Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4511913.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M, Multi
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Peter_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Stiles_Stilinski, Derek_Hale, Peter_Hale
  Additional Tags:
      Plot_What_Plot/Porn_Without_Plot, Shameless_Smut, Creeper_Peter, but_in_a
      good_way, Loss_of_Virginity, Knotting
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-08-06 Completed: 2015-09-24 Chapters: 2/2 Words: 10947
****** Hale Sandwich ******
by DiscontentedWinter
Summary
     It's exactly what it says on the box.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
***** Chapter 1 *****
 
Stiles has never been so cold in his life. He’s so cold he’s not even
shivering, and he knows that’s not a good thing. That’s what Derek’s saying,
maybe; Stiles can hear his increasingly worried tone as he speaks, but he can’t
actually make out any of the words. It’s like he’s underwater still.
It should be funny.
It’s not funny.
Maybe it is.
Stiles blinks, and tries to remember what he was thinking about. He can’t.
He blinks again, and his vision grays out.
That seems like something he should be worried about.
Also, he can’t feel his hands.
And then he can’t feel anything.
 
***
 
Of everything that could have gone wrong tonight, this didn’t even make Peter’s
list. He likes to think he can plan for every eventuality, but Stiles is
nothing if not surprising. Still, when Derek had managed to distract the
wendigo and Peter had dived in and torn its throat out, that should have been
the most perilous part of the night done with, right? Except guess which
irritating little human had to find a random disused well, and fall straight
through the rotted cover into fifteen feet of freezing black water? In
December? On one of the incredibly rare nights that it’s actually snowing in
Beacon Hills?
Well, not in Beacon Hills. If they were in Beacon Hills, they’d be fine.
Instead, they’re about forty miles north of Beacon Hills, the aforementioned
wendigo ripped the engine out of their car, and now Stiles is rapidly
succumbing to hypothermia. And Derek, even if nobody would know it to look at
him, is rapidly succumbing to panic. He might look as sour and unimpressed as
always, but Peter can smell the fear curdling his nephew’s scent.
“We passed a cabin on the way in here,” Peter says, keeping his voice calm.
“We’ll take him there.”
Peter leads the way as Derek carries Stiles.
The cabin is a mile or two away. It doesn’t take long to get there. It’s
someone’s fishing cabin, Peter thinks, although it smells stale enough that he
knows nobody’s been here for months. Perfect. He breaks the lock on the door
easily enough.
The place is small but comfortable. It’s a single room, not much on amenities,
but beggars can’t be choosers. There’s a bed with musty-smelling covers.
There’s a bookcase with a few dog-eared paperbacks, and a photograph of some
beaming fool with a big dead fish. There’s a fireplace, and the owner—probably
Big Dead Fish Guy—was kind enough to leave firewood as well. That’s good.
Stiles can use the heat. Peter starts the fire while Derek just stands there
like a lump, still holding Stiles. Stiles is pale and unresponsive.
“Jesus,” Peter says, a growl rising in his throat. “Don’t you know anything
about humans? Get his clothes off, now.”
“What?” Derek lowers Stiles gently to his feet, holding him close still. Stiles
mumbles something, and Peter sags a little in relief. He’s still with them,
more or less.
He glares at Derek. “He’s got hypothermia. Get his clothes off him.”
Derek gapes, looking as surprised as the big dead fish.
Then Stiles surprises them both by giggling.
 
***
 
“Get his clothes off him,” someone says, and Stiles giggles and slaps at the
hands fumbling at the fly of his jeans.
“Nuh uh,” he says. “Buy me a drink first.”
“Stiles Stilinski,” the voice says again, and ohhhh, it’s Peter. Creepy Peter.
Creepy but hot Peter. “You little tease.”
“Peter!” Derek snaps.
“Omigod,” Stiles says, because suddenly he’s not wearing pants. “Uh oh.”
Then his wet hoodie and shirt are being peeled off him as well, and Stiles
doesn’t really know what’s going on. He’s vaguely concerned because he thought
that the first time this happened he’d be enjoying it a lot more. And also that
there’d be fewer people involved. It’s okay though. He’ll just roll with the
punches or whatever.
His shoes and socks are next, and yeah, he’s totally naked now.
“Peter,” he says, reaching out for the man in front of him and somehow missing.
“Am I okay? Am I hot?”
He can hear the smile in Peter’s voice. “Delectable, darling.”
“Peter!” Derek snaps again.
“What?” Peter sounds hurt.
Stiles giggles again. Nobody does that whole wounded innocence shtick like
Peter. Which is hilarious, because he’s so, so far away from innocence that he
probably can’t even see it from whatever black shore of moral decrepitude he’s
beached himself on. Yet somehow he can still sound like an angel.
Stiles likes that.
It’s kinda hot.
Actually, it’s totally hot. Peter would be totally filthy and depraved, in a
really good way.
Derek is…
Derek is complicated.
Also, Derek is currently crowding against Stiles’s back, and holy shit, he’s
naked too. There’s a lot of skin pressing against Stiles. Lot of bare skin, and
muscles, and other bits. So maybe that filthy depravity runs in the Hale family
or something, which, okay, is not something Stiles has thought about.
Much.
Okay, he’s thought about it. Lotta times. Lotta special alone times.
But it’s not like he’s thought about Peter and Derek at the same time, in the
same scenario. Which, really, why not? He’s kind of disappointed in his own
lack of imagination.
Stiles blinks as Peter’s annoying hot face comes into focus.
“Stiles?”
“Mmm?” He arches away from Derek toward Peter.
“Let’s get you on the bed, okay?”
“’kay.”
Gravity shifts, and suddenly Stiles is lying on the bed—there’s a bed?—and
everyone is naked, that’s a thing that is apparently happening, and Stiles is
pretty sure things are about to start feeling really good any second now,
except he’s actually kind of tired, and he can’t feel his body, and if he can't
feel his body then how can he tell if he’s got a boner or not? He can’t really
feel Peter or Derek’s bodies either, and he’s a bit aggrieved by that. But he’s
mostly tired.
“Nooo,” he mumbles. “Wanna stay awake for the Hale sandwich.”
The last thing he hears before he slips into unconsciousness is Peter’s
surprised laugh.
 
***
 
He wakes up hot.
He’s covered in an itchy blanket.
No.
No, that’s not right.
Stiles peels his eyes open.
He’s actually wedged between two wolves. Wolves. Two fully shifted wolves.
They’re big. One is black. One is brown. They’re big. He thought that already,
right? Doesn’t matter, because it actually bears thinking twice. The muzzle of
the brown wolf, pressed against his throat, could very, very easily snap his
scrawny little neck. It’s fucking huge.
Stiles shifts a little and the black wolf snorts.
Stiles turns his head, and finds himself staring into its very red eyes. Derek.
He wriggles, and Derek gives him a warning growl.
“I’m hot,” Stiles mutters, and tries to shove Derek off him.
Derek growls again. He’s pressed so tightly to Stiles’s back that Stiles
rumbles with the vibrations of the growl.
“I’m hot!”
Derek bares his teeth.
Stiles gives up and goes back to sleep.
He was only dreaming he was naked, right?
 
