Stiles leaves behind an inhaler, a hoodie, and what is probably an overdue essay stuffed into a weathered notebook in Peter's apartment.

It's a bit unsettling, actually. Looking at these things doesn't scream sex and passion, it screams secret relationship tucked away into the shadows. So do the wrinkles in the sheets, and the half-drunken water bottles in the fridge, and the strong scent of boy lingering in every corner. Peter doesn't know how to process even just the mere idea of someone leaving an imprint on his life.

What's even more unsettling is the idea of returning the aforementioned items. It's not like they're important, like they're priceless heirlooms Stiles carelessly left in Peter's possession under the delusion that this would be a good place for safekeeping, so Peter isn't under any obligation to return them. Peter isn't the man who strolls through train schedules so he can hop over to his ex, say hello, perhaps share a sandwich or two, and then hand over a paper bag of forgotten items. Peter is the man who throws them over his shoulder into the garbage to be freed from his responsibility.

I was afraid I lost it forever, that would be Stiles' deadpanned remark were Peter to graciously return his worn gray hoodie. It looks like it used to have stripes, the barest hint of them turned brittle and faded in the harshness of the sun, and it's a stupid thing to leave behind. It's an ever stupider thing of Peter to keep.

Keeping is a strong word, he maintains. He slides it on a hanger and puts it in his closet never to be worn. It's like keeping library books past the due days, past the point of paying the fees. Might as well. It's much easier than enduring the lecture from the elderlies working at the library regarding due dates and keeping promises and respecting the rules of volunteer-run facilities.

I'm not surprised, that's what Stiles would say if he were leaning in the doorway watching Peter stuff Stiles' belongings out of sight. You've already accomplished murder, you might as well add petty theft to the list.

It's not a crime, though. If it is, it's a crime of indifference. Or, in the light of the brightest of silver linings, it's a favor Peter's doing for Stiles by not forcing him to see his face again. If he was a better person, he'd give the items to Derek to send down the grapevine to Stiles, but he's not a better person, and this is something Stiles knew from the start.

Why bother changing now, especially when everyone's opinions of him have already been cemented and his reputation is solid as a bad man. He might as well avoid the confusion and stay a bad man.

Would it kill you to make a change? Maybe not ruin people's lives and just try it on for size? Stiles would probably say. But Stiles isn't here right now, so Peter decides to stick to what he knows best.

He visits Derek two days later, purposefully without a break up bag in hand, and is hardly greeted with open arms as he swings open the rusty loft door.

"Why are you here?" Derek deadpans a moment later as he steps inside. It isn't a heartfelt hello and slices of company cake, but Peter will take what he can get for now.

Peter smiles at him. "I can't visit my favorite nephew for no reason than just to stop by?"

Idly, Derek checks his watch and seems to consider it. Then he promptly dismisses the idea with an unyielding, "No." He heaves a sigh. "Why aren't you with Stiles?"

"Why would I be with Stiles?"

"It's four in the afternoon," Derek says. "You're normally fucking."

Peter opens his mouth and closes it a moment later. It disturbs him a touch that Derek is aware of their schedule, from when they're fucking to when they're available for drop-bys without anybody stumbling on any compromising positions. He seems a bit more on edge than usual, and Peter wonders if it has anything to do with Isaac leaving the nest or if Stiles got here first and rattled off the whole story of heartbreak and betrayal. If he did, Derek shouldn't be surprised.

"We're not fucking anymore," Peter breaks the news. "We were, but then he decided to grow a moral compass. It's adorable."

It isn't actually adorable. If anything, it's disappointing and unexplainably irksome. His opinion on the matter must show in his face, as a moment later Derek squints at him critically.

"What happened?"

"So Stiles didn't already rat me out and tell you the whole story?"

He can't imagine that Stiles would. He's smart enough to know that if he's looking for a therapist to whine to, Derek would hardly be the best option. Still, something on Derek's face is crawling under his skin, like he was anticipating his conversation.

"No," Derek says, and then he gets up and wanders over to the kitchen. It feels a bit like a dismissal of the conversation that Peter is interested in ignoring.

"I'm surprised," Peter says, even though he's not. Stiles is hardly the type to blabber about his illicit affair with an older man with a bad reputation all over town just for giggles. For weeks, he was too paranoid to even take his pants all the way off even in the private confines of his locked room lest his father magically and suddenly stroll in on his son being deflowered, he'd hardly boast about their relationship now that it's reached its nasty end.

"Did you come here looking to hear Stiles' version of things?" Derek asks, like he knew Peter had ulterior motives. He reaches for the bread sitting by the sink and cuts it open to start spreading condiments. This hardly feels like the time for lunch, but Peter avoids mentioning that. "I don't know anything." Derek sets down the knife and repeats himself. "What happened?"

