Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/940574.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Peter_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Peter_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski, Scott_McCall, Allison_Argent, Lydia_Martin
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Canon_Divergence, Always-a-girl!Stiles, mall_scene
      went_a_little_differently, in_other_words, scott's_a_dumbass, Alpha_Peter
      Hale, Peter's_an_oportunistic_man, Stiles_isn't_going_to_be_a_virgin_much
      longer, allusions_to_mating, mates_of_choice, Fingering, Rutting, mall
      sex, consent_kink, Underage_-_Freeform
  Series:
      Part 5 of Season_One_Alternates
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-08-24 Words: 2969
****** I Always Knew (Bad Things Come In Twos) ******
by Ceris_Malfoy
Summary
     Oh.
     Oh. That silly, silly boy.
     In his rush to save his little girlfriend, Scott’s left Stiles
     completely and utterly alone.
     With Peter.
Notes
     Re-watching season one leads to things like this. I have a sick,
     twisted little mind, and I am fiercely proud of it. Peter, you creepy
     creeper, I love you dearly. Stay strong and creep on. <3
     Oh, and the title comes from Danny Elfman - The Little Things (UNKLE
     Variation) as it appears on the Wanted: Weapons of Fate video game.
     It is a really, really good song, with a beat that makes me want to
     do dirty-bad things with people. >.>
     (This is definitely going to remain a one-shot, just to let you
     know.)
Peter watches the baby Argent hurry off, and can’t help the laughter that
spills from his lips. Such a clever boy, his errant beta is. “I have to say,
Scott, I continue to be impressed with your ingenuity.” He spins casually in
place, looking around. He knows Scott is here, even if he can’t scent him.
That’s the problem with malls: the stores reek of too many people and bad
perfume even to human senses, which makes hunting so very, very difficult.
“Just remember,” he adds in, eyeing dress displays for the vaguest hint of
teenage boy. “You can’t be everywhere all the time.”
He strains his hearing, and is rewarded with a soft exhalation of repressed
anger and worry and barely bitten back retorts. He waits, observing the area
around him thoughtfully, but he doesn’t see Scott anywhere. He does see the
red-headed girl – Lydia, he remembers – storm out, scowling at her phone, and
assumes Argent had texted her.
He is both disappointed and highly amused.
This particular trip has been a bust, not that he had expected any differently.
Scott is an amazingly stubborn creature, if not the sharpest crayon in the box,
and apparently the threats against the boy’s mother and potential mate are
clearly not working. Peter hadn’t lied; he is impressed with Scott’s ingenuity,
mostly because he hadn’t thought the boy had it in him. From what he’s seen of
Scott’s little pseudo-pack, the real brains of that operation is Stiles.
He smiles at the thought of her.
She’s a tough little thing, bold and beautiful and strikingly fierce in her own
way, and he’s never seen someone dare to stand up to a raging alpha the way she
does.
Peter wants her.
And what Peter wants, Peter gets.
There exists a mentality amongst werewolf-lore that there is one special being
in the world that is specifically designed for each werewolf, the
quintessential ‘perfect’ mate. Peter doesn’t believe in the ‘perfect’ mate, and
never has. He finds the idea that there is one being in this world perfectly
attuned to him absolutely ridiculous, since the chances of finding such a mate
are astronomically small - especially considering the quantity of people in the
world. Peter doesn’t believe in chance, doesn’t like destiny or fate or
anything he can’t control.
What Peter believes in is potential. He’s met many people over the course of
his life, and he’s gotten a feel for these things: there exists a special breed
of humans that were capable of handling the change better than any other. Their
potential lingers in their scent and in their actions, in the way they see the
world and the people around them. Peter’s known since the first time he smelled
her scent clinging to his nephew that Stiles is one of them. More to the point,
Stiles is one of those rare few who are instinctively well-suited to mating an
alpha.
