Little Red Murder

He first comes across a dead body at four; it was a bird and Genim was entranced with it's blood and how its body still twitched. He accidently killed someone when he was eight, a little girl with strawberry blond hair and green eyes. He's sixteen when he meets Derek and then Peter Hale; who knew Little Red and the Big Bad Wolves would have so much in common.

Warnings: Animal Cruelty. Child Murder. Murder. Child Neglect. Grevious Bodily Harm. Minor Character Death. Panic Attacks. Alcoholism. Pyschostimulants. Anti-Anxiety drugs. Adderall. Sexual fantasies. Blood Fetish. Sexual Content. Allusions to possible Dub-Con. Breathplay. Anal Sex. Bloodplay. Bondage. Knotting. Blowjob. Choking. Dom/sub overtones. Dub-con. Allusions to Double Penetration.

Authors Note: Urhm. I fic'ced. Again. With slightly screwed up Stiles - which I was very much looking forward too. This will be under Stiles/Derek because its mainly them but then I was prompted on Tumblr to do a PeterxStilesxDerek one with mostly PeterxStiles and DerekxStiles and so I thought, why not make them all screwed up and have Stiles as Little Red and Peter and Derek as the Big Bad Wolves?

Disclaimer: I do not, nor will I ever own Teen Wolf. I will never obtain such a thing and any plots or characters that one may recognise from the original author is not mine.

He first came across a dead body when he was four.

It was in his own back yard, sitting beneath a long rotted apple tree that was plotted at the very back of the greeny pastor. Its red blood pockmarked where it had travelled when it had died, flying lopsidedly into the grass before picking itselt up again only to crash into another piece of grass. With all the logical thinking of a four-year-old, Genim didn't bother wiping his hands of the birds blood that stained his palms when he fell into a splatter of blood. He only gazed at it intently, his face screwed up in intense concentration before bringing a blood-soaken finger to his mouth and sucking on it. The bitter copper taste made his nose wrinkle but his taste-buds exploded.

Still with his finger in his mouth, Genim had ambled closer a large grin on his face as he slowly got used to the bitter taste of birds blood. The raven was sprawled beneath the tree, spread-eagled and bloodied. It's black feathers were strewn across the dew-dotted grass like the blood the body had spilt. He grabbed one in a graceless hand, feeling the silky smooth surface as it ran across his face and hands. He laughed, his laugh that of a giddy four-year-old who didn't know any better. He kept it, putting it into his pocket with a care that he didn't even know of.

But the main attention was kept on the corpse, feathers hardly sticking to it's mangled body, head twisted off to an impossible angle; almost as if a cat had ragged it before tossing it to the side as it was deemed useless. Fang marks punctured its fragile chest, making the frail ribs give way and exposing the still throbbing tiny heart to the open air. Even as Genim watched, the tiny heart thumped once - twice - thrice - then not at all. The lungs, so so tiny, were not placed in the chest, rather then had been dragged out with the animals intestines, half-mauled and hald-eaten with only the barest of muscles and fat left, they were strewn across the body and the grass and felt squidgy when Genim poked a piece of intestine nearest to his blood-soaken knee. The wings were almost ripped entirely from the body, spun the wrong way as the small and oh-so-breakable bones poked through the thin layer of skin.

One tiny, glazed eye stared up at Genim.

Genim remembered his mother, brown hair and warm eyes and bright sundresses, running over to him. She gently slapped his hand when he made to poke the tiny eye that hung out of it's socket, watching it twist in the breeze with a morbid curiosity. She had snatched his wrist into hers, pulling them both way from the body that seemed to call to Genim. He paid no attention to her scoldings, only turned his head around to look at the mangled corpse of the raven before sucking his still slightly bloodied finger into his mouth.

His first victim was when he was eight.

It had been an accident, borne from neglecting to keeping an eye on where he was pointing a small pellet gun. It did not belong to any of them, rather it belonged to Mr McCall when he had still been around. He had given the pellet gun to his son, Scott, who was Genim's new found friend in Beacon Hills. He had been alone when it had happened, Mrs McCall having called Scott in who had only smiled widely at Genim before tossing the small gun into Genim's fumbling hands as he ran towards his house. Mrs McCall didn't bother asking for the small gun she knew her husband had given her son, only opened the door and ushered him in.

