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Caught and Collared

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“Is sex dirty? Only when it's being done right.” 
― Woody Allen


Stiles had realized early on in his association with werewolves that they oftentimes overlooked him: he wasn’t a werewolf, he wasn’t any sort of supernatural—in the end, he was human and therefore a liability. They tended to forget the fact that it was oftentimes the teen’s plans that managed to get them through the latest clusterfuck of a mess that Beacon Hills had become. It was his research that pulled a Hail Mary at the last minute, right when it seemed like death and destruction would be imminent. The teen had a sharp, wicked sort of intelligence that went relatively unrivaled in the pack—Lydia was more on the book smarts sort of side and Peter typically kept to the shadows and rarely offered commentary of his own unless it was with some goading from the Beta-eyed boy—and it was there that the pack tended to underestimate Stiles. He had a fox’s cunning hiding behind his bright gaze and, more than that, he observed.

Stiles didn’t need to listen to a heartbeat to tell if someone was lying to him. All he had to do was watch them.

He watched, he waited, he assessed, he observed: he learned.

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise, then, to eventually realize that Peter Hale watched Stiles just as often as the teen watched the rest of the pack. Very rarely did the older werewolf shift his attention from the human and, true enough, Stiles was fully aware of the fact that the gaze should have made him feel like prey, especially when Peter’s eyes took to flaring bright blue… what the teen was a predator of another variety and all he felt was anticipation for the hunt that lay ahead.

With that careful observation that Stiles so typically focused on, the teen gathered together facts about Peter, hoarding the trinkets as a dragon watched over its treasure.

Peter liked gestures of ownership, of claim: a hand at the nape of a neck, a palm pressed to the small of a person’s back, the solid, looming weight against a shoulder, the shackle of the werewolf’s fingers around a wrist. (The latter Stiles knew the feeling of all too well—even from the beginning.)

Peter was a creature of sensation: his V-necks were all made from the softest of cottons, his sweaters only cashmere, his car upholstered in supple leather, and he always seemed to manage to claim the most comfortable of chairs within each room that the pack met in.

Peter was a man who indulged: teeth biting into the peanut butter-laced chocolate of a Reese’s cup, buying an apartment in the more upscale portion of Beacon Hills, visiting well-reviewed restaurants at least three times a week, hair never out of place with the help of his salon-quality products.

Bits and pieces, things watched and squirreled away and made note of for the future.

Because one of the things that Stiles knew and saw was that Peter was still as fascinated by him as he had been in that parking lot so long ago—and, if anything, that interest had sparked and flared brighter, burning into something supernova bright.

And Stiles?

He liked playing with fire.


Peter knew that Stiles was in his apartment.

The teen could tell from the slow, almost cautious—certainly wary—way that the werewolf approached his bedroom. The smell of cum and sex would have already been thick in the air, and the older man would have known that it only came from the teen; no other scent entwined with his own. Still, Stiles couldn’t fault Peter for being cautious, especially considering just how easy it had been to break past the wards that should have kept other people out of the apartment but were apparently no match for a young Spark.

When Peter finally pushed open the nearly-shut door to his bedroom, the teen couldn’t bring himself to feel at all surprised when he was greeted with the sight of a winter-bright, burning gaze. Stiles smiled in answer, slow and languid, and brought a hand up to toy with the thick ring that rest right where his clavicle dipped between his collarbones. It was connected to a series of interconnected, gleaming chainmail—a collar that covered his entire throat and clinked softly in answer at that playful tug.

The silver of the collar bleached the teen’s skin of any and all color until he was a creature of ivory and snow.

“Well,” Peter began, eyes flaring even brighter than before as he took in the sight sprawled upon his bed. “I certainly wasn’t expecting to come home to this. Dare I ask what the occasion is, sweet boy?”

“Is that a complaint I hear, Peter?” Stiles asked in turn with a quirked brow, even as he let a leg fall open: thighs parting to bare the most intimate part of himself, knowing that the werewolf would see the shine of a steel dildo already spreading his entrance obscenely wide, pink and shiny-slick with lube.

