
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/665716.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Peter_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Peter_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      Non_Consensual, Handcuffs, Light_Bondage, Fingerfucking, Sexual_Coercion,
      Manipulations, Triggers
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-02-01 Words: 3027
****** Playtime Interrupted ******
by marguerite_26
Summary
     Stiles likes to experiment with handcuffs when he’s alone -- when he
     can be in control, safe. Only nothing is really safe if Peter Hale
     interrupts and decides to change the rules.
Notes
     Thanks to my betas faithwood and melusinahp for their advice. And to
     eleadore for the advice. I played around with several versions of
     this, all mistakes are my own.
     Additional warnings: this fic contains some psychological
     manipulation and potentially triggery victim blaming.
His window was shut and latched. Frigid January wind whipped against the pane,
the closed blind concealing the flurries Stiles knew were falling. It had been
slushy and wet for a week, and he’d need to dig out the shovel and scrape off
the driveway before the mess froze overnight. Later. For now, he had other
plans.
The house was silent: his father had just started a shift, Stiles’ phone was
off and Scott was working.
He took a deep breath, enjoying the tingle of anticipation that came with well-
planned alone time. He stripped off, loving the thrill of being completely
naked on a Saturday afternoon for no reason at all. Well, not no reason.
He smiled to himself and reached up to snap the handcuff into place, adjusting
it just tight enough. Exactly how he liked it. He tugged and listened to the
handcuff scrape against the metal loop in his headboard just behind his pillow.
He wasn’t sure what purpose the loop was meant to serve, but Stiles liked to
think it was conveniently placed for exactly this.
The cool metal cut across his wrist and he didn’t dare try too hard to pull
free; his father would recognize handcuff marks anywhere. They were trick cuffs
-- not the ones he’d stolen from the station a few years ago and proudly
displayed on his wall like a trophy. These unlatched with the press of a button
-- a three AM internet purchase after he’d woken from a nightmare where he’d
lost the key to the real cuffs mid-wank and it (for some wonky dream-reason)
had taken half the Beacon Hills Police Department to get him free. Stiles had
since timed how long it would take him to release the trick cuff and dress
versus the time it would take for his father to walk in the front door and make
it up the stairs.
He was already hard. Hell, just looking at the date on the calendar made his
cock start to fill. For nearly a year now, he’d done this on the fourth
Saturday of every month when Scott’s and his dad’s schedules happened to sync.
His free hand wrapped around his cock and gave it a lazy tug. He’d tried this a
few ways, but he got off the best like this, with his right hand cuffed and
pinned to the headboard and his left -- his off-hand -- free to torture himself
with an awkward, unnatural rhythm.
It took ages to get off this way.
His let his eyes fall shut and a few random images came to mind: grinding naked
skin, glistening with sweat, hands roaming, fingers curling possessively, teeth
and nails marking. No elaborate fantasy. No one specific. Not yet. Some days he
played porn in the background, letting the filthy sounds get him hotter, but he
hadn’t felt like it today. He wasn’t looking to get off quick, today it would
take some effort to make this last.
The frustration was already building, his left hand trying to find the smooth
dexterity that came effortlessly with his right. It took all his focus. When
the friction started to chafe, he flipped the top of his lube one-handed and
squeezed some onto his belly. His abs tightened as it hit his flush-warm skin.
Nose crinkling, he pressed his palm into the mess and, as he wrapped his
fingers around himself again, the slide was better instantly. It was worth the
shower he’d need later. The rhythm came easier now. He stared at the ceiling,
tightening his grip and letting his legs fall open.
He was worked up enough that it took a moment to recognize the sound. First the
rattle of the window frame, a moment later the creak of the latch bending and
finally snapping. Then the scrape of the window opening. It felt as if time had
stopped, and Stiles was given ages to decide whether to reach up and release
his handcuff or to cover himself, but it was only an instant and Stiles hadn’t
done either.
If he’d had time to hope who it might be, Scott would be his first choice, and
a B&E second. Only when he saw Peter did he realize that the entire Beacon
Hills Police Department seeing him naked and cuffed to his bed was not in fact
the worst case scenario here.
