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Fucking D+.

Stiles has never got lower than a fucking B in his life, okay, and he does not take failure well. He glares at the screen and at the words that will be forever scoured into his retinas, and also his brain.

A fairly pedestrian effort.

Fucking pedestrian?

Stiles slams his laptop shut, annoyed, and scowls at it. Really, he’s only got himself to blame. He shouldn’t have sent the pic in the first place. And obviously the asshole who runs the site has no taste whatsoever, but pedestrian?

Who the fuck does this guy think he is?

Stiles drags his fingers through his hair, and huffs.

“Fucking asshole,” he mutters.

Okay, so.

Stiles has become a little obsessed with It started off, as so many things do, by following a Tumblr link for a laugh. And it was kind of…eye opening. Stiles is no stranger to porn, okay, but in porn everything is kind of in motion, and it’s sort of a race to the finish line, and wasn’t like that at all. It gave him time to like, really look. Like, really. Stiles doesn’t want to call it artistic or anything, but some of those pics are weirdly beautiful. And okay, some are dicks wearing tiny hats and scarves. So it’s a balance. But it’s the weirdly beautiful ones that Stiles keeps coming back to. The ones he studies for a really long time. And it didn’t take long to get really invested in the whole process, to learn what the site owner likes, and how he grades, and before you know it Stiles was messing around with lighting and angles and thinking that yeah, he’d send this guy the best dick pic he’d ever seen. Stiles has a competitive streak, okay, and apparently it includes taking a better dick pic than a bunch of other anonymous guys online.

He sent in a pic.

And got back a fucking D+.

Sender, I think you know what I’m going to say here. Your framing is confusing, and your lighting choices are subpar. Where are your hands in this pic? If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a million times: zoom out! A fairly pedestrian effort. D+.

Stiles glares at his closed laptop, and then groans and gets up. He’s supposed to read a chapter of As I Lay Dying before AP English tomorrow, and sitting at his desk fuming about his pedestrian dick pic isn’t going to get it done.

Fuck that guy anyway.

Fuck him sideways.

Stiles is going to channel his inner Elsa and let it the fuck go.




Stiles has not let it go.

He’s still pissed about it at school the next day. Even Scott notices is, and Scott’s not actually great at picking up on, well, anything outside whatever bubble it is that he lives in. Scott’s not selfish exactly. He’s the exact opposite of selfish when he actually notices things. But he’s kind of oblivious.

Stiles tries not to judge him for it, since obviously Scott doesn’t judge Stiles for being a sarcastic asshole. Which Stiles personally thinks is one of his better character traits, but nobody else really seems to agree.

“Dude, are you okay?” Scott asks him at lunch.

Stiles drags his fork though something that is possibly supposed to be mac and cheese. It’s hard to tell thanks to budget cuts.

“I’m fine,” he lies through his lying teeth.

Scott’s brow furrows. “Is it something supernatural?”

“Nope.” Stiles shovels a forkful of the congealing gloop into his mouth and hopes it’s enough to stop Scott from asking any more questions. It isn’t.

“Is it about Lydia?” Scott asks, lowering his voice.

Stiles glances over to the other side of the cafeteria, to where Lydia is holding court with Jackson.

“I’m totally over Lydia,” he lies, except this time it doesn’t really feel like a lie. Huh. Points for personal growth. Yay him. “Although why she’s back with that douchecanoe I will never know.”

“Hey, Jackson’s pack,” Scott reminds him gently.

“He’s still a dick,” Stiles says.


His brain is still full of dicks. Good dicks, bad dicks, big dicks, small dicks. Artistic dicks and pornographic dicks, and dicks wearing finger puppets as hats. Dicks that all rate higher than a fucking D+.

Fuck his life, seriously.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Scott asks.

Stiles takes a deep breath. “I’m fine, Scotty. Really.”

Scott looks like he doesn’t really believe him. He also looks like he’s known Stiles for enough years to know exactly when he’s facing an uphill battle.

“Okay,” he says at last. “But if you need someone to talk to…”

“Thanks,” Stiles says, and actually means it.

