Chapter Text
“Beware the dark pool at the bottom of our hearts. In its icy, black depths dwell strange and twisted creatures it is best not to disturb.” - Sue Grafton
In a world long burned to ash there lived a happy couple. This couple already had a large family and they were gaining in years, so they were surprised one day to find that the woman was expecting another child. The news was met with delight because the Pack knew one more member would only add to their strength and happiness. In mid October, the couple gave birth to their second son and youngest child. An uneventful birth, except it took place under the Hunter’s Moon – a warning of approaching danger. But the parents thought nothing of this omen. And when the baby’s eyes opened, flashing a powerful blue, they sighed with love.
They named him Peter, after the apostle.
Peter grew, strong and healthy. His teachers found his humor and quick wit a pleasure in the classroom, but his classmates noticed that he was always the first and last to laugh and they drew away, nervous even before they could understand why.
Children always see what adults long ago dismissed as impossible.
As Peter observed his classmates, he saw their unease, and learned to control his laughter behind a smile. His circle of friends widened. He knew how to play the game – how to hide in plain sight.
***
“Why are you still here?” Stiles snarled.
Peter thought of all the Alphas, roaming rampant through the woods. About what one precise slash with his claws could regain.
The corner of Peter’s mouth lifted in a sly, honest smile, “I want to help.”
***
Peter, still a boy, tracked his prey for hours during his monthly transformations, never tiring of the thrill the hunt provided. He enjoyed stalking larger animals, foxes, dear, and even coyotes, chasing them through the forest until they were wild with fear and desperate exhaustion. Only then would he strike. First at an ankle, then the flank, but never deep enough to kill. The final blow only came when the animal was on the ground, helpless, bleeding, and gasping up at Peter with hopeless, frantic breathes. Only then would Peter tear his small claws through their throats, watching in curious awe as their futures bled out into the dirt.
His parents never questioned dead animals in the woods. Who would in a family of werewolves? Appearing natural, Peter knew, meant disguising his irregular activities behind expected behavior.
***
The boy had been kidnapped nearly five times by now, Peter mused from the sidelines of the pack, biding his time as Derek delivered the killing blow to the Alpha. When would they learn to see what outsiders discovered in thirty seconds?
Stiles was the only reason the pack was still alive.
Oh they knew his value. Stiles wasn’t exactly the type of person one could ignore, but the extent of his worth. That was the blind side.
Each member of the pack loved Stiles, in their own way, but adolescents were so consumed with angst. They didn’t observe anything beyond their own melodrama.
For example:
Scott immediately ran to Allison, the other human child kidnapped alongside Stiles. Everyone was too busy glaring at her, old grudges and past resentment still in place, to notice the look of intense hurt that passed over Stiles’ face. Everyone except Peter. Scott came to him next, of course – the wolf cared about his friend – but the damage was done. The rift between Stiles and everyone else opened a little wider. An animal separated from his herd.
***
When Peter was ten his eldest brother produced his first offspring. Peter held the tiny girl in his hands and marveled at her defenselessness. How frail we all are, Peter thought as his niece clutched at his finger, how easily we trust.
A sign of moments waiting for the opportunity to transpire.
***
“What the Hell, man! What’s wrong with you?” Scott yelled.
“Nothing!” Stiles shoved him away, storming up the steps, past Peter, and into the house. “Nothing’s ever wrong!”
***
Peter was social by nature. He joined the basketball team his first year of high school and made starting line, even while refusing to use his abilities. His mother, proud of his sportsmanship, hugged Peter tight.
But little did his family understand his reasoning. Peter hated a victory without the struggle.
He watched the opposing team, studying their strategies and patterns, before darting in, quick as a puncture wound, and destroying their play in one move. Beacon Hill’s basketball team went to state year Peter played on the time. The team voted Peter captain his sophomore year and MVP for nearly every season.
His family never missed a game.
***
Peter officially came to lacrosse games to irritate Derek, lecturing about pack bounding and building community ties in a way that made Derek’s eyes flash and hands curl into fists.
Unofficially, the sight of Stiles fidgeting from his spot on the bench, the bare curve of his head vulnerable without his helmet, was too addicting to pass up.
***
By graduation, Peter started sneaking into the woods, using starlight to learn the difference between a quick death and a slow one. His favorite method was a deep slash, quick and neat across the gut. He loved to watch the long seconds it took for an animal to bleed to death – an indescribable light fading from their eyes in a way Peter found addictive.
