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The tournament was the same as the others before it. Same dusty towns smelling of stale ale and horse shit. Same lords and ladies flouncing about as though they were at High Court, and not the rural village they lorded over. Most of the knights attending were men he had fought before, and as Sir Peter Hale was yet undefeated, would likely best again.
A man of Peter’s high birth had little need of coin, fighting instead for mere self satisfaction. His sister oft enjoyed reminding him that he was getting on in years, but Peter had never found anyone desirable or worthy enough to wed. His wealth, name, and Alpha status meant he was well accustomed to having simpering daughters and submissive Omega boys paraded before him by hopeful nobles, and he was certain this tournament would offer more of the same. Some had been pleasing enough to bed, though none held his interest.
This particular tournament was heralded by Duke Rafael McCall, a humorless man who had recently been elevated in status through the marriage of his only son to the youngest Argent Princess. He’d sent off his squire earlier that morning to announce his arrival and tend to the horses, and was just entering a tavern when he caught sight of Sir Ennis, a mountain of a man who was both a fellow undefeated champion and favorite at court.
Sir Ennis clapped him on the shoulder when he drew near, greeting Peter with a hearty smile. “Come to face me at last, old friend?” he asked, straightening himself to full height.
Peter shrugged. “I grew weary of besting green boys and pampered lords. There is nothing so tedious as an effortless victory.”
Ennis sighed in mutual understanding. Both had seen the field of battle more than some of their opponents had seen summers, and were an older breed of knight who had earned their title through blood rather than their father’s purse.
“I hear the prize is a golden feather,” Peter sighed, tedium heavy on his tongue.
“You’ve not heard then,” Ennis’ mouth curled into an expectant smirk. “The Duke has a young ward, an Omega boy who has apparently grown too fastidious in the selection of a suitor. The Duke intends to award his hand to the champion.”
Peter frowned at that. Omegas were rare, often promised in marriage at a young age; to be given away in this manner without securing a fortuitous union was nearly unheard of. “Perhaps I’ll let you win...hardly seems a prize to be burdened with an Omega so ugly or dimwitted the Duke feels compelled to give him away.”
Ennis laughed at that, his head thrown back merrily. “I cannot speak to all of his accomplishments, though I hear he is a comely but wild little thing the Duke cannot seem to tame. His father was Kingsguard to the old King. He was well known at court before he died...Duke McCall was shrewd to curry favor by opening his home to his orphaned son.”
“Favor which no longer seems worth the trouble,” Peter mused.
Ennis nodded. “I shouldn’t mind relieving him of such a burden, provided the boy is pleasant to look at. The time is right for me to marry, and I’ve yet to encounter a beast I couldn’t gentle to me...perhaps a firm hand and a hard ride will remind the Omega of his station.”
------
The Omega proved quite comely indeed.
Peter’s squire was fastening his armor in preparation for his first ride when Duke McCall and his attendants finally arrived. The stands had been long since filled, but despite the buzz of merriment around them, the Duke was dispassionate as ever. Behind him trailed a boy, his fair unspoiled skin and embroidered finery betraying him for the Omega he was. His dark hair was swept up from his forehead, his smooth cheek flecked with beauty marks. The upturn of his nose gave him an air of impudence, only heightened by the lofty tilt of his chin and firm press of his lips.
The boy dutifully followed the Duke to his viewing box, his shoulders rigid when he sat as though he loathed to do so, likely front the dust which settled there, Peter mused. A boy so accustomed to finery seemed ill at ease among the much and common folk.
A figure came to stand beside him, and Peter inclined his head as Ennis leaned forward to whisper in his ear. “Not ugly then,” he chuckled, nudging Peter’s side.
Peter smirked, eyes back to the silky boy who was surveying the knights before him with barely concealed distain. “Not the prettiest, either,” he offered with an indifferent shrug.
