Stiles kicked out and struggled, thrashing his body in order to loosen Peter's grip on him. But Peter was like an impenetrable wall; nothing seemed to affect him. He lifted Stiles up just enough that his toes were dragging on the floor. He began to shuffle backwards out of the closet and into the hallway.
Stiles lashed out, his fingers scrabbling to grab the doorframe. Peter merely twisted Stiles' body, throwing him off balance. Stiles' screams collided into Peter's hot fingers, which prompted the older man to tighten his grip on his mouth.
"Don't make this more difficult than it has to be," Peter said, ignoring Stiles' attempts to escape from his grasp. "I don't want to hurt you."
He was using those tired-out lines that every serial killer used. Because that's what he is, Stiles finally realized. He's a fucking murderer.
I could break in his kneecaps for you if you like.
Peter hadn't been messing around, even back then. He had been stone cold serious and would've done it too if Stiles had let him.
He knew that he wouldn't get far, but he had to get away from him. Stiles bunched up his legs into a tight coil, and then slammed down into Peter's left leg, directly into his kneecap. Peter swore loudly as they both collapsed into the wall, with Stiles' head smashing against it, filling it with pain. Peter's iron grip on him slackened, and Stiles took the chance to wriggle out.
Stiles ran, nearly slamming into the elevator entrance of the penthouse. He pushed the button furiously, panic seizing him when he saw Peter stalking towards him. He wasn't even running, just making his way over to Stiles with careful precision. It's like he knew he was going to win in the end.
"Stay the fuck away from me!" Stiles screamed. He felt tears stinging his eyes, so he quickly wiped them away. His body was still aching from last night, and his stomach lurched from the memory. He leapt to the side when Peter got closer, grabbing a lamp on the side table to use as a weapon. But he was too slow and too weak; Peter merely grabbed his wrist, twisting it so painfully that Stiles dropped the lamp as he cried out in pain. The lamp fell to the floor, smashing into pieces.
Peter grabbed Stiles' other wrist and slammed his body into the wall just as the elevator dinged open. Stiles bit his bottom lip in frustration; he had been so close.
"You weren't supposed to find those," Peter said. "That was for my eyes only."
"You should've locked the door to your fucking murder closet if you didn't want people to wander in!" Stiles spat out. He flinched as Peter leaned in, brushing his lips against Stiles' ear.
"It's not murder," he whispered, anger thrumming in his tone. Stiles shuddered, squeezing his eyes shut. "It's justice."
Peter suddenly pulled Stiles away from the wall and threw him onto the floor. Stiles groaned, wincing as pieces of the broken lamp dug into his back. Peter climbed on top of him, straddling him in such a sensual manner that made Stiles want to vomit. Stiles' arms were pinned to his sides by Peter's legs, making it impossible to fight back.
"I never did tell you who the woman was in that other photo," Peter began softly. He stroked Stiles' cheek with his knuckles, trailing them down his face and gliding them down his exposed neck. He smiled at the bruise-like hickeys before continuing.
"That was my older sister, Talia. She's dead, just like the rest of my family. They all died in a house fire almost ten years ago. Everyone said that it was an accident, but I knew that they were lying."
"What does that have to do with anything?!" Stiles gritted out. He felt like his heart was in his throat; he couldn't breathe with Peter on top of him.
Peter sighed sadly. "I know you're clever Stiles; please don't make me put two-and-two together for you."
Stiles connected the pieces instantly. "You think Allison's family killed them? Is that why you're hunting them down?" Mr. Argent may've been passive-aggressive at best and his wife was seriously scary, but they couldn't possibly be capable of murder. That didn't gel well with Allison's sweet, loving nature. It didn't make sense.
"I don't think," Peter hissed into Stiles' ear, cupping the younger man's face. "I know they did."
"Not Ally," Stiles pleaded. "She was barely a teenager then. She couldn't—"
"Age is not a requirement for murder, Stiles," Peter corrected coldly. His thumbs gently brushed over Stiles' cheeks, as if he was trying to soothe him. "Motivation and the means to perform it are."
"What possible motivation would they have to kill innocent people?" Stiles snapped.
"Many," Peter replied vaguely. "Our two families never got along well. Talia was a peacekeeper; she molded her children into the roles as well. It's what got them killed in the end." A flicker of grief passed across Peter's face before his features harden, becoming steely and cold once more. He stood up, pulling Stiles to his feet and turning him around. Peter twisted Stiles' arms behind him, keeping an iron grip on them as he steered him toward his bedroom. Stiles struggled, but Peter squeezed his arms and threw him in the open room.
Stiles landed on his stomach, his limbs colliding into the soft carpeting. Peter closed the door behind him, silently clicking the lock shut. Panic rose in Stiles, and he scrambled to his feet. His arms throbbed from the lack of circulation, and his head still felt woozy from hitting the wall. Peter walked over to him, and Stiles rose his hands up to cover his hands. Peter's dresser was next to him; on top of it was a letter opener. He was aiming to feint surrender, and at the right moment—
"Don't even think about it," Peter said. He was suddenly pressing into Stiles' personal space, snatching the letter opener from its place. Stiles' heart sank; he'd been too slow to the draw.
