
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/815770.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Peter_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Stiles_Stilinski, Peter_Hale, Original_Characters
  Additional Tags:
      The_OC_at_the_beginning_kind_of_got_away_from_me_and_became_this_giant
      THING, This_also_got_a_lot_darker_than_I_was_expecting, Pyromania, Blood
      Kink, Mentions_of_self-harm, Unsafe_Sex, Dark_Peter/Stiles, Peter_talks_a
      whooooooooooole_lot
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-05-24 Words: 5118
****** Boy Prince of Hell ******
by devils_trap
Summary
     “I could smell the depravity on you,” Peter croaked, his forehead
     pressed snug to Stiles’. “Beneath the scent of jizz and sweat, there
     it was. Ripe. You’re ripe, Stiles.” He bit at Stiles’ lower lip,
     teeth snapping one, two times, the second drawing blood that dribbled
     lazily down Stiles’ chin. “Do the others know? About this great
     darkness you try to hide? You can’t hide shit like this beneath
     stupid t-shirts and jokes, Stiles, I see you. I see you.”
Notes
     Written for Lissie, who's been bitching about the lack of smut in my
     fics, so, here!
     Also: note the warnings in the tag, about the self-harm and things of
     that nature.
See the end of the work for more notes
Since before Stiles could remember, the Stilinskis had had a wide circle of
family friends. They’d always been there, coming in and out of his house at all
hours, inviting them to cook-outs, bloc parties, holiday bashes, hey it’s
Tuesday and we’re bored soirées. Cops, paramedics, firefighters, neighbors, men
and women that worked with his mother down at the architecture firm his mother
damn near carried: all of them, together in giant, wriggling masses that made
Stiles feel both claustrophobic and recklessly alive, passing hot dogs and
party glasses of spiked punch with a lips-sealed motion and twinkling eyes. But
sometimes separately, too, like planets breaking out of their orbits to circle
around the Stilinskis, around Stiles’ fiery father and star-like mother,
gameboards sprawled across dining room tables, laughter echoing throughout the
house.
It wasn’t unusual to come home from school to dozens of people lounging around
in his living room, beers in almost every hand no matter the hour. They’d cheer
and call Stiles into the room, drag him away from the front door with his
backpack dangling from his arms, and sit him down amongst them. Smother him in
affection, like they hadn’t just seen him the day before.
They made Stiles feel better about his loneliness at school. Who wanted to hang
out with dumb gradeschool kids when they could hang out with cops? Or
firefighters.
Stiles would watch them in awe, squished more often than not between his
mother’s oldest friend, Hettienne del Sol, who ran Beacon Hill’s most popular
bakery and always smelt like vanilla pastries, and her husband Quidel, Beacon
Hill’s next in line to become chief of the Beacon Hills Fire Department.
Quidel was probably Stiles’ favorite family friend. In all actuality, he was
Stiles’ fourth favorite person in the world—Dad and Mom were tied, then came
Scott, then Batman, thenQuidel (sorry Quidel)—and was probably the coolest
person inBeacon Hills.
Next to the Sheriff, of course.
Tall, with dark, gray-accented hair and dark eyes—and a body Stiles discovered
later in life that would not quit, and seemed to get better with age, like a
fine wine—Quidel was a Chilean-born painter’s son who had immigrated to the
United States in his teens, and settled in Beacon Hills in his early thirties
after meeting his wife. He liked to do things outside and drag along the
Stilinskis for the ride, laughing a thick, almost mystical laugh when his wife
and Stiles’ father complained about the bugs and the height of the mountains
Quidel forced them to climb. Stiles was positively enraptured, and followed on
his heels until he’d tire himself out. Then, he’d get to sit on his shoulders,
giggling and singing songs while the rest of their party looked on fondly.
Others he’d literally dangle off Quidel’s impressive arm, swinging several
inches off the ground, squealing in boyish delight.
