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"Close your mouth, Stiles. It's unbecoming to drool." Peter smiles as the words slither out of his mouth, sharp and vicious as a viper's bite. Stiles, predictably, jumps and bites back a scream as he nearly topples over the back of Derek's couch. The noise pulls the others' attention and Derek glares at him. Not at Stiles, but at Peter because he's used to Peter's attempts to rile this pathetic excuse of a pack any chance he gets.

Not that they need his help to fall apart. They're self-destructing well enough on their own.

Stiles's face is crimson as he half-turns, moving as much as Peter's looming presence allows. "W-what?" His eyes dart back to Derek but the others have moved on, back to the pointless argument that Peter stopped listening to ten minutes ago.

Peter sidles in closer and revels in the way Stiles squirms, caught between Peter and the back of the couch. The couch is a nice barrier, cutting them off from the rest of the pack. Not that anyone seems particularly inclined to pay attention to them anyway. Lydia is engrossed in her phone. The wonder trio of Derek's betas have slunk off to other parts of the house while Allison stands next to Scott, trying to play peacekeeper-slash-referee in Scott and Derek's latest tête-à-tête.

"Don't worry," Peter whispers, lips hovering close to Stiles's ear. "He didn't hear." He pauses for effect. "Yet."

Stiles's eyes widen like a startled doe. "What?" he repeats. "Who?"

Peter rolls his eyes. "Don't play coy. Everyone knows you'd jump on Derek's dick if he showed even a speck of interest but you don't have the right parts. Besides, he likes them older. And legal."

The way Stiles licks his lips twice before speaking is delightful. "Why... why do you think I'm interested in Derek?"

Peter leans in and presses his face to Stiles's neck, causing the boy to shiver as Peter takes in an obvious breath. He lets his words play along the prickling skin before him. "I can smell it on you. Lust. Desire. Shame." He smells it now, the obvious scent of arousal that only seems to grow as Peter prods at it.

Teenagers. So easy.

Stiles shifts to the left, taking the only escape route open to him. His eyes are wide and fearful. He reminds Peter of a bunny about to be eaten. "You... you can?" His eyes dart back to the two other werewolves in the room.

Peter snorts. "Not them. I doubt they'd notice, not with their heads so far up their own asses." He leans against the back of the couch and smiles. He's never met a button he wouldn't press and the emotions playing across Stiles's face and filling the air with the faint smell of desperation and humiliation make one shiny red button for him to poke at.

"Better that way," Peter says, as if imparting the wisdom of the ages. "You're not his type. Even if he could get it up for a guy, why would he want you?" The red drains from Stiles's face as he goes pale. The lack of color makes his moles all the more prominent. If they didn't have an audience, Peter would be tempted to trace the line of them with his tongue.

He shifts closer and grins at the chaos he's about to unleash. "Who would?" He walks a half-circle around Stiles, eyes roving while he extols the boy's flaws. "Weak. Pathetic. Virginal. Human." He spits the last word like a curse, knowing full well how much of a sore spot it is for Stiles. His words hit the mark and he smells the tears before he sees them.

Stiles flees without a word and Peter watches him go. It's a minor victory, quite possibly beneath him or at least beneath the man he used to be, before the fire. Now he counts it as payback. The little shit did throw a Molotov at him. He can't take off Scott McCall's head like he wants to and he's not going to go after his last remaining relative, but he can jab at their weak point, their human, and see how much he can get away with before they notice.

It's another ten minutes before Derek comes to find him. "Where'd Stiles go?"

Peter shrugs and sips his tea. Home, he would assume, but he doesn't know for certain. Derek sighs and if Peter were a better man he'd consider helping with some of the burdens weighing his nephew down. He'd help Derek turn his misfits into a functioning pack and play the left hand to help win Derek's arguments against Scott's blind naiveté.

Peter is not a better man. Instead he stares out the window of the newly rebuilt kitchen, so strange and modern compared to what once stood there, and watches the woods. He thinks he'll go for a run.


Stiles avoids being near Peter for the next two weeks. Anytime Peter shows up at the rebuilt pack house while Stiles is there, he simply vanishes. Sometimes Peter is able to catch the distinct rumble of that broken-down Jeep driving away. Other times he thinks Stiles simply hides in another part of the house, maybe even the heads into the woods.

Peter finds it hilarious. Each time Stiles flees Peter catches that same lingering scent of shame and arousal.

Most of the pack remains oblivious, but Derek is familiar with Peter's games. His grip is on the right side of too tight when he stops Peter in the kitchen. Peter isn't sure why, out of all the rooms in the expansive house, he gravitates to the kitchen the most. Perhaps it's because he enjoys the view from the new bay windows. Or because it's the room most changed from the original designs. It's the room that reminds him nothing of the house that was.

"What are you doing?" Derek asks. His voice is steady, his posture relaxed. The strength of his grip is the only warning Peter gets.

Peter brings his mug to his lips but it does little to hide his wicked smile. His tea tastes a little sweeter lately. Satisfaction has that effect. "Why, whatever do you mean, dear nephew?"

Derek sighs and releases Peter's arm. He knows futility when he's faced with it. "You know what I mean."

The truce between them is a fragile thing. Derek's dick got their family killed, nearly got Peter killed, and Derek still blames himself for that. Peter doesn't blame Derek for killing him. The Peter that died was a mad, feral thing. He likes to think he's better now. Not before the fire better, but closer than what he was after being unleashed from that infernal hospital.

Peter lowers his mug and holds it in both hands. "Just a bit of harmless fun."

"Stop it." Derek's brows knit together into an angry caterpillar. "You may not like them, but they're the only pack we have."

Peter snorts. He drains his mug and leaves it in the sink. "My pack is dead," he says, before seeing himself out the back door.

The house may be rebuilt but it will never be his home.


Peter is not expecting the knock on his door late Saturday night. The only person who knows where he lives is Derek and there's nothing supernatural rampaging around the city to bring his nephew calling.

He smells Stiles before he even gets to the door. He doesn't even have to fake the wide smile that spreads across his lips as he pulls open the door. "Well, isn't this a surprise."

Stiles's eyes meet his for the briefest moment before shying away, sticking to the floor like the secrets of the universe are hidden in the carpet. Stiles bites his lip and Peter feels a spike of arousal wash though him. Derek doesn't even know what he's missing. Those full lips would look perfect stretched around someone's cock. Too bad Derek's straight.

"How do you know where I live?"

Stiles meets Peter's stare with a hint of that defiance Peter loves so well. It's what made Peter want Stiles for his pack not long ago. "I looked you up."

Peter snorts and leans against the doorframe. "I'm not in the phonebook so I'm guessing your prying nose peeked into a database or two you're not supposed to have access to. Do you know all of daddy's passwords?" The guilt-shame that washes over Stiles tells Peter he'd guessed correctly. Not that he'd had any doubt. "How naughty. I approve."

Stiles blushes and fidgets. His arms wrap around his front, fingers picking at the cuffs of his hoodie. Stiles is obviously going for defiant, but the gesture reads of insecurity. "Can I come in?"

Peter steps away, allowing Stiles the bare minimum of room to slide past. He doesn't bother hiding the fact that he's checking out Stiles's tight little ass as the boy passes. He shuts the door and then wanders back to the couch where he'd been enjoying the third Harry Potter book. Six years in a coma leaves a lot to catch up on.

Stiles eyes the book like it's a snake. It's obvious that he wants to comment on it, but he bites his lip—literally—to keep the words in. Peter leans back from the center of the couch and spreads his arms over the back. He is the king of his tiny domain and he's not about to pretend otherwise. Stiles came here in supplication and Peter will treat him accordingly.

"What do you want?" Peter says, his tone cold and bored. He's not one to put up with the children Derek's surrounds himself with on the best of his days. He doesn't like that one of them is in his home, but at least it's the least annoying of the bunch.

Stiles shifts on his feet and stares down at the coffee table. He's nervous and anxious and strangely, there's a hint of that arousal that Peter keeps catching on him, which doesn't make sense until Stiles opens his mouth. "I want...." Stiles swallows and seems to gather his courage. When he looks back at Peter, his eyes are bright, determined. "Those things you said about me. I want to not.... I don't want to be like that."

Peter arches an eyebrow and sits up, resting his elbows on his knees. "You've come to the wrong person if you're looking for the bite. I offered it to you once and you refused. Besides, I'm not an Alpha anymore."

Stiles's blush deepens and his arousal spikes. "Not... not that."

It takes Peter a moment. In his defense, it's not often that he has people propositioning him, at least not lately. Before the fire, yes. Afterward, he hasn't exactly been the kind of person others are comfortable being near.

He laughs. He can't help it. It's just... it's so ridiculous. "Sorry, honey, I'm not interested in getting arrested."

"I'm eighteen," Stiles says. There's a strange sort of vehemence in his voice, an earnestness that piques Peter's interest. Stiles looks like a nervous colt. Peter's somewhat surprised the boy didn't run off when Peter laughed at him. But Stiles isn't running. He's standing his ground and telling Peter what he wants.

It's endearing in a way Peter is unused to.

He stands. He puts on a smile and almost feels it. He's not sure what he feels. Curious, definitely. He can see himself going from bored to aroused fairly easily. He reminds himself of the lewd thoughts that Stiles's body has inspired of late. It certainly wouldn't be a trial, but.... "Why?"

He circles Stiles like a panther. Stiles, to his credit, doesn't move. His eyes stay locked on the far wall. "I want to."

Peter leans in. He lets his mouth brush the shell of Stiles's ear. "Say it."

Stiles sucks in a hiss of breath and there's that arousal, sharp and stinging. Peter steps to the side in time to see Stiles lick his plump lips. Stiles watches Peter with the wide eyes of cornered prey. "I want to be better than what you said. I want to be an asset to the pack and to-" Stiles flushes and swallows the rest of his sentence. He turns and lightly grabs Peter's sleeve. "I want to have sex with you. However, you want. Whatever you want. Please?"

