Chapter Ten

There was a dark, pulsing need in him now for the pain Peter had promised. Stiles's head fell back in abject surrender when Peter surged forwards to devour his mouth with a savage kiss. This was what he'd wanted. He'd known, even if he hadn't been willing to admit it at the time, that Raj wouldn't have been able to give it to him.

Peter's stubble rasped against Stiles's lips and Stiles shuddered underneath him. His free hand reached up to clutch at Peter's back, to drag him closer so that Stiles could buck up into the hand rubbing against his cock. He was drowning in sensation, in the urgency of Peter's lips against his and the pressure on his arm, where he could feel Peter's fingers digging into his muscle with no regard for Stiles's comfort. The pain of it was exquisite and Stiles could feel himself letting go. His mind with its near constant barrage of thoughts and questions and theories was going blank and empty, turning over control to his body so all Stiles could do was feel.

Feel Peter's teeth close over his bottom lip and pull until Stiles whimpered, feel Peter's hands move up and unbutton Stiles's shirt with agonizing slowness, feel the hot trail of Peter's tongue follow the bared skin down to Stiles's right nipple where he paused, fingers continuing to pull open the shirt, tongue laving lightly over the hard flesh until Stiles cursed.

He tried to reach up, tried to drag Peter still closer but he was tangled in the arms of his shirt and couldn't do anything but groan in frustration as Peter's teeth grazed delicately over the sensitive peak. Peter's hand moved lower, flicking open the button on Stiles's jeans and drawing the zipper down, sliding in past Stiles's boxers to wrap around Stiles's cock. Stiles tried to buck into the contact but Peter was crowded so close between his thighs that Stiles couldn't move. He was trapped between the arm of the couch and Peter's body, unable to do anything but writhe helplessly.

"Oh, Stiles," Peter breathed against Stiles's nipple, pausing for a moment to wrap his lips around the bud and suck until Stiles's entire body shook with need, "I'm so glad you said yes." He swept the flat of his tongue against Stiles's nipple and then bit down, hard.

The suddenness of the pain forced a cry out from between Stiles's gritted teeth at the same time as his body arched up into Peter's mouth, desperate for the feeling of teeth digging bruises into his skin to continue. He could feel the rumble of Peter's approval in his throat, and when Peter rolled his eyes up to look at Stiles as his hand began to move over Stiles's cock in firm, controlled strokes, Stiles had to bite into his own cheek hard enough to draw blood to stop himself from coming.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted to see you like this," Peter commented. He pulled back to admire the large, purpling bruise that was beginning to form around Stiles's nipple. Stiles's face was red and flushed, the frantic, abortive movements of his hips betraying his desperation. Peter's hand on Stiles's cock squeezed, and Stiles's eyes rolled back into his head, his mouth falling open and his fingers scrabbling uselessly at the couch.

Peter moved back, his hand pulling out of Stiles's jeans and reaching casually for his glass of wine. Stiles gave a choked sound of protest, half-rising from where he was sprawled back against the arm of the couch to see why Peter had stopped.

"Get up," Peter said, taking an unhurried swallow of the wine.

Stiles stared at him, chest heaving as he tried to regain some semblance of control. When Peter did nothing but raise an expectant eyebrow, Stiles flushed, and struggled to pull his shirt back up over his arms so he could refasten his jeans.

"No." Peter's blue eyes hardened, sudden and icy. "Did I say you could get dressed?"

"I…" Stiles floundered, unsure now of what Peter wanted. "I'm—"

"Did I say," Peter's voice was slow and measured, each word carrying its own threat, "That you could speak?"

Stiles's mouth had opened again but he closed it with a snap. He supposed he could play by Peter's rules, though the fact that Peter expected unquestioning obedience—without some kind of prior discussion—rankled.

"I said, get up," Peter repeated, and his hand came down in a sudden, open-palmed slap against Stiles's thigh where he lay still sprawled open on the couch.

The sting was sharp, even through the fabric of Stiles's jeans, but more than anything it was the shock of the blow that had Stiles tumbling uncoordinated and clumsy off the couch. Peter had hit him. The same kind of thoughtless swat you gave a dog when it tried to climb onto furniture. Humiliation coloured Stiles's cheeks and he had to make a conscious effort to keep his eyes down as he stood, jeans and underwear sliding halfway down his hips, his unbuttoned shirt barely clinging to his elbows, lest Peter see the burning anger that Stiles was trying to bank.

There was a part of him that was insisting this was too much, that Peter wanted what Stiles couldn't—wouldn't—give. But at the same time, Stiles's cock was pressed hard and flushed against his stomach and, if anything, the shock and shame of the slap had only made Stiles's desperate need increase.

