magdalyna: (Confrontation)
[personal profile] magdalyna
Title: Sharpen My Claws On Your Heart
Rating: R
Pairing: Peter/Derek/Stiles
Word Count: 9,062
Summary: Stiles knows what this looks like.
Warnings/Notes: Incest, age difference, BDSM- bloodplay, breathplay, suspension bonadage, Peter being creepy

Stiles woke up with a jerk. He was … not exactly standing but he was upright, and the cool bite of metal was surrounding his wrists and ankles, forcing him to stretch out his limbs, spread eagle style. He tried opening his eyes but there was some kind of fabric over his head, blocking out light.

The coldness of the room made him aware of his nakedness and he shivered.

There was a shuffling, distorted through the thing covering his head, and then fire, slicing quick neat lines across his back. The whip burned, blood dribbling straight down, mixing into the cuts.

A scream tore through his throat but the thing over his head made opening his mouth difficult, so the sound came out as a groan.

A flat wet thing dragged over the marks and then kissed at them – a tongue.

Claws rested gently, point first along his sides, and he counted them, in fives, till he got to twenty.

Not a whip then, but they did the trick just the same.

The claws, the hands, stayed where they were, making a circle around his hips as he felt twin points of wet heat lick and suck the skin around his balls before going straight up the vein of his dick, the tight curl of his hole.

He was swallowed down just as a tongue worked its way past the tight ring of muscle at his entrance, making him gasp.

He can’t keep track of what the tongues do to him: all slick movements and force.

The tongue at his back is replaced with the slick tip of a cock and it slides home, one good thrust all it takes. They work in a delicious rhythm like this, trapping him between wet heat and a driving push at his prostate that sends sparks up his spine.

He can feel it when the man inside him comes, thick pulses and then there – a swelling of the knot near the base, trapping the come inside him, a steady throbbing right on his prostate that sets him off, shooting into the mouth around him.

The mouth licks and nuzzles, swallowing his come down. They wait like that, three hearts beating for an eternity until the knot goes down. The man steps away and Stiles can feel the slickness start to leave him. There are steps, away and then the chains go slack and his arms lower slowly.

The hood is taken off and Derek kisses him tenderly. Peter lays a hand on his shoulder gently and Stiles smiles at them. They smile back, twin red gazes meet his brown.

A week after – everything, really, but after his Lacrosse practice with Scott, Stiles went up to his room to change out of his sweaty clothes.

He had his shirt over his head when Peter spoke. He quickly tossed the shirt down.

“My, my, still flush with bruises I see.” Peter slipped out of the shadows like an oil slick from the corner near his closet.

Stiles let himself have a moment to thank God he still had his jeans on.

“What do you want, O’ Zombiefied One? Come to laugh at the human?” Stiles asked, keeping his voice flat. Peter smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile.

“Not to laugh, no. Have you ever heard of the game called ‘Go’? It originated in China, some two thousand years ago. Fascinating game, really. It is said to be more sophisticated than Chess.” Peter moved further into the room as he spoke, in measured steps, pushing Stiles to move further into the room so as to keep his distance.

“Get to the point, would you? I can practically feel myself aging during you villain monologue bit.” Stiles grits.

“My point, dear boy, is strategy. Chess is a game of numbers, which pieces you kill. Go is a game of territory gained with a few resources expended as possible. There’s an Alpha pack coming, and they mean war. Which do you think they’ll be using?” Peter asks, amused and focused. On him.

Stiles thought rapid fire, sorting through possibilities. “They’ll be using Go but pretending to use Chess. It’s what I’d do if I were them.” Stiles shrugged, which caused his shoulders and back to blaze with white hot fire. He grimaced.

A slow smile spread over Peter’s face. “Marvelous. Would that I could offer you the bite again, truly my dear boy. Now as to the state of those bruises, keep still.” Peter said, backing Stiles against the wall near his window.

“What?” Stiles got out before Peter pressed his palms into the grooves of Stiles’ collar bone, finder pressing into the meat of his shoulders. They exchanged a breath and then – black was spreading up the veins of Peter’s hands, disappearing into his black button down. Warmth diffused into his body.

“The hell is happening?” Stiles gasped, concentration slipping under the warm wave of contentment coming from Peter’s hands.

“One of the gifts that we can share is to take away pain. I used to volunteer at a senior living center a few times a month, doing what Derek’s father liked to call the ministry of presence.” Peter’s voice is low. Stiles shouldn’t like it, but it’s like aged wine and leather inside his head, smoothing over the jagged crevices he works to ignore.

Stiles suspected he’d get more from the explanation, the glimpse of Peter’s past, if not for the cottony layer of numbness pressing down down down all his scatter shot thoughts. Peter’s face is still inches from his. He releases his hands, causing Stiles to buckle without the support.

“Consider this a parting gift. A peace offering, if you want to take it as such.” Peter says, soft as ghosts in snow. It’s a surprise, the kiss, dry lips to dry lips, creating a seal.

But that’s not the remarkable thing about an undead man kissing him.

The edges of his vision are being tinged sepia, then a flash of tan. Suddenly, like a movie, he’s seeing --- a dark haired boy next to him peeking into a room – the field of vision pans into the room where a woman is holding a baby swaddled in blue, a man sitting on the edge of the bed with them. The lines on his face are softer with youth, but the blue eyes are the same vibrant hue his father has always had, his mother’s brown the same syrup gold. She’s flushed but smiling a thousand watt smile.

His parents with him, he realizes distantly. Everything goes dark, the clip done and he returns to himself.

Stiles blinks owlishly at where Peter was but he’s alone in his room, the window open. His lips tingle. Stiles decides that he hates his life and goes to take a shower.


Whatever Peter did with his hands worked, because a week later he’s all healed up.

