Peter is hurt worse than Stiles, but you'd never know it by their situation. They're both still drunk and panting as they lean against the door to Stiles' apartment. Peter's got the keys and he fumbles with them for a moment before he turns the lock with a forceful jerk. The door opens to allow the both of them to tumble through. Peter has Stiles mostly in his arms, grunting with the effort of carrying the kid's weight while his own body is screaming in pain (he's pretty sure that's a broken rib knitting itself together under his skin). In his arms, Stiles is groaning as if a bruised cheek and a busted lip are the worst things that could have happened to him.

"Christ Peter, lock the door and get me to my bed. Please."

Peter chuckles despite the pain. "You know I should dump you right here and leave." He's heading for the bedroom of Stiles' flat though. "You picked a fight with the wrong werewolf and got us both busted up. You're lucky I won."

Stiles' snort in his arms is dismissive at best. "You're the one who took the human to theWEREWOLF BAR. He was trying to pick me up. What was I supposed to do?"

"You could've taken him up on his offer," Peter suggests, kicking Stiles' bedroom door open so that he can walk them through. "Then you'd be fucked out and I'd be in a hell of a lot less pain." Stiles giggles as Peter deposits him on the bed, and Peter raises an eyebrow. "What, you disagree?"

"You'd want me to fuck some guy?" Stiles is grinning with his eyes closed and every time he smiles it ends in a grimace—from the bruising, Peter suspects. "Fuck a…mmm, a werewolf?"

Peter leans in to Stiles' closed-eyed smile, inhaling him. "That seems to be your specialty, doesn't it?"

Stiles laughs, and Peter swoops down to capture their lips together. Some sound of surprised pleasure leaves the kid's mouth and Peter ignores it, digging his tongue a little deeper, his fingers further into the skin at Stiles' side.

"Kinky," Stiles hisses. "Pain and pleasure. You know my face fucking hurts."

"Sorry."

"…I like it though."

He's drunk, so Peter gives him a bit of a pass on that. Stiles cannot be thinking clearly enough to realize what those words do to him. He's a wolf; most of the times they have sex he's warring between the urge to rip Stiles open, and the urge to fuck him senseless. But Peter does growl a warning, breathing hot against Stiles' cheek. "Careful," he says. "I'm not sober either. I'll deliver on pain if you ask for it." Even as he says it, he's got his hand wrapped around Stiles' wrist to leech some of his pain away. "You want me to make you hurt baby?"

Stiles is nodding before he even opens his eyes to see how Peter's have turned to blue. "Hell yeah. I'm going to be hung over as fuck tomorrow. I might as well make it worth it."

Peter gives a hard suck on the skin of Stiles' neck then bites it. "Speak for yourself sweetheart." Stiles makes a face at the name and Peter laughs. They both know that in the morning, Stiles will be the only one reeling from their night of drinking. At least physically. Peter gets up from the bed to choose a few items for them to play with. "Let's see," he says as he walks over to the tall cabinet that Stiles keeps all of his kinky shit in. He opens the doors, considering his choices. "You know it never ceases to amaze me how you manage to accumulate all of this stuff," he comments amusedly. There're a few new items that Peter knows weren't there the last time he dragged Stiles out of a bar. There's anal beads and a cheerful-looking vibrator that's about the color of fruit punch, and Peter asks, "You try any of these new ones out yet?"

"The toys?" Stiles hums. "Yeah. I had a guy over last weekend. They're okay." He doesn't say it, but Peter can hear the "I've had better"in his words. Drunk as he is, he likes to think that the words apply to the guy too. Black leather catches Peter's eye and his lips curl up. He skims his fingers over a new collar, this one thicker and meaner looking than Stiles' others. Forget D rings; it's got freaking leather handlesbuilt into it. "This looks fun," Peter murmurs, more to himself than to actually be heard.

Stiles can obviously see what he's doing from the bed, because he grins like a shark and proclaims proudly, "That one's got studs on the inside."

