Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/13044966.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Peter_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Peter_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      Extremely_Dubious_Consent, Spark_Stiles_Stilinski, Mating_Bond, Werewolf
      Mates, Werewolf_Culture, Knotting, Werewolf_Turning, Alpha_Peter_Hale,
      Porn_With_Plot, Mind_Games, Mindfuck, Creeper_Peter_Hale, Alternate
      Universe_-_Canon_Divergence, Sex_Toys, Victim_Blaming, Gaslighting, Omega
      Stiles_Stilinski, doesn't_mean_what_you_think_it_means, Non-Traditional
      Alpha/Beta/Omega_Dynamics, Bondage, Boys_in_Chains, werewolf_powers,
      Stockholm_Syndrome
  Series:
      Part 1 of Silver_Symphonies
  Stats:
      Published: 2018-01-17 Words: 8426
****** your heartbeat is a symphony (and your blood is singing just for me)
******
by Siavahda
Summary
     Stiles is his mate, and a Spark. The latter means that Peter can’t
     Turn him.
     The former means that he’ll Turn himself.
Notes
     This was actually originally based off a dream I had about these two,
     but it ended up being more fucked-up-romantic than the plain dirty-
     bad-wrong I was going for. Oh well.
     Also, I apparently can’t resist doing stupid amounts of worldbuilding
     even for a damn smut one-shot. I’m probably the only one surprised at
     this point. But yeah: leave your preconceptions about omegas at the
     door, please. They don’t apply here.
     Enjoy! And let me know if I missed something that needs tagging~
See the end of the work for more notes
Peter laps lazily at the mess of slick and seed dripping down the trembling
thighs spread apart by his clawed hands, savouring the taste and the soft,
keening whimpers that answer every stroke of his tongue. By the time he reaches
that wet, red-raw hole, stuffed full with a toy that buzzes against Peter’s
lips, his mate’s whole body is shaking for him.
Peter nudges the base of the vibrator with his tongue and teeth and Stiles
makes a choked, desperate sound around the bit-gag, his sweat-slick body
twisting helplessly as if it can’t decide whether to try and escape the touch
or beg for more. The chains binding the boy’s limbs rattle and clink as he
strains at them, when Peter sheaths his claws to better play with the vibrator,
idly toying with it as Stiles’ hips buck, grinding down into sheets that are
thick with the scents of sweat and tears and sex, the smell of teenage boy
overlaid with the claiming stamp of Alpha.
There’s no part of him that isn’t branded with Peter’s scent by now. Inside or
out.
“Are you ready to be a good boy, Stiles?” he asks, letting his fingers slip and
slide against Stiles’ slickly gleaming hole, feeling the buzz of the toy in his
fingertips. Stiles jerks, and Peter shudders with delight at the sound he
makes, the sob of negation and need so deliciously muffled by the gag forced
between his swollen lips, bound between his teeth. He tries to hide his face in
the pillow, but Peter grabs at his sweat-dark hair with his free hand, bends
down to lick at the corner of Stiles’ mouth, tasting the velvety silicone of
the gag’s edge and the saliva dripping from around it, the salt on Stiles’ skin
that’s as much from tears as sweat. He holds Stiles still to be tasted, and
feels the boy tremble with that gut-clenching cocktail of disgust and desire.
“Are you ready to admit that you’re mine yet?”
He keeps his thumb gently pushing at the vibrator whenever it threatens to slip
out and slides his other fingers down between the boy’s thighs, stroking firm
circles over Stiles’ perineum that make the chains rattle again, that make
Stiles moan and his spine arch like polished ivory, hips raising and presenting
to his Alpha like the wolf his body already knows he should be. Every line of
him is a work of art, and every line of him is begging for it, keening whines
spilling out from behind the gag with every motion of Peter’s fingers. Peter
hungers to lap them directly from the boy’s mouth, but he can’t: the band
holding Stiles’ gag in place is smooth around his skull, with no buckle, no
fastening, no way to remove it.
Peter didn’t put it there. He would never do anything to silence the sounds
Stiles’ makes for his touch, however it excites the predator in him to hear
them choked-off and muffled; he wants every whimper, every moan and gasping
curse, every pleasure-tortured sob, wants to hear Stiles cry his name as if
crying out to God. He wants to hear every sound as clear as crystal, gather
them all up and hoard them with the jealous greed of a dragon with its gold.
Stiles’ eyes will become something even rarer than gold, when he Turns;
something peerless and priceless. Very, very soon. Peter can almost taste it.
“You know that you are,” he murmurs, low and silken. He draws his lips down
Stiles’ neck, following the artery there, and as Stiles shivers all down his
length, as his chin moves unconsciously to bare his throat for Peter’s mouth,
Peter catches the base of the vibrator with his thumb to tilt it sharply
upwards, and Stiles cries out against his gag, his slender hips rocking into
the sheets. “You were born for me, Stiles, and me alone. The moment I touched
you on the lacrosse field, I knew. I know you felt it; the skip in your pulse
as my claws touched your throat and you grabbed my wrist, the instant our
heart-beats fell into sync. You may not be able to feel the mate-bond until you
Turn, but you felt that. You know. Your heart will beat in time with mine until
the day we die.”
Stiles tries to shake his head in pointless denial, but Peter has his hand
fisted tightly in Stiles’ hair; it’s grown longer since they’ve been here,
since Peter recognised the priceless treasure he’d found and dropped
everything—the Martin girl’s bloodied body, the need to gather in his wayward
nephew and the incompetent Scott and bring them to heel, even his quest for
vengeance against those who murdered his family—to whisk the boy away to
safety, to somewhere no one can find Peter or his vulnerable human mate, a
comfortable and protected den for Stiles to take the Bite and Peter to guide
him through the change.
