Chapter Text
“I could stay,” Derek says, twisting his wrists in the cuffs.
His left shoulder’s still sore from when Stiles bent him over the couch this morning, lassoing that arm with a looped belt and using it like a leash to drag him back onto the man’s cock. The socket already aches like somebody lined it with sandpaper, and the way his arms are bent behind him now is uncomfortably close to the same, but that bedpost the cuffs are attached to isn’t giving him any slack.
“When you tried so hard to talk me into this in the first place?” Stiles finishes securing Peter’s hands behind him, then drapes himself over Peter’s shoulders. “Cold feet, Hale? Now? Seriously?”
Peter’s kneeling with his back to the headboard, shifting from knee to knee as Stiles’ fingers dangle dangerously near his nipples, their piercings swinging wildly as he tries not to fight his gag. It’s been long enough for the flesh to heal around the rings, but Stiles teases the nipples so much that one or the other of them is always reddened and tender-looking. Today it’s the right one and as Stiles leans further over Peter’s back, he catches it between two of his fingers. Peter’s eyes start to roll back into his head.
Stiles laughs, even though he’s still looking at Derek. He drags his fingers through Peter’s hair as Peter’s head lolls a little, pulling towards him. Then he drops both arms around Peter’s waist, playing instead with the metal cage locked around Peter’s cock. “Come on, I know you want it,” Stiles says, flicking his tongue over his lower teeth. “You do. You do, Derek, don’t front. You want that gun in your hand.”
He cups Peter’s balls with one hand, runs the other up the smooth steel till he can pinch and press at the head of Peter’s cock. His fingers get shiny right away with precome; he’s had the cage on Peter since last night and Peter’s been glazing over on and off. Peter’s definitely glazed now, sightless for all that his eyes are wide open, rutting mindlessly up into Stiles’ hands. When Stiles pulls them away, he and Derek moan almost in the same moment.
“You want that kill, too,” Stiles snorts. “I saw you, you know. You were so pissed off Lydia got to Deucalion first.”
Derek snarls, pulls his whole weight on his cuffs, even though he knows he’ll pay for it later, and not just in more wrenched shoulders. Stiles is right. He hates it when Stiles is right. Hates it because it’s Stiles, because this is the guy who’s got them not just working but dancing for the son of a bitch, which is a hell of a lot more than either the Argents or the Alphas ever managed. Because this is the guy who’s got Peter whining and rubbing back against him, making goddamn noises Derek’s never gotten from him.
Because this is the guy who makes Derek pant for it when he’s right.
Fucking Deucalion. Months Derek’s been dreaming of gutting that man, tearing out his heart and bringing it home, and Stiles’ goddamn girl goes and gets him with a shrapnel bomb. Hadn’t even been enough to jerk off over—or had been too much, depending on how you look at it. The blood splatter had had a fifteen-foot spread, and they’re only human.
“I know, kiddo, I know,” Stiles says, faux-fatherly, pulling a solemn face. He poses with his hand on Peter’s shoulder for a second, Peter’s head hanging as he tries to stop whimpering, and then grins. Pulls Peter back by the arm, fastens Peter’s wrists to the headboard. “But hey, that’s the whole point of today, making it up to you. So why you are trying to welsh out now, of all times—”
“I’m not freaking out,” Derek mutters. “It’s not like I’m scared.”
He’d say he lost that ability years ago, except that his heart does still stutter once in a while, like somebody’s stuck a spike of ice through it. Like now, looking over and seeing Peter’s head come up and having their eyes meet that one second before Stiles reaches for the blindfold. Peter says he’s not scared all the time and he’s a goddamn liar.
“I just—” Derek starts. Blindly, no idea what the hell he’s going to say, should say, needs to say. No expectations either. When Stiles listens he listens, he hears everything they say and don’t say, and then he goes and fucks them over how they didn’t want but it turns out they really, really need it that way.
Fucker. Stiles looks up, frowns. Flips the blindfold back and forth, back and forth in his fingers, and halfway hypnotizes Derek before Derek realizes the man’s waiting on him.
Shit. He looks at Peter again and Peter’s with it enough to be mad, to be willing Derek to just shut up and look pretty and let the psycho kid psycho them. Fuck him too, Derek thinks, while his mouth’s moving. God, why Peter. “Do we have to leave him?”
“Well, we’re not bringing him, clearly,” Stiles says. He looks at him and Derek—both dressed, even if Derek’s got a silicone cock sheath squeezing his cock limp under his jeans—and then at Peter, who’s naked.
