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Get Off (Me)

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The worst thing about being human, Stiles thinks, is how he’s always left behind when the others expect a fight. He knows he’s fragile, and he doesn’t regret not taking the bite, and he knows that they aren’t going to take him breaking into bank vaults or storming alpha strongholds or anywhere like that. Ninety-five percent of the time, he’s okay with that.

It’s actually not being left behind that annoys him so much. It’s being left behind with Peter that annoys him. Because any time the idea of physical damage comes up, the former alpha suddenly ‘remembers’ that he’s not up to fighting speed yet, and fucks off somewhere. That’s the ninety-five percent of the time that Stiles is just fine with behind left behind. The other five percent, though, he hangs around, and suddenly Stiles is stuck with him, which irritates him because Peter’s an annoying jerk who really should be set on fire a few more times.

To be fair, absolutely nobody believes that Peter’s anything but a lying liar who lies, and that he’d be perfectly capable in a fight. But they let him beg off because nobody really wants to bring him along anyway. They don’t trust him, and to quote Scott, ‘why give him more opportunities to stab us in the back than is really necessary?’ And that’s from Scott, the optimistic believer in the good of all mankind, or wolfkind, or whatever.

In short: Stiles really hates Peter Hale.

And the more complicated and violent things get, the more tense he gets, which is not a good mood for him to be in when he’s stuck in an enclosed space with Peter. Both because Peter gets on his nerves more than usual and because he gets on Peter’s nerves more than usual. If that’s what they call it. After his resurrection, he’s never seen Peter so much as bothered. Even his suggestions to beat Stiles unconscious are made in that casual, offhanded voice. Sometimes he gets, well . . . intense, Stiles supposes would be the best word for it. Usually when they’re planning something. But it’s never emotional intensity. It’s always just intellectual. Even when Stiles asks Peter if he had his emotions surgically removed, Peter just gives one of those classic Hale eye rolls and makes a snarky comment.

How badly things go depends on what sort of mood Peter’s in, and how long the others are gone. If it’s less than an hour, they can typically just ignore each other. But if it’s over an hour, Stiles’ nervousness and running mouth get the better of him, and sometimes Peter is a sassy bastard, and sometimes he threatens Stiles with violence, although he never quite dares actually commit any. Sometimes he’s feeling mellow and actually makes a half-hearted attempt to distract Stiles, and sometimes he’s feeling malicious and decides to drop hints to what might be going on that really would have been much better revealed before Scott and the others had left.

And sometimes he just watches Stiles with this little glint in his eye that makes Stiles very uncomfortable.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

“Someone’s coming.”

Stiles’ head jerks around to look at Peter, who’s sprawled out in the armchair in his usual nonchalant pose. The loft’s obnoxious alarm goes off mere moments later, and Peter is already on his feet. He has Stiles by one arm and drags him across the room, ignoring Stiles’ half-formed protests. He shoves the teenager into a closet and then ducks in after him, closing the door almost all the way.

Stiles ducks down a little so he can see through the gap. What comes through is a pair of Hellhounds, black and sleek, eyes glowing like embers. He curses mentally. Hiding won’t do them any good, the hounds will smell them in an instant. Then he hears a small noise of Peter shuffling around, and there’s a sudden, sharp, acrid smell. Mothballs. His nose wrinkles involuntarily.

He can just barely see Peter’s face in the dim light, his head cocked to one side, listening, that blank but intense expression on his face. He opens his mouth and Peter abruptly puts a hand over it, pushing him back against the wall. Stiles only barely holds back a grunt. He’s also suddenly, uncomfortably aware of their close quarters. Peter is leaning against him, practically breathing in his ear, so he can continue looking through the small gap in the door.

The sound of the hounds fades, and then there’s the booming noise of the door to the loft closing. Stiles pushes Peter’s hand away from his mouth, but doesn’t say anything. He waits. In a situation like this, he’ll trust Peter’s senses over his own. Just because he thinks the Hellhounds are gone doesn’t necessarily mean they are. In fact, it might be good that Peter’s there with him. If he’d been alone, he would have been stuck in the closet until the others got back, just to be on the safe side.

But just because he has to wait doesn’t mean that he has to wait with Peter two inches from him. He reaches out and puts a hand on Peter’s shoulder, giving him a shove backwards. In the dim light, he sees Peter arch an eyebrow at him. He responds with a silent glower. This makes Peter give him a toothy grin. “Asshole,” Stiles mouths at him, which isn’t the best comeback he can come up with, but it’s pithy, which is important since he can’t actually say anything out loud.

Peter responds by actually taking a step closer, so their bodies are pressed together. “So,” he says, in a normal tone, so apparently he’s decided they’re alone, hellhound free. “This is nice.”

“Oh my God, you are the worst,” Stiles says, trying to squirm free. “And you didn’t need to put your hand over my mouth, I wasn’t going to say anything, I don’t want to get eaten – ”

Then Peter’s mouth is on his, and of course the bastard has to kiss him while he’s talking so his lips are parted and he feels Peter’s tongue against his teeth. And it’s not like he hasn’t kissed before, because he has, but this, this is different, this has intent to it, and he feels his knees get a little weak. He’s too stunned to fight back at first, which Peter takes as an invitation to proceed, and he kisses Stiles with bruising force, deep and rough and apparently exactly the way Stiles likes it, if the rush of blood south is any indication.

Peter pulls away with a smirk, and Stiles thinks about saying something – he has a dozen smart retorts, really – but he doesn’t trust his voice to be steady so for once he just keeps quiet. He can feel Peter’s weight against him now, Peter’s thigh pressed against his groin, which is – really good, actually. He grits his teeth and musters the willpower not to just start rolling his hips against it.

