Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/568936.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Peter_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski, Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski_(Implied)
  Character:
      Stiles_Stilinski, Peter_Hale, Derek_Hale
  Additional Tags:
      Dubious_Consent, Sexual_Coercion, Emotional_Manipulation, Sexual_Assault
      Threats, Seduction
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-11-21 Words: 7031
****** His Master's Voice ******
by HisGirlFriday_(homoeroticismforthewin)
Summary
     Stiles sees a therapist. His therapist ends up seeing a lot more of
     him.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
  This work was inspired by
      Peter_Hale_is_the_Worst_Therapist_Ever by homoeroticismforthewin
Stiles settles further into the leather armchair, picking absently at the knee
of his jeans and staring into the carpet.  He can feel his face flushing. He
knows he has to talk about it, but it’s hard to dredge up the words for someone
who still kind of feels like a stranger, even after three months.
His old therapist has retired and moved away, and Stiles likes the new guy well
enough, but there’s something about their relationship that he’s never quite
comfortable with. Maybe it’s just that he hasn’t been seeing Peter off and on
since he was twelve, maybe it’s that his last therapist was a sort of
grandmotherly older woman, whereas the new guy is… well, sort of hot. And
snarky. But Stiles feels like he’ll have to give it a shot at least. With the
way he’s been feeling lately he needs to give it a chance. He’s been feeling
isolated and alone and like he’s suffocating, and there’s nobody he can talk to
about it. Scott is pretty distracted lately, and Stiles is pretty sure this
stuff would just scare him. And there’s no Way he’s telling this stuff to a man
with a shotgun, so talking to his dad is right out.
Therapy isn’t easy for Stiles, despite the fact that he’s a talker. Because
talking about his problems is generally the last thing he wants to do. He’s
more of an ‘ignore it until it goes away’ type. But therapy helped after his
mom died, helped with his panic attacks, and hopefully it would help with this.
Whatever this is.
“I dunno… I just don’t know how to respond to it. He’s just… not what I’m used
to. I mean, I’m used to hostility, just not… there’s something different about
when he does it.”
“What’s so different about this boy, this…”
“Derek.”
Interest flickers across Peter’s implacable face like a candle’s flame.
“What about Derek is so different?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s not him that’s different. I mean, he’s always shoving
me up against things, and calling me names and saying he doesn’t trust me. And
I’m a smart guy, I know how I’m supposed to respond to shit like that.”
Stiles hears the chair creak as Peter re-crosses his legs, leaning back.
“And you don’t?”
“No! I should see the bruises on my shoulders and run far, run fast, you know?
But that’s the last thing I want to do. I don’t want to run, just the opposite,
I wanna…” Stiles bites his lip, shoulders tensing.
“You want to get closer.” Peter’s voice is low, smooth, understanding.
Stiles nods stiffly. “Yeah.”
“It arouses you,” Stiles’ head pops up, eyes wide like a startled doe, but
Peter continues unperturbed, “To be pushed around like that.”
“Yeah,” Stiles swallows hard, mouth dry, a tight ball of heat clenching in his
chest. Right, that stuff. He should probably mention that part. Calm down,
Stiles, you know where you are with this stuff, it’s nothing new. Okay, here
goes…
“I mean, I’ve always kind of known that was a thing for me. It’s not like you
can spend more than ten minutes on the internet without running into BDSM porn,
but I always figured it’d be like… in the context of a relationship. Not
instead of one. That just makes me feel… like defective or something. And it’s
completely one-way. Because I don’t think he even likes me. Like, at all. It
just…. It’s so complicated.”
Stiles groans, and drives the heels of his hands into his closed eyes until he
sees stars. He hears Peter draw a deep breath in through his nose. There’s a
pause, and Stiles holds his breath, waiting to hear what the reaction will be
to his confession.
“It sounds like maybe you need to sort out your feelings about your sexuality
as separate from your feelings about Derek. Maybe understanding the one will
help you to understand the other.”
Stiles opens his eyes, casting his gaze dubiously towards the older man.
“Maybe? I mean, I thought I was okay with it. But then… I dunno.” Stiles chews
on his lip for a minute, fingers instinctively fidgeting, picking at the seam
of his jeans that runs along his knee. Peter just sits there with that patient
look on his face, like listening to Stiles is the only thing in the world. He
stumbles over his words, straining to fill the silence with the thoughts that
roil turbulently through his brain in a single long thread, each question
leading to the next.
“I mean, what kind of person wants to be hit? Why would I want that? Am I
punishing myself? And how can I even really know what I want when I’ve never
done it? Like, you’d have to trust someone to ask them to do that with you, but
how do you get to that point of trust in a relationship without revealing
something like that? And if they’re into it, then how do you say ‘No, sorry, it
turns out I was wrong, and I’m not into this after all…’ and if they’re not
into it, then you just fucked up a good, established relationship by springing
this on them. It’s a total Catch-22, man!”
