night was going to work?”

“You know – ”

“Shut up, assclown, I’m not finished with you,” Stiles says, pointing at him. Peter rolls his eyes but shuts up. “You started this, not me. I never gave any sign of being interested in you, unless it was my pheromones, and let’s face it. I’m a teenaged boy. I’d be attracted to a table lamp if it had a nice ass. But you, hell, you came after me. You wanted me, and maybe I don’t fully understand all the reasons why and maybe I never will. But don’t you dare try to convince me that it was to keep me from calling you on your bullshit.

“You never tried to seduce me. You never gave me flowers or pet names. You never told me you loved me. So don’t try to convince me that the point of this was to get me on your side. To blind me to what you really were, or make me believe that you loved me so even if I saw you manipulating the others, I would keep quiet. You never did that. You were just playing a game. Being creepy and manipulating your way into my pants for the purpose of me henceforth not noticing how creepy and manipulative you are is a really stupid plan, and you don’t seem to go for those.

“So if it’s not that, what, then? Are you afraid that the fact that we’re fucking means I’m gaining some special insight into your Machiavellian ways? Because I’m sorry, but no. What you just did with Derek? I would’ve seen that after knowing you a week. Or less. ‘Give up your alpha powers to save your sister!’ How fucking transparent can you be, Iago?

“You’re acting like this is all my fault somehow,” Stiles continues to rant. “Like we had some great, meaningful relationship that I just ruined. Uh, no. Being willing to call my fuckbuddy out on his emotionally manipulative douchebaggery is not something that I’m going to apologize for. And I could remind you that you knew I would do it. That’s why you tried to make sure I wasn’t there. So don’t try to tell me that this is some horrible, surprising betrayal. I’m not the bad guy here. You’re the bad guy. And you know you’re the bad guy. You enjoy being the bad guy.

“But now what you’re doing is, if we’ve ruled out a) you were only fucking me to pull the wool over my eyes, and b) you’re actually afraid I might learn things about you, and c) the laughable ‘your feelings are hurt’ – don’t even front with me because that is not what’s happening here – is that you’re punishing me. You’re mad that I ruined your plan and now you’re withholding sex and trying to hurt my feelings and that is so junior high school, you jerk, it’s so fucking petty.

“You already admitted to me that this plan probably wouldn’t have worked anyway, so really all I did was inconvenience you, and don’t even try to convince me that it’s the first time you’ve had a setback. If you’re going to be inconvenienced, you might as well be inconvenienced with your dick in my mouth.”

Peter sighs. “Are you done?”

“No!” Stiles sounds insulted. “Scott’s my brother, okay, and you fucked him, and I’m not talking about sex here. You fucked him. And Lydia, she’s my bestie, and you fucked her, too. Don’t think I’m ever going to forget that, no matter how amazing your blowjobs are, because I’m not going to. And Derek, well, someone has to look out for the masochistic idiot, and that’s sure as hell not going to be you.”

“Then if you hate me, why have sex with me at all?” Peter asks, taking another swallow of his beer.

Stiles frowns and gives Peter a look that’s almost puzzled, as if to say that Peter hasn’t understood anything he just said. “I don’t hate you. I don’t, like, love you or anything – sometimes I don’t even like you very much – but I don’t hate you. I accept you. I know who you are and I don’t have any delusions. Isn’t that good enough?”

It is good enough. It’s a little too good, actually. Acceptance is too much like ‘pack’ for Peter’s taste. Stiles doesn’t seem to realize what he’s just given Peter.

“Some day you’re probably going to do something that’s just not okay with me, and when that happens, I’ll do everything I can to stop you, and I guess then we’ll be enemies,” Stiles continues with a shrug. “Until either you succeed or you fail and then . . . we won’t be again. I’m not saying it necessarily makes sense. I’m just saying, I don’t think it has to make sense. You are who you are. I’m not going to change you, so I’m not going to try. That’s all.”

“And you won’t regret it?” Peter asks, raising an eyebrow. “Any of it?”

Stiles shrugs. “Hey, I’m a teenager. I make stupid decisions all the time. And I don’t think you’re bad all the way through. If you wanted to be an alpha that badly, you could have killed Derek by now. He’s probably given you the opportunity about twenty times over. But you still love your family. You know. As long as it’s not too far out of your way.”

Peter gives a snort of laughter despite himself. “Such faith you have in me.” He sets down the bottle of beer and folds his arms over his chest. “Maybe I honestly am starting to think that I’m letting you understand me too well.”

“So what?” Stiles says. “Yeah, maybe it will give me some minimally tiny advantage over you. But that door swings both ways, you know. You understand me better than you did before, right?”

The damnable thing is that Peter doesn’t. The longer he lets this go on, the closer he gets to Stiles, the more of an enigma he finds the teenager. But at the same time, the more invested he gets in solving it.

“You are in this for no one but yourself. You want power, okay, I get it,” Stiles says. “And you think that fucking me stands between you and getting that power, even if it’s something that you would keep doing if you could. But see, here’s my thought: the point of having power is so that you can have whatever you want, right? So what good is power if you have to give up things you want, in order to get it?”

“You know, you talk a lot less when my dick is in your mouth,” Peter points out.

“Oh, yeah, that’s why you fuck me,” Stiles says, with an overly dramatic eye roll. “Because it shuts me up. Okay, now. Why do you fuck me?”

“Are you seriously asking me that question?”

Stiles thinks about it. “No, I guess not,” he says. “But only because I already know the answer. You fuck me because you enjoy it. Because you find me sexually attractive, and sex is fun, and I’m someone you can screw without some long-term entanglement because you know I’m just a teenager who wants to get laid.”

“If you say so,” Peter says.

“You know what else I say?” Stiles says. “I bet we could have sex right here, right now, without the mind games or exhibitionism or sadomasochism or any of that bullshit, and that we’d still probably both have a pretty good time.”

“Is that what you think?” Peter asks.

“Yep.”

They regard each other in silence for a few long seconds.

Peter has him up against the wall moments later and they’re kissing, hot and heavy and without the slightest bit of restraint. Stiles tosses one arm around his shoulders to tangle a hand in his hair, and starts yanking the bottom of Peter’s shirt out of his pants with the other. Peter decides to allow this. What the hell. It’s an experiment. He mirrors Stiles’ actions, starting on his belt and shoving his pants down. Stiles just steps out of them, one foot kicking a little to free himself, and then on impulse Peter gets both his hands underneath Stiles’ thighs and just lifts him, so he can feel the hardness of Stiles’ cock pressed against his abdomen.

Stiles makes a little noise as Peter pulls him away from the wall and makes for the bedroom. They only make it about another three steps before fetching up hard against another wall. Stiles grunts and hooks an ankle around Peter’s leg as Peter bites down hard on his collarbone. “Okay, maybe a little sadomasochism,” he gasps out.

“There’s a big difference between S&M and some roughhousing during a particularly enthusiastic fuck,” Peter tells him.

“Oh, that’s okay then,” Stiles says, shoving both hands underneath Peter’s shirt and pushing it over his head. He runs his hands up and down Peter’s back, fingers digging into his spine. Peter growls a little and pushes his face into the crook of Stiles’ neck, nipping at the sensitive skin there, enjoying the noise of his rising gasps. “Hnnn, are you gonna fuck me right here?” Stiles asks. “Up against the wall? That’s so hot, do that, I want that.”

“Next time,” Peter says, because that’s more difficult than it sounds and he’s just not in the mood to deal with logistics right now. And there’s going to be a next time, obviously, and a time after that, and they’ll get to it when he feels like it. He wrenches Stiles away from the wall and they spill onto the floor. He leans down to strip Stiles of his underwear, and the teenager is fumbling at the fly of his jeans, and he nearly loses his concentration for a few moments when Stiles is too uncoordinated to work the button and just settles for firm groping instead.

“Stubble burn, ow, ow,” Stiles says, but he’s laughing as Peter just rubs his face restlessly against Stiles’ abdomen.

“You asked for it,” Peter says in reply.

“What, by doing this?” Stiles asks, giving him another firm squeeze, and Peter grabs him by the wrists, pinning them down above his head. Stiles is still laughing, but then Peter just grinds their bodies together and Stiles moans and rolls against him. “Oh, fffffffuck,” he says. “Take off your pants.”

“Stop telling me what to do,” Peter says, letting go of Stiles’ wrists so he can undo the button and zipper on his jeans.

“You like it when I tell you what to do,” Stiles says. “I can tell because sometimes you actually do it.”

Somehow they manage to get the rest of their clothes off, and Peter is thinking absently of the rugburn that Stiles is going to end up with if they continue on the floor of the hallway. He’s not complaining, though, as Peter pushes his legs apart and leans down to nose at the crease of his thigh. In fact, he tilts his hips up in a clear invitation, which Peter is happy to take. Stiles had lube in the pocket of his jeans, of course – Peter wants to make a comment on his certainty that the evening would end this way but realizes that’s only giving Stiles an opening to brag about how well he knows Peter. So he just gets down to business.

“Nnng . . . hey, Peter,” Stiles says hoarsely, as Peter bends one of his legs back and hooks it over his shoulder. “How long do we have to be fuckbuddies before you let me be on top?”

“And give up this?” Peter asks, eyes closing momentarily as he slowly pushes into Stiles. “I don’t think so.”

Stiles chokes out a little noise. “Don’t think I bend like that.”

“Sure you do,” Peter says impatiently, even though Stiles’ other leg is splayed uncomfortably to the side, and thrusts into him harder. Stiles makes another noise that doesn’t sound like one of his usual happy noises. “Ugh, fine,” Peter mutters, lifting his weight off Stiles and getting a gasp of relief. Then he just grabs Stiles around the waist and pulls him off the floor, dragging him into the bedroom and throwing him down on the mattress on his stomach. Before Stiles can comment, as he’s almost certainly going to, Peter’s behind him, rearranging all his limbs so he’s on his hands and knees and then thrusting into him again. “Better?”

“Oh fuck, yes,” Stiles says, fists clenching down in the sheets. “Yeah, that . . .” He leans forward so his forehead is touching the pillow, back arching. “That’s good.”

Peter grabs him by the hips to steady them both, fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises, and Stiles gives another moan and rocks back against him. It’s hard and fast and everything Peter wants right now, and he reaches around Stiles to jerk him off, rough little pulls that leave Stiles gasping and shaking like he just can’t control himself. His body flexes and tightens around Peter and he comes with a noise so desperate and needy that it’s practically a squeak. Peter lets out a string of profanities despite himself and fucks him even harder while Stiles tries to continue holding himself up even though his muscles have clearly turned to jelly. Fortunately for his sake, it only takes a few more thrusts before Peter’s coming, biting down on Stiles’ shoulder to muffle any noises he might be tempted to make.

“Holy fuck,” Stiles mumbles a few minutes later, when he gets his mouth back into working order. “Told you it’d be good.”

“We’ve had better,” Peter murmurs back.

“But not many,” Stiles says.

“Not many,” Peter agrees.

“Always room for improvement.” Stiles rolls over and yawns, then stretches. “Gonna get some food.”

Peter glances up and tucks an arm underneath his head. “Do not even attempt to get domestic with me, Stiles, I will kick the shit out of you.”

“Promise?” Stiles asks, smirking, and Peter rolls his eyes dramatically. “No, shut up, asshole, this isn’t domesticity, this is the appetite of an eighteen year old guy after some really good sex. I’m gonna order pizza.”

Peter sighs. “Make mine pepperoni,” he says, because it’s clear that he won’t be getting rid of Stiles any time soon.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

Chapter Text

“Hey, hey,” Scott says, catching up to Stiles as he heads for the Jeep. Three other teenagers are on his heels: Allison, Isaac, and Lydia. Stiles half-turns and glances at them, drawing to a halt. “Got a sec? We wanted to talk to you.”

“About?” Stiles asks, raising his eyebrows.

Scott seems profoundly uncomfortable with the subject, but says, “Uh, about this whole thing with Peter.”

There’s a long pause. “Is this an intervention?” Stiles asks skeptically, giving the other four teenagers a look. Scott, shifting from foot to foot with a wincing expression. Lydia, cool and calm and dispassionate. Allison, concerned but not anxious, one hand on Scott’s shoulder to keep him from freaking out. And Isaac, who’s clearly wondering why this is his business and how Scott talked him into this.

“No!” Scott protests. “We just, you know, we’re worried. We’re concerned,” he modifies hastily, as if he thinks the word ‘worried’ is too strong. “I mean. The whole thing with Peter. It’s. It’s not. I mean. I don’t think – ”

“Yeah, okay, a) a gathering of friends to express concern is like the definition of an intervention,” Stiles says, gesturing to the other teens. “And b) what you think doesn’t actually have weight here because this is my dick we’re talking about, and so what I do with it isn’t really your business.”

Scott winces. “It’s not just about the sex, though.”

“Well, it should be,” Stiles says, “since Peter and I are just about the sex.” He sees that Scott’s just making that confused, anxious puppy face, and sighs. “Look. Okay. It’s not your business, but I can see why you’re worried, so I’ll just set a few things straight real quick. Peter’s not my boyfriend. He’s a guy that I have sex with. I haven’t forgotten that he’s a manipulative asshole, hell, just last week I was more on top of that than Derek was.”

“In more ways than one,” Lydia says, under her breath, and Stiles stifles a snort of laughter.

“Yeah, but . . .” Scott looks more confused than ever. “Why would you want to have sex with him?” He speaks the pronoun as if it’s a wad of poison in his mouth.

“Uh, okay,” Stiles says, “we’re getting a little personal here, but sure, I can field that. Number one: don’t even front with me, you’ve known I’m bi since I was fourteen. Number two: have you seen him? Don’t be that guy who pretends that straight males are incapable of assessing another man’s attractiveness. Peter is hot, okay? He may not be your type, but he’s still hot. Three: He does this thing with his tongue – ”

“And, we’re done here,” Isaac says, gagging.

Stiles just smirks.

“He’s not good for you,” Scott argues.

“Dude,” Stiles says, “in what way?”

“He’s, he’s just using you, you know, for sex.”

“Yes,” Stiles says, nodding slowly. “Excellent. You have grasped the concept of friends with benefits.”

“Peter’s not your friend,” Scott persists. “He’s . . .”

“He’s a pretty terrible person, yes, this is true,” Stiles agrees. “Most of the time, anyway. He does have his moments. You do know that, right? I mean, I’ll be the first to agree that Peter is nothing more than a self-centered jackass eighty-five percent of the time, but he does have his moments.” He sees that Scott is still frowning. “Look, Scotty, you don’t have to understand this. You don’t even have to try. Just let it be.”

“I just don’t want you to get hurt,” Scott says.

“Okay, and I appreciate that,” Stiles says, “but just because you don’t understand something doesn’t mean it’s bad. My relationship isn’t your relationship. And vice versa. Like, I don’t understand you and Allison, the way you break up all the time, pine after each other hopelessly for weeks or months, get back together and have amazing makeup sex, wash, rinse, repeat. But it seems to work for the two of you, so I’m just gonna let it go.”

Scott opens his mouth, sputters for a few moments, and then closes it. “He does have a point,” Lydia says brightly.

“Yeah, I don’t get you and Aiden, either,” Stiles says.

“He grows on you.” Lydia wrinkles her nose. “Like a fungus.”

Allison laughs at that. “Okay, Stiles. I mean, if you say it’s okay, we believe you. We just . . . we were worried that he had manipulated you into, you know, thinking that he was an okay guy.”

“Trust me,” Stiles says, “there is no universe in which I’m going to be fooled into thinking that Peter Hale is an okay guy.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

The basement is cold, dark, and silent. Stiles can barely see in the dim light. Allison is struggling against her bonds. So is Scott, to the point that he might actually hurt himself. Stiles rolls his eyes at both of them before letting out a slow breath, counting in his head. He gets to one hundred before he judges that it’s safe to speak out loud. “Will you two calm down?” he asks.

“Uh, calm down how exactly?” Scott asks. “I don’t know about you, but I do not want to be the main ingredient in werewolf stew!”

“At least you’re being considered a delicacy,” Allison remarks. She sounds somewhat sour. “Stiles and I are just going to be appetizers, apparently.”

“Finger food,” Stiles says. “Like, literally, I think they plan to eat our fingers. But you two aren’t going to get anywhere like that.”

“So you just want to sit here?” Scott asks.

“No,” Stiles says. “Just give me a few minutes, okay?” He had purposefully tightened up all his muscles while the monsters of the week were tying them up. Now that he’s relaxed, there are small amounts of slack. He begins to shift and wriggle carefully, testing out the bonds, looking for the weak places.

Allison and Scott watch him do this with some suspicion. “Have you, uh, been tied up before?” Allison asks.

“Yep,” Stiles says.

“When?” Allison asks, at length.

“Please don’t make me answer that question and traumatize my bro over there,” Stiles replies.

“You let Peter tie you up?” Scott sounds appalled.

“Yes!” Stiles says. “Yes, I do on occasion, and it’s fantastic, I highly recommend that the two of you try it.” His legs are a lost cause but if he can get even one hand free, he’ll be able to get the rest of himself out, he thinks. He begins to carefully rotate his wrists. “And one time after I had nearly dislocated my shoulder trying to get free, he sat me down and tied me up and then spent four hours teaching me how to actually escape different ways people might restrain me. So stop freaking out.”

Scott frowns. “Why did he do that?”

“Because he’s not into necrophilia,” Stiles says. When Scott just looks blank, Stiles clarifies, “He can’t fuck me if I’m dead, Scott.”

“Would it still be necrophilia?” Allison asks from her corner. “I mean, he died.”

“Not sure,” Stiles says. “I mean, he died but he’s not dead, so . . .”

“This is so disturbing,” Scott says. “This is the most disturbing conversation we’ve ever had.”

“This from the couple who were so familiar with the term ‘bestiality’,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes. His wrists are starting to bleed a little, and he has to be careful that he doesn’t injure them to the point where swelling will start, because then the ropes will get tight again. Allison has the good grace to blush. “Which is something we have not indulged in, since you all seem so curious about my sex life, and if he ever tries it, I will safe-word the shit out of him.”

Scott’s eyes narrow. “Does he, like, listen when you use the safe word?”

Stiles sighs. “Believe it or not, Scott, I don’t know, because I’ve never had to use it. Okay? Does that make an impression on you at all?”

Scott still looks somewhat dubious, but then Stiles manages to slide his hand free. “Hey, you did it!”

“Holy shit, I totally did!” Stiles seems somewhat surprised himself. “Let’s get the righteous fuck out of here!”

Of course, it’s not as easy as that, and things get a little complicated, but eventually they do all make it out relatively unscathed and certainly not eaten. Stiles isn’t eager to hang around and hear more of Scott’s opinions about his sex life, and all the thinking about it has gotten him incredibly worked up. So he heads over to Peter’s apartment. “Guess what,” he declares, coming in through the door.

Peter lets out a sigh from where he’s sitting on the sofa, reading a book that looks ancient and is undoubtedly full of knowledge that he’s predicting they’ll need next week. “You’ve developed a sudden affinity for letting me work in silence?”

“I just got away from cannibals who had me tied up.”

Now Peter looks up, interested. “How?” he asks.

“C’mon, I’ll show you.” Stiles grabs him by the wrist and tugs him off the sofa, not that Peter puts up much of a fight. “Uh, it was to a pole, like a support beam, we can use the foot of the bed, I think – ” He rummages around until he finds Peter’s coils of rope. “You know, I would ask why you have this, but I really don’t want to know.” He plunks down at the foot of the bed and puts his hands behind the bedpost in the back. “Uh, hands were tied back there, two lines around my waist, and then my feet were tied.”

“Like this?” Peter asks, winding the rope around his feet, and Stiles nods. Peter trusses him up securely and then stands back to admire his work. “You got out of this? Not bad. How long?”

“About ten minutes,” Stiles says. “Could’ve been a little more.”

“I don’t like you having rope burns that I didn’t put there,” Peter says.

“Cry about it,” Stiles replies.

Peter laughs. “Let’s see if you can still get free while you’re . . . distracted,” he says, straddling the teenager.

“Oh, geez.” Stiles lets out a wavering breath as Peter’s weight settles on his thighs, and the werewolf leans forward to mouth at his neck. “You have a serious neck kink.”

“Problem?” Peter murmurs, biting down.

“N-No,” Stiles says, with a content sigh. “No problem.” He starts trying to squirm free of the ropes around his wrists, doing it the same way he had a few hours previous, rotating his wrists slow and easy. Then Peter’s hands are underneath his shirt, the tips of his claws tracing over the definition of his abdomen, and he lets out a choked little noise, body twitching into Peter’s touch.

“Careful, careful,” Peter admonishes. “I’d hate to hurt you, after all.”

Stiles closes his eyes and tries to tune out the sensation of Peter’s hands on him, Peter’s mouth and tongue on the cords of his neck. He tilts his head to one side to give him more room to work without even thinking about it, and hears the older man give a little chuckle. He continues to move his wrists back and forth, getting a little more range of motion each time.

Then Peter’s hips press against his and he completely forgets everything he’s supposed to be doing, letting out a choked, “Holy fuck, you bastard, you’re such a – ” And then Peter’s mouth is on his, hot and demanding, and Stiles sinks into it without fighting back. The kiss breaks off a few minutes later and he’s panting for breath.

Peter keeps up the pressure, grinding against him but never for very long, never the way Stiles needs it. Meanwhile he leaves a string of delicate bruises along Stiles’ neck, and Stiles thinks absently that it’s nice he doesn’t have to wear turtlenecks or makeup anymore and everyone can just get over it because he loves the way Peter marks him. Maybe he shouldn’t, maybe it’s creepy, but he does.

By the time one of his wrists comes free, he’s moaning and writhing and has almost forgotten that he was ostensibly trying to get free. But without his giving it conscious direction, one hand frees the other and his arms come around to grab Peter around the waist and just pull on him, bucking his own hips up so they grind together. Peter makes a sharp noise at this unexpected move and bites down hard on Stiles’ neck. Stiles manages to get one hand tangled in Peter’s hair so he can pull on it while he comes a few moments later. Peter’s right there with him, and Stiles would make a sassy comment about simultaneous orgasms meaning true love, if he had any air at all left in his lungs.

A few minutes later, he’s still sitting there, still tied up around the waist and ankles but feeling pretty good about things, given the givens. “Scott thinks this isn’t healthy,” he sighs, as Peter starts working on the ropes around his ankles. “What an idiot.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

There are only a few satisfactory ways to spend a snowy day, in Peter’s opinion. They should be spent by a fire if possible, with a book, a mug of hot cocoa or tea, and absolutely no interference from the outside world. Even if they do happen to occur in mid-May in a town that rarely gets snow even in the winter. The ‘freak snowstorm’, as the meteorologists are calling it, had struck at about five PM, coming rather literally out of the blue.

And if it has something to do with the abundance of faeries that have been gathering in town lately, well, that’s not Peter’s problem. He has other things he needs to attend to, like a fresh pot of Lapsang Souchong and his first-edition copy of Bram Stoker’s Dracula. His phone has rung twice – Derek, both times – but he’s let it go to voice mail. He has no interest in tangling with faeries.

Of course, life has other plans for him, as it so often does. He hears a brief knock on the door, an impatient rat-a-tat, before a key in the lock. He sighs and turns a page, not moving off the sofa, but he does glance up when Stiles comes in. “You look like a drowned rat,” he remarks. Stiles is wearing only a light jacket, and his hair is plastered to his forehead.

“Got c-c-c-caught in th-the s-s-s-s-storm,” Stiles manages through chattering teeth.

Peter sighs and goes back to his book, knowing that he doesn’t need to express interest for Stiles to continue his story. The teenager will say what he has to say regardless of whether or not Peter cares. And Stiles does indeed embark on a long story about how the snow had started while he had been doing stuff at the school, and how he had been driving home but nearly hit a dog that had somehow gotten loose, so of course he had had to pull over and find the poor animal and get it home, and then there had been a car stuck in a snowbank . . .

The story goes on long after Peter has stopped listening, although he’s still keeping half an eye on Stiles because the teenager is stripping out of his clothes while he talks. “So now I’m f-f-freezing and ex-exhausted and . . .” Stiles shoves his pants and underwear down and then grabs Peter by the wrist. “C-C-Come t-to bed with m-m-m-me.”

“If I must,” Peter says, giving his book and his mug of tea a longing glance. He allows Stiles to pull him off the sofa and into the bedroom. But Stiles shows no interest in Peter himself, just crawling underneath the covers. “Why did you come here rather than going home?” Peter asks, pulling his shirt over his head.

“B-Because the b-b-b-best way to warm up is t-t-to get in b-b-bed with someone w-w-warm and dry,” Stiles says, “and n-n-n-naked. That’s n-not g-g-gonna b-be Scott or D-D-Derek.”

“So you’re just using me for my body heat,” Peter says, pausing with his hands on his belt.

“Well, I would b-be if you’d get down here,” Stiles says.

Peter continues undressing. “I don’t cuddle,” he says.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “So m-molest me, I d-d-don’t care, just get in here.”

Peter can’t help but let out a sigh, but he finishes stripping out of his clothes and climbs into the bed, because letting Stiles die of hypothermia in his apartment would probably result in a lot of questions that he doesn’t want to answer. He folds his body around Stiles, letting the teenager press his back into his chest. Peter gives a hiss of discomfort. Stiles really is cold. His hands and feet are like blocks of ice. “Couldn’t you have gone inside after rescuing the first busload full of children or whatever it was you were doing?”

“I c-could have,” Stiles replies.

Rubbing his hands briskly up and down Stiles’ chest, Peter replies, “But that would have been too sensible for you?”

“I d-don’t expect you to understand,” Stiles says.

“Probably all for the best.” Peter’s hands wander downwards. “You certainly are cold.”

“If you make a c-comment about shrinkage, I will k-kick your ass,” Stiles says, trying to nestle closer. “I happen to know for a fact that you’re p-perfectly satisfied by the size of my dick.”

“Not at this exact moment,” Peter says, and Stiles gives a huff as Peter takes him in hand and gives him a few experimental strokes. It garners absolutely no reaction whatsoever. Peter . . . well, he doesn’t pout, that would be unacceptable, but it’s close. He goes back to rubbing his hands over Stiles’ chest, trying to bring his core temperature up.

“What were you reading?” Stiles sounds a little drowsy. “I interrupt anything important?”

“Snowy days are meant for reading,” Peter says. “But no. I was re-reading Dracula.”

“Mm, love that book,” Stiles says. “One time at school I heard this preppy upper class bitch talking about how she tried to read it ‘cause she loves Twilight so much and she thought it was terrible.” His voice lulls for a few moments and then he adds, “So I ‘accidentally’ spilled grape juice all over her white dress.”

Peter gives a snort of laughter. “You are terrible,” he says. Since Stiles seems to be more in the mood, he leans down and starts mouthing at the teenager’s shoulder blades. Stiles gives a little hum of contentment. His hands and feet are still freezing, but the rest of him is warming up. “Aren’t people going to be wondering where you are? This storm can’t be natural.”

“Mmm. M’dad’s workin’, will be for a while. Traffic an’ stuff. The others . . .” Stiles’ words are swallowed in a gigantic yawn. He comes back in on the second half of his sentence. “. . . snow queen, an’ Lydia’s takin’ care of it, I don’t even know.”

“If you say so,” Peter says, nipping at the back of his neck. Stiles’ body is relaxing under his, becoming limp and pliant. Peter rolls him over a little so he’s lying on his stomach, although he makes sure to keep Stiles’ arms underneath the blankets, and Stiles allows this without protest. Peter takes his time running his hands and his mouth over the skin of Stiles’ back, leaving little red-purple bruises on his shoulder blades.

When a particularly sharp nip gets no reaction, he frowns a little and pulls back. “Stiles?” he asks, but there’s no response, and the teenager’s breathing is slow and even. Peter rolls his eyes. “Of course,” he murmurs, and contemplates for a moment. He knows that Stiles will be annoyed if he keeps going. The thought amuses him. He draws a finger down Stiles’ spine.

Decision made, he grabs one of the pillows and slides it underneath Stiles’ abdomen and groin to prop him up a little. Stiles barely twitches in response. He’s not a deep sleeper by nature, so Peter knows that he must have been truly exhausted. Even when Peter thrusts into him, slow and easy, he stirs a little but doesn’t wake. His body is completely relaxed and offers Peter no resistance.

It’s not bad, not exactly; the physical sensations still send a shiver through him. But it’s certainly not as good as it normally is. Event he thrill of knowing how pissed off Stiles will be doesn’t enhance the experience enough to make it as good as sex with a conscious, participating Stiles. Peter sighs a little and thrusts harder, leaning down over Stiles and pressing their bodies together. “You’re no fun when you don’t fight back,” he murmurs, right into Stiles’ ear.

He works his way up to orgasm gradually, not rushing things, since he knows that pushing himself will only end up with him frustrated. It’s a leisurely, sensual experience. Not exactly typical, but not something he regrets spending the time on. Then he tucks the blankets around Stiles before returning to his book and his tea. The tea is lukewarm and the snow has turned to rain.

About four hours later, Stiles stumbles out of the bedroom, blanket wrapped around his shoulders, sleepy-eyed and hair mussed up. “S’there food?” he mumbles.

“Leftover Chinese in the fridge,” Peter says, still reading.

Stiles heads into the kitchen. Peter can hear him moving around, putting things in the microwave. He comes back in a few minutes later with a take-out container of lo mein and a mug of the tea. “Did you fuck me while I was sleeping?” he asks.

“Mm hm,” Peter says, turning a page.

There’s a pause while Stiles considers this. “How was it?”

“Mediocre,” Peter replies.

Stiles smirks at him and says, “Serves you right.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles feels like he’s been spending an inordinate amount of time in the hot seat lately. Usually with the same asshole looking at him from the other side of the table, the same disappointed expression, the same slow shaking of his head. On this particular occasion, the asshole has decided to let him cool his heels for upwards of an hour, and Stiles is sick of it. So as soon as Agent McCall walks into the room, he asks, “Am I free to go?”

“No,” Agent McCall says, pulling out the other chair, “as it happens, you are not.”

Stiles folds his arms over his chest and says, “For what reason am I being detained?”

Agent McCall gives him that smug, satisfied smile that made Stiles want to spit in his face even as an eight-year-old. “You, Mr. Stilinski, are being charged with obstruction of justice, evidence tampering, and witness tampering.”

“What?” Stiles can’t help but squeak. He clears his throat and tries to drop his back down a few notches, to its normal register. “You can’t do that.”

