It’s the rustle of clothes, the heavy sound of foot falls over the carpet, the ragged breathing that stirs him. At first it’s slow. Gradual, the way waking is, where everything isn’t quite real. His breath comes easy until his sheets slide down over his body, and the breeze drifting through the open window rouses him further.
Gaze fluttering open, he gasps at the sight of glowing red eyes peering down at him. His blankets are tugged down over the bottom of the bed, and Stiles goes from heavy limbed and relaxed to panicked in less than a fraction of a second. Clawed fingers wrap around his ankle and pull, yanking him down across the sheets until his shirts is rucked up under his armpits. He flails, free leg kicking out, and lands a blow across a rib cage. Twisting over, he scrambles forward, groping blindly for his bedside drawer, for the knife he knows that’s inside of it.
There’s a low, rumbling growl. Stiles yelps at the prick of claws, sharp against the line of his Achilles tendon, and he’s about to call for help even though his dad isn’t home, won’t be home until morning, when he’s tugged further down his own bed and a rough hand covers his mouth. Stiles’ words are muffled against his palm, and there is a nose pressed to his neck just breathing.
Stiles struggles, but the weight of another body keeps him effectively pinned. Everything seems to still after that. Stiles whines high from the back of his throat.
“Hush,” Peter mutters, breath hot and bated at Stiles’ ear. “I’ve got you.”
Stiles bites down on the fleshy bit of Peter’s palm. It earns him a hiss, but Peter’s body presses flush to Stiles’ back. Stiles lets out a half strangled sound at the obvious press of hardness against his ass. Peter’s grip changes, one hand at the back of Stiles’ neck, and the other reaching beneath them to palm Stiles through his pajama pants. Stiles’ breath catches; he bucks to try and get Peter off.
“What did you do?” He gasps out against his sheets. “What did you do?”
Peter smiles against his skin—squeezes at his neck, at his crotch, and Stiles squirms despite the heat that sparks up his spine. “What I needed to, Stiles.”
“I’ll kill you.” Stiles grunts, fingers curling into the mess of sheets beneath him. “I’ll fucking kill you—“
“Easy.” Peter chuckles, tongue dragging like a brand up over the expanse of his neck, and Stiles shudders. “It wasn’t your beloved True Alpha that I killed.”
Stiles’ nose wrinkles. “Fuck you.”
Peter’s smile is all fang. “Yes. That is the idea.”
Another curse falls over Stiles’ lips. He struggles beneath him, but Peter is strong—stronger than usual—and he turns Stiles over beneath himself without much strain. Stiles slaps him, and the sound of it is harsh. Peter just laughs, catching his wrists in a bruising grip.
There is a wild look in Peter’s eyes. It scares Stiles more than words can express, and his teeth clench tight to bite back a desperately frightened noise. Peter ducks his head, breathes in deep under Stiles’ jaw, and there’s a low rumble. His movements are odd, more stilted and less fluid, like some part of him is unsure about what he’s doing to Stiles. The sound he makes is pleased though, and Stiles shivers.
“You smell like fear,” Peter says against his throat, and Stiles can feel the heat of his skin—too hot, unnaturally hot—through his clothes where their bodies are pressed together. “There’s no need to be afraid, Stiles.”
Peter’s face levels over his, and there’s copper in the air. Stiles trains against his grip, but Peter keeps Stiles’ hands pinned to the mattress at either side of his head. Peter is breathless, like he’s fighting something primal.
His eyes are red. They’re bright like beacons in the dim light of Stiles’ room. His mouth is all fangs, breath labored, and Stiles knows that Peter came here right after his kill. That Peter ripped someone’s throat out, stole their strength, and then climbed through Stiles’ window. Something twists in him at the thought, searing and uninvited.
“And arousal too.” Peter’s nostrils flare, pupils blowing out wide.
“Get off of me, you son of a—“
Peter’s lips taste like blood; Stiles isn’t surprised. His tongue is deft as it slides between Stiles’ teeth, hot and claiming and messy—Stiles nearly bites down. He struggles until one of Peter’s thighs presses between his own. He bucks up sharply and realizes he’s hard.
There’s a moan and Stiles isn’t sure who makes the sound, but he knows it’s desperate. Needy. It reverberates between them, and he hates the way he ruts up in some kind of reply. Peter seems to take it as invitation.
The second Stiles’ hands are free, he presses his palms to Peter’s shoulders and pushes them. Peter doesn’t budge, hands gripping Stiles’ hips and leaving bruises in their wake as he urges Stiles’ pelvis up. An involuntary mewl hums over Stiles’ tongue at the shock of friction and pleasure, and Peter swallows down the sound like he’s starved. Turning his head to break the kiss, Stiles gasps raggedly into the otherwise quiet room. The springs in his bed groan beneath them as Peter moves, finding his place between Stiles legs like he’d been there before.
