Stiles flopped on top of his bed, burying his face into his pillow with a groan. He hadn't even bothered to turn on the light, exhausted as he was, so his room was illuminated only by the fiery light of sunset.
It had been nearly twenty-four hours since he'd stumbled across Peter in the woods and— if he wasn't sporting love bites on his neck—Stiles would have thought he had dreamt the whole encounter.
But if the previous evening with Peter had been a dream, then the events after the older man had left were the stuff of nightmares.
*************************************FLASHBACK**** **********************************
"You okay?" Stiles's dad called from down the hall. "Why is the kit down here?"
Shit.
Stiles froze for a second before scooping portions of the casserole on to the plates, his wheels spinning at full tilt for an excuse.
"Ah, I kinda tripped over the ottoman. I wrapped up my foot with the bandage in it. Forgot to put it back, sorry," he shouted back, settling with a half-truth. At least now his dad wouldn't question his injury. It wouldn't be the first time Stiles had been laid out by the foot rest.
"If you tripped over the ottoman in the living room, then why is the kit down here and not in the bathroom where you had to get it from in the first place?" came the suspicious query from down the hall.
Leave it to his dad to spot the holes in his lies.
"Scott got it for me," Stiles called over his shoulder as he reached up into a cabinet for a pair of glasses. "He was here when it happened so he got it out for me."
"He the one who went out the back?"
Stiles nearly dropped the glass he was holding, his heart pounding in his chest. He mentally cursed the doorbell, putting 'superglue the cowbell clappers' on his to-do list.
"Uh, yeah. Actually, he wasn't even supposed to be here. He's kinda grounded. But he knew what today was so he snuck out to keep me company. He went out the back so you wouldn't see him and tell his mom."
Stiles dug an ice tray out of the freezer and dropped a few in each glass before taking them to the sink.
There was a tension-filled moment of silence as his dad weighed the excuse. Stiles crossed his fingers and waited with bated breath while he heard his father mess with something in the living room, likely going through today's mail. And possibly staring distantly at the old family pictures in the living room that held Stiles's mom's face, grief hitting him hard as he studied the features of the woman who had been forced to leave him behind too soon.
Probably both.
"That's fine," his dad said vaguely before thumping his way up the stairs.
Relief flooded through Stiles's battered body. What was it with all the close calls today?
He set the two ice water-filled glasses down on the table and looked around, jittery. Usually he left off dealing with the dirty dishes until after dinner, but tonight he was too keyed up to sit and do nothing. He needed to move, to expend the nervous energy that he had built up, and so he found himself arranging the dirty dishes methodically into the washing machine rack— a metaphorical twiddling his of thumbs.
Heavy, plodding steps heralded his father's descent from upstairs.
Stiles was busy adding the dish detergent when his dad walked into the kitchen behind him. "Place looks great, kid. What did you do, go over it with a comb?"
A chair scrapped across the linoleum as it was drawn away from the table, his dad settling into it a moment later. He leaned wearily against the table, but the plateful of hot food seemed to be cheering him up.
"Yeah, I got bored so I…did stuff," Stiles finished lamely. He started up the dishwasher and went to take his seat at the table, digging into his portion enthusiastically. All of this stress racked up one hell of an appetite.
Wrapped up in devouring his food, Stiles took no notice as his father's gaze narrowed at the dark, purpling bruises on his son's neck. "So Scott was here. Anyone else come over?" he asked, his tone lightly curious as he thoroughly chewed his mouthful.
"Naw, just Scott. Played video games for a while before he helped me start dinner. He opened all the cans without breaking the can opener this time. I was proud."
Stiles gulped down half of his glass of water, thinking that it really shouldn't be this easy for the lie to roll off of his tongue. The first time Scott had helped him cook after he'd been bitten, he and Stiles had gotten into a heated discussion over a mission in World of Warcraft and, well… Stiles had had to replace the can opener that had been sheared in half during Scott's animated speech.
His dad pushed his food around on his plate, playing with a green bean. "You didn't leave the house at all today?" he asked, his eyes noting little scoop-like marks in some of the bruises— teeth marks?
Shaking his head, Stiles spoke through a particularly large mouthful. 'Didn't f'l like it." He chewed a bit then swallowed roughly. "I'll go out tomorrow. We're almost out of milk. And Save-A-Lot is has ground turkey on sale so I'll probably swing by for some." His dad groaned. "And no, I'm not grabbing any chips 'while I'm at it'. You don't need the extra sodium," Stiles said firmly, shutting down the idea before his father could bring it up for the thousandth time.
"You know, they make lightly salted chips."
Stiles just gave him a look and speared a bit of pasta with his fork.
His dad groaned somberly as he chewed. "Well, it was nice of Scott to come out today and keep you company."
