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I Know How You Love To Play Games

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I know how you love to play games.

Stiles ran one finger down Peter’s cheek before tapping it sharply, almost a slap. “So here’s the thing… You’re not my favorite person in the world most of the time. You’re not even close to my favorite person pretty much all of the time. But you’re a lot of fun to play with.”

Peter smirked up at Stiles. “Clearly, or we wouldn’t be here again.”

“You want just as much to do this as I do, Peter,” Stiles said, checking the knot on the ropes he had restraining his...playmate. Normally, ropes wouldn’t hold a werewolf for any appreciable length of time. These, however, were made from braided strips of mountain ash bark, peeled and woven together with the strongest silk Stiles had gotten his hands on. The original intent of the ropes was to be used as prisoner restraint, but he’d found an interesting use for them.

Which was why Peter was hanging so docilely in the restraining web Stiles had created for him. He couldn’t break out. Well. Okay, to be fair, Peter could break the ropes most likely. They were thick, but they weren’t unbreakable. They burned, though. Stiles could see the red welts on the skin where the rope pressed into Peter’s skin, holding him fast.

He liked it.

Peter did, too, Stiles could see. Peter’s thick erection strained forward, thick and hard, from his body, begging to be touched. Stiles had toyed with wrapping it with a piece of the impregnated rope, but he decided he didn’t want to do it this time. He wanted that cock free to do other things.

“I know how you love to play games, Peter,” Stiles said, circling around Peter once and coming to crouch in front of his victim. So we’re going to play one. And what do you think the prize should be?” Stiles reached out one hand and stroked Peter’s cock, ghost gentle. It was barely enough to feel, but Peter thrust helplessly against Stiles’ hand and whined.

“Could...could my prize be to come?” Peter asked after a moment. “You know how I love that.”

“Mmmhmm…” Stiles said, teasing the tiny hole at the head of Peter’s penis. “I do know. But I think you’re going to need a better prize for the game I have in mind…” He lightly slapped the head of Peter’s cock and watched it bob. “I’ll have to think.” He didn’t. He knew what he intended. But he wanted Peter to run through all the possibilities before he arrived at the one that Stiles had in mind.

For now, Stiles stood and headed over to the small table with the carefully laid out array of tools and toys he planned to use. He picked up a pair of nipple clamps and turned back to Peter. “The name of the game is mercy,” he said, coming back to stand in front of his captive. “If you cry mercy before I’m done, you don’t get your prize.”

Peter gave him a sharp, feral grin. “And if I don’t?”

“I’d say that was obvious, wouldn’t you?” Stiles said, and ducked his head. He caught Peter’s left nipple in his teeth, flicking it with his tongue and sucking it into a hard little point. Peter’s very soft whimper made him smirk, and he pulled back to replace his mouth with a clamp: alligator teeth with tightening screws. As it pinched around the sensitive flesh, Peter’s moan changed to a harsh gasp. “It won’t be easy. I’ve prepared some special toys for you tonight.” He quickly did the same to the right nipple, and once both nipples were clamped, gently tugged the chain that hung between the two.

Stiles watched Peter’s face curiously, looking for any sign of the wrong kind of response. He may not like Peter, and he may take an intense delight in hurting the man, but they had a weirdly symbiotic relationship. He got to beat the shit out of Peter and get them both—maybe—off, and Peter was a calmer, more pleasant person for a while. It worked out for everyone. But it did mean that Stiles didn’t intend on actually damaging Peter permanently or causing him the wrong kind of pain.

Peter was fine, however, and Stiles headed back to the table, picking up a couple of things. He shoved one into his back pocket while swinging the other in his hand lightly. The item in question was a flogger, leather this time, but braided the same way with strips of mountain ash wood bark. He twirled it, his wrist loose and smooth. “Remember… if you cry mercy, you don’t get your prize.”

“Do I get to make noises in general?” Peter asked, shifting in his bonds a little.

“Mmm, I think so. I like it when you make noise. I’ll only accept an actual cry of mercy.” He was maybe making this game too easy, but he knew what he wanted. He knew how he wanted this to go, and if he broke Peter, he wouldn’t get it. And that...well. That just wasn’t going to work.

He didn’t bother to warn Peter, though, before he swung the flogger and crashed it against Peter’s back. Peter jerked, a startled gasp his only reaction to this sudden strike, but his skin turned pink from the impact. Stiles studied it, watching to see if it faded away. It did in places, leaving behind pink lines where the strips of mountain ash were woven into the strands of the lash. Perfect.