Genim, hands still trembling as he felt the weight of the pellet gun in his hands, stumbled away from the McCall house, away from where they had been shooting already battered cans in the front garden. He had traipsed into the edge of the tree line, the sounds of animals loud in the stillness of the forest. He remembered stumbling around aimlessly, shooting at trees and wildlife that so much as crossed his eyeline. He nailed a squirrel to a tree, before it dropped to the forest floor, dead with it's blood still spilling out from its side, eyes wide and glazed as it stared up at Genim, as if accusing him.

He remembered being scared by a tree branch cracking, clumsily turning round with the small gun raised up and out, fingers dually on the trigger as he swayed this way and that. When he heard the heavy breathing, he had turned and his fingers compressed upo the trigger. The tiny bang it let out scared both him and the little girl that had tried to sneak up on him.

He watched, wide-eyed but excited, as the small yellow pellet raced through the air before impacting with her turned head, smacking straight into the soft side of her temple - but it did not stop. It carried on, burying itself under her skin and concaving her brain. A little blood dripped from the small hole before she fell to the leaf-strewn forest floor.

She was small, tiny even, with long strawberry blond hair and green eyes that were becoming cloudy in death. Her bright yellow sundress reminded Genim of his mother and her strawberry blond hair reminded him of this girl at school a very pretty one with green eyes and a snobby attitude that Genim couldn't wait to get rid of. She reminded him of Lydia Martin as he knelt down besides her, digging cumsy fingers into the small wound in her temple, blood coating his fingers before he bought them to his mouth as tasted the fresh blood. He shook his head, dropping the pellet gun besides the body before grasping her around the thin wrists. He knew from when his mother would whisper to him, underneath the blankets at night, that the wild-life would eat anything and everything if he placed in the right spot.

She was only four.

His second victim was a month after that.

It was an animal this time, Mrs Next-Doors annoying poodle that liked to pee in the Stilinski garden which his mother used to despair over.

His third was another child, when he was nine and drowned a little boy in the pond at the park.

Then his mother got sick.

And everything changed.

Genim - or Stiles, rather - learned how to survive on his own. His father ws so very often sunk into the bottom of a bottle of what he learned was called alcohol, a horrid, sickly-smelling liquid that made Jonathan Stilinski angry - angry at the world, angry at the hospital, angry at his wife, angry at himself, angry at Stiles, angry angry angry.

Stiles remembered when he turned ten a week after his mother died.

He overslept, because his mother was not there to wake him as she so usually did on his birthday.

He did not have his usual breakfast of pancakes with fresh strawberries like he always did on his birthday because his mother was not there to make them as she so usually did on his birthday.

He did not get the usual customary knitted sweater that he always did on his birthday because his mother was not there to give them to him as she so usually did on his birthday.

He did not watch transformers as he usually did because his mother wasn't there to watch them with him as she so usually did on his birthday.

He went to sleep late because his mother was not there to usher him up to bed like she so usually did on his birthday.

He did not see his father at all that day.

After that, he spent the majority of his time in the forests with his small pellet gun that he never gave Mr McCall back, even when he left a week before Amanda Stilinski died.

His first panic attack was when he was shooting a cat across the road, watching it with keen eyes as he shot at its already hurt paw. It let out a screech as he hit it, the pellet have impacted but doing no intense damage. He first felt short of breath when the butcher came down upon him, a meat cleaver in hand as he brandished it at Stiles in a way that made Stiles crave to grab it and slice it through the elder mans neck.

He blacked out, breath coming harsh and sharp, unable to draw in breath as he thought of wacking the butcher straight in the neck.

When he came too, he was at the hospital, with his father sat in his dishelleved Sheriff Uniform, watching over Stiles like a hawk.

He felt the urge to grab the scalpel that had been left on the window and plunge it into his fathers eye, to hear the soft flesh squeal as the sharp blade sliced through the eye easily, almost like a make-shift labotomy as it skewered its way into his fathers brain.

He couldn't look his father in the eye again.

He recieved two prescriptions when he turned eleven.

A Psychostimulant known as Adderall and an Anti-Anxiety drug.

They blamed his panic attacks - becoming even more as his thoughts became increasingly violent - on the loss of his mother at a young age.

He did not bother to correct them.

Scott McCall was bitten by a werewolf when Stiles was just shy of turning sixteen.

