cocaine heart

by 1001cranes

Summary:

The One Where Peter Turned Stiles Instead of Scott.

Notes:

once again, what is says on the tin.

This was started as part of the 'Stiles & Peter AUs' but since this has already blossomed into a 'verse in my head, it gets its own posting.

warnings for... not really incest? This does get to a Peter/Stiles/Derek threesome, but it's pretty focused on Stiles. However, I don't want to unnecessarily freak anyone out, so.

Chapter 1: bright blue ripples

Stiles wakes up to Peter Hale petting his head.

This is definitely not a normal occurrence.

It's two in the morning. Stiles has finally finally finally dropped off to some well-deserved sleep after spending most of the night trying to rescue Scott and Allison while maintaining a proper distance from Allison's werewolf hunting family; not to mention working on convincing his father that he's not off his meds or doing drugs or otherwise losing his mind, which is a pretty hard case to make when he spends all his time running around in the middle of the night and suddenly getting really good at lacrosse but also nearly failing all of his classes.

Especially the part where Peter Hale is petting him.

Stiles actually doesn't freak out immediately - he's majorly sleep deprived, for one, and he's a teenager, for another, which means he'd rather fall into death than actually wake up. He wakes up by degrees, warm comforting sleepy feelings gradually fading to cranky sleep-deprived ones, and when he open his eyes to see Derek lurking on the other side of his room, it starts to make even more sense.

"What're you doing here?" he slurs out. "Where t'hell have you been?" Derek is always around, and lurking - its weird when he disappears with no word. Well, at least without popping out of the shadows sometime soon after.

"Oh, we've been doing a little reminiscing," a voice next to Stiles says, and that pierces right through the warm comforting sleepy feelings. And - yeah, someone is petting his head. "You know how it is when family gets together."

Peter Hale is petting his head.

Peter Hale is petting his head.

Peter Hale is petting his head.

"Calm down," Peter says, and there's an order in it - Stiles can't help but do what he says, initially. He feels his heart slow down. His fists unclench.

"Why are you in my room?" he asks, and tries - he really, really tries - to ignore the whirl of Peter's fingers just behind his ear.

"I told you, Stiles," and Peter really needs to stop saying his name like that, because it sends out all sorts of vibes Stiles doesn't need. His head is nearly in some dude's lap - not just any dude, but an Alpha werewolf who murders people and broke into his bedroom - and he's supposed to not be having a breakdown. "We're pack. There's no getting rid of me."

"I'd really like to try," Stiles says, somewhere between unbelievably sincere and insanely sarcastic. He has a death wish. Maybe that's the vibe Peter gets from him. "Derek? Seriously?"

In the corner of the room, Derek shifts from foot to foot. "He didn't do anything wrong, Stiles. Not to anyone who didn't deserve it. Not when he was in his right mind."

"Your ability to rationalize anything amazes me," Stiles sighs, but that's not entirely true. Derek is - honest to fucking God - lonely. Or maybe more specifically, alone. The only werewolf around besides Stiles, who is only sort of getting a handle on this werewolf thing, and the Alpha - and when the Alpha turned out to be Derek's uncle? His uncle who had been stuck in a coma for six years? And was actually only murdering the people who murdered his family in turn? It's not that Stiles doesn't see the logic, it's just - murder, okay, that's a biggie sort of sin to forgive.

"Why are you here?" Stiles finally asks, wary. "What are you doing?" Peter's already tried to turn his dad - who is a significantly better hand with a shotgun than Stiles ever gave him credit for, go dad! - and threatened to turn Scott before Peter realized that would be akin to punishing himself, and made a dozen speeches about pack and protecting his family and killing the Argents, all I AM YOUR ALPHA, blah blah blah, and Stiles just wants to know what to expect next, honestly.

"Hmm," Peter says. "Did you know we were waiting for you in the locker room after the game? But you weren't there," he continues, and Stiles suddenly has a really bad feeling about this next part. "At least... not alone."

Lydia, oh God...

Peter sighs. Presses a finger to the corner of Stiles's lips and traces his way around the curve. Wiping some phantom trace of Lydia off. "Don't you remember who you belong to, Stiles? Don't you know yet?" and over the pounding of his own heart, Stiles hears Derek growl from the corner of the room.

"Please," he says, because he knows Peter has got him here. Stiles has been playing pretty good defense, but Peter always seems to have the upper hand anyway. Even with werewolf super-speed Stiles can't be everywhere at once - with his Dad, with Scott, with Allison, with Lydia - not against the new champion tag team that is Derek and Peter. He never thought having so few friends was a blessing, but now he sees the disadvantage in caring. "Please, I'll - " but he doesn't get the chance to even finishing begging.

Peter pushes two fingers into Stiles's mouth - slips, because it's open and begging, but shoves because there's force behind it, pressing down Stiles's tongue, hearing him choke over the bargain he's about to make. Stiles feels his fangs grow, can't help it, pushing up from his gums and pressing against Peter's fingers.

Peter's eyes glint laser red. "She's fine," he says, and he sounds amused. Though in Peter's case, amused definitely does not mean non-violent. "She's fine, Stiles, because I'm not worried about her at all. It occurs to me I might have been going about this the wrong way," he continues, pulling his hand away from the front of Stiles's mouth, and Stiles frowns because in this moment Peter sounds actually, sincerely apologetic. "I only want to get to know you better."

