
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/688446.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Peter_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Peter_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski, Sheriff_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Canon_Divergence, Peter_never_bit_Scott, Derek_died
      with_Laura, evil!peter, Non-Consensual_Bondage, Stockholm_Syndrome, Mild
      Gore, Kidnapping, Eating_Disorder
  Series:
      Part 1 of Clever_Boy
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-02-17 Completed: 2014-01-29 Chapters: 18/18 Words: 33701
****** Clever Boy ******
by abluemountainashtardis
Summary
     “Do you understand,” he said brushing his nose along Stiles' jaw.
     Stiles started shaking. “Why I can't let you go?”
     “Cause you're a super psycho rapist that -”
     “No Stiles,” Peter said cutting him off with a nip of his ear that
     Stiles flinched back from. “Use your head. Why can't I let you go?”
     “I don't know, man. I don't -”
     “Stiles. Don't disappoint me.”
     Stiles swallowed at the thinly veiled threat, and tried to think. So,
     apart from the heavy molesting that was currently going on...
     “I've seen your face,” Stiles grit out.
     --
     Peter never bit Scott, but Stiles still managed to get too involved
     with the murder cases. If only he weren't so smart.
***** Chapter 1 *****
 
Stiles could smell the smoke as he pulled against whatever the hell was around
his wrists keeping him bound to the post. It bit against his skin, sharp metal
still cold even though Stiles could feel the heat from the fire inside the
house. He wasn't going to break free of the restraint, but that wasn't the
point any more. He was trying to get cut now. It wasn't working.
 
Stiles let out a small sob as his frustration built. He was going to die here.
On the porch of this stupid condemned building.
 
“Uh uh, don't cry,” Peter said lightly as he came outside, pressed up against
him, and licked the tears from Stiles face. Stiles stomach rolled and he yanked
hard against the metal round his wrists again. Peter sighed into Stiles neck,
breathing him in. “I'll be back in one moment. I just want to watch the last of
her burn,” he said stepping away back inside.
 
Stiles rolled his hands into fists and drove his finger nails into his palms.
Finally, some breakthrough. He pressed his now bleeding palms against the
banister he was tied to, praying it'd be enough. Peter stood in the doorway
now, staring at Stiles.
 
“Stiles,” he breathed. “Stiles Stilinski. The Sheriff's boy,” he said stalking
closer. Stiles gritted his teeth. “And such a clever boy too,” Peter remarked
with some admiration in his voice. “So clever,” he said putting a hand to
Stiles cheek. “That you're going to tell me exactly why I'm not going to kill
you.”
 
Stiles stomach dropped. Heart going into overdrive. He could feel the edges of
a panic attack creeping in.
 
“Oh my god. Oh my god, please,” he choked out. “Please don't -”
 
“Stiles, calm down. You misunderstand,” he said stepping even closer, nearly
fully flushed along him. “Iam looking for a reason.”
 
Stiles tried to take a deep breath, but he couldn't quite make it past shallow
pants. He looked at Peter's eyes. They were steady, calm, expecting. The pros
of being a psychopath he supposed, tranquil as a building catches fire. Fire.
FIRE.
 
“This whole thing,” Stiles croaked out, tongue darting out to wet his lips even
though his throat was dry too. “It's been revenge – justice. It's been about
justice. About getting the people who... who burned your family, right?” Stiles
asks. Peter gives nothing away, just keeps staring at his face, Stiles looks
over Peter's shoulder through the window at the flames in the house that are
only getting higher. “It's been about avenging them. Not about... hurting
people. It's about getting the people who deserve it,” Stiles feels sick as he
says it. Nobody deserved the brutality this man had dished out. “I... I never
hurt your family,” Stiles coughed out. There's enough smoke now that it's
starting to sting his eyes. “Please...”
 
Peter steps away from him and disappears. Stiles cries silently, trying once
more to get free. He's making dents in the wood of the porch banister but
nothing apart from that. God he was so weak. Peter walks past him with a bag
and puts into the boot of his car. Slamming it shut he turns to stare at Stiles
again. God what was with all the staring.
 
Suddenly Peter's right in front of him, up against him, hand wrapped tight
around his jaw, pulling his mouth open, putting lips on his, tongue in his
mouth.
 
Stiles' desperation wells up in him. This guy is a murderer anda rapist. Great.
Oh god, this wasn't happening. Nononononononono.
 
“No no no no no no no no...” Stiles was yammering his eyes shut tightly as they
could go.
 
“Stiles.”
 
“No no no no no no no no...” Stiles blathered on completely ignoring
everything.
 
A sharp crack of pain blossomed on Stiles' cheek and Stiles' eyes flew open,
mouth snapping shut. This was the first time Peter had actually hit him.
 
Peter held Stiles' gaze for a few moments. A part of the house fell down and
Peter still didn't flinch.
 
“Stiles.” Peter placed his hands on Stiles hips.
 
“Yes?” Stiles croaked out.
 
“Do you understand,” he said brushing his nose along Stiles' jaw. Stiles
started shaking. “Why I can't let you go?”
 
“Cause you're a super psycho rapist that -”
 
“No Stiles,” Peter said cutting him off with a nip of his ear that Stiles
flinched back from. “Use your head. Why can't I let you go?”
 
“I don't know, man. I don't -”
 
“Stiles. Don't disappoint me.”
 
Stiles swallowed at the thinly veiled threat, and tried to think. So, apart
from the heavy molesting that was currently going on...
 
“I've seen your face,” Stiles grit out.
 
Peter pressed ridiculously close up against him as he reached around and
released his hands from their restraint. Peter stepped back, walked over to his
car, and held open the passenger door. Stiles glared tearfully, rubbing his
wrists, and glanced down to see what it was that had held him. All he could see
was a crowbar, but surely the recently comatose psycho couldn't have bent a
crowbar so quickly -
 
“Stiles. You stay there any longer you're going to burn.”
 
Stiles flicked his eyes up and walked over to the car.
 
“I hope you know what you're getting into here. I have ADD, can't control what
I say.”
 
“I'm sure I'll find something else for your mouth to do,” Peter said leering at
him. Stiles' stomach had finally reached its limit and he threw up. Dropping to
his knees and gasping for air Stiles let out a final plea.
 
“Please, please. I won't say anything I promise. Please, please don't -”
 
“Shh shh shh,” Peter said curling a hand round the back of Stiles head and
pulling him into a hug. “I'm sorry,” Peter whispered into Stiles' ear as he
sobbed. “I've already made up my mind.”
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
The Sheriff stared at the wooden post on the porch of the newly re-burnt Hale
House.
 
“Daddy! Daddy!”
 
“Sir?”
 
“Stiles!” John said picking the boy up. Stiles screamed as he was flipped
upside down and held by the ankles. John walked him into the kitchen like that.
“Hey sweetie,” he said kissing his wife on the cheek. She hummed and raised an
eyebrow. Uh oh.
 
“Stiles, show daddy what you did.”
 
Oh no. What had the kid done now? Stiles thrust his hands obediently into the
air, squirming as his dad took his wrists and inspected the crescent moon
scabs.
 
“Sir, it looks like there was someone inside the house when it burnt down.”
 
“Now tell daddy what you did.”
 
“We were playing cops and criminals,” Stiles said speaking a mile a minute,
using his hands to show his words. “I got taken by the baddies and had to stay
in the secret hideout while they did battle,” John frowned as hands bashed
against each other. Stiles was left out of the game. Again. Didn't even know
it. “And I remembered you had to leave DNA on a crime scene so the goodies can
tell the baddies took you so I did that,” he finished with a big grin.
 
“Oh,” John said taking a moment to process. Then he looked up at his wife.
“Oh.”
 
She widened her eyes and little and nodded.
 
“Looks like they were tied up so we're looking at murder. Arson and murder.”
 
“Now Stiles. Listen carefully. Promise me you won't do this again.”
 
Stiles frowned. “But I was right.”
 
“Yes,” John said automatically, because it was impossible to argue with this
kid. “But games are only pretend, yes?”
 
Stiles squirmed. “Yeeeeeeeeeeeah.”
 
“So next time pretend to leave DNA. Don't hurt yourself on purpose. Ever. You
know me and your mom work really hard to keep you safe.”
 
“Okay. I'll pretend when it's pretend.” John flitted his eyes up to his wife.
She shrugged and smiled. John smiled back. He was getting better at this.
 
“It's definitly connected to the other murd – Sir?”
 
John pulled out his mobile and checked the calls. Nothing. He phoned home. No
answer. He phoned Stiles. No connection.
 
“Sir? Sir!”
 
“My son was here.”
 
The deputy blinked.
 
“My son was here, and I don't know where he is.”
 
“Alright. How do you know?”
 
John pointed at the post.
 
“The gouges do look like someone struggled -”
 
“No. This. These. The blood here. See how it's shaped. Like little crescents.
That is someone who has dug their finger nails into their palms and then put
their hands against the post. I've seen Stiles do this before. Leave DNA behind
at a crime scene. Link the bad guys to you and the crime. God, he...” John
looked up at Deputy Browne. “He was here.”
 
The deputy nodded. “I'll get forensics down here. We first need to check he's
actually missing. Phone the school, his friends – we'll need a list – and last
known location,” the deputy looked at the Sheriff. “I'll need to take you down
to the station.”
 
The Sheriff nodded and walked towards the car.
 
“Was Stiles even connected to this arson case?”
 
John flinched. “He... had a theory.”
 
“We'll discuss how he had enough information to even create a theory later.
What was it?”
 
“Peter Hale. Stiles thought the murderer was Peter Hale.”
Chapter End Notes
     I went with fandom favourite John for the Sheriff. Don't expect the
     updates to be this quick usually.
***** Chapter 3 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Peter settled the bill in cash. Everything was in cash. It frustrated Stiles to
no end that he didn't know where Peter kept it. It's like it magically appears
in his pocket when no one's looking.
 
“Right, thanks,” the owner says as he rings it through. “You seen this thing?”
he asks nodding to the small t.v. screen hanging on the wall. Peter glances up.
 
“Oh yes, I've heard. Kidnapping isn't it?”
 
“They don't know. Haven't recovered a body, haven't got a ransom,” the guy says
around his cigarette. “First forty-eight hours are crucial – so if you see
anyone with burns on their face with a teenager -”
 
“I'll phone the police immediately. Although with burns on half his face it'll
be hard for him to get far.”
 
The guy grunted as he nodded and handed over their receipt. “Say he's crazy
too, so don't get any wise ideas. Specially not with your son there.”
 
Peter smirked. “Of course not. Have a nice day.”
 
Stiles followed Peter out of the office and into the car door Peter opens for
him. Stiles glares as he slides in and lets the car door slam behind him. Peter
settles next to him and pulls out onto the highway.
 
“Going to untie my hands?” Stiles asks bitterly.
 
“Are you going to use my dashboard as a drum kit?”
 
Stiles curls up on the seat and stares out the window, fingers picking at the
duct tape wrapped around his wrists. It was a hard task because his hands were
inside the front pocket of the sweatshirt Peter had magically produced from the
trunk of his car. Along with this cap. Stupid stupid cap, Stiles thought as he
pressed the lip into the window making it rise off his head and fall. Peter
caught it before it hit the floor with his crazy ass reflexes and shoves it
back on Stiles' head without letting his eyes leave the road.
 
“Cap stays on.”
 
Stiles rolled his eyes and slumped back in the seat. “Can I at least have the
radio?” Stiles groused.
 
“Of course you can,” Peter replied magnanimously. Stiles waited a few moments
then groaned.
 
“Peter, could you please put the radio on for me?” Stiles asked as politely as
possible.
 
“Of course, sweetheart,” he said flipping the radio on. Some pop channel came
on and Stiles let his attention wander between road signs and radio chatter.
 
They had driven non-stop for eighteen hours from the burn-out, Stiles wasn't
sure how Peter did that. He was like a machine. Stiles didn't really remember
the first place they stopped. He had been pretty much asleep, but a few hours
later and they were back on the road again putting as much distance as possible
between them and Beacon Hills. This was hour thirty nine.
 
It didn't take long until Stiles started talking to the radio. It was something
Peter didn't appear to mind. Singing, however, was out. They drove out of range
eventually though, and that made Stiles sigh. They were getting further away.
Peter switched off the radio static.
 
“What's with the sigh?”
 
“Just thinking, my history assignment would be so much easier to hand in if I
weren't being forcible dragged across the country by a madman.”
 
“Did you even finish the assignment?” Peter asked wryly. Stiles screwed up his
face.
 
“Did you even finish the assignment,” he mimicked back in a stupid voice.
 
“I'd appreciate it if you didn't do that,” Peter replied calmly.
 
“I'd appreciate it if you didn't do that,” Stiles parroted sticking out his
tongue. Peter side glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. Stiles looked away.
Peter made him feel like such a stupid little kid. How dare he anyway. He
didn't ask to be in this car with him. If Peter didn't appreciate his company
then he could jolly well pull the car over and let him out. Or go die in a
blaze of fire. Or something.
 
“Quite finished?” Peter asked. Stiles glared in response. “Good boy,” Peter
said patting Stiles' thigh.
 
Something snapped.
 
Stiles lifted his leg and kicked the steering wheel – or he would have if Peter
hadn't simultaneously grabbed his ankle and pulled the handbrake. The car
behind them honked their horn as it overtook them, but apart from that the
atmosphere was still and tense. Peter took a few deep breaths.
 
“I'm going to let go of your ankle. You're going to sit nicely.”
 
Peter let go of Stiles' ankle and pressed the hazard lights button on the dash
– not that there were any cars around.
 
“Now, I can either put you in the boot or you can play nice. Pick.”
 
Stiles stared resolutely out the window. There was a dead nurse in the boot and
as much as he hated Peter's company, he hated corpses more. Was the nurse still
even in there? If so that was a bit risky, and she'd probably start to smell
soon -
 
“Stiles...” Peter's hand curled around his thigh again.
 
“Here! Here, I pick here, god! Get your pedo hands off me!” Stiles yelled
jumping a mile. The grip tightened. Stiles inhaled sharply.
 
“No yelling. I have a headache.”
 
“Okay,” Stiles replied shakily staring at Peter. Peter held his gaze for what
seemed like ages.
 
“I either duct tape your mouth or my hand stays where it is. Pick.”
 
“Duct tape,” Stiles said immediately. Peter reaches back and pulls out the
roll. Stiles' heart hammers in his chest just looking at it, and Peter is
smirking like he knows. Stiles licks his lips nervously, Peter hones in on the
movement. Stiles freezes.
 
“Well, hurry up dude,” he chokes out finally. “The longer we sit on the highway
like this the more likely we are to die in a traffic accident.”
 
Peter wrapped the tape around Stiles' head and across his mouth, unnecessarily
touching his lips as his fingers deftly circled his head. Stiles glared
furiously as he leaned forward and broke the tape off with his teeth. “There,”
he said pressing a kiss against his taped lips. Stiles' stomach rolled. “Much
better.”
 
Peter started up the car again and proceeded on. Stiles eventually fell asleep
on the road. When he woke up again it was dark. His cap was still on, the duct
tape still gagged his mouth, his wrists were still tied together.
 
And Peter's hand was on his thigh.
Chapter End Notes
     I switch tenses a lot. I just noticed and now I'm freaking out. Deal
     with it.
***** Chapter 4 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
“Dad, just look at this. It's the same nurse on the night shift every time
there's been a murder!”
 
“Stiles! How did you – when – Stiles drop this. It's not Peter Hale.”
 
“I pulled up these documents from the hospital database.”
 
“Stiles...”
 
“And this person, Jennifer Blanding, is the nurse on the ward each night
there's a murder. Well, she's on a lot at night actually, but she's on all of
them. If you go and talk to her maybe -”
 
“Stiles the man is in a coma!”
 
“Is he really?”
 
“Stiles!”
 
“He's the only person with motive!”
 
“Then why are his niece and nephew dead?”
 
“Why were they here in the first place dad? Something brought them back here.
Maybe someone?”
 
-------------
 
Peter sat in the middle of the bed, reading his book quite contentedly. Until
Stiles starting flitting about unsure of himself again. Thoughts flew in and
out of the boy's mind at the speed of light and when he latched onto one he
became nearly insuffrable. “What is it?” he asked glancing up.
 
Stiles blinked and looked up at Peter like a deer caught in the headlights.
Prey. “Huh?”
 
“You're thinking rather loudly. What about?”
 
Stiles shifted. “A shower.”
 
Peter nodded toward the bathroom. “Shower in there. Towels supplied.”
 
A moment later and Stiles still hadn't moved. In fact his heart had just
started racing. Peter looked up properly and grinned lewdly at him. “There's a
lock on the door too if that's what you're worried about.”
 
Stiles rolled his eyes but flounced towards the bathroom easily now. Twenty
minutes later Stiles stepped out, his pjs clinging just slightly to his body
where he was still wet. Peter's eyes tracked him. He needed more.
 
“Stiles.”
 
“Yes?” Stiles turned around.
 
“Take off your shirt.”
 
Stiles' fingers twitched towards the hemline of his top before he stopped
himself. Peter smirked at the immediate response of obedience, Stiles looked at
him coldly.
 
“Or sit in my lap. Pick.”
 
“No,” Stiles breathed out.
 
“No?” Peter repeated. Defiance was so sweet. Submission, however, was sweeter.
He put his book to the side. Stiles' heart rate shot up and Peter restrained
his smirk. “Come here, come sit,” he said gently, patting the bed beside him.
Stiles shook his head and backed away slightly. “Stiles, come on, let's talk
about this.” Stiles had his back against the wall now. His scent changed. He
was going to run.
 
Stiles bolted towards the door and tugged on the handle, but Peter had already
locked it. Stiles slumped down onto the ground shaking his head muttering 'no'
and similar refusals. Peter stood up and gathered Stiles into his arms carrying
him back into the bed, quickly removing the shirt, and then settled him against
his chest. Stiles' head was cradled in his own hands. Peter crooned into his
ear, and circled his thumb on Stiles' shoulder, calmed him down. Breathe in.
One. Breathe out. Two. Breathe in. One. Breathe out. Two. Slowly Stiles
relaxed, leaning into him more, uncurling ever so slightly. Peter stopped his
chant and listened to Stiles' heartbeat for a moment. Steady.
 
“I'm going to read my book now. Will you be alright?”
 
Stiles nodded shakily. Peter kissed his shoulder blade and picked up the book.
Stiles had yet to realise that he was sitting in Peter's lap and had no shirt
on. Peter wrapped his arm around Stiles' waist and enjoyed the moment.
-------------
Stiles opened his eyes slowly. Peter was curled around him completely. Stupid
pyscho. He fidgeted and then went cold with terror. Stiles had morning wood.
 
Okay. Will it away. This was a freaking terrifying situation anyway, it
wouldn't take much. Then Peter shifted. He had woken up. Oh god.
 
Stiles tried to shoot out of the bed but Peter grabbed him by the waist and
pulled him back against him.
 
“Uh, dude, gotta pee,” Stiles said pulling away from him.
 
“No you don't,” Peter said pulling him in tighter, practically bruising him,
and pressing his lips against his shoulder. “In fact I would say that was the
opposite of your problem, wouldn't you?” Peter's hands rolled around his
hipbones and dipped underneath the loose waistband of his pyjama bottoms. He
pulled them down to Stiles' knees letting his hands slip inbetween his thighs.
 
“Oh god, please don't. Please stop. Don't do this,” Stiles pleaded. He was
going to black out, he was hyperventilating. Would that even matter to Peter?
Being conscious?
 
“Hey. Calm down. Breathe in,” Stiles sucked in a breath. “Breathe out.” Stiles
let out a gush of air. Peter repeated the instructions a few times and Stiles
had stopped shaking. “Now Stiles, you aren't entirely without choice here,” he
murmured pulling his briefs down to his knees. “I can touch you,” Peter's
knuckled drifted over Stiles' bare ass. “Or you can touch yourself,” he said
curling a hand around his hip. “Pick.”
 
Stiles brain was in meltdown. He wasn’t doing it. Not ever. Not in front of
this guy. “Three.” Stiles shook his head, his eyes shut tight. “Two.” God it
was a countdown. No he needed time to think. “One...” His hand's moving closer.
I can't. He can't. “Ze -”
 
Stiles started palming his own dick furiously and tried to put his mind
somewhere else. Somewhere other than this cheap motel room, pressed up against
a murderer.
 
Stiles was pretty sure he zoned out for the majority – scratch that – the whole
forced masturbation thing. He was pretty sure he had zoned out now. Curled up
on his side. Mind numb. He could hear the shower in the background. Was Peter
jacking off to the thought of him? Reliving those few moments like his own
private live-porn collection?
 
The shower stopped and Peter was out of the bathroom moving around. Probably
getting dried and dressed. Stiles closed his eyes and did that breathing thing
Peter did. And he wasn't going to analyse the fact that he was using it. Not
one little bit. Breathe in. One. Breath out. Two. Breathe in. One. Breathe out.
Two.
 
“Stiles. I'm going to lock you in. I'll be back in twenty minutes, and then
we'll go,” Peter said with the keys in his hands staring down at Stiles. “You
will be ready to go – otherwise I'll just assume you want to spend more time in
bed with me. Is that clear?”
 
“Yes,” Stiles whispered, tears leaking out. Stiles felt the bed shifting and
opened his eyes to glare at Peter as he sucked the tears from the top corner of
his cheekbone.
 
“You have no idea what you do to me, Stiles,” Peter whispered in his ear. “What
you mean to me,” his breath gusted along Stiles' jaw. “You are so very precious
to me.”
 
Stiles felt like he had been doused in ice water. This side of Peter, this
gentle, possessive, caring Peter was far more dangerous and unforgiving than
the angry, manipulative, irritable Peter. This was a man unhinged. A foot wrong
and he'd slice Stiles up like the bus driver, or burn him alive like Kate -
 
“Don't,” Peter said dragging Stiles' attention back by pressing a thumb into
the hollow of his cheek. “Do anything stupid.”
 
Stiles gave a nod and Peter back off and out the door. Stiles didn't breathe
until he heard the lock of the door, and the engine of the car was out of
hearing.
 
Chapter End Notes
     Yes. That was a flashback at the start.
***** Chapter 5 *****
“That's a cool drawing.”
 
“Stiles! Give that back. That's -”
 
“Classified?” Stiles asked cheekily waggling his eyebrows. The Sheriff
grumbled. "Tell me, is this anything to do with why Mr. Harris has been taken
into Poilce custody?"
 
"Stiles!"
 
 
Stiles eyed the green car with speculation.
 
“New car?” Stiles asked. Peter ignored him. “I didn't think green was your
colour. What did you do with the other car?”
 
“Sold it.”
 
“You sold a car and bought a new one in what, twenty minutes? Were you a car
salesman before?” Stiles asked incredulously. Peter rolled his eyes.
 
“I've had this planned out for a while you know.”
 
Stiles blinked at that. “I hadn't actually thought about you making a get-away
plan. Did you know you'd have me? Cause if you did, planned this all for me,
then seriously dude I'm touched – in more ways than one now unfortunately. But
really you didn't have to do this for lil' old me. I'll just catch a bus. Where
we headed?”
 
Peter gestured for him to get in the car and Stiles slunk in.
 
“You never answered my question.” Stiles immediately bombarded Peter when he
got into the driver's seat. “Did you know you'd have me? That you'd have to
run? Cause otherwise you could have done a whole 'miraculous recovery' gimmick
at the hospital, which would have been hard considering how you killed
Jennifer. Which I still don't understand by the way. Why kill Jennifer? Or you
niece and nephew for that matter -”
 
“Stiles. I didn't plan on having you. Yes I knew I'd have to run. The Argents
are not people to be trifled with.”
 
