Peter lounges comfortably on his couch, a wine glass in hand and a pair of pajama pants hanging low on his hips. It's late enough that even his upstairs neighbor, the one who thinks he's got musical talent but really does not, has gone to sleep, and Peter takes a sip from his glass as he watches Quentin Collins melodramatically descend into insanity.
Derek had barged in hours earlier, demanding Peter help him fight a hoard of fairies in the heart of the preserve. Peter laughed in his face while simultaneously slamming the door in it. Peter has tangled with fairies before, and it will be a cold day in hell before he does it again. Just give them the damn tree or whatever the hell their crazy little minds want and call it a day. But of course Derek won't, because Derek never learns, and the tree is probably his favorite pouting tree or scratching post or some other similarly ridiculous thing.
Ordinarily, Peter might go just for the sheer entertainment of watching Derek and his merry band of teenagers fall ass over elbows.
But again, fairies.
Peter is on his second glass of wine, and Quentin is begging Magda for help, when there's a pounding knock at his door. Peter frowns, and contemplates not answering. The knock comes again, short and aggressive. Obviously, Derek has returned for round two and Peter wouldn't put it past him to actually break his door down. Peter likes his door right where it is. Fine.
He pads barefoot to the door, wineglass still in hand, and, because he is no spring chicken, checks the peephole. He jerks his head back, glares suspiciously at the peephole, then puts his eye back to it. Well. Definitely not Derek.
Peter undoes the deadbolt and opens the door to reveal Chris Argent waiting on the other side. He has one hand braced on the top of the door frame, and when the door opens his body sways in toward the room before he straightens back up. Peter's nose is assaulted by the smell of the woods, and pitch, and fire, with the underlying note of something so sickly sweet he's caught between skittering back and inhaling deeper. The wood scent, though...that means Chris has likely been with Derek and company.
“Well, my nephew really was dropped on his head as a baby if he somehow thinks you can convince me when he couldn't. Please feel free to tell him that. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm in the middle of a very intimate date with my television.”
Chris' hand tightens on the door frame, causing the muscles in his arm to bunch and the veins to stand out in stark relief. He shakes his head. “It's finished. I got the kids out. Sealed the gateway.” The words are broken, sentences bitten out, and his chest is heaving as he gulps in air. A fine trickle of sweat runs down the side of his face and his eyes aren't focusing on any one spot, are instead tracking repeatedly over Peter's bare chest, up to the hollow of his throat, and back down to the divots of his hips.
Peter would be smugly flattered if he weren't aware Chris is most likely making note of all the places he can stab a blade.
“Lovely. Then why are you here?”
Chris takes him by surprise when instead of answering, he grinds his teeth and shoves his way inside. He has to push past Peter to do it, and an angry growl shivers out Chris' throat when their arms clash. He slams the door behind him and locks it – which immediately puts Peter on true guard for the first time that night – then spits out one word.
It all clicks into place then. The sticky burnt sugar smell, the sweat, the way Chris' entire body keeps straining forward like he wants to launch himself off the door. How his eyes have settled with laser like precision on the curve of Peter's neck and how Peter can suddenly scent drowning waves of lust rolling off of him, completely unchecked. He carefully sets his wine glass down on the entry way table and takes a step back.
“You got hit,” he breathes. “Chris Argent got hit with a damiana interitio bomb.”
Chris nods sharply, his tongue slipping out to run over his bottom lip as his gaze jumps to the motion of Peter's mouth. It's fascinating to see a man who is normally so strictly in control of himself come apart, piece by piece.
“Again, though, it does beg the question. Why are you here?”
“Because,” Chris grits out, one foot taking a dragging, unwilling step forward, “you are the closest acceptable thing that isn't underage.”
That, too, makes sense. Poor, virtuous, overly principled Chris Argent. Who would rather fuck the man who killed his sister than take advantage of the half a dozen hero worshiping teenagers under his care, most of whom would be more than happy – eager in some cases – to volunteer.
“Lucky for you, Argent, I know a bit about fairy magic.” He shudders dramatically, but it does nothing to pull Chris' focus away from his lips. “You've got hours before it actually kills you. Plenty of time to hunt down Melissa, or Marin, or even the Sheriff. I'm sure any of them will be willing to sacrifice themselves on the altar to save you from such a terrible fate. And bar that, there's always the red lantern district. Some very nice girls there, I hear.” He makes a shooing motion with his hand. “So hurry, hurry, poor little hunter.”
Chris shakes his head, his fingers balling into fists at his side as he takes another reluctant, halting step. The amount of restraint he's showing as he fights against the drives of his body sends an involuntary shiver down Peter's spine. But then, weakness has never been an Argent trait.
“No. They got me when I first broke through. Hours ago. But I had to--” He grimaces and hisses as his whole body jerks and now that he's looking, Peter can see his erection pressing hard against the confines of his pants. “--had to get the kids out first. Took a...took awhile to find them and then we had to fight our way through.”
It's impossible not to be impressed. It really is. That Chris has managed to fight the spell for hours, when every single instinct would have been pushing him to rut into the closest piece of flesh-- That is, after all, the whole point of the thing. Create so much primal chaos and confusion that a person can't even think about fighting. And not only had Chris fought, but he'd carried out a successful assault and escape from the fairy realm. Alive.
Peter makes a humming noise and cocks his head to one side. “And if I say no? You're not exactly my favorite person, Argent. It would probably be in my best interest to just let you die.”
There's a moment of vertigo as he finds himself shoved up against the wall, Chris' hands on either side of his head and his body pressed flush to pin him in place. Chris is strong, but he's not that strong; strength to strength Peter should easily be able to push him away. But before Peter can thrust him off, Chris buries his face in his neck, and Peter feels the hot, wet, swath of Chris' tongue, followed by the sting of teeth as Chris works his mouth against the tendon there. Peter's dick twitches, pressed against Chris' pelvis and the hard line of his own erection.