“O-Okay, the hounds are gone, can we – ” he starts, and then Peter’s nuzzling his neck, one hand curling in the short hairs at the back of his neck. He breaks the words off with a startled curse. Peter’s other hand is on his waist, sliding up underneath his T-shirt a little, and he thinks that he should probably put a stop to this, it’s creepy for a huge variety of reasons, but it feels really good, and he makes another strangled little noise as Peter’s tongue finds a particularly sensitive spot on his throat. He tilts his head back and mentally throws in the towel. Then he feels teeth.

“Hey!” Before he can think better of the idea, he shoves Peter backwards and slaps a hand over his mouth. “Don’t break the skin.”

Peter gives him an amused look before reaching up and pulling Stiles’ hand away. His eyes gleam momentarily blue in the darkness. “I’m not an alpha anymore, Stiles. I can’t turn you.”

“That’s great, asshole,” Stiles says. “Don’t. Break. The skin.”

“Mm. Your wish is my command,” Peter says, and then kisses him again. He catches Stiles’ lower lip between his teeth but doesn’t bite down, and his entire body just molds against Stiles, and the teenager closes his eyes, sees stars, and thinks about how wrong this is. He doesn’t do anything else, though, keeps his hands to himself, but just kisses Stiles like there’s nothing else to do, nothing else to want. When he finally pulls away, Stiles is trembling and gasping for breath.

“Well,” Peter says, and lets him go. “I think it’s probably safe now.”

He leaves the closet without another word, picks up his magazine, and sits back down on the couch.

Stiles stands in the closet and wonders what the hell just happened.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

“No, Stiles, you should stay here. It could be dangerous – ”

“Okay, no, you are hunting pixies, there is nothing dangerous about pixies,” Stiles argues. He can feel Peter smirking at him from across the room. The werewolf hasn’t said a word to him in the two weeks since the incident in the closet. Stiles just knows that he’s up to something. He can feel it.

“We don’t need you,” Derek says brusquely. He gestures to the others and says, “Come on.”

“You’re such a dick,” Stiles snaps after him. Scott gives Stiles an apologetic look, but obviously he’s going to go, because he’s the only one who’s actually seen the pixies. “Okay, fine, just leave me here with Uncle Fenster,” Stiles shouts after them. “Don’t worry about me or anything! I’ll be fine! It’s not like there were Hellhounds last time I got – ”

The only response is the noise of the door slamming shut.

“Jerks,” Stiles says, scowling.

“Nobody appreciates you,” Peter drawls behind him.

“Damn straight,” Stiles grumbles, and when he turns around, Peter’s right behind him. “Oh my God! I’m going to put a bell on you, creep.”

Peter just gives him that toothy grin. “I’m going out,” he says. “God help my nephew if he and his little ragtag pack of misfits can’t handle a dozen or two pixies.”

“Yeah, great,” Stiles says. “Have a party.” He waves as Peter leaves the loft, and then practically melts with relief. Whatever was going through Peter’s mind that night, it apparently wasn’t going to have long-term consequences. It shouldn’t surprise him, really. Peter likes to play head games, and all in all, he’s pretty weird. He had probably expected that Stiles would freak out, and when he seemed okay with it, lost interest.

So he’s a lot more relaxed as he kicks around Derek’s loft, plays on his phone, and receives periodic updates from Scott. Minutes tick by and turn into hours. The updates stop. He groans and settles in for a long night. It’s nearly midnight when he gets a short series of texts from Scott. ‘All done. Had to chase them out of town. Couple hours away. Nobody wants to drive. Getting a couple motel rooms. See you tomorrow.’

“Yeah, because crashing in a sketchy hotel worked so well for us last time,” Stiles says, but he texts back ‘ok’ because Derek has to have better taste in hotels than Finstock. Almost anybody on the planet would have better taste than Finstock.

Now it’s late and he’s tired and he can’t go home, because he already told his father that he was spending the night at Scott’s. Trying to sneak in without waking his father is like trying to cross a river filled with piranha. You can hope they won’t notice you – but they will. Then they’ll have one of those non-talks again, the kind filled with awkward silences and skeptical looks that are quickly growing to be Stiles’ least favorite thing on earth. Screw that. He’ll just stay here and crash on Derek’s couch.

He needs a shower, though. Lacrosse practice was brutal, and then he had spent two hours helping track the pixies in the forest. Derek won’t care if he uses the shower, and he always carries a spare set of clothes in his bag now – one never knows when his will get stained with blood or torn to shreds or suffer some equally horrible fate. So he prowls around the loft until he finds a stack of towels tucked away in a bureau, then ducks into the shower. The pipes rattle and wheeze, and it takes ten minutes for the water to become even vaguely tepid. This is Derek’s idea of upscale living.

It’s only a quick shower, because the hot water starts to run out about three minutes in, but it’s enough time to give himself a quick scrub. Then he gets out and dries himself off before reaching for his clothes. They aren’t on the back of the toilet where he could have sworn that he left them. He wonders if he had left them out by the sofa and forgotten about it.

With a sigh, he wraps a towel around his waist and heads back out into the loft. Just outside the bathroom, sitting on Derek’s bed, is Peter. He’s holding Stiles’ clothes in his lap. Stiles lets out a yelp and nearly falls over backwards. “Oh my God!”

Peter tilts his head to one side and gives him a look. “Why do you always wear plaid?”

“What business of that is – oh my God, you totally came into the bathroom while I was in the shower, do you have any idea how creepy you are, ugh, give me my clothes.”

“What will you do to get them?” Peter asks, smirking.

