A/N: So this isn't Sterek. You could tell that by the description, but I still feel weird writing PeterStiles (what is their ship name?). It feels wrong but at the same time oh so right, and I'm not going to stop. I have some ideas for additional shipping, but I'll save those until I'm sure I want to use them in this fic.

Disclaimer: I do not own the MTV series, Teen Wolf, or any of its characters.

Warning: This fic will contain slash so if you don't like that I would suggest not reading.

Stiles awoke shivering beneath the thin sheet that was between him and the crisp night. It had been unbearably humid when he went to sleep, the smell of rain in the air, but that seemed to have passed. Now it was just cold, and the window was open, allowing soft, chilly breezes to stir the curtains.

His sleepy brain took a few moments to register the problem at hand. The fog lifted enough from his mind to remember that there had been a box fan in his window, and there was no longer. Had there been a storm, maybe, and it had fallen?

He sat up, and the fatigue that overcame him convinced him to leave the fan wherever it was 'til morning. In the dark he leaned down to the foot of the bed, reaching for the covers he had kicked off. They must have ended up on the floor, because he didn't find them.

With a sigh, Stiles crawled all the way to the bottom of the bed and reached down to retrieve his blankets. They weren't there. But now that he was eye-level with the floor, and his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, he could see that his fan was sitting upright underneath the window, and that the cord had been unplugged and set atop it.

There was a shifting in he darkness, a movement in the shadows that he could see and hear as a floorboard creaked.

"Who's there?" Stiles asked aloud, his voice a normal level that sounded booming in the darkness. He squinted, eyes peeling apart the shapes for the slightest abnormality or shift.

He was perched on his hands and knees at the very bottom edge of the bed. Suddenly he felt the mattress dip behind him, a warm body pressed against his rear, and an arm snaked around his front to circle around his chest. He was jerked backwards, thrown back down against the mattress harshly. In a quickness that even his eye couldn't catch, the body switched places with him, perched over him. He could see their outline in the darkness, could feel heat radiating off of them, but couldn't make out who it was.

Panic crawled up Stiles throat as the person surged forward. But his yells were silenced by a hand clamping over his mouth. He felt claws dig into his cheek, saw piercing yellow eyes looming mere inches away from his own. The person, who he knew now to be a werewolf, was straddling his waist, holding him down with a terrifying force. No matter how he squirmed and struggled, the person-beast seemed unmoved, undeterred.

"Now, now Stiles, let's not cause a fuss," a smooth, chilling calm voice said, not quite whispering. The eyes disappeared, and hot breath ghosted against the shell of Stiles' ear. "Wouldn't want to wake the sheriff. He's had a long day, don't you think?"

Peter, Stiles' mind announced.

"Derek noticed some movement amongst the Alphas. He was a bit concerned for the humans involved- you, the Argents, Lydia. He wanted Isaac, his sister and I to collect you all, bring you back to the loft while he goes and talks to Scott."

Stiles had stopped struggling, stopped trying to buck Peter off of him, when he heard Alphas. His mind was working lightening fast, trying to imagine what the Alphas could be doing that Derek felt threatened by, when he realized that Peter had let go of his mouth and was now stroking his hair.

"What-" Stiles cut off, not wanting to be practically smothered again. He restarted, more quietly this time. "What on Earth are you freaking doing?" he whisper-shouted.

Peter was laid across the full length of Stiles' body, pinning him down, warming him with his preternatural werewolf heat. Stiles most certainly was not blushing. Nope. Nosiree.

"I never did tell you that I like what you've done with your hair," Peter murmured, carding his fingers through the dark locks. "It suits you."

"Oh, well, th-thanks? I guess," Stiles mumbled. He angled his neck, trying to duck his head away from Peter's creepy fingers.

Peter's hand found its way into his hair anyway, buried deep with fingers curled, locked firmly against Stiles' scalp. He yanked the boy's head back, bared his pale, mole-scattered throat, earned a soft yelp and a stiffening of the body beneath him.

"Yes, your hair is very nice," Peter echoed. He pressed his face into Stiles' neck, breathed deeply his musky teenage scent that beared a certain ripe sweetness.

"Y-you're fucking creepy," Stiles stammered, attempting to shake his head of Peter's firm grip. "Like, pedo-creepy, you realize that, right?"