A half-smile settled onto Stiles's face. "Yeah, he's awesome. He was gonna stalk Allison—not actually stalk, dad—but he said he could put it off 'til tomorrow. The guy needed a break from all the 'girl drama' anyway."
They continued to eat in silence, apart from Stiles's occasional quizzing into his dad's work. When they finished, Stiles moved to clear the table, but his dad motioned for him to sit back down…which meant a talk.
Fuck.
"Look, Stiles," his dad began, shifting in his chair in discomfort. "It's perfectly fine to experiment. I understand. You're young and curious and you're trying to figure out what you like, but you're sixteen. You're still underage and, until such time that you cease to be underage, you'll abide by my rules. There'll be no unnecessary nudity, obscene acts, or sex of any kind under my roof—especially when I'm gone. If I feel the need to have patrols or a neighbor swing by to check on you when I'm out, I will do so.
But personally, I think you need to keep your head clear right now. I know Scott's your best friend and you might feel comfortable experimenting with him, but if he's still stuck on Allison then things could get messy if he tries to play more than one field. I've got no problems with the guy; I just don't want to see you get hurt. I know that whole 'Lydia' thing didn't pan out for you, but don't let yourself be pressured into settling for just any Tom, Dick, or Harriet that will look at you twice. You've got a lot going for you, bud. Just make sure you don't waste it on someone who doesn't deserve it."
Stiles could only sit, mouth hanging wide open in silent horror while his dad churned out his speech. Mortified beyond belief, Stiles stammered out a 'thanks, dad' before excusing himself from the table.
His dad collected the dirty dishes with a sympathetic grimace.
As soon as he reached the safety of his room, Stiles finally remembered the bruises on his neck and the incriminating towels and soiled boxers in the bathroom—evidence his father had obviously seen and horrendously misinterpreted.
Not that Stiles had been about to correct him.
Mentally and physically exhausted, he rushed through his nighttime hygiene rituals, plugged in his phone, and passed the fuck out, asleep within seconds of falling into bed.
*************************************END FLASHBACK**********************************
Stiles squirmed on the bed, trying to get comfortable, but his back only seemed to ache worse. He'd seen the bruises in the bathroom mirror, black and blue stripes slanting across his back, and he wondered how hard hiding them in the locker room was going to be.
He stretched out on the bed, arms over his head to lengthen his body as much as possible. His muscles protested as they were pulled taut.
His dad had allowed him to sleep in until about noon before ousting him from his nice, warm blanket-cocoon. Unfortunately, Stiles's hopes for a lazy Sunday afternoon had been smashed to pieces when his dad had courteously reminded him of the lawn he'd been neglecting for the past two weeks. To be fair, there had been extenuating supernatural circumstances beyond his control, so it wasn't like it was completely his fault. Sad as it was, that truth— like so many others— wasn't up for discussion. At least until Stiles couldn't hold it off any longer.
So, after completing his scheduled grocery shopping, Stiles had pushed their ancient mower around the yard for a good two hours, which was over half an hour longer that it should have taken because he had checked his phone for messages after every. Freaking. Pass.
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing from Peter since his initial text from the night before.
And that was fine, right? No big deal. He'd suffered through years of Lydia's rebuffs, one more time couldn't hurt.
Right?
And like hell if Stiles was going to make the first move again. It was his damn turn to be chased.
A cool droplet of water—a vestige from his after-mowing shower— slowly trickled from his hairline down his cheek, tickling him. He rubbed his face against his pillow and its corner stuck out and pressed right up against the line of love bites decorating his throat.
Stiles inhaled sharply, his cock stirring at the sensation and the near-fresh memory of Peter rutting against him, marking him…
Mindlessly, Stiles rocked his hips against the comforter, closing his eyes as he imagined it was Peter he was rutting against as he settled into a lazy rhythm. He sighed softly. He felt drowsy as his undulating hips sent delicious shivers through his aching limbs. Lost in pleasure, Stiles didn't hear the faint scraping sound of his window being drawn open, nor did he notice the light breeze suddenly skimming across his still damp skin. He did, however, notice the dip in his mattress and he reacted instinctively, flailing about in blind panic as he rolled off the opposite side of the bed, landing on the floor shoulders first, squarely onto at least two rows of bruises.
Groaning, Stiles's vision momentarily fuzzed over as he lay on the floor, trying to catch his breath.
Peering at him from the other side of the bed was Peter, smirking from his half-knelt position. "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," he said, his voice cracking minutely with barely-restrained laughter.
Stiles huffed. Yeah, right…
Cautiously, Stiles rolled over and stood, wincing as the movement jostled his abused back.
Frowning, Peter made his way around the bed to Stiles. He gestured for him to turn and stared expectantly at the teen until Stiles obeyed with an eye roll.