Stiles sits and pants, open-mouthed and a little blown away by his own
vehemence. After a moment Peter cocks his head, brows tilted in reassuring
sympathy. His voice is so soft it’s almost a caress.
“That sounds like a very difficult situation,” Peter pauses, eyes warm and
concerned, “Can I make an observation, Stiles?”
Stiles nods distractedly.
“It sounds like maybe you need someone you can trust, someone separate from the
rest of your life, who you can experiment with without risking loss or hurt
feelings. Someone who wouldn’t reject you, and who you could trust to just help
you find what feels good to you without judging.” The last part is a statement,
but Peter’s inflection rises like he’s asking Stiles’ permission.
The tightness in Stiles’ chest has dropped heavily to his belly. He has no idea
how the conversation got here, and his head is aching, but the guy’s not wrong.
The two concepts are so tangled in his brain that he can’t think of Derek
without fingering whatever bruises he has left, can’t touch himself without
wanting it to hurt somehow. It’s just so confusing.
“Yeah? I guess that’d be the ideal thing. But I don’t know where I’d find
someone willing to do that.”
Peter is sprawled back in his chair, languid and casual. His eyes search
Stiles’ face with a kind of aloof sympathy, lips pursing in a considering moue.
“You’re a very attractive young man, Stiles, I doubt you’d have trouble finding
someone who’d want to fuck you.”
Stiles’ eyes go wide and he freezes, replaying the sentence in his head.
Peter’s voice had been its usual deep purr, confident and comforting, but the
word ‘fuck’ had carried a note of harshness that is generally absent. Stiles’
lips part as he processes, and his licks his lips anxiously.
“Uh…” What had Peter even meant by that? He feels his eyebrows creeping up his
forehead, his mind spinning dizzily…
“The trouble would be finding someone trustworthy.” Peter says, and his voice
is comfortingly light and cool, an easy half-smile lifting the corners of his
mouth as he sits unmoving in his chair. Stiles’ mind registers that this is
Peter, same as always, turns towards the familiarity of the situation, and he
feels himself relax, his breath escaping in a slow huff and muscles loosening
pleasantly. Then he stops to think about what Peter said, and his shoulders
droop even further.
If what he needs is some kind of direct experience with this stuff so he can
see how he feels about it apart from Derek, and there’s nobody who he can trust
to go there with him… well then he’s screwed, right? Because where is Stiles
supposed to find someone who would… He nods his head in resignation.
“Yeah. That’s the thing, right?” His voice is husky and bitter, and his fingers
continue to scratch at the fabric of his jeans where the seam lies snug against
his thigh, letting himself become absorbed in the task of testing the stitching
there, the scrape of fingernails over denim being easier to tolerate just now
than the idea that he’s alone and hopeless. He barely notices the creak of
leather as Peter shifts to lean forward in his chair.
“But, Stiles, is that what you need?”
Stiles heaves a sigh and shakes his head dejectedly, still attending to the
pick pick pick of his fingertips.
“Yeah, I think it is. I mean, I don’t know how else to come at it…”
Peter’s voice is hoarse, and his eyes seem darker, more serious.
“Then maybe you’ll have to find a way to make it work. Even if it’s…
unorthodox.”
Stiles eyes are drawn up into Peter’s urgent gaze, and his hand stills on his
thigh as he feels his cock twitch seeing the intensity there. It looks like
hunger, like he wants… but it can’t be. He tilts his head quizzically.
Peter shifts further forward in his seat, and Stiles feels pinioned by the
ferocity of the older man’s focus. His voice is deceptively tranquil.
“Stiles, I’ve been noticing a kind of tension between us for a while now. Have
you noticed it?”
Stiles’ heart feels like it freezes in his chest, and his voice comes out high
and breathy and young sounding. “Uh, yeah? I think so.”
Peter’s face relaxes back into a concerned half-smile, even as he leans further
forward in his seat. His eyes are serene, and his voice is self-assured.
“The ethical thing to do here is to acknowledge this kind of tension openly,
and to decide without judgment how we want to handle it. We’re both adults…”
Stiles’ face heats, and he winces slightly.
“Technically I’m sev…”
Peter raises an eyebrow coldly and Stiles cuts himself off, looks away
unsteadily.
Peter’s voice is an unctuous murmur as he goes on.
“Stiles, I’m not judging you for this. Not for what you need, and not for what
I think you want. I’m just trying to present you with an option.”
Stiles’ eyes slide back to Peter’s face, and his fingers start nervously
twisting and scrabbling against his thigh again. The weight, the tightness in
his belly has dropped further and his breath is fluttering in his throat. His
eyes are wide and unblinking, but he has to press his lips together to stop
them from trembling before he asks tentatively, “Do you mean…”
Peter’s lips quirk in a placid, kindly smile as Stiles trails nervously off.