“Well, actually, I can,” McCall says. “You see, I have three dead bodies to account for. Now, I know that you didn’t kill them, because your alibi is solid, but I think you know who did. Because every time I turn around in this investigation, I seem to be tripping over you. You’re covering for someone – probably Tall, Dark, and Broody Hale – and so I can charge you with all of these things.”

“Have you called my father?” Stiles asks.

“No,” McCall replies, “and I don’t intend to. Nor am I required to. You’re eighteen now, so you’re no longer a minor. And this is a federal matter, so the local law doesn’t need to be involved.” He folds his hands in a steeple in front of himself, leaning forward. “So. I can either put you in a holding cell and leave you there until everything is officially processed or until you make bail. Or you could spend the time chatting with me.”

Stiles meets his gaze and says calmly, “I have nothing to say until I consult with a lawyer.”

“You don’t have to make this any harder than it already has to be,” McCall says.

“Did you know that it’s actually illegal to pressure someone in an interrogation once they have requested an attorney?” Stiles asks, studying his fingernails.

McCall’s jaw tightens. He waves at the officer standing behind him to take Stiles to a holding cell. “Can I have a phone call?” he asks, once the agent gets him halfway out into the main room. “You know, call my lawyer and stuff?”

He knows the ‘everyone is entitled to one phone call’ thing is a myth invented by Hollywood, so it’s a clear sign of how much Agent McCall’s staff hates him that the underling says, “Sure, kid,” and sits him down at a desk that has a phone on it. Stiles thinks for a minute about who to call, and wonders how much his bail is going to be set at. Scott won’t be able to do anything in a situation like this. Derek’s busy handling the actual murderer, and Stiles doesn’t want him distracted.

He could call his father, but in addition to the fact that he’s going to feel embarrassed enough, he honestly doesn’t know that his dad will have the spare cash to spring him. And he needs to be sprung, as soon as possible. He’s supposed to be Derek and Isaac’s backup.

So with a slight sigh, he dials Peter’s number. It rings four times and then goes to voice mail. Stiles glances at the agent leaning against the desk and decides to be as brief as possible. “Hey, Peter. I’m down at that temporary FBI headquarters. I need you to come bail me out. I got places I need to be.”

He hangs up and lets the agent escort him to the holding cells. He hopes Peter gets the message soon, although he supposes that it’s wishful thinking that Peter will even turn up. He can never be one hundred percent certain of what Peter will do. Well, not in terms of specifics. He can rely on Peter to do whatever is best for Peter. If there’s no particular option that will benefit Peter, he can be relied on to do whatever amuses him. But the problem is, Stiles isn’t always sure of what will amuse Peter. It might amuse Peter to come bail Stiles out and put the teenager in his debt and take it out of his hide later. But it also might amuse him to leave Stiles stewing in a federal holding cell. He can only hope it’s the former.

He turns out to be right. Less than twenty minutes have gone by before the door to the holding cell is opened and the same agent escorts him out. He’s got a little smirk on his face, like he’s amused that Agent McCall hasn’t been able to hold onto one teenager for half an hour.

Peter is standing by the front desk, his own smirk dancing at the corners of his mouth. “Now this,” he says, “this, you are going to owe me for.”

Agent McCall steps over, frowning. “And who might this be, Mr. Stilinski?”

“Oh, yes, introduce me,” Peter says, with a toothy smile. “You must be the fine Agent McCall that my boyfriend has told me so much about it.”

McCall shakes his offered hand with narrowed eyes. “Boyfriend?” he asks. Peter just smiles and indicates Stiles with his chin. Stiles rolls his eyes. McCall’s eyes get even narrower. “Your bail may be posted, but the charges stand,” he says. “So you’d better think about getting a lawyer.”

“Oh, I got him one already,” Peter says casually. To Stiles, he adds, “I figured you didn’t have one so I called mine. He’s flying in from Los Angeles.”

“Cool.” To Agent McCall, Stiles says, “I’ll be seeing you.”

Peter puts an arm around his waist and pulls him out of the FBI substation.

“Don’t look so self-satisfied,” Stiles tells him, heading over to Peter’s car. “I’ve got places to be.”

“There is nowhere you’re going to be until you’ve paid back the five grand I just dropped on you,” Peter says, his voice nearly a purr. “And I don’t mean in terms of money. I have different ideas about payback.”

“Of course you do,” Stiles says, amused despite himself. “Why do I feel like the phrase ‘it ain’t gonna suck itself’ is going to be relevant soon?”

“I would never be so uncouth,” Peter says, “but you do have the general idea, yes.” He pulls open the door to the car and gets in. Stiles just rolls his eyes and gets in the passenger seat. Peter doesn’t take out his keys or turn the car on. He just looks at Stiles with that little smirk.

“Wait. Here?” Stiles asks. “We’re in the parking lot of an FBI substation, I’ve already been arrested once today, and you want me to suck your cock right now?”

“It ain’t gonna suck itself,” Peter responds.

Stiles laughs despite himself. “You’re the actual worst,” he says. “Okay, but you had better make this quick, because I really am supposed to be helping the others out right now.” Without further wasting time, he leans over and starts undoing Peter’s pants. Peter makes a contented noise and tilts his head back against the seat. “You’re such a dirty old man,” Stiles says, before putting his mouth to better use.

Peter makes another little noise and twines his fingers in Stiles’ hair. “You are getting better at this,” he breathes out. “Do that, mm, that swirling thing with your tongue I taught you.”

Stiles pulls away long enough to say, “Don’t be so bossy.”

“You wanted me to be quick; I’m just trying to help . . .”

Stiles rubs his hand along the inside of Peter’s thigh and gets back to business. He’s grown to love doing this, trying to eke little noises out of Peter, to get him to drop his defenses, even for a few moments. Every harsh gasp or muttered swear is a victory. Since Peter still won’t let him be on top, this is as much control as he ever gets. And to be honest, that’s just fine with him. He didn’t get into this relationship to be in control.

So he doesn’t argue when Peter just twists his hand in his hair so hard that it hurts, pulls him down so he’s nearly choking. Peter is shuddering beneath him, slumping down in his seat, breathing out a little curse. Stiles holds back a smile and sucks harder. Peter’s leg jumps and kicks a little, and Stiles would laugh, if he could, but then Peter’s coming in his mouth. He pulls back, and Peter lets him, because he’s still not very good at that part yet. He swallows what he can and then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

Peter lets out a slow, lazy sigh. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“Yep,” Stiles says, fumbling for the door handle. “See you later.” And with that, he’s out of the car and jogging towards the Jeep.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Patience is a virtue, and a particular motto of Peter’s. One has to be patient when almost every plan involves playing the long game. So it’s not that he can’t delay gratification when it’s necessary. And there are times when he prefers to draw things out, string Stiles along, wait until the teenager comes to him, wreathed in sexual frustration and desperate for it. But he also likes to just drop by Stiles’ bedroom on random occasions, just to remind him that Peter’s the one in charge, that he can show up whenever he likes and take what he wants.

He tends to stop by when the sheriff isn’t home, just because that’s easier and he doesn’t have to crawl through Stiles’ window. He has, of course, made a copy of Stiles’ house keys. He didn’t even ask permission. During an all-night research session, he merely plucked them out of Stiles’ jacket pocket, gave him a toothy smile, and said, “I’ll be back with these in a bit.” Stiles didn’t argue, which was one of his more intelligent moments.

So now he can just let himself in through the front door and ambush Stiles in his room, which is much easier. He particularly likes to do this late at night, when the Sheriff is working night shift, and he can rouse Stiles out of bed and get his way with a minimum of arguing. But when he arrives on this particular night, around two AM, he sees that the light in Stiles’ bedroom is still on.

He lets himself in and jogs up the stairs, then lets himself into Stiles’ room. The teenager is sitting at the desk wearing nothing but a pair of flannel pajama pants, and he looks terrible. He’s a little paler than usual, and his eyes are somewhat red. The room is dim, because only the small lamp on his desk is on. As soon as Peter comes in, he holds up one hand to stay the werewolf’s approach and says, “For real, not tonight. I’ll puke on you.”

Peter frowns at him. “You’re sick?” That’s obviously not acceptable.

“It’s just a headache,” Stiles says, waving him off. “I’m trying to finish this stuff up.”

“What is it?” Peter asks, leaning over his shoulder to see a number of word problems and diagrams.

“Physics,” Stiles says. “I’ve got four assignments I need to finish. I fell behind while those asshole hunters were in town and I haven’t caught back up. Ms. Spinnelli put her foot down and said if I didn’t get everything turned in by the end of the week, she’d give me a zero on anything missing.”

“It’s only Tuesday, Stiles,” Peter points out.

“Yeah, and as soon as I put it off due to that logic, we’re going to be divebombed by trolls or manticores or something,” Stiles says. “The headache was too bad for me to get any sleep, so I figured I might as well be productive.”

He has something of a point, but Peter can’t help but view the papers with some skepticism. “Fair enough, but in problem three, you’ve calculated the weight of the moon as being negative thirty kilograms, and I can’t help but feel that your answer is lacking in the accuracy department.”

“Fuuuuuuuuck.” Stiles pushes back from his desk and then stops, looking a little queasy.

Peter’s frown deepens. “You know, you might have less of a headache if you weren’t working in the dark,” he says, reaching out to flip the overhead lights on.

“Nooooo,” Stiles protests. “Don’t. They were making it worse.”

There’s a pause while Peter considers this. “Has it occurred to you that you have an actual migraine? Headache, nausea, photophobia – it seems rather classic. Have you taken anything?”

“Some Tylenol a few hours ago. Didn’t even make a dent in it.” Stiles shoves the papers away. “Mom had migraines. So I guess it’s possible I inherited them, although you’d think they would have showed up before now.”

“Do you know,” Peter says, “that it’s been scientifically proven that an orgasm can relieve the symptoms of a migraine?”

“That is the worst come on you’ve ever spouted, and given your general level of sketchiness, I’m super impressed,” Stiles says. “Or I would be, if I weren’t about to throw up. Sex is literally the last thing on my mind right now.”

“Well, sex is on my mind,” Peter says. “That’s why I came here for and I’m not leaving without it. Besides, you’re going to physically hurt yourself if you keep trying to do your homework.” He gets an arm underneath Stiles’ shoulders and lifts him out of the chair. Stiles groans but doesn’t actively protest as Peter lays him down on the bed – gently, because Stiles really is looking a little green around the gills. Then he pulls Stiles’ pants off.

“Peter, I really don’t think . . .”

“Shhh,” Peter says, putting a finger over his mouth. “Just give it a try. If it makes it worse, I’ll stop. Scout’s honor.”

“Like you were ever a scout, you perv.” Stiles sighs, but he seems to decide that arguing would take too much effort, so he lies there with his eyes closed and lets Peter do what he wants. Peter fishes the lube out of Stiles’ bedside drawer – he doesn’t usually bother with it for hand jobs, but he figures anything that will make things easier on Stiles is probably a plus.

They’ve done this enough now that he knows exactly how Stiles likes it, and is careful to keep things slow and easy, letting Stiles get into it on his own pace. He listens to the rise and fall of Stiles’ breath, the beating of his heart, the little noises he makes in the back of his throat. He starts to shift restlessly on the bed, so Peter picks up the pace, building things up, not trying to draw it out because he doesn’t want Stiles to start to feel sick again. His body arches and he gives a weak little grunt as he comes in Peter’s hands.

Peter gives him a minute to lie there, blinking slowly at the ceiling, before asking, “Better?”

“Yeah, actually,” Stiles says. “I mean, I don’t want to get up and do a jig, or even attempt physics, but I think I might be able to sleep now.”

“Good enough, I suppose.” Peter gets off the bed and draws the blanket over Stiles. Being domestic amuses him sometimes. Then he leans down and puts his mouth right next to Stiles’ ear. “You owe me for this, and I’m going to take every inch of it out on your skin.”

Stiles’ eyelids flutter. “Promise?”

Peter gives a snort of laughter. “Oh yes,” he says. “I promise.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles looks at the tub of icy water and thinks that this isn’t the dumbest idea he’s ever had, but it has to be on the list. Of course, he’s more than a little insane at this point. His father has been missing for upwards of two days and is due to be sacrificed any minute. He pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it towards a nearby chair.

“ – has to be someone with an emotional connection to you,” Deaton is saying. “Scott, I’ll take care of you.”

Lydia looks at Allison, who gives her a nod and a shaky smile. The two of them link hands. Lydia squeezes Allison’s hand, hard.

“Lydia, go with Stiles,” Deaton says, and the two of them blink at each other, and then Lydia lets out a breath and gives a little nod.

“But then there’s no one for Allison,” Scott says.

“Has anyone been able to reach Isaac?” Allison asks, her voice a little breathy.

“He’s still not answering his phone,” Scott says. “He was with Derek, so he could – could just be busy or trying to keep anyone from knowing he’s there – Stiles, what are you – ” Scott adds, seeing the way that Stiles is already dialing his phone. Then he gets it. “No. No. Not him.”

“It’s fine, Scott,” Stiles says. Then, into the phone, he says, “Peter. I need you at Deaton’s. Yeah. No, it has to be now. Okay.” He hangs up. “It just has to be an emotional connection. It doesn’t necessarily need to be a one hundred percent positive connection. I’ve been fucking the guy for nine months; I think we’re emotionally connected by now.”

“But he can’t be trusted,” Scott persists.

“Yes, he can,” Stiles says. “He can be trusted to do what’s in his best interest. And letting me drown in a tub of ice water isn’t in his best interest. There’s no reason for him to do that. God, he’s not that difficult to understand.”

“I just don’t see how you – ”

“There isn’t time for this,” Allison snaps. “If Stiles wants to risk his own life by having Peter as his tether, that’s his business. We need to get ready.”

It looks like Scott want to keep arguing, but then Deaton’s talking again, about the sort of things they’re like to see and how they should interpret them, the symbolic importance of the articles they’re holding, and other things that Stiles doesn’t care about. Peter shows up just as his speech is winding down, strolling into the office as if he’s always belonged there.

“Here’s the deal,” Stiles says rapidly. Peter knows his father is missing, but he hasn’t showed a lot of interest in helping out, and to be fair, Stiles hasn’t asked. “It’s a surrogate sacrifice thing. You three are going to drown us three, and that ought to help us find the Nematan. Then you pull us back out.”

“Simple enough,” Peter says, rolling up his sleeves. Stiles can’t help but be amused by this because everyone else that they’ve pitched this plan to has had a million questions and protests about how this is a terrible idea, they could die, there had to be a better plan, et cetera. Not Peter. “Couldn’t find anyone else to drown you, I take it?”

“It has to be someone with whom I have an emotional connection,” Stiles tells him.

“Oh, is this flattery?” Peter asks. He looks at the tub of water as Stiles is climbing in, gasping in shock at the temperature. “Just like old times, hm?”

“Jesus,” Stiles breathes out, as he lowers himself into the tub. “And here I thought I had said that I was never going to let you try to drown me again.”

“Wait, what – ” Scott says, frowning.

“Don’t even ask, Scotty, trust me. You’re much happier not knowing.”

Then they’re underwater, and the cold stabs at him, it hurts more than anything he’s experienced to date. He feels like his head is going to explode. He knows he should just take a breath, inhale the water, but his body won’t let him. Not at first. Then – involuntary apnea, he knows it’s called – he takes in the water, and everything goes dark.

There are weird trippy visions, white rooms, trees, flashbacks to when this all began, and then everything blurs out. He sees an actual light at the end of an actual tunnel and he thinks that it didn’t work. He knows where the Nematan is but it won’t do him any good; he’s going to die so it doesn’t matter. He flails, panicking, grasping for something that he could use to find his way home.

Then he sees a hand extended in front of him, callused and worn, claws coming out of the fingertips. He reaches out and takes it, and there’s a sensation of being yanked towards someone else, and he comes up out of the water gasping.

Everyone’s talking at once and everything dissolves into chaos, and Stiles is only half-aware of someone shoving a towel into his hands. He’s shivering hard as he babbles about what he saw, and then they’re off because there are people to rescue and dark druids to take care of. It occurs to him later, much later, after his father is safe and things are okay again, that he never thanked Peter for what he did.

Now isn’t the time for that, because there are a million things to do, and to be fair he doesn’t want to let his father out of his sight for the next forty-eight hours or so. But someone – and when Stiles finds out who, he’s going to skin them – has told his father about exactly what lengths they went to in order to find him. He’s delivering a thorough lecture on risk-taking, all of which comes with enthusiastic hugging.

“So, are you going to go see him, or what?” Sheriff Stilinski asks, once they’re settled back at the house.

“Who?” Stiles asks, starting the coffee maker.

“Peter.”

Stiles knocks over a mug. “Uh, what? Why would I – ”

His father sighs. “Do you think I’m an idiot? You told me your not-boyfriend was someone older than you, someone who was rough with you, and you didn’t want to tell me who it was for complicated, supernatural reasons. Who else could it be?”

Stiles winces and rubs a hand over his hair. “Are you mad?”

“No,” his father says. “I believe that you know what you’re doing.”

“Well, thank God somebody does,” Stiles mutters.

“Then you want to tell me why you’re so jumpy?”

Stiles thinks about it. “He did me a favor tonight,” he says. “I guess I won’t feel right about it until I’ve paid him back. It’s like . . . the system we have. He helps me out when I need it, but I always have to pay him back. Because otherwise I might start to think he did it because he likes me or something.”

Sheriff Stilinski considers this thoughtfully for a few moments before he apparently decides that he doesn’t have any opinion on this. He just waves a little and says, “Go on, get outta here.”

Stiles nods, gives his father another hug for good measure, and heads for the door. He heads straight to Peter’s apartment and lets himself in. Peter glances over his shoulder from where he’s sitting on the sofa, and shakes his head, smiling a little. “Was wondering when I’d see you.”

“Don’t be an asshole,” Stiles says automatically, locking the door behind him. “I wanted to thank you. For what you did for me yesterday. And to pay you back for it.”

“You know, for once, I wasn’t demanding recompense,” Peter says, as Stiles walks over and sits on the couch next to him. “I do have a heart, you know. Even if it’s three sizes too small. Did it occur to you that perhaps I actually didn’t mind helping you rescue your father?”

“It did.” Stiles folds his hands in his lap and says, “But I can’t . . . think that way. Not about you. I can never let my guard down with you. I can’t let you help me, because then I might start to forget that everything you do, you do for a reason.”

Peter sighs and gives one of his dramatic eye rolls. “You know,” he says, “sometimes I think you overthink this. You’re the one who said that I cared about my family, as long as it wasn’t too inconvenient. Am I not allowed to care about you?”

“Sure,” Stiles says, “but this isn’t ever going to be anything, Peter. We fuck, that’s it. It can’t be anything else. Because I’ll always be looking for your ulterior motives, even when you don’t have any. I can’t be in a long-term relationship like that; I can’t live like that. I’ll never trust you, not completely, not one hundred percent. Even when you help me, I’m looking for the reason why, and then I feel guilty because that’s shitty of me, but then the time I let my guilt get to me and I don’t do it, that’s the time you’re going to take advantage. And if it was just me that would suffer from that, I could live with it, but it’s not just me, it’s Derek and Scott and everyone else.”

“You’re not responsible for my actions,” Peter points out. “Nor is it your job to protect everyone from me.”

“No, I guess not,” Stiles says, “but that won’t stop me from trying.” He fidgets, tugs at the hem of his shirt. “Now will you please just fuck me so I can feel better about this?”

“Hm, not tonight, I don’t think.” Peter leans over and kisses him, gentle and soft and sweet. “If I did, I think I’d be inclined towards making love to you, slow and beautiful, and I don’t think you would ever forgive me for that.” He picks up his book again. “Get out.”

Stiles doesn’t need to be told twice.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles has no problem making a deal with the devil. They make deals with devils all the time, for the greater good, because they’re out of options, because the devil they know is better than they devil they don’t, because the devil really isn’t that bad. But he decides it’s going to be a cold day in Hell before they ever make a deal with a djinn again.

Djinn aren’t evil by nature, and this one really only wants to go home, so it helps them out and they do a spell to return it back to where it was summoned from, and everything goes pretty smoothly for once. The problem arises when the grateful djinn decides to pay them back on its way out, and Stiles finds himself in his dream world. Co-captain of the lacrosse team, taking his beautiful girlfriend Lydia out to the dance. His mother straightens his bowtie on the way out.

It’s so cliché that it takes him approximately four minutes to realize that he’s trapped in a vision, and then he basically bashes at the walls of it with brute psychic force until it comes tumbling down. He finds himself sitting cross-legged on the floor in Derek’s loft, along with the rest of them, who are still trapped in their own visions. It takes a variety of means – shouting, slapping, cold water in the face – to return them from the blissful dreams the djinn put them in during the spell.

Isaac comes out of it first, and easiest, giving his head a little shake with a puzzled frown, as if to say he just doesn’t understand the dream he was living in. Scott and Allison are more reluctant, but they make it out okay, giving each other sideways glances before they go to wake Lydia.

Derek is obviously the biggest disaster. When they finally get him out of it, he doubles over, howling in agony, and that brings Cora out of it, who adds her mournful howls to his. The two of them clutch each other, shaking and crying and trying desperately to find a way to return to that parallel reality where their family was still alive.

There’s so much chaos that for the first fifteen minutes or so, Stiles doesn’t even think to look at Peter. He’s not screaming or drawing attention to himself, and nobody seems to even remember he’s there. But when Stiles finally does look over, he sees Peter sitting exactly where he started, legs still folded neatly underneath himself at his point in the circle, and he’s crying. Silently, not at all dramatically. Just a few slow tears that slide down his cheeks.

Stiles darts a nervous glance at the others, where Isaac is holding Allison and Scott is bent over Derek, and hastens over. He kneels in front of Peter and uses the cuff of his sleeve to wipe the tears away. “Jesus, Peter, get it together,” he says in a low voice. “I know that you don’t want the others to see you like this.”

Peter’s gaze flickers up to him, and he takes in a breath, a little rushed and shaky, but then he nods. He reaches out, grips Stiles’ wrist, and squeezes hard. There’s more gratitude in that one motion than Stiles has ever received from him before.

“I have to help take care of Derek,” Stiles says. “You’ll be all right?”

It’s a stupid question and the answer is obviously no, but Peter nods again, so Stiles goes back to what he was doing. He doesn’t notice until much later that Peter is gone.

Once Derek has gotten himself calmed down, he throws all of them out of his loft except Cora, and Stiles can’t really blame him for that. There are things that nobody wants someone else to see. Derek isn’t exactly proud, not anymore, but he’s still a fiercely private person a lot of the time. And he has a right to be alone with his sister.

“Hey, you okay?” Scott asks Stiles, as if it’s just now occurring to him that Stiles might be upset.

“Oh, yeah, I’m fine,” Stiles says, and the others give him a skeptical glance. “Come on. Star lacrosse player, beautiful girlfriend, mom’s still alive – how clichéd could it be? I’m okay, guys. That’s not my life. It was never going to be. But seriously, we are never doing a djinn a favor ever again. Now who needs a ride home?”

He drops Scott and Isaac off at Scott’s house. Allison has her own car, and Lydia’s riding with her. Then he heads over to Peter’s. He does it somewhat reluctantly, not knowing what he expects to find or what he wants to find. He desperately wants Peter to be okay, not for his own sake, but just because he doesn’t know how he’ll deal with Peter if he’s not okay. Despite the fact that he has every right to be.

A knock on the door gets no answer, so he unlocks it and goes inside. Rather than being in his usual place on the sofa, Peter is in the bedroom. He’s lying on his bed, curled up on his side. “Go away,” he says, when Stiles enters.

Stiles nods, but then sits down next to him. After a minute, he reaches out and runs a hand over Peter’s hair.

“Did you know,” Peter finally says, not looking up at him, “that I actually had a lover at the time of the fire? He was nothing like you. But then again, I was quite different back then. We all were.” He’s quiet for a minute. “I suppose it was similar in that our relationship wasn’t serious, and was never going to be. He came to see me in the hospital once. I was still in quite a bit of pain, then, not really myself at all . . . but I saw the way he recoiled from my appearance. From the burns. I never saw him after that. I don’t even know what happened to him.”

Stiles thinks about this for a moment, wondering why Peter brought it up. “Did you see him? In your vision?”

“No,” Peter says. “My family, yes, alive and whole, as I’m sure you could have predicted. But as much as almost everything else was the same as it was before the fire, he was curiously absent. As if he were never meant to be there.”

There’s another long moment of silence. Stiles knows the question that Peter is waiting for him to ask, but he won’t ask it, can’t ask it.

Instead, he says, “Peter, if you became an alpha again, what would you do?”

Peter’s eyes open at that, and then he huffs out a little laugh. “I’m not sure I even know. Build a pack, kill a lot of hunters, probably. Why do you ask?”

“I just think it’s interesting . . . that the djinn chose to show you the past, rather than a possible future.”

“Yes, it was enlightening for all of us,” Peter agrees. “I suppose I should be grateful that the djinn showed me that I can never have what I truly want.”

“Or maybe what you actually want and what you think you want are two different things,” Stiles says thoughtfully. “I wondered why the djinn had done this. If it thought it was something we could truly benefit from. Derek, Cora . . . it practically broke them. But things were different for Scott and Allison, at least. The way they looked at each other, it was like . . . they had finally realized how things were supposed to be.” He shrugs and sighs. “Not that my own vision showed me much of anything I could ever have.”

“Mm, yes, I heard you talking about it. The beautiful girl, the lacrosse star.” Peter’s quiet. “But maybe the message you should take away is about the genera, not the specifics. You want to be loved and respected. You’re tired of being the one in the back that no one pays attention to, that’s constantly underestimated because you don’t have the claws or the fangs. Your brain translated it into a cliché – but maybe that was your mind, as sharp as it is, protecting you. In a way that none of the rest of ours did.”

“Maybe.” Stiles likes that explanation. “So what conclusions are we supposed to draw?”

“Perhaps that we should just be a little more thoughtful about the future,” Peter says.

Stiles flops backwards onto the bed so he’s lying next to Peter. “In what way?”

“Well,” Peter says, “maybe being an alpha and having you aren’t mutually exclusive.” He rolls onto his side so they’re facing. “If we worked together, we could find a way. Once I had that, you wouldn’t have to worry about me needing to hurt your friends.”

“What about you wanting to hurt my friends?”

“Do you think so little of me?” Peter asks. “When have I ever hurt someone you cared about for no reason?”

Stiles thinks about it. “I guess you haven’t.”

“If for no other reason, you can rely on me not wanting to piss you off past the point of reason,” Peter says. “You get sullen and the sex is terrible.”

Stiles laughs despite himself. “You’re such a creeper.”

“No lies detected.” Peter closes his eyes again and leans his forehead into Stiles’ shoulder.

“You make it sound like you want to keep me.”

“Mm. Perhaps that’s the best way of putting it. Not speaking in pretty terms of love or devotion, but possession. I do want to keep you.” Peter reaches out and folds his fingers through Stiles’. “Do you want to be kept?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles says.

“All right.” Peter’s voice is quiet. “Do you think we’ll be all right someday?”

“Maybe,” Stiles says.

“Maybe,” Peter echoes. “I suppose ‘maybe’ is good enough.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

Chapter Text

Stiles spends a long, sleepless night thinking about everything that’s happened, with his father, with Peter, with the djinn and its visions. He tosses and turns and thinks about everything Peter’s done, not just to him, but in general. Taking the way Peter behaves now versus Peter when he was the alpha and Peter after his resurrection.

He thinks about what he wants, about what’s going to happen when he graduates at the end of the year. About the allegiances in Beacon Hills and who’s always had his back, who he can trust to have his back, whose back he will always need to have. He thinks about what his priorities are. What his life was like before Peter expressed interest in him. How things have changed. How things will change. Because change is inevitable.

The next day, he gets up like it’s a normal day, makes breakfast, goes to school. Allison comments that he’s quieter than usual, and Scott asks if he’s okay, and he says, “Yeah, just thinkin’ my thinks.” But after school and lacrosse practice, he begs off and heads to Peter’s apartment. He takes out the key, hesitates, and then knocks.

Peter answers the door a few moments later. He looks surprised to see Stiles, which makes sense, given that Stiles hasn’t bothered knocking since the first time he just let himself in. That was almost six months ago now. He seems to sense that this change indicates something big, because he just raises his eyebrows at Stiles and says nothing.

Stiles holds the key out. “I need to give this back to you,” he says, “and I’ll need the one you have to my house.”

There’s a long silence while Peter considers this gambit. “You,” he finally says, “are breaking up with me.”

“God, don’t call it that,” Stiles says. “We’re not boyfriends, remember? We’re just friends who fuck, and – we’re not going to be that anymore, either. We can’t be that anymore.”

Peter pulls out a ring of keys from the pocket of the jacket that’s hanging on the hook. He doesn’t invite Stiles in, but starts working a key off the ring. “Let me guess,” he says, and Stiles winces, because there’s that caustic note in Peter’s voice, the one that means he’s about to get cruel. “It’s getting too serious. You’re starting to trust me. You know that you can’t trust me. So it’s better to just cut this off and spare your poor, tender heart. Aren’t you sick of saying that by now?”

He holds out the key. Stiles takes it. “Yeah,” he says, “I am. And that’s why I’m doing this. So I won’t have to say it again.”

“Mm hm.” Peter takes his own key back from Stiles. “And what makes you think I’m going to honor your decision? I would invite you to recall I wasn’t exactly asking permission when we started this.”

Stiles opens his mouth. Then he just shakes his head, turns, and walks away.

He half-expects Peter to turn up at his house that night, but he doesn’t. And he doesn’t turn up the night after that, either. And he doesn’t turn up at Derek’s three nights later when they’re having a pack meeting because they’re having a sudden salamander infestation. Derek’s annoyed because he’s left Peter three voicemails because he knows that this has happened before, back before the fire, and he thinks Peter knows some trick for dealing with them.

“Look, he’s not answering me, so you call him,” Derek says to Stiles. “Better yet, go get his useless ass and make him show up.”

Stiles shakes his head. “I can’t.”

“Why not?” Derek snarls.

“Because we, uh, we broke it off,” Stiles says, rubbing a hand over the back of his head. He really wishes there was a better explanation, but ‘I decided to stop fucking him’, while accurate, doesn’t quite carry the emotional weight that he needs to get across here.

There’s a moment of surprised silence before Scott blurts out, “Oh thank God.”

Stiles gives him a dirty look. So does everyone else. Hell, even Derek looks a little offended.

“What?” Scott asks. “You’re the one who kept saying it wasn’t serious!”

