Chapter Text
Fucking werewolves. Stiles was still mad at himself because now, every time he thought it, fucking werewolves sounded a lot sexier and a lot less demeaning. It had been a few days since he and Peter had… Fucking werewolves. His father would be home in a few days yet, but Stiles’ still felt like he was losing precious time. Time with Peter.
He found himself full of self-loathing at that thought. This was how girls were supposed to feel after one night stands. Of course, even as he hated himself for it, Stiles admitted that he didn’t want what he and Peter had had to be a one-time thing. He at least thought Peter would show up at some completely inconvenient time and interpose himself upon Stiles’ life. But Peter hadn’t. Hadn’t done anything. Stiles hadn’t even felt the sneaking feeling that he was being followed or watched lately.
So at first he hadn’t done any of his laundry. He had worn anything he knew Peter had marked to school for the next few days, disregarding any and all of Scott or Derek’s comments. He wore Peter’s scent, hoping it would show that Stiles wanted more. And then on the third night of Peter’s apparent absence since their first and only meeting, Stiles had washed every single piece of clothing and laundry he owned. Every sock, shirt, hat, sheet, bedspread, and piece of lacrosse gear had been washed according to their individual care instructions. All while Stiles’ grumbled under his breath about werewolves and marking. He’d vacuumed and dusted his entire room. He had been dead set on proving to himself that he was fine with Peter’s choice.
Of course, it’d be better if I could actually be okay with his choice.
And of course about an hour after he was sure he’d gotten the last hint of Peter’s scent off of his stuff, he had regretted it. Even though he couldn’t smell it, he had worn Peter’s scent proudly. He had been marked, and he was okay with it. Does that make me submissive? Of course, Stiles didn’t really care either way. Except now he didn’t have a single thing to distract himself with. His homework was long done- that was the first distraction he’d tried. So now he was three chapters ahead of his Trig class and into next week’s Bio homework but Peter’s body was still grinding against his every time he closed his eyes.
Shower. He wouldn’t admit it to himself, but Stiles’ showers had become his hopeful calling card to the wolf. His own…howl. He’d been walking back from the shower when Peter had come last time, so he hoped it might happen again. It was getting a little painful to scrub so hard everywhere, every night. And now his scrapes and bruises were healing. He had marveled at how, when the hot water sluiced over his body the first time after their encounter, it had highlighted where Peter’s clawed hands, even gently, had drawn light lines of fire in their night together. Now those lines were gone- healed, and Stiles longed for them again. Am I weird if I want his scratches back?
Either way, Stiles undressed and stepped into the shower. He scrubbed, he soaped, he exfoliated. He shaved his face and didn’t cut himself. He, ever since their night, had been washing “down there”. Not just his dick, he’d washed his…hole. Wanted to be ready for Peter. God I’m a tool. He did again, unable to shake the feeling that he was hoping against hope.
The shower was really over before it had started. Stiles was drained. Days and nights left him wondering if it had really happened. If Peter had just done some weird wolf thing or if it had actually meant something. He forewent toweling off and began brushing his teeth on the way to his bedroom. His heart caught on the slight sliver of hope remaining at the entrance to his room- would Peter be there, smug grin on his face as he rubbed a pair of Stiles’ underwear against himself again?
But he wasn’t.
Stiles’ room stood starkly empty of Peter. His laundry was still properly and precisely folded. He stepped over to his computer and clicked on some music. He turned the volume up so it could overcome the sounds of the truly historic rain storm that had been pounding Beacon Hills for the last two nights.
And as Stiles thrust his hips off-beat and sang off-key to Kelly Clarkson’s “Since U Been Gone,” a bloody hand, white knuckled, pulled the rest of Peter Hale through Stiles’ open window. Stiles’ towel dropped as he sang his heart out to Peter Hale. I am manly enough to be doing this, he’d convinced himself. He cranked the volume until his laptop’s sound started to buzz, and then then still sang over it. It was only until he turned-
“But since you be- Oh my fuck!” Stiles exclaimed, shock and horror mingled on his face as he saw Peter, wet and bleeding, laying in a half-conscious mass on his floor under his window. Stiles’ leapt over, only slightly aware of his nudity, to Peter.
“Cute,” Peter grinned, sarcastic, even when he looked like death.
“I could say the same for you,” Stiles said, even as he worried over the man. “What the hell happened to you?” Stiles less asked and more began to assess. He lifted Peter’s hands from a wound right beneath his ribcage. Peter’s clothes- a jacket and deep V-neck t shirt were both torn and soaked in blood and rain. “I’m going to take these off.”
Peter grimaced as Stiles gently tried to hike up the garments. He instead ripped the expensive jacket and shirt wide open- revealing darkened veins and a stab wound the size of Stiles’ hand. Stiles recognized the darkened veins.
“You’ve been poisoned,” Stiles gasped. “Who did this?” Stiles wasn’t really caring about answers. When he’d first started looking into first aid- that is, after he’d learned his best friend was a werewolf and might be needing more first aid than usual- he’d read that it was good to keep people talking to assess their mental state and keep them conscious. And Peter looked pretty close to unconscious.
“Hunter,” Peter forced through bared teeth, small drips of blood coming from his mouth.
“O-okay hold on, I’m going to get something to help.”
That wasn’t good. Internal bleeding, unless they’d also punched Peter. The thought of someone besting Peter infuriated Stiles. But that took a backseat to the dying man in his arms. The darkened veins meant hunters, like Peter had said, and it meant wolfsbane, which Stiles was in a distinct lack of since Peter had burned his stash. Stiles stood and threw on a pair of boxers as he hurried down the hall to his hidden first-aid kit.
In Stiles’ extensive research, he’d read about wolfsbane, it’s varied formed and methods for killing things. Even normal people. He would take a risk, though he wasn’t sure how much of one. He scurried back into his room, where Peter was now closer to the center of his floor in a pool of blood.
“Oh shit,” Stiles breathed. He had forgotten that the wolfsbane would also prevent Peter’s natural healing from kicking in. “Apply pressure,” Stiles reminded himself even as he knelt and pressed against the werewolf’s gaping wound. Bared teeth and a low growl met his touch, but Peter restrained himself. Stiles dug in the kit and found a. “Peter, I read that lidocaine helps prevent the wolfsbane from giving you arrhythmia,” Stiles spoke, even though he knew he was only doing it to comfort himself. “You won’t like this.” Stiles extricated a hypodermic needle he’d stolen from Scott’s boss full of lidocaine. Nervously, he poked deep into the wound and dosed the man writhing on his floor.
A noise somewhere between the bellow of a fully grown man and the growl of a dying wolf erupted from Peter. Stiles threw himself away as Peter lost control from the pain and wolfsbane and slashed blindly at the source of pain. Unhindered, Stiles returned to Peter’s side. He could tell the lidocaine was working- Peter’s neck relaxed a little, and he saw the strain of pain leave Peter’s features.
“What was that?” Peter asked, surprised at the quick loss of feeling in his side.
