Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3222854.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Peter_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski, Stiles_Stilinski/Original_Male_Character(s)
  Character:
      Peter_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski, Derek_Hale, Scott_McCall, Lydia_Martin,
      Erica_Reyes, Vernon_Boyd, Isaac_Lahey, Allison_Argent
  Additional Tags:
      Hurt/Comfort, Dubious_Consent, Masturbation, Barebacking, Obsessive
      Behavior, Ambiguous/Open_Ending
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-01-24 Completed: 2015-03-15 Chapters: 8/8 Words: 16495
****** 'til there's nothing to drain you ******
by ToAStranger
Summary
     After an accidental body swap problem with his nephew, Peter finds
     out about Stiles' crush on him-- only for things to spiral out of
     control.
Notes
     If concerned, please see the warnings in the end note.
     Prompt: Derek and Peter get cursed and swap bodies. Unfortunately no
     one told Stiles. Peter decides to fuck with him in Derek's body but
     Stiles shuts him down with 'you're hot and all, but I like your uncle
     kthxbai' and Peter's all 'wut'
     (thedamnriddler)
See the end of the work for more notes
***** I'd get him to swap our places *****
“You’re very fit,” Peter says, the satisfied grin on his mouth too devious for
Derek’s usual expressions as he runs a hand down over his chest. 
Derek sneers over at him.  “Stop touching me like that.”
Laughing, Peter holds up his hands.  “Of course, dear nephew.  It’s just…
interesting.  You can’t blame me.”
“This is your fault!” Derek slams a hand down onto the table top between them,
wood groaning. 
“That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?”
“Peter—“
The loft door slides open with a clatter, and Stiles steps it, face scrunched
up as he breathes heavy, like he’d run the whole way there.  He pauses,
swallowing, and holds up a hand. 
“Derek,” he says, eyes locked with Peter.  “There’s a—There’s a thing.  Witch
thing.  Deaton needs to talk to you.”
Peter opens his mouth to reply, but Derek cuts him off at the start.  “Is he at
the clinic?”
Stiles frowns, glancing between the two of them, and his head cants.  “Um. 
Yeah.  Scott’s there waiting.”
Derek nods, and Stiles squints at him.  It must be quite the sight, Peter’s
face looking so sullen and serious while Derek grins over at Stiles like the
Cheshire cat.  Tilting his head, Peter lets Derek’s eyes stray down over
Stiles’ body, and the boy seems to shift from foot to foot under his stare.
“You,” Derek says, tone sharp, and Peter blinks lazily over at him.  “Not a
word.  I’ll be back soon.”
“Um.” Stiles holds up a finger.  “Peter, while I appreciate your sudden and
fancy new interest in helping out, Scott and Deaton are kinda expecting Derek.”
“Derek’s busy,” Derek replies, jaw flexing as he jerks on a coat, grunting when
he realizes that it’s his own and won’t fit Peter’s build properly before
tossing it back down onto the table, eyes fixing on Peter with dark promise. 
“Aren’t you, Derek?”
“Right,” Peter smiles.  “Busy.  Peter can handle it.  I trust him.  He is,
after all, my favorite uncle.”
Stiles’ brows go up his forehead.  “Uh huh. Right. Okay.”
“Stay here,” Derek tells Peter, then glances at Stiles.  “You too.  Not a
word, nephew.”
“My lips are sealed.” Peter replies, watching as Derek storms out, leaving him
with Stiles.
Rocking forward onto his toes, Stiles whistles softly as the door slams behind
him.  He clears his throat and shuffles into the loft, heading towards the
kitchen.  Gesturing over his shoulder, Stiles makes a face, and Peter silently
realizes that Derek and this young man have grown closer over the years. 
And that he can takes advantage of that fact.
“What crawled up his ass?” Stiles huffs out a laugh, grin lopsided.
Peter follows after him, leaning against the counter and watching as Stiles
bends to pluck something out of the fridge.  “No idea.”
“He seems stiffer than usual,” Stiles mutters around a bite of apple.  “Kinda
uptight.  You guys fighting again?”
“Not exactly,” Peter tilts his head. 
Stiles raises a droll brow, settling next to Peter against the counter with one
hip cocked.  “Uh huh.  What’d he do this time?”
Peter licks his lips, twisting to face Stiles more fully.  “We’re… close. 
Aren’t we, Stiles?  Or, closer, anyways.”
There’s an endearing wrinkle between Stiles’ brow.  “Yeah, dude.  I mean…
Yeah.  You know that.  What’s going on, man?”
“Nothing.” Peter shakes his head, eyes keen on Stiles’ face.  “Just… How close
would you say we are?”
Stiles lets out a laugh that sounds completely bemused.  “Uh… I guess really
close?”
Frowning, Peter’s eyes narrow, and Stiles reaches out to set a hand on his
arm.  His gaze drops to where Stiles’ fingers are curved over Derek’s bicep,
and he likes the feeling but hates the sight.
“I’d do anything for you, Derek.” Stiles says softly.  Earnestly.  “You know
that.  And I know you’d do the same for me.”
Peter inhales sharply.  “Of course.”
Reaching out, Peter places his hands over Stiles’ hips, twisting them around to
push the boy back against the edge of the counter.  Stiles frowns, lips
parting, but before he can get a word out, Peter’s mouth—Derek’s mouth—is on
his. 
The kiss doesn’t last long.  Stiles completely freezes, eyes wide, but Peter
lets it linger for a moment before Stiles jerks back with a little hiss.  He
laughs awkwardly, squinting at Peter and licking his lips as he presses a palm
flat to his chest.
“Um. Yeah, no.” Stiles says, and Peter blinks as Stiles pushes him away.  “No,
Derek, just… No.”
“I’m sorry.  I thought—“
“You’re attractive.  Really.” Stiles adds quickly, smelling sharply like worry
and nothing like lust, and isn’t that interesting?  “And I care about you, I
do.  But this… We aren’t—No.”
“We—“
“Plus, you know I’ve got the hots for your stupid uncle.”  Stiles says.  “You
frequently remind me that I have the hots for your stupid uncle.  Well, more
like berate me about it, but whatever.  Are you feeling okay?”
“I’m—“
“I’m gonna call Scott real quick.”  Stiles says, brushing by.  “Wait here.”
Peter watches him go, mouth slightly slack.  As he hears the line connect,
Scott’s voice like static through the receiver pressed to Stiles’ ear, a slow
smile curls over his lips.  He leans back against the counter, crossing his
arms over his chest, something warm and satisfied uncurling in his stomach.
“Interesting.”  
***** Hear me prowlin' (I'm gonna take you down) *****
Chapter Notes
     Prompt: OMG CHERRY. I'm going to need you to write more to that Derek
     and Peter swapping bodies. I really have to know what happens next
     (and I kinda hope that it gets explained that it was Peter messing
     around? Call me a softie, but I'd hate it if Derek's and stiles'
     friendship got hurt by that kiss). (bxdcubes)
Stiles glances between the two of them, eyes squinted, lips in a thin line.  At
Peter’s side, Derek shifts uncomfortably despite the fact that he is finally,
after quite a few trials and tribulations, back in his own skin.  
“So you were Peter,” Stiles says, slow like he’s trying to wrap his head around
it even as Derek nods.  “And Peter was you.”
“Well, we were still ourselves, just—“
“You don’t get to speak right now,” Stiles holds up a finger, and Peter’s teeth
click as he snaps his mouth shut. 
Derek is pleasantly surprised with how chastised he looks.
“So when you kissed me earlier, it wasn’t you.”  Stiles says, voice dull.
Derek blinks.  “What?”
Grimace tight, Stiles pushes to his feet.  “That’s what I thought.”
“Wait, what?” Derek scowls, glances between Stiles and then Peter, and then his
brows shoot up.  “Peter, what the—“
“Your uncle is a massive dick,” Stiles says, and his tone is too soft,
intimidatingly so.  “I’ll call you later, Derek.”
He turns and heads for the door.  Derek watches him go, and then his gaze falls
on Peter, angry and red.
“What did you do?”
===============================================================================
It is two days later, while Stiles is out for coffee and expecting Derek to
join him that he and Peter finally talk.  He’s about to pay for his latte when
Peter presses in close, slides his own card over the counter, and gives a
charming smile to the barista behind the bar. 
“Add a tea to that order,” Peter says.  “And we’ll take it in house.”
Stiles blinks up at him, lips parted, shoulders tight.  “Are you you or are we
playing Freaky Friday again?”
“I’m me,” Peter says, eyes skimming over Stiles’ features.  “Derek set this up
for me.  Figured you wouldn’t touch me with a ten foot stick unless I could
trick you into it.”
“Good guess,” Stiles says sharply, moves to brush by, but Peter catches him by
the wrist.
“Stiles,” he says, voice low and grip firm.  “Stay.  It’s coffee.  Let me make
what I did up to you.”
“It’s going to take a lot more than a cup of coffee,” Stiles replies.
“Then let me try and start,” Peter offers with another one of those charming
smiles.
Stiles hesitates.  “Fine.  I’ll find a table; you bring the drinks.”
When Peter finally sits down across from him, Stiles’ leg is bouncing a mile a
minute.  Peter sets his coffee down in front of him, porcelain mug clinking
against the wooden table top.  Under the surface, Peter’s hand curves over
Stiles’ knee and stills his leg.  Stiles’ jaw flexes.
“Sometimes I want to light you on fire again,” Stiles says.
Peter’s grin goes sharp.  “Oh, how I wish you’d have let me bite you when I
could.”
Stiles’ eye twitches and he knocks Peter’s hand away from his thigh.  “So is
this your version of apologizing?”
“Yes,” Peter nods.  “I won’t say I’m sorry because I’m really not.”
“For kissing me while in Derek’s body?”  Stiles huffs.  “Of course you aren’t.”
“Honestly, I thought you might be happy when you found out.”  Peter adds.  “I
am, after all, the one that youwanted kissing you.”
“Not like that,” Stiles shakes his head.  “And not ever again.”
Peter smiles.  “Liar.”
“Shut up.” Stiles snaps.
Inhaling slowly, Peter leans forward, elbows resting on the small table between
them.  “I didn’t know you were interested, not in anything other than teen
lust.  Now that I know, however, I can’t ignore it.”
“Try,” Stiles sneers, reaching for his coffee and faltering as Peter snatches
up his hand in both of his. 
“What is it that bothers you, Stiles?  The lie?”  Peter asks.  “Or the fact
that our first kiss was one that you couldn’t enjoy?”
“Our only kiss,” Stiles corrects quickly.
Peter’s eyes glint that dangerous blue.  “You don’t mean that.”
“I do.”
“Over that crush so quickly?” Peter frowns, grip tightening around Stiles’
fingers, bringing Stiles’ hand up to his mouth, breath warm against Stiles’
rapid pulse.  “Are you so sure?”
“Yes,” Stiles breathes.
“Liar,” Peter mutters, lips brushing the inside of his wrist.
“Peter,” Stiles says, airy and tight.
Peter hums, turning Stiles’ arm slightly, teeth grazing soft skin and tasting
the salt of his body.  “I can give you anything you could ever want for.”
“There are people—Peter, there are people watching—“
“And what do you think they see, Stiles?” he asks.
Stiles swallows thickly.  Peter feels him shudder, and he grins as he licks
over the tracks of blue under Stiles’ skin in one slow drag.  Lips parted,
Stiles gasps. 
The spice of Stiles’ arousal is so heady.  Peter lets out a pleased rumble,
kissing the heel of Stiles’ palm as Stiles’ long, delicate fingers twitch.  He
can feel Stiles’ pulse thrumming away under his mouth and his fingertips, hear
it pounding in his ears, and it is a much more pleasant sound now that he is in
his own skin.  Knowing that in this state he can send the boy’s heart tripping
with such a simple touch when even a kiss wouldn’t get a response when he was
guised as his nephew.