The pointed tease also shifted the dildo’s angle within him, now moved just enough to press unrelentingly against the teen’s prostate; it was unexpected enough that Stiles’ cock jerked at the sensation, pre-cum collecting at the tip of his erection, and the dark-eyed teen bowed his spine upwards to force the toy to press just a little bit deeper still. He moaned, breathless and unashamedly wanton, and the thick collar offered up a series of music notes into the bedroom as it resettled over the boy’s neck.

Stiles didn’t even have the chance to slump back onto the cotton sheets before claws pricked over the sensitive skin of his inner thighs and the werewolf dragged him to the mattress’ edge. Peter didn’t ask for permission—nor did Stiles want him to, anyway—but it was only a moment’s work to hook the teen’s knees over his shoulders and to duck his head down to lick away the pre-cum that had already collected on the boy’s cock.

“Fuck, yes,” Stiles husked out and shifted a leg to press a heel between the werewolf’s shoulderblades to demand more from the older man.

Peter indulged the boy in his silent demand by parting his mouth, careful of the fangs that had unintentionally dropped down the moment he was surrounded by the musk of Stiles’ arousal (and how long he had wanted the teen, watching and waiting and craving him in Peter’s life and in his bed), collecting at the bend of his thigh and hip, and ever so slowly eased his lips down the solid weight of the boy’s erection. Its length settled along the flat of the wolf’s tongue, head just barely breaching the back of Peter’s throat, and he waited for the moment that Stiles’ breathing began to settle as he grew used to the slick heat of the older man’s mouth.

The werewolf was an asshole, though, now and always, and Peter suddenly slid down lower until his nose nestled in the curls at the base of the teen’s erection: he swallowed around Stiles’ cock even as a thumb pressed hard along the dark-eyed boy’s taint, pushing against the outside of the teen’s prostate and making Stiles cry out in surprised pleasure as he suddenly climaxed.

Stiles’ thighs clenched around Peter’s head, ankles locking along the nape of the werewolf’s neck to keep the older man’s head down and mouth a slick suction around his cock, even as the teen’s back bowed into a Cupid’s arch off of Peter’s bed as he clenched around the plug buried within him.

Eventually, though, Stiles relaxed his legs to fall bonelessly over the wolf’s shoulders and slumped back down onto the bed while he panted and tried to catch his breath. Attempting a glare—despite the fact that there was no real heat in it—the teen stared down at the man still between his thighs as he accused: “That’s cheating.”

Peter eased his mouth off of the boy’s limp cock, the head giving a lewd pop as it slid past the older man’s lips. He grinned up at the put-out teen and once again rubbed his fingers along the thin skin of Stiles’ taint. “Being honest never got anyone anywhere, sweet boy. You know that, as well.”

The teen trembled and shifted, not knowing whether he wanted to push into or wriggle away from Peter’s touch.

“This is different,” Stiles shot back in turn, mind barely able to focus on the banter when Peter was relentless in his pleasure-pain-almost-too-much touches.

The werewolf hummed in response and flickered his neon blue gaze up to meet Stiles’ lust blown eyes, quirking a smile before shifting back and flipping the teen onto his belly. “No, it’s not. Not when I fully intend on wrecking you, Stiles,” the older man murmured in reply, answer barely audible as Stiles ‘Ooph!’ed at the flip.

His fingers clutched at the buttery smooth sheets beneath him, however, at the first sensation of a five o’clock shadow against the sensitive skin of his ass. Next, Stiles’ breath stuttered out, slipping into a low moan, as Peter’s hands parted the firm globes of his ass, baring the teen’s entrance to the wolf’s sight even as the older man’s hold shifted just enough to tease his thumbs along the base of the plug. Another thoughtful hum came from behind Stiles—and now the teen knew enough to be wary of that sound—and Peter pressed against the base of the solid dildo to watch as it spread Stiles’ opening wider and wider still.

“This? This is definitely not fair,” Stiles gasped out, eyes sightlessly staring at the wall opposite as his focus sharpened onto the feeling of being spread and speared, gaped open more than he had ever done to himself.

