Stiles gasped and arched up as Peter —finally— put a hand on his dick, his lips moving along Stiles’ well hickied throat, tongue leaving behind a slick trail and teeth- “Whoa, whoa, time out!”
Peter pulled away with a poorly hidden sigh and fixed Stiles with a look all while still holding Stiles’ dick in his very warm, and very distracting hand, “What is it this time?”
“We agreed to no biting, dickface,” Stiles would have tried to kick the older man, but he wasn’t that flexible, plus there was a sensitive bit of his anatomy in dangers way, “so keep your fangs sheathed!”
“No biting, no restraints, no pain “in any form at all,” no calling me Daddy, no women’s clothes, no toys, nothing the slightest bit kinky or interesting,” Peter finished reciting back Stiles’ list of things —and it was a growing list, thank you very much internet— he’d flat out rejected in the three seconds it’d taken them to fall on the bed, “really, Stiles, it’s almost like you don’t want to be fucked.”
“Ha ha, real funny,” Stiles got a hand in Peter’s hair and yanked him back down, moaning as the man’s grip shifted, if things kept going this way he was going to be very happy, very soon, except- “Whoa, wait, knotting isn’t a for real thing, right, Peter, Peter!?”
She was his own personal Little Red Riding Hood, and she looked best covered in wet, glistening red, the fresher it was the better as far as he was concerned.
Peter hummed as he carefully painted Stiles with abstract symbols, dragging his fingers across her smooth body marking her gorgeous skin with the liquid crimson spreading in an ever widening pool around the cooling hunter.
Stiles twitched under his hands despite his quiet warnings for the girl to be still, and he didn’t have the heart to snap at her when one twitch ruined the intricate knot he was drawing on her thigh, not when he could smell the heady scent of arousal and see the beautiful red flush radiating across her cheeks and down her chest.
Smiling, he let his fingers drag trails of crimson up her leg, following that tantalizing scent to it’s source and delighting in the shuddering gasp he drew out of her as his fingers parted her folds, two slick fingers entering her easily and pulling loud pleas for more out of her.
Stiles stumbled forward, bracing herself on his shoulders as he worked his fingers inside of her, looking up to catch each shiver and moan that dripped from her red painted lips as he brought her off with nothing more than his own hand and the blood of their enemies.
Peter’s tongue salves the skin, still sensitive, though the bite has long since healed. Stiles groans, tossing his head, and his hands go up to pull Peter down onto him. He can’t control the transformation, not this soon, and his claws come out too quickly — Peter hisses as they pierce his skin, then smiles, taking his revenge out on the thick purse of Stiles’ mouth.
“Feels so much,” Stiles mumbles, “just so much of it, holy shit, I don’t think I’ve ever been so horny in my whole life.”
“Even as a wolf, you talk too much,” Peter grins, and when his fingers slip inside Stiles’ hole, tease and stretch there, Stiles howls instead.
Stiles howls, now the kind of howl he’s used to hearing around Beacon Hills but a howl nonetheless, human and pained and desperate. Peter’s claws are digging into his shoulder — not enough to turn him, Peter promises, just enough to hurt like a bitch — and Stiles wishes he didn’t like it, wishes he wasn’t twice as hard for the weight of Peter on top of him and the searing ache ripping down his spine. He whines, tries to move, but he just ends up pressed down harder, with Peter’s hips bearing down on his all the harder. His cock, like a bar of steel, pounds heat and want into Stiles’ burning ass, and as he jackhammers forward, he pants soft breaths into Stiles’ skin, growling and half-mewling with the force of his thrusts. He’s quiet, calculating and violent, and the rawness tears Stiles up, rips cries from his throat and throws him headfirst into the kind of orgasm that drains his whole body and leaves him twitching and helpless for minutes afterward.
The car creaks on its axles as Stiles crashes down onto the hood; it’s been sitting alone and untouched too long, and Peter takes especial joy in taking and breaking things that belong to Derek, now that Derek’s refused him. That might just apply to Stiles too, Stiles thinks with a wild lurch of fear and excitement as Peter sinks lips (not teeth, Peter’s listened to him) into his neck. And Stiles doesn’t mind being broken, not like this — he’s already made the heroic call, already said no to the bite, but the tension between him and Peter has been burning him up ever since the psychotic (fucking sexy) bastard stole him away. “Shit,” he murmurs, trying to find a handhold on the smooth chrome, “shit, shit, this should not feel good,” but it does, and Peter grinding into his crotch, hard-on a shock of warmth against Stiles’, feels even freaking better. Stiles is an inch away from begging Peter to fuck him, but he manages to be strong, just clinging to Peter’s muscled shoulders to keep himself from sliding all over the car and closing his eyes — and even without begging, he’s pretty sure Peter’s gonna give him exactly what he wants.
