When the hotel door slams shut behind them, Stiles is still shivering. His teeth are chattering, and it makes Peter’s shoulders go tight. His jaw flexes as he locks the door every way possible and then checks the windows, peeking out through the blinds.
Stiles is sopping wet. His hair is matted down, clothes clinging to his skin, and he wraps his arms around himself as he trembles at the center of the room. His eyes are on the floor, teeth grit tight, and Peter can smell the blood on him.
“I should go back out there,” Stiles mumbles, pivots, heads for the door.
Peter cuts him off. “If you go back out there, your insides will be your outsides. And then I’ll have to deal with your stupid best friend. Not happening.”
“Does it really look like I care right now, Peter?” Stiles retorts, and there’s a crash of thunder outside.
If the power wasn’t already out, it certainly would be now. Peter frowns over at Stiles and cants his head.
“No, and that’s the problem.” Peter says. “You’re going to get yourself killed.”
“I don’t care—“
“And I don’t either,” Peter cuts him off, smile like chocolate and barbed wire. “But Scott does. Unfortunately for both of us, I have to stay on his good side now, don’t I?”
Stiles is still shaking. He’s pale, and he smells angry. Peter loves it a little bit.
“Come on.” Peter coaxes, holding a hand out. “You can’t do anything now. They’ll be okay. They’ll meet us back here in the morning, and everything will be fine. Let me see your arm.”
“You’ve been cradling it since we got away,” Peter snaps; he’s wet and cold too, and just as frustrated. “Let me see your arm.”
Peter reaches for him. Stiles is quick to jerk back, lip curling up into a sneer, and Peter lets out a low growl.
“I’m not in the mood to play, Stiles.” He warns, drawing forward a pace. “Let me see.”
Feet quick, Stiles steps aside as Peter reaches out for him again. He rounds him, just brushing by, and heads for the door once more. Fingers fumbling, he manages to get the locks open, and pulls the door wide enough to maybe fit through at an angle before Peter is on him.
Slamming into the wood, Stiles grunts as Peter grips the back of his neck, using the force of his momentum to push the door shut again. Stiles squirms, pressing, but Peter has him flush against the paneling. There’s a distinct prick of claws at his neck, and Stiles hisses out a curse, landing a blow to Peter’s ribs with his elbow.
“Stop it—Stop it,” Peter says, but Stiles only struggles harder.
Peter catches Stiles’ wrists, using his body to pin the rest of him down against the door, and he presses them up above Stiles’ head. Letting out a distressed sound, Stiles tries to jerk his right arm away, but Peter’s grasp holds firm. There is blood staining Stiles’ sleeve, but it isn’t Stiles’ blood.
Huffing, Peter grumbles out a few choice words, weight bracing Stiles to the door. He takes a moment to breathe, and after a few seconds, Stiles calms under his touch. Peter doesn’t pull back.
Stiles is quivering. He’s practically vibrating against Peter, breath bated, heart pounding. Peter frowns, pulling back just enough to look at Stiles’ profile. His expression is shuttered, but his eyes are almost manic. Peter’s brow furrows at the sight; he tilts his head and breathes deep.
“Oh,” he says on the exhale, eyes wide. “Stiles, I’m surprised.”
“Get your hands off of me.” Stiles grunts, jerking.
“Are you sure that’s what you want?” Peter asks as he grins, inhaling the scent of him again, nose just under Stiles’ ear.
He doesn’t miss Stiles shuddering in a way that has nothing to do with the cold. “Get the fuck off of me, Peter.”
“Are you going to try and run?”
“No, just—“ Stiles shifts, hisses, and his fingers twitch. “My arm hurts. Let me go.”
“Alright, alright.” Peter mutters, taking a step back.
Panting faintly, Stiles goes lax against the door, arms dropping. He cradles the right one to his chest for a moment, forehead resting just to the right of the peephole, and Peter watches him.
“I can help, you know.” Peter says after a minute, moving back deeper into the dim room, toeing off his shoes.
“I don’t want your help.”
“Interesting.” Peter hums. “It’s not often you lie to me these days.”
Stiles’ nostrils flare as he turns about. “I don’t,” he insists. “I don’t want your help.”
“No,” Peter hums, regarding him. “But you might just need it.”
Stiles’ expression curls into a rather convincing snarl. “Fuck you.”