“And yet I’m not hearing a request for me to stop,” Peter said with a dark chuckle and began to slowly pull the plug from the tight heat of the teen’s body; it was almost completely out, just the barest tapered tip resting against the rim of Stiles’ lax hole, and Peter pushed, thrusting its solid and uncompromising girth unexpectedly back into the boy’s entrance. Stiles cursed at the sensation of being re-invaded, voice high and reedy as Peter repeated the action again and again and again until the dark-eyed teen was sobbing for breath against his sheets.

--not once did Stiles ask Peter to stop, as the older man had so graciously pointed out.

Eventually, however, the werewolf set the plug aside—perhaps to be revisited if the inspiration struck—and his hands once again settled over the curve of Stiles’ ass, satisfaction thrumming through him at how the boy trembled at the wolf’s touch; the teen was more than half-hard again, cock swaying between the milky paleness of his thighs, and Peter growled, soft and threatening, at the vulnerable sight Stiles made for him. The teen jerked in the wolf’s hold but was unable to go very far due to the prick of Peter’s claws over his flesh. And again, Peter drew Stiles back in his hold, spreading his asscheeks farther apart, to lick a damp line over the teen’s perineum and to the slack invitation of his opening.

Peter lingered there, possessive and pleased at how Stiles’ breath came hitching in now-desperate sobs of anticipation, and carefully worked his tongue into the slick heat of the boy’s body. The artificial taste of the lube he’d been using to prep himself already was definitely something that Peter wouldn’t have chosen if he’d had a contribution to the original decision—but, beneath it, the wolf could taste the musk of the teen’s arousal, the salt of his sweat, the autumn crispness that was Stiles’ underlying scent. Peter’s hands tightened over the teen, satisfied at having something that he’d coveted so long—and his tongue began a steady, slow thrust in and out of Stiles’ once-tight entrance and ignored the way that lube and spit soon enough coated his lips and chin, dripping down his throat to pool along the collar of his shirt.

Something dark and still nearly feral, lingering in the back of his mind all of his life, settled at hearing the sounds that Stiles made as Peter ate him out, hips trembling in the werewolf’s hold even as the teen clutched—released—dragged desperately at the sheets beneath his still-slim body.

“Peter—Peter, stop—stop, stop, stop, stopstopstop--I’m gonna cum--Peter, stop--“

The werewolf ignored the increasingly frantic request for him to pull up, the press of his tongue a constant, unrelenting force as he fucked Stiles with it: a promise that he would wreck the boy who had chosen to appear in the older man’s bed, and it was a promise that Peter fully intended on keeping.

Stiles’ opening began clenching greedily around the invasion of the wolf’s tongue, spasming as he orgasmed once more, cum stripping the sheets and the wooden floor at his feet; his voice cracked, desperate and broken, as he came and shuddered over Peter’s bed, blankets clutched tightly in a white-knuckled grip.

“Still with me, sweet boy?” the older man asked, brushing his fingers over Stiles’ puffy entrance and trailed his still too-bright blue gaze over the vulnerable curve of the teen’s mole-dotted spine.

“…nnnnn…” Stiles slurred out, pleasure drunk but aware enough to blink his eyes open to glance over a shoulder, lust-blown gaze meeting Peter’s own. “…thought I remember… you sayin’… gonna wreck me,” he eventually added on, coherent enough to toss down the gauntlet of an earlier vow issued.

Peter’s arctic gaze flickered brighter at the boy’s attempt to sass at him—still unrepentantly Stiles even as cum-stupid as he currently was—and stepped back so that the boy could watch him shrug out of his black V-neck, to see the wolf’s belt dropped to the floor with a metallic clink of buckle carelessly tossed upon wood flooring, to follow the path of denim as it eased down the older man’s hips, muscular thighs, strong knees and calves.. there was something smug and preening, pleased at how Stiles’ eyes so obviously tracked the downward progression of Peter’s jeans.

He stepped out of them, leaving them a careless, forgotten pile upon the floor, and stepped forward and closer to Stiles.

