Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It's strange, sometimes, Peter thinks, the way that things work out.

He's standing in the parking lot, holding his breath as he watches Derek and Cora drive off for a second time. His stomach twists gently as he sees brake lights, but it's only Derek switching lanes before taking a side street toward the freeway. They don't come back like he fears, to stop him before he's even really started. Returning heroes triumphant as they catch the villain in the third act. Not that he's a villain. He prefers to think of himself as more of a Byronic Hero.

Jennifer doesn't seem at all shocked to see him, which swells Peter's ego a little. Not that he needs the stroke, but it's always nice to be appreciated. Validated. To know that the people who matter (well, mattered) still view you as a threat. As someone to be counted. He kills her not because he's afraid of her, but because he doesn't really want the competition. He kills her for her power. His claws dig into her spine as she lay dying, gasping scorn at him in her last breaths. He takes everything she knows; the secret names and spells, the summonings and the art. The dark rituals and paths to true power. These things always comes with a price, but it's a price Peter is more than willing to pay.

He kills her for Derek, because despite what anyone else thinks, Peter loves his family more than anything else.

They say that fire cleanses, and in a way it does. It destroys everything, eradicating the past and obliterating responsibility. Fire is sympathetic and fire is sad, secret looks. Fire is whispers when they think he can't hear, and fire is righteous indignation. Fire is all the excuse Peter needs, because fire is what took everything from him. His family, his home, his world, his sanity. Fire destroys, but fire can also create.

The flickering flames of candles shine in his blue-glass eyes. While Derek has always shied away from the heat, ever since that day, Peter finds he can't get enough of it. He was cold for too long. Cold and dead and crawling with insects, encased in filth. Maybe he still is. Maybe the worms got to his brain, but if they ate any holes it was nothing he needed. He still feels sharp and bright, deadly; like the flames.

But enough allegory and metaphor.

It's been several days since Derek and Cora left and no one has really bothered with Peter. Isaac comes sniffing around twice, and sleeps on the couch both nights. Peter doesn't stay the second night, when Isaac stretches out on the blue, threadbare couch and sleeps his fitful sleep. He doesn't want to sit awake, listening to the boy's nightmares. Isaac is a strange young man, full of rage and loathing and the desire to be a better person than his father. But Isaac doesn't fit into Scott's mold, and one day he'll realize that. He has too much fury inside of him and it'll find its way to the surface eventually.

Scott and Stiles arrive together on the fourth day. Scott looks hangdog and a little guilty, but there isn't much else there. Scott wears everything on his face and is a terrible liar, and to say that he and Derek often butted heads is a tremendous understatement. No doubt a part of Scott is relieved that the former alpha's gone, and maybe he hopes things will go back to normal.

Scott is too idealistic for his own good and nothing will ever be normal for him again. He's a true alpha now, and he's been touched by death, magic, and the temptation for dangerous power and the kill. There's a darkness inside Scott now that will change him irrevocably, and Peter is interested in seeing how that plays out.

He holds a very small pocket of pride in his chest for Scott. He doesn't touch it often, but when he does he smiles a little, and it's genuine. I made that, he thinks, and no one will ever be able to convince him otherwise.

Stiles is a different animal altogether.

Where Scott is a wolf, proud and puffed-up and and full of himself, Stiles is a coyote, lean and cunning and cautious. He follows behind the pack and bites at the ankles of the weak, taking the scraps offered to him with a by your leave. He never tries to take what isn't his because he fears the punishing bite. He fears being cast out. But when Stiles snaps, he bites back sharp and goes immediately for the hurt. It's kind of pretty to watch, Peter thinks.

Peter wonders what will happen when Scott finally comprehends the true meaning of pack and gives him the inevitable ultimatum; take the bite or take it on the heel. Knowing Stiles like Peter likes to think he does, the kid will remain stubbornly human as long as possible, if only out of spite.

Peter is perched at the top of the stairs, watching as the boys wander aimlessly through the vast loft space. The walls of concrete and brick seem miles apart, deepened by contrasting shadows. It's funny, but without Derek's intense gravity and near palpable brooding, even Peter has to admit that this box feels cold. Scott and Stiles try to ignore Peter, but he pays them no similar respect. His eyes tag along on the tops of their heads, their shoulders, their lips as they speak. The boys move apart and come together a few times, whispering in hushed tones like they think he can't hear them.

“We need to do something about him,” Scott says, his shoulders a little tense with that do-gooding hunch. Peter's pretty sure if Scott could get away with standing up straight with his arms akimbo like Superman, he would. One of them smells like artificial grapes, and he wants to say it's Scott because he's pretty certain that's what Melissa's hairspray smelled like. Stiles smells like Cool Ranch Doritos, chemical sweat, and the way breath smells after an orgasm.

“Why?” Stiles counters, spreading his hands as he speaks a bit louder than Scott. “Peter's a grown-up. An adult. An older man of sarcastically unspecified age and very indeterminate scruples. It's not like he needs to be taken care of.” Peter smiles slyly at the kid's balls. Always challenging when he was certain he could get away with it.

“Your concern for me is heartening, Scott,” Peter says sardonically, reaching up to grasp the metal railings on either side as he pulls himself to his feet. “But Stiles is right, I don't need a handler. All I actually need,” he continues as he takes the stairs one by one, in no hurry to get anywhere in particular. “Is just your permission to stay, if you'll let me.”

When he reaches the ground floor he stops, clasping his hands behind his back and tilting his head slightly. His gaze grabs Scott's and holds it. Scott is only sixteen, and despite his brand new status shift and his new-found sense of duty and honor, he's no match for a man with as many years behind him as Peter. His subtle intimidation works perfectly, because Scott nods and gives Peter an almost sympathetic look, promising to come by and visit when he can because Peter had helped them out so much, and without him... blah blah blah.

Peter tunes Scott out. He's distracted by Stiles rolling his eyes and huffing softly, slender arms folding over his slowly broadening chest. Stiles doesn't want him in Beacon Hills because Stiles doesn't really want any of them here, because werewolves are what turned his world upside down. Sometimes Stiles doesn't even want Scott here. But it's not Scott's fault he is what he is, it's Peter's. Everyone needs a scapegoat.

By the time they leave, Peter's certain he has to do it tonight. He's tried of waiting, tired of maneuvering, and tired of being tired. He craves what he can only barely recall in the muddles of his memories, because being dead really does a number on the mind. But he remembers that he was once strong and fast; completely tapped into something that Derek will never let himself touch and Scott couldn't comprehend in his wildest dreams.

Peter doesn't want Scott's alpha anymore, and if Derek hadn't given his up, Peter wouldn't want his, either. Now Peter wants Deucalion's. He wants the demon wolf, because fuck poetry; he wants the song.

But in order to achieve this, he's going to need a little help.

Imagine what it would feel like to always have someone standing right behind you. Close enough to feel their electricity, maybe even the heat of their body. Close enough to feel the occasional strand of hair tickling your arm or the back of your neck. But no matter where you move or how fast you turn, you can't ever grab them. You'll catch a random glimpse of something out of the corner of your eye, but nothing more than a shadow, like some fucked up Peter Pan.

You feel that presence all the time. It's usually so faint you can ignore it, or maybe it's even a little comforting. But sometimes it's so overwhelming that it drowns you like a hot, wet blanket. Like what it must feel like to have someone breathing over your mouth and nose while you struggle, and all your screams get swallowed up by that maw.

That's what it feels like to get possessed by a demon, and that's what happens to Stiles in the dirty, dark parking lot outside of the loft. Amidst the few long-abandoned cars and the streetlight that flickers on and off whenever it feels like it, Stiles ceases to be Stiles and becomes something a little more. Or maybe a little less. Or maybe now he's just right.

Stiles – he'll call himself that for the sake of convenience – kicks at a few chunks of uprooted asphalt with the toe of his Converse before turning a grin upwards, staring at the huge warehouse windows above. The light is dim, but he can hear the hissing-pop of candle flames from here. He can taste the faint metallic of pewter and blood in the back of his throat. He can smell the non-scent of the pure beeswax, and the sharp tang of herbs and what's probably semen. Basic ritual crap. He's temped to turn and walk away because the bubbling urge to go and cause trouble is near distracting, but he has to follow the rules.

Most people think demons just sow chaos, but that isn’t true. Monsters are chaotic. It's just that sometimes demons like to truck with monsters. They're fun to watch. Fun to spin up tight and elbow into groups of unsuspecting sheep. But demons like order and laws more than anyone else, because if you give a man enough words, he'll eventually choke on them. The demon is eager to hear Peter's words. Peter is a monster with manners, a monster with intelligence. A monster who dipped a toe into hell and decided it was a little too hot for him.

Stiles almost takes the stairs. He wants to stretch these legs and give them a run, but he doesn't want to rouse suspicions. So he'll take the elevator, which is fine, because the thing is old and has a heavy gate, and creaks and groans like a death trap. The demon smiles, because it's the little things, really.

He lifts a hand and watches his long, knobbly-knuckled fingers curl into a loose fist, before knocking on the door three times. He tries to force himself to stop smiling, because this kid definitely wouldn't be smiling if he had to come back here again tonight. Let's see, why was he back? Does he need to talk about something? What's a good excuse? Oh, right, he forgot his backpack, which explains why he came back after dropping off Scott.

But in all honesty, who fucking cares. It's just a formality, anyway. The demon knows that Peter knows that he's there.

“It's me, Peter,” Stiles calls out, trying to adopt an annoyed tone. “I forgot my backpack.”

The door slides open and the demon tries not to burst into laughter at Peter's suspicious face. He should have known the werewolf would sniff him out. He hops down the steps and strides around the space, feet eating up floor as he walks around, eyes quick and darting like he's never been here before. He maps it in his mind, matching up the physical with everything he's minding from Stiles's mind. He so distracted, in fact, that he walks right over the huge throw rug that wasn't there earlier in the evening.

“Whoa,” Stiles says, immediately coming to a stop at the edge of the rug. He and Peter exchange confused looks before realization hits the demon. “Oh, because–” Stiles gestures at Peter and chuckles. “Because you brought me here. So, naturally...” Stiles gestures to the rug beneath his feet, or more appropriately at the large summoning and binding circle hidden beneath it. Peter's eyebrows lift and he takes a step back, putting his hands on his hips with a heavy sigh as the demon keeps talking.

"Wow, I feel like such a dumbass for walking right into that trap,” the demon says, smacking himself dramatically on the forehead. “I didn't even see your disgusting altar, all covered in guts and smelly plants and...” He pauses, narrowing his eyes and peering. “Hey, did you jack off into that cup?" He presses his hands to his heart and sighs, feigning a swoon. "Aww, baby, it's like you know exactly what I like."

“Shit,” Peter sighs, shoulders sagging as his arms fall to hang heavy at his sides. “You've got to be kidding me. What the hell did I do wrong?”

“Nothing,” Stiles says as he walks the edge of the rug, each foot stepping precisely in front of the other like he's on a tightrope. “You got me here. Isn't that what you wanted? Nice choice with the kid, by the way. Good age, he's smart, and he's got a lot of bad shit going on upstairs. I like that.” He smiles. “He's all limbs, too. Skinny, but not weak. I don't like 'em too big. I'm not really the smash and grab type, you know? I prefer full infiltration; sneaky business and thievery. If this was a D&D game, I would totally be the rogue-”

“You were supposed to be for me,” Peter cuts him off flatly. His eyes are sharp with annoyance and hindrance, and from the way his hands keep flexing the claws away, the demon can tell that this is a monster who isn't used to making mistakes. Not mistakes he can't immediately turn to his advantage, in any case.

“Sorry, bro,” he says. He comes to a stop on the rug nearest Peter, hands slipping inside the pockets of his jeans as he adopts a casual stance. He tilts his head back just slightly so he can peer down his nose at the werewolf. “I don't generally ride monsters. At least not in the way you're thinking,” he quirks a lip as Peter's eyebrows lift. Not used to hearing shit like that coming out from between these lips, apparently. “But hey, I'm still here, so maybe we can work something out? I obviously have something you want, or you wouldn't have dialed me up. So let's hear the pitch. I'm completely open to negotiation.” He grins.

“No doubt,” Peter grits his teeth and rolls his eyes slightly before walking back over to his laptop, which is set up a few feet away from the altar. Oh, well, that's probably where he went wrong. As much as these idealistic modern practitioners liked to preach, magic is not just science that hasn't been proven yet, and science is not just magic that humans have harnessed. The two borrow from each other quite extensively, but really, it's like peanut butter and chocolate. Two great tastes that taste great together, but they're obviously not the same thing.

“Next time, maybe lower yourself to cracking open an old, dusty tome.” The demon smirks, dropping down into a comfortable crouch as he watches Peter. “I mean, there's a reason it's an archetype and not just a stereotype.” He admires the strength of Peter's build, the bulk, and likes the fact that he's not too tall. Really tall people unnerve him, plus they're more likely to get cancer, so what's the point? Always have friends who are shorter than you, because then at least you'll have someone to go to your funeral.

Peter shuts his laptop with a resounding click. “Seriously?” Peter asks, looking like he's about to throw the computer. It occurs to the demon that Peter had likely struggled with the decision of laptop over book, which is kind of fucking funny, now. The irony. “This got screwed up because of perceptive reality?”

The demon shrugs and gives Peter a fake sympathetic smile. “Sometimes it's not all about you, buddy. Other people have been summoning demons a lot longer than you've been around. There are rules and forms, so maybe less laptops next time. How about a little veneration for the old ways? If you're going to scream my name while yanking your dick, the least you can do is respect me in the morning.” Peter laughs, but the sound is anything but amused. It's a humorless laugh, a little bitter, and maybe even a little dramatic, but the demon can't fault anyone for indulging in a little bit of drama every now and then. The world is merely a stage, right? At least according to Shakespeare.

"Hey, don't despair, man," the demon says with a wink. "Just listen to my idea."

"Oh, no doubt this will be brilliant," Peter retorts. "Demons are always so quick to be generous and helpful." He turns to straddle his chair, arms folded over the back as he gives the demon his full attention. The jut of his scruffy chin is obstinate, almost childish. It's kind of fucking cute on this full-grown monster.

"What the hell did you think was going to happen here, man?" the demon asks, giving Peter a blank, flat look. In the moment between blinks of those long-lashed eyelids, Stiles's sclera cloud and fill with inky blackness, before it cannibalizes the amber of his irises. If Peter had even the slightest doubt before, there's really just no faking this. “Tiger can't change its stripes, demons can't not make deals and contracts, and Peter Hale can't not be a megalomaniacal, power-hungry control freak,” the demon continues, spreading his hand and giving a little shrug. “I got what you want, so let's talk terms. First things first; you let me out of this circle and I'll tell you everything you want to know about Deucalion's wolf.”

That catches Peter's interest, as evidenced by the tilt of his head, the narrowing of his eyes, and way his fingers drum on the chair-back. “And then?” Peter asks.

Stiles leans against the invisible barrier keeping him caged, hands jammed into his pockets. “And then we negotiate for the long term.” The demon smiles again, only this time there's nothing sweet or innocent about it. His cheeks seem to angle and hollow, and there's the most off-putting hint of sharpness to his perfectly white teeth.

Peter is still for a few breaths as they both listen to the steady beating of each others' hearts. Calm breathing and slow pulses are the win of the day, and much to Peter's chagrin it looks like the demon is going to win round one. But that's okay, because if Peter plays nice and strikes a bargain, then the demon will make sure everyone wins in the end. Well, everyone on their side, anyway.

When Peter crouches down next to the rug and lifts the edge, he glances up just long enough to make eye contact with the demon as he extends a finger, pushing out a hard, sharp claw. At the sight of that, a rather humiliating, yet sickly-hot chill goes through the meat's body. The demon lowers himself to a crouch, as well. His smile is sweet like things that are rotten as he watches Peter scratch the paint of the circle broken with a claw, releasing the magic and the demon inside.

“How much do you actually know about your origin story?” the demon wearing Stiles's face asks. He takes a very pointed step over the broken paint line, his foot landing outside of the circle that had previously kept Peter safe. But fuck safe, Peter thinks. Playing things careful never got anyone anywhere.

“Everything there is to know,” Peter says as he folds his arms, the purse to his lips pure arrogance.

