Stiles slammed the front door shut and collapsed back against it, happy to finally be home and away from everyone after his nerve-wracking day at school.
Isaac had shown up for class today (which was something Stiles hadn't thought Isaac would do after last night). Throughout each and every class that Stiles shared with him, Isaac had sat slumped over his desk, quiet and refusing to make eye contact with anyone.
Spilling his guts to Scott had been both a blessing and a curse. Scott, best buddy that he was, had done his best to stay between Isaac and Stiles as all times, as though the melancholy werewolf would try to jump Stiles's bones again. With his spirit bolstered by his friend's overprotectiveness, Stiles hadn't had the heart to point out that if Isaac was going to jump anyone's bones, it would probably be someone a lot hotter than Stiles Stilinski.
But even with Scott acting as his living shield, Stiles still had been able to see how lonely and dejected Isaac was and, little by little, had started to feel sorry for Isaac—which was stupid. There must be something messed up in Stiles's brain because it just wasn't right to feel sorry for your abuser. It wasn't his fault that Isaac had tried to rape him and got his ass royally kicked by Peter, but when the werewolf secluded himself in a corner of the cafeteria, pushing his food around his plate with the same expression as a kicked puppy, Stiles had made Scott drag Isaac over to sit with them, tired of watching the Moping Werewolf Show (it made Stiles feel about as bad as Isaac looked).
He had been certain that he could tolerate being near Isaac for the remaining half hour, but within five minutes Stiles started regretting his moment of pity.
Isaac, perhaps intuitively knowing that sitting beside Stiles was too much too soon, had sat on the other side of the table while Scott slid onto the bench with him, practically glued to Stiles's side in a show of support (and probably as a not-so-subtle warning).
Conversation between them had been stilted and awkward, carried on mostly by Scott as Stiles and Isaac picked at their food, avoiding eye contact with each other as much as possible.
It hadn't helped.
Isaac's furtive glances at him had been filled with shame and apology, but Stiles couldn't yet shake the memory of the night before, when the werewolf had trapped him and touched him, whispering insults and filth into his ear. Stiles's skin crawled at having his attacker right in front of him. He had felt vaguely sick—his hands clammy, his stomach rolling uneasily, his body temperature fluctuated between too hot or too cold as though he had been coming down with the flu. Stiles had hitched a smile onto his face all the same, even though the three of them pretending that nothing happened felt like a travesty at best.
But he was willing to fake it if they were.
Lunch went by tortuously slow until, finally, he could continue on avoiding Isaac like the plague, occasionally sending the werewolf apologetic grimaces in the hall or in class, hoping that Isaac understood that Stiles was trying.
Jumping back into the swing of things so soon probably wasn't great for his psyche, but Stiles was sick and tired of feeling slightly hunted all the time. Having Jackson, Matt, and Gerard out of the way had been a major relief after being in a heightened state of anxiety for so long. Having to worry only about school was grounding(and somewhat anticlimactic)—at least until the other shoe had dropped with Isaac's attack, sending Stiles's blood pressure straight through the roof again as he was forced back into hyperawareness.
It was a good thing meals in the Stilinski household were almost always heart-healthy because at this rate, Stiles was going to be fighting heart problems by the time he hit thirty.
Having caught his second wind, Stiles pushed off the front door and trudged upstairs, his backpack dragging behind him and knocking against every stop along the way.
He was ready for a boring night of cramming for next week's finals, making dinner, and—if he still had time—researching some ways to deal with being attacked because obviously pretending that nothing happened wasn't working at all. He could only hope that his brain wasn't too frazzled to absorb anything tonight. Maybe if Stiles asked nicely, Peter would come over and calm him down, help him study.
Well, on second thought, that might be more distracting in the long ru—
"JESUS!" Stiles yelled, his backpack flying out of his hand as he fell back against the doorway to his room, clutching at his chest.
He had flung his open his door as he normally did—only he normally came home to an empty room.
"You know," Stiles shot at Peter, irritated by how amused the man sitting in his chair looked, "the really neat thing about having someone's number is that you can use it to tell that person when you're coming over. That way you don't give them a freaking heart attack."
"You don't like surprises?" Peter chuckled as he turned back to Stiles's computer, which was on with a webpage open on the screen.
Stiles pushed off the doorframe and walked over to Peter, curiosity winning out over his irritation. "Why are you on my laptop? Wait, how did you even guess the passwor— What the—? Why are you looking up porn?" he asked incredulously.
"Not just any porn. Your porn," Peter corrected cheerfully as he clicked on a very familiar site logo. "'Hurt Me Daddy dot com'?" Peter asked, his voice cracking with suppressed laughter. "I guess I don't have to worry about you preferring things 'vanilla' in the bedroom," he said, clicking on a link that led to a video of an older man flogging a bound younger man with a cat-o'nine-tails.
Stiles felt himself blush as cries and moans emanated from the laptop speakers.
It could be worse, Stiles told himself. It could be dad scrolling through my stuff. "You still haven't answered my question: why are you looking at my porn?" A particularly hard crack of the whip made the video 'bottom' scream louder and Stiles rubbed at the throbbing that was started up in his temple, wondering what he'd done to deserve such humiliation.
Maybe he'd run over a nun in a past life or something.
"I didn't start out searching for it, if it helps," Peter said pacifyingly as he clicked out of the video (Stiles sighed in relief). "I got bored waiting for you so I decided to entertain myself and I happened to stumble upon your porn history. You really should clear it more often. Someone might find your searches a little….strange."