Peter touches the soft lining of the inner side and—OH YEAH—it definitely does. Making up his mind, he grabs the collar out of the cabinet, taking some electrical tape and a cock ring too because he can. The lube of course, gets grabbed without a thought. By the time he has it all back on the bed with Stiles, Peter can feel his dick twitching in his pants. He sits down next to Stiles, watching as the kid palms himself through his jeans. "You want to play with these?" he asks, because he always asks before they do this. Because Stiles is always drunk before they do this. Peter is too, most of the time.

"Shit, yes." Stiles is eager, his limbs scrambling to pull up his hoodie, pull down his pants. Of course everything gets tangled and bunched in his rush, and Peter thinks he'd almost be adorable if it weren't for the whole fact that he's, you know, taking his clothes off. Peter's brain cannot even process 'adorable' when Stiles starts getting naked. There really is no room for that word in the type of sex they have. Stiles' shoes hold things up, getting kicked off with a sigh and a curse. By the time he's down to underwear and socks he's lost patience and he goes back to rubbing his half-hard erection. "Ohmygod I've been looking forward to this likeyouhave NO IDEA."

Peter smirks, eyes roving over the kid's body. Adolescence may have kept him in the skinny end of the spectrum, but Stiles is in college now and Peter likes what young adulthood and a gym membership is doing for his physique. He grips each of Stiles' ankles and applies pressure, running his hands all the way up his legs until he can feel the lean muscles near his groin tense and relax under the skin. Up at his face, Stiles has only got his eyes half open as he lazily pleasures himself. Peter cannot deny that something more than raw sex runs through his mind when he takes in the details of that face—that one mole that's just shy of Stiles' cheekbone, the nearly feminine grace of his eyes. Stiles is pretty, lust-drunk, and well, actuallydrunk too. In his own inebriated state, it makes Peter feel regret at not having just gone ahead with it and bitten Stiles back when he was in high school and Peter was on a path of bitter revenge. Back before he cared about things as complicated as consent.

He's asked Stiles a few times more since that first time. It's always been when they're out drinking—inhibitions lowered and all that good stuff. Stiles says no each time though. Peter crawls up over him, not sober enough to stop himself from reaching up and cradling the side of Stiles' face where most of the moles are. He swipes his thumb against them, thinking out loud, "You would have made a beautiful wolf." Stiles grunts in a half-acknowledgement of the words, more focused on moving his hand underneath the fabric of his underwear than anything else. But Peter reaches out to stop him from touching himself. "Don't do that," he chastises, a quick glance down to the defined line of an erection. "You're already hard and I don't want this over quickly." Peter's under no illusions that Stiles doesn't still run on the sex drive of a sixteen year old. Beneath him, Stiles pulls against his grip as if it will make any difference.

"I won't come," he argues, huffing when Peter still doesn't let him go. "Peter!"

"If we're playing rough, we follow my rules," Peter says, leaning over Stiles to get in his face. "And I like to tell you that you can't touch yourself."

"Yeah, just because you're a narcissistic—ah! Shhjeezus okay!"

Peter releases the brutal pinch from Stiles' nipple, but flicks it once just to make his point. "I like to edge you because it extends everyone's pleasure, you little idiot." He grins. "And because it's just fun to watch you squirm."

Stiles thrusts up against Peter. "So?" he challenges. "Commence with the squirming. I'm not getting any harder here."

From the feel of Stiles against his leg, Peter can estimate that to be a lie. But he lets it go. "No touching yourself," he says once more, before sitting up to undress. Stiles, predictable as ever, gets grabby for him the moment Peter starts taking his clothes off. Peter's more than prepared when he has to wrangle the kid's flailing hands off his chest and back down to the bed before his shirt's even cleared his head. "Uh uh," he grumbles. "Fucking be patient." Patient, ha. That's like asking the Dalai Lama to be belligerent. But Stiles behaves himself and Peter gets the rest of it off with minimal interruption. He reaches for the cock ring.

Aaaand cue the whining. Stiles makes a sound in his throat that's too low with arousal and anticipation to actually count as a whimper. But he knows what the ring means, so he makes the sound all the same. It's the first step in a series of steps that'll lead to him misbehaving and trying to beg his way out of everything, so Peter hits his thigh and puts a stop to it. "None of that." Stiles bites his lip to stifle a trouble-making smirk, and Peter wouldn't ask him to stop that for the world. He loves a sub with attitude.