Peter condenses it into one pain-free package. "He left," he says with a blasé shrug of his shoulders. That much is true, if not vague.

"Did you do anything to him?" Derek murmurs suspiciously to the sandwich he's creating.

"What are you implying?"

"I'm implying that you're good at destroying things, even if they're good for you," Derek says.

Peter huffs. Derek's one to talk. It's the kind of indirectly back-handed statement that Peter can't help but wonder if there are teams at play here. He isn't exactly up to date with the latest teenage heartthrob romance novels, but he's pretty sure this is the part where the group splits. He looks at Derek, stern over his sandwich, and thinks he at least has his nephew nailed down on his side. Blood privilege and all that.

"Well, he survived," Peter tells him with an airy wave of the hand. "And I know that's more than what you expected."

"I didn't expect anything," Derek says, and Peter knows that's not true. He probably expected bloodshed and scandal. "I thought you didn't either."

He didn't. Peter expected exactly what he bargained for and then reeled in: a handful of very naked weeks with a clever boy. It was fun, up until the end. Who reads a book all the way to the end anyway? It's the middle that counts.

He wonders if Derek knows more than he lets on, if Stiles has confided in him but sworn him to secrecy on account of his own embarrassment. It's not like he wanted this to end in a fit of unshed angry tears and slamming doors, not that he knows how he actually wanted it to end. Peacefully would've been stupidly optimistic. Quietly would've been too oblivious to Stiles' natural tendency to be loud. Maybe he hadn't thought that far ahead. Maybe he hadn't wanted to imagine an end at all.

Derek's crossing the apartment back to his chair when he looks at him again, mouth full with a bite of sandwich he's holding in one hand.

"This was never supposed to happen like this," Peter sighs. He thinks about adding I never wanted him to actually care, but then again, he's not even sure if that's true. "If I could go back in time, I'd warn myself away from him."

"You can time travel and the only thing you do is warn your past self away from Stiles?" Derek is incredulous, if not dryly so. Peter raises an eyebrow in his direction.

"You make it sound as though I have a mountain of regrets to choose from."

"You do," Derek says, but doesn't push the topic, instead sliding to his feet and setting his half-eaten lunch aside. He crosses his arms like an unamused parent finding out about a bad grade, which Peter is by no means intimidated by. "What wasn't supposed to happen?"

"Pardon?"

"You said it was never supposed to happen like this," Derek arches his eyebrows, waiting impatiently for a deeper explanation. "What wasn't?"

Peter makes a show of looking around just to make sure he hasn't magically landed inside a therapist's office, Derek's face unfazed as he does so. "Are you sure we don't need to fashion a talking stick for this particular conversation?"

Derek says nothing, perfectly capable of maintaining a stony silence, and Peter wonders if it's because he's genuinely uninterested in how the story turns out or if he's just that bored of his uncle's antics. Probably both. Peter decides to spare Derek the wit on his tongue since he was the one who drove out here in the first place, uninvited at that. Even so, Derek should work on having some company snacks at the ready if he's planning on orchestrating long talks concerning feelings in his living room frequently.

"It was just supposed to be sex," Peter finally says, but he keeps a firm smile on his face just to appear as perfectly unperturbed by the topic of a teenage boy as possible.

"And it isn't anymore?"

"Well, the sex has stopped."

"I meant, did it become more than sex?" Derek asks. "Did you grow to like him?"

Peter's lips curl up into a displeased frown. "Why wouldn't you assume he's the one who got attached?" He asks hotly. "He's the young, naïve one."

"Because Stiles is perfectly aware of what a horrible person you are," Derek says like a man sharing weather forecasts. Peter makes a mental note to be insulted about that later. Bad? Yes. Horrible? Let's not exaggerate.

"He's tolerable," Peter says, and leaves it at that. Some days he doesn't even reach that status, just barely scraping the ceiling of too much work to kill. "And... interesting."

"Interesting?"

"More interesting than the rest," Peter clarifies. It's true. Stiles has small quirks, things probably only he knows about—if not Scott—and for one fierce second the idea of having to share his intimate knowledge of Stiles' idiosyncrasies with others brings white hot flares to his chest. It shouldn't, not when Stiles has a lifetime full of strangers who will become intimate with the knowledge of his skin and his secrets ahead of him, but that's a habit that Peter will have to shake off.

