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like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue

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When, two weeks later, Stiles wanders into his room to get ready for bed and turns on the light to find Peter sat in his computer chair waiting for him, he doesn't even have it in him to be surprised. Peter is a total creeper: this isn't news. Sadly, nor is his alarming interest in Stiles in general and Stiles' piss in particular. He has to wonder how Peter knows that he needs to go right now (because he definitely does, that's Peter's style) - how would you go about smelling that, anyway? Could you smell general discomfort? Or just wait 'til you saw squirming and hope for the best? Because let's face it, Peter's definitely been lurking outside his window waiting for this opportunity.

"What, you thirsty?" Stiles asks, then internally cringes at how much that sounded like a kinky porno line (because yeah, he looked up piss fetish the minute he pulled himself up off the floor after Peter's last visit, and spent a good couple of hours being informed and traumatised). Peter smiles, and just says,

"No." Okay then, so this isn't going to be a repeat of last time. Hopefully.

"So why are you here?" Stiles jams his hands in his pockets defensively.

"For something else. Come over here."

"Uh, no." Stiles laughs disbelievingly. There's no way in hell he's getting any nearer to Peter if he can avoid it.

Which, of course, he can't: he doesn't even see Peter move, but within a second he's across the room, seizing Stiles by the hips to pick him up, and hauling him back across the room to sit in the computer chair. Stiles flails for a moment as Peter rearranges them so that Stiles - Stiles is is his lap and oh fuck, he's pretty sure that's a boner. This is heading nowhere good. He wriggles a bit, trying to find a weak spot or leverage to get in a kick, but Peter's got his arms pinned to his sides, holding Stiles on his lap by his arms wrapped around Stiles' middle, and the worst Stiles can do is dig his heels into Peter's shins - and since he's only in socks, that's pretty pathetic. Peter doesn't even flinch. So Stiles stops squirming, because as far as he can tell all it's doing is encouraging Peter's erection, which is not something he wants to be doing. Ever.

"Oh my god," he says. "Just - look," he tries, trying to talk his way out of the situation as usual, "if you want to fulfil your creepy fixation on watching me piss, then I will let you watch. Swear to god, you can stand there in the bathroom next to the toilet if you really want. But for that, you're gonna have to let me up." It's not a bad compromise, he thinks - he hasn't used the bathroom in a while and really does need to piss, and this way Peter gets to get his rocks off at the same time. They can have it over and done with in five minutes.

"That's not what I'm after either, I'm afraid." Peter nuzzles the back of his neck. "I want you to relieve yourself here."

"What, right here? Dude, I'm on your lap. And still wearing pants." He can't mean what Stiles thinks he means...except that given his track record here, he almost certainly does.

"That's the point, Stiles," says Peter, like he's explaining a part of Jane Eyre to him or something, and no. Just no.

"What, you want me to piss myself?" Please say no, please say no.

"Yes," says Peter simply, nose still pressed into the back of his neck.

"No," says Stiles, frustrated. "I'm not wetting myself like a kid for your amusement, for fuck's sake, Peter."

"Eventually, you'll have to," says Peter, in that particular level-headed-adult voice which implies that if only Stiles would be reasonable, this could all be so much easier. Ugh, fuck him.

"I'm not a kid: I can hold it." He hopes.

"I can wait," says Peter mildly. The awful thing is, Stiles is pretty sure he believes him. He grits his teeth and resolves to think a way out of the situation. He's usually good at talking his way out of trouble, but he's already tried that. Unless he can think of a way to get leverage over Peter -

"You know, if I tell Scott about this, he'll be pretty pissed." He winces at his word choice, but Peter just shrugs.

"Will you really tell him? What will you tell him? That I sucked you off, made you come, and you pissed in my mouth like I asked and I never even asked you to touch me? That I made you wet yourself like a child? Will you really tell Scott that?"

Stiles wants to bluff and insist that yes he will unless Peter lets him go right the fuck now, but he knows Peter will catch the lie. He's right: the loss of control just makes this too embarrassing to admit to another living soul, even Scott. He squirms, very aware that it doesn't look like there's a way out of this right now. But there's always an escape route: that's like Stiles' motto. He just has to think of it.

Looking at this logically, what Stiles should do is just piss himself and get it over with to make Peter leave quicker. Then he can do the laundry, clean the seat and plot revenge which he will never carry through on.

But he can't. He's sixteen, for fuck's sake, and he just can't let go of that conditioning telling him that he can't piss his pants like a kid. He shifts angrily on Peter's lap, wishing that he had even a chance of breaking Peter's deceptively gentle hold.

If nothing else, this should teach him not to wait until he really needs to go in future - he's not, like, desperate, but he is very aware of how full his bladder is, and it's making him pretty uncomfortable. He squeezes his thighs together a little, shifts his weight.

Peter's chin comes to rest on his shoulder, and he can feel warm breath on the side of his face. It's not as gross as it should be, but Stiles can't really spare any mental faculties to ask himself where this all went so horribly wrong because yeah, now he really needs to piss. He kind of wants to squeeze his cock, just a little, but Peter's keeping his arms pinned. He rocks back a little, which helps a bit but also reminds him that Peter's hard, his erection pressing up the crack of Stiles' ass. Peter makes a soft noise in his ear, and restrains him from squirming away as he'd like.