Peter clicked on a tab that held a search engine: the word highlighted in every search was 'knotting'. He eyed Stiles from over his shoulder with amusement. "Is this something we need to talk about?"
Oh god…
Stiles fidgeted with a corner of his jacket sleeve. "Ah, that would depend on whether or not, um… knotting is something that werewolves—"
"Stiles, I'm a werewolf, not an animal," Peter said, disparagingly. "Don't you think it's enough that I have fangs and claws without having to deal with the base of my dick swelling up as well?" Peter closed the browser and history windows then shut down the laptop. He turned the chair so he could face Stiles. "But if you like, I'm sure I can get my hands on a specially made dildo to fulfill that particular fantasy," he said, mirth dancing in his eyes, clearly enjoying every minute of Stiles's pain.
Arms crossed defensively over his chest, Stiles squinted at Peter, trying very hard not to pout. Men don't pout. "You're evil," he said, shaking his head admonishingly.
He turned on his heel and went to retrieve his abandoned backpack.
Supporting his weight with one hand on the door frame, Stiles bent down to grab a strap of his backpack, but just as he was about to straighten up, hands—Peter's hands—grasped his hips and then something warm and solid was pressing tight against his ass. "Um," he said, his mind stuttering at the blatantly lewd contact, his mind blanking out completely when Peter began rolling his hips in a slow grind. "This isn't doing much to change my opinion of you," he breathed, releasing his backpack strap in favor of clutching at the doorframe, half focused on the hard outline of Peter's cock that was rubbing between his cheeks.
"Change it? I was actually hoping to reinforce the idea," Peter whispered seductively. He kept a firm hold on Stiles's waist to balance the teen as he trailed claw-tipped fingers over the firm curve of Stiles's ass.
Bent over double, Stiles dropped his head between his arms with a faint groan as Peter's elongated claws teased over him, moving higher to slip under his shirt and trace over every bump and notch of his spine, making Stiles acutely aware of the edges of unforgiving claws moving over his fragile skin.
Peter pushed up the edge of Stiles's shirt the higher up he went, exposing Stiles's back inch by inch.
Stiles wondered if the claws were actually leaving marks or if Peter just liked to watch.
Without warning, Peter stopped. His hips stopped grinding, his claws froze in place midway up Stiles's spine—everything stopped.
"Okay, you're either the world's biggest tease or something's wrong. Do you hear something?" Stiles said, trying not to not openly pant. His cock was achingly hard in his pants and Stiles craned his head back as much as he could despite the awkward angle to try to see what had made Peter freeze in his tracks. Peter's gaze was fixed on his back and it wasn't until he gently brushed against a particularly sensitive spot that understanding finally clicked in Stiles's head: the bruises from the stairs.
They didn't hurt near as much as they had a couple days ago, but depending on where you pushed there was still some discomfort from the yellowish-purple stripes.
"Peter?" Stiles prompted when the older man continued his silent staring.
"You're still healing," Peter said absently, his expression unreadable.
"Uh, yeah. Human, remember? We had this conversation already," Stiles said, confused as to why Peter seemed to be getting upset all over again. "They look worse than they feel, though. Last night, Scott rubbed this cream on my back that his mom had and it's helped out a lot with the tenderness. He gave it to me so that I could put some more on this morning, but I couldn't reach all the—"
"Where is it?"
"Where's— What?" Stiles asked, thrown by the interruption.
"The cream," Peter said. "Where is it?"
"Uh, in my nightstand? I think that's where I tossed it. I was kinda in a rush this morning," Stiles said, remembering how he'd gotten up late and wasted a lot of time pretending that he was more flexible than what he apparently was, bending his arms awkwardly behind him to apply the cream. He'd tried to spread it evenly across his back, but there was only so much you could do on your own when you only had a mirror for guidance. He'd looked over his shoulder long enough to strain his neck (which had made his first few classes even more fun).
Abruptly, Peter moved away, disappearing from Stiles's line of sight.
After he'd pulled himself upright, Stiles looked around and found the older man at his nightstand, examining a long white tube he had pulled from its drawer.
"Take off your shirt and lay on the bed," Peter said, not taking his eyes off the directions on the tube.
Take off his—?
"You wanna put some on my back?" Stiles asked with disbelief. He hadn't planned on trying to apply more until he went to bed (because doing it on his own was such a pain in the ass), but the thought of Peter's hands on him had Stiles scrambling to rid himself of his shirts. He was halfway to the bed when an idea struck him. "Actually, could you hold that thought for a moment? I'm gonna jump into the shower for, like, five minutes tops. Okay? That way the, uh, cream will soak in better," he said quickly, nearly tripping over himself as he fled the room, leaving a bemused looking Peter in his wake.
Stiles was pretty sure the older man suspected the real reason behind the impromptu shower decision, but he didn't care. So far, each time Peter had come over there had been some degree of nakedness and touching and Stiles was really hoping that trend would continue. But he was not about to let Peter rub him down when he still stank of nervous sweat after being around Isaac all day.
Nope, absolutely not, wasn't happening, he thought fervently, stripping off the rest his clothes like his life depended on it once he'd dashed into the bathroom.
It had to have been the fastest he had ever showered. The stall door had hardly closed behind him before Stiles had the water running, not even waiting for the water to warm up. He bypassed the shampoo and went straight for the body wash, lathering himself from head to toe before frantically rinsing off most of the suds, scrambling out of the shower stall soon after to run a towel over himself.
It was only when he glanced around that he realized that all of his clean clothes were in his bedroom. With Peter.