Scott claps him on the shoulder. “Don’t forget. Pack meeting tonight. Derek said something about the fae?”

“Great,” Stiles says. “Just what this town needs. More supernatural fuckery.”

“Yeah,” Scott agrees, and then gets distracted when Allison arrives in the cafeteria.




Pack meetings are always held in Derek’s loft, and they always involve pizza. Really, most of the time Stiles is just there for the pizza. Ever since Peter slimed his way back into Derek’s life with his stupid smirk and his actual expertise on all things supernatural, Stiles has lost the only real leverage he had, which was his google-fu. And while it’s handy to have someone in the pack who can get answers even more quickly than Stiles, Stiles can’t help feeling a little... redundant? And also, does Peter have to be so smug about it?

Stiles arrives right on time, plants himself on Derek’s couch, and helps himself to a slice of pizza. Then he slumps back against the couch, holds his pizza with one hand, and his phone in the other. He checks his messages, checks his email, and then suddenly he’s on Tumblr, isn’t he? And great. Some guy with abs like steel is the first post now. And he’s got a B+. He’s standing in a doorway with the light behind him. The photograph shows from his shoulders to the top of his thighs. He’s sort of angled away, but his dick’s erect enough that it’s curving back up toward his belly. It’s mostly in silhouette, and it’s hardly visible at all. Most of the emphasis is on his ass. Which is a nice ass.

Sender, the asshole who runs the site says, this is a beautiful picture. Your composition is excellent, and your lighting is sublime. Unfortunately, this site is for dick pics, and I can barely see yours. B+.


Stiles almost feels sorry for sublime lighting guy.

What the hell does a guy have to do to earn an A from this asshole?

He scrolls through a few more pictures.

“Hey, Stilinski! Are you seriously looking at dick pics?” Jackson yells from behind him.

Fucking werewolves and their fucking ninja ways.

Stiles takes a deep breath, closes Tumblr, and twists his head around to glare at Jackson. “Not that it’s even any of your business, but yes, I was looking at dick pics.”

There’s sudden silence in the loft as the entire pack stops to stare at him.

This is not actually how Stiles intended to come out.

At all.

Scott raises his eyebrows. “Are you, um, doing another paper on the history of male circumcision?”

There’s no point in lying. Literally none. Again, fucking werewolves.

“No,” he says. “I was looking at them because I like dicks.”

Scott’s jaw drops. Jackson’s eyes widen. Lydia looks unsurprised. Isaac smirks. Allison gives Stiles an encouraging smile. Erica gives him a thumbs up, and Boyd just tilts his head in a nod. Creeperwolf Peter, sitting over on the stairs, looks amused.

“Okay,” Derek says at last. “Can we focus on the issue at hand, please?” His alpha glare makes it clear it’s not really a question.

“But,” Jackson begins, and Lydia elbows him.

“But what?” Derek asks, narrowing his eyes. “But Stiles is your friend and pack mate and if you catch anyone being an asshole to him, you’ll beat them half to death?”

“Right,” Jackson says, eyes still wide. “Of course.”

“Good,” Derek tells him. “That’s the correct answer.”

Derek Hale might have been a shitty alpha when all this craziness started, but right now? Right now he’s the fucking greatest. He steers the subject away from Stiles’s admission of his love of dicks and into actual pack business—apparently Isaac found a rune or something carved in a tree in the Preserve that smells like magic and is possibly fae in origin. Pretty soon everyone is acting normal again. Well, as normal as they can with an unknowable threat like the fae hanging over them.

It’s like Peter says. With the fae, you don’t know if they’re here to dance prettily in the woods and make daisy chains, or to lure the entire population of Beacon Hills into their thrall only to tear their still-beating hearts out of their chests. While making daisy chains. The fae are kind of fucked up like that.

It totally takes the focus off Stiles’s dick obsession.

“Are you okay?” Scott asks a few hours later as they’re heading back down onto the street.


Scott stops, and drags Stiles into a hug. “I love you, you know? You’re my brother.”

Stiles pats him awkwardly on the back. “Thanks, Scotty. I love you too.”

