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Yellow Ochre

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Before saying anything to disturb him, Peter Hale lingers a moment at the studio door, just watching the boy work. His wide back creates a slanted shadow in the space before his feet.  
Stiles kneels on the hardwood floor as if in worship, his left hand scratching at his chestnut locks while his right twists the end of the paintbrush into his teeth. His Filbert 12 bears new indentations. It’s Stiles’ favorite to chew on when he’s uneasy.

The northern exposure at this hour enhances the glow in Stiles’ gilded skin. A sliver of bare flesh appears when he leans down to adjust a detail, his striped polo shirt bunching at his shoulders. Peter inhales sharply, overwhelmed by an urge to caress the exposed, velvety skin. He’d love to run his fingers up Stiles’ spine, then back to the downy arch of his perfect buttocks. Peter shuts his eyes and wills these thoughts away, reading the scent in the room instead. Mm… arousal and frustration.

“I thought you said it was finished?” Peter leans on the doorframe, one steamy mug of tea in each hand.
Stiles rolls over, his eyes lighting up when he realizes the man is home. Before standing to join him, he washes the brush and puts it back into the tin can resting by his palette.

“Peter, who brought you back? You could have called, I would have come get you.” Stiles ambles up to him, taking both cups from the wolf’s large hands and setting them down on the nearby coffee table. With bent elbow, he offers him his arm.
Peter grasps at the cotton, the warmth from the boy’s lithe body emanating through the flimsy fabric.
Stiles smells like gingerbread and it shakes a memory into the foreground of his mind. Peter wonders what his skin tastes like. Is it biting and sweet like the Christmas cookie he used to love as a child?

“Peter, you shouldn’t be carrying hot beverages, you could burn yourself. At least wait until your sight has returned.”
The man swallows down his lie like dry bread. His sight was restored a week ago, and with it, came despair. The distress was twofold. The night he perceived shapes and colors, a precursor to waking with 90 percent of his vision back, he had dreamt of inviting Stiles into his bed. That’s when he knew he was in love with him. The morning after, when he perused the canvases stacked against the wall in the sun room, he realized that perhaps the boy, too, might be enamored.  Peter was the subject of half the paintings he found.

It didn’t take long for the seed of doubt to germinate, however. The older man was at a loss. How was he supposed to handle this? Peter’s heart darkened with dread from then on. What if he was wrong? What if the portraits were a consequence of his being an easy, available model? His mind travelled to all the afternoons spent listening to Stiles breathe as he painted. His heartbeat lulled Peter to sleep better than any lullaby. What of the conversations shared over dinner? All the laughs? Was it all meaningless?!
Peter’s torment wasn’t singular. What he didn’t know was that also his young guest was entertaining some perplexities.
Initially, Stiles Stilinski had moved in as a favor to Derek. Peter’s nephew was away at college and thus not able to help his uncle through his illness. The country home owned by the Hales boasted three bedrooms and a sun room with North Light. Perfect for a painting studio. Stiles desperately needed a place to work, and the opportunity to do something good was a bonus. What Stiles didn’t factor in was that his gracious host would slowly steal his heart away. The more time he spent with the wolf, the less he could resist him. That’s when the compulsive portrait painting started. Peter had become his one and only muse.

The brunette nurses his tea after having given Peter his. “Be careful. Sip slowly, it’s hot.” Hot like you.
While the older man feigns blindness, cautiously drinking the red infusion, he risks stealing a glance at the boy. His beautiful lips are wet with the liquid, so inviting that Peter bites down to stifle a cry.
As Stiles’ hand reaches towards him, he notices that the boy's normally flawless skin is stained with colors. Peter nearly gives himself away with a spasm in its direction as it settles on his leg.

After this, the temptation to confess is intense. What scares Peter most, though, is the possibility of losing Stiles. What would he do without the young man? Should he throw caution to the wind and just admit his feelings?
Peter coughs, enjoying the boy’s lingering attention.
“Stiles, I’m fine. No harm done. Instead, what’s wrong with you? I could smell the annoyance all the way to the kitchen.”

Stiles angles himself to get comfortable in his usual place on the sofa. He’s dangerously close to Peter, and both know it. The excuse of comforting the man is only making Stiles’ palm sweat over the smooth curve of his knee.
“I’m getting lost in small details. You know I’m a perfectionist. I might have to start all over again.”