There are three connected rubber circles that make up the ring. He grabs the lube and uses it to help him ease the main part of the ring down to the base of Stiles' erection. It's tight because he's already quite hard, but Peter's careful not to hurt the kid. Stiles hisses when he finally gets the third ring around his balls. "Shut up," Peter tells him. "It would have gone on easy if you'd kept your hands to yourself."

"Well," Stiles says, pulse racing a litter faster than it was before the ring, "I did say I wanted you to make me hurt, didn't I?"

Peter grins and hits him lightly on the face, but it's just a tap—when Peter smacks Stiles, there's no mistaking it for anything else. "Don't even worry about that baby. We're just getting started."

Peter can hear the sharp uptick in Stiles' heartbeat at the nickname. He knows that the kid secretly likes that, being called baby. Sweetheartgets an even stronger reaction, but Peter never mentions it or teases him. When he sobers up tomorrow, he'll regret using the overly intimate words, just like he does every time they do this. For now, he'll call Stiles all the pretty things he wants to be called. All the ugly things too.

Peter appreciates the way that Stiles' cock looks, all trussed up in the confines of the rings. He plays with it for a minute; not really stimulating him but just touching it and watching it move for his own amusement. When Stiles gets impatient enough he growls and opens his mouth to deliver a scathing remark—

"Careful," Peter warns him with a look. He picks the roll of electrical tape up off the bed—a warning. "You're already two strikes in when it comes to being grabby. Don't get a smart mouth too."

Stiles bares his teeth a little. "You like it."

Oh.

Oh ho.

Peter's down on him in a flash, hands holding Stile's face still so that he can't move away from the feeling of Peter's breath against his lips. "Strike one. You want me to tape your pretty little mouth shut so soon?"

Stiles pants. "And here I was thinking you liked my 'pretty little mouth' available for other pursuits."

"I can make sacrifices," Peter tells him. "You however, won't be getting choked by your sexy new collar if I have to shut you up." Peter's all about pushing boundaries with other wolves, but Stiles is human and breath play with your mouth taped shut isn't something he wants to do with a creature that breakable. Intoxicated as he is, he still tries to ferret that argument away for the next time he offers Stiles the bite. Stronger body, stronger sex. Peter's lips are a hair's breadth away as he breathes down on him, the stubble of his beard just barely scraping Stiles' chin. "Now the choice is completely up to you," he tells him smugly. "You can either have two more smart-assed remarks, or you can have your collar. But you don't get both. What's it going to be?"

Stiles' face looks contemptuous, like he's seriously considering calling Peter an asshole just to spite him. But Peter did say that he had twomore strikes left, and so perhaps that's why he settles down and seals his lips in a thin line. Peter has no doubt that he'll be reserving that second strike for later use. He pulls back, sits up and smiles down at him. "Good boy."

"I'm still allowed to talk, right?" Stiles snaps, riled up already at being bossed around. "Right?"

Peter's got his hand around his own erection, stroking it right next to where Stiles' is laying, angrily and untouched, against his stomach. "You can talk," he tells him. "After you're done choking on my cock."

Stiles would make a nasty comment about how 'he's had bigger'—he hasn't—but Peter's being so controlling about the backtalk tonight so he holds it in. Peter's moving up Stiles' body to sit on his chest. Stiles knows that Peter only puts his full weight on him because Stiles likes how it feels. The head of Peter's cock is a darker pink than the rest of him. He's got foreskin, so Stiles has to wrap a hand around him and slide it down before he sees it. "Have I ever told you that I love that you're uncut?" Stiles blurts out in that way that only he can.

Peter stares. "No." They'd jumped so fast into this lurid routine of fucking and dominating, there never really was that new, awkwardly fascinating period of timid exploration of each other's quirks. Stiles has enough moles to map out a constellation and Peter's got foreskin. It's just the way they are. Below, Stiles has got Peter's knee in his armpit as he makes the effort to reach and stroke him. But he's going slowly. Too slowly. "Stop playing with it," Peter barks. He slaps Stiles' hand away and scoots up, tilting his hips closer to Stiles' mouth. "Open up," he commands, and eager boy that he is, Stiles does. His blowjob skills are good. Peter would say they've gotten better since the two of them started fooling around. He's curious: he suspects that they'd improve further still if the two of them ever did this sober.