Or so had been Peter’s intention. Not even his hunger for Kate Argent’s blood
could overcome the marrow-deep need to cement the mate-bond; only the years of
agonised patience taught him by his coma had kept him from taking Stiles in the
back-seat of Jennifer’s car, as appropriate an ending to the night as that
would have been, given the high school dance he’d rescued Stiles from. And
Peter would have shown him an incomparably better time than some fumbling
teenage girl—he would have made of Stiles’ first time a memory seared into his
very bones with bliss, would have filled him so full and sweet he cried with
the pleasure of it, with Peter holding and kissing him through every sob,
licking away his tears—
He did do that. They did. All of it. But not in the car; Peter’s control lasted
long enough to avoid that cliché. Because his mate deserved better than that,
deserved a sin-soft bed where they could take their time in comfort—after
Stiles had Turned, when he could feel their bond for himself and experience the
full ecstasy of joining with his mate, the legendary pleasure to which no
merely human sex, no matter how exquisite, could compare.
He had wanted that for Stiles. For his mate. He still did. He’d sheathed
himself between the boy’s thighs dozens of times now, unable to wait, and knew
the bliss for himself; he couldn’t wait for Stiles to know it too. There would
be no more need for chains once Stiles opened himself to their bond, yielded to
their star-graven fate to be together and Turned into the beautiful wolf Peter
knew he would be.
With that intoxicating thought in mind, Peter loosens his grip and cards his
fingers through Stiles’ hair, gently drawing his nails over the boy’s sensitive
skull, drifting down to palm his nape, stroking the length of the perfect curve
of his spine. “You know it’s true,” he says again, almost purring, revelling in
the trembling running all through Stiles’ body, the small helpless jerks of his
hips as Peter’s other hand works between his legs, letting the vibrator almost
slip out before pushing it back in deep, over and over. “Your body knows it.
Your beautiful magic knows it.” And oh, what a surprise that had been, the
boy’s star-bright Spark, lying dormant until the first time Peter had tried to
give (a struggling, tearful-defiant, yelling and cursing) Stiles the Bite, and
then catching fire beneath Peter’s teeth. It had attacked the trespass of the
Bite’s power as viciously as any wolf defending its territory, instantly
searing every trace of it from Stiles’ veins, but Peter had been so proud, once
he’d recovered from the shock; he’d kissed Stiles’ protests into moans with the
boy’s blood still on his lips, so full of pride and delight and hunger at the
revelation—which should have been no revelation, which Peter should have been
expecting,because Stiles was his and so of course he was perfect—that Stiles
came to him with such a peerless dowry, with power rich as wine and the full
moon’s light blazing inside of him. “Or else why are you still here,
sweetheart?”
A Spark’s magic spun their truest desires into reality, and over and over again
Stiles’ had made his deepest wishes clear. Peter hadn’t been the one to bind
Stiles in chains, face-down and legs spread helplessly wide; Peter hadn’t made
the boy’s buzz-cut grow out so unnaturally quickly, until his hair was long
enough for Peter to twist his fingers in; Peter hadn’t been the one to gag
Stiles’ beautiful mouth. The boy had done that to himself, humiliated by the
sounds he made when Peter played his body like an instrument, drawing such
sweet music from his lips.
Or perhaps Stiles was just terrified of what he might find himself saying, if
he allowed himself to speak.
But he couldn’t wish himself free. He didn’t desire escape enough for his magic
to teleport him back to his father’s house, his childhood bed. And no matter
how he cried or snarled, thrashed or pulled away from Peter’s touch, his Spark
never so much as singed Peter’s fingertips.
“It’s because you know,” Peter tells him softly. “Would you be here if you
didn’t? Could I hold you here if it was truly against your will, my beautiful
Spark?” His hand caresses Stiles’ side; between the boy’s legs, Peter finally
lets the toy slip free and instantly pushes his own thumb into the hot, slick
silk of his mate’s hole, groaning quietly at the way Stiles grips him, all
greedy need. Stiles shakes under him, makes a sweetly broken noise, and Peter
kisses his jaw in reward, open-mouthed.
“You could destroy me with one wish,” he whispers, his voice gone hoarse. “One
true, heart-felt wish, and I’d be dead and you’d be free. But you don’t want
that, do you?” He thrusts slowly, lingeringly, his thumb inside Stiles and his
fingertips stroking just behind the boy’s balls. “You want to be mine so badly
you chained yourself to our bed.”
Stiles sobs, his shoulders hunching with the bitter scent of shame, and
instantly Peter is crooning, tilting Stiles’ head to the side so Peter can
nuzzle at his face, pressing soothing, reassuring, loving kisses to Stiles’
tear-streaked cheeks, his damp eyelashes.
“Ssh, sweetheart, no—you have nothing to be ashamed of. You’re my mate, born to
want me, to be mine. The only surprise is that your Spark hasn’t put a collar
and leash on me yet, to tie me to you.” That gets through; Peter smirks at the
stutter of Stiles’ pulse, the surprise and uncertainty and sharp spike of
desire. He runs his tongue over Stiles’ lower lip. “Everyone you’ve ever loved
has left you,” he murmurs. “Your mother died, your father vanished into his
work and his bottle. The Lydia girl never looked twice at you, even Scott’s
been pulling away since he Turned, since he’s grown stronger, hasn’t he? Of
course your magic made sure that now, now you’ve found the one person who will
never, ever leave you, your short-sighted human fear wouldn’t ruin it for you.
Your power is wiser than your conscious mind, Stiles.”
Stiles whimpers, and tries to hide his face again, shaking like he might break
under the truth of it, but Peter won’t let him—won’t let him hide, and won’t
let him break. He kisses insistently at the corner of Stiles’ mouth, his
cheeks, licking his tears away as Peter exchanges the thumb inside Stiles for
his index finger, so smoothly Stiles can only gasp as the longer length of it
sinks into him.
