Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2321735.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Peter_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Peter_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      Beta_form!_Peter, werewolf_kink!_Stiles, Anal_Sex, Anal_Fingering, First
      Time, Rimming, Come_Eating, Come_Sharing, Marking, Scent_Marking,
      Anchors, Mates_maybe
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-09-18 Words: 7148
****** Do not go where I cannot follow ******
by SatanInACroptop
Summary
     Peter smiles with too many very sharp teeth, and he wonders what they
     would feel like delicately grazing his skin, maybe over his hips, or
     his collarbone. With Peter, there was always something behind the
     sass and biting remarks, but now there’s a pull that’s simply
     undeniable to something so beautiful and monstrous, a man who could
     rip him to pieces, but taking him apart with pleasure and pain, one
     whimper and moan at a time instead.
     "Yours has a unique scent. I would know it anywhere. Just like your
     anger, and your fear." he leans forward, his nose just barely
     touching the sweaty skin beneath Stiles’ jaw, "But you're not afraid
     right now."
Notes
     A million thanks to nezstorm and badwolfbadwolf for beta reading this
     for me. Their input is invaluable and truly made this fic that much
     better for their hard work.
Dude, its faeries. How hard could it be?
As it turns out, far more terrifying than Stiles could have ever anticipated.
At first, it was posturing as expected. Scott was forced to prove that his age
and inexperience didn't mean shit because a true alpha can truly kick your ass,
but as it turned out the fae had been there a great deal longer than any of
them had suspected. Because they were creatures of the earth, their scents were
exactly that, making them impossible to track or detect in their own habitat,
unless one of them used magick, or ate someone.
In this case, both.
That’s how Stiles finds himself running for his life at midnight, during the
in-between time when the fae, who do not look pretty or sparkly by any means,
can take him away to their actually terrifying home world with just a single
touch of a gnarled hand.
But as it turns out, one cannot actually run through the woods forever. Stiles’
course for the Jeep has been waylaid, and now he's pushing through a thicket
too overgrown for mere humans to pass through, but if he doesn't find a way,
he's going to die.
The faerie says something in snapping teeth and clicking tongue that probably
means what they had said in English before, causing the battle to break out.
That they would eat his spark whole by consuming every ounce of flesh, one
morsel at a time.
Stiles can think of better ways to be eaten, and by better people.
None of those people leap to his rescue when a clawed hand comes swiping down
across the face of his pursuer, small but firm body bringing the black skinned
fae down and ripping into it in absolute abandon, blue eyes bright, sharp teeth
in an open, wild smile. Stiles collapses against a tree, panting to catch his
breath, and he can't close his eyes because what if another one shows up? Or
worse, his dad?
Stiles lets him have his fun until the actual dismemberment starts, something
stringy and unidentifiable dripping blood on the ground when it dangles from
his clawed fingers. Whatever it is, the werewolf seems utterly fascinated by
it. Stiles thinks he's going to puke.
"Alright cujo, could you reel in the crazy about two feet or so? That’s
disgusting and wasteful. What if someone else came up from behind you?"
"I would sense it," Peter speaks, voice whole octaves lower than Stiles has
ever heard it, somehow even more than when Stiles had dealt with him as the
Alpha.
This is not the only thing that's different.
There are ridges on his forehead that Stiles has never before seen, and maybe
it’s the light or the blood dripping from them, but he's sure there are more
teeth. It’s completely unlike any of his shifts before, more wild and feral,
the line between man and monster being pushed precariously into the latter.
Stiles thinks he'll lick the blood from his claws. He doesn't. He draws himself
to his feet in one swift motion, and pulls a handkerchief from his pocket,
wiping the arterial spray from this face before working on his hands.
Some things never change.
But everything else has.
Peter has never looked so terrifying since his form included running around on
all fours with a head of a wolf but the size of a kodiak bear.
But Stiles isn't terrified.
The intense look from Peter's glowing blue eyes is not helping.
If he's waiting for Stiles to say something, the teenager has no idea what.
He's speechless. Sure, they had worked together plenty of times, sharing
information and tactics, but that was at the loft, or just a helping hand that
one time into an ambulance so Stiles didn't have to watch him die. He has never
saved his life before now.
"Are you hurt?" he asks, and God that voice did things to him. The baritone
rolls off his tongue and suddenly Stiles’ pants are way too tight. If Peter
asks, his face is red from exhaustion and nothing else.
Of course, Peter doesn't ask.
"Stiles."