“I just—God, fuck you.” Derek pulls at the cuffs again. Doesn’t look at Peter. “He’s going to freak out. You know that.”
“I know I told him, told both of you, actually, repeatedly, every time we went over this, that it’s going to be a couple hours, max.” Stiles slides his hand up and down the back of Peter’s neck as he talks, and Peter twists around, nuzzles the man’s arm through the gag. Weirdly, Stiles ignores him, except to scrunch fingers into the curls at Peter’s hairline, putting a pained wince on Peter’s face. “Left him longer before, so why are you so—”
“That was for—for grocery runs, shit like that,” Derek says, and then hisses and scoots back, even though Stiles has done nothing but just look like he’s going to cross the bed. “It wasn’t to go out after one of them, it’s just, it’s Ennis, he’s the one who fucking—fuck.”
Peter’s pissed enough to growl around the gag. Then he whimpers again, as Stiles drags his head back. He and Stiles stare at each other, and then Stiles lets go. Rolls his eyes as he gets off the bed and comes around to Derek. He unlocks Derek’s cuff chain from the bedpost and kicks Derek’s foot out from under him at the same time, making Derek fall towards the door.
“Guys, we do have a timeline, you know. I’m all for a fun round of Q&A and cock torture as much as the next guy, but we gotta go,” Stiles says.
Derek stumbles, then is nearly up on his feet before he thinks the better of that and just drops. Of course Stiles is ahead of him, yanking up on his arms, and Derek groans as pain flares through both shoulders, but he gets a knee down and his head back. “Ennis had Peter off for two weeks, okay? Told him me and Laura thought he was dead and had taken off, and we were just two floors down with goddamn Deuc—Peter just—goddamn it, Peter, shut the fuck up, you’ve never been the same since, you fucking know that!”
Peter’s snarling stops like somebody cut his throat. Derek knows better than to think that he did that, and he twists around farther. Sees the gun Stiles has out and pointing at the bed and his heart doesn’t just stutter, it downright ices over.
Stiles is always smiling and laughing and snickering, his hands moving around, his foot jiggling. So when he’s still and sober, completely still, face detached—it’s terrifying. Never mind that he’s at least two years younger than Derek, he looks old as death those times.
He holds the gun on Peter for a couple more seconds, then abruptly holsters it. Looks down at Derek, still distant. Then he snorts and the irritation that comes over his face is easy, like he’s throwing on a broken-in leather coat. From anybody else that’d be fondness.
“You should just tell me this shit, you know,” he says. He runs his hand over the top of Derek’s head, then drops it to Derek’s shoulder. Pushes down hard, till Derek has both knees on the floor. Then he goes back over to the bed.
He takes something out of his pocket: an earpiece. Which he fits into Peter’s ear, after fiddling with it for a second. He puts another one in his own ear, tests the sound with a tongue-click that makes Peter look sharply at him, just as Stiles slides the blindfold over Peter’s head. Peter tenses—Derek’s eyes stick to where Peter’s throat works slowly around a swallow—but he’s not struggling, not mewling and gasping like he usually does.
Last thing, Stiles gives Peter a kiss on the cheek. Then, as Peter’s turning towards him, puts his hand back into his pocket and does something that makes Peter spasm and then twist heavily back into the headboard.
Turned on the vibrator, Derek’s guessing. He’s still staring at the shiver of Peter’s belly when he’s hauled back onto his feet, something cold and metallic pressed under his jaw. “Come on already,” Stiles says, annoyed. He jabs Derek with his gun a last time, then shoves him towards the door. “Let’s get this show on the road already.”
* * *
Derek still thinks about killing Stiles. A lot, actually. He knows Stiles gets off on it, and that just makes him think about it more, and then—
—and then it ends with him ass-up, getting his brains fucked out by some kid who took the Argents’ damage and ran with it, all the way to top-line weapons, first-class everything and a successful career taking out the kind of people who seem to have had it in for Derek his whole life.
Yeah, he’s jealous. And bitter, and all of those things. And he might have a gun in his hand, and somebody else’s blood on his face, and he might think about shoving the gun down Stiles’ throat till the guy strangles on it, but he’s less stupid these days. So he thinks about killing Stiles.
Ennis, of all people, managed to get away from the first hit and he’s gone to ground with what’s left of the Alpha smuggling ring, holed up in an old factory on the edge of some random town. Stiles took Derek up onto the roof of an overlooking building and sat on him, his hands still cuffed behind him, and picked off most of the gang with a sniper rifle, and now Derek’s chasing the last one up a rickety staircase.
