Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/626672.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Chris_Argent/Scott_McCall
  Character:
      Chris_Argent, Scott_McCall
  Additional Tags:
      Consensual_Kink, Crossdressing, Spanking, Obedience, D/s, Age_Difference
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-01-05 Words: 657
****** Soft Breath, Beating Heart ******
by clavicular
Summary
     "Hold still," Chris orders.
      
     Scott does. He always surrenders so easily, giving Chris whatever he
     wants, letting him take and take and take. It's such a rush, and far
     too addictive.
Notes
     Vociferocity is a terrible person who encourages me to write terrible
     things. So this one's for her.
Chris has Scott pinned face down on his bedroom dresser. Scott's hands are
trapped above his head, held in place by just one of Chris', and an ill-fitting
schoolgirl dress is bunched around his hips. Scott's cheeks are flushed and
he's already breathing heavily; the sight of it goes right through Chris. Scott
squirms against him and god, it's almost too much.
"Hold still," Chris orders.
Scott does. He always surrenders so easily, giving Chris whatever he wants,
letting him take and take and take. It's such a rush, and far too addictive.
He runs a hand up Scott's spine, enjoying the way Scott trembles at the touch.
It's obvious he's trying to obey Chris, trying to keep from moving as much as
he can, but his hips still buck when Chris slides his hand under the skirt and
across his bare ass. Chris pushes the skirt up and out of the way, then leans
forward, flattening himself against Scott's back. Scott's breath hitches, and
Chris hopes he's thinking about his mistake, about what it means for him. He
twines his fingers through Scott's hair, gentle at first, coaxing him to relax.
Then he tightens his grip and tugs sharply, forcing Scott's head back. His
jeans rub against Scott's ass, and Scott moans, shifting against the dresser
like he's seeking any kind of friction he can get. Chris' lips hover just
beside Scott's ear.
"I said hold still," he hisses.
The first slap lands somewhere between Scott's hips and his thighs, and Chris
pulls back to allow himself better access. He leaves a hand resting between
Scott's shoulder blades, but it's mostly for show; Scott knows better than to
try to straighten up. The next blow is more successful. It leaves the skin
faintly flushed, though it fades quickly. Chris promises himself that won't be
a problem by the time he's done. Scott won't let himself heal without
permission, and Chris isn't likely to give it. He wants to see Scott's ass
painfully red. He wants more than that too, though Scott can't keep himself
from healing when he's asleep. Chris wants the marks to blossom into bruises,
and he wants them to linger for weeks. Scott should be unable to sit down
without thinking about him. He wants to know Scott won't forget. The truth is,
Chris wants a lot of impossible things.
Scott moans desperately every time Chris' hand connects, and there's something
in his voice that brings Chris back to himself. Scott's grip on the edge of the
dresser is turning his knuckles white, but he hasn't asked Chris to stop. He
doesn't sound like he wants to. It's that more than anything that gets to Chris
- how open Scott is about how much he wants this. Scott could tear him apart in
seconds, but he gives in to Chris like he's never wanted anything more. It's
the hottest thing Chris has ever seen. Maybe later, Chris will fuck him. Kick
his legs apart, hold him down by the seams of the dress, push into him without
bothering with lube. Make it fast and rough and vicious, just one more thing
that will fade away too soon - but not before Scott is screaming his name. Not
before Scott begs him for more.
Chris is going to hate himself, afterwards. He always does. There are a hundred
reasons he shouldn't be doing this, no matter how much Scott wants it. How much
Chris wants it. Nothing could make this okay, he knows that. Sometimes he even
promises himself he's going to stop. But right now Scott is here in front of
him, strung out and needy, biting his lip so hard it bleeds, and Chris can't
let this go. If this is what it takes to leave his mark, he'll do it until
Scott can't breathe for wanting him. It's not okay, and he hates himself every
time. He knows he's not going to stop.
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for himself when he’s brutally murdered in a parking lot. The whole
garage is full, from family vans to pretentious convertibles, but not a single
driver is coming out to claim his vehicle and drive home. Stiles doesn’t know
if it’s a good thing that he won’t be witnessing Peter tear apart the neck of a
random stranger because they were in the wrong place in the wrong time or if
it’s seriously unfortunate luck on his end that there’s nobody out here to beg
for help to.
“And you’re a Mac guy. Does that go for all werewolves or is that just a
personal preference?” Stiles asks dryly while he stares at the computer. It’s a
stupid question, a filler that keeps his mouth moving and his hands from
shaking, and Peter seems to get that because he doesn’t even attempt to
respond.
