
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/999449.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Peter_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Peter_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Canon_Divergence, Alternate_Universe_-_Always_a
      Different_Sex, Always-a-girl!Stiles, extreme_dubious_consent, peter
      doesn't_take_no_for_an_answer, Bad_Touch, forced_mating, bonding_without
      consent, Emotional_Manipulation, creepy_Peter, allusions_to_teenage
      pregnancy, Stiles_is_a_confused_ducky, and_is_not_going_to_be_very_happy
      when_she_wakes_up
  Series:
      Part 3 of Season_Three_Alternates, Part 1 of Anything_at_any_price:_all
      of_this_for_you.
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-10-11 Words: 8822
****** Oh, Monstrocity (Down and Dirty) ******
by Ceris_Malfoy
Summary
     Peter leans forward, lips trailing against the skin of her cheek,
     fingers gently brushing her riotous curls off her face. “You’re
     trembling, Stiles,” he says. “There’s no need to be afraid.”
     (He has her and she is his. His mate. Not Derek’s. His to touch. His
     to fuck. His to breed. All his. )
Notes
     So I got distracted from several other projects with this. It started
     out as a no-nonsense pwp, and turned into something entirely
     different. This is set during "Unleashed," with liberties taken. XD
See the end of the work for more notes
“You know,” Peter says casually from where he is lounging on her bed, “I don’t
typically enjoy being used as a guard-dog.”
“OH SWEET JESUS FUCK!” Stiles shouts, jumping backwards, dropping the towel she
had been using to dry her hair. She takes a small moment to be grateful she has
started changing in the bathroom, because she could just imagine how awkward
things would be right now if she had walked in wearing nothing but a towel.
(She did that once. Derek still will not look her in the eyes most days. Not
that she thought Peter would have any shame about catching her naked and off-
guard. Dude is a serious creeper most times.) It is times like these where she
just wants to move into the guestroom, which has no windows for the many
werewolves in her life to climb in through. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
she snaps out. “And get off my bed,” she adds absently, already bending down to
fetch her towel.
“Oh, nothing much,” he shrugs, grinning impishly, even as he moves to obey (for
once). “Following orders, as usual. Scott convinced Derek that you needed to be
watched in case of …how did he put it?” Peter taps a finger against his lips,
eyes rolled up to her ceiling, a sarcastically thoughtful expression on his
face. “Oh, yes. Now I remember!” He waggles his fingers at her, smirking.
“‘Eminent virgin sacrifice.’”
She is going to kill Scott. Slowly. With a lot of pain involved. That
conversation had been between the two of them (and Danny – but she is not
getting her mind involved in that little weird-as-fuck scenario); Scott had no
right to bring anyone else into it. Especially not Derek Hale, of all people.
“So Derek sent everyone’s favorite creeperific undead werewolf to watch over
me?” She snorts, plopping down in her computer chair and toweling vigorously at
her hair.
She is not worried about Peter, strangely enough. He is… an odd man, to be
sure, and sometimes more than a little creepy, but now that he is not a half-
mad alpha on a power-trip he is also a curiously decent man on top of that. He
honestly does not give a rats ass about most people, could kill them easily
with a gleam in his eye and a song in his heart, but for a select few? Peter
would move mountains for those he considers his. She honestly likes him. She
likes the snarky banter, the diva-istic ways, the clever wit, and the powerful
presence of him. Oddly enough, despite the history between them, he makes her
feel safe. Well. Safer then Derek does, at any rate. Still, there is something
about the thought of Peter Hale knowing she is a virgin that causes her gut to
squirm uncomfortably.
“You can tell Derek not to worry,” she continues, less belligerent, but only by
a smidgen. She is a naturally defensive kind of girl, and nowadays it really
does not take much to get her back up. “I’m not a virgin any longer.” She
honestly forgets, for a moment, that she cannot lie to Peter. She has gotten
better at lying to werewolves in general, but Peter …it is like he has some
kind of hidden lie-detector installed when it comes to her.
Case in point: at her little fib, he laughs at her. “Oh, and just who did you
get to do the deed?” he asks, humoring her, even as he circles slightly around
her, moving away from the bed and closer – too close – to her. “It certainly
was not my nephew, no matter what connection you may think the two of you
share.” His smile is almost derisive.
She looks at him, frozen. He did not just imply…. Abruptly she gets out of her
chair, dropping the towel and backing away from Peter to the door. “O-kay then,
I’ve had just about enough of this conversation,” she says. “You can see
yourself out – the window is apparently quite functional.”
“Oh come on, Stiles,” Peter says, tone almost amused. “You really didn’t think
I wouldn’t know, did you? Even if poor Scott hadn’t been shouting it at the top
of his lungs, there’s still your scent.” Peter stalks closer, and Stiles cannot
help but shrink back. She has not been truly scared of Peter in quite a while,
had in fact begun to enjoy the older man’s presence, but there is something
about the way he is looking at her right now that makes her want to curl into a
safe, dark corner and hope to god he doesnot see her.