He takes another look around, still smiling, and shrugs. Scott’s more than
likely already hightailed it out of here, chasing after his girlfriend. He
starts to leave, whistling merrily, wondering absently if he should attempt to
find the boy’s trail and follow him, or if he should give up – temporarily – on
Scott and pursue a more …personal encounter, when a very familiar voice
tentatively calls out, “Allison? Can you come zip me up? I can’t reach…”
Oh.
Oh. That silly, silly boy.
His grin is sudden and wicked, because Scott has done the most idiotic thing he
could have possibly done. The boy has protected the fringe members of his
pseudo-pack, but has apparently abandoned – knowingly or not – the only person
who is actually worth being pack to Peter. In his rush to save his little
girlfriend, Scott’s left his pack-sister completely and utterly alone.
With Peter.
There are no friends around, no other werewolves to fight him off. Even the
sales associates for this department are few and scarce at this time of night,
what few there are manning the registers looking bored.
He doesn’t hesitate, simply slips into the dressing room – the door of which
has been unlatched in anticipation of ‘Allison’ – and quietly shuts the door
behind him. He looks at her, taking in the long, lean lines of her body, the
soft swells of her hips and breasts, the pale softness of her skin. Unlike the
baby Argent, she isn’t fair, but well and truly pale. Her skin is made for the
richness of jewel tones, and the dress she’s chosen to try on is a vibrant,
eerie red that is suitably striking on her.
“Oh, thank god, Allison, I –” Stiles looks up from where she’s been fiddling
with the front of her dress, and sees him in the mirror behind her. She
freezes, amber-whiskey eyes widening. Her heartbeat skyrockets and the scents
of adrenaline, nervousness, and a strange, heady anticipation fill the enclosed
space.
Oh, yes, he knows exactly how much this tiny girl is worth. He may have smelt
her potential lingering on Derek like cheap perfume, but it hadn’t been until
he’d seen her for the first time that he’d known the depths of that potential.
His mouth waters.
Here is a girl who has taken the reveal of the supernatural world with grace
and determination.
Here is a girl who has stuck by Scott even when the boy no doubt attempted to
attack and kill her.
Here is a girl who taught his errant beta enough control as to resist Peter.
Here is a girl who may not be a born-wolf but every action and reaction gives
tell to something savage inside of her, lurking. Something hungry.
Here is a small slip of a girl, barely of mating age, who knows what he is and
what he is capable of, yet still is not afraid. She meets his gaze, challenging
and confident, respectfully and intelligently wary – one doesn’t challenge
alphas lightly – but she is not afraid.
She is magnificent.
Peter says nothing, merely moves forward, closer, hands reaching out to touch.
There is so much pale, unmarked skin on display, the girl’s short, thin silk
dress doing little to cover it. He takes in the way it clings becomingly in all
the right places, the way he can see the faintest hint of her nipples through
the thin fabric.
His hands hover, only for a second, briefly unable to touch for the sheer surge
of want that pulses through him when she makes no move to get away. She doesn’t
scream, doesn’t shout, doesn’t try and babble her way out of whatever he may do
to her. She watches him watch her, amber-whisky eyes still wide, heartbeat
fast, but steady. He meets her gaze in the mirror, even as he settles one hand
firmly on her hip, curling his fingers possessively, even as he lets his other
hand trail down from the nape of her neck down her spine until he has the half-
done zipper in his grasp.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she finally says, so very still. There is still no
fear, no doubt or shame, just a curious and contemplative gleam in her eyes.
“Tell me to leave,” he murmurs, taking in the view of them in the mirror. He is
not a particularly tall man, standing 5’10” at best, but she fits him perfectly
– his chin can just rest on the crown of her head. She is all pale skin and
gleaming blood-red dress and tousled curls and tawny eyes. Pressed up behind
her, he looks exactly like the predator he is: hungry and possessive and
wanting. He tucks his head in just enough to nuzzle against her curls without
breaking their gaze, breathing in deeply the scent of her. She smells like
home, as sadly pathetic as that thought is. She smells like rain and vanilla,
like crisp linen and maple syrup, like wood-smoke and blood.
