Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/5888434.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Peter_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Peter_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      Explicit_Sexual_Content, Post-Nogitsune, Light_Bondage, Light_Dom/sub,
      Emotional_Hurt/Comfort, Praise_Kink, Orgasm_Delay/Denial
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-02-03 Words: 1900
****** dorsum nudum fero tui sceleris ******
by ToAStranger
Summary
     Stiles is struggling; he goes to Peter for help.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
 
O Fortuna 
velut luna 
statu variabilis 
semper crescis 
aut decrescis; 
vita detestabilis 
nunc obdurat 
et tunc curat
--           O Fortuna | Carl Orff
===============================================================================
“You want me to hurt you.”
His tone is one of disbelief.  He stares at Stiles where the boy is standing in
his doorway, head tilted, but does not step aside.  The boy’s cheeks are pink;
the tips of his ears are too.  He’s trembling, Peter realizes, but there is no
fear.
Peter breathes in long and slow.  The scent of shame clings to Stiles’ skin,
sour to Peter’s nose, and clouds the usually sharp citrus smell that he
generally associates with Stiles.  There is something else there, though. 
Something that Peter cannot put a name to.
“Yes,” Stiles says.
His voice is rough.  He’s dripping wet, clothes clinging in a way that can only
be described as obscene.  His eyes are wild and listless.  He won’t meet
Peter’s gaze.  Peter wonders if Stiles ran all the way here.
Stepping aside, Peter gestures to his sitting room.  “Come in.”
Stiles moves forward, stilted and unsure.  “Thank you.”
“Why do you want me to hurt you, Stiles?” Peter asks, shutting and locking the
door.
He hears the boy’s breath catch.  “I—because I can’t—I just need—“
Desperation. Peter lets out a soft sound at the back of his throat when he
finally recognizes the saccharine scent.  At the center of his living room,
Stiles turns to face him, expression pinched, and Peter can see the need
echoing in the boy’s eyes.  The helplessness.
It sends a shock of heat through him.  Peter recognizes his own desire.  He
tracks forward, gaze never leaving Stiles as he circles him once.  Twice. 
Stiles swallows thick, and Peter watches his throat work.
“What can’t you do, Stiles?” he asks, voice low.  “What do you need?”
“To feel,” the boy croaks, hands shaking at his sides, and Peter thinks he
looks lovely.  “I can’t—I don’t know how—“
“How long has this been going on?” Peter asks, but he knows.
There’s a defiant heat in Stiles’ eyes when Peter stops in front of him.  It’s
a step in the right direction.
“Since we got rid of the Nogitsune,” Stiles confesses.
“Who else have you asked?”
“Only you.”
Peter very nearly purrs.
Instead, his lip curls up into a snarl.  He moves before Stiles can react,
catching him under the jaw with a clawed hand, squeezing and lifting just
enough.  Stiles rolls up onto his toes, hands flying to Peter’s wrist.  He does
not try to free himself the way Peter expects.
He swallows again.  Peter feels the motion against his palm.  It would be so
easy.  Stiles’ eyes are locked with his, his jaw tight.  Peter decides he wants
to watch this proud boy shatter.
“You will do what I say.”
It isn’t a question.
“Yes.”
Stiles answers it anyways.
“Anything.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll help you feel again, Stiles.” There’s gratitude in Stiles’ eyes.  “But I
won’t hurt you.”
Stiles frowns.
“You want punishment,” Peter mutters and watches Stiles’ pale face grow flush
again with a keen fascination.  "I'll provide that for you.  But on my terms. 
Do you understand?”
Stiles licks his lips.  “Yes.”
Peter kisses him.
===============================================================================
 
Stiles stares up blearily at the vaulted ceiling.  He twitches, mouth open, and
moans long and low as Peter touches him.  He’s oversensitive.  Overwhelmed.
It has been hours.  Hours, he thinks, at the mercy of Peter’s hands.  But the
heat Peter has built in him—the fire—burns bright and long, melting away the
perpetual cold Stiles carries in his chest these days.  His muscles strain as
Peter buries three fingers into the twitching heat of his entrance, fucked out
and spasming, and something white hot coils low in his belly as Peter strokes
over that bundle of nerves.