As Sir Ennis had foretold, the Duke announced the hand of his ward as prize to the victor, much to the delight of the crowd. The Omega didn’t deign to look at any of them, color draining from his cheeks when the Duke raised his limp hand in his own and raised it to the knights below. Perhaps the boy forgot that his highborn station was allotted to him only by the grace of Duke McCall, and without such kindness he’d have enjoyed the tournament from the muck with the rest of the peasants.
As expected, Peter did well his first day, winning every match he competed in with ease, be it in joust or the sword. He bowed before the Duke and his ward as was customary, but took a personal satisfaction in the way the Omega’s face soured when Peter offered him a flowery wave. Many knights begged favor from the boy, assuring him that even a smile would aid in their victory, but he paid them little mind and remained tight lipped as ever. The Duke’s frustrations were clear, his fingers tightening on his ward’s thigh until the boy winced.
Things continued much the same into the champions’ feast that night in the grand hall. The knights all supped at Duke McCall’s invitation, wine and ale plentiful enough to raise the most meager of spirits. The Duke’s ward though proved to have a sullen mood of iron, staring down at his plate and barely acknowledging the knights who stepped forward to introduce themselves. Peter watched them line up to pledge their intent, each promising to prove their love by winning Grand Champion in the Omega’s name. The boy’s long fingers twitched in his lap, teeth digging into the flesh of his lower lip as he quite literally bit back the words which fought to burst from his mouth.
It wasn’t until Jackson Whittemore, a fancy highborn man whose family wealth purchased his title, that the Omega’s tongue finally got away from him. Jackson was a preening peacock of a man, brimming with self content and confidence not yet earned through any real accomplishment. Peter watched him strut towards where Omega was standing beside the Duke, receiving guests with grim reluctance. Whittemore bowed low, brow cocked and mouth pursed as he drew his eyes down the length of of the boy’s willowy figure.
“Omega Stilinski,” Whittemore announced, clear and loud enough to attract the attention of those around him before he stepped forwards and took the boy’s hand in his own to press a chaste kiss to it. The Omega’s nose curled as though he smelled rotting eggs, wiping his hand discretely against his tunic when he finally was able to pull it away.
“You have grown in grace and beauty since last we met as children.”
Peter chuckled to himself into his own cup of wine, bemused by the paltry attempts at flattery. He could not help but note the omega himself seemed little moved by the compliments either, all but glowering at the handsome man before him.
“When I compete tomorrow, know that every true strike of my lance does but prove my love for you...and with God’s will shall my victory herald our forthcoming union.”
The Omega’s jaw twitched, his shoulders rigid as he glared at the noble before him. “If you truly wish to prove your love, my lord,” he quipped, voice overly saccharine. “Then you will lose this tournament.”
“Stiles!” The Duke hissed, a slip which Peter guessed was unintended from the way his expression darkened. The fingers he had curled about the Omega’s upper arm tightened until the boy winced, face faltering for the first time that day.
“Forgive me, Sir Jackson,” the Duke finally said, once more composed though his grip never slackened. “My ward has a spirited nature which has yet to be fully culled,” his words slithered from between his clenched teeth, gaze firmly fixed on the boy he held fast.
Whittemore smiled then, small and secretive and decidedly unpleasant. “Think nothing of it, My Lord. Others may shy from such unbridled passions, but I myself see their merits-” He took a last step towards the Omega, Stiles, his voice low enough to only just reach Peter’s ears. “Particularly in our marriage bed.”
Stiles stiffened, cheeks going ruddy with embarrassment as those around them chuckled at Whittemore’s words, the Duke himself falling prey to a wry satisfied smirk. As others joined the conversation though, Peter kept a careful eye on Stiles. The Omega’s face was guarded, chin still raised in a passing imitation of composure. His flush ran down the sleek line of his throat, and though his fine clothes obscured his view, Peter supposed it continued on down to the boy’s collarbones.
