Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/679907.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Peter_Hale/Scott_McCall
  Character:
      Peter_Hale, Scott_McCall_(Teen_Wolf)
  Additional Tags:
      Daddy_Kink, Branding, Shaving, Age_Difference, Dubious_Consent, Dom/sub,
      Orgasm_Delay/Denial
  Series:
      Part 3 of Daddy_Mine
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-02-15 Words: 2378
****** Bath Tub Gin ******
by magdalyna
Summary
     After Peter comes back to life, he pays a visit to Scott.
He crawls out of the girl’s mind and into his own body, leeches some of Derek’s
power out of him.
He bathes in her mother’s master bath, with the girl as handmaiden, scrubbing
the dirt off his back for him until her hands are raw. He dresses in her
father’s abandoned clothes, slicks his hair back.
Peter goes to see how the town is faring without him.
*
After the mess with Gerard and Derek and the girl’s boy is over, after he and
Derek and the lone beta go to see the declaration of intent on their door,
after.
Well, Peter has a lot of time to think.
Scott had cut his hair, close in the back, but a gentle wave in the front.
Peter wonders when his boy had done that. He thinks he could still get a good
grip on Scott’s head, not enough to bury his hand in the silk of his hair, but
enough. He liked being able to use the flat of his palm against the back of his
skull, but he can make do with his hand resting on the side of Scott’s head.
He doesn’t blame them for killing him.
What he does blame them for is the method they incapacitated him with.
Those clever, cruel children, using fire on him.
Scott will have to learn, if Derek isn’t his Alpha, that his underlings reflect
on him. Scott will have to be responsible for their every misdeed.
*
Peter gathers the supplies he needs. Scott needs to understand he’ll never get
away from the things that bind him to Peter, and to Derek, no matter how far he
runs, how much he denies it. He needs to be punished, to be corrected.
And Peter is just the one to do so. Scott is his, after all.
*
He ambushes the boy in his room. It speaks to a sense of nostalgia on his part.
“Good evening, Scott.” He says, watching the boy track his movements. “Daddy’s
home.”
The boy is fresh out of the shower, steam rising from the en suite. He has the
towel clutched around him in a tight fist. The scent of clean soap clings to
him, but the salt of his arousal hides under that, stubborn. So his boy has
been playing, then.
“I do like your new cut, by the way.” Peter smiles.
“What do you want?” Petulant, his boy. Straight to the point.
What does he want?
He smiles.
“What I’ve always wanted, dear boy.” Is what he says, instead.
His boy stiffens, flushes. “And what is that?” the boy snips.
“To teach you.” Peter tells him.
The boy shifts his weight minutely.
“Drop the towel. I want to see you.” Peter says.
The boy stares, mouth a thin line.
“I could make you. And then your room would get broken. Do you want that?”
Peter inspects his claws, idly.
The boy’s jaw works but he drops the towel after some deliberation.
Peter appraises him openly, the lean, firm lines of his stomach, the curve of
his cock, his legs.
He steps closer and Scott stills, wary. He keeps going until he's in the boy's
space and then he reaches out and touches where he bit Scott, tracing the edge
of the invisible outline that he remembers, can feel if he concentrates. Scott
breathes in sharply, half hard.
“Lay it out flat and lie down.” Peter tells him, drawing back. He hadn’t
planned on the towel, but he’s flexible. He opens his kit once the boy starts
straightening it, bending over. He’d missed that swell, how pink it could get,
how hot.
He goes into the bathroom, gets a wash cloth wet, wrings it out.
He comes back out with it, settles between the boy’s thighs, pushing them open.
The kit he puts to his right side. He takes the straight razor out, flicks it
open and closed, to test it. The boy stills, sucks in a breath.
He takes out the can of shaving cream, wipes at the boy’s pubic hair with the
wash cloth. He squirts a dollop in his hand and works it smooth then rubs it
into the boy’s hair. He wipes his hands off with another towel and folds it in
on itself.
Peter rests a hand on a bent knee, flicking the straight razor open.
“You are going to be very still, aren’t you?” Peter asks.
“Yes.” The boy says, tight.
“Yes, what?” Peter asks.
“Yes, Daddy.” The boy is looking at him now, flushed.
