set roaring war;

Steter and #20 : on a scar

44. ...on a scar

"And this one's from...?" Peter trails off, waiting for Stiles to fill in the blank. "Oh, man, that's from forever ago. It's the stupidest story, too. In middle school we were playing basketball. I was, as you well know, not the most coordinated kid. But this one actually wasn't my fault. I was chasing down the ball, ran close to the wall, and there was one of those stupid little glue-on clips that they used to hold up signs and stuff that was empty, and I must've just caught it at a bad angle. I knew I felt like something was wrong, but then there was all this blood. My gym teacher sent me off to the nurse saying that it looked like I got attacked with a hatchet." Peter, who Stiles knows has actually been attacked with a hatchet, blinks at him as he bursts into laughter. "I'm sorry, my love," he says, dropping a quick kiss on the side of Stiles' upper arm, and then another, less quick kiss on his lips. "I don't mean to laugh, I just will never understand how you get yourself into these situations."

Stiles’s forefinger traces Peter’s skin, over his pecs and down to the hair on his belly and then back up again. He does that sort of thing a lot. Sometimes it’s after sex, sometimes they’re fully clothed. He’ll tap his fingers along Peter’s arm, or run his hand up and down his thigh, or take a curl at the base of Peter’s neck and wind it around his finger over and over, like he’s using Peter to stim. 

It had almost felt like too much at first, after Peter had gone years with limited physical contact outside of sex. He’d had to learn how to be touched like this again, without any intent behind it, just contact for contact’s sake. Now he has to hold back the rumbling purr that threatens to overtake him when Stiles does this. 

“Peter?” 

“Yes pet?” 

“I want to tell you something, but before I tell you, I just need you to know I’m only telling you because I want you to know, not because I expect you to do something about it.” 

“Okay,” Peter says. He’d be nervous, but Stiles smells content and unbothered. It’s probably nothing serious. 

“Okay,” Stiles says, sounding determined. His finger stops its path, and he rests his hand on Peter’s stomach instead, taking a deep breath before continuing. “I love you. I love you so fucking much. And not even in a romantic way. I mean, probably that too, but like, I love you. You’re smart and funny and awesome and my best friend. I could live without you, but I really don’t fucking want to ever again. Anyway, I just thought you should know.” 

The words hit Peter like a freight train. How long has it been since anyone has said they love him? How long has it been since someone has loved him at all? Derek did once, and maybe he does still, but he’s not sure. He hasn’t been sure of anything like that in a long time. 

“Hey,” Stiles says, uncharacteristically soft. He’s lifted his head to look at Peter now, his eyebrows drawn down in concern. 

And that’s when Peter realizes he’s crying, tears running down to trickle into his ears. Well, that’s embarrassing. Maybe it’s not so embarrassing with Stiles though, who is wiping Peter’s tears away with his thumb while he peppers his jaw with kisses murmuring “it’s okay it’s okay it’s okay.” 

Peter sniffs, pulls himself together. “Sorry,” he says, trying to muster some dignity.

“My dad says real men cry,” Stiles says with a little smirk. “You okay?” 

“Yes.” He’s better than okay. He pulls Stiles into a real kiss, licking into his mouth to taste him, fingers clenched in his hair. 

“I love you too,” Peter says, once they come up for air. 

“I know,” Stiles says. He looks smug. “I would have known even if you never said it, but it’s nice to hear it.” 

Steter commission for @takaraphoenix 💕 Thank you again dear!

Snowflake Challenge Day 8 -  Share a favorite piece of original canon.

1x12 garage scene. This is the moment I started shipping Steter. Peter asks Stiles if he wants the Bite. Stiles lies and says no. Peter doesn’t do some ‘your mouth is saying no but your heart says yes’ bullshit to rationalize biting him anyway. He respects Stiles’s choice and lets him pull away.

What? Escape and leave Stiles to die? Actually try talking to his uncle and reconcile? Peter had shish kabobed him on his claws not too long ago at the high school, so that didn’t seem too likely…

If Derek died now, it was all down to Stiles’ stupid, insatiable curiosity. He had wanted to know how sane Peter actually was, and how likely he was to hurt Scott. He actions thus far had hinted at intelligence, and that intrigued Stiles.

So he’d led Derek to the hospital, knowing precisely who they would meet there. Because Stiles was clever, but he was also impulsive, and he had wanted - needed - to know if he had to kill the Alpha to defend those he loved, or if he could let Peter have his revenge.

He had dragged Derek into it. He should probably drag the guy out, as well.

Stiles took a breath, closed his eyes, and went for it, hand landing heavily on Peter’s shoulder as Derek crawled away.

“Uh, not to tell you how to live your life or anything, but if you’re looking for some empathy here you probably shouldn’t be throwing your nephew through plexiglass.” Peter turned, burn side first, to look at him over his shoulder. Stiles gulped. Damn, his eyes were blue. And murderous. Very ‘I’ll skin you and your family alive’. “Like, I don’t know how werewolves hash out their issues, but is beating up the sourwolf really necessary? It might, y’know, create some more resentment…”

Though Derek was already carrying a whole bucket full of that around, especially since Peter had killed his own niece, and what the fuck was Stiles even thinking trying to reason with him when Laura couldn’t?