“Lidocaine- I read it helps reverse aconite poisoning in people, so I figured the same would apply to werewolves. And it’s handy that it’s a local anesthetic,” Stiles’ grin was half-hearted as he continued to press against the flow of blood trickling steadily from Peter’s side.
“Stiles, you’ve go-” Peter passed out. Blood loss, Stiles’ thought. Not a good thing. Veryverybadthing. Stiles looked around nervously, and something in Peter’s hand caught his eye.
It was an old book. Bound in leather. Not a journal. No, Stiles could tell this was old. Its pages looked weathered and crinkled from use. Decades of use possibly. Stiles grabbed at the book and opened it.
An explanation of wolfsbane poisoning met Stiles’ eyes. It was handwritten in an elegant scrawl. The script reminded Stiles of the copy of the U.S. Constitution his history teacher had brought in. “Wolfsbane poisoning, in the human, is relegated strictly to a physical toxicity in the blood. True werewolves, however, are infected not only by the plants’ toxin in their blood, but the wolf itself is leeched of its power. Healing stops, pain, normally menial to a wolf, is exponential. This is due to the magical properties of the poison- its effects on the very nature and being of the wolf.” Stiles read hurriedly, not even understanding half of what was coming out of his own mouth. He continued, “Therefor, though the physical symptoms of wolfsbane poisoning may be lessened, the true cure for those born into or given the gift of lycanthropy must be of an arcane origin.” Stiles angrily flipped through pages and skimmed as fast as he could until he found something he thought looked right.
Peter growled and shifted under the boy, who sighed in relief that the man wasn’t simply dead.
“Okay, Peter, it says I have to do magic stuff. I don-” Stiles stumbled, remembering that technically, looking back, he had done magic before. And if there was anything he could believe in at the moment, it was his need to heal Peter. “Never mind.” Stiles skimmed through the pages and stopped on a promising diagram. It called for candles and salt and blood along with the injured person. Seems legit, Stiles thought.
He surrounded Peter with twelve candles and enclosed himself with the man in a ring of salt. This time, he had enough to make a complete circle, but the book said that he had to close the circle with an effort of will, so Stiles put everything he had into it, but even now he was unsure if it had worked, though the candles didn’t flicker and dance in the wind coming in through the open window anymore. Stiles took it a sign of success.
“Okay, last ingredient: blood,” Stiles announced to Peter, who had now broken out into a sweat. Stiles held up the book and read to himself, “In a spell of empathic health such as this, blood must be sacrificed to purify the blood of the suffering. Life, in blood, is sacrificed in giving life to one who is losing it.” Stiles couldn’t believe he was reading and considering and actually going to sacrifice his blood in some weird werewolf spellbook he found in his dying boyfriend’s hand, but, here he was. Boyfriend?
“Stiles, idiot, don’t,” Peter said weakly, but angrily. His face was pallid, expression pained and suffering. Stiles ignored him.
“Shut up, Peter, I’m saving you’re goddamned life,” Stiles said, confused at the man’s protest. He continued to feverishly read the explanation from the book, hoping that reading aloud would prevent him from missing anything important. “Blood sacrificed can be given willing or not, but the closer the connection of the empathies the better,” the book explained-if you could call not making any freaking sense “explaining”- “untainted blood should be blah-blah-blah to the site of infection… blah blah blah…” Stiles lost his patience and skimmed the rest of the spell’s explanation, sure of only his lack of time to save Peter. He took a pocketknife from his first aid kit, I hope that doesn’t interfere with the juju, and rested it on the inside of his arm. He’d thought of cutting his leg or someplace more easily covered than his arm, but figured it would be awkward trying to jam his knee against Peter’s ribs. Damn witches and their need to bleed.
With that thought, Stiles bit his lip and let the sharp knife carve deeply into his arm. The pain flew up his arm as his blood trickled down it, Good, not too deep. He shuddered at the site but resolvedly pressed his bleeding arm against Peter’s deep wound.
Nothing happened.
Stiles knelt there, arm bleeding into another person’s open gash and couldn’t help but think about what his health teacher had said about blood-to-blood contact. That ship has sailed. Then, suddenly, a deep, burning pain flew through his veins to every part of his body.
Stiles felt like he’d been kicked in the chest. His breath fled in one long, wretched gasp, and fire ignited in his veins. His brain felt like it was crushing against his skull, and his heart kept rhythm like an amateur drum line led by a blind, dumb, and deaf person. His chest beat hard one second, then fluttered and paused for too long, only to start back up with a single, heart crushing thud. He barely noticed that he’d been flung from the circle, and the candles, once lit, were now extinguished, the salt sprayed across his floor as if from the very center of the circle. Stiles’ eyelids became lead, and he thrashed in agony as the spell threw him into fits of pain somewhere between being drawn and quartered and slowly being crushed by an elephant. He ground his teeth as tears flooded down his cheeks, hot and heavy in Stiles’ state of blind agony. His backed racked and Stiles as suddenly teetering on just his heels and the back of his head. His spine popped painfully in several places as he thought he would snap himself in two. His thought were white spots of fire on blank emptiness and fear.
But then, a single sound made it all worth it. Peter, from hundreds of years and thousands of miles away, groaned. He was alive.
Stiles’ victory was brief as the throes continued. At some point, he was aware that he had vomited, only because of the acrid tastes of bile in his mouth and runny, hot snot streaking sideways down his face. Another convulsion sent his entire body into rigidity, and Stiles felt himself splash in the pool of vomit he’d just evacuated. Even as his body stilled, his heart felt like it was trying to break out of his ribcage. His neck craned and every muscle in his body seized, then suddenly, relief hit as he lost all feeling momentarily and knew his entire body had gone limp. He cried out, loud and pleading, but no answer came to him. No sounds of sirens- the storm outside was too loud for anyone to hear, though Stiles was sure that he was screaming loud enough that people two continents away should’ve been able to hear him.
The sudden loss of feeling and control proved to be little respite, as Stiles’ body sharply flung back into pain and seizures. Stiles noticed a new, fouler smell mingling with that of vomit that was now congealed in his hair, and an irrational horror hit him in the gut as he realized that he had wet and defecated himself. He wished for unconsciousness, for some ease of the pain, but neither came. His physical pain only barely outshone his shame- lying there, convulsing in a pile of his own shit and piss and vomit, he wished someone would come and at the same time wished it would just any someway. Any way.
Another brief reprieve gave Stiles renewed hope. He should’ve known better. His back arched again, and Stiles’ world was flipped on end. His shoulder slammed onto the floor, and the room behind his arm went out of focus as he saw and felt his fingers stretch into rigor. The pain was excruciating, as if an invisible hand were slowly pulling on every joint in his hand. Then, as Stiles watched in mingled agony and horror, his fingers bent and snapped backwards in hyperextension. He thought-and in some part of his mind, hoped- he would black out, but all he could do was scream. But his lungs didn’t obey him. Wouldn’t. Instead of a scream, Stiles heard a meager squeal that grated at his throat escape him.