A shuddering, full body groan works its way out of Chris, pulled from deep within his belly. It vibrates through Peter, from where their bodies touch, but before he can fully dissect the sensation, Chris' mouth is gone from his neck. Chris stares at him intently, his eyes hooded and his pupils blown so wide that his irises are only a thin ring of sea green around the black.
“If you say no, I'll leave. Then I'll do whatever is necessary for me to live, however distasteful, because my child needs me. But then I will come back, and I will cut you in half, just like the rabid mongrel you are.” He smiles, sharp and vicious and full of teeth. “I think it would be in your best interest to help me live.”
Peter tsks, shaking his head, and there's a note of amusement in his voice when he speaks. “I'm fairly certain it doesn't count as informed consent when you threaten someone's life, Argent.”
“Let's not pretend this has anything to do with consent. For either of us.” Each word is bitten off, and the muscles in the arms bracketing Peter's head twitch and jump with the effort Chris is making to hold back. Peter wonders idly if another reason Chris came to him is due to the fact he knows Peter can withstand whatever violence will be unleashed once Chris finally loses control.
Chris leans in and puts his mouth next to Peter's ear. His voice is low and rough and full of a dark kind of confidence that makes Peter's canines sharpen and his half hard cock jump and harden further. “Don't worry, Peter. I'll make it good for you. Make up for you having to spread your legs for an Argent.”
And still he keeps his hands fisted against the wall. It takes Peter a second to realize the idiot really is doing his best to wait for some kind of verbal consent, as dubious and meaningless as it might be. He laughs, sharp and clear and maybe tinged with that little bit of true madness even resurrection can't shake off. “Well, then, what are we waiting for?”
He turns his face into Chris' and captures his mouth. It's defiance as well as capitulation, because he's well aware that not only is the intimacy of kissing not required to break the spell, but he's also certain it's an intimacy Chris would much rather avoid. He has no intention of making this comfortable for the Argent.
For a minute, Chris stands passive as Peter works his mouth, still except for the increasingly violent shivers that wrack his body. Then his hands are gripping Peter's face so hard his jawbones grind together, forcing his mouth open wider, so that there's no resistance when Chris fucks his tongue inside. There's violent desperation in his kiss, in the groan that Peter tastes, in the way he eats at Peter's mouth like he'll die without it.
Which, well –
It's not as flattering as it could be if that wasn't the exact truth of the matter, but Peter is quickly getting distracted from linear thought because it's turning out that Argent fucking knows how to kiss. Somewhere under that stick in the ass, daddy issue ridden exterior, he's been harboring a hidden talent for tongues and teeth and lips and taking apart a mouth, piece by piece. He scrapes his teeth along Peter's bottom lip, catches it in a bite and tugs at it, not satisfied until he rips a sound from Peter that Peter, at some point in the future, will likely be ashamed of. But Chris makes an approving noise at it, pushes hard on Peter's jaw so that his head knocks back against the wall so that Chris can get at his neck. He noses and nudges and bites, a relieved whine marking the moment his body latches onto the fact Chris is finally giving it what it craves. The bite is sharp, and violent, and Peter's vision loses focus as he unwillingly arches his neck for more.
It's a distinctly uncomfortable feeling, having his throat bared for an Argent – and for this Argent in particular - but whatever Peter's brain may think, his dick isn't getting the message. When Chris' thigh pushes tighter into his groin, there's no thought of not pushing back, of not grinding down to chase the friction just as hard as Chris' teeth are cutting into his neck. Chris' movement stutters in response, just a little, and then his hands are shoving beneath the waistband of Peter's pajama pants, curling tight around Peter's ass and heaving him higher up the wall.
“Fuck.” His breath is hot against Peter's neck, easing the sting of his bite into a stretching burn that's a different, if no less pleasurable, kind of pain. He squirms in Chris' hands, contradictory instincts warring (fight, flight, surrender) leaving him nowhere to go, and Chris' fingers flex spasmodically in reaction. He nips sharp at Peter's jaw, his ear, hands never still as he drags Peter repeatedly against him in a slow, insistent grind.
“Christ, your ass,” he whispers, and it's the frank admiration that shocks Peter into jerking his head down, to where he can see Chris' face. It's open and raw and the lack of any reserve or hesitation in the overriding lust there is jarring. Doesn't quite fit into what his mental picture of the hunter or what he'd expected of this moment. The fae's spell must have been strong, indeed, to overcome entirely Chris' ever present self-castigation and control.
Which will make it all the sweeter when the spell runs its course and Chris is inevitably left to face the fact he'd panted over Peter like a cat in heat. Chris may get to live, but Peter gets to win.
“Come on, Argent,” he jeers. Pushes. “You just gonna talk about it, or you gonna do something?”
Chris stills and raises his head. Blinks slow and languid over pupils blown wide. Runs his tongue over his bottom lip and studies Peter's face. Then one corner of his mouth curls up, sinuous and confident.
“Gonna do something, I think.”
Peter's face slams into the wall as Chris spins him around, one hand firm on his neck as the other rips his pajama pants from his hips, to fall around his ankles. Then fingers are biting into the globes of his ass, pulling his cheeks apart, and for one moment Peter thinks Chris has forgotten his earlier promise. Is planning to fuck him with no prep or care. Peter tenses, draws his muscles up as he braces for inevitable pain. Fuck Chris Argent. And fuck goddamn fairies. He's going to find that tree and burn it down.
There's a thud, then a warm gust of breath across his left ass cheek. He looks over his shoulder just in time to see Chris on his knees behind him. To see him sink his teeth into the meat of Peter's ass with a pleasure-pain sting. Peter surges involuntarily forward, banging his head against the wall with a choked down gasp, and then there's heat, and wet, and the rough of Chris' tongue as he swipes it flat across Peter's hole. There's nothing tentative or unsure in the way he buries his face in Peter's ass. In the way he murmurs and groans and grips Peter's hips to keep him still as he licks across him once more before curling his tongue and coaxing Peter's hole to let him wriggle inside. Peter bites his own tongue against the need to howl from the pleasure, and instead rolls his forehead against the wall as Chris mounts a tactical assault every bit as skilled as the real life hunts his family is infamous for.