The teen’s gaze refocused on the erection that jutted out, thick and heavy, between the wolf’s thighs, and Stiles licked his lips in anticipation as a pleased sound purred out from the base of his throat; coquettish and inviting, the dark-eyed boy arched his hips to lift his ass higher and spread his thighs just the smallest bit more, open and vulnerable and ready to be fucked, purposefully presenting himself in such a way that pressed against and aimed to trigger all of the werewolf’s more feral instincts—need and drive and predatory inclinations that Peter, as a born wolf, always kept so carefully balanced.

Fangs pricked over his lips, and Peter snarled at the display. “Be careful at what you’re inviting, Stiles.”

Amber eyes fell to half-mast, lidded and heavy as the teen watched Peter from beneath the velvet of his lashes. “I know exactly what I’m inviting—what I’m asking, Peter,” he answered back, voice steadier than even just a minute or two before. “I’m asking that you fill me up with your dick and your cum. It’s not rocket science.”

The older man smiled at that, wide and predatory and so much the Big Bad Wolf, and he finally settled between Stiles’ parted thighs. “Last chance, sweet boy,” Peter rumbled out, low and dangerous. “You’re mine; I saw you first, before anyone else glanced your way. It’s been too long since I took something for myself--but you? You, I’ll have and keep.”

The exasperated huff of breath was something that was both expected and not-at-all-expected. “Creeperwolf,” Stiles said, words slow and overly enunciated—as if he was beginning to second-guess his expectations of Peter’s intelligence. “I’m fully aware of that. I’m not blind, and I’ve been watching you just as often as you watch me. Now. Put. Your. Dick. In. My. Ass. And. Fuck. Me. Until. I. Scream.”

In reply, Peter’s hand dug into the meat of one of the Stiles’ asscheeks, indenting the teen’s flesh as the werewolf spread the boy wide open and gaping once more. His other hand guided his cock to Stiles’ entrance, thrusting himself forward and sheathing himself in one solid, possessive roll of his hips.

Stiles’ eyes went wide with surprise at the feeling of suddenly being too full, vulnerable and open and completely filled as Peter’s hips slapped against the teen’s ass as the wolf bottomed out. The boy’s lips parted on a soundless cry even as Peter pulled out to rock his hips forward again, forcing the teen to feel empty and aching and hollowed out for only a moment or two before the solid girth of Peter’s cock yet again spread Stiles wide and stretched his entrance until flesh was taut and darkening from the abuse of skin hitting skin.

Peter--“ Stiles managed to bite out before the werewolf began fucking him in earnest; there was pain from the fact that the wolf was only loosely keeping himself in control, and the force of Peter’s hips was enough to rock both Stiles and the bed forward, but it was a pain that the teen had asked for—had wanted. Peter fucked him, maneuvering the boy’s slighter body wherever he wished, intent on finally greedily chasing his own pleasure after already making Stiles climax twice.

The boy was tight and hot and perfect in how easily he took Peter’s cock.

Growling low enough that the furniture in the bedroom trembled against the sound waves of the threatening timbre, the older man reached out to hook his fingers over the back of the collar that Stiles still wore. He pulled back, a little at a time, forcing the teen’s spine to bow and his head to follow the pressure at his throat—continued to force Stiles back until his breaths came thin and reedy, gasped out as he tried desperately to take in as much oxygen as possible as the silver collar clutched tight around his pale throat.

Stiles still didn’t ask Peter to stop, though.

That dark, primordial sort of force that lurked within Peter’s soul reared its head, ugly with the satisfaction of their primal fucking—pleased at how prettily the teen’s spine bowed at the werewolf’s touch—and it paired so neatly with the knowledge that Stiles was his, and this lovely boy was something that he never intended to let go, the fire that burned bright in the dark and loneliness that Peter’s life had become.

Tension pooled at the base of his cock, and Peter finally released the hold he had on Stiles’ collar to instead grip possessively over the sharp arch of the teen’s hipbones. Stiles slumped forward, belly down onto the bed, and panted roughly for air, for breath, even as he let out a low, pained whine when Peter’s knot began catching at the teen’s already stretched rim with each and every thrust in and out.