His brother once found a squirrel bisected near the stream. He frowned but said nothing. Peter watched him walk away from where he hid in the bushes.
College offered little opportunity to pursue his favorite activities. But if, when the urges grew too strong to resist, a few dogs went missing from local neighborhoods, none were the wiser.
Peter majored in psychology. He was amazed at the similarities between Pack and Cult. Submission to leadership, the group over the individual, warnings of severe consequences of defection… Peter considered that fine line, and wondered if the animal or the human in them kept that line at bay.
His professor raved about Peter’s thesis on the link between cult psychology and human evolutionary ancestry, encouraging him to publish, but, in the end, Peter felt his work was too personal.
***
“Tell me about your nightmares, Stiles.” Peter ordered absentmindedly, drawing his finger through a layer of dirt on the car window.
“Wow,” Stiles turned to stare incredulously at the docile threat in his passenger seat. “Do you practice being this creepy or does it come naturally?”
Stiles and Boyd were the only members of Derek’s little island of misfit toys that could sit in the same space as Peter without trying to strangle him. Literally. Derek often wanted Boyd at his back, leaving Stiles, a defenseless child, alone with a serial killer and manipulator extraordinar. Not for the first time, Peter found Derek’s idiocy remarkable even as he used it.
Peter drew another line, making a cross in the dirt. He rubbed his forefinger and thumb together slowly, deliberately, watching out of the corner of his eye as Stiles shift uncomfortable. Seventeen year old hormones an ever-present cloud around him.
“It’s obvious you haven’t been sleeping well. Exhaustion has a very distinct scent.” Peter turned to meet Stiles’ gaze and smiled. “Anyone paying attention would notice.”
Stiles flinched. Peter had long ago discovered this tender chink, had marked it for future reference.
“But with so many interesting events lately, I doubt anyone’s paid you much attention.”
“Shut up.” Stiles gripped the steering wheel hard enough to turn his knuckles white.
Peter raised his hands in surrender. “I’m just offering my expertise.”
“Why? Do your evil acts of evil give you sleepless nights?”
“No. Not so much. Hm.” Peter tipped his head in mocking gesture of thoughtfulness. “Maybe because I have a Masters in psychology.”
There was a long pause before Stiles burst out laughing. The sound echoing, harsh and broken, inside the Jeep.
“Oh man,” Stiles said, wiping tears of mirth and God knows what else from his eyes. “Good to know six years in a coma and a month underground didn’t destroy your sense of humor.”
Some things fire can’t burn.
***
Once, Peter wondered what it would be like to kill a human. Hunt them like prey. Easier? Harder? The curiosity of it drove Peter to stalk individuals across campus, feeling his fingertips itch with the claws he kept buried away. He was tempted, but deaths caused attention. Attention attracted hunters.
After all, he had his Pack to protect – the link between family stronger than most urges.
***
Stiles had soaked the baseball bat in wolfsbane. Peter could smell it over the corpse, the werewolf dead and bleeding in the dirt. Peter slowly stood from where the Alpha had him cornered, ready to deliver a crippling blow, listening to the rest of the pack approaching their position in the forest. The bat hung limp in Stiles grip as the child stared, eyes wide and unfocused, at the body. Ignoring his own wounds, Peter gently took the bat from Stiles hands, clasping his bloody hand around a frail wrist as he pried Stiles’ fingers loose.
A sound, much like a swallowed down sob, strangled in the boy’s throat. Gently (eagerly) Peter placed his hand on the back of Stiles neck under the guise of emotional support – relishing the feel of Stiles’ thundering pulse and warm skin against his palm. Stiles leaned back into the touch briefly, almost helplessly, before pushing Peter away. He looked at Peter, shocked, horrified, and raw. He was shaking. Peter held his gaze and carefully, oh so carefully, let a fraction of his want bleed out, his eyes flashing blue. A dangerous risk, but Stiles stared back, trapped. Stiles’ scent, a delicious mix of disgust and lust, drifted in the air. Peter’s mouth fell open, inhaling deep.
The moment between them stretched endlessly until the pack burst through the trees and froze in shock at the sight waiting for them. Watching, Peter saw Stiles bury his emotions under a self-depreciating smile that was both weak and shaky. The trauma was obvious, but Derek couldn’t communicate with empathy unless it was punching him in the face, and the pathetic pack of desperate teens followed his lead, shuffling awkwardly. Scott, however, approached without hesitation and wrapped Stiles in his arms.