His thumb trails along one of Stiles’ veins.  “The things I could do to you,
sweet boy.”
It’s these words that seem to snap Stiles back out of it.  His hand jerks
away.  Stiles stands, grips the mug of his coffee and drenches the front of
Peter’s shirt and pants with its contents.  It burns but does not sting nearly
as much as the rejection on Stiles’ face.
“I’m not your toy, Peter.” Stiles snarls before setting his mug down sharply
enough to catch a few other customer’s attentions long enough to see Stiles
storm away. 
Sitting there, wet and stained, Peter bites down hard on his own tongue.  He
does not get up and make chase like he feels the urge to; a sharp tightening in
his stomach, a primal instinct to chase, catch, claim.  He receives a few
snooty looks from the occasional patron, but is otherwise ignored.
He attempts to roll the tension out of his shoulders.  It doesn’t work. 
***** all I need *****
Chapter Notes
     Prompt: Okay, so, prompt for the body swap Steter verse - Stiles is
     still giving Peter the cold shoulder, and Peter still isn't sorry
     about much of anything and just wants to prod at Stiles' crush on him
     to get into his pants, but then... throw in some angst, some trouble
     happens, Peter gets cursed, and the only way to save him with the
     counter-curse has to be powered by a strong emotion (love), and Peter
     finally gets a clue. Too sappy?? (cywscross)
     A/N: Changed love to trust as well as a trade of sorts, because it
     fits with my idea better. Hope that’s okay. Also, this is very, very
     loosely powered by Stay With Me by Sam Smith because I’ve been
     obsessed for months.
Peter makes a habit of pestering Stiles every chance he gets.  The occasional
run-in on the street, at the grocery store, Stiles always doing well to skirt
around him.  Peter recalls a fond instance where he finally got him alone,
Stiles so skittish he knocked back against one of the glass doors in the
freezer aisle.  That angry, pinched look on Stiles’ face tickled him to no end
as he pinned him in, leaned close, felt the heat of Stiles’ body seep into his
bones. 
The sound of Stiles’ quick pulse was almost too distracting.  He knew, just by
the expression on Stiles’ face, that if given the chance Stiles would bite his
tongue off.  They talked softly, all taunt and tease and venom.  Stiles was so
beautiful when he was agitated, Peter had realized, all flush cheeks and
spitting words.  He tried to lean in further, to slant their lips together, but
faltered when he felt something hard press into his side. 
A taser. 
Peter had laughed.  “Where did you get that?”
“The important matter isn’t really where I got it,” Stiles said, glib but Peter
could smell the excitement on his skin, could see way his pupils were wide and
dark despite how angry he might’ve been—how angry he still is.  “What’s
important is where I’ll decide to incapacitate you if you don’t back off.”
Peter had stepped back, hands in the air.  “Of course.”
After that, Peter only really has the opportunity to corner him at Pack
meetings.  Though, mostly his bothering consists of knowing looks and inviting
smiles.  Other than the heady scent of spice that wafts off of Stiles, he
wouldn’t get much of an indication that Stiles is all that bothered if it
weren’t for the dark scowls Derek keeps directing his way.
He isn’t quite sure when, but poking Stiles’ buttons has become his favorite
pastime.  The other Pack members have noticed it, not that Peter does much to
hide the way he tugs on Stiles’ proverbial pigtails, but it only really hits
him when Lydia gets Peter in the kitchen alone, her pretty mouth tilted in a
foul sneer.
“What’s your angle?” she asks, tone as sharp as her expression.
“Pardon?” Peter smiles, brows going up.  “I’m just getting a drink—“
“Don’t play dumb, Peter.” Lydia says, sugar sweet and cutting as razor wire. 
“You and I both know that you aren’t very good at it.”
Peter inhales slowly, leans against the fridge, and shrugs a shoulder.  “What
angle are we talking about then?”
“Your little obsession with Stiles,” she says.  “Sans the fact that
it’s majorly creepy?  It’s got all kinds of wrong written all over it.  So
what’s the deal?”
Crossing his arms over his chest, Peter gives a slow shake of his head.  “I’m
not sure I know what you’re talking about.”
“Back off,” she says and her smile is anything but kind.  “Whatever it is
you’re after, do it with someone else.”
“And why would I do that?”
“Because I was a pretty key player in setting you on fire the second time,”
Lydia replies pleasantly.  “And the next time it happens, you won’t be digging
yourself out of the ground or waking up from a coma.”
Peter waits until she’s gone to let the pleasant expression on his face drop. 
Mentions of the fire always make his skin itch.
On the way out the door, Peter catches Stiles’ gaze tracking him.  He pauses in
the doorway, shrugging on his coat, eyes locked with Stiles’ from across the
room.  Peter would enjoy nothing more than dragging Stiles’ along after him,
fucking the boy stupid, and getting past this whole thing whatever it may be. 
When Stiles looks away, attention draw by Scott as he asks about the most
recent sighting of some supernatural something, Peter feels a tight heat in his
chest.
If he can’t get fucked, he might as well go paint a few walls red.
===============================================================================
He wakes aching, stiff, and there is a tightness in his chest that he has never
felt.  His skin is hot—too hot—and his sheets are sticking to his body, sweat
slick and flush.  Peter groans, turns over, and pushes shakily up into a
sitting position.  His temples throb.
The first thing he does is shower.  It doesn’t help much, but it is a relief of
cold water against that burning inside of him.  He climbs out shaking, nearly
slips on the tile floor of his bathroom, and then pads out into his bedroom. 
He has not felt like this since he was six and still not showing signs of the
were genes. 
Dressing clumsily, Peter ambles through his bedroom with a heavy grogginess. 
His eyes tear slightly, unblinking, breath short.  He is worried that if he
closes his eyes, he might not have the energy to open them again.
When he gets to the loft, to Derek, he shoves open the door weakly.  Leaning
there, Peter tries to catch his breath.  He wants to be angry, but he is too
tired and too hot. 
“Peter?”  Derek frowns over at him, paces forward slow and cautious. 
“My dear nephew,” Peter says, reedy and thin as he looks up, sweat slipping
down his forehead.  “I do believe that something is wrong.”
Derek barely catches him in time when his knees finally give out.
===============================================================================
Someone is pressing a cold washcloth to his forehead, pushing his hair back
from his face.  The long fingers feel soothing against his scalp.  It takes him
longer than he would like it to in order to identify who is sitting on the edge
of the couch next to where he’s been sprawled out.
He doesn’t open his eyes, doesn’t want to spook Stiles off, especially not when
just his touch is making Peter’s body stop that horrible twist-ache that it’s
been doing since he woke up.  Easing under his ministrations, Peter lets out a
soft breath that is a lot like relief.  Stiles’ fingers falter in his hair, and
then keep moving.
“So what’s wrong with him?” Scott asks.
Derek sighs.  “I don’t know.”
“Should we go to Deaton?” Stiles asks.
“Scott and I will,” Derek confirms and Peter can picture that look of
determination, that furrowed brow of his.  He wants to laugh.  “You stay here. 
Call if anything changes.”
“Are you serious?” Stiles asks, voice tight.
“Stiles,” Derek says and his tone bodes no room for argument—which usually
means that Stiles is going to try.
“Fine,” he replies curtly.  “Go.  But I can’t promise he’ll be breathing by the
time you get back.”
“Thank you,” Derek says with a soft earnestness.  “We’ll be right back.  Call
if you need anything.”
Then they’re alone.  Stiles sighs heavily.  The backs of his knuckles press
lightly to Peter’s cheek, checking the heat there.  Peter leans into the touch
and Stiles snorts.
“I knew you were awake,” he mutters, pulling away.
Peter is happy to find a few of his reflexes are still in order.  He catches
Stiles’ wrist before he can move too far, bringing Stiles’ palm back up to his
cheek in order to press against it.  Stiles’ jaw is tight as he stares down at
him, and Peter offers up a lopsided smile.
“What a lovely nurse I have,” Peter says and is disappointed to hear how coarse
he sounds. 
“Cunt,” Stiles sneers, straining to pull out of his touch.  Peter keeps a tight
hold.  “Is this all an act, then?  You have something up your sleeve again?”
“Not this time, I’m afraid.”  Peter admits on a breath, turning his face into
Stiles’ hand.  “You have very cold hands.”
Stiles’ eyes narrow.  “Ice would be better.  A whole bucket.”
“Derek would be upset if you ruined his couch.”
“He’d get over it.”
Peter huffs, rolling his eyes as he lets Stiles pull away.  “Fine, then.  Get
me some ice.”
Hesitating, Stiles regards him for a long and quiet moment before pushing to
his feet.  He wonders off into the kitchen, and Peter waits until he hears the
freezer door open to start moving. 
Wedging himself up onto an elbow, Peter bites the inside of his cheek as cement
oozes through his veins, keeping him far too weighted to move unencumbered.  He
tosses the wet towel down onto the floor, eases to a sitting position with
careful movements, but when he attempts to stand the room spins. 
He hits the floor with a loud thud. 
“Jesus, Peter.”  Stiles says, rushing over and kneeling at his side.
“I’m fine,” Peter snarls.
It holds no weight.  Especially considering he cannot even sit back up until
Stiles’ hands are on him.  They seem to make everything stop throbbing for a
moment, give him a chance to catch his breath, and when Peter can finally focus
again, it is on the concerned frown of Stiles’ lips. 
“You’re really sick, aren’t you?” Stiles asks, voice quiet.
“It seems so,” Peter grumbles.
They work together until Peter is back to lying on the couch, sprawled out and
panting.  Stiles lays out the cool washcloth over his forehead again, checking
his temperature first with the back of his hand and grimacing.  Peter wants to
laugh, but instead he closes his eyes.
He’s not sure, but he thinks he lulls back to sleep for a bit.  When he wakes
once more, Stiles is still at his side, still dampening his brow with cool
water, but the room has gotten dimmer.  Clearing his throat, Peter blinks up at
him, finds Stiles’ expression frustratingly impassive.  He opens his mouth to
say something, to goad him a bit perhaps, but then Stiles is helping him sit up
a bit and pressing a glass of water to his lips.
Peter drinks.  He drinks long and quickly, nearly chokes on it, surprised at
how desperately he needed the water at all.  Over half empty, Stiles pulls the
glass away and sets it on the floor next to them before easing Peter back
down. 
“You really are quite a good nurse,” Peter says.
“And you’re really still a giant dick.”  Stiles replies softly, goes stiff as
Peter drapes an arm over Stiles’ thighs, hand hot and big on Stiles’ hip. 
“Not all the time,” Peter grins.  “But I’ve got one if you’d like to see it.”
Stiles shakes his head.  “Why do you have to be a royal douche all the time?”
“You like it,” Peter’s grin goes broad.  “You’re pissed at me, sure.  But you
like me.”
His fingers sink up under the hem of Stiles’ shirt, fan over the skin there. 
Stiles quivers and yes, there’s that shock of spice.  That heady smell of
arousal that permeates Stiles’ skin whenever they’re close, whenever Peter can
actually get his hands on him.
Peter rubs circles into Stiles’ skin, slips his hand higher, finds touching
Stiles so easy.  So much easier than any other movement. 
“Stop it,” Stiles’ lips thin. 
Peter sighs, arm going lax as he rolls his eyes again.  “You’re no fun.”
“You could be dying.”
“Exactly,” Peter says, shooting Stiles that charming smile of his, thumb
running along a sliver of skin at Stiles’ hip.  “I could be dying.  You really
want to miss out on your chance?  Another tiny little crush gone to waste?”
Stiles sits straighter, expression going hard.  “It’s not a—“
The front door bangs open.  Scott looks breathless and Derek looks resigned. 
They’re both soaking wet.  Stiles pushes to his feet and Peter wants to rip
both of their throats open for interrupting. 
“What happened?”  Stiles asks.
Derek shakes his head.  “Nothing good.”