“Why did they burn your house down? All those years ago?”
 
Peter looked at him sideways. “Not yet, Stiles. I'm not telling you that just
yet. Maybe if you're good.”
 
Stiles tried to let the silence last a bit longer, but he couldn't. “There's a
Met's game on today. Radio? Please?”
 
----
 
Peter carried Stiles into the motel room. Stiles roused himself a little when
Peter lay him down on the bed.
 
“Shh, Stiles, go back to sleep.”
 
Stiles made a sleepy noise then frowned. “You aren't going to touch me up while
I sleep?”
 
“No, Stiles,” Peter said pulling off Stiles' shoes. “I want you fully conscious
when I have my way with you.”
 
“Huh,” Stiles put eloquently. “Excellent. Night.”
 
Stiles opened his eyes gently, slowly taking in his surroundings. He kinda
remembered being put in the bed and a weird conversation with Peter. Speaking
of which, where's Peter.
 
Stiles swung his feet out of bed, shivering slightly as he swooped down to get
his t-shirt which was on the floor – and he wasn't thinking about how Peter
took that off him nope – he stood up and took stock of the room.
 
“Peter?”
 
Stiles looked around. There was a kitchenette and a door to the bathroom, but
that was it apart from the bed.
 
“Peter?”
 
And apparently he was alone.
 
Stiles took a deep breathe and grabbed his socks, but where were his shoes?
After three minutes of frantic searching Stiles concluded that Peter had stolen
his shoes.
 
Well if Peter thought that was going to stop him he had another thing coming.
 
After breaking the window and swinging out of it, Stiles headed over for the
Diner across the street, but it was closed. God, what time was it? What day?
 
Paranoid that Peter was going to show up at any moment, Stiles started to head
out to the road and walked along the main road with the intention of hitch
hiking. He was pretty sure the pros outweighed the cons in this particular
scenario. Getting picked up by a rapist: con. Getting picked up by a law
abiding citizen: pro. Stiles continued to make his list until his toes went
numb. Stiles stopped and sat by the side of the road, wrapping his arms around
him to try and get some heat. Trying to figure out the next step. He needed to
find a phone. Call his dad, call someone. It would help to know where he was.
 
A pair of headlights were coming from behind. Stiles turned and only registered
the fact that the car wasn't green before he stuck his thumb out like a mad
hitch hiker. Miraculously, the car stopped.
 
Stiles blinked for a moment then bounded up to the passenger door and climbed
in.
 
“Uh, hi.”
 
“Hey kid,” the man said putting the car back into drive. “My name's Mike.”
 
“I'm Stiles.”
 
“Where you headed Stiles?”
 
“Nearest police station.”
 
Mike blinked and looked over at him. Mike looked regular and normal. Average
build. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Average looks. A little bit of stubble to speak
of. A wedding ring.
 
“Why's that then?”
 
“I'm Stiles Stilinski. Been missing since...” Stiles rubbed his face. “Friday.
Friday the eighteenth.”
 
“Oh man. Yeah. Stilinski. Your name was on the radio. Man. Is that why you're
not wearing shoes?”
 
Stiles snorted and shook his head. “Yeah. Look, do you have a mobile? I... I
need to phone my dad.”
 
“Uh, yeah. My jacket pocket. But this place is a bit of a dead zone. We might
have to wait for a gas station and pull over for their landline.”
 
Stiles reached behind him to the back seats and pulled the jacket over to him,
checking the pockets for the mobile. He pulled out the touch phone and checked
for signal.
 
“No signal,” Stiles sighed, his leg bouncing nervously up and down. “Guess you
were right.”
 
“Yeah, I commute. I work one week in the city, then the next week at home with
the wife. I know this road like the back of my hand.”
 
“Sounds a bit wearing.”
 
“Yeah it is sometimes. Miss my wife when I'm away,” Mike said snorting. “Then
when I'm with her I feel smothered.”
 
“It's nice,” Stiles said quietly. “To have someone love you like that.”
 
“Wouldn't trade it for the world, right?”
 
“Right.”
 
“You want the radio?”
 
Stiles nodded and the radio crackled on. It was night time jazz or something,
but Stiles was too focused on checking the phone every few minutes to see if
there were back in range.
 
But then there was something else he focused on.
 
“How long have those headlights been following us for?” Stiles asked leaning
forwards. Mike blinked.
 
“Uhh, I'm not sure. This is a pretty common route though.”
 
“At half four?”
 
Mike frowned and accelerated just a little.
 
“There a 24 hour gas station. Fourteen miles. We won't be long now.”
 
Stiles nodded and stared at the headlights. “You probably think I'm being
paranoid.”
 
“I think you're entitled to it, besides, it's not paranoia if they really are
out to get you.”
 
Stiles grinned at Mike's joke, but it did nothing to calm the growing fear in
his gut.
 
The headlights turned off the road and Stiles let out a sigh of relief. Mike
chuckled. “I think I can start breathing again now,” he said. Stiles nodded.
 
“Yeah, I know what you mean. Thought I was going to have an aneurysm,” Stiles
replied with a smile. “Or my heart was going to explode or something.”
 
“Well I think -”
 
The car suddenly swerved as something hit it from the side. Mike slammed on the
brakes as the car skidded off the road.
 
“Wow, kid you okay?”
 
Stiles nodded. “Yeah. I'm fine. What was -”
 
The car door swung open and someone grabbed Mike out of the car. Stiles froze.
He heard a thud and that was it. Nothing else. Stiles reached for the handle
and pushed open the door, spilling out onto the roadside.
 
“Stiles.”
 
Stiles spun on the spot. Peter. Peter was standing in front of the car now.
Stiles stared at his face, then his eyes dropped down to the hands that hung by
his sides.
 
Blood.
 
“What... what did you do to Mike?” Stiles whispered still staring at his hands.
 
“I think you can see.”
 
Stiles watched the blood drip off Peter's fingers and hit the ground. Stiles
knees went weak and he stumbled against the car.
 
“Oh my god.”
 
Stiles stomach rolled. The smell of blood was stronger now. Had Peter literally
pulled the man apart with his bare hands? How else did a person get that much
blood on their hands?
 
Stiles slid slowly down the side of the car until his knees hit the ground and
closed his eyes. This couldn't be happening. Not to him. This was just a
nightmare. He was going to wake up.
 
Stiles physically threw himself back as he felt the slick blood covering
Peter's fingers sliding under his chin and the smell of blood filled his
nostrils.
 
“Don't touch me!” Stiles' screamed. He took a deep breath, trying to stave off
the hyperventilation. “Don't. Please. Don't,” he repeated, quieter, staring at
the ground, rubbing his hand from where he'd scraped it off the ground while he
scrambled away.
 
Stiles' held his breath as Peter took a step closer and crouched down in front
of him. Peter took hold of his jaw and Stiles grimaced.
 
“God,” he said grabbing Peter's wrist and trying to pull it off. “I said don't
touch -”
 
Peter leaned forward and kissed Stiles. Stiles immediately tried to push him
away, hit him, scratched at his face, but not even that would make him stop.
This man was like a machine. A terminator. Arnie style metal skeleton and he
would not shift. The worse part was the blood he could taste on Peter's mouth.
Mike's blood. Peter had what, bitten him? Drunk his blood? Licked it up? Tried
to eat him? Like an animal? A monster? Stiles gave up and let his hands drop to
his sides. He was too tired for this. Too tired to fight and be angry. He was
so angry and it just exhausted him.
 
The blood on Peter's hands had started to congeal into a sticky sap that made a
small 'thip' when Peter finally pulled away. Stiles felt a bit like a rag doll
as Peter pulled him up to his feet and led him down the road. Still in bare
feet he stumbled once or twice, but Peter didn't seem to care.
 
Peter opened up the car door and placed Stiles in and even did up his seat belt
for him. Stiles just let him. It wasn't like he could stop him.
 
Peter slid into the seat next to him and started up the engine. As they drove
down the road Peter said the last word on the matter.
 
“I will kill whoever tries to take you away from me, Stiles.”
 
Stiles didn't even have the energy to cry.
***** Chapter 6 *****
If there was one thing Stiles was good at it was compartmentalising. He
couldn't – he would not – become some sad, scared, given-up-on-life, subdued
person just because Peter had gone and murdered someone. In front of him.
Again.
 
If he could get over Kate, he could get over Mike. His aim now was to annoy
Peter so badly, he would just let him go. That didn't go over so well. Hence
his present situation.
 
Stiles held as still as he possibly could. A small whimper escaped and he bit
down on his lip in response. Peter simply smirked in return bending his head a
little to press a kiss to Stiles forehead. Stiles glared at him.
 
“You're doing so well,” he murmured into Stiles' ear. Stiles' eyes flitted away
from him and he kept still.
 
It wasn't like this was the first time Peter has punished him. This wasn't even
a particularly bad one, or overtly sexual one. Of course, Stiles hated the more
physical punishments. Once, Stiles kneed him in the groin and he spent a night
on the floor of the car in the space in front of the passenger seat. Another
time, Stiles continued to crack his fingers and joints - even after fair
warning – so Stiles' fingers were individually sucked and nibbled. Stiles still
shuddered at that one.
 
Currently Stiles was lying on the floor with Peter looming above him, the
fragile skin beneath his eye was currently being pinched between Peter's
ridiculously strong fore fingers.
 
“A few more moments and we'll be done, sweetie, just stay still,” Peter
crooned. Stiles grit his teeth and tried not to think about blinking too much.
Which was easy because the pain distracted him quite well – and he was pretty
sure Peter was tightening his grip and trying to grind a hole into his skin.
 
In the end it was easier to just take the punishments. He did something wrong,
he got caught, he took the punishment. Fighting the punishment was not only
disrespectful, which Peter was not a fan of – but it was stupid. Stupidity had
no place with Peter.
 
“There we go,” Peter said gently letting go and rolling onto his side along
side Stiles, one leg gently resting on top of Stiles'. “Finished.”
 
Stiles heaved a sigh of relief and a tear trickled sideways down his face.
Peter immediately swooped down and licked the train back the way it came and
gave the blackening eye a kiss. Stiles curled his hands into fists.
 
“Finished. Great,” Stiles said as he tried to sit up. “I'll just -”
 
Peter's hand pressed against Stiles' chest before he even got an inch up from
the ground. Stiles concentrated hard on not hyperventilating.
 
“It's been fifteen days.”
 
Stiles waited. Not wanting to be drawn into a conversation with the psycho.
 
Too bad the psycho knew him so well.
 
“Right okay. Fifteen days. What does that mean? We lie endless here on the
floor with your pedo hands on me? The camera man jumps out and says you've been
framed and this whole thing has been a screwed up joke?”
 
Peter smiled that horribly amused and patient smile at him that made Stiles
want to punch him in the face.
 
“Not quite,” he said flicking a hand up the inside of Stiles' t-shirt. Stiles'
hand automatically went up to try and push it away, but he froze when he caught
Peter's gaze. Peter raised and eyebrow at him and Stiles let his hand drop back
to his side. Peter smirked and continued his path along Stiles' torso.
 
“It's not consent. I want you to stop.”
 
Peter hummed. “Full moon is coming up.”
 
Stiles rolled his eyes. “And you're a lunatic. I see the connection.”
 
“No. I'm a werewolf.”
 
“And I'm the abominable snowman.”
 
Peter smirked. “Is that more of a seasonal thing?” he asked skimming his
fingers over Stiles' ribs.
 
“Ha freaking ha,” Stiles said with a glare. Peter glanced up at him, his eyes
glowed red. Stiles froze.
 
“Why are your eyes doing that? How? They're red. Like glow in the dark red.
Like Voldemort – which makes sense. I'm sure he's a huge role model for you
being a psycho who obsesses over a kid, hell bent on revenge and causing
general death and destruction. It didn't turn out to well for him though. Kid
won in the end.”
 
Peter grinned at Stiles' ramblings. “You've just reminded me. I haven't read
the past few books. They're all out now aren't they?” he said pushing Stiles
shirt up. Stiles grabbed the shirt.
 
“Stop. Stay on topic. Please,” Stiles asked, knowing he was far too under
medicated to manage a real conversation.
 
Peter smirked. “Do I have something you want?” he asked playfully, tugging at
the shirt.
 
“You have many things I want,” Stiles said coldly.
 
“Would you exchange sex for freedom?” Peter asked lightly.
 
“Would you let me?” Stiles responded to the barb sharply, sliding himself along
the floor and getting out from under Peter. Peter rolled over and stood as
Stiles sorted his clothes and stood himself.
 
“Stiles?” Stiles ignored Peter as he rifled through the shopping bag and pulled
out a pre-made sandwich. “Stiles...” Peter sing-songed, bounding up behind him
and pulling his arms tight around his waist. “Would you have sex with me in
exchange for something else?”
 
“No,” Stiles said trying to escape Peter hold. “Peter let go. Please, I need
you to give me a break. Please.” Stiles was hitting his limit of creepy
behaviour for today. He didn't need this. His eye stung like crazy, he missed
his dad, it had been fifteen days, his ADD was acting up, and he was hungry
damnit.
 
“I want to talk, put your head back.”
 
Stiles closed his eyes and counted to ten. Breath in, one. Breath out, two.
 
Stiles dropped his head back onto Peter shoulder and Peter ran his nose along
his neck. Stiles snorted.
 
“What?” Peter mumbled into his neck.
 
“You really are a werewolf, aren't you?”
 
“Yes.”
 
Stiles took another deep breath.
 
“What does that mean?”
 
“It means I'm stronger humans, faster than most animals, I have heightened
senses, and I heal.”
 
“You 'heal'. Humans do that too,” Stiles snorted. Peter nipped his ear. Stiles
flinched slightly.
 
“You've seen my face.”
 
“Yeah, it's the whole reason I'm in this mess,” Stiles whispered.
 
“You think burns disappear like that in a few moments.”
 
Stiles frowned. “I had wondered. Also the crowbar thing, what you did to Mike,
ability to hear me at a hundred paces, that thing you did when I tried to run
us off the road...”
 
“I never did discipline you for that, did I?” Peter breathed in his ear as he
tightened his hold. Stiles struggled automatically, trying to get away but
Peter growled gently and Stiles stilled. “Lean back.” Stiles closed his eyes
and dropped his head back onto Peter's shoulder. He humfed happily.
 
“Like an exposed neck then, do ya?” Stiles chided, trying to gain some ground.
 
“Yes.”
 
Peter held them like that for a few minutes longer. Stiles getting more and
more anxious.
 
“Look, dude, I'm hungry and tired. Can we do the whole non-consensual hugging
thing later?”
 
“Alright.”
 
Peter let go and Stiles heaved a sigh of relief. He rubbed his eye and tore the
packaging off the sandwich, taking large bites out of it.
 
“Don't go anywhere.”
 
Stiles glanced up as Peter slipped out the door. Stiles finally felt the
muscles in his body relax as he slumped down onto the bed.
 
------
 
Stiles heard the rattle of the keys in the door as he came round from his nap.
He picked up the empty sandwich carton and threw it in the bin from where he
was lying on the bed.
 
“How are you feeling?” Peter asked as he came in and kicked off his shoes.
Stiles shrugged, sitting up.
 
“Stronger?” Peter asked.
 
Stiles frowned. “Stronger?”
 
Peter put his hand under Stiles chin angling his head up to look at him, and
slowly climbed on top of him. “Stronger.”
 
Stiles froze. “What do you want?”
 
“You're a clever boy. Figure it out.”
 
Stiles' swallowed. “I'll scream. These walls aren't that thick.”
 
“And I'd kill whomever came to the door,” he growled, pulling back, eyes
flashing red. “But I don't expect you to give me something for nothing.”
 
Peter slowly reached into his pocket and pulled out a mobile phone. He smirked
as he caught Stiles' eyes and tapped it against Stiles lips, letting it pull
Stiles' lip down, grin growing wider – feralStiles' mind provided.
 
“The real question is... how much do you miss your father?”
 
- - - - - -
 
“Dad?”
 
“Stiles! Oh god, Stiles.”
 
Stiles felt choked up as he heard his father's voice. “Hey dad,” he managed to
get out.
 
“Tell me what's going on? Are you okay? Where are you?”
 
Where am I? Stiles thought. I'm sitting half naked in bed on the lap of the man
I let come inside my mouth - and I even swallowed. You'd be so proud dad. First
blow job is a freaking mile stone.
 
“Tell him I'm listening,” Peter said running a claw up Stiles' spine. Stiles
jumped at the contact. Claws, yeah. New extra exciting psycho feature in this
nightmare.
 
“I can't answer that, dad. He's listening.”
 
His dad breathed heavily. “Can I speak to him, Stiles?”
 
“Tell him no. That this phone call is for you. Your reward. Tell him that.”
 
“Uh no. This phone call is for me. How are – ah!” Stiles yelped as Peter's
claws came up again.
 
“Stiles?”
 
“Your reward, tell him,” Peter growled letting the claws sink in ever so
slightly.
 
“My reward. It's my reward, and it's biting me on the ass,” Stiles grumbled
down the line. Stiles could practically feel the satisfaction coming off the
man. Oh god, he hadn't given Peter a new idea had he -
 
“Reward?” Stiles swallowed, not sure how he should respond to his dad's
question. He knows it's a loaded question. Reward for what? What did you do?
What has he been making you do? So what does Stiles - What does he say to that?
Oh there's been some forced masturbation, inappropriate groping, and a little
bit of oral rape? “Stiles... You do whatever you have to, to stay safe. The
longer you stay safe, the closer I will get. Okay?”
 
Stiles nodded.
 
“You're nodding, aren't you.”
 
Stiles laughed and cried at the same time. “Yeah. I am. How... how are you?”
 
“I'm... I'm doing okay kid. Don't worry about me.”
 
Peter bounced his knee, sending Stiles into the air and back down. Stiles spun
around to glare, but Peter was lying back against the headboard pretending to
read a book.
 
“Melissa looking after you?” Stiles said turning away from him. “Making sure
you stick to you diet? Because you know what the doctor said. Less greasy
foods, we need to keep your cholesterol down – and don't think I don't know
about the chocolate you keep in the cruiser. You can have a piece every once in
a while but eating three bars in a row is not a suitable lunch replacement. If
I have to eat properly, you have to eat properly.”
 
“Yes I'm sticking to my diet, Stiles. Honestly one bad report from the doctor
and you two...”
 
Peter's hands snuck around Stiles' waist and pulled him sharply up against his
chest, knocking the wind from him momentarily. Stiles struggled against the
hold.
 
“Dad, could you hold on for two seconds?”
 
“Yes.”
 
Stiles spun sharply off Peter so he was sitting facing him.
 
“What the hell, dude?” he hissed. “You said I could do this – you suggested -”
Stiles took a deep breath. “I want to talk to my dad, uninterrupted and
undistracted. Do you need to leave the room for me to have that?”
 
Peter's hand drifted up Stiles leg and rested on his thigh. “I won't move.”
 
Stiles held Peter gaze for a few more moments before putting the phone back to
his ear. “Sorry about that, Dad. How'd the Mets do? I missed the game on t.v
and the radio got banned mid-way through the game.”
 
He managed to talk for another ten minutes until Peter told him to hang up.
 
“What? Why?”
 
“Stiles? What's going on?”
 
“He's telling me to hang up,” Stiles said to his dad. “Why?”
 
“Someone's just came into your dad's room to trace the call. Hang. Up.”
 
Stiles blinked. “You can...” he shook his head. “Yeah, dad, I need to hang up.
Don't... don't expect me to be rewarded too often, alright?”
 
“Good. I love you. I'm coming for you.”
 
Stiles closed his eyes. “I love you too, dad.”
 
Stiles hung up the phone and stared listlessly at his hands. Peter pulled and
twisted him until they were both lying down and Stiles was curled at his side.
 
“I hate you,” Stiles whispered as Peter put his arms around him. “Thank you.”
Peter kissed his forehead and pulled the blankets up.
 
“Goodnight, clever boy.”
 
***** Chapter 7 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
 
“Maybe it was punishment,” Stiles said as he passed his dad a coffee.
 
“What?” the Sheriff asked blearily. “Is this decaf?”
 
“Well, Laura and Derek left for New York what? Straight after the memorial?”
 
“Yeah we assume.”
 
“They ran.”
 
“Ran?”
 
“If this thing really was arson -”
 
“If it was really murder they were scared they were next. They knew all along.”
 
“Exactly,” Stiles said, eyes lighting up. “What if Peter -”
 
“Stiles...”
 
“What if Peter,” Stiles pressed on. “Killed them as a punishment. For running
away instead of avenging the family or whatever.”
 
The Sheriff stared at Stiles. “That's awfully weak. You're assuming a lot of
things.”
 
Stiles shrugged. “I can't talk to the dead, dad. I have to assume.”
 
“That man isn't dead Stiles. He's lying in hospital with burn covering sixty-
eight percent of his body. Even if he weren't comatose he wouldn't be able to
move without being in excruciating pain, let along rip people apart without
blacking out.”
 
“Whatever, dad, and yes it's decaf, I don't want you up all night.”
 
- - - - -
 
Stiles threw up the next day trying to eat breakfast. Peter rubbed his back as
he slumped over the toilet bowl.
 
“Better?”
 
Stiles nodded blearily.
 
“I had planned on going clothes shopping, get you out of the car for a while,”
Peter said lightly. “But I can move it around if you prefer.”
 
Stiles shook his head. “I think I'm alright so long as I don't eat,” or
swallow,Stiles added mentally. “I want to go, please.”
 
Peter eyed him critically, but nodded and kissed his forehead in a way that
made Stiles feel bizarrely homesick. “Brush your teeth. Then we'll go.”
 
They didn't drive far. Nor did they drive to a mall, which was what Stiles'
mind had conjured up when Peter said shopping. He hadn't expected... this.
 
Peter grinned when he saw Stiles staring out the window wide eyed. He squeezed
Stiles' knee gently, and Stiles unbuckled his seatbelt and stepped out of the
car along with Peter.
 
The market was huge. Tents and stalls were everywhere. There were food stalls,
and candy stalls, and antique tents, and musicians, and clowns, and statues,
and trees, and...
 
“Is this... a flea market?”
 
Peter smirked from the hood of the car as he watched Stiles. Stiles blushed
slightly and shut his mouth quite firmly when he noticed Peter staring.
 
“Ready?”
 
Stiles nodded and fell into step beside Peter. Peter kept a hand on him at all
times. Waist, hip, hand, wrist, neck, shoulder, ass when he was feeling
particularly forward, but that didn't stop Stiles from exploring. Peter let him
take point on the route, making him stop to try on jeans and shirts every so
often, Stiles' nausea quickly abated after watching a man fry some sort of
sugar cake thing which he demanded to eat straight away. Peter smirked as it
burned the roof of his mouth off and Stiles glared at him. It was still
delicious.
 
A few hours later Stiles flopped back into the car with a smile on his face.
Peter dumped the new clothes in the boot of their car and slid into the seat
next to him.
 
“So...” Stiles said. “Werewolves.”
 
Peter grinned and started up the engine, pulled out and headed down the road.
“Werewolves.”
 
“It was you who... hit Mike's car. Right?”
 
“Yes.”
 
“The murders at home... They always stumped the police because they looked like
animal attacks.”
 
“You already know that was me.”
 
“No, but...” Stiles shifted. “Were you an actual wolf? Or more like a man-wolf?
And does it only happen on full moons? And – OH MY GOD! That's why Kate Argent
tried to kill you all, right? Oh my god!”
 