When Sir Jackson made to pass him, Peter stopped him with a hand to his shoulder. “Pray tell, my lord,” he said in way of introduction. “Do you intend to forfeit the win tomorrow?”
Whittemore cocked his head at the question, his handsome face almost chilling in its lack of feeling. “Whatever gave you such an idea, Lord Hale?”
Peter smiled easily, ready to play the little lord’s game. “Your eagerness to humiliate the Omega boy seemed more the actions of an adversary than a paramour. I only supposed that you might withdraw and not bind yourself to someone you so blatantly despise.”
The corner of Whittemore’s mouth quirked in a smirk brimming with self content. “Quite the contrary,” he insisted. “I’ve known Stiles since before he was taken into the Duke’s care. He was impudent then too, tried to best me at every turn...even when he presented as an Omega he somehow thought himself better than me.” Whittemore’s face pinched, the slight clench of his jaw the only real lapse of his composure, but Peter could see his contempt brimming in his pretty blue eyes. Whittemore smiled then, teeth pristine and pearl white when bared. “So on the contrary, Lord Hale, I will win tomorrow if only to see the pride finally bleed from his eyes as I split him upon my cock on our wedding night.”
The wine in Peter’s mouth turned sour as he watched the little lord rejoin the festivities. As the evening progressed, few others offered a kind word the Omega. More scoffed at his prior declaration, some even wishing to set him to right in a manner similar to Sir Jackson. Peter watched Knights approach Stiles and continue to swear victory in his honor, wilfully ignoring his previous request. Peter found himself eagerly eagerly further acts of defiance from the boy, but while he remained stone faced and unmoved by the promises of his would be suitors, he did not speak again.
It wasn’t until much later that evening, when several of his fellows had succumbed to sleep and drink that Peter finally caught the Omega alone. As he’d been the rest of the evening, he was kept close to the Duke’s side, but as the Duke was deep in conversation with a lord Peter didn’t recognize, he took advantage and stepped forward.
Stiles tensed when Peter drew near, likely bracing himself for more of the same he’d received previously. He remained rigid as ever when Peter smiled and introduced himself again, fingers clenched at his sides in a manner the Duke would likely rebuke if he’d spared a moment to notice.
“My lord,” Peter all but purred, reaching out to clasp one of the Omega’s fisted hands in greeting.
The boy’s jaw twitched when Peter pressed a small kiss to his knuckles, and Peter detected the slightest tremor beneath his lips. It seemed to take all of the boy’s resolve to not rip his hand away from Peter’s grasp, though his tone betrayed his discontent when he quickly corrected the knight. “I’m no lord, my lord,” Stiles said through clenched teeth. “As your fellows have been reminding me, I’m little more than a brood mare-”
“Stiles!”
The Duke it appeared had been keeping a keener ear on his ward than Peter imagined, nearly spinning the boy when he took him by the upper arm. “Apologize to Sir Peter,” he ground out, tone leaving no room for dissent.
“Forgive me, my lord,” the boy said, flat and devoid of any feeling.
“Nothing to forgive,” Peter assured him, gaze fixed on Duke McCall as he spoke. “I rather enjoy his spirit.”
Duke McCall huffed his annoyance, eyes fixed on Stiles another moment before he finally released him. “In that I fear you shall find yourself in sad company.” With a final frown of warning directed at his ward, the Duke resumed his previous conversation and left them to their own.
Peter took a step back, indicating he wished Stiles to follow. The boy hesitated before taking a step forward, hands clasped anxiously before him though his nose remained haughtily upturned as ever.
Peter snatched a full goblet from a passing servant, offering one to Stiles which the boy immediately refused. He shrugged, taking a deep draught from his own cup. “I imagine it must be difficult to drink and make merry, when surrounded by those you so despise.”
At that the boy finally faltered, jaw dropping in honest slack jawed surprise. “I don’t...whatever do you mean, my lord?”
