It all starts with Grindr.
Stiles downloads the app with every intention of using it. He’s reasonably new to the city, young, single and DTF. He sets up his profile, including a body shot that shows from his chin to his hips and highlights the length of his body, but he keeps his face hidden, because safety first, right? The picture makes him look long and lean and kinda sexy, with his jeans partly unzipped and hanging low on his hips, happy trail clearly visible, and the hint of a bulge in his pants. (It took him fourteen tries in the mirror before he was satisfied with the shot.) His username gives him pause for a second, but in the end, he goes with PrettyBoy22.
He lists his age, height, weight, and that he’s a bottom who’s looking to hook up, but it’s…bland, somehow exactly like a dozen other profiles he’s seen. It needs something catchy to make it stand out, he decides - possibly fueled by the rum and Coke he’s drinking.
He thinks about what he likes, what he should ask for. It’s not like anyone he knows will ever see it, he reasons. With that in mind, he goes for something between honest and flirty.
Stiles has always liked it when someone manhandles him a little, tells him what to do. But that doesn’t mean he wants some caveman type who’s going to pin him to the wall and call him “bitch”. Stiles wants someone masterful, but he’s no masochist. It’s a fine line. In the end, he settles for
Treat me nice and let me call you Daddy - or Sir. You decide. I’m just a lonely boy who’s new to town and looking for a guiding hand. Think you know what’s best for me? Then you could be just what I need. (Not into painplay or humiliation.)
He reads it through and thinks, good enough.
He hits post.
He stares at the screen for a good five minutes, somehow disappointed that his perfect partner hasn’t popped up already. Isn’t that the point of this thing? That he doesn’t have to go out to clubs, that somehow the gods of sex will send what he wants directly to his door?
He looks his photo over critically, wondering if he should have kept his shirt on and hidden how pale he is, or maybe set it to black and white so it looks artistic rather than pathetic. Maybe he should forget the whole thing. His thumb’s hovering over the delete button when his phone pings, startling Stiles so badly that he nearly drops it.
Someone’s actually replied.
I’ll give you what you need, pretty boy. And you can call me Sir.
The hairs on the back of Stiles’s neck prickle at that, and his dick throbs. He clicks on the profile and the picture that pops up is UN-FUCKING-FAIR. Jesus Christ on a bicycle, nobody should look like that. The man’s staring into the camera, a smile that’s almost a sneer on his face. And what a face it is. Intense blue eyes, cheekbones like cut glass, and a strong jawline covered in the perfect amount of stubble. His neck, what Stiles can see of it, is thickly muscled, and Stiles can see the beginnings of a tattoo that travels down. There’s the tiniest scattering of grey at his temples, and Stiles breathes out, “Oh yes, Sir,” as he drinks in the details on the profile.
White, single, 5’ 11”
Don’t know what you need? Don’t worry. I’ll help you find out. Looking for a sweet thing who craves a guiding hand.
It doesn’t escape Stiles’s notice that they’ve both used the same phrase in their description. Maybe this won’t be a washout after all. He keeps reading. Apparently Alwaysthealpha is looking for casual, and he likes to be in control. He describes himself as firm but fair.
Boxes fucking ticked, thinks Stiles.
Stiles types a reply, but he hits send too early.
Shit. He’s fucked up already. Stiles frowns at the offending chat bubble as though it’s somehow responsible for this.
But then a new message comes through. Stiles holds his breath as he opens it.
I think you mean Hey Sir, don’t you sweetheart? And hello to you, too.
Hello, Sir. Sorry, I got excited and hit send.
Oh dear. Suffering from premature communication?
Stiles snickers at that. He sends back I guess I’m just eager.
There’s a short delay before the next message arrives.
Is that so? Does that mean you’re interested in letting me show you a good time?
Stiles can’t type out his reply fast enough.
Yes. Yes Sir. Definitely.
You’re only a mile from me. Send me a meeting point and I’ll come collect you. Tell me, how do you feel about something powerful between your thighs?
Stiles shoots back I mean, that’s why I’m on here, right?
He follows it with the address of the hotel on the corner, because he’s not letting a stranger know where he lives. Even getting picked up’s probably a bad idea, but it’s been a long time, and he wants.
Excellent. There in ten minutes. Prepare to hold on tight.
A picture follows of a gorgeous Harley, all chrome and leather, and Stiles just about swallows his tongue, because not only is this guy as hot as fuck, but he rides a bike? It’s like all of Stiles’s fantasies got together and decided to throw him a party. God bless technology.
