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Stiles woke up groggy, achy, and generally in a bad mood. After yesterday he felt like he deserved it. What with the game, getting his shit rocked by an old man, the kanima being cured with seemingly the power of love, gerard getting bit?!
And something else. Something after that his foggy brain couldn’t bring to forefront. After the bite, after everyone left. It was just him. Him and-
Peter.
Peter fucking Hale.
Peter Hale who drove him around, who saved Erica and Boyd. Peter Hale who informed him more about werewolf culture than Derek had ever growled out.
Peter Hale who spanked him. Twice! Three times, technically! Well, three swats. But still! Then the man had the audacity to go on like it was normal for werewolves to just spank people. There’s no way.
If he never saw Peter again it would be too soon. He felt grateful for the help, sure, but the negatives outweighed the positives.
He pulled his body up like taffy from his bed, every limb wanting to stay behind, and he blinked slowly. He scratched his thigh idly, and frowned. Looking down, he was horrified to see that he was in sweatpants. Then he registered the shirt. Both were articles of clothing that he was not wearing yesterday.
That motherfucker had changed his clothes.
Who does that?! Did werewolves have no sense of social propriety? A thought occurs to him that sends his heart skittering.
Deep breath, Stilinski.
He pulls the waistband open. Relief hits him and it’s good, like a drug. Or what he imagines a drug would be like. One that isn't prescribed to him.
He was wearing the same underwear. Peter hadn’t completely stripped him. The outfit was really comfortable, actually, but out of righteous anger Stiles tore the clothes off. He took a shower that felt heavenly on his bruises and aches. Like Godsent. It was like the cumming part of cumming in the shower but it was his whole body and it was the whole shower.
He didn’t care if the comparison didn’t make sense. His brain was goo.
Eventually he got out of the shower, and put on a new outfit. He wouldn’t have gone to school anyways (and he’s sure his Dad would have called him out) but he was pleased to see the announcement that was sent out, informing him that the school was closed temporarily.
Shoving his phone in his front pocket, he went downstairs to find his dad eating at the table. Immediately the man rose.
“Let me see you, son,” he said, and Stiles grimaced. He would rather not.
Except, him ‘rathering not’ wasn’t really a worthy excuse for his father, so he sucked it up and let the man turn him this way and that. He was pleased to find that his injuries weren’t actually that bad. He had found the arnica gel in the bathroom and put it on the worst of the bruises, like the purple-green bloom on his right side. His lip was a little bruised around the cut, and his cheekbone was a solid mishmash of colors.
His dad came to the same conclusion that he did about the injuries being mostly superficial, but still looked upset. Tired.
“Just give me a name, Stiles. They shouldn’t get to walk around like they didn’t beat you up.”
Stiles shook his head, “It wasn’t a big deal. I’m fine, ok? It takes more than that to get a Stilinski down.”
The joke landed flat. His dad had resigned anger etched into him, like he wanted to yell but wouldn’t. It was similar to the look he carried when his mom had been going through the worst of her illness.
“Just tell me please, Malénki,” Noah pleaded, “You can tell me anything, you know.”
The petname, old and Polish and drudged up from his toddler days, stung. It made his words taste like ash.
“Nothing to tell, Daddio.”
Noah sighed, “There’s food on the stove still.” He sat back down.
Stiles ignored the tension in the room, heading towards the pan. He couldn’t help but feel like he’d forgotten something important, honestly.
He was halfway through a plate of eggs and toast when the doorbell rang.
It brought cold clarity ringing through him. His nerves set themselves on fire and drowned themselves all at once. He stood abruptly as his father rose to get the door.
“DON’T!” He cried, stopping Noah in his tracks.
And normally the panic in his voice would let him have his way. But Stiles was terrible at inflection. So his panic didn’t sound like ‘I’m-Scared-Don’t-Open-The-Door Panic’, but instead ‘I-have-been-caught Panic’, something his dad was deeply familiar with.
Suspicion immediately clouded the sheriff’s face, “Why not? Let me see who it is.”
“It’s a telemarketer!”
“Telemarketers call people on the phone.”