And this is nowhere near to where he thought he'd be tonight. Chris stays on his knees for what feels like forever. Tasting and sucking and eating until Peter's ass is wet and loose and greedy for more than Chris' tongue, and he's clawing at the wall to keep the noise choked down, to keep from giving Chris the satisfaction. He wants Chris to chew on the humiliation of this necessity for a very long time.
But for all his talk of a code, Chris doesn't fight fair. Isn't content with the jerks and shivers of Peter's body to tell him he can take his pound of flesh. Instead he slips a hand around to Peter's dick, slides his thumb through the wetness dripping from its tip, and then wraps a tight hand around it as he continues to fuck his tongue into Peter. It's too much, all too much, and as much as Peter shreds through the Sheetrock, it doesn't stop his mouth from falling open.
Doesn't come anywhere close to stopping the desperate “Please,” that gurgles out.
Chris surges to his feet. He twists his fingers in Peter's hair, yanks his head back, and slams their mouths together. It's hungry and violent and trembling, and Peter can taste himself on Chris' tongue. He wouldn't have pegged Argent as a man to go straight from ass to mouth, and it's so filthy wrong that Peter forgets not to push into it. Forgets not to fist a hand in Chris' hair. Not to crane his neck further so he can tongue in deeper. Not to arch his back and press his ass into Chris' groin in blatant, needy invitation.
Chris' answering hiss is triumphant, and he spins Peter back around to face him. Peter, who is suddenly too naked, while Chris is still clothed. And that simply will not do. He presses his hands flat against Chris' chest and shoves. Chris stumbles back, and his expression is so betrayed, so pained, because he obviously thinks Peter has changed his mind, is backing out at the very last minute after dangling hope so cruelly close. Peter could almost laugh.
But Peter doesn't laugh, because he's beyond laughing. He just needs to re-establish the equilibrium. While giving them something they both can use. He takes two steps back, widening the gap between himself and where Chris is frozen in some kind of disbelieving horror, then smirks.
“Catch me, Argent.” He whirls and takes off across the apartment, hearing Chris spring into motion almost the second his back is to him.
He makes it to the bedroom door before Chris tackles him, the force of the blow propelling them into the room and bringing Peter to the ground. His face strikes the corner of the bed, causing fresh pain to bloom and his lip to split, and he tastes blood as Chris drags him up on the mattress and flips him to his back. He straddles Peter's hips, and Peter should not find the smug look on his face attractive. Peter is supposed to be the smug one. But the chase has done its job, has Chris' chest heaving and his nostrils flaring, and gotten them horizontal.
Chris' eyes flicker to Peter's mouth, and for half a second he thinks he sees concern before it's swallowed up in sheer lust again, and Chris' eyes burn so bright Peter feels the scorch of it against his skin. His hands are slow, deliberate, as they slide up Peter's arms and to his wrists. He pins them over Peter's head, but before Peter can do more than poise on that same brink between instinctual panic and gut wrenching arousal, Chris is leaning forward and licking across his bottom lip, tonguing into the bloody split in a flash of stinging pain that makes Peter's hips twist into the weight of Chris that holds him down.
Chris licks his own lip as he sits, the tiny fleck of blood that disappears into his mouth forcing a low grade curse from Peter.
“Argent,” he snips, “If you're planning on fucking me, get out of the clothes.”
Chris looks like he tries to smile, but can't quite manage it. He nods, sharp and short, then grabs the back of his shirt and pulls it over his head. Argent is...impressive. Men often use clothes to hide the softness middle age has given them, but not Argent. He's lean, and smoothly muscled, evidence of sweat and the understanding that his body is his most important tools. He has a scar across his collar bone, another one running the vertical length of his ribs, and a very old, almost invisible one sitting low across his abdomen - testaments to both his mortality and his ability to survive. Peter feels an uneasy kinship that he easily pushes aside.
His nipples are beaded tight, and when Peter flicks a thumbnail across one, Chris sucks in a sudden breath as it peaks even harder. He's going to get his mouth on them before the night is over. See what other noises he can pull out of Argent. See what they look like when they're shiny wet with his spit.
Chris' hands go to his belt, never taking his eyes from Peter's as he unbuckles it and the leather snakes through the loops with a dirty sound. It's intense – too intense – and Peter rolls his hips into Chris in an effort to break his concentration. It works in that a fresh wave of too sweet, overwhelming lust rolls off of Chris, his hands falter in their task, and his eyes fall shut. It doesn't work in that Chris rolls his hips right back, presses Peter back into the mattress to reach his mouth and tongues inside as one hand keeps shoving his jeans off his hips. It doesn't work in that Peter's hands join his, that he's just as frantic as Chris to get him unclothed and skin on skin.
Chris' mouth doesn't falter as they push and pull and struggle with the suddenly difficult task of undressing him, and when he has to pull back to finish the job, unlace his boots and fling them across the room, his curse is angry and frustrated and his eyes feverish. His chin and cheeks are red from Peter's goatee, and it looks good. Too good on a man who has occasionally tried to kill him.
Chris finally gets the damn pants off, and then he's kneeling over Peter, fully nude for the first time. There are more scars here, more evidence of a life spent face to face with death. Like Peter, he's uncut, curved and so hard his tip is purple where precum beads and slides. When Peter curls his fingers around him, he throws his head back, a guttural, broken sob howling out. The picture he makes in that moment – tendons stark and stretched, one hand fisted in the bedsheets and the other bruising Peter's thigh...body and mind completely given over to the dark lust pumping through his veins – is something Peter won't forget for a very long time.
