I hope you don't mind that I'm using this for a MMOM fic too; it fit, so I figured why not kill two birds with one fic. ;)
Choke. Peter/Stiles. Asphysiation, power-play, one clothed partner. 1/2
Peter's hand curled slowly around his throat from behind, fingers flexing, trying to find the most comfortable space to fit his hand against Stiles' thin, pale throat. His hands were large, strong, and Stiles was a lot more lithe than he'd ever been, even as a teenager, and the difference between their bodies was never more apparent than when Peter held him like this, tight in his lap with an arm snug around his waist.
They were in Peter's chair: the high, black, wing-backed one in the living room that faced a picturesque bay window looking out on the forest beyond. With the lights all out in the house, he could see the black-on-blue silhouette of the forest outlined against the sky and the thin sliver of the moon slicing through the starry blanket above. It was the only thing Stiles had to look at, his back pressed against Peter's chest and his hands gripping the arms of the chair in anticipation.
So far he could still breathe, drawing in long, slow breaths as he tried to will his body to relax under him, against Peter. He could feel the older man's jeans scratching his bare thighs and his warm skin through his teeshirt against his back. His own clothes were in a pile next to the chair, his shorts and socks as well, leaving him as bare to the forest beyond the wall as it was to him. That was the way Peter liked him, exposed and vulnerable. He was the proverbial lamb to Peter's wolf, only instead of being caught in the wolf's jaws, he was trapped beneath his claws instead.
He squirmed, just trying to get more comfortable where he was, and Peter growled lightly against his ear. His breath was warm as his body, the scent of red wine and blood drifting past him. Just the smell of him made Stiles hard, though he wasn't sure if that was a conditioned reaction to him or just teenage hormones getting over-excited at the prospect of his touch. Every time Peter was near him he felt the tension stirring, demanding his attention, demanding that he do something to lessen its insistence. The only thing he could to, and he was all too aware of his limited options, was give Peter the nod he was waiting for.
There was some vague awareness of how much control he had in this - he was the one who signaled when to start and when to stop - but all of that escaped from his mind when Peter's grip tightened around his throat. Stiles managed to get a groan past his lips before the tension cut off the sound, tight enough that he could feel his body start to react in response. He would never get used to that initial flood of panic, prickling the hair on his arms and the back of his neck, making his heartbeat hitch and speed up. It was the fight-or-flight response that every living thing was designed to have, to keep them safe from predators, but Stiles had never been known to listen to that voice in the back of his head that told him to run away. He was more likely to run towards danger, the same way he arched against Peter's chest and leaned into his hand.
Instead of another growl, Peter gave him a chuckle in response, sinking his nails into the tender flesh of Stiles' neck, just hard enough leave crescent-shaped bites behind. He pressed his palm in and up, to give Stiles the feeling of pressure that would have his body reeling harder, and his heartbeat tearing inside his chest, but wouldn't completely cut off his ability to breathe just yet. It worked, and Stiles felt the pressure slowly flow down his spine to settle in his gut. It was all the better because Peter refused to rush this; he wanted it to last as long as possible too, to kept Stiles dangling helplessly on a taut line as he tightened and loosened his grip, giving him just enough relief to get him through the next tight squeeze.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2013-05-15 05:20 am (UTC)Choke. Peter/Stiles. Asphysiation, power-play, one clothed partner. 1/2
Peter's hand curled slowly around his throat from behind, fingers flexing, trying to find the most comfortable space to fit his hand against Stiles' thin, pale throat. His hands were large, strong, and Stiles was a lot more lithe than he'd ever been, even as a teenager, and the difference between their bodies was never more apparent than when Peter held him like this, tight in his lap with an arm snug around his waist.
They were in Peter's chair: the high, black, wing-backed one in the living room that faced a picturesque bay window looking out on the forest beyond. With the lights all out in the house, he could see the black-on-blue silhouette of the forest outlined against the sky and the thin sliver of the moon slicing through the starry blanket above. It was the only thing Stiles had to look at, his back pressed against Peter's chest and his hands gripping the arms of the chair in anticipation.
So far he could still breathe, drawing in long, slow breaths as he tried to will his body to relax under him, against Peter. He could feel the older man's jeans scratching his bare thighs and his warm skin through his teeshirt against his back. His own clothes were in a pile next to the chair, his shorts and socks as well, leaving him as bare to the forest beyond the wall as it was to him. That was the way Peter liked him, exposed and vulnerable. He was the proverbial lamb to Peter's wolf, only instead of being caught in the wolf's jaws, he was trapped beneath his claws instead.
He squirmed, just trying to get more comfortable where he was, and Peter growled lightly against his ear. His breath was warm as his body, the scent of red wine and blood drifting past him. Just the smell of him made Stiles hard, though he wasn't sure if that was a conditioned reaction to him or just teenage hormones getting over-excited at the prospect of his touch. Every time Peter was near him he felt the tension stirring, demanding his attention, demanding that he do something to lessen its insistence. The only thing he could to, and he was all too aware of his limited options, was give Peter the nod he was waiting for.
There was some vague awareness of how much control he had in this - he was the one who signaled when to start and when to stop - but all of that escaped from his mind when Peter's grip tightened around his throat. Stiles managed to get a groan past his lips before the tension cut off the sound, tight enough that he could feel his body start to react in response. He would never get used to that initial flood of panic, prickling the hair on his arms and the back of his neck, making his heartbeat hitch and speed up. It was the fight-or-flight response that every living thing was designed to have, to keep them safe from predators, but Stiles had never been known to listen to that voice in the back of his head that told him to run away. He was more likely to run towards danger, the same way he arched against Peter's chest and leaned into his hand.
Instead of another growl, Peter gave him a chuckle in response, sinking his nails into the tender flesh of Stiles' neck, just hard enough leave crescent-shaped bites behind. He pressed his palm in and up, to give Stiles the feeling of pressure that would have his body reeling harder, and his heartbeat tearing inside his chest, but wouldn't completely cut off his ability to breathe just yet. It worked, and Stiles felt the pressure slowly flow down his spine to settle in his gut. It was all the better because Peter refused to rush this; he wanted it to last as long as possible too, to kept Stiles dangling helplessly on a taut line as he tightened and loosened his grip, giving him just enough relief to get him through the next tight squeeze.