Stiles took a deep breath and dropped his hand slowly. “I’d rather you not kill me, by the way. Or my dad. You’re looking a bit crazy eyed, there.”

Peter made a humming noise, almost, but not quite, amused, and turned to face Stiles fully. He was as handsome in real life as in pictures, the scars not doing much to detract from it, but Stiles was more focused on the way that Peter could choose to gut him at any moment.

“Stiles,” he pronounced slowly, as if tasting the name on his tongue. “How interesting. You aren’t great at self preservation, are you?”

Intelligence and madness mixed in his eyes. Stiles was so totally fucked.

“I mean, I’d say about as good as you, but it seems like your goal is to bring the arsonists to Beacon Hills for some grand finale thing, so. Uh, yeah. Not great.”

Peter touched Stiles’ shoulder ever so gently, a mimicry of his initial contact, and Stiles inhaled slowly. Exhaled. Started to count his breaths as Peter remained silent, studying him thoughtfully.

Stiles had never been good at keeping quiet.

“Uh, not that this isn’t nice - I love staring into stranger’s eyes, it’s a great, make-people-uncomfortable past time - but don’t you have Argent’s to kill or whatever?”

It was probably a mistake, mentioning that. Peter’s grip tightened painfully on his shoulder, a bruise in the making, only to loosen the moment Stiles winced. A lapse or a punishment? Stiles couldn’t tell.

His heart was beating double time, and when he glanced over Peter’s shoulder it was to find that Derek had crawled his way into the other room.

Great. Just Stiles and Psycho Uncle Peter.

A hand grips his chin, lifting it easily. A bead of sweat runs down the back of Stiles’ neck when he felt the prickle of claws. He meets Peter’s eyes as steadily as he can. In the time he’d looked away the entire left side of Peter’s face had healed, and Stiles blinks, momentarily taken aback, because what the actual fuck?

Peter smiles, as if he can hear the question. “Pay attention and you won’t miss so much, sweetheart,” he says, gentle as can be. Cruelty warps his face almost worse than the burns had.

“Yeah, wouldn’t want to miss a second of this,” Stiles babbles, then winces at his own sarcasm. Claws caress his throat. “Holy shit.”

Peter leans closer, nostrils flaring as he holds Stiles gaze. When he exhales his mouth falls open with a puff of hot air Stiles swears he can feel on his own mouth, which means Peter seriously needs to back up. Blue eyes flash red, and Peter looks momentarily surprised by whatever he smells on Stiles.

“Okay, wow, I really should’ve run,” Stiles mutters, despite knowing Peter can hear him - could even if he wasn’t a werewolf, given his proximity.

Peter chuckles darkly, claws tracing down from his throat to his chest, until his palm rests over Stiles’ heart.

“You should calm down,” he purrs. “It sounds like it might just burst from your chest.”

“I wonder why,” Stiles frowns at him. “Is this you playing with your food? Because it’s so not cool.”

“I’m not going to eat you, Stiles,” and oh, look at that, even his grin is psychotic. “I like you.”

Stiles heart pitter-patters against Peter’s hand. As far as Stiles knows, the serial-killer-liking-somebody thing never turns out for the better. And he’s been raised around cops with actual experience with them, so he should know.

“Good to know, I guess,” Stiles mutters. “Can I get some personal space, here?”

Peter huffs out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh. “Space? I rather enjoy you in a vulnerable position.”

Stiles eyes narrow at that, a snarl crossing his all-too-human features. His hand shoots up, gripping around Peter’s wrist. His hold is forceful, not strong enough to pull Peter back but enough to make pushing forward a challenge. Slender fingers dig into a point on his wrist, sending a jolt of pain up Peter’s arm.

Pressure point.

Peter doesn’t back down, but he does growl, low and warning, eyes flashing red.

“Fuck vulnerable.”

When Peter cocks his head, their noses brush. Claws push through Stiles’ shirt, despite the grip he has on Peter’s wrist. “You’re playing with fire, Stiles.”

Strangely enough, Stiles’ heartbeat begins to slow at that. “Actually, you are.”

It would be the perfect moment to do something dramatic, like kick Peter in the groin or headbutt him, but Stiles was under no delusions he could win in a fight against a super-powered werewolf. Or a normal werewolf, come to think of it. He had grown up in a police station, and for all his self-defense and gun training he was smart enough to know when he was bested in a physical fight.

Mental fights, however, were Stiles’ area of expertise. Tearing someone down without having to resort to physical violence was a skill he had always been proud of.

Peter looks momentarily surprised, before a pointed grin took over his face. “Well aren’t you the feisty one.”

Still, wild-eyed and crazed or not, Peter was smart enough to recognize when he was being manipulated.