“Stiles, not so loud,” Peter said patting Stiles' knee.
 
“Sorry, but like. I'm right. The reason she burned down the house – and the
necklace with the wolf on it – and them coming back to town just as the murders
started. Everything's slotting into place.”
 
Peter smiled lightly. “Of course it is.”
 
“There's just -” Stiles cut himself off.
 
“What?” Peter asked glancing over at him.
 
“Your niece and nephew.”
 
Peter grew silent.
 
“I'm man enough to admit I'm not all together sane. I spent years, alone,
healing cell by cell. In pain. Laura and Derek left – ran. I don't blame them
for that. They were children. So I plotted. You'd be surprised how much
information you can gather in a hospital.”
 
Stiles frowned. Peter's thumb circled his knee.
 
“Werewolves senses are much stronger than a human's, in that hospital bed I
learned to rely on those senses far more than ever had before. I could hear my
whole floor and the one above it and beneath it and the parking lot by the
end.”
 
“Wow,” Stiles whispered. “You... you can hear that much?” Stiles asked.
 
“I can hear your heart beat Stiles. Can hear the blood rushing through your
veins. It's rather distracting sometimes.” Stiles felt his face go red.
“Particularly when you blush.”
 
“That's insane...”
 
“I know. The most insane is when I can smell you getting hard.”
 
Stiles' blanched and was now hyper aware of the fact Peter's hand was resting
on his thigh. It suddenly felt like a hot brand burning through his jeans.
 
“Your heart rate just spiked.”
 
Stiles choked. “That's, uh, that's super creepy.”
 
“Stiles...”
 
Stiles looked up at Peter.
 
“I understand that this is all new and scary for you, but this is your life
now. I'm never going to leave you and no one will be able to take you away from
me. You could shoot a bullet into my chest and I would still get up. You could
run across the country and I would hunt your scent like a bloodhound. I am the
top of the food chain, Stiles. You will never be as safe anywhere as you are
with me.”
 
Stiles tried to calm the impending panic attack.
 
“Oh, I'm sure you say that to all the minors you kidnap.”
 
Peter chuckled. “Yes, it's a classic. Did I get the possessiveness right? I was
going for underlying sexual tension as well.”
 
Stiles actually burst out in hysterical laughter. “Oh I think you got it spot
on. Ten out of ten for creepy werewolf.”
 
“Alpha.”
 
“What?” Stiles asked.
 
“I'm an Alpha. Stronger, faster, better. And capable of turning humans into
werewolves.”
 
“Alpha.”
 
“Yes. The reason I killed Laura was to take the Alpha power. It gets passed you
see. When the family died, she was the strongest, most capable wolf in the
pack. The only way to have it, is to take it. To the victor the spoils. I
needed the extra strength, otherwise it could have been years more before I
could heal myself enough to enact revenge.”
 
“And Derek?”
 
“He was there with Laura. The two were inseparable. I killed Laura, then Derek
tried to kill me. So I killed him first.”
 
“That's awful,” Stiles whispered.
 
“Yes,” Peter said softly. “I suppose it is.”
 
- - - - -
 
Peter stared at the sleeping boy. He had fallen asleep on top of the sheets
again annoying enough. Then again he moved so much in his sleep he probably got
tangled in the sheets more often than not. He might not ever sleep under the
covers given the choice.
 
Well... he could easily remove that habit.
 
There was just enough light from the street lamps outside to see. He imagined
if Stiles were awake he wouldn't be able to see a thing. Such odd things humans
were. How did they survive. Not being able to see the way the light hit off
Stiles' cheekbones, how the shadows caved in the hollows of his cheeks. The
pout of his lips. Lips that stretch so easily around him. Hot and wet and -
 
Peter blinked as he realised that he had already knelt up ready to mount the
boy's mouth again, see his tears clump his eyelashes -
 
But that wouldn't do. Not now. Not so soon. It wouldn't be good. Not for either
of them. Peter was still too close to the edge of insanity. Still too near to
death. His headaches were slowly trying to heal his fractured mind. He hadn't
really thought that a mental infliction was something they could heal. Then
again, maybe it was physical. Maybe he was missing a part of his mind and he
was slowly growing it back.
 
Peter slunk back down beside Stiles. The things he'd do to him. Things he would
get him to do. Things he would beg for, eventually. Peter would transform him,
grind him down, slowly reshape him, mould him into something new, something
his, but he could hold back for now – had to. Long term gain, over short term
profit.
 
After all, erosion took time.
Chapter End Notes
     Hey lads, hope you enjoyed. If you want to follow my TW tumblr you
     may (and if you want to follow my main one(or another of my subs) you
     will have to ask)
      
     www.abluemountainashtardis.tumblr.com
***** Chapter 8 *****
Chapter Notes
     Dudes, just noticed the flashback at the start of the last chapter is
     wrong - it's a repeat (seriously lads, coulda mentioned it) so go
     back a chappie and reread the flashbacky bit. Otherwise it's all in
     ze wrang Orda! Hugs and kisses.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
“I saw that drawing today.”
 
“Huh?”
 
“That drawing. On your 'classified' bit of paper. I saw it.”
 
“Stiles, this isn't a burger.”
 
“Nope. It's a turkey leg. And salad. Athletes eat it.”
 
“I am not an athlete -”
 
“Dad,” Stiles fidgeted, agitated. “It was on Allison's necklace. Allison
Argent.”
 
The Sheriff looked up. “Necklace?”
 
“Yeah. Big ass necklace. She got it from her aunt. For her birthday. She says
it's a family heirloom.”
 
“Her aunt?”
 
“Yeah. And I was thinking, the Argents used to be in Beacon Hills, right? A
while back and -”
 
“Stiles.”
 
“Yeah?”
 
“I can do my own investigation, alright?”
 
- - - - -
 
Peter was sitting reading a book as Stiles strengthened his resolve and made
his way over. Gently removing the book, he straddled Peter's hips and looked
right into his eyes.
 
"I want to phone my dad."
 
Peter's hands rested on Stiles' hipbones, thumbs digging in ever so slightly.
He gave a nod. "Take off your shirt."
 
Stiles took his t-shirt off in one easy motion and placed his hands on Peter's
shoulders. Peter gave him a once over, a small smile appearing at the corner of
his mouth. Stiles recognised that smile. It was his fond smile. Stiles nearly
ran away at that.
 
Peter's eyes flicked up. He must have heard his heart increase, or was there a
smell for 'runawayrunaway'? Either way Peter lifted up his head slightly to
kiss the underside of his jaw, meant as a calming or reassuring gesture. It
still baffled Stiles that he was heights with Peter. Peter always managed to
make him feel so small and dwarfed.
 
The kisses made their way down his neck onto his chest as Peter lay him down on
the bed. His tongue started to play with Stiles' nipple and Stiles freaking
arched into it, panting. It was when Peter unbuckled Stiles' trousers that he
got concerned.
 
"Hey, what..." Stiles breathed. "What are you doing?"
 
"Reciprocrating," Peter said kissing his way down his ribs as he slipped the
jeans off. Reciprocrating Stiles thought blankly, then jerked.
 
"What?" Stiles exclamied pushing up onto his elbows. "You mean..." Stiles'
brain went into overdrive. Was Peter offering him a blow job? "You want to go
down on me?"
 
Peter's tongue made a pattern on Stiles naval that did things to him. "Is that
what the kids are calling it today?" he asked lightly.
 
"Why? I don't understand. Don't you want to just -" Stiles cut himself off,
unwilling to say the harsh truth of their situation outloud.
 
"Use you? Break you into a million little pieces then toss you aside? Take what
I want from you?" Peter asked. Stiles nodded when it became apparent that Peter
was expecting a response. "Stiles," he breathed nosing the skin between his
hipbone and his groin. "I want this to be good for you. I don't want sex to be
a punishment, or a chore, or a weapon. I want you to enjoy it, to like it. To
want it. With me." Peter looked up into Stiles' eyes. "I want you to feel as
happy and as good as I feel when I'm with you."
 
Stiles inhaled sharply and everything seemed to stop. For a moment all there
was, was Stiles and Peter as Stiles tried to wrap his mind around what Peter
had just said.
 
Peter... Peter really did love him, didn't he.
 
"That... That's really nice, Peter," Stiles said carefully. "But I'm not going
to feel like that while you're holding me captive like this. Do you understand
that?" Stiles sked shakily. This could go wrong. This could go terribly
terribly wrong...
 
"I'll change your mind," Peter said running his hands up Stiles' thighs. "Would
you like me to stop now?"
 
Stiles looked away. "I would like to phone my dad," Stiles replied. Peter's
tongue was lapping at his skin again and Stiles dropped off his elbows and
stared at the ceiling, determined not to look at Peter as he coaxed a orgasm
from him.
 
- - - - - - -
 
“Hey dad!”
 
“Stiles.” Stiles could hear the relief in his dad's voice. “It's good to hear
your voice.”
 
“Feeling is mutual, Dad,” Stiles chuckled. “How's it hanging?”
 
“I would feel better if I got a ransom note or something.”
 
Stiles looked up at Peter who was lying on his stomach on the bed reading.
Where did he find those books?
 
“Don't think that's in the cards for some reason,” he let out a bitter laugh.
 
“Can you tell me why that is?”
 
Stiles rubbed the back of his head, tugging at the hair that was now growing.
 
“I don't think he really knows,” Stiles said. Peter's head shot up and he
examined Stiles. “Don't look at me like that, you could have dumped me in the
middle of nowhere ages ago and left me if you really didn't want to kill me so,
yeah, there.” Peter snorted and went back to his book. “Sorry, dad, yeah.”
 
“Got yourself a case of Stockholm syndrome there, don't you?”
 
Stiles took a deep breath. “I'm fine.”
 
“I know you're fine, Stiles. You're incapable of being anything else, but I
want you to be more than fine. Need you...” Stiles heard his dad sigh. He did
that a lot. “You know...”
 
“I know what?” Stiles said cagily, picking up something strange in his dad's
tone.
 
“Peter Hale was in an institution for a long time. Catatonic. I'm sure that
took it's toll.”
 
“Dad, where are you -”
 
“Especially if it was locked in syndrome. Was it?”
 
“I don't know,” Stiles answered slowly, eyeing the way Peter had stilled.
 
“The fact he hasn't... hasn't hurt you would put him in good stead.”
 
“Good stead,” Stiles said distantly.
 
“I'm sure if he were in his right mind he would have never committed those
murders.” Peter stood up and started to approach. Stiles backed up into the
wall shaking his head.“I'm sure we could work something out, if he were worried
about the repercussions of his actions,”  Peter placed a hand on Stiles'
cheek.“Letting the hostage go goes a long way towards clearing up this whole
situation.”
 
“Dad,” Stiles whispered.
 
“Yes, son?”
 
“You really need to stop talking.”
 
“Son? Stiles? I just want to make my standpoint clear -”
 
Peter punched a hole in the wall next to Stiles face.
 
“Stiles! Stiles what was that? Are you okay?”
 
“Dad. Please. Stop. Talking.”
 
There was silence on the other end of the line as Stiles stared up into Peter's
face, trying to read him.
 
“Okay, the last conversation I had lasted twenty minutes, right? So if I hang
up now can I phone back tomorrow. Get ten minutes or so?” Stiles said gently to
Peter.
 
“No.”
 
“No?” Stiles repeated.
 
“I'm not stopping you. Continue to converse.”
 
Stiles shifted. “It's kinda hard to do when you're...” Peter tilted his head.
 
“Then it will be hard.”
 
Stiles took a deep breath. “Okay, dad, I'm back. Tell me, has Maggie had her
baby yet? She's due soon isn't she?”
 
The conversation continued on awkward and stilted all the way to the end.
 
“Stiles, I'm sorry. I want him to know I didn't mean -”
 
“Dad it's fine -”
 
“I just wanted him to know there were options -”
 
“Dad really -”
 
“I want you home. I need you, Stiles, kid. I... I'm just glad you're alive.”
 
“Hey, that makes two of us,” Stiles quipped. “I'll see about what I can do.
I'll phone... Maybe in a fortnight or... I dunno? Whenever Peter's feeling
particularly generous.”
 
“Alright kiddo. I love you.”
 
“I love you too.”
 
Stiles hung up the phone and kept his eyes downcast, knowing meeting Peter's
eyes was seen as a challenge nine times out of ten.
 
“Put the phone in my pocket,” Peter said evenly. Stiles chanced a look up.
Peter didn't have any sort of expression on his face. Which wasn't unusual per
say, wasn't good or bad. He reached forward and slipped the phone into Peter's
front pocket, then retracted his hands. Peter leaned forward until their
foreheads were touching. Stiles felt boxed in. The hand on his cheek. The hand
on the wall. The forehead on his. What was Peter doing? What was he going to
do? Should he apologise? Would that make it worse?
 
“Take off my belt.” Stiles' eyes widened at the command and Stiles swallowed
hard as he reached forward with shaking hands to undo the buckle. Peter
growled. “Come on, Stiles, you're never going to get it if you pick at it like
that. Put some welly in it.” Stiles glared and yanked hard at the belt until it
came off easily. “Good boy. Hold the buckle in your right hand.” Stiles shifted
slightly, confused as to what was happening, but did as he was told. “Hold the
belt in your left.” Stiles complied. “Holding tight?” Stiles gripped hard.
 
“Yes.”
 
“Good,” breathed Peter. The hand on the wall dropped to close over Stiles'
right fist. “Don't let go,” he said gently, then pulled fast.
 
“Ah!” yelled out Stiles as the belt ran through his left hand causing a massive
welt. He was pretty sure it was bleeding.
 
“We can do this again to your left hand, or again to your right hand. What
would you prefer?”
 
Stiles always hated it when Peter made him pick the punishment. For one it gave
Peter more of an insight into his mind, and then there was the fact it was less
of a punishment because he picked it. Which it wasn't, but that was the
mindset. He wasn't going to feel grateful though. Not ever.
 
Stiles switched the buckle into his left hand wincing at the sting, he then put
the belt into his right. “Do the right,” he bit out. Peter was just as quick on
the right hand and a tear did escape Stiles this time. Peter, true to his
psycho form licked and kissed his tears away.
 
“You're such a freak,” Stiles muttered. Peter nipped the shell of Stiles' ear
then placed a gentle kiss to each of Stiles' palms. Stiles winced at each kiss.
“Sadistic freak,” Stiles muttered knowing full well that Peter heard him. “He
was just trying to help. The only way he knows how.”
 
Peter's eyes darkened. “No he wasn't.”
 
Stiles frowned. “Yes he was. He's trying to give us an out.”
 
“You're a clever boy, Stiles. He wasn't trying to help,” Peter said stepping
away and getting into the bed. “You're not allowed in the bed until you've
figured it out.”
 
Stiles felt fury boil beneath his skin. He didn't want to be in the bed. He
didn't. Peter always dragged him in, made it obvious where he was supposed to
be, now if he figured it out it was going to look like... Stiles huffed and
threw his hands up in the air and made himself comfy on the threadbare sofa. It
was where he'd rather be after all.
 
- - - - - -
 
“Okay,” Stiles said twisting in the seat of the red car. “So if you're a
werewolf – an Alpha, as you seem so keen to remind me – then are you going
to... you know...”
 
Peter glanced over at Stiles. He was biting his lip staring down at the cat's
cradle he was playing with in his hands.
 
“Bite you?” Peter asked lightly. Stiles nodded mutely. “Not yet. I have it
planned, don't worry. I took you with the intention to bite you,” Stiles looked
up at him at that. “The urge, the drive, to create pack, to have pack... It's
overwhelming sometimes. I've been very close to just...” Peter's eyes grew red
and his canines grew ever so slightly. “However. I'm not fully stable yet. What
happened with Jennifer -”
 
“What didhappen with Jennifer?” Stiles asked bouncing in his seat slightly. “I
never understood that. Kinda made me freak out. I mean killing people who you
think deserve it sure – but killing someone whom for all intents and purposes
was willingly helpingyou, that's not sane dude. Not right.”
 
Peter smiled gently. “Thank you, Stiles. May I continue?”
 
Stiles groused for a moment. “Whatever,” he said with no real heat. He knew he
was pushing it.
 
“Jennifer instinctively knew I was a weak Alpha. Not good for pack. Eventually
she began to turn on me. She was getting stronger every day. She would have
challenged me for my position. I would have lost,” Peter reached over and
rubbed his hand on the back of Stiles neck for a moment. “I need to wait until
I'm better, because I'm not sure if I would be able to defeat you. I can tell,
you will make such a strong wolf. Powerful, smart, loyal. I want to be the
Alpha you deserve, that our pack will deserve. Until then, I sate the wolf by
keeping you close. You're pack already.”
 
“You keep saying pack. What... what is pack?” Stiles asked tilting his head,
baring his neck ever so slightly. Peter smirked at the boy's unconscious
gesture.
 
“It's stronger than family. It's like being brothers in arms. The only people
who understand you, who can know you completely. It's community. It's strength.
Wolves hunt in packs. We're stronger together. Better together. Safer.”
 
“Sounds like joining the mafia,” Stiles snorted then quietened. “You keep
saying better as well. Are...” Stiles breathed deep for a moment before facing
him head on. “Are you getting better? Is being a psycho something you can
heal?”
 
“I don't know, Stiles. The headaches however, are growing more and more
infrequent so...”
 
"You're getting as close to healed as you can be?" Stiles muttered quietly.
 
"Yes, Stiles. I imagine so."
 
"So... this is you now?"
 
"Yes, Stiles. This is me."
Chapter End Notes
     Okay, we're getting into strange territory where the story can go off
     in different tangents. So how do you think/want it to end? Do Stiles
     and Peter drop off the map for the rest of time and poor Papa
     Stilinski is left to try and find the trail? Massive poilce shoot up?
     Everyone dies? Peter dies? Stiles dies? Hunters get 'em? Alpha pack
     gets 'em? Stiles learns to love him and they have werebabies
     together? (NO MPREG. IT'S WEIRD AND GROSS AND NOT POSSIBLE. STOP
     TRYING TO MAKE IT HAPPEN(sorry pet hate(I mean they bite people)))
     Does Stiles kill Peter? Does Peter kill Stiles? ZOMBIES?!?
     So you see it can go many different ways. Any suggestions/
     antisuggestions? Ruling things out is just as important as picking
     things in ::P
***** Chapter 9 *****
Chapter Notes
     My dissertation is in! It was on the Theatre under Magareet Thatcher
     if anyone wanted to know. It was beautiful and amazing.
     Thinking about the tags on this story. Do I need more? If so which
     ones?
See the end of the chapter for more notes
 
Stiles was having a bad day. He couldn't stop moving. He had tried alright. He
had. Really. But it was hard. He didn't like being cooped up in a car all the
time, and Peter had one of his headaches. Those headaches were so annoying. The
car rides were actually bearable when Peter was talking to him. The dude was
funny, and smart. Super smart. Smart like 'I got an English degree bitch'
smart. He managed to distract Stiles, and alright there was that element of
complete and utter fear whenever Stiles opened his mouth to talk, but somehow
his ability to stay quiet in high pressured situation hadn't passed on to his
limbs being able to. Stop. Moving.
 
“Stiles,” Peter ground out.
 
“It's not my fault you kidnapped a kid with ADHD and didn't bring his
medicine,” Stiles said trying to fix the glove compartment he had broken
yesterday with the duct tape. Peter pulled into a gas station and Stiles let
out a sigh of relief.
 
“Stay in the car.”
 
Stiles turned sharply to him, shocked and amazed that Peter would even dare
suggest staying in the car. “No,” he said stepping out. Peter was around the
car and beside him in a second, iron grip seizing Stiles' wrist.
 
“Peter please. I need to move. You can't keep me cooped up in the car all day
and not expect me to do something stupid, then you'll punish me and," Stiles
stopped and inhaled sharply. "Oh my god... Oh my god! That's the point isn't
it,” Stiles hissed. “You're trying to wind me up so tight I'll snap and do
something that you won't like and you'll pummel me and I'll feel like I
deserved it – you complete – you complete and utter bastard. I can't believe –
I can't believe you've been making, making me – then I feel – but this is your
fault. You. Your fault. You've done this to me. You're doing this to me. You.
Not me. I don't deserve any of your stupid 'punishments' because you are the
psycho that has kidnapped me. You – you hurt me. And it's not my fault. It's
not.”
 
By the end of his tirade Stiles was out of breath, tears threatening to fall
but not quite managing it. Stiles stared resolutely in front of him, and not at
the werewolf by his side. Peter was silent for a few moments.
 
“I need you to stay in the car because there are two cameras here and an off-
duty cop. Step back into the car. Don't turn around.”
 
Stiles nodded and stepped back into the car. He fidgeted incessantly, looking
around trying to figure out who the off-duty cop was. How did Peter even know
that? Was there a scent for off-duty cop? That you could smell over the gas?
 
Peter stepped back into the car and passed over a box of caffeine pills and
mountain dew. Stiles popped a few into his hand and took them as Peter pulled
away from the station. Stiles could feel the tension building in the car and
when Peter took a turn onto a secluded patch Stiles’ sense of terror racked up.
 
“This is a bit off the beaten track,” Stiles said lightly as Peter turned off
the car.
 
“Pick,” Peter started as Stiles’ internally groaned. “You can say I’m sorry, I
love you, and I won’t disobey you again or you can spend the next day or two
tied up.”
 
As the words sunk in Stiles slowly went numb, like he was going into shock. It
was as if all the air in the car had been sucked out and he couldn’t breathe.
He didn’t think, he just pulled the handle on the car and ran. Ran as far away
as he could, which was further than he had ever gotten before. It was barely
ten feet.
 
Stiles gasped for air as Peter caught him around the middle. Stiles went limp
and Peter dragged him back to the car and popped open the trunk. Stiles hadn’t
even realised he was crying until Peter licked the tears away. He was shaking
too. Excellent.
 
“Please let me go. Please, Peter, please,” Stiles rasped as Peter brought out
the rope. Peter had bought rope nearly a week ago and Stiles had full on
freaked out. Peter had tried to calm him down. Said it was an investment and he
didn’t want to spend all his money on duct tape that wasn’t very effective when
he was wearing long sleeves anyway. It hadn’t calmed him down. “Peter I’m never
going to love you, just let me go now. Please Peter, I can’t…”
 
Peter lifted a hand to Stiles cheek and kissed him softly. It just made him cry
more.
 
“It doesn’t have to be the truth. Just a little white lie,” he murmured gently
against Stiles’ skin, cradling hid face. “I wouldn’t mind.”
 
Stiles gritted his teeth. “I am never going to say that,” Stiles spat, drawing
on the fury that never really faded anymore. “Get that into your head, you
psycho.”
 
Peter gently turned Stiles around and tied his elbows up in some weird web,
then looped it round the front of his neck and tugged down so Stiles had to
bare his neck. He groused at the odd angle, but Peter gave him no slack. He
tied it back into his elbows, and pulled the rope down and tied his wrists,
then brought the rope back into the weave at his elbows. Stiles was honestly
starting to get a bit bored now. Peter’s fingers pulled Stiles mouth open wide
and started wrapping the rope around his head, gagging him, and pulling it back
down into the weave yanking Stiles head back fully. He then pushed Stiles into
the boot and pressed his feet into the back of his thighs, then bound them up
tight against his thighs, palming his crotch as he went. Stiles snarled and
tried to pull away, but Peter just tied his feet to his wrists and his elbows.
Stiles was seriously starting to hate the rope.
 
