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How Not to Be a Virgin Sacrifice by Stiles Stilinski

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Stiles has a list. This list details all the various ways he’s most likely to die. It includes but is not limited to: death by werewolf, car accident, killer bees, locusts, fire ants, rogue Argents, wind sprints, freak lacrosse decapitation, scurvy, bird flu, swine flu, plague, earthquake, flood, demonic possession, Peter Hale, zombie apocalypse, regular apocalypse, and various random Red Dawn scenarios. Cannon fodder actually features quite heavily. It’s morbid, maybe, but he figures it’s best to be prepared. Nowhere on that list does it say “lack of sexual experience” or, more specifically, “chosen for ritual virgin sacrifice by deranged fifth period English Teacher”. He’s honestly a little miffed that he didn’t see it coming. Because here he is, tied to a tree and surrounded by a circle of lunatics in bathrobes chanting some crappy translation of Druidic verse that was obviously just pulled off of a google search (some of them are even holding printouts) while Ms. Blake stands in the center with him waving a very shiny, very sharp looking knife around. It’s vaguely ridiculous, really, except for all the ways it’s really, really not.

“So this is all very 1970’s horror film. I love how you’ve gone all out on the theme. Druid coven, right? Cool. Is that an animal bone handle on your knife? Huh. Very authentic. Really adds to the mis en scene.” Stiles pulls against the ropes wrapped around his wrists as he rambles but only succeeds in pulling the bindings tighter.

“So where would you go to get a knife like that? I mean, is there a Wiccans R Us? Or, sorry, not Wiccans, Druids, right? So like Druidmart? You just walk in and say ‘one deer bone fillet knife please.’ Or is it more like an online thing? Is there an Etsy store for this stuff? I bet delivery charges are a bitch. How do you even classify that on a waybill?”

Stiles is aware that he’s rambling but Ms. Blake has started shaping very specific looking patterns in the air in front of him and the robed figures circling them have begun chanting with purpose. If he gets out of this, Stiles is making losing his virginity priority number one. Because dying as a virgin sacrifice? Definitely not the way he wants to go.

He reaches for something, anything to say to stall for more time because there are wolves in these woods and they better be on their way or he is going to come back from the grave to haunt every last one of them, so help him, when a chorus of howls fill the air around them.

“Calvary’s here,” he grins.

“Too late,” she smiles and raises her arm to slash down and across his chest just as a dark wall of muscle and fur crashes into her, throwing her to the ground and tearing the knife from her hand. It’s chaos as Derek’s pack tear through the trees chasing after the fleeing Druids and Scott and Allison rush over to him.

“Hey guys,” he says.

“Stiles! Are you alright?” Scott’s eyes are wide and panicked as he checks him for signs of injury, taking in the thin streak of blood where the downward motion of the knife had just nicked his chest. Allison, meanwhile, becomes Stiles’ favorite person ever as she pulls her own knife from her boot and proceeds to carefully cut through the ropes just above his wrist. He sags in relief and Scott has to move quickly to hold him up while Allison carefully unwraps the binding. Stiles isn’t sure how long he’s been tied to the tree. His memory up to the point where the chanting started is actually pretty hazy, but adrenalin and fear seem to have cleared his head. His shoulders and back ache in new and interesting ways. His wrists actually feel like they’re on fire. Scott hisses when he sees the raw circles of red, abraded skin that the bindings have left.

“It’s fine. They don’t really hurt that badly,” Stiles lies. Scott rolls his eyes and wraps his hands very gently just above the marks on Stiles’ right hand.

“Please tell me you’re about to lay some werewolf magic healing mojo on me and this isn’t some weird courtship ritual, because I love you man, but I’m not about to get in the way of the whole on again, off again, star-crossed lovers thing you and Allison have going on. She’s terrifying.”

“Thank you, Stiles,” Allison smiles sweetly while Scott lets out an oh, so elegant snort before closing his eyes and concentrating on the wrist in his hands.

Stiles sighs blissfully as he melts into his beautiful new pain free existence.

“Oh my god,” he moans happily, “you are so my favorite, Scott.” Scott hums in easy agreement.

Derek’s pack begins to drift back into the circle, dark eyed and slightly feral as they always are after a good chase. It’s not much, just Derek, Peter and Isaac, and Stiles can practically see the empty spaces where the others should be. It leaves him feeling unsettled and Stiles knows Derek is working hard to try and close that gap, trying even more resolutely to bring Scott and his pack of humans into the fold. He appreciates the effort, especially when it means he gets to live through one of the more bizarre nights he’s ever had. Which, when your best friend is an actual werewolf, is saying a lot.

“You want to explain what just happened?” Derek’s voice is harsh with the edge of a growl to it and Stiles can see he hasn’t quite shaken off his Alpha form yet.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” he shrugs. “Also, you’ve got red on you.”

