Stiles is about to die.
Peter is going to kill him and Scott's going to say 'I told you so' but Stiles is just going to have to figure out a way to come back and tell him it was completely and totally worth it.
"I can't, I can't, Peter," he whines, damp palms making it impossible to maintain his grasp on the headboard.
"Yes you can, love," Peter says in that low voice that's supposed to be reassuring.
Except it's Peter, for whom reassurance is half threat, and so that purr just makes Stiles writhe more and shove his face into the long destroyed tangle of sheets in a useless attempt at keeping Peter from hearing how close he is to crying.
A shudder wracks his frame as Peter twists his fingers again, just right, just there, barely even moving inside Stiles' slick hole where he's been for god knows how long, pushing him right up to the brink and then over so many times and so gently that even though Stiles' dick gave up long ago the rest of his body is still singing at Peter's touch.
Sweat drops into Stiles' eyes, down his thighs, up his spine, and Peter is relentless, calm even.
He leans in just close enough to lick a hot stripe up Stiles' bared, bruised neck and Stiles simply cannot take any more, sparks fizzing across his eyelids as he sobs.
"Shh, don't cry. It'll all be over soon. Now keep counting."