Chapter Text
The waistband of his jeans was digging into his bruised skin and his gait was noticeably stiff, but neither was enough to knock the thousand-watt smile off of Stiles’s face as he awkwardly made his way from his parking spot and up the school walkway. He earned a few odd looks including a second, considering glance from Lydia, and he couldn’t care less.
One less virgin at Beacon Hills High, Stiles thought, his hips swaying with a slight swagger.
Well, it was less of a swagger and more of a cautious mosey because he was reminded of the soreness in his ass with every step, but on any other day it would have been a swagger.
“Hey!”
Stiles looked back at the shout just as Scott caught up with him, tapping him on the shoulder.
“Hey—ah,” Scott faltered, taking in Stiles’s grin as well as the new clusters of bruises that Peter had enthusiastically raised. “So I guess things got better for you after school yesterday?” he asked apprehensively.
“Oh yeah. Like, astronomically better,” Stiles chirped cheerfully as he used the handrail to help drag himself up the steps to the school entrance.
It was true. He did feel better. Despite the aches and pains Stiles had, they were still the result of sex. With another person. It wasn’t like he was a whole new person or anything (he wasn’t), but now he carried himself with more confidence, his pride bolstered by the idea that someone actually found him desirable, worth touching over and over like Peter had.
It was…kind of heady.
“Really? Cuz you’re not walking like it went better.” Scott patiently slowed to keep pace with Stiles as they made their way through the halls towards their lockers.
“What, this?” Stiles waved a hand at himself. “Nah, this is the aftermath of multiple rounds of mind-blowingly hot sex last night—”
“Shh,” Scott hissed as they passed a cluster of teachers, but they were engrossed in their own conversation.
“What? You said I could have bragging rights. This is my time, Scott.” Hell, he’d be running up and down the halls, crowing his de-virginized status at the top of his lings if he didn’t think he’d get hauled into the principal’s office for misconduct.
“Yeah, I know. You can tell me anything you want,” Scott whispered pacifyingly, checking over his shoulder for eavesdroppers as he steered Stiles to his locker with a hand on his back. “I just think you should wait until no one’s around that’ll…y’know… call the cops for child molestation.”
Stiles rolled his eyes, pausing with his hand on the combination lock of his locker. “Dude, I’ll be seventeen in less than a year. And if you look up the ages of the other 49 states’ age of consent, California is a total prude by comparison.” He spun the dial left, right, left again, and popped open the lock, carefully swinging the battered metal door open in case the haphazardly stacked books and folders decided to make a break for it. “Besides, almost everyone think’s Peter’s dead. Who’s gonna go looking for a dead guy to arrest?” he asked, aware of how hypocritical his own nonchalance was after harping on Peter just days earlier for fluffing off potential danger.
“What?” Scott’s attention snapped away from where he’d been scanning the thickening traffic in the hall. “Who else knows Peter died?”
“Besides those of us who were there that night and the Argent clan? No one,” Stiles said. “But Derek’s trying to get a death certificate for his missing comatose uncle so it’s not like Peter’s been strolling around town, risking someone recognizing him.”
Not that Stiles was aware of, anyway.
Stiles dug through the mess of his locker for his first period things, wondering if it even mattered that Peter laid low. People who knew him would expect him to be burned, right? But it was better to be safe than sorry, he supposed.
Still looking unconvinced, Scott shrugged, readjusting the strap of the backpack hanging off his shoulder. “Fine, just…tell me you’ll be careful, alright? Especially with all the…neck stuff. It looks like you got attacked by a vampire? What did your dad say when he saw ‘em?”
Quickly, Stiles feigned interest in sorting a mass of loose papers. “Ah, well…he definitely doesn’t think it was a vampire,” he said, squinting at the topmost sheet even though he really wasn’t taking in a single word of it. Crap, he’d hoped to avoid this subject.
“Okay,” Scott said, sounding slightly confused. “So what does he think? I mean, you didn’t actually tell him who you’re...doing things with, did you?”