The words stutter out of Chris, like each one is a battle to form, to verbalize. “Peter – I can't – I need to --”
“You need to fuck, Christopher,” Peter finishes simply.
Peter starts to point him to the side table drawer, to lube and other necessities, but then Chris is digging through the pocket of his discarded pants and extracting a small bottle of gun oil.
“Well aren't you a prepared little scout.” But Peter's voice is too graveled and strained to be properly snarky, and Chris ignores him entirely as he drizzles oil across his fingers and palm before setting the bottle aside. He fists his dick, slides his fingers around and over it. With the way his eyes flutter shut and the way he bites his lip, Peter almost, almost thinks Chris has even forgotten he's here before his eyes snap back open and focus entirely on Peter.
“Turn over,” he orders.
And really, it's probably better that way, so Peter obeys. He's barely on hands and knees before Chris' hands are sliding over his haunches, spreading cool oil that quickly warms under Chris' fingers. Before Chris is opening him up further, stretching him wider, mixing oil with spit. He's pushing back before he realizes it, hanging his head between trembling arms and mentally cursing Chris and fucking fairies with every name in the book. Except the curses start getting mixed up with verbal pleases and more and if you don't give me another finger right now, Argent, I'm going to rip your head off. Then Chris twists his wrists and crooks his fingers and Peter whines. He fucking whines.
“Argent!” He barks.
“Yeah. Yeah.” Chris' voice is sandpaper and velvet. Desperation and feral promise. So deep Peter can feel it vibrate through him. Then Chris' fingers are gone, and Peter feels empty, empty, empty. It's only momentary, and then the head of Chris' cock is nudging at his hole. Somewhere a snide comment about safe sex tries to burble through, but it flits away before he can use it as armor. Chris' heart is loud, almost as loud in Peter's ears as his own, and racing far too fast than even arousal can account for. The spell is upping the ante, demanding satiation or death. Chris has waited far too long to appease it.
Chris' hands tremble at his hips, and it's then Peter realizes Chris is still holding back.
“Let it go, Argent,” he orders. “You're not doing yourself any favors.”
Chris' hands still, and Peter thinks there's a whispered I'm sorry, then Chris is slamming in so hard and fast Peter is shoved halfway up the bed by the violence of his thrust. Well prepped or not, his body screams at the invasion, and Chris gives him no time to adjust. Having let go of the last thread of control, Chris doesn't stop, his hips slapping against Peter's ass with enough force that he can feel the bruises forming, and all Peter can do is brace himself against the headboard.
The adjustment doesn't take long, not when Chris shifts the angle of his thrusts to unerringly find Peter's prostate. Not when he hooks his arms under Peter's to haul him up so they're back to chest and Chris can mouth, restless and frantic, along his neck and shoulders. Not when he strips Peter's cock with quick, rough strokes, matching perfectly the pistoning flex of his hips.
It's over in minutes, his orgasm punching through him so fast he's completely unprepared. “Fu..Chr...Fuck.” He's spilling in Chris' hand, bowing back so his head falls against Chris' shoulder, and before he can even think about breathing, Chris is pressing him forward, pushing him deep into the mattress as he covers him. He tangles their hands together, breath hot on the back of Peter's neck as he thrusts a half dozen more times, his body drawing tighter and tighter with each snap of his hips. His motion stutters...freezes...then--
“Peter.” It's a muttered whisper as heat floods Peter's body, almost lost in the groan that rips out of Chris in the very next moment. But he notes it, just like he notes the sharp sting of Chris' nails as they dig into his hips in the aftershocks of his orgasm.
* * * * * * *
Peter's bedroom ceiling is ice blue, a couple of shades lighter than the walls in order to create the illusion of more space than really is there. Chris stares up at it, following a small crack in the paint over and over again as more random facts of trivia, gleaned from hours of watching guilty pleasure HGTV, flit aimlessly through his mind.
The spell isn't done yet. The fae's dirty love bomb still sits heavy in the pit of his stomach and tingles in the tips of his fingers, and he'd barely come before he was hard again. But it has momentarily abated. Enough so that Chris can draw in deep breaths that aren't full of sizzling, metallic need, and Peter has been able to leave the bed to clean up between rounds. Grab food and water. Enough so that Chris probably has a window where he can flee, find someone else (Melissa, Marin, Deaton, Ms. Martin – all names he considered and discarded) to work off the remains of the magic. Someone less likely to come after him when this is all over.
But the idea is...unappealing. The spell has fixated now. Focused and locked on Peter as the thing it wants. When Chris closes his eyes, the only thing he can see is the arch of Peter's throat as Chris had thrust into him, the way his muscles had flexed as he'd absorbed the careless force of Chris' hips and still pushed back for more, the drip of sweat down his neck and spine as he'd trembled and come.
Chris fists his fingers into the sheets and forces his eyes back open.
A throat clearing draws his eyes to the door. Peter is leaning against the frame, nude, a glass of ice water in his hand and his hair a sweat matted mess. He's frank in his sly appraisal of Chris' body, a slight twist to his lips that draws Chris' attention to the rapidly fading bruises his fingers have left along Peter's jaw and the almost gone impression of his teeth at his neck. Chris' cock jerks under the attention, and the twist in Peter's lips morphs to a smirk.
Chris doesn't try to cover up. He doesn't need to - he knows he's attractive to look at. He may be middle aged, but his body is honed for peak performance despite the scars that litter it. Just like he doesn't feel the need to posture to prove his confidence, he also feels no need for false modesty.
He stares back challengingly at Peter. Doesn't drop his eyes as he fists his dick and thrusts into it, lewd and on display. Because Chris may have no choice but to be here, and Peter will no doubt make him pay for the indignity of coercing him into agreement, but Chris will also never, ever let him forget that he came apart shaking under Chris' hands. That Chris may be driven by fairy magic and an involuntary demand to slake himself in Peter's body, to crawl to Peter in desperate need, but Peter's responses are coaxed out of him by nothing more than the touch of his natural enemy.