“Comfy?” Peter asked running a nail along the rim of his ear. Stiles leaned
away from the touch as much as he could. It wasn’t much. Peter then rolled him
onto his back. Stiles yelped in protest as the strain on his legs and arms
suddenly increased. His back was going to get sore like this too, arched from
his arms pulled straight and from his hips gutting up from his feet and his
hands trapped under his ass. Stiles couldn’t see Peter’s face, but he was sure
he was smirking.
 
There was no movement for a while, long enough for Stiles to get edgy. He
jumped a mile when Peter’s fingers ran against the bottom of the ropes in his
mouth, along his cheek and across his lips.
 
“You know… I enjoy you talking,” Peter said pensively. “You’re clever when you
want to be,” Peter’s fingers move to the hem of Stiles’ shirt. “Plus, it
reminds me of that oral fixation you have.”
 
Stiles’ heart hammered against his ribcage. For some reason he felt more
exposed and helpless than he had ever been before. Being unable to see where
Peter was putting his hands, his own body weight crushing him, Peter talking.
Stiles really hated the rope. Hated Peter.
 
“But I think I could get used to this,” Peter said pulling open Stiles’ shirt,
running a hand along his chest. “Silent. Submissive.” Peter swung up and over
Stiles’ hips, grinding down on him slightly. “Strained.”
 
Stiles pulled at the restraints but there was no way out of them. Stiles
couldn’t see what was going on above him, but he could hear him, feel the
movements against his body. Peter was jacking off.
 
“Maybe I should keep you like this. Quiet and obedient and ready. You know,
it’s funny, even when your mouth is jammed up, your body…” Peter said. “It’s
just so loud.”
 
That word came out as more of a growl and Stiles flinched as he pictured Peter
wolfed out, fangs, red eyes, claws. Peter came over his chest suddenly and
lifted off Stiles. He ran a finger through it and smeared it onto Stiles lips.
 
“I’ll let you decide if you want me to lick that off, or if you want to do that
yourself later,” Peter said as a parting shot, slamming down the trunk lid and
leaving Stiles in the dark, with come drying on his lips.
 
- - - - -
 
Stiles didn’t really remember much when he woke up in the morning. He
remembered being in the boot, remember how tense every part of him had been. It
had felt like he couldn’t breathe at certain points. He remembered that when
the car eventually stopped he was in so much pain he wasn’t certain which way
was up. He remembered being rolled onto his side and nearly passing out, or did
he actually pass out, from the sudden pain that lanced through his body. He
remembered being put on the bed and being ever so gentle untied and uncurled.
He remembered every pain filled whimper, pant, gasp, moan –
 
Stiles’ eyes shot open and he lay panting, trying to catch his breath. He tried
to sit up but his hands were tied up above him and his legs were stretched out
below. Stiles snarled as he pulled against the binds. Still gagged, Stiles
tried to scream, but only a muffled noise came out. He tugged futilely on the
ropes again. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t move. He felt like he couldn’t
breathe, like he was being pinned down, trapped, confined to a space too small
for him, compressed into a little box, getting smaller for his coffin. Like
mom. He couldn’t move.
 
nononononononononononononono -
 
A soft hand ran over his face and Stiles tried to rear back, like a wild horse,
eyes jumping to Peter as he shushed him.
 
“Shh, shh, it’s okay. I’ve got you. You’re safe with me. Always safe with me,
shh, breathe with me, come on…”
 
Slowly Stiles could breathe again, but his heart still beat furiously against
his ribs. Peter leaned over and kissed the tear tracks off from down the side
of his face, then reached behind Stiles’ head and untied the gag. Stiles gulped
down the air like he’d been suffocated, Peter curling into his side like that
was normal.
 
“Please, Peter, please, I want my dad, please,” Stiles begged not caring that
he was a full grown teenager who was far too old to be asking for his dad to
come and take the pain away.
 
“Hey, hey,” Peter soothed. “You can’t just now. Being punished. You’re safe, I
promise,” Peter said nuzzling into his cheek. Stiles fought the flinch and
tried not to grit his teeth. Peter would feel that with his face being all up
in his business.
 
“Peter? Peter, I really can’t cope with these ropes. I can’t – I can’t think
with them on me like this. I can understand restraining me, I can understand
the car and all that, but this is different. This is different. This isn’t
about restraint and I can’t deal with,” Stiles was starting to hyperventilate.
“I can’t deal with the way it’s making me feel, please. Please.”
 
“Breathe with me Stiles. Calm down, breathe.”
 
Stiles managed to start breathing regularly after Peter’s gentle instructions.
 
“Peter, I promise I won’t try to get away, I do. You can hear me, listen to my
heartbeat, tell if I’m lying. Throw away the ropes and I won’t ever run from
you.”
 
Peter’s eyes flicked up Stiles’, his head resting on top of Stiles chest,
staring at Stiles as if it were the first time he had ever seen him.
 
“You ran from me yesterday.”
 
Stiles’ eyes squeezed shut.
 
“You scared me.”
 
Peter shifted until he was over him, hands cradling either side of his face,
breath gusting across Stiles’ mouth.
 
“I scare you a lot Stiles, but this time you ran.”
 
“I know, I know and I’m sorry. I’m really, truly sorry. I can’t always control
myself. I wasn’t thinking. I really wasn’t. I’m sorry. I’m so, so, sorry. I
understand that it freaks you out, that it triggers you, and I know you don’t
want to hurt me. I put us both in danger and I’m sorry,” Stiles pleaded. “I’m
so – ”
 
Peter smashed his lips up against Stiles, kissing the air and life out of him.
Stiles kissed back with just as much ferocity, opening his mouth and letting
Peter lick inside his mouth with a passion that left Stiles’ breathless. He
arched up against Peter’s body, letting out a small whine, yanking his wrists
once more trying to be free.
 
It was weird and intense when Peter made eye contact with him so close to his
face. “You’re in those ropes,” he said circling a fingertip over Stiles’
nipple. “Because you chose to be,” Peter kissed along the underside of Stiles’
jaw and along his neck. “I’ll give you that same choice again.” He sat up,
looming high above Stiles, staring straight into Stiles’ eyes. “I’ll claw these
ropes to pieces,” he said resting a now taloned hand in the centre of Stiles’
chest. “Just say you love me.”
 
Cold fear doused Stiles and he froze. Suddenly he was hyper aware of everything
else in the room: the small draft coming in from the bathroom, the noise of the
traffic on the road not too far away, the smell of cheap fabric conditioner
from the bed sheets.
 
Peter raised an eyebrow so minutely others would have missed it. He leaned down
slowly, and ran his nose along Stiles’ cheekbone till he reached Stiles’ ear.
 
“I thought not.”
 
Stiles felt his anger and hatred flare as Peter ducked his head and took
another kiss, softer than the last, then wound the gag back around Stiles’
mouth with a light smirk. He trailed his fingers down the middle of Stiles’
body, starting a Stiles’ lips and moving down, neck, chest, stomach, and
stopped when he caught the waistband of Stiles’ pants. Peter’s eyes shot up to
Stiles’ so fast it was like a switch. Stiles’ felt a jolt of adrenalin thrum
through him. Peter sent him a wicked grin, a feral grin, and Stiles dropped his
head back onto the pillow. He wasn’t playing Peter’s games. Peter could do as
he liked.
 
It wasn’t as if Stiles could stop him.
 
Chapter End Notes
     Thank you all so much for my/your comments! (they're mine now) Got
     some really interesting ideas now.
     Peter and Stiles will not be running off into the sunset. I am
     Scottish. Happy endings are cheated endings. Also abuse bad. No
     romance out of abuse. Bad readers. Bad.
     It won't be done for some time so plenty of time to pitch your idea
     if your heart will die in a firey blaze if your ending is not heard
     kisses
***** Chapter 10 *****
 
Peter had noticed a remarkable increase in obedience after the two days Stiles
spent in bondage. He smirked ever so slightly as he eyed the sleeping boy in
the passenger seat. It could be due to a number of things. Purchasing the game
boy to entertain him, finally getting a workable dosage of caffeine into the
boy, maybe the boy had even given up, but Peter believed the reigning cause of
this new found compliance to be directly related to the reaction Stiles had to
the rope. Now Peter had a suitable threat to hang over the boy’s head – rather
than leaving a messy trail of dead bodies behind him like breadcrumbs – he
found himself breathing that little bit easier. He reminded Stiles of it every
so often - pulling out shorter pieces and perfecting some knots and positions:
securing his wrists to his knees, wrapping his arm to the door, bandying it
across his neck like a collar, binding his torso to the headboard, tying it
like a fishing net over his chest and pulling it tight, not even restraining
him. Just having him wear it decoratively under his shirt was enough, or like a
sleeve along his arm. He could feel how tense and uncertain Stiles was when he
did it. It was intoxicating.
 
He was sure the boy had noticed a discernible pattern in their direction by
now, but Peter didn’t mind. He was bored of the circle he had been travelling
in since leaving Beacon Hills and was intent in reaching their destination. It
would be nice if he could trust the boy enough to drive while he slept, but
alas Peter didn’t think Stiles was that committed to staying with him.
Nevertheless, Peter was still searching for ways of keeping the boy close to
him, courting him in a fashion Peter supposed. A brutal courtship one might
say, but Peter couldn’t be without Stiles. He was beginning to feel an almost
overwhelming urge to create pack. If Stiles didn’t start submitting completely,
soon, Peter might not be able to give him the choice for much longer.
 
Stiles’ skin looked beautiful bruised. It was going be a shame to give that up.
 
*
 
“Stop,” Peter said gently grabbing Stiles' hands. Stiles had done a load of
washing and had ironed and folded it all neatly into bundles according to
ownership, colour, and size. Now he was counting up all the loose change he had
found in the rented out apartment. Peter really had planned this out in
advance; apparently the flat was being let out while the owners were
holidaying. He had managed to get all the pennies divided up into sizes and now
-
 
“Stiles. Stop.”
 
Stiles looked at Peter; he was sitting on the coffee table in front of Stiles
staring right into his eyes, his knees pressing against Stiles own.
 
Stiles blinked.
 
“I can't.”
 
“I'm going to make you some coffee. An espresso.”
 
Stiles made a face and ducked his head. He wasn't a big fan of coffee, but
caffeine.
 
“Caffeine. Yeah,” Stiles said blinking as Peter dropped his hands and stood.
“ADHD. It's a deficiency so my body over compensates by -”
 
“I know, Stiles. I'll get you coffee, and then you'll strip.”
 
Stiles' head snapped up as he felt the oh too familiar cold fear thrill through
his veins, but Peter had already moved through to the kitchen.
 
“W- Why?” Stiles winced as he stammered. This was not the time to show
weakness. Weakness probably had a scent anyway, but still, no open invitations
for the natural predator ought to be presented; particularly when said predator
could just tie him down and have his way with him whenever he freaking wanted.
 
“I'm going to give you a massage. Relax you right down.”
 
Stiles chewed his lip as he bounced his knee up and down and up and down and up
and down.
 
Peter's hand pressed down on his leg as he sat beside him in the couch. Stiles
jolted surprised. Peter raised a sardonic eyebrow and Stiles blushed at his
startled reaction.
 
“Triple espresso,” Peter said handing over the relatively small cup. “This
place has a beautiful coffee machine.”
 
“Whoop. De. Doo,” Stiles said making a face at the super bitter taste. “Can you
put a galleon of sugar in this thing please?”
 
Peter rolled his eyes. “Do it like a shot.”
 
Stiles snorted. “Another first.”
 
Peter's grin grew. “Never had shots?”
 
Stiles sent him a flat stare. “I'm only sixteen. Barelysixteen,” Stiles said.
 
“Well then, I'll just have to take over some life experiences. Like shots...
and body shots.”
 
Stiles felt his stomach roll and he chugged his coffee letting it burn his
tongue to have something to distract him from Peter's searing gaze.
 
“Finished?” Peter asked. Stiles nodded and let Peter take the cup out of his
hands, not even tensing as his fingers brushed lightly over his wrist. Peter
returned the cup to the kitchen, then came back and retrieved Stiles, leading
him gently to the bedroom.
 
“I wonder how horrified the home owners would be if they found out what kind of
person you are,” Stiles commented as Peter unbuttoned his shirt for him. “Not
that you're even a person, of course,” Stiles continued as his pants were
dropped down. “You're a monster,” Stiles finished. Peter's eyes glowed red and
his nostrils flared ever so slightly. Stiles knew Peter well enough now to know
when he got under his skin. Looks like the monster barb had hit the mark.
“Definitely a monster. Red eyes... fangs... claws… kidnapping… rape… inability
to grasp any emotion – any feeling at all -”
 
Peter snarled and Stiles found himself pushed up into the bedpost.
 
“Stiles,” he said sounding completely calm and in control. “We can drop this
now. Forget it, continue on, and you will never use that word again,” he said.
“Or I can show the exact kind of monster I am. Which would you prefer?”
 
Stiles looked away and bit the inside of his cheek. He didn't particularly want
Peter's 'massage' but at the same time he wasn't looking forward to whatever
demonstration he was about to receive on monsters.
 
“Can I have another cup of coffee please?” Stiles asked quietly. Peter studied
him for a moment before he nodded and kissed him on the forehead.
 
“I'll put, what was it? A galleon of sugar in it?”
 
Stiles nodded and Peter left the room. Stiles slumped down to the floor resting
against the bed.
 
Then suddenly he was up running through the apartment slamming all the doors,
then opening them all again, and slamming them shut – until Peter finally
caught him around the waist and restrained him.
 
“I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” Stiles gasped as Peter hauled him back into the
bedroom.
 
“Calm down. I know, I know,” Peter said gently. “Do you want that coffee?”
 
Stiles shook his head. “TV. Can I have the TV? Are there any movies? I think I
could focus on a movie. Well, depends on the movie I guess, maybe like an
action. Like Die-Hard or something, or maybe there’s a new release on demand or
something in the tele already. I bet there’s tons you haven’t seen yet.
Probably some I haven’t either,” Stiles babbled.
 
Peter guided Stiles through to the living room and pushed him into the couch.
 
“Have you ever seen Logan's Run?” Peter asked from the shelves.
 
“No.”
 
Peter smiled over at him and plucked it off the shelf. “It's one of those
important movies where you learn about the world and humanity. It's good,” he
said as he put it on then plopped down on the couch next to him. “Feet up,”
Peter said patting his lap. Stiles raised an eyebrow. “Massage, remember?”
Stiles stared blankly for a moment. Peter held the stare until Stiles dropped
his eyes and pulled his feet up into Peter's lap. Peter hummed happily and the
movie started to play.
 
Stiles settled down soon enough, able to concentrate on the movie quite well.
It was old school scifi, just what he liked and Peter wasn't half bad at this
foot massage business either.
 
It was when Peter pressed deep into the arch and Stiles actually moaned that
Stiles realised he was getting turned on.
 
Stiles yanked his foot out of Peter's hold and Peter just smiled back. His
super creepy I-could-eat-you-up smile.
 
“You're such a dick.”
 
“Shut up and watch the movie,” Peter joked. “And give me back your feet.”
 
* * *
 
Peter blew him in the shower while running a finger along his hole. It was the
first time Peter had ever made aspersions of stepping things up to the ‘next
level’. Stiles had been so close to a panic attack he wasn’t entirely certain
how Peter managed to get him to come at all, but here he was fully encircled by
the smug sleeping wolf while Stiles cried until morning. It made getting any
rest a tad difficult, but Stiles couldn’t care less. Besides if he slept in the
car he had less chance of doing something stupid which would lead him back to
being trussed up like a turkey ready to be devoured. He saw the look in Peter’s
eyes when he was spread out immobile on the bed like that. Stiles was pretty
sure that if Peter thought he could get away with it Stiles would be reduced to
nothing more than a whimpering little bitch legs spread ass in air hole ready
worthless whore–
 
Stiles closed his eyes and let the tears soak into the pillow. He knew Peter
would smell it in the morning and frown and say nothing. If Stiles wanted to
pretend he was fine Peter was more than willing to go along with it. Besides it
was the only time he got the space to cry without Peter licking it up like it
was a fine wine or whatever. Stiles felt like he was being stretched too thin,
like he was see-through, turning into a ghost and he didn’t know how to stop
it, how to reverse it.
 
What was worse is that Peter had started to touch him. Simple little non-
intrusive things, hand on his thigh, fingers around wrist, shoulder to
shoulder, kiss to the head, and Stiles had gotten used to it. Anticipated it.
Welcomed it sometimes. Peter was all he had on any given day. The only contact
he had with anyone. He was sassy and smart and challenged him, when he wasn’t
leering and molesting him.
 
He wanted his dad.
 
The last time he rung his dad it’d gone to voicemail. He had pleaded to Peter
but he shrugged. It wasn’t his fault his father hadn’t picked up in time, he
should be thankful there even was a voicemail.
 
Stiles started as Peter shifted behind him, pulling him in tighter. Stiles
sucked in a deep breath. He was going to ask to phone his dad tomorrow. Peter
wasn’t likely to say no. Little steps, Stiles. Little steps. First get your
head together. Then run away. Find a way to run away.
***** Chapter 11 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
 
- - - - - -
Stiles heart thudded violently in his chest. It had been what felt like hours
now and it was starting to get hard to breathe, every muscle in his body was
shaking with the tension, the strain. He could feel Peter’s eyes on him
examining him for any twitch, any movement that he could use, but Stiles stayed
perfectly still.
 
His forehead was pressed into the cold tiled floor, his chin resting on his
knees, body curled up, and hands clasped behind his back. It reminded him of
those strange oriental bows you would see in the movies when people would bow
to the emperor face down on the ground. The King and I had been one of his
mom’s favourites.
 
Stiles shivered as a breeze swept through the room, skin going tight. Of course
he had to be naked for this. Peter had stripped him down and given him a
choice. Sometimes Stiles thought Peter should be on those gameshows, where the
host tells you to pick behind door number one or door number two, and is so
damn annoying about it too. Would you liked to be tied up unable to move, or
not tied up and keep still by yourself – however should you move before your
time is up I’m going to beat you black and blue! Choose quickly now, we’ve only
got a few more seconds before these options are made unavailable.
 
And no matter what Peter said, he hadn’t been flirting with that waitress.
Hell, he didn’t even really know how to flirt!
 
Stiles took a deep breath and tried to relax his body without moving. The
tremors in his arms were getting worse and he knew Peter could see how much
effort was going in to keeping his hands clasped behind him: his back ached
like it was on fire, his forehead felt flat and cold, the bumps in his knees
felt like stabbing needles, and he hadn’t been able to feel his feet in a very
long time now.
 
The show could be called Would You Rather. Or something as equally lame.
 
Peter ran a finger down Stiles spine, draining the pain away. Stiles whimpered.
Shut up, Stiles!
 
“Oh, you poor thing,” Peter cooed. “Shall we stop?”
 
Don’t answer. It’s a trick. Stay still.
 
“Stiles, you can answer the question. Do you want to stop?”
 
Stiles gulped. “Yes.”
 
“Have you learned your lesson?”
 
“Yes,” Stiles grunted.
 
“Good,” Peter said, unravelling Stiles’ clasped fingers. “Leave the flirting to
me.”
 
“That’s such a double standard,” Stiles muttered, toppling over onto his side.
Peter lay down beside him and traced the red mark on his forehead, Stiles
leaned in to Peter’s body heat and shivered again.
 
“I am resolute in my feelings towards you. You are not. That is why I may flirt
harmlessly and you may not.”
 
Stiles eyes flickered up to Peter’s own, he was looking at him like… Stiles
didn’t know what like. Like he’d hung the moon or something.
 
Huh, hung the moon. That expression had a whole new level to it now.
 
- - - -
 
... I’m nauseous all the time. And tired, god dad I’m so tired. Sometimes he
doesn’t let me move or speak for hours at a time. I feel like I can’t breathe.
Like I can’t catch my breath. Like I’m suffocating like I’m being buried alive.
It feels like he’s killing me dad, I feel like I’m dying and I can’t – I can’t
keep going. Not like this. I can’t – this isn’t living. It feels like I’m not
alive anymore. I feel like a doll, or a pet or… He says he love me dad. He
keeps saying it, and touching me, and it fucks with my head dad. He keeps
hugging me and kissing me and tying me up and pinning me down and I can’t get
out, I can’t get free. Not for two seconds. Even now, even now he’s listening
to this. He’s listening to this phone call, dad, and watching me fall apart,
and he’s just going to swoop in after I hang up and put me back together again.
But he’s doing it wrong. Doing it wrong on purpose. So I’m not me anymore. And
I liked me dad. I liked me a lot. I don’t want to change. I don’t want to die
dad. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
 
The Sheriff had listened to the voicemail over and over again for days. Had
memorised every hitch of Stiles’ breath, every scuffle, creak, rustle. Every
background noise had been stripped and analysed for information on their
location. The phone had been traced, left behind destroyed at their previous
location. Always previous. They never seemed to get there in time.
 
The phone calls were getting more and more infrequent, as if Hale had begun to
care about being found. As if now it mattered, now where they were was
important. Which terrified the Sheriff because that meant that he was going
somewhere, somewhere safe, planned on settling down. With his son.
 
And he had missed the damn call.
 
If the phone calls stopped it was likely he was going to be transferred off the
team that had taken over the manhunt. If the phone calls stopped, this would
slowly become a cold case. The way this man moved between states there was no
way he could keep up. He needed the resources that the FBI gave him on this
team.
 
He had nothing to go home to.
 
The Sheriff rolled over on the bed and pressed his ear up against his phone.
Then he pressed play.
 
...- ase, Peter. Can I phone back later? I want to actually talk to him...
- - - - - - - -
 
“But think about it,” Stiles spouted from the hotel bed. “If the moonlight
causes the transformation, then why go into the moonlight? Why does Hollywood
go for the dramatic turning around to face the moon thing?”
 
Peter rolled his eyes and stepped through from the en suit, flopping down on
the bed next to him. “I believed you just answered the question.”
 
Stiles smirked kicking his feet up in the air behind him. “Ah, but real
application. Is the moon strong all the time, as soon as it starts rising – or
does it have a rise and fall. A ‘peak time’ if you will.”
 
Peter grabbed one of his feet slid his hand up under the pyjama bottoms until
his fingers brushed the rope he wound like a cuff just under Stiles’ knee.
Stiles stared resolutely at the television screen ignoring Peter’s hand
entirely, ignoring the feeling of dread that clawed at his chest every time
Peter brought his attention to the rope.
 
“It’s rise and fall. We feel the moon always. Like a tide washing over you,
strong or weak,” Peter replied kissing the arch of Stiles’ foot as he let go.
 
Stiles flipped himself onto his back to look at Peter. “Would you take a cure?
I mean if you could cure it, would you?”
 
Peter stared at him for a moment. “If there was ‘a cure’ for being gay, would
you take it?”
 
Stiles looked like someone had killed bambi’s mother and asked him to coat
himself in her blood.
 
“First – I’m not gay. Second, that’s different. Completely different. You don’t
choose your sexuali -”
 
“And I chose to be a werewolf?” Peter asked, a hand sliding up Stiles’ hoodie,
fingers coming to rest on the bottom of his ribs. Stiles ignored the fact that
prior to Peter kidnapping him, he still had baby fat on him, and couldn’t tell
you where the bottom of his ribs were.
 
 “Right, fine,” Stiles huffed and rolled his eyes. “I get your point, but… If
you could change that, go back in time and make everyone not a werewolf. Would
you?”
 
Peter frowned. “I do not dwell on such things,” he said bending down and
kissing Stiles lightly on the lips. “I fear I would go mad.”
 
