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Peter's hand is an iron band across the back of Stiles' neck, holding her down so effortlessly that Stiles doesn’t even have it in her to struggle. She’s been manhandled by werewolves before, but nothing like this. Scott was all rage and primal instinct, while Derek was all anger but oddly gentle for how badly he clearly wanted to beat her senseless. Peter, on the other hand… Peter’s strength is smooth, strong, and steady. Here is a werewolf who knows the bounds of his strength, and applies it as necessary.
Peter is controlled.
Stiles groans as her cheek hits the cold metal of the car; groans again when she feels the tell-tale tightening of her gut. Shit.
"I can be very persuasive, Stiles," Peter says, lightly, not a trace of anger in his voice, as if forcefully bending a sixteen-year-old teenager in a very short dress over the hood of a dead woman’s car was normal; as if she couldn’t feel him lined up against the side of her body in a blazing line of heat and muscles. She’s long known that being manhandled was a thing; Jackson had already nicely proven that for her back in the eighth grade, but this? This is fire racing through her veins, a sharp, aching throb between her legs, and her heartbeat suddenly going machine-gun rapid. And he’s a werewolf, which means that unlike Jackson, he knows exactly what he’s doing to her.
And then Peter is moving, pressing himself firmly into her body from behind, and she can feel everything. His grip tightens on the back of her neck, a slight tell-tale pricking sensation that lets her know claws have been drawn – and hello new kink. "Don't make me persuade you," he warns, and his breath is warm against the side of Stiles' face. Stiles stills. He’s really, really close and despite what her body is suddenly very desperately sure it wants, there’s still the fact that he’s pressing her over the trunk of his dead nurse’s car, with said dead nurse inside. There’s also the fact that Peter likely is bug-nuts crazy, but that’s not as big a turn-off as one might think, so she focuses firmly on the rotting corpse she’s currently positioned over.
"Okay," Stiles gasps as Peter leans his head to the side to in nose at the skin behind her ears, breathing deeply. Christ, he's scenting her. “Can you back off me now? ‘Cause this is seriously starting to get really uncomfortable, what with the dead body and all.” There's a warm huff of laughter against her ear, and an even warmer hand settling on her hip, pulling her more firmly into his body, heat bleeding through the flimsy satin of her dress, and her breath catches in her throat at what she feels pressed into her ass. “Or you could do that,” she says, unable to stop the whimper that escapes her as she feels him hardening.
"I think," Peter says quietly, the hand against her neck squeezing sharply before moving, fingers tipped in razor-sharp claws trailing down Stiles' back, leaving firey trails of not-quite-pain, “that you want to be persuaded.” And that voice of his dipping into that completely innappropriate bedroom-purr? That should be illegal.
Stiles can’t help the way her body arches, pressing firmly into him. She can’t help the keening whimper that escapes her throat. She can’t help the way her eyes slip close or the way she ends up baring her throat in a sign research has told her means submission. And Peter? She doesn’t think that Peter can help the low, rumbling growl that escapes his own throat as his grip tightens on her hip, nor does she think he can stop the way his hips rut into her sharply. She shivers at the feel of him, long and thick and hard, against the curve of her ass. Her brain abruptly goes on holiday at the simple thought of I did that to him. It is a highly empowering feeling, as well as a highly erotic one, because at the end of the day? Peter was sex on a stick, and she …really wasn’t.
And somewhere between one thought and the next, she is being turned around to face Peter, being manhandled so that she is in prime position to eagerly wrap her legs around Peter’s hips and press into him in exactly the way she really, really shouldn’t. And his hands are on her hips and he is mouthing at her neck – and no one has ever had a hickey until a werewolf is the one giving it, Jesus Christ – and his hips are thrusting, rutting up against her and she wants. This whole thing has gone too far, and she doesn’t even know what this is, but she’s strangely okay with that. Very, very okay with it.
His hands are suddenly between them, one working at his zipper and the other struggling with the combination of tights and panties, and there’s a low, rumbling growl as his hands suddenly sprout claws, intent on just shredding the barrier. And it strikes her that she’s about to lose her virginity to a thirty-something-year-old werewolf on the trunk of a car containing a dead body in a parking garage, and well, actually, there is one slight problem….