As soon as his back was presented to Peter, the older man gently lifted his shirt to reveal the damage Scott's mini-meltdown had inflicted. He waited on tenterhooks for about half a minute before clearing his throat, his hands moving restlessly. Peter could look at his skin for as long as he wanted, but it would be really freaking nice if he actually touched it…
A soft growl make him freeze in his fidgeting, making him forget how awkward he felt standing with his shirt rucked up to his nipples.
"The next time I see Scott, we're going to have a nice long chat about anger management. This is unacceptable," Peter said tightly.
Before he could stifle it, an incredulous giggle sprang from Stiles's lips. Peter Hale, who had single-handedly murdered over half a dozen people, was pissed over a few bruises. Or maybe it was just because Scott was the one who put them there (that could be more worrying).
His shirt was gently dropped to cover the mottled bruising and he felt more than heard the older man step away from him. When Stiles turned, Peter was lounging in his computer chair, his ice-blue eyes regarding him shrewdly.
"You don't think I can control myself," Peter said neutrally. Once again, Stiles had the feeling that, while outwardly distant and unconcerned, Peter was consciously reigning in his stronger emotions.
Passing a hand through his hair, Stiles gusted out a breath, struggling to respond in a way that wouldn't offend the werewolf judging him from across the room. "It's not that I think you can't exercise control," he hesitantly began, "so much that I know there have been times that you haven't." He cringed, hoping Peter wouldn't maim him.
Peter raised a brow, a malicious smirk playing around his lips, "Really, now? And what makes you think that each and every blood splatter wasn't of my own design?" he asked, his voice light and curious as he toyed with a button on his shirt sleeve (the shirt was a burgundy button-down that clashed with the color of his eyes, but perfectly matched the tone of their conversation).
Stiles's heart rate quickened as he tapped out a couple of Adderall from the pill bottle on his nightstand (he had a feeling he was going to need a clear head for this conversation). Peter had a valid point: Stiles had no idea what the older man's state of mind had been when, bit by bit, he had revenged himself upon his family's murderers— which was frightening because Stiles had voluntarily fooled around with a man who could kill him as easily as kiss him.
Peter was watching him with an expression of polite interest, as though he hadn't just asked Stiles's opinion on his murder spree.
Downing the pills with a healthy swig from his lacrosse water bottle, Stiles plopped onto the edge of the bed facing Peter, trying to will away the feeling of having a test sprung on him when he hadn't studied.
"I don't know," he finally said, twisting the bottle cap anxiously, loosening then tightening then loosening it again in quick spins. "I really don't know much of anything about you. Well, aside from whatever was in the Hale case file. And maybe some stuff Scott told me. And some things from the night of the Formal." He hunched over and rested his elbows on his thighs, flicking his thumb across the top of the water bottle cap. "Not much at all," he finished awkwardly.
For some reason, Peter kept staring at Stiles's hands, which kind of made him nervous so he kept restlessly playing with the water bottle.
Peter hummed softly, rubbing his thumb back and forth across his lips. "You know more than most."
Jerking his shoulder blades up in a shrug that made him wince, Stiles frowned, unhappy about his lack of real information on the werewolf in front of him. "Just some history and registered facts, data base stuff. Nothing that really matters. Not like, how you came back. I still don't know how you did that. How did you do that?" Stiles asked, curiosity overriding his caution.
An unnatural stillness fell over Peter and Stiles wondered if he'd gone too far with the question. Peter stared at him steadily and his fidgeting worsened. Stiles dropped the older man's gaze, his mind full of ways to change the subject, but his throat too tight to voice them.
"I…enlisted help from someone," Peter offered, vaguely. Stiles's attention snapped back up excitedly. "They gathered some things for me in time for an old ritual and…here I am," he said, nonchalantly gesturing with his hand to himself.
That's it?
Stiles squeezed his water bottle tightly in frustration. "Yeah, but how?"
Peter raised a brow at him, mockingly. "You don't think it's only the Argents who have amassed knowledge over the centuries? Or secrets? We're all holding our cards close, waiting for the perfect time to play them— even Scott."
Disappointment chaffed at Stiles. He didn't like important information being withheld from him (and a ritual powerful enough to bring the dead back to life was worth knowing). "So you won't tell me?" he asked, trying for indifference and probably failing miserably.
Peter smiled mirthlessly and stood, slowly approaching the teen and invading his space.
Stiles kept his eyes on Peter, hoping it wasn't too obvious that he was taking in the older man's scent, trying to commit it to memory. Last night's encounter had been brief and Stiles had been too caught up in Peter's passion to concentrate on his scent for long. The light musk was intoxicating— and probably expensive: low grade-arousal with a hint of something like old books. If he knew himself at all, Stiles was going to find himself in every shop in town, searching for the bottle that matched the fragrance.
Head fuzzy from having Peter's heady scent around him, Stiles sat placidly as the older man cupped his chin and caressed his plump bottom lip with a clawed thumb.
