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syncopate my skin to your heart beating

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(fuck) you are soft
moonlight kissing the dawn
and I do not know
how I could ever devour 
without the guilt.

smother me
with your quiet blood.

—               because I’d rather write poetry than own you, Camillea


It starts as an itch, three days after his eighteenth birthday.  Like a constant humming under his skin.  Something he cannot quite touch or put a name to, but it is ever present.  A steady pulse of something and Stiles learns to tune it out within a week. 

He keeps having these dreams.  Dreams where there is nothing but skin on skin, mouths open and wanting.  There is heat.  There is desperation.  It always leaves Stiles throbbing and sweaty when he wakes, hard and unable to find release on his own.  The fifth night in a row that it happens, he takes an icy cold shower and nearly cries because he cannot find orgasm in the comfort of his own palm.  It’s more than frustrating.

There’s a tiredness that grows in his bones.  School is a hassle, and people keep looking at him like they know.  Flirting with him and teasing him, like it’s all some big conspiracy, and everyone knows that Stiles hasn’t been able to get off in over a week


Three weeks after his birthday, it’s an ache.  Insistent, hot, and tight in his chest, in his stomach, in his groin.  He thinks he’s sick, or cursed, or probably both.  When it becomes too much, so heady and loud, the ache like a noise rattling around in his skull, he takes a sick day after a weekend of feeling like shit and curls up in bed with his laptop and the digital copy of the Argent bestiary. 

He spends the weekend half asleep.  Concentration is difficult, and while there’s a steady burn in his belly, his skin is cold, so he stays huddled up under the covers as he trembles and squints at his computer screen.  He doesn’t find any answers until the sun has gone down on Monday night.  By the time he does, his teeth are chattering and it is raining outside.  It is too late for him to realize that going to school and surrounding himself with teenage hormones had been the only thing keeping him sustained; too late for him to realize that the isolation of the weekend and his self-appointed Monday off has deprived him of the energy his changing body needs in order to survive.

“Fuck,” he huffs, throat tight, and he throws off his blankets in order to stumble to his feet and pad toward his closet.  “Why is it always me?”

He goes to The Jungle.  It’s a slow night, but it’s better than nothing, and Stiles finds himself a spot at the bar.

The shock of relief that floods through Stiles’ body when he steps into the club is both a blessing and a curse.  It means that Stiles is right about his hypothesis, which means Stiles is suffering from an affliction that he doesn’t think there will be a cure for.  It nearly brings tears to his eyes, and the bartender must take pity on him because Stiles finds a drink sitting in front of him that he definitely didn’t order. 


“On the house,” the bartender winks, and Stiles’ cheeks color. 

The attention makes him discomfited.  The lazy smile the bartender offers makes something in Stiles twist.  If it wasn’t for the way he finally feels a little less like a walking corpse, hungry and achy, he probably would have taken his leave then.  Instead, he takes the drink with a tight smile and lets his focus fall to the dance floor. 

He is hungry.  He needs to feed.  And this is the only way he knows how.


Stiles is not doing well. 

The more time that passes, the hungrier he gets.  It is a clawing, sharp ache that is near ceaseless.  He hasn’t stopped shaking since Wednesday, the high and heady hormones of teens walking the halls at school not enough to stave off the emptiness that has developed in his chest.  He has plans to hit up the heavy grind of The Jungle Friday night after the pack meeting, but he’s starting to wonder if he’ll even make it through the evening.

Scott is cluelessly, recklessly concerned for him.  He keeps casting these furtive glances at Stiles during class that afternoon, and attempts to approach Stiles at the end of the day by his jeep before they’re supposed to head off to Derek’s.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” Scott pleads.

Stiles is trembling when he shakes his head.  “Don’t worry about it, dude.  I’ve got it under control.”

“Stiles,” Scott shuffles close—too close.  “Please let me help you.”