What did Peter say before?
"Uuh."
He can actually see him roll his stupid scary werewolf eyes as Peter stuffs the
handkerchief into his jeans pocket and leaps over the body to land gracefully
on all fours at Stiles' feet. Oh God, closer is not good. He wants to trace the
hard ridges of his forehead, run his hands down arms now just inches away,
where clawed hands dig into the leaves on either side of his hips.
"I can't smell any blood," Peter purrs, and Stiles thinks that if he yelled
like this, the earth might tremble. Forest creatures would run for cover. Bears
would hide. Mountain lions would take flight. Stiles would probably come in his
pants.
Of all the kinks in the world to develop as a teenager, Stiles inwardly groans,
why did it have to be werewolves?
He still manages to huff snidely, "Would you be able to smell anything over
that?"
Peter smiles with too many very sharp teeth, and he wonders what they would
feel like delicately grazing his skin, maybe over his hips, or his collarbone.
With Peter, there was always something behind the sass and biting remarks, but
now there’s a pull that’s simply undeniable to something so beautiful and
monstrous, a man who could rip him to pieces, but taking him apart with
pleasure and pain, one whimper and moan at a time instead.
"Yours has a unique scent. I would know it anywhere. Just like your anger, and
your fear." he leans forward, his nose just barely touching the sweaty skin
beneath Stiles’ jaw, "But you're not afraid right now."
Stiles is too turned one to be terrified, too aroused to be afraid. There’s
also the simple fact that if Peter wanted him dead, he wouldn't be here talking
to him. Peter who smiles like his fondest wish had just come true.
"What a rare and peculiar thing you are."
Stiles has no idea what to make of that. He’s just a teenage boy, as common and
average as they come. But he doesn't need to think of an answer, because
Peter's monstrous mouth presses insistently against his own, lips soft and
demanding, and when he licks over the boy’s mouth, Stiles lets out a moan the
likes of which he has never made before in his life. Everything that follows is
Peter’s tongue inside his mouth, Peter’s hands running through his hair and
down his body, and the precarious pressure of too many sharp teeth. It’s
dangerous and insane and intoxicating, but Stiles knows he can't have what he
wants. Not here.
Why is this his life?
"I don’t want you to stop," he pants against Peter's swollen lips in a rare
moment of parting to breathe.
Peter lifts his head, expression quizzical, and nothing has changed. All of the
beautifully terrifying features right there waiting to be touched. Now able to
be touched.
"I wasn't going to," and God that voice could make him hard with no effort at
all. He could have read him Steinbeck and he'd still want to worship his body
any way the older werewolf would allow him.
"No, but you need to."
Peter sits back on his heels, the distance between them growing, Stiles’
thought process becoming clearer again.
He hates it.
"Do I?"
Quizzical gives way to perturbed.
"Yeah, asshole. There's still God knows how many fae in these woods trying to
eat me, and I didn't exactly write down lube on my list of things to bring to
talk to faeries."
Peter frowns, a pout with the press of too many teeth, and Stiles has to be in
hysterics, near death and mutilations and the usual Tuesday night mayhem,
because it looks fucking cute. Peter Hale, positively adorable. He has to be in
a state of shock.
Then there's a familiar voice ringing out through the trees, calling his name,
and when Stiles yells back in reply, dragging himself to shaky feet, clinging
onto a young tree, Peter is nowhere to be found.
It's comforting to know some things still haven't changed. If Peter had walked
him out of the woods, he would be forced to think the psycho actually cared.
It’s Scott who wraps an arm around his shoulders and uses his werewolf vision
to keep his best friend from tripping over anything on the slow walk back to
the edge of a preserve. The night has been long and hard, and Stiles wants to
fall into something soft while the day’s adrenaline crash flings him into a
twelve hour coma.
When he is finally allowed to drag his weary feet up the stairs of the front
porch, and up yet more stairs to his bedroom, his hands are scraped open, his
legs are cramped to hell, and he doesn't turn on a single light as he goes. He
doesn't need werewolf vision here; he's had the layout long since memorized. It
helps when sneaking out at night with Scott, once to do something stupid, and
now to do something equal parts dangerous and stupid. His father is thankfully
at work, though Stiles still texts him good night because it’s actually his
usual bedtime, just a little after midnight, and he knows it will set his dad's
mind at ease.
But the moment he eases the bedroom door shut behind him, a pair of clawed
hands cover his mouth and wrap around a bony hip to pin him to the door. Stiles
lets out a very unmanly scream until his brain can register what claws and
glowing blue eyes add up to.
