Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/574383.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Peter_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Stiles_Stilinski, Sheriff_Stilinski, Peter_Hale, Derek_Hale, Scott_McCall
      (Teen_Wolf), Allison_Argent
  Additional Tags:
      Knotting, Marking, Scent_Marking, Possessive_Behavior, Bathing/Washing,
      Hurt/Comfort, Empathy, Magic, Wolfsbane_Poisoning
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-11-26 Updated: 2012-12-06 Chapters: 2/? Words: 18375
****** Doors and Windows ******
by LittleDidHeKnow
Summary
     Stiles can't help it that Derek and Scott can smell something on him
     that no one else can. Screw their sensitive wolf-noses. Well, Stiles
     can't help it, but Peter can.
Notes
     This is my first venture into the world of Teen Wolf Fanfic except
     for some little flashfictions I've done in the past. I really hope
     you enjoy it, as I really enjoyed writing it. I may write more
     continuing on from the point at which this story ends, but it is
     intended originally to be a one-shot fiction. Thanks in advance for
     reading it, and if you have any suggestions or correction- feel free
     to let me know- I don't have a beta and I can only catch so many of
     my own mistakes before it all starts looking generally okay. Please
     feel free to leave comments- it's encouraged! In fact, comments are
     really what encourage many of us fanfic writers- we're doing this for
     the passion of the characters, and sometimes we need a boost.
See the end of the work for more notes
***** Chapter 1 *****
Stiles turned off the alarm before it could buzz.  His days seemed to be back
into a somewhat normal routine.  Well, normal for the best friend of a
werewolf. Normal for someone who had once been kidnapped by one of his friends’
grandparents for use as bait.  Normal for someone who had once made a circle
around a giant warehouse building with not-enough magical juju ash to keep
werewolves and a kanima inside.  So… relatively normal.
            Stiles padded out of his room and went toward the laundry room.  He
pushed a few buttons and got the laundry in the drier fluffing up, then headed
to make himself some breakfast.  Maybe I’ll make dad some breakfast too.  But
then, his dad was already in the kitchen when he got there, rubbing his eyes.
            “Dad?  You’re up early,” Stiles said through a yawn.
            “Yeah, man, you should put some pants on,” his father replied,
already apparently dressed and fed.
            “Don’t have any, I’m doing laundry.”
            “Oh, thanks.  Well, you remember I’m going to the conference today,
right?  And that I’ll be gone for the next few days?” his dad asked.
            “Oh yeah, well, drive safe,” Stiles said.  He had totally
forgotten.
            “I’m flying,” his dad said with a shake of his head.
            “Well then… fly safe, no bombs this time pops,” Stiles replied.
            “I’ll keep that in mind,” his father returned.  “But I’m more
worried about you.  No parties, no girls over, no game nights while I’m gone.”
            “I know, dad.  Please, when have I ever had anyone over when you’re
out of town?” Stiles snorted.
            “You mean like that time one of the deputies saw Scott’s car
outside of our house while I was away on business?” his father retorted.
            Caught, damn.  “Well, there were… mitigating circumstances.”
            “Having a Call of Duty night on a school night requires a lot more
mitigation than that.  No one over this time, Stiles,” his dad said, pulling
his bag over to the front door and stepping out.
            “Okay, okay, no game night,” Stiles conceded.
            “No on over.  Period.”  The door slammed, as if to say ‘period’
again.
            The buzzer called out from the laundry room, and Stiles hadn’t yet
taken anything out of the fridge- he’d just been standing in front of it, door
open, while talking to his dad.  He closed the fridge and decided a pepperoni
pizza hot-pocket sounded nice for breakfast.
            Stiles hauled the laundry basket, heavy under its burden of his and
his fathers’ clothes, to the sofa to fold a week’s worth of underwear and
jeans.  It was somewhat cathartic- something constant, that he’d been doing
since his mother had died-folding laundry.  He laughed as he remembered the
first few times folding his dad’s underwear and being grossed out at touching
them.  Now, it was just… reality.  Plus he could fold all the laundry in about
half the time, and he’d rather fold his dad’s drawers than risk his father
seeing the stains on the front of his underwear after he’d uh… well, he’d just
rather be folding the laundry.
            After he had folded everything in the load, he went back upstairs
and put his dad’s stuff on the foot of the always half-undone king-sized bed. 
He spent as little time as possible in his parent’s dad’s room.  He showered
after putting his own laundry away.  When he got out of the shower, he still
had enough time to get to school before the bell.
            He closed his dad’s bedroom door as he went down the hall.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
            Stiles arrived at school and immediately found Scott.
            “Agh, Stiles, what’s that smell?” Scott said, burying his sensitive
nose in his own arm to hide from the smell.
            Stiles ducked his head under his armpit and looked back to Scott
with hurt and confusion on his face.  “What are you talking about?”
            “You smell… weird,” Scott explained.
            “No he doesn’t,” Allison said, popping beside Scott as the three
headed to the first class of the day.
            “Scott, if you’re trying to make me more self-conscious, it’s
working.”
            “Stiles, you smell fine,” Allison reassured.  “Armani?”
            “No, uh… Old Spice,” Stiles replied, cheeks warming at the half-
compliment.
            “I don’t like it,” Scott said, obviously offended at the smell
coming off of Stiles.
            “I’ve been wearing it since freshman year, you never said anything
about it before.”
            “No, it’s… it’s different,” Scott insisted.  The trio entered the
school and parted ways as they headed toward their classes, Stiles now self-
conscious of his smell, even though he knew it was probably something only a
werewolf like Scott would pick up on.  Allison had at least said he smelt fine.
            “Danny,” Stiles asked after the most likely to be honest with him. 
“Danny!”
            “What, Stiles?” Danny asked, stopping in the middle of the hall
with a not-quite-roll of his eyes.
            “Hey, do I uh…. Do I smell alright?”
            “I… ugh…” Danny conceded and leaned towards Stiles, wafting.  “You
smell like cheap deodorant.  But for you, that’s alright,” Danny explained.
            Stiles grinned.  “Thanks.”
            The rest of the day went by normally.  School seemed practically
unimportant next to things like werewolves, Alphas, Betas, hunters, and
everything else that was going on around him.  Not to mention the weirdness of
Peter, now not only a werewolf, but a zombie werewolf, looking at him like…
meat.  Why does Peter keep coming to my mind at the weirdest times?  Stiles
still felt a guilty pang remembering how Peter had popped into his very wet wet
dream the other night.  He didn’t have the excuse that Peter was his Alpha and
could project things into his mind.  Oh dang…hisAlpha sounded really nice. 
Stiles bit his lip to get the images out of his head and to give the blood
someplace else to well up besides down below.  He made a b-line to his Jeep,
wanting nothing more than to go home.
            “Stiles,” Derek’s familiar voice practically dripped impatience and
incredulity.  “Oh wow, Scott wasn’t kidding…. You reek.”
            “Y’know what, Derek, go stick your nose so far up your ass that you
can’t smell anything else,” Stiles said, frustrated.  “You and Scott are the
only ones who’ve said anything all day.”
            Derek sniffed Stiles from afar, and suddenly Stiles thought he saw
realization hit his face.  Stiles didn’t like that.
            “What?  What’s that look?” Stiles asked, panicking, remembering
that Scott had mentioned that he could smell sickness.
            “Nothing.  Go take a shower, Stiles,” Derek said, changing the
subject.
            “Nonono, you don’t get to do that.  Do I smell like… like death?”
Stiles asked, still nervous.
            “You’re fine Stiles.  You just smell… Damn, you just smell,
period,” Derek said.  He turned to leave Stiles, slackjawed and confused, to
the rest of his day.  His jaw stayed slack as Lydia walked by.  Lydia has a
cute butt.  Like Peter.
            Wait, Peter?  Peter has a nice butt?  How do I know Peter Hale has
a nice butt?  Waitwaitwait, Peter doesn’t have a nice butt…well, he does,
but…no.  Can’t.  Peter tried to get Scott to kill me.  Peter’s a freaking
zombie werewolf!  Stiles wrestled with himself, maybe mumbling just a little
bit, to his Jeep.
            Stiles drove home and couldn’t help mumbling to himself and arguing
with Scott and Derek, who were still in his head telling him he smelled bad. 
He pulled into his driveway, maybe a little too fast.  His shirt was off as
soon as he closed the front door behind him.
            He sniffed at the shirt, trying to smell anything the wolves might
have found assaultive to their sensitive wolf noses.  He couldn’t smell
anything.  Stupid werewolf noses.  He unbuttoned his pants on the way to the
bathroom at the end of the hall.  He turned the light and the fan on, threw his
underwear down to his ankles, and stepped to the shower.
            The shower was too hot at first, it scalded his shoulder, and
Stiles couldn’t help but get distracted by the way the blood slowly rose to the
surface under his skin, reddened it until it was pink and sensitive.  He
slathered his bodywash onto his scrubby thing… poof? ...puff? ...loof? ...loo-
fuh…  That was it… Loofah.  He scrubbed somewhat angrily, trying to get
whatever it was off of him.  He felt like a crazy person, standing there, madly
scrubbing a smell that apparently only werewolves could smell off his body. 
But here he was, scrubbing.  He lightened up as his hands migrated to his
groin.  He picked up his sack and scrubbed underneath it.  Of course, that kind
of felt good, better at least than scrubbing the coarse loofah on his dick.  He
felt and saw the blood slowly fill into his penis and willed it down.  Thinking
more about the smell that supposedly clung to him all day helped to bring
everything back to soft.  He scrubbed adamantly at his legs…should clean my
legs more often in the shower.  He fumbled about as he brought his feet up to
scrub their soles.   He managed not to fall over as the scrubbing inadvertently
tickled his feet.
            Stiles turned off the water and went over to the mirror, which had
fogged over heavily with how hot the shower had been.  Had his boxers been that
close to the door?  He’d left the door ajar, seeing no use in closing or
locking it, since the front door was locked and his dad wasn’t home to
accidentally see anything anyway.  He wiped the mirror clear with his hand and
noticed immediately just how hard he’d been scrubbing in the shower- nearly the
entire surface was pink, light scratch marks occasionally highlighting in
fleshy white where he’d scrubbed harder.
            He turned and peered over his back- a few of the moles there looked
particularly angry, but Stiles was used to that.  Wait, what if it’s cancer? 
Scott said he could smell when the dogs were sick at the vet.  Ohmigod what if
I have cancer?  No, Scott had said before he could recognize those smells.  He
would’ve told Stiles if he’d smelled cancer.
            He would’ve.
            Stiles groped at the towel rack behind him, but then realized, as
his hand hit the condensation-wrapped steel of the bar, that his towels were
still wet in the washing machine- he’d forgotten to move them through this
morning.  Stiles sighed at himself, put his crumpled laundry into the hamper. 
He couldn’t help but check down the hall both ways, even though he knew he was
alone in the house.  The coast clear, he still moved to the laundry room
quicker then he normally would have.  He couldn’t help it- something about that
vulnerability of nakedness, even though there wasn’t anyone else there to see
him and make it a real vulnerability, made him uncomfortable when he knew of
such things as werewolves and hunters and kanimas and whatever else he didn’t
know about.  He  picked only a few towels out of the washing machine- he’d
learned that they’d dry faster if he only had a few in the drier at a time then
stuffing a lot of towels into it at once.  Then he remembered he had left a
towel in his room.  Deciding to use that one and dry all the towels, he shoved
the rest into the dried and turned it on high for a long time.
            The hardwood floors resounded somewhat quietly as he padded into
his room.  He spotted the towel immediately and sauntered over to the towel. 
It was still damp, but it would do.  Wait, what if it has the stink on it? 
Stiles paused.  He threw the towel back onto the ground and pouted a little. 
He smelled like something no one could smell.  Fucking great.
            “Stiles, you look... you smell very nice,” a familiar, but spine-
chillingly dark voice announced from behind Stiles.
            Ice erupted from his spine and he felt his skin tighten as goose
bumps ran over his entire body.  His thoughts turned to jelly and his knees
felt like they’d betray him and crumble.  Actually, one of them tried and
tripped him as he turned, making him throw his hands up to regain his balance.
            So there he was, standing in front of Peter fucking Hale, naked, in
the universal sign of surrender.  He snapped one hand over his junk and the
other across his chest.  Great, manly Stiles, covering up like a girl.
            And Peter just… looked him over?  God, why was that erotic?  Stiles
reclaimed the towel from the floor as he stuttered for words to get Peter to
dieleavenotbesofuckingcreepy.  “What…”
            “Relax, Stiles, I just wanted to talk,” Pater smirked.  Then Stiles
saw something in Peter’s hands.  My boxers?  Sure enough, a pair of Stiles’
boxers was splayed across Peter’s lap, gently under Peter’s heavy hand.
            “Whuh….  Uh… why do you ha-” Stiles stumbled physically and
mentally as his brain slowly began to solidify even under the constancy of
Peter’s unabashed, appraising eyes.  Yep, definitely meat. He’s definitely
looking at me like meat.
            “Oh, come on, Stiles, I’ve said I like you.  You don’t have to be
that worried,” Peter stilled smiled a toothy grin.  Wolfish grin.
            “What the h-” Stiles’ voice cracked, coaxing a larger, more
maniacal grin from the wolf, “-hell are you doing in my house?”  Stiles managed
to finish strong.  He looked around the room.  Had he kept anything from the
last few months?  Mountain Ash?  Wolfsbane?  Something?
            “First I had to clear out the mountain ash.  It’s not here any
longer, Stiles,” Peter explained, seeing the boys’ searching, desperate eyes. 
“But then, then I had some… more important work to do.”
            “Aaaaand what was that?” Stiles regained a bit more of his
composure as he cautiously wrapped the towel around his waist.  Never take your
eye off the ball predator.  Sarcasm, Stiles.