Derek scowls and Stiles just knows he’s about to unleash the 'I am Alpha and you need to tell me everything, or I will slam you into a wall (or car, or tree, or other conveniently placed hard surface)' glower of doom, when Peter speaks.

“It looks like a circle of power. Or maybe a summoning circle. It’s difficult to say, they have so many similarities. Do you remember any of the incantation?” Peter tilts his head and stares at Stiles expectantly. There’s a hint of a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth and it’s creepy, but then everything about Peter creeps Stiles out.


“Nothing?” Derek asks.

“Honestly it all sounded like gobbledy gook to me. They could have been speaking Ancient Sumerian for all I could tell,” he says.

“Was there a reason they needed you, in particular, for this ritual?” Peter arches an eyebrow expectantly which pisses Stiles off because, a) who actually does that? and b) it seems like he already knows the answer and is just getting off on making Stiles say it and c) WHO ACTUALLY DOES THAT?

“They needed a virgin,” he says, because sharing is caring and after the clusterfuck that was the past school year they all agreed to operate under a rule of transparency and besides, he’s not ashamed, he totally owns his lack of sexual experience. He was just waiting for Lydia, and now that that dream has been well and thoroughly squashed, he’s totally on the market. He even has a plan, which he just made up, the “Get Stiles Laid So He Doesn’t End Up As a Virgin Sacrifice Again Plan.”

“There isn’t any other reason? I mean you’re not the only virgin in town. Hell, you’re not even the only virgin in the pack,” Isaac shrugs casually at Derek’s words.

“I’m the only one without claws.”

“I just want to make sure this was about opportunity, not anything more,” Derek says.

“Does it even matter? I mean you took care of it, right? They won’t be back?” Scott’s voice is tinged with worry.

“Yes, Scott, I took care of it.”

“You didn’t eat her did you?” Stiles asks.

“Alright, I think we’re done here,” Derek turns abruptly and heads off into the woods, followed closely by Isaac.

“He’s always so grumpy,” Stiles complains.

“Maybe you should stop pulling his pigtails,” Allison says as she loops her arm through his. Scott takes his other arm and they begin to make their way towards a more easily navigable path.

As they leave the clearing, Stiles notices Peter crouching at the base of the tree. It’s odd, the way he runs his hand over the bark and tilts his head, like he’s thinking intently. But then, nothing about Peter ever really makes sense. It’s like he came back from the fire put together wrong, when he wasn’t really put together quite right in the first place. It’s too much trouble to think about, so Stiles doesn’t. After all, he has a plan to work out.


Stage one of Stiles’s plan is a failure.

It takes five days for Stiles to work his way through the school and by Friday the rejection is getting a little hard to take.

“I don’t understand,” he says, thunking his lunch tray down on the table next to Lydia. “It’s not like I’m hideous. No deformities. I practice good hygiene.”

“Maybe it’s your personality,” Isaac reaches across the table to snag a curly fry before Stiles can smack his hand away.

“Hardee-har-har,” Stiles hunches protectively over his tray. Werewolves are handsy bastards.

“They sense desperation. It’s not an attractive quality,” Lydia says. “And have I mentioned yet how completely ridiculous I think this plan is?”

“It’s easy for you to say. You’re not the one who was offered up on a shrine to who knows what kind of terrible fate.”

“Was that a shrine? I thought it was a tree.” Scott’s forehead wrinkles in confusion.

“Way to go for the extra drama, Princess,” Allison laughs.

“I used to like you.”

“Besides, you said it yourself, they were just internet Pagans, not much of a threat,” Scott says.

“She cut me, Scott. There was actual blood. And I lost a perfectly good shirt. Also, they were Druids.”

“What’s the difference?” Danny asks.

Stiles tunes out as Lydia launches into a detailed explanation of the differences between paganism and druidry and how they’ve adapted into new world variants. He’s disappointed by the lack of response to stage one of his plan. Luckily, there’s still stage two.


Stage two gets off to a rough start when Scott bails on Stiles for date night with Allison, although Stiles notices that it’s Isaac sitting behind him on the bike, hands low on Scott’s hips as they pull easily out of the school parking lot. Lydia blatantly refuses to help and Stiles has to admit to himself that it would be kind of awkward given the way his heart still occasionally constricts painfully when he’s near her.

“You deserve better than a random hook up,” she tells him.

But Stiles isn’t looking for an epic love story here. He’s not even looking for a movie of the week. His standards run closer to Texts From Last Night territory and he’s pretty sure a night at The Jungle will deliver.

Things improve substantially once Stiles gets to the club. It’s too smoky, and too crowded and too loud, pretty much everything Stiles remembers it being, but the patrons are friendly and Stiles isn’t there ten minutes before someone offers to buy him a drink.

“I wouldn’t drink that if I were you,” a hand moves to take the glass from Stiles before he can take a sip and he’s is more than a little irritated to find Peter fucking Hale standing next to him.