Peter gestured to the company around them. “You need not play the innocent with me, my dear, if not hatred then your spite is clear to all assembled. Why else seek the humiliation of knights who give their sweat and blood for your hand in marriage by asking us to lose?”
The boy gaped at him, sullen expression twisting so suddenly it caught Peter completely unaware. His dark eyes widened, and when he finally bowed his head, Peter swore he saw a glimmer of wetness in them. “Is that what you saw in my request?” he asked, the slight quaver in his voice wholly unexpected. “You think my desire was to humiliate you?”
It was then Peter’s turn to hesitate, his previous line on inquiry slipping from his tongue. He carefully studied the Omega before him, but saw no falsehood hidden in his face or stance. “I gather it was not, then?” At the responding nod, Peter prodded further. “Why then make such a petition?”
The boy’s pink tongue darted out to wet his lips, his head nervously inclining towards the Duke to ensure they were not being listened to, likely hoping to avoid further punishment. “You knights and lords...so used to vanquishing your foes that the mere suggestion of defeat seems beneath you.” Stiles huffed, a sound which might have been called a laugh were it not so mirthless. When he met Peter’s eyes again, the fire in him had dimmed and he just looked tired, almost disappointed to have been so misunderstood. “You were born Alpha, the world is yours for the taking, but for me...I was taken from my father’s side against my will, shall be given to a man I will likely never love...who is doubtful to ever love me. I have no choice in this, nor in the children he will expect me to bear.”
The Omega’s voice had risen slightly as he spoke, and he quickly looked back once more at his patron Duke McCall, contented to find him deep into his cup and conversation. He sighed as he turned back to Peter, long fingers easing down the front of his tunic to smooth it into place. “To your query, Sir, I will give myself to the tournament champion as had been bade me, I will present myself like an Omega should and bear my husband as many children as he desires. Be it in vain, I simply wish that the man I were to marry would, of his own will, taste such forfeit...if only for a few short hours.”
Peter stared at the boy before him, lost for words for what may have been the first time in all his days. This scrawny little thing before him, with eyes like a fawn and long coltish legs, was the first man Peter had ever truly underestimated.
“Hopefully,” Peter began, swallowing when he found his throat unexpectedly dry. “Your wish will not be in vain.”
Stiles eyed him carefully, seemingly examining for any sign of falsehood or mockery. “I thank you Sir,” he finally returned with a small bow. “I would wish you well tomorrow, but winner is doomed to my hand, and the Duke often speaks sympathy for the man unfortunate enough to wed me.”
As if summoned by his own title, the Duke turned once more to glare at Stiles, the drink he’d consumed breaking some of his usual composure. This time when he gripped the boy Stiles whimpered outright, his cheeks pinking and eyes immediately turning downcast. The Duke jerked Stiles close, hissing into his ear through clenched teeth. “Can you not hold your insolent tongue for one evening?” he seethed, spare hand like a vise at the nape of the Omega’s neck.
Peter stepped forward, only just stopping before he removed the Duke’s offending hand himself. “The fault is mine, your grace,” he insisted instead, drawing the other man’s attention. “I encouraged him in his excitements, but should not have.”
The Duke seemed appeased by the words, but while he released the boy’s arm, he held fast still to Stiles’ nape. Stiles’ cheeks were pink, gaze skittish as he dared look up at Peter. “The hour is late, Stiles, it is time for you retire. Say goodnight to his Lordship.”
Stiles bowed and mumbled his farewells, eyes still fixed on the floor as the Duke’s fingers remained twined about the back of his neck. He looked so resigned as the Duke turned him away that Peter couldn’t help himself from stepping forward one last time and calling out “Until tomorrow.”
Stiles looked back over his shoulder, twisting from the Duke’s grasp just enough to offer Peter one last impish little smile before his benefactor led him from the hall.
