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Peter is accustomed to lingering at the edges, watching with sharp eyes and an eager mind to break down each and every end, to calculate probabilities and outcomes and turn them all to his subtle advantage.
After years of conspiracy and careful planning, he is prepared, he likes to think, for every eventuality. Everyone knows that Peter is always scheming, they are always suspicious, but none of them ever seem able to catch up.
Peter operates on an entirely different plane of existence, inaccessible and unattainable. The only one who’s ever come close was an adolescent boy with big brown eyes and decidedly more to his name than he could afford to lose.
Eventually, the boy had left, counted obsolete by a group of friends—a pack—that did not understand just how frightfully they had overlooked such an asset.
There was a promise in those searching looks and over-reaching limbs, a dark and hard-barbed curving, a pattern written in ink and blood and stone. He hid beneath plush lips and tongue the aegis of something more frightening than Peter could convey.
That was, if anyone had been willing to listen.
Peter had counted it as an unfortunate loss—he had no problem admitting that the boy had been interesting. Irritating, at times, but never overly so. He had enjoyed taunting the boy, enjoyed the banter, and the frustration that seemed to radiate from him.
Most of all, he had enjoyed pinning him with his eyes and hands, reading the internalized rebellion in his eyes. The tension and the want, the struggle of an unsatisfied need for fulfillment and recognition—a promise of retaliation someday.
He had been waiting to see what Stiles would manage to become.
But he did not anticipate him coming back.
It had always been a bit of a gamble, whether or not Isaac’s eagerness to please would get him killed one day.
Now here he is, trying desperately to hold his insides inside long enough to heal, trying to coax his body into surviving just a little while longer. It is a woefully familiar sight, the lengths of intestine being reeled slowly back in an agonizing bid at settling in again.
Isaac’s back is bowed with the force of it, arching under the pressure of unspeakable pain. Even the air sears against the vulnerable flesh, the wet sheen of viscera.
Peter’s boots scrape against the concrete floor, not bothering to skirt the growing, sticking red stain as he crouches near the beta.
Isaac hears him, smells him, sees him through a haze of inarticulate, shrieking panic and suffering. This is nothing like the freezer. Everything is open and infinite. Everything is falling apart.
His body and mind are arguing the sweet benefit of death over this insufferable hurt. It wouldn’t be difficult. He could close his eyes and slip, but then there’s Peter.
Peter is waiting. Peter is watching, and Peter must be up to something. There are people out there, people that are important to him, and the less of them there are, the easier it will be for Peter to…for Peter to…
But he doesn’t know.
No one knows what Peter will do, or what Peter is thinking, or why the twisted fuck is smiling down at him, running a clawed thumb just shy of the wound’s edge.
Isaac hates, Isaac hates, and Peter’s mouth is open. Words are coming out, words are always coming out.
He is not so far gone as to beg Peter, of all people, for mercy. He wants to claw open his mouth and spill the grave dirt in.
“I warned you not to be overzealous, Isaac. I warned all of you. But none of you ever listen.”
Isaac wants to tear him, wants to hurt him, wants to take him down low.
But then there’s the soft sound of another set of footsteps—a careful approach, mindful of the wind and the ground. One step forward, and Isaac can feel the world moving around them, conscious of their existence.
He glances at Peter, and Peter is surprised.
His eyes are wide and his mouth is open, but none of that hateful bullshit is pouring out, now.
The other approaches and kneels at his other side, but Isaac is busy watching Peter’s eyes follow and track down with these movements.
“It’s not nice to say ‘I told you so’, Peter.”
“I’ve never been particularly polite, you know.”
Isaac finally turns his head, makes out the gold-brown eyes and the curving lips.
“Stiles?”
“Hey, Isaac. How’s it hangin’?”
Isaac wants to laugh, in a really tragic way, but that would probably make this that much worse. Instead he makes a heaving, airy noise, and passes out.
“Well, shit. Now he’s dead weight.”
Peter eyes Stiles from across Deaton’s exam room, taking in the admittedly appealing changes in the boy’s lithe form. He’s filled out, finally seeming centered in his long limbs and pale skin. Peter hates to say that the boy is graceful, but when he moves, it’s as if the world moves, however minutely, to his benefit.