But he's not that curious.

"Yeah," he murmurs as Stiles sets a pace of long, hard sucks. "Oh, ohhhh yeah." It's slow, but Peter lets him have it for now. The kid does have a cut lip, after all. It's red and still bleeding a little, but it really doesn't seem to be impeding him much. Peter absently wonders if the pain of his dick sliding over it gets Stiles off. Stiles' hands are grabbing in a constant squeeze at Peter's ass. It's his most sincere effort to keep from touching himself, Peter knows. It's actually so endearing that he gives the kid some foolish praise and reaches back to cradle Stiles' cock against his stomach. Stiles grunts and immediately starts humping up into the touch, and Peter allows it. "Don't slack off," he warns. "I want to feel you sucking."

Stiles seals his mouth harder around the head of Peter's cock, determined not to lose his privilege. It's more of an effort now because Peter's grown in his mouth and he's pretty much at his biggest. At this girth, Stiles' lips are stretched farther, his jaw gets sore faster. And he has to squeeze his eyes shut to concentrate enough to take the first, gentle thrusts that Peter starts giving him.

"Thaaat's it," Peter rumbles, moving his hips mere centimeters that he knows must feel like miles to the boy beneath him. "Take it. I want to see you working for it. You like to struggle for me, don't you?" He leans forward, thrusts a little further to make Stiles choke. "Come on," he hisses, "struggle." Around his cock, Stiles moans, and it brings a smirk to Peter's face. He is more than aware of just how much Stiles likes dirty talk. It's always a little fun, teasing out new words and phrases that do it for him best. So far, Peter has found that anything aggressive or demeaning tends to do the trick. "You like that, don't you? Hmm?" He presses his hips forward enough to make Stiles gag, and god, if it isn't a beautiful sound. Behind, Stiles' blunt fingernails are surely digging little half moons into his ass. Peter rumbles a laugh. "Yeah you do."

He lets up, sits back and pulls his cock out to let Stiles breathe. Peter can only figure that he's got the kid well-trained at this point because Stiles only gulps a few greedy breaths before he sticks his tongue out, big, brown eyes looking up at Peter like he's ready to be taken thorough advantage of. Like so many other things he does in bed, it's heart-stopping, and Peter could kiss him if he didn't have better things to do with his mouth. "Oh baby, so good for me," he sighs. He grinds the head of his cock onto the flat of Stiles' tongue, bounces it there just for artistic appreciation. He's amused when the gleam returns to Stiles' eye and he starts wriggling the tip of his tongue pointedly in the most sensitive spot. He sucks him in again and doesn't let up with the pointed tongue thing. "Fuck!" Peter grips Stiles' hair and yanks his head sideways onto the bed, his cock leaving his mouth with an obscene 'pop'. "You'd think you were born with that dirty mouth, huh? The way you like to give head." He roughly pushes Stiles' face back into position, and gets right back to it, fucking Stiles' face and waiting for the safe word that never comes.

Peter doesn't come from a simple blow job. He could, but his partners are always willing to fuck, and besides, it's so short sighted of a move that he hasn't fallen prey to it in years. He pulls out with a gasp as Stiles tries and fails to suck him in one last time. Once he catches his breath Peter grins down at the kid, who's got a wrecked expression and swollen, messy lips. "Greedy for it?"

"Yeah," is all Stiles manages. Understandably, he's a little more out of breath than Peter. Peter gets off of him, lets him catch his breath back before he takes it all away again.

The collar is heavy and expensive feeling. The locking mechanism on the thing is actually quite impressive, and it almost has Peter worriedly demanding that Stiles not use it with random hookups. Almost. The motions he takes to lift Stiles' head up, slide the collar under his neck and wrap it back around to the front are gentle, almost reverent. There is something entirely more sacred about this part. Doing this, putting collars around Stiles' throat—a throat that is willingly offered—is perhaps the closest they get to tender. It's certainly the closest they'll ever get to lovemaking. Peter locks it, Stiles all the while staring up at him with heated eyes and a raging erection. He doesn't say anything though. For once in his life, he's quiet. Peter swallows. He feels swirly, unbalanced, but something tells him it's not the alcohol in his system.