===============================================================================
Peter demands to be taken back to his own apartment when Derek tells him that
he probably won’t make it through the night.  They have an old scroll from
some unseelie bitch that decided Peter had gone too far a number of years
back—before the fire, before everything—and had finally taken retribution out
of Peter’s hide.  Derek had said that they might be able to figure it out if
they worked on it all night, might be able to piece things together, but it was
a long shot.  Whatever this curse is, it is supposed to work fast.
He’d made his nephew take him home.  Peter didn’t want to die on Derek’s musty
old couch. 
Walking slowly into his kitchen hours later to get a glass of water, Peter
feels pain twist in his lower abdomen.  He nearly doubles, bracing himself
against the counter.  The pulsing flare of heat takes him back to days he would
rather not remember.  His claws leave grooves in the marble top. 
So consumed, he doesn’t hear his door open.  He doesn’t realize he’s no longer
alone until someone is ducking down to loop his arm over their shoulders,
taking much of his weight and guiding him back to bed.  Dumped on the mess of
sheets, Peter sighs at the sight of Stiles standing there, hair mussed and
cheeks flush.  He stretches, tries to leer, and knows Stiles is looking at his
bare chest with everything but desire at the moment.
“You’re so stupid,” Stiles mutters, tucking him back into bed before
disappearing out the bedroom door.
Peter lays there and waits for him to return.  He does, with two glasses, and
sets them on the bedside table before taking a seat next to him on the bed. 
Watching, Peter hums as Stiles holds out an ice cube to his lips.
“Suck on it,” Stiles says.  “It’ll cool you down a bit.”
Peter does as he’s told while Stiles checks his temperature with the back of
his hand again. 
“Why are you here?” Peter asks.
“Because you’re right,” Stiles’ eyes trail as well as his fingers, down over
Peter’s throat lightly, across his collarbone.  “I don’t want you to die and
never know what it’s like.”
Peter catches his hand, shifts his weight.  Tumbling Stiles into the bed with
him, Peter lets the pressure of his body pin Stiles to the mattress.  Stiles
stares up at him with wide eyes, but he smells sweet with want.  Burying his
nose against Stiles’ neck, Peter inhales long and deep.  Stiles shudders
beneath him.
It’s not a lie, but it’s not the truth.  Peter can’t bring himself to care much
about the difference, intoxicated on the way Stiles’ breath hitches when Peter
licks a slow strip up the taut line of his throat.  Still holding his wrists,
Peter pushes them up above Stiles’ head, teeth grazing the rabid thump-thump of
Stiles’ pulse.  His moan is breathy and perfect; Peter wants to swallow it down
and a million more.
“Peter,” Stiles arches, fingers curling into loose fists where Peter has them
trapped.
“Tell me you want this,” Peter says, voice rough and already wrecked by the way
Stiles is trembling for him, already hard for him, smelling like desire and
something a little more heartbreaking.  “Say that you want it.”
“I want it,” Stiles replies instantly, and his heart doesn’t falter for an
instant.  “I want you.”
Peter groans against his skin.  His own movements are shaky, sort of weak, but
the more they move together and touch one another, the more like himself he
feels. 
They kiss.  It is so much more than the chaste thing they shared in the kitchen
while Peter was wearing Derek’s skin.  It is messy and hungry, their tongues
twining, and Peter devours every breathy sound Stiles muffles against his lips
as they rock together. 
The prep goes on for what seems like forever.  Peter strings Stiles out, pushes
him to the edge and then eases him back away from it until the poor boy’s
breath is hitching, hiccupping in his chest.  That’s when he finally fucks him,
languid and steady, drawing each push-thrust out until they are both frantic
for some kind of finish.  Feverish, Peter drives in hard, watches Stiles break
apart beneath him and finds his own release moments later.  They are both spent
when it is over. 
Peter lulls to sleep first.  He feels the lingering touches of Stiles’ fingers
in his hair, of his lips on his forehead.  When he opens his eyes hours later,
the other side of the bed is empty and cold, but his fever is gone. 
===============================================================================
“Where is he?” Peter asks as he walks through the loft door.
Derek looks half dead at the dining room table, resting his cheek on an open
palm.  “Who?”
“You know who,” Peter comes to a slow stop in front of him.
Sighing, Derek scrubs a hand over his face.  “So it worked then?”
“I guess so,” Peter nods, tone tight.  “What exactly was it?”
Shrugging as he gestures to the scroll laid out over the table, Derek shakes
his head.  “We translated it.  Stiles said he had it covered.  Didn’t say
exactly how.”
“And what does the scroll say,” Peter prompts, slow like he’s talking to a
small child.
It earns him a dirty look.  “A gift of purity and an act of trust.”
Peter pauses.  His brows pinch, but then he inhales sharply.
“Oh.”
Derek scowls.  “Oh?”
Without replying, Peter heads back out the door.  Derek doesn’t bother calling
after him.
===============================================================================
Stiles looks worn out when he answers the door.  He’s moving stiffly and his
scent is dampened and mingling with something sour that Peter cannot quite put
a name to.  Stiles’ brow goes up, standing the doorway but not crossing the
threshold.  Peter has a feeling that he couldn’t step inside even if he tried.
“If I’d known it was your first time, I would have gone a little easier.” 
Peter says with a shrug of a shoulder.
Stiles snorts.  “Part of the cure.  Or anti-curse.  Or whatever.  You’re not
supposed to know about the gift when you’re receiving it.”
Jaw flexing, Peter searches for the right thing to say.  “You didn’t have to.”
“I know,” Stiles replies.  “I told you that I wanted to.  I wasn’t lying.”
“Well,” Peter hesitates.  “Thank you.”
Stiles crosses his arms over his chest, shoulders going up.  “It really wasn’t
that big of a deal, dude.  Plus, now you’ve got what you’ve wanted.  Maybe you
can finally leave me alone.”
“Stiles—“
“Seriously.”  Stiles adds.  “You’re over it.  I’m over it.  Can we just go back
to normal?”
Peter’s head tilts at the lie, but he keeps his mouth shut and nods once.
“Good,” Stiles breathes.  “Now get out of here before my dad gets home.”
The door shuts in his face.  Peter thinks it might be in more ways than one. 
***** you'll come undone *****
Chapter Notes
     Prompt: Body swap follow-up prompt: In retrospection, Peter could
     have handled that a little bit better. He leaves Stiles alone,
     thinking he's lost his chance, until he sees Stiles recklessly
     endangering himself in the name of saving his friends because of some
     Big Monster-of-the-Week. So, in secret, Peter takes care of the
     monster on his own. He tries to keep it a secret, not wanting people
     to think he's gone soft or expect him to keep helping, but Stiles
     finds out anyway. (perceptions3key)
Stiles doesn’t meet his eyes any more than he has to.  Their first Pack meeting
after sleeping together, Stiles doesn’t speak to him, doesn’t look at him. 
There are glances passed between them, and it isn’t only Derek who notices the
tightness in Stiles’ shoulders or the set of Peter’s jaw.  Scott keeps casting
concerned looks at his friend, and Peter detests the knot of guilt he feels
every time Stiles walks into a room.
They’re gathered around the living room, spread out and talking about what’s
prowling the woods of the Preserve this time—stealing people in the night,
drowning them, leaving the town in a panic.  Peter watches Stiles furtively,
only when no one is looking, sees the hardness in his expression and finds
himself wanting to ease the furrow of his brow.  Ply him with pleasure until
he’s languid, lax, and unable to think about anything but Peter.  It is a
selfish desire that Peter struggles to deny himself.
“So what are we going to do to lure it out?”  Boyd asks, arms crossed over his
chest where he’s leaning against the brick.
At his side, Erica nods.  “I mean, it’s not like we have its M.O.”
“But we do,” Lydia insists, looking Stiles’ way.  “I mean, kind of, right?”
He seems to hesitate, lips thinning before he finally speaks.  “Generally boys
in the adolescent range.  Dark hair, pale skin.  Lighter eyes, but three out of
four is still a better chance than anything else.”
“What do you mean?” Allison frowns over at him from where she’s at on the couch
with Scott and Isaac. 
“Bait,” Peter says.
Stiles’ meets his gaze for a lingering moment.  He shrugs, arms tightening
around himself.  No one argues; they all seem content to let the announcement
lie.  Peter wants to watch their blood run over the floor. 
“You as bait,” Peter says.
“Essentially.”  Stiles nods.
Peter’s eyes fall to Derek, expression hard.  “And you think this is a good
idea?”
“Stiles knows what he’s doing,” Derek assures.  “And he’ll have back up.”
“Oh, and that’s such a comforting thought.”  Peter says with a glib bite. 
Spreading his arms along the back of the couch, Isaac raises a bemused brow in
Peter’s direction.  “What’s got your panties in a knot about it?”
“The plan is just a bit too juvenile for my tastes,” Peter replies, eyes
narrowing dangerously. 
Derek gives him a knowing look.  “Well, it’s the best plan we’ve got.”
“Well, um.”  Scott falters, glancing between Derek and Peter with a hand
raised.  “I’m actually with Peter on this one.”
“What?” Allison looks sharply his way.
“I don’t want Stiles risking himself,” Scott shrugs.  “He could die.  If
there’s a different plan, I think we should do it.”
“It’s our best shot,” Stiles insists, firm, like it’s the end of an argument. 
“And it’s my choice.  So we’re doing it, okay?”
Scott grimaces but gives a firm nod.  “Okay.”
The plans are laid out from there.  When they’ll do it, how they’ll do it, who
will be where.  Peter watches at a distance, eyes on Stiles’ back.  There is an
itch in his palms; a weight on his tongue that starts bitter, then briny, and
then burning.  He wonders if it’s what longing tastes like.
Stiles looks at him from across the room and must see the dark look in his eyes
because he holds Peter’s gaze as if in challenge.  It offers Peter a relief of
sorts.  He hates it though, hates the way he has become so infatuated with
Stiles, hates the way Stiles has him so wrapped up and doesn’t even know it. 
Doesn’t seem to even want it. 
But that look, their eyes locked, feels like what he imagines they might have:
dark, clear, moving, and utterly free.  Drawn from the cold hard mouth of the
world, old and primal, live like a transmutation of fire.  Flowing and
flickering, a burning grey flame.  Peter’s bones ache at the thought.  He
hungers for the taste of Stiles in his mouth.
Clearing his throat, Stiles glances back down at the maps of the Preserve he
swiped from his father.  The spell, or perhaps the promise of one, breaks.  The
indifference that falls over Stiles’ face makes Peter snarl.  He does not
hesitate to take his leave.
===============================================================================
Peter takes things into his own hands.  He leaves Derek’s and goes out on the
hunt.  It does not take him long; he was always the best tracker in the
family.  The creature that has been preying on their town is now his prey. 
Peter may not be an Alpha, but he is certainly an Alpha predator.
===============================================================================
It is not the first time he has underestimated the things he was out to kill. 
Peter is begrudgingly grateful that Derek finds him in the early hours of the
morning, covered in his own blood, as well as the Kelpie’s. 
He ends up on Derek’s couch again, laid out and semi-broken.  There is a
groaning beneath his skin; Peter can hear his bones mending.  Behind his
eyelids the electric flow of synapses and neurons create a light show.  He lets
his mind wonder, so perhaps he doesn’t have to focus on the way his insides
feel outside, and finds his thoughts lingering where they always seem to come
back to lately: Stiles. 
His consciousness drifts.  On wakes and waves as his body sews itself back
together, slow but steady.  Peter finds himself lingering on thoughts of what
Stiles felt like beneath him.  To feel his pulse beneath his lips, feel him
shiver under his fingertips.  It is with these thoughts that Peter’s breath
finally evens.
There is someone at the door—or Peter thinks there is someone at the door. 
Derek speaks to them in soft tones and then is gone.  There is nothing but
quiet, and Peter is too tired to do much else by lay there. 