            “Well, I had to make my mark.  Stake my claim,” Peter stood, still
thumbing the boxers in his hand, and as their light fabric moved, and was that…
did Peter have the fly of his jeans open?  Stiles couldn’t get a good look-
Peter held the garment in front of his groin.  Stiles realized it looked like
he was looking at Peter’s groin, and snapped his attention back to the older
man’s face.
            Stiles tightened his jaw.  He was playing with fire.  This crazy
werewolf had resurrected from the grave.  Almost got Scott to kill people. 
Turned Scott.  Wanted to turn Stiles.  “Mark what?” Stiles asked.
            “Oh, come on, I know you’ve noticed.  Well, maybe you haven’t, but
I know Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Derek said something to you.”  Peter sauntered
over, across the room to Stiles.  He dangled a finger down to Stiles’ bed, ran
it across the boy’s tousled comforter.  It would’ve been creepy in and of
itself, but Peter had apparently brought out his claws- not a good sign- and a
rip followed in the wake of the man’s finger.
            Suddenly things started clicking into place.  “You were…. You were
marking me?!” Stiles yelled.  “And come on, that’s a nice cover!”
            Peter simply dropped the boxers he’d been holding.  On the floor,
Stiles could see they had tiny little tears where Peter’s wolfed-out claws had
rubbed together and torn the fabric.  Yep, fly definitely down.  Peter stopped
a pace or two in front of Stiles.  His eyes flashed across the boy’s body,
Stiles’ feeling of vulnerability now fully realized.
            Stiles stepped back, unsure of anything he could do.  He’d never
been caught fully unarmed before.  Okay, there was the time dad walked in on
me, but not like this.  I wasn’t worried about dad ripping my throat out with
his teeth.  “Wha-Why- Why the hell have you been marking me?”  Stiles asked,
disbelief and sarcasm thick in his voice.  It felt like his only defense in his
current state.  He quickened his eyes to the window- that’s how Peter had come
in.  Fucking werewolves and windows.
            “You know, I’ve always admired your ability to apply sarcasm to
deadly situations, Stiles,” Peter said, closing the gap between them again. 
Stiles in turn retreated.
            “It’s a gift,” keep him occupied.
            “It’s a gift that won’t get you any closer to the window,” Peter
whispered.  In an instant, Peter had completely closed the gap.  Stiles was
busy trying to wrap his mind around the current situation.
            I’m trapped.  In my own damn house.  With a fucking zombie werewolf
who was unstable before he was resurrected from the dead.  He’s already snuck
into my house a few times, gotten rid of my defenses for times such as these,
caught me with my pants not even down but halfway across my damned room, and
he’s beenmarkingme with his scent.  Oh god, that’s why Scott said I stank- I
smell like zombie werewolf.  But wouldn’t they recognize Peter’s scent?  Not if
Peter had been rubbing his friggin’ groin on everything.  Neither Scott nor
Derek would know that smell.  Hopefully. Stiles stumbled back but made it about
half a step when his heel and then the back of his head crunched against the
wall
            “There we go, I can see it all lining up in that frazzled brain of
yours,” Peter whispered now, his breath hot, even from a foot or two away.  Of
course, Stiles new it was a weak foot, and that the man could easily close the
distance before he could react.  And it didn’t help that Stiles had to look at
the man who had inspired just a few of his wet dreams lately.  While he was in
a bath towel, standing across from a murderer.  Great time to think about wet
dreams, Stiles.  He scorned himself.  And then glanced at Peter’s open fly. 
Tight, black Underarmor met his gaze and Stiles bit his lip to distract
himself.
            Then, as fast as an ankle-length towel wrapped around his waist
precariously allowed, he bolted towards the window.  He’d rather be seen naked
outside than be under the coy gaze of Peter any longer.  He grasped the window
frame and felt cold and freedom and hope.
            And then he realized he felt it wash over his entire body- Peter
had grabbed after him, but got the towel instead.  Naked outside it was.
            Or it would have been, had Peter’s unnaturally warm hand not also
snaked itself around Stile’s ankle and yanked him back in the room after he’d
made it halfway out the window.
            Air exploded from Stiles’ lungs as his ribcage hit the window’s
frame upon his forced reentry into his room.  Gasping, sprawled, naked on his
floor, Stiles’ head spun in the intensity of the moment.
            “Stiles’, I really don’t want to hurt you,” Peter said, almost
sounding genuinely sorry for ripping me through a fucking window, standing over
him.  “But I think you know I can.”
            Stiles rolled to one side, felt sick, then ceded to lying on his
back while the world stopped spinning and the air stopped lighting his lungs on
fire.  Of course, right now the world was his room, but then it was Peter
Hale.  Peter gracefully? stepped over Stiles, who still had to suck in air to
breathe.  “Go to hell,” Stiles gasped.
            “Been there… wasn’t my thing…” Peter replied, a look of remembrance
slighting across his mouth and bringing up a corner of his lip.  “Oh, come on
now, Stiles, I saw you look.”
            Stiles watched in mixed horror, agony, and excitement as Peter’s
still-clawed hands rubbed boldly at his own crotch.  God that’s hot.  No. 
Nonononononono.  Stiles, you’ve got a murdering sunuvabitch straddling your
one-hundred-fifty pound body you cannot be thinking about anything but his
crotch escaping.  He tore his eyes away from Peter.
            Suddenly, Peter’s breath was hot on him again- but so close this
time.  “Caught you again,” Peter’s words seemed to slither into Stiles’ ear. 
He shuddered as they made his brain melt again.  Goosebumps erupted across his
skin again, paling tiny spot on his still-pink skin.  Then the oddest sensation
washed over Stiles… from his ear.  A slick, moist flicker ignited Stiles’ head
as Peter licked gently- such an uncharacteristic thing to describe anything
Peter Hale- on the edge of his ear.  He hated himself for feeling his betraying
cock starting to rise.
            Stiles kicked his leg straight up, straight into Peter’s crotch.
Or he would have, had the man not sensed it and sat on Stiles’ chest in an
instant.  And in that same instant, Stiles’ lungs reignited into wildfire as
his breath escaped him again.  The next instant, Stiles’ arms were pinned
against his floor, pinned by Peter’s clawed left hand.
            “Cute, Stiles,” Peter said dryly.  He shifted his weight slightly,
back on to Stiles’ stomach, allowing the boy to breathe again… or try to
breathe again.  “Here’s the thing,” Peter continued, “I usually get what I
want.  Not all the time, but usually.  See, I didn’t want to die, but I did. 
But I stilled rebelled and, as you know, here I am.  Death-defying isn’t an
easy identifier to come by.  And right now, actually, always, Stiles, I want
you,” Peter leant down and scraped his teeth against Stile’s jawline when he
stressed the word ‘always’.  And in response, a gasp, not entirely for air, but
maybe, just a little bit for Peter, escaped the boy.  And damnit he was really
hard now.  “And, see, Stiles, I know you want me too,” Peter said, glancing
back at his hard, exposed, betraying teen-aged manhood.
            Stiles was able to slow his breathing.  He could, in fact, call it
breathing now, instead of gasping, gaping, struggling or all the other words
that came to mind.  “You’re insane.”
            “Well, Stiles, let’s not nit-pick…  After all, you’re the one
that’s been pining over a girl who’s ignored you your whole life,” Peter said. 
The sheer amount of heat coming from where Peter was touching him was like
touching a radiator.  “And isn’t doing the same thing expecting different
results the colloquial definition of ‘insanity’?”  Okay, he has you there,
Stiles.
            “What the hell do you want with me?” Stiles asked, thrashing under
Peter.  It was a bad idea.  Peter shifted his weight forward onto his ribs
again.
            “I want you to give in Stiles.  I want you to accept what you’ve
been thinking about-what I’ve been hearing you dream about.  That you,” Peter
ground the exposed part of his underwear against Stile’s chest, “want exactly
the same thing I want.”
            Peter’s movements pushed more air from the boys lungs, and as
Peter’s bulge rubbed against Stile’s chest, he could smell the man.  Not just
Peter, but Peter’s friggin’ ballsweat.  Why is that a turn-on?  I smell nasty
guys in the locker room six days a week and all I can think about is e-coli,
but when I get a whiff of Peter-zombie-Hale’s crotch I can’t help myself? 
Stiles rolled his eyes at himself, but was at a loss.  He did kind of like it. 
Nonono your first time can’t be with a zombie.  Won’t be with a zombie.  Won’t
be with a werewolf.  Won’t be with a zombie werewolf no matter how hot he is. 
“I don’t want that,” Stiles protested weakly.
            “Stiles, you’re breaking down.  I can see it,” Peter said.  It
wasn’t a sweet revelation.  Peter stated the fact like Stiles wasn’t trying to
hide it in a mine in hell.  Then, with little effort, Peter picked Stiles up by
his bound wrists and his hip, and as gently as the sort of thing could go,
slammed Stiles back down, about a foot from where they had been on the floor,
onto Stiles’ bed.  Stiles gasped as more air rushed from his lungs.  And
whatever reserve was left in his lungs escaped when he felt a warm, rough palm
slip up his surely-bruised ribcage as Peter rubbed a calloused thumb around his
nipple.
            Then suddenly, Stiles’ body melted and stiffened at the same time. 
His legs stiffened off the side of the bed as Peter’s moist breath whispered
down his happy trail until Peter flicked his tongue lightly against the bottom
of his swollen head.  Condensation followed, and godthatfeelssogood.  A moan
escaped him that vibrated the whole bed.  Peter stood, smirking down at the
defeated young man.
            “Good boy,” it wasn’t belittling, it was encouraging, and Stiles
liked it.  The boy stared through half-lidded eyes at Peter, now standing
between his barely relaxing legs, and watched.  The leather coat (what was it
with werewolves and leather coats?) Peter was wearing came off as if it were
the easiest thing in the world- and Peter made it look as such.  A simple shrug
and it was gone.  Damn that was sexy.  Another moment and Peter’s shirt was
gone.  Stiles peered on as the older man took off the shirt- one of his
favorite things had always been when a guy’s shirt would ride up just a little
bit whenever he took off a shirt or hoodie.  Stiles realized Peter was
inadvertently giving him so much of what he’d ever wanted.  Peter’s eyes met
Stiles as his shirt hit the floor, then abruptly Peter was upon him.
            Peter’s eagerness was tempered by Stiles’ attempts to move too
quickly.  Peter thrust his hips onto the boys exposed sack, grating the
roughness of his jeans and their open fly against the soft, vulnerable area. 
Stiles grunted at the pain, but soon his pain was shushed by the short, small
kisses Peter was pressing into his hungry lips.  God I want to explode.  I want
to…everything.  Stiles’ already hard-to-focus mind was going in so many
directions at once.  He’d seen things in some porn he wanted to try.  I should
try that.  Oh god why does it feel so good when I feel another dude’s beard
against my lip?  Stiles gained some courage and began exploring the contours of
Peter’s musculature with his hands.  Peter’s body was hardened- wiry strength
and compact muscles.  Years of being a werewolf, Stiles thought.  He wrenched
his neck up to try and kiss Peter hard and deep, like he’d seen his peers do
countless times at school, but Peter just grinned and leant his forehead,
pulling his lips away from Stiles’.  “Stop it, I want-” Stiles struggled.
            “I know what you want Stiles,” Peter whispered, whispering another
ether over his ear.  Peter pinned Stiles down, by the throat this time.  He put
small instances of pressure on Stiles, who panicked at first, but then rolled
with the punches.  One hand busy, Peter pushed his pants down in an instant,
revealing his thick, still half-flaccid member to Stiles, whose eyes widened at
the impressive sight.  Peter grinned at the dumbfounded expression of sheer
adoration on the boy’s face.  It made him feel more alive knowing how badly
Stiles wanted it.
            “You’re huge,” Stiles said.  He was being honest, but honestly,
Peter knew, he was average, if thick.  Stiles reached out to grab at it, but
Peter caught his wrist and flung it lightly to the side.  Stiles grasped out
again, but was denied.
            “Patience,” Peter said from the foot of the bed.  Stiles propped
himself up on his elbows, marveling at Peter’s naked body.  But not just that-
Stiles wanted Peter, not just his body.  Stiles winced as his ribs- now already
slightly bruising, took on pressure from his sitting up.  Peter stepped out of
the jeans and underwear at his ankles and then wedged his knee right between
Stile’s thighs, forced his knee all the way to Stile’s groin, and hefted the
boy further up on to the bed.  He watched as slight pain but more excitement
flitted across Stiles’ face.  “But first…” Peter trailed off, nodding down
slightly to his half-erect penis.  Stiles fell for the bait, and practically
lunged, but the man again grabbed his throat, pinned him to the bed.  Why is it
hot when it feels like he could strangle me?  Peter slowly, methodically
started rubbing the head of his cock against Stiles body.  He slipped it around
his thighs at first, but then, when Stiles tried to grab at it, Peter had
grabbed at his wrists and pinned them above the boy’s head.  There, prone,
Stiles felt as Peter straddled his torso and slowly bounced and rubbed his
hardening cock across Stiles’ stomach and chest.  God I just want it
everywhere.  I want to see it again, but, choker here won’t let me touch the
damn thing. Oh, Peter’s cock is touching me. 
            Through a half-closed windpipe, Stiles groaned for more of Peter. 
Half the time he knew he was uttered nonsense, but Peter was just…  Peter. 
Finally, Peter looked up into Stiles’ eyes with satisfaction, seeing the
pleading, wanting look on the boy’s face.  “Peter, please,” Stiles begged. 
Peter hardened, and let go of the boy, who still remained tame under his gaze. 
Peter moved up on the bed, and brought his cock close to Stiles’ mouth.  The
young man looked down his nose at it, then, and god Peter loved it, looking
into Peter’s eyes, Stiles slowly opened those soft lips and cautiously sucked
in Peter’s head.  The man couldn’t help but groan and shudder as the warmth and
moistness of Stile’s mouth enraptured him.  His head lolled back of its own
accord, even as Stile’s struggled to keep his teeth from contacting his
considerable girth.  Peter opened his eyes again and watched as Stiles willed
his mouth to open wider and go further down onto him.  Peter made a slight
sound, giving the boy pause, then leant down and cradled the back of the boy’s
head.  Stiles looked up knowingly, waited, as Peter slowly pushed himself
further into his mouth.  Stiles felt as if he couldn’t breathe, and then