“Really?” he shouts to be heard over the noise, anger and frustration building in his chest and leaking out as he turns to face him. “Is this bad karma? Divine retribution of some sort, maybe? Does no one in this town want me to get laid? Because this is a pretty epic level of cockblocking, right here.”

“I would like to help you with that,” the tall, ridiculously perfect looking blond man who paid for his drink, leans down and all but purrs in his ear.

“I just bet you would,” Peter smirks. “Unfortunately, he's not legal. And I very much doubt he'd be interested in the kinds of games you play.”

The man gives Stiles a considering look. "Might be worth it.”

Stiles is beginning to feel like maybe he’s in over his head.

“You wouldn't like the aftertaste.” Peter's smile is sharp.


“Find somewhere else to play.” Peter's face slips. It's just a minute. Just long enough to add a dangerously silken edge of threat to his voice, and Stiles sees something flicker across the other man's face. Something alien. Something old.

Stiles steps back towards Peter.

The man tilts his head. His eyes are cold. "You would stop me?" the man’s voice is glass smooth and Stiles gets the impression of two sharks circling each other as an eerily blank half smile settles over Peter’s face.

“He's pack,” he says.

“He's human.”

"For now."

"Excuse me?" Stiles turns to Peter and stares.

"Hey asshole," Stiles pushes both hands against Peter's chest, "this human is staying human. You keep your teeth and claws to yourself. I helped put you in the ground once. I will do it again."

"Trust me," Peter says, "he's not worth the trouble."

"I'm beginning to see that." The man gives Peter and Stiles one last considering look. Then he leaves.

“What just happened here?” he asks.

“Congratulations, Stiles, you've met your first fairy.”

“Like, fairy, fairy? Like 'dance in a fairy ring for a hundred years, steal your children,' fairy? Fairies are real?”

“I believe the politically correct term is Sidhe.” Peter wraps his hand around Stiles’ wrist and leads him out to the dance floor while Stiles is busy attempting to process this new information.

Stiles doesn't know how to react to this.

"Huh, he says.

“The fay are dangerous, Stiles. They are treacherous and vicious and absolute in their pursuit of entertainment. You should pay better attention to the people you're trying to fuck. I don't think you would have enjoyed it."

“Yah. No. Probably not.”

“I'm sure you can find safer prospects,” Peter’s hand moves up Stiles’ arm and comes to rest at his neck, his thumb gently moving against his collarbone. His other hand has moved to Stiles’ hip and as the pace of the music changes to something with a driving bass beat, his hand tightens and pulls until their bodies are flush.

“What the hell?” Stiles pushes at Peter and stumbles back.

“I was under the impression you wanted to have sex. This,” Peter gestures to the gyrating bodies surrounding them, “is generally considered foreplay.”

“Not with you. Oh god, no. Just. No.” Stiles shakes his head in disgust.

“Charming. I can see why you’re having so much success.”

"What happened to 'he isn't legal'?"

Peter's grin slides right past predatory and into full on dangerous. Stiles shivers.


Ten minutes later Stiles’ back is pressed to the hard brick wall of the back alley, jeans and underwear shoved roughly down his knees and staring down at the sight of Peter Hale’s mouth stretched wide around his dick.


He comes so fast he’s pretty sure he set a record. He pants in harsh, staccato breaths, heart pounding so hard he thinks it might beat right out of his chest. He’s barely conscious of Peter pulling his pants back up and smoothing down his shirt, hands oddly gentle as they put Stiles back together.

“Teenagers,” Peter’s voice is tinged with amusement.

Stiles is still feel profoundly unfocused but he pulls himself together as he hears the click of Peter’s shoes walking away.

“Wait,” he calls.

“Did that count?”


The unicorn shows up on Wednesday.

“Huh,” his father says as they stare at the creature happily munching on the front lawn in the early morning chill.

“Um.” Stiles is brilliant in the morning.

“Kid, I don’t even want to know. Just make sure it’s gone by the time I get home.” The Sheriff gets in the cruiser, muttering under his breath and shaking his head while Stiles nods absently, still staring at the creature in front of him.

He texts Scott. In the time it takes Scott and Isaac to arrive, Stiles has fallen hopelessly in love. He looks up from where he’s sitting on the ground feeding Luna apple slices from his hand (yes he named her, it’s love, alright?) to see Scott and Isaac standing in front of him, heads tilted and eerily similar perplexed expressions on their faces.

“Huh,” Isaac says.

“Right?” says Stiles, then laughs when Luna’s muzzle brushes against his hand.

“Dude. Is that a goat? And should you be touching it?”

“Don’t be rude, Scott. Clearly, Luna is a unicorn.”

“It looks like a goat,” Isaac says.

“Yah, but look at the horn. One horn in the center of the forehead. Totally a unicorn.” Stiles gives her a good scritch on the neck and is delighted when she makes a sound halfway between a chirp and a purr.