Peter laughs. “Well, no, that’s not quite what you’re looking for, is it?”
There’s a fire in Stiles’ gaze. Peter wants to see how bright it will burn for him. See how hot he can get it before he gets burned.
“What you want, Stiles,” Peter says, voice low with invitation, his paces forward measured and sure. “Is for someone to just… go to town. Isn’t that right? Someone to make you feel?”
Lower lip trembling, Stiles looks away, jaw going tight. Peter tsks, moving into his space, and he’s almost proud to see Stiles stand his ground. He reaches up, catching Stiles’ jaw in a hand and squeezes just a little too tight. Their gazes meet, and Peter smiles.
“I can do that for you,” Peter says, and his eyes glow blue. “Would you like that?”
Stiles jerks out of his touch again. He’s puffing out his nose, cheeks flush, still cold and wet. He’s breathtaking, and Peter wants to take him apart. There’s a moment of complete wordlessness, the only sounds echoing between them are their breath and the deluge outside.
There’s another crash of thunder, and it seems to shake the foundation of their motel. Stiles flinches, taking a step back, and Peter’s hand snaps out to catch him by his shirt front. Swallowing, Stiles’ gaze narrows, and Peter gives him a crooked smile.
“Nothing to be ashamed of,” Peter says, and laughs when Stiles’ brows go up slowly—dry and unamused. “We could both use a distraction. Don’t you think?”
Stiles cants his head subtly, chin tilting up as his shoulders square out, standing at his full height. “Are you going to run your mouth all night, or are you going to put it to good use?”
There’s a flash of fang, and Peter doesn’t miss the uptick in Stiles’ pulse. “Thought you’d never ask.”
Their mouths meet in a messy clash. It isn’t sweet; there’s nothing gentle about it, nothing affectionate. It’s hard and hungry and unforgiving.
Long fingers sink into Peter’s hair, and Stiles pulls harshly. Lips part lips as Peter tilts his head to take it deeper, tongue sliding past Stiles’ teeth to get at the heat in his mouth. Stiles lets out a muffled sound, pressing in flush, muscles contracting under his skin as Peter’s hands slip up under the hem of his shirt.
They break away long enough to strip each other’s shirts up and over their heads, material dropping in a damp pool at their feet. Stiles manages to toe one of his shoes off, sock half hanging onto his foot when Peter shoves him back against the door. Stiles reaches for Peter’s belt the second his back meets wood, but Peter catches him by the wrists again, grip too tight.
Stiles hisses, but otherwise doesn’t complain. Peter’s movements are deliberate. He presses Stiles’ hands back, lifting them slowly up over the younger man’s head, hovering. Stiles arches, eyes not leaving Peter’s, and heat radiates between them.
Ducking his head, Peter mouths along the line of Stiles’ jaw and tastes rain water and the sweet undertones of citrus. Stiles gasps, head canting back for him, and Peter rumbles out a pleased noise as he bites the expanse of neck offered up to him. As Peter presses in flush, body firm against Stiles’, Stiles hitches a leg around Peter’s. His heel digs in hard at the back of Peter’s thigh, and they both groan as their pelvises align.
He ruts against Peter’s hip, mouth open as heavy breath falls over his lips. Peter sucks a mark into the spot above Stiles’ collarbone, worrying the skin there with human teeth, the scruff along his jaw rubbing roughly over pale skin and irritating it. Stiles’ hands flex above his head, and there’s a tight heat below his navel as friction has him moaning into the dark of the room. Chuckling, Peter presses harder and is rewarded with a hissed curse.
Tugging, Stiles gets his hands free and hates that Peter lets him. He curls one hand around the back of Peter’s neck, nails blunt as they dig into the flesh there, and Peter grunts and bites down harder at the juncture between Stiles’ throat and shoulder. It earns him a sharp jerk of Stiles’ hips and angry red lines down over his bicep as he sinks his hands down over the curve of Stiles’ ass. He squeezes the muscle there and guides Stiles forward to rock against him until they’re both panting.
“Come on,” Stiles coaxes, hips rolling sinuously. “Come on.”
Peter kisses him again, firm and unyielding. He hisses when Stiles bites at his lower lip.
“Say it,” Peter says, but he’s already lifting Stiles up by the thick of his thighs and crowding in impossibly close as he grinds against him.
