Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/985882.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Peter_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Peter_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Everyone's_a_Werewolf, Alpha/Beta/Omega_Dynamics,
      Mating_Cycles/In_Heat, Power_Imbalance, Rough_Sex, Naked_Male_Clothed
      Male, Outdoor_Sex, Dubious_Consent, Blood, I_Don't_Even_Know, Self-
      Lubrication
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-09-30 Words: 4213
****** Let The Instinct Guide You ******
by hexthejinx
Summary
     Stiles was expecting that heat to be like the previous ones: wearing,
     painful and lonely. He still got two out of three.
Notes
     It is my first Peter/Stiles story. I don't even ship them tbh, but I
     one day I got this idea in my mind, and yeah, that's the result.
See the end of the work for more notes
let the instinct guide you
let it drive you through
until it’s all you know
until it’s all that’s left
He’s running. He doesn’t care where he’s heading to, or if anyone may see him.
Nothing matters, except for that fire inside his body, the one he can do
nothing to put out. The one which seems to be eating him from the inside. He
lets out a wail, half in pain and half in frustration at his inability to
relieve himself in any way. As he reaches a small clearing, he tumbles and
falls down, landing on a soft, mossy surface. He doesn’t get up, suddenly not
feeling like he is able to do so. Instead, he uses the momentum of his body to
rub frantically against the undergrowth, not minding some pine needles pricking
his naked skin. He’s so gone.
                                      ***
Stiles had never enjoyed his heats. Who enjoys them anyway? Oh yeah, people who
are lucky enough to have heat mates, somebody to take the edge off, to fulfill
the overwhelming desire. Stiles was not that kind of a person, much to his
dismay. He was sixteen, lanky and a bit geeky, not exactly unpopular but not on
the top of the Beacon Hills High School social ladder either. Which in practice
meant that he had some friends, was invited to parties from time to time and
could always find somebody to hang out with on Friday night, but when it came
to dating, or even casual hook-ups... Nope. Nothing, nada, null. Stiles liked
to comfort himself with the thought that he was still very young, and a lot of
people have no game in high school, but when they reach their twenties suddenly
there’s bam, so hot! In the worst case, he was certain he would at least gain
some muscle by the end of college. But until that time, he was condemned to
lonely, tenacious heats.
When the time of month came, his father would lock him up in a small room down
in their basement, bare except for a mattress on the floor. Stiles would love
to have at least some sex toys to help him get through the heat. Of course,
none of them would satisfy the need completely, it was something only another
werewolf could do. But it would be something, something beside a handjob or
humping the mattress, and maybe the heats would be a tiny bit more bearable.
Unfortunately, his father had never thought about such an improvement, probably
because of him being a beta and having the heat only once a year, a much less
intense one, on a top of that. As much as he sympathized with his son, he had
no way of knowing how wearing the omega heats really were and Stiles was too
embarrassed to ever bring up the topic of the toys by himself.
                                      ***
He hears the sound first, a pitiful call of a lonely, horny omega. That alone
is like a music to his ears, but as he starts in the direction of the sound,
trying to locate the source, a smell hits his nostrils and it’s divine. A
sweet, rich, musky scent, the like of he hasn’t encountered in a long, long
time. There’s a sudden urge to chase, to catch, to claim. He tampers on his
instincts, wanting to remain as clear headed as he can. A frown twists his
features, slight annoyance mixing with astonishment. He hasn’t felt this way
since his teenage years, when his main drive was his own frenzied hormones.
After taking a minute to regain control over his wolf, he speeds up, letting
his senses to guide him.
                                      ***
Stiles’ father was always very thorough when it came to locking Stiles up. He
double checked all the locks in order to be sure his son wouldn’t break out and
get into trouble while his sex clouded brain was in charge. But every one makes
mistakes, and that one time John made one too. He had been airing out the room
earlier that day and he forgot to put the padlock back onto the window latch. A
small, narrow window, useless for anything than letting some light into the
room, but big enough for a slim, teenage boy to slip through. Stiles didn’t
notice the lack of the padlock either when he took off his clothes and sat down
on the mattress, miserably waiting for the heat to kick in.
He wasn’t so unobservant a couple of hours later, when the moon was high up in
the sky and his reason was washed away by the overwhelming need.