“That I could help you with your problem. Yes.”
Stiles feels like he can’t breathe, his blood in his veins is roaring in his
ears like the ocean, and his eyes are fixed on Peter’s as he goes on, matter of
fact.
“Now, you’re an intelligent person. You know what the rules are, and you know
that I could get in trouble for this.”
Peter’s  eyes are soft and steadfast, his lips twist into the sympathetic smile
that Stiles knows so well, the one that says ‘I hear you, I understand you, I’m
sorry you’re hurting, you deserve better.’ Stiles’ heart bumps in his chest.
“I wouldn’t be offering this to you if I didn’t believe that you needed it.
It’s a huge risk for me. But it’s a risk I’m willing to take because I trust
you, and because I think you trust me. And because I think it will help. I want
to do this for you, Stiles. Will you let me?”
Stiles feels warmth flooding his chest at the kind words, and a more insistent
heat building in his groin. He ignores the dark, twisting feeling in his
stomach, willing it to just go away, tries to swallow his doubts. He wants
this. He blushes, looks away, eyes burning as he stares fiercely at the
bookshelf behind Peter, his hands sweating as he pinches and pulls at the seam
of his jeans with restless fingers.
“I… uh… I want to. But I don’t know if I should. I mean… I don’t want to get
anyone in trouble, or anything…”
His fingers still when Peter reaches out, encases them in his warm, dry hand,
fingertips brushing his trembling leg, thumb stroking gently but relentlessly
down the tender spot along the inside of his thigh. Peter’s voice is a
dangerous whisper.
“Stiles, trust me. I’m only going to hurt you in the ways that you want to be
hurt.”
***
Stiles is sweating, shaking like a leaf, as he stands on the unfamiliar
doorstep in the cold, willing himself to reach for the doorbell. In the Jeep on
his way over he’d practiced his speech, the one that said ‘Thanks but no
thanks, I appreciate the offer but it’s probably not a good idea, and hey,
maybe we can still see each other for therapy?’ He knows exactly what to say
(Peter, I want you to know that I really appreciate you volunteering to help me
like this, and I don’t want you to feel like I don’t trust you). The trick now
is getting his traitor body to hold still, ring the goddamn doorbell, and say
it.
He’s psyching himself up to ring the bell for the twentieth time when a shadow
passes across the rippled glass in the door’s window. Oh. Stiles draws a shaky
breath. His brain is shouting at him to screw the speech, run away, while a
different part of his brain tells him not to be a coward and to tell Peter what
he’s thinking (but I’m not sure it would be a good idea for either of us if
this were to go any further than it already has).
Unfortunately both parts are drowned out by the part of his brain that has
chosen now as the ideal time to remember the dozens of time over the past week
that Stiles had spent sliding his fist along the soft, warm skin of his cock,
picturing Peter’s mouth on his body, remembering the feel of his hand on
Stiles’ thigh and the voracious look in his eyes as he promised to hurt Stiles
in all the ways that he needed to be hurt. The doorbell echoes through the
house, and Stiles’ heart hammers in his chest. Stupid brain.
The door opens, and there’s Peter in worn jeans that hug his hips and a black
button-down shirt, unbuttoned at the neck and sleeves rolled up. His feet are
bare and he has a pleased little smirk on his face.
“Stiles,” He greets him, smiling warmly, “Come in!”
Stiles feels his face go numb and slack as his feet shuffle him through the
door, Peter’s hand lightly resting at the small of his back, guiding him
inside. The gentleness of the touch feels like an itch and Stiles can’t tell if
he wants to move away or lean into it (It isn’t that I’m not interested, not at
all, I just feel like I’m really confused right now and I don’t know that this
is going to clarify things.) Peter leads him into a bright room decorated in
simple neutrals and clean lines. It looks like something out of Architectural
Digest. Peter gestures at the couch, and Stiles sits primly in one corner,
taking off his backpack and placing it next to him like a bookend. Peter
doesn’t bat an eye.
“Can I get you something to drink? Water? Coffee?”
Stiles swallows uncomfortably.
“Uh… water, maybe?” He hopes to buy himself some time, and as Peter nods, turns
to leave the room his head hums with his memorized monologue (It seems like too
big a risk to take given the possible repercussions that you might come up
against). Peter comes back into the room with two glasses of ice water just as
Stiles rounds the familiar corner bringing the speech to a close (and I hope
that we can just put this behind us and go back to the relationship we had
before, because I really think you’re an excellent therapist and I’ve enjoyed
working with you).
Peter sits down, and Stiles draws a deep breath, steeling himself, placing his
water on the coffee table.