“I'm not talking about all of that stupid Greek crap,” the demon says flippantly as he wanders over to Peter's makeshift altar and starts touching things. “I'm talking about the magic.” He trails a finger along the black athame, picks up the incense holder and smells it, and then moves to one of the beeswax candles, snuffing the flame out between two tapered fingers. “The wolf spirits. The deals and pacts that were struck to keep this bloodline potent for generations to come, because Lycan turned his curse into what he believed to be a blessing.”

The demon turns to lean against the table, arms folding and eyes pinning Peter where he sits. “When a baby in your bloodline is conceived, the soul of that baby is weighed, and if it's judged to be worthy, a wolf spirit is attached to it. If not, then it remains human. When you offer someone the bite, the wolf spirit is listening and judging the human's soul, and whether the bite turns them or kills them depends on whether the wolf spirit accepts them or not.” The demon shrugs. “Simple shit, but not generally known.”

Peter takes hold of the chair-back and leans away from it, stretching out his arms and cracking his spine as he heaves a long, deep sigh. That was definitely something he didn't know, but he also didn't know if he could trust the demon.

“Oh, for fuck's sake, will you stop agonizing?” the demon complains, rolling his eyes as he dips a finger into the pewter bowl that holds the self-sacrifice of blood and semen. He pulls it out, coated in red and pearl, before absentmindedly sticking it in his mouth. Peter makes a face before he can stop himself and pushes up to his feet, pacing over toward the stairs. He rubs his hands briefly over his face, trying to center himself or ground himself, or whatever stupid yoga crap he heard on T.V. the other day was, before turning back to face the demon, only to see him idly rubbing a hand over the crotch of his jeans.

Peter blinks and arches an eyebrow.

“What?” the demon asks, looking genuinely confused before following Peter's pointed glance down. “Oh.” He laughs and looks back up, not bothering to stop running the heel of his hand over his own dick “Did I forget to tell you? This kid has a really strange boner for you. He feels crazy ashamed and grossed-out by it, but hey, I say good for him. Nothing wrong with being a slave to your Id, right Peter?” he cajoles.

Peter rolls his eyes and tightens his jaw. He suddenly wonders if Stiles has always been attractive in that vaguely obnoxious, deer-like way, or if it's just the demon's words coming out of his mouth. Because it's a pretty mouth and dirty words, and that combination is always just barely on the bad side of enticing.

“Story time,” Peter says, his voice gruff and hard, like he's trying to be the boss, but he knows that's probably a laughable assumption.

“Give me a hand-job,” the demon demands just as plainly and simply as asking for a glass of water.

“What?” Peter scoffs. “No.” He looks at the demon like he's lost his mind, which is maybe redundant. It would be presumptuous to assume that all demons are insane, he supposes. But a hand-job? Seriously?

“Yes.” The word comes out of Stiles's mouth with an almost sensual twist of his lips. “Stick your hand in my jeans and jerk me off.” Peter doesn't think he's ever seen such an oddly arousing dichotomy in his life as those words coupled with that face. “You get me off and I'll tell you everything you want to know about Deucalion.” The demon smirks as Peter's eyes narrow.

“Or, how about this alternative,” Peter says as he steps up to match the demon's game of chicken. “I pick you up, throw you back on the rug, re-seal the circle, and then send you right back to hell. Or you can tell me everything you know about Deucalion.”

The demon grins darkly. “Or,” he drawls, closing the distance between them until the zipper of his hoodie's brushing the buttons of Peter's henley. “I let you pick me up, you throw me on the rug, but then instead of a handy, you fuck me. Then I'll tell you most of what I know about Deucalion.” The demon reaches up suddenly and prods his index finger at Peter's lips, pushing the slim digit into his mouth before Peter has a chance to react. The demon swipes the pad of his finger quickly over Peter's tongue before pulling his finger out and sticking it right into his own mouth, sucking on it with innocent eyes widening gamely at the older man.

Peter is both annoyed and aroused, and annoyed that he is aroused.

“Most of what you know?” Peter repeats flatly. He reaches up and absently wipes at his own lower lip with a knuckle, his eyes glinting harder than they feel as he stares at Stiles's softly-smirking face. “Not fifteen seconds ago it was everything for a hand-job, now it's just some for a fuck? So you're negotiating up while offering me less,” he states, realizing quickly that doesn't exactly have any real leverage here.

The demon continues to smile and it's becoming infuriating. It's all Peter can do not to growl when he starts humming the theme song to Jeopardy.

“The clock is ticking,” the demon sing-songs. He leans in and presses his chest against Peter's as his hands slip down between them, slowly unbuttoning his own jeans. In the looming silence of the loft Peter hears the stretch of a denim buttonhole and the pop-through of a metal button, and then the slow slide of zipper teeth. Each sound seems magnified, because while Peter is a little fucked in the head, this situation is even more fucked. It then occurs to Peter that he hasn't even thought to ask if Stiles is okay in there.

Suddenly there's a hand fisting the front of his shirt and a mouth on his. Sharp teeth bite at his lower lip as a hot, slippery tongue snakes in, and it's all Peter can do not to groan. His hands move to the demon's – the kid's – Stiles's body and grab at it, palming his waist, one on his hip, before taking advantage of the demon's distraction. With a soft growl low in his throat in his throat, Peter's picks up the demon and throws him back onto the rug. He lands with a shocked, offended look, and the fact that the kid's jeans are already halfway down his ass would just make things comical if it wasn't so fucking dirty-hot.

Peter isn't attracted to Stiles. Never actually has been. He's seventeen years old and Peter is... quite a bit older. Old enough to be his father. Not to say that Stiles isn't attractive in a purely objective and aesthetic way, especially since he let his hair grow and he started filling out more. But no. Just no. He never looked at Stiles that way.

Not until now.

Because this demon is all temptation and dark desires and fucking sex and power. The way he drops his eyelids and looks up at Peter with Stiles's amber eyes burning from the inside. The way he doesn't even bother sitting up, just arches his body as he unzips his hoodie, knowing exactly how to work that long, lean body just right.

Peter draws in a slow, steadying breath. The demon holds Peter's gaze, almost aggressively daring him to look away as he sheds the outer garment, his pretty, girlish lips parting with a moist breath. He yanks off the flannel beneath, hips lifting from the floor just enough for Peter to see Stiles's erection tenting the front of his boxers, pushing through the unzipped fly of his jeans. He can tell that the demon is having a difficult time keeping his head above water, drowning in the sea of hormones that Stiles seems to keep under control with a strict regiment of frequent jerking off and Adderall.

Stiles licks his lips and reaches down to brush the hem of his shirt up – a charming little number that reads Hopeless Romantic Seeks Filthy Whore – before tugging it off and throwing it at Peter. He toes off his shoes and kicks his jeans down, and Peter notes with absent amusement that he's wearing Stewie Griffith boxers that say 'I'm a Bad Boy', but Peter doesn't believe in coincidences. Peter watches with his hard-on growing, brain nearly shorting out as he tries to sort through what he needs and what he wants, even as Stiles's boxers are also thrown at him, leaving the boy bare as the day he was born.

Okay. There's only so much a guy can take.

Peter finds himself standing right on the edge of the rug, his skin hot and tight. He's trying to ignore the fact that he's half-hard and can't take his eyes off of Stiles's slender hand, stroking slowly over his leanly-muscled chest, waist that's just this side of still-too-thin, and hipbones that jut like a girl's. Pale skin with the kiss of a tan from the summer, and a smattering of tiny moles and dark freckles immediately transform him from porcelain and precious to wanton and deliciously sullied. Peter doesn't know how to feel, so he just feels, because while it might be Stiles's body, this isn't really Stiles inside. It isn't. Because he can't–

“Does this help?” the demon purrs salaciously, his eyes immediately filling with black, changing the look of Stiles's face as much as any mask. Peter's jaw clenches and hands ball into fists as he admits to himself that yes, that's good enough. He takes a step onto the rug and enters the circle, and as his fingers move to unbuckle his belt, the demon smiles.

Seducing Peter is a little more difficult than the demon had anticipated, but it's for a completely amazing reason; Peter actually seems to give a shit about this kid. A little part of him cares, at least enough to hesitate before just taking what he wants. Enough so that the demon has to make a few concessions, which isn't something he usually does. But he feels this union will be quite profitable for both of them, especially given the fact that there's some weird attachment between these two already. Something that the demon can't wait to scratch at, to finger moist, to coax right to the edge... to hold that sort of control.

It doesn't take much persuading to get the monster on his back. He wants it, he likes this; wants to stain this pretty milk-pale skin with finger-bruises and teeth marks. Wants to suck bloody welts with his mouth. Wants to shove his cock so hard and deep into this boy that the demon chokes on it. Wants to roll him over onto his stomach and hold his face against the floor, riding his ass until he's smothering in his own breath and breaking fingernails on the concrete floor. But there's time for all of that romance and fun later.

Presently, Peter and the demon have some negotiations to make. A deal to seal.

“You know Deucalion's story,” he drawls as he drags a slender thigh along Peter's hip and leans back, one hand grabbing at the older man's thigh as he straddles his hips. “Good guy gone bad. But that's not the whole story.” He grips tight and rocks down, teeth catching his lower lip as he grinds his ass against Peter's thick cock. His own equipment is more slender, and had obviously seen a lot less road time due to only really optioning to travel alone until now.

“How do you know all this?” Peter asks, lips parting around heady breath. His eyes slit as he watches with a vested interest, Stiles's sinewy body slowly writhing atop his. A hand slides up one of the boy's thighs, hesitates briefly, before moving to palm over his balls and curl around the base of the blushed shaft nested in sparse, thick hair.

The demon whines and hums deep in his throat, head dropping back as he shamelessly bucks his hips, trying to push himself through Peter's hand. He can't help the way his mouth works around the open air as he trembles. To feel the way this body wants and craves, constantly awash in juices, hormones, pheromones, firing synapses. and chemicals; it's incredible. He thinks he might stick with teenagers for the foreseeable, because this passion is addicting.

“Because–” the demon gasps. “Deucalion made a deal with one of us and I know the demon that holds his contract.” He hunches over Peter and grabs at his shoulder, his other hand dropping to curl around Peter's, forcing him to move that rough palm along his pulsing cock. “Why do you think I came when you called?” He grins lewdly, eyes still as black and shiny as the carapace of beetle. “You wolves are on the radar.”

“Fuck,” Peter breathes, tongue darting over his lips. His eyes dropped to watch their hands moving jointly over Stiles's cock, gazing hungrily as the dark-flushed head disappears against his palm with each upstroke.

“Don't mind if we do,” the demon says, smirking “But first, terms.” Without so much as a half-interested glance and a pulse of energy from the demon, there's the sound of a mirror shattering as the medicine cabinet in the bathroom swings open. A tube of lube flies towards them and smacks into Stiles's outstretched hand. He smirks and waggles his eyebrows at Peter, who just rolls his eyes and grabs it.

“Get the fuck on with it,” Peter growls.

“I go to Deucalion,” the demon says, his breath hot as he drops down on an elbow, their mouths intimately close. He whimpers softly, his cock twitching and aching at the sight of Peter squirting lube into his hand. “I...” he licks his lips and rolls his eyes, getting himself under control a bit. “Fuck- goddamnit...” He swallows hard at the dryness in his throat. “I wait for the the demon that holds his contract. I negotiate with him.”

“And what do you get?” Peter asks as he drops the lube onto onto his chest for ease of access.

“Your soul,” the demon says with absolutely no irony, eyes flashing shine over the black slick. His lips curve into a smug smile.

Peter narrows his eyes. He grabs the demon by the hip with his dry hand, two slick fingers finding the boy's puckered, virgin hole and prodding at it. He teases his fingers over the sensitive flesh, rubbing firmly before slipping just the tip of a finger inside. The demon whines and drops his forehead against Peter's shoulder, because he hasn't been inside a virgin body in so fucking long, and this both fucking sucks and is goddamn incredible.

The demon parts his lips and digs his teeth into Peter's shoulder just as the wolf twists and thrusts two thick fingers up inside of Stiles's tense, trembling body, pulling an indecent moan from that skinny little throat. He rocks back sinuously, screwing himself down against the invading digits.

“It's not a big deal,” the demon drawls as he noses into Peter's neck, licking and nipping like a fucking puppy as Peter obediently bares his throat to the attention. “When was the last time you actually used your soul? It just seems to get in your way more often than not.”

Peter huffs and wraps his free arm around Stiles's hips, pinning him firmly. His hold is strong as he plunges and scissors his fingers, eagerness written in every tense line of their lean, hungry bodies.

“How long?” Peter asks, his voice thick with restrained desire.

“Ten years,” the demon gasps and clings to Peter's shoulders, digging fingernails into muscle. “You have ten years to be the biggest, baddest wolf, and then I come and get you.” His hips jerk and buck each time Peter finds his prostate, brushing purposefully and cruelly against it with the pad of his fingers. His cock is caught fast between their two bodies, the air trapped there as hot as a furnace. He can feel himself leaking into Peter's bellybutton, which fills him with sick, twisted glee.

The demon can feel protest in Peter's body. The way his deliciously thrusting fingers stutter and his head drops back onto the rug, chest lifting with a deep inhale of breath. Fuck hesitation, fuck not taking this deal; this is a good deal. Stiles's lips and tongue attack Peter's throat, collarbone, and shoulder. He writhes on top of Peter's sweaty body, giggling when he accidentally presses a little too firmly and squirts some of the cool lube out onto Peter's chest. Long fingers bat the tube away and the demon revels in the slick heat between them, one hand slipping down through the mess to wrap around Peter's cock, coating his cock even harder before practically humping against the fingers in his ass.

“Hnn, fuck me,” the demon whines, lips flush against Peter's jaw before lifting to brush wetly over his mouth. “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me...” he shivers in sharp satisfaction as Peter growl-groans and leans up to claim his mouth in a fierce kiss, fingers slipping unceremoniously out of his stretched hole. Peter reaches for his own dick, but the demon beats him to it, canting his hips back up before pressing the head of Peter's cock against his own slick entrance.

“Mm, say yes,” the demon mumbles into Peter's mouth as he lewdly rubs the head of Peter's cock against his hole. Tempting Peter, trying to overwhelm him, bullying him with sex. “Say yes and make the fucking deal, Peter.”

“Yes,” Peter growls as his hands grab at Stiles's hips, as he tries to move the boy's body, but finds he can't. He can't do a damn thing but take what he gets because the demon is twice as strong as him, and for all the whimpering and whining and writhing, the demon is still running this show. “Just fucking- yes, okay? Fuck...”

“Good boy,” the demon states in that softly distorted tone, and Peter feels a gentle quake down deep in his core. He doesn't have any time to dwell on it, though, because the base, toe-curling pleasure of Stiles's tight, hot body clenching almost painfully around his cock overwhelms him as the boy sinks down, pulling rough, throaty groans from both of them. Twin spidery hands settle on Peter's chest as the demon steadies himself, his lips parted and wet, his cheeks and chest bloomed pink. His upper lip lifts in a slight baring of his teeth, and the demon wastes no time, because he's beyond done giving time to anything that isn't fucking the werewolf beneath him.

Because it's like he said; there's only one way he'll ride a monster.

The acoustics are pretty much terrible in the loft, but the looming silence catches the sounds of their slick, sweaty bodies coming together. The hollow slapping of flesh echoes with each drive up of Peter's hips and plunge down of Stiles's. For a long time there are no words, just the animal sounds of rutting and carnal communication. The intimate knowledge that transfers from one body to another as they cycle their electricity on an endless loop, from the ensouled to the soulless.

Sweat, heat, and power connect them. Their ears fill with sounds meant for no one holy as they seal their pact with come and a kiss. The demon fucks Peter hard and without mercy, taking liberties with the fact that neither of them will exactly bruise as he tears his body a little with each desperate grind of the head of Peter's cock against his prostate. Stiles's body won't stop trembling, and it's fucking perfect and delicious.

Peter's hips jerk and buck beneath Stiles, claws digging into soft skin and lacing the air with the scent of blood. He throws his head back and tenses hard as Stiles's lean body pulls his orgasm from him, and he can't help a long, heady groan as that tight coil in his groin unfolds and sends heat zinging along his spine in that perfect moment of clarity.

