
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2509862.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Peter_Hale/Lydia_Martin
  Character:
      Lydia_Martin, Peter_Hale
  Additional Tags:
      Episode:_s02e09_Party_Guessed, Psychological_Horror, Mindfuck
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-10-25 Words: 3118
****** Wrap Up My Bones ******
by Helholden
Summary
     He has a beautiful face, all framed in silver along the curves and
     sharp angles—the face of a predator.
Notes
     The rape/non-con warning on this fic is a very, very serious one. If
     you are triggered by rape scenarios or manipulative abuse scenarios,
     don't read this. It's graphic, unsettling, and very much meant to be.
     I've warned for it in the archive warnings on the fic as well as
     right here, so that's two warnings.
     This takes place during the timeline of Season 2 Episode 9 "Party
     Guessed." Exactly where in the timeline, that is up to the reader to
     decide once all the facts are given.
                                     * * *
 
She feels her back touch the mattress ever so softly, the sheets cool beneath
her. Lydia isn’t sure how she got there. She didn’t move at all, but her body
did of its own accord somehow. The weight above her is heavy, and her tongue is
like lead in her mouth. She opens it to speak and feels lips press against the
pulse point of her throat, laying a delicate kiss on her skin.
 
No, she wants to say. She screams it in her head, but no sound comes out.
 
The kisses trace a soft path up her neck to her jaw. She doesn’t see a face
just yet. The room is blurry, the ceiling shifting from grey to blue to black,
and she feels sick for a moment, but then the moment passes. A tongue grazes
along the inner shell of her ear, and Lydia shudders, feeling fingers toy near
her neck, touching her clavicles with soft, light traces, grazing the bare skin
just above the collar of her nightshirt.
 
The mouth trails a kiss after kiss to the corner of her lips, and then he’s
hovering over her finally, a halo of light over his hair.
 
Lydia blinks, a single tear rolling down her cheek from the corner of her eye.
 
Please, no, she mouths to him, because she can’t talk—she keeps trying, but not
a single sound comes out. She can’t say a word. She can barely even move, but
she doesn’t know why. She thinks she must be drugged, the way her sluggish mind
refuses to let her fully utilize anything but her eyes and some small muscles
here or there. The way reality blurs and seems like a dream.
 
Suddenly, a fear spikes in her with the realization of what that means.
 
She can’t fight him.
 
“Tut-tut-tut,” his tongue clicks behind pursed lips. Above her, Peter shakes
his head. “We talked about this, Lydia.” He leans in close, his warm breath
washing over her face. “All you have to do,” he murmurs, “is everything I ask.”
 
No, she tries to say, but as she opens her mouth, he captures her lips with his
and slides his tongue into her mouth, grazing it over hers slowly. Peter
deepens the kiss when she doesn’t move, his lips pressing into hers harder, and
she feels him press his hips against her as well. His erection is stiff and
horrifying; Lydia feels it press against her stomach, churning her insides as
they surge in protest.
 
He pulls away from her mouth, breathing on her skin through his lips.
 
“You’re going to feel it, Lydia,” Peter says softer than before, his fingers
grazing along her cheek. It takes her a moment to realize they are not fingers,
but claws. “Everything I do to you, you are going to feel it. You are going to
love it. You are going to want it. You’re going to beg—”
 
“Pleaseno,” Lydia chokes out, but the words come out as a slurred hiss.
 
“See?” Peter says. “We’re already off to a good start.”
 
Another tear rolls out of the corner of her eye as Peter kisses her jaw once,
then twice, and descends down her body. He slowly unbuttons her nightshirt,
parting the material, and places the lightest of kisses on her bare skin. She
isn’t wearing a bra. Lydia cries in silence, the tears falling one after
another as his mouth hovers over her breast. Peter breathes on it, hardening
her nipple, before taking it into his mouth.
 
Lydia closes her eyes, a warmth surging through her body. His hand massages her
other breast, kneading it and squeezing it gently.
 