remembered his nose, though his eyes watered as Peter pushed the thick head of
his cock to the back of his throat.  Saliva welled in Stiles’ mouth, and Peter
meticulously extricated his cock from the boy’s mouth before slapping it
lightly on the boy’s open lips.  Stiles found the head again and slurped it
further into his mouth, then surprised Peter when he suddenly gulped his entire
length into his mouth.  Peter shuddered as Stiles gag reflexed inadvertently
massage the head of his cock deep inside the young man’s throat.  Stile’s hands
had slowly been more adventurous, and they now pressed against Peter’s firm
buttocks as Stiles tried to get rid of his gag reflex in one go.  Peter could
tell the boy was struggling trying to please him, but pulled away so Stiles
could breathe.
            “Don’t hurt yourself, Stiles,” Peter couldn’t help but gasp.  This
was the first time he’d been touched like this in a very long time.  He brought
himself down to lay his weight on Stiles.  He liked the feel of Stiles’ gangly,
wiry body underneath his- it was a study in contrasts.  Stiles grunted a little
under the pain of his bruised ribs, but he didn’t complain.  Peter wondered if
he’d turn the boy into a masochist, though Stiles himself seemed alright with
being submissive… for now, at least.
            “I… I… I don’t know what to say,” Stiles stammered.  “Am I… am I
doing okay?”  Oh fuck what are you thinking Stiles, he’s a grown fucking man,
he’s probably had plenty better.
            “Stiles, don’t worry about performance,” Peter said.  “And don’t go
insecure on me and tell yourself that’s a way of saying I don’t expect more. 
You’re… you’re doing very well, I mean.”  It was hard for Peter to reaffirm the
boy.  Reaffirmation had never been his strongpoint.  But his words seemed to
encourage Stiles.  He saw the boy open his mouth to speak, and took the
opportunity to surprise him again.  He pressed his mouth hard against the
boy’s.  Their teeth clipped for a moment, but in another they were enveloping
each other.  Stiles was a great kisser-Peter hadn’t been expecting that.  But
they lay there for quite some time, simply kissing each other, occasionally
Peter would bite at Stile’s lower lip while they let their hands explore each
other.  Peter found the boy’s firm, lean ass a good place to rest his hands,
and kneaded the muscles there as  Stiles’ own hands kept wandering back to
Peter’s chest.
            It continued for a time- Stile’s wasn’t sure how long, but Damn,
every second was worth the wait.  Then Peter pulled away and Stiles felt
emboldened now.  “Peter, do you uh… will you… fuck me?” Stiles was unsure of
what word to use.  But he didn’t necessarily want to use ‘make love to’- Stiles
had slowly given into the pain, just a little, and admitted to himself-he
wanted it a little rough.  It wasn’t that it didn’t hurt, but it gave an
incredible contrast and seemed to brighten the highlights of the evening all
the more.
            Peter looked back at him with a look in his eyes of understanding. 
Like he knew Stiles wanted it rougher than he could handle.  Like the hormonal
boy his was.  But, something inside Peter wanted that too.  He didn’t just want
to make Stiles’ first time memorable- it was always memorable- he wanted to
sear it into the youth’s memory.  “Stiles, it’ll hurt,” Peter warned.
            “I figure… but… God Peter, I-” Stiles began, but was interrupted as
his entire body was shucked further up on the bed.  Peter had moved down
simultaneously, and now sat on his heels, kneeling between Stiles’ suddenly
spread legs.  He slowly lifted Stiles by the boy’s hips, pressuring the boy’s
ribs again, but Stiles’ barely noticed the pain as he looked into Peter’s eyes
while Peter brought two fingers to his own mouth and wet them.  Stiles closed
his eyes as he felt Peter’s fingers pressure his hole.  It felt like he’d
imagined it would- but Peter was gentle. 
            “Relax,” Peter said, a patient grin on his face.  Then
surprisingly, Stiles actually relaxed.  His pucker loosened just enough, and
Peter took the chance- slipping a finger in up to his second joint.  Stile’s
moaned and the soft muscles contracted tight around Peter’s thick finger.  It
rapt both of their attention, and Peter began wiggling his finger, slid it all
the way in.
            Stiles moaned as Peter, slightly more impatient now, pushed a
second finger in as deep as the first immediately.  Stile’s contracted again,
groaned and stomped his foot against the bed at the pain, but soon Peter was
loosening him well.  Peter gawked at the boy’s writing form- it was a rare
occurrence to find himself mesmerized beyond sarcasm, but Stile’s had done it. 
He glanced at the boy, and Stiles was staring at his, ascent in his eyes and
face.  Peter hesitated- now that was a new one- but slowly lowered Stile’s
pelvis into place, lining the head of his now absolutely throbbing cock to the
boy’s slightly loosened hole.  Peter paused, then let spit trickled down onto
his cock.  He rubbed it around, hoping it would ease some of Stiles’ pain. 
            “Think you’re ready?” Peter asked.
            “I… want to be,” Stiles said, and it drove Peter over the edge.  He
pressed firmly at Stiles’ hole- gripping the boy’s narrow hips.  Stile’s
tightened like Peter knew he would, but then relaxed slightly, and Peter thrust
slightly in.  He managed to get just the head in before Stile’s panicked at the
rush of pain.  “Oh god,” Stiles gasped.  Peter’s cock felt larger than when
he’d used two fingers to stretch him.
            “Is it too much?” Peter asked, concern evident in his voice.  That
drove Stiles over the edge.  The whole experience had been unexpected, but most
of all, Peter’s concern and seemingly genuine care let the boy relax into him.
            Stiles didn’t verbally respond, but the tightness around Peter
suddenly lessened, and he pressed further into Stiles.  The boy would
occasionally need to move, but Peter found a comfortable position for them
both- he knelt between Stiles’ spread legs, with Stile’s lower back resting on
the older man’s thick thighs.  It let Stiles relax and still gave Peter some
good leverage.
            It took a while for Peter to inch his way in.  He’d had to stop
himself from slamming home at the slightest relaxation, but it was worth it. 
Stiles still writhed in the mixture of pain and pleasure, and when Peter was
all the way in he warned the boy, “I’m going to pick things up a little.”
            Stiles just groaned, and Peter picked up his slumped body and slid
out of the boy, then let him slide all the way down his cock.  Stiles yelped,
but awed, open-mouthed at the pleasure as well a second past the pain.  It
drove Peter crazy, and soon, they found a rhythm.  Peter tired of holding the
boy, who seemed content to let Peter have his way, and laid the boy down- he
loved how flexible he was- and thrust harder and harder as Stiles grew used to
his fucking.
            Stiles could see that Peter hadn’t noticed that he’d somewhat
wolfed-out.  His claws were back, and dug into Stiles’ slight hips as Peter
thrust into him with more and more force.  It hurt like hell, but it felt so
good at the same time.  Yep, Stiles, you’ve gone full on masochist.  Peter
leant down and nipped at the boy’s nipples, occasionally drug a clawed hand
over his chest, leaving white-hot lines that sporadically left little blots of
blood where Peter had unintentionally broken the skin.  Stiles didn’t care.  He
felt like fire was in his belly, but it was a fire that comforted and burned at
the same time.
            Peter was close.  God he was close.  He’d forgotten to tell
Stiles.  “Stiles, I should warn you,” he panted between thrusts, “I have a
knot.”
            “A what?” Stiles asked.
            “It’s a wolf thing- it’s… it’s big,” Peter said.
            “I don- I don’t care,” Stiles said, exasperated.  He just didn’t
want Peter to stop.
            “O-okay,” Peter replied.  He doubted the boy knew truly what he’d
said, but, he liked surprising the boy.  He felt his knot growing- if Stiles
thought his cock was thick, he’d be amazed at his knot.  It surged- adding
another inch or so to Peter’s length, but it was much thicker than his cock. 
Peter looked down at his knot, then back at Stiles’ expression of ecstasy and
said to hell with it in a rush of want and lust.  He thrust his knot into the
boy, and a few thrusts later, when Stiles was still wide-eyed at the unexpected
size, Peter’s knot expanded inside the boy, tying the two together.
            “Oh fuck!” Stiles exclaimed.  Peter had said something about a
knot- but he didn’t know it was in his cock.  Stiles felt full on the inside
suddenly, and felt immense pressure on his hole.  Peter hunched over and his
body seemed to convulse, then Stiles felt it- Peter was cumming.  No, not just
cumming, he was cumming a lot.  Stiles felt the warmth and full sensation move
further, deeper into himself.  It pressed tight against his skin, and Peter
leaned weakly, still reflexively thrusting as his sweaty, beautiful body
collapsed onto Stiles’.
            The sudden shift pulled hard on Peter’s knot, and Stiles felt like
he’d be pulled inside out with a yelp.  It brought Peter back to, and he
apologized.  “Sorry.  Oh god, Stiles, you are…”  Peter stopped talking and
kissed Stiles forcefully as he pinned the boy’s hands at the side of his head. 
Then he looked down at the boy’s body.  “Oh god, I am sorry,” Peter repeated,
seeing what he’d unconsciously done.
            “It’s okay… it’s reallyokay,” Stile’s replied.  He nuzzled into
Peter’s strong chest and felt another surge of cum fill him.  “Damn, how much
do you cum?”
            “A lot… I am technically another species, you know,” Peter tutted. 
“It’s kind of a thing- my knot.”
            “Yeah, when does that stop?”  Stiles asked flirtatiously.
            “Uh… about half an hour.”
            Stiles did a double take that shook the bed.  “What?!”  As he said
it Peter’s cock shot more and more cum into him.  “Oh god, you’re still
cumming, it feels like I just ate Thanksgiving meal backwards.”
            Peter laughed.  Actually laughed.  How long had it been since he
had actually laughed out of joy instead of laughing at someone else?  He’d
forgotten how good it felt.  “It takes a while to calm down.  But I think-”
Peter paused, and then suddenly flipped Stiles’ leg over so they could spoon.
            Stiles felt like a tightly wound yoyo, twisted around Peter’s
knot.  Like if Peter didn’t hold him in place he might spin around the man’s
cock.  Stiles laughed.  He was surprised that he could laugh- they never did
that online.  The sample videos always ended after a few minutes anyway.  Peter
wrapped his heavy arms around Stiles, and Stiles felt slight in his radiator
embrace.  He felt another convulsion of Peter’s cock deep inside him as Peter’s
whole body shuddered against his back and guffawed.  “You can’t still be
cumming.  That’s ridiculous,” Stile said, shaking his head in exasperation.
            “Well, it’ll keep happening until I’m out.  Kinda…how it works,”
Peter explained, apology in his voice as he shifted into a more comfortable
position.
            “Wow, that’s a cool werewolf trick,” Stiles grinned.
            Peter grinned in return-Stiles could feel Peter’s cheek warm
against his back as Peter nuzzled into the nape of Stiles’ neck.  His scruff
sent little sandpaper sounds into the room.  He pulled the boy closer, and
their bodies were touching about as much as they could.  Stiles finally shut
up, and Peter enjoyed the sound of Stile’s slowing heartbeat.  Then it dipped
low.  Peter panicked, then came to a realization- Stiles had fallen asleep.
            “All the vigor in the world until your first time,” Peter chuckled
to himself, and the motion carried into his cock, which then sent another load
deeper into Stiles.  He controlled himself.  Laid there while Stiles slept,
noisily.
            A half hour later, Peter rustled Stiles awake.  “Huh?” the boy
asked, eyelids heavy.
            “I’m going to pull out now, Stiles,” Peter warned.  His knot had
subsided, and he was confident he could pull out without hurting Stiles.
            “Oh, okay,” Stiles said.  “Do I need to do anything?”
            “Just don’t clench up on me,” Peter said.  He slowly pulled his
abating hardon from Stiles.  Cum quickly followed suit, and suddenly Peter felt
the urge to shove himself back into Stiles.  “Okay, you can clench now,” Peter
said.
            Stiles did so.  “I still feel so… full.”  Stiles said.  “You came a
lot.”
            “There’s more where that came from,” Peter teased- he could tell
the boy was spent.  “Of course, we’re not done here.”
            “Huh?” Stiles did another double take.
            “Well, I’d feel unfair if I didn’t let you cum,” Peter said,
grinning.  “Just lay back, Stiles.”
            Stile protested at first, claiming no need of reciprocation, but
Peter had wanted to taste the boy since his first lick.  He quickly engulfed
Stiles cock, which became hard immediately.  Peter worked swirls around the
head with his tongue, licked the boy’s shaft, and lightly squeezed his balls as
Stiles got closer to cumming.
            “I’m gunna-” Stiles tried to warn.  Peter had already been
expecting it- hearing someone’s heartbeat was good for that.  Stiles did
surprise his with the force of his orgasm though.  Of course, it had taken the
boy all of about two minutes to cum.  Lots of chutzpah, but no endurance.  As
Stiles came, he bucked wildly under Peter, and shot hard and long into the
man’s mouth.  After letting Stiles come down a bit, Peter relented and stood. 
He braced Stiles’ head and kissed the boy, and in doing so, pushed Stile’s cum
into his own mouth.
            Stiles swallowed, surprised, and realized only at the strange,
sticky sensation in his throat what Peter had done.  He kind of liked it.  “I’d
better go,” Peter said, unsure of himself.
            “My dad’s not home for another few days.  You could,” Stiles began.
            “I’d uh,” Peter cut the boy off.  “You’d let me stay?” Peter asked,
a quirked head. Yeah, he’s definitely part dog, Stiles reminded himself.
            “Uh… I’m a good cook,” Stile replied.
            “Got any fresh rabbit?” Peter asked.  But then he couldn’t help but
noticed, as Stiles laid there, that his cum was leaking out of Stiles.  Stiles
took a minute and looked down at the small puddle of cum under him, and Peter
took the chance to leave.
            Stiles looked up to address Peter again about dinner, but the wolf
was gone-the window had been open the whole time.
            Fucking werewolves.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Summary
     Peter, injured, seeks aid from the one person he has- oh god,has he
     come to trust Stiles Stilinski? But, when something goes wrong, Peter
     must watch as a devastating price is paid on his behalf.
Chapter Notes
     Hey there, readers! I hope you continue to enjoy Doors and Windows. A
     lot of time has gone into these two chapters, and I know they're
     short, but I plan to keep this going as long as I can with as much
     momentum as I can. I've really put much effort into developing the
     budding relationship between Peter and Stiles in this chapter, and I
     must say I'm very surprisingly happy with the end result- I hope you
     are as well!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
 
