Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/619722.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Peter_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Peter_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski, Scott_McCall, Derek_Hale, Sheriff
      Stilinski, Isaac_Lahey
  Additional Tags:
      Outdoor_Sex, Frottage, Anal_Sex, Masturbation, Dom/sub_Undertones, Porn
      With_Plot, Developing_Relationship, possible_dubcon, Angst, Post-Season
      2, pre-season_3
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-01-02 Updated: 2014-05-23 Chapters: 11/? Words: 57361
****** I See Your Heart in the Darkness of Me ******
by demonkatgurl17
Summary
     A chance encounter with Peter Hale leaves Stiles wanting more, but
     will he regret what he gets?
Notes
     Had a plot bunny when Peter came back in season 2. I'm gonna run with
     it where it takes me =)
See the end of the work for more notes
***** Chapter 1 *****
Leaves crunched beneath Stiles’s shoes as he walked aimlessly through the
preserve. It was fast approaching sunset, the trees around him lit orange in
the fading light.
This probably wasn’t his wisest choice, walking alone in an area known for
violent deaths and (more often than not) riddled with murderers, but Stiles
couldn’t find it in him to really care.
Today held a special kind of agony for him. Well, for his dad too, but at least
he was at work, using the town’s recent craziness to push through the painful
memories this date brought; Stileswas alone.
Today was the anniversary of Stiles’s mom’s death.
 It was also a Saturday, which meant no school and, consequently, no real
distraction from Stiles’s own memories.
Early in the morning before his dad had gone in to work, he and Stiles had
shared a strained breakfast together, which had culminated in a brief, angst-
filled hug on his dad’s way out the door. And then Stiles had been left to his
own devices. After running through every available time-consuming task Stiles
could think of (ranging from finishing his homework to video games to
straightening up the house with OCD precision), he had been left with nothing
but the urge to move.
He’d felt trapped in his own house, suffocating under the weight of his
memories.
Her easy smile and warm, affectionate hugs…
Her little quirks and mannerisms…
The half-remembered ghost of her laughter echoing through the halls…
That’s when the walls began inching closer and closer to him, and Stiles had
given in to his panic. Grabbing his keys, he had pelted from the house and,
once in the safety of his trusted Jeep, sped off without a destination in mind.
The relief from getting away from his own home had been almost tangible within
the confines of the Jeep’s cab. Shame had hit Stiles hard, knowing he’d run
from his mother’s memory, from the bits and pieces still scattered around the
house, remnants of her once-upon-a-time presence.
It was cowardly, running from a ghost, but after encountering and fighting more
legitimate terrors than ‘spirits’ lately, Stiles figured he’d earned the right
to indulge in a little spinelessness.
Somehow, he had found his way to the preserve after driving around in a daze.
He wondered if his subconscious had driven him here intentionally, directing
him to a place with different memories on which to dwell.
Nothing like drowning your depression with guilt and fear.
He had parked almost exactly where he had on the night Scott was bitten, after
Stiles had dragged him out in the middle of the night in search of blood and
gore. It all seemed like a big joke because now Stiles was lucky if he and his
friends could avoid becoming gore on any given week. Strange how hindsight
makes you appreciate your own stupidity.
If only it worked before hand…though he supposed that would be considered a
premonition (which, after seeing werewolves, kanimas, and other freaky bump-in-
the-night stuff, Stiles wasn’t going to rule premonitions out as impossible
just yet).
Walking through the trees was having a calming effect on Stiles, despite all
the terrifying happenings in the preserve lately. Perhaps he was developing a
thicker skin from dealing with the supernatural so often (part and parcel when
your best friend was a supernatural being himself). Strolling through the
reserve would have been more fun if said supernatural being was out here with
him, but…
Loneliness lanced through Stiles at the thought of Scott.
Only a few months ago, the two of them had been thick as thieves, but, after
the bite, Stiles had watched his friend slip farther and farther away. It
showed when Scott kept information from Stiles until after things went to shit.
Or when Stiles was left behind while Scott charged off to god knows where,
hell-bent on fighting the baddies without him.
And it sucked.
No matter how weak and defenseless he might be as a human, Stiles knew he could
help, could help twice as much as he already did if there was a working chain
of communication between all parties involved, instead of their current half-
assed mail route for need-to-know crap. He might not be a werewolf, but some of
his friends were, and it’s hard to help protect them when you’re working with
an incomplete data set.
Stiles moodily kicked a stone out of his path, wondering if he should have
asked Scott to come out here, then immediately ditched his train of thought.
Scott desperately needed to catch up on the mountain of homework that was
currently threatening to set him back a year in his high school progress. Now
that Allison was actuallybroken up with Scott and the kanima business was over,
the slacking wolf might have a chance at making it to junior year.
Besides, Stiles was slightly bitter that his ‘best friend’ hadn’t contacted him
at all today, especially today, when in the past he had always at least
attempted to console Stiles on the anniversary of his mom’s death.
It was kind of a slap in the face— and more painful than any of the punches
Gerard had dealt him. The cut on his lip from that beating was mostly healed,
but the bruises were still there, turning olive green and yellowish as they
faded. Stiles counted himself lucky that Scott had even noticed the damage done
to him in the explosion of crazy, murderous drama.
Or that he had gone missing in the first place, whispered a snide voice from a
dark corner of his heart.
Speaking of crazy…
Stiles froze in his tracks when he noticed a figure sitting on the ground
several meters away.
Even facing away from him, Stiles could tell it was a man, dark-haired and fair
skinned, sitting cross-legged on a patch of exposed rock. All that Stiles could
see were his jeans, black shirt, and the back of his head, but there weren’t
that many people that had the sac to wander these woods alone and only one
person came to his mind: Peter Hale.
If ever there was a prime example of how much Scott had neglected to share with
him, it would be the suddenly-not-dead-ex-Alpha-werewolf-who-was-apparently-on-
our-side-now? Stiles had been shocked to see him come out of nowhere, alive and
well, to take down the kanima with Derek, but Scott, on the other hand, hadn’t
seemed phased by the appearance of a psychotic werewolf they had all teamed up
to kill. Which, hello? Kind of a big deal? But no, nothing, meaning Scott had
known about him and had deliberately left Stiles in the dark.
It was lacrosse all over again, only this first line was comprised entirely of
werewolves and the puny human only got to play when enough of the pack was down
for the count. Stiles was used to the treatment from his coach, but it pissed
Stiles off that he was constantly benched by his own friend.
And the return of the guy who tried to kill your classmates? Definitely
something you told your best friend.
And now Stiles was alone.
In the woods.
Where no one could hear him.
Within a stone’s throw from the formerly-dead werewolf—  who had to have heard
Stiles coming from a mile away, but was still just sitting there, giving no
indication that he had even noticed Stiles’s presence.
Confusion blended with fear as Stiles stood there, running through his options.
His heart rate was jacked up through the roof and it didn’t help one bit
knowing that Peter could hear it, could scent his fear on the slight breeze
rustling through the trees around them.
Several seconds passed as Stiles stared at the back of Peter’s head, the dark
hair hardly tousled by the wind. Neither said a word, as though waiting for the
other to make a move.
Peter was testing him, Stiles realized. He was seeing if Stiles had the nerve
to approach him of his own free will or it he’d turn tail. As his heart rate
came back down, Stiles resisted the urge to flee to his Jeep as fast as he
could, like the wolf probably expected. But Stiles ran with werewolves and was
a damn good member of Scott’s pack: he wasn’t going to show his fear— even if
he reeked of it.
Exceedingly proud of himself for not tripping over his feet, Stiles walked up
to Peter and sat down beside him, casually reclining back onto his hands with
his legs stretched out.
He was on the same rock as Peter with a foot of space between them. It was a
comfortable distance without totally announcing that being this close to the
wolf made him want to squirm, but he could practically feel the boundary
between them, a happy neutral ground that Stiles didn’t want to look at too
closely. Both stared straight ahead, all but ignoring each other.
The rock they were sitting on was a few feet away from a sizable drop-off that
overlooked a large creek below. The water churned happily as it wound through
the trees and twisted away deeper into the preserve, the peaceful rushing sound
filling up the tense silence.
Stiles refused to be the first to break. He had made the first concession and
got the ball rolling— now it was Peter’s turn.
The werewolf inhaled deeply before releasing the breath slowly with an
ambiguous hum.
Finally, he turned his head to look at Stiles. His eyes danced with repressed
amusement as he studied the teen. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of your
company, Stiles?” Peter purred softly. His brows were raised in curiosity, but
there was a smugness dancing in his eyes from perceiving Stiles’s nervousness.
Stiles turned to look at Peter, staring him down. “My mom died today, a few
years ago,” he said, hoping the blunt honesty would wipe off the smirk that was
twitching at Peter’s lips. Malicious glee twisted through Stiles as the
amusement slid off Peter’s face, but Stiles’s triumph was short lived as that
same humor morphed into something worse: understanding. He averted his gaze,
choosing to watch the coursing water than to see his own pain echoed in those
ice blue eyes. His teeth clenched together until his jaw ached, extremely aware
that he had common ground with the murderer beside him and was unsure how to
feel about it.
It was so much easier to hate the man, to focus on how many lives Peter’s
vengeance had irreparably altered, than it was to empathize with him and
understand the agony that had driven him, that visibly still haunted him.
Fuck, Stiles thought. Why can’t things be simple for once? Black and white
instead all of these fucking shades of grey?  
He rubbed a hand over his scalp rapidly in frustration, his fingers catching in
the lengthening strands.
Peter was still watching him, silently assessing him, and it was setting his
nerves on end. Nearly a minute passed before Stiles gave in and peeked over at
Peter from the corner of his eyes. The werewolf was sitting perfectly still
while scrutinizing Stiles’s face, as though seeing him in a new light.
Stiles squirmed minutely on the rock, uncomfortable under the intense stare. So
he stared right back, hoping to unsettling Peter in return— and ended up
staring for other reasons.
This was the closest the two had been since the night of Peter’s death (his
first one, at any rate) and the bi-curious side of Stiles was appreciating the
changes in the man. The dark hair was flawlessly smoothed back same as it had
been before in the parking garage, but the goatee was new and it brought an
edgy ‘bad boy’ look to his otherwise casual appearance.
It was downright sexy his hormonally charged brain observed.
And if that wasn’t jaw torqueing, having the hot’s for the man who had wanted
Scott to kill him not too long ago. The last thing Stiles needed was for Peter
to smell his…appreciation.
Ducking his head back down, Stiles frantically pictured Coach in a leotard,
prancing about on the lacrosse field, and was absolutely relieved when his dick
stopped twitching with interest. He pulled his legs up to his chest and wrapped
his arms around them, defensive in his embarrassment, but masochistic curiosity
soon had him glancing back up at Peter.
The older man was contemplative as his sharp blue eyes quickly flicked over the
teen.
Stiles’s eyes narrowed, instantly wary. A calculating werewolf was a dangerous
werewolf and Stiles was a long way from anyone who might hear him scream. But
all Peter did was peer at him thoughtfully and unfold himself. He stretched his
legs out before him and reclined his back onto his arms, mirroring how Stiles
had first sat. The relaxed posture did much to sooth Stiles’s nervousness and
he wondered if Peter had done it on purpose.
“Far be it from me to deny a grieving man his space,” Peter murmured, tilting
his head back and closing his eyes, for all the world appearing to be enjoying
the serenity of his surroundings.
Stiles stared at the older man in bemusement before he, too, closed his eyes,
concentrating on the flow of the water below, letting it carry his thoughts
away…
A tentative silence fell between them.  It was kind of amazing, really, how
easy it was to just sit here with Peter. He was free from distractions, free
from having to smile and pretend to be happy and okay for people who didn’t
understand. Scott was great, but (no offense to him or anything) he didn’t
really understand what it was like to lose someone so close to him. Regardless
of Scott’s parents’ divorce, the dude still technically had both parents, no
matter how much of an asshole his dad might be.
Stiles supposed that was part of why it was so different, being here with Peter
instead.  The older man wasn’t trying to draw Stiles onto conversation. He had
accepted Stiles’s explanation without question and then stoically kept him
company.
Scott would have gone on and on about whatever he could think of, would have
had endless suggestions on how to pass the time, but the obvious discomfort in
his friend’s eyes and his palpable relief when leaving at the end of the night
killed Stiles a little every time. But there was none of that here with Peter
because Peter understood Stiles’s pain, understood what it was like to have
your world torn apart. To have to deal with it and rebuild it as best you
could.
Guilt bit at Stiles as he mentally reexamined Peter’s time as Alpha, the man’s
search for revenge, and his attempt at creating his own pack.
 How much of it had been his grief, driving him to seek retribution by any
means necessary? How much from being whipped into a crazed fury by the power of
becoming an Alpha?
What would Stiles have done had it beenhim?
The woods were gradually darkening with the setting sun, and Stiles marveled at
how long he had been out here. Surprise jolted through him as he realized how
clear his thoughts were, far past due as he was for his next dose of Adderall.
Was it being out here without all the pressure and expectations? Or could it
be….Peter?
Stiles started at a soft touch to his bruised cheek. His eyes flew to Peter’s,
seeing the man’s grim concern before focusing on a stain on his jeans. “Sorry,
Sometimes I forget it’s still there,” he said to his knees, unsure as to why he
felt slightly ashamed.
“Don’t apologize for being human,” Peter chastised softly. “The pack can be
quick to forget that you don’t bounce back as fast as they do, but... When I
was burned… you could say I gained an appreciation for the healing power of my
kind. It’s…easy to take it for granted.”
Like it was so easy to take me for granted, Stiles thought, tiredly.
Peter was still touching his face tenderly, careful not to press too firmly on
the damaged skin.  He met Stiles’s gaze, smiling faintly as he brushed his
blunt thumbnail along the edge of the teen’s jawline.
Stiles inhaled sharply at the sensation, surprised and a little aroused by the
gesture. There was a vulnerability in Peter’s eyes that made Stiles lean into
the touch. He was increasingly aware of how intimate the situation was getting,
but he couldn’t find it within him to care. It was rare these days for someone
to pay attention to him, and rarer still to be looked at like he mattered, like
he was worth something, even if he was only human.
Running with werewolves had made him all too aware of how weak he was in
comparison and, more often than not, he seemed to just get in the way. But
Peter wasn’t looking at him as though he were a nuisance. It was almost as
though…
Stiles licked his lips. His nerves were making his heart rate rise and he knew
Peter could hear it plain as day.
Peter’s eyes followed the quick sweep of tongue.
Was that a flicker of wolf-blue in his eyes or merely Stiles’s imagination?
Certainly no one had ever looked at his lips like that. It was flattering,
especially from someone as attractive as Peter (and as intelligent, though
Stiles was sure the man wasn’t appreciated for that trait). Stiles appreciated
it. After all, the man did manage to track down and eliminate the people
responsible for slaughtering his family after being in a coma for six fucking
years. Hell, even the police hadn’t been able to convict anyone for the crime
until after Peter connected the dots for them.