Derek shows up unannounced, like he does everything. Stiles is reading through Cracked when the window snicks open and when he’s spun around to face him Derek is in a crouch, looking surly and homicidal. Like always, then.

“What up, Buttercup?” Stiles asks, just to watch Derek’s left eyebrow start twitching. He has to make his own fun somehow these days. “By the way, good ole Uncle Lazarus is still creepy as fuck. Also, what’s an Alpha pack? He didn’t say during his little psycho monologue last week.” Stiles continues. Eventually Derek will have to say something.

“The Alpha pack is serious.” Derek tells him as he slinks further into the room. “They kill weaker packs and acquire further strength from the Alphas they kill. What else did my uncle do to you? You still reek of him.” Derek sits across from him on his bed.

“Apparently werewolves can take away pain and share memories.” Stiles shrugs. Derek frowns.

“My uncle has always been gifted with words. You can’t let him get to you.” Derek looks out from under his eyelashes, voice low and steady.

Stiles thinks of Peter’s hands, his lips. He shakes his head. “Don’t worry, Grumpy, I’m not worried about what his words will do to me.” Stiles smiles.


“I think we really aren’t so different as you like to pretend, dear boy. I think if your father and Scott were killed the lengths you’d go to for retribution would bathe the world in blood. You think a few hours fighting off a paralytic toxin are bad? Try years worth of it. I think the reason you turned down my bite is because you’re afraid of how we’re ruthless the same way.” Peter’s voice is soft, sensuous. It fondles at all the ugly, dark, painful parts of his psyche.

“You make me sick. I’m nothing like you. You’re a monster.” Stiles bites out.

He’d had a detention, and Peter had been leaning against his desk when he got home.

“The only real difference between us, dear boy, is time.” Peter’s eyes glitter, mouth curved in a cruel line. “And you’d do well to remember this, Stiles. I am a very patient man.”

He dips his head, walking to the window before jumping out.

Stiles rubs at the back of his neck to ease some of the tension there before closing the window, locking it shut.


Derek is halfway through his window when he snarls. Stiles jerks in his desk chair, surprised.

“Dude, what?” Stiles asks as Derek stalks closer.

“Did he force you?” Derek bites out.

“Did who force what?” Stiles is reconsidering locking all the windows in the house at night very strongly. Derek closes the window deliberately, breathing forced.

“Did Peter force you to have sex with him?” Derek’s neck vein is bulging.

“What the fuck? We have never – oh god bad images.” Stiles can’t even.

“He jerked off on your bed. I can smell it. And his scent is all over the room. Does he drop in often?” Derek is serious now, anger fading. Stiles thinks that isn’t a good sign.

“Sometimes, to do his villainous monolouging. He’s creepy.” Stiles shrugs. “He’s obsessed with you.” Derek says flatly.

“He says the only difference between us is time. Standard offer to join the dark side, dude.” Stiles points out.

“You think he’s right though. You like the attention. You aren’t afraid. Fear is part of revulsion. But none of that has happened when you speak of him, Stiles, not even anger.” Derek looks wrung out, defeated. Something twists, ugly in his gut.

“When I was born, why were the two of you there?” Stiles asks.

Derek closes his eyes, takes a shuddering breath.

“I was shadowing him, learning how to take pain. It’d be a few years before I could try on humans, but it’s how they taught us. We were in another wing, but I needed … ” Derek opens his eyes, looks away from him. “I have to go now.” Derek says before he practically rips the window open and leaps out of it.

Stiles has no idea what just happened. He is really beginning to hate that feeling.


Peter is lounging on his bed when Stiles gets home from a ScottandIsaac brofest at Scott’s house playing MW3, filing his nails. Peter’s loafers are tucked under his desk.

Stiles stops, closes his door.

Peter slides the nail file into his shirt pocket. Stiles watches the movement of his wrist.

“Did I ever tell you how I knew you, when we met at the hospital? I was terribly disappointed that our chat got interrupted, you know.” Peter looks at him, sharp and with intent. Stiles swallows reflexively.

“But you’re going to tell me anyway, right?” Stiles says, braced against the door, arms folded.

“Cheeky.” Here Peter rolls his eyes, but continues. “It was at the school, with all your little friends, trapped in with us. But you, Stiles, you trapped me, didn’t you? With that little trick with your keys. The flashlight made it so I couldn’t see, but I could hear you, I could smell you, all cloves and rock salt. And then you said you weren’t afraid. But you were. I could smell it on you. It made me curious. Even more so with my Beta yelling for you to leave. Even then, you showed potential.” Peter grins, then.

Stiles wonders idly, what Peter’s Goatee of Evil would feel like on the soft insides of his thighs.

“When I asked Derek why the two of you were there when I was born, he wouldn’t tell me. Think you’re up to it?” Stiles goads, to distract himself.

Peter huffs a little laugh, shaking his head.

“My nephew dragged me across a building to find you. He said it felt like he was being pulled to something.” Peter says, clearly amused.

“What does that mean?” Stiles asked. It makes sense, why Derek bolted, though. Derek is allergic to actually providing answers to basically anything useful.

“It means that the two of you have such strong potential together that Derek literally felt it the moment you were born. Werewolves have flexibility in choosing mates. We select for greatest compatibility. It’s a deliberate choice. We just have a more fined tuned sense of these things than humans do.” Peter explains.

Stiles just looks at him.

“I liked you better before you were dead.” Stiles says, shaking his head.

“You still like me.” Peter corrects.

Stiles scowls.

“Is there a point to this back and forth thing that’s happening?” Stiles motions between them.

“I think you know the answer to that, Stiles.” Peter says, eyes dark, piercing him like a sword.

“Oh?” Stiles asks, despite himself.