There aren’t any words. Peter just tears Stiles’ shirt open with long claws, reveals the pale skin beneath it that’s dotted with moles and dusted with a sparse amount of dark hair. Peter’s hands rake up and over the ladder of Stiles’ ribs, fingers curling under him and lifting until Stiles’ back is at a lovely forced arch, and Peter’s eyes dull slightly, hazed with lust as he looks him over.
Stiles pushes at his chest, voice gone, throat tight as he squirms. The smile Peter gives is feral. Stiles shudders heavily.
“Peter—“ Stiles’ voice breaks as Peter turns him over onto his stomach again. “Peter, stop—“
He’s stripped efficiently. Left bare and quaking, and Peter tugs his hips up so that his ass is in the air. There’s another protest on Stiles’ tongue, but Peter wraps a hand around Stiles’ cock and gives one firm pump.
A hiccupping cry falls past Stiles’ lips. He trembles, clutching at his sheets, achingly hard against Peter’s hand. He wants this and hates himself a little bit for it. Peter lets out a pleased rumble.
“I’m going to take you apart,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Gonna break you into pretty little pieces and make you mine.”
Stiles whines when Peter presses his fingers just right under the head of his cock. He feels himself twitch, heavy against Peter’s palm, and rocks into his touch. He’s panting against the sheets, tips of his ears red, and Peter’s hums as he bites at the soft skin above the cleft of Stiles’ ass.
He doesn’t do much else. He keeps a steady pace, working Stiles’ length over with firm but careful strokes. His face stays pressed to Stiles’ lower back, just breathing him in. When Stiles comes, it’s abrupt and shuddering, and he bucks through it as he spills out messily over Peter’s fingers.
Stiles feels hot all over. He’s still trying to catch his breath, his bearings, but Peter doesn’t give him much of a chance.
Fingers slicked with his own come sink into his body. He cries out, unused to such a stretch though not the sensation, and Peter growls his reply. He’s still lax, still sensitive, and he lets out a whimper as Peter’s fingers twist inside of him. Stiles feels a tightness in his chest, wants to say no, but then Peter is kissing up his spine.
“Such a good boy,” he says against Stiles’ skin, and Stiles moans and rocks back onto Peter’s fingers. “Such a good, good boy.”
“Peter,” Stiles gasps, twisting, overwhelmed. “Peter, please—“
Peter hushes him, nipping at his shoulder, fingers curling. “Let me watch you fall apart, Stiles. Let me break you apart.” He says and presses just right.
Stiles practically wails, muffling it against his bedding. Panting heavily, Peter wraps an arm around Stiles’ waist to keep him up even as the boy’s thighs tremble. He doesn’t relent, keeps gliding over that bundle of nerves with deft strokes. Stiles rocks to and fro, rutting back against his hand helplessly as he hides his face in the sheets. Peter groans at the tight spasm of heat around his fingers.
When he adds a third, he also grasps Stiles’ half hard cock in hand again. Stiles sobs out a sound and scrambles for some kind of purchase. His back dips down, bowing beautifully, and Peter watches with hungry eyes as his fingers disappear into the welcome heat of Stiles’ body. Peter slows, drags his movements out, and smiles with sharp teeth as Stiles tries to figure out where he should seek his pleasure, hips jerking. It’s a lovely sight.
Peter works him over like that for a long time. Lets Stiles fuck back onto his fingers before thrusting forward into his hand. He delights in the sight and the sounds of Stiles.
Stiles comes again, in thick white streams over the wash of dark sheets beneath him. He whines, shaking, and Peter touches him through it until each breath Stiles takes seems laced and labored with a desperate sound. Peter takes it all in, watches Stiles try to shy away from his touch—obviously overwhelmed—but doesn’t let him.
“Stop,” Stiles mewls. “Peter, please. It’s too—It’s too much.”
For a moment, Peter stills. He shakes with the desire to keep going, but he holds steady. Stiles breathes ragged in sharp puffs, slumped against his bed and twitching. Peter lets him go, and Stiles goes boneless, goes slack into his own spunk. Peter pets over his lower back, not minding the touch of sweat there as Stiles shivers beneath him.
Peter turns him over, gaze flitting across his features, blatantly hungry. Stiles’ hair is matted to his forehead, lips parted and flush, with sweat and come smeared over his abdomen. Groaning, Peter ducks down and licks up his stomach, smiling when Stiles whines and writhes beneath him. Stiles paws at him, pushing feebly at his shoulders until Peter’s mouth lands on one of his nipples. He arches, keening, and tangles a hand into Peter’s hair.
Nipping at the sensitive skin just over his heart, Peter pulls back. “I’m going to fuck you. Make you mine.”
Stiles swallows, eyes hazy, stilling for a long second before he speaks. “Lube. Nightstand.”
Peter’s gaze burns bright, and there’s a spike of fear that just makes Peter’s arousal more pungent. “Such a good boy,” he says and leans down to kiss Stiles again.
