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eepwtf · 2 months ago

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MY HEAVENLY ANGEL

summary: stiles stilinski has always been the kind of guy whose curiosity gets the better of him. but when his guardian angel starts appearing to him in all their ethereal glory, curiosity turns into something darker, something dirtier. and despite their pure intentions, even angels aren't immune to the sinful pull of human desire. after all, isn't God always watching? (it’s a little rushed, the idea just came to me when i was writing spn!stiles’ backstory sigh…)

warnings; eating out an angel, stiles being a freak, voyeurism /exhibitionism (because God is always watching) don’t know what else to say, it’s just smut.

it started innocently enough, as most catastrophes do.

stiles was lying in bed, staring at his popcorn ceiling and pondering the sheer mediocrity of his life. his latest brush with the supernatural had left him rattled but alive, and he'd muttered a quick "thanks" to whatever celestial being was responsible for his continued survival. he didn't expect a response.

and yet, there you were.

at first, he thought he'd fallen asleep and was dreaming. you stood at the foot of his bed, a faint glow surrounding you, your eyes wide and otherworldly, your hands clasped in front of you as though you were the one nervous to be seen.

"who—what are you?" he stammered, sitting up and clutching his blanket like a shield.

you tilted your head, the gesture slow and deliberate, almost… birdlike. "’m your guardian angel," you said softly, your voice carrying a melody no human throat could produce. "i’ve been watching over you."

that’s was how it began. you’d appear at the oddest times—when he was studying, brushing his teeth, driving. always with that serene, unreadable expression. stiles couldn’t help but notice the way your gaze lingered on him, curious yet unassuming, as though trying to decipher what made him tick.

but then the watching turned into something else.

stiles wasn’t sure when exactly his thoughts started getting... inappropriate. maybe it was the time you perched on his desk while he worked on a paper, leaning so close that he could feel the warmth radiating from your body—if angels even had bodies, which wasn’t something he should be thinking about, what the hell was wrong with him. or maybe it was the time you appeared in his room soaking wet, your clothes clinging to you as water dripped onto the carpet. you’d claimed you’d been “cleansing yourself” in the rain, but the look on your face made it seem like you knew exactly what you were doing.

and god, the way you said things sometimes—your words always came out too calm, too deliberate, with a slight edge that made his skin prickle. like you were aware of your own power, of what you could do to him if you wanted. stiles couldn’t tell if you were mocking him or just... existing in a way that wrecked his sanity.

still, he tried to brush it off. he tried. you were an angel. angels weren’t supposed to be… hot? no, no, not hot, that was wrong—ethereal. otherworldly. totally not something a human should look at and ache.

but stiles was stiles, and of course his brain couldn’t leave well enough alone.

there was that time you’d bent over to inspect something on his desk, and he’d immediately clamped a hand over his eyes, muttering something about boundaries. you just blinked at him, completely unfazed. “are you unwell?” you asked, your voice soft, like you genuinely cared.

and maybe that was the worst part—the caring. You didn’t just watch him; you noticed things. the twitch in his hands when he was anxious. the way his breathing hitched when he lied. the tightness in his voice when he tried to joke away the heaviness in his chest. you noticed all of it, and instead of judging him, you… stayed.

which made everything worse.

he couldn’t stop thinking about you. couldn’t stop thinking about your hands, delicate yet strong, and the way they’d brushed against his once when you handed him a notebook he’d dropped. couldn’t stop thinking about your voice, low and lilting, curling around his name like a prayer. couldn’t stop thinking about your eyes, how they seemed to see through him, stripping him bare until he didn’t know where stiles ended and you began.

either way, stiles knew he was going straight to hell for the things he thought about when you were around.

"you’re supposed to be... holy," he said one night, trying to keep his eyes anywhere but on the curve of your lips or the soft swell of your chest. "aren’t you?"

you tilted your head, genuinely confused. "of course i am. but i don't understand why that bothers you so much."

"’s not that it bothers me, it’s just—" he gestured vaguely at your form. "do angels normally look like that?”

your brows furrowed. "like what?"

"like they walked off a Calvin Klein runway!" he blurted, immediately regretting it. "i mean, come on, the hair, the glow, the whole—" his hands flailed as he tried to encompass your entire existence in one gesture.

you smiled, a faint flush spreading across your cheeks. "i take on a form you’d find pleasing. does this one... please you?"

stiles choked. "uh, yeah, sure, it’s great—very pleasing."

the knowing look in your eyes made his skin prickle.

it came to a head one night when he woke to find you standing by his window, bathed in moonlight. you weren’t glowing this time, but there was something even more divine about the way the light kissed your skin, illuminating every curve, every line.

"do you ever sleep?" he asked groggily, his voice rough from sleep.

"angels don’t need rest," you replied without turning, your tone calm, matter-of-fact, like you weren’t haunting his room in the middle of the night, looking like that.