Peter works quickly, one hand bracing between the skin he's working on and the
hard jut of the boy's cock, swiping clean lines of cream onto the wash cloth in
quick work, before folding it and wiping the excess of the boy’s skin off.
His boy is clean now.
Now he can begin.
“Do you know what a triskelion is, dear boy?” He asks.
“Derek has it as a tattoo.” The boy says, confused.
“Yes. It is also a symbol of our family. One that you will see every day, from
now on.” Peter says, taking out the brand and the blow torch from his kit. The
blow torch took some doing, industrial strength.
Next he takes out a small jar with a purple paste in it, which he unscrews
carefully. Wolfsbane oil and rowan ash are a volatile combination under the
best of circumstances, fire not included.
He takes out a vial of wolfsbane oil and pours it over the clean work area.
It’s diluted with spring water enough that it doesn’t bubble up the skin with
welts, but it will get into the pores for a time, burning away the hair. He
swipes it even with his hand and wipes off his hand with the towel.
He dips the triskelion brand, about the size of a coffee can, into the mixture.
He flicks the blow torch on, until the brand is glowing red white. He flicks it
off, pleased.
The boy is watching him, fixedly.
“Now would be the time to fight me.” Peter points out conversationally.
The boy says nothing, only breathes in, out, in, out before Peter, providing a
barrier between pelvis and cock with his hand, is pressing the brand into the
skin a little below the boy’s navel. The boy inhales sharply.
“I’m not angry about the murder, dear boy. I am, however, angry at how your
clever, cruel friends stopped me. A fire bomb, Scott? On a burn victim? But you
must learn actions have consequences. Since you rejected Derek’s authority, I
can’t look to him for retribution. Your friends’ actions therefore reflect on
you, dear boy.” Peter explains. The whole point of this is for Scott to
understand, after all.
The boy digs his claw into the towel, the floor. He bites through his lower
lip, whimpering. Peter can see the tension coiled inside him, the agony of not
moving.
Judging the time to be sufficient, he removes the brand, seeing the clean dark
lines swirled into the boy’s olive skin. The boy’s hair will grow back, oh so
slowly, around the brand, if at all.
The boy gasps, tears streaming down his face.
“You did so well, my dear boy.” Peter soothes, hands curling over knee caps.
He reaches for the boy, dragging him up by the shoulder. The boy goes
willingly, numbed. He gets a good handful of still wet hair and yanks, exposing
the boy’s neck. He licks at it before kissing the boy.
It’s a lukewarm kiss but eventually the boy kisses back and Peter can feel the
boy get excited between them. Scott tastes the same, which pleases him.
“You cut your hair, but I can still grab it, move you. Did you do it because of
me, Scott? Was it the feel of my hand at the back of your skull? Enlighten me.”
Peter asks, renewing his grip on the side of Scott’s head, the fluff of hair
there.
Scott whimpers. “Yes, it was because of you. I didn’t… didn’t want to feel that
again.” Scott takes a deep breath then, narrowing his eyes, and Peter can see a
bit of steel in his gaze. “From anyone else, Daddy.” Is what he says next and
Peter lets himself feel satisfied.
“You’re going to touch your brand as you touch yourself, now, dear boy.” Peter
tells the boy and it only takes a small jerk from Peter’s hold for the boy to
do it, all quivering and flushed cheeks.
The boy looks down, to see his brand, fingers tracing the loops as he curls his
other hand around his red cock. He spreads his legs out around Peter, to get a
better position.
Peter watches avidly as the boy works himself over, pumping and twisting his
hand, dry, along the angry flushed line of himself, fingers gliding over the
dark swirls in relief against olive skin.
It doesn’t take Scott long to work up to nice frenzy of need but Peter has
plans for the evening.
"Stop." Peter says and the boy freezes, eyes drawn together in need, hand still
curled around his cock. His hands fall away.
He strips efficiently, the boy’s eyes tracking him, and he gets on the bed, on
his back, leaning against the pillows. He licks his hand and begins to touch
himself slowly, drawing out the moment.
Peter watches the boy and the boy watches him back. “Join me.” Peter says,
extending his free hand in invitation. It isn’t really.
Scott blinks, mouth a thin line but he gets up, comes to stand awkwardly at the
side of the bed.
