Work Text:
Peter is unsurprised to hear the click of a safety.
“I knew you wouldn’t leave it alone,” he says conversationally as he lets go of the door handle and turns around to face the hunter.
Argent’s expression is pure fury as he stalks closer, as he backs Peter against the car and lifts the gun Peter knows is loaded with wolfsbane bullets to press against his cheek. They’re so close their bodies are almost brushing together and Peter can’t help it, he’s getting hard despite the exertion earlier.
“You fucked my daughter,” Argent grits out, the barrel of the gun nudging under Peter’s ear.
“I wouldn’t say I fucked her,” Peter can’t hold back the leer in his voice. “Your daughter rode me hard and put me away wet, just like her Daddy.”
“Shut up,” Argent growls, the sound going straight to Peter’s cock.
“What’s the matter?” Peter smirks. “Did you think she was being a good girl for Daddy, too, just like Lydia?”
And Peter intends it as a barb, to rile up Argent’s anger—to remind him of his fucked up family, of how the pollen had not just affected Peter, affected Allison, but how it was clear to anyone with a nose and a predilection to note just how hard Argent had used little Miss Martin.
He doesn’t expect to scent a surge of arousal to accompany the anger. It hits him almost as hard as the Desert Eagle, whipping across his face to make him bleed.
“You do not talk about my daughter,” Argent snaps as Peter licks blood from his lips, a calloused hand gripping his jacket as the hunter crowds him.
“Jealous?” Peter smirks and it hits him again, the scent of arousal tinged with shame.
To his surprise, Peter doesn’t get another slap across the face; instead, Argent’s jaw clenches and Peter finds himself dragged to the side and spun around, air escaping his lungs when he’s slammed against the car hood.
At least I disabled the alarm, he thinks hazily as Argent pins him down, hand at the back of his neck, the gun barely inches from his face. “Watch the paint job—”
The words are goading, and as expected, Argent yanks Peter’s head up and slams it down again, leaving a dent in the metal and a ringing in his ears, the taste of blood back on his lips.
“Shut. Up.” Argent’s voice is low and rough and oh yeah, he’s hard against Peter’s ass when he leans forward, the gun re-holstered as he shoves his hand under the wolf and yanks at his fly. And Peter didn’t think this confrontation would go like this, he expected cutting words and flying fists, not getting bent over the hood of his BMW with his jeans pulled around his thighs.
Well, not before they’d had some more words anyway.
“I’m surprised you can still get it up,” Peter’s voice is muffled but still carries venom as Argent presses a dry thumb against his hole. “After how you fucked Lydia. Did she beg you to fuck her in the ass or did you just take what you wanted, shove your dick into all her pretty holes?”
Argent freezes and Peter presses on. “Your daughter likes face-fucking as much as you do.”
“Shut up!” Argent’s words come out as a growl but Peter can smell the arousal, can smell his words are only stoking the fire. He wonders if the hunter is thinking about Allison on her knees, pretty mouth wrapped around Peter’s knot, or if he’s thinking about something else entirely. Well, not entirely, something still involving those pretty cupid lips.
“That’s what she said,” Peter can’t help but smirk. “She slapped me, too, before she rode my face. She tastes so fucking good, came so hard on my tongue I can still taste her—”
Peter has never known when to stop pushing. When Argent yanks him up away from the car and shoves him down, it’s hard enough to bruise and bloody his knees, and fuck the gun is back, the cold muzzle pressing into Peter’s cheek.
“Open up,” Argent’s eyes are dark with lust and anger, a heady mix that reminds Peter of why they started this, why he first spread his legs for a hunter. It’s been a while since it was like this, violent and angry but Peter welcomes it, welcomes the sheer power of such a connection, the strength of emotion in the words.
Peter opens his mouth and tilts his head back obediently, eyes sparkling with delight.
The sound of Argent’s zipper sounds impossibly loud, the hiss of the belt as it comes undone, and Peter flicks his tongue against his lips to get them wet in preparation. He can already smell the precome leaking from the hunter’s cock, can almost taste it, mixing with the lingering remains of another on his tongue.
“Not so keen to talk now,” Argent murmurs, voice rough and dark as he frees his cock. “So fucking desperate for it.”
Peter doesn’t deny it; why would he when Argent can plainly see how hard he is, jeans still pulled down his thighs.
He’s surprised when Argent doesn’t immediately shove it in, doesn’t try to choke the words out of Peter by cutting off his air; instead, the hunter drags the head of his cock over Peter’s lips, stains his cheeks with it. Peter closes his eyes and gets sticky eyelashes for it, the act of marking clear in the action, all the while the muzzle of the gun is digging into his flesh hard enough to bruise.
Peter opens his eyes and looks up at Argent. “Lydia looks so pretty with her face covered in come, doesn’t she?”
Pain blossoms across his face as Argent hits him again with the gun. He can taste blood and he laughs as he’s grabbed by the hair, the sound turning into a choked-off moan as the hunter drags Peter’s mouth on his cock.
Fuck, this is what he loves; he loves having his mouth used, using his mouth, the weight of a heavy cock on his tongue, the taste of salt and skin. He lets his jaw go loose, lets Argent fuck into his throat, make him choke, and it’s perfect.
It’s so easy to get a hand on his dick like this, to stroke himself in counterpoint to Argent’s thrusts, to squeeze the slick head when his hair is yanked hard and the hunter pulls back, letting Peter breathe for a glorious moment.
They both know Peter could end this in a heartbeat but doesn’t, that he gets off on the fact that he’s egging Argent on as much as he does on the pain and the illusion of being forced down, of being made to take it.
Peter’s eyes flash blue and Argent groans, his grip on Peter’s hair tightening as he starts to strip his spit-slick cock. It’s only a matter of moments until the hunter is coming, until Peter’s face is splashed with hot white.
He licks his come-splattered lips, jerking himself faster even as Argent crouches down. To his surprise, Argent reaches out to wrap a hand around Peter’s cock and he lets go, lets his hips buck up into the hunter’s hold, chasing his own release.
The orgasm hits him hard, has him hunching over as pleasure crashes over him. He whines high in his throat as Argent milks his cock with fast little jerks that are almost painful, almost too much, fucking perfect.
Peter groans when he slumps back against the car, as Argent wipes his come-covered hand on Peter’s jeans. He’s unsurprised when Argent sits down heavily, their shoulders brushing against each other.
“So…” Peter says after a while. “Feel better?”
“Not really.” Argent sighs, but his scent is less angry, less bitter. There’s still guilt and resignation, but that, too, is not as strong as before.
Peter doesn’t offer reassurance.
They stand up and make themselves presentable; it is unlikely anyone would happen upon them here, on the deserted backside of Derek’s building, but Peter has no desire to spend any more time with his ass hanging out of his pants. It’s still perfectly clear what they were up to, with the stains and the fact that Peter’s face itches with dried come.
“I’m going to go talk to Allison,” Argent says quietly, but the undercurrent of anger is gone, replaced by concern.
The conversation at the Argent household is likely to be interesting; Peter wishes he could be a fly on the wall, to see if what he thinks he may have caught a glimpse of during their interactions has a grain of truth to it. But no, Peter has somewhere else to be.
Someone really ought to check on Lydia—someone who knows just how rough Argent likes it.