It doesn’t take him long. He works his fly open, slicks himself up with the lubricant Stiles mentioned, and takes his place back between Stiles’ legs. When he sinks in, Stiles gasps, brown eyes wide as he strains up beneath him. Peter doesn’t give him long to adjust before he’s fucking him.
The pace is quick and rough. Stiles’ bed rocks beneath them, clattering against the wall. Peter grips him under the knees and spreads him open, face shifting in and out of his Beta form as he drives in hard and harsh. Stiles clutches at the sheets above his head, hips flexing up, trying but failing to keep up.
There is nothing but heat. Heat and friction; the sound of skin on skin and the obscene little mewls and whines that fall over Stiles lips accompanying the devastating sensation of their bodies meeting. Stiles is hard again, cock aching against his abdomen. He can feel the ecstasy of their movements building low in his stomach, white hot and coiling. Tears slide down his temples and Peter leans down to kiss them away before catching his lips, driving deeper and swallowing down the cry it earns him.
Stiles toes curl as another orgasm rips through him. The pressure building is too much, and he comes with a jerk, almost painfully as he clamps down tight around Peter’s cock. It’s the spasming heat of Stiles around the girth of him that finally pushes Peter over the edge.
He thrusts in as deep as he can get, eyes on Stiles’ face as the boy’s hips lurch up, both of their expressions twisted in pleasure. Grunting, he buries deep into Stiles’ prone form, and comes in thick, hot streams. His face shifts from human, to were, and back again. As he stills inside of Stiles, the only indicator that he’s anything but human is the glow of his eyes and the swell at the base of his cock.
Panic is sharp in the air. Stiles tries to pull away, but he’s weak limbed and absolutely breathless—he looks positively wrecked. He sobs at the pressure, the stretch of Peter knotting him. It feels good and is too much at the same time. His cock is still half hard from his previous orgasm, and Peter holds him still. He ruts slowly as Stiles twitches and whines, reaching between them to work him over with a gentle hand.
Stiles lets out another sob of a sound, hands coming up to clutch at Peter’s shoulders—practically clinging. His eyes are misty, darting over Peter’s features as the older man peers down at him, suddenly so determined. He rocks and rocks, pumping over Stiles’ cock until Stiles arches and comes—dry—with a buck and spasm, whimpering through it.
Peter slumps forward against him as soon as Stiles is finished. A hand strokes up the smooth, pale skin of one of Stiles’ thigh, both of his hands coming to settle at Stiles’ hips. Peter’s breath seems to even out and steady despite their position: calmed. Stiles shudders, panting heavily, and his hands shift from holding to pushing at Peter’s shoulders. He bucks sharply, as if to get Peter off of him, and swallows back his own cry at the sharp, near painful pang of pleasure that it sparks through him. Peter bites down at the juncture between neck and shoulder in warning with blunt, human teeth.
Stiles goes still. “Get out of me,” he says, voice tight.
“Afraid I can’t,” Peter mutters, just as strained, nose pressing to his temple as he pets at Stiles hips in a soothing manner. “Not yet.”
“What did you do?” Stiles asks thickly—whimpering when Peter rocks, knot stretching Stiles wide, keeping Peter’s release locked inside of him. “Stop that. Stop that.”
“You like it,” Peter says; Stiles blushes but doesn’t deny it as Peter’s hands shift and scoop up under Stiles’ back to cradle him closer. It’s intimate, and Stiles finds himself relaxing into it. “I had to claim you. Instinct.”
“Fuck you,” Stiles says, but it has no venom. “Why?”
“There was a Pack in the territory. I took care of them.” Peter replies. “Afterwards, I needed to find you.”
“Why?” Stiles repeats.
“You know,” Peter mumbles, kissing the corner of his mouth. “You’ve known. Don’t pretend you didn’t. Don’t ask stupid questions.”
Stiles’ lips thin. Peter rolls his hips again, so very slowly, and watches Stiles eyes rolls back. He smiles down at him.
“You look beautiful like this.”
Stiles grunts. “I didn’t think knotting was real.”
“You take it perfectly.” Peter tells him.
Stiles’ cheeks color. “What’s it for?”
“Scent claiming, marking, breeding.” Peter says, grin broadening at Stiles’ pupils dilate. “Alphas do it when they want to claim a mate.”
Stiles swallows with an audible click, blinking slowly, worn out. “Me?”
“Yes,” Peter says, hands shifting up over Stiles’ spine. “You.”
“How long will it last?”
“First time is usually longest,” Peter says. “Think I can make you come again? On my knot like this?”
Stiles shudders, but Peter can smell the want. “No.”
He pauses. “Not tonight. Not again. I’m tired.”
Peter looks extremely pleased. “Perhaps in the morning then?”
Stiles bites the inside of his cheek, but Peter already knows he’s won—in more ways than one. “Maybe.”
Peter doesn’t hesitate to kiss him.