***
 
Derek shifts back to his human form some time before dawn. Stiles is still
wedged between him and Peter, one arm slung over Peter, his fingers curled
through the long hair of his ruff. He’s breathing okay. Snoring a little,
actually. Derek presses his nose against the back of Stiles’s neck and inhales.
Stiles smells a little off, the way he does when he’s carrying some small
injury that’s annoying him. There’s a faint sourness to his scent that Derek
knows means sickness, but he’s not too concerned. It’s almost faded now, and it
was a hell of a lot worse last night. Stiles is warm, and his heartbeat is
steady.
Derek’s hand is resting on Stiles’s hip. He tells himself the only reason he
doesn’t move it is that he doesn’t want to wake Stiles. He tells himself that’s
the only reason he doesn’t climb out of the bed either.
There are plenty of things he should be doing. He should be checking their
clothes—laid out in front of the fireplace—are dry. He should be seeing if
there’s any food or water in the cabin. And, if not, he should be heading
outside to get some. There’s a small lake close by, and he could sniff out a
rabbit or two, and collect some more firewood. He could have the water boiled
and the rabbits cooking on the fire by the time Stiles even wakes up.
The thought of it both warms him and horrifies him.
Oh Jesus. He wants to provide for Stiles. He can actually imagine himself
beaming proudly as he hands over a brace of dead rabbits and, because this is
his fantasy, Stiles doesn’t even look faintly disgusted. Instead, he smiles,
delighted, and thanks Derek with the sort of quiet sincerity that, honestly,
Derek has never seen Stiles display in all the time he’s known him. Sincere?
Sure. Quiet? Fuck no. Derek needs to work on the quality of his fantasies, or
at least learn to better suspend his disbelief.
And he really, really should get out of bed.
Not just because he could be doing things, but also because the blankets smell
faintly like old Bengay and mothballs.
Then Stiles sighs deeply in his sleep, and Derek can’t even think about moving
yet.
He’s too comfortable here with Stiles.
 
***
 
Peter shifts back to his human form as he stretches awake and opens his eyes.
Well, well, well.
It’s not every morning that he wakes up to something quite so pretty. And
Stiles is certainly pretty. It’s not like he’s never noticed before. Peter has
eyes. It’s just that usually Stiles is in such a flurry of frantic motion that
Peter hasn’t ever been afforded the opportunity to observe him quite so
closely. Asleep, he’s really very lovely. And, sure, Peter would enjoy it a
hell of a lot more if Derek wasn’t crashed out while plastered to the poor
unfortunate boy’s back, but he’ll take it. He can just pretend Derek’s not
here. It’s incredibly easy to do, actually. Peter’s been practicing ignoring
Derek for years.
Stiles’s dark lashes lie against his mole-dotted cheeks. He snuffles, like a
puppy dreaming of chasing a squirrel, and his mouth quirks. He has a gorgeous
mouth. Peter has often wondered if the only way to shut it up is to shove
something in it—his tongue, perhaps, or perhaps something a little more
substantial—and he raises a hand and gently traces his thumb against the arch
of that perfect Cupid’s bow. Then against Stiles’s full bottom lip, testing the
drag. He’s delighted when Stiles’s tongue darts out and briefly touches his
thumb before disappearing again.
Oh yes. The things he could do with that mouth.
A low warning growl tells him that Derek’s awake.
He meets his nephew’s narrow gaze above the curve of Stiles’s shoulder. “What?”
he whispers.
“Peter.” Derek’s tone is low and threatening.
Peter rolls his eyes, and makes a show of moving his hand away again. He’s
immediately gratified when Stiles smacks his lips and frowns a little in his
sleep. Somebody has an oral fixation. Peter could help him out with that.
Derek growls again, and Peter sighs.
His nephew is no fun at all.
 
***
 
Stiles wakes up hot. He wriggles, and hears a sharp intake of breath from
somewhere very close behind him. His eyes flash open, and sweet holy baby
Jebus, Peter Hale is grinning at him.
“Good morning, princess.”
Stiles opens his mouth to say something. A kind of a squawk comes out instead.
Because he’s naked. And Peter looks like he might be naked under the blanket
too, and that is twice as much nakedness as Stiles is comfortable dealing with
first thing in the morning. Or, honestly, at any time. Because it’s Peter.
Peter Hale. What the hell even happened last night that he’s naked in bed with
an also very naked Peter?
Stiles pushes back, away from Peter.
God, why couldn’t it at least have been—
He hits another body. Another naked body, and twists his head.
“Derek! Jesus! Oh my fucking god.” Stiles is this close to freaking out. This
close. Why the hell is everyone naked? How the fuck did this happen? “Did I get
drunk?”
“Why?” Peter asks. “Do you think you’d need to be drunk to get into bed with
us?”
Stiles gapes at him for a second, because there is no way in hell he knows how
to answer that question.
“Stiles,” Derek says, glaring at Peter. “You had hypothermia.”
“Oh,” Stiles says, and suddenly remembers waking up in the middle of the night
between two wolves. “Oh.”
Is it weird that a part of him is actually a little disappointed?
Yeah, it’s weird.
For a second there he actually thought he had game.
“Um, okay then,” he says, because the longer this drags on the more awkward
it’s going to get. He mentioned everyone was naked, right? And that’s when it
happens. Of course it does. He’s in a bed between two hot naked men, so yeah,
okay, his dick wakes up. It took a little longer than the rest of him, but
there is it, popping up to say hello and jabbing Peter Hale in the thigh.
Peter smiles at him, and Stiles’s face burns.
“I’ll just, um,” he says, but he’s got nowhere else to go. If he turns around,
he’ll just slap Derek with his morning wood instead. And then it doesn’t even
matter, because Derek sniffs, and Stiles knows he can smell his arousal, and
how is that even fair? “Oh god.”
For a second Stiles thinks he’s going to die of embarrassment.
The second after that, he feels Derek’s erection pressing against the crack of
his ass. Big. Hot. Damp. Stiles’s brain shorts out.
“I’m sorry.” Derek sounds mortified. He tries to roll away.
“Well now,” Peter says, reaching over Stiles to grip Derek by the hip. “Let’s
not be too hasty to throw this opportunity away, hmm?”
Stiles’s breath catches in his throat.
Derek is silent.
“Stiles?” Peter asks, quirking a brow.
“Um,” Stiles says, his heart beating faster. “Um, yeah, okay. Yeah.”
Peter’s smile grows.
Smug fucker.
 
***
 
This is not a good idea.
This is probably the worst idea in the history of the world, because Derek
likes Stiles, okay? Sure, he’s emotionally stunted enough that the only way
he’s ever been able to show it is by growling and smacking him into things—the
werewolf equivalent of pulling a girl’s braids—but he really likes Stiles. And
no. Just no. He is not going to do anything to Stiles when:
a.     Stiles is still sick.
b.     Stiles is still a few weeks shy of eighteen.
c.     Peter is involved.
d.     All of the above. But mostly c. Actually, c times infinity.
 
“Peter,” he growls. “No.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Derek,” Peter says, rolling his eyes. “Are you seriously
going to tell me you don’t want a piece of this?”
A piece?
No, Derek wants the whole damn thing, all right? And he doesn’t want to share.
Derek’s just about to open his mouth to tell him that when Stiles twists his
head around, and he looks so fucking hopeful that in this moment he could ask
Derek to rip his own heart out of his chest and present it to him on a silver
platter and Derek’s not sure he could refuse.
He resists the urge to growl and pull Stiles away from Peter. “Are you sure?”
he asks, keeping his voice soft.
Stiles jerks his head in a nod, and squirms in a way that reminds Derek that
his erection is pressing up against his perfect, naked, perfectly naked ass.
“Yeah.”
Yep. Derek would rip his still-beating heart right out of his own chest.
Of course, he’s always had terrible judgment when it comes to getting laid.
 