It feels so good, which is wrong. Everything is wrong. Lydia doesn’t want to,
but she responds to his ministrations as he moves slowly and cautiously along
the planes of her body, mapping it out with his tongue and hands. A tingling
desire pools low in her abdomen; then lower, between her legs. She wants to
scream, to kick at him, and get away, but Peter flicks his tongue over her
nipple, and she arches into his mouth instead because small movement seems the
only thing she is even capable of.
 
He runs his hand down the center of her chest to her stomach, sliding it over
her hip. Blunt nails graze along the sensitive skin above the waistband of her
pajama pants. Lydia’s stomach clenches suddenly, her body shuddering, but
whether it’s in revulsion or pleasure, she doesn’t know. Maybe it’s both. Her
eyes are dry by now, but they burn from the salt of her former tears. Her
cheeks are streaked and sticky, her lips just as dry as her eyes.
 
The room swims with an unexpected lurch. It’s just a dream, she thinks. He
isn’t real. He isn’t real, she repeats to herself, but the sensation of his
weight above her seems real enough, and her head lolls to the side. Lydia feels
as if she is drugged, but she can’t recall anything she drank or ate that might
have made her feel this way.
 
She doesn’t even remember where she was ten minutes ago.
 
It’s just a dream, she says to herself again, blinking up at a blurred ceiling.
It’s just a bad dream. The spinning sensation inside of her brain elicits a
distraught moan from her lips. Lydia reaches up, trying to grasp for something
solid to steady her. Her fingers find his shoulders, and she grips hard, a sob
wracking her chest.
 
“Shh,” Peter says, coming back up her body to kiss her mouth. He is gentle with
her, and she responds amidst her confusion and fear—kissing him back, trying to
hold onto the back of his head, but her hand fumbles. It slips and falls back
to the bed. She doesn’t have the strength to hold it up yet.
 
Their lips break, and Lydia heaves in deep breaths. It’s about the only thing
she can do. She tries to make the world be still through sheer force of will,
but her mind doesn’t have that kind of power.
 
She is hardly moving at all, but she feels like she is everywhere at once.
 
“Please,” she begs on the verge of tears. Her voice is growing stronger, but it
still cracks. “Ma—make—make it stop—”
 
Peter runs his hand over her hair and kisses her cheek, then the other, and
nestles his nose against hers. “Just relax,” he says softly. “If you relax,
Lydia, it’ll all get better. I promise.”
 
He pulls back far enough to kiss her nose, and Lydia closes her eyes and
exhales slowly.
 
His lips kiss a trail down her nose to her mouth, to her jaw, and then to her
chest once more. She tries to listen to his words. If she just relaxes, it will
all get better. She just needs to relax, like he said, so she closes her eyes
as his tongue flicks over her nipple before suckling it, causing her back to
arch. His attention for her breasts grows overzealous as he sucks and licks and
nips at them until they are bruised red from his teeth, his other hand roaming
freely over the curves of her stomach and chest.
 
Eventually, she even forgets why she was protesting. He is right, after all. It
gets better as she relaxes, and then his attention turns lower down her body.
As he leaves her chest, the air freezes along the trails of his saliva. Lydia
shivers at that, and then she feels his tongue lick her tummy.
 
She moans softly and raises her hips, and his fingers curl beneath the elastic
band of her pajama pants as well as her panties. He pulls them down to her
thighs and pauses there, his tongue flicking out to graze one of her thighs and
then the other until she shudders beneath his touch.
 
Lydia feels him slip one of his hands between her legs. She trembles as she
feels his finger graze her intimately; she is slick, her body turned on against
her will.
 
Peter hums pleasurably at this discovery, cupping her lower lips with two
digits as he slides his middle finger inside her. Lydia’s hips buck of their
own accord, her mind slipping further from her, her legs spreading further as
well—but they are blocked by the waistband pinching them together.
 
“Mmm, good girl,” he says, sliding his finger in and out of her.
 
“Please—”
 
“You want another?” he inquires softly, and Peter slips a second finger inside
of her along with the first one, pulling them out and pushing back deeper in
unison with the roll of Lydia’s hips that have developed a mind of their own.
With the blur in her mind, she can’t remember why she protested at all; it
feels so good. It all feels so good. There is no reason to be upset.
 