Her own hand grabs his wrist, just barely preventing his claws from shredding her tights and her underwear in one go. His eyes, so shockingly blue and so damn pretty and Jesus Stiles focus, look at her, entire body stilling.
She swallows, struggling to form words under the intensity of that look. “I’m fully on board with the rutting, Peter, mutual orgasms are awesome, but if you’re going to take my virginity can there be a bed involved or a chair or the back-seat of a car that doesn’t contain a dead body?” It comes out in one big rush, her nerves finally catching up to her, because, hello? Virgin.
Peter continues staring at her, looking like he can’t quite figure something out. The haze of want/hunger/need that had been apparently driving his actions for the past however-long is starting to clear, and Stiles feels like an idiot because clearly mutual orgasms are no longer going to be on the table. There’s going to be talking, and by the time that’s done, that haze will be completely gone and it’ll be back to threatening her for Scott’s username and password. (At this point, she’d just like it stated that Peter can have Scott’s username and password, as long as he finishes this, whatever this is.)
“Let me get this straight,” Peter finally says, voice sounding just as wrecked as he had looked just a few moments ago. “The only thing you’re objecting to here is the fact that there’s a dead body in the general vicinity.” He sounds flatly disbelieving.
She levels a Look at him. “Dude, you may be old enough to be my father, I’m not sure ‘cause I don’t actually know how old you are, but you’re hot in ways that should be illegal. And besides, this whole ‘I’m bat-shit crazy’ thing you’ve got going on? Not buying it for a second. You’re not a fucking monster, even if you’re starting to edge into the territory a bit more than I like.” She takes a deep breath, releases it shakily, because he’s still staring. “I get the whole vengeance thing, I really do, and if it wasn’t for the fact that you want Scott of all people to be your backup, I’d totally be fine with it.”
He blinks.
She shrugs. “Scott’s my brother in all but blood, and I love him dearly, but he’s not exactly the brightest bulb in the box and really? You couldn’t have picked a more naïvely, inherently good teenager if you tried.” She shifts as much as she is able, because the trunk is not as comfy as she had thought it was when she was too turned-on to give a shit. “He won’t see things your way, not even if you drew him pictures and explained everything in really small words. He doesn’t see shades of grey, he’s stuck in that annoying white-vs-black mode really small children have. All he sees is murder and mayhem and someone he doesn’t know not only committing murder and mayhem but telling him he has to do the same or he dies and everyone he loves dies with him.” She levels him another Look. “Which was not cool at all, by the way. Don’t you know the best way to lure in innocents is with candy and video games?” And oh, god, she’s babbling now. Sexy-times are officially off the table now, even if only because she kinda wants to strangle herself.
And he’s still looking at her, and this is not helping. Not at all.
“So I don’t know what you expect to happen when you track him down, but my guess is he’s somehow or another already convinced Derek to side with him against you because while he may not be the most intelligent being around, he’s got killer puppy-dog eyes and his cuteness factor has apparently been enhanced by, like, a thousand ever since you bit him, because, seriously? I grew up with the boy, I’ve been practically immune and using said puppy-dog eyes to both get out of trouble and get into it since the third grade, and suddenly I can’t resist them when he turns them my way. And if I can’t resist them, your nephew is fucked, and consequently so are you, because as soon as either of them see an opening, they’ll be going for your throat. With teeth. ‘Cause apparently Derek is really fond of ripping out undeserving people’s throats out with his teeth if his frequent threats are to believed, and would you please stop staring at me? This is not helping, not at all, and the longer you stare the more I’m just gonna – ”
And, oh, hello. That’s Peter’s mouth. On hers. And that? That is his tongue and…
…her brain fries again.
“A bed,” he finally murmurs when air becomes a really pressing issue. And she’s left staring at him, unable to follow that thought process because she's more than a little loopy because, damn, but Peter knows how to use his tongue in ways that makes her long for that tongue to be otherwise occupied on other parts of her body. “I can do that.” And then he’s shoving her into the passenger side of his dead-nurse’s car.
(And if Peter breaks just about every traffic law in existence between the parking garage and an apartment she’s more than reasonably sure belongs to the dead nurse, and if Peter accidentally-on-purpose ends up biting her – more than once – over the course of the next three hours full of the kinkiest sex she’s ever even dreamed about, and if somewhere in between all that Derek and Scott team up and end up getting Peter’s revenge for him, well… that’s a story for another day.)