Peter's eyes were unreadable as he considered the teen before him. "Well…you did set me on fire not too long ago. It's only prudent I keep a few things to myself, don't you think?"
Shock jolted through Stiles, making him drop his water bottle onto the floor as he was caught off guard, his mind spinning into high gear. Did Peter blame him for his death, even though Derek had struck the final blow? Was all this just a ploy to get Stiles off his guard? His heart began to ratchet higher as he searched the older man's eyes, trying to read the intentions in the clear blue depths.
Peter leaned forward to place a tender kiss to Stiles's unresponsive lips, still lightly holding onto the teen's chin. When Peter retreated, his hand fell away to his side and he frowned, confused. "You're frightened. Why?"
Stiles swallowed roughly, having to clear his throat a few times before he was able to speak.
"I, um…is that why you're here?" he whispered. He was having trouble meeting Peter's eyes, afraid of being right.
Understanding softened Peter's rigid stance and he smiled with ironic amusement. "No. If I wanted to kill you, I'd have done it by now. Besides, you don't pose enough of a threat to warrant the use of seduction as an offensive tactic." He dove forward to nip playfully at Stiles's lips, cutting off the teen's indignant huff.
Reassured somewhat that Peter wasn't going to gut him mid-kiss, Stiles allowed himself to respond, pressing up and drawing Peter's tongue into his eager mouth. When Peter pulled away again, Stiles swayed on the bed, his body unconsciously trying to follow the older man's intoxicating kisses—until he remembered Peter's dig.
"Not a threat? What, did you forget I set you on fire once?" he quipped as he leaned back onto his elbows, putting himself on display. He had a pretty good idea of the picture he made—breathless and flushed with kiss-bruised lips— which seemed to work for Peter, if his hungry leer was any indication.
Wedging himself between Stiles's spayed legs, Peter leaned over the teen, hovering inches from his face. "Don't get me wrong, you're not completely helpless. I just don't need to seduce you to get what I want."
"Yeah? So how do you get it?" Stiles asked, his voice little more than a whisper. His gaze kept darting between Peter's soft lips and clear blue eyes, entranced.
Peter leaned closer so that his lips barely touched Stiles's when he answered.
"Wait."
His expression was completely guileless as he watched Stiles expectantly. It was like he was waiting for him to— oh.
Nuh-uh.
Stiles might be a hair away from jumping Peter's bones, but that didn't mean he was going to do it just because Peter expected him to, like a well-trained labra-doodle. If they were going to play this game, then it was going to be played fair—after all, it was Peter's damn turn to take the lead.
Stiles leaned closer, rubbing his nose slightly against Peter's. "Really?" he asked, dropping his voice to a seductive rasp.
Peter hummed vaguely, looking dazed.
Stiles nudged his nose down Peter's cheek, brushing it across his jawline and down his throat. Obligingly, Peter tilted his head, giving him access. Stiles smiled in triumph as he trailed soft kisses over Peter's heated skin.
Expect this, he thought.
Picking a spot about halfway down, he struck, opening his mouth wide and clamping his teeth down on Peter's flesh.
Peter reacted instantly. Fisting a hand in Stiles's hair, he yanked the teen off with a snarl before tossing him backwards onto the bed, following a split second after to pin him down onto the mattress. His eyes flashed as he ground his crotch against Stiles's, sucking punishingly at the teen's neck.
Stiles tossed his head back against the mattress, groaning. His legs were obscenely spread in order to accommodate Peter's bulk, but when the older man dropped nearly his entire weight onto him, Stiles's groan turned into one of pain. The combined pressure of both their weights was setting his back on fire, the lines of bruises protesting the rough treatment. His face scrunched up as he tried to ignore the ache that threatened to eclipse the bliss from having Peter on top of him.
The supernatural glow in Peter's eyes faded as the older man levered himself up off of the teen, looking down at him with concern.
Stiles's pain-induced daze retreated and he pouted at Peter, disappointed. "Why'd you stop?"
Not even their groins were touching anymore. What the fuck?
Peter raised an incredulous eyebrow at him. "Because you're hurt," he said, overemphasizing it as though Stiles was being slow.
Stiles huffed at him. "Well, yeah. Not much I can really do about that, y'know? We humans have to wait out the whole healing process. You still didn't have to," he gestured haphazardly between their separated torsos, "stop. I mean, come on," he cajoled, incredibly aware that he was getting closer and closer to begging Peter to continue, despite his initial balk at outright seducing the older man.
His teenage libido wasn't entirely to blame. Part of his growing desperation was fueled by the exciting prospect of fooling around on an actual bed. Thrilling as outdoor sex was, it was still uncomfortable to literally be between a rock and Peter's 'hard place'.
Peter quietly surveyed Stiles from his half-plank position, his nose twitching minutely. Was that….was Peter scenting his arousal?
