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marguerite_26
Title: Playtime Interrupted -- Also On AO3
Fandom; Pairing:Teen Wolf; Peter/Stiles
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 3k
Content Notes: non-con, underage, bondage (handcuffs), fingering, psychological manipulation, potentially triggery victim blaming.
Summary: Stiles likes to experiment with handcuffs when he’s alone -- when he can be in control, safe. Only nothing is really safe if Peter Hale interrupts and decides to change the rules.
Author’s Notes: Thanks to my betasfaithwood and melusinahp. And to eleadore for the advice. I played around with several versions of this, all mistakes are my own.
His window was shut and latched. Frigid January wind whipped against the pane, the closed blind concealing the flurries Stiles knew were falling. It had been slushy and wet for a week, and he’d need to dig out the shovel and scrape off the driveway before the mess froze overnight. Later. For now, he had other plans.
The house was silent: his father had just started a shift, Stiles’ phone was off and Scott was working.
He took a deep breath, enjoying the tingle of anticipation that came with well-planned alone time. He stripped off, loving the thrill of being completely naked on a Saturday afternoon for no reason at all. Well, not no reason.
He smiled to himself and reached up to snap the handcuff into place, adjusting it just tight enough. Exactly how he liked it. He tugged and listened to the handcuff scrape against the metal loop in his headboard just behind his pillow. He wasn’t sure what purpose the loop was meant to serve, but Stiles liked to think it was conveniently placed for exactly this.
The cool metal cut across his wrist and he didn’t dare try too hard to pull free; his father would recognize handcuff marks anywhere. They were trick cuffs -- not the ones he’d stolen from the station a few years ago and proudly displayed on his wall like a trophy. These unlatched with the press of a button -- a three AM internet purchase after he’d woken from a nightmare where he’d lost the key to the real cuffs mid-wank and it (for some wonky dream-reason) had taken half the Beacon Hills Police Department to get him free. Stiles had since timed how long it would take him to release the trick cuff and dress versus the time it would take for his father to walk in the front door and make it up the stairs.
He was already hard. Hell, just looking at the date on the calendar made his cock start to fill. For nearly a year now, he’d done this on the fourth Saturday of every month when Scott’s and his dad’s schedules happened to sync.
His free hand wrapped around his cock and gave it a lazy tug. He’d tried this a few ways, but he got off the best like this, with his right hand cuffed and pinned to the headboard and his left -- his off-hand -- free to torture himself with an awkward, unnatural rhythm.
It took ages to get off this way.
His let his eyes fall shut and a few random images came to mind: grinding naked skin, glistening with sweat, hands roaming, fingers curling possessively, teeth and nails marking. No elaborate fantasy. No one specific. Not yet. Some days he played porn in the background, letting the filthy sounds get him hotter, but he hadn’t felt like it today. He wasn’t looking to get off quick, today it would take some effort to make this last.
The frustration was already building, his left hand trying to find the smooth dexterity that came effortlessly with his right. It took all his focus. When the friction started to chafe, he flipped the top of his lube one-handed and squeezed some onto his belly. His abs tightened as it hit his flush-warm skin. Nose crinkling, he pressed his palm into the mess and, as he wrapped his fingers around himself again, the slide was better instantly. It was worth the shower he’d need later. The rhythm came easier now. He stared at the ceiling, tightening his grip and letting his legs fall open.
He was worked up enough that it took a moment to recognize the sound. First the rattle of the window frame, a moment later the creak of the latch bending and finally snapping. Then the scrape of the window opening. It felt as if time had stopped, and Stiles was given ages to decide whether to reach up and release his handcuff or to cover himself, but it was only an instant and Stiles hadn’t done either.
If he’d had time to hope who it might be, Scott would be his first choice, and a B&E second. Only when he saw Peter did he realize that the entire Beacon Hills Police Department seeing him naked and cuffed to his bed was not in fact the worst case scenario here.
No, the worst thing that could possibly happen to him today was definitely Peter standing a foot from his bed while Stiles scrambled to cup his crotch.