"Did you love him?" Derek asks out of the blue. He asks it with the air of a police officer asking routine questions to his third group of underage teenage drinkers speeding on the highway of the night, each word punctuated with a bored, nearly pained sigh. His arms are crossed and his eyes look deadly serious, which are all the cues Peter needs to let him know that he doesn't want to take part in this conversation. This is what he gets for being social.

"I liked him," Peter says slowly. "Love sounds like it requires a lot of involvement."

"And you only involve yourself when there's something in it for you?" Derek asks. He still sounds bored, almost like he's used to Peter's habits by now, almost like his selfishness is downright predictable, and Peter feels an agitated tick in his jaw come to life at Derek's judgment.

"It's a smart way to live," Peter says, and then just to make it sting, "You'd probably fall for less traps set by lunatics if you'd follow my advice."

Derek glances up, mildly annoyed by now. Peter can tell by the way he's set his jaw, knuckles unmoving where they're tucked into the opposite elbows.

"I think I'll be leaving now," Peter says, quite uncomfortable. If he wasn't, he would probably take the time to be impressed by Derek actually succeeding in making him feel so. It's been a while. "Lovely chat. Keep up this unproductive lifestyle of yours."

With that he slips on his jacket, shrugging his shoulders into the sleeve and heading for the door with a tight smile. He looks around at the rusty pipes and the sparse decorating and briefly wonders what good he thought would come of visiting a man who can't even put up a few plastic plants for ambience.

"You can't do it forever, you know," Derek calls after him. Peter slows down his brisk stroll to the exit. "Treating people like shit and watching them leave and pretending you're happy about it."

He doesn't know a thing, Peter thinks, and wonders how long it would take him to explain.

"Thanks for the life advice," Peter says over his shoulder, not bothering to stop. As if he needs tips from a man holed up in a loft with questionable plumbing whose life might as well be a cautionary tale for small children. Peter firmly maintains that he himself is different.

"I'm not on your side on this one," Derek says so he has the last words, that bastard. Peter yanks the front door open, all signs of loft 3a sux dick all day for no pay gone. It feels like a lifetime ago when he was standing here loftily admitting his and Stiles' relations while Stiles hid his face in his hands. Everyone's always embarrassed of him. If he cared more, he'd wonder why.

"Because you usually are?" Peter asks, and then shuts the door behind him.

Alienated, and it feels so good.

Peter twists the word love around in his mouth the whole ride home and the walk up the stairs, even his mental voice saying it bitterly at best.

No, he didn't love Stiles. Stiles certainly didn't love him, even if he did try to. Love is something he doesn't even believe in, just another thing the human race clings onto like religion and the idea of uncorrupt politics to keep from crying themselves to sleep at night. Not that it isn't powerful, mostly because other people do believe in it and Peter would be a fool to underestimate the power of the human mind. It's probably just all that lust and exaggerated interpretations of their own emotions. If love is real, then it's something Peter hasn't known. At least not in a long time.

The thing is, if love exists, it isn't some flighty moment that warms a heart after sex. Chances are, it doesn't even exist before legal drinking age. And it probably involves actually knowing things about a person.

And that's the thing—Peter knows things about Stiles. He knows what junk food fills up his pantry and he knows what medication he needs to function. He knows how clumsy and over eager he is to throw himself and his car head first into a situation with questionable safety. But Stiles, he doesn't know anything about Peter except what's on the surface.

So fine, maybe he isn't that easy to figure out. Maybe he isn't so one dimensional. Maybe he isn't actually hollow on the inside, but that doesn't make what's under his skin prime material for show and tell. Stiles liked the way Peter made him feel, liked the doors he opened for him in terms of sex and pleasure and freedom. He had hoped that he would like what's hidden underneath the surface, and he didn't.

Here's how it goes—Peter is deceptive, manipulative, and an all-around shady and untrustworthy character, something he's made his peace with. Actually, he'd go as far as to say that he's quite happy with himself considering how lucrative his lifestyle has been for him. Others, however, frown upon these prime characteristics, because society is fragile. Society wants to see the trivial beauty rather than the truth, which is why cashiers don't care if you've had a nice day and Stiles wouldn't care for anything other than his skills in the sack.

And he's okay with that. That's what he wanted when he first saw Stiles outside that murder scene and thought about how nice it would be to lick at his collarbones as the red lights of the ambulance flickered over one hemisphere of his face. In his humble opinion, people should stop pretending to be interested in the whole of a person, one hundred percent of what they are, because chances are that they're really only interested in about twenty, maybe forty percent. The rest doesn't appeal, doesn't slot into their idea of what a good, likeable person is. Everybody might as well just use the parts they want and leave the rest for somebody else.