Peter nods in understanding even though he thinks Stiles is insane. His likeness is almost a mirror image on this last one. “I’m sure it’s perfect. You’re too hard on yourself, Stiles. What’s the project again?”
The boy gulps. He scrutinizes Peter’s gorgeous cerulean eyes. He doesn’t know why, but a doubt is forming in his mind. It’s been nagging at him for a couple days, in fact. Just little things here and there, but what if?
What if Peter got his sight back?

If he’s faking, he’s surely aware of the boy’s obsession with him. Stiles decides he needs to discover the truth. Cards on the table. He’s got everything to lose but also so much to gain.
“It’s called ‘Who You Love.’ We’re supposed to paint someone who’s important to us. I’ve painted my Muse.”
Stiles leaves it there, dropped like a hot potato. The words ring in Peter’s ears, echoing neon question marks. Can you see? Do you understand it’s you?

The palpitations travel up to Peter’s throat and close it in an iron grip.
So it’s true. Stiles loves him. He can’t contain the smile that takes over. His white, toothy grin is one thing that melts the boy’s resolve.
That grin. Stiles knows now because Peter wants him to.

The hand cupping the wolf's knee trembles and his other reaches for the man’s shoulder. The elder wets his mouth with a long swipe of his sexy tongue. He shifts, and once he’s safely replaced his drink on the table, turns to face the boy.

“Stiles.” Peter blinks, mesmerized by the young man’s cinnamon gaze. He wants to get lost in the forest that are his lashes. Peter dares his fingers to walk the boy’s twitching thigh.
“Peter.” Stiles whispers, inching forward until he’s half-risen.
“How long?” the boy inquires, a glimpse of pink caught on his lower pout. His head tilts quizzically, allowing Peter's hand to remain.
The wolf laces his fingers with the younger’s. Stiles squeezes back.
“How long have I had sight? Or how long have I loved you?” Peter ends the phrase with a smirk.
Then silence ensues.
“Peter.” Stiles whispers, on his knees, a hair’s breadth from the man’s hungry mouth.
“Stiles.” Peter traces the contour of his face, circling his moles with his fingertip. He runs his thumb over the V of the boy’s upper lip. Stiles envelopes it and sucks, giving little kitten licks to the pad. The man moans deeply.

“Peter.” Stiles guides him to his shirt, lifting it to reveal the faintest of ab lines and a trail of dark hair from his belly button down to his dick.
“I want to call you Daddy. May I? Daddy, I want you.” He waits for the reaction.
“Stiles,” Peter breathes, “oh fuck. You can call me anything you like.”
He was hoping Stiles would gift him that, but he would not demand it. Bless boys and their Daddy kinks. 

His erection is raging, it’s all he can do to not mount the boy right now. Peter studies Stiles’ silky, golden chest and latches on to his pert nipple. Between whimpers, as the man gently pulls on one bud and then the other, the tiny bit of tissue between his teeth burns and makes him hiss. Stiles’ fingers rake into Peter’s dark hair. He directs him higher, to the sensitive spot below his ear.
“Baby boy…” he sighs.
“Peter,” Stiles hums when his host pulls down his boxers and pants, releasing his aching, uncut sex. "Yes, yes... undress me." 
He invites the other to strip with a tug of his hem and a pop of his button. “Peter, I want you inside me. Take me, Daddy. Take me,” he prays.
The wolf breaks, dick jerking. His clothes fly into the air, discarded onto the armrest and beyond.

“Stiles,” the wolf growls into him. Their mouths meet with urgency, tongues twisted as they explore their moist cavities. Cock meets cock, hands pulling and scratching at bare, scalding flesh as if they had never been touched before.
“Stiles,” he mumbles. “I need you, baby boy. Come to Daddy.”
The reticence passes. Stiles and Peter, naked, fall awkwardly to the floor. They fumble as Peter positions himself to lick down Stiles’ member. He sniffs at his dusky pubes before emitting a lustful growl.
A helping hand wraps around Stiles’ thick base, pulling up the skin enough to cover the crown. Peter’s tongue slips between the foreskin and the head as he rubs him off.
"Fuck," Stiles laments. "SO hot..."

