warnings: non-con/dub-con, underage, sub-dom relationship. don't like, don't read. do like, please read and review! 3 thank you

"What are you doing here?"

Stiles hears the words before he can see who said them, but he would recognize that spine chilling voice anywhere. It almost stills him with fear and makes him shiver, despite the warm June night air coming off the mountains of Beacon Hills. But he turns anyway, flailing as he goes, which nearly throws him off the hood of his jeep. He shoves his phone into the pocket of his hoodie, suddenly aware of how bright its screen had been in the dark woods.

"What are you doing here?" Peter repeats, a placid smile just barely playing at his lips enough to make Stiles' heart quicken slightly with fear.

"I-I just wanted—a stroll, y'know. In the good ol' Jeep. You?" Stiles stutters and trips over his words while his hands wave around like he can physically grasp at what he means.

"I was just out for a walk when I could have sworn I smelled something—familiar. Also, Hale property." Peter taps a foot once against the root of a tree and takes a step closer. "Remember?"

"Oh!" Stiles stands, pushing off the hood of the jeep and backing towards the driver's side door. "Sorry! I-I forgot! Ha. It's…it's all kind of just woods to me…"

Peter's smile grows into a playful, warning grin and he's beside Stiles in seconds. The boy's heart skips in surprise and he jumps, bumping a hip against the metal of his own vehicle.

"J-Jesus!" Stiles hisses. "You Hales sure know how to nearly kill a guy." His right hand fumbles behind him for the jeep's door handle and a nervous, frightened smile is splitting across his face.

Peter's hand flashes forward and his body closes in. His coordinated hand splays over Stiles' own clumsy one and his breath can be felt on the boy's flushed cheek. Peter smiles with teeth now as he bares his claws and lets them just barely graze over Stiles' knuckles.

"What's the rush, Mr. Stilinski?" Peters eyes scan over the boy's red draw-string hoodie, eliciting the tangy stench of fear and the sweetness of the boy's self-propriety to stand apart from Stiles' usual musk. "Little Red afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?"

Stiles' laugh comes out sudden and bitter, before he realizes what he's doing and bites it off too soon.

"I really should go." Stiles says so low he almost couldn't even hear himself. "It's late and you're, um. Tired?"

Peter's smile dims and he presses forward, until Stiles can feel the rise and fall of the man's firm chest, the warm, damp air of his breathing against his cheek, can see the pin point black of his pupil. Stiles can't help but notice that the man smells almost like Derek.

"Won't you join me?" The beta whispers lowly, somehow more of a threat than an invitation.

Stiles holds his breath and simply nods, not aware at all of what he could possibly be agreeing to, even as the man takes half a step back, before finally replying, "Y-yeah. Okay, sure."

Without warning, Peter crowds in again. He takes fistfuls of Stile's shirt, the sound of it pulling apart rips through the still night air and the boy barely has enough time to gasp before Peter is smashing their lips together. The kiss is anything but chaste, but somehow manages grace and steadiness, even with the lude smacking of Peter's lips and clacking of teeth. Stiles has no idea what to do except throw his arms out in front of him, try to shove Peter away. But clawed hands grab at his wrists and pull his hands apart until one arm is around Peter's hips and the other is splayed over the growing warmth in the man's groin.

Stiles is scared. He's never felt fear like this. His heartbeat is drumming in his ears and the exposed skin of his chest is tingling where Peter drags his claws. But he's never been touched like this before, has no idea if this is how it's supposed to feel. He's confused and—and aroused? The tenting of his jeans and raw scrape of the zipper against him is proof enough.

But he doesn't even like Peter, hates him even. For what he did to Lydia, to Derek, to himself. His body is at war with his mind, sharp pangs of no tear through his skin and make him shudder with every scrape of Peter's fangs at his bare throat but the catch in his breath hisses yes and pulls his blood down where this death threat of a man has his hand to.

Stiles moans at the sound of the slow drag of his zipper and flick of the button.

"You're like a piece of clay, Stiles. I can mold you into what I want, do with you what I please." Peter says into the jugular of the boy's neck, a fanged smile playing at his lips before he takes a nip at the pale, warm flesh.

"Tell me, Stiles. Do you like this? Do you like being a little toy for me?"