Peter wanted Stiles' body, not his emotions, not his words, not his love. He wanted what his skin and his touches could give him, and he got it. If he expected this to end any other way, he hadn't thought this plan out thoroughly enough.

And that's the biggest problem with Stiles—Stiles encourages his impulses. Stiles makes his heart race and his animalistic urges claw to the surface. He sees Stiles and wants, just wants, and doesn't stop to pace himself. He's a mastermind, someone who likes to lay out plans and schemes with curveballs and unforeseen circumstances, and with Stiles, he didn't bother. He just took what he could and made it up along the way. Things get messy when he ignores his nature.

After that day outside his house, the night where he was buzzed from two thrills: murder, and watching Stiles come in the bright red light of a police car's headlights, Stiles did not seek him out. He was far too proud to, and probably far too paranoid to look for his address on his father's work computer, and far too unsure of what was right and wrong to consciously find Peter and tell him yes, I want more, more of your hands on me.

So the only sign Peter got was the unlocked window leading to Stiles' bedroom and the tiny amount of golden light sifting through the night he passed by. It made Peter consider that this was not the first night Stiles had left the latch open hoping to subtly attract Peter's attention, and he pulled himself up the roof and rolled into Stiles' room without preamble.

He had screamed, and not in the dignified way. Peter had to forcibly quiet him with a hand on his mouth lest this meeting be spoiled with Stiles' father knocking on the door in concern, and only when he had stepped into the soft lamplight did Stiles relax in his grip. Or at least, stop kicking and shouting under the muffler that was Peter's palm.

"Jesus fuck," were Stiles' first breathless words. "What are you doing?"

"Don't play coy," Peter had said. He was an aging man with no time for frivolous chit chat. "I saw your window was unlocked."

"So you invited yourself up?"

He shrugged. "I figured you were interested in my offer."

Stiles' body shifted—left, then right, then left again—in a way that let him know that his suspicions were right. So he pushed his way into Stiles' personal space and kissed him on the neck, right where he could hear his heartbeat flutter, and Stiles' didn't back away in panic. He stayed, tense at best, but he stayed in Peter's grip without pulling free.

That's how things were with Stiles, always subtle. He never said what he wanted out loud unless he was on the brink of orgasm, like he was ashamed to admit anything out loud that could be used against him, something like I'm willingly spending time with Peter. He kept those thoughts inside, and that made him more of an enigma than Peter was all too happy to admit.

Sure he could smell most of his wants on him, could read his body language. He could tell when he was driven with lust and when he was irritated by Peter's attitude, but reading his emotion, and better yet, figuring out why he was upset when Peter didn't pay him enough attention, or why he got angry when Peter told him to go to college and wasn't planning on coming with, that he ignored. That was a touch too human for him to bother examining.

So maybe it wasn't Stiles' fault for becoming attached, it was Peter's for not noticing.

Back in May, when one murder in his backyard had Stiles so rattled he let Peter into his pants, that was when it all started. Nothing happened before, not until the nights were muggy and the idea of summer already seemed too hot, too pushy, but Peter, he had noticed Stiles before then.

And honestly, how could he not? In his defense, he really is obscene. The bow to his pink lips, the slender fingers, the smooth skin dotted with moles, all of it was meant to entice, to capture, to torture, probably. Him being feisty and too brave for his own good was just an added bonus. The idea of taking his time corrupting him was irresistible, of finding the right button to push to make the boy fall silent and put those lips to good use.

It had taken a week after Peter had jerked him off at a murder scene for Stiles to take him up on his offer, for him to physically seek him out himself. Peter hadn't minded prodding a bit in the meantime, seeing an unlatched window and helping himself up the drainpipe and asking Stiles if he was ready to pick up where they left off, but Stiles had remained unconvinced and unsure for several days. It was probably a matter of guilt, worrying about how many of his own beliefs he was ignoring by sleeping with a man who, in all fairness, had once been impartial to whether he lived or died morbidly, which Peter understood.

Looking back, Peter was certainly persistent. Almost to the point of pushy, like that one salesman you just can't shake in a tiny store, and it makes Peter wonder if he really wanted Stiles that much. If he was already addicted to the idea of spreading Stiles out underneath him and memorizing every inch of his skin, after only one touch, one fleeting encounter outside his house. He climbed up to his window more than once, trying his best to coax Stiles to give in by slipping hands around his hips and grazing his fingers over his clothed erections, and each time, despite the shudders and the bitten back groans, Stiles had stilled his wandering hands.

But eventually, Stiles had come to him. He found his apartment, probably with the help of his father's police records, and stood there in the doorway, a determination in his eyes that was probably born out of hormonal want and a restlessness in his hands. Peter knew he had what he wanted then, and he didn't have to ask for it. Stiles came in willingly, his own feet leading him into Peter's living room and his own mouth saying the words okay, let's have sex.