Peter grabs him, yanking and pulling until Scott is splayed over him, pert ass
flush against his cock. The boy is gripping the sides of his thighs and is half
hard. Peter tips his head back with just the barest point of a clawed finger
hooked under his chin, gently and kisses the boy softly this time.
He breaks the kiss and the boy leans into his space before stopping himself.
The boy is hard now, precome a pearly bead at the tip.
“Do you understand now, what you are to me? What you’ll always be?” Peter asks
softly.
“Yes.” Scott breathes.
“And what is that?” Peter asks.
“Yours, Daddy.” Scott says, simply.
He can’t delay it anymore, the need to be inside Scott, at that. He can feel
his vision start to go blue at the edges.
“Get your lube, boy.” Peter all but growls and the boy shivers but reaches to
the nightstand, rummages around for it before coming back. Their fingers brush
when Scott hands it to him but Peter curls the boy’s fingers around the tube.
“You’re going to slick me up this time.” Peter says, pushing the boy off him
slightly.
Scott rearranges himself to face him, knees pressed together as he opens the
tube, squeezing out perhaps just an amount too little, but Peter isn’t going to
admonish him in this regard.
The boy doesn’t hesitate to touch him, wrapping his hand around Peter’s length,
giving firm, quick strokes. His eyebrows knit together after a short time, hand
slowing.
“How should I …” Scott breaks off, looking away, mouth pressed into a frown.
It’s delightful, really, how Scott wants this and doesn’t want to want it,
Peter decides. Keeps the mystery going.
“Sitting, facing away.” Peter spares him the delay of wondering.
Scott nods quickly, reflexively, and shifts around. Peter grips his hips as
Scott balances over him, legs splayed. The boy sinks on him slowly, almost
excruciating but Peter knows the reward is worth the wait.
The boy is hot, burning hot, slick, and – loose. Peter’s eyes narrow and his
claws draw blood. Scott wheezes in pain.
“What the hell?” The boy tries to look at him but Peter is firm.
“Been exploring, have we, dear boy? Hmm? Perhaps found someone else to fuck
you?” Peter rasps.
“Why do you care if I jerk off? And there hasn’t been anyone in me since you,
you fucking psycho.” Scott grits out. How cheeky of him. "Language, dear boy."
He chides.
"I'm sorry, Daddy." Scott says, contrite.
Peter retracts his claws. Scott gives a little sigh. He skims his nose along
the line of Scott’s throat, up to his ear. “Good. See that you keep it that way
and I won’t do anything rash.” He says softly as he nibbles delicately at the
shell, the lobe, the tender flesh where the two blend. “Answer me this, though:
Did you ever think of me while you played with yourself? Yes or no.” Peter is
so very curious. He punctuates this with a roll of his hips.
“Fuck,” Scott chokes out. “Yes. You happy?” The boy huffs.
“Immensely.” Peter tells him, reaching down to fondle the tender crepe paper
skin of the boy’s balls, rolling them between his fingers, stroking them,
careful to keep away from Scott’s cock. The boy bucks into his hand, and Peter
starts fucking him in earnest and soon the boy doesn’t know where to push
against, noisy and practically mewling, biting out moans and gasping.
It springs up and down his spine, before curling out from his gut, his orgasm
and Peter bites down on Scott’s neck as he spills inside him, hips pistoning as
he shoots inside and Scott arches, back a perfect curve as he shoots all over
himself with a soft "Daddy" breathed into Peter's neck, nose a cold point on
his jugular.
Peter watches as come dribbles into the hollows of the brand, making it look
grey.
“Why me, Daddy?” Scott’s voice is tired, resigned, after some time.
Peter considers this.
There were many reasons why he bit Scott that night, all of them thrumming with
the heady pulse of new Alpha instinct: he needed pack, the boy was in his
woods, the smell of him – sharp and youthful, green things: fresh grass and key
limes – had been tantalizing.
And then Scott had turned out to be clever, too. His brown doe eyes were so …
soulful. He was loyal, had a big heart that Peter only sometimes wanted to
taste.
Really, it was simple.
“I wanted you.” Peter tells him.
“Oh.” the boy says, tucking his nose into the hinge of Peter’s jaw, breathing
him in.
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