The absurdity of the question nearly made Stiles laugh. “Yeah, Scott, I told my dad that I’m sleeping with a guy twice my age, who just so happens to be the murderer who nearly stressed him back into a bottle of Jack. And since that wasn’t enough to give him a heart attack, I decided to tell him about werewolves, kanimas, and the family of hunters who recently moved into town.” Stiles scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Are you insane? I couldn’t tell him the truth—not without condemning myself to a lifetime of sneaking out through my bedroom window.”
He threw an incredulous look over his shoulder at Scott as he shoved the jumble of papers in his hand back into his locker, giving up on the charade of being interested in them. “You need to get into your locker?” Stiles asked, hefting his backpack further onto his shoulder and shifting his hold on the books in his arms so that everything wouldn’t tumble to the floor.
“Wha— no” Scott blinked, looking a little lost. The change in subject seemed to throw him, but it didn’t take more than a few seconds for him to jump back on track, moving closer to Stiles’s side to lessen the risk of being overheard. “So? What did you tell him?”
Words failing him, Stiles glanced around for a distraction that wasn’t there. Crap. “Uh, well, I didn’t really say that much,” he stalled, edging into the throng of students on their way to class.
They were cutting it a little close to the start of first period. Maybe if he could just get to the classroom, then maybe—
“What do you mean?” Scott had squeezed his way through to Stiles’s side and looked like he was going to stay there. “There’s no way he’d have let you go that easy.”
“Why do you want to know?” Stiles asked, looking askance at his friend. This was like trying to get a bone away from a dog that wouldn’t. Let. It. Go. He never would have dreamed that Scott would be so interested in how Stiles was maintaining a low profile with all of this, but naturally the universe set out to prove him wrong. Why couldn’t he catch a break?
“Because if your excuse was good enough to get past your dad, then my mom would totally have to eat something like that up. Come on, please? In case I have to fly something under my mom’s radar in the future?”
Dark, pleading puppy-eyes were leveled his way and Stiles sighed, knowing how much he was about to disappoint (at the very least). “I didn’t really have to say much because he already thought it was you,” he forced out quickly, as though talking faster would outrun the awkwardness of the conversation Stiles could feel coming.
Scott’s face scrunched up for a moment before it slackened with horrified comprehension.
Moving just a hair too fast for a normal human, he grabbed Stiles by the arm and pulled him to the nearest empty corner, ignoring how Stiles squawked indignantly as he was knocked against several students along the way. “He thought it was me? That we’re—” Scott broke off, making a weird distorted hand gesture instead of finishing his sentence.
“If that’s supposed to be sign language for screwing each other’s brains out, then yes, that’s exactly what he thinks,” Stiles said wryly, raking his fingers nervously over the back of his head.
Scott’s eyes went comically wide, his mouth opening and closing like a goldfish’s before he finally found words. “And you didn’t say no? Seriously? Seriously?”
“What? I couldn’t tell him the truth about Peter. And when he started talking about you, I just sort of…went with it,” Stiles winced. “I panicked, okay? I’m sorry,” he pleaded. “It’ll just be until…until…”
He floundered. Until when?
Apparently, Scott had the same idea. “Until when?” Scott prompted critically, his brows raised expectantly.
Stiles cringed. “Would you consider waiting until after graduation?” He didn’t even need to hear Scott’s answer to know that wasn’t in the realm of possibility.
“You want me to pretend to be your boyfriend for two years? What the hell are thinking?” Scott asked, looking at Stiles like he had just grown a second head.
“I don’t know,” Stiles hissed, gesturing wildly in frustration. “You keep asking me questions as if I have answers to them, which I don’t, because I didn’t exactly plan this, okay?” He doubted anyone could plan for Peter.
“Yeah, well, if you had planned it, I’d be a lot more concerned about you than I am right now,” Scott muttered, casting an eye around before he checked the time on his phone. “We need to get to class soon, dude.”
Annoyance flared within Stiles. Class could wait. This couldn’t, or else he wouldn’t be able to concentrate for the next hour. “Yeah, but can you cover for me at least until this year’s out? I know you don’t like it, but I’m begging you, Scott. We can figure it out when summer break starts. I just…I need to not be worrying about something this”–stupid—“small with finals coming up.”
It felt like his heart was pounding in his throat as Scott leveled a measuring stare at him.
“Fine,” Scott finally said, and Stiles nearly fell over from the sudden rush of relief. “But on one condition.”