“Because I won’t,” Peter whispers. “I won’t ever leave you, Stiles. You never
have to be alone again, you’ll never be alone again.” He adds a second slow
finger, though Stiles doesn’t need it, has never needed it. He still moans
around the gag for it, though. “You already know it, deep down, and when you
Turn you’ll feel it, how tightly bound we are, to the last breath and beyond.
How wholly I am yours, as you are mine.” His fingers thrust slowly, leisurely
and sweet, the sound of it slick and obscene with how wet Stiles is for him.
Always dripping wet, whenever Peter touches him, his Spark begging for Peter
even while the boy is too proud and afraid to beg with words. “I breathe
because you breathe; my heart beats in time with yours, and I’ll follow you
even when it stops, Stiles, even in death you won’t be alone—”
Stiles makes a choked, broken sound and twists against the chains, against
Peter’s fingers, into and away from the digits fucking him so tenderly,
squeezing his eyes shut as if he can’t bear it, any of it, the pleasure or the
gentleness, as if he doesn’t know how to be a treasured thing, a beloved thing.
But that’s why he has Peter. To teach him. Show him. Prove it to him, every day
and night for the rest of their lives—
“You’ve felt it all your life, haven’t you?” Peter murmurs, pressing his lips
to the back of Stiles’ neck. Curving his fingers to stroke the boy’s prostate
just right, just the right way to make Stiles buck against him, thrusting into
the mattress with an achingly sweet cry. “The emptiness. That hollow space
inside you, begging to be filled.” He pushes a third finger into Stiles to make
his point, feeling the red bleed into his eyes at how Stiles sobs and ruts into
it, the chains at his ankles clinking as his legs spread wider of their own
accord, offering, pleading. “And you were so good,” Peter praises, his voice
rough, “so smart, Stiles, you could have hurt yourself trying to fill that
space, so many people would have—turned to drink or drugs or cutting, picking
fights or starting fires, but you didn’t, did you? You just threw yourself into
learning anything and everything, into taking care of your father and Scott,
let it make you fierce and loyal and clever instead of breaking you. All that
need, and you channelled it all, kept yourself safe and whole for me. You
perfect boy.”
Stiles shakes his head frantically, desperately, even as the rest of his body
shakes too, shaking and shaking as Peter’s fingers stroke in and out of his
soaked, clinging hole just a little faster, a little deeper.
“Because it was for me,” Peter whispers against Stiles’ ear. “That empty space
is where I’m meant to fit inside you, Stiles, it’s where our bond will anchor
in you when you Turn. Don’t you want to feel that? Don’t you want to be full
and whole at last? Don’t you crave it, to belong to me, to open to me, to feel
me so deep inside you I can never, ever leave you?”
He moves his fingers harder. Deeper. Faster, as Stiles’ breathing quickens,
hitching with almost-sobs, with broken little whines of denial and need in
equal measure. The scent of him is intoxicating, makes Peter’s mouth water, and
even knowing that the Spark makes Stiles immune to the Bite he can feel his
teeth aching to change, to hone to star-splinter points and bury themselves in
the meat of Stiles’ shoulder. Or better yet, his throat, the smooth perfect
curve of his neck that he flashes like a flirt every time he half-writhes,
proof that whatever he tells himself, beneath it all he know what he is:
Peter’s mate, an Alpha’s mate, for only such a one would be so coquettish with
a wolf so dangerous as Peter is. Only one who knew, however unconsciously, his
own power—not over magic, but over Peter—would tease an Alpha so.
Stiles’ eyes won’t be blue, when he Turns. But they won’t be gold, either. Not
this one. Not Peter’s perfect boy.
He presses his lips against the soft, sweet spot behind Stiles’ ear, scrapes it
gently with his teeth, and feels Stiles shudder all down his length, clamping
down on Peter’s fingers. “Don’t you want to swallow me whole?” Peter breathes.
“I know you feel it. That greed, that need, savage and dark and raw.” His
fingertips draw circles over the boy’s prostate, and Stiles jerks under him,
hips canting up and then away, torn between rutting back on Peter’s fingers and
trying to resist them. But he can’t; he never could. Never will. “You want to
be owned, and you want to own,don’t you? Bind me, leash me, tie me to you so I
can’t leave, even if I ever wanted to.”
Stiles shudders under him, and Peter can smell the lust and craving rising from
his pores, can scent the touch-starved truth of it on him. Because Stiles does
want that, is desperate for that, the certainty that someone will never leave.
All Peter’s perfect words can’t give him that; words can be false, tongues can
lie, and Stiles can’t yet hear just how steady the Alpha’s pulse is as he makes
his promises.
So many people have broken their promises to Stiles before. Is it any wonder
the poor boy resists, when to him it must sound too good to be true?
All Peter can do is ensnare Stiles in his own want until his magic opens his
eyes to the truth of Peter’s every word. And that’s no chore at all.
“But you already have,” Peter whispers, like a secret. Like something sacred,
which it is. “You already own me, Stiles. The claim goes both ways, and I’m
right here, waiting for you to take me. All you have to do is take me.”
Stiles makes a sharp, high sound of protest as Peter withdraws his fingers,
knowing what’s coming. He wrenches on the chains, his muscles straining and
pulling the metal links taut and tight as Peter settles himself between his
mate’s legs, his slickened fingers closing around the sweet jut of Stiles’ hip
bone, burying his face in the crook of Stiles’ neck, open-mouthed, breathing
deep. His teeth catch on Stiles’ pounding pulse-point even as the boy
struggles, fierce and desperate as any tender fawn caught beneath a wolf’s
weight; he tries to shout something around the gag, something angry and frantic
and no, something his own magic won’t let him say because he doesn’t mean it.
He never means it.