He flushed hot, cheeks burning. Sweat dampened his armpits and his temples in his panic. They were both speechless for a long awkward moment then Peter’s eyes went from shocked-wide to amused. Stiles sputtered and twisted, trying to make himself less naked, less handcuffed. He wished his boner would go down because right now his hand wasn’t quite covering it.
“That was locked!”
“Was it?” Peter cocked his head in feigned innocence. His eyes travelled Stiles’ body.
Stiles felt the gaze creep over every exposed inch. He saw the instant Peter’s eyes settled on the odd angle of his arm and the cuff half-hidden by his pillow. The change in expression from amused to delighted wasn’t subtle. Stiles gritted his teeth. “Get out.”
Peter prowled to the foot of the bed. “I don’t think I will.” He shook off his coat, letting it fall to the floor. The dusting of snow that speckled Peter’s hair had begun to melt, turning his hair into long wet waves that fell forward into his face. It made him look younger, a little wild with the goatee and the dangerous smile. His eyes never left Stiles, and Stiles cursed werewolves and their ability to make him fear for his life on a regular basis.
He cursed all things he hadn’t taken into account in his meticulous planning. He couldn’t release his handcuff without showing off his (still raging, damn it) hard on for Peter to see (and mock). He couldn’t even reach for a pillow to cover himself for the same reason. Flipping himself over sprang to mind, but was presenting his bare ass to Peter any better than covering his cock and blushing red? He wasn’t brave enough to find out.
“No, seriously. You can leave now.” He hated the way his voice cracked.
Peter smirked, tilting his head like Stiles was a puzzle he was starting to figure out but he hadn’t yet solved. “Who’d have thought it.” His gaze searched Stiles’ face.
Stiles went rigid the moment Peter spotted the trick release. He wasn’t sure why Peter knowing that he was not as vulnerable as he appeared frightened him, but he felt the last bit of his control of the situation slip.
“You like to play at having power taken from you, I see,” Peter said and sat on the bed, his thigh brushing Stiles’ foot. “I can understand that. You like to pretend you’re letting go. I’m sure it’s very erotic.” He tapped Stiles’ ankle.
Stiles’ chest squeezed tight as he waited for the other shoe to drop.
“You plan everything out to the last detail, don’t you, Stiles? Locked windows. Locked bedroom door. Daddy at work.” Peter’s hand at his ankle tightened and tugged. Stiles’ legs fell open a fraction. “Fake. Cuffs.” Peter shook his head, looking at Stiles like he was disappointed.
Heat crept up Stiles’ neck in humiliation. “Peter --”
“You’re getting a little too old for children’s toys, don’t you think?” There was a blur of movement and Peter was on him, hovering over his body, not touching except for one hand pressing down on the pillow, grazing his ear. The other reached up and gripped the lock of the cuff. “Time to play with the big boys.”
Stiles’ eyes squeezed tight as he heard the latch pop and mangle beneath Peter’s fingers, and he knew before he even tested it that the trick release of the cuff had been damaged and all his careful planning was fluttering to the floor like a house of cards.
“That’s better.”
When Stiles opened his eyes, Peter’s smile was all teeth. He shifted onto the bed, prying Stiles’ legs apart to kneel between them. Panicked and not caring about modesty any longer, Stiles lifted his free hand to try to release the latch. His left hand was clumsy, not that mattered anyway; the lock had been crushed. He tugged at the cuff. It scraped against his headboard, but nothing gave way. Already there were marks on his wrist that he’d be hiding from his dad for a week.
Peter’s hands settled on Stiles’ thighs, widening the spread of his legs enough to get his attention back. Stiles thrashed, trying to kick out, but the press of clawed fingers made his blood run cold and he stilled.
“Don’t tell me you only like acting helpless. That would be so disappointing.” Peter’s expression didn’t change, but the claws breaking through the skin of his Stiles’ thighs said the words were laced with iron. “Touch yourself.”