“Come here.” Peter’s voice is an octave lower.

Stiles walks over to Peter, slowly. Peter takes a whisper soft grip of his wrist, the one he tried to bite and presses a dry kiss to the pulse point. He pulls Stiles and Stiles allows himself to be draped over Peter, their legs fitting together.

“I thought you said I was Derek’s mate.” Stiles says, head tucked under Peter’s chin. He smells faintly of oranges right at the juncture of ear and jaw.

“Not yet, you aren’t. And at any rate, Derek is ours.” Peter says and Stiles looks up at him, startled. “What?” He asks, because of all the things Peter could have said, he was not expecting anything that implied a creepy incest threesome in his future.

“Haven’t you wondered why he hasn’t killed me yet, now that I’m not a direct threat anymore? He can’t force himself to. Choosing a mate is a deliberate choice, as I’ve said. So is not choosing one. But,” Peter pressed his knee up against Stiles groin, “do you really want to talk right now?” he asked, voice rumbling in Stiles’ ear.

Stiles feels dizzy at the possibilities. “No.” He says and unbuckles his belt, shoves his boxers and jeans down past his knees.

Peter wraps a hand around him and his mind kind of shorts out, then, coasting on sensations - Peter pressing on the vein running under his cock, Stiles gasping and moaning and arching into him, Peter dragging Stiles’ shirt off him, Peter biting firmly into his shoulder with blunt human teeth - and then he’s coming all over Peter’s hand and he watches dazed, as Peter licks his hand clean and then shifts to lick the streaks of come off his belly.

“So that happened.” Stiles says. Peter snorts.

“Have you been seducing your nephew too, this whole time?” Stiles is curious.

“I’ve decided to delegate that to you.” Peter informs him. “He avoids my company these days.” Stiles rolls his eyes. “I wonder why that is.” Stiles tries for solemn. Peter still smiles with all of his teeth. It’s easier to not think about this too hard, to just enjoy this moment, because if he thinks about who Peter is to Derek, what Peter did to Derek, he might be sick.


It’s not like Peter’s the Palapatine to his Anakin, or whatever. He just happens to be more right about Stiles than he is wrong.

Because the more they do this, this thing, the more aware he is of Peter. And Derek. There’s a buzzing under his skin and in the back of his head that has nothing to do with the pills he takes, extended release Adderall for his ADD and Lorazepam for his anxiety.

The low grade buzzing he feels, the spark when he first touches Peter help him convince himself that what he’s feeling is real. It helps a little to fill the yawning emptiness that he knows is for Derek.

Peter opens up about himself when they’re together, post coital and curled together in a cocoon of warmth in his bed. Peter will speak into his ear, hand curled possessively on his hip while Stiles rests his head on Peter’s chest listening to his heart, straining to hear the stutter of a lie in the closing of valves and push of blood.

Peter tells him about his human wife Claire and their daughter Emma, who was a wolf and loved Dora the Explorer. How Stiles reminds him of Claire so much because how determined he is, how loyal.

The more Stiles hears, the more he can’t blame Peter for wanting to kill the people who helped Kate set the fire. The more he feels guilty that his dad couldn’t arrest them for it to begin with. Stiles doesn’t forgive Peter, can’t. But he can understand Peter, and really, he thinks Peter appreciates that more than he would absolution.


“I liked that.” Stiles licked his lips nervously. Peter had been rougher than usual, holding him down firmly, just enough for Stiles to be aware of the weight on top of him, centered on his wrists held above his head. It was oddly calming.

“Did you?” Peter asks, turning to him. “What did you like about it?” His voice is velvety and God, what it does to Stiles is probably illegal. “You held me down, in place, so I couldn’t get away. It was … soothing, I guess.” Stiles decides, talking it through, dissecting it.

“Do you want to try that out, me holding you down, tying you up, other aspects of bondage?” He sounded curious but careful. Stiles thought about it, and how forceful his orgasm had been, how felt like it shook his very bones.

“Yeah, maybe. To see what it’s like.” He says, smiling shyly. Peter hooks a finger under his chin to draw Stiles into a kiss and he shivers at the sense memory.


Stiles is playing WOW when Isaac climbs in through the window.

“Oh my God, what is it about the people I know that makes them think a window is a door?” Stiles would really like to know the answer to this question. Isaac snorts.

“What’s up, Toto?” Stiles asks. Isaac shakes his head. “Shouldn’t that be you? I’d rather be Brrr.” Isaac tells him, a little half smile playing at his lips. Stiles shrugs.

“Our bromance of the ages is on hiatus. His with you is taking off though. These things happen.” Stiles says. He’s not bitter exactly but he’s coping.

“Is it because you’re boning the guy who turned him? I’m having trouble keeping track.” Isaac’s brows lift, curious. Stiles shakes his head.

“It’s because he didn’t a) tell me he was working with Gerard so he could b) poison Gerard by c) using Derek to do it. Kinda shook that trust thing we had going on. Scott doesn’t actually know about me and Peter.” Stiles explains.

“Oh, like that you’re mates?” Isaac looks excited. It’s kinda cute, the way his hair bobs up with his head. “What makes you say that?” Stiles asks, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Your scents. It took me a while to realize it, but you both have really similar scent profiles. And lately they’ve become really mingled. Derek’s been teaching me about scents. It’s like perfume, you know? Woodsy goes with woodsy, floral with floral, spicy with spicy. Mating is supposed to be about compatibility.” Isaac says. “He thought it’d help me find a mate, but the one I found who’s strongest is already hung up on someone else.” Isaac gives a little shrug.

“Rough.” Stiles’ mouth twists sympathetically.

“Doesn’t mean there aren’t others out there.” Isaac points out.

“Good luck.” Stiles says. “Thanks.” Isaac grins at him.