"must be nice," he muttered, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. his heart was already racing, though he didn’t want to think about why.

you turned to face him then, and for once, your expression wasn’t unreadable. there was something soft about it, something… human. it threw him off balance. "you were dreaming about me again."

stiles froze, his blood going ice-cold and boiling hot all at once. "uh, what?"

"your dreams," you said, stepping closer. "they're always... vivid."

"okay, first of all, rude," he said, his voice cracking. "second of all, you watch me sleep? isn’t that, like, against angel code or something?"

you frowned, genuinely perplexed, your head tilting like you genuinely didn’t understand the problem. "i’m your guardian. watching over you is my duty."

"yeah, well, maybe watch a little less when i’m unconscious, okay?"

but you didn’t step back. if anything, you moved closer, your gaze dropping to his lips, then lower.

"do you want me to leave?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

he swallowed hard, his pulse pounding in his ears. he should’ve said yes. he should’ve. but instead, the word came out like a confession:

"no."

and that was it.

stiles wasn’t sure who made the first move. one moment you were standing by his bed, and the next you were straddling his lap, your hands tangled in his hair, your lips hot and insistent against his.

it was surreal, the way you melted into him, the way your body—so soft, so warm, so human—pressed against his like you’d been made to fit there. every nerve in his body was on fire, and yet he couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t get enough of you.

“is this… allowed?” he gasped when you pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, his hands trembling against your hips. his voice was rough, desperate.

“don’t know,” you admitted, your breath hitching as his fingers tightened, grounding themselves in your skin. “but it feels… right.”

“God’s probably watching,” he said, a crooked grin tugging at his lips, though there was a flicker of guilt in his eyes.

"let him," you whispered, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "He created me, didn’t He? He made me like this—for you."

the weight of your words sent a shiver down his spine.

"jesus christ," he muttered, his grip tightening on you.

"wrong deity," you teased, your smile wicked.

and then there was no room for talking.

the next kiss was hungrier, more desperate, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer as if the space between you was unbearable. stiles’ hands roamed your body with a reverence that made your skin burn under his touch. his fingers trailed the curve of your waist, lingering at the small of your back before gliding down to your thighs, gripping them with a possessiveness that sent shivers up your spine.

"you feel... warm," he murmured against your lips, his voice husky, thick with wonder. his fingers traced the curve of your waist, lingering at the small of your back before sliding lower, squeezing like he needed to anchor himself.

"so do you," you whispered, your breath hitching as his lips trailed along your jaw, then down your neck. your fingers tangled in his shirt, pulling him closer, deeper, until his scent, his heat, his everything surrounded you.

stiles’ hands trembled as he tugged at your clothes—not out of hesitation, but from sheer need. with every layer he peeled away, his breath hitched, his eyes growing darker, hungrier, devouring the sight of you. his lips followed the path of his hands, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone, the hollow of your throat, the curve of your shoulder.

"god, you’re beautiful," he breathed, his voice almost reverent, but there was something feral behind his gaze, something that made your chest tighten and your thighs press together instinctively.

"don’t use His name like that," you teased softly, a smirk tugging at the corner of your lips even as his words sent a shiver down your spine.

"right, sorry," he said, though the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips was anything but apologetic. his hands slid down your sides, his thumbs grazing the soft dip of your hips before settling on your thighs, his fingers flexing possessively. "but seriously… you're unreal."

the last of your clothes fell away, leaving you bare under the soft glow of moonlight. stiles leaned back for a moment, his eyes roaming your body with an intensity that made you feel both exposed and cherished.

"are you sure about this?" he asked, his voice quieter now, but no less urgent.

"yes," you whispered, your fingers curling against his shoulders, nails pressing into the soft cotton of his shirt as your legs shifted restlessly beneath him. "want this. want you."

that was all he needed to hear.

his lips crashed against yours, hot and desperate, his hands roaming your body with a reverence that made your skin burn under his touch. every kiss, every brush of his fingers felt like he was memorizing you, committing every curve and line of your body to memory. his kisses trailed lower, down the line of your jaw and across your neck, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your skin.

“you’re so soft,” he murmured, his voice rough as his lips moved down to your collarbone. his hands slid to your waist, gripping you firmly, grounding himself in the feel of you as if you might slip away at any moment.

your breath hitched as his mouth found the curve of your breast, his tongue tracing the sensitive skin with maddening precision. his hand followed, cupping you gently, his thumb brushing over your hardened nipple in a way that made you arch into him.

when he reached the apex of your thighs, you tensed, your body trembling under the weight of his gaze. he paused, his hands resting on your hips, his thumbs brushing soothing circles into your skin.

"you’re trembling," he murmured, his voice low and thick with need.