“For Christ’s sake, Scott,” Lydia says, “try not to be a gigantic ass.” To Stiles, she adds, “You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” Stiles says hastily. “Like Scott says. It wasn’t serious. Just, you know, it’s not like there was much of a future in our relationship, so I – anyway, he won’t answer if I call him, and even if he would, I won’t, because – ‘we can still be friends’ is so not an option when you break up with Peter fucking Hale.”

“Yeah, I can see how it wouldn’t be,” Allison says, wincing.

“Come on, sweetie,” Lydia says, looping her arm through Stiles’. “There’s only one cure for a break-up, and that is chocolate ice cream.”

“Excuse me, we still have a salamander problem,” Derek says.

“Well, deal with it yourself!” Lydia says, tossing her hair. “We have more important business to attend to.”

“No, I’d . . . I’d rather be doing this,” Stiles says. “Thanks, Lyds, but I’ll feel better if I’ve got something to focus on. Let’s do some salamander research, since Peter isn’t going to grace us with his presence.”

It takes two hours of research and then four hours of footwork to get the salamander infestation under control, and even then they’re left with crates of the things. Allison calls her dad who says that he knows a creature specialist who can come pick them up. By the time all that’s arranged, it’s late, and Stiles just wants to head home.

“You seem upset,” Scott says hesitantly, as they leave the loft and head for the Jeep. Stiles just gives a shrug. “Look, I didn’t mean to be insensitive, it’s just . . . how serious was it?”

“It was . . . getting serious,” Stiles finally says. Allison and Lydia exchange glances but don’t say anything. “I mean. You can’t fuck a guy that long and not . . . I was starting to like him. You know, I know he’s done terrible things, I do, but . . . he’s funny, and smart, and he actually respects me, which is something I don’t get a lot. But come on. What kind of future can you picture going down that road?”

“A future of really hot, amazing sex?” Lydia says. Stiles gives her a look. She lifts her hands in surrender. “I’m just saying.”

“The djinn . . .” Stiles’ voice trails off. “He said that the djinn showed him what he really wanted. He still wants to be an alpha again, still wants power, but he wants me too. Like . . . having the power won’t make him happy if I’m not there. He said he wants to keep me.”

“Gross,” Scott says. The girls give him a look. “Come on. Allison, how would you feel if I said I wanted to ‘keep’ you?”

Allison sighs. “He does have a point, Stiles.”

“I know,” Stiles says. “Maybe Peter isn’t really capable of love in the traditional sense. Maybe this is as close to it as he can come.” He wipes the back of his hand over his eyes. “But when he said that . . . I wanted it, too. But how can I ever trust him? After all the shit he’s pulled? He says if we could find a way to make him an alpha again, then I wouldn’t have to worry about him hurting the rest of you. So maybe he’s just using me. I don’t know. I don’t know and I’ll never know, not for sure, and I can’t . . . keep doing that to myself.”

Lydia puts an arm around his waist. “C’mon,” she says. “Chocolate. Definitely.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

One good thing about Derek is that he’s actually capable of minding his own business. Compared to the nosy teenagers he surrounds himself with, it’s a gift that’s worth its weight in gold. Derek never says anything to Peter about Stiles, never asks how he’s feeling, which Peter is grateful for, since he would probably rip out the throat of anyone who asks him. Stiles’ rejection stings in a way that he never would have anticipated. Peter’s not sure he’s even capable of feeling regret, but he feels – something. Annoyance at himself, maybe, for letting things go so far, for not predicting this eventual result. And loneliness. That’s what hurts, more than he will ever admit to anyone. For the first time in years, he hadn’t been alone, and worse yet, he had allowed himself to get used to the feeling of someone else being there.

Of course, part of the reason Derek doesn’t say anything is probably because Derek assumes that Peter is incapable of having feelings, but Peter will accept it anyway. So he still helps out, when he absolutely has to. One never knows how things are going to end up. And he still has recovering his alpha status to attend to. He avoids the others when he can, and when he and Stiles are both present the same time, he simply pretends the teenager doesn’t exist. Stiles is hurt by it, of course he is, but he doesn’t make any effort to reconnect with Peter, which just pisses Peter off more. Stiles is supposed to be pining for him, but if he is, he’s hiding it well. It doesn’t help that other things are going on. Peter’s put together that their experience with the Nemeton and the tub of ice water has had the worst effect on Stiles, that he’s been having a lot of nightmares and trouble sleeping. Comments about how Stiles would certainly sleep well after a good fuck are probably best not made, given the circumstances.

But things still go wrong, because Beacon Hills is, well, a beacon, which is why Peter is at Derek’s loft when Scott bursts in with Stiles. He’s supporting Stiles with one arm, and Isaac is on his other side.

Peter immediately knows that something is wrong with Stiles. His scent, which Peter is so intimately familiar with, is off. Not sick or injured. It’s a strange combination of magic, that little buzz that comes from being drunk or stoned, and full blown lust. Stiles looks up and sees him, but there’s none of that rush of awkwardness that’s been between them lately. Instead he just slurs out, “Heyyyyy.” His pupils are huge, nearly swallowing his irises entirely.

“What happened to him?” Derek asks, frowning in concern.

“That, uh, that incubus we told you about?” Scott pants out. “Yeah, uh, we don’t even know. I swear, he only had Stiles alone for like ten seconds, but when we got to him, he was like this. Then it took off and we couldn’t catch it.”

“Like this meaning – ” Derek begins, but it’s very clear, because Stiles is already trying to climb him like a tree.

“You’re very pretty,” Stiles says, glassy-eyed and dazed. “I could suck your cock if you want. I really want to.”

“Jesus,” Derek says, pushing him away and holding him at arm’s length. Peter has a moment to wonder why Stiles went for Derek instead of for him, but it becomes immediately clear that Stiles is going for anybody, because he turns away from Derek and starts pawing at Isaac instead.

“I called Deaton, he said to take Stiles here and he’d meet us,” Scott says.

“Why here?” Derek asks, which strikes Peter as an excellent question, because Deaton prefers to do business at his clinic. He has everything he needs there, and it’s safe, safe as houses. Then he looks at Stiles as he rubs himself up against a pained-looking Isaac, and thinks he probably knows the answer. Scott just shrugs and starts trying to pry Stiles off Isaac and get him to drink some water.

Deaton shows up about two minutes later. He’s cool and professional as he endures Stiles’ wandering hands while he looks in his eyes and holds a hand over his forehead. “It’s just a standard lust spell,” he says. “Wears off in about . . . well, it depends on the strength of the caster. Anywhere between four hours and twenty-four.”

“He could be like this for twenty-four hours?” Scott asks, appalled.

“Yes,” Deaton says. “But, well . . .” He clears his throat. “Usually, the quickest way to take care of a spell like this is to see it to completion.”

There’s a moment of confused silence on Scott and Isaac’s part. Peter clears his throat and says, “That’s why you had them bring him here, instead of to your clinic.”

Deaton shrugs a little.

“Okay, no,” Scott says. “A world of no. You two broke up. You are not going to take advantage of him like that.”

“Scott,” Deaton says quietly. “The longer it goes on, the more painful it will be for Stiles. I’ve seen this before.”

“Painful how?” Scott asks uncertainly.

“Oh, use your imagination,” Peter says, annoyed. “Haven’t you ever had a bad case of blue balls? Take that and multiply it times about a hundred. That’s how Stiles is feeling right now. It’s only going to go downhill from here. So unless you’re willing – ”

Scott grimaces despite himself. He’s clearly torn on the issue. But eventually it sinks in that Deaton obviously thinks this is the best solution, since Deaton is the one who had him bring Stiles to Peter in the first place. “Okay,” he finally says. “Uh, okay. Just, uh . . .”

It takes every ounce of self-control for Peter not to say, ‘I’ll be gentle with him’, which would be worth it for the look on Scott’s face, but probably not worth it for the wolfsbane Lydia would put in his drink later. “I’ll take care of him,” he settles for instead. “But I don’t think I can get him back to my place.”

Now it’s Derek who grimaces. He has to admit that the idea of trying to drive somewhere while Stiles is pawing at him would be extremely difficult. However, he’s clearly not ready to surrender up his loft, because he says, “Scott and Isaac can take him while you drive yourself.”

“Fine,” Peter says, annoyed despite himself. Then again, he’d prefer to do this back at his own apartment, anyway. There are some things he’s going to need, if he’s going to take care of this the way he wants to. And since Stiles is whimpering and trying to push himself against Isaac again, nobody takes the time to argue. Peter turns and jogs towards his car. It hasn’t escaped his notice that Stiles literally went for anybody in the room except him. There’s enough of Stiles’ consciousness left that he’s still aware of why he and Peter together would be a bad mix.

That doesn’t matter once they’re alone and he’s out of other options, though. As soon as the door to Peter’s apartment shuts behind him, he’s all over Peter. He gets an arm around the older man’s shoulders and just rubs his entire body along Peter’s, letting out gasping little groans as he does so. Peter puts both hands on his waist and steers him into the bedroom. “Down,” he says, matching actions to words and shoving Stiles down onto the bed.

“Uhhhhn,” Stiles grunts, and reaches out for Peter. Which makes it really easy for Peter to get the handcuffs around one wrist and secure him to the bed.

“There we are,” he says, standing back to admire his work. He has to admit that after over a month of nobody but his right hand for company, it’s quite gratifying to have Stiles stretched out on his bed again, completely at his mercy. He can see Stiles’ erection pushing at the cloth of the khakis he’s wearing as he writhes around on the bed. “Well, you just sit tight,” he says. “I have some research to do.”

Stiles’ eyes fly open, and for a minute the look of complete exasperation makes him look like himself again. “Wh-what?” he whimpers.

“There has to be more than one way to break a lust spell,” Peter says. “Try not to hurt yourself while I figure it out.”

“But Peter,” Stiles whines, trying to roll onto his side so he can rub against the mattress.

“That won’t work,” Peter says. “Not while you’re under the influence. You’ll need a lot more than that to bring you off.”

“Like you,” Stiles moans. “Come on, Peter, I know you want to, it’s okay, please, just – ”

Peter smirks at him and crouches down so they’re on eye level. “Really, Stiles, you should know me better than that,” he says. “When I have ever truly taken you without consent? Never. And I’m not going to start now.”

Stiles’ breathing is heavy, erratic. His eyes are glazed over again. “I’ll . . . I’ll make it up to you,” he says. “I’ll let you do whatever you want . . . come on, please . . .”

“Let me know if you need any water or anything,” Peter says, and heads back out into the living room of his apartment. He sets up his laptop and pulls up the section on incubi. Stiles keeps calling for him from the bedroom, in varying degrees of desperation, but Peter tunes him out. He does some reading, makes a few calls, downloads another book, does a little more reading.

Almost an hour has gone by before there’s five full minutes of silence. Then he hears Stiles say, “P-Peter. Water?”

“Sure.” Peter stands up and gets a bottle from his kitchen. He goes into the bedroom and holds the bottle to Stiles’ mouth. The teenager drinks thirstily, then reaches up with the hand that Peter thought was securely cuffed to the bed and grabs Peter by the hair, trying to pull him down. His desperation makes him stronger than usual, and Peter’s taken off guard, so Stiles does actually manage to get him down onto the bed. He recovers and gets back to his feet a few moments later. “Stiles. Really?”

Stiles makes a whining, animal noise. Peter takes his hand and examines it. The thumb is broken; that’s how Stiles got free from the cuff.

“Shit,” he says, in mild surprise. “That is one hell of a spell you’ve got on you.”

“Peter, please,” Stiles says, trying to roll over so he can get closer. “Please, I’m so sorry, sorry for everything, please don’t do this to me. I need you so bad. I didn’t mean any of what I said when I broke up with you.”

Peter lays a finger over Stiles’ mouth. “You meant every word of what you said,” he says to Stiles, “and the fact that you’re trying to say you didn’t is how I know that this is the spell talking, not you.”

“Do you hate me?” Stiles asks, now actually crying a little as he struggles to get free. “Why are you hurting me like this?”

“It beats the alternative,” Peter says. There’s not much he can do about Stiles’ thumb, but he decides to tie him back up using ropes and take the cuffs off his other wrist so he doesn’t break that one too. He’ll just have to stay in the bedroom and keep an eye on him.

It takes him about another hour to figure out how he can break the spell without resorting to sex, and unfortunately requires the incubus who cast it. He makes a few more calls, then says to Stiles, “Okay. I’m going to be right back. Twenty minutes, tops. If you stay right here and don’t try to escape while I’m gone, I will give you the world’s most amazing blowjob when I come back.”

“Promise?” Stiles whimpers.

“Promise,” Peter says. Then he grabs his shoes and leaves the apartment. Derek’s tracked down the incubus for him, fortunately without asking questions. He gives his uncle a strange look as they get what they need from it (specifically its penis; from there it’s better not to ask questions). Then he heads back to the apartment. Stiles is still there, which is something of a relief, as Peter had had visions of him getting free and accosting random strangers, begging for sex.

“Sex now, right?” he pants, squirming around on the bed as Peter comes in.

“In a minute. Drink this.” Peter presses the glass that holds the potion against his lips. Stiles’ swallows automatically, then makes a choking little noise.

“S’terrible,” he protests.

“Drink it anyway,” Peter says, pushing the glass at him. Stiles gags but obeys. Peter has him wash it down with some water. “Better?”

“Might be sick,” Stiles says, and he does look a little green around the gills. On the upside, he’s not throwing himself at Peter anymore. Clarity is starting to return to his eyes. “Ohhh, God. This is like . . . the world’s worst hangover times . . . a bajillion.”

Peter unties him and helps him roll over, talks him through a few deep breaths.

“My thumb hurts,” Stiles says blearily.

“It’s broken. I’ll take you to Scott’s. His mother can fix it for you.”

He has to help Stiles to his feet. The teenager is weak, trembling, soaked with sweat. He leans heavily on Peter on their way out to the car. And he doesn’t say a word the entire drive. It’s not until they pull up outside Scott’s house ten minutes later that he says, “I can make it to the door on my own,” and Peter merely nods in response. Then Stiles hesitates. “Uh. Thanks for uh, you know. For not . . .”

“Raping you?” Peter asks.

Stiles winces, but says, “Yeah. But not just for that. For finding another solution, to . . . keep it from going on any longer than it had to.”

Peter glances over at him and opens his mouth to make an acerbic remark, a question about what Stiles thinks his ulterior motivations might have been. Then he changes his mind. Despite his own opinions on the matter, he’s given Stiles ample reason to feel that way about him, and being a jerk about it will only make things worse. If there’s a way to coax Stiles back into his bed hidden in this incident, that isn’t going to be it.

But of course that is the problem, he muses. No matter how he had handled the incident, Stiles would still wonder if he had done it because that was the best way to get Stiles back. And to be fair, Stiles is one hundred percent correct in his estimations of Peter’s character. So in the end, Peter just points to the door to Scott’s house and says, “He’s probably worried about you.”

Stiles nods and gets out of the car. He’s wobbly, but stays vertical. Peter watches him go, but drives away without waiting to see if Stiles gets in okay.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

When Scott opens the door, Stiles sees the look on his face and accurately assesses that he has four seconds to explain what happened before Scott completely flips his shit. “I’m okay,” he says hastily. “Really.”

Scott’s eyes are bright gold and the tips of his claws are already out. “You don’t look okay,” he snarls.

“I’m just – tired.” Stiles realizes a moment too late when he hears Scott snarl how that came out. “Not because – he didn’t, okay? He didn’t touch me.”

Some of the anger fades out of Scott’s face, replaced by confusion. “What?”

“He didn’t have sex with me. He found another way to break the spell. Scott, I swear, he didn’t – look, can we not do this on your doorstep?”

After a moment of hesitation, Scott stands back to let Stiles in. “What happened?”

Cradling his injured hand against his chest, Stiles says, “He tied me up so I would stop throwing myself at him and looked in books and talked to his contacts until he found some way to break the spell. Then he drove me here. That’s it. Beginning, middle, end. Well, and I hurt my hand trying to escape. Take a look at it?”

“Yeah, sure.” They sit down at the kitchen table. Scott grimaces as he examines the injury, then gets some materials so he can splint it. “So . . . let me guess,” Scott says, getting them both a soda from the refrigerator and an ice pack from the freezer for Stiles’ hand. “You’re going to tell me that this proved your point.”

“What? No,” Stiles says. “No, this, even I don’t get.”

“I thought for sure he was gonna do it,” Scott says. “I mean, I wouldn’t have let him, but Deaton said . . . that you were hurting, so I thought . . .”

“I’m not saying you were wrong,” Stiles says. “I just . . . I’m not sure if he did it because it was the right thing to do, or if he did it because he enjoyed watching me suffer, or if he did it because he thinks that I’ll swoon back into his arms and onto his dick. And . . . fuck, man. I know that you don’t get Peter, but I usually do. And this has just . . . I’m fuckin’ stumped.”

Scott thinks this over for a minute. “Maybe you should ask him why he did it.”

“And try to get a straight answer out of him?” Stiles lets out a snort.

Scott shrugs. “Maybe he’ll surprise you.”

“Okay, now it’s you I don’t get,” Stiles says. “You were happier than anybody when I broke it off with him. Now it sounds like you’re trying to convince me that I should give him another chance.”

“I guess,” Scott says. “I just, you know, I thought everything would be better once you broke up with him, but you’ve been all moody and depressed and not sleeping and just . . . maybe I was wrong, you know? I can be a man and admit that maybe I was wrong. I just want you to be happy, dude.”

Stiles makes a face despite himself, and Scott laughs and punches him in the shoulder, and they both decide that it’s probably better not to talk about it for a while. They settle down with popcorn and a movie, and Stiles falls asleep less than ten minutes in, exhausted from the ordeal.

The next day, Stiles dithers about it, but he knows that the longer he waits to go talk to Peter, the worse he’s going to feel about it. So he tells Scott and Lydia where he’s going (just in case he disappears or something, hey, might as well be prepared for the worst), grabs a couple of cups of coffee (he prefers his own black and bitter, but Peter is a connoisseur who likes flavored lattes or cappuccinos and God forbid he ever drink Starbucks), and heads over.

He hesitates at the door to Peter’s apartment, but then mutters, “Jesus, man up,” and knocks.

Peter swings it open a few moments later and he looks mildly amused and not at all surprised to see Stiles standing there. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” he says.

Stiles shoves the cup of coffee at him. “Yes, I came here to say thank you, try not to be a dick about it.”

“You said thank you yesterday,” Peter says, but accepts the coffee. “Hazelnut?”

Stiles nods. “Yeah, okay. I want to know why.”

“Demanding little snot, aren’t you.”

“One of my less charming qualities, I admit,” Stiles says. He regards Peter over the rim of his cup. “Seriously. I don’t . . . I’m not used to looking at something you did and not understanding it. I always thought I had you pegged. You do what you want, plain and simple. But sometimes I can’t figure out why you want. Was it honestly to be a decent person? Were you enjoying watching me suffer? Were you hoping you could use it to con me back into bed with you?”

Peter shrugs. “Can’t it be a little of all of those?”

“I guess. Was it?”

There’s a pause. “Contrary to whatever you might believe about me, I’ve never enjoyed the concept of taking you against your will. Convincing you that you wanted it was much more exciting for me.”

“God, put it like that and it sounds like rape anyway.”

“Dubious consent at best,” Peter agrees, taking another drink of his coffee. “But not a lack of consent.”

“Except that one time while I was asleep,” Stiles points out, trying not to smirk despite himself.

Peter rolls his eyes. “All right, yes, fine. That one time.”

“So you’re saying that the idea of having sex with me yesterday was . . . morally repugnant to you.”

“I wouldn’t go so far as to say repugnant,” Peter says. “And if you continue picking up Scott’s habit of wedging twenty-five cent words into casual conversation, I will beat you unconscious.”

“At least I use them correctly.”

“Touché,” Peter says, with a snort. “But no. I would agree the idea was distasteful, but if another hour had gone by and I hadn’t been any closer to a solution, I probably would have just jerked you off and had done with it. Yes, I was enjoying watching you suffer a little. I was enjoying watching you beg me quite a bit, as long as I didn’t think too hard about why you were doing it. And I have to admit it was at least partially to spite everyone who thought I would do it without any sort of objection.”

“That’s totally fair,” Stiles says.

“So. Question answered?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “I guess. So you’re saying that you weren’t trying to convince me I should keep having sex with you.”

Peter frowns. “I suppose that depends. Are you feeling so inclined?”

“A little,” Stiles says. “Okay, a lot. Fuck. You’re the worst, you know that? Just when I think I can deal with this, you have to go all honorable on me. Or . . . as close to honorable as you’re capable of getting, I guess. And I’m clear-headed now, but still pretty horny. I talked to Deaton, he said that’s normal. Not magical, just . . . a, uh, a hormonal effect.”

“Fascinating,” Peter murmurs.

“Yeah, okay, you can do your research later.” Stiles huffs out a breath. “But I’m not . . . I’m not doing this with you. Either we’re together or we’re not. And right now I’m leaning towards not, because I’m still over here looking for your ulterior motives.”

“You do realize that it doesn’t bother me that you do that, right?” Peter asks, and Stiles blinks at him. “You said once you felt ‘guilty’ about it. Don’t. I’m well aware of what I’ve done, and I’ve never pretended to be anyone I’m not – at least, not with you. You have every right to search for my ulterior motives. To be honest, if you trusted me one hundred percent, I wouldn’t want you. Because that would make you a fool. And I can’t abide fools.”

Stiles mouth works for a moment before he takes a large swig of his coffee. “Okay. Cards on the table? I don’t give a shit about you trying to manipulate your way into being an alpha. I don’t care if you try to maneuver the pack into dangerous positions so you can laugh at them later. None of them trust you. They’ve all learned that lesson, some of them the hard way. They can take care of themselves, and like you said, I’m not responsible for your actions. Only my own.”

“All right,” Peter says. “What, then?”

“It’s this,” Stiles says, gesturing to indicate the empty space between them. “You saying you want to keep me. You implying that we have some sort of future together. And I want that. It’s crazy and it’s probably not even a little bit healthy, but I do. But what if it’s all just one of your games? Some long con that I’m not seeing? That thought will never leave my mind and that fucking terrifies me and there’s nothing you can do to prove yourself to me. Even if you risked your life to save mine, there would still be that tiny part of the back of my mind saying ‘it was all part of his plan’. That’s what – I can’t – I just fucking can’t, Peter. I can’t live waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

Peter regards him in silence for a long moment, then nods and says, “I understand.”

Stiles sets down his cup and swallows hard. “So, I just . . . yeah. Okay. I guess it was good to get that off my chest. I’m gonna – I’m just gonna go.”

Peter’s quiet until he’s almost to the door. Then he reaches out and grabs him by the wrist. “What if you could know?”

Stiles looks at him suspiciously. “Know what?”

“My intentions.” Peter waves this aside. “The truth. We live in a strange world, Stiles. It doesn’t always have to be masks and mirrors. There could be a spell, or a potion – a way for you to guarantee honesty from me. To learn the truth.”

“You’re talking about me actually using magic to force you to be honest with me,” Stiles says skeptically. “Because that’s the basis for a healthy relationship.”

Peter shakes his head. “No. You’re looking at it backwards. Not to force me to be honest – but to force you to know that I’m being honest.” He sees that Stiles is thinking about it. “You can do all the research. All the preparations. That way you would know it was legitimate, that it wasn’t a trick. Then you could ask me, and you would know for certain. You would be able to trust me, at least about certain things, in a way that you can’t now.”

“Maybe,” Stiles says. There’s still doubt in his gaze, but he’s obviously intrigued by the concept. “Yeah, maybe. I mean. If you were willing. Only if you were willing.”

“I wouldn’t have suggested it otherwise,” Peter says. A little smile quirks at the corner of his mouth. “I lose nothing here. I can’t remember the last time I actually lied to you. Oh, mislead, perhaps, or was vague and cryptic – ”

“And annoying,” Stiles chips in.

“But outright lied to your face? I don’t bother. You always know. Even when I thought I had you, you knew. So I don’t see this as a loss. I only have one condition.”

“I actually feel better knowing that you have a condition. Shoot.”

“Don’t ask me if I love you,” Peter says, and he’s completely serious. “I don’t know what I would say, and I don’t know if either of us could handle the answer. Don’t ever ask me. Can you live with that?”

Stiles lets out a breath. “Yeah. Yeah, that, I can live with. Because, you know . . . I’m not meant for some fairy tale romance like Scott and Allison. That’s just not me. I think . . . it’s better if I’m with someone like you. Someone who understands, who’s okay with not being my first priority, because when shit goes down . . .”

“You’ll do the right thing,” Peter says, and nods. “I know. Can’t say I understand or approve, but I know.”

Stiles rolls his eyes at that. “And I thought for a while that I was depriving myself of, you know, meeting someone and having an epic romance someday, but . . . shit. Maybe that will happen, I don’t know, but I don’t see the point in leaving a relationship I’m perfectly happy in on the off chance that something better might come down the pipeline someday. That’s just fucking stupid. It’s not like I’m unhappy with you.”

“Damned with faint praise, as usual,” Peter says.

“God, you’re such a drama queen. How can everyone we deal with on a daily basis not realize what a gigantic dork you are?”

Peter smirks at him. “Don’t you have research you should be doing?”

“Yeah, okay, but first I have to go home and jerk off, like, you don’t even know.”

“Oh, I’m fairly sure I do,” Peter replied. “I could talk you through it, if you like.”

“No, I think I’m gonna fantasize about Derek this time,” Stiles says, straight-faced. “You might win intellectually, but damn, his biceps, I mean, seriously.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “You think you’re hilarious, don’t you.”

“Hilarious and adorable,” Stiles says. He heads for the door, then half turns. “One last thing. I hereby give you permission, should I ever get lust spelled again, to give me a freakin’ hand job and get it over with. Whether we’re together or not. Deal?”

“Deal,” Peter agrees.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles thinks about taking this to Scott, but he isn’t sure what he’d say, isn’t sure he’d want to know, and anyway, there’s someone else who would be more help. Which is why he finds himself on Lydia’s doorstep the next day. It’s a Saturday morning, crisp and clear and beautiful. She obviously hasn’t been up long. She’s dressed, but her hair is done in a loose braid and she’s not wearing any makeup. She looks a little murderous that he’s disturbing her before she’s had a chance to put herself together for the day. He fends her off with a quick, “I brought pastries,” holding up a box.

Lydia laughs and lets him in. They sit down with tea and croissants. “And why are you darkening my doorstep?” she asks.

“It’s about Peter,” Stiles says, and explains the werewolf’s offer to her. Lydia listens with a blank expression, not offering any opinion on it. “First things first,” Stiles says, once he’s done that. “I want to make sure it’s okay with you. If I’m with him.”

Lydia arches one perfect eyebrow at him. “I wasn’t aware my opinion mattered.”

“It . . . it’s different now,” Stiles says. “I mean, when this started, it was just sex, you know. And honestly I didn’t have a lot of choice in the matter. I could have told him to stop and he would have, but . . . he initiated everything, he came after me. So. There’s that. This would be different. This would be some sort of actual relationship, and I’m as much responsible as he is. And yes, I want to make sure that’s okay with you. Because Peter’s done horrible things, but I can get over most of them because they were to people who deserved it, you know? Like, I don’t give even half a fuck that he killed Kate Argent. She was a psycho murderer bitch. And I can get over what he did to Scott because Scott is over what he did to Scott, and it all sort of worked out, you know? But what he did to you was different.”

Lydia sighs and takes a sip of her tea. “That’s true. Although I can’t exactly blame him for wanting to live.”

“Well, me neither,” Stiles says. “It’s not so much what he did as how he did it. I mean . . . you were pretty fucked up for a while there, you know?”

“Thanks for reminding me,” Lydia says tartly. Then she shrugs. “What am I going to say, Stiles? I’m dating Aiden. He helped kill Boyd. I still can’t bring him anywhere near Derek without Derek half-shifting involuntarily. And Aiden had a hell of a lot less excuse for what he did than Peter did.”

“Okay, but,” Stiles says, “Aiden regrets what he did. Peter doesn’t.”

Lydia considers this, then actually laughs a little. “God, we live in a fucked up world, don’t we. We should really look at our choices.”

Stiles laughs, too. “Yeah, we really should. But okay. I mean, if you’re okay with it. I don’t think it needs to make sense. I just wanted . . . to be sure.”

“Well, I do appreciate that,” Lydia says. “Now come on. We’ve got researching to do.”

She wants to invite Allison, so Stiles agrees that Scott can come too, and of course that means Isaac shows up. Since the incident with the djinn, the three of them have been suspiciously cuddly. Stiles has filed that under ‘not my business’, a file that he sometimes wishes Scott had, but he’s happy for them. They seem to have worked everything out, and they seem a hell of a lot happier. It’s helped keep both of them stable in the aftermath of their surrogate sacrifice, and he’s done his best to keep his own troubles to himself.

“So what is it about this guy?” Isaac asks, as they sit around Lydia’s kitchen table with laptops and dusty old books. “Why are we going to all this trouble so you can keep fucking Peter Hale? Has he memorized the kama sutra, or what?”

“You know, it would not surprise me in the slightest if Peter had memorized the kama sutra,” Stiles says, deflecting the question.

“That has nothing to do with this, though,” Allison says, gesturing to the piles of books and papers. “Because this research isn’t so you can keep fucking him. This research is because you want more than that out of him.”

“Guys, do we have to talk about this?” Stiles asks.

“Well, yeah, I think we do,” Allison says.

Stiles sighs. “Okay. You want the truth? God’s honest truth. Peter views ninety-nine point nine percent of people as so far below him that he doesn’t count them fit to polish his shoes. Out of all the people in the world, he wants me. He is a fucking genius, okay, he’s smarter than any of us. And these qualities that I really pride myself on having – if you’ll allow me to shed modesty for a moment – the qualities of intelligence, tenacity, cunning – these are the same qualities that he likes in me. He doesn’t care that I’m not a werewolf, that I can’t bench press a Buick, whatever. He values me. And let me tell you, after being the weak little human in the back that people push around and kidnap and generally don’t respect, that is really fucking something. Especially coming from him.”

Scott rubs a hand over his face. “We never . . . we didn’t mean it like that. I mean, we value you.”

“Yeah, you valued me so much that you left me behind every time there was shit to be done, and that’s how this got started in the first place,” Stiles points out. Scott grimaces. “I’m not saying you guys were wrong to want to protect me. But Peter doesn’t think I need protecting. Peter understands that I’m going to throw myself into danger and that someday he might lose me. And it pisses him off but he doesn’t stop me because he knows that I’m capable of making my own choices and that he’s not going to change me. And that is why I want to be with him.”

“Is it bad that all that made sense to me?” Isaac asks.