“Well, I have all sorts of ideas that involve fire and wolfsbane and mistletoe, but – ”

Peter moves so fast that all Stiles manages to do is stumble backwards a few steps before he’s pinned up against the wall with one of Peter’s hands pressed flat against his chest. The tips of his claws dig in, just a little, and Stiles lets out a hiss that’s mostly pain before Peter’s mouth is on his. It’s another one of those hot, demanding kisses, and Stiles sinks into it, opening his mouth to let Peter in. One hand desperately clutches at the towel, but the other comes up to – he’s not sure, but to do something, he aims vaguely to tangle it in Peter’s hair, but then Peter has him by the wrist and slams it against the wall.

“Ow, motherfucker,” Stiles protests, and then Peter’s mouthing at the side of his neck, all teeth and tongue, biting hard enough to leave bruises. “Ohhhhfuck,” Stiles breathes out, trying not to whimper. “Oh, fuck, you asshole. I said no biting.”

“You said don’t break the skin,” Peter murmurs, right in his ear, his teeth catching at Stiles’ earlobe and sending white-hot sparks down into his groin.

“What the hell,” Stiles chokes out, and he wonders what in God’s name is wrong with him. He can’t even begin to list all the ways that this doesn’t make sense, but he really, really wants it. “We can’t – in here – this is Derek’s room, he’ll – ”

“Shut up, Stiles,” Peter says, but he wrenches the teenager away from the wall and they stumble towards the door out into the rest of the loft. Well, Stiles stumbles. Peter is in perfect control, and Stiles suspects that he would land on his ass if not for the werewolf half-guiding, half-forcing his steps backwards. They fetch up against the door with enough force that it almost knocks the wind out of him, and he lets out a little grunt. Peter’s hand behind his head keeps him from concussing himself, as the werewolf twines his fingers through Stiles’ hair.

Somehow Stiles keeps the towel through all of it, which he thinks is probably some sort of miracle. Then Peter opens the door with his free hand and Stiles falls through it, landing flat on his back on the floor of the living room. Peter controls the fall enough that it’s only mildly painful, but Stiles knows he isn’t going to be going anywhere with Peter’s weight squarely on top of him.

“Unnnh, get off me,” he gasps out, but he isn’t really fighting back as Peter works his teeth and tongue along Stiles’ collarbone. Stiles tilts his head back and makes another grab for Peter’s hair. His wrists are unceremoniously knocked aside again. “Jerk,” he chokes out, and Peter responds by rolling his hips against Stiles’. The teenager makes a shocked little noise as his body gives an uncoordinated spasm.

“Very nice,” Peter says into the crook of Stiles’ shoulder, and grinds forward again.

“Oh,” Stiles says weakly, unable to muster anything more articulate. “Oh, fuck, you bastard, this is so wrong – ”

“Do you want me to stop?” Peter asks. His body eases off Stiles just the tiniest fraction. “Tell me to stop and I will.”

“Oh, God, shut up,” Stiles retorts, straining upward for more contact. He’s suddenly, abstractly glad that Derek’s towels are soft and fluffy. Otherwise he’s pretty sure he would be getting a really weird sort of rugburn in a really awkward place. And he somehow hates Peter even more for giving him the option of backing out, like now he can’t quite avoid the fact that he wants this, that he’s a willing participant despite how rough Peter is being. “Shut up, shut up,” he repeats, even though Peter didn’t say anything else, and tries to grab Peter by the hips and pull him down again. Peter pins his wrists down again. “God, let me – ”

“No,” Peter breathes out, right into his ear, and Stiles lets out a frustrated whine that’s cut off when Peter’s hips roll against his again. Then he can’t do anything, Peter has him pinned down in pretty much every way. All he can do is writhe underneath Peter’s weight, struggling for purchase, trying to get in some sort of rhythm. Finally, Peter gives him at least that much, letting Stiles buck his hips upward in a steady, rocking motion that has him making choked little noises in the back of his throat.

“And you wanted me to give your clothes back,” Peter murmurs, and then kisses him hard, biting down on his lip, and Stiles comes with a strangled shout. Peter’s weight keeps him pinned all the way through it, but by the time he’s starting to recover, it’s gone. He lays there on the floor for another minute with the towel still draped over his waist, bunched up in places and considerably more sticky than it had been before. His body is still giving those little post-orgasmic shudders, but his breathing is steadying out.

It’s almost five minutes before the jelly in his legs solidifies back into muscles, and he manages to get to his feet. “Peter?” he calls out, uncertain, holding the towel around himself for no particular reason. But the loft appears to be empty. Peter is nowhere to be seen. “God, I can’t even count all the ways you’re such a fucking asshole,” Stiles says to nobody. He heads into Derek’s bedroom to get his clothes. He’ll have to take the towel with him, and wash it, or maybe just burn it and buy Derek a new one.

He catches a glimpse of himself in a mirror on the way by, and actually stops, startled. He looks wrecked, disheveled and thoroughly fucked out, with strings of red-purple bruises down his neck and collarbone, lips swollen and hair a disaster. He’s pretty sure that he has never, in his seventeen years and change of existence, looked anything like that.

“Not really how I figured that would happen,” he mutters, gathering up his clothes. He’s going to have to find excuses not to be seen anywhere by anyone for the next few days. He suddenly feels the flu coming on. He makes a mental note to try to figure out exactly how far one has to go before they’re no longer a virgin in supernatural terms. Peter might never have touched or even seen his dick, but he’s not feeling very virginal at the moment. That sort of thing is important to know in Beacon Hills.

He slowly pulls himself together and puts on his clothes.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles sometimes wonders if the Beacon Hills supernatural world has some sort of newsletter they get from the school about when he has tests and/or big assignments due. It seems like every time he’s got a project that needs to be finished, some bizarre denizen of the night pops up to make his life hell. It’s vaguely funny the first few times, and then it starts to get annoying.

“Because Shakespeare, that’s why!” he snarls at Derek when the werewolf asks why he’s late.

“What play?” Peter asks.

“Othello.”

“One of my favorites,” Peter murmurs.