The demon refuses to stop fucking himself on that hard, throbbing meat until Peter grabs him around the waist and stills him with a warning growl. His slick hand grabs Stiles's cock and begins jerking him hard and fast. With a near-sob of relief the demon leans back to grab Peter's thighs, bracing on his hands as he stretches himself out and drops his head back to loll on his shoulders, practically putting himself on display. His thighs tense and quake, his ass still tight around Peter's spent cock, and it's only seconds before he comes with a shout, hips rolling with a gorgeously vulgar lack of self-restraint. Hot come splashes onto Peter's stomach and the air is fucking ripe with the smell of them, and for a moment Peter almost forgets what it is that's on top of him, until the boy's eyes flutter back open–

Flutter open to that deep, soulful amber that catches you and drags you into all the warmth that Stiles has to give. There's no trace of the demon anywhere. Just Peter and Stiles and their bodies between them. Those pretty eyes widen, and Stiles's heart starts hammering as his consciousness swims back to the surface as the demon recedes, with a cruel little zing of pleasure.

It's 5:00am when Stiles wakes up in his own bed, face-down and half-suffocating in his pillow. He's on top of his sheets, legs tangled like he'd been tossing and turning all night, and the only thing he's wearing are his Batman boxers. Which strikes him as odd on some weird, profound level, because he could swear he'd been in a Family Guy mood yesterday.

His hair is wet. Oh. Must have taken a shower and then changed clothes. Makes sense. But why so late? What the hell happened last night? His memory is foggy, which shoots a cold spike of wariness through his stomach. He shifts his arms and pushes himself up to peer blearily around his room, but the movement triggers all of the pains that sleep had soothed. His knees hurt like they're bruised, his jaw and thighs ache, and his ass...

That chill lances through him again and coils tight in his stomach. Despite the pain and soreness, Stiles clumsily sits up and lurches for his phone. Gangly legs slide over the side of the bed and ground him, feet on the floor, and for some reason the contact of his bare feet on the carpet startles him. His toes twitch and his feet clench, startling him because it tickles. He stares in confusion at his own feet. Slender, a little bony and sinewy; long with long toes. Typical feet for someone who's probably going to grow another one or two inches before he's done.

Stiles is ticklish in a lot of places, but none of those places has ever been his feet.

“What the hell?” he mumbles to himself. His voice is thick with sleep, or really the reluctant wakefulness of someone struggling with the lack of sleep. It's weird, sure, but not really weird enough to devote what little brain power he's currently operating on to pondering ticklish feet. He fumbles his phone around and lights the screen, frowning slightly at his text notifications. Two from Scott last night, one asking if he's going to be at track practice today after school, and one sent thirty-seven minutes after the first, asking if Stiles was okay and why didn't he text back?

The last thing Stiles remembers is dropping Scott off at home after leaving the loft. He doesn't like that that's the last thing he remembers. He drops his phone on his bed and scrubs his hands over his face, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes. Once he sees spots he begins to feel a little more awake, but man do his eyes hurt. Like a scratchy, swollen allergy sort of pain.

His dad won't be home for another hour, and while school doesn't start for another two-and-a-half, Stiles is suddenly struck with the bone-deep need to not be around his dad today. Another shower, and then maybe go sit at the Coffee Bean until school starts. He can't help thinking he might have missed some homework, but a slightly louder voice is pretty much damning his homework and urging him into that shower. Because all of a sudden, no man on earth has ever needed to jerk off as much as Stiles does right now.

Stiles doesn't think of Lydia that much anymore when he's in the shower. He can't bring himself to defile her in his mind when they've become so close. He's pretty sure she'll never be good wank-bank material again, unless in some alternate reality they actually do end up getting groiny with each other, in which case he'll be stocked up until the turn of the century. The thought of actually getting to fuck her is definitely what gets him hard, but what gets him off is the same thing that's been getting him off for a few weeks, now; Derek. Derek randomly crawling into bed with him and Lydia, Lydia and Stiles saving Derek and then some raunchy threesome happening, Lydia actually just tagging Derek in and leaving them to it. But eventually Lydia just stops being there as much. Then she just stops being there, period.

The first time he thinks about Derek while fucking his own hand, he almost can't come because his brain suddenly floods with distracting questions. Weird emotions. Things that no boy likes to think about when he's trying to paint the tiles white. So he pushes them all down and grits his teeth and started punishing Derek in his thoughts. Punishing him in all the best ways.

These are the thoughts the demon sifts through as Stiles leans head-first against the shower wall, hand tugging furiously at his dick as the water beats down hard on his sore back. His lips are parted around some truly obscene sounds, because there's no one home to hear him. In his mind, he forces Derek to take his cock, to fucking love it. Has him on his back, his hands and knees, every which way. But the thought that finally makes him cream his hand is the way Peter silently ghosts in from behind him and invades Stiles's hole, pinning him inside of Derek, and all three howl together.

Stiles gasps against tiles, hips jerking and legs tense and shaky as he spurts hot into his own fingers. He turns to lean back against the tiles, squinting at the bathroom lights as his garbled morning brain struggles to make sense of what just happened. While rationally he can't understand why the fucking fuck he would ever have a sexual fantasy about Peter Hale, it doesn't exactly fill him with revulsion like he thinks it should. A little confusion, yes, and some definite wondering if maybe he's losing his mind, but when the demon stirs deep inside his meat and smiles and flexes his claws, Stiles re-considers Peter, and he suddenly doesn't seem so bad.

“You look like crap,” Scott says with the same level of cheerfulness he reserves for 'good morning' or 'man, I love Captain Crunch' or 'dude, do you want to make corn dogs and watch the Science Channel?' Stiles starts and turns, glaring balefully at his best friend. Well, he glares as much as he can from behind the mirrored sunglasses he stole from his dad's dresser, because the sun is fucking killing his eyes today. Scott cocks his head and leans in, sniffing him.

“You okay? Are you hungover?” he asks. “You don't smell like it...” he trails off, frowning lightly.

“Knock it off,” Stiles says grumpily, leaning away from Scott with an annoyed look as he curls his hands around the straps of his backpack. “Just didn't get a lot of sleep and my Adderall isn't kicking in.” Stiles makes a mental note to call his doctor when he gets home; maybe he's building up a tolerance. “I dunno.” He shrugs as they walk into the school building proper. Everyone and everything around him is kind of slightly annoying today. “Maybe I need to try out something new. I'm getting really, really tired of the insomnia.”

Scott snickers and shoulders Stiles playfully, which only earns Scott a flat glare. He doesn't think his chemical dependence, ADD, or lack of sleep is anything to laugh at. He's also in an awful mood today, which isn't exactly typical for him.

“Wow, man,” Scott says as he reaches over to give Stiles a consoling pat and squeeze on the shoulder. “You must be out of it. You just missed the opportunity for a horrible pun, and you didn't even notice that you said it. Maybe you should just skip out today. You can go to my place and catch some sleep? Mom's on a double so she won't be home until late...”

Stiles shakes his head. “Nah, I'll be cool,” he says with a deep breath in and a deep breath out. “I probably shouldn't have chugged down two ice-blended mochas on an empty stomach.” He chuckles weakly. “Do you have any food on you?”

“Uuuhhh,” Scott utters, swinging his bag around to dig inside of it, and while his attention is diverted, Stiles's eyes fuzz black behind his mirror shades. The demon ponders how much fun it would be to grab Scott's backpack and jerk it up over his head, twisting the strap around his neck and choking him until he dies. Well, until he passes out. He knows that choking Scott out won't kill him, but thinking about it is pretty fun, in any case.

The demon settles back in for the ride and quirks Stiles's lips against a smile. He folds his arms, trying to wait patiently as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. Excited butterflies tickle around in his stomach, and he suddenly feels a lot better now. More awake and less grumpy. Well, that's good he supposes.

“I have two Quest Bars?” Scott says, tugging them out and offering them to Stiles with a friendly smile. With a grin to match, Stiles grabs the chocolate peanut butter one and leaves the apple pie bar for Scott. Because he's just as sweet as, right?

“Thanks, bro,” the demon says as he tears open the wrapper and takes a big bite, not hesitating to throw his arm around Scott's shoulders as they walk. A friendly gesture. Physical touch because they're close. Act natural and never give them a reason to suspect. “And you're right. I can't believe I let a pun pass me by. Puns are the oldest and most revered form of humor,” he says with a dramatic sigh.

Scott tears open his own Quest Bar and offers it up to Stiles, as if in salute. “Here, here,” he says with a laugh, as Stiles taps his half-eaten breakfast bar against Scott's in a toast.

“Puns, dick jokes, and fart jokes,” the demon continues with a near solemn nod. “Did you know there are dick jokes recorded back to the Roman empire?

Scott rolls his eyes and laughs a bit as they approach their respective lockers. “How do you always know this stuff?” he asks, leaning against the bank as Stiles twists and turns the combination lock on his own locker and opens it up.

“I watched Spartacus,” the demon says with a shrug as he exchanges one book for another, as if that explains everything. “On STARZ.”

“But that's, like, fiction... right?” Scott asks, brow knitting as he looks to Stiles for confirmation. “I mean, I know it's based off of actual events, but they had to change it for TV. Did they actually really talk like that?” He laughs.

“Google Carmen 16 by Catallus,” the demon says with a snort. The demon had to reach back pretty far for that one, but remembering the poem now makes him snicker. “Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo,” he recites proudly, before shifting his eyes away from Scott and shoving the rest of the Quest Bar into his mouth, chewing around a smile. Everything's so much funnier in Latin.

It's after lunch and a few minutes until fifth period when Lydia finally gives into the gut-feeling she's been having about Stiles all day.

He's been acting off. The weird little smiles he's been giving people he'd never even deign to make eye contact with before. The comments out of the side of his mouth. Back-talking their new chemistry teacher without even a hint of his usual self-deprecating, sarcastic defense mechanisms. The fact that he made absolutely zero attempts to steal food off of anyone's plate during lunch. He just sat backwards on the bench seat, elbows on the table behind him, and watched people. He kept his long legs stretched out into the aisle, not moving them when people walked by. Ignoring the glares, ignoring the insults. Just smiling, looking weirdly content. Kind of acting like a jerk, but definitely seeming in a good mood.

She doesn't blame Scott, Allison, or Isaac for not noticing. Stiles is being subtle, and the other three are having some weird soap opera drama going on right now. Lydia will pay attention when Allison brings it to her, but until then, she has her own problems to worry about.

Aiden doesn't notice that anything's wrong with Stiles because he doesn't care. But Lydia does.

Something's going on with him, she's sure of it. Lydia Martin makes it her business to know absolutely everyone elses' business, and if there's anyone at this school that she knows, it's Stiles. You don't ignore someone who's been in love with you since the third grade. Someone who's risked his life for you too many times to count. Someone who's put up with constant stone-walling, threats, ice queen treatment, and mean girl barbs for years, happy with the meager scraps she feeds him.

No way. Stiles is a major part of her life now (it's funny how things work out), and if there's anyone who can see that there's something wrong here, it's Lydia Martin.

“Aiden,” Lydia says, reaching up to smack the backs of her knuckles against his chest as he slinks an arm around her to walk her to class. It's not like she can actually physically stop him from moving, it's just one of Lydia's little power plays. “Does Stiles seem off to you? A little... strange today?”

“He's always strange,” Aiden deadpans, rolling his eyes slightly. He looks over at Stiles, across the hall and several lockers down.

Lydia knows she's right, because she usually is. There's definitely something in the air today. It feels charged. She frowns at the way Stiles's lips are twitching and his eyes keep darting around. It's like he's trying to hide a million secrets at once and thinks everyone around him is a fool for not realizing it.

“Can you go and sniff him?” Lydia asks bluntly. She turns to glance up at Aiden, giving him those big hazel eyes she knows he can't say no to. Aiden sighs and grunts in the affirmative. Lydia watches him cross the corridor, which is thinning out of students all rushing to their respective classrooms. He steps up to Stiles, and Lydia sighs, cursing the fact that this banshee thing doesn't come with super-hearing.

Aiden's smile is douchey as he greets Stiles, and Lydia's suspicions just escalate when Stiles doesn't immediately throw out a sarcastic smile and some snarky comment. He actually straightens up, standing tall and looking a lot more together than she's seen him look in awhile. It looks good on him.

Their conversation doesn't last long, and Lydia can tell that there's a lot more exchanged than just words. The way Stiles suddenly leans in and smirks while he speaks, and the way Aiden actually shifts back. She's never seen Aiden back down from Stiles before, and it ticks all of her warning bells. She sucks in an unsteady breath as Stiles produces a pen from his locker and holds it tight, and there's a tickle in her brain; like a warning. Like something telling her that Stiles is about five seconds away from stabbing Aiden in the eye.

What the hell is going on?

Suddenly Stiles does a 180 and sags a bit, his shoulders pitching forward and his posture relaxing. He hands the pen over with a dart of his eyes Lydia's way. She offers a small smile, but he doesn't return it. As Aiden walks back over, pen in hand, she watches Stiles rub his eyes tiredly before hunching his shoulders and turning to walk down the hall. He trudges like he's moving through water, but he definitely doesn't have the same cocky air about him that he had before.

“Yeah, I'd say something's definitely going on,” Aiden says as he leans against the locker next to Lydia. He brings the pen up and gives it an absent sniff, rolling his eyes slightly as Lydia looks at him inquiringly. “It smells like Stiles,” he says with a shrug. “Same as always. Like he just jerked off in the shower and put way too much milk on his cereal this morning. But there's something else.” he sniffs it again, frowning. “I can't figure it out.”

Lydia grabs the pen and brings it up to her nose, sniffing hard. “What is that?” she says, giving him an imploring look. “You smell that, right? Like, matches?”

“Yeah,” Aiden says with a frown. He takes her carefully by the arm and walks them both over to Stiles's locker. He waits until the hall is empty before he sniffs at the air, at the lock on the locker. At the pen again. “It's like matches and... well, the way Stiles usually smells, but worse. More intense. Uh... it kind of smells like the carpet at a strip club.”

She wrinkles her nose and leans against Stiles's locker, rubbing her thumb along the pen as she thinks. She makes sure to look anywhere except at Aiden, because Aiden makes her think about everything except thinking, and that's not what she wants right now. “What happened to his eyes?” she asks, as if suddenly remembering something.

“I'm not sure,” Aiden shrugs, glancing off in the direction Stiles had walked. He shifts his weight, looking slightly uncomfortable. “There was something, but I'm pretty sure I imagined it. It was like they were black for a split second, but it happened so fast I can't even be sure it really happened.”

“Black eyes,” she murmurs to herself, her hand clenching tight around the pen. “A scent like matches... sulfur. Dramatic mood swings...” Her stomach churns suddenly as memories of things she's read bloom in her mind. She always makes a point to thumb through the bestiary whenever she's at Allison's, just hoping that her eidetic memory will commit the pages. Thankfully, in this instance, it seems to have paid off.

“I have to go,” she says. She jerks her chin up and gives Aiden a defiant look, as if daring him to say anything other than 'okay, baby, see you later'. He narrows his eyes briefly and hesitates, but in the end he says just that. Lydia walks away, the staccato click-clack of her heels echoing down the hall as she pulls up Peter Hale's number on her phone.

‹I need to look at a few of your books. I'm coming over.›, she sends to him. She doesn't wait for a reply before marching straight into the nurse's office, declaring that she's suffering debilitating cramps and bleeding like she's been stabbed through the uterus, and needs to go home. The young male nurse's assistant pales and quickly calls Lydia's mother, and with Mrs. Martin's flippant and disinterested permission, Lydia escapes school for the day and heads to the loft.

If Stiles is possessed by a demon then Peter will be able to help her prove it, and if Stiles is possessed by a demon then Peter will be able to help her figure out how to use it.

It's not until track practice after school that day that Scott really starts to notice that something's going on. It all starts with Danny making an off-hand comment under his breath about how Stiles is running like someone who took two rounds to the ass without prep. It takes Scott a minute, because it's not like he often sits around pondering the logistics of anal sex, but he gets there quick enough. Normally Stiles isn't the most graceful creature on the planet, but if there's one thing he's good at, it's running. He's fast and has pretty decent stamina, but today he seems to be straining, like he's uncomfortable. Like he's sore or in pain.