His entire right arm was covered in the most beautiful black tattoos Stiles had
ever seen, and they curled around his arm in spirals, starting thin and
delicate around his thin wrist, and growing into several inch thick swirls
where the trunk of his body met his arm. When Stiles was still young enough to
get away with it—before he noticed the restof Quidel—he would trace the swirls
with his fingers, loving the contrast between Quidel’s pale skin and the dark
ink, and the way the inked skin was slightly elevated if he felt just so. The
tattoos looked like they belonged there, like they’d always been on Quidel’s
arm, and the rest of him looked blank without them. They were the first tattoos
that made Stiles truly love body modification.
Another thing Quidel loved was fire.
Not the kind of fire that destroyed lives, the kind that enveloped entire
houses in burning embraces and clutched it until the home was nothing more than
a smoldering skeleton of what once was. After particularly harrowing cases when
there was loss of life, Hettienne would drag them both to the Stilinski
household and sit them down in the living room. She’d rub circles into his back
while Mr. Stilinski made them all Irish coffee.
Stiles didn’t like those nights, didn’t like seeing the omnipresent smile on
Quidel’s face replaced with the whisper of grief and smoke. He’d curl into
Quidel’s side, trying his best to ignore the smell of soot fused into Quidel’s
clothing, and trace Quidel’s tattoos. It seemed to help.
When the Hale manor fire robbed Beacon Hills of so many lives, Quidel sobbed
for hours. About the screaming and the arms thrust through a grate that led
into the basement, and how they flailed for a while before going completely,
sickeningly still. About how they weren’t able to reach the family in time and
only just barely managed to drag a hysterical Peter Hale out, who struggled to
go back into the flames to die with his family before the shock finally kicked
in and they were able to extract him. About how on the bones of a once
frequently traveled, monstrous staircase sat the remnants of a young child’s
doll, its formerly pink dress charred and black.
Despite the tragedy Quidel had seen at the hands of fire, it was something he
loved very much when controlled. Bonfires, fire pits, candles, even the tips of
cigarettes never ceased to amaze him. Stiles figured it was becausehe had seen
what all fire could do when controlled by nothing but its endless hunger, its
bottomless wrath. Seeing fire tamed like an animal, still wild enough to harm
you if conditions served, but trained enough to do the tricks you asked of it,
probably helped him stick with the job he loved so much.
At the del Sol residence there was a large fire pit that Quidel liked to light
whenever company was over.
Quidel’s probably the fire that lit the flame of pyromania in Stiles’ heart.
Stiles could watch the fires in Quidel’s fire pit for hours, legs tucked under
him and eyes fixed on the blaze as he sat a mandatory four feet from the
flames, face pleasantly warm. Sometimes if he and Quidel begged enough, his
parents would give them the go-ahead and Quidel would hand him things to feed
the flames, sticks and paper and occasional metal tins of lighter fluid.
Quidel would sit beside him and tell him stories of his home in Chile, of the
Mapuche people and their legends. Other times he would teach Stiles about
enjoying fire responsibly, gripping Stiles’ wrist just shy of too tight, smile
gone and in its place a firm line, his brown-black eyes earnest and nearly
desperate in the firelight.
“Fire is beautiful, Stiles, but even in places like this, here, in the fire
pit, you can be burned by its beauty. Do not start a fire you cannot contain,
do not do it indoors. And never do it alone,” he’d say, and he wouldn’t let go
of Stiles until he got an affirmative. He’d look relieved then, smile returned
and shoulders looking lighter.
As a child, Stiles liked to play with fire. His parents didn’t like it, shot
Quidel looks when Stiles would ask him if he could help light the fire pit, and
tried to put out the fire in his heart, so to speak.
“You don’t light a match and set it next to dynamite, Del,” his father would
say, and shake his head as Stiles’ shoulder slumped.
They’d forbid him from going anywhere near an open flame unless Quidel was
present. But that just made him want it more, made his skin itchy and his palms
sweat whenever he saw it and had been away from the del Sol’s too long. In his
later years, he’d discover that itch and that sweat to be the prelude to
arousal.