Peter raises Stiles’ hips just-so, lifting and holding him effortlessly, and he
can smell the heady perfume of the youth’s lust, a wolf-cub’s first sweet heat,
the salt of tears and the tang of adolescent pre-come in equal measure; can
hear the half-snarls, half-sobs Stiles chokes out around the gag and the siren-
song of his racing heart; and most of all, best of all, is the searing, silken,
sublime embrace of Stiles’ body as Peter sinks his cock into his mate in one
long, loving, inexorable thrust.
“Take me, Stiles,” he whispers, hoarse as he brushes his lips against the boy’s
ear. Sheathing himself to the hilt inside that beautiful, exquisite body, inch
by furnace-hot and fist-tight inch. “Take me, and keep me, and know I’ll never
leave you.”
Their hips slot together like puzzle pieces, just like always.
Stiles is crying under him, shaking and shaking as if he might fly apart into a
thousand pieces. Peter shudders with the bliss of it, sees the world through a
crimson haze as he wraps one arm around Stiles’ waist, holding him up, holding
him together. Cradling that smaller, softer body against his, enfolding him
close and safe.
“I’ve got you, sweetheart, I have you,” he soothes, pressing soft kisses to his
shoulder, the back of his neck, his throat. “Such a good boy for me. My perfect
mate. You always take me so well, Stiles. So perfect, so perfect for me.”
He waits, murmuring gilded praise against Stiles’ skin through the boy’s
wracking sobs. Even their first time together, Peter hadn’t lost control with
his fragile, vulnerable mate—though moons full and new, he had come close, so
close, overwhelmed beyond imagining by the soul-searing bliss of joining with
his mate, the unearthly pleasure none of the mate-bond stories could ever have
prepared him for—and by now he’s well-practised at leashing the howling part of
him that wants to sink its teeth into the back of his mate’s neck and rut him.
Stiles would break and shatter if Peter took him that way, in his full Alpha
form with an Alpha’s full strength, and Stiles’ Spark would probably, hopefully
put him back together—but the thought of his mate screaming in pain instead of
pleasure makes Peter sick, sicker than wolfsbane, sicker than the scent and
taste that had clogged his nose and throat as his family burned alive. That
kind of sex will have to wait until Stiles Turns.
It’s Peter’s torturous pleasure to wait, the sweetest hell. Stiles is exquisite
like this, a perfect incubus, flushed and tear-stained and unable to stop
shivering, trembling in Peter’s embrace, rippling and clamping around Peter’s
cock again and again as if he’s trying to drive Peter rabid. It feels just like
their first time, Stiles’ every twitch and quiver stroking shockwaves through
his Alpha’s cock, just as hellfire-hot inside as he was the first time Peter
mounted him, his body just as much a slut-silk vise gripping Peter almost too
tightly for either of them to bear. And Peter has tried before, he has, tried
to open Stiles up soft and slow, spent hours fucking him open with fingers and
tongue to try and make it easier for the boy’s body to take him—but his Spark
won’t allow it, Stiles won’t allow it, locks up breathtakingly tight again the
moment the head of Peter’s cock brushes his hole. He forces Peter to force him
open every time, slowly and gently and irresistibly carving his flesh to fit
his Alpha, and Peter can understand that perfectly, the craving for the pain,
the proof of it, because pain makes things real in a way nothing else can.
But not too much. Peter will give Stiles the pain he wants, the pain he needs,
but no more than that. Just enough to make Stiles feel full and taken and
claimed, just enough to prove that Peter is here and his and wants him, has
him. Not enough to really hurt him. Never.
Peter waits, and nuzzles, and strokes a soothing hand down his mate’s trembling
body, over and over, petting him. He rumbles low in his throat, a wolf’s purr,
Stiles’ scent so heady it almost makes Peter dizzy, and it’s so much more than
having a tight hole around his cock, a beautiful body under his. The physical
pleasure is heightened a thousandfold by the bond, by the sense-taste of mate,
by being so close to the one who was born for him. Everywhere they touch it’s
lightning, searing-sweet, and Peter’s entire body is alight with a bliss so
intense it really ought to terrify him; every nerve-ending turned to diamond,
every sense awash in Stiles, a terribly beautiful (beautifully
terrible)euphoric ecstasy flooding him until it feels as though Peter might
break apart around it, shatter into stardust, unable to contain it all and keep
still.
And yet, and yet. Even with his body howling to move, it’s paradoxically easy
to hold himself back. Because Stiles is still human, and needs Peter to wait.
Peter continues stroking him, waiting out the storm of Stiles’ tears, the boy’s
body heaving and jerking under his, clenching so tight as he tries to twist
away from Peter’s embrace, rattling uselessly at his chains. There’s a muffled,
shocked moan drawn from his throat as he accidentally—or perhaps not so
accidentally—drags his prostate against Peter’s cock, and it takes every scrap
of patience Peter learned in his coma not to grab the boy’s thighs and thrust
as Stiles jolts at the pleasure he pretends not to want.
But gradually, as always, Stiles tires himself out, his coy struggles slowly
easing to a helpless, sin-sweet shivering, and Peter kisses the back of his
neck in approval, presses his mouth to Stiles’ shoulder and throat. He brushes
the thumb of his free hand in an ever-decreasing circle around one of Stiles’
nipples, until he’s dragging his thumbprint lightly over pebbled flesh, his
tongue tracing the line of the artery running down his mate’s neck.
“Good boy,” Peter murmurs, and Stiles makes a soft, helpless sound, as if it
hurts, as if he’s been starving for approval for so long it’s painful to
finally get it. Peter’s hand sweeps downwards, briefly pressing flat over
Stiles’ heart, feeling for himself the pulse that’s echoed in his own chest; he
lets his hips roll, just a little, and his blood burns as Stiles moans again,
as the boy’s body moves with his unconsciously, unthinkingly, unable not to.