Because really, there has to be something wrong with him right? When it’s not the fact he just came out to the entire pack that’s bothering him, it’s still that fucking D+.

He does not have the priorities of a normal person.


Normal is overrated right?

That’s what he tells himself when he gets home, logs in to Tumblr immediately on his laptop, and spends three hours obsessively scrolling through dick pics.




Stiles never backs down from a challenge. Not when it’s running at him with fangs bared, and not when it’s just some dumb Tumblr site either. There’s a system, okay? There has to be a system.

And Stiles thinks he’s cracked it.

The asshole is all about lighting and composition. He likes it when a guy’s hands are in shot too, and he likes it when there’s more in shot than just a dick. Sometimes he gives bonus points for guys who are obviously having fun—the hats and scarves brigade—but Stiles thinks there’s a very fine line between quirky and obviously desperate, and he’s pretty sure he knows which side he falls on.

He waits until his dad goes to work one evening, then sneaks into his dad’s room and unplugs his bedside lamp to bring it into his bedroom. It’s adjustable. It wouldn’t look out of place in a spy movie, where some scary bad guy with a fake Russian accent angles it right into the hero’s bloodied but defiant face and demands to know his plans. It’s ridiculously bright.

Stiles sets it up on the end of his bed, then rummages through the top of his cupboard looking for Buppy. Buppy is the plush dog Stiles has had since he was too little to pronounce the word “puppy”. Point is, Buppy is a superhero, and, before she died, Stiles’s mom made him a silver cape. Stiles finds Buppy, steals his cape, then sticks Buppy carefully back in the closet. There are some things Buppy is too pure to witness.

He drapes Buppy’s silver cape over the lamp, and turns the lamp on.

The effect is a little weird, like maybe he’s in Studio 54 or something, but Stiles is willing to experiment here. Actually, it’s his willingness to experiment that got him into this whole mess. Except rather than stop and explore why he actually needs validation about his dick from some stranger online, it seems easier to just, well, get undressed and go with it.

He shoves his jeans and underwear down, grabs his lube in one hand, his phone in the other, and settles himself onto the bed. He kind of jams the base of the lamp under his left knee, and then experiments for a while with his phone.

Shirt on or off? Or maybe just leave the hem showing? Or maybe tug it all the way down so that only the head of his dick is showing?

No. That actually looks stupid.

Stiles tugs his shirt up, squirts some lube into his palm, and gets ready for his close up.

Well, not like an extreme close up, because If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a million times: zoom out!

What a pretentious—Stiles snorts—dick.

Maybe Stiles should get a selfie stick though?

It doesn’t take long to get himself half hard. Of course it doesn’t. Stiles is seventeen. It’s not getting an instant boner that’s more of an ongoing problem in his life. It is literally the work of seconds to have himself ready to take a few shots. Three out of the last four B-ranked dicks on have been half hard. Only two out of the last five have been fully erect. And the last A ranking that Stiles could find? Half hard. That’s a pattern, right?

Stiles snaps a few shots from as many different angles as he can manage. He knows from experience that most of them will be a wash. Maybe he should have done this standing up? Or like on his knees or something? So he can at least see his phone screen while he’s taking the pics.

Yeah, he’ll do that.

He shifts, knocks the lamp over, and shrieks in pain as the burning bulb hits him right on the inner thigh.

Later, when he’s standing with one leg on the side of he bathtub and an icepack clamped to his thigh, he’s really glad his dad is at work.

He’s also really glad he didn’t give himself second-degree burns to the balls.




“Are you okay, dude?” Scott asks the next day at school.

Stiles shifts in his seat and tries not to scratch at the itchy dressing taped to his inner thigh “Yep,” he says, chewing aggressively on his pen. “Perfectly okay.”

Scott looks worried. Then again, that might be because this is chemistry, and Harris has got that predatory gleam in his eye that can only mean one thing: a pop quiz.


Like Stiles’s day couldn’t get any worse.




On Wednesday night the packs heads into the Preserve to check out the rune that Isaac found carved into the tree. And yep, it’s a rune carved into a tree all right. Stiles is pretty underwhelmed. He takes a few photographs of the swirly little symbol, and paces around the tree while the pack discusses its options.