Peter laps at the moisture, the taste fueling the blaze within his loins to epic proportions. Stiles writhes beneath the wolf, arms flailing. He knocks over some paint jars beside him. He laughs, back and shoulder covered in Cadmium Red and Yellow Ochre.
Peter gazes at him from half-lidded eyes, dipping his claws into the yellow. He draws three stripes down the boy’s torso, all the way to his dark triangle and around his opening. The paint is cool against his feverish skin.
Sandy prints appear on Stiles’ dick, Peter stroking him more feverishly. The boy bucks into the suction, massaging his lover’s tresses.

“Peter,” he gasps when the wolf swallows him whole. “Suck harder, Daddy…” he melts. "Wanna cum on you."
The elder bobs on the shaft until his own is weeping pre-cum and throbbing so hard he can no longer bear it.

“Daddy,” Stiles understands when he pulls off. “Daddy… fuck me.”
He lifts his hips and spreads his legs eagerly, a gift to his elder. His hole is slick with dripping saliva and golden coloring.
“Stiles,” the wolf murmurs, crawling up his taut body until his fangs graze his carotid.
“Want you. You’re all mine, baby. Say you’re all mine.”

The boy offers himself, hands kneading muscle, divided between Peter’s side and the marble mound of his exemplary ass. He draws him closer and closer, Peter seeking heat and finding it inside the boy’s needy pucker.
“I’m all yours, Daddy” he emits in a gritty voice. “Fuck me. Fuck ME!”
The swelter and the clench as the wolf thrusts in makes Stiles teary from pleasure. He desires it, begs for his wolf’s massive cock to ravage him as he takes him almost dry.
“Deeper, Daddy, deeper” he implores him, knees to his chest as he rocks with the plunges. Peter's cock is stained saffron and its intent is furious. Stiles is the blind one now, with longing. 
“Wreck me!” He yells.

“Stiles,” the man whines, hips rolling into his lover as his pronounced tip pounds against his prostate. “So beautiful, my baby boy. Making your Daddy so hot. So tight for me.”
The wolf drills into him, chasing their explosions.
“Peter,” the brunette mews. “I’m close Daddy, so close. Jesus...”

The wolf doesn’t stop his assault, just slows it down. Balancing himself on one hand, he uses the other to milk the orgasm from the young man’s flushed cock. He’s on a perilous edge, nearly ready to burst as his lunges bottom out.
Stiles screams, Peter’s name his mantra. When he dissolves, falling slack against the floorboards, his wolf directs the jet of jizz into his own face. It stains his beard and coats his tongue and fist. The flavor of the musky release against his ripened taste buds sends him into his own spasm.
Stiles shoots up when Peter howls, licking his spunk from Peter’s face, two hands behind the man’s neck for support. The elder comes so powerfully that his breathing halts, spurt after spurt of his load laying claim to the boy’s cavity.
"Fuck, I'm so full, full of your cum," he announces proudly. It slowly seeps out, thick like lava, when Peter leaves him empty. 

The wolf collapses, panting heavily against Stiles' sticky stomach. He presses his ruddy cheek against the boy's heaving chest and kisses over his heart. "I love you, Stiles," he admits. "I'm sorry I lied, baby. I was too afraid of losing you."
Stiles strokes Peter's damp head, shaking away any doubt. "I had a suspicion, but I was afraid, too. It's okay. This is what matters. This. I love you, Peter." The wolf locks eyes with the brunette, smiles creeping on both their faces. 
"So, guess we're a thing now, angel."
Stiles grins. "Guess so."
"Daddy kink, huh?"
Stiles blushes. "I don't wanna talk about it. That's between me and my therapist." 
The wolf belly laughs. "Okay, okay. I don't mind at all. It's really fucking hot, actually. Speaking of more serious matters. How about you move your things into my bedroom?"
"That's one way to give your nephew a heart attack."
Peter chuckles. "Don't you worry about Derek. He's a big boy. It's none of his business anyway."
The boy plays air piano on Peter's bicep while he considers it. "Okay. Right after we shower. We're covered in Yellow Ochre. Unless you want to roll around a bit on a canvas, I can try to turn that in." 
Both men giggle. "If you want a cock painting, you're going to need a bigger frame," Peter suggests. 
"Modest, Peter. Modest."
The man points at his spent member, huge even when relaxed. Stiles raises his eyebrows in assenting amusement. "Touché, wolfie. Touché."