Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1017533.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Peter_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Peter_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski, Lydia_Martin
  Additional Tags:
      Self-Lubrication, Rimming, Mistreatment_of_Innocent_Furniture
  Series:
      Part 1 of Teen_Wolf_Kink_Meme_Fills
  Collections:
      TNW_Kink_Meme
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-10-25 Words: 2746
****** A Little Enhancement ******
by hexthejinx
Summary
     Stiles wakes up from a dream. He doesn’t remember details, only vague
     shapes and sensation, but it was a good dream. One that left him with
     a hard-on trapped between his stomach and the couch. He doesn’t
     bother to open his eyes; the house is quiet enough that he knows it’s
     not morning yet, and there’s nobody around. He rolls his hips in a
     slow, deliberate motion, too lazy to actually jerk off. Soon enough,
     he’s rubbing against the couch quite enthusiastically, small gasps
     escaping his lips. His underwear is getting wet, but it doesn’t
     really concern him, he’s to used to it by now.
     The he hears a creak of a board.
     Stiles stills his movements, hoping that these are just old house
     antics.
     "My, my, what a view."
Notes
     My first fill for TW Kink Meme on LJ, at least two more to go :) The
     prompts there are really awesome.
     Prompt:
     Stiles has some latent werewolf genes from his mom's side. Not enough
     to help with his spazziness or athletic ability or anything, but
     enough to make his ass slick and wet whenever he's turned on.
See the end of the work for more notes
For many guys the first time they get hard is often embarrassing, especially if
it happens in public. In Stiles' case it was no different. In some way, it was
even worse. He spends the night at Scott's house, another one of their many
sleepovers. They're lying in Scott's bed, side by side, watching a movie. It's
a good one; there are spies, CIA agents, shootings and car pursuits. Stiles is
so engrossed in the plot that he forgets about the half a bowl of popcorn
resting on the bed between them, which doesn't happens often. Scott is happily
taking advantage of that, going for a handful every few minutes. Then the
action slows. The main character is in a private club, going undercover,
gathering information. It seems like a slight lull in the movie and Stiles is
about to start talking to Scott about what would his legend be if he was an
undercover spy, when a woman appears on the screen. She's slender, with curly
brown hair and she's one of the prettiest women Stiles has ever seen. The woman
and the spy have a short conversation and then she leads him to a room. They
kiss for a few moments and then the man is pushed to sit on a chair, as the
woman steps back and starts to take off her clothes. It's slow and sensual,
aimed for tease. She doesn't even go all the way, her underwear still on as she
straddles the man's lap but for a thirteen years old boy it's even too much.
Stiles feels his dick twitch before it starts to fill up. It doesn't go to full
hardness but it's enough to make Stiles blush and cross his legs awkwardly. He
doesn't dare to look at Scott, hoping that maybe his arousal went unnoticed in
the dimly lit room. Then something weird happens. There's dampness in the crack
of his ass. At first he thinks he's imagining things but the sensation
escalates, and yeah, there's definitely something wet there. Which, what the
hell?
He mumbles, "Man, way too much soda," and hurries to the bathroom at the other
side of the hallway. He locks the door behind him just in case and slides his
pants and boxers down. He sweeps his fingers along the cleft of his ass and
when he brings them back there's a translucent thick fluid covering the tips.
He doesn't know what it is but it seems to come from his hole. He cleans
himself up, makes sure there's no wet patch on the back of his pants and comes
back to the bedroom, where the movie is back to the safe topic of drug dealers
and guns.
                                      ***
During the following months Stiles makes some discoveries. Some of them related
to what he can do with his dick and what feels good, the others to his little
'condition'. Internet and subtle eavesdropping on older guys' locker room
conversations tell him that what he has is not a common thing; in fact, it
doesn't seem to be a thing at all. He learns that the only fluid he is supposed
to produce pre-release is precome, which, go figure, he doesn't produce at all.