His imagination would run wild with it, wild as a flame itself, and he’d
fantasize about burning things, like plants, schoolwork, clothing he didn’t
like. He’d pocket lighters left on his neighbor’s back porch, a chain smoking
widower who smelt like clove cigarettes and peppermint aftershave, and shake
with the need to light something, anything. Sometimes he’d just flick the
lighters in his room, passing his fingers through the flames and laughing
quietly.
They got cheaper and cheaper the more he nabbed, but Mr. O'Roy never said
anything.
He got caught a few times lighting small fires at the edge of their property,
fire burning sweetly in the center of a ring of mismatched stones. His parents
had freaked, and Stiles’ mother had raised her voice at him, and later at
Quidel, on multiple occasions, something she almost never did.
Stiles felt shamed, felt wrong, but he couldn’t seem to stop.
Quidel got permission one day to take him out, just the two of them, when
Stiles was ten and at the peak of his problem, and together in Quidel’s beat up
Ford, they took a drive to the coast. It had been cold, mid-October and
overcast, and Stiles shivered in the cab as Quidel spoke with another
firefighter who served in the area. They got permission to light a bonfire on
the beach next to the water, under a spray of stars that stole Stiles’ breath
just as often as the flames did.
Despite the chill he knew was there, had felt before the blaze had gone up,
Stiles didn’t feel cold in the slightest, sitting next to Quidel on a
comforter, watching the flames as they danced for the moon.
They sat on the beach and watched the fire until the sun rose, Stiles’ eyelids
heavy, the boy fiercely struggling to stay awake under the lulling hisses and
crackles. Quidel had barely spoken the entire time, but it didn’t feel like the
quiet disappointment his parents radiated after they’d caught him those times.
It felt like he was building up to something, trying to choose his words
carefully. He was beautiful, strong, stoic sitting there, carved from marble
and bathed in flames.
“I’m not mad, Stiles,” he began, and Stiles struggled even harder to stay
awake. “I understand. Completely, I understand. Though I am disappointed that
you violated one of my rules: never set a fire alone.” Stiles sank his teeth
into the flesh of his cheek, took a deep breath through his nose. “But, I get
it. Fire is…there are so many words in so many languages to describe it, but at
the same time there will never be enough of them.
“Your parents are going about this completely wrong. Your love of fire is
unlike fire in the respect that you cannot smother it. Smothering it makes it
worse. How do you feel when you haven’t seen an open flame in a while?” Quidel
turned his eyes, liquid ebony, onto Stiles.
“Like my skin is too tight,” croaked Stiles, chest feeling ready to burst at
just the thought of it. “Like everything would be better if I just…could. I
don’t wanna—I don’t wanna hurt anyone, I don’t, honestly! I just—”
Quidel gripped his leg and squeezed. “It’s okay, Stiles.” And it felt okay,
sitting on the beach there, the fire on with them dying so the fire in the sky
could rise. “We’ll fix this, I promise you.”
And they did. Quidel came over every day for a month, and then three, two, one
day a week for several more months, and sat with Stiles on the Stilinski back
porch, lighting things in a miniature pit he had bought just for Stiles. He’d
let Stiles burn things to his heart’s content. Let him burn the tower that his
heart had built for flames, down to a manageable size.
It quelled the desire inside of Stiles to see things alight, and confused the
holy hell out of his parents, who protested at first but, after seeing the
results, let them have their time together: Quidel, Stiles, and the flames.
As a teenager, especially after his mother’s death, Stiles lit more and more
fires, on his own more often than not. He’d head for the Preserve rather than
the edge of their property, because even though his parents had seen what
Quidel had taught him work, they still didn’t encourage him. He’d sit and cry,
scream, jerk off, around a medium sized campfire, tears on his cheek and spunk
on his fingers. Sometimes he’d just stare at it, like he could divine a reason
for his mother’s death if only he looked hard enough. Other time, he’d burn
himself a little. Never enough to draw attention, but enough to let a little of
that rage and helplessness out.