Peter chuckled, and it rumbled into Stiles' skin. He opened his mouth wide, let his tongue loll out and run along the boy's throat, feeling and tasting his pulse. Stiles shuddered.

He bit down, softly, threatening to mark. Stiles tried to thrash, but Peter was so much stronger; he couldn't help the whimper that escaped him, a mixture of fear and arousal, and Peter soothingly licked at the red welts forming on his neck.

"I thought we were supposed to go b-back to De-erk's loft," Stiles managed out, as Peter's tonguing turned to kisses that trailed down his neck, and as Peter ground down against his completely unwilling but prominent erection.

Stiles moaned, pitifully, causing Peter to bite down, hard, at the space between his neck and shoulder. Stiles hissed.

"You're very much fun," Peter said, relinquishing his hold on Stiles. "But I'm afraid we need to stop."

He sat back on Stiles legs, the boy's erection between them, and Stiles squirmed to cover himself up. He couldn't free his legs, but he brought his arms down, covering his crotch with his wrists and angling his hands up so they weren't touching the werewolf, who was still close.

"Good," Stiles muttered. "I wanted you to stop."

He unthinkingly bit his lip, fluttered his lashes, and his cheeks burned red. Peter zoned in on his mouth, looking hungrier than Stiles has ever seen anybody.

"We need to go," Peter said after shaking himself. He climbed down off the bed, rearranged his clothes. "It isn't safe here."

"But my dad-"

"-will be fine," Peter finished. "The Alphas have no business with him. You are the one who has been poking your nose into our business, mingling with the pack. You are the liability here."

Stiles was shocked, and hurt; he felt a pang in his chest, like someone had socked him there. Peter must have read it on his face, because he stepped forward suddenly. But then he seemed to stop himself, and Stiles couldn't read his face in the dark well enough to tell why. Damn his stupid human eyes.

At least Peter's words had been a total boner killer. He unfolded from himself, stretched out and crossed his arms over his chest defiantly.

"I'm not going anywhere with you," Stiles protested, even though he knew it was stupid. He was putting himself and his father in danger now. "I want Derek to come get me."

Stiles would have smirked if the growl from Peter hadn't scared him. He cowered slightly.

"Fine, if you're going to be difficult, then I am going to be rough."

Stiles was prepared to scream. Peter was prepared for him to be prepared to scream. The older male darted forward and covered his mouth, pulled Stiles tightly to him. He was very nearly smothering he boy, and he knew it.

"Are you going to come consciously, or do I need to take you unconsciously?"

Stiles, stricken once again with panic even as Peter sort of cradled him against him, tried to flee like prey from a grossly more powerful predator. But Peter just shushed him, held him more tightly, his free hand tracing calming circles on Stiles' stomach.

But that only made Stiles struggle more as he imagined the older man dominating him, imagined him wolfing out and doing unkind things to him. Peter sighed almost sadly as he moved his hand to cover Stiles' nose as well.

"I don't want to do this Stiles," he cooed as the boy thrashed against him, fighting for air. "Be a good boy now and go to sleep."

Spots reigned over Stiles' vision, and he felt a tingling in his fingers and lips. His eyes rolled back, and he felt Peter's grip slacken, although it was too late now for Stiles to fight back.

Stiles did go to sleep. He went into a very deep sleep, listening to Peter chuckle with satisfaction as he went.

He just hoped the werewolf wouldn't try to carry him bridal style and embarrass him in front of everybody at the loft. He had his dignity, and it laid in being carried like a sack of potatoes over someone's shoulder.

It was not pleasant waking up a second time. His head hurt, no doubt from being suffocated. If only he had gotten enough brain damage to forget last night.

Stiles was sprawled across a leather couch that felt like a cloud. A blanket had been tossed over him, and he would have been touched if he wasn't angry about the whole "you're a liability now I'm going to smother you," thing.

With a huff, Stiles sat up, staving off nausea as a wave of dizziness washed over him, and swung his legs off the couch. He was surprised to find Boyd and Isaac curled up on the floor in front of him, and Scott draped over the armchair across the room.

Stiles would have been flattered that he had gotten the best bed in the place. But again, the near-death encounter caused by Peter stopped him and made him seethe instead.

