
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3713296.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Peter_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Stiles_Stilinski, Peter_Hale
  Additional Tags:
      Barebacking, Rimming, Anal_Fingering, Spanking, Rough_Sex
  Series:
      Part 36 of Giving_Myself_to_You_(Prompt_Fills)
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-04-10 Words: 3973
****** Your Body Will Be Mine ******
by ToAStranger
Summary
     After being forced to run from a fight, Peter and Stiles hole up in a
     motel room together.
     - - -
     Old prompt fill.
Notes
     Prompt: I want Peter & Stiles desperate!fucking. Like they just
     survived some shit or...who cares, just clawing, whimpering, rough,
     needy sex. Peter at first has no idea what Stiles needs & then he's
     all "oh i can do that". No previous relationship
When the hotel door slams shut behind them, Stiles is still shivering.  His
teeth are chattering, and it makes Peter’s shoulders go tight.  His jaw flexes
as he locks the door every way possible and then checks the windows, peeking
out through the blinds. 
Stiles is sopping wet.  His hair is matted down, clothes clinging to his skin,
and he wraps his arms around himself as he trembles at the center of the room. 
His eyes are on the floor, teeth grit tight, and Peter can smell the blood on
him.
“I should go back out there,” Stiles mumbles, pivots, heads for the door.
Peter cuts him off.  “If you go back out there, your insides will be your
outsides.  And then I’ll have to deal with your stupid best friend.  Not
happening.”
“Does it really look like I care right now, Peter?” Stiles retorts, and there’s
a crash of thunder outside. 
If the power wasn’t already out, it certainly would be now.  Peter frowns over
at Stiles and cants his head.
“No, and that’s the problem.” Peter says.  “You’re going to get yourself
killed.”
“I don’t care—“
“And I don’t either,” Peter cuts him off, smile like chocolate and barbed
wire.  “But Scott does.  Unfortunately for both of us, I have to stay on his
good side now, don’t I?”
Stiles is still shaking.  He’s pale, and he smells angry.  Peter loves it a
little bit.
“Come on.” Peter coaxes, holding a hand out.  “You can’t do anything now. 
They’ll be okay.  They’ll meet us back here in the morning, and everything will
be fine.  Let me see your arm.”
“It’s fine.”
“You’ve been cradling it since we got away,” Peter snaps; he’s wet and cold
too, and just as frustrated.  “Let me see your arm.”
Peter reaches for him.  Stiles is quick to jerk back, lip curling up into a
sneer, and Peter lets out a low growl. 
“I’m not in the mood to play, Stiles.” He warns, drawing forward a pace. “Let
me see.”
Feet quick, Stiles steps aside as Peter reaches out for him again.  He rounds
him, just brushing by, and heads for the door once more.  Fingers fumbling, he
manages to get the locks open, and pulls the door wide enough to maybe fit
through at an angle before Peter is on him.
Slamming into the wood, Stiles grunts as Peter grips the back of his neck,
using the force of his momentum to push the door shut again.  Stiles squirms,
pressing, but Peter has him flush against the paneling.  There’s a distinct
prick of claws at his neck, and Stiles hisses out a curse, landing a blow to
Peter’s ribs with his elbow.
“Stop it—Stop it,” Peter says, but Stiles only struggles harder.
Peter catches Stiles’ wrists, using his body to pin the rest of him down
against the door, and he presses them up above Stiles’ head.  Letting out a
distressed sound, Stiles tries to jerk his right arm away, but Peter’s grasp
holds firm.  There is blood staining Stiles’ sleeve, but it isn’t Stiles’
blood.
Huffing, Peter grumbles out a few choice words, weight bracing Stiles to the
door.  He takes a moment to breathe, and after a few seconds, Stiles calms
under his touch.  Peter doesn’t pull back. 