“Fuck me.” Stiles doesn’t hesitate, the hand at Peter’s neck sinking back into his hair and tugging; it angles Peter’s head back just enough as Stiles leans down, licking his way back into Peter’s mouth for a long, breathless moment. “Fuck me, Peter. Come on.”
Peter carries him over to the bed, their mouths locked for the five or so steps it takes, Stiles sucking at Peter’s tongue obscenely. He lets his weight settle down over Stiles’ body, grinning with sharp teeth when Stiles whines as their lips break apart. He trails down over him, biting and bringing blood to the surface but never breaking skin. Stiles’ spine curves up, shuddering heavily each time Peter leaves a mark along the length of his torso.
Mouthing the jut of one of Stiles’ hips, Peter works Stiles’ pants open. It doesn’t take much to tug them down and off—catching briefly on Stiles’ remaining shoe—but he strips him effectively and then pauses. His gaze strays over the sight: Stiles’ legs splayed open for him, cock hard against his stomach as he pants and stares down at Peter with dark, dark eyes. Stiles licks his lips, and Peter snaps back into action.
Peter growls, tugging Stiles closer by the hips before flipping him onto his stomach. He lands one harsh blow of the pale curve of Stiles’ ass, and hates that he misses the way the boy’s eyes undoubtedly widened as he rocks forward, away, with a startled gasp. Humming, Peter palms the red that blossoms over Stiles’ skin.
Leaning in, Peter bites at the top of Stiles’ thigh, just under the swell of pert muscle. Stiles stutters out a curse, fingers curling into the spread of the comforter as he shifts onto this knees. Taking it as invitation, Peter climbs back onto the bed with him, curved over to nose at the dimples of Stiles’ lower back as he slips an arm down to cant Stiles’ ass up for easier access.
Stiles whines again, and Peter chuckles. “So needy.”
“There you go,” Stiles snaps, breath hitching. “Running your fucking mouth again.”
Peter spanks him again, just as hard, over the same spot.
“Fuck,” Stiles gasps, muscles taut under his skin, squirming as if to get away.
Peter lands another blow, smells the spike in Stiles’ arousal, and groans as he licks over the vivid red of his palm print. “Want my mouth doing something else?”
“Yes,” Stiles hisses.
He spreads him open, kneading the firm muscles of his glutes and doesn’t hesitate. His tongue is deft and more than talented, slicking Stiles as he works him loose. Stiles tries to buck away, then buck back, but Peter’s got him in a firm hold.
Toes curling, Stiles gasps against the bedding, spine curving down as Peter toys with his nerves. Peter doesn’t stop, doesn’t even think about it, until Stiles’ breath his hiccupping over his lips as he clutches to the sheets. He pulls away, rewarded only with a sobbed little sound as Stiles goes to reach for himself—to get himself off.
Peter swats his hand away and gives his ass another harsh swat, knowing it’ll probably bruise. Stiles jerks, back arching as Peter trails a mess of kisses and bites up along his spine.
“You’re an asshole.” Stiles hisses as Peter drapes himself over Stiles’ back.
“You like it.” Peter grins, bites at his shoulder with sharp teeth and squeezes at the tender skin of Stiles’ ass.
“Fuck.” Stiles whines, presses back into the touch and pushes himself up onto his hands and knees. “Fuck,come on.”
“Not done with you,” Peter says, like a threat and promise.
He lets his fingers trail between Stiles’ cheeks. Sinking two fingers into him, slicked only by spit, Peter loops an arm up over Stiles’ chest and holds him tight. The roughness is enough to get Stiles to keen for him, spread his legs a bit more, and Peter groans at the tight spasm of muscle around his fingers. He holds Stiles steady with a hand at his shoulder, feeling the boy’s heart pound against his forearm, and he sinks his fingers in deeper.
Stiles lets out a helpless little sound, rutting back against Peter’s hand, head hanging heavy between his shoulders. Peter enjoys the way his breath hitches each time Peter withdraws his fingers, like Stiles is scared he might stop touching him, but then he presses back in and Stiles moans his satisfaction unabashedly. He doesn’t need to give him so much prep—knows that pain is just as important as pleasure—but he wants Stiles to come with nothing but Peter’s fingers in his ass.