Concrete chips blow out of the wall next to him and he crashes through a neighboring door, then whips around. Room’s empty and he twists back, sticking his gun around the jamb when there’s a break in gunfire. He sprays a horizontal line of fire at ankle-level and hears a cut-off scream. Sticks out his head, just in time for a bullet to whizz past him and nail the guy in front of him before he gets a bullet to the face.
“Jesus Christ, there’s just no teaching you, is there? Do you think you’re Zoolander or something? So pretty they’ll never hit you?” Stiles says, shaking his head.
He comes up the hallway, pistol in hand, rifle slung over his shoulder, and goes right up to Derek. Puts his free hand on Derek’s shoulder, ignoring the gun pointed at his stomach, and then puts his gun hand on Derek’s wrist. His pistol’s almost too warm to bear, where it briefly touches Derek’s forearm. He pushes Derek’s arm down, then smiles and ducks in for a peck on the lips as he takes the gun from Derek.
Clicks out the empty clip into his hand, snaps in a fresh one, and then hands it back as he pushes Derek to go ahead of him. “I left him cuffed to some of the plumbing,” he says. “Also, sort of shot out his kneecap, and I maybe nicked an artery so you might want to step it up there, if you want to get him alive.”
“It doesn’t really make a difference, does it?” Derek mutters. He rubs at his neck, then at his side as they go down the stairs. Some of the concrete bits must have caught him because he’s bleeding a little.
Stiles clucks disapprovingly at him. “Details, Derek, details. What’s the point of being vengeful if you’re going to be so sloppy about it? I bet Peter would—”
“Peter likes to think about how lousy other people are having it more than he likes actually being there. I think he’s afraid of catching their misery,” Derek says. He wipes more blood off as they go around a turn in the stairs. Sees Stiles checking him over and shrugs, cleans his fingers off on his jeans. “Anyway, why the hell would I want Ennis to die watching something he enjoys?”
“Yeah?” Stiles says.
Derek grimaces, but Stiles doesn’t probe further. Not that that’s a relief; as flaky as the guy might sound, Stiles has a memory like a photographic fucking database, saving every clue he gets and analyzing the shit out of it, and then spitting out something later that’s going to get chunks taken out of Derek.
“Why did you want to come?” is what Stiles ends up asking, for now.
They hit the ground floor. Stiles gestures to go right and Derek does, and they go into an old bathroom, with just exposed plumbing where the sink and toilet must have been. Ennis is still alive, but barely, lying in a puddle of blood by the wall. Derek leans over him and he doesn’t look up. He might not even realize other people are in the room with him.
“Because I wanted to know for sure,” Derek says. He points his gun and empties the new clip into Ennis’ face, then smiles at Stiles. “A lot of dead people get away with it, that’s all.”
“Got it,” Stiles says, grinning, as pleased as if Derek had just dropped and licked up his cock.
And then he takes Derek’s gun back, and he cuffs Derek to some of the plumbing so Derek’s standing at the very edge of that pool of blood, working desperately to keep from actually stepping into it as Stiles fucks him from behind. Derek doesn’t get to come. Derek moans and hangs onto the plumbing with his hands, his cock one heavy piece of ache in his jeans, in that damned sheath, and stares at Ennis’ ragged lack of a head, until Stiles grabs his crotch, fingers zeroing in on his scrotum piercings, and shudders against his back.
On the way back, Stiles has Derek put his head on the man’s lap, hands cuffed behind him again, and then holds his phone so Derek can watch Peter writhing and whimpering back in their rental. Every time they stop at a light, he switches over to the vibrator app and moves the phone up to Derek’s ear as he plays with the speed. When Derek snarls, Stiles grabs him under the chin with steel fingers, pressing hot dots of pain into his jaw while the man rubs his lower lip across the screen to change the vibrator speed. Peter’s moans and muffled sobs fill the whole car, till, mad as Derek is, he’s gasping along with Peter, rubbing his head against Stiles’ leg and curling around to press his trapped cock into the gearshift.
As often as Derek thinks about killing Stiles, lately he’s been thinking the man will kill him. And he’s not so sure he minds.
* * *
“In case you’ve forgotten, nephew, he likes to stalk and murder druglords in his spare time, just so he can ‘keep in shape,’” Peter drawls. “He might tolerate your idiocy for now, but that’s not a guarantee. It’s just a—”
“Like layaway?” Derek says, stretching out his legs.