“It’s definitely fae,” Peter says, lifting his nose to sniff the air. “It smells like very old magic.”

Stiles wonders what old magic smells like. What does new magic smell like? He bets it’s like new car smell. Kind of chemical fresh. Sometimes he thinks it would be very cool to have wolf senses and be able to smell everything. Other times he thinks of how he opened his gym bag after he accidentally left it in the Jeep for a week and almost died.

“What does the symbol mean?” Derek asks. Stiles is around the other side of the tree now, but he can guarantee it that Derek’s eyebrows are tugging together in a scowl.

“I think it’s an introduction,” Peter says. “I think they want to make contact.”

Stiles snaps a twig under his shoe, and looks at the symbol again on his phone. And then, because he’s already got his phone out, of course he checks Tumblr to see if his dick pic has been judged yet.

It hasn’t.

“But the fae don’t deal with werewolves,” Lydia says, her voice as clear and bright as a bell. “Everyone knows that.”

Um, everyone? Okay, but Stiles didn’t.

“They’ll deal with our emissary,” Peter says.

“We don’t have an emissary though!” Scott exclaims.

And then there’s a sudden awkward silence. Wait. Stiles knows this feeling creeping up his spine. It’s the one he gets when he’s about to be “volunteered” for something.

“Wait!” he exclaims, darting back around to the front of the tree. “What’s going on?”

Derek folds his arms and looks at him. “You’re the only human in the pack, Stiles.”

Yay him?

“You want Stiles to be our emissary?” Jackson asks, face twisted up like he’s been forced to fly economy class. “Stiles?”

“Only if he wants to,” Derek says, which almost sounds as though he’s being given a choice here, except Stiles kind of feels like he’s sitting in a lifeboat on the Titanic right now, and everyone is giving him the side-eye. And that women and children first thing isn’t exactly legally enforceable or anything, but… He is being judged. Harshly judged, and just for having strong survival instincts.

“Fine,” he says, clambering out of the metaphorical lifeboat and wondering how cold the water really is. “Fine, I’ll act as emissary.”




Sender, I’m not sure what you were going for here. Are you in a space ship? Your choice of lighting is, frankly, jarring, you have no balancing elements, and your decision to include your shirt takes focus away from the subject matter. C+


Fucking asshole!

Stiles almost smashes his laptop in disgust. He paces around his bedroom for a good ten minutes, muttering obscenities under his breath, then picks up his phone and heads for the bathroom.

He is not going to lose.




Holy Baby Jeebus. The fae are beautiful. Incredibly fucking terrifying and beautiful. Stiles has a type, probably. They’re physically flawless, but there’s something about the way they move, eyes glittering, gossamer wings fluttering, that makes Stiles think of insects. The sort of insects who eat their own young. Stiles doesn’t want to be specist or anything, but there is definitely something about the fae that screams cold blooded.

“Emissary,” one of them calls to him, and his? her? voice is like music. “Come and dance with me!”

Behind Stiles, the air rumbles with the growls of the pack and Stiles remembers the rules that Peter made him repeat over and over in the car on their way to the Preserve.

Don’t dance with the fae.

Don’t eat or drink with the fae.

Don’t promise the fae anything.

Don’t shoot your mouth off.

Really, Stiles is probably not the best person for this job. Okay, so he’s literally the only person in the pack who is qualified to do it. The fae only want to deal with humans, not with wolves or banshees. Which leaves Stiles, because Allison is human too, but no way in hell would Derek let an Argent speak for the Hale pack. There’s too much history there. And Stiles does actually have some basic emissary skills. Like mountain ash circles, and—

No, really, it’s just the mountain ash circles. That’s all Stiles can do.

He blinks at the fae, and tries to focus, which is difficult for him at the best of times. Maybe he shouldn’t have stayed up until five in the morning working on a complicated spreadsheet to try and figure out exactly how to get a better score on He’d gone through every picture back as far as 2014, okay? It was hundreds of pictures. Except what had felt like a good use of his time and energy last night really doesn’t feel like that now.