“I don’t see a horn, man,” Isaac shakes his head.

“Then you’re delusional. It’s right there,” Stiles points.

“Someone’s delusional,” Isaac mutters.

Scott looks at Stiles with not a small amount of concern.

“Maybe we should take her to Deaton. He’ll know for sure,” he says. Scott seems determined to ignore the obvious but Stiles supposes it can’t hurt to take her to the vet.

“After lacrosse practice,” Scott adds, when Stiles moves to lead the little animal towards his jeep.

“But what if she leaves?” Stiles’ heart sinks at the thought.

“Then she won’t be a problem anymore,” Isaac points out.

“I can’t miss anymore school, Stiles. Last year was not good and my mom said if I don’t maintain a B I can’t play lacrosse anymore. And Finstock will murder me in my sleep if I don’t show up for practice. Just stick her in the backyard. She’ll be fine.” Scott and Isaac climb back on the bike

“Fine,” Stiles mumbles to himself. He leads Luna to the back and makes sure to latch the gate securely behind him. It wouldn’t be good for anybody if Luna decided to wander the streets of Beacon Hills alone.


It shouldn’t surprise him that Luna somehow finds her way to the school. But it does.


Stiles is struggling through wind sprints with the lacrosse team (these things are seriously going to kill him) when he realizes everyone’s stopped and are collectively staring at the sidelines. Coach realizes it at the same time and starts blowing obnoxiously on his whistle which in turn causes Luna to bolt. Stiles takes off after her, ignoring Finstock’s shouts of “Someone get that goat off of the field!” and spends an aggravating twenty minutes chasing her around the school grounds as she weaves skittishly around the milling students. By the time he has her secure in the jeep, practice is over and Scott agrees to meet him at Deaton’s.

Deaton takes one look at Luna pressing firmly against Stiles’ legs and cringing away from everyone else and pronounces “She’s a unicorn.”

“Hah!” Stiles’ fingers slip down to rub soothingly behind her ears.

“But she looks like a goat!” Isaac says. Again.

“Don’t listen to him, baby,” Stiles croons into Luna’s ear. “You’re my beautiful, special snowflake.”

“She looks like a goat to me too,” Scott says.

“Traitor!” Stiles points accusingly at Scott.

Deaton leans against the empty examination table, expression calm, and begins to explain. “All it takes to see a unicorn is belief.”

The three boys stare blankly.

Deaton sighs. "Stiles believes in unicorns," he says simply.

“Aww, that's so sweet," Isaac croons. "Do you believe in fairies and angels too?"

Stiles cringes. "Please don't talk to me about fairies."

"Holy shit!" Scott, who's been staring at Luna, suddenly yelps.

"And there it is." Deaton waits patiently as Scott and Isaac exclaim over Luna, scratching lightly around the delicate bone of her horn while Stiles smiles smugly.

"So, just to clarify, my virginity has nothing to do with a unicorn showing up," he says.

"I wouldn't say that," Deaton says. "She was obviously drawn to you. There's a very good chance that it may be a factor. Unicorns don't just show up every day."

"Why me? I'm not the only virgin in town. Why not Isaac?"

Isaac smirks and a pink flush spreads across Scott's face.

"But, Allison!" Stiles says.

Isaac’s smile grows spectacularly wide while Scott’s face looks like it might actually combust. Stiles wants to be surprised, he really does but somehow this all just seems inevitable.

“Yay for you then, I guess. Just, I don’t want to know any details. Ever.”

“Deal.” Relief is visible on Scott’s face.

"I’ll do some digging and see if I can come up with some information on how to return Luna to her rightful home. In the meantime, you should probably leave her here. It’s not safe for her out there, Stiles,” Deaton says when Stiles tries to complain.

“But she’s camouflaged, right? People will just see a goat.”

“Most adults will see a goat. Children will see her. People with any background in magic, they'll know what she is. And if the wrong people find out about her she’ll be in very real danger. There’s a lucrative black market dealing in magical and supernatural goods, and unicorn is so rare. The amount of money that could be made off of your Luna is almost incalculable.”

“Fine. But I’m doing this under protest,” he says, bending down to scratch at Luna’s muzzle.

“She’ll be fine,” Deaton assures him.

Stiles’ phone pings with an incoming text and he’s fishing it out of his pocket when Scott and Isaac’s go off too.

“Looks like Derek wants a joint meeting,” Scott frowns.

“Dude. Did you tell him about Luna?”

“Transparency, Stiles. Communication is the key to developing good working relationships. That’s what you said, right?” Scott grins like the complete and total asshole he is.


Derek is very interested in Luna. But not as interested as Peter is.

“Do you have any idea how valuable unicorn is?”

“You are not coming anywhere near her,” Stiles says. “You will keep you creepy, undead self far, far away from her.”

Peter smiles and Stiles can’t tell if he’s amused or just trying to be an asshole.