Peter snorts. With one clawed hand, he tilts Stiles's chin up and makes Stiles meet Peter's electric blue eyes. "You will always be a weak, pathetic human." Before Stiles can react, he grabs Stiles's crotch with his free hand, making Stiles rise slightly onto his toes and gasp. Stiles's eyes widen further. Peter can smell his panic but it's almost overwhelmed by Stiles's arousal. Interesting.

"The virginal part I can fix, though." He squeezes lightly around Stiles's cock and presses the tips of his fingers against Stiles's balls. It earns him another gasp that turns into a barely suppressed moan. "It won't help you win Derek. Nothing can help you with that. He's out of your league."

Stiles doesn't pull away. He meets Peter's eyes. There's lust written in every inch of his body. "I want to." He wets his lips again and Peter's cock twitches. "Please."

Peter lets go, allowing Stiles to fall back on his heels. He steps away, considering. He doesn't remember the last time he's had sex with a virgin. He doesn't even remember being a virgin. He never wanted for a partner through high school, college, or after. Options spread out before him like a never-ending web, full of opportunity. There are an infinite number of possibilities, but what does he want to do?

His eyes fall to those pretty red lips and he smirks. He steps back to Stiles and grabs him by the hair, no claws this time. He yanks down. Stiles collapses onto his knees with an involuntary gasp and shudder. Stiles's eyes blow wide, color disappearing into black, and the scent of arousal is so thick Peter can taste it. The ease with which Stiles gives in stirs something inside of Peter, nearly making his claws come out again, though this time not for show. Stiles looks up at him with eager eyes and a mouth gone slack with surprise.

Peter can't get his pants open fast enough and he knows his eyes are shining. He pulls Stiles forward, positioning his head in front of Peter's growing erection, but he doesn't press any further. He can't. He has to... It has to be Stiles's choice, even if Peter is not nice about it. "What are you waiting for?"

Stiles blinks. His eyes dart to Peter's face and then down to the erection right in front of him. If his eyes got any bigger, they'd probably roll out of his sockets. This is the part where Peter expects Stiles to balk. It's one thing to talk about sex, it's another thing entirely to be expected to work for it.

Peter never takes the easy way. He's even less inclined now since it's all a ploy to let Stiles worm his way into Derek's pants. Why he thinks Peter is the key he needs in that equation, Peter has no idea, but he's not about to look a gift ass in the mouth. Or would he be looking at a gift mouth with his dick?

Stiles's hands shake as they reach forward to settle hesitantly on Peter's hips. Then he leans forward and Peter's fingers tighten in Stiles's hair as those beautiful red lips part around Peter's cock. He groans as his erection slips into Stiles's mouth. It's warm and wet and God, it's been far too long since Peter's had anything but his hand on his cock. Then Stiles keeps going, past the point where most stop, trying to take all of Peter into his mouth, and Peter pulls back when Stiles starts choking.

His hold on Stiles's hair releases. He lets Stiles recover, watching with an arched eyebrow and knowing smirk while Stiles coughs. "You need to work on your gag reflex before you try something like that, sweetheart."

Stiles looks at him with rebellion and tears in his eyes, and it says something about Peter's proclivities that it only makes Peter want Stiles more.

"Try again." Peter's not even aware of the words until they're out of his mouth, spoken in that silky tone he uses when he wants something. "Slower this time. Start with the tip."

Surprisingly, Stiles does as he's told. He leans back in and closes his mouth around the tip of Peter's cock. Peter's hands clench into fists, claws pricking his palms, before relaxing. He settles his hand once more in Stiles's hair, guiding him deeper onto Peter's cock, encouraging him to work his way down slowly. Peter nearly groans but keeps the sound locked behind his lips. There's a certain vulnerability inherent in sex and he's not prepared to show any kind of weakness, not to this annoying kid.

No, this is about the power and the thrill of taking something that Derek's never had, that Derek likely never will have and twisting it into something he wants. He's fine with using Stiles's body. It's willingly offered, and he knows that it'll play out to his advantage in the future. Blackmail maybe, because he's certain Stiles won't want Derek to know about their illicit little arrangement.

He can't help the groan that escapes him as Stiles's tongue presses against the underside of his cock, but he muffles the sound as best he can as soon as he realizes it. He looks down at those spit-slick lips and feels a faint bit of wonder that they've somehow stumbled their way into this configuration. His hand is controlling the motion of Stiles's head entirely. He's practically feeding Stiles his cock and Stiles takes it, like he was made to be used.

Peter comes suddenly. He doesn't expect orgasm to hit him so soon but there's something about the way Stiles is giving everything to Peter and the feel of his mouth—and probably the fact that it's been far too long since he's stuck his dick in someone—that makes orgasm hit Peter like a brick in the face. He holds Stiles still as he jerkily spills into Stiles's mouth. Stiles whimpers but otherwise takes it, swallowing down Peter's come like a champion.

When he pulls out, Stiles's mouth still hangs open like he's expecting more or another cock to take its place. "What a pretty whore you'd make," Peter says, pleased with the shamed blush that appears. Stiles doesn't get up and run away, so that's a point in his favor at least.

Perhaps Stiles deserves a reward. Peter tucks himself back into his pants and circles around to stand behind Stiles. "Up," he says, accompanying the word with a sharp tug on the back of the boy's hoodie.

Stiles scrambles to his feet and Peter instantly pulls him back, pressing his body flush against Stiles's back. He traps Stiles against him with an arm around the boy's chest and grins as Stiles squirms. "Relax. You wanted this, remember."

Stiles goes still. Peter noses underneath Stiles's ear. Stiles is all keyed up with no release in sight. Peter isn't so cruel as to leave him that way.

This time.

He runs his hand over Stiles's crotch and feels Stiles's gasp. Stiles writhes, even before Peter grabs the bulge tenting Stiles's pants and then it's like he's electrocuting the poor boy. Stiles whines, head thrown back against Peter's shoulder. His hips try to thrust but Peter slips his arm lower, trapping Stiles against his body as he tugs at Stiles's clothed erection. Stiles is already hard from sucking Peter off, which is a thought to explore in depth another day. He wonders whether it's the weight of Peter's cock in his mouth or the control aspect that Stiles likes more. Peter will eventually find out, hopefully in a way that provides Stiles the most embarrassment.

"Peter." Stiles gasps his name and Peter's hand stills for a moment in shock. He... he hadn't expected that. "Please," Stiles says. "Don't stop. Please."

Well, the boy did ask nicely.

Peter runs his tongue along the salty skin at Stiles's neck, making Stiles's breath hitch. Stiles's hip jerk against Peter's hold, trying desperately to get more of Peter's maddening touch.

Stiles isn't going to last long. He's been leaking before Peter even touched him and the fact that he's lasted this long is admirable.

Peter needs to put an end to that.

He presses his palm down over Stiles's jeans, rubbing in a way that has to be absolutely maddening judging from the way Stiles wriggles in his hold. Peter lets his long fingers roam further, pressing against Stiles's balls and stroking the side of his erection. He doesn't have much room to work with, but he doesn't need it with the way Stiles is keyed up. He can practically feel Stiles's release coming. He can definitely smell it. Right before Stiles comes, Peter bites down, digging sharp teeth into the tender flesh where neck and shoulder meet. Stiles comes screaming.

Stiles jerks against him, twitching through his release and then he goes pliant, practically melting into Peter's arms. His eyes have lost focus. There is no doubt that Peter has blown his mind.

Peter snorts. Enough niceties. Stiles stumbles as Peter pulls away, barely catching himself from falling to the floor. Peter smacks him on the ass, hard enough to propel Stiles forward a step.

"Get out."

Peter washes himself off in the bathroom and rights his clothing. He smiles at his reflection. Not a hair out of place. When he returns, Stiles is gone. The stench of sex remains. For some reason, it makes Peter smile and he relaxes back into his usual spot on the couch. He finds the trivial adventures of Harry Potter somewhat ironic when he recently jacked off a teenager in his living room, but Peter has always been fond of ironies.


The next time Peter sees Stiles is at a pack meeting. There's been signs of something feeding in the woods. Not on humans, at least not yet, but the woodland creatures of the Preserve are on high alert and there's been at least three carcasses found. There's a bit of brainstorming as to who or what the culprit may be. Derek thinks it's an omega, which is the most likely case, but Peter supplies several meat-eating nasties that it could be but very likely is not, just to be helpful. It's also fun watching Scott and Isaac grow paler as he describes the exact methods of consumption that various unfriendly creatures are prone to.

He's leaning against the back of the couch—yes, that same couch—and Stiles is sitting in front of him, trying to pretend that he's unfazed by Peter lurking in one of his most vulnerable areas. Stiles, uncharacteristically, doesn't say a word, only fidgets minutely, as if he's afraid of bringing his body in contact with Peter's even unintentionally.

Derek glares at Peter, but either doesn't notice or doesn't care about the obvious effect Peter has on Stiles since it doesn't cause Stiles to flee the room and that seems to be Derek's threshold.

"Search parties," Derek says, and then starts listing off days and pairs.

Stiles jerks upright when it's obvious Derek's finished his list without calling Stiles's name. Lydia hasn't been called either, but she looks perfectly content with that. "What about-"

Derek shakes his head, cutting Stiles off. "You'll be at a disadvantage in the dark. So far the omega-" Peter coughs. Derek rolls his eyes. "...or whatever it is, hasn't gone after humans and I'd like to keep it that way."

Shame and determination roll off Stiles in waves. Peter hears him open his mouth and reaches the short distance between them to clasp his hand on Stiles's shoulder, right over the bite mark. Stiles jerks and squeaks. Likely the bite still stings.

"Leave this one to the big boys," Peter says, knowing exactly what kind of effect the words will have on Stiles.

Shame overrides all other scents coming off Stiles and he jerks himself out of Peter's grasp. Peter grins as Stiles stomps away.

"Peter." Derek's glaring at him.

