Fic: Lay Me Down, Teen Wolf, Chris Argent / Peter Hale
Title: Lay Me Down
Author: Claire
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing(s): Chris Argent / Peter Hale
Rating: R
Word Count: 1,459
Summary: In which there are witches and Peter ends up dosed with something.
Additional Notes: Beta'ed by Temaris.
Based on a prompt from screaming-towards-apotheosis: for a MMoM prompt: a curse leads to one of the boys spouting unbelievably filthy dirty talk at the other who then later on takes matters into their own hands? :D
Lay Me Down
Peter hates witches. Absolutely fucking despises them. Which, considering he didn't have an opinion on them either way two days ago, is saying something.
Of course, two days ago, he hadn't been roped in to helping his nephew and that ridiculous band of do-gooders Derek insists on calling a pack take down a coven of witches that had moved into Beacon Hills.
What did Peter care if they were causing panic, mayhem and death? So long as it wasn't panic, mayhem and death in his general vicinity Peter was more than willing to let them get the hell on with it.
But, no. Instead, Derek had growled and Stiles had whined and Peter had found himself stalking through the preserve with only a group of teenagers, Derek and Chris fucking Argent at his back.
And, yes, they'd won (barely and by the literal skin of their teeth), but not before one of them had thrown something in Peter's direction. Something blue and powdery that had clung to Peter like glue, that had flooded him with the scent of hibiscus and at least three others that he couldn't identify.
By the time Peter had finished having his coughing fit, the witches were half way to being ash. (And, seriously, what is it with these kids and fire. Peter doesn't think he's met a bigger bunch of fucking pyromaniacs in his entire life.)
He's still not quite sure how he ended up in Chris Argent's truck, being driven home (although he has a suspicion it's because everyone else refused to have him in their vehicles).
And then it all becomes kind of fuzzy.
He remembers sitting in Argent's truck. Remembers feeling warm and loose. Remembers-- well, fuck--
Peter's phone is in his hand before he realises it, flicking through his contacts and pressing call. (And don't ask him why he has Chris Argent in his contacts list. It has something to do with just in case he ever needs a hunter for anything, and nothing to do with that night he and Derek ended up getting drunk on wolfsbane laced whiskey and stealing Argent's number out of his nephew's phone with the intention of dialling the other man at 3:00am on random nights, just to be annoying.)
"Argent--"
The name is barely out of Argent's mouth before Peter is speaking over him.
"Please tell me I didn't actually offer to suck your cock last night." In hindsight, Peter feels he could have phrased that a little better.
There's silence, and just as Peter's feeling that probably wasn't the best opener to lead the call with, a huff of laughter comes over the phone.
"You offered to do a hell of a lot more than that, Hale."
Peter scrubs a hand over his face, a small kernel of embarrassment sitting low in the pit of his stomach. Well, double fuck. He'd been hoping the brief glimpses he's remembering about the previous night were just his mind playing tricks on him. But, no, it seems like he really had draped over Chris Argent and offered himself up.
Words play themselves out in his head, flashes of his voice surrounded by colour and heat and need. And Peter can't remember everything, but he can remember enough.
"Fuck me. God, please, just fuck me--" as he pressed a hand against his crotch, against his straining cock that's been hard since Argent touched him to bundle him into the truck.
"Jesus Christ, Argent, pin me down and take me apart--" as Argent had his forearm against Peter's chest, pushing him back into his seat when Peter had tried to undo his seatbelt so he could climb into Argent's lap. Because the man had been there, had been right there, and all Peter had been able to smell was gun oil and aconite, and he'd wanted to bury himself in it.
"Wanna suck your cock and swallow everything you give me--" Because he'd wanted to taste Argent so badly. Wanted to taste the blood and sweat and come. Wanted Argent to fuck his throat, to hold Peter in place so he had no choice but to take everything.
"Break me open on your dick--" All but sobbed out, stuttered words and gasps, because he needed Argent to lay him out, to open him up. Needed the empty spaces inside him filled.
"Make me into a wrecked, shuddering mess on your cock--" Because the heat in Peter had been rising, building inside him and threatening to spill out unless Argent had touched him right the fuck now.
"Please, Argent. I'm begging you--" Even if Peter hadn't known what he was begging for. Hadn't known if he wanted to straddle Argent and ride him until he collapsed, or for the other man to hold him down and make him take it (yes, fuck yes).
There were snatched out words, begging Argent to just do something--, and the salt taste of Argent's fingers when Peter had grabbed his hand and brought it to his mouth, tongue darting out in that split second before Argent pulled his hand away.
There was want and heat, and the need to get skin against skin. There was the scent of leather and Chris, and of Peter's arousal, so sharp and there that it nearly drowned out everything.