Enslaved to the feeling of his mate inside him, around him, mounting him, no
matter how he tries to deny it, and to prove the point Peter’s fingertips skim
lower, over Stiles’ trembling abdomen, his youthful softness that makes the
Alpha’s mouth water—
And Stiles jolts, suddenly, twists his body  away from Peter’s hand in a sharp,
desperate movement that has Peter seeing stars, his hips pulling back and
snapping in hard and sweet and deep even as he sets his teeth into the back of
his mate’s neck to hold him still for it, make him take it the way he wants to
be made to take it, the cocaine-cry muffled by the gag as Peter drove into him
breaking into a despairing sob as Peter’s hand closes around the boy’s cock and
finds what Stiles didn’t want him to find.
Because he’s hard and dripping wet—of course he is, how could he be anything
else with his mate’s scent in his lungs, his mate’s hands on him, his mate’s
teeth holding him pinned for his mate’s cock?—but where Peter expected nothing
but slickened, throbbing flesh, he finds smooth metal too.
He stills. Stiles sobs again, and Peter can smell his tears, can taste the
humiliation on his skin; he tries to hide in the pillow again, but he’s locked
in Peter’s teeth and can’t go anywhere, can’t do anything but shake as Peter
runs a wondering fingertip down the bands of metal, dark delight spilling
through him like wine as he realises what this is. He does it again, with a
claw this time, and thrills at the sound of keratin clicking against steel,
even as Stiles whimpers as the sharp edge whispers, so very, very gently, over
the sensitive skin between the bars.
Bars that are so very slippery with teenage pre-come.
Peter releases Stiles’ neck as tenderly as any kiss; the threads of blood that
trickle from the marks of his teeth are as beautiful as henna. He laps at the
shallow wounds lovingly. “Oh, Stiles,” he purrs, smears of blood on his lips as
he nuzzles at his mate’s throat. “Every time I think you couldn’t be more
perfect, you manage to surprise me.” Claws sheathed, he traces the shape of the
metal toy Stiles magicked up for himself, down to the ring that loops behind
the boy’s balls, cutting off any possibility of orgasm. In other circumstances,
it might evince Stiles’ desire not to come at all, not with Peter, a refusal of
the pleasure Peter can give him…but even without seeing the toy, Peter can feel
how it differs from the gag, from the chains. Unlike them, the cage is not
seamless. Nor does it have the kind of lock Peter thinks is standard for this
sort of device; no need for a key Peter does not have. Which leaves only one
conclusion… “Did you do this for me, sweetheart? Did you not want to come until
I was inside you?”
Stiles whines and ducks his head, but his spine arches in the same motion, a
stuttering jerk of his hips that pulls a growl of pleasure from low in Peter’s
throat. It’s all the confirmation he needs, and he rewards his mate with a
long, leisurely thrust that grinds against the boy’s prostate; Stiles moans
helplessly, pushing back against it with such beautiful, hedonistic need.
“Such a good boy for me,” Peter breathes, husky. “Clever, wicked boy.” He rolls
his hips again, drawing another shuddering moan from his mate, and presses his
lips to Stiles’ ear. “But I’m inside you now, Stiles,” he whispers, and feels
Stiles’ shudder travel all down his body, his cunt trembling and clamping
reflexively around Peter’s cock as he whimpers. “So perhaps we can dispense
with this now, hm?”
Stiles makes a high, wordless sound as Peter’s nail finds the catch on the toy,
one that could be distress or desire or equal parts both, and Peter rides out a
wave of purely animal hunger: he wants to lick the dripping bars while Stiles
whimpers and writhes, wants to take Stiles’ caged cock in his mouth and suck
until his mate sobs and begs for release, banishes the gag just to tell Peter
how badly he needs him. Peter might even do it—might even be willing to leave,
temporarily, the hot, wet silk of Stiles’ impossibly tight body—but alas,
Stiles’ chains are seamless, and since he chained himself face-down, Peter
wouldn’t have room to play and pleasure him properly.
Oh, well. Just another thing to add to the list of things to do to and for his
mate after Stiles Turns and the chains—which Peter could snap as easily as he
could tear through the band holding the gag in place, if he hadn’t decided to
respect the manifestation of Stiles’ deepest desires—are gone.
It’s nothing to flip the catch open, but Peter takes his time working the cage
free, relishing how Stiles bucks and jerks and whimpers under him, pushing
helplessly into his hand—and, in recoiling when he catches himself doing that,
driving himself back on Peter’s cock. It’s a delicious cycle Peter savours and
subtly encourages, moving his hips just enough to meet Stiles’ inadvertent
thrusts, increasing the pleasure Stiles can hardly deny when he’s wet and
twitching in Peter’s fist, the cock cage finally drawn free and tossed away to
land Peter cares-not-where, not when Stiles’ moan of relief is so very, very
sweet—
“That’s it, sweetheart, that’s it,” Peter husks, his vision awash with crimson
as Stiles’ control starts to fray, the boy’s fingers scrabbling at the pillow
and the gag not doing enough to hide his choked sobs and helpless moans as he
starts to fall into the rhythm his body knows as well as its own heartbeat; as
well as it knows Peter’s heartbeat. Even their first time together, with the
blood of the attempted Bite still on Peter’s lips as he licked into Stiles’
cursing mouth, their bodies had instinctively known how to move together the
moment Peter mounted his sweetly writhing mate. It’s even better now after all
their practice at it, so good that Peter can hardly stand it, the obscene sound
of Stiles’ wet cock thrusting into Peter’s slickened fist, the starfire-burst
as he pushes back and Peter is there to meet him, driving forward into Stiles’
soaked, tight cunt, a little harder each time, a little deeper, opening Stiles
up a little more. “Just like that. Your body knows mine, Stiles, your Spark
knows me. Just like they know what you’re meant to do, what you’re meant to be.