I’ll be waiting, Sir.
Stiles takes the time grab a shower and make sure he’s thoroughly clean, then brush his teeth and throw on a fresh shirt and some decent jeans, the ones that hug his ass just right. At the last minute he grabs a jacket, because motorbike. He’s only been on one a few times, but it turns him on like nothing else, something about the raw power and the edge of danger setting his heart racing.
His phone’s been making noises while he showered, and he grins when he sees a string of other replies on his profile. He doesn’t answer them, doesn’t even look at them as he turns off notifications. For tonight at least, he’s good.
He hears the bike before he sees it, the pipes almost obnoxiously loud, and he wonders briefly if the guy’s compensating for something with the bike and the attitude, but then he forgets to wonder because the bike comes to a stop in front of him, and when the driver takes his helmet off Stiles nearly creams his jeans right then and there. Pictures didn’t do this guy justice. He dismounts with sinuous grace, before quirking an eyebrow at Stiles. “Please tell me you’re waiting for me, pretty boy?”
Stiles can feel himself beaming. “Yes, Sir.”
“Oh, I’m so glad.” The man smiles, and it’s devastating. He extends a hand. “I’m Peter.”
Stiles takes it, replying, “Stiles.” The eyebrow’s raised again, and Stiles can see the man’s disbelief, so he adds, “It’s a nickname. Real one’s a nightmare. Polish.”
Peter’s expression shifts to one of understanding. “Ever been on a bike before, Stiles?” he asks, and Stiles nods. His name sounds good in Peter’s mouth. Peter grabs a second helmet and tosses it at him and Stiles slips it on, still grinning. He waits until Peter’s mounted the bike before climbing on behind him. “Hold on tight, pretty boy,” Peter says, then he starts the bike with a roar and takes off.
Stiles keeps his arms wrapped tight around Peter’s midsection. Normally he’d be hesitant, but given where they’re going and what they’re planning on doing, it seems a little superfluous to wonder if Peter minds the close contact.
Stiles closes his eyes and lets himself soak up the experience, leaning in with Peter when they corner, enjoying the wind whipping at his skin and the thrum of the motor. It’s a disappointingly short ride. Peter pulls into the underground carpark of one of the nicer apartment buildings in town, and places a hand on the small of Stiles’s back, guiding him to the elevator. Once inside, he crowds Stiles against the wall and kisses him without asking, one hand pinning Stiles’s wrists above his head. Stiles lets out a breathy moan when they part.
“Well don’t you sound delicious?” Peter chuckles, low and sinful. He runs his other hand through Stiles’s hair before kissing him again, not stopping until they reach his floor. The sound of the doors opening pulls Stiles out of the haze he’d been sinking into. He suspects that if Peter fucks as well as he kisses, Stiles might be in for the night of his life.
Peter strides out of the elevator, and Stiles follows him eagerly. This whole thing is mind-blowing - he’s heard stories, but he didn’t actually think he’d end up finding someone to have sex with right away. Yet here he is, barely an hour after making his profile, in the apartment of a stranger, and there’s no awkwardness, no wondering if they’re crossing a line, just a mutual agreement that they plan to have a good time together.
This leaves his small California hometown in the dust.
Once they walk in the door Peter strips out of his leather jacket, and Stiles can see more of the tribal tattoo that snakes down his throat, disappearing into a tight v neck. “The ink’s hot,” he says without thinking.
Peter gives him a seductive smile. “You like that? I have more.” He steps into Stiles’s personal space to slip his jacket off as well, dropping it on a chair with his own. He puts firm hands on Stiles’s hips, pulling him closer, leaning in to kiss up the side of Stiles’s neck, nudging at him so his head’s tilted back, exposing his throat. “You have such a pretty throat, sweetheart. I want to sink my teeth into it.” It occurs to Stiles far too late that maybe he should have set some boundaries instead of just agreeing to this, but Peter seems to sense his unease, and pulls back. “Relax, pretty boy, I’m teasing. But we do need to talk.” He steers Stiles over to a leather couch and Stiles sits obediently. Peter sits next to him, one hand stroking the back of Stiles’s hand. “Grindr virgin?” Peter asks knowingly.
“How’d you guess?” Stiles wonders what he did to give himself away.
Peter just raises that eyebrow again. “Well, most people at least attempt to get a name, and want to talk about what they expect before agreeing to meet. You, on the other hand, have the self-preservation instincts of a lemming.”