Humiliation can run both ways.
Peter's eyes darken as Chris fucks his own hand, but his smirk stays firmly in place as he saunters into the room. It grows wider the closer he gets, the more the tremors begin to retake Chris' body at his nearness. Halftime is over, it seems, and by the time Peter reaches the edge of the bed, Chris' shoulders are pressed into the mattress as he arches his head back in protest of the painneedlust that shoots through him.
Peter tilts his head to the side, examines Chris with a critical eye and props his knee on the bed. It puts his dick too tantalizingly close to Chris' mouth, and he swallows audibly as Peter holds out the glass of water.
“Drink. We wouldn't want you to die from dehydration, would we? Somehow I don't think your daughter or my loving nephew would believe I was innocent.”
Chris doesn't stop staring at Peter as he props himself up on one elbow, takes the glass, and gulps it down as quickly as possible. He fumbles it to the bedside table, where it tips and spins, then crashes to its side.
He doesn't notice.
He grabs Peter's hips with a hoarse “Come 'ere.” They're still slick with sweat in the divots of his Illiac crests and Chris digs his thumbs in to keep his grip as he hauls Peter into the bed and over him, until he's straddling Chris chest. Peter's eyes widen slightly at the sudden change in position, then widen even more as Chris stacks pillows behind his head to perfect the angle.
“I meant what I said,” is all Chris says before dragging Peter further up his chest and running his tongue up the underside of his cock.
The startled noise Peter makes is gratifying, but not nearly as gratifying as the sound that comes out when Chris closes his lips around his head, and takes him into his mouth. The magic pulses, threads happily through the strains of his own reluctant desire, and embeds deep in the base of his spine. Drives the hollowing of his cheeks, the hum of approval as Peter hardens in his mouth, the ever growing need for more. It's pressure, it's imperative, and every time Peter brushes against him, the accompanying pleasure intensifies to levels that would almost be pain if it didn't feel so fucking good.
Touching Peter doesn't feel guilty. Doesn't feel dirty-bad-horrific like it had when he'd finally found the kids and had to battle tooth and nail not to give into the urge to fuck his way through a room full of teenagers. And that's enough for now. Enough to give himself permission to revel in this. To give himself over to this. To spend his energy moderating the violence in the spell, and not the sounds he makes or the words he says.
He thinks his lack of reticence surprises Peter, but he really doesn't care.
Peter is scrabbling at the tangled bedsheets, at the headboard, at the pillow on either side of Chris' head. His hands are everywhere but where he really wants them. Where Chris wants them. Obviously Peter needs direct instruction.
He flicks his tongue through Peter's slit, causing Peter's hips to make an aborted thrust forward; Chris wraps his fingers around his wrists, pulls his hands from the bed, and very deliberately sets them in his hair. Peter goes absolutely still, his fingers twitching against Chris' skull, and Christ, does Chris need to draw him a map? Apparently so, because his glare only makes Peter cock his head to one side, disbelief and question clear in the slant of his brows. Chris glares harder, puts his hands on Peter's hips, and jerks him forward in a sudden move that has him hitting the back of Chris' throat, filling his mouth so full he has to swallow to keep from gagging. He moans around it and lets his head go lax in Peter's hands.
Peter pauses a second more, examining Chris' face. Then his expression clears and is replaced by a small, barely there smile that aims for sardonic but doesn't quite get there.
“Unexpected,” is all he says, before he twists his fingers tight in Chris' hair, pulls almost completely out of his mouth, and then thrusts back in hard.
Chris keeps his hands on Peter's ass, feels the flex of lean muscle and lets his fingers slide between the globes and tease at his hole, but other than that, he doesn't try to fight back, doesn't even attempt to wrest control away. His lips are raw and broken in minutes, spit dripping down his cheeks and chin as Peter fucks his mouth without any apparent concern or care. His concentration is intense as he watches Chris. Single minded as he maneuvers his head exactly how and where he wants it. And Chris struggles to keep his eyes open because he wants to see it unfold on his face. Wants to see him come undone as he undoes him. But it's hard with the tears that sting the corners of his eyes, with the flash fire pleasure that that skitters over his nerves every time he chokes and gags and swallows, just so he can take more. His lids keep falling shut no matter how hard he tries.
He would be content to stay like this, happy to let Peter use him until he comes down Chris' throat and Chris can tumble them back and fuck into his heat, but then Peter stops. Shoves Chris' head back to the pillow and pulls away completely. At first Chris assumes Peter is about to come. That he thinks coming on Chris this way will somehow humiliate him. It wouldn't, but Chris won't stop him - this is Peter's show right now. Instead, Peter slides to his waist and cradles his head in his palms.
His thumbs stroke Chris' jaw in a gesture that's jarring in its almost tenderness before shaking his head. “That was unwise, Argent. I could have broken your neck before you'd known what was happening.”
“But you didn't.”
His mouth twists into a mockery of a grin. “Oh, I thought about it.”
“I believe you.” Magic punches him low in the gut, reminding him neither his time nor his body is strictly his own, and he twists into Peter, desperate for some kind of friction. His teeth are gritted the next time he speaks. “Hale.”
Peter's answer is a familiar and knowing refrain. “You need to fuck.”
Chris just stares darkly, his fingers back to biting bruises into Peter's hips, and Peter nods. He leans over, his chest pressing briefly against Chris' as he digs around in the drawer of the bedside table and comes up with a bottle of actual lube. “I think we can dispense with the meticulous prep this time, don't you?”
Chris can't speak, the spell making what he can tell is its final assault, its last attempt to drag him under before they destroy it. The best he can do is push up on his elbows and watch as Peter quickly and efficiently soaks his hand in the lube and re-coats Chris' dick. Chris hisses and bucks at the sensation that's all together too much but still not enough and Peter's smile grows small and private as he finishes one final pass and cleans his fingers on a wet wipe he somehow produces from the same drawer.
