I had 40k+ worth of fic I had oops’d into for this prompt, but thanks to a hard-drive crash, that’s not exactly happening anymore. I’m sorry ‘bout that.
I managed to find a little bit that I had hand-written, but I rarely have the patience to write 5k worth of fic, let alone 40+, so I hope that this will satisfy. It’s not exactly what you were looking for, as I kinda ended up nixing Scott altogether, and there’s no explicit sex, mostly because I felt it interrupted the flow of the piece, but it’s something! ^^; If I ever get inspired, I’ll definitely try fleshing out what I have again.
It takes exactly three weeks, six days, eight hours, and twenty-three minutes for Stiles to decide that he made one of the biggest mistakes in his admittedly short life when he fire-bombed Peter Hale. Bat-shit-crazy the man may have been, but when he wasn’t off being a giant rage-monster, he had actually been exceedingly intelligent.
Derek, on the other hand?
Not so much.
And Stiles wants to be sympathetic to Derek’s situation. He does. He knows that Derek’s never expected to have to deal with whatever becoming an alpha entails. He knows that Derek is about as emotionally stable as a vial of nitroglycerine in a bumper-car driven by a hyperactive 3-year-old. He knows what Derek’s gone through – how Kate used him before she killed his family. But Stiles is unique in that he compartmentalizes all aspects of his life, including people. In the scale of ‘people he’s willing to burn the world into itty-bitty ashes for’ to ‘people who are so not my problem,’ Stiles values three people above all others: in order, his father, Scott, and Lydia.
Derek is nothing compared to them, will never be as important as they are to Stiles.
And already Derek has threatened and tried to intimidate Scott. Has had his new betas attack Stiles. Has tried to kill Lydia. Has indirectly put his father in danger.
And that shit is not on.
And he knows just what to do about it.
He approaches Lydia first.
He comes clean about everything: what really happened the night of the Winter Formal, werewolves, the Hale fire, Derek Hale, and everything else he can think of.
She doesn’t say anything for a long moment, staring vacantly at the corner of her room. And then she asks him a quiet, “Why are you telling me now?”
“I tried to give Derek a chance, you know? But he’s fucking everything up, and I have this funny feeling that something big is coming. Something bad. When it gets here, I want an alpha who knows what the hell he’s doing.” He pauses, cocks his head, eyes never leaving Lydia’s as he says, “I want Peter back.”
“He’s dead,” she says, finally turning to look at him. “Death is irreversible.”
And Stiles just stares for a long moment before he asks, more than a little pointedly, “What do you see when you have an episode, Lydia?” He leans close, brown eyes catching the lamp-light, making them gleam like sunlight reflecting off of tea or whisky. “I think he’s already trying to come back – I just want to make sure he comes back right.”
(Lydia doesn’t tell him that Peter is currently leaning against her wall, eyes gleaming electric-fire as he stares at Stiles, a strange little half-grin settled firmly on his lips. She doesn’t tell him that in that moment as Stiles stares at her, watching her with sharp amber eyes, voice completely and utterly deadly serious, that she is more afraid of him than the man who’s been driving her half-crazy. Lydia has always had a good sense for which side is the winning one, which people to gather close to her. And right now, for the first time, she’s beginning to realize that the Stiles she’s ignored for so long, and the Stiles sitting in her room, carefully explaining his plans, are two completely different people.
This is the real Stiles. This meticulous, ruthless, borderline-sociopathic boy with the too-sharp smile and glinting eyes that see too much is the real Stiles, and Lydia knows instinctively that he’s the one she’s going to want to back.)
The plan is simple, really.
They stick to Peter’s plan, for the most part, but Stiles does his research.
He learns the ritual, inside and out, and he knows that there’s one key point missing.
If they do this ritual the way Peter wants, with no additional elements, Peter isn’t going to come back whole. He’ll be alive, but also not. He’ll be an alpha, but bound in beta form. He’ll be a werewolf, but almost as weak and vulnerable as a human.
Stiles does his research, and he knows that in order for Peter Hale to come back fully alive and healthy, with all the strengths and powers of an alpha werewolf, he’ll need an anchor. And not just any anchor.
Peter will need a mate. Someone to bind himself to. Someone equal but opposite.
It can’t be Lydia, as she’s the focal point for the spell – she’ll already be drained to dangerous limits without also trying to anchor a half-dead man firmly on the side of the living. Derek can’t do it, either, because he’s not only never been Peter’s equal, but he’ll also be drained nearly to the point of death.
And no matter their respective issues with the man-child, Derek doesn’t deserve death, and they don’t want him dead.
Which leaves Stiles.
Stiles, who is human. Stiles, who stared down an alpha and dared challenge him for his prey. Stiles, who tossed a bottle of liquid fire at said alpha with full knowledge that not only would it more than likely kill him, but would also torture him as it did so.
Stiles, who is willing to do anything to ensure the survival of the few he loves from the coming storm he senses on the horizon.
It’s not a hard choice to make.
When Peter rises, whole and almost perfect from the hole in the floor, Stiles holds out his hand.
He does not meet Lydia’s teary gaze: Stiles has not informed her of what was required next, because the poor girl is going to have enough trouble recovering from being possessed. He does not look at Derek, who lies so still on the ashy floor, pale-green eyes filled with horror and betrayal.
He keeps his gaze steady and unwavering upon Peter’s own frosty-blue eyes. He says nothing. He makes no further moves. This next part cannot be forced, cannot be faked. Mates are a serious business: to try and force that bond never ends well.
“Do you understand what this will mean?” Peter finally asks.