No, the worst thing that could possibly happen to him today was definitely
Peter standing a foot from his bed while Stiles scrambled to cup his crotch.
He flushed hot, cheeks burning. Sweat dampened his armpits and his temples in
his panic. They were both speechless for a long awkward moment then Peter’s
eyes went from shocked-wide to amused. Stiles sputtered and twisted, trying to
make himself less naked, less handcuffed. He wished his boner would go down
because right now his hand wasn’t quite covering it.
“That was locked!”
“Was it?” Peter cocked his head in feigned innocence. His eyes travelled
Stiles’ body.
Stiles felt the gaze creep over every exposed inch. He saw the instant Peter’s
eyes settled on the odd angle of his arm and the cuff half-hidden by his
pillow. The change in expression from amused to delighted wasn’t subtle. Stiles
gritted his teeth. “Get out.”
Peter prowled to the foot of the bed. “I don’t think I will.” He shook off his
coat, letting it fall to the floor. The dusting of snow that speckled Peter’s
hair had begun to melt, turning his hair into long wet waves that fell forward
into his face. It made him look younger, a little wild with the goatee and the
dangerous smile. His eyes never left Stiles, and Stiles cursed werewolves and
their ability to make him fear for his life on a regular basis.
He cursed all things he hadn’t taken into account in his meticulous planning.
He couldn’t release his handcuff without showing off his (still raging, damn
it) hard on for Peter to see (and mock). He couldn’t even reach for a pillow to
cover himself for the same reason. Flipping himself over sprang to mind, but
was presenting his bare ass to Peter any better than covering his cock and
blushing red? He wasn’t brave enough to find out.
“No, seriously. You can leave now.” He hated the way his voice cracked.
Peter smirked, tilting his head like Stiles was a puzzle he was starting to
figure out but he hadn’t yet solved. “Who’d have thought it.” His gaze searched
Stiles’ face.
Stiles went rigid the moment Peter spotted the trick release. He wasn’t sure
why Peter knowing that he was not as vulnerable as he appeared frightened him,
but he felt the last bit of his control of the situation slip.
“You like to play at having power taken from you, I see,” Peter said and sat on
the bed, his thigh brushing Stiles’ foot. “I can understand that. You like to
pretend you’re letting go. I’m sure it’s very erotic.” He tapped Stiles’ ankle.
Stiles’ chest squeezed tight as he waited for the other shoe to drop.
“You plan everything out to the last detail, don’t you, Stiles? Locked windows.
Locked bedroom door. Daddy at work.” Peter’s hand at his ankle tightened and
tugged. Stiles’ legs fell open a fraction. “Fake. Cuffs.” Peter shook his head,
looking at Stiles like he was disappointed.
Heat crept up Stiles’ neck in humiliation. “Peter --”
“You’re getting a little too old for children’s toys, don’t you think?” There
was a blur of movement and Peter was on him, hovering over his body, not
touching except for one hand pressing down on the pillow, grazing his ear. The
other reached up and gripped the lock of the cuff. “Time to play with the big
boys.”
Stiles’ eyes squeezed tight as he heard the latch pop and mangle beneath
Peter’s fingers, and he knew before he even tested it that the trick release of
the cuff had been damaged and all his careful planning was fluttering to the
floor like a house of cards.
“That’s better.”
When Stiles opened his eyes, Peter’s smile was all teeth. He shifted onto the
bed, prying Stiles’ legs apart to kneel between them. Panicked and not caring
about modesty any longer, Stiles lifted his free hand to try to release the
latch. His left hand was clumsy, not that mattered anyway; the lock had been
crushed. He tugged at the cuff. It scraped against his headboard, but nothing
gave way. Already there were marks on his wrist that he’d be hiding from his
dad for a week.
Peter’s hands settled on Stiles’ thighs, widening the spread of his legs enough
to get his attention back. Stiles thrashed, trying to kick out, but the press
of clawed fingers made his blood run cold and he stilled.
“Don’t tell me you only like acting helpless. That would be so disappointing.”
