Chapter Text
“Uhn!” The grunt was forced from Stiles as he hit the forest floor – his landing kicking up dust and leaves that immediately threatened to attack his nose. A second whimper of sound escaped the teen as Peter’s weight swiftly followed to settle atop of him, making him very aware of every root and rock digging into his back. Stiles glared at the werewolf who was half-kneeling straddled over him, half sitting on his hips – the asshole was heavy.
“Really, Stiles?” Peter asked, his brows lowered as if the boy pinned beneath him was somehow disappointing him.
Stiles wished that he could push the man off, or at least express his current feelings with an appropriate hand gesture, but he wasn’t allowed to act on either impulse. Peter had captured his wrists upon landing and had both of Stiles’ hands trapped above his head. The teenager had to be satisfied with a disgruntled noise and a squinting glare as he fought to regain his breath.
The wolf’s eyes narrowed at the insolent response and he settled a little more of his weight onto Stiles in retaliation, causing the teen to hiss in discomfort – there was a really big rock stabbing him in the small of his back.
“That was sloppy, Stiles,” a stern voice broke in. Stiles turned his head to find Chris Argent leaning against a nearby tree, his arms crossed and his pale eyes hard.
These particular training days were quickly becoming the bane of Stiles’ existence. Since the pack/hunter “peace accords”, Argent and Peter had come to their own unofficial understanding – each pretended that the other didn’t exist, and thus they resisted the urge to kill one another. The only time this unspoken rule was stretched was on the days that they decided to team up on Stiles’ training. The intensity of their animosity was inevitably refocused into the lesson, with the unfortunate result that Stiles usually ended up completely battered and exhausted. Never mind that the combined knowledge of the hunter and werewolf was beyond amazing – Stiles was usually too busy aching to really appreciate it.
“You’re supposed to be using your opponent’s strength against him, not letting him throw you around,” the hunter continued.
“Letting him?” Stiles finally managed to gasp, outrage coloring his words. “He’s a fricking werewolf – he’s got a lot of strength! I think throwing me around is the most likely outcome of any fight between us.”
Argent’s eyes narrowed. “That’s the whole point of the lesson, Stiles!” he barked. “The next creature you encounter might be even stronger than a werewolf. We’re trying to give you options to defend yourself when you’re cornered without weapons or backup – so start putting in a little effort!”
Stiles looked away from Argent’s unyielding gaze, his nose wrinkling in annoyance at having to admit that the man had a good point.
“I think Stiles is distracted,” Peter’s smooth voice immediately caused Stiles’ eyes to snap to the man, but when the teen found the wolf gazing down at him with a crooked smirk, he quickly looked away again.
“Gee, I wonder why,” the teenager muttered under his breath, feeling heat rise on his cheeks.
But of course the wolf could hear his words. Peter cocked his head to the side and his eyes sparkled as he watched the pinned boy. “Am I distracting, Stiles?” he questioned.
“A psychopathic molester sitting on top of me? Distracting? Nah,” Stiles tried to answer as airily as possible, but he could already feel his heartbeat speeding up. He squirmed a bit in a hopeless effort to free himself.
“You know, distraction can also be an effective method of dealing with an opponent,” Peter told him matter-of-factly. The wolf’s grip tightened on Stiles’ captive wrists, causing the teen to still as Peter began to lift one of his arms away from the ground. “Maybe we should shift the focus of today’s training. Give you a … demonstration,” Peter’s lips curled evilly on the last word.
“No, no that’s okay,” Stiles hurriedly said, trying to keep his voice from squeaking as he nervously watched Peter raise his arm. “I’m fine with you throwing me around,” he realized what he’d said and quickly tried to correct himself. “I mean-”
“Pay attention, Stiles,” Peter ordered in a soft, liquid voice. Stiles’ mouth snapped shut and he could feel his eyes widening to epic proportions as the wolf slowly brought Stiles’ wrist to his mouth.