His teeth sink into Peter's hand hard, hoping to draw blood, and the rumbling
laugh that comes after only works to make something else hard in the process.
Stiles does not stop to suss out how morally wrong his fear boner is. All of
his friends and frenemies are ridiculously attractive to the point that it
hurts, and Peter is, at least in this department, no different from the rest.
No, he is different. He's worse.
"I suppose I should have known," he croons softly, removing his hand from
Stiles’ mouth only to trace the underside of the boy's jaw with one finger. The
claw walks some line between tickling and bad touch. If Stiles fidgets, it will
probably draw blood. "You've always been so very brave, and so very very
foolish for someone so bright."
"Smart enough to figure out who burned your family alive before anyone else
could," Stiles huffs, the idea of being taken for granted one of the quickest
ways to his fragile emotional underbelly, "and it was me who suggested the
faeries couldn't be tracked. I could keep going."
Peter smiles from ear to ear, and even in the dim light from the street lamp
just outside, Stiles can see those terrifying teeth. It’s bright enough that he
could count them, but he's too terrified to know.
"On any other day, I would enjoy nothing more. But right now, I would rather
make you speechless."
Peter's pulling Stiles’ hoodie off before he can protest, yanking the shirt off
along with it, and there is definitely a moment, a pause, where the murdering
psychopath is actually looking him over for injuries. There's scratches all
over his bony hips and navel, where the branches stabbed through his layers and
tore away at him, one leaving spectacular bruising from the thicket that nearly
cost him his life. All Stiles can think is that if he had only kept the stupid
compass app out on his phone, or used his gps app to pin the car, none of this
would have happened.
He also realizes that Peter shouldn't have been there at all. He was left out
of the meeting, Derek ordering him to stay out of it as he always did, so how
the hell did Peter even know he was in trouble, or even where to look?
He's not sure whether to be grateful or mortified.
When the werewolf's claws graze delicately over his sides, just enough that it
tickles and he has to bite back a laugh, Peter's mouth closes down over his
pulse. Stiles tenses up immediately, muscles locking up and heartbeat
skyrocketing because holy shit what if he's actually here to kill him? Peter
licks the pulse point with the flat of his tongue, slowly tracing the fragile
artery, like he's savoring the taste.
"If I wanted you dead, it would have been much easier to let them take you
tonight," Peter tries to whisper, but in this form his voice rumbles at any
volume like a far off thunderstorm, violent but slowly approaching. It takes
Stiles a moment to register what the man has just admitted to.
"But you didn't," he gasps in one breath, Peter hooking his fingers over the
hem of his jeans.
Stiles does the unthinkable. With his dick raging against his zipper and
demanding Peter get the fuck on with it before something else shows up to eat
him, he wraps his hands around the claws along his waist, and pulls them away
the few inches he needs to attempt rational thought. Then he asks why.
The smile he gets in return is the filthiest thing he's ever seen. The forehead
crinkles are somehow that much more devious. He's in danger of being eaten
alive, but not in a way he'll ever complain about. His dick is totally on board
with this.
"Because. I'm far more interested in pulling you apart with my mouth and
hearing all of the delicious sounds you'll make when you come so hard you can't
breathe, can't think of anything else but my name, begging me for more."
Stiles swallows hard and let's go of Peter's hands. Rational thought has now
officially left residence, probably never to return. He whimpers at the the
promise in a hungry gaze and a smile made for war.
Peter takes this as his cue to lift Stiles off the floor and toss the teenager
onto the full-sized bed, the werewolf leaping on him to cover his bruised and
scarred skin with his own weight.
But he doesn't rip his own clothes off, or even the rest of Stiles', or
continue whispering filth into his ear. For a solid minute, he nuzzles Stiles’
neck with his face, no tongue, not even the hint of a kiss there, making
disgruntled noises like it's personally offended him. When Stiles tries to
shove him off, because he isn't even marking him with his mouth, which although
a pain to cover up is hot as fuck, he's just nuzzling like a cat, Peter nips
him on one finger.
"Hey! Okay, what's wrong? What is it?" and God those are words he never thought
he would say to Peter Hale in the span of his life, and yet here they are.
"You still smell like them."
Stiles wonders if the fae have a uniquely offensive scent, or if Peter's being
here is far more personal. Either way, his long fingers grab Peter by his
stupidly perfect hair (seriously he just killed a thing it should look so much
worse) and pulls the older werewolf off, just enough for Stiles to look him in
the eyes and say firmly with no stammer at all,
"Then make me smell like something else."