Stiles could see the value Peter’s experience and intelligence could bring to
Derek’s pack, experience the pack needed. They were newly bitten, half of them
scattered to the winds from the Argent threat and lack of proper leadership.
Yet, reformed from his psychopathic ways and willing to help as Peter seemed,
the man was clearly kept to the fringes of Derek’s pack, like Stiles was in
Scott’s pack. As lonely as Stiles often was, it must be worse for Peter. He had
been part of a pack and it had been ripped away from him. Stiles wasn’t even
sure if Derek had accepted Peter into his pack, but, if he had, Peter seemed to
be pushed to the side in it. Stiles ached empathetically because you could see
his loss fractured within the werewolf’s ice-blue eyes, if you looked close
enough.
And Stiles wanted to change that, to take that pain away. When his mom died,
Stiles had stepped up to take care of his dad—it had been instinctual— and that
same impulse to try to fix things was thrumming through him now. He wanted to
comfort Peter. He wanted to show him that something beyond grief still existed,
but he had nothing to offer him, he only had himself.
He only had himself.
Bolder than he normally was (and probably twice as crazy), Stiles slowly rolled
to his knees and positioned himself in Peter’s lap.
The werewolf made no move to stop him, watching with bemused interest as the
teen straddled his hips. His hand, the one he had been stroking Stiles’s cheek
with, now cupped the back of Stiles’s neck, thumb lightly stroking across the
soft skin of his throat.
Hesitantly, Stiles leaned forward, awkwardly placing his hands on Peter’s firm
abdomen. He had never done this before, had never touched another person like
this, so he let his instincts guide him.
He leaned forward and nuzzled at Peter’s throat, breathing in his masculine
scent.
The older man tipping his head back. He briefly squeezed Stiles’s nape, giving
the teen permission to continue. Stiles reverently pressed his lips to the warm
skin before experimentally running his tongue across the spot.
His first taste of werewolf.
Peter tasted of salt, skin, and something…exotic, wild, and Stiles wondered if
all werewolves tasted like this or if only Peter was this addicting. Stiles
whimpered faintly as he licked and sucked along the length of the man’s neck,
drawing bruises that faded soon after their creation.
His taste…his smell… It was driving him crazy, inciting a dull buzzing in the
back of his head as he feverishly put his mouth on Peter wherever he could
reach. Maybe werewolf pheromones were more potent than a human’s because Stiles
had never felt a need like this: he wanted to taste every inch of Peter’s skin,
to devour him.
Peter groaned deep in his throat under Stiles’s ministrations, rubbing his
thumb in circles over the teen’s bobbing Adam’s apple. His other hand was
wrapped around Stiles’s hip, controlling the helpless twitches they were
making. When Stiles nipped his earlobe, the werewolf gave a throaty growl and
yanked Stiles back by his neck.
Peter’s electric blue eyes sent a thrill through Stiles as he pulled the teen
into a heated kiss, short-circuiting his brain. It was rough and wet and
everything Stiles had hoped his first kiss would be. The older man speared his
tongue into Stiles’s mouth, fucking into it with deep, confident strokes that
made Stiles’s toes curl and his hips to rock in want.
Stiles whimpered under the onslaught of sensation as he breathed heavily
through his nose. He was stupidly happy for catching onto that particular trick
so fast because he was pretty sure he’d have suffocated by now without it.
Stiles hardened, his body going pliant under Peter’s dominating kiss.
Peter dragged Stiles forward against him by his hips. They groaned as their
trapped erections pressed dragged against each other and, abruptly, Peter
pulled away.
Stiles whined at the loss, but quieted when, in a show of werewolf strength,
Peter wrapped an arm around his waist, lifting and rolling with him. Almost
tenderly, he laid Stiles on his back and propped himself above him, settling
between the teen’s lewdly spread legs.
Knowing that Peter was stronger than him but was purposely reigning in his
power— determinedly being gentle with him— snapped something inside of Stiles.
He didn’t wantgentle right now. He wanted to be reckless and helpless (without
fearing for his life, for once). Everyone treated him like he was made of
glass; he didn’t need that from Peter as well.
Before Peter could do more than rumble warningly in his chest, Stiles threw his
arm over Peter’s neck and pulled his head down to slot their mouths together in
a biting kiss. Stiles tugged on a belt loop to bring the older man flush
against him. He bucked his hips up against Peter, moaning and writhing like a
whore.
It was like a switch flipped in Stiles’s head as soon as their bodies had
touched. Pure need overtook him, making him a desperate, wanton thing, begging
for Peter’s touch.
His forwardness seemed to set Peter off, their kiss turning messy with hints of
teeth. Peter hooked one of Stiles’s legs over his waist, gripped his ass, and
ground against Stiles, hard and rough. Stiles’s cry stuttered out of him at the
manhandling, the friction just shy of being painful but only making it better.
The hand on Stiles’s ass, fucking kneading it, was driving him crazy. He was
torn between rutting against Peter and arching back into that hand.
Peter nipped at his bottom lip with blunt human teeth, startling a gasp from
Stiles. There was a slight shift of hips and, fuck, that was Peter against him,
hot as a brand and hard as steel, hard for Stiles.
Fuck, Stiles thought brokenly, canting his hips up and rubbing against the
older man shamelessly.
Rutting, definitely rutting, it was never not going to be rutting.
Frantically, he dug a heel into the rock bed and, using it and the leg thrown
over Peter’s waist, tried to match Peter’s rhythm, clumsy in his lust.
The werewolf didn’t seem to mind his enthusiasm, if the glowing eyes and claws—
extended, threatening to pierce his jeans— were any indication. Peter brought
the forearm supporting his weight closer to Stiles, allowing him to slide his
hand under Stiles’s neck and grasp his nape: a not-so-subtle reminder of
Peter’s dominance.
Feeling sharp claws trace over the fragile skin of his neck, just barely
digging in, had Stiles throwing his head back against the rock, overwhelmed and
moaning raggedly.
Still rolling his hard cock over Stiles’s, Peter nuzzled the bared throat,
purring happily as he licked and sucked livid marks to life.
Stiles buried a hand in Peter’s hair and gripped the silken strands, unable to
stop his whimpers and groans now that Peter’s lips weren’t muffling them. As
much as he liked Peter’s mouth on his, Stiles couldn’t help but love having it
at his throat, taking him apart.
There was a fire in his veins, burning fierce low in his abdomen. His groin was
pulled tight, anticipating orgasm.
Stiles clawed Peter’s back. The feel of his fingernails snagging in the
material helped ground Stiles as wave after wave of bliss pulsed through him
from Peter’s touch. The strong muscles in Peter’s back strained back and forth
as the werewolf thrust with abandon, panting his groans into Stiles’s neck.
Stiles felt his heart skip when Peter closed his mouth around the flesh of the
crook of his neck, sucking hard and, oh, oh my God, those weren’t just teeth
those were fangs—
The sharp points dragged over his skin with enough pressure to make them known,
but not hard enough for them to break skin. Not with Peter restraining himself,
holding back from hurting Stiles even when wolfed out and lost in passion.
Vibrations ran along his neck where Peter’s lips touched it and it was a moment
before Stiles realized what it was: growling— not the rumblings of human vocal
cords, but the coarse, territorial sounds of an animal.
It finally sank in that Stiles had a very dangerous, very aroused werewolf on
top of him, a thread away from being out of control for want of him.
With that thought, Stiles convulsed as pleasure shot through him, his muscles
pulling tight as he clutched desperately at Peter’s shirt, eyes rolling back in
his head with the force of his orgasm. His hips bucked uncontrollably as he
came and came hard, still fully clothed. Utterly spent, Stiles lay prone on the
rock.
He reeled, nerves tingling, until the warmth above him suddenly vanished,
prompting him to loll his head around in search of Peter.
He didn’t have far to look. Peter had reared back on his knees to tug at the
opening of his pants and oh fuck…
It was gorgeous, absolutely gorgeous. There was no other adjective that truly
described Peter Hale’s hard cock. It was long and thick with veins elegantly
spider-webbed underneath the skin, jutting proudly from his pants. Peter jerked
himself violently with inhuman speed, his hand blurring over the reddened
shaft. Never taking his glowing eyes off of Stiles, he panted and growled as he
fucked his hand, snapping his hips up into what had to be a tortuous grip.
Exhausted as he was, Stiles could still appreciate the fact that, had he not
just ejaculated his freaking brains out, he would be rock hard from the vision
before him.
He startled when Peter lunged forward to yank Stiles’s shirts up, exposing his
torso. Peter snarled, his elongated canines flashing menacingly as he hovered
above Stiles, hand still flying over his cock as he held himself up
effortlessly with one arm. When Peter came, he wasn’t particularly loud, but
the man’s climax was nevertheless intense.
Perhaps because he didn’t break eye contact with Stiles as he shot thick,
opaque strands all over Stiles’s bare chest, some of the drops managing to land
on Stiles’s neck and face. The heady scent of Peter’s come filled the air and
sank into Stiles’s skin, permeating it.
It felt like a claim, Peter’s claim.
And Stiles was surprisingly…okay with that, with Peter marking him as his.
Dazed, he watched as Peter slowly stroked his cock in lazy pulls, a last spurt
of come dribbling down the shaft and coating his fingers. Fixated on the milky
fluid, Stiles licked his lips, wondering how it tasted.
Realizing he had been trailing his fingertips through the slickness on his
chest, Stiles brought a hand up to lap experimentally at the sticky come. He
knew what his own semen tasted like, so he wasn’t squeamish or anything (after
all, when a good portion of your spare time is spent producing the stuff, a guy
gets a little curious). The underlying sharp tang was the same, but there was a
hint of something else, something unique and wholly Peter that had Stiles
licking his digits clean of every stray speck.
“Mmm….”
Stiles looked up at Peter’s low hum to see his eyes (which had returned to his
normal clear blue after shooting his load) flash wolf-blue momentarily,
seemingly riveted by the sight of Stiles’s tongue licking away the come.
Smiling predatorily, Peter stretched out on all fours above Stiles, his face
hovering less than an inch from Stiles’s.
His breathing shallow from the werewolf’s proximity as much as from his pleased
expression, Stiles waited for the other shoe to drop before understanding
struck.
Tilting his head to the side, he raised his head and closed the distance
between them. He pressed his lips to Peter’s in a gentle, unhurried kiss,
allowing entrance to Peter’s begging tongue when it flicked against his lip.
After a few moments of mutual exploration, Peter pulled away, regretfully, to
take in the dusk that had fallen with the sun.
Naturally, Stiles would trek through the preserve a few nights before the full
moon, but this area of the Preserve was thick with trees and their leaves
blotted out much of the moonlight. Peter might be able to see in the dark, but
Stiles would be lucky to find his way back to his Jeep without tripping over
something and snapping his own neck. Which was going to be such a fun walk
anyway, with the cooling come in his shorts.
He wrinkled his nose disdainfully, feeling the mess move as he sat up. Stiles
squinted up at Peter, hardly able to make out the surrounding trees much less
the hazy form of the man a foot away from him.
Now that lust wasn’t clouding his judgment, the reality of the situation was
beginning to set in, heavy and confusing in the pit of his stomach.
I just had sex with a werewolf. I just had sex withPeter Hale.
Of the two thoughts, Stiles wasn’t sure which was the more terrifying.
Previously, when Stiles had given serious consideration as to who might be the
first to touch him (his hopes and dreams of Lydia finally seeing the
awesomeness of Stiles, aside), Peter Hale had never been on the list. Or
anywhere near the list, for that matter. I mean, sure he’d given the werewolves
of Beacon Hills a passing thought (or more) because he was hormonal even in his
sleep, and yeah, the idea of doing a freakin’ werewolf was really fucking hot.
Kind of like the werewolves of Beacon Hills—really fucking hot.
Except for Scott.
No offense to the dude’s arguably cute puppyish-ness, but no, just no, he was
not going to think about his best friend like that, his best friend who could
smell certain things like ‘wayward arousal’.
To be honest, Derek had always felt like the most likely one of the group he’d
have jumped, and Peter, well…
Up until recently, Peter had been dead.
But now he wasn’t.
And Stiles had just gotten off with him in the middle of the freaking forest.
God, if justfrottingwith Peter had felt amazing, then penetrative sex would
probablykillhim, supplied the perpetually horny and supremely unhelpful part of
his mind. Hell, Stiles didn’t even know what this was and his hormonally-
charged brain was already thinking about more, again, soon.
Forget being a werewolf, just being human was fucking hard enough.
Stiles cleared his throat, awkward and uncertain of how to proceed. “Well, um—“
“Where are you parked?” Peter interrupted, tucking himself into his pants and
straightening his clothes.
Glancing down, Stiles saw that his own shirt was still rucked up on his chest.
He pulled it back down, grimacing as the material smeared through the drying
mess and pulled at his hair. “Uh, couple miles away? I think?” He waved in the
general direction he’d come from as a different brand of worry filled him. 
How the hell would he find his bearings in the dark?
Peter took Stiles by the arm and pulled him back onto his feet. Keeping his
hand on the crook of Stiles’s arm, Peter tugged him in direction indicated, his
grip lax but alert. Puzzled, Stiles cocked his head to the side. “What are you
doing?”
Peter sighed— or was it the dead leaves being kicked around by their feet?
“I’m helping you back to your Jeep. It’s not like you brought a flashlight,
right?”
Stiles frowned at the shadow walking beside him. “I’ve still got my phone,
dude.”
“Mhmm… And when did you last charge it?” The cynicism was heavy in Peter’s
voice.
“I charged it, like…” Stiles racked his brain for a time, coming up with
nothing, how could he not know this? He charged it, like, every night—
Except last night. He’d been preoccupied, thoughts of his mom driving away his
sleep as well as his normal pre-bed routine, which included plugging in his
phone. A brief check of his remaining battery life proved both he and Peter
right: there was power left, but keeping the App on all the way through the
woods would likely suck it away before he’d find his Jeep.
Fuck.
Peter hummed noncommittally when Stiles failed to contradict him.
Silence fell between them, this time laced with an unfamiliar tension. Stiles
was no stranger to awkward silences, but…he’d never done this before. He didn’t
know what the protocol was after you got off with another person. Should he
compliment Peter on the fantastic way he’d drawn Stiles’s brains out through
his dick? Should he make small talk? Try to hold Peter’s hand?
He about choked on his tongue at the thought of skipping happy-go-lucky through
the woods, hand in hand with Peter, maybe with Stiles wearing a red hood and
carrying a basket while Peter sported a tail.
Oh god, he was never mentioning that to Peter, ever, on pain of death. So far,
the werewolf liked him and he wasn’t going to mess that up with some half-assed
comedic relief.
At least, it seemed like Peter liked him (Stiles doubted he rubbed one out on
just anyone), but he had to admit, it was hard to tell since Peter hadn’t said
anything in several minutes. Like, at all. He just walked beside him, leading
him along with the hand on Stiles’s arm.
Doubt and self-consciousness seeped in, preying on the insecurities in Stiles’s
heart.
Was it…bad?