“Turn it on. Get connected.”
“You know, you’re really killing the whole werewolf mystique thing here,”
Stiles says. Peter’s standing right next to him, still eerily calm, so of
course that’s when everything goes to hell. “Look, you still need Scott’s
username and password and I’m sorry, but I don’t know them.”
“You know both of them,” Peter says without a beat.
“No, I don’t,” Stiles’ mouth says without permission. His gut instinct is so
disgustingly loyal that it keeps accidentally forgetting that the majority of
the time he’s talking to supernatural lie detectors, except this time it’s a
werewolf much more inclined to rip out his throat than Scott is or even Derek,
and that’s saying something considering that Derek pushes him against hard
surfaces nearly every time they see each other.
“Even if I couldn’t hear your heartbeat, I would still be able to tell that
you’re lying,” Stiles feels a pit of consternation drop in his stomach, but
once again, his lies barrel on. Just believe in the lie, Stiles, he tells
himself, memory flitting back to when he was a child sitting at the breakfast
table with his dad, mouth full of cereal while his dad told him how polygraphs
work and how Stiles could beat them. Believe in what you’re saying. Stiles
believes harder than he wants to believe in unicorns that he has no idea what
Scott’s password is. He could’ve changed it, he could’ve added lots of numbers
to it, he could’ve finally realized how ridiculous it was. God, he hopes Scott
is at the hospital right now so he can keep an eye on Lydia’s situation while
Stiles lies his ass off for him.
“I swear to God—”
It does it. He knows his heartbeat is going too fast, so hard he can feel it
press into his ribs like a rabid drumbeat, and that he’s not in the state of
mind to lie properly like when he stares right into Finstock’s eyes and tell
him that yes, he wrote the essay, he just left it in his printer. Peter’s hand
fastens over his neck and slams into the car with a superhuman strength that
makes Stiles feel like his jaw is broken as he gasps against the slick trunk of
the car, silver and cool under his face. Peter’s thumb rubs over his earlobe,
just a soft, teasing touch that makes Stiles wonder if his claws are out right
now.
“I can be very persuasive Stiles,” Peter says airily into the other direction.
It’s so casual and nonchalantly threatening Stiles gets legitimately petrified,
more so than if it was roared into his ear. Peter leans closer and his warm
breath prickles over the back of Stiles’ neck while he struggles against the
car. Peter’s grip, effortless on his neck, doesn’t let up. “Don’t make me
persuade you.”
“What are you gonna do when you find him?” Stiles mutters onto the car, the
metallic taste of paint and dirt hitting his tongue, and he knows that by this
point even if Peter reassured him that he wasn’t going to lay a finger on
Scott—or anybody else for that matter—Stiles wouldn’t have it in him to believe
him. As hard as it is to imagine that the human man looming over him is the
same creature with a hairy snout and fangs who prowls around on all fours and
whose growls rumble through the ground like earthquakes, he doesn’t want it
proven in front of him. He knows what Peter’s capable of. The evidence pictures
from his father’s desk flit through his mind again. Lots of blood.
“I’m not doing anything people don’t deserve,” Peter says, and he sounds a
little frustrated now, like Stiles shouldn’t be struggling so much with the
concept. Stiles knows his story—broken and burnt and nothing but a shell of a
man without a home or a family or a life, and yes, it’s terrible, but so are
the murders. He squirms against the car and Peter’s thumb brushes over his ear
again. “Now, let’s try this again. Do you know Scott’s username and password?”
“If I did, I wouldn’t tell you,” Stiles spits out, and there goes his stupid
trustworthiness again, getting him into trouble. Scott’s never been that great
of a friend. He gets protective of his snacks and uses Stiles as a complaint
center and even made out with Lydia during lacrosse practice, and here Stiles
is sticking his neck out so far for him he’s about to fall into a pit of
thorns. Thorns, in this case, being Peter’s sharpened claws. Stiles isn’t a
werewolf who can heal after each agonizing punch or kick, but here he is,
risking his own life for his best friend.
Peter sighs, shifting behind him. His legs brush the back of Stiles’ thighs as
he moves, and he sounds so theatrically and genuinely disappointed in Stiles
that he knows what’s coming is going to be a punishment. He squirms against the
car again, wishing that there was something he could do that would inflict more
than just temporary harm on the freaking Alpha werewolf holding him captive.