In a moment, Stiles’ attention was ripped from the pain in his hand by a new, more intense anguish. Stiles’ neck twisted beyond what he knew was possible, and he was left looking down his chest, to where his ribs seemed to tremble under his skin. Then Stiles realized that his ribs were trembling. Stiles’ breath escaped him as he saw rib after rib collapse beneath his flesh, each sounding an unhealthy pop to meet his ears. He was oddly disconnected from the sight- only his pain tethered him to what was happening to his own body.
Stiles was unaware of time. He was pretty sure that decade or seven had passed by the time he saw, through clenched eyelids and bloodshot eyes, Peter stir from across the vast distance of his floor. He smiled- he could actually smile now- and felt his cheek press into the chunky, coagulated vomit that his head had been resting in. It inspired a dry heave, but Stiles had known long ago that he had already emptied his stomach. He saw Peter, looking dazed, rise from the floor and survey the room disconcertedly.
As Peter’s eyes turned to Stiles, and a mix of emotions so complex flitted over the man’s face and through his eyes so quickly that Stiles wasn’t sure if it had actually happened. Then Peter was upon him, wordlessly picking him up out of his own mess and into strong arms.
“You idiot,” Peter said. He sounded all at once relieved, furious, sad, and confused. “I told you not to do that,” Peter said, his voice low and coddling to the boy, who felt small and childish in his arms. Stiles grimaced and grieved even at Peter’s careful examination. Peter was sniffing lightly, turning Stiles gently in his arms, checking to see if the boy was okay.
“I’ve always had a problem with the word ‘no’,” Stiles explained. His voice now rasped against the raw flesh in his throat, ravaged by his throwing up and the endless time screaming.
“You smell like crap,” Peter said. He had meant it as a joke, but immediately regretted the words, as they seemed to cut Stiles down even more. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re a zombie,” Stiles’ reply was weak and Peter could tell the boy was exhausted. He glanced at the clock- it was a quarter past four in the morning. He’d reached Stiles’ place at roughly eleven o’clock last night. Allowing fifteen minutes for Stiles’ comprehension of the spell (What the hell kind of sixteen year old kid can pull off a spell like that with no explanation and no experience?) that meant Stiles had been suffering for roughly five hours. It meant that Stiles, awkward, gangly, pale, unbearable, painfully sarcastic, Stiles had been suffering five long, torturous hours for him- Peter Hale-who had never done anything of any meaningful significance for anyone but himself in his life. And suddenly Peter felt the small one, as if eclipsed by this single boy's unshakable personality.
Peter knew the spell inside and out- it was an old, guarded family secret- but tried to empathize the boy anyway. It was a fruitless endeavor, and he knew it- the taker of the pain in this spell was never open to have the pain taken away until it had passed. Judging by his wound, and how lucid Peter was, he guessed that Stiles had taken most of the poison, unknowingly. It was a miracle he was still alive.
“Stiles, I could kill you right now,” Peter confessed, at the site of Stiles, weak and gangly and ashen in his arms. Peter knew the boy would have no lasting physical symptoms, except, maybe, the sore throat and unhealthy pallor that came from hours of throwing up. But his worry didn’t lessen- he knew the real toll of the spell was emotional- the pain would always seem fresh in Stiles’ mind remembering the event¸ and the shame would be nearly ever-present, constantly refreshed by the pain. And young men of Stiles’ age didn’t tend to cope with the memory of rolling around in their own bodily fluids and feces very well.
“That’d be nice,” Stiles said, half conscious, “relatively.”
“You’re going to be fine, as soon as I can patch up your arm,” Peter said, turning his gaze toward the gash that had initiated the spell. It was too deep for his liking- a livid reminder of Peter’s ineptitude and Stiles’ sacrifice. It was the only wound from the ritual that wouldn’t be healed in a few hours. Blood was caked around the wound, interposed with Stiles’ own bile.
Stiles looked down at his arm but couldn’t become paler. He looked down then at the floor and felt his stomach drop. If he could have felt worse, he would have. The floor was smeared with his blood and spit, muddied with his crap and throw up. Stiles wanted to die of the shame. “Oh god,” Stiles gasped.
“It’s okay, Stiles,” Peter said, “there’s nothing to be ashamed about.”
“Are you saying that because you’ve rolled in it before?” Stiles’ mouth hung in a cocky half-grin, but it lacked the spirit of sarcasm the boy typically held. Peter responded with a huff and walked toward the bathroom with the pile of teenager in his arms. Stiles was still dazed from the pain. He didn’t doubt that Stiles would need to rest probably for a few hours, if nothing else to distance him from the trauma.
Peter stepped into the bathtub with Stiles still in his arms.
“You’re going to ruin your jeans,” Stiles said, weakly.
“You just performed only of the most dangerous, reckless spells to heal me and spent hours in inescapable pain, and you’re worried about my jeans?” Peter asked, raising an unbelieving eyeball.
“Hmph,” Stiles was falling into a stupor. Peter was hoping it would be from the endorphins flooding his system- hoping the boy’s pain was lessening. Peter turned on the water, irredeemably cold at first, but warming quickly. Anything seemed warm after his night bleeding in the storm. Stiles winced as the body hit him at first, but then as the water warmed, he seemed to melt and mold into Peter.
Peter found it oddly attractive, holding the boy. He watched as the water glided over the young man’s pale skin, washed blood and vomit and discomfort from the boy’s body. Peter’s own breathing was still shallow from his encounter with the wolfsbane-laced dagger, but he would heal. Stiles would need help healing. And probably an explanation as well. Rather than struggling with the removal of Stiles’ underwear, Peter ripped them from the boy in a quick sweep of his clawed hand.
“Hey,” Stiles managed to protest, but his dissent was half-hearted and woozy at best. Peter couldn’t help but grin, even as he washed the boy’s mess from his skin. He gently rubbed at the boy’s mess, showing no sign of how bad Stiles was sure he actually smelt. He took care enough to wash and rinse around Stiles’ most intimate areas, and Stiles blushed through his lethargy as Peter’s fingers gentled over his privates. Well, they didn’t seem very private between the two of them anymore. “Pervert,” Stiles whispered.
“And still the mouth lives on,” Peter said, eyes rolling. He knelt and placed Stiles in the bottom of the tub so he could wash off what had transferred to his own skin. He rolled his eyes again, but at himself this time, as he couldn’t help but find it endearing when the young man seemed to curl around his ankle. Surely it was because of the cramped space of the shower. Peter crammed down the feelings that threatened to well up in him. Damn those feelings. Damn his weakness.
The shower had relieved the rest of Peter’s pain, but he still worried over the boy as he carried him back to the room. Peter delicately laid Stiles’ limp body onto the bed. Stiles had barely stirred since Peter had laid him down in the shower- even when he’d dried the boy off, Stiles had seemed content to doze and make little smartass remarks at Peter’s efforts to help and comfort. Peter couldn’t sleep. Even if they were to share a bed, he felt too much guilt to be comforted- even by the slowly warming, comfortingly safe Stiles next to him. So he did what he could do while the boy recovered.