"Don't make me repeat myself again." Peter took another sip of the wine before placing it back on the table and leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. His face was level with Stiles's groin and he let out a long, hot breath against Stiles's cock, watching with pleased eyes as Stiles's hips twitched helplessly.

"You make such a pretty picture," Peter mused. Standing, he ran a hand up Stiles's cock and over his belly, trailing up to press against his bruised nipple so forcefully that Stiles had to choke back a noise of pain. "All that pale skin…" he trailed off, his hand rising to wrap around the back of Stiles's neck and tighten. Stiles felt his eyes fall shut, a tremor of desire running through his body as Peter stepped in closer and licked into Stiles's mouth.

He could feel Peter now, the press of the older man's cock hot and eager on the skin of Stiles's bared hip, even through the denim of his jeans. Stiles shifted forward to rub into it but Peter's grip on his neck held him still. The frustrated sound from Stiles's lips was swallowed by Peter's mouth.

With one last nip, Peter pulled back and the pressure on the back of Stiles's neck increased until Stiles buckled under it, dropping to his knees. Peter's hand moved from Stiles's neck to fist in his hair and he yanked Stiles's head back, baring his throat so that Peter could look down the long pale line of him.

With his hands still caught behind his back in the shirt, his thighs trapped in the waistband of his jeans, and his eyes wide and clear, Stiles looked like a debauched angel. His mouth was red and swollen from Peter's lips and his chest rose and fell in that delightful too-fast and too-shallow rhythm of breath that said prey. The livid bruise around his nipple stood out like a beacon in the midst of so much unmarked flesh.

Peter's free hand came up to trace Stiles's lips, thumb sliding into his silky heat. Peter gave a low purr of approval when Stiles, whiskey-hot eyes fixed on Peter's, slid his tongue against the pad of Peter's finger.

"God, you've a mouth on you," Peter pulled his thumb out, slicking Stiles's lips with his own saliva before pressing in again with his two forefingers, pulling Stiles's mouth open when Stiles tried to close his lips around them and suck, "Never can seem to keep it shut. Always running it off like the rest of us have nothing better to do than listen. Sarcastic and lippy without an ounce of respect for your elders. Or," he pushed his fingers back farther, pressing Stiles's tongue down so Stiles gagged, "Your betters." He withdrew his fingers, cupping Stiles's face with the same hand and watching with amusement when Stiles tried to flinch away from the wet touch.

"And yet," Now Peter's hands both lifted, coming to unfasten the button on his jeans and drag the zipper down with agonizing slowness, "Here you are." He reached in and pulled out his cock, fingers still slick with saliva. "Neither of our so-called Alphas, working together or apart, it seems, can manage to keep you under control." He shuddered, pressing a thumb against the slit. "But I've got you on your knees and begging for it like a whore." Pleasure rolled thick and rich in his voice and where Stiles's mind had been blissfully blank only seconds before, something clicked into place.

This wasn't about sex, for Peter, he realized. It was not about desire for lips and hands and skin, this was about power. Plain and simple. Not the kind of power play that came with games like this, not the kind that was gladly given and just as gladly returned when everyone lay sprawled and sated and sweaty, but the power that someone took with force or cunning, glorying in the mess left behind.

Stiles's brow furrowed, coming back to himself piece by piece as Peter continued to stroke and began to press forward, the head of his cock no more than a breath away from Stiles's lips. There was a part of Stiles, a part larger than he would like to admit, that took this new understanding and wanted to curl and twine around it. Wanted to let Peter take everything he could and more. Wanted to let Peter further inside his mind and his body until there was nothing left of Stiles but the raw, aching need to give Peter anything and everything he could ask for.

But the rest of him, the parts of him that were the Stiles he wanted to be, the Stiles he chose every day to be, were stronger. He would not act as a pawn in Peter's game, as some kind of trophy that could be won from Scott or Derek to sate Peter's lust for power. Stiles was pack. And he could not do this to his pack.

"No." Stiles was pushing back, scrambling to his feet and pulling his clothes on even as he could taste the brush of Peter's cock on his mouth. "No."

"'No'?" Peter stepped forward, a growl slipping from his lips. "We're past 'no', Stiles."

"No," Stiles shook his head, his voice firm and controlled as he tucked himself back into his pants, fastening them decidedly. "I'm sorry, Peter, but… this isn't what I want."

"It is." Peter said, certainty ringing in his voice. "You can't hide that from me, I can smell how badly this is exactly what you want."