"You're awake," a gruff voice stated matter-of-factly. Derek was standing off to the side as if he had been watching them all sleep. Weird.

"Yeah, you know, that's what happens when you're done sleeping," Stiles replied, his sarcasm carrying an extra bite this morning.

Derek rolled his eyes. He took a gulp of the coffee in his hand. Not a sip, a gulp. The coffee was probably black as death too.

Stiles crossed his legs beneath him, figuring he would wait until Boyd and Isaac got up to move anywhere. He didn't really need to pee yet anyway.

"So. You and Ms. Blake," Stiles began, trying to break the awkward silence.

Derek groaned. "Please don't. Lydia bothered me enough about it."

"I won't," Stiles said, raising his hands placatingly. "Just, you know. Way to go." He added a coy wink for good measure.

"Yeah, well, same to you."

Stiles tilted his head. "What?"

Derek gestured at his neck. "You've got a giant bite mark on your throat. Who's the lucky gal?"

With a gasp, Stiles tried to look down at the mark, but it was in a weird spot. He hopped off the couch, tripped over Boyd and earned a grunt, then darted off to what he assumed was the bathroom.

It was. He slammed the door behind him and raced over to peer into the mirror above the sink. He was wearing an over-sized Star Wars shirt that hung off one shoulder. He could clearly see the gnarly bruise already formed on the soft flesh between his neck and shoulder. It was also scabbed over, and a bit of dried blood coated the wound.

With a curse, Stiles turned on the sink and splashed water on it, using tissues off the back of the toilet to dab at it since there were no towels in there, which was a shame because he would have loved to ruin one of Peter's towels.

The bathroom door opened, because of course Stiles had neglected to lock it, and Derek stepped in unbidden.

"What the hell, man? Don't you knock?" Stiles asked indignantly.

Derek ignored him, stepped closer to get a better look at the mark. His brow furrowed, and a dark look washed over his features, as if he wasn't already the king of brooding.

"The teeth marks are deep," Derek noted. "Peter did this, didn't he?"

Stiles paled. "What? You can tell?" he squeaked. "Will the others be able to?"

"If they get close enough. You reek of him. And he clearly lost a bit of control when he did this. These are from wolf teeth."

Stiles wanted to punch the dumb stupid beta that had done this to him in the face. "He could have killed me!"

"No," Derek said quietly. Stiles looked at him in the mirror, saw an odd little smirk on his face. "The wolf wouldn't have done that."

"What? What are you aiming at?" Stiles spun around, faced Derek head on. "Tell me. I want to know!"

"No, you don't," Derek replied, clearly being difficult. "You'll found out soon, anyway."

The Alpha turned to leave, but Stiles slipped around him and blocked the door. Not that his skinny ass could have done anything, but Derek wouldn't hurt him. He hoped.

"Tell me what it is so I don't freak out in front of everybody when I figure it out and embarrass myself more," Stiles pleaded. "Help a brother out."

Derek looked slightly uncomfortable now. "His wolf bit you to mark you. It's obvious that it wants you as a mate. I doubt Peter even meant to do it."

Stiles' jaw hit the floor. He just wanted to pass out again and never wake up.

"But-but if I don't do anything to acknowledge it, if I just let the mark fade-"

"Then the wolf will get restless. It's goal would be to... Well... Mate you."

Derek was trying not to make eye contact out of embarrassment, but he also looked severely amused. Jerk.

Stiles stepped out of the way. The sour wolf opened the door, to reveal Scott standing bleary-eyed in the hallway. Stiles quickly adjusted his shirt so the sleeve was hanging off the other shoulder, and the mark was carefully covered before moving to address Scott.

"Hey, buddy," Stiles said with mock cheerfulness. "You sleep well?"

Scott squinted at him, obviously curious as to why Stiles and Derek had been in the bathroom together, then nodded. "Peter's making breakfast, by the way. I'll be out there in a sec; I have to use the bathroom."

Stiles' best friend moved in around him and nudged the gawking Stiles out into the hallway, shutting the door after him. The kitchen overlooked the living area, since it was really just a kitchenette with counter-seating, so Stiles would have nowhere to hide.

With a shaky sigh, Stiles exited the hallway, knowing it would be weird to wait outside the bathroom.

Today was going to be hell.