            Fucking werewolves.  Stiles was still mad at himself because now,
every time he thought it, fucking werewolves sounded a lot sexier and a lot
less demeaning.  It had been a few days since he and Peter had…  Fucking
werewolves.  His father would be home in a few days yet, but Stiles’ still felt
like he was losing precious time.  Time with Peter.
 
            He found himself full of self-loathing at that thought.  This was
how girls were supposed to feel after one night stands. Of course, even as he
hated himself for it, Stiles admitted that he didn’t want what he and Peter had
had to be a one-time thing.  He at least thought Peter would show up at some
completely inconvenient time and interpose himself upon Stiles’ life.  But
Peter hadn’t.  Hadn’t done anything.  Stiles hadn’t even felt the sneaking
feeling that he was being followed or watched lately.
 
            So at first he hadn’t done any of his laundry.  He had worn
anything he knew Peter had marked to school for the next few days, disregarding
any and all of Scott or Derek’s comments.  He wore Peter’s scent, hoping it
would show that Stiles wanted more.  And then on the third night of Peter’s
apparent absence since their first and only meeting, Stiles had washed every
single piece of clothing and laundry he owned.  Every sock, shirt, hat, sheet,
bedspread, and piece of lacrosse gear had been washed according to their
individual care instructions.  All while Stiles’ grumbled under his breath
about werewolves and marking.  He’d vacuumed and dusted his entire room.  He
had been dead set on proving to himself that he was fine with Peter’s choice.
 
            Of course, it’d be better if I could actually be okay with his
choice.
 
            And of course about an hour after he was sure he’d gotten the last
hint of Peter’s scent off of his stuff, he had regretted it.  Even though he
couldn’t smell it, he had worn Peter’s scent proudly.  He had been marked, and
he was okay with it.  Does that make me submissive?  Of course, Stiles didn’t
really care either way.  Except now he didn’t have a single thing to distract
himself with.  His homework was long done- that was the first distraction he’d
tried.  So now he was three chapters ahead of his Trig class and into next
week’s Bio homework but Peter’s body was still grinding against his every time
he closed his eyes.
 
            Shower.  He wouldn’t admit it to himself, but Stiles’ showers had
become his hopeful calling card to the wolf.  His own…howl.  He’d been walking
back from the shower when Peter had come last time, so he hoped it might happen
again.  It was getting a little painful to scrub so hard everywhere, every
night.  And now his scrapes and bruises were healing.  He had marveled at how,
when the hot water sluiced over his body the first time after their encounter,
it had highlighted where Peter’s clawed hands, even gently, had drawn light
lines of fire in their night together.  Now those lines were gone- healed, and
Stiles longed for them again.  Am I weird if I want his scratches back?
 
            Either way, Stiles undressed and stepped into the shower.  He
scrubbed, he soaped, he exfoliated.  He shaved his face and didn’t cut
himself.  He, ever since their night, had been washing “down there”.  Not just
his dick, he’d washed his…hole.  Wanted to be ready for Peter.  God I’m a
tool.  He did again, unable to shake the feeling that he was hoping against
hope.
 
            The shower was really over before it had started.  Stiles was
drained.  Days and nights left him wondering if it had really happened.  If
Peter had just done some weird wolf thing or if it had actually meant
something.  He forewent toweling off and began brushing his teeth on the way to
his bedroom.  His heart caught on the slight sliver of hope remaining at the
entrance to his room- would Peter be there, smug grin on his face as he rubbed
a pair of Stiles’ underwear against himself again?
 
            But he wasn’t.
 
            Stiles’ room stood starkly empty of Peter.  His laundry was still
properly and precisely folded.  He stepped over to his computer and clicked on
some music.  He turned the volume up so it could overcome the sounds of the
truly historic rain storm that had been pounding Beacon Hills for the last two
nights.
 
            And as Stiles thrust his hips off-beat and sang off-key to Kelly
Clarkson’s “Since U Been Gone,” a bloody hand, white knuckled, pulled the rest
of Peter Hale through Stiles’ open window.  Stiles’ towel dropped as he sang
his heart out to Peter Hale.  I am manly enough to be doing this, he’d
convinced himself.  He cranked the volume until his laptop’s sound started to
buzz, and then then still sang over it.  It was only until he turned-
 
            “But since you be- Oh my fuck!” Stiles exclaimed, shock and horror
mingled on his face as he saw Peter, wet and bleeding, laying in a half-
conscious mass on his floor under his window.  Stiles’ leapt over, only
slightly aware of his nudity, to Peter.
 
            “Cute,” Peter grinned, sarcastic, even when he looked like death.
 
            “I could say the same for you,” Stiles said, even as he worried
over the man.  “What the hell happened to you?”  Stiles less asked and more
began to assess.  He lifted Peter’s hands from a wound right beneath his
ribcage.  Peter’s clothes- a jacket and deep V-neck t shirt were both torn and
soaked in blood and rain.  “I’m going to take these off.”
 
            Peter grimaced as Stiles gently tried to hike up the garments.  He
instead ripped the expensive jacket and shirt wide open- revealing darkened
veins and a stab wound the size of Stiles’ hand.  Stiles recognized the
darkened veins.
 
            “You’ve been poisoned,” Stiles gasped.  “Who did this?”  Stiles
wasn’t really caring about answers.  When he’d first started looking into first
aid- that is, after he’d learned his best friend was a werewolf and might be
needing more first aid than usual- he’d read that it was good to keep people
talking to assess their mental state and keep them conscious.  And Peter looked
pretty close to unconscious.
 
            “Hunter,” Peter forced through bared teeth, small drips of blood
coming from his mouth.
 
            “O-okay hold on, I’m going to get something to help.”
 
            That wasn’t good.  Internal bleeding, unless they’d also punched
Peter.  The thought of someone besting Peter infuriated Stiles.  But that took
a backseat to the dying man in his arms.  The darkened veins meant hunters,
like Peter had said, and it meant wolfsbane, which Stiles was in a distinct
lack of since Peter had burned his stash.  Stiles stood and threw on a pair of
boxers as he hurried down the hall to his hidden first-aid kit.
 
            In Stiles’ extensive research, he’d read about wolfsbane, it’s
varied formed and methods for killing things.  Even normal people.  He would
take a risk, though he wasn’t sure how much of one.  He scurried back into his
room, where Peter was now closer to the center of his floor in a pool of blood.
 
            “Oh shit,” Stiles breathed.  He had forgotten that the wolfsbane
would also prevent Peter’s natural healing from kicking in.  “Apply pressure,”
Stiles reminded himself even as he knelt and pressed against the werewolf’s
gaping wound.  Bared teeth and a low growl met his touch, but Peter restrained
himself.  Stiles dug in the kit and found a.   “Peter, I read that lidocaine
helps prevent the wolfsbane from giving you arrhythmia,” Stiles spoke, even
though he knew he was only doing it to comfort himself.  “You won’t like
this.”  Stiles extricated a hypodermic needle he’d stolen from Scott’s boss
full of lidocaine.  Nervously, he poked deep into the wound and dosed the man
writhing on his floor.
 
            A noise somewhere between the bellow of a fully grown man and the
growl of a dying wolf erupted from Peter.  Stiles threw himself away as Peter
lost control from the pain and wolfsbane and slashed blindly at the source of
pain.  Unhindered, Stiles returned to Peter’s side.  He could tell the
lidocaine was working- Peter’s neck relaxed a little, and he saw the strain of
pain leave Peter’s features.
 
            “What was that?” Peter asked, surprised at the quick loss of
feeling in his side.
 
            “Lidocaine- I read it helps reverse aconite poisoning in people, so
I figured the same would apply to werewolves.  And it’s handy that it’s a local
anesthetic,” Stiles’ grin was half-hearted as he continued to press against the
flow of blood trickling steadily from Peter’s side.
 
            “Stiles, you’ve go-” Peter passed out.  Blood loss, Stiles’
thought.  Not a good thing.  Veryverybadthing.  Stiles looked around nervously,
and something in Peter’s hand caught his eye.
 
            It was an old book.  Bound in leather.  Not a journal.  No, Stiles
could tell this was old.  Its pages looked weathered and crinkled from use. 
Decades of use possibly.  Stiles grabbed at the book and opened it.
 