Sighing, Stiles vented his frustration by kicking his dirty clothes in to a pile (he made sure to dig his phone out of his pocket first, though, because god forbid there be another 'Scott incident'). Squaring his shoulders, Stiles wrapped his towel around his waist for propriety and padded back to his room, feeling slightly edgy from the utter lack of his usual protective layers.
Stepping through the doorway to his room took a lot more nerve than he'd admit, but a lot of his anxiety melted away when Peter looked up and stared at him from where he sat at the edge of the bed, having removed his shoes and socks. Peter's eyes were raking down his body and if Stiles hadn't already wanted the older man all over him in the worst possible way, he was sure he'd have felt incredibly violated despite the ten or so feet between them.
His pride ballooning from Peter's obvious interest, Stiles carelessly tossed his phone onto his desk and walked up to Peter with a swagger in his step. "See?" he said, holding Peter's stare. "All done." He stopped within arm's reach of the older man, making it easy for Peter to grasp him by the hips and tug him closer and into the 'v' of Peter's.
Teasingly, Peter traced the skin just above the towel's edge and Stiles's breath hitched, his cock stirring at the light touch. The light, woodsy musk of Peter's cologne filled his senses, close as he was. A heady rush surged through him, but when he swayed forward, Peter's grip on him turned to steel, holding him still.
Stiles's needy whine died in his throat at the stern look the older man gave him and he did his best to restrain himself, balling his hands into fists when his fingers started twitching restlessly, wanting to touch.
They stayed like that for a moment, frozen, as though Peter was testing him.
Apparently satisfied, Peter's lips curved up in a tiny smile. Keeping his eyes locked on Stiles, he untucked the towel and slid it from around Stiles's hips to drop to the floor, the teen's swiftly hardening cock bouncing free and pointing eagerly towards the older man's face. Peter stared it, seemingly fascinated with the way it bobbed and swayed with every involuntary twitch of Stiles's body.
The tip wasn't leaking precome yet, but Stiles knew it was well on its way now that it looked like his cock might get some attention.
If he didn't know better, Stiles would have thought Peter was indecisive, judging by how long the older man sat eyeing him up, but over the past few days Stiles had started to get a feel for what a world class tease Peter seemed to be, and something told him that being kept on tenterhooks was exactly what the older man wanted, drawing out every ounce of sweet suffering that he could.
Willing as he was, Stiles still wasn't thrilled about being made to wait.
After what felt like an eternity, Peter's eyes flicked back up to his. "Back up, pet," he said softly, the dark velvet of his voice enticing Stiles into obeying the command. Not that the overtone really mattered, Stiles was all in for whatever Peter had in mind.
Hoping that speedy compliance would get the ball rolling faster, Stiles dutifully stepped back a couple feet, wobbling in place for a second.
Peter stood in one fluid motion and closed the gap between them, his clothes brushing against Stiles here and there, making goose bumps rise up on Stiles's skin. His head slightly cocked, Peter reached out and cupped the side of Stiles's neck, his thumb sweeping over the fading bruises on the teen's throat.
"You didn't put any cream on these," Peter said, more of a statement than a question.
"Well, yeah, I actually like these," Stiles said, like it was obvious (at least he thought it was, considering he'd yet to protest each time Peter made a new mark).
Peter hummed noncommittally and let his hand fall away as he walked around the teen, making Stiles shiver as the older man's body heat moved from his front around to his back. "Lay down on the bed, face down," Peter murmured, his voice brooking no argument as he leaned in close to whisper the words into Stiles's ear.
It took a moment for Stiles to process the command and about as long to convince himself to move, but then he was pitching forward and clambering onto the bed, dropping his head heavily onto a pillow and crossing his arms under it. His hard cock was trapped between his hips and the sheets and, though he desperately wanted to rut and grind against the first real friction he'd gotten since walking into the room, there wasn't a doubt in Stiles's mind that Peter would find some way to punish him if he gave in to that urge.
He tried to ignore the pulse of heat that ran through him at that thought.
A light touch at Stiles's ankle had him jerking in surprise. Peter's fingertips dragged up his leg and over the back of his knee, tickling Stiles for a moment at that sensitive spot. The feeling passed as Peter's hand kept going higher, sliding along Stiles's inner thigh towards the crux of his legs, closer and closer to where Stiles wanted to be touched most—
And then Peter's hand moved away completely.
Stiles bit his tongue to stop himself from growling in frustration.
Evil, definitely evil.
His irritation flew from his mind when the bed jostled under Peter's weight as the older man knelt astride Stiles's hips, resting enough of his weight on Stiles's ass to press the teen firmly into the mattress.
A low groan sprang from Stiles's lips before his could stifle it. Fuck, if he had friction before… Unfortunately, he couldn't move if he tried, pinned as he was to the bed.
Without warning something cold landed on his back and Stiles yelped, flinching and clawing uselessly at the bed as he tried to get away from the unwanted feeling.
"Sorry," Peter said evenly as he began rubbing in the cream he'd dribbled onto Stiles's back.
No you're not, Stiles wanted to say, convinced that Peter had done it on purpose, but instead he dug his chin into his pillow as he settled down from the shock, his body relaxing more and more with every stroke of Peter's hand. The older man worked the cream into what felt like every bruise slanting down his back, being exceptionally not to press too hard on the spots that were still a purplish-blue, and gradually Stiles's eyes drifted shut, riding the high sweeping through him from having such attention lavished on him.