Especially not when the fae steps closer, its head tilted on an angle, its perfect mouth curved up into a sharp smile.

“Dance with me, emissary,” it says.

Dance with it? Holy god. Stiles will do anything it fucking wants, because it’s so beautiful he just wants to cry.

“I—” he says, and reaches out for it.

Derek is suddenly there, growling and wrenching his arm away, and whatever weird compulsion Stiles had felt to surrender everything to the fae is suddenly shattered.

“What the hell, Stiles?”

The fae laughs, and flits back into the trees, like all this is just one big game to it. Well, of course it is. It’s a fae.

Stiles feels strangely bereft. “Wh-what?”

“You don’t fucking touch them!” Derek growls at him. “You don’t dance with them!”

Stiles can’t quite look at Derek or the rest of the pack. “Sorry.” He clears his throat. “I’m just having a really hard time focusing.”

“Jesus, Stiles,” Derek huffs.

When Stiles finally works up the courage to look at him, Derek doesn’t look pissed. He looks disappointed. Somehow that feels a lot worse.

“Let’s go,” Derek says at last. “We’ll try again another time.”

“Before or after they get bored and start ripping people apart?” Peter asks curiously, and Stiles burns with shame.

“Sorry,” Stiles mutters to nobody in particular.

On the walk back to the cars, Lydia links her arm through his. It doesn’t make him feel any better, really.

“Stiles?” Peter asks when they reach the parking lot. “You dropped this.”

It’s his phone. And of course it’s open to Tumblr.

Peter smirks at the screen before handing the phone over. “Maybe you should spend more time thinking about the fae, and less time thinking about dicks, hmm?”

“Fuck you very much, Peter,” Stiles tells him, and jams his phone into his pocket.

God he hates Peter Hale.

He hates him most of all when he’s right.




Sender, I’m as much a fan of the shower dick pic as the next man, and a fan of candid, everyday shots, but the medicated dandruff shampoo in the background isn’t doing you any favors at all. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever said this to anyone before but, next time, please do zoom in. C.

What? How the hell could Stiles have been so stupid? He was supposed to crop the shampoo out of the frame before he sent it. It’s his dad’s shampoo too, for the record. This is what happens when Stiles gets tired. He gets dumb and careless. Exhibit A: the fae. Exhibit B: the fact that now everyone who looks at his dick pic will think he has dandruff.

Fuck his life.

Stiles glares at his laptop for a good fifteen minutes, hating himself for being so stupid, but mostly hating the asshole from for being, well, such an asshole. He sends an anon ask:

Hey, asshole. I have sent you a bunch of pics now and you won’t rate me higher than a C+. I bet you haven’t got the guts to post your own pic and give the rest of us something to aspire to, right? Frankly the biggest dick on this page is the one moderating it.

Ha! That’ll show him, right?


Stiles closes his laptop with a satisfied smirk, and reaches for the book that Deaton loaned him weeks ago. Time to get a handle on the fae.




Three days later and there’s been no answer to Stiles’s anon ask on Tumblr. He’s not surprised. Turns out the asshole couldn’t take his own medicine. Stiles really wants to chalk that up as a win, but it’s not as satisfying as he’d hoped. Because fuck that guy, seriously.

“Are you okay?” Scott asks him that evening at Derek’s loft.

Stiles glares at him, and at Derek, and at everyone. Then he glares at the open books on the table, and reaches over and wrenches one out of Peter’s hands. Peter raises his eyebrows at him and smirks.

“I’m fine! Stop asking me that!” Stiles scowls at the page, and great, this isn’t even the book he wanted. There’s nothing even in here on fae. Why the hell is Peter reading about kelpies right now? How are they even relevant? “Jesus, Peter, you could at least try and be useful!”

Peter holds up his hands and shows Stiles his palms. He’d be the picture of wounded innocence if he wasn’t still smirking.

“Stiles?” Scott asks tentatively.

Stiles slams the book shut. “Look, Scotty, I’m fine. I’ve just got a lot of stuff going on right now, okay?”

“Do you mean the side project you’re working on?”

