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∙◦∙
Tonight’s the full moon, and Peter is already feeling its effects crawling under his skin—has been all day, really.
Since this morning, there have been signs, minor symptoms gradually getting more and more challenging to ignore. He can barely concentrate. Everything’s too hot, but somehow, also as cold as ice. He can’t, for all his efforts, get his body to settle on a comfortable temperature. It’s beyond vexing. His clothes are scratchy, the fabric sticking to the thick layer of sweat covering his skin, but whenever he rips off a few layers, he starts shivering.
Unsurprisingly, he's irritable, quarreling and snapping at things that normally receive a simple eye roll. His senses are also heightening as the hours creep closer to evening, and it's becoming unbearable.
There was pack business that needed attention, nothing major, but with all the pups out of town and Stiles spending the day with his father, Peter reluctantly agreed when Derek called for assistance. If there was another option, Peter wouldn't have dared to leave the house. He hadn’t bothered reminding Stiles of the date either. The boy would've insisted they spend the whole day in bed—which Peter is kicking himself for passing up now—at the price of sacrificing his father's rare day off, and Peter just couldn’t bring himself to be that selfish.
(Well, he probably could, but his soft side won out, and what's done is done.)
Now that he's mated, it’s even harder to resist the pull of the moon. Before, he could ignore it well enough, but now, the urge to run back to his mate and breed him is too strong to avoid. It distracts his thoughts all damn day.
Derek noticed something was wrong as soon as Peter turned up at the Loft this morning. Of course, he did. He’s a perceptive fucker when it suits him, and it's all his beloved beta could do to make the day even more insufferable. The teasing and jibing were unnecessary, but Peter thinks his nephew relishes in being a prick, and he can say with utmost confidence that he liked the boy better before they repaired their broken bond.
At least the talking was minimal.
"I'm going home," Peter announces as the clock changes to seven. After eight hours of planning and researching in his nephew's general vicinity, he's so fucking done.
"But we haven't—"
"I couldn't give a flying fuck what we haven't done,” Peter snaps, earning a smirk from his nephew that makes his fangs itch. “It can wait until tomorrow, but for now, I'm leaving."
"As you wish, Alpha."
Peter glares at Derek’s mocking tone, debating if Stiles would forgive him for murdering their nephew. He could argue he wasn’t in his right mind, but that excuse may have already run its course.
Scoffing, he walks away, gritting his teeth at the deep chuckle that follows behind him. He’s not sorry for almost wrenching the Loft door off its hinges or for how the building shakes as he slams it closed.
Not sorry one bit.
∙◦∙
The drive home is a blur, his surroundings nothing compared to thoughts of Stiles's ass strangling his knots, his belly bulging as he’s filled over and over and over again.
Peter's cock throbs in his jeans, the friction against the zipper both painful and perfect. He’s so fucking hard he wouldn’t need much more than a light press of his palm before he’s making a mess of himself. He needs to be home… right the fuck now.
Peter barely has enough presence of mind to close the car door behind him before stalking up the path to their home. Stiles's Jeep is parked just in front of his, meaning he's already home from his father's, and Peter is thanking every God above for that mercy.
Peter will no doubt be scolded for dumping the car halfway across the little patch of grass his mate fondly calls a yard—leaving tire marks in his wake—but he'll deal with all that tomorrow.
As soon as he walks through the front door, the scent of his mate almost knocks him off his feet. Quickly righting himself, he follows the caramel apple cloud and finds Stiles in the kitchen, pottering around with God’s know what. Peter sneaks up behind him, placing both hands on the counter at either side of Stiles's waist. He clutches the marble like a lifeline as he leans in and takes a deep inhale from the back of Stiles’s neck.
Peter sags as the smell wraps around him, his eyes rolling into the back of his skull. He wants to be bundled up with that scent forever, bottle it up and drink it down whenever he needs the comfort. It's a drug, and he's so fucking addicted.
Craving a taste, he nips and kisses Stiles's nape, sucking every inch of pale flesh he can reach until it blooms a raw shade of pink.