He managed to wipe and mop most of Stiles’ mess from the hardwood floor and thanked the boy’s father for not having carpet. That was a weird thought. Thank you, sheriff, for having hardwood floors and having an incorrigibly sarcastic son who has found it acceptable for me to want to fuck him. Peter pushed the thought from his mind. He took several cleaning solutions to the floorboards before the smell was detectable only to his sensitive nose. Stiles stirred on the bed, but Peter could tell by the boy’s heartbeat that he wouldn’t be waking anytime soon. So he grabbed some floor polish and refinished the floor where the chemicals and scrubbing had deteriorated it, so no evidence would be left. Well, no evidence but the memories that Stiles would have to deal with for the rest of his life.
Peter grimaced at the thought of what Stiles had had to have gone through. He hadn’t been conscious, but he knew the spell well enough. It haunted him to think of Stiles’ body being thrown, betraying itself, breaking and bending under the power of the spell. But the thought exhausted Peter. Or maybe the exhaustion was purely his own. He sat at the foot of the bed, ran his fingers through his still-damp hair. He kicked his wet jacket towards the window. But that revealed another mess for his to clean up- that of the ritual.
Stiles really had done an incredible job. Peter admired the boy’s ability to take all the hyperactivity that was a part of him and focus on learning and doing something that more knowledgeable men and women had failed to do hundreds of times. The circle was perfect- or had clearly been, before the finishing of the spell. Now the salt had been sprayed from the circle, the candles had blown out, and Peter’s blood was drying on the floor. He dropped to hands and knees and scrubbed and refinished the floor there as well. When he finally looked up at the clock, it was a quarter to six in the morning.
Peter, exhausted, peeled off his still-wet jeans, which was an effort. After he’d escaped, he was too tired to care enough about slowing his descent onto the bed beside Stiles. The boy barely stirred, but Peter’s weight on the bed sunk the boy toward his body, and Peter couldn’t help but put an arm around the boy. When Stiles pushed his face into Peter’s armpit, Peter had to concentrate on other things and pressed a hand to his still-hurting side, but even that didn’t keep him from sleep.
Peter awoke to find something off. Stiles was gone, but the smell of something ambrosial wafted through the air. Peter inhaled deeply, the scent familiar in a way, but heavenly and decadent. He couldn’t find his pants, or the jacket he’d left drying. He closed the window to keep the cool air from coming in- it was still pouring outside. He found a pair of Stiles’ underwear- he remembered which drawer Stiles kept them in- and struggled to pull them up over his thighs. Stiles was noticeably slighter than Peter, who tended on the shorter and more built side of Stiles’ slightly taller and much leaner build. The boxers fit tight around his waist and their unbuttoned fly gaped open when Peter took a step, but he figured it was better than being naked in front of the boy.
He followed the divine smell from Stiles’ room to the kitchen.
Peter smirked as he found Stiles, barechested, sitting on the counter scrubbing furiously at Peter’s now noticeably less-bloody jacket. Stiles’ long legs were bunched up and spilled out over the side of the counter he was sitting on. So concentrated, Stiles didn’t appear to notice Peter’s entrance, so the wolf made no attempt to announce himself- only to watch the boy. Stiles swore and leaned over to rinse more cold water over the jacket. He poured some solution on the stain and set it in the sink as he moved to check the oven. Stiles looked… content, Peter thought, in the kitchen. He seemed deft at the handlings- like he was really in his element. It helped that he looked great in a pair of boxers. Peter couldn’t help but notice how the boxers seemed a little loose on Stiles’ hips as he removed a deep cast iron pan from the oven. The aroma of the dish flooded toward Peter, whose stomach betrayed him with a deep, low growl.
Stiles double took at the sound of Peter’s stomach growling, and grinned as the man approached. The pan was simmering and setting savory smells drifting in the air. Peter glanced appreciatively at the stew, and at Stiles.
“Morning,” Peter said, breaking the silence.
Stiles grinned a big, stupid half grin at the look in Peter’s eyes. “Morning.”
“Is that, uh-?”
“Rabbit stew,” Stiles’ grin redoubled at the shocked look on Peter’s face.
“You found… rabbit?” Peter asked.
“I had to get a special order from a butcher my dad helped prove was innocent of poaching,” Stiles explained.
Peter shook his head. “I was joking, you know, Stiles.” Though, he was surprised at the young man’s ability to procure a meat that was illegal to sell in most cases and even more rarely properly cooked.
“I’m not sure you were. Plus, I always like a challenge in the kitchen,” Stiles said. He grabbed two bowls and filled them with ample servings of the aromatic stew. He led the way to the dining table, Peter following his lightly swaying hips and cute, well-toned butt.
Peter and Stiles sat across from each other at the table, the steam from the stew rising between them as they looked across at each other, either unsure of what exactly to say after the happenings of the last few hours.
“How are you feeling?” Peter asked, concern evident in his voice. He dipped his spoon in the stew and blew it off as he waited for Stiles’ response. Peter noticed Stiles’ heartbeat leap in tempo as at the question.
“I, uh-” Stiles was at an apparent loss for words, his heart beat faster in his chest. Not the best sign.
“You… you shouldn’t have done that spell,” Peter said.
“Look, you were the one who came to me all bloody and dying, the least you could do is say thank you,” Stiles fumed. “You’re the werewolf who was out doing who-the-hell-knows-what and got himself freaking stabbed.”
“Stiles,” Peter said, authority and starkness in his voice.
“What?” Stiles yelled over the stew. Peter couldn’t really blame him for his anger. Going through the pain of that spell had broken weaker people forever.
“Stiles,” Peter said, lowering his voice, “Thank you.”
Stiles’ loathed Peter’s ability to catch him off guard.
“And the reason,” Peter paused, wanting to let his words sink in, “that I didn’t want you to do this spell was because of what I knew it would do to you.” Peter set the book on the table between them.
“Why the hell would you have brought that book th-” Stiles began.
“Stiles.” Again with the authority. “Turn the page.”
Stiles grabbed at the book like it might bite him, but opened to the page he’d read last night, then turned over the page. He read quickly, and then Peter saw his expression flatten.
Peter, knowing what the boy was reading, tried to look anywhere else, and heard Stiles’ heartbeat shift from angry excitement to a slower, deeper embarrassment.
“So… so this is the spell?” Stiles asked.
“It is,” Peter said. He snatched the book before Stiles could read any more and get any ideas. “It’s a bit more complex, but it… it wouldn’t have done that to you.”
“Oh.”
Peter knew it was little comfort, telling Stiles that he’d done it wrong. But he needed the young man to know that he never intended for Stiles to suffer the pain he had last night. He just didn’t know how to say that.