Just let them move you, let them take you—”
It always takes time to get Stiles to this point, to push him past his
brilliant constant thinkingand anchor him into his body, his flesh, make him
forget his fears and shames and the mythology of human morals until all he can
do is feel, until all that exists is Peter around and above him, moving deep
inside him; until there’s nothing but the pleasure and the rightness. But
Stiles falls a little faster every time, falls into it a little deeper, moves
into Peter’s thrusts a little harder. His body and magic know the truth of
Peter’s every whisper and Stiles’ human mind is slowly giving way, the reasons
to resist eroding a little more with every stroke of Peter’s cock, every kiss,
every time Peter reaches up to lace his fingers through Stiles’ bound hand.
Stiles moans through the gag, and his fingers squeeze back hard.
“That’s it, Stiles,” Peter murmurs again, husky encouragement as Stiles arches
his spine, gives Peter a better angle so that every thrust drags across his
prostate and makes him keen. “That’s it. So good at listening to your
instincts, like you’re a wolf already.” He nuzzles Stiles’ throat, and dark
delight flares in him as Stiles turns his head without thinking to bare his
neck for Peter’s mouth, his teeth.
The bite he gives Stiles in reward makes the boy jerk under him, makes him
spasm around Peter’s cock so that they both moan.
“So good,” Peter gasps, when he can breathe again. “God, Stiles, you’re so
good, so perfect for me. Can’t wait to see you when you Turn, sweetheart;
you’re going to be so beautiful. You were born to be a wolf.” He kisses the
mark already darkening on Stiles’ throat and finds himself fucking Stiles
harder, the hunger only deepening, growing more savage as Stiles makes a sharp
noise and tries to spread his legs wider for it. He doesn’t even struggle to
match the faster rhythm, their bodies falling into perfect synchronicity, and
the ache of Peter’s teeth shifting sharper in his mouth only heightens every
drop of pleasure. “My perfect mate, my beautiful Omega—”
Instantly he knows that something’s wrong; Stiles stiffens underneath him, and
not in the prelude to a shattering orgasm. The thick, hypnotic scent of his
pleasure abruptly spikes with something bitter and acidic, shock and misery and
anger all tangled together, and he jerks his head away from Peter, tries to let
go of his hand.
Peter won’t let him; with effort, he holds himself still, and the low rumble of
an Alpha’s growl emerging from his throat makes Stiles freeze underneath him
too, makes the boy stop struggling to suddenly get away from him.
“Stiles?” He closes his teeth, sharp but gentle, around Stiles’ throat for a
moment, holds it for a beat. It slows Stiles’ racing heartbeat as if the boy
were already a wolf, and gives Peter a chance to play back the last few seconds
to try and pinpoint what just happened.
Omega. He called Stiles his Omega. He’s never done that before; it was supposed
to be a surprise. But even his control can only take so much of his mate
without cracking a little, it seems.
“Omega,” he murmurs, moving his mouth almost to Stiles’ ear; and yes, Stiles
flinches, his shoulders hunching, his scent stinging like wolfsbane and genuine
tears.
Peter is baffled, and it’s hard to think when Stiles is still tight and hot and
slick around him, the pulse of him stroking Peter’s cock. But only one
explanation makes any kind of sense.
He brushes his lips over Stiles’ jaw. “Stiles,” he says again, in the Alpha
voice that makes his mate shudder and clench tight, makes him duck his head.
“What did my nephew tell you about Omegas?”
He thinks he might have to use a claw to cut Stiles’ gag free to get an answer.
He doesn’t want to—he made himself a promise to respect the choices his mate’s
Spark made for him—but he will if he has to. Stiles shakes, but the only sound
he makes is his quick, laboured breathing, and Peter’s nails are already
lengthening into claws when he hears the soft thump of the gag hitting the
mattress. Coming off on its own.
“Omegas are wolves without a pack,” Stiles says harshly, and even the bitter
tone can’t stop Peter’s heart from leaping; it’s the first time he’s heard the
boy’s voice in weeks. Stiles’ Spark kept him fed and healthy so his mate didn’t
have to remove his gag even for meals. “The lowest of the low, the weakest.
Worthless. Right?” Stiles is shaking his head without even waiting for Peter to
answer. “God, I’m so fucking stupid, I was actually starting to, to believe
you—” His voice breaks, into something like a sob, and Peter’s wolf all but
snarls.
“Stiles.”
Stiles’ mouth snaps shut, and when Peter lets go of his hand to wrap his clawed
fingers around his mate’s throat instead, he can feel the seductive motion of
Stiles swallowing at his touch. Can feel him trembling.
“That,” Peter breathes, silk and sandpaper—the softness for Stiles, the
roughness for the nephew he will carve into pieces—“is not what an Omega is.”
Stiles swallows again. Hard. Peter resists the urge to bite the exact spot
Stiles’ throat bobs against his palm.
“Let me guess,” he continues, trying to keep his voice level and calm even as
his vision stains bloody crimson as the pieces fall into place. “Has my nephew
kept you close, Stiles? Repeatedly sought you out, breached your personal
space, marked your territory with his scent?”
“My—my territory?” Stiles swallows again, and it still feels so sweet, but it
can’t dull the rage building in the pit of Peter’s stomach. “I d-don’t—he’s
been in my car, I guess? And, and he showed up in my room that one time…?”
Peter snarls, and lust cuts through Stiles’ scent as it jolts through his body,
his hole clenching tight and greedy around Peter’s cock even as he whimpers in
maybe-fear.
The reaction, the proof that his mate wants him and not Derek, soothes Peter’s
wolf somewhat. He releases Stiles’ throat, stroking the tips of his claws
lightly over sensitive skin in an apology that makes his mate shiver.
Does Stiles even realise that he pushes a little into the sharp points? Because
Peter does. It makes him twitch, throbbing and heavy, in the grip of Stiles’
body.