"’m nervous," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

"don’t be," he said, his lips quirking into a crooked smile as he pressed a kiss to your inner thigh. "i’ll take care of you. promise."

he kissed his way lower, pausing just above the apex of your thighs. his hands slid down to your knees, gently coaxing them further apart, and the cool air against your bare skin made you shiver. his gaze flicked up to yours, and the heat in his eyes made your breath catch.

"you’re so soft," he murmured, his fingers tracing the delicate skin of your inner thighs. "so perfect."

the first brush of his lips against your core made you gasp, your hips jerking instinctively at the sudden jolt of pleasure. stiles groaned at your reaction, the sound low and guttural, sending heat pooling low in your stomach.

"easy, angel," he muttered, his breath hot against your slick folds. "let me take my time with you."

and he did. stiles licked a long, languid stripe up the length of your slick folds, his tongue swirling around your clit before dipping lower to taste you. the noises he made—soft groans of approval as he tasted you, hums of satisfaction as your body writhed beneath him—only heightened the fire coursing through you. his lips closed around your swollen clit, sucking gently, and the sensation was enough to make your vision blur.

“stiles,” you gasped, your hands flying to his hair, threading through the messy strands as you tried to ground yourself against the overwhelming tide of sensation.

"that’s it," he rasped against you, his voice rough and gravelly. "let me hear how good i make you feel, angel."

his tongue delved between your folds, exploring every inch of you with a thoroughness that bordered on worship. he alternated between teasing your clit with quick, flicking strokes and thrusting his tongue inside you, tasting you from the inside out. the wet, obscene sounds of his mouth against you filled the room, and the sheer intimacy of it made your cheeks flush. you gasped, your fingers threading through his hair and tugging, but it only seemed to spur him on.

"you taste so fucking good,” he groaned, his voice muffled against you. he tilted his head, changing the angle, and the sound that escaped you—a sharp, desperate cry—made him growl in response. his fingers digging into your thighs as he pulled you closer to his mouth, as if he could consume you whole.

when he slid a finger inside you, curling it to press against that perfect spot, your back arched off the bed, a sharp cry tearing from your throat. he groaned at the way you clenched around him, his hips grinding into the mattress unconsciously as his own arousal built. he added a second finger, thrusting them in and out in a steady rhythm that left you gasping.

"fuck, you’re so tight," he muttered, his voice thick with need. "so wet for me."

his tongue returned to your clit, circling it with deliberate precision before sucking it into his mouth. the combined sensation of his tongue and fingers was overwhelming, and your body tensed as a wave of pleasure began to build, tightening with every movement.

you could feel his own body trembling against the bed, like he was barely holding himself together. every gasp, every twitch of your thighs, seemed to fuel him, his movements growing more fervent, more desperate. his stubble scraped against your sensitive skin, the sensation a sharp contrast to the heat of his mouth, and it made you gasp, your hips bucking against his face.

“fuck, stiles.” you cried, your fingers tugging hard at his hair, your legs shaking uncontrollably.

“yeah?” he muttered against you, his voice rough and almost teasing. “that good, angel?”

“shut up,” you gasped, but your words held no bite, your voice breaking into a whimper as he thrust his fingers deeper, his tongue swirling over your clit with unrelenting precision.

he chuckled softly, the sound vibrating against your core, and it made you tremble even harder. “can’t help it,” he said, his lips brushing against you as he spoke. “you’re just—God, i could do this forever.”

he shifted slightly, pulling your hips closer to his face, his grip bruising as he held you in place. you couldn’t move if you tried—not that you wanted to. all you could do was lie there, your body arching into his touch as he worked you over like he’d been made for this. like he’d been designed to unravel you.

the obscene wet sounds of his mouth on you filled the room, punctuated by your soft gasps and cries. his fingers curled again, dragging over that perfect spot inside you, and your thighs clamped instinctively around his head, trapping him there.

stiles groaned, clearly loving it. he pulled back just enough to grin up at you, his lips and chin glistening, his eyes blazing with lust. “you trying to suffocate me, angel?”

“don’t tempt me,” you shot back breathlessly, your hands still tangled in his hair, trying to pull him back down.

“oh, i’m tempted,” he said, his grin widening before he dove back in with even more fervor, his tongue and fingers moving faster, harder.

you arched off the bed again, your entire body trembling as the pleasure built higher and higher, coiling tight in your stomach. you felt like you were teetering on the edge of something overwhelming, something that threatened to consume you completely.

“shit, i can’t—”

“yes, you can,” he growled against you, his voice rough and commanding. “i’ve got you. let me take care of you.”

his words only pushed you closer to the edge, the heat between your legs becoming almost unbearable. you couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but feel. stiles seemed to sense it, his free hand sliding up your body to grasp your breast, his thumb brushing over your sensitive nipple in time with the flicks of his tongue.

you were trembling all over now, your legs quaking against his shoulders, your nails digging into his scalp. he wasn’t stopping, wasn’t slowing down, and you weren’t sure how much longer you could hold on.