“What, you’ve never heard of a bookmark?” Stiles asked, and suddenly the solemnity had passed, and even Stiles’ heartbeat was balancing out. “You haven’t even had any stew yet.”
Peter grabbed his spoon and took a bite. The meat was tender and surprisingly not gamy for rabbit. Though, Peter supposed, he was used to fresh rabbit. It was wonderful. Peter moaned at the flavor.
“You like it?” Stiles asked, still genuinely nervous for Peter’s approval.
“It’s… it’s amazing,” Peter said, aware he was stroking the boy’s ego.
Stiles simply grinned again, self-satisfied and understandingly hungry. Peter remembered that the boy’s stomach had been completely evacuated, but turned his thoughts away from the previous night’s horror. Stiles seemed less affected by it than Peter.
“I’m sorry,” Peter relented, feeling like the boy might still be holding the guilt over his head.
“Peter it’s-”
“It’s not okay, Stiles. You could have died. You could have become a vegetable. I’ve seen men twisted beyond recognition by that spell. I… you shouldn’t have done that for me.”
“Okayokayokay, nono. No you playing angstwolf,” Stiles said in disbelief.
“Stiles, I haven’t done anything like that for someone else in my life,” Peter retorted.
“So?” Stiles said.
Peter finished his stew. He doubted the kid knew it, but he’d be damned if he was actually developing feelings for Stiles. Even the thought seemed perilous. But Peter couldn’t really lie to himself about just how far he’d fallen. He was eating a homemade meal across from a young man he had offered the bite to. Peter was still tempted to bring that up- how he knew when he’d asked Stiles that the boy did want the bite, but had still refused. Peter felt himself getting hard at the thought of running his teeth over Stiles’ soft skin. “So you shouldn’t have done it for me,” Peter replied, dowsing his libido in the cold water of guilt.
“I’m sure you’ve done things for other people,” Stiles said, a drop of stew streaming down his chin and neck from his full mouth. “You…”
“Told you so.”
“You killed Kate,” Stiles offered. He knew it wasn’t the best thing to bring up, but, She had been a psychopath.
Peter raised an intimidating eyebrow.
“I’m not saying you made the best plan,” Stiles paused, fully aware of the minefield he’d just walked into. “But, you did it for your family. I mean, you could’ve done a better job about doing it with your family, but… Look,” Stiles stopped digging deeper, “I think you did it for the right reasons.”
Peter didn’t respond. Couldn’t really. Stiles had a point, but Peter knew he’d done the wrong thing. Even then, he’d known it was wrong, but he always had to finish-always had to have the last word. So now, across from this alarmingly disarming young man, Peter gave the final word up. “Thank you.”
Stiles grinned his goofy, lopsided grin that reached into his eyes. God it reaches into my heart, Peter caught himself thinking. Stiles finished his stew, and then they were still there, silence and something else- some other tension- between them as the rain burbled on outside. Peter heard Stiles’ heart beat a rhythm of contentedness, but it gave way to a faster pace as Stiles said, “Thanks for uh… for cleaning up after me…”
Peter said the embarrassment and pain in the boy’s eyes. “It was… nothing.”
“No like… thank you,” Stiles said again, and Peter unknowingly reached a hand out for the boy’s. That was weird… when had Peter last initiated a nonviolent form of contact with anyone but Stiles? It seemed like ages. But this… this felt… right. It was like Stiles was a river, and the more Peter came in contact with the boy the more his edges smoothed over. Oh god, the boy has me thinking in poetry.
“Stiles, it was the least I could do after you saved me,” Peter said, squeezing Stiles’ hand in his as he spoke. “Now, where did you put my pants?” Peter redirected, not wanting to admit it to himself but knowing full well that he was afraid of the effect touching Stiles had on him.
“Oh, I put them in the wash… they should be ready to put in the drier by now,” Stiles explained.
Peter couldn’t help but watched as Stiles padded toward the laundry room down the hall. His hips swayed in an all too alluring way, graceful but masculine- the build of a boy who probably couldn’t gain an ounce of weight even when he tried to bulk up. Stiles’ tight little butt disappeared into the room, and Peter shook his head and cleared the table, rinsed the dishes in the sink.
“They should be done pretty soon,” Stiles said. He didn’t want Peter to know how bad he just wanted to… be with Peter right now. After last night, Stiles felt… hollow. Like something had made a little corner in his mind and cleared it of everything but darkness.
“Thanks,” Peter said. Stiles noticed as the man turned how the fly of the boxers he had borrowed was stretched, winking open.
Stiles caught a flash of flesh and felt his cheeks heat up, “Uh, no prob.”
Peter grinned now, readily satisfied with the boy’s blushing. “You are a teenager, aren’t you?”
“Huh?” Stiles thought he’d missed something.
“You almost die because of me last night, and you still can’t shake your hormones down,” Peter said, catching Stiles’ eyes with an intentional flex of muscle that brought his groin back to Stiles’ clashing focus.
Stiles reddened more and looked away, embarrassed that he’d been caught. But, it was true-Stiles had been pleasantly surprised to wake up to a very pleasantly naked Peter. And it had been a true charm to wake up to a naked Peter who had apparently cleaned up after Stiles’ embarrassing…episode. He had spent a few minutes studying the werewolf’s body before he’d decided to start on the stew. Even now, remembering, Stiles couldn’t hide his arousal. “You look ridiculous in those,” Stiles redirected.
“Stiles, you’re playing with the big boys now,” Peter said, “If you’re going to try and refocus my attention you’ll have to do better than that.”
Stiles choked down a riposte about DreamWorks movies, but found himself otherwise nervously speechless as Peter approached him with a predatory look.
Instead of the harsh, frank approach Stiles had been expecting, Peter surprised him. The kiss was gentle, slow. Hungry but not starving. It was all light touch and intimate lips, even as Peter moved in to hold the boy. The kiss broke, and Peter pulled Stiles into himself. Stiles felt weird that he felt weird. He’d already done much more intimate things with Peter, but for some reason this embrace felt as if it carried just as much, if not more, weight. Peter ran calloused fingers and hands in slow, delicate circles as he held the boy. He heard Stiles’ heart leap in surprise and grinned. He pushed away from Stiles, who seemed unsure of himself. You can perform a spell that could’ve killed you without blinking, but you can’t understand a hug, Peter marveled.
Stiles, a little shocked, still wasn’t sure of himself. His mind raced with desires and many reasons why he shouldn’t pursue them, but he just didn’t want to care about those at the moment. He slid his hands up Peter’s arms and dove into another kiss. He felt more experienced this time, knew the movements of Peter’s mouth, and the two ebbed and flowed in a rhythm of their own. Peter broke the kiss and sent a trail of small kisses down the boy’s neck as he brought Stiles closer, their bodies meeting as Stiles leaned back to give Peter greater access to his chest.