“They’ve been trying new tactics.”
Peter Hale’s snakish, asshole voice sang clear from outside, “Stiles, open the door. We had an agreement.”
“A nothing agreement!” Stiles shouted, “A nothing agreement made under duress! Goodbye, farewell, go away!”
Noah strode towards the door, “Is this one of the punks that hit you?”
“No! No he’s just a jerk!” He tackles his Dad, grabbing his arm and pulling against him, trying to slow him down. Alas, Stiles was wearing socks. So his dad was able to keep walking, hardly bothered by his son now sliding across the hardwood floor.
“Sheriff, Stiles and I had an agreement that he would tell you all of the secrets he’s been hiding. I’m here to help.”
Oh fuck. Oh shit. Oh god.
Noah opened the door, and gaped, “Peter Hale? Aren’t you dead?”
“I got better,” Peter said simply, stepping inside and flopping on the armchair in the living room like he belonged there.
“Dad. Daddy. Pops. Don’t listen to him, okay? No matter what he says, he’s a liar, okay, he’s a total liar and-“
“That’s enough!” Stiles shrunk at his father’s tone, swallowing dryly.
“I think it’s about time I got some answers around here.” He sat down opposite Peter, and Stiles, flustered, sat as well.
Peter folded his hands, “Well, Stiles? Why don’t you begin at the night you went searching for Laura Hale’s body with Scott?”
“I’d rather not,” he squeaked, feeling like dying inside.
“It wasn’t a request, pup.”
His father looked indignant at the term of address, and that powered Stiles to launch into the story before anything more could be assumed.
“You expect me to believe that Scott is a werewolf. Is this a prank? Stiles you will be so deeply grounded if- JESUS CHRIST!”
Peter returned his features to their normal human state, “There you go. Werewolves. Continue.”
Noah clutched his heart and looked at Peter in a new light of some kind, clearly. Stiles could practically hear puzzle pieces clicking together. The man wasn’t a sheriff for no reason. He probably didn’t even need to say anything.
“Continue, Stiles,” Peter repeated, smug as can be.
Stiles didn’t want to. He wanted to go back to bed. He carried on anyways.
Occasionally Peter would interject with a little fact, or snippet, or to correct a part that Stiles was trying to sugarcoat. As Noah’s shock subsided, as he wrapped his head around the supernatural, paternal anger started to crawl into his features.
“And then Peter drove Erica and Boyd home, and I promised to tell you the truth, and then he left.”
Noah looked dubious, “You just agreed to stop lying? Even though this morning you were still earnestly trying to lie, last night you just casually agreed to stop.”
“Um.”
Peter’s voice dropped into a scolding tone, even more assholish than before. Miracles never cease, “I had to force your hand, Stiles, tell him.”
“What?! No.”
Noah frowned, “Stiles, nothing can be worse than what I’ve heard.”
“I’m not saying it! I’m not saying shit!” Stiles looked wildly from one man to the other.
Noah tried again, his voice full of forced patience, “Son, you can tell me-“
Peter’s voice, hard and unyielding, cut him off, “If you keep cussing I can just show him. It’s normal in packs, he’s going to see sooner or later.”
Stiles didn’t realize his voice could even go so high in panic, “NO! Don’t!” He remembered Peter’s hand cracking down on his butt, the sting. He’d rather die.
“Then I suggest you tell him.”
Indignant anger heated him up inside, making everything from his fingernails to his bones feel searing hot. Stiles glared at Peter. He carefully, slowly, pulled his lips tightly shut, crossing his arms over his chest.
Noah looked embarrassed, but not all that surprised at the behavior. He sighed, “I can’t believe you said anything at all in the first place.”
“Oh you’re hearing everything,” Peter growled, “Stiles. You said you would tell your father everything. I’m counting to three.”
Stiles’ mouth loosened just enough to gape at Peter. Peter himself looked settled. Upset, sure, but at ease in the house. Stiles’ house.
“One.”
Instantly, that spark of defiance flared up. His mouth snapped shut again.
“Two.”