Peter's free hand reached out and grabbed Stiles' chin and forced him to look up at him. He then dug the letter opener into the soft flesh of Stiles' throat, applying pressure with the edge without drawing blood. Stiles swallowed nervously, shaking all over.
"You don't have proof," Stiles said. He needed to stall Peter long enough for—what, exactly? Right now Scott and Allison would be too wrapped up in their euphoria of everlasting love to notice he'd been gone longer than usual. Also, he had told Scott that he'd be grabbing a room for the night; Scott would believe that he'd slept in or something. But that would be the rational version of Scott that hadn't existed since they were fifteen years old. Paranoid Scott was someone who would wake up from a sex-fuelled night and still freak out if Stiles wasn't home by noon. Stiles had told Scott to make the night about Allison; it still had to be about Allison and keeping her safe.
"You don't have proof," he repeated, backing away as Peter pushed the letter opener even further. Stiles felt a small prick on his throat before his legs hit the end of the bed. "Are you really going to be one of those psychopaths that go around killing people for the flimsiest of reasons? Are you fucking serious?"
"Get on the bed," Peter said in a low voice.
Stiles' mouth instantly went dry. "What?" he squeaked out.
A cruel smile replaced the cold look, making Stiles shudder. "You heard me," Peter said in that same, menacing tone. "Get. On. The. Bed."
Before he even had time to conceive a comeback Peter had released his grip on Stiles' chin and was using that hand to push down on Stiles' chest. The brute force overwhelmed Stiles, and he fell onto his back on the crumpled sheets. Peter climbed on top of him and resumed holding the letter opener against Stiles' throat.
"I'm not a psychopath Stiles," Peter hissed, sliding the flat of the blade across Stiles' Adam's apple. "A psychopath doesn't know how to blend in with the rest of society. But you saw me in action; the public can't tell me apart from a normal man."
Peter had been perfect; too perfect, now that Stiles thought about it. He had carefully crafted himself using the persona of a well-off bachelor who'd lavished a uni-student with far too much attention and consideration for his own good. There had to be a reason for it; no one would act the way Peter did to someone they barely knew, unless there'd been a motivation behind it…
Sudden realization struck Stiles, and a crushing weight threatened to suffocate him.
I have ways of getting in.
"Did you choose me as your next victim because you knew I was connected to the Argent family?" Stiles asked. "Did you only fuck me to get one step closer to Ally?"
"It was sheer coincidence that I ever found you," Peter admitted, brushing Stiles' still-damp hair from his forehead. "But of course I had to do a bit of research about you. I asked the bartender—Vernon—about you after you left. He was suspicious of me, and tried to make you sound as boring as possible. 'Just some uni-kid' he said. That was enough to get me started. I looked you up at the university, and then I dug a little deeper. I found out about your first year there with your roommate Scott McCall. Then I discovered that he was in a relationship with Miss Argent, and that only sweetened the deal.
"The three of you were close, even though you were the third wheel. You got a place together, and it was effortless to break into your landlord's office and find the papers. But I still needed you for all of this to work out in the end."
"How could you possibly find out all that," Stiles asked venomously, "if you didn't even know my real…" His voice trailed away, and his heart sunk as Peter's victorious smile. "You knew all along," he realized. "You knew, but were playing the ignorant guy."
"It's a unique name," Peter said. "Isn't it, Szczesny Stilinski?"
Stiles' stomach rolled just from hearing his own name. No, he wasn't allowed to say it; only Mom was allowed to say it. Scott knew that rule, his father knew that rule. Just Mom, just Mom, just Mom—
"Breathe, Stiles," Peter said gently as he pulled the letter opener away from Stiles' skin. He tossed it aside, and it hit the carpet with a muffled thud. His hands clamped down on Stiles' wrists, pressing the younger man's arms into the soft sheets. Stiles' breathing was coming out in short, harsh spurts. Peter was suffocating him; he needed him to get off.
Just Mom, just Mom, just Mom, just Mom.
"Shh, it's okay," Peter whispered into his ear. "Don't panic; it's okay." Stiles squeezed his eyes shut. He wanted to be home with Scott and Allison. He was in a nightmare, and he wanted out. Stuff like this didn't happen to people like Stiles.
He was trapped in the home of a murderer who wanted to kill his big sister. If her life wasn't on the line, then Stiles would almost be content with dying. But if he was dead, who would warn her of the danger? She and Scott didn't know what Peter looked like; they could easily mistake him for a stranger who needed something as innocent as directions. Allison would be too kind and try to help him out, and that's when Peter would strike.
Stiles resumed with his struggles as he became to kick and thrash his body around, but Peter merely twisted his left wrist painfully. Stiles screamed as the bone snapped with a great cracking sound. Intense pain flared up in his arm. Peter was about to break the other wrist when Stiles whimpered out, "Stop, please."
Peter paused, tilting his head as he looked down at Stiles. Tears were welling up in Stiles' eyes, so Peter rubbed his thumbs across his temples to staunch the flow.
