magdalyna: (Confrontation)
[personal profile] magdalyna
Title: No rack can torture me (I torture myself)
Rating: R
Pairing: Peter/Lydia/Stiles
Word Count: 1,449
Summary: Stiles is immune, too
Warnings/Notes:AU, Peter being a creeper, Underage

He runs to the lacrosse field to find Lydia, heart pounding.

There’s a figure, bent and bloody in the glare of the lights, hair splayed out, a strawberry-blonde fan.

He rushes to her, tries to check her pulse, but a blur of black in the form of Peter Hale stops him, crouches over her. A claw digs in under his chin and he rises with it, helpless.

“Have you ever played chess, Stiles?” Peter says mildly, says it like they’re continuing a conversation, which maybe in his crazy head is true.

“Too boring,” Stiles manages, feeling the claw’s razor point.

“A pity. In a conflict, there must always be two equal and opposite opposing sides. Nature abhors an imbalance and all that. Derek has marked out Scott and that lovely terrified pup from the video store. But who do I have, hm?” Peter asks, nudging his claw deeper.

“A really creepy Slenderman impression and cheap hair gel?” Stiles tries.

“Wrong. I have that lovely slip of a thing on the ground behind us, and you. Unmarked. In our little game, that means you’re free to be grabbed up.” Peter says.

“Who says I want you to mark me?” Stiles bites out. Peter grins at this.

“Who said you had a choice? But tell me, in this scenario, one where you aren’t in it, mind, who do you think will come out on top? Derek and his pups, or me and the girl? The girl’s a special one, isn’t she? Mind lightening quick, and crafty. She has potential, this one,” Peter explains with a growing smile.

Stiles feels his jaw clench.

“Or you can live, on my side of the board. Do you really want me alone with her, hm?” Peter says, and it cuts worse than the claw gouging into his chin.

Stiles closes his eyes.

“I thought so. Lift your shift,” Peter orders.

Stiles struggles to do it without moving his head, hands fumbling. He lifts it up, careful of Peter’s claws.

“Good pup,” Peter says, pressing a human hand flat against his heart.

Suddenly, Peter digs in and rips down at an angle to where his hip starts and then digs in there, curving into his back. Stiles jerks and the claw still holding him in place drags him forward.

“We’re going to speak to Derek know about the state of the board,” Peter says.

“Yeah, because you kidnapped him,” Stiles bites out and then he’s helping Peter.


He rips his wrist away from Peter’s mouth.

“I don’t want to be like you,” He spits.

Peter laughs in his face, crushes his keys and leaves him.

He walks to the hospital dreading what he’ll find there.

When the hunters torture him and Jackson his cuts sting like salt and lemon juice and fucking lye are in them.

When he tosses the Molotov cocktail at Peter’s Alpha form, Jackson right behind him, he holds his breath. He hopes this will sever the connection Peter has to him and Lydia, hopes she’ll be alive. Hopes this works.

Allison shots an arrow at Peter, and Stiles watches it explode onto him.

Derek finishes Peter off and Stiles dares to hope it did.


Stiles has dreams, dreams where he’s in the living room, just past the stairs leading to the basement tunnels, looking for Emma, his sweet little girl, barely three years old, and he finds her and her hands, her hands that will always be human, they are redredred burned and there’s smoke choking him and the pack is downstairs and the smoke is climbing up and he can hear the screams as he cradles his dead baby girl, tries to find Claire, his darling wife and he finds her, flesh burned to a crisp in the basement steps and he rushes out, holding the body of his daughter and they aren’t dreams at all.

They’re night terrors and memories.

He tries not to sleep after they start, but he gets exhausted, running around trying to not get killed by Derek’s new puppies and a lizard creature. They keep coming.


Lydia has her freakout in Econ and he wonders if it’s just a blind grab for help or help from someone specific.

He has his own freakout in Algebra, except he doesn’t share that class with anyone.

(Peter is a rotten corpse is a healthy man is a boy with impossible cheekbones is a rotten corpse who blows chalk dust in his face)

Later, when he’s been sent to guidance to have a chat with Ms. Morell ahead of their usual schedule, he sees the same boy.

“What are you in for?” the boy Peter asks him.

“Like I’d tell you that,” Stiles scoffs.

“Paranoia it is,” boy Peter says but then Ms. Morell calls Stiles in.

Stiles has to wonder, as he’s dodging her like he always does, if it counts as paranoia if you know something’s after you.


Stiles wakes up, pulled out of sleep.

“Good evening Stiles. Well, morning at this point I believe. We are taking a walk,” Peter says from his desk chair.

This is clearly a hallucination, so he gets up and puts on his shoes. They walk.

The door to Lydia’s house is open a crack.

Lydia is being led into the living room from the hallway leading to her bedroom and she has a Peter of her own.

His Peter merges with hers.

“Excellent, now that we’re all together, I have marching orders,” Peter tells them.

So this isn’t a hallucination then.

And they are terrible orders.

“My nephew trusts you Stiles, not Lydia. And it wouldn’t be proper for a hostess to skip out on her very own birthday party. No, you will slip out while everyone is having phantasms from the spiked punch,” Peter explains their roles.

The first time Stiles has an invite to Lydia’s birthday that comes from her and not her parents is not how he was expecting it to go. It feels awful.

But it turns out he and Lydia are immune to the bite. Which is something. Except for how their immunity makes them a perfect duo for Peter to control like puppets. His life sucks.


Lydia is by the punch bowl, pouring drinks.

He goes to fetch some for him and Scott and there’s a moment when she hands his cup to him, “Here, Stiles, this is for you,” when their hands brush and her eyes flash yellow for a split second.

He hands Scott’s drink off to him, tries to cheer him up. He splits, giving Scott and Allison some space. He has a job to do.


Stiles makes his way to the warehouse.

He steels himself before he walks in.

“Stiles?” Derek asks, looking worried.

“What’s wrong?” Derek prods as Stiles comes into range.

Stiles blows the powdered wolfsbane into Derek’s face, watch the confusion there drain into horror.

It’s slow going but he drags Derek into his Jeep.

Once they get to the Hale house, he drags Derek with difficulty into the scorched living room, to where Lydia has rigged up her mirror system.

Derek seems a little more with it.

“I’m so sorry, Derek,” Stiles says as he positions Derek’s arm into the hole.

Derek screams and Peter rises from the dead.


“We need to talk,” Lydia says without preamble once the hallways are clear.

He gives her a ride home while she files her nails.

Once in her room, her perched on her bed, Stiles awkwardly standing she starts.

“I’m a defective werewolf. The change is going slowly, but it’s happening. Any ideas why?” She asks with narrowed eyes.

“No,” he shakes his head.

“You may leave now,” he starts for the door “Oh, and Stiles? We are going to make Peter Hale pay for this,” Lydia says it like she’s telling him the sky is blue.


Peter licks at the still vivid scratches he gave Stiles and Stiles hates himself for how much he wants to arch up into the sensation.

“My sweet boy,” Peter whispers into his hip, hands curling around Stiles’ cock.

Lydia watches them, from her spot next to them on the bed, clearly bored. Stiles knows she can feel it though, just like he can feel it when Peter will trace the scratches on the skin just under her breasts, before playing with her nipples. He can feel her, too.

Peter marked them, body and mind. He rent their bodies and crawled inside their heads and made himself a nice little nest. Stiles can feel the heat Peter is giving off, like it’s coming through his own body.

Justice is hard to mete out when you can someone else’s pain.

God knows they’ve tried.
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magdalyna: (Default)
And that has made all the difference.

February 2013

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