Author's Note: I originally wrote all of this piece-by piece as I sent it to a fellow Steter shipper on Tumblr. And so, I dedicate this fic to library-of-miscellaneous-subtext. For some reason, they really enjoyed this. I apologize for the frequent use of degrading words aimed toward Lydia (she's one of my favourite characters!) that will follow.

He was strangely obsessed about the boy, ever since he begged for the life of that sweet tasting redhead that fateful night. The arousal aspect didn't come until he rejected the Bite, even though Peter was polite enough to offer him such a gift. Even after death and awaiting resurrection, he imagined the wonder of lengthening his white fangs and painting them red with his hot blood. To puncture his throat and sigh in content while the blood ran down Stiles' flesh would be so endearing to him…

He could tell how much his nephew cared for the hyperactive teen; it was insufferably obvious by the way he glared at him. Both Peter and Derek had something in common; they were both possessive over the things they desperately desired for. Peter enjoyed taunting Derek when he casually described how tender the skin on the Sheriff's son looked, especially along the jugular. Peter watched slyly as his nephew's face contorted with an anger he couldn't contain.

"So obvious, my dear nephew..."

The Martin girl was a problem; the boy held a strange affection for her. Peter was grateful for his own act of mercy upon her back on the field. She was his personal Horcrux, if you will. But he would keep her alive, oh yes, even though his initial plan for her had already been completed. She would make excellent leverage against the boy. He could be a troublesome brat at times, but his cooperation could be the lifeline that separated her from his jaws of death. It'd help keep him in line...

People would've called him a pedophile if they knew how he longed for a taste of the Stilinski boy. How he wanted to drag his tongue across his breastbone, making his way up the side of his pulsing throat, lap up the salty perspiration...

He would then accuse those nay-sayers; tell them in great detail how the Argent bitch fucked a minor—his own flesh and blood—to get what she wanted. But Peter already had his revenge, and these perverted thoughts were for his own personal satisfaction...

He cornered him that night. It was the same underground parking garage where he was first offered the Bite, a generous gift that was hastily rejected. Stiles' eyes widened in disbelief, then fear, before attempting a getaway. He only got about ten feet before he found himself on his back on the freezing concrete. He struggled to breathe with the extra upon him. Peter smiled, baring his teeth, as he positioned his thighs on either side of Stiles' hips.

"Did you miss me, Stiles?" he asked.

"No, you're dead," the boy said. "You're fucking dead! Derek killed you! Jesus, why aren't you dead?!"

Peter heard his heart pound erotically against his ribcage, through his plaid shirt. He stank of intoxicating fear mixed with the usual teenage hormones. "It was more like I was... taken out of commission," Peter hissed into his ear. Claws extended, he gripped Stiles' wrists and held them above his head, pressed against the concrete. Pinpricks of blood welled up on his soft wrists...

The boy gasped in pain, then clenched his teeth, glaring up at Peter. His "tough act" amused Peter to no end. He enjoyed how difficult it was to make Stiles crack. Because in the end, it will bring him so much satisfaction when his human defenses crumble beneath him, leaving him vulnerable and malleable.

"I've been watching you, Stiles," he whispered, leaning in close. Stiles tried to twist his head away, but Peter grabbed his face with a free hand, forcing the boy to look into his eyes.

"Don't try that ever again," Peter growled. The boy glared at him. He reminded Peter of Derek with that same loathing look. But Derek wasn't here to interfere now...

"Fuck off," Stiles hissed. It was cute when he tried to act tough. But he was cornered; he had nowhere to run with Peter on top of him. "Aren't you worried that someone's gonna find us?" Stiles shouted. Blood pooled on his wrists and trickled down onto the concrete and down the length of his pale arms as Peter tightened his hold.

Peter smiled, flashing his glistening fangs. "I wasn't the one stupid enough to come out here alone," he whispered. He heard Stiles' heart thump loudly. Peter breathed in Stiles' scent, and shuddered with pleasure. "But only you would jump headfirst into danger for that Martin slut like this. So predictable, sweetheart." The boy's eyes widened in realization.

"That death threat..." he began, and Peter smiled cruelly. "I know you too well," he whispered, dragging his tongue across Stiles' cheek.

"Jesus, that's disgusting." Stiles made a face. Peter rolled his eyes.

"Don't be such a child, Stiles."

Stiles glared at him. "I'm not the one sending fake death threats to lure out underage boys!" Stiles protested, wincing as Peter bared his fangs at him.

"Whoever said that they were false?" hissed Peter, just before plunging his teeth into Stiles' throat. The boy screamed underneath him, writhing in pain. Peter's eyes rolled back in pleasure as blood spurted into his mouth, staining his teeth.

Blood continued to gush out as Peter extracted his fangs. Stiles was writhing beneath him, but Peter easily kept him in place by squeezing his thighs together. He momentarily let go of the boy, savouring the moment. Stiles' fresh blood began to pool onto the concrete, staining it crimson as it began to spread. Peter wiped his mouth, and looked in fascination at the blood upon it. Human blood. He licked it tenderly, watching Stiles trying in desperation to get away. "Give it up, darling."

Peter cupped Stiles' face, claws extended, and pulled him up in a half-sitting position. The blood flow had begun to cease, congealing darkly at the wound. The scent of it overwhelmed the older man, and his tongue went into a frenzy, lapping it up. Stiles grimaced, but his attempts at pushing Peter away were feeble; he had lost too much blood.

"Consider this... retribution, sweetheart," Peter cooed, scraping his claws across Stiles' face. "Or rather, payment, for sparing the slut's life."

Stiles, with a surprising surge of strength, grabbed a fistful of Peter's bloodstained shirt. "Don't you DARE... call Lydia that!"