“Anything, name it,” Stiles said swiftly, a grin stretching across his face as he practically bounced on his toes in excitement, glad to be able to push aside this complication for another week or two.
“You’re gonna help me study for finals next week for like a minimum of three hours a night,” Scott said firmly, crossing his arms over his chest.
Stiles’s grin faltered. “Three hours a night? What, like every night?” Already, he’d been mentally building a list of things he wanted to try out with Peter, wondering if some of the things he had come across in porn felt as good as the stars made them sound of if they were just as awkward as they looked. If he had to account for Scott’s study time on top of his house duties, then fitting in rounds of marathon sex was going to be difficult.
“Every night,” Scott affirmed. “Both our grades have taken a hit with everything that’s happened in the past year, and I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to be held back so, yeah, we’re gonna do this. Booty calls can wait.” He looked at Stiles expectantly. “What’s it gonna be?”
Easy for you to say, you’re not getting any,” Stiles thought bitterly, hesitating for a few seconds before his shoulders slumped in defeat. “Fine,” he sighed, tipping his head back to thump against the wall behind him. He scowled at Scott’s triumphant smirk. “But the rating on my sex-capade recaps is getting moved up from NC-17 to R, just so you know.”
Scott didn’t even bat an eye at the threat. “I can handle it.”
“Oh really?”
“Yeah,” Scott laughed, tugging Stiles forward into the thinning stream of students, “now come on, honey, or we’ll be late for class.”
Despite himself, Stiles laughed under his breath, feeling unbelievably grateful that he still had his best friend at his side.
Hours later, after latently trying to absorb as much information as he could before finals week, Stiles once again found himself trudging up the stairs to his bedroom, dragging his battered backpack behind him.
Scott had been awesome enough to order pizza, but the free food had been the highlight of the night (because memorizing math equations, history dates, and chemistry formulas was about as thrilling as it sounded).
His dad had been fine—though skeptic–about him and Scott “studying” together (Stiles could hear the air quotes in his dad’s voice over the phone, but hey, they wouldn’t be in Stiles’s house so no “rule-breaking”). A tiny part of him felt guilty about not bringing his dad anything to eat, leaving him to fend for himself, which would probably be something greasy and heart-stopping, but Coach had kept the whole lacrosse team late with suicide runs after school, which had pushed Scott and Stiles’s study plans back by an hour by the time they’d finished their showers and gathered all the equipment back up. And then there hadn’t really been time to make a meal run for his dad.
Stiles hadn’t been happy.
He supposed that’s why Scott had offered to buy diner. At least his friend now had a firm handle on controlling his urges on the night of a full moon otherwise Stiles would have been torn apart as fast as their pizza had been.
Nearing his bedroom door, a spark of hopefulness sprang up inside of Stiles through his exhaustion. Maybe he’d find Peter at his computer, snooping through his porn again even though Stiles had texted the older man that he would be busy tonight.
That hope was what kept him from jumping back when he opened his bedroom door.
Well, he’d been partly right in his anticipation, only the wrong Hale was sitting in his desk chair. And in retrospect, he probably should have seen this coming.
“Y’know, normal people at least bother to call if they’re coming over,” Stiles said, doing his best to affect an air of annoyance, even though Derek’s unwavering stony stare was giving him the creeps.
Like, seriously, blink already.
“Normal people don’t actively get involved with murdering psychopaths,” Derek retorted, watching Stiles’s face closely.
For what, Stiles wasn’t sure.
He raised his brows at Derek mockingly. “Is this supposed to be an intervention? Because you’re gonna need a lot more people to make it anywhere near effective. Especially with the whole ‘Kill the kanima’ campaign that you headed for the past month or two. But let me guess—that was different.”
He crossed over to his bed, feeling Derek’s eyes follow him as he dropped his backpack on the floor along the way.
Derek, to his credit, didn’t bother to rebuke him. “You don’t know what he’s capable of. What he could do to you.”
“I can do some damage, too,” Stiles said defensively. Derek snorted. “Hey, remember that night at the rave? I worked some serious anti-supernatural mojo. I can take care of myself,” Stiles boasted.
The single brow Derek arched showed just how unconvinced the alpha was.