“So pure, so clean. Still unclaimed,” Peter continues, smiling almost gently at
her. “I promise you, if it’s of any comfort, that I could take you to bed here
and now and within a very short space of time make you forget what the very
word ‘virgin’ means, in spite of whatever you may feel for my nephew.” His
voice drops into a husky, almost purring tone that is utterly enthralling. That
voice makes Stiles’ blood pulse hotly through her veins and her heartbeat
increase into rapid little thuds that robs her of her breath and makes her
tremble slightly. She cannot bring herself to look away from him, staring
mesmerized. “Would you like that, Stiles?” he asks her, eyes half-lidded and
stare more than a little hungry.
She cannot answer him. Yes, she would like that. She would like that very much.
So much so that it terrifies her, especially when that wanting is being applied
to this man. She trusts him, insane as that may be, but she will never forget
what he has done or what he is capable of. She is also very aware of exactly
how there is no one else who looks at her the way Peter is currently looking at
her – and because of this there lingers in her mind the possibility that Peter
does not even really want her, but that he is using her in some manner for some
long-term scheme that will result in death and murder.
And as if he is also capable of reading minds, he adds: “Don’t think I don’t
know what you’re afraid of, Stiles.” He looks at her mouth, and to her
embarrassment, Stiles finds her lips parting slightly. “I could spend the next
ten years telling you that there is nothing to be worried about, that I’m not a
monster, and that I have no intention of hurting you.” He cocks his head, and
his smile turns a little filthy. “But I really think I should just show you.”
Stiles feels her world lurch and spin wildly out of control as she sees the
dark glitter of his eyes: electric blue, predatory, the eyes of a born wolf
hunting its prey. He crowds her against her wall, body barely an inch away from
being flush against her own. He radiates heat like fire lives within his skin;
his form is a burning, solid line of hard muscle which feels both amazingly
divine and utterly terrifying against her own slightly chilled flesh.
“You will enjoy this, Stiles,” he tells her, his voice little more than a purr
against her ear, but the words reverberate into her heart. “Do I really
frighten you so much?” A single finger drags down her throat, tracing the line
of her jugular, feeling the rapid pulse he can no doubt hear perfectly well. “I
don’t mean to.” His lips caress the soft shell of her ear, sending little
shivers of shock racing through her. “I’ll teach you everything you need to
know about the male animal.”
It is the lightly mocking tone that enters Peter’s voice that brings her out of
her aroused stupor. She attempts to push him away from her (not that he goes
anywhere – damn werewolf strength), and says with as much attitude as she can
muster, “Uh, hello? Seventeen with a really good internet connection and a
really well-developed curiosity. Hardly an ignorant child.”
“But not yet truly a woman,” he suggests delicately, and Stiles swallows.
She wants to protest that there is more to being a woman than mere sexual
experience, but the words form a choking ball in her throat, as though she
herself, in some deep secret place, fears she is somehow less of an mature
being because of her sexual inexperience. Not to mention the almost-crippling
feelings of inadequacy and self-doubt because, until now, no one has ever even
hinted at desiring her in any capacity.
“Perhaps that’s really what’s holding you back,” Peter husks, mouth going back
to tracing her earlobe, left hand resting on her shoulder, thumb moving in
soothing circles. His other hand has found purchase on her hip, fingers curling
in a rather possessive hold. “Not so much nerves as impatience.”
Stiles hisses. “So first I’m a terrified child and then I’m sex-starved. Well,
Peter, it may interest you to know that when I told Scott that I’m looking for
a way to protect myself from virgin-sacrificing dark-druids, sex in general was
the very last thing I had in mind – especially with you.”
And that is not exactly the entire truth, because she had been spouting nearly-
hysterical facts about Heather’s virgin status and the comparative danger of
her own currently-virgin status. And she has imagined being sexed up by Peter.
She has eyes and a healthy libido; she would have to be blind not to want him.
She has noticed him in a very primal way, but it doesn’t mean anything: she has
had similar wonderings about Chris and Derek. That she actually enjoys Peter’s
company does not mean anything, either. The only part she is telling the truth
about is that she has never once considered those ideas side-by-side, never
once considered going to Peter and asking him to relieve her of her virginity.
Judging by the way he is pulling back to look at her, an amused smirk pulling
at his lips, one eyebrow quirked, he knows she is not telling the entire truth.
Shit.
“Besides, if I was that desperate to get laid, it wouldn’t be very hard to do
so, now would it?” she adds scornfully, knowing she is asking for trouble, but
also starting to get too angry to care. “I’m sure Derek, for instance, would be
able to help me out quite nicely…”
She gasps, more than a little stunned, when Peter harshly grabs her arms and
shakes her.
“Why you little… Derek will never be the one who claims you,” he snaps out
acidly.
“Why not?” she challenges him. And, yes, this is petty, but she knows Peter;
she knows – to an extent – how he thinks and how he acts. And Stiles knows he
would have never mentioned Derek in the first place if he was not worried in
some capacity about this ‘claiming’ thing happening. She also knows Peter well
enough to know he is first and foremost out for Peter and Peter’s happiness,
and for him to notice any connection of any kind growing between her and Derek
says quite a bit, especially given that he does not appear to be in favor of
it. “You’ve said it yourself, there’s a connection there. It wouldn’t be that
hard to build on it.”
“I said nothing of the sort,” Peter corrects her, almost idly. “All I mentioned
was feelings you may have for him.” His smile is mean now, fingers digging
harshly into her skin. She is going to bruise there, she knows. “I can assure
you, Stiles, he’ll never look at you that way.”