And one of his hands slides under Stiles's bedcovers.

Stiles squeaks. "Dude, whoa, you can't just -" and he is fully prepared to protest and, like, fight for his manliness or manhood or whatever the hell is being threatened here, but Peter's fingers ghost over the bite mark, and press -

"That's it," Peter murmurs, no problem, no big deal, even as stars explode behind Stiles's eyes, a white-hot burst of them, and he whimpers in the back of his throat. "There you are."

Stiles has a fairly disturbing urge to roll over onto his back and flop belly up. Offer up his - whatever. "Whaaaaat -"

Peter growls, and Stiles shivers under the sound of it, and the way Peter's fingers dig into the curve of his hip. "I'm your Alpha," and wow, is he ever, Stiles thinks, and it's not entirely with despair.

He wants to move, but he doesn't think Peter will let him get away, if the hand pressed to his stomach is any indication, way too close to what is a rapidly filling erection; and showing his belly seems right but wrong - he tries to flip onto his stomach, but Peter drops Stiles's head to the pillow and slides further down the bed. Covers kicked to the floor.

"You and Derek are the only family I have," Peter explains, one hand stroking Stiles from neck to the lower curve of his stomach. Pausing infinitesimally over his nipples, the bite mark on his ribs. Occasionally brushing against the root of his dick, scratching through the hair there. Like a belly rub, only with a side of the world's most tease-worthy handjob and plenty of material for future therapy. "I won't abandon you. There's no point in being a wolf without a pack, Stiles. It's no good for anyone. It's not how we work."

"It's how I work," Stiles protests, still halfway to a shriek, and tries to ignore the way he's gone still. Face pressed deeper into the pillow.

"It's how you've worked until now," Peter corrects. "But now you're mine, Stiles. You're part of this pack. I created you."

And somehow 'created you' sounds like 'love you', sounds like a caress, or a brand, maybe, or a bite, which for a werewolf it's probably all of those things, and Stiles shoots back, "you sound like Regina George," resentful as hell, because he can hold onto resentment. You can hold onto resentment in the face of anything- even love. Even acceptance. Resentment is a teenager's final line of defense, and it's a good one.

Except Peter's fingers are still tracing the scar. Light as a breeze, barely there, barely able to be felt except every cell in Stiles's body is straining towards him. And Peter - Peter pushes at Stiles's shoulder, rolls him onto his back, and presses their mouths together. Soft, but still strange; the scent of something that Stiles might call forest, all the rich-smelling things you find in damp spaces, but the wolf in him knows is Alpha, and he gasps for air he doesn't really need.

"Good boy," Peter says, and it doesn't sound the way Scott says it. Not joking. And it doesn't make him feel the same way, either, because he generally feels like punching Scott in the face. It is good, and it gets better when Peter continues, when he wrenches Stiles's mouth open, licking inside, making him moan. Making him reach up for Peter's face before he realizes what he's doing.

Peter pulls back, briefly. Nudging his face up against Stiles's the way a dog might, before moving down to the line of his throat, before Stiles can nuzzle back. The edges of his teeth - his wolf teeth, his real teeth, Stiles is starting to think - pressing in until the pinpricks stretch out tight across Stiles's skin, and Stiles feels his body shudder. Go limp. "It's not the same with humans," Peter explains, mouth to the side of Stiles's neck, "not like with your own kind," and Stiles only has two points of reference, but so far he has to unwillingly agree. Lydia had been good - really good, because Lydia never does anything at a level less than exceptional - but it had been practiced, and Peter is a mass of instinct. Peter has been surviving on instinct, and it beats practice all to hell.

"What are you going to do to her?" Stiles asks, bob of his Adam's apple against Peter's face. Just because he's so hard he thinks he's going to pop doesn't mean he isn't concerned about Lydia's well-being. And just because Lydia survived tonight doesn't mean it's going to continue. Jesus, his life is complex.

Peter shrugs. "Nothing. I won't hurt her. I don't think she's going to be a problem, do you? Any of them," he continues, tracing the edge of Stile's mouth with his fingers. The curious little curve to his lip. "You wouldn't let anyone take you away from us, hmm? You know, Stiles. You know this is exactly where you belong."

"It's my room," Stiles chokes out, deliberately obtuse, and Peter must know it, because he rears back down to catch Stiles's bottom lip. Suck it into his mouth. Trapped between his teeth.

"This is what pack is. Your body knows.  Your body wants to be among its own kind.  Why don't you. Why do you fight it?"
he says, and that is totally Alpha voice, oh God, Stiles can't help his reaction to that. Can't help the whimper, or sliding his eyes shut, or pushing his head back to bare his fucking throat. Peter pushes his face there, bites down until Stiles starts to worry about breathing. Until it feels like the burn of forgiveness. Peter's body is a weight on his, unbelievably solid, and Stiles wants to sink under it.

"I don't want this," he says, and the lie is so obvious even Stiles can't sell it.

"Stiles," Peter says reproachfully. "What have I said about lying?"

Stiles does not want to relive that conversation. "D-don't do it."

"Very good," Peter hums. Licks at the line of Stiles's throat.

"I m-mean," as Peter's hand wrings at Stiles's hip, slides dangerously close to - places - "I don't want it like this."

Peter pauses at that. Pulls back to look Stiles in the face. Let him breathe. "You think I'm being harsh."