He liked the way they started out this angry, angry red, skin welling up in
protest, and fade from there to a red-mauve, to a pale pink, to a silvery
white, over time. Like a fire on his very own skin dying and fading into near
nothingness.
He had it under control, though.
                                       -
Fire had always been his thing, but Stiles had never hurt anyone with it
before, not intentionally. Not a person. Maybe he’d enjoyed throwing bugs into
an open flame. He couldn’t quite make himself harm an actualanimal, though.
And, sure, he’d burn himself on accident a couple of times, too eager to see
the blaze burn bigger, brighter.
And, sure, there were the times that were completely on purpose. Like the times
in the forest when the dirt in his mother’s grave was still fresh. Others just
to see and remind himself what it felt like running heated metal across the
thin flesh above his wrist, near the skin of his knee. He’d hiss with it, watch
the skin welt up that angry, beautiful red, rising like the flames themselves.
Some of the most powerful orgasms that Stiles had ever had had been fueled by
burning himself.
But with Peter he had aimed to kill, and that sent a sick, shameful thrill
straight to Stiles’ dick.
Seeing Peter on fire like that seemed to fan the flames of that desire back to
a full, deafening roar. He was back to snatching lighters off his neighbor’s
back porch despite being able to purchase them himself, because it reminded him
of simpler times. Before the smell of burning flesh had filled his lungs,
filled his dick with blood, and dreams of Peter Hale, sometimes burnt,
sometimes not, sometimes still burning, plagued his sleep.
Stiles had dreamed about Peter long before he set him on fire. Dreamt of Peter
in the dark, his eyes burning red like too hot coals, his hands clawed and
beckoning him close, his human teeth traded for sharper, animal prospects.
Peter’s hand down Stiles’ shorts, or around his neck, or dragging too-sharp
nails across the soft flesh of his belly, thin streams of blood dribbling down
the budding impressions of Stiles’ abdominal muscles. Peter’s teeth in his
neck, his wrist, on the inside of his thigh, birthing an entirely different
type of fire, a flame that roared and howled unlike any other Stiles had ever
come across.
He’d wake up hard, if he was lucky, with the ghost of Peter still burning his
skin.
If he wasn’t, his sheets would be soiled, and he’d have to walk on shaky legs
to throw them into the washer.
                                       -
He’d managed to hide it, he’d thought, though Scott sometimes asked him if he
felt okay.
“You’re shaky,” Scott had said once, in the Jeep after they had been forced to
meet up with Derek and his pack.
Peter had eyed him the entire meeting. At first, it had just been to get a rise
out of Stiles after he had asked why the human sidekickwas there. But Stiles’
obvious discomfort seemed to amuse him, and the smirk Peter wore grew every
time Stiles refused to make eye contact, every time he shifted anxiously in his
seat. When Stiles shoved his hand into his pocket and gripped onto the black
bic there with all his might, occasionally flicking it without pressing down on
it, Peter’s smirk changed, became hungry, and his eyes zeroed in on Stiles’
hand.
“Peter makes me—nervous. Makes me nervous,” said Stiles, and he licked his
lips, tightened his grip on the wheel.
Makes me nervous.
Makes me scared.
Makes an appearance when I beat off more than I’d like to admit.
“Peter makes everyone nervous,” Scott agreed, and took Stiles’ answer to be
what it was: an end to that topic of conversation.
                                       -
“It’s dangerous to play with fire, Stiles. Hasn’t anyone ever told you that
before?”
“Peter—”
“And so close to the Manor, tsk, tsk.”
“How did you—what—”
“The smell of smoke and precome is damn near choking, Stiles, honestly.”
“I—”
“Plus, I figured I’d find you out here at your old haunts sooner or later.
After Laura, I stumbled across a bunch of these little campsites, reeking of
teenage boy and ash. Been wondering when the culprit would reappear.”
                                       -
He didn’t do such a good job of that, he guessed. But maybe it was just Peter.
