Chapter Text
Stiles Stilinski was an infuriating, troublesome, impossible creature, and one which Peter found himself exceptionally fond of. Funny, that. Peter had never anticipated himself coming to care about anyone or anything quite the same way he had as before, yet here was this fumbling mess of a boy rekindling something inside him which he had long assumed to have been burnt out. Perhaps it was the sharp wit of his tongue, not unlike Peter's own. Or possibly the jaded, jagged edges of loss casting a darkness in Stiles that Peter understood all too well. Maybe Peter had simply been charmed by the boy's—frankly impressive—embodiment of a walking disaster. Whatever it may be, Peter was hopelessly besotted.
It hadn't started out that way, of course.
When Peter had first laid eyes upon Stiles, it had been with, at most, a passing interest laced with a large dose of exasperation. He had an Argent to track down and bring an agonizing end to, the half-insane rage of an alpha spark coursing through his veins, and far too many dimwitted teenagers to contend with; Peter hadn't the patience for a smart-mouthed boy who refused to comply. However, even then, he had seen something in Stiles which hadn't been present in any of the others. Stiles had been the sole spark of curiosity to catch Peter's interest—the only potential packmate Peter had wanted to invite in.
And yet the boy had turned him down. Emphatically.
That had certainly stung, and Peter had nursed over that particular bruise to his ego for a long time after. He had let it go, eventually, of course—there was use in having a human pack member, after all, particularly one as clever as Stiles—but he couldn't deny that the thought of what might have been did still occasionally pass his mind. Peter upheld that Stiles would have been a magnificent wolf. It really was a shame he would never get to see it.
However, there was a sweet vulnerability to Stiles, human as he was, that Peter had to admit he found equally as enticing. Peter was a natural-born predator, after all; no one could blame him for enjoying the pursuit of delectable, fragile things—particularly when they put up a fight. And Stiles had certainly shown himself to be worthwhile prey many times over. He never failed to surprise Peter with his ingenuity and resourcefulness, proving without a doubt how he was capable well beyond whatever physical limitations he may have. It made Peter proud, in a way, to have a human pack member who could hold his own against and keep up with the wolves. Peter had come to respect and appreciate Stiles just as he was, and now... well, if given the chance to turn him, Peter was no longer certain he'd take it.
Stiles, on the other hand, had taken a markedly longer period of time to warm up to Peter. He supposed he couldn't blame him; Peter hadn't exactly been what one would describe as “well-behaved” when they first met. He could admit to being, perhaps, slightly blinded by his own vengeful ambitions. A touch warped by flame, too. Resurrecting had been a boon—unfortunate loss of alphahood aside—realigning much of what had been damaged within him. And over the two years since then, he and Stiles had managed to move past those rocky first impressions into marginally more civil territory. That is to say, Peter came to quite like the boy, while Stiles came to grudgingly tolerate him in return; their mutual dance of dry wit and biting sarcasm acting as the olive branch between them.
There were times when Peter had caught whiffs of something more—the tantalizing phantom spice of curiosity—but it wasn't until that fateful night in the woods that Peter had fully grasped the depths of Stiles' budding attraction.
It was a favorite memory of his now.
Ah, his troublesome, sweet boy had gotten himself caught by one of those pesky witches that had been plaguing Beacon Hills at the time (Peter truly did not care for witches), requiring him to swoop in for the rescue. Once that unseemly wench had been disposed of, Peter had turned to look at Stiles and, almost immediately, the scent of something deliciously spiced had bloomed from him and saturated the air, prominent enough to even rise above the metallic stench of blood. Peter could see the arousal plain as day on Stiles' obscenely gaping face—along with his adorably mounting horror over his body's reaction—and in that moment, Peter knew, without a doubt, that Stiles would be his.
The subsequent chase had been exhilarating. It wasn't without its bumps, naturally—Stiles' continued misconstruing of Peter's intentions had been a particularly frustrating snag—but the bulk of their little game had been very gratifying. Stiles was so delightfully easy to work up. Even the slightest hint of anything provocative would send the boy spiraling into a hormonal nosedive and make him rapidly oscillate between tongue-tied and tongue-loose, prompting him to spill out the most amusing and fascinating of nonsense. Peter enjoyed seeing the unexpected places Stiles' frantic, whip-sharp mind would jump to as he attempted to ramble his way out of an uncomfortable situation and distract Peter from his body's blatant physical reactions. It was a bit like watching a flustered cat lick itself to hide its blunder, Peter thought. Very endearing.