He slowly slides the zipper down, trailing the backs of his knuckles against
her spine teasingly. He watches as the way her pupils expand, turning that
amber-whiskey brown into a thin ring of bright fire-lit gold. He listens to the
way her heartbeat stutters before steadying again. Peter listens to the
language her body speaks and knows, knows, that she wants him.
“Tell me to leave,” he says again, even as he slips his hand into the dress,
winding it slowly, so slowly around her slim waist and over her flat stomach
and up her ribs, until he is cupping the swell of one breast in his hand. He
trails his thumb teasingly around her nipple, never quite daring to touch it –
not yet – and sighs contently as he feels the slight, instinctive arch of her
body as she tries to press her breast more firmly into his hand.
He hears the riotous thunder of her heart’s-blood in her veins, this girl so
full of vitality and life, and cannot help the growl that escapes his throat.
His cock is hard and insistent against the coarse fabric of his pants, and he
wants nothing more than to strip this bare slip of a girl down and fuck her. It
has been so long, too long, since he’d last been with anyone like this, but
even back when he’d been whole and somewhat content, he’d never wanted as badly
as this. He wanted to take her, claim her, over and over and over and over
again, in front of every one of her friends and family so that they would know
that she was his.
Stiles is his.
“Tell me to leave,” he says again, this time an edge of desperate warning
lingering in his voice. Because he is many things – a murderer, a werewolf, a
burnt-out shell of a man, a desperate alpha in search of pack/family/home – but
he is not, and never will be, a rapist. He will not take this girl, this
precious, amazing girl, against her will. But he can’t make himself let her go,
either. So he needs her to tell him to leave or stay, needs her to stop looking
at him like he is a particularly challenging puzzle she wants to solve.
“And if I do?” she asks, watching him. There is a challenge in her voice and in
her eyes.
The hand on her hip clenches tightly before relaxing. “I’ll let you go,” he
says quietly. And he will. Because something like mating can’t truly be done
without consent. Mating is a serious business all around, and forced mate-bonds
never end well for anyone, least of all the one attempting to force it.
“You really would,” she says, a slight hint of disbelief in her voice. A faint,
teasing smile crosses her full lips. “And if I don’t tell you to leave?”
Peter moves his thumb deliberately against her taut nipple, and slides his
other hand over smooth silk and down into the juncture between her thighs. He
trails a solitary finger against the cotton of her underwear, before pressing
down steadily where he knows her clit is. A low, keening whine escapes her
throat as her body impulsively bucks into the entirely new sensation. Her head
tips back and her lips part, eyes slipping half-close as her flush deepens and
she bares her throat to him.
All the breath he has feels like it’s been punched out of him at the sight of
her pale, unmarked throat. He dips his head to mouth at it, suckling bruises
into existence all down that expanse of skin. “Tell me to leave,” he breathes
out, even as he carefully extends a claw and cuts the seat of her underwear,
slipping his finger into the breach and feeling her. He moans. She’s so wet. He
eagerly returns to working his hands at her eagerly writhing body. He can smell
how close she is, can practically taste how deeply she is effected by his
touches, by his hunger. He pulls her compliant, wanting body against his,
clever fingers working her even faster. He wants her to feel how hard he is for
her, wants her to know what the sight and smell and feel of her is doing to
him. “Tell me to leave, or I will never let you go.”
It sounds more like a promise than the threat it is meant to be, but he can’t
bring himself to care. She feels so good against him, so right.
His.
All his.
“Y-you…I…oh god,” she whimpers, body trembling, rocking in a rhythm that’s wild
and uncoordinated and tells Peter more than she would probably like about how
inexperienced she really is. He doubts rather sincerely that she’s ever really
done this to herself. He grins against her neck, watching her eagerly in the
mirror. She looks so wanton, chasing her orgasm the way she is. “Please,” she
begs, “Peter, please.” She’s so close.