Stiles’s mind goes blank for a second before he remembers. Oh, right. He dodged movie night with Scott on Saturday because of his mysterious side project. His mysterious secret side project.

“What side project is this?” Derek asks with a frown.

“It’s not supernatural-related,” Stiles mutters.

“Is it for extra credit?” Lydia asks curiously from across the room.

“College applications?” Boyd asks.

“Ha!” Jackson laughs. “I’ll bet he’s just discovered Grindr!”

“It’s…” Stiles says, looking around at their expectant faces. “It’s secret,” he finishes lamely.

For some reason Peter starts laughing.




Stiles is not going to check

He’s not.

He does.

There’s a new entry. It already has over six hundred notes.

This one goes out to the anon who dared me to post my own dick pic. I’ll leave you to judge the results.

And fuck the guy sideways, because it’s perfect. It’s a simple shot, using a black and white filter. It shows the guy’s abs, the trail of hair thickening as it runs down from his belly button to his pubes—not too much manscaping in evidence, but not I’ve-just-spent-six-months-in-a-lumberjack-camp either. They guy’s hand is splayed on his upper thigh. Strong hands, with tendons that stand out like the frets on a guitar. And his dick. It’s a good dick. It’s half hard—Stiles didn’t expect anything else—and it’s thick. Uncut too. The head is just peeking through the drawn-up foreskin, and Stiles has always thought he preferred cut to uncut, but he stares and stares and stares at the guy’s dick and his mouth actually waters.

Holy shit.

He really, really wants to suck that dick.

To anon, I think you might be over thinking your own pics. Try for casual, and understated. The correct lighting can make or break a pic. Hands make an excellent framing device. And don’t forget the rule of thirds.

Stiles slides his hand down his sweats before he even realizes what he’s doing. He cups his own hardening dick, and squeezes, and a shiver of pleasure darts up his spine.

Oh fuck.

Is this his life now? Hate-jerking it to some asshole’s incredible dick pic?

“Fuck you,” he mutters at the screen. “You think you’re so fucking hot? You’re not so fucking great.”

Except the way he comes in his pants before he can even grab his lube kind of negates that.





The clearing inside the Preserve is lit up with green light, like bioluminescence. The fae—Stiles thinks it’s the one from last time—darts forward, eyes bright, and small, sharp teeth showing in a smile.

“Emissary,” it says. “Dance with me?”

Stiles remembers to bow his head. “I cannot.”

The fae rustles its wings.

Stiles hitches his backpack off one shoulder, so it hangs like a sling across his chest. He unzips it.

“I bring you gifts,” he says.

The fae brightens, and draws closer.

Stiles is careful not to look it in the eye when he speaks. “For you, and for your court.”

He holds out the two gallon container of milk he got at the gas station on the way here.

“What the fuck?” someone mutters from behind him. It sounds a lot like Jackson.

The fae laughs, delighted, and takes the milk. “Then we pass quietly on the night, emissary.”

Stiles bows again, and the fae darts back into the trees, the green glowing light shrinking as it goes.

“What the hell was that?” Derek asks, eyebrows raised in surprise.

“Milk,” Stiles says.

“You gave the fae milk?” Derek’s eyebrows do not approve.

“Was it normal or full cream?” Scott asks.

“Actually,” Stiles says. “All of those emissary books agreed on one thing. The fae like gifts. And—”

“The Wild Hunt,” Peter says suddenly. “People used to leave out saucers of milk for the fae as offerings.”

Stiles can’t stop the grin from spreading over his face. “Pretty smart, huh?”

“Smart?” Peter smirks. “I don’t know, Stiles. Don’t you think your effort was…fairly pedestrian?”

For a second Stiles is frozen with horror and the sick, awful realization that Peter knows. Peter knows everything. But only for a second. Then he’s launching himself at the smug asshole, screaming a death threat, and Derek and Scott actually struggle to hold him back while Peter collapses, laughing, to the ground.



Stiles should have known. Because when has the universe not taken the chance to fuck with Stiles Stilinski one way or another? And the guy was just such an asshole. Jesus. A part of Stiles’s brain was probably reading his responses in Peter’s smarmy voice from the beginning, because it was a perfect fit.