Peter's favorite peculiar little quirk of Stiles', however, was when the boy would get lost staring with his mouth left parted open just so. The pretty, curved bow of his lips, that pink tongue that would occasionally dart out... Ah, it never failed to evoke the feral urge in Peter to slide his co*ck right into that perfect, wet mouth. Peter had idly thought about f*cking Stiles' mouth many times before his pursuit began (Stiles' mouth was, perhaps, Peter's favorite thing about the boy—both for how tempting it looked and for how sharply it spoke), but once their little dance had begun, it became a torturous exercise in self-control for Peter. Every time he looked at Stiles, he wanted nothing more than to pin him down and sully the boy in every conceivable way.
Choosing to wait until Stiles was ready had been difficult, but very, very worth it. The longer Peter made him go without, the more deliciously desperate his scent had become. And Peter oh-so enjoyed winding Stiles up and watching him go, relishing in his sweet boy turning progressively more frazzled and frustrated at his every teasing touch. Stiles' nervous excitement, earnest desire to please, and indignant, flustered grouching charmed Peter to no end. Holding off until the precise moment for Stiles to ripen had been a challenge, yes, but when Peter did pluck him, the fruits of his labor had tasted to perfection.
Stiles had been so beautifully receptive to Peter's affections. He’d looked gorgeous spread out underneath him, all needy and gasping, begging Peter to f*ck him. His moans had been the sweetest of trills, spurring Peter on to shower him in pleasure and coax as many of those sweet, enticing sounds from the boy’s lips as he possibly could. And when Peter had finally sunk his co*ck into the tantalizingly wet heat of Stiles’ mouth and felt that slick, shy tongue along his length for the first time? Hell, Peter had nearly lost control on the spot. He hadn't, of course—Peter's grip on his wolf was impeccable—but it had been a dangerously near thing. Stiles had been utterly perfect. Sloppy, clearly inexperienced, yes, but his earnest attempts to please had been a heaven all unto their own. And Peter could already envision how skilled that mouth would one day become with further practice and under his guiding hand.
f*cking Stiles, though? Gods, that had been sublime. At long last, Peter had taken his prize, and, oh, how the hot grip of the boy around his co*ck had stolen his breath away. Stiles' body was utter perfection, a flawless design handcrafted by the gods uniquely and exclusively for him. And with each thrust he had staked his claim, had devoured Stiles and stripped him of any vestiges of innocence he had yet still possessed. Peter had made sure to thoroughly defile him, and in doing so brought the dark, skulking beast within to a howling, victorious euphoria. Stiles was his now.
The thought alone brought a vicious, curling rush of self-satisfaction to Peter, even now.
There was, however, one teensy little problem Peter may have forgotten to mention in all this. Something that had, unfortunately, slipped his mind during his fervent pursuit of the boy. Nothing extreme, mind you, only a slight hang-up.
You see, after Peter had thoroughly ravished Stiles Saturday evening, an unexpected pack meeting had been called on Sunday. Something to do with out-of-town hunters showing up—likely late to the lamia party, if he had to guess—and Derek wanting to press upon everyone, directly, the importance of caution and appropriate behaviors while the Argents ran interference. Not something Peter was particularly concerned about in and of itself.
The problem with this, however...
“Why do you reek like Peter and sex?"
...was that the smell of one's sexual exploits could not so easily be washed off as regular scenting could. That kind of intimacy—the sharing of essence and seed—seeped far deeper into one’s skin. It lingered, creating a more permanent and noticeable mark.
What was the appropriate response for situations like this again?
Ah, yes.
Oops.
"What?!" came Stiles' strangled reply as he stared at Isaac—who was lounging on the couch alongside Erica and Boyd—with wide eyes, frozen in place halfway between the door and living area like a deer caught in headlights.
Peter had himself arrived at the pack house early, well before most of the other members had shown up, but only bothered to make an appearance once he heard Stiles' jeep coming up the drive. It would seem his presence and scent had fortuitously gone as of yet unnoticed, but, then again, Peter was often ignored at pack meetings, so he couldn't say he was particularly surprised by their inattentiveness.
"Oh my god, for real?!" exclaimed Erica, her face a perfect cast of gleeful disbelief. She clambered over Isaac to lean across the couch's arm rest and get a whiff for herself, then immediately gasped. "Stiles!"