“He’s touched you, hasn’t he?” Peter asks, a little thickly, having to get the
words around his growing fangs and the steadily increasing desire to push
Stiles down into the sheets and rut him until he howls Peter’s name. “He
doesn’t touch Scott, but he’s touched you. He’s too graceless to know what to
do when such a priceless treasure falls into his lap, so he’s probably been
acting like the proverbial caveman. Dragging you around, throwing you up
against the nearest wall. Am I right?”
“This is—this is a really weird conversation to be having with your dick in my
ass, dude—”
“Am I right?”
That jolt of lust again, Stiles’ hips jerking back against him helplessly,
making a small rolling motion that has Peter seeing stars. “Yes,” Stiles
whispers.
Peter growls against Stiles’ neck, and Stiles shudders all over, whimpers. His
fingers twist in the pillowcase, and without thinking Peter returns his hand
there, lets Stiles grab hold and squeeze tight, needing an anchor against the
surge of his body’s instinct and his magic’s intuition that both know exactly
why Peter’s angry.
Know, and like it.
“He knows what you are, sweetheart.” Peter’s free hand strokes Stiles’ hip as
he moves, slowly drawing back only to sheath himself root-deep in his mate’s
body again. He strokes his cock in and out of that wet, hot sheath,
deliberately torturing them both, lazily, possessively caressing Stiles’
prostate until the boy is moaning and arching into him, pleading for more—and
God, he sounds even sweeter without the gag than Peter ever dreamed he would.
“He could hardly miss it. Even he’s not blind enough for that. He was trying to
lay claim to you—” His hips snap in hard, then, tearing a little cry from
Stiles’ throat, “—so that when he killed the big bad Alpha tearing through this
little town, and took its power, he could Bite you and make you his.”
“F-fuck, fuck,I don’t, why would he—w-want—oh, God—”
Peter’s wolf preens to hear Stiles losing his grip on words, but can’t blame
him; even the urge to rip his nephew’s throat out blurs and loses meaning as
every inhale drags the scent of Stiles’ pleasure and desire deep into Peter’s
lungs, only barely spiced now with the excitement of resistance. “Because
‘omega’ means ‘last’, Stiles. As in, the final power, the one who completes the
circle. The one who protects the den and cares for the cubs; the last line of
defence, as the Alpha is the first.” He nuzzles Stiles’ throat, dragging his
teeth over the throbbing pulse-point, and growls approval at his mate’s
whimper. “Isn’t that what you are, sweetheart?” he murmurs. “Wouldn’t you do
anything to protect the ones you love? Wouldn’t you die for them? Wouldn’t you
kill?”
Stiles pants, and whines, but he doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t even try, just
shudders and ducks his head even as he arches harder into Peter’s every thrust,
and Peter wants to howl with triumph.
“I’ll build you a beautiful pack, Stiles,” he promises, shifting the hand at
Stiles’ hip to wrap his arm around his mate’s waist, and Stiles rewards him
with a heroin-sweet cry as he slams into Stiles harder, faster. “One worthy of
your devotion, your loyalty. Fierce and strong and perfect. The family you
always craved, and they’ll be all yours, yours and mine.”
Every thrust draws a high, wrecked sound from Stiles’ lips, and his knuckles
are white where he holds Peter’s hand. “S-Scott—”
“Yes, of course we’ll keep him. He’s yours, isn’t he?” Stiles moans at that,
and Peter laps the sweat from the tendons of Stiles’ neck. “Even Derek,” he
adds magnanimously, more than a little drunk on the scent of his mate’s
pleasure, the fluttering clamp and squeeze of Stiles’ hole around his cock. “If
you want him. You’ll be able to keep him in line once you Turn, precious boy.
He won’t be able to resist your power.”
“My S-sp—?”
“No, sweetheart. Not your Spark,” Peter says, heat like molten silver spilling
through him. “Your power as an Omega.” He drags his teeth over the mark he left
on that creamy skin earlier, and Stiles whimpers, bares his throat to his
Alpha.
Peter grabs his hair and turns Stiles’ face to his, and finally, finally takes
that mouth in the deep, devouring kiss he’s been starving for since the gag
appeared, licks his mate open wet and filthy and kisses him until Stiles is
gasping, thrusting back to meet Peter’s cock, the chains rattling and clinking
as Stiles tries to reach for him—
As Stiles kisses him back—
“So good,” Peter murmurs, when they break to breathe. “So perfect for me,
Stiles,” and hears the boy’s heartbeat stutter at the praise, hears him mewl
against Peter’s lips—
“Omegas are rarer than diamonds,” Peter breathes, imprinting the words on
Stiles’ mouth. “And a thousand times as precious. Priceless. Every Alpha dreams
of having an Omega mate.”
Stiles is gasping under him, writhing as he understands what Peter’s saying,
every line of him a work of art and Peter swears he can feel it, the starfire-
shine of his mate’s magic spiralling, gathering, building like an orgasm and
promising to be just as soul-searingly good. His own heart pounds, wondering,
hoping, hungry for it to be this time, for it to finally happen. “What—w-why—”
“Because they can forge pack-bonds, silver boy. An Alpha can Turn new wolves,
but an Omega makes them pack. Weaves them in and binds them.” Peter can’t help
the soft growl of pleasure that escapes him as Stiles shudders, shudders and
shakes— “Omegas aren’t weak, Stiles. They draw other wolves to them as the moon
draws us, irresistible, magnetic. An Alpha commands through strength, but an
Omega’s smile will send a whole pack to war—unite them against an outside
enemy, or even bring them to tear their own Alpha down.”
He nuzzles Stiles’ jaw. “An Omega just come into their gifts is vulnerable,” he
says softly. “For a little while, an Alpha can force a bond on them, make them
obey. That’s what Derek will have wanted; to be an Alpha, and have you as his
own, to build his pack and have you hold them together. I almost can’t blame my
idiot nephew for his crude scheming; there is no greater prize than an Omega to
guard your cubs and tend your den, and for it to be not just any Omega, but
you...”