***
 
Peter smiles as Derek folds like a cheap suit. And, under the weight of
Stiles’s wide-eyed hopefulness, who could blame him? Peter’s certainly not
enough of an asshole to refuse the kid, is he? It would be a downright cruelty
to deny him. No, Peter’s being the picture of selfless generosity and charity,
offering Stiles his dick. He’s Mother Fucking Teresa right now.
“Come on, princess,” he murmurs. “Give me a kiss.”
Stiles smells of sudden anxiety. Peter wonder if it’s because this is his first
kiss, although that seems ridiculous. If he’d been one of Stiles’s peers, he
would have been all over that long before now, but there’s no accounting for
the peculiar taste of teenagers, and Stiles is, according to those in the know,
something of a loser, or a nerd, or whatever. Oh well, their loss.
Or maybe—Stiles’s breath hitches as Peter presses their lips together—his
anxiety is from another source altogether. Maybe it’s because Peter is taking
this kiss, when Stiles had wanted it to be Derek.
Well, Peter’s quite capable of sharing.
He keeps the kiss soft and gentle and, when he’s done, takes Stiles’s jaw and
angles his head so that Derek can reach him too.
Stiles squirms and moans, his dick jabbing into Peter when Derek kisses him.
When they pull apart, they both look a little shell-shocked. Both wide-eyed and
breathless.
Ah, young love.
Aren’t they lucky he was here to apply enough gentle pressure to make that
happen for them?
Peter’s smile grows.
Mother Fucking Teresa.
“Derek,” he says, but he keeps his gaze fixed on Stiles, “in the pocket of my
jeans you’ll find some lube. Go and fetch it.”
Stiles’s tongue flicks out to dampen his bottom lip. “You carry lube around
with you?”
“It pays to be prepared,” Peter tells him.
Actually, Peter had been intending on heading to The Jungle after what he’d
expected would be a simple wendigo hunt the night before. There’s a bartender
there Peter’s hooked up with in the past but, frankly, he’s been getting a
little clingy. Seriously. Put your dick in a guy a few times, and suddenly he
wants your phone number? What the hell is that about?
The mattress dips as Derek rolls out of bed.
Peter’s hears the shift in Stiles’s breathing. He’s nervous again. Can’t have
that.
Peter kisses him, more forcefully this time, and seals the deal by reaching
down between them to grip Stiles’s erection. Stiles jerks, and gives a high-
pitched whimper that’s music to Peter’s ears.
“Peter.” His breath is hot against Peter’s lips. “Peter, Jesus, I—”
Peter leans back in and tugs Stiles’s earlobe with his teeth, sending a full-
body shudder through him. “I want you to suck me off,” he says in a low voice,
“while Derek fucks you.”
“Oh my god,” Stiles whispers, and Peter tightens his grip on his dick. Stiles
rocks his hips back and forth urgently. “Oh my god.”
Peter takes that as a yes.
 
***
 
This is crazy.
This entire situation is crazy, and Stiles is crazy too. And, if he’s crazy,
it’s probably good that he’s not in charge, right? Except apparently Peter is
in charge, and Peter is actually crazy. Or was. Okay, yeah, he probably still
is. It’s not that long ago that he was a homicidal maniac. That’s something
that just doesn’t go away, Stiles guesses. Still, he lets Peter flip the
blankets off them and arrange him so that— Oh fuck. So that Stiles in on his
hands and knees and Peter’s kneeling on the bed in front of him.
There is suddenly a lot of skin on display.
And muscle.
And other things.
Stiles blinks, and yeah, that’s Peter Hale’s dick waving in front of his face,
half-mast.
This would be an excellent time to freak out.
What does Stiles do instead?
Licks his fucking lips.
Then, his face burning, he makes the mistake of looking up at Peter’s face.
Peter’s smirking. Of course he is.
“That’s it, princess,” he says, his smirk cranking up a notch into an actual
smile. He curls his fingers around his dick and juts his pelvis forward. “Show
me how much you want it.”
Stiles is pretty sure he’s going to hell. His face still burning—Derek’s
somewhere behind him, possibly even staring at his ass—he ducks his head and
opens his mouth a little. Peter paints his lips with precum, and it’s warm, and
bitter, and it tastes pretty much how Stiles always figured a dick would taste.
What? He’s checked a few times, when he jerks off, for science. What he never
expected was the jolt of lust that thrills through him just by having someone’s
thick, heavy dick bumping against his tingling lips. Stiles’s own dick is so
hard it almost hurts. He opens his mouth wider and sucks the head of Peter’s
dick in. Lets the taste of it burst over his tongue.
Peter tangles his free hand loosely in Stiles’s hair. “That’s it, Stiles.
That’s it. So good.”
A shiver runs through Stiles at the praise.
He closes his eyes and sucks harder.
 
***
 
Derek can’t move.
He’s standing there, staring, as Stiles blows Peter. Fairly inexpertly, if
Derek’s any judge, but somehow that just makes it hotter. And Peter doesn’t
seem to mind. His eyes are half closed and there’s a smile on his face, and he
looks so fucking smug that Derek kind of wants to punch him in the head. He
will too, if Peter pushes Stiles in any way. Tries to gag him on his dick or
something. Because Derek wouldn’t put that past him.
Peter’s jeans fall from his numb fingers to the floor.
He’s got the lube.
He’s got the lube, and he’s staring at Stiles’s ass. Really, this is a two part
jigsaw puzzle but Derek’s still having trouble putting the pieces together.
Because Stiles’s ass is as fucking amazing as Derek’s always imagined it would
be. He’s stared at that ass a lot before, but it’s usually been encased in
jeans and hidden under several layers of baggy shirts as well. Except for
lacrosse days. Derek really does love lacrosse days. But now, for the first
time, he’s seeing it in the literal flesh.
He’s seeing everything.
Stiles is slim, but he’s not scrawny. He always jokes he is, but he’s not. He’s
got the long, lean lines of a runner. He’s got muscles. He’s got swathes of
pale skin dotted with moles. He’s got scars, too. It’s the scars that draw
Derek closer. He wants to trace them with his fingers and put his mouth on
them, in a silent apology for every single one.
A visible shudder runs through Stiles as Derek climbs back onto the bed. When
Derek reaches out and touches a faint white scar on his hip, Stiles jerks and
moans around Peter’s dick.
“Come on,” Peter says in a low voice, and Derek isn’t sure which one of them
he’s talking to.
Derek slides his fingers down Stiles’s spine as Peter feeds him another inch of
his dick.
Stiles’s skin is warm. Derek trails his fingers from his spine to the cleft of
his ass. Then, his hands shaking, he tears the lube open and drizzles some onto
his fingers. Stiles flinches when Derek touches his hole, and his heartbeat
races.
“Is this okay?” Derek asks him, his voice rasping.
“Mmm!” Stiles pulls away from Peter. “Yes!”
Peter strokes his cheek, and then angles his head back down toward his dick.
Stiles latches back on eagerly.
Derek circles his tight rim before pushing a finger inside slowly. Stiles
clenches down reflexively, and Derek’s suddenly so hard he’s certain he’ll come
before he even gets his dick inside that hot, tight body.
He closes his eyes and draws a deep breath. Holds it.
He can’t rush things. He wants Stiles to enjoy this.
He needs to be slow, to be patient.
Which is a pretty tall order once he slides his finger deep enough to crook it
and hit Stiles’s prostate. Stiles jerks like Derek’s put a few thousand volts
through him—a sensation Derek is unfortunately familiar with—and gags when he
accidentally takes too much of Peter’s dick down his throat.
Peter moans. His fingers tighten in Stiles’s hair, but he makes no move to
force him to take more. Derek’s almost impressed at his self-control. Or he
would be, if he could think about anything other than the way Stiles is
clenching around his finger, and starting to rock back and forth.
One finger becomes two, become three, and Stiles is breathing heavily and
making small, urgent noises as he pushes back onto Derek’s hand.
“Come on, Derek,” Peter says, his voice straining. “Some of us don’t have all
day.”
Derek swallows around the sudden tightness in his throat, and withdraws his
fingers. He holds his dick in one hand, and curls the fingers of his other hand
over Stiles’s hip. Holds them both steady when, at last, he pushes in.
Stiles keens around Peter’s dick. The sound is thin and high-pitched, and Derek
freezes.
“No, no,” Peter says, pulling back. “Are you good, Stiles? You need to tell us
you’re good.”
“‘m’good,” Stiles manages, his voice wrecked. “Oh, Jesus, Der. Keep going!”
Derek thinks he probably imagines the relief he sees reflected in Peter’s gaze.
Since when does Peter give a fuck about anyone apart from himself?
“Good boy. Such a good boy.” Peter rubs his thumb against Stiles’s swollen
lips. “Give him what he wants, Derek.”
Derek pushes in deeper, and Stiles opens up around him. It’s incredible. Beyond
incredible. It’s everything he ever imagined, and more.
“Derek.” Stiles is trembling. “God, Derek!”
Derek leans over him and presses his mouth to his shoulder. “Stiles.”
Stiles shivers underneath him.
 