He can’t even stop himself.  Can’t even keep his hands from reaching out, catching Scott’s shirt front and dragging him close.  He spins them, mouth slanting over Scott’s as he pins him back against the driver side door.  The startled yelp dies on Scott’s tongue when Stiles’ invades his mouth.

Scott slumps, drugged and blissed, hands finding their place easily on Stiles’ hip, in his hair.  Shifting against him, Stiles practically purrs, finding Scott already hard, already reacting to Stiles’ poison mouth, already feeding the ache that Stiles has been fighting for weeks.  Stiles sucks at Scott’s tongue, all instinct, stealing the heat from his friend and finding it so much more satisfying than the few heavy petting sessions he’s had at The Jungle to keep himself from drowning in hunger.

He figures it’s a werewolf thing.  A supernatural thing.  He figures just a little longer, just a little more, just—

A horn blares, and Stiles jerks back with wide eyes, already whipping his mouth with the back of his hand.  The catcalls from the car piled full with a number of Beacon Hills’ football failures is enough to snap Stiles out of his needy daze.  He flips them off as they go by, still breathless, and blushes with mortification and shame.

When he looks back to Scott, his friend is flush and still hard, tenting his jeans.  Guilt is cold down his spine and Stiles hisses, palming the back of his head as he curses quietly.  Scott’s throat works a few times before he clears it and pushes away from Stiles’ jeep on jelly legs.  Stiles wants to offer help, but he’s fearful he’ll do something brash.

“That was—“

“Sorry,” Stiles croaks.  “It, ah… It won’t happen again.  Sexual frustration.”

“Right,” Scott practically squeaks.  “I’ll just… see you at Derek’s?”

“Yeah.  Yeah, dude, totally.”

They part ways.  Stiles doesn’t know how he knows, but he knows that Scott is escaping to jerk one out.  It fills him with a sickening sense of satisfaction and a rush of disgust.  The self-loathing only grows worse when he realizes he’s not shaking anymore and that, more than anything, he wants to follow Scott and swallow down every drop of sexual desire oozing from his friend’s skin.

He doesn’t.  He forces himself into the car and locks the doors.  Sitting there, he stars at the dash for a long while.  Scrubbing his hands over his face, up into his hair, Stiles lets out a grown that is nearly a shout, frustrated and hating it.  Hating the itch still buzzing under his skin.

Reaching for the ignition, Stiles starts his jeep and peels out of the student parking lot before he attempts to track Scott down.  The need to finish what he started is heady and strong, but Stiles’ will and disgust at doping his own friend is stronger.

When he finally gets to Derek’s loft, having dallied a bit in town, trying to settle his fried nerves, everyone is already there.  Scott is already there.  Stiles sits as far from him as possible and ignores the furtive, half needy, half confused looks Scott keeps giving him.  Even across the loft, Stiles can feel the draw, the thrall he accidentally placed on his friend.  He can only hope that it will wear off just as quickly as it had on the tall, dark man Stiles had accidentally infected at The Jungle earlier in the week.

Stiles isn’t that great at controlling things yet.  It doesn’t help that he hasn’t—won’t—sleep with anyone yet.  Too guilty, too nervous to do so, but so hungry for it.  So scared for it. 

They’re ten minutes into the new patrol order and pairs, which Stiles is halfheartedly listening to from his spot by the stairs, when he feels the heat of a body close to his.  Arms crossed, he shivers, and cringes when he hears the distinct sound of someone taking a pointedly long breath.  His is throat tight, his mouth dry, still itching to finish what he’s started earlier, when Peter—of course, Peter, so tempting on a regular basis—leans in and chuckles.

Stiles always wants him.  But the way that want twists in him so tightly leaves his heart pounding. 

“Interesting,” Peter mumbles, voice low so that only Stiles will pay him any mind.

What is?” Stiles grits out, refusing to look at him, control a precarious thing.

“Your scent,” Peter hums.  “It was curious to smell lust on Scott even though he’s been making puppy eyes at you this whole time.  But now I’m starting to understand the appeal.”

