“So, if I have to beg to suck you, I guess I need to beg for the right to go on my knees first? Because begging from standing seems kinda half-hearted, you know? I should definitely grovel. Abase myself. Loosen my jaw while I’m at it, because I don’t want it to do that thing when it cracks. Hate that. And do I beg to swallow too? Because we should get that settled before my mouth’s full. And if you taste gross, can I spit? Or does that require permission too? And—”
“Stiles, if you promise to shut the fuck up, I’ll blow you. Problem solved.”
Stiles doesn’t smirk—it’s a smile, he swears it—but Peter arches his eyebrows in a way that has his ass tingling in anticipation.
Sass and snark come at a price. It’s one he doesn’t mind paying. Legs kicking, squirming in an unbreakable grip, Peter’s spankings, dealing out a level of pain Stiles revisits at every jerk-off session, are anchor points, keeping him from spiralling into self-doubt, self-loathing, and despair.
The fun times, in other words.
They’re not punishment for any of the dozen times he’s fucked up, for any hurt he’s caused his friends. He atones for those his own way. But they’re necessary. He angles for them if one doesn’t arrive on schedule, misbehaving in a way so obvious he should really just hold up a sign saying ‘SPANK ME’ written big. Except he’d even do that in an annoying way, like using Comic Sans, or if it’s hand-written, a scented marker so the fumes make Peter wrinkle his nose and sneeze.
He looks like a puzzled kitten when he does that. Sharing the thought hadn’t gotten Stiles spanked, but banished, thrown out into a rainy night, dick stiff, shirt off, shoes following him, thrown with painful accuracy. Limits. Peter has them. Good to know.
He sure as fuck doesn’t have many. The extreme shit Stiles proposes they do, ninety-nine percent joking, is met with a bland smile or a been there, done that yawn. Bluff called on the slightly more reasonable items on his bucket list, Stiles is forced to admit that no; he doesn’t really want sounds inserted into his cock, or a fist up his ass. Not when he’s still getting used to the idea of being in a can’t–say-the-word-without-hyperventilating with Peter.
It’s vaguely reassuring to be with someone unshockable. Peter’s suffered agonies and inflicted them too. Has seen death in forms Stiles doesn’t want to remember—doesn’t want in his head as real, actual memories, thank you very fucking much, Beacon Hills, home of all the weirdness.
Peter’s a monster. Except when Stiles threw that at him in an argument over a pizza topping that turned vicious in a bewilderingly short space of words, Peter had shaken his head.
“So you don’t think of yourself as a monster? What label do you stick on your furry ass then?”
Peter had looked at him sideways, a flash of eyes, a curling, secretive, challenging glance. “Pack.”
And for him it was that simple, like screwing Stiles was simple, an appetite satisfied.
The games, the ropes, the spankings, the kink, they’re extras, like the fucking pineapple on the pizza. Peter doesn’t need them, might not even want them.
They’re Stiles’ wants and needs.
With a vanilla boyfriend or a girlfriend, he might feel guilty about asking them to inflict pain, but Peter and guilt don’t fit in the same room. So he acts like a brat, and lives for the moment when Peter reaches for him and silently, always silently, strips him bare, sometimes leaving his clothes wearable afterward, sometimes not.
Always bare for the spankings and the ropes. Nowhere to hide. Peter sees every bead of sweat and splash of cum, every square inch of blushing, flushed skin.
The talking only starts when he’s face down, hands grabbing air, then later, Peter’s leg. Peter slices him open with words, scalds him with a torrent of truth, until Stiles breaks and cries, hot and shamed and hard. The intimate smack of hand on flesh, the delving, exploring fingers seeking out hidden skin, don’t hurt like the whispered words.
And he cries out words of his own, calls Peter names that don’t belong, but have a different meaning. Says ‘Daddy’ when he’s never called his father that, says, ‘please’, ‘says ‘thank you’, says ‘more’. Speaks in tongues, because they’re not his words, his voice. Over Peter’s knee, he’s reborn and a stranger to himself.
But Peter says he smells the same, and proves it, nuzzling into the lax, spent curl of Stiles’ cum-streaked cock and smiling.