His heart was beating in his ears. He stared on at Peter, unwilling to break eye contact. Noah couldn’t figure out who to look at. He snapped his gaze from one person to the other like it was a tennis match.
Stiles nearly broke. He nearly gave in.
This was going to be his win, though. Peter couldn’t make him speak. Stiles was a blabbermouth on the best of days, no one could control his mouth.
“Three.”
Peter rose fluidly, and Stiles was off like a shot, over the back of the couch. It felt like his fingertips had just left the leather cushions when he was yanked back. Werewolf speed had his own looking laughable. Peter grabbed his biceps and started hauling him back into the room.
Stiles thought Peter was going to swat him again. He struggled, grunting, but Peter was too strong. He was manhandled till he was standing inches from a corner in the room, Peter’s hand on his back pinning him there.
“If you want to be silent, have it your way. You can stand right here and stay quiet, as you’ve lost the privilege of telling your father himself. Instead I will tell him, and if you speak a single word or leave this corner before we call you out, pup, I’ll take it as a sign that you want to give the sheriff an example.”
Stiles immediately opened his mouth, wiggling, but Peter looked so serious that he froze.
“Nod if you understand.”
Stiles nodded. He was twisted back to face the wall, and the hands left him. Indignation soared. This was so unfair. He started to sniffle, to his own horror.
To his further horror, he stayed in the corner.
“Did you…did you just put my son in time out?” His dad sounded like he was in a daze, like he wasn’t sure if he was dreaming. If only.
“I did,” Peter replied. Stiles wanted to set him on fire again.
“And he’s staying?”
“He has some initiative,” Peter drawled, and Stiles heard the creak of the armchair as he sat down again, “I told him I would spank him.”
He couldn’t help the high whine that rose in his chest, his face burning in humiliation. It sounded loud in the corner. Peter made that rumbly growly noise that made his muscles relax. He slumped into the corner, sniffling and self-pity increasing by the second. He was 17. This was insane.
There was a tense moment of silence before the sheriff said, “And what is your idea of a spanking?”
No no no why was his dad even entertaining this?!
“To pull him over my knee, pull down his pants, and swat him until he’s learned,” there was a pause, “Not bruising, never bruising. It is meant to be a consequence and a deterrent, not cause any actual injury.”
Not an injury?! Peter had smacked him to hell and back! Stiles had been shocked to discover not even pink skin that morning in the shower.
“Peter, my son has never been spanked,” and thank god, his dad sounded unsure. Please throw him out. Kick Peter to the curb. Noah had threatened to spank Stiles countless times, but it was only ever threats. Eventually he would just sigh and move on, or ground him.
“Well he has now.”
Nevermind the pity-party, fuck Peter. Fuck this corner. He was so not telling his dad about the car thing. He couldn’t. Maybe because Stiles was oh so slightly worried of his dad’s reaction to how he had tried to lockpick Peter’s car to run into the woods.
“Last night when we arrived at the hunter’s place, where the kids had been taken, I parked the car in a hidden spot and told Stiles to stay in the car. When I came back I found him-“
All of the swirling anger overtook him. Stiles twisted around sharply, “That’s fucked! The situation was rigged! How was I supposed to know that Mr Asshole Reborn was going to even come back?!”
He stared at the two, chest heaving, “I did the whole song and dance that I said I would do. I told Dad about werewolves, and now I’m out! I’m done! I’m going to Scott’s house.”
Then Stiles was in front of the armchair, Peter’s hand on his forearm as he sat back down. Stiles struggled and squirmed like a cornered dog, but werewolves were all so, so unfair with their strength.
“What did I tell you, Stiles?”
“Fuck off!” His voice was thick, and he bit his lip. Accepting that no matter what he did, this was going to be embarrassing, gave him the wherewithal to fully travel to the floor. His arm remained held, now over his head like he was waving, but he could brace his feet on the armchair and use his legs as leverage to pull against the grip. And kick the chair. Or a nice mix of the two.
“Let me help you out, I told you that you weren’t to cuss, speak, or leave the corner under threat of a spanking. You knew and agreed.”
“Shut up shut up shut uppp!” Stiles shrieked, his voice shrill. He sounded like a middle school girl having a breakdown. He didn’t care.