“Dude, what's up?” Scott asks during their next break, know he probably has mom-concern on his face, but he can't help it. Stiles sighs and glances off before reaching up to rub at his eyes. “You still off from this morning?” Scott continues. “Because you didn't tell me something happened to you last night. I feel like a jerk for not noticing; Danny had to point it out.”

“Danny,” Stiles repeats flatly before eyes to where the dark-haired goalie is standing, half-chatting with teammates and half-watching Stiles. “Well, maybe Danny just can't stop staring at my ass long enough to notice that I'm just tired,” Stiles says in an attempt to joke it off, but Scott frowns at the mean edge to Stiles's voice.

“Dude, you know you can talk to me about anything, right?” Scott says, trying to sound encouraging without coming off too forceful. But he really wants to know what the hell is going on. “Anything.”

Stiles spaces out. Scott lifts his eyebrows and nudges him with a shoulder, looking back and forth between Stiles and Danny, because Stiles is still staring at Danny, which is kind of weird and confusing. Scott hears Stiles's teeth grind and sees his jaw clench, his eyes narrowing a bit like he's suddenly angry. ”Stiles!” Scott calls out, waving his hands in front of Stiles's face, trying to get his attention back “Dude, anyone home in there?”

Stiles blinks and finally looks back at Scott. His expression is closed and unreadable, which immediately shoots off warning bells in Scott's mind. Oh, shit, he thinks as he regards Stiles. Is this it? Is this going to be the moment where Stiles admits that he's into guys? Is he ready for this? Of course he is. Who cares? That doesn't matter. None of it matters. Well, okay, of course it matters, but only because Stiles is his best friend – his brother – and Scott will always be there for him, no matter what.

“Dude, I'm just gonna ask...” Scott begins, steeling himself with a deep breath. Because Danny is sort of confirming all sorts of stray thoughts he's had for a long time. The way he looks at Derek, and the way he kind of smells like Peter today. The little jokes Stiles throws out, asking if gay guys think he's hot, asking if Scott wants to make out, telling his dad that he could be gay if he wanted. All jokes, sure, but they say that 50% of what you say in jest is actually the truth.

“I know you're always here for me, man,” Stiles says, cutting Scott off with a fond smile. He claps Scott on the shoulder and leans in, maybe a little too close. “I love you, you know that, right?” He winks and then jumps up, suddenly bounding off toward the track. “Break's over!” he calls over his shoulder, laughing.

“Oh, come on, dude!” Scott calls out, feeling for a split second like his world is crumbling. No time to dwell, though, as Coach's whistle sounds shrill in the air, calling their break officially over. Running now, talking later. Maybe much later. Maybe never.

Twenty minutes later there's an ambulance on the field and Danny was being taken away on a stretcher. Scott overhears one of the EMTs saying it's just a dislocated shoulder, but that they need to take him to the hospital for insurance reasons. It's really awful that it happened, and if it had just been an accident then Scott wouldn't be thinking anything of it. But it hadn't been.

Scott saw the whole thing happen. The way Stiles overtook Danny on the track and more or less ran him down. The way he made sure to land on Danny as they fell. The grim set to Stiles's lips and the flash in his eyes as Danny howled in pain, clutching at his shoulder as he lay prone on the hard-packed dirt.

Stiles had apologized profusely and had done an outstanding job of selling it. Danny believed him, and they parted on seemingly okay terms. But Scott knows Stiles was lying. His skin crawls with the gut-wrenching fact that he can't smell a drop of remorse on his best friend. That Stiles's heartbeat remained steady as a drum the entire time. He wasn't upset. He wasn't worried.

Stiles had aimed for Danny because Stiles had wanted to hurt their friend, and as he watches Stiles walk away towards his duffel, he swears there's a spring in Stiles's step. It's like he feels accomplished and proud of himself.

Scott feels slightly nauseated and waves off the offer of a ride home from Stiles, claiming he needs to do some equipment inventory for the next lacrosse season. Stiles informs him that if he changes his mind, he'll be at the Coffee Bean until late, which is another lie. Stiles isn't going to be getting coffee. Scott doesn't know where he's going or what's going on, but there's absolutely nothing okay happening right now.

He's itching with the desire to grab Stiles, to shake him and scream at him, to demand to know what's going on, but he knows that won't get him what he wants. He knows he has to play things close to the vest right now. Stiles is smart, clever, and he knows Scott better than anyone else. He'll see any trick coming, so it can't be Scott that goes after Stiles.

He's worried might have to call in the reserves.

There are two things Peter knows for certain right now. The first is that the demon possessing Stiles is a crossroads demon. A demon that will give you anything you ask for in exchange for your life and your soul. Pretty typical. He also knows that the demon inside of Stiles isn't just a standard, low-level contract negotiator; he's upper management.

I know the demon that holds Deucalion's contract, Stiles had said last night, which gave a little bit away. According to all the research Peter and Lydia could dig up, the two come to the conclusion that your typical crossroads demon is just a lackey, a pencil-pusher. They do the grunt work for their bosses and they're never privy to the knowledge of which boss holds which contract. That's privileged. But if Stiles's demon knows, then Stiles's demon must be one of the a contract-holders, and therefore one of the bosses.

That makes him very powerful, and in turn also makes him much more dangerous.

“Either I stole a lot more power out of Jennifer than I thought and summoned up something I really shouldn't have,” Peter murmurs to himself as he leans, hunched over the large table in the center of the room. “Or this demon came voluntarily because it wants something from me, or us.” He waves a hand in frustrated distraction at the screen of his laptop before slouching back in his chair with a sigh. “Either way, it's here for a reason and it's staying for a reason. I just can't believe that my soul is sufficiently juicy enough.”

“No arguments here,” Lydia shoots back with a sweet smile, though she doesn't lift her eyes from the book she's currently invested in.

Peter's smile is just as sarcastically sweet. "He was pretty workman about it, regardless. He'll get me what I want, and then in ten years I let him drag me down to hell," he chuckles hollowly. "Then he seduced me." He picks up a book and tosses it to the other side of the table so he can prop his feet up. "Then he regressed so Stiles woke up during the entire fiasco. I had to knock Stiles out, get him dressed, drive his piece of shit Jeep back to his house without anyone seeing me, and then get his deadweight up to his bedroom. Thankfully the sheriff wasn't home.” He rolls his eyes.

When he glances over, Lydia is staring at him with an unreadable look on her face. He stares right back, and after a few seconds she makes a vaguely disgusted face and looks away, shaking her head. He's still not sure how to process what Lydia told him, what she wants to attempt, because it's so dicey. There are no guarantees. He told her as much, but she still wants to discuss it with Stiles.

Well, no; with the demon.

Lydia is smart, Peter will grant her that, but she can't out-smart this thing. She can't out-maneuver it, she can't out-wit it, and she can't out-deal it. He can smell the desperation on her, the fear. He knows she's willing to make sacrifices to reclaim herself, and she won't listen to Peter, even though Peter is the one who's smarter here.

“Did you ever stop to think that by exposing himself to Aiden, you would be smart enough to figure out what he was?” Peter offers. He extends a hand graciously in her direction, which earns him the lift of her eyes, at least. “That he wanted you to go to him? That gaining the souls of both a werewolf and a banshee in one trip might just be worth his time?”

Lydia's lips thin and her eyes narrow. Peter can tell she's struggling with her decision, which is exactly what he wants her to do.

“He told me we're on the radar now,” Peter says as he gently shuts his laptop and offers Lydia his full attention. She looks wilted. Sure, she's made up beautifully right now; hair, make-up, dress, all impeccable. Her packaging is pristine, but what's inside is anything but. She's tired and sad and getting desperate. The desperation is making her angry and obstinate, because she's willing to do nearly anything to stop feeling this way. Peter knows the look in her eyes all too well. She reminds him a little of Derek right now.

“I can't do this anymore,” Lydia says quietly. Her eyes dart from Peter's collar to his shoulder, the wall behind him. Anywhere but his eyes. “I can't be this close to death anymore and try to pretend like I'm really living.”

“Well, you're useful,” Peter offers, knowing it sounds cold and callous, but they're not friends. He doesn't have to be kind or emotionally supportive, he just has to be honest. “And you could be even more useful if you'd just let yourself. Just embrace what you are, learn to control it more–”

“No,” Lydia says firmly. Her throat is tight as her small hand slams down on the edge of the table and curls around it, gripping it as she drags in a deep, steadying breath through her nose. “I just want it gone. If it's not my soul then he can take it. He can have it. I just want it out.”

Peter's eyes drop to scan the book Lydia has been pouring over for the past twenty minutes.

A changeling child is not actually a child, but a being that disguises itself as a child to enter a human family and cause havoc. Changelings are usually born to fairies, trolls, or elves, and are left in place of a human child which is kidnapped by these beings, only to be stolen back by the fae when it comes of age. If the human child is returned, it will often suffer from amnesia and be regarded as strange. A changeling can also be defined as a fairy that secrets away inside of a human body, attaching itself to a human soul. This passive possession is seen as an opportunity for the fae to keep abreast of what is happening in the human world that their dreaming world wraps around.

Banshee. Bean Sidhe. Woman of the hills.

A spirit or fairy who fortells a death by wailing.

Fairy.

Fae.

Peter frowns, knowing that this could all go terribly wrong for her, but he supposes it's not necessarily his place to try and save her. He isn't the hero in this story, is he? He's fond of her, yes. He always has been, which is why he chose her. But whether Peter chose Lydia because she was already so closely connected to death, or whether death chose Lydia because of what Peter did to her, no one knows. Peter still finds her fascinating, and he knows he'd miss her if she was gone, but he'd had enough of trying to control Lydia. He has bigger quarry in his sights.

“If it will help us get Stiles back, then I'm willing to try anything,” Lydia says softly, calling Peter back from his thoughts.

He knows it's true. These teenagers, these kids; they're not even young adults yet. They're all so caught up in each other, swimming in hormones. He's constantly surprised they don't randomly twitch and stall out from the amount of misfiring synapses in their brains as their bodies still struggle to develop and grow. They're all insane, which could be a good thing for him. Insane people love throwing themselves on bombs for other people.

“Huh–” Peter says suddenly, brow furrowing as an idea spikes his mind. One of his hands lifts to signal to her that he's about to say something gloriously brilliant and profound, but then an index finger lifts to ward her off of interrupting him, in case she disrupts his thought process. Lydia rolls her eyes but waits patiently, having made that hand gesture more than enough times to realize its significance.

Peter has a plan.

“You're too intelligent to be this supremely stupid, Lydia,” Peter says. She gives him a slightly offended, pallid glare, but says nothing because she knows he's right. “I have an idea, and hear me out before you protest that all of my ideas tend to include you being really unhappy, because this one isn't going to be any different.” He smiles thinly as she sags. “Look at it this way, my dear; in this game of chess that is our lives, you are certainly my favorite queen.”

Lydia gives him a flat glare. “What a lovely backhanded compliment,” she says through a sigh.

“I need you to do two things,” Peter says as he gets to his feet and walks over toward the door off of the main loft space. “I need you to hold a ladder for me, and I need you to make your deal as planned.”

“What's the catch?” Lydia asks skeptically as she pushes to her feet, considerably shorter than when she'd walked in as she's since discarded her heels on the floor next to her. He can hear her heart-rate jumping a bit in nervous anticipation.

“The catch is that he will be caught,” Peter says as he walks out of the storage space, a bucket of red paint in one hand and a retractable ladder in the other. He drags the ladder out and positions it on the floor, right in the dead center of the circle he'd painted there just yesterday, fully intending to re-create the same trap on the ceiling. Regardless of where it's painted, it'll still encompass the space from floor to ceiling.

“We trap him in another circle,” Peter says. “He gets frustrated, desperate to get out. We throw him on his back foot and maybe he makes a mistake. We rattle him a bit, dangle something he wants, dance around words, and you can throw out a bunch of shit about how amazing Stiles is–”

Lydia glares, a hand reaching up to toy with her red curls.

“Try to get Stiles to pay attention to you,” Peter says with a smile as he steps onto the ladder and motions her over to hold it for him. “It'll make it harder for the demon to stay in control, which will make him quicker to accept any deal we offer him. Now, he's going to try and make you seal your deal with him carnally–”

Lydia blinks and widens her eyes as she watches Peter scale the ladder. “Is that what you meant by seduced?” she asks, trying not to sound as shocked as she looks. He says nothing, just glances back down at her over his shoulder before setting the bucket of paint on the top step. “Peter, oh my god,” she chastises. Her mouth is partially agape as she looks away, obviously all too aware of the fact that her cheeks are heating and coloring. “That's Stiles.”

“I'm no saint, sweetheart,” he says with a light chuckle as he begins to paint the symbols necessary to contain a demon on the ceiling. “Besides, he's gotten pretty good-looking, you have to admit.” Lydia's silence is almost ferociously palpable. Peter shares a knowing smile with the ceiling.

“Anyway,” he continues. “If you have sex with him, you're screwed. In more ways than one.” He chuckles, like he's the funniest person on the planet. “That's how a demon of his caliber has to validate a contract deal. Through actual sexual intercourse with the contractee. It's the energy exchange. A kiss is enough for the lackeys, the low-level deal-makers, because all that needs to be exchanged is the promise. The words. But for a demon like him, he needs more. He is the one who writes and holds the contracts, and he needs to touch your soul to do it. Sex is the one and only time two bodies are open to one another enough for energy to loop between them. His promise sealed to you, and yours to him. The deal is unbreakable. If you can trick him into sealing the deal with a kiss, like the lower-level demons do, then you should be good to go. It will be an exploitable loophole we can take advantage of when the time is right.”

Peter doesn't blame Lydia for her skepticism, but he leaves it at that. He says no more as he continues to paint, letting her soak it all in. She's a smart girl; she'll be able to get it done.

Not even twenty minutes later, there's a knock on the loft door. Peter can hear Lydia's heart-rate leap to almost double as her breath catches. He stands slowly and narrows his eyes, staring so hard at the door he might as well be looking through it. No one is that quiet, and no one would have been able to sneak up those stairs without Peter hearing them. No one except–

“Honey, I'm home,” Stiles calls out in that obnoxious sing-song tone the demon seems to favor. Peter tenses slightly, because after depositing Stiles in his bed this morning, things had been quiet. He hadn't heard from Stiles all day.

“Peter, are you cheating on me?” the demon calls before finally sliding open. “I can smell Lydia in there with you.” It's not until then that Peter realizes that Lydia's standing half-behind him, her hand curled around one of his wrists. An odd sort of affection warms in his chest, but there's no time for that now.

Stiles walks in, all cheery smiles and bright eyes. He drops his backpack in an unceremonious heap next to the door before crossing the large, cold expanse of concrete, long legs striding toward Peter and Lydia. Until he's not. The circle on the ceiling actually works and now the demon is trapped again, in the broken and scuffed-out remnants of the first summoning circle. Peter thinks it's funny that no one ever thinks to look up.

“Seriously?” the demon growls as he tips his head back, teeth grinding. His entire demeanor shifts, and there's no mistaking who they're dealing with now. His eyes blacken over briefly while he stares at the paint on the ceiling, a little red bleeding into the center like a star. Peter knows the paint job is sloppy as hell, all dripping lines and crude workmanship, but pretty or not it still works. “Again with the fucking trap. I thought we had something special between us, Peter.”

“Don't bring me into this,” Peter drawls, stepping away from Lydia and the edge of the old circle with his arms folded, dealing himself out as they'd planned. “This is between you and Miss Martin.” Peter doesn't go far, and he's certainly paying attention.

“Oh, Miss Martin,” the demon scoffs, turning his inky gaze on Lydia as she steps slowly toward the scratched paint on the floor. Her bare feet make next to no sound on the cold concrete. “That was a cute trick today, siccing your little guard dog on me,” he says, his smile empty. “You're lucky I like you, or they would have been finding parts of him in every locker in that fucking school for the rest of the year.”

“He didn't do anything wrong,” Lydia says through clenched teeth. He hates that she's afraid of him; that she's afraid of Stiles's face. “I just needed to know–”

“I'm thinking when I'm done with this,” the demon says, waving his hand vaguely in Peter's direction. “I'll slit Aiden's throat, gut him, and then hang him upside down like a buck so all the blood drains out and doesn't spoil the meat. Then I'll do the same to you, and your little dog, too.” He smirks at his joke and casually strolls around the perimeter of the circle.