No, that couldn’t be it, Peter had totally wolf-claimed him, marked his
territory with his freaking scent (frankly, Stiles was grateful the guy hadn’t
peed on him). He wouldn’t just come and then go, would he? The ridiculousness
of that idea smacked him in the face because, yeah, some guys were douchebags
and did that kind of thing. Maybe Peter was one of those guys?
Stiles pushed the thought away. He didn’t want to consider that.
He wanted Peter to be different.
He was different. I mean, hello? Werewolf. Can’t get much more different than
that, but…werewolves were also people. And people tended to suck every now and
then and, to be honest, Stiles knew next to nothing about the person beside
him. For all Stiles knew, he might just be an easy lay for Peter, another notch
in a bed post probably littered with marks and, no, he was not fucking tearing
up like some little girl whose crush didn’t like her back.
Stiles shook his head viciously from side to side, trying to rid himself of the
sting of his own imagination, when his foot slipped on a loose rock. Pain
stabbed through his ankle.
“Shit!” Stiles spat out, his knees buckling.
He never made it to the ground though. As soon as Stiles lost had his footing,
Peter was there in a whirl of speed, catching the teen against his chest and
effectively breaking his fall. Stiles’s arms found themselves hooked around
Peter’s neck for support (not that he needed it, per se, as tightly as Peter
was holding him).
He huffed quietly into the hollow of Peter’s throat, aggravated by his own
clumsiness.
“Are you alright?” Peter was tilting his head awkwardly to look at him, concern
in his voice as his thumb stroked the small of Stiles’s back.
“Um…”
Stiles bit his lip, using the discomfort to drive away the fresh stirrings of
accidental arousal that being this close to the older man, under his touch,
spawned.
Stiles got his feet underneath himself and pressed down experimentally on the
injured ankle, his nerves flaring under the pressure. He shifted his weight to
the other leg, embarrassed by the inconvenience.
Yep, Stiles Stilinski can totally take care of himself. Walking along in the
woods? No problem. Yeah, right. Couldn’t get halfway through the preserve
without twisting his goddamn ankle. This really wasn’t helping to make his case
as a potential suitor. His ankle was making him pull a ‘damsel in distress’
thing, and ‘damsel’ didn’t look good on Stiles.
Not that he was thinking about going steady with Peter.
Okay, not a lot, but still, options are options, and any option that could show
Stiles a ‘good time’ like that was worth considering. Not that he was easy or
anything.
Stiles winced as he gingerly rotated the sore joint, the movement hampered by
jabs of pain.
“Well, I uh, I think I sprained my ankle. Doesn’t feel broken, but it’s gonna
make walking a bitch. I’ll be fine if we just take it slower,” he said,
covering his irritation with as much bravado as he could muster.
“Hmm…”
Peter unwound Stiles’s arms from around his neck and dropped to a knee, helping
Stiles maintain his one-legged balance with an inhumanly strong hand on his
side.
“That’s, that’s just, uh, what are you…” Stiles stammered, unfamiliar with
having a man on his knees in front of him at crotch level— but he sure was
familiar with the desire that surged through him at the sight (hey, thousands
of porn sites dedicated to fellatio couldn’t all have it wrong).
His reawakening lust was cut short as Peter pulled up his pant leg to expose
the injured ankle and wrapped his hand firmly around it.
Stiles frowned down, perplexed. There should be more pain from the pressure,
but instead there seemed to be less, like it was being sucked away. What the
fuck? “Werewolves have healing powers? I thought only worked, like on
yourselves?”
Straightening back up, Peter chuckled softly at him. “No, we can’t really heal
others. But we can take some of their pain away. Temporarily, at least. Try it
now.”
Hesitantly, Stiles distributed his weight a little more evenly and was pleased
to find the pain had receded to a dull ache. Not completely gone, but enough
that he could walk. He beamed at Peter and, without fully thinking about it,
stepped further into the man’s space to wrap him up in a hug.
“Thank you, man, you have no idea how much of my pride you just saved.
Seriously.”
And then it dawned on him: he was hugging Peter.
Why did it feel so much more intimate than rubbing against the werewolf?
Before he could step back, Peter reciprocated the hug, stroking lightly down
Stiles’s spine with a thumbnail. “You’re very welcome, Stiles,” Peter purred in
Stiles’s ear, enticing a shiver from the teen.
A whimper escaped Stiles’s lips. Teeth nipped at his earlobe and he rocked
closer, his hands fisting convulsively in Peter’s shirt. Stiles moaned when the
hand stroking his spine drifted lower to cup his ass.
Peter buried his face in the crook of Stiles’s neck, breathing in his scent in
deep, ragged pulls. He gave a lingering kiss to Stiles’s bruised throat, then
stepped back, letting the night air rush in to cool the heat flaring between
them.
Stiles felt his face flush as he swayed on his feet, already missing having
Peter pressed against him.
Peter cleared his throat. “We should keep moving. The sooner we reach your
Jeep, the sooner your ankle gets wrapped. That little trick of mine isn’t
permanent. I’d prefer we find the vehicle before the pain comes back.” He
resumed his hold on Stiles’s bicep as they started off again, but not before
Stiles had seen the man palm his own crotch.
He’d had to adjust himself.
Stiles’s pride crowed, ridiculously pleased that he wasn’t the only one
affected. That he, Stiles, could make the sexy Peter Hale hard.
The remaining half hour walk went by fast, but more comfortably than before,
knowing that their initial moment of passion hadn’t been a fluke. There was
something between them, something primitive and malleable, and Stiles itched to
know what it could be, how far this could go.
He had to be careful though. Peter was the wild card here. Alpha or not, he was
still dangerous for a human to play with— but Stiles thought that might be half
the fun.
They emerged from a thick line of trees and found themselves on one of the wide
paths built for vehicles that ran through the preserve. And there, about twenty
meters down the haphazard road, sat Stiles’s Jeep.
“Whoo!” Stiles exclaimed, throwing his arms up wildly in his ecstatic relief.
Ignoring his twinging ankle, he sprinted to the vehicle and draped himself
across the hood in an exuberant hug. He was still crooning nonsense and
caressing the thinning paintjob when Peter sauntered over, amusement all over
his smug face.
“I take it she survived your absence?” Peter asked wryly as his eyes roved over
Stiles’s bent-over form.
Peter’s wandering eyes didn’t go unnoticed and the recently discovered slutty
part of Stiles immediately responded to the attention. His eyes lock on
Peter’s, he shuffled his feet further apart and subtly tilted his hips back in
invitation.
Peter’s eyes flashed warningly as he stalked over and plastered himself to
Stiles’s back. “We really should get that ankle wrapped, Stiles.” His voice was
low and husky in Stiles’s ear, like he was on the verge of wolfing out and it
made Stiles shudder with want.
 “Ye— Yes, that’s — We should really do that,” Stiles choked out, stuttering
when Peter’s hands encircled his hips and pinned him to the Jeep. He panted
harshly as he ground back onto Peter’s crotch, trying to goad him into action.
Abruptly, Peter dragged Stiles off the hood and steered him towards the
driver’s side door.
Arms flailing about, Stiles stumbled into the door and turned to the older man
in confusion. Had he gone too far?
“What—”
“If you keep that up, I’ll take you on your Jeep. Dry,” Peter whispered as he
slowly retreated, his eyes shining bright blue in the dark.
Oh.
Stiles‘s guts did an odd backflip. He’d known he was pushing Peter’s buttons,
but he hadn’t really considered the man’s limits.
Well…
Stiles hadn’t been thinking about anything beyond feeling Peter’s cock again.
Still, he wasn’t about to have his first time sans lubricant. Lust-addled,
Stiles was. Crazy, he was not.
Wait what? His first time?
Holy fuck, he wanted it to be Peter. This was pushing the bounds of
recklessness even for Stiles, but Peter wanted him, had just admitted it in an
offhand sort of way that he wanted to fuck him. And Stiles was willing. Was so
freaking ready, he was practically dripping pheromones.
Biting his lip nervously, Stiles leaned against the door seductively (he
hoped).”So…you’re not coming?”
Peter froze in place, a few feet from the tree line behind him.
“I mean, come on,” Stiles cajoled, “you single-handedly gave me the best orgasm
of my life, so far. The least I can do is feed you.” He absently wondered how
close to prostitution this came.
Peter cocked his head slightly. “Is that wise?”
Stiles snorted. “Is any of this? Come on, the house will be empty for hours.
You can,I don’t know, relax for a while. Unless you’re eager to go chill with
His Broodiness?” Stiles waited with baited breath as the werewolf turned over
the offer. A grin broke onto his face when Peter walked over to the passenger
side of his Jeep.
“I drive that hard a bargain?” Stiles quipped, getting behind the wheel.
Smirking, Peter settled into the passenger seat. “You say that as though there
was a contest.”
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Notes
     Blah, sorry this took so long (not as long as the next chapter will
     probably take, with school starting up soon), but definitely wanted
     to get this out since I'm having so much fun with this story line.
     None of the characters belong to me because, if they did, there would
     be soooo much more sex.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
The front door unlocked with a solid ‘click’ as Stiles’s key turned over the
tumblers. He held the door open for Peter and then followed him in, locking the
door securely behind him— which was interesting, when he thought about it,
because the big, bad monster was on the wrong side of the door.
What did that say about Stiles?
Peter eyed the smile Stiles was failing to repress. “What’s so funny?”
Stiles ducked his head, chagrinned. “Ah, nothing, it’s just nice to see a
werewolf other than Scott that knows how to use the front door. I was starting
to think it was a ‘born’ thing, coming in through the window,” he said as he
meandered to the kitchen, Peter trailing in his wake.
“And does Derek drop by often?”
The question seemed offhand, but there was something…off about the tone of
Peter’s voice. It was too light, too even, and it made Stiles turn away from
the open pantry to look at Peter. The man was leaning back against the sink,
his hands half buried in his jeans pockets and his ankles crossed. Despite how
relaxed and politely interested Peter appeared, the man was putting him on
edge, as though Stiles could tell when Peter’s nonchalance was faked.
It was something about his eyes, cunning and sharp and piercing through to the
soul with a single glance— and they were watching Stiles intently.
He wasn’t…no, that’s not… Was Peter jealous?  Wow, when a werewolf marks his
territory, he fucking means it…
“No no no, no, Not often. Or really at all, much. Not socially. He mostly shows
up on pack-type business. Or when he’s on the lam. He doesn’t pop in for movie
night or, you know, to hang out. Ever,” said Stiles, practically tripping over
himself to reassure Peter that his nephew wasn’t a threat (romantically
speaking, that is). Speaking of tripping…
Stiles nearly fell over when his ankle throbbed unpleasantly, making itself
known as it suddenly refused to support his weight. And that’s when Peter’s
arms wrapped around him from behind (when had the dude even moved?) and
stabilized his balance. 
“Where are you medical supplies?” Peter asked, concern slipping into his voice.
“What?” Peter’s hand, low on his abdomen, was completely derailing Stiles’s
thought pattern. “Oh, um, upstairs bathroom, why?”
Peter’s sigh tickled his ear. “For your ankle?” He drawled sarcastically.
Oh.
Between his excitement from getting Peter to come home with him and worrying
about what the hell to cook for the guy, Stiles had all but forgotten his
little stumble in the woods— as well as his “mess” from earlier. The
uncomfortable little tugs from where his pubic hair was sticking to his boxers
were suddenly magnified now that he was focusing on the area. Crap, the night
just couldn’t go smoothly for him, could it?
“Okay, how ‘bout a compromise?” Stiles stammered, hoping that the werewolf
would let him have his way in his own freaking house. “You help keep me from
face-planting on the floor while I get dinner together and then we’ll break for
bandaging.” He grimaced as the dried come started to make him itch. “And maybe
a shower. I promise, once the food is in the oven, I’m all yours. Cool?”
Peter hummed softly and nuzzled Stiles’s ear. “All mine, hmm?”
Stiles’s stomach flipped, nervously. Had he really said that?
“Deal,” Peter whispered, guiding Stiles back to the open pantry. “And what will
we need from in here?”
 
 
Okay…so, not the smoothest of dinner preps in Stilinski history, but on a scale
of one to ten, Stiles still felt it merited at least an ‘8’, from Peter’s help
alone.
Having the sexy werewolf proverbially glued to his hip had given Stiles on-the-
spot jitters— as well as butterfingers that would have shattered his mom’s best
baking dish had Peter not caught it before it hit the floor (thank God for
supernatural reflexes).
And, of course, Stiles had to go and slice his finger on the edge of a low-
sodium green bean can, but Peter’s insistence that a few drops of blood would
only “enhance” the dish’s flavor had been (weirdly) reassuring enough to keep
Stiles from scraping the whole project and just ordering take-out.
Or maybe it had been Peter’s bedroom eyes as he sucked on the wounded finger.
Or the impromptu hard-on that made Peter smirk knowingly at him for about ten
minutes as they threw ingredients together.
Yeah, probably that last one. Stiles hadn’t been about to greet the pizza guy
with a tip and a boner (he still had some standards).
Besides, making dinner with Peter? — Surprisingly not that awkward. Once Stiles
got used to the perpetual hand at his waist, they had somehow…sync’d. The whole
process became fluid, Peter’s keen eyes and quick reflexes allowing him to keep
pace with whatever needed opening, slicing, handing over, and whatnot.
The familiarity of Peter’s movements made Stiles suspect that the man had
experience in the kitchen, but he didn’t dare ask about it. They seemed to have
an unspoken agreement of not bringing up their demons. Which was just fine, in
Stiles’s opinion; the little assholes were free to lurk in the corner of the
freaking room so long as Stiles wasn’t forced to actually acknowledge them. He
supposed Peter had the same right to privacy.
Well, minus whatever Stiles had already read in the Hale murder file.
But then the casserole— an old pasta-veggie bake recipe of his mom’s— was in
the oven, leaving Stiles with a throbbing ankle, itchy patches of dried semen,
and no ideas for how to entertain Peter for forty to fifty minutes while the
food baked. Stiles ruffled a hand through his hair as he racked his brain for
the least lame way to pass the time.
He tossed an errant veggie peeler into the sink and turned to face Peter. “So—
whoa!”
Stiles’s arms flailed around, nearly smacking Peter in the jaw as he grabbed at
the man’s shirt for stability because his feet were no longer touching the
ground. Peter had scooped him up as though he was nothing more than a sack of
potatoes, instead of the 147 pounds of gangly human teenager that he really
was. And fuck, Stiles really shouldn’t find it so arousing. Maybe he was
starting to develop a ‘damsel’ complex…
Peter pivoted smoothly and started off towards the hall, carrying Stiles bride-
style.
“Hey, uh… what the fuck, dude?”
Snorting softly, Peter rolled his eyes.
Close as he was, Stiles could see every fleck and subtle change in color in
them. He was secure enough in his masculinity to admit he found them
mesmerizing.
“Making dinner is one thing, I was lenient with that, but letting you climb the
stairs? On that ankle? I don’t think so…” Peter trailed off, humming tunelessly
as they started up the staircase.
Stiles raised an eyebrow at the werewolf. “My hero,” he said, his voice flat
with exaggerated sarcasm.
