![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
moonlettuceTitle: These Chains That I Hold
Author: Claire
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing(s): Chris Argent / Peter Hale
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1,835
Summary: In which Peter goes to his knees
Additional Notes: Beta'ed by Temaris.
These Chains That I Hold
Peter doesn't go there every day, or sometimes even every week. Just when he needs it. Just when the reality hits a little too close, that he's one step away from being an omega because the pack that's now in his own family's territory, the pack that contains his nephew and his beta, doesn't actually want him. Just when he wakes up, shivering from the nightmares and with the smell of smoke so overwhelming that he needs to get out, to touch someone, anyone.
The bar's barely changed since Peter first stepped foot in it when he was seventeen. There's still the familiar smell of about a dozen different types of beer, and the same stain on the wood floor in front of the bar that Peter thinks is blood, but has never known for sure.
Sliding onto a stool, Peter orders a beer. He doesn't care what kind, he's not here to get drunk and he won't drink most of it anyway. He keeps glancing towards the small corridor that leads to the toilets, absently running a finger over the condensation on the glass while he surveys the rest of the room. The bar's not busy, there are less than 20 people in, including him and the barman. But at least two of them have been watching Peter since he came in, at least two of them know exactly what he's there for.
Meeting the gaze of the guy at the other end of the bar, the one who's had his eye on Peter since he sat down, Peter smirks. He motions towards the toilets with a subtle wave of his hand and gets a nod in return. Leaving his drink on the bar, Peter pushes himself off the bar stool and heads over.
The toilets are empty, the chemical smell of cleaner coming from the urinals and the two cubicles with their doors open. This isn't the nicest place Peter has done this, but it's certainly not the worst. (His mind flicks back to the summer he was twenty and in New York. The summer Talia had sent him away for reasons she'd decided to keep to herself. He remembers being on his knees in the back of a club, the scent of piss and come around him and the taste of three different guys in his mouth.)
He slips into one of cubicles, shutting the door behind him just seconds before he hears someone else walk in. It doesn't take long before the other cubicle is occupied, a shadow falling across the cut-away circle in the wall, and the sound of clothes being adjusted.
Peter's just getting to his knees when the hard cock pokes through the hole, and he doesn't even think about it before he leans forward and wraps his lips around it.
There are noises coming from the other cubicle, gasps and moans and utterances of "yes--", but Peter ignores them. He's good at this, he knows he is. He's spent enough time on his knees to know how to work a cock in his mouth.
It's only minutes until there's a grunt from the other side of the wall, until the cock he's sucking spasms and bitter floods over his tongue. Peter pulls away as soon as the guy has finished coming, leaning over to spit into the toilet. (He doesn't swallow, he never swallows. Not here. That is reserved for when he wants to be on his knees, not when he needs to be.) He thinks that maybe he should have brought his drink in with him, should have brought in something to rinse his mouth out with, but he has no desire to go back out to the bar.
There's a muttered out "thanks--" and the sound of clothes being rearranged before Peter's alone once more.
He's not alone for long. Not for long, before the door to the toilets opens again and the sound of footsteps has Peter's breath catching in his throat.
He's knows it's Argent before the man even steps into the other cubicle. He would know it's a hunter from the scent of gunpowder and aconite clinging to the other man. He's knows it's Argent because of the Old Spice that barely just covers the scent of Chris.
There's a moment where Peter thinks he should leave before this even starts, thinks he should slip out of the cubicle, out of the room, out of the bar. Slip out and leave Chris Argent to find someone else to go to their knees for him. But the only thing outside of the bar is an empty apartment and the sound of his sister screaming every time he closes his eyes.
There's the rustle of jeans being opened and only a few seconds pass before flesh is being slid through the hole in the wall.
And Peter knows he shouldn't, knows there are a hundred reasons why this a bad idea, and not all of them are wrapped around words such as fire and hunter. He knows he shouldn't, but he leans forward anyway.
Argent's cock is thick and warm on Peter's tongue, and Peter flicks at the head. Does it again to hear the groan. Argent's not fully hard, but he's getting there, and Peter has always loved feeling a cock stiffen in his mouth. Always loved the sense of power it gave him. He was making Argent hard. A wolf, on his knees, and a hunter sliding the most vulnerable part of his body between Peter's lips.