Stiles’s pride shrank a little. “If this is because I’m human and he’s not, then save it, alright?” he sighed. “Scott’s been a werewolf for, like, a second in comparison, and he’s never hurt Allison when they were…together.” He gestured, but Derek seemed to get the point, if his bored eye roll was anything to go by. “I’m not worried about his self-control.”
He really wasn’t. Sometimes, Peter had more control than he really cared for. Granted, that line of thought might stem from Stiles being new to other people touching him.
“I’m not either,” Derek said, showing (in Stiles’s opinion) far more teeth than absolutely necessary. “Which is why you should be worried. Because, if he does hurt you, it won’t be because he didn’t know his own strength or got careless. It’ll be because he meant to.”
An uncomfortable squirming feeling settled in Stiles’s stomach as he weighed Derek’s words.
It wasn’t like the idea hadn’t occurred to him. Stiles had even addressed his concerns with Peter a few days ago. But the older man’s outright dismissal had set him at ease, or had at least pushed his doubts away for the moment. Until now, as they threatened to choke him.
“Do you think that’s what he’s doing?” Stiles managed to force out, the words warbling slightly. “So he can get close enough to really hurt me?”
Human as he was, Stiles had no way to know if Peter had been telling the truth, couldn’t hone in on his heartbeat and listen for any irregular palpitations. The same went for Derek, too, but the fact that he seemed to be here out of some weird sense of concern almost made Stiles want to believe what Derek had to say (whatever his bias was).
Surprisingly, Derek seemed to hesitate, a touch of uncertainty in his expression before it closed off, becoming pinched with anger, his lips pursed in a thin line—in other words, his normal, constipated look of aggravation. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “If he had approached you instead of the other way around, I’d be more convinced but…” He trailed off with a huff, shaking his head. “I still think this benefits him somehow. He doesn’t do anything for free.”
Like that was a newsflash.
Stiles snorted derisively, “Yeah, well, he’s not the only one getting benefits here.” Derek looked at him like he was brain damaged. “What? Dude, your uncle is hot. And the sex, oh my god—hey, what are you doing?” Stiles broke off when Derek got up from the desk chair.
“I don’t need to hear this,” he said dismissively, shoving his hand into the pockets of his leather jacket.
Satisfaction curled through Stiles at having made the alpha uncomfortable. It wasn’t often that he ruffled the alpha’s proverbial feathers, so Stiles counted it as an accomplishment.
The discomfort must have been enough to tick Derek off because a moment after getting to his feet, he scowled and began making his way towards Stiles’s window, which was still open from when Derek had entered through it.
“What, leaving so soon?” Stiles called after him, crossing his arms in front of his chest. It kind of pissed him off that Derek thought he could just break into his home, stick his nose in and then just take off like that.
“You aren’t taking this seriously so why should I stand here when I’m clearly just preaching to the deaf?” Derek asked exasperatedly over his shoulder.
The alpha had one foot on the window sill poised to launch himself outside by the time Stiles had crossed the room and grasped Derek’s shoulder to keep him inside. The move worked, making Derek pause, but a pointed glance at Stiles’s hand had the teen hastily retreating a few paces (in case the alpha was in a maiming mood).
“You don’t think I’m taking this seriously?” Stiles laughed incredulously. “I’ve taken this whole werewolf thing more seriously than even Scott has, okay? From like the beginning. I get that if everything goes to shit then I’m the one that’ll catch it in the face, but I don’t have a set of teeth or claws what I can just pop out at a moment’s notice and nothing you say could possibly make me any more aware of that. So beyond carrying around a little baggie of mountain ash or a gun with wolfsbane-laced bullets, I don’t know what you want me to do to make you feel better,” Stiles hissed, gesturing violently, using the movement to vent some of his frustration because throwing a punch at an alpha werewolf wasn’t a bright idea.
Derek was so quick to barge in and throw his opinions around, yet didn’t stop to consider the fact that Stiles wasn’t exactly equipped to handle potentially dangerous situations in the same way that Derek was. Not that it stopped Stiles from walking into them anyway. And it wasn’t going to stop him from doing what he wanted—even if that included Peter.
“Breaking things off isn’t an option?” Derek asked dryly.
All at once, the wind seemed to go out of Stiles’s sails.