He keeps his mind on wistful musings.  It is eerily, frighteningly reminiscent
of how he felt when he was coma bound.  Time seems to stretch on forever.  Lips
press to his; for a moment he thinks that it is nothing but his imagination. 
But when the kiss breaks and there is no longer heat or pressure, Peter opens
his eyes and blinks.
“Stiles?”
Stiles’ mouth is in a tight line, on his knees at Peter’s side.  “It doesn’t
mean anything.”
Peter tries to sit up, but Stiles’ hand on his chest keeps him flat.  “What—?”
“You didn’t have to do what you did,” Stiles adds softly.  “That’s me thanking
you.”
“Stiles,” Peter says, brows drawing together. 
Stiles kisses him again, simple and chaste.  Peter’s heart races.  His fingers
curl into loose fists at his sides, unable to reach out, angry that this gentle
touch means so much. 
“Thank you,” Stiles repeats and then pushes to his feet.
Peter watches him go, chest tight.  He bites down so hard on his cheek that he
tastes blood. 
***** lord knows I can't change *****
Chapter Notes
     A/N: There was no prompt in my askbox, but thedamnriddler gave me
     some guidance on the next part. Previous ones can be found here under
     Body Swap.
     Prompt: (essentially) Peter has an epiphany.
Over the next number of days, Peter’s body knits itself back together.  It is
agonizing sometimes, the way his bones twist back into shape, having shattered
almost to dust.  For Peter, the process is slow, frustrating, idle; he forces
himself to his feet by the end of the first day and walks with a limp until the
next. Even after he has healed, he avoids his nephew and that gaggle of
teenagers that always seem to be around him. 
There is still an irritation under his ribcage, like something is there that
shouldn’t be.  It leaves him agitated, unable to settle, and he is tempted to
claw his own skin off.  He knows that the attempted barbs Derek’s betas would
throw his way the second he showed his face could be enough to set him off.  He
waits until he knows that they should all be at school until he decides to go
to Derek’s, perhaps to push this feeling, this crawling sensation off on him. 
To find his relief in badgering his nephew.
Instead, he finds it the second he walks into the door.  At the dining room
table, Stiles is sitting with Derek and talking in a hushed tone.  He stops
when Peter steps in, lips thinning and back straightening out. 
“Who died?” Peter asks, head tilting slightly as he smiles with sharp teeth,
padding across the room. 
“Apparently not you,” Derek replies dryly.
Peter places a hand over his chest, finds his heart beating heavily under his
palm, and feigns hurt.  “You sound disappointed.”
“Maybe I feel that way,” Derek gives him a dull look, pushing to his feet. 
“Stiles, can I get you something to drink?”
“I’d say whiskey, but I don’t think you’d give it to me.” Stiles says.
“You’d be right.”
“Coffee, then.” Stiles says, shifting in his seat as Derek moves to the
kitchen.
There is a long moment when Stiles refuses to look Peter’s way.  Peter pads
closer, the table between them, and clears his throat.  He watches Stiles’ eyes
close, watches him sigh, and lingers on the part of Stiles’ lips.  Their eyes
meet; Peter feels a thrum, a thrill humming through his veins.
“Stiles—“
“Don’t start,” Stiles shakes his head.
Peter frowns.  “But we already have.  Why not finish?”
“Because what you think we’ve started certainly isn’t something that I want to
finish,” Stiles says.  “I’d much rather move past it.  Or forget it.”
“And what do you believe I think we’ve started?” Peter asks.
“Sex,” Stiles says.  “Mindless, no strings attached sex.”
Peter scoffs.  “And you’re telling me you don’t want that?”
“Not with you.”
Faltering, Peter blinks, then sets his jaw.  He leans forward, palms on the
table, expression dark because Stiles is being completely honest.
“Not with me?”
“No,” Stiles shrugs.  “Not interested in that with you.”
“Why not?  It’s a sure thing.”  Peter says, head canting, eyes narrowed.  “You
certainly enjoyed yourself last time.”
The ruddy flush that blooms over Stiles’ cheeks spreads down, down his neck and
beneath his shirt.  Peter feels smug, wants to see how far it will go, tonguing
over his lower lip.  He feels ravenous and doesn’t know why.
Stiles inhales slow, and his adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.  Mouth watering
faintly, Peter tilts his head the other direction as he regards Stiles.  He
smiles as Stiles shifts, scenting the air and catching the smell of Stiles’
arousal.  His eyes trail down and back up, brows lifting in blatant
invitation.  Stiles’ brows pinch together.
“Been there, done that.”  Stiles breathes, arms crossing over his chest, long
fingers gripping tightly at his own biceps.
The smug look on Peter’s face drops. 
“Do you want sugar or anything?” Derek calls from the kitchen.
“I want it so sweet that my teeth rot,” Stiles replies.
Peter’s lip curls up into a sneer.  “Stiles—“
“Not interested, Peter.”
An uptick; Peter feels like he’s trying to catch smoke in his hands.  “Liar.”
“I’m not interested in anything that you’re offering,” Stiles snaps.
There is a truth there.  A bitter earnestness.  Peter recoils.
Smile going eerily pleasant, Peter straightens out.  “Fair enough.”
Walking back out, two mugs in hand, Derek blinks at Peter like he’s surprised
he’s still there despite the fact that they both know he was listening the
entire time.  “Are you finished propositioning the minor?”
Peter’s grin goes tight.  “Yes, I am.”  It sounds final, but certainly doesn’t
feel that way.
“Good,” Derek nods, setting a coffee in front of Stiles.  “If there’s nothing
else, you can find the door.”
“Of course, nephew.”  Peter says with a mockingly polite dip of his head; his
eyes don’t leave Stiles’ face.  “A question, though.  Before I leave.”
“What?” Derek asks, brows going up, exasperated.
“Is school canceled today?”
Stiles practically squirms. 
Derek glances between them.  “No.  There’s a new student that’s definitely non-
human.  Stiles had a free period.”
“Are we distrusting all new supernatural creatures that stumble into Beacon
Hills these days?” Peter scoffs.
“No,” Derek concedes with a slow shakes of his head.  “But it’s good to note. 
Especially when said supernatural creature targets Stiles as a potential love
interest.”
Peter feels something twist in his abdomen.  He finally meets Derek’s gaze,
sees the challenge and the amusement there, but bites the inside of his cheek. 
“If that’s all?” Derek says.
“Until next time, Derek.”  Peter nods, already heading for the door, pausing
just long enough for one last glance.  “Stiles.”
Stiles’ eyes stay glued to the dark surface of his coffee.  Peter slams the
door when he leaves.
===============================================================================
Peter isn’t all that surprised that he’s hard by the time he reaches his
apartment complex—his thoughts lingering on Stiles and on Stiles’ defiance. 
The angry pinch of Stiles’ expression seems burned into Peter’s retina, and
Peter feels that crawling under his skin that he is slowly beginning to
recognize as longing.  There’s that annoying thud under his ribcage, and he
rubs his chest with a dark twist of his lips as he pulls into the parking
garage beneath his building. 
He parks his car and kills the engine, the residual hum soothing him minimally
as he sinks into the leather of the driver’s seat.  There are bright eyes and
parted lips on his mind.  The way Stiles had been so hot for him, back when
Peter was too feverish to savor it properly.  The noises Stiles had made for
him, writhing beneath him, all lean muscle and pretty mewls. 
Peter palms himself and groans, hating how wound up he is.  Hating that Stiles
isn’t in the car next to him, those long fingers easing beneath Peter’s
waistband in place of his own.  He tries to remember all the subtle nuances of
how Stiles’ smells—all that lemon-honey spice—when aroused but finds it short
of the real thing.  Stroking over himself in short, rushed movements, Peter’s
teeth go tight as he tries to picture all that pale skin, those long legs, the
impossible clench of his body. 
Desire is not the problem.  Stiles wants Peter just as badly as Peter wants
Stiles.  Peter twists his wrist slightly, moans, hips flexing up.  There are
words ringing through his head, rattling around his skull. 
I’m not interested in anything that you’re offering.
Sex.  Peter was offering sex.  The pace Peter has set slows; he stares sort of
blankly at the visor above him. 
Stiles was certainly interested in sex.  He was even interested in having sex
again with Peter.  There was a gap there, something not quite fitting
together.  Peter grunts, rocking up into his own hand; heat coils familiarly in
his stomach.  His pace quickens again.
He remembers how sweet and pliant Stiles had gone for him.  I want it.  I
want you.
It isn’t just sex.  It isn’t even a crush.  It’s feelings. 
Peter comes sharply, abruptly.  There is realization on his tongue, not quite
sweet, but certainly heady, certainly tantalizing.  His arches slightly, spills
into his fingers in thick stripes, soiling his underwear with it. 
“Oh,” he breathes, panting lightly, brows drawn tight and mouth open.  “Oh,
shit.”
What’s even worse, Peter thinks as he sits there with his heart in his throat,
is that he has those feelings too. 
***** bite chunks out of me *****
Chapter Notes
     WARNING: attempted sexual assault
     Prompt: Another prompt for the body swap Steter verse – Peter’s
     finally figured out what Stiles has been getting at, but now he
     realizes he has some possibly serious competition from that
     supernatural newcomer at Stiles’ school. Needless to say, Peter isn’t
     going to stand for that. But it’s difficult to win Stiles over when
     Stiles doesn't believe him about Peter returning his feelings.
     (cywscross)
Stiles’ moan is swallowed up between them.  His legs lock tight at Peter’s
hips, fingers tangled in his hair, and Peter presses him back firmly to the
wall.  Flush and rutting, they grapple, hands pawing needily at one another. 
The taste of Stiles’ soft whimper as Peter drags rough hands over his skin is
addicting.  Stiles arches, gasps, lips parted and kiss-swollen as Peter mouths
down over his throat.  Marks him. 
“Please, Peter, please.”  Stiles mumbles in breathy pants, leaving red lines
against Peter’s shoulders as they rock together. 
There is a fire that Peter wouldn’t dream of shying from building between
them.  Stoked by each touch, kiss, shift of their bodies against one another. 
The friction is sweet.  Peter’s movements grow more and more frantic; Stiles
urges him on.
“I want you,” Stiles pants against his lips between kisses, pulling Peter
impossibly closer.  “Oh, god, I want you so much, Peter.”
Peter comes with stuttering hips.  The world tilts, and he groans against his
pillow as he opens his eyes.  He knows his sheets will need to be washed; knows
without looking that Stiles isn’t in the bed next to him or anywhere in his
apartment.  That Stiles hasn’t been to his apartment in months. 
He sighs heavily, pushes up from the mattress and slides from between his
sheets.  Dragging a hand through his hair, he pads towards his bathroom. 
The fantasies are not new.  They have been occurring since Peter had his little
epiphany in the car a month back; though, as time has passed, they have grown
more frequent and more vivid.  It would be one thing if they were just
carnal—just sweat and heat and orgasms—but there are many that are nothing but
tenderness.  Syrupy sweet nothings that leave Peter aching upon blinking
awake.  He’d hate to admit that those are his favorites.
There is a familiar tang of honey and lemon on his tongue as Peter frowns at
himself in the mirror.  He rinses his mouth out with water, scratching with
clawed nails over where his heart is thud-thud-thudding away in his chest.  He
very nearly draws blood, stopping just shy, and flexing his fingers out
reluctantly as he watches pinked skin heal rapidly. 
Inhaling slow, he thinks about what it would be like to have Stiles pressed
flush with his back in the mirror.  Lips at his shoulder, long fingered hands
over his chest and abdomen, bright eyes caught with his.  Peter climbs into the
shower and jerks off to the thought of Stiles in there with him.
By the time he steps back out, he is already running behind schedule.  It is
Sunday, and Stiles should have already gone to the local bakery to pick up a
box of pastries for everyone at his father’s office.  Peter will have to aim
for catching Stiles on his way out of the police station.