***
 
Things are going exceedingly well, even if Peter does say so himself. Really,
the moment they’re done here, Peter’s going to give himself a well-deserved pat
on the back. Stiles is incredible. A little unpracticed, a little clumsy, but
enthusiasm like his can’t be taught. The kid is a natural, and Peter deserves a
medal for encouraging him to divest himself of that pesky virginity. Or at
least a gift certificate or something from Derek. Because he has no doubt
whatsoever that Derek’s the one who’s really going to benefit from Stiles’s
personal growth. As long as he doesn’t open his mouth and say the wrong thing
and completely fuck everything up. Which, knowing Derek, is entirely possible.
Peter strokes Stiles’s wet lips while he adjusts himself to Derek’s rhythm and
murmurs enough gentle praise to soothe the trace of the worried frown off his
forehead. He’s not hurting—Peter can tell that from his heartbeat and his
scent—but he’s definitely feeling it, and his inexperience is still working
against him at this point. He’s not in pain, but he’s undoubtedly worried that
he might be, any second now. Over thinkers. What can Peter do except gentle him
through these first fraught minutes until he’s happy to get his mouth around
his dick again?
See? Peter’s a saint.
It doesn’t take long for Stiles to start rocking into Derek’s thrusts. His
mouth goes slack and his lovely eyes glaze over. Peter grins at him, and
presents him with his dick again. Stiles laps at the head, and sucks it back
in.
Incredible.
Peter doesn’t push. He comes up against Stiles’s gag reflex once, then twice,
and Derek’s low growl warns him not to force it. Really, Derek’s like a
protective mother hen instead of a wolf. He’s a hopeless case, but Peter’s a
saint and a gentleman, so he cedes to his nephew’s authority. Peter’s known,
probably since before Derek even did, that Derek’s wolf has claimed Stiles. He
respects that, and it’s not as though he needs Stiles to deep throat him in
order to get off. Not at all. He’s got his hand wrapped around his shaft,
stroking it, and leaving the rest for Stiles to take care of. And Stiles is
taking care of things admirably. His mouth is hot and warm, and sweet Jesus,
the suction. Peter’s skin prickles with goose bumps, and pleasure is coiling
tight in his belly and his balls.
He idly wonders whether to come in Stiles’s mouth or on his face.
Stiles would look fucking wrecked with Peter’s cum all over his pretty face.
So maybe Peter’s not really a gentleman about everything.
 
***
 
What is his life, even?
He’s sucking Peter Hale’s dick, and Derek Hale is fucking him.
Who the hell is he?
Stiles really, really doesn’t care, because it feels so good.
This is awesome. Stiles doesn’t even have words for how awesome this is. He’s
not even touching his dick, and he’s ready to come. This is better than any
dirty fantasy he’s ever had. This is better than fucking Christmas.
He’s moaning Derek name, and how filthy and wrong is it that it’s muffled on
Peter’s dick?
Holy fucking hell.
Whatever is happening here, however he got to this point, Stiles just wants it
to last forever.
 
***
 
Derek thrusts, feeling Stiles clench and push back against him. He smells so
good: arousal and sweat and heady desperation. He’s beautiful. So beautiful.
 
***
 
The face. Definitely the face.
Peter pulls out as he feels himself start to come. His dick slips out of
Stiles’s mouth with an obscene pop, and then he’s spurting thin ropes of cum
over Stiles’s face. Stiles is wide-eyed and open mouthed, panting. He blinks as
a glob of cum slides down his cheek and catches on the corner of his mouth. His
tongue darts out to scoop it up.
Gorgeous.
Peter sprawls back and tries to catch his breath.
Just gorgeous.
 
***
 
Derek growls. He slides his arms under Stiles’s, and leans back, drawing Stiles
with him. The sudden shift changes the angle of penetration, and they both
gasp. Derek hugs Stiles tight to his chest, rolling his hips. Stiles shudders
and moans.
Peter, narrow-eyed, shifts forward. He licks his palm, and reaches down to wrap
his fingers around Stiles’s dick.
Derek growls again, possessive, but allows it.
Stiles cries out as Peter starts to jerk him off. The scent of his arousal, and
of Peter's cum, is sharp in the air. Derek feels his fangs start to drop.
“Not his first time, nephew,” Peter says in a low tone. His eyes flash.
Derek huffs a breath against the juncture of Stiles’s throat and shoulder, but
he knows Peter’s right.
“Wh-what?” Stiles manages.
“He wants to knot you,” Peter says.
“Th-that’s a thing?” Stiles tightens around Derek’s dick. “Holy shit!”
“Oh, princess,” Peter tells him with a grin, “you have so much to learn about
wolves. But all in good time, hmm?”
Stiles moans as Peter continues to jerk him off. He swivels his hips, trying to
urge Peter to go faster, to match Derek’s rhythm. Peter’s smile says he knows
exactly what he wants, but Peter’s an asshole and refuses to give him what he
needs. He’s obviously having too much fun keeping Stiles on edge.
An asshole or a genius, Derek’s not sure.
Probably both.
Derek licks a line up Stiles’s throat, feeling his pulse beat fast against his
tongue. He’s close. They both are.
“Peter,” he growls. “Make him come.”
 
***
 
Stiles screams when he comes, he thinks.
He possibly even passes out.
All he knows is that there’s suddenly cum everywhere, and at least some of it
is his, and it should be disgusting, but he feels too good to be disgusted. And
way too fucking tired.
Everything is sticky and tingly and awesome.
Stiles wants that on his headstone.
He tries to tell Derek that, but Derek only huffs what might be a laugh against
his throat, and then he’s rolling them over so that they’re lying down again
and he’s cuddling Stiles against his chest.
He’s a cuddler.
Could Stiles’s day get any more awesome?
They kiss lazily, and Stiles drifts off to sleep.
 
