Chapter Text
The final bell at Beacon Hills Middle School. Stiles stuffed his math textbook into his backpack, the zipper groaning in protest. He shouldered his backpack, making his way toward the parking lot where the sleek black car was already waiting, engine idling low and smooth. Peter.
Stiles let out a heavy sigh, shoving his hands into his hoodie pockets. He loved his dad, he really did, but this "Big Brothers" program was a stretch. The capital letters felt stupid in his own head. He was twelve, almost thirteen. He wasn't a baby who needed a hand to hold. He didn't need a mentor to help him process his grief or whatever the brochure said. He needed to be left alone to brood, or play video games, or eat junk food.
He pulled open the passenger door and slid into the leather seat, buckling up without looking at the man in the driver’s seat.
"Rough day?" Peter asked, his voice smooth as velvet, not sounding particularly concerned as he pulled away from the curb.
Stiles shrugged, keeping his gaze fixed on the passing storefronts. "Just school. Can we go to the arcade or something? Or maybe we could get pizza?”
“I was thinking we’d do something a little more relaxed today,” Peter said, pulling away from a red light and directing his car towards a different part of town. “My place. I just got a new surround sound system. We could watch a movie.” Stiles couldn’t figure out how Peter made everything he said sound like the decision had already been made for them.
Stiles’s shoulders slumped. A movie? That was something you did with your dad on a Tuesday, not with your Big Brother. But Peter was looking at him with those expectant blue eyes, and Stiles found himself nodding. “Okay. Sure. A movie sounds good.”
The drive was quiet and Stiles found himself fidgeting with the zipper of his hoodie, a nervous habit he couldn't quite shake. He hadn't expected Peter to take him to his house; usually, they went for burgers or to the park, places where there were other people. He glanced sideways at Peter, who looked perfectly at ease, one hand resting casually on the steering wheel, his expression unreadable.
"Is your dad working late again, today?" Peter asked.
"Yeah." Stiles nodded. He’s not sure why Peter asked, his dad was always working late these days.
Peter’s house was just as Stiles imagined it: clean, modern, and what looked like expensive art work on the walls. It was the kind of place you were afraid to touch anything. But Peter immediately tossed his keys onto a counter and guided Stiles to a huge, plush black couch in front of a television that was bigger than Stiles’s bedroom wall. His eyes went wide. “Whoa.” He didn’t know they made TV’s that big.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Peter said, disappearing into the kitchen. He came back with two glasses of soda, condensation already beading on the sides. He handed one to Stiles and sat down close, much closer than he needed to be. Their thighs were almost touching.
“What are we watching?” Stiles asked, taking a nervous sip of his drink.
Peter picked up a remote. “Something educational.” He clicked the TV on.
The screen lit up, but it wasn’t explosions or spaceships or superheros. It was two guys. They were on a bed, and they were… kissing. Not the kind you saw in PG movies, but deep and messy—with tongues. Their hands were all over each other. Stiles’s face went hot. He felt his heart start to beat a little faster, a frantic, confused rhythm against his ribs.
He opened his mouth, stammering, his brain scrambling for a way to process what was happening. "Peter?" His voice came out high and thin. "I—I think... this isn't..." He gestured helplessly at the screen, his hand trembling in the air.
"Your father asked me to teach you about this."
"I don't... I don't understand," Stiles stammered, his eyes glued to the screen.
Peter chuckled darkly, “You’re growing up into a young man, Stiles. Your body is changing. Your dad said you were asking questions and he's embarrassed and unsure of the answers.”
Stiles stared at the screen, his mouth hanging open. “Are they going to… do it?” he whispered.
“Yes,” Peter said, smiling as he watched the two men on the screen. “They are.”
On the screen, one of the men had moved down the other’s body. Stiles couldn’t look away, his eyes wide. He’d seen a dirty magazine once, at Scott’s house, hidden under a mattress. He thinks it was Scott’s dad’s. This was… different. It was more real, more intense. A strange, warm feeling started to pool low in his stomach. His jeans suddenly felt tight. He squirmed, trying to shift discreetly, but the movement only made the friction more noticeable.
Peter’s gaze finally slid from the screen to him. A small, knowing smile touched his lips. “Feeling okay?”
"I don't know," Stiles whispered, his voice cracking as he tried to scoot away, but the arm of the sofa blocked his escape. The images on the screen were overwhelming, raw and explicit, showing acts he’d only ever heard vague, terrifying rumors about in the locker room.