"No!" Stiles took an automatic step back, horror rapidly overtaking his face. Oh, Peter found that expression quite charming on him, as well.
"Dude?!" And that would be Scott, coming out from the kitchen. His look of growing horror, on the other hand, was not charming. Peter didn't even bother to suppress his eye roll.
"It-it's not what you think!" Stiles' voice quivered in an endearing, nervous way and he raised his hands up in defense.
"So you didn't bathe in Peter's ji*zz?" Isaac asked, voice dripping with sarcasm.
"I didn't bathe in—" Stiles tried, but was immediately cut off by Scott.
"You had sex with Peter?!" The poor, moronic twit seemed unable to process the information.
"Was he good?" needled Erica.
"Ooh, congratulations, Stiles," chimed Lydia from the loveseat. Hm, surprisingly supportive indeed.
"Dude, with Peter?!" Scott, again.
"No longer a virgin loser, huh, Stilinski?" And that would be Jackson, insolent as ever. Oddly enough, however, Peter noted the teen sounded almost proud.
"Be nice, Jackson." Well, at least Lydia had manners between the two of them.
"Ugh, now I'm imagining it. Gross," groaned Cora, leaning as far away from Stiles in her chair as she could. Rude.
The only ones who didn't join in on the opinionated prying were Boyd, who merely observed the commotion quietly from his spot at the opposite end of the couch with raised brows, and Derek, who had only just exited the kitchen. He moved to stand next to where Peter was seated at the base of the stairs and rubbed a hand down his face in clear exasperation.
"Oh my god, yes, okay! I had sex with Peter!" Stiles exploded, silencing the pack's boisterous chatter. His face was a striking shade of red, his chest heaving from the outburst. Peter could hear his jackrabbiting pulse from all the way across the room, clear as a bell, as if he were standing just beside him. "It's—! Look, okay, Peter isn't— he's not that bad! We've been, well, we've kinda been dating... for a while now? Like, over a month. Plus some change, for flirting. Or, well, more like stalking on Peter's part, but that's besides the point. What I mean is it's been a thing—me and him, that is." He spoke in hopeless, stilted little bursts, his face turning blotchier the longer he went on. "And he's—actually pretty great? Like, really great, actually. It’s—been nice."
Peter smiled. Bless this beautiful disaster of a boy.
"Aw, sweetheart," he called out, deciding now was the time for him to finally join in on the conversation. "You're pretty great yourself."
Every pair of eyes in the room immediately whipped around to stare at him.
Honestly, he thought. The pack was in a severe need of a refresher course on awareness for one's surroundings. How no one aside from Derek had noticed Peter sitting there was beyond him.
"It's true, of course," Peter went on, a devil’s smirk on his lips. "Stiles has been very thoroughly deflowered now, thanks to yours truly."
"Oh my god, that is not helpful, Peter!" Stiles protested in a cute, squeaking voice.
"Darling, I'm just cutting to the chase. As adorable as your embarrassed rambling is, it's not painting a particularly clear picture of things."
"We really don't need a picture painted for us, thanks," cut in Cora, looking mildly disgusted.
With her interruption, it was as though the spell Stiles' outburst had cast on the pack finally broke. Everyone started speaking up in scandalized excitement again, all at once.
"I can't believe you boned Peter."
"Oh my god, I want all the details!"
“But- but just last week you called him a creepy dick! How could you want to—I mean, dude, it's Peter!"
"Look, okay, I know it's weird, guys! But we just- we just fit, alright?"
"Yeah, I bet you do."
"Eugh!"
“I didn’t mean it like that!”
Peter watched on, amused, as the pack squabbled over the shocking revelation of their relationship. Stiles attempted several more times to get ahead of it and to explain things, trying his best to persuade everyone into trusting him about how dating Peter was a good thing, actually (Peter naturally agreed), and to not freak out. To the pack's credit, the only one really freaking out was Scott, who still couldn't seem to wrap his head around the concept. Peter was sure he'd get there eventually, however.
Just as he had expected, the pack's overall reaction wasn't nearly as extreme as Stiles had been tying himself up into knots over. Stiles would no doubt be at the receiving end of some good-natured teasing for a while—and Peter likely at the end of some admiringly protective threatening at some point—but it wouldn’t be anything either of them couldn't handle.