He hesitated, not willing to let go of the cuff as if he could snap it open with a burst of adrenaline-induced strength. He hissed in pain as his skin was pierced and he felt the wetness of blood welling and dripping. There would be stains on his sheets if he looked down. He swallowed, falling back to the bed and keeping his eyes on Peter, who looked back, expressionless.
“Now.”
Stiles huffed, but the sting in his legs stole the sarcastic remark before it even formed in his head. He slowly moved his hand towards his crotch and palmed himself. He was still hard. He tried not to think about what that meant. Or that the always amazing feel of his hand on his cock counterpointed the pain in a way that felt brilliant. His stomach churned in disgust at his body’s fucked up reaction.
“Do it,” Peter whispered. It was somewhere between a command and begging, soft and threatening.
Stiles’ fingers curled around his cock. It was still slick and the first tug sent his fear-heightened senses into overdrive. He arched, breaking eye contact with Peter and letting his head hit his pillow. He panted, his naked chest rising and falling like a frightened animal. He knew Peter wasn’t missing a thing.
It was easier not to look, so he didn’t as he twisted his wrist around the wet head of his cock. He was harder now. Though, he’d barely softened since the interruption and now each stroke steamrolled him with sensation, a confusing mix of pain and need and humiliation.
He wasn’t sure which was the worst of it: the dull pain as the claws held still, waiting like they might rip his tender skin to shreds at any moment, the heat of Peter’s eyes which burned him even while Stiles was refusing to look away from the ceiling. But Stiles figured it was the rough graze of Peter’s jeans as it caught the inside of his knees. He’d never had anyone there, holding his legs open, preventing him from any kind of modesty. He was helpless, exposed in a way he’d never felt before -- so very intimately and, God, he knew Peter was looking at every inch of him.
A whimper escaped his throat, making Peter hum. He wished it back immediately.
His throat was raw but he swallowed past it, not caring how his voice sounded as he rasped, “I hate you.”
Peter hummed again, like he’d just been rewarded. “And yet you do seem to be enjoying yourself.”
Stiles couldn’t stop his eyes prickling so he squeezed them shut and sped up his fist. Quick and dirty, he thought, dragging this out was only going to make it worse. There was no way that Peter was leaving before seeing Stiles’ embarrassment to completion. His wrist ached as it flew over his cock. The stupidity of having to use his off-hand only fueled his frustration. His hips jerked up to meet each thrust, his ass lifting clear off the bed. Peter’s claws were gone, the faint sting of tiny wounds left in their memory. Soft fingertips and blunt nails tickled their way upward. Stiles tried not to care, tried not to think about who that touch belong to but the rumbly pleasure coming from Peter’s chest was impossible to block out.
Peter hovered over him, a warm pleasant weight that made Stiles freeze.
“Don’t stop on my account,” Peter whispered, suddenly right at Stiles’ ear.
“Get off me.” Stiles pulled at the cuff, forgetting he was helpless in his need to push Peter off, and he hissed as the metal cut his wrist.
Peter’s breath puffed sweetly across Stiles’ face like he’d had a pastry for breakfast, but that was far too human, far too normal of a thought, and Stiles chased it away. Peter was a monster.
“If you prefer,” Peter said, like Stiles was so very amusing. A new favourite toy. Then Peter licked at the damp trail from the edge of Stiles’ eyes to his ear. Feasting on tears of the enemy, he thought with a bitter laugh. It was possible he was losing his mind.
Peter settled back between his thighs, and Stiles let out a shaky breath. Part of him knew this position wasn’t any safer. Only it felt that way, and Stiles would take what he could at the moment. Then a feather light touch on his stomach sent another frisson of panic through him. His head snapped down in time to see Peter’s fingers slide into the lube that was still making the spot above his belly button glisten.
“What--” Stiles blinked, lump forming in his throat. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Peter smiled. “Close your eyes, Stiles.” His voice wasn’t even taunting or scary. Maybe that was the worst part. It was almost gentle. Then it went even softer. “Close them. Don’t make me hurt you.”