“It’s okay,” Peter said, his voice dropping to a low murmur. He put a hand on Stiles’s knee. The touch was warm through his jeans. “It can be confusing. All these new feelings. No one ever really explains it properly. Especially not this.”
“We had sex ed last year,” Stiles muttered.
Peter hummed. “Did they go over gay sex?”
Stiles shook his head. He couldn’t speak. He could only stare at Peter’s hand, then back at the screen where the man on the screen was now… oh god. He was using his mouth… down there. The warmth in Stiles’s stomach flared into an intense heat.
“See that?” Peter’s voice was right in his ear making Stiles flinch slightly in surprise. “That’s called a blow job. It feels incredible. But lets start with something simpler.”
Peter’s hand slid up Stiles’s thigh, slowly, deliberately, until it was resting right over the hard bulge in his pants.
Stiles jumped, a jolt of pure electricity shooting through him. He wanted to push the hand away, to jump up, to run out of the house. But his body felt frozen, trapped between the overwhelming shame and a terrifying spike of curiosity and pleasure.
“Shhh,” Peter soothed, his thumb pressing gently. “It’s okay. I’m going to show you. I’m going to teach you how to make yourself feel good. This is called a hand job.” His fingers deftly popped the button on Stiles’s jeans and slid the zipper down. Stiles let out a shaky breath he didn’t know he was holding. “You can do this to yourself. It’s called masturbation then.”
Peter’s hands slid the boy’s jeans and underwear down and off. His hand was sure and confident as took his small cock in hand. Stiles gasped, his hips bucking involuntarily at the first skin-on-skin contact. He’d touched himself before, in the dark of his bedroom, but this was a million times different. This was someone else. Someone older. Someone who knew exactly what they were doing.
“Just relax,” Peter murmured, his grip firming, his movements slow and rhythmic. “See? It’s all about knowing the right pressure. The right rhythm.”
Stiles’s head fell back against the couch, his eyes squeezed shut. The sounds from the television were a distant, obscene soundtrack to the fireworks going off behind his eyelids. Peter’s hand was a perfect, relentless machine, pulling pleasure out of him in thick, syrupy waves. It was wrong. It was so, so wrong. But it felt so, so good. "Peter," he moaned, his voice trembling.
“That’s it,” Peter encouraged. “Let it happen. It’s our secret, special thing.”
The pressure built to an impossible peak, and then he was shuddering, his body tensing as a hot, sticky mess pooled over Peter’s fingers and his own stomach. He gasped for air, his limbs feeling like warm Jell-O. He’d never… not like that.
He opened his eyes, dazed, to see Peter looking at him with that same calm, satisfied smile. He slowly brought his fingers, coated in Stiles’s release, to his own mouth and licked them clean.
“A good start,” Peter said, his voice a low purr. “Now, let’s work on that other lesson.” He nodded toward the screen. “I promise, you’ll like that one even more.”
Stiles just stared, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs, his breath catching in his throat. He could feel the cooling, sticky mess on his own stomach, a physical reminder of what had just happened. Shame, hot and sharp, pricked at the back of his eyes. This was wrong. This was the kind of thing his dad warned him about, strangers and… things. But Peter wasn’t a stranger. He was Peter. His Big Brother. And the feelings that had just ripped through him didn’t feel wrong. They felt… right. Better than right. They felt incredible. He was a mess of contradictions, his mind screaming one thing while his body still hummed with a languid, sated pleasure.
“Don’t worry,” Peter said, his voice a smooth balm over Stiles’s fraying nerves. He grabbed a handful of tissues from a box on the end table and, with a gentle efficiency that was almost clinical, began to clean Stiles’s stomach. His touch was clinical, yet it made Stiles’s skin tingle all over again. He felt cared for. “This is a part of growing up. A part of becoming a man. Most guys have to fumble through this, learning it wrong and feeling ashamed. Your dad and I wanted to make sure you were prepared. A secret education just for you.” He balled up the soiled tissues and laid them on the end table to be discarded later.
Peter’s hand came to rest on the back of his neck, his fingers stroking the short hairs there. It was a possessive, calming gesture that simultaneously relaxed Stiles and made him feel more trapped than ever. “This lesson is about trust. Trust is the most important part of this, Stiles,” Peter murmured, leaning in close. “You have to trust me to teach you.” The scent of Peter’s cologne—something like wood and spice—filled Stiles’s senses, drowning out everything else.