“It would be,” Stiles mutters darkly. He’s determined not to even look at Peter if he can help it. Isaac’s already talking about some weird glowing lights he saw, and there’s a general debate over what they might be before finally they decide to go try to take a look at them. “Aliens,” is Stiles’ opinion, but nobody’s asked for his opinion.

“You should stay here,” Derek says.

Normally Stiles might argue – glowing lights, for fuck’s sake – but if he stays behind, he can keep working on his paper. “Okay, sure, fine,” he says, “but take Creepeter with you. I don’t want to be stuck with him again.”

“Don’t be such an infant,” Derek retorts.

“Derek – ” Stiles protests, but the others are already on their way out the door. “Ugh, why,” he says, already seeing Peter’s considering gaze on him. “You,” he says, and points to the table and chairs on the other side of the room. “Sit. Stay. I have work to do.”

“Woof,” Peter says, in that amused, snarky tone he gets. He hauls himself up to sit on the table. Stiles tries not to look at the gap between his legs, the inseam of his jeans. “So. What’s your paper on?”

“It’s about a manipulative asshole who lies to everyone around him, exploits their weaknesses, and is generally a gigantic bag of dicks,” Stiles says. “Sound familiar?”

Peter’s smirking. “I do like Iago.”

“You would,” Stiles says. “Now shut up.” He takes out his laptop and sets it down on the table, getting back to what he was doing before the glow cloud had descended to fuck up his day. Surprisingly, Peter actually obeys. He picks up a book of his own and stays where he is. It adds a kind of silent tension to the room. Having him there but not doing anything is maddening. Stiles almost wishes they could start making out, if only so he could stop wondering when it was going to happen.

It’s been over a month since their last encounter, and he’s done his best to put it out of his mind, which is to say that he only jerks off to the memories three or four times a week, rather than three or four times a night. It had been difficult keeping what had happened from everyone, but somehow he had managed it. He just doesn’t want to hear what they would have to say about it.

On the occasions when he and Peter have been forced to interact, Peter just acts like his usual self, and Stiles tries not to let anyone catch him looking at Peter’s ass.

After a while, he forgets that Peter’s there, or at least is able to ignore him. Supernatural fireflies and creepy zombie werewolves aside, a third of his English grade depends on this paper, and he means to make it a good one. He startles back to awareness when he hears Peter’s feet thump to the floor as the werewolf gets off the table. He firmly does not look over to see what he’s doing or where he’s going. As far as he’s concerned, Peter doesn’t even exist.

So when he feels Peter’s fingertips trail across the back of his neck, he jumps so hard that he nearly flails his way out of his chair. “Oh my God!” He turns and glares at the werewolf. “Go away, I’m working.”

“Mm, I see,” Peter says. “Put it away.”

“What, I’m sorry, I think I just heard you telling me what to do, and let’s list all the ways that isn’t acceptable to me,” Stiles says. In response, Peter leans over his shoulder, one arm coming around so his forearm is rather uncomfortably snug across Stiles’ throat. The other starts fiddling with the buttons on Stiles’ shirt. Stiles determinedly ignores him, continuing to type.

“I’m bored,” Peter says.

“That’s swell,” Stiles says. “I’m busy.”

Peter leans down, his teeth scraping over the back of Stiles’ neck, and the teenager holds back a shudder. “You’re very tense,” he murmurs.

“Let’s try to work out why, you fu – ffff,” Stiles says, as Peter’s hands suddenly dig into his shoulders. “Oh. Ohhhh.” He can’t help it. He is tense, is always tense these days, and the strength in Peter’s hands just makes him want to melt into a puddle on the floor. When was the last time he got a backrub? Never? Yeah, never sounds right. “You fucker.”

“Later,” Peter says. “If you ask nicely.”

“You’re the actual worst and I hate you, seriously, I hate everything about – right there,” Stiles gasps out, as Peter’s hands work on a particularly bad knot. “I hope you get hit by a bus and stuck between the wheels like some Loony Tune, I hope you fall into a meat grinder and come out as paste, I hope you – nnnnnhkg. Okay.”

“Do you know why I like you, Stiles?” Peter asks.

“Actually, I have no clue,” Stiles pants, “and I don’t want to know, so just, just stop talking and keep doing what you’re doing.”

“Because you’re not afraid of me,” Peter says. “You never hesitate to tell me exactly what you think. It’s very refreshing.”

“Are you kidding, nobody around here is afraid of you, maybe they used to be, but now you’re jut some zombie werewolf has-been that Derek keeps around out of some weirdly misplaced guilt – ” Stiles’ words break off as Peter’s hand closes around his throat.

“I could kill you right now,” Peter reminds him.

“But you won’t,” Stiles chokes out.

“Mm. And why not?”

“Because – you like me, remember?”

Peter laughs and releases him. He walks across the loft to the fridge, getting himself a beer. Stiles stays where he is, gasping for breath and trying to regain his equilibrium. “I don’t get this,” he complains.

“Sex isn’t rocket science, Stiles.”

“No, but you having it with me is pretty God damned weird,” Stiles says. “I mean . . . why?”

Peter sighs, that put-upon sort of ‘why must I put up with people whose intellect can’t compete’ sigh. “Wouldn’t answering that take the fun out of it?”

“God, you’re such an asshole,” Stiles says, letting his head drop back against the armchair and closing his eyes. “I’m five hundred percent done with your bullshit for tonight. You can play with your new fucktoy some other time.”

Everything’s quiet for a long minute. He can hear Peter moving around in the kitchenette, and for once Peter doesn’t reply to him. Stiles rubs a hand over his face and tries to calm down enough that he’ll be able to get back to his schoolwork. Then, quite abruptly, Peter’s hand is on his inner thigh and there’s rough pressure against his groin. He lets out a yelp despite himself and his eyes fly open to find Peter on his knees in front of the chair, nosing at Stiles’ cock, half-hard underneath his pants. “What the actual fuck, Peter – ”

“Shut up,” Peter says, his eyes wolf-bright blue. He’s working on Stiles’ belt, his movements deliberate, unhurried.

