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Take You Apart

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“This is,” Stiles runs his fingers along the counter top in the kitchen, marble cold under his hand.  “Well, quaint isn’t quite the right word for it.  How much did this place even cost?”

Peter watches him as he opens the fridge, reaching in a plucking out two bottles.  “A pretty penny.  I think he’s finally figured out that living in decrepit, dank shit holes is probably not the best for his image.  Beer?”

Stiles glances his way, turning his back and whistling as he leans against the large island counter, gazing up at the high ceiling of the suite.  “Sure.”

He uses his claws to pop off the bottle cap, rounds the island, and hands one to Stiles as he takes a pull from his own.  Stiles’ brow furrows as he regards him, smile crooked and curious.  He taps the neck of his bottle against Peter’s.

“That won’t do much for you, will it?” he asks.

“Special brew,” Peter says.

Stiles hums, taking a pull of his own.  “Not bad.  Better than the bullshit they serve at frat parties.”

Peter chuckles and nods.  “It should be.  How is school, by the way?  Enjoying being a freshman again?”

Snorting, Stiles shakes his head, pulling himself up onto the counter.  “Not much different than high school, honestly.  Less fear and bloodshed.  That’s a plus.”

“I’m sure.”

“How has it been here?” Stiles asks.  “Scott and me talk, but he likes to be vague.”

“He knows you’d drop everything and drive back up in a night to help,” Peter says, and Stiles is grinning as his feet swing back and forth.  Peter lets his gaze stray down over him, taking in the way he’s so relaxed, so at ease.  It’s a confidence that looks good on him.

“Yeah, he does.” Stiles nods.  “But things have been good?”

“As good as they can be,” Peter replies.  “Derek is in South America visiting Cora—which is why I’m on house sitting duty.  There hasn’t been much activity since that serpent in December.”

Stiles’ nose wrinkles.  “The swamp thing.  That fucking sucked.”

Peter lets out a contemplative sound, stepping away, a hand tucked into his pocket as he toes at a scuff in the hardwood of the floor.  “You know, I’m surprised you didn’t go with Lydia and whatever gaggle of followers she incurred down at Stanford to—Where was it that they went?”

“Bora Bora.”

“Right,” Peter huffs, turning back to face him, and he isn’t exactly surprised to see Stiles’ gaze intent on him, but it does catch him a bit off guard. 

They’ve never been close, not really, but after the Nogitsune and all of the collateral damage, Stiles took a different kind of shine to him.  There was an understanding there, a knowledge that none of the rest of the Pack truly had.  No one else really came close to knowing what it was like to take a life and not have it be your complete decision.

“So why didn’t you go?” Peter asks.  “Spring break is a big thing, from what I recall.”

Stiles snorts, taking another drink as he slides back off of the counter.  He toes off his shoes, brushing by and letting his gaze linger on Peter as he rounds him and heads towards the dining room. 

“Can’t afford shit like that,” Stiles says over his shoulder, peering up at the chandelier with squinted eyes, like he thinks it’s too classy to fit in with Derek usually moody attitude.  Peter silently agrees.  “I’m a scholarship baby.  Plus, I figured I could use the time to catch up with my pops.”

There’s a pause there, and Stiles looks over his shoulder at Peter, expression somehow disinterested and coy at the same time.  “Among others,” he says.

Peter tilts his head.  “Oh?  Like who?”

Stiles turns his body to face him, eyes never leaving Peter’s.  “Did you know that college is a very good place to experiment with sexuality?  Teaches you all kinds of things about yourself.”

Inhaling deep, Peter lets his gaze stray down—long legs, lithe build, strong—and when he meets Stiles’ once more, there’s a wicked little grin on Stiles’ mouth that has something white hot churning in Peter’s stomach.  He cants his head, licking his lips.  “And what have you learned?”

“That my lit professor is really into fucking me over his office desk,” Stiles says, unwavering.  “That I like it rough.”

He sets his beer on the table behind himself, leaning back against the edge, smooth and nothing like the awkward teenager he was when Peter first laid eyes on him.  Peter draws closer, slow and steady, hand still tucked in his pocket, condensation rolling down over the glass of the bottle in his other.

“And I can’t help but wonder,” Stiles adds, tongue pink against his lower lip, and Peter wants to chase it back into his mouth.  Wants to absolute wreck this man that’s standing before him with eyes like warm whiskey and a voice that’s offering up something Peter very much wants.  “What would it be like with someone a bit stronger?  Maybe even… supernaturally strong?”

“Are you asking me to fuck you, Stiles?” Peter asks.

