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Stiles is a quiet shadow of the boy he used to be.
He is sometimes bitter, and full of anger and sometimes a sadness consumes his bones and feeds off his breath and leaves him gasping for air.
Peter is lies and sharp tongued, strong bones and bright eyes.
And Stiles is drawn to him like a moth to a flame.
-
"You could have anyone you want." Peter's voice is calm, but there is something dangerous, eyes watching Stiles' every move.
"So could you."
"Ah, but there is no-one quite like you Stiles. There's something about you, that makes me want to make you mine, makes me want to bite." His voice is smooth, flows over Stiles and makes him shiver.
"Maybe I just have a thing for un-dead psycho werewolves." He tries for flippant, but there must be something in the way his heartbeat picks up, or a red flush on his cheeks, because Peter laughs and bites kisses onto his neck, and smiles.
-
Stiles wishes he didn't, but he resents Scott, and when he looks at him all bright smiles and happy eyes, and when he looks at Allison like she is the world and she looks back, he wishes he could hate him, wishes he could hate them, but he can't.
He thinks of Lydia, and how she emersed herself in studies, and got herself out of Beacon Hills as soon as she could after Jackson had gone, and he is proud of her, he cherishes the short letters he receives from her and the quick phone calls, he misses her most of all. The friendship they had started to create, the friendship created out of loneliness, and magic sparks, and he wishes for it back so much, but he wouldn't wish her back here for anything and yet he can not leave, he feels tethered to Beacon Hills by iron chains and what once was.
Erica will not talk to him and Boyd is a shadow of a shield to her, never seen far from her side, and they're both twitchy and flitting eyes though he is better at hiding it. They're like scared animals, ready to run even though it is running which makes them this way. Isaac is better, though he flits between them and Scott, he is bolder and grown into himself, and he talks to Stiles, spends time with him and get's to know him in conversations no matter how fleeting.
They are loyal to Derek now at least, they practice and train and they're stronger beta's, but Derek will never begin to trust Erica and Boyd the same way he had begun to before, it is a working pack at best and a broken one at worst and Stiles sometimes wonders how they survive, but he supposes it has something to do with full moons and running as wolves and the collection of howls he can sometimes hear.
Derek is quieter then he was and Stiles wonders how that is possible. His eyes are shadowed, his skin pale and his cheeks are thin, but sometimes he smiles and there is a tentative truce between them, and a comfortable silence that settles, and they've been a shoulder for each other, something strong and there, though not completely whole, Stiles could risk it and say they were friends.
He wonders when everything started to fall apart, when the truce that had begun to form between them all had broken and blown away, when the hopeful ideas of pack and of family had finally disappeared. He thinks it begun with Gerard or maybe the Alpha Pack.
But what breaks him the most is that he knows how his father looks at him, the barely concealed disappointment, and flashes of hurt, and it kills him. He thinks of his mother, and he wonders how angry she would be, or if their joint disappointment could cripple him and make him want to beg for their forgiveness.
He thinks it would, and he wonders if his father would be better off without him, he knows he would be, but sometimes his father smiles at him and when his grades are good he looks proud, and it's enough, just enough to make him want to stay.
And there is Peter.
Peter who is lies and death, with blood on his hands and sharp teeth ready to bite.
Who make Stiles feel warm, and makes him laugh with dreadful stories and strong wit, who makes him smile, and makes him want.
-
"You are quiet."
Stiles' head is in Peter's lap. He's not sure how it got there, but Peter hasn't said anything, instead running his fingers through his hair and behind his ear as his other hand holds an old book.
Stiles is tired, and stretched thin, and Peter is warm and comfortable and they don't usually do this, don't usually have just quiet moments between them, but it is nice, and they're relaxed, it's so different from the both of them, it's peaceful.
He makes a quiet noise in the back of his throat, and Peter chuckles in return.
He thinks, this is good, he thinks he doesn't want this all the time, doesn't want this placid calm between them because he enjoys their banter, and he enjoys when they're rough, but sometimes, he thinks he could live with this.
-
Peter does not love Stiles, and they both know it, but he cares for Stiles, in a strange way he doesn't care for anyone else, never has.
There are times when Stiles forgets to breathe, when his chest feels tight and his throat closes and there are other times when he burns himself out, when he practices spells and protections until his fingers are numb and all he can speak are broken up chants that slip from cracked lips, and dry mouth.