Stiles rolled his eyes but allowed Peter to turn off the television and drag
him to the head of the bed and under the covers.
 
“Now sleep,” Peter muttered, pulling him tight against his chest. Stiles closed
his eyes.
 
It was still dark when he was woken up.
 
“There are hunters in the lobby. They will shoot to kill both you and I. Put on
your shoes now.”
 
Peter was already out the bed and throwing the one or two things lying around
the hotel room. Stiles shoved on some socks and trainers, still shock sleepy
and not fully grasping the situation.
 
Hunters. Hunters are in the lobby. Hunters like Allison’s dad. Hunters like
Allison’s dad who hunt bad werewolves. Hunt werewolves like Peter. Peter.
 
There were hunters after Peter.
 
The swell of relief Stiles felt at that simple conclusion was probably
tangible. Peter could probably smell it, but Stiles couldn’t care less. His dad
may not be able to find him, may not be equipped to deal with an alpha
werewolf, but these guys were, and they were hunting Peter down.
 
Stiles was jolted out of his thoughts as Peter grabbed his shoulder, extended
claws piercing through his sleep hoodie and skin. Tears sprung to his eyes.
 
“Cooperate, Stiles. You’ve been with me a while, they think you’ve been
turned,” he said pulling his to his feet and taking him to the door. “Stay
silent.”
 
Stiles gritted his teeth and looked down. Peter paused then ripped open the
door moving quickly down the corridor heading for the stairwell. Stiles heard
the ding of the elevator and looked up. Three men and one woman, dressed all in
black, guns, crossbows. His eyes locked with the point man, Stiles inhaled.
 
Peter pulled Stiles to his chest, and put his claws into his neck. Stiles cried
out in pain.
 
“He’s human, so unless you want the child’s blood on your hands I wouldn’t
shoot.”
 
Stiles could feel the thudding heart beat pump thin trickles of blood down his
neck on the collar of his hoodie. Stiles watched as the hunters tilted their
head and exchanged glances, each of them shook their head and the man on the
left dropped his gun down slightly. None of them had a clear shot on Peter.
Stiles made for a pretty good human shield.
 
Stiles locked eyes with the guy on the left then glanced down at his hand. It
was spread like a five. Then Stiles dropped a finger. Four. He dropped another,
god he hoped this worked. Three. Two. One.
 
Stiles dropped his weight and went limp, kicking his legs at Peter’s ankle as
he did so. Peter retracted his claws from Stiles throat, and let him drop to
the ground as a shot went off. It grazed the top of Stiles shoulder, but hit
Peter in the collar bone. Stiles hit the ground and Peter took off running,
down the stairwell.
 
Was that it?
 
The group moved forward, the woman saying something as three of them went after
Peter and one – the one on the left – knelt down beside him and looked at his
neck. Looked for a long time.
 
“I am human,” Stiles eventually gasped out. “It’s not going to magically heal
by itself. You got a band aid or something?”
 
He nodded and pulled out a bandage and stuff from a pocket on his pants. He
stopped the bleeding and wound the bandage on.
 
“Your team… will they kill him?”
 
The hunter looked up at him. “Can you stand?”
 
Stiles nodded and pushed himself up off the ground, following the hunter to the
elevator. To the lobby. To the car. It was raining. Raining cats and dogs, and
both of them were dripping wet when they slid into the car, the hunter sat down
in the driver’s seat, Stiles in the passenger’s. Then the hunter’s phone
started ringing. He frowned and pulled it out.
 
“Mia, what -”
 
Stiles saw it in stages. The sudden tensing of his body. The darting of his
eyes. The deep breath in. The slow drain of colour from his face. The subtle
glance sideways to Stiles’ presence. Stiles saw the conversation in stages.
Peter had found his team and killed them and he was to hand over Stiles
immediately. Something along those lines.
 
The hunter hung up.
 
“I never did get your name,” Stiles said in a small voice, rainwater still
dripping off his nose.
 
“Alec. Alec Argent.”
 
Stiles hummed and nodded.
 
“Alec. Start the car. We can still try. Alec?” Stiles pleaded. This could be
his only chance. “You realise he’s going to kill you. No matter what he said,
right? Mia’s already gone.”
 
Alec looked at Stiles and nodded, key in the ignition, and then the passenger
door was being torn off.
 
Just like Mike.
 
The flashback to Mike was so sudden and prominent that Stiles didn’t follow
what happened to Alec. Stiles had curled himself into a ball by the time a
drenched Peter Hale stepped into the car, threw their backpack into the
backseat, and turned the key. The car engine purred to life.
 
“Stiles, you’re shivering, we should get you warmed up. And put your seat belt
on. We don’t want any accidents.”
 
Peter switched the heating on, and Stiles slowly unfurled, pulling the seatbelt
across. Peter smiled and reached out a hand to squeeze Stiles’ thigh
reassuringly. When his hand pulled away there was a bloody handprint left
behind on his sleep pants.
 
- - - - - - - - - - - -
 
His fingers traced over the healing scrap on the top of Stiles’ shoulder. It
was scabbing over nicely. Healing well. Then his hands ran lightly over the
slopes of Stiles’ shoulder blades. Pale smooth skin littered with a few moles,
bruises, rope burns, then his hands followed the gentle dip beneath the
protruding shoulder blades, tracing his spine down the small of his back then
letting his hand spread flat, pressing the heel of his hand in before adding
his other hand and pushing out and back up the way, straddling Stiles for
easier access as he began a massage.
 
“Nhg.”
 
Peter gave a small predatory smile as the sleepy noise made its way past
Stiles’ lips. Sleep made Stiles so pliant and agreeable, made his barriers weak
enough to enjoy what Peter had to offer him, wanted to give him. He fingers
pushed into a tense knot just below the right shoulder and Peter sighed,
pressing in deep and breaking the calm.
 
“Ah! What are you, uhg ngg -” Stiles yell broke off into a gasp as Peter
finished with the ball of tense muscle. “What are you doing?” he mumbled into
the pillow, suddenly collapsing like jelly.
 
“Wake up massage. Are you awake?” Peter chuckled.
 
Stiles hummed neutrally and Peter ran his hands off of Stiles.
 
“We’re travelling today,” Peter said pressing a kiss to the wound on Stiles’
shoulder. “Get dressed and we’ll leave after breakfast.”
 
“Not hungry,” Stiles grumbled drawing his legs up and curling into himself.
Peter stared at him for a long moment then kissed him on the cheek.
 
“Then we’ll go as soon as you’re dressed.”
 
Then Peter pulled away the sheets, ignoring Stiles’ outraged cries. They had a
schedule to keep to after all.
Chapter End Notes
     Poor Papa Stilinski.
***** Chapter 12 *****
 “You’re tense.”
 
Stiles snapped his head up from the Gameboy.
 
“What?”
 
“You’ve been tense ever since we got in the car this morning. What’s wrong?”
 
Stiles shrugged lightly and glanced out the window. Cars and road and tarmac.
It was a blue car today, old, with bad suspension: every bump in the road felt
like a small mountain.
 
“Nothing wrong, per say…” Stiles said. “I just…” Stiles leaned back and
exhaled. “I’m wondering what my punishment will be.”
 
“You mean for trying to get that hunter to run?”
 
Stiles hummed in agreement. Peter said nothing for a few moments then shook his
head.
 
“Four people died last night, Stiles,” Peter remarked. “I find it redundant to
discipline you. I never did for… Mark.”
 
Stiles blinked and observed Peter as he drove along the highway. “Do you think
there will be more hunters?”
 
Peter shrugged. “Hard to say. These four stumbled on us by chance. The last lot
were actively looking for us, so -”
 
“The last lot?” Stiles interrupted, sitting up.
 
“Yes. Stiles, I don’t share everything with you. Hunters have found us once
before. They have an extensive network, most of their people work in
surveillance or CCTV cameras. Low level people. It’s the actual ‘Argents’ of
the world that hunt and pull the trigger.”
 
“Huh. What did you do?”
 
“They haven’t bothered us since,” Peter said, matter of factly. “Why? Getting
sympathetic for the hunters? They slaughtered my whole pack, I don’t see why I
shouldn’t cull them.”
 
Stiles shrugged. Peter sighed, he reached over and squeezed Stiles knee.
 
“The point is: you don’t have to worry about repercussions from last night. So
relax a little, alright? I… I would hate it if you lived in constant fear.”
 
Stiles slunk back down in his seat, going back to his game.
 
“I don’t,” Stiles announced a few minutes later. Peter glance over at him.
“Live in constant fear. I used to, but I don’t really anymore. Just… just when
you’re being frightening now.”
 
Peter’s face softened and he nodded. “I’ll try harder then. Thank you.”
 
Stiles nodded and looked back down at the Gameboy, playing away the rest of the
day.
 
- - - - - - - - - - - - - -
 
“Can I phone my dad?” Stiles asked a few days later, slurping down a coffee and
a breakfast bagel.
 
“Okay.”
 
Stiles blinked. “Okay?”
 
“That’s what I said.”
 
The silence went on building until Peter groaned.
 
“What?”
 
“You usually want something. Ask for something.”
 
“Oh,” Peter said, stumped. “Stiles, it’s usually a reward, and you… you’ve been
really wonderful this past while. You’ve earned it.”
 
“Oh.”
 
Peter leaned over the bed to where Stiles was sitting and kissed him on the
cheek, pressing the phone into his hand.
 
“That’s all I’ve ever really wanted.”
 
- - -
 
“Hey, dad,” Stiles croaked.
 
“Stiles, thank god. Are you alright?”
 
“Oh yeah dad I’m just swimming,” Stiles snorted.
 
“Stiles? Where are you?”
 
Stiles sucked in a breath sharply eyes locking onto the door he knew Peter was
on the other side of.
 
“No. No I mean. Your voice is really echoing.”
 
“Oh… oh,” Stiles let out a small giggle. “God dad, I nearly had a heart attack
there. I’m uh… I’m kinda hiding in a bathtub right now,” Stiles said playing
with his trouser hemline. He heard his dad chuckle on the end of the line.
 
“I remember you used to do that when you were younger. Hide in the bathtub. Do
you remember the purple vase that used to sit in the hall?”
 
Stiles frowned. “Oh yeah… I loved that vase! What happened to it?”
 
“You broke it.”
 
“I did not!” Stiles exclaimed, aghast.
 
“You broke it then you ran and hid in the bathtub,”his father laughed from the
other end. “Took me and your mom ages to find you. We never knew you could stay
in one place for so long. Your mom had to crawl in beside you and wait until
you had calmed down enough to lift you out.”
 
Stiles laughed with his dad until another memory hit him. He was in a suit,
curled up in the bath crying.
 
“Stiles?”
 
“Mom’s funeral.”
 
Stiles heard his dad sigh. “Yeah. Yeah you hid in the bathtub then too. I
thought you had grown out of it, thought you were outside in the garden or
something. It was one of the deputies that told me where you were. Had to go in
and curl up with you myself that time. Don’t think we actually went back
downstairs to the wake now that I think about it.”
 
Stiles palmed the tears off his face. “I’m sorry.”
 
“Don’t be stupid, kid. I’d much rather be curled up in the tub with you than…
than anything really. God, Stiles, I miss you. I could kill that man for taking
you from me.”
 
“Dad…” Stiles said. “Don’t. Don’t say things like that. Please.”
 
“… Alright… why are you in the bathtub?”
 
“What?”
 
“The bathtub means something, Stiles. Are you hiding? Are you upset about
something? Has something happened?”
 
“Um,” Stiles frowned, staring up at the ceiling as he slouched down and lay
horizontal in the bathtub. “I dunno. I’m just… sad. I guess. Scared. Maybe. I
feel a bit lost. I suppose.”
 
“I need you to keep trying, Stiles. Keep your head okay? We’re… we’re still
trying to find you, alright? We’re not giving up. I’ll never give up. I
promise, okay?”
 
“Okay.”
 
“Stiles? You have to promise me something too, alright?”
 
“What?”
 
“That when I find you, you’ll come home. Promise me you’ll come home with me.”
 
“What?”
 
“Stiles, promise me you’ll come home.”
 
Stiles eyes instinctively went to the door, terrified that Peter was about to
storm in. “Dad, I…”
 
“Stiles, please.”
 
“Dad, I can’t, he’ll -”
 
“Stiles.”
 
“Alright! I promise. I promise, dad. I promise. I’ll come home. I’ll come home,
dad. I promise I’ll come home. I promise,” Stiles took a deep breath. “I’m
coming home, dad.”
 
Stiles heart was racing frantically, pounding relentlessly in his ears, a tear
ran down his face and he swallowed heavily.
 
“I don’t know why that was so hard to say,” Stiles whispered. Stiles heard the
door opened and jumped a mile, hitting his elbow off of the bathtub as he shot
up. “Damn,” he hissed.
 
“Stiles?”
 
“Yeah, no. I’m fine,” Stiles said as Peter slipped in the door and crouched
beside the tub. “Peter just gave me a freaking heart attack, bashed my elbow.”
 
Peter huffed, making Stiles smirk.
 
“Still clumsy?”
 
Peter nosed his way onto Stiles face, lapping up the tear tracks covering his
face.
 
“Clumsy as ever, pops. Fell down a flight of stairs last week, Peter was down
right adorable, flapping around asking me if I wanted carried. He hadn’t been
introduced to my flexible bones, obviously.”
 
“I remember the first time you took a tumble down the stairs. I swear you
bounced when you hit the bottom step.”
 
“Yeah I bounced. I’m tigger!” he said, grinning as Peter rolled his eyes. “And
you know the wonderful thing about tiggers,”
 
“Is tiggers are wonderful things,” his dad continued. Stiles smiled wider.
 
“Their tops are made with rubber…”
 
“The bottoms are made of springs. Yes, Stiles, I remember the song. You singing
it for weeks on end while running into the walls is certainly one way of
remembering something for life.”
 
“Uh… whoops? I hope you know Peter has become very well acquainted with the
running into walls side of my personality.”
 
“Good.”
 
Stiles snorted. “I’m all dosed up on caffeine and stuff now. He was very quick
to figure that trick out,” Stiles said idly tracing his fingers over Peter’s
face which he had propped up on the edge of the bath.
 
“Yes. He’s a very intelligent man from what I can tell.”
 
“Oh yes,” Stiles answered. “Very intelligent, and smart, charismatic, witty,
charming, temperamental, manipulative, terrifying, short tempered, possessive,
homicidal…” Stiles sighed. “He’s a real catch, pops.”
 
Peter turned his head sharply and kissed the inside of Stiles wrist. Stiles
started minutely, but gave a half-hearted smile to the man.
 
“You should bring him round the office some day. Let me introduce him to all my
buddies.”
 
“Oh if I could I would, dad. Infact if I could influence any of his decisions
I’d count it as a win.”
 
Peter kicked off his shoes and slid into the bathtub beside Stiles, curling a
hand round his thigh. He frowned slightly. Stiles’ heart jumped.
 
“What? What is it? What’s wrong?” Stiles whispered frantically to him. Peter
looked at him concerned for a moment then shook his head. Stiles’ eyes raked
over Peter’s face and he went back to his phone call, slightly more tense than
before. A few minutes later Peter twisted his hand under Stiles’ knee, lay
back, and flipped Stiles to straddle his hips. Stiles gave a lack lustre glare.
 
“Hang on a sec, da,” Stiles said, pressing the phone against his chest. “What
have I told you about pestering me when I’m on the phone?” Stiles said in an
exasperated but teasing tone, bopping his finger on Peter nose. “Hmm?”
 
Peter’s hands slipped easily under the waistband of Stiles’ jeans and curled
around his hips, the heel of his hand slotting into the hollow of his hipbones.
Peter lifted an eyebrow expectantly. Stiles pursed his lips but brought the
phone back up to his ear.
 
“Sorry, what were you saying?”
 
Stiles settled down on top of Peter as his dad gave his commentary on the
latest game. Stiles wasn’t sure which sport they were talking about, but he was
talking to his dad and that was the important part. Suddenly Peter’s grip
tightened. Stiles’ eyes shot down to Peter’s and he tilted his head.
 
“Dad?”
 
“Yeah, kiddo?”
 
“I think that’s all we have time for on today’s special, but be sure to check
back next week for new prizes,” Stiles replied.
 
“Love you. I’m going to see you soon.”
 
“Yeah, love you too old man.”
 
Stiles hung up to the sound of his dad chuckling.
 
Stiles settled himself on top of Peter’s chest, curling his body up, knees
hitting the side of the tub, head tucked under Peter’s chin. Peter’s arms
rested gently on Stiles’ waist. Stiles shivered feeling the cold of the
porcelain bathtub suddenly, and snuggled in closer to the werewolf radiator.
Peter frowned again, unseen by Stiles, and pulled the boy in tighter. Stiles
hummed. Peter hummed back.
 
“I miss him. I miss them both.”
 
Peter responded by kissing Stiles on the head while Stiles’ fingers curled up
in the fabric of Peter’s shirt.
 
“Mom was…” Stiles searched for the words. “Mom. Dad says I look like her, when
he’s had enough to drink. I remember only bits really now. Looking back I
always knew mom was ill. She always took pills, but it was never… not until
that last year when suddenly everything just broke down. I spent a lot of time
at this girl’s house – Heather. Our moms were best friends. They used to paint
ceramics. I can remember being in her kitchen and they’d have these beautiful
vases and mugs and figurines all painted, and me and Heather would be covered
in paint. There was never a spot on them. That’s… That’s the clearest thing. I
don’t really remember anything else,” Stiles burrowed in closer to Peter. “Not
holding her hand, or cuddling her, or her laugh. Just… paint and how she sat at
Heather’s mom’s kitchen table.”
 
Peter ran his hand up and down Stiles’ arm, warming him and comforting him at
the same time. “My mother died after giving birth to my little brother.
Complications or whatnot. I don’t have memories of her at all.”
 
“Who raised you?”
 
“My uncle mainly. Grams was the alpha, and she and gramps would be busy. I
never really knew what with,” he said puzzled. “He was… great. I suppose. It
must have been difficult for him, we certainly didn’t try to make it any easier
for him either.”
 
“Were you a toerag?” Stiles grinning and twisting up to see Peter’s face.
 
“I was perfect,” Peter said and then waited a beat. “My uncle simply did not
appreciate my perfection.”
 
Stiles snorted and flumped his head back down. “You really are a piece of
work.”
 
---
 
Peter entered the bedroom quietly so as not to wake Stiles. He had sprawled out
over the whole bed and had fallen asleep on top of the covers, once again.
Peter sighed and moved Stiles easily, like a rag doll, onto one side of the
bed. There would have been a time when moving Stiles around in his sleep would
have woken the teen up, but Stiles had gotten used to his presence, and used to
being manhandled while sleeping.
 
Peter gently straddled the unaware boy, giving a small smirk to the muffled
whine that made its way from Stiles’ throat. He gently pushed up the hem of
Stiles’ jumper until it was bunched up at the top of his torso. Peter ran his
hands gently down Stiles sides and slipped his fingers under Stiles’
sweatpants. He took a moment to admire Stiles creamy and in some places
purpling skin. The way it clung to Stiles’ bones was what some people might
even call…
 
Unhealthy.
 
Peter leaned over Stiles and breathed in deeply. He could only faintly pick up
the acrid smell of vomit on Stiles, but that didn’t mean anything in regard to
the fact Stiles had learnt everything he could about wolf biology – hoping for
some weakness, Peter was sure. He was also sure Stiles never found any and
stopped prying for his own safety. The boy had probably learned how to hide the
smell a while ago – if he was actually throwing up. He might not be.
 
But as Peter glanced down at the thin, frail, body beneath him, he doubted that
was true.
 
And he felt stupid. Stupid that he had fallen for Stiles complacency act, that
he had allowed Stiles to distract him with his curiosity, and the way his eyes
could flash a thousand meanings, and how his thought process made huge leaps in
logic that were nearly always correct. He felt stupid because Stiles was
obviously not falling into complacency. That he was not accepting his place by
his side – not becoming obedient – certainly not offering submission. Hunger
strikes were traditionally how prisoners showed their defiance.
 
Maybe he was reading too much into this. Maybe the boy was severely homesick,
weight loss was also related to stress – or grief perhaps. Maybe his body
wasn’t coping with the ‘on the road’ lifestyle they had been living and when
they stopped running Stiles would regain the pounds that had dropped off.
 
Maybe the boy was trying to become so ill he needed to be hospitalised.
 
He was certainly smart enough to come up with a long term plan, and had a low
enough self-esteem to believe putting his health on the line was worth the
payoff of his father’s happiness in the end.
 
Either way he was going to need to clamp down on this behaviour. He couldn’t
afford for Stiles to become weak enough that his body rejected the bite.
 
***** Chapter 13 *****
Chapter Notes
     This is not a good chapter. It's been taking a while and it's not
     even complete, but I figured if I got this half out there it would
     motivate me a bit more. My apologies.
     Also there are some workings for a podcast to be created so yay
     24 - 08 - 2013
     Okay, so I've finished the chapter and edited it now so it's
     complete! Yay. Also, for future reference do we prefer a very long
     break inbetween chapters or what I did here? I think I prefer just
     letting you guys wait and wallow...
     05 - 09 2013
“I think it’s you.”
 
Stiles stood in the doorway of Peter's room, taking in everything.
 
“I'm missing something though. Something big, I can feel it.”
 
“Like why anyone would want to burn your family to the ground in the first
place? Or how you can even move when you're hurt like you are? I assume that
has something to do with the nurse,” Stiles glanced up the hallway.
 
“Stiles! What the hell do you think you're doing?”
 
“Come on, dude, give me a sign that I'm right? About anything! That you're even
listening!”
 
“Stiles!” The Sheriff grabbed his arm. “I swear to god I'm going to take your
keys for this...”
 
Peter smirked and breathed in the scent of the boy. Stiles.
 
----
 
Stiles had missed the ocean. When he had first seen the signs for California he
had begun to get more and more anxious, but Peter just talked him down out of
it. Now he was freaking begging to get to go to the beach. It was summer now,
the sand would be hot under his curled toes, the ocean waves roar in his ears,
slat spray on his face, the sun would blast down on him. It’d feel like home.
 
“Oh gaddi, Peter, please.”
 
“You know you’re quite adorable when you pout.”
 
“Please.”
 
“But not when you whine,” Peter said frowning.
 
Stiles narrowed his eyes. He leaned over and ran his hand slowly up Peter’s
thigh, casually elongating his fingertips across Peter’s groin, smirking as he
saw Peter’s fingers squeezing the steering wheel tighter. He ran the tip of his
nose along the top of Peter’s ear.
 
“You think I’m adorable now? Wait till I’m soaking wet. Wait till I’m dripping.
Can’t you imagine kissing me in the water? Hands all over? Can’t you picture
it? Hot and wet and -”
 
Stiles cut himself off with a gasp and one of Peter’s hands shot down and
encircled his wrist tight, tight enough to feel his bones rub against Peter’s
fingers. Stiles glanced down and saw claws. He gave a small smile.
 
They were totally going to the beach.
 
- - - -
 
Peter placed the shopping bag in the backseat and slid into the driver’s side.
Stiles glanced up from his Gameboy and blinked.
 
“What’s that?” he asked suspiciously.
 
“A present,” Peter answered back lightly.
 
“For me?” Stiles asked, grin lighting up his face. Peter let the suspense build
and Stiles bit his lip, worrying at it.
 
“Maybe.”
 
“It’s totally for me!” Stiles said chucking his Gameboy into the glove
compartment and leaning over. Peter grabbed him by the back of his collar and
pulled him back into his seat.
 
“Hey!” Stiles grumbled.
 