Peter shrugs and whistles as he heads into the kitchen. He hears the Jeep start up. His tea is going to taste sweet today.


Peter expects that Stiles has gotten whatever strange notion led him to come to Peter for sex out of his system. He is wrong. He gets back from a rather boring morning of trawling the Preserve for lone wolves with Derek to find Stiles sitting on the floor next to Peter's apartment door with a textbook open in his lap.

Peter is tired and so not interested in dealing with teenagers. "Shouldn't you be in school?" he asks as he unlocks his door. Despite his better sense, he leaves the door open. Stiles scrambles to gather his things.

"It's Sunday."

Peter shrugs and takes a bottle of water from the fridge. Days really have no meaning when you have no job and very little social life. "Why are you here?"

He hears the door close. "I wanted..." Stiles falters.

Peter turns and raises an eyebrow. "Sex?" He looks at his watch. "It's ten in the morning." Stiles blushes beet red and Peter snorts. He remembers being a teenager. "Well, I want a shower."

He starts peeling off his sweaty shirt as he walks down the hall and tosses it through the open door to his bedroom. He leaves his pants and underwear in a pile by the bathroom door, then sets his wallet, phone, and watch on the vanity. He turns the water nice and hot, hoping that it will soothe his sore muscles.

There's a knock behind him. Peter turns, unashamed of his nudity. Stiles hovers in the doorway, sans school paraphernalia, gaze averted. "Can I help you?"

Stiles's eyes flick to his and then away again. His face looks hot enough to roast marshmallows on. "I..."

Peter snorts and turns back to his shower. "I'm getting in now. If you want to join, I suggest you take off your clothes."

Warm water washes over him and Peter sighs. It feels far too good for such a simple thing. He lets his head hang under the spray for a minute before turning away to get the shampoo. He's pleasantly surprised when the shower door slides open and a very naked Stiles steps in. Peter grins and his cock twitches with interest. "Aren't you getting bold?"

He bridges the distance between them and inhales deeply. The smell of Stiles's arousal is heady. He lets his lips brush against Stiles's neck, right over the fading bruise of his bite mark. He can still make out the impression of his teeth, and the sight stirs a strange primal pleasure inside of him. Stiles shivers as Peter sets his teeth against the mark and then Stiles lets out a desperate sound of want. Peter smirks and pulls away. "Pass the shampoo."

Stiles's eyes fly open and he blinks once before nodding. It takes him a second to find the right bottle and then he hands it over without looking at anything below Peter's neck, somehow still trying to be demure despite standing naked in the shower with Peter.

"Feel free to look," Peter says as he lathers his hair. He lets his eyes rake down Stiles's naked form. "I know I will."

He closes his eyes as he rinses the suds from his hair. When he looks again, Stiles is watching him. He's still blushing but his eyes don't shy away anymore. Stiles is hard already. Obviously, he likes what he sees and Peter can't blame him. Peter knows how good looking he is.

"Washcloth?"

Stiles hands it over. Peter soaps it and starts to efficiently scrub away the morning's sweat.

"How was patrol?" Stiles asks. "Did you find anything? You didn't get hurt or anything?" His voice softens on the last question, like he's afraid to even suggest such a thing.

Peter rolls his eyes. Since when has Stiles ever been afraid to spew words from his pretty mouth? "Derek's fine if that's what you're after."

He bends down to scrub his legs and ignores Stiles's hasty protest. It should bother him that Stiles is using him to get closer to Derek, but Peter is using Stiles for opportunistic sex, so he's got no room to judge. He doesn't even like Stiles but he's perfectly willing to stick his dick in him.

Said dick twitches at that idea. He just might. He rinses off under the spray and stares at Stiles considering.

"It's not that," Stiles says. His heartbeat is an erratic, nervous mess so it's hard to tell if he's lying. "I want to know how it was. The others act like it's not my problem, like I don't even need to know, but... there's something out there. It might be dangerous."

"You'll be fine, honey." He holds out his hand. "Conditioner."

Stiles hands the bottle over with a frown. "I don't like people babying me. I can still contribute."

"Keep telling yourself that and it might eventually become true." He pours a quarter-sized drop of conditioner in his hand and works it into his hair. A tiny, tiny part of him feels bad for Stiles, but really Peter's only telling the truth.

Stiles's mouth works like he wants to say something. The boy's got a secret. How cute. Peter can't wait to figure it out. He hopes it's embarrassing. Peter so loves to pry.

He leaves the conditioner to sit and steps up to Stiles. He feels like a predator with the way Stiles fights not to shrink away. Stiles squeaks as Peter grabs his hips and turns him to face the wall. "Hands up, Princess." Stiles obediently presses his palms to the tiles. Peter's lips twist upward. He could get used to having someone obey him so easily.

"What-"

"You'll figure it out." Peter grins. Had he known all he'd had to do was wave his dick around to get Stiles to comply, his brief run as Alpha might have turned out differently.

Peter squeezes a generous amount of conditioner into his palm before setting the bottle aside. He gives his cock a swipe to slick it and then places one hand on Stiles's back to steady him while Peter pushes a finger inside of him.

The noise Stiles makes is an odd thing. Part scream, part moan, part squawk. "Fuck," Stiles hisses, followed by a moaned, "God, yes, Peter."

What an interesting combination of words.

Peter gives Stiles another breath to get used to the feeling of having something inside of him before he starts moving his hand. Stiles's hands curl into fists against the tile and his head falls forward to rest between his hands. Each push of Peter's finger into Stiles earns Peter a breathy moan. Stiles's back shudders under Peter's palm.

"You can take it, can't you? It's only a little pain. But you wanted that, didn't you? That's what you came here for, right? To have someone break in your pathetic virgin ass?" Peter taunts. "Show me you're not weak."

"I'm not weak," Stiles says, though the words are barely audible. Peter is fairly certain he smells tears, but he doesn't care enough to look. "Please. I want it. Please. Fuck me, Peter."

The begging goes straight to Peter's groin, but he ignores it for the moment and focuses on the part that will hit Stiles hardest. "You feel weak. How many of your peers had to turn you down before you came crawling to the psychopath over twice your age?" Peter crooks his finger and pulls down, dragging the tip of his finger against Stiles's insides. He's enjoying watching Stiles's body shudder with each movement, like he's fighting not to pull away.

"You've built up some sick little fantasy where you and Derek live happily ever after, but you're not going to get that. We both know that." Stiles's breathing hitches. Peter isn't entirely sure whether Stiles is panting or sobbing. He doesn't care. "You're so desperate that you've whored yourself out to the closest substitute you could find, because you know you'll never live up to the real thing."

Stiles screams and nearly shakes apart when Peter finds his prostate. He rubs the tip of his finger over the little nub, pressing until Stiles comes against the shower wall. It doesn't take long. "Feels pretty weak to me."

Peter pulls his finger out and grins as Stiles pants against the wall. His head is partly turned and he looks over his shoulder with red-rimmed, half-lidded eyes. "'m not."

"Let's find out." Peter pushes a second finger in and watches as Stiles's eyes fall shut. His mouth is open, letting out little moans with every breath. "You think you can take me?" He rolls his hips forward, brushing his slick dick against Stiles's thighs. "I'm going to split you apart."

"Please." Stiles's eyes open again. He meets Peter's gaze as best he can from this angle. "Please. I want it. Fuck. Please."

Peter snorts. "I know what you want." Spite makes him shove a third finger in, far earlier than Stiles is ready for. Stiles's breath hitches but he takes it. His whole body is shaking but he doesn't ask Peter to stop or slow down. He doesn't ask Peter for anything but more. Peter leans in and presses his teeth over the bruise on Stiles's shoulder—the remainder of where Peter bit him. He doesn't break skin. He presses light enough to be a reminder. The noise Stiles makes has Peter's dick throbbing and he pulls his fingers out so that he can get his dick inside right now.

That noise is even better. Peter grips the back of one of Stiles's thighs and lifts it, opening Stiles up to take more of Peter's cock. Fuck, it feels good. Stiles's mouth is good, but this is better, all tight warm heat that clenches around him like a writhing, living thing. It feels like that saying, like sticking his dick in warm apple pie and he nearly comes on the spot.

Not yet. No. He wants this to last.

"This is what you want, isn't it?" Peter thrusts upward hard. Stiles's head falls back as he shouts, a wordless cry of pleasure and pain intertwined.

"Yes." Stiles's voice holds no uncertainty. Stiles is panting for it, twitching and shivering as Peter fills him up. "So much yes."

Peter pulls out and slams in again. God, Stiles is so fucking tight. Why has Peter never slept with a virgin before? Oh, yeah, most of them are illegal. Peter grins. Not this one. This one fell right into his lap. "You want a big, thick werewolf cock splitting you apart?"

"Yes." Stiles's arousal is a heady perfume. It drives Peter to shove up, up, up, again and again. "Please, Peter. Fuck me. I can take it. I can take your cock. Please."

Peter grunts. He may go a little bit wild. Stiles is begging him, saying Peter's name in a voice that makes it sounds like Stiles wants it, wants him, and it's hard not to get lost in the delusion. He growls and bares his teeth to the ceiling to keep from tearing into Stiles's neck.

Stiles's hip and thigh aren't so lucky. Peter's fingers dig in, holding Stiles in place. The scent of blood adds a copper edge to the cloud of arousal and semen. It's not much. Not enough that Stiles seems to mind, driven as he is by the need to be fucked into oblivion. Still, Peter is mindful.

"Please. Peter, please, more. I need you. I need you so much. Give me more. Please. Please. Fuck me. Please. I can take it. I promise I can take it."

The words fall from Stiles's lips like a litany, like he's not already being fucked wild and raw. Stiles's body twitches but he has no leverage to move, not with one foot holding him up and the other hanging from Peter's grip on his thigh. Stiles's hands aren't even on the tile anymore and Peter wants to scold him for not following orders, but he likes the frantic scrabble of Stiles's blunt fingers against his skin, trying to find purchase where there is none. Like last time, there's nothing Stiles can do but take it and Stiles is loving it.