“Wanna play Call of Duty?” Stiles asks. “Sure.” Isaac nods.


Spring burns into summer and the Alpha pack circles the county, taunting them. A deer carcass here, a tree there, all with that jagged three legged mark that Derek, Peter and Isaac had found on the door of the Hale house.

Stiles spends a lot of time with Deaton now, too amped up to properly concentrate on video games and silly internet memes.

They’re prepping mountain ash for Stiles to practice with when Deaton broaches the subject.

“Isaac tells me you’re spending a lot of time with Peter Hale these days.” Deaton says conversationally, grinding the pestle into the mortar with particular vigor.

“What can I say? The undead are fascinating.” Stiles says, pouring some ash into vials with a funnel.

“He always was.” Deaton muses. “You just have to ask yourself, what was the price of his return? Nature requires balance in all things, Stiles.”

“Like what was happening to Matt? Going all scaly because he broke the Magic Revenge Lizard rules?” Stiles queries. Or like the law of equivalent exchange from Full Metal Alchemist, but he doesn’t think Deaton would appreciate that reference.

“Precisely. Sometimes though, the price isn’t readily apparent. For instance, what does Scott think about this kinship you’ve found?” Deaton asks and Stiles fumbles with the funnel, dropping the vial to the ground and it shatters.

“Um.” Stiles searches for something to say. Deaton nods quickly, “That’s about what I thought.” He says, like he’s confirmed a theory he had.

Stiles busies himself with sweeping up the mess and sifting the glass from the ash. No sense in wasting it.


Stiles has been avoiding thinking about having to tell Scott about Peter. He can’t ask Scott to forgive the man that assaulted and brutally changed his species without his consent. Stiles can’t even do that and Peter is like a part of him. It is going to be an unmitigated disaster when Scott finds out, he’s sure.

It’s not that he loves Peter. He thinks that as he is now, Peter is incapable of love. If anything, Stiles loves Derek. Loving Derek isn’t easy because Derek is so messed up in the head that he doesn’t think he deserves to be loved.

But Derek has always and unerringly tried to do the right thing in any situation, even when it was the hard, messy, ugly choice to make. Stiles doesn’t think they’re so different, really: they both wanted to kill the person they thought was the Kanima. Derek did kill Jackson, even if his guilt gutted him too.

So no, the person he loves here isn’t Peter. But he needs Peter. Peter makes the buzzing settle and purr, slow and soothing. They understand each other. If he does love Peter, it is the love a bird has for a viper in the midst of a killing strike: hypnotized by a savage beauty.

He felt like that at the school that night, wanted to reach out and touch his hand to the feral paw he saw through the door’s metal window. He wasn’t afraid of the monster then, not really, even with a man’s blood fresh in it’s mouth. It was the fear you have on a rollercoaster, contained terror but still exhilarating. He’d felt the same buzzing the night Laura’s body was found in the woods. The buzz was there as he hurled a chemical bomb at Peter, snapped as Derek slashed his throat.

It’s not love, but it is a bone shattering need, a sense of responsibility. He and Derek killed Peter together, never mind Allison and Jackson’s help.

This is why Stiles can’t figure out how to tell Scott, because for all the darkness Scott has had in his life, things are uncomplicated for him. Scott sees the good in people and (with the exception of the Hales, obviously, and his dad) is willing to forgive.

His heart could fill the whole world in it. He’s pure in a way Stiles never was. Scott’s greatest power is his ability to care about others, something he’s always had.

He can’t tell Scott he loves Peter because Scott would hear the lie. He doesn’t know how to explain any of it without it sounding like Peter seduced him into sociopathy using werewolf mind control. Though really, if that had been the case, he’d be less angsty about the whole thing. Oh, irony.

He wishes, sometimes, that it had been him in the woods alone just because Scott shouldn’t have been hurt like that. Stiles had always looked out for Scott. He let Scott down that night because he couldn’t focus. The kicker is it wasn’t because of his ADD.

No, the scrabbling, itchy fever joy had been under his skin, trying to claw it’s way out.

Stiles had thought the call for alert because they found half of a body in the woods had been a miracle, something to ease his dull life where nothing ever happened. The call had felt like it was for him and Stiles and Scott had always shared everything together. So of course he went to his best friend and shared the news that made his buzzing skin hum with potential.

He’d been too distracted though, so of course his dad caught him. When he got home it was late and he had to take a Lorazepam to get any chance of sleep.

It should have been him that Peter attacked that night and this is why Stiles can never turn his back on Scott, on this world. He alone is responsible for dragging Scott into the woods that night. Scott wouldn’t have heard about it as it was happening, as the monster that was Peter stalked the night. Stiles can’t forgive what Peter did but he also can’t forgive himself for what he did to Scott. Putting someone in harm’s way is doing the harm yourself.


Peter produces a navy blue silk scarf, eyes warm as he says “Only the best for you, dear boy,” as he ties Stiles wrists to a slat in his headboard. It’s a firm, snug fit just loose enough so it doesn’t cut off blood flow. The pace Peter sets fucking into him is rapid, driving, his hips slamming into Stiles’ pelvic bones like metal crashing against metal.

Stiles could move, could beg for Peter to go slower, but that’s what the scarf is for: to ground him, make him sink even deeper into Peter’s embrace. The calm he settles into is delicious, the things tying him to his anxieties snapped.

Peter bites a mark on his shoulder, hard enough to draw blood with human teeth. Stiles feels his orgasm secondhand, all zipping sparks and ricocheting from low in his stomach up and down his spine.

When he comes back to himself Peter has untied his wrists.

Peter shifts closer, idly tracing designs in the slickness on his stomach. “Shall I assume you liked that?” Peter asks him. Stiles laughs a little. “Yeah, you can do that. Was good.” He says around a smile.