“Of course, Stiles,” he says.

The meeting breaks up when they realize that they really have no information other than that yes, unicorns are real, and yes, there is one in Beacon Hills. Derek suggests that Stiles, as the one most personally invested, should research with Peter, who has the most relevant research material. As the group is gathering their belongings and standing to leave, the elevator door to Derek’s loft slides open and Luna comes tromping out.

Stiles sees a look of unholy glee cross Peter’s face.



“I need you to fuck me.”

“Nice to see you too, Stiles,” Peter opens the door to his home wide and steps back as Stiles walks in.

“No really. We need to do this like now.” Stiles starts shedding clothes as he moves into what looks like a warm and comfortable living space.

“This is your house? You actually live here?” The walls are painted a rich ochre and lined with sturdy book shelves. There’s a battered brown leather couch with a soft looking orange blanket shoved haphazardly at the end. Stiles thinks it doesn’t suit Peter at all.

“No Stiles, I stole this house. The real owners are tied up in the closet.”

“Would not surprise me.”

“Again with the charm. How do you stay single?”

“You’re hilarious,” Stiles pulls his shirt off and starts working on his belt.

“What exactly is happening here?” Peter asks.

“Sex. You need to fuck me. Keep up, old man.”

Peter reaches out to stop Stiles before he can pull his pants down.

“Stiles,” he says, “we’re not having sex in my living room.”

“Look, I’m not super thrilled about the idea either but the last time went ok, I thought, and I really don’t have time to find anyone else. Luna’s driving me crazy! She’s been popping up at the most random times, and in the most random places for days. I take her to Deaton’s, she’s in the jeep ten minutes later. I drive her out to a goat farm, she’s waiting on the front porch when I get back. She showed up in the middle of my economics class. Finstock loved that. I have detention for a month. Right now she’s with Danny, and she loves Danny, which is, well, I mean, who doesn't? But I don’t know how long that’s going to last. It’s been three days and I’m exhausted. She’s not safe and we need to find her a home before something terrible happens to her. She likes me because I'm a virgin. I need to not be a virgin. Consider it good karmic points or something. God knows you need them.”

“I was going to say, we’re not having sex in my living room because the lube and condoms are in the bedroom, as is the bed. But thank you for that very entertaining story.”



Sex, as it turns out, actual intercourse, is slightly more complicated than Stiles has anticipated. Sure he knows the mechanics, and theoretically he understood that a certain level of preparation is involved, but the reality of it is a little unexpected. Stiles feels cold and sticky and horribly exposed as Peter works him open.

One finger is uncomfortable, weird, but bearable, two amps up the pain level considerably but Stiles is ok. Peter’s actual dick inside of him, though. Stiles’s whole body feels like a conduit of pain mixed with confusing bolts of pleasure. He can feel it running through his veins, overwhelming him and he tries to breathe but ends up gulping in heaving gasps of air that leave his entire body shaking.

Peter moves and Stiles feels himself clamping down, curving himself around Peter to keep him still.

“Don’t,” he gasps.

“Stiles,” Peter tries to pull back.

“No. I can do this. I can. I can.”

“Stiles, this will undoubtedly come as a shock to you but I don’t actually find human suffering to be a sexual turn on. Good entertainment value, yes. Sexually satisfying, not so much.”

Peter manages to extricate himself and walks out of the room, returning a minute later with a glass full of amber liquid. He takes a sip then passes it to Stiles. Stiles takes his own sip and it’s like napalm burns a path down his throat and through his chest and he’s coughing and gasping for air again as Peter laughs. But the burn recedes and is replaced by a pleasant warmth radiating out through his body.

“That’s good shit,” he says.

Peter arches an eyebrow (damn him). “That shit,” he says, “is older than you.” He takes the glass and moves it to the bedside table. “Let’s try this a little differently,” he says.

He hands Stiles a condom and Stiles is still staring blankly at the little foil package when it finally registers that Peter is lying back against the pillows and is pumping two fingers in and out of his ass. He manages to get the condom on with shaking fingers but dumps what feels like way too much lube onto his his dick, and his thighs and the comforter, before he gets himself positioned where he wants to be, on his knees between Peter’s thighs.

“Like this?” he asks.

“You’re going to need to be a bit closer for this to work.” Peter laughs and hooks his legs around Stiles’ waist, pulling their bodies closer until Stiles can all but feel the heat from Peter’s body against the thin latex covering him. Stiles tries to push in slowly but Peter digs his heels into his back and somehow manages to pull his entire body down onto Stiles in one efficient move and Stiles’ world is suddenly all white noise and pleasure.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” He holds his body still, his eyes screwed shut as he fights the urge to thrust mindlessly forward.

Peter’s body shifts and Stiles tries frantically not to come. There’s a sharp, searing pain at his thigh and he opens his eyes to see Peter pinching the skin so tight it’s already bruising.


“You have to move, genius.”

