magdalyna: (Confrontation)
[personal profile] magdalyna
Title: Watch the Throne
Rating: R
Beta: [profile] okubyo_kitsune
Pairing: Peter/Lydia; Peter/Derek; Peter/Stiles/Derek; Derek/Stiles
Word Count: 3,394
Summary: Peter always has a plan.
Warnings/Notes:Peter being a creeper, Underage, Knotting, Incest

Peter can feel Derek’s desperation when he visits him at the long term care ward.

“Someone killed Laura,” Derek says, misery choking him and he begs Peter for aid, a sign, anything to help him seek revenge.

Derek was always a shortsighted boy. If he cannot sense Peter’s new strength, veiled in deception, that is his problem, not Peter’s.

Derek leaves before Peter signals him that, yes, he can help. Derek just wouldn’t like what Peter’s help would cost. It wouldn’t be the help Derek is seeking, anyway.


“You must be Stiles,” Peter says brightly. It feels good to stand under his own power.

The boy quakes and quivers.

“Oh, God, I’m gonna die,” Stiles moans and then -- then Derek interrupts them, cheeky little pup.

He and Stiles will have to continue their conversation another time. But for now, he and Derek will have a chat of their own. He needs another wolf in his pack besides Scott McCall after all, and an Omega will have to do.

Peter drags Derek back into his room while Jenny deals with the cameras and broken glass, the terrible mess.

Derek is limp but awake, letting Peter manhandle him.

“My dear nephew, I’m disappointed in you. Don’t you recognize your Alpha when you see him?” Peter asks, when he’s got Derek how he wants him, kneeling. Peter is inches from his face, hunched over but he still exudes raw power, his vision going redredred.

Like blood.

There is a flash of anger on Derek’s face, which Peter expected. Derek bares his throat and tips back a little, his shirt riding up to show a slice of belly. Peter also expected this.

He drags a claw along Derek’s jawline, pulling him into a kiss that is all teeth as he pushes Derek back into the floor.

Derek lets out a rush of air and Peter takes him there on the floor, tight jeans and black briefs dragged down to Derek’s ankles. He uses minimal spit, wants Derek to feel the burn, let it sear Peter’s control into him where he can’t claw it out.

Peter noses at Derek’s neck, breathing in the smell of pack, scenting him. It’s a small comfort Peter allows himself.

He comes inside Derek and then reaches down to twist roughly at Derek’s leaking dick and doesn’t have to take too long to pull Derek’s orgasm out of him. He smears the semen on Derek’s stomach and thighs and gets up and off of him.

Peter rolls his neck, hearing the pop of relaxing joints.

“Have I made myself clear?” Peter asks but it isn’t a question.

“Perfectly,” Derek spits out, loquacious as ever.

Peter leaves him there. He has a nurse to see, a family to start.


Jenny is pouring from a pitcher into a plastic cup at his bureau, not that he’s used it in seven years.

The white of her uniform washes her out terribly. With her coloring, fair and cool, she’d do better with creams or jewel tones. Her name is Jennifer Holland and when he calls her ‘Jenny’ her eyes crinkle slightly and he can scent the prickle of irritation far into his nose. Jenny has been a nurse for fifteen years but when he calls her Jenny she looks like a girl in the bloom of youth, untouched by worries.

He takes in her scent now; the base notes of oatmeal and baby powder, the top note spike of cayenne pepper from the rush she gets from his secret, helping him wreak his bloody vengeance. She’s been so loyal, so useful.

He comes up behind her now, silent as snow.

“You’ve been so helpful, my dear Jenny,” he tells her as he wraps a hand around her mouth, boxing her in. She looks at him in the mirror. He smiles, shushes into her ear, “But I’m afraid you are no longer useful to me,” and here he slides his other hand around her milk pale neck. Her fear is intoxicating. She pleads with her eyes, whimpers. “My dear Jenny, I can’t thank you enough,” he says. And then he snaps her neck.

His mistake was letting Stiles see how he thanks those useful to him.


It’s not until much later, when he’s got a dance to crash and he’s met a delightful slip of a girl on the lacrosse field, her skin giving easy to his teeth and claws, he can smell her terror and it is sweet and delectable to the wolf and he wants to lick up all her blood and eat her all up--- until Stiles runs to her before he was going to finish with her.

He’d rather have prey that was awake anyway.