It warmed him, Peter realized, to have things out in the open with the pack. Peter was generally secretive by nature, but his claim on Stiles was something he wanted to be known. He wanted the pack to recognize that Stiles was his and to defer to him with his care. He also, if Peter was being truly honest with himself, simply didn't want to hide the adoration he felt for the boy any longer. He wasn't so excessively taken with love as to want to shout his feelings from mountain tops, or do anything else equally as ridiculous, but he did want the option to touch Stiles as he pleased around the others. He wanted to scent Stiles and let his claim stay in place. He wanted the opportunity to be possessive.
Peter, of course, wouldn't deny he'd also enjoy the opportunity to rile up the pack while at it.
He was a man of simple pleasures, after all. Pot stirring being one of them.
Besides, as embarrassed as his sweetheart was at that moment, Peter knew Stiles would revel in casual, open displays of affection once the dust finally settled. Stiles had never before been the focus of someone's freely given adoration, only the unrequited giver. Peter wanted to change that. He wanted Stiles' scent to bloom and curl with warm, contented pleasure. He wanted to fulfill Stiles in every which way he was capable of providing. He wanted his perfect, sweet boy to want for nothing, to have no doubts of how exceptionally special he truly was, and for everyone around him to also know it.
It was not lost on Peter how utterly wrapped he already was around Stiles' slender, deft fingers. But, well... he supposed there were worse weaknesses one could have. His clever boy was just as hell-bent around pleasing and protecting him, after all.
Turning away from the pack's ongoing bickering, Peter cast his gaze over to where Derek was still standing nearby, looking comically pained by the whole ordeal.
"I'm surprised my dearest nephew hasn't yet weighed in on the good news," he remarked, snagging Derek's attention.
Derek shot a dark scowl at Peter, clearly not a fan of his teasing.
"Really? Nothing to add? No scornful remarks on how I should stay away from Stiles?"
"I've long since given up on trying to tell either of you what to do," Derek finally said.
Peter raised an eyebrow, honestly a touch surprised. He had been certain Derek, at the very least, would have some opinions he'd feel compelled to press upon Peter.
"Besides," Derek reluctantly continued, as though speaking on this subject was about as pleasant as pulling teeth, "I've known for... a while. You two aren't exactly subtle."
Both of Peter's eyebrows shot up at that. "What gave it away?"
"You started acting weird around Stiles. After the coven. And I know what it looks like when you become fixated on something."
Derek had noticed from that early on? Perhaps Peter didn't give his dear nephew and alpha quite enough credit.
"I didn't realize it was serious until after your trip to Oregon, though," Derek added in a softer tone. "The way you looked at him changed sometime after that."
Peter was genuinely taken aback by just how perceptive Derek had apparently been. Before he could formulate a response, however, a voice cut into their conversation.
"Wait, you knew all along?!"
Stiles stood a few paces away, mouth agape, obviously having caught the tail end of their discussion. The rest of the pack appeared to be half caught up in gossip, half caught up in trying to console an earth-shaken Scott.
"You especially weren't subtle," Derek practically growled, emphasizing his words with a jab of a finger.
"What? Psh, yeah right! Subtle is practically my middle name!"
Peter snorted. Derek merely looked unimpressed.
"...Yeah, okay, maybe not so much," Stiles admitted after a beat of silence, shifting from one foot to the other. "But what the hell! You knew and didn't say anything? Do you have any idea how much I agonized over your eyebrows of doom?! Hours, Derek. Literal hours of worrying about how you were going to glare me into dust if you found out!"
Derek released a long, suffering sigh. It wasn’t the first time he had heard Stiles go on about his “eyebrows of doom,” and most certainly would not be the last time, either. Peter thought the description entertainingly apt, but decided to keep that opinion to himself for the time being.
"The last thing I need is to get involved in whatever the hell you two get up to together. Yeah, hard pass."
"Probably for the best," Peter casually interjected. "Stiles and I get up to plenty together on our own already."
"Well...," Stiles started, his face flushing but a grin spreading across it nonetheless. He cleared his throat in an attempt to cover up a giddy laugh. "Yeah. That we do. Sorry Der-bear, he's got a point; this is a Stiles and Peter only party."
Peter was once again struck with a flash of amused affection. Such a ridiculous boy. Derek, on the other hand, groaned and rubbed once more at his temple.
"And this is exactly why I wanted nothing to do with it. Please go away."