“It’s for tomorrow,” Peter said leaning over and kissing Stiles lightly on the
nose. “Behave or you won’t get it and I’ll just have to go to the beach without
you.”
 
Stiles’ face lit up again when Peter mentioned the beach. Peter rolled his
eyes.
 
“Think there’ll be sharks?” Stiles smirked. “Think you could take a shark?”
 
“My aunt once battled a shark,” Peter replied. “We barbequed it afterwards.”
 
Stiles mouth hung open long enough for Peter to start the engine and pull out.
 
“What!”
-
After story time with Peter, and another few hours in the car, Stiles rolled
down the window and could smell the salt on the breeze. He closed his eyes and
breathed deeply, letting his hand hang out of the window. He was so close to
home now. They were in the same state. He was near the beaches he road tripped
to when he was little on summer holidays.
 
Peter pulled up to a small motel place. Stiles gave up long ago trying to
figure out how Peter had memorised where all of these places were and how he
had even booked some of them in advanced. Or how he paid for it all. Or what he
did when Stiles was left by himself. Peter was sneaky like that.
 
A hand brushed the small strands of hair that had grown back. Stiles blinked.
Had he fallen asleep?
 
“Are you awake?” Peter asked gently. He had opened the passenger door up, the
car was parked, motel keys in Peter’s hand.
 
“Yeah I’m up,” Stiles mumbled, slowly unfurling and letting Peter guide him out
of the car. “Beach tomorrow,” Stiles said smiling into Peter’s shoulder as he
locked the car.
 
“Really? I had no idea you wanted to go to the beach, Stiles. You should have
said something.”
 
“You’re funny,” Stiles snorted. “Funny, funny guy. Anyone ever tell you that?”
 
“No, Stiles, people just tell me I’m creepy.”
 
Stiles mumbled and Peter manoeuvred him into the motel room and dumped him onto
the bed. Stiles snuggled into the pillow and half dozed half watched Peter
unpack and get ready for bed.
 
Peter caught Stiles’ eye as he changed into his pyjama bottoms. Stiles pressed
his face shyly into the pillow. Peter smirked and stalked over to the bed,
pulling off Stiles shoes, then his socks, then his jeans – keeping his eyes
locked with Stiles. He leaned over Stiles, turned him, and kissed him gently,
Stiles remained passive to his administrations. He slid his hands up Stiles’
torso bunching up the t-shirt Stiles had on. He kissed up his chest, lips
latching onto Stiles’ nipple. Stiles gasped.
 
“Peter, no,” he said, tugging at Peter’s hair as Peter hand curled round the
waistband of Stiles’ underwear. “Peter. Stop,” Stiles demanded, pushing at
Peter’s face. Peter snarled, eyes blazing red as he jumped up the bed and
wrapped his thighs around Stiles’ face. Stiles automatically grabbed Peter’s
wrist, pressing his thumb on the pulse point. Peter froze immediately.
 
“Breathe, Peter. Calm down, please, Peter. Please calm down now, Peter. Peter…”
Stiles whispered, slowly rubbing his thumb up and down Peter’s wrist. “Come
here,” Stiles said, twining their fingers together. “Come down here and kiss
me.”
 
The red gradually bled out of Peter’s eyes and he slowly slid back down Stiles
until they were lying side by side. Stiles pressed forward and gave him a kiss,
wrapping his arms around Peter. Peter lay tense in his arms. Stiles curled up
around him and held back his tears.
 
“Just… It's just that I’m tired, Peter, yeah? I just wanna go to  sleep,
alright…” Stiles murmured as he pressed his head into Peter's chest and curled
up. "... Just let me sleep..."
 
- - -
 
Stiles blinked awake.
 
“Beach.”
 
Peter groaned as Stiles poked his shoulder.
 
“Beach. Beach today. Today’s beach day.”
 
“I’d rather be a beached whale and lie here. I’m a terrifying creature of the
night, not an early bird.”
 
Stiles grinned and shoved at his shoulder. “Where’s the bag?”
 
Peter rolled over and slid and arm between Stiles and the sheets, pulling him
in close and pressing a nose to his throat. “Car.”
 
Stiles blinked again.
 
“Go fetch,” Stiles said nudging him. Peter groused but stepped out of the bed
and pulled on some pants. The second the door shut Stiles sprang into the
bathroom and threw up.
 
He was pretty sure both he and Peter had been wearing clothes before he fell
asleep.
 
Stiles retched again as he thought of Peter doing anything to him while he was
asleep – and breathed, exhaling with a shudder. Flush the toilet, find toilet
cleaner or bleach, rinse mouth, brush teeth, brush teeth again.
 
Stiles managed to get to brushing his teeth just as Peter re-entered the room.
Stiles brushed his teeth and repeated, flouncing out into the room when he was
done.
 
“Give me, give me!” Stiles said making grabby hands at the bag. Peter rolled
his eyes and grabbed Stiles’ hips, pulling him inbetween his legs. He got a
short piece of rope out of his pocket and Stiles’ hands tightened fractionally
on Peter’s shoulders as Peter wound it round near the top of Stiles thigh,
tying it off and giving his hip a small kiss before letting go. Stiles shifted.
 
“If you’re done with my garter can I have my present?” Peter snorted but handed
over the bag. Stiles nearly ripped it open. Purple swimming trunks. A
sandcastle bucket. An Iron Man beach towel. A wee shovel. Sun cream lotion.
Stiles grinned. “We’re really going to the beach?”
 
Peter sighed and nodded. “Yes. We’re really going to the beach. Would you like
me to draw you a picture?”
 
Stiles stuck out his tongue and slipped into the swim trunks. “I’d prefer a
painting.”
 
---------
 
Peter’s eyes flashed red when he heard Stiles empty his stomach in the bathroom
the moment he stepped out of their room. Although he was pleased to note Stiles
didn’t seem to force himself to vomit. That ruled out a few things.
 
Peter trudged back to the car and grabbed the bag from the backseat. He headed
back to the room and sat on the bed, waiting for Stiles to finish brushing his
teeth. Stiles bounced back into the room and made grabby hands at the bag.
 
“Give me, give me!”
 
Peter rolled his eyes and grabbed Stiles’ hips, pulling him inbetween his legs,
revelling in the obedience the boy now gave without even thinking about it.
Stiles would never have bared to be around Peter naked even a few weeks ago,
now here he was nestled between his legs. And there he would stay.
 
Peter pulled out a short piece of rope and gently wound it round Stiles thigh,
high enough that the swim shorts would cover it. He could feel Stiles’ blunt
fingernails dig in to his shoulder, feel the barely concealed terror emanating
from Stiles. Peter hated putting Stiles on a mental leash, but it was the only
way to ensure he wouldn’t run off while in public, the gentle reminder he was
owned. That he was his.
 
Peter pressed a kiss to Stiles’ hipbone over a healing bruise, flicking his
eyes up to Stiles upper arm where another bruise gleamed green against his
skin, and smiled softly. Stiles fidgeted.
 
If you’re done with my garter can I have my present?” Peter snorted but handed
over the bag. Stiles nearly ripped it open, going over each item in childlike
glee, getting more and more excited as time passed.
 
Stiles beamed at him. “We’re really going to the beach?”
 
Peter sighed and nodded. “Yes. We’re really going to the beach. Would you like
me to draw you a picture?”
 
Stiles stuck out his tongue and slipped into the swim trunks. “I’d prefer a
painting.”
 
Peter smirked. “Of course you would. Only the best for my darling.”
 
Stiles snorted. “Darling? We trying out pet names now, wolfie? Cause if so
darling sucks.”
 
Peter shrugged. “I like darling,” he grouched uncapping the suncream and
starting to cover Stiles.
 
“Of course you do, bumpkin, it’s as old fashioned as your face.”
 
Peter gave a friendly nip to Stiles’ waist and the boy yelped, smacking his
hand off Peter’s shoulder in retaliation, Peter turned and captured Stiles’
finger in his mouth nibbling at it. Stiles let out a small squeal before
abruptly going still. Peter glanced up. Stiles’ eyes had gone strangely blank.
 
Peter slowly released the finger and ran ran his nose along Stiles’ wrist,
cheek along palm. “Stiles?”
 
Stiles seemed to come out of his momentry lapse. His other hand reached forward
for the suncream. “I can finish myself -”
 
“No.”
 
Stiles’ jaw twitched and he seemed to repress a flinch for a moment, but the
gentle tugging on the suncream stopped. Peter gave a small bite to the heel of
Stiles’ hand before going back to spreading the suncream.
 
Peter frowned as his hands passed over the back of Stiles’ legs. He didn’t know
how to get Stiles’ joy back. He didn’t understand how the mood shifted so
suddenly, how to get it to shift again.
 
-
 
Stiles froze as Peter’s teeth grazed his fingers, flashing back to the first
time Peter had nibbled at his fingers. Individually. As a punishment.
 
God, and now they were doing it as banter.
 
CRACK.
 
Stiles popped the knuckles in his fingers one at a time, feeling a ridiculous
amount of glee at the twitch in Peter’s eye the noise created.
 
CRACK.
 
“If you don’t quit drawing attention to those fingers of yours I’ll make you.”
 
Stiles raised an eyebrow. “Oh really?”
 
CRACK.
 
“Do it one more time I’m pulling over. You won’t like it.”
 
"Stiles?”
 
Stiles blinked for a moment, Peter had stopped sucking his finger and was
rubbing his face on his hand instead, it took all of his strength not to rip
his hand away. He tugged at the suncream bottle. “I can finish myself -”
 
“No.”
 
Stiles’ clenched his jaw and repressed the urge to run away, instead he dropped
his hand away from the bottle and stared ahead resolutely. Peter worried his
teeth at the bottom of Stiles' thumb in what Stiles had learned was supposed to
be a reassuring gesture and went on with the suncream. Stiles tried to get his
head out of the rut it was now in, he could sense Peter was upset. If Peter was
upset, he'd hoard Stiles, wouldn't take him out again, wouldn't listen to
anything he said or suggested.
 
CRACK.
 
The tires screeched as Peter pulled over and braked. Stiles’ heart beat
ratcheted up, he grit his teeth, and tried to keep calm. Let it happen, don’t
struggle, don’t run away.
 
Stiles hadn’t realised he had closed his eyes until they sprang open in shock
as his car seat plummeted backwards. Stiles immediately jerked up, but was
pinned by Peter’s body weight descending upon his chest; Stiles felt the air
whooshing out of him, Peter’s bulk making it hard to draw a deep breath.
 
“What -”
 
Peter’s hand pressed down heavily over Stiles mouth, Stiles could swear he
heard his jawbone creak under the pressure. Peter leaned down and whispered in
Stiles’ ear.
 
“Now, you can suck my fingers or I can suck yours,” Peter taunted, turning his
hand so that the fingertips rested on top of Stiles’ bottom lip. “Hmm?”
 
Peter pulled Stiles’ lip down and glanced up at Stiles. Stiles could see
Peter’s eyes dilate. Freak was turned on. Peter pushed his fingers up past
Stiles’ lips, nails curling around Stiles’ teeth and pulling his mouth open.
Stiles let out a yell and pulled his head as far away as he could.
 
Peter removed his hands from Stiles’ face and stilled for a moment, watching
the tears begin to leak out the corner of his eyes. Slowly he pulled Stiles’
arm out from where it was pinned down underneath him, gripping his palm, and
pushed one of Stiles’ fingers past his own lips. Stiles inhaled sharply in
shock and tried to yank his hand away from Peter’s mouth, but the man’s grip
was too tight. Stiles screwed his eyes up tight, better this than having his
mouth wrenched open and Peter’s fingers plunging in and choking him.
 
Peter kissed Stiles’ nose startling him so completely that Stiles’ heart
jumped. Peter, now standing in front of him, tilted his head.
 
“Where did you go?”
 
“Psycho boy,” Stiles replied. Peter frowned, Stiles shrugged. “Rule number
one.” Peter frowned more, Stiles sighed and shook his head. “Just thinking is
all,” Stiles said, pressing their foreheads together and rubbing their noses
against one another. “Just thinking.”
 
He hadn’t cracked his fingers since.
 
"Get dressed," Peter said.
 
"Then beach?"
 
"Then beach."
***** Chapter 14 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
“You must be Stiles.”
 
Stiles turned around and jerked back against his car as he recognised the man
in front of him.
 
“Oh my god.”
 
The burned face of Peter Hale was one Stiles could recognise from a mile,
unfortunately he was barely a foot away.
 
“I was wondering if I could borrow you for a moment,” he asked, stepping
forward and curling his hand around Stiles’ bicep in an iron grip - effectively
trapping him against his jeep.
 
“Uhm, sure man. Need a lift back to the hospital?” Stiles replied flippantly.
“Or the sheriff’s office?”
 
“Cute, Stiles,” Peter said smiling. “But I’m not expected anywhere for a while.
And neither are you I believe.”
 
Stiles tightened his grip around his keys. “Don’t know what you mean. My dad,
the sheriff by the way, is expecting me any minute.”
 
“Don’t lie, Stiles. Your father is on the night shift and won’t notice you’re
missing until mid-morning tomorrow.”
 
“Missing?”
 
Peter gave a light smile and reached for something inside his jacket pocket.
Stiles panicked. He struggled against Peter’s hold, aiming to run, but Peter’s
grip didn’t slacken. Stiles raised a fist, going for Peter’s face, but Peter
smacked his arm aside like a paperweight and stared at Stiles. Stiles stared
back for a moment before he shifted his weight slightly – intending on kneeing
Peter in the balls – when Peter pressed his whole body up against his, thighs
separating out Stiles’ legs easily. The hand then let go of Stiles’ upper arm,
snaked under his arm and palmed its way up Stiles’ throat, pushing back Stiles’
chin and covering his mouth. Stiles tried to push him off, but he was pinned.
Pinned like a butterfly.
 
Peter rolled his eyes.
 
“Are we quite finished?”
 
Stiles hit the back of his head off the jeep and exhaled heavily.
 
“I thought you’d be smarter than this, Stiles,” Peter whispered into his ear.
“After all you’ve seen the crime scene photos and my… propensity to tear people
apart.”
 
Stiles closed his eyes and took a deep breath, tears leaked unbidden from the
corners from his eyes. Stiles flinched as he felt fingers sweep against his
face. He opened his eyes in time to see Peter lick his tears from his fingers.
 
God that’s gross and creepy.
 
Peter released his clamp like grip over Stiles mouth, moving to cradle the nape
of his neck instead.
 
“Your friend… Scott? He’s with Allison. Where are they?”
 
Stiles stared wide eyed. There was no way in hell he was telling –
 
“Stiles. I’m not after them. There’s no need to be so anxious.”
 
“I’m not telling.”
 
Peter tilted his head and shrugged. “Fine, but you either tell me or…” he
brings a phone out of his pocket. “Hack into little sweetheart Allison’s phone
for me.”
 
Stiles frowned as his fingers curled around the phone that was being pressed
into his hand. Then he makes the connection.
 
“Kate. You’re after Kate Argent.”
 
Peter’s face doesn’t change. “Well done, would you like me to get you a
cookie.”
 
- - - - -
 
It felt surreal. To do something so normal when everything about his life was
so abnormal.
 
The sun was shining so bright that Stiles had to close his eyes against the
glare. The water was just lapping at his thighs, hands dipping in. Stiles had
always been fascinated by the way water clung to his hands. He and his mom used
to put their palms on the water in rock pools and watch the ripples as they
moved.
 
He wondered if he could stay here, basking in the sun with the sea at his
fingertips. He would stay like this forever if he could.
 
Could he swim? Could he swim out into the horizon until he was gone? Could he
swim till he was home again?
 
Stiles took another few steps into the ocean, stopping when the water hit mid
torso.
 
He couldn’t. For one thing Beacon Hills had the small issue of being land
locked, then there’s Peter. Who would outswim him and drag him back. Tie him up
and twist him round. Mark him and lay him bare. For another, Stiles wasn’t sure
how long he could swim without getting so tired he’d pass out. Passing out was
beginning to become a bit of a problem.
 
He heard a sloshing of water behind him and opened his eyes at the voice.
 
“Hey.”
 
Peter’s body slotted in behind him easily. Stiles leaned back into him and
kissed him on the chin.
 
“I’m scared the tide will wash you out to sea,” Peter said gently, his hands
wandering up and his sides, his left hand dipping past his hips and tracing the
top of the rope.
 
“Maybe mermaids will capture me,” Stiles said with a grin. “Or kelpies. But I
think they’re Scottish. Or Irish. Ooo, what about sirens?”
 
Stiles felt Peter’s chuckle come from his chest before he heard it.
 
“Mermaids are not as glamorous as Disney has made them appear. JK had it more
right. They’re like sharks, with webbed hands and scaley skin. Cold to the
touch and their eyes never blink.”
 
“Really?”
 
“Nope. I have never seen nor heard of mermaids ever been spotted. Ever.”
 
Stiles huffed. “Spoil sport.”
 
“Now kelpies I could get behind. They’re just another type of shifter, right?
And the ocean is affected by the moon…”
 
“Do you like the ocean?” Stiles asked, turning around so he wouldn’t have to
face the sun’s glare.
 
“I love it,” Peter said before landing a heavy kiss. “I can feel the moon
pulling on it gently – it feels familiar and… safe,” he said, pulling down the
front of Stiles’ swimshorts. Stiles bit his lip as he felt Peter’s hand curl
round his penis, and shoved his head into the crook of Peter’s neck, small
whimpers escaping him as Peter rubbed him into full hardness. Stiles wondered
if the people on the beach could see them, if nearby swimmers would hear them.
Stiles bucked up against Peter, Peter’s hand reaching around both of their
dicks now. Hey, at least sex in the sea meant no clean up right?
 
Peter bit into Stiles’ shoulder when they came, the pain shot down his whole
arm but he held in his yelp.
 
“Sorry,” Peter murmured.
 
“You break the skin?” Stiles asked wearily. Peter shook his head like a
chastised kid. “Good. There’s nothing worse than a cut on a beach.”
 
Peter nodded and kissed along Stiles’ cheekbone. Stiles closed his eyes and
breathed.
 
“Let’s go sunbathe,” Stiles said after a few moments. Peter nodded and let
Stiles lead the way back to the beach. As they got closer Stiles’ eye honed in
on a kid making sandcastles with what was presumably his dad.
 
Stiles felt hollow as he saw the kid get picked up by his dad and swung upside
down. When his dad had done that he used to laugh, shriek more like it, this
child was the same.
 
Hot arms wound round him like restraints, swaying him slightly. Peter ran his
nose along the back of his ear.
 
“What is it duckie?”
 
Stiles shook his head. “That’s a ridiculous name, wolfie.”
 
Peter bit the top of his ear playfully. “Grr,” he said in an unconvincing
manner. Stiles snorted. “What’s up?”
 
“Bottoms.”
 
Peter turned Stiles around to face him. “What?”
 
Stiles burst out laughing at the confused look on Peter’s face, Peter looked
down sulking. Stiles caught his face and lifted it up to look at him.
 
“Bottoms up? Aristocats? It’s a Disney movie. There are these two ducks and
they paddling along – oh wait! They’re geese. Oh… that makes less sense now I
suppose,” Stiles said frowning off into the distance, he then glanced back at
Peter. “But the look on your face was priceless. I don’t think I’ve ever seen
you more confused.”
 
Peter scowled. “Shut up.” Stiles laughed.
 
“Aw… did I hurt the poor big bad wolfie’s feelings?” Stiles replied in a baby
voice, giggling hysterically at his own joke. Peter gave a friendly snarl and
gave a wicked grin, then flipped Stiles onto his bum and into the water.
 
Stiles – who had still been laughing – spluttered and choked for a moment,
spitting out sea water. Peter smirked and turned to walk back to the shore.
 
“Oh no you don’t,” Stiles called, and body slammed into Peter, sending them
both tumbling into the water. Peter rose, completely soaked with Stiles’ piggy
backing on him laughing his head off.
 
“You are incorrigible,” Peter humfed as he carted Stiles back onto the beach.
He deposited Stiles onto his beach towel and Stiles stretched out in the sun
like a cat, grinning like a loon. Stiles lay there, letting the water evaporate
off his body gradually, listening to the ocean waves, Peter turning the pages
in his book, groups of people chatting, it all sounded so… busy. Mind numbing.
Relaxing. It felt like he could ignore everything, even the noise in his brain.
 
Stiles turned to the side and watched Peter read his book. It was an old worn
paper back with a fading cover and curled up page corners. Stiles knew better,
but Peter seemed to be completely absorbed in the book. It was a nice gesture,
Stiles supposed, ignoring Stiles’ staring. Stiles sat up slowly, placed himself
gently on Peter's lap, pushed the book to one side, and wrapped his arms around
Peter’s neck.
 
“Hey,” Stiles said.
 
“Hey,” Peter replied looked amused and slightly surprised.
 
Stiles leaned forward slowly and pressed his lips to Peter’s. Peter’s hands
settled on Stiles’ hips. Stiles teased Peter’s lips open. It was the way
Stiles’ once dreamed of kissing Lydia, all those months ago.
 
“Thanks. For the beach,” Stiles said as he curled his toes into the heat of the
sand either side of Peter’s legs. “Yeah?”
 
“Yeah?”
 
“Yeah,” Stiles replied, turning around so that his back was to Peter’s almost
too hot chest and burying the tops of his feet into the sand. He leaned his
head back against Peter’s shoulder and closed his eyes, drinking up the
sunshine, and drifting off to sleep as Peter lifted up his book, placing one
hand against Stiles’ hip.
Chapter End Notes
     Yes that was a remarkable time coming, the time between updates is
     getting longer - but the time to the end of this fic is getting
     shorter, dundundun. That being said there probs will be a sequel. And
     I kinda have that planned in my head. It has literally no plot atm.
     Awkward.
     Thank you all for being beautiful and reading. Smile. Because it
     releases chemicals in your brain that make you happy.
***** Chapter 15 *****
Chapter Notes
     TW for uh... talking about throwing up? I dunno, better safe than
     sorry. I think we know throwing up happens in this story. Maybe I
     should add that into the tags...
See the end of the chapter for more notes
 
Sandcastles and ice-cream and talks about politics and the tide sweeping over
toes. Rock pools and sun cream and sand stuck to legs and debates about
superpowers and swimming in the ocean. Hot dogs and banter and laughing and
naps in the sun curling up like a cat on top of a laptop charger.
 
Strolls along sidewalks and shining street lights and lazy showers and gentle
kisses under the spray. Pinches and pet names and references to movies (and a
lot of explaining those references). Pyjamas and reruns of bad television and
pizza and hot cheese dripping down fingers. Blankets and snuggling and sea
battered skin feeling rough and stretched across cheeks.
 
Lips along temples and hands intertwined and squealing and giggling and
squirming under sheets. Thumbs digging in and hair being played with and hot
gusts of breaths along necks. Bruises and bite marks and eyes screwed tight and
darkness and tears. Choked moans and pleas and bunched up fists and breathing
that comes short and fast. Sweat dripping down necks and licks and skin under
fingernails and blood pumping thunderous in ears. Mouth spread wide and lips
stretched thin and eyelashes clumped with tears. Spit and slick and saliva and
semen and whispered crooning’s that sound like prayers. Nausea and compliments
and little praises that worm their way deep into the mind(he loves you) and
contented huffing and tight arms round the waist. Loose limbs and stiff muscles
and easy dreams and insomnia and staring eyes in the dark that can’t sleep and
hell is empty because the monsters are here.
 