The lust from that realization swept through Stiles and raised goose bumps on his arms.
A smirk flitted across Peter's face. In a quick display of werewolf strength that left Stiles breathless and Peter smug, the older man flipped their positions without warning so that Stiles lay sprawled on top of him.
Well, that certainly took the pressure off of his back.
Feeling out of place, Stiles cautiously sat up, his knees bracketing Peter's hips as he perched in the man's lap. It was kind of like sitting on a seesaw, except none of the seesaws he could remember had ever sported erections. He wiggled a bit, trying to get used to being astride someone, when Peter hissed, clamping his hands around Stiles's thighs to still him.
"Stop moving," Peter growled out through clenched teeth.
Stiles took in the light flush on Peter's face and the way the older man's torso moved with his soft panting. Stiles's lips stretched into what his father called a shit-eating grin as he slowly rolled his hips against Peter's. "Are you sure? 'Cause it doesn't feel like you want me to stop," he drawled out, enjoying the hard press of the older man's cock against his own.
Peter hissed in a breath and squeezed Stiles's thighs in warning, barely digging his claws into the teen's jeans.
Feeling more than a little cocky from bringing the wolf out of Peter, Stiles kept rocking his hips, shamelessly rubbing their hard-ons together.
Peter's eyes flashed. "You don't know what you're doing."
Stiles stopped moving, doubt creeping in and souring his playful mood. "I've got a pretty good idea."
Peter hummed noncommittally as he folded his hands behind his head. Then show me," he purred.
Show me? Sure, no problem, Stiles thought nervously as toyed with the hem of his shirt. He'd taken his clothes off in front of other guys in the locker room. If he could do it under Jackson's disdainful watch, then he could bare himself to Peter's lascivious gaze.
Hurriedly, Stiles whipped off his t-shirt to avoid the embarrassment of screwing up a strip tease (words couldn't describe how proud he was for not getting it caught around his ears). But then he was left half-naked and straddling an aroused werewolf, holding his wadded up shirt in his lap.
Peter didn't seem to notice his self-consciousness. Well...he didn't seem to be paying much attention to anything beyond the lean cut of Stiles's exposed torso.
A deep flush spread across Stiles's cheeks and neck as the older man's appreciative gaze wandered over him. Emboldened, he cast his shirt to the floor and popped open the button on his jeans, drawing down the zipper extra slow.
Peter smirked at the tease and watched expectantly.
Problem was, taking off your pants was rather complicated when you were on top of someone, so Stiles sat clutching at his jeans as he silently floundered, trying to figure out the least ridiculous way to get them off without having to fully dismount.
After a few seconds, Peter had mercy on him and took the decision out of his hands. He reached up and dragged Stiles down by the back of his neck for a slow, sultry kiss.
Stiles melted against the older man and sank down until the buttons of Peter's shirt pressed into his skin. Unconsciously, he began rocking his hips again. He was getting spoiled. At this rate, rubbing against the mattress would never satisfy him again. Peter was warm and solid, and his body provided just enough friction to make Stiles whimper into Peter's mouth.
Gripping the jut of Stiles's hipbone, Peter rolled his hips up against the squirming teen on top of him.
Stiles breathed unevenly through his nose, needing more air but stubbornly refusing to stop kissing Peter. Lost in desire, he didn't notice that the other man's hand had moved away from his neck until he felt it tugging at his boxers, pulling them down and—
Choking on a gasp, Stiles finally pulled away to confirm that, yes, that was Peter's hand around him, stroking and squeezing and wringing out the most pitiful sounds he had ever heard himself make.
Stiles bit his lip, trying to stifle the embarrassing noises, but Peter gently coaxed the abused flesh out from between Stiles's teeth with his thumb. "I want to hear you," the older man breathed, his voice low and husky. His eyes burned electric blue in the fading light of Stiles's room and Stiles stared down into them, transfixed.
Forgetting his self-consciousness, Stiles bucked up into Peter's grip, no longer holding back the stream of swear words and moans as he instinctively sought his own pleasure. Peter kept his hand in a tight ring, twisting and stroking as Stiles thrust with reckless abandon, getting closer and closer…
Stiles knew that, later, he would cringe at how fast he came, but the feel of having a hand other than his own on his cock all but threw him over the brink, magnified by the desire burning in Peter's eyes. The heady newness of it all hit him hard and, in less than a minute from when Peter wrapped his hand around him, Stiles's climax overtook him and he could do little more than whine and fist the covers as Peter stroked him through his shudders.
His arms gave out and he slouched forward onto Peter's chest, shaking as he struggled to get his breathing back under control. He didn't care that he was lying in the come splattered on Peter's shirt—Stiles absently thought the mess was obscenely beautiful, the opaque wet smears soaking into the burgundy material.