“I'll strangle him with his own leash,” the demon continues. “Pull out his intestines with my hands, and then skin him. Then I'll shove him inside you, shove you inside Aiden, and then cook you all up like some huge turducken.” He grins like a kid on Christmas. “Maybe feed you to your loved ones like a real-life Titus Andronicus. Did you see the Taymor adaptation? Anthony Hopkins was such a badass.”

“God,” Lydia breathes, her face pale but as reserved as she can muster under the circumstances. “You just go straight for the shock value, don't you?”

“Well, yeah.” The demon blinks and smirks lightly. “Basically.”

“Look, I'm not here to mess around. I want to make a deal,” Lydia says, her voice wavering slightly around the words. But she pulls in like a champ, keeping her barely-trembling chin up. “But not for my soul.” The demon leers slightly and Peter frowns. “I want to make a deal for Stiles.”

“You're in no position to negotiate for him,” the demon sneers, folding his arms over his flannel-clad chest and watching Lydia intently.

“I think I might be,” she offers, darting her eyes sidelong at Peter, who's watching her cautiously. He shrugs minutely because she didn't exactly discuss or clear this with him, so she's basically running her own show, here.

“Look, Scott isn't stupid,” Lydia says as she looks back at the thing wearing Stiles's face. “He's not exactly quick, but he's not stupid. Once he realizes something's up, he's going to figure it out. And once he figures it out, he's going to put together a plan. And if there's one thing Scott's good at, it's plans.”

The demon narrows his eyes and blinks them back to amber. He rolls them up toward the ceiling them with a twist of his head and a huff, conceding. “True,” he mutters, sifting through all of Stiles's memories that back Lydia up.

“Once Scott realizes Peter is involved,” Lydia continues, glancing at Peter again, who has since walked over to lean against the table. “He'll call Derek. And while Derek might not be an alpha anymore, Peter isn't yet either, and right now I'd put them on pretty equal-footing, strength-wise. But with Scott, Derek could take Peter out easily. And if Scott and Derek kill Peter, then you don't fulfill your bargain, and that won't be good for you, will it?”

Peter frowns and parts his lips, protest written all over his face.

“No,” the demon says, cutting Peter off without even a glance, his eyes still locked on Lydia. “She's not completely wrong. She's also not absolutely right, either. You forgot to add a variable, little miss math genius.”

“And what variable is that?” Lydia asks.

“Me.” The demon smirks. “Now, let's hear what you want, and then I'll consider whether an unconventional contract might be worth my time.”

Lydia hesitates a bit, pink tongue darting out over her lips as she takes a deep breath. Peter can hear her pulse beating like a hummingbird's wings, and he can smell the sweat that's broken out on her forehead. This is a make it or break it moment. If she does this then her life will be forever changed, and she'll either get what she came for, or she'll be left broken and crying, with only ten years of her life left.

“I don't want to be a banshee anymore,” Lydia states, trying to sound strong. “I'll go with you two to find Deucalion and I'll help you in whatever way I can. But when it's done, I want you to take the fae soul out, leaving just mine behind. You can have the banshee, it's all yours, but in exchange I want you to take care of Stiles's body for however long you're in it. He has to be able to be him again once you leave.”

The demon snorts and shakes his head. The smile he gives Lydia is fierce and wild as Stiles's amber eyes burning coldly bright. “He'll never be him again, Lydia,” the demon states plainly. “This darkness that's squeezing his heart, that taste of death and blood and magic; that's what made it so easy to take him. A little part of him will always want to touch it, now. To scratch, to poke and prod, to nose into things he'd be better off leaving alone.”

He rolls his shoulders in an almost-shrug before canting his head, eyes flicking between Lydia and Peter. When they settle on Peter he lets his tongue trail out over his lower lip, and his hand slip beneath the hem of his shirt to stroke at the soft, warm skin of Stiles's stomach.

“Fine,” the demon says succinctly, quickly tilting his head back in Lydia's direction. “Your fairy for this meat suit. Can't promise the brain will be of any use, but that's not what you asked for. You want the brain in perfect working order, it's gonna take more than a fucking squatter fairy that you don't even want anymore.”

“More?” Lydia asks, her voice hitching a bit because she knows what he's going to ask for.

“Yeah, more.” The demon rolls his eyes, his hand slipping down out of his shirt to rub over the front of his pants. He smiles lewdly at her discomfort at his growing erection. “The fairy and your soul for this kid's body and soul intact. He'll be whole and complete and in perfect working order. Hell, I'll even sprinkle in a little amnesia so he doesn't have to remember any of the nasty little things I did. Sound good?”

Lydia doesn't know what to say, but she nods anyway, because if she and Peter can pull off this plan, it won't matter much what she pretends to deal away.

“Okay,” the demon says with a cute little smile as his fingers move to unfasten his belt. “Now get in here and fuck me.”

Lydia's eyebrows dart up, her hair swishing impressively as she snaps her head between Peter and the demon. Her lips part in a breath as a bit of a blush crawls her cheeks. She catches Peter's self-effacing eye roll and knowing nod out of the corner of her eyes before she looking back to Stiles, eyes suddenly narrowing in a defiant glare.

“No way,” Lydia states. She folds her arms over her perfect, ample breasts, which only draws the demon's attention. His head cocks like an interested dog staring at a particularly tantalizing treat.

“You want this deal?” He stares intensely at Lydia as he presses against the invisible barrier that holds him captive. “Then get your pretty little pussy over here and on my cock now.”

Lydia's mouth drops open agape as she takes a step back, looking more than a little insulted. Peter scoffs impatiently as he steps up behind Lydia, resting a hand on her lower back in what's meant to be a comforting gesture.

“Well, that was absolutely vile,” Peter quips.

“Demon,” Stiles gestures at himself. “And an impatient one, at that.” He begins pacing like a caged predator, his eyes flashing as he stares at them both. “There is only one way, Lydia, and that's my way. No negotiations, no exceptions. One time offer and the clock is ticking. You want what I can give you?” He steps back into the middle of the circle and leans his head back, his smile going lightly smug as he peers at Lydia through narrowed eyes. “Then you walk that sweet little ass of yours in here and give me what I want. But don't worry, baby,” he says with a sticky-sweet smile that bares his teeth. “This kid has years of filthy jerk-off fantasies about you stored up. I'm sure one of them will get you off eventually. We'll work it out.” He sighs and cracks his knuckles, seeming to relax as he steps back, gesturing casually at Peter.

As Peter shoves Lydia into the circle, he really hopes she knows what she's doing. She went off script awhile ago and now he's just following her lead.

Lydia finds herself in the arms of the demon. If she thought her first kiss with Stiles was awkward and inappropriate, she's certainly in for a surprise with the second, because it's not awkward and it's not clumsy. It's searing and hot and practically perfect, the way his tongue parts her lips and slides over her's with just the right amount of possessiveness. The way his hand cups her jaw, thumb sliding along her cheekbone and back over a soft earlobe. His lips are soft and pliant, with just enough give, but firm enough to lead this dance, and she can practically feel her resolve about to give before she breaks it off with a gasp and pulls back.

She practically stumbles back out of the trap and lands against Peter's chest. Her cheeks burn and her cunt throbs as she lifts a well-manicured hand to cover her mouth. The demon twists his lips in a smug little smile as he comes after her, stopping just short of the barrier. Getting as close as he can get.

“You really should know the things he thinks about you,” the demon purrs, licking Stiles's lips as he lifts a long-fingered hand to trace the outline of Lydia's body in the air between them. “Dirty, naughty things, Lydia. You think he's so sweet and naive; this little lovesick puppy who will follow you around for the rest of his life.” He laughs, and it's an ugly sound. “Trust me when I tell you, you should probably turn the hose on him. Stop feeding him. Maybe run him over with your car. This kid has some pretty sick fantasies–”

The demon's words choke out in the quiet room as Lydia's hand flies through the air and connects solidly with his cheek, the sound of the slap cracking in the silence of the room. It jerks Stiles's face nearly over his shoulder, eyes clouding black. She's shaking when her hand drops, her face pale with splotches of pink on her cheeks and lips. Peter is suddenly behind her, hovering not too close, but close enough to pull her back if he needs to.

“Stiles is a good person,” Lydia says, hating the weakness in her voice, but she's terrified and trying so hard not to cry. “He's decent and honest and smart. He's brave... he's the bravest person I know.” She inhales a deep, shaky breath and lifts her chin, defiant to the bone when it comes to defending her friends. “I know he loves me, and it's not unfounded. Not anymore. Things are different, now. He respects me and I respect him. What we have now is better than anything shallow we might have had before, and there's nothing you can say that will ever twist that.”

Lydia takes a step back and turns her head to glance at Peter. He gives her an unreadable look and takes a step aside for her. “So,” she continues, looking back at the demon and folding her arms. “Is that it? Deal done?”

The demon reaches up to rub his jaw a bit, lips still curved into what could possibly pass for a sincere smile on a creature with no soul. He nods slowly as his eyes clear up, back to that pretty reddish-brown.

“It's a deal,” the demon says plainly.

At that, Lydia releases the breath she's been holding. Because shockingly, it worked.

Scott isn't creeping. He's just looking for clues. Because he's concerned. But he isn't snooping because that would be wrong.

It takes him a good twelve minutes of both metaphorical and literal sniffing around before he finds something, and what he finds immediately makes him think of Danny. Not in that way, but in the way that maybe Danny had been onto something with Stiles. That something makes Scott's chest twist a little with sadness and resentment, but he pushes it away because there has to be an explanation for this, right? It's not like Stiles really ever kept his ambiguously gay curiosity a secret, right? He's always been pretty open about it, right?

Scott totally pays attention to his best friend's life, right?

Right?

But this is a little weird, because it's not so much the 'who', right? It's the 'why'. Why hadn't Stiles told him? Why did Stiles feel the need to go behind their backs? Is he ashamed? What was going on?

Scott's fingers are stiff as he thumbs through his phone and selects the number just recently programmed into his phone a little over a week ago. Despite being a kid of the modern age, Scott's always preferred to dial numbers straight. Knowing them by memory makes him feel sharp. But he hasn't had the chance to memorize this one yet.

"Scott," says the voice that picks up on the other line.

“Yeah, hey, man,” Scott says. Despite being the alpha now, he still has a hard time not getting a little tongue-tripped whenever he speaks to Derek about anything important. The guy's just intense. “Uh, sorry to bug you guys, but I needed to ask you something. It's about Peter.”

"Peter's still there?" There's some rustling on Derek's end and Scott can make out muffled voices, but nothing clear. He assumes Derek's talking to Cora. Scott licks his lips and tries not to clench his jaw, but he's already in the middle of worried and speeding very quickly toward really fucking concerned. He paces Stiles's bedroom, eyes on the Family Guy boxers that had been tossed carelessly toward the laundry basket. As weird as it is to accept the fact that he's standing in his best friend's bedroom and staring at his boxers, and is about to discuss those boxers with Derek Hale, Scott can't help thinking that he doesn't really know what else to do.

"Okay, Scott? Go ahead."

“Yeah, okay, um,” Scott fumbles, Derek's voice bringing him back as he reaches up and rubs his eyes with a sigh. “Well, two things? Basically, number one, I think Peter and Stiles, uh...” Scott's voice catches in his throat like a literal lump. He finds himself standing still in the middle of Stiles's room, holding a dramatic hand out toward the laundry basket like he's reciting Hamlet, but the only thing Derek hears are the soft little sounds of Scott's throat working as he breathes.

"Peter and Stiles what?" Derek prompts. "What did Peter do?" Scott feels the strangest sense of relief at the sound of Derek's phone creaking a bit as his grip tightened around it.

“Dude, I'm not sure, okay?” Scott hisses, hunching over his phone as he resumes pacing, scrutinizing the laundry like it's a snake about to strike. “I don't want to make any assumptions, but this is really putting me off.” He exhales heavily, and before Derek can speak again, he just blurts it out. “I'm in Stiles's bedroom and a pair of his boxers smell like Peter. And... his room smells weird, like the air is burnt. Like, like... ozone. Like sparks. Like–”

"Demon," Derek growls.

“What?!” Scott yells, before slapping a hand over his mouth at his outburst. His heart jumps into his throat and he can hear it pounding in his temples, and he'd be shocked if Derek couldn't hear it, too. “Wait, what? Are you serious? Are you sure? There are demons? I just thought Stiles was gay–” He thought Stiles and Peter might have been... no, it was too weird to even consider. Scott thinks he'd rather Stiles was possessed by a demon than fucking Peter Hale.

"I knew we should have taken Peter with us." He can hear Derek's annoyance as he interrupts tightly. "I'll be back tomorrow. Don't do anything. Don't tell anyone. Just... keep him safe."

Derek hangs up, leaving Scott staring at his phone. He's very nearly inclined to call back and ask who Derek means, Peter or Stiles, but in that little part of his brain that he usually ignores because it makes him blush uncomfortably and say dumb things out loud, he's pretty sure he knows who Derek meant.

Scott sits down on the edge of Stiles's bed and stares at the floor, eyes moving slowly around as he breathes in the smells of the bedroom. He tries to differentiate the familiar from the unfamiliar like Derek had taught him back after he'd first turned. Nothing too weird, nothing really that strange, nothing except–

“What the hell is that?” he mutters to himself. His eyes narrow, lips parting around a breath as he stands and walks to the window, leaning in close to peer at the sill. He practically has to kneel down, fingers tracking over what smells like fresh wood carving, just barely big enough for Scott to see.

It's a bible verse. Corinthians 11:14–15. Scott doesn't know it, but he's sure Google does.

As his thumbs move over the on-board keyboard he can't help the sinking, desperate feeling in his stomach. Does Stiles know what's going on? Is this his way of trying to save himself? Would that demon inside of him even let him read the Bible, let alone carve a verse into his window sill?

Is this actually happening?

¹⁴ And no wonder, for even Satan disguises himself as an angel of light. ¹⁵ So it is no surprise if his servants, also, disguise themselves as servants of righteousness. Their end will correspond to their deeds.

Scott's heart is thudding, his pulse hammering in his throat. He tears his eyes away from the window and glances behind him at the bedroom door. He can see more carvings. Tiny sigils that he doesn't understand. Both the window sill and the door jamb are covered in small, carved symbols and Bible verses and Scott has no idea what any of this means.

He sits back down on Stiles's bed and wonders if Stiles will come home tonight. Wonders if his friend is even his friend anymore. He contemplates waiting here for him, confronting him. But if Derek's right then what good would it do? Now is the time to pretend, to lie, to deceive. Time to try and con the ultimate con man.

Scott sends Stiles a text because he knows he won't be able to cover up his scent, and he has no idea if demons have better noses than humans. ‹Came by to see if you wanted to play some Xbox but you weren't here. Call if you want to hang.›

He leaves out the window and heads out of the suburbs, running the road less traveled into downtown. He heads toward the loft. It's time to talk to Peter.

The central-eastern stretch of Northern California is incredibly uninspiring to drive through. One would think it would be the opposite; lush forests and nature preserves, small, quaint towns with pretty facades and fancy signs meant to attract tourists. But unless you're from the city, then being deep in the trees is just that; being deep in the trees. There's nothing too remarkable or spiritual or calming about it. Eventually you just want to see something that isn't the wall of green that borders either side of the highway, or the long, gray stretch of road that's empty as far as you can see.

Both Derek and Lydia share the same thought as much as they pass each other at dusk, two nondescript dark vehicles going in opposite directions on state route 70, about 15 miles outside of Beacon Hills. Driving during that magical moment when day becomes night and your eyes play tricks on you, there's no way in hell anyone would be able to recognize anyone else on the road. Especially not anyone driving the way Derek's driving.

He's coming in fast and frantic, fingers drumming on the steering wheel as he forces himself to refrain from doubling the speed limit. He can't stop grinding his teeth. A few nights ago Cora suggested a mouth-guard because he's keeping her awake at night, but he chews through it the first night, so they don't bother wasting money on a second.

They aren't too far away when Scott calls, only about four-hundred miles south in Bishop, visiting with family friends. Seeking answers to questions Derek doesn't know he has until he sits at their table and listens to the old stories.