“fuck,” he muttered, pulling back for a brief moment to catch his breath. his lips were swollen and slick, his face flushed, and his hair was a wild mess from where your fingers had tugged at it. he looked wrecked, and it only made you hotter.

“you’re so fucking beautiful like this,” he said, his voice low and rough. “falling apart for me. you have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

you glanced down at him, and your breath hitched when you saw the way his hips pressed against the bed, his obvious arousal straining against the fabric of his boxers. he was rutting against the mattress, unable to stop himself, and the sight of him so desperate, so undone by you, made your head spin.

“stiles…” you whispered, your voice shaky, and he groaned, ducking his head back between your thighs, his lips and tongue resuming their assault.

you weren’t going to last much longer. he wasn’t going to let you.

stiles' fingers worked deeper, curling inside you with a perfect rhythm that made your legs shake uncontrollably. his mouth was relentless, his tongue flicking over your clit in maddening circles, then sucking gently before starting all over again. he was completely lost in you—your taste, your scent, the way your body writhed under his touch.

your hips jerked upward, seeking more of the heat of his mouth, the pressure of his fingers. every nerve in your body was on fire, coiled so tightly you thought you might snap. stiles could feel it too; he groaned into you, his voice vibrating against your sensitive core, and it pushed you that much closer to the edge.

"you're trembling s’much," he murmured, lifting his mouth just enough to let his breath ghost over your soaked skin. his fingers continued their steady thrusts, his palm pressing against your clit in teasing pulses. "you're right there, aren’t you? c’mon, angel... let go. let me feel it."

his words sent a shudder through you, your thighs tightening around his head. stiles buried himself deeper, his tongue returning to your clit with renewed focus, his lips closing around it as his fingers curled again, finding that perfect spot that made your vision blur.

“stiles, oh—fuck,” your hands flew to his hair, holding him there as your body arched sharply off the bed, your head thrown back as the tension finally snapped.

a wave of pleasure crashed over you, raw and all-consuming, leaving you gasping for air as you came undone beneath him. heat spread through your body, every nerve lit up as your release coated his fingers, his mouth, soaking him in your arousal.

"that’s it angel," he said again, his voice dripping with satisfaction. his hips grinding into the mattress as he worked you through it, his tongue lapping at you like a man starved.

he finally pulled back slightly, his lips swollen and shining, his eyes dark as he looked up at you. his chin and cheeks were slick with your arousal, and he wore it like a badge of honor, his grin crooked and breathless.

"that’s my girl," he muttered, his voice thick with pride and awe. "did so good for me." his grin widening as he climbed over you, his body pressing against yours, solid and warm. his lips found yours, and you could taste yourself on him. but even as he kissed you, his hips pressing against yours, you could feel the hard, insistent heat of him through his boxers. “gonna take care of me aren’t you? gonna be a good little angel for me.”

and somewhere, in the back of his mind, he swore he could hear God laughing.

#eepwtf’s works ! ( •)▄︻テحكـ━一💥#stiles is a freak confirmed!#stiles stilinski fic #stiles stilinksi x reader #teen wolf #spn!stiles stilinski x angel!reader #stiles stilinksi smut #smut #yah yah

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rocksaltandmountainash · 7 months ago

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Waking up in Beacon Hills - pt. 29

Chapter summary: all work and no play would make kara boring. peter is there to ensure that doesn't happen. set between Teen Wolf seasons 3b and 4, and Supernatural seasons 7 and season 8.

Series masterlist: can be found here.

Word count: 3.9k

Warnings/notes: swearing, canon (TW and SPN) typical violence, smut, peter hale being incredibly attractive and nice, which definitely requires a warning. Gif sources: Peter 1 | Peter 2

Utah:

Peter scratches his nails through your scalp, eliciting a contented sigh from you as you recline against him. You’re all kinds of relaxed, leaning back on his chest and resting your hands on his bent knees, savoring the moment as you come down from your high. He’s just given you a good-morning orgasm and if he wasn’t sitting behind you, propping your body up, you could collapse and melt into the bed.

Almost. If not for one question that’s pin balling round your head.

“Peter?”

“Mmm.”

“You know that…. Wh- when you…ah fuck, never mind.”

He stops playing with your hair to peer down at you, “What?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

He swiftly wraps hands around your waist and shifts you so you’re facing him, draping your thighs over his own, “Tell me.”

Suddenly keenly interested in inspecting the veins running down his forearm, he has to lay a palm on your cheek to get you to look at him.

“Just…that thing you say -”

“We say a lot of things.”