“You don’t think I could pull off the dashing prince?” Peter mock-pouted at him
as they reached the top (the dude wasn’t even winded, how unfair was that?).
Stiles, helpful to the last, pointed him in the direction of the bathroom. “Oh,
I have no doubt that you could pull it off, but I wasn’t born yesterday, buddy.
A coin’s got two sides. The knight in shining armor? These days he’s got two
failed marriages and a gambling addiction. And that dashing prince? Ulterior
motives out the ass. This ain’t Disney, Prince Charming.”
Peter wasn’t even bothering to hide his smirk anymore.
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? Stiles asked, unsure if Peter actually
appreciated his sarcasm or if his plight was being mocked.
Peter chuckled as he nudged open the bathroom door with his foot and set Stiles
down carefully on the sink’s counter top. “Oh, absolutely,” he said with a
genuine smile. “Now where are your medical supplies?” He looked at Stiles
expectantly.
“Ah….actually…” Stiles gazed over the older man’s shoulder to the shower behind
him. “I was kind of hoping to…clean up…a little.” He trailed a hand down his
shirt to emphasize the point. “But you might want to lose some layers there.
Unless you don’t mind getting soaked?”
That snapped Peter’s attention back to Stiles from where it had briefly
wandered to the shower stall. He cocked his head at Stiles, his expression
unreadable. “You want me in the shower with you?”
“Well, purely in the interest of safety,” Stiles shrugged, trying to pull off
‘blasé’ instead of ‘hopeful virgin’. “You don’t want me fall or anything, do
you? I mean, you were so helpful with the stairs, I just figured it would suck
if all that effort went to waste.”
He leaned back on the counter, spreading his legs only the tiniestbit.
The movement still caught Peter’s eye and his bearing became decidedly wolfish
as he stepped into Stiles’s space. He brushed his hands teasingly over Stiles’s
thighs. “Aren’t you worried about my… ulterior motives?” Peter whispered, his
eyes flashing.
Stiles swallowed roughly at the reminder that he was, essentially, playing with
fire.
Or baiting a starving wolf.
If Peter started licking his chops, the picture would be complete, Stiles
thought, dazedly, as he stared at the man’s lips.
Peter’s light, musky scent was surrounding him, tantalizing him, driving him to
act out and push his luck. It amazed Stiles that slightest attention from Peter
was enough to bring out his inner slut. Maybe he had the wolf analogy
backwards…
Stiles reached out to press his hand to Peter’s chest. Feeling the quickened
patter of the man’s heart bolstered his confidence. He pulled Peter forward by
his shirt, angling his head to speak into Peter’s ear. “Yeah,” Stiles
whispered, his voice husky to his own ears, “but aren’t you curious about
mine?”
He playfully nipped at Peter’s earlobe, earning him a throaty rumble from
Peter’s chest.
Peter dipped his head to nuzzle at Stiles’s throat, breathing in deeply and
taking in the teen’s arousal. He raised his head to level a stern look at
Stiles. “Shower first,” he said in a tone that brooked no argument. Then he
tugged Stiles off the counter by his hips and set him back on his feet.
“Aw, come on…” Stiles half-heartedly griped as Peter put space between them. A
quick glance down at Peter’s crotch ruled out lack of interest on the
werewolf’s part—the guy was at least half hard.
“You’ve already talked your way out of wrapping that ankle twice now,” Peter
replied, all business. He bent at the waist and started untying his laces.
“Once you’re clean, you’re going horizontal for as long as I can keep you
there.”
Stiles snorted, mirroring Peter, tackling his own laces and kicking off his
shoes and socks. “’Talked my way out’, yeah, ok. Like I— wait, ‘horizontal’?”
He paused, halfway out of his dirt-covered hoodie, his mind overflowing with
the possibilities of ‘horizontal’.
He smiled slyly at Peter. “That a threat or a promise, Lazarus?” Stiles
quipped, pulling off his Captain America tee and tossing it to the floor. He
watched, transfixed (and a little jealous) as Peter slowly unbuttoned his black
shirt with confidence and precision.
Little by little, Peter’s chest was revealed, toned with a light covering of
hair. Stiles badly wanted to touch, to drag his fingers down Peter’s front and
feel the contrast of soft hair over hard muscle.
“And if it’s both?” Peter asked, smug from Stiles’s open admiration.
Stiles went to reply, but the words died in his throat when the older man
deftly unbuckled his belt. Peter flicked open the button and ever so slowly
dragging down the zip. A soft whine left Stiles as Peter shoved everything down
all at once. The man kicked the last of his clothing away to stand naked in all
his glory, his gorgeous cock jutting proudly at Stiles.
Peter grinned at the teen’s unabashed stare. “Coming?” he asked, flitting his
gaze up and down Stiles’s half-nude form before turning to start the shower.
Silently thanking the older man for the moment of privacy, Stiles tore off his
remaining clothes and joined Peter in the shower stall, closing the door behind
him. The tight globes of Peter’s ass distracted Stiles enough that he started
when Peter turned back to face him, having adjusted the water’s temperature to
his liking.
Now, while the shower wasn’t huge or anything, there was still enough room for
two men to stand comfortably under the spray of water.
Well, sort of.
This being his first time naked with another naked person, Stiles was
understandably insecure. He found himself looking at everything except Peter,
highly aware of how close his erection was to the man’s hip. Stiles could feel
a flush spreading across his face and it was aggravating.
Stupid, he derisively thought to himself. You can hump the guy fully clothed,
but God forbid should Peter actuallyseeyour cock.
Jeez, if all of his future nude interactions were going to be this awkward, he
should probably quit now while he still had some self-respect.
A soaped- up hand pressed low on his abdomen and Stiles jumped, groaning when
his cock accidentally brushed against Peter’s forearm.
The older man chuckled at the surprised confusion on Stiles’s face. “Since I
helped make the mess, I’ll help you clean up,” he said, mischievously, his
blunt nails scraping gently at the dried come matted in Stiles’s happy trail.
For some reason, Stiles felt the pulls on his hair as though Peter was directly
touching his dick. The little jolts made him shiver. Peter scrubbed at his
skin, gradually removing the evidence of their forest tryst— but he ignored
Stiles’s throbbing cock. It was maddening, the werewolf was touching him
everywhere but the spot he wanted it most. Stiles had to bite his lip to stop
himself from whimpering.
When Peter angled the shower head to rinse off the suds, Stiles found his voice
again. “Awfully nice of you,” he croaked out, his throat tight with repressed
need.
Peter smiled absently as he soaped Stiles up again, carefully working at the
remaining patches on his belly and in his pubic hair. “We take care of those in
our pack,” said Peter. There was a far-off look in his eyes that Stiles
recognized— he’d seen it in his dad’s eyes when he was remembering mom.
“Um, but I’m not pack,” Stiles tentatively said, “not in Derek’s, anyway.” Not
that Stiles was aware of…
“But you are part of Scott’s pack,” Peter continued. “I was the one who turned
him. There’s still a connection and, by association, to you.”
Stiles looked at him skeptically. “I suppose…” He really wasn’t sure what to do
with that.
“You’re exceptionally loyal to Scott, for a human,” remarked Peter, out of the
blue. He scrapped at Stiles’s belly again.
Stiles raised an incredulous brow at him. “Well, yeah, he’s my best friend.
Bros do that kind of thing.”
“And?”
Stiles frowned at Peter. “’And’ what?” He got the feeling that, even though
Peter seemed engrossed with his self-appointed task, the werewolf was covertly
scrutinizing him.
“Did you know I could sense you both, that night in the preserve? You and
Scott?” Peter asked, teasing his claws through Stiles’s soapy thatch, the
sensation sending Goosebumps over his skin.
“Okay—”
“Two teenagers, roaming about in the woods at night, looking for things they
shouldn’t.”
Stiles scowled at him. “Okay, what does—”
Peter cut him off again.
“The interesting thing about Scott is that, fundamentally, he’s simple. I
mean,” Peter laughed under his breath, “if he had to choose between Allison and
being a werewolf, he’d pick Allison, right?”
Stiles stayed silent this time, fairly certain that had been a rhetorical
question.
“He only gets into trouble because it finds him. He’s not the type to go
looking for it.” Peter flicked his attention back up to Stiles, staring into
his eyes with a perceptiveness that sent alarm bells off in the teen’s head.
“Not like you.As the son of the town Sheriff, you catch glimpses of danger all
the time, don’t you? But instead of scaring you,” Peter’s claws drew abstractly
across his belly, “you’re...intrigued by it. You like the thrill danger brings
you. Yes, you do.”
Stiles stopped shaking his head silently in denial.
“You can’t lie to me, Stiles, not when this,” Peter wrapped his hand firmly
around the base of Stiles’s cock. Stiles gasped and bucked involuntarily.
“Practically screams the truth at me. You’re the reason Scott was out there
that night, weren’t you? You dragged him out there, looking for danger, but
Scott was the one who found it. Is that why you’ve stayed with him, even in the
times he wants to tear your throat out? Because of guilt?”
Peter released his hold on Stiles’s cock, having proved his point.
Stiles trained his gaze on the anti-slip stickers on the shower floor.
They were a mixed pattern of flowers and ducks that his mom had planned out on
a scrap of paper before painstakingly applying each one. But not even their
associated memory could drive away Peter’s words, needle-sharp and hitting
closer to home than Stiles care for because they held a truth he couldn’t
escape.
Stiles had long-since acknowledged that his stupidity had brought an awful lot
of responsibility down on his best friend’s shoulders. Instead of ditching the
drama, Stiles had stuck by him and helped where he could when everything went
to shit. He gave a damn about his almost-brother. But the close calls — the
times that Scott nearly died— cut Stiles to the core because there wasn’t a
goddamn thing he could do to fix his friend’s ‘werewolf problem’.
A large soapy hand cupped his chin and tilted it up, forcing Stiles to meet
Peter’s compassionate eyes.
“You don’t need to feel guilty, Stiles. When a human is Bitten, their body has
a choice: adapt or succumb. Scott’s body accepted the change, took the chance
it was presented with to become something more, something better,” Peter said
earnestly, his thumb caressing Stiles’s jaw.
“Every challenge Scott faces and walks away alive from is part of being a
werewolf. It’s a series of tests to prove that you have what it takes to rise
up and survive what gets thrown at you. What Scott’s going through will only
make him realize what his body already understands: that he’s been gifted with
an opportunity to be more than he otherwise would have been. You think he would
have had a chance with his beloved Allison without having the edge of his new
abilities? You think she would have looked twice at a benched asthmatic
lacrosse player? He should be thanking you. Everything he loves and fights for,
he has because you.”
Peter released his face in favor of tugging him under the spray of water. The
werewolf rinsed off the remaining suds and filth as he pressed feather-light
kisses to Stiles’s jaw.
Stiles leaned into Peter, his eyes vacant as he ruminated over Peter’s view of
the matter.
He had always blamed himself in part or Scott’s ‘curse’, but all things
considered…the dude wasn’t dead, whether from Stiles’s support, dumb luck, or
some weird combination of the two. It was easy to see the negative aspects of
becoming a werewolf (like the murderous urges and the occasional hunter), but
if a ‘born’ werewolf could tote the positives…how bad could being a werewolf
really be?
Maybe what it came down to was having proper management skills.
Peter rubbed shampoo into Stiles’s hair (Stiles didn’t even bother questioning
how the man could tell which shampoo was his). On a whim, Stiles scooped up
some of the lather on his head and began working it into Peter’s longer locks
with both hands, mostly to have a reason to touch Peter’s hair again.
Peter smiled, bemused. “What are you doing?”
Stiles shrugged, massaging the man’s scalp in tiny circles. “Making you smell
like me.”
For a moment, Peter completely froze. Then, without warning, Stiles found
himself against the shower wall with the back of his head cradled in one of
Peter’s clawed hands, his front covered in wet, soapy werewolf.
Peter’s hard cock ground against Stiles’s.
Correction: wet, soapy, aroused werewolf.
Stiles’s moan was swallowed by the older man, their lips clashing together in a
messy, heated kiss. He wasn’t exactly sure what he’d done to flip
Peter’sswitch, but he really needed to figure it out if this was the result.
Stiles’s hands tangled in Peter’s hair because that was an awesome place for
them to be while Peter pawed frantically at Stiles’s wet skin with his free
hand. Stiles whimpered and writhed against the older man, pinned between him
and the wall.
Then, just as abruptly, Peter pulled out of the kiss and turned his head away.
At first, Stiles thought that Peter had had a change of heart, but the tilt of
his head and the intensity of his fixed stare— as though he could see through
the wall he was looking at— gave Stiles the strong impression of a pointing
dog. “What?” he asked, Peter’s stillness making him uneasy.
“Someone’s here,” Peter said, softly, concentrating on the wall.
Fear shot through Stiles, his muscles tensing. “My dad’s back?” Shit, there was
no good way to explain to his dad why there was a thirty-something year old
werewolf naked in the shower with him. Oh fuck fuck fuck fuck…
Peter shook his head slowly, his eyes glowing.
“No. It’s Scott.”
Chapter End Notes
     Alright, thoughts, comments, and criticisms are welcome.
***** Chapter 3 *****
Chapter Summary
     Scott drops by.
Chapter Notes
     Sorry this took so long to get out, school is a priority and I'm
     doing my best to keep it that way (despite how I'd prefer otherwise).
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Stiles scrambled to get out of the shower and dove for the small closet in the
corner. He ripped it open and grabbed two oversized fluffy towels, tossing one
over his head behind him before frantically drying himself.
He didn’t hear anything hit the floor so he assumed Peter had caught it.
When Peter had told him Scott was standing on his front porch, Stiles had
rinsed off as much soap as he could in five seconds before leaving control of
the shower to Peter. He was starting to think that the universe really was
plotting against him—and his virginity. Why else would Scott show up now when
Stiles was covered from head to toe with a sexy, naked werewolf who wanted to
do very naughty things to him?
It just wasn’t fuckingfair. Scott got sexy times with Allison, when would
Stiles get his turn? 
“Stupid werewolves and their stupid timing,” he muttered angrily under his
breath as he yanked his dirty jeans back on in violent tugs. He wasn’t even
going to try to wear his soiled boxers (he wasn’t masochistic enough for that).
A soft chuckle made him pause on his way out of the bathroom. He finished
dragging his jacket back on and turned Peter.
Peter— dry, for the most part— was pulling on his clothes as well, amused at
Stiles’s frustration.
Stiles felt his brain shift closer to overload. Shit. He had a werewolf in his
bathroom, another at the front door, and (if he didn’t figure out how to deal
with both of them) dinner was going to become a casualty. Tonight was going
steadily downhill.
“Um,” he said, nervously fiddling with his jacket sleeve.
Peter raised an eyebrow at Stiles’s pensive expression as he draped his shirt
over his frame, fastening the buttons quicker than a normal human being could.
It took a lot of will-power to stop Stiles from marching over to the older man
to tear the shirt back off, but his best friend was at the door, and trying to
fuse his face with Peter’s really wasn’t going to make his ‘Scott situation’ go
away.
“Would you like me to stay up here?” Peter offered, wryly, when Stiles’s
attention remained glued to his water-dotted neck.