“Now, watch the screen,” Peter instructed softly, his thumb rubbing circles on Stiles’s nape. Stiles’s eyes, focused back on the television. The two men were still there, and the one was still… doing it. His head was bobbing in a steady rhythm. “See how he’s using his tongue?” Peter narrated, his voice a hypnotic drone. “It’s not just about suction. It’s about pressure and texture.” Peter’s hands were soothing as Stiles’ heart slowly returned to normal.
On screen, the man was moaning as he mouthed as the man’s cock. His lips wrapping around it until he was impaled on it, swallowing as his throat clicked and gagged, tears falling down his cheeks.
“See how deep he can go? That’s called deepthroating, don’t worry, we’ll work up to that. It takes practice but it feels so good.”
Peter’s hands moved from Stiles’s neck to his own belt. The soft *clink* of the metal buckle was unnaturally loud in the quiet room. “Okay, sweetheart, time to show me what you've learned."
He watched, frozen, as Peter slowly, deliberately, unbuckled his belt and then popped the button on his tailored trousers. The zipper was a low, rasping hum.
“You see,” Peter said, his voice low and even as he pushed his trousers and boxers down just enough, “giving is just as important as receiving.” He wasn’t looking at the TV anymore. His eyes were locked on Stiles, a piercing blue that seemed to see right through him.
Peter’s cock was… different than his own. It was thicker, longer, curved slightly and had extra skin.
“Yours looks weird.” Stiles studied it.
Peter chuckled, “I’m uncircumcised, sweetheart. That’s a completely different conversation, though. All it means is you have to pull the skin down, so the head can be seen.” Peter demonstrated.
Peter’s cock was already hard, flushed a dark color at the tip when he pulled the skin back. Stiles felt a dizzy wave of nausea mixed with a terrifying, illicit curiosity. This was what the man on the screen had had in his mouth.
Peter maneuvered the boy until he slid off the couch and onto his knees, shifting him between his knees.
Stiles stared up at Peter, wide-eyed and trembling. The position felt humiliating and exposed, but the sounds from the television seemed to swell around him, amplifying the rushing blood in his ears. Peter's were spread, making room for him as Stiles shuffled closer with curiosity and fear.
Stiles' hands shook. "I—I…"
Peter's hand was on the back of his neck again and pulling him down gently. "Just give it a little kiss, sweetheart."
The sheer reality of the moment crashed over Stiles, freezing his muscles in place. He was inches away from something he had only ever seen in clinical diagrams or the blurry background of a locker room joke, and it looked nothing like the textbook version. It was heavy, angry, and radiating a heat that made Stiles’ mouth go dry. The word "sweetheart" rang in his ears, syrupy and mocking, completely at odds with the grip on his neck that felt more like a shackle than a caress. His breath hitched in short, terrified bursts.
"Just a taste," Peter urged, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin behind Stiles's ear, a bizarrely gentle gesture that should have made the boy's skin crawl. But it didn't, he felt... Cared for. So he pressed his lips the few remaining millimeters to Peter's cock.
Peter let out a low, rumbling groan that vibrated through the contact, his hand tangling tighter in Stiles' hair to hold him steady. The skin against Stiles' mouth was hot and slightly salty, a raw and intimate sensation that made his head spin. He didn't pull away, though a part of him was screaming that he should do exactly that.
Instead, his curiosity won out, his tongue darting out to lick and his eyes fluttering shut as he breathed in the musky scent that filled his nose.
"Good boy," Peter murmured, his praise sounding thick and heavy in the quiet room, drowning out the synthetic moans from the television. He used his grip on Stiles' nape to guide him, not forcing him down but encouraging a slow, exploratory movement. "Open your mouth, Stiles. Just a little. Let me see that pretty tongue."
The command slipped past Stiles' defenses, bypassing his logic and going straight to his nervous system. His lips parted instinctively, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird as he tentatively stuck his tongue out.
Peter didn't give him time to overthink the motion; he pressed forward, just enough that the tip of his cock breached the wet heat of Stiles' mouth. The taste was sharp and foreign, filling Stiles' senses instantly, and he made a muffled sound of surprise, his hands flying up to instinctively grasp at Peter’s thighs to steady himself. The skin beneath his fingers was taut and warm, and he could feel the muscles twitch under his touch. He didn't pull away, though the sheer size of it was intimidating; instead, he let his jaw hang open, trying to accommodate the intrusion while Peter let out a long, satisfied sigh above him.
"Take your time," Peter instructed, his voice dropping an octave, rough with desire. "Use your tongue. Explore it. Just like you saw them doing in the movie."