“That fucking hurt.” Stiles glares and Peter’s face morphs into an expression of false sympathy.

“Oh, my poor precious petal,” he says.

“I thought you said you didn’t like pain,” Stiles says as he rocks forward.

“Well a little pain’s not necessarily a bad thing. Especially if you’re partner has no staying power.”

“I can outlast you, old man.” This is an incredible lie, but Peter’s distracted him enough that he’s at least sure he won’t embarrass himself.

“Impress me, Junior,” he says as he lies back, one arm folded casually under his head, the other hand resting idly against his ribs. He’s smirking and he has his stupid eyebrow raised in a stupid, stupid arch, and oh, it’s on.

Stiles grasps Peter’s hips and starts thrusting forward with more enthusiasm than rhythm, but Peter’s hard and it doesn’t take too long before Stiles can see he’s leaving drops of pre-come against his belly with every thrust forward. His balls tighten painfully as pleasure pools lower and lower and he knows he’s going to come. He’s going to come and when he’s done he’s going to lick those drops off of Peter’s skin and watch his back arch and hear him groan like a goddamn xtube star while Stiles sucks him down and oh god, fuck.

His whole body moves forward as his orgasm rushes through him but then there’s an audible pop and he’s throwing himself backwards when he feels coarse hair brushing against his leg and a loud chirp/purr from beside him.

“Fuck!” he yells as he falls off the bed, body still jerking uncontrollably. The condom didn’t break, so at least there isn’t bodily fluid everywhere. As Stiles lies there, penis rapidly softening, come cooling and sticky and extremely uncomfortable against his still sensitive skin, he contemplates his situation. Luna is chewing absently at his hair. Peter is doubled over with laughter on the bed. Stiles begins to think that if being a virgin was potentially deadly, actually losing it is definitely going to kill him. Death by mortification. He makes a mental note to add that to his list.

Peter’s still laughing as he peers over the bed.

“Stiles,” he says.

“Yes, Peter?”

“Is your goat in my room?”

“She’s a unicorn.” Stiles sighs as he sits up, batting Luna away with his hand. “She’s a goddamn, teleporting unicorn that apparently doesn’t have the sense to realize that I’m not a virgin anymore and she needs to go back to where she came from.”

He starts gathering his pants and his underwear and steps hesitantly towards the bedroom door.

“I guess I should take her home. Unless you want me to...” he gestures vaguely at Peter lounging, still half hard, on the bed.

“That won’t be necessary. You can show yourself out.” Peter nods towards the door, wrapping his hand around his dick and working it slowly up and down. Stiles' mouth feels suddenly dry. He licks his lips and swallows past the lump in his throat. He feels stupid, standing half frozen in the doorway, staring at Peter’s little show, but he can’t seem to make himself move until Luna butts her head against his knees. That gets him stumbling forward until Peter stops him.

“Oh, Stiles,” he calls, and Stiles could swear he hears the hint of a growl.


“Don’t forget to take off the condom.”


So Stiles is definitely no longer a virgin. Unfortunately, and even though she was there for the event, Luna doesn’t seem to care. She continues to follow Stiles around, popping up when he least expects her, until he discovers that if he leaves a pile of clothes in the backyard for her, she’ll stay put.

His father, who initially told Stiles that there was no way they were housing a goat with escape artist tendencies, relented after it became obvious she wasn’t going anywhere and has taken to slipping his vegetables into her food dish.

Stiles and Peter have sex again, just in case the last time didn’t count due to the fact that Stiles didn’t come completely inside Peter. And also because Peter didn’t get to come at all (while Stiles was there) and Stiles thinks it’s only polite. He’s just not sure what constitutes virginity loss to the magical powers that be. He figures it’s best to cover all his bases. This time there are no unexpected interruptions, everybody comes, and even though Luna remains the same, Stiles obsessed little unicorn, he counts it as a win.


Then it gets weird.

First there are leprechauns. Then the forest gets infested with wood nymphs. Then Isaac stumbles across a nest of pixies. It’s irritating and time consuming getting rid of them all but when a pair of hikers disappear and people start talking about seeing Bigfoot, everyone starts taking the situation more seriously.

Stiles finds himself spending a lot of his time at Peter’s house doing research. He’s surprised how much he enjoys it. Peter tends to get very involved in his reading. He makes notes on his laptop and separate ones on recipe cards. He also has books and on-line connections that Stiles can only dream of, so it’s not unusual for him to spend hours at a time on Peter’s couch, soaking up as much as he can. Stiles loves it when one of them comes across particularly weak theories and Peter tears them apart with ruthless and cutting precision. He loves it even more when Peter pulls him into the bedroom and takes him apart with the same brutal attention.


The weather gets colder and the creatures keep coming. In November they fight a nix, a wendigo and a giant turkey. After Thanksgiving, Stiles acquires a doppleganger but Allison shoots it through the heart with an arrow when Scott demands it tell him Stiles’ real first name and it actually does. Peter calls him Petal while they’re fucking and Stiles threatens to hit him in the face.

