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My Love Made Complete

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Stiles awakens at the shift in Peter’s gait as he slows from his loping run. He’s frightened, hurt, and disoriented - but still alive. His father is the sheriff of their little village, and he always says that alive is good. Alive means that you can find the means to change your fate, but something tells him that this isn’t a fate he can easily escape.

 

He stills completely when he feels fingers travel from shoulder to hip and perilously close to his naked groin before returning to the dubious safety of the fresh bite mark on his wrist. He’s not certain which quirk of his body betrayed him, but Peter seems unsurprised by his conscious state and aims a genuine smile of adoration down at him. It makes him feel queasy. It’s nothing like the innocent love a parent has for a child. It’s burning, fervent, oppressive. As far as Stiles knows, he’s done nothing to earn that look from Peter.

 

His thoughts are interrupted by Peter’s solicitous query, “Did I wake you, darling?”

 

At his cautious nod, Peter swings him down but keeps a close grip on his body ensuring that Stiles is forced into a slow, sensuous slide, pressed flush against the man’s front. By the time he has his feet under him, the man’s hands are busy mapping out the tender places of his body. One large hand is splayed possessively over his tense back while the other cups his ass and ventures teasing touches between the cleft.

 

Stiles jerks within the circle of Peter’s arms when he feels the wolf’s already large cock twitch and begin to fill up, brushing against his thin, hairless chest. He’s seen animals in the fields, and his father has explained where babies come from. He’s begun to experience strange feelings in his groin and the rush of blood to his cock when he sees pretty girls - and sometimes boys. Stiles understands what it means to have a thickening cock nudging ominously at one of his nipples. He may only be ten years old, but he knows. Despite this knowledge, he can not imagine that a grown man truly desires his body or his heart.

 

So he will ignore their mutual nakedness and Peter’s shameless perusal of his body and anything to do with cocks until it can no longer be put off. Instead of his true questions, he blurts out desperately, “Wh–where are we, Peter?”

 

From the  looks of it, they’ve stopped at what he might optimistically call a shed built onto the front of a cave. From his position, Stiles can barely turn his head enough to take in the view; he isn’t sure he wants to see it’s full horror now, much less in the unforgiving light of day, but the boy knows that this is where he’ll wake every morning for as long as Peter wills it.

 

“This is our home. I added it onto the den when I wasn’t watching you at Beacon. I thought you’d want more than the cave since you’re only human.” With a delicacy he doesn’t expect from the wolf, Peter takes his face in a clawed hand and looks gravely into his eyes. “Do you like it, Stiles? You’re my own baby boy, my mate. You can have whatever your heart desires if it’s in my power to provide.”

 

It’s not fair for the wolf to lie so blatantly, so he retorts, “Except I can’t go home or see my dad. How is that whatever your heart desires?”

 

The claws lengthen and prick dangerously at his chin and his ass. But Stiles worries more when Peter’s wolf eyes begin glowing like bloody lanterns. He remembers what happened the last time the wolf had red eyes and suppresses shudders while the wolf snarls into his face. “Do not! Do not make me hurt you. The last thing I want is to bring you harm. You are... precious to me, Stiles. I knew you were mine from the moment I sensed you growing in your mother’s womb.”

 

Until now, Stiles has managed to control his rising terror and panic, but this admission is too much. This monster steals him from the forest and hurts Scott. He calls him precious and touches him in places no one else has since he was a baby - touches him in ways that make his insides squirm and his flesh crawl. He makes the outrageous claim that he’s been watching Stiles since before he was born. It’s all too much for the boy to understand, and all Stiles wants is to be home: to sleep in his bed, in a real room, under a real roof, and see his real father.

 

“I want to go home! Let me go home!”

 

He kicks wildly and wrenches himself out of Peter’s arms, unmindful of the claws catching on his delicate flesh. His only thought is to escape from this mad wolf-man, but Stiles hardly makes it a few steps when he is caught again by a Peter in bestial form. He goes down in a flurry of limbs as Peter tackles him to the ground with an earsplitting roar.

 

Stiles knows that this must be it. This will be the moment when the wolf loses his control and hurts him or maybe even kills him. He sobs for breath and waits for the end. I’m sorry, dad.