Stiles is quivering.  He’s practically vibrating against Peter, breath bated,
heart pounding.  Peter frowns, pulling back just enough to look at Stiles’
profile.  His expression is shuttered, but his eyes are almost manic.  Peter’s
brow furrows at the sight; he tilts his head and breathes deep.
“Oh,” he says on the exhale, eyes wide.  “Stiles, I’m surprised.”
“Get your hands off of me.” Stiles grunts, jerking. 
“Are you sure that’s what you want?” Peter asks as he grins, inhaling the scent
of him again, nose just under Stiles’ ear.
He doesn’t miss Stiles shuddering in a way that has nothing to do with the
cold.  “Get the fuck off of me, Peter.”
“Are you going to try and run?”
“No, just—“ Stiles shifts, hisses, and his fingers twitch.  “My arm hurts.  Let
me go.”
“Alright, alright.” Peter mutters, taking a step back. 
Panting faintly, Stiles goes lax against the door, arms dropping.  He cradles
the right one to his chest for a moment, forehead resting just to the right of
the peephole, and Peter watches him.
“I can help, you know.” Peter says after a minute, moving back deeper into the
dim room, toeing off his shoes. 
“I don’t want your help.”
“Interesting.” Peter hums.  “It’s not often you lie to me these days.”
Stiles’ nostrils flare as he turns about.  “I don’t,” he insists.  “I don’t
want your help.”
“No,” Peter hums, regarding him.  “But you might just need it.”
Stiles’ expression curls into a rather convincing snarl.  “Fuck you.”
Peter laughs.  “Well, no, that’s not quite what you’re looking for, is it?”
There’s a fire in Stiles’ gaze.  Peter wants to see how bright it will burn for
him.  See how hot he can get it before he gets burned. 
“What you want, Stiles,” Peter says, voice low with invitation, his paces
forward measured and sure.  “Is for someone to just… go to town.  Isn’t that
right?  Someone to make you feel?”
Lower lip trembling, Stiles looks away, jaw going tight.  Peter tsks, moving
into his space, and he’s almost proud to see Stiles stand his ground.  He
reaches up, catching Stiles’ jaw in a hand and squeezes just a little too
tight.  Their gazes meet, and Peter smiles.
“I can do that for you,” Peter says, and his eyes glow blue.  “Would you like
that?”
Stiles jerks out of his touch again.  He’s puffing out his nose, cheeks flush,
still cold and wet.  He’s breathtaking, and Peter wants to take him apart. 
There’s a moment of complete wordlessness, the only sounds echoing between them
are their breath and the deluge outside.
There’s another crash of thunder, and it seems to shake the foundation of their
motel.  Stiles flinches, taking a step back, and Peter’s hand snaps out to
catch him by his shirt front.  Swallowing, Stiles’ gaze narrows, and Peter
gives him a crooked smile. 
“Nothing to be ashamed of,” Peter says, and laughs when Stiles’ brows go up
slowly—dry and unamused.  “We could both use a distraction.  Don’t you think?”
Stiles cants his head subtly, chin tilting up as his shoulders square out,
standing at his full height.  “Are you going to run your mouth all night, or
are you going to put it to good use?”
There’s a flash of fang, and Peter doesn’t miss the uptick in Stiles’ pulse. 
“Thought you’d never ask.”
Their mouths meet in a messy clash.  It isn’t sweet; there’s nothing gentle
about it, nothing affectionate.  It’s hard and hungry and unforgiving.
Long fingers sink into Peter’s hair, and Stiles pulls harshly.  Lips part lips
as Peter tilts his head to take it deeper, tongue sliding past Stiles’ teeth to
get at the heat in his mouth.  Stiles lets out a muffled sound, pressing in
flush, muscles contracting under his skin as Peter’s hands slip up under the
hem of his shirt. 
They break away long enough to strip each other’s shirts up and over their
heads, material dropping in a damp pool at their feet.  Stiles manages to toe
one of his shoes off, sock half hanging onto his foot when Peter shoves him
back against the door.  Stiles reaches for Peter’s belt the second his back
meets wood, but Peter catches him by the wrists again, grip too tight.
