With a Red Right Hand

He's a God, He's a Man

"Peter," Stiles breathes out, arching upward against the smooth, steady roll of the man's hips. He grabs a handful of the sexy bastard's hair and pulls him down for another kiss.

Stiles moans as Peter licks into his mouth leisurely, like he has all of the time in the world to dominate Stiles with his tongue.

God, Stiles hopes that's true.

Stiles breaks away from their kiss and dazedly looks up at Peter's blissed-out expression. "Please tell me you'll let me suck your cock," he pants, licking his swollen lips. "Please—I'll be so good. I'll make it so fucking good for you."

He can feel Peter's whole body shudder against his own, and he watches as the man's eyes dilate even further.

"Is that what you want, baby?" Peter growls lowly, grinding slowly against Stiles' erection. "You wanna suck my cock?" He bites at Stiles' throat. "Fuck, that's hot."

Peter picks himself up off of Stiles and gets to his feet. He expertly flicks his knife closed and stashes it in his suit jacket. He grins down at Stiles and walks over him, feet straddling both sides of Stiles' waist.

Stiles sucks in a sharp breath as Peter stands over him, looks him directly in the eye, and squeezes himself through his pants. He strokes himself languidly with one hand and uses the other to crook a demanding finger at Stiles. "If you want it, you'll have to come and get it."

Stiles has never felt so beholden to his own lust in his entire life. He's never felt such a sharp stab of longing—and he's certainly never felt desperate.

But he feels it now, that ache. It's in the fog in his head, the quiver in his knees, and the shake in his hands. It's in the throb of his cock and the saliva pooling in the back of his throat.

But most of all, it's in the loud crack! of his knees against the tile floor as he hastily scrambles to sit up.

He can't help the low whine that emanates from him as he looks up at Peter from his knees.

The man, as calm as you please, hums at Stiles' quick compliance. He unbuttons his jacket and carefully shrugs it off his broad shoulders. Peter takes the time to gently hang it over the top of the stall, never looking away from where Stiles is waiting desperately at his feet.

It's when Peter's mouth parts slightly in surprise that Stiles understands what he's doing.

He's testing Stiles, wanting to see what buttons he can push and how hard he can push them.

How hard Stiles wants him to push them.

Poor baby really doesn't know what game they're playing.

Stiles will just have to show him.

He watches raptly as Peter starts to unbutton and roll up his sleeves. Stiles can't help softening his gaze and licking his lips, or lowering his twitching hands to rest on the tops of his thighs.

The beast that lurks in the back of his mind goes quiet, and then all that's left is Stiles.

He wants to show Peter what being good means. Stiles wants to show him that he can wait patiently. He wants to show him that he'll wait—and if needed, beg—for Peter's permission to suck his cock, that the only thing he wants is what Daddy wants.

Stiles is getting into that subby headspace he always searches for—the one that's sometimes too hard to reach—and it's absolutely divine.

He's never sunk so quickly before.

It's never felt so visceral, so raw. He's never felt this needy before in his life and it feels like a damn high.