It hadn’t started like this.  At first, it was idle.  To find out what Stiles
did outside of playing with wolves, of meddling in things no human should.  To
find out what Stiles liked, what Stiles didn’t like, what his hobbies were. 
Peter figured it might help, might ease his way back into Stiles’ good graces.
Somehow, Peter found himself tailing Stiles almost everywhere.  A slow,
gravitational desire to watch him smile, laugh, gesticulate with his friends,
with his father, with strangers.  There was a pull in his stomach, guttural and
instinctual, and Peter followed it without question until it was nearly a daily
occurrence.  By the time Peter was aware that what he was doing was beginning
to border on something that wasn’t necessarily appropriate, he already knew
Stiles’ schedule Monday, to Sunday, and back again.
Sundays had become his favorite days, though.  His most lucky.  On occasion, he
could catch Stiles at the bakery, or just outside the police station, or at the
local library.  Otherwise, Peter limited his actual interactions with Stiles
down to Pack meetings and research sessions.  Limited himself while he gathered
information, the best ways to go about getting back to being on Stiles’ green
list—instead of the cautionary, wary one he was on now.  Sundays were the days
he got to have Stiles to himself, at the very least, for a moment.
Today, however, is not like the usual Sundays.  Peter is walking down the
sidewalk, a coffee in hand from the shop across the street, knowing that Stiles
should be walking out in the next few seconds.  When he does, he is not alone. 
Peter’s polite smile doesn’t falter for a moment.
“Stiles,” he says and the boy blinks over at him, not quite surprised but not
quite expectant. 
“Peter,” Stiles gives him a small grin, comes to a slow stop in front of him as
he zips up his sweatshirt.  “Hi.”
“Hello,” Peter says, takes a miniscule second to scent the air and savors the
warmth to Stiles’ scent that has finally seeped back in after the passing of
time; the way Stiles is more comfortable around him again has been something
Peter reveled in.
“Nice day,” Stiles says, hands tucking into his pockets and the other boy at
his side clears his throat.  “Oh.  Right.  Um, Peter this is Cris.  Cris,
Peter.”
Cris doesn’t offer his hand, but when their eyes meet, Peter sees the silver
glint.  “Nice to meet you, Peter.”
Cris stands tall with a charming smile, hands casually in the pockets of his
jeans; skin a rich gold color, hair dark, eyes practically black if not for
that blue-silver sheen.  There is a smell of wet dog on the boy’s skin, and
something old beneath that.  Peter doesn’t trust him.
“Likewise,” Peter says, smile not meeting his gaze.  “Is the name short for
something?”
“Crisanto,” he says.
“Greek?” Peter prompts.
“Tagalog,” Cris’ smile broadens; for a moment, his teeth look sharp.  “My
mother is from the Philippines.”
“Interesting,” Peter replies, gaze flitting back to Stiles.  “I’m assuming this
is the young witch Derek told me was attending your school.”
Stiles nods.  “He is.”
“Are you apart of the local Pack?” Cris asks, but they both know he already has
that answer. 
“I am,” Peter says, if only for appearances.  “Have you met the others?”
“Only the ones at the school,” Cris says, leaning towards Stiles so that their
shoulders bump.  “This guy is trying to convince me to drop by the next bonding
session.”
Stiles blushes.  The hand in Peter’s coat pocket curls tight, tighter until his
own claws are digging into his palm. 
“Bonding session?” Peter repeats, brow going up, tone light.
“That’s what he calls your group meetings,” Cris says on a chuckle, staying in
Stiles’ space, and Stiles doesn’t step away. 
Stiles huffs.  “When we broke out the card games it totally became a bonding
thing.”
“Whatever you say,” Cris laughs.
They share a look that is something akin to adoration.  Peter clears his
throat.
“Right,” Stiles says.  “Um.  We kind of… We have plans.”
“Plans,” Peter repeats.
“Yeah,” Stiles nods.  “A movie, um, thing.”
Their eyes lock.  Stiles’ gaze flits over Peter’s face as he licks his lips,
shifting from foot to foot.  Peter takes a step aside, gestures to the open
sidewalk, and feels his stomach twist in tight knots.  He doesn’t miss the way
Stiles’ face sort of falls.  They ease past him, Cris bidding him a polite
goodbye. 
Hand shooting out, Peter catches Stiles’ by the elbow and stops him.  Blinking
owlishly, Stiles frowns, tilts his head, and Peter leans in.  His voice is low
in Stiles’ ear, grip carefully controlled on Stiles’ arm because all he wants
to do is drag him away.  It might even seem casual if it weren’t for the quiet
words Peter mutters to him.
“Be careful,” he says. 
Stiles shivers at the heat of Peter’s breath against the shell of his ear, but
there is an apprehension even as he forces a smile.  “Derek said what?”
Peter feels that tension in his stomach ease a bit.  “Your friend is not what
he says he is.  I’m not sure what he might be, but he is not a simple witch.”
“Okay, sure,” Stiles nods.  “I’ll pass the word on to Scott.”
“Call if you need to,” Peter says and then releases him.
Stiles smiles and gives a small wave, moving to join where Cris is waiting more
than a few paces ahead.  “Talk to you later, Peter.”
Peter watches them go.  Watches Stiles laugh, head back, hand over his stomach
at something Cris whispers to him.  Despite his warnings, Peter knows that the
joy is genuine.  He watches as Cris nudges into Stiles’ side and Stiles nudges
back.
At his side, the hand he’d touched Stiles with flexes.  Peter throws his coffee
away, still full, into the nearest trash can before heading for his car.
===============================================================================
Stiles frequently has that scent of wet dog on him.  Peter recognizes at Cris’
scent, and every time he catches it on Stiles’ skin, he gets an itch in the
marrow of his bones that is so bad he thinks he might break into hives. 
There is a permanently happy look on Stiles’ face.  Dopey.  Peter’s jaw ticks
every time Stiles smiles because he knows it has nothing to do with him. 
Stiles spends so much time with Cris that it is nearly impossible to find him
alone anymore, to get the smell of Stiles—nothing but Stiles—unmuddled by
anyone else.  It’s starting to drive Peter up the wall.
“There’s something not right about him,” Peter tells Derek.
“Who?” Derek asks between measured breaths, muscles straining as he repeats
controlled reps in the doorway between the living room and his bedroom, bar
placed in the threshold. 
“That kid hanging off of Stiles these days,” Peter says, watching him idly.
Derek pauses mid pull, glances Peter’s way and frowns as he eases himself
down.  “The witch?”
“If that’s what he is,” Peter nods. 
Derek snorts, grabbing a water bottle off the table and taking a long pull. 
“What makes you think he’s anything but?”
“Intuition,” Peter says.
“Because you’re the poster child for good intuition,” Derek rolls his eyes.
Peter clucks his tongue.  “Have you met the boy?”
“No,” Derek concedes.  “But I trust my betas.  And I trust Stiles’ judgment on
who he’s dating.”
Peter inhales sharply, and then eases his expression into something
nonchalant.  “Dating?”
Leaning back against the edge of the table, Derek nods.  “From what I
understand of it.  I’m surprised you don’t already know that considering how
much you’ve been tailing Stiles around.”
That leads Peter to pause for a moment.  “Pardon?”
Derek’s brows just go up, expectant.  As Derek’s lips thin, Peter grins
roguishly, shrugging.
“I have to get my kicks somewhere,” Peter says.
“Well, whatever kicks you’re getting out of it, back off.”  Derek pushes from
the table, padding back over to the doorway.  “Leave him alone.”
“I’m not hurting anyone,” Peter replies.
“You’re right,” Derek grunts, hefting himself back up into a steady motion,
ankles hooked beneath him as he strains faintly.  “But that doesn’t mean that
you won’t.”
Peter doesn’t comment on that.  “Meet the boy, Derek.  You’ll see what I’m
talking about.”
“Fine,” Derek huffs.  “Next Pack meeting.  I’ll tell Stiles to bring his
boyfriend along.”
Peter leaves, somewhat satisfied, but somehow burning.  On the elevator down,
he thinks about how serene Stiles has been lately, thinks about the rank stench
of someone else on Stiles’ skin, and he moves before he can stop himself. 
There is a dent in the wall when the doors finally open on the ground floor. 
Peter’s knuckles are bleeding as he steps out.
===============================================================================
Peter is almost frantic enough to break the lock on Stiles’ lacrosse locker. 
He takes his time, though, waits to hear the clicks before he jerks it open. 
His hands search—look for something, anything—for an article of clothing that
won’t be tainted by anything.  That Peter can finally get the raw smell of
Stiles in his senses again.  He almost doesn’t remember what Stiles smells like
on his own.
Rummaging in the relative darkness of the locker room, Peter finally curls his
fingers into something soft and cotton.  He pulls it from the locker, holds it
up to his face and takes a deep breath.  Aside from the standard hints of
sweat, cheap cologne, and deodorant, it smells of Stiles and Stiles alone. 
Something in Peter calms. 
There is a clatter.  The door to the fields opening at the far end of the
locker room.  Peter shuts Stiles’ locker, clicks the padlock shut, and slips
just out of sight.  The players come pouring in, stripping on their way to the
showers. 
Peter pays it no mind until Stiles is opening his locker up, pulling padding
off and then his practice jersey.  There is all that lithe muscle Peter
remembers.  He gets lost, briefly, in imaginings that are quite frankly
filthy.  He gets so lost, in fact, that he almost doesn’t catch what Stiles and
Scott are discussing.
“—my mom has been going kinda crazy,” Scott mutters.  “Like, a bunch of
miscarriages have been happening.  And yesterday?  Apparently a kid down the
street was brought in, but he died in the ambulance.”
“How?” Stiles frowns.
“His liver was missing,” Scott says.  “Like, harvested.”
Stiles’ nose wrinkles.  Peter’s gaze lingers on the expression.  It makes Peter
want to grin, to reel Stiles in and kiss the look away.  He drums his fingers
against his thigh.
“That’s disgusting,” Stiles says.
“I know,” Scott nods.  “Should we bring it up to Derek?”
“Bring what up to Derek?” Isaac asks as he joins them. 
Stiles throws a towel over his shoulder.  “Creepy dead children stuff.  Scott,
did you take that red shirt back?”
“Nah, man.” Scott shakes his head.  “Maybe it’s at home?”
“Probably.”
“Creepy dead kids?” Isaac prompts them back onto topic.
Peter waits for them all to trickle towards the showers.  Only then does he
ease from his hiding spot and head for the exit.
===============================================================================
Getting caught is not something Peter plans on doing.  He sneaks into Stiles’
room to deposit his shirt, fully expecting to have to creep past Stiles snoring
softly, and disappointed to find Stiles’ bed empty.  Taking another deep breath
of the smell of him, Peter places the shirt in Stiles’ hamper, heading for the
window to take his leave—any other night and he might linger, take in what has
changed on the walls, on his desk, but he doesn’t know where Stiles is until he
pauses at the window sill.
Outside, Stiles is at the curb talking with Cris.  They are smiling at one
another, voices hushed but fogging in between them.  Peter watches them kiss
and leaves ragged lines in the wood of Stiles’ window sill with his claws.  His
breath comes sharp, features hardening as Cris pulls Stiles close—hand at his
hip, fingers curved around the back of Stiles’ neck, their mouths sliding
together in a lazy heat—and Peter is feelsanger.
It boils in his chest, burns at the back of his throat, and he closes his eyes
to steady himself even as his heart pounds in his ears.  He rolls his head,
tries to alleviate the tension in his shoulders, and finds that he can’t find
any sort of relief.  He bites on the inside of his cheek and can taste iron.
He hears the lights flick on first.
“Peter?”
Stiles sounds breathy.  Blissed. 
Turning around, Peter offers him a crooked grin, charming as ever.  He is not
sure how long he had been standing in Stiles’ room; he is not sure how long
Stiles was downstairs, kissing someone that wasn’t Peter, but he knows that it
was too long. 