Breaking things off with Peter?
As real as the possibility was that Stiles could end up hurt (physically being just as likely as emotionally), the idea of telling the Peter to get lost made Stiles’s stomach roll uncomfortably, his heart to quicken with a surge of possessiveness.
“Maybe I don’t want it to be,” he muttered, embarrassed by how attached to the older man he seemed to have become in less than a week. Not that he really minded. It felt nice to have someone who wanted him (and could protect him, if need be). Call him stubborn, but Stiles didn’t want to break things off just because some people didn’t like his choice of partners. If being with Peter was a mistake, then let Stiles discover that for himself.
How the hell else was he supposed to learn?
His determination must have shown on his face because Derek huffed softly under his breath, shaking his head. “Fine. But it wouldn’t hurt to keep something on you just in case. A back-up plan. I’ll be checking you for it when I see you Saturday.”
“Whoa, Saturday? What’s on Saturday?” Stiles asked, frowning. The only plan he had for this weekend was to study his ass off with Scott. Had he forgotten something?
Confusion registered on Derek’s face before it was replaced by a dark scowl, his hand clenching around the window sill hard enough to make the wood creak. “Nothing,” he said dismissively as he pulled out his phone and sent a quick text. “Seriously, though, get yourself some protection. Against Peter,” he rushed to clarify, “And don’t come crying to me if he breaks your heart.”
Before Stiles could do more than sputter indignantly about being treated like some love-sick girl with a stupid crush, Derek launched himself out of the room and into the air, his body going into a graceful tuck-and-roll then landing on all fours before striding off towards the nearby tree line, as though he hadn’t just defied the laws of physics.
Unbelievable,Stiles thought to himself as he slammed the window down. Stiles thought about having his window sills replaced with ones made of mountain ash, but then trashed the idea.
Peter wouldn’t be able to get in if he did that.
So much for the nuisance deterrent. Werewolves…
Late as it was, he doubted that Peter would bother to come over, what with the full moon tonight and Stiles having school in the morning. His dick twitched, still optimistic of having Peter’s hand, mouth—anything— on it, despite the next-to-zero chance of getting any action tonight.
Tired and fed up, Stiles did the bare minimum to get ready for bed, stripping down to his shirt and boxers before climbing into bed, his hand drawing out his cock before his head had even hit the pillow. He might be stuck with Thumbelina and her four ladies in waiting to help him out tonight, but he had more than enough “jo” material built up over the past few days to manage. In fact, he spilled all over himself in less than ten minutes to the sharp memory of Peter grinding against him in the woods.
After he had sopped up the mess on his belly with a few tissues, lethargy finally sank its claws into Stiles and he absently pulled up his boxers just as he nodded off, the covers half-rucked up around his body.
After what felt like a few minutes (yet could just as easily have been hours), Stiles found himself dragged out of a sound sleep when the mattress under him lurched.
Panicked, he flailed wildly, his hands hitting something solid that he couldn’t see since his eyes were slow to adjust to the darkness of the room. Then, his wrists were grabbed and forced to the mattress near his head, pinning him in place.
A heavy pressure settled on his hips and, after several quick blinks, he realized it was Peter straddling him, recognizing the older man by the blue burn of his eyes and his woodsy scent before Stiles could make out the rest of his face.
“What the he—”
“Why was he here,” Peter hissed, cutting off Stiles’s tirade before the teen could get any steam built up.
He?
“What are you talking about? He who?” Stiles stammered, shock still coursing through him from the rude awakening.
What the fuck?
“Derek. He was here,” Peter enunciated slowly, as though Stiles wouldn’t be able to understand if he talked any faster. “Why?”
The hands around Stiles’s wrists squeezed a fraction tighter, prompting a stream of words to fly out of his mouth. “Wha–Derek? I dunno, he was here when I got back from Scott’s. Tried to go all ‘Obi Wan Kenobi’ on me before he turned into a brick wall and left—” He fell silent as the fingers squeezed again and this time it was enough to cut off circulation, jamming the small bones in his wrists together (not enough to hurt, but enough to stir a flicker of fear in Stiles, who was held down by someone who could snap him like a twig).