Stiles grits her teeth. “Whether he does or not isn’t the point, Peter.” She
pushes against his chest again. He is too close. She needs him to be across the
room, if not out of her house. No such luck, however, as all he does is tighten
his grip more. There is a sharp, burning pressure building beneath his hands,
and she gasps a little at the pain.  “I’m not doing this, not with you, not
ever.”
Peter tilts his head, and his smile falls off his face. His eyes are burning,
flaring into the impossibly brighter blue of his Beta state. “Oh, I think you
will,” he says softly, and it is only when his grip shifts that she realizes
exactly what it is he intends for her.
She cries out as he throws her across her room and onto her bed. She scrambles
to get off it, panic racing through her. She does not want Peter, not like
this. She does not get far before she feels the bed depress behind her and a
solid, inescapable grip settles on her hips and twists her around, ignoring how
she kicks out at him, until she is on her back, legs splayed around his. She
whimpers, trying to squirm out of his grip, but his Beta-blue eyes and serious
face hold an unyielding purpose that tells her there is going to be no escape.
“No,” she whispers. “Please, Peter. Please, don’t do this.”
“I’m sorry, Stiles,” he tells her, voice quiet but steady. “But I can’t chance
losing you.” He imprisons her easily with one hand, stripping her with the
other. She closes her eyes, unable to bear watching his claws shred her
clothing. The sound alone is enough to drive tears to her eyes. She refuses to
struggle, refuses to give in to the frantic fear in her heart, refuses to allow
him to destroy her so thoroughly.  She has been weak and stupid enough to get
herself in this situation in the first place. If Peter expects her to plead or
cry any more than she already has, if he expects anything from her other than
her unmoving acceptance of his superior strength….
When she had imagined her first time, she had imagined it happening after a few
dates, or, at the very least after a calm, mature discussion between two
consenting individuals. The sex itself she had always imagined would end up a
little on the violent side – werewolves in general were stronger than the
average human and easily forgot their strength, and all the wolves she knew and
wanted to sleep with had issues, seriously – so that is not the problem she is
having with this situation. She has never been particular about who played her
co-star in her private fantasies; hell, Peter had been in more than a few of
them. She can admit it, she is not ashamed of it. But… not like this. Never
like this.
She opens her eyes when the sounds of tearing cloth fade and feels humiliation
and shame crawl through her as she takes in Peter’s almost clinical look as he
leans back slightly to take in her nakedness. She feels none of the slight
arousal she had felt when pressed against the wall earlier. There is no
pleasure, no excitement, only a stunned resignation laced with abject misery.
Of all the men she has met in her short life, she had never thought Peter would
do this. Not to her.
She refuses to close her eyes and pretend this is not happening. She stares at
him, face as impassive as she can make it, hoping he does not see how much this
is destroying her.
His gaze flickers up to meet hers, and there is the slightest hint of remorse
flickering across his face. “I’m sorry, Stiles,” he says, voice quiet and
gentle. “I’m not doing this to hurt you, but I can’t chance loosing you to the
Darach or Derek or anyone else.” Something feral crosses his face, a strange
hunger that she instinctively wants to shrink back from. “You’re mine.”
He backs off the bed, and she is free now. She could easily get off the bed and
attempt to make a run for it, but she sincerely doubts she would get as far as
the door, and she is not going to suffer the added humiliation of being dragged
back forcefully to the bed, which she is reasonably sure he would do. Peter is
a ruthless man, she has always known this. She had feared that part of him,
once upon a time, but had come to appreciate the trait when it was being used
in protection of her and Derek and Derek’s pack. She has grown to trust him,
and that is what makes this so horrifying for her. That she had come to trust
him; that she had learned to look past his once-maddened state of mind… only to
be proven that she should have never given him the second chance he had asked
from Derek and the rest of them.
She should have set him on fire again the very second he looked at her.
Instead, she noticed the way all the others treated him like a ticking time-
bomb, saw the way the only time he was touched was in anger or rejection, saw
the way he looked at the others sometimes, unbearably sad and hurt. She noticed
the way he watched them all, continuously put himself out there offering advice
and help, as if all he wanted was a place to belong, to be needed. And she had
instinctively reached out to him, unable to help herself, needing to erase the
hurt and pain and ease the loneliness he practically radiated.
And now look at how her compassion has rewarded her: she is naked and terrified
and so very, very angry with herself. Stiles tries to ignore the alien sound of
a man undressing in her room, turning her gaze to the ceiling.
“So modest, Stiles,” Peter says. “Such a rare thing to see these days.”
And how dare he mock her, on top of everything else? Stiles turns her head
sharply, retort fierce on the tip of her tongue, only to choke as her throat
locks up when she sees him fully naked. The moonlight coming in through her
window is softly caressing the sculpted planes of his body, which is carved
with muscles that ripple beneath his skin. He is not as defined as Derek is,
but there is a reason she has fantasized about him before this.
Her eyes widen in sudden awareness of just how very male he is as he climbs
back onto the bed with her. His body is tanned, or at least most of it is, she
acknowledges, eyes drawn to a brief strip of paler flesh. He is already hard,
she notes absently. As he positions himself over her, she catches the scent of
his skin, and the clean, fresh smell of some masculine soap underlain by a more
primitive odor of maleness – something spicy and distinctly unfamiliar – is
intimidating.
