Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/670975.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      teen_wolf_-_Fandom
  Relationship:
      Peter_Hale/Lydia_Martin
  Additional Tags:
      Knotting, PWP, Porn_with_Feelings, POV_Peter_Hale, Mentions_of_Voyeurism,
      Multiple_Orgasms, Dark_Thoughts, Rough_Sex, Consent_Issues_inherent_to
      the_pairing, Set_in_some_nebulous_future, Reality_distorted_through
      Peter's_thought_process
  Series:
      Part 1 of Resurrection
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-02-04 Words: 2896
****** Instinct and Immunity ******
by orphan_account
Summary
     She shifts her weight from one foot to the other and gives him a
     wary, sweeping glance. She finally breaks the silence. “I never
     figured you for a romantic.” Her voice is sharp and unforgiving. “Or
     were those the only clean clothes you could find in that hovel you
     call a house?”
     She knows he's always conscious of his image, immaculate as hers,
     since vanity is a weakness they share. She knows this just as much as
     she knows the long, leather trench coat and red button down he's
     wearing are deliberate.
     He pulls back her strawberry blonde hair from where it was shielding
     her neck and proceeds to caress her skin.
     “But sweetheart,” He mocks. “It's our anniversary. I thought you'd
     appreciate the gesture.”
Notes
     Just a quick, un-beta'd Pydia prompt fill to break things up a little
     as I work on my Sterek stuff. As a warning, this is about 9/10ths
     feelings and 1/10th porn. I blame that on it being my first time
     writing Pydia. I promise I'll write some more hardcore smut at some
     point.
     For the purpose of this PWP Lydia is on birth control and werewolves
     don't carry STDs.
See the end of the work for more notes
Lydia Martin doesn't belong in the forest. Her sharp black heels and turquoise
silk dress couldn't be more out of place. She belongs in the lobby of some
upscale hotel or, Peter thinks, with a hint of cruelty, in the front seat of a
Porsche. She doesn't belong with all the dirt and fallen leaves littering the
forest floor or all the dead things they hide, but she is there, heart beating
a little fast, waiting on one of those dead things.
He expects a pretense for her presence, a flippant word, an accusation,
anything, but Lydia never likes to be predictable. She likes it even less than
she likes being straightforward. Peter knows this, knows all the little tricks
of her personality, because he stole that knowledge.
He approaches her silently, even knowing she can sense him, and slides one
rough hand up the smooth silk of her dress exactly like a thief evaluating his
plunder. She tolerates it, safe from within the confines of her haughty
defiance. She defies him to find an imperfection and she knows he can't.
She shifts her weight from one foot to the other and gives him a wary, sweeping
glance. She finally breaks the silence. “I never figured you for a romantic.”
Her voice is sharp and unforgiving. “Or were those the only clean clothes you
could find in that hovel you call a house?”
She knows he's always conscious of his image, immaculate as hers, vanity is a
weakness they share. She knows this just as much as she knows the long, leather
trench coat and red button down he's wearing are deliberate.
He pulls back her strawberry blonde hair from where it was shielding her neck
and proceeds to caress her skin.
“But sweetheart,” He mocks. “It's our anniversary. I thought you'd appreciate
the gesture.”
It's been almost a year since that night on the lacrosse field. There's been
enough time for seasons to change, for death and rebirth to take their course,
naturally as always, and unnaturally twice over.
She makes a dismissive noise low in her throat and he imagines she's rolling
her eyes even if he can't see as he's bent forward to run his nose along the
curve of her delicate neck. She doesn't smell like Jackson anymore and he feels
this sort of hollow aching pleasure that's more akin to a kind of diluted
triumph than it is to any kind of genuine happiness.
Her scent tells him that he is, at the moment, her only acolyte. She is a
goddess, after all, capable of raising the dead and bringing men back from the
void.
Lydia, the truth of her, was not what he expected. He chose her for her
immunity and expected to find her hollow inside beneath her hard and beautiful
shell. He burrowed in to hide his soul there and found something remarkable,
and damn near indomitable, though he'd done it in the end.
Jackson's gone. That's probably half the reason she's here and he's been
generous with that figure.
The forest is a compromise. It's somewhere between the charred remains of his
home, his grave, and the spotless white cotton lies of her bedsheets. Not that
taking her in her childhood bedroom doesn't have some morbid appeal. It does.
If there were any nails left to hammer into the coffin of the man he once was
he would jump at the chance to defile her there amidst the trappings of the
person she pretends to be.
Her fingers dip into his belt and pull him close.
It's not the first time they've done this and it won't be the last. She slips
off his coat with practiced ease and he spreads it on the ground beside them.
She enfolds into his arms like she has before in several different forms. The
alpha, the young man, the rotting corpse, the resurrected....
Her eyes are bright and challenging. Her fear is familiar and subdued. He lets
his claws hold her by the nape of her neck and draws her close, claiming her
lips, and tasting her long and slow.