The werewolf crowded in against the teen’s back, caging Stiles in against the sheets: all the while, just taking, loving the slapslapslap of skin against skin as he fucked the boy beneath him. Stiles moaned, the sound of his voice hoarse, and stirred weakly as Peter’s knot breached his entrance for the last time and locked the both of them together:

Peter snarled as he finally came, pushing against the curve of Stiles’ ass to bury himself as deep as possible as his climax rolled over him, crashing down and filling the teen with his cum; it was instinct, unstoppable—not that Peter tried very hard to resist—to bite down at the crook of Stiles’ throat where the collar finally ended: burying fangs into the meat of the teen’s body and tasting blood upon his tongue. The bite set off another orgasm for the boy, body arching back into the weight of Peter’s chest upon his back, clenching greedily around the wolf’s cock as he milked the older man of an orgasm that wouldn’t be stopping anytime soon.

Exhausted, Stiles fell back onto the bed the moment that Peter finally released his mouth from his shoulder: panting and staring sightless over the bedsheets, humming slightly as the older man brushed a thumb along the edge of his newest wound.

Peter didn’t need to say anything about it—Stiles was fully aware of what it was, especially when paired with the bright blue gaze, claws, and fangs that had been present from the very start.

“Possessive bastard,” the teen mumbled as he turned his face to bury against the bedsheets that smelled of the older man’s cologne.

The werewolf laughed darkly at that, swatting Stiles lightly on the ass for the comment. “Remember, sweet boy, that I came in to my room after you’d already had at least one orgasm in my bed. You knew full well what you were getting yourself into.”

Knowing that there was no true defense to that—mostly because Stiles did, in fact, know what he had been getting himself into and had planned on it, as well—the teen clenched around Peter’s cock and knot in retaliation, purposefully setting off a new round of a climax that would keep them locked together for an even longer amount of time.

A rumbling growl was Stiles’ answer and Peter manhandled the teen onto the bed, pinning him down just enough to continuously press his hips forward the small amount he was able to move: deep, deep, deeper, revenge coming as the press of his knot constantly rubbed against the teen’s prostate in turn.

It wasn’t long after that that Peter had Stiles screaming.


It was ages later before the knot swelled down enough for Peter to slip free, pulling out of the slack, gaping hole that the teen’s entrance had become. Stiles stirred a little at the sudden feeling of emptiness, murmuring a protest as he ached, missing the solid weight of the wolf’s cock buried within his body.

Cum immediately gushed from his puffy, abused hole, trickling down the boy’s taint and over his thighs. Watching as it nearly pooled beneath Stiles’ body, his own blue eyes heavy-lidded with satisfaction, Peter reached out to scoop the cum onto his fingers, ignoring how tacky it had become to slowly push it back into Stiles’ still-loose heat.

The bedroom reeked of sex—of sweat and cum and pain and arousal—and, beneath it, the comfortable, entwining of Peter and Stiles’ own scents. There was a claim there, made even more thoroughly than the cum that the boy was currently stuffed full with. The older man hooked his fingers over the puffy edge of the boy’s entrance, tugging just a little bit to send sparks flaring up Stiles’ spine, pushing more of his cum back into the teen’s heat, and it wasn’t until the boy huffed a tired, annoyed breath and rolled onto his back that Peter withdrew his fingers.

“Basking in the mess you made of me, creeperwolf?” the teen asked, only bothering to open one amber eye to look up at the older man.

Attention shifting down to eye the small, distended bulge that Stiles’ stomach had become—inflated with the cum of a werewolf deep within a mating frenzy—Peter’s mouth curled slowly into a wicked, pleased smirk. “Yes, I think that I am,” he replied and shifted forward to settle between Stiles’ slick thighs.

He cupped a possessive hand over the stretch of the teen’s stomach: dark satisfaction coming in the knowledge that he had filled the boy with so much of his cum that this had been the result, and Peter hooked a still-clawed finger into the ring that rest at the base of the Stiles’ throat. He tugged, light and surprisingly gently, and drew Stiles up into a searing, hungry kiss.


”Who’s afraid of the Big, Bad Wolf?”

”Not me. Not me.”