Tentatively, Stiles obeyed. He swept his tongue along the underside, the texture strange and ridged against his soft palate. Peter's grip on his hair tightened, a silent anchor in the storm of Stiles' swirling thoughts, grounding him even as the situation spiraled further into uncharted territory. The air in the room was charged with a tension that made the hair on the back of Stiles' neck stand up, and the only thing he could focus on was the weight on his tongue and the sound of Peter's breathing, slow and controlled, as if he were savoring a fine wine.
Stiles’s jaw ached with the unfamiliar stretch. It was messy and clumsy and he felt a fresh wave of shame wash over him. He felt like he was failing. He was failing this lesson, and the thought was worse than the discomfort.
Peter’s patience, however, seemed unending. “Shhh, it’s alright,” he murmured, his thumb stroking Stiles’s jaw. “It’s a new skill. No one gets it perfect the first time. You’re doing beautifully. Here, let me help.” The words hit Stiles low in the gut, twisting a strange knot of shame and a confusing, twisted sort of pride. He wanted to be good. He wanted to be helpful. With a shaky breath through his nose, Stiles tried to take a little more, his jaw aching already as he stretched his lips around the girth. He felt clumsy, inexperienced, terrified of doing something wrong, but Peter's reaction—a sharp intake of breath, his hips shifting slightly—made a flush of heat rise to Stiles' cheeks. He was doing this. He was actually doing this.
"That's it," Peter praised, his thumb stroking the side of Stiles' face. "You're a natural. So eager.”
Peter watched him with half-lidded eyes, thoroughly entranced by the sight of the flushed, innocent boy kneeling between his spread thighs. He didn't rush, letting Stiles set a clumsy, hesitant rhythm that was entirely his own. Every tentative drag of Stiles' tongue sent a jolt of electricity straight up Peter’s spine, but it was the sheer, trusting compliance that really undid him. Stiles was trying so hard to be good, to follow the twisted lesson plan he’d been given, his eyes blinking tears away as he concentrated on this task. It was a beautiful contrast—the soft, hesitant warmth of his inexperience against the demanding hardness of Peter’s arousal—and Peter found himself groaning low in his throat, a sound of dark approval.
"Look at me, Stiles," Peter commanded softly, the hand in his hair tightening, not enough to hurt, but enough to still him to get his attention. Slowly, those amber eyes fluttered up, wet and dazed, fixing on Peter with a glazed, terrified obedience that made Peter’s breath hitch. "You're doing so well," Peter soothed, running the pad of his thumb over Stiles' cheekbone, tracing the track of a tear that had escaped without him realizing. "Let's see what other talents you have."
The praise washed over Stiles, confusing and heavy, and he didn't know what to do with it. "Hands behind your back."
The command didn't register immediately, Stiles' brain struggling to process the instruction through the haze of arousal and confusion clouding his mind. He blinked up at Peter, his mouth still full, the taste of salt and skin overwhelming his senses. Slowly, reluctantly, he moved his hands from where they were gripping Peter's thighs, sliding them down until they rested behind the small of his back. He crossed his wrists, the position instantly making him feel smaller, more vulnerable.
Peter hummed his approval. "Good boy." Without his hands to brace himself, Stiles had to rely entirely on Peter for stability, his balance precarious as he knelt on the plush carpet. The loss of control was terrifying, sending a fresh wave of panic through his chest, but the hand in his hair remained firm, an anchor holding him in place. He was completely at Peter's mercy, forced to take whatever the older man gave him, and the realization made his head swim with a dizzying mix of fear and a strange, unwelcome heat.
"Now," Peter murmured, his thumb tracing the stretched corner of Stiles' mouth, "let’s see if you can take a little more."
Before Stiles could answer, or even formulate a thought, Peter’s hips snapped forward. The movement was sudden, sharp, and Stiles gagged as the length hit the back of his throat, his eyes watering violently. He tried to pull back, an instinctive reaction to the sudden intrusion, but the hand in his hair held him fast, trapping him in place. He struggled for a second, his throat convulsing around the intrusion, his body screaming for air, but Peter didn't let up. Instead, he held Stiles there, letting him adjust to the fullness, letting the panic rise and crest before he pulled back just enough to let the boy gasp for air.
"Easy," Peter soothed, his voice a rough rasp in the quiet room. "Breathe through your nose. I've got you."