Stiles smells like dog and lust and none of it is right.  His smile wavers,
eyes tracking over Stiles’ face, seeing kiss swollen lips and feeling his
stomach roll.  The nice expression drops the second he spots the love mark on
Stiles’ neck.
Stiles regards him warily.  “Peter—“
Something in Peter shifts.  Perhaps it even snaps. 
Stalking across the small room, Peter takes Stiles by the shirt front and hauls
him forward away from the threshold of his bedroom.  He kisses him hard and
messy, tastes blood that is not his own, and hears Stiles’ gasp.  Shutting the
door and locking it, Peter shoves Stiles back against the wood and licks into
his mouth like he belongs there.
Hands push at his shoulders, at his chest.  Stiles lets out a muffled sound
that is definitely a moan; Peter can hear the blood rushing under Stiles’
skin.  He rucks Stiles’ shirt up with clawed hands, just to get at his skin,
and Stiles whimpers, curls his fingers into Peter’s sweater and jerks at it. 
Kissing Stiles breathless, Peter leaves pink, raised lines across Stiles’ lower
back as he pulls him closer, letting out a pleased grumble as Stiles arches.
The kiss breaks, Stiles turning his face away and gasping heavily into the
otherwise quiet of the room.  “Peter, what—?”
He presses a thigh between Stiles’ legs firmly, earns a sharp mewl.  Stiles is
hard, but he’s still pushing at Peter’s shoulders, shoving and shaking. 
Panting, Stiles grunts as Peter lands a harsh grip on his hips and tugs him
against his thigh; Stiles whimpers.
“Stop—“ Stiles hitches.  “Peter, stop it.”
“You want it,” Peter mutters, mouthing down Stiles’ neck, marking over the
hickey that is already there.  “I know you do.”
“I don’t.” Stiles says.
Stiles’ heart lurches and Peter tugs him against his thigh again, feels Stiles
quiver.  “You’re lying.”
“I don’t, Peter, I don’t.” Stiles tries again, voice high and breathy.  “Stop. 
Please, stop.”
“I can smell it on you,” Peter insists, catching Stiles’ wrists and pinning
them back against the door with a grip that is bordering on bruising.  “How
badly you want me.  You can’t lie to me, Stiles.”
“Peter,” Stiles says and it hiccups over his lips like a sob.
“I can give you so much more than that boy can, whatever he might be.”  Peter
insists, teeth dragging over Stiles’ jaw, scraping.  “If you’d just fucking let
me.”
Stiles trembles, shaking his head.  “I don’t want this.  Peter, I don’t want
this.”
Gripping Stiles’ jaw, Peter kisses him again, harsh and claiming.  He doesn’t
want to hear that.  The way Stiles goes pliant for him speaks truer to the
boy’s desires than the words that Peter can’t think too long on.  The idea of
Stiles not wanting him makes Peter’s blood boil.
He keeps Stiles pinned like that, keeps guiding him into a sloppy rut against
Peter’s thigh, even as Stiles strains.  He’s consumed; in his envy, in his
lust.  He does not stop until Stiles starts to cry.  Then, of course, he
freezes.
Breath heavy, Peter stares at Stiles, watching the tears slip down his cheeks. 
Stiles isn’t sobbing, isn’t sniffling, but there is a panicked rabbit to his
heart rate, a quiver to his body.  He smells distressed under the heady smell
of arousal, and Peter feels quite suddenly sick.
“Stiles—“
“I don’t want this,” Stiles whispers, voice tight.  “Peter, please—I don’t want
this.”
Peter inhales shakily, nods, framing Stiles’ face with his hands.  “I know.  I
know, I—“ his throat feels tight.  “I’m sorry.  I’m sorry, Stiles.”
Stiles’ hands are pressed to his chest, a steady pressure there that doesn’t
mean much, but Peter imagines it gives Stiles some peace of mind.  He’s
trembling.  Peter is tempted to carry him to bed, wrap him up, makes sure he’s
okay.  Instead, he takes a step back because he knows Stiles probably doesn’t
want Peter anywhere near him. 
Not now.  Maybe not ever.
“I’m sorry,” Peter repeats one more time, already withdrawing towards the
window. 
Stiles stands there, watching.  He doesn’t say anything for a long, quiet
minute.  Wrapping his arms around himself, Stiles shakes his head.
“Please, leave.” Stiles says, voice rough.  “I—Leave, Peter.”
Probably for the first time in his life, Peter takes someone’s orders. 
***** fuck you (forgive me) *****
“Peter,” Stiles calls through the door, knock firm against the wood.  “Open
up.”
Peter stares at the door.  It has been a week since Peter has seen him.  A week
since his slip of control.  Since Peter has allowed himself to see anyone, let
alone Stiles.  His hands curl into loose fists at his sides.
The knocking comes again.  More harsh.  More impatient.
“Open the fucking door, Peter.  I know you’re in there.” Stiles says, still
rap-rapping his knuckles against the wood.
Peter takes a deep breath.  He can smell Stiles from where he’s standing in the
area between his kitchen and his living room.  Lavish as his apartment is, it
feels quite suddenly too small. 
There is a familiar itch under his skin.  He rolls his shoulders, lips in a
thin line, clothes seemingly too tight if the hot prickle of the cold sweat
that forms over his body is any indication.  His feet fell heavy, weighted in
place against the hardwood floor.  He only moves when he hears Stiles slide a
key into the lock on his door.
Stalking across the room, he jerks the door open, both he and Stiles stalling
for a moment.  Stiles takes advantage of the way Peter won’t take his eyes off
of him, won’t move, and slips through the threshold by him. 
“You had a key made?” Peter asks, pulling it free from the lock with a sharp
motion. 
“Duh,” Stiles says over his shoulder, padding over to one of the many cardboard
boxes and stopping to peer inside.  “Is this a joke?”
“Funny,” Peter sighs, shutting the door, just shy of too harshly.  “I was about
to ask you the same thing.”
Stiles snorts; digging into the box, dredging out an armful of texts, and
meandering over to Peter’s empty bookcase.  “My whole life is a joke.”
“What are you doing?” Peter frowns.
“I’m here to acquire your assistance with this month’s biggest murder mystery
saga.” Stiles says, stacking the books messily before heading back for more.
Peter watches him.  “That’s not what I mean.”
“No?  Too bad.”  Stiles huffs, balancing tomes in his arms without finesse. 
“Because that’s what we’re talking about.”
He teeters.  Peter’s hands curl at his sides again; he sways forward slightly,
towards where Stiles finds his footing.  Biting down hard on his own tongue,
Peter clears his throat.
“This thing is going after kids,” Stiles says by way of explanation even as he
places the books haphazardly on the shelves.  “How fucked is that?  Who goes
after kids?”
“Lots of things,” Peter mutters.
He’s easing closer, eyes never leaving the work of Stiles’ shoulders under
loose black cotton.  Stiles is undoing all of his hard work.  Invading his
space with his smell, with his sound, and Peter craves Stiles’ taste.  He
swallows hard, hovering at Stiles’ side.
His fingers twitch.  There is a desire to reach for him.  The tightness along
the breadth of his own shoulders is an ode to that.  Stiles glances up at him,
brow lifting, and Peter’s eyes drop to his mouth before slipping back up. 
“You shouldn’t have come here,” Peter says.
Stiles purses his lips.  “What kinds of things?”
He keeps lining books up, out of order, uncaring in his motions, and Peter’s
hand snaps up to stop him, fingers resting over Stiles’ fingers where they are
wrapped around the spine of an older piece.  “Stop it.”
“No,” Stiles says.  “You don’t get to run off just because you’re a jackass. 
It hasn’t stopped you before, why would it now?”
“What do you want to hear?” Peter sneers.  “That you’re a special little
snowflake?”
His grip on Stiles’ hand goes tight.  Bones groan.  Stiles winces.
“That I can’t control myself around you?  That I don’t want to?”  Peter crowds
Stiles against the shelving, chest broad against Stiles’ back, words hot and
low at his ear.  “I can’t.  And I don’t.  I would bend you over and have you
right here—“
He hears the charge just a second too late.  Electricity fires along his nerve
endings and his muscles seize.  Stumbling back, Peter sucks in a shaky breath,
still shuddering from the volts sparking in his veins.  His jaw locks up for a
number of seconds.  He presses a hand to his side, feels the heat there, and
stares at Stiles with slightly widened eyes.
Waggling the small stun gun, Stiles’ brows go up again.  Peter remembers the
last time he’d seen it, at the grocery store, and remembers the warning he’d
received.  There is no such curtesy this time.  Peter supposes he deserved it.
Pressing the switch down, Stiles lets it spark for only a second.  “Talon
Mini.  Eighty thousand volts.  If you were human, you’d be on the ground for a
long time.”
“Good thing I’m not human,” Peter breathes.
“I suppose,” Stiles shrugs, tugging the stun gun back into waistband.  “Now,
we’re going to go to Derek’s loft.  And you’re going to help us identify what
it is we’re after.  And all of this?”
Stiles gestures to the boxes around the room.  The evidence that Peter’s
running.  Leaving. 
“This is all going to stop,” Stiles says.
“Is it?”
“Yes,” Stiles insists.  “Or I’ll be showing up next time with something a lot
more powerful than a dash of electricity.”
“Oh, will you, boy?” Peter’s eyes drop down to roam over Stiles, prowling
forward one step, then two.  Stiles doesn’t move except to cross his arms, chin
tilting up; firm defiance.  Peter wants to eat him whole.  “What makes you
think you’ll make it out that front door?”
Stiles snorts.  “What?  Like it’ll be hard?”
“I can certainly make it difficult,” Peter assures.
Stiles smiles.  It’s small and a bit dark; Stiles cants his head to the side,
gaze dropping in a mockery of how Peter had just looked at him.  When he meets
Peter’s eyes again, he uncrosses his arms and holds his hands out.  An
invitation. 
His slow stalking stutters to halt.  Peter feels something twist in him,
remembers how prettily Stiles had moaned and then how terrified he’d
looked—pinned between Peter and his bedroom door, pushing or trying to push
Peter away—and feels heat at the back of his throat.  He glances away.  Stiles
drops his hands.
“I know you’d like to think so,” Stiles nods.  “But you’ll be going with me to
Derek’s.”
“You’re so sure.”
“I am,” Stiles nods again.  “Because I know you don’t want to hurt me.”
Peter looks his way, upper lip curling and twisting his mouth into something
like a snarl.
“In fact, I’d say you want quite the opposite.”  Stiles adds, taking a few
steps forward until there is only a foot or two between them, until Peter has
gone rigid.  “Am I right?”
Inhaling sharply, Peter’s nostrils flare.  His jaw goes tight as Stiles
chuckles, like he’s been stunned again. 
His fingers flex where his hands hang at his sides.  If he had less control,
he’d undoubtedly be sporting claws.  Stiles smells like heat, sharp and
confident, spices heavy to Peter’s senses.  It makes his mind wonder to all
kinds of dark places; it doesn’t help that he hasn’t been able to see Stiles,
touch him, speak to him in longer than he has in a number of months. 
Peter doesn’t think he’s had cravings like this in a very long time.  Stiles
crosses his arms again, shuffles a bit, and clears his throat.
“Thought so,” he huffs.
“Is that why you’re here, then?” Peter asks.  “Some twisted act of
retribution?  Going to rub it in, perhaps?”
“Revenge has always been your shtick,” Stiles says, reaching out and taking
Peter’s wrist in a loose grip—loose enough for Peter to pull away, but he
doesn’t.  “But I can’t say the idea doesn’t tickle me a little, considering.”
“Considering?” Peter asks, eyes where Stiles’ fingers tighten against his
skin. 
“The ironically reversed rolls we seem to be in.  The teasing when you knew I
wanted you.  The chasing when you realized I wasn’t waiting around.  And then
of course the sexual assault— you have a serious jealousy problem.”  Stiles
says, almost idle, pulling Peter towards the door.  “Among your other, more
colorful, traits.”