“Alright, Argent. Let's be heroes.”
He sinks down on Chris' cock, agonizingly slow and controlled, and then he groans, low and honest as he bottoms out. His eyes flutter shut over a grin that's almost drunk, and Chris' breath catches in his throat.
The relief he feels, though, being inside Peter again, is overwhelming and all consuming and leaves no room for introspection as he sits up with one arm braced behind him and one around Peter's waist. The position is good, is perfect, even though it puts them so close there's no thought to resisting the urge to run his tongue over the inside of Peter's lip. Peter clenches around him in answer, makes a surprised and wounded noise, and Chris does it again, just to hear the same sound.
He does his best to let Peter lead, to let him control the pace as he rides him, because there's something utterly blissed out on his face as he does, and it's too intoxicating to ignore. But despite his best intentions, it doesn't last long. Not when Peter dips his head and mouths at Chris' neck. Not when he ducks further and licks across Chris' nipple. Not when he closes his teeth around it and nips and sucks and toys until it feels swollen and aching, all while Peter's ass continues to slap sharp against Chris' thighs.
Chris lunges forward and topples Peter back, pinning him to the mattress beneath him. He's flushed and panting under him, pupils blown black and unfocused. Something feral and possessive tangles through Chris' ribs, something he attributes to a byproduct of the spell. He slows his thrusts and plants his palms on either side of Peter's head, until the motion of his hips is a slow, torturous slide.
“You look good like this, Peter.” Peter's eyes shoot open, startled and wide. “Look fucking perfect with my dick inside you.” Peter makes a broken sound and Chris can feel his cock jump from where it's trapped between their bellies. He licks up Peter's jaw and runs his hand from his hip to his knee, hooking his palm underneath it and then hefting it over his shoulder. Peter's mouth falls open as he's split wide, as Chris manages to push deeper. “So pretty...lips all swollen and wet...can't decide if I wanna bite 'em or fuck 'em. Maybe both. Think you'd like that, Peter...think you like how I feel inside you.”
Peter is shivering, looking so turned on and so fucking confused, and Christ, Chris wants to keep fucking that look right on his face.
“God knows you feel fucking good, Peter. Feel like you were made for this. Think you were made to be under me.” Peter's mouth works around half formed, incoherent sounds, like he's fighting every single one that escapes. “Come on, Peter,” Chris coaxes. Rolls his hips in a relentless grind against Peter's prostate. “Come on. Let me hear you.” He whispers his lips up the shell of Peter's ear, then scrapes his teeth back down. He bites hard on his earlobe. Nips back at his lip. “Now you're just being stubborn.”
“God...fucking...Goddammit...Chris!” Peter loses the battle spectacularly, and once it starts, the words just tumble out. They're pissed off and needy and candy coated in the arousal that's written all over Peter's face. “Just...Chris, fucking please.” His nails dig into Chris' shoulder as he urges him on with hands and mouth and body.
“Yeah, that's it,” Chris croons, his hips picking back up speed until the slap of flesh on flesh fills the room again. “That's it, Peter. That's good.” Peter clenches down hard enough that Chris sees stars, and he responds by pulling Peter's other leg over his shoulders, too, until Peter's almost folded in half as Chris' thrusts lose rhythm, start to stutter as the inevitable approaches.
But he won't go alone. There's a pool of precum gathering on Peter's belly, and as Chris watches, more spurts from his tip to join it. He turns his head, presses a too gentle kiss to Peter's knee, and wraps his hand around his dick.
“Come for me, Peter, okay?”
He deftly twists his wrist, rolls his hips, and forces Peter to look him in the eye. “Now, Peter.”
“Fucking...hate...” Peter's glare would be more effective if it weren't accompanied by his head falling back, and his body arching and his dick pulsing in Chris' hand as he comes. His face goes soft and unguarded and his mouth falls open. “Christopher!”
Chris can't tell if it's supposed to be a curse or a benediction, but it doesn't really matter, because Peter's orgasm drags him along to his own. He thrusts his way through it, and the second he empties himself into Peter's body, he feels the spell dissipate. Disappear as if it had never been. In its place it leaves a bone crushing weariness, as adrenaline and dopamine abandon him like the traitors they are.
He stiffens, then rolls off of Peter. He gives himself five seconds to regain his breath, then pushes himself to a sitting position. “I'll show myself out.” The aftermath is something they can deal with another day.
But standing is a horrible mistake. He sways and stumbles, the exhaustion so intense black spots dance in his vision, and he ends up collapsing onto the edge of the bed. He steels his spine and grits his teeth. Tries not to think about the half hour drive between here and his apartment as he draws on all the hunts Gerard never allowed him the luxury of sleep. He'll be just fine.
He falls asleep between one blink and the next, maybe just for thirty seconds, but the next thing he knows, a heavy hand is on his shoulder, pushing him flat to the bed. Peter's voice, pissy and exasperated and awash in tiredness, drifts through the bleariness taking over his brain.
“Just go the fuck to sleep, Argent.”
It's the last thing Chris hears before he passes out.
* * * * * *
Chris opens his eyes to the bright, white light of midday. His body aches, down to the very roots of his teeth, and his legs are pinned down by the weight of someone else's thigh slung over them. He and Peter are tangled together, gravitated during sleep. Peter's face is so close to his own that he can see the faint shadows his lashes cast on his cheeks as he slumbers on.
Everything in Chris screams at him to escape, to get the hell up and out, but Peter doesn't stir. Werewolf or not, he looks exhausted, and Chris' threats and Peter's dubious consent aside, Chris is well aware this is because of him. He ruthlessly grinds out the faint spark of smugness that flares at the realization he has managed to fuck Peter Hale into oblivion and instead focuses on the situation at hand. He attempts to extract himself from Peter, hyper-aware of their nudity, and doing his best to ignore the fact he can smell himself all over the other man. Can smell Peter on him. He can only imagine how much stronger the scent would be for Peter.