***
 
Derek lies awake listening to Stiles’s heartbeat, and to Peter humming as he
dresses.
Oh god.
What the hell just happened?
And what the hell happens next?
“Don’t,” Peter says in a quiet, amused tone.
Derek twists his head to glare at him. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t piss all over the afterglow,” Peter says, then purses his mouth
thoughtfully. “Unless that’s something you’re into. In which case, piss away.”
Derek curls his lip.
Peter raises his brows. “Don’t over think it, Derek. You want him, and he wants
you. It literally could not be simpler.”
“And where are you in this equation?” Derek asks, hating himself for the
resentment against Peter that’s already growing inside him.
“Well, I wouldn’t refuse a repeat performance,” Peter says. “But that’s up to
both of you. Until then, I’ll be a perfect gentleman.”
Derek really doesn’t believe that. Not for a second.
Peter fishes his cell phone out of his pocket. “In the meantime, I’ll leave you
two alone and see how far I have to walk to get a signal.”
Derek nods curtly, and tightens his grip on Stiles. Stiles snuffles like a
little animal when he sleeps. It’s sort of adorable.
“I’m serious, Derek,” Peter says. “Don’t over think this. This could be good
for you.”
Derek doesn’t really have an answer for that.
 
***
 
Peter whistles to himself as he heads toward the ruined remains of the car.
Not that he needs to get that far to get a signal.
Really, if Derek hadn’t been panicking last night, he would have thought to
check his own phone, and seen that they had service this whole time.
But where would the fun have been in that?
Okay, maybe Peter’s not such a saint after all.
But he gets the job done.
 
 
 
 
 
 
***** Chapter 2 *****
Peter has created a monster.
Ever since he helped little Stiles Stilinski shed his inhibitions in the most
interesting ways back at that cabin in the woods, the boy has been changed.
Really, all it took was a dick in his mouth and the encouragement to take
another one up the ass, and it’s like the dull little caterpillar has broken
out of its plaid chrysalis and transformed into a magical slutty butterfly.
Peter couldn’t be more proud.
He really couldn’t.
Stiles is happy, which means that Derek should be happy, so why then is Derek
still shooting him death stares? Habit?
Peter ponders it during a pack meeting in late January.
It’s been a little over a month since the cabin, and Peter’s been a perfect
gentleman. He bowed out of the situation as soon as it became apparent that
Stiles and Derek only had eyes for each other. Peter’s not bitter about it. In
fact, he’d known when he’d orchestrated the entire thing—well, not the entire
thing. Even Peter can’t manipulate someone into getting hypothermia—that he’d
have to hightail it out of there as soon as they were done, before Derek got
all possessive and murdery. Which is exactly what he’d done, so why the death
stares from Derek now?
And why is Stiles looking at him thoughtfully and chewing his lip, as though
Peter just might be the solution to some difficult problem he’s been wrestling
with?
Peter can safely say that he’s never been the solution to anyone’s problems.
Cause, yes.
Solution, no.
Peter leans back in his chair and taps his fingers on his knee. He tunes out
the histrionic teenagers—really, Derek should consider upgrading the pack to
actual adults—and ponders.
Peter has always been very good at reading people, and at navigating the
shifting sands of duplicity and changing alliances. Really, co-ordinating a
threesome involving himself, his as-yet-undiagnosed-with-anger-issues nephew,
and the awkward virginal teenage boy his nephew was head over heels in love
with had been child’s play to someone like Peter Hale.
Except he’s missing something.
Frankly, Stiles should blush as bright as a fire hydrant whenever Peter’s stare
lingers on his mouth.
And frankly, Derek should be much more relaxed now he’s getting laid regularly,
and this time not by a homicidal bitch from hell. The poor boy has a type, and
he should be thankful Peter steered him away from it with Stiles.
Except Stiles isn’t blushing, and Derek isn’t relaxed.
So what is Peter missing?
It occurs to him when he’s watching Scott McCall try and lace his sneakers at
the end of the night. One of the laces is knotted, and won’t pull through.
Stiles glares at Scott’s laces like they’re personally offending him, and
that’s when Peter realizes. Oh, he appears as bored and unaffected as always,
but on the inside he’s suddenly dying with laughter.
It’s all so suddenly clear.
And it’s hilarious.
 
***
 
Peter stays to help with the dishes.
Derek is naturally suspicious. Well, he’s suspicious of Peter at the best of
times, but when Peter actually volunteers to help with something? That just
cranks the dial from baseline suspicion all the way up to legitimate, healthy
paranoia.
Peter hums a little as he scrubs the dishes, an irritatingly jaunty tune that
makes Derek want to punch him in the head.
The list of things that make Derek want to punch Peter is the head is ever-
expanding, actually. Derek’s been updating it since he was about five. It could
fill the Library of Congress by now.
Stiles is hanging around out by the couch. Derek can hear him flicking through
his frankly scant DVD collection.
Peter scrubs intently at a speck on a plate, and smirks. It’s that smirk that
finally breaks Derek’s composure.
“What?” he growls.
Peter looks innocent. “Excuse me?”
“What are you doing?” Derek demands in a low voice.
“Well, it’s cheese, Derek. If you don’t get it off right away, it’ll set.”
Derek rolls his eyes.
“Actually,” Peter says, “I stayed behind because I hoped we could have a little
talk.”
“A little talk about what?”
Peter’s gaze is too knowing. Derek hates that. “A little talk about your little
problem with Stiles.”
Derek turns his head sharply, suddenly afraid that Stiles can hear them. He
can’t though. He’s still flicking through the DVDs. His heartbeat’s still as
steady as it’s been all night, even though his scent is tinged with a little
anxiety. Derek hates that as well. He knows he’s the reason for Stiles’s
anxiety. He knows Stiles is afraid he’s done something wrong, just because
Derek can’t...
It’s Peter’s damn fault for telling him about knotting in the first place.
Peter sets the plate in the drying rack and then leans back against the
counter. He folds his arms over his chest. “You can either growl at me and
threaten to rip my throat out, or you can actually let me give you the benefit
of my experience here. Your choice.”
Derek really, really wants to pick the first option. Instead, he deflates a
little. “I really don’t want to talk about this with you.”
“I understand,” Peter says, and he actually sounds sincere. Derek doesn’t trust
it for a second. “But you don’t have many other options when it comes to asking
advice from older wolves who’ve probably been exactly where you are and
struggled with exactly the same... issues.”
Derek bristles. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he lies.
Peter sighs. “Really? How about this? You want to knot Stiles, and he wants you
to do it, but you’re terrified you’re going to hurt him. Is that about the sum
of it?”
Oh god.
It’s worse than Derek’s ever imagined.
Not only is Peter a lying, manipulative sociopathic asshole of the highest
order, he’s also a mindreader.
Deny! Deny everything!
Except Derek opens his mouth and the words don’t come. A growl comes, but it’s
not mean and threatening. It’s kind of pathetic.
Peter sighs again. “Oh dear.”
Derek wants to crawl away and die now, please, and preserve any remaining
dignity he’s got. Which is none, obviously.
“Well,” Peter says. “if you’re ever ready to discuss this, you know where to
find me.”
Then, pausing only to give Derek a gentle pat on the shoulder and a
condescending smile, he leaves the kitchen.
 