Stiles mentally shook off his Peter-induced stupor. “Yes, that is a great idea.
You stay here and, uh, I’ll go see what he wants.” And hopefully make him go
away, he thought as he slipped out of the bathroom, his bare feet slapping
comically on the hardwood floor of the hall. He trotted gracelessly down the
stairs, hoping Scott had the patience to wait for him rather than simply trying
his luck with a window.
The doorbell sounded just as he reached the bottom of the stairwell. “Hold on a
second, I’m coming!” Stiles called as he crossed to the door, thankful that his
erection had long-since wilted.
He took a deep, calming breath and unlocked the door, pulling it open to smile
in pretend-surprise at seeing Scott on his front porch.
“Hey buddy, didn’t think I’d hear from—”
“Stiles, what the hell? I’ve tried calling you, like, ten times and you haven’t
answered any of my texts!”
Oh…
Before prepping dinner with Peter, Stiles had tossed his phone on the kitchen
table. It was routine for him to place it where he could see the caller ID
should someone (i.e. his dad) try to contact him when he was busy cooking.
Today hadn’t been the exception to the rule. Stiles hadn’t had a chance to grab
it before Peter toted him up to the bathroom, so while he had been getting
soapy with Peter, his phone must have been blowing up in the kitchen. And he
was fairly certain that the older man had been too distracted to care about a
ringing cell phone.
A rival werewolf on the other hand… that he’d noticed.
“Ah…” he dragged out, rubbing the back of his neck, absently.
Scott’s eyes zeroed in on his throat and worry etched into his frown. He
stepped closer, staring at Peter’s livid marks.
Fuck. In his haste, Stiles had forgotten all about them.  
“Stiles, what the hell happened to—” Scott froze in his tracks, his
outstretched hand inches from the bruised skin. His nostrils flared, scenting
the air.
Stiles backed away slowly, holding his hands up in surrender as Scott stalked
forward. Little by little, he was forced back into the house under his friend’s
glowing stare.
“Why do you smell like Peter?” Scott asked, his voice gruff around his growing
fangs.
“Dude, whoa, calm down, alright? I’m fine, Scott, look at me,” Stiles patted
himself down one handedly. “I’m fine,” Stiles emphasized, keeping his tone as
even as possible despite how hard his heart was pounding in his chest.
He retreated backwards down the hall, matching Scott step for step, fighting
his body’s instinct to all-out run from the advancing predator.
“He hurt you,” Scott growled, his gaze fixed on Stiles’s bruised throat.
“What? No! No, this isn’t— he didn’t— I mean, he did, but, oh God, come on
Scott, just—”
Stiles’s heel hit solid wood. The obstacle caught him off guard and he
overbalanced, crashing backwards onto the stairs. His breath gusted out in an
agonized ‘oof’ as his entire weight fell onto the edges of five or six stairs.
He watched helplessly as Scott prowled closer to his sprawled body with a fear
he hadn’t felt since his friend’s first full moon.
A deep, vicious growl erupted from somewhere above Stiles, who partially
contorted his body so he could look up at the top of the landing. Peter,
completely wolfed out, was steadily descending the steps, staring Scott down.
Stiles had never been so happy to see the older werewolf, despite being able to
see Peter’s extended fangs and unsheathed claws.
“Pull it back, Scott, before you hurt Stiles,” Peter warned, coming to a halt
on the step above the shaking teen.
“Like you hurt him?” Scott barked back, hunching menacingly. Stiles eased back
as much as he could, his shoulders pressed against Peter’s shins in his effort
to put space between himself and his friend’s misplaced rage.
“Stiles, have I hurt you?” Peter asked softly, his eyes on Scott.
“No, I’m fine— Scott, come on dude, calm down before I have to get the fire
department out here to put out my dinner,” Stiles implored, trembling between
the two wolves.
Confusion replacing his anger, Scott’s yellow eyes faded to their normal brown
as he took in Stiles’s cowering form. He frowned down at Stiles, clearly
struggling to understand. “But your neck is all bruised… and you smell like
him…”
Peter released a long-suffering sigh and crouched down behind Stiles.
Feeling the heat of the older man shift closer, Stiles tipped his head back and
leaned back further into the protective curve of Peter’s body. The smell of his
own shampoo mixed with Peter’s natural scent lulled him, soothing his stressed
out nerves.
Peter gently ran his fingers across the love bites on Stiles’s throat. The
memory of the older man sucking and biting each one to life made his breath
hitch and his eyelids droop lazily. Fuck, just having Peter so close and
touching him made Stiles shiver. Desire flooded his system. When Peter tilted
his head towards him, Stiles reacted without thought, meeting Peter’s lips
eagerly, begging entrance into his still-fanged mouth with a flick of tongue.
He whined, disappointed, when Peter pulled away to watch Scott, his arms
wrapped possessively around Stiles’s chest.
Scott.
Wow, he’d actually forgotten about Scott, all from one tiny kiss. That should
be worrying, right? That Peter could completely extinguish his fight-or-flight
instinct at the drop of a hat? He told himself it would be much worse of Peter
wasn’t a bad-ass creature of the night with a soft spot for a certain
hyperactive teenager.
But it didn’t seem like that revelation would be appreciated by his (now)
traumatized best friend.
Scott’s mouth was hanging wide open in disbelief.
“Uh, Scott?” Stiles waved his hand at his buddy’s stunned face. He hoped the
movement would snap Scott out of whatever funk he had fallen into because
Stiles really didn’t feel like moving out of Peter’s loose embrace.
For personal safety.
Mostly.
“I…you…” Scott visibly floundered, his eyes darting between Stiles and Peter as
he tried to reconcile reality with whatever was going on inside his head.
Eventually, he frowned down at Stiles as though he’d done something wrong. “But
what about Lydia?”
Okay, ouch.
Stiles flinched, unaccountably feeling guilty.
It wasn’t like there had been a real possibility of him and Lydia becoming a
thing. Stiles had made his position very clear (several times over several
years) and Lydia had still chosen Jackson—in front of the pack(s), the Argents,
and an emotionally crushed Stiles. It wasn’t going to happen and he had made
his peace with it. But it wasn’t fair of Scott to throw his unrequited love in
his fucking face. Quite frankly, his face had suffered enough lately.
Stiles rubbed at the back of his neck. “What about her?” he asked, wearily.
Scott stared at him incredulously. “’What about her?’ Dude, you’ve been crazy
about her for years and now you act like you don’t care? And what about this? I
didn’t even know you were gay!” He leaned against the wall, as though his whole
world had just fallen apart.
Stiles mentally snorted. He should see the state ofmine. What a fucking mess…
“Scott, she’s with Jackson. I get that. I can respect that. He’swhat she wants,
not me. And I’m not gay, I’m bi. There’s a difference. I can still appreciate a
set of curves, okay? I’ve been curious for a while, but I’ve never had the
chance to…be proactive about it.” Stiles supposed it was a nicer way of saying
‘sorry, but I’ve never found a guy willing to let me mack on them before’.
“Um…okay,” Scott’s eyes flicked between them, noticeably uncomfortable. His
nose was crinkled, like he smelled something offensive…
Shit, Scott could probably smell what they’d done. Stiles had put on the first
clothes he’d seen without a thought. In retrospect, it probably hadn’t been a
great idea, confronting a werewolf in come-covered clothes.
Stiles hunched in, belatedly realizing that he reeked even though he couldn’t
smell it.
Peter’s arm pulled him closer into the man’s chest, comfortingly, as though he
knew what was making Stiles self-conscious. Pressing back, Stiles smiled to
himself. Fuck Scott’s nose, he smelled like Peter. Contentment flowed through
him. He rather liked smelling like the older man, like he was owned.
Was this what being ‘pack’ felt like?
Both Stiles and Scott jumped when the raucous chattering of the kitchen timer
rang down the hall. Either Peter had better control of his reflexes or he’d
known the damn timer was going to go off because he hadn’t so much as twitched
at the god-awful noise.
“Dinner’s ready,” Stiles piped up helpfully, grateful for the break in tension.
Peter leaned around to look at him. “Do you want me to get that, Darling?”
There was an infectious glimmer in his ice-blue eyes and a playful twist to his
lips. Deciding to dig a little at Scott’s expense, Stiles played along. He made
a show of snuggling closer to Peter. “Would you?” he simpered, batting his
lashes for flare.
The bug-eyed look on Scott’s face was far more satisfying than it should have
been.
Peter pressed a quick kiss to the side of his head before standing in a long,
sinuous movement. “Thank you, dear!” Stiles called after him. Peter chuckled
softly, ignoring Scott’s death glare as he sauntered his way to the kitchen.
Scott jerked his thumb in the older man’s direction. “You do know he can still
here us from in there, right?”
Shrugging, Stiles gingerly moved off of the staircase and carefully stretched
the muscles of his bruising back. “It’s the illusion. He gets it.” Stiles waved
Scott to follow him down the hall to the open front door. Once they were out on
the darkened porch, Stiles firmly closed the door, internally readying himself
for a fight. Scott was leaning back against one of the support beams. He had
his arms crossed and a ‘what the fuck?’ look on his face that Stiles could make
out even in the dark.
Stiles released a sigh and shoved his hands inside his jacket pockets, waiting
for the other shoe to drop.
“Why Peter?” finally came, after a few moments of strained silence.
Some of the tension drained out of Stiles’s limbs. ’Why Peter?’, not ‘why a
guy?’. Part of Stiles had worried that Scott finding out he was more than
‘curious’ about guys would be a problem, that it would change their ‘dynamic’
or whatever. But Scott didn’t seem to care that Peter was a guy so much that he
was, well…Peter.
Stiles ran a trembling hand through his hair. “I…don’t really know,” he
admitted.
And it was true. He didn’t know why Peter’s touch made him forget his own name
or why just one heated stare from the werewolf set his blood afire. All he did
know was that he didn’t want it to stop, not before it had a chance to get
anywhere. As it was, Stiles already wanted to hit Scott for his newest set of
blue balls.
Scott’s eyes were wide, disbelieving. “You don’t know why you did him? Really?”
Stiles scowled at him. “I haven’t done him, okay? Way to make me sound like a
slut,” he said defensively, ignoring the fact that he had been well on his way
to letting Peter into his pants before Scott came along.
Raising an eyebrow skeptically, Scott looked pointedly at Stiles’s clothes.
“Then why do you smell,” he jabbed a finger at the door, “like, I don’t know,
like you’ve been letting him mount you or something? You’re covered in his
scent.”
“’Mountme?’ Are you serious? He’s not an animal.”
“He’s a werewolf,” Scott shot back in an angry whisper. “You don’t get it, he’s
dangerous.”
Eyes narrowing at Scott, Stiles felt his temper flaring.
“I don’t understand? What is it exactly that I don’t understand? About how
strong werewolves are? How they could rip me to shreds— especially on a full
moon? Tell me what I don’t understand about how my best fucking friend could
kill me if he lost control. ‘Cause believe me, I am more aware than any of you
of how fucking fragile I am in comparison. I already get it, Scott, I don’t
need a reminder.”
Irritated, he kicked at a porch beam.
“What I don’t get,” Stiles said, bravely taking a step towards Scott, “is how
you have the audacity to harp at me for getting with a werewolf when you’renot
exactly stopping yourself from being with Allison. From all of your lovely
stories about your ‘fun times’,” emphasizing with air quotes, “it doesn’t sound
like you’ve had too much trouble not tearing her apart.”
“But he could—”
“Yeah, he probably could. But if you’re worried about him hurting me in ‘the
heat of the moment’” Stiles said, gratuitously using air quotes again, “then
don’t, okay? Not every werewolf has difficulty reigning in their urges. Peter’s
a werewolf from birth, dude. He’s got more than a few months experience in
keeping his claws to himself.”
Scott had the constipated look of someone who knew they were backed into a
corner. “What if he’s using you?” Stiles’s heart skipped hard, the question
hitting squarely on his doubts. “Come on, Stiles, he’s twice our age. He’s
probably some kind of pervert trying to hook up with a high school student.”
Rolling his eyes, Stiles snorted derisively. “Did he try anything with you?”
That seemed to throw Scott for a loop. He tilted his head in confusion. “…no,
why?”
God, he’s such a clueless puppy, Stiles mentally bemoaned. “Because you’re man-
prettier than me. Besides, if he wanted into a high schooler’s pants, don’t you
think it would have been way easier to try for the teenager he bit? One he
already had a freaking mental connection with that he could use to get his
way?”
Scott blinked dumbly at him.
Guess he hadn’t thought of that.
“Okay, fine, but he tried to get with my Mom!” Scott whined, clearly offended
by the memory.
Sighing, Stiles leaned back against the front door. “Dude, if I thought I
wouldn’t get smacked down like a fly, I’d probably hit on her. Not that I ever
have!” he said quickly, holding a hand out to pacify his friend’s indignation.
“Or ever will. Like, ever.”
Calmed down but by no means mollified, Scott looked at him askance. “I don’t
like the feel of this. What if he’s just using you for kicks? Or if it’s some
fucked up power play of Derek’s? I don’t want you to get hurt,” Scott
whispered.
And there it was, Scott’s hero complex shining through, regular as clockwork.
Stiles found it less annoying when it wasn’t completely cock-blocking him. Not
that he didn’t appreciate being on Scott’s priority list of people-to-save, but
if Scott had his way, Stiles was going to stay a virgin for the rest of high
school.
“Scott,” he began wearily, “I don’t want to get hurt either, but my odds of
finishing high school unscathed dropped significantly when werewolves came back
to Beacon Hills. If I’m gonna get hurt, I’d at least like a say in who does it.
Please, can you just trust me in this? If it goes to shit, I promise you can
say ‘I told you so’ for, like, a month, okay? Please?”
He backed his plea with puppy eyes, folding his hands together mock-prayer
style.
Scott’s face scrunched up as he bit his lip, regarding Stiles pensively.
When Scott’s shoulders slumped, Stiles knew he’d won. He bounced excitedly on
his toes and cocked his elbows back, clenching his fists victoriously. He threw
his arms around Scott in a boisterous hug, grinning like a mad man. Or at least
he was until Scott jerked out of his embrace to hold him at arm’s length.
“Yeah, I love you too, buddy,” Scott said, his voice strained and his head
turned away from Stiles. “But you really need a shower.”
Stiles blinked at him. “We just had a shower,” he said, unthinkingly. “But then
Peter heard you get here and I didn’t have time to find clean clo—”
“Wait, what? ‘We’? ‘We’ took a shower? As in you and Peter?” Scott looked
faintly queasy.
“Well yeah,” Stiles shrugged, as though it was normal for him to shower with
thirty year old men. It certainly wouldn’t be the weirdest thing he’d ever
done. “Needed to get stuff off of me and Peter wanted to help.” “Argh,” Scott
groaned, closing his eyes. “And then you got here,” Stiles continued oblivious
to his friend’s discomfort, “and I wasn’t about to open the door naked.”
“Argh,” Scott groaned louder, clutching at his hair in dismay. “So we had to
put out dirty clothes back on ‘cause we didn’t have time to hunt for clean
ones,” Stiles finished, reasonably.