“Before you say anything, Stiles,” Peter begins with a concerned expression on
his face, hands resting on his knees “I just want to make sure that you know
that you’re not under any obligation here. I offered this for you, and I don’t
want you to feel pushed or pressured in any way.”
Listening to the soothing sound of Peter’s voice, Stiles’ breaths start to come
slower. The reassurances glide over him like mist and settle into his tense
muscles, relaxing them. Oh, thank God, Stiles thinks, Peter understands. Peter
goes on.
“Just like everything else in the work we do, I want to make sure this works
for you, that you’re comfortable.  If you’re not one hundred percent sure about
it we can stop and talk until you are, or you can go home right now.”
Stiles’ finds himself nodding along with Peter, suddenly remembering that this
wasn’t just meant to fulfill Stiles’ fantasies, but to help him come to terms
with this, to help him sort out his feelings for Derek. Stiles almost laughs.
He’d practically forgotten about Derek. Which… wow. His breath huffs out in a
relieved gust.
“At any time in this, I want you to feel like you can stop things. I want you
to know that you’re safe with me, that I’ll take care of you.”
At those last words something twists hard in Stiles’ chest, wringing the breath
from his lungs and bringing an ache to his throat. He feels like he might cry,
like he’s just lost something important. He sits, staring at his hands in his
lap and breathing hard, trying to reel it in, trying not to feel this, not now,
not here.
“Stiles? Are you okay?”
Peter’s voice is soft, and he’s suddenly crouched on the floor in front of
Stiles, not touching him, but close and attentive, and his eyes are huge and
filled with compassion. One Two In… One Two Hold… One Two Out... One Two Hold…
Stiles’ breathing slows and he holds Peter’s gaze as Peter murmurs reassurances
and encouragements as the panic trails off. He takes a shaky breath, and gives
Peter a shy, grateful smile.
Peter waits.
Stiles rubs a hand roughly over his face, wipes the tears from his eyes with
the back of his hand.
“Thank you,” he mutters, self-consciously, “I don’t know what happened.”
“Hey,” Peter’s tone is gently chiding, “No judgment. Whatever you need.”
Stiles slumps over his knees, boneless and exhausted. “I just… I don’t even
know what I feel right now.”
Peter places a chaste hand on Stiles’ knee and shrugs. “You’re ambivalent.
You’re conflicted. And that’s okay.”
Stiles takes another shuddering breath, shaking his head. He feels utterly
broken.
“I just… I don’t want to make any decisions right now. I’m just… I’m sick of
keeping myself locked down so tight. I just want someone else to be in control
for a while.”
Peter unfolds himself until he’s standing over Stiles, and Stiles feels the
heat rushing back into his body as Peter crooks a finger under his chin,
tilting Stiles’ face up, brushing his thumb softly over Stiles’ lush lower lip.
He nods slowly, and when he speaks his voice is a startling purr.
“Whatever you need.”
When Peter extends his hand, Stiles takes it without question and allows
himself to be led up the stairs.
***
“Take your shirt off.” Stiles draws a sharp breath at the commanding tone, but
does as he’s told, stripping off his hoodie and with it the flannel shirt he
had underneath. Peter’s eyes are hard and unyielding, and in some ways that’s a
relief after all the gentle reassurances downstairs. Sympathy always leaves him
feeling vulnerable, splayed open. In some ways this heart-pounding anxiety is
easier to tolerate, even if Stiles can’t decide if its excitement or terror.
Stiles glances at Peter again, and pulls his t-shirt over his head, too. His
skin feels chilled in the cool air of Peter’s bedroom, but Peter nods his
approval, and something in Stiles warms a little.
“Now the rest. I want you naked.”
Stiles hesitates, breath catching in his throat, but Peter stalks over, face a
mask of aloof composure, and cups Stiles’ jaw in his hand. He leans in slowly,
pressing a gentle but firm kiss to Stiles’ mouth, drawing his lower lip between
his teeth and licking mildly along the length of it before drawing back,
breaking eye contact to gaze watchfully at Stiles’ hands, legs, hips. Stiles
hurriedly toes off his shoes and socks and bends to remove his pants and boxer-
briefs. Yes, it’s definitely cold in here, but Stiles is frankly grateful,
since it seems to be keeping his inevitable hard-on at bay.
“Lie on the bed. On your back.”
Stiles practically trips over himself in his rush to obey, throwing himself
onto the crisp crimson linens and rolling over.
“Arms crossed above your head, against the headboard,” Peter barks, and Stiles
hastens to comply.
He swallows hard as Peter draws what looks like a belt with extra buckles and a
chain section from a drawer in the nightstand. Restraints. He loops them around
Stiles’ wrists, buckles them, then looks into Stiles’ eyes.