He closes his eyes as he moves forward, swallowing more of Argent down. He doesn't need his sight here, doesn't need to see the dirty gray cubicle walls and the graffiti that says to call Mike for a good time. All he needs is scent and sound. All he needs is the almost taste of the arousal in the air, of the need and want Argent has for a stranger on his knees. All he needs is the soft gasps as he curls his tongue around hard flesh, as he scrapes teeth gently over skin, as he hears the "Yeah, that's right, take it--"
Peter flicks open his jeans, and he's never done this before, has never gotten hard when sucking someone, but he's hard now. Straining behind denim all because of a hunter's dick in his mouth. And he knows Talia would hate him for this, for being on his knees, not only for a hunter, but for the man whose sister destroyed their entire family. But Peter also knows she would hate him for everything he did after the fire, for killing her eldest and breaking her last remaining son. And Peter tipped those scales against him a long time ago, so the act of taking Argent into his mouth is nothing more than the weight of a feather.
He fishes his cock out, wrapping his fingers around the hardness to jerk himself. The catch of dry skin against dry skin has Peter pulling back from Argent's cock briefly to spit into his palm, a slick mixture of saliva and precome that smoothes the touch of his fingers over his dick.
There's silence from Argent before "Are you--" and the cock in Peter's mouth twitches at each wet glide of Peter's fingers. "Fuck, yes, touch yourself--"
Peter stills for a moment, a part of him rebelling at the thought of doing anything a hunter says, of doing anything an Argent says. But his cock pulses hot in his hand, and he wants this. He matches the movements over his cock with those over Argent's, jerking and licking at the same pace.
Teeth and tongue and lips all work the cock in his mouth, and he can tell Argent's getting close. Can tell it from the hitch in Argent's breath and the sharp tang of arousal flooding the air.
There are words coming from Argent. "Yes--" and "fuck--" and "jesus christ, your mouth--" Words that come between the pants of breath and soft moans that accompany every sweep of Peter's tongue.
There's a gasped out "Gonna--", and then a beat, before Argent's flooding his mouth, hot across Peter's tongue. And Peter doesn't pull away, doesn't pull back, just swallows Argent down. His tongue flicks out, lapping at Argent's cock until he stops twitching in his mouth, until he starts softening, slipping out of Peter's lips.
Peter reaches out, one hand against the cool cubicle wall as he works his cock with the other. Fingers, slipping over hard flesh, and he can feel it building in him with each motion. Feel it building, tight and low and just out of reach.
He tightens his grip, claws scraping lightly against the wall, and doesn't think anything of the sound of rustling coming from the other side, doesn't think anything about the sound of knees hitting the floor. Doesn't think anything until fingers reach through the hole in the wall, reach through and run across his hand as Argent murmurs "Come for me, Peter--"
It jack-knifes through him, hot and sharp and perfect as he spills into his hand, come running over his fingers.
There's nothing surrounding them but the sound of Peter's breathing, harsh and fast, and the scent of both of them in the air.
Argent's fingers are still on his hand, warm and grounding and Peter thinks he should move his hand away, but he doesn't.
Argent's talking to him now, voice low and steady. There are words swimming around Peter's head, saying "I know you come here, Peter--" and "You don't have to, not any more--" and "I'll be waiting outside for you, if you want--" and, most damning of all, "It's your choice, Peter--"
And then Argent, Chris, is gone, and Peter's left alone. Left alone, on his knees, the sound of dripping coming from one of the sinks and the smell of come and piss and other things Peter doesn't want to think about surrounding him.
It's your choice, Peter--
Tucking himself back into his jeans, Peter gets to his feet. There's a back door out of the bar, one that bypasses the car park, that will bypass wherever Chris is parked, but Peter knows he won't use it.
It's his choice. And it's not a choice Talia would have made, putting himself into the hands of a hunter, trusting himself in the hands of a hunter. But Talia's gone, and the smell of smoke isn't so strong when Chris is around.
Walking out of the toilets, Peter heads towards the door, ignoring the guy at the pool table trying to catch his eye.
There's a bite to the air when Peter makes it outside, and Chris is waiting for him, as he said he would. Leaning against his truck, his shoulders relaxing when he sees Peter.
Peter takes a breath, and nods as he closes the distance between them.