Everyone’s nerves are getting a little frayed, tempers are thin. With all the strange happenings around town, Stiles’ dad has started pulling double shifts and Stiles finds himself spending even more time at Peter’s, splitting his time between studying, research and just hanging out. He comes over one day and there’s a shelter in the back for Luna when she pops in. There’s a shelf in the bookcase just for him, pizza pockets in the freezer and Root Beer in the fridge. He realizes Peter is making space for him and he doesn’t really know what to do with that. They don’t really touch when they’re not fucking. They’ve never kissed. They’re not affectionate towards each other in any obvious way. Whenever he falls asleep in the bed Stiles inevitably wakes curled up and shivering because Peter steals all the blankets. Stiles still doesn’t really trust him outside of the bedroom and if Lydia ever decides she wants vengeance he’ll light the damn match himself. Nothing about their relationship is even remotely legal and Stiles doesn’t really know what either of them are getting out of it but for the most part he doesn’t dwell on it. Because he’s pretty sure this is what contentment feels like and it’s been so long he almost doesn’t recognize it.


Peter finally thinks he’s got everything figured out; Luna, the spike in supernatural activity, everything. He refuses to tell Stiles until the packs meet at Derek’s later that night. As a consolation he takes Stiles into the bedroom and proceeds to bury his face in Stiles’ ass, which is pretty much Stiles’ favorite thing ever. They’ve discovered that Peter’s tongue inside him is guaranteed to elicit an ongoing stream of moans, groans and profanity which possibly explains why neither one of them hears Derek until the bedroom door is being torn off the hinges and Peter is flying across the room and into a wall.

Stiles throws himself between Derek and Peter, which is a really stupid thing to do, actually, because both of them have on their bitch faces and the claws have made an appearance.

“Derek, you need to calm down,” he says quietly.

Derek’s attention turns from his uncle to Stiles. He stares for a long minute before blinking slowly.

“Stiles, you’re naked.” It comes out as a growl and his focus whips back to Peter.

“Yes, but I’m consensually naked so it’s all good, right?”

“Thank you so much for your help, Petal.”

“I swear I will hit you in the face if you call me that one more time,” Stiles says in as sweet a tone as he can manage while standing naked between two angry werewolves.

“Not helpful.”

“Leave, Stiles,” Derek growls and Stiles knows he’s putting the Alpha command into it but Stiles isn’t a wolf and Derek’s not his Alpha so he stands his ground.

“It’s fine Stiles. Just go.” Peter’s face is back to normal and his hands hang loose and completely human at his sides. Stiles can see him sliding into his usual pose, half amusement, half boredom.

Derek’s calming too, his face slipping back to almost human. His teeth are still sharp and even though his hands are clenched tight Stiles can see the gleam of black claw.
He pulls his clothes on and leaves.

He’s standing at his jeep looking up at the house and trying to decide if he’s going to go back in when something hits him on the back of his head and the world goes dark.


Stiles wakes up tied to a tree. The same tree, actually. It’s almost laughable. Because there’s that same chanting circle of bathrobes and there’s Ms. Blake and there’s the damn knife. The only difference Stiles can see is the angry red scar marring the entire right side of her face and that’s really fucking laughable because only Derek would interpret “It’s taken care of,” as “let’s make the deranged lunatic with the knife even angrier by scarring her permanently but not actually hindering her from coming back to seek revenge.”

Stiles doesn’t know how long he’s been out but it must have been a while because they’re just barreling through things at this point. The chanting is going fast and furious and Ms. Blake’s slicing symbols through the air so fast Stiles can almost see them forming and then she’s bringing the knife up and slashing a long line diagonally down his chest. The chanting stops. Stiles stares as his blood drips steadily down his body, spattering the ground at his feet. He looks up to meet Ms. Blake’s wide, expectant smile.

Everyone waits. Nothing happens. They wait some more. It actually gets a bit boring. Stiles can hear bathrobes rustling as the Druids shift uncomfortably. All in all it’s very anticlimactic.

Ms. Blake begins to pace. Stiles can see her going over the steps of the ritual in her head, mouthing the words to the incantation.

“So what’s supposed to be happening right now? I mean somethings supposed to be happening, right? Some big “earth opening up” Hellmouth scenario right?”

“Shut-up, Stilinksi,” she snaps.

“This must be really disappointing for you, huh? I mean you put in the time and the effort, you even had costumes. Sucks, am I right? I wonder what went wrong.” Stiles waits a beat.

“Do you think it’s because I’m not a virgin?”