They aren’t tied up, for once. Granted, they’re in a plane thirty thousand feet off the ground, so it’s not like they’d be going anywhere anyway. But there’s a cage more than big enough for the two of them tucked into the back of this charter jet—for exotic pets, Stiles had said, ushering them by it with a smirk—and they’re not in it.
Stiles is up front with the pilot, probably arguing with Lydia. They’ve been on vacation for a week; dealing with Ennis had taken up three days of that and it’s been two days since then. Supposedly they’re off for another week, but Derek’s never seen Stiles go for more than a day and a half without lining up something. Till now. For some reason, Stiles and Lydia can’t agree on what the next job’s going to be, and they’re edgy about it, and it’s been filtering down.
Laura’s with Lydia, but she’s been texting Peter as well as Derek, and normally those two don’t talk except to yell at Derek. And Peter’s been doing the goddamn ‘oh, nephew’ routine since breakfast. When he wasn’t trailing Stiles around, plastering a smug grin over his lame attempts to beg Stiles to just sit down and let Peter suck him off.
“Don’t be clever, Derek,” Peter snaps. He grips the arms of his seat and stares at the closed pilot’s door as if that’ll get it to open. Then he takes a deep, long breath, and deliberately relaxes. Sneers without bothering to actually turn and face Derek. “It’s never been your strong point, and I doubt you’ll be fixing that now.”
Derek looks at him. Then gets up. Ignores the confused sound Peter makes, and walks to the back of the plane, as far as he can get without going out of the passenger section. That’s where the wet bar is, anyway.
He’s halfway through his second drink when Peter comes up behind him. Three-quarters by the time Peter clears his throat, and he’s just mixed a third drink when Peter sighs and drops into the nearest seat, twisted sideways with his leg jammed under the chair arm to look at Derek.
“Why would you tell Stiles about Ennis?” he asks. Calmly. Casually.
“You’re still mad about that?” Derek says, picking up his drink.
If they’re allowed to get up and move around, they’re allowed to get up and move around, because according to Stiles, he’s not a micro manager, just details-oriented. That said, they’ve never dared to get even a little inebriated. One, because yeah, sure, Derek is a little passive. He’ll admit it. But he doesn’t want to die any time soon, even if he’s been thinking about how that’s probably going to go, and he knows what he’s like when he gets drunk. Two, because…because they haven’t seen Stiles angry yet, and Peter says that they do not want to, Derek, so you can make him laugh but do not test him, nephew.
“I’m not mad, Derek,” Peter lies.
Derek rolls his eyes and takes a sip of his drink. The whiskey here is fantastic—Stiles might like to withhold to piss them off, but when he gives, it’s always the good stuff—and Derek is beginning to feel the blurring warmth of a buzz but he’s nowhere near drunk. One more drink wouldn’t do it either—although it’d help a lot.
“Must we do this?” Peter leans his head against the seat back and looks up at Derek, all concerned exasperation. He’s got ligature marks on his wrists, overlapping sets of different ages, and his shirt’s unbuttoned low enough for his rings to glint. He’s grown out his hair some, looking a lot closer to the uncle from Derek’s teenager years, because Stiles likes to twirl his fingers in the curls.
Which Derek’s always liked too. Suddenly Derek doesn’t want the drink, and wants it very badly. “Fuck you, Peter,” he mutters, taking another sip. It’s bad and it’s good and he hates both feelings.
“If it’d help,” Peter says dryly, disbelievingly. He looks at Derek another second, then sighs. Leans harder against the seat, glances down at his wrists and then pushes his shirt-cuffs out of the way to rub at them. “I’m not mad, actually. The more he learns, the more he obviously wants to learn. He’s a little bit of a completionist, I think.”
“Well, then why are you mad about it?” Derek says, turning around.
Peter starts to repeat that he isn’t, and then snaps his mouth shut. He drops the act and looks as tired and nervous as he is. And then as irritated. “You had to do it when he’d just let you go with him. Damn it, Derek, if he thinks you’re nothing but a—spineless little shit, who’s so busy panicking about his uncle, flattering as that is—”
“Which he doesn’t, because I’m pretty sure his favorite thing about me’s how much I can’t help going for your goddamn bullshit.” Derek looks at his drink again, then sticks the glass in the bar sink. Then he drops into a squat, using one hand to brace against Peter’s chair arm as he looks up at the other man. “Honestly, Peter? I wouldn’t worry. You’re still his favorite.”