Stiles can't help the slightly hysterical bark of laughter that escapes. Coming after his dad, after Scott, even the Argents, and it's not like he really enjoys their company, as it is. "So far your behavior hasn't been exactly friendly. It's not exactly sane."

Peter sighs. Slides mostly off Stiles; next to him on the bed. Pushing the short curl of hair just behind his ear. "Oh, it's the Alpha in me, Stiles. Harder to control than you might think - all the things it wants." And yeah, those are definitely Peter's crazy Alpha eyes coming out to play. "What it wants to do to you," and Stiles can only imagine right now. How he looks, how he smells; fear and submission and arousal and sleep, even the lingering smell of when he got himself off yesterday morning before school. The scent of Scott on his hands and the smell of Lydia on his face, his neck. Sweat from both lacrosse teams all over his body. Showers only do so much, as Stiles has unfortunately discovered.

In retrospect, maybe he's lucky Peter isn't pissing all over him right now. Much less doing worse.

"But I think," Peter continues, and shit, Stiles might have zoned out there for a minute. "That if you can be good, so can I."

And what in the fuck does that mean?

Chapter 2: little scarlet, starlet

Summary:

Stiles doesn't quite understand his own origin story.

Notes:

uh, warning for very minor hints of underaged!Derek/Peter shenanigans, I guess? JUST WHEN I THINK THIS FIC CAN'T GET ANY MORE TWISTED, I SURPRISE MYSELF!

"And what the fuck does that mean?" Stiles blurts out, because he's always had a pretty direct track from his brain to his mouth, or sometimes just straight from his mouth, no brain involved at all, really.

"You are..." Peter says, head tilted to the side. Like he's considering whether to continue giving Stiles the Bad Touch or ripping him to shreds - would that be the Really Bad Touch? Stiles thinks, semi-hysterically. "...a very sweet boy. Very loyal. To your friends. To your father. To the Martin girl, and I bet she never even used to give you the time of day. Not until you started winning, hmm?"

So Lydia is status-driven, big deal, this is not news.

Stiles shrugs. "Still not sure what that means."

Peter grins. A big crazy grin, way too many teeth, way too many not entirely human teeth. No matter how many times Stiles watches people wolf out - he's only done it in the mirror, like, a thousand times, because even the growly pain of bone growth can't overcome the coolness factor - there's something about all those teeth crowded into a human mouth, the unfamiliar weight of them, that hits his creepy place. Wolves can bite most bones open, did you know? Stiles looked it up.

"Nothing, really," Peter says, and he slides back down Stiles's body. Following the trail of hair from Stiles's bellybutton to dipping just below the edge of his sweatpants with one finger. One arm across Stiles's hips like a steel band. "Simply that I chose well, when I was the Alpha. Not even in my right mind, and I picked the only human in the woods worth having."

That's -- oddly sweet, really, and marginally less crazycakes than usual. If Peter weren't petting Stiles's hip while he said it, and looking at Stiles's belly like he wanted to rip it open and feast on his entrails, it would be a lot sweeter.

"You are worth having, Stiles," he growls, and theeeeeere it is, Stiles's inferiority complex, just knew you were around here somewhere, old buddy. His deep rooted psychological issue of not being good enough - never the smartest, or the strongest, or the best, and even now that he's stronger, he's more popular, he has Lydia Martin up on his jock - oh God, somewhere Lydia has the urge to kill him just for thinking that - and it doesn't matter because he's still wanting, isn't he, Lydia's just doing it to get back at Jackson, and Derek wants a family, and Peter wants - what Peter wants probably doesn't bear thinking about, at this juncture, but it's - it's Stiles, maybe, really Stiles, even if werewolf-Stiles, and something must show on his face because Peter puts his hand on Stiles's still half-hard cock and squeezes.

Stiles shoves his hips into the air - into Peter's hand - before he can think about it. Because the friction feels good, and so does the warmth, the sheer fucking novelty of a hand that's not his own. "Don't -" he chokes out, and stops. Don't. Don't do this, right? Don't keep touching me, don't put your mouth on my dick, don't be my first don't be my only don't be Alpha-

"That doesn't sound like a sixteen year old boy," Peter interrupts, amused, and and it is it better or worse that Peter seems to realize exactly how twisted he is? "It is sixteen, isn't it, Stiles? It's hard to be sixteen. Harder to be a werewolf, even. I remember Derek at sixteen. Mounting everything in the house. The smell of hormones and sweat everywhere."

A growl from the other side of the room. Low.

"Derek?" Stiles asks, muzzy. Stiles had nearly forgotten Derek was there. Watching, oh god, could Stiles's life be more embarrassing to onlookers? Peter's hand still on his crotch, thumb moving in slow circles. His head resting on Stiles's thigh, and Stiles can feel his dick, like, twitching towards Peter, stupid werewolf impulses.

"Do you want him to watch?" Peter asks, curious, and Stiles blushes hard, way more blood than he thinks he can afford rushing to his face. This is easily the most turned on and most mortified he's ever been in his entire life, and that's not a combination he would wish on anyone. "I wouldn't mind," Peter continues, his voice sincere, and - sweet, really. Low and soothing. It makes Stiles push his face even farther into the pillow, like maybe if he could suffocate this would all stop. "You're mine, Stiles. Derek knows that. He's always known you belonged to the Alpha." A pause. "He'll be able to smell it on you, after - "

"Oh my god," Stiles moans, because that's just what he needs, werewolf slut written all over him in secret code. An omega, he thinks, lowest of the low, because it's not enough to be drafted into this pack of crazies against his will, but he's not even good enough to be a beta, and ohsweetjesus he's gone native.