He runs a hand down her side, touch gentle. He is looking at her, heat in his
gaze but also regret, and for the first time she believes him when he repeats
softly, “I am sorry, Stiles. I am not doing this to hurt you.”
For the space of a heartbeat, she contemplates asking him to wait, to at least
give her time to get used to the idea of Peter-and-Stiles as a unit, but she
stops herself before a single syllable escapes. It will not do her any good.
She sees Peter’s regret, but she also sees his relentless determination. What
must it be like, she wonders absently, to want something, someoneso much that
no human feelings, however intense, could stand in the way of that wanting?
Werewolves are run by a completely different set of instincts, she knows this.
She has done the research and she has run with a wolf pack. She knows that
there is a difference of instincts between a human and a werewolf, and an even
greater difference between a human and a born werewolf. And once upon a time,
her own ancestors must have possessed similar instincts, must have fought and
bled for what they considered theirs; she has been told more than once – by
Peter himself – that she is born to be a wolf. And to a degree, she can even
see it – she instinctively understands and acts upon the concept of pack better
than even Derek at times - but none of Peter’s need burns her blood with its
icy heat. She has been brought up to value free will and choice above all
things, to always look towards a longer game than instant gratification: what
are the consequences, what are the reactions? Werewolves are different, she
knows this. Peter is a prime example of their dual nature: he is a tactical
genius, more than capable of playing the long game, but he also exemplifies the
adage of ‘to the wolf there is only now.’
Peter leans forward, lips trailing against the skin of her cheek, fingers
gently brushing her riotous curls off her face. “You’re trembling, Stiles,” he
says. “There’s no need to be afraid.”
No need for him, maybe.
His hands trace the sharp jut of her collarbone, his mouth teasing its way
across the smooth curve of her jaw. “You’ve lost weight,” he murmurs against
her mouth, disapproval lingering in his tone.
Stiles is honestly surprised that he noticed – she normally wears so many
layers that it is hard on any given day to determine that she even has curves.
She has been told more than once that she looks like a particularly effeminate
boy. She has never been even remotely plump, but the past year of stress and
sleeplessness and panic has not been kind to her. She is at the lowest weight
she has ever been at since she had been in middle school, and her continued
lack of an appetite is not helping matters. She does not say any of this to
Peter, though.
Apart from the light caress of his hands and mouth, he is not touching her at
all, and when she finally turns her head so that she can look him in the eyes,
it seems to Stiles that just for a second there is a genuine tenderness in his
eyes. “This honestly not how I wanted this to happen, Stiles,” he tells her.
“But, who knows…maybe it’s for the best. At least you’ll be safe from the
Darach.” He nuzzles her cheek. “And I promise you will enjoy this.”
She irrationally hates the way he is treating her right now. She would almost
rather he be rough with her. “I might be physically inexperienced, Peter,” she
says, voice as cold as she can make it. “But I am well aware that sex with an
experienced male can be one of life’s richest pleasures.”
She chooses her words deliberately, forcing herself to keep looking directly at
him and not flinch beneath the heat that flares in his eyes.
There is a wry smile teasing the corners of his lips. “If that’s so,” he
murmurs, trailing his fingers down her ribs, “then why haven’t you ever sought
it out before?”
She hesitates for only a second before practically spitting out: “Maybe because
the only one who’s ever shown interest suddenly decided rape was his best
option.”
Peter rears back like she has physically struck him, and there is a look in his
eyes, one of deep, undeniable hurt.
It is not fair. He has no right to look at her like that, not when he is the
one who forced her onto the bed, not when he is the one who held her down when
she tried to get away, not when he is the one who forcefully stripped her of
her clothing. It is not fair that she still feels the instinctive need to erase
that look from his eyes, to comfort him and tell him she understands, even
though she really, really does not.
He draws in a shaky breath, and his hands tighten on her skin for a brief
instant. “Iamsorry,” he repeats, sounding almost broken. And then he is kissing
her, caressing her mouth into a sensuous recognition of his aptitude as he
teases and coaxes from her an unwilling response. She internally struggles to
prevent the tide of yearning want he is drawing from her as easily as he could
draw her blood, but desire, she is quickly discovering, is not so easily
prevented.
Peter’s lips leave hers, and she sees him studying their soft shape before he
traces them tantalizingly with his forefinger. Like it has a mind of its own,
her mouth purses against his finger, pressing a tiny, hesitant kiss against the
calloused pad. She makes a small sound in her deep in her throat, and, as
though the sound is a sign he has been waiting for, Peter moves, covering her
body with his, saying her name huskily and unevenly as he kisses her again.
This time his touches and kisses are not gentle or careful; his hands slide
from her arms to her body, shaping it hungrily beneath him as he sucks fiercely
on her tongue, drawing it into his mouth, caressing it, until Stiles cannot
tell up from down, lost in her own burning need to reciprocate the caress. She
does not even realize what she is doing until she feels the groan he stifles in
his throat vibrate against her fingertips.
She freezes abruptly then, shocked by her own lack of self-protection. What has
happened to her determination not to give into Peter? This is going to ruin
her. This is a nightmare, it has to be. Peter could never want her like this;
no one ever wanted her, especially not like this. She trembles tensely beneath
the heat of his body, waiting for him to make some flippant, taunting comment,
waiting for him to hurt her in ways that cannot be fixed.