His dick stays dry until that glorious moment of coming. His ass, on the other
hand... Oh God. He leaves little puddles on the bed when he masturbates (with a
handful of lotion) and he needs to react quickly when something happens to
arouse him in public if he doesn't want to have a wet spot on the back of his
pants.
He doesn't tell anyone. Yes, it's bizarre, but it doesn't hurt and doesn't seem
to be dangerous in any way. The last thing he needs is to become a freak or a
medical abnormality. So for the next few years Stiles' leaking ass remains his
dirty little secret.
                                      ***
Stiles has always hoped that if there ever comes a time when he loses his pants
in front of Lydia Martin, the circumstances would be better.
"Oww!"
"Stop squirming," Lydia says, her tone betraying her irritation.
"Easy for you to say, this fucking stings!'
"Well, you are more than welcome to go to the ER. Have fun explaining why you
have six inches long claw marks on your thighs."
Stiles waves his arms around. “No, no! Erm, what I was meant to say was go
ahead, Lydia, work your magic ointment on me.”
“Thank you,” Lydia says graciously.
She’s crouching next to Stiles who’s standing and grabbing at an armchair for
support. Her head is bent low, focused on her work, and when her hair
accidentally brushes over the naked skin of Stiles’ thigh, he clenches his
teeth and tries to breathe steadily through his nose. If he gets too excited
right now, there’s no way she wouldn’t notice.
Eventually, the procedure is over. The ointment is thick, green-brown and foul
smelling. At least it doesn’t sting anymore. Stiles wants to wipe it away as
soon as Lydia is done putting it on his gashes, but she informs him that it
needs time to work.
“It’s best to leave it for the whole night. It’ll speed up your natural healing
process. By morning you’re going to have no more than a couple of scratches,
and you can go home then.”
Which means Stiles has to spend the night at the Hale house, when the pack has
retreated after the fight was over. Luckily the building it’s not a burnout
shell anymore. Derek finally decided to put some money into his property and a
couple of rooms both downstairs and upstairs have been renovated. It’s nowhere
near its former glory, but hey, at least it’s livable now, with running water
and other luxuries.
Derek and his betas retreat upstairs; Scott, Allison and Lydia go to their
respective houses. Stiles is left to crash on the couch, but he doesn’t mind.
He has to sleep on his stomach, without pants, so the ointment won’t smear and
the wounds can breathe, according to Lydia. He’d rather not have Erica ogling
his ass as he sleeps, thank you very much. The couch in the living room is a
safe choice.
He pulls a blanket over his back and head, hoping to get at least a little bit
warmth even if he can’t cover himself properly. The post-fight fatigue takes
over the uneasiness of sleeping in a place that is not his own bedroom and soon
enough he falls into a deep slumber.
                                      ***
Stiles wakes up from a dream. He doesn’t remember details, only vague shapes
and sensation, but it was a good dream. One that left him with a hard-on
trapped between his stomach and the couch. He doesn’t bother to open his eyes;
the house is quiet enough that he knows it’s not morning yet, and there’s
nobody around. He rolls his hips in a slow, deliberate motion, too lazy to
actually jerk off. Soon enough, he’s rubbing against the couch quite
enthusiastically, small gasps escaping his lips. His underwear is getting wet,
but it doesn’t really concern him, he’s to used to it by now.
The he hears a creak of a board.
Stiles stills his movements, hoping that these are just old house antics.
"My, my, what a view."
Horrified, Stiles slowly turns his head to look behind him.
Peter is standing in the doorway, wide smirk stretching his features.
"It's not... It's..." Stiles stutters, his mind running a mile a minute, trying
to come up with something, anything.
"For a second there, I thought you've had some kind of an accident," Peter says
as he slowly makes his way to Stiles, who is still sprawled on the couch, the
blanket lying in heap on the floor. "But then I took a breath and I realized
immediately."