                                       -
Stiles stood with his hand fisted, grip loose, tight, loose, tight, on the base
of his dick, as Peter stared at him over the top of the fire. He felt like prey
putting on a show. Like a meal that had turned on the oven of its own accord
and thrown itself into a pot of water, waiting to be cooked and eaten. He was
still fully clothed spare his pants rucked down enough to get his junk
comfortably out, but Peter always made him feel completely naked, like his gaze
was a second away from turning all of his clothes, his protective layers, to
ash, Peter the flame that would consume him whole.
“Don’t stop on my account,” Peter insisted, and he raked his gaze over Stiles’
exposed dick, the angry purple-red of its head and the way it gleamed with
precome in the firelight. He licked his lips, very much the predator, the big
bad wolf in the woods, and swayed toward Stiles. He was contradictions in the
glow, kin to Adonis, loved by goddesses for his prowess yet feared for his
darkness, for he was kin to Adonis, yes, but also kin to beast. He was a dark,
fiery mixture of Hades and Apollo bathed half in flames, half in darkness. So
sure of himself, his path, his sex, his place in both the light and the dark.
But at the same time, the echo of being burnt alive not once but twice would
cross his face, and he’d look haunted. As quickly as the whisper had come, it
was replaced with the other half of its coin: the same desire for the flames
and her kind that ate away at Stiles.
When a tense silence fell between them, a showdown at high noon between two
cowboys wielding lit sticks of dynamite instead of pistols, Stiles started
pulling on his dick again.
Peter was on him all at once, in front of him, all around him; his presence so
great it smothered him from all sides.
Stiles surmised that this was what it felt like to truly be engulfed in flames.
“Kinky little shit,” hissed Peter, his hands flitting around Stiles’ hips like
he couldn’t bear to decide what to touch first. He settled for crowding in even
closer, the wet tip of Stiles’ dick brushing against the button of Peter’s
dress shirt, and grabbed Stiles by the jaw for a biting kiss. Stiles knew he
would likely have twin bruises there in the morning, but he also knew they
wouldn’t be the only ones he got.
Peter’s other hand made its way into the sagged backend of Stiles’ jeans, and
with clawed fingers he gripped the meat of Stiles’ ass and squeezed until they
pierced him. He smelled like aftershave, like the leather of his trench coat,
like the soot of the Hale house unique in its despair, like the dirt hole he’d
crawled out of.
Stiles was enraptured, felt like a willing, begging sacrifice on the altar for
a beloved god.
“I could smellthe depravity on you,” Peter croaked, his forehead pressed snug
to Stiles’. “Beneath the scent of jizz and sweat, there it was. Ripe. You’re
ripe, Stiles.” He bit at Stiles’ lower lip, teeth snapping one, two times, the
second drawing blood that dribbled lazily down Stiles’ chin. “Do the others
know? About this great darkness you try to hide? You can’t hide shit like this
beneath stupid t-shirts and jokes, Stiles, I see you. I see you.”
Kissing Peter was a bit like going to war. Vicious and bloody and with a single
purpose: coming out on top. Stiles couldn’t ascertain whether he was winning
the battle, or if he was losing it, so he screwed his eyes shut and kissed
Peter even harder.
If not the victor, a damn good martyr.
“Should’ve let me Bite you, Stiles,” Peter whispered. The hand holding his face
fell to Stiles’ dick, his claws mercifully (or was it sadly?) retracted, and he
yanked, too much, too fast, too good. It hurt but in the sick kind of way that
also felt good, that made Stiles’ toes curl in his sneakers and his dick throb
in Peter’s hand. “Do you have anyidea? The damage we could inflict?”
Stiles mewled into the kiss, his hips snapping into Peter’s waiting hand, tip
of his dick still bumping into Peter’s shirt. He felt the trickle of blood down
the back of his thighs, sticking his jeans to his already overheated skin.
The thing about burning yourself is that there’s usually little to no blood,
something Stiles was thankful for before because the clean-up was easier. Now,
though, with the smell of iron heavy in the air, blending in with the smell of
burning wood, Stiles felt robbed.