Suns peaking up over the horizon and quick breakfasts and left behind receipts.
On the road and in the car and gas station after gas station for breaks. Hands
on thighs and game boy games and talking and veiled threats and sweets. Sweets
and muffins and candy and chocolate bars and flapjacks and pancakes and sugar.
As much sugar as you can possibly stuff into your mouth. Motel rooms and diners
and barely touched dinners and rinse and repeat. Again and again and again and
again and again and again and again.
 
Did you like the beach. We could go again. Empty promises and platitudes and
appeasements. Little differences to continuing on and more of the same
monotony. The cycle is driving you mad. He loves you he hits you he laughs at
your jokes you smile at his stories he ties you up and ties you down you share
food and a bed and a car and the shower. There is only little bits of you left
stubborn rock refusing to be swept away in the tide of Peter where you can’t
tell where he ends and you begin where there are no boundaries and you don’t
know if you’re you or you’re being what he wants you to be. Car. Lunch. Car.
Dinner. Bed(but not sleeping(he loves you)). Car.
 
Good thing you don’t get car sick.
 
Much.
 
-
 
Stiles slid into the booth and glared at the menu.
 
“Come now, Stiles. This is supposed to be a treat.”
 
Stiles looked up at him, weary. A restaurant was not his idea of a treat.
 
“Restaurants make me tense,” Stiles muttered, his eyes flicking back down to
the menu.
 
Peter frowned. “How so?”
 
Stiles sighed and shrugged. Peter reached over and took Stiles’ wrist in his
hand. “What’s worrying you?”
 
Stiles rolled his head a bit. “I don’t want to upset you. You like this,” he
waved his hand about. “Sort of stuff. It’s never been my scene.”
 
Peter eyed him speculatively rubbing his thumb in a lazy circle over Stiles’
pulse point. “That’s not all, is it?”
 
Stiles grit his teeth. “Every time we go to a restaurant or whatever, something
happens. I set you off, or someone else does, or… whatever,” Stiles muttered.
 
“That won’t happen this time though, will it?” Peter asked eyes wide staring at
Stiles. Stiles froze for a moment under Peter’s hopeful gaze.
 
“Course not,” Stiles stuttered out. Peter smiled at him and Stiles felt his
heart flip for a moment. He ducked his head and read through the menu, keeping
his hand interlocked with Peter’s on top the table.
 
The waiter arrived at their table and Stiles flinched, pulling back his hand at
super speed. The waiter hesitated only for a moment, glancing between the two.
Not the father son duo he had thought, not his business either, Peter thought
as he raised an eyebrow at him.
 
“Are you ready to order or shall I give you a few more minutes?” he asked.
 
“I think we’re ready,” Peter replied, seeing Stiles nod. “I’ll have the steak,
rare.”
 
The waiter jotted it down and turned to Stiles expectantly.
 
“I’ll have the mushroom thingy on the starter menu,” Stiles replied. The waiter
looked flummoxed for a moment.
 
“You want me to bring that along with his main?” he questioned. Stiles nodded
and the waiter made a note. “The starter size is quite small, would you like to
order a side with it?”
 
“No that’s -”
 
“Pick a side.”
 
Stiles glanced up at Peter who was looking particularly stern.
 
“I don’t want -”
 
“Pick. A. Side.”
 
Stiles glared down at the menu, not really seeing it, then dumped it down and
shrugged, hiding the fact he was nearly in tears from facing the decision.
Peter held his gaze for a moment then turned to the waiter.
 
“Give him a side of garlic bread.”
 
“And to drink?”
 
“We’ll both have water.”
 
The waiter nodded and scurried away, happy to be out of the tense situation.
 
“Dude, there’s some weird ass couple at that table…”
 
Peter tuned out the waiter as he gossiped to the girl at the kitchen window and
turned his attention to Stiles.
 
“You’ve been losing weight. Too much weight.”
 
Stiles stared at the tablecloth.
 
“Not just that. Puffy face. Fatigue. Your teeth… Your voice.”
 
Stiles flinched at that. His voice had started getting hoarser the other week.
It freaked Stiles out.
 
“Stiles? Talk to me,” Peter pleaded.
 
“I’m just… not hungry.”
 
Peter heard the tell-tale thump in Stiles’ heart beat that signalled a lie. He
slipped out of his seat and into Stiles’ booth to sit beside him. He placed a
hand on Stiles’ knee and brushed back some stray hairs, curling his hand round
the nape of Stiles’ neck.
 
“That’s not all of it, is it?” Peter murmured into Stiles ear.
 
“Can we not? Please?” Stiles whispered back.
 
“I’m sorry Stiles, but if you lose any more weight you’ll start to become
unwell. Seriously unwell.”
 
Stiles shifted under Peter’s grip.
 
“You’re still throwing up.”
 
Stiles nodded.
 
“Why?”
 
Stiles shrugged.
 
“Why, Stiles?”
 
Stiles’ tongue darted out and licked his lips. “I just…get nauseous,” he
replied.
 
Peter breath tickled Stiles’ ear and made him shiver slightly. Stiles knew he
was losing weight, probably had a health issue or something, but had never
thought in a million years that Peter would care or confront him about it.
 
“Why? What makes you nauseous?”
 
Stiles laughed bitterly. “I dunno, food?”
 
“Stiles,” Peter whispered harshly. “You’re far more self-aware and perceptive
than that. Come on my clever boy, tell me.”
 
Stiles took a deep breath. “Don’t be angry.”
 
“I won’t. I promise, not for this. Not when you’re being so brave and honest
with me,” Peter whispered encouragingly, trailing a finger down Stiles’ cheek.
Stiles looked up at him, big eyes glimmering with unshed tears. He looked down
at the tablecloth again.
 
“You.” Stiles stopped for a moment to take a deep breath after making the
statement. “You make me nauseous. You. And swallowing you and -” Stiles sobbed.
“I feel like I can’t swallow anything without feeling repulsed. Without feeling
sick,” Stiles spat.
 
There was a tense moment of silence as Stiles waited for the retaliation, eyes
closed. However, instead of a blow or a whispered threat, Peter simply kissed
his forehead. Stiles slowly opened his eyes and looked warily at Peter.
 
“I promised not to be angry,” he said simply. Stiles snorted.
 
“And it’s as easy as that,”
 
“I would do anything for you.”
 
“Liar,” Stiles spat out low. “If you aren’t a liar take me home right now,
Peter. Take me home.”
 
Tense silence followed Stiles’ request and Stiles laughed bitterly.
 
“You don’t care Peter. So stop pretending. Stop trying to convince me that this
is more than just… just you wanting some company along for the ride.”
 
Stiles jumped when Peter’s fist banged down onto the table. “Don’t you dare.
Don’t you dare say that, Stiles. I care more than you could possibly imagine,
more than you could possibly conceive -” Peter took a deep breath and a moment
to regain his composure after spouting out his proclamation. He uncurled his
fist, moving it back to Stiles’ thigh, and began to speak in a calm rational
manner. “Think, Stiles. If I didn’t have you ‘along’ with me then there would
be no ‘ride’. I’d be a missing person. Not a murderer and a kidnapper. What
you’re saying doesn’t make sense. Taking you has created the ride. I’d love to
settle down with you, Stiles. Start a pack with you, a family. Go running with
you under the full moon. Show you what it means to be a creature of the earth…”
Peter sighed wistfully. “I want you. I care. Don’t belittle my feelings for
you. Please.”
 
Stiles swallowed heavily, throat choked up and closing over. God, he was not
going to cry like some sappy girl at the end of the movie when the guy says his
stupid formulaic love monologue. He wasn’t. This wasn’t a movie. The final
credits were not going to roll up with some upbeat song. Stiles hated romcoms.
Where was the angst over your parents being dead and being raised by your
butler? Or on a farm in Smallville? Or by penguins or wolves? Jungle Book was
his mom’s favourite -
 
“Stiles? You need to get out of your head. Stop overthinking things. It’s
making you worse… I know… I know that you’re crying at night too, Stiles. I
can’t bare it. I don’t want you to be so ill, so upset. I want you to be happy,
need you to be happy…” Peter kissed Stiles so gently and softly, the pads of
his fingers running over Stiles’ cheeks, pulling his hair ever so slightly at
the nape. “I’m sorry, Stiles, but I can’t let you go. I can’t, need you too
much. I just wish things could be different for you, for us.”
 
“I know,” Stile breathed out. “I know you do. It’s okay,” he said pressing
their foreheads together. “It’s okay, Peter. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’ve just…”
Stiles let out a sob, god he was crying now wasn’t he. “I’ve just been sick for
so long. I can’t stop feeling like, like my skin’s going to crawl off. I don’t
feel right and I don’t know how to stop. It helps Peter it does, it helps. It
feels like…”
 
“Like it’s the only thing you can control.”
 
“It’s my body. My weight. Why shouldn’t I control it?”
 
“Because it’s not your body. It’s mine.”
 
Stiles let out a choked laugh that sounded more like a cry. “Yeah, Peter, that
happens to be the problem.”
 
Peter ran his fingers frantically through Stiles’ hair. “I’m sorry, sorry baby.
I’ll be better. We can look it up online, find out what to do. You want to be
in charge of that? In charge of your health?”
 
“I don’t know. I don’t know. Can we just – can we stop talking about this?”
 
“Alright.”
 
Peter leaned back, away from Stiles, so that their only points of contact were
the fingertips running over the nape of Stiles’ neck and the knee Peter pressed
into Stiles’ thigh. Stiles wiped off his tears with the back of his hand,
sniffling and shaking. Peter ignored the waiter when he came back with their
drinks.
 
“Dude, I swear there’s something wrong with that couple. I think he just made
him cry.”
 
Peter held back the snarl as he heard the waiter talk to girl once more.
Instead he nudged Stiles gently.
 
“The couple by the window?” Peter said, pointing them out.
 
“Yeah?” Stiles asked after sneaking a glance.
 
“The woman’s pregnant. The man doesn’t know. However, he is exceptionally
nervous. I think he’s going to propose.”
 
Stiles straightened up slightly, and leaned back to be closer to Peter.
 
“What makes you think that?”
 
“That he’s nervous, she’s pregnant, or he’s going to propose?”
 
“That he doesn’t know about the baby,” Stiles replied. Peter smirked.
 
“Well…”
 
The evening moved swiftly on after that. Peter and Stiles curled up in the
booth next to each other and picked apart both their fellow diners and the
staff – the poor waiter who served them was particularly ridiculed and
humiliated every time he came to their table. It wasn’t their fault he hid his
crush badly and the kitchen girl was gay now, was it? It certainly wasn’t their
fault when the waiter asked the kitchen girl and she confirmed it, crushing the
poor boy’s dreams. Perhaps Peter had gone a bit far when he asked what time his
shift ended and copped a feel – but it seemed to make Stiles laugh when the
waiter dropped their plates so it was worth it.
 
They shared a chocolate mousse for desert – getting it more on their faces than
in their mouths.
 
“Gah! Stop it, oh my god,” Stiles squealed as Peter licked chocolate off his
cheek.
 
“Don’t want the chocolate to go to waste now, would we?” Peter murmured into
Stiles ear.
 
“The reason there is chocolate on my face is because you put it there,
jackass,” Stiles exclaimed, smiling as he made the accusation.
 
“My nefarious plan is working then.”
 
“Oh yeah? Okay, what is it then wise guy?”
 
Peter pulled back and blinked. “To eat you up, obviously.”
 
Stiles snorted and rolled his eyes. “Obviously.”
 
Peter kissed chocolate off Stiles nose. “You know in the older versions of
Little Red Riding Hood, the wolf had Little Red eat her grandmother.”
 
Stiles’ eyes got comically wide. “No way.”
 
“I used to be fascinated by old fairy tales, trying to discern truth from
fiction. Little Red Riding Hood in the earliest translations… it’s quite
barbaric,” Peter breathed into Stiles’ ear, biting the ridge. Stiles jumped at
the sudden lancing pain, shivers going down his body. “Originally, a beautiful
child of the village in a red cap meets a werewolf in the forest. She tells him
where she’s going and he takes a faster path, kills grandma, chops her up and
puts her in the cupboard as meat, puts her blood in a wine bottle, and
disguises himself as her in the bed. When little red arrives, the werewolf
tells her to eat and drink. After she’s had her fill the werewolf tells her to
undress and get into the bed with him.” Peter slowly slid a hand up Stiles’
shirt, getting higher and higher with each word. “She asks where will I put my
apron, and the werewolf replied on the fire for you won’t need it anymore. She
asks for every piece. Clothes, bodice, dress, petticoat, and the long
stockings.” Peter’s thumb started to rub against Stiles’ nipple. Peter smirked
as he heard the boy’s heart thump faster. “Quite the strip tease. After she
lies down next to the wolf completely naked and I’m sure you know the next bit,
different versions have different lists, but they all end with o Grandma, what
big teeth you have. Then the werewolf eats her up,” he said violently twisting
Stiles’ nipple. Stiles gasped out and lurched forward, tears smarting. “The
end. No woodcutter rescues them, the wolf isn’t tricked or trapped. A werewolf
tricks little red, corrupts her, devours her and then the story ends.”
 
Stiles rubbed the heel of his hand against his stinging nipple. “You’re such a
graphic story teller.”
 
Peter rolled his eyes. “I prefer the term dramatic. The interesting thing about
Little Red Cap though is its origins.”
 
“Oh really?” Stiles muttered.
 
“France. It was originally werewolf propaganda. Stay away from the woods or
we’ll destroy you.”
 
“Then the additions…” Stiles added.
 
“Argent retaliation - turning the werewolf into an ordinary wolf, removing the
idea that little red was turned into a monster, putting wood cutters into the
forest – as if hunters were everywhere and to be feared. Oh yes, propaganda
turned around on us.”
 
“Serves you right. You were probably giving yourself a bad reputation,” Stiles
said lightly.
 
Peter grinned. “Well, we wouldn’t want that now, would we?”
 
Chapter End Notes
     Look I updated. I get a cookie. Next chapter should be a bit faster
     than this one was. Maybe. Possibly. Hm...
     We're getting into the home stretch of things. Woo. Sequel is
     stirring in my head. All of your ideas have been read, frowned at,
     loved, hated, and squealed over in appropriate and equal amounts. I'm
     going to completely ignore most of them. My bad. Maybe I'll take
     prompts on me tumbler if you were particularly attached...
     Lurv and happiness.
***** Chapter 16 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
 
“Dad?”
 
“Stiles. Are you okay? You’ve… you’ve not been calling as often. Is everything
okay?”
 
“Yeah of cour -” Stiles cut himself off as Peter raised his eyebrows at him.
Stiles swallowed heavily. “Actually dad, I’ve got something to tell you. It’s
um, it’s not easy to say but Peter…” Stiles pulled at his hair. “Peter said I
needed to. So. Uh. Here goes.”
 
“I’m ready,” came his dad’s reply, tinny from the phone.
 
“I have an eating disorder,” Stiles blurted out quickly. There was silence over
the other end.
 
“Oh… Okay.”
 
“Oh okay? That’s all you have to say on the matter?” Stiles asked in a high
pitched voice.
 
“Give me a minute here kid. I thought you were going to tell me you were
pregnant or something,” he sighed. “How are you then? Physically. How long’s it
been going on for?”
 
“Honestly? I threw up the first time on the first night. You might have seen
some of that lovely DNA at the Hale house.”
 
“Did you do that on purpose?” comes his dad’s voice, more curious than angry.
 
“Uh no. I just…” Stiles picked at the hem on his t-shirt. “Well you saw it.”
 
“Hm. What do you feel like?”
 
“Tired. All the time, tired. Then sometimes I feel like eating a whole horse.
Then other times I can’t even stand the sight of food. I can’t…” Stiles
grunted, struggling to find the words.
 
“There’s no inbetween, I remember. You need a regular meal plan. And then stick
to it.”
 
“Wait. You… You remember?”
 
“This isn’t the first time I’ve had news like this.”
 
“Whadda ya mean?” Stiles asked flopping back onto the bed.
 
“Your mom… she had some difficulties of the same nature before you were born
and… just when you were little. You might not remember it -”
 
“No. Wait. I do. She took little red pills for her tummy,” Stiles answered
frowning back at his memories. “I had forgotten that.”
 
“Yeah. The doctors warned me that you might have a genetic predisposition to
it, but I never really worried about you like that before… before Peter took
you.”
 
“Peter’s been really… supportive. Strict about meals and stuff now.”
 
“I bet he is. And I bet he brought up the issue as soon as he noticed. Didn’t
wait until you were so ill you would need to depend on him. Exactly how tired
are you Stiles?”
 
“Shut up, dad,” Stiles whispered.
 
“If you had the chance, if an opportunity arose for you to get away – to come
home – like you promised, would you be able to take it?”
 
Stiles closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. “I can’t… I can’t walk much more
than round the block without feeling like I’m going to pass out if that’s what
you’re asking.”
 
“Do you see what he’s done to you?”
 
“Dad you can’t talk like that,” Stiles mumbled back.
 
“Stiles as long as you can see what he’s doing to you, there’s hope. Do you see
it? He’s doing this to you – ”
 
“No, pops, I did it to myself,” Stiles spat. “So just shut up. Okay?” Peter
rose and wrapped himself around Stiles, kissing his cheek.  “I did it to
myself,” Stiles whispered.
 
“Stiles, that’s not true.”
 
Stiles turned so he could be face to face with Peter, letting Peter run a nose
along Stiles’ – like an eskimo kiss.
 
“It is true dad. I…” Stiles frowned. “I let myself think that it was helping.
That somehow I was gaining control by… By what I was doing, and that’s wrong,
you know? Cause Peter’s the one who’s in control.”
 
There was silence on the other side of the phone. Stiles ducked his head down
and pressed it into Peter’s chest.
 
“Why did you throw up the first time? At the Hale house.”
 
“Dad…” Stiles groaned.
 
“Please? For me Stiles, try to think back.”
 
“Like hundreds of other people aren’t listening to this phone call,” Stiles
muttered.
 
“I’m the only one here Stiles. I make sure it’s just you and me. They might
listen to a recording, but it’s only you and me here together.”
 
“And Peter,” Stiles said softly.
 
“Sometimes he’s not there. I can tell Stiles, you change. He’s next to you
right now, isn’t he?”
 
“He’s supporting me,” Stiles murmured, more into Peter’s chest than the phone
receiver.
 
“Think back, Stiles,” his father’s voice comes over calm. He’s always so calm.
Stiles closed his eyes. “Why did you throw up that first time?”
 
“I was scared. I was repulsed. I was terrified I’d end up like Kate Argent or…”
Stiles swallowed heavily. “But -”
 
“No buts, Stiles. I want you to remember that. That horror, that fear of him. I
never want you to forget that he took you, and no matter what you may feel now
or in the future, he took you. He terrorised you. He’s still doing it. Come
home, Stiles. You remember the movie Hook? I want you to run home. Everytime
you see a TV or a movie I want you to think about running home. Please Stiles -
”
 
Peter gently reached down and took the phone from Stiles’ slack fingers,
hanging up delicately.
 
“Time’s up,” Peter said gently. “He took the news well.”
 
“Yeah. He did,” Stiles replied absently as Peter’s hands pushed up his t-shirt
and he kissed along Stiles’ abs. “Do you think he still loves me?” Stiles asked
as Peter lifted up Stiles’ hips and pulled down his trousers.
 
“Why do you ask?” Peter queried him with a kiss.
 
“He didn’t say it this time,” Stiles whispered. Peter nipped at Stiles’ hip
bone, Stiles involuntarily arched upwards. Peter smirked against Stiles’ skin
and palmed his growing erection. Stiles snorted. “Asshole.”
 
“Why do you think he doesn’t love you anymore?” Peter asked pulling off his own
shirt, then Stiles’.
 
Stiles stared at the ceiling and shrugged, unwilling to voice his insecurities.
 
“I still love you.”
 
Stiles hummed in response and ran a hand down Peter’s naked torso, cataloguing
Peter’s reactions, bringing out that little bit of red.
 
“Kiss me?” Stiles asked. Peter swooped down and devoured his mouth. Stiles
loved kissing Peter, Peter pressing his whole length along Stiles, rubbing up
against him. Stiles gasped for air when Peter broke off and kissed down his
neck.
 
“What if I made it so that you’d never have to swallow me ever again?” Peter
whispered against Stiles neck. Stiles frowned and Peter sat up between Stiles’
legs. “What if I stopped coming in your mouth?” he asked pushing up Stiles’
knees and kissing along the inside of his thigh. “Would that help?”
 
“I, uh. Probably, I dunno,” Stiles garbled. “You would do that?” he panted out
weakly.
 
Peter angled Stiles hips up and bent down to kiss the tip of Stiles’ erection.
“Of course I would,” he said gently. Then licked a wide stripe along Stiles’
entrance.
 
Stiles leapt out of bed so fast he didn’t realise he moved until he smacked
into the kitchen table in the next room. His fingers curled white against the
back of a chair and he tried desperately to get a hold of his breathing.
 
“Stiles…”
 
Stiles turned sharply to Peter who was lounging against the door frame.
 
“If this is another one of your stupid screwed up choices then no. I choose
no.”
 
Peter stared blankly. Stiles felt a chill creep into his gut.
 
“Peter?” Stiles swallowed heavily. “Peter I choose no,” he said hoarsely.
“Peter?” Peter continued his stoney look. Stiles started to realise.
 
“You bastard,” Stiles spat. “You sick fuck -”
 
“Language.”
 
“Language!” Stiles screamed. “Is that all you have to say! What happened to
loving me? What happened to not wanting sex to be a punishment? What happened
to me enjoying it!”
 
Stiles grabbed the nearest thing to him and hurled it at Peter. Vase. Whisk.
Plate. Plant. Jug. Glasses.
 
Knife.
 
It hit Peter’s chest dead centre, dripping thick globs onto the floor. Peter’s
eyes flashed red. Stiles’ gut dropped out as his anger suddenly deserted him.
Seeing Peter hurt felt like a physical blow, it left him breathless and
unsteady, like the ground underneath him had disappeared. He slowly approached
Peter. Peter’s claws and fangs were out, but he hadn’t fully shifted yet. He
pulled out the knife as carefully as he could and dropped it down onto the
table behind him, then dipped his head and kissed the gaping wound as it
knitted itself back together, whispering continuously.
 
“…I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”
 
After he had ran his hands over Peter’s healed skin a few times he sunk down
into a chair.
 
“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” Stiles whispered.
 
“Just trust me,” Peter said crouching in front of him. “I’ve never pushed you
past further than what you could manage.”
 
“You call this managing?”
 
“Yes,” Peter replied immediately. “I was so scared that I’d break you those
first few days. So scared I’d push too hard or too fast, but you were so strong
– are so strong, and so clever, and so brave, and so vibrant. You’re so full of
life, Stiles. It’s my privilege to be in your company,” Peter took a deep
breath in. “I know you’ve heard me say it before, but I love you, Stiles. You
have literally given my life back to me.”
 
Stiles looked up mournfully at Peter. He didn’t say it out loud, instead he let
it hang in the air: you’ve taken my life from me.
 
Peter gently picked Stiles up and carried him through to the bathroom, placing
him down in the shower and putting it on full spray ice cold. Peter walked away
and Stiles soon started shivering violently, curling up on himself and pushing
his forehead into his knees.
 
“Peter?” Stiles whispered, his fingertips were starting to hurt. Stiles bit his
lip, worrying at it. “Peter?” Stiles called, teeth chattering. “Peter!” Stiles
finally cried out, letting out a sob. “Peter! Where are you? Peter!”
 