"You look beautiful when you cry," Peter told him. His hands began to trail down Stiles' chest, and stopped as they hovered over his groin.
"I cried once," Peter began as he unzipped Stiles' fly, wrenching off his pants and underwear in one fell swoop. "It was when I was called to the station by your father—a deputy at the time—who told me that my family was dead. Little Cora was only ten when she burned alive. She barely got to live before she was killed." Stiles closed his eyes, a lump forming in his throat as Peter carefully undid the buttons on his shirt, the one that Scott had approved of. He felt Peter's wet tongue glide across his exposed chest as he peeled the material off of Stiles' shoulders and he shuddered from the contact. This wasn't hot; it wasn't arousing in the slightest. He heard Peter unzip his own pants, and Stiles gave out a wrenching sob.
"Please don't," Stiles whispered as he felt Peter grab his slender hips, holding them up as he aligned his cock to Stiles' entrance. His body felt cold from the air, but his broken wrist was still throbbing with unspeakable pain.
"Derek was the captain of his basketball team," Peter continued, as if Stiles had never spoken. He pushed in, and Stiles released a strangled cry. Peter's hips snapped into place, and Stiles moaned as the older man's cock smacked into his prostate.
"There were scouts keeping an eye on him; they wanted him to join a professional team once he was out of school. Talia was hoping he'd get a scholarship from one of the universities instead. She always believed in multiple options for her children." Peter's slow movements were becoming more frenzied, as if the thought of his dead family was driving him mad.
Which it probably was, Stiles thought miserably as he tried to block out the sickening sound of skin slapping against skin.
"Laura was the oldest," Peter panted out, thrusting into Stiles with terrifying ferocity. "She was also the heiress of our family. If our families had one thing in common, it was that they were governed by a firm matriarchy. Laura would pass on our name to the next generation and inherit Talia's leadership." Peter hissed as he came in Stiles.
Peter was beginning to slow down, but he kept a piercing tight grip on Stiles' hips, bruising them with his fingers. Peter rested his head on Stiles' shoulder, his cock still nestled deeply in Stiles' ass. Stiles felt too drained to try and push him off. It wouldn't matter anyway; Peter could always break his legs next, and he needed those to run.
But would he ever get a chance to do so?
"Talia was still breathing when they finally got to the burning house," Peter said. He kissed Stiles' collarbone and trailed his hands up his sides. Stiles suddenly felt something cold prick his skin, and realized that it was a needle. His felt his muscles relax against his will. "But she was so badly burned that I could barely recognize her. 'Where are my babies?' she kept asking. 'Where's Derek? Where's Cora? Where's Laura?' Keeping her alive would be cruel. The orderlies asked me if it was okay to pull the plug on my own sister. I allowed them, but only after I got to speak with her one more time. I told her that I was going to find the ones who took her babies away and kill them for her."
Stiles felt numb all over. Tears kept pouring from his eyes, and he didn't know if it was for him or for Peter's family. He didn't know if he felt bad for Peter; he might've, if he wasn't planning to kill Allison. He might've, if Peter hadn't violated him right then and there without asking for his permission.
Stiles suddenly wished that Erica was here. He missed her; he desperately needed her to save him from this horrific nightmare he was in. She would make him feel safe, and kick Peter's psychotic ass in an instant.
Stiles smelled the scent of come as Peter dragged himself out, his hole leaking with the excess fluid. Stiles was staring up at the ceiling, his gaze unseeing and lifeless. He felt Peter's arms circle his waist before he was pulled off the bed, his body pliant and limp from whatever Peter had injected him with. Peter was now carrying him, bridal style, out of his bedroom and inside his closet. A metal chair was now situated in the middle. Peter gently placed Stiles on it before circling around to his back. Stiles' head slumped forward as Peter grabbed his wrists and pulled them behind him. Stiles hissed in pain as Peter coiled a length of rope around them, cinching it tight. Peter then proceeded to wrap Stiles' middle with a second set of rope, and then used a third and a fourth to fasten his ankles to the front legs of the chair. Shame blossomed through Stiles; his legs were spread open, exposing his junk. He wasn't even allowed the decency to cross his legs to conceal them.
Peter stood in front of him, admiring his handiwork. "The paralysis will wear off soon," he informed Stiles. He planted two fingers underneath Stiles' chin and tilted it upwards, forcing Stiles to look at him. "Even if you escape you'll be too late. Allison will be dead, and her family will understand the pain of losing a loved one before I finish them off."
"She had nothing to do with it," Stiles muttered stubbornly. "Just leave her out of this."
"Even if she didn't start the fire, she's still involved in this," Peter told him coldly. He kneeled in front of Stiles, and cradled his face in his hands. "Parent's sin, children suffer," he said as he pressed his mouth against Stiles'.
Peter slowly drew back, standing up and heading for the door. He reached into his pocket, and drew out Stiles' phone. Stiles' heart sank when he saw Allison's contact number lighting up the screen. Peter was texting her something before sending it promptly to her.
"We'll have more time to get acquainted when I get back, Szczesny." Peter gave him one last look before shutting the door on Stiles, leaving him in darkness.