“Probably,” Stiles says, with a snort of laughter. “Look, guys, I’m not saying that this is ever going to be a one hundred percent healthy relationship. But in our world, I’m thinking maybe it’s the best we can get. And I want this. He didn’t trick me into it. I’m smarter than that, okay? I want this all on my own. I want to help him become an alpha and be his right-hand man and terrorize asshole hunters who think they can do whatever they want, I want to be there with him the next time there’s some violent monster in town and goad him into protecting innocent people because he’ll do that if it gets me to shut up about it, I want people in the supernatural world to hear my name and know that I’m dangerous, that I can hurt them, that I’m Peter Hale’s equal because he thinks of me that way.”

After that, nobody seems to have a lot to say about Stiles and Peter’s relationship.

“Okay, here’s . . . no, that won’t work,” Scott says, about two hours later.

“What’s wrong with it?” Allison asks. “Maybe it can be modified.”

“Well, it goes both ways,” Scott says.

Stiles looks up. “You mean, it would force me to be honest with him, too? Good, I like that. Pass it over.”

Scott frowns. “You don’t . . .”

“Give it here,” Stiles says. “It’s fine. I don’t lie to Peter, anyway. He catches me every time.” He takes the book from Scott’s reluctant hands and looks the spell over. He likes the look of it. It’s not active all the time, so Peter could still lie and manipulate and joke all he wants, unless specific conditions are met. Stiles likes that. He doesn’t want to change Peter, doesn’t want to make him any less what he is. He slaps the book shut. “Gotta go.”

“Have fun!” Lydia calls after him, laughing.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Peter isn’t home, which annoys Stiles, since he gave his key back and now he can’t get in. So he takes a picture of the spell with his phone and sends it to Peter. He’s not sure what sort of response he expects, and when he doesn’t get a text or an e-mail back, he starts to get nervous. The minutes trickle by and he winds up pacing back and forth in front of Peter’s door. Until he had been forced to explain it to the others, he hadn’t realized exactly how badly he wanted this.

About half an hour later, Peter’s car pulls up into its usual space in the building’s parking lot. He gets out of the car and he’s wearing that damned cardigan without anything underneath it. Stiles’ mouth waters involuntarily. “Where have you been?” he asks.

“Out carousing,” Peter says, smiling at him easily. “Enjoying my last night of freedom.”

Stiles gives him a withering look. “I’m not going to make you wear a chastity belt.” He pauses. “Unless you’re into that sort of thing.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “No, thank you,” he says. “I picked up what we need,” he adds, taking a brown paper bag out of the passenger seat of his car. “It all looked fairly standard. White candles, crow feathers, blood of a virgin, et c.”

“I think the two of us might be the least virginal people in this entire apartment complex, if not this town,” Stiles remarks. Peter gives a snort of laughter and lets them into the apartment. “What, no rose petals?”

The werewolf gives him an even look. “Do you have plans for the next . . . thirty-six hours?” he asks.

“No . . .” Stiles says.

“Good,” Peter says, and doesn’t elaborate on what he has in mind. Stiles feels his knees go weak and tries to ignore the sensation. Peter sets the bag down and accepts the book from Stiles. He looks over the spell for several long minutes while Stiles tries to keep his dick in his pants. “You do realize that this spell goes both ways, yes?” Peter finally says.

“Yep. And I’m applying the same condition that you did.”

Peter glances up, then nods. “I accept.”

The spell is just as easy as it looks – probably a great deal easier than it should be. Of course, it helps that it was written with a lot of caveats that they can avoid because they’re both willing participants. There’s a ceremonial knife, a drop of blood from each of them, a circle that they both sit inside.

The exact specifications of the spell is that it only works when both parties are joined by both hands, and direct questions are asked. It also can’t force them to answer; they still have the option to refuse, they just don’t have the option to lie. Stiles likes that because it means that it won’t interfere with their day-to-day life, although it probably will have some interesting consequences for their sex life. He doesn’t think they’re ever joined by both hands during sex, but he’ll have to make sure in the future.

He knows when it takes effect, because he can feel it, a strange tingling where their hands are touching, the tiny cut in his thumb throbbing with the beat of his pulse. He spares a moment of disbelief that Peter actually let him do this spell.

There was a list of questions he had wanted to ask, to set everything straight, but in the moment his nerves get the better of him and he blurts out, “Why do you want me?”

Peter’s eyebrows go up, but he answers readily enough. “Because you’re the only person I’ve ever met who can really keep up with me.”

“Did – did you plan for this to happen? This relationship?”

“No,” Peter says, with a snort. “Hell, I didn’t figure I’d ever even get to third base with you. I figured you would get freaked out and tattle on me to Derek or Scott and I’d have to step off.”

“Very flattering,” Stiles.

“Well, in a way, it is,” Peter says. “You thwarted my expectations. Which is something that people rarely do. So I suppose it was at that point that I became truly invested. You’re an enigma. A puzzle that I’m always trying to solve.”

“I didn’t think I was that complicated,” Stiles says.

“That’s because your self-esteem is about ten notches lower than where it should be,” Peter says. “Which should make you quite open to manipulation. And yet, you were strangely resistant. As if you believed in yourself without knowing it.”

Stiles swallows and makes himself ask the question he had intended to ask. “Is this relationship part of some long con?”

“No,” Peter says.

Stiles feels some of the tension leave his shoulders. “Then what . . . what’s your plan for us?”

“At the moment, to take you into my bedroom and do truly despicable things to you,” Peter says.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Thank you, Captain Obvious. I meant, in the long-term.”

Peter arches an eyebrow again. “Phrase it as a question.”

Stiles sighs. “In the long-term, what is your plan for us?”

“To become legend, I think,” Peter says, his eyes gleaming. “To become an alpha and build a pack with you and be the sort of people that monsters whisper about, that they tell stories about their children to, you know, if you don’t eat your vegetables, Peter and his Stiles will come and get you.”

Stiles’ breathing is quick and shallow. “Oh my God, I need to have sex with you right now,” he says.

“Patience,” Peter says, smirking. “Any more questions?”

“Do you have any idea how this happened? Because I sure as hell don’t.”

“No,” Peter says, with a shrug that looks almost amused. “This was never supposed to happen. It was never part of my plan for you to be anything more than a useful pawn.”

Stiles forces himself to swallow again. “Do you regret it?”

“No,” Peter says, and before Stiles can say anything, or possibly attack him, he asks, “Do you?”

“Sometimes.” The truth slips out before Stiles can stop it. It’s eerie, the way it just leaves his mouth without permission. But he keeps talking. “But I don’t think that’s because of you. I think that’s because sometimes I . . . I just wish I could go back to being normal. A regular teenager. But then I usually remember that I hated being normal. So, you know, if I have to live in this world, and it seems like I do, I want to live there with you.”

Peter lets go of his hands. “Satisfied?”

Stiles feels like he can barely breathe. “Not yet.”

Peter gives a snort. “Don’t worry on that score. Have I ever left you unsatisfied?”

It takes him a minute, and he feels a little wobbly, but Stiles manages to get to his feet. He watches as Peter double-checks the locks on the door to the apartment, then points to the bedroom. He’s suddenly glad that he had had the foresight to tell his father that he probably wouldn’t be home that night. In fact, he’s not sure of exactly when Peter plans to let him out of the bedroom.

Peter shuts the door to the bedroom behind him. “Get undressed,” he says, in that low voice that’s almost a purr, that makes every nerve in Stiles’ body leap to attention. He fumbles a little at the buttons on his plaid shirt as he peels it off, then pulls the T-shirt off. He’s aware, so very aware, of Peter watching him as he gets his clothes off. He’s already half-hard when he kicks his pants and underwear aside. “Get on the bed,” Peter says, and Stiles does as he’s told. “Do you have the slightest idea what you’ve put me through in the last month?” Peter asks casually, as he strips his own clothing off.

“Did you actually realize you had feelings?” Stiles asks, trying to keep his voice even.

“In a manner of speaking,” Peter says, “but that wasn’t what I was referring to.”

“Were you cold and lonely with only your right hand to keep you company?” Stiles replies.

“Yes,” Peter says. “Yes, I was. And now I’m going to make you pay for it.” He undoes his belt and the fly of his pants, watching Stiles watch him, still lying on the bed, not making any move to get up. “I’m going to make you pay for it all day. And possibly all night.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Stiles says. “I am looking forward to that, let me tell you.”

Once he’s naked, Peter takes the handcuffs out of the nightstand drawer. “Try not to break anything this time,” he says, and Stiles remains docile as Peter gets him secured to the bed. Then he stands back to admire the teenager spread out on the bed. “Mm, definitely better than the other day,” he says, and climbs on top of him. Stiles chokes out a noise as Peter’s mouth closes on his throat.

“Don’t break the skin,” he says, with the last of the air in his lungs.

“Your wish is my command,” Peter murmurs. He keeps himself just far enough away from Stiles that the teenager can’t grind up against him, despite how much he wants to. He lavishes attention on Stiles’ throat and chest with teeth and tongue and fingers. Stiles whimpers and pulls at the handcuffs, writhing beneath him as Peter’s hands slide down his abdomen and rest on his hips.

It goes on like that for what seems like hours, never enough to get him all the way there, or even anywhere near it, but enough to keep him hard and aching. Sometimes Peter just sits back and enjoys the view for a minute, one finger tracing over Stiles’ ribs as he pants for breath and begs for Peter to give attention where he needs it.

“You’re the worst, seriously,” Stiles gasps out, as Peter rubs a hand up and down the inside of his thigh. “You’re the devil.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Peter admonishes him. But he fishes around for the lube. Stiles groans just to see the little bottle appear, as if by magic. Then he groans again because Peter puts it aside without using it and goes back to licking along the crease of his thigh. His stubble rubs at the sensitive skin there, and Stiles lets out a moan despite himself.

“Oh, come on,” he says, as Peter’s mouth ventures closer and closer to his cock. “Come on, come on . . .”

“If you can get through this without coming until I say,” Peter says, “I will give you a special treat.”

“Yeah, I don’t . . . I don’t think that’s gonna happen,” Stiles pants, as Peter’s mouth wraps around the head of his cock. He clenches his hands into fists, the fingernails digging into his palms, and tries to think about unsexy things, which is virtually impossible. Peter drags his tongue up the underside of his cock, and he whimpers. “W-What’s the treat gonna be?”

“It’s a secret,” Peter says, grabbing the lube again.

Stiles swears fervently as Peter slides a finger inside him, his eyes rolling back in his head. He tries to focus, more determined than ever, because what his libido couldn’t accomplish, his curiosity can. He wants more than anything to know what the secret is, so even when his toes curl and Peter pushes a second finger in, he swallows the noise he wants to make and holds on. His entire body is soaked with sweat and trembling, and he can hear Peter breathing, hot and heavy, and he knows that Peter likes it when he’s like this, determined and stubborn but desperate at the same time, focused solely on Peter and what Peter’s doing to him.

Then, abruptly, Peter’s weight lifts off him and he gets off the bed. Stiles grunts a little in surprise and loss. “What, what, where are you going?” he asks, rattling the handcuffs.

“I have to go get your treat,” Peter says, and Stiles nearly comes just from that, from those words in that voice. Then he walks into the bathroom.

“Oh my God!” Stiles shouts after him. “What is it, asshole? You’re killing me here!”

“It’s a surprise, remember?” Peter says, his voice drifting in from the bathroom.

“You’re the worst!” Stiles shouts after him. The seconds stretch into minutes and he rattles the handcuffs again, trying to get free. He’s worked up enough that he won’t be going soft any time soon, but being left hanging like this is pure agony. “Peter, what the fuck, come on, don’t be a jerk, what’s taking so long?”

“I have to get your treat ready,” Peter says.

“I swear to God, if you come out of there in lingerie or something, I’m gonna . . .” Stiles’ voice trails off because he isn’t sure whether the correct ending to that sentence is ‘cream myself’ or ‘die laughing’.

Instead, Peter comes out empty-handed. Stiles growls at him. Peter just laughs and settles on top of him again, distracting him with a kiss. Stiles moans into it, trying to grind upwards, against Peter’s ass. Peter clicks his tongue disapprovingly but doesn’t stop him, and Stiles is left wondering how even a tongue-click can be hot. Then Peter reaches around and grasps Stiles’ cock at the base, his grip firm and sure, and Stiles practically chokes as Peter eases himself down onto it.

“H-Holy hell,” he manages. Peter’s not exactly loose, but he isn’t tight, either, and he takes Stiles easily, already slick with lube, which adequately answers the question of what he was doing in the bathroom. “Oh, fuck,” Stiles adds, as Peter rocks himself a little, getting himself settled. There’s nothing in the world that should feel this good. “Didn’t . . . didn’t you think you’d ever . . .”

“Shut up, Stiles,” Peter says, eyes half-lidded, chest rising and falling with rapid breath.

“I – I won’t – oh, Peter, fuck,” Stiles babbles, as the werewolf carefully rakes the tips of his claws over Stiles’ chest, leaving little red marks in their wake. He’s still moving slow and easy, not letting Stiles have the leverage to thrust. Stiles’ vocabulary has been reduced to single-syllable noises as he clings desperately to the last shreds of his self-control. Then Peter’s weight lifts off him slightly and he thrusts up almost involuntarily just as Peter grinds back down, and that’s it, it’s over, he comes so hard that he almost blacks out.

He’s still panting for breath while he can hear Peter laughing at him, a soft, quiet chuckle. He knows exactly what just happened and why, that Peter gave him that but had to do it in such a way that he would remain in control, that Peter worked him up first so he would come first, and it’s a stupid, childish power play that he has no problem with whatsoever even if he should.

“We should . . . do that again sometime,” he manages, his voice thick and slow.

“When I feel like it,” Peter says, teasing.

Stiles can still feel the hardness of Peter’s cock pressed against his hip. “Lemme suck you,” he says.

“How can I resist a request like that?” Peter asks, crawling up him, dropping kisses and bites on Stiles’ abdomen and chest as he does so. He straddles Stiles’ chest, but the angle is bad, Stiles gets his mouth around the head of Peter’s cock but can’t manage much else.

He pulls back. “Uncuff me, I’ll choke if I try to take it like this.”

“Pushy, pushy,” Peter says, but he grabs the keys and gets Stiles free of the restraints. Stiles pushes himself up a little so he’s half-sitting, propped up on the pillows, while Peter kneels astride him. The werewolf lets out a grunt and one hand’s claws dig into the wall as Stiles takes him all the way in and sucks hard. Little bits of plaster rain down on them. Stiles would laugh, if he could, but he’s intent on making Peter come as quickly as possible, to get a little of his own back.

He pulls back long enough to say, “Fuck my mouth, c’mon, I want you to.” Peter makes a little noise in the back of his throat that doesn’t sound like anything Stiles has ever heard from him before and his hips snap forward like he just can’t help himself. Stiles nearly chokes but manages to keep himself together, mouth and tongue moving over Peter more eagerly than ever, and then Peter’s coming down his throat and it’s far more amazing than it has any right to be.

He’s left exhausted and sated and with a little trickle of Peter’s come on his chin, which Peter leans down and kisses it away before flopping down on his side with uncharacteristic nonchalance. “Next time I suck you off, you should let me put my fingers in your ass,” Stiles says casually.

Peter lets out a snort of actual laughter and smirks into Stiles’ shoulder. “You’re incorrigible,” he says.

“Coming from you, I take that as a compliment of the highest order,” Stiles says. He closes his eyes and groans a little as Peter bites down on his collarbone, clearly gearing up for round two. Then his phone rings. It’s ‘You’re Just Too Good To Be True’, which is Scott’s ringtone, so he rolls over and fishes around in his abandoned clothes until he finds it. He sees Peter roll his eyes, and shoves the werewolf’s face away. “Hey,” he says into the phone, and listens for a few moments. Then he gets off the bed and hangs up. “Gotta go,” he says, pulling his underwear back on. “Something’s wrong with Isaac, they’re not sure what yet. I’ll call you when I have more info.”

“Don’t bother,” Peter says, reaching for the book on the nightstand since it’s clear that more sex is out of the picture. “I find Isaac patently irritating and couldn’t care less what’s wrong with him.”

“Well, I’ll call if I think it’ll affect you, how’s that?” Stiles asks, sounding moderately amused. He pulls his T-shirt over his head. “Or if I think it’ll take me a while. Since, you know, I’m sure you’ll be pining away here, waiting for my return.”

“Don’t push your luck,” Peter says.

“Sure you don’t want to come along?” Stiles asks. “The look on Scott’s face when he sees the marks your handcuffs left is gonna be killer.”

There’s a pause during which Peter is obviously thinking about it. Then he shrugs. “Pass. It won’t be the last time.”

“Heh, true,” Stiles says. He looks at the way Peter is sprawled out on the bed, all shameless and casual about it, and wrestles with the urge to crawl back into the bed with him. He pushes the thought away. There will be time for that later. For now, duty calls. And Peter will be there when he gets back.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

Chapter Text

Peter enjoys Halloween. It’s the sort of holiday that’s meant for people like them. He enjoys walking around in his shifted form at the grocery store and hearing ‘great costume, mister!’ just because he can. It’s a ridiculously small thing to find such satisfaction in, but he never misses a chance to do it.

He had been half-hoping that Stiles would have some sort of costume that would involve wearing very little, but he’s at some rave that the others have planned. He asked Peter if he wanted to go, but the idea of that many teenagers in one place makes him cringe. The smell of the pheromones would likely knock him unconscious. Stiles says he’ll go by himself.

He’s been a little odd lately, although Peter supposes Stiles is always a little odd. A few weeks previous, there had been some serial killer wandering around, something about some girl who could control electricity, Peter hadn’t gotten many of the details. Stiles had gotten a nasty shock that had left burn marks on his palms, but Peter didn’t think that was the problem. He just seemed a little absent lately, like he wasn’t always tuned in to the conversation.

It’s just past sunset on the day after Halloween when he hears the key in the lock and glances up from the sofa. He starts to put aside the book he’s reading as Stiles comes in, and when he gets a glimpse of the teenager, he winds up dropping it on the floor. Stiles looks bad; he clearly hasn’t slept, and his hair is standing every which way, like he’s repeatedly been pushing his hands through it. He’s trembling and pale, and Peter is off the sofa and halfway across the room before he’s had time to really think about it.

“Don’t!” Stiles gasps out, skittering a step backwards. “Don’t come near me. I think – Peter, I think something’s wrong with me.”

Peter stops. He gives Stiles a cautious look. Sniffs. He doesn’t smell anything besides the normal Stiles smells, layered over with fear and anguish. “What is it?”

“I – I don’t – ” Stiles heaves for breath, leaning against the kitchen counter. “I think I hurt some people last night. I don’t remember. I don’t remember.” He babbles for a few minutes, something about keys and matched handwriting and some dark spirits leaving tattoos on people. Peter just watches him. Regardless of whether or not something is actually wrong with Stiles, he’s clearly distraught.

Peter drags over a chair and points. “Sit,” he says, and Stiles does. He gets out his ropes and ties him up, making it as secure as possible.

Stiles starts to relax a little. “And I, I told Scott, but he was just like ‘let’s not jump to conclusions’ and I just – I know you won’t let me hurt you, so – I came straight here.”

“Mm hm,” Peter says. He drags up another chair and sits down. Everything still smells normal. “Start at the beginning. Tell me everything. And this time, stay calm and tell it in a way that makes sense.”

Stiles nods and swallows. He takes a few deep breaths to even himself out. He obviously feels better now that he’s restrained. He starts talking again, and backs up a surprising amount, talking about the aftermath of their sacrifice to the Nemeton. Peter had missed a lot of that, since they had been broken up at the time. He tells him about the nightmares and the riddles.

All of this rings some bells for Peter, particularly in conjunction with the dark spirits that are now wandering about, and he pulls out his laptop and starts Googling relevant terms. He has his entire library indexed, so it takes some time before he happens on a likely culprit. “Didn’t you think that new girl was a kitsune?” he asks.

“Uh, that was the going theory, yeah,” Stiles says.

“Mm,” Peter says. He does a little more research. “I think – if you are correct – that there’s something called a nogitsune possessing you. It’s like a trickster spirit, but . . . meaner. It thrives off of chaos and pain. Right now it hasn’t taken full hold of you. It probably comes out while you’re sleeping. That’s my educated guess, anyway.”

Stiles’ breathing is a little rapid, and it’s clear that he’s edging towards panic. Peter can’t really blame him. Nobody likes hearing that their mind might not be their own. “So what, what do we do?”

“Well, before we do anything else, we need to confirm the theory.” Peter gets up and heads into his bathroom. He pulls his extensive first aid kit – he has to admit that it’s gotten a little more extensive since he started sleeping with Stiles – out from underneath his sink. He rifles through it for a few minutes before he finds what he needs, then comes back and kneels in front of Stiles. “Do you trust me?” he asks.

Stiles swallows so hard that his Adam’s apple bobs up and down, but then he nods. “Yeah,” he says.

“Good,” Peter says, and slides the needle into his arm. Stiles flinches a little, but doesn’t protest. “You’re going to sleep now, Stiles. And when you wake up . . . we’ll see who you are.”

Stiles nods a little. “How fast does it . . . oh, wow, that fast,” he says, blinking slowly up at Peter. Peter nods back, amused. Moments later, Stiles head is sagging. The fact that he’s currently tied to a chair doesn’t make any difference to him.

Since Peter is about eighty percent sure of his diagnosis – a fact that makes him highly uncomfortable – he starts research on how to get rid of a nogitsune when one appears. He finds a lot of conflicting theories, no real sound evidence. He likes that even less. There’s a plant called letharia vulpina that could prove useful, but it looks like it only banishes the nogitsune temporarily, and that won’t do any good. There’s another spell that involves going into the possessed person’s mind and exorcising the spirit from there, but that would require more than one person – one to go in and the other to anchor them on the other end.

It’s been about an hour before Stiles stirs and mumbles, “Jesus. That stuff hits like a velvet-wrapped brick.”

Peter glances over, amused, and says, “How are you feeling?”

“Like . . . I’ve been hit with a velvet-wrapped brick,” Stiles says, shaking himself, shaking it off. Peter watches him as he comes back to full consciousness. “How long was I out?”

“A little over an hour.”

“Well . . . I feel okay.” Stiles flexes his hands experimentally. “That’s good, I guess.” He let out a shaky sigh. “I guess you can untie me then.”

“Mm . . . I don’t think so,” Peter says, walking in a slow circle around Stiles, considering him. The subtle changes are fascinating. He moves his chin first, angling sideways, rather than moving his whole head. The worry lines on his forehead have smoothed out. His fingers aren’t tapping at the arm rests of the chair, the way they should be. He’s still, in a way that Stiles is never still. It isn’t that he doesn’t move, it’s just that the depth and range of motion is nowhere near what it should be. And his eyes. His eyes are different, shadowed, soulless. It makes the hair on the back of Peter’s neck stand up.

It’s a good sham, an excellent one, but it isn’t Stiles. It could fool ninety-nine percent of the people in Beacon Hills, but it doesn’t fool Peter.

“W-What?” the nogitsune asks, with a nervous laugh that sounds just like Stiles. “Come on, Peter, quit playing. It didn’t work, so, I’m not possessed, right?”

“Well, no,” Peter said, “being in that I’m speaking with the possessor instead of the possessee at this particular moment, I suppose that is technically correct.” He crouches down in front of the nogitsune. “This won’t do,” he purrs. “This won’t do at all. You will return Stiles to me, or the consequences are going to be extremely unpleasant.”

There’s a long silence, and then the nogitsune rolls its eyes. “Everyone in this town has had a melodrama overdose,” it mutters.

“Yes, a town full of drama queens, that’s us,” Peter says pleasantly. “Now, do you mind telling me what it is you’re up to here?”

The nogitsune shrugs. “Just playin’,” it says.

“Well, I would highly recommend that you go play somewhere else,” Peter says. “Now, I’m sure that removing yourself from Stiles won’t be as easy as all that, so tell me what you need, up to and including a suitable host to transfer to, and I’ll see it done.”

“And I’m supposed to believe you’ll just let me walk away?” the nogitsune asks skeptically.

“I don’t care what you do,” Peter says, “as long as you don’t do it to Stiles. Or any of the pack,” he adds, somewhat grudgingly, because he knows Stiles won’t be happy with him if he leaves the pack in danger. “You want to go get revenge on whichever kitsune sentenced you to however-long you’ve been dormant under Beacon Hills? Have yourself a jolly good time. I literally could not care less.”

The nogitsune’s eyes glint at this. “That’s interesting,” he says. “Allow me to present an alternative proposal. How about you let me stay, and we do it together? You seem like you’d make a good ally. And I could help you out, too. We could go find an alpha for you to kill.” It smirks, and it’s Stiles’ smirk, which sets Peter’s teeth on edge. “I could be a good boy for you,” it says. “I’d make your little boytoy here stronger, faster . . . you wouldn’t be stuck with someone so fragile and breakable. I’d even let him out to play on occasion, so you could keep your fucktoy. How about it?”

Peter kneels down in front of the nogitsune so they’re on eye level. He’s silent for a long minute. “Do you think I’m an idiot?” he says. “Even if I decided to do that, do you think the rest of the pack would allow it? They’d still exorcise your ass and then I’d have to deal with Stiles being right royally pissed off at me for letting you take control of him.”

“They don’t need to find out,” the nogitsune says. “We could make it work. And if I only let him out when you want him . . . he’d be yours, in a way that he isn’t now. You could control him completely. Isn’t that what you want?”

Peter rocks back on his heels. Then he smiles. “If I ever truly controlled Stiles, I would be bored with him before the night was out,” he says. “This is your last chance. You want my help transferring to a different host? Speak up now. Otherwise, I’m going to pry you out of him an inch at a time.”

“Spoilsport,” the nogitsune says. “I like this body. I’ll do what I want with it.”

“If that’s the way you want it,” Peter says. He drags the chair into his bedroom with the nogitsune still tied to it, so he doesn’t have to look at the damned thing while he does his research. He puts some duct tape over its mouth and then goes back to his laptop.

It’s four hours later and with great reluctance that Peter finally gives in and makes the call. He really doesn’t want to; he doesn’t want anyone else involved. But nothing else is working, so if he’s going to go inside Stiles’ head and pry the nogitsune out that way, he’s going to need help. And it can’t be just anybody. It has to be somebody that knows Stiles, inside and out, somebody who understands him.

He would prefer Lydia, but he’s never one hundred percent sure that Lydia isn’t going to poison him when he’s not looking (not that he blames her), so it has to be Scott. He starts to dial, then changes his mind and texts. He’s less likely to get an argument over text. He considers using Stiles’ phone instead of his own, but he knows that Stiles’ text grammar is appalling and Scott will figure out it isn’t him.

‘Need you at my place for some help with Stiles,’ Peter says, and then proceeds to ignore all of Scott’s demands for more information. Curiosity is one of the best ways to get him there. Stiles’ phone rings twice and he receives three texts from Scott about what’s up, which Peter also ignores while the nogitsune quietly seethes in the corner.

Scott shows up fifteen minutes later, and Lydia and Allison are both with him. “Well, well, the gang’s all here,” Peter says, keeping them in the living room. “I don’t recall sending invitations.”

“Cut the crap, Peter,” Scott says. “We were out on patrol when I got your texts. They wanted to come. What’s going on?”

“Do you remember yesterday, when Stiles came to you, concerned that he was possessed by some sort of dark spirit, and you brushed him off?” Peter asks.

Scott’s scowl deepens. “I didn’t brush him off, I told him to – ”

“To get some rest. Yes, and he did, and I just had a lovely chat with something called a nogitsune, which is currently trying to eat your best friend’s soul. Would you like to meet it?”

Lydia’s head jerks around. “A nogitsune?” she asks, and somehow Peter isn’t surprised at all that she’s heard of it. “That’s a Void spirit. That’s . . . bad.”

“Yes, it is,” Peter says. “I’ve found a number of ways which we might use to fix this little problem, but I can’t do them by myself. So.” He gestures for them to follow him into the bedroom. He still has Stiles tied up there, and now there’s the duct tape over his mouth. He’s clearly been listening to what’s going on, and Peter is annoyed to see that he’s worked himself into something of a state. There are tears on his cheeks.

Peter’s about to say something pithy and sarcastic when Scott hits the roof. “What do you have him tied up for?” he asks, stalking over to Stiles and jerking the tape off his mouth.

“Ow, dude, what the hell!” the nogitsune protests, his voice so close to Stiles that it sets Peter’s teeth on edge. “Jesus, Scotty, the hell took you so long, I thought I was going to starve to death here – ”

“Why did you even come here?” Scott growls, and he starts working on the ropes on Stiles’ wrists.

Peter grabs him by the forearm. “Exactly what do you think you’re doing?” he asks.

“I’m untying my friend,” Scott says, glaring at him. “This may be how you get your rocks off, but I don’t have to fucking participate.”

“Yes, what an excellent idea,” Peter says, unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “Undo all the work Stiles did by coming to me before he could hurt anyone. Pay no attention to the fact that he asked me to secure him in case he was possessed. By all means, ignore the fact that he is possessed, because he can cry a few crocodile tears.”

Scott’s growl deepens and his eyes flash gold as he shakes Peter’s hand off. “Why should I trust anything you have to say?” he asks.

Peter is about to tell him why, in excruciating detail, but the nogitsune interrupts. “Jesus, Scott, get me out of here,” he says. “If you let him talk you know he’ll convince you, it’s what he does, and I can’t – I can’t stay here with him.” His voice wobbles quite convincingly, and Peter’s ready to scream because it’s taken the nogitsune fourteen seconds to accurately assess the dynamic between Peter and Scott and use it against him. Calling Scott was probably the stupidest decision he’s ever made.

“Yeah, yeah,” Scott says hastily, getting one of his wrists undone.

“Scott, if you let him go and he hurts people – ”

“You’ll what?” Scott demands. “Cry some crocodile tears yourself? Why the fuck would you care if anyone gets hurt besides yourself?”

“I’ll care because – ”

“Come on, Scott, please,” the nogitsune pleads.

Scott’s hand is on Stiles’ other wrist when his forearm is grabbed again. Not by Peter, but this time, by Lydia. “Excuse me, but have you come completely uncorked?” she asks, her pleasant voice edged with frost. “Are you so angry about the fact that Stiles and Peter are fucking that you’re going to let it completely cloud your judgment? Are you seriously going to stand there and not notice that the thing in that chair is not your brother, because Stiles would never, ever beg for a rescue without at least one smartass comment?”

Scott blinks, taken aback. His gaze darts between Lydia’s tightened jaw to Stiles’ pleading expression to Peter’s five-hundred-percent-done face. Then he slowly backs away. “Stiles,” he says, a little more slowly, “when we were in first grade – ”

“No good,” Peter says. “It can access Stiles’ memories. There’s nothing you can ask that it won’t be able to answer.”