“That color suits you. Keep the scarf. Winter is coming sooner than you’d think.” Peter says, tracing the divots of Stiles’ ab muscles. He rolls his eyes at this. “Will all of your gifts to me double as sex toys?” Stiles can’t help but smirk and Peter rolls his own eyes.

“Insolent brat.” Peter chides. “You love it.” Stiles says.

“Can’t imagine why. But getting back on topic, is that something you want to do more often?” Peter asks. “Yeah. But maybe … other things too. Like you scratching me with your claws? I’ve been thinking about that.” Stiles licks his lips nervously, just to do something.

Peter’s eyes narrow slightly and the lines between his eyes crease in thought.

“So you want me to mark you, then?” Peter checks. Stiles nods. “Yes. And maybe, like, hold my throat.” Stiles is really nervous about this last one.

“To control your breathing?” Peter asks, voice neutral.

“Yes.” Stiles says, more sure.

“You have to trust someone very much to let them do that to you.” Peter says casually, expression anything but.

“I do though.” Stiles says quietly, voice too low to almost hear himself. Peter kisses him slowly, deeply.


He’s watching Derek train Isaac, Peter lurking in the background. Scott is fuming beside him, but Stiles had won the argument about coming here. They can’t afford to be splintered right now. Jackson wants nothing to do with them, has left to find himself or whatver, and Lydia wants nothing to do with Peter, understandably.

They’re at the Hale house because the warehouse isn’t a secret anymore.

Soon enough, after Isaac spars with Scott, at Isaac’s encouraging, it’s time to leave.

Scott leaves with Isaac in his mom’s car to get to work and Peter takes off for a run.

“Were you ever going to tell me about being mates? I had to find out from Peter.” Stiles goes for broke as Derek uncaps a water bottle. Derek freezes.

“I thought so.” Stiles nods, after a minute waiting. “For the record? That was dumb of you.” Stiles declares before he walks up and kisses Derek, hands gripping his shirt.

Derek’s eyes go wide but then he’s kissing back, cradling Stiles’ face with his hands, biting Stiles’ upper lip with his teeth before licking and nipping at his tongue. The bottle is forgotten on the ground, gurgling out.

Derek backs them up against a tree and then sinks down to his knees, looking up at Stiles through his eyelashes. Stiles’ hands shake as he unbuckles his belt and Derek drags his clothes down before swallowing him whole. Stiles bucks into the wet heat and Derek moans around him. Derek inhales deeply and freezes again. He pulls off with a wet pop.

“Why does it smell like Peter inside of you?” Derek growls, eyes narrowed.

Stiles remembers then, how he still has Peter’s come inside him from the night before, and how, maybe he should have cleaned up more thoroughly in the shower this morning. They’d been having sex with an easy sort of regularity for a while now. He’s got a bite mark on his shoulder that Peter works on constantly, and Stiles is itching for a matching one from Derek.

“Damn it, Stiles! What did I say about Peter’s mind games?” Derek grits out.

“Is Peter our mate too?” Stiles asks, watches as Derek goes from anger to shock. He pulls his clothes up, buckles his belt.

“Is that what he’s been telling you?” Derek stands up, backs away.

“He told me that even as a kid, you hated being away from him. How, when he got married he had hoped you’d focus on your peers, so it wouldn’t be weird for you. How protective of his daughter you were, almost like she was your own kid. How happy he was for you when he could smell perfume on you, when you were my age. So yeah, Peter’s been telling me things. Are you going to tell me he’s lying about that?” Stiles asks carefully. He won’t discount the possibility, but he hopes Peter wasn’t lying.

Derek stands stock still, eyes screwed shut. “No. It’s true.” He breathes out in a shudder. He opens his eyes then, and he looks wrecked, haunted, like just saying that took more out of him than Stiles could imagine.

“I haven’t forgiven him for Scott and Lydia. I never will. He did some awful things. But I think this could be something good. Good for everyone, including you. And I want something good in my life, if there’s going to be so much supernatural mayhem in it. It has to even out somehow.” Stiles shrugs then, looking away to the tree line.

Derek stares at him. “It doesn’t make you sick, that he’s my uncle?” Derek asks, sounding really confused.

“So many things I could say to that, dude. Like how he is technically a reanimated corpse fueled by revenge. Or how you killed him. But no, you both are grownups who can make your own decisions, and I’m spitting distance from being legally allowed to vote and join the military. So to answer, not really.” Stiles says. He figures if he let himself be concerned with the minor details of his life he’d never get out of bed in the morning.

Denial and compartmentalization, they are glorious things.

Derek looks lost, his eyes slightly wider than he usually has them, just like when they escaped from the pool. He looks younger like this, vulnerable.

“I’m gonna head home. You should think it over, hug it out with him. Whatever. Something.” Stiles says, moving toward his jeep.

He drives away, watching Derek out of the rearview mirror before he’s obscured by the scenery.


Stiles watches Peter avidly. He’s already naked on his bed but Peter still has his black slacks and sinfully soft black socks on. They’re made from bamboo or something expensive like that, Stiles can just tell. There isn’t a mark on Peter that Stiles can see. It’s vaguely disconcerting, after everything.

“Are you ready?” Peter asks, voice like wine: heady. Stiles swallows. “Yeah.” He’s sure.

“I’m going to show you how beautiful you are to me.” Peter says as he gets on the bed and settles on top of Stiles’ hips, his claws extending with a crisp sound, like biting into an apple. He draws an index finger between each rib, above and below his clavicle, right over his breastbone. Stiles watches as blood wells up, fixated.

