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Cinnamon and Spice

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Peter meets Stiles during a long weekend.  The boy is at the library, working on a group project by himself, and the incessant tap-tap-tapping of his pen against the tabletop he is sitting at is what makes Peter migrate over in the first place.  He puts on his best stern librarian look; smile tight over his lips as he towers over the young teenager.  Stiles only glances up when Peter clears his throat, still chewing anxiously at the tip of his own thumb even as he otherwise freezes.


Stiles swallows, and Peter can smell the nervousness and the general scent of medication.  He glances from Stiles’ face, to the pen in his hand, and back again.  Stiles drops the pen.


“Just try and keep the noise to a minimum.”  Peter says and turns to walk away.

Stiles trades drumming his pen for bouncing his leg.  Peter finds it more bearable and doesn’t reprimand him again.  They’re both the only ones there until closing. 

Stiles shows up more and more to the public library.  He’s always working on something, so Peter doesn’t really mind until one day he ends up walking through the door smelling like the thick wafts of cinnamon that only come with the use of magic.  Peter watches him carefully from behind his desk as Stiles plops his backpack unceremoniously down onto his usual spot before heading towards the occult sections. 

Making sure that things will be attended to in his absence, Peter follows.  He spots Stiles crouched in the back stacks, fingers like ecstatic birds against the spines of old texts and tomes.  Peter clears his throat, and Stiles looks up sharply, eyes wide and lips parted. 

“Can I help you find something?” he asks.

Stiles shifts, looking about ready to dart, and that intrigues Peter all the more.  “Do you have any books on premonitions?”

Peter tilts his head.  “Dream interpretations or visions?”

“Both?”  Stiles asks.

Peter hums and moves closer.  “You’re in the wrong section.”

Stiles’ brows pinch.  “I am?”

“Come with me,” Peter says and gestures back down the isle of books. 

He leads and Stiles follows.  Peter quite likes how willing he is.  He takes him all the way to the back, taking out a ring of old and new keys and unlocking a creaking deadbolt.  The door swings open and Peter watches Stiles enter the room, feeling about as fascinated as the boy looks. 

That scent of cinnamon sharpens.  Peter wants to eat it up. 

“What is this?”

“Beacon Hills’ biggest secret,” Peter smiles. 

Stiles looks his way, curious and confused, but Peter knows that this boy has something special about him.  Something like raw heat, energy buzzing so harshly in his chest that he can barely contain it under his skin. 

“How long have you been having visions, Mr. Stilinski?”  Peter asks.

Stiles pauses, staring at Peter for a long, quiet moment.  “Since my mom died.”

Peter makes a small sound, like acknowledgement and condolences mixed into one.  “She must have passed on the sight to you, then.”

“How did you--?”

Their eyes meet and Peter lets it hold.  His gaze flares an ethereal blue and Stiles straightens out to a considerable height.  Peter smiles at the spike of citrus—like a clementine, he realizes—and Stiles licks his lips as he shuffles closer.

“What are you?” he asks.

“I’m a librarian.” Peter answers simply.

When Stiles goes to ask more, Peter is quick to distract him with the hidden collection.  Stiles asks questions, curious ones about things he might not be ready to learn, but Peter has always been a knowledge seeking type so he recognizes it n Stiles.  The urge to nurture that hunger is too strong for Peter to ignore.

Plus, the eager look on the boy’s face is delectable.  Noisy as he can be, Peter can appreciate the clumsy potential Stiles presents.  He tells Stiles that, if he’d like, Peter would happily teach him all that he needs to know about what he is.  Stiles accepts without batting a lash.

Peter knows that he should probably tell someone about the little psychic boy he’s tutoring.  Perhaps his sister, or perhaps that absurdly cryptic emissary of theirs.  He doesn’t.

Stiles comes to the library after school on most days.  Sometimes he smells normal—that hint of spice and citrus, medicinal taints gone ever since Peter introduced him to calming teas that do a much better job at easing his nerves than Adderall.  Most days, though, Stiles appears with anxiety souring his skin.  On those days, Peter can make out hints of other people—friends, he assumes—until Stiles walks up to the desk, sopping wet, with a split lip.