He knows the earth and the air apart from each other, and they work to keep him upright and moving forward. There is a consciousness about him that seems old, and Peter is not about to challenge that.
It seems Stiles has taken an interest in the druidic lore and law that seemed so bent and twisted those few years ago. It’s treated him well.
He smirks at Peter as Deaton busies himself with piecing Isaac back together, scolding him about the roadkill joke he’d cracked instead of a normal human ‘Hello.’
It seems even Deaton has missed the sheriff’s boy.
Then, “I’ll have to call Scott. I can’t exactly keep him overnight.”
“Why, Deaton, don’t you trust me?” Peter smiles, a curling, smoky expression, and the vet narrows his eyes.
And Deaton says, “Honestly? No.”
The smile Stiles flashes behind Deaton’s back is purely predatory, and Peter feels himself adamantly denying any trace of arousal.
Someone has grown.
Deaton does trust Stiles, which makes Peter chuckle.
They don’t know where he’s been or what he’s done. Only that he has clearly come back less prone to stumbling.
Peter can smell the violence inside him, the urge to do something grand and possibly cataclysmic. It’s there—mixed with a balance and natural calm, but in the undercurrent, it’s there. He has seen things beyond the scope of Beacon Hills’ petty horror show. He has learned things.
When he looks Peter in the eye, he does not tremble before the Big Bad Wolf. Peter wonders if he hasn’t perhaps stumbled upon the boy in the woods, hiding in the skin of an elder tree.
Stiles knows him.
But that may come with the territory. Peter understands that druids, like conniving bastards, tend to be knowledgeable individuals.
Stiles’ eyes glowed when he laid hands on Isaac, mending enough of the pain and the tearing to be able to transfer him to Deaton’s weary care.
Peter had watched, quietly fascinated, as the ink spilled down, a reverse of his own abilities.
“You shouldn’t stare so much. You’ll give a guy ideas.”
“I didn’t think you, of all people, would need me for that. But I suppose I have a few I could volunteer.”
Isaac whimpered between them, and Peter thought, with a little thrill, that he was probably going straight to hell.
The ink, the writhing designs, seemingly intelligent in their own right, slithered from Isaac’s skin and up Peter’s arm.
The boy had learned so much.
Peter felt a need in the lower pits of his belly, to possess and to study, to peer into his memories and drink in pieces of his existence. He wondered what sordid things he might see if he were to just slide his claws into the tender flesh at the nape of Stiles’ neck.
Outside of the veterinary clinic, Peter can’t help but ask, “Are you going straight home? Scott’s coming for Isaac. I thought you might wait around here.”
“Are you worried about me?” Stiles teases, and Peter chuckles.
“Call it curiosity.”
The younger man shrugs, “I’ve been driving all day. Call me spoiled, but I’m used to a full eight hours of sleep, now, and I have to find a place to spend the night.”
“Not the sheriff’s house?”
“It’s a little late for that, don’t you think?”
Peter hums. “I do have an apartment all to myself these days.”
“They leave you unsupervised?” Stiles grins.
“Just think of all the mischief I could get up to with company.”
“Careful,” Stiles says, “I bite.”
Peter grins, flashing sharp, slick fangs and says, “Is that a promise?”
The pair of them could, potentially, be the worst thing to happen to greater Beacon Hills. (Or, at the very least, to Peter’s neighbors.)
There is very little romance to it, the first night.
Neither of them expected there to be, though they can’t deny that they have both expected it, even if no one else can say the same.
There are no nerves to it—none of the teenage stop and stutter, none of the awkward ‘are you sure’. There is a confidence inherent between them, and Peter finds himself well-matched for the first time in years.
He watches Stiles pull what looks like a professional makeup case from the back of the Jeep, a big black box with silver accents and a beaten handle. There is no decoration, save for a jagged S carved into the side.
Peter eyes it with mild curiosity, attempting his usual disinterest and failing. Stiles smiles without any teeth, letting the heavy case thud against his thigh. “You gonna ask?”
“I was hoping you might volunteer the information, since we’re such good friends.”
“Mm,” Stiles hums, seeming to like the answer. “We will be.”