Stiles sneers, casting a dark glare Peter’s way, much to the older man’s amusement.  “Fuck off.”

“I would,” Peter leans in further, radiating a tantalizing heat that makes Stiles’ mouth water, his eyes bright and knowing.  “But I think you’d enjoy it too much.”

Shoulders drawing tight, Stiles’ eyes dart rapidly over to where the pack isn’t paying them any kind of attention.  He shuffles closer to Peter, voice a low hiss, arms winding tighter over his own chest.

“Keep your mouth shut.”

“Oh, mum is the word.” Peter grins, eyeing Stiles with a new kind of appreciation, a darker kind of appreciation compared to the general begrudging respect or wicked amusement he tended to regard Stiles with these days.  “Does daddy dearest know what his son has become?”

Taking a deep breath, Stiles tips his head back, as if looking to the Gods for some kind of relief.  “No.

“Does Scott?” Peter inches ever closer, voice raising just enough to make Stiles prickle with paranoia.  “Or did you slip up and use your fancy new abilities on him in the locker room after gym--?”

Stiles slaps a hand over Peter’s mouth, teeth bared as it does nothing to muffle the rich laughter that hums against his palm.  Across the room, Derek clears his throat and Stiles goes rigid as Peter regards him from behind his fingers with dark blue eyes.  Blushing, Stiles glances away, stomach rolling when he realizes all eyes are on him.  There’s a string of curses lingering at the back of his throat, but he swallows them down.

They must make quite the sight, standing there, nearly flush with one another.  Stiles can feel the heat rise to the tips of his ears, and he notes that Derek is the only one not looking at Stiles like he’s something to be eaten.  Erica licks her lips from her spot at Boyd’s side, and even Lydia is eyeing him with a bit more interest than normal.  Scott still has that puppy look about him, and Stiles’ gut clenches.

He knows it’s the pheromones.  Knows he has an appeal about him now.  Knows that if he was stronger, if he was in more control over his budding abilities, he could have them all.  The thought sends a zing of lust straight to his belly, and he feels his hunger more acutely than ever—as well as a maddening wash of revulsion.

Jerking his hand from Peter’s mouth, he offers a tense smile.  His fingers lock round Peter’s wrist, and he tugs and prays that Peter will obey.  He deflates with relief when the older man does.

“Sorry,” Stiles is already pulling Peter toward the kitchen, away from the living room.  “I need to have a word with Peter.  Alone.”

Derek rolls his eyes but waves them off.  Stiles tries not to run the rest of the way to the kitchen.

When they’re alone and Stiles is sure everyone is focusing on Derek again, he whips about to face Peter and jabs him in the chest with his fingers.  Peter’s nose wrinkles in distaste.

What is your problem?” Stiles hisses, poking him against for emphasis.

“No problem, Stiles, dear.” Peter catches his hand, grip tight enough to make Stiles wince.  “Just curious about your exploits now that you’re… well.”

If possible, Stiles’ face colors further.  “There’s not—there hasn’t been—I’m not taking advantage of anyone, if that’s what you’re implying.”

Peter cocks a brow.  “In the… unchecked state you’re in, anyone you sleep with is taking advantage.”

“I can’t believe you’re giving me a rape lecture, right now.” Stiles scrubs a hand over his face, trying and failing to pull his other free of Peter’s grip.  “I haven’t slept with anyone.  Ever.  And I’m not going to until I get this under control.”

“You—“ Peter falters, eyes widening minutely, vaguely breathless.  “You’re a virgin.”

“Yes, try not to rub it in.” Stiles grunts.  “I didn’t even mean to with Scott.  I was just so hungry—“

With a sharp jerk, Peter reels Stiles in, catching his jaw with a free hand and pressing his mouth to Stiles’.  Eyes wide, Stiles flaps an arm, struggling until Peter’s tongue darts out to swipe along the full bow of Stiles’ bottom lip.  His lids droop almost instantly, and his moan is muffled as Peter’s tongue delves past his lips and into his mouth.  Slumping, Stiles hums at the rush of raw want, feeding off of it as Peter angles his head back in order to taste Stiles better.