It has been years since Peter felt the want to murder.  He’s surprised it hits him so strongly as he guides Stiles back to his private office to sit him down.  That spark of magic is not nearly as prevalent on days like this, smothered by so many other emotions and scents; it’s disappointing.  Peter is hoping that someday Stiles will get angry enough to lash out instead of suppress what is growing inside of him.  Today isn’t that day, but it should be.  Peter sits Stiles down in a leather wingback and kneels before him.  Tilting his chin up, Peter tsks at the smear of blood on Stiles’ lip.

“What happened?” he asks.

Stiles sniffs.  “Just this kid, Jackson.  I actually got a pass by him during lacrosse, so he roughed me up in the locker room after.”

Peter’s lip curls up in a sheer.  “Would you like me to show you a way to get back at him?”

Stiles’ smile is small.  “I laced his water with Black Locust while he was in the showers.  I don’t think I’ll have to deal with him for a couple of days.”

“Did you?” Peter asks, chest constricting with something like pride as Stiles nods.  “Good boy.”

There’s a spark at his fingertips where he’s still cupping Stiles’ jaw, and Peter realizes that Stiles is developing physical abilities too.  There is a twist to the smell of cinnamon, musky and thick like honey, and Peter notes faintly that Stiles smells like arousal.

His grin broadens.  “Would you like to study back here today?  I’ve brought some samples of the herbs you’ll be reading about.”

Stiles shifts in the seat.  “Yes.  Please.”

“I also have a spare shirt,” Peter says.  “If you’d like that?”

He can practically feel Stiles’ skin vibrating with excitement, and feels it echo in himself.  The idea of his scent clinging to Stiles’ skin leaves heat thrumming through him.

“Please,” Stiles repeats.

“Of course,” Peter says enigmatically.

Over the next month, Peter sets about a long and unneeded process of seduction.  It’s easy, absurdly so.  Stiles is very young and Peter knows exactly when he’s aroused.  Peter makes sure that Stiles is on the edge of desire every moment that they spend together.

Small touches during lessons grow more forward when they begin meeting on Peter’s off days so that Peter can teach Stiles some moves in self-defense.  Soft praises murmured into Stiles’ ear as he reviews his translations at the library.  He wonders if Stiles is even aware of his own reactions.  The way he perks up whenever Peter looks his way.  Or the way he is so eager to please.

Peter knows that his interest in the boy is no longer purely recreational.  That becomes blatantly clear the moment Stiles shows up to the library with a dopey smile on his face and perfume clinging to his clothes.  The entire day, Peter subtly scent marks, on edge until the moment Stiles is about to head home and the teen smiles brightly as he reaches up to press a palm to Peter’s jaw, scent marking him in return.

Peter stops hiding his more primal tendencies after that.  He’s pleased Stiles figured him out so easily, and even more pleased when Stiles begins doing things in reply to Peter’s seduction—seducing Peter right back.  Simple things, like bearing his neck for him, like leaving his scent on Peter and in Peter’s office, like letting Peter feel like he knows everything despite the fact that Stiles is obviously on par with Peter at the very least on a mental level.

They’re dancing, intricate and more complex than most courtships, but definitely dancing around one another.  That’s why, when Stiles finally makes a move, Peter isn’t all that surprised. 

It’s a Friday night, near closing time, and he has plans to take Stiles out to dinner after hearing that his boy’s father is on duty all night.  He goes to the back room where he left Stiles with the vast collection of magic and informational texts and finds the entire area smells like the spice of Stiles’ magic and the tang of his arousal.  Migrating towards the heady smell, Peter finds Stiles sitting between two rows of shelving; leather bound tome open in his lap.  There’s a picture etched in loving detail on the yellowing page, and Peter feels all of the heat in his body rush to his groin when he realizes what has Stiles smelling like a brothel. 

He clears his throat and Stiles looks up sharply, pupils blown wide.  “Peter.”

“Stiles,” he says, voice low.  

“Have you—”  Stiles’ voice cracks and Peter wants to devastate him.  “Have you ever knotted—knotted with someone?”

“Once,” Peter replies.  “With my ex-wife.”

Stiles swallows.  “Oh.”

The book snaps shut without Stiles even touching it.



Stiles pushes to his feet, shuffling forward and pressing the book to Peter’s chest.  “I really want you to fuck me.”


Peter takes Stiles, quite thoroughly, for the first time over his desk in the back office.  He knows he should feel bad, screwing a sixteen year old, but he can’t bring himself to give a shit when it comes down to it. 