“That’s a shame,” Peter says, tapping his thumb against the sensitive spot
under Stiles’ ear. He’s barely whispering, a spine-chilling murmur into the
echoes of the garage. “I was hoping we could do this pleasantly, Stiles.”
“Did you think I would just give up my best friend?” Stiles demands against the
car. It’s starting to be uncomfortable alongside the dull throb where his cheek
smacked into the car, and he wriggles against the trunk to try to readjust, but
Peter’s grip is like a robot’s, strong and unmoving on his neck.
“Hmm,” Peter says softly, “Admirable. Stupid, but admirable,” he pauses, his
free hand finding the small of Stiles’ back where he fists a handful of Stiles’
shirt before smoothing it out again. His touch is almost fatherly, a paternally
soothing caress of the hands, but it does nothing to ease Stiles’ pulse,
beating loudly against the hood of the car. “Maybe you want to be persuaded.”
No, no, not really, Stiles thinks fervently, and struggles harder against the
car. Peter doesn’t seem even slightly unnerved by Stiles’ discomfort, but
rather enticed by his futile attempts to wriggle away from the pain. Stiles
wonders if he can smell the fear off of him and if it’s nothing but a heady,
dizzying scent to him. He tries to calm down to little result.
Stiles waits for the claws in his neck or the scratches down his back or even
for his body to be hurled down the parking lot, but it never comes. The hand on
the small of his back starts wandering instead, gently upwards, hitching up the
fabric of Stiles’ shirt to reveal a sliver of pale skin on his back. Peter
hums, a soft mmm like he’s examining a small piece of art up for critique, and
then two fingers splay out over Stiles’ skin, right where his hipbone curves
into his backside and dips into the waistband of his boxers. Stiles swallows
the gasp that’s threatening to tumble from his mouth when Peter’s fingertips
and blunt fingernails run over his lower back and turn into Bad Touch
territory.
“What—what are you doing?” Stiles demands. He’s still waiting for the pain, the
punch to the gut or the unexpected kick to the shin. He thinks his brain is
blocking out the idea of other options.
“Persuading you,” Peter murmurs, and Stiles can feel his breath on his neck,
abruptly aware of how close he is. His chest is suddenly blanketing Stiles’
backside, a warm, nearly electrifying contact of Peter’s soft shirt catching
the wrinkles of Stiles’. His chin settles into Stiles shoulder blade, and he’s
just barely grazing his teeth over the nape of his neck and letting his nose
drag along where his hair gets bristly when he stands upright and circles his
hand around Stiles’ hips.
He knows what’s coming then, not a bite or a scratch or any other type of
painful agony, but rather something that feels good. Something that’s going to
make Stiles vulnerable and sobbing and begging onto the trunk of this shiny
car, a humiliation far worse than any kind of stuck-in-a-locker pranks he
could’ve been subjected to in freshmen gym class because he’s never been
touched like this before. Stiles goes rigid when the hand on his neck gently
drags elongated claws through his hair and down his scalp and around to his
collarbone, a silent warning for Stiles’ body to heed for him to give up on
fighting back now for everybody’s sake, and his body listens even if his mind
is screaming. A hand, a frustratingly warm and broad hand slides up the front
of his shirt and delicately traces the skin of his stomach that isn’t pressed
onto the car, and Stiles wishes it would be icy if only to reflect his opinion
of Peter. The guy’s a murderer, a label Stiles grew up to mean psychotic and
heartless and completely devoid of any rational emotion, and the Alpha
fulfilled that definition when he nothing but a faceless animal hunting him and
Scott, but Peter, with his hand’s ministrations and his warm breath on his
neck, is completely demolishing that definition because here he is, slowly
feeling his heartbeat rise above a healthy rate because Peter’s hands are
tracing the waistband line of his boxers.
“Your heart is beating like crazy,” Peter murmurs, and he sounds amused and
maybe even a little entranced with how Stiles’ body is reacting to him. His
hand lays flat on Stiles’ stomach, which instinctively ripples under the warm
touch. “Am I making you nervous, Stiles?”
Stiles bites on his own tongue to keep from spitting out something that’s going
to end up in his throat being split open right here on this expensive, shiny
paintjob. Peter’s breath, warm and even, goes from his neck to his ear. A set
of teeth settle over his earlobe, none of them fangs but all of them
threatening nonetheless. His body is going at two hundred miles an hour right
now, from his brain to his blood to his intuition, the last one practically
shrieking at him to move away from Peter’s hands. His body betrays his better
judgment and stays still and unbending.