When there’s a scrape of teeth, something in Stiles’ brain clicks, and he shoves forward until Peter is between him and the countertop.  He grips at Peter’s shoulders, fingers digging into the meat of them, and keens sweetly as Peter’s hands drop to his hips in order to tug him closer.  Stiles sinks long fingers into the short hair at the back of Peter’s head, earning a pleased rumble.  Wanting another sound to swallow down, Stiles drags blunt nails over his scalp.

Peter growls, twisting them suddenly and pushing Stiles back against the counter hard enough that it bangs.  The sound and the pain are enough to snap Stiles back out of it.  With a whimper, he pushes, shoving Peter off and away with surprising strength, and hating the ache that comes with stopping.  It settles into his bones so swiftly that his teeth chatter with it.

Peter blinks, frowns, and cants his head.  “Stiles?”

“I don’t—I’m not—“ he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and leaning back heavily against the counter’s edge.  “I won’t take advantage of anyone, Peter.  I won’t take advantage of you.”

“Oh,” Peter blinks again, then laughs.  “Oh, Stiles.  Trust me when I say you can’t take advantage of me.”

Stiles scowls his way.  “What are you talking about?”

“I’m a born werewolf, Stiles.” Peter replies, condescension like vitriol dripping from his words.  “You’ll find that your fancy little tricks won’t work on me.  Or Derek, for that matter.”

“Then why did you--?” Stiles pauses, eyes going wide, something tightening in his chest.  “You mean you—Oh, you’re joking.”

Peter almost looks offended at Stiles’ tone.  “Don’t flatter yourself.  It’s not every day you come across a virgin incubus.  Particularly ones as smart and as pretty as you.”

Stiles’ laugh is sharp with disbelief, and perhaps a bit of hurt; he tosses his hands up, shaking his head.  “Of course!  Who wouldn’t want a chance at deflowering a shiny new sex demon?”

“Stiles,” Peter chides.  “You’re hardly a demon.”

“Shut up,” Stiles moans into his hands, hiding his face there.

For a moment, Peter does.  Then, his big hands are on Stiles’ wrists, prying his fingers away from his face so that he can step back into Stiles’ space.

The lust, like the heat, rolls off of Peter.  Stiles can feel it at his core, can feel it warm his skin, can taste it—cinnamon and cloves—at the back of his mouth.  He almost goes weak with the heady sensation of it, grateful that Peter is there pinning him to the countertop; if only because it keeps him from turning into a mess on the floor (not at all because it feels so stupidly good).  Stiles could and would happily drown in Peter’s desire if his guilty conscience would let him.

“Stop,” he mumbles, halfhearted at best because he wants this more than words, but Peter’s nose drags up his throat instead, scenting him.

“You’ve always smelled good,” Peter admits.  “But desperation on you is positively divine.”

Peter,” Stiles sighs, eyes fluttering shut.

From the doorway, Derek clears his throat.  “Am I interrupting?”

“You are,” Peter drolls.  “But it wouldn’t be the first time.”

Humiliated, Stiles wrenches his wrists free of Peter’s loose grip and shoves him away again.  Derek doesn’t appear amused in the slightest, glowering heftily at his uncle as Stiles tries to catch his bearings.

Laughter rich and dark, Peter holds up his hands in a mock kind of surrender.  He glances between Derek and Stiles, grin wide.  Stiles’ head hangs, shame renewed, hunger temporarily abated.

“Do I want to know?” Derek asks.

“No,” Stiles shakes his head.

Derek doesn’t seem convinced, arms crossing.  “Should I expect to see this again--?”

“No,” Stiles looks up sharply.  “No, never.  Not ever.”