No. It's a much headier drug than that.

"Peter," Stiles starts to whisper, but Peter cuts him off with a shake of his head and a finger to Stiles' abused lips. If the kid is feeling anything like what Peter is trying notto feel right now, then he doesn't want to hear it at all.

"Move your head," he instructs softly. "Turn it." Stiles does, and Peter observes his reactions, the way that the collar fits against his neck. "Comfortable?" he asks.

Stiles give him a filthy look. "For now. But you said you'd fix that." He stares needily up at Peter and says, "Make me hurt good, daddy."

Peter growls, and from the way that Stiles' face registers surprise, he supposes that his eyes flash blue as well. God, Peter loves his dirty, human play thing. Stiles is the best freak that Peter's ever uncovered. He's the only one that he's ever uncovered accidentally. "Hands above your head," he grinds out, ready to get this started.

Stiles pouts when he sees Peter reaching for the tape. Pouts, of all things. He blurts, "But I've only got two strikes with the hands!"

Peter has no problem utilizing the collar in the manner intended. He grips the strap that's in the front and uses it to jerk Stiles up into a sitting position. Now they're face to face and Stiles is gasping as the studs on the inside dig harshly into his skin. "How's that feel baby?"

"Ugh." Stiles' eyes are closed, his forehead wrinkled with stress. To the casual observer it might seem as if he's not enjoying himself, but Peter knows him better than that. "Love it when you push me around," Stiles groans. "I knew when I saw the collar. Knew I wanted you to use it on me. Just you."

Peter feels his stomach drop out, and it's equal parts horrible, and thrilling. He's becoming disconcertingly possessive over Stiles these days. He promises himself he'll check that. When he's sober.

For now, he surges in, hand still wrapped in the front of Stiles' collar, to kiss him deep and dirty. Stiles sort of sobs out as best he can and accepts what he's given, hands wasting no time in wrapping themselves around Peter's shoulders. It's a kiss where they let their tongues roll out with every press, reveling more in the hot, intimate slide more than any actual rhythm. Both of them probably smell of liquor, but they're immune to it at this point. Peter has werewolf senses but all he can smell right now is Stiles and the scent of pure, sweaty, unadulterated lust rolling off of him. It's delicious. Makes him dizzy with want.

Peter's intoxication is fun—necessary, really—but it is always a concern that he'll shift in teeth or claws at the wrong moment. He's got to be careful when handling his boy. He feels the familiar tingling in his gums that means he's close to having fangs, and he pulls back from the kiss with a gasp. Stiles being Stiles, of course, presses forward for more. He's an eager little fucker and Peter has to reverse his hold on the collar, pulling at the loop in the back instead of the front. "No," he husks, voice coming out differently with the added length of his sharpest teeth. "Stiles, I said NO."

Maybe Stiles hears it in his voice, maybe he just wants so to be obedient (doubtful), but he does stop. He opens his eyes and sees why they cannot continue to kiss. His eyes darken and he shudders in Peter's hold. He tells him, "I wish that you could bite me without turning me."

Peter nearly chokes. "What?"

"I wish you could bite me," he repeats, bringing one hand around to finger at Peter's mouth. He lets his thumb touch one of Peter's bottom canines, marveling at the sight of him with this one transformation. From the wondrous way Stiles is staring at him, Peter honestly thinks that Stiles sometimes forgets exactly what he is, just exactly what he is fucking. Forgets, or pushes it from his mind. "You're beautiful," Stiles mutters, leaning forward to press the shadow of a kiss to Peter's chin. "Like this."

"I'm a monster," Peter reminds him.

"Yes. You're my monster." Stiles' fingers curl in tighter at the back of Peter's neck, and even though he'sthe one wearing the collar, he's got as firm a grip on Peter as Peter has on him.

Peter half-contemplates asking him, again. But he's really not in the mood to be shot down tonight, and besides, they're kind of busy with something at the moment. So he settles on telling Stiles, "I'd shred you apart, if I could."

Most people would probably run screaming for the hills at such a statement. Stiles only moans and ruts his hips against Peter. "Fuck me," he breathes. "I need it."