Peter watches with blatant interest as Stiles comes closer, and now the case is thudding against his thigh, Stiles’ free hand reaching up to scratch at the tender flesh at the back of his neck. He breathes into Peter’s mouth, “You’re going to treat me nicely, aren’t you, Peter?”
Peter tastes cinnamon and something herbal ghosting against the opening of his throat, curling down and tickling in the wet space. He resists the urge to swallow.
“Not a chance in hell.”
It’s certainly going to be interesting to fuck another predator.
It is interesting.
In fact, it is absolutely fascinating.
Once they’re inside Peter’s apartment, it’s Stiles that shoves him hard into the wall and crushes their mouths together. His tongue snakes its way into Peter’s mouth, mapping out his teeth, his tongue, the roof of his mouth like it’s a matter of survival.
Peter’s hands tug harshly at his hips, bringing him close before popping the button of his jeans loose with a clawed thumb. The zipper jerks open abruptly as he jerks the sides apart, and oh, look.
“No underwear. Have you no shame?”
Stiles snickers, lips bare centimeters away and eyes sparking a wicked snare, “It’s an affliction.”
Peter’s answer is a rasping chuckle, then, conspiratorially, “I think it’s getting worse.”
“Oh? You have anything for it?”
“In the bedroom.” Peter rumbles back, nipping at the soft flesh of the boy’s lower lip before doing his best to thoroughly desecrate his mouth. Stiles makes no move to let him off the wall. In fact, he grinds their hips together again, pulling away to mouth faintly at the line of Peter’s jaw when he separates for air.
His throat is so close, so vulnerable to the sharp plunge of Peter’s fangs. The skin is so soft and perfect, contrasting with the dark spirals and patterns of the ink creeping up from his shoulder. He drifts, for a moment, wondering how it would feel to have ink and blood clashing bitterly on his tongue.
It would look something like inky rejection, the black shades of wolfsbane and ash desperately flooding wide, screaming mouths in their desperate bid for survival. He’s lost in poetic fantasy for a moment or two before Stiles grabs his dick.
Peter meets those pretty amber eyes again, and Stiles is smirking, “Think you could maybe do the calculations after you screw me into the mattress? I want you to sink those pretty teeth in my ass. What do you think?”
“I don’t know, Stiles. I thought it might be interesting to start with my tongue.”
“Better.” Stiles moans before ducking in to nip at some bit of skin, but Peter lifts a hand to grip the nape of his neck.
“I think we’d best take this to the bedroom, don’t you?”
“Worried about my comfort, Uncle Peter?”
“Aren’t I always?”
The trip to the bedroom itself is an exercise in self-control.
Peter allows Stiles to steer him backwards into two more walls, crashing hard each time before repeating their thoroughly enjoyable heavy petting sessions. They rid themselves of the majority of their clothing in bursts before Peter finally manages to turn them, backing the boy into his bedroom.
“Am I being railroaded?”
Peter freezes, staring into those big brown eyes. He’s been many things in his lifetime, but never a rapist. The suggestion is like a bucket of cold water down his back, but then Stiles is chuckling, rolling his eyes and pulling him in.
“I like it, Peter. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.” He guides Peter’s hands, smooth and warm, down to the jut of his hips. “Besides, do you really think you could hurt me now?”
His eyes are glowing again, more faintly this time, but still illuminated.
“I could try.”
Stiles’ answering grin is all teeth and breathing.
“Please.” He says, snaking his arms around Peter’s shoulders, his legs, toned and firm, settling around Peter’s hips.
“Jesus.” Peter sighs.
He cants his head to kiss the boy again, sucking at teeth and tongue as he lowers him onto the mattress, sliding down against him like hot syrup as he goes.
“Peter. Fucking hurry.”
He digs sharp claws into a vulnerable hip as he pulls away, ever so slightly, his eyes flaring blue. “I’m going to tear you apart.”
There’s not much preparation, because apparently, Stiles wants it rough. Rough, in this situation, meaning the human equivalent of medium rare.
Peter kisses his lips bruised and swollen, biting at them between harsh, punishing thrusts. His skin is peppered with livid marks, fresh under the attention from Peter’s teeth.