“I don’t, don’t think this is how sexual assault works,” Stiles says through numb lips. He sees Peter roll his eyes. “No, I just, I mean, never thought I’d see you on your knees, I, heh, oh my God,” he stammers as Peter undoes the button and zipper of his jeans. “Like, you seem the type that would never, am I right?”

“You don’t understand the positions of power,” Peter remarks casually. “To you, it looks like I’m on my knees. But I have you completely at my mercy. I could do anything I wanted to you, and even if you could stop me, you won’t.”

“How very Machiavelliiiiiiii,” Stiles moans as Peter lifts him up enough to yank his pants and boxers down to where they bunch around his thighs. “Oh,” he says, as Peter wraps a hand around him, strokes him slow and easy. “Ohhh. Fuck.” He’s not going to give Peter the satisfaction of hearing him beg. “At your mercy, my pasty white ass,” he says, and puts a hand over his mouth, biting down on his knuckles to hold back the whimpers. There would be plenty of them otherwise. He strains upwards into Peter’s grip, trying to get more contact.

Peter’s other hand snakes out and grabs his wrist, pulling his hand away from his mouth. “No cheating now,” he admonishes, the bastard. Stiles bites down on his lips instead, but Peter’s tongue flicking over the head of his cock prompts a strangled gasp. His hips jerk upwards, and Peter just laughs at him. “I like the way your toes curl,” he says, glancing down at Stiles’ bare feet.

“Unnnnnh,” Stiles pants, “can you, can you not use your mouth for talking right now?”

Peter just laughs again, and leans down to lick at Stiles’ cock in slow, lazy strokes. Stiles’ eyes flutter shut and his body arches upwards despite his best efforts. Peter doesn’t try to keep him pinned this time except for holding his wrists, so he winds up thrashing around on the chair. “Oh, God, you son of a bitch, you suck,” Stiles says.

“Your wish is my command,” Peter says, and Stiles can hear him smirking before he goes down and takes Stiles all the way into his mouth, then pulls back in one long suck. He makes a high, whining noise in the back of his throat, and thinks randomly that it’s a good thing he’s not invested in impressing Peter or anything, because he’s pretty sure he’s going to come any second now.

He actually lasts about thirty, swearing vigorously and mindlessly the entire time because that keeps him from moaning too much. Then he’s shaking apart and coming in Peter’s mouth while the wolf has him pinned to the chair with one broad hand against his stomach.

Afterwards, he’s lying there liquid and boneless, letting out small, hitching gasps as he comes down from it. “Mm,” Peter says, sitting down on the coffee table across from him. “I do enjoy taking you apart, Stiles.”

“Get bent,” Stiles says weakly, closes his eyes, and waits until Peter’s gone. It doesn’t take long.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

He never gets to see Peter come, and that starts to annoy him after the fourth or fifth time the werewolf pins him down and has his way with him. Hell, he doesn’t even know if Peter is physically aroused or not, because he never gets anywhere near enough to tell. Peter just takes exactly what he pleases and then leaves Stiles with nothing, every single time.

Stiles can assume he’s enjoying it, or else why do it, but he doesn’t know, and Peter never lets him touch, never lets him take. It’s about control, and Stiles knows it. Peter will always be in control of the situation, and it doesn’t matter that Stiles is the one having an orgasm; Peter is the one getting off.

 And of course, it’s not like there’s anyone he can talk to about it. Scott is, well – Stiles loves him like a brother and he knows that Scott is a lot smarter than people give him credit for, but sometimes, he’s just oblivious. And in this situation, Stiles would prefer to keep him that way. Derek probably doesn’t even realize Stiles has a dick, and Stiles will in no way be discussing what his zombie uncle is doing with it. His father would freak at the concept of Stiles having sex with anyone, let alone someone like Peter.

Sometimes he thinks Lydia knows, if only because Lydia’s the smartest person on the planet, and because, well, she knows him pretty well. But if she does know, she doesn’t say anything, and he’s not going to be the one to bring it up.

So he’s stuck fuming in silence, and pretty much every time something happens, he spends the next several days lecturing himself on why it’s never going to happen. The worst part is, he’s pretty sure that Peter knows it bothers him, and that only amuses the older man more. He’s stopped being quite as subtle in his . . . appreciation of Stiles when the others are around. He’ll run his fingers across the back of Stiles’ neck when walking by, lean into his personal space, and on one memorable occasion while they were all gathered around the table, put his foot in Stiles’ lap.

Stiles can’t stop him, and a part of him doesn’t want to stop him, and on the whole, he’s confused and pissed off, but every time he tries to smack Peter upside the head, they wind up making out, which is counterproductive at best. He knows that for Peter, this is all part of the game. The fear of being discovered just intensifies the high.

It’s not that Stiles is ashamed of it – well, not exactly. Peter is damned attractive, and to a certain extent, Stiles’ ego is actually increased by the fact that Peter is not only having sex with him, but initiating it every time. And it’s not like they have an actual relationship – there is no universe in which he can picture the two of them out on a date, let alone having feelings for each other that are not either a) grudging respect, b) intense loathing, or c) in his pants.

He just knows that the others wouldn’t approve, and he doesn’t feel like being lectured. He’s eighteen now, so he can have sex with whoever he wants. Peter is using him, okay, yes, but, well. Stiles is enjoying it. A lot. Or at least most of it. It seems to be a pretty even trade.