“I’m not going to hurt you. You’re safe,” Peter says firmly.
Stiles nods seriously, biting his lip.
Peter nods back, then moves to stand at the end of the bed, coolly surveying.
“Bring your knees up to your chest and spread your legs.”
Stiles moans quietly and does so, cheeks flushed, and eyes wide and scared.
He’s never felt so exposed, so vulnerable. His cock is throbbing it’s so hard,
and a bead of sticky precome is dripping from the tip.
“Good. That’s a good boy,” Peter murmurs approvingly, and Stiles feels his
heartbeat quiet, “Now, don’t move unless I tell you to. I don’t want to have to
hurt you.”
Stiles squeezes his eyes shut. One two In… One two Hold… He hears a beep from
the corner of the room, and opens his eyes to see the flashing red light of a
camera on a tripod. His breath feels like it’s caught on a hook and won’t come
loose, and his legs drop, trying to cover his exposed genitals. Peter walks
towards him, his therapist face back on.
“This is just part of the work, Stiles. A little test. The tape isn’t going
anywhere. I have more to lose than you do, remember. Do you trust me?”
Stiles nods again, gaze nailed to Peter’s face, which promptly drops back to
what Stiles is already thinking of as his Master Mask.
“Good, then get your legs back in place.”
Peter twists a hard pinch into Stiles’ calf. Stiles gasps, and pulls his knees
back up and apart, as Peter crawls slowly, fully clothed and on his hands and
knees, onto the bed between Stiles’ legs. Stiles’ breathing is ragged, but his
eyes track Peter as he opens his mouth and dips his head to one of Stiles’
knees. Stiles puffs out a single hard breath as the warm, wetness of Peter’s
tongue drags excruciatingly slowly, descending, plastering leg hair down and
drying as it goes until the frictionless slide becomes a soft halting rasp as
it approaches the crease of Stiles’ thigh. Stiles whimpers and Peter responds
with a fast, hard bite to the tender flesh behind his balls, teeth digging in
until Stiles’ vision goes blurry and he feels silent sobs begin to wrack his
chest.
“Keep quiet,” Peter says with an incongruously kind smile, “I don’t want to
have to punish you.”
He reaches up, and strokes a hand gently across Stiles’ stomach, rubbing the
flat of his palm up his chest and around to his side until Peter is positioned
between Stiles’ legs and braced on his forearms over Stiles, chest to chest, a
strangely serene expression on his face. He moves his head down and begins to
mouth at Stiles’ neck, biting gently, sucking little bruises into the pale
flesh there, and planting delicate kisses along his collarbone before trailing
them down his chest. Stiles forces his eyes closed, focuses on keeping his
aching hips from twitching and from voicing the soft moan he feels building in
his throat. He can’t keep from releasing a sigh, but Peter seems to forgive him
that, only pausing to cluck his tongue disapprovingly before moving back to
lick his way down the stripe of hair under Stiles’ navel.
Stiles’ eyes fly open when he feels Peter’s hot, dry lips drag along the shaft
of his cock, but it only lasts a second before Peter withdraws, moving back to
kneel between Stiles’ legs again.
“Close your eyes.” Peter practically croons, and Stiles is fairly certain that
he’s right to be terrified. He hears a faint pop, and the next thing he knows
every muscle in his body is jerking at once as something smooth and cold and
slippery wet is pushed firmly against his asshole. He must have squealed or
squeaked or made some kind of noise because he receives a stinging slap across
his inner thigh before the pressure returns, harder than before.
“Relax.” Peter growls the command this time, and Stiles focuses on breathing
evenly and relaxing his muscles. He feels the narrow tip of whatever it is slip
inside and he shudders, breath heaving out in a long stuttering stream. The
pressure increases, and the thing is pushing him open wider as it probes
further, and Stiles feels something building to a frenzy behind his eyeballs,
until the thing reaches a point of resistance deep inside. Peter presses a soft
kiss to the soft skin of Stiles’ thigh and murmurs against the flesh.
“Relax. Just a bit more.”
Stiles blinks the tears from his eyes and returns his focus to his breath. It
presses in inch by painstaking inch, the overwhelming pressure of it building
with the feeling of fullness that rattles the breath in his chest. One two
In…and then his pattern is shot all to hell, as the last inch of whatever it is
suddenly slams into him, the flat flange of it (a buttplug, Stiles belatedly
deduces) slapping flat against the rise of his ass. He must have cried out
again, because…
“Quiet.” Peter barks, and savagely twists the base of the thing, tweaking its
position inside; a sudden intense sensation that has Stiles gasping for air as
his hips buck wildly.
Stiles stills himself, but apparently not fast enough, as Peter shakes his head
in disappointment and withdraws from the end of the bed. He moves up the
headboard and unclips the chain between Stiles’ wrists, sits down beside him on
the bed.