Scott’s face creases in frustration. “Then what do we do?” he asks.

“Well, for starters, we let Peter explain why he thinks Stiles is possessed, how he knows it’s a nogitsune, and then we independently verify. And if that’s really Stiles, the next words out of his mouth are going to be ‘you should keep me tied up until you can be sure I’m safe’.”

The nogitsune sighs. “Yeah, I – I guess she’s right.”

“Shut up,” Peter says, and slaps the tape back over his mouth before he can say something he’ll regret. He gestures to the others and heads out to the other room. “Let’s start at the beginning.”

He does. He tells them what Stiles had told him, most of which they’re able to verify because one or all of them were there when it happened. He shows them the research he’s gathered – the evidence that matches a nogitsune up with the events that have occurred and the symptoms that Stiles is having. He lets them read through it, debate amongst themselves, even research other possibilities. He’s burning with impatience, but he knows that letting them work through it on their own will take less time in the long run than trying to convince them.

It helps that Lydia agrees with him from the beginning, and in fact still has the small tattoo that the Oni gave her, which lets them match it against the description in Peter’s books. He keeps his ears on the nogitsune in the other room, occasionally trying to wriggle free, while the others sort it out. Eventually they agree, and Peter presents the method he found to try to exorcise Stiles. It’s simple enough, really, to just go inside Stiles’ head, find the nogitsune, and kill it where it’s vulnerable. Scott insists on calling Deaton to verify with him that the spell is legit. Fortunately, the veterinarian doesn’t give them the runaround for once, and everyone agrees to proceed.

Now Lydia hesitates, studying Peter with narrowed eyes. “Why do you want one of us to go in, instead of going in yourself while we anchor you?”

“Because, sweet child, I don’t trust you not to kill me while I’m defenseless,” Peter says.

“We could say the same of you,” Scott retorts.

“But there’s only one of me. There’s three of you. I’ll do the spell, send in Scott, and Allison can keep her arrow pointed at my throat, to be loosed in case of a sudden change of heart.”

Allison and Lydia exchange a glance. Then Allison nods. “That sounds pretty reasonable.”

“I want to go in, too,” Lydia says. “Will the spell support two?”

Peter flips through the book. “It’s more risky that way, in that his mind will detect the intrusion more quickly, but there’s no reason it can’t be done.”

“Then I’m going,” Lydia says. Scott glances at her and then nods, accepting this.

The nogitsune rolls its eyes and somehow manages a smirk through the duct tape while Peter does the preparations. Scott drags in two chairs because for some reason he doesn’t want to sit on Peter’s bed. Peter lets that go. They’ve got bigger problems than Scott’s delicate sensibilities. He gets everything ready, has them both sit down, join hands. Allison’s hands are on her bow, but her gaze is fixed on Stiles. The nogitsune looks smug and unbothered as Peter begins the spell.

Peter isn’t worried. Kitsunes and their ilk are arrogant by nature, the type of conceit that comes with age. It’s better for them if the nogitsune doesn’t think they have a chance of winning. Its underestimation of them can only help them in the long run.

Peter’s lack of concern stems from two sources, only one of which would he be willing to admit. The first is faith in Stiles, in his mental fortitude, his willpower, his cunning. Somewhere in there, Stiles is still awake, and when the nogitsune isn’t looking, Stiles is going to give it one hell of a run for its money.

And then there’s Scott. Peter knows that he’ll never really comprehend the strength that Scott carries with him, but he knows it’s there, and he respects it. Scott’s determination and moral integrity give him a power that few supernatural creatures could ever rival. The one way that Peter and Scott are alike is that they both refuse to consider failure an option, albeit for very different reasons. And although Peter would hopscotch over hot coals before he would admit it aloud, there’s nobody else in the world he would trust with Stiles more than Scott.

Minutes trickle by. Everything is quiet. Allison starts to pace. Peter stays focused on the spell.

Stiles’ body flinches suddenly, convulses. His eyes roll back into his head. Peter hears Allison take in a sharp breath, but she doesn’t interfere. Scott shudders in his seat, and Lydia whimpers.

Then all goes quiet again. Peter feels a bead of sweat roll down his temple. He forces himself to concentrate. Then Stiles convulses again. He folds in half like he’s trying to retch, and Allison has enough presence of mind to dart over and rip the duct tape off his mouth. He immediately doubles over and spews a black, noxious substance all over the floor.

“Oh, gross!” Allison blurts out, as Stiles continues to shudder and retch. It comes out of his mouth in putrid, sticky clumps. Then, finally, he goes still except for his harsh breathing. Peter approaches cautiously as Scott and Lydia both open their eyes, shake their heads like they’re coming up from underwater. Peter looks down at the gruesome mess and sees a fly feebly beating its wings. He stomps his foot down on it.

Stiles abruptly gulps in air. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” he says, in a thin, reedy voice. Scott is immediately right in front of him, shredding the ropes, and Peter allows this even though his better judgment says to wait. Scott won’t be deterred, and there’s no point in antagonizing him. “Oh my God,” Stiles continues to repeat, the oath coming closer to a sob each time. Scott has him in an embrace, rocking him back and forth, while Lydia and Allison crowd around him on each side.

Peter says nothing and doesn’t approach. He watches. He watches and listens to Stiles babble, evaluates his twitching, considers his language, until he’s finally satisfied that it’s Stiles, just Stiles, sitting in front of him. By then, Stiles’ panic attack is abating. He looks up as Peter kneels down in front of him. “Peter,” he chokes out. “Peter.”

Peter holds out his arms, and Stiles all but throws himself into Peter’s embrace. Scott gives him an annoyed look, but then ducks his head and looks away. Peter pays him no mind, smoothing Stiles’ hair down. “Shh, shh, I’ve got you,” he says.

“Do you?” Stiles asks, his voice still edged with hysteria. “You have me, but is it me?”

“All you, only you,” Peter assures him quietly. He looks at the black mess on his floor, the tarry substance all over Stiles’ chin and shirt. “Come on. Let’s go get you cleaned up.”

“We’ll clean up out here,” Lydia offers, and Peter nods at her in thanks. He takes Stiles into the bathroom, has him undress and sit on the toilet. He’s still shaking, but Peter pays that no mind. He gets a washcloth and cleans off Stiles’ face, occasionally just rubbing a hand over his hair or the back of his neck. It seems to settle him down some.

When they finally come back out, Lydia and Allison have gotten the room cleaned up. Peter’s grateful that he has fake wood floors instead of carpeting. Lydia says they called Deaton and confirmed that, given the results of the spell, Stiles should be fine now. Scott approaches somewhat hesitantly and says, “C’mon, dude, I’ll take you home.”

Stiles looks up and then shakes his head. “I . . . I’d rather stay here tonight. Just in case. I might not be safe.”

“Deaton said – ”

“I heard what Deaton said,” Stiles says, a little more loudly than he seems to intend, because then he flinches back and mumbles, “I want to stay with Peter tonight. He’ll keep me safe.”

Scott’s brow furrows in anxiety and frustration, but Allison twines her fingers through his and says, “Okay, Stiles. We’ll call you tomorrow to see how you’re doing.”

Stiles nods a little. He embraces each of the girls in turn, and then Scott. Despite the momentary awkwardness, Scott gives him a tight, prolonged hug. Then he claps Stiles on the back and lets go. Peter sees them out of the apartment and double checks both locks after they go. Then he goes back into the bedroom and gets Stiles into bed. It’s late, he’s exhausted, they both need their sleep.

Stiles drifts off immediately, but as soon as he starts to fall into a doze, he jerks himself back awake with a gasping noise. Peter soothes him, but this happens two, three, and then four times. “Stiles, go to sleep before I choke you out,” he says.

“But what – what if I’m not me when I wake up again?” Stiles asks.

“You will be. We took that thing out of you, Stiles. You’re going to be fine.”

Stiles closes his eyes and presses his forehead against Peter’s collarbone. “I could still hear and see you,” he murmurs. “I could hear everything that . . . that thing was saying. I thought you wouldn’t know. But you did.”

Peter rubs his thumb over Stiles’ lips. “Do you think I don’t know you by now?”

“I do, I just . . . that thing said . . .”

“Don’t worry about what it said. It was playing mind games with you. You’re here, you won. Get some rest. Nothing will happen to you while I’m here.”

Stiles nods a little. “But about what it said to you . . . do you want me to be stronger?”

Peter shrugs. “I would appreciate it, yes. I would be in favor of you getting the Bite. But it’s your choice to make, not mine. And I wouldn’t want you stronger like that, because that wasn’t you. It looked like you, talked like you, but it never would’ve been what you are to me. Don’t forget about the deal we made. I get to keep you. You’re mine.” He presses a kiss against Stiles’ forehead. “My fragile, breakable Stiles.”

Stiles’ breathing has become slower, easier, during this string of sentences. By the end of it, he’s asleep.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Peter is well aware that when innocent lives are on the line, Stiles is going to do the right thing. This has a tendency to irritate him, but he knows better than to try to change Stiles. Such an action would be doomed for failure in any case, and only piss him off. And in the heat of the moment, he can’t really blame Stiles. It’s when they’re meticulously planning something and Stiles insists on throwing himself underneath the bus that it really gets on Peter’s nerves.

“No, it has to be me,” he says, to the little tic in Peter’s jaw that he’s dismayed to have developed. “This thing, whatever it is, only goes after guys, so that lets out Allison. And when Scott and Isaac tried being the bait, it avoided them. It must be able to tell that they’re werewolves. So it’s got to be me, okay?”

“No,” Peter says. “No, it is not okay. Need I remind you that the last three people who have disappeared from the clubs have turned up later dismembered?”

“I’m not going to get dismembered,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes. “You guys can watch all the exits and make sure that nothing happens to me.”

Peter scowls at him and comes quite close to sulking, although he would never admit it. But he knows it’s an argument he won’t win. Three teenage boys have disappeared from the local clubs, only to turn up a week later in pieces. It looks like they suffered horribly before their deaths, and there’s no way Derek is going to let that happen on his territory. They’ve bandied about a number of theories about what this creature might be, but so far they haven’t come up with any solid leads.

It had been Scott’s idea to try to bait it, and he and Isaac had both gone to several clubs for nights in a row, but never got approached or threatened. They know that they’re in the right clubs, but for some reason the monster hasn’t wanted to touch them. Peter agrees that their werewolf status is the most likely reason, but that doesn’t mean he has to like Stiles volunteering himself as bait.

Fortunately, the disappearance of the third boy from while they had been trying assures that Scott and Isaac’s presence in the club won’t stop it. So they’ll be able to keep an eye on Stiles while he’s making himself look attractive. Peter, of course, plans to be there as well. Nobody has asked him for his opinion, and he hasn’t bothered to mention it. But Stiles is disaster prone on a good day. Peter is hardly going to let him wander in the jaws of a whatever-this-is without keeping an eye on him.

“How do I look?” Stiles asks, turning around. He’s wearing skinny jeans and a T-shirt with several rips in artistic places. His hair has been roughly spiked, held up with gel, and he’s wearing eyeliner. They’ve seen pictures of the boys who have disappeared so far, seen the type of clothes they were wearing. Stiles has done a decent imitation.

“Do you really want me to answer that question?” Peter asks. “You’re supposed to meet the others in fifteen minutes. But you’re going to wear that outfit again later, just for me.”

“Sir, yes sir,” Stiles says, amused, and leaves the house. Peter just heads straight down for the club where he knows that Stiles is going to be that evening.

He’s not exactly a fan of the clubbing lifestyle. The noise is too much even for a human. For a werewolf, it causes actual pain. He’s made sure to bring earplugs, but he doesn’t know if it’s going to be enough. The lights flashing in various colors annoy him, too. He sees Stiles come in through the front about half an hour later, but it’s difficult to keep an eye on him through the crowds and the lighting. Peter reminds himself that he can’t be too close, that it has to look like Stiles is alone.

None of this makes him happy. He’s worked himself into a foul temper by the time an hour has gone by, but placates himself by imagining all the things he’s going to do after he peels Stiles out of that outfit. Or maybe he’ll leave him in it for a while. The rips in the shirt call up a number of intriguing possibilities.

Stiles dances, and drinks, and dances some more. Peter watches him and thinks that Stiles still has no real idea of how attractive he can be. Of course, he’s still a terrible dancer, but that doesn’t seem to matter to the half dozen guys who have been buying him drinks and grinding against him on the dance floor. Peter grits his teeth and fantasizes about killing them slowly.

When it happens, it happens fast. One minute Stiles is at the bar, getting another drink, bought for him by a muscular young man with disheveled hair and a charming grin. The next he’s swaying on his feet as he goes out for another dance, into the press of the crowd, and then –

Peter’s lost him. Somewhere in the crowd, he simply vanished. He curses and darts in the direction he saw him last. There are too many other people, too much sweat and perfume and unbridled lust, to be able to track him by scent. Peter uses his brain instead and heads for the closest exit.

He might have lost sight of Stiles in the crowd, but clearly at least one other person hasn’t. Peter’s barely made it into the alley when he hears a cry of pain and sees the man who had approached Stiles go flying into a wall. He glances around and sees Scott, who had been appointed to watch that exit, take Stiles by the arm and pull him behind him.

The young man doesn’t get up. Peter blinks, walks over, and nudges him with a toe. He groans and rolls onto his back. “Son of a bitch,” Peter says, looking at the blood all over his face from where he flew into the brick wall. “I think he’s human.”

“Human?” Scott asks, and Isaac runs up behind them.

Peter ignores them both and takes Stiles by both upper arms, turning the younger man to look at him. He stumbles and practically falls into Peter, who presses his nose into the crook of Stiles’ shoulder and scents him cautiously. “Drugs,” he says. “Rohypnol, maybe GHB.”

“You mean . . . we were just going after . . . some guy?” Isaac asks, incredulous.

“It does happen,” Peter says. “Some of the worst monsters are human, after all. I think someone should probably call the police.”

“Right,” Scott says hastily. He takes out his cell phone and dials Sheriff Stilinski. Peter is sure that the sheriff knew what they were up to, and before a couple minutes have passed, there are blue lights flashing in every direction. An ambulance arrives to take Stiles to the hospital, where they can check him for injuries and check his blood for drugs.

“I’ll go with him,” Peter says. “I can take him home afterwards.”

Scott bristles. “How do I know you won’t . . .”

Peter sighs. “Really, Scott? Really? Is there a certain magical amount about my sex life with Stiles that I could tell you that would finally satisfy you that I’ve never raped him? Like the fact that on our first encounter, I asked him specifically if he wanted me to stop, and he said no? Or actually he said ‘shut up’, which came to the same thing.”

Scott just scowls. “Would you have stopped, if he had told you to?”

“Would’ve been pretty pointless to ask otherwise, wouldn’t it have been?”

“Knowing you, you probably would have liked it more if he had said no – ”

“Okay, that’s enough,” Sheriff Stilinski interrupts. “Scott, I might not be one hundred percent sure I approve of this relationship – hell, I’m not even fifty percent sure I approve – but I think Stiles would be pretty insulted if he heard you saying that he had been stockholmed by his rapist. Could we please just deal with what’s in front of us? You’re a witness, so I need you to come down to the station and give a statement. Therefore, Peter will go with Stiles to the hospital and take him home afterwards.”

Scott’s jaw tightens. “Okay, fine,” he growls.

Peter shakes his head a little and goes to his car. By the time the hospital lets him see Stiles, the teenager is grumpy, sleepy, and suffering from a headache. He’s wobbly on his feet, and allows Peter to support him on the way out to the car without too much grumbling. According to the doctor, he’ll be fine; he just needs rest and plenty of fluids. “Funny that it was just a guy,” he mumbles, once they’re back at the house and he’s settling Stiles in his room.

“It is amazing how we can miss the obvious answers sometimes,” Peter agrees. “But he was still a monster. Does it matter what color the blood in his veins was?”

“Mm, guess not,” Stiles says with a sigh. He leans up and starts biting at Peter’s ear.

“None of that, now,” Peter says, amused. “You won’t remember any of this in the morning, and God knows what Scott will tell you.”

“Spoilsport,” Stiles says. “You have sex with me while I’m drunk.”

“That’s because you ingested the liquor voluntarily,” Peter says. “You probably couldn’t get it up at this point anyway.”

“I could, I so could,” Stiles protests. “Anyway, I don’t feel that weird. A little woozy, but I’ve had worse. It’s not like he knocked me out cold.”

“No, I imagine what he gave you was probably a fairly low dose,” Peter agrees. “He had to get you out of the club and back to his car, wherever that was, and hauling an unconscious person out of Jungle would probably have garnered him more attention than he wanted.”

“I took a lot of Adderall, too, which might have something to do with it.”

Peter’s about to say something about the various possible interactions between drugs when Stiles yawns and stretches, and he forgets all about the conversation they’re having. His gaze fixes on the thin strip of Stiles’ stomach that’s visible where his shirt rides up, and the little trail of hairs that leads down into his pants.

Stiles sees him watching, and smirks. “C’mon, I can’t sleep in these pants anyway, I’ll wake up with DVT.”

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to get your pants off,” Peter says, but he doesn’t move. He just watches Stiles, his eyes drinking in the details as Stiles plays with the hem of his shirt, sliding it up a little more. He sits down on the edge of the bed. Stiles undoes the button of the jeans. He pulls the zipper down so slowly that Peter nearly loses his mind. Then he takes a hold of the cuffs of the pants and pulls them downwards. Stiles gives a sinuous little wriggle that makes Peter salivate.

“See?” Stiles murmurs, now that his erection is visible, pressing against the confines of his underwear. “Told you I could get it up.”

“I’m not going to fuck you,” Peter tells him. “A deal is a deal, even with Scott.”

Stiles sticks his tongue out. “Okay, but you can’t be held responsible for what I do, right?” He brushes his own hand over the bulge in his underwear and gives an unfeigned little shiver. “I mean, I’m allowed to jerk off in the privacy of my own room, even if I’m under the influence of sedatives.”

“And stimulants,” Peter says. “It would be irresponsible for me to leave you alone.”

“And you’re very responsible,” Stiles says, rubbing a little harder with the palm of his hand and then letting out a moan.

“Very,” Peter agrees, feeling his own cock stiffen in response. He watches Stiles shimmy out of his underwear and take himself in hand. Stiles knows he’s putting on a show, and he’s clearly enjoying it. He moans and sighs, bites his lip, moves restlessly against the pillows. He doesn’t ask Peter to help or even give any indication that he remembers that the other man is in the room. He just strokes himself, slow and easy at first, but picking up tempo quickly.

Peter sits down on the edge of the bed so he can have a better view, and Stiles whines restlessly and nuzzles his face into Peter’s thigh. Peter reaches out and combs his fingers through Stiles’ hair, tugging on it gently, and Stiles goes breathless, his body arching as he comes into his hands. He sags backwards with a little grunt, eyes fluttering closed. “Mmyeah,” he mumbles. “Tha’ was good.”

“You are ridiculous,” Peter says, as Stiles stretches and relaxes like an overgrown cat. It’s a very appealing sight, but he made a deal, and he’ll just have to make Stiles repeat it tomorrow, when he’s sober.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

The bite of a werespider isn’t poisonous enough to actually kill someone, Deaton promises them. It’ll just cause some fever and pain and possibly hallucinations. Scott says he’ll take Stiles home and keep an eye on him, but then Allison gets bitten too, and so does Derek, and there’s chaos everywhere. Stiles says he’ll be fine, he’ll just go home and sleep it off, his dad’s out of town so there won’t be anyone there for him to hurt if he gets delusional.

“You could get delusional and wander off,” Peter says, and insists on carting him back to the Stilinski house. It’s a good thing, too, because by the time they get there, Stiles is burning hot and rambling incoherently. Peter makes him take a cool shower and then puts him in bed. He finds a thermometer in the bathroom and checks Stiles’ temperature. It’s 102.4, which is high, although he’s seen worse. He gives him some Tylenol.

It’s shaping up to be a long evening. Stiles is combative and quiescent by turns. The hallucinations are vivid and disturbing, and Peter has to restrain him several times while he tries to fight off invisible monsters. He begs for his mother, screams for his father, fights Peter with everything he’s got. Of course, at the moment, that isn’t much. His body trembles and shivers; he’s soaked with sweat. He complains continuously about being burning hot or freezing cold.

Then he’ll fall into spells of stupor so complete that Peter actually finds himself concentrating on Stiles’ pulse just for the comfort value, measuring it constantly to make sure it isn’t changing. He’ll stare at Peter with glazed eyes that don’t seem to see anything. Then he’ll rouse slightly. Have a few minutes of coherency, tell Peter he’s not feeling well, drink a little bit of the water. Then, gradually, the entire cycle starts over again as he gets more and more distressed, hysteria taking over, and that wears him out, and so it goes around and around.

A few hours have passed, and Stiles is in one of the dormant moments, when Peter hears the rumble of a car outside. He’s very attuned to this particular car, because it’s the sheriff’s cruiser, and it always pays to know when the sheriff is approaching. He’s surprised, since Stiles said his father was out of town, but he supposes that he might have had any number of reasons to come back early.

He hears the garage door open, then close. The thump of a car door swinging shut, and footsteps and a heartbeat downstairs. He stays where he is. Stiles isn’t in any condition to be left. His father will know he’s home, since his Jeep is parked outside, but he might or might not check on him. And if he finds Stiles in this condition without any explanation, he’ll take his son to the emergency room, which will probably confuse a variety of people.

For almost ten long minutes, all Peter hears is the sheriff’s footsteps, the opening of the refrigerator, the click of a can of beer being opened. Then there’s noise on the stairs, the creak of an old step. He isn’t sure whether or not Stiles’ father will want to come in, but the light in Stiles’ room is still on, so he’s not surprised when he hears a knock. “Stiles, you still up?” he asks, and then the door swings open.

Peter doesn’t bother to try to melt back into the shadows. It would be difficult in any case, since Stiles’ hand is still locked in the hem of his shirt. He looks up and gives a nod at the man standing in the doorway. “Sheriff,” he says.

There’s a pause. “Peter,” the sheriff says, and comes the rest of the way in. His gaze fixes on Stiles and he frowns. “What’s wrong?”

“Spider bite,” Peter says, which is something of an understatement, but there’s no need to worry the sheriff unnecessarily. “He’s already been seen to by Dr. Deaton, who assures us that there will be no long-lasting effects. Twenty-four to forty-eight hours of fever and delirium. I decided to stay and keep an eye on him. You know how he gets when he’s sick.”

“I do,” Stilinski says. “The question is, why do you?” Then he shakes his head a little and pulls a chair over to Stiles’ bed. Stiles’ eyes flutter open. “Hey, kiddo,” he says.

“Hey, Daddy,” Stiles murmurs, and Peter has a moment of profound relief that Stiles is in one of his lucid phases.

“Heard you got one hell of a bug bite,” his father says.

“Mm. Yeah. M’okay.”

“You want me to stay in here with you?”

A faint frown crosses Stiles’ face. “Thought you were at that convention?”

“I was, but I decided to drive back tonight rather than stay another night in Pasadena.” Sheriff Stilinski smoothes the blankets over him, puts a hand against his forehead, and frowns. He takes in the bowl of cool water, the washcloth that Peter’s been using, the glass of water, the way Stiles’ hand is curled loosely in the hem of Peter’s shirt. “You get some rest now.”

Stiles gives a little nod and sighs, already falling back to sleep.

“Never pictured you for the Florence Nightingale type,” Stilinski finally says.

Peter shrugs. “I am whatever type I deem necessary at any given moment,” he replies.

“How very practical,” Stilinski says dryly. He considers Peter for a long minute. “Actually, I’m glad you’re here. I’ve been meaning to have a talk with you. Man to man.”

“That sounds ominous,” Peter says.

“Not really,” Stilinski says. “Ominous would be, say, ‘Man who currently owns several lethal weapons to man who is having sex with my up-until-recently-underaged son’. See the difference?”

Peter can’t help but smile slightly. “Yes, thank you for that elucidation.”

“Don’t get me wrong, Peter. I’m not naïve. And I know my son. I know that he wouldn’t be involved with you if it wasn’t his choice. We talked about it, a while back. About how you came onto him, and he decided not to stop you. He decided. Which is the only reason we haven’t had this chat a lot sooner. I also know that he could have stopped you, if only by virtue of the fact that he could have told Derek, or Scott, who would have stepped in on his behalf. I don’t think Stiles-at-eighteen is so much more mature than at Stiles-at-seventeen that things would have been different if you had held off the three months, so we’ll just put the statutory charges on the back burner, shall we?”

“By all means,” Peter says. “You seem much more reasonable about this than Scott.”

Sheriff Stilinski rolls his eyes. “Scott’s going to hate your guts until the day he dies, and it has nothing to do with the fact that you turned him into a werewolf. It’s because he’s jealous.”

“Jealous?” Peter asks. “I never figured Stiles for his type.”

“It has nothing to do with sex. Get your mind out of the gutter, if that is at all possible for you, which from Stiles’ descriptions I’m not sure it is. Stiles has been Scott’s best friend since they were in diapers. They’re brothers. They’ve always been there for each other. And here’s Stiles, injured. And here’s you, sitting here with him. That gets underneath Scott’s skin. He would’ve dealt with it better if Stiles started relying on someone he was friends with, but it would’ve gotten under his skin no matter what.”

“Interesting,” Peter murmurs.

Stilinski sighs. “That was not an invitation for you to start taunting Scott about how you stole his best friend. Though I don’t really have to tell you that, since Stiles will happily kick your ass around the block himself, if you try.”

“Fair enough,” Peter says, raising his hands in surrender.

“So all that being said, I’ll get to the point,” Sheriff Stilinski says. “I’ve been watching all of this unfold from Stiles’ point of view. Now I want yours.”

“Mine?” Peter asks.

“Yeah. You’re, what, thirty-seven? Mind telling me why you decided to go after my seventeen year old son?”

Peter looks at him thoughtfully for a few moments before deciding that the truth will serve him better than any pretty lie. “Because he threatened to kill me.”

Sheriff Stilinski gives a snort. “Sounds like Stiles. When was this?”

“Not long after I came back. He told me that he had figured out how I had come back, and that if I persisted in my remorseless evil ways, he would be happy to send me back in a way that would be more permanent.” Peter’s quiet for a minute. “And I believed him. Which is unusual for me, to believe a threat like that, particularly from a human. Then as the summer wore on, I began to notice that he was attracted to me. So I decided to, yes, take advantage of him, use it to get inside his head, and hopefully circumvent any attacks he might be planning on me.”

Stilinski huffs out a sigh. “Thank you for your honesty, I suppose. But I don’t believe that’s all there was to it.”

“Well, at the time, it was. Then I realized that he was gaining far more ground than I was. That he was starting to understand me better than I understood him.” Peter shrugs. “In short, I went after your son because he fascinates me.”

“I guess that’s good enough,” Sheriff Stilinski says, glancing again at the bowl of water and the washcloth. “To be fair, I think I figured that out before Stiles did. That you actually gave a shit about him. He was always on about paying you back for the favors you did him, like he had no idea why you were doing them.”

Peter shrugs. “Sometimes he’s smarter than he gives himself credit for. And sometimes he’s an idiot.”

“True.” Sheriff Stilinski looks down as Stiles shifts restlessly in his sleep. “Well. It’s late. I think I’m going to go get some shut-eye myself, since you’ve volunteered to stay with him.” He stands up. “One more thing. If you break his heart, I will destroy you. It will be slow and extremely painful. Understood?”

Peter regards him for a few moments, and then nods. “I believe you,” he says.

“Good. You a soccer fan at all?”

“It’s one of the few sports I can tolerate.”

“Okay. World Cup starts next week. Italy versus Brazil.” Sheriff Stilinski picks up his beer off the side table. “Seven o’clock Friday. Don’t be late. We’ll grill some ribs and watch the game.”

“I’ll be there,” Peter says, wondering exactly what’s happening, as Stilinski leaves the room. He shakes his head a little as the door closes behind him, looking down at Stiles’ pale face. “I can see where you get it from,” he says to the unconscious teenager. “If your father weren’t so obviously, rigidly straight, I might’ve tried to tap that. Ah well. Missed opportunities. I suppose I’ll have to content myself with you.”

Stiles stirs slightly, mumbles something underneath his breath. Peter checks his fever, and it’s coming down nicely. He doesn’t seem to be heading back into one of his combative phases, so Peter decides that he’s safe to get a little bit of rest. If Stiles starts to get delirious again, the noise will wake him. He stretches out on the bed next to the teenager and falls asleep a few minutes later.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

When it comes to the lunar eclipse, the pack doesn’t fuck around. It’s going to be a long one, almost three hours, and Derek is intent on making sure that everyone is well-protected during it. He can’t quite unbend enough to ask Deaton for help, but Scott suffers from no such deficiencies. They all wind up settled down in the warehouse downtown, surrounded by mountain ash and with enough ammo to blow a small armored car to smithereens.

Peter isn’t particularly thrilled at the concept of spending the eclipse with the others, and in fact Stiles has been making a number of licentious comments about all the things he wants to do to Peter while he’s merely human. Peter can’t lie; he finds most of these suggestions to be incredibly appealing. But safety first, he says to Stiles, and Stiles pouts but agrees.

In the end, they don’t make too bad an evening out of it. Stiles and Scott have brought a collection of board games, and Derek rigs up a few lanterns. Peter mostly lurks on the outskirts and watches the others, because Yahtzee is not his idea of a good time.

A couple of hours have gone by when the ground trembles slightly. All of them look up. “Earthquake?” Scott asks. It’s rare to feel the aftershocks so far north, but not unheard of. The lights in the ceiling sway and rock gently. Dust drifts down from the ceiling.

“During a lunar eclipse? What are the odds?” Stiles says, pulling out his phone.

Lydia tosses her hair over her shoulder. “Would you like me to answer that? The math would be pretty intricate.”

“Knock yourself out,” Stiles says, amused. “I’m pretty sure it’s gonna be a tiny number, though.”

“Agreed,” Lydia says.

Stiles looks up. “No earthquake. Or if there was, it hasn’t hit the news yet. And if we felt it all the way up here, it would’ve been big, so . . .”

The trembling starts again. All of them look around nervously. A few items tumble from the shelves and hit the floor of the warehouse with a clatter.

Derek clears his throat. “Um, remember that witch we were fighting last month? The one that could do elemental magic? Does anyone else think she might be holding a grudge?”