“That’s not the point, Derek,” Peter snaps. He’s still looking over Derek, chin lifting, enjoying the reversed height difference. He’s so easy about certain things.
So difficult about others, and then some things, Derek just has given up on guessing about. Which isn’t the same as not being surprised at it; he starts as Peter reaches out and they both freeze. Then Derek settles back into place, and Peter…does finish what he started, cupping his hand around the side of Derek’s face.
“Fancy is fleeting,” Peter says, mouth twisting in a parody of amusement. His fingertips stroke Derek’s cheek. He keeps his hands nice and soft, used to hit up manicure bars even when Deucalion was having them escorted everywhere, but his touch still rasps a little. That’s how closely-shaved Stiles likes them. “Usefulness is indifferent to how interested you are.”
“I might not be the smart one, but I just think there’s something wrong in there,” Derek says. He tilts his head into Peter’s hand. “Look, really, you think knowing what Ennis did to you is going to make him think you’re a baby?”
Peter smiles for real, viciously. The fact that that’s the strongest image Derek’s always had of him, ever since childhood, that…probably was the first sign that this was always going to happen.
“Get up here,” he says, and Derek gets up.
Climbs into the seat, onto uncle Peter’s lap, like the grown boy he is now. The chair’s a lot bigger than regular airlines, roomy and cushy and leather-covered, and Derek doesn’t miss the extra rings for non-standard strap attachments. In fact he hooks his index fingers through two of them, caging his arms around Peter as he bends down for a kiss.
Peter doesn’t even try to get out. Does the opposite, sprawls into it, his hands in Derek’s hair and on Derek’s crotch. He rubs his palm down the zipper, and then his fingers follow the crotch seam, his thumb works out from there till it rolls a barbell. Derek groans, hitches up, and Peter sucks on his tongue till he comes back down, still working the piercing. Then eases back, running his other thumb along Derek’s jaw.
“It’s not what Ennis did, it’s what we did afterward. Or didn’t do,” he says. His eyes are warming like the whiskey spreading through Derek’s gut, heated and loose, almost an affection that Derek can believe. He shifts over, putting his back more firmly against the seat, his head up so that Derek can nuzzle into his throat, start pulling his fly open. “We want him to think—to see he can get more out of us than he’s seen so far. That’s all, Derek.”
“You want him to think that.” Derek can’t help sounding a little jealous. Even aside from the whole Stiles is a success thing, he’s never had Peter to himself. Never. When it wasn’t Laura, it was getting the Argents back, and then getting away from the Alphas. And now…
…now Peter’s got his hand working into Derek’s jeans and he’s still talking about Stiles. “If he’s going to see you as more than just a favor to me, he’s got to see you do something besides tell him how I’ve screwed up over the years,” he says sharply.
And he just fucking does that. Does exactly what Derek thinks of him, and then twists it all out of shape, so Derek ends up staring at him. Him and his mouth, his big, ever-lying, ever-scheming mouth, with its bruised lower lip where he bashed it bucking into a coffeetable, trying to get away from the vibrator Stiles was using to work him over.
Whatever Derek says to other people, or, when he’s being really stupid, to himself, he loves Peter. It’s the worst decision he’s ever made. Or it would be, if it’d been any kind of decision at all.
“Derek,” Peter says more softly, closely. He looks up like he knows exactly what Derek is thinking, and Derek would find that believable except for how Peter doesn’t look smug about it. If anything, Peter looks—looks worried.
He pulls at Derek’s hair gently, like he used to do way back when Derek just loved him like the best family member ever, always willing to talk and tell stories, and then he curls his hand over Derek’s nape. Pulls him down, past Peter’s mouth, till his head’s tucked half-into Peter’s shirt. Peter breathes in slowly, then gasps as Derek licks at his nipple. His hands pull off Derek and then drop to either side of the chair, letting Derek do whatever he wants.
Derek doesn’t get to play with the rings nearly as much as he’d like, as Peter seems to like, however much it leaves him shuddering and speechless at Stiles’ feet. So he goes for it now, sucking and licking, catching the ring between his teeth while pressing the nub back with his tongue. He glances up and Peter’s got his head grinding backwards, jaw clenched. Peter’s whining for him, little hissing whimpers that make Derek wish he’d waited till Peter had gotten his fly all the way open.
He has to do that himself as he pushes his knees off the seat, gets his feet on the floor. He gives Peter’s nipple a last suck before he kneels down, both hands in Peter’s open trousers. “Well, you know, I shot off Ennis’ face,” he says, looking up. “I think he liked that. That and the two assholes I also shot.”