Across from him, Peter sneers, affronted as he already starts moving to brush by the both of them.  “Good luck with that problem of yours, Stiles.  You know how to get ahold of me when you need to.”

Stiles’ jaw flexes.  He watches him go, knows he’s leaving the loft, and feels a painful tug somewhere around his navel.  An urge to follow, to finish.  He doesn’t give into it.  Refuses to give Peter the satisfaction.

When he’s gone, door slamming behind him in a suitably melodramatic fashion, Derek turns his concerned gaze on Stiles.  Shifting from foot to foot, Stiles offers a tight grin.

“You okay?”

“Not really.  Not because of Peter.  Just… personal stuff.  Mind if I duck out early?”

Derek nods.  “Whatever you need.”

Stiles doesn’t linger to say goodbye.  He heads out, head down, fully intending on going straight to The Jungle.

He wishes Derek could give him what he needs.  He can’t, though.  And worse yet, Stiles wouldn’t let him if he could.  He doesn’t want Derek, but he doesn’t want who he wants either.  He wants to be normal.  To not feel hungry.

He doesn’t know if that will ever happen again.


The Jungle was a bust.  No matter how long he spent on the dancefloor, hips grinding with hips, hands pawing at skin, nothing gave him the heady rush he’d received with Peter.

Hell, even Scott had made him feel more satisfied.  He thinks it must be a werewolf thing.

Stiles makes it through until late Saturday night, early Sunday morning before it becomes unbearable.  The pain is so acute by that point that Stiles is dizzy with it.  By the time he gets from his house to the apartment complex downtown, Peter’s words rattling around in his head, he’s pale and shaking so badly he’s shocked he didn’t crash along the way.

He parks in the lot beneath the building and kills the engine with trembling fingers.  He moves to climb out of the car, but the agony of it is too much.  Doubling over, he rests his forehead against the steering wheel, teeth grit so tight his jaw aches.  His long fingers fumble for the phone in his jacket pocket, and he presses the call button before he can change his mind (or, worse yet, pass out). 

The line picks up on the third ring.  “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“Peter,” Stiles breathes.  “I need—“

“Oh, now you need.” Peter huffs.  “What happened to not ever?”

Stiles winces.  “Peter, I—“ he cuts off with a pained hiss.  “Please, please. I—It—I can’t.”

There’s a poignant pause.  “Stiles?  Are you okay?”

“No,” Stiles sobs, shaking.  “No, I’m not, I—“

“Where are you?”


“You’re here?”

“Yes,” Stiles whispers, shame welling up in him again, nearly choking him.  “I’m sorry.  I—“

“I’ll be right there.”

The line goes dead.  Stiles drops his phone to the floor.

He doesn’t know how long he waits.  Maybe seconds.  Maybe minutes.  He does know that when the driver side door opens and Peter touches him, he almost cries in relief.

“You stupid boy.” Peter mutters, pulling him carefully from the vehicle.  “Can you walk?”

“I don’t—“ Stiles shakes his head, eyes bleary and clouded.

Peter presses him back against the cool metal of the car, taking Stiles’ face between his hands.  He searches Stiles face for a moment before leaning down and pressing their mouth together.

Mewling, Stiles drapes his arms over Peter’s shoulders, fingers finding bare skin.  He realizes distantly that Peter is only in a pair of pajama bottoms.  It sends a thrill through him to feel the flex of Peter’s muscles with nothing to bar the way.  He tilts his head and parts his lips; Peter groans, taking full advantage.

His tongue is quick and slick in Stiles’ mouth.  Stiles can taste that hint of clove there and moans as his senses come alight, focusing in on Peter and Peter alone.  The way the scruff along his jaw and chin burns Stiles’ skin as they kiss.  They way Peter’s chest rises and falls with each breath.  The way his muscles move under surprisingly soft skin.  The way he smells, rich and sweet but somehow woody, like the forest on a warm day.