Stiles has a moment of vicious satisfaction and then Ms. Blake is stalking towards him, knife raised, eyes wild. He has just enough time to really regret his life choices when a dark blur comes racing out of the tree line landing directly on top of her and sinking gleaming white teeth into her neck. Other things are happening around him, Stiles is sure. He can vaguely hear the sounds of fighting around him but he’s kind of transfixed by the sight of the giant brown wolf calmly tearing the throat out of the woman at his feet. The wolf sits up and Stiles would swear it was preening in satisfaction.

“It’s about time old man. You sure took your time getting here. The arthritis acting up? And since when have you been an actual wolf?” Stiles’ voice shakes but he thinks it’s just the cold.

The wolf shakes his coat and in one bone melting move, Peter is standing in front of him.

“Hello, Petal,” he says, resting his forehead lightly against Stiles’.

“Right in the face. I swear,” Stiles murmurs. “As soon as someone unties me.”

Someone is, in fact, untying him and Stiles will be really grateful about that as soon as he stops shivering.

“It’s really cold,” he complains.

“You’re bleeding rather heavily,” Peter tells him.

“It’s probably that,” he agrees.

Then someone’s wrapping him in a jacket and picking him up. Stiles would protest but he’s too busy burrowing into the warm, warm chest he’s cradled against. It’s Derek, he thinks, because Derek always smells like Ivory soap, he remembers because that’s what his mother always used and the first time he smelled it on Derek he was hit by a pang of loss so sharp it had him almost bent double. But he’s used to it now. He likes it. He thinks about how Derek tries so hard and almost always screws up, but he never gives up. Life beats the crap out of him but he always stands back up. Stiles likes that. His mom would have too. He’ll be a good Alpha one day. Stiles should remember to tell him that. After he wakes up.


Stiles gets 36 stitches, a blood transfusion and a giant fruit basket. The note says:

Found your list. You’re not going to die of scurvy.

He also gets to spend an hour and a half giving an official statement because there was no real way to explain Stiles’ injuries other that the truth. Mostly. He left out the werewolves and let Derek claim responsibility for getting him to the hospital.

The hospital keeps him overnight for observation and he wakes up in the very early morning hours to a heavy weight at the foot of the bed.

“There you are,” he whispers sternly to Luna, who’s looking particularly adorable curled up like she is.

“You’re useless. What kind of magical unicorn are you, leaving me all defenseless in the woods like that. Shouldn’t you have been able to sense I needed help? I think you’re defective.” He nudges her with his foot and smiles when she lifts her head, blinks lazily at him and then goes back to sleep.


Later Stiles learns that the ritual Ms. Blake used was meant to open a door between worlds. Peter explains it as a sort of supernatural wormhole. He calls it piercing the veil. When the knife nicked him the first time it drew just enough to blood to open a little tear. The tear worked as a beacon, drawing all sorts of elements to the area. When Ms. Blake had translated the ritual she’d read a particular word as “virginal” when in fact the ritual really required a different attribute entirely.

“What’s that?” Stiles asks.

“Devotion. Complete, whole-hearted, idiotic devotion,” Peter says as they sit together on his couch watching tv. “Someone who gives themselves truly, wholly and tenaciously. In the old times they would be acolytes, priests or priestesses who would give themselves freely to the service of the ritual. Blake just got incredibly lucky that she grabbed you.”

“I’m 'devoted'.”

“Well you have the idiot part down.”

“Mean." Stiles glares.

"Let's ask Lydia, or Scott, or your father for their opinion, shall we?"

"Right. Ok. Point taken. It still sounds like a load of crap.”

Peter, who is a dick, actually smirks.

Stiles settles back against the couch and picks up a book while Peter turns his attention to the tv. It’s four o'clock and apparently Nick and Sharon are getting back together today. Stiles doesn’t pretend to understand Peter’s strange obsession with The Young and the Restless. He thinks it might come from his days in the hospital. It’s weird, but Stiles likes knowing these little quirks that no one else does. Likes knowing that Peter paints his walls warm colors and has blankets in every room and stocks his pantry with the hottest food he can find because he’s always cold. He likes knowing that Peter has a file bookmarked on his computer labelled “knotting”, which he’s pretty sure is porn, and one day soon he’s going to make Peter show him. He’s collecting things about Peter and making a new list. It seems more productive than worrying about how he’s going to die. That’s somewhere off in the future. Peter’s here now. They have their problems, of course. Lydia’s not talking to him. He doesn't really blame her. Derek still glares and acts like a 19th century companion whenever Stiles and Peter are in the same room together. Scott’s cool though. They just agreed never ever to talk about their sex lives with each other. Ever. There’s still a tear in the fabric of time and space, or whatever, and he’s pretty sure that he has permanently acquired a unicorn. Also his stitches itch. A lot.

So maybe it’s not perfect. Peter’s a decade and a half older than Stiles, at least, and difficult to understand on a good day, not to mention that Stiles is pretty sure he’s plotting some kind of terrifying world domination that probably doesn’t include him. There is no happy ever after here. It’s not a love story. But it’s his story. And Stiles is good with that.