Peter was running his hands all over Stiles, soothing away the last of his trembling. The supernatural glow had left his eyes, but his erection hadn't flagged one bit. Hot and hard, it pressed insistently into Stiles's stomach every time he breathed.
Stiles felt dazed. He half expected to wake up and find that he had rutted himself to completion against his own sheets. Shit like this didn't happen to him. Gorgeous older werewolves didn't climb in through his window and take it upon themselves to bring Stiles off (well, okay, they did, but usually things stopped just short of the orgasm part).
Everything felt surreal, so he was grateful that Peter was still petting him. The light touches were grounding him—and lulling him into a post-orgasm nap.
Just as Stiles's eyelids began to droop, Peter gently cupped the side of his face, his thumb brushing back and forth across his cheekbone.
"Now don't quit on me just yet, Stiles," Peter softly implored. He skimmed his thumb down to rub at the teen's plump lower lip and gave a slight buck of his hips.
Oh.
Stiles flushed, embarrassed. He had almost forgotten that Peter hadn't gotten off yet. Fuck, twenty-four hours into his sex life and he was already making a bad impression. Nothing says 'bad lover' like neglecting your partner.
The tip of Peter's thumb nudged between his lips and, without thinking, Stiles licked the digit. He could have sworn the older man's eyes had flashed again for a split second, but he wrote it off as a reflection of the street light.
Stiles felt heat coil in his groin. He wasn't stupid. He knew what Peter wanted (and he'd watched enough porn to have a pretty good idea of how to go about it), but… None of his knowledge was first-hand, despite his occasional attempts at fellating bananas (it wasn't like he owned an actual dildo); he never managed to do more than suck them into mush.
Still…
The thought of going down on someone—on Peter—was making his cock twitch in anticipation of Round Two.
Eagerly, Stiles shimmied his way down Peter's body (ignoring how his dick still hung out in the open) and knelt between the man's obligingly spread legs. Tentatively, he undid the button on Peter's jeans and unzipped the fly. Plain black boxers covered the thick bulge of Peter's engorged cock.
A shift in the mattress drew his attention up to where Peter was crossing his arms behind his head again. He was watching Stiles with heavy-lidded eyes, waiting.
Fuck, Stiles thought as his gaze wandered over the man.
With his slightly mussed hair and rumpled, come-covered shirt, Peter looked downright debauched. A real-life wet dream all for Stiles. Stiles felt his cock begin to harden as he leaned over the bulge of Peter's boxers. Without breaking eye contact, he pressed his lips to it in a chaste kiss.
Peter smirked.
Let's see how funny this is, Stiles thought as he mouthed at the hard length through the black cotton, lightly sucking. He lavished attention up and down the shaft before finally moving up to take tip into his mouth, soaking the material.
He glanced up.
Peter wasn't smirking anymore. In its place was an intense look of concentration, his eyes fixed on Stiles's face. Feeling smug, Stiles gripped Peter's shaft and stroked as he sucked, the friction from the boxers making his hand warm.
"Tease," the older man breathed at him.
Oh, yeah?
Stiles spread his knees further apart for more stability and comfort, supporting his upper body with a hand on the bed.
Time to level up, his mind unhelpfully supplied as he released Peter to pull the sodden boxers down, tucking the band down to rest under the base of the man's cock. Peter sprang free, the tip nearly lying against his belly.
His cock was beautifully curved, heavy and flushed. Last night in the falling dusk (and with Peter's hand moving around it), it had been difficult for Stiles to see it in sharp detail. Here, up close with the stark street light illuminating his room, he could see that Peter was uncut. Stiles was fascinated. Most of the porn he watched featured circumcised men. Circumcision was such a common procedure that he had never really given sex with an 'uncut' man any thought.
It wasn't like foreskin was completely foreign to him. In fact, he had done extensive research on the penis in one of his ADHD moments and couldn't concentrate on his homework (he had later used the results in one of Coach Finstock's essay questions).
But he'd never touched one before.
Curious, Stiles gently wrapped his hand around the base of Peter's cock and experimentally stroked up and down, gauging the stretch of the foreskin.
It was…different. There was more 'give' compared to what Stiles normally felt when he jacked off and so he indulged himself, stroking and twisting Peter's foreskin, fascinated by how it stretched and contorted to his whims. He tugged it up to entirely cover Peter's crown before pulling it back down as far as he could, making bunch at the base to fully expose the shaft. A bead of precome welled up at the tip of Peter's cock and wiggled there with Stiles's explorations.
Peter took a deep breath and released it slowly through his nose, like he was forcing himself to lie passively under Stiles's hands.
Only, Stiles didn't want Peter controlling himself. He wanted to rile the older man, to push him to his limits and see what he would do.
It was probably one of the most reckless of Stiles's desires—provoking a werewolf— but it was the only clear driving thought in his head as he fisted the base of Peter's cock, licked off the welling of precome, and took as much of the shaft as he could fit into his mouth.