It was weird, though. Usually when he had a hard-on, it was all he could think about, the urge to come pulling at him until he gave in. But right now, even though he was solid as a rock, he was content to simply lay and enjoy Peter's ministrations, vaguely aware of the older man's hands wandering away from the bruised area to places like his ribs, his shoulders, the dip in the small of his back…
In the back of his mind, Stiles knew that the cream had to have been rubbed in by now, but he figured that Peter would stop when he wanted to (besides, who turns down a massage?)
Stiles sighed happily, slipping into a light doze until nails grazed down his spine—long, sharp nails. His eyes snapped open, instantly awake as energy thrummed through him, brought on by the sudden awareness of potential danger. His cock gave a sympathetic throb and the urge to rut against the sheets returned with full force.
"I can smell you in here," Peter said conversationally, as if he wasn't trailing deadly claws distressingly slow down Stiles's spine. "Your arousal, your come. It's everywhere. Like it's seeped into the walls, the bed—especially the bed—they reek of you. It's like a slap in the face when you walk into this room. Well…for someone like me, anyways. And I can't tell you how much it made me want to lie in your bed and bring myself off, to blend my smell in with yours."
Stiles held his breath, spellbound by Peter's low, silky voice, imagining the older man touching and stroking himself until he came, painting yet another of his button-down shirts with thick, opaque strands.
"That was my first thought when I got here today, when I was trying to think of ways to pass the time until you came home. But I restrained myself," Peter continued in confidential whisper, his claws tracing across Stiles's ribs now, the light touch almost a tickle. "I distracted myself with guessing your password to get into your laptop…and when I was in, I got bored again. But then I got curious. I wanted to know more about you, about what makes you tick, what you think about when you try to find your way out of the real world. I found your browser history, your bookmarks, that secret little folder hidden in your homework files…and you know what Stiles?"
Stiles barely pulled his thoughts together to squeak out "hmm?"
"I saw all of those stockpiled images and videos of young men being held down by an older man, watched them being taken apart and broken and fucked —and I couldn't restrain myself anymore." Peter went back to tracing down the notches of Stiles's spine. "So I pulled up the link that you seem to visit the most lately, a page with a video of a spike-haired brunette handcuffed to a bed as an older man just tore into him, and I jacked off right there in front of your computer. Good thing I did, too, otherwise I probably would have pinned you to the door as soon as you came in," Peter finished, his voice having dropped to a husky purr.
Silenced by the sudden dryness in his mouth, Stiles felt Peter shift on top of him until the hard line of the older man's erection was pressed against his cleft and he swallowed roughly, struggling to work up enough saliva in his mouth to talk.
God, if he had gotten home earlier, he could have watched.
He managed to force out a throaty "hng" as he tried to wiggle back against Peter, only to have the movement stilled by the older man's legs clamping around him, keeping him in place.
"But I think I prefer this," Peter said, sounding a little more in control of himself. "You, naked under me, nothing to cover up the smell of want coming off you."
Stiles felt Peter move on top of him again and then his ear was being nuzzled. Was—was Peter sniffing him?
Stiles shivered. Pinned to the bed with someone's hot breath ghosting over his ear brought back memories of the night before, when Isaac had trapped him against a tree, and he felt his breath catch in his throat. Suddenly, Stiles wasn't getting enough air, his chest tight with the fear of being unable to move, unable to do anything at all. His mind went terrifyingly blank but for the primal urge to get free—only his body wasn't listening, his limbs frozen and useless.
"Stiles?" Peter prompted, worry and uncertainty in his gravelly tone as he shifted his weight back and off of Stiles's torso, allowing air to rush in between their bodies while he knelt up, careful to keep the bulk of his weight off of the panicking teen beneath him.
Fear spiked in Stiles again, but this time it was because Peter had moved away, the very person who had protected him last night was deserting him—
He flung a hand behind him, blindly reaching for the older man, and the pressure in his chest dissipated slightly when Peter grasped his flailing hand and held it lightly, as though he didn't want to cage Stiles in any more than he already was.
Time seemed to grind to a halt as they sat there, Stiles sucking in breath after breath, his eyes squeezed shut against the nausea that had hit him, until the world around him finally stopped closing in on him. For what could have been seconds or even several minutes, Stiles clung to Peter's hand like it was a life line—and in a way, it was.
"We need to talk about this," Peter murmured softly as he stroked up and down Stiles's back with his free hand, the motion comforting rather than arousing like it had been earlier.
Stiles bit back a hysterical giggle, pushing his face down into his pillow.
All things considered, he probably needed to go to an actual psychiatrist, but if he spilled his guts about even a fraction of the shit threatening his mental health, he'd be thrown in the loony bin (especially after repeated use of the word "werewolf"). So that was out of the question…
"I know," Stiles said, his words muffled by the pillow against his mouth. "Just…not right now? Please?" He turned his head as much as he could to send Peter a beseeching look over his shoulder.
Peter's face was a blank and masklike, free of emotion. His eyes, though, were sharp and calculating. "Then what do you want me to do?" he said flatly, almost like he was disappointed with Stiles.
Sucking in a slow, calming breath, Stiles arched his spine as much as he could, bridging the gap Peter had made between them to press his ass against the older man's crotch. The bulge there didn't seem quite as hard as it had been before Stiles's meltdown, but there was enough of a chub to make Stiles hopeful.
"Distract me. Make me forget," Stiles said, quiet but determined.
He was far from the preserve and its darkness, far from Isaac's threatening overtures. None of it was welcome here in his room, not when Peter was with him and Stiles needed to cement that fact right now before the fear of being touched had a chance to sink in even deeper.