“You okay, man?”
Too late. Too late. Stiles returned the embrace listlessly.
“I’m fine. I’m okay.”
Scott nodded, stepping away with concerned eyes. Stiles was uncomfortable, squirming under all the attention.
“I’m fine too.” Peter deflected smarmily, quirking an eyebrow. Stiles tried to contain the grateful look he threw at Peter, but Peter caught it nonetheless.
“Oh, good.” Derek said tonelessly.
The pack moved quickly after that, as if a spell had been broken, disposing of the body and arguing about strategy. In the scuffle, no one bothered to ask why Peter had tried to take on an Alpha on his own, why he hadn’t sent for help after he and Stiles discovered her position.
His first grab at power had failed, but he’d learned valuable information. Stiles had shown that he trusted no one, not even his oldest friend, with his vulnerability. For all intents and purposes, he was isolated.
Perfect.
***
The first time Peter had sex, he didn’t understand all the fuss. It was simply two bodies rutting against each other until the tedious and predictable conclusion. Pointless. Like a kill without the hunt. After the first time he barely bothered with it, but in the final year of his Masters program he spotted a girl across his lecture hall. Peter was teaching an introductory course in psychology, and she was one of the hundreds in his class. So young, barely eighteen. The child blushed sweetly under his attention, even from across the room.
Pets stopped disappearing shortly after.
***
Peter caught Stiles watching Lydia frequently – it wasn’t exactly understated. But the way he watched her had changed. Gone was the lustful fixation so easily confused with love, replaced now with a gaze that reflected a more resigned longing and hopelessness.
The boy was obviously untouched. His beauty disguised behind youthful insecurity.
“She’s an idiot.” Peter said one evening when Stiles’ eyes strayed to where Lydia huddled in the corner, on the phone with Jackson.
“Seriously, fuck off.” Stiles muttered, glaring down at the protective spell and clicking the pen in his hand furiously.
“They’re all idiots.” Peter continued as if Stiles hadn’t spoken. “To not notice how special you are.”
Stiles stilled. Peter took the pen from his hands, letting their fingers brush. He leaned into Stiles’ personal space, making a careful note in the margin of his research.
His mouth was level with Stiles’ ear, whispering as his lips brushed the soft shell, “I’ve always appreciated you.”
Stiles twisted away, rubbing at his ear as if to wipe off Peter’s touch, but his smell betrayed his interest, “Says the psychopath. Great. Thanks.”
“I may be insane,” Peter admitted. “But anyone who can’t see you is blind. You shine so brightly, Stiles.”
The unnoticed and untouched always went desperate under the first sign of attention from an outside source. They hadn’t learned how to distinguish flattery and a longing to be noticed from attraction. They hadn’t learned how to say no yet. Like a touch-starved child, Stiles was gagging for it. Ripe for anyone’s taking.
***
It was easy to seduce her – what young, impressionable woman doesn’t fantasize about the charming, older T.A. Peter smiled a few times, wrote encouraging notes on her papers, and soon she was knocking on his door during office hours. She was smart, uncomfortable, and eager to please under his attention. Not necessarily a beauty, but that was to Peter’s benefit. No man had yet taken interest enough to teach her the difference between fantasy and reality.
When she talked, she’d forget her self-consciousness and come to life, hands fluttering in rapid, animated movements. He ached with how much he wanted her. Peter started following her, eavesdropping on her conversations. One evening, he broke into her apartment and stood in the center of her room, breathing in the scent of her. He sat on her bed and smelled the evidence of her arousal, pulling the sheets to his nostrils and inhaling deeply.
After the semester ended, Peter asked her out. Not because he had any qualms against bedding a student, but he knew that was what was expected of him in the role she’d idealized – the polite, handsome gentleman. At the end of their first date, Peter kissed her and her obvious inexperience only sparked the flame within him.
Her heart thudded erratically as his fingers slid up her skirt, the scent of nerves and fear blending together erotically. When he entered her for the first time, she gasped at the unfamiliar pain and something inside him roared.
This, Peter realized, this was love.
***
In the end, Stiles came to him.
“Do you ever,” Stiles trailed off, licking his lips nervously. Peter put his paper down and folded his hands on the table, waiting. “Wake up from a dream and you can’t move? And part of you is still dreaming but you know if you could just move you’d wake up. But you can’t.”