“Aw, Der-bear, no need to get so grumpy,” Peter tutted. “Stiles, sweetheart, I think our dear alpha here doesn't appreciate the deep passion we share for each other.”
Stiles, catching on immediately (such a clever boy), gasped and clutched a hand to his chest. “Derek, no! You’d really deny us this budding opportunity at romance? Have you no heart?!”
Oh, Peter realized. Having their little secret out in the open now was going to be fun. He hadn’t considered that possibly before—the laughs he and Stiles could have with this. A slow smirk curled wide and vicious across his face.
“Please, stop,” Derek anguished, pained resignation plain in his voice. Peter now understood precisely why Derek had kept well and clear of their game despite catching on to things so early. Well, that was just too bad for him.
“Fear not, my darling,” Peter said to Stiles, laying it on thick. “I shall cherish you regardless of Derek’s approval.”
“Aw, Peter…” Stiles appeared struck with overwhelming emotion, his fingers tightening around the fabric of his shirt. A warbling snicker, however, nearly threatened to break through his façade. He parted his perfect bow lips to say more, but was abruptly interrupted.
“Jesus, get a room already!” came an annoyed voice from across the living space. Jackson's, Peter belatedly realized, when Lydia lightly smacked at his arm.
"Oh my god, please!" added Cora, her expression played up to look as though she might vomit. Such a rude girl.
Stiles had whipped back around to face the pack, his cheeks once again turning a dark, appealing shade of crimson. He didn't look apologetic anymore, though. He instead puffed up and placed his hands on his hips, determined to stand his ground in spite of the ribbing. Peter couldn't help but feel proud. Half of those brats had sucked face in front of them, after all; they were hardly in any position to cast judgment.
In fact, Peter thought, a leer stretching across his lips, perhaps that was just the remedy the situation called for. He gracefully stood up from his perch on the stairs, catching the attention of a few pack members (and Derek's low grumble of "oh, great"), and stepped up next to Stiles.
Stiles, noticing his approach, turned to look at him with a preciously confused expression. His cheeks were still a little splotchy and his lips hung open in that way that drove Peter mad. The wolf rippled under his skin and his smile—which he had shifted into something more appropriately innocent—broadened as their eyes met. Stiles blinked, sensing Peter was about to do something, but unsure of what.
Without saying a word, Peter captured Stiles' face with a hand and directed him up into a kiss. He wasted no time, sliding his tongue along Stiles' soft lips and begging entrance right away. His sweet boy readily—automatically—complied, parting his mouth and allowing Peter inside without a second thought. Peter stepped closer, resting his other hand along Stiles' hip and slipping his fingers up under the hem of his shirt to rub at the warm stretch of skin just above his waistband. Their kiss turned rapidly filthy, morphing into something wildly inappropriate for an audience, and the resulting slew of groans and protests from their packmates filled Peter with immense and immediate glee.
When he finally pulled back, Stiles' expression was dazed and pleasantly flushed. He smelled delicious, the sweet-spicy scent of arousal mixing with a warm, rich note of affection and curling out all around him, no doubt putting on quite the olfactory show for the rest of the pack. A possessive, bestial kind of satisfaction sparked within Peter from knowing he had been the one to draw out that tantalizing smell and put that glazed-over look across his sweetheart's face. Yet more proof that Stiles was unequivocally his.
"Look at you," Peter purred lowly. "I'm tempted to take you again here and now, right in front of everybody."
"Huwah?" was Stiles' charmingly eloquent response amongst a spate of outraged and groaning objections.
“Uh, what?!” That was Scott, sounding particularly frantic.
“Oh my god, please don’t.” Cora, and echoed by Jackson and Isaac.
“Peter, I swear to f*cking god.” And there would be Derek, already sounding at his wit’s end.
Peter smirked, but before he could get so much as another word out, a couch pillow was unceremoniously chucked straight at his head. It bounced harmlessly off him, of course, but the shock of it startled Stiles back into focus. He immediately broke out into a stilted giggle when he saw Peter’s indignant expression, and stepped back to put a more appropriate distance between them.
"Yeah, not sure that would go over so well, chief," he said, grinning broadly at Peter despite how deeply flustered he clearly was.
"A shame," Peter said, quickly shooting a dark, cutting smile towards whichever brat had thrown that pillow (he heavily suspected Cora, based on her particularly smug look of disgust), before refocusing on Stiles and tacking on a salacious, "Well, I guess I'll just have to save you for later, then." When a fresh spike of arousal wafted off the boy, Peter's smile only widened.