"He'll be very good," Peter promises, though the growl from across the room kind of makes Stiles doubt that. "We've been having a little talk about... family expectations."

And doesn't that just take it to a whole new level of weirdness for Stiles to enjoy. On the other hand, despite Derek's recent defection to Team Crazy Uncle Peter, he's - he wouldn't hurt Stiles, throwing him up against walls and slamming his head into the steering wheel aside. Derek would never seriously hurt Stiles. And Derek would make sure Peter didn't hurt him either.

"I can be nice," Peter says, apropos of fucking nothing, Stiles can't help but notice the shape of his mouth is wrong. Pointed teeth, pushed out. Wrong for a wolf, wrong for a human. Right for this, somehow. Leaving gleaming wet marks against Stiles's stomach. "We can be nice."

"Stay," Stiles grits out, eyes slammed shut, because he can't - he doesn't want to see the look on Peter's face, and he's not sure he wants to see the look on Derek's.

"Good boy," Peter murmurs, and god, but that's just as disturbing as anything else that's happened tonight. Not to mention the way it makes Stiles feel, which is... not bad. The way none of this feels bad, really - the way it feels good.

Stiles's eyes still closed, but it's easy enough to hear the shuffle of Derek moving closer. To feel Peter pull down Stiles's sweatpants, and - oh god, he almost smacked a werewolf in the face with his dick, that's exactly what he wants on his tombstone: Here Lies Stiles, Ripped To Shreds After He Dicksmacked His Alpha.

"Not so indifferent after all," Peter muses, at least halfway to a taunt, and there is so much Stiles could say about being a teenage boy who gets turned on by, like, dictionaries, or linoleum, but it’s only half a second later that Peter has his mouth on Stiles’s dick, and Stiles is really not going to be up to his hilariously snarktastic best at this particular point in time, thanks very much, downstairs brain will be in charge of all further proceedings, feel free to complain to upstairs management.

He's a teenage boy. It's not like the concept of being blown is entirely new to him. He's thought about it. He's assumed some of the obvious, even - hot, and wet; suction like when he'd shoved his own fingers into his mouth to get off, greedy greedy greedy, and also something of a necessity, because if Stiles's mouth isn't doing something else it's making noise, fact of nature - but it's not the same. Not at all.

Because - okay, wet, yes - and hot, the inside of Peter's mouth like a furnace - sloppy, messy, and god that's a good thing, Stiles is re-evaluating his concept of perfection. He has this one terrifyingly insane moment where he thinks about putting his hand on Peter's head, the thick hair, the soft curl of it. Would Peter let him? Let Stiles push his mouth further down on Stiles's dick? Or would he punish him? Stop. Or bite Stiles, maybe. Pinch him, or hit him, or pin him down - Alpha strong, Alpha male, god, regular people have no idea what that phrase even means, really. They toss it around, but they don't know. They don't have a fucking clue.

Stiles makes a choking noise, like a “hnng” mated with a growl, something sharp stuck in the back of his throat. Can't stop his limbs from trembling, even though the rest of him's gone terribly still. Can't stop from whining in the back of his throat as his hands twist helplessly in the sheets.

Peter grins up at him. And it's a grin, yes, corners turned up, eyes lidded and sparking red, pleased with himself and - and pleased with Stiles, maybe, goddamn -

Stiles's mouth falls open. He takes deep breathes, deep mouth-breather gasps, in and out, harsh and thick, and the smells - smells so thick he tastes them, practically. To be fair he smells himself, mostly; sweat, and arousal, and skin and hair and laundry detergent- and all the other billion smells there were in the world, but something else, something new, something building with a sharp spike, and it hits him like a freight train when he realizes it's Peter - his arousal, the adrenaline, the actual smell of his dick getting wet, from being in Stiles's bed and giving him the Bad Touch and sucking his dick -

"Fuck," he says, and makes the mistake of looking down, then; seeing the push of his dick against Peter's cheek, and he groans. Shoves up, hard, and feels the dig of Peter's claws into his hip for his troubles. And the noise from his throat is - that was definitely a lot closer to a howl, fuck. He feels the shift in his bones, the weird cramp of it, and the change his eyes, the way the shadows in the room disappear. He can smell Derek now, too. Sharper. Closer. On that edge between werewolf and plain old human, and the thing is, Stiles isn't supposed to like it this much, you know? When you get superpowers, it's supposed to be all "with great power comes great responsibility" and angst about doing the right things and maybe learning a lesson about not being selfish and what being a hero really means. And Stiles hasn't had any of that. Cool new superpowers, and nobody killed his parents or his girlfriend - granted, his mom was long-gone, and he hadn't had a girlfriend, but the point stood.

And there wasn't even a downside to being a werewolf, really. Like, okay, increased aggression around the full moon, or when someone made him angry - which Stiles subtitles STILES SMASH in his head, and usually calms down pretty quickly, because hello, shit is hilarious - but Stiles has been on one medication or another for most of his life. Weird mood swings are the least of his problems. And there are plenty of good things about it too: the speed, and the strength, and seeing and smelling and hearing things nobody else can. He's lived in Beacon Hill his whole life, but sometimes it's like he's discovering it for the first time. Like everything is new. Bacon has become, like, a revelation, you don't even know. And being popular? Being on the lacrosse team, being the captain? People always pretend popularity doesn't matter, but in high school, okay, its the currency of choice. Better than cash. It's better than anything.