Peter's response is a one-two sexual death combo of rolling his hips down into
Stiles, and kissing him like he's something to be savored and enjoyed for hours
upon hours.
When a hand tipped with claws reaches down to carefully but firmly cup his dick
through his jeans, he wants to sing a hallelujah chorus. There's a tongue
tasting his skin, mouth pausing to suck on Stiles’ stupidly sensitive nipples.
He can feel the laughter on his skin when he cries out from the overwhelming
sensation. Peter seems happy to taste every inch of exposed flesh, and for once
Stiles isn't self conscious about his lack of muscles or werewolf physique. He
can feel those terrifying teeth press delicately into his skin every time Peter
stops to suck a mark somewhere along his torso, and Stiles has never been so
grateful for the pre-existing bruises to serve as a cover up in the locker room
tomorrow.
Peter snarls every time Stiles whimpers, and if the werewolf doesn't get this
show on the road soon, Stiles is going to be really fucking embarrassed when he
comes in his pants like the virgin teenager he is. The hand around his dick
tightens. A startled cry rips from his throat as claws prick through his jeans.
"Peter, if you don't fucking get on with it I will come right now, and I swear
to God, if you let me come in my jeans before I've so much as seen you half-
naked, I will punch you in your stupid scary face."
The werewolf laughs openly into the flesh at Stiles’ hip, like the teen's very
real threats are the height of comedy, but when he tilts his head from where he
was previously tonguing along the band of his boxers, there's nothing light or
comical in his eyes.
"Take off your jeans," he says, and Stiles jumps to his feet to comply in a
haste that stops abruptly when Peter throws off his Henley.
The boy’s jeans and boxers are pooled around his ankles as he watches Peter's
deft hands undo his belt enraptured, fingers free of claws that would otherwise
slow Peter down. And he's not wearing any underwear, of fucking course, when
Peter shoves the offending denim to the floor and suddenly there's Peter's cock
jutting out at him. Stiles wants to memorize every detail, from the girth to
the veins to the small slip of foreskin, and when he looks up at Peter, he's
human again.
And Peter, lo and behold, does not pounce on him. He doesn't latch on to his
skin like an animal aiming to claim and take. He takes two strides back to the
bed, back to Stiles, and gently pulls the teenager close. It's too much, and
when Stiles tries to step back, because seriously Peter must be possessed, or
maybe fae can shape shift, his feet get tangled in the denim around his ankles.
Peter just manages to catch him before he falls into the night stand,
redirecting the momentum so he falls into the bed instead.
Peter kicks off Stiles’ jeans with a chuckle that makes his eyes crinkle, makes
Stiles’ stomach flip. Things are not going according to plan.
"Peter-"
"You can shower, or I can fuck you like this."
Stiles opens his mouth to ask about control, and the vivid memory of Peter's
feral smile, gleefully ripping the fae to pieces, rushes back in disgusting
detail. One would think this would deter his dick in any way. One would be
very, very wrong.
"You care if you hurt me?" Stiles asks, brow pinched in confusion. Peter's head
is buried in his neck again, sucking along his pulse while ever so slowly
rutting their dicks together, and Stiles can feel him roll his eyes.
"I care about my nephew killing me if I do."
Teeth sink into his neck, hard, and Stiles remembers that he still hasn't
answered his question.
"Oh my god, ow! You asshole! This. Just, like this."
Peter licks the stinging bruise in apology, and really, Stiles never would have
guessed that the creepy hoarder of information would care to ask.
He's about to cry foul when Peter's weight lifts off of him, dick no longer
teasing his own in a delicious drag of skin and sweat and what he's pretty sure
is his own precome, when two hands press down on his thighs, spreading them
open. He can feel Peter's thumbs pulling his cheeks apart as he draws his own
legs up to help, when something hot and wet presses over his asshole, knocking
the breath right out of him. Peter's tongue, his mind supplies, that is Peter's
tongue.
It almost tickles as it flicks around the rim, and when it presses inside of
him, Stiles’ hands fly to the wolf's hair, holding on tight as he lets out
every curse he knows in a single breath. He expects an angry snarl, but what he
gets is a pleased hum, and thumbs gently kneading his ass where he's keeping
Stiles spread apart for his mouth. All Stiles wanted was scary, angry, werewolf
sex, but he'll trade it for this if it means Peter keeps wrenching sobs and
shouts from his mouth with a tongue trying desperately to curl inside him. It
feels like ages until Stiles finally relaxes enough for Peter to fuck him with
his tongue, head bobbing like he's sucking cock, when what he's doing is so
much filthier. There is a nose brushing against his balls every time that sends
a shiver through him, and Stiles has no idea how masturbation is ever going to
be enough after this.