***
 
Peter’s almost at the door when Stiles realises he’s leaving.
“Hey,” he says, trying for a casual tone.
Hey? Jesus. Except how are you supposed to greet the guy you lost your
virginity to in an unexpected but totally hot as fuck threesome? Stiles is
pretty sure there’s no etiquette guide in the world that can help him with
this.
Peter turns, and smiles. “Stiles.”
It’s so unfair that Peter’s smile goes straight to his dick the way it does.
Stiles clears his throat. “Are you taking off?”
“Mmm.” Peter’s smile inches up a few degrees. “I tried to have a man to man
talk with Derek, and I think I made him uncomfortable.”
“Oh,” says Stiles. He chews his lip for a second. He really shouldn’t ask, but
he just can’t help himself. Cat, meet curiosity. “A man to man talk about
what?”
Peter makes some sort of vague gesture. “Oh, you know. Things.”
Jesus. It’s ridiculous. He knows Peter’s just reeling him in, and the only way
to avoid being caught is to ignore the obvious capital-B Bait, but for all that
he’s smart, sometimes Stiles is dumb as shit. Because pretty much the whole
world knows the best way to engage Stiles is to hint that something is none of
his business.
“Is it about me?” Stiles demands.
Peter looks just as vague. “Well, I suppose, in a manner of speaking...”
“Cut the crap, Peter,” Stiles says, folding his arms over his chest. “If it’s
about me, then I deserve to know.”
“You do,” Peter says, far too agreeably. “Although it’s not about you, per se.
It’s more about Derek and his issues with certain aspects of intimacy.”
Stiles’s breath catches.
That can only mean one thing.
Knotting.
They were talking about knotting?
Because ever since Peter mentioned it, Stiles hasn’t been able to get it out of
his head. He’s gotten kind of obsessed about it, like little-kid levels of
obsession, which is kind of a weird comparison, but hey. It’s just like when he
was five and his mom bought candy at the grocery store, and then put it out of
his reach when they got home.
“No, sweetheart, that’s for later.”
Later? Fuck later. It was right there, and he wanted it, and obviously his mom
knew he was going to take it anyway, or otherwise she wouldn’t have let him see
the packet. Right?
Stiles’s first trip to the hospital was when he’d crashed to the floor after
climbing to get that candy, and hit the corner of the kitchen counter on the
way down. He counted it as a win. He got his candy. He also got four stitches
and a concussion, but hey, candy. Stiles learned at a very early age that
stubbornness and a reckless disregard for his own safety get him all the
treats.
He takes the bait.
Of course he does.
“Was it about why won’t Derek knot me?”
Stiles gets the faintest flash of satisfaction from seeing the look on Peter’s
face that he just jumped right on in, before the sudden crash of pots and pans
from inside the kitchen makes him realize that Peter’s not the only one
surprised by the question.
Werewolf hearing.
Oh shit.
 
***
 
Peter folds his arms over his chest as Derek comes tearing out of the kitchen
like a dervish.
“No!” Derek says, jabbing a finger in Peter’s direction. Then he turns around
to Stiles. “And no!”
Stiles huffs. “I was just asking!”
“He was just asking,” Peter agrees, trying, and failing, to contain his smirk.
“I am not having this discussion with you, Peter!” Derek snarls.
“Have it with me then,” Stiles says, jutting out his chin.
Oh, Peter likes Stiles. The boy never backs down from a challenge, even when he
should. Humans are so fragile and squishy. Stiles has all the attitude of a
much hardier creature. It’s either ambitious or deluded. Whatever it is, Peter
approves.
Derek glowers.
“Look,” Stiles says. “Peter knows what he’s talking about, right? Right?”
“Right.” Derek grunts, and Peter almost laughs at what that must have cost him
to admit out loud.
“Okay.” Stiles stands up from the couch and crosses to Derek. Twines their
fingers together and then lifts Derek’s hand so he can brush his mouth against
their knuckles. “So, so let’s just listen to him. What harm can listening do?”
Peter’s reminded of a story about a woman and a talkative snake, but he decides
not to mention it.
Derek looks like he’s seriously considering flinging himself out a window.
“Fine,” he says at last. “We’ll listen.”
Stiles looks at Peter expectantly.
“Well,” Peter says. “It’s really quite simple. If knotting is something you
both want to experience, then it would be helpful to have someone there who
understands the process and can talk you through it.”
“Like, like a mentor?” Stiles asks, his teeth worrying his bottom lip.
“Yes,” Peter says. “Someone to be there with a clearer head, to make sure it’s
done right. To make sure it’s good for both of you.”
Derek doesn’t say anything, but Peter knows he’s nailed it. Derek’s greatest
fear is that he’ll hurt Stiles too, just like he’s hurt everyone he ever cared
about. Really, it’s a broad target. Peter could hit it with his eyes closed and
one hand tied behind his back.
Stiles frowns a little. “That, um, that sounds...reasonable? Derek?”
When Derek doesn’t answer straight away, Peter knows he’s won.
“Well,” he says with what he hopes is an encouraging smile. “Shall we take this
discussion somewhere more comfortable?”
Really, Peter thinks as he follows them toward the spiral staircase that leads
up toward Derek’s room, they’re no challenge at all.
 
***
 
Derek would never admit it, not even to himself, but there’s something
strangely empowering about watching another man undress Stiles. Maybe it’s the
way that Stiles pinks up with a blush, and keeps glancing over at Derek looking
for silent assurance that this is okay. He’s suddenly shy, his scent sharp with
anxiety, and it’s Derek his gaze is seeking. Peter might be the one touching
him, but Derek knows that Stiles is totally focussed on him.
Derek sits on the edge of his bed and tugs his t-shirt off. His dick is already
hard, pressing up painfully against the seam in his jeans.
Peter unwraps Stiles like he’s a Christmas present. His flannel shirt goes
first, sliding off his shoulders and landing in a pool of red plaid behind him.
Stiles swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Derek can hear his heartbeat
quicken.
Peter smiles at Stiles, reaching down to take the hem of his t-shirt in his
fingers. Stiles looks to Derek again, and Derek nods. Stiles draws a shaking
breath—loud in the laden silence of the bedroom—and lifts his arms so Peter can
draw his shirt over his head.
Peter moves around behind him.
Derek fights the urge to growl as Peter puts his hands on Stiles’s hips. Then
Peter turns him slightly so he’s facing Derek, and Derek can’t help think of a
beta presenting a gift to his alpha. Some fresh kill, warm and sweet. He can
see Stiles’s chest rising and falling rapidly. Can see Stiles’s erection
pushing against his jeans.
Peter leans in behind him. “Shoes, princess.”
Stiles blinks, as though he doesn’t quite know what Peter means. Then he seems
to jerk awake, toeing off his old Converse. He’s wearing the Batman socks Derek
bought him. When he leans down to tug them off, his hands are shaking.
Peter runs a hand down his bare spine, and Derek swallows down a growl.
Stiles straightens up again. His wide gaze catches Derek’s.
Derek nods at him slightly, and Stiles’s scent loses some of its sour
sharpness. He closes his eyes briefly as Peter pops the button on his jeans,
but opens them again and holds Derek’s gaze.
The zip rasps as Peter tugs it slowly open. Then Stiles’s jeans and boxer
briefs are in a tangle around his ankles. Stiles moves his hands to cover
himself, but Peter catches his wrists.
“No need for modesty, sweetheart,” he purrs low in Stiles’s ear. “Show Derek
what a lucky man he is.”
Stiles flushes, and he looks so shy and beautiful that Derek’s breath catches.
Derek stands, quickly divesting himself of his own jeans and underwear. Then he
climbs onto the bed, shifting up so that he’s sitting with his back against the
headboard.
“Stiles,” he says. “Come here.”
Stiles tugs free of Peter, and then he’s in Derek’s arms. They’re kissing,
bodies pressed together, and Stiles is warm and shivering and so very, very
ready for this. Derek can’t wait to get his dick in him. Can’t wait to hear him
moan and writhe as he’s spread with his knot. There’s a part of Derek that
wants to make him scream.
 
***
 
Stiles hasn’t been doing this with Derek enough that he’s totally relaxed about
all this nudity and erections and whatnot. He’s new at this, okay? He’s an
enthusiastic beginner rather than an expert, for sure. But he’s had sex with
Derek enough to know that this time already feels different, and it’s not just
Peter being here that’s throwing the dynamic off. Derek’s kisses are a little
rougher than usual. His fingers, when they dig into Stiles’s hips, are tipped
with claws. And when they kiss, he’s sure there’s a hint of fangs. Derek’s not
in his shift, but it’s like it’s waiting right there under the surface of his
skin. He seems more like a wolf now than he has any other time they’ve done
this.
“Der?” he whispers as he leans in for another kiss.
Derek’s eyes are alpha red.
Stiles gasps.
 
