A/N: Warnings for this chapter include incest adjacent sex, EXTREMELY UNSAFE BREATHPLAY AND DOMINATION, as well as the narrator feeling trapped and pinned down. If any of that is triggering, this is not the chapter for you.

III. and without feet I can make my way to you

Stiles is careful about it with Erica. He takes it slow, builds up to the big reveal with a lot of talk about trust and vulnerability and okay, so it's utter bullshit, but it's also the easiest way to put someone in your pocket. Make them believe you're in theirs.

So Stiles waits until she loves him before he tells her. Until she thinks she loves him anyway but really, what's the difference? She's still here. She's still his.

He's mildly expecting Erica to scream or gasp or something but she just watches with a solemn expression. Not a trace of fear in her scent because she trusts him absolutely.

Only a little stupidly. It's not like he's going to lose control and eat her liver or anything but as a general principle she probably shouldn't.

None of them should but somehow they all do. Stiles is the fulcrum around which they all move. Exactly how he wants the world to be.

It makes him twitchy when everything goes right.

Erica rolls up her sleeve with quiet bravery and says, "Okay."

It's Peter who puts his teeth in her but it's Stiles who brought them there.

She doesn't even cry.

They go out without Derek sometimes. Hunting. Killing. They've got a taste for it now and they're smart, careful. Never too many too fast or too obviously. Just enough to scratch the itch.

Peter finds him elbow deep in a vagrant. He must have sensed it through the pack bond. Usually they don't acknowledge it but it comes in handy sometimes. Like when you have to get rid of a body.

Stiles knows what he looks like. He's been using his big eyes to his advantage since he was fourteen. He has no qualms about doing it now.

He drags a hand across his face to draw Peter's attention to his lips. It doesn't serve to clean him at all. There's liver in his teeth, blood on his face and hands. He watches Peter through his lashes and lets the heat bleed into his yellow eyes, waits for the answering flash of red.

This is what held them together so long. What made them work. They serve the same dark gods. The naked desire in Peter's face is beautiful and Stiles can't help himself. He reaches into the chest, rips out the heart, and offers it to Peter, the hot twitch of muscle pulsing against his palm.

Peter swallows, desire and rage flickering across his features, too intermingled to ever sort out.

"You're not cute," he manages, his voice rough and low sending frission racing along Stiles's spine.

He's surprised when it hurts a little, the pain in that voice, but Peter's already rolling up his sleeves, his breath coming hard as he lets his claws extend, his fangs drop and Stiles can't help the way his eyes track the line of Peter's throat.

The blood steams faintly between them and Peter smirks, nods to the heart. "You going to eat that?"

Stiles can't help it, he laughs. He'd missed this.

"It's all yours."

They come back reeking of blood and charcoal, ash in their hair and a wild satisfaction in their eyes. Derek never asks and they never say, but he's not stupid. He has to know the blood is human.

He loves watching Derek when they get home, the hate and the fear in his eyes. Stiles smells like death, like Peter, and it's deliberate. It's a taunt, a dare, a promise of things to come because Derek can't stand it and Stiles knows that. He uses that to make Derek hurt him.

Peter just watches, eyes sliding off Stiles's face to find Derek's eyes, the hunger in them laid bare as if to say, "You see what we are. You know what you're not."

He'd feel more guilty about it except it usually ends with him bleeding under Derek and he's partial to that outcome. It's not like he's a monster. He's not asking Derek to kill.

Stiles is less careful with Isaac, all harsh smiles and long, lean menace while Isaac stares and shivers and wants. Derek doesn't understand.

"It's what he needs," Stiles explains, one hand on Derek's cock and the other pressed to the base of his throat. "A promise of what he could be if we let him."

Derek drags his claws slowly up Stiles's sides, thin red lines and fresh pink skin trailing in their wake. Stiles hisses, arching into the shivery pain. Derek rolls Stiles under him, pins him down with all his weight and grinds down in a way that focuses his attention beautifully.

He buries his human teeth in Stiles's shoulder just shy of enough pressure to break the skin and Stiles whimpers. He almost begs for the fangs but he stops just sort. When Derek breaks away Stiles can feel the lurid imprint of teeth. He wishes he could make it stay, but in a couple minutes it'll be like it never happened.

Not like if Peter did it. With Peter the marks had stayed for days.

Stiles smiles up at him, writhes in a way that emphasizes his vulnerability. It's all teeth. "You can have him if you want."

It's like he's just punched Derek in the chest. All the air goes out of him in a single breath, his eyes dark and haunted and fuck, that's good. That's exactly the right kind of hurt. He loves the way Derek breaks.