Peter’s lips brushed lightly against his skin, before the man’s mouth suddenly opened wide and covered the inside of his wrist. Stiles briefly flashed back to that night in the parking garage when Peter had offered the bite. But there were no teeth involved in this motion – only the warm, wet pull of Peter’s mouth as he closed it over the teen’s skin, dragging his lips together until they met with a pop in something that was uncomfortably close to a kiss. Stiles found himself unable to do more than stare at the wolf in utter shock. Peter’s eyes flickered to meet the teen’s stupefied gaze, and for a moment the pale orbs flared electric-blue.
An odd little noise escaped Stiles’ throat, startling the teen out of his daze. Suddenly he remembered where they were and what they had been in the midst of doing. The teen glanced quickly over at Argent, fully expecting the hunter to be storming toward them with a look of murder on his face. But Argent was still leaning against the tree, and the man rolled his eyes at Stiles when he met his gaze.
“Let me know when you’re ready to get back to work,” he said irritably before turning and disappearing into the woods.
Stiles stared after him. That was it? He was leaving Stiles alone with the creeper like this? That couldn’t be right, could it?
“Stiles,” Peter murmured, close enough that Stiles immediately jerked his gaze back to the werewolf. The man was leaning over him, only an inch or two separating their faces. “You’re getting distracted,” he chided, his eyes dancing with humor. Then he closed the distance between them and licked Stiles’ cheek.
That odd noise came from the teen’s throat again, only this time it sounded far too much like a moan. “You should not be doing this,” Stiles gasped. His words felt insignificant and barely audible over his wildly pounding heart.
Peter merely chuckled and moved his lips to Stiles’ jaw, teeth nipping and tongue swiping at the sensitive skin. Stiles shifted restlessly beneath the wolf’s weight, feeling his body heat up in response to the unexpected attention. Or maybe it was Peter’s body that was heating him – draped almost flush on top of him, hot and hard and unyielding as it pressed him to the ground. And that shouldn’t be a turn on – being trapped beneath the older man – but, God, it so definitely was.
“O-oh, God,” Stiles stuttered out on another moan as Peter’s mouth skimmed down his neck and then up again. This was definitely wrong. He should be freaking out right now. He should be trying to throw the wolf off. He should be doing something other than lying there and letting Peter molest him. Stiles whimpered and tilted his head so that Peter would have better access. And no, that was not the something he should be doing, he scolded himself. The reprimand didn’t seem to convince his body though as the heat he felt suddenly focused on his groin.
“Stiles, wake up,” Peter murmured against his ear.
“Hmm?” The teenager groaned as the wolf’s teeth tugged at his earlobe.
“Stiles! Wake up!”
“Wah-what?” Stiles sat up quickly, flailing in alarm at the shout. For a moment he was confused by the fabric wrapping around him and the bright light shining in his eyes. It wasn’t until he almost tumbled from the bed that he finally began to process his situation. His observations came in roughly this order: 1) he was in his own room, 2) there was morning light streaming in his window, 3) he’d just had an incredibly wacked out dream, and 4) his dad was standing in his doorway, looking at him like he wasn’t quite sure what to make of his weirdo son.
“Hey there, Dad,” Stiles offered weakly, squinting against his grogginess and the bright morning light.
The Sheriff opened his mouth as if he wanted to ask a question, then closed it, shook his head, and instead said, “You know what? I don’t want to know.” Stiles was abruptly hit with the terrifying prospect of just what he might have done or said in his sleep in the midst of a dream like that while his dad was watching. “You’re going to be late for school if you don’t get up now, Stiles.” Still shaking his head, his dad turned and walked out of Stiles’ room.
The teen flopped back against his pillow with a sigh, his eyes closing. A second later they blinked open. Stiles lifted the edge of his sheet and looked down before letting out a dismayed huff of annoyance. Oh, he was definitely going to be late for school. And he was going to need a cold shower.