It's strange to feel. He doesn't feel like he used to. Everything now is
warped, twisted. He's been reduced to something charred, ashen, and everything
he touches is smeared with that and becomes gritty. Lydia is bright, soft,
smooth, and alive but she's covered in ash and grave dirt everywhere he puts
his hands. He buries her with the fervor of his lust.
His hands find the zipper of her dress and ease it down. The silk rustles as
she shimmies out of it with movements too graceful for her age. She's naked
underneath but for a pair of black lace panties. Her breasts are full, warm,
and far too youthful under his large and rough hands.
It doesn't matter though. He's not going to pretend he's conflicted as he
traces his hands over the curve of her waist. Human rules of morality are not
among the things that had the fortitude to withstand the fire. He's more than
willing to take what he wants. Instinct, need, and desire survived death and
nothing else save for memories.
He needs Lydia, he desires Lydia, and instinct tells him to take her. Peter
won't argue.
Lydia unbuttons his shirt with skillful fingers and runs her hands over his
chest. She starts with the abs he knows she loves. They're as firm and
developed, more so even, than those of the younger men she's been with. She
likes that. She likes the thickness of his waist, the firmness of his muscles,
and the power she can sense in them. She makes her way up to the dusting of
chest hair he refuses to shave in spite of her teasing and she lets out a
pointed, dramatic sigh and send him a judging look. He smirks in reply and
raises his eyebrows. They've had this conversation.
She even likes that too, the chest hair he refuses to do anything about, even
if she won't admit it. She loves that he's not some young pup so lost to his
lust he'll comply with her every whim. No, he's a challenge, and he won't
change just to please her.
Peter knows why she comes to him. Her lust she could satisfy anywhere she
wanted. If she just needed a warm body to distract her from the gnawing ache of
Jackson's departure she could find many warmer than he.
He knows he's an object of her curiosity. Her sharp and inquisitive nature
can't help but be drawn to him, to analyze him, to piece together all the parts
she doesn't understand. She see in him a promise of power and knowledge and
things greater than anything she's used to experiencing. She, like all great
minds, wants the truth. She wants to understand the universe and where he,
anomaly that he is, fits into it.
She wants to take magic apart atom by atom and understand it, conquer it;
She'll never be satisfied until she does and he's a wonderful place to start.
He eases off his shirt as she undoes his belt. She doesn't fumble with it, oh
no, not Lydia. She never fumbles with anything. The full moon shines down on
her smooth skin, scarred only where he scarred it, he thinks with some
satisfaction.
The moon still calls to him as strongly as it ever did and everything he is,
everything he feels, is so heightened tonight under its influence that he
almost, almost, feels fully alive again, but he's still touching her through
that gritty screen, that ashen veil, that he can't quite fully part. It doesn't
matter though. He wants her and he'll take her regardless. He'd find a way,
even if he was as cold and dead as he should be.
She slides his pants down as she slips to her knees. Her discarded silk dress
serving as a perfect cushion. She lets him thread his clawed fingers in her
bright strawberry hair that burns softly in the moonlight. She really is too
beautiful. That alone would make her deadly to lesser men. When her cunning is
factored in, it's not even debatable, she's powerful and she's a predator even
if she hasn't fully realized it yet.
His cock slips between soft glossed lips and if he growls, it's purely for her
benefit. Lydia always likes a touch of the dramatic. It gets her wet when he
puts on a little show, and Peter is nothing if not accommodating.
He's not vain enough to think she loves him. He knows, in fact, that she
doesn't, not yet, a little part of him says, though he's not sure if either of
them are capable of something as selfless as love. He's almost sure he can't,
not after everything he's lost, and while Lydia is still young enough, still
innocent enough, that she might...Jackson's departure after everything has had
more of an impact on her than even she's able to fully grasp.
He wants her to love him, or at least as close as she can get. He needs her to,
because love is a power so much stronger than sex, and sex is powerful enough
on its own. It's enough to keep her coming back to him but it's not enough to
protect him from her.
Lust is his best weapon right now. He wants her, he wants to make her think he
owns her. If he's lucky it'll keep her distracted long enough that she doesn't
realize she owns him. Literally and figuratively, his existence hinges on her
will and her whim. It's her own magic that she hasn't even begun to understand.
He bound himself to her, and bought his life through her, gambling that she'd
never discovered the influence that gave her over him.
If he awes her with his strength, his age, and his knowledge, if he dominates
her and keeps her restrained with fear and arousal, maybe she won't realize
that he's her slave. But if he makes her love him, as impossible as that may
seem, he'll never have to fear her.
The truly frightening idea, however, is that he might fall first. In spite of
all of his hesitance to believe it is possible he knows she's more thoroughly
imbedded in his soul than he is in hers. Beautiful, incredibly intelligent, and
just as strong as he is, he knows Lydia is likely to come out of this less
fractured than he is.
For now though, he focuses on the moment, on giving her what she wants and he
needs.
He lays out beneath her on top of his jacket. Fangs and claws extended, he
waits, silently baiting her with a dare he knows she'll take.