When Peter finally takes a break, rubbing his jaw which is probably sore even
by werewolf standards, his lips are red and swollen, and even his chin is spit-
slicked. Distantly, Stiles knows he should be disgusted, because fuck that was
just in his ass. He yanks the werewolf forward by the hair and kisses him
something wet and filthy.
"Lube?" Peter purrs, and Stiles flails to reach into the nightstand and fish it
out from its hiding place inside two very old socks with many holes in them.
There's a grin stretching his face something stupid when he offers it up to the
older man, and he has a moment to think he must look like a complete idiot
before Peter smiles back, a smile that actually doesn't look to be sarcastic or
evil in anyway, and kisses him swiftly as he flicks the bottle open with one
hand.
Stiles is astonished by the amount of time Peter takes to slick up his fingers,
licking his lips and just looking at him, because this will probably never
happen again. He's sitting on his heels between Stiles’ legs, knees spread so
the man’s thighs sit just beneath beneath his own. There's a smattering of
chest hair that Stiles knows now is softer than it looks, and muscles that are
broader and less defined than the younger Hale. Stiles thinks he likes this
more.
He nearly sobs when a lubed finger finally circles the rim of his asshole
again, but it pulls away just as quickly as it came. He does snarl then, and
Peter's only response is a single eyebrow that dares him to comment, to tell
him what to do, when he grabs the second pillow and shoves it under Stiles
lower back. Stiles softens then. He appreciates the thought.
He appreciates Peter even more as he presses just the tip of one finger inside
him, and simultaneously licks the tip of his dick.
"God, fuck!" Stiles finally snaps, because he is young and impatient and he can
only take so fucking much.
Peter, ever the asshole, lifts his head with a smile and says ,"Peter will do
just fine," then sucks him down in one go while pressing a digit all the way
inside him.
His cheeks hollow as he sucks, free hand wrapping firmly around the base so he
can lick and tease freely even as his finger is pumping in and out Stiles’ ass
at a steady pace. Of course Peter can multitask, you can't take over the world
by only doing one thing at a time. Stiles doesn't even know what he's saying
anymore, can't keep track of the litany of curses and praises, beyond the
feeling of hot wet heat sucking around his dick, tongue swirling around the
head on each and every swallow, and a second finger pressing him open even
more. He curses when Peter's mouth pulls off him to tongue the slit, but he
knows why when the fingers inside him crook to hit his prostate, making his
hips thrust off the bed on their own accord. Peter's not into a cock choking
his throat, Stiles takes note, and tries valiantly to keep from thrashing
around as Peter tongues his cock and continues to abuse his prostate. His
fingers tangle in the sheets as pleasure shoots up his spine like nothing else
ever has before. It’s not that he's never fingered his ass before, but he's
never hit the prostate. Not for lack of trying.
His hips still enough that Peter dares to suck his cock down again, and Stiles
distantly feels an ache that must be a third finger entering the equation. He's
never gotten up to three, and the feeling of it is a stretch and a burn that's
all stitched together with enough pleasure that Stiles knows he isn't going to
last.
He tries to get his mouth to sync up to his brain again to create the magic of
intelligent speech, and it takes a few moments past the perfect haze of
endorphins and pleasure that only comes with his ass feeling full and Peter's
mouth sucking his dick like it’s his favorite pastime.
"Peter, fuck," he gasps, mouth dry and throat sore from all the noise he's made
so far, "I'm close. I'm so fucking close."
He expects Peter to pull back. To grab his dick and maybe jerk him off fast and
dirty. But no, it’s Peter, and he has to do the unexpected because that is his
actual favorite pastime. The hand around his cock moves to his hip, gripping
hard enough to bruise, just as he swallows the boy’s dick right down to the
base like deep throating is easy and not all requiring years of practice. If
that wasn't enough, he stops pumping three fingers in and out of him, and just
crooks them, flexing the digits inside so they brush his prostate over and
over.