He lifts the boy up with one pointed claw to the chin, easy as breathing, his smile all teeth.

This close he can smell it. Terror is the top note of course; anger just beneath it, the scent of grass and rock salt that is purely Stiles, base notes buried deep, but between those layers is another one. One that is loam and fennel and, only when Derek is very happy, figs.


And of course his nephew has gotten himself kidnapped. Sometimes Peter wonders how Derek manages to get out of bed in the morning. No matter, he makes the boy help him.

He’s looking forward to when, Lydia, was it? When Lydia wakes up, because he can feel something special about her, at the edges of her scent -- graphite and peaches -- that makes him tingle in anticipation.

The boy surprises him, and he starts to wonder if Scott’s clever little tricks are really Stiles’ clever little tricks, after all. Especially when he finds out what a lovesick puppy Scott really is.

The point is, the boy intrigues him and there is something more to Derek’s scent being all over the boy, more than just fucking would allow for.

He’s oddly … touched, that after everything, Derek would find his mate. From what he can see, Stiles and Derek would balance each other out.


But Peter and Stiles would amplify each other.

Stiles reminds him so much of himself at that age. Razor sharp wit, tenacity.

What Peter wants, Peter gets.

Peter is feeling gracious after the boy has been so obedient. He offers the bite to him, even lets Stiles lie to him, although he calls him on it, even as he can hear the heartbeat pick up in desire. He lets Stiles decline.

Later, he will regret that.

Later, when he is burning, burning again, thanks to Derek’s toy jock and the boy, he will wonder if chemical burns are really so different, isn’t everything a chemical reaction? Isn’t char and smoke really just carbon and oxygen rent out of form?

What finally kills him is Derek slitting his throat, and a small part of him is thankful for that. But only a small part.


When he comes back, thanks to a long seduction of Lydia, things are out of hand.

And, oh, he had been so right about her. She is better than a wolf; she is immune, which makes her so very special. Her mind is a dagger, waiting to be plunged into his enemies’ soft bellies, before they even notice she’s there. Her mind was a warm cocoon he encased himself in.

He has her take them back to her by now empty house. He bids her to draw him a bath in her mother’s master bath, which she does. He bids her to help him bathe, which she does, her mother’s loofah scratching delightfully at his back, his thighs. He bids her to towel him off with the expensive, fluffy bath towels that are white like milk against his clean new skin.

He bids her to lie in her mother’s bed with him which she does.

She lies there like a stone watching him as he kneels next to her on the plush comforter.

“My dear Lydia, you have been so helpful to me. I shall start thanking you for your troubles. I will help you. I can help you make your friends pay for keeping secrets. I can help you make the world burn bright with your fire,” he says and she starts laughing, dry sobs really.

“What if I just want it to burn?” she asks him, voice razor sharp. He grins and starts thanking her with his tongue, licking into her folds.

He brings her off six times before she gets drowsy and worn out.

“I shall be back soon,” he tells her, pressing a kiss to the soft inside of her wrist. She waves him off, curling on her side.

He slips out from the patio into the night.


Gerard Argent controlling a lizard man was not a thing he was expecting to find when he tracked pack scent across town to the police station, careful to keep to the shadows.

Derek is of course the root of this cock up, and Peter is not surprised. Weary, but not surprised. Sometimes Peter wishes he could beat common sense into people, but alas it is not in his power to do so.

He’s not lying when he says he wants to help Derek. He is, of course, not telling the whole of it.

He’s had time to think, buried in the subconscious of an immune genius while he bided his time until the Worm Moon.

He wants control, but he wants Derek to give him control.

It is far easier when you let others do your hard work for you and think it their own.

It is pathetically easy to convince Derek, but Derek is weak now, even with his pack of misfits.

It’s even easier to crowd into Derek’s space, lean in and breath his scent at the juncture of neck and shoulder, and there -- grass and rock salt -- and he licks at the skin and then licks into Derek’s mouth and Derek lets him.

He lets his own scent, the flavor of cloves and oranges and copper, wash over Derek.

Peter pulls away and Derek sinks to his knees, unbuckles his belt, takes Peter into his mouth, worships him like it’s a benediction, what Peter is doing.

Derek swallows, when the time comes. Peter pulls him up, reaches into his jeans and lets Derek pulse wet and hot against his grip.

“I will fix this,” Peter tells him, and it is not a lie at all.