“Shh, shh,” Peter cooed, appearing from nowhere, gently cradling Stiles’ head.
“Shh, it’s okay. I’m here now,” Peter said turning off the water and kissing
Stiles’ temple. “Come on now,” Peter tugged at Stiles’ arm. Stiles cried as he
slowly unfurled convulsing from the cold, numb as Peter pulled him into the
bedroom and sat him on the bed. Stiles grabbed the blanket behind him but Peter
took his wrist and removed it.
 
“P - Peter, please. I’m s – s – so cold,” Stiles said futilely rubbing his
arms.
 
“Don’t worry about it, babe,” Peter murmured softly as he repositioned Stiles
onto his side. “I’m going to warm you right up.”
 
-
 
Stiles sat up against the headboard in the dark, Peter wrapped up in the sheets
beside him, a hand falling in amongst Stiles’ thighs.
 
Honestly… Stiles wasn’t really expecting this.
 
He expecting blood and tearing and crying and… just a big bloody mess he
supposed.
 
He was fine.
 
A gentle burn in is ass maybe, but he thought… he had assumed…
 
But it was Peter. How could he have expected that from him? He’d always been
good in bed.
 
Peter snuffled in his sleep and Stiles absentmindedly let his hand drop down
the stroke his hair.
 
What was he doing?
 
“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore”
 
Stiles shuddered as he remembered seeing the kitchen knife stuck in Peter’s
chest. That feeling like the world had stopped – had fallen apart. When had
Peter become his world?
 
Run home.
 
Stiles rubbed the heel of his hand against his eyes as tears threatened to
fall.
 
He had been so cold, could barely feel – and Peter so hot. He couldn’t pull
away, only press up against the heat, and then…
 
Well, soon it had been too late to pull away.
 
It had been too late to pull away for a long while Stiles’ thought. It had
always been too late for him.
 
But did that mean he should accept it? Peter could make him happy. Peter could
try and make him happy for the rest of their lives. He could be happy.
 
Couldn’t he?
 
Or should he fight it? Try and regain the ground he knew he’d lost over these
past months? Peter couldn’t keep his guard up for the rest of their lives. He
could get back to his father. His life.
 
Couldn’t he?
Chapter End Notes
     I've posted an extract of part two of Clever Boy. Part one will make
     sense as a stand alone if you don't want to go further, but I think
     I've picked a direction. Woo.
     It will be ages before we get there though
     Merry [insert appropriate greeting]. If you didn't spend it with your
     true family, don't be too sad. There's always next year ::]
***** Chapter 17 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
 
“Peter?”
 
“Yeah?”
 
“I’m cold.”
 
Peter clenched his jaw. He was cold because he was thin. He was thin because he
hated him. Didn’t want him. Didn’t love him. He's putting weight back on. Soon
he wouldn't need Peter. Soon he'd try to fight and leave like before. Soon -
 
Peter reached across the seat and grabbed Stiles’ upper arm, pulling him in
sharply, curling a hand round the back of Stiles’ head, claws raking through
his hair. Stiles stiffened ever so slightly.
 
“Ow,” Stiles muttered off handily.
 
“Quiet.”
 
Stiles’ tongue darted out to wet his lips. “You in one of your moods?” Stiles
asked lightly. Peter extended his claws down Stiles face, revelling in the
hitch in Stiles’ breath as he trailed claws gently over Stiles’ eyes, stopping
at his lips and digging in his thumb. He took a deep breath in as Stiles’ blood
hit him. Unconsciously his fangs protruded and he licked his lips. Stiles
whimpered.
 
“You tell me,” Peter replied glibly, smearing the blood dripping out of the cut
he had made on Stiles’ lip across his cheek.
 
“Yeah,” Peter heard Stiles whisper. “Yeah I think you are.”
 
By the time they got out of the car three hours later Stiles had gotten nine
small, shallow, cuts pressed into his body: the back of his neck, his shoulder
blades, the inside of his thigh, the underside of his chin – anywhere Peter
felt the urge to split the soft, creamy, mole dotted, fragile skin. Peter could
hear the stuttered breath and feel the tremors running up and down Stiles’ arms
and legs. He had wound the poor boy up so tight...
 
Time to make him snap.
 
Peter gently pressed a kiss to Stiles’ temple. Stiles’ eyes flitted up, wary.
Peter slid out of the car and grabbed their stuff from the trunk. He heard
Stiles step out of the car and exhale, glanced up and saw the kid rub his head
of hair. A nervous tick he’d gotten from somewhere. He used to do it when his
hair was buzzed too. Peter liked his hair longer though. Something to pull and
pin Stiles down with.
 
Stiles gave that cocky half grin and his short three fingered wave when he saw
Peter staring. Peter kept his face blank and stepped around the car, rope
coiled up in his hand. Stiles’ eyes dropped to it and the smile fell off his
face.
 
-
 
He was always sorry in the mornings. The way Stiles flinched when he curled a
hand around his ankle, the way Stiles would whimper when he ran his nose along
his shoulder, how he would keep his eyes shut tight when Peter rolled him round
to face him.
 
The way he’d break down and sob into his chest, hands clinging onto Peter like
he was a lifeline. The way he would be quiet and pliant for the rest of the
day. How he would be grateful the next night when Peter let him fall asleep
watching the television gathered up snug in Peter’s arms.
 
Oh yes, Peter was always sorry in the mornings.
 
But not for long, never for long.
 
-
 
“Hey, Dad,” Stiles said flopping down into a chair in their new motel room.
 
“Hey Stiles, what's up?”
 
“Well…” Stiles glanced out the window where Peter was fetching bags out of
their car. “I’ve gone all the way with my boyfriend so uh... that's happened.
What about you?”
 
“Well, we just crossed a state line into Wyoming.”
 
“Really? You're catching up then, aren't you,” Stiles said without thinking.
Then he thought about it. “I shouldn't have said that,” Stiles added hollowly.
 
“Stiles -”
 
Peter knocked the phone out of Stiles' hands and pinned his chest to the wall
before Stiles could even register that Peter had entered the room.
 
“I'm sorry! I'm sorry! My ADHD I can't control what I say, it just comes out.
You know that, I -”
 
“And you think your father doesn't?” growled Peter. Stiles froze.
 
“What?”
 
“I told you once that your father does not want to help you. Don’t you see what
he’s trying to do?”
 
Stiles grit his teeth. “He was being – ah!” Peter twisted Stiles arm up,
pushing his chest further into the wall.
 
“Come on, clever boy. Your dad's still on the line, you really want him to hear
you scream?”
 
Stiles breathed slowly. “I don't understand, okay. You might be able to see it,
but I can't okay,” Stiles said gently. “He's my dad.”
 
“He’s worried about you.” Stiles snorted.
 
“He's my dad, you've kidnapped me, of course he's worried.”
 
“What exactly is he worried about?”
 
Stiles racked his mind then groaned. “Stockholm syndrome. He’s worried I have
it.”
 
“Yes,” Peter said, slackening his grip on Stiles' wrist. “Continue on that
thought.”
 
Stiles twisted in Peter’s grip, trying to figure out what Peter wanted him to
see. Stiles shook his head, licking his lips anxiously.
 
“He tried to make me angry. Push you away from me. Get you hurt.”
 
“No!”
 
“He knows what he’s doing Stiles. It’s not the first time that he’s known that
you would get hurt for what he said,” Peter said running a finger along the
lines on Stiles' palm. Stiles remembered that belting. His dad had asked all
sorts of questions about him coming home, about Peter’s mental state, about the
murders. “And now he's made you give away information on our location. By
playing you. Even though he knows that it will get you hurt.” Peter took a deep
breath, letting go of Stiles’ wrist and instead holding his waist, pulling
Stiles’ back into his chest. “I think we need to take a break from your dad. A
little distance. Until we’re both more capable of handling him.”
 
Tears leaked out from the corners of Stiles' eyes and Peter kissed them away.
Stiles let out a choked sob. “You always do that.” Peter sighed into Stiles'
neck. “Okay... Give me the phone,” Stiles said. Peter backed off and retrieved
the phone.
 
“Stiles?”
 
“Dad, I...” Stiles slumped down the wall and ran his hand through his hair. He
looked up at Peter. “Can we at least pretend I'm alone for a few seconds,
illusion of privacy, something?” Stiles snarled. Peter's eyes narrowed. Stiles
took a breath and shook his head. “Sorry. Sorry, please... this is hard
enough,” he said looking into Peter's eyes. Peter nodded and stepped outside.
 
“Stiles?”
 
“You were fishing for information,” Stiles said getting up and locking the
door.
 
He could hear his dad sigh. “I'm sorry. It sounded like he wasn't listening too
closely. I took a risk.”
 
“That's not your decision to make dad. I get to decide when it's worth the
risk, not you,” Stiles breathed a heavy sigh and moved through to the bathroom,
locking that door as well. “I know you're worried about how long this is
taking, okay. I know everything you know about kidnapping cases, remember when
I got obsessed with them when I was little?”
 
The Sheriff let out a dry chuckle. “You freaked your mom out more than once.”
 
“I miss her.”
 
“I miss you.”
 
Stiles turned around and looked at the bathroom. Tiny little thing. A shower
stall. Sink. Toilet.
 
Stiles took a deep breath in and braced himself for the urge that usually swept
his body. The blank denial that filled his mind, the feeling of his skin being
too tight, of everything being too much, the overwhelming need to just get it
out of his system…
 
It never came.
 
“We're in a motel ten miles from a town called Warland or Windland or
something. We've been heading North East. He definitely has a destination in
mind. It's a silver car.  Ford. Licence plate -”
 
Peter tore the door off its hinges. Stiles froze.
 
“Five, Alpha, Tango -”
 
Peter grabbed the phone from Stiles' hand and hung up. Then threw the phone
against the wall, smashing it into pieces, Stiles flinched and tried to back
away but the bathroom was too small.
 
“Why did you do that?” Peter asked calmly, red eyes blazing.
 
“Peter, please -”
 
“No,” Peter said taking Stiles thighs and pushing him up onto the sink, pushing
inbetween his spread legs. “You don't get to say 'please' or 'sorry' or 'I
couldn't help it' or whatever other excuse you have rolling around in that head
of yours.”
 
Stiles' fingers clung to the edge of the sink. “I wasn't going to say sorry,”
Stiles ground out not looking at Peter. Peter ran his claws over Stiles lips
and Stiles’ heart lurched.
 
“You know for such a clever boy,you are so damn mouthy,” Peter said yanking his
chin down and covering Stiles' mouth with his own. Stiles opened his mouth and
kissed him back, furiously trying to appease Peter’s anger. Peter pulled him
off the sink and shoved him into the shower unit.
 
“Wait! What -”
 
Peter picked up the door he tore off the bathroom hinges and wedged it between
the shower door and the wall. Stiles put his hand against the shower door and
pushed. It didn't budge. Stiles stared at Peter through the glass.
 
“I wonder what would happen if I bit you and left you here,” Peter started. “It
would take them a day or so to actually find you, the full moon would be up by
then. You might even rip your father apart when he came to 'rescue' you.”
 
“Come on, we both know that's not how it works,” Stiles replied a little shaky.
“Besides, after you bit me you wouldn't want to leave me behind. Pack building,
you said that.”
 
“So eager to accompany me now?” Peter asked eyebrow raised.
 
“I want to be human, Peter. Please let me be human,” Stiles whispered, clawing
half-heartedly at the plexi-glass.
 
“There's no chance of that any more. Now that I know I can't trust you. I’ll
need to bite you to keep you.”
 
Stiles' heart dropped as he saw crazy red bleed back into Peter’s irises. “I'm
going to a car dealership. Don’t do anything foolish.”
 
- - - - - - - -
 
It wasn’t much later when Stiles woke up to the sound of the car pulling up
outside, but it was still after midnight. He held his breath as Peter opened
the door up, bracing himself for the worse, but then he heard laughing.
 
Peter had someone with him.
 
Stiles uncurled from where he had wound himself up in the corner of the shower
unit after exhausting all possible options of escape. He strained his ears to
hear what was going on but could only make out muffled noises. Who was Peter
with? Why was he here? Was Peter making pack? Why now? What about him? Were
both of them going to hurt him?
 
The laughing and talking noises soon changed into moans and Stiles rolled his
eyes. Sex. Peter brought home a rent boy. Or just picked him up from a bar or
something. Stiles slumped back down onto the shower floor and rested his head
against the glass, closing his eyes. He would be alright for a short while now,
he could afford to rest.
 
The bed creaked in the familiar way and Stiles tried to sleep through it. Until
the screaming started.
 
Stiles shot up to his feet, terrified. “Peter?” Stiles called. He banged on the
wall of the shower. “Peter! What the hell are you doing? Peter!”
 
Stiles didn't know how long the screaming went on for, or the whimpers of pain
after that, but he could tell when whomever it was had died. When Peter came
through, what seemed an age later, he was naked, and soaked in blood and...
were those pieces of flesh?
 
Stiles felt himself going numb as Peter lifted the door away from the cubicle
and opened up the shower. Stiles backed into the corner as Peter stared at
Stiles intently. Peter lifted a hand and pressed it against Stiles’ cheek.
Stiles closed his eyes and tried to hold back the impending panic attack. Peter
dropped his thumb over Stiles’ lip pulling it down and smearing blood along his
mouth. Stiles started shaking but couldn’t open his eyes.
 
“When your dad shows up here, he’s going to think that’s you,” Peter said
softly. Stiles could feel his tears as they rolled down his cheeks. Peter
leaned forward and practically bit the tears from his face, Stiles flinched,
pressing himself further into the corner. “He’s going to blame himself, be in
complete turmoil, utter grief, at least until he gets the blood report back and
finds out it’s not you I’ve pulverised and cut up into little pieces.” Peter
nudged his nose under Stiles’ chin and tilted his head back. “He’ll be so
relieved, and unbearably guilty. You’re never going to see him, or speak to
him, again. He’ll forever wonder…”
 
Peter stepped away and left the room. Stiles opened his eyes slowly, the words
sinking in. His dad. His dad was going to think that he was dead, ripped apart.
Even after the blood works came back dad would always think the worst, always
think –
 
Peter was standing in front of him now, fully dressed, all trace of blood gone,
with rope in hand, tying his wrists together lightly.
 
“You can’t.”
 
Peter continued to wind the rope along his arms.
 
“Peter please,” Stiles sobbed. “He’ll kill himself. He will he…” Stiles felt
more than saw the black spots starting to obscure his vision as the oxygen
supply to his brain was cut off. He couldn’t breathe. Why should he breathe? If
he was dead there was no reason to breathe. No need to breathe. If dad thought
he was dead why shouldn’t he be dead?
 
Peter roared in Stiles’ face, making the shower unit rattle. He startled Stiles
into breathing normally once more, then began pulling him out of the shower
unit by the rope. Stiles dug his feet in.
 
“I will never forgive you,” Stiles spat, pulling on an anger he hadn’t felt in
such a long time. “Never.”
 
Peter stopped and turned to look at Stiles.
 
“What would you give me?”
 
Stiles blinked. “What?”
 
“What would you give me, for the chance to say goodbye?”
 
“What do I have? Peter, I’ve got nothing. Please my dad,” Stiles sobbed sinking
to the floor.
 
Peter slowly crouched down and gathered Stiles up into his arms, gently
shushing him as Stiles snortled and sniffled into Peter’s chest.
 
“If I give you one last message for you father, will you promise me to never
ask to contact him again?”
 
Stiles took a deep breath in.
 
“I promise.”
Chapter End Notes
     OMGGMO we're very near the end of arc I now.... (and yes I have
     totally called it Arc I)
     Also I'm not very happy with this chapter. If someone could tell me
     why that would be swell.
***** Chapter 18 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
John stepped hollowly past the field officers who were securing the scene,
flashing his badge at the man at the door. Technically John Stilinski should be
nowhere near the joint task force that had been set up – but the FBI had a hard
time keeping him away. The phone calls had sealed the deal, keeping the old
sheriff of Beacon Hills with them was better than trying to investigate without
him. John was exceedingly relieved by that fact.
 
Even if it did mean he had to work with an asshole.
 
“John. It’s not pretty.”
 
John blinked at Agent McCall. “Nothing ever is.”
 
Agent McCall nodded and stepped aside, letting John step into the motel room.
 
Blood.
 
Blood up the walls. Blood on the floor.
 
John took a step back reeling. The focus point seemed to be the bed. John
stepped forwards. A body.
 
“Is it…” John couldn’t get the words out. “Stiles. Is it -”
 
“We don’t know yet. We can’t… we haven’t been able to identify the body yet.”
 
John forced himself to look. The body had been pulverised, beaten until the
bone had mashed up with the skin. Bits of flesh were torn and lay strewn across
the bedspread and the floor. John turned away. He couldn’t tell who it was
either. Couldn’t recognise anything about the body, but he doubted that meant
much. Not when it was so disfigured.
 
It could still be someone else. It could still -
 
“Sir?”
 
“Yes, agent?” McCall replied.
 
“We’ve found something.”
 
John’s heart went into overdrive as he followed the agent outside to the van. A
phone was plugged in to a laptop, Stiles’ face was on the screen.
 
“Stiles,” John breathed out, unable to conceal his distress.
 
The field agent on the laptop looked up. “Uh yeah,” she said. “We found the
phone in the bathroom sink. Completely empty – probably a factory restore or
reset on the dead victim’s phone. This is the only thing on it. The video is
addressed to his dad. He says -”
 
“Play the video.”
 
The agent blinked. “Uhm, yeah.”
 
“And clear out as well. Give the man some privacy,” Agent McCall said.
 
“Uh, I -”
 
“This is Sheriff Stilinski. He’s the father.”
 
“Oh. Um. Right,” the woman said typing at the laptop. “Okay, just press the
space bar.”
 
The agents cleared out of the van and the sheriff settled himself down in front
of the screen. Stiles’ face was taking up the majority of it. The Sheriff sat
for a few moments looking at Stiles for the first time in weeks. For the first
time that wasn’t from CCTV and surveillance in… six months.
 
His hair was longer. Face looked… gaunt? Sunken? Lips were chapped. Spots on
his chin. Bruise on his cheek. Blood on his face.
 
But he was there. He was right there. He still looked like his Stiles. He was
there. Whole. In one piece. His baby.
 
The Sheriff took a deep breath to stave off his panic. Stiles wasn’t dead.
 
He wasn’t.
 
The Sheriff clicked play.
 
“Dad, it’s not me. Okay? The body in the bedroom isn’t me.” The Sheriff let out
a breath he didn’t know he was holding, he nearly laughed in relief. “It’s not
me. I’m okay... Well…” Stiles rolled his eyes and shifted. “I’m probably really
far from okay. I’m sorry.” Stiles swallowed and looked away, John’s eyes were
glued to the screen – drinking in every movement Stiles made, every expression
that crossed his face. “I’m sorry I butted my way into the investigation. I’m
sorry that he took me and I’m not home with you. I’m sorry I didn’t listen. I’m
sorry if I’ve ever been a pain.” Stiles looked directly into the camera lens.
John felt his heart contract staring into the eyes his wife had. “I need you to
do something for me, dad. Something important, and I’m sorry to ask this from
you as well but…” Stiles shifted again and the sheriff noticed there was
something weird about it, he was sitting in an odd position. “I need you to go
home. I need you to go home and stop looking.” Tears started to run down
Stiles’ face, but Stiles paid them no attention. “I think we both know that if
you haven’t caught up to us yet, you won’t. The phone calls are going to stop.
He says he can’t trust me. He’s not going to let me… I mean this might be the
last you hear from me. This might be it.”
 
The silence held on for a few minutes. John could see the wheels in Stiles’
head turning, could practically feel the way Stiles was only just realising the
implications of what he’s said. This was goodbye. And they had only both just
realised it.
 
“I need to be able to picture you at the grill when it’s your turn for the
annual barbeque. I need to be able to imagine you double parking my jeep in the
driveway or trying to fix the washer. I need you to keep living your life and…
I need to know if I call you’ll pick up the phone. I’m sorry to put that burden
on you. I’m sorry I can’t just say I’m dead it’s over, here have some closure.
I’m sorry that I’m asking you to live with a ghost but I don’t know what else
to say.”
 
Stiles bit at his lips. “Peter says that I’m not allowed to contact you. I’m
not allowed to ask to contact you. He’s… uh, he’s been making noises. About
settling down,” Stiles snorts and shakes his head a little, a small smile
creeping at the corners of his mouth. “I’m going to be on one of those reality
tv shows. Sixteen and settling down with my homicidal boyfriend.” Stiles
fidgeted, sighing. “I think I’m much better now. With like, the eating thing.
I’ve been hitting my targets. Keeping my meals down. Actually focusing on what
I’m eating and stuff so…” Tears are running down Stiles’ face again now. “I’m
trying to say I’ll be okay, dad. Peter loves me. And yeah, it’s not healthy or
whatever, but we both know the danger in these kinds of relationships happen
after you leave, or try to leave. And Peter…” Stiles looks off to his right.
“Peter’s already punished us for that,” he whispered. “I’m going to be fine.
I’m going to be alive and well and… I think sometimes I’ll even be happy.”
 
Stiles was distracted. His head turned away, staring at something – someone off
camera. Stiles said something, it was distorted.
 
“Do you remember watching movies on Saturday nights? It’s the one thing we kept
doing even after mom… Robin Williams was always my favourite. Genie from
Aladdin. Mrs. Doubtfire. Bicentennial Man. Toys. Flubber… I’m sure you remember
better than me. Peter doesn’t watch movies. I watch them by myself and then he
complains when he doesn’t understand my references. I… I’m going to miss you. I
love you. I love you so much dad. We didn’t say that last time, and it’s not
anyone’s fault because we both know, but if it’s my last chance to get to say
it - I love you. I love you dad and I know we both wish things could be
different but they’re not so. I love you. I love you. I’m sorry, I love you.”
 
The Sheriff sat staring at the computer screen for a long time, watching the
small video over and over again. Soaking in the way Stiles sounded, the quirk
in his mouth, the fear in his eyes.
 
He was aware of other people around him, moving back and forth in the van,
watching the video, discussing roadblocks and press conferences and cars. The
Sheriff just sat, unable to really process. He’d been moving from place to
place clinging onto a thin strand of hope that he’d find Stiles and now he was
being told – being asked – to stop.
 
The last time he stopped he lost himself at the bottom of a whiskey bottle.
 
“Stilinski?”
 
“Hook.”
 
“Excuse me?” Agent McCall replied, with a slight twinge of snark.
 
“It’s a Robin Williams movie. He didn’t mention it. He listed all the others
but… we were talking about it. The other week. He’s telling me that he’s not
forgotten. He’s going to try and come home.”
 
Agent McCall stared at him for a moment in the patronising way he does, but for
once John didn’t care. He had reached the end of his tether. He was used up.
Stiles had given him a message that only he would understand, a promise. A
promise contingent on Stiles being able to find him.
 
John Stilinski had to go home.
Chapter End Notes
     OMGee guys. Finished one. I've never finished anything before -
     except for my dissertation. But that doesn't count. Education never
     counts.
     Yes there will be a sequel (it will contain many OOCs. My bad.) It
     will be so sporadically updated I can't even describe... So if you
     want to bail out here you may, if not subscribe to the series and
     I'll gt something up soon. Soonish. Soonishy.
     Also if you want come talk to me at tumblr abluemountainashtardis
     because I am interesting. And lonely. And I will totes let you name a
     character. Maybe. Maybeish.
     Thank you all for reading, it's been a wonderful year ::D Woo.
  Works inspired by this one
      Stiles_Can_Never_Win... by kestra_troi
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