***
 
Peter smirks as Stiles has his Little Red moment. Oh my, what big teeth you
have, Derek. Seriously, the boy’s been running for wolves for years now, and
fucking one for weeks, and now he’s suddenly remembered he’s prey? How cute.
“It’s all right,” Peter says, his tone calm. “Derek?”
Derek shakes his head as though to clear it, his eyes returning to their usual
color.
Peter doesn’t regret his nephew’s little lapse at all. Not when it will so
helpfully sell his case for him. Peter Hale, friendly knotting mentor. He
should get that on business cards.
He undresses, collects the lube from Derek’s bedside drawer, then kneels on the
end of the bed.
Stiles makes a pretty picture for him, his pale skin dotted with moles. He’s
clinging to Derek still, and a shiver runs through him as Peter curls his
fingers gently around his ankle.
“Have to get you ready, princess,” Peter says, keeping his voice low.
Stiles nods and swallows, his throat clicking. The scent of his nervousness is
as sharp as citrus. He turns in Derek’s embrace, hiding his face in the crook
of Derek’s neck. Derek rubs small circles on his back.
Peter encourages Stiles to get his knees under himself, to raise himself up so
that Peter can reach that delectable ass.
Jesus. That ass. Peter wants to spank it, just to watch the muscles jump. And
then he wants to bite it, just to hear Stiles moan. He wants to wreck it. He
settles for sliding his palms gently over the smooth, warm flesh, and slipping
a finger into the crease. Stiles shivers and gasps.
“Derek,” Peter says. “This may be an awkward time to bring it up, but I really
want to put my dick in your boyfriend.”
“Wh-what!” Stiles squeaks.
Derek growls and hauls him closer.
Peter shows him his palms. “I’m just being honest. And, really, fingers, dick,
what’s the difference?”
“He’s mine,” Derek growls.
“Actually,” Peter says mildly, “he’s his. If you can’t get control of that
possessive side of the beast then, trust me, this evening will not go well.”
Stiles squirms, twisting so that he can glare at Peter. “What do you mean?”
“A knot isn’t a fun little plaything, Stiles,” Peter tells him. “The purpose of
it in dogs is to literally keep a bitch from escaping. It’s, well, it’s really
quite brutal. You need to be totally relaxed, and Derek needs to be gentle and
not rut into you like some crazed animal. Otherwise, this is only going to end
in tears. Tears, and possibly bloodshed.”
“Oh, shit,” Stiles whispers, his heart rate ratcheting up. “Are you serious?”
“Completely,” Peter says.
Derek doesn’t contradict him. He remembers that much from The Talk with his
parents then. Knotting is a wolf thing, sure, but even then it needs to be done
with a little care. And Stiles does not have the constitution of a wolf. Derek
can’t afford to be as rough with him as his more bestial side might want. And,
when the knot comes out, that’ll be the side of him in charge. So it’s
absolutely the truth when Peter says that Derek needs to tone down the
possessive bullshit. The hint that he overcome his jealousy by letting Peter
fuck Stiles too? Well, it’s a little unorthodox, but Peter has always been a
creative thinker.
“I can control the wolf!” Derek snarls. The accompanying growl does him no
favors.
“Are you sure, Derek?” Peter asks mildly. “More to the point, are you, sure.
Stiles?”
The doubt in Stiles’s eyes is a beautiful, beautiful thing. “I don’t...” He
swallows and lifts his gaze to Derek. “Der?”
“I would never hurt you,” Derek says, and cups Stiles’s cheek.
“Intentionally,” Peter says. “You would never hurt him intentionally.”
He lets the weight of that word sink in.
And waits.
 
***
 
“I don’t want to hurt you,” Derek whispers, cradling Stiles’s head in his
hands. Maybe they should just put a stop to this right now. If Stiles isn’t
comfortable, then they’ll stop. They’ll pretend it never happened.
“You won’t,” Stiles whispers. “You won’t.”
Derek loves that Stiles is so trusting, even though he knows that trust is
misplaced. “Stiles...”
Stiles swallows. “If Peter says... I mean, if it’s okay, he could, we could...
If this is the way we have to.” He squeezes his eyes shut. “I am yours though.”
“I know.” Derek kisses him. “I know you are.”
“Okay.” Stiles’s face hardens in determination. He keeps his gaze on Derek. “Do
it, Peter.”
 
***
 
Last time they did this, Peter stayed away from Stiles’s ass. This time, he
slides a lubed finger into that tight heat, twisting it and crooking it until
Stiles moans and shudders. Jesus. If Peter had known the boy was this tight,
maybe he wouldn’t have so generously pushed him toward his nephew. Still,
that’s a hollow fantasy. Stiles probably likes to cuddle or something after
sex. Or, worse, talk. Peter doesn’t need that kind of hassle. He likes to fuck
and leave, and he happens to be an expert at both.
“That’s it, princess,” he says, withdrawing his finger and then pushing two
back in. “Making you ready for your alpha’s knot. You’re going to love it.”
He’s careful to couch everything in terms of knotting, and of Derek. Fucking
Stiles won’t ever be something he brags about, not even in this room.
Especially not in this room. The last thing Peter wants is for Derek to rip his
throat out. He’s done it before, and it’s not one of Peter’s most fond
memories. So today he’ll play the helpful beta, just getting Stiles ready for
the main event. Peter’s sense of self-preservation far outweighs his ego.
Stiles shivers and writhes as Peter pegs his prostate again, and Peter
suppresses a groan. Jesus, he needs to get his dick inside him.
“Okay, sweetheart,” he says, taking his dick in his hand and rubbing it against
Stiles’s wet hole. “Let’s get you properly stretched out for Derek’s knot.”
Stiles shudders.
 
***
 
Fingers, dick, what’s the difference?
Stiles gasps when Peter replaces three of his fingers with the huge, hot head
of his dick and slowly pushes in. The difference is fucking seismic, and for a
second Stiles is terrified this is a horrible mistake, and what if Derek will
hate him for it? What if he’ll hate himself? It just feels so fucking good
though, as Peter slides slowly inside him.
Stiles grips Derek’s shoulders tightly. “Derek?”
Derek’s not looking at Peter. His gaze is fixed on Stiles’s face, and there is
something so incredibly fucking tender about his expression that Stiles feels
all his fears shatter like glass.
“Der,” Stiles whispers, shuddering as the head of Peter’s dick brushes his
prostate.
“I’m opening him for you, Derek,” Peter groans from somewhere behind him. “He’s
too tight to take a knot right now, but he’ll be ready soon.”
Derek kisses him gently. “So beautiful.”
Stiles clenches around Peter’s dick. “God, Derek!”
Peter curls his fingers around his hips and begins to thrust. His rhythm is
slow and smooth at first, and Stiles arches his back and pushes back to meet
each thrust. His dick is hard, bobbing heavily between his spread legs, and his
balls are already drawn up tight. God, it’s so good. It’s different to Derek.
Derek’s never fucked him like this, except for the time in the cabin. Derek
likes Stiles on his back underneath him, or riding him so they can kiss. Now,
his knees are getting a little sore from taking his weight, and Peter’s.
Doesn’t mean it’s not blowing his goddamn mind though.
Derek kisses him, and Stiles almost wants to laugh.
Derek’s kiss is rougher than usual, a little more desperate, and Stiles shivers
as Derek nips and then tugs at his bottom lip. He moans and gives himself to
the kiss, to Derek, to every bit of pleasure that’s shooting through his body,
setting his nerves on fire and coiling tight in his belly. He feels so good. So
exposed, and at the same time so loved. This might be weird and this might be
filthy, and okay, sure, so he’s fucking himself back onto Peter’s dick while
he’s kissing Derek, but it’s good. This isn’t even about Peter. Peter who? All
Stiles can see is Derek. Derek is everything in this moment, and Stiles knows
that he’s everything to Derek as well.
It’s like Peter—Peter fucking Hale, the guy with his dick in Stiles’s ass—isn’t
even in the same universe.
So weird.
And so fucking hot.
“Stiles,” Derek whispers. His breath is hot against Stiles’s face. His eyes are
alpha red again, but this time Stiles doesn’t flinch back. “You’re incredible.”
Stiles shivers as Peter’s dick hits his prostate again. “Derek. Der.”
Peter grunts, and grips Stiles’s hips tightly as he comes.
Stiles doesn’t even break Derek’s gaze.
 