Of course, that doesn’t mean that there are occasions when he still wants to beat Peter’s face in. Like the time they wind up fighting kelpies and all crash back at Derek’s loft wet, chilled, and exhausted. The werewolves are all fine; their healing has kept them warm and they don’t seem bothered by their wet clothing. Stiles, however, is shivering and annoyed.

When the others ignore his discomfort to start tallying up the kelpie attacks to see if they think they got them all, Stiles announces loudly, “I’m going to go change,” and then slams his way up the stairs, to where there’s a spare room. He takes a spare set of clothes out of his backpack and grabs a towel from the bathroom. “Go away,” he says, as soon as he hears footsteps.

Peter tsks. “Keep that up and I’ll think you don’t like me anymore,” he says.

“Gee, where would you get that idea?” Stiles stops with his T-shirt half over his head. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all,” Peter says, sitting down in one of the few rickety chairs in the room, resting his chin on his hands with the obvious intention of watching Stiles change.

Stiles groans, pulls his shirt over his head, and chucks it in Peter’s face. “The others will notice that you’re gone,” he points out.

“Well, they certainly won’t look for me up here,” Peter replies. “After all, they know you’re up here changing. They’ll just figure I wandered off.”

This is true. It annoys Stiles, but he’s well-acquainted with Peter’s tendency to come and go whenever he wants, often without notifying anybody that he’s leaving. “Well, I don’t need an audience and I certainly don’t need your help, so how about you get out?” he suggests. He already knows it’s a lost cause. Peter’s going to do whatever Peter wants to do. His heart is already racing, and he knows that Peter can hear it.

“Mm hm,” Peter says. He hangs Stiles’ wet shirt on the back of his chair and starts towards the teenager, every move slow, predatory. Stiles undoes his belt and slides his pants down, trying to ignore Peter watching him, feeling the anticipation build up in his stomach, a feeling that’s both pleasant and unpleasant at the same time. Then Peter has him by the wrist and shoves him up against the wall. Instead of going in for a kiss, he leans in and starts licking the water that has beaded on Stiles’ neck.

“You’d better be quick,” he says, right into Stiles’ ear, as one hand comes down to cup over the bulge in Stiles’ wet boxer briefs and give it a squeeze. “They’ll wonder where you went if you take too long.”

Stiles’ breath catches in his throat. “P-Peter,” he says, “c’mon, they’ll hear.”

“Then be quiet,” Peter says, working the tips of his fingers underneath the waistband of Stiles’ underwear.

Stiles swallows a whimper. “Put your hand over my mouth,” he pants.

Peter laughs at him. “No.”

“C’monnnnn,” Stiles says, trying to stop his body from shuddering into Peter’s grip. His knees are starting to feel a little shaky. He tilts his head back so Peter can move his mouth along the cords in his neck.

“Say the magic word,” Peter tells him, teeth closing on Stiles’ ear.

“Nnnngh, now, you asshat,” Stiles says, barely swallowing a more virulent curse as Peter wraps a hand around him and squeezes hard.

Peter lays two fingers over Stiles’ mouth. His gaze is fixed on Stiles. “Is this what you want?” he asks, one of them easing Stiles’ lower lip down.

“Hah,” Stiles says, more of an expulsion of breath than a word. “Y-Yeah.” He lets Peter slide the fingers into his mouth, closes his teeth on them, sucks hard. His eyes roll back in his head as Peter works him into a rhythm, holding all his weight now, keeping him pinned against the wall. A hand job shouldn’t feel so good, he doesn’t think, but the contrast between the warmth of Peter’s hand and the clamminess of his underwear still clinging to him plus the thrill of knowing the others are right downstairs, that they could hear him, has him twisting and shuddering in less than a minute. He knows better at this point than to try to get his hands on anything Peter considers important, but claws at his back anyway, twisting his hands in the fabric of Peter’s shirt, holding back his moans with sheer force of desperate will.

He bites down on Peter’s fingers as he comes, as hard as he can, and he hears Peter gives a hiss that sounds like as much pleasure as pain. It’s immensely satisfying, and his body gives another writhing shudder as Peter strokes him through his climax.

Somehow, he winds up sitting on the floor, feeling relaxed and boneless and just really, really good.

“Better get downstairs,” Peter says, laughing at him. “The others will be wondering where you are.”

Instead of a witty comeback, Stiles just gives a little groan because his brain has officially turned off, and he doesn’t even care.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

“Okay, first things first,” Stiles says, as soon as the door closes behind Scott and the others. “No shenanigans tonight. I’m not in the fucking mood.” He realizes as soon as that came out of his mouth that he probably shouldn’t have used the modifier. Peter’s eyebrows quirk up, amused. “Shut up. I’m not dealing with your bullshit today.”

“Rough day?” Peter asks.

“Wow, so you do know how to fake concern, I’m super impressed with you, shut up.” Stiles drops his backpack on the floor with a thump. It has been a rough day. First he had gotten in an argument with his father, mostly because he had snuck a look at his cholesterol test results. They weren’t, well, bad, but they weren’t great either. He had tried to bring it up, and that had led to an argument about privacy versus concern, and his father had finally put his foot down and said ‘if I’m not allowed to be worried about you and butt my nose in, you can’t do it to me, either’.

Which is fair, at least to a certain extent. His father knows about the supernatural stuff now, so they don’t have to have arguments about lying, but he thinks that Stiles shouldn’t be involved, so they have arguments about that instead. Stiles tells his father that he would love not to be involved, if everything would stop messing with his supernatural friends, that would be great. His father counters that he could at least be a little more careful, and usually the argument ends with both of them fuming in frustrated silence.

After that, Scott had – finally – left his Allison-induced haze long enough to notice the bruises on Stiles’ wrists from his last encounter with Peter. They’re fading, he’s kept them covered by wearing long-sleeves, but just when he thought he was home free, Scott noticed. When Stiles didn’t want to talk about them, Scott went off on one of his impassioned, ‘I’m just worried about you’ speeches, which Stiles cut off with an angry retort about ‘oh now you’re worried’ and that argument had ended badly, too.

