Derek was beyond tired by the time he got into the elevator, the ride up seeming to take three times as long to get to the top.

And, to Derek, that was just fine. Being trapped inside the rising box with nothing more than himself, he could almost pretend that tonight was just a normal night. A night without the urgency of a rescue mission. A night without having his childhood mistakes thrown into his face without warning and having to question all that he thought he knew. A night without fruitless searching for betas driven wild with bloodlust.

Both he and Scott had spent hours tracking down Boyd and Cora after confronting Allison―and finding Erica.

Derek had buried her himself while Scott did his best to track the betas, joining the hunt soon after with grief tearing at his soul. Eventually, they had managed to corner Boyd and Cora in the school's boiler room with the help of the Argents and Isaac. They'd waited until sun-up before unbolting the door, finding the two betas collapsed on the ground, unconscious, their roughest full moon having taken its toll. Deaton had agreed to look after them and so, after dropping them off, Derek had gone home, alone for once (a rarity ever since he'd bitten Isaac). Isaac had gone off with Scott to get ready for the start of school in a few hours, something that Derek did not envy after the night they'd all had.

Derek was tired in mind, body, and soul and the only thing keeping him from curling up in a corner of the elevator was the thought of the soft bed awaiting him in the loft.

The elevator slowed and shuddered to a halt.

Shaking himself out of his thoughts, Derek waited for the door to open and stepped out into the loft…only to recoil a second later as though he'd been slapped. Throughout the vast room, there pervaded a heady musk of sweat and sex. It stunned him into stillness, both by its unexpectedness and by the familiarity of the underlying scents.

Shock rapidly gave way to anger as he strode swiftly into the loft, fast zeroing in on where the musk was strongest: in his goddamn bed. Rage blinded him as he looked down on the ones responsible for defiling his space and in the blink of an eye Derek had whipped off the blanket―his semen-stained blanket―covering the sleeping forms of Stiles and his uncle, dragging the latter off of the bed by force.

The sudden removal of the blanket had roused Peter (and, a moment later, Stiles), but had not prepared the man to be manhandled from the warm bed to the cold concrete floor by the brutal grip on his arm. If Peter had struggled at all, his arm would have been broken, but the older man seemed to understand just how futile any escape attempts would be and instead lay docile beneath his seething nephew.

"Derek! This, this isn't what it looks like," Stiles said hastily as he scrambled to tuck himself into his shorts, his eyes wide with fear.

"Are you alright?" Derek growled at Stiles, barely taking his eyes off the man he had pinned to the floor with an arm behind up his back.

"Am I―am I alright?" Stiles parroted, looking incredibly young and confused.

"Are you alright? Did he hurt you?" Derek forced out. It was a simple question and yet the teen seemed to have a problem understanding it. And Derek needed him to answer it because, beyond the slight bruising around his neck, Stiles didn't seem to be injured―which both confused and pissed Derek off because that meant that his uncle had raped Stiles yet had had the presence of mind to coerce the teen into it.

"Ah," Stiles helpfully supplied. "Well, in that case, it really isn'twhat it looks like. Um, I know he's been kind of a douche in the past, but you really don't have to hold him down like that."

Derek frowned at him, Stiles's lack of appreciation for being saved making him hesitate. "The hell I don't, Stiles, he raped you."

"No, he really didn't," Stiles said, squirming on the bed in embarrassment, a light flush breaking out over his skin.

A wave of arousal from whatever Stiles was thinking about hit Derek and only served to fuel his anger. He was tired and done, and whatever the fuck this was that had happened in his bed combined with his exhaustion in a way that made his temper flare in a way he hadn't felt in years. "Oh, really? And you're half naked and reeking of sex because why?"

"He wanted it," Peter said, breaking off into a groan as Derek squeezed his arm harder.

"Do you really think I care what you have to say?" Derek shouted down at uncle. "He's sixteen, Peter. A strong breeze could get him going," he said, ignoring Stiles's indignant 'hey'. "What the hell were you thinking? And in my," Derek dug his claws into the man's arm, "bed? Seriously?"

"Hey, could we take a second to listen to Stiles? Possibly? That would be great. You know, seeing as I'm not actually a rape victim, here."

"Shut up, Stiles."

"No. I won't shut up, okay?" Stiles scooted to over to sit on the edge of the bed, his eyes darting rapidly between Derek and Peter. "You are totally freaking out for, like, nothing, dude―"

"Nothing? Nothing? I came back to find my uncle in my bed with a minor. How is that nothing?" Derek bit out, incredulously.

Stiles sighed, "Okay, granted, there are a lot of technicalities at play right now, but you really need to listen to me when I say that Peter didn't rape me. Derek? Come on, buddy, use those werewolf senses. I'm telling you the truth."

Peter shifted under Derek's hold, but stopped as soon as the Alpha breathed out a warning growl. "You know he's telling the truth, Derek. Did things get a little…intimate…between Stiles and I? Yes. The fact that he's underage is regrettable, I admit, but considering how long he's been playing with the big boys, I think he deserves a little more than to be called a child."

"He is a child. Why are you choosing to forget that?"

Peter scoffed. "Derek, he's hardly the first teenager to have sex before state law says he's legal to. Nor is he the first to fuck someone older."

Derek froze, hardly breathing as his body went unnaturally still. And then he saw red.

"Get out," Derek whispered, pushing away from Peter roughly. He'd had enough mistakes shoved in his face tonight and he was officially done. All he wanted was to recover alone and in peace and he couldn't fucking do that with Peter mocking him even as he lay on the floor, with Stiles covered in marks and the smell of sex, perched like an unsure kid on the edge of his bed. He wanted them out.

Stiles blinked at him "Um, okay?" he said, looking down at Peter as if for guidance.