                                      ***
The sight that welcomes him into the clearing is as unusual as it is wonderful:
a teenage boy, stark naked, writhing on the forest floor, whimpering. This
close, the scent is overpowering and even sweeter. He is eager to sink in it
completely. He takes a few confident steps, approaching the boy and crouching
down beside him.
“Shhh,” he whispers, stroking up the teenager’s shoulder. The omega flinches,
looks up at him with wide eyes.
“Wh-” the boy starts to say, but his words are immediately muffled with a hand
on his mouth.
“Shh,” he says again, and moves his other hand down, wrapping it around the
boy’s dick. He can almost see as the lone conscious thought about remaining
cautious in the presence of him, a strange, older man, about feeling ashamed at
being naked in somebody’s company, flees the omega’s mind. The boy’s eyelids
shut as he shifts his hips forward, bucking up into the grip on his erection.
“Yeah, that’s much better, isn’t it?”
                                      ***
It really is. It shouldn’t be. Stiles doesn’t know this man, a man who is
touching his junk, for fuck’s sake. It should feel wrong, repulsing. It feels
amazing. Stiles lets out a moan as the hand continues to move up and down his
dick. Jerking himself off doesn’t even stand close to that sensation. It’s not
enough to put down the fire in his guts, but it helps to extinguish it just a
little bit. The simple touch of someone else achieves more than Stiles has ever
managed since he’s started to go into heats at the age of fourteen and he
doesn’t want it to end.
The man chuckles. It isn’t a warm laugh, and Stiles would be wary if he had the
capacity to use his reason. Without taking his hand away, the man sits down on
the ground, legs stretched and spread wide. He pulls Stiles between them until
he rests against the man’s chest. The hand on his mouth is gone, allowing
Stiles to make a loud, appreciative noise on a particularly good stroke. He
tries to fuck into the stranger’s fist, but an arm wraps around his middle,
pressing him tight against the man body, hindering any unimpeded movements.
“No,” the man says simply, his breath ghosting against Stiles’ earlobe.
Stiles whimpers, but thankfully, the hand on his dick starts to move faster,
squeeze tighter, the friction enough to put him on the edge. A minute later he
comes, breath hitching in his throat and his whole body going rigid for a
second, only to sag against the man the next moment.
When his mind clears, it is to the feeling of a mouth sucking on his neck.
“No, wait...” he protests weakly, trying to entangle himself from the
stranger’s embrace. The man lets him, his grip loosening easily. Stiles crawls
away but doesn’t go very far. The orgasm left him spent; he doesn’t even have
the strength to stand up. He sits up with his back propped up against the
nearby tree, drawing his knees up to his chest in a belated attempt to cover
himself.
The stranger is still sitting in the same position, smirking at Stiles in a way
that makes him shiver, and not in a good way. For the first time, he takes a
good look at the man. It’s hard to pinpoint his age; his not exactly young, but
he could be in his early thirties as much as early forties, though he doesn’t
seem to be older than that. He’s also not bad to look at and Stiles is lucid
enough to admit to himself that he could be attracted to the man, if the
circumstances were right. Yet, there’s something more about him, something that
surpasses the handsome face. Stiles can sense it on the instinctual level: it’s
dangerous, ruthless and probably not entirely sane. He tightens his hold on his
legs, trying to physically shield himself from the man.
The man bends one leg and rests the elbow on his knee, looking completely
relaxed, like such situations were a daily occurrence to him. “What’s your
name, pretty thing?” he asks, small smile still playing on his lips.
Stiles is too shocked about being referred to as ‘pretty’ to feel offended
about the ‘thing’ part and come back with a witty answer. Instead, he replies
simply, “Stiles.”
“Stiles,” the man repeats slowly, tasting the name and dragging out the l.
“Well, Stiles, I think you know that your current state won’t last for too
long. Soon you’re going to be back to rolling in the moss, crying out in pain.
A truly deplorable sight, let me tell you.”
Stiles feels his cheeks heat up. He was barely aware of what he was doing
before, too focused on trying to relieve himself in any way. For all he knows,
the man could have been watching him for a long time, and God knows how
pathetic he looked like, sprawled naked on the ground, rubbing against
undergrowth. He swallows and wets his lips, willing his mind to start working
in its usual swiftness.