It had been Stiles' fault in retrospect, he had been the one who had wanted to find the dead body which had been cut in half, a clean cast that that had left only residue of the blood. Stiles wouldn't have admitted it to Scott, but he wanted to know who had been the one to chop the girl in half; his kills were usually so rushed but precise. His ADHD did not lend him much in patience nor his already restless nature.

But then things had turned to hell; the girl had turned out to be Laura Hale and her younger brother, Derek had come back to Beacon Hills because of her death, trying to find her killer.

When Stiles first saw Derek, leather jacket with such a serious face, he would only admit to himself that he felt the first stirrings of lust as he imagined what Derek would look like, covered in blood and his face slack as he came apart above Stiles even as Stiles took his own pleasure. Learning that he was a werewolf that healed only added to his fantasies.

But then came the trouble of hiding his scent; he knew that as a werewolf - thanks to his awesomely amazing google-fu skills - that werewolves had amazingly heightened senses and that any werewolf that passed through here caught a whif of Stiles's scent, they would know who had been disposing of death people and animals in a large lake just north of the Beacon Hills Preservation.

He could not afford to be outted as the murderer he was, even if it gave him the pleasure he would soon take from Derek Hale.

Derek found out on a Saturday night.

He had been out hunting on Stiles' usual hunting night when he had caught the scent of fresh blood; panicking though keeping it quiet, he had raced to follow the scent, perhaps thinking that something had happened and that the Alpha had attacked again.

Those Alpha Eyes belonged to Laura and would aways remain Laura's.

But he did not find anything of the sort. Instead, he found a sixteen year old boy, covered from head to foot with blood, carrying a large bound package that reeked of blood. Derek whined in the back of his throat as he saw Stiles, bloodied and vicious as he dragged whatever was in the package towards the stream. Blood soaked his hands and the ground before the package was lifted with an almighty grunt before Stiles - scrawny, small Stiles - threw it with all his might into the river.

The glint of a knife drew Dereks' attention to Stiles' bloodied belt.

Stiles, faced slick with blood stood with his back to Derek who could feel himself hardening in his jeans as he smelt fresh blood and the intoxicating scent of Stiles beneath it. The smell of musk and pine and fresh fruit mixed well with the sweet-tang of coppery blood. It tasted - and smelt - of aphrodisac to Derek and he couldn't - didn't - want to stop the want that coursed through him; even his wolf, rolling just under his skin and trying to break through in his blood lust - longed to have Stiles beneath him, devoid of anything but that blood as Derek used and abused him, longed to have Stiles beneath him as they took their pleasure, longed to have Stiles beneath him as they knotted him. The both wanted him and they both needed him.

So both wolf and man took him.

Derek remembered pouncing upon an unsuspecting Stiles, who put up a gallant fight even as Wolf battled Man. But wolf would always win and it was Derek that pinned the teenager to the forest-floor, wolfed out and with claws dangerously close to Stiles' wrists which he had pinned in one hand above Stiles' head and wrapped firmly around Stiles' neck, just slightly cutting on his air supply, making the teen grapple with the unmoving man.

Derek, still wolfed out, lowered his face to Stiles' neck, taking a long deep breath of that intoxicating scent of blood and musk and pine. He slightly shifted his palm, his tongue lolling out to lick at the lovely curve of a still struggling Stiles' neck. His growled when he felt the thin wrists struggle beneath his hand.

"Stay," was all he commanded.

To his shock but immediate pleasure, Stiles let out a whimper before falling silent and still, limply lying beneath Dereks surperior form even as Derek smelt the spicy scent of arousal sharp and heavy in the air. He let out a growling huff, passing as a laugh in his wolf form as his sharp fangs teasingly ran across the fragile flesh over the younger boys cartoid artery, he could feel - as well as hear - the pusle pounding beneath the surface, hear and taste and feel the blood rushing through the expanding veins of Stiles whined underneath him, feeling the sharp fangs and reacting to them in a way that Derek hadn't expected.

Releasing the hand clasped around the teens neck, he trailed it down using is claws to draw blood from the body beneath him as he caressed the skin, before they ended at Stiles' thin, flexing thighs before forcefully hitching up Stiles' hips and forcing both pairs of hips together.

"-Fu-ck," Stiles whined into Dereks mouth, tongue flicking to and fro over the sharp, shining canines even as their hard cocks clashed together through rough layers of denim that only heightened their pleasures.