She gasps, wanting to feel his fingers deeper, and grinds down onto his hand to
not lose the one sensation she can lock onto in the spinning room.
 
“You’re such a good girl, Lydia,” Peter says softly, breath ghosting over her
skin as he works his fingers in her. “Perfect. That’s perfect. Keep doing that
. . . ”
 
He kisses the curve at the top of her hip just above the fine dust of trimmed
hair. A muscle there jumps pleasurably at the touch of his lips, and she moans,
so he pumps his fingers faster. She moves her hips to match it.
 
When he curls his fingers upward inside of her, Lydia gasps and spreads her
legs more. The waistband of her pants cuts into her flesh, blocking her from
going too far. Peter withdrawals his hand abruptly, causing a shudder to pulse
through her lower body. A whine escapes her lips at the loss of being filled.
 
Briefly, in the back of her mind, she registers the hands grasping her pants
and pulling them off until she is naked beneath him.
 
His hands part her legs slowly, and Lydia feels a heavy weight settle in
between them. She rolls her head forward, looking up at him again, but
everything is a haze of black and blue highlighted in a soft white glow. His
face is a blur, but it’s a beautiful face, all framed in silver along the
curves and sharp angles. He leans in closer, and then he engages her mouth
again—slow, but forceful kisses. Lydia reaches up as she returns them, her arm
as clumsy as her hand as she tries to cup the back of his head, but he doesn’t
seem to mind her lack of coordination.
 
Peter breaks the kiss, and then he pulls back far enough to put his arm between
their bodies. Lydia hears the clink of a metal buckle followed by the sound of
a zipper. She gazes downward, frowning at the realization that his clothes are
still on, even his black jacket—he is fully clothed from head to toe, and she
is naked, save for an unbuttoned nightshirt hanging off to either side of her
chest, which only covers her arms.
 
He isn’t naked because this isn’t about pleasure.
 
He is fully clothed while she is naked because this is all about power.
 
When he pushes into her, that’s when Lydia remembers. She remembers because he
is bigger than Jackson, and even the preparation of his hand doesn’t prevent
the discomfort that pinches her mind halfway back to the reality of her
situation. She clutches his shoulders hard, pushing at him. “No—”
 
Peter assaults her mouth with his own to silence her protest. He thrusts his
hips with an exigency to cause her focus to shift off of her panic onto the
sensations he can provide inside of her body. The mild discomfort becomes
replaced by unwanted sensations of pleasure, and Lydia starts crying again even
as her body aches with enjoyment. She clutches helplessly to his shoulders
because she is unable to push him away. “Please, no—”
 
Lydia doesn’t want to be turned on by it. She doesn’t want to feel pleasure
from an act so horrifying. It should hurt, but he won’t let it. She doesn’t
want her body to respond with normal tingles and pulses from sex—but that’s
what he wants.
 
He wants to own her, to have control over her, in mind as well as body.
 
Peter could have ripped her clothes off. He could have ravaged her violently.
He could have not cared if he penetrated her while she was dry and unprepared.
He could’ve caused nothing but screams and pain, but that isn’t enough for him.
 
That would never be enough for him.
 
Peter wants her to remember it all with perfect clarity—how good it felt to
have him pleasuring her, to have him inside of her, not just in mind but in
body—and Lydia will because with each drive of his hips, the drugged feeling
slips away from her. Each thrust feels realer, deeper, and with each sound that
she chokes down into her throat, she clutches him tighter—not just her arms and
her hands, but her legs tighten over his hips and her ankles cross to keep her
grip on him firmly in place.
 
Who overcomes by force, hath overcome but half his foe. Lydia isn’t sure where
the words in her head come from as Peter drives into her. A piece of literature
she read for school, maybe. It’s such a numb thought to have, even as she has
given up trying to physically fight it anymore. She feels it, and she knows he
knows, but her throat feels detached from the rest of her as it releases little
moans with each sensation of him filling her whole. A strained groan from his
lips resonates in her ear, and her nails dig even deeper into his neck and
scalp as he slides in and out of her with ease.
 