And shit, he has a point. Stiles figures he can’t be a serial killer though, or Stiles’s body would already be in the freezer by now. Still. He can imagine the lecture his dad would give him if he ever found out. Which he’s definitely never going to. “Yeah, I maybe dropped the ball on that one,” Stiles admits. “But in my defense, have you seen you? I didn’t want you to be the one that got away.”
Peter throw back his head and laughs. “I like you, Stiles. And lucky for you, I made sure to scoop you up before someone less savory got their hands on you.” He leans in and tugs at Stiles’s earlobe with his teeth, sending a frisson of excitement running through him. “Not that rescuing you was any kind of hardship,” Peter adds, licking a broad stripe up Stiles’s neck.
Stiles whimpers. Peter speaks, huffing hot breath against his wet skin. “Delicious boy. Now tell me, what exactly do you want me to do to you?”
Don’t say ‘you can do anything’ don’t say ‘you can do anything’, Stiles recites to himself, determined to prove he’s not a total loser. What comes out is, “You’re in charge, Sir,” which really, isn’t much better.
Peter lifts his head from where he’s kissing Stiles’s throat and gives a wicked smirk. “Oh, sweetheart. That word’s so pretty coming out of your mouth. Say it again.”
“Yes, Sir.” Stiles swallows at the hunger he sees in Peter’s eyes. It’s almost predatory. Right now, Stiles thinks he wouldn’t mind if Peter did eat him up. Peter crowds Stiles back into the couch and straddles him, running his hands through Stiles’s hair and pressing their bodies close. Stiles can feel the bulge in Peter’s jeans, and thinks dimly, not compensating, then.
Peter kisses him slow and deep and filthy, one hand staying in his hair, the other sliding under the hem of his shirt. His palms are broad and warm, and Stiles melts into the touch. Peter pulls away, tilting his head for a moment. “Sweetheart, how much rum have you had, exactly? Not judging, just curious.”
Stiles blinks slowly, because that wasn’t what he was expecting. “Two drinks? Is that okay?”
Peter relaxes, and his hand starts moving over Stiles’s skin again. “Two’s fine. I’d just hate to think I’m about to seduce someone who can’t say yes.”
“Yeah, well. Consider that ship sailed. Yes to everything,” Stiles says, his voice unsteady as Peter tweaks one nipple, just enough for it to sting.
“Yes, what?” Peter asks, and his fingers tug a little harder, making Stiles squeal and jogging his memory.
“Yes, Sir,” he cries out, and Peter rewards him by grinding up against him, making his cock throb at the contact.
“Good boy,” he purrs. “Let me take care of you.”
Stiles doesn’t understand how, but Peter’s able to take charge in a way that has Stiles eager to follow his every direction. He’d been worried it might be demeaning, nothing like his fantasies, but every time Peter tells him to do something and he does it, Peter’s there crooning what a good boy he is, how he’s so perfect for Sir, and Stiles is so fucking into it. He always knew he was a sucker for praise, but this is a whole other level. It’s almost frightening.
He follows Peter’s every instruction, and Peter rewards him with more skin, more touching, more kisses, until finally they’re both naked. Stiles takes the time to run his fingers over the tattoo that runs all the way down Peter’s neck, following it where it flows down one side of his chest, before getting his mouth on Peter’s dick. He sucks him off, slow and wet and messy, and Peter honest-to-god growls when he pulls out and comes all over Stiles’s face.
Stiles thought he’d be getting fucked tonight. He wonders if he still will, now that Peter’s blown his load. He doesn’t have much time to worry about it though, because the next thing he knows, Peter’s picked him up from where he’s kneeling on the floor (hellooo manhandling), laid him out across the bed, and has Stiles’s cock halfway down his throat. Stiles comes in a matter of minutes, maybe losing some time and a few braincells with the force of his orgasm.
He feels Peter’s body land on the bed next to him, but doesn’t open his eyes, enjoying the warmth radiating off him. Peter runs hot. And it seems he runs hot in more ways than one. “You with me, pretty?” he murmurs in Stiles’s ear, close enough that Stiles can’t miss what’s prodding him in his thigh, and how is Peter hard again already?
It makes something niggle in Stiles’s brain, but he’s past chasing it right now, settling for a sound that might be a ‘yes’. Peter laughs softly. “I want to get inside that sweet ass of yours, so get on your hands and knees when you feel ready. Can you do that for me?”