“Uhm... I guess I’ll get going, then? Back to my house, before it gets bad
again.”
“You could,” the man agrees, nodding slowly. Before Stiles gets the chance to
let out a relieved breath and try to scramble up and leave with as much dignity
as possible in the situation, the man continues. “But you could also stay. Let
me help. Let me make it good for you, so good.”
He shifts onto his hand and knees and crawls the few feet separating him from
Stiles, cornering him against the tree. His face is suddenly uncomfortably
close, lips brushing against the boy’s ear. “What do you say to that, little
omega?” he whispers.
“Don’t call me that,” Stiles manages to choke out.
The man chuckles again, warm puff of air stroking Stiles’ earlobe. “How? Omega?
Are there any other pet names you prefer instead?”
Stiles lifts his hands up and presses them against the man’s chest with the
intention to push him off. He feels his fingers clenching in the fabric of the
other werewolf’s shirt. The man moves his head to the side and suddenly there
is a mouth on Stiles’ lips, a tongue pushing its way inside. He gasps and uses
the hold on the shirt to bring the man closer as he kisses back.
Stiles doesn’t have that much experience in kissing. His first one was with his
childhood friend Heather, both of them curious how it feels and why people seem
to like doing it so much. It was awkward and clumsy, two eleven years old
children hidden in the bushes at the back of Heather’s parents' garden, lips
clenched and noses bumping. Afterwards they decided that either kissing was
seriously overrated, or maybe that you need to be older to enjoy it. His second
one was with some random girl whose name he hasn’t even remembered, at some
party where they played truth or dare. That one was slightly better, but still
it had nothing on the current one. The man kisses with a confidence neither of
the girls possessed, demanding in a way that should make Stiles worry, but
instead causes him to wrap his hands around the man’s waist and groan quietly
into the kiss. Something warm uncoils in his belly, slowly spreading throughout
his whole body. It’s the familiar fire, temporarily diminished by the handjob,
coming to life again. Whether it’s because of the kiss or because of how much
time has passed since his last relief, Stiles doesn’t know, but he knows that
once he lets the man go, he’ll be left to fight the fire alone.
The man pulls back and grins down at Stiles, a dangerous predator smile. The
angle is wrong and Stiles realizes that somewhere along the way he has lain
down, his legs spread to accommodate the man between them. His naked body is
pressed all the way against the man’s still fully clothed one, his cock half
hard again. He flushes, cheeks and neck pinking.
“Is that a yes?” the man asks, obviously amused about Stiles’ discomfort.
“I don’t even know your name,” Stiles complains. It’s not like it’s a real
issue for him, but the part of his mind that isn’t obscured with the heat tries
to come up with something, anything that would gave him a reason to decline.
“It’s Peter.”
                                      ***
The omega’s - Stiles’ - heat resurfaces quickly, not giving him a chance to
persuade himself into leaving. It works in Peter’s favor. Soon he has the boy
panting and writhing under his body again. He’s busy sucking at the side of the
boy’s neck, tongue darting out every so often to lick at the skin, when Stiles
groans, his voice shaky with need.
“Please.”
Peter releases the flesh with an almost inaudible smack. “Please, what?”
“More, I... I need more.”
He grins at the admission and rises, ignoring a small sound of protest from
Stiles. He gestures towards a fallen tree on the side of the clearing. “Hands
and knees. There.”
Stiles nods numbly and moves to obey, not even bothering to get up, choosing to
crawl to the spot instead. He lowers the upper half of his body behind the
trunk, his weight resting on his elbows. This allows him to prop his chest
against the tree, ass staying up in the air. He wiggles it a little and spreads
his thighs invitingly. He’s fully hard again, the tip of his erection brushing
the skin of his stomach.
Peter laughs out loud, closing the space between them in a few brisk steps. He
kneels behind the boy and uses his left hand to grab one of the omega’s cheek
and move it to the side.
“Ever done it to yourself?” he asks, voice quiet but clear. “Played with your
little asshole?”
“Once,” Stiles grunts out.
“Did you come from that?”
Stiles shakes his head. Peter lets go of the cheek and brings his palm down,
slapping it with a force that jostles the whole Stiles’ body.
“Answer me when I’m asking, little omega.”
“No. Please.” The last word is a long groan.