Derek looks grateful. Derek had always been his favorite. It is a pity how things change.


He slides into the boy’s bedroom.

The boy is sleeping, barely. He startles.

“Derek?” The tone is wondering.

Peter steps closer, can hear the heartbeat go thumpthumpthump in … fear. Yes.

“I’m afraid not, dear boy,” Peter explains.

Stiles has sat up, as far away on the bed as he can be. He’s trying to go for the knife under his mattress without moving his shoulders. Clever.

“I’ve heard you haven’t fared so well, after my demise. Especially that little incident at the police station,” Peter tuts.

“What do you want?” Stiles’ voice is calm, betrayed by his heartbeat.

The question is what Peter doesn’t want.

He wants this boy under him, begging, for coital release, for mercy, he wants blood on his tongue and for those who killed him to burn, burn like he had. He wants Derek to hold the boy while Peter fucks him with the corpses of his enemies scattered around them.

He wants to burn this town down and take his new pack with him, never to return.

“I offered you something, the last time we talked. I want to know if you’ve by chance reconsidered,” Peter says, simple. A gaudy hook will not work with this one.

Stiles sucks in a breath, turns on the lamp on the nightstand.

Peter is momentarily disoriented and when he recovers Stiles is pointing a Glock at him.

“My answer is still no. Now get out,” Stiles says, level.

Not a knife then.

He knew he was right about how clever this one was. So many guns in this house, even in the bed next door, why should Stiles guess Peter would miss one closer?

“A shame then. It is not considered proper for born wolves to turn their mates,” Peter says apologetically, turning to leave. This is true. When Stiles questions Derek later, Derek won’t be able to deny it.

The heartbeat goes up. Wait for it…

“What?” Stiles sputters.

He pounces.

“I thought Derek told you. You share the middle notes in your scents,” and here Peter feigns confusion.

“So?” Stiles is wary now.

“Middle notes are shared between pack and mates. Top notes are emotions and recent scent marks. Base notes are your own personal scent,” Peter enjoys this little bit of instruction. It makes him nostalgic. He wonders why Derek hasn’t shared this basic little piece. Surely Scott must know? Is Scott keeping it from Stiles?

“Why couldn’t I just be pack?” Stiles challenges.

Oh, a worthy opponent.

“Because the two of you are rutting. There is a certain part of Derek’s base note that only shows up when he’s happy. It hasn’t been present in a very long time. I had thought the fire burned it out of him,” Peter muses for Stiles’ benefit. It’s obvious, though.

“Why couldn’t we just be fuckbuddies?” Stiles is hedging.

“Willful ignorance doesn’t suit your intelligence, dear boy,” Peter chides.

Stiles flushes.

“Tell you what,” Peter says like he’s considering something. “I shall ask you once more and then not again. Think it over. You have a week,” and he’s out the window before Stiles has time to blink.

A week later, the lacrosse state championship game is played.

Peter blesses his lucky stars. There is a reason he let Gerard Argent live, all those years ago.


Fighting with Derek takes time, but it is worth it to see Derek so raw.

Finally, when Derek is ready – tired and overwhelmed, Peter makes his move, begins twisting Derek up into him with his words. It’s a skill set he’s honed.

Derek cocks his head, when Peter has stopped talking.

“Something’s wrong,” Derek starts, brows knit together in agitation.

“With your mate?” Peter wonders aloud.

Derek jerks.

“Congratulations are in order. Though if you had wanted to hide him, you could have tried better. Middle notes, my boy. Middle notes reveal all every time,” Peter grins.

Derek looks like he did every time Peter caught him filching from the rooster shaped cookie jar in their kitchen, every time Peter let him have one and took one for himself, a finger held up before his grin.

“Where to, dear nephew?” Peter draws him back.

Derek leads the way, slipping into his flashy Camaro.


After, long after, when the sheen of crisis has faded, when they’ve licked their wounds, he returns to Stiles’ bedroom.

“Good afternoon,” he greets, just to watch the boy jump a little at his desk.

“Is that a werewolf thing? Because seriously, it is fucking creepy and sure to shave years off my life, Jesus Christ,” Stiles says in one breath. Peter is fairly certain this is how Stiles talks when he isn’t terrified. Fascinating.

“Has Derek acknowledged you as his mate?” Peter asks.