Stiles settled into a steady rhythm of strikes, swinging the flogger steadily and firmly. Slowly, Peter’s back became a criss-cross of pink and red lines, and Peter’s body began to sag in his bonds. Stiles was used to this; this wasn’t the sag of someone who’d reached a limit, but instead of someone relaxing into something. This was Peter slowly melting into what Stiles was doing to him.

Stiles didn’t fool himself and think that Peter was slipping into subspace, the wonderful floaty, disconnected world that was a result of letting go and riding the endorphin wave. Peter could probably go there. Stiles could probably put him there. However, that would lessen the effect of this for Peter because he wouldn’t feel the pain, and that’s what this was for Peter. Too, he probably didn’t trust Stiles enough to let go and be vulnerable like that. That was fair. Stiles didn’t trust Peter either.

Instead, Peter let himself relax into the pain, and it was the thing that told Stiles Peter was ready for the next stage. Smirking to himself, Stiles tossed the flogger back toward the table and pulled the thing from his back pocket that he’d tucked there. It was a Wartenberg wheel, a multi-wheeled one. It had five sets of spikes in a row, and each one was needle sharp and ready to prick skin.

 

One of the reasons Stiles loved this particular tool was because it depended completely on the amount of pressure used. One could roll it softly over someone’s skin and it would tickle, maybe itch at best. The more pressure applied, however, the more it hurt, until it could actually break skin and leave behind a row of tiny bloody dots.

Stiles reached for a dish of liquid and dipped the wheel into it. “Y’know, Peter,” Stiles said, running the wheel over Peter’s shoulder firmly enough to leave behind indentations but not breaking skin. “I have to say that I appreciate what you bring to this relationship.” Stiles redipped the wheel and ran it down Peter’s spine this time, using the same amount of pressure. Doing this brought the spikes, coated in mountain ash liquid (since that’s what Stiles was dipping it in) into contact with the welts.

Peter jerked, hissing at the burn. “And what’s that?” he asked, but his voice was a little rough.

“The perfect canvas on which to try this. You heal. I could turn the hose on you right now, rinse away all of this mountain ash, and you’d be back to good as new in an hour or two. And then I could do this all over again.” Stiles redipped the wheel and this time, when he went across Peter’s back at the diagonal, he pressed hard enough to break skin. He smirked at Peter’s moan. “It means I can try all kinds of things on you.”

Peter’s hands and arms flexed, pulling against the ropes binding him. Stiles watched calmly, and long before the the rope would have broken, he relaxed. His skin under the rope looked red and angry. Stiles’s smirk shifted to a smile. “You can’t do this without my consent.” Peter’s voice was maybe a little rougher than it had been. “You know that, right?”

“Of course I do,” Stiles said, and stopped talking for a little while in order to run the wheel over Peter’s back several times, leaving row after row of bloody dots. “That’s what makes this so much fun. And why these games are my favorite.” He moved up behind Peter and wrapped one arm around his chest, making sure to tug the chain of the nipple clamps as he did, and his other hand going down to wrap around Peter’s still mostly erect cock. “You want this fucking badly, don’t you, Peter? You want to hurt, to feel pain, and you want me to do it. You want my scrawny human self to be the one to make you feel. Because this is the only way you get to feel, isn’t it?”

Peter groaned and thrust into Stiles’ hand, letting his head fall back onto Stiles’ shoulder. “And what if I deny it?” he rasped.

“I’ll call you a fucking liar,” Stiles said with a laugh and bit Peter’s shoulder hard.

Peter’s moan told the story anyway. “You’re hardly scrawny,” he managed to say. “Even if you hide it under those baggy shirts.”

“How nice of you to say,” Stiles said when he released the muscle from between his teeth. “Truly, I’m touched.” He jacked Peter a few more times and then let go, backing away again. Peter growled in frustration. Stiles laughed. “Let’s see if I can get you to cry mercy.”

Stiles spent the better part of an hour using a variety of modified toys in his quest to fuck with Peter and get him to cry mercy. A crop, a cane, a whip, all made with mountain ash or soaked in a solution. A knife, also dipped in solution, cutting thin, shallow lines down Peter’s back. A rough cloth soaked with mountain ash solution wiping away the blood afterward.

By the time he was done, Peter was panting, hoarse from screaming, and still half erect. Stiles was impressed. He was also very pleased. “You win,” he said, circling back around to Peter’s front and brushing away some tears that had leaked from Peter’s eyes. “You didn’t cry mercy. You win the game.”