He flops back down onto his bed.

Oh god.

Not only did Stiles send Peter Hale dick pics, he also jerked off to Peter’s dick!

He is going to die of shame now. Really, it’s the only way this can end.

He looks up as his window squeaks open, and Peter climbs in. Stiles sits up quickly.

“Fuck off,” Stiles tells him, face burning. “Or I’ll force feed you mountain ash until you choke.”

“Stiles,” Peter says in a conciliatory tone, showing him his palms. “I didn’t know it was you, okay? Not until the first night with the fae. And I wasn’t really sure, until tonight.”

“Okay, whatever,” Stiles says. “You can still fuck off.”

“I don’t know why you’re so upset about this,” Peter says. “If anything, I’m the one who should be annoyed.”

Stiles glares at him. “And why should you be annoyed exactly?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Stiles,” Peter says, arching an eyebrow. “Is it because I’ve been a child pornographer every time I’ve hosted one of your pics, and didn’t even know it? Yes, it’s probably the thought of spending the rest of my life in prison, just because you lied and clicked the little box that promised you were over eighteen.”

Stiles snorts. “You’ve killed people. You literally don’t care that I’m still two months underage.”

Peter shrugs. “That’s true, but I so rarely have the moral high ground, I’d like to maintain it for just a little longer.”

Stiles snorts again.

“Are you upset at me for figuring out who you were and not telling you?” Peter asks. “Or are you upset at me for not rating your pictures more highly?”

“Fuck you,” Stiles says, which pretty much answers that.

Peter laughs suddenly.

“Shut up,” Stiles grouses. “What?”

“Stiles,” Peter says, and steps toward him. “You have a very lovely dick. You just can’t take a decent picture to save your life.”

Stiles swallows. He feels like he can’t breathe. “Wh-what?”

Somehow Peter is standing between Stiles’s legs, where they’re hanging over the edge of the bed. He puts his hands on Stiles’s knees, and leans down over him. “Your dick is perfect, sweetheart.” He raises his eyebrows. “From what I remember.”

Stiles shivers as Peter’s hands sweep up to his thighs.

“Lie back,” Peter tells him.

Stiles obeys, his heart thumping loudly. The rasp of his zipper might be the loudest thing he’s ever heard.

“So pretty,” Peter murmurs, going smoothly down onto his knees. He tugs Stiles’s jeans down, and then his underwear, and Stiles has never been more acutely embarrassed and also hideously turned on in his life. He has to claw the comforter to try and force himself not to start rocking his hips.

Peter grins at him, and reaches out to fold his big, warm fingers around Stiles’s dick. Then he leans in and paints his mouth with Stiles’s precum.

“Holy shit!”

Peter smirks. “Lube?”

Stiles stretches up to reach his bedside drawer, and almost hits Peter in the head with his lube when he tosses it in his direction.

“Hmm,” Peter says. “Sweetheart, you’re going to taste so good.”

Stiles does his best not to pass out when Peter finally closes his lips around the head of his dick.




Peter is a fucking bully, okay? He’s relentless.

Move your hand there, Stiles. No, don’t move. Lift your leg. Now stretch it out. Breathe in. Try it with your other hand. Spread your legs a little. Turn more to the left. No, your other left. That’s it. Hold it right there.


Can’t he just stop taking photographs and blow Stiles again? And maybe let Stiles blow him too?

“Beautiful,” he says at last, just when Stiles has decided he never wants to be a model.

Stiles cranes his head to see. “Are you putting it on the site?”

“Do you want me to?” Peter asks, arching his brows.

It’s both their hands—Hands make an excellent framing device. Stiles’s hand is resting across his abdomen, long fingers splayed. Peter’s hand is curled lightly around the shaft of Stiles’s dick somehow casual and possessive all at the same time.

It might just be the nicest dick pic Stiles has ever seen.

“Okay,” he says, blinking at his phone screen in surprise. “Yeah.”




Sender, this is beautiful. A+ sweetheart. A+.