Peter slips off of him to sit cross legged on the bed and he sits up, turns around. Peter begins with the ribs on his back before stopping halfway up. He begins the first curve and reaches with his other hand, blunt human nails for this, and grips Stiles’ cock and starts jerking him off. He thumbs at the slit as he claws one finger into the curve of the next spiral and Stiles gasps, arches into his hand. Peter settles sharp wolf teeth at the base of his neck as a reminder not to move.

When he starts the last spiral, he runs the flat, blunt side of a claw down the vein Stiles has on the underside of his cock while he squeezes hard and Stiles comes just like that.

He can feel Peter’s smirk at his neck. “Fuck.” Stiles breathes.

“You smell intoxicating like this, my dear boy. The blood and come overwhelm everything else.” Peter says, getting some of it that hit Stiles’ headboard and licking it off, finger by finger.

“Glad to know my bodily bouquet is so pleasing.” Stiles says. He feels like he’s floating. It’s difficult to stay upright like this, so soon after an orgasm, but he’s messy and doesn’t want to wash blood out of his sheets.

“Any wolf who sees you will know you’re ours. That you’re mine and Derek’s. The question is, does Derek even want you? After what he did, can he even want someone?” Peter muses. He can’t help himself sometimes, lashes out.

Derek not being with them gets to Peter. With what amounts to his conscience basically burned away, Peter doesn’t deal with tacit rejection or avoidance well.

Stiles thinks Peter came back with a prefire body and a postfire mind. That’s the problem with revenge fueled resurrection – the person’s usually a jerk.

Since Stiles has basically elected to be Jiminy Cricket to Skeletor without someone to help carrot-and-stick a slightly better moral compass into Peter, it gets hard. Sometimes his pillow talk sucks.

“Maybe he wants me. Maybe it’s just you he doesn’t want.” Stiles says lightly. Peter’s eyes narrow. Bingo. “Honey and flies dude, Honey and flies.” Stiles shrugs, trying not to get flakes of blood on his sheets.

“Sometimes I think it’s a bad thing we’re entirely too alike, my dear boy.” Peter says then, voice sharp. Stiles agrees.

Peter can’t love and Stiles doesn’t love him and they need Derek between them, because he will smooth away their rough edges, and maybe someone will love Stiles, finally. He’s gone too many nights with one side of his body ice cold against the blazing edge of Peter’s body heat.


It turns out that not all of Peter’s gifts double as sex toys, because out of the blue a month into the school year, he comes home to find a small box on his desk, Peter’s neat cursive script simply saying for you on the note under it. It’s expensive, thick, cream colored stationary.

When he opens it, it’s a Monte Blanc watch.

His old watch had been crushed when one of the Alphas had dislocated his wrist. It had been difficult explaining that particular injury to his dad without the easy cover of Lacrosse season, but he just said he and Scott had been roughhousing.

His dad got that pinched look on his face that said he knew Stiles was lying but he couldn’t prove it and Scott had a sheepish grin on his face and he pulled out his sad puppy eyes. His dad was a sucker for Scott’s sad puppy eyes, always had been.

But the watch.

The watch is beautiful and when he puts it on it’s the right kind of heavy. Solid and comforting. It’s also ridiculously expensive and he’s not sure why Peter thought a broke high school student with a single parent making a sheriff’s salary could seemingly afford a watch like that. Peter isn’t his sugar daddy by any means, and this is too much for an ‘I was just thinking of you’ gift, but he’s oddly touched all the same.


When Lydia sees the watch on his wrist at school, she calmly grabs him, drags him into the nearest girl’s restroom, quickly checks the stalls to make sure they’re alone and then locks the door.

“Peter Hale is fucking you.” Is what she says, voice flat, eyes sharp.

“Hello to you too, Lydia. How is your afternoon going?” Stiles says.

“Isaac mentioned something, and I didn’t believe it until now.” Lydia says, shaking her head.

“I don’t owe you anything, Lydia. I haven’t forgotten or forgiven a single thing he’s done, but I am allowed to make my own decisions.” Stiles says.

“Stiles, he’s killed people, he raped my mind for months and forced me to raise him from the dead and when he stabs your little pack in the back, don’t you dare come crying to me about it, because I won’t have any sympathy.” Lydia says, voice tight.

“As well you shouldn’t.” Stiles says. He knows exactly how this looks.

“You know it’s either going to be the Alphas or him that kills us all, correct?” Lydia says then.

“Counting on it, actually.” Stiles tells her.

“As long as we understand each other, then.” Lydia says and unlocks the door, leaving.

When she inevitably shoots Peter in the face with whatever concoction she can dream up that will cause the most damage, Stiles isn’t going to retaliate. It will be her right and Stiles isn’t going to get between Peter and Lydia any more than he has to.


They’re at an abandoned power station a few miles outside city limits, in the industrial district.

Derek’s taking Isaac back to his foster family after a meeting and Peter has him backed up against a wall, hands burning hot all over him where they touch his skin. Stiles figures the have maybe ten minutes before Derek gets back and things get awkward. He’s got a hand around Peter’s cock and he’s going fast then slow, just how Peter likes while Peter works on the bite on his shoulder, licking and sucking at it before he nuzzles and nips at his neck, his earlobe.

This is the first time they’ve done this at the den site, but this also is the first den that the pack, such as it is, has had since they’ve started this. And Stiles refuses to do anything in that death trap of tetanus that the Hale house is in its current state, convenience be damned. That is not a conversation he wants taking place with Mrs. McCall.

Peter’s wrists is also working, his fingers wrapped around Stiles’ cock and he’s going fast, nothing slow about it, and when he does the spinning while tugging move while biting at the juncture of shoulder and neck, Stiles spills over his hand, dazed.

Peter wraps his clean hand around Stiles’ over his own cock and it must be good for him because then he’s coming too.