“And you don’t answer the question I asked you first. But, yeah. We are,” Stiles works the strings from his hooded sweatshirt between thumb and index fingers. Stiles has nimble fingers, Peter observes.

“Have you given thought to my most gracious offer?” Peter asks.

“I have. See, the thing is, I don’t want you to be my Alpha. I already have a pack and while it’s sucky at times being the token human, I still don’t want to make a deal with the devil to level up,” Stiles tells him.

“As flattering as that comparison is for me, I have to enlighten you: I’m in Derek’s pack, not looking to make my own,” Peter says. It’s a lie, but Peter is a very good liar.

Stiles relaxes then, which is a mistake Peter is willing to work with.

“Okay, then,” Stiles says and Peter doesn’t wait for the rest of it to come tumbling out of his mouth because this part is true. He’s not going to make this mistake twice.

He clamps his jaws down on Stiles’ hip, feeling blood pool in his mouth. He swallows, releases his hold.

“Consider this my engagement gift,” Peter says softly.

“I didn’t actually agree yet,” Stiles grits out.

“Oops, how terrible of me, do you think someone will spank me?” Peter tries to stamp down his amusement.

“I dearly hope so,” Stiles is starting to writhe.

Peter goes to make a cold compress for the fever that will come.

“Hush now, my dear in-law, rage only stokes the fire the fever dreams will bring,” Peter soothes. Stiles just flicks him both middle fingers. Peter rolls his eyes.

Derek finds them, at night fall as Peter tends to a Stiles in the grip of the change over. It would have been unfortunate if Stiles hadn’t made it through the first hour.

“Hello, dear nephew. Do come join us. I gave him something I think will make the both of you very happy, albeit after a minor adjustment period,” Peter grins.

A look of horror and rage crashes over Derek’s feature. Peter loves how the boy makes him so open.

“You bit him, didn’t you?” Derek accuses.

“Guilty as charged. Now I need to fetch a fresh damp cloth, why don’t you curl up with him instead, eh?” Peter slides out from his perch over Stiles.

“He wouldn’t have asked for this,” Derek shakes his head, inching closer.

“It is a discussion we’ve been having for some time. I will admit I was … a little hasty, but he is loyal and will make a fine wolf,” Peter elides once he comes back with the damp clothe. He hands it off to Derek, who caresses it over Stiles’ face, oh so gently.

“Hasty?” Derek glares.

He takes his place back on the bed, and later, when there is time for it, he will recommend they acquire a large enough bed to meet their needs. For now, Stiles’ full bed will have to do.

“Come, my dear nephew, pack bonding will help him,” Peter murmurs, reaching for Derek’s chin to drag him closer. Their noses almost meet on Stiles’ neck, and they hold him as he shakes and shivers, the wolf burning away all that was ever weak inside him.


Stiles has just opened his eyes, eyes that are shining golden, and Peter lets himself be relieved.

Derek has a reverent look on his face, and Peter is glad he was able to put it there.

Stiles jerks between them, wild. Peter leans in, nosing at Stiles’ jugular, growls happily. Derek is doing the same to the other side of the pup’s neck, calming him.

Peter pulls off the pup’s shirt, nods at Derek to the pup’s pants, and together they strip him, down to his Batman boxer-briefs.

The pup yips, asks them what they’re doing. Derek kisses him, words turning to moans and whimpers as Peter begins to jerk the pup off.

They touch him, lick him into excitement, and Peter slides into his spit slick entrance and Derek urges the pup to swallow his dick, the pup making slurping breathy sounds around it and Peter can see his mouth working.

Peter rocks in and out of him and Derek holds the pup’s head carefully as he jerks into his mouth. He can feel his knot growing, hears a surprised noise from the pup as Derek rubs soothingly at his shoulder.

Derek tilts his head back, and Peter knows he’s knotting the pup’s mouth, too.

They stay locked for thirty minutes like that, speared on the pup, as Peter brings the pup off with his hands twice until Derek spills inside the pup’s plush mouth and Peter feels his own knot spilling.

“My pup,” Peter whispers in Stiles’ ear while Derek murmurs “My mate,” into his other ear. “Yes,” Stiles breathes out, overcome, as they bite a red livid mark each into his neck on either side. They have claimed him, and he is theirs.


Peter can bide his time, wrapped up in his new pack, until the time is perfect for him to strike.

Nothing will stop him.

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magdalyna: (Default)
And that has made all the difference.

February 2013

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