"Hello to you too, wolfy," Stiles giggles as Peter scrapes his beard over the sweet spot below his ear—exactly how he likes it.
Sure enough, Stiles tilts his head to expose his neck further—much to his wolf's delight—breathy moans falling from his lax mouth as Peter continues littering his milky skin with purple bites.
Peter starts grinding against his mate, fuelled by the arousal growing in the air around them, thick enough to seep into his pores.
"What's gotten into you?" Stiles murmurs. "Not that I'm complaining, but—" Stiles twists to face Peter, meeting his eye, and something dark and hungry must be staring back, making words die on his tongue.
"You have ten seconds to get your pretty little ass upstairs and on the bed or, for the next few hours, I'll be fucking and knotting you right here on the kitchen floor."
Stiles chuckles nervously, but his eyes twinkle with mischief. He feigns indifference through a shrug. "That doesn't sound—"
"Ten..."
Stiles releases a pointed shriek, ducks under Peter's arm, and scrambles to the other side of the breakfast bar in a graceless rush. Peter deliberately stalks towards him with animalistic growls rumbling in his chest. The edges of his vision bleed a fierce scarlet, fangs peek past his lips, and claws extend in place of his fingernails.
He's losing control, and he's losing it fast.
A flicker of understanding passes over the boy’s features, realization finally dawning on him in the form of a near-silent "oh.” He takes a quick glance over his shoulder to the window—the full moon glaring brightly back at him—before snapping his attention back to Peter.
Stiles gulps as he carefully retreats in time with each of Peter’s steps forward. The boy's movements are calculated like any sudden motion will trigger the wild animal to lunge at him. He's a clever boy, but that just won't do. Peter is impatient. Peter's wolf is impatient.
“Nine...” Peter snarls dangerously, enjoying his mate’s hitch in breath.
"Fuck," Stiles curses, and his face contorts through several quick-fire emotions—Peter can almost hear the motion of his brain sifting and sorting—before he whirls on his heel and bolts into the hall.
Eight… Seven…
Peter has to channel his willpower to stay rooted to the spot. His instincts are screaming at him to chase, to run after the startled fawn and pin him to the floor, to roar in victory as his prize writhes under his paw, but he’ll give the boy a chance. He’ll let Stiles think he can make it to his destination before he's pounced on and mounted.
Six… Five…
Peter starts to pace, a caged animal gnashing his fangs waiting to be released. Back and forth he strides, his supernatural hearing catching every one of his mate’s galumphing footsteps and each rabbit beat of his heart.
Four… Three…
Peter's body is singing, every single nerve ending alight with an electric current of desire. His cock is aching, pulsing in time with his ragged breaths. It's too much. Everything is too tight, too loud. He needs release; he needs his mate.
Two…
One.
Peter barrels through the house, uncaring when something smashes to the floor behind him. He scrambles up the stairs on all fours like a rabid dog, faltering in his step as a small gasp flits towards his ears. Peter's attention snaps to Stiles—standing frozen at the top of the stairs. He's staring down at Peter with wide eyes, and lust billows around him like an aura.
Peter grins, no doubt looking manic as he uses the boy's obvious brain malfunction to his advantage and leaps into action. Stiles yelps as Peter lands in the hallway behind him with a thundering growl. The boy tries to keep running, but Peter captures him just as he reaches the door to their room.
Peter tugs Stiles into his arms and smashes his nose against the silvery scar right in the crease of his shoulder—his mating mark. He grazes his fangs over the raised skin, and when Stiles tips his head back, he seals his lips around it, adding a livid bruise.
Peter gets greedier as the boy moans, but he fights against himself for one last confirmation. "We don't have to— I can stop if you—"
"Don't you fucking dare stop," Stiles cuts in, imitating a beast's snarl. He's panting, chest rising and falling almost comically fast, and he smells... Gods, his smell. "Come on, wolfy, give me everything you've got."
Peter doesn’t need any more encouragement than that.
Stiles's clothes tear easily at the seams, and Peter is oblivious to where the tattered ribbons fall. He lifts his mate, carrying him to the bed and throwing him down in the middle. Peter's clothes add to the pile of shreds before he crawls over his mate, predatory in his movements.