The next morning, Peter found himself walking to the champions’ tent with a lightness of foot he had not felt for some time. Even his Squire, a gloomy boy called Isaac, seemed to take note of his good humors. Peter merely attributed it to a good night’s rest and a light hand with the ale, and the boy pressed no further.
He busied himself with donning his armour and taking a few practice swings with his sword as the crowds began to gather. Isaac was making the final adjustments to Peter’s armour and colors when the trumpets finally sounded, announcing the Duke’s arrival. Everyone in the company turned to watch the procession, giving Peter free reign to track his eyes over the passing figures. He swallowed when Duke McCall stepped up into the viewing box, Stiles following close behind.
Peter had hoped to catch the boy’s eye, offer a playful wave in greeting, but stopped when he caught the bruising which mottled the creamy skin of Stiles’ jaw. His eyes were downcast, shoulder slumped and resigned, and he allowed the Duke to present him before the awaiting crowd without ever once lifting his melancholy gaze. Peter watched as he nodded to each Knight who swore to prove his love through victory in blatant disregard of the boy’s bold request at banquet the night before, took in every flinch which accompanied the crash of lance against steel.
When it came Sir Jackson’s turn at lance, Peter did not miss the cocky glint in his eye when he offered Stiles a salute. Stiles sat rigid while Jackson rode, his eyes clenched shut until the crowd cheered. When he opened them to see a triumphant Jackson still seated on his mount, a heavy tear slipped down his cheek, swiftly followed by a second. The boy made no attempt to wipe them away, expression flat and lifeless when the Duke leaned over to whisper in his ear, nodding towards Jackson as though he were placing a bet on the young lord winning tournament champion.
It was silly really, Peter had glory earned on many a battlefield, riches beyond count, more wins in tournaments than most men have years, but it was a little Omega boy who finally managed to stir the embers within him. Stoked the spark which Peter thought had been extinguished years ago along with his family. Though would not award him neither coin nor glory, Peter would see that wry little flash of insolence restored to the Omega’s fair visage.
When his name was announced, Peter hoisted himself atop his steed with a weary groan, a sound which did not slip unnoticed by his dutiful squire.
“Does something ail you, milord?” Isaac asked, brows knit as he examined Peter for any wound or misplaced slat of armour.
“Not yet,” Peter sighed, flipping down his visor and carefully arranging his lance in the cradle of his arm. Isaac led his horse to the starting point, ensuring his lordship was properly secured before wrapping the reigns about Peter’s steel gloved hand. While his squire worked, Peter spared a quick glance towards the viewing box. It was difficult to see through the thin slit of his helmet, but Stiles looked much the same as Peter had last seen him, slumped and sullen. It only furthered his resolve, straightened his spine and steeled him as the match was called and his opponent spurred his horse forward.
“What are you doing?” Isaac cried when Peter remained rooted in place.
Peter pursed his lips in grim anticipation as the other rider rapidly drew nearer, Peter’s position and displayed colors indicating he did not intend to forfeit and therefore a worthy target. “Losing” he somberly admitted, just before his opponent’s lance cracked against his breastplate.
The blow nearly knocked him off his mount, but Peter clutched his thighs tight to his horse’s flanks and bore it. The lance may not have unseated him, but it did force the air from his lungs, his vision hazy until he finally regained his breath again. He could hear the murmur of the crowd, Isaac’s voice as it descended from worried inquiry to frantic insults as Peter raised a hand to indicate intent for the second round.
“Are you mad? Step down, you fool, if you don’t intent to joust!”
Perhaps he was mad, but a quick glance to the viewing box readied him for the next blow. Stiles was sitting upright in his seat, jaw lax in a ridiculous fashion as he gaped at Peter, hands fisted anxiously in his lap.