It's only werewolf strength that keeps Stiles hips from thrusting into Peter's
face as he comes with a shout and a curse on Peter's name, and the guy swallows
down every drop without issue. He doesn't stop until Stiles is oversensitive
and begging, and he only does so to kiss him, fingers still moving ever so
gently inside him where his ass is just only beginning to relax from orgasm.
"Condom?" he asks, nibbling on Stiles jaw line.
Stiles sits up to look at him, and the movement shifts the angle. He gasps as
Peter's fingers are suddenly that much deeper inside of him, fucking Christ.
"We don't need one, do we? I mean, werewolves can't carry diseases, and I
can't, and I mean I haven't-" Stiles is starting to stammer, as his anxiety so
loves to make him do, and Peter is left with no choice but to kiss him hard
into submission. He doesn't stop until Stiles' only scents are arousal and
Peter, and the still lingering scent of forest creatures which Peter is doing
his best to ignore.
"No, Stiles," Peter smiles, running his thumb along Stiles lower lip, where
it’s red and sore from the boy biting down on it, from Peter biting down on it
too. "We don't need one."
"Well, then, fuck me you asshole."
Peter grins, and it should not make Stiles’ stomach flip. He should be mad at
him for drawing this out, for teasing the hell out of him, for the scent
marking and the bruise checking. He should not be laughing softly as Peter
slicks himself up. He should not.
Peter also should not be giving him a look as he lines up at his entrance,
hands gently holding his legs apart, glad for the pillow that Peter also put
there to keep the angle right. The look does not lack in heat by any means, but
also doesn't lack in something that Stiles swears is fucking sincere. Jesus
fuck.
"Peter! If you don't put your dick in my ass right now, I swear to god I'm
going back into those fucking woods just to see if you'll chase after me, you
fucking-"
The feeling of Peter's dick pressing inside of him knocks the air from his
lungs. He knew it was going to hurt, but holy fucking shit no one had the
decency to prepare him for the insane pleasure-pain blend that splits his body
into two directions, one that begs to stop and another that will kill you if
you do.
No one also prepared him for Peter Hale massaging his ass as he presses slowly
into him, telling him softly to relax and just breathe. It doesn't take long
for Peter to bottom out, but it feels like forever until he moves, Stiles
begging and pleading and finally biting down on his collarbone. His teeth dig
into the flesh without hesitation, and it draws out a snarl, draws Peters hips
out and then in, draws a shout from Stiles that is both a curse and a plea to
keep going. Peter does, but he keeps the rhythm steady. It’s not harsh like
Stiles expected, but the roll of hips dragging the friction as he eases in and
out is fucking perfection, like the long line of muscles above him, the mouth
open in rapture like Peter is just as amazed as Stiles that they've finally
gotten here. Stiles wonders if he should have put out a memo sooner that reads
simply, "Bisexual with major hard on for werewolves. Down for sexy times all
the time."
Apparently he's said this out loud, because the next thrust is particularly
harsh, more like Stiles expected, and the force shifts his ass into an angle
that moves the feeling from 'holy shit that’s good' into the territory of
broken pleas that get’s his dick fully hard again. Peter's really fucking him
now, and Stiles is fairly certain that Peter would burn every memo, delete the
file, and maybe smash the computer for good measure.
Stiles should not say what he does next, but he's always been the one to poke
the bear. He's the one who dragged Scott to find a dead body for fuck's sake.
"Give me," he gasps as a Peter’s dick drags on something spectacular, "a reason
not to."
Peter snarls, and changes position into something resembling a push-up. Except
he's doing it with one hand next to Stiles’ head, and the other on his hip.
There's no way he's taking his eyes off Peter for a second, (he will memorize
this array of facial expressions to masturbate to for the rest of his life) but
he's also pretty damn sure that those are claws digging into the fragile skin
of his waist. When Peter thrusts inside him, it hits something that would have
had Stiles thrusting up into him if not for the werewolf holding him down. It
feels like heaven in his ass, and he knows that’s the fucking prostate, which
Peter can apparently play like a fucking fiddle like this.
He's not going to last, and whether he says that part out loud or not, he has
no idea, but the next moment there's a hand on his dick and Peter pounding into
his ass relentlessly. Blinding pleasure that’s just been building for so long
in his dick shoots up his spine and throws it into an arch that Stiles couldn't
fight if his life depended on it, and he comes so hard he swears he destroys
brain cells, has probably killed a good portion of his reasoning center, and he
would do it again and again in a heart beat. It’s a rush of perfect pleasure
and euphoria, so addictive that Stiles doesn't understand how people get up to
anything else.