“Yessir,” Stiles squeaks. He takes a moment, then rolls onto his front and gets his legs under him, ass presented like an offering. He goes to push up on his arms, but Peter lays a hand on his hip. “No. Stay like that. It’s perfect,” he rasps.
Stiles stays where he is, and Peter climbs on the bed behind him. Then there are fingers and lube and Peter telling him he’s perfect, and the stretch is just right, making him squirm and pant. “Please, Sir, I’m ready,” he begs, even though he knows he probably isn’t. He’s always been impatient.
Peter ignores him and adds a third finger. And okay, maybe Stiles can admit he isn’t quite there yet. He hisses between his teeth and Peter has the cheek to laugh at him, even if the laugh is breathless. He leans forward and whispers, “I can tell when you’re lying, sweetheart. You’re ready when I say you’re ready.”
Stiles would argue, but he doesn’t want to risk Peter taking those talented hands away, so instead he grits out another, “Yes, Sir.”
Peter lets out a pleased sound, and works his fingers deeper, teasing and stretching until Stiles is begging him to please Sir, please, please fuck me.
Finally, Stiles hears the crinkle of a condom wrapper, feels the hand on one hip holding him in place as Peter slowly eases inside, and it’s so good he might cry. He definitely makes embarrassing whining noises, but Peter doesn’t seem to mind, calling Stiles his perfect boy and giving him what he needs. Stiles arches his back and spreads his legs, making room for Peter to move, and luxuriates in the feeling of the perfect dick inside him. He’s already on edge, and with Peter rocking against his prostate he can feel himself leaking. He gets a hand under himself, on his dick, and the combined sensations have him dangerously close to coming. “Peter, I’m gonna—”
“Good boy, come for me,” Peter pants, and Stiles does. His balls draw up tight and he grunts as he climaxes. He can feel his ass tightening, and then Peter’s slamming into him and cursing as he shudders and comes as well. Stiles’s limbs are made of jelly, and he slumps onto the bed, incapable of holding himself up. Peter follows, cock still nestled in his ass, and nuzzles at the back of his neck, kissing and nibbling as one hand cards through Stiles’s hair. They stay like that while Stiles catches his breath, and he should probably move—laying in his cooling come isn’t the best feeling—but there’s the comforting weight of Peter against his back. He decides that staying put wins for now.
It’s Peter who finally moves, pulling out and disposing of the condom, rolling over to one side, and shit, this is awkward. Stiles doesn’t know what happens now. Does he offer to leave? Can he take a shower? He really wants a nap, but would that be rude? Peter must sense his uncertainty, because he slings an arm around Stiles’s waist, mumbling, “Stop thinking so hard, and let me enjoy my afterglow,” before burying his nose in the nape of Stiles’s neck. He goes quiet, and within minutes he appears to be asleep.
Stiles shrugs internally and goes with it. If Peter says they’re cuddling and napping, then they’re cuddling and napping. It’s not like Stiles can move anyway—the man’s got a vice-like grip and he’s stupidly strong. Stiles relaxes, closes his eyes, and drifts.
Next thing he knows, there’s a hand gently shaking him awake, and a voice in his ear. “Stiles?”
“Nnngh,” he mutters into the pillow.
The voice sounds amused. “Well I was going to ask if you’d prefer to stay the night or leave, but I guess that answers my question. Snuggle up, pup.”
And that, right there, that single word, brings all the pieces together, and Stiles sits bolt upright in bed. “Holy shit, you’re a werewolf!”
Peter’s whole body stiffens next to him. “What?”
“A werewolf.” Stiles wonders why it took him this long to see it. “You’re super strong, you keep sniffing my neck, you said you want to bite me, and I’m pretty sure you growled at me one time. And you just called me pup. You’re a Were.”
Peter’s dangerously quiet, but Stiles doesn’t notice, too busy congratulating himself. It’s only when Peter turns red eyes on him and snarls “How do you know about us?” that it occurs to Stiles that he’s alone, without transport, with what looks like a pissed off Alpha wolf, and that maybe, just maybe, he could have approached this better.
He extends his hands, palms out, in a placating gesture. “Woah, turn off the high beams, Alpha. I had a roommate in college who was a born wolf. Nice enough guy, once you got past his murder face. Anyway, I found out after someone tried to poison him and I had to shove wolfsbane into a bullet wound. I’m cool with it, honestly,” he babbles. “I mean, Derek and I roomed for three years and it wasn’t an issue.”
“Derek,” Peter repeats slowly.