The next blow made Peter clutch at his chest for fear he had truly been run through, the pain spiking through clear to his heart. Once again he’d remained on his horse, but he needed Isaac’s help to sit back up from where he’d been knocked back against his steed’s rump. He batted away at Isaac’s hands when the boy tried to urge him down from his mount, ignored his hushed pleas for Peter to see reason. All that concerned Peter was the smallest of hopeful smiles which graced Stiles’ pouty lips, the boy now leaning forward with his hands eagerly gripping the rail despite the Duke’s obvious distaste.
The third blow cracked his chestplate and the limits of his good squire’s patience. The sweat beading from his brow stung Peter’s eyes, his breaths ragged as he took in deep draughts of air. A hand gripped the reins, and when Peter turned to chastise Isaac he found Sir Ennis glaring up at him.
“What are you playing at?” Ennis hissed, jerking the reins insistently once more when Peter tried to reclaim them. “You would die on the foolish whim of some haughty Omega? If a mad whore is what you want, visit a brothel...end this now.”
Peter chuckled, fondly reminded of his sister for the first time in years. Always with a flair for the theatrical, Talia would have delighted in such a dramatic display. He was raising his hand to signal his participation in the next round when Stiles sprang forward, leaning over the guardrail to excitedly bid Peter approach. Duke McCall reached to pull him back, only aborting his efforts when Peter urged his horse towards the viewing box.
“Sir Peter,” Stiles called, lower lip caught between his teeth in an impish manner which stirred something deep within Peter.
Peter drew his horse to a halt before the box, pushing up his visor with one gilded gauntlet. “How may I be of service, Omega Stilinski?”
“You do not ride, my lord?” the boy asked, all wide eyes and carefully affected innocence.
“Only to pledge my love,” Peter returned with equal gravitas, bowing his head towards the young Omega in supplication. “Or would you prefer I be unseated from my horse as well, Omega Stilinski?” Without his helmet, Peter was able to see the broad grin flash across the boy’s face, cheeks flushed pink in his excitement before he managed to compose himself once more. Behind him, the Duke sat rigid, his jaw clenched and eyes slit as he glared at his unruly ward.
Stiles bit his lip to keep from smiling, and Peter was only just taking up the reins to turn his horse when the boy surged forwards once more, leaning far over the rail to once more catch his attention. “Forgive me, Sir Knight,” he simpered for effect. “We Omegas are fickle creatures as changeable as the wind. I think now that if you still wish to prove your love, you will win this tournament.” The boy pressed his lips together in an attempt to contain his amusement, which made Peter in turn hardly able to conceal his own.
“As you wish.”
Each strike of his lance thereafter set Peter alight in a manner he hadn’t felt in many a long year. The quickening of his pulse, the smell of old ale and fresh hay, the excited cries of the crowd around him, they all breathed fresh life into him, reminded him of happier times. He won tournament champion of course, but the victory itself was of no consequence. It was the unfettered smile on Stiles’ face which brought him the greatest pride.
When the tournament was over, Peter stood with his fellows to receive their prizes. At Peter’s turn, Duke McCall reached out a hand to draw Stiles forward, presenting the boy to the older Knight with stone faced resignation.
“Sir Peter, you fought valiantly...as Grand Champion you have won the hand of my ward. May I present to you your prize - god help you - Stiles Stilinski.”
Stiles allowed himself to be presented, hands demurely clasped before him and his eyes lowered in what Peter suspected was put upon supplication. God help him indeed…
“You do me a great honor, My Lord,” said with a gracious bow. “But I am afraid I cannot accept your offer of marriage.”
Both Stiles and Duke McCall’s eyes snapped up to meet his at the words, Stiles’ jaw lax in genuine confusion until Peter turned his attentions fully towards the young Omega. It was all he could do not to smirk at the bewildered expression in the boy’s wide doe eyes, unable to stop himself from reaching a hand out to cup Stiles’ chin and effectively close his gaping maw. “I am old and threadbare, and there are few who hold me in high esteem...but I am yours if you would have me. Would you have me, Stiles?”