***
 
Derek has never seen anyone as beautiful as Stiles, and it has nothing to do
with his looks. It’s the way his gaze never leaves Derek’s face. It’s the way
his eyes are so full of trust. It’s the way he gives Derek everything, without
even knowing. His shyness, his nakedness, his total vulnerability, and trusts
Derek with all of those things. He’s so different here than he is in other
parts of his life, where he’s loud and sarcastic and full of pointed edges.
Here, he’s not afraid to show his weaknesses. Derek has never been with anyone
like that before. There is nothing in Stiles that is not a revelation.
Nothing.
Stiles shivers as Peter comes, riding his own pleasure but not quite there. A
small moan escapes him as Peter pulls out. Stiles is warm, his blood running
hot underneath his damp skin. His pupils are big, almost swallowing up his
amber irises. He swipes his tongue over his bottom lip, leaving it shining.
And then he’s moving, Peter manipulating his shaking limbs so that he’s
straddling Derek. His knees come to rest on either side of Derek’s hips.
“Ready, princess?” Peter asks in a gravelly voice.
“Mmm.” Stiles shudders as Peter helps him lower himself.
He’s so hot, so ready. He clenches around Derek’s dick as he settles himself.
Peter keeps one hand on his back. Derek holds his hips and rocks into him.
Stiles arches like a cat.
“Derek.” His breath hitches. “Derek. Der.”
Derek thrusts into him gently. This position isn’t suited for anything faster,
but this is enough. Stiles is open and warm and pliant, and this is going to
take a while.
Derek feels his knot begin to swell.
His wolf howls in triumph.
 
***
 
Stiles is almost drifting, weak and boneless with pleasure. It’s coiling
tightly in his belly. He hasn’t come yet, but for some reason he’s not
desperate to. He feels like he’s riding a wave that’s never going to crest. The
rhythm is gentle but powerful. Stiles lets it lull him. It takes him a moment
to realize that Derek’s growing bigger inside him as his knot swells. At first
he hardly notices. Then Derek’s knot catches on his rim, and sparks of pleasure
rush through him.
Derek thrusts a few more times, and suddenly the knot is huge, and it’s inside
him, and it’s going to stay inside him until they’re done.
“Oh my god,” he whispers, fear flashing through him.
Peter’s hand on his back is big and warm. “It’s okay. It’s okay, princess. You
can take it.”
Stiles rests his trembling hands on Derek’s shoulders. “Is it going to get
bigger?”
“Hmm.” Peter rubs the back of his neck soothingly. “A little, yes. But you can
take it. You can make yourself come on your alpha’s knot. Show him that you
can. Show him how much you like it.”
Stiles doesn’t even need to clench. Derek is huge. Stiles raises himself up a
fraction, feeling the knot tug at his rim, and then he’s coming, arching his
back as he shoots all over Derek’s abdomen and chest.
All at once the knot seems too big for his over-sensitized body. He whimpers,
and tries to pull away. Derek’s eyes flash alpha red and he growls.
Peter rubs his back. “It’s okay, sweetheart. Don’t try and fight it. Just
relax.”
Stiles shivers, feeling suddenly cold. “It’s still getting bigger!” His voice
hitches.
Derek growls again, more questioning than angry. He rubs his hands up Stiles’s
sides, leaving warmth behind.
“What a good boy you are, princess,” Peter says, his voice soothing. “Tell him.
Derek.”
Stiles blinks through his tears.
“Good,” Derek growls out through a mouthful of fangs.
“That’s it,” Peter says. “He won’t hurt you, Stiles. Just relax for him.”
Stiles draws a deep breath and then releases it slowly. Okay, it’s not, it’s
not bad. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s more full than he’s ever felt before, and
the pressure is still growing. It doesn’t hurt, but he’s suddenly terrified
that it will, and he won’t be able to do anything to stop it. He digs his
trembling fingers into Derek’s shoulders.
“Good,” Derek growls again, and then he’s coming.
“Oh, god!” Stiles feels heat, and it’s not stopping. He slips one hand down to
his dick, and jerks it. When he comes again, he clenches so hard around Derek’s
knot that for a bright, burning second he can’t tell the difference between
pleasure and pain. They both coil tight inside him, cresting, and finally
breaking.
Stiles slumps forward into Derek’s embrace.
He’s vaguely aware that somehow, impossibly, Derek’s still coming.
 
***
 
Stiles really is an impossible little human. Peter feels his mouth curl into a
smile as he watches Stiles’s fingers twitch against Derek’s sheets. Seeing him
basically fucked into unconsciousness—his eyes are open as his cheek rests on
Derek’s shoulder, but he’s staring somewhere into the middle distance like a
stoner—almost makes Peter wish he had a little human of his own to fuck
exclusively.
Almost.
Peter slides a hand down Stiles’s spine, then meets Derek’s gaze. “You’ll be
knotted for anywhere between twenty and thirty minutes. You can probably get
him to come at least once more before you’re done.”
Stiles moans slightly.
“Or maybe you should just give him a break,” Peter says.
Derek’s eyes are still red.
“You did well,” Peter tells him, and actually means it. “Your wolf took him
without injuring him. You should be proud of that.”
Derek hugs Stiles closer, jostling him a little. Stiles is limp, tiny
aftershocks sending tremors through him.
“Knotting is just like anything else,” Peter says. “Care and practice. I’m sure
you’ll have him screaming and riding you like a champ the next time you try it.
The boy’s a natural, and your wolf isn’t the feral beast I thought it might
be.”
Derek nods slightly, and his eyes very slowly close.
“I’ll see myself out,” Peter says softly.
He dresses quickly, and takes one more look at them before he leaves the room.
Stiles is a delight of loose limbs and slack muscles, still spread on Derek’s
knot. Derek’s eyes are closed, but he’s smoothing his hands gently up and down
Stiles’s back. His usually tight mouth is open slightly, his lips curved with
the ghost of a smile.
It’s almost heart warming.
Well, it would be if Peter had a heart.
He whistles as he heads back down the stairs.
He doesn’t have to be there to know exactly what’s going to happen next.
He’s grinning by the time he leaves the loft.
 
***
 
“I love you,” Derek whispers in the quiet.
Stiles closes his eyes and listens to the sound of Derek’s heart. “I love you
too.”
They drift off to sleep, still joined together.
It feels like the start of forever.
 
 
 
 
 
 



 
End Notes
     Hey, so it turns out the cure for writer's block is porn.
     Thanks, porn!
     Also, I keep forgetting to tell people I'm now on tumblr:
     thisdiscontentedwinter
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