It all swirls around Peter's head, in fractured flashes and broken words. Swirls around and around, snatches of memory dancing in his mind, all overlaid with "Want you to fucking own me--"
Then he remembers his hands going everywhere as Argent had helped him out of the truck and into his building. Remembers managing to get Argent's jeans open and his hand inside while the other man was unlocking the door to Peter's apartment. But more than that, he remembers feeling hard, hot flesh under his fingers. Remembers Argent's comment before he'd all but dropped Peter onto his bed.
Not when you're like this.
"Did you mean it?" he asks. "What you said?"
"And what did I say, Peter?"
A shiver goes up Peter's spine at hearing his name come from Argent, from Chris. At hearing his name in that mild tone, an order wrapped in soft inquisitiveness. And Peter knows that Chris absolutely remembers what he said, knows that he just wants to hear Peter say it.
"Not when I was like that, Christopher. Which implies you'd be open to it if I wasn't under the influence."
Chris laughs softly, and Peter can almost see the look on the other man's face, can almost see the smirk crossing his lips.
"You don't know how hard it was to leave you there, all begging and wanting. I had to jerk off in my truck before I was even fit to drive home."
Peter catches his breath at the thought of it. At the thought of Chris Argent wrapping his hand around himself, spilling over his fingers, and all because of Peter.
"I'm not under the influence now," Peter says carefully.
There's silence on the other end of the phone, and Peter thinks that maybe he miscalculated. And then he hears Chris exhale, soft and low and quiet enough that Peter wouldn't have picked it up if he wasn't a wolf.
"Is that so?" Chris' voice is low, a rumbled cadence that vibrates through Peter's body. "In that case, Peter, I'm going to do each and every one of those things you begged me to do. I am going to pin you down and take you apart. You're going to be mine, Peter Hale, and you're going to howl for me."
Peter doesn't whimper at the thought of it. He doesn't.
"I'm coming over. I'll be there in thirty minutes. If you want this - and Peter, you need to make sure you do, because once we start this, you're mine - leave the door unlocked and wait in the bedroom for me. If the door's locked when I get there, I walk away, and we never mention this again. We'll chalk it up to a witch's influence. Thirty minutes, Peter. Your call."
The phone beeps quietly as Chris hangs up, and then there's silence in Peter's ear.
There's a voice in the back of Peter's mind, sounding suspiciously like Talia, telling him that this is insane. That Chris is a hunter, and what the hell does he think he's doing actually considering this. But the rest of him? Oh, the rest of him can almost feel Chris' fingers moving over him, can almost feel himself sliding to his knees.
He wants this. God help him, he wants this.
Closing his eyes, he slides his phone into his pocket, and takes a deep breath.
And unlocks the door.
Author: Claire
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing(s): Chris Argent / Peter Hale
Rating: R
Word Count: 1,459
Summary: In which there are witches and Peter ends up dosed with something.
Additional Notes: Beta'ed by Temaris.
Based on a prompt from screaming-towards-apotheosis: for a MMoM prompt: a curse leads to one of the boys spouting unbelievably filthy dirty talk at the other who then later on takes matters into their own hands? :D
Lay Me Down
Peter hates witches. Absolutely fucking despises them. Which, considering he didn't have an opinion on them either way two days ago, is saying something.
Of course, two days ago, he hadn't been roped in to helping his nephew and that ridiculous band of do-gooders Derek insists on calling a pack take down a coven of witches that had moved into Beacon Hills.
What did Peter care if they were causing panic, mayhem and death? So long as it wasn't panic, mayhem and death in his general vicinity Peter was more than willing to let them get the hell on with it.
But, no. Instead, Derek had growled and Stiles had whined and Peter had found himself stalking through the preserve with only a group of teenagers, Derek and Chris fucking Argent at his back.
And, yes, they'd won (barely and by the literal skin of their teeth), but not before one of them had thrown something in Peter's direction. Something blue and powdery that had clung to Peter like glue, that had flooded him with the scent of hibiscus and at least three others that he couldn't identify.
By the time Peter had finished having his coughing fit, the witches were half way to being ash. (And, seriously, what is it with these kids and fire. Peter doesn't think he's met a bigger bunch of fucking pyromaniacs in his entire life.)
He's still not quite sure how he ended up in Chris Argent's truck, being driven home (although he has a suspicion it's because everyone else refused to have him in their vehicles).
And then it all becomes kind of fuzzy.
He remembers sitting in Argent's truck. Remembers feeling warm and loose. Remembers-- well, fuck--
Peter's phone is in his hand before he realises it, flicking through his contacts and pressing call. (And don't ask him why he has Chris Argent in his contacts list. It has something to do with just in case he ever needs a hunter for anything, and nothing to do with that night he and Derek ended up getting drunk on wolfsbane laced whiskey and stealing Argent's number out of his nephew's phone with the intention of dialling the other man at 3:00am on random nights, just to be annoying.)
"Argent--"
The name is barely out of Argent's mouth before Peter is speaking over him.
"Please tell me I didn't actually offer to suck your cock last night." In hindsight, Peter feels he could have phrased that a little better.