Peter is always there to patch him back together though, to seal the cracks with words and whispers of dark things, and to put feeling back into his limbs with touches of skin and warmth. He stops the chants with broken off moans and breathless gasps and makes Stiles a little more whole again.
And Stiles burns for it, relishes it.
(He does not think he loves Peter either, he's not sure if he knows how to give that part of himself away anymore, but there is something, and it is bright and warm and inviting and he welcomes it.)
-
Peter kisses like he could swallow Stiles whole.
It consumes Stiles and makes heat burn in the pit of his stomach, makes him fuel with want, makes him feel wanted.
He knows that Peter knows how he makes him feel, and he remembers how when they first begun, that he was sure that Peter lived and breathed from the power he held over Stiles, and sometimes he thinks he still does, but it's more now, it's better and good and he can't help the sounds that slip past his lips.
"The noises you make." Peter says, his voice dark, "I could listen to them forever."
Stiles huffs a laugh before it's swallowed by a moan when the thick head of Peter's cock rubs against his prostate.
Peter's hands are strong on the back of his thighs, and he can feel the slight sting of claws as they catch his skin, and he knows he's not going to last much longer, not when Peter's doing slow, sure strokes inside of him, making sure his catches his prostate on each thrust.
His back and shoulders are straining from where he's tried to meet Peter's thrusts, and there's a pleasant burning in his throat from moaning, there's bite marks on his neck and following the flush down his chest, and it's so good, it almost always is and Peter's got that smug look on his face, the one he get's like he knows what Stiles is thinking.
"Oh, don't look so smug with yourself."
"And why shouldn't I? You're all pretty and moaning and writhing because of me." He proves his point by giving a shallow movement with hips and twisting just right and Stiles tries to glare anyway, but he knows it's hopeless.
"Fucker." He manages to gasp, and Peter laughs like the bastard he is, even though he's starting to sound breathless himself.
Sex between them is one of the only times they both let go, when they both allow themselves to just feel, let down some of the barriers that they hold up during the day and around other people, one of the times they can be rough or slow, fast and intense, whatever they're feeling at the time, and Stiles lives for it, relishes the sometimes burn he'll have the next day, or how he'll find small marks and bruises on his skin even days after.
The careful self control that Stiles has built up is starting to fray, he can feel the tell-tale signs building in the pit of his stomach and the pleasurepain spreading through him and he whines as Peter leans forward so he can nip at his neck.
"I'm close- I'm so close, almost, please I-."
"Wait," Peter growls and Stiles almost punches him, before there's a hand on his cock, and insistent lips on his, biting into his mouth and sucking on his tongue and he feels like he's going to shatter from the pleasure, but instead manages to mumble another 'please' and feels the hand on his cock tighten and twist with a rub across his prostate.
"Come...now."
And Stiles does, he lets go and a low moan bubbles from his lips and straight into Peter's mouth.
Peter lets out a groan as he comes and scrapes his claws down Stiles' sides, not enough to draw blood, but enough to feel, but Stiles is too sated to do anything other then shift and gasp as is orgasm continues to rock through him.
Stiles is still shaking slightly when Peter pulls out and collapses next to him, after leaving a final bite to his mouth.
"Ohmygod, that was- fuck." Stiles' brain is mush and his limbs are putty, but he tries to get his mouth to work again.
"Thank you." Peter's smirking and runs his fingers through the drying come on Stiles' stomach before lifting it to his mouth, and Stiles thinks he should find it gross, or something, but at that moment he doesn't care, instead rolls his eyes and curls into Peter anyway.
-
Neither of them are okay, and there are so many issues they should sort out, and they know it's probably not healthy, but it works for them.
And he doesn't trust Peter, and they're nowhere near perfect, but he get's to feel happy, and safe, and wanted with Peter, and he thinks he makes Peter better sometimes, thinks he makes him happy.
It's good, great, even.
-
"I think I should find someone younger, you're starting to lag behind." Stiles says. He's tracing protection runes around the Hale house with Peter strolling behind him, who smirks.
"Oh, but who would the have the stamina where you really want it."
When Stiles turns around, Peter's eyes are wide with faux innocence, but is mouth is curved in a wicked grin.
Stiles laughs, and it feels amazing.