Peter would be lying if he said he didn't love it too. He's had too many partners who were not in the know. It's nice not to have to hide. Stiles knows exactly what kind of monster Peter is. He knows exactly what Peter is capable and Stiles still came to him.

It's a sort of power that Peter will never get over.

Stiles's mouth won't stop moving. Peter growls, the need to own Stiles completely hitting him so hard he can't even think.

Instead, he acts, moving the hand not holding Stiles open to Stiles's throat. Stiles's breath hitches, as if in anticipation of something Stiles doesn't even know is coming. Peter squeezes, careful now, as close to gentle as he can be. It's still hard enough to leave Stiles gasping for air that can go no further than his throat. Stiles's eyes are hazed over, unfocused, and his entire body twitches against Peter's hold as Stiles comes enthusiastically a second time, seed painting the shower wall.

The thrill of possession washes over Peter and he comes with a howl. He doesn't stop, not right away. His body keeps moving on autopilot, sliding into that sweet giving flesh until he's spent and flaccid and must force himself to pull away.

It feels strange coming back into his skin and tucking the wolf away. He steps back into the water. It's chilled since he first started but all he needs is to rinse the conditioner out and then wipe off his dick. There's blood on his fingers. He likes it.

Peter ducks his head under the stream for a moment before turning back to Stiles. Stiles, who's leaning against the tile wall panting and quivering. There's come and water dribbling down his thighs, along with thin hints of blood from where Peter's nails broke skin. Peter pauses for a moment to admire the patchwork of bruises. The bite mark is fading but there's two new bruises on Stiles's hip and thigh that are going to be felt for days. Not to mention his ass.

Peter is not kind. He never is.

He slides an arm around Stiles's waist and pulls Stiles against his chest. Stiles leans back in silent question. Peter has no good answer. Instead, he bridges the short distance between them to lay siege to Stiles's mouth. The gates of Stiles's lips fall before him, granting him access to all the plunder hidden inside.

Stiles shudders and gives in. He gives everything to Peter, leaving Peter feeling like a king. He is the ruler of this boy, of this sullied flesh. His dick twitches in interest. The thought of taking Stiles right here, like this, paints a delicious picture. He could slide back in with Stiles's body already easy and open for Peter's taking. He'd hold Stiles against him, not allow the boy an inch of movement. Stiles would be trapped between Peter's mouth and Peter's cock, making Stiles a nervous line of want and need.

Another day, perhaps.

Stiles sighs as Peter pulls away. Peter pulls the washcloth from where it hangs on the wall. He doesn't bother to soap it back up. Stiles moves easily as Peter positions him under they spray, melts against Peter's touch.

Peter may be rough, but he can still play the courteous lover when he wants.

He turns off the spray and smacks Stiles on the ass. "Get out."

Stiles scrambles out of the shower, nearly tripping over the lip of the tub. Peter steadies him with too hard of a grip on his arm. Stiles doesn't look at him as he towels off, wincing as he bends over to wipe between his legs. Peter grins. Stiles will never forget his first time.

They don't say anything as they dress. Stiles disappears out of the bathroom first, which Peter assumes means that he's left. That's fine by Peter. He's never been much for cuddling after, though he idly wonders what it might be like to slot his body against Stiles's in a way that didn't end in violence.

He blinks as he steps out into the living room and Stiles is still there, fidgeting with the strap of his bookbag. "You're still here?"

He means it as an honest question but Stiles looks stricken. Stiles looks away. "Sorry. I'll... I'll go. Sorry." Unlike the litany of pleas earlier, hearing Stiles apologize doesn't stir the right kind of emotions in Peter. Instead he feels something akin to regret as he watches Stiles flee out the door.

Peter shrugs. Whatever. He got what he wanted. He turns the lock and heads to bed for a well-deserved nap.


He thinks, perhaps, he should get out more. He used to have a social life, once upon a time. He has friends but they're not local. He thinks about driving down to the coast and making a vacation of it, though can it really be called a vacation if he's not vacating from something? Maybe he should hit San Francisco and see Janet and Denice. He hasn't talked to Larry in a while. Philip used to call all the time, but Peter doesn't think Phil has his new number.

He should reconnect, he thinks, as he browses Beacon Hills's only used book shop. He's got the fourth and fifth Harry Potter books in his hand but he could use a break from children's antics. He gets enough of that with the pack. There are a couple of novels by Koontz that catch his eye.

He brings his haul to the register. There's a new girl working. She reminds him of a much older Erica with flowing blonde hair and ample cleavage on display. The cashier smiles at him, a little too friendly. "Did you find everything you were looking for today?"

"Yes." The word is clipped as it comes out of Peter's mouth. The woman keeps smiling. Peter's eyes narrow. Overt friendliness is a warning sign these days. He's always on the lookout for potential danger, even from the most innocuous-seeming of sources. It's a problem, he knows, but not a bad one.

"These are good choices," she says. "I like this one." She taps one of the Koontz novels, the first in the Odd Thomas series. "And of course, you can't go wrong with Harry Potter."

It takes Peter a minute to realizes that she's flirting. Her smile, her tone, her body posture and scent all give that away but it's not what he's used to anymore. He still sees himself with all his scars. He feels rotten to the core and he expects that to show on the outside.

For one fleeting second, he considers her. He considers how her soft curves would feel under him, how her body would yield to his. It doesn't interest him like it should. The image doesn't seem right. It's not what he wants, and that is a strange, strange thing.

He hands over his cash without a word and leaves the store. He can smell her disappointment, but his mind is too busy dissecting why he doesn't want her. The answer is obvious, though it shouldn't be. He already has access to a willing body, one he doesn't have to hide anything from. She would be terrified of his inner wolf. She'd run away instead of run toward it like Stiles has.

And that's the crux of it. He's tired of pretending to be less than he is. He's tired of putting on a show so that he doesn't scare the humans. He used to revel in being the wolf among sheep, but not anymore. Now the sheep bore him.

His bag of books falls to the coffee table with a clatter. He checks his watch. It's one o'clock. His little fuck-toy won't be out of school for a few more hours so he takes matters into his own hands.

Peter leans back into the couch and pulls out his dick. He's already on his way to hardness. All he has to do is close his eyes and think about those pretty little lips and the way they'd taken him in so easily. Peter lets out a groan. There's no one here to hear him, no one to know about his weakness. He strokes himself and imagines plunging into that wet mouth again.

He could teach Stiles. He has a complete blank slate to work with, so why not mold it into the form he wants. He knows that Derek is Stiles's eventual target, but there's a sort of sick irony in knowing that the ways Stiles might get Derek off are shaped by Peter. It's something he could hold over their heads. Maybe he could even blackmail Stiles into getting him off on the side.

Peter huffs a laugh. Wouldn't that be twisted? Stiles finally gets Derek like he wanted and then Peter keeps coming back, demanding he bend over at Peter's whim or else Derek will find out Stiles's dirty little secret.

Peter's never been someone's dirty secret.

He thrills at the idea, at being the power behind the scenes. He could use it to control Derek, to whisper words in Derek's ear through Stiles's voice. Really, though, the best part is the ability to take Stiles whenever and wherever he wants. He wants to fuck his way into Stiles's ass and make Stiles scream his name. Not Derek's, his. He wants to own Stiles. He wants to slap a tattoo on Stiles's ass that says "Peter was here first" so that any future partners know that they will always come second, that Peter was and always will be the one to take away Stiles's virginity.

He comes unexpectedly. He gasps and arches slightly, pressing his head back against the cushions as he spills into his hand.

Afterward he lies there boneless and content. He's not done with Stiles. Not yet.

That thought makes him far happier than it should.


Scott encounters the omega first. Scott and Isaac. They don't even kill it. Of course not. Why would they? It's only a danger to the safety of the pack, even if they have a semi-truce with the local hunters thanks to Scott sticking his dick in Argent's daughter. No, instead they bring it home with them like a lost puppy.

Its name is Terry.

Peter stands with his arms crossed, back against the wall as he watches Scott introduce the pathetic excuse for a werewolf to the rest of the pack. The fact that Peter's chosen spot of wall puts him in the perfect vantage point to watch both Stiles and Terry means nothing.

"I-I didn't see much," Terry is saying, recounting his sob-story to the group. "He was big and fast. There were three others with him. I-I hid."

Peter snorts. All eyes turn to him. Terry quivers where he stands bracketed by Scott and Isaac, the two bleeding-hearts of the group. Terry couldn't have picked a better pair if he'd tried.

"You hid from an Alpha?" Peter drawls, his disbelief obvious in his tone. "Really?"

Terry's eyes widen in shock. He shifts slightly, moving to place Scott between him and Peter. Smart move. Too smart.

Peter's eyes narrow and he steps forward. "I don't trust him." He lets his claws come out. "No one escapes from an Alpha that determined."

Derek's at his side in a flash. He presses a hand against Peter's chest. A normal, human hand. He doesn't even put any force behind it.

"Don't," Derek says. "He's scared enough."

Peter stares at Terry for a moment longer, making sure that the boy knows that Peter sees right through him. Then he nods to Derek and steps back, returning to his spot on the wall like a good guard dog. He could fight Derek over it, but this kid isn't worth it. Maybe the brats will learn to listen to Peter when Terry inevitably bites their asses.

Conversation continues. Peter listens, taking in any pertinent details that Terry lets slip and discarding the rest. He keeps an eye on Stiles. The boy is frowning. He doesn't seem inclined to believe Terry's story either. Good. Lydia stares at her phone but keeps shooting calculating glances at the omega. The rest seem taken with his story and there's talk of who he'll stay with and where the Alpha is now.

Peter's one of the last to leave. He doesn't go home. Instead, he drives to the Sheriff's neighborhood and parks a few houses down the street. The only car in the driveway is Stiles's ratty Jeep. Peter smiles and slips into the darkness behind the house. From there it's ridiculously easy to jump from the ground to catch the sill of Stiles's window. The shades are up. He can see Stiles sitting at his laptop, intent on something out of view.