The intake of Stiles' breath is so quick and loud as Peter yanks his head back by the boy's growing hair when he doesn't respond.

"Y-Yes," Stiles says shakily, eyes trained on the Beta in front of him in fear and ecstasy.

"Good," Peter says and kisses at the crescents he left on the boy's skin just moments ago. "My little plaything. You taste so sweet. So young."

Stiles gives a closed off moan at Peter's words, only half-hearing them as the beta traces the line of his fast hardening cock through his tented Batman boxers. He doesn't at all hear the light tinkling of Peter's belt buckle or rasp of his pants as they drag below his knees, he is only aware of the man's movements when he's forced to his knees and eye-level with a pair of black boxer-briefs. The swollen, pink head of Peter's cock, dripping with pre-come is peeking over the elastic waistband. The beta gives a lick of his lips and says with a steady voice, one clawed hand under Stiles' chin, "I want you to take me into your mouth, Stiles. Take it until you can't anymore and then take it in some more. Or I will do it for you. Understood?"

Stiles' eyes are wide and his hands are shaking, but he sees no other option and yanks the rest of the cotton fabric down Peter's thighs in one painless swoop and presses the flat of his tongue curiously at the tip. The pre-come is salty and bitter but Stiles tries his best to not grimace.

"Go on." Peter coos Stiles on from above.

Stiles uses one hand to grip the base of Peter's throbbing cock and the other is at the man's hip, used to brace his pale, trembling frame and prepare himself.

The weight is heavy against Stiles' tongue but he drags himself down the length, eyes shut so as not to see his own shame play out in front of him. He stops when he feels the tip make him choke and he opens his hopeful, innocent eyes to look into Peter's, but they're cold and sharp.

"Come now, my little toy, surely you can do better than that." Peter tsks before gripping the nape of Stiles' neck into his fist and pressing him forward, forcing the boy down on his hard length until he can feel his full, pink lips against the base and his tip slam at the back of Stiles' throat.

Stiles gags and tears spring to his eyes, his hands tighten at Peter's hips, silently begging for mercy, but the only response he gets is a slow drag back before he's slammed down again around Peter's cock.

Peter chuckles a sigh and lets his head lull back, snapping his hips and pulling at Stiles at a rhythm he finds on his own.

"There, there," Peter sighs, almost annoyed when he hears a muffled, stifled out sob come from Stiles. "This can't be too bad. Look here, you might actually be into this sort of thing." He drags a foot forward to knead his ankle against Stiles' own erection. Stiles sobs again, from pleasure or pain, he himself can't decipher, but he's aware of the jolt of electricity he gets when Peter finally comes into contact with his own neglected arousal.

Peter takes on a new rhythm, faster this time and more thrusting on his part. Stiles sits back on his heels, tears streaming down his cheeks as Peter abuses his used, swollen lips accompanied by the occasional sob or cry of pain.

Finally, Peter stills and Stiles is relieved, until he feels a warm spurt at the back of his throat. He chokes and digs blunt nails into Peter's thighs, but to no avail as the man's hips twitch forward slightly with every release into Stile's mouth.

Peter pulls himself from Stiles, making quick work of his jeans and smiling again as if he had never touched the boy.

But Stiles can taste the salty tang of Peter on his tongue, wipes at some with the back of his hand that had escaped past his lips and dribbled to his chin, tears are still fresh on his cheeks and his eyes are bloodshot, his arousal is still warm and throbbing in his own half-undone jeans. More than the taste of Peter at the back of his throat, he can feel his bile at the shame he feels. For his actions, for his lack of refusal, for his own sick pleasure in their confusing tryst.

"Clean yourself up, Stiles. You look a mess," Peter says, like an upset mother to her child and turns on his heels before making his way into the forest.

Stiles stays on the leaf-covered ground, until his knees aren't even sore because he can't feel them, and the tears and cum on his face become tacky and disgusting.

He has no choice but to make his way into his jeep, slamming the door and driving down the road, fighting back a panic attack and tears the whole way home where he yanks at his own still-hard cock and sees stars when he comes to the memory of being used so mercilessly, so brutally. But in his mind's eye, when he looks up it's not Peter's cold grin he sees, but the warm, loving, flushed face of Derek Hale.