Noah halfway stood, “I don’t know about this. He’s just a kid.”
“Exactly. And he has been lying, diving into dangerous situations, illegal situations, and now that you have found out he is throwing the tantrum to end all tantrums. I am going to spank him, and if at any point you feel I am doing actual damage to your son, tell me and I will stop immediately.
His dad stares. Stiles takes big, shuddering breaths. Dad sits back down.
“No, nooo,” he says, “What the fuck, you can’t let him do this you can’t!”
Peters voice is hard, “What did I say last night. That you could tell your father everything or-“
“Peter please. Please,” Stiles is fully bargaining now, “I’m sorry. I’ll go stand in the corner.”
“What did I say?”
“Peter! I’ll go back right now!”
“Stiles. Stilinski. What did I say?”
Tears break through. Stiles slaps a foot down on the hardwood to try and ground himself, “You- you said that I would sleep on my stomach!” It’s just loud enough to be heard.
“And did you cooperate? Did you tell your father everything without fighting?”
Apparently Stiles’ sniffling is answer enough, because he is hauled fully over Peter’s lap.
“No no no NO you CREEPER get OFF!” He screeched, squirming with all of his ability. Peter held him down pathetically easy. The arm around his waist felt like an iron bar.
The first swat, over his jeans, robbed the air from his lungs. It hurt. Of course it hurt. It hurt yesterday, why wouldn’t it hurt now? He bit his lip.
The second swat hit his opposite cheek, and Peter quickly built up a rhythm. Stiles tried to focus on the pattern, prepare himself for each one, but fuck was it hard. The spanked spots felt hot and stingy, reigniting stronger whenever Peter turned his attention to them. Wiggling was almost just as bad, with his jeans on. The fabric was stiff and scratched the heated skin where his briefs ended.
The tears stung too. He felt them gather and felt some vindication, some control when he refused to let them fall. When they became dangerously close to spilling over, he would take a hand off of Peter’s leg to wipe them furiously, his breath hitching.
“Why are you over my knee, Stiles?”
Oh this bastard wanted coffee and conversation during this? Is this real? He almost laughed, but it would have turned into a sob.
He shook his head frantically, not speaking.
“Come on Stiles, I know you can.”
He punched Peter’s legs. They felt like bricks. Stupid fucking werewolves with their iron bar arms and their brick legs.
Peter sighs, “Well then, with that lovely display, I think I need a clearer picture of what I’m doing.”
Stiles is hauled upright so fast he’s dizzy, his wrists crossed and held up above his head. Peter’s hand travels down and unbuttons the top of his jeans.
“No!” He cries sharply.
Peter gives a small growl that makes Stiles want to curl up on the floor, “Is that your favorite word?” He drags the zipper down in one fluid motion.
Talking to Peter is useless. He looks tearily over to his dad, who is watching wide-eyed.
“Dad please! Tell him to knock it off! T-tell him!” He hiccups.
Noah, to his shock, shakes his head, “I’ve never been able to do it. But if there’s anyone who has earned a spanking here, it’s you Mischief.”
Stiles is overwhelmed with emotions. A lot of them. Embarrassment and shame obviously. Something like betrayal. And a feeling he can’t name. One that makes him want to sob and apologize, one that makes him start to realize that there is no talking or sneaking out of this one.
He’s getting a spanking and there’s nothing he can do. The tears spill over.
He gets tipped back over Peter’s knee, and Peter tugs his pants and underwear down.
“Nooooo,” he moans, crying now.
The spanks start again, the first making a much louder, obnoxious slap against his rear.
“Ow! Ow!” Now that he’s spoken, the silence is a thing of the past. Stiles is much more fine with letting the two men know his discomfort.
Four more across the middle, and he hisses, “Aw! Aaa Peteeer! Pe-he-ter! Wait! Ow!”
“Why are you over my lap right now?”
“I don’wanna- I can’t- Peter! Ple-heeaase!” Stiles’ legs are kicking furiously, hips squirming in a futile effort to dodge swats.