The first thing he had said after was "so do you kiss on the mouth?"

It had been funny at the time. Stiles had been so unsure, so uncomfortable with every touch, that it had seemed like a miracle that he reached out to Peter for more than just one fast handjob in the night. Peter had laughed and grabbed him by the belt, because how could anyone with a mouth like that think it wouldn't be welcomed in the party?

"There are many things I'm going to do to that mouth," Peter had murmured right against his skin, cataloging every shiver that could've meant both arousal or the telltale signs of scaring easy. Peter wasn't going to disillusion him. He wanted all of him, and he wanted it for the taking. "Kissing is just one of them."

"What about the rest of me," Stiles had persisted, body rigid and uncertain. It had been nearly impossible to control himself, not reel him in and lick into his mouth until Stiles would melt against him and the fidgeting would give way for boneless pleasure. "This isn't some ploy to kill me, right?"

"Because that would be worth my time," Peter said, and it apparently was the wrong thing to say, because Stiles straightened up and his mouth fell open in wordless indignation. So endearing.

"Is this supposed to get me out of my pants?" Stiles asked, arms crossed over his chest. If Peter had known he had to first break into his chastity belt, he'd have brought out the right tools.

"So you want me to kill you?"

"No," Stiles had been stumped for a moment, then fallen back on track. "I want you to consider how worth killing I would be. Not that you should. But I'm a huge threat."

"Fine," Peter said, anything to end the conversation and replace words with roaming hands. He had waited long enough. "I'll fill out some paperwork officially marking you as a threat. Happy?"

Stiles frowned, apparently put off from sarcasm if he wasn't the one dishing it out. Peter considered bringing that particular hypocrisy up, but was familiar enough with how to charm a boy that he knew it would be wiser to keep quiet. "Mockery. Another great way to get into someone's pants."

That was the moment any reasonable person would've walked out, Peter thinks. People keep telling him how unreasonable, how rash, how irritable he is to deal with, but apparently, Stiles could withstand it. Either he had a hard skin or an incredibly relentless libido.

"And this isn't some big ploy to get me to fall in love with you, right?" Stiles had asked after that. It had seemed that the entire evening was turning into a question and answer session, but that question was one Peter couldn't ignore. It was downright laughable, and he had to struggle to keep the bursts of mirth at bay.

"I don't want your heart," Peter told him, and decided he was done letting words do the talking in this conversation. He edged closer, close enough to be in Stiles' personal space, and dragged his thumb down Stiles' cheek to his lower lip. "I want your body, your fingerprints, your mouth. Especially your mouth." His eyes flicked down to Stiles' lips.

And Stiles watched him, practically in awe, eyes hooded and breath hitching with every inch Peter whittled away between them. Any fear he had for Peter sliding into his personal space was replaced with an overwhelming desire to reenact every one of his fantasies if the heat radiating from his body was any signal at all, and Peter decided not to ignore it.

He backed Stiles up against the wall after that and pulled down his pants before he could change his mind, before he could process that Peter Hale was about to suck his dick and run for cover and change his address. He was a teenage boy, one desperately interested in being loved and admired any which way he could, and being desired was at the top of that list, fueling Stiles to curl his shaky hands into Peter's hair and watch his cock disappear between Peter's lips. It had probably been the first time anybody had touched him with such headiness, touches that lacked all the hesitance and apprehension that his friends and peers might've reserved for him.

Derek probably would've called it "taking advantage," what with how Stiles was powerless to pull away once Peter had yanked his pants down and mouthed the outline of his dick through his boxers, because he was young and untouched and eager to be brought to orgasm no matter whose hands were responsible. Peter might've been inclined to agree, too, except that Stiles would come back, and come back again, and again after that, and it didn't take long for Peter to figure out that Stiles actually liked being taken advantage of.

The first time they had sex, sex that was past the point of Stiles letting Peter jerk him off in his bathroom while his father was away, it wasn't great.

It was a little uncomfortable and Stiles was a lot nervous, too unsure in his own skin and too desperate to prove he could keep up. He was horribly uncomfortable, unsure of his body, and when Peter had pulled the shirt off his head, he had hunched in, scrambling to flip off the light and plunge the room into darkness. It was a miracle Madonna wasn't singing Like a Virgin in the corner.

So really, he has no valid reasoning as to why he came back for more.