And that was the last straw. Derek was the Alpha, was the one Stiles should be deferring to, and here he was, looking to Peter―a weak, backstabbing beta―for cues.

"Get out! NOW!" Derek snarled, startling the teen into finally scrambling off his bed to fumble for his scattered clothing. "The BOTH of you," he said, when Peter hadn't moved beyond turning over onto his back.

"Derek," Peter began, only Derek was in no mood to hear any more from either of them.

"Out," Derek growled in a deadly whisper, knowing his eyes were showing the rage within him. If he had to tell them one more time, he was going to throw them bodily out of the room (whether out via the elevator or out of one of the windows, he really didn't care).

Sighing softly, Peter picked himself up off the floor, scooping up his socks and shoes as he went.

Limping slightly, Stiles lead the way to the elevator, his head ducked in embarrassment, but he turned back to look at Derek before he reached it. "Um, so…what happened tonight? At the bank?"

Derek huffed and stared in amazement. "No. You don't get to pull this shit in my loft, in my bed, and still expect me to cater to your questions. Get out. I'm done with both of you tonight." He waited, chest heaving with anger, as Peter gently tugged Stiles into the elevator with him and shut the door.

"Unbelievable," he snorted, the audacity of Peter and his new toy making him shake his head.

And now he was alone in a room that smelled like sex. Great.

Gritting his teeth, Derek set about ridding the loft of the potent smell. He opened as many windows as he could, stripped the bed of the remaining sheets, and balled all of the rank bedding into a far corner near an open window. With nothing to do but wait for the smell to dissipate, Derek took a very long shower, trying to remove his bitter disappointment with scalding water, but only managing to wash off the blood and dirt caked on his skin.

When the water finally ran cold, Derek abandoned the temporary safety of the shower stall, feeling the exhaustion seeping back into his muscles now that his anger had stopped masking it. With a towel wrapped around his waist, Derek went back into the main room of the loft. The smell wasn't completely gone, but at least it wasn't suffocating him like it was before.

Maybe now he would actually be able to sleep.

He was about to settle in on the couch when his pride stirred to life. No. Derek refused to be driven from his own bed in his own home by the disrespect shown to him by a so-called 'friend' of his pack and his own fucking uncle. Absolutely not. He wouldn't give ground here like he'd had in his family's home.

Derek was done running.

Shoulders pulled back, he resolutely marched over to his stripped bed, dropped his towel on the floor, and threw himself onto the exposed mattress. Even without the soiled sheets, Derek could still smell their rut, like it had soaked into the bed. He groaned, irritated, and he tossed and turned for nearly half an hour before he drifted off, his body wrapped around the two pillows that had smelled the least like Stiles and Peter.

He didn't know how long he'd been out before he found himself awake again, but he was immediately aware of why he'd been driven from his badly needed sleep.

Apparently, he'd unconsciously ground his hips against the pillow in his arms to the point that his cock had gotten thick and hard. There was a wet line of precome on the pillow and Derek groaned as it made him slide against the fabric a little easier. Deciding not to ignore his needs, Derek pushed aside the soiled pillow and took his cock in hand. He closed his eyes, losing himself in the feel of soft foreskin moving over rock hard arousal and the slickness of the precome that oozed from his slit.

Derek breathed in deep and the bitter scent of come filled his lungs.

Only it wasn't his come.

It was Stiles's come. The smell of it had transferred from the coverlet and down into the mattress. Derek had noticed it before, had been too angry to do more than dismiss it, but now he couldn't get away from it at all. Not in his worked up state. It was too heady and tantalizing to ignore now and, with it filling his senses, the smell of it made him fist his cock faster.

Knowing it was a bad idea but too turned on to care, Derek turned his head to nuzzle at the mattress and inhaled deeply where the smell was sharper, more potent, and now Derek could isolate another scent, intertwined with that of Stiles's release.

Sweat―salty and tangy.

It wasn't Stiles's. The smell of Stiles's sweat was similar enough to his come that Derek could hardly tell them apart (the teen almost always smelled of a mixture of sweat and come so Derek wasn't surprised that the scents had already merged in his mind).

No, this sweat was different.

It was Peter's sweat, woven in with the sharpness of Stiles's come.

Unbidden images filled Derek's mind, filling in the gaps of how their scents came together.

Peter's body wrapped around Stiles's, driving into him, making the teen pant, sweat, and writhe, desperate for release. Peter fucking him harder and harder, sweat dripping off of him, marking the bedding with the scent of his need, marking Stiles with it. Stiles's hips stuttering forward as the teen spurted his release all over Derek's sheets, all of their scents mixing together.

Derek fucked his hand viciously, snapping his hips up into his grip as he took deep breaths, his nose digging into the mattress.

If Derek wasn't inches from falling over the edge, he might've taken a moment to think of how the mixed scents of Stiles, Peter, and himself made his cock throb and balls ache. He might've taken a moment to wonder at himself for wishing he'd been there so that he could have fucking tasted it all as the sweat and come was being driven into the mattress itself. He might've taken a moment to despise himself for wishing that he could have heard their moans get louder and louder until Stiles and Peter found heaven, only to fall straight back into the abyss.

With the fading taste of sex on his tongue and thoughts of Peter finding his release in the sweet clench of Stiles's hole, Derek ground his teeth together as he shot his own release all over the taut muscles of his abdomen, instinctively trying to quiet his cries.

Derek rolled onto his belly, rubbing the cooling splatters of come into the mattress, not caring how the coarse material scraped against his sensitive cock. He told himself that he was reclaiming his bed by spreading his scent back over it. But inside, he knew that he was mixing their three scents together, irrationally jealous for not having the chance to mix in his scent personally.

Sated and tired again, Derek drifted off to sleep, pushing away the post-fantasy guilt to deal with later.