Peter sends down two especially hard ones that nearly rock Stiles forward and he hollers, “A-ahh, I lied! I lied!”
Peter makes an approving noise, “You did indeed lie. You lied a lot. Leaving things out today is something called a lie of omission, by the way. In fact, I kept! Having! To! Correct your stories!”
Stiles shoved his face in Peter’s thigh, “Ow ouchh please P’ter m’sorry! Ow ow!”
A hum, “What else did you do?”
Stiles racked his brain, “Uh- uh- I didn’t listeN OW!!”
“You most definitely did not. Not yesterday or today. Your father is, like it or not, part of your pack. I am in your pack now. Do you disobey adults, especially in your pack?”
“N-no! No sir! Sorry! Please please owch owww!”
The iron bar hand travels up to message the nape of his neck, pleased at the address. Stiles melts into it and starts to feel further sad emotions at the way things have gone.
“What else?”
Stiles draws a blank. A crisp swat makes him wail, “I can’t! Can’t!”
“You can,” Peter refutes, keeping his pace unbroken.
“I ca-han’t think! Please!”
There’s that hand again, rubbing at his back.
“Oh puppy, this is for getting yourself in so much avoidable danger. And for the rudeness this morning. The tantrum definitely didn’t help things.”
Stiles sobbed out apologies.
“Oh sweetheart, you’re about to be a very sorry boy with a very red bottom. We’re almost done.”
“No,” he gasps, “I wanna b’done! Please sir please Peter pleaseee!”
The next swat makes his toes curl. He burrows his head into Peter’s leg and screams.
“Who decides when you’re done? Is it you, puppy?”
“Nuh-uh nooo it’s uh-uh-uh you! Owww Peter!”
Stiles gets tipped closer to the floor as Peter shifts his legs. He’s confused at the change, hiccuping softly, until his undercurve gets a burning swat.
“
He shrieks. Sorry indeed, he’s never felt more repentant in his life. Every spank is worse than the one before. How is that even possible?
Apologies leave his mouth in a stream, especially when his thighs are next.
“I’m sorry! Dad! Daddy I! I wanted to te-hell you! Ouch Peter owww! I’m sorry I didn’t!” His voice hitches on the last word, sounding more like ‘dih-int’.
His Dad speaks up, and it’s the sternest voice he’s heard in a while, making him crumble like paper, “I’m sure you feel very sorry. I hope you feel sorry about how you treated Peter as well. I haven’t seen you throw a fit like that since you were 4.”
“I’m sorry sir! I’m sorry! So-o sorry!”
“I hope so,” Peter responds, “Because I am holding you to a high standard, Stiles. You are one of the most clever boys I have ever met. Don’t waste your intelligence on stupid things or being bratty, otherwise I will make sure you end up right back here. That’s a promise, and I keep my promises.”
Stiles keens, hands fisting in Peter’s pants. He’s totally kicked off his own jeans and underwear sometime during this. He doesn’t have the energy to feel humiliated by it. His entire world feels narrowed down to Peter’s awful hand and his ass.
“Yessir!” He whimpers.
“And if you start lying again! I don’t care what it’s about - if you intentionally lie about anything - you will find out what a brush feels like on a sore bottom! Is that clear?”
That’s like an American Horror Stories episode. The prospect alone terrifies him. Peter’s hand already hurts so much, he can’t fathom how unforgiving wood would feel.
“Yes! So clear! Ow owwwch! Sorry sorry sorry Peter! I’ll be good! I’ma be so good! Promise! Please!”
Stiles loses words altogether at the next circuit, just sobbing hysterically into Peter’s leg. He doesn’t even notice when it stops, but he is eventually righted and sat on Peter’s lap. Peter spread his legs to avoid pressure on his bottom, which felt like one huge pulse point of hot pain.
Stiles wrapped his arms around Peter’s neck, scenting him the best he could as a non-wolf. He wailed into Peter’s collar, chest heaving and hiccuping.
“Shhh shhhh oh pup you did so well. It’s all over, clean slate. All taken care of.” The croon made Stiles curl into Peter more.