            An explanation of wolfsbane poisoning met Stiles’ eyes.  It was
handwritten in an elegant scrawl.  The script reminded Stiles of the copy of
the U.S. Constitution his history teacher had brought in.  “Wolfsbane
poisoning, in the human, is relegated strictly to a physical toxicity in the
blood.  True werewolves, however, are infected not only by the plants’ toxin in
their blood, but the wolf itself is leeched of its power.  Healing stops, pain,
normally menial to a wolf, is exponential.  This is due to the magical
properties of the poison- its effects on the very nature and being of the
wolf.”  Stiles read hurriedly, not even understanding half of what was coming
out of his own mouth.  He continued, “Therefor, though the physical symptoms of
wolfsbane poisoning may be lessened, the true cure for those born into or given
the gift of lycanthropy must be of an arcane origin.”  Stiles angrily flipped
through pages and skimmed as fast as he could until he found something he
thought looked right. 
 
Peter growled and shifted under the boy, who sighed in relief that the man
wasn’t simply dead.
 
            “Okay, Peter, it says I have to do magic stuff.  I don-” Stiles
stumbled, remembering that technically, looking back, he had done magic
before.  And if there was anything he could believe in at the moment, it was
his need to heal Peter.  “Never mind.”  Stiles skimmed through the pages and
stopped on a promising diagram.  It called for candles and salt and blood along
with the injured person.  Seems legit, Stiles thought.
 
            He surrounded Peter with twelve candles and enclosed himself with
the man in a ring of salt.  This time, he had enough to make a complete circle,
but the book said that he had to close the circle with an effort of will, so
Stiles put everything he had into it, but even now he was unsure if it had
worked, though the candles didn’t flicker and dance in the wind coming in
through the open window anymore.  Stiles took it a sign of success. 
 
            “Okay, last ingredient: blood,” Stiles announced to Peter, who had
now broken out into a sweat.  Stiles held up the book and read to himself, “In
a spell of empathic health such as this, blood must be sacrificed to purify the
blood of the suffering.  Life, in blood, is sacrificed in giving life to one
who is losing it.”  Stiles couldn’t believe he was reading and considering and
actually going to sacrifice his blood in some weird werewolf spellbook he found
in his dying boyfriend’s hand, but, here he was.  Boyfriend?
 
            “Stiles, idiot, don’t,” Peter said weakly, but angrily.  His face
was pallid, expression pained and suffering.  Stiles ignored him.
 
            “Shut up, Peter, I’m saving you’re goddamned life,” Stiles said,
confused at the man’s protest.  He continued to feverishly read the explanation
from the book, hoping that reading aloud would prevent him from missing
anything important.  “Blood sacrificed can be given willing or not, but the
closer the connection of the empathies the better,” the book explained-if you
could call not making any freaking sense “explaining”- “untainted blood should
be blah-blah-blah to the site of infection… blah blah blah…”  Stiles lost his
patience and skimmed the rest of the spell’s explanation, sure of only his lack
of time to save Peter.  He took a pocketknife from his first aid kit, I hope
that doesn’t interfere with the juju, and rested it on the inside of his arm. 
He’d thought of cutting his leg or someplace more easily covered than his arm,
but figured it would be awkward trying to jam his knee against Peter’s ribs. 
Damn witches and their need to bleed.
 
            With that thought, Stiles bit his lip and let the sharp knife carve
deeply into his arm.  The pain flew up his arm as his blood trickled down it,
Good, not too deep.  He shuddered at the site but resolvedly pressed his
bleeding arm against Peter’s deep wound.
 
            Nothing happened.
 
            Stiles knelt there, arm bleeding into another person’s open gash
and couldn’t help but think about what his health teacher had said about blood-
to-blood contact.  That ship has sailed.  Then, suddenly, a deep, burning pain
flew through his veins to every part of his body.
 
            Stiles felt like he’d been kicked in the chest.  His breath fled in
one long, wretched gasp, and fire ignited in his veins.  His brain felt like it
was crushing against his skull, and his heart kept rhythm like an amateur drum
line led by a blind, dumb, and deaf person.  His chest beat hard one second,
then fluttered and paused for too long, only to start back up with a single,
heart crushing thud.   He barely noticed that he’d been flung from the circle,
and the candles, once lit, were now extinguished, the salt sprayed across his
floor as if from the very center of the circle. Stiles’ eyelids became lead,
and he thrashed in agony as the spell threw him into fits of pain somewhere
between being drawn and quartered and slowly being crushed by an elephant.  He
ground his teeth as tears flooded down his cheeks, hot and heavy in Stiles’
state of blind agony.  His backed racked and Stiles as suddenly teetering on
just his heels and the back of his head.  His spine popped painfully in several
places as he thought he would snap himself in two.  His thought were white
spots of fire on blank emptiness and fear.
 
            But then, a single sound made it all worth it.  Peter, from
hundreds of years and thousands of miles away, groaned.  He was alive.
 
            Stiles’ victory was brief as the throes continued.  At some point,
he was aware that he had vomited, only because of the acrid tastes of bile in
his mouth and runny, hot snot streaking sideways down his face.  Another
convulsion sent his entire body into rigidity, and Stiles felt himself splash
in the pool of vomit he’d just evacuated.  Even as his body stilled, his heart
felt like it was trying to break out of his ribcage.  His neck craned and every
muscle in his body seized, then suddenly, relief hit as he lost all feeling
momentarily and knew his entire body had gone limp.  He cried out, loud and
pleading, but no answer came to him.  No sounds of sirens- the storm outside
was too loud for anyone to hear, though Stiles was sure that he was screaming
loud enough that people two continents away should’ve been able to hear him.
 
            The sudden loss of feeling and control proved to be little respite,
as Stiles’ body sharply flung back into pain and seizures.  Stiles noticed a
new, fouler smell mingling with that of vomit that was now congealed in his
hair, and an irrational horror hit him in the gut as he realized that he had
wet and defecated himself.  He wished for unconsciousness, for some ease of the
pain, but neither came.  His physical pain only barely outshone his shame-
lying there, convulsing in a pile of his own shit and piss and vomit, he wished
someone would come and at the same time wished it would just any someway.  Any
way.
 
            Another brief reprieve gave Stiles renewed hope.  He should’ve
known better.  His back arched again, and Stiles’ world was flipped on end. 
His shoulder slammed onto the floor, and the room behind his arm went out of
focus as he saw and felt his fingers stretch into rigor.  The pain was
excruciating, as if an invisible hand were slowly pulling on every joint in his
hand.  Then, as Stiles watched in mingled agony and horror, his fingers bent
and snapped backwards in hyperextension.  He thought-and in some part of his
mind, hoped- he would black out, but all he could do was scream.  But his lungs
didn’t obey him.  Wouldn’t.  Instead of a scream, Stiles heard a meager squeal
that grated at his throat escape him.
 
            In a moment, Stiles’ attention was ripped from the pain in his hand
by a new, more intense anguish.  Stiles’ neck twisted beyond what he knew was
possible, and he was left looking down his chest, to where his ribs seemed to
tremble under his skin.  Then Stiles realized that his ribs were trembling. 
Stiles’ breath escaped him as he saw rib after rib collapse beneath his flesh,
each sounding an unhealthy pop to meet his ears.  He was oddly disconnected
from the sight- only his pain tethered him to what was happening to his own
body.
 
            Stiles was unaware of time.  He was pretty sure that decade or
seven had passed by the time he saw, through clenched eyelids and bloodshot
eyes, Peter stir from across the vast distance of his floor.  He smiled- he
could actually smile now- and felt his cheek press into the chunky, coagulated
vomit that his head had been resting in.  It inspired a dry heave, but Stiles
had known long ago that he had already emptied his stomach.  He saw Peter,
looking dazed, rise from the floor and survey the room disconcertedly.
 
            As Peter’s eyes turned to Stiles, and a mix of emotions so complex
flitted over the man’s face and through his eyes so quickly that Stiles wasn’t
sure if it had actually happened.  Then Peter was upon him, wordlessly picking
him up out of his own mess and into strong arms.
 
            “You idiot,” Peter said.  He sounded all at once relieved, furious,
sad, and confused.  “I told you not to do that,” Peter said, his voice low and
coddling to the boy, who felt small and childish in his arms.  Stiles grimaced
and grieved even at Peter’s careful examination.  Peter was sniffing lightly,
turning Stiles gently in his arms, checking to see if the boy was okay.
 
            “I’ve always had a problem with the word ‘no’,” Stiles explained. 
His voice now rasped against the raw flesh in his throat, ravaged by his
throwing up and the endless time screaming.
 
            “You smell like crap,” Peter said.  He had meant it as a joke, but
immediately regretted the words, as they seemed to cut Stiles down even more. 
“I’m sorry.”
 
            “You’re a zombie,” Stiles’ reply was weak and Peter could tell the
boy was exhausted.  He glanced at the clock- it was a quarter past four in the
morning.  He’d reached Stiles’ place at roughly eleven o’clock last night. 
Allowing fifteen minutes for Stiles’ comprehension of the spell (What the hell
kind of sixteen year old kid can pull off a spell like that with no explanation
and no experience?) that meant Stiles had been suffering for roughly five
hours.  It meant that Stiles, awkward, gangly, pale, unbearable, painfully
sarcastic, Stiles had been suffering five long, torturous hours for him- Peter
Hale-who had never done anything of any meaningful significance for anyone but
himself in his life.  And suddenly Peter felt the small one, as if eclipsed by
this single boy's unshakable personality.
 
Peter knew the spell inside and out- it was an old, guarded family secret- but
tried to empathize the boy anyway.  It was a fruitless endeavor, and he knew
it- the taker of the pain in this spell was never open to have the pain taken
away until it had passed.  Judging by his wound, and how lucid Peter was, he
guessed that Stiles had taken most of the poison, unknowingly.  It was a
miracle he was still alive.
 
            “Stiles, I could kill you right now,” Peter confessed, at the site
of Stiles, weak and gangly and ashen in his arms.  Peter knew the boy would
have no lasting physical symptoms, except, maybe, the sore throat and unhealthy
pallor that came from hours of throwing up.  But his worry didn’t lessen- he
knew the real toll of the spell was emotional- the pain would always seem fresh
in Stiles’ mind remembering the event¸ and the shame would be nearly ever-
present, constantly refreshed by the pain.  And young men of Stiles’ age didn’t
tend to cope with the memory of rolling around in their own bodily fluids and
feces very well.
 
            “That’d be nice,” Stiles said, half conscious, “relatively.”
 
            “You’re going to be fine, as soon as I can patch up your arm,”
Peter said, turning his gaze toward the gash that had initiated the spell.  It
was too deep for his liking- a livid reminder of Peter’s ineptitude and Stiles’
sacrifice.  It was the only wound from the ritual that wouldn’t be healed in a
few hours.  Blood was caked around the wound, interposed with Stiles’ own bile.
 
            Stiles looked down at his arm but couldn’t become paler.  He looked
down then at the floor and felt his stomach drop.  If he could have felt worse,
he would have.  The floor was smeared with his blood and spit, muddied with his
crap and throw up.  Stiles wanted to die of the shame.  “Oh god,” Stiles
gasped.
 
            “It’s okay, Stiles,” Peter said, “there’s nothing to be ashamed
about.”
 
            “Are you saying that because you’ve rolled in it before?” Stiles’
mouth hung in a cocky half-grin, but it lacked the spirit of sarcasm the boy
typically held.  Peter responded with a huff and walked toward the bathroom
with the pile of teenager in his arms.  Stiles was still dazed from the pain. 
He didn’t doubt that Stiles would need to rest probably for a few hours, if
nothing else to distance him from the trauma.
 
            Peter stepped into the bathtub with Stiles still in his arms.
 
            “You’re going to ruin your jeans,” Stiles said, weakly.
 
            “You just performed only of the most dangerous, reckless spells to
heal me and spent hours in inescapable pain, and you’re worried about my
jeans?” Peter asked, raising an unbelieving eyeball.
 
            “Hmph,” Stiles was falling into a stupor.  Peter was hoping it
would be from the endorphins flooding his system- hoping the boy’s pain was
lessening.  Peter turned on the water, irredeemably cold at first, but warming
quickly.  Anything seemed warm after his night bleeding in the storm.  Stiles
winced as the body hit him at first, but then as the water warmed, he seemed to
melt and mold into Peter.
 
            Peter found it oddly attractive, holding the boy.  He watched as
the water glided over the young man’s pale skin, washed blood and vomit and
discomfort from the boy’s body.  Peter’s own breathing was still shallow from
his encounter with the wolfsbane-laced dagger, but he would heal.  Stiles would
need help healing.  And probably an explanation as well.  Rather than
struggling with the removal of Stiles’ underwear, Peter ripped them from the
boy in a quick sweep of his clawed hand.
 
            “Hey,” Stiles managed to protest, but his dissent was half-hearted
and woozy at best.  Peter couldn’t help but grin, even as he washed the boy’s
mess from his skin.  He gently rubbed at the boy’s mess, showing no sign of how
bad Stiles was sure he actually smelt.  He took care enough to wash and rinse
around Stiles’ most intimate areas, and Stiles blushed through his lethargy as
Peter’s fingers gentled over his privates.  Well, they didn’t seem very private
between the two of them anymore.  “Pervert,” Stiles whispered.
 