Stiles swallowed. His heart beat frantically in his chest. His thighs trembled as Peter spread them until Stiles felt fully on display.
He was still hard. Fuck. He wanted to die. Wanted to cover himself again. Cover his cock. Cover his ass.
“Please,” he choked. He meant please leave. Get out. Please don’t. But either Peter didn’t care or he willfully misinterpreted because in the next moment a slippery fingertip circled his entrance.
“Don’t mind me,” Peter said, tap, tap, tapping him right there. “Please continue.”
Stiles couldn’t stop his squirming. He’d jacked off a lot. A lot. But he’d never fingered himself. He wasn’t naive. He knew people did. Just, he’d never. He couldn’t breathe anymore because he was so fucking hard, and his hips wouldn’t stay still with Peter’s touch sending all thoughts but yesyesyes out of his brain.
He had to touch his cock. He sobbed a bit when he fisted himself again, relieved and frustrated because Peter was laughing, teasing him now. The fingertip was just sneaking inside, pushing through easily, helped along with lube and the tilt of Stiles’ hips pressing it deeper.
He pulled himself off, his chest burning for more oxygen as he started to hyperventilate. His ass burned a little but just enough, stretching just enough to know that Peter’s finger was inside him. He clenched around it. Peter moaned, pushing deeper until his knuckle bumped Stiles’ balls and he was coming.
He wasn’t loud -- his father was too light of a sleeper, Stiles was well trained at the silent orgasm -- but his mouth fell open as if to scream. His muscles went painfully tight as the pressure built and built, then he was coating his fingers and adding to the mess already on his chest. He spasmed, squeezing Peter’s finger as if he weren’t ready to let it go. Then he collapsed to the bed, boneless and shivering.
With the last aftershock, Peter pumped his finger once and twice -- chuckling at Stiles’ gasp and the new dribble of come leaking from his cock -- before finally pulling free.
Stiles stared at Peter, feeling wrecked, like maybe it wasn’t his claws that Peter used to rip him apart after all.
Peter was sweating, his hair damp at the temples and his cheeks pink above the stubble of his goatee. Stiles’ mind was too blank -- maybe too full -- to say anything. The silence dragged, only broken by Peter clearing his throat.
He stood, shifting in his jeans to readjust, and Stiles wanted to call him out. Call him a perv, a fucked up asshole, make him feel disgusting for what he had Stiles do. Only the words wouldn’t come and Stiles couldn’t find it in himself to regret that. Words would only remind him how powerless he really was right now.
Without a word, Peter’s fist closed on the mangled lock of the handcuffs and crushed the metal until both ends snapped free. Stiles gaped and froze for a heartbeat before he scrambled off the bed. He tumbled to the floor, taking his pillow with him to cover himself and his jizz-soaked chest.
Peter just grinned. “Thank you for an entertaining afternoon.” If he had a hat, Stiles was sure he’d fucking tip it right now.
Peter bent to pick up his coat, taking his time to zip it and lift the collar to prepare for the frigid outside air. Stiles sat, silent and numb. Peter had his foot out the window by the time he found his voice again.
“Don’t. Don’t ever touch me again, you fucker.” Stiles’ heart hammered at the look of pure menace on Peter’s face as he turned back.
“The funny thing is, Stiles,” Peter said, his smile sincere and taunting, “you never once said no. You might want to think about why that is.”
The room filled with icy air as Peter swept out the window. Stiles shivered, still cowered in the corner, pillow clutched around his middle, unable to move for a long while.
Finally, he stood and tore the filthy sheets from his bed.
“Fuck you,” he said to the empty room and went to go shower off the feel of Peter’s hands still on his skin.
-fin-
marguerite_26Title: Playtime Interrupted -- Also On AO3
Fandom; Pairing:Teen Wolf; Peter/Stiles
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 3k
Content Notes: non-con, underage, bondage (handcuffs), fingering, psychological manipulation, potentially triggery victim blaming.
Summary: Stiles likes to experiment with handcuffs when he’s alone -- when he can be in control, safe. Only nothing is really safe if Peter Hale interrupts and decides to change the rules.