“What’s...my prize?” Peter asked, looking at Stiles through pain-glazed eyes. “I haven’t come... yet, and you... said I would.”

“Ahhh…” Stiles leaned in and gave Peter a filthy kiss. Peter like this—blissed out on pain, alert but relaxed, too emotionally muted to fight back—was his favorite Peter, and he was man enough to admit that it turned him on. And he was going to take advantage of it. “That would ruin the surprise if I told you, wouldn’t it?”

He crouched and untied the ropes securing Peter’s legs to the frame, then stood and did the same with the ropes securing Peter’s wrists. Stiles touched the clamps, pausing a moment to warn Peter before he pinched them open simultaneously. The strangled scream as blood rushed back into the deprived flesh made Stiles’ cock twitch. He flung the clamps toward the table and pushed lightly on the center of Peter’s chest; Peter backed up willingly until he hit the padded table they kept in this room. Sometimes, Stiles tied Peter down to it and did all of the things he’d just done to the standing-while-restrained Peter. Tonight, though… “Lay down, on your back. Arms up over your head.” He waited while Peter wriggled himself into position, wincing when his sliced up, abused back came into contact with the cold leather. He used the rope still tied around Peter’s ankles and wrists to secure him to the table, and then stood next to Peter and stripped off his own clothing until he was naked as Peter was.

“What’s your favorite thing in the world, besides me destroying you?” Stiles asked, and leaned over to swallow Peter’s cock down in one stroke. He sucked firmly, quickly bringing the semi-erect cock to full hardness.

“My favorite thing? Fucking,” Peter said. His voice was strained. “Stiles…”

“Hmm?” Stiles pulled back with an obscene pop. Peter’s now hard cock bounced against his belly. Stiles smirked and reached behind himself, twisting the plug he’d had nestled in his ass the whole time.

“Stiles.” Peter’s tone was different this time: needy and awed instead of curious and confused. “Are you going to…”

Stiles hoisted himself up onto the table and crouched over Peter. “I am. The only choice you get is whether I face you or face away. Do you want to watch me come or do you want to watch your cock disappear into my ass?”

Peter groaned. “What kind of choice is that?” he complained, but his eyes were locked onto Stiles’ cock.

Stiles smirked. “An unfair one. Your eyes tell me what you want. I’ll face you. You don’t get to move and you don’t get to come until I do. If you come before me, I won’t do this again. Ever.”

Peter growled. “I don’t believe you.”

“Then come before I do and try it,” Stiles said, shifting to his knees and reaching for the bottle of lubricant he’d taken from his pocket and set nearby when he took off his pants. He poured some onto his fingers and coated Peter’s cock with a couple of long, slick strokes. He reached back and slowly pulled the large plug out of his ass, dropping it to the floor and applying more lube in its place.

“Stiles,” Peter groaned, eyes locked on the twitching and bobbing of Stiles’ cock.

“Shhhh,” Stiles said, and rose up, his hand holding Peter’s cock again. He held it still as he sank down.

They both groaned at the slow but steady press of the head of Peter’s cock into Stiles’ ass. Stiles didn’t stop, though he kept moving slowly, until the pressure pushed past the tight ring of muscle. Then he sped up just a little and slid all the way down until he was fully seated against Peter’s hips.

He took in a deep breath, relishing the burn of penetration, felt even despite the size of the plug he’d been wearing. “Your thick cock is my favorite thing about you,” he muttered, and slowly began to ride Peter. He ignored the smirk that flicked across Peter’s face and focused instead on getting himself off.

Because that’s what this was about now, for Stiles. Yeah, Peter would come—he knew Peter would come when Stiles did; it was how Peter was—and get pleasure from this, but the whole game was because Stiles wanted to get fucked. He wanted to feel the sharp stretching burn of a cock in his ass, the rhythmic in-out pleasure of fucking, the deep penetration of something in his ass farther than anything he could do for himself. He craved it. Peter’s cock, long and thick, was perfect to satisfy the need. He just had to put up with Peter to get it, and since they had this...convenient arrangement, Stiles knew he could get what he wanted.

And he took it now. He flexed his thighs and settled into riding Peter’s cock at the rhythm and angle he wanted, rubbing against his prostate. Stiles wrapped his still-slick fingers around his cock and stroked it in time with his rocking. Part of him wanted to drag this out, to enjoy the ride and the feel of the cock in his ass. Part of him wanted to come hard and clench around Peter. The two instincts were currently warring with each other as he rode with his eyes closed, invested in savoring every sensation.