Instead he moves her so that he can slide his hand along her ribcage and cup
her breast, his voice a rough tremor against her ear. “It’s going to be
alright, Stiles, I promise.” And he moves again, and this time she can feel how
hard he is against her. It is strangely not intimidating or scary at all, she
realizes sharply, beyond confused. She feels intensely female and so very
powerful that she should have that effect on him.
Beneath his light caress her breasts ache, her nipples taut and hard. When he
brushes one softly with his thumb, fierce darts of sensation pulse through her,
making her insides ache in unexpected recognition of her sudden and fierce need
for this man in her bed.
“Peter,” she says, uncertainty in her tone. She wants him, has always wanted
him, even when she was a sixteen-year-old being threatened over the trunk
containing a very dead woman. He has always been a strangely magnetic presence
in her life, but this…. She would be lying if she said she is comfortable with
the way this is turning out. He is, for all intents and purposes, raping her.
She should not want him, should not want this. She had not expected she would
be so sensitive to his touch; had not realized that just this brief physical
contact with him would make her ache for him with an intensity that went beyond
pride and self-respect and moral ambiguity; had not known that just that brief
taste of him would make her want to adore his body with her hands and her
mouth.
“Shhh,” he soothes. “It’s alright.” And his voice rasps slightly, raw and very
different from the cool, often amused tone she is so used to. “It’s alright,”
he repeats thickly. “I just… I just want to look at you… to touch you.”
And he eases off her so that the thin light from the moon bathes her skin in a
fragile silver-white beam that seems to highlight all the shadows and curves of
her flesh, making them seem mysterious and alluring and, to her own bewildered
eyes, unfamiliar. Had her waist always had that narrow, vulnerable arch? Had
her breasts always been that unexpectedly voluptuous? Even the curve of her
hips are offered up to the moon’s mysterious light, the graceful line of her
thigh and the delicacy of her ankle-bone all known to her, and yet in some way
unknown.
And, against their silvery paleness, absorbing rather than reflecting the light
the way her own flesh is, lies the male darkness of Peter’s body. She sucks in
a shallow breath as she gazes at the indentation of his waist, the flat
hardness of his buttocks, the strength of his thigh where it covers her own: a
subtle statement of ownership and possession.
She shivers suddenly, raising a rash of goose-bumps from her throat to her hip.
Her breath is locked in her chest as Peter strokes her skin with one finger,
smoothing delicately over the sensitive flesh, from her collarbone down over
her breast. When he reaches its flushed crest it seems to Stiles that he
trembles – or is it her? – and then a soft, “Shit, Stiles,” escapes his mouth
in a tone that is absolutely wrecked.
And for the first time in her life she experiences the sensation if a man’s
mouth against her breast, as Peter suckles her nipple into his mouth, tongue
swirling in a manner that has her brain frying and a harsh, almost-pained sob
escaping her throat. Peter tenses, and then eases off her, covering her moist
nipple with his hand, as if he cannot bear to relinquish all contact with her.
She is breathing sharply, eyes incapable of focusing. “I…I never knew it felt…”
she cannot finish, conscious only of the intensity of the feeling that is
tightening her gut in anticipation. He caresses the swollen tip of her breast
and she shudders violently, unable to control the response.
“It’s alright,” he says. “It’s just that some women have exceptionally
sensitive reactions to breast-play, so sensitive in fact that…” he breaks off,
looking contemplative and hungry, and Stiles wonders if he knows about the
pulsing ache in between her thighs, if he knows the exact effect his touch is
having on her. He rolls her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, squeezing
sharply, and her entire body contracts, a sharp, wailing keen escaping her.
Peter’s eyes light up, and his smile is decidedly wicked as he dips his head
back down to her chest. He eagerly suckles the other nipple into his mouth,
working the swollen nub enthusiastically with tongue and teeth, his hand
working the other with alternating tugs and squeezes and rolls. She cannot
think, cannot do anything but feel and shiver and shake apart under his
ministrations. Hot bolts of pleasure that feel more like lightning riding
through her veins rock her body. She is writhing, panting, begging soundlessly
with her body and vocally with a voice that sounds foreign to her own ears for
something.
She does not even know what it is she is begging for. She has never felt like
this, even when she played with herself. The pleasure is all-consuming,
maddening. Peter switches, mouthing at her other nipple, his hands leaving her
breasts and sliding down her ribs, over her waist, and beneath to cup her ass.
She has a brief moment where the fear takes over again, burning white-hot in
her mind. He is everywhere, and the things he is doing to her, the way he is
making her feel….
And then her first orgasm at another’s touch rolls through her. The world
explodes into white noise, her vision blurring, body shuddering uncontrollably,
and she cannot help but grab at him. After the pleasure settles into tiny,
rippling aftershocks, she stares at the ceiling, body shivering, trying to
catch her breath, all too aware of the heat of Peter’s body as it moves against
her own, the rumbling vibration of his low, possessive growling, the way his
lips are trailing down the center of her body, teasing little nips and licks
that are doing absolutely nothing to help her calm down.
He sucks a bruise against one of her hips, biting just hard enough to feel the
threat of teeth before soothing the spot with several languid licks. He moves
down farther, hands running soothing paths down her sides, as if in attempt to
keep her calm. But she is not calm, is not going to be calm, because she knows
what he is about to do, knows where he is going to put his mouth, and all she
can do is stare at her ceiling and tremble.