"Yesss," Derek hissed lowly, thrusting his hips forwards and hitching Stiles up an inch through the sheer force of it. Stiles whimpered, unable to move due to the heavy and solid body pinning him down into the floor, his shoulders starting to ach at their prolonged exposure to Dereks claws, blood slickening them and making the pleasure coursing through them even more potent.

Sharp claws marred bloodied denim before both shirt and jeans were ripped from him, and Derek growled as he saw the sweet flesh of the boy, marred with cuts and bruises and slickened with red blood that made Stiles' all the more intoxicating.

Using both fangs and claws, Derek ripped a large pile of fabric from Stiles' shirt before stuffing it into the teens mouth, gagging him and muffling his moans and whines and whimpers as he tried to arch into Dereks unmoving body.

"Mine!" Derek growled as he used Stiles' leather belt to clinch the boys wrists jsut above his head. Stiles moaned through the gag as he felt the leather slip around his wrists. Using both hands, and feeling his fangs receed, Derek vaulted up the hips so they where eye level with Derek.

He blew gently, watching as Stiles' entrance winked at him before Derek licked, making Stiles almost scream through the gagas he felt Dereks tongue try to bury itself into his arse, igniting pleasure as it ravanged Stiles' nerves making his legs - which Derek had placed down his own back - struggle as he tried to thrust back into Derek, riding his face as he felt a tongue twist and flick and lick at him. His own blood started to slicken his wrists as he struggled.

Derek growled, saliva making his mouth shiny beneath the moon and dark night as he dropped Stiles' writhing hips to the leaf-strewn floor, before wrapping his thin legs around the Beta's waist, feeling the older mans hard cock against his arse before he felt the searing pain of a saliva slick cock pressing into his unprepared entrance.

Stiles screamed against the gag as he felt pain as Derek forcefully pushed into him, thin wrists trying to tug off the leather belt that had been wrapped around his wrists, he was hiked up onto the very edge of Derek's tighs which were knotted with muscles and corded as Derek began to thrust, pulling in and out of Stiles' hot warmth as he tried to hold off his own orgasm even as Stiles whimpered, his stomach pulling as his release began to arise from the bottom of his hips, pleasure coursing through him as he felt Derek move.

He met Stiles thrust for thrust, cock going in deep and making the teen see stars as he hit his prostate on evey other thrust, making his head toss side to side as he tried - and failed to buck up into Derek.

The last thing he felt was a searing pain as Derek's dick began to swell at the base and Derek forced it into him.

He woke up on Saturday, with his arse hurting something fierce and in his own bed.

He still smelt of Derek.

But the news of who the alpha was came and everything changed.

Peter Hale.

Peter Hale

Stiles shook his head even as he gripped the edge of the Jeep. Peter Hale, Derek's Uncle who was totally bordering onto Bad-Touch land and the driver in the crazy train to god-damn Cray-Cray-Ville was the Alpha. Could this day get any worse?

"His password is also Allison?"

Though he must admit, Peter was really sassy - and rather attractive at that, if you ignored the sociopathic tendancies but really, Stiles can't talk because he's probably just as bad - with a very sarcastic wit that he must admit does make him a bit hot under the collar. He knew that Peter could probably smell his attraction and his arousal - and the fact that he and Derek had been fucking like rabbits ever since Derek had found out about his killings - which only heightened his arousal.

He woundered if he smelt like Derek's property.

"Still want him in your pack?"

Even Stiles as Scotts best friend could tell you that the werewolf was a little bit on the stupid side; heck, Stiles had come over to Scott's house and the were hadn't even smelt the blood nor Derek's scent nor come on him. How stupid or incessantly oblivious do you have to be? Especially as a werewolf.

Peter only hmm'ed at his question.

He'd take that as a no.

He takes it back; yes, this day could get any worse.

He stared, wide-eyed as Peter - Peter freaking Hale - clasped a clawed hand around his wrist and the small marks he made in the soft skin itched in time with the small incision that was just under his chin.

"Do you want the bite?" His voice was silky and smooth, and Stiles felt his head spin as his cock hardened - this was a really bad time to get a hard-on for a villian - and his legs trembled and all he wanted really was all have Peter back him up against his own jeep and feel those fangs against his skin. Fuck, what was wrong with him?

"No,"

He knew Peter could tell he was lying. Hell, he knew that Peter knew that Stiles knew Peter knew Stiles knew he was lying. Peter smiled, showing fangs and teeth and tongue and heck, his handsome restored face was turning Stiles on and god-damn it, really really really bad time to get a freaking hard-on!