Stiles let out his breath in a huff, fingers clumsy as he buttoned up his shirt. "Maybe, yeah. Sure."

"Not 'maybe'. You want this. You've wanted this for—"

"That doesn't matter," Stiles cut him off, moving around the couch to the door, "I'm not going to be ruled by my baser impulses. I'm not going to let my body control my mind. I'm not that guy." He was speaking more to himself now than to Peter, and the more he spoke the more sure he was that he was doing the right thing.

"Derek did a number on me, there's no denying that, but I'm not going to keep letting myself drown and then lay that at his feet."

Peter's jaw was clenched tight and he was coming around the couch with dark intention in his pale blue eyes. "Stiles," he said, significantly.

"Hey," Stiles reached into his pocket, wrapped his hand around the thin silver chain and pulled it out so that it gleamed in the light of the flames. Peter snarled, fury sudden and hideous on his face. "I'm sorry," Stiles repeated, because he knew Peter wasn't going to forgive him for this. For walking out his door with the prize he'd thought was his to claim. But Stiles wasn't going to do anything more that would harm his pack.

"Thank you," he said as he finally reached the door, pulling it open with a glance back over his shoulder at Peter, standing in the middle of the living room, eyes glowing like embers against the darkness of the cityscape. "For the wine."

It was cold outside and Stiles shoved his hands into his pockets, head ducked to try and keep the rain out of his eyes. He still had no idea where he was, not exactly, but he was familiar enough with the layout of the town that he knew if he headed north he could make it deeper downtown and hail a cab. And if he went east… well, east would land him in the warehouse district. It would be a walk, from here, but Stiles felt like he needed it. Needed to clear his head and needed to let the rain wash away the thin layer of grime that he felt clinging to his skin.

For which he had no one to blame but himself—and he was beginning to realize that now. He'd been holding on to the idea that he was a victim, that he'd been wounded and hurt and it was all Derek's fault. But Ethan and Peter? Stiles had brought that on himself. He'd tried to bury what he felt in other men, other bodies, and it was destroying him. Worse than that, his heartbreak was destroying the pack. And that had to stop. Stiles wasn't going to let himself be crippled by it any more.

He might still need Derek with every atom in his body, might never stop reaching for him in the night, but he'd sure as hell stop being so goddamn sad about it. If he couldn't control what he felt, he could at least control what he did about it.

And he'd do it in a way that didn't hurt anyone else.

When he arrived at Derek's place, forty-five minutes later, soaking wet and just beginning to shiver, he was grateful to find out that the code to the warehouse hadn't changed. Hunching over the keypad and blinking the rainwater out of his eyes, Stiles punched in 9653 and as soon as he heard the lock snick open he opened the door far enough for him to slip through. He closed it behind himself, not bothering to be quiet. He knew that Derek would be home, and Derek he would know that someone was there. He'd probably also know it was Stiles—by the sound of his heartbeat, or the particular rhythm of his walk, or god knows what else.

Irritation rippled down his spine at that thought as he made his way across the first floor and towards the elevator. Unlike Stiles, Derek wouldn't be caught unaware of his presence. He wouldn't be minding his own business in his kitchen only to turn around and have Stiles standing in the doorway. Oh no, Derek would have plenty of time to prepare himself to see Stiles. Not that he'd need it, because it wasn't like Derek actually cared.

Which was why, Stiles reminded himself, this was the ideal solution.

Hitting the button for Derek's floor, Stiles leaned back against the wall of the elevator and ran a hand through his wet hair to try to keep it from dripping into his eyes. He wished he hadn't forgotten his jacket at the club. His shirt was clinging uncomfortably to his skin and there was nothing worse than the feeling of wet jeans. Then again, his jacket wasn't exactly a raincoat, so it probably would have gotten just as soaked through and then he'd be stuck with another wet layer and—well, Stiles was just avoiding the issue at hand.

Pushing himself up from the wall, Stiles straightened as the elevator doors opened, and stepped out.

"Why are you here, Stiles?" Derek stood framed in the doorway of his loft, wearing nothing but a pair of loose pyjama bottoms that rode low on his hips and a white t-shirt that did nothing to hide the curves of his muscles or the dark halos of his nipples. Not to mention that, in the gap between where the t-shirt ended and the pyjamas started, Stiles could see the thick line of hair that he knew lead straight down to Derek's cock.

Stiles swallowed the saliva that had pooled in his mouth and focused his eyes on Derek's face. Ignoring Derek's stony expression, he pushed past the Alpha werewolf and into the loft.

"I didn't say you could come in."