The smell was divine.
When Peter frantically gathered some of the blood with the hand on Stiles' ass
and used the blood to ease a finger inside of him, Stiles’ knees buckled and he
keened. Peter rolled with it, groaning low in his throat as he helped Stiles to
the forest floor. He removed his finger for a moment to viciously yank off
Stiles’ pants, throwing them over his shoulder with Stiles’ sneakers tangled in
the bottoms of the legs.
Stiles worried for a moment about them being flung accidentally into the fire,
but when Peter thrust two fingers in, the thought of pants completely escaped
him. It burned, too much and not enough slick, but Stiles reveled in it, threw
his legs over Peter’s shoulders, crossed his ankles and demanded more.
“I’d fuck you on top of all of that carnage after we’ve burnt it down. I’d burn
down every fucking city so you could see the light you shine,” he cooed as he
mercilessly shoved his fingers into Stiles’ ass, bending Stiles near in half to
get a better angle. His knuckles would bump repeatedly into the rim of Stiles’
asshole and Stiles would fuck his hips back into it. The bulge of Peter’s
erection rubbed against the top of Stiles’ ass and his lower back, and Stiles
grinded into it, moaning as Peter moaned, swallowing them both down in a kiss
that was more teeth than anything.
“Tell me you’d like that,” Peter demanded. “Tell me you’d like it if I fucked
you up there, showed you what I could give you, what you deserve.”
“I’d like it!” Stiles wailed. All of the clothing Peter was wearing was getting
in the way of contact, and Stiles protested high in his throat as he ripped at
Peter’s shirt, buttons flying on the dirt beneath him. He scratched his way to
Peter’s back and dragged his nails down the skin there, feeling slick blood on
his fingertips before the skin healed.
So he dragged his nails down again, and again.
The roar Peter sounded then, his mouth and fangs against Stiles’ temple, made
Stiles’ brain shake.
“Again. Tell me you’d like it if I fucked you in front of everyone. Showed you
whose bitch you were.”
“Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.”
“Tell me!”
“I’d like it, fuck, Peter, fuck me, fuck.”
The squelch of Peter’s fingers slipping free of Stiles’ ass was lost under
their harsh panting. Peter, calm, collected, debonair Peter Hale, looked crazed
on top of him, smiling with too much and just the right amount of fangs. His
face half shrouded in shadow, half bathed in the light of the flame to their
side. His chin had blood on it from kissing Stiles’ bitten, bleeding lips, and
his nostrils flared every now and again, his eyes going hazy with the scent of
them together.
“Take off your clothes. Quickly now, Stiles,” he urged, sitting back on his
ankles. He ripped his shirt and coat the rest of the way off, watching hungrily
as Stiles frantically shimmied out of his shirts. Once rid of the shirt, he
pinched one of Stiles’ nipples tightly between the fingers of the hand he used
to finger him. Blood from that endeavor smeared along Stiles’ chest.
“T-Tell me you have something, anything,” Stiles groaned, bending his legs
again to remove his fucking socks. Then he let his legs fall to either side of
Peter, offering himself up for him completely.
“Do you have any idea the picture you make?” Peter asked, and his voice was
pregnant with awe.
Stiles blushed for the first time that evening.
“You’ve already literally seduced the pants off me, Peter,” he said, eyebrow
raised. Stiles gripped his dick with his right hand, his fingertips dark with
Peter’s dried blood, and jerked himself several times, eyes locked with
Peter’s. “No need to wine me and dine me. Just tell me you have something in
one of your pockets.”
A smile then, wide and full of teeth. “I do like to come prepared,” Peter
replied, and Stiles rolled his eyes at the corniness of it. Peter scoffed at
him back, but bent towards his fallen jacket nonetheless. He rooted around in
its pockets for a moment before rearing back with a pleasant sound, and
shimmied a bottle of lube in Stiles’ face.
“Presumptuous,” Stiles mumbled, but he returned Peter’s shark grin and spread
his legs even wider. “How’d you know I’d let you even touchme?”