On top of all that, trolls underneath bridges, why is this his life, and now he’s stuck with Peter and he’s pissed off about everything.

“I know something that might help with your stress level,” Peter says, tilting his head to one side and giving Stiles that little smirk.

Stiles glares back. “No.”

Peter advances on him slowly, but Stiles refuses to give any ground. “You know that there’s no point in lying,” Peter reminds him. “I can smell the want on you.”

“Smell this,” Stiles snarls, and aims a punch right at Peter’s face. Predictably, Peter grabs him by the wrist before he can connect, spinning him around and pushing him up against the wall. He can feel Peter’s forearm across the back of his neck, keeping him pinned there, and he struggles but it doesn’t do any good. Peter’s strength is far superior.

“Is this what you want?” Peter asks, right into his ear. “Do you want me to force you? Would that make you feel better, like you’re an innocent victim, like you never wanted this in the first place?”

“Yeah,” Stiles pants into the wall, “but if you do that, for once you’re going to have to use your dick as well as mine.” He tries to push back against Peter, but the werewolf won’t let him. He doesn’t have the leverage. “Come on, give it to me, why won’t you, is it tiny? Is that the problem, do you have a three-inch dick? Is it erectile dysfunction? I could score some Viagra for you, probably – ”

Peter snarls at him and spins him around, catching his mouth in a bruising kiss. Stiles moans into it, surrenders completely with his mouth, but still tries to thrust his hips forward, trying to feel Peter’s body against his. Peter pulls back, both hands clenched in Stiles’ shirt, and throws him down onto the floor. Stiles hits the hard concrete with a grunt and tries to push himself up to his hands and knees, but Peter’s already on top of him, and won’t let him. He pushes Stiles shirt up so it bunches underneath his armpits, running his hands up and down the smooth skin of his back. Stiles can feel the tips of his claws scratching at his spine, and he lets out another groan.

“What are you going to do from back there?” he gasps out, pressing himself harder into the floor so Peter can’t get to his groin.

“I can be creative,” Peter says, kissing and biting his way down Stiles’ spine until he gets to his pants, where he considers for a moment before mouthing at the cleft of Stiles’ ass through the fabric.

“Oh, fuck,” Stiles says, feeling all the fight go out of him pretty much instantly. His back arches despite himself, which allows Peter to get his hands underneath his body and undo his belt and his pants. He yanks them down without ceremony, pulls them off entirely, and throws them to the side.

Somehow he winds up on his hands and knees, bracing himself on the sofa, and he’s not even sure how he got there, let alone when Peter had the time to go find some lube. “Why did you even, ugh, I don’t wanna know,” Stiles manages, pressing his face into the fabric of the couch. “Oh, Jesus,” he says, a small whine escaping his throat as he feels Peter’s fingers, now claw-free, pushing into him. “I still want your dick,” he gasps out.

“Some other time, perhaps,” Peter says, but his voice is a little rougher than usual, and Stiles decides he’ll take that as a victory. He just moans and pushes back against Peter’s fingers, bending and arching until Peter finds the right spot and he chokes out new profanities. Peter makes a pleased noise in the back of his throat as Stiles’ entire body jerks gracelessly beneath him. He pushes in another finger, and Stiles’ hands curl around one of the cushions, gripping so tightly that his knuckles are turning white.

He tries to say something, although he’s not sure what – faster, harder, more – but all that comes out is, “Unnnnh,” in a little half-sob, and he arches back against Peter as the older man works them into a rhythm, lingering at just the right moment every time. Stiles presses his face into the cushion and comes so hard that his vision goes black around the edges.

Peter’s laughing at him as he basically oozes off the sofa and onto the floor. He lays there for a long moment, catching his breath, completely sated and unable to move, he feels so amazing. Then Peter, as always, stands up to go. He never sticks around afterwards, no matter what else is going on.

It takes every ounce of willpower that Stiles has ever possessed, but as Peter steps past him, he rolls onto his side, grabs the werewolf by the ankle, and yanks hard. If he had been expecting it, he might have been able to keep his feet, but it’s probably the last thing he anticipated Stiles doing. He lands hard on his back with a grunt and Stiles is on him, pressing his hand into Peter’s groin and feeling the unmistakable hardness of the older man’s cock beneath it.

“Hah!” he says, just before Peter hits him so hard that his head snaps around and he goes rolling several feet away. It doesn’t dampen his glee. He sits up, pressing a hand against his cheek, which is already swelling. “I knew you were getting off on this.”

“Then there was no need to check,” Peter says coldly.

Stiles just grins at him. “You can’t stand the idea of coming in front of me. The idea that I might take you apart the same way you do to me. The idea that you might lose control.”

“Are you done?” Peter asks.

“No. Let me jerk you off.”

Peter gives him an unimpressed look. “Honestly, Stiles,” he says. “You should do some thinking about what exactly you think you’re going to get from me. Because that isn’t it.”

“Maybe not today,” Stiles says, as Peter walks out of the loft. “But we’ll see.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Less than two hours later is when Stiles decides he’s done taking Peter’s bullshit. As it happens, it’s a confrontation with his father that leads to this decision. Sheriff Stilinski predictably hits the roof when he sees the massive bruise and swelling on Stiles’ face. Stiles tries to pass it off as some supernaturally-oriented injury.

“I thought we were done with lies,” his father says, giving him that look that’s a mixture of confusion and disappointment, and Stiles can’t fucking stand that, so he tells his father the truth. Not all the truth – but he tells his father that he’s having sex with someone, someone older, and he doesn’t want to say who because he doesn’t want anyone in trouble. His father reminds him that he’s eighteen now, so there wouldn’t be legal trouble, but Stiles persists, saying that it’s supernatural stuff and there are – complications – and his father lets it go. He tells his father that sometimes things get a little rough but it’s always mutual, and he’s enjoyed every bruise.