There's silence, and just as Peter's feeling that probably wasn't the best opener to lead the call with, a huff of laughter comes over the phone.
"You offered to do a hell of a lot more than that, Hale."
Peter scrubs a hand over his face, a small kernel of embarrassment sitting low in the pit of his stomach. Well, double fuck. He'd been hoping the brief glimpses he's remembering about the previous night were just his mind playing tricks on him. But, no, it seems like he really had draped over Chris Argent and offered himself up.
Words play themselves out in his head, flashes of his voice surrounded by colour and heat and need. And Peter can't remember everything, but he can remember enough.
"Fuck me. God, please, just fuck me--" as he pressed a hand against his crotch, against his straining cock that's been hard since Argent touched him to bundle him into the truck.
"Jesus Christ, Argent, pin me down and take me apart--" as Argent had his forearm against Peter's chest, pushing him back into his seat when Peter had tried to undo his seatbelt so he could climb into Argent's lap. Because the man had been there, had been right there, and all Peter had been able to smell was gun oil and aconite, and he'd wanted to bury himself in it.
"Wanna suck your cock and swallow everything you give me--" Because he'd wanted to taste Argent so badly. Wanted to taste the blood and sweat and come. Wanted Argent to fuck his throat, to hold Peter in place so he had no choice but to take everything.
"Break me open on your dick--" All but sobbed out, stuttered words and gasps, because he needed Argent to lay him out, to open him up. Needed the empty spaces inside him filled.
"Make me into a wrecked, shuddering mess on your cock--" Because the heat in Peter had been rising, building inside him and threatening to spill out unless Argent had touched him right the fuck now.
"Please, Argent. I'm begging you--" Even if Peter hadn't known what he was begging for. Hadn't known if he wanted to straddle Argent and ride him until he collapsed, or for the other man to hold him down and make him take it (yes, fuck yes).
There were snatched out words, begging Argent to just do something--, and the salt taste of Argent's fingers when Peter had grabbed his hand and brought it to his mouth, tongue darting out in that split second before Argent pulled his hand away.
There was want and heat, and the need to get skin against skin. There was the scent of leather and Chris, and of Peter's arousal, so sharp and there that it nearly drowned out everything.
It all swirls around Peter's head, in fractured flashes and broken words. Swirls around and around, snatches of memory dancing in his mind, all overlaid with "Want you to fucking own me--"
Then he remembers his hands going everywhere as Argent had helped him out of the truck and into his building. Remembers managing to get Argent's jeans open and his hand inside while the other man was unlocking the door to Peter's apartment. But more than that, he remembers feeling hard, hot flesh under his fingers. Remembers Argent's comment before he'd all but dropped Peter onto his bed.
Not when you're like this.
"Did you mean it?" he asks. "What you said?"
"And what did I say, Peter?"
A shiver goes up Peter's spine at hearing his name come from Argent, from Chris. At hearing his name in that mild tone, an order wrapped in soft inquisitiveness. And Peter knows that Chris absolutely remembers what he said, knows that he just wants to hear Peter say it.
"Not when I was like that, Christopher. Which implies you'd be open to it if I wasn't under the influence."
Chris laughs softly, and Peter can almost see the look on the other man's face, can almost see the smirk crossing his lips.
"You don't know how hard it was to leave you there, all begging and wanting. I had to jerk off in my truck before I was even fit to drive home."
Peter catches his breath at the thought of it. At the thought of Chris Argent wrapping his hand around himself, spilling over his fingers, and all because of Peter.
"I'm not under the influence now," Peter says carefully.
There's silence on the other end of the phone, and Peter thinks that maybe he miscalculated. And then he hears Chris exhale, soft and low and quiet enough that Peter wouldn't have picked it up if he wasn't a wolf.
"Is that so?" Chris' voice is low, a rumbled cadence that vibrates through Peter's body. "In that case, Peter, I'm going to do each and every one of those things you begged me to do. I am going to pin you down and take you apart. You're going to be mine, Peter Hale, and you're going to howl for me."
Peter doesn't whimper at the thought of it. He doesn't.
"I'm coming over. I'll be there in thirty minutes. If you want this - and Peter, you need to make sure you do, because once we start this, you're mine - leave the door unlocked and wait in the bedroom for me. If the door's locked when I get there, I walk away, and we never mention this again. We'll chalk it up to a witch's influence. Thirty minutes, Peter. Your call."
The phone beeps quietly as Chris hangs up, and then there's silence in Peter's ear.
There's a voice in the back of Peter's mind, sounding suspiciously like Talia, telling him that this is insane. That Chris is a hunter, and what the hell does he think he's doing actually considering this. But the rest of him? Oh, the rest of him can almost feel Chris' fingers moving over him, can almost feel himself sliding to his knees.
He wants this. God help him, he wants this.
Closing his eyes, he slides his phone into his pocket, and takes a deep breath.
And unlocks the door.