Hysterically, he wondered how pissed Derek was going to be when he found out that Stiles hadn’t started making an anti-werewolf kit the moment the alpha had left. Because Stiles himself was wondering if he needed one right now.
Peter snarled. “His scent is all over this room. On you. On this,” he released one of Stiles’s wrists to roughly cup the teen through his boxers.
Stiles’s body was at odds with the rest of him, responding to Peter’s hand on his dick while mentally he oscillated between fear and confusion, worried by the intensity in the older man’s voice.
“H-hey, I don’t know what you’re talking about, okay? We didn’t do anything. He didn’t touch—“ he broke off as memory struck him, of him grabbing Derek’s shoulder to keep the alpha from jumping out of the window, of climbing into bed not long after Derek had left and jacked himself off, stroking himself with his dominant hand, the hand he’d touched Derek with... “Dude, there’s been a huge misunderstanding—”
“The only misunderstanding,” Peter interrupted angrily, his voice barely above a growl, “is Derek thinking that he can take what isn’t his.”
A loud tearing of fabric rent the air and then Stiles felt slightly cooler around his genitals before his brain caught up with the fact that Peter had just ripped his boxers open.
A strong hand gripped Stiles’s cock and he gasped, bucking up into the touch, his body not arguing in the slightest, but the dark possessiveness of the older man was throwing the teen for a loop, making him reach out with his free hand for Peter’s wrist, panting out a breathless “wait”. He was unable to do much more with his other hand, still pinned to the bed above him.
But Peter ignored him (and there was almost no chance that Peter hadn’t heard him), instead choosing to brace himself over Stiles’s body, his ice-blue eyes bright in the darkness. “You’re mine. No one else’s. Mine.” And with that, he dove forward to lick his way past Stiles’s slack lips, essentially taking kisses, not seeming to care whether or not Stiles responded.
A particularly harsh nip to Stiles’s bottom lip made the teen inhale sharply and then Peter was gone, finally releasing his hold on Stiles’s arm so that he could move further down on the bed. He glanced up hungrily as he pinned the teen’s hips down just before he bent his head to take most of Stiles’s dripping cock into his mouth in one hot, wet slide.
Stiles choked out a groan, the sudden pressure enveloping him almost overwhelming. A couple days ago, when they had messed around after the “incident” with Isaac in the forest, Peter had carefully sucked Stiles off while coaching the teen on how to give pleasure while receiving it. He had been gentle—teasing, even—but it was like Peter was a different person now, sucking and swallowing around him, his pace fast and aggressive, like he was trying to get Stiles off as quickly as he possibly could.
Which, if that was the older man’s goal, he was going about it rather effectively.
Stiles couldn’t buck up into Peter’s mouth with the unnaturally strong grip on his hips, but his hands were free now and able to grasp the short crop of Peter’s hair. He still didn’t have any control over Peter’s rhythm (the older man was much too strong for that), but being able to viciously tug on the dark strands gave Stiles satisfaction from defying Peter in some small way, showing the older man that he wasn’t just going to lie there and take it.
Seemingly goaded, Peter pulled off long enough to wet two of his fingers before recapturing Stiles’s cock with his mouth, bobbing up and down as he prodded at the teen’s tight pucker, pressing one in and in, crooking it to stroke against the sensitive gland that made Stiles cry out and leak into Peter’s demanding mouth.
A second moistened finger slid in soon after, barely wet enough to feel comfortable, but then it too was being used to sporadically brush against the teen’s prostate, sending jolts of pleasure through Stiles, who was muttering a constant stream of gibberish and profanity as the fingers began fucking their way in and out, always managing to re-find his happy spot with every other thrust.
In a span of five minutes (which felt much longer under the onslaught), Stiles was shooting his release down Peter’s throat, quaking and gasping as the older man swallowed around him again and again until the teen was too sensitive to stand it, making Stiles push weakly at Peter’s forehead to get him to stop.
Thankfully, the older man relented, letting Stiles’s spit-slicked cock slip out of his mouth, looking immensely pleased with himself.
Limp and overloaded, Stiles was dimly aware of Peter moving off him and the bed, but by the time he could shake off some of the fuzziness in his mind, the older man had vanished as quietly as he’d come, leaving nothing but an open window and Stiles’s tattered clothing to show that he’d been there.