Author’s Notes: Thanks to my betas
faithwood and melusinahp. And to eleadore for the advice. I played around with several versions of this, all mistakes are my own.His window was shut and latched. Frigid January wind whipped against the pane, the closed blind concealing the flurries Stiles knew were falling. It had been slushy and wet for a week, and he’d need to dig out the shovel and scrape off the driveway before the mess froze overnight. Later. For now, he had other plans.
The house was silent: his father had just started a shift, Stiles’ phone was off and Scott was working.
He took a deep breath, enjoying the tingle of anticipation that came with well-planned alone time. He stripped off, loving the thrill of being completely naked on a Saturday afternoon for no reason at all. Well, not no reason.
He smiled to himself and reached up to snap the handcuff into place, adjusting it just tight enough. Exactly how he liked it. He tugged and listened to the handcuff scrape against the metal loop in his headboard just behind his pillow. He wasn’t sure what purpose the loop was meant to serve, but Stiles liked to think it was conveniently placed for exactly this.
The cool metal cut across his wrist and he didn’t dare try too hard to pull free; his father would recognize handcuff marks anywhere. They were trick cuffs -- not the ones he’d stolen from the station a few years ago and proudly displayed on his wall like a trophy. These unlatched with the press of a button -- a three AM internet purchase after he’d woken from a nightmare where he’d lost the key to the real cuffs mid-wank and it (for some wonky dream-reason) had taken half the Beacon Hills Police Department to get him free. Stiles had since timed how long it would take him to release the trick cuff and dress versus the time it would take for his father to walk in the front door and make it up the stairs.
He was already hard. Hell, just looking at the date on the calendar made his cock start to fill. For nearly a year now, he’d done this on the fourth Saturday of every month when Scott’s and his dad’s schedules happened to sync.
His free hand wrapped around his cock and gave it a lazy tug. He’d tried this a few ways, but he got off the best like this, with his right hand cuffed and pinned to the headboard and his left -- his off-hand -- free to torture himself with an awkward, unnatural rhythm.
It took ages to get off this way.
His let his eyes fall shut and a few random images came to mind: grinding naked skin, glistening with sweat, hands roaming, fingers curling possessively, teeth and nails marking. No elaborate fantasy. No one specific. Not yet. Some days he played porn in the background, letting the filthy sounds get him hotter, but he hadn’t felt like it today. He wasn’t looking to get off quick, today it would take some effort to make this last.
The frustration was already building, his left hand trying to find the smooth dexterity that came effortlessly with his right. It took all his focus. When the friction started to chafe, he flipped the top of his lube one-handed and squeezed some onto his belly. His abs tightened as it hit his flush-warm skin. Nose crinkling, he pressed his palm into the mess and, as he wrapped his fingers around himself again, the slide was better instantly. It was worth the shower he’d need later. The rhythm came easier now. He stared at the ceiling, tightening his grip and letting his legs fall open.
He was worked up enough that it took a moment to recognize the sound. First the rattle of the window frame, a moment later the creak of the latch bending and finally snapping. Then the scrape of the window opening. It felt as if time had stopped, and Stiles was given ages to decide whether to reach up and release his handcuff or to cover himself, but it was only an instant and Stiles hadn’t done either.
If he’d had time to hope who it might be, Scott would be his first choice, and a B&E second. Only when he saw Peter did he realize that the entire Beacon Hills Police Department seeing him naked and cuffed to his bed was not in fact the worst case scenario here.
No, the worst thing that could possibly happen to him today was definitely Peter standing a foot from his bed while Stiles scrambled to cup his crotch.
He flushed hot, cheeks burning. Sweat dampened his armpits and his temples in his panic. They were both speechless for a long awkward moment then Peter’s eyes went from shocked-wide to amused. Stiles sputtered and twisted, trying to make himself less naked, less handcuffed. He wished his boner would go down because right now his hand wasn’t quite covering it.
“That was locked!”
“Was it?” Peter cocked his head in feigned innocence. His eyes travelled Stiles’ body.