Peter looks dazedly back for a few seconds, probably because of what Derek’s hands are doing. Then the left corner of Peter’s mouth twitches. It goes up, then the other one, and then Peter laughs. Shaking, his hips lifting into Derek’s hands, his hands finally coming up to thread into Derek’s hair. He laughs, and laces his fingers across the back of Derek’s head, and then he forces Derek’s mouth onto his cock.
He’s fine.
* * *
“No, Stiles, we swore never again, remember?” Lydia clucks. Then she frowns, but it’s not at whatever she’s seeing on her tablet. She pushes herself a little further up the pillows, then reaches under the tablet, groping till she’s got hold of Laura’s leash, and then she pulls it out from where it’s gotten caught under Laura’s shoulder.
The leash drags at Laura and she starts to rise, then hurriedly drops and resumes eating Lydia out with extra vigor. And then Stiles, who’d been holding Derek off his cock by the chin, decides he’s ready to go again, and shoves Derek back between his legs, pushing down till Derek’s fighting to breathe, in between Stiles’ thighs squeezing his head and the bedsheets rumpling up, and oh, having to eat out Stiles’ hole.
Stiles grunts in irritation, and then his fingers are digging at the knotwork stretching over Derek’s shoulders and back, keeping his wrists pinned to the small of his back. He uses it to pull Derek down about an inch, giving Derek some air—but that’s not why Stiles did it. Stiles did it because he wants to slouch further down the daybed, so that he can throw grapes at Lydia’s tablet. “Well, come on, all right, we’re not going to find anything in North America this month. I didn’t like that week anymore than you do, but I don’t think it’s a good reason to write off an entire island. And that’s where they’re paying right now.”
When he lets go of the ropes, they snap back into place, stinging on top of all the blood that’s rushing in where they were digging before. Derek tries not to bite the man, but it hurts like hell. Whatever the fuck Japanese kink art it is, it hurts, knots and lines of rope scratching and scraping and pressing right where it seems like all the nerve endings are, and of course, after Stiles raked the shit out of Derek’s tattoo with his nails. At this point the ink’s raised so high that Derek thinks somebody could just cut it off by scraping with a razor.
Laura whimpers loudly, just as Lydia lets out a put-upon sigh. “Fine. Fine, but if we get stuck in that disgusting hellhole of an airport in London again, it’s on you,” she says. Her nails click against her tablet, then stop, and a moment later Laura moans in relief. “What about this one? Good price, travel costs included, very high reliability ratings.”
Stiles makes thoughtful noises and slouches even lower, pushing his ass up against Derek’s mouth. He’s starting to breathe quicker. He drops his hand over the side of the bed, where Peter’s kneeling, and does something that gets a long, shaky mewling noise from Peter.
“But Manchester, Lyds,” he says.
Derek’s got a huge sticky spot under him, sticky and cold and gross, but he rubs into it anyway. His cock’s not tied but every time he starts working up good friction, Stiles yanks his hair. And now the sheets are too wet with his precome and they’re just clinging nastily to him, dragging at his erection like weights. He licks harder, fighting past the ache in his jaw, hoping that Stiles will just goddamn make up his mind already.
“Damn,” Lydia mutters, voice rising sharply in the middle of the word. She pants a little, and then again, pillows on her side rustling as Laura’s moans are abruptly muffled. Maybe she’s sitting on Laura’s face. “Damn, damn—well, it might be Manchester, but we need to get out, you’re getting antsy, you always get us into trouble when you’re—you’re—oh, God, that’s good, yes, yes—”
Stiles snickers under his breath, but he’s rocking with purpose into Derek’s mouth now. Then he puts down the tablet and he—he pushes Derek away, till Derek’s rolled up into the back of the daybed. He gets off the bed and hauls up Peter, and starts dragging him towards the bathroom.
“All right, fine, we’ll go to Manchester,” he says without looking back.
Lydia is riding Laura’s face, and she’s got both hands down on Laura’s breasts, pushing them together, twisting hard at the clamps on the nipples. Laura’s only half-turned and she’s trying to get her hips over—her hands are tied behind her, too—and when Derek looks away from his sister’s chest, he just ends up looking at her groin instead, hair clipped short instead of shaven, wet and shiny as her mouth and chin, and a button of purple plastic showing further back, sticking out of her vagina.