“Eager, I see,” Peter comments with amusement and sinks his finger into the
boy’s hole. It goes in easily and when he brings it out, it’s glistening wet in
the moonlight. “Look at you, wet already.”
Stiles doesn’t say anything, but the way he pushes his ass against the man’s
hand is an answer enough. Peter slips his finger back and quickly adds another.
He moves them in and out for a few moments, scissoring them inside Stiles for a
couple of times. As an afterthought, he also adds a third. He doesn’t think
it’s necessary, but he wouldn’t like to break his new toy so soon. The boy’s
breathing quickens as Peter smears the omega’s mucus around. He lets go of the
cheek and uses the free hand to unbutton and unzip his pants. He slides them
down only slightly, his underwear following, just enough to bring out his cock.
It’s half-ready and it hardens quickly when he slicks it up with what is left
on his right hand fingers after preparing Stiles.
One of his hands grabs on Stiles’ hip while the other grips his dick and lines
it up at the omega’s entrance. He moves forward slightly causing the head of
his dick to disappear into the hole. Stiles whines and presses back, eager to
have the other werewolf inside him. Peter doesn’t waste time. He uses both of
his hands to hold onto Stiles and in one swift movement he bottoms out, his
erection sliding wholly in.
“So tight,” he murmurs, eyes closing shut. In this moment, Peter loses control.
As his instincts take over, he wolfs out, fangs prolonging, claws extending and
digging into a soft, meaty flesh covering the boy’s hipbones. This time the
sound Stiles utters is definitely the one of pain, but Peter doesn’t care,
doesn’t pay attention to small rivulets of blood trickling down the omega’s
thighs. He starts to move, setting up a punishing pace, his cock sliding out
and slamming back in the body underneath him in fast jerks. Noise fills the
small clearing; gasps of pain and pleasure, skin slapping against naked flesh,
uneven breathing.
Peter is completely focuses on his pleasure. He relishes in the feeling of
tight, wet heat around his dick, the pungent smell filling his nostrils, the
broken moans the omega lets out in almost unrestrained current. Peter himself
stays quiet, at least until there’s a familiar heat spreading in his stomach,
the sensation of his balls tightening. He comes, and as he shoots his release
into the omega’s ass, he throws his head back, howling loud and long. It’s a
triumphant sound, announcing a successful conquer, a claim laid on another
werewolf. He bends down and bites forcefully on the back of the omega’s neck.
The boy cries out and tries to squirm away, but Peter doesn’t loose up his
hold, both teeth and claws sinking deeply into the boy’s soft, yielding flesh.
He tastes blood and it makes him dizzy.
He doesn’t know how long they stay like that, locked together, but when he
finally pulls out, retreating his teeth and claws as well as his cock, Stiles
slumps down heavily, his body devoid of the power necessary to hold him up.
Peter doesn’t check up on him. He can hear the boy’s heart, a loud rapid
beating affirming that he is alive and this is all that matters to Peter. Any
eventual wounds will heal, there’s no need to worry about insignificant details
like that. He tucks himself in and adjusts his rumpled clothes, making sure
he’s presentable again. There’s no one in the vicinity other than the omega
curled up on the ground, but that doesn’t mean Peter can walk around looking
like a hobo. He casts one last look at the boy, the corners of his mouth
turning up in self-satisfied smirk. He leaves the clearing as quietly as he
entered it, vanishing in the dark.
                                      ***
When Stiles gets back home it’s almost dawn, the sky in the east much lighter
then in the west. He sneaks into the basement the same way he left it,
squeezing through the narrow window. He curls up on the mattress and prays his
dad won’t come in in the morning, because there’s no way he could explain the
way he smells right now, without admitting that he managed to escape. His scent
is a heady mix of spunk, desire and another werewolf, and he can’t smell his
usual aroma anymore. It’s disconcerting and unsettling, to the point that
despite the exhaustion he is not able to fall asleep. All that he wants is to
take a long, hot shower, to scrub his body raw until he smells like himself
again, not like him. Peter.
There’s Peter’s come dried up on the back of his tights, clogging his asshole.