Stiles felt the gaze creep over every exposed inch. He saw the instant Peter’s eyes settled on the odd angle of his arm and the cuff half-hidden by his pillow. The change in expression from amused to delighted wasn’t subtle. Stiles gritted his teeth. “Get out.”
Peter prowled to the foot of the bed. “I don’t think I will.” He shook off his coat, letting it fall to the floor. The dusting of snow that speckled Peter’s hair had begun to melt, turning his hair into long wet waves that fell forward into his face. It made him look younger, a little wild with the goatee and the dangerous smile. His eyes never left Stiles, and Stiles cursed werewolves and their ability to make him fear for his life on a regular basis.
He cursed all things he hadn’t taken into account in his meticulous planning. He couldn’t release his handcuff without showing off his (still raging, damn it) hard on for Peter to see (and mock). He couldn’t even reach for a pillow to cover himself for the same reason. Flipping himself over sprang to mind, but was presenting his bare ass to Peter any better than covering his cock and blushing red? He wasn’t brave enough to find out.
“No, seriously. You can leave now.” He hated the way his voice cracked.
Peter smirked, tilting his head like Stiles was a puzzle he was starting to figure out but he hadn’t yet solved. “Who’d have thought it.” His gaze searched Stiles’ face.
Stiles went rigid the moment Peter spotted the trick release. He wasn’t sure why Peter knowing that he was not as vulnerable as he appeared frightened him, but he felt the last bit of his control of the situation slip.
“You like to play at having power taken from you, I see,” Peter said and sat on the bed, his thigh brushing Stiles’ foot. “I can understand that. You like to pretend you’re letting go. I’m sure it’s very erotic.” He tapped Stiles’ ankle.
Stiles’ chest squeezed tight as he waited for the other shoe to drop.
“You plan everything out to the last detail, don’t you, Stiles? Locked windows. Locked bedroom door. Daddy at work.” Peter’s hand at his ankle tightened and tugged. Stiles’ legs fell open a fraction. “Fake. Cuffs.” Peter shook his head, looking at Stiles like he was disappointed.
Heat crept up Stiles’ neck in humiliation. “Peter --”
“You’re getting a little too old for children’s toys, don’t you think?” There was a blur of movement and Peter was on him, hovering over his body, not touching except for one hand pressing down on the pillow, grazing his ear. The other reached up and gripped the lock of the cuff. “Time to play with the big boys.”
Stiles’ eyes squeezed tight as he heard the latch pop and mangle beneath Peter’s fingers, and he knew before he even tested it that the trick release of the cuff had been damaged and all his careful planning was fluttering to the floor like a house of cards.
“That’s better.”
When Stiles opened his eyes, Peter’s smile was all teeth. He shifted onto the bed, prying Stiles’ legs apart to kneel between them. Panicked and not caring about modesty any longer, Stiles lifted his free hand to try to release the latch. His left hand was clumsy, not that mattered anyway; the lock had been crushed. He tugged at the cuff. It scraped against his headboard, but nothing gave way. Already there were marks on his wrist that he’d be hiding from his dad for a week.
Peter’s hands settled on Stiles’ thighs, widening the spread of his legs enough to get his attention back. Stiles thrashed, trying to kick out, but the press of clawed fingers made his blood run cold and he stilled.
“Don’t tell me you only like acting helpless. That would be so disappointing.” Peter’s expression didn’t change, but the claws breaking through the skin of his Stiles’ thighs said the words were laced with iron. “Touch yourself.”
He hesitated, not willing to let go of the cuff as if he could snap it open with a burst of adrenaline-induced strength. He hissed in pain as his skin was pierced and he felt the wetness of blood welling and dripping. There would be stains on his sheets if he looked down. He swallowed, falling back to the bed and keeping his eyes on Peter, who looked back, expressionless.
“Now.”