            “And still the mouth lives on,” Peter said, eyes rolling.  He knelt
and placed Stiles in the bottom of the tub so he could wash off what had
transferred to his own skin.  He rolled his eyes again, but at himself this
time, as he couldn’t help but find it endearing when the young man seemed to
curl around his ankle.  Surely it was because of the cramped space of the
shower.  Peter crammed down the feelings that threatened to well up in him. 
Damn those feelings.  Damn his weakness.
 
            The shower had relieved the rest of Peter’s pain, but he still
worried over the boy as he carried him back to the room.  Peter delicately laid
Stiles’ limp body onto the bed.  Stiles had barely stirred since Peter had laid
him down in the shower- even when he’d dried the boy off, Stiles had seemed
content to doze and make little smartass remarks at Peter’s efforts to help and
comfort.  Peter couldn’t sleep.  Even if they were to share a bed, he felt too
much guilt to be comforted- even by the slowly warming, comfortingly safe
Stiles next to him.  So he did what he could do while the boy recovered.
 
            He managed to wipe and mop most of Stiles’ mess from the hardwood
floor and thanked the boy’s father for not having carpet.  That was a weird
thought.  Thank you, sheriff, for having hardwood floors and having an
incorrigibly sarcastic son who has found it acceptable for me to want to fuck
him.  Peter pushed the thought from his mind.  He took several cleaning
solutions to the floorboards before the smell was detectable only to his
sensitive nose.  Stiles stirred on the bed, but Peter could tell by the boy’s
heartbeat that he wouldn’t be waking anytime soon.  So he grabbed some floor
polish and refinished the floor where the chemicals and scrubbing had
deteriorated it, so no evidence would be left.  Well, no evidence but the
memories that Stiles would have to deal with for the rest of his life.
 
            Peter grimaced at the thought of what Stiles had had to have gone
through.  He hadn’t been conscious, but he knew the spell well enough.  It
haunted him to think of Stiles’ body being thrown, betraying itself, breaking
and bending under the power of the spell.  But the thought exhausted Peter.  Or
maybe the exhaustion was purely his own.  He sat at the foot of the bed, ran
his fingers through his still-damp hair.  He kicked his wet jacket towards the
window.  But that revealed another mess for his to clean up- that of the
ritual.
 
            Stiles really had done an incredible job.  Peter admired the boy’s
ability to take all the hyperactivity that was a part of him and focus on
learning and doing something that more knowledgeable men and women had failed
to do hundreds of times.  The circle was perfect- or had clearly been, before
the finishing of the spell.  Now the salt had been sprayed from the circle, the
candles had blown out, and Peter’s blood was drying on the floor.  He dropped
to hands and knees and scrubbed and refinished the floor there as well.  When
he finally looked up at the clock, it was a quarter to six in the morning.
 
            Peter, exhausted, peeled off his still-wet jeans, which was an
effort.  After he’d escaped, he was too tired to care enough about slowing his
descent onto the bed beside Stiles.  The boy barely stirred, but Peter’s weight
on the bed sunk the boy toward his body, and Peter couldn’t help but put an arm
around the boy.  When Stiles pushed his face into Peter’s armpit, Peter had to
concentrate on other things and pressed a hand to his still-hurting side, but
even that didn’t keep him from sleep.
 
 
===============================================================================
 
 
 
            Peter awoke to find something off.  Stiles was gone, but the smell
of something ambrosial wafted through the air.  Peter inhaled deeply, the scent
familiar in a way, but heavenly and decadent.  He couldn’t find his pants, or
the jacket he’d left drying.  He closed the window to keep the cool air from
coming in- it was still pouring outside.  He found a pair of Stiles’ underwear-
he remembered which drawer Stiles kept them in- and struggled to pull them up
over his thighs.  Stiles was noticeably slighter than Peter, who tended on the
shorter and more built side of Stiles’ slightly taller and much leaner build. 
The boxers fit tight around his waist and their unbuttoned fly gaped open when
Peter took a step, but he figured it was better than being naked in front of
the boy.
 
            He followed the divine smell from Stiles’ room to the kitchen.
 
            Peter smirked as he found Stiles, barechested, sitting on the
counter scrubbing furiously at Peter’s now noticeably less-bloody jacket. 
Stiles’ long legs were bunched up and spilled out over the side of the counter
he was sitting on.  So concentrated, Stiles didn’t appear to notice Peter’s
entrance, so the wolf made no attempt to announce himself- only to watch the
boy.  Stiles swore and leaned over to rinse more cold water over the jacket. 
He poured some solution on the stain and set it in the sink as he moved to
check the oven.  Stiles looked… content, Peter thought, in the kitchen.  He
seemed deft at the handlings- like he was really in his element.  It helped
that he looked great in a pair of boxers.  Peter couldn’t help but notice how
the boxers seemed a little loose on Stiles’ hips as he removed a deep cast iron
pan from the oven.  The aroma of the dish flooded toward Peter, whose stomach
betrayed him with a deep, low growl.
 
            Stiles double took at the sound of Peter’s stomach growling, and
grinned as the man approached.  The pan was simmering and setting savory smells
drifting in the air.  Peter glanced appreciatively at the stew, and at Stiles.
 
            “Morning,” Peter said, breaking the silence.
 
            Stiles grinned a big, stupid half grin at the look in Peter’s
eyes.  “Morning.”
 
            “Is that, uh-?”
 
            “Rabbit stew,” Stiles’ grin redoubled at the shocked look on
Peter’s face.
 
            “You found… rabbit?” Peter asked.
 
            “I had to get a special order from a butcher my dad helped prove
was innocent of poaching,” Stiles explained.
 
            Peter shook his head.  “I was joking, you know, Stiles.”  Though,
he was surprised at the young man’s ability to procure a meat that was illegal
to sell in most cases and even more rarely properly cooked.
 
            “I’m not sure you were.  Plus, I always like a challenge in the
kitchen,” Stiles said.  He grabbed two bowls and filled them with ample
servings of the aromatic stew.  He led the way to the dining table, Peter
following his lightly swaying hips and cute, well-toned butt.
 
            Peter and Stiles sat across from each other at the table, the steam
from the stew rising between them as they looked across at each other, either
unsure of what exactly to say after the happenings of the last few hours.
 
            “How are you feeling?” Peter asked, concern evident in his voice. 
He dipped his spoon in the stew and blew it off as he waited for Stiles’
response.  Peter noticed Stiles’ heartbeat leap in tempo as at the question.
 
            “I, uh-” Stiles was at an apparent loss for words, his heart beat
faster in his chest.  Not the best sign.
 
            “You… you shouldn’t have done that spell,” Peter said.
 
            “Look, you were the one who came to me all bloody and dying, the
least you could do is say thank you,” Stiles fumed.  “You’re the werewolf who
was out doing who-the-hell-knows-what and got himself freaking stabbed.”
 
            “Stiles,” Peter said, authority and starkness in his voice.
 
            “What?” Stiles yelled over the stew.  Peter couldn’t really blame
him for his anger.  Going through the pain of that spell had broken weaker
people forever.
 
            “Stiles,” Peter said, lowering his voice, “Thank you.”
 
            Stiles’ loathed Peter’s ability to catch him off guard.
 
            “And the reason,” Peter paused, wanting to let his words sink in,
“that I didn’t want you to do this spell was because of what I knew it would do
to you.”  Peter set the book on the table between them.
 
            “Why the hell would you have brought that book th-” Stiles began.
 
            “Stiles.”  Again with the authority.  “Turn the page.”
 
            Stiles grabbed at the book like it might bite him, but opened to
the page he’d read last night, then turned over the page.  He read quickly, and
then Peter saw his expression flatten.
 
            Peter, knowing what the boy was reading, tried to look anywhere
else, and heard Stiles’ heartbeat shift from angry excitement to a slower,
deeper embarrassment.
 
            “So… so this is the spell?”  Stiles asked.
 
            “It is,” Peter said.  He snatched the book before Stiles could read
any more and get any ideas.  “It’s a bit more complex, but it… it wouldn’t have
done that to you.”
 
            “Oh.”
 
            Peter knew it was little comfort, telling Stiles that he’d done it
wrong.  But he needed the young man to know that he never intended for Stiles
to suffer the pain he had last night.  He just didn’t know how to say that.
 
            “What, you’ve never heard of a bookmark?” Stiles asked, and
suddenly the solemnity had passed, and even Stiles’ heartbeat was balancing
out.  “You haven’t even had any stew yet.”
 
            Peter grabbed his spoon and took a bite.  The meat was tender and
surprisingly not gamy for rabbit.  Though, Peter supposed, he was used to fresh
rabbit. It was wonderful.  Peter moaned at the flavor.
 
            “You like it?” Stiles asked, still genuinely nervous for Peter’s
approval.
 
            “It’s… it’s amazing,” Peter said, aware he was stroking the boy’s
ego.
 
            Stiles simply grinned again, self-satisfied and understandingly
hungry.  Peter remembered that the boy’s stomach had been completely evacuated,
but turned his thoughts away from the previous night’s horror.  Stiles seemed
less affected by it than Peter.
 
            “I’m sorry,” Peter relented, feeling like the boy might still be
holding the guilt over his head.
 
            “Peter it’s-”
 
            “It’s not okay, Stiles.  You could have died.  You could have
become a vegetable.  I’ve seen men twisted beyond recognition by that spell. 
I… you shouldn’t have done that for me.”
 
            “Okayokayokay, nono.  No you playing angstwolf,” Stiles said in
disbelief.
 
            “Stiles, I haven’t done anything like that for someone else in my
life,” Peter retorted.
 
            “So?” Stiles said.
 
            Peter finished his stew.  He doubted the kid knew it, but he’d be
damned if he was actually developing feelings for Stiles.  Even the thought
seemed perilous.  But Peter couldn’t really lie to himself about just how far
he’d fallen.  He was eating a homemade meal across from a young man he had
offered the bite to.  Peter was still tempted to bring that up- how he knew
when he’d asked Stiles that the boy did want the bite, but had still refused. 
Peter felt himself getting hard at the thought of running his teeth over
Stiles’ soft skin.  “So you shouldn’t have done it for me,” Peter replied,
dowsing his libido in the cold water of guilt.
 
            “I’m sure you’ve done things for other people,” Stiles said, a drop
of stew streaming down his chin and neck from his full mouth.  “You…”
 
            “Told you so.”
 
            “You killed Kate,” Stiles offered.  He knew it wasn’t the best
thing to bring up, but, She had been a psychopath.
 
            Peter raised an intimidating eyebrow.
 
            “I’m not saying you made the best plan,” Stiles paused, fully aware
of the minefield he’d just walked into.  “But, you did it for your family.  I
mean, you could’ve done a better job about doing it with your family, but… 
Look,” Stiles stopped digging deeper, “I think you did it for the right
reasons.”
 
            Peter didn’t respond.  Couldn’t really.  Stiles had a point, but
Peter knew he’d done the wrong thing.  Even then, he’d known it was wrong, but
he always had to finish-always had to have the last word.  So now, across from
this alarmingly disarming young man, Peter gave the final word up.  “Thank
you.”
 
            Stiles grinned his goofy, lopsided grin that reached into his
eyes.  God it reaches into my heart, Peter caught himself thinking.  Stiles
finished his stew, and then they were still there, silence and something else-
some other tension- between them as the rain burbled on outside.  Peter heard
Stiles’ heart beat a rhythm of contentedness, but it gave way to a faster pace
as Stiles said, “Thanks for uh… for cleaning up after me…”
 
            Peter said the embarrassment and pain in the boy’s eyes.  “It was…
nothing.”
 
            “No like… thank you,” Stiles said again, and Peter unknowingly
reached a hand out for the boy’s.  That was weird… when had Peter last
initiated a nonviolent form of contact with anyone but Stiles?  It seemed like
ages.  But this… this felt… right.  It was like Stiles was a river, and the
more Peter came in contact with the boy the more his edges smoothed over.  Oh
god, the boy has me thinking in poetry.
 
            “Stiles, it was the least I could do after you saved me,” Peter
said, squeezing Stiles’ hand in his as he spoke.  “Now, where did you put my
pants?” Peter redirected, not wanting to admit it to himself but knowing full
well that he was afraid of the effect touching Stiles had on him.
 
            “Oh, I put them in the wash… they should be ready to put in the
drier by now,” Stiles explained.
 
            Peter couldn’t help but watched as Stiles padded toward the laundry
room down the hall.  His hips swayed in an all too alluring way, graceful but
masculine- the build of a boy who probably couldn’t gain an ounce of weight
even when he tried to bulk up.  Stiles’ tight little butt disappeared into the
room, and Peter shook his head and cleared the table, rinsed the dishes in the
sink.
 