Peter makes a noise that can only be classified as a howl, except the noise is
Stiles’ own name, and then Stiles can feel a wet heat that’s Peter coming
inside of him. It should not feel as good as it does when Peter thrusts inside
of him one last time, but god it’s like the sexual feeling of Thanksgiving,
full and fuller and so full you want to nap for a week. It’s that in his ass,
and Stiles pities the millions of humans who don't have werewolves to fuck so
they can safely enjoy it.
He's still riding the euphoria cloud when Peter pulls out, and Stiles tries
valiantly to brace himself for Peter's next move. For what will probably be a
shitty comeback, maybe a crap remark that he's not bad for a first time but
with work he'll do better, or if nothing else a swift re-dressing and leave
without a single word.
But Peter doesn't turn and run. He doesn't even speak. Stiles forces his eyes
to open just to take in the unforgettable sight of Peter with bedroom hair,
pushing it and the sweat on his forehead back out of his face, before kneeling
between Stiles’ legs with a smirk that says he has something terrible up his
sleeve.
Something terrible turns out to be his tongue in Stiles ass again, eating his
come. That’s Peter's fucking tongue working come out of his ass, lapping it out
for a few brief moments of Stiles screaming his name before there are lips
pressing into his and god that’s Peter's come in his mouth, his taste on his
tongue, and Stiles’ ass. It should gross him out. He should hit him. He should
not wrap his arms around him like a desperate octopus and suck on his tongue,
and moan at the taste. He should not find it to be the hottest thing on the
face of the earth.
There's still a bit of come leaking out of his ass, and his own on his stomach,
when Peter is rolled onto his side along Stiles. They're still lazily licking
into each others mouths, the post-orgasm haze a drug that makes everything feel
warm and satisfied. Stiles know he'll hurt in the morning, but he also knows he
won't fucking care.
There's a pinch on his hip that makes Stiles yelp. Peter smirks. Stiles glares,
and bites him on the nose. The playful nip makes both of their eyes go wide.
Where the fuck did that come from?
"You should shower," Peter coaxes, one hand nudging at the hip he has surely
just added another fucking bruise to.
"Can't," Stiles croaks, his voice apparently shot for the evening. He make a
face at the sound that makes Peter grin a stupidly satisfied smirk. "Paralyzed
from the waist down for the next eight hours."
Peter rolls his eyes and gets up like they haven't just had a sexual marathon,
like he isn't naked with his dick just staring Stiles in the face at this
height. Stiles licks his lips, and when he looks up at Peter, his eyes are
going dark too.
"Don't tempt me," he pleads, and it really does sound like he's begging Stiles
not to look so good, fucked out with that perfect cupid's bow mouth that Stiles
knows full fucking well will look all the better wrapped around his cock. He
wants to give Peter that image, wants to drive him crazy and take him apart.
But Stiles’ throat is sore enough for one evening.
Stiles winks, the bastard. Peter scoops him up like he's still the virgin
bride, and carries him to the bathroom across the hall. Peter has never been in
his house before. He should not know where the bathroom is. But as Peter sets
him on his feet, one arm wrapped firmly around his hips as he fiddles to get
the temperature just right, Stiles can't really be bothered to care.
But there is one thing that is bothering him. It comes back to him when he goes
to reach for the shampoo, only to have Peter slap his hand away, and massage
the apple scented suds gently into his hair.
"How did you find me? You weren't even supposed to be there. You should have
been miles away."
Peter makes a thoughtful noise, and nudges Stiles to tilt his head back under
the spray to rinse. He goes with the motion like a puppet with its strings cut.
"I was at home, trying to find something that hinted at your notion of fae
being impossible to track. I heard your heartbeat. You sounded panicked. When
Scott didn't answer the phone, I knew."
Stiles stiffens, and Peter turns the water up a little warmer as he works the
conditioner in, and starts up on the soap while it sits. Of course, Peter
properly conditions the full five minutes. Stiles can never be bothered to wait
for thirty seconds.
Peter heard his heartbeat from his apartment, which is at best a twenty minute
drive from the preserve, an estimated thirty miles.
"Scott? Why didn't you call Derek?"
Peter snorts as he works the soap bar down Stiles back, rubbing the suds by
hand into his skin. "Derek never answers the phone." Stiles grins. He's glad
he's not alone on that.
"You tracked my heartbeat then?"
"At first," Peter says, and his voice is entirely calm, as if this conversation
is an entirely scientific discussion about the tracking capabilities of
werewolves, and not the fact that these abilities only happen with a deep
seated romantic interest.