Peter rests above Stiles, keeping his weight on his elbows but staying close enough for their groins and bellies to touch. The skin-on-skin contact is divine, and Peter drags his cock against Stiles's thigh, grunting at the delicious hint of friction. But it's not enough.
"Stiles," he whines, bucking his hips with more urgency.
Thankfully, his mate seems to understand.
Stiles taps Peter on the shoulder, urging him to sit back, but when Peter refuses to budge, the boy huffs. "I need you to move, so I can get myself ready for you." To Peter's answering growl of frustration, Stiles changes the tone of his voice to something meeker, breathier. "Don't you want to fuck me, Alpha?"
Yes. "Need— Mate."
Stiles cups Peter's jaw, demanding his attention. "I know, baby, so let me give you what you need."
Reluctantly, Peter crawls away, lifting himself to sit on his knees. He digs his claws into his palms to stave off the intense compulsion to pounce. Stiles notices and wastes no time in reaching over to grab a clear bottle from their bedside table.
Peter is entranced as Stiles settles on his back and spreads his legs wide, baring himself completely to Peter’s ravenous gaze. He's ethereal, glistening with a thin sheen of sweat and lithe muscles flexing under his skin as he plunges two slick digits into his hole.
Peter missed the boy opening the bottle and covering his fingers in lube, obviously losing time as he focused on devouring every inch of his mate with his eyes, imagining licking up each bead of sweat and tracing each mole with his tongue.
Peter makes a noise in the back of his throat. It could be a whimper, could be a growl. Whatever it is, it captures Stiles's attention as he lies there, opening himself up for his Alpha's knot. He's a sight to behold, and Peter's already frail patience is now almost painful to endure—he's tiptoeing across a knives-edge.
"Touch me," Stiles pleads, mouth gaping with cute little moans as he twists his wrist, scissoring his fingers before adding a third. "Please, Peter."
Peter’s hands are on Stiles before he even comprehends the movement, squeezing his thighs and prying them apart even further. Peter’s mouth waters as he watches Stiles’s pretty pink hole flutter and loosen. He wants to taste, to spear his tongue and eat him out until his mate is begging for—
A broken moan reaches Peter’s ears, and he looks up to see Stiles’s back arching off the mattress. He must have spoken his thoughts out loud, slurred his desires through his fangs like a starving man slavering over a feast. Peter also notices, through his distraction, his claws were raking against the boy’s delicate inner thighs, red welts already rising to the surface. He does it again, starting at Stiles’s hipbones and dragging downward to his knees, eliciting the same reaction from his mate.
Stiles moans his name like a prayer as his body makes a perfect arc. His fingers work faster, losing any pretense of rhythm or purpose. Peter fixates on the boy's cock, now purple with need and leaking a steady stream over his toned stomach, matting the hair below his navel.
Peter doesn’t think, he just acts, diving forward to lick up each pearlescent drop, giving in to his want to taste. A full-bodied shudder travels through him—starting right from the tip of his toes—as the sweet and salty essence of pure Stiles bursts across his tongue. There's a harsh pull in the pit of his belly, too hot and insistent to make sense of it, and before Peter fully knows what's happening, his cock kicks, and he comes.
It punches through him, so strong and sudden that he doubles over, grunting as if wounded as his muscles violently clench and unclench. His already fogged brain short-circuits, and his legs shake with every tremor of pleasure, his forehead pressing against Stiles's stomach as he pants through it.
Peter waits for a bout of clarity to hit him, but it doesn’t come—if anything, it's even worse. It barely took the edge off. The fire still burns hotly through his veins, and his cock is still hard and straining between his thighs.
He needs more. So much more.
"That was so ho—" Stiles's sentence freezes in his throat as Peter's head snaps up.
Peter knows he must look utterly wrecked and feral. He's shifted—he couldn't hold it at bay any longer. He snarls, completely lost to the beast, and Stiles submits eagerly, baring his throat once more. Peter rumbles in approval and tugs at Stiles's ankle, flipping the boy onto his belly. Stiles lets himself be manhandled like a rag doll, limp under Peter's hands as he positions his mate to his liking before fucking into him without pause.