Peter shuffles after him—moth to flame, negative to positive.  “Is it your
turn, then?  Am I to be teased?  To be punished?”
Stiles pauses, door halfway open, looking over at Peter with a small shake of
his head.  “No.  Actually, I’m planning to forgive you.  Something I don’t
think you’re very familiar with.”
Peter stares at him, a bit dumb, brow furrowed.  He doesn’t move for a long
moment.
Stiles tugs at his wrist again.  “Come on.  I promise to tease you a little
bit—you know, to lighten to blow.” 
Peter frowns.
Rolling his eyes, Stiles tugs harder.  “Come on.  Don’t make me taze you
again.”
Stepping forward, Peter nods.  Stiles leads him with a triumphant little hop in
his step.
***** let yourself go *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Peter was, as he almost always is, right when he told Stiles that beasts who
like going after children are not uncommon.  However, when Derek tells him that
it isn’t just infants but unborn children, it certainly narrows down the list.
They have texts scattered over the table.  Peter is leaning over one; profile
struck in hues of red from the setting sun sinking out the vast window in
Derek’s lost.  Across from him, Stiles is skimming through his copy of the
Argent’s bestiary.  The only others with them are Lydia and Boyd, Derek having
ordered everyone else out on patrol.  Peter is oddly grateful for their
presence in the living room, books in hand, busying themselves with research. 
It lessens the weight in his chest just enough for him to concentrate.
From time to time, Stiles’ phone chirps.  Updates from Scott and Allison where
they’re posted at the hospital—as if whatever this was would attack there and
not target the victims in their homes.  Glancing up, Peter watches Stiles for a
quiet moment, sees him sag as he checks the screen and bites the inside of his
cheek when Stiles pinches the bridge of his own nose.  Peter wants to round the
table, ease the tension out of Stiles in any way he can; if they’d been alone,
his control might have been loose enough to do so. 
Lydia brushes by to the kitchen to get a cup of coffee, though.  Peter focuses
back on the matter at hand.
“Aswang,” Boyd says, quite suddenly, voice soft from where he’s curved over the
coffee table.
“What?” Stiles frowns, looks his way, and Peter is already straightening out.
Boyd taps the open pages in front of him.  “An Aswang.  It’s like a uh… well,
kinda like a vampire, I guess.”
Stiles shoots a sharp look Peter’s way.  “Vampires?”
“Complete bullshit,” Peter shakes his head.  “But there are creatures that the
myths are based off of.”
Lydia pokes her head out of the kitchen.  “What about vampires?”
“An Aswang,” Boyd says, twisting around to face them, brows up as he lifts the
book in the air.  “It targets children in order to stay young.  Eats their
insides.  Really gross, actually.”
“Haven’t the children been missing organs?” Lydia asks, brows furrowing as she
steps out, arms crossed over her chest.
“Yes,” Stiles breathes, eyes on Boyd.  “What else does it say?”
“Usually women.  Book compares them to witches too.”  Boyd adds.
Peter shifts, hips resting against the table, brows scalp bound.  “How do you
kill them?”
Boyd just grins. 
===============================================================================
Tracking it down is, surprisingly, simple.  Once they know what they’re looking
for, it narrows down their hunting grounds.  It is Erica and Isaac who find it,
just at the edges of town, tracks smelling like blood and rage.  They call
Derek who calls them and decides that if it is a solitary creature as the texts
suggest, the wolves can handle it without too much hassle or danger.
Apparently they make quick work of it because Derek is walking through the door
an hour later with the rest of the pack on his tail—all bright eyed from the
rush, covered in sweat and dirt and what seems to be ash.  Peter watches Stiles
plop down onto the couch with his friends, listening with a crooked smile as
Scott regales him with their heroics. 
Derek approaches him, scowl firm, and Peter’s brows lift.  Taking him by the
shoulder, Derek ushers Peter toward the kitchen, and when he speaks, his voice
is low.
“You’re leaving?” he asks.
Peter blinks.  “I was considering the idea.  Did Stiles tell you?”
Nodding, Derek crosses his arms over his chest, brows pinched.  “Not why.  But
he told me you were packed up.”
“It was a fleeting urge,” Peter shrugs.  “I’ve been persuaded to change my
mind.”
“By Stiles?”
“Yes,” Peter admits.  “He did taze me, first, though.”
Derek barks out a surprised laugh.  His shoulders go loose and he leans back
agains the counter with a bemused shake of his head.
Jaw going tight, Peter regards him.  It is not often that they are at ease with
one another.  Peter is tempted to laugh with him; instead, he gives a small
grin.
“What happened to make you want to leave in the first place?” Derek asks after
a moment.
“Nothing good,” Peter says.
Derek pauses.  “Will it happen again?”
“Not if I can help it,” Peter replies.
“Good,” Derek nods slowly, clearing his throat as he shifts.  “That’s good.”
The heavy silence that falls after that is thick and long.  It breaks only when
there is laughter from the living room.
Derek sighs and then smiles.  Peter thinks it might be the most content he has
seen his nephew in a very long time, and there is a small part of him that
feels guilty for adding to that misery.  That time has long since passed,
though. 
Erica calls to them, voice clear as a bell as she raises her voice enough for
everyone to hear.  When she says she’s going to be using Derek’s shower and
stealing his clothes, Derek chuckles.  He holds out his own arms to examine
them, and Peter sees the dirt streaked over Derek’s forearms and wonders if
there is ash under Derek’s claws. 
“Don’t leave your towel on the floor,” he warns, almost idle.
They hear her cackle and Derek rolls his eyes with an air of fondness. 
“How was it?” Peter asks.  “Did the Aswang give you much trouble?”
“Against four werewolves and two hunters?  No.”  Derek huffs.
“Chris was there?”
“You said decapitation,” Derek shrugs.  “He had an axe.”
“How quaint,” Peter mutters.
“Turned to ash,” Derek adds.  “It was… very Buffy.”
Peter snorts.  “You’re kidding.”
Brows up, Derek just meets his gaze, smile crooked.  Peter laughs, faintly, and
shakes his head.  
“And there was only the one?” he asks.
Derek hesitates.
Frowning, Peter straightens, arms crossing over his chest.  “Derek?”
“I did… catch a second scent.” 
“So there’s another one,” Peter frowned.
Derek gives a small nod. “Yeah, that appears to be the case.  I think it might
have run off, though, to be completely honest.”
“What makes you think that?”
“It seemed like only one of them was living there.  The other scent was… faded
by at least a couple of days.”  Derek says.  “So perhaps there’s nothing to
worry about.”
Peter pauses but then nods slowly.  “Perhaps.”
===============================================================================
They all stay at the loft.  The younger wolves are too vibrant, too thrumming
to be sent home.  Instead, they all curl up around each other in the living
room, TV droning into the early, pinkened skies of the morning.  They are a
mess of limbs and quiet laughs until whatever high they’re coasting on putters
to a stop; they sleep hard and long.
Derek had long since retreated to his bedroom by the time any of them begin to
stir.  It is Stiles who wakes first, and Peter watches from where he has
hovered at the dining room table all night.
Their eyes meet from across the loft, as though Stiles knew Peter would be
there looking—Peter wouldn’t put it past him.  It lingers for a moment, and
then Peter glances down at the cold cup of coffee he has curled his hands
around.  The sleek and solid feel of porcelain against his palm is what keeps
him grounded as he hears Stiles shuffle to his feet.  He focuses on the heat he
can feel still clinging to the mug under his fingertips. 
He looks up again when he hears the chair adjacent to him slide back from the
table.  Stiles settles there, elbows on the tabletop, fingers laced in front of
him.  Peter’s gaze flits over him and admires the muss of his hair, the relaxed
line of his shoulders, the warm scent of sleep still on his skin.  Stiles
offers him a little smile.
“Good morning,” he says. 
Peter clears his throat.  “Good morning.”
From the living room, Erica grumbles and shifts.  She rolls to lay sprawled
across Isaac and Boyd.  Stiles’ lips thin as he bites back a smile.
With a gesture of his head, he points to the kitchen before pushing to his
feet.  He snatches up Peter’s mug, then turns and walks away.  Peter waits a
moment, listens to Stiles rummage through the fridge, before sliding out of his
seat to follow.  In the kitchen, Stiles is sitting on the counter waiting.
“I feel like we should talk,” he says and holds out a fresh cup of coffee for
Peter.
“About?” He takes it.
“Don’t be dense,” Stiles snorts into his own mug, paled with cream and
undoubtedly sweetened beyond tooth rotting levels.  “You know what.”
“I’m not exactly sure what you’d like me to say,” Peter sighs, leaning back
against the opposing counter. 
Stiles’ brows go up.  “Not a single idea?  Nothing at all?”
Jaw going tight, Peter gives him a dry look.  “I’ve already apologized once.”
“And you think that’s enough?  Considering what you did?” Stiles asks.
“I don’t apologize unless I mean it,” Peter says, fingers tightening around his
mug.  “I meant it.”
Stiles hums, lips pursing.  His gaze flits down over Peter; he has never felt
more exposed than under Stiles’ assessing, possibly even accusing gaze.  He
shifts from foot to foot, movement subtle, but Stiles chuckles and shakes his
head. 
It is the bemusement that strikes Peter.  Takes him back to how this all
started, standing in this kitchen together, months previous.  His lips tingle,
so he licks them.  He wonders if he and Derek had never swapped bodies if he
would have ever found out about Stiles’ feelings or developed any of his own.
“I actually don’t what to talk about what you did,” Stiles admits.  “I was
scary and definitely not okay, but I’m not interested in talking about what you
did or why you regret it.”
“What do you want then?” he asks.
“I want you to tell me why,” Stiles breathes, straightening up a bit with a
roll of his shoulders, taller than Peter where he’s sitting with his legs
dangling on the edge of the counter. 
“You don’t know?”
“Oh, I do.” Stiles assures.  “But I want to hear you say it.”
Peter thinks he can hear his own teeth grinding.  Stiles just tilts his chin up
a bit, setting his mug aside to rest his hands in his own lap.  Expectant. 
Smug.  Peter feels that familiar twist in his belly.
“I want you.”  Peter says on a breath.  “More than anything I’ve wanted in a
very long time.”
Stiles cants his head.  “You’ve already had me.  I’ve given that to you,
remember?”
“I want more,” Peter adds, voice low—sort of dark, a bit like longing.  “I want
everything.  I want it every day.  And I always will.”
Stiles’ smile is thin when he gives it.  “No, you won’t.”
“Stiles,” Peter frowns, sets his cup down, takes a step forward; he stops
before reaching him, doesn’t trust his own control not to take too much of what
he isn’t allowed to have.  “If you would let me, I could give you everything.”
His palms itch.
“I don’t want everything,” Stiles shakes his head.  “Even if you really could
give me everything, I wouldn’t want it.”
“Why not?” Peter asks, voice lowering.  “Because of what I did?  Because you
don’t want me anymore?”
Stiles’ lips press together tight.  His brows pinch together, draw up, and
Peter wants to reach up and press his thumb to the furrow there.  He wants to
crowd him back against the cabinets, find a place between his thighs, and kiss
him until Stiles doesn’t know how to form the words Peter doesn’t want to
hear.  Instead, his fingers curl into loose fists at his sides.
“Because I’ve moved on,” Stiles says.
Peter feels something burn in him.  It twists and sparks, wild and angry,
lashing against his insides.  He takes a step back.
The expression that flits over Stiles’ face is one of pity.  Peter’s lips curls
up, disdain and distaste like black tar on his tongue.  Stiles’ heart remains
steady—undeterred, unwavering.  Peter sort of aches to rip it out, take it in
his palms, and coddle the warmth for as long as he can.  His claws dig into his
own palms.
“You can’t say you don’t want me,” Peter says.  “I know you do.”