            “They should be done pretty soon,” Stiles said.  He didn’t want
Peter to know how bad he just wanted to… be with Peter right now.  After last
night, Stiles felt… hollow.  Like something had made a little corner in his
mind and cleared it of everything but darkness.
 
            “Thanks,” Peter said.  Stiles noticed as the man turned how the fly
of the boxers he had borrowed was stretched, winking open.
 
Stiles caught a flash of flesh and felt his cheeks heat up, “Uh, no prob.”
 
            Peter grinned now, readily satisfied with the boy’s blushing.  “You
are a teenager, aren’t you?”
 
            “Huh?” Stiles thought he’d missed something.
 
            “You almost die because of me last night, and you still can’t shake
your hormones down,” Peter said, catching Stiles’ eyes with an intentional flex
of muscle that brought his groin back to Stiles’ clashing focus.
 
            Stiles reddened more and looked away, embarrassed that he’d been
caught.  But, it was true-Stiles had been pleasantly surprised to wake up to a
very pleasantly naked Peter.  And it had been a true charm to wake up to a
naked Peter who had apparently cleaned up after Stiles’ embarrassing…episode. 
He had spent a few minutes studying the werewolf’s body before he’d decided to
start on the stew.  Even now, remembering, Stiles couldn’t hide his arousal. 
“You look ridiculous in those,” Stiles redirected.
 
            “Stiles, you’re playing with the big boys now,” Peter said, “If
you’re going to try and refocus my attention you’ll have to do better than
that.”
 
            Stiles choked down a riposte about DreamWorks movies, but found
himself otherwise nervously speechless as Peter approached him with a predatory
look.
 
            Instead of the harsh, frank approach Stiles had been expecting,
Peter surprised him.  The kiss was gentle, slow.  Hungry but not starving.  It
was all light touch and intimate lips, even as Peter moved in to hold the boy. 
The kiss broke, and Peter pulled Stiles into himself.  Stiles felt weird that
he felt weird.  He’d already done much more intimate things with Peter, but for
some reason this embrace felt as if it carried just as much, if not more,
weight.  Peter ran calloused fingers and hands in slow, delicate circles as he
held the boy.  He heard Stiles’ heart leap in surprise and grinned.  He pushed
away from Stiles, who seemed unsure of himself.  You can perform a spell that
could’ve killed you without blinking, but you can’t understand a hug, Peter
marveled.
 
            Stiles, a little shocked, still wasn’t sure of himself.  His mind
raced with desires and many reasons why he shouldn’t pursue them, but he just
didn’t want to care about those at the moment.  He slid his hands up Peter’s
arms and dove into another kiss.  He felt more experienced this time, knew the
movements of Peter’s mouth, and the two ebbed and flowed in a rhythm of their
own.  Peter broke the kiss and sent a trail of small kisses down the boy’s neck
as he brought Stiles closer, their bodies meeting as Stiles leaned back to give
Peter greater access to his chest.
 
            Peter wrapped an arm around Stiles’ back and threw the boy into the
air, catching him so his navel was level with Peter’s mouth, and licked and
kissed at the hairy depression.  Stiles eyes were wide even as he found himself
wrapping his legs around Peter’s broad chest, which felt strong against his
hips and growing erection.  Peter began walking nimbly to the bedroom.  Stiles
avoided an awkward duck and probable bump of the head when Peter let him down
just outside of his room.  He felt sexy, empowered by Peter’s apparent want for
him.  He pulled at the waistband of the boxers Peter was wearing and glanced
over the man’s powerful body as he walked backwards toward his bed.  Peter
stopped short and pushed Stiles over the edge of the bed.  But instead of
jumping on him, as Stiles felt he deeply needed him to, Peter instead looked
down studiously at Stiles’ body.
 
            “Uh...” Stiles remarked.
 
            “Shhhh,” Peter replied, still running his eyes over the boy.  He
wanted to take Stiles in.  So he did.  He watched as the boy’s breath pushed
against his delicate ribs.  He noticed all the little moles Stiles had on his
torso- there weren’t as many as Peter had thought before there last encounter. 
One above the boy’s right nipple, and one and two there- on his left shoulder. 
Peter grinned at his remembrance of the marks, and pushed the boy back down to
the bed when Stiles tried to pull Peter down onto the bed.  Peter grinned at
the boy’s confusion and continued his study.  Stiles’ skin was soft, but not
untowardly so- all supple givings and smooth edges.  Peter sated his eyes and
then slowly peeled off the boxers he had borrowed.
 
            It was time for Stiles to admire.  He watched, still a little
confused, but given to Peter’s wanting gaze as Peter looked at him.  Peter was
broad, well-muscled, like he longed to be but couldn’t.  Peter’s chest seemed
fathoms wide, and was hairier than Stiles remembered.  But, last time he had
been a little distracted by that fact that he had been touching Peter Hale. 
Now though, he filled his eyes with detail.  Peter’s chest was hairy, but not
unpleasantly so.  It seemed the hair was soft, and dare Stiles think it, Like
fur.  It led a small trail down Peter’s torso, highlighting the definition of
Peter’s abs and muscular build.
 
            As Peter removed the boxers he’d borrowed, Stiles noticed that the
hair trailing from Peter’s navel to his bush wasn’t interrupted by where the
waist of the man’s pants would have rubbed.  Stiles wondered how often Peter
went without pants to not have that line.  But then Peter’s half-hard penis
seemed to roll and bounce from under the waistband as Peter brushed the boxers
off.  Stiles noticed its slight curve, the implied heaviness of Peter’s
generous endowment made Stiles think of terms like bull balls and low hangers
that Stiles had seen and invested a good amount of time into searching the
internet.  But porn was far from Stiles’ mind now- Peter was much more real,
much more tangible and surprisingly more available.  Peter crouched over the
boy now, and the bed sank, drawing Stiles back as Peter hovered over him. 
Stiles couldn’t help but feel smaller under Peter- if not physically just in
presence.
 
            Peter felt oppositely.  Stiles seemed to condense around him, but
Peter still felt like the lesser of the two.  He was drawn into Stiles’ lips
for a kiss and awed at the softness of the boy’s lips.  Stiles bit lightly at
Peter’s lip, and Peter felt himself harden at the boy’s apparent hunger. 
Stiles wrapped a hand around Peter’s back and pulled him closer, fighting
Peter’s resistance until the man gave up.  Stiles liked the feel of all of
Peter’s weight on top of him- it had always been a feeling he had imagined he
would like, and now that he could experience it, he enjoyed it more than he had
thought he would.  Peter paused, curious at Stiles’ insistence, but enjoyed the
feeling of his erection against the boy’s trail of hair and the waistband of
Stile’s boxers.
 
            Stiles quickly lost his boxers, fumbling impatiently at the
intruding underwear.  Peter’s chest hair was soft against the bareness of
Stiles’ chest, and Stiles let his hands wander around its edges, feeling the
soft hair whisper at his fingertips.  Stiles allowed his arms to reach around
Peter’s frame, and his hand glided over mountains and valleys of muscle and
sinew.  Stiles’ mind raced at all the possibilities, but then a single one came
to focus as he felt an inconsistency in Peter’s back, underneath the skin.  He
broke the long-winded kiss and looked into Peter’s eyes, unsure of exactly what
to ask.
 
            “What?” Peter asked, unsure of Stiles’ hesitation.
 
            “Could I… uh, could I give you a backrub?” Stiles asked.
 
            “What?” Peter asked again, confused.
 
            “Just let me rub your back,” Stiles said, slipping lithely out from
under Peter.
 
            Peter wondered at what Stiles’ plan was, but got into a better
position on the bed and laid on his stomach.  “You, you don’t have to do this,
Stiles,” Peter offered.
 
            “I know but… I want to,” Stiles said, setting himself in his own
mind.  He had never really seen Peter’s back, only felt it.  But now, as he
rubbed at the tense muscles, all power-filled and coiled like snakes, he got a
bit better sense of Peter.  The man slowly relaxed under Stiles’ pressing and
rubbing. At first, Stiles felt awkward and tried to brace himself over the man,
but he soon gave in and rest on the back of Peter’s thighs, which brought his
erection to rest between the thick rondures of Peter’s fuzzy ass.  Stiles
savored the feeling of Peter’s firm muscles under his hands and the feeling of
his engorged member resting on Peter’s butt.  He felt incredibly piqued at the
feeling of Peter’s powerful tension lessen under his pressure and grinned wide
when his hands managed to coax a pleasured moan from the werewolf.  Peter, in
return, ran his rough-skinned hands over Stile’s calves where and when he
could.  Stiles didn’t want to stop- he wanted to keep touching and rubbing
Peter’s powerful back, but at the same time wished he could touch everything
else.
 
            At some point, Peter propped himself up and slid out from under
Stiles, who seemed a little disappointed until Peter ran a hand through his
hair.  And then Peter was pulling Stiles’ mouth to his again, and they were
rolling into each other and letting little gasps of air out between heated
kisses.  Stiles realized with a start how hard Peter had become as their bodies
kept entangling in new ways and they rolled aimlessly and passionately on
Stiles’ bed.  Then aimless turned into strategic and Peter was on top of Stiles
in an instant.
 
            Stiles didn’t realize at first, but Peter had taken both of Stiles’
wrists in one hand and pinned them above his head like he had done last time. 
Stiles’ chest was pinned under the weight of the man, with Peter’s cock teasing
right under the young man’s sternum.  And the kisses came again, Peter slow and
meticulous against Stiles’ fervently wanting lips.  Peter whispered little
kisses against Stiles’ lips even as the boy struggled gently under Peter’s firm
grasp and tight control of both of their bodies.  Stiles hated and loved the
sensation at the same time- he wanted to feel Peter against him again- to have
their skin hot against each other, but apparently Peter was content with
straddling Stiles and pinning the young man under his weight.  But then just as
Stiles sought to adjust to Peter’s rhythm Peter would speed up, take Stiles’
breath away in the suddenness of the act.  After a few cycles of the torture,
Stiles’ hard on was raging against the small of Peter’s back, as Peter’s was
leaking precum steadily into the small hollow below the boy’s ribs.
 
            Stiles’ eyes trained on the puddle there, and Peter grinned as he
scooped some of the slippery liquid onto his fingers.  Stiles whimpered
unconsciously as he watched Peter suck the fluid from his hand.  “Peter,”
Stiles pleaded.  How am I literally just putty in his hands?  Stiles wondered. 
But the thought was banished as Peter dipped into the little pool again and
brought it to Stiles’ lips.  Stiles opened his mouth as sensuously as he could,
not wanting to show exactly how bad he wanted this.  But Stiles surprised
himself as he grew more excited when Peter slid the three fingers he’d extended
to the boy deep down into Stiles’ mouth and throat.
 
            Peter loved the feeling of the soft, tender tissues of Stiles’
tongue and mouth tasting his fingers and precum.  He hadn’t expected to find
the little quiet touches of Stiles’ lips and tongue on his fingers
so…exhilarating, but indeed he had.  He slowly pushed more of his fingers into
Stiles’ mouth and pushed the boy’s tongue down, then slowly started rolling his
hips lightly on the boy.
 
            Stiles struggled with the three fingers in his mouth for a bit, but
soon enough he enjoyed the sensation, even when a finger would occasionally
graze against the back of his throat and he would feel the reflex to gag.  As
Peter started surging his hips back and forth against Stiles’ chest, Stiles
groaned and unwittingly bucked his hips, making a grin sprout toothily across
Peter’s face.  Stiles went with it and slowly started sucking on Peter’s
fingers longingly.  Then Peter was scooting up, and Stiles barely inhaled as
Peter’s finger were replaced with his cock in Stiles’ mouth.
 
            The young man couldn’t help but moan, which seemed to cause Peter
to echo as the vibrations shot up through the man in a shudder of pleasure. 
Stiles took pride in his ability to please Peter.  The man seemed so solemn and
sarcastic most of the time, but here, in Stiles’ experimental touches, those
walls came down, and allowed Stiles to see, in small glimpses, who Peter might
be, baring all of the insanity of the last few months.  I like the man I think
I’m seeing, Stiles thought.  He found it odd that such nuggets of intimate
personality came through in sex.  It had always been something he thought came
in conversations, but here, in his bed, he’d seen truths about Peter he didn’t
know quite how to explain to himself.
 
            Peter released Stiles’ wrists and ran both hands through the boy’s
hair, which had grown longer than the boy had had it in years.  Peter gripped
lightly and Stiles’ eyes went wide as Peter pushed into his mouth.  Stiles was
unsure of what to do with his hands and felt awkward until he looked into
Peter’s eyes, Is that….pride?  In Peter’s eyes? Stiles wondered, but the glance
up brought the view of Peter’s chest, and Stiles set to exploring the taut
muscles with his hands, feeling the softness of Peter’s chest fur hair contrast
to the hardness of the man’s nipples.
 