Peter’s expression didn’t change, but the claws breaking through the skin of
Stiles' thighs said the words were laced with iron. “Touch yourself.”
He hesitated, not willing to let go of the cuff as if he could snap it open
with a burst of adrenaline-induced strength. He hissed in pain as his skin was
pierced and he felt the wetness of blood welling and dripping. There would be
stains on his sheets if he looked down. He swallowed, falling back to the bed
and keeping his eyes on Peter, who looked back, expressionless.
“Now.”
Stiles huffed, but the sting in his legs stole the sarcastic remark before it
even formed in his head. He slowly moved his hand towards his crotch and palmed
himself. He was still hard. He tried not to think about what that meant. Or
that the always amazing feel of his hand on his cock counterpointed the pain in
a way that felt brilliant. His stomach churned in disgust at his body’s fucked
up reaction.
“Do it,” Peter whispered. It was somewhere between a command and begging, soft
and threatening.
Stiles’ fingers curled around his cock. It was still slick and the first tug
sent his fear-heightened senses into overdrive. He arched, breaking eye contact
with Peter and letting his head hit his pillow. He panted, his naked chest
rising and falling like a frightened animal. He knew Peter wasn’t missing a
thing.
It was easier not to look, so he didn’t as he twisted his wrist around the wet
head of his cock. He was harder now. Though, he’d barely softened since the
interruption and now each stroke steamrolled him with sensation, a confusing
mix of pain and need and humiliation.
He wasn’t sure which was the worst of it: the dull pain as the claws held
still, waiting like they might rip his tender skin to shreds at any moment, the
heat of Peter’s eyes which burned him even while Stiles was refusing to look
away from the ceiling. But Stiles figured it was the rough graze of Peter’s
jeans as it caught the inside of his knees. He’d never had anyone there,
holding his legs open, preventing him from any kind of modesty. He was
helpless, exposed in a way he’d never felt before -- so very intimately and,
God, he knew Peter was looking at every inch of him.
A whimper escaped his throat, making Peter hum. He wished it back immediately.
His throat was raw but he swallowed past it, not caring how his voice sounded
as he rasped, “I hate you.”
Peter hummed again, like he’d just been rewarded. “And yet you do seem to be
enjoying yourself.”
Stiles couldn’t stop his eyes prickling so he squeezed them shut and sped up
his fist. Quick and dirty, he thought, dragging this out was only going to make
it worse. There was no way that Peter was leaving before seeing Stiles’
embarrassment to completion. His wrist ached as it flew over his cock. The
stupidity of having to use his off-hand only fueled his frustration. His hips
jerked up to meet each thrust, his ass lifting clear off the bed. Peter’s claws
were gone, the faint sting of tiny wounds left in their memory. Soft fingertips
and blunt nails tickled their way upward. Stiles tried not to care, tried not
to think about who that touch belong to but the rumbly pleasure coming from
Peter’s chest was impossible to block out.
Peter hovered over him, a warm pleasant weight that made Stiles freeze.
“Don’t stop on my account,” Peter whispered, suddenly right at Stiles’ ear.
“Get off me.” Stiles pulled at the cuff, forgetting he was helpless in his need
to push Peter off, and he hissed as the metal cut his wrist.
Peter’s breath puffed sweetly across Stiles’ face like he’d had a pastry for
breakfast, but that was far too human, far too normal of a thought, and Stiles
chased it away. Peter was a monster.
“If you prefer,” Peter said, like Stiles was so very amusing. A new favourite
toy. Then Peter licked at the damp trail from the edge of Stiles’ eyes to his
ear. Feasting on tears of the enemy, he thought with a bitter laugh. It was
possible he was losing his mind.
Peter settled back between his thighs, and Stiles let out a shaky breath. Part
of him knew this position wasn’t any safer. Only it felt that way, and Stiles
would take what he could at the moment. Then a feather light touch on his
stomach sent another frisson of panic through him. His head snapped down in
time to see Peter’s fingers slide into the lube that was still making the spot
above his belly button glisten.