With Stiles, it had been all about stripping away his instincts. His instincts—as right as they might have been—were warning him away from trouble, and by extension, Peter. Altering pure intuition, raw reflexes, and built-in thought processes takes time, but afterwards, it's all about teaching someone to replace their urges with trained commands, like when dealing with puppies yet to be housebroken.

He had to start at the very basics with Stiles. Teaching him to no longer view Peter as a threat who would cut out his eyeballs in his sleep was step one—not that Peter doesn't appreciate being feared, but it's not a trait one particularly looks for in a sex partner—and teaching him that getting naked with him was perfectly acceptable, even good, was step two. Stiles harbored guilt for "betraying his friends" and "consorting with the enemy" for weeks, probably, but those were all things Peter had no time to verbally talk through as a makeshift therapist. So he coaxed Stiles into complacency with his hands, his tongue, his mouth instead, and eventually, it would work.

"I've never," Stiles had said, eyes flicking back and forth from Peter to his bedroom door, locked obsessively and yet still worth of his paranoia-fueled attention. "I mean, this isn't my usual Thursday night."

"I know," Peter drawled. "Now take your shirt off. Wait any longer any you'll be entertaining my skeleton."

Stiles fidgeted, hands crumpling over the hem of his shirt. And honestly, Peter didn't understand what the all the fuss was about "losing virginity" and "being deflowered." Sex shouldn't be seen as giving something up, rather as bringing something wonderful in, heartily opening the door to a whole new world of pleasure and new experiences. Why Stiles was okay having someone fondle his balls but not his hole, Peter wasn't sure, but he was willing to give him a courtesy period of approximately five minutes to get used to the idea.

"Fine," Stiles grumbled. There was a fire in his eyes like he was trying to meet Peter's level of assuredness with an unwavering confidence of his own, but just didn't have enough moxie for the follow through just yet. "Just promise not to fall in love with me when you see me totally naked."

"I'll try my best," Peter promised, but Stiles still seemed to be having difficulty. He wasn't sure if it was the paranoia or the shame or the fear of exposing his body when someone would be looking at him with purpose, but Peter was not here to identify the cause of his uncertainty. Just get rid of it. He sat up on Stiles' bed, elegantly slinging his legs over the edge. "Would it help if I turned off the light?"

"Yeah, let's try that."

So he did, leaning across the bed to turn off Stiles' lamp. If it was to hinder Peter's vision, he had forgotten about his werewolf ability to see through the shadows, even though Peter was pretty sure it was more about Stiles' own ability to not.

He thought about how now was probably the time to step in and comfort and assure, but if Stiles was having fear similar to a seventh grader undressing in the locker room, that was something he had to tackle on his lonesome. It gave him that flicker of doubt that perhaps low self-esteemed and underage shouldn't be Peter's target group for sex, and for that moment plunged in the darkness he wondered exactly how much of a fool he was sitting in an eighteen year old's room for reasons other than paid babysitting. Then Stiles' hand reached out and touched him on the chest, and he thought that showing a smidge of compassion couldn't hurt.

"Stop being so bashful," Peter said, pulling Stiles in by the wrist until he stumbled between his legs. "Trust me. You have nothing to be ashamed about. You're... intoxicating."

He emphasized this point by nudging Stiles' shirt away with his fingers and chasing the exposed skin with his tongue. Stiles' chest, right under his mouth, flattened as he exhaled shakily. Stiles' fingers flew up to grab him by the hair, like a moth to a flame. Not for nothing, Peter was good with words. And his hands.

"This isn't about me," Stiles insisted. "Maybe I want the lights off so I don't have to see your ugly mug. Maybe I'm having distress over the idea of doing it with a murderous lunatic."

Peter looked up from where he was dragging open-mouthed kisses up Stiles' stomach. "Doing it?" He parroted, quite incredulously. "Are you ten years old?"

"Sorry," Stiles murmured with a smarmy edge to his voice. "Is my lingo boring you? You've probably been hearing that one for centuries."

Peter let his humor slide with nothing more than a gentle raking of his nails down Stiles' side. "If you're so brave," he murmured on his chest, "then come and get me."

And that was the thing—Peter might not be good with caring about people, but he was more than good when it came to reading them. Stiles was like all the rest, strongly under the impression he was immune to any and all mind games but vulnerable to them anyway because he was spreading all his cards out on the table when he thought he was keeping them hidden under his fingers. Stiles liked challenge and being poked at, and that was something Peter was more than happy to exploit.

He spread his legs and took casual notice of the way Stiles' hardness was bumping into his thigh, his breathing hard and his pulse racing. Peter waited, and he waited, and he waited to be taken up on his bet and the ante to be upped.