Peter watched Stiles take in a shuddering breath. He’d expected this earlier. Derek’s division of labor now placed Peter and Stiles together almost exclusively, pairing up the two people who irritated him the most as some stubborn adolescent pettiness that Peter angled ceaselessly to his benefit. Soon enough, Derek would learn to keep his enemies closer, but not today. Not yet.
For now, Peter stood and got a bottle of scotch from the cabinet.
“It’s called sleep paralysis.” Peter said pouring a generous finger into two glasses. “Caused by anxiety or a symptom of a traumatic experience.”
He offered a glass to Stiles, “Have you had traumatic experiences recently, Stiles.” It wasn’t a question. The words rolled off Peter’s tongue, smooth and seductive as the drink in his hand. He watched as the hair on Stiles’ arms rose, standing on end.
“I’m only seventeen.” Stiles gestured at the amber liquid, but his tone discussing something else entirely.
Peter let his gaze sweep down and back up Stiles’ body, “Do I look like I care about your age?”
Stiles slowly shook his head and took the offering. His fingers touched the back of Peter’s hand, light and curious. Peter kept his face neutral, very carefully hiding the reaction Stiles’ touch stirred – a desire to overwhelm and possess.
Instead, Peter sat back in his chair gracefully, taking a sip of his scotch.
“It’s often associated with terrifying visions.” Peter continued, observing how Stiles tensed. “Someone else in the room, for instance.”
Stiles paled, turning away, and swallowed his scotch in open quick gulp. He looked up, surprised.
“This is good.”
“Why else would I drink it?”
Something like a half-smile crossed Stiles face. He held his glass out, hopefully, for a refill. Peter rolled his eyes, but brought the bottle of scotch to the table.
“You should tell someone about this.” Peter suggested because he always loved hiding behind honesty. If Stiles was going to tell anyone about anything Derek and Scott would have ripped Peter’s balls off months ago.
Stiles snorted, “Like who? Derek? Scott? The homicidal maniac is the most emotionally mature person in this group.”
“I prefer the term sociopath.” Peter corrected mildly, raising his glass in salute.
Stiles paused and reached for the Scotch, his voice tight. “If you asked me again today… I just want to be the one in control for once.”
He watched, silent, as Stiles refilled his drink and imagined how much fun it was going to be to strip him bare and take him apart.
***
Sex with her was different, like Peter was alive for the first time. Whatever he wanted she gave up, not confident or knowledgeable enough to say no – thought she would lose him if she said no, even if she smelled of unshed tears and confusion after. She was so sweet and every bit of her he took was a treasure that belonged to him alone, but he knew he had to be careful. He couldn’t push too hard too quick. There were still… aspects of himself to hide, and not just the genetic ones. Peter planned on letting himself slip out little by little, not showing her everything until he possessed her completely.
***
When Stiles finally took control and kissed Peter, the child stank of fear and desperation. Peter loved it, pushing as close as he dared to get his fill of it. Stiles whimpered – clutching at Peter to either pull him closer or shove him away. Peter tenderly deepened the kiss, patiently drawing Stiles lips apart, wide enough for him to slip in and taste. He felt the sweet moment when Stiles gave in, going limp, and his insides howled.
“This is so wrong.” Stiles moaned, half to himself and half to the world in general. But he fell, dragging Peter down after him. What teen hadn’t once stared directly into the abyss and thought, ‘to Hell with it?’
The sin was always sweeter when preformed knowingly.
Because, after their world had shattered, they still believed they were making the decisions.
That they were willing.
In control.
***
Then the fire happened. And his family died. The ones left… Well, they didn’t mean much to him anymore.
***
Before the fire, Peter dreamed of taking his girl out into the woods – showing her himself under the moonlight. He dreamed of taking her on the forest ground, next to the barely alive, bleeding body of his prey.
Now he dreamed of killing an Alpha. Eyes bleeding red and body shifting as he bent Stiles over the carcass. Holding him down, trusting into him until he begged - helpless, bleeding, and gasping up at Peter with hopeless, frantic breathes. Only then, in that sweet moment of utter surrender, would Peter bite, and finally claim what was his.
***
After, when Stiles was trembling, stretched out naked on his bed, breathless and anxious from what they had just done, he turned to Peter, thoughtful.
“What were you like? Before.” He asked.
Peter smiled.