“Stiles,” He begins softly, stroking with the backs of his fingers along
Stiles’ jawline, “I’m sorry. I’m trying so hard to teach you, and it’s just not
working.”
Stiles chokes back a sob, not sure what he wants or what he’s scared of (scared
that this will end here and now, scared that it won’t). His throat is sore and
his cock is aching for release.
“I’m going to have to punish you,” Peter finishes sadly, “Get on your hands and
knees.”
Stiles bites his tongue, sniffles, and moves to do so, but every move he makes
reminds him of the unfamiliar object embedded in his ass. He rolls jerkily onto
his side, gasping and shaking and stalls there for a moment. Then he draws a
deep breath and continues the roll to his belly before freezing and panting
raggedly. The last step is the worst as he pushes back onto his knees,
spreading them apart slightly, suddenly feeling not only the deep thrust of the
thing, but also suddenly the rub of the cold protruding end of it stretching
the rim of his hole. Stiles feels his belly heaving up and down with the
aftershock as he steadies himself on his hands, his arms already feeling weak
and flimsy.
Peter reaches to the floor beside the bed, and frowns sympathetically at Stiles
as he produces a long, matte black rod with a short, flat loop on one end and a
longer strap on the other. It takes Stiles a second to place it as a riding
crop. Holy shit. Stiles swallows hard. Peter leans in close, holding it up to
Stiles’ face.
“Smell it.” He commands softly, and Stiles dutifully squeezes his eyes shut and
sniffs, the dark, rich scent of leather filling his nostrils.
“Taste it.” Stiles opens his mouth, extending his tongue and Peter gently
places the leather tip into his mouth, magnifying the scent with the bitter,
smoky flavor of the thing.
“Suck it.” Peter mutters roughly, and Stiles can hear something like need in
his voice as he closes his lips around the leather loop and feels it slide back
and forth in the wetness of his mouth, his tongue skimming across it, heat
building in his belly as the smooth tongue of leather rasps across the roof of
his mouth and glides across his moist lips. A tiny moan escapes him.
Peter exhales audibly, and Stiles feels a tiny pulse of pride bloom in his
chest.
“That’s enough.” The crop is jerked roughly out of Stiles’ mouth and he is
dizzy for a moment remembering where he is, and why, as Peter walks down the
bed, taking up a position behind and to the left of Stiles.
“Count.”
Stiles’ eyes fly open in anticipation, and then clamp shut again as the first
blow lands, a red-hot stinging pain that lingers with sharp edges along the
crease where his ass meets his thigh. He gasps. There’s a whistle as the crop
swings through the air and then another meaty slap, hard and agonizing, higher
this time. Stiles tastes the tears before he feels them.
“I said Count.” Peter mutters dangerously, and another searing stroke hits the
back of Stiles’ thigh.
“One.” He grinds out through gritted teeth, and a hand rubs gently over the
curve of his ass.
“Good boy.”
Another slap,lighter this time,and Stiles feels it first as heat smoldering on
the delicate skin on the inside of his thigh that transmutes slowly to a
persistent, itchy ache.
“Two.”
Peter pauses, and Stiles becomes intensely aware of the chill of the air on his
bare skin, feeling goosebumps rising up. His lips are trembling as he braces
himself for the next swing, and his ass muscles clench. Oh. Stiles is reminded
of the pull and the rigid feel of the toy buried to the hilt in his ass.
Thwack.
“Three,” Stiles sobs through wet lips, feeling the stripe of pain burning like
a brand across his smarting ass.
The next blow comes faster, before Stiles can prepare himself and his back
arches as he jolts away from the sting. A hand fists tightly in the slightly
longer fuzz at the nape of his neck.
“Keep still.”
Stiles tries to nod but it hurts too much, and his breath hisses out between
his gritted teeth in jagged little pants.
“And count,” Stiles hears the smirk in Peter’s voice, “You’re at four.”
“Four,” Stiles breathes, and Peter releases his grip, tracing his fingertips
down Stiles’ spine.        
“That’s better,” Peter whispers affectionately, “Just one more.”
Stiles hears the whoosh, sees brightness explode across his visual field, and
an explosion of agony as the tongue of the crop lashes unevenly across the soft
spot behind his balls, biting into the already throbbing flesh.
He rides out the incandescent wave of pain, a heady, hot pulse that sharpens
his awareness of his body and blurs out the edges of everything else until it
feels like he’s underwater. Peter is rubbing his hand gently over Stiles’
flank, humming wordless encouragements, and Stiles leans into the touch almost
drunkenly.
“Five,” Stiles grits out, teeth dug hard enough into his lower lip to cut it,
tears dripping from his cheeks.