Stiles shakes out of his stupor and tries to flip on his back. A hand placed in
between his shoulder blades stops him mid-movement.
"Oh, no, no. Our lovely miss Martin put so much effort in tending to your
wounds, you wouldn't want to make her angry, now, would you? Heard you are to
remain on your stomach until morning."
"Go away, Peter," Stiles grits out through clenched teeth.
The werewolf smiles cheekily.
“Sending me back to my room, already? But there’s so much interesting things
going on here,” he says in a whiny voice, like a petulant child, and laugh
afterwards.
Stiles wants to say ‘this isn’t funny, you asshole’ but his mind goes
completely blank for a moment when Peter leans in and takes a whiff, his nose
almost touching Stiles’ butt.
“You know how you smell right now?” Peter speaks in a quiet, clear voice. “Like
a bitch in heat.”
Stiles realizes he’s stopped breathing and he takes a gulp of air. Peter’s eyes
glow blue and there’s a prickling sensation on Stiles’ hip where Peter has put
his hand. He doesn’t have to look to know that there are claws resting just
against his bare skin. It takes several seconds for the werewolf to compose
himself and hold the change back. When he does, he moves his hand to the
waistband of Stiles’ boxers and pushes them down the curve of his ass.
“It would be a shame to waste such a gift, Stiles.”
The boy wants to protest but then Peter slips one of his fingers into Stiles’
hole. It goes in without resistance, the slickness enabling it to slide in
easily. Stiles’ half-formulated protest turns into a long moan.
“Quiet, now.” Peter admonishes him, like he dared to mouth off to his great-
aunt. “There’s a pack of werewolves upstairs. With a very sensitive hearing,
I’d like to add. Surely you wouldn’t like them to find you like this?”
Stiles deems the question rhetorical and doesn’t answer. Instead he bites on
his pillow, muffling the moans escaping from his mouth. He can’t help it; Peter
adds a second finger and moves his fingers in and out of his ass in a swift
motion, creating a wonderful sensation.
Peter’s second hand brushes Stiles’ bottom and he hears the sound of fabric
tearing. Here go his boxers, great. Apparently the werewolf wasn’t feeling
patient enough to take off the piece of clothing the usual way and slit them
open with his claws.
“It’s unusual for a human to possess such a quality, though,” Peter says
conversationally as they were having a coffee together and he didn’t have two
of his fingers wedged deeply into Stiles’ hole. “Some werewolves, yes, but
you’re still human.” He spreads Stiles’ legs apart and kneels in between them,
making the spring in the old couch groan.
“I am like that since thirteen, I don’t know why,” Stiles manages to utter. He
doesn’t know why he even bothers to answer.
“Mmm, interesting indeed.” The older man removes his fingers and Stiles feels
his hole clenching helplessly on the thin air. “Maybe you had a werewolf in
your family once. Got some genes passed on.”
“That’s not...”
“Possible? Says the boy his ass leaks whenever his aroused.”
Stiles doesn’t even get the chance to answer. He feels something wet sliding
along the crack of his ass, more wet than usual. With a startle, he realizes
that it’s Peter’s tongue.
“Oh my God...” he groans and bites on the pillow again.
Peter is rimming him. Peter’s tongue dances deftly over his pucker before it
slips inside. It goes in and out a couple of times before the werewolf sucks
softly on the tight ring of muscles.
“Delicious,” he murmurs as he gives one last lick.
Stiles is painfully hard. His hips are bucking involuntary, dragging his cock
against the upholstery.
“I’m not gonna hold on much longer,” he warns, voice strained.
“As longs as you won’t make much noise,” Peter replies, clearly not concerned.
Stiles hears the unmistakable sound of a zipper being dragged down. He turns
his head around and sees that Peter is still kneeling on the couch behind him,
pants and underwear pushed down and his own hard cock in the plain view.
“Are you going to...?”