Stiles hisses, but otherwise doesn’t complain.  Peter’s movements are
deliberate.  He presses Stiles’ hands back, lifting them slowly up over the
younger man’s head, hovering.  Stiles arches, eyes not leaving Peter’s, and
heat radiates between them. 
Ducking his head, Peter mouths along the line of Stiles’ jaw and tastes rain
water and the sweet undertones of citrus.  Stiles gasps, head canting back for
him, and Peter rumbles out a pleased noise as he bites the expanse of neck
offered up to him.  As Peter presses in flush, body firm against Stiles’,
Stiles hitches a leg around Peter’s.  His heel digs in hard at the back of
Peter’s thigh, and they both groan as their pelvises align.
He ruts against Peter’s hip, mouth open as heavy breath falls over his lips. 
Peter sucks a mark into the spot above Stiles’ collarbone, worrying the skin
there with human teeth, the scruff along his jaw rubbing roughly over pale skin
and irritating it.  Stiles’ hands flex above his head, and there’s a tight heat
below his navel as friction has him moaning into the dark of the room. 
Chuckling, Peter presses harder and is rewarded with a hissed curse.
Tugging, Stiles gets his hands free and hates that Peter lets him.  He curls
one hand around the back of Peter’s neck, nails blunt as they dig into the
flesh there, and Peter grunts and bites down harder at the juncture between
Stiles’ throat and shoulder.  It earns him a sharp jerk of Stiles’ hips and
angry red lines down over his bicep as he sinks his hands down over the curve
of Stiles’ ass.  He squeezes the muscle there and guides Stiles forward to rock
against him until they’re both panting.
“Come on,” Stiles coaxes, hips rolling sinuously.  “Come on.”
Peter kisses him again, firm and unyielding.  He hisses when Stiles bites at
his lower lip. 
“Say it,” Peter says, but he’s already lifting Stiles up by the thick of his
thighs and crowding in impossibly close as he grinds against him. 
“Fuck me.” Stiles doesn’t hesitate, the hand at Peter’s neck sinking back into
his hair and tugging; it angles Peter’s head back just enough as Stiles leans
down, licking his way back into Peter’s mouth for a long, breathless moment. 
“Fuck me, Peter.  Come on.”
Peter carries him over to the bed, their mouths locked for the five or so steps
it takes, Stiles sucking at Peter’s tongue obscenely.  He lets his weight
settle down over Stiles’ body, grinning with sharp teeth when Stiles whines as
their lips break apart.  He trails down over him, biting and bringing blood to
the surface but never breaking skin.  Stiles’ spine curves up, shuddering
heavily each time Peter leaves a mark along the length of his torso. 
Mouthing the jut of one of Stiles’ hips, Peter works Stiles’ pants open.  It
doesn’t take much to tug them down and off—catching briefly on Stiles’
remaining shoe—but he strips him effectively and then pauses.  His gaze strays
over the sight: Stiles’ legs splayed open for him, cock hard against his
stomach as he pants and stares down at Peter with dark, dark eyes.  Stiles
licks his lips, and Peter snaps back into action. 
“Turn over.”
“Make me.”
Peter growls, tugging Stiles closer by the hips before flipping him onto his
stomach.  He lands one harsh blow of the pale curve of Stiles’ ass, and hates
that he misses the way the boy’s eyes undoubtedly widened as he rocks forward,
away, with a startled gasp.  Humming, Peter palms the red that blossoms over
Stiles’ skin. 
Leaning in, Peter bites at the top of Stiles’ thigh, just under the swell of
pert muscle.  Stiles stutters out a curse, fingers curling into the spread of
the comforter as he shifts onto this knees.  Taking it as invitation, Peter
climbs back onto the bed with him, curved over to nose at the dimples of
Stiles’ lower back as he slips an arm down to cant Stiles’ ass up for easier
access. 