The second he tries to shift, Peter's eyebrows draw together and he frowns. Chris freezes with a soft curse, his thigh pressed at an unfortunate angle against Peter's crotch. Whatever Peter is dreaming about, it must be good.
He's not sure why he's loath to disturb him, except despite the fact he'd kept his promise, made Peter tremble and writhe and come with Chris' name on his tongue, he also knows there were times he hadn't been able to fight the spell hard enough. Times he'd hurt Peter before he could moderate the fire itching down his spine. That inevitability had been a part of his feverish thought processes, in the moments before he'd decided Peter was the only viable option. Peter is, above all things, resilient.
In spite of what some people might think, Chris is never deliberately cruel – he is not his father – especially not to someone who has, for all intents and purposes, saved his life in a way that was distasteful to the both of them. A way that, regardless of necessity and Chris' intentions, is perhaps the cruelest thing he could have ever done to Peter. In the light of day, without magic muddling his thoughts and driving him slowly insane, it's an uncomfortable, unavoidable realization. Just one more way an Argent has used a Hale.
Peter deserves his sleep.
Minutes tick by, and as the arm tucked under his head slowly falls asleep, he's glad for the faint memory of waking up to stumble to the bathroom, barely conscious enough to make the return trip to the bed before being pulled back under. For the first time he realizes the TV is still on in the living room, the faint sounds of a laugh track not doing nearly enough to distract him from Peter's body just inches from his.
The scruff around his goatee is longer than it was last night. The burn from it still lingers in the curve of Chris' neck and his cheeks, the skin itchy and tender when he pokes at it with his free hand. He has an unasked for flashback of Peter licking and sucking his way down his throat, and his cock twitches against Peter's thigh. His quiet curse is more foul this time.
He'd like to blame it on the spell, but he knows that burned off hours ago. And this was always going to be the problem – the spell is gone, but he's left with the sounds Peter makes, the way his back arches sweetly when Chris twists his hips and grinds against his prostate. How, for just that split second when he comes, all the calculation drops from his face. Chris squeezes his eyes shut, like he can somehow stop the images from last night that replay through his brain, or ignore the fact he is quickly becoming far more aroused than is appropriate for the time or the situation.
It's no real surprise it accomplishes neither, and Peter's face is still just as close as it was when Chris reopens his eyes. He's re-weighing the pros and cons of waking Peter when Peter yawns, licks his lips, and settles back to sleep, all while somehow managing to shift even closer to Chris than before.
For the love of –
Chris would suspect Peter is purposely faking it just to fuck with him if he hadn't worked with the wolf enough to know most of his tells. Not to mention he can see the steady thud, thud of Peter's pulse at his jugular. He remembers the feel of it in his mouth, the way the flesh had given under the weight his teeth, and how Peter had made a needy, guttural sound the first time Chris had bitten him against the wall. He bets Peter doesn't even realize he'd done that.
Saliva fills Chris' mouth, and when Peter shifts again, slides his thigh further between Chris', his arousal isn't merely impending, but pressed firm against Peter's hip, just like Peter's is resting heavy against Chris'. Chris freezes when he realizes he's somehow closed the centimeters between his mouth and Peter's neck, just a whisper of space between his lips and Peter's skin. For half a second he hovers, desire so strong in his gut that a thousand different ways to justify closing the gap run through his brain, but at the last minute he comes to his senses.
This was not part of their deal.
He jerks back just as Peter's eyes pop open, and by now they're so close they're almost nose to nose. There's no way Peter can't smell his arousal, even if clear evidence of it wasn't already nudging at his hip, and Chris steels himself for whatever cutting remark Peter will make as he backs away.
Peter opens and closes his mouth. Blinks and then blinks again. Finally he issues a terse, “Argent.”
Chris responds in kind. “Hale.”
Neither of them move.
More seconds tick by, and the situation moves from uncomfortable to awkward to tense to...something carrying far too much weight. He's lying naked in bed with the man who killed his sister. The man he fucked twice last night while under the thrall of a fae curse. And all he can think about is the fact Peter's dick just twitched against him, and he feels a sticky smear of wet where it brushed.
He clears his throat at the same time Peter opens his mouth. Both of them are saved by the sound of Peter's cell phone ringing. Chris expects him to roll away, finally breaking the detente, but he just reaches behind himself and fumbles blindly at the table until he comes up with it. He slides his thumb across the screen to accept the call and brings it to his ear.
“What?” Peter still has shadows smudged beneath his eyes and his hair is a bedhead mess, and even his terse greeting into the phone is still graveled with sleep. I did that. Chris can't decide if the guilt or satisfaction is stronger, and he's not sure either has a place here.
“No.” Peter's eyes flick to Chris as he answers an unheard question. “Absolutely no clue.” Another pause. “You're lucky someone's still stupid enough to rescue you from your idiocy.” Derek, then. Peter looks at Chris as he rolls his eyes, and the corner of Chris' mouth turns up in commiseration. “Yes. I will let you know the second I stumble upon him.”
Peter hangs up and tosses the phone behind him. “Your daughter must be seriously worried if she's having my darling nephew call me for help. Where the hell's your cell phone?”
Chris snorts. “Somewhere in the High Queen's court, I think.”
“Ah. Probably bad cell reception there.”
Chris barks out a surprised laugh, which morphs into another, which dissolves into full blown chuckles. Peter stares a long moment before a smirk cracks across his face. And then they're both laughing, foreheads pressed together as their bodies shake with amusement that is far too great for the dry remark that had started it. It goes on for a long time before Chris sucks in a deep breath and uses a knuckle to wipe a tear from the corner of his eye.
“Let's hope she has the courtesy to shut off the data usage. Those bills are a bitch.”