"Yeah, later! Later sounds, uh, really good,” he said, flushing beautifully.
Scott, who had at some point squeezed himself between Erica and Isaac on the couch, muttered a faint, "Jesus. I think I need to sit down."
Erica snigg*red and helpfully informed him, "You already are sitting down, you goof."
"Then I need to sit down even harder!" Scott whined. Peter was wholly unsympathetic. He would roll his eyes, but doing so would unfortunately ruin the shameless, self-satisfied air he was currently busy putting on.
Isaac at least gave an acceptable snort in his stead, but then had to follow it up with a consoling pat on the shoulder. “Hey man, at least you don't have to see them going at it, right?”
"Yeah," Boyd added casually, "until he drops by Stiles' place and accidentally walks in on them."
Several of the pack members snorted in response, but Scott groaned pitifully and sunk further into the couch.
(Please. As though Peter would ever let Scott walk in on them.)
"I don't know, sounds kind of hot to me!" Erica said, leering. "Maybe I should stop by unannounced more often." She shot Stiles and him a pointed, considering look. Peter had to admire her audacity, but also: no.
"Jesus, can we change the subject already?"
"There’s no need to get jealous, Jackson."
"I'm not jealous, Lydia—"
"Yes please to the subject change," Cora swiftly cut in, smacking a hand down on the coffee table for emphasis. "Before Stiles stinks the house up even further with another one of his boners."
"Hey!" Stiles squawked indignantly.
Peter’s eyes narrowed and his smile sharpened. He took a step closer to Stiles and pressed a soothing hand against the small of his back.
"I think Stiles smells lovely,” he said with a brazen purr, looking directly at Cora.
That prompted an immediate scoff out of her and snort from Isaac.
"Yeah, you would,” said Isaac.
Derek, still standing off to the side by the stairs, heaved out an aggravated sigh. He shot Peter one more and final dark look before pinching the bridge of his nose and turning to leave the room, apparently having maxed out his pack drama quota for the day. A pity.
"Oh my god, okay! Alright!” Stiles burst out, stepping forward and frantically waving his arms about. “Stiles also votes for a subject change already! Please!" As was his custom when faced with a highly embarrassing situation, he dove headlong into a babble. "We should talk about those hunters instead! That's why we're all here, right? Hey! Hey, Derek! Come back and tell us about the hunters! No? Uh, then why don’t we go over next month's plans for renewing all the wards again! Or- or how about that big lacrosse game coming up this week, huh, guys? Think they stand a chance, or have we got this in the bag? Or, hey, what about that one musical Lydia's been praising lately? That's still in theaters, right? What do ya say, pack movie night out, anybody?"
Despite Peter's best efforts to retain a smug and condescending visage, he couldn't help but soften as Stiles prattled on. The sharp, leering smirk he wore slowly shifted into a more genuine smile, and he reflexively relaxed and angled his body towards Stiles as he spoke. By the end of his ridiculous ramble, Peter's face held nothing but a gentle, exasperated fondness.
Gods, but this boy was going to absolutely devastate his reputation, Peter was certain of it.
He couldn't bring himself to particularly mind all that much, however, not when Stiles also brought such a lustrous, vivid light back into his life. Already, Peter was an irrevocable lost cause. Wretchedly, pitifully in love. Oh, how the Fates must howl over the twists they'd spun out for him.
Stiles liked to blame everything that had transpired between them these last few months on his “mutinous dick.” He would frequently tell Peter—when Peter was making a point of being especially vexing so as to wind his darling up just so—how he never would have gotten into this mess if not for his dick refusing to behave itself. Peter found his excuses entertaining and dubious at best, but had no problems humoring them. If Stiles wanted him to show his dick gratitude, well, Peter was certainly amicable to the idea. Really, Peter would willingly worship every inch of Stiles if he could.
In fact, that sounded rather appealing.
Maybe that should be his next plan: a weekend of Stiles detained exclusively to his apartment—namely his bed—where Peter would take his precious time breaking him apart piece by piece. When he was finished, he'd put Stiles back together again with such care and adoration that the boy would be utterly and permanently ruined for anyone else.
Yes, Peter thought to himself as he smiled fondly at Stiles. The boy had successfully sidetracked the pack into a squabble over movies, and was now arguing along animatedly in an effort to keep them further distracted.
Yes, he quite liked the sound of that.