He kisses the corner of his mate’s wet, swollen mouth. “When you Turn,” he
whispers, “you’ll bring wolves to their knees for love of you, Stiles. You’ll
be able to ensnare them in a slavery they’ll beg for, and the more you bind,
the stronger you’ll be. If you fight, you’ll do it with the strength of every
wolf you’ve bound to you—or you’ll unite and direct them like a General with
their army. You will not be weak, and you will never be worthless.”
Stiles is breathing faster, and there’s no more pretence, nothing but desire
and bliss in his scent, in the ethereally graceful, exquisitely desperate
motions of his body. Peter isn’t sure Stiles even notices when the chains melt
away like sugar in the rain, with the air hot and thick around them, almost
vibrating with pleasure and power.
“But you’ll be mine,” Peter promises, his voice growing hoarser, rougher, more
bestial as the pressure, the tension, builds and builds, anticipation and
hunger honing the pleasure almost unbearably sharp. Stiles whines with nothing
but want as the base of Peter’s cock starts to swell, squirming back against
the growing flesh as if to screw himself open on it. It makes Peter slam into
him, giving him what he wants, unable not to. “You are mine. As I am yours.” He
squeezes Stiles’ fingers, slides his other hand to rest low on his mate’s
stomach, knuckles brushing the boy’s desperately hard, dripping cock. “I won’t
bind you,” he husks. “We’re already bound, Stiles. More deeply and purely than
anything another Alpha could force on you. All you have to do is feel it,
sweetheart.”
Stiles is panting, half-sobbed curses and needy whimpers escaping him as
Peter’s knot plucks at his strained, tight hole, swelling a little more with
every thrust. It hurts, it must hurt, but Stiles was born to be his and he only
spreads his legs wider for it, lowers his hips a little to better the angle and
Peter loves him for it, can hardly stand it, feeling Stiles dripping pre-come
over himself and onto the sheets, smearing wet over Peter’s knuckles, Stiles
clutching his other hand almost as tightly as his body closes greedy-needy
around Peter’s thick, throbbing knot as it pushes inside, seals Stiles shut and
stuffs him full, locks them together as inescapably as did the first moment
they touched.
“Can you?” Peter asks hoarsely, his eyes garnet-red as Stiles cries out, just
once, an almost-howl of some starving hunger sated, an aching hollowness
finally filled. “Can you feel how deep I am inside you, Stiles?” The boy
shudders and moans beneath him, melting into a bonelessness Peter’s never seen
in him except in moments like this one, when he’s stretched so tight around
Peter the werewolf can feel his mate’s heartbeat pulsing around his knot. The
pain that would make anyone else tense up has Stiles turning warm and soft as a
lit candle, relaxes him as nothing else can, and one doesn’t need a psychology
degree to understand why. Not when Peter feels it too: the proof that Stiles is
his, the impossibly arousing reassurance that his mate won’t, can’t leave him.
Peter has Stiles caught, mounted, mated. But Stiles has him just as surely,
securely.
“Deep enough that I can never get out,” Peter says hoarsely, when he can speak.
“Never leave you, never want to. All yours, and yours alone.” He nuzzles the
soft, sensitive spot behind Stiles’ ear, licks it. Carefully—oh, so carefully,
so attentively tenderly with his fragile human mate!—he rolls his hips, just a
little, and savours the deep moan it earns him. He does it again, grinding the
flesh-fist of his knot over Stiles’ prostate softly, and Stiles sobs, his free
hand scrabbling at the sheets as a spurt of helpless pre-come slicks Peter’s
fingers.
“Peter!”
Peter shudders with savage lust, primal triumph that sears like the full moon’s
light; he presses his palm harder against Stiles’ stomach, holding the boy up,
and swears he can feel the edge of his knot through his mate’s flesh, just.
“I’m right here, Stiles,” he soothes through a mouth full of fangs, his voice
rough-soft as satin. “I’m right here. I’ll always be here.” He continues to
move his hips, so softly, so gently, moving his knot just a half-inch or so
back and forth, and Stiles keens and clutches his hand so tightly that were he
a werewolf, Peter’s fingers would undoubtedly be broken. Peter doesn’t care:
let them break. He’s not letting go.
“You just have to let me in, silver boy,” he whispers. “Let me knot your soul
along with your beautiful body, fill you up so you’ll never be empty again.” He
brushes his lips, and the tips of his fangs, over Stiles’ jaw, rolling his hips
steadily now, rocking back and forth over the teenager’s sweet spot as the
sounds falling like jewels from Stiles’ lips grow higher and higher in pitch.
“Let me love you, sweetheart,” Peter breathes, like a promise, like a plea,
like a prayer. “Let yourself be loved.”
Stiles’ body jolts as though struck by lightning, by bliss and by his own
magic, and his cry as he comes—untouched, spilling his seed on the sheets from
nothing more than the pleasure-pain of his Alpha’s knot inside him—breaks into
a wolf’s howl mid-way through. It’s the sound as much as Stiles’ writhing, sin-
silk cunt around his knot that drags Peter down with him, his own release
taking him like jaws snapping shut around his throat; that sharp, that sudden,
that deadly-perfect—and as he slams in deep and fills his mate with his come,
Stiles tilts his head just enough for Peter to see Stiles’ Spark stain his eyes
bright, full-moon Omega silver.
End Notes
     I might eventually write a sequel wherein BAMF!Omega!Stiles sets
     about taking over the world Beacon Hills with his Alpha mate. Who
     else wants to see Derek on his knees, helpless before his uncle’s
     Omega? That’s totally a thing that needs to happen, right?
     ...Yeah, that’s totally a thing that needs to happen. *scribbles
     notes*
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