 

“Be still. Close your eyes. And. Say. Nothing.” The wolf’s voice is like nothing so much as boulders grinding against each other, so Stiles freezes, his eyes shut in terrified anticipation of the pain promised by that dreadful sound.

 

As he’s dragged up onto his knees with a firm hand in his hair, Stiles tries to placate him. “It’s really nice, Peter. That you built this for me. The house. I–I like it.” he says tremulously.

 

At the wolf’s lack of action, he gathers his hope and continues to plead. “I only miss my dad. We’ve never been apart before. But I could learn to like it here! Please don’t hurt me, Peter. Please. I’ll be good. I’ll listen. I won’t run again...” he trails off when he feels the first warm splash against his skin. His eyes fly open involuntarily when he recognizes the acrid stench of urine.

 

“Are you—? No, Peter!” he struggles in disgust, but Peter’s hand clamps down in his hair to pull him more fully into the stream. “Please, Peter. Don’t—” he gurgles and spits as the spray is directed at his face and mouth.

 

Peter only shushes him and says calmly, “I said no talking, darling. Be good for me, I’m nearly finished.”

 

It feels as though no part of him is left untouched. Before Peter is halfway done releasing his bladder on Stiles, he’s thoroughly soaked, shivering and crying helplessly. All he can smell is the unbearable reek of Peter’s piss.

 

Almost as soon as the last drops fall, he is cradled in familiar arms. Though Peter is the cause of all his troubles, Stiles can’t help but huddle into the inhuman warmth of the wolf as they stride towards the shack.  

 

“That’s better,” rumbles the wolf in satisfaction. “I wouldn’t have had to do that if you hadn’t run. I only want to give you pleasure, but you must obey me now. In time, you’ll come to see me as a husband and a father.”

 

Inside the shack, Peter deposits him on what feels like a pelt or pelts covering a straw tick, then turns to a rickety table and shuts the door firmly. It’s dark enough that Stiles’ human eyes can’t see his hand mere inches from his own face, until a match flares and the now-lit lantern is placed on its ceiling hook.

 

After the fear and humiliation he’s experienced tonight, he’s strangely relieved to see that the shack isn’t nearly as bad as it seemed in the moonlight. The mattress is covered in several clean-looking furs. There’s a table, an only slightly misshapen rocking chair, and the smallest wood-burning stove Stiles has ever seen. The last thing he has the chance to spot is a small portrait hanging from the sturdiest wall, and then Peter is stalking towards him with a predatory glint in his eye. Without ceremony, he manhandles the boy into a supine position and drags his long tongue over urine-dampened skin.

 

Stiles opens and closes his mouth several times, restrained by the admonition not to speak, until he asks plaintively, “Why are you doing this to me?”

 

The wolf pauses in the tongue bath and frowns. “Let me take care you, baby boy. I’ll make you feel good in a moment.”

 

The boy takes that to mean he can expect no answers, and he’s right. Peter ignores any other attempts to question the proceedings in favor of grooming Stiles. Before long, his little body has been licked from head to toe with a long stop at his nipples. The man is fascinated by the blushing pink color and lavishes them with praise; he calls them “charming” and “sweet”, but the gentle suckling and soft nips turn voracious and filled with too-sharp teeth. His chest is marred by a multitude of oozing scrapes and shallow punctures - evidence of sharp fangs on tender human flesh.

 

Now, the wolf holds open slim, coltish legs while bony wrists are easily captured in the other huge hand. He is completely vulnerable and spread open, driven to shamed squirming by the tiny, half-hard cock holding all of Peter’s attention.

 

“My pretty baby boy,” he groans before swallowing down the meager mouthful in one smooth motion. The guttural moans from the wolf are ecstatic - as though this is the best thing he’s ever tasted. Stiles can’t help reacting to that blatant approval, and hates his weakness.

 

Immediately, he’s hit by the unwanted pleasure: warm, wet, and wholly unlike the few times he’s furtively touched himself at night. If his arms were free, then Stiles would hide his face from the feelings washing over him. Yet he’s forced to reveal every expression and sound for Peter’s gratification. He wishes it didn’t feel so good. It’s wonderful and terrible that he can be made to feel like this against his will - that anyone stronger can take from him so easily.