And then his hands take her thighs and shift them further apart, and she could
no more keep her eyes on the ceiling than grasp the moon with her bare hands.
She just barely manages to catch the straight-up hungry look he is giving her
cunt, before he darts forward and …ohdeargodholymotherinheaven...!
His tongue does this thingand this otherthing and he is finding every single
spot she did not even realize she had and he has yet to even touch her clit and
all she can do is curl up around his head and grip his shoulders and wail as
she orgasms again.
Peter does not stop. Does not stop licking her, does not stop suckling her. He
is devouring her like her cunt is a particularly ripe peach and the noises he
is making...!She is sobbing, clinging to him, begging him to stop, to let her
breathe. It is too much. She is shaking apart, she is dying, she has to be,
nothing can feel this good, this bad, this perfectly wrong. It is pleasure so
intense it is almost painful. She is too sensitive, but he does not stop. After
he wrings a third shuddering orgasm from her, his hands move, releasing her
thighs and settling on her cunt. His own beta-blue hungry stare meets hers and
he is grinning, wolfish, wicked. Then one hand starts expertly rolling her clit
between dexterous fingers, playing the small nub like some delicate instrument,
while the other traces circles around her opening before sliding one finger
smoothly into her.
She howls.
There is no other word she could possibly use for the noise that escapes her
throat. She is absently aware of him watching her as he plays her body, face an
intricate display of wonder, hunger, and gravity. She is much more aware of the
fingers (now two) that are thrusting in and out of her; of the way her hips are
following the rhythm excitedly, if not skillfully; of the way her fingernails
are ripping jagged lines onto Peter’s skin over and over and over again only
for the wounds to heal every time.
It is on the cusp of her fourth orgasm that Peter stops touching her
altogether, pulling back to sit on his knees. She shrieks, wordless with
surprise and a sudden, raging desperation that borders on fury. He is quick to
silence her, reaching down and grabbing the back of her head and pulling her up
into a heated kiss as he uses his other hand to help pull her onto his lap,
settling her against his cock. If she were to shift just so, he would slide
right in. She is surprised with how much she wants that cock and the man
attached to it, kissing him back hungrily. Her hips buck eagerly in an attempt
to sheath him within her. (She is distantly thankful in the back of her mind
for the fact that she is a highly curious teenager with access to internet
shopping: Peter is a little larger than average for an adult male, but not that
much larger than her vibrator, so there should not be much in the way of pain.)
She whines low in her throat when he refuses to take the hint, simply grasps
her hips more firmly to hold her steady and still.
“Please,” she begs, writhing against him. There is a deep, throbbing ache that
is settling in under her skin, unlike anything she has ever felt before,
completely unlike any build-up to an orgasm she has ever experienced before. It
is driving her onward towards something that she does not even understand and
is partially afraid of, because she knows somehow that Peter is the only one
that can soothe it. Peter is the only one that can satisfy this growing need,
this primal hunger that he has awoken within her.
He leans back, looking at her, eyes glinting with some emotion she does not
recognize. “Stiles,” he purrs, and that tone she recognizes – half smug
satisfaction and half amused disbelief, like she has done exactly what he
expected her to do and yet managed to surprise him in all the same action.
“Peter, please,” she begs again, hands tightening on his shoulders, fingers
digging in like she is the one with claws. “Please, oh god, please…!”
He tightens his grip on her hips, pupils dilating, a low possessive growl
rumbling in his chest. “Just …just let me…” he grits out as he shuffles around,
eventually ending up on his back with her straddling him, her hands braced
against his chest, the head of his cock teasing her entrance, his hands firmly
clamped on her hips neither helping nor hindering her as she sinks down.
Never in her wildest imagination had she ever thought she would be allowed to
have this much control, that she would know the heady power of delicately
absorbing his flesh within her own, inch by painfully slow inch. She never
thought she would be allowed to tease him like this, going slower than she
really needed because he had been an asshole about this whole thing and she is
a spiteful creature, even now. She never thought she would be allowed to see
written on his face exactly what she is doing to him; how much he is holding
himself back from simply flipping them over and taking her; how much he truly
wants this, wants her.
It is intoxicating to be desired. To be wanted. She shivers once she has him
fully sheathed within her, unable to move at first because this is nothing like
her awkward fumbling with a vibrator on the few occasions she has bothered to
use it. Peter is warm, living flesh beneath her and in her, nothing at all like
the cold, hard plastic she is so used to. She cannot stop the low moan that
comes from her mouth as she gradually inches back up, feeling the slick drag of
his cock against her inner walls. She cannot help the way her fingers claw into
his skin, digging ragged furrows into his chest when she takes him back inside
her.
Peter lets her do this several times, lets her move slow and languid, lets her
take him in over and over again like she is savoring it – and she is, she
totally is, because this is something unlike anything she has ever felt before.
He does not force her to move faster or harder, his grip on her hips simply
helping her to keep the rhythm her body sets. She pants, the pressure building
again within her, so close to the edge it takes everything she has to not
capsize. She wants …something. She is not sure what that something is, but she
somehow knows that she will not be able to come again until she has it.
Her eyes slip close and her neck tilts back, and she cannot stop the way she is
riding him faster and harder. She whines, low in her throat, begging wordlessly
for Peter to do something, anything. She is so close, so goddamn close, but she
cannot tip over. Her body is shaking from the force of her need, her every
muscle feeling pulled taught.
