#also the irony of Peter calling Derek’s pack budding psychopaths is not lost on me

[beaconfeels]

@like-lazarus kindly tagged me in a “Messy Draft Monday” and even though I’ve been too stressed to be actively working on anything right now, I wanted to share something. So have a little bit of one of the random steter stories floating around in my brain:

Peter finishes loading the last bag into his car and leans against the trunk for a minute. Overall, he feels satisfied. His revenge is complete, plus he’s an alpha, which is a nice little perk.

It’s a little galling to have to leave the Hale territory instead of ruling it, but if he stays here his nephew and that merry little band of budding psychopaths will kill him eventually. He’s lucky, but he’s not that lucky.

The sound of rapidly approaching footsteps catches his ear first, then a quick heartbeat. He knows that heartbeat. He memorized that heartbeat one night that seems so long ago, but really wasn’t that long ago at all.

He turns around.

“Stiles,” he says, low, dangerous. Because he likes Stiles, but Stiles is most likely to come up with a murder plot that will actually work, so he’s not to be trifled with.

The boy pulls up short, staying well back from Peter. He’s breathing hard, and those pretty pink lips are parted, his cheeks flushed. He really is very lovely, Peter thinks.

Stiles has a large duffle bag weighing down one shoulder, his grip on it white-knuckled. “Take me with you,” he says.

Peter blinks. He thought he was beyond being surprised.

“You want me, right?” Stiles goes on. “You wanted to turn me. I can’t let you bite me, but I can be pack. Just take me with you. Let me stay with you and I’ll be pack. I’ll cook too, and clean.”

“Can’t let me bite you?” Peter asks. It’s not the only question he has, but it’s the one that sticks out the most in what Stiles has just laid on him.

“I don’t think so. Maybe? But right now it’s a no.” He bites his lip, taps his fingers on his leg. “Yeah. Definitely a no right now. Maybe forever. But humans can be pack, right?”

Peter doesn’t know why he’s even still standing here. Of course he’s not going to take Stiles with him. “You don’t even know where I’m going,” he says instead of what he should be saying, which is obviously no. It’s definitely not happening.

“I don’t fucking care,” Stiles says, and he sounds suddenly weary. “As long as it’s not here, I’m cool.”

Peter tilts his head. Stiles is such a mix of scents it’s always been hard to get a read on him, but Peter has noticed the anguish that radiates off the boy in waves. It’s a layer that runs under everything else— a steady, overwhelming sadness. “And what would your father have to say about that?” He still doesn’t know why he’s even engaging in it, why he’s giving the boy any hope.

Stiles snorts. “I left him a note that he’ll find whenever he finally realizes I’m gone. He won’t come after me.” He looks down and to the side, his hand clenching into a fist.

“Listen,” Stiles says, and he raises those big brown eyes to look right at Peter, “I can’t stay here anymore. Please. Just please, take me with you. I know I can’t promise not to be any trouble, you’d never believe that, but I can be useful. I can be good for you. I can be pack.”

He’s desperate, and that shouldn’t matter. If it were anyone else it wouldn’t matter, but this is Stiles. Stiles is unusual. He’s interesting. Now that he’s had his revenge, Peter is at a bit of a loose end. Not without plans, never without plans, but the future already looks a little boring. Stiles is many things, but boring isn’t one of them.

Plus, Stiles is the Sheriff’s son, and absconding with the son of the sheriff sounds like a delightfully mischievous, if misguided, end to his run in Beacon Hills. “Alright, you can come along.”

#my writing #steter #wips #I’m usually here for good dad Noah #but listen sometimes you need to take your dad issues out on innocent characters #for both catharsis and plot #also the irony of Peter calling Derek’s pack budding psychopaths is not lost on me