Through the shadows and the hesitance, Peter heard Stiles' voice break through the quiet. "Oh, fuck it," he said, and then his lips were on Peter's and his legs were in his lap.

And in the darkness with his hands on Stiles' hips and his mouth swallowing his gasps, he had thought I will corrupt him in every which way, wondering exactly how someone so young and futile could be so dizzying, so maddening, so, so addictive.

Months later Peter still doesn't know the answer.

Peter goes out for a cup of coffee later on in the week, just something to prove to Derek that he does actually leave his apartment and doesn't spend all his time scheming in the darkness of his bedroom, and finds himself in the middle of what seems to be caffeine rush hour.

The coffeehouse close to his apartment is packed, full of bustling employees looking for a shot of espresso during their break and youngsters looking for someplace cool enough to hang out, and Peter ignores them all in the corner booth where he's occupied with his newspaper and his drink. He looks around and knows instantly that this is the kind of place that would make Stiles lean in to whisper into Peter's ear we've found the home of the hipsters and then make fun of Peter's coffee order.

He almost smiles up until he realizes that this is disturbing, the fact that he knows Stiles so well he can accurately create his side of the conversation. It sours his entire afternoon, even when a man, probably freshly at the legal drinking age, sidles up to his table while waiting for his order and smiles at Peter. He notices because of the wave of attraction that washes over his nose almost instantly, and he looks up in time to see the man leaning next to his table with a soft smile.

"You might be the only person left on this earth still reading newspapers," the stranger says, cocking his head to the paper in Peter's hand. "Not a fan of technology?"

It doesn't take a genius to figure out that the man is flirting, his eyes sliding from Peter's face to his chest to his hands in one appreciative sweep. And it's a little odd, because this is the sort of attention that Peter usually devours with a smile. This man is exactly his type, too, with sleek hair and a slightly dimpled smile, slender hands curled around textbooks in his grip like he came here for an afternoon of peaceful studying. Young, handsome, and blatantly innocent, that's Peter's target audience, and yet, somehow the newspaper story regarding the seagulls being the Beacon Hill Zoo's new addition is more successful in grabbing his attention.

"I'm impartial," Peter tells him, and that's all he's in the mood to tell him. Normally he'd be one step closer to implying that his clothing would look good on his bedroom floor. Strange.

"You meeting someone here?"

Peter looks at the seat next to him, very much empty. He looks back to the man, a hopeful grin on his face, Peter could probably find at least thirty ways to bring him to orgasm. "Yes," his mouth is saying, for whatever reason. "My apologies."

And he returns his attention to the newspaper's story about the seagulls, vaguely registering the sound of the man's retreating footsteps.

Out of all of the pieces of unintended loot, the inhaler is the most disturbing. It makes Peter wonder if Stiles has a second somewhere, and if not, if he's resigned himself to sharing Scott's old one from high school when the asthma attacks strike. Every time he so much as glances as the thing, starkly white against his dark cabinet, he remembers how fragile, how human Stiles actually is.

It makes him consider returning it. Silently, of course, but somewhere he'd find it. He could easily sneak back into his house undetected and shove it into the clutter on his desk to be found weeks later. It might give him a touch of peace of mind, which is a silly thought in the first place, because Stiles' wellbeing should have no impact on the peace of his mind. His mind is usually put to peace when he knows he's ruined someone's day.

So he thinks about throwing the inhaler away instead. He doesn't, but he sits it next to the trashcan anyway.

The woman had been an emissary. He would say that finding her had been a happy accident—or perhaps a bloody one, in this scenario—but it had been premeditated. Peter's never quite that sloppy.

She being in town meant only one thing: there was a pack with her. And with a pack, came an Alpha. And with an Alpha, came opportunity. His nephew had carelessly thrown away what he had taken from Peter, what he had killed to grab, but Peter wouldn't let his power get away from him again. This time it was here to stay.

Unfortunately, she had refused to talk. She gave Peter no information about the whereabouts of the pack she was traveling with, about where they were headed, or who they were. Killing her had been out of frustration, but it served dual purposes: also sending a warning message. Peter made it obvious it had been a wild animal that had killed her, left little to no room for assuming it was a knife or an average man that had committed the crime, and waited for her pack to hear wind of her murder.

What he hadn't realized is that he'd done it in Stiles' backyard.

It might have been kismet, some twisted form of fate that figured it would be funny to involve Stiles in his plans because Stiles always manages to throw a wrench in his schemes even if it's completely accidental, but at the time, the humor was lost on Peter.

Stiles shouldn't have been angry. He knew exactly what he was in for with Peter, had firsthand experience with how he operated in matters of murder, and did he assume it would be different in matters of sex? As far as Peter believes, once you find a system, stick with it. Hard and rough always gets the job done.