It trickled out of him as soon as he was able to move and made an attempt at
standing up. His sides are adorned with two matching sets of claw marks, still
not fully healed, red lines trailing down his legs in the pattern the blood
made as it seeped from the wounds. There are abrasions all over his chest, made
from scraping against the coarse surface of the fallen trunk he was bended
over. He can’t see the back of his neck but he’s sure it doesn’t look pretty
either. He didn’t even tried to clean up before he made his way back home, too
set on actually getting there, too focused on sneaking around the town so
nobody could see him running naked through Beacon Hills.
He’s lucky; his father is in a hurry as he is getting ready for work. He
unlocks the door and doesn’t try to enter the basement or even peak inside.
During his previous heats Stiles often fell asleep stark naked, sprawled on the
floor without any cover, all his private parts exposed. His father was a decent
enough person that he didn’t want to embarrass his son by walking in on him,
laid out in such compromising position. It’s the same this morning; he only
shouts through the door asking if Stiles is awake and okay. When he hears an
affirmative answer, he says something about coming back from work late today,
so it’s better that Stiles doesn’t wait for him with dinner. Then he’s gone,
which allows Stiles to drag his body upstairs and take that long-awaited
shower.
He can’t decide how he feels right now. On the one hand he’s aware that he has
been used, thoroughly fucked and left alone in the woods without a word or even
a friendly gesture. He should feel disgusted with himself, dirty and impure. He
should be angry with Peter, telling his dad everything about the last night and
reporting a crime. But as it was happening, when Peter’s cock was buried inside
his ass, slamming into him with a brutal force, rubbing against his prostate
every now and then, he loved it. He pushed against the thrusts, moaning loudly
for more like a cheap whore. The worst of all, he came from the sensation of
being fucked open. He didn’t even have to touch himself. Nothing that Peter
did, no amount of pain he brought on Stiles, made his erection go down. If
anything, it only turned him on more, in some sick, twisted way. The bite to
his neck was the final straw and as the teeth clenched on his skin his orgasm
overtook him, almost causing him to black out. When he emerged from that
blissful cloud that seemed to fog his brain, Peter was already long gone, only
faint traces of his smell still present in the air. Stiles wonders what the
fact that he managed to get off on being used in a painful way makes him. Is he
some sort of a deviant now?
In the end he just curls up in his bed, finally clean and dressed in his worn
off, comfortable pajamas. He pushes all the inconvenient thoughts to the back
of his head, files them away to look at them closely later, when he is more
awake and capable of making rational arguments.
He sleeps until the late afternoon. He pretty much empties the fridge, the
after-heat hunger even more nagging then usual. Using a small hand mirror and
the bigger mirror in the bathroom he checks the base of his neck. The bite mark
is there, big and vivid, two rows of teeth neatly impressed on his pale skin.
He figures out he can cover it with his usual layers of clothing and a baggy
hoodie or a jacket. The rest of the evening passes as ever. He listens to some
music, fools around on his computer, even talks to Scott for a few minutes.
He’s very deliberately not thinking about the previous night and its
implications.
He doesn’t tell his dad. Not that day, not the next, not the day after that.
                                      ***
A few days later Stiles is sorting through the pile of mail his dad has brought
from the mailbox and dropped unceremoniously on the kitchen table. Bills,
bills, spam, a flyer from that new pizza place on the other side of the town,
spam, another bill, how the hell they are suppose to pay for all of this, a
plain white envelope... An envelope?
There’s no address or a stamp, only ‘Stiles’ written across it in a flourish,
elegant handwriting. Stiles sniffs at it carefully and he recognizes the smell
in an instant. He casts a panicked look behind his back, but his father is
nowhere in sight. He folds the envelope in two and puts it in the back pocket
of his jeans.
It’s several minutes later, in the safety of his bedroom when Stiles decides to
open it. Inside there’s a business card, minimalist font and light beige
background. Peter Hale. The address is not in Beacon Hills, but not too far
away, in the nearest bigger town. He turns it around and there’s a sentence on
the back, written in the same handwriting as his name on the envelope.
If you ever want to repeat our lovely evening.
He crunches the card in his hand and throws it across the room so hard it lands
under his chest of drawers.
“Fuck you,” he spits out into the empty room and stomps out, ignoring the heat
that spreads through his body at the memory.
End Notes
     I have a plan to make it a series, with two or three parts coming up.
     Check out my Tumblr!
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!