Stiles cries out as Peter’s balls connect with his ass in one sure glide, knuckles blooming white as he grips the sheets underneath him for purchase. All the air escapes Peter's lungs, the tight heat around his cock making his vision blur and his hips stutter. He's sensitive from already coming once, but he pushes through it, frantic to breed and knot his mate. Determined to prove exactly who he belongs to.
Instinct drives Peter's movements, showing no mercy as he relentlessly pounds in and out of his mate's slick hole, claws piercing the boy's hips as he yanks him back to meet each thrust. Droplets of blood prickle to the surface, the copper tang mixing with sweat and sex, turning Peter into nothing but a slave to his needs.
Stiles moans at the pain, the rich musk of his arousal almost choking with its potency. The boy tries to rock back but struggles to keep up with Peter's brutal momentum, so he goes pliant, giving himself over entirely. His mumbled pleas of "more" and "use me" are wet against the pillow as he sobs, squirming and trembling in a desperate bid to be fucked harder and faster.
Peter goes wild, high on all sorts of endorphins rushing through him. He fucks Stiles with everything he has, using him like a cock sleeve to chase his end. There's no restraint, no holding back, just pure primal possessiveness. Nothing else matters but filling the boy with his pups and making him his.
"Mine."
Stiles is talking, babbling lust-riddled encouragements, but Peter can only make out every other word. It's like he's underwater, all sounds garbled around him. He's drowning in so much scent and pleasure that everything else outside no longer registers.
The base of his cock starts to swell, the fit tightening as his thrusts lose coordination. His mate mewls and moans through it, his body accepting everything it's given, sucking Peter in deeper like it was made solely for this purpose.
"Mine," Peter snarls again, his hips stuttering as his knot catches on Stiles's rim; one, two, three more bucks, and he can no longer retreat. His balls draw up, that blazing heat in his belly insistent as he grinds against his mate's ass.
The scent of his mate's release hits Peter like a freight train. Stiles trembles underneath him, milking Peter's knot as he shatters apart with a broken cry.
Peter falls forward—his hands on either side of Stiles's shoulders—groaning as the twisting sensation inside him finally unravels. He clutches the bedsheets, tearing through the fabric as he floods Stiles with his come.
It goes on and on, his hips absently churning as he rides out each rush of ecstasy. His arms buckle, now resting on his elbows, letting the aftershocks pulse through him, basking in their glow.
It could be minutes, it could be hours before he's no longer floating on air. With every heaving gulp of breath, his shift recedes, lucidity coming back to him in fragments. He blinks to clear the last of the haze, chest puffing out proudly at the sight of his mate laying boneless and spent beneath him.
They're still tied together, that much Peter knows as he cautiously repositions them onto their sides. Stiles whimpers, but he soon settles in the circle of Peter's arms, his contentment obvious in his fuck-drunk smile.
Through the blissful silence, Peter lazily strokes the boy's skin, but his fingers halt over the weeping gashes on his mate's hips.
Guilt instantly wells in his chest.
"I'm fine, wolfy," Stiles mumbles sleepily, and Peter startles. "Your thoughts aren't as quiet as you think."
Peter huffs a laugh as he hooks his chin over his mate's shoulder, tightening his embrace. Sometimes he forgets how intune Stiles is with his emotions, reading Peter as well as any wolf—it makes his heart leap. "But I hurt you."
"And I liked it," Stiles is quick with his reassurance, and Peter snorts—okay, he really should know that by now. "Besides, we're not done yet, are we?" the boy continues, his question rhetorical and his tone taking on a suggestive lilt. "I'll bet 'm gonna be covered in your marks before the end of the night."
Peter's vision flashes with crimson, and his hips roll of their own accord, earning him a choked-off moan. The beast is already stirring at the promise of more, eager to oblige his mate in marking him up for the world to see.
Peter leans forward, lips ghosting against Stiles's ear, voice a low, rumbling purr. "Yes, you will."