A lot of the native tribes have legends about the wolf, but Talia had known a family of Shoshone who lived with the Bishop Paiute. Their families had been friendly before the fire, but Derek's avoided all contact since. Anything that reminds him of the life he'd lost is generally just too painful. Much easier to avoid altogether. He's learned to ignore a lot of things in the past several years, and while the man that's left standing is a little hollow around the eyes and not very significant to regard, at least he doesn't hurt as much anymore.

Derek needs guidance and Cora needs reassurance, but by the time they make it through the Plumas National Forest and to the border of Nevada, Cora says that they also need some fun. She demands they stop in Reno, and at Derek's predictable protest she says at least she's not making him take her to Vegas. She says she's always wanted to play a slot machine, and her fake I.D. is burning a hole in her wallet. They eat off the Strip, cheap but incredibly good steak, and when Cora wins $2.00 off of a quarter slot, Derek shakes his head and smiles. It really is stupid little things like this that he's missed. She hugs him because she knows it'll make them both smile, and if anyone needs to smile it's the Hales.

They're nearly there when Derek stops at Mono Lake for the night. No real reason other than he hasn’t seen a large body of water in a long time, and while the ocean is preferable for brooding and nighttime reflecting, a lake will suffice in a pinch. Cora swims naked like a selkie and doesn’t even once try to get Derek to join her, knowing her brother well enough. He needs time to internalize.

Cora silently mourns him as she floats on her back in the cold water. Her dark eyes stick to Derek, who remains perched on the dock while the moon slowly walks through the sky. For a wolf not to trust his instincts anymore; that's a path none of their kind should ever have to walk.

Kimana is a few years older than Talia would have been, had she lived, and she takes great pride in reminding Derek and Cora of the story of Wolf and Coyote. That Wolf is a noble caretaker and creator, and Coyote is a trickster, often jealous of Wolf but always eager for his attention. Wolf is patient as Coyote toils, always looking for a new way to one-up Wolf. To make himself something to be counted. But despite their struggles, Wolf and Coyote always walk side by side as brothers, and though Coyote always tries to drag Wolf into trouble, Wolf will always save Coyote from anything; especially from himself. Always and forever.

Derek's only problem is trying to figure out who his coyote is; Peter or Stiles. It's one of them, or maybe even both considering Derek's luck, but it's for them that Derek leaves Cora behind, breaking most of the traffic laws to get back to Beacon Hills as quickly as possible.

Derek meets Scott at the McCall's house, thanking Melissa for the offer of coffee and spaghetti and meatballs leftover from dinner. He smiles awkwardly as Melissa ushers him inside, giving him a smile that only a mom can give. Isaac greets him with a firm handshake, wearing confidence borne from indulging in sex and violence; from finally feeling safe, accepted, comfortable, and loved. Derek feels a familiar stirring of guilt in his stomach but stamps it down.

He can smell both Allison and Scott on Isaac, but he also smells tomato sauce, garlic, and ground beef, and his stomach growls before he can really dwell on it. Isaac laughs and tells him not to get his hopes up because Scott's the one who cooked, but Scott smiles at Derek and clasps him on the shoulder. Derek knows with that simple gesture that Scott's home is his, and that regardless of eye color, codes of conduct, or which way the arrow on their respective moral compass points, that they're still brothers.

They're all family now, and they need to get Stiles back.

Just as Derek speeds in, Lydia, Peter, and Stiles drive out. Taking state route 70 through Sacramento, then interstate 5 all the way down to Los Angeles, is the fastest way to get where they're going. To get to Deucalion.

The last few hours sees Lydia home to pack a change of clothes and some toiletries, and to leave a note for her mother. 'Group project for English; staying with Allison for a few days. I'll call. Love you.' It's not that Lydia's mother is absentee, it's just that she's grown up so quickly and so solidly beyond her years that she forgets that her daughter is still just a teenage girl. Sometimes Lydia cries about it late at night, but most of the time it just makes her stronger. Her mind is sharp and her core is steel.

It takes a few hours for the demon to locate Deucalion. A few hours, some blood, lots of words in languages that probably don't exist outside of Hell, and the most eerie seemingly one-sided conversation either Lydia or Peter have ever witnessed (not that they've a lot to compare to, but Peter stresses that he was in long-term care with a few proper nutjobs for years).

The demon stands in the center of the summoning circle, re-painted by him this time, with different symbols and a different edgy vibe of power emanating from it. Something darker, more primal, that digs cold claws into Lydia's gut and makes her eyes hot and itchy. She stays back, because when she gets too close her cunt throbs and grows slick with her own wetness. It wouldn't have been embarrassing if Peter's nostrils hadn't flared, and though he doesn't say anything, she glares at him anyway.

The demon stands with his arms hanging limp at his sides, and the angle at which he's leaning nearly defies gravity. He's shirtless and his chest is smeared in dried blood, but the wound the demon carved into her friend's skin is still fresh. His eyes are lidded, half-closed, but she can see his eyeballs moving underneath like he's dreaming. His lips keep moving in hisses and whispered words that seem to touch her like unwanted hands on a train. Like the eyes of dirty old men.

It's sick and surreal and Lydia keeps looking away; at her bag on the table, at her shoes, at the wall that has nothing on it. She looks anywhere but at the distortion that's wearing her friend's face. Peter is seated at the table, facing away from Stiles, one hand balled loosely in front of him. He's staring at his fingers as they move, thumb rubbing idly against his index and middle fingers, seemingly deep in thought, but Lydia knows he's listening. Listening to Stiles, to the traffic outside, to her breath as she fights to keep it under control. To her heart, which is beating hard, but steady.

“What are we doing?” she whispers to him, her eyes wide and intense, lips parting slightly around a soft intake of breath. Without a glance his fingers flex out and reach to curl around her wrist, his thumb brushing over her pulse-point.

“What we have to,” Peter says, but where Lydia feels desperate and helpless, Peter sounds determined. Resolute in the way that only a man with nothing left to lose can sound.

“Time to go, kittens,” comes Stiles voice from behind them both. Lydia flinches away, tugging her arm out of Peter's grasp so violently she actually feel guilty when he glances up at her, his expression clouding. “Save the flirting for the road. I don't want to get bored,” the demon says with a chuckle, and Lydia hates the sound. She doesn't know if she'll ever be able to listen to Stiles laugh again without feeling sick in her throat.

“Where is he?” Peter asks, setting his jaw as he stands, walking to gather his own bag of whatever things Peter deemed important enough to pack. “You did find him, right?” There's a careful edge to his voice, like he's trying to reassert some sort of blasé control over the situation.

“Of course I found him,” the demon sneers. “He's in L.A.” He's suddenly behind Lydia, wrapping long, slender arms around her middle and hugging her from behind. It takes all of her will and strength not to elbow him away. To scream and kick at him. To sink to the floor, curl up in a ball and sob.

“Of course he is,” Peter replies flatly. Lydia squeezes her eyes shut, her hands balling against her stomach. She feels Stiles's chin dig into her shoulder, and when she opens her eyes she sees Peter looking over her shoulder, staring hard at the demon. There's something hard and steely in Peter's eyes.

Challenge.

“The city of angels,” the demon croons. “He's got a flight out tomorrow night, so we better hit the road. I'll need to gas up the Jeep before we go.” Peter bristles as the demon releases her, but not before blatantly smelling her hair, her neck.

“We're not taking the Jeep,” Peter said dismissively. “If that twenty-year-old relic of a death trap can even make it to San Francisco and back without breaking down at least twice, I will literally eat my own hand.” As the demon moves away to gather his own things, Peter catches Lydia's eye. She swallows visibly, a little shaky but still standing straight, which is all he can ask of her.

“Good enough reason for me,” the demon calls cheerfully over his shoulder. “Fine, Lydia's car, then?” He stands and slings Stiles's backpack over his shoulder, though all of his schoolwork and supplies lay discarded in disarray on the floor. He smiles as both of them glare at him for trying so hard to imitate the human he's wearing.

“Yeah,” Lydia says, dragging in a deep, shaky breath. She holds it like a bucket of cold water to refresh her. “My car has actually been serviced this decade, and I have a full tank, so... that's fine.”

“I call shotgun,” Peter says, earning him a grateful look from Lydia. Better the devil you know. He ushers them out of the loft and locks the door behind him. Lydia wonders if they'll ever make it back, but she supposes there are a lot of things on that table that shouldn't be lost even if they don't.

Lydia announces that she's taking the stairs because she doesn't trust the elevator here. In typical male fashion, both Peter and Stiles crowd in ahead of her, both leaping and jumping to see who can get to the bottom first. It's what she's hoping for, and they don't disappoint, because Lydia only has one tiny window of time to get a text off to Scott. ‹w/ Stiles & Peter. Route 70W/S. I-5S. L.A. Find a way to follow us. Seriously fucking important.›

By the time her phone buzzes in her purse, she's already pulling onto the highway. Peter's hand beats her's to it, his eyes keen as they briefly sweep the screen before handing it off to her. ‹waiting on D. we know whats up. will follow asap. he's on his way. b careful!›

“Who was that?” the demon asks from the back, where he's stretched out over both of the seats. One of his bent knees casually and sporadically bumps against the back of Peter's seat, like that four-year-old everyone hates on every airline flight ever. He's got Peter's iPad in his hands and is playing some obnoxious game. The beeps and swooshing sounds are giving her a migraine.

“Just my mom,” Lydia replies. Her heart doesn't speed because it's sort of true with Scott. “Can I turn on the radio?” she asks. With two affirmative grunts from the ever eloquent males in the car, she does just that, ensuring it's loud enough to distract her from the sound of blood rushing through her own head.

It's not until Derek has eaten that Scott pulls him aside and shows him Lydia's text.

“They're only about an hour out,” he says quietly. “As much as I wanted to be right on their tail, I didn't think it was a good idea.” They ignore the fact that Isaac isn’t engaged enough to listen in, because Melissa's offered ice cream. Scott's already asked him and Allison to stay behind, because Beacon Hills needs to be looked after. Derek huffs at how Scott tries not to roll his eyes at how quickly they agree, though with sentiment, concern, and well-wishes galore.

“You're probably right,” Derek mutters. He digs his phone out and shoots off a quick text to Peter. ‹How's coyote?› He uses their old code words, hoping Peter will know that Derek's referring to Stiles. It's too dangerous to use proper names right now, because who knows who has whose phone? He resists the urge to tap his foot as he waits for a response, instead lifting his eyes back to Scott. “Do the others know?”

Scott nods. “I couldn't not tell them,” he admits, looking a little guilty. Derek knows the feeling. It's a lot of responsibility, what Scott carries on his shoulders now. Derek would be lying to himself if he tries to pretend that giving up the alpha isn't a little bit of a relief.

“They should know,” Derek agrees with a shrug, and despite anticipating it, he's still a little startled when his phone buzzes. ‹Pranking the world. Lydia and I have it potentially under control, but black wolf is sniffing around.› “Shit,” Derek mutters, and there go his teeth grinding again. “Peter did something stupid. Big surprise.”

“What?” Scott asks, brow furrowing as he watches Derek shove his phone into his pocket and dart his eyes toward the front door.

“We have code words–” Derek says, distracted. “Me and Peter. Since I was a kid.” He looks around himself, coming off disconcerted, the same way he always does when he all of a sudden has a half a dozen things running through his mind all at once. Because if there's one things he's terrible at, it's multi-tasking. “We have to go.”

“Right, definitely,” Scott says with a nod. He pats Derek on the shoulder and goes to say goodbye to Melissa and Isaac. Within minutes they're on the road. Scott's driving because Derek can't stand the idea of being back in the driver's seat again after so many hours. Besides, he needs to be able to keep in contact with Peter.

Thirty minutes pass in silence between them. Derek has no doubt that both of their minds are stuffed full to the brim with too many worries and plans and ideas and concerns to waste time in idle chatter.

“You're calm,” Derek says. Scott's heartbeat has remained steady, his scent not laced with the acrid, sour smell of fear or apprehension. Derek doesn't exactly ask why, because he hates prying, but he is curious.

“I'm confident,” Scott returns with a hasty smile and a shrug of one shoulder. He glances at Derek for a moment before looking back at the road. “I know we'll find him and I know he'll be okay. We're gonna fix this, because we've always won before.” He nods to himself, like he's the one that needs the pep talk. “We have to. It's Stiles.”

As Scott lightly drums his fingers against the steering wheel, Derek sighs soundlessly and slouches down a bit into the passenger seat. He folds his arms to keep his insides in and the outside out as his eyes latch onto the dark, quick-moving scenery outside.

He hates the roil in his gut, the hollow worry in his chest. He wishes he could be as certain as Scott, but Scott hasn't known much true loss or sorrow in his life. Scott only knows what it feels like to swell up after dropping low; to rise above when your enemies would drag you down. Derek has wallowed in the dark for nearly a third of his entire life, so to be near someone like Scott is both a humbling and a frustrating experience.

Scott's anger comes from a pure and righteous place, when he's filled from top to toe with the need to protect and save and love. Derek's anger doesn't burn nearly as bright; it smolders. It doesn't sear, it obliterates. If he could have torn the world apart, handful by handful, he would have, but these kids saved him. They don't know it, and he can never tell them, but they're the ones who gave him a reason to keep going.

Derek sleeps and eats and breathes again, just like a normal person, but right now he wants to tear up the earth because those that belong to him are threatened. His wolf stirs dangerously, and he wants to throw himself out of the car and just run and run, but he has to keep control. He has to. Because he has no idea which wolf he's feeding the most right now, the white one or the black one.

“So, what do you know about demons?” Scott asks, his head bobbing subtly in time with the soft music. “I mean, how do we do this? Do we know what we're doing?”

Derek frowns tightly, ignoring his own reflection in the window. “Peter will know.”

Lydia's car flies under the green freeway overpass sign that says Fresno, and according to Peter's phone that means another 200 miles, or so, until they get to Los Angeles. Lydia gave up on driving about a hundred miles outside of Beacon Hills. She complains that she doesn't have werewolf stamina and just wants to sleep, and who can blame her? She's had a long night, nearly selling her soul to a demon.

Both Lydia and Stiles are napping now. Peter turned off the heater about an hour ago, preferring the breeze from the open window because the heater makes him sneeze. The air out here feels much different than it does up north. It's drier and feels less weighty. It makes him feel energized instead of sluggish, and the desert just feels bigger, despite the crowd of people and houses, and the very real lack of green. It feels like it would be easy to get lost out here. He thinks maybe he might spend some time down here after this is all over, because he's pretty certain Beacon Hills won't be a very welcoming place for him anymore.

Not that it has been for quite some time.

It's near 11:00pm when Peter pulls off of the I-5 and stops at an AM/PM in a small city called Coalinga. He needs to take a piss in the worst way, and has an almost pregnant-woman-level craving for liquid nacho cheese. He's not quiet or gentle when he pulls into the parking lot. He brakes the car quickly, and bangs around while pulling out the keys and unbuckling his seat-belt. He wants Lydia and Stiles to wake up, but he doesn't want to have to take responsibility for being the one who actually wakes them up.

Lydia's soft little whine of protest at her rude awakening is awkwardly arousing. As if doling out some sort of punishment at her, Peter frowns with the smallest amount of scorn he can muster before slipping out of the car, leaving her to wrestle with her hair and to straighten her clothes.

“Aaaaawkward,” Stiles's voice sing-songs as the demon practically slithers up beside Peter as he walks toward the glass doors.

“No one asked for your opinion,” Peter deadpans with a little glare. “Really, no one ever asks for any of your opinions.” He pockets the car keys and glances back at the car to check on Lydia, as if it hasn't only been about three-and-a-half seconds since he was with her.

“I know,” the demon says with an exaggerated sigh. “That's what makes forcing them on people so much fun.” He scurries ahead of Peter and grabs the door, tugging it open and gesturing the older man inside in a fit of exaggerated politeness.

“Hey, wait! Rude!” Lydia yells. They both turn at the slamming of a car door and the rushed click-clack of angry heels. She marches toward them, not looking as entirely polished as she typically likes to look, but it's a reasonable facsimile. “Why didn't you wait for me?”

Peter rolls his eyes slightly and pauses at the door so she can walk in first, because contrary to popular belief he isn't a complete heathen. “Because you would have lectured me about treating you like a little girl, when you're more than capable of taking care of yourself,” he states, getting a nice nose-full of her shampoo as he walks inside.