"Are you sure?" Peter questioned, and his voice was like crushed velvet, smooth and twining around Stiles like a cat, washing over Stiles and slicking his skin, making him shiver. It reminded him of when he would slice and dice, torture a victim before throwing them into the lake and their blood would splash against his skin. "Because I can hear your heartbeat Stiles, and I can hear how you lie. I can taste how much you want it. I know what you do, boy and being a werewolf will make it even better; your bloodlust will be enhanced and you'll be able to dole out even more damage," Crap, it was a good deal and Stiles knew that Peter knew he had Stiles between a rock and a hard place. Do I or Don't I? "How about it, Stiles?"

No matter how much he was tempted by it, he knew he was no where near ready for that; he barely had any control over his bloodlust as a human, and if Peter was right with what he said, a were's bloodlust would be even bigger and be even worse; he knew he would feel that power coursing through his veins and he knew that he would be insatiable with it. So he shook his head.

Peter's eyebrow rose. "Oh?" He prompted. Stiles only shook his mouth, wrist trembling in Peters grasp. "Pity," But Peter grinned despite the disappointment coursing through him. He smirked, all teeth and fangs as his grip on Stiles' wrist shifted before he tugged the teen closer, making him loose his footing so he practically callopsed onto Peters chest. He buried his face into the crook of Stiles' neck.

"Erm-," Stiles paused, non-plussed as Peter inhaled deeply, only to whine low in his throat as he felt sharp fangs graze over his cartoid artery and a strong arm slip around his waist and clutch him even tighter to Peters chest.

"If I can't have you how I want too," Peter growled lowly, voice almost muffled into the thin skin of Stiles' neck, making him shiver and practically melt into the broad chest he was pressed flushed against. "Then I shall have you like this,"

Stiles whimpered.

"Pl-please," He whined, high in his throat as he felt the small prick of fangs against his neck, before moaning as he felt blood rush to the surface. Peter moaned thickly around a mouth of blood, hips rocking forward into Stiles' and making both moan loudly, echoing around the concrete garage. Still clutched fast-steadly to Peters heaving chest, Peter turned them so Stiles pressed flushed between man and car as a solid body covered him entirely, blocking any view someone may have of them.

"So soft, so sweet," Peter crooned into Stiles' ear, making him shiver against him. Stiles moaned as he felt hot breath slide across his skin, his hands coming up to rest and then clench around the broad shoulders of the other man. "So mine,"

"Oh-fuck," Siles groaned, grinding back into the hips that thrust forward into his, before one of Peters hands slid down from his waist to his thigh, petting the smooth skin through the silky slacks before hitching his leg up, hooking Stiles' leg over Peters slim waist.

"Yess," He hissed as he felt his arse groped by Peters strong hand, before it slipped down the back and dry fingers pressed against his entrance, forcing the unslicked digits to push inwards. It felt uncomfortable, unbearably so but he was distracted whn Peter pushed his hips to his, before pressing their lips flush together.

A strong hand clasped at his short hair as a tongue mapped out Stiles' mouth, tasting punch and pine and strawberries and smelling Stiles' natural scent of pine and musk and it turned his head light and dizzy. He felt resistance before his finger sank in, encased with a warmth that made Peter's wolf roll just beneath his skin, lust and hotness making his head dazed.

"Pet-Peter," Stiles moaned, hiking his other leg up so he was clinging to the older man, head tossed backwards onto the car he was pressed against and his hands unable to let go of Peter, one thrust into his hair and clenching it sharply whilst the other was around his shoulders, gripping at his trench-coat tightly. Peter growled, forcing another finger to Stiles' dry channel. "Fu-fuck!" He shouted, pained despite pleasure makng his eyes dilate as his eyes slammed shut.

"Look at me," Peter demanded, eyes glowing a phosperent red that made Stiles think of fresh blood. With a growl, Peter ripped his fingers from Stiles, before dropping the teen onto his feet. Stiles, confusion apparent despite the spicy scent of arousal hot in the air, whined as Peter forced him to his knees.

With a half-smirk across his handsome face, Peter scrabbled with his belt buckle, the clink of metal making Stiles' salivate at knowing what would be coming. Stiles was hesitant, but not scared. He had had Derek force him into this and he had loved it, feeling the thick skin forcing him to fight for his every breath; and he knew that Peter was even more vicious than his nephew.