Fuck Isaac and his lack of control. Stiles wanted to get laid. Today.
Eyes narrowed with doubt, Peter renewed his light petting of Stiles's back, having paused at the teen's proposition. "I shouldn't," he said softly after a moment, sounding like he was trying to convince himself of it. He dropped his stare with Stiles so he could follow the movement of his hand over the teen's mole-dotted skin.
"But?" Stiles prompted, when the older man trailed off, apparently more interested in touching Stiles than in continuing his sentence (which Stiles counted as a good sign).
"But," Peter said crisply, practically spitting out the word, "I've never been good at resisting temptation. Especially when it I'm being offered what I want."
"What do you want?" Stiles asked.
Whether Peter was more keyed up than he was letting on or just easy to seduce Stiles didn't know, but instead of protesting any further, Peter fell silent. His hand wandered lower than it had thus far, smoothing across the dip in Stiles's back and down to cup a firm ass cheek.
Swallowing hard, Stiles felt some of the tension run out of him, chased away by a surge of arousal that made his softening cock twitch with interest again.
He'd meant it last night when he'd said he wanted Peter to be his first. Everything that had happened between them in the past few days had been about them dancing closer and closer towards this cliff and all Stiles wanted to do was just fall the fuck off of it—and like hell was he about to let Isaac's lack of self-control ruin this for him.
Shunting the memory of the night before as far to the back of his mind as he could (for the time being), Stiles pushed back against Peter's hand, trying to show the older man that he was fine with going forward.
When Peter, instead, swung his leg from over Stiles's hips and got up from the bed, Stiles frowned, his stomach clenching uncomfortably.
Had he done something wrong?
His heartbeat must have given away his distress because Peter paused after picking up Stiles's wet towel.
"Relax," Peter murmured as he wiped his fingers off on the damp cloth. "I'm not going anywhere." A small, knowing sort of smirk was playing about the man's lips and for some reason it comforted Stiles more than Peter's reassuring words.
The towel slid out of Peter's hands to flop onto the floor, discarded once more. On his way to the night stand, Peter scooped up and recapped the cream he'd thoroughly worked into Stiles's skin, tossing the tube carelessly into the drawer before digging out a very different tube.
A flush began to blossom across Stiles's cheeks as Peter returned to the bed with the bottle of lube.
It wasn't like it was the first time it had been used or anything, but it was the first time that someone else was handling it, and that knowledge made Stiles feel simultaneously aroused and embarrassed, like being caught with a boner (which was ridiculous because Peter had already seen his boner).
As Peter began unbuttoning his shirt, Stiles dropped his head back onto his pillow, trying to get a grip on himself while the older man removed his clothes. He could do this. He'd made out with Peter and sucked his cock already. This was just the next step. No big deal.
The bed dipped under Peter's weight as he gracefully knelt on the bed again, settling between Stiles's legs. He nudged them further apart with his knees to give himself more room.
Stiles suppressed a shiver at being so open. Flat on his stomach and splayed out, it hit Stiles just how vulnerable he was, bare and virtually helpless underneath someone faster and stronger than him. Peter could do anything he wanted and Stiles wouldn't be able to stop him.
Stiles liked it.
A lot.
More than he felt he should, at any rate, considering his mishap with Isaac, but this wasn't Isaac hovering over him. This was Peter, the man Stiles wanted over him, on him and any other way Stiles could have him.
Apparently consent made a difference. Who knew?
A light touch to his hip made Stiles jump slightly in place, drawing him out of his thoughts.
"You're quiet. Are you sure you want to do this tonight?" Peter asked, smoothing his hand over Stiles's ass, petting, like he couldn't help touching Stiles even as he offered the teen an out.
Irritated, Stiles narrowed his eyes over his shoulder at Peter. "You know, you're gonna give me blue balls if you keep stopping every five seconds to treat me like I'm made of glass. You sure you're not stalling because you don't remember how to do this? Which, I don't even know how that's possible considering you just got done snooping through my porn. I didn't think you'd need step-by-step instructions, dude."
"Are you actually trying to provoke me?" Peter asked, his disbelief evident in his tone and condescendingly cocked eyebrow.
Suddenly, sharper-than-normal fingernails dragged across the sensitive skin of Stiles's ass, belatedly reminding him that this was a werewolf he was baiting, here. Christ, it was like his sense of self-preservation completely vanished as soon as his dick got hard.
"Ah, that depends," Stiles said, mentally backpedaling. He propped himself up on an elbow, twisting his torso enough so that he could look at Peter without getting a cramp in his neck. His back ached with the movement, but he ignored it. If there was anything he'd learned in the past year, it was to keep potential threats directly in your line of sight (and Peter had a habit of falling in and out of the 'potential threat' category).
"On?" Judging by Peter's little smirk, the older man knew Stiles was all talk, but he seemed more amused by it than anything, like Stiles was as intimidating as a puppy.
Okay, yeah, he kind of was, and a year ago Stiles might have said it with confidence, but that was before werewolves were real, before his classmates became murderers, before Stiles himself had helped light someone on fire. Peter wanted to play the big bad? That was fine—so long as he realized that Stiles had a habit of falling in and out of the 'potential threat' category, too.
"On whether or not or not you're actually gonna do something about it," Stiles tossed out, relying on bravado and his hard-on to cover his remaining insecurity.