“Yeah. The roomie. Studying something with plants, I wanna say herbology but that’s Harry Potter, but anyway, dude was all about plants. A real softy once you got to know him. He used to call me an idiot pup.” Stiles pauses for breath. “Anyway. I won’t tell, if that’s what you’re worried about, so, if you could please not maul me, that’d be great.” He indicates to where Peter’s claws are out, and shuffles backwards on the bed, putting some distance between them.
To his surprise and relief, Peter’s eyes lose their glow and the claws retract. Peter even gives him a small smile. “You’re the IT kid.”
Stiles frowns at that. He’s never mentioned his job. Seeing his confusion, Peter elaborates. “Derek, the plant guy, is my nephew. He told us he had an IT kid for a roommate who talked a mile a minute, but he also said you know how to keep a secret.”
Stiles nods. “Well, yeah. Dude got shot, so I figured there are people out there who aren’t fans. I’m not gonna lie, it freaked me out at first, but Der was pretty good about answering my questions and I’m a giant research nerd, so it was cool once I knew he wasn’t gonna, y’know, chow down on me in my sleep.”
Peter lets out a deep breath. “No. Despite what the films say, we’re not slavering beasts.” Stiles doesn’t imagine the relief he sees on Peter’s face.
“Nah. Derek wouldn’t even kill a spider if he didn’t have to. Said it wasn’t their fault people got freaked out and they couldn’t help what they are.”
Peter smiles a little wider at that. “Sounds like my nephew. He’s a giant marshmallow, although he’d deny it.”
As he moves around, Stiles becomes aware of the drying come on his stomach and wrinkles his nose. “So, any chance of a shower before you take me home? This is kinda gross.”
“Of course.” Peter gives him a smirk. “Shall I join you?”
Stiles considers it. Peter does look very appealing, sitting there naked. “Will I actually get clean, or is this an excuse for you to get your soapy hands on my naked body?”
“Absolutely an excuse. What do you say, pet? Let Sir clean you up before sending you home?” Peter’s tone is soft, but very persuasive, and Stiles perks up at the word pet.
“Yessir,” he breathes out.
Now that he’s not trying to hide his wolf strength, Peter hoists Stiles off the bed and slings him over one shoulder, carrying him into the bathroom easily. Stiles thinks he should probably feel objectified, but instead it’s stupidly hot, like pretty much everything about this whole night. The shower’s one of those double-headed jobs, plenty of room for both of them, and the hot water’s heavenly as it sluices down Stiles’s body. Peter pins him to the wall like he did in the elevator, only this time Stiles is naked and Peter doesn’t hesitate to leave a trail of lovebites down his chest and neck before soaping him up. He pulls Stiles forwards into the spray and Stiles leans against him, almost sprawling, he’s so relaxed. Once Peter’s rinsed him off, he turns Stiles round and presses him against the tiles. “Going to be a good pet and let me fuck you like this?” Peter asks, and that word, pet, might be the death of him.
He nods dumbly, and Peter gives a satisfied hum as he rolls on a condom and slides into Stiles’s already loose ass. Stiles takes a second to wonder where the hell Peter was hiding the condom before he’s lost in the sensation of being thoroughly fucked. It’s quick and messy this time, Peter reaching round to jerk Stiles off as he fucks in hard and fast, both of them moaning out their pleasure, the sounds bouncing off the tiles and echoing around the room. It’s barely a handful of thrusts before Peter’s tensing and shuddering, and Stiles follows him when Peter bites down gently on the curve of his neck, the blunt human teeth adding the perfect amount of sting.
Stiles is breathing heavily as he watches his come swirl down the drain, limp and exhausted. It takes a moment to find his voice. “So, maybe I’ll stay after all, if that’s all right?”
“Mmmm. Perfectly all right. And if, during the night, the mood strikes…” Peter leaves the question dangling.
Stiles turns to face Peter. draping arms around his neck. “I’d definitely be okay with that.” He hesitates, then adds, “Sir.”
Peter’s answering smile is full of predatory promise.
The following morning, Peter drives Stiles home in his SUV. The mood 'struck' several times during the night, and when he sees the way Stiles is walking, Peter looks smug as he pronounces that there’s no way Stiles’s ass is getting on a bike. Stiles breathes a sigh of relief and offers to get a cab, but Peter breezily assures him they can take his truck.
He drops Stiles off at the same corner he picked him up from, there are the awkward goodbyes that accompany a hookup, and Stiles sighs happily as he watches Peter drive off. He’d say his experiment with Grindr was a success.
He shuffles up to his apartment and sleeps for six hours.