Each time he went further than the last, until Stiles couldn't even struggle to drag a breath into his lungs. Only then did Peter's other hand slide down from where it had rest on his stomach to wrap around him. A groan caught before it ever reached his throat, and Peter tisked softly against his ear, tightening his hold just a little bit more until Stiles couldn't so much as think about trying to draw in another breath or make another sound. More striking than the inability to breathe was the pressure that built around Peter's hand, in his lips, in the tips of his fingers, with each loud thump of his heart. He knew about how long he could hold his breath, and Peter should as well for as often as they'd done this, and as the seconds ticked down the man's hand started moving steadily faster, all the chemicals in his body rushing down to meet his firm strokes.
If he had a hard time holding still before, it was nearly impossible now. He squirmed in Peter's lap, his fingers digging into the arms of the chair. His feet arched, toes curling in the soft carpet as his body hurled rapidly closer to the edge. But neither hand relented, and Stiles didn't want them to either, he wanted to feel Peter's grip tight against his throat and feel his body screaming for release. His whole body tingled and his muscles tensed involuntarily, toes barely touching the floor as his knees drew up and he spilled across his thighs.
The sudden rush of blood had him too dizzy to react, but his hand slipped off the arm of the chair and Peter instantly loosened his grip in response, letting his hand fall to Stiles' chest to feel his rapid heartbeat still thudding away, excited. He cradled Stiles' head against his shoulder, resting his cheek against the side of the boy's head as he slowly came down from the rush of orgasm. Soon, he started to stir in Peter's lap again, letting out a soft murmur of protest as Peter tried to hold him in place. He shushed Stiles gently, reaching for a Kleenex to clean him up. As rough as his hands had been before, they were tender now, wiping him clean and dropping the used tissue into a trash can he had placed nearby. He shifted under Stiles, turning him sideways in his lap so he could keep a better eye on him while he caught his breath again.
Peter grinned at him, leaning down to brush a soft kiss against his cheek. "I don't know why you can't just do drugs like other kids your age," he hummed.
He gave a weak one-shouldered shrug and tucked his knees up against his chest, "Because my dad's a cop," he offered, as if it made this any better than the alternative.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2013-05-15 05:20 am (UTC)Each time he went further than the last, until Stiles couldn't even struggle to drag a breath into his lungs. Only then did Peter's other hand slide down from where it had rest on his stomach to wrap around him. A groan caught before it ever reached his throat, and Peter tisked softly against his ear, tightening his hold just a little bit more until Stiles couldn't so much as think about trying to draw in another breath or make another sound. More striking than the inability to breathe was the pressure that built around Peter's hand, in his lips, in the tips of his fingers, with each loud thump of his heart. He knew about how long he could hold his breath, and Peter should as well for as often as they'd done this, and as the seconds ticked down the man's hand started moving steadily faster, all the chemicals in his body rushing down to meet his firm strokes.
If he had a hard time holding still before, it was nearly impossible now. He squirmed in Peter's lap, his fingers digging into the arms of the chair. His feet arched, toes curling in the soft carpet as his body hurled rapidly closer to the edge. But neither hand relented, and Stiles didn't want them to either, he wanted to feel Peter's grip tight against his throat and feel his body screaming for release. His whole body tingled and his muscles tensed involuntarily, toes barely touching the floor as his knees drew up and he spilled across his thighs.
The sudden rush of blood had him too dizzy to react, but his hand slipped off the arm of the chair and Peter instantly loosened his grip in response, letting his hand fall to Stiles' chest to feel his rapid heartbeat still thudding away, excited. He cradled Stiles' head against his shoulder, resting his cheek against the side of the boy's head as he slowly came down from the rush of orgasm. Soon, he started to stir in Peter's lap again, letting out a soft murmur of protest as Peter tried to hold him in place. He shushed Stiles gently, reaching for a Kleenex to clean him up. As rough as his hands had been before, they were tender now, wiping him clean and dropping the used tissue into a trash can he had placed nearby. He shifted under Stiles, turning him sideways in his lap so he could keep a better eye on him while he caught his breath again.
Peter grinned at him, leaning down to brush a soft kiss against his cheek. "I don't know why you can't just do drugs like other kids your age," he hummed.
He gave a weak one-shouldered shrug and tucked his knees up against his chest, "Because my dad's a cop," he offered, as if it made this any better than the alternative.