Peter's smirk became a lot more tooth-y as he slid down the bed a bit, crouching further and further down over Stiles's body. "Like this?" he asked, hovering over Stiles's ass, then he cupped Stiles's cheeks, held them apart, and licked a hot, wet, stripe right across the teen's exposed pucker.
Stiles's jaw dropped as he stared at Peter, shocked to the core.
That was— He just—
Okay, it wasn't like Stiles had never seen a guy get eaten out in a video before, but it wasn't something that he really focused on when he thought about two guys together. Only this wasn't porn, this was real life—this was his ass getting licked— and he didn't know if he liked it or not. Mostly because the only thoughts floating in his head were 'Peter just licked my ass' and 'thank god I showered'.
"Um," Stiles stalled, unsure of what the etiquette was for this. He had a feeling that 'thank you' was a little out of place, though.
"No comeback?" Peter was grinning over the curve of Stiles's ass.
"Um," Stiles said again, still trying to string something together, but his mouth wasn't cooperating, Peter's tongue having shocked him into silence.
Peter bent his head down again and this time Stiles was ready for it, wasn't surprised by the feeling of the older man's tongue flicking and circling where no one but Stiles had ever touched,
It was weird (really weird), but it was good in a way that he was starting to enjoy as Peter patiently ran his tongue over the tight ring of muscle, teasing it until Stiles tentatively pushed back, silently asking for more. Peter's eyes flashed blue for a brief moment as he made a show of pausing with his tongue extended, the tip resting dead center on the tight ring of muscle before slowly pushing forward, in , in, in , in, and Stiles had to look away, burying his face into his pillow as a shiver ran through him.
He'd played with himself before, curious about how I would feel to be the 'little spoon' so to speak, but it had never felt this dirty, this obscene, when he'd fingered himself. Stiles didn't know if it was different because it was Peter doing it or because it was a tongue inside him instead of fingers. Maybe it was because Peter's tongue was furling and wriggling in a way that fingers couldn't quite mimic.
Not wanting to shove his ass completely against Peter's face, Stiles settled for grinding his cock against the bed, trying to get a little closer to the orgasm that had been tightening up inside him for a while.
Peter's tongue slid out and the hands holding Stiles open pulled away.
Stiles groaned, aggravated.
What the hell was—
He flinched as a sharp, staccato sound erupted behind him. It took less than a second for Stiles to match it to his lube bottle as the sound its cap would make once you dug a thumbnail under it to flick it open. A crisp snap followed a moment later— the cap being closed.
Goosebumps broke out over Stiles's arms in the sudden silence of the room. He didn't need to look behind him to know the older man had coated his fingers with the slick, was giving it a chance to warm up on his skin (at least that was what Stiles always did, anyway, so it was easy enough to picture Peter doing it).
This is really happening, Stiles thought dazedly, part of him still struggling with that realization, but as much as he wanted to think that he was ready, Stiles still clenched up at the return of Peter's hands on him, his muscles pulling tight under the older man's touch.
"If you've changed your mind—"
"No!" Stiles interrupted, shooting a glare over his shoulder. "Oh my god, what the hell do I have to do to get you to just fu—oh my god…" he broke off, dropping his head back onto the pillow with a dull 'plop'.
Peter's finger, buried knuckle-deep inside him, wiggled around, stroking Stiles's inner walls in frustratingly tiny movements.
It wasn't enough—not nearly enough—and the smooth inward push of a second finger soon after the first made it seem like Peter understood that.
"Better?" Peter chuckled, twisting and scissoring his fingers to loosen up the tight ring of muscle clamped around him.
"G-getting there," Stiles bit out, riding out the pain of the stretch. "Guh." Sparks went off behind his eyes as Peter brushed against his prostate, making Stiles clench around the older man' finger.
"How about now?"
On reflex, Stiles wanted to do something about how fucking pleased Peter sounded, but before he could come up with something to knock the older man down a peg, a third finger was pushing in, and Stiles hummed contentedly into his pillow, feeling slightly drunk on the mixture of pain and pleasure from being really opened up. The nervousness in Stiles was quickly vanishing, a wanton neediness settling into its place. Without conscious thought, Stiles arched back onto Peter's fingers, his hand fisting in the covers for leverage in his splayed out position on the bed.
He whined when Peter pulled out of him entirely again, wanting something in him, but a crinkling of plastic had him peering over his shoulder curiously, momentarily sidetracked.
Peter was turning a condom over between his fingers. "Seeing how things have progressed between us over the past several days, I decided to come prepared," he said simply, a question in his clear blue eyes.
Stiles pursed his lip, indecisive.
So many of his fantasies (and favorite pornos) featured guys going bareback, leaving their partners so full of come that it would just drip from their partner' stretched hole.
But…
"Suit up, I guess," Stiles said with a lopsided shrug, his sensibility winning out over his dick.
"You sound so thrilled about it," Peter murmured as he tore open the package and rolled the condom onto himself.
"Hey, I'm being a good boy and making you use protection, alright? That doesn't mean I have to like it," Stiles groused.
He'd heard sex felt better without it, but he didn't care to add unprotected sex to his list of stellar choices this week (the jury was still out on whether getting this close to Peter was on that list as it was).
Peter tore open the package and began rolling on the condom. Dropped his head back onto the pillow, Stiles took slow, deep breaths through his nose as he listened to the sounds of Peter flicked open the lube bottle again, slicking himself up with more lube, the harsh snap of the lube bottle closing. Tension grew between Stiles's shoulder blades, knotting up even tighter when Peter shifted forward, his knees tucking up behind Stiles's and forcing them further apart.