“Good boy,” Peter murmurs, petting Stiles leisurely along his hipbone, “why
don’t you lie down for a minute?”
Stiles collapses to the bed, so exhausted that he barely shudders as the plug
in his ass is nudged by the impact. He rolls to his side and sniffles, wiping
tiredly at the tears staining his face. Peter climbs onto the bed behind
Stiles, begins stoking with his fingertips along the skin of Stiles’ ass and
thighs.
“I wish you could see this,” he whispers almost reverently, “you mark up so
beautifully. You’ve got the most exquisite bruises and welts on that flawless
skin. You did such a good job, and now everyone will know this ass is mine.”
Stiles is shivering, and he can’t tell if it’s from the chill air of the room
or from the surge of nervous energy that’s gushing through his belly, leaving
him trembling and shaken.
“You were so good that I want to give you a reward,” Peter croons, as he slots
himself, still fully clothed along Stiles’ back. His hand slides tickling and
feather-light over Stiles’ hip until it’s cupping his now soft cock. Stiles
sucks air through his teeth and feels his abs contract as Peter drags his
fingers teasingly over the velvety skin of his balls. Stiles hands clench,
twisting, around fistfuls of sheet.
Peter’s fingers loosely encircle Stiles’ cock and begin to move slowly, the
movements of Peter’s wrist becoming smoother, firmer, faster, as Stiles’ dick
hardens. His thumb slides up and over the head, smearing a bead of pre-come.
Peter reaches up to slick the sticky, sweet-saltiness across Stiles’ lips, and
his tongue darts out to taste it. He shudders as Peter’s hand returns to its
rhythm, then speeds up, touch becoming rougher.
Peter’s hand is fisting Stiles’ cock, pumping and tugging now, and Stiles gasps
as he feels Peter breathing heavily in his ear, feels the rub of Peter’s cock
as he begins to rut, hard inside his pants, against Stiles’ ass. Every dry
thrust nudges the butt of the toy in Stiles’ ass, and the rigid bulk of it is
chafing some point inside that makes his eyes water and his breath hitch in his
throat. Moans slither from his mouth, filthy and shameless, until Peter’s other
hand creeps under his neck, two fingers sliding smoothly into his mouth,
pressing down his tongue and fucking themselves between his lips as he sucks
wantonly, consumed by his need to be touched everywhere at once.
Peter’s hand jerks unevenly on Stiles’ cock, a growl resounding against his
ear. Stiles has only a second to feel the smugness spread warm through his
belly before Peter’s final savage thrust drives the tip of the toy against some
soft internal point, before his hand gives a last jagged squeeze-pull, and
Stiles is thrashing, wracked by a bright sweltering sensation that explodes
through him, arches his back, wrings a ragged, desperate whine from his throat,
convulses him, and leaves him lying in a debauched, muddled heap.
Peter withdraws his fingers slowly from between Stiles’ chapped red lips, spit-
slick and slackened, pulls back and away from Stiles’ shivering form. After a
moment, Stiles feels the coarse fabric of a warm, wet washcloth rubbing against
him, wiping long spatters of semen from his belly, gently but efficiently
cleaning sweat and sticky residue from his cock. He feels Peter spreading his
cheeks with his thumbs and then carefully pulling at the plug in his ass.
There’s a brief, hot, flicker of something like pain, and then the shocking
slide as the toy is extracted, pulled and emptied like a drained bathtub. Then
the washcloth is back and Stiles allows himself to be manhandled, folded like
some inert object. He feels hollow, barren. He looks at the unblinking red eye
of the camera on the dresser, and the room around him seems to float, shimmer,
like it’s being seen through a heat haze. The soreness and exhaustion that
anchors his body to the bed contrasts with the buzzing sense of unreality in
his head. There’s a heaviness in his gut, a feeling like loss. Something about
all of this feels familiar. Stiles blinks his eyes and is surprised to feel hot
tears sliding down his cheeks again, seemingly unendingly, spilling from
whatever inexhaustible reservoir he carries inside him.
***
It’s early and it’s already too hot for coffee, but Peter is drinking it
anyway. He’s been down all week. Stiles no-showed for his session on Monday,
and it’s not like him. After almost a year together, he always calls when he
can’t make it. But he’d been withdrawn for a couple of weeks, and now the kid
isn’t answering his phone calls, either. Peter sighs. That’s just something
else they’ll have to sort out next week. Peter isn’t sure if he wants to ask
Stiles why he’s putting distance between them or punish him for it. Probably
both, eventually.
He’s just looking around his kitchen trying to motivate himself to make actual
breakfast when there’s a sharp knock at his front door. Peter startles, and
slops coffee over the edge of his mug and onto the thin fabric of his pajama
pants, where it soaks through and scalds the skin of his upper thigh. His eyes
water in pain and he grabs a dish towel, runs it under the tap. The knock comes
again, and he swears. He’s scrubbing at his crotch with the cool towel, trying
to ease the pain of the burn, when he cracks open the door, cursing whoever’s
there.