A thigh finds its way between Stiles’ legs.  Stiles whimpers, hand dropping to curve over Peter’s ass, coaxing his hips forward.  The low growl that hums between them earns a keen in reply.  Stiles sucks at Peter’s tongue, eats up the need that he’s offering so freely, and finds nothing but pleasure in the steady rock of their hips.

They rut like that until they can’t anymore, groping in blind desperation for each other.  When Peter comes in his pants, jerking against Stiles’ hip, Stiles feels the ecstasy of it echo into him.  His head falls back and he cries out, eyes wide and dark as his own orgasm crashes through him abruptly, sharply, severely. 

Breathless and quivering, Stiles goes easy in Peter’s arms.  Peter watches him; his mouth red, his chest heaving.  He reaches up, petting through the mess of Stiles’ hair before offering up a sly grin.  Almost instantly, the feeling of guilt overrides Stiles now that he’s no longer starving.

“Shit,” he frowns.  “I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t have made you—“

“Stiles,” Peter takes him by the chin.  “You can’t make me do anything I do not want to.”

Stiles swallows thickly.  “Right.”

“I enjoyed myself.  Thoroughly.”  Peter assures.  “Though, I do regret that you’re only coming to me because you were nearly dying.”

“Well… I mean… It’s not just that.”

Peter’s grin goes wicked.  “Stiles.  Do you have a crush?”

“Fuck you,” Stiles swats at his shoulder, though it’s a lax thing, Stiles too blissed and relieved to do much more.  “I just mean to say you’re hot and I don’t mind your company.  You and Lydia are, like, the only smart ones—“

Peter kisses him again.  It’s slower this time.  He draws it out, takes his time sampling Stiles’ lips, and pulls away just as Stiles is settling into it.

Eyes fluttering, Stiles shifts and cringes at the sticky sensation in his jeans.  Chuckling, Peter rocks against him, friction shocking up Stiles’ spine, making him arch.  Stiles licks his lips, gaze flitting from Peter to his car.  No longer completely out of his mind with need, Stiles finds himself floundering despite the slow coil of want curling up in his belly again.

“Um,” he clears his throat.  “I guess—I guess I should go home now.”

“Full already?” Peter asks, tone light.

Stiles hears the offer in it.  If he hadn’t, he would feel the steady flow of lust, want, need cascading off of Peter in sluices.

His eyes go dark.  He shakes his head, twisting their weight about in order to press Peter up against the side of his jeep.  Thighs press between thighs, their legs tangling as Stiles presses flush up against Peter’s chest.  His fingers drift, watching in avid fascination as Peter’s muscles twitch beneath his fingertips.  He’s positively giddy.

Peter shudders for him.  Offers over another wave of desire for Stiles to consume, and Stiles eats it up, face burying against Peter’s neck.

“We should go upstairs,” Peter mutters.

Stiles nods.  “Lead the way.”


Stiles quickly loses track of how many times he comes, lost in the wake of pleasure and heat that Peter drags him under.  He’s a mess on Peter’s sheets, sweating and panting, clawing for purchase against the headboard with Peter knelt behind him.  He keeps a steady pace, thrusting forward and burying deep into the tight clench of Stiles’ body.  He’d thought it would hurt more, considering the size of Peter—the length, the firth, the unforgiving way he drives in—and his own inexperience.

As it turns out, incubi are made to suite each lover.  Made to adapt to their needs if only to ensure a proper meal.

It was easy—so easy—to open up to Peter’s fingers, to Peter’s cock.  His body welcomed it.  And when it became evident that Peter liked hearing, watching, feeling Stiles come around him, his body ensured that that kept happening too.

Fuck,” Stiles whines, prick already heavy and dripping between his legs again, ass up as Peter sinks in with smooth, steady strokes.  “Fuck, Peter, please.”