 It’s actually a brilliant plan, Peter thinks. The witch can’t get to them, because they’re inside a mountain ash circle, and she can’t cast on them directly because of the protection spell that Stiles rigged up with Deaton’s help. But she can easily get to the earth around them. Cause enough commotion, and the tectonic plates won’t care about the mountain ash. She could collapse the entire warehouse, and with all of them in a vulnerable human state, it would be unlikely that any of them would survive.

“I’ll go talk to her,” Lydia says, standing up and smoothing out her skirt. When Derek looks at her, she says, “What? She liked me. I’ll talk her down.”

“I’ll cover you,” Allison says, picking up her bow. The two girls head for the door of the warehouse, stepping over the mountain ash. There’s another wave of shaking, and a light crashes down from the ceiling, only about twenty feet away.

“Maybe we should take cover,” Scott says, over the noise.

Derek gives an emphatic gesture to the warehouse full of shelving units and other heavy things that could fall on them. “Where?”

Despite his words, the shaking continues to intensify, and the pack scatters, trying to find cover as best as they can. Isaac stops to grab the focus of the protection spell they’ve been using, and that leaves him vulnerable, standing in the center of the room just as a metal shelving unit breaks free from the wall. It seems to fall in slow motion. Isaac scrambles back to his feet, but he won’t make it in time. At the last second, Stiles dives forward, grabbing Isaac and taking them both into a roll. They skid to a stop a few feet away as the shelves come crashing down.

The dust and debris is thick enough that for a moment Peter can’t see, and he’s positive that the shelves landed on Stiles. But then he sees that they didn’t. Stiles is sprawled out with Isaac a few feet further away, and the shelves are lying literally less than six inches away from his feet. A number of boxes and pieces of equipment have fallen on him, but he appears to be in one piece. “Whoa,” he says, blinking at the shelves stupidly, as the building’s shaking comes to a halt.

He’s just getting to his feet when Peter walks over. “What the hell did you think you were doing?” he asks, and Stiles blinks at him. “You were very nearly killed.”

“Yeah, well.” Stiles dusts himself off and smiles cheekily. “I wasn’t.”

Peter can’t contain or explain the rage that boils up in him at this offhanded reply. He grabs Stiles by the ear, yanking him the rest of the way up. “Don’t you ever do anything like that again.”

There’s a growl to one side and it looks like Scott might intervene, but then Stiles slaps Peter’s hand away. “Get your fucking hands off me,” he snaps. “And don’t tell me what to do.”

Peter’s jaw tightens in anger. The others are emerging from the debris to watch this showdown. Lydia and Allison have come back inside, and Lydia’s ‘we’re good’ starts off as a statement but quickly becomes a question when she sees the way Peter is snarling and Stiles is scowling. “Isaac is a werewolf. He can take care of himself.”

“Dude, are you paying attention?” Stiles retorts. “The whole point of this little powwow is that you guys can’t protect yourselves right now. That’s why we’re here. Isaac wouldn’t have survived that shit falling on him tonight any more than I would’ve. I got him out of the way and we’re both fine.”

“You don’t even like Isaac,” Peter says.

“That is so epically not the point,” Stiles says. “Are we best buddies? No. But he’s one of us. He’s pack. He would do the same for me.”

“You’re the one missing the point,” Peter says. “You can’t – ”

“Again, don’t tell me what the fuck I can and can’t do,” Stiles says.

“It’s not me who’s telling you,” Peter snaps. “It’s the laws of nature.”

“Oh, right,” Stiles says. “Good ol’ fragile, breakable Stiles. Well, I’ve got one thing going for me that you don’t. I’ve accepted who and what I’m in a relationship with. Maybe you should try doing the same thing.”

With that, he turns and marches back towards Isaac. He offers him a hand up, which Isaac takes. Peter doesn’t bother to stick around. He doesn’t even care that there’s forty-five minutes of the eclipse left. He decides to go back to his own apartment and settle in for a good sulk.

Halfway there, he realizes he’s being ridiculous, risking his own safety and acting like a child. But he doesn’t dare turn around. He doesn’t want to hear whatever it is that Stiles is going to say. At least, he doesn’t want to hear it in front of everyone else. Bad enough that they had the initial argument in front of the others. Most of them will just chalk it up to Peter’s general dickishness. It’s only Derek and probably Lydia who would understand the real reason for it.

He could tell himself that he was annoyed because it had been Isaac, and he doesn’t like Isaac, doesn’t think he’s worth the grave Derek found him in. But really, he doesn’t think he would have reacted any better if it had been any of the pack, or even if Stiles had been protecting Peter himself. That’s a hard truth to face.

He turns right and heads to the Stilinski house. The eclipse is just ending when he gets there, and the house is dark and silent. He lets himself in through the back door and starts prowling around the kitchen. They’d had pizza earlier, but that was hours ago, and he knows Stiles. He looks in the refrigerator, finds some ingredients, starts cooking.

Stiles gets home about half an hour later, as Peter is putting the finishing touches on the meal. The teenager comes into the kitchen with a questioning look on his face, and examines what Peter’s doing. He gives the other man a quizzical look, and Peter lets out a breath. He’s not going to get anywhere with Stiles if he doesn’t come clean. “You scared me,” he says.

Stiles’ face softens. “I know,” he says.

“You aren’t allowed to leave me,” Peter tells him.

“How about I promise to do my best not to leave you?” Stiles asks.

Peter purses his lips. “I suppose that’ll do,” he says, “if it’s the best you can muster.”

Stiles grins at him. “Food smells good. Let’s eat, and then we can go upstairs and I’ll make it up to you.” He twirls his fork through the spaghetti. “And you know, I actually think that this was good, in the long run.”

“Was there personal growth?” Peter asks dryly.

“Not yet,” Stiles says, leering at him. Peter rolls his eyes. “No, but seriously. Not for us. But for Scott. It was good for him to see me stand up to you. You know, since he’s still half-convinced that you’ve somehow manipulated me into this. He looked so relieved the rest of the night, like he’s finally figured out that there are lines I won’t let you cross.”

“Lovely,” Peter says.

Stiles shrugs. “He’ll bitch less. Isn’t that a good thing?”

“I suppose.”

“Look, you wouldn’t want me if I didn’t stand up to you,” Stiles says, pointing his fork at Peter, “so don’t sulk over there like I just ruined your image on the elementary school playground.”

Peter makes a face at him and devotes his attention to his meal. He still feels vaguely unsettled, but it has nothing to do with Scott or his image. He’s still preoccupied by the way his heart leapt into his throat as the shelves crashed down between him and Stiles, by that one moment where he was sure that when the dust cleared, he would see Stiles’ mangled body on the other side.

“You aren’t allowed to leave me,” he says again, as if reiterating it will somehow render Stiles invulnerable.

“Okay,” Stiles says.

They finish their late dinner and pack up the leftovers before heading up the stairs. Stiles closes the bedroom door behind them and turns to face Peter, leaning in for a kiss. Peter wraps an arm around his waist and meets him halfway. Their lips meet and then part, meet and part. Stiles leans in close so their foreheads are touching and their lips are only millimeters away, and they stay that way for a long minute, just breathing. Peter can practically taste the garlic and oregano from their dinner on Stiles’ breath.

He slides his hands up underneath Stiles’ shirt and peels it off him, tracing his hands over the musculature in Stiles’ back – muscles that weren’t there when they started this – and mouthing at his neck. He rubs his thumbs along Stiles’ shoulder blades and traces a hand down his spine. Stiles shivers a little and tugs at Peter’s shirt. Peter decides to allow it, letting Stiles pull it over his head.

He’s not sure why and he certainly didn’t plan it, but they’re just moving slower than usual, being gentler than normal. Using lips and tongue instead of teeth. Kissing softly, although with no less passion. Peter tugs them over to the bed and gets Stiles to sit down before pushing him backwards, instead of just tossing him onto it. He rolls his hips against Stiles’, slow and easy instead of an insistent grind. Stiles’ hands are rubbing up and down his back, and his fingers dig in occasionally, but it’s by no means rough.

It takes time to get the rest of their clothes off, but Peter doesn’t rush it. He lets Stiles run the show for a little while, lets the teenager put his hands wherever he wants, while he works on getting their belts and their pants undone. Finally he has them both naked, and his cock slides along Stiles’, and the teenager tilts his head back and gives a loud moan.

Peter almost loses it then, but dials it back a notch. He keeps Stiles preoccupied by licking along his collarbone while he gets the lube. Stiles doesn’t need a lot of prep under most circumstances, not unless it’s been a while. But Peter takes the time to really dwell on it this time, easing him open, pressing against the right spot every time until Stiles is trembling and gasping beneath him. Peter slides into him and it feels different this time; it feels like something important is happening though he can’t put his finger on why. It feels like coming home, and when he comes, it’s with Stiles’ name on his lips.

A long silence follows before Stiles finally stirs and says, “Mm . . . that was nice. Different, but nice. We should do that more often.”

“Your wish is my command,” Peter says.

Stiles turns his head to the side, yawns, and goes quiet. Peter falls asleep with Stiles’ legs twined through his, and his face pressed into Stiles’ throat where it’s bared to him.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

The atmosphere in the waiting room of Beacon Hills’ hospital emergency department is thick with tension. Derek is pacing back and forth, fists clenching and relaxing, jaw set in his typical scowl. Isaac is sitting close by Scott, who’s hunched up in a little ball. Allison is sprawled out in a chair a few feet away, drooping with exhaustion. Lydia only arrived a few minutes previous, and was conferring with Cora in quiet tones. All of them look up as Melissa bustles out from behind the door.

“How is he?” Scott asks, shooting to his feet.

“He’s breathing on his own, he’s stable,” Melissa says, and there’s a collective sigh of relief. “How long was he unconscious?”

“I don’t know, two, three minutes maybe?” Scott guesses. “Before the ambulance got there, I mean.”

“Okay.” Melissa chews on her lower lip for a minute, but stays calm. “Until he wakes up, we won’t really know the extent of the damage. So we can’t – ”

“Damage, what sort of damage?” Isaac asks.

Melissa hesitates, so Lydia cuts in. “Hypoxia,” she says. “From the way you’re describing it, he went without oxygen for at least two full minutes, maybe longer. Brain cells start to die. There could be permanent brain damage.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Scott swears shakily.

His mother doesn’t bother to admonish him. “We don’t know that,” she says. “It’s not unusual that he would still be unconscious at this point. Let’s give his body some time to rally. Stiles is tough; he’s a fighter. So let’s not count him out yet.”

There’s a round of nods. Melissa promises to update them as soon as she can. Stiles is being transferred to a room, and she’ll come get them as soon as they can see him, although she cautions that it will be one at a time for a few minutes only. As soon as she’s gone, Derek starts muttering about how they’re going to have to go find the pack of ghouls, that they can’t just let them continue to run amok, especially after what’s happened so far.

He and Scott have been debating strategy for several minutes before Lydia suddenly looks up and says, “Did any of you call Peter?”

She gets a round of blank stares. “Oh, uh, I guess we should?” Scott says, sounding extremely dubious about this.

“I think he’d want to know,” Cora says. “And . . . I think Stiles would want him to know.”

“I’ll text him,” Derek says. “Even though he probably won’t grace us with his presence,” he mutters underneath his breath. Lydia rolls her eyes but doesn’t bother to correct him. He gets out his phone and taps at it for several minutes. He’s still doing that when Melissa comes to show them up to Stiles’ room. Scott goes in first, while the others gather in the small hallway which is fortunately deserted, to continue plotting.

Nobody really knows whether or not Peter will show up, but nobody is particularly surprised when he does. He strolls down the hallway like it belongs to him, with his hands in his pockets, but his nonchalance doesn’t get him very far. Every wolf can hear the elevation of his heart rate, can smell the sweat and the fear on him. But nobody says anything. Peter looks at Derek and says, “What happened?”

There’s a ring of accusation to the words, as if what he’s really asking is ‘how could you have allowed this to happen’, but Derek answers the question asked, not the one implied. “We were tracking down a ghoul. It shouldn’t have been dangerous. We had more than enough people to handle it. But he brought friends. It turned into a brawl. One of them grabbed Stiles and . . .”

“Choked him out,” Allison says, when Derek’s voice falters. “It took Scott and Isaac a couple minutes to pry the thing off him, and when they did, he wasn’t breathing. Scott did CPR until the ambulance arrived.”

“And where were you, princess?” Peter asks, smiling at her.

Allison’s mouth tightens and she holds up her arm to display the welts and bruises there. “I had my own problems.”

Peter just gives a little nod. “How is he?”

“He’s breathing on his own,” Cora says. “Scott’s mom says they won’t know if there’s any permanent damage until he wakes up.”

“Or doesn’t,” Peter says.

“Yeah, that’s what we were trying not to think about,” Cora retorts.

Scott edges out of the room. He gives Peter a somewhat uncertain look, and nobody argues as Peter pushes past him and goes into the room. Lydia wrinkles her nose a little like she’s thinking about protesting, but doesn’t. She does, however, reach out and stop Peter from closing the door, so they can all see that Peter goes and stands at the foot of Stiles’ bed for about thirty seconds before turning and leaving. He doesn’t say anything to Stiles or reach out to touch him.

Once Peter’s back in the hallway and Lydia has gone in to see Stiles, Peter looks at Derek and says, “You should give him the bite.”

“No,” Derek says. When Peter starts to say something, Derek glowers at him. “Do you think Stiles and I haven’t talked about this? About what circumstances he would be okay with that? Jesus, Peter, he’s given me fucking flowcharts of when it would and wouldn’t be okay to give him the bite. We’re not there yet. He has forty-eight hours to wake up.”

Peter studies him for a few long seconds, then nods and says, “Fine. Where are the ghouls now?”

“We were just about to leave,” Derek says. “I’ll give you the details on the way. Unless you were going to stay here . . .?” he adds, and Peter just shakes his head. “Fine. But someone should.”

“I’ll stay here with him,” Lydia says, poking her head out of the room. “Just keep me posted.”

“Yeah, you too,” Scott tells her.

Lydia watches them go and then settles into the chair, shaking her head a little. There are times that she can hardly believe how emotionally idiotic some of her friends can be. She takes out her phone and goes back to the reading she had been doing before she had received Allison’s call about Stiles’ condition.

It’s barely been half an hour when she hears Stiles stir, and looks over to see that his eyes are open. “Hey,” he rasps.

“Hey, you,” she says.

“Wha’ ha’n’d?” he mumbles.

“Close encounter of the ghoulish kind,” Lydia tells him. “You’ve been unconscious for a couple hours. They had to call 911 because they couldn’t get you breathing again.”

“Right,” Stiles says, rubbing his hand over his throat. “Jesus. My head hasn’t hurt this bad since that time Peter let me try bootleg absinthe.”

Lydia shakes her head a little, typing out an update on her phone. “Speaking of which, what’s Peter’s number? I’ll include him in the group text.”

Stiles blinks at her slowly before saying, “’s’in my phone. Don’t ask me to think about numbers right now.”

She finds his phone among his clothes and looks up Peter’s number. Then she sends out a text to all the concerned parties that just reads, ‘Stiles is awake and talking, seems generally ok.’ She hits send and then hits the call button for the nurse. He arrives a few moments later and Lydia stands back and out of the way while the nurse checks his vitals and then the doctor gives him a quick exam. ‘Doc says he’s going to be fine, seems like no permanent damage,’ she updates the others a few minutes later.

The nurse gives Stiles some painkillers and he drifts in and out of consciousness. Lydia receives a text or two from the others, updating her as to how the hunt is going. They don’t get back to the hospital until nearly dawn. She can hear a nurse protesting in the hallway about the large group of them. A minute later, Scott and Allison walk in, holding hands. “Hey,” Scott says, leaning over the bed.

Stiles’ eyes flutter open. “Hey, how’d it go?” he asks.

“All ghouls are resting in pieces,” Scott says. “How’re you feeling?”

“Foggy,” Stiles says. “Head still hurts a little. But okay.” He reaches out and tries to punch Scott in the shoulder, though it doesn’t go very well. “No guilt. Okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” Scott says, looking guilty about feeling guilty.

It looks like he might say something else, but then the door creaks open and Peter walks in. He doesn’t say anything to any of them, but just walks over and leans down to give Stiles a kiss. Stiles responds enthusiastically, and the kiss becomes passionate to the point that Lydia wonders if she should cover Scott’s eyes. He looks like he might have apoplexy.

Peter pulls away a few moments later and gives Stiles a thorough onceover. Then he says, “I don’t want to see you until those bruises are gone.” Without another word, he turns and leaves the room.

Scott sputters. “What a jerk.”

“Are you kidding?” Stiles asks, with a smile. “That’s the most romantic thing he’s ever said to me.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Peter doesn’t see Stiles for nearly three weeks after the incident with the ghouls. He knows that bruises don’t take that long to heal, and he suspects that Stiles is just staying away to prolong the anticipation of their reunion. Two can play their relationship game, after all.

And it works. With every day that passes, Peter gets more edgy and – he doesn’t want to use the word ‘excited’, he’s not a schoolboy, but, well, there it is. He finds himself daydreaming about all the things he’s going to do to Stiles when the teenager finally breaks down and shows up again, and he’s not a daydreamer by nature.

It should alarm him, he knows, the degree to which he’s becoming reliant on Stiles being in his life. But Peter is practical above all else. He can’t stop this, it seems; the chance for that passed a long time ago. So he might as well embrace it. Stiles belongs to him, and he’s happy to let everyone know it, including Stiles himself. And if absence makes the heart grow fonder, he’ll play along with Stiles’ little game.

Which probably doesn’t entirely explain what happens when Stiles shows up twenty days later (not like Peter was counting the days or anything, he just happened to remember). He’s wearing those damned painted on jeans again, and Peter really has to resist the urge to tackle him all the way across the room.

“Miss me?” Stiles asks smirking, clearly aware of the effect he’s having on Peter. He gestures to his throat and says, “Bruises all gone.”

“Good,” Peter says, grabs him, and pins him up against the door. “Now I’m going to give you some new ones.”

He bites down on the side of Stiles’ neck, hard enough that Stiles makes a little noise that’s at least half pain. Then he noses and licks at the spot in apology, and Stiles goes loose and pliant underneath him. Peter strips him out of the jeans and T-shirt without further ado and lets Stiles hike his legs up around him so Peter can grind him into the door. Stiles moans and pulls on Peter’s hair.

Getting to the bedroom is obviously going to take too long, so Peter goes for the closest flat surface, which happens to be his kitchen table. He pulls Stiles away from the wall and just throws him onto it.

It’s quite possible, he later thinks, that he maybe used a little more force than he intended to. He’s a mess of hormones and instincts. The full moon is only two days away. What he can’t be blamed for is the fact that the table just cracks in half underneath Stiles’ weight and spills him onto the floor. Stiles gives a whoop of laughter and tries to catch himself, but the laugh turns into a yelp of pain when he hits the floor.

Peter doesn’t really notice. His blood is up now, and he’s on top of Stiles before another second has passed, going in for another kiss. Stiles makes another noise and then gasps out, “Ow, ow, Peter, stop!”

Peter doesn’t make a conscious decision to pull back and get off Stiles, but before he’s even fully processed the teenager’s words, he’s on his knees beside him. “What, what is it?”

“My wrist, motherfucker, owwwww,” Stiles groans. “I landed on it funny when I tried to catch myself.”

“Son of a bitch,” Peter says. “Let me see.”

Stiles winces and holds his arm out. Peter’s barely touched it when he feels Stiles flinch. He huffs out a sigh. “Yeah,” he says, “that’s broken.” He presses his hand into Stiles’ forearm, drawing out some of the pain.

Stiles gives a hysterical little giggle. “Aw, shit, that was gonna be some good sex, too,” he says.

Peter shakes his head. “Come on, let’s get you to the hospital.”

“Uh . . .” Stiles looks down at himself. He’s wearing only a pair of boxer briefs, a patch of which is already soaked through with pre-come. Peter grimaces as well and picks up the pants. He looks between them and Stiles skeptically. “I don’t know that I can get these on you,” he says.

“Yeah, it takes a lot of wriggling, I’ll have to borrow something,” Stiles says.

He’s lucky in that he and Peter are relatively the same size, so Peter gets him a pair of gym shorts that he keeps for when he’s working out, and Stiles steps into them. A shirt, however, is out of the question. Whenever Stiles moves his arm, he has to grit his teeth against the pain. Peter decides that he’ll just have to go shirtless. He’s sure that the emergency room staff at Beacon Hills have seen worse.

It turns into a long night. The emergency room is busy, because of course it is, this is Beacon Hills. They wind up waiting quite a long time, and then they have to wait for the x-rays, for the x-rays to be looked at, for the doctor to come put a cast on him. “It’s a clean break,” he says, “so it shouldn’t need anything special.” He writes Stiles a prescription for painkillers and tells him to follow up with his primary care doctor in three days.

They stop by the twenty-four-hour pharmacy on the way home, because Peter doesn’t see any reason to do the pain-drain if he doesn’t have to. Stiles gets his prescription filled and buys a bottle of soda. He looks at the little round pill speculatively, then turns to Peter and says, “Before I take this and you consider me compromised, I want you to know that you are expected to take me back to your place and give me the fucking of my life. Consent granted. You owe me multiple orgasms.” He knocks the pill back.

“Noted,” Peter says, amused.

Stiles snickers a little, high on endorphins and the painkillers they already gave him at the emergency room. “Oh, man,” he says, “I’m going to use this to win every argument for the next six weeks. Make that six months. Every time you get snotty with me I’m gonna remind you that you missed me so much that you broke my fucking wrist.”

Peter’s jaw tightens. “It’s not my fault the table broke.”

“No, dude, did you do all your furniture shopping at that ninety-nine dollar store downtown?” Stiles asks, but he’s still laughing, mellow. “I ain’t even mad. Accidents happen. But you were that happy to see me.”

“Maybe you should think about shutting up,” Peter tells him.

“Okay,” Stiles says. There’s about a five second silence. “Okay, I thought about it and decided not to. You’re not, like, gonna get weird about this, right? ‘Cause it was just an accident. Just your typical Stiles, klutzin’ it up. I should’ve just let myself fall, that would’ve been smarter. And don’t even worry about what the others’ll think. I’ll just tell them I tripped or something. Shit, now I sound like an abused girlfriend. Nope, I’ll tell them the truth. I’ll tell them we were in the middle of awesome sexin’ and broke the table and I hurt my wrist. Yeah, that sounds good. I don’t really give a fuck if Scott has a problem with it or not. What’s he gonna say? He and Allison once broke a wall. I’m pretty sure Chris still thinks about that every time he sees them together.”

He continues to chatter inanely while Peter drives them back to the apartment. He’s still talking when Peter lets them inside, ignores the shattered ruins of the table, and tugs Stiles into the bedroom. He doesn’t even stop talking when he’s flat on his back on the bed and Peter’s between his legs and his cock is in Peter’s mouth. It’s just that he gets a lot less coherent, gasping out words as he tugs on Peter’s hair with his good hand and urges him on.

Peter drags it out, taking Stiles all the way to the edge and then backing off, pressing soft kisses into his hips and stomach. Stiles whimpers and whines and writhes underneath him, and he thoroughly enjoys it. He eases him back from the edge, then goes down on him again, then lets him catch his breath again, over and over until Stiles is a trembling, pleading, beautiful mess underneath him. Only then does Peter fuck him, slow and deep, and Stiles is strung like a taut wire and every inch of him is amazing.

Stiles comes several minutes before Peter does, but Peter doesn’t mind; he just keeps up the pace, even after Stiles has relaxed into a puddle beneath him. It’s good, too good, and Stiles reaches up sleepily and rubs his good hand over Peter’s hair, trails soft fingers along the back of Peter’s neck, and for some reason that makes him come, holding onto Stiles and gasping into his shoulder.

“Mm, I know I said multiple orgasms but I think ‘m gonna . . .” Stiles mumbles, and then he’s still and quiet against Peter’s shoulder.

Peter shakes his head a little but curls around Stiles protectively. “I did miss you,” he says. “My fragile, breakable Stiles.”

“Heard that,” Stiles mumbles. “You thought I was ‘sleep but I was just pretendin’. Gotcha.”

Peter gives a snort but just murmurs, “Got me indeed,” into Stiles’ neck, and closes his eyes.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Chapter Text

“Hey, so, my mom’s taking me to get my tuxedo tomorrow night,” Scott says. “You wanna tag along?”

Stiles looks up from the ancient scrolls he’s been translating. “Yeah, ‘kay,” he says. “I need to get one too, I guess.”

“Tuxedo?” Peter asks, resting his chin on Stiles’ shoulder and leering at Scott, who always gets annoyed when Peter shows physical affection towards Stiles.

“Yeah, for the prom,” Stiles says.

“I thought you said you weren’t going,” Peter says.

 “Oh, funny story!” Stiles looks up and grins at Peter. “So Lydia’s been kind of cooling on Aiden lately, not for moral reasons but because he’s actually pretty much an asshole, and not the kind of hot asshole you are but just like a generally asshole-flavored asshole. And she was thinking about going to the prom stag, when who of all people but Jackson showed up.”

“Jackson the former homicidal lizard,” Peter says.

“Right,” Stiles says. “He flies in from London and shows up at school all full of himself and is like ‘hey Lydia, ditch this asshole, you’re going to the prom with me’. Just like it was always meant to be in his reptilian brain. So then Aiden gets all in his face, and Jackson’s being even more a douche than usual, and they’re literally about to have a wolf-fight over who gets to take Lydia to prom. She’s all pissed off about it and remarks to me that neither of them even asked her. They’re just assuming that whoever wins gets the honor, right? So real loud, I just said, ‘Lydia, would you go to the prom with me?’ and she said yes.”

Peter shakes his head and gives a snort of laughter. “Your dream come true at last.”

“Hey, she went with me to a dance before, our sophomore year,” Stiles says. “You ought to remember that dance, some pretty important things happened at it.”

Peter waves this off. Scott gives him a dirty look.

“Regardless,” the older werewolves says, “you won’t go to the dance wearing some off the rack tuxedo. Mm, no. I think I’ll take you shopping in the city.”

“You . . . want to take me shopping,” Stiles says, somewhat skeptically.

“Every man should own at least one nice suit,” Peter says.

“Sure, whatever,” Stiles says, laughing. “Your tab, though. I’m pretty sure I can’t afford a suit at whatever place you would consider ‘nice’.”

“You say that like you don’t have money.”

“You say that like I don’t have better things to spend my money on.”

Scott shakes his head. “Geez, you guys. You sound like an old married couple and it’s kinda freaking me out.”

Peter rolls his eyes and goes back to his book. Stiles offers to still go along with Scott for tuxedo shopping, for moral support, and the conversation ventures onto other topics. It’s only after they’ve left for the evening that he says, “You’d better live up to your end of the bargain, though, because if I don’t rent a tux but then you don’t get me a suit, Lydia will kill me.”

“She doesn’t like plaid?” Peter asks, amused, and Stiles flips him off. “Don’t worry. I’ve already made us an appointment.”

“An appointment?” Stiles asks. “With who?”

“A tailor in the city, obviously.”

“A tailor,” Stiles mutters, and shakes his head. “I’m going home.”

Peter just laughs at him. But he picks Stiles up at noon on Saturday and they drive to the city together. Stiles is rolling his eyes and making disparaging comments about the entire process, and Peter just keeps telling him to shut up. They don’t go to any sort of mall, but instead wind up at a small shop downtown. A bell jingles as they go through the door, and Peter tells the woman inside that they have an appointment.

The tailor is a man on the short side with incredibly nimble hands which start measuring Stiles almost before the pleasantries are exchanged. “This is incredibly disconcerting,” Stiles grumbles. “I mean, getting kind of friendly, aren’t you?”

“Don’t be such an infant,” Peter says, amused.

The tailor has clearly heard this before, because he just shakes his head a little and continues measuring. He starts talking about colors and fabrics and using a lot of words that Stiles has never heard before. Peter seems quite fluent in whatever language this is, and halfway through their conversation, Stiles suddenly blurts out, “Holy shit.”

“What’s your problem now?” Peter asks.

“I just suddenly realized something!” Stiles says excitedly. “Back, like, way back when, before the dance our sophomore year, you were being all creepy with Allison in the Macy’s and telling her what dress to buy, and we all thought you were just trying to subtly threaten her but no, you were actually concerned! You saw a fashion emergency about to happen and you leapt into action!”

Peter pinches the bridge of his nose. “Are you quite finished?”

“No, this is like the funniest thing ever, I have to text everyone I know and tell them how you were distracted from your evil vendetta by a fashion emergency – ”

“I will break your phone into so many pieces that you will never find them all,” Peter says.

“Spoilsport,” Stiles says, still chortling. “Peter Hale, fashion consultant. Oh, man. It’s like, somehow even though you’re screwing me I kinda missed the fact that you’re gay. ‘Cause you’re not just a little gay, you’re like gay gay, with rainbow letters and a sparkly capital G.”

Peter stares at him for a long moment before saying, “I may have some passing interest in the subject of fashion, yes.”

Passing interest, oh my God,” Stiles says, laughing so hard that the tailor tells him to hold still. But for the rest of their time at the tailor, he stops complaining and starts to take note of their conversation and try to remember the difference between the fabrics and the types of suits and shirts.

“I think this one will do with just minor alterations,” the tailor says, taking out a suit.

“It’s plaid!” Stiles says, thrilled, and Peter rolls his eyes. The suit is indeed a very faint plaid pattern done in dark and darker grey. The tailor has him put it on with a maroon shirt (which Stiles questions, but the colors go surprisingly well together) and a black tie.

“I’m not sure about the double buttons,” Peter says.

“Well, how about . . .”

Thus begins an extremely boring hour of Stiles’ life, in which he tries on clothes in a way that he hasn’t since his mother died. Actually he thinks his mother was less exacting in her specifications. She let him buy basically anything he liked, as long as it fit. These two men have entirely different ideas about that, and their definition of ‘it fits’ is much more specific.

But finally (finally) he’s dressed in a gray three-piece suit where the vest has a faint pattern on it which matches the tie and everyone agrees that it fits well and he finds out how much it costs and nearly chokes on his own uvula. But as promised, Peter takes out a credit card and pays for it and a second suit without a word of complaint.

“Can I get back into my jeans now?” he asks.

“Of course not,” Peter scoffs. “We’re in the city. You have a nice suit. We’re going out to dinner. I’ve made us reservations. Anthony, might I use your restroom to change clothes?”

“Go right ahead,” the tailor says, amused by Stiles’ sputtering. Stiles is glad he brought his nice shoes, since apparently he’s not going to be getting a new pair. They’re black, and they match both of his new suits. He fiddles with the cuffs until Peter comes out of the changing room, dressed in a black suit with a blood red shirt which is very similar to what he was wearing one of the first times they met.