He's on his front in a second, Peter having arranged him that way. They're both reeling with their desire for more, but Peter hasn't forgotten the tape. He picks it up, well-aware that Stiles notices. Preempting the complaint that's sure to come, he says, "Yes, you have two strikes. But I want your hands tied anyway." He runs both of his—currently—still human hands down Stiles' back in a large, soothing swath. "You look so hot all taped up for me baby. Don't make a fuss."

Stiles could fight. He likes to do that sometimes, wriggle and exhaust his strength until he can't keep Peter from doing what he wants to anymore. But he doesn't now. Peter takes his wrists and holds them behind his back. "Stay still," he warns with a light spank to Stiles' bottom. He's got to pull off a length of tape to get started, and Stiles does as told, keeping both hands still at the small of his back. The first strip makes it around both wrists several times, then Peter takes time to apply another strip, and another. He continues until there's no way that a human could tear their way out. The shiny PVC of the bindings holding him in place is too good of a sight to look away. Peter strokes himself in satisfaction, giving Stiles a feel as well. He's as hard as ever. "Good boy." Peter tickles down Stiles' side, squeezes his ass. "What's with the attitude adjustment? If I didn't know any better I'd say you were in your quiet place already."

"I just want you Peter," Stiles says into the bed while his cock hangs heavy between his thighs. He seems… resigned to whatever happens, though still desperate for it. And hey, maybe he is in subspace. Or maybe it's something else.

The fact that Stiles calls him that, Peter, while they're in the middle of this doesn't escape Peter's notice. Not Daddy, not Sir. Not some sobbed, hateful curse word. Just Peter. Peter cradles Stiles' balls thoughtfully. His name has never sounded so significant. "Spread your legs baby," he whispers, insides twisting a little when Stiles immediately complies.

He reaches up to the back of the collar, pulls on it just enough so that he knows Stiles is feeling the pinch of the lining on his throat. With his other hand he trails a path down Stiles' back from shoulder blade to sacrum. He thumbs the crack of his ass, wondering if maybe he should have gotten a flogger or something else out. "You want me to whip you?" he asks.

Stiles shakes his head what little bit he can in the hold he's in. "Spank me," he utters.

Peter doesn't bother goading a 'please sir'out of him. He doesn't feel like getting up for more toys anyway. The first smack of his open hand against Stiles' skin is centered on the left, and it makes Stiles cry out from satisfaction rather than pain. They both know that he won't be crying for it to stop until at least the fifteenth stroke. Peter warms the spot, cups it with his hand, before he hits him again. It's harder on the second stroke, and the third, until he settles into the rhythm of it, giving Stiles firm, evenly-spaced smacks on each side of his ass.

Stiles' skin grows warm and pink quicker than you'd think, and his cock angrier looking. Peter slides his thigh between where Stiles has his ass in the air, allowing him to rub against his leg while he continues spanking him. Sometimes they talk back and forth when he's doing this—hitting Stiles with some implement or another, working him up into desperation and sobs. But now they don't. It's not a time for words, and as in-sync as they are in the moment it goes unquestioned by the both of them. All that can be heard is their harsh breaths as they work each other over. Peter makes sure to give the collar little, jarring tugs every few seconds to keep Stiles on edge, and he relishes every single yip that Stiles gives when he does.

It's the twenty seventh slap when Stiles loses it. Peter's actually surprised that he holds out that long; he's not being gentle and twenty-seven is well beyond the kid's average tolerance. Stiles clenches his thighs pitifully and lets loose the first, beautiful sob. "Stop," he cries out, sincere. "Please stop."

But it's not the safe word, and Peter knows that he can get Stiles to another level of unraveled yet. He hits him again, twice in the same spot quickly, and then again on the other cheek. The next few cries from Stiles get ignored and Peter makes it to thirty three before Stiles' back bows, his whole body shuddering on the next sob. "Peter!" he nearly screams. "I can't!"