The lube gleamed in the light as Peter poured it. Peter made a pondering sound
and then inserted two fingers back inside of Stiles.
Getting scissored while the person fingerfucking you looked ponderous was
weird, Stiles thought.
“I had a feeling,” he crooned as he bent forward, forehead against Stiles’
temple. At random intervals he would snap his teeth against Stiles’ face. “That
you’d grant me the privilege. Getting fucked bareback in the woods next to an
open fire by an older, handsome man? Occasionally with your own blood? How many
of those little boxes of yours have been checked off?”
“Bareback? You brought—fuck—lube, but no condom?” Token protest, but inside
Stiles was roaring, hungry for it. Protection be damned. He had already broken
so many of the safety rules his father had ingrained in him—“Don’t go into the
forest alone”, “don’t light fires alone”, “don’t have sex with strange older
men, sh, Stiles, just hear me out”—what was one more? Could werewolves even get
sexually transmitted diseases?
Peter removed his fingers to go at his belt buckle and zipper.
Stiles watched his fingers with rapt attention.
“Now, now, Stiles,” Peter said, coating his cock in slick and tugging a few
long, luxurious times. His eyes shine black like coal in their clearing. “Who
said I would give you a choice?”
Stiles was right. This waswhat it felt like to get eaten alive by the flames.
It burned when Peter pushed in, all at once and only at one speed: fast. He
gave Stiles no time to adjust and Stiles’ face scrunched up with the pain, even
as his mouth fell slack and let loose high, punched-out whines. Peter’s hips
were just as merciless as his fingers, but now instead of driving two
admittedly decent sized fingers inside of him, Peter was shoving his dick,
curved slightly to the left and of an average length with of a delicious girth,
in with all his might. Rapid punches of his hips in and out of Stiles, the
sound of his sac slapping against Stiles’ back loud between them. He dug his
nails into Stiles’ hips, bright red crescents of pleasure-pain, and yanked
Stiles against him, as if he could get any closer.
“Such a slut for it,” Peter groaned. “Would you let just anyone do this to
you?”
The grass and dirt were slick beneath Stiles’ back, from sweat and from
abrasion and the cut caused by the rock pressed into the side of his left
shoulder. Stiles rubbed himself deeper into the earth, fucking himself back on
Peter’s dick at the same time. “No.”
“Tell me who you’d let fuck you into the dirt like an animal,” Peter demanded.
He flashed his eyes bright blue and snapped his hips, the head of his cock
rubbing sharply against Stiles’ inner walls.
Stiles wailed. “You, fuck, Peter. Fuck you, shut up and fuck me.” There were
tears in his eyes, because of the wounds now undoubtedly on his back, hips, and
ass. Because of his shame.
Because of the God damn revelation that was Peter’s dick in his ass.
When their mouths met again they tasted of blood. Of the fire burning them both
up like supernovas.
Peter was close then, his hips driving into Stiles at an erratic pace. “Gonna
fuck you full of me. Hope your friends smell it for days. Then I’m gonna climb
in your window while your father’s asleep in the next room and fuck you within
an inch of your life.”
Stiles dug his nails into Peter’s back as he screamed his release. After he
came, he shook in the dirt, feeling shattered into a million tiny pieces. He
sobbed into Peter’s mouth as they kissed.
“Gonna mark you, so no one else touches you,” Peter whispered, “and together
we’re going to burn this world to the ground.”
Stiles shivered through Peter’s climax, his nails still pressed into Peter’s
now healed flesh, the bastard child of a hug.
“Look at you, look at you. Do you have any idea what you look like?” The caress
Peter gave him made him shiver even harder, and he looked up to see the awe
back in Peter’s eyes full force. “Fucking boy prince of Hell, you are, fuck.”
Stiles mused the nickname suited him.
End Notes
     Quidel is said to mean "burning torch" in Mapuche, which I thought
     worked nicely with the theme of the story. Not the bareback fucking
     in the woods, but the fire lol
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