He thinks about how furious Stiles was, cheeks flushed and fingers curled into fists, and how he hadn't understood. If there's anything simple in this world, it's power.

He had planned it for a while, long before the coma. The idea of being an alpha was exhilarating, even just the intangible thought thrilling. To hold that weight, that power, that respect in his hand with a flick of crimson eyes, to form a pack so strong and resilient they could take down whatever wasn't worthy of the life they were granted, it seemed like the ultimate form of control. And if there was anything Peter didn't underestimate, it was control.

He still controls people even without being an Alpha. It's a gift, he thinks, an unteachable trait that allows him to manipulate as easy as he can smile. People frown, people try to lecture and wheedle him out of it, but what Peter knows people don't understand yet is that deception is a part of everyday life, it's just your choice if you want to be on the receiving end of it or pulling the strings.

Getting out of the coma and taking the alpha status from Laura, it was everything he thought it would be. His body was vulnerable, hypersensitive, and feeling that surge of power through his every limb was like a rebirth. A chance to start over with what he deserved, a reclaiming of power he had so unfairly lost in the fire.

And now here he is, having lost what was his, what he fought for, and now he's fighting for it again. Being the Alpha always made sense to him, always aligned perfectly with his sense of self, always allowed him to hold onto the power he craved, and that's all he really wants.

He wants this.

He wants this.

The person he could be, the things he could achieve with that extra push—he wants it terribly. It's not worth wanting if it doesn't make him want to rip off a few heads in the process.

Except for Stiles, where it had been easy. There had been no need for plotting, for polite smiles and the sort of brilliant manipulation one can only be born with. He had wanted something, and then he had it, and it was easy in a way it never had been before. Stiles was almost like the thing he was never supposed to want, mostly because the only way he ever knew how to want things was to hold them at a distance where he couldn't reach, and Stiles, he was too close. Close enough to touch.

He had offered it all to Stiles. They could have been outlaws together, Peter helping Stiles to his full potential, and Stiles had declined. He was probably looking for a fairytale, something happy to balance out the horror of the last few years, something he could carry with him to college and use as stress relief, and Peter is not a fairytale. Not even close.

He should've known exactly what Peter wanted, unless he had been purposefully blinding himself for the sake of their relationship. Relationship, god. Peter is in a fucking mess.

He feels a little wronged, too. Sure, he wanted to be the Alpha, and sure, maybe he had considered Scott, but Stiles wasn't a pawn in his game. Stiles was the irresistible wildcard that got thrown in like an unsuspecting boomerang that ended up clouding his judgment. Stiles is fiercely loyal and unendingly true to his best friend, and anybody delusional enough to think that Stiles would willingly lead Peter to Scott for the sake of Peter's power isn't scheming properly. The bottom line is—if Peter laid a hand on Scott, Stiles would never lay eyes on Peter again.

And strangely enough, that's not what he wants. That's never what he wanted. Having Stiles' attention, having Stiles' affection, it was addicting. Ever since day one, when Stiles was a gangling sophomore scared of the Alpha he was, his attention was entertaining, enthralling. And now, thinking about Stiles' attention riveted elsewhere, concentrated on somebody fresh and new and undamaged, it prickles under Peter's skin.

And that might just be a low point in Peter's life, sitting at home pining over a teenage boy because he's interested in somebody new. It's what Peter wanted—hell, it's what Peter encouraged. And what would he even do if Stiles were to show up on his doorstep? Whatever it is Stiles wants from him, he's not in a position to give it.

So he's not going to say sorry. Sorry is for suckers. Sorry is for people who think apologies are the only way they can succeed, clear the conscience, free the chip on their shoulder. From personal experience, Peter can very boldly say that he doesn't mind the chip. It's nice to always have a quick snack at hand.

Not that he would even know what to say to Stiles. There are no words in his vocabulary meant for fuck buddies that are already out the door even if their stuff is still cluttering up Peter's space. He should throw it all out before Stiles starts infiltrating his every thought like an unshakable virus.

Ugh, he thinks, and then again for good measure. Ugh, ugh. This is why he avoids teenagers.

It's at that moment that Scott McCall knocks on his door, perhaps a warning sign from above to nip the working with youngsters thing in the bud here and now by purposefully ignoring the steady raps. Then again, he doesn't tend to listen to the universe's nudges and winks, so he opens the door anyway.

"Hi," Scott says, face determined. "I need to talk to you."

Well, Peter thinks. He probably should've expected this.

"Are you here for the inhaler?" Peter asks, and naturally, he isn't.