"Yeah, well you didn't stop me either," Stiles pointed out. The first floor of Derek's place looked precisely the same as it had the last time Stiles had been there—the night Marcus had made his presence known. Stiles didn't know why he'd expected anything different. Leaning against the back of the couch, he waited for Derek to close the door.

"Did something happen?" Derek crossed the room to stand in front of Stiles, his arms folded across his chest.

"You tell me."

Derek's eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared, scenting the air around Stiles. Stiles kept his face neutral, his body language relaxed and easy, despite the tension that thrummed through his veins.

"What did you do?" Derek snapped, the briefest glint of scarlet surfacing in his green eyes. "Or should I ask who?"

"Peter," Stiles admitted, evenly. "Almost."

"Almost." There was a dangerous lack of volume in Derek's voice. Stiles knew he was walking on thin ice and couldn't help grinning.

"He didn't fuck me." His grin widened as Derek's hands clenched into fists at his sides.

"He marked you." It wasn't a question, and for a moment Stiles was confused. Marked him? Peter hadn't—

But then Derek was barely an inch away from him and Stiles hadn't even seen him move. Before Stiles could even register the closeness, Derek's hands had fisted in his shirt and he'd torn open Stiles's wet clothing, bearing his chest. Stiles jerked forwards with the force.

They looked down at the same time, at the dark circle of flesh around Stiles's nipple and Derek made a disgusted sound, taking a step back and tossing the remains of Stiles's shirt at him.

"What are you trying to do, Stiles? Are you trying to get back at me? To hurt me? I wouldn't have thought you'd sink this low. Peter—" Derek broke off, lips curled with scorn.

"You might find this hard to believe," Stiles matched scorn with scorn, "But not everything I do is about you."

"This isn't just another version of a drunk dial?" Derek arched an eyebrow. "Another bid for attention?"

"Fuck you." Stiles stepped forwards, hurt fuelling the anger that was beginning to boil underneath his skin.

"Because it smells like you've been getting plenty of attention." Derek came forwards to meet Stiles, leaning in and sniffing deliberately at Stiles's ear where, earlier, Raj's lips had rested.

"Derek," Stiles warned, bringing his hands up to push firmly at Derek's chest, but the werewolf didn't budge. His nose ran down Stiles's neck, across his shoulder, and then he pulled back so abruptly that Stiles, who'd still been trying to push Derek away, nearly lost his balance.

"Argent? Him, too?" Revulsion was ugly in Derek's voice. "Is there anyone who hasn't had their hands all over you?"

Stiles's mouth dropped open, incredulity leaving him breathless.

"Did you think if you showered after I wouldn't still be able to smell him on you?"

Fury wound around Stiles's throat in a choking vice. If Derek actually thought Stiles would—

"So you figured after your third rejection you'd show up here? That you'd finally get the fuck you're so desperate for?"

With that, Stiles finally found his voice, and with it came an anger so blinding that he felt eerily calm. "Yeah." He gave a careless shrug. "After all, we've done it once, haven't we?" And Derek had made it crystal clear that that was all it had been. A fuck. And if Derek could be blithe about it than so could Stiles.

Besides, it was a solution. A quick fix to Stiles's heartache. If he couldn't stop wanting Derek, then at least he'd be in control of the how and the when. He'd get his hit, his fuck, and he'd be able to function normally until the next time he needed it. There would be no weak spots for another Ethan to exploit, no opportunities for Peter to get one up on Derek or Scott at Stiles's expense.

"Alright." Derek's eyes met Stiles's, cold and challenging, like he didn't expect Stiles to actually go through with it. He gestured to the iron staircase. "You know where the bedroom is."

It was so much like the first time Stiles had asked Derek to fuck him that Stiles nearly laughed. But this time he wasn't going to run. He wasn't going to be scared off by Derek's bullshit posturing. This time, Stiles was going to call Derek's bluff.

Dropping what was left of his shirt to the floor, Stiles brought his hands to the button on his waistband and popped it open, slid down the zipper, and slowly peeled out of his wet jeans. His shoes, boxers, and socks followed until he stood naked, with water still dripping from his hair down his skin, in front of Derek.

A muscle in Derek's jaw clenched, though he kept his eyes steady on Stiles's. But even Derek couldn't control the way his pupils had dilated, the black swallowing the green until all that remained was a thin rim of iris.

With a smirk, Stiles turned and made his way upstairs.

AN: As I mentioned a couple chapters ago, I'm in the middle of a move and unfortunately life has been pretty hectic lately so I'm going to have to scale back my posting to every other week. Hopefully this will let me catch up a bit and within a few weeks I'll get back to updating every Thursday. Thank you for your patience!