"Take a deep breath," Peter said, holding Stiles's cheeks apart so he could press the tip of his cock against the teen's slick pucker.
Obediently, Stiles drew in a shaky breath and slowly began to release it, only to huff it out with a bitten-off groan as Peter slowly pushed in, bit by bit.
It hurt.
Even with prep, it hurt and Stiles chewed on his pillow to try to distract himself from the burn of something larger than Peter's fingers breaching him.
It didn't help.
"Easy, Stiles. Relax," Peter said, pausing about halfway in to run a hand up and down the teen's back.
"Easy for you to say. You don't have a friggin' freight train knocking on your back door," Stiles gritted out from around his mouthful of pillow.
"I think that was a compliment," Peter chuckled softly. He leaned forward to drape himself over Stiles's back, making the teen hiss in pain as the movement forced him in a little more. "Relax," he breathed into Stiles's ear, nuzzling it.
Sure, I'll just ignore the dick in my ass, Stiles thought sardonically, but he just huffed into his pillow in response.
Seconds drifted by almost unbearably slow while they lay there, breathing, and the burning stretch became somewhat less as Stiles's body got used to the intrusion. Not that it felt any less weird, but there was a lot less 'oh my god, get it out of me' running through his head, at any rate. "Um, are you planning on moving sometime today?" Stiles asked, exceedingly aware of how still and quiet the older man was above him. In him.
"Maybe." Peter's nose brushed against Stiles's ear one last time before Stiles felt it drag through his hair down towards his nape, where Peter gently closed his teeth around Stiles's skin.
It wasn't an actual bite, but Stiles could remember when Peter had offered to really bite him, could remember the glimpse of too sharp teeth inches from sinking into his flesh, and the fact that Peter couldn't turn him anymore didn't make the gesture any less powerful. Like how a dominant alpha wolf will grasp a beta pack mate's scruff to remind it of its place in the pack, to make it submit.
A shiver ran through Stiles as he, without question, bowed his head forward, further exposing the back of his neck.
Submitting.
The effect on Peter was instantaneous.
Peter's teeth tightened a fraction more as a soft growl slipped from between them, tickling Stiles's skin with its vibrations. In one swift movement, Peter's hips lunged forward and buried the last few inches of his cock inside Stiles, sending the teen scrambling for a better hold on the covers as the thrust shoved him up the bed a little.
Panting through the pain of being so full so fast, Stiles laid as still as he could, waiting for Peter to continue thrusting.
But he didn't.
Breathing heavily onto Stiles's neck, Peter remained crouched in place, completely frozen but for the mild tremor Stiles could feel running through the man where their bodies were connected, as though Peter was holding himself back bit only just in order to give Stiles time to adjust.
Caught in a mixture of fear and arousal, Stiles bit his lip against the whimper that threatened to escape, not wanting to do anything that might set Peter off.
A sigh puffed across Stiles's skin as Peter finally eased his teeth apart and rested his forehead against the back Stiles's head, nuzzling at the teen's neck in something of a silent apology.
When the teeth were gone, Stiles's body relaxed—all over. The burn of Peter's first thrust faded to nothing, leaving just the feeling of pressure inside of Stiles.
He choked down a laugh. It took a near-mauling to get him to relax. He hoped that wouldn't always be the case.
His forehead still resting against Stiles, Peter pulled his hips back an inch, testing, then pushed forward, huffing out a dry laugh when Stiles gave a tiny groan.
Peter did it again.
And again.
And again.
Each time, he pulled back a little further, slowly lengthening his thrusts.
I'm getting fucked, Stiles thought absently, inwardly marveling at how easily his body was taking Peter in—at how good it was starting to feel. His muscles felt like goo and he was glad that he was already lying down on the bed because he was unsure of how well he'd be holding himself up right now.
He felt Peter's head lift off of him as the older man pulled away almost entirely before he paused again. He hovered above Stiles, their bodies only touching at their legs, on either side of Stiles's ribs where Peter was braced on the bed, and Stiles's ass, where only the tip of Peter's cock was still lodged inside.
Confusion soon melted into irritation and Stiles tried to scowl over his shoulder at the older man.
What the fuck?
His throat had gone dry, so instead Stiles settled for pushing his hips back with a pointed growl, trying to get Peter to fucking move.
It seemed to work because, a second later, Peter was moving forward again, driving his cock deep with a lewd smack.
There was no holding back the moan forced from Stiles's lips—not that he even tried—as Peter brushed against something inside him that made him tremble. Prostate, Stiles's brain helpfully supplied while the rest of his body did its best to arch back, trying to get Peter in deeper.
"More," he breathed out, not even bothering to raise his voice. Hell, Peter would have been able to hear him from across the room.
The bed jostled as Peter rearranged himself before grasping Stiles by the hips, tugging them up and back until the teen was on all fours.
Stiles's complaints about being manhandled into the new position died in his throat when Peter pulled out a little and snapped his hips forward, thrusting in rougher than he had so far.
And this time, he didn't stop.
Panting out little moans, Stiles sank down onto his elbows to take the strain off of his arms and cried out as the change in angle made Peter hit that spot in him over and over and over…
The sounds he was making couldn't even be called words, just garbled syllables mixed with broken whines. He was probably drooling, too, but all he could concentrate on was the feeling of Peter moving in and out, and thinking 'don't stop, don't stop, please don't stop'.
The hands on his hips were clamped around him punishingly hard and, more than likely, he'd have bruises tomorrow, but Stiles didn't care. Peter could mark him from head to toe right now and he wouldn't care, so long as the man kept fucking him hard and fast in obscene slaps of skin that seem to echo off the bedroom walls.