That sets them off on another round, but eventually that, too, trails off, and they're left grinning at each other, the corners of Peter's eyes crinkling in a way Chris has rarely seen. He wonders if it happened more before Kate set his family on fire.
They don't stop looking at each other as their smiles slowly disappear and that's when Chris understands they are about to do something truly stupid.
There's no excuse for this. No fairies, no necessity, nothing they can later blame this on. He knows it. Peter knows it. But it doesn't stop Chris from tangling a hand in Peter's hair and nudging him forward until their mouths are barely brushing. Until they're sharing air. The moment hangs...balances...stills, neither of them moving.
It's finally Peter who challenges. “Do it or don't, Argent. Because sooner or later someone's going to show up to rope me into your search party.” The words are acerbic, but there's enough uncertainty in the way his eyes search Chris' face that there's no real sting.
This can only create more conflict in their already fractious alliances. Complicate relationships already rife with them. And he hasn't forgotten that this is Peter, who is just as likely to use it to some unknown advantage as soon as this temporary madness passes. Chris is startlingly aware of all of this, but in the end it's not enough to keep him from closing the final gap and kissing Peter.
It's languid, and slow, and nothing like their kisses last night. Their tongues tangle and part and tangle again, and Chris cups Peter's face in his hand as he begins a lazy exploration of the inside of his mouth. Peter opens beautifully for him, tilts his head with just the slightest promptings, and trails the pads of his fingers around Chris' waist and up his spine. When Chris finds the underside of Peter's jaw, his fingers flex spasmodically and a low, drawn out groan vibrates from Peter's throat to Chris' lips. And when he finally mouths where Peter's pulse is pumping fast and rhythmic, Peter rolls his hips. The exquisite friction makes him pause, mouth open and pressing into Peter's skin as he traces unknown words with the tip of his tongue.
Peter's fingertips are calloused. They drag across the small of Chris' back, leaving fiery trails in their wake, and Chris slides his hand, flat and open, along Peter's shoulders. Down the broad, twitching muscles of his chest, and over the smooth dip of his side. Peter's skin is warm and pliant under his palms, his eyes still the tiniest bit sleep hazed as he arches into him, and Chris is seized with a sudden hesitation. Hovers with his hand on the jut of Peter's hip and opens his mouth to speak.
Peter beats him to the punch and cuts him off. “Shut up, Chris. Neither of us wants to hear it. Not right now.” He covers Chris' hand with his own and drags it from his hip to his thigh, then catches the back of Chris' neck and tugs him back in for another kiss.
It's hot, slick noises as their lips slide and part and meet again, and it only grows hotter when small, tiny sounds begin passing from Peter's mouth to his, only to be echoed back again. Chris sighs and closes his eyes, curls his fingers tight around Peter's thigh, and gives in to temptation.
They roll their hips together, slow and easy, finding a rhythm that's unhurried and supremely satisfying, and Chris' breath catches in his throat as pressure builds steady at the base of his spine and in the pit of his stomach. There's nothing frantic here, nothing desperate and unchecked, and the flutter of Peter's eyelids every time their cocks catch and slide is wrecking him. He closes his eyes so he can't see it, tilts his head back obediently when Peter's mouth leaves his to travel down his throat. Makes a wounded, broken sound as the bristles on Peter's chin and cheeks refresh their burn when Peter works a mark into the curve of his neck.
There's a tremble in Peter's hands now, a match to the shiver in Chris'. He can feel the muscles of Peter's thigh draw up under his palms at the same time his abdomen clenches and twists. Their movements lengthen and deepen, and slow and easy becomes so unbearably tense that he can't remember how his mouth works, can only rest his forehead against Peter's as they both gasp for breath and share indecipherable, broken sounds. Thighs and stomachs are slick with precum, tight with anticipation, and shaking with the need for release.
They roll together one more time before Peter's hips falter. His fingers dig deep into Chris' neck, and this time, when he comes with Chris' name on his lips, Chris knows it's not a curse.
But it might damn him just the same.
He's only a few sloppy thrusts behind him, Peter's cum hot on his stomach and his breath warm on his neck. Then he's shaking through his own orgasm, catching Peter's lips in a half-kiss that can't quite muffle the fractured sounds he makes. They shudder together for a long moment, trying to catch their breath while still lazily kissing through the aftershocks.
Then, right on cue, there's a violent knock on the front door that shatters the fragile illusion of peace.
Chris knows without being told that it's Derek. That he's likely seen Chris' car and come to challenge Peter on his lie. He stiffens, and extracts his limbs from Peter's, the cum drying on his skin cold and sticky and uncomfortable.
Derek bangs again, and Chris almost thinks he hears the jingle of keys. Peter is watching him intently, his eyebrows drawn together, and then, all at once, his face shutters completely and his eyes go cold. He shrugs one shoulder and rolls upright, getting to his feet and padding to his dresser.
“You'll tell them it was fairies. They'll understand you had no choice.” His back flexes as he opens a drawer and extracts a pair of jeans, pulling them on without bothering to clean himself up. It wouldn’t' matter anyway – Derek would still smell it.
“I'm coming, you impatient child!” He yells to the violent repeat of Derek's knock.
“And this morning?” Chris asks quietly. He can't seem to find his own pants in the tangle of bedclothes and he finally gives up and perches on the edge of the bed.
Peter's shoulders tighten visibly as he fiddles with something on the surface of the dresser, but his voice is perfectly even. “We'll tell them it was fairies.”
Peter's offering him an out. Offering the both of them an out. Chris scrambles for a response but comes up blank, and after another second Peter pulls a shirt over his head and starts toward the door. He doesn't look back. Chris opens his mouth, but still nothing comes out, and Peter closes the door behind him without another word.
He hears the quiet snick of the front door opening, the louder, angrier sound of Derek's voice, and the cool, amused flow of Peter's rejoinders. Chris finally spies the cuff of his jeans, sticking out from underneath the bed, and he buries his head in his hands and tries not to think.