He felt more than heard the older man groan, but Stiles's attention quickly narrowed down to the cock in his mouth. He had often wondered what dick would taste like and the first thing that came to mind now was skin. Clean skin. As though Peter had showered before swinging by. Maybe he had cleaned up in anticipation of the sort of thing…?
The thought of Peter intentionally preparing for a blowjob made heat flare low in Stiles's belly. That was…way more of a turn-on than it should be.
Careful to keep his teeth covered with his lips, Stiles bobbed his head up and down, flicking his tongue against the shaft as he sucked, trying to make it look like he knew what he was doing. All of his time watching porn must have paid off because Peter hummed approvingly. So either Stiles was doing a good job or he wasn't fucking it up enough to make Peter correct his technique.
Stiles nearly choked when a hand threaded through his hair, surprising him.
Mouth full, he looked up. He stomach did a happy sort of 'flip' when Peter's eyes blazed back at him. The older man kept petting him, dragging blunt fingernails over his scalp, setting off goose bumps. He directed Stiles into a slightly faster rhythm with gentle tugs on his hair.
Stiles groaned when the tip of Peter's cock nudged against the back of his throat.
Fuck, that was…Stiles didn't really know what that was. All he knew was that it made him feel full, made him want.
Peter pushed his head down a little harder, making him take even more, and Stiles choked around him. Eyes watering, Stiles pulled away, rubbing at his throat.
In an instant, Peter sat up and held Stiles's face in his hands, brushing away his tear tracks and whispering apologies. Earnest as the older man was, Stiles wasn't upset about the momentary roughness. In fact…
"Could you do that again?" Stiles whispered hoarsely, horribly aware of the watery-eyed, flushed mess he probably looked. His mortification that he had gagged was being drowned by the fear that Peter would stop. Stiles didn't want him to stop so he waited, pleading with his eyes, while the older man cocked his head.
Peter's expression was wary and unsure. "…be rough with you?" he asked, trying to confirm the teen's request.
Stiles ducked his head nervously and fidgeted. He was half-naked, aroused, and slightly ashamed. He knew it wasn't quite normal to want to gag on someone's dick, but he also couldn't forget or ignore the heady rush he had felt when Peter's cock had pressed just a little too far, pushing Stiles's own limits.
Peter studied him intently for a few seconds then released Stiles's face, easing back to his prone position on the bed.
Heart skipping quickly in his chest, Stiles steadied himself with a deep calming breath, hoping that he wouldn't end up looking like a fool. He wanted this but, he knew that you don't always get what you want. He was kind of worried about what he would get…
As he leaned over the older man's hips again, he absently wondered—if this was one of Stiles's kinks, then what kind of kinks did Peter have? He repressed a snort. It would be just his luck if Peter was into watersports or watching donkey shows or something equally extreme. Did sex with a werewolf count as bestiality?
Stiles wrapped his hand around Peter's cock again, pumping it lazily as his mind wandered.
An image of Peter, wolfed out and holding him down as he fucked Stiles with abandon, flashed through his mind.
Stiles inhaled sharply and accidentally squeezed Peter's shaft a little tighter than he meant, momentarily overcome by arousal. If it did count, Stiles didn't think he'd care too much.
Peter cupped the back of his head and guided his lips to the head of his spit-slicked cock, effectively scattering Stiles's errant thoughts and slamming him back into the present. Obediently, Stiles dropped his jaw wide and the thick length slid in to prod at the back of his throat again (only Stiles was prepared for it this time). He let Peter control the pace, the older man's hand a firm pressure at the nape of his neck, tugging him up then pushing him back down, then pulling back up…
Stiles gagged a few more times and had to pull away with each to catch his breath, but eventually he could predict when his gag reflex would be set off and how to breath to avoid it (he had read tips on the internet, but actually implementing that theoretical knowledge was tricky, apparently). As his gagging fits tapered off, his confidence grew and soon he was bobbing and sucking faster. The feel of Peter's hard dick sliding in and out of his mouth was massively turning him on, so much more now that he could concentrate on the sensations rushing through him rather than on his technique.
But his neck was starting to twinge from his movements and his shoulders felt strained from bracing his own weight.
Then an idea hit him. He had seen it done in porn and, granted, the stars were normally vertical, but it might just work…
Stiles stopped and peered up at Peter with just the tip of the man's dick still engulfed by his mouth.
Peter's eyes were dark from his lust-blown pupils, but some sharpness bled back into his blue eyes when he realized that the teen was no longer moving on him. Brows drawn, Peter rubbed at Stiles's neck encouragingly. "What's wrong?"
Stiles shifted his arms around to grip Peter's hips and tugged them upward, trying to express what he wanted without having to take his mouth off of Peter. Thankfully, he didn't seem to need a detailed explanation, judging by the blazing eyes and elongated fangs. Peter's control was slipping.