He hadn’t expected this when he found himself on Peter’s doorstep.  He’d wanted
to hurt, to feel pain for all that he did, but Peter wouldn’t let him hurt. 
Not really.  Though, laying there covered in sweat and Peter’s come, gagging on
his own desperation, he wonder if this isn’t worse.  To feel completely blind
with need.
Above his head, Stiles pulls helplessly at the belt tying his wrists to the
headboard.  He arches, straining with a sob as Peter’s fingers press deeper
into his wet, used channel.  He’s using his own release to slick the way,
having fucked Stiles until he saw stars, before coming deep indie of Stiles’
body.  Stiles can’t bring himself to care what Peter is using as slick when all
he can think about is his own aching cock.
Peter hasn’t let him come once.  He’s fucked Stiles’ mouth, come over Stiles’
skin, used his body completely and not once has he allowed Stiles to find
relief.  There is a ring around the base of him, keeping him perpetually on the
edge, driving his mind to the brink of sanity as Peter finds his pleasure
repeatedly in Stiles’ body.
Words failed him a while back.  So when Peter pulls his fingers free only to
sheath himself in Stiles with one easy thrust, all Stiles can do is keen and
arch for him, cock twitching against his belly.  He could come, right now, with
nothing but the sensation of being full, if only Peter would let him.  He
twists, writhing, but Peter catches his hips and holds him steady, just sitting
between Stiles’ spread legs with his length buried to the hilt.
Stiles whines, eyes squeezing shut, but Peter won’t have any of that either. 
He withdraws and then snaps back in, coaxing a lewd sob from Stiles, teeth
baring as he grips Stiles’ hips.
“Don’t look away,” he orders, thrusting in again, knocking the breath from
Stiles’ lungs.  “Look at me, Stiles.  Eyes on me.”
His lashes flutter, eyes wet and dazed.  Chest rising and falling with each
ragged breath, he stares up at Peter, mouth open and lips swollen.
Peter curses softly, one hand ghosting up Stiles’ side as he leans over him. 
It bends Stiles’ legs up almost to his chest, letting Peter nestle deeper into
him.  Peter curves a hand over Stiles’ jaw, thumb dragging over his full lower
lip.  Trembling, Stiles whimpers, and opens his mouth wider.  Peter’s thumb
dips into the wet heat of Stiles’ mouth, and Stiles mewls, wrapping his lips
around it and sucking.
“Bet you can still taste me,” Peter mutters, eyes glowing in the dim light of
the room.  “Want me to fuck that pretty mouth of yours again?”
Stiles whines.  He does want it.  Wants the weight of Peter in his mouth. 
Wants to fight for breath as Peter presses deep.
Clucking his tongue, Peter rocks into Stiles, buried so deep that the motion
feels so good it hurts.  “Only good boys get what they want, Stiles.  Are you a
good boy?”
Tears flood Stiles’ eyes.  They slip down the sides of his face, and Peter
hushes him with a sweet kiss to the corner of his mouth, thumb still pressing
to Stiles’ tongue.
He rocks deeper steadily.  Watches Stiles’ face as he moves so slow it’s like
agony.  Stiles strains again, whining, a hushed please escaping from around
Peter’s finger.  Peter’s chest rumbles with a pleased sound, and his hips snap
forward with a little more fervor.
“You want to be good for me, don’t you?” Peter asks, voice rough.  “You want to
be good, don’t you?”
Stiles’ breath catches.  He’s shuddering, quivering violently, toes curling.
“Answer me, Stiles.”
“Yes,” he gasps as Peter’s finger slides free of his mouth, crying out when
Peter uses it to thumb at Stiles’ left nipple, until it’s sensitive and pert. 
“I want to be good.  I want to be good.”
“Then come for me,” Peter orders, pace finally picking up, brutal and
unforgiving.