Oh, god. He just - doesn't want to deal with this. Like, he knew that Peter was getting off on it, but it's one thing to know it and quite another to actually feel the guy's boner against his ass. Oh, he is so screwed. He presses his thighs together again, squeezing his cock in between them for a few seconds. This is so fucking embarrassing.

This close, he can hear Peter's heartbeat - which, if he's not mistaken, is slightly elevated. Not surprising. The urge to piss presses insistently at his bladder again, and again he squeezes his thighs together. If only he could get his hand down there...He can feel his cheeks flushing both with embarrassment and effort.

"Want a hand?" And, oh shit, that's Peter's hand on his crotch, squeezing just right and it's so horribly, horribly violating but the relief is so great that for a moment Stiles doesn't even care. He squeezes Peter's hand between his thighs, trapping it there, and feels Peter laugh quietly in his ear.

Then Peter takes his hand away, easily extricating himself from Stiles' clenched thighs, and Stiles doubles over as far as he can in the grip of Peter's arms, thighs pressed tight together, rocking back and forth. He's right over Peter's cock now, can feel the bulge rubbing just behind his balls as he basically grinds down on it, and Peter's huffing in his ear but he doesn't care because a little spurt of piss has leaked out and he's terrified that any minute now he's going to lose it. He can feel sweat on his forehead, his back, and Peter mouthing and licking at his neck isn't helping. He'd be fine if he could get into a position where he could cross his legs or squeeze himself a bit, but being splayed on Peter's lap like this prevents him.

Licking the shell of Stiles' ear, Peter shifts his grip so that he can get a hand on Stiles' abdomen, just like he did last time - and, just like last time, he presses slowly and inorexably down.

"No," moans Stiles, "no," but Peter's other hand pries his thighs apart and he can't hold it any longer -

- and Peter jerks them both upright, and Stiles finds himself bent over with his hands flat on his computer desk, Peter pressed all against his back, and he's pissing, he's pissing himself, urine making his crotch warm and running down the insides of his thighs, down the inseam of his jeans, trickling down the sides of his bare feet. He's wetting his pants like a kid and he can't stop and it's so fucking humiliating that Peter's seeing this, that he's doing this at all, that he starts crying, which is even more embarrassing.

When it ends, he's largely managed to stop himself crying, though his eyes are still wet. Peter's still got him bent over the desk, hard dick pressed right into Stiles' ass, breath coming harshly. He's not restraining Stiles' limbs any more and Stiles could probably elbow him in the sternum and extricate himself, but what's the point? He's so fucking tired. He lets Peter grab his arm and turn him around so he's leaning back against the desk, his wet crotch on full display. Peter stares at him, eyes flicking between his still-red face and his groin, one hand pressed to his own cock through his pants.

"For fuck's sake, you might as well beat off here," says Stiles. He remember's Peter's face a few weeks ago when he jacked off over Stiles being desperate to piss, screwed up and pink in unbearable arousal, teeth sunk into his sleeve to muffle any sound, hips jerking up into his fist. He wants that again, sick of being the only one undone. Rebalance the scales of power, just a little.

Peter's cock, when he pulls it out, is thick and red-purple and looks about five seconds away from coming. Stiles is torn between horror and pride - he did that. Not intentionally, but his desperation seems to really do it for Peter, an objectively attractive older man. Meaning that Stiles is attractive to gay (or maybe bi) guys - just really not in the way he might have wanted.

Peter jerks off like he wants to hurt himself, fast and rough, eyes on Stiles, nostrils flaring as he smells the air - and if Stiles can smell piss, it must be ten times as intense for Peter. He makes quiet, throttled-down noises which Stiles finds uncomfortably arousing - this whole situation is awful, but he knows and hates that he'll remember those noises and think of them when he next jerks off, because, y'know, real live porn here.

The moans get a little louder, and Peter steps closer to Stiles to bury his face in his neck, sniffing and licking - marking, Stiles thinks, and he would be horrified if he could summon up the energy. As it is, his brain's kind of overloaded, so the freaking out will have to wait an hour or so while he gathers up the mental resources required to deal with this level of weirdness.

Peter makes a sharp, low uh sound, and Stiles feels come spatter his jeans as Peter convulses, leaning into Stiles as his knees weaken. Man, the crotch of these pants is never going to be the same.

Peter pulls away from him and stands up, refastening his pants and wiping sweat from his upper lip. He hasn't even mussed his hair, which pisses Stiles off more than it probably should. And, with one last long stare and a jaunty little wave, he disappears out the window. Leaving Stiles with his jeans soaked with cooling piss and come - which, gross - and feeling like what he wants more than anything else right now is a thorough shower followed by a nap before he even begins to consider the craziness his life has become. And he couldn't even tell any of it to a therapist if he wanted to.

First, though, just on principle - he firmly closes the window.