Peter’s gaze flickers away from where he has been watching intensely the way
she is riding him to her face, and some unidentifiable emotion flits across his
face faster than she can comprehend it. And then he is grinning at her, all
mischief and dark intent, and all she can do is shudder and moan as her pace
stutters.
“It’s okay,” he croons, “I’ll take good care of you.” He sits up just enough to
nuzzle against her breasts, mouthing eagerly against a nipple. At the first
touch of his sinuous tongue, she cries out, hands clasping his head to her
breast, stomach clenching as heat spirals through her. One of his hands slides
to the small of her back and up her spine, settling at the back of her neck,
clenching rhythmically in time to her heartbeat. The other slides between her
legs and gently-but-enthusiastically starts to play with her clit.
The pleasure that hits her is too much, and yet, at the same time, it is not
enough – it will never be enough. She screams under the force of her fourth
orgasm of the night; it is starting to hurt, but she cannot stop. There is some
strange feeling prowling underneath her skin and in her head, some kind of
burning itch, some strange primal instinct that has yet to be satisfied.
And then she is flat on her back, blinking blearily at her ceiling, feeling
absurdly empty and bereft in the short amount of time it takes Peter to
position himself back between her legs and thrust sharply in. Unlike her slow,
methodical ride, Peter is all power and strength and speed as he thrusts in and
out of her. His eyes have bled back into their beta-blue color, and his teeth –
wolf-teeth, not human – are bared in a snarl. Stiles should be frightened of
his loss of control, but she is not. She, instead, feels alarmingly satisfied,
knowing that she drove him to that point.
She cannot keep her hands off of him. The sight of a well-built man shirtless
is always something wonderful to see – and thanks to the amount of male
werewolves with apparent allergies to shirts running around, she always gets a
show – but she has never before had permission to scrutinize  shamelessly,
never before had permission to touch. The feel of the flex of his muscles
beneath her hands is just as fascinating as the sight of them is, and she is
lost, so lost, teetering quickly towards her fifth orgasm of the night.
Peter cups the back of her head and drags her up to kiss her, tongue claiming
her mouth as fierce and brutal as the way he is fucking into her. She clutches
his shoulders and reciprocates just as hard, just as hungry. When they part,
she tucks her head into the crook of his neck and pants.
He kisses savagely down her neck, teeth nipping just hard enough to send tiny
bolts of pain down her spine. He reaches the juncture between her throat and
collarbone, and bites down. Bites hard. The pain is like a sucker-punch to the
stomach; it steals her breath and it hurts so goddamned much, but at the same
time, her body is so overloaded on pleasure, she is so close to the edge of her
fifth orgasm, and she is already hurting everywhere. The bite is just one more
hurt: the final catalyst that pushes her exhausted body over the edge for the
final time.
Everything goes kind of floaty for a long moment. She is dimly aware of Peter
finishing inside of her, of his triumphant howl, of the deep ache her body
throbs with once he pulls out. She is barely aware of the way he almost-
tenderly wipes her down with a cool washcloth, riding her body of sweat, blood,
and his seed. She is barely aware, but she is not unaware either, and when
Peter goes to brush her sweat-dampened hair out of her face, she pulls together
the necessary energy to grab his hand, position it just so, and clamp her teeth
down sharply onto his wrist hard enough to draw blood.
Teach that asshole to bite her, is her last conscious thought before her
exhaustion finally takes her.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
                     "Breathe whatever, feed this machine
                             -that's alive in me-
                        Oh, monstrocity, eat the energy
                    getting down and dirty with my enemies
                         So close, now I can show you
                       all the inner working things..."
                    ~Nostalgia ft. Insomnia - "Bad Machine"
 
===============================================================================
Peter smiles smugly as he watches his sleeping mate, enjoying the sight of his
rapidly healing claiming bite on the graceful line of her throat, delighting in
the answering throb of her own bite on the inside of the wrist of his dominant
hand.
He has her and she is his. His mate. Not Derek’s.
He brushes a hand gently against soft skin, relishing in the fact that this
pretty little slip of a girl is finally his. His to touch. His to fuck. His to
breed. All his.
He had not lied to her earlier; he had honestly never intended this to happen
the way it did, though he will never fully regret it. He had a plan, a good
one, one that would have had Stiles coming to him on her own, eager and
willing. He had noticed – how could he not? – the way the others dismissed
Stiles whenever she was not deliberately pissing one of them off for attention.
He had noticed how casually the girl faded from everyone’s attention. He had
noticed how they all seemed to forget or never understand that it was her
holding everything and everyone together. He had noticed how no one else seemed
to be able to see the way Stiles shown, a budding glow of power and potential
just waiting to bloom. She was like a locked puzzle-box, with all those
tantalizing secrets and babbling misdirection and awkward flailing hiding a
true treasure.
So, yes, he had a plan. He had appealed to her instinct to nurture and protect,
exaggerated his reactions to Derek and the pack’s continued rejections, and
overemphasized his eagerness to help. He bantered with her and talked to her,
paid her attention when the others deliberately ignored her, inquired after her
health and general mental well-being when the others were oblivious to the fact
that things were not all right. She proved willing to accept him in her life
after a time, but also remained wary and watching. There had been genuine
understanding about what he had done before, but not forgiveness, and he had
known that he would have to work hard to make her his. And he had been willing
to do so.