It's his choice. And he's making it.
Author: Claire
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing(s): Chris Argent / Peter Hale
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1,835
Summary: In which Peter goes to his knees
Additional Notes: Beta'ed by Temaris.
These Chains That I Hold
Peter doesn't go there every day, or sometimes even every week. Just when he needs it. Just when the reality hits a little too close, that he's one step away from being an omega because the pack that's now in his own family's territory, the pack that contains his nephew and his beta, doesn't actually want him. Just when he wakes up, shivering from the nightmares and with the smell of smoke so overwhelming that he needs to get out, to touch someone, anyone.
The bar's barely changed since Peter first stepped foot in it when he was seventeen. There's still the familiar smell of about a dozen different types of beer, and the same stain on the wood floor in front of the bar that Peter thinks is blood, but has never known for sure.
Sliding onto a stool, Peter orders a beer. He doesn't care what kind, he's not here to get drunk and he won't drink most of it anyway. He keeps glancing towards the small corridor that leads to the toilets, absently running a finger over the condensation on the glass while he surveys the rest of the room. The bar's not busy, there are less than 20 people in, including him and the barman. But at least two of them have been watching Peter since he came in, at least two of them know exactly what he's there for.
Meeting the gaze of the guy at the other end of the bar, the one who's had his eye on Peter since he sat down, Peter smirks. He motions towards the toilets with a subtle wave of his hand and gets a nod in return. Leaving his drink on the bar, Peter pushes himself off the bar stool and heads over.
The toilets are empty, the chemical smell of cleaner coming from the urinals and the two cubicles with their doors open. This isn't the nicest place Peter has done this, but it's certainly not the worst. (His mind flicks back to the summer he was twenty and in New York. The summer Talia had sent him away for reasons she'd decided to keep to herself. He remembers being on his knees in the back of a club, the scent of piss and come around him and the taste of three different guys in his mouth.)
He slips into one of cubicles, shutting the door behind him just seconds before he hears someone else walk in. It doesn't take long before the other cubicle is occupied, a shadow falling across the cut-away circle in the wall, and the sound of clothes being adjusted.
Peter's just getting to his knees when the hard cock pokes through the hole, and he doesn't even think about it before he leans forward and wraps his lips around it.
There are noises coming from the other cubicle, gasps and moans and utterances of "yes--", but Peter ignores them. He's good at this, he knows he is. He's spent enough time on his knees to know how to work a cock in his mouth.
It's only minutes until there's a grunt from the other side of the wall, until the cock he's sucking spasms and bitter floods over his tongue. Peter pulls away as soon as the guy has finished coming, leaning over to spit into the toilet. (He doesn't swallow, he never swallows. Not here. That is reserved for when he wants to be on his knees, not when he needs to be.) He thinks that maybe he should have brought his drink in with him, should have brought in something to rinse his mouth out with, but he has no desire to go back out to the bar.
There's a muttered out "thanks--" and the sound of clothes being rearranged before Peter's alone once more.
He's not alone for long. Not for long, before the door to the toilets opens again and the sound of footsteps has Peter's breath catching in his throat.
He's knows it's Argent before the man even steps into the other cubicle. He would know it's a hunter from the scent of gunpowder and aconite clinging to the other man. He's knows it's Argent because of the Old Spice that barely just covers the scent of Chris.
There's a moment where Peter thinks he should leave before this even starts, thinks he should slip out of the cubicle, out of the room, out of the bar. Slip out and leave Chris Argent to find someone else to go to their knees for him. But the only thing outside of the bar is an empty apartment and the sound of his sister screaming every time he closes his eyes.
There's the rustle of jeans being opened and only a few seconds pass before flesh is being slid through the hole in the wall.
And Peter knows he shouldn't, knows there are a hundred reasons why this a bad idea, and not all of them are wrapped around words such as fire and hunter. He knows he shouldn't, but he leans forward anyway.
Argent's cock is thick and warm on Peter's tongue, and Peter flicks at the head. Does it again to hear the groan. Argent's not fully hard, but he's getting there, and Peter has always loved feeling a cock stiffen in his mouth. Always loved the sense of power it gave him. He was making Argent hard. A wolf, on his knees, and a hunter sliding the most vulnerable part of his body between Peter's lips.