Stiles whines again, and Peter chuckles.  “So needy.”
“There you go,” Stiles snaps, breath hitching.  “Running your
fucking mouth again.”
Peter spanks him again, just as hard, over the same spot.
“Fuck,” Stiles gasps, muscles taut under his skin, squirming as if to get away.
Peter lands another blow, smells the spike in Stiles’ arousal, and groans as he
licks over the vivid red of his palm print.  “Want my mouth doing something
else?”
“Yes,” Stiles hisses.
Peter obliges. 
He spreads him open, kneading the firm muscles of his glutes and doesn’t
hesitate.  His tongue is deft and more than talented, slicking Stiles as he
works him loose.  Stiles tries to buck away, then buck back, but Peter’s got
him in a firm hold. 
Toes curling, Stiles gasps against the bedding, spine curving down as Peter
toys with his nerves.  Peter doesn’t stop, doesn’t even think about it, until
Stiles’ breath his hiccupping over his lips as he clutches to the sheets.  He
pulls away, rewarded only with a sobbed little sound as Stiles goes to reach
for himself—to get himself off.
Peter swats his hand away and gives his ass another harsh swat, knowing it’ll
probably bruise.  Stiles jerks, back arching as Peter trails a mess of kisses
and bites up along his spine.
“You’re an asshole.” Stiles hisses as Peter drapes himself over Stiles’ back.
“You like it.” Peter grins, bites at his shoulder with sharp teeth and squeezes
at the tender skin of Stiles’ ass.
“Fuck.” Stiles whines, presses back into the touch and pushes himself up onto
his hands and knees.  “Fuck,come on.”
“Not done with you,” Peter says, like a threat and promise.
He lets his fingers trail between Stiles’ cheeks.  Sinking two fingers into
him, slicked only by spit, Peter loops an arm up over Stiles’ chest and holds
him tight.  The roughness is enough to get Stiles to keen for him, spread his
legs a bit more, and Peter groans at the tight spasm of muscle around his
fingers.  He holds Stiles steady with a hand at his shoulder, feeling the boy’s
heart pound against his forearm, and he sinks his fingers in deeper.
Stiles lets out a helpless little sound, rutting back against Peter’s hand,
head hanging heavy between his shoulders.  Peter enjoys the way his breath
hitches each time Peter withdraws his fingers, like Stiles is scared he might
stop touching him, but then he presses back in and Stiles moans his
satisfaction unabashedly.  He doesn’t need to give him so much prep—knows that
pain is just as important as pleasure—but he wants Stiles to come with nothing
but Peter’s fingers in his ass.
He works him over.  Curving them just so, pressing in all the right places. 
Stiles doesn’t seem to mind, fingers flexing and curling over the mess of
sheets beneath them as Peter pants against his ear.  He’s aching in his pants;
he wants inside of Stiles, wants to watch his eyes roll back as he drives
deep.  Fangs catching Stiles’ earlobe, he adds a third finger and thrusts them
in to prod and rub over that bundle of nerves until Stiles comes with a shout.
“Fuckfuckfuck,” Stiles pants, and Peter doesn’t stop fucking him with his
fingers, savors the twitch of heat around them, and the way he pulls desperate
little sounds from the back of Stiles’ throat.
When he finally pulls free, turning Stiles over onto his back, the boy is
covered in a lovely sheen of sweat.  He reaches for Peter, forces him down with
shaking hands and kisses him until both of their lungs ache with strain.  Peter
works his own pants open as Stiles wraps his legs around Peter’s hips, using
the mess of come Stiles made to slick his cock up when he finally frees it and
kicks his clothes away. 
Stiles is already half hard again, breathless and hazy eyed beneath Peter.  It
makes Peter groan, one hand settling at Stiles’ hip as the other guides himself
forward.  The scent of their mingled arousal has his eyes burning blue into the
dim light, and Stiles is biting along his jaw even as he starts to press in. 