Stiles gets a hand between them, takes them both in a single grip. It's too dry, too much friction, but it's exactly what Derek needs.

"No? Maybe Erica. I saw how she got under your skin. I see how you look at her even now. Do you want to kill her? Fuck her? Both?" Stiles keeps his voice soft, gentle, nothing like his hand which is too tight, a little painful but somehow just right. "I got her for Peter but he doesn't seem interested. You could have her instead."

"Stiles-" Derek's gasping, his hips snapping into Stiles like he can't control it, like he couldn't stop even if he wanted to.

Stiles arches up, sinks his teeth into Derek's neck and he actually sobs, his orgasm wrenched out of him so hard he's shaking. Stiles frantically tugs at his own dick until he's coming, too, the mess slicked against both their stomachs and fuck, he knew it would be good but he wasn't expecting it to be that good.

Derek is still gasping like he just ran a marathon. He's shaking like he's falling apart and he can't even move himself off Stiles who has to wriggle out from under him. Derek looks dazed and drained and it's beautiful.

He looks positively gutted.

Stiles laughs and mouths along his trembling back.

"I'm tired of waiting," Erica announces, plopping into the seat next to Isaac. Every eye in the cafeteria follows her as she does it. She's hot and she knows it and now so does everyone else. She takes a vicious bite out of her apple and for a second Stiles is convinced it's going to bleed but the flesh inside is white and clean.

Isaac jostles her lightly at the shoulder, that new dangerous glint in his eye. It's a thin veneer covering the gaping wounds underneath but it's a start. Everyone has to start somewhere.

Stiles started on his father's corpse, too.

"When," Erica hisses, "can we go out again?"

Her enthusiasm is appreciated. He'd known the deer wouldn't be enough to tide her over and it's gratifying to know he has her number so completely, but she needs to remember her place.

Stiles chews meditatively, staring her down until she looks away. He stares until the silence at the table is tense and uncomfortable, until Isaac is trembling slightly with the urge to run and Erica is perfectly still.

"Patience is a virtue," he says eventually, letting his eyes fall away from them. He kicks Isaac's foot under the table and the kid nearly jumps out of his skin. "Relax, dude. I'm not going to bite." He catches Erica's eye and grins. "Derek might, if you ask nicely."

Her smile is thin, a little wavering, but she's learning. She quirks an eyebrow. "Who says I haven't?"

Stiles smirks and snags a fry off Isaac's plate. "You'd be a lot less keyed up if you were getting laid."

Isaac laughs like it's a shock to him but he's stopped shaking, his eyes finally fixing on Stiles again. He even manages to fake a grin and steal Stiles's pudding in revenge.

"Seriously, though," Stiles adds, beaming at them like a false sun. "You should ask."

She frowns and looks away, questions she isn't ready to ask poised on her tongue. She'll figure it out eventually and then they'll really have some fun.

"When, though?" Isaac asks.

Stiles considers lying but at the last second he tells them the truth. "Eight days."

Isaac's eyes go wide. Sooner than he'd expected maybe but Erica's gleam. She licks her lips. "The full moon."

"Hot and smart," Stiles says, grinning hugely. "It'll be here before you know it."

Boyd is a pleasant surprise, staring down at him perfectly evenly. No fear.

"I don't care what it is. I see what it can do."

Stiles taps his legs, contemplatively. "You might not care what it is but you should care what it might cost."

Boyd just shrugs, his massive shoulders blocking out the light of the door. "I see what it did for them." He eyes Stiles then adds, "I don't know if it's what happened to you, but I'm tired of sitting alone at lunch."

He likes Boyd's calm, his steady hands and careful gestures. He might be just what they need to keep them grounded.

Or might be a major liability. The qualities that make him valuable also make him harder to manipulate and predict.

He watches Boyd closely for a reaction when he says, "We're monsters, you know, and not the safe, neutered Hollywood kind. If you do this you're signing on to be one, too."

Boyd smiles. "That's nothing new."

Stiles is ninety nine percent sure he's wrong about that but as long as he thinks he's right…

He claps Boyd on the shoulder and readjusts his back pack. "Walk with me."

They bring the whole pack to deal with Isaac's father. It's their first full moon together, the air cold and biting against naked skin and this kill will cement them as one unit, one family.

Stiles can't help but admire them. Each one beautiful in their own way. Isaac broad and defined, soft curls at odds with the fierce expression. Erica, smirking and savage, at home for the first time in her own skin. Boyd looks dubious but he's there, standing at Erica's shoulder like her personal guard with his eyes fixed on their prey.