Peter’s growl had Stiles slitting his eyes open. He saw glowing blue eyes watching him, and he raised an eyebrow. “Really?” he asked Peter, sinking down and grinding his hips to get Peter just a little deeper. “You’re going to do that now?”

“Are you going to do more than tease?” Peter asked. He shifted his legs, though he didn’t have much leverage, the way he was tied. “I know you want to be fucked harder than that.”

Stiles stopped, sitting and watching Peter thoughtfully. It was true. He did want a harder fuck than he could give himself like this. He didn’t want to give Peter too much power, though. He was fairly sure he was safe, that Peter wouldn’t permanently hurt him or kill him. He was too valuable to Peter for that. There was still a thrill that he couldn’t help, one that elevated his heartbeat and made Peter smirk when he heard it.

“You’re right, I do,” Stiles said, and bent backwards. He chuckled at the groan and flex of Peter’s hips in response to his flexibility, and tugged the dangling rope to release the knot he’d put in. Bless secure but quick release knots.

As soon as his ankles were free, Peter lifted his legs, pushing Stiles back upright in the process. Stiles rebalanced himself and lifted while Peter planted his feet, and as Stiles sank back down, Peter thrust up. Both men groaned at the pleasure, and it didn’t take them long to find a hard, pounding rhythm that worked for both of them.

Stiles couldn’t tear his eyes away from Peter’s face. It was open, showing emotion for the first time that Stiles could remember. There was lust, need, pain, and some indefinable something that Stiles refused to examine other than to note that it was likely the same possessiveness that he currently felt. This was not a relationship and it never would be. He also knew that he was the only one that could do this for Peter and that give him a fierce joy...and a much darker feeling he wasn’t going to think about right now.

He chose instead to stroke his cock, riding out the pounding he was getting. It satiated the need he had that drove him to this in the first place, the need to feel like this. He reached back and dug his fingernails into Peter’s thigh. Peter growled again, eyes flaring blue again. Stiles must still have some wolfsbane under his nails.

“Come, Stiles,” Peter said, his voice harsh, needy, and...desperate. Yes, that was desperate. Stiles felt a surge go through him at the tone, and he smirked down at his partner. Victim. Submissive.

“Do you need to come, Peter?” Stiles asked, panting. “Do you want to fill my ass with your spunk, see it dripping back out of me?”

Peter’s snarl—there was no mistaking that noise—sent a thrill up Stiles’ spine. “Not. Until. You. Come. First.” Each word was punctuated by a hard thrust that rubbed hard against Stiles’ prostate.

How could Stiles argue with that kind of invitation? He let his head fall back, twisting his hand around his cock just right, and let himself come. He heard Peter’s growling snarl at his exposed throat, at the warm stripes of semen hitting Peter’s chest, at the muscles clenching rhythmically around Peter’s cock, and then there was one hard thrust up and Peter was coming. His hips stuttered while Stiles let his weight carry them both back down to the table. He settled on Peter’s hips, panting and shuddering with little waves of pleasure every time Peter’s cock spasmed inside his ass.

It took several long moments before he could lift his head again and look down at Peter. Peter’s eyes were slits, blue glowing under the lids, locked on Stiles’ face. His wrists were red under the wolfsbane rope.

They stared at each other for a little while, catching their breaths, until Peter’s cock softened enough to slide out of Stiles’ ass. The trickle of come that followed dripped slowly down, making Stiles smirk and Peter groan softly.

Gathering his strength, Stiles pushed himself up and off Peter, standing next to the table until his legs stabilized. It took him just a few moments to pull on his clothes and then he was packing up his toy bag.

Peter watched him while he did it; he could feel those eyes on him. He ignored Peter until the last thing he had to pack was rope. Stiles then set his bag between Peter’s thighs on the table, and began untying the lengths from Peter’s ankles.

“I wouldn’t mind playing that game again,” Peter said as Stiles moved around to Peter’s head and began untying his wrists.

Stiles looked down at Peter, unlooping the lengths and tossing the bundle toward his bag. He pushed Peter’s arms up until he could move the stiff muscles and bring his arms to his stomach. “Maybe,” he said, and picked up his bag, looping the strap over his shoulder. He gave Peter’s come-striped body, relaxed on the padded table in a way that only happened after one of their...sessions. “Maybe.” And then he turned and left.