“M’sorry, M’so sorry,” he gasped, “It hurts so bad! It hu-urts! Huh-urts!”
“I know, I know, but you are going to be so well behaved now. You’ve learned, hm!”
“Mm-mmhm!” Stiles nods frantically, gasping and clutching onto Peter, who produced tissues and a water bottle from probably his ass.
“Drink some,” Peter said, putting the bottle to his lips. It takes a few tries, Stiles can’t control his shuddering breathing, and he doesn’t want to inhale the water. He takes a few small sips, then half the bottle, before he slumps into Peter again, still softly crying. The man feels like he did when he was the alpha.
Well, back then Stiles was mostly scared shitless of Peter, but there was something enigmatic, something that made him almost agree to the bite. He realizes that it wasn’t the alpha spark at all, but just a trait that Peter has. He’s stupidly comforting considering he’s the one who branded his ass in the first place.
Then he looks up, and spots his dad, and everything goes out the window.
“Daaad!” He whines, reaching out desperately. Peter is a thing of the past, Stiles needs his dad. Needs him badly.
Noah doesn’t immediately move, and for a second Stiles thought the man may not have forgiven him, even after all of this. The guilt that had felt absolved comes back with a resurgence, and sobs return. There’s no more tears, so it’s just dry crying.
He stretches more, “Dad M’sorry! M’sorry!”
Noah moved fast, taking Stiles gently. Stiles had to put in more effort here, and work with his dad. This was different than with Peter, who just ragdolled him around.
Pressing his wet face into Noah’s chest, he just cried. Small sobs that shook his shoulders, keening into his father’s arms. Noah murmured a steady comforting stream of Polish.
“I’ll tell you what’s g-goin on, I swear!” He insisted once he could keep a sentence steady.
“And you’ll listen to the adults around you,” Peter interjected, “If you disagree with our plans for things, just say so, but going off to do your own thing will end like this.”
His eyes were sharp and serious, and Stiles cowed, “Y-yessir,” he said, somewhat hoarse.
Noah hugged him tight, “And I never want to see a temper tantrum like this again. I barely survived your terrible twos, I don’t need to see you throwing yourself to the floor and kicking things.”
Stiles burned red. He nodded and mumbled into Noah’s chest. Finally, he peeled away a little. He reached a hand back and tentatively touched his bottom.
“Oh my god, oww,” he wheezed, “It hurtssss!”
The skin was so hot, and felt prickly and irritated to touch. He could see in his peripheral vision the blush of red that wrapped his thighs.
“It was supposed to hurt, pup,” Peter sounded amused, “Did it do the job?”
Stiles nodded sullenly, “You’re never spanking me again.”
The wolf’s eyebrow shot up, “Excuse me?”
Stiles actively tried to hide in his father’s lap, “I meant you won’t need to! You won’t!”
That calmed the man, “Because you’ll be good.”
“I’ll be good!” He parroted. He glanced down and squeaked, “Can- can someone pass me my clothes?”
Peter stood and grabbed the pile, “I’m grabbing you sweatpants. You don’t want to be wearing jeans right now.”
Sweatpants sounded amazing. Peter returned and his dad helped him step into the sweatpants, his own coltish legs refusing to cooperate. Then he was pulled back into Noah again.
“You’re home with me today, understand.”
Some teenage centered part of him wanted to bite, wanted to fight the order. But that was dumb because he didn’t want to leave his dad anyways. He felt safe, and things felt simple.
He dozed through half of the soft conversations the older men were having. He roused when Peter stood to leave.
“P’ter?” He mumbled, cracking an eye open, “Thanks. For helping me.”
Peter didn’t ask whether he meant yesterday, or today, he just nodded, scenting Stiles one more time.
“Anytime, puppy.”
He headed for the door, “Goes to show that you’re loud and talkative even when getting a spanking, you outshone Derek with your dramatics by a mile. I’m impressed again, Stiles.”
Huh.
“Wait, dude, DEREK? DEREK HALE?! YOU SPANKED DEREK?”
“See you later Stiles.” Peter closed the door, leaving him looking like a shocked fish on the couch.
“PETER COME BACK HERE!”