And even while he's screaming, Stiles' body is as complacent as it's been since they've started. His face is covered in tears and his body is relaxed. It's what Peter has been looking for. He pulls his leg away from between Stiles'. He yanks him up until they're chest to back and he pulls the collar so hard that he cuts off most of Stiles' ability to breathe. Stiles' pants come heavy and harsh, and Peter knows that with one less place to go to, the blood is all rushing to Stiles' cock. "Shhh," he hushes soothingly into his ear as he continues to choke him. "Easy. Just let it happen baby." Stiles makes a gagging sound that Peter figures would be a moan if it had the space to form. Peter gives Stiles' cock firm, measured strokes to intensify what he's feeling. Squeezing hard on the end of every upstroke. Between their bodies, Stiles' hands twitch and wrap around Peter's erection in return.

It makes Peter gasp and then laugh. "Oh, good boy. Mmm. You're an eager puppy tonight aren't you?"

Stiles can't answer, but Peter knew that when he asked the question. He pushes his hips into the uncoordinated grasp of Stiles' fist, wanting lube there but too lazy to grab for the bottle. "Fuck baby, yeeeah." He has to grit his teeth, not at the hand job because it's subpar given that Stiles' hands are taped, but at the entirety of their situation. Stiles is a choking, crying mess in front of him and Peter is so far gone for this kid it's not even funny. He really is glad that he got especially trashed tonight. Otherwise he'd have nothing to blame it on. He releases his hold on Stiles and allows him to fall forward into the bedding with his gasps.

Stiles is wheezing something before he ever says it. By the time it makes it to Peter's ears as intelligible words, he's already got slick fingers rubbing over Stiles' hole. "Take it," is what he's saying, it turns out. But he's not telling it to Peter so much as to himself. He's got his head turned blandly to the side and he just keeps repeating it, telling the empty air to 'take it, take it, take it'.

That's the point where Peter knows that he's absolutely got Stiles in subspace; in that quiet, touch-focused corner of his mind that the kid always craves. It's the "exact opposite of his ADHD" he's told him, and at times like these, Peter fancies himself the better version of Ritalin; the more substantive stimulant, injected into the system through hours of sex, rather than orally.

But of course when he's drunk, Peter always likes to think that he's good for Stiles.

He continues what he's doing, soothing Stiles with whispers and words even though by this point the kid doesn't need it—he's floating on pleasure and need, oblivious to anything bad. Bad? What's bad? There is no bad when they're like this, just the two of them, blissed out and headed for the edge. But Peter's going to fuck him first. He's going to get his.

He gets more lube on his fingers, pressing carefully against Stiles' hole to open him up. He's already pretty relaxed. If he hadn't hit subspace so early on, Peter would have eaten him out to get him there. But as it is he rubs up inside Stiles where he knows he'll hit that spot. He can't tell by touch but the pad of one finger must hit his prostate because Stiles' back bows, the line in the middle of it collecting sweat beautifully. He's crying out sharper now into the sheets, begging for Peter to fuck him. "Put it in, put it in," he says, and Peter would bet money that a sober Stiles would be mortified at the sounds he's making. "Peter, fuck me please!" he begs.

Well that's a good sign, Peter thinks. At least he remembers his name. Stiles' hands are still tied behind his back in all that shiny black tape. Peter has already made up his mind that that is where he wants to blow his load. Where Stiles' hands are clenched into fists one moment, they're splayed the next, straining to pull up on his buttocks, holding himself open for Peter. "Give it to me. Give me what I need," he says in a moment of surprising clarity. "Please."

Peter feels like his throat might close up at how perfect that it. He feels another piece of himself slip away, and he has to jerk his hand out of Stiles before his claws appear. They're there, sharpening his fingers to threatening points as he arches over Stiles' back to lick and kiss his neck. He pulls the collar and pricks the edges of his teeth against skin, imagining sinking deeper, tearing holes and making blood come to the surface in a hot, salty rush. He imagines swallowing it. He imagines Stiles screaming. He imagines Stiles turning.

"You ready baby?" he asks, imagining that he's asking about the bite instead. Stiles is too far gone to get his game because he's nodding immediately, pressing his ass up at Peter as much as he can while he's pinned with his arms behind his back.

"Yesyesyes."

It's beautiful. It's perfect and it's almost exactly where Peter wants to be, except for that it's not. Peter fucks him. He doesn't turn him, and he leaves him sleeping in the morning when the sobriety is too much to take.