And yeah, okay, there was the whole Alpha mystery in the beginning, who was murdering people, who did this to me, dark days with the creepy Derek Hale, but everyone needs an origin story, right? And even when it looked like Peter was shaping up to be the Big Bad Wolf, all puns intended, there were the Argents too, who were morally grey at best, and Kate Argent in particular, who is mildly sociopathic on a good day, a history like the Montagues and Capulets gone so very twisted, and is it any wonder Stiles doesn't really know what to think? Not when every bit of his body is screaming for this - and not even this as in the blowjob; though don't get him wrong, that's fantastic - but this as in Peter petting him, holding him down, Derek a familiar yet creepy blur to his left, and Stiles feels absolutely, entirely, one hundred percent safe for the first time in weeks.

He realizes that's fucked up.

"Not enough Kool-Aid," he mutters, and next to him Derek snorts.

Peter growls, vibration up Stiles's spine like a shot, and pulls off. Arm still across Stiles's hips. Spit and precome spilling from his mouth, slick lines of it, and when he smiles this time there's definitely a touch of 'the better to eat you with' mixed with, well, hotness, and Stiles's dick is apparently not put off by that. At all.

"So young," Peter says, and is that regret or satisfaction? It's creepy either way, right? Stiles should not have to ask himself that question so often, he really, really shouldn't.

"Sixteen, remember? You were going on and on about it earlier," he says, forces it out, because if he's running his mouth with sarcastic commentary maybe he won't try to force his way out of Peter's grip. Maybe he won't hump the air like a dog begging for scratches. Maybe he won't beg, full-stop. A boy can dream.

"Stiles," Peter sighs, like a disappointed teacher, or maybe one of Stiles's old therapists, but Stiles can't bother to be traumatized when Peter is stroking his dick and his scar at the same time - up and down, with a twist over the head, and back and forth in little semicircles, pressing into the thickest, most gnarled part of the scar tissue until Stiles thinks Peter might break it open again. Put his muzzle there. Get his mouth wet with more than Stiles's come.

"Young is good," Peter says, dreamy, far-away, and next to him Derek growls on a continuous loop; low and harsh and almost subvocal, hitting Stiles in his chest. "Good for the pack. Young is... strong. And eager. To fight, to fuck - it all feels so good, doesn't it?" and god, yes, Stiles would beg if he could get the words out, if he weren't caught somewhere between sobbing and snarling. "Wait until the full moon," Peter says, a promise and a threat rolled into one, and Stiles's eyes roll back in his skull.

"Fuck," he sobs out, "fuuuuuck," because he has lost any semblance of control in this situation, it is gone. And fuck is what he wants, a fuck, a fucking, Peter to do whatever he wants to Stiles, teeth and claws and all that skin - If Peter weren't holding him down he'd roll over, and this is apparently a new part of Stiles's personality he's going to have to get comfortable with.

When Peter puts his mouth to Stiles's scar and bites, Stiles howls - he werewolf howls, Jesus, loud and long enough to wake the dead, and thank God Stiles doesn't have any neighbors. It's not hard enough to break the skin but its hard enough to hurt, hard enough to overload his traitorous cock, apparently, because Stiles comes. He comes harder than he ever has in his life - he stripes Peter's hand and his own stomach, hips rocking into the air and Peter lets him. Gentles him through it until Stiles has come around to sleepy and pliant again, back to weird belly rubs and crooning sounds even as Peter pushes his own dick against Stiles's belly, and if anything was going to freak him out that would probably be it.

"Where's my spine," he moans, because you totally need one of those to play lacrosse. And like, walk. He's pretty sure. "Bad Alpha, no spines," and Peter chuckles, the not-so-evil amused one which means violence is probably not imminent, and yeah, still totally weird Stiles has to classify them.

"Stiles," Peter says again, drawing it out. Almost a purr, if that weren't such a feline thing to say. Peter runs his fingers over the head of Stiles's dick again, even as he whimpers; and Stiles whines when Derek starts licking Peter's hand, because that's - that is not the way family is supposed to do things, Stiles is pretty sure, but he can't ignore what it's doing to him, Jesus, the twisty curling feeling in the pit of his stomach, and the howl in his throat that wants free. He's too tired to howl, though, too come-stupid, and he whimpers again instead. Limp, as Peter's free hand traces his scar over and over.

Chapter 3: tall black soul

Summary:

death before dishonor.

... maybe.

"Good?" Peter asks, and Stiles feels so far beyond good it's probably not entirely quantifiable.

"Mm," he says, which Peter must take as some kind of answer because he leans down to kiss Stiles, open-mouthed and hot, one long lick of it. Stiles's brains must be leaking out his ears, at this point. Sex must melt your brain, it's the only possible explanation for why he's allowing this to continue. Because it feels so good.

"Turn him over," Peter says, pleasant, smooth, a steel-cored order wrapped in velvet, and Stiles whines, high-pitched, when Peter moves off him. "Hold him down," and Stiles can't help it, he can't, he shudders - or shakes, maybe, so much further beyond his control - and even doing it feels good. It wasn't like this with Lydia. It had been good, and he'd wanted more, lots more, but he wouldn't have torn out someone's throat to get it. Which is probably a good thing, right - people shouldn't feel like this. No wonder Peter's crazy. No wonder.