Peter rolled his eyes. "It's pathetic how enchanted you are by her superficial beauty," he murmured, his claws digging into that gorgeous face. Beads of blood ran down Stiles' cheeks, collecting at his chin before falling into space. "But believe me honey, her type's a dime a dozen. Even my dear nephew once fell prey for such shallowness. Your whore's no different."

He could feel Stiles tremble with rage. His scent was engulfed with such... passion for the whore. Peter didn't approve of such loyalty. Deep gashes ran along the boy's face. Peter scolded himself. He'd been too impatient with his bloodlust; had left too much evidence of his presence upon Stiles' face and throat. He should've left for somewhere... more easily hidden with the assistance of clothes.

"I won't show my mercy toward her again, sweetheart. If you go near her again I'll be quite angry."

Peter gripped Stiles' throat, and rose both of them to their feet. Stiles stumbled as he tried to regain his footing. Blood had drenched his shirt, causing it to stick to her perspiring skin. Peter smiled cruelly.

"Don't make me warn you twice about the slut," he hissed softly, now gripping the boy's face with both of his hands. Stiles' face seethed with rage. It was cute, like a puppy seeking attention from his master. Stiles jerked out of his grip, and backpedaled until his back hit his Jeep.

But Peter wasn't done with him yet. He walked over to where Stiles was, his fingers shaking as he tried to pull his keys out of his pocket. Peter rolled his eyes at the useless effort. He was upon the boy within seconds, pressing him up against the aged vehicle.

"Yes, I get it," stuttered Stiles, raising his hands in front of him. "Can I... at least tell her WHY I'm gonna be ignoring her for the rest of my life?"

It was the wrong thing to say. Peter's anger overtook him as he punched the glass.

Stiles jerked violently as his window shattered inward, coating the shotgun in the jagged, clear substance. Some of the glass lodged itself into the side of the boy's neck, but Stiles seemed to barely notice it when faced with Peter's venomous death glare.

"That's Strike One," he jeered. He slammed Stiles into the Jeep with such force that the teen's scrawny body rebounded, landing in Peter's arms. "What part of 'no whores allowed' don't you understand?" Even now, the whore was in the way...

"I don't believe you understand the consequences of what you just uttered," Peter seethed. He spun Stiles around, and slammed his body up against the Jeep, denting it in the process. The boy struggled, his gasping on the verge of hyperventilation. Peter gripped Stiles' shoulders, his claws biting into them. Right now, he didn't care for subtle injuries. The boy had dared to provoke him, and he needed to be taught a lesson. One hand snaked its way up to Stiles' mouth, smothering his whimpers.

Stiles screamed into Peter's fingers, his words thoroughly muffled as Peter lifted him off of the Jeep and pressed the teen against him. His useless struggling was beginning to annoy the werewolf. He felt his fangs extend once more from his mouth, and instinct caused him to clamp down on Stiles' uninjured side of his throat. He bit down, harder than before, ripping into the soft flesh as fresh, hot blood welled up in his mouth, spilling down the sides. Stiles screamed as Peter chewed him out.

After several bloody minutes, Peter let go of Stiles, letting him drop to his knees. Blood continued to pour from his new wound, soaking his shirt with crimson. Peter licked his lips; he always did love his meat to be blue rare and gushing with such rawness. He then yanked up the boy by the arm, nearly dislocating his shoulder, before pinning him against the Jeep once more.

"If you'd accepted my offer last time, your wounds would already be healed by now." He grabbed Stiles' wrist, grinning.

"Please... don't..." Stiles whispered, his eyes pleading for mercy. But when Peter smiled, it was brimming with his own brand of tranquil fury.

"You're mine, Stiles," he breathed. "Don't you understand that now? I can barely tolerate Derek's affections for you—don't be so surprised, it was painfully clear. But he's a wolf; one that can hold his own. Ironically, the immune human is the true threat here." Peter glanced down at Stiles' trembling wrist. This time, he was shaking in fear.

Finally.

Stiles jerked back, but Peter translated this as an invitation for more pain. "I'm going so easy on you, sweetheart," he purred harshly, and Stiles' eyes widened. The tutorial was over; the following demonstration was the actual field work. "Compared to what the slut will receive, this is a lover's gentle touch."

"Stay the fuck away from her!" Stiles screamed at him. "Jesus Christ, don't touch her!" The boy slid along the dented Jeep door, making his way down to his knees. Peter paused.

"What are you doing now?" Peter asked. The boy's antics were pissing him off now. Why was he making this so difficult? The slut would never love him the way Stiles wanted her to; why did he continue to defend her in this manner?

"I'm tired, you fucked-up piece of shit," Stiles said. He looked up at Peter, whose eyes blazed with fury. Peter lifted his right knee, pressing it underneath Stiles' chin, cutting off his oxygen.

"Don't goad me into killing you, Stiles. You're too pretty to die."

"What's stopping you?" Stiles gasped weakly. Peter momentarily released the boy, stepping back in order to allow him to gulp in lungfuls of air. Once his generous reprieve was up, he kicked Stiles in the stomach. It was gentle, by a werewolf's standards. Peter kept it up, ramming his foot with increasing speed. Stiles had fallen to his side at this point, and was coughing up blood. It splattered against Peter's shoe and the hem of his pants, but he didn't relent until he heard a rib fracture.

He kicked him once more, forcing Stiles to roll onto his back. Peter pressed a bloodied shoe onto the boy's chest, and applied an even amount of pressure. Stiles winced, gritting his teeth against the burning pain in his ribcage.

"Why did you make me do this, darling?" Peter murmured. He released his footing from Stiles' chest, who was inhaling in short, haggard bursts. "Remember this for next time, Stiles. Today I went so easy on you. This is me being disappointed. You'd hate to see me angry."