You smile shyly at that, couldn’t deny it if you’d wanted to, because Peter is vocal and descriptive in bed and he makes you loud. Part of you thinks he does it on purpose, like he’s hoping if you get enough noise complaints at one Motel 6, you’ll be banned from them all and he won’t have to lower himself to your standards anymore.

“You know which thing I mean.”

Peter genuinely has to wrack his brains to figure out what you’re talking about and grins when the penny drops on the word that makes you croon beneath him, throwing your body higher toward ruination in an instant.

“Oh - you mean ‘Daddy’?” he smirks before continuing, “I thought you liked that?”

“I do! But…it doesn’t weird you out?” averting your gaze, your eyes drill a hole in the wall behind him. Tell me you don’t think I’m a freak.

“Why would it?”

“Because you’re someone’s actual father.”

Peter draws in a weighty breath, staring at you intently. He didn’t realize you knew about that, and guesses your source at the same time you break and admit;

“Stiles?”

“Stiles.”

The sound of shared laughter pierces straight through your embarrassment.

“You know they’re dating, right?”

“Yes, thank you - I’m aware,” he says curtly.

It bugs him; Malia with the sarcastic boy who not too long ago was flinging chaos around Beacon Hills - though he knows it’s not his prerogative, his place to be worrying about her.

“For one thing,” Peter lifts his fingers to list off reasons, “I only found out about Malia recently. I didn’t raise her, and she has never called me that.”

It makes sense. You know that blood doesn’t necessarily mean family. As much as you came to adore Bobby, all his bumbling affections couldn’t turn back the clock and make it like you’d known him your whole life, like he’d parented you.

“Also, it’s…” his eyes drift, recalling each yes daddy, daddy please, fuck daddy, you’ve ever uttered, “Exquisite - so you better not stop.”

He grins when you relax, “And third, you started it.”

“What? No, I didn’t!”

“You did.”

“When?” you demand.

He thinks back, pinpoints the beginning, “Colorado - when we sorted that nest.”

“Oh…whoops.”

You don’t remember, would have sworn it was Peter who said it first, which only proves how corrupting he can be, how far gone you are. With your fears mollified, you scoot closer and push on his chest to force him down to the pillows.

“Does Stiles know about me?”

“Pretty sure you’ve met him - several times,” you tease, grabbing a condom from the box on the nightstand.

Peter rips the foil packet open with his teeth. “Come on, you don’t gossip about me?”

“God no! Much as I love the kid, I’m not sharing details of my sex life with a seventeen-year-old.”

Impatiently, you wait as Peter carefully rolls the condom down before positioning yourself above him.

“Fair enough…mmmm,” he sighs as you glide over his length. “What about Weiner boy?”

That would be worse than Stiles - technically Samandriel’s probably thousands of years old, but he looks eleven, so the thought makes you cringe.

“Nah, he’s mad at me.”

“Why?”

“I have an idea. He thinks it’s dumb.”

The sensation of Peter’s hands squeezing your waist, exerting control over your motions, gets you worked up, primed for another round. How he studies your every move floods you with want, causing your cheeks to flush as you grind.

“What’s the idea?”

“Not telling.”

“Why?”

“It might actually be dumb…shit…”

Peter sits up, the head of his cock tapping against your entrance,

“Can you just shut up now?” you whine.

“Depends,” he smiles into your neck, gripping the base of his cock, “You gonna keep saying it?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

Finally, he tilts his hips and lets you sink down onto him.

****

Arizona:

You decide you deserve a night off. The day hasn’t been particularly taxing, just a couple of hours wandering through the mall to replenish your shower stuff and skin care.

You even got a trim, a few inches of split ends taken care of before feeding quarters into a massage chair and licking cinnamon sugar from your fingers after a warm pretzel, reluctant to venture out of the air conditioning back into the humidity.

After such a peaceful day of research and retail therapy, you simply can’t face the thought of hunting, want to chill, be normal for a change. So now you’re wolfing down a burrito while you watch A-Team reruns and text Peter. He’s arriving tomorrow, and you’ve been thinking about him all week.

Luckily, the limited amount of sex you’d had in the past hadn’t been bad, per se, maybe just a little disappointing. Bland. Boring. Not that you’d known at the time.

Chris was your introduction to multiple orgasms and dirty words falling from your mouth and all kinds of things you’d wanted but never tried. The discoveries you’d made about yourself, the way he monopolised your mind for a bit there, had felt like more than only sex. All intertwined with wanting to be his - you liked it when he called you pretty as he came and held your hand after, loved how he snuck kisses away from the bedroom.

But that’s all it - all Chris - can be now; a memory. Had to try to forget, the good parts and the bad. Clear out the image of his hand wrapped around a gun, pointed at Stiles. Push down the humiliating way you’d tried to fuck him after Allison, how kindly he’d denied you, barely touched you after that night. Until he left and kissed you goodbye at the airport.