“Stiles,” Scott ground out, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hands.
“Bad visuals. Please, no more visuals.”
Stiles winced when he realized that Scott was cringing away from more than his
‘smell’. “Ah… I’ve scarred you for life, haven’t I?” he asked, sympathizing.
Payback really was a bitch. Lord only knows how many times he’d had to endure
Scott’s reiterations of his undying love for Allison.
Oh well…
Understanding as he was of Scott’s aversion to his new-found sex life, Stiles
still couldn’t keep from smiling. He backed up to lean against the door and
ruffled his hair, stupidly happy for gaining Scott’s pseudo-permission. Not
that he needed it, but…it was still nice, having one less person to hide this
from— whatever this proved to be.
“Hey, uh,” Stiles gestured over his shoulder to the house, “you wanna come in?
Dinner’s ready and there’s enough to feed a pack of wolves in there,” he joked,
trying to lighten his friend’s mood.
“Ah,” Scott glanced fleetingly at the door behind Stiles. “Naw, I think I’ll
just…go. I’ll, uh, leave you to your…date…thing,” he said, shaking his head in
bemusement as he hopped off the porch.
Stiles was twisting the doorknob when a thought struck him.
He whirled around and half-dangled over the porch railing, calling out to Scott
in his loudest ‘whisper’.
“Yo, Scott?”
Scott paused halfway to his car and turned to look at him. “What?” he stage-
whispered back.
Stiles hesitated for a moment, wondering if Peter really was listening in, then
gave a mental ‘fuck it’. “If things get, uh, really good, I can tell ya,
right?”
Even in the dull lighting from the street light and waxing moon, Stiles could
see the twist in Scott’s face, like he’d eaten something that didn’t agree with
him. It was a mark of how good of a friend Scott was that he ducked his head
with a ‘yeah’ instead of flat out shutting Stiles down like he probably wanted.
Stiles swallowed his urge to crow, settling for watching Scott drive off,
leaving him alone in the dark on the porch.
Silently thanking whatever deity that watched over him for giving him such a
laid-back friend, he sighed and reentered the house, ready to turn his
attention back to the werewolf in his kitchen.
Ha, he thought, as he walked down the hall. Sounds like the title of a
children’s book. ‘The Werewolf in my Kitchen’…hmm, or maybe a bad porno…
Pain spiked up his leg when Stiles’s ankle shifted under his weight. He shouted
as he crumpled to the floor, barely throwing his arms out in time to avoid
breaking his nose. He groaned, cursing that same sadistic deity for playing
with him like a goddamn yo-yo.
A jean-covered knee dropped next to his face.
“Are you alright?” Peter asked, worry in his tone.
“Yeah, ‘m ‘kay,” Stiles forced out, his face beet-red with embarrassment. At
least Peter hadn’t seen his little swan dive.
Slowly, he turned over, helped by Peter’s strong, guiding hands. He stared up
at the ceiling, infinitely annoyed. When he’d imagined lying on his back
underneath the older man, this wasn’t quite how he’d pictured the
circumstances.
Peter’s hands skimmed over his clothing, feeling out for injuries he couldn’t
immediately see.
“My ankle gave,” Stiles grumbled, squirming as the older man brushed the inside
of his kneecap (he was ticklish there).
Peter hummed noncommittally as he stood. “Stay here. I’ll only be a moment.”
And then he was gone. Seriously, Stiles had blinked and the dude vanished.
Deciding to give his abused body a rest, Stiles closed his eyes and laid as
still as possible, trying to ignore the ache setting into his limbs. He heard
something rest near his head with a dull ‘thump’ and he panicked, his eyes
shooting open as he flailed wildly on the floor.
Peter had returned with the medical kit.
”Jesus Christ,” Stiles groaned. His body went limp with relief even as his
heart drummed fast in his chest. And wasn’t that strange?— subconsciously, he
seemed to have already dismissed Peter as a threat…
“I’m gonna have to already put a bell on you,” Stiles said, glaring half-
heartedly up at the older man.
Peter merely smirked as he dug through the Stilinski tackle box of
miscellaneous medical supplies. “Implying that you’d like to see more of me if
you’re willing to make that much of an effort,” he remarked as he pulled out a
long bandage wrap, unfurling the stretchy material.
Awkwardly, Stiles propped himself up on his elbows, wincing as his back muscles
protested the movement. Lying flat out in the hall was starting to make him
feel vulnerable.
Coincidentally, the new position brought him closer to Peter and, well… that
was enough to make him forget a lot more than discomfort.
“It wouldn’t be the worst thing if you came over more often,” Stiles said,
jerking his shoulders up briefly in a hampered shrug. “You’re kinda useful to
have around. Kitchen assistant, personal aid, and now medic?— you should be
wondering how I’m gonna let you leave,” he teased.
Stiles dragged his injured leg up obligingly and Peter rolled up his pant leg.
Ew.
Feeling the pain was one thing, but this— actually seeing the swollen, purple-
tinged tissue— somehow made his ankle throb even worse. Stiles bit his lip
against a whimper. He nearly jerked away when Peter closed his hand around the
damaged flesh, expecting a surge of pain, but instead he froze with disbelief.
Out in the forest, Stiles hadn’t been able to see what Peter had been doing,
could only feel it, and all he’d felt was the pain leaving him. But now he
could see perfectly, could see the veins in Peter’s hand and arm turn black,
stark against the pallor of his skin, as though something noxious was seeping
up through them from his hand to the rest of his body.
Or being absorbed, he thought with dawning horror.
Peter was absorbing his pain.
Stiles’s jaw dropped, surprise muting him as Peter gently began to wind the
bandage around his ankle.
”Thank you,” he whispered.
Peter glanced up, his surprise quickly masked. He minutely shook his head.”
It’s no trouble,” he murmured as he tucked in the bandage end.
“I didn’t mean the wrap,” Stiles said. “That thing you did, with the pain. You
didn’t have to do that.”
Peter tugged Stiles’s jeans down, his eyes focused on where he was silently
fussing with straightening the material.
Stiles frowned at the lack of response so he pinned the older man’s hand to his
leg. That at least got him an arched brow and something of a smirk, like Stiles
had performed a clever trick by being so forward. “Seriously,” he said, holding
Peter’s amused gaze. “Thank you.” He hesitated momentarily before giving in to
his curiosity for all things werewolf. “Does it…does it hurt you, when you do
that?” Stiles hated the miniscule tremor in his voice as he spoke.
It was kind of ‘bass-ackwards’, really, worrying about Peter’s well-being over
a little “sprain pain”. Where was this inner Mother Teresa of his when he’d
lobbed a Molotov Cocktail at the guy?
Peter seemed likewise intrigued, regarding Stiles with an uncomfortable
intensity. “It does, but it passes. Our bodies don’t hold pain for long.” His
gaze lingered on the fading bruises on Stiles’s face then dropped to his
throat, eyeing the marks on he’d personally left on it a few hours ago. A small
furrow appeared between his brows as he frowned, reaching out to caress a
particularly deep bruise that sported teeth marks.
The touch didn’t draw the reaction Peter had been looking for, if his surprised
approval was any indication.
When Peter’s hand had cupped his neck and stroked the mark with his thumb,
Stiles had sucked in his breath in a hiss and leaned into the pressure. Humming
contemplatively, Peter scraped a sharp talon over the same spot, his eyes
flashing bright blue at Stiles’s tiny moan. He seemed to like that Stiles
didn’t shy away from the less than gentle attention— which was good because
Stiles kept picturing Peter leaving a set of handprints on his hips.
Peter’s nostrils flared.
He flashed Stiles a toothy smile. “What am I going to do with you?” he asked
absently, letting him go to pack up the med kit.
“Ah, I’ve got a few ideas. More than a few, actually, to be honest. Feel free
to ask, I am all about sharing,” Stiles yammered, disappointed that Peter had
pulled away from him again.
The med box snapped shut.
Heat coiled low in Stiles’s belly at Peter’s smoldering gaze.
“Oh, I have a few ideas of my own,” Peter purred, straightening in a lithe
motion that was more cat-like than wolf.  He held a hand out to Stiles and
pulled him to his feet. Relief washed over Stiles as his ankle held firm and
true under his weight. His arms shot up into the air as he whooped joyfully.
Shaking his head at the display, Peter waved for Stiles to follow him to the
kitchen. Stiles shadowed him, his ankle hardly troubling him after the older
man’s ministrations.
The glorious smell of the casserole surrounded him as he stepped into the
kitchen and his attention immediately zeroed in on the stove where the dish
sat, cooling.
“You know, we should collaborate,” Stiles said coyly, digging a serving spoon
out of a drawer. “You share your ideas, I’ll toss out mine, and we’ll see if we
can’t find something…mutually satisfying.” He was in the middle of splitting
the dish into sections with the spoon when a solid line of muscle and heat
molded to his back.
“Hmm…sounds like a long list,” Peter murmured into his ear, his hands massaging
Stiles’s hips.
Stiles’s breath hitched, torn between the food before him and the werewolf
behind him. Just as he was about to go with Option #2, he felt Peter stiffen
against him— and not the “good” kind. “What is it? What’s wrong?” Stiles froze,
his voice cracking with his rising anxiety.
“If I’m not mistaken, it’s a Beacon Hills police cruiser,” Peter said, his
calm, even tone at odds with his rigid body language.
The spoon slipped from Stiles’s limp fingers into the casserole.
“I am so dead,” Stiles whispered, the irony of having spoken similar words in
Peter’s presence completely flying over his head as his breathing quickened to
match his racing heartbeat. 
He broke from the older man’s half-embrace to dash across the room to the
kitchen doorway, skidded to a halt, turned back a split second later to dash
back towards the stove, stopped again, then began dancing back and forth from
foot to foot as he gripped his hair in frustration.
“Shit, shit, shit. He can’t— you— I don’t even— oh my God, oh shit, oh
fuckfuckfuck…”
Stiles swore under his breath as he freaked out in the middle of the kitchen,
terrified that his father was about to stumble across more than one of his
secrets tonight. He was dangerously close to having a panic attack and he
couldn’t find the will to stop it; his thoughts were scattered to the winds and
it was all he could do just to breathe.
Warmth surrounded his face and he blinked at Peter in surprise. The older man
was cupping his cheeks in his large hands, standing so close that his eyes
encompassed most of Stiles’s field of vision. And just like that, Stiles felt
his pulse begin to drop and his breathing even out under the mesmerizing
clarity of Peter’s ice-blue eyes.
“Calm down, Stiles. It’s fine. I’ll leave out the back so you won’t have to
worry,” Peter soothed lowly, stroking the teen’s cheekbones with his thumbs. He
pulled away and started for the back door.
“Wait!” Stiles blurted, a thought breaking free from the chaos of his mind.
Peter turned and watched patiently as Stiles threw open a cupboard and
retrieved a plastic container. Hurriedly, Stiles shoveled a helping or two (or
three) into it, sealing it with a lid. Grabbing a fork from the cutlery drawer,
Stiles held both it and the container out to Peter.
“Here, since things got cut short. Don’t want to renege on my promise to feed
you.”
Peter stared at him, looking amazed and amused all at once as he took the
offered meal.
In the silence of the house, even Stiles could hear the faint click of the
front door unlocking, closing seconds later with a reverberating slam. Stiles’s
heart jumped into his throat. His father most likely wouldn’t come straight to
the kitchen, but that still left precious few theoretical seconds before his
dad caught him with the thirty-something year old werewolf.
Fuck this was going to be close and Peter, Peter was…what was Peter doing? Why
was he putting his food down on the counter?
Stiles opened his mouth to ask the other man what he was doing when Peter used
his speed to dive in and seal his lips to Stiles’s.
Peter’s wicked tongue swept into his slack mouth and tangled forcefully with
his own, startling a soft moan from Stiles. Eyes drifting shut, Stiles
instinctively wrapped his arms around Peter’s neck as he lost himself in the
rough, biting kiss, letting the older man press him against the counter. A
drawer handle dug into his hip, but it could have been a knife for all Stiles
cared. He had Peter’s mouth on him, had talon-tipped fingers on his hips,
pinning him in place and preventing Stiles from arching against him, and God
that was frustrating because all Stiles wanted to do was rub his hardening cock
against Peter until he came—
“Hey, Stiles?” his dad called, his voice echoing from down the hall.
Alarmed, Stiles ripped away from Peter’s intoxicating lips, yanking his hands
off the man’s shoulders as though he’d been burned. Peter used the opportunity
to back away, smirking as he slid his dinner off the counter and sauntered to
the back door.
Great, now he was hard on top of everything else.
Irritated, Stiles ruffled his hair and glared at the retreating werewolf. But
not pouting. He was definitely not pouting. “You’re evil,” he muttered,
shifting himself more comfortably in his pants.
Peter merely winked— actually fucking winked— at him and slipped out the door.
Unfortunately, he closed it hard enough to jostle the miniature cowbells
attached to the top of it, their happy jingle mocking him.
“Stiles?”
Well, fuck. So much for the discrete exit.
Stiles groaned. “I’m in the kitchen, Dad. Dinner’s ready.”
He got out plates and started setting the table, if only to have something to
do while his nerves recovered from so much shock. Between Scott and his own
freaking father, he wasn’t going to have to worry about protecting his virtue
when they were inadvertently doing it for him. He was about to set the
silverware when his phone went off, startling him into dropping them onto the
table. Heart skipping away, he fumbled for the device and frowned at the
screen.
What the… When did he ever text a ‘Peter’? The only Peter he knew just left
and— oh.
Huh.
So that’s what happens when you leave a werewolf alone in your kitchen: they
program their number into your phone. Less awkward than asking for it, he
supposed.
Curious, Stiles opened the message.
 
Peter:   Evil would be having no intention of finishing what I started. I can
assure you, I’m not that cruel.
 
Innocuous as it was, the text still sent a delicious frisson down his spine.
This was a promise of more to come.
A grin wide enough to hurt spread across Stiles’s face.
Chapter End Notes
     The next chapter should be up soonish. It's going to be a sort of
     interlude. Anywho, comments and criticisms welcome!
***** Chapter 4 *****
Chapter Summary
     Derek and Peter have a little...chat.
Chapter Notes
     This is more of an interlude than anything, really. It's sort of
     background stuff, to change the pace. It's also done more from a
     third person sense, because I wanted Peter's inner thoughts more
     shuttered for now.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
The floorboards creaked under Peter’s feet as he entered the crumbling shell of
his family home. Under his arm, wrapped in a pilfered towel, was the piping-hot
container Stiles had given him.
“Hello, Derek,” he murmured, fussing with a fold of the towel in favor of
looking at the Alpha atop the staircase.
He continued on into the charred former den and settled himself at the rotting
desk, unwinding the towel from the plastic dish.
Derek slunk into the room and leaned back against the doorframe, crossing his
arms in front of his chest. “Got an interesting phone call from Scott tonight,”
he said, watching as Peter opened the lid.
“Did you, now?” Peter said, flatly. He looked supremely unconcerned, spearing
the steaming casserole.