There’s that wicked smile again, and Stiles huffs out a laugh.  “Original plan was to ask Derek.  But you’re the next best thing.”

Peter growls.  He knows it’s a part of whatever game Stiles is playing, but the idea of his nephew laying a hand on Stiles has his hackles rising.  Stiles laughs again, a bit louder.

“Cute,” he says, mockingly.  Teasingly.  A brow lifts.  “Interested, I take it?”

Three paces and Peter has the space between them diminished to absolutely nothing.  His bottle clinks against Stiles’ as he sets it down on the polished wood of the table, and he cages the younger man in with his arm.  Stiles looks positively delighted, eyes bright even in the dim overhead lights, smile crooked as he lets Peter take a deep breath of him.

“No stopping,” Peter says, a warning, and he hears Stiles’ heart hitch with excitement.  “No pretending.  No strings.”

“None,” Stiles replies, breath hot against Peter’s lips, and he tilts his head just enough, just to brush.  “I don’t give a fuck who knows.  I want you to make my eyes roll back.  Fuck me so that I feel it for days.”

Peter’s lips twitches up for a moment, like a sneer, but his breath is a bit short at the idea of having Stiles like that.  He can smell the arousal between them like cinnamon.  “You’re sure?”

Hands curve around Peter’s neck, fingers long and steady, and Stiles kisses him hard.  “C’mon, Petey.  Screw my brains out.”

“Never call me that,” Peter huffs, and then slants their mouths together roughly.

Nothing about it is delicate.  There’s isn’t a ton of buildup.  Their mouths work together in a messy haze, and when Peter tugs at Stiles’ shirt, Stiles lifts his arms without protest. 

They bite and suck, and Peter is pleased at the low moan he gets when he spreads Stiles’ legs with his thigh.  Stiles ruts against his hip, unabashed, and pulls sharply at Peter’s hair until the werewolf is shrugging out of his own shirt.  Skin on skin, one of them rumbles out a groan and the other swallows it down hungrily. 

The rest of their clothes go quickly enough.  Peter plucks Stiles up off the floor with ease and presses him harshly down onto the table top.  Moaning, Stiles arches up against him, nails blunt down over his shoulders and biceps.  Their lips part, and Stiles pants heavy as Peter trails down his neck, leaving his mark under his ear, over his neck, on his collar.  Fingers hard over Stiles’ hips, Peter pushes him further over the table, and chuckles with Stiles lets out a hiss.

“Easy on the goods,” he mutters with a laugh as Peter knees up onto the table with him, only to groan when Peter bites playfully at one of his nipples.  “Shit.”

The beer bottles get knocked over as Peter kneels; dragging Stiles back close by the hips.  Sitting up, weight balanced back on his heels, Peter admires the expanse of pale flesh laid out before him, palms warm over Stiles’ sides as they slide down reverently, and Stiles shudders under his touch and arches again, arms falling in a halo over his head.  Stiles licks his lips, pupils practically eclipsing the color of his eyes, and hums as Peter’s thumbs knead against the muscles of his thighs where Peter has them draped over his own. 

Fingertips feather-light, Peter trails invisible designs over Stiles’ skin.  There’s a hunger in his gut, clenching in a twist-pull that leaves him achingly hard.  Luckily, he’s not the only one.

Stiles’ cock is erect, the head of it red and weeping precome over his own abdomen, and it’s such a pretty sight.  Chest heaving, Stiles lets out a soft whine when Peter’s fingers barely caress over the thick vein along the underside of his length.  His cheeks are a splotchy flush, lower lip plump between his teeth as his hands curl and uncurl over his head.

“How long have you wanted to do this?” Stiles taunts, wriggling closer, practically in Peter’s lap.  “How long have you wanted to bend me over and fuck me, huh?”

Peter hums, thumbs tracing the dips at his hips, smiling as Stiles shivers.  “Let’s just say… I am a very,very bad man.”

Stiles laughs.  “That long, huh?”

“Probably about as long as you’ve been thinking about letting me.” Peter says, leaning over him, catching his mouth with his own and kissing him until Stiles’ lungs strain—deep and claiming, tongue lazy and slow against his. 

“Fuck.  Lube.” Stiles breathes, making grabby hands at where his pants are hanging precariously over the back of a chair.  “I seriously need you to fuck me.”

Peter plucks the small tube out of Stiles’ jeans, brow raising.  “Came prepared, did you?  No condom, though.”

“Don’t need it,” Stiles grunts, eyes avid on Peter’s hands as the older man slicks up his fingers.  “I’m clean.  You’re a goddamn werewolf.  This is a stupid conversation.  Would you just—?”