Makes him proud, a feeling he sees echoed in Peter's face as he cuts the bonds on Mr. Lahey's wrists.

The fear rolling off him is enough to make anyone high but the strain is worst on Isaac, his eyes burning in his pale face. The only thing keeping him from snapping right there is the leash of Peter's control and Stiles can feel it fraying with the call of the moon.

"You should run while you can," Peter points out. He glances up at the sky where the cloud cover is rolling out. "Soon, even I won't be able to hold them back."

Mr. Lahey is frozen in his terror, his eyes bulging out of his skull and sweat streaming off his body. He reeks of prey and Stiles steps forward to get his attention, slides a little into the change. He presses one claw delicately to the underside of Mr. Lahey's chin, just enough pressure to force him to stand.

"Seriously, though. Run, or I'll slit you open right here."

That's enough to send him scampering off into the underbrush, crashing around so loudly they could track him with ear plugs.

Derek is radiating disapproval but he still presses his nose against Stiles's throat. He's still here. It's important for them to do this as a pack.

Into his ear, Stiles whispers, "Don't worry. All you have to do is watch."

Peter clears his throat and smiles benevolently, the picture of a charming host. "I'd say that's enough of a headstart, wouldn't you?"

Derek growls and lets his eyes bleed blue. "Is it ever enough?"

Peter's grin is brighter than the moon.

Stiles thinks this is how he likes it best, the three of them easy together at home. He's got his head on Derek's shoulder, Derek's arm around his neck, the heat of him a hard line down Stiles's back. His feet are propped on Peter's knee at the other end of the couch, one of them going numb against the pressure of Peter's bones but Stiles doesn't care enough to move. He's warm, comfortable; Peter's bitter, Derek's jealous, and somewhere in the world there are three confused new betas waiting for Stiles to mold them into who they're going to be.

It's a good day. Maybe later he'll let Derek fuck him, see which side of him wants to come out and play. It's always a coin toss with Derek in bed. Sometimes it's harsh - teeth and bruises, too much too fast, blood on the sheets and Stiles a begging mess on Derek's cock. Others, it's slow - heat and warmth and an aching in his chest so good it makes Stiles want to die. A sharp, sudden clutch at his heart that stops his voice in his throat, makes it hard to breathe.

He likes to think Derek feels it, too. That there was something between them Stiles didn't have to provoke but it kind of doesn't matter. Maybe all love is provoked, one way or another, and however it started it's there now for sure. He can feel it in the way Derek's arm goes tight when Peter rests a hand on Stiles's ankle, like Derek wants to snatch him away but doesn't quite dare.

And Stiles isn't going to lie, the possessiveness? Seriously a turn on, especially when Derek gets that manic look in his eye, biting and scenting like he's trying to warn Peter away and make Stiles his by force of will alone. Like it doesn't mean enough that Stiles chooses him every day. Like he wants it all, everything Stiles has to give and then some.

Like it'll never stop.

A shiver crawls up Stiles's spine just thinking about it and Peter's fingers claw into his leg. Not too hard. No broken skin, just a gut reaction to the change in Stiles's scent and for a second, Stiles considers sliding his foot up, up, up Peter's thigh, toes curling while Peter gets hard.

Derek's so afraid of losing Stiles he wouldn't make a fuss and that... Oh, that's too good to even consider. He's half-hard at the thought of Derek's lost, hurt eyes, the anger in Peter's. It's heady to know neither of them would make him stop.

He rearranges his feet so the numb one is on top shaking off Peter's grip. His feet stay on Peter's knee.

Derek's not the only one with two sides.

Some days it's all Stiles can do not to give in to those urges, the ones that tell him just how to gouge the biggest chunk out of Derek. How to twist and twist and twist until what's left is a Derek he doesn't have to coach, a Derek who would cut out Kate Argent's heart and feed it to Stiles bite by steaming bite until they forgot everything but the taste of blood.

That Derek might even put Stiles on his knees and work him open while Stiles sucked Peter off, just hold him down and take like he means it instead of just like it's something Stiles wants.

This must be how a sculptor feels looking at a block of marble. It's like seeing what Derek could be inside what he is, what he might become. Stiles could finish what Kate started and rip out all those pesky lingering mores that keep Derek sane, whole.

Some days Stiles wants that so bad he has to leave before he gets his claws into Derek and starts digging, but the thing is, he always leaves. Always, because while he does want that - and he really, really does - he wants to keep Derek safe more.