“You’re awfully rigid, too,” Peter comments, running his clawed hand down
Stiles’ clothed back as if feeling the tightly coiled stiffness of his spine.
“Let’s fix that.”
It happens all too fast; suddenly Peter’s hand is groping Stiles through his
pants, a firm and demanding touch that takes all of Stiles’ brain cells as its
prisoners. It’s so incredibly humiliating, because here he is, manhandled over
a car by a monster and he’s getting hard under his hand, his teenage hormones
offering him the ultimate betrayal. Peter’s hand, rough on where he’s palming
Stiles’ dick through his clothes, traces a seam on his pants that lines up with
Stiles’ awakening cock. His eyes water and he squeezes them shut to keep out
the signs of his vulnerability, determined not to share that he’s responding to
any of this, whether it be badly or not. He bites his lip hard enough to break
the skin when Peter squeezes him through his pants to hold back a whimper.
“Stop that,” Peter growls promptly, his voice a dangerous warning that Stiles
doesn’t want to submit to but still feels himself shudder at. “Stop restraining
yourself. Let me hear you.”
Stiles says nothing, eyes tightly shut as if to block out the reality around
him, determined not to obey, and Peter stops playing around. If he was ginger
before, any remaining shreds of tenderness melt away to give way for rougher
touches, and he gives Stiles no warnings before he unzips Stiles’ pants and
slips his hand into his boxers to grab his half-hard dick in his hands. Stiles
submits despite himself and whimpers at the touch, warm and pleasing and so
much more invigorating than the familiar touches of his own hand jerking
himself off. He tries to pretend it isn’t Peter, anybody but the town’s crazy
sociopath, but Peter doesn’t let him forget his identity for a moment when he
lets loose a low chuckle of satisfaction at Stiles’ noise.
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Peter says, forefinger brushing over the slit of
Stiles’ dick, and Stiles involuntarily jerks into it when suddenly, Peter’s
grip on his cock lessens into a loose hold, nothing but a few brushes of the
hand. It’s maddening, completely infuriating, and the worst part is that
Stiles’ dick grows harder and practically demands a firmer touch. He whines
desperately into the car, wishing his cock was flaccid and his body was
unresponsive to Peter’s touches, but it’s a losing battle. He digs his teeth
into the soft flesh of his lip in frustration when Peter fails to properly grab
his length.
“Fuck,” Stiles murmurs into the abused skin of his lip, and of course Peter
hears it, smug as ever. Stiles can imagine his face, haughty and smug as he
watches Stiles struggle with his own moral compass over the demands of his
hormones, and tries to buck desperately into his hand. Peter tsks and all but
slams Stiles’ head into the car again.
“It seems as if you want something,” Peter mumbles, and he sounds so collected
Stiles wants nothing more than to see their positions reversed while Peter begs
for mercy from Stiles’ ministrations. It’s a twisted thought, one of the
dirtiest things he’s ever imagined, but Stiles knows that he can’t account for
his thoughts when they’re overwhelmed by lust and arousal. “But surely you were
taught that the right thing to do is to ask nicely,” Stiles snarls onto the car
and bucks his hips again. Peter’s hold on his skull tightens. “Ask nicely.”
“No,” Stiles grits out, and Peter’s hand vanishes from his cock. He can’t hold
back his instantaneous whimper of need when the warmth slips out of his pants.
“I’m giving you one more chance, Stiles,” Peter growls, “I already know you
want it. I can smell it on you.”
Fuck, Stiles keeps forgetting about that. Stupid werewolves and their
heightened senses, and here’s Stiles, the only thing intensified for him being
his hormones. He’s just an average teenage boy wrapped up in something he isn’t
equipped to handle, from Alpha werewolves to keeping himself alive to not
coming in his pants when Peter Hale is mouthing at the back of his neck with a
hot tongue. Even if he does get out alive tonight, he’s almost positive the
shame will put him in an early grave. A blush creeps up his cheeks, hot and
tingling, but he can’t resist any longer when his cock throbs in his boxers.
“Fine,” he spits, “Touch me.”