 

No matter how much he thrashes or struggles beneath Peter, all he manages to do is stimulate his cock into being that much closer to spilling inside the blissful warmth of an eager mouth. Yet, it’s only when he panics at the new pressure of fangs against his member that he sobs out his release.

 

“Mmm,” Peter rumbles, licking his lips. “You’re so sweet. Where else are you sweet?”

 

“I don’t know! I don’t know what that means.” Stiles hiccups through his tears.

 

“Oh, darling.” He croons at Stiles in sympathy. “Do you need more? I’m not done making you feel good. Turn over for me like a good boy. There’s a lad.” He reaches out to help Stiles arrange weak limbs under himself in a kneeling position, fondling hips and the curve of his bottom as he makes slight adjustments.

 

“So good for me. I knew you would be. Now stay just like this as long as you can. It’s okay if you fall.”

 

With no more warning than that, he buries his face in the boy’s ass. The voracious licks right over his hole turn his knees to water, and he crumples, gasping into the furs. The sensations are shocking. This is something beyond his wildest dreams. Stiles has never considered this an act for humans to engage in, but Peter acts more wolf than man most of the time. Perhaps, like marking his territory with pee, he’s driven by animal instincts to explore every part of Stiles’ body. These are the places his mind wanders while he tries to block out the insistent thrusting of a tongue in his hole and the sharp stabbing of claws on his hips and ass.

 

“Peter,” he whimpers, trying to shift away. “That’s dirty. I don’t like this.”

 

The wolf pulls back. “Shh, precious thing. I know it’s confusing, but your sweet cock is ready again. Your body knows I’m your mate. Your little hole wants to accept me, too. We just need to make it slick. Need to stretch it for me.”

 

“What do you mean?” Stiles trembles beneath him, fearful of this “stretching”.

 

“I need your help,” he growled around forceful licks. “Don’t want to cut you inside. Give me your hand. Now, Stiles.

 

He uncurls an arm and passes his hand back to Peter, unsure of what’s to follow. Two of his fingers are messily sucked in the wolf’s mouth until thick saliva drips down his wrist.

 

“Up on your knees again. There’s a boy.” Peter rumbles. He seems to lose patience with Stiles’ fumbling, and moves the boy himself so Stiles is resting his shoulders flat on the furs with his back arched up, ass fully exposed.

 

“Like this,” he urges and pushes those two slick fingers into his hole.

 

“Peter!” Stiles cries out in pain as Peter keeps hold of his hand, controlling the depth and speed of  the thrust. There’s nothing he can do except try to relax around the rude intrusion of his own fingers and ignore the ache in his arm. This is more like what he expected from the wolf, and he feels oddly betrayed after the gentleness from before.

 

“It hurts. You’re hurting me. Stop. Please, Peter.” He’s growing hysterical under the onslaught of his two thin fingers and the wolf’s tongue slipping in between them, trying to stretch that small space wider. Stiles shouts in alarm when he feels the point of a fang catch on the furl of muscle, and suddenly it all stops.

 

“Can we be done?” Stiles whispers, shaking in relief at the near disaster.

 

“I’m sorry, darling. I already bit you. We need to finish the mating before you sicken. It’ll all be over soon. Let me in now. In this place we’ve made for me.” The wolf continues to mutter loving words and soothing nonsense as he kneels up behind Stiles’, but then there’s something terrifying and immense pressing against his barely stretched entrance, smearing hot slickness on it as Peter struggles to push inside.

 

There’s no way it will fit, and Stiles finds the strength to struggle. He kicks out and tries to throw himself flat, anything to escape from the burning pressure, but the wolf is too strong. Stiles manages one lucky strike when his heel clips the heavy balls swinging behind him, but that seems to be the last straw. With one brutal jab, Peter forces past the resistance and roars.