The whole Darach situation had jump-started matters, though, in ways he could
not risk. He could not risk Stiles going to another man, going to Derek, who
despite what Peter told Stiles, is beginning to realize exactly what Stiles is
worth, what Stiles would bring to the table as the other half of an Alpha Pair.
It is too late for Derek now, though. Stiles belongs to Peter now, is bound to
him in ways that even death can no longer separate. And if it means that his
plan to get Stiles to come to him on her own has failed, horribly, because of
his own possessive nature, well. He is not even remotely sorry, now that he has
her, though of course he will play at remorse to help ease her acceptance of
their settling bond.
She had proved eager in the end, but Peter knows no one will be happy about
this in the cold light of day, least of all Stiles. His smiles grows a tad
cruel. Stiles will come around in her own time, he knows – she is wonderfully
pragmatic like that. He has a lifetime now to show Stiles how well they
complement each other, and that things will be good between them, regardless of
how this started. As for the others …well, he has plans for them. Not in the
least because of the way they saw his mate. Derek and his pack looked at Stiles
and saw a weak little human, an annoyance at best and a liability at worst. To
them, she is Scott’s tagalong, the human that will never be good enough but
cannot take a hint and leave.  
They are fools, but he has never been accused of the same. Peter finds it
hilarious and very sad that out of all the teenagers Derek surrounds himself
with, it is the only human amongst them that truly understands the concept of
pack. He finds it even more hilarious that Stiles has a better understanding of
what it means to be a werewolf than all of them. It is not just because of her
research, either. It is something intrinsic within her very being. She gets it,
understands that they are not quite human anymore, that they are ruled by a
part of them that does not think in human terms or emotions, by human wants or
needs. She understands that the wolf is so entwined that pretending to be human
only goes so far, because wolf and human are not two separate entities
contained within one body but a united whole. She understands. Peter finds it
hysterically entertaining that Stiles understands that concept better than
Derek, who was born a werewolf.
He threads a hand through Stiles’ curls, watching his mate as she snuggles
deeper into him, a soft sigh escaping her. Peter knows better than anyone what
Stiles is worth. He had known better even when he had only known the girl for
barely a handful of hours. Even half-mad, Peter had known what she could be.
Underneath her quick and easily startled nature is something unbreakable,
something strong and immovable, a strength of will that will move mountains and
a backbone of steel that will weather any storm. She is perfect, sublime in
everything she does, everything she is.
He is honestly glad she had rejected his bite that day. Power-mad and revenge-
driven as he had been, he would have only done her irreparable harm. And he
does not want to harm her. Others, yes, but not her. Even if he still thinks
she would make a brilliant wolf, he would rather she remain human than go to
another alpha for the bite. If he cannot turn her, no one else will ever be
allowed. Not that he will have to worry about that for much longer. There are
quite a few spare alphas running around Beacon Hills at the moment, after all,
causing all kinds of mischief for his nephew. Surely no one would blame him for
killing one or two of them? Especially if one of them dares threaten his mate.
And with a mate-bond to settle him, he will not even have to worry about losing
his mind to the power-rush. He will be a good alpha for his precious little
mate and the pups she will bear him.
He gently untangles his sleeping mate from his body, slipping out of the bed as
quietly as he can. The Sherriff will be home soon, and Peter needs to make
absolutely certain his new father-in-law understands exactly the position the
man now finds himself in. After all, it would not do to try and separate Peter
from his mate. Not now, not ever. He cannot kill the man, cannot even threaten
to kill him, because if Peter knows anything, he knows that Stiles will set him
on fire – again – if he even thinks of hurting her only remaining kin. But
there are other ways Peter can ensure Stiles’ father’s cooperation, and if the
Sherriff approves, Stiles is much less likely to fight their still-settling
bond. And if the man is not willing to cooperate, well. While he may not be
allowed to remove his mate’s father from the picture, there are plenty of other
hot-tempered supernatural beings floating around Beacon Hills. It is entirely
possible the Sherriff might have an accident that he will in no way have
anything to do with.
Peter will do anything for his mate now that he has her, will do anything and
everything to keep her, and he has already proven that even death will not stop
him. Peter does not care that she is too young by human laws, does not care
that he is too old for her in general, and really does not care that she is not
even finished high school yet. He had not used protection when he had fucked
her, and he never will. Even if she does not end up pregnant from this night,
there will be others, and it will happen. Soon, if Peter has any say about it.
He has his mate, and soon he will have a pup of his very own. Soon he will be
an alpha again, and the Hale territory will finally have the stable pack it has
been screaming out for since the night his family went up in flames. Nothing
will stop him, not now.
End Notes
     Just to be clear about where I stand on this, because I've already
     had several people on another site bitch at me about this: regardless
     of whatever deliciously atrocious kinks I may have or may enjoy
     reading/writing about, in real life things are different. I am a firm
     believer that no means no. It doesn't matter if the victim enjoys
     his/herself at some point physically, rape is still rape. If at any
     point someone says "no" and their partner doesn't listen, it's rape.
     If at any point someone realizes that they have the choice of
     submitting willingly or being dragged back to the bed and made to
     submit, it's rape.
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