Stiles nods. “Forever, beyond death. What’s mine is yours and yours is mine. No one else will ever be more important, more cherished. Two halves of the whole. Yin and Yang.”
Peter takes his hand then, a gentle, but firm grip tugging Stiles close. They are of a similar height, but Peter’s presence is such that Stiles instinctively wants to submit. He does not. He holds Peter’s gaze, and is rewarded with a slow smile that appears to be the most genuine thing he’s ever seen on Peter’s face.
It is beautiful.
“Get him out of here,” Stiles tells Lydia without breaking that gaze.
Peter pulls him into an adjacent room, where there is a weather-beaten couch. Neither one of them wait to see if Lydia carries out his order.
They both know she will.
When Peter claims Stiles, it is not rough, or fast, or needy. There is no begging, no pleading, no frustrated words to hurry it up. Despite what few fantasies Stiles has imagined up since making this decision, Peter doesn’t make it quick and he certainly doesn’t make it something Stiles would want to forget.
Peter is meticulous and strangely gentle, easing Stiles through pleasurable first after pleasurable first. He goes just slow enough to be thorough, but also quick enough that Stiles never once wants him to hurry further.
Stiles reaches completion no less than three times before Peter is even in him, and by the time Peter finally pushes inside, Stiles is a limp, utterly relaxed puddle of teenage flesh, who has just enough coherency in him to wrap his arms and legs around Peter and hold on for the ride.
And, oh, what a ride.
It’s not just sex, claiming or otherwise. This is more than just a joining of bodies. This is a cleaving and binding of hearts, minds, and souls. Whatever they were to each other, by the time the bond settles, it won’t matter. They will learn to love and trust each other above all others, will hold each other sacred in their hearts. There will be no boundaries between them, no way for them to be separated for long. Where one is, soon too will be the other.
Yin and Yang. Equal but opposite.
Life goes on. It takes two weeks for the bond between them to settle fully.
Two weeks spent learning each other as thoroughly as they can. Two weeks spent sneaking around Beacon Hills, avoiding Derek, who’s on a warpath; Stiles’ dad, who isn’t stupid and knows his kid is up to something; and Lydia, who wants to know just what she’s unleashed upon Beacon Hills.
Two weeks, talking and touching and teaching.
Two weeks, and then their bond is settled, and Peter Hale is finally whole and as sane as he’ll ever get, strong and powerful and so very alpha.
Two weeks, and then Gerard Argent makes his move, and dares kidnap Stiles.
Two weeks, and then everything goes to hell in a hand-basket.
Argent certainly hadn’t been expecting Stiles, human – very much so – but also very much not. The funny thing about binding oneself to an alpha werewolf is that certain attributes are passed through that bond. Stiles will never be able to shift, will never be able to grow claws or teeth capable of rending flesh, but he does have the enhanced senses, to an extent. He has better reaction times, better healing. He’d probably have the mannerisms of a wolf as well, but they’ll never know for sure, because Stiles has always been a wolf in human clothing.
It’s one of the main reasons Peter liked him so much the first time around.
Argent punches, and Stiles doesn’t think. He just acts, darting back and tilting his head back, mouth opening and a ringing howl echoing from his throat. It’s not a roar like Scott gave once upon a time, but a true howl, a wolf’s howl, a lilting signal summoning his pack.
Dimly, in the distance, he can hear his alpha’s call, savage and furious, and feels the echo of that primal fury stretch across his face in a feral smile. The betas at his back give off tentative howls of their own, unsure of their place, but wanting one with a stable pack. They’d left Derek, some part of Stiles recognizes, making them omegas, alone and pack-less.
Peter needs a pack. Stiles is doing for now, and Lydia exists on the fringes, but he needs wolves. These two… Stiles gives off another howl, bright and echoing and welcoming, feral smile growing when the two at his back answer even more strongly, when his alpha howls, so close now.
“Let us go,” Stiles says quietly to Argent, who hasn’t moved, just stood there, watching him.
“Now why would I go and do a thing like that?” Argent smiles at him, creepy old grandpa persona kicking in to full effect. “Without his betas, Derek is useless, a sitting duck. And as long as I have you, Scott is controllable.”
“Ah.” Stiles nods, smile growing. “I’m giving you fair warning, Argent. Let us go, and leave Beacon Hills. You won’t get another chance.”
Peter rips off the door to the basement and roars.
Stiles doesn’t look away. Can’t look away.
There is something beautifully transcendent about Peter ripping Argent limb from screaming limb. There is something about the way he straightens afterwards, red seeping from his bright blue eyes as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a handkerchief, daintily wiping his hands. There is something about the utter lack of humanity in those eyes as Peter meets Stiles’ gaze, about the blood splattered across his face.
Stiles wants him.
Wants the entirety of that beautiful, feral danger wrapped around him and in him, always and forever, and it honestly takes him a long moment to realize that he gets to have it.
All he has to do is reach out and touch.
And so he does.
It’s probably not the most tactful way to introduce their new betas to the status quo: fucking in the bloody remains of grandpa Argent while the two are still strung up from the ceiling and being electrocuted certainly lacks any and all manner of tact or even compassion, and that’s why Stiles brings things to a halt just before it goes that far. He makes sure the betas are out of their bondage and tells them to go, meets both of their teary gazes while Peter looms behind him, thick hands already winding up beneath his shirt, blue eyes no doubt back to burning crimson.
The betas whine, but leave, and the Peter fucks him stupid right there in the bloody remains of the idiot stupid enough to kidnap an alpha’s mate.