Archive of Our Own

Derek has only been home for two minutes before he finds reason to freak out. He knew leaving the Pack in Scott's hands would be a risky move, but the negotiations with their neighboring pack was too important to pass by.

Derek never expected to come back to this, though.

The first thing he sees after stepping out of the car is Stiles, on the porch, talking to Isaac. The human has kept up well with the wolves and even after starting college, he's been keeping in touch. What makes Derek's senses tingle and a growl push up his throat is the smell of pain and bruises in the air. As he draws closer to Stiles, he also detects the faint scent of dried blood.

The total lack of reaction as Derek gets right up close, stuffing his face into Stiles' neck, is a clear testimony to the amount of time Stiles is spending with werewolves. When Derek inhales deeply, searching underneath Stiles' natural scent and the bitter smell of pain and busted blood vessels, he catches a whiff of another wolf. A few seconds is all it takes for Derek to identify the perpetrator and this time, he doesn't bother reigning in the roar bursting forth.

”Peter! What the fuck happened, Stiles?”

The human jumps, his eyebrows crawling towards his hairline.

”What? I dunno what you're talking about, man!”

Derek doesn't even bother with a reply, just sniffs out the area, smelling the strongest of blood - Stiles’ abdomen – and yanks the shirt up so hard the seams rip. The sight greeting him is almost enough to cause him to lose control. The skin on Stiles' stomach is bruised blue and purple, big hickeys marring the pale skin. On top of those, there are long, red lines, no doubt left by claws, or at least sharp human nails. Peter's scent is layered over the whole mess and it makes Derek's vision turn red, rage boiling under his skin. No one is allowed to hurt his pack and certainly not old, perverted ex-alphas.

”I'm gonna kill him!” Derek snarls, turning on his heels and stalking back to his car, his claws popping out. Underneath the roaring of the Camaro's engine, Derek hears a faint yell from Stiles, probably a protest of some sort, but he's not willing to let the human convince him otherwise. He intends to smack fucking Peter well into next week. In fact, he'll probably follow up by ripping the bastard limb from limb before feeding him to a bunch of ravenous piranhas.

Peter's apartment is located downtown, above a small bakery. None of the other betas trust Peter fully, and he'd shown surprising consideration by insisting on getting an apartment in town. He's still as much a part of the Pack, though, and lately, he's been getting on quite well with Stiles.

Not anymore, apparently.

When Derek throws his car into a parking space and jumps out, he notices the strained rumble of Stiles' jeep coming down Main Street. It does nothing to calm him down, however, and he races up the stairs to the first floor. The door is an old, wooden thing, so when Derek knocks forcefully, it springs open, hinges screeching.

A low, echoing ”Derek wait!” filters up from the ground level, followed by the squeaking of sneakers on linoleum.

Growling, Derek stomps into the apartment. When he doesn't see Peter in the living room, he takes a deep inhale, determining his uncle is in the bedroom. As he heads that way, he faintly hears Stiles trampling up the stairs, his breath wheezing.

Derek rounds the corner into the bedroom and promptly freezes. His jaw drops so hard it feels like it dislocates.

In front of him, Peter is breathing slowly, his heartbeat calm and steady. He's asleep.

That's not what makes Derek choke on his own tongue, though. Peter's lying sprawled on his back, arms and legs spread out; each limb bound to the bed with sturdy leather straps. Apart from a small blanket bunched around his hips, Peter is naked. What really shocks Derek are the marks streaked across his skin. If Derek had thought Stiles looked bad, this is horrendous! Slightly scabbed-over cuts run from Peter's collarbone to right above his navel. Deep, purple blotches cover most of his chest, bite marks peppered along his inner thighs. To top it off, Peter seems to be all but soaked in come. Drying white splotches are smeared all over him, up his chest and down his thighs, some even pooling between his legs.

While Derek has been gaping, Stiles managed to overcome the stairs and skids to a stop next to him, panting. Even from where they are standing, the smell of sweat and come, of sex, is overwhelming to Derek's elevated senses. Also, he has no trouble discerning who the jizz belongs to. Some is Peter's, but the rest is pure Stiles.

Despite the situation, Peter looks relaxed, his face set in a content expression. One Derek hasn't seen in a long, long time. His brain is desperately trying to figure out what the hell is happening, when Stiles and Peter had started fucking, and above all – why nobody knew about it!

Terrible scenarios, none of them involving any type of consent, are running rampant in Derek's mind and he can feel the urge to shift pushing at him, an itch on the surface of his skin. As it is, the claws and fangs are out, but he's keeping the rest under wraps until it’s proven necessary.

”You should have waited for me to explain,” Stiles grumbles, tone petulant, like he was the one wronged here.

Derek whirls on him, ”I thought he was beating you! How else did you expect me to react?”

”Well, I hadn't exactly planned on telling you today,” Stiles says, gesturing to Peter, who shows no signs of waking up. He must be exhausted. ”We had other plans.”

Trying his best not to imagine that, Derek sighs and runs a hand over his face.

”No!” Stiles snaps, ”You are not allowed to give me the Glare of Disappointment! I am a responsible adult and it just so happens that Peter and I found some common interests. I know most of the Pack doesn't trust him, but he's never given me any reason not to. Since he was resurrected, I mean...”