“What--” Stiles blinked, lump forming in his throat. “What do you think you’re
doing?”
Peter smiled. “Close your eyes, Stiles.” His voice wasn’t even taunting or
scary. Maybe that was the worst part. It was almost gentle. Then it went even
softer. “Close them. Don’t make me hurt you.”
Stiles swallowed. His heart beat frantically in his chest. His thighs trembled
as Peter spread them until Stiles felt fully on display.
He was still hard. Fuck. He wanted to die. Wanted to cover himself again. Cover
his cock. Cover his ass.
“Please,” he choked. He meant please leave. Get out. Please don’t. But either
Peter didn’t care or he willfully misinterpreted because in the next moment a
slippery fingertip circled his entrance.
“Don’t mind me,” Peter said, tap, tap, tapping him right there. “Please
continue.”
Stiles couldn’t stop his squirming. He’d jacked off a lot. A lot. But he’d
never fingered himself. He wasn’t naive. He knew people did. Just, he’d never.
He couldn’t breathe anymore because he was so fucking hard, and his hips
wouldn’t stay still with Peter’s touch sending all thoughts but yesyesyes out
of his brain.
He had to touch his cock. He sobbed a bit when he fisted himself again,
relieved and frustrated because Peter was laughing, teasing him now. The
fingertip was just sneaking inside, pushing through easily, helped along with
lube and the tilt of Stiles’ hips pressing it deeper.
He pulled himself off, his chest burning for more oxygen as he started to
hyperventilate. His ass burned a little but just enough, stretching just enough
to know that Peter’s finger was inside him. He clenched around it. Peter
moaned, pushing deeper until his knuckle bumped Stiles’ balls and he was
coming.
He wasn’t loud -- his father was too light of a sleeper, Stiles was well
trained at the silent orgasm -- but his mouth fell open as if to scream. His
muscles went painfully tight as the pressure built and built, then he was
coating his fingers and adding to the mess already on his chest. He spasmed,
squeezing Peter’s finger as if he weren’t ready to let it go. Then he collapsed
to the bed, boneless and shivering.
With the last aftershock, Peter pumped his finger once and twice -- chuckling
at Stiles’ gasp and the new dribble of come leaking from his cock -- before
finally pulling free.
Stiles stared at Peter, feeling wrecked, like maybe it wasn’t his claws that
Peter used to rip him apart after all.
Peter was sweating, his hair damp at the temples and his cheeks pink above the
stubble of his goatee. Stiles’ mind was too blank -- maybe too full -- to say
anything. The silence dragged, only broken by Peter clearing his throat.
He stood, shifting in his jeans to readjust, and Stiles wanted to call him out.
Call him a perv, a fucked up asshole, make him feel disgusting for what he had
Stiles do. Only the words wouldn’t come and Stiles couldn’t find it in himself
to regret that. Words would only remind him how powerless he really was right
now.
Without a word, Peter’s fist closed on the mangled lock of the handcuffs and
crushed the metal until both ends snapped free. Stiles gaped and froze for a
heartbeat before he scrambled off the bed. He tumbled to the floor, taking his
pillow with him to cover himself and his jizz-soaked chest.
Peter just grinned. “Thank you for an entertaining afternoon.” If he had a hat,
Stiles was sure he’d fucking tip it right now.
Peter bent to pick up his coat, taking his time to zip it and lift the collar
to prepare for the frigid outside air. Stiles sat, silent and numb. Peter had
his foot out the window by the time he found his voice again.
“Don’t. Don’t ever touch me again, you fucker.” Stiles’ heart hammered at the
look of pure menace on Peter’s face as he turned back.
“The funny thing is, Stiles,” Peter said, his smile sincere and taunting, “you
never once said no. You might want to think about why that is.”
The room filled with icy air as Peter swept out the window. Stiles shivered,
still cowered in the corner, pillow clutched around his middle, unable to move
for a long while.
Finally, he stood and tore the filthy sheets from his bed.
“Fuck you,” he said to the empty room and went to go shower off the feel of
Peter’s hands still on his skin.
-fin-
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