“Déjà vu all over again,” Stiles says. When Peter gives him a questioning look as they head back to the car, he says, “Those are the same colors that you were wearing the day you offered to give me the bite.”

“Oh, I suppose so,” Peter says. “I look good in these colors.”

“That you do. Would you have really turned me that day?”

“Obviously, yes.”

“Isn’t that kind of a big deal? To turn someone and make them a part of your pack.”

Peter sighs. “Obviously, yes. What’s your point? I would have thought I had made it fairly obvious by now that I would be willing to do so.”

“Nothing, I just hadn’t realized at the time how much it really meant, and I’m not sure I had really thought about it since then.” Stiles shrugs a little and admires Peter’s suit. Peter just shakes his head a little and heads towards the restaurant. He has indeed gotten them reservations, and it’s an upscale Italian place with a maitre d and everything. Peter orders them a bottle of wine. Nobody asks to see ID.

“Oh my God,” Stiles hisses. “We’re on a date.”

Peter arched an eyebrow at him and says, “Yes, after this I have concert tickets.”

“Are they to see someone good?”

“They’re to the opera.”

Stiles sets down his napkin with a thud. “You’re lying.”

“Yes, I am,” Peter says, smiling easily at him. Stiles wrinkles his nose. “Though it is to a classical concert. But an orchestra, not the opera.” He reaches out underneath the table and rubs a hand over Stiles’ knee. “I figured after everything, I should at least take you on one proper date.”

Stiles gives him a long look and then says, “False. You used this as an opportunity to drag me around to new places you could molest me.”

“Can’t both be true?” Peter asks. He eases one of his shoes off and slides his foot up Stiles’ pants, over his calf.

“You’re the worst,” Stiles groans.

Peter just smiles at him as the waiter brings over the wine. He gives a fancy speech about the wine, even, and Stiles tries to look attentive as Peter rubs small circles against his calf. Then he asks if they’re ready to order. Stiles doesn’t recognize half of what’s on the menu, so he throws in the towel. “Order for me,” he says to Peter. “That’s what you do on dates, right?”

“If you’re into that sort of thing,” Peter says, amused, but he gives the waiter two orders, and he nods and departs.

Stiles realizes before long that Peter has done his damnedest to prolong their time at the restaurant. Whatever it is he ordered came in three courses, and although the food is exquisite, that’s a lot of time sitting across from Peter while the werewolf plays footsie with him. He tries to ignore what Peter’s doing to him, which involves a lot of talking about things that Peter doesn’t care about. He figures that’s fair. A petty sort of revenge, but revenge nonetheless.

So he tells Peter about the prom preparations and Lydia’s dress and how Jackson is sulking and nobody cares, how everyone really just wishes Aiden would go away. He talks about the latest computer game he’s played while Peter’s thumb rubs against his thigh. He chats about the paper he’s writing while Peter’s foot is in his lap.

He’s worked up all the way to eleven when their third course finally vanishes, but Peter then insists on ordering dessert, and Stiles watches him lick chocolate mousse off a spoon and wonders what he did to deserve this. He grabs Peter’s foot and starts giving it a quick massage with one hand while he eats his dessert with the other. Peter comes close to purring, smiling at Stiles in unfeigned bliss. It’s the dirtiest thing that Stiles has ever, ever done in public, and his cock is so hard in his pants that he’s afraid to get up from the table.

He’s really, really hoping that their next stop will be a quickie in the restroom, but Peter pays the check and says, “We’d better hurry or we’ll be late,” and Stiles groans as Peter ushers him to the car. Fortunately, nobody notices the state he’s in.

The concert is actually fairly enjoyable. Stiles has never really had a thing for classical music, but he doesn’t have anything against it, and the orchestra is amazing. They’re sitting in a regular concert hall, in the balcony, so Peter has to be subtle. In a way, that’s even worse. Just a brush of his fingers over the back of Stiles’ neck, one of his hands resting oh-so-lightly on Stiles’ knee, leaning over to ‘say something in his ear’ and his teeth giving a little tug at the earlobe. By the time the concern is finally over, Stiles is halfway out of his mind.

“Please tell me that we’re going somewhere that we can have sex now,” he says, through gritted teeth.

“I’ve gotten us a hotel room for the night,” Peter says, with a toothy grin.

“Oh my God, thank fuck,” Stiles says, and Peter laughs at him.

The hotel is just as upscale as the rest of their evening has been. That’s good, because it means it has valet parking and they’re inside all the sooner. Peter refuses to start debauching him in the elevator, though, saying that there are almost certainly security cameras, and though he’s all for a good show, he doesn’t like being recorded. Stiles has given up on getting his way by now, and just lets Peter lead him to their room.

He supposes it’s a nice room, and he notices absolutely none of it as Peter swings the door shut behind them. He’s really, really hoping that they can just get down to it, but of course Peter has other things in mind. The older man walks around him in a slow circle, admiring the suit one last time. Then he reaches out and starts to unknot the tie. He does this with agonizing slowness. Stiles bites down on the inside of his lip as Peter gets it untied and uses it to reel Stiles in.

Stiles goes along with this – thank fuck, finally – but Peter only gives him a soft, gentle kiss that makes him moan in desperation. His knees are feeling wobbly; there’s not enough oxygen in the room. Peter pushes the jacket back off him and then insists on hanging it up before he’ll proceed. Stiles thinks about knocking Peter unconscious and then jerking off over his obnoxious ass, but then decides against it. Things are usually better when he lets Peter have his way, as reluctant as he can be to admit it.

Still, he’s losing his mind a little bit as Peter goes down the buttons of his vest, undoing each, one at a time. Peter’s barely touching him. When he tries to get the belt off himself, as expected, Peter gives him a reproving look and pushes his hands away. He gets Stiles’ dress shirt off, so he’s only wearing the thin undershirt, and then makes him sit down on the edge of the bed.

“I swear to Christ, Peter – ” Stiles says, as Peter kneels down and starts undoing the laces of his shoes. Peter laughs at him and presses a kiss against his knee. Stiles’ fingers curl in the bedspread. It’s nice, some distant corner of his brain notes. Soft. It would feel good against his naked skin, if Peter would get down to business.

Peter gets his shoes off and then his socks, as if that fucking matters, and then kisses his way up Stiles’ calf and thigh. He’s still fully dressed except for his suit jacket as he leans over Stiles and gives him another one of those amazingly tender kisses which leave Stiles aching in an entirely pleasant way. Stiles is so gone that he can only manage a little whimper as Peter kisses along his jaw and down his neck, through the thin fabric of the under shirt, down his chest, down, down, his hands working ever-so slowly on getting the zipper of his pants down, sliding them down, and the shirt has ridden up a little bit and Peter’s mouth works along the bare skin of his stomach –

and it’s too much all at once, and Stiles gasps out, “Oh, fuck, fuck, oh, Peter,” and his hands grip down tight in the bedspread and he comes before Peter can get his pants off.

He lies there for quite some time, chest heaving for breath, and he knows Peter is laughing at him, just a little, but he doesn’t care because he feels amazing. “I hope I didn’t just ruin the suit,” he finally mumbles.

Still laughing, Peter says, “I think I got the pants out of the way in time.” He stands up and drapes them over the back of a chair.

“Don’t laugh at me, asshole, you’d do the same after a night of torture like what you put me through,” Stiles says.

Peter shakes his head slightly. “It’s not like I’m any less horny than you, you know, after our night out.”

Stiles sits up and eyes the way Peter is fully dressed. “Okay. Then I’m gonna make you come in your pants. Or at least your underpants.”

Peter laughs at him again. “Oh, really.”

“Yep.”

“Is this a wager?” Peter asks. “It sounds like a wager.”

“Sure,” Stiles says. “I bet that I can get you to come in your underpants. Loser spends one entire evening at the sexual service of the other and will obey their every command. Safeword notwithstanding.”

Peter’s laugh turns into a smirk. “I accept. It took me about what, ten minutes? I’ll be generous and give you thirty. If you can’t manage it by then, you won’t be able to manage it at all. And I promise I won’t physically restrain myself from coming.”

“Agreed,” Stiles says, and takes out his phone to set the timer on it. “Thirty minutes, starting . . .” He strips the thin undershirt over his head and then taps the button. “Now.”

He starts the same way Peter did. Unbuttoning the shirt, one button at a time, no rushing or fumbling. Thirty minutes is more than enough time. But he leaves the shirt on as he makes Peter sit down. He likes the feel of the fabric under his hands, likes the way the color looks against Peter’s skin. He tugs Peter’s shoes and socks off, and unlike Peter, gets his pants off right away. Peter’s inner thighs are one of his most sensitive areas, and Stiles wastes no time leaning down to start sucking a line of kisses there. He watches the bruises bloom and fade under his mouth.

Peter’s breathing hard already, but steadily; he’s in control. Stiles works his way up, rubbing his hands over Peter’s hips but bypassing his groin. Instead he focuses on Peter’s abdomen, pushing the shirt aside to get it out of his way. Peter isn’t wearing an undershirt (of course not; he can’t even be bothered to wear anything under his stupid cardigans) so the red dress shirt is the only thing in his way. Stiles runs his fingers along the fabric, parting it an inch at a time.

“How long has it been?” Peter asks, in a clinically curious tone.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Stiles murmurs against his skin, running his tongue in a circle around Peter’s navel. He follows the line of hairs down with soft little kisses, and rubs his hand over the bulge in Peter’s underwear. He feels the muscles under his mouth tremble and tighten, but Peter doesn’t make a noise. That’s okay. He’s got time. He keeps the touches light, without much pressure, never lingering for very long.

Peter stirs occasionally, usually when Stiles goes back to kissing his stomach or biting at his thighs, but he never protests. He’s clearly drawing his concentration together, and Stiles knows his focus is incredible. He knows that Peter can last for hours when he’s the one torturing Stiles, and he doesn’t think that this will be any different. This is a game he can’t win, but that’s fine; he knew that going in.

It’s been about twenty minutes, and he’s sucking Peter through his underwear, when the werewolf says, “Do you think you could get me a magazine?”

“God, you’re such an ass,” Stiles says, and yanks his underwear down just enough to free his cock. He takes it all the way in without warning, and that, Peter reacts to. His hips jerk upward and he makes a strangled noise between his teeth. Then he lets out a wheezing little laugh, because he’s won and he knows it.

That means there’s no reason to hang on anymore, so Stiles goes to town, and over the last year he has gotten extremely good at blowjobs. He’s looked up tips online, he’s experimented, he’s practiced. He loves this, loves making Peter lose control. And after the entire evening put together, once Peter’s no longer trying to hold back, it takes less than two minutes for Stiles to have him writhing. He grabs Peter by the hips and holds him down, although the werewolf could certainly get free if he wanted to.

All the practice has also given him one other helpful trick – he knows exactly when Peter’s about to come. He doesn’t need Peter to warn him anymore. He can tell.

Which is why it’s easy for him to grab Peter’s underwear and pull it back up at the last second. Peter makes a startled noise, but it’s too late, and he twists a hand in Stiles’ hair and shudders against him as Stiles rubs his face against Peter’s hip.

When he comes down from it and catches his breath, he says, “You cheated.”

“Yes, I did,” Stiles says, smirking. “What’s your point?”

Peter thinks about this, then says, “Fair enough.”

“Well, I’m hard again,” Stiles says cheerfully. “Let’s go make out in the shower.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Peter’s rather annoyed to receive a text from Stiles that reads, ‘your place, 6 pm, calling in my chip’. He sighs a little. It shouldn’t surprise him. Stiles was away on pack business for nearly three weeks, and that’s a lot of time with one’s right hand man for company. He had been wondering when Stiles was going to cash in on their bet. Part of him was hoping that Stiles had forgotten. The other part was intrigued by what Stiles was going to try.

He’s fairly sure that he knows exactly how it’s going to go. Stiles is going to want to fuck him – that’s a given. He’s probably going to make some noise about Peter actually admitting he enjoys it. None of which is particularly repugnant to Peter, but not exactly the way he would choose to spend an evening. Still, a bet is a bet. He’s not a welsher.

He gets more interested in the proceedings when Stiles actually shows up. After a three week absence, Stiles smells like lust and cinnamon and a lot of other things that Peter really wants right now. He drops his backpack off in Peter’s room. “So, ‘an evening’ means I get until midnight?”

“Seems fair,” Peter says.

Stiles regards him seriously for a moment and says, “I mean it, though the safeword still applies. I’m not going to force you to do anything.”

“Really?” Peter is amused. “You think I’m going to safeword out of something?”

“I’m just saying, all things being equal, that you have the option,” Stiles says. He sits down in Peter’s desk chair. “Now get undressed. Slowly. And give me a lap dance.”

Peter feels a swell of arousal curl through his gut. It’s not how he expected Stiles to start, and the firm, confident way he delivers the orders does terrible things to Peter’s libido. “Should I put on some music?”

“If you have any music in this place that’s appropriate for a lap dance, I would be extremely surprised,” Stiles says. “Nope. You’ll have to find the beat on your own.”

“Fair enough,” Peter says. He’s never given a lap dance in his life, so the potential to feel embarrassed is there, but he doesn’t give in to it. He walks slowly around the chair, watching the way Stiles watches him, trailing his fingers along Stiles’ shoulders. Once he’s back in front of Stiles, he peels his shirt over his head and tosses it across the room. He likes seeing the way Stiles’ breathing speeds up as he runs his hands along his own chest and abdomen.

Jeans aren’t the best pants for a striptease, so he gets them out of the way as gracefully as possible, then settles on Stiles’ lap. He hooks one leg around the back of the chair for balance, and Stiles groans a little. Peter leans in and starts to nibble on Stiles’ ear, keeping his hips rolling, slow and easy, not really grinding but just making their presence known. His hand curls in the short hairs at the back of Stiles’ neck. Stiles’ fingers are digging into his ass, but he’s not trying to pull Peter closer. Not yet, at least.

After Peter judges that Stiles is suitably out of his mind from the tension, he gets back to his feet and slides his underwear off. He tosses it in the same direction as his pants and smirks as he sees Stiles’ gaze lock onto his dick. He leans forward so they’re not quite kissing and asks, “Should I keep going?”

“Huh?” Stiles asks, and shakes himself. “Fuck, no. Get on the bed.”

“Front or back?” Peter asks, with an amused smile.

“Back. And stop asking questions.”

Peter nods a little and lies down on his back as instructed. He watches Stiles as he peels his clothes off, without any grace whatsoever. Moments later, Stiles is on top of him, his hands curling in the sheets on either side of Peter’s head. “You know I’m gonna fuck you, right?” he asks, and Peter nods. “And I want you to stop that thing you do where you try not to make noise.”

This is more along the lines of what Peter expected. He smirks and says, “Some people are just naturally quiet during sex, you know.”

“Yeah, but you bite your lips too much to be one of them,” Stiles says. He’s already got the lube out and is smearing it all over his fingers. “I want to hear you moan, to hear you beg. And when I find your prostate I sure as hell better hear about that.”

Peter is going to say something snarky about Stiles’ wishes being his commands, but then Stiles is pressing a finger inside him and he kind of forgets about that. He enjoys being fucked, really. He just enjoys fucking someone else more. He spreads his legs a little more to give Stiles more room, tilts his head back and lets himself enjoy the experience. Stiles leans down and starts biting at his throat, and Peter has to resist the instinctual urge to push him away. It feels good, though, and he grunts in some surprise as Stiles bites his ear.

“C’mon, let me hear you,” Stiles whispers, right into his ear, and starts down Peter’s chest. His tongue flicks over a nipple, and Peter groans. Then, much to his surprise, Stiles uses his free hand to give Peter a light slap across the face. “No faking,” he says, and Peter laughs at him.

“Then make me make noise for real,” Peter replies.

Stiles makes a face at him and sits back. He concentrates on adding a second finger and watching them slide in and out of Peter’s ass. Peter sighs a little, content, and adjusts himself more comfortably, letting the pleasure build up slowly. He feels too warm, almost dizzy with it. Stiles stops pouting after a few minutes and leans down to start pressing kisses into Peter’s hips and thighs, sucking little bruises and then watching them disappear. He finds a good spot and Peter lets out a breath. “Uhn, right there,” he says, letting the words fall out of his mouth despite his better judgment.

“Here?” Stiles says softly, and then mouths at the spot, still moving his fingers in and out, slow and easy. Peter’s muscles jump and twitch underneath his mouth.

“Fuck,” he says. Stiles’ fingers curl and he jumps again. “Oh, fuck, Stiles,” he snarls, and Stiles hums, pleased, against his skin. Then Stiles is clambering up him and he’s not ready, he’s still breathing hard and messy and desperate and Stiles’ cock is pressing into him and all he can do is cant his hips upwards and take it.

“Good?” Stiles asks, once he’s all the way in.

Peter shudders against him. “Yeah,” he says.

“You want me to fuck you?” Stiles asks, holding himself still even though his arms are trembling.

“Yeah,” Peter says again, trying to breathe.

“Tell me,” Stiles says. “Tell me what you want.”

Peter swears and digs his fingers into Stiles’ ass, but Stiles won’t move. “Jesus – fuck me, Stiles.”

Stiles lets out a little whine. He does it slow and deep – pulls out and then thrusts back in, so slowly that Peter has to strangle back a whimper. Then he remembers that he’s not supposed to be strangling back anything. “Again,” Stiles pants.

“Fuck me,” Peter repeats, and waits, and nothing happens. “Stiles,” he groans. “Stiles, please – ”

“Oh, fuck,” Stiles says, and his self-control snaps. He drops to his elbows and starts moving hard and fast. Peter chokes out another noise that’s more of a moan than anything else, and hooks his leg around Stiles’ waist to get the angle right. Then he just takes it, begs for it, says all the things Stiles has always wanted to hear from him. It’s over fast on both their parts.

They lay there and breathe for several long minutes and Peter thinks that was pretty good, actually, he’s certainly had worse evenings. Now they’ll get some sleep, and tomorrow he’ll reset the equilibrium by fucking Stiles until he screams, and that sounds good, too.

Then Stiles is sitting up. “Well, now that we’ve gotten that out of the way,” he says brightly, “there are some other things I wanna try.”

Peter blinks at him. “Oh?”

“Yeah, well, I couldn’t miss out on an opportunity to be on top, obviously,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes, “but it’s only been like forty minutes, which means that there are still five hours and twenty minutes of you having to obey my every order. And you know, this entire relationship has been all about your kinks – your handcuffs, your exhibitionist streak, your strong penchant for denying me wonderful orgasms.”

“Only because it’s worth the wait,” Peter murmurs.

“So now we’re going to try some of mine,” Stiles says cheerfully, and grabs his backpack.

“And what are your kinks, exactly?”

“I honestly have no idea,” Stiles says. “I figured this would be a good time to figure that out. So I brought some of everything.”

They discover in short order that Stiles does not find Peter’s feet particularly arousing, but he does like Peter playing with his hair. Food just makes things sticky and relatively unpleasant. Sixty-nine is virtually impossible because Stiles keeps getting distracted and leaving off what he’s doing. Nipple clamps are horrifying when implemented incorrectly. There are some ways they simply do not bend. He likes riding Peter a lot more than Peter likes being ridden.

“Jesus,” Peter mutters, a little after nine o’clock, when he’s exhausted but Stiles is still going strong. Damn the teenaged libido. “What have I gotten myself into?”

“More like, what are you going to get yourself into,” Stiles says, and pulls a plastic bag out of his backpack. “Which is, next on the list, this.”

Peter looks into the bag. “Lingerie? Really?”

“Yeah, I tried to get some stuff in your colors,” Stiles says.

“Very funny,” Peter remarks.

“Go change in the bathroom. I only want to see the final effect. There’s three separate outfits in there.”

Peter lifts his hands in surrender and heads into the bathroom. He’s determined to keep going as long as Stiles can. It takes a few minutes to puzzle out the outfit, but then he gets it on correctly. It’s basically a corset, and after he gets it laced up, he actually looks in the mirror and laughs. “I look ridiculous,” he calls out to Stiles.

“C’mon, get out here!” Stiles shouts back.

Peter walks out of the bathroom and arches an eyebrow.

Stiles laughs, too. “Okay, no. Next!”

Peter shakes his head and takes the next outfit out of the bag. It’s a lacey black thong that comes with a sheer silk tank-top-like garment that has a little red bow. “How did you even get things that would fit me?” he asks from the bathroom.

“I got your measurements from the tailor, of course,” Stiles says.

Peter adjusts himself inside the thong and comes back out of the bathroom. He even does a little twirl for Stiles, amused.

“Hell, yeah,” Stiles says, his eyes going a little wide, breath picking up again. Peter rolls his eyes and he’s thinking about making some sort of disparaging comment, but then Stiles has him backed up against the wall and is sucking his cock through the panties and that, that is not something he can complain about. Actually he can’t find the breath to speak at all, Stiles is going to town so enthusiastically. He pushes his hands through Stiles’ hair and lets Stiles keep him pinned against the wall.

Two hours and three orgasms later, Stiles finally falls asleep, literally midsentence, sprawled out all over Peter’s bed.

Peter collapses beside him and thinks about sending the tailor a thank-you note.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

Chapter Text

 

 

Throwing parties isn’t exactly Stiles’ specialty, so Lydia helps with most of the details. He really goes all out, too, with cake and streamers and little bags of party favors with people’s names on them. Invitations are done via text, however, because there’s only so much time in the day. He doesn’t give people much advance notice, either, because he doesn’t want people asking obnoxious questions.

Lydia, of course, needs to know who the party is for. She takes the news that he’s throwing Peter a surprise birthday party with her usual aplomb. “You don’t have to help if you don’t want,” Stiles tells her, and she just shrugs and starts talking about color themes and outfits.

In truth, Lydia has long since gotten used to Peter and Stiles’ relationship. She suspected for several weeks before Stiles revealed it, and had come to terms with it long before any of the others, including Stiles and Peter themselves. They seemed to be well-matched to her, both devious and smart and a little on the unscrupulous side. One of them more than the other, but still.

A lot of what Peter had done was unforgivable, and Lydia hadn’t forgiven it. She had merely put it behind her. He was their ally, most of the time, and a good ally to have at that. Holding a grudge would only weaken their overall position, and she wasn’t about to do that.

Watching the way Peter watched Stiles, she realized long before he did that this was the best thing that could possibly happen in terms of Peter. Killing him would be difficult and dangerous (and might not stick the second time any more than it had the first). Making him leave would be impossible, and they would always be looking over their shoulders for him. Any sort of magical binding could always be broken.

But this, this was something that rendered Peter powerless to hurt them, and he had done it to himself. He had fallen for Stiles despite his best efforts and now, Lydia knew, Stiles kept them safe from him. Peter was still someone she watched closely, still manipulative and amoral and dangerous, but she no longer feared him.

This was the best cage they could possibly keep Peter Hale in, because he had no desire to get free.

In some ways, she thought, he knew that. But despite what happened on the full moon, Peter was still human. He had chosen to love Stiles even knowing that it would change everything, he had willingly given Stiles some control over his life, just as Stiles had willingly given Peter control of some of his.

It wasn’t a fairy tale romance, Stiles had said, but Lydia thought they loved each other just as deeply as Scott and Allison did, in their own sort of way.

So she was happy to help Stiles plan a party for Peter, to help Stiles gain just that much more of Peter’s affections.

For the first hour, everyone is happily drinking soda or beer and filling their faces with chips and dip that nobody thinks to ask exactly what they’re celebrating. It’s only when Scott looks at the cake that he stops and says, “Hey, this is a birthday cake.”

“It is indeed,” Stiles says, taking a swig of his soda.

“So . . . whose birthday is it?” Scott asks. He blinks at Derek and says, “Is it yours?” like he can totally picture Stiles throwing a party for Derek.

Derek scowls. “No. I figured it was Lydia’s or somebody’s.”

“No, hers is in March, remember, her party – ” Allison stops with a shudder and decides it’s probably better not to talk about that if at all possible. “And it’s not mine, which is in February. It’s not Scott’s or Isaac’s, so . . .” She looks around. “Cora?”

She shakes her head. “I figured it was probably just, you know, a party.”

Before anyone can turn to grill Stiles on the subject, the back door opens and Peter strolls in. Stiles grins suddenly, a wide, happy grin. “Okay, I’m here, what did you – ” Peter stops abruptly, takes in the surroundings, and then looks at Stiles. “I will murder you in your sleep.”

This garners growls from Scott and Derek, but Stiles doesn’t look the least bit concerned or intimidated. “Is that the way to talk to the guy who made you a cake?”

Peter’s eyes narrow. Then he turns around and walks back out without another word.

“Oh, come on, after you did all this work,” Scott says, but Stiles is already laughing. He continues to laugh for the next half hour as they divvy up Peter’s birthday cake and eat the entire thing, not leaving him a single piece.

At school the next day, Stiles has fresh bruises on his wrists, bite marks on his neck, and a grin that just won’t quit.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Derek’s gotten over being surprised when he walks into his loft and finds people there. The door doesn’t even have a lock, and people come and go as they please. A year or two previous, it would have bothered him. Now it’s strangely . . . nice. To have friends and family who view his home as a good place to be, a place where they gather and exchange words or watch movies or eat meals together.

He is a little surprised when it’s Peter, because Peter tends to avoid him when there aren’t supernatural shenanigans afoot, but recently, Peter’s been at his place more frequently. Since the nogitsune . . . no, before that, since the incident with the incubus. Stiles is over at Derek’s a lot, and more and more lately, Peter just seems to want to be wherever Stiles is.

It’s not as if there’s anything going on at this particular moment. Even if Derek just hadn’t been put in the loop yet, he can tell there isn’t by their relaxed posture and scents. Stiles is sitting at the kitchen table with his laptop, typing, in one of his ubiquitous plaid shirts and jeans. Peter is in a chair next to him, wearing a cardigan, feet bare, tucked up behind the rungs of the chair. He’s leaning over to watch what Stiles is doing at the computer, his chin just barely resting on Stiles’ shoulder.

It’s almost . . . cute. So Derek scowls at them. “What are you two doing here?” he demands.

They, along with everyone else, are used to this greeting and have learned to equate it with ‘hi guys’, which is what it really means. “Research,” Stiles says cheerfully.

“On?”

Stiles glances at Peter, who gives an almost invisible nod. “Peter’s ex-boyfriend. You know, that he was seeing before the fire and who ditched his ass afterwards? We-e-e-e-ell, I didn’t really think he should get away with being such a horrible person, even if I got the best end of the deal, so I looked him up. Turns out he’s running for office.”

“Oh,” Derek says. Stiles looks both gleeful and malicious in a way that only Stiles can. Stiles and Peter. “I take it that you’re going to ruin him?”

“Yup!” Stiles says.

Derek just shakes his head a little at that, and goes about his business. He vaguely remembers Uncle Peter’s boyfriend before the fire. He remembers thinking that he was a pretentious blowhard. Peter seemed to like him, though. That had been enough for the other members of the family.

It’s interesting, he thinks, because the longer Peter and Stiles are together, the more he starts to see his uncle from before the fire reappear. Peter is still manipulative and power-hungry, still arrogant and egotistical, still sarcastic and denigrating at times. Sometimes he does things just to see what will happen, even if other people who will get hurt, but it isn’t meant in a malicious sort of way.

Derek had never been sure about Peter’s true motives, but he was sure that Peter cared for his family. He had deliberately, brutally, gleefully murdered everyone who had been involved in the fire. The loss of his family had driven him mad, past ‘the ends justify the means’ and well into a sociopathic disregard for anyone around him. But he was coming back from that, slowly, and Derek was surprised to find that he was taking genuine pleasure in Peter’s recovery.

Stiles is good for Peter, Derek knows, and anything good for Peter is technically good for all of them. Keeping Peter calm and happy and giving him a concrete reason to be on their side, that’s just practical.

Besides, sometimes it’s nice to see his uncle smile again.

As for Stiles, well. Derek long ago came to the conclusion that Stiles was going to do exactly what he wanted to do, regardless of what anyone thought about it, including Peter. He’s not sure how Peter fell for Stiles’ bizarre charm, but he’s very, very sure that Peter had had absolutely no intention of doing so. And that somehow, that only made Peter like Stiles more.

Derek doesn’t really worry about it anymore. Peter and Stiles as a pair has folded seamlessly into the landscape of his life. And he likes it fine that way.

“Have fun with that,” he says to the two of them.

“Hell yeah,” Stiles says, and Peter laughs quietly, with a wicked little gleam in his eye, and leans over to kiss the back of Stiles’ neck.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

It’s raining as Sheriff Stilinski stands in front of his wife’s grave. Somehow it always seems to be raining on the anniversary of her death, which had depressed him at first but started to amuse him, the more years went by. It’s as if God himself cried for Claudia, if he believed in God, which he wasn’t so sure of anymore. Life had gotten pretty weird in the past few years.

“Hey, Dad, hey,” Stiles says, jogging up. He’s carrying a bouquet of purple gladiolas, Claudia’s favorite. He lays them down in front of her grave and wipes his eyes.

Stilinski reaches over and squeezes his son’s shoulder. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, though he isn’t, of course, because neither of them is on this particular day. They stand in silence for a few minutes, letting the rain drip down their faces. Stilinski wonders what his wife would think of all this, of werewolves and banshees and their son throwing himself into danger at every opportunity.

Doubtless, he thinks, she would say ‘that’s our boy’ and not be surprised at all. Because Stiles has always possessed, among other things, a ruthless instinct to protect his family.

Over the past year, Sheriff Stilinski has learned a lot about compromising, even with himself. There were some things going on that he didn’t like. Since he couldn’t stop Stiles from being involved, he insisted on full disclosure. Since he couldn’t always protect his son, he insisted on protecting him as much as he could.

Sometimes it’s not so easy. He can help protect Stiles from ghouls and faeries and witches. But sometimes he wishes he could protect Stiles from himself.

He’s heard about the spell that Peter and Stiles used, the one hundred percent, rock solid knowledge that Peter isn’t using his son for some long-term game. That doesn’t mean he approves of their relationship. But sometimes he doesn’t know that he disapproves, either. When Stiles has bruises from some supernatural nasty and Peter has that homicidal gleam in his eye, he doesn’t think he disapproves. When Stiles and Peter are bickering over the crossword puzzle and who was supposed to do the dishes, he doesn’t think he disapproves. When Stiles comes home from a long night out with, well, that stupid-happy expression on his face . . .

To be honest, Sheriff Stilinski doesn’t disapprove of that, either.