“C’mon, fuck—Peter, I want—” He breaks off into a harsh keening sound, shaking his head at the racking sensation. It nearly burns, the way the other man pistons inside of him, his claws digging deep.
He shudders, imagining nails brushing bone, but he knows that Peter would never go that far. It surprises him that he finds that more reassuring than disappointing.
He doesn’t think he’d mind Peter being gentle with him, but not now. Now he’s too focused on the firm grip, the way that Peter anchors them together, fucking into him with tight, controlled rolls of his hips. He can’t move away, no matter how much he wants to. Peter won’t let him.
He can feel his dick leaking against his stomach, occasionally brushing at the surprisingly firm planes of Peter’s abs, and he whines. “Please? Want you to take me on my knees.”
Peter stops moving, and Stiles thrashes against him, spitting insults and pleas in equal measure, and lowers himself so they’re pressed together from hip to chest, Stiles’ aching dick trapped between them.
Long fingers grasp at firm shoulders, slipping slightly in the sweat gathered there before readjusting. “Shit. Shit. Ungh.” His eyes squeeze shut and he shivers again, “Peter, I’m going to fucking kill you.”
“If you did that, we couldn’t have nearly as much fun together, could we?” Peter’s voice is hoarse and breathless in his ear, surprising Stiles into opening his eyes.
When had Peter—?
“There,” Peter adds, “Keep those eyes open. I want to see them.”
He withdraws slowly, and thrusts in the same way. The pace stays like this, and Stiles can’t bring himself to protest any further. A keening sound dies in his throat as his thumbs dig at Peter’s skin.
“Next time,” Peter sighs, “I’ll take you however you like. This time—” He groans as Stiles bears down on him, squeezing tight before loosening his grip to wrap his arms around Peter. His palms press against Peter’s shoulder blades, hot and damp. He knows he can’t leave bruises, but he wants to.
“Yeah. Okay. Just don’t—”
Peter’s lips are on his again, slow and demanding, just like everything else. Stiles hums against him, bucking into his thrusts. Eventually, Peter lets him breathe again, but he doesn’t go far. The hand on his hip snakes between them, thumbing at the head of his cock, and he’s gone.
Begging and panting and writhing under Peter, who coaxes him on with a litany of filthy somethings. It hurts still, just enough pain to remind him that he’s in bed with someone strong enough to destroy him, but won’t.
And when Peter finally cums inside him, biting down and growling into the soft flesh of his throat, Stiles can’t decide if he got what he wanted. He’s too busy studying the lines of tension and release in Peter’s face and body.
This is something he might actually be able to get used to.
When Peter wakes the next morning, it’s to the smell of cum and cedar, ink and salt. He can taste the just-fucked contentment in the air, and he rolls over to press his chest and belly to the recently-vacated warmth that Stiles burned into his sheets.
“Mm…” He huffs, rolling his shoulders to feel the release of well-loosened muscles before glancing toward the door. He can hear the low hum from his kitchen, where Stiles is mixing batter and mumbling about chocolate chips being bad for dogs.
He slides from the bed and stretches languidly before padding out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, pleased at the sight of a half-naked druid with syrup-sticky fingers.
“So you’re that kind of houseguest, hm?” Peter rumbles, and Stiles looks back over his shoulder, licking at his lower lip.
“Looks that way, doesn’t it?”
Peter pauses before answering, really taking in the mixed display of moles, ink, and bruises on the boy’s pale, perfect skin. He draws closer, tracing spirals and mottled stains from his shoulders to his hips.
He allows himself to be distracted, pressing his mouth to the raw place where he had buried his teeth, his beard rubbing at the tender flesh and eliciting a hiss from plump red lips. “Am I going to be rewarded for my hospitality?”
“Not at all.” Peter can almost feel the grin in his voice, “I drink straight from the carton, and I sing in the shower. Off-key. On purpose.”
“Is that so?”
“Your mistake was inviting me inside. You’ll never get rid of me now.”
Peter pulls back just enough to look into mischievous brown eyes. He tries to smirk, but can’t seem to stop himself from smiling instead. “I was starting to think you’d killed the boy with the hummingbird eyes. It would have been a shame.”
Stiles grins.