Forced to choose one thing to lock away in your mind forever?

You wouldn’t be able to decide between the miss you and you’ve got this and trust your instincts or the heat of his breath on the shell of your ear moaning your name and groaning shit baby, just there and mmm, that’s it.

Peter, on the other hand, is your first experience of fucking like it’s sport, or a competition, something to excel at. Of giving yourself over to someone and letting them use you as they please. He calls you things you never would allow outside the walls of cheap motel rooms, things you probably shouldn’t enjoy - slut and whore. But always daddy’s slut and my perfect little whore.

It’s disgusting, and it’s worrying and it’s perverse, except...it really isn’t. It’s fucking hot.

No stake in each other, no claims, just teasing and playing games and then going your separate ways. It’s purely physical, neither of you have feelings, you’re merely another of each other’s bad habits, like how smoking tastes so right when you’re drinking.

Regardless of what this thing with Peter is, it’s undeniably fun and you want to keep it. You’re even beginning to feel relieved you’re so completely alone, because you don’t want to defend your desires, just want to follow them down the rabbit hole. Why not have some light to look forward to when everything else is so dark?

Wiping your hands, you laugh at his response to your text saying you’re headed for a shower.

Pics?? 🙏

You tell him to piss off and stand waiting for the water to warm up with your phone in your hand.

Go clean up, doll. Tomorrow you’ll be filthy. Sleep well x

****

Oregon:

A month later, and you’ve got a fairly stable routine going, taking tentative steps back into the real world. It’s an after effect of running away or being left behind that you become adept at rebuilding. You’ve done it before, even find some comfort in sowing the seedlings of a new life.

You work during the week, mostly straightforward cases, make time for Samandriel even though neither of you have anything resembling news, and do a reasonable job of being nice to him.

Peter usually arrives on Fridays - grabbing you up as soon as you open the door, always ready and always with some snarky remark about your lodgings.

“Is there any hovel you won’t stay in?”

“‘Dunno, any mirror you don’t stop in front of?

Tonight, though, you’re alone. Kicking open a flimsy bathroom door and slamming on the light switch, leaving a trail of blood across the wall and knocking the hairdryer out of its cradle. Panting hard and mumbling to yourself, you take off your jacket and cut your t-shirt up the middle so you can peel it away.

One glance at the gash that starts at your shoulder blade and runs all the way round your left side has your throat filling with acid. You slip your arms through your bra straps, unclip it and drop it at your feet before you lay out supplies across the counter and steel yourself.

“Shit.”

Much worse than you’d thought.

You’d only tracked two demons sneaking in and out of the abandoned mill. Nothing you couldn’t handle on your own. After climbing in through a basement entrance, there were three more waiting. During the fight that ensued, you lost your footing and landed on something sharp. In your hustle to get back up, you’d twisted without thinking, howling as your flesh tore open.

With the stress and the fever pitch of your anger, you were able to clumsily dispatch the last demon before you staggered back to your car, which was hidden behind the tree line a mile down the road. Not your finest work. Wasn’t until you were a few blocks from your motel that you started to feel the pain.

You feel sick as you un-spool thread with trembling hands. Feel so fucking stupid as you poke into the skin under your breast, watching your progress in the mirror, so you can pretend it’s not your body that’s carved and leaking blood.

Realizing there’s no chance you’ll be able to reach around to patch up the entire wound, you let the needle hang useless and pull your phone from your jeans pocket.

Don’t want to ask for his help but you’re out of options; the cut is still dripping and you’re chilly and tired and he’s closer than anyone else.

“Fuck.” you watch a fat red line dribble down your abdomen as your finger hovers over the contact. You hit the call button before you change your mind.

When it clicks over to voicemail, you turn and slide down the cabinet, wanting to cry at the automated voicemail greeting.

“Hey, it’s me. I’m in Oregon…can you…”

Suddenly you panic. He won’t come. Why the hell would he? You barely talk when he visits. All your questions seem to annoy him, so you just bang the weekend away - hardly what you’d call friendship, and probably not worthy of a favour.

“Can you come fuck me right now?”

The only ace up your sleeve to guarantee he’ll show up.

“Sweet Home Inn, Highway 20, Room 7.” you speak fast, closing your eyes and pulling your jacket to wrap it around yourself.

Peter parks next to your beaten up car, smiling to himself and brimming with smugness as he retrieves his overnight bag from the passenger seat.

It’s only Wednesday and you’ve called to beg. This is going well.

He raps his knuckles on the door, playing out in his mind how the night will go, what new thing you might be up for trying this week. Then there’s an unmistakable scent in the air and he barges in to find you slumped against the bathroom cabinet.

You’re out cold, topless except for your jacket thrown up over your shoulders. Could be mistaken for asleep, if not for the puddle of stained red clothes next to you, if your skin didn’t look ashen, gray under the singular lightbulb.