Peter's claws dig into the window frame and he lifts, smiling when he doesn't encounter the resistance of a lock. He pulls himself up and slides into the room like a shadow. The only heartbeat in the house is Stiles's.

"I want you to do something."

Stiles screams and falls off his chair. His heartbeat skyrockets and he stares at Peter from the floor with wide eyes and a slack jaw. Peter's feeling generous so he steps forward and rights Stiles's chair. He doesn't help Stiles off the ground.

"I need something," Peter repeats and waves Stiles toward his computer.

"What? How did you...?" Stiles eyes dart from his closed door to his open window. "You... That was closed."

Peter waves his claws and grins. "But not locked."

Stiles swallows. "Oh. Okay." He picks himself up slowly. "You could have, you know, knocked. Or rang the doorbell. Or not come to my house at all, what the fuck?"

Peter arches an eyebrow. "You're fine with me fucking you but not coming to your house?"

Stiles doesn't look at him as he settles at his computer. He has some website open with lots of moving pictures and text. "Yes. My house, where my dad, the Sheriff, also lives."

Peter leans over the back of Stiles's chair to get a closer look at the website. He thinks the pictures are from some TV show. Stiles immediately minimizes the window.

"What do you want?"

Peter runs a finger up the back of Stiles's neck, bristling the short hairs there. Stiles shivers and leans into the touch. "I want everything you can find on Terry. I need his home address, the status of any living relatives. If he got detention even once, I want to know."

"Okay." Stiles doesn't even hesitate. He likely suspects Terry as well. Stiles opens a new browser window and starts to type, but Peter grips the back of the chair and rolls Stiles away. Stiles flails at his keyboard, which is just out of reach. "Hey! I thought you wanted that information."

Peter spins Stiles to face him and grins. He knows Stiles is good for it. He'll find the information Peter wants. "I'm in no rush." He brushes his thumb over Stiles's bottom lip. His grin spreads as Stiles parts his lips automatically. He pushes his thumb in and feels heat flood him as Stiles closes his lips around the appendage. The look on Stiles's face mimics devotion. "Unless you want me to leave?"

Stiles's shakes his head but doesn't stop sucking Peter's thumb like it's the newest flavor of lollipop.

"Good boy." He pulls his thumb out and slides his hand around Stiles's neck. Stiles opens his eyes, barely, his hooded lids an obvious sign of submission.

Peter steps back and guides Stiles onto his knees. The thrill that fills him as Stiles lets Peter manipulate him is unlike anything Peter's felt with any other partner. Stiles opens for him so easily. He barely waits for Peter to open his pants before he's diving in, eyes drifting closed as he takes Peter's cock into his mouth.

"Look at you," Peter croons. He's feeling generous today. Stiles is obedient and that deserves praise. His thumb brushes against Stiles's lips where they're split around his cock. "Are you going to be a good boy for me today?"

Stiles nods. He swallows around Peter's length and starts moving his head without even being told.

Peter runs blunt fingernails over Stiles's scalp. It makes Stiles moan and Peter throws his head back, breathing hard as pleasure rocks through him. "Yes," he says. "You're being such a good boy." He keeps running his fingers through Stiles's hair. He can feel the way it makes Stiles shiver. "You know what to do, don't you? You know exactly how to make me come."

Stiles nods again. His hands settle on Peter's hips and he moves like this isn't his second time having a cock in his mouth. He doesn't try to take everything, but he takes enough. He's eager and that's something Peter hasn't had in a while. Stiles swallows Peter down like he wants it, like he can't get enough of Peter's cock in his mouth.

If this is what he's like with Peter, then Derek's got a bright future ahead. Assuming Derek even gives the boy half a chance. Again, straight. Painfully straight, which is something Stiles is definitely not.

Stiles is, however, untested and that makes Peter want to push all the boundaries he can.

"You can do better than that, Stiles." Stiles's eyes flutter open and he looks at Peter in surprise. There's that familiar smell of hurt and Peter wants to pick at the open wound of the person before him, see how much he can make Stiles bleed. "Still don't know how to give a blowjob. Last time was passable, but you want to do better, don't you?"

Stiles nods minutely with Peter's dick still in his mouth.

"Good boy. Keep going." Stiles looks at Peter with lips wet from sucking Peter's cock. "Use your hand to work the part your mouth can't reach." Stiles's hand closes around the base of Peter's erection. It takes Stiles a minute to figure out how to move his mouth and hand in unison, but he's a wonderfully quick study. "That's it. Now add your tongue in. Don't be afraid to vary your pace or to focus on the head for a bit. You know how to please yourself but you're still learning to please me. You want to make it good for me, don't you?"

Stiles's nod comes so fast he almost chokes himself. Peter can't hide his laugh. Stiles glares at him. Peter grins back.

"Look at your filthy mouth. You couldn't wait to get a big, fat cock in it, could you? Is this why you talk so much? Because you want someone to hold you down and make you shut up?"

Peter can practically feel the heat coming off Stiles's face. The boy reeks of desire.

"Your lips look so pretty stretched around my cock. I bet you could spend hours sucking me off. I have an enhanced refractory period, you know? More than a match for your teenage hormones."

Stiles groans. It's obvious he likes the idea. Maybe next time he's at Peter's apartment. They could make a day of it, Stiles on his knees keeping Peter's cock warm while Peter reads. It sounds like a delightful way to spend the afternoon. Maybe if Stiles is obedient, Peter will let him on the couch, make Stiles ride him right there. He thinks Stiles would be so eager to bounce himself on Peter's dick.

Peter digs his fingers into Stiles's scalp and rocks his hips forward, pushing himself deeper into Stiles's mouth. Stiles stutters in his rhythm but picks it back up easily enough. Peter uses his grip to urge the boy faster, to push himself deeper.

His head falls back as he groans. Yes. This is what he wants, this weak human turned subservient to him, desperate with the need to please him. He still doesn't understand what misguided notion drives Stiles, but he'll take it. He'll take everything and leave nothing behind for Derek but a wrecked husk that only knows how to feed Peter's needs.

He can feel orgasm creeping up on him. He digs in his pocket for his phone and pulls it out while Stiles's eyes are closed once again in concentration. He swipes with his thumb to pull the camera up and snaps a series of pictures while he fucks his way into Stiles's mouth. His phone captures it all silently. He keeps his thumb at the ready as he feels his release building. As soon as it starts to hit him, he pulls out. His cock falls loose of those pretty lips and he holds Stiles's head still as his come paints a pretty picture on Stiles's face. He takes a picture of that too and then of the horrified look that crosses Stiles's face as he realizes Peter has his phone out.

"Stop!" Stiles grabs for the phone but Peter twists his fingers in Stiles's hair and holds the phone out of reach. Even then, Stiles still struggles, trying in vain to grab it. "Peter!"

Peter tugs hard, forcing Stiles back to his knees with a gasp. Peter can smell the precome that leaks from Stiles. Oh, this boy was made for him.

"Enough now," Peter says.

Stiles eyes him with fear. There are those beautiful doe eyes, so bright before the slaughter. "What are you going to do with those? Are you... my dad.... Scott?"

Peter snorts. "Really? Blackmail?" He shakes his head. He doesn't notice the possessiveness in his voice until it's too late. "These are mine," he hisses. "Not for sharing." He tucks the phone back into his pocket for now. "Call them mementos."

Stiles's posture shifts, relaxing. His knees shift wider apart, almost like a silent plea for Peter to take him. The defiance is gone, and he's left with a very willing Stiles.

That's not what he expected at all. He tightens his grip in Stiles's hair and forces his face into an indifferent mask.

"Are you going to be good for me still or should I leave?"

Stiles licks his lips and stares at Peter with all the eagerness of a sex-crazed teenager. "Please don't leave. I'll be good. I promise."

"Do you now?" Peter's lips twitch upward into a wicked grin. "Then you'll have to give me a reason to stay." Peter releases Stiles and claims Stiles's desk chair. The fake leather smells old. There's a strong scent of Cheetos and sweaty teenager. Peter swings the chair to face Stiles's bed. "Perhaps you'll give me a nice little show."

There's that arousal that Peter's come to associate with Stiles. So eager for anything Peter deigns to give him.

Stiles blinks at him, not moving from his position on the floor. "W-what..." Stiles pauses, regaining his confidence. "What do you want?"

He taps a finger against his lips as if he needs to think about it. He doesn't. Stiles has been the subject of quite a few wet dreams of late. "Why don't you start by taking off your clothes?"

Stiles starts to rise and Peter makes a tutting noise. The boy stills and looks at Peter with wide eyes.

"I think you can manage well enough from your knees."

There's that blush again, painting Stiles's cheeks. Still, Stiles complies, pulling off his flannel and t-shirt before shimmying his way out of his jeans. Stiles is hard already and Peter can tell that he's going to have a bit of fun with the boy.

"Why don't you show me what you're hiding under your bed?" Shame rises again. Peter's going to have to work on ridding Stiles of that. With a body like that, Stiles has nothing to be afraid of. "A pretty boy like you must have a pretty collection of toys. I'm not around all day to fill you up."

The shame evaporates like it was never there. Stiles moves to stand, and Peter tuts again. "On your knees."

Stiles hesitates for barely a second before crawling across the floor on his hands and knees. His ass is left raised and exposed as he reaches for the shoebox underneath. Peter is looking forward to playing with that ass some more. It'd look much better painted red with Peter's handprint. Another time.

Stiles slides the box out and pulls off the lid, revealing a simple dildo, a tube of lube, and a pair of pornographic magazines inside. The one on top shows a man wearing nothing but a leather jacket. Peter snorts. Oh, the irony.

"We'll have to get you something better. I can think of a few things to keep you busy when I'm away." The flush on Stiles's face this time is from pride and pleasure. Peter smirks. "Turn and face your bed." Stiles doesn't try to stand this time. "I want you to slick yourself up. Make your hole nice and wet."