Derek flips him over, an arm each under his shoulders and his hips, easy, and Stiles tries to smother himself in his pillow. Death before dishonor, at all that. But dishonor feels really, really good, and so does breathing, if he's being honest. Even if lifting his head from the pillow means being assaulted with sweatmusksemenderekpeterwolfalpha smells.

He can hear Peter rummaging around in the side table for lube. Which he finds, of course.

"Predictable," Peter mutters, but seriously, what can Stiles say, he's a teenage boy. He didn't invent it. Either lube or being a teenage boy, for the record. Stiles holds claim to nothing. Maybe the first werewolf teenage boy currently being double-teamed in an uncle-nephew threesome, but the world is a sick, sick place, so who even knows. He'll have to consult the Guinness Book of World Records.

"You're babbling," Derek growls into his ear, and Peter laughs. Look, keeping still and/or quiet is not Stiles's skill set, okay. Though it helps that Derek is holding him down - gentle but firm, good, and Stiles pushes his face into Derek's thigh to cut down on his noise.

"That's it," Peter says, and bites the curve of Stiles's ass. Stiles moans, eyes popping open, and Peter laughs. Does it again, and Stiles digs his own teeth into Derek's thigh, a good solid bite, and anyone who ever said Stiles might have an oral fixation was not kidding. Derek's hands tighten on Stiles momentarily - the subtle dig of almost-claws, a growl.

"Perfect," Peters murmurs against Stiles's skin, and Stiles wonders, momentarily, the last time anyone called anything he did perfect. Which is a train of thought he probably should not be boarding, because he's pretty sure that leads to Stockholm.

The click of the tube is like a gunshot in the room. Super-hearing is the worst, Stiles thinks with something he might call despair, and when Peter pushes one of Stiles's knees forward, one finger pressing up against him, Stiles had the completely unpleasant feeling of all his insides clenching up, no way, that is a no-go, okay. The hair all over his body rises, goose pimples all over, not happening.

He squeaks once. And then again, when Peter's other hand comes down on the back of his neck. Petting him. Soothing. The tiniest scratch of claws, as if to say, hey, good thing those are only out on this hand, which isn't as helpful as Peter might think.

"It's all right, Stiles," Peter says, and he's doing that crooning thing again, the way you'd soothe a baby, or maybe a rabid animal, and both of those things are probably not too far off the actual mark when Stiles thinks about it. "Didn't you ever do this to yourself?" he asks, and Stiles feels the blush all over his body, because - okay, sure, he's a healthy teenager with lots of hormones and low impulse control, he's probably tried a lot of things that in retrospect were really ill-advised. Though Stiles gets the feeling Peter is not expecting an actual answer. He seems like a guy who occasionally enjoys the sound of his own voice.

"All alone, here in your bed?" Peter continues, finger rubbing - places, very small and delicate places, places that should not be explored by Alpha werewolves, or anyone, basically, even with lube, but Stiles can feel his body gradually relaxing. Like Peter's voice is hitting on something deep inside his chest. Sending pleasant little vibrations all through him, and Stiles hates these moments, hates them - not being in control of his own body, the things Peter can make him do, or almost has - and it doesn't matter because he can feel his heart beat slowing down, feel his eyelids go heavy with the pleasure of it, of obeying his Alpha.

It's not so bad, then, when Peter pushes one finger into him - abrupt, and fast, and Stiles does clench down again but it's too late - he clenches around Peter, not against him, and the feeling of it is - it's weird, Peter's inside him, oh God --

"Shit," he says, and Peter laughs again. "Oh shit," and lifts his hips experimentally - better or worse? Weirder or weirder? And Peter pushes his finger in deeper before pulling it back out, pushing it in again. Slow. Stiles's body rippling around him, and then - not. Not even trying anymore. Just letting it happen.

Derek isn't even holding him down - not nearly as much as petting him. The back of his neck, his wrists, and Stiles pushes his face into Derek's groin, where the scent of him is the strongest. He knew Derek was hard - has been, the smell in the air like any of a billion other smells. Layering, aging. Settling into things. But this one is obvious, Stiles is tuned to this one, a slave to the beat of his hormonal drum.

"Are you going to be good, Stiles?" And Peter keeps shoving his fingers in, deeper now, deeper than Stiles thought his body even went, as crazy as that sounds, and his hips are making little jerking motions without getting any permission from his brain at all. "Are you going to be good for me?"

"Y-Yes." Stammers it out. Yes, definitely. Hates himself for it, a little, but God, how he loves it. Building this weird sense of anticipation. Like being nauseous in reverse, and that doesn't exactly sound appealing but it is, somehow. Peter working him open, and Stiles is trying, he's trying to be good, he is, but he can't keep still. Not like this.

The front of Derek's jeans bulges out, too obvious to ignore, and Stiles can smell him, fresh and strong, and he mouths Derek's cock through the material, like if he gets it wet enough maybe he could taste, and Derek growls. Puts his hand to the back of Stiles's head and presses down.