“Good boy,” Peter says into his ear, and it earns him both a knot of shame in
his stomach and a shot of pleasure when Peter wraps his hand around his
erection and strokes him so roughly it’s nearly savage. Stiles clings onto the
car, desperately trying to find purchase for his fingers, nearly weeping when
Peter works him in his hand and digs his fingernail into the slit and uses
tricks on him Stiles didn’t even know of. The humiliation is gone, replaced
with a primal want to come, and that’s when Peter removes his hand and yanks
Stiles’ head up by the hair, sticking the same fingers roughly into his mouth
without asking. Stiles nearly gags on them when they slide onto his tongue,
sticky with his own precome, but he knows to bite them is to seal his own
bloody fate. He lets Peter work two fingers over his tongue, listening to the
man’s ragged breath at the sensations behind him as he does so, and only when
he’s satisfied does he pull them out and press Stiles back into the car, less
aggressively than before.
His cock is throbbing again with the ache of being touched, something that
Stiles knows is going to become an addiction now that he knows what it feels
like to have somebody other than himself touch him, but somehow he knows the
last thing Peter wants is to let go of his upper hand too early by letting
Stiles come already. He nearly weeps at the thought of being teased and
tortured even longer but holds back, still determined not to let Peter prey on
his weakness when he’s already pushed into a freakishly vulnerable position.
He nearly yelps out loud when Peter’s fingers, slick with his own saliva, press
against his puckered entrance. He’s never fingered himself before, only brushed
over the area in passing, because despite his own insatiable curiosity there’s
still some lines he’s scared to cross when he’s in the shower jerking himself
off to the steady sound of the water streaming from the shower head, and here’s
Peter breaching that line without permission. Part of Stiles wants to rear back
and twist away and another part eggs him on and tells him to push into it, let
the curiosity overtake his fear of the bloodthirsty killer and let his talented
hands do what they want when they’ve already proven themselves to be skilled in
providing pleasure entirely opposite from the blood they’ve brutally drawn.
It’s not his decision in the end anyway, because Peter barrels on forward
without a second to consider that he’s pushing a virgin to his limits, slick
fingers probing and rubbing into his entrance and relaxing its taut muscles
into submission. Stiles thinks about easing free one arm and pumping himself if
he didn’t already know that he’d be slapped away almost instantaneously, nearly
sobbing in unadulterated desire. Peter snickers quietly at the sight Stiles
makes, a writhing mess of a boy who was embarrassingly put together a mere
three hours ago.
He pushes in two fingers at the same time when he finally breaches the ring of
muscle of Stiles’ hole, still coated with a heavy layer of spit but still not
as smooth as Stiles would have desired, and Stiles cries out right away. His
fingers press in jerkily and waste no time crooking into his walls, completely
oblivious to the way Stiles’ ass is practically clenching in protest in the
little time it has to adjust to the intrusion.
“Relax,” Peter demands, thumb rubbing circles around where his fingers are
pushed into Stiles’ entrance and mouth open on Stiles’ upper back. He’s
mouthing through the fabric, damp with sweat, and scraping teeth that Stiles
can’t even tell if they’re fangs or not against the muscles of his back like
he’s breathing in his scent. It’s ridiculously hot, filthier than Stiles ever
imagined his first fumbling sexual encounter would be, and Stiles is busy both
succumbing to the pleasure and mentally punishing himself for doing so. He
always thought it’d be Lydia, a silly youthful wish that he’d be kissing softly
glossed lips and sliding his hands over a soft, petite stomach, but instead
he’s rutting against a car with Peter Hale’s fingers pressed into his ass. The
worst part is probably that it feels so good, a blend of pain and pleasure that
makes Stiles see double, the kind of good that means he’s going to replay it
for months in the shower.
“Trying,” Stiles grits out, and if he’s going to admit that he’s enjoying this
he’s still not going to take Peter’s easier-said-than-done demands in silence.
He takes a breath, relaxes, and unclenches. Peter’s fingers slip in further,
nudging his prostate. Stiles nearly sobs, hips jerking. “T-touch me.”
Peter doesn’t deny him, his power game dwindling to his own arousal as he leans
forward and Stiles feels Peter’s erection bump into his thigh as he reaches
around to take Stiles’ dick in his hand once more. Nothing about his grip is
soft, fingers aggressive and unyielding. The pain and pleasure and the rough
slide of his fingers in his ass as Peter pulls them out, teases his hole and
pushes back in mingle into a heady mixture that leaves Stiles dazed and broken
and limbless against the car. He tries not to think too hard about the fact
that there’s a dead body in this trunk underneath him, and God knows what Peter
did to her, and how all he wants is to get away alive with a few remains of his
dignity. He’s pretty sure that every moan that spills from his mouth and every
rut of his hips takes another chunk away.