Peter wrapped an arm around Stiles’ back and threw the boy into the air, catching him so his navel was level with Peter’s mouth, and licked and kissed at the hairy depression. Stiles eyes were wide even as he found himself wrapping his legs around Peter’s broad chest, which felt strong against his hips and growing erection. Peter began walking nimbly to the bedroom. Stiles avoided an awkward duck and probable bump of the head when Peter let him down just outside of his room. He felt sexy, empowered by Peter’s apparent want for him. He pulled at the waistband of the boxers Peter was wearing and glanced over the man’s powerful body as he walked backwards toward his bed. Peter stopped short and pushed Stiles over the edge of the bed. But instead of jumping on him, as Stiles felt he deeply needed him to, Peter instead looked down studiously at Stiles’ body.
“Uh...” Stiles remarked.
“Shhhh,” Peter replied, still running his eyes over the boy. He wanted to take Stiles in. So he did. He watched as the boy’s breath pushed against his delicate ribs. He noticed all the little moles Stiles had on his torso- there weren’t as many as Peter had thought before there last encounter. One above the boy’s right nipple, and one and two there- on his left shoulder. Peter grinned at his remembrance of the marks, and pushed the boy back down to the bed when Stiles tried to pull Peter down onto the bed. Peter grinned at the boy’s confusion and continued his study. Stiles’ skin was soft, but not untowardly so- all supple givings and smooth edges. Peter sated his eyes and then slowly peeled off the boxers he had borrowed.
It was time for Stiles to admire. He watched, still a little confused, but given to Peter’s wanting gaze as Peter looked at him. Peter was broad, well-muscled, like he longed to be but couldn’t. Peter’s chest seemed fathoms wide, and was hairier than Stiles remembered. But, last time he had been a little distracted by that fact that he had been touching Peter Hale. Now though, he filled his eyes with detail. Peter’s chest was hairy, but not unpleasantly so. It seemed the hair was soft, and dare Stiles think it, Like fur. It led a small trail down Peter’s torso, highlighting the definition of Peter’s abs and muscular build.
As Peter removed the boxers he’d borrowed, Stiles noticed that the hair trailing from Peter’s navel to his bush wasn’t interrupted by where the waist of the man’s pants would have rubbed. Stiles wondered how often Peter went without pants to not have that line. But then Peter’s half-hard penis seemed to roll and bounce from under the waistband as Peter brushed the boxers off. Stiles noticed its slight curve, the implied heaviness of Peter’s generous endowment made Stiles think of terms like bull balls and low hangers that Stiles had seen and invested a good amount of time into searching the internet. But porn was far from Stiles’ mind now- Peter was much more real, much more tangible and surprisingly more available. Peter crouched over the boy now, and the bed sank, drawing Stiles back as Peter hovered over him. Stiles couldn’t help but feel smaller under Peter- if not physically just in presence.
Peter felt oppositely. Stiles seemed to condense around him, but Peter still felt like the lesser of the two. He was drawn into Stiles’ lips for a kiss and awed at the softness of the boy’s lips. Stiles bit lightly at Peter’s lip, and Peter felt himself harden at the boy’s apparent hunger. Stiles wrapped a hand around Peter’s back and pulled him closer, fighting Peter’s resistance until the man gave up. Stiles liked the feel of all of Peter’s weight on top of him- it had always been a feeling he had imagined he would like, and now that he could experience it, he enjoyed it more than he had thought he would. Peter paused, curious at Stiles’ insistence, but enjoyed the feeling of his erection against the boy’s trail of hair and the waistband of Stile’s boxers.
Stiles quickly lost his boxers, fumbling impatiently at the intruding underwear. Peter’s chest hair was soft against the bareness of Stiles’ chest, and Stiles let his hands wander around its edges, feeling the soft hair whisper at his fingertips. Stiles allowed his arms to reach around Peter’s frame, and his hand glided over mountains and valleys of muscle and sinew. Stiles’ mind raced at all the possibilities, but then a single one came to focus as he felt an inconsistency in Peter’s back, underneath the skin. He broke the long-winded kiss and looked into Peter’s eyes, unsure of exactly what to ask.
“What?” Peter asked, unsure of Stiles’ hesitation.
“Could I… uh, could I give you a backrub?” Stiles asked.
“What?” Peter asked again, confused.
“Just let me rub your back,” Stiles said, slipping lithely out from under Peter.
Peter wondered at what Stiles’ plan was, but got into a better position on the bed and laid on his stomach. “You, you don’t have to do this, Stiles,” Peter offered.
“I know but… I want to,” Stiles said, setting himself in his own mind. He had never really seen Peter’s back, only felt it. But now, as he rubbed at the tense muscles, all power-filled and coiled like snakes, he got a bit better sense of Peter. The man slowly relaxed under Stiles’ pressing and rubbing. At first, Stiles felt awkward and tried to brace himself over the man, but he soon gave in and rest on the back of Peter’s thighs, which brought his erection to rest between the thick rondures of Peter’s fuzzy ass. Stiles savored the feeling of Peter’s firm muscles under his hands and the feeling of his engorged member resting on Peter’s butt. He felt incredibly piqued at the feeling of Peter’s powerful tension lessen under his pressure and grinned wide when his hands managed to coax a pleasured moan from the werewolf. Peter, in return, ran his rough-skinned hands over Stile’s calves where and when he could. Stiles didn’t want to stop- he wanted to keep touching and rubbing Peter’s powerful back, but at the same time wished he could touch everything else.
At some point, Peter propped himself up and slid out from under Stiles, who seemed a little disappointed until Peter ran a hand through his hair. And then Peter was pulling Stiles’ mouth to his again, and they were rolling into each other and letting little gasps of air out between heated kisses. Stiles realized with a start how hard Peter had become as their bodies kept entangling in new ways and they rolled aimlessly and passionately on Stiles’ bed. Then aimless turned into strategic and Peter was on top of Stiles in an instant.
Stiles didn’t realize at first, but Peter had taken both of Stiles’ wrists in one hand and pinned them above his head like he had done last time. Stiles’ chest was pinned under the weight of the man, with Peter’s cock teasing right under the young man’s sternum. And the kisses came again, Peter slow and meticulous against Stiles’ fervently wanting lips. Peter whispered little kisses against Stiles’ lips even as the boy struggled gently under Peter’s firm grasp and tight control of both of their bodies. Stiles hated and loved the sensation at the same time- he wanted to feel Peter against him again- to have their skin hot against each other, but apparently Peter was content with straddling Stiles and pinning the young man under his weight. But then just as Stiles sought to adjust to Peter’s rhythm Peter would speed up, take Stiles’ breath away in the suddenness of the act. After a few cycles of the torture, Stiles’ hard on was raging against the small of Peter’s back, as Peter’s was leaking precum steadily into the small hollow below the boy’s ribs.
Stiles’ eyes trained on the puddle there, and Peter grinned as he scooped some of the slippery liquid onto his fingers. Stiles whimpered unconsciously as he watched Peter suck the fluid from his hand. “Peter,” Stiles pleaded. How am I literally just putty in his hands? Stiles wondered. But the thought was banished as Peter dipped into the little pool again and brought it to Stiles’ lips. Stiles opened his mouth as sensuously as he could, not wanting to show exactly how bad he wanted this. But Stiles surprised himself as he grew more excited when Peter slid the three fingers he’d extended to the boy deep down into Stiles’ mouth and throat.