Another finger, the stretch, the burn, and he's not going to be able to keep silent much longer. He wants to howl, wants to wriggle and revel and come, wants to rip something to shreds, keep doing it until there's nothing left, and blame it on the moon. Blame it on Peter. Stiles sucks in earnest now, the front of Derek's jeans a grainy wet patch.

"Derek," Peter says. Even-keeled as ever, even as he pushes his fingers into Stiles again, quicker and deeper each time, no rhythm to it that Stiles can catch, or maybe he just can't pay quite enough attention. "Perhaps you could - distract him."

And Stiles is exactly that out of it, okay, because it takes way too long for that to sink in - long enough for Derek to yank Stiles off him while Stiles whines - and when Derek unzips his jeans Stiles's mouth waters, okay, he's so desperate he drools like a dog, a thick tendril of spit falling out of his mouth.

He's never been this close to a dick before - not even his own, because hello, he's not that flexible - but when Derek puts the head of his dick to Stiles's lips - rubs it back and forth over Stiles's bottom lip, scent just under nose, strong and still unfamiliar and Stiles really, really, really wants a taste - Stiles opens his mouth, which is one of his skills, and takes Derek in.

It's weird at first - it's totally weird because it's totally foreign, new smell new taste new shape. He thinks there's a moment where his brain tries to protest, weakly, but its far too little too late at this point. Stiles tries to figure out how to use his tongue instead. What makes Derek's claws curve over the back of his head. Tries to swallow all the excess spit in his mouth - infused with the taste of Derek - and he keeps making these sloppy, wet sounds, so loud in the room he could probably hear them even if he wasn't a wolf. And sucking Derek - sucking Derek's cock, there's a new and unfamiliar phrase - seems like it would be too much, with Peter biting and pushing, but it's better, somehow. Having that distraction.

Peter is touching his cheek, gently. Stroking his throat as it works, trying to swallow Derek down. "I wouldn't say I like you better with a dick in your mouth," Peter contemplates, "but it's certainly quieter."

And Stiles thinks okay, well, back at you, but what comes out is another moan. Derek's cock pushing against the back of his mouth, and there's something about the angle, maybe, that isn't quite right, and Stiles struggles to lift up his head, get on his forearms, and Peter laughs.

"Stiles. So giving. I do like that about you," and when Peter says things like that, it should come across like a creepy uncle - and, well, it kind of does, but Stiles just wants Peter to rub his belly while he says it, or put his hand on the back of Stiles's neck, or gnaw at the bite mark, and Stiles cannot actually rank any of those things in order of creepiness, believe it or not.

Stiles loses track of time, for a while. Peter at his back, pushing his fingers in again and again, slippery and easy, even as it feels like Stiles's body is getting hotter and hotter - his own claws coming out, digging into his bedsheets, and that's just another bullet on the long ass list of weird things he has to explain to his father. Trying to swallow Derek down as he pushes at the back of Stiles's throat.

"So sweet like this," Peter says, fingers moving faster now, less of a push and more of a jab, "my Stiles," he pants, and - "Just - a little more," while Stiles grunts, because that was a sudden stretch, okay, that wasn't a little anything, that was a jump from two fingers to four without even a courtesy rest stop at three. There should be some finger-fucking etiquette, Christ.

Derek still hasn't come, doesn't even seem close - werewolf stamina, maybe? Should put that in the recruitment speech - and Stiles has to pull off to catch his breath. The slap of Derek's cock against his face when he pulls away, adding another streak to the sticky, slobbery mess already there, and Stiles ducks down to wipe his face against Derek's jeans. The rasp of denim scouring his skin. Derek's fingers pushing at the corners of Stiles's mouth, non-stop growling emanating from his chest, and Stiles sucks at Derek's fingers apologetically. Teeth careful around the claws.

His mouth feels raw, now, empty - God, he's gagging for it, he understands the motivation in new and entirely disturbing ways. He whole life appears to be understanding things in new and disturbing ways - and he takes a deep breath. Opens his mouth so Derek can shove back in. Pressing against Stiles's palate, across the inside of his cheek.

When Peter finally pushes his dick into Stiles, he barely even notices.

Okay, no, of course he notices, there is a dick in his ass, and believe it or not, homosexuality was entirely a theory for Stiles up until this point. This is not something you don't notice. This is something that hurts. And he knows - god, Peter spent a billion years back there, playing with Stiles's ass, and he can feel lube slipping around between his legs, he felt the way his body just split open for Peter's fingers, he knows he was begging and pushing back on them - but it's a werewolf thing, maybe, because even though it hurts, he knows it hurts, it still just feels good. Like a cramp, like when he changes - like something inside him is twisting up and becoming something else - and, oh, it's so fucking good, in the end he forgets the pain, he wants more.

He chokes - he's so turned around, his head has gone spinny, like when he was in grade school and used to make Scott push him on the merry-go-round until he fell off - and Derek pulls back again for a moment. Smoothing over the backs of Stiles's hands in short, clawing gestures. An animal trying to give comfort, before hooking one thumb in the corner of Stiles's mouth and shoving forward again.

Peter never stops. He's switched from crooning to little howls, from more-human to more-wolf, and somewhere in all these proceedings Stiles's traitorous, stupid dick has gone hard again, and it's bouncing up to his stomach with the force of Peter's thrusts. The indignity of having his ass in the air is long forgotten, distant memory, shame who?, because he is getting owned, yeah, and he loves it. He pushes back, he whines for it, and Peter bites down so hard on the joint between his shoulder and neck Stiles smells his own blood.