Stiles cuts himself off with a low, drawn out sound as Peter reaches between them to sink a finger into him at an agonizing pace.  There are a few more curse words, and Peter wonders briefly if he’ll get to find out what it’s like to have that filthy mouth wrapped around his cock.  He works Stiles open steadily, loving the way muscles flex and strain under Stiles’ skin.

“You’re tighter than I would’ve thought,” Peter mutters, slipping in a second finger, and Stiles huffs out a high whine. 

“You complaining?” he asks.

“Not at all,” Peter retorts.  “Definitely not a bad thing.  Just means I’ll have to take my time getting you prepped.” He curves his finger just to watch Stiles’ gaze flutter back, grinning when the younger man’s cock twitches.  “Doesn’t it?”

“You want me to answer that, or are you getting to some kind of point?” Stiles says snidely.

Peter chuckles, and there’s a third finger.  He settles his free hand over Stiles’ hip, groaning to himself as he guides Stiles over his fingers.  Legs splayed open over Peter’s thighs, hips canted up, Stiles ruts against his hand.  Peter eats it up, how needy he is, how unapologetic about it he’s being. 

He thinks he might like to make Stiles come like this, untouched, with nothing but his fingers buried three knuckles deep in his ass.  He’d bet a sizeable amount of money that he could.  His own cock aches, though, and he finds his patience waning.  He wants to feel Stiles come around his cock the first time it happens.

Pulling his fingers free, he gets a soft whimper in reply.  He quiets Stiles with a brief kiss just over his heart and slicks his dick up with a palm full of lubricant.  It’s a messy, slick sound—but then he’s tugging Stiles closer and guiding himself into Stiles’ wet, inviting looking ass. 

He sinks in easy.  It’s tight, but Stiles’ body welcomes him in.  He bucks down to take more of Peter in, and hisses at the stretch, but his jaw is wonderfully slack.  Peter pets over the flex of his abdomen, rocking up and in slowly, and Stiles moans again, that wonderfully drawn out noise. 

Hands settling back at Stiles’ waist, Peter meets his gaze, jaw flexing as he pulls Stiles ever closer.  Stiles’ neck curves up, bared like submission, and Peter growls as he withdraws almost completely just to snap back in.  There’s a spark of mirth in Stiles’ gaze, but he’s too busy giving a soft cry to tease him.  It sets the pace, and Peter is unforgiving in the harsh way that he fucks forward into Stiles’ prone form.

The sound of skin slapping on skin is accompanied only by the obscene little noises falling over Stiles’ lips—and the occasional creak-groan of the table beneath them.  Peter is rough, is leaving bruises, but it’s exactly what Stiles had asked for.  He clutches at nothing over his head, trying to ground himself through the onslaught of Peter’s cock driving in over and over and over

“Touch me,” he pants, and Peter does, hand still slightly slick with lube, working over Stiles’ cock; Stiles mewls, arches, and shudders violently.  “Fuck, yes, just like—“

Peter shifts the angle, and draws out a ragged sound from the boy beneath him.  He hits that mark a few more times, pace steady, and groans when Stiles clenches down tight and fluttering around his own cock as he comes with a gush over his stomach.  Stiles arches, gasping softly, and Peter starts to slow.

“Don’t you—“ Stiles’ voice breaks, but reaches down and clutches at Peter’s wrist.  “Don’t stop.  Don’t stop.”

Groaning, Peter keeps a steady pace, rutting forward, trying to get deeper.  Stiles is panting, letting out soft little grunts as Peter fucks forward.  Curving up, Stiles reaches for Peter’s shoulders, and Peter is quick to slide his hands around to Stiles’ lower back, guiding him up.  Peter’s eyes widen, staring up at him as Stiles settles completely in his lap.

The muscles in his thighs tremble, and he rocks down onto Peter with stuttering movements.  The angle is perfect, and Peter groans as Stiles sinks down onto him until Peter is balls deep.  He thrusts up—once, twice—and buries his face against Stiles’ neck as he comes deep into him. 

They finally still, Peter still inside of Stiles, both of them panting the same breath.  Stiles drags his fingers through Peter’s hair, and the pleased rumble it elicits makes Stiles hum in reply. 

“That was good,” he mumbles against Peter’s temple. 

“It was,” Peter agrees.

They hold each other.  It’s intimate, but not exactly affectionate.  Stiles shifts and groans.  Peter feels a bloom of heat in his chest like pride.

Smiling, Stiles pulls back enough to meet his gaze.  “How mad do you think Derek is gonna be?”

Peter laughs.