In reply, Derek simply lifts up Stiles' shirt, glaring pointedly at the marks. Stiles scoffs and gestures to Peter's bruised body.

”In case you didn't notice, this is the interest I was talking about!”

”You like to beat each other up?” Derek snarls, condescendingly.

The eyeroll is so exaggerated Derek fears Stiles' eyes will pop clean out of his skull.

”No, you old prude! We like rough sex and biting; you know, marking each other up. Creeper Wolf, over there, likes a bit of blood play too, and I'm such an accommodating guy, I give him what he needs.”

Derek is sure his face is the definition of what the actual fuck right now. Stiles isn't even blushing and when the hell did he become so casual about sex – especially kinky sex?

“Why isn’t he healing?” Derek hisses.

Stiles crosses his arms defensively.

“We use a special wolfsbane potion. It slows the healing.”

Now that he knows what to search for, Derek is able to catch the faint trace of wolfsbane almost masked by the other scents permeating the air. He turns incredulous eyes on Stiles.

”Don't you give me that look, Derek. Deaton made it himself, it causes no harm. This is all consensual,” Stiles declares. His fierce tone is making Peter stir. As soon as he moves, even though it’s just a hand, Stiles’ head snaps up. He walks over to Peter and sinks down on the mattress. Derek watches warily as Stiles lowers a hand to rest in the center of Peter's chest, but nothing violent happens. Peter's eyes open slowly, flicking over to Derek briefly before settling onto Stiles.

”Hey,” Stiles mumbles.

Peter actually smiles. Not a smile of the devious variety - which would indicate everyone should start checking the drawers for mousetraps, or their shampoo for hair dye - but a soft, genuine smile.

”Hi,” Peter croaks, voice rough.

Instead of answering, Stiles bends down and kisses him. Peter rumbles happily, stretching. When the human's fingers trail down his chest, scratching the hairs leading from his belly button to his groin, Peter groans and arches as best he can while still bound.

The gaze Stiles directs at him can only be described as adoring.

”You've been so good, baby. Didn't even break the straps while I was gone. Want your reward?” Stiles questions, his voice taking on a husky quality.

Right in front of Derek's eyes, Peter whimpers and tips his head back, exposing his throat to Stiles; to a human. Stiles bends down and fits his teeth over Peter's jugular, just a light pressure, just like a werewolf would have done. Once again, Derek is reminded how much they've rubbed off on Stiles, he's hardly human anymore. A werewolf in a human body.

A werewolf, who's apparently managed to make Peter submit, no matter the intent behind the act.

Derek is staring, but for some reason he can't make himself look away. He's mesmerized by the sight of Stiles in control, the hand still playing with Peter's chest hair, tracing idle circles.

He even keeps watching as the blanket covering Peter's groin starts to tent. When Stiles sees, he croons, leaning down to lick over a nipple. Peter moans and the bulge under the blanket twitches as the thick scent of arousal floods the room. Stiles huffs a laugh and noses into Peter's neck before abruptly pinching a nipple and twisting it.

Derek is sure he will forever remember the look on his uncle's face as he roared and writhed, cock emptying onto his belly.

Even when he's milked the last drops, Stiles keeps stroking and fondling Peter's cock. After a few minutes, it grows over-sensitive. Peter's stomach muscles start clenching, his whole body jerking in reaction to the uncomfortable stimulation. He whines and squirms, but Stiles keeps going.

Derek cringes sympathetically and he must have made a sound, however low, because Peter's eyes snap open and focus on him. Belatedly, Derek realizes he should have fled long ago. Crap!

”Ah. My dear nephew. You wanna join the fun?”

The bastard’s voice is hardly even trembling.

Scowling seems to be a suitable reaction so that's what Derek does.

”Doesn't look like it's very enjoyable.”

Peter grins like a shark eyeing its prey.

”Oh, it really is! Stiles is a master with a wolfsbane laced whip. You can try if you want, though I must say, we are both a tad possessive, so it's gonna have to be a one-time deal.”

There's a loud smack as Stiles slaps a hand down on Peter's chest.

”Hey! What did I say about making creepy offers to the Pack?”

Peter pouts, but doesn't answer. Before Derek can even think to interrupt, Stiles has thrown himself on top of Peter, straddling his waist, a hand fisted in his hair. He pulls Peter's head back and growls right in his face. It makes Derek nervous because normally, he'd never let any of the humans put themselves in that kind of position with a wolf. However, Stiles is emanating an aura of power and Derek finds himself standing back to watch.

All it takes is a few seconds for Peter to go pliant and huff out, ”You told me not to weird them out by suggesting they come play with us.”

”And is Derek not a part of the Pack?” Stiles demands in a voice of pure steel.

”He is,” Peter mutters, sulking.

Instantly, Stiles' grip relaxes.

”Good. Now I'm sure Derek has somewhere else to be while I fuck you, so we should let him leave,” Stiles states, raising an eyebrow and looking at Derek with an expression which screams get out!

Knowing when to quit, Derek hightails it out of there as fast as he can. He has no desire to watch his uncle get fucked; there is not enough bleach in the world to make an image like that go away!

He still catches Peter's petulant ”Why do you get to be the dominant one?” and Stiles' smug reply. ”Because I'm awesome and you're creepy! Now shut up and spread your legs.”