Peter loved the feeling of the soft, tender tissues of Stiles’ tongue and mouth tasting his fingers and precum. He hadn’t expected to find the little quiet touches of Stiles’ lips and tongue on his fingers so…exhilarating, but indeed he had. He slowly pushed more of his fingers into Stiles’ mouth and pushed the boy’s tongue down, then slowly started rolling his hips lightly on the boy.
Stiles struggled with the three fingers in his mouth for a bit, but soon enough he enjoyed the sensation, even when a finger would occasionally graze against the back of his throat and he would feel the reflex to gag. As Peter started surging his hips back and forth against Stiles’ chest, Stiles groaned and unwittingly bucked his hips, making a grin sprout toothily across Peter’s face. Stiles went with it and slowly started sucking on Peter’s fingers longingly. Then Peter was scooting up, and Stiles barely inhaled as Peter’s finger were replaced with his cock in Stiles’ mouth.
The young man couldn’t help but moan, which seemed to cause Peter to echo as the vibrations shot up through the man in a shudder of pleasure. Stiles took pride in his ability to please Peter. The man seemed so solemn and sarcastic most of the time, but here, in Stiles’ experimental touches, those walls came down, and allowed Stiles to see, in small glimpses, who Peter might be, baring all of the insanity of the last few months. I like the man I think I’m seeing, Stiles thought. He found it odd that such nuggets of intimate personality came through in sex. It had always been something he thought came in conversations, but here, in his bed, he’d seen truths about Peter he didn’t know quite how to explain to himself.
Peter released Stiles’ wrists and ran both hands through the boy’s hair, which had grown longer than the boy had had it in years. Peter gripped lightly and Stiles’ eyes went wide as Peter pushed into his mouth. Stiles was unsure of what to do with his hands and felt awkward until he looked into Peter’s eyes, Is that….pride? In Peter’s eyes? Stiles wondered, but the glance up brought the view of Peter’s chest, and Stiles set to exploring the taut muscles with his hands, feeling the softness of Peter’s chest fur hair contrast to the hardness of the man’s nipples.
Peter groaned and began thrusting into Stile’s mouth faster, eyes closed and hands gripped firmly into the boy’s hair. The man loved the feeling of Stile’s tongue exploring around his girth, loved hitting the back of the boy’s throat and how it always brought his muscles to contract around his head. Stiles was unknowingly a very good cocksucker. But it was hard for Peter to think of the boy that way. Maybe at first- when he’d first started marking the boy’s clothes, he had found Stiles to be an interesting endeavor. But now, he felt those tiny holes in his walls expanding, started to feel the trickle of affection and attachment to the boy. Those were dangerous waters, not only for him, but for the young man underneath him as well. But Peter, surrounded by people who didn’t trust him, weak after his first death, Damn, that’s a weird thought in and of itself, part of a weak pack with a pack of Alphas moving into town, felt like surrendering all to this single, apparently unassuming boy.
Peter chuckled and batted away Stiles’ hands when the boy began reaching for his own cock. Peter wanted to make Stiles wait for a climax, and more and more, it seemed Stiles wanted to let Peter control these situations- it was funny to see a boy so contrarian be so… moldable in the sack. Peter loved it. Dangerously close Peter, one word wrong there and you’ll have a shit storm to deal with.
Stiles tried again for his cock, which felt like it would explode if he didn’t get some relief, but Peter batted away his hands with ease. When Stiles moaned in protest against Peter, his whimper became a burble as Peter came without warning the boy. Stream after stream of viscous cum spurted against the back of Stiles’ throat, and Stiles panicked a bit as his already full mouth was occupied by several loads of Peter’s cum. Stiles was all at once confused, elated, empowered and defeated. Last time, Peter had warned him about coming, about the werewolf’s knot. Last time, Peter had spent the better half of thirty minutes coming into Stiles- but this time, Stiles felt a bit robbed.
Peter’s head hung heavy for a bit as the last dribbles of cum escaped into Stiles’ mouth. The boy swallowed several times, but the fullness in his mouth caused some of Peter’s cum to trickle down the corners of Stiles’ mouth. The werewolf relented, collapsing euphorically to the side, releasing Stiles from under him. The boy gulped down the rest of the molten fluid in his mouth, and gulped again before asking, “What did I do wrong?” as he looked over Peter’s spent, slightly sheened body toward the man’s closed eyes.
“What?” Peter asked as he glanced down through his spread legs, one of which still rested across Stiles’ rising and falling stomach.
Stiles couldn’t help but to take the man’s now-flaccid penis to mean he’d done a poor job. “Last time… last time your uh… your knot came out,” Stiles explained, feeling all the sudden childish and whiny.
Peter’s chuckle shook the bed but did little to comfort Stiles. “Stiles,” Peter rose to lean on an elbow, “if you’d had my knot in your mouth you might have a broken jaw and I might be bleeding.” Peter saw the look of shame on Stiles’ mouth- the boy thought his knot not coming out meant he’d done a bad job. “Oh Stiles, don’t worry, it was… very nice,” Peter explained. “And if you want to feel my knot again, that can be arranged.”
Stiles was oddly aroused by the rapacious look in Peter’s eyes, and felt the fear of disapproval and failure melt under the heated gaze of the man splayed out before him. He watched through Peter’s body hair as the man lay back down in expended ecstasy. Stiles, emboldened but exhausted, began rubbing Peter’s calf and thigh as it lay over his chest. He peeked a smile on Peter’s face from between the man’s legs, and realized that he was focused on Peter’s reaction in his face rather than the man’s much closer cock.
Peter tsked at Stiles as the boy’s hand migrated down his own body. Stiles paused, and Peter surged up, quickly maneuvering between the young man’s legs. Stiles’ eyes went wide as he felt a warmth engulf the head of his cock. Peter let his teeth graze the shaft of Stiles’ cock just below the head, and felt it react in kind by swelling up in little jerks. “Hm-mm, not yet, Stiles,” Peter teased pulling off of Stiles after hearing the pound of blood in Stiles’ erection and knowing the boy was torturously close to ejaculating.
“Peter,” Stiles groaned, and Peter loved it. Too close again, Peter Hale. Grinning, Peter flicked his tongue across the boy’s balls, felt the little wisps of hair on the tender skin. Peter left a trail of saliva from the base of Stiles’ hard on to the young man’s tight little pucker. Stiles was clean, after the shower, and Peter, even a little unsure of himself, licked at the boy’s pink fleshy hole. Not unpleasant, Peter thought, but Stiles moan ousted all doubts in the man’s mind. He flicked his tongue, pressed lightly and swirled around Stiles’ little opening, reveling as Stiles bucked against the bed. Peter’s grin traced his stubble across the boy’s spread opening and Stiles moaned again.