Stiles gasped in a ragged lungful of air, his chest heaving as he stared up at Peter with wide, watery eyes. The reality of the situation was crashing down on him, sharp and terrifying, but the hand stroking through his hair was surprisingly gentle, lulling him back into a false sense of security before the grip tightened once more. He felt trapped, caught between the instinct to scramble away and the overwhelming need to obey, to be the 'good boy' Peter kept praising him for being. The tears tracked silently down his cheeks, cooling on his skin, but he couldn’t wipe them away; he just waited, his hands still locked obediently behind his back, trembling against the curve of his spine.
"Relax your throat," Peter instructed, his voice dropping to a dark, rasping whisper that seemed to crawl under Stiles' skin. "Let me in. You can take it." He didn't wait for a nod or a sign of assent; he simply pressed forward again, slower this time but just as demanding. The stretch burned, a hot, aching friction that made Stiles’ jaw throb, but he forced himself to breathe through his nose, to stop fighting the intrusion. It felt endless, filling him up in a way that was physically impossible, and yet he was taking it, his body yielding to the pressure even as his mind recoiled.
This was the 'help' his dad had signed him up for. It had to be. This was what big brothers did, right? They taught you things. They showed you the ropes. Stiles squeezed his eyes shut again, trying to convince himself that the twisting knot of shame in his stomach was actually just nerves, that the heat pooling low in his belly was normal, that the salty tang in his mouth was just... part of the lesson. He was learning. He was being good.
Peter watched the transition, the moment Stiles stopped fighting and started accepting, and it made his blood sing. The boy was pliant in his hands, a mess of tear-stained cheeks and swollen lips, but he was taking it. He was taking it all. The power trip was intoxicating, better than any high he’d ever known, and the trust in those eyes—blind, stupid, absolute trust—only made it sweeter. He felt the pop as his cock slid into the boy's throat.
He set a rhythm then, slow and deep, savoring the tight heat of Stiles’ throat constricting around him. It was heaven to feel the boy’s wet, choked sounds escaping his lips filling the room alongside the fake moans from the television. Peter kept his grip firm in Stiles' hair, guiding his head, controlling the pace, forcing Stiles to simply take it without the ability to brace himself or pull away. He watched the tears fall from his long lashes, fascinated by the way Stiles’ brow furrowed in confusion, his body torn between the visceral need to breathe and the ingrained desire to obey.
Stiles’ world narrowed down to the sensation of fullness and the desperate, burning need for oxygen. He felt used, hollowed out in a way that terrified him, yet his hands stayed locked obediently behind his back. The air in the room felt thick and heavy, smelling of sweat and sex, and every time Peter pulled back, Stiles gasped raggedly, his chest heaving before he was filled again. The praise washed over him in waves—"Good boy," "Taking it so well," "Just like that"—a confusing, disorienting litany that kept him grounded in the moment even as his mind tried to drift. He was making Peter proud.
"That's it," Peter groaned, his hips snapping forward a little harder, losing his rhythm as his climax approached.
The hand in his hair tightened almost to the point of pain, anchoring him as Peter’s rhythm fractured, the controlled movements giving way to sharp, erratic thrusts. Stiles’ jaw throbbed, a dull ache spreading through his cheeks, and he felt lightheaded from the lack of air, the room tilting dangerously around him. He gagged again, his throat spasming around the intrusion, but Peter didn't stop, chasing his own end with a selfish intensity. "Swallow," Peter commanded breathlessly, his voice rough and strained as he held Stiles pinned against him. "Every drop, sweetheart."
Before Stiles could process the warning, Peter buried himself to the hilt with a guttural groan, his hips stuttering as he came. Stiles choked on the sudden, salty flood, his body instinctively trying to reject the invasion, but the hand in his hair kept him locked in place, forcing him to comply. He struggled to coordinate his breathing, his throat working frantically to accommodate the warmth spilling down his throat while his eyes squeezed shut, tears leaking out to run hot trails down his face. The sounds from the television seemed to fade into the background, drowned out by the pounding of his own heart in his ears.
Peter rode out the waves of his orgasm, his grip loosening slightly as the tension drained from his body. He looked down at the boy kneeling between his legs, chest heaving, lips swollen and red, eyes watery and wide, and felt a dark surge of possessiveness. Stiles looked wrecked, completely debauched, and the sight of him like this—submissive, ruined, and entirely at Peter's mercy—was the most beautiful thing Peter had seen in a long time. "You did so good," Peter whispered, his thumb stroking Stiles' cheek, wiping away a stray tear. He pulled back, his softened cock slipping from Stiles' mouth with a wet pop that echoed in the sudden quiet of the room.