Derek is hard, frustrated, and mad that he’s embarrassed. Embarrassed that he’s mad. Something. He wrenches his head aside and pushes his face into the bed, and doesn’t look up till Lydia’s running her hand through Laura’s tumbled hair, shoving his sister over as she climbs off the bed. Lydia shakes out her dressing gown, then belts it and wanders off into the other room.
Peter and Stiles are still in the bathroom. Peter stopped crying out a couple seconds ago, but that doesn’t mean he came, or that Stiles is done. Growling, Derek tips his head till his forehead’s pressed into the mattress. He pushes up his hips, pauses to try and pull the sheets away from his groin with one knee, and then humps painfully across the bed till he can at least get onto a dry area.
“Why do we let them do this,” Laura mutters. When he looks over, she’s still on her back but she’s scissored a pillow between her legs, squeezing her knees rhythmically into it. She looks up, then snorts. “Seriously, Derek, you’re going to get squeamish now?”
“Why is it every time we meet up, you sound more and more like Peter?” Derek says. He rolls against a pillow, then rolls off because it’s making the ropes press harder into his back. But that makes the ropes press too, into his belly, and he never was sensitive in half the goddamn places Stiles has made him be touchy about.
Laura watches him for a while. Doesn’t wince at the hard cock slapping between his thighs and into his stomach, but doesn’t really linger either. She’s his sister but it’s—weird. He’s gotten used to people staring at him, wanting it. “If you keep moving, you’re just going to make it worse.”
“Shut up,” Derek snarls, and then just slumps into the corner.
Shrugging, Laura just rides her pillow. She manages to get herself off, he thinks—he’s looking at the ceiling, trying to listen for sounds from the bathroom—and then she lets out a heavy sigh that turns into a string of swear-words.
“These goddamn clamps,” she says when he looks at her. Laura pushes herself up into a half-sitting position against the other end of the daybed, careful of the leash pulling at her neck. Smirks at him as she punches the pillow with her knees, then tilts it with her shin, getting it over her crotch. “There. You wanna come over, get these off for me, little bro?”
Derek looks at her.
Laura rolls her eyes. She was maybe the most normal of them, way, way back before the fire, before she took up with Peter. Popular girl, lots of friends, volunteered on the weekends. Derek’s still not sure what happened.
Peter says he knows, but the more time goes on, the more Derek thinks he’s lying, because Laura just—keeps changing. It’s not like Peter, where you can see exactly where he’s bent—been bent, sometimes, but most of the time he’s the one doing the bending—and work back to figure out when. She just keeps doing a little more and then a little more, and then she’s fucking their uncle and screaming at their mother to try an orgasm sometime, it might help. And telling Derek to run, choking under Kali’s knee, and locking Peter out on a balcony on a freezing night because it’s the anniversary of the fire, and blowing two security guards to stall them from calling the cops on Derek and Peter, so she’s got time to grab one of their guns and shoot them both.
“So how are things?” Laura asks.
Derek shrugs. Winces as the ropes across his shoulderblades cut in. “I’m kind of sore. You?”
“You’re a lot funnier these days,” Laura says. She sounds amused but she doesn’t look it. “How’s Peter?”
“Why?” Derek says.
Laura presses her lips together. Shifts against the pillows. Her breasts bob and the light coming in through the window behind the bed gleams off the nipple clamps, and Derek looks before he can stop himself. She snickers as he jerks his head off to the side, then sighs. “You two are still together, right?”
Derek looks back.
“He’s not being too annoying, is he?” Laura asks. She kneads the pillow with her knees. At first he thinks it’s just fidgeting, and then she gets it flipped so that it’s high enough to sort of cover her breasts. Her mouth twists a little and she bends over to hit the pillow with her chin, making its top flop away from her. “Derek. Look, I’m just worried about you.”
“No shit,” Derek finally says. He drops his head and lets his face sink into another of the pillows, even though that tightens all the knots lying against his tattoo. “Well, you’re talking again, shouldn’t you know?”
“I can still kick you in the crotch from here, dumbass,” Laura says. Then she sighs again. “We’re just talking. God, Derek, you know I haven’t—we haven’t since the fire, and anyway, that was just—I don’t know. That was just fucking.”
Derek pushes his face up so that he can look at her. “And you made me talk to him for you for six months, but I guess that was just talking too.”
“Oh, my God.” Laura starts to roll her eyes, and then closes them instead. She mumbles to herself, then is quiet for a few minutes.
Lydia comes back, but she’s doing something with her phone at the same time. She only gets halfway into the room before she curses and turns around, calling somebody, and Laura slumps just a little, chewing on her lip and staring at the empty doorway.