He wants to overcome her mind, not just her body.
 
He wants all of her.
 
All of her.
 
Peter rises to kneel between her legs. He parts her further, pinning them
against the bed by her knees and involuntarily raising the lower half of her
body from the mattress. He begins a new rhythm inside of her, sinking in deep
and sending shocks throughout each and every nerve at her core. Lydia grasps
the bed sheets, clutching them helplessly, as throbs of pleasure pulse deep
within when he hits the right spot and fills her up all the way. When he adds a
thumb to her clit as he thrusts, her vision fails her as a violent orgasm rips
through each nerve ending in her body. Lydia cries out, half in pleasure and
half in anguish, shuddering and gripping the sheets. Peter leans over her
without giving her a moment’s reprieve, seeking his final mark in claiming her.
 
Lydia knows it’s happened when he stills above her. There is nothing but a
faint exhalation to announce his release, and he lowers his head to her chest,
his face between her breasts.
 
She remains as still as a statue, staring up at a ceiling that seems all too
clear now compared to how it seemed before—blurry, murky uncertainty.
 
Sharp, crystal clarity.
 
She thinks he’s done with her. She thinks it’s finally over.
 
Peter lifts his head from her chest, and then she sees his hand in the
dark—cast in a silver gleam, his claws look poisonous. He looks right down at
her, raising his chin.
 
He slashes her chest.
 
Lydia screams and shoots up from the bed, sobbing as she scrambles against the
headboard. She manages to halfway wriggle out of the sheets before she realizes
she is alone in her room. Alone in her bed. Her eyes dart around her room,
which is empty of any presence but her own.
 
Heaving in a deep breath, she shudders as she exhales it back out again.
 
Lydia wants to cry as she wraps her arms around herself, but it was just a
dream. It’s only a dream, she reminds herself, over and over again, for what
seems like an hour, but her heart can’t seem to calm down.
 
She sobs it all out until she can’t breathe.
 
When she finally manages to calm down again, she is lying in bed with her eyes
shut because she can’t bear to look at her ceiling one more time tonight, dream
or no dream. She turns over onto her stomach to put her face into her pillow,
but a sharp pain lances through her chest, and Lydia hisses as she pushes
herself up by the palms of her hands.
 
Gently, she touches her chest.
 
It still hurts.
 
A sinking feeling opens up in the bottom of her stomach, and slowly, Lydia
slips her hand beneath her shirt.
 
Her fingers touch a sore cut, and she jumps, lurches, scrambles off the bed as
she gulps for air. Popping the buttons on her nightshirt, she looks down and
sees a scratch mark just above her left breast—right above her heart.
 
Her jaw begins to tremble. No, no, no, it was just a dream. Lydia panics, using
the logical part of her brain to think of all the ways of how she could’ve cut
herself in her sleep. It’s entirely possible. She’s done it before. It’s
nothing. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s not even that deep. Her own nail made
the mark. It’s nothing. It’s nothing.
 
For one peaceful instant, Lydia convinces herself. She wants to laugh. She
wants to cry. She can’t make up her mind, so she does both, bringing the back
of her hand to her mouth as she laughs and cries in equal measures of joy and
relief. It’s the dream. She won’t be okay for a while, not until the tremors
leave her. It had felt so real, and the fear is still palpable in her veins as
her heart beats too fast in her chest.
 
She can breathe easy again, a soft smile playing upon her lips. She breathes
deep, in and out, closes her eyes and lets her head tilt back. When a minute
passes, she finally gains the courage to walk towards her bedroom door to go
downstairs for a glass of water to drink, for a reason to walk around—anything
other than be in this room for one more second.
 
As she reaches for the handle, gravity finally catches up with her. Lydia feels
the tickling sensation of a soft trickle down the inside of her thigh.
 
She stills, frozen to the bone, her hand hovering an inch above the door
handle.
 
In the stillness, her hand begins to shake.
 
 
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