He moves your jacket aside and sees what he’d smelt - long, dried rivulets down your stomach.

Peter scoops you up and takes you to the bed, happy to hear you groan but unhappy you’re not waking. He presses a towel to your torso, because moving you caused fresh streams.

so much blood

Deaton doesn’t answer Peter’s call, and he fights the impulse to throw his phone across the room, electing instead to glower at your side, as if his angry look alone might staunch the flow.

too much blood

He calls Derek, who thankfully picks up.

“What?”

“I need you to go to Deaton’s.”

Peter can feel Derek rolling his eyes at him through the phone.

“Why? Pet-”

“Kara’s hurt. She needs a Doctor.”

****

People are arguing.

“She should be in the hospital.”

“Keep your voice down.”

They’re quieter now, “If she wanted to go, she would have.”

“Fine. Get her a tetanus shot, at least. And look out for signs of infection.”

“Fine,” Peter is equally snarky, “Here.”

He hands the man wearing glasses a wad of cash and bundles him out the door.

You watch it occur from one opened eye, wondering briefly who that man is and who they’re talking about before you fall back asleep.

****

Night comes and Peter wakes you, gently running his palm up and down your arm until you stir.

“Hey. You came?” you’re groggy and sore and more than a little shocked.

“You called,” he tucks your hair behind your ears, unsettlingly relieved to hear you speak, “Who did this, Kara?”

“Huh? No one…” you scramble for something that will stop the chilly steel in his voice from overflowing, because he’s here now and you don’t want him to leave, “I….slipped.”

You change the subject, wriggling your arms out from the sheets, “Who was that guy?”

“Some doc Deaton recommended. Stitched you up. Said you made a good start.”

Peering under the blankets, you look over the cleaned up wound, take in the line of sutures - much tidier than you would have achieved.

“I tried.” you admit, embarrassed by your efforts, and squirming under the soft smile he’s aiming your way.

“What do you need?”

Closing your eyes, you stretch your legs, careful not to move your body too much.

“I’m starving. Diner?”

“No, you need proper food.”

You roll your eyes at Peter’s disapproval. True, you’ve been subsisting on a steady diet of scrambled eggs, takeout, and protein shakes. Though in your defense, the drinks are loaded with vitamins, taste like chocolate milk and are the easiest way to stay full during your long drives.

He swats at your leg, “C’mon - get your ass up.”

“Eggs are healthy,” you mumble under your breath as you slowly get off the bed to wrap a bandage around yourself.

“They’re probably powdered.” Peter tells you, helping you get your bra clasped and pull a shirt on.

“Waffle House would never!” you protest, swaying as you let him do your buttons.

“There,” he takes your face in his hands and kisses you, “You’re ready.”

****

The restaurant Peter takes you to is fancy, as expected. What’s unexpected is that the hostess let you in.

Must be a slow night, or he laid out a hefty tip or - there it is. You realize Peter has disarmed her with all his handsome and charm when she grazes her hand over his back while taking his coat, and looks solely at him as she lists the specials.

“It’s like I’m not even here.” you tease after she’s gone.

“Jealous?”

“Definitely…. think she’ll take my number?”

Peter peruses the wine list as you read the menu, frowning at the prices.

“Don’t,” he warns, “Get whatever you feel like. My treat.”

“You sure? I didn’t bring my wallet.”

He pulls the menu away from your face, “It’s just dinner. I’m not giving you an organ.”

“You’d love to give me an ‘organ’”

Groaning at your terrible joke, he opens his mouth to say something obscene when the hostess returns, beaming at him.

He orders, then directs her attention to you, “What do you want, darling?”

“I’ll get the eye fillet, please.”

“Sides?” she’s a touch less friendly now.

“Green beans, and mashed potatoes, and…mushrooms.”

Peter grins at your appetite and you shrug, too hungry to care about politeness and if he’s buying, you’re eating.

“Drink?”

Now she sounds downright snippy and you can’t look at Peter in case you laugh.

“Just whatever he’s having.”

You hand back the menu and glare at Peter, waiting till she’s out of earshot to scold him, “Why’d you say that? She’s gonna fuck with my food!”

“She wouldn’t dare.”

Your phone vibrates against your ass and you squeak before you pull it out of your pocket and read the screen, remarking on the coincidence -

“It’s Derek.”

“Ah.”

You raise your eyebrows that he doesn’t sound surprised.

“I called him. I was trying to get hold of Deaton. Derek went and found him.”

Peter tries not to let it get to him when you mutter shit before hitting ‘answer��.

“Hey, one sec.” you tell Derek, holding the phone against your chest while you get up from the booth.

“I’ll be quick,” you promise Peter, “Check my food for broken glass please?”