“You really like her?” Derek says.
Laura looks at him like he’d been looking at her, wondering just how hard he hit his head, and if he still thinks he’s himself or if he thinks they’re aliens from Sirius. Then she tilts her head. She smiles like Peter, from certain angles. Derek thinks it’s how she looks so much less like their mother that way.
“I like her taste in clothes. I like her negotiating style. And I like the way she fucks me with her knife hilt,” Laura says, grinning. “You like waiting on Stiles?”
“I like it better when I’ve got his cock in my mouth,” Derek says, and he’s not lying.
He’s being a little shit again, says Laura’s cocked brows. She shakes her head at him, then grimaces a little, moving her shoulders stiffly. “God, she loves the clamps,” she mutters. “I was asking Peter what he does about his, and you know what he said? He just said have Lydia get another girlfriend, for sucking on my nipples after she takes them off.”
“Well, it works for him,” Derek says. He lifts his head a little more, because he keeps getting pillow in his mouth. “That’s what you talk about?”
“That. And business, you know, what we get to hear about it, and our favorite Ben & Jerry’s limited edition flavors. And you.” She gets sober, her voice abruptly acidic. “We get to see each other a lot more than we used to, Derek. We kind of have to figure out how to get along. And anyway, I think I get now why he was so mad at me. It wasn’t fun, hearing from Kali that you’d gone after him and not me. I mean—I understand why, I don’t blame you, really. But it feels different than what you understand.”
Derek starts to say that he’d known where she was, that was why, and then the rest of what she’s saying registers. And then he still wants to say it, to justify it, but she’s looking at him and she’s not smiling, because she’s not mad. She’s just—she’s regretful.
“I’m sorry,” he finally mutters.
“Goddamn it, Derek,” Laura sighs. She shifts like she might try and come over. Then settles back, rolling her eyes, because the pillow’s slipped and her nipple clamps are pointed right at him again. “And look, I guess I did miss him. When I had time to think about it, wasn’t just mad at him all the time. He’s still my uncle—our uncle. And…well, I guess you really are into him, huh.”
Derek shrugs.
“He’s got some things going for him besides being a really good lay,” Laura adds. She’s needling him on purpose, and she doesn’t look repentant at all when he snarls into the bed. Just irritated. “I really want you to just—to learn to relax, Derek, considering—God, look at this, all right? It’s so fucked up and it’s still the best we’ve gotten since the fire, and I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of trying to pretend I’m not like I am. I’m ready to be okay with it. So if you really want this too, you need to get over the fact that he and I fucked. We both have.”
“Easy for you, you didn’t give a fuck anyway,” Derek says.
Laura’s eyes narrow. Then she drops her head forward, blowing her breath out. It hitches when her nipples touch the pillow but it’s still pure irritation. “You are so goddamn immature sometimes—”
“Hey, hey, you calling him names?” Stiles says.
He doesn’t have Peter with him. Stiles grins like he knows exactly what Derek’s thinking, crossing the room and then hooking his hand into the ropes straining over Derek’s back. He hauls Derek up and across the bed by them, then off the bed. His free hand goes down and cups Derek’s balls, fingers going immediately for the piercings, fondling them till Derek stops hissing from the ropes and starts whimpering from that instead.
“Come on, he’s still got come leaking out of his ass,” Stiles says. He looks a little annoyed when he feels at Derek’s cock, and finds it only half-hard, and then he just shrugs and starts biting at Derek’s jaw, dragging them towards the bathroom. “I want you to clean him out while I’m riding your cock, and then we’ll talk about something nicer than whatever your sister was talking about, okay?”
Derek twists his head around, stumbling and shivering as he is, and just manages to catch Stiles for a kiss. It’s clumsy, he keeps losing Stiles’ mouth. The other man lets him try for a few seconds, then lets go of the ropes and grabs onto the back of his neck instead, kissing him right on his mouth, hard and hot.
Stiles spins them around, walking Derek backward into the bathroom. Over Stiles’ shoulder, Derek sees Laura watching them, face torn. He lets himself hit the side of the door, then arches up against Stiles, moaning, and Laura slowly starts to grin.
She’s still his sister, was, is, and will always be. He loves her, too, and she still tries to look out for him. And he doesn’t like seeing her miserable, even if they’re fighting, and so he stalls Stiles for a minute or so, grinding his cock into Stiles’ hand, until Lydia comes back. When Stiles finally gets him all the way back into the bathroom, Laura’s disappeared under the other woman.