Stiles huffed, but the sting in his legs stole the sarcastic remark before it even formed in his head. He slowly moved his hand towards his crotch and palmed himself. He was still hard. He tried not to think about what that meant. Or that the always amazing feel of his hand on his cock counterpointed the pain in a way that felt brilliant. His stomach churned in disgust at his body’s fucked up reaction.
“Do it,” Peter whispered. It was somewhere between a command and begging, soft and threatening.
Stiles’ fingers curled around his cock. It was still slick and the first tug sent his fear-heightened senses into overdrive. He arched, breaking eye contact with Peter and letting his head hit his pillow. He panted, his naked chest rising and falling like a frightened animal. He knew Peter wasn’t missing a thing.
It was easier not to look, so he didn’t as he twisted his wrist around the wet head of his cock. He was harder now. Though, he’d barely softened since the interruption and now each stroke steamrolled him with sensation, a confusing mix of pain and need and humiliation.
He wasn’t sure which was the worst of it: the dull pain as the claws held still, waiting like they might rip his tender skin to shreds at any moment, the heat of Peter’s eyes which burned him even while Stiles was refusing to look away from the ceiling. But Stiles figured it was the rough graze of Peter’s jeans as it caught the inside of his knees. He’d never had anyone there, holding his legs open, preventing him from any kind of modesty. He was helpless, exposed in a way he’d never felt before -- so very intimately and, God, he knew Peter was looking at every inch of him.
A whimper escaped his throat, making Peter hum. He wished it back immediately.
His throat was raw but he swallowed past it, not caring how his voice sounded as he rasped, “I hate you.”
Peter hummed again, like he’d just been rewarded. “And yet you do seem to be enjoying yourself.”
Stiles couldn’t stop his eyes prickling so he squeezed them shut and sped up his fist. Quick and dirty, he thought, dragging this out was only going to make it worse. There was no way that Peter was leaving before seeing Stiles’ embarrassment to completion. His wrist ached as it flew over his cock. The stupidity of having to use his off-hand only fueled his frustration. His hips jerked up to meet each thrust, his ass lifting clear off the bed. Peter’s claws were gone, the faint sting of tiny wounds left in their memory. Soft fingertips and blunt nails tickled their way upward. Stiles tried not to care, tried not to think about who that touch belong to but the rumbly pleasure coming from Peter’s chest was impossible to block out.
Peter hovered over him, a warm pleasant weight that made Stiles freeze.
“Don’t stop on my account,” Peter whispered, suddenly right at Stiles’ ear.
“Get off me.” Stiles pulled at the cuff, forgetting he was helpless in his need to push Peter off, and he hissed as the metal cut his wrist.
Peter’s breath puffed sweetly across Stiles’ face like he’d had a pastry for breakfast, but that was far too human, far too normal of a thought, and Stiles chased it away. Peter was a monster.
“If you prefer,” Peter said, like Stiles was so very amusing. A new favourite toy. Then Peter licked at the damp trail from the edge of Stiles’ eyes to his ear. Feasting on tears of the enemy, he thought with a bitter laugh. It was possible he was losing his mind.
Peter settled back between his thighs, and Stiles let out a shaky breath. Part of him knew this position wasn’t any safer. Only it felt that way, and Stiles would take what he could at the moment. Then a feather light touch on his stomach sent another frisson of panic through him. His head snapped down in time to see Peter’s fingers slide into the lube that was still making the spot above his belly button glisten.
“What--” Stiles blinked, lump forming in his throat. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Peter smiled. “Close your eyes, Stiles.” His voice wasn’t even taunting or scary. Maybe that was the worst part. It was almost gentle. Then it went even softer. “Close them. Don’t make me hurt you.”
Stiles swallowed. His heart beat frantically in his chest. His thighs trembled as Peter spread them until Stiles felt fully on display.
He was still hard. Fuck. He wanted to die. Wanted to cover himself again. Cover his cock. Cover his ass.
“Please,” he choked. He meant please leave. Get out. Please don’t. But either Peter didn’t care or he willfully misinterpreted because in the next moment a slippery fingertip circled his entrance.
“Don’t mind me,” Peter said, tap, tap, tapping him right there. “Please continue.”