He drives in again and again and again.  The I can’t dies in Stiles’ mouth. 
Stiles is shaking, shaking his head, orgasm just out of reach.  He’s crying as
Peter fucks him, straining up beautifully.  The muscles in his stomach
contract, his body seizing, as Peter strikes his prostate with each move. 
He wants to come.  He wants to be good.  He wants to come and he can’t and it
hurts.  Babbling, he begs, and Peter thrust in harder, rougher, jarring Stiles’
bones until something in him completely snaps.
He screams—shouts, really—when he comes, cock red and twitching, nothing
spilling from him even as his orgasm rips through him.  It steals his breath,
his pulse pounding in his ears.  His body jerks, coiling tight, pain and
pleasure twisting him up inside until there is nothing but sensation, nothing
but Peter.
Above him, Peter groans, managing another few pointed thrusts before he spills
out into Stiles’ body again with a grunt.  Stiles is still pleading when he
finally pulls out, eyes still wet.  Kissing him, Peter quiets Stiles with
gentle touches of their mouths.  It does nothing to calm Stiles’ shaking, his
prick still hard.
“Easy,” Peter reaches up, unfastening the buckle at Stiles’ wrists, and easing
the belt from around them to pull Stiles carefully into his arms.  “I’ve got
you, Stiles.  Just breathe.”
Stiles nods haplessly, clutching at Peter’s shoulders.
“This might hurt,” Peter warns and then slips the ring off of Stiles’ lube
slick length.
Sobbing, crying out with a breathy sound, Stiles’ nails bite into Peter’s
shoulders.  His cock twitches again, and he weeps as he spills out messily into
Peter’s fingers, the pressure in his abdomen finally ebbing.
Peter holds him through it.  Pets over his hot skin and kisses his lips, his
cheeks, his forehead.  When Stiles finally goes lax, finally goes easy, Peter
pulls him into his lap and pushes Stiles’ hair away from his face.  His touch
is suddenly so soft.
“You were so good, Stiles.” Peter tells him, and Stiles nods, tears falling,
burying his face against Peter’s neck.  “Such a good boy.”
Peter holds him until sleep comes.
===============================================================================
 
When Stiles rouses in the morning, he’s clean and sore.  There are bruises at
his hips and round his wrists.  On the bedside table, there’s a glass of water
and a bottle of pain killer.  Stiles takes both.
He doesn’t bother to put anything more than his boxers on.  Padding out to the
living room, he finds Peter lounging in a large chair reading.  Hesitating,
Stiles watches him a moment, only moving closer when Peter finally glances up
at him.  Stiles sits on the couch, and Peter sets his book aside.
“Feeling better?” he asks.
Stiles nods tentatively.  “Feeling, certainly.”
Peter hums.  “Do you still want me to hurt you?”
Face warming, Stiles glances away, laughing as he palms the back of his head. 
“No.”
“But?”
“I wouldn’t… be against doing something like this again.” Stiles admits.  “If
you’re willing.”
Peter regards him for a quiet moment.  “More than willing, Stiles.  But you
come only to me for this.”
Stiles’ gaze flits up, meeting Peter’s serious expression with one of
curiosity.
“Only me,” Peter repeats.
Mouth dry, Stiles nods.  “Only you.”
Peter’s eyes flare, electric and blue, pleased as he pushes from his seat. 
“Good. Breakfast?”
Stiles smiles, standing and letting Peter press into his space.  The older man
scents him briefly; flush, Stiles lets him.  Peter finds none of the
desperation or shame from the night before.  Satisfied, he offers Stiles a grin
and a hand. 
Stiles doesn’t hesitate to take it.
End Notes
     O Fortuna (O Fortune)
     velut luna (like the moon)
     statu variabilis (you are changeable)
     semper crescis (always waxing)
     aut decrescis; (and waning;)
     vita detestabilis (hateful life)
     nunc obdurat (first oppresses)
     et tunc curat (and then soothes)
     Title: dorsum nudum (I bring my bare back)
     fero tui sceleris. (to your villainy.)
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