 

Stiles screams himself hoarse at the breach, and for long minutes, struggles to breathe past the overwhelming sensation of being split open. The pain is so intense that Stiles is paralyzed. He feels impaled as the wolf jackrabbits his huge cock in and out with no regard to his fragile human limits. He wonders bleakly if he’s torn open, or if he’ll ever recover because he’s never hurt this badly in his life. Not even the time he broke his arm by falling off of an untrained horse. The pain is searing, intimate and immediate in ways he has no context for. All he can do is push his face into the fur and wail like a child.

 

He doesn’t realise that he’s begging for his daddy to help him until the low voiced commentary from Peter resolves into words. “I’m right here, darling. I’m sorry it hurts, but I’m here. Daddy will take care of you when it’s over. I’m with you, Stiles. Tell me you’re back with me.”

 

Stiles sobs harder in despair and reflexively tries to curl into a ball. It’s clear that the man will only be satisfied if he can replace every significant figure in his life. The last thing Stiles wants is to forget his real father, but he would understand. He’s only placating a monster. It doesn’t need to be real.

 

“I’m here Daddy,” he chokes out in between bone-rattling thrusts. “Are we almost finished?”

 

Peter moans at the sound of Stiles’ voice and drops down to cover his small body. “Soon, sweet boy. We’ll be tied together, and then you can rest. Keep talking for me. Love to listen to you, darling.”

 

He babbles for Peter and begs for him to finish, to tie his little ass and keep him safe forever. His voice raises to a shriek when he promises to be good for his new daddy, his mate. He swears to learn how to be a good husband, all while shaking from pain and panic. His unwanted erection is long gone. He’s sure now that blood is seeping down his leg, but thinking of these things only makes his lungs seize up, and Peter requested that he talk. He’ll do anything Peter asks if it will bring this ordeal to an end.

 

If this is Peter’s kindness, then he never wants to see his cruelty.

 

Finally, the wolf is hitching his hips in short, jabs and gnawing carelessly at his neck and shoulders. His hole feels like it’s on fire, and he’s covered in sweat as he bleeds from countless small punctures. Stiles’ entire world is made of pain, and he’s far past the end of his endurance. Which is when Peter finally stops. He shoves his cock in to the base and half collapses on top of the boy as his knot swells in quick increments.

 

Stiles has one second to appreciate the agony of being tied to his wolf before shock catches up to him. Peter’s triumphant roar fills his ears as he falls into blessed unconsciousness, grateful that his real father will never know how totally he’s been replaced.

 


 

Peter pets Stiles and painstakingly arranges himself around his sleeping husband-son-mate without tugging at the puffy rim surrounding his knot. With his newly claw-free fingers, he collects some of the fluids spilling past the clench of muscle. Though Stiles is unconscious, his hole still flutters helplessly, massaging Peter’s knot, and he hums in pleasure at the clench until his boy whimpers in discomfort. Tears are still slipping from his closed eyes, and each one is like a knife in his heart. His poor, brave little boy - already so dear to him after these few interactions.

 

“Shh now. I’m here, my heart. Next time will be better. You’ll feel only pleasure the entire time.” He keeps up a soothing murmur as he smears blood tinged release across the brow and parted lips of his soon-to-be husband.

 

Naked, covered in blood and semen, this is how Peter makes his vows:

 

“I take thee to be my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish. ‘Til death do us part, and thereto I plight my troth.”

 

Joyfully, he kisses his beloved, enjoying the taste of himself on Stiles’ lips. After ten long years of only snatching brief glimpses of his mate, Peter has him. He can touch and taste and provide for Stiles the way he’s wanted since the day he felt the presence of mate in Claudia Stilinski’s womb. No power or principality is capable of tearing them apart now. Nothing but death.

 

What happened nine years ago will never happen again. Peter snarls at the memory of the Argents, of how their lies poisoned the minds of the Stilinskis. Their skill at twisting the truth is what forced his kind from the village and into hiding. Even his own family encouraged him to give up on his mate after they were driven out. His grip tightens on the sleeping boy, making him moan fitfully, so Peter tucks himself closer to comfort him. Stiles only seems to settle when he begins kissing the pale neck stretched out beneath him and sucks more marks to openly declare his claim.

 

“I have forsaken all others and will cleave only to thee,” he whispers into the purpling bruises and licks them for good measure. “We’re safe now, darling.”