She slips out of her underwear and climbs on top of him. He can smell her
arousal as she takes in the sight of him in his beta form. He can hear the
subtle beat of fear in her heart that should be a contradiction to her desire,
but it's not at all.
He gives her the illusion of control as she straddles him, aligning herself
over his cock and slowly, teasingly, pushing him into herself. She's tight and
there's resistance in spit of her wetness. He can hear the hitch in her breath
as she bears down to take him in. He fights his instinct to grab her hips and
shove up into her with bruising force. He likes to let her start. He likes to
see the calm, cool confidence she shows her human men. He likes to see the way
she takes control, the way she rocks down onto him, and runs her hands over him
like he's territory she's marked.
He knows the rhythm she sets would be strong by their standards, her other
lovers, but he's not like them. She would be driving them out of their minds
already but Peter needs more.
He's had over six years of mourning. For a moment he wants not to think. He
wants to lose control.
He wants to lose himself in the scent of her, in the feeling of her flesh, in
the shine of her hair, and the sound of her stifled moans. He wants to take, to
claim, to rut, and to dominate and to know he's the only one who can do that to
her.
He waits a little longer, thrusting up into her with gentle human speed,
playing the role of the man with practiced ease. It's not like he hasn't had
human lovers before...but now isn't the time for memories.
When he's had enough of playing, he rolls her over and pins her beneath him
with his teeth at her neck. Her hands find their way to his waist and her legs
wrap tight around him.
He knows that when he really starts to rut into her he'll have to throw her
legs over his shoulders and hold her in place.
She's strong though, she's fit, and she keeps up with him for longer than he'd
expected her too. She meets every hard, powerful thrust as best she can.
Lydia is mostly silent but for her heavy breathing. She makes him work for
every whimper and moan and he likes it like that. He knows how she is with the
others, the boys she wastes her time with, he's listened and watched and
memorized the sounds of her coy, deceptive noises carefully calculated to
inflate the ego of her hapless victim.
He's nothing like those boys and there's too much honesty, (bitter honesty, but
honesty still) between them for that.
He relishes the way she moans and squeezes tight around him. The feeling of her
muscles contracting around him as she cums for the first time. The movement of
her hands are more erratic now, they thread through his hair and dance across
his body everywhere they can reach as he thrusts into her with single-minded
focus.
He brings one hand up from her hips to cup her breasts and tease her nipples
carefully with his claws. She has no idea how delicate he's being. He knows
what they look like, sprawled on the forest floor with him crouched over her,
rutting into her with his claws and fangs extended.
They're every bit the portrait of a hunter's nightmare. The young, seemingly
innocent human girl, a portrait of youth, being ravished by a monster twice her
age.
It's the kind of thing he might have masturbated to in his own adolescence but
he's too old to buy into it now.
It looks like he's being savage, brutally rough, but the outside observer would
have no way of knowing what he was truly capable of.
He can admit though, that there's a part of him, a dark, primal part that wants
to be that rough, that wants to fuck her until she's bruised and bloody and
broken...possibly beyond repair.
He might one day. It's always possible. Maybe the image they paint is more
accurate than he thinks.
He increases his speed and he can feel her legs starting to slip. He can smell
the slight hint of fear and discomfort as he stays just barely on the right
side of pleasure and pain.
He pushes her legs over his shoulders and finally lets go of his grip on her
neck so he can hunch over her, curling her under him completely, and letting
out a growl not muffled by her flesh. She loves it just like he knew she would.
He wraps one clawed hand into her hair, and places the other by her head,
supporting himself and giving her a perfect view of his long fingers and sharp
claws.
He smells the spike of her arousal as she cums again. She grips his hair
tightly this time in a desperate attempt to ground herself. He knows at the
speed he's going that she's out of control completely. She can't grip her
thighs around his waist, she can't bear down, she can only let the pleasure
rips through her, helpless.
She lets out a cry that's as close as she ever gets to an honest scream. He
knows he could make her scream though. He's made her scream before, albeit, not
in this context.
The memory of her screaming, of her blood in his mouth, and the feeling of her
scarred flesh beneath his hands tips him over the edge. He pushes in deep and
holds as his own orgasm comes in full force and he can feel his knot beginning
to form.
Oh she's vocal now, thrashing beneath him, as his knot swells and she cums once
more in rapid succession. He's pumping her full as she spasms on the hard
length of his cock and he hears he bite out a curse as his knot locks them in
place.
“Damn it, Peter!”
He knows he's going to have to buy her something expensive to make up for
knotting her in a place like this. He listens to her giving him a verbal
lashing, completely unaffected. He leans down and nuzzles against her neck. He
draws his fangs over soft flesh and smells their scents combine. He feels his
knot securely locked inside her and for a moment, just a brief moment in time,
he can believe she's his.
End Notes
     The series you see this a part of will be a place for me to house
     loosely connected Pydia one-shots and pwps that I may upload at some
     point in the future.
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