He closes his eyes as he moves forward, swallowing more of Argent down. He doesn't need his sight here, doesn't need to see the dirty gray cubicle walls and the graffiti that says to call Mike for a good time. All he needs is scent and sound. All he needs is the almost taste of the arousal in the air, of the need and want Argent has for a stranger on his knees. All he needs is the soft gasps as he curls his tongue around hard flesh, as he scrapes teeth gently over skin, as he hears the "Yeah, that's right, take it--"
Peter flicks open his jeans, and he's never done this before, has never gotten hard when sucking someone, but he's hard now. Straining behind denim all because of a hunter's dick in his mouth. And he knows Talia would hate him for this, for being on his knees, not only for a hunter, but for the man whose sister destroyed their entire family. But Peter also knows she would hate him for everything he did after the fire, for killing her eldest and breaking her last remaining son. And Peter tipped those scales against him a long time ago, so the act of taking Argent into his mouth is nothing more than the weight of a feather.
He fishes his cock out, wrapping his fingers around the hardness to jerk himself. The catch of dry skin against dry skin has Peter pulling back from Argent's cock briefly to spit into his palm, a slick mixture of saliva and precome that smoothes the touch of his fingers over his dick.
There's silence from Argent before "Are you--" and the cock in Peter's mouth twitches at each wet glide of Peter's fingers. "Fuck, yes, touch yourself--"
Peter stills for a moment, a part of him rebelling at the thought of doing anything a hunter says, of doing anything an Argent says. But his cock pulses hot in his hand, and he wants this. He matches the movements over his cock with those over Argent's, jerking and licking at the same pace.
Teeth and tongue and lips all work the cock in his mouth, and he can tell Argent's getting close. Can tell it from the hitch in Argent's breath and the sharp tang of arousal flooding the air.
There are words coming from Argent. "Yes--" and "fuck--" and "jesus christ, your mouth--" Words that come between the pants of breath and soft moans that accompany every sweep of Peter's tongue.
There's a gasped out "Gonna--", and then a beat, before Argent's flooding his mouth, hot across Peter's tongue. And Peter doesn't pull away, doesn't pull back, just swallows Argent down. His tongue flicks out, lapping at Argent's cock until he stops twitching in his mouth, until he starts softening, slipping out of Peter's lips.
Peter reaches out, one hand against the cool cubicle wall as he works his cock with the other. Fingers, slipping over hard flesh, and he can feel it building in him with each motion. Feel it building, tight and low and just out of reach.
He tightens his grip, claws scraping lightly against the wall, and doesn't think anything of the sound of rustling coming from the other side, doesn't think anything about the sound of knees hitting the floor. Doesn't think anything until fingers reach through the hole in the wall, reach through and run across his hand as Argent murmurs "Come for me, Peter--"
It jack-knifes through him, hot and sharp and perfect as he spills into his hand, come running over his fingers.
There's nothing surrounding them but the sound of Peter's breathing, harsh and fast, and the scent of both of them in the air.
Argent's fingers are still on his hand, warm and grounding and Peter thinks he should move his hand away, but he doesn't.
Argent's talking to him now, voice low and steady. There are words swimming around Peter's head, saying "I know you come here, Peter--" and "You don't have to, not any more--" and "I'll be waiting outside for you, if you want--" and, most damning of all, "It's your choice, Peter--"
And then Argent, Chris, is gone, and Peter's left alone. Left alone, on his knees, the sound of dripping coming from one of the sinks and the smell of come and piss and other things Peter doesn't want to think about surrounding him.
It's your choice, Peter--
Tucking himself back into his jeans, Peter gets to his feet. There's a back door out of the bar, one that bypasses the car park, that will bypass wherever Chris is parked, but Peter knows he won't use it.
It's his choice. And it's not a choice Talia would have made, putting himself into the hands of a hunter, trusting himself in the hands of a hunter. But Talia's gone, and the smell of smoke isn't so strong when Chris is around.
Walking out of the toilets, Peter heads towards the door, ignoring the guy at the pool table trying to catch his eye.
There's a bite to the air when Peter makes it outside, and Chris is waiting for him, as he said he would. Leaning against his truck, his shoulders relaxing when he sees Peter.
Peter takes a breath, and nods as he closes the distance between them.
It's his choice. And he's making it.