Stiles slumped forward slightly, his hands coming out from behind his back to catch himself on Peter's thigh, his breath coming in ragged, hitching gasps. He felt dizzy, his throat raw and aching, his mind a chaotic swirl of shame, relief, and a strange, lingering warmth from the praise. He didn't know what to think, didn't know what to feel, so he just knelt there, finger’s pressing into Peter’s thighs, waiting for the next instruction like a well-trained pet. The taste in his mouth was overpowering—bitter, salty, and thick—and he swallowed convulsively, trying to clear it, but it lingered, a tangible reminder of what he’d just done.
Peter’s thumb was stroking his cheek, wiping away the tears that had leaked from his eyes. “Perfect,” Peter murmured, his voice a low, satisfied rumble. He tilted Stiles’s chin up, forcing him to meet his gaze. “You’re a natural. But the lesson isn’t over.” He leaned in and captured Stiles’s mouth in a kiss.
This was different from the messy, frantic kissing on the screen. This was controlled, possessive. Peter’s tongue swept into his mouth, claiming, tasting. It was another form of invasion, and Stiles’s body, already thrumming with a confused cocktail of shame and arousal, melted into it. He kissed back clumsily, eager to please, to earn more of that praise.
Peter broke the kiss, his eyes dark. “Come here.” He guided Stiles to his feet, then pulled him onto his lap. Stiles straddled him, his knees sinking into the plush couch on either side of Peter’s thighs. He could feel Peter’s cock against his thigh.
On the screen a man was fingering a younger male.
“Lets get you ready for your final lesson,” Peter said, his voice a hypnotic murmur against Stiles’s ear as he nipped at his earlobe. He reached over to the side table and pulled open a drawer, retrieving a small bottle of clear liquid. “You’re still so tight. So innocent.” He slicked his fingers with the cool gel.
Stiles watched, his heart pounding, as Peter’s hand moved behind him, down between the cleft of his ass. He jolted when a cold, slick finger circled his entrance. His breath hitching in a sharp, terrified gasp as the chill against his heated skin sent a jolt of clarity through the haze. He instinctively tried to pull away, his muscles tensing.
“Wait, Peter, I don't..." he stammered, his voice raspy and rough from the abuse his throat had just taken.
“Shhh, relax,” Peter soothed, kissing him again, swallowing his gasp. He didn't stop the slow, deliberate press of his slick finger, working the cold lube into the tight furl of muscle with a patience that was far more terrifying than the roughness of before. "Bear down for me. I need to stretch that virgin little pucker."
The finger pressed, a slow, steady, insistent pressure that burned. Stiles tensed, a whimper caught in his throat.
“Don't fight it, Stiles. You know you want this,” Peter whispered, his free hand gripping Stiles’s hip, holding him in place. “Remember how good I made you feel before? This is the next step. You have to trust me.”
On screen, the younger actor was panting, his back arched in a way that looked painful yet pleasurable, his fingers gripping the sheets as the older man worked him open. It was a mirror image of what was happening to him, a sick sort of tutorial that he hadn't asked for but was now forced to participate in. The pressure against his entrance was foreign and insistent, a slow, burning stretch that made his breath hitch and his toes curl in his socks. He wanted to tell Peter to stop, to say that this was too much, that this wasn't what his dad meant by help, that he wasn’t ready, but the words died in his throat as the finger pushed in, the tight ring of muscle giving way as the finger slid inside him.
The intrusion was a burning stretch that Stiles hadn't expected, his body clamping down instinctively against the foreign object. He let out a high, whimpering sound, burying his face in Peter’s shoulder as his hips bucked involuntarily.
It felt like an eternity before the burning edge began to dull into a strange, heavy ache. Stiles face was flaming with humiliation as his body betrayed him, the tight ring of muscle finally yielding to Peter's persistent pressure. He didn't know if he want to relax, didn't want if he wanted to make this easier, but his body had other ideas.
"That's it," Peter crooned in his ear, the praise twisting like a knife in Stiles' gut. "See? Just a finger.”
He began to move the finger, a slow, in-and-out rhythm that was gradually joined by a second. The stretch was more intense now, a burning ache that had Stiles panting into Peter’s shoulder.
*Ow!" Stiles cried out, his hands fisting uselessly in the fabric of Peter’s shirt.
"Shh, just relax," Peter said again, not stopping his motions. He crooked his fingers, searching for that specific spot inside the boy that would make him forget the pain and start begging for it.