Stiles rolls his eyes.  “Of course I want you, Peter.  Of course I still feel
things for you.”
“Then what are you saying?”
“I’m saying I’ve moved passed the part where I want to pursue anything with you
other than what there already is,” Stiles slides off the counter, feet so bare
and pale against the floor.  “I want you, and I care about you—but after
everything that’s happened, I don’t think I can ever be more than this.  This,
right here, right now.”
“And what is this?” Peter asks.
Stiles shrugs.  He looks so vulnerable, standing there in front of Peter,
clothes still sleep rumpled.  He looks so sweetly earnest, smells like
peppermint in his honesty.  Peter wants to bury his face against Stiles’ neck
and breathe him in for days.
He stays steady when Stiles reaches out.  It is slow, tentative, but steady as
he rests his hand against Peter’s arm and offers a smile that is more of a
grimace.  Shuddering, Peter finds his breath comes easier, steadier, with
Stiles’ fingers curling over his bicep.  Perhaps it is just another way he has
become so wrapped in this figure of a young man, so entwined in his desire that
just a touch brings him calm.
“I didn’t have the time to wait for you,” Stiles says, voice quiet.  “It’s
selfish of you to have expected me to.”
“I’m a very selfish man.”
Stiles nods slowly—“I know.”—and leans in to press a kiss to Peter’s cheek.
It lingers like everything Stiles does to him seems to.  Peter knows that, even
after this, he will feel it for days. 
Peter takes Stiles’ by the hips, allows himself that intimacy, and bites back a
shiver when he feels the hot ghost of Stiles’ breath along his jaw.  He closes
his eyes, goes utterly still as Stiles’ lips graze the corner of his mouth, and
he thinks something inside of him might settle.  Might rest.  At least for a
while.
“If you say we can still be friends,” Peter mutters.  “I might just have to rip
your throat out.”
Stiles laughs, pulling back, and stepping out of Peter’s space.  “I just want
to go back to normal.”
“I’m not a good person, Stiles.  I’m not sure if I can.  I certainly don’t want
to.”
“Try.”
Peter’s brow goes up.  “Is that an order?”
“Yes,” Stiles nods.
He laughs too, short and exasperated.  “Or you’ll taze me?”
“Exactly,” Stiles says, hauling himself back up onto the counter.
Peter watches him drink his coffee.  There is a quiet as he shuffles back,
leans against the opposite edge, grins crooked and gives a little shrug of his
shoulder.
“Fine.”
Stiles beams; Peter feels devastatingly whipped.
===============================================================================
It is after everyone is up that Stiles leaves.  They’re all eating breakfast in
the midafternoon when he says he has to meet up with his dad.  Peter gives him
a small nod as he departs and earns a smile in return.  There is a sadness,
bitter at the back of Peter’s mouth, but also an odd contentedness. 
He sits at the stairs, watching the rest of the pack smile and eat with lazy
movements.  At one point, Derek looks over with his brows arching up, but Peter
just shakes his head.  He is fine where he is at.  Comfortable at this
distance.
Resting his elbows on his knees, Peter tilts his head and listens to their
quiet murmurs.  The entire loft sounds like a humming beehive, the buzz of it
small and harmonious.  Then Scott speaks.
“So are we gonna go after the second one?”
Erica frowns.  “Second one?”
Isaac makes a noise in the back of his throat.  “Oh, yeah.  There was a second
scent, wasn’t there?”
Clearing his throat, Derek sets his coffee on the table.  “The scent was older,
Scott.  I don’t think we’ll have to worry.”
Scott’s expression pinches.  “But he goes to school with us.”
Everyone stalls.  Peter straightens out where he’s sitting, brows drawing
tight.  Glancing his way, Derek scowls, and then leans forward, focus intent on
Scott. 
“What exactly do you mean, Scott?” he asks.
“The scent.  It’s exactly how Cris smells.”  Scott shrugs.  “You guys didn’t
notice?”
Lydia’s lips thin.  “You mean the guy Stiles has been seeing?”
“The witch,” Derek mutters.
“Yeah,” Scott nods.
Boyd shifts in his chair.  “The book calls them witch-like.”
Derek shoves away from the table to his feet.  “Someone call Stiles.  Right
now.”
Peter is already up, already headed for the door.  Behind him, Lydia is
sighing.
“Why didn’t you mention this earlier, Scott?” she asks.
Scott shrugs again.  “It’s Sunday.  We won’t be in any danger until Monday.”
“What about Stiles?” she insists.  “What if he meets up with him today--?”
“Peter,” Derek calls and Peter doesn’t really stop, doesn’t even pause.
“I know where Stiles is headed,” he replies.  “Keep trying to call him.”
He shuts the door behind himself before he can hear Derek’s reply. 
The stairs seem to take forever.  When he reaches the parking lot, he stalls
for a moment.  His car is back at his apartment.  Stiles had driven him here
the night previous.  He doesn’t linger in the car park for long. 
He runs.
The direction is easy.  He knows where Stiles is headed, hopes that Stiles made
it there, that he’ll look manic instead of being right in his panic.  His heart
feels heavy, too fast, loud in his own ears.  Feet thudding against the
concrete, breath heavy, he realizes the last time he felt so afraid was when he
was burning—trapped with the screams of his family in his ears. 
It is a block before the Sheriff’s department that he finds him.  Cornered by
someone that might have been the sweet looking boy Stiles had been dating for
weeks, down an alcove between two buildings where no one can see them.  Peter
stops before round the corner, pressing against the solid brick of a wall as he
cants his head to listen.  Stiles speaks and his voice is calm, but even over
this own thundering pulse, Peter can hear the stutter of Stiles’ heartbeat. 
“Cris, please.” He says, hands out, brows pinched.
Cris has his claws out, elongated and perhaps sharper than Peter’s own.  His
warmed skin appears ashen up from his fingers, to forearms, to where it fades
into the gold of his biceps. 
“It’s good, actually.” Cris says in his, like words seeping past fangs.  “That
your mutts killed her.  I felt it happen, you know.  Felt her thrall on me
snap.”
“Cris—“
“Did you know she was my sire?  A mother, of sorts.” Cris adds, crowding in
closer.  “She has had be under her thumb for half a century.  I should honestly
thank you.”
“Well, you’re welcome, then.” Stiles breathes.  “I mean, uh, a thank you card
could have done the trick.  Didn’t need to do this face to face or anything.”
Cris laughs.  “Do you want to know why I’m okay with her passing?”
Peter watches the way Stiles cringes away from the claws Cris ghosts along his
cheek.  He feels something in his chest tighten, and he eases around the
corner.  His movements are slow, careful, footsteps silent against the
concrete.  His own claws ease out, a quiet little snick, as Cris curls his hand
loosely against Stiles’ jugular.
He hears Stiles swallow thickly, wonders if the hum Cris lets out is pleased at
the feel of Stiles’ throat working.  Stiles’ eyes catch his over Cris’
shoulder, widen minutely, and his mouth thins.  Slowly, Peter brings his hand
up, finger pressing to his lips as he draws closer. 
“Because the second I saw you, I wanted to turn you.”  Cris says, leans in,
inhales deep.  “She said it would be too suspicious.  Said there can’t be more
than two of us together—too many mouths to feed.  But she’s gone now.”
“I don’t want to be one of you,” Stiles grunts.
“It’s a good thing that after you turn, you won’t be able to say no, then.” 
Cris smiles, teeth razor sharp and gleaming. 
Peter snatches him up by the back of the neck.  “Get your hands off of him.”
Everything after that seems to blur. 
Peter just knows that Stiles ends up clutching at his own throat, and that
there is blood seeping past his fingers.  His eyes flare blue then, and as he
rips into the Aswang, the Aswang rips into him.  Curses spit red, and Peter
doesn’t register the sharp pain of a hand digging through his flesh to the meat
of his side, jagged lines dragging along his ribs with a pull.  He smells the
wolfsbane, though, feels that burn of it hit his bloodstream.
The Aswang laughs in his face, eyes a pale and eerie grey.  Peter grits his
teeth tight, reaches up, and grasps him under the chin and by the top of his
head.  He torques Cris’ head, watches those ghostly eyes go wide, and grins
with a dark crookedness as there is a snap-crunch of bone twisting, fracturing,
serrating.  The angle is grotesque, but Peter doesn’t linger long enough to let
it matter.
Digging his claws into the wet, sticky heat of Cris’ larynx, Peter rends the
flesh apart.  His blood is just as red, just as metallic as any human’s.  It
does not stop, Peter does not stop, until he has torn the Aswang’s head from
its shoulders.  Then it shrivels, shrinking, until it dissolves into ash. 
Peter stands, panting, face spackled in a mess of crimson and staring at where
the Aswang once was.
He looks to his side, sees Stiles looking at him with wide, horrified eyes, and
grins crookedly before toppling to the pavement.  Stiles croaks his name and
stumbles toward him.  He lands hard next to Peter, knees cracking against the
ground, and reaches down to cover Peter’s bleeding side with his already
stained fingers.
“Peter,” he breathes.
Peter reaches up, frowns as he runs his fingers along the jagged lines at
Stiles’ throat—not deep enough to cause worry, but deep enough to bleed thick
down to taint the collar of Stiles’ shirt.  He earns a soft hiss, Stiles
wincing, but Stiles is too busy flitting, too busy yanking off the layer of
plaid on his shoulders to ball it up and press it to the gash deep in Peter’s
side. 
“Are you going to heal?” he asks, pressing hard.  “Shouldn’t you have stopped
bleeding already?”
Peter laughs; it hurts when he does.  “Must’ve known we’d be coming for him. 
Wolfsbane on his claws.”
Stiles looks considerably paler.  “Are you going to be okay?”
Breath heavy, Peter nods, hand resting over where Stiles is stoppering off the
flow of blood; he’s trembling.  “I’ll be fine, Stiles.”
“Peter—“ Stiles’ phone buzzes, he fumbles with a free hand, pulling it out and
pressing it to his ear.  “Derek, you have to—We’re in the alley off main.  Get
here fast.”
He doesn’t even hang up, just tosses his phone aside in order to press his hand
back over where theirs are laced and held tight against Peter’s side.  Stiles
is shaking too, Peter can feel it, and he laughs again—burn electric up his
side. 
“Stiles,” Peter mutters, squeezing at Stiles’ fingers.  “I really am sorry.”
Stiles shakes his head, smile wavering.  “It’s okay.  It’s okay, Peter, it
doesn’t matter.”
“It does,” Peter insists.  “I could’ve said something sooner.  Maybe things
would have been different.”
“They can still be different,” Stiles says, pressing even harder to the wound
at his side.  “They can.”
Peter shakes his head, the world sort of dip-spin-tilts.  He feels nauseous. 
His eyes close.
Fingers curl into his shirt and jerk him slightly.  Stiles shakes him until his
eyes open again.  Peter can still smell sharp spike of lemon—worry—over all the
copper in the air.  He watches Stiles’ jaw flex and grins again.
“It’s fine, Stiles.” He assures.  “Derek will be here soon.  Everything will be
fine.  I’m already healing.”
Stiles swallows, nodding with a watery little smile.  “You promise?”
“I promise,” he says.
"When this is done, we'll talk, okay?" Stiles insists. 
Peter nods.  "We'll talk.  I promise." 
If Stiles had accepted the bite back when Peter was an alpha, he would hear the
lie in Peter’s pulse.  Stiles squeezes at his hand, leans down, and kisses his
forehead. 
Peter lets his eyes close again and savors the warmth of Stiles’ lips on his
skin.
Chapter End Notes
     Hopefully you enjoyed.
     If you have any questions, comments, or concerns-- feel free to leave
     it below or send me an ask on tumblr.
End Notes
     WARNING: explicit sexual content, foul language, dubious consent,
     obsessive behavior, attempted sexual assault, unhealthy relationship
     (by the end).
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