“He’s sixteen, Peter.”
“I’m aware of that.” Peter took a bite and groaned, his eyes fluttering.
“Absolutely delicious,” he said around his mouthful. “I’ll have to remember to
ask for the recipe. Would you like to try it?” he asked, gesturing to it with
his fork.
Derek gave him a hard look. “He doesn’t know what he’s getting into.”
Chuckling softly, Peter gathered another bite. “You’d be surprised. I think he
knows exactly what he’s getting into. But it is touching how concerned you are
for him, seeing as he’s not in your pack.”
“I’m not—”
“But he could be,” Peter overrode. “It’s a wonder that you haven’t. Made him
pack, I mean. You went out of your way to draw in the outcasts of Beacon Hills
High, deliberately passing over the one teen there that would have had
‘informed consent’— not to mention better control over himself from the start.
Did you know that he coached Scott through his werewolf baby-steps? That’s
probably the most interesting thing I gleaned from Scott’s mind: that a human
trained him how to be a werewolf.”
Derek glowered at him from the door way.
“Hmm…but I’m sure you did your best,” Peter relented, taking another bite.
“I did consider him,” came moments later while Peter chewed. At his uncle’s
skeptical glance, Derek turned defiant. “I did. But he’s too loyal to Scott. It
would have been more effort that he’s worth— and that’s even if he would have
agreed in the first place.”
“Excuses,” Peter muttered, playing with a noodle. “You could have bit him
anyway. Still could.”
Snorting derisively, Derek rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Remind me how well that
worked out with Scott.”
Peter looked up sharply. “To compare Stiles with Scott is neither accurate nor
fair. I didn’t think I needed to explain that to you.”
Huffing in aggravation, Derek pushed off the doorframe, taking a seat in a
batter chair several feet away from Peter.
Silence reigned for a minute or two while Peter ate, willfully ignoring the
relentless glare Derek was focusing on him. Finally, rolling his eyes, Peter
slumped dramatically in his chair. “Are you sure you don’t want any?” he asked
with exasperation, waving the container in Derek’s direction.
“Why Stiles?” Derek asked, ignoring the half-eaten casserole.
Cocking his head slightly, Peter set down the food, a pensive frown creasing
his forehead. His eyes roved over Derek appraisingly.
“I’m not sure” he finally admitted, dropping his gaze down to his food, poking
at it thoughtfully.
“You’re not sure?” Derek spat out incredulously. “You’re not sure why you’re
putting the moves on a sixteen year old kid? Who, apart from being underage, is
the Sheriff’s son?”
Peter raised a brow at him. “You’re choosing now to respect the law? I’ll
remind you that all of your betas are under the age of consent and that I’m not
offering him a complete change in species and/or lifestyle.”
He kicked the heavy desk out a bit so he could prop his feet up on it, digging
into the casserole with renewed gusto.
Derek still didn’t seem appeased. “Then what are you offering him?”
A wicked smirk pulled at the older man’s lips. “Are you sure you want to know?”
Peter asked, teasingly.
Grimacing, Derek stood and moved towards the door. “Not really, considering the
parties involved. But I’m not turning him,” he threw over his shoulder.
Peter shrugged, looking disinterested. “Fair enough. He’s more interesting as a
human anyway. I might even keep him. Derek?”
The Alpha turned and grunted out a ‘what’.
“Did you know that the human sense of smell is so closely linked with the
limbic system that a particular scent can trigger memories from several years
past, if the impression was strong enough? No one’s ever done a study on
werewolves, but I’m sure the results would be similar, if not even higher in
regards to ‘born’ wolves.”
Peter scraped at the sides of the dish, consolidating the left over bits into a
pile.
Derek growled. “Okay, so what?”
Peter hummed, absorbed in his task. “Humans are also creatures of habit,” he
continued, as though Derek hadn’t spoken. “Especially when it comes to buying
things. They’ll  stick to something for years, if they like it enough. Take for
instance, perfumes.”
Derek tensed almost imperceptibly. Almost.
Peter smiled to himself.
“I was in town earlier today and a woman drenched in perfume passed me in the
street. Now, that in itself isn’t strange. I’ve encountered countless women who
lack restraint when using perfume, but this time it really bothered me. The
perfume, not the woman. It was like I’d smelled it before only I couldn’t quite
place it. I kept turning it over and over in my head for hours until, finally,
it hit me. Twice in particular I had registered the scent. The first was six
years ago, when puberty was apparently doing very well for you and you would
come home reeking of the stuff. The second was the night of my death, when I
bled the Argent bitch dry.”
Peter downed the last of the casserole with relish, taking care to lick the
fork clean. After a moment, he turned his attention back to Derek, who was
silent as the grave, gaze trained on the floor. “It’s interesting, isn’t it?
That the bitch you used to fuck had the same taste in perfume as the one who
slaughtered our family? I wonder what the odds of that happening are.”
Peter dropped the fork into the container and snapped the lid over it, scooping
the whole kit up with exaggerated nonchalance.
Sauntering like the predator he was, Peter confidently approached Derek and
stood directly in front of him, taking in the pungent smell of guilt.
Derek was still avoiding his eyes.
“Perhaps before you start judging my choice of partners, it might be
more…prudent…for you to first examine your own,” Peter said with mock-concern.
Stepping around his mute nephew, Peter left the room, a self-satisfied smile on
his face.
Chapter End Notes
     Okay, comments and criticisms welcome. This might be the shortest
     chapter, of the story, though I won't know 'til the end.
***** Chapter 5 *****
Chapter Summary
     Stiles reflects on the night before. Well, before he's interrupted.
Chapter Notes
     A thousand and one apologies to everyone. This update is *far* later
     than I intended and I have nothing but excuses. But anyway, here ya
     go!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Stiles flopped on top of his bed, burying his face into his pillow with a
groan. He hadn’t even bothered to turn on the light, exhausted as he was, so
his room was illuminated only by the fiery light of sunset.
It had been nearly twenty-four hours since he’d stumbled across Peter in the
woods and— if he wasn’t sporting love bites on his neck—Stiles would have
thought he had dreamt the whole encounter.
But if the previous evening with Peter had been a dream, then the events after
the older man had left were the stuff of nightmares.
 
 
*************************************FLASHBACK**************************************
 
 
“You okay?” Stiles’s dad called from down the hall. “Why is the kit down here?”
Shit.
Stiles froze for a second before scooping portions of the casserole on to the
plates, his wheels spinning at full tilt for an excuse.
“Ah, I kinda tripped over the ottoman. I wrapped up my foot with the bandage in
it. Forgot to put it back, sorry,” he shouted back, settling with a half-truth.
At least now his dad wouldn’t question his injury. It wouldn’t be the first
time Stiles had been laid out by the foot rest.
“If you tripped over the ottoman in the living room, then why is the kit down
here and not in the bathroom where you had to get it from in the first place?”
came the suspicious query from down the hall.
Leave it to his dad to spot the holes in his lies.
“Scott got it for me,” Stiles called over his shoulder as he reached up into a
cabinet for a pair of glasses. “He was here when it happened so he got it out
for me.”
“He the one who went out the back?”
Stiles nearly dropped the glass he was holding, his heart pounding in his
chest. He mentally cursed the doorbell, putting ‘superglue the cowbell
clappers’ on his to-do list.
“Uh, yeah. Actually, he wasn’t even supposed to be here. He’s kinda grounded.
But he knew what today was so he snuck out to keep me company. He went out the
back so you wouldn’t see him and tell his mom.”
Stiles dug an ice tray out of the freezer and dropped a few in each glass
before taking them to the sink.
There was a tension-filled moment of silence as his dad weighed the excuse.
Stiles crossed his fingers and waited with bated breath while he heard his
father mess with something in the living room, likely going through today’s
mail. And possibly staring distantly at the old family pictures in the living
room that held Stiles’s mom’s face, grief hitting him hard as he studied the
features of the woman who had been forced to leave him behind too soon.
Probably both.
“That’s fine,” his dad said vaguely before thumping his way up the stairs.
Relief flooded through Stiles’s battered body. What was it with all the close
calls today?
He set the two ice water-filled glasses down on the table and looked around,
jittery. Usually he left off dealing with the dirty dishes until after dinner,
but tonight he was too keyed up to sit and do nothing. He needed to move, to
expend the nervous energy that he had built up, and so he found himself
arranging the dirty dishes methodically into the washing machine rack— a
metaphorical twiddling his of thumbs.
Heavy, plodding steps heralded his father’s descent from upstairs.
Stiles was busy adding the dish detergent when his dad walked into the kitchen
behind him. “Place looks great, kid. What did you do, go over it with a comb?”
A chair scrapped across the linoleum as it was drawn away from the table, his
dad settling into it a moment later. He leaned wearily against the table, but
the plateful of hot food seemed to be cheering him up.
“Yeah, I got bored so I…did stuff,” Stiles finished lamely. He started up the
dishwasher and went to take his seat at the table, digging into his portion
enthusiastically. All of this stress racked up one hell of an appetite.
Wrapped up in devouring his food, Stiles took no notice as his father’s gaze
narrowed at the dark, purpling bruises on his son’s neck. “So Scott was here.
Anyone else come over?” he asked, his tone lightly curious as he thoroughly
chewed his mouthful.
“Naw, just Scott. Played video games for a while before he helped me start
dinner. He opened all the cans without breaking the can opener this time. I was
proud.”
Stiles gulped down half of his glass of water, thinking that it really
shouldn’t be this easy for the lie to roll off of his tongue. The first time
Scott had helped him cook after he’d been bitten, he and Stiles had gotten into
a heated discussion over a mission in World of Warcraft and, well… Stiles had
had to replace the can opener that had been sheared in half during Scott’s
animated speech.
His dad pushed his food around on his plate, playing with a green bean. “You
didn’t leave the house at all today?” he asked, his eyes noting little scoop-
like marks in some of the bruises— teeth marks?
Shaking his head, Stiles spoke through a particularly large mouthful. ‘Didn’t
f’l like it.” He chewed a bit then swallowed roughly. “I’ll go out tomorrow.
We’re almost out of milk. And Save-A-Lot is has ground turkey on sale so I’ll
probably swing by for some.” His dad groaned. “And no, I’m not grabbing any
chips ‘while I’m at it’. You don’t need the extra sodium,” Stiles said firmly,
shutting down the idea before his father could bring it up for the thousandth
time.
“You know, they make lightly salted chips.”
Stiles just gave him a look and speared a bit of pasta with his fork.
His dad groaned somberly as he chewed. “Well, it was nice of Scott to come out
today and keep you company.”
A half-smile settled onto Stiles’s face. “Yeah, he’s awesome. He was gonna
stalk Allison—not actually stalk, dad—but he said he could put it off ‘til
tomorrow. The guy needed a break from all the ‘girl drama’ anyway.”
They continued to eat in silence, apart from Stiles’s occasional quizzing into
his dad’s work. When they finished, Stiles moved to clear the table, but his
dad motioned for him to sit back down…which meant a talk.
Fuck.
“Look, Stiles,” his dad began, shifting in his chair in discomfort. “It’s
perfectly fine to experiment. I understand. You’re young and curious and you’re
trying to figure out what you like, but you’re sixteen. You’re still underage
and, until such time that you cease to be underage, you’ll abide by my rules.
There’ll be no unnecessary nudity, obscene acts, or sex of any kind under my
roof—especially when I’m gone. If I feel the need to have patrols or a neighbor
swing by to check on you when I’m out, I will do so.
But personally, I think you need to keep your head clear right now. I know
Scott’s your best friend and you might feel comfortable experimenting with him,
but if he’s still stuck on Allison then things could get messy if he tries to
play more than one field. I’ve got no problems with the guy; I just don’t want
to see you get hurt. I know that whole ‘Lydia’ thing didn’t pan out for you,
but don’t let yourself be pressured into settling for just any Tom, Dick, or
Harriet that will look at you twice. You’ve got a lot going for you, bud. Just
make sure you don’t waste it on someone who doesn’t deserve it.”
Stiles could only sit, mouth hanging wide open in silent horror while his dad
churned out his speech. Mortified beyond belief, Stiles stammered out a
‘thanks, dad’ before excusing himself from the table.
His dad collected the dirty dishes with a sympathetic grimace.
As soon as he reached the safety of his room, Stiles finally remembered the
bruises on his neck and the incriminating towels and soiled boxers in the
bathroom—evidence his father had obviously seen and horrendously
misinterpreted.
Not that Stiles had been about to correct him.
Mentally and physically exhausted, he rushed through his nighttime hygiene
rituals, plugged in his phone, and passed the fuck out, asleep within seconds
of falling into bed.
 
*************************************END
FLASHBACK**********************************
 
 
Stiles squirmed on the bed, trying to get comfortable, but his back only seemed
to ache worse. He’d seen the bruises in the bathroom mirror, black and blue
stripes slanting across his back, and he wondered how hard hiding them in the
locker room was going to be.
He stretched out on the bed, arms over his head to lengthen his body as much as
possible. His muscles protested as they were pulled taut.
His dad had allowed him to sleep in until about noon before ousting him from
his nice, warm blanket-cocoon. Unfortunately, Stiles’s hopes for a lazy Sunday
afternoon had been smashed to pieces when his dad had courteously reminded him
of the lawn he’d been neglecting for the past two weeks. To be fair, there had
been extenuating supernatural circumstances beyond his control, so it wasn’t
like it was completely his fault. Sad as it was, that truth— like so many
others— wasn’t up for discussion. At least until Stiles couldn’t hold it off
any longer.
So, after completing his scheduled grocery shopping, Stiles had pushed their
ancient mower around the yard for a good two hours, which was over half an hour
longer that it should have taken because he had checked his phone for messages
after every. Freaking. Pass.
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing from Peter since his initial text from the night before.
And that was fine, right? No big deal. He’d suffered through years of Lydia’s
rebuffs, one more time couldn’t hurt.
Right?
And like hell if Stiles was going to make the first move again. It was his damn
turn to be chased.
A cool droplet of water—a vestige from his after-mowing shower— slowly trickled
from his hairline down his cheek, tickling him. He rubbed his face against his
pillow and its corner stuck out and pressed right up against the line of love
bites decorating his throat.
Stiles inhaled sharply, his cock stirring at the sensation and the near-fresh
memory of Peter rutting against him, marking him…
Mindlessly, Stiles rocked his hips against the comforter, closing his eyes as
he imagined it was Peter he was rutting against as he settled into a lazy
rhythm. He sighed softly. He felt drowsy as his undulating hips sent delicious
shivers through his aching limbs. Lost in pleasure, Stiles didn’t hear the
faint scraping sound of his window being drawn open, nor did he notice the
light breeze suddenly skimming across his still damp skin. He did, however,
notice the dip in his mattress and he reacted instinctively, flailing about in
blind panic as he rolled off the opposite side of the bed, landing on the floor
shoulders first, squarely onto at least two rows of bruises.
Groaning, Stiles’s vision momentarily fuzzed over as he lay on the floor,
trying to catch his breath.
Peering at him from the other side of the bed was Peter, smirking from his
half-knelt position. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, his voice
cracking minutely with barely-restrained laughter.