“Stiles,” Peter rumbles, and his voice sounds hoarse like the very sight of
Stiles is pulling him apart, and Stiles takes quite a bit of sick pride from
the fact that he can bring this guy so close to the brink that he makes a note
to remember later when he isn’t so focused on the slide of Peter’s fingers
stretching him open. A stab of fear goes through his chest at the thought of
Peter stretching him open to fuck him, Peter completely losing control while
he’s fucking Stiles without abandon, and there’s probably no condom and no lube
and nothing to ease the blow, but Peter has other plans. He drags his teeth
down Stiles’ neck again and sucks purpling marks into the crook of his
shoulder, stinging hickeys that Stiles is going to be hiding for weeks, all the
while increasing the tempo of his fingers fucking into Stiles’ swollen hole.
Peter’s cock, as hard as Stiles’ but still trapped in the prison of his pants,
bumps into his thigh again, a hot line pressing into his leg that has Stiles
biting back a moan at the thought of Peter being as equally turned on as Stiles
is. Suddenly the pants aren’t in the way anymore and Peter’s bare length grinds
up against Stiles’ thigh, establishing a frantic rhythm that vaguely matches
the pace of his hands on Stiles but lacks the steadiness. His precome is
smearing onto Stiles’ thigh and he knows that this is the sort of thing that
Scott or Derek would be able to smell on him, the dabs of come sliding down his
leg before Peter growls and repositions himself for more friction. His cock
moves from Stiles’ thigh to the crack of his ass, riding between his cheeks but
never pushing in where his fingers are still keeping up a relentless rhythm. He
knows this is going to hurt later, an ache that’ll sit in his ass and burden
his mind for a while, but Stiles doesn’t even want to stop anymore, letting
himself surrender entirely to the sensations of Peter’s length sliding against
his ass and his hand wrapped around his erection.
“Are you going to come for me, Stiles?” Peter practically purrs, sounding
delightfully breathless and simultaneously smug. Stiles whimpers at the thought
of finally finding his release from the overload of pleasure that’s attacking
at him from all sides, Peter’s mouth going back to nibbling at his earlobe as
if to urge on his answer.
“Jesus, yeah,” Stiles finally manages to get out, and he feels Peter smile
against his ear. And God, this is so wrong, so, so wrong on so many levels, but
it only takes a few more brutal pushes of Peter’s fingers into his hole before
he’s coming, crying out and biting his lip bloody to keep the noise from
echoing through the garage. The pleasure sweeps him like a tidal wave or a
cargo train smacking directly into his ribcage, a heavy weight that courses
through every limb and leaves no appendage unaffected, and the way his body
writhes against the car and the desperate tears of his release squeeze from his
eyes is enough to motivate Peter as well, who growls primordially next to his
ear much more like an Alpha than a human before he’s coming as well, come
splattering over Stiles’ thigh in a way that’ll be gross in under a minute but
that only makes Stiles’ eyes flutter closed in silent contentment at the time.
It takes only four seconds for the touches to vanish. The fingers slip from his
ass and Peter’s other hand leaves Stiles’ sensitive cock alone, his hands
leaving warm patches of guilt in their wake. Stiles swallows against the car,
sticky and sweaty and unbelievably sated, and Peter’s hand finds the nape of
his neck again, squeezing like a warning.
The computer, Stiles remembers, but it’s a foggy thought that’s slowly coming
back into clarity. Reality crashes down when he realizes that he’s not being
held down anymore, slumped against the trunk of the car because of how
incredibly spent he is, and he straightens up faster than he can get the oxygen
back into his lungs. Peter looms behind him, still not willing to risk Stiles
escaping, except now he’s loose-limbed and satisfied and shamed all at once and
in no position to make a run for it no matter how badly he doesn’t want to look
Peter in the face right now.
“Now,” Peter says, and he already sounds composed. There’s come starting to dry
on Stiles’ thigh and Peter’s breath is warm on his neck when he leans in.
“Let’s try that again.”
He curls a hand around Stiles’ shoulder. His claws, the same ones raking up and
down his back and through his hair, are gone now, replaced with blunt
fingernails. He’s wearing a very distinct aftershave, a minty scent that’s
hanging in the air, and Stiles knows he’ll never be able to smell anything like
it again.
“Allison,” Stiles says raggedly, and he practically feels himself deflating.
“That’s his username and password.”
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