Stiles grins at him impishly, staring at the growing wet spot that has Peter’s
pants clinging obviously to his skin.
“Started without me?”
Peter opens the door wider, confused, dropping the cloth.
“Stiles, come in… We didn’t have an appointment today, did we?”
Stiles kicks the door closed behind him, and pushes past Peter, further into
the house, tossing his jacket onto the couch in the living room. He seems
excited about something, smug almost, Peter thinks.
“No, but I was kind of hoping you could fit me in. Can we go upstairs?”
“A little demanding today, aren’t we?” Peter is already sliding into his Master
Mask, and something in Stiles’ belly tightens in anticipation. He waits until
Peter is within arm’s reach, before he teasingly runs his fingers over the
older man’s bare chest. Peter’s fingers close over Stiles’ hips, bruisingly
hard, and he nips at Stiles’ earlobe.
“I just… “ Stiles’ cheeks flush “I have some big news.”
Stiles’ fingertips dip under the waistband of Peter’s pants and he presses in
closer, mouth hanging open in breathy eagerness. “I was hoping you could help
me celebrate.”
Peter’s mouth is on Stiles’, hungry and hard, and his hands are already aching
at the thought of punishing Stiles’ presumption. Peter pulls back and grins
wolfishly, before his hands close tight and painful around Stiles’ biceps. He
slams Stiles back against the wall, eyes aloof.
“You missed your session this week, and now you show up unannounced expecting
me to see you? You’re going to have to make it up to me.”
Stiles licks his lips nervously, bobs his head in a diffident nod.
“Yes, sir,” he murmurs.
Stiles waits for the pressure on his arms to ease, then drops to his knees,
positioned between Peter’s feet. Peter crooks a finger under Stiles’ chin,
tilts the pale face up until those huge golden-brown eyes are staring
beseechingly into his own, and nods benevolently.
Stiles pulls Peter’s pants down his hips, easing the fabric over Peter’s cock.
Stiles licks primly, kittenish, at Peter’s balls, before taking Peter’s flaccid
cock into his mouth, swallowing around it as it hardens until eventually he
gags and has to draw back for air. Peter’s hand on the back of his neck gives
him only a second’s reprieve before it plunges him back down, plush pink lips
twitching as Stiles chokes on the thick cock, tears rushing to his eyes. Peter
is brushing the tears away with his thumb, admiring how appealing Stiles’ mouth
looks when it’s crammed full, how beautiful he looks when he cries, when he
hears the door open.
“Fuck!” Peter tries to withdraw, but Stiles’ hands on his hips are like iron
and he’s sucking away as though there’s nothing else in the world. Peter’s
voice is panicked, “Stiles!”
Stiles pulls his mouth away with a sloppy pop, letting Peter’s pants snap back
up to cover his cock. Drool is snaking down Stiles’ chin as he looks up, a
smile quirking his lush pink lips.
“Peter, this is my news!” Stiles’ smile goes from chipper to mocking in an
eyeblink. “This is my boyfriend.”
Peter turns to see a tall, well-muscled shape, artfully spiked hair and leather
jacket sickeningly familiar. The man is locking the door behind him, and Peter
feels his heart pounding. The icy green eyes meet his in challenge. Peter turns
back to look at Stiles, leaning casually against the wall, wiping at his chin
with the back of his hand.
 “I thought you two should meet, but then, I guess you two are already pretty
well acquainted. Actually, you have a lot in common. There’s a bit of a family
resemblance.”
“Stiles,” Peter’s voice is low and serious, “what is going on?”
“I'm ready to be in charge again,” Stiles says simply.
Peter hears a sharp beep behind him, and turns to find a camera trained on him.
A rapacious smirk is creeping across the face of the man holding the camera,
and two strong, slender hands close suddenly around Peter’s wrists, tugging
them behind his back. He feels a spike of fear pulse through him, crotch to
sternum.
Stiles speaks from his position at Peter’s back, voice raspy and eager, “What
next?”
Derek steps forward, eyes flicking from the camera to the point behind Peter
where Stiles is standing. He raises an eyebrow with a predatory smirk.
“Let’s make him cry.”
End Notes
     Betaed by Veelez, but all errors, omissions, and shitty decisions
     belong to me. Veelez deserves only snuggles. As always, concrit and
     comments are love.
     Caveat: THIS IS ALL BAD STUFF. Sex with your therapist represents a
     gross abuse of power and can have major emotional and psychological
     repercussions, and if you therapist suggests sex or romantic contact
     to you, you should immediately report them to their licensing body
     and professional organizations. Seriously. It is BAD.
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