Peter licks his hand clean and then when he holds Stiles’ hand delicately up to his face, Stiles licks his own hand clean. Peter tucks them back into their clothes when Derek walks in, zipping Stiles up slowly, eyes fixed on Derek.

Derek looks like a deer caught in the headlights.

“Isaac dropped off safely?” Peter is chipper. Stiles is still trying to get his leaking brain back in his ears. It is so unfair.

“Yes.” Derek is curt.

Stiles thinks he should put his shirt back on but he threw it off and he wasn’t paying attention to where it landed. He can feel Derek staring at his skin, the gnarly looking, slightly yellowed bruise that surrounds Peter’s bite mark. It’s amazing what Peter can do with blunt teeth, really. The finger shaped bruises at his hips that haven’t faded since a couple nights ago, that Peter dug into before they got really going this afternoon.

The marks on his ribs are red and bright, slightly scabbed over.

Peter’s moving around at the edge of his vision and he comes back eventually, with Stiles’ shirt. “Thanks.” Stiles mumbles. “Of course.” Peter smiles, at the hidden edge of his mouth, just for him. Stiles turns, exposing the spiral scar on his back.

Derek coughs and heads to the room in the back that he’s claimed as his own.

“This is getting stupid.” Stiles tells Peter. Peter quirks an eyebrow. “Well? What would you do? Go in there and kiss him with my spunk still on your tongue?” Peter’s words are barbed, but his eyes are amused.

Stiles flushes at the image, can feel how Derek would make the kiss like a fight.

“I’m sick of waiting.” Stiles says and heads to Derek’s room.

Derek is doing push ups with one hand behind his back when he opens the door.

He stops, looking up at Stiles. “Going to attack me with your mouth?” Derek asks.

“Do you want me to?” Stiles is curious.

Derek stands up and like everything he does with his body, it’s stupidly graceful.

“I can’t forgive him. For Laura, for the arsonists, for anything. I’m not going to let sex destroy me again. Even if that means ignoring the mate bond he and I have.” Derek says low and steady. And Stiles knows, knows just who Derek is talking about because Peter had told him, and he’d done some digging, found the employment record for a life guard at the school and Kate Argent’s smiling face staring at him like an accusation.

He wants Derek to be okay, but he’s not above fighting dirty. And really, Derek is far from okay.

“What could he really do to his mates? He hasn’t killed us all yet. What we have, it isn’t right without you. Please.” Stiles can’t help himself. He’s desperate, being so close to Derek, can feel the buzz and the gaping emptiness crashing against each other.

This is when, with Derek’s pained expression shoring up his resolve, he kisses him with Peter’s come still in his mouth.

It’s exactly like how Stiles was thinking. Derek lashes his tongue past his lips, pressing at the gums, his teeth, the roof of his mouth, the fleshy parts where his tongue connects to his jaw.

Derek stops kissing him to push him on the blanket covered mattress in the corner, ripping at Stiles’ shirt before biting down firmly with blunted teeth on the meat of his shoulder on his unblemished side. Stiles comes in his pants, gasping. He’s got a matched set, now.

Stiles sees Peter lounging against the doorframe.

“You should clean the poor boy, Derek. He’s terribly excitable when you bite him, but that’s no excuse for lack of foresight.” Peter drawls, examining his nails nonchalantly.

Derek glares at him. Peter smiles and it’s positively wolfish. Stiles feels his cock twitch.

Derek works open his belt, slides his clothes down a little, dips his head, licking at Stiles’ navel, breath puffing at the inside of Stiles’ thighs. He’s hesitant at first but then when he licks under Stiles’ cock, around his balls, Stiles practically mewls and he gains a bit of confidence. He catches Peter out of the corner of his eye slink up behind them and when Derek turns around, Peter pulls him into a kiss that’s filthy, tongues slipping out and spit slick lips everywhere. Stiles watches them, and he can feel his cock harden.

Derek draws away, dazed. He blinks slowly then licks a stripe up Stiles’ cock, before swallowing him down. “Fuck.” Stiles breathes out, closing his eyes as Derek hums around him, swirling his tongue, sucking hard.

When he opens his eyes next, Peter is positioned behind Derek, thrusting into him and Derek bucks back, meeting him. It’s insanely hot watching the muscles of Derek’s back bunch and work, Peter’s chest flex with effort.

Peter jerks, shudders and the vision Derek makes, the swell of his ass bucking hard into Peter’s hips and how Derek licks at the point just under his cockhead makes him come hard, just like that. Derek swallows, keeps sucking.

Derek pulls off him with a wet pop, and Stiles reaches down to grab at his bicep, tugging him up for a kiss. Derek melts into his mouth, slow and easy slide of his tongue against Stiles’ and Peter is there on his other side now, propped up on an elbow, watching them.

They have to stop for air and then Stiles turns to face Peter, hand on Peter’s face and Peter leans in for a kiss that’s raw and powerful, all teeth and forceful tongue.


The thing is, for all that Scott doesn’t like school, he’s not dumb. He just prefers doing things as opposed to sitting in a room all day listening to some overworked, underpaid teacher drone on about the Napoleonic wars. It’s why the vet tech job was a good fit for him as opposed to Stiles’ choice of a bookstore downtown that he wanted to work at, before he got the (unpaid, mind you) job of pack researcher.

Scott will eventually put his supernose to use and suss out the situation even if Stiles doesn’t tell him upfront.

Which is of course what happens.

Scott confronts him right before Halloween, and it’s ugly. He’d been wearing the scarf with his blazer, because damn it, he looks good in a blazer, and there had been a nip in the air when Stiles had stepped out of his house that morning so he ducked back inside and went to get it.

The watch probably hadn’t helped either.

“How could you?” Scott says, looking hurt, betrayed.