            Peter groaned and began thrusting into Stile’s mouth faster, eyes
closed and hands gripped firmly into the boy’s hair.  The man loved the feeling
of Stile’s tongue exploring around his girth, loved hitting the back of the
boy’s throat and how it always brought his muscles to contract around his
head.  Stiles was unknowingly a very good cocksucker.  But it was hard for
Peter to think of the boy that way.  Maybe at first- when he’d first started
marking the boy’s clothes, he had found Stiles to be an interesting endeavor. 
But now, he felt those tiny holes in his walls expanding, started to feel the
trickle of affection and attachment to the boy.  Those were dangerous waters,
not only for him, but for the young man underneath him as well.  But Peter,
surrounded by people who didn’t trust him, weak after his first death, Damn,
that’s a weird thought in and of itself, part of a weak pack with a pack of
Alphas moving into town, felt like surrendering all to this single, apparently
unassuming boy.
 
            Peter chuckled and batted away Stiles’ hands when the boy began
reaching for his own cock.  Peter wanted to make Stiles wait for a climax, and
more and more, it seemed Stiles wanted to let Peter control these situations-
it was funny to see a boy so contrarian be so… moldable in the sack.  Peter
loved it.  Dangerously close Peter, one word wrong there and you’ll have a shit
storm to deal with.
 
            Stiles tried again for his cock, which felt like it would explode
if he didn’t get some relief, but Peter batted away his hands with ease.  When
Stiles moaned in protest against Peter, his whimper became a burble as Peter
came without warning the boy.  Stream after stream of viscous cum spurted
against the back of Stiles’ throat, and Stiles panicked a bit as his already
full mouth was occupied by several loads of Peter’s cum.  Stiles was all at
once confused, elated, empowered and defeated.  Last time, Peter had warned him
about coming, about the werewolf’s knot.  Last time, Peter had spent the better
half of thirty minutes coming into Stiles- but this time, Stiles felt a bit
robbed.
 
            Peter’s head hung heavy for a bit as the last dribbles of cum
escaped into Stiles’ mouth.  The boy swallowed several times, but the fullness
in his mouth caused some of Peter’s cum to trickle down the corners of Stiles’
mouth.  The werewolf relented, collapsing euphorically to the side, releasing
Stiles from under him.  The boy gulped down the rest of the molten fluid in his
mouth, and gulped again before asking, “What did I do wrong?” as he looked over
Peter’s spent, slightly sheened body toward the man’s closed eyes.
 
            “What?” Peter asked as he glanced down through his spread legs, one
of which still rested across Stiles’ rising and falling stomach.
 
            Stiles couldn’t help but to take the man’s now-flaccid penis to
mean he’d done a poor job.  “Last time… last time your uh… your knot came out,”
Stiles explained, feeling all the sudden childish and whiny.
 
            Peter’s chuckle shook the bed but did little to comfort Stiles. 
“Stiles,” Peter rose to lean on an elbow, “if you’d had my knot in your mouth
you might have a broken jaw and I might be bleeding.”  Peter saw the look of
shame on Stiles’ mouth- the boy thought his knot not coming out meant he’d done
a bad job.  “Oh Stiles, don’t worry, it was… very nice,” Peter explained.  “And
if you want to feel my knot again, that can be arranged.”
 
            Stiles was oddly aroused by the rapacious look in Peter’s eyes, and
felt the fear of disapproval and failure melt under the heated gaze of the man
splayed out before him.  He watched through Peter’s body hair as the man lay
back down in expended ecstasy.  Stiles, emboldened but exhausted, began rubbing
Peter’s calf and thigh as it lay over his chest.  He peeked a smile on Peter’s
face from between the man’s legs, and realized that he was focused on Peter’s
reaction in his face rather than the man’s much closer cock.
 
            Peter tsked at Stiles as the boy’s hand migrated down his own
body.  Stiles paused, and Peter surged up, quickly maneuvering between the
young man’s legs.  Stiles’ eyes went wide as he felt a warmth engulf the head
of his cock.  Peter let his teeth graze the shaft of Stiles’ cock just below
the head, and felt it react in kind by swelling up in little jerks.  “Hm-mm,
not yet, Stiles,” Peter teased pulling off of Stiles after hearing the pound of
blood in Stiles’ erection and knowing the boy was torturously close to
ejaculating.
 
            “Peter,” Stiles groaned, and Peter loved it.  Too close again,
Peter Hale.  Grinning, Peter flicked his tongue across the boy’s balls, felt
the little wisps of hair on the tender skin.  Peter left a trail of saliva from
the base of Stiles’ hard on to the young man’s tight little pucker.   Stiles
was clean, after the shower, and Peter, even a little unsure of himself, licked
at the boy’s pink fleshy hole.  Not unpleasant, Peter thought, but Stiles moan
ousted all doubts in the man’s mind.  He flicked his tongue, pressed lightly
and swirled around Stiles’ little opening, reveling as Stiles bucked against
the bed.  Peter’s grin traced his stubble across the boy’s spread opening and
Stiles moaned again.
 
            After a few minutes, Peter began to surprise himself at this own
impatience.  He was hard again, and incredibly so.  So Peter introduced two of
his fingers into the fray, and had to grab at Stiles’ wrists and keep them
pinned under the boy’s body so he couldn’t touch himself.  Peter noticed Stiles
opening a bit faster than the last time, and felt himself less longsuffering
than last time as well, so he quickly introduced a third finger, and began
curling and splaying his fingers inside the boy, as deep a s he could.  Stiles
seemed in less pain this time, mewling and whimpering as the man grinned and
teased his hole.
 
            Peter quickly rose and brought Stiles’ legs up, holding them in the
crook of his arm as he pressed the head of his cock to the opening he had just
primed.  Stiles looked into Peter’s eyes with evident lust and longing.  But
what was that? Peter asked himself, seeing something else, something altogether
deeper in the boy’s eyes.  Stiles made another irresistible noise and Peter was
brought back, pressed into Stiles’ tightness.  It was still a struggle- Stiles
was more eager and ready, but Peter was less tempered.  He pressed even as he
felt resistance tighten around his girth, but Stiles didn’t seem to mind.
 
            Stiles tried to relax onto Peter’s cock, even though It’s freaking
huge, and moaned in delight as Peter pushed into him.  It still took minute to
adjust, to let Peter all the way in, but Peter’s zeal and Stiles willingness
soon made way for the satisfying feel of Peter’s thighs fully against Stiles’
spread cheeks.
 
            Pain flooded Stiles quickly, and snapped Stiles out of his pleasure
Peter out of his reveling.  Peter could tell something was wrong.  Stiles’ eyes
went distant- he was in a grip of the spell.  Peter had never heard of this
happening, but could tell by Stiles’ heartbeat that the boy was in insatiable
pain.  Panicked, Peter acted on reflex and tried to empathize the pain.
 
            Hit by lightning, Peter and Stiles both inhaled sharply.
 
            But it wasn’t pain that overtook them.  It was like someone had
crossed the power lines of their bodies, and suddenly the pain in Stiles
stomach was gone, replaced by an intense warmth.  He could tell by the look on
Peter’s face that the wolf was in its grip as well.  It was like they could
both feel not only their own pleasure, but also the other’s.  Stiles clawed at
the sheets beneath him, and Peter bucked quickly but shallowly inside him.
 
            Peter stood, his thick thighs tense with pleasure as the empathy
he’d attempted did something incredible.  He felt his eyes flash, the hunger of
his other side somehow amplified as well, and reached out to Stiles’ hands. 
Their hands entwined, Peter’s claws suddenly come out and dig little divots
into Stiles’ hands.  Instead of feeling more pain through the empathy, he feels
some odd mix of pain and pleasure that they both shudder at.  Peter, enraptured
as if floating, began to thrust deep into Stiles more aggressively than he
would’ve thought he could at that point.  But the boy was oddly relaxed- taut
around the breadth of his hard cock but not dangerously so.  Peter worked up to
a pace that, even with Stiles’ sudden relaxation, strained both of their
limits.
 
            The rough, amazing sensation of Peter plunging into him sent
shuddering moans from his mouth uncontrollably.  He tried to articulate
something, anything, to communicate with Peter, but the reverie of the empathy
held him and all he could get out were small, pleasurable nonsenses.   Stiles
was hyperaware of his cock, and as Peter leaned forward for a deep thrust,
Stiles felt the brush of the werewolf’s trail of stomach hair brush the
underside of his cock.
 
            The sensation was almost indescribable- like a thousand little
tongues and feathers had teased the underside of his cock.
 
            Stiles gasped and groaned as he came, thick jets of cum spattering
his body.  A sudden line of warmth on his face made him wink an eye, and he was
lost in pleasure, when suddenly Peter thrust again, a deep, forceful prod that
shook the lamp and bed in Stiles’ room.
 
            Stiles didn’t need it explained again- Peter’s knot tied the two
together, the empathy driving them both like an overloaded circuit.  Peter had
let go of Stiles’ hands somewhere, and now held the boys’ legs spread open, as
Stiles felt the familiar sensation of Peter’s cum flowing deep inside him.  The
sensation was at least half familiar, but now he was also feeling bits of what
Peter felt- how when Stiles had cum, his hole had started tightening and
practically milking Peter’s cock. Peter’s head was thrown back, his legs stiff
as streams of cum filled Stiles.
 
            Peters knot locked the two together, and Peter collapsed onto
Stiles’ body, warm and sticky from the boy’s cumming.  Peter’s breath was
ragged and Stiles didn’t have to look down to know the man was grinning like a
fiend.  Peter’s stubble was coarse against Stiles’ nipple, and the man’s
breathing caused little pulses in the amplified pleasure of the empathy. 
Stiles’ insides quivered as Peter continued to cum, the feeling pushing his
stomach out to bloated.  Peter just lay there, haphazardly toppled on the boy,
and bean stroking his rough hands over the boy’s stomach and ribs.
 
            Stiles laid his head back and fell into the pleasure, absently
stroking Peter’s hair and neck.  He awed at their shared pleasure and felt
vastly…content.  All that mattered in those moments were the two of them,
together.  Peter was happy, Stiles was Peter’s.  That’s going in the ‘to ponder
later’ file.
 
            Peter eventually, once his knot had somewhat lessened, rearranged
them on the bed, and they were spooning again, Peter holding Stiles from
behind.  Somehow, Stiles knew this was a more meaningful embrace than it had
even been last time.  It was as if the two were connected now, as cheesy as the
boy thought it sounded even to himself.  It wasn’t just whatever Peter had done
to let them both feel the other’s pleasure, either.  Stiles was sure something
was different in both of them.
 
            Even before Peter’s knot had fully subsided, cum leaked from Stiles
in a steady stream.  The feeling of fullness gradually left Stiles, and Peter
pulled out.  Stiles face was a writ of contentedness, and Peter slowly nuzzled
into the boy’s shoulder as the two fell asleep, Peter’s arms engulfing Stiles.
 
            Peter knew he should leave- that he shouldn’t fall asleep in the
boy’s room, on the boy’s bed.  And it wasn’t that he didn’t care- Peter indeed
cared.  Dangerous minefield, Peter.  But it was the simple fact that Stiles,
who Peter had seen anguished on his behalf, wanted him to stay, that created a
magnetism the man could not resist.  Peter was laid bare in the room with
Stiles.  The boy had breathed life into his corpse more so than the spell that
had revived him from the dead. Peter felt as if his life was patently at
Stiles’ feet, like he’d been lead through barren lands to find some oasis of
hope and life.  All in the single undeniable character of Stiles Stilinski.
“I should go,” Peter said, halfheartedly.
            “My dad isn’t coming home, stay,” Stiles spoke languidly, close to
that hard to find edge of sleep.
            “I- Stiles,”
            Instead of insisting further, Stiles gripped the man’s wrist and
burrowed backwards, deeper into Peter’s warmth.  Peter felt the closeness in a
much more profound way than the physical.  Stiles really did want him there- he
was holding onto Peter, but in some other, much more transcendent way that set
Peter’s world on its head.  “Just, stay, Peter.”
            Peter mmmmmmmed into Stiles’ ear as the boy nudged into him.  Peter
couldn’t deny that he wanted to stay.  He couldn’t deny Stiles.  And that
night, he didn’t.
 
Chapter End Notes
     This will most likely not be the end of D+W. A lot goes into my
     writing process, however, so I will probably be slower to update than
     some will like. Thank you for reading, and thanks in advance to all
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     and gals rock, and I look forward to finding out where this story is
     heading!
End Notes
     Thanks for taking the time to read this work! It means a lot, and I
     hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
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