Tight muscle yields after enough pressure is added, the stretch making Stiles’
eyes flood with tears, amber bright and locked on with Peter’s gaze as Stiles’
head falls back against the bed.
He withdraws a bit, then drives forward again—sinks deeper, feels more than
hears Stiles stop breathing.  Slipping a hand down around to Stiles’ lower
back, he cants the boy’s hips up for the both of them, slides almost completely
out and then thrusts back in.  Stiles arches, lets out a little grunt, and
drags his nails down over Peter’s back.
“Good?” Peter asks; he knows it is, but he just wants to hear it.
“Yes,” Stiles bucks his hips up, like a challenge.  “Harder.”
Groaning, Peter kisses him hard enough to split Stiles’ lip, licking away the
blood and grinding in as deep as he can get.  Stiles shudders, mewls against
his mouth, and clenches purposefully around the length of Peter’s cock. 
Hissing out a curse, Peter breaks away, settles on his knees and catches one of
Stiles’ legs under the thigh. 
He presses it up, forcing Stiles’ back at a downward curve, and sets a pace. 
It’s anything but gentle.  The springs wheeze under their movements, Peter
fucking into Stiles with jarring thrusts.  It seems to knock the air out of
Stiles each time Peter fills him, whiskey eyes fluttering as Stiles grits his
teeth, palm slick against Peter’s rib cage.  The bed shifts, groaning, as Peter
picks up the pace.
Stiles lets out a strained sound, high from the back of his throat, and Peter
leans down to mouth over his adam’s apple.  The angle changes, just enough for
Peter’s cock to strike-catch-drag over Stiles’ prostate with each thrust, and
Stiles claws down over Peter’s sides.  It spurs him on, makes Peter drive in
harder, and the wood of the headboard clatters loudly against the wall. 
“Gonna come for me?” Peter mutters in Stiles’ ear, free hand slipping into the
dark mess of Stiles’ hair to angle his head over, the other squeezing at the
strain of muscle in Stiles’ thigh as he holds him open.  “Are you gonna come on
my cock, Stiles?”
“Ahh,” Stiles scrabbles over Peter’s shoulder blades, scratches disappearing as
soon as Stiles leaves them over his skin.  “Yes.  Yes.”
His mouth is slut-slack as Peter pulls back enough to look down at him, breath
heavy and bated, and Peter can smell his orgasm building, can hear the thunder
of Stiles’ heart over the storm still raging outside.   “Come on.  Come for
me.  Let me see you.”
“Peter,” Stiles gasps, whine catching in his throat, gaze going hazy as Peter
drives in hard.
The sight of Stiles coming is almost better than just the sound of him.  It’s
the way his head cranes back, chest pressing up as he arches despite the way
Peter has him pinned.  It’s the way his eyes roll back for a minute as he
spills out between them in a mess of sticky white.  It’s the way he doesn’t
stop bucking up, doesn’t stop trying to fuck himself on Peter’s cock.
Praise falls over Peter’s tongue, unbidden, as he pushes Stiles’ hair back from
his forehead.  He doesn’t slow, and Stiles sobs out an enraptured sound,
clinging to him as Peter keeps fucking in to the fluttering heat of Stiles’
body.  Tears slip down the sides of Stiles’ face, and when Peter licks up one
salty trail, he tastes nothing but Stiles’ pleasure.
“Please,” Stiles gasps, straining up, one heel digging in at Peter’s thigh in
an urging manor, whining as Peter kisses him, nails biting into the muscle of
Peter’s shoulders.  “Pleaseplease—Deeper.  Harder.”
Peter curses.  He doesn’t stop.  His jaw clenches tight, and his claws extend
out, drawing blood just under Stiles’ knee, just beneath his ear where he’s
cradling the back of Stiles’ head. 
Something in him snaps.  There’s a rush of need, strong and hungry, and he ruts
in as far as he can go with each thrust.  He watches Stiles’ eyes go back
again, feels the boy spasm, groans as Stiles pleads up at him haplessly.  It
doesn’t draw out for much longer. 