Stiles took a step forward, lip caught between his white teeth as he beamed down at Peter. “I am unruly and lacking in all graces...you may well be a fool to wed me, but I would gladly call you husband.”
Their wedding was a small affair, Duke McCall only too happy to cede to their desire for more intimate nuptials. Only the Duke, his wife, and his son Scott were in attendance. The Duke’s son seemed rather dim for Peter’s taste, but it was obvious his intended held him in high regard, so Peter greeted him with open arms.
Stiles fumbled twice as Scott led him down the aisle, mouth pinching as he struggled to retain his limited composure and not break out in a fit of giggles at his own oafishness. Peter drank in the Omega’s sunny smile, helpless to the uplift of his own mouth. Stiles looked a vision in his carefully belted crimson robe, his dark hair crowned in a wreath of flowers as was tradition.
Peter knew that little else would be found beneath that lush robe, but he still felt a flare of heat later that night in the somber privacy of their bedchamber when Stiles’ long fingers worked open the knot of his robe, parting its heavy folds to bare the creamy bounty beneath. The sheer gossamer tunic beneath did little to shield the Omega’s body, his cheeks pinking deliciously as Peter took a step forward to better look upon him. Stiles was lean and smooth, his pale skin flecked with beauty marks like those that adorned his cheek.
Stiles’ flush only deepened when Peter reached out to push the open robe from his notably broad shoulders, expressive eyes hooded as he ducked his head in what Peter knew was likely anxiety born of inexperience. His mouth watered like a dog’s when he took in the plump rosy nipples and sweet little cock visible through the Omega’s flimsy covering. He ached with the need to reach out and touch the supple bounty before him, but stopped when he saw how Stiles’ flush bled down into his chest. The boy stood stock still, breaths shallow and sharp with fear.
Peter reached for his belt, slowly tugging it free of its knot. “My own body is decidedly less fine,” he lamented, parting his tunic to bare his chest. Stiles’ eyes went wide when he took in the ridged scars attained on the battlefield, but it was the mottled burned flesh stretching shoulder to rib which the boy’s inquisitive fingers finally brushed against.
The distant yet all too familiar pain welled up as Peter covered Stiles’ hand with his own to still it. A conversation for another day, he supposed. Instead he distracted the boy by removing his tunic completely and divesting himself of his britches, unable to curb a wry smile at Stiles’ helpless little gasp when he lay eyes on the proud jut of Peter’s ready cock.
The Omega’s faint breaths and color of cheek proved intoxicating to the older Knight, who indulged himself a moment in drawing more from the boy. He cupped Stiles’ smooth cheek, nosed along the fine ridge of his jaw as he tugged lightly at the silken ties of Stiles’ tunic. The flimsy material slithered down Stiles’ body, leaving him in nothing but a thin pair of white stockings.
Their first kiss, Stiles first ever kiss he’d shared with another, had been during their wedding. It had been rather chaste, a gesture of formality rather than mutual desire, but despite its brevity it had still been surprisingly tender. Now that they were alone, Peter took his time. Soft presses of lips grew heated when Peter coaxed Stiles’ mouth open, flicked his tongue into the heat of the boy’s mouth, felt heat rush down towards his cock when Stiles met his tongue with his own. Any time Stiles began to tense again, Peter distracted him with light touches, pressed tender kisses along the sleek length of his throat, until Stiles tipped his head back to grant him access. He gathered Stiles’ hands in his own, dragged the tips of the boy’s fingers down the hard lines of his chest, across one of his pebbled nipples, over the curved muscle of his shoulder. Stiles grew bolder when given free reign, fingers carding through the coarse hair on Peter’s chest and ghosting along the length of his cock, his touch coltish and unsure. He fixated on Peter’s scars, but not as his previous bedmates had. Stiles seemed enraptured in the differences between their bodies, how Peter had hair where he was smoothe as a babe, how Peter was thick with muscle where he was sleek and slim, he he was scarred which Stiles was soft.