Stiles thinks he might lose his mind if this carries on much longer.  He’d been a babbling mess once already, when Peter had swallowed him down to the base, three fingers curried deep and crooked just so. 

“Please, what?” Peter asks, pressing deep a moment, teeth sharp as he grins forward.

The high sound that escapes Stiles is breathless, pleading, reedy.  Peter laughs, squeezing at Stiles’ hips.

Leaning over his back, slick skin on slick skin, Peter’s hands drag up Stiles’ sides, savoring the way Stiles gasps and trembles.  He kisses between his shoulder blades, up his spine to his nape, teeth grazing to taste the salt there.  His fingers crawl back down to Stiles’ hips, tugging him closer with a sharp jerk, still buried to the hilt.  Stiles practically seizes, cry rough and ragged as he comes in thick ropes against the sheets, twitching and spasming around Peter’s cock until the ecstasy ebbs.

Peter laughs again, kissing along Stiles’ shoulder.  He doesn’t give him even a moment.  He withdraws slow, length dragging along sensitive nerves, overloading Stiles until his eyes roll back.  Then he snaps back in, harsh, earning another broken shout from the boy beneath him.  His pace is brutal, sharp, and for a while Stiles loses himself in the pleasure—in his and in Peter’s.

“So good for me,” Peter mutters.  “Taking it so well, Stiles.  Such a good boy.”

Stiles whimpers, reaching back with a blind hand that Peter is quick to catch.  It forces Stiles’ back down into an arch, angling his hips further, so that Peter strikes his prostate each time he slides home.

The slick sounds of their bodies meeting accompanies the obscene grunts, moans, keens that they share.  Tears burn at Stiles’ eyes, and he gasps helplessly, straining beneath the onslaught of Peter.  He’s begging again before he can stop himself, asking for something he isn’t even sure he knows.  Peter’s name falls from his lips like a benediction until thick fingers climb up over his chest to rest around his neck.

“Trust me,” Peter breathes and it’s not a question; his voice is so rough, so strained that something in Stiles burns at the sound of it. 

He nods, haplessly, and Peter grunts.

Hauling him up, still between the spread of Stiles’ legs, Peter slides impossibly deeper as they balance on their knees together.  Stiles’ free hand clutches at Peter’s wrist, and Peter squeezes his throat.  Heart racing, Stiles moans.

Peter’s rhythm falls out of sync.  Stiles sucks in breath after breath, barely able to fill his lungs, Peter’s hand a heavy weight at his neck, doing nothing but driving him close to the edge.  Stiles’ jaw hangs, slut slack, and he mews each time Peter pushes deep.

Peter’s thrust grow more erratic, more rough.  His teeth grit, and he growls as he presses in to the base, into the heat of Stiles’ body.  He comes, filling Stiles suddenly, and Stiles grunts as Peter’s orgasm ripples into him and sends his half hard cock spilling out in a mess of white again.  They twitch, clinging to one another as they ride out the aftershocks together.

“So good,” Peter peppers kisses against Stiles’ skin, holding him close as he sits back, keeping him impaled on his length.  “Such a good boy, Stiles.”

Stiles shudders, humming, eyes already drifting shut.  Sated and full for the first time in what seemed like forever.


A month after Stiles turns eighteen, he wakes completely satisfied in Peter’s arms.  He lays there for a while, basking in it, before deciding to wake Peter with his mouth wrapped around the girth of him.  Peter is certainly more than willing to repay the favor.

It is a pleasant morning, and when Stiles crawls into Peter’s lap later that day, he kisses him until they’re both breathless and Peter is hard and ready.  Peter looks up at him as Stiles rides him, leaning back against the couch, eyes electric blue.  He grins with those sharp teeth of his, petting at Stiles’ hips and humming as Stiles moves. 

“Only feed on me,” he tells Stiles, pulling with a bit more fervor. 

Stiles smiles.  “Okay.”

A month after his eighteenth birthday, Stiles finds that being an incubus has some perks after all.