Stiles huffed. Yeah, right…
Cautiously, Stiles rolled over and stood, wincing as the movement jostled his
abused back.
Frowning, Peter made his way around the bed to Stiles. He gestured for him to
turn and stared expectantly at the teen until Stiles obeyed with an eye roll.
As soon as his back was presented to Peter, the older man gently lifted his
shirt to reveal the damage Scott’s mini-meltdown had inflicted. He waited on
tenterhooks for about half a minute before clearing his throat, his hands
moving restlessly. Peter could look at his skin for as long as he wanted, but
it would be really freaking nice if he actually touched it…
A soft growl make him freeze in his fidgeting, making him forget how awkward he
felt standing with his shirt rucked up to his nipples.
“The next time I see Scott, we’re going to have a nice long chat about anger
management. This is unacceptable,” Peter said tightly.
Before he could stifle it, an incredulous giggle sprang from Stiles’s lips.
Peter Hale, who had single-handedly murdered over half a dozen people, was
pissed over a few bruises. Or maybe it was just because Scott was the one who
put them there (that could be more worrying).
His shirt was gently dropped to cover the mottled bruising and he felt more
than heard the older man step away from him. When Stiles turned, Peter was
lounging in his computer chair, his ice-blue eyes regarding him shrewdly.
“You don’t think I can control myself,” Peter said neutrally. Once again,
Stiles had the feeling that, while outwardly distant and unconcerned, Peter was
consciously reigning in his stronger emotions.
Passing a hand through his hair, Stiles gusted out a breath, struggling to
respond in a way that wouldn’t offend the werewolf judging him from across the
room. “It’s not that I think you can’t exercise control,” he hesitantly began,
“so much that I know there have been times that you haven’t.” He cringed,
hoping Peter wouldn’t maim him.
Peter raised a brow, a malicious smirk playing around his lips, “Really, now?
And what makes you think that each and every blood splatter wasn’t of my own
design?” he asked, his voice light and curious as he toyed with a button on his
shirt sleeve (the shirt was a burgundy button-down that clashed with the color
of his eyes, but perfectly matched the tone of their conversation).
Stiles’s heart rate quickened as he tapped out a couple of Adderall from the
pill bottle on his nightstand (he had a feeling he was going to need a clear
head for this conversation). Peter had a valid point: Stiles had no idea what
the older man’s state of mind had been when, bit by bit, he had revenged
himself upon his family’s murderers— which was frightening because Stiles had
voluntarily fooled around with a man who could kill him as easily as kiss him.
Peter was watching him with an expression of polite interest, as though he
hadn’t just asked Stiles’s opinion on his murder spree.
Downing the pills with a healthy swig from his lacrosse water bottle, Stiles
plopped onto the edge of the bed facing Peter, trying to will away the feeling
of having a test sprung on him when he hadn’t studied.
“I don’t know,” he finally said, twisting the bottle cap anxiously, loosening
then tightening then loosening it again in quick spins. “I really don’t know
much of anything about you. Well, aside from whatever was in the Hale case
file. And maybe some stuff Scott told me. And some things from the night of the
Formal.” He hunched over and rested his elbows on his thighs, flicking his
thumb across the top of the water bottle cap. “Not much at all,” he finished
awkwardly.
For some reason, Peter kept staring at Stiles’s hands, which kind of made him
nervous so he kept restlessly playing with the water bottle.
Peter hummed softly, rubbing his thumb back and forth across his lips. “You
know more than most.”
Jerking his shoulder blades up in a shrug that made him wince, Stiles frowned,
unhappy about his lack of real information on the werewolf in front of him.
“Just some history and registered facts, data base stuff. Nothing that really
matters. Not like, how you came back. I still don’t know how you did that. How
did you do that?” Stiles asked, curiosity overriding his caution.
An unnatural stillness fell over Peter and Stiles wondered if he’d gone too far
with the question. Peter stared at him steadily and his fidgeting worsened. 
Stiles dropped the older man’s gaze, his mind full of ways to change the
subject, but his throat too tight to voice them.
“I…enlisted help from someone,” Peter offered, vaguely. Stiles’s attention
snapped back up excitedly. “They gathered some things for me in time for an old
ritual and…here I am,” he said, nonchalantly gesturing with his hand to
himself.
That’s it?
Stiles squeezed his water bottle tightly in frustration. “Yeah, but how?”
Peter raised a brow at him, mockingly. “You don’t think it’s only the Argents
who have amassed knowledge over the centuries? Or secrets?  We’re all holding
our cards close, waiting for the perfect time to play them— even Scott.”
Disappointment chaffed at Stiles. He didn’t like important information being
withheld from him (and a ritual powerful enough to bring the dead back to life
was worth knowing). “So you won’t tell me?” he asked, trying for indifference
and probably failing miserably.
Peter smiled mirthlessly and stood, slowly approaching the teen and invading
his space.
Stiles kept his eyes on Peter, hoping it wasn’t too obvious that he was taking
in the older man’s scent, trying to commit it to memory. Last night’s encounter
had been brief and Stiles had been too caught up in Peter’s passion to
concentrate on his scent for long. The light musk was intoxicating— and
probably expensive: low grade-arousal with a hint of something like old books.
If he knew himself at all, Stiles was going to find himself in every shop in
town, searching for the bottle that matched the fragrance.  
Head fuzzy from having Peter’s heady scent around him, Stiles sat placidly as
the older man cupped his chin and caressed his plump bottom lip with a clawed
thumb.
Peter’s eyes were unreadable as he considered the teen before him. “Well…you
did set me on fire not too long ago. It’s only prudent I keep a few things to
myself, don’t you think?”
Shock jolted through Stiles, making him drop his water bottle onto the floor as
he was caught off guard, his mind spinning into high gear. Did Peter blame him
for his death, even though Derek had struck the final blow? Was all this just a
ploy to get Stiles off his guard? His heart began to ratchet higher as he
searched the older man’s eyes, trying to read the intentions in the clear blue
depths.
Peter leaned forward to place a tender kiss to Stiles’s unresponsive lips,
still lightly holding onto the teen’s chin. When Peter retreated, his hand fell
away to his side and he frowned, confused. “You’re frightened. Why?”
Stiles swallowed roughly, having to clear his throat a few times before he was
able to speak.
“I, um…is that why you’re here?” he whispered. He was having trouble meeting
Peter’s eyes, afraid of being right.
Understanding softened Peter’s rigid stance and he smiled with ironic
amusement. “No. If I wanted to kill you, I’d have done it by now. Besides, you
don’t pose enough of a threat to warrant the use of seduction as an offensive
tactic.” He dove forward to nip playfully at Stiles’s lips, cutting off the
teen’s indignant huff.
Reassured somewhat that Peter wasn’t going to gut him mid-kiss, Stiles allowed
himself to respond, pressing up and drawing Peter’s tongue into his eager
mouth. When Peter pulled away again, Stiles swayed on the bed, his body
unconsciously trying to follow the older man’s intoxicating kisses—until he
remembered Peter’s dig.
“Not a threat? What, did you forget I set you on fire once?” he quipped as he
leaned back onto his elbows, putting himself on display. He had a pretty good
idea of the picture he made—breathless and flushed with kiss-bruised lips—
which seemed to work for Peter, if his hungry leer was any indication.
Wedging himself between Stiles’s spayed legs, Peter leaned over the teen,
hovering inches from his face. “Don’t get me wrong, you’re not completely
helpless. I just don’t need to seduce you to get what I want.”
“Yeah? So how do you get it?” Stiles asked, his voice little more than a
whisper. His gaze kept darting between Peter’s soft lips and clear blue eyes,
entranced.
Peter leaned closer so that his lips barely touched Stiles’s when he answered.
“Wait.”
His expression was completely guileless as he watched Stiles expectantly. It
was like he was waiting for him to— oh.
Nuh-uh.
Stiles might be a hair away from jumping Peter’s bones, but that didn’t mean he
was going to do it just because Peter expected him to, like a well-trained
labra-doodle.  If they were going to play this game, then it was going to be
played fair—after all, it was Peter’s damn turn to take the lead.
Stiles leaned closer, rubbing his nose slightly against Peter’s. “Really?” he
asked, dropping his voice to a seductive rasp.
Peter hummed vaguely, looking dazed.
Stiles nudged his nose down Peter’s cheek, brushing it across his jawline and
down his throat. Obligingly, Peter tilted his head, giving him access. Stiles
smiled in triumph as he trailed soft kisses over Peter’s heated skin.
Expect this, he thought.
Picking a spot about halfway down, he struck, opening his mouth wide and
clamping his teeth down on Peter’s flesh.
Peter reacted instantly. Fisting a hand in Stiles’s hair, he yanked the teen
off with a snarl before tossing him backwards onto the bed, following  a split
second after to pin him down onto the mattress. His eyes flashed as he ground
his crotch against Stiles’s, sucking punishingly at the teen’s neck.
Stiles tossed his head back against the mattress, groaning. His legs were
obscenely spread in order to accommodate Peter’s bulk, but when the older man
dropped nearly his entire weight onto him, Stiles’s groan turned into one of
pain. The combined pressure of both their weights was setting his back on fire,
the lines of bruises protesting the rough treatment. His face scrunched up as
he tried to ignore the ache that threatened to eclipse the bliss from having
Peter on top of him.
The supernatural glow in Peter’s eyes faded as the older man levered himself up
off of the teen, looking down at him with concern.
Stiles’s pain-induced daze retreated and he pouted at Peter, disappointed.
“Why’d you stop?”
Not even their groins were touching anymore. What the fuck?
Peter raised an incredulous eyebrow at him. “Because you’re hurt,” he said,
overemphasizing it as though Stiles was being slow.
Stiles huffed at him. “Well, yeah. Not much I can really do about that, y’know?
We humans have to wait out the whole healing process. You still didn’t have
to,” he gestured haphazardly between their separated torsos, “stop. I mean,
come on,” he cajoled, incredibly aware that he was getting closer and closer to
begging Peter to continue, despite his initial balk at outright seducing the
older man.
His teenage libido wasn’t entirely to blame. Part of his growing desperation
was fueled by the exciting prospect of fooling around on an actual bed.
Thrilling as outdoor sex was, it was still uncomfortable to literally be
between a rock and Peter’s ‘hard place’.
Peter quietly surveyed Stiles from his half-plank position, his nose twitching
minutely. Was that….was Peter scenting his arousal?
The lust from that realization swept through Stiles and raised goose bumps on
his arms. 
A smirk flitted across Peter’s face. In a quick display of werewolf strength
that left Stiles breathless and Peter smug, the older man flipped their
positions without warning so that Stiles lay sprawled on top of him.
Well, that certainly took the pressure off of his back.
Feeling out of place, Stiles cautiously sat up, his knees bracketing Peter’s
hips as he perched in the man’s lap. It was kind of like sitting on a seesaw,
except none of the seesaws he could remember had ever sported erections. He
wiggled a bit, trying to get used to being astride someone, when Peter hissed,
clamping his hands around Stiles’s thighs to still him.
“Stop moving,” Peter growled out through clenched teeth.
Stiles took in the light flush on Peter’s face and the way the older man’s
torso moved with his soft panting. Stiles’s lips stretched into what his father
called a shit-eating grin as he slowly rolled his hips against Peter’s.  “Are
you sure? ‘Cause it doesn’t feel like you want me to stop,” he drawled out,
enjoying the hard press of the older man’s cock against his own.
Peter hissed in a breath and squeezed Stiles’s thighs in warning, barely
digging his claws into the teen’s jeans.
Feeling more than a little cocky from bringing the wolf out of Peter, Stiles
kept rocking his hips, shamelessly rubbing their hard-ons together.
Peter’s eyes flashed. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”
Stiles stopped moving, doubt creeping in and souring his playful mood. “I’ve
got a pretty good idea.”
Peter hummed noncommittally as he folded his hands behind his head. Then show
me,” he purred.
Show me? Sure, no problem, Stiles thought nervously as toyed with the hem of
his shirt. He’d taken his clothes off in front of other guys in the locker
room. If he could do it under Jackson’s disdainful watch, then he could bare
himself to Peter’s lascivious gaze.
Hurriedly, Stiles whipped off his t-shirt to avoid the embarrassment of
screwing up a strip tease (words couldn’t describe how proud he was for not
getting it caught around his ears). But then he was left half-naked and
straddling an aroused werewolf, holding his wadded up shirt in his lap.
Peter didn’t seem to notice his self-consciousness. Well...he didn’t seem to be
paying much attention to anything beyond the lean cut of Stiles’s exposed
torso.
A deep flush spread across Stiles’s cheeks and neck as the older man’s
appreciative gaze wandered over him. Emboldened, he cast his shirt to the floor
and popped open the button on his jeans, drawing down the zipper extra slow.
Peter smirked at the tease and watched expectantly.
Problem was, taking off your pants was rather complicated when you were on top
of someone, so Stiles sat clutching at his jeans as he silently floundered,
trying to figure out the least ridiculous way to get them off without having to
fully dismount.
After a few seconds, Peter had mercy on him and took the decision out of his
hands. He reached up and dragged Stiles down by the back of his neck for a
slow, sultry kiss.
Stiles melted against the older man and sank down until the buttons of Peter’s
shirt pressed into his skin. Unconsciously, he began rocking his hips again. He
was getting spoiled. At this rate, rubbing against the mattress would never
satisfy him again. Peter was warm and solid, and his body provided just enough
friction to make Stiles whimper into Peter’s mouth.
Gripping the jut of Stiles’s hipbone, Peter rolled his hips up against the
squirming teen on top of him.
Stiles breathed unevenly through his nose, needing more air but stubbornly
refusing to stop kissing Peter. Lost in desire, he didn’t notice that the other
man’s hand had moved away from his neck until he felt it tugging at his boxers,
pulling them down and—
Choking on a gasp, Stiles finally pulled away to confirm that, yes, that was
Peter’s hand around him, stroking and squeezing and wringing out the most
pitiful sounds he had ever heard himself make.
Stiles bit his lip, trying to stifle the embarrassing noises, but Peter gently
coaxed the abused flesh out from between Stiles’s teeth with his thumb. “I want
to hear you,” the older man breathed, his voice low and husky. His eyes burned
electric blue in the fading light of Stiles’s room and Stiles stared down into
them, transfixed.
Forgetting his self-consciousness, Stiles bucked up into Peter’s grip, no
longer holding back the stream of swear words and moans as he instinctively
sought his own pleasure. Peter kept his hand in a tight ring, twisting and
stroking as Stiles thrust with reckless abandon, getting closer and closer…
Stiles knew that, later, he would cringe at how fast he came, but the feel of
having a hand other than his own on his cock all but threw him over the brink,
magnified by the desire burning in Peter’s eyes. The heady newness of it all
hit him hard and, in less than a minute from when Peter wrapped his hand around
him, Stiles’s climax overtook him and he could do little more than whine and
fist the covers as Peter stroked him through his shudders.
His arms gave out and he slouched forward onto Peter’s chest, shaking as he
struggled to get his breathing back under control. He didn’t care that