He fucks forward harder, mind too gone to the fog of ecstasy to worry about
hurting Stiles.  The bed is rocking, groaning violently beneath them, and as
Peter feels his climax hit its peak, a hand shoots out to slam into the
headboard.  Wood splinters under his fist, and he comes hard as he buries deep
into Stiles’ heat. 
Hips twitching a bit feebly, Peter pants heavy and loud, staring down at Stiles
with wide eyes as he starts to soften inside of him.  Their chests rise and
fall, breath mingling between their mouths.  Peter withdraws with a slick
sound, and Stiles whimpers softly at the empty feeling he’s left with. 
Arm scooping around Stiles’ waist, Peter holds him close to his chest, letting
his leg go in order to strip the top cover down enough for them to slide
between the sheets together.  Stiles doesn’t protest, lips red and swollen,
tender as Peter kisses him again.  His hand is firm over Stiles’ hip where he
knows a bruise is going to be in the morning.
Their legs tangle messily together, one of Stiles’ ankle hooked around Peter’s
calf.  Stiles’ heartbeat is still ringing in Peter’s ears, and he can taste the
sound of Stiles’ moans on his tongue.  He pulls the sheets up over them,
keeping Stiles close. 
They don’t speak.  When Stiles’ breath goes shallow, Peter thinks that he might
be asleep until he touches the line of blood beneath Stiles’ ear where he
accidentally clawed him and hears Stiles hiss.
“Stop it,” he mutters.  “Just go the fuck to sleep, dude.”
Peter hums.  It isn’t hard to let slumber claim the both of them. 
A few hours later, Peter wakes to the sound of Stiles’ cell phone chirping from
somewhere on the floor.  Stiles stirs, grunts, and pulls out of Peter’s arms
without a second thought.  Peter can’t even smell embarrassment on him as he
watches him press his phone to his ear at the foot of the bed. 
There’s a brief conversation.  The storm has settled somewhat outside, but the
wind is buffering loudly against the walls and window.  Stiles hangs up the
phone, tossing it back to the floor, and Peter props himself up onto an elbow.
“They’re fine,” Stiles says, dragging a hand through his hair and wincing as
his right arm twinges.  “Hid out in some shack in the woods until the storm
died down.  They’ll be back by morning.”
Peter tilts his head, eyes trailing down over the bites and marks he left over
Stiles’ back.  “Let me see your arm.”
Stiles snorts, but he shuffles back beneath the sheets with him, plopping down
next to Peter and holding out his arm.  “Didn’t seem too concerned about it
earlier.”
“I was preoccupied.” Peter says, taking it and pressing over a knot of muscle. 
“You just pulled something.  You’re going to have to ice it.”
“I will,” Stiles mutters, watching him.
Peter’s gaze flickers up, meeting Stiles’.  “You have something you want to
say?”
“Thanks,” Stiles nods.  “That was good.  Fun.”
Humming, Peter smiles.  “It was.  But?”
“But nothing,” Stiles shrugs a shoulder, laying back against the sheets, nose
wrinkling faintly as he scrubs over his own abdomen at the sticky flaking of
dried come. 
“Really?”
Stiles snorts, glancing up at him.  “What did you expect?  That I’d want to
forget it ever happened, never ever mention it again, be all ashamed?”
“Yes.” Peter says.
Stiles’ lips purse.  “It was sex, Peter.  Not a marriage proposal.  There’s
nothing for me to be ashamed of.”
Peter inhales deep, resting his cheek against his fist as he regards the boy
next to him.  “You never cease to fascinate me.”
“Thanks.” Stiles grumbles, shifting uncomfortably.  “You wanna shower?”
“Need someone to scrub your back?” Peter asks, brow lifting.
Stiles meets his eyes again.  “Among other things.”
Peter smiles.  “Lead the way.” 
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