You drop a peek on his cheek as you pass, leaving him smiling. Outside, you pace the block as you bring the phone up to your ear.

“Hi.”

Derek doesn’t bother with a hello, “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. How are you?”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. Just a cut. All sewn up.” You pretend that’s all he’s talking about.

“That’s not - why is he there?”

“He’s…we’re…”

Screwing each other senseless? Pals?

“I called him.”

“Kara, he’s not what you think.”

“And what is it I think, Derek?” you ask, working hard to keep your voice on an even keel.

“I mean…he’s not a good guy.”

He’s probably right, you should heed his warning, but you look through the window and see Peter sip his wine without a care in the world. He’s just him, he’s here, and you’re not particularly good either.

“I can handle Peter.” you laugh off Derek’s worries, “Okay?”

You hear him exhale… ”Okay.”

****

Peter stays an extra few days, helping you out while you recuperate. He refuses to let you do anything for yourself, bringing you coffee and food in bed, fetching your laptop when you’re fed up with reality TV, lingering outside the bathroom door while you shower.

He’s kind and attentive and you wonder if it’s because he feels guilty. He should. You’re frustrated, borderline hostile, because Peter’s been ignoring you.

Tipsy from the drinks you had downed, drunk on how he’d taken your hand and shot the hostess a pointed stare, you pawed greedily at him in the car on the way back from dinner.

“Peter? Can I?”

He tuts, shaking his head as he peels your hand off his thigh, “No, you’ve been bad - running off, getting hurt.”

You huffed and sulked, then your hand snaked back toward him. “Please….Daddy?”

He couldn’t refuse, with your voice needy and your fingers running across the pronounced bulge in his trousers.

“Need it that bad?”

He smirks as you nod eagerly and pretends to be annoyed, “Go ahead, doll.”

Made it back without crashing, locked the door behind you, and almost got him right where you needed him. Peter could always fuck you dumb, bury himself deep in a way that had your vision blurring and stopped your mind from spiraling.

So, you braced for the pressure that would drive away your shame at messing up and having to resort to calling him to rescue you.

He looked down, saw your eyes squeezed tight shut and quickly put an end to it. Making a barrier of pillows between you, he told you to quit bitching and rest.

By the end of the week, you’re climbing the walls, itching to leave. Had grown accustomed to being alone, to uninterrupted days spent with only your own thoughts, so it’s strange to share your space with someone for such a length of time. And if he won’t fuck you, what’s the point?

“It looks good,” Peter says, inspecting the cut as you lie on your side, arm thrown up over your head and clutching a sheet against your front.

You’re healing fast, not as fast as he would, obviously, but he’s pleased with your progress.

“Good enough to get outta here?” you ask, dropping your arm.

“Wait…” Peter pulls your arm back where it was, “I’m fixing you.”

He focuses on arranging three rectangles of gauze in a line and taping them down carefully as you huff out a sigh, not sure which is worse - the ache of your injury or the one between your legs.

“Done.”

You tug a t-shirt over your head and start clearing up the trash, but Peter smacks your hand away.

“I got it.” he sits next to you and repacks the first aid kit, “You in a hurry to get somewhere?”

You glance toward your open notebook, “Mmm. Maybe Chicago?”

“What’s this?” he stands and picks it up, flipping through the pages, “See the Empire State Building? Faulkner Books, Jackson Square?”

“Hey! Give it back.”

Leaping off the bed, you grab for the book, but Peter spins and continues to read,

“Ride a horse? Kara, there are horses in Oregon.”

“Not the point, you dick.”

“Are you…” he turns to face you, “Are you scared of horses?”

“The average horse weighs 500kgs.”

Peter laughs.

“Shut up!” you try again to get it out of his grasp, wincing as you reach up.

“Sorry, here.” Peter hands it over immediately when he sees your pain, “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” annoyed you lift your shirt to show him your side, “See? No blood.”

Peter’s gaze travels along your body, taking in the littered bruises in various hues of yellow and purple, and the small cuts and scabs of pink that dot your skin.

“Darach?” he whispers, eyeing older scars that have faded to an almost translucent silver.

Nodding and realizing he’s staring, you drop your shirt, self-conscious under his burning scrutiny.

You’re not hideous, but you don’t think you’re beautiful either. Hated feeling frail or weak, so are proud of your hard earned muscles, years of a strict training schedule giving you strength where you wanted it. A decent rack, curvy enough to like the way you look in jeans - but that was in clothes, covered. Without layers is a different story, an ugly one.

“Don’t.”

Peter moves your hand away from your hem, tracing his fingertips gently across your skin. His other hand reaching around the nape of your neck to bring you close,

“Scars mean you survived.”

#wakingupinbeaconhills #peter hale smut #peter hale fanfiction #supernatural x teen wolf fic #spn x tw #tw x spn #alan deaton #derek hale #peter hale

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