Stiles shivers as he picks up the lube. He handles the tube with practiced fingers. He pours a generous amount on his right hand and then sets the tube aside before reaching backward. His fingers fumble at his cheeks, taking a second to find the opening and then another second to get the right angle before pressing in. The moan that Stiles makes would have gone unheard if not for Peter's enhanced hearing.

"Do you do this often?" Peter asks.

Stiles shakes his head.

"Do you think of me when you do?"

He doesn't expect Stiles to answer but Stiles says, "Yes."

Well then. Peter is smiling. It's an odd sort of feeling. He's pleased. His training has been more thorough than he thought, or the boy's that desperate for attention. Peter will take either.

"Spread your legs wider for me." Stiles shifts his knees apart. "Further." Stiles's free arm comes up to rest on the mattress as he shuffles his knees further apart. "Such a good boy. So obedient for me."

Peter grins and pulls out his phone. "Show me that dirty hole of yours."

Stiles's hand stills. He doesn't turn from facing the mattress. "H-how?"

"Bend over and grab your cheeks. Spread them nice and wide for me."

Stiles has to slide back to make room, bringing his eager ass closer to Peter. Then he bends over, face to the floor, and does exactly as Peter asks.

Peter flips through the settings on his camera. He turns the sound on this time and the volume up so that Stiles can hear the shutter click as Peter takes photos of Stiles's perfectly exposed ass.

"Peter!"

He grins. "Don't you want me to have something to remember that sweet ass of yours? Memory doesn't do it justice."

Stiles's hands tremble where he holds himself open, but he doesn't move. Peter smirks. He really has found a gem.

"Show me how you fuck yourself on that little toy."

Stiles exhales in relief as he's finally allowed to move. He drags the box closer. Peter watches as Stiles lubes up the toy and positions it.

"Look at me, Stiles." As soon as Stiles does, Peter snaps another picture. Stiles holds Peter's gaze and doesn't turn away. Peter's grin widens. "Such a good boy." He hits record. "Fuck yourself for me, Stiles. Show me how much you want it."

Stiles gasps and groans as the dildo presses inside.

"Do you like that, Stiles? Do you like being filled?"

Stiles's voice comes out strained. "Y-yes."

"One fuck and you've turned into a cockslut." Peter hardens from the pheromones coming off Stiles. Peter's words weren't meant as praise, but Stiles takes them as such.

Peter's feeling generous, given Stiles's obedience. His tone drops low. "You have such a pretty ass, you know? All round and ripe, begging to be taken over my knee so I can put you in your place."

Stiles gasps. His grip on the dildo tightens and he forces it inside faster. Kink noted. Peter will have to pick up a paddle while he's getting Stiles new toys.

"You need to be filled up, don't you?" Peter purrs, voice smooth as silk. "You've had one taste and now you can't forget what it felt like when I owned you. You want to be owned, don't you, Stiles? You want to belong to me. All mine."

Stiles's moan fills the room. Peter can smell how wet Stiles is, his body leaking in anticipation.

"Turn toward me."

Stiles obediently shuffles around. His face presses against the floor but his eyes are on Peter. Specifically, Peter's phone. The shot looks beautiful.

"Do you want me to fuck you again, Stiles?"

There's no hesitation when Stiles answers, "Yes."

"I bet you do. You love it when I fill you up. Isn't that right?"

"Yes."

Peter eyes the dildo that Stiles is slowly fucking himself with. "Go deeper, Stiles. You can take it. I know you can."

The sound that Stiles makes when he pushes the dildo in deeper can only be described as wanton.

"That's my good boy. Show me why you're worth keeping."

Stiles's whole body jerks. He whimpers and arches backward. Desperate whines fall from his lips as he fucks himself with the dildo. Peter can tell it's not enough. Stiles doesn't have a good grip and the toy is nothing compared to Peter's cock.

"Tell me what you want, Stiles."

"Please," Stiles begs. "Please. Fuck me. I... I need you to fuck me."

"Why?"

Stiles whimpers again. "P-Peter..."

"Tell me."

"I... I want... I need you in me."

"Why?" Peter takes great pleasure in Stiles's rising frustration.

"I... I...."

"Say it."

"I want you. Please. Please. I want you, not Derek. Please. I want to be good for you. Please. Please let me be good."

Peter ends the recording. He has everything he wants. He sets it on the chair as he stands. Stiles gasps and writhes as Peter yanks the dildo out of Stiles's hand. He lifts Stiles with an arm around Stiles's belly. Stiles gasps as he's turned midair and dropped onto his back on the bed. Peter steps to the edge and pulls Stiles to him. He nearly folds Stiles in half as he leans forward. Stiles loves it. His eyes are wide and dark when Peter takes Stiles's wrists and places them above his head.

"You're going to be a good boy and keep your hands right there."

"Yes."

Peter lets go and straightens. He drags his nails—blunt, human nails—down Stiles's thighs, earning him another gasp. Stiles trembles. "Yes, what? You know what to call me."

"S-sir? Yes, sir."

Warmth floods Peter. He lets his wolf come out a little. "Good boy," he growls. His claws scratch skin, tinging the air with the hint of blood. Stiles shivers but doesn't pull away. Peter grabs Stiles's legs, throwing them over his shoulder then thrusting forward hard, piercing Stiles in one swift move.

The sound Stiles makes is ecstatic. His hands clench and twist against the sheets. He tries to push back into Peter's thrusts, but he has no leverage. Peter controls him, holds him wide open for Peter to take and take and take.

Stiles's mouth rises to meet Peter's before Peter's even close enough. He moans into Peter's mouth. Peter devours him. He licks and sucks and tastes. He urges Stiles's tongue to taste back, kisses Stiles into a war of tongues and teeth.

There are things Peter could say, things that would make shame burn through Stiles, but his lips can't form the words. Not right now. Now, there's only willing flesh arching and writhing up to meet him. Beautiful, perfect flesh. Unmarked. Pure. Peter wants to bite it, claw it, leave his mark where it can be felt but seen only by him.

Only ever by him.

He comes with a howl loud enough to rattle the windows. His claws dig in and his vision goes red. Sweet, Alpha red.

When he comes down from it, Stiles is panting beneath him. There's come painted across his chest and flecks of blood on the sheets. Stiles is shaking. Peter can smell his pain but Stiles doesn't make a single sound that's not from pleasure.

Peter withdraws his claws. His fingertips are red with Stiles's blood. Not much. Nothing compared to when he killed Kate. Stiles moans as Peter pulls out and Peter is almost tempted to pause here and take another picture of the come dripping out of Stiles's ass. Peter's come, marking Stiles as his. His to fuck. His to break.

He finds the bathroom easy enough. When his hands are clean and he's tucked himself away, he bends and roots under the sink for the first aid kit he can smell there. It's hidden, but still easily accessible, like someone—Stiles—wanted to hide how frequently it's been used. Peter pauses with it in his hand. He's confused—only for a moment—by the feelings that thought raises in him. Feelings that he shouldn't have. Not for Stiles.

He could leave right now. Walk out the door and leave Stiles a mess. Stiles can take care of himself. He knows not to expect anything from Peter.

But Peter doesn't walk away. He wets another washcloth and returns to the bedroom. Stiles has barely moved, only inching back enough so that his legs aren't hanging completely off the mattress. Peter says nothing as he sits beside Stiles. He places one hand on Stiles's shoulder, right over the bruise where his bite mark had once been. Black veins crawl up his arm. Stiles gasps and goes boneless.

"You did well, Stiles." The words come out uncharacteristically soft. Peter isn't a soft man. He doesn't love. He doesn't care. That's not the kind of man he is.

That's not the kind of man he was.

He pulls Stiles up to lean against him at the head of the bed. His lips trace a trail along Stiles's neck. He runs the washcloth over Stiles's body, clearing away the blood and sweat and come. When he's done, he shifts Stiles once more, turning him onto his back. Stiles blinks at him as Peter opens a package of antibacterial wipes. Peter cleans and dresses each of the ten tiny wounds.

Stiles's hand lands on his knee. "Peter?"

"Shh. Rest now." Peter takes the first aid kit with him when he stands. He returns it to its hiding place, where Stiles's father will be none the wiser.

Stiles is asleep when Peter returns. Peter's hand twitches toward his phone but he doesn't take a picture of Stiles's sleep-slack face. Instead, he pulls the covers around his boy and slides the desk chair back in its place. If Peter presses a kiss to Stiles's forehead in an uncharacteristic display of tenderness, well, there's no one there to witness it save for Peter and he's certainly not going to tell a soul.

A stack of books on Stiles's bedside table catch Peter's eyes. He pauses and runs his finger over the spines. They smell old and dusty but also of animals and antiseptic. Deaton gave Stiles books on magic. Pride swells in Peter's chest, unbidden and unwanted, but he doesn't try to force it away.

Maybe Stiles isn't the weak human after all.

He closes the window behind him as he slips away into the night.


The insistent buzz of his phone wakes Peter. He glares at the unlock screen and the ungodly hour displayed on the screen. The number isn't familiar but it's a local area code.

"What?"

"I found something," Stiles says, his voice pitched high. "It... I think it's really bad. I didn't want to wait."

Peter sits up. He rubs a hand over his face to chase away the remnants of sleep. He doesn't bother asking how Stiles got his number. He can guess the answer easily enough. "What is it?"

There's a shuffling of papers on the other end of the line. "I found Terry, or Terrance Patterson, actually. He's from Kirkwood, reported as a missing person, presumed dead along with the rest of his family. They really were slaughtered, like he said, but that's where it starts getting interesting."

"Do tell."

"I did a wider search for unusual incidents in Kirkwood and I found another kid, Ashley Westmoor, who was found in a dumpster at the edge of town the same day as the Patterson family was killed. Coroner ruled it an animal attack though no one knows how she got into the dumpster if an animal killed her. Not hard to figure out that it was probably the same Alpha and his pack."