Stiles couldn’t stop his squirming. He’d jacked off a lot. A lot. But he’d never fingered himself. He wasn’t naive. He knew people did. Just, he’d never. He couldn’t breathe anymore because he was so fucking hard, and his hips wouldn’t stay still with Peter’s touch sending all thoughts but yesyesyes out of his brain.
He had to touch his cock. He sobbed a bit when he fisted himself again, relieved and frustrated because Peter was laughing, teasing him now. The fingertip was just sneaking inside, pushing through easily, helped along with lube and the tilt of Stiles’ hips pressing it deeper.
He pulled himself off, his chest burning for more oxygen as he started to hyperventilate. His ass burned a little but just enough, stretching just enough to know that Peter’s finger was inside him. He clenched around it. Peter moaned, pushing deeper until his knuckle bumped Stiles’ balls and he was coming.
He wasn’t loud -- his father was too light of a sleeper, Stiles was well trained at the silent orgasm -- but his mouth fell open as if to scream. His muscles went painfully tight as the pressure built and built, then he was coating his fingers and adding to the mess already on his chest. He spasmed, squeezing Peter’s finger as if he weren’t ready to let it go. Then he collapsed to the bed, boneless and shivering.
With the last aftershock, Peter pumped his finger once and twice -- chuckling at Stiles’ gasp and the new dribble of come leaking from his cock -- before finally pulling free.
Stiles stared at Peter, feeling wrecked, like maybe it wasn’t his claws that Peter used to rip him apart after all.
Peter was sweating, his hair damp at the temples and his cheeks pink above the stubble of his goatee. Stiles’ mind was too blank -- maybe too full -- to say anything. The silence dragged, only broken by Peter clearing his throat.
He stood, shifting in his jeans to readjust, and Stiles wanted to call him out. Call him a perv, a fucked up asshole, make him feel disgusting for what he had Stiles do. Only the words wouldn’t come and Stiles couldn’t find it in himself to regret that. Words would only remind him how powerless he really was right now.
Without a word, Peter’s fist closed on the mangled lock of the handcuffs and crushed the metal until both ends snapped free. Stiles gaped and froze for a heartbeat before he scrambled off the bed. He tumbled to the floor, taking his pillow with him to cover himself and his jizz-soaked chest.
Peter just grinned. “Thank you for an entertaining afternoon.” If he had a hat, Stiles was sure he’d fucking tip it right now.
Peter bent to pick up his coat, taking his time to zip it and lift the collar to prepare for the frigid outside air. Stiles sat, silent and numb. Peter had his foot out the window by the time he found his voice again.
“Don’t. Don’t ever touch me again, you fucker.” Stiles’ heart hammered at the look of pure menace on Peter’s face as he turned back.
“The funny thing is, Stiles,” Peter said, his smile sincere and taunting, “you never once said no. You might want to think about why that is.”
The room filled with icy air as Peter swept out the window. Stiles shivered, still cowered in the corner, pillow clutched around his middle, unable to move for a long while.
Finally, he stood and tore the filthy sheets from his bed.
“Fuck you,” he said to the empty room and went to go shower off the feel of Peter’s hands still on his skin.
-fin-
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Date: 2013-02-01 09:16 pm (UTC)(by the time I read your fic, I will be less drunk, I promise).
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Date: 2013-02-02 02:40 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-02-02 02:11 pm (UTC)I did not mind the lack of tiggers - the awesome hot was a very good distraction! Oddly, I think the line that made it for me was the bit about his dream where he lost the key to the real handcuffs - the deliberate mention of unreality made it somehow more real for me. Lovely job!
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Date: 2013-02-03 03:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-02-03 05:29 pm (UTC)“The funny thing is, Stiles,” Peter said, his smile sincere and taunting, “you never once said no. You might want to think about why that is.”
--> CHILLING.
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Date: 2013-02-03 10:55 pm (UTC)If you write any more Peter/Stiles like this, I will roll over and expire with joy, btw. Or just beg to beta it XD