It would be laughable if it weren't so damned serious. The thought of anyone else hurting Derek like that - hurting Derek at all... It's not an exaggeration to label his reaction as 'seething rage.' Stiles has a couple ideas planned out for the next person who does and isn't that just fucking hilarious? The one person Derek really needs protecting from is the one who won't let him go.

Like he can sense the bend of Stiles's thoughts, Derek huffs and pulls him closer, nuzzling the top of Stiles's head. It helps a little knowing Derek doesn't want to be let go. It's not like he doesn't know exactly what Stiles can do. And that's practically permission in its own way but it's not... Stiles won't. Yet. He's not...

Peter's lip curls up in what could either be a sneer or an aborted snarl, but his voice is saccharine when he asks, "Should I take that as my cue to leave?"

Derek tenses, grip gone too tight where he's holding Stiles's bones but he doesn't speak. Maybe can't trust himself to speak and Stiles goes a little light headed from the pressure.

He tips his head back and pulls Derek down for deep, filthy kisses until he's panting into Stiles's mouth and Peter is rigidly still, his muscles turned to stone under Stiles's feet. The room is swimming in the scent of their arousal, Peter's rage, Derek's shame.

It feels like playing with fire. It feels perfect.

He pulls away, sneaks a glance to gauge Peter's reaction. His pupils are blown. He looks like he wants to flay Stiles alive and fuck him all at the same time.

Derek, though, Derek looks wrecked. Guilty and angry and turned on all at once. Stiles reaches up to curl a hand around Derek's jaw, his nails right on the verge of being claws. He's skirting the edge of the change, just enough to feel the fur under his skin, the fangs in his jaw.

"What do you want?" Stiles asks, sliding his fingers through Derek's hair in the way that never fails to make Derek shudder.

It works beautifully. Derek's eyes flare blue and Peter sucks in a ragged little breath from the end of the couch.

Derek shakes his head, not like he's saying no, like he doesn't know how to answer.

Stiles smiles, slow and easy, rolls onto his side and mouths at the line of Derek's cock through his pants.

Peter's hand comes to rest, lightly, like a bird, on Stiles's ankle, thumb tracing circles across the small bones of his foot.

It's a shivery sort of reminder. Derek makes a subvocal sound and his head falls back against the edge of the couch. Stiles mouths harder, finds the zipper and drags it down with his teeth.

Peter's hand clamps down like a vice, hard and bruising. Stiles can't stifle his moan. He spares half a second to think about the dangerous line he's towing but that's never been enough to stop him before.

He shifts so he can drape an arm over Derek's lap, pops the button on his jeans. He uses the movement to hide the way he slides his foot up Peter's thigh and press against his cock, exactly like he thought about doing a minute ago.

Peter doesn't make a sound, just uses his grip to press Stiles's foot harder against himself.

Derek's eyes are locked on Stiles's face, confusion and shame at odds with the erection straining up towards Stiles mouth. Stiles sighs and pulls the edge of Derek's underwear down until his cock springs free. "You're so hot when you're fucked up." He shuts his eyes and swallows Derek's cock as far down as he can.

It's not the best angle and his jaw starts to hurt immediately. The jeans are more than a little in the way but he doesn't want to move. He's half afraid if anyone moves the moment will break so he ignores all that and focuses on sucking Derek's dick like his life depends on it.

Derek is already breathing hard, one hand coming to rest on the back of Stiles's neck, pressing down like he wants to fuck Stiles's face even though the position doesn't really allow it. Shame always gets Derek hard and this is probably the most shameful thing he can imagine. Fucking an underage kid in front of his uncle. It's literally skirting the line of incest and Stiles turns completely onto his stomach so he can grind into the couch. It's nowhere near enough friction but it's better than nothing.

Peter is thrusting up in slow, stuttering rolls of his hips against the arch of Stiles's foot. It's like the dirtiest foot massage ever and Stiles couldn't care less about feet from a sexual aspect but he is all about the nine thousand taboos he's currently breaking.

He sucks harder, hollowing his cheeks with a vengeance and Derek moans, his hand squeezing hard enough to compress the blood flow to Stiles's brain.

Everything gets hazy and there are fractals exploding behind his eyelids. He's just starting to wonder if he's going to pass out when the pressure abates and he hears Peter say, "Easy, Derek."

There's a second hand at the nape of his neck as Peter adjusts Derek's grip and Stiles grinds his hips down harder groaning.

If he weren't so lightheaded he'd be able to process the fact they've just crossed some kind of personal rubicon but right now all he can think is that he really wants someone to choke him again.