Peter hums. That does seem odd but not necessarily out of place. She likely had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Stiles's voice grows even more animated. Peter can picture Stiles gesturing wildly as he speaks. "I thought the same thing. Probably coincidence, right? Wrong! I did some digging into her and guess what I found?"

Peter snorts. "I'm not playing a guessing game right now."

He can almost hear the overexaggerated eye-roll. "Fine. I followed her trail back to her hometown of Downieville. Another family slaughtered. Her family."

Peter lurches to his feet. "It's a trap."

"Yeah. I traced the same pattern back to five more families, all the way into Washington state. Each time, a kid goes missing and then shows up in the same town as the next family on the Alpha's hit list."

"And we're next."

Stiles is quiet for a second. "Yeah." His voice has lost all shred of exuberance. "We're next."

"Stay where you are," Peter orders. "I'm going to get Derek."

The protest is inevitable. "Peter-"

"Are you going to be good or not?"

The words hit home. He's got his claws literally and figuratively into Stiles now. He knows how to manipulate him. What teenage boy doesn't think with his dick? Look how easily the Argents manipulate Scott. He knows better than to think Stiles holds the same disgusting puppy love for Peter as Scott does for Allison, but the promise of future sex is enough.

There's no response from Stiles, so he prods him again. "Are you going to be good?"

Stiles's response is barely more than a whisper. "Yes."

"Good boy." He hangs up and throws on the first clothes he can find. He grabs his wallet, keys, and phone before dashing out the door. He opts for the stairs instead of the elevator, leaping down whole floors to save time. He's sure the building security will have a fun time with that video but he doesn't care.

The roads into the Preserve are hell on his Cobra. He takes them faster than is advised, whipping down the backroads with a speed born from memory. He learned to drive on these roads. He knows where every twist and turn is.

He screeches to a stop in front of the rebuilt house, not bothering with parking in line with the other cars. He slams his door shut. Now is not the time for quiet.

"Derek! Wake up!" It's dark but he doesn't need light to see far enough to hurdle the steps. His keys jingle as he works at the lock, trying and failing to get his key in the hole on the first try or the second. The third attempt works and he slams the door open. Upstairs, the pack is rousing. Peter closes his eyes, smells and listens. No blood. Five heartbeats.

"What the hell's going on?" Derek demands as he pounds down the stairs.

"Where's the brat?" Peter's eyes are shining blue. He's got his claws out and ready. A sound at the top of the stairs draws Peter's attention and he stares at the pathetic brat as he attempts to hide behind Boyd.

Derek pushes Peter back with a hand on his chest. "You're not hurting him."

Peter growls. "The hell I'm not. He's a traitor. He's working for the Alpha. He's bait."

Derek frowns and opens his mouth. Whatever he's about to say is lost as his eyes go wide. He gets out the start of a warning, but it's too late.

Pain rips through Peter's back and he howls. There's an explosion of noise around him. Glass flies through the air from the shattered windows. There's a crash in the kitchen where one of the enemy betas breaks in. Two more are in the living room and Peter's sailing as the Alpha tosses him aside. He lands right on the TV and they both fall—man and machine—to land broken on the floor.

Peter is distantly aware of the fighting. He knows his own packmates' roars. They're outmatched. The coward Terry has fled but the Alpha's pack is more than enough to beat back Derek and his three betas. If they had Scott or Jackson, that might change things, but those two have never been interested in pack unity, much less sleeping in the Alpha's house. It's too late to call them. It's too late for a lot of things.

His injuries will heal, but not fast enough. He can't move, at least not yet. His spine is still healing from the Alpha-inflicted wound. It hurts, but Peter's had worse. He can fight through it, he needs time and that is one thing he doesn't have.

The Alpha throws Derek through the kitchen wall and turns to Peter. There's madness in his eyes, the kind of madness Peter is far too familiar with. This time, it's directed at him and he knows there's no coming back from dead a second time. This is the end.

The Alpha grabs Peter by the neck and drags him out of the wreckage of the TV. "How did you know?"

The grip on Peter's throat lightens enough for him to speak. "You... were... sloppy."

The Alpha snorts. "Too bad you're too late." His grip tightens. Peter gasps for air, claws digging ineffectually at the hand on his throat. Darkness eats at the edge of his vision. Not like this. Not again. He has to save them. He can't watch his pack die again.

"Let him go!" There's a shout and a crash. The smell of wood. Peter closes his eyes as something sizzles and burns far too close to comfort.

The Alpha roars and drops Peter. Peter smells the sulfur-static of a second hit before there's another crash, thud. Someone screams a name. The smell of blood fills the air.

Peter knows that smell. He knows that blood.

Anger flares inside of him, anger so hot and deep that it scalds him to the core. He leaps to his feet with a roar. It feels like being an Alpha again, all fire and rage. There's another Alpha in front of him. A challenger. Someone who took what is Peter's and That. Will. Not. Stand.

His claws rend flesh, only a scratch at first and then tearing deeper as momentum carries him forward into his foe. Deeper. Deeper. So much blood. So much hate. All Peter can see is red and he doesn't stop until there's nothing but an unmoving mess on the floor, too shredded to even count as human anymore.

He pants for breath as he stumbles backward. He's soaked in blood, which would normally be a more pleasant feeling but there's an insistent buzz in the back of his head that calls for his attention. The fighting has stopped. Someone's crying.

Peter turns toward the noise. He's still riding the blood-rage high so the tableau before him doesn't register at first. There's a broken body that the pack has surrounded. Erica's crying into Boyd's shoulder while Derek and Isaac kneel, black veins thick on their arms. The body doesn't move and that's wrong. It's supposed to be animated, full of life and sound and so, so sweet when Peter thrusts into lips or ass. So good, only for him, but not anymore.

He must growl because the betas startle back. They look at him like he's a predator but Derek looks sad. That's Stiles lying there, hurt and bleeding and why isn't anyone doing anything? They should be calling a doctor or at least Melissa. Peter drops to the floor next to Stiles and now that he's closer he understands. A doctor won't help, but an Alpha would.

"Bite him," Peter demands, the words mangled by the fangs that won't leave him yet.

Derek blinks, like that thought never occurred to him. "He wouldn't want-"

"He'd want to live."

Derek stares at Peter for a moment before nodding. He slides his arms under Stiles's back and shifts Stiles upright. Stiles breathes out the barest hint of a pained moan. He's still alive. For now. Derek's claws slice through the tatters of Stiles's shirt, revealing a bruise that Peter is far too familiar with. Then he stills and stares at Peter.

"What are you waiting for?" Peter snaps.

"He'd want you to do it."

"I'm not-" Peter snaps and then pauses. Yes, he is. He killed an Alpha. He's got the power of an Alpha thrumming through his body. It sings in his veins, lighting him up to the very core. Peter's mouth twists into a grimace. "He wants you."

Derek shakes his head. "No, he really doesn't."

"But he said-"

"Are you two really arguing about this?" Erica snaps. "Now? I don't care which of you bites him, just do it."

Derek keeps staring at Peter while Stiles's life drains away.

"Fine." Peter shifts closer. One arm slides around Stiles's back to steady him while the other cups the back of Stiles's neck. He tilts Stiles's head to the side and breathes in Stiles's scent—junk food and fresh-cut grass and a hint of rain. His fangs are ready, practically aching as he sets his teeth against too-pale skin. He drains Stiles's pain even before he bites. Blood fills his mouth. He pulls his teeth away and licks the wounds clean.

Derek leaves them. He directs his betas in cleaning up. Furniture is righted. The broken TV is swept away with the rest of the debris. Boyd and Isaac put up tarps where the windows once were.

Peter doesn't move, save to shift Stiles closer. If it weren't for the blood, he could pretend Stiles is sleeping. Stiles is so still. His face is slack, his eyes closed. The only signs of life are his labored breathing and slowing heartbeat.

Derek stands next to them. "Bring him upstairs. The guest room. He'll be more comfortable."

Peter nods. He stands with his boy cradled close in his arms. He takes the stairs slow, careful not to jostle Stiles. Technically, Peter has a room on the third floor, right where his old room used to be, but that seems too far away right now. He doesn't want to risk moving Stiles any more than he has to.

Derek holds the door open. His face is expressionless as he watches Peter place Stiles gently on the bed and then sit next to him. Peter wants to pull Stiles into his lap, but he's worried about Stiles's injuries. There's too much blood loss. Derek leaves and returns with two wet washcloths. Together they wipe away the blood on Stiles, then Peter.

"He's in love with you, you know," Peter says. The words are forced casual.

Derek looks at him with an arched eyebrow. "No, he's not."

Peter's eyes flash and he forces his jealousy down, down. "He said-"

Derek raises a hand. "What, specifically, did he say? What were his exact words?"

Peter frowns. He replays their past interactions and then goes back further, before the start of their little game, back before Peter died and was reborn. Peter was the first one to bring up Stiles's crush on Derek. But it was obvious, right? Stiles wasn't very good at hiding his arousal when Derek was around, but was it because Derek was there or something else? Stiles has never once said Derek's name during sex expect yesterday, when he'd insisted that he wanted Peter instead of Derek.

Was that because Peter had manipulated Stiles into wanting him or was Peter the one being manipulated all along? He remembers all the dirty things he'd had Stiles do, all the ways he'd hurt Stiles because it was a game. And Stiles had let him. Stiles let him do anything Peter wanted, begged for it even.

All the evidence he needs has been right in front of him the whole time.

"I'm an idiot."

Derek snorts. "You're both idiots."

"How long have you known?"

Derek sits on the floor, bloody washcloth still in his hand. "That he's in love with you?" And there's the scary L word, too immense and new for Peter to process right now. "A while. Sometime after you came back. After Gerard Argent and the kanima, but before the mermaids."