“Yes,” Lydia says, smiling sharply as Peter and Stiles walk in after her. “And as a gentleman, you should have given me that option.” Peter frowns blandly as the demon smirks. He's glancing between the two of them, looking exactly like the kid who always encourages the fights in the quad after school.

“Well, now, that's just a trap,” Peter complains good-naturedly as he scans all the pre-packaged items that barely skirt the legal definition of the word 'food'. He makes a mental note of all of the junk he wants before hitting up the bathroom.

Peter isn't gone more than a moment before the demon is next to Lydia again, fingers tugging at one of the cuffs of the lightweight flannel shirt he's pulled on over his tee-shirt. The demon could care less really, but apparently Stiles is self-conscious about his skinny arms, and keeping up appearances is important. It's all about the charade.

“So, did you ever fuck that creepy younger Peter mind hallucination when you were all crazy a few months ago?” the demon asks with a curious smile. Lydia flinches a bit, because hearing Stiles saying those words sort of makes her want to burst into tears or stab the heel of her stiletto through the top of his foot. Or maybe both.

“Shut up,” Lydia says quietly, suddenly feeling weary and not at all up to the level of banter she knows would be demanded of her if she engages. She turns and walks toward the wall of refrigerated drinks, her arms wrapping around her. Up front, behind the counter, the lone clerk trains his eyes on the demon as he trails behind Lydia.

“Oh, come on,” the demon persists, leaning on his shoulder against one of the cold doors as she reaches in to grab a bottle of lemonade. “He's a pretty dreamy guy. Nice eyes, great smile. Big, strong hands,” he grins. “And do I even have to get into what he's packing in those jeans?”

“Shut up,” Lydia hisses. “Seriously, what is wrong with you?” She gives him a look, like he just asked her to run out into traffic naked, just for the hell of it.

The level of incredulous disbelief on his face would have actually been funny if Lydia was allowing herself to find any of this less than awful. “Demon,” he announces, like Lydia's grown a second head. “Still a demon.”

“Yes, as you take great delight in reminding us,” Peter drawls as he walks back up. He eyes the aisle of chips and grabs two bags of Fritos, before holding his hand out to Lydia and taking her lemonade. She hands it over with a small, strange smile, which only earns her a snicker from the demon. “Get something to eat,” Peter says to the demon, because even if it doesn't need to eat, Stiles still does.

Five minutes later, Peter and Lydia are waiting out by the car, watching as Stiles continues to move about the inside of the convenience store. He's wandering aimlessly and touching pretty much everything, which is earning him death glares from the clerk. Peter knows he's wasting time just to be a brat, but getting a break from him for just a few minutes is sort of nice, anyway.

“Why are you really doing this?” Lydia asks out of nowhere, her voice small and reluctantly curious. She eyes him from where she's standing near driver's side door, Peter only about a foot away from her, leaning against the wheel well.

He almost plays coy. He almost feigns ignorance. But Lydia is sharp and smart, and he knows she won't play this game with him. Not now. So, honesty. Peter is far beyond hiding his intentions, now.

“Why shouldn't I?” he offers, turning to glance at her profile. He's convinced himself that he has nothing to apologize for, and his posture shows it. Easy and relaxed, though his shoulders hold a bit of tension due to their third wheel inside the AM/PM.

“Don't you have any sort of self-preservation?” she continues, glancing down at a smudge of asphalt on the toe of her shoe. “Ten years isn't exactly a long time, and you know that as soon as Derek finds out, he's going to–”

“What? Derek will what?” Peter interrupts. He's suddenly filled with righteous indignation at the fact that everyone is so quick to believe that Derek can beat Peter every time. If he hadn't been convinced that this is the path he's supposed to walk by now, this is certainly helping to push him in that direction. “What could he possibly do to me, when I am what I will be and he's still just a beta? Still willing to sacrifice everything he is at the drop of a hat for anyone who so much as stubs their damn toe?”

Lydia glances up, her expression careful now, because this is territory she probably doesn't want to be treading into. But she needs to know. “That's not fair,” she says softly. “She's his family.”

“Cora is my family, too, as is Derek,” Peter says with a measured amount of annoyance as he turns to set the plastic bag with their purchases on the roof of the car. “I know how easy it is to paint me with the villain brush, because I took instead of sacrificed, but never forget that Derek, Cora, and I share the same blood, the same past, and the same trauma. They were just luckier than I was.”

“I haven't forgotten what happened to you,” Lydia says pointedly. She turns to take in the expanse of dim parking lot and the near insidious shadows spot-lit by a few random streetlights. It feels vast and lonely, holding only her car and the car that she assumes belongs to the clerk inside. It's not helping that she knows she's walking a line with Peter.

“It's horrible,” she continues quietly. “And I can't imagine what it must have been like for you.” She draws in a shaky breath before looking back at him, both of their expressions now guarded. “But you had a choice, Peter, and you chose to kill people–”

“I didn't kill anyone,” Peter spits the words softly, hands pressing against the smooth slope of the roof of her car as he avoids looking at her. “I avenged my family by hastening the inevitable demise of those responsible for destroying everything and every one I'd ever known and loved.”

“But, Laura– ” Lydia says without thinking, cold sinking in her stomach the moment she says it. “You killed your own niece.” Peter's eyes flash blue as he turns a sharp glare at her. She takes a step back.

“My one regret,” Peter says, his lips tight around his words. “I wasn't in my right mind. You of all people should know that.” He turns slowly to face Lydia, his wolf simmering instinctively close to the surface in response to the soft, vulnerable fear in her eyes.

“You tried to kill me!” Lydia hisses, her voice hitching up higher than usual as she finally pushes out the words that have been knotting in her stomach for months. “You used me and, and... you just left me to die.”

“I never tried to kill you,” Peter says defensively, looking genuinely taken aback by the accusation. “How could you possibly think that?”

“The bite either turns you or kills you,” Lydia quotes, reaching up to angrily brush her hair out of her face as a strange warm wind picks up in the parking lot. It skitters a few stray pieces of trash and roots the fear of the unfamiliar in Lydia's stomach, causing her voice to break. “You knew I couldn't be turned–”

“I had no idea what you were,” Peter scoffs as he steps away from the car, folding his arms. “How could I possibly have known? No one knew. I just knew that I wanted you.” He sets his jaw and forces her to lock eyes with him, taking grim satisfaction from the look of shock he sees. “No human is immune; it doesn't happen. It never happens. I chose you for the same reasons I chose Scott. It could have just as easily been Stiles that night, but I sensed something in Scott that I knew could be great. I sensed the same thing in you. I still do.” He steps toward Lydia, and with no warning the streetlight closest to them sputters and cracks out, plunging them into darkness.

“You just wanted power,” Lydia continues to protest, her voice decidedly weaker as Peter approaches. “You just wanted a pack so you could be stronger, for your revenge.” But even as she says the words, she doesn't really believe them. They sound rote. Rehearsed.

“I wanted a pack because a wolf needs a pack,” Peter says, his words and eyes intense, and she can't help but believe him. “The same reason Derek made his pack; because we need other wolves. You know what happens to omegas.”

“Then why are you doing this?” she reaches out with the intent to shove at his shoulder, to push him away, but the look in his eyes as he advances stops her. She curls her fingers into his shirt instead. “Scott's an alpha now; you made him... why can't he be good enough for you?”

Lydia's heartbeat skips as Peter lets out a soft growl, and he can smell something happening here. The wrong smell of sweet rot. The hot breeze that's carrying no scent. But he's too caught up in the pull of Lydia as she says the words like they're scripted. As they move like marionettes. The words ring true, because what they're saying are all the things they've been secretly wanting to say, but these touches? These would never have seen the light of day without influence.

“Because I deserve this.” He reaches up to cup either side of her face, fingertips brushing over her earlobes, his soft touches in stark contrast to the venom in their words. This is wrong, but Peter and Lydia are too caught up to focus. Too caught up in this sudden magnetic attraction to one another.

“I lost too much and did too many terrible things to resign myself to living out the rest of my days under the heel of a teenage boy,” he says with a quiet intensity. One hand slips down to fold around the side of her throat, and the soft sound of encouragement she makes goes through him like liquid heat. Her free hand reaches up to grip at his forearm as her hips push out, her body fitting against his. “I don't expect you to understand. You could never,” his voice drops to a whisper as he leans in to nose along her throat, behind her ear, pulling goosebumps up along her skin. “None of you could ever understand what I've been through.”

It's like a movie. It's a cliché straight out of a film. They both know it, but they can't stop.

“Is it really worth your soul?” Lydia whispers. Her eyes fall shut as a soft sigh passes her perfectly-parted lips, moist and ready to be kissed.

“It would be worth everything I can sell and more,” Peter confesses as he brushes his lips over her's. “To feel that power again for ten minutes, let alone ten years.” The spark between them is electric and her lips feel like warm satin.

There's a soft crunching sound in the distance, but it's muffled like they're under water. As he closes the small distance between them in a hot, hungry kiss, Peter relishes in the feel of her heart jack-hammering against his chest. The smell of her excitement and arousal and want is near-intoxicating.

He's also aware of, though quite detached from, the fact that the demon is crouched outside of the AM/PM, leaning against the front wall next to the glass door. With a soft sound of annoyance at his distraction from Lydia's soft, writhing body, he turns his attention back to the small girl in his arms and the heady taste of her mouth.

“It's beautiful, isn't it?” the demon says to the clerk next to him. “All they really needed was a push.” The body is slumped against the wall, bloody and dead, and there's an opened bag of pre-popped popcorn spilling out onto his lap where it had been unceremoniously tossed.

“Gotta love UST,” he says. “It's the best kind of T.” The demon has a bag of his own and is happily munching away, fully indulging in the romance movie drama he'd only had to summon up a little bit of power to initiate. Peter and Lydia had done the rest on their own.

“Think they'll fuck up against the car?” He cocks his head as he watches Peter's leg shove between Lydia's thighs, listens to the hungry sounds they make as they rub and rut against each other. Hands and mouths move in a sloppy dance, desperate to touch and taste just like the animals they are. The demon smirks and indulges in a little bit of a shiver, letting his human body grow warm and flush with arousal.

He elbows the corpse of the clerk like they're old buddies before climbing to his feet, a distorted grin on his face as his eyes cloud over black, burning red in the center. “Think they'll let me join?”

It only takes about forty-five minutes for Derek to get too uncomfortable with the idea of anyone else driving his car, so he makes Scott pull over and switch. Scott laughs it off, making a joke about Derek being a really out-of-control control freak. Derek glowers but says nothing, because Scott's right. Ironically it just gets worse the more out of control things spiral, and right now Derek feels so tightly wound that he's afraid he'll explode if Scott so much as jostles him.

Scott doesn't tease him. Scott would never. He's too good of a person and he understands. He knows what it feels like to have the ground yanked out from underneath you.

The speedometer has been at a steady 85-90mph ever since they got onto the I-5. Despite the long stretch being one of the only to travel the entire length of California, it's not often patrolled. Most people prefer to drive the Pacific Coast Highway as it's more scenic, but Derek's in this for the efficiency not the pretty fucking coastline.

He half-expected Scott to sleep most of the trip, falling victim to the typical teenage trapping of a short attention span, or the inability to focus of anything that isn't visually stimulating with intense graphics, but Scott surprised him. He's still awake, eyes keeping steady on the windshield, and he hasn't said a word in quite awhile. Not until now.

“There were Bible verses carved into his window sill,” Scott says, pulling Derek's attention sharply. “And in the doorjamb in his bedroom.” He looks at Derek, eyebrows lifting at Derek’s blank expression. Scott sighs. “Stiles. In his bedroom. Bible verses?”

Oh. Right.

Derek turns his eyes back to the road and nods, giving Scott half of his attention as he stares at the long, black ribbon of road stretching endlessly out before them. “The demon never would have done that,” he murmurs, thumb rubbing absently at the textured steering wheel. “And I doubt Stiles would have been able to get any sort of control.”

“I thought maybe it was Peter, so I went to go talk to him after I hung up with you,” Scott says, reaching up to scrub a hand over his eyes and through his hair. “I couldn't get into the loft. The door wouldn't open and it sounded empty inside, but I know they didn't leave until a few hours later because that's when Lydia texted me.”

“The demon was probably just keeping you out,” Derek says, half-distracted by mutinous thoughts about what could have possibly been going on behind that closed door. He's read speculations about demon deals, and he hasn't been able to forget what Scott said about Stiles's boxers smelling like Peter. “Do you know why Lydia is with them?” he asks, throwing Scott a confused look, which is returned in kind.

“No,” Scott admits, looking guilty. “I was so worried about Stiles that I didn't even think to ask.”

“Shit,” Derek huffs, looking back out the windshield as numerous scenarios flood his mind. Fear and annoyance crop up at the thought of having to possibly deal with two possessions instead of just one. “Text Peter. Ask him what color Lydia's wolf is.”

“What does that mean?” Scott asks, looking at Derek like he was speaking in tongues, but he texts while he stares. “Like what Peter said in his text to you?”

Derek hums in the affirmative. “It's just an old Native American story,” he explains, cocking his head slightly in that way people do when they're about to tell a tale and they don't want to screw it up. “When I was a kid, my mother took all of us to visit a Shoshone friend of her's, Kimana, for the first time. We spent a week with her family, and she told us a lot of stories. The story of the two wolves is one of the most well-known, and it resonated with me and Peter.” He sighs softly, mentally beating back the memories that threaten to flood.

“Do you know it?” Derek asks. Scott shakes his head. “She told us that inside every person there are two wolves, one white and one black,” Derek continues, “The black wolf is evil and destructive and the white wolf is good and pure, and every day the wolves fight and fight until one wins.”

Scott frowns softly, because the story tugs at something deep inside of him, too. “How do you know which one wins?” he asks, moving a hand to press over his stomach, which is suddenly a little hollow.

Derek frowns and tightens his grip briefly on the steering wheel. “The wolf that wins is the one you feed the most,” he murmurs. He still feels ashamed, knowing that because he let his black wolf win for so many years, the white one is still weak. But he won't give up until it's strong again.

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, my spaghetti and meatballs only feeds white wolves,” Scott teases gently. He reaches over to knock his fist twice against the Derek's thigh before scooting down into his seat with a tired sigh

Derek actually ducks his head a bit because he can feel that Scott is proud of him. For how hard he's trying and will continue to try. With a soft exhale, his eyes search the night for the tell-tale neon of a Denny's or any sort of convenience store. “I need caffeine,” he mutters. “You?”

“Sounds good to me,” Scott replies.

A scream suddenly cuts through the otherwise quiet night.

Both of them jerk their heads in the direction of the off-ramp, and Derek is impressed with himself for not veering right into the divider. The sign says Jayne St. exit, the city is Coalinga, and within a few miles of Derek’s screeching tires are Stiles, Lydia, and Peter.

They'd recognize that scream anywhere. It's not the gut-wrenching, mournful wailing of the banshee, It's just Lydia. She's hurt, scared, and calling for help, and it cuts through Scott and Derek more sharply than any death omen.

To say that Peter is a bit miffed at himself for expelling all of the power he stole from Jennifer in order to summon the demon that is currently trying to defile Lydia, would be a tragic understatement.

He's definitely self-aware enough to realize that he both feels, and probably looks, like an absolutely slavering idiot. He's all sharp fangs and flashing blue eyes and snarling drool as the he struggles, the demon having pinned him against the car well within touching distance. That's probably the cruelest part; that Peter is only about a foot away. He can smell the way Lydia's body had responded to him, and was now unwillingly responding to the demon, and he can't tell if it's her fear or the demon's hunger that's more of a turn-on.

Talia always told Peter to be careful. That he was built differently than others. His fight would be more difficult, and the temptation to cash out and give in would always be there. He passively listened, but never let her help him, because she was both his alpha and his older sister, and the two always clashed against Peter's pride. He loved her and doesn't want to sully her memory, but he knows that one day Derek will find out that the ease with which he killed Laura was just transference, having been carefully cultivated over the months before Talia died. Peter wouldn't say that he'd planned to kill his sister, but he'd be lying to himself if he didn't admit that he'd at least prepared for the possibility.

Peter takes no issue and holds no guilt, killing for the ones he loves. It comes as naturally to him as breathing. That's the only difference between himself and Derek. The instincts are all the same; it's just that pesky humanity that shoves them along different paths. Peter isn't devoid, of course, and while his moral compass is certainly askew, that doesn't stop the gut-twisting, skin crawling, bone-twisting need to protect what is his.