He works him over. Curving them just so, pressing in all the right places. Stiles doesn’t seem to mind, fingers flexing and curling over the mess of sheets beneath them as Peter pants against his ear. He’s aching in his pants; he wants inside of Stiles, wants to watch his eyes roll back as he drives deep. Fangs catching Stiles’ earlobe, he adds a third finger and thrusts them in to prod and rub over that bundle of nerves until Stiles comes with a shout.
“Fuckfuckfuck,” Stiles pants, and Peter doesn’t stop fucking him with his fingers, savors the twitch of heat around them, and the way he pulls desperate little sounds from the back of Stiles’ throat.
When he finally pulls free, turning Stiles over onto his back, the boy is covered in a lovely sheen of sweat. He reaches for Peter, forces him down with shaking hands and kisses him until both of their lungs ache with strain. Peter works his own pants open as Stiles wraps his legs around Peter’s hips, using the mess of come Stiles made to slick his cock up when he finally frees it and kicks his clothes away.
Stiles is already half hard again, breathless and hazy eyed beneath Peter. It makes Peter groan, one hand settling at Stiles’ hip as the other guides himself forward. The scent of their mingled arousal has his eyes burning blue into the dim light, and Stiles is biting along his jaw even as he starts to press in. Tight muscle yields after enough pressure is added, the stretch making Stiles’ eyes flood with tears, amber bright and locked on with Peter’s gaze as Stiles’ head falls back against the bed.
He withdraws a bit, then drives forward again—sinks deeper, feels more than hears Stiles stop breathing. Slipping a hand down around to Stiles’ lower back, he cants the boy’s hips up for the both of them, slides almost completely out and then thrusts back in. Stiles arches, lets out a little grunt, and drags his nails down over Peter’s back.
“Good?” Peter asks; he knows it is, but he just wants to hear it.
“Yes,” Stiles bucks his hips up, like a challenge. “Harder.”
Groaning, Peter kisses him hard enough to split Stiles’ lip, licking away the blood and grinding in as deep as he can get. Stiles shudders, mewls against his mouth, and clenches purposefully around the length of Peter’s cock. Hissing out a curse, Peter breaks away, settles on his knees and catches one of Stiles’ legs under the thigh.
He presses it up, forcing Stiles’ back at a downward curve, and sets a pace. It’s anything but gentle. The springs wheeze under their movements, Peter fucking into Stiles with jarring thrusts. It seems to knock the air out of Stiles each time Peter fills him, whiskey eyes fluttering as Stiles grits his teeth, palm slick against Peter’s rib cage. The bed shifts, groaning, as Peter picks up the pace.
Stiles lets out a strained sound, high from the back of his throat, and Peter leans down to mouth over his adam’s apple. The angle changes, just enough for Peter’s cock to strike-catch-drag over Stiles’ prostate with each thrust, and Stiles claws down over Peter’s sides. It spurs him on, makes Peter drive in harder, and the wood of the headboard clatters loudly against the wall.
“Gonna come for me?” Peter mutters in Stiles’ ear, free hand slipping into the dark mess of Stiles’ hair to angle his head over, the other squeezing at the strain of muscle in Stiles’ thigh as he holds him open. “Are you gonna come on my cock, Stiles?”
“Ahh,” Stiles scrabbles over Peter’s shoulder blades, scratches disappearing as soon as Stiles leaves them over his skin. “Yes. Yes.”
His mouth is slut-slack as Peter pulls back enough to look down at him, breath heavy and bated, and Peter can smell his orgasm building, can hear the thunder of Stiles’ heart over the storm still raging outside. “Come on. Come for me. Let me see you.”
“Peter,” Stiles gasps, whine catching in his throat, gaze going hazy as Peter drives in hard.
The sight of Stiles coming is almost better than just the sound of him. It’s the way his head cranes back, chest pressing up as he arches despite the way Peter has him pinned. It’s the way his eyes roll back for a minute as he spills out between them in a mess of sticky white. It’s the way he doesn’t stop bucking up, doesn’t stop trying to fuck himself on Peter’s cock.
Praise falls over Peter’s tongue, unbidden, as he pushes Stiles’ hair back from his forehead. He doesn’t slow, and Stiles sobs out an enraptured sound, clinging to him as Peter keeps fucking in to the fluttering heat of Stiles’ body. Tears slip down the sides of Stiles’ face, and when Peter licks up one salty trail, he tastes nothing but Stiles’ pleasure.