Peter was sure to vocalize his approval, groaned deep in his throat when Stiles’ slim fingers curled around his cock. Daring as Stiles’ ministrations became, it drained from him once more the moment Peter finally urged him towards the bed. Peter meant to arrange the boy on his belly to prepare him, but Stiles quickly squirmed back, eyes wide and body stiff as stone.
“I won't be mounted!” he burst out, arms defensive against his chest, stepping back from Peter with a shake of his head. “The others made plain their intentions, and I won’t.” Stiles’ eyes shone with the threat of unshed tears. “I won’t be mounted like some broodmare.”
It was customary to take an Omega from behind, the position allowing for a deeper breeding and greater chance the seed would take, but Peter never had cared much for custom or tradition. He nodded in agreement and drew Stiles into his lap, kissed his pouting lips until Stiles was pliant against him once more. Peter greedily drank in every breathy gasp and moan as he set to work preparing the boy. Stiles quickly melted to his touch, Peter’s careful ministrations urging Stiles’ natural slick to ease the way for his husband’s fingers. A self satisfied thrill coursed through him when Stiles arched against him with a cry, heralding that Peter’s fingers had found their intended mark inside him, a chuckle at the boy’s greedy demands for more.
When Stiles was finally ready, Peter pushed himself further back onto the bed until he was braced against the pillows enough to support them both. Stiles allowed himself to be shifted and positioned, eyes betraying his nerves as his cheeks flushed with want. He cried out when Peter finally pressed inside him, lashes fluttering shut and mouth open as he shuddered. Peter held him close, momentarily lost in a haze at the clenching heat which drew him in, cock fitting like a key in a latch.
“Peter,” Stiles whined, long fingers flexing against his husband’s shoulders, heels digging sharp at Peter’s hips.
Peter eased him through his initial discomfort, nosed along his jaw and set his teeth against the throb of the boy’s racing pulse. He pressed a hand to the curve of Stiles’ back, guiding his hips so that his next stroke struck true, Stiles shivering when Peter’s cock nudged against that spot inside.
“Have you lain with m-many Omegas?” Stiles stammered, the question seemingly rushing unbidden from his lips. His face pinched at his own words, but he did not correct himself, likely keen on knowing the truth of it.
“I have bedded several, yes,” Peter admitted, hips canting up against the boy. “But never like this.”
Stiles seemed pleased with the answer, mouth quirking before falling open once more on a choked moan. His hips began to move beyond Peter’s guiding, rocking back and forth to chase the steady rhythm of Peter’s cock inside him. Peter had indeed bedded a number Omegas in his time, though none had roused such a desire him him to keep, to breed, to fill. None chased his mouth as Stiles did, nipped at his jaw, dared demand for his touch and attentions.
Stiles’ blunt nails dug into the meat of Peter’s back, clung to him and urged him faster, his head lolling back with a flutter of lashes when his husband reached between their bodies to fondle his plump cock and tightly nestled bollocks. Stiles seemed to fall apart at his touch, jaw dropped in surprised pleasure as though he’d never known to touch himself in such a manner, a travesty Peter swore to rectify as often and thoroughly as possible. He laughed when Stiles finally came, back arched and arms scrambling for support against the rumpled bedding, leaned forward to kiss the boy’s gasping mouth and twine his arms around Stiles’ back for support as the boy came down from his release.
Stiles’ narrow chest heaved as he calmed, his hands braced against Peter’s chest. He met Peter when the older man leaned forward to brush their noses together, nudged Peter’s forehead with his own like a kitten. “I think I could grow to love you, Sir Peter” he sighed, eyes hooded with fatigue but sincere, almost timid in his honesty.
Peter gathered him close, his hardness still encased in the boy’s body but momentarily forgotten. He hummed his approval against Stiles’ lips, urged his chin up for a tender kiss. “A worthy challenge, indeed.”