There is no universe in which Sheriff Stilinski wants to know that much about his son’s sex life, but he listens, and they talk a little about what’s a healthy coping mechanism for his extremely frustrating, exciting life, and what isn’t. Stiles promises his father that he’s being safe, and promises to come to him if things get out of hand.

Scott calls him not long after that to tell him how it went with the trolls, and Stiles apologizes for snapping at him, and Scott says he’s already forgiven him, and they’re bros again, so that’s okay.

Now it’s only Peter that he has to deal with. He doesn’t want to stop having sex with him – and doesn’t even think he necessarily should – he just wants Peter to stop being a manipulative asshole.

So the next time there are bad guys in town, about three weeks later, and Stiles is summarily called to Derek’s loft, he walks in, views the gathered assembly, and makes his move.

He walks right over to Peter and kisses him on the mouth.

Peter is so surprised that he doesn’t even react until Stiles pulls away and says, “Hi.”

“Dude!” Scott says, staring in what looks like horror. “What was that?”

“Oh, I’m just kissing Peter hello,” Stiles says. “I figured it’s a thing we should do now, since we’ve been having sex for like three months,” he adds, and everyone stares at him. “Yeah, all those times I said ‘don’t leave me alone with Peter?’ We had sex pretty much every single time while you were gone.”

“Dude,” Scott repeats, faintly, while Peter just looks at Stiles with arched eyebrows. “He’s twice your age! He dated my mother!”

“Oh, get over it, Scott, he only did that to threaten you,” Stiles says, and when he sees Peter open his mouth, probably to offer his opinion on Melissa McCall’s attractiveness, he hastily continues. “Yeah, apparently I’m attracted to creepy middle-aged men. It’s been quite a journey of self-discovery, trust me.”

“You never cease to amaze me,” Peter murmurs.

Stiles smirks at him. “Thought I’d keep it a secret forever? You thought I was ashamed? Hell no. You’re hot. I think I’m going to make posters and hang them at my high school.”

Derek glowers at both of them. “Must you do that here?” he asks.

“Uh, yeah,” Stiles says. “Since pretty much every time I told you not to leave me here with him, you called me a baby, yeah, I think we’re gonna do this right here, right now. And if you don’t like it, that’s your problem.” He hooks a thumb in Peter’s belt loop and pulls him in for another kiss. This time, Peter returns it with his usual hunger.

“Oh, gross,” Cora says. “I’m outta here.”

“Right there with you,” Isaac says, and the two of them head for the door.

“Have fun!” Allison calls out over her shoulder, pulling Scott along with her as he lets out another faint, ‘dude!’

Derek is the last to go, giving them another sour look as he slams the door behind him with much more force than could possibly be considered necessary. Stiles walks forward slowly, until the back of Peter’s knees hit the couch and he winds up sitting down. Surprisingly, Peter allows this, although his smirk is just as amused as ever. “Do you know why I like you, Stiles?” Peter asks, as the teenager climbs onto the couch and settles astride his lap.

“Because I’m not afraid of you, remember?” Stiles asks.

Peter gives a little shrug as Stiles’ hands start working on his belt. “Because you’re one of the few people I’ve ever met who can still surprise me.”

“Cool,” Stiles says, getting the belt out of the way and starting in the button and zipper. “Are you gonna take my hands off for this?”

“Mm,” Peter says, considering. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Even cooler.” Stiles doesn’t want to kiss Peter or do anything that might somehow make this an intimate moment. He just sits back on Peter’s thighs, with one of Peter’s hands on the small of his back to support him, and wraps a hand around Peter, drawing him out of his pants. “Well, it certainly isn’t tiny,” he observes. “You won’t be needing that Viagra, either.”

“You talk too much,” Peter murmurs.

“Earth to kettle, come in, kettle, this is the pot calling. This just in: you’re black.”

Peter gets a hand on the back of Stiles’ neck and pulls him in for one of those harsh, bruising kisses. Stiles lets him, works his hand up and down Peter’s cock until Peter lets him go and he winds up gasping for breath. Peter isn’t out of breath at all. He could be watching television rather than getting a handjob, for all that the current events show on his face. As always, Peter is perfectly in control. Even his hips are perfectly still, despite what Stiles is doing to him.

Stiles works him slow and easy, then hard and fast. He varies the pace, changing things up every time he can feel the tension in Peter’s body beneath him start to grow. Peter never protests, never growls at him, but little things give him away. His pupils are blown wide; he can’t control that, and his hips might be still but his cock is twitching in Stiles’ grip, slick with precome that Stiles gathers with his thumb every third or fourth stroke.

“You know,” Peter says, and his voice wobbles just the tiniest bit. “You are every bit the sadist that I’ve trained you to be.”

Stiles smirks at him. “You didn’t train me to be anything. I’m like this naturally.”

“Is that so,” Peter says, and then he’s coming in Stiles’ hands, body arching involuntarily. He doesn’t make a sound, but one hand grips the arm of the sofa, claws digging into the fabric. He tilts his head back so it’s resting against the back of the couch and lets out a long, slow breath.

“And that,” Stiles says, “is what you get for being an asshole.”

“Quite a punishment,” Peter says.

Stiles swings his leg over Peter’s thighs and stands up. “Well, on that note, I’m going – ”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, never expected to finish the sentence, before Peter grabs him by the wrist and pulls him back down. “You,” he says, “are not going anywhere.” He leans in close and nips at his ear. “I’m nowhere near done with you yet.”

Stiles’ eyes flutter shut. “Bring it, asshole,” he says. “I’m ready for you.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~