Peter frowns. That's at least a year that Stiles has been hiding his feelings for Peter and Peter has never even noticed. Although that does explain why Stiles had been unaffected by the mermaids while Boyd, Jackson, and Isaac had been swayed.

"And the sex?"

Derek shrugs. "I asked Stiles about it but he said he was okay. He said he was happy that he got to spend time with you."

Why would Stiles say that? What about their encounters counted as time together? They'd been together physically, yes, but that can't have been the kind of connection Stiles was looking for. That can't have been what he wanted.

"When he wakes up..." When, not if. "You should talk to him. Ask him how he feels and maybe, if you're feeling as strongly as you did when you attacked that Alpha, maybe tell him how you feel as well."

"When did you get all sentimental?"

Derek shrugs and stands. He takes the other washcloth from Peter. "Probably after I started hanging around a bunch of love-sick teenagers."

"That shit better not spread."

Derek chuckles on his way out the door. "Too late."

Peter sits there, back to the headboard, Stiles's still form beside him, and stares at the wall opposite. Scott and Allison arrive but stay downstairs. He could listen in on the hushed argument between Scott and Derek, but he doesn't want to. Allison drives Boyd out to pick up lumber. By the time they return, Lydia and Jackson have joined the cleanup crew, though Jackson's the only one from that pair actually cleaning.

The clack-clack of heels on wood announce Lydia's approach. Peter shifts his gaze from the wall to the doorway. He doesn't move his hand from where it's buried in Stiles's hair.

"If you hurt him, I will kill you," Lydia states from the doorway.

Peter raises an eyebrow. Apparently, Derek's let the cat out of the bag. Though considering who he's speaking to, it's likely she already knew. "What if he likes it?"

Lydia arches a perfectly plucked eyebrow back at him. "Then I want details of all the kinky sex you're having." Peter starts to open his mouth. "From Stiles."

"Spoilsport."

Something like a smile crosses her lips. "As if you don't like watching him squirm."

He shrugs with one shoulder, not daring to move the other. "Guilty as charged."

She leaves them alone after that, though there's something contemplative and challenging in her lingering gaze. She would have made an excellent beta.

Sunlight streams in through the window. Peter dozes at some point. The noises from downstairs quiet to the soft whisper of hushed conversation. He's still taking Stiles's pain. Even in his pseudo-sleep, he keeps pulling, draining what he can so that Stiles can maybe, hopefully recover.

Derek brings him a sandwich but Peter shakes his head and sends Derek away. He's hungry, but he won't move.

The sunlight has started to fade by the time Stiles stirs. He makes a small, wounded noise and curls toward Peter's side. His heartbeat is louder, steadier. Peter closes his eyes and feels for the burgeoning connection between Alpha and beta. It's there, brighter than usual, stronger than anything Peter ever had with Scott.

He releases his hold on Stiles's neck to card his fingers through Stiles's hair. His nails lightly scratch Stiles's scalp. "Good morning, sweetheart."

Stiles blinks at him with eyes the color of sweet, golden honey. "What... what happened?"

The conversation halts downstairs. "You didn't listen."

"'m sorry." Stiles presses his face against Peter's thigh.

"I know." There will be talk later of punishments. A dozen ideas fill Peter's head and he stores them away. That will have to wait until his boy is healed. "How are you feeling?"

"Hurt."

Peter hums in acknowledgement. He slides his hand back to Stiles's neck. It fits so easily in his palm. Stiles gasps as Peter drains his pain away once more.

There's a moment of silence before Stiles twists his fingers in the fabric of Peter's pants. He frowns, his expression troubled, as if he's afraid Peter will leave at any moment. "Why are you being so nice to me?"

"Because you deserve it, my pretty boy."

Stiles smiles at him, all shyness and insecurity. "Really?"

"Yes." The house is quiet yet full of anticipation. "Your friends would like to see you. Is that okay?"

"Yeah."

There's a clatter of feet hitting the floor, running, stomping. "As long as they do so quietly," Peter commands.

They're not Peter's pack, not in any sense that counts, but they listen. Scott is the first one up the stairs and his definition of quiet leaves much to be desired, but Peter doesn't complain. Not when Stiles blushes so prettily as his best friend appears in the doorway. Scott halts there as if encountering a mountain ash barrier. He frowns when he sees Peter and Stiles curled close and opens his mouth. Peter growls and Scott's mouth snaps shut.

"Hey," Scott says, voice low and soothing. "Welcome to the pack, I guess?"

Peter snorts. "Stiles was already part of the pack, you idiot. Humans can be part of a pack."

Both Scott and Stiles look at him like he's turned into some foreign creature. Peter rolls his eyes. Idiots.

He doesn't loosen his hold on Stiles.

"Right," Scott says. He shuffles forward so that the others can pile in. They each take a moment to touch Stiles, leaving their scent on their new packmate. Jackson leaves immediately after. Derek's betas linger longer, revealing actual affection instead of the bravado they usually mask their emotions with. Allison pulls an unwilling Scott away, insisting that Stiles needs to rest, and the others follow.

"What now?" Stiles asks. A yawn breaks the question.

Peter shifts them until he's laying properly on the bed with Stiles curled against him. Stiles smells of happiness and contentment and Peter. "Sleep now. Once you've healed, we can talk about pack and magic and training."

Stiles doesn't question it, only closes his eyes and smiles. Peter gives in to the urge to place a soft kiss on Stiles's forehead.

They sleep.


Later, after days of helping Stiles master his new instinct enough to continue his daily life—a surprisingly easy feat since, as Stiles repeatedly points out, Stiles already had experience training Scott—and a few uncomfortable conversations with Stiles's father, now unfortunately aware not only of the supernatural but also of the carnal relationship between Stiles and Peter, after all that Peter finally gets Stiles to himself.

Nothing in Peter's apartment has changed yet. It's still painfully neat, with expensive mid-century furniture everywhere, but Peter knows it's only a matter of time before the neatness is marred by textbooks and video games and junk food everywhere. Peter's somewhat looking forward to it.

For now, he's more interested in the naked teenager writhing beneath him on Peter's massive bed. The red silk sheets frame Stiles's body perfectly. Stiles's hands grip the headboard, exactly like Peter commanded. Stiles arches up to meet every thrust, so eager and pliant for Peter. Only for Peter. All this time, only every for Peter.

Peter's teeth ache as he stares down at the pale expanse of Stiles's neck, now healed of the marks Peter left what feels like years ago. He wants to bite so, so bad but this is one bite he's hesitant to give. He's never felt the need before. He's never understood why an Alpha would tie themselves so tightly to another person when that person could get up and walk away at any time.

Not Stiles though. Peter isn't familiar with love, but he knows devotion. Stiles will never leave him, and Peter can't leave Stiles.

Peter lets his forehead rest between Stiles's shoulder and groans. The tight heat of Stiles's body feels amazing. He could keep up this slow, lazy rhythm for hours and with Stiles's new stamina, they could devote the day to exactly that. Peter drags his fangs over Stiles's flesh, not hard enough to draw blood but enough that Stiles knows he's there.

Stiles's moan echoes through his whole body and his hips snap back, forcing Peter in deeper, faster.

"Stiles..." Peter lets the word linger as he trails kisses along the line of Stiles's shoulder.

"Yeah?"

"I want to make you mine."

Stiles falters, hips stilling. He turns to look at Peter as best he can from their position. "I am yours. Right now. I couldn't be any more 'yours.'"

A low growl sends shivers through them both. Stiles tilts his neck on instinct, showing submission to his Alpha. "Different," Peter manages through a mouth brimming with sharp teeth. "Permanent."

Stiles gasps. He lets go of the headboard and pulls away. Peter bites back a howl as he slips free of Stiles's body. Peter despairs, thinking Stiles will leave him, but instead Stiles turns, spreading his legs wide to accommodate Peter's hips between them and wrapping his arms around Peter's neck.

"I want that," Stiles says, his eyes glowing honey-gold. "Please. Peter, I love you. I love you."

Peter has no argument for that. Nothing to say, at least with words.

He sinks back into Stiles's welcoming heat and closes his teeth on the base of Stiles's neck. Stiles's blood fills his mouth. The sounds Stiles makes are only of pleasure. They've picked up a frantic pace and Peter can't help but fuck Stiles harder and harder as he chases the last few trickles of blood with his tongue.

"Stiles, I'm..." How does he say it? How can he make Stiles understand?

"I know," Stiles says. One look at those clever, eager eyes is enough.

Peter grins. "Someone's been doing his research."

Stiles smiles back. Sweat makes his body shine but he doesn't slow. He doesn't stop. Stiles is open for him, waiting. "I want it. I want you. I fantasized... God, your dick... But you weren't an Alpha and I didn't know if...."

Orgasm tears him apart like the change, breaking him and remaking him into something new. He's glad his walls are thick. The neighbors must think he's acquired an unruly dog. Peter is no dog. He's a wolf and he will no longer settle for sheep, not when he has a bright and clever young wolf of his own.

His body slams into Stiles and Stiles takes it, opening beautifully to welcome Peter into his body. Peter's release keeps coming, seed spilling inside of Stiles, more and more of it, filling Stiles up as Peter's knot grows. Stiles doesn't try to fight it. He grinds himself on Peter's dick and opens beautifully, taking in the pressure and fullness with an expression of nearing bliss.

"Peter," Stiles moans. His hands slid down Peter's arms, over his back, touching everything. "Peter. God. Peter."

Peter noses Stiles's head to the side and licks a stripe up Stiles's neck. The bite mark is on full display. "Mine," he growls against the tender part of Stiles's neck.

"Yours," Stiles answers readily, easily. "Always. Always yours. Fuck. Please. Peter."

Stiles comes with Peter's knot fully swollen inside of him, then falls back against the mattress with the sweetest look of contentment.

Peter knows something stupidly sappy is about to escape his lips. He rolls his hips, tugging his knot against Stiles's entrance and wringing a pleased shout from his beta. He wonders if he can make Stiles come like this, from Peter's knot alone.

He's got all the time he wants to try.