Stiles will not use the word mate, he will not. Even as he leans into Peter's
touch as the man pauses in his insistent scrubbing to massage a knot in his
shoulder, making a soft noise of content when he's satisfied. He gently turns
Stiles around to start on his front, and it’s only then that Stiles can see the
face doesn't match the voice. He's not detached, not at all, and Stiles isn't
sure if he wishes he were or not.
"Then what?"
"The fae was easy once it attacked you. I tracked your fear, and it’s hunger.
Disgusting thing, the level of desire, nasty language too."
Stiles swallows, and makes a valiant effort to study the aging color of the
tub. Which just ends up with a perfect view of Peter’s dick. Peter who is
gentle as he washes his neck, careful of the bite marks he sucked into his
flesh. When Stiles finally has the courage to look up, Peter is staring at him.
"I know what it means. And I won't - shit." Stiles takes a breath, fear that
saying the wrong thing will leave him naked and alone to crawl back into his
bed with sheets that smelled of Peter and sex rising up. "I won't tell them, if
you don't want me to. I get it, okay? But I'm not keeping it a secret because
I'm afraid of how you looked, or what you did. I'm doing it because it’s your
secret, not mine, and that's not my call to make."
Peter nods gamely, like they're discussing fight tactics, and not the fact that
a thirty something werewolf who may or may not be the omega of his pack is head
over heels in love with a teenage boy.
"But I'm not ashamed, either."
The look Peter gives him then as he sets down the soap and goes to rinse
Stiles’ hair is so open and soft that it hurts. His lips are parted and his
eyes are wide like Stiles has just given him his soul. Maybe he has already.
"Excellent, because if you were ashamed of mind blowing sex, I'd request Scott
to have your head examined."
Stiles smiles as he closes his eyes, tilts his head back under the spray. "Mind
blowing, huh?"
Peter washes up in under a minute, eyes on Stiles the whole time, before the
boy finally says screw it, and wraps himself around the man under the warm
spray.
"Stiles, the water will get cold."
Stiles huffs.
"If you want me to let go, tell me to."
Peter doesn't say a word, but Stiles thinks he grips a bit tighter even as he
shuts the water off.
"You'll get a cold."
He towels them both off, because Stiles actually is really sore which he
doesn’t get because really, Peter did all of the work. To which Peter grins
like the fucking devil he is, kissing him deep as he scoops him up again.
"I did," he says as he sets Stiles down on the bed, "and you took it
beautifully."
Stiles expects Peter to leave. He actually sort of needs him to, as he has no
clue when his father will get home from work. But Peter makes absolutely no
move to get dressed. He locks the door, and throws the sheet over them both.
The bed still smells like sex and Peter, and Stiles has absolutely no problem
with that.
"Peter-"
"Not happening."
"I do stupid shit all the time, and you were never there before."
Peter snarls, and Stiles is amazed he doesn't cut and run at that alone.
"If you were ever mortally wounded, Scott would give you the bite. I know a
great deal of things Stiles. I could probably resurrect you, if it came down to
it. Nasty piece of magic, but it could work. But if you were taken tonight - I
don't know how I would get you back."
Oh.
"And yes, the fae can conceivably enter your house. You should really consider
learning wards from Deaton."
"Alright," Stiles nods, turning over to look at the werewolf in his bed, "you
can stay, but you have to say it. I'm not risking my ass so I can go to school
tomorrow with this in my head all fucking day."
Peter rolls his eyes so hard his head moves with it.
"The reason I stay out of the way is because my shift goes feral when you're in
danger. Happy?"
Stiles blinks.
"You're such an asshole."
The werewolf grins.
"Yes, and that’s how I navigate yours so perfectly."
Peter pulls Stiles on top of him so his head is resting on Peter’s chest in the
cozy bit of chest hair, one leg draped over the man, and their feet tangled
together at the foot of the bed. Peter's arms are wrapped around him, one hand
on his shoulders, the other holding onto a hip.
He can hear Peter's heartbeat.
"I care about you too, asshole. That's why I don't ask Derek why you're not
there."
Peter leans down and presses a kiss to his forehead. His heartbeat is steady
when he answers.
"If I didn't care, you would have never seen me tonight. Now go to sleep."
Stiles does, to Peter rubbing lazy circles on his back.
It's the first time since Scott was turned that he doesn't fear for his life,
or anything else at all.



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