A hand curled around his jaw, locking into the joints and forcing his mouth to drop open. As soon as it did, Peter thrust his hips forward making Stiles choke as he felt Peter's hard cock hit the back of his throat, precome slicking it as he sucked. He whined as it withdrew, liking the heavy weight and saltiness of it on his tongue.

His eyes flickered up and he felt his stomach tighten as he saw Peter, eyes wide and a dark red, starring down at him. He moaned as his mouth was filled again, a short sharp jab that made him moan and gasp for breath. He kept his gaze locked onto that of Peter who was gazing down at him before he felt a hand on the back of his head and he was pulled forward as Peter thrust forward.

He was choked, struggling for breath around Peters thick cock as he was gagged on it. Peter chuckled, low and smug even as his hips made short movements, only sharp jabs that made Stiles' eyes water even as his cock throbbed and hardened. He let out a long low moan that made Peter growl and then groan, moaning as his cock was encased in tight wet warmth.

"Fuck-" He cursed lowly, voice dark as he stepped away from Stiles, who whined as the cock in his mouth disappeared and he was left kneeling at Peters feet, the spicy tinge of arousal sharp in the air and intoxicating to Peters' sensitive nose.

"Stand," Peter growled lowly, demanding and with just a little tint of the Alpha in his voice and even if he wasn't wolf, Stiles did as demanded only to be turned and pressed forcefully against the smooth metal surface of the car, human hands scrabbling uselessly against the unyeilding surface.

Peter stepped forward, pressing against him before his slacks were pulled down impatiently, followed by his tight-fitting boxers before his feet were kicked apart and Peter stepped between them.

With one hand clutching the front of his throat, and the other balancing him by leaning on the car, Peter lined himself up easily before burying his face into the nape of Stiles' neck and then docking his hips forward-

Stiles let out a rasping howl, breath becoming sparse due to the hand clasped tightly around his neck.

Peter did not bother to let him get use to being filled with something so huge, he only kissed the back of Stiles' sweaty neck before withdrawing and then filling him right back up with one harsh thrust, making him see stars as it hit something sweet inside of him. He whimpered loudly, feeling Peters cock throb in time to the heart pounding just against his back as the Alpha's fangs grazed against his neck, sharp against the jutting bones of Stiles' spine.

All that could be heard for a few minutes was whining and growling, moaning and grunting and whimpers as Peter continue to forcefully pound into Stiles, hand spasming dangerously around the humans neck even as Stiles stiffened before screaming as best he could, his come splattering against his Jeep.

Peter growled, scenting the source of the suddenly bittersweet as Stiles coming untouched and even as he buried his face into the arch of shoulder and neck, he felt his orgasm creep upon him and his knot swelled, thrusting his hips forwards carefully to nudge the swelling base of his cock into the suddenly limp human who blood still smelt intoxicatingly beautiful.

They stayed knotted together for almost twenty minutes.

Stiles was still limp, letting Peter take his whole weight even as they stayed standing and trembling against his semen coated Jeep.

That would be difficult to explain.

They separated when they reached the 25 minute mark.

Peter was gentle, tucking himself back in first before turning Stiles round and making the human place his hands on Peters shoulders as he hiked the humans boxers and slacks back up, stiffening before relaxing as he felt trembling and limp hands start to gently stroke through his hair. He purred as he stood, standing just as close to Stiles as he was before.

They stood quiet for another moment, though Peter could tell that Stiles' mind was racing with theories and ideas and things that perhaps even he couldn't comprehend. Stiles kept his arms wrapped fiercely around Peter and Peter only hesitated a moment before wrapping his arms around Stiles' fragile waist and burying his face once again in the arch between shoulder and neck.

He inhaled deeply and shuddered as he scented Stiles; a mixed scent of Stiles, Derek and him.

Both Derek and him had effectively marked and scented Stiles as theirs.

The first time Stiles truly felt whole was when Peter was resurrected.

And even then, that was only when they were sprawled on the mattress in the Hale House and Stiles between them.

And even then, that was only when Derek was inside him, spooning him from the front.

And even then, that was only when Peter was inside him, spooning him from the back.

They had both claimed him as theirs and he had claimed them as his.

Who knew Little Red and the Big Bag Wolves weren't so different after all?

The End