Peter’s not a nice guy, and sometimes he’s not a good guy, but Sheriff Stilinski doesn’t have any delusions about his son, either. He doesn’t think Stiles would be happy with someone like Scott, who always has to do the right thing, or Allison, who has such a strict code that she lives by. Stiles needs a little more moral flexibility than that. Sheriff Stilinski isn’t sure where he got it from, that ‘take no prisoners leave no enemies’ mentality, but he thinks that their group needs a few people like Stiles and Peter, to protect them from themselves.

“Just make sure you’re never on the wrong end of my gun,” he had said to Stiles after an incident, and Stiles solemnly nodded and agreed.

After a few more minutes of silence – they hardly ever talk when they do this – Stiles reaches down and touches the top of his mother’s gravestone. Then he turns and walks away. Sheriff Stilinski’s gaze follows him.

A car pulls up at the edge of the cemetery. Peter steps out, holding an umbrella. Stiles ducks underneath it, pressing his cheek into Peter’s shoulder. The werewolf doesn’t seem to mind the damp teenager clinging to him.

“I think he’s all right, our boy,” Sheriff Stilinski says to his wife. He watches Peter usher Stiles into the car, keeping the umbrella held over him until he was in, even though it meant he himself got a little wet. Then he got behind the wheel and they drove away. “Yeah,” he says. “I think he’s all right.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Sometimes, Isaac thinks, his ability to melt into the background serves him well. He doesn’t always choose to use it, but long years practicing makes it creep up on him at odd moments. When Allison is arguing with someone, he, well, he likes to watch. She’s magnificent, in the way she stands tall and proud and doesn’t take shit from anybody.

“No, I don’t care about your opinion,” she says to Peter, her arms folded over her chest. “I’m sure that you’ve come up with some solution that you consider better. I actually couldn’t care less.”

When it came to arguments inside the pack, somehow it always seemed like Allison and Peter were the most likely to get into it. It usually came up when they were trying to sort out some rescue operation or a way to get rid of someone giving the pack trouble. Scott, Derek, and Allison would talk it over and come up with a plan. Lydia would point out all the flaws in the plan. They would modify it. Stiles would propose an alternative. Those two plans often meshed together. Then Peter would tell them they were all idiots, it could be done faster, easier, with less risk to them, if only they were willing to sell their soul to the devil.

Nobody ever liked Peter’s plans. Sometimes they acknowledged the worth of them, or folded little bits of them into their current plans, but nobody liked them. Peter had a cavalier disregard for collateral damage, and a keen sense of risk versus reward that always walked a fine line.

Scott never bothered to argue with Peter, because he didn’t think it was worth his time. Derek stayed away from it as well, because over the months and years he had learned that he was too susceptible to his uncle’s machinations, and it was really better for everyone if he just ignored Peter at moments like this. That meant Allison was usually the one who stood up and told Peter to kiss her ass.

She didn’t need to do it, because the others never listened to Peter over Scott, but she did it anyway, because she didn’t like the idea of Peter thinking his suggestions were okay.

“Not only is my solution better,” Peter says, “it would take considerably less time.”

“Somehow I feel like you’re not listening, Peter,” Allison says, and they’re snarking back and forth, and Isaac sighs because he knows how this goes. Allison won’t budge, Peter will get sarcastic, and it’ll come down to a fight. Allison can take care of herself, certainly, but there’s a variable now that Isaac doesn’t like, which is Stiles. Scott seems to have utmost faith in Stiles, but Isaac is never one hundred percent sure how things will play out when he’s involved.

Which is why he goes tense when Peter makes a disparaging comment about Lydia, because Allison absolutely does not allow Peter to talk shit about Lydia, and the next thing anybody knows, Peter’s been tased and is twitching on the floor and Isaac’s gaze darts over to Stiles, waiting to see how he’ll react.

Stiles just throws his head back and laughs. “You asked for that one, Peter,” he says, hopping down off the table he was sitting on.

Peter wheezes, spasms, and grunts out something unkind.

“Yeah, yeah.” Stiles walks forward, stepping over Peter’s body. “C’mon, Ally A. I’ll tell you the parts of his plan that you won’t hate, and we can go from there.”

“Sure,” Allison says, tucking the taser away.

“You’ll have to let me borrow that sometime,” Stiles says. “He goads you so much that I’m starting to think he secretly enjoys being tased.”

“Kinky,” Allison says, grinning, and Stiles laughs, and Isaac shakes his head at both of them. He’s not exactly sure how Stiles and Peter work out this sort of thing when they’re behind closed doors, but, well. Maybe he’s happier not knowing.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Even the supernatural bad guys that plague Beacon Hills understand what Stiles is to Peter.

A vampire that shows up comes close to taking Stiles’ throat out, but as soon as he sees Peter, he turns white as a sheet and gets the hell out of town.

An omega wandering through decides that Stiles would be good for target practice, but as soon as she realizes who he is, not only does she let him go, she makes sure to deliver him back safely and makes it very clear she hadn’t realized who he was. Peter beats the shit out of her anyway, just to make a point.

Two hunters manage to capture Peter and spend several hours taunting him about how nobody’s going to come to his rescue. They’re a little startled when Stiles shows up, armed with smoke bombs, pepper spray, and his baseball bat. He delivers a thorough lecture on why Peter’s not alone, and they should go tell all their cronies why this will never happen again. Peter kills one of them anyway. It only takes one hunter to deliver a message.

One time there are several other packs in town for some kind of regional powwow that Scott and Derek put together, and Stiles sees several of them staring at him and then looking uneasily away. There are mutters about Peter Hale’s property when they think he’s not listening.

It doesn’t bother him. This is how legends are born.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Scott is there for each of the three times that Stiles says, “No, Peter, I don’t want you to be my date at the fucking prom, okay?” or some variation, so he nearly flips his shit when he sees Peter come in through the doors. The older werewolf is wearing a well-cut tuxedo, and carrying a boutonniere. Fuming, Scott starts to march over, hoping he can intercept him before Stiles sees him.

Lydia grabs him by the wrist before he can, and viciously elbows Stiles, whose head jerks up. A huge, delighted grin spreads over Stiles’ face, and he heads towards Peter with a bounce in his step. Scott watches in some confusion when he makes an exaggerated ‘for me, you shouldn’t have’ gesture and lets Peter pin the flowers to his tuxedo.

“Stiles told him not to come,” he growls at Lydia. “He doesn’t listen to anything Stiles says.”

Lydia rolls her eyes. “Stiles said that because he knew that if he told him not to come, he would. And vice versa. It’s called reverse psychology.”

“Is that supposed to make it better?” Scott asks. “Like, he’s going to have to use reverse psychology on his boyfriend for the rest of . . . however long?”

“Okay,” Lydia says, and her grip tightens on his wrist. She tows him over to a quieter corner of the ballroom. “We need to have a talk about this. Because Stiles will never say anything, but it bothers the shit out of him that you have such a huge problem with his relationship.”

Scott scowls. “I’m looking out for him – ”

“You’re telling him that you don’t think he’s smart enough to make his own choices,” Lydia says. “Let’s think about this, Scott. Has it occurred to you that maybe Stiles likes playing mind games with Peter just as much as Peter enjoys playing mind games with him? That it’s a game they both enjoy? That Stiles would be bored as shit with the sort of girlfriend or boyfriend that the average teenager would consider normal?”

“That’s not the point,” Scott says. “Okay, yes, maybe a little. But it’s just, he could do so much better! Have you forgotten all the shit Peter did?”

“No,” Lydia says. “I haven’t. And neither has Stiles, for that matter. And you wanting ‘better’ for him has absolutely no bearing on who he should have a relationship with. If he’s happy with Peter – and you yourself have acknowledged that he is – then you should let it go.”

“I just don’t see what the hell that guy can offer him,” Scott protests.

Lydia’s eyes narrow. “Okay. Leaving aside the fact that Stiles has assured me multiple times that Peter is stunning in the sack – ”

Scott groans.

“ – then you could entertain the fact that this is also none of your business. I could list some of the things that Peter offers to Stiles, but that’s not really the point, is it? Because he obviously offers Stiles whatever it is that Stiles feels is important in a relationship. They’ve been together for almost a year and a half now, and really together, like together together, for over six months. So why is it so difficult for you to understand that Stiles is happy with him?”

Scott’s jaw sets in an unhappy expression. “It won’t last,” he says. “Eventually, Peter will show his true colors.”

“Okay. Fine. If that’s what you believe, fine. But it’s still Stiles’ choice to make, not yours.” Lydia sighs. “I want you to see something,” she adds, and points. Scott looks across the ballroom to see Stiles and Peter dancing together. It’s a slow dance, and Stiles has his arms around Peter’s neck, with their foreheads nearly touching as they shuffle back and forth. “Is that a sight you thought you would ever see?”

“No,” Scott says.

“No,” Lydia agrees, “because who the hell can picture Peter Hale coming to a high school dance and actually dancing at it? What you are looking at is a Peter Hale who is wildly outside his comfort zone, no matter how suave and relaxed he looks. He came here for Stiles. So even for the smallest of moments, Stiles could be normal, a teenager dancing at the prom with his boyfriend. That’s something Stiles never thought he would have the last few years, and Peter’s giving it to him, even though he’d probably rather be anywhere else.”

“I just – ” Scott’s brow furrows. “I just don’t get it.”

“You don’t have to get it, Scott,” Lydia says. “You just have to respect it.”

With that, she turns on her heel and walks away. Scott stares after her, then stares at Peter and Stiles on the dance floor, still holding onto each other as they sway to the music. “I just don’t get it,” he mumbles again, and turns away.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

Chapter Text

Peter is flipping channels on late-night TV when his phone rings. He glances down at the screen, sees that it’s a local but unknown number, and lets it go to voice mail. Ten seconds later, it buzzes with an incoming text. He frowns slightly, but picks up the phone. The text is from the same number, and reads, ‘This is Sheriff Stilinski. Please answer your phone.’

It’s already ringing again, so Peter taps ‘accept’ and says, “Sheriff, to what do I owe – ”

“Is Stiles with you?” Stilinski asks, his voice tight and unhappy.

Peter feels something like unease start to gnaw at his stomach. “No. I haven’t seen him since Sunday morning, when he left here. I assume you can’t find him, and that’s why you’re calling me?”

“He wasn’t home last night, which isn’t altogether unusual, but the library called to let me know he didn’t show up for his shift today,” Stilinski says. “Now, he skips sometimes for reasons that I don’t know about, but he always calls them if he can’t make it in. And now he isn’t answering his phone and I haven’t been able to track it by the GPS.”

“Have you spoken to Scott?”

“Around three. He hadn’t seen him either. He was going to look for him and – let me know. Last thing I heard from him was about an hour ago and he hadn’t had any luck. It just occurred to me to try you to see if you knew where he might be.”

“I don’t. But I have a few tricks of my own I can try. I’ll be in touch.” Peter ends the call and gets to his feet. He grabs a few things from around his apartment and heads out the door. He can feel dull rage building in his stomach, which is infinitely better than fear. He dials Derek as he gets behind the wheel. “Are you at the loft?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Derek says.

“Is Scott with you?”

There’s a moment of hesitation. “Yeah, he’s here. Peter, don’t – ”

Peter’s already hung up. He only lives about ten minutes from the loft, and it’s obvious that they’re braced for his arrival. He doesn’t care. He’s furious in a way that he can’t recall having been since before the fire. He tosses Isaac aside like he’s made of matchsticks, grabs Scott by the throat, and slams him down on the table. “What do I have to do to convince you that – ” he starts, and then Derek grabs him and hauls him off.

He’s about to turn on Derek and snarl when he hears the buzz of electricity and realizes that Derek was actually protecting him, pulling him away from Scott before Allison could use her stun gun. He growls at her, but as usual, she’s unfazed. His gaze snaps back to Scott. “You had no right to keep this from me.”

Scott rubs his throat, sitting up. “We’ll find him,” he says, jaw setting in that stubborn expression.

“Am I not a resource to you?” Peter asks. He glances around and then asks, “Am I not the most intelligent person in the room right now? What made you think I couldn’t help? Are you willing to let Stiles suffer because you don’t approve of who he fucks?”

“Because that’s what it’s about, right?” Scott asks, his lip curling up to show teeth.

“That’s enough!” Derek says, his voice cutting through the growls, and his eyes flashing red. Scott looks mutinous, and Peter looks straight murderous. “We can argue about this later. Peter, when was the last time you saw Stiles?”

Peter forces himself to calm down. It isn’t easy. “Sunday. About ten AM. He had breakfast at my place and then left. He said he had things to do.”

Allison nods and speaks up. “He was working with me and Scott on a school project. He left my place at about nine, but he never got home. Sheriff Stilinski says that he had spoken to Stiles earlier and Stiles had said he might just crash at Scott’s place, so it didn’t strike him as unusual when he didn’t see Stiles. But then he wasn’t at work today, and we realized nobody had seen him since last night.”

“I assume you followed your nose?” Peter asks, directing this question to Derek even though he knows it was probably Scott who had actually done so. He’s too pissed off to even look at Scott right now. The others hadn’t called him either, but he knows that if they hadn’t, it was either because Scott had told them not to (probably in Allison and Isaac’s case) or led them to believe he already had (most likely in Derek’s case).

Derek nods. “Yeah. Ended on the road. So he got into a car. We passed that info along to the sheriff. He looked up surveillance footage, but there weren’t any cameras in the specific area that Stiles disappeared in. No sign of a struggle, though.”

“Magic?”

“Lydia and Cora are at Deaton’s,” Derek says. “You know that Lydia has a token of Stiles’ to help locate him in this sort of circumstance. We haven’t heard back from them yet.”

“But if it hasn’t worked yet, it won’t,” Peter says. “Have you tried . . .”

This goes on for almost an hour. Peter does have a lot of tricks up his sleeve. Some of them are things the others have already tried, some of them aren’t. But nothing works. It’s as if Stiles has vanished off the face of the earth. Allison gets a call occasionally from her father, who’s working through his contacts about who in town might be a threat, and Scott gets calls from Sheriff Stilinski. Interestingly, whenever there’s an actual lead, the sheriff also texts Peter, as if he knows that Scott might not tell him everything. Peter knows that Stiles’ father might not approve one hundred percent of their relationship, but he’s clearly willing to bend his principles if it gets his son home safe.

They split up to search, they reconvene, take more calls, split up again. The sun is rising by the time they’re all back at the loft again, and Allison makes a quiet noise about maybe getting something to eat, they’re going to need to keep their strength up. Before anyone can response, Peter’s phone rings. He thinks it might be the sheriff, but this time it’s Stiles. “Jesus, it’s Stiles,” he says, startled, and then hits the ‘accept’ button. “Stiles?”

“Not exactly,” a voice says in response. It’s a low, throaty voice, almost a purr. Masculine, but only barely. Completely unfamiliar.

Peter puts his phone on speaker and says quietly, “Where is Stiles?”

“He’s here,” the voice says. “We’ve been having a lovely time together. I’m sorry it took me so long to get in touch with you. Did you know, he keeps all the numbers in his phone under code names? It took some time to get him to tell me which one I wanted to call.”

Peter doesn’t feel angry anymore. He feels calm, cool and collected. “So it’s me that you want.”

“Oh, no, I don’t want you at all,” the voice says. “I just wanted you to know what I was doing to your precious little boytoy here. I wanted you to know that I’ve broken him.”

“I doubt that very much,” Peter replies calmly. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Scott open his mouth to say something angry, and Allison claps a hand over his mouth. “And what sins have we committed to justify such a thing? I’m curious.”

The voice lowers to a hiss. “You killed my brother.”

“That wouldn’t surprise me. I’ve killed a lot of people.”

“Well, you should remember him,” the voice says, “being in that you tore his dick off first.”

Peter goes still. The incubus he had killed. Stiles is being held captive by an incubus, it’s one of the worst things he can imagine. The others are likewise exchanging glances. “I assume you’re calling me for a reason,” he says.

“Yeah,” the incubus says. “I wanted you to know that I’m gonna let him go.”

“Oh?” Peter asks, feigning polite indifference.

“Yep. Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to go back into the other room. I’m gonna suck his cock until he begs me to let him come,” the incubus says. Peter sees Allison grimace and look away; Derek rubs a hand over his face and turns towards the window. “But I’m not going to let him. I’m going to do it until he’s screaming. And from now on, every time you suck his cock, he’s gonna be thinking about me, about what I did to him. That’s what I want you to live with.”

The line goes dead.

“You son of a bitch.” Scott’s face is pale with rage, his eyes flashing a brilliant gold. “You could – how could you just stand there and talk like that, like you’re being interviewed by some vacuum salesman, you piece of – ”

His words are cut off when Peter slams his fists down on the table so hard that the legs buckle and it collapses into a pile of shattered wood. He can feel his claws digging into the palms of his hands. Scott seems entirely taken aback by this show of emotion on Peter’s part.

“Uncle Peter,” Derek says quietly, and that gets Peter’s attention, because Derek hardly ever calls him that. The red in his vision recedes for a few moments. He looks up at Derek, then beyond him, at Allison. She’s on her phone. Talking quietly. Peter waits.

She hangs up a few minutes later and says, “Okay, the call trace went through. I’ve got an address.”

Moments later, they’re in their cars, and fifteen minutes after that, they’re standing outside a hotel. Peter knows that Stiles is still there. He can smell him, can hear his heartbeat fluttering like a panicky bird. He doesn’t know if the incubus is still there. He’s pretty sure, given the precautions that it took, that it’s aware they can trace the call. But he probably doesn’t realize how quickly they can do it, and he probably had no idea how stubborn Stiles can be under duress. Allison is saying something about a plan, but Peter is far ahead of her, and Scott isn’t far behind him. Like Peter, he knows exactly where to go.

Peter doesn’t even bother trying the door. He kicks it down with extreme prejudice. He doesn’t care if anyone calls the police. He doesn’t care about anything.

The incubus is still inside, and he’s still doing exactly what he had said he would be doing. He’s got Stiles chained up and hanging from a hook that he had screwed into the wall. The teenager is completely naked and writhing underneath the lust demon’s mouth. Peter feels, more than sees, a shudder go through Scott, but then he’s already halfway across the room. The incubus isn’t even all the way onto his feet when Peter grabs him by the throat and tears it wide open. It collapses into a pool of blood.

“Jesus,” Isaac says, from where he’s standing outside the room.

Stiles makes a high-pitched keening noise at the loss of contact but otherwise doesn’t react. He doesn’t even seem to notice the blood. His body shudders, practically convulses.

Peter’s extensive research on incubi from their first encounter tells him two things. The first is that the incubus’ spell is still active, even though it’s now dead. The second is that it can no longer be reinforced. While the incubus could keep Stiles from orgasm indefinitely while it was still alive, now that it’s dead, the spell can be seen to completion, and then it’ll be over. He reaches out and takes Stiles’ face between his hands.

Stiles’ eyes flutter open. “Peter,” he sobs. “Peter, please, end it, please, please – ”

Peter nods. He casts a quick, sweeping glance around the room and snarls, “Get out.” He doesn’t bother to wait to see if they obey. He almost doesn’t even bother getting Stiles down, but then thinks better of the idea. He grabs him by the wrists and lifts, then slides him to the floor as quickly as he dares. He grabs the pillow off the bed and tosses it over Stiles’ face.

The others do leave, and hastily at that; Peter can hear their heartbeats fade out of range. It’s a good thing he thought of the pillow, because he hears Stiles give a muffled scream as soon as Peter’s mouth touches his cock. Peter knows he has to be oversensitive enough to be in agony by this point. He thinks it might almost be better to actually fuck him, but then Stiles is wailing into the fabric and coming in his mouth. Peter holds his hips through it, tries to keep him steady.

When it’s over, he eases Stiles onto his side. Stiles is crying so hard that he barely seems able to breathe. Peter stays with him, but he isn’t sure what to do, if touching Stiles would make it better or worse. After a few minutes, when it isn’t getting better, he leans over and says, “What do you want me to do, Stiles? What do you need?”

“I want my dad,” Stiles sobs. “I want to go home.”

“Okay,” Peter says. “Okay, Stiles. I’m going to help you up.”

Stiles nods. He’s still making little snuffly noises as Peter gets him to his feet. The werewolf looks around for clothes but doesn’t see any. He picks up the blanket from the bed. There’s some blood on it, but he doubts Stiles will care. He whimpers a little when Peter wraps the blanket around him and it brushes against his oversensitive skin. Then Peter just picks him up and leaves the hotel room behind.

Someone has obviously called Stiles’ father, because there are flashing blue lights and he’s practically on top of them as Peter leaves the hotel room with Stiles in his arms. “Here, over here,” he says, gesturing to the cruiser. Peter gets Stiles into the passenger seat, blanket and all. Sheriff Stilinski leans over and exchanges a few quiet words with his son. Then he straightens up and gives Peter the side-eye. “There a body in there?” he asks, and Peter nods. “Then you’d better get moving, don’t you think?”

Peter nods again. He thinks about stopping to yell at Scott some more about having not informed him of Stiles’ disappearance, but decides against it. He’s just too damned tired after everything that happened. He wants to go home, take a hot shower, and go to bed. He leans over Stiles and thumbs a tear off his cheek. “Go get some rest,” he says. “I’ll see you soon.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Peter waits until the next day to call Stiles. It goes to voice mail. Rather than leaving a message, he texts him, a simple message that says, ‘I hope you’re feeling better.’ There’s no response to it.

When his second text, the next day, similarly garners no response, Peter feels edgy enough to call Derek. He’s sure it’s just paranoia, but hell, he’s got reason to be paranoid. Derek assures him that Stiles has not gone missing again. If anything like that ever happens again, he will personally make sure that Peter has been notified. But no. Stiles isn’t returning any of their texts, and his father says he hasn’t left his room.

Peter doesn’t know what to do about this. Sex was a huge part of his relationship with Stiles, it can’t be denied. He can hardly expect it in the aftermath of such an assault. Thirty-six hours being tortured by an incubus. Peter can’t even comprehend it.

If he continues to try to contact Stiles, the teenager could perceive it as some form of pressure. If he doesn’t, he could perceive it as abandonment, as confirmation that if he can’t have sex, Peter wants nothing to do with him.

It’s a sticky situation, and he decides to pursue a middle ground. He simply calls once a day, always gets voicemail, and texts several times per day. This was about how often he texted Stiles before the incident, so he tries to suggest nothing has changed. He texts about his disgust with a baseball team he favors, about a book he’s reading that he thinks Stiles will like, about an idiot at the grocery store trying to use expired coupons. He texts about a movie coming out this weekend, asking Stiles if he wants to go. And he never gets any response.

Nearly a full week has gone by before there’s a knock on his door. He approaches it cautiously. If it’s Stiles, it’s never a good thing when he knocks instead of just coming in. But it isn’t Stiles; it’s Scott. He looks miserable, exhausted and distraught. Peter opens the door, gives him a look, and then stands back to let him in. “What?”

“You . . .” Scott falters. “You need to go see Stiles.”

Peter arches an eyebrow and resists the urge to punch Scott in the face. “Oh, I do, do I?”

For a minute, Scott looks pissed. But then he looks away. “I’m sorry, okay? I should have called you, and I sure as hell shouldn’t have told the others I had, when I hadn’t. I was wrong. Are you happy now?”

“No,” Peter says flatly. “No, I am unhappy, because we might have found Stiles as much as eighteen hours earlier if I had been notified of his disappearance as soon as you were aware of it.”

“Do you think I don’t know that?” Scott bursts out. “Do you think I haven’t spent the last week kicking my own ass, thinking that Stiles might not be hurting like this if I’d swallowed my stupid pride? I fucking get it, okay? If you don’t want to forgive me, then don’t. I just thought you might appreciate a God damned apology.”

Peter sighs. “Fine. Apology accepted. What are you doing here?”

Scott looks painfully uncertain, hugging his arms over his stomach. “Last week, I thought you didn’t care about Stiles. I fucked up. But he needs you. Even if you don’t care about him, he needs you. He’s convinced you’ll never want to see him again. That if you can’t have sex with him, you won’t want him. I think . . . I saw the texts you’ve been sending. I think he’s wrong. God, Peter, please tell me he’s wrong. He deserves so much better than you – sorry not sorry – but he wants you. And he’s so scared right now. He’s barely eating or sleeping, he won’t even come out of his room no matter what his dad or I say to him.”

Peter studies Scott for a few moments, then says, “All right. I’ve been trying to give him some space. I didn’t want him to feel like I was pressuring him to see me. But if you think I should go over and see him, I will.”

“Thanks,” Scott mutters, ducking his head.

Peter continues to watch him. “I know I’ve never given you a reason to trust me,” he finally says. “And I know that this thing between me and Stiles doesn’t make a lot of sense. It doesn’t even make sense to us, sometimes. But that doesn’t mean it’s not real.”

Scott nods. “Yeah, I . . . okay. I get that.”

Peter pulls on his shoes and heads for the door. Scott gives him an awkward little wave as he heads for his car. Fifteen minutes later, he’s at the Stilinski house. There are lights on inside, so he rings the bell. The sheriff answers a few moments later. He studies Peter and then sighs. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says, stepping back to let him. “Never thought I’d say that.”

“I apologize for not coming sooner,” Peter says. “I was trying to give him some space. But Scott told me I should give it a try.”

“Yeah,” Stilinski says. He just shakes his head and says, “Go on up. You know the way, I’m sure.”

Peter nods and heads up to Stiles’ room. He gives the door a gentle knock, receives no response, and opens it. Stiles is huddled in bed, sitting up with his knees pulled to his chest, with several blankets wrapped around him even though the room is rather warm. Physically, he seems fine, although he looks like he hasn’t slept all week. Peter pulls the door shut behind him. “You,” he says lightly, “have been ignoring my texts.”

Stiles flinches away as Peter sits down on the edge of the bed. “’m sorry,” he mumbles.

“You know, I consider myself a man of many virtues,” Peter says, and is rewarded with a slight twitch of Stiles’ lips. “Intelligent, courageous, diligent . . .”

“Modest?” Stiles suggests, almost unable to help himself.

“Ah, there’s the Stiles I want to see,” Peter says, and Stiles shrinks away a little. “But one virtue I possess in abundance is patience. Would you not agree with that?”

Stiles looks away and says, “Yeah, I guess.”

Peter is quiet for a moment. “Did you think I wouldn’t wait for you?” he asks.

Stiles’ eyes fill with tears. He still won’t look at Peter. “I – I can’t,” he says. “I can’t. Last night I tried to jerk off and I wound up puking for almost an hour. I can’t, Peter. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You should – you should go find somebody else. Someone who can – can give you that. Because I can’t. I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to again.”

“I don’t want somebody else,” Peter says flatly. “Oh, I suppose if the celibacy goes on too long, I might have to go find a quick fuck somewhere, but they won’t be you. And they won’t be what you are to me. Because if we’re going to be honest with each other, this hasn’t been just about sex since the day you walked into Derek’s loft and kissed me in front of everyone else.”

Now Stiles’ gaze flickers up to him. It’s only for a moment, but it’s there.

“I want you because you surprise me. Because you challenge me. Because you make me laugh. So here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to find you a good, sex-positive therapist. You are going to join a rape survivor’s support group. And I am going to wait.” He extends both hands. “Ask me.”

Stiles reaches out hesitantly. His hands touch Peter’s, then fall away. He shakes his head. “I can’t, I’m sorry, I can’t.”

“Yes you can. Go on. Ask me,” Peter says. When Stiles shakes his head again, Peter takes Stiles’ face in between both his hands. “Do you understand what you survived?” he asks, and Stiles gives a stifled sob. “Do you understand that most people in your shoes would be stark raving mad? Do you have even the slightest idea of how strong you are?” He brushes his thumb over Stiles’ mouth. “Do you know why you should ask me?”

Stiles shakes his head.

“Because I love you,” Peter says.

Stiles’ head jerks up, his mouth hanging half open with astonishment. “I thought – you wouldn’t – ”

Peter shrugs. “I said you could never ask me. Not that I would never tell you.”

Stiles wipes more tears off his cheeks. “I love you, too. I’m crazy but I love you.”

Peter wordlessly extends his hands again.

Stiles reaches out and takes them. His own are shaking, cold and clammy. It takes three tries for him to choke the question out. “Wi – will – will you wait – for me? To get better? To be okay?”

“As long as it takes,” Peter says, and the answer just falls out of his mouth, as easy as breathing.

Stiles cries for a long time after that, and Peter holds him, smoothes down his hair, and thinks with some fond regret about all the wonderful sex they’ve been having. But Stiles will get better, and someday they’ll have it again. Stiles will need to be in control in the bedroom, and Peter thinks he can give him that, for a while, if it will help him heal.

“Come on,” he finally says, giving Stiles a gentle tug. “You look like you haven’t eaten or slept in days, and I know your father is worried about you. Let’s go downstairs. I’ll make you some tea, and then you can get some rest.”

“Okay,” Stiles says. His voice is raw and hoarse. He’s trembling as Peter helps him up, but he allows Peter to support him. He manages to walk, wobbly as he is, and Peter gets him down the stairs.

Sheriff Stilinski looks up as they come into the kitchen, and there’s profound relief and naked gratitude all over his face. “Hey, you,” he says to his son, and exchanges a nod with Peter.

“I thought we’d have some tea,” Peter says smoothly, getting Stiles into a chair.

“Sure,” Stilinski says, going for the kettle. They sit in silence while he puts some water on to boil. Peter sits next to Stiles, holding one of his shaking hands between his own. He says he isn’t hungry, and although Peter is pretty sure some food would do him some good, he isn’t about to push the issue when they’ve made enough progress to get him out of his bedroom. He sees the sheriff dumping a generous portion of honey into the tea, and that will at least get something into his system.

Stiles sits with the mug between his hands, clutching it so tightly that his knuckles are white while he takes little sips. “Can – can Peter stay the night, Dad?” he asks.

Sheriff Stilinski looks between the two of them. “Okay with me,” he says, “if it’s okay with you.”

Stiles nods. He manages to get all the tea down, and he’s actually nodding off by the time the mug is empty. Peter helps him back up the stairs and into bed. Stiles won’t let go of him as he gets him into bed, clutching at his shirt and arms with hands that are growing weaker as sleep starts to take over. Peter lets him cling. He leaves the door ajar and crawls into bed next to Stiles.

“I’m sorry,” he says into the darkness of the room.

“Mm . . . wha for?” Stiles asks, cuddling closer.

“If I hadn’t killed that first incubus, this wouldn’t have happened to you. I should have just ended the spell as Deaton recommended.”

Stiles is quiet. “But if you’d done that, we wouldn’ be together, I don’t think,” he murmurs.

Peter thinks this over. “Is it worth it?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” Stiles says. “I want it to be.”

Peter nods. “Me too.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

Chapter Text

 

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.”

 

~fin~