Someone's hand trails down his back, probably Peter's, and there's a hand at his hip, drawing him up onto his knees.

Derek shifts and the jeans vanish from under his cheek, pressed down and away and suddenly there's a lot more cock in his mouth, thrusting up viciously at the back of his throat. It's heavenly. His hands clutch reflexively at the fabric of the couch, at Derek's thigh, but there is no mercy in whatever this is they've started.

Peter stands up only to straddle Stiles's knees, pinning him down. There's no escape. His body struggles instinctively but he only manages to press back again Peter's hips. He has no leverage.

Derek is growling, thrusting harder and Stiles's blood is pounding in his ears. The tears are streaming down his cheeks and Peter is palming at his cock teasingly. He's in danger of coming in his pants just from how utterly powerless he feels and then Derek is coming and Stiles does choke, coughing and gagging as he forces himself to swallow.

Derek's dick softens gradually and when it finally slips free Stiles gasps and sags face first in Derek's lap, every cell in his body torn between remembered agony and the sweet relief of air.

"Take his hands," Peter growls, and without hesitation Derek gathers Stiles's unresisting wrists in a punishing grip. His other he keeps on the side of Stiles's neck, holding him now instead of forcing. His drags a thumb through the still streaming tears and Stiles can't think. He mouths blindly until Derek gets the idea and gives him something to suck on.

By the time Stiles has two brain cells to rub together again Peter has shoved Stiles's pants down his hips, opened his own. He's running a thumb along the tip of Stiles's dick for precum and then that same digit is pressed into Stiles with no warning, no build up. There is clearly going to be absolute minimal prep leading up to this fuck.

Words are still beyond him but he thinks, yessss, presses back into it, using his body to beg instead of his words. He hadn't let himself miss this but he had, he really had. Peter working him open with a careless abandon, a reckless disregard for anything except what he wants.

Peter curls a hand around Stiles's shoulder to brace against and from the corner of his eye Stiles watches him lick his palm.

He shudders in fear and anticipation because with only spit for lube this is really going to hurt.

Stiles locks eyes with Derek in the moment before, and then he cries out as Peter buries himself in one slow, relentless press.

It feels like he's going to die, like he's being split open and this is the end. Derek's grip never falters and Stiles is left grasping at nothing, clawing at his own palms.

Derek looks fascinated. The shame is gone and in its place is something Stiles can't read at all, but he's not pulling away. He gives Stiles another digit to suck on and the feeling anchors him as Peter bottoms out. He knows he's whimpering but he's beyond controlling that. He's lost control of this entire situation.

It vaguely occurs to him that this is a success but then Peter starts to move and all thought is abruptly silenced in the shuddering pain.

He's never been more vulnerable in his life. He's pulled taut like a bow between Derek's hands and Peter's cock, stretched to the breaking point. His dick is so hard he's crying again, shamelessly, his eyes screwed shut as he sobs around Derek's fingers.

It's too much. It's overwhelming. He can't take it except that he is because there's nowhere to run.

Peter's voice floats to him as if from far away. "Be polite, Derek. Stiles needs to come."

And the fingers withdrawal. He bites his lips to keep from screaming as Derek's hand wraps around him, wet with his own spit.

Peter fists a hand in Stiles's hair and pulls right as Derek twists his wrist and Stiles comes in a violent, electric, searing wave. His eyes fly open. They fix on nothing, but he can feel Derek's eyes on his face and he realizes he's gone totally silent. He might not even be breathing. His orgasm has obliterated everything else. He feels lost. He feels numb.

Behind him, Peter thrusts once, twice more, and comes, too, his grip loosening to allow Stiles to slump forward back into Derek's lap. He can only lay there, his whole body trembling and a few last tears sliding away.

Peter pulls out of him and settles back against the arm of the couch, tugs gently to tip Stiles back onto his side so he's curled up between them, Peter's hands caressing his still bruised ankle.

Derek slides a thumb along his cheekbone through the tear tracks and Stiles thinks he might be in love. With both of them. With this. All of the above.

It's the only time in his life he's ever not known what to say but his brain is as numb as his fucked out body. They aren't exactly talk-it-out types but he should be checking on Derek. He should be pressing and prodding to find out their new limits and bounds, if there even are any. He should be planning how this changes things and deciding where to go, but he's not. He's too blissed out. He lays there's half naked and shivering between his lovers and wonders if this is what happiness feels like.

Later, playing it back in his mind, he realizes the look on Derek's face - the one he hadn't been able to read in the moment - was awe.

without a mouth I can swear you name