The sudden shock of Peter grazing that bundle of nerves—not pain, but not quite pleasure either—tore a raw, startled cry from Stiles' throat, his back arching as white-hot pleasure exploded behind his eyelids. For a second, the pain blotted out by a sensation so intense it felt like electricity arcing through his veins. His hips bucked involuntarily, seeking more of that feeling, his body moving without his permission. "What... what was that?" he gasped, his voice cracking as he tried to process the overload on his senses.
Peter chuckled darkly, the sound vibrating against Stiles' back. "That's your prostate, Stiles. It feels good, doesn't it?" He did it again, a deliberate, firm rub that made Stiles' toes curl and his breath catch in a choked sob. It did feel good. It felt terrifyingly good, a sharp contrast to the humiliation burning through his veins.
"I... I don't know," Stiles stammered, his head spinning. It felt wrong to admit it felt good, wrong to enjoy any part of this.
"It’s okay to enjoy it," Peter murmured, his voice a seductive rasp against the shell of Stiles' ear.
"I don't -"
"Liar," Peter teased softly, his tone dripping with dark amusement as he watched the boy crumble. He didn't let up, grinding his fingers insistently against that sensitive spot until Stiles was shaking, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps.
“You have no idea how good your going to feel. So hot. So tight. I can’t wait to fuck you.”
The overwhelming stimulation was short-circuiting Stiles's defenses, the sharp line between pain and pleasure blurring until he couldn't tell where one ended and the other began. He felt exposed, raw, and terrifyingly alive, his hips rocking back in tiny, aborted movements to chase the friction Peter was providing.
By the time Peter added a third finger, the burn had settled into a dull, heavy throb that Stiles found himself instinctively trying to relax into. He was stretched wider than he thought possible, his body forced to accommodate the intrusion in a way that made him feel possessed. Peter worked him open methodically, scissoring his fingers and twisting them, ensuring the boy was loose and slick for what was coming next.
The dirty talk was a constant, low hum, a litany of possession and promise that both terrified and thrilled Stiles. “Opening up so beautifully. You’re going to take all of me, aren’t you, Stiles.”
Stiles let out a broken sob as the third finger withdrew, leaving him feeling abruptly empty and aching, his body pulsing with a confusing mix of relief and disappointment.
“On your stomach,” he commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument. He lifted Stiles easily, positioning him so he was face down on the couch, his cheek pressed into the cool leather. He felt Peter kneel behind him, his hands gripping Stiles’s hips and pulling them up, forcing him to present himself.
“Remember to breathe,” was the only warning he got.
He could feel the blunt, heavy heat of Peter's cock nudging against his loosened entrance, slick and demanding, and panic clawed its way up his throat, sharp and sudden. This was the real thing, the lesson Peter had been building up to, and the sheer size of what was about to happen inside him made the previous stretch of fingers feel insignificant in comparison. "Peter, wait, I-I'm scared," he gasped, his hands flying back to grip Peter's hips, a futile attempt to hold back the inevitable.
"Shh, I have you."
Peter didn't hesitate; he lined himself up and began to press forward, leveraging his weight to breach the loosened muscle. The blunt head of his cock pushed past the initial resistance, forcing a cry from Stiles’ lips as the sheer girth of him demanded entry. It was a slow, relentless burn, a deep, stretching ache that felt impossibly intrusive as Peter sank into him inch by inch.
“Peter! It hurts! Stop!” he gasped, tears welling in his eyes again.
“I know, I know,” Peter soothed, but he didn’t stop. He leaned over, and pressed soft kisses to his shoulders. “The pain is part of it, baby. It’s how you know it’s real. Just breathe. Come on, let me in sweetheart. First time always hurts.”
Stiles sobbed into the couch cushions, his body trembling, but he did as he was told. He breathed. Slowly, the sharp pain faded, leaving only the overwhelming, aching fullness.
"Breathe through it, sweetheart. The worst part is almost over." He pushed forward relentlessly, forcing the tight, untried body to accept every inch of him until he was fully seated, his hips flush against Stiles' backside. The feeling of being so completely filled was overwhelming, a heavy, aching pressure that stole the air from Stiles' lungs and made his vision swim with gray spots. He felt split open, pinned beneath Peter’s weight like a specimen under glass, utterly helpless to do anything but take it.
For a long moment, Peter stayed still, letting them both adjust to the tight connection, his breath coming in ragged gusts against Stiles' ear. He could feel the boy fluttering around him, the frantic rhythm of Stiles' heart hammering against his own chest, and it only made the hunger sharper. "You feel incredible," Peter groaned, his hand smoothing down Stiles' trembling side, settling on his hip to grip him tight. "So tight and hot around me.”