Peter raises an eyebrow as he gathers a little of the fluid coming out of
Stiles’ hole and smears it over his erection. “Are you opposed?”
Stiles thinks about it for a moment, about Peter’s dick inside him, stretching
him as far as it goes. The sudden rush of desire is unexpected but certainly
not unwelcome.
“No. Not at all.” He drags his legs under his body and pushes up, presenting
his ass to Peter. He spreads his legs as far as the couch allows him, shoving
any shame he might feel aside. “Please.”
Peter snorts quietly. “Eager now, I see.”
Without further ado, he lines himself up behind Stiles and pushes in, hands
clenching on Stiles’ hips for support. Again, there’s almost no resistance,
other than a slight protest of Stiles’ stretched muscles which the boy chooses
to ignore. Whatever makes his ass produce the liquid clearly goes crazy.
There’s so much of it now that it trickles down Stiles’ thighs, pooling in the
dips of his knees.
“Incredible,” Peter whispers, loud enough to Stiles to hear, even through the
rush of blood in his ears. He runs his fingers over the place where they are
joined together, his dick buried deep almost to the hilt.
“Move,” Stiles groans and rolls his hip pointedly.
True to his earlier words, it doesn’t take long for him to come. After a few
strokes Peter changes the angle slightly, which causes him to brush over
Stiles’ prostrate. The boy’s answering groan is loud even with his face smashed
against the cushions. Taking it as the indicator, Peter repeats the motion over
and over again. Stiles moves along with him, arching up when Peter pulls back
and rubbing his erection against the couch when he slams back down. The
friction, combined with the delicious spark of pleasure from his prostate is
enough. He comes suddenly, teeth clenching on his pillow, eyes shutting
tightly, body arching back and up.
He sinks down on the couch afterwards, too spent to do anything else. Peter
barely takes notice. He speeds up his movements, fingers digging into Stiles’
hips and unmistakably leaving bruises.
For a while the only sound in the living room is skin slapping against skin and
heavy breathing. Peter doesn’t make a noise beside that, not even a small moan
escapes his lips. Stiles feels overheated and oversensitive, too much friction
too soon.
“Peter, come on,” he pleads.
Peter leans down and sucks on Stiles’ earlobe before whispering into the boy’s
ear. “Tell me what you want. Say it.”
“Please, come. Come inside me.”
“Yes.” Stiles feels sharp canines grazing against the back of his neck. He
stiffens, afraid that the werewolf wants to bite him, but Peter only groans
“Mine,” jerks his hips once more and comes with a grunt.
Peter collapses on Stiles, his heavy body pushing him even further into the
couch, but Stiles is still too worn out to actively object to the treatment.
Soon enough the man gets off of Stiles and the couch, pulling up his pants and
tucking himself in in an efficient manner.
Stiles tries to sit up, his muscles still shaky and not quite ready for the
action. He can feel Peter’s come sliding out of him, mixing with liquid
covering his thighs. It’s disgusting. It feels amazing. He can’t really decide.
The upholstery is a mess, wet patches spreading over the material.
“Shit,” Stiles runs a hand through his short hair. “What I’m going to say to
Derek?”
“Beats me.” Peter’s grin is wide and smooth. Stiles kind of wants to punch him
in the face.
He follows Peter with his eyes as the werewolf turns around to leave. “Yeah,
sure! Have the human take care of everything.”
Peter stops to look at him over his shoulder. “Of course.”
“Jerk,” Stiles mumbles and picks up the blanket from the floor to wrap it
around his waist. He needs to find some paper towels and there’s no way he’s
running around the Hale house butt naked. His ass hurts as he moves but it
isn’t too bad. The orgasm was worth it, anyway.
He thinks Peter has left already and he jumps when the man speaks up.
“And Stiles?”
“Yeah?”
“Feel free to drop by my apartment any time. Do not bring lube.”
Stiles responds by extending his middle finger, but he grins nonetheless.
End Notes
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