“Would you forgive Allison if she tried to kill you, for real?” Stiles asks him and Scott doesn’t even have to think about it. “Of course.” He says, like it’s no big deal.

“Look, what Peter and I have is complicated. But you’re still my best friend. I know exactly who he is, what he’s done. I will never forget and I will never forgive him.” Stiles says and hopes for the best.

Scott gets this look on his face, like when his dad left for good. Stiles hates himself, just a little, then.

“You should have told me sooner.” Scott says, voice low.

“Didn’t know how to say it.” Stiles shrugs. “Are we cool?” Stiles asks.

“Not right now.” Scott admits.

“Figured.” Stiles says.

Scott doesn’t talk to him for a month.


“Do it.” Stiles directs. The bright orange tie is slung around his neck by Peter, seated behind him, legs bracketing his thighs. Derek slides two slick fingers inside him, thumb caressing the soft skin under his balls. Derek shifts his knees, worrying the sheets to inch his body closer to Stiles. The tie is drawn closer by Peter, hands wrapped in the ends.

Derek adds a finger and Peter tightens the tie. He can feel Peter’s cock against his back, a hard line of heat. His own cock bobs against his stomach as Derek draws his fingers out, lines up his cock. He breathes out as Derek enters him, feels the slither of the tie come up to encircle his throat.

Peter nips at his neck down to meet the tie as Derek finds a rhythm. For every thrust Derek gives, Peter tightens the tie almost imperceptibly until Stiles finds his air cut off. Derek thrusts again and again and Peter holds it firm against his windpipe.

When he comes back to himself, Stiles finds that his stomach is sticky with come and Derek is already shooting inside of him. He slumps against Peter who is running the loose tie across Stiles’ nipples idly.

Derek kisses into Stiles’ mouth, nipping and sucking at his lips, his tongue. “You look gorgeous like this.” Peter tells him and Stiles can feel that his back is sticky too.


The axe has runes carved into the blade in the shape of a triskele. The handle is mountain ash and Deaton had helped Stiles with the ritual to soak it in a wolfsbane solution during a new moon. He practiced throws on an old mannequin while Isaac and Scott went over hand to hand combat.

The Alpha pack had burned down the old water tower by the highway as a declaration of war.

The axe is strapped in a holster on his back and, when he wants to dance before getting down to business, there’s a there’s a mountain ash baseball bat that was also ritualistically doused with the wolfsbane solution.

He prefers the axe but he keeps the bat in his Jeep. Constant vigilance and all that.

Now though, now he’s hacked off an Alpha’s arm, halfway to the shoulder. It wasn’t the cleanest cut he could have made but he’s got blood dripping into his eye, so these things happen.

Derek is in worse shape: deep gouges in his back, most likely punctured lungs.

Isaac has a hit to his gut. Stiles calculates and launches the axe at the head of the Alpha Derek is dealing with. He thinks strike and it’s a direct hit. That’s good. What’s not good is the swipe the Alpha he’s still dealing with takes at his chest hits him full on.

He goes down.

The Alpha crouches low, sneering. He kicks dirt into the Alpha’s eyes and edges away, out of reach. The bat had been knocked out of his grip so now he crawls to it, hands scrabbling around the handle in the dirt and leaves.

His chest burns, and it’s hard to breathe.

Stiles sees Peter fighting with the Alpha who moves like a dancer. Scott’s been cornered by the strong twin. The home team isn’t winning so far.

Bat in hand he turns just as the Alpha lunges for him. He gets up and swings the bat and watches as it connects with the Alpha’s face, sizzling. The Alpha roars in pain and Stiles keeps hitting him until the Alpha’s face has caved in.

It’ll give him enough time to decapitate him and go help the others. He’s over this fight already.


Peter is on him with the dirt still under his nails, the blood still on his face. Peter is just as messy. Stiles palms his cock while Peter licks at the blood, making Peter hiss against him.

Derek watches them on the bed, eyes lidded sleepily from the poultice Deaton packed into his wounds.

“Such feral beauty.” Peter muses. Stiles rolls his eyes. “I was watching you with your axe, how graceful you were with it. How raw you were as you bashed his head in with your bat.” Peter breathes into his ear.

“Peter, stop flirting and ride him, I’m gonna pass out soon.” Derek huffs, impatient.

“Yeah, Peter, ride me.” Stiles goads. Peter can get carried away with the praise sometimes when all Stiles wants to do is get off. It’s a little frustrating.

“You two have no sense of foreplay.” Peter says but Stiles is shucking of his pants and reaches for Peter’s belt. They strip haphazardly and Peter pushes him onto the bed, mindful of Derek’s injuries. Derek licks the rest of the Alpha’s blood off his face as Stiles settles against him.

Peter flicks a nail against his right nipple and Stiles shivers under him. “Now, now, can’t exert yourself too much. Lean back and relax.” Peter chides.

Stiles leans back close to Derek, and they watch as Peter jerks him off with lube before sinking down onto him, inch by inch.

Derek reaches out slowly to lazily jerk Peter off. Mainly he just curls a hand loosely around Peter as he thrusts on Stiles, following Peter’s rhythm.

Stiles gets his hand on Derek, matches Peter’s pace and the angle is a little awkward but Derek is biting little nips into the base of his throat and Stiles kisses him hotly.

Peter comes on Stiles’ stomach in thick streaks and he clenches around Stiles as he rides out his orgasm, triggering Stiles to spill inside him. Derek spurts onto his hand with a moan. He stays on top of Stiles while they draw it out and then slips off, curling on Stiles’ other side, hand burning hotly on his hip.

Stiles killed a man today and he’s gonna deal with the philosophical baggage surrounding that later, but for right now, his pack is safe and his mates are alive, right here with him.


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

February 2013

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