He swirls his thumb around her clit and slips a single finger inside of her. It
is enough. She falls apart, so spectacularly beautiful in her pleasure, that it
only takes him several sharp thrusts against the swell of her ass before his
own orgasm rips through him. He barely chokes back the triumphant howl he wants
to give out, barely manages to clench his teeth against the inclination to bite
her, deep and hard.
He hasn’t asked for that yet, and won’t force the bite on her either.
Stiles is panting, body trembling and shivering in the aftershocks of her first
orgasm with another person. She is sagging against him, knees buckling. He
slips his hands out of her dress and her ruined underwear and bears her weight
as he twists her around and pulls her tight against him. She tucks her head
into his chest, fingers clamping tight on the lapels of his leather jacket.
He gently runs a hand down her spine, soothing and gentling.
“Tell me,” he says quietly.
“Don’t leave,” she whispers back, leaning fully against him as her body finally
started to relax.
He is exultant, triumphant, victorious. She is his, all his, and he won’t let
her go. There’s only one more thing.… He grabs her wrist and holds it up to his
mouth, allowing her to move back enough to look at him. “Do you want the bite?”
he asks her.
She is disheveled and young and not anything like he’d imagined the first time
he caught her scent on Derek, but she is nonetheless the most beautiful thing
in his universe. She smiles at him, tremulous and disbelieving. “Why me?” she
asks him.
He can’t help but chuckle. “I know of no one else who would dare trap an
enraged alpha werewolf in a boiler room, then peak in to taunt it,” he says
bemusedly, nuzzling against her wrist. “I know of no one more worthy than you
who have risked everything for a mere friend, even when said friend attempts to
kill you. You are loyal and brave and smart – so very smart – and, even better:
you’re not afraid of me.
She flushes.
“Stiles,” he purrs at her, teeth lengthening in anticipation. “Who else could
it be?”
Her eyes widen, her breath catching. She swallows, gaze flickering between his
own eyes and her wrist against his mouth. “I…” she trails off.
“Do you want this?” he asks against the fragile skin of her wrist, letting her
feel the graze of his fangs as he speaks.
“Yes,” she breathes out softly, as if she spoke any louder, this would all
disappear.
But Peter has her now. He has her – willing, even, if not fully informed – and
he means to keep her. He smiles at her, lets her see his pleasure with her
choice. He places a gentle kiss against her wrist, drops it, and steps away
from her.
“Get dressed,” he tells her.
She stares at him, something unbearably like hurt crossing her face.
“I’m not going to bite you in a Macy’s changing room,” he says wryly. “No
matter how much I want to.”
She nods shakily, and doesn’t hesitate to slip off the dress. Another thread of
pure want courses through Peter at the sight of her almost completely naked and
he licks his lips in anticipation. He’s only just started with her, and she
doesn’t even know. Stiles catches him looking at her, and she starts trembling
again, but she’s steady enough as she pulls on her baggy jeans over her ruined
underwear and puts on her t-shirt and flannel over-shirt.
He picks up her discarded dress and ushers his girl out of the changing room,
and over to the register, a smug smirk on his face at the tell-tale scents of
satisfaction and sex they leave behind. He pays for the dress, waving off
Stiles’ protests.
“So where are we going?” she asks once he takes her hand and starts tugging her
out of the store. She’s blushing again, gripping her bag tightly.
He eyes her hungrily as he pulls her through the mall towards the parking lot
his temporary ride is in. “I’m going to take you to an apartment, where there’s
a bed,” he tells her matter-of-factually. “I’m going to strip you of those
clothes you use to hide from the rest of the world and then I’m going to fuck
you.” He smiles. “I’m going to do so many things to you, Stiles, everything
you’ve ever even dreamed about; I’m going to make you beg. And when I’m done,
when I’ve wrung every last ounce of pleasure out of you, I’m going to bite
you.”
A strangled noise echoes in his ears, and his smile turns wolfish. Oh yes, the
things he is going to do to her. That isn’t even the half of everything he
wants. But she’ll find out in time.
All good things in time.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!