Peter slowly rolled his hips up, watching raptly as he fed his cock into Stiles's mouth, then easing it out, then back in...
Stiles did his best to keep his head still and his teeth covered. He wanted to make it feel as good as possible for the older man, but he was starting to lose himself in Peter's movements, his eyes drifting halfway shut. He felt kind of high, like the only thing that mattered was the smooth, slick slide of Peter's hard cock between his lips.
"Shit," Peter whispered, thumbing the hollow of Stiles's cheek created by the teen's gentle suction. He thrust faster, groaning as he bucked up into the wet heat surrounding him. Peter slid his hand up from Stiles's neck to grip the teen's spikey hair. His rhythm faltered as his thrusts became rough and shallow. He tugged at Stiles's hair, trying to pull him off, but Stiles resisted, staring determinedly at Peter as he sucked harder. "Stiles, fuck," Peter groaned as he jerked on the bed. His muscles were visibly straining as he tried to keep from thrusting wildly into the teen's mouth.
Stiles watched avidly as tremors wracked the older man's body. I did that, he thought, amazed by the change he had wrought in the (normally) collected man. Pride flowed through him as he drank in every twitch and gasp that he had caused.
He was so wrapped up in Peter's orgasm that the first hot spurt of come into his mouth caught him by surprise.
Stiles's own neglected cock throbbed as he swallowed down everything Peter gave him. Gently, Stiles lapped at Peter's spent cock, mindful of the sensitive flesh as he cleaned off stray drops.
Fuck, he thought, as Peter's throaty groans turned to soft sighs of contentment. This put at least 90% of his fantasies to shame.
Peter smirked lazily at Stiles's unabashed wide-eyed staring. He hooked a finger through one of Stiles's belt loops and pulled until the teen was sprawled onto the bed beside him.
Stiles's cock was pressed to Peter's hip and he couldn't stop himself from rubbing against it, leaving smears of precome on the older man's jeans. Before Stiles could say something embarrassing (like 'so, how was it?'), his breath exploded out of his chest with a helpless cry. Peter had grasped his cock and was jacking it hard and fast and it was so fucking dirty that Stiles could only bury his head in the coverlet and fuck Peter's hand. Stiles fisted Peter's ruined shirt and held on like it was his life line.
"Come on, Stiles. Come for me," Peter coaxed. His ravenous gaze was fixed on Stiles's face, blue eyes burning bright—burning straight into Stiles— and it was too much, Stiles couldn't—
With a pitiful whine, Stiles shot strand after strand of hot come all over Peter's shirt again, splashing over the drying patches he had left earlier.
Peter kept stroking him until Stiles squirmed, sensitivity making the older man's touch uncomfortable.
Feeling thoroughly wrung out, Stiles lay boneless on the bed. His arm was still half-draped over Peter (if the older man minded, he certainly wasn't protesting). "Fuck", Stiles sighed. His throat, jaw, and back all ached and though Stiles knew he'd probably feel ten times worse in the morning, he couldn't wipe the goofy grin off of his face.
That was a lot better than masturbation. That was…that was sex.
Maybe next time they could try that with Peter standing up? Or maybe something else? Lord knows there were oodles of positions and things Stiles was itching to try and—
Stiles's thoughts were interrupted as his arm was jostled.
He popped his head up long enough to see Peter tuck himself back into his boxers and zip up his fly. Not wanting to be the only guy with his junk hanging out, Stiles moved to do the same, but only got as far as shoving his softening dick into his shorts before lethargy overtook him. His arm flopped back on top of Peter (who grunted at the impact), unmotivated to try to further clothe himself.
If he wasn't so freaking tired, Stiles would be angry by how fast he was falling asleep, but he was only human. He wasn't built to do a few hours of hard labor, come twice, and still keep on going (he wasn't the werewolf here).
Peter turned onto his side facing Stiles and pulled the teen closer, making him curl around the older man.
Stiles, in his sleepy state, allowed the manhandling. Besides, it felt nice to be pressed against Peter's chest, his face nestled in the warm hollow of the older man's throat. "Are we cuddling?" he slurred, sleep creeping in on him.
"Hm, I suppose you could call it that. I prefer to think of it as a post-sex extended hug," Peter mumbled into Stiles's hair.
"Whatever helps you sleep at night, dude…You gonna stay a while?" He hoped to God that Peter wasn't expecting him to run a marathon tonight. Sexathon? Everything was blurring together and Stiles just flat out didn't know anymore.
Peter chuckled softly. "Well, someone has to look after you."
Confusion flitted through Stiles. "Dude, the kanima thing is over and the Argents have backed off. What else is there to worry about?"
Tucked under Peter's chin, Stiles didn't see the older man's face crease with apprehension. But even Peter's silence went unnoticed because Stiles passed out after the question fell from his lips.