He's caught off guard when Derek comes. Not quite down his throat, but spattering there, on the back of his tongue, the smell of him just exploding, and when Stiles tries to swallow he chokes. Vision going hazy-gray. He struggles, tears in the corner of his eyes as he tries to pull back, but Derek's hands hold him in place. As strong as a vise. He swallows again, and again, unconscious and undecided, but the shove of Derek's hips against his face lessens, and Stiles sucks Derek until he's soft, until he slips from Stiles's mouth with a growl, pained, and Stiles whines at the loss. Then it's Derek's hand on the back of his neck, heavy, soothing, as Stiles relearns how to breathe, and finally Derek bending down, licking his face clean with the plushness of his tongue.

"Fuck," Stiles rasps, Derek's tongue slipping from his cheek into his mouth. Back to his cheek, down to his throat. Nosing his way to the bite mark, the new one, still bleeding, still oozing, and Stiles drops his head onto his arms and just... takes it. Takes it all. Gets fucked, gets fucked, gets fucked hard, and Peter laughs, delighted. Hits deep inside Stiles, eyes rolling back into his head because hello prostate, Stiles should never, ever get on the internet ever again.

"That's it," Peter says, one hand on Derek's head, pushing him down, and Derek digs into tongue into the grooves Peter's teeth left. Laps at them. If Stiles thought touching the bite mark set off stars, Jesus Christ. "This is what I want, Stiles. This is all I ever wanted. Not to hurt people."

"Just fucking underage teenagers, then," Stiles manages to grunt out, maybe three seconds too late to really count, because his brain is scrambling. In weird familial threesomes, no less. Peter was basically a cult leader. Stiles really should have seen that before.

Peter cuffs him in the back of the head. Hard, for a human, but Stiles is beginning to understand that's like a love tap for werewolves. For a pack. A family. Maybe that's why Derek is always slamming Scott into things - he forgets normal humans aren't supposed to bounce that way. Sidebar to mention later, because --

"Oh! Ohhhh," because now there's an all-too-nice tingly feeling at the base of his spine that he knows all-too-well, that every teenage boy knows like the back of his hand, and Stiles tenses up. Bites down on his lip, because he can feel every part of him straining, trembling, and and he can't stop arching his spine, pushing his hips into Peter's hand - this is going to be big, this is going to hurt - and when Peter fucks him again, one more good thrust, deep and hard and right on target, Stiles's whole brain lights up, TILT TILT TILT, like someone decided to crossbreed a Christmas tree and the Fourth of July on steroids. He doesn't just come, he pops, splashes all over his own stomach. Writhing in Peter's grip, his whole body clenching, trying to pull Peter in, God, it makes him sob.

"Good - good boy," Peter grunts, and he comes too, shoving against Stiles until he's pinned to the mattress. Biting at the back of Stiles's neck. Derek's face still pushed into the bite mark, licking. Lazy.

Peter's fingers slide down between Stiles's legs, after a moment. Moving to replace his cock.

"Oh God, don't," Stiles says, slow, like his voice is traveling from far, far away, and Peter must hear at least the edge of hysteria because he stops. Makes an amused sound and rolls Stiles onto this side. Their legs tangling together, the soft press of Peter's still wet cock against Stiles's thigh. Stiles warm inside the curl of Peter's arm. A wolf playing at being tame, he thinks, semi-hysterical. Or maybe they both are. They all are. This would be the part where he kicks them both out of bed. Out of his room. Out of his life. It's time for the protests, and the resentment, right, because he's still got plenty of that brewing. Time to make sure this doesn't happen again.

"This bed is not made for three people," is what finally comes out, weak. And it's not, really, but the real problem is the Stiles is wrung out, and completely unable to muster up any indignation about being tricked into a werewolf threesome. He feels so good - sore, and tired, but like someone replaced his skeletal structure with sunshine or something, and Peter knows somehow, the rat bastard. He's tucked up behind Stiles, pressed against him from head to toe, one hand rubbing over the original bite scar and sending little tingles running from the points of Peter's nails all up and down Stiles's spine. To the curls of his toes.

Derek is on the bed too, though there's a solid inch of space between his body and Stiles's. Like a line of demarcation. Like his dick wasn't just in Stiles's mouth, or he doesn't have Stiles's blood on his teeth. His jeans are on the floor, but he's still wearing one of his stupid, tight, form-fitting shirts. Stiles resists the urge to roll his eyes and tugs Derek towards him instead; Peter growls approvingly.

Derek settles against Stiles gingerly. One arm tucked under his own head, the other pushed against Stiles's chest. Nose pressed into the crown of hair on the top of Stiles's head.

"Don't snore," Stiles mutters. Ignores the soreness of his own throat that says he's probably going to be the one making weird sleep noises. "Do you snore? You look like you snore."

"Go to sleep, Stiles," and even Derek sounds happy, underneath the sour wolf exterior. God, the world is going to end.

"He wants to fuck you too," Peter says. Low, amused. "Should I let him, in the morning?"

Jesus, forget sleep. Stiles moans. Nowhere to hide his face but in Derek's neck. Embarrassed, weirdly, even as some kind of knot in his chest unloosens.

"You are a sick individual," he says, and he means it, but somehow the line already sounds old.

Notes:

next up - Jackson is a baby deer.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of Family Expectations