After a few minutes, Peter began to surprise himself at this own impatience. He was hard again, and incredibly so. So Peter introduced two of his fingers into the fray, and had to grab at Stiles’ wrists and keep them pinned under the boy’s body so he couldn’t touch himself. Peter noticed Stiles opening a bit faster than the last time, and felt himself less longsuffering than last time as well, so he quickly introduced a third finger, and began curling and splaying his fingers inside the boy, as deep a s he could. Stiles seemed in less pain this time, mewling and whimpering as the man grinned and teased his hole.
Peter quickly rose and brought Stiles’ legs up, holding them in the crook of his arm as he pressed the head of his cock to the opening he had just primed. Stiles looked into Peter’s eyes with evident lust and longing. But what was that? Peter asked himself, seeing something else, something altogether deeper in the boy’s eyes. Stiles made another irresistible noise and Peter was brought back, pressed into Stiles’ tightness. It was still a struggle- Stiles was more eager and ready, but Peter was less tempered. He pressed even as he felt resistance tighten around his girth, but Stiles didn’t seem to mind.
Stiles tried to relax onto Peter’s cock, even though It’s freaking huge, and moaned in delight as Peter pushed into him. It still took minute to adjust, to let Peter all the way in, but Peter’s zeal and Stiles willingness soon made way for the satisfying feel of Peter’s thighs fully against Stiles’ spread cheeks.
Pain flooded Stiles quickly, and snapped Stiles out of his pleasure Peter out of his reveling. Peter could tell something was wrong. Stiles’ eyes went distant- he was in a grip of the spell. Peter had never heard of this happening, but could tell by Stiles’ heartbeat that the boy was in insatiable pain. Panicked, Peter acted on reflex and tried to empathize the pain.
Hit by lightning, Peter and Stiles both inhaled sharply.
But it wasn’t pain that overtook them. It was like someone had crossed the power lines of their bodies, and suddenly the pain in Stiles stomach was gone, replaced by an intense warmth. He could tell by the look on Peter’s face that the wolf was in its grip as well. It was like they could both feel not only their own pleasure, but also the other’s. Stiles clawed at the sheets beneath him, and Peter bucked quickly but shallowly inside him.
Peter stood, his thick thighs tense with pleasure as the empathy he’d attempted did something incredible. He felt his eyes flash, the hunger of his other side somehow amplified as well, and reached out to Stiles’ hands. Their hands entwined, Peter’s claws suddenly come out and dig little divots into Stiles’ hands. Instead of feeling more pain through the empathy, he feels some odd mix of pain and pleasure that they both shudder at. Peter, enraptured as if floating, began to thrust deep into Stiles more aggressively than he would’ve thought he could at that point. But the boy was oddly relaxed- taut around the breadth of his hard cock but not dangerously so. Peter worked up to a pace that, even with Stiles’ sudden relaxation, strained both of their limits.
The rough, amazing sensation of Peter plunging into him sent shuddering moans from his mouth uncontrollably. He tried to articulate something, anything, to communicate with Peter, but the reverie of the empathy held him and all he could get out were small, pleasurable nonsenses. Stiles was hyperaware of his cock, and as Peter leaned forward for a deep thrust, Stiles felt the brush of the werewolf’s trail of stomach hair brush the underside of his cock.
The sensation was almost indescribable- like a thousand little tongues and feathers had teased the underside of his cock.
Stiles gasped and groaned as he came, thick jets of cum spattering his body. A sudden line of warmth on his face made him wink an eye, and he was lost in pleasure, when suddenly Peter thrust again, a deep, forceful prod that shook the lamp and bed in Stiles’ room.
Stiles didn’t need it explained again- Peter’s knot tied the two together, the empathy driving them both like an overloaded circuit. Peter had let go of Stiles’ hands somewhere, and now held the boys’ legs spread open, as Stiles felt the familiar sensation of Peter’s cum flowing deep inside him. The sensation was at least half familiar, but now he was also feeling bits of what Peter felt- how when Stiles had cum, his hole had started tightening and practically milking Peter’s cock. Peter’s head was thrown back, his legs stiff as streams of cum filled Stiles.
Peters knot locked the two together, and Peter collapsed onto Stiles’ body, warm and sticky from the boy’s cumming. Peter’s breath was ragged and Stiles didn’t have to look down to know the man was grinning like a fiend. Peter’s stubble was coarse against Stiles’ nipple, and the man’s breathing caused little pulses in the amplified pleasure of the empathy. Stiles’ insides quivered as Peter continued to cum, the feeling pushing his stomach out to bloated. Peter just lay there, haphazardly toppled on the boy, and bean stroking his rough hands over the boy’s stomach and ribs.
Stiles laid his head back and fell into the pleasure, absently stroking Peter’s hair and neck. He awed at their shared pleasure and felt vastly…content. All that mattered in those moments were the two of them, together. Peter was happy, Stiles was Peter’s. That’s going in the ‘to ponder later’ file.
Peter eventually, once his knot had somewhat lessened, rearranged them on the bed, and they were spooning again, Peter holding Stiles from behind. Somehow, Stiles knew this was a more meaningful embrace than it had even been last time. It was as if the two were connected now, as cheesy as the boy thought it sounded even to himself. It wasn’t just whatever Peter had done to let them both feel the other’s pleasure, either. Stiles was sure something was different in both of them.
Even before Peter’s knot had fully subsided, cum leaked from Stiles in a steady stream. The feeling of fullness gradually left Stiles, and Peter pulled out. Stiles face was a writ of contentedness, and Peter slowly nuzzled into the boy’s shoulder as the two fell asleep, Peter’s arms engulfing Stiles.
Peter knew he should leave- that he shouldn’t fall asleep in the boy’s room, on the boy’s bed. And it wasn’t that he didn’t care- Peter indeed cared. Dangerous minefield, Peter. But it was the simple fact that Stiles, who Peter had seen anguished on his behalf, wanted him to stay, that created a magnetism the man could not resist. Peter was laid bare in the room with Stiles. The boy had breathed life into his corpse more so than the spell that had revived him from the dead. Peter felt as if his life was patently at Stiles’ feet, like he’d been lead through barren lands to find some oasis of hope and life. All in the single undeniable character of Stiles Stilinski.
“I should go,” Peter said, halfheartedly.
“My dad isn’t coming home, stay,” Stiles spoke languidly, close to that hard to find edge of sleep.
“I- Stiles,”
Instead of insisting further, Stiles gripped the man’s wrist and burrowed backwards, deeper into Peter’s warmth. Peter felt the closeness in a much more profound way than the physical. Stiles really did want him there- he was holding onto Peter, but in some other, much more transcendent way that set Peter’s world on its head. “Just, stay, Peter.”
Peter mmmmmmmed into Stiles’ ear as the boy nudged into him. Peter couldn’t deny that he wanted to stay. He couldn’t deny Stiles. And that night, he didn’t.