Stiles let out a broken sob, his breath coming in short, panicked hitches. The pain was a dull throb radiating through his pelvis, a sharp contrast to the confusing, heady rush of being so completely possessed. He felt used, dirty, and terrifyingly small, but the arm wrapped around him was solid, anchoring him to the moment. "Please," he whispered, not even sure what he was asking for. "No more. It's too much.."
"I know," Peter soothed, pressing a kiss to the sweat-dampened hair at the base of Stiles' neck. "But you're doing it. You're taking it all. Such a good boy for me." He began to move then, pulling his hips back slowly before snapping them forward, setting a deep, grinding rhythm that forced a cry from Stiles' lips with every thrust. The angle was devastating, hitting that sensitive spot inside him that made pleasure spark through the pain, short-circuiting his resistance and turning his protests into broken, gasping moans.
Stiles' world narrowed down to the sensation of being filled, the drag of Peter's cock against his inner walls, and the overwhelming presence of the man surrounding him. The sounds from the television had faded into white noise, drowned out by the slap of skin on skin and the ragged rhythm of their breathing. He was dimly aware of tears leaking from his eyes, tracking hot paths down his cheeks, but he couldn't find the energy to wipe them away. He just held on, his nails digging into Peter's arm, his body rocking with the force of the thrusts, torn between the instinct to pull away and the overwhelming need to be close, to be filled, to be good.
Peter kept the pace relentless, driving into the boy with a focused intensity that bordered on brutality. He watched Stiles' face, the way his mouth fell open in a silent scream, the way his eyes rolled back when he hit that perfect angle, and it spurred him on.
The voice in his ear was now a rough, possessive snarl. “You like that, don’t you? You like it when I fuck that little spot.” His hands tightened bruisingly on Stiles’s hips, and he slammed into him, hard and deep, right against that magical bundle of nerves.
Stiles cried out, but this time it was all pleasure. “Oh god, Peter!”
“Yeah, that’s it. Say my name,” Peter grunted, setting a brutal, punishing rhythm. The couch rocked with the force of his thrusts. “Taking my cock, moaning for me like a little slut.” The words were filthy, degrading, and they only made the pleasure coil tighter in Stiles’s gut. He was being used, claimed, and he loved it.
He was rock hard again, his own cock rubbing against the leather with every powerful thrust. He was helpless, pinned beneath Peter’s weight, completely at his mercy as Peter drove into him again and again, hitting his prostate with almost unerring accuracy. The room was filled with the slap of skin on skin, Peter’s grunts, and Stiles’s own desperate, whining moans.
"Peter! I'm gonna—”
Peter let out a dark, breathless laugh against the sweat-slicked skin of Stiles' neck. “That’s it,” he murmured, his voice rough with exertion and dark amusement. "Let it happen. You're going to come on Daddy's cock as he fucks your virgin hole."
The words were filthy, a string of obscenities that Stiles would have blushed to hear in any other context, but here, trapped in the haze of pain and overwhelming sensation, they acted like a detonator.
The pressure coiling low in Stiles’ belly snapped, white-hot and blinding, ripping a ragged scream from his throat as his orgasm tore through him. It wasn't like anything he'd ever felt before, a tidal wave of pleasure that bordered on agony, his cock pulsing untouched.
His entire body seized up, back bowing in a taut arc as he spurted hot and messy over Peter’s couch.
The sudden clench of Stiles’s body as he came was Peter’s undoing. The boy’s internal muscles rippled and locked down around him like a vice, a wet, heat-soaked trap that dragged Peter right over the edge with a guttural roar. He buried himself to the hilt one last time, his fingers bruising Stiles's hip as he spilled deep inside, marking the boy from the inside out with a scorching heat that seemed to go on forever. The room filled with the heavy, wet sounds of their breathing and the slick, rhythmic pulsing of Peter’s release, a carnal soundtrack that drowned out the fading moans from the television.
Slowly, the tension drained from Peter’s limbs, leaving him heavy and sated against Stiles’s back. He stayed buried inside the boy for a long moment, pressing soft, possessive kisses to the nape of Stiles's neck, inhaling the scent of sweat, sex, and innocence that had been thoroughly corrupted. Stiles was a ragdoll beneath him, trembling with the aftershocks of his orgasm, his chest heaving as he stared blankly at the floor, looking wrecked and utterly owned. When Peter finally pulled out, he ignored the quiet whimper of loss/relief Stiles made, watching with a dark satisfaction as his release began to leak out of the red, swollen hole, trailing down the boy’s thigh.