He takes his time working Stiles open.  Strips him, clears his desk in a scatter, and presses Stiles forward over the lacquered wood.  The scent of the boy’s arousal is heady, and Peter loses himself in that rich smell of desperation when he’s got three fingers spreading Stiles wide.  The slick is a mixture he made himself, and it warms on contact, leaving Stiles writhing and on edge for what seems like forever. 

Mewls and moans fall from Stiles’ lips like breath, and Peter thinks he could listen to that for hours.  He decides to put that off for some other time when he has to fist around base of Stiles’ cock, stopping his orgasm just as it hits.  Stiles practically sobs, clawing at the desk like something beautiful and savage.

“Such a good boy,” Peter breathes, kissing and biting at the line of his shoulder.  “Don’t come yet, sweet boy, not yet.”

Stiles whines.  “Please, Peter.”

“Not yet, Stiles.  Can you hold off for me?  Be a good boy and wait to come until my knot is in you?”  Peter asks between kisses down Stiles’ spine, fingers curling to rub over that bundle of nerves, not releasing his hold at the base of Stiles’ cock. 

He thrashes, whimpering, and the overhead light pops in a rain of glass onto the floor.  “Yes,” he gasps, hips rutting.  “I’ll be a good boy.  I can be—I can be a good boy.”

Peter groans.

It doesn’t take him long to work free of his pants.  He sits in his desk chair, hauling Stiles down into his lap.  Stiles is already so far gone that he doesn’t notice Peter is fully dressed aside from his freed cock, pants pushed down just enough.  Chest to Stiles’ back, Stiles’ long legs draped messily over Peter’s thighs, Peter grasps Stiles hips and lowers him down, down, down onto the large length of his cock.  Stiles makes this pretty keening sound and Peter rolls up to sink deeper into the impossibly tight heat of his body.

Using preternatural strength, Peter fucks Stiles at a steady pace by lifting and pulling him down onto his cock.  Stiles babbles, one hand digging in at the arm rest as his head lulls back against Peter’s shoulder, and the other tight around the base of his own cock.  Peter picks up the speed when he sees that, praising Stiles with heated and increasingly filthy words as the obscene sounds of their bodies meeting creates a rhythm. 

“So fucking tight for me, Stiles.” Peter mutters, grunting when Stiles twitches tighter.  “Fuck.  So good, baby.  Wet and hot, tight little cunt.  Gonna knot you, sweetheart.  Wish I could breed you.”

 Stiles cries out when the angle changes, and Peter wonders why he waited so long to do this when Stiles sounds so sweet and feels so much sweeter.  “Come in me.  Please, Peter, come—come in me.”

Hissing, the pace quickens, and Peter feels the tension of orgasm building, toes curling in his shoes as his abdomen goes tight.  “My sweet boy.  My Stiles.”

As Stiles pants out “yours, yours, yours,” Peter comes.  He tugs Stiles down sharply, buried to the hilt, and spills out deep into the heat of Stiles’ body.  Stiles lets out a wrecked sound and Peter reaches around to keep Stiles’ own hand wrapped tight at the base of himself, the other keeping him close by the hip.  The base of his own cock swells inside of Stiles, locking them together.  Stiles snuffles, trembling, as he turns his face to tuck his nose under Peter jaw.

“It’s so big, you’re so big.”  Stiles whispers, wrecked and twitching around the girth of Peter’s knot.

Peter rumbles, pleased, rocking up just to hear Stiles’ breath hitch.  “Feels good, baby.”

“Feels good,” Stiles groans in agreement.  “Lemme come, Peter.  Please, I’ve been so good, please.”

Peter eases their hold around Stiles dick, stroking up once.  “Come for me.”

Stiles does.  It’s wonderfully violent, shooting in thick ropes over Stiles’ bare chest.  Stiles’ back bows sharply as he gasps a ragged breath, and the tightness of him leaves Peter a bit breathless too.  When he’s finished, he goes liquid pliant in Peter’s lap, jaw hanging open as he trembles.  Peter pets at his hips, other hand coming up to lick at the spunk smeared there.

Peter ends up taking Stiles home with him an hour later after coming into him again.  He ends up knotting him once more in bed and Stiles tells him that he’s the best librarian he’s ever had.