Both Stiles and Lydia are his, as much as they are Derek's and as much as they are Scott's, and Peter is unwilling to let this go without at least trying to fight. The metal creaks as he strains and pulls against the magic, and for a moment he's so angry and afraid that he thinks he might pull the car apart.

“Stop, you fucking– Stiles!” Lydia cries out. The demon has her on her back in the passenger seat, one knee wedged up between her legs as his other foot slides against the asphalt. “Stiles, don't let him do this!” Peter knows her trick, saying Stiles's name as much as she can in the hopes that it will wake him up inside. But he has a bad feeling it isn't going to work. “Stiles, make him stop!”

“No, you stop,” the demon growls petulantly. He finally gets a hand around the top of the bodice of her dress and yanks, the material giving a satisfying rips, revealing a modest but pretty dusty pink bra and smooth, creamy white skin.

“Do you have any idea how much of a boner-killer it is to have a girl yelling 'Stop! Stop!' in a guy's ear when he's trying to fuck her?” He mimics the high pitch of her voice while mocking her, because he's obviously frustrated by his inability to get up under her skirt. “Have a little consideration for me,” the demon bites out, as Lydia shoves at him with her knees and scratches at his face. Peter can't help silently cheering her on.

Lydia's heart is racing, and her hearing is either super-keen or completely muffled, she can't tell. She's hyper-aware of what's happening to her, but feels detached because it's a demon, and this is what demons do. They corrupt and destroy good things. They manipulate and lie. They hurt and bite with words, and shatter innocence.

It's a demon inside Stiles. She has to detach because Stiles would never do this to her. He'd never do this to anyone.

“Get the hell off me, you piece of shit,” Lydia snarls, trying to take advantage of the demon's apparent distraction with Peter. Her legs jerk as she wrenches fiercely away from him, but only succeeds in jamming her shoulder into the shifter and the seat-belt into the back of her neck. He growls and grabs her by the dress that's bunched around her waist and tugs her back, dragging her hips so they're hanging over the side of the passenger seat. Her legs hang open and parted, scenting the air with the smell of her. She whimpers hard and feels bile in her throat as both the demon and Peter groan.

No help from Peter then. That's okay, Lydia is used to standing on her own. Lydia's mind is still sharp and her core is still steel. She can handle this.

She clacks her teeth together a disgusted scream as three of Stiles's long, tapered fingers finally succeed in invading her. A vile, sick shiver of pleasure bolts through her as the demon pushes them inside, curling and rubbing them inside of her unwelcoming body, and she can feel herself getting wet for him. She can feel herself beginning to want it, which she knows has to be a trick. She knows he's using magic on her, so she feels completely justified in throwing a pathetic punch at his face.

The demon doesn't keep her hands away. She can tell how much he's enjoying her hitting at him, shoving him, trying to stop him. Her resolve cracks a little bit more with every passing second, as she realizes she'll never be strong enough to stop him from taking what he wants.

The demon thrusts his fingers unkindly into her heat, sinking his fingers in up to the big, bulbous knuckles on the back of his hand. The demon wants to make her bleed with blunt fingernails, hoping she'll ache tomorrow because of him. He drops his head and mouths at her breasts through her bra. Her body tenses and jerks in gross protest against the pleasure that aches in her as he tongues at the wet satin that covers one of her stiff nipples.

His blunt thumb slicks up through her folds to press and rub against her clit, and as she mewls and hisses her breaths, her cunt clamps down around his fingers. His dick throbs against her thigh, super-sensitive and chafing against the denim of his jeans.

“You hard, Petey?” the demon asks roughly. He grins against Lydia's collarbone as the strain in her thighs finally bests her and she digs her heels into his back, lifting her hips to him with a hateful sound.

“Maybe,” he growls tightly. Truth is, Peter is hard as fucking nails, but he's too humiliated to for his brain to catch up, so he's surprisingly sharp and clear-headed. His hands ball into fists, because it's the only movement he's allowed.

He entertains three simultaneous fantasies; pulling Stiles off of Lydia and sinking into her wet heat himself, shoving Stiles onto Lydia and pushing into that tight ass again, or just running off into the night and pretending like none of this ever happened. Hell, if he had his way he'd indulge in all three. He doesn't, though; Peter doesn't have much of anything right now. Well, nothing except the sinking sensation in his stomach as he hears the screech of tires heading their way, but whether that stomach-pit feeling is one of defeat or triumph, it's too soon to tell.

The only thing that eclipses the sound of tires is the sound of the demon unzipping Stiles's jeans. Lydia keens coldly and whimpers curses and slings slurs. Peter pants softly because he can practically feel the demon bringing her up against her will, and a part of him wishes he was the one doing it.

Their entire world has become this tiny, dark corner of the AM/PM parking lot. For a surreal moment Peter thinks they might never leave. That thought is cut short, however, when the demon is suddenly jerked away from Lydia like a puppet on a string.

The demon grunts as his back hits the stucco wall of the convenience store, but the impact won't be enough to knock him out. Peter squeezes his eyes shut and inhales sharply, suddenly realizing he'd been holding his breath for so long he hadn't even smelled Scott and Derek. He pushes his eyes open and his vision is fuzzy, but he can see Derek and Scott grabbing Stiles by the arms, by the shoulders; wherever they can get their hands on him.

He watches them muscle Stiles back against the wall again, and Derek raises his fist to strike

They're both wearing rage and exhaustion plainly on their faces, and Peter wonders for a moment if they actually know what they're doing.

“Stop,” Peter wheezes out. He suddenly feels his chest ache and his throat constrict, and he knows the demon is trying to shut him up. Peter fights through it. No one has ever been able to get him to stop talking, and that's not going to change today. “Don't hit him, you idiots! You'll hurt Stiles...”

There's no preamble. No villainous monologue. No cackling laughter or diabolical cat-petting. As soon as Scott pulls back and looks at Peter, distracted, Stiles's body seems to waver and shift like a heat distortion. It looks like water when he separates itself from Stiles, and it's not as big as its attitude would suggest. But it also doesn't stick around long enough for scrutiny. Peter doubles over and lets out a few racking coughs as the demon shoots off into the shadows it created, fleeing for now.

But just for now. It'll be back, Peter knows. Their deal still isn't done.

Peter falls to his knees, then drops onto his hands, hacking and coughing up phlegm as parking lot grit digs into the heels of his palms. His claws pop almost reflexively and scrape at the asphalt as he smells Derek. His nephew is quite angry, and while Peter can't blame him, he's also not looking forward to what he knows is about to happen.

“I never should have trusted you,” Derek says, anger held in check behind the wall of his clenched teeth. Peter looks up, and while there's a little regret in his eyes, it's obviously not enough for Derek. “I can't believe I didn't know better.” Before Peter can even utter a word, Derek's boot catches him hard under the chin, clacking Peter's jaw shut and knocking him soundly out.

Derek might not be able kill Peter, but that doesn't mean he has to listen to him talk.

Lydia, meanwhile, is dealing with Scott who's hovering over her, half-hanging in through the car door. He's completely oblivious to her embarrassment, and he's already moved past the personal implications of what nearly happened to her and just wants to save her already. Derek is about to grab him by collar and yank him out when Lydia speaks.

“Just.... give me a minute, okay?” she says. Her voice is tight and small as she pushes at Scott's shoulder before slamming the car door shut.

Lydia turns from the window and curls in on herself, feeling wretched as she shoves a hand down the front of her panties. She knows that the demon must have done something to her because she can't think, she can't function; she can't do anything until she relieves this pressure.

The crotch of her panties is sticky-cold against the back of her hand as she works her fingers in a firm, furious dance over her own swollen flesh. Her cheeks heat and color with both shame and agonizing relief as pleasure coils down low inside of her. Her toes clench so hard they ache, and her lips part in a near-silent gasp as she shudders to orgasm with as much dignity as she can.

As soon as he realizes what's happening, Derek immediately turns away to herd Scott over to his car. Thirty seconds later and Scott's paradigm has been expanded. They're both trying not to eavesdrop on Lydia, but they are both young men, despite anything. Scott gives Derek a mournful look, because alpha or not, what does Scott know about fixing a problem like this? Derek's had sisters, both younger and older, so he just nods and steps out of the car.

Lydia knows Derek and Scott can hear her, she knows they can smell her, but fuck it. She feels raw and torn open, but her core is steel, steel, steel. Her body is her own and she'll be the one who controls it, but that doesn't stop her from crying when she comes. She just cries and cries, huge, wracking sobs, because it's all too much. Lydia isn't weak, but she's not exactly dead inside, so when the car door opens and Derek takes her up in his arms, she lets him let her feel safe for now. She wraps herself around his front and clutches at his shoulder, pressing her tear-stained face into the side of his throat.

Derek is sure that this is the first time they've touched since she used him to resurrect Peter. But in the wake of all of this, all of that past resent just seems... petty. Pointless. She lifts her eyes to his, mossy and shiny, but so sharply focused he almost feels compelled to glance away.

“I'm sorry,” she whispers, as if reading his mind. Derek's face softens, makes him look so much younger than he feels, and his hands tighten where they hold her. He says nothing, because he's terrible at words, but gives her a small smile with lips pressed firmly together. He carries her to his car and settles her into the passenger seat, helping her with the seat-belt without a word of protest from her. Peter gets laid out in the backseat before Derek tosses his car keys to Scott, leaving him looking confused.

“I'll drive Stiles,” Derek says. Something unreadable passes over Derek's face and then between the two, but Scott nods. There's trust there. Lydia is too tired to protest, and just asks for her purse which he obediently brings to her after extracting her car keys. After wiping her eyes with a tissue and slathering her hands in anti-bacterial hand gel, she tells them them everything that happened. From the moment Peter summoned the demon, to the moment Scott and Derek drove into the parking lot.

“We need to take them back home,” Derek says, leaning on his hands against the passenger-side window with his eyes on Scott. “No one's going to L.A. Not until we get everything Peter knows out of him and figure out where that demon went. If what Lydia says is true, then this is far from over.”

“I agree,” Scott says, and with a shared look they part ways.

Stiles comes to about twenty minutes into the drive. His head is throbbing like he'd just gone three rounds with a werewolf because, oh wait, he sort of had.

“Sweet angry Santa,” he groans, rubbing his hands against his eyes until he sees star-bursts to try and clear the sore grit away. “What the hell happened?” His headache is unmerciful, there's a sore, tender cut on his left pec over his nipple, and the skin on his back feels achy and torn. “Did I get road-hauled, or something?”

“You don't remember?” says a man's voice. Stiles is suddenly acutely aware of the fact that he's in a car, Lydia's car, and that Derek Hale is driving. Derek. In Lydia's car. At night. With him.

“Uh,” Stiles utters with eloquence and profound articulation. He turns gingerly to peer into the backseat, a little surprised to find it empty. “Is this a dream?” he murmurs to himself as he turns back to look at Derek.

Derek snorts softly. “Do you dream about me driving you around in Lydia's car a lot?” he asks, and Stiles give a slight shrug before sagging into the passenger seat.

“Sometimes,” Stiles murmurs. He bends his knees and pulls them up, hooking his heels on the edge of the seat and chews on his thumbnail, looking about half his age and scolded. He's still unconvinced that he's actually awake, because he can't remember where he is or how he got here. The last thing he does remember is meeting up with Scott out in front of the school.

“But I'm usually in the backseat with Lydia,” he mumbles distractedly, eyes darting out the window. “And you have a sexy little cabbie hat on...”

“What?” Derek says a little too fast, his posture straightening up a bit, like some completely random panic response.

“What?” Stiles echoes, staring in a slight panic at Derek's profile.

Stiles's eyes suddenly go wide as the reality of the situation comes crashing down on him. Everything is in stark detail, and he smells blood and dirt and tar, gas fumes from the freeway outside. And Derek looks confused, cautious, and guarded. Derek never really looks like the real Derek in Stiles's dreams. He's always this suave, naughty, confident guy, all seductive and growly and dominant, and that's definitely not the guy he's staring at right now.

“Fuck...” Stiles gasps. “What the fuck, what the fuck,” he babbles, mouth falling open like he's about to start yelling. “What the fuck is happening?!”

“Stiles–” Derek starts, shooting him a slightly pained look. His brows furrow in that feigning-concern way of Derek's as he reaches out a hand that's probably meant to be comforting. Stiles bats his hand away awkwardly before waving a hand in front of his face, his stomach churning.

“Pull over,” Stiles says tightly, and Derek complies without protest. Within seconds Stiles is on his hands and knees, retching into some dry shrub-grass on the side of the I-5 at nearly 12:30a.m. His heart is racing and he feels dizzy, and he's pretty sure the ache in his groin is blue balls. Blue balls what the fuck?

“Stiles,” Derek says hesitantly, but Stiles flinches away from the sound of his name on Derek's lips. His shoulders tighten as he folds in on himself, and honestly considers just curling up into a ball and living here in the shrub-grass. He'll make a nice little home with the bugs and the field mice, because the memories are starting to creep back into his brain and he doesn't think he can handle this.

Peter. Peter and... the loft. Peter and him and fuck. The demon wearing him like a bad suit. Track practice. Danny. Oh god, Danny. Lydia...

Lydia.

“Oh my god,” Stiles whispers. He reaches up to angrily swipe at the tears leaking from his eyes, and he can smell her on his fingers. He can smell her and there's blood under his fingernails. With a strangled sound he pitches forward and heaves again, but nothing comes out. There's no satisfaction of vomit or blood or his soul or gray matter. Nope, it all stays inside and taunts him and he has to live with everything.

“Listen to me,” Derek says, his voice coming from some place far away, despite standing only a few feet behind Stiles. “Stiles, nothing that happened is your fault. You can't blame yourself for any of this. You didn't do any of this–”

“Pot, kettle,” Stiles whispers, barking a humorless laugh. He recalls how many times they've all thought the same thing about Derek over the past several months. He pushes back and lands on his ass in the dirt, idly glancing at the ancient-looking sneaker and the shred of tire half-buried in the dirt by the side of the road as the southern California desert works to reclaim them. “I can't–” he shakes his head, unconsciously shoving his hands into his hair, which only helps to spread the smell of Lydia and dirt over himself even more. “Oh my god.”

Derek's hand is suddenly on his shoulder as he crouches next to Stiles, his gravity intense. He reaches with his free hand to grab Stiles's chin, forcing him to meet his eyes as he stares down with the weight of too much grief and remorse and regret in those green eyes. “We will fix this,” Derek promises around the gravel in his voice. “Lydia will be safe, you will be safe, and Peter will answer for what he did. Do you understand me?”

Stiles wants to jerk his chin out of Derek's hand because that touch is too fatherly to be comfortable. He wants to shoves at Derek and hit him, to scream at the stars and break down and cry. To hurt himself and bleed himself for what he did to Lydia, to Danny. For what happened to himself. He wants to cover his skin in dirt and let the sun bake him dry because he can't forget how fucking good it felt when Peter fucked him. How much he loved it. He can't forget any of it, and he doesn't know if he should. If he should be allowed to.

He nods anyway, though. It's a little wooden, but Derek can't read his mind and will just think he's in a shock. It'll satisfy him because Derek can't bring himself to connect with anyone on too deep of a level, so advantage Stiles. He can lie his way through this car ride and work things out on his own when he gets home.

Stiles will talk to Lydia, talk to Peter, and then maybe beat himself over the head with a baseball bat until he can't remember anything anymore. Definitely sounds like a sane, rational plan.

He doesn't put up a fight when Derek pulls him to his feet. He stands limply and stares impassively as Derek brushes the dirt off of him; off of his legs and gently from his fingers and palms. He doesn't even crack a joke or smile when those broad hands quickly swipe over the ass of his jeans.

Both of them are definitely too caught up in what's happening here, between them, to notice the old biker in worn leathers, and a helmet that's seen better days, speed past them going north.

It's no matter. It's not like they could have seen the inky black eyes behind the visor. They have no way of knowing what will be waiting for them when they get home, because their journey there is the only thing they can think about. Somewhere out in the desert a few coyotes yip and bark, and while Stiles ignores them and settles in for the long ride, Derek stares off toward the sound, feeling something strange quickly crawl over his skin.