“Please,” Stiles gasps, straining up, one heel digging in at Peter’s thigh in an urging manor, whining as Peter kisses him, nails biting into the muscle of Peter’s shoulders. “Pleaseplease—Deeper. Harder.”
Peter curses. He doesn’t stop. His jaw clenches tight, and his claws extend out, drawing blood just under Stiles’ knee, just beneath his ear where he’s cradling the back of Stiles’ head.
Something in him snaps. There’s a rush of need, strong and hungry, and he ruts in as far as he can go with each thrust. He watches Stiles’ eyes go back again, feels the boy spasm, groans as Stiles pleads up at him haplessly. It doesn’t draw out for much longer.
He fucks forward harder, mind too gone to the fog of ecstasy to worry about hurting Stiles. The bed is rocking, groaning violently beneath them, and as Peter feels his climax hit its peak, a hand shoots out to slam into the headboard. Wood splinters under his fist, and he comes hard as he buries deep into Stiles’ heat.
Hips twitching a bit feebly, Peter pants heavy and loud, staring down at Stiles with wide eyes as he starts to soften inside of him. Their chests rise and fall, breath mingling between their mouths. Peter withdraws with a slick sound, and Stiles whimpers softly at the empty feeling he’s left with.
Arm scooping around Stiles’ waist, Peter holds him close to his chest, letting his leg go in order to strip the top cover down enough for them to slide between the sheets together. Stiles doesn’t protest, lips red and swollen, tender as Peter kisses him again. His hand is firm over Stiles’ hip where he knows a bruise is going to be in the morning.
Their legs tangle messily together, one of Stiles’ ankle hooked around Peter’s calf. Stiles’ heartbeat is still ringing in Peter’s ears, and he can taste the sound of Stiles’ moans on his tongue. He pulls the sheets up over them, keeping Stiles close.
They don’t speak. When Stiles’ breath goes shallow, Peter thinks that he might be asleep until he touches the line of blood beneath Stiles’ ear where he accidentally clawed him and hears Stiles hiss.
“Stop it,” he mutters. “Just go the fuck to sleep, dude.”
Peter hums. It isn’t hard to let slumber claim the both of them.
A few hours later, Peter wakes to the sound of Stiles’ cell phone chirping from somewhere on the floor. Stiles stirs, grunts, and pulls out of Peter’s arms without a second thought. Peter can’t even smell embarrassment on him as he watches him press his phone to his ear at the foot of the bed.
There’s a brief conversation. The storm has settled somewhat outside, but the wind is buffering loudly against the walls and window. Stiles hangs up the phone, tossing it back to the floor, and Peter props himself up onto an elbow.
“They’re fine,” Stiles says, dragging a hand through his hair and wincing as his right arm twinges. “Hid out in some shack in the woods until the storm died down. They’ll be back by morning.”
Peter tilts his head, eyes trailing down over the bites and marks he left over Stiles’ back. “Let me see your arm.”
Stiles snorts, but he shuffles back beneath the sheets with him, plopping down next to Peter and holding out his arm. “Didn’t seem too concerned about it earlier.”
“I was preoccupied.” Peter says, taking it and pressing over a knot of muscle. “You just pulled something. You’re going to have to ice it.”
“I will,” Stiles mutters, watching him.
Peter’s gaze flickers up, meeting Stiles’. “You have something you want to say?”
“Thanks,” Stiles nods. “That was good. Fun.”
Humming, Peter smiles. “It was. But?”
“But nothing,” Stiles shrugs a shoulder, laying back against the sheets, nose wrinkling faintly as he scrubs over his own abdomen at the sticky flaking of dried come.
Stiles snorts, glancing up at him. “What did you expect? That I’d want to forget it ever happened, never ever mention it again, be all ashamed?”
“Yes.” Peter says.
Stiles’ lips purse. “It was sex, Peter. Not a marriage proposal. There’s nothing for me to be ashamed of.”
Peter inhales deep, resting his cheek against his fist as he regards the boy next to him. “You never cease to fascinate me.”
“Thanks.” Stiles grumbles, shifting uncomfortably. “You wanna shower?”
“Need someone to scrub your back?” Peter asks, brow lifting.
Stiles meets his eyes again. “Among other things.”
Peter smiles. “Lead the way.”