Work Text:
It’s a sin, Killian reminds himself.
He’d heard the soft clatter of the fencegate outside first, an arrival announced by the squeaking hinges. He'd frowned and looked to his cellphone's digital clock- 11:34 AM. Her schedule was always pinpoint, always came home around nine. If she was home now, there must have been an emergency.
But the footsteps had gone out to his backyard, aiming to come in through the back, and Killian had gripped the kitchen counter hard as something inside him fought to plummet or to soar up into his throat, conflicted.
Those should have been his warning signs. He should have acted fast: locked the doors, silenced his cellphone and gone upstairs to wait out the knocks, wait on the silence that surely would have come. People couldn't be that persistent; he had to give up eventually.
But that's where Killian always goes wrong.
There's no underestimating him.
Instead of doing anything worthwhile, Killian had gone immobile at the counter. Nothing made sense to him in that moment, and so he only stood and stared down into the sink, watched the dripping faucet leak tapwater into his drained coffee mug. The door had been left unlocked; the knob rattled once and he listened as a body stepped in and closed the door after.
He should have done something.
He should have said no, he should have ran, he should have pushed back.
The thing about Peter is that he has his own way of making Killian feel like his body's gone cold and numb. Something about the boy makes him feel trapped, he can't think clearly half the time anymore: all he hears is that commanding tone, all he sees are those eyes. All he hears as Peter fists hands into his collar and pulls him away from the sink is that usual mocking laugh.
He’d been shoved back roughly against the wall and grabbed, and led.
Feet stumbling, struggling to fall into rhthym as he's forced upstairs; two hands splayed firmly on his chest to push hard. His back hits the blankets. His shirt is tugged up, but not off. Another body, light and lean, settling over his. Hands in his hair.
A mouth circles over his nipple and he grunts loud enough to rattle the windows. He’s forgotten to close the blinds but it doesn’t matter, no one’s home next door.
What does matter is that he saw all this coming, and he didn’t try hard enough to stop it.
"I told you to stay away." Killian chokes out, distracted by the press of another body atop his. He slides his hand through thick, tawny curls, shivers when eyes like green ocean glass collect his gaze and hold, and hold, and hold.
"I don’t want to." Peter says. He takes Killian’s hand, guiding it over his chest and abdomen, down to his groin where his want is blatant and hot. He rolls his hips into Killian’s palm and the latter can hardly think to breathe, his mind falling dangerously apart.
This mess- all of this started because of Killian, because he had that one last drink (out of too many) and he let that pretty mouth perch on his ear to whisper a secret. It started because he was weak, because Emma and everyone else were all passed out or oblivious, because they were celebrating a safe return from the honeymoon and there was family going that he hadn't yet met and they all wanted to appraise him like he was goods on the market, see if he was good enough for their Emma.
(he wasn't.
still isn't.)
If he hadn't snuck off with Peter at that party, would all of this still have happened?
He swallows hard but doesn't try pulling away. Peter's eyes are dark with his arousal, and nothing else. No anger. Killian has already once been on the recieving end of that childish fury- he can't have that happening again.
"You’re not-"
Peter scoffs derisively, cutting him off. Always so annoyed by rules, and propriety, and normalcy. Always the one to taunt, and seize, and devour.
"Not old enough?" He leans forward, connecting their mouths and effortlessly licking away any words Killian might have had in protest. "I don’t care. Stop finding excuses.”
Teeth find his shoulder. One hand stays gripped in his hair, the other sneaks to stroke past the waistband of his boxers. Killian jerks, surprised, hands flying up to cease the progression. He clutches a wrist and a hip, restraining. Peter glances down at his hands, smirking, eyeing the plain gold band glinting on Killian's finger.
"What excuses?" Killian snaps, half-stammering in his anxiousness to stop this descent to madness. "I’m married. If Emma sees what you do to me, she'll know-"
The youth in his lap lets out a growl of annoyance. He yanks hard on Killian’s cock, eliciting a cry of pain, then smooths his clenched fist down the shaft, eyes focused on Killian’s face. “Haven't I told you not to mention her when I'm with you?" He demands, voice snapping with jealousy. Even the night of the party, he'd looked and grabbed at Killian like the man already belonged to him. "And what part of ‘I don’t care' do you not understand?”
Stunned, Killian goes silent. His arms are wrestled above his head and the shirt comes off. His necklace is clutched in a pale palm; as Peter moves above him, it digs and burns against the back of his neck, bristling the hairs and chafing the skin.
There’s no way he could have ever known any of this was going to happen. He wishes he had followed his gut instinct and bought the house close to the lake, instead. There hadn’t been anything wrong about the one Emma’s parents had gifted (practically forced upon) them, actually, Killian remembers, but not a week into moving in the invitation and party announcement had arrived via text, and that's where his troubles had begun. The party had taken place in Emma’s parents’ home, that large beast with its storybook splendor almost an hour away (even an hour's drive is too close), and as the hours had worn on he'd found himself secreted away into the darkness by a greedy hand, led and locked into a room where only the faded lights illuminated his errors.
Not a single day goes by that Killian doesn't regret going. Peter knows; he taunts Killian about it when it's just the two of them in the dark.
"She made you go." He says knowingly, lounging along Killian's bare chest. "Do you resent her for it?"
The big house is only an hour away, but Peter's always nearby, even when he isn't physically. He's there in everything Killian sees, bringing back vivid recollections of freckled skin and knowing hands, eyes that knew his every guilt in an instant. Eyes that followed him home at night, watched through windows, and fences. Once, a hand that wouldn’t let go. Music that faded where lips began.
The little cross pendant on his necklace evades Peter’s fingers, slipping down the chain to rest against Killian’s throat. When the youth’s movements become rougher, Killian panics. He moves, frantic with the motions, sounds.
Peter scratches lines deep into his skin, hungering for the argument that will come later when he is at home and Killian has no way to hide the marks. He drives the wedge between Killian and her further, deeper, makes Killian hate himself more and more, and Peter most of all. He's starved for the destruction of them, and he will have it, even if he has to be patient. The time will come when Killian will be ruined thorougly, and then he'll be all for Peter.
Excited at the thought, the pitch of his whines runs desperate in his throat. He fucks himself hard on Killian's cock, digs his nails deep enough to draw blood, and watches as Killian's resolve stutters apart- he forces back his own cries and drags Peter back down against him, undone for at least this moment, caring only for the orgasm only Peter can wring out of him.
"That's it, Killian." He praises, allowing his hatred to melt away. His elation and desire to see Killian enjoying his game shines through instead, and he layers the man's cheek with kisses and small affections as he moves his hips, shivering contently at the feel of rougher hands on his thighs.
The silver chain snaps in his hand and he flings it to the floor, busy with the better prize.