One of Peter's hands abandoned its hold, reappearing a moment later around Stiles's leaking cock, jacking it with a steel-tight grip—and that was it.
Stiles stuttered out a gasp as he finally fell over the edge he'd been skating for so long, his release spurting all over Peter's hand and the bed as he clenched around the cock still moving inside of him. Shuddering from orgasm, Stiles's head dropped heavily onto the bed as the rest of him slumped listlessly in place, his ass held in the air by Peter's strength alone.
As soon as Stiles had finished, Peter renewed his hold on the teen's hips, smearing come across Stiles's skin as his thrusts grew savage and almost inhumanly fast before he gave one last deep thrust. His hips twitched abortively, like he was trying to get every last inch of him inside of Stiles as he came with a groan, his elongated fingernails digging into (but not piercing) the teen's skin.
Through his post-coital haze, Stiles vaguely noticed Peter shifting above him to brace himself with a hand on the bed, his breathing slightly shaky.
Thankfully, Peter's death grip on his hips had slacked. The warm, livewire-like pleasure was quickly ebbing and the beginnings of a pleasant ache were setting into various places of Stiles's body (like his hips and ass).
Gently, Peter lowered Stiles to the bed, Stiles's nose wrinkling distastefully when his stomach came into contact with his cooling patch of come. "Gross."
"Give me a second," Peter groused. He shifted back on the bed and withdrew from the teen gradually, slowing down at Stiles's hiss of pain.
Now that his brain wasn't being distracted by spikes of dopamine, Stiles was fully aware of the soreness in his ass, particularly at his hole, which gave a sharp twinge as the thick head of Peter's cock slid free, catching slightly at the rim.
He hummed nonsensically, feeling empty in a way he'd never experienced before. It was weird, weirder even than having a dick in his ass. But he didn't hate the sensation.
Peter got off the bed and Stiles rolled to sprawl in his back, mostly to get out of the come spot, but also so he could see where the older man was going.
Anxiety bubbled up within Stiles as doubts started to surface. Had he sucked so much at sex that it drove Peter out of the bed?—
Relief flooded him when he realized that the older man had stopped at the trashcan beside his desk to carefully slide off the condom, wiping off the excess mess with tissues.
Oh.
So Stiles, at least, wasn'tdriving Peter away.
His initial panic assuaged, Stiles allowed his eyes to wander admiringly over Peter's body, completely free of clothing for the first time. He was beautiful. Not an inch of excess fat showed on his lean, lightly muscled form. What the hell did he see in Stiles? The way Peter was built, he could pretty much have his pick of partners—and he chose a scrawny, twitchy teenager?
The residual lube started to ooze out of Stiles, doing little to help how gross he suddenly felt in comparison. He closed his splayed legs, hoping to hide the fact that he was having anal seepage, and the movement ended up forcing out more with a horribly wet pfft.
Stiles's face went hot with embarrassment. Oh, god, kill me now, he thought when Peter's eyes flicked up from where he was dabbing at his flagging erection.
An amused little smirk tugged at the older man's lips as he grabbed a few more tissues and made his way back towards the bed. "Don't worry," Peter said, holding out the tissues, "that's normal."
Skeptical, Stiles wiped at the smears on his stomach before getting the nerve to do the same to his ass, resignedly taking care of this new kind of mess. Gross. "Your normal or my normal?"
Bending down to retrieve the towel again, Peter actually snorted at him. "Everyone's normal. Even porn stars. They just get to edit to make people happy." He laid the towel over the wet spot and got in the bed next to Stiles, propping himself up on an elbow. "You don't actually think they do hours-long gangbangs without breaks and adding more lube, do you?"
"Well, no, but it's not like I want to watch them just sit there in a robe and drink coffee. It's porn for a reason," Stiles pointed out.
That earned him an eye roll.
Wadding up the soiled tissues as best he could without looking (he didn't want to know, he really didn't want to know), Stiles tossed them to the floor on his side of the bed, somewhat mollified that Peter wasn't treating him like a freak.
The irony wasn't lost on him.
Settling onto his back, Stiles was finally able to take stock of himself. Oh yeah, his hips were definitely bruising up. Purplish-blue finger marks had begun to wrap around the side of his hips and fan out towards his abdomen.
Peter seemed to take notice of them, too, stretching out a hand to gently trace them.
The satisfied smile on the man's face pretty much confirmed Stiles's previous suspicions. "So you like marking me, huh?"
"You liked it," Peter said matter-of-factly, not even glancing up from admiring his handiwork. It wasn't a denial, though.
Stiles didn't bother to fight him on the subject (because he had liked it, not because the sex was kind of making him sleepy).
Casting his eyes around the room, his mind wandering, Stiles noticed the time on his alarm clock (placed far enough away that Stiles would have to actually get out of bed just to turn it off). It was almost six o'clock.
Crap. He hadn't even started dinner yet.
But the bed was warm and there was a gorgeous naked werewolf in it that was willing to have sex with him. Comparatively, the prospect of having to cook didn't measure up by half.
A hiss left his lips when Peter pressed his thumb more firmly into a particularly dark mark on his hip. Stiles's flaccid cock twitched hopefully at the mini shock of pain. The masochist.
Peter noticed.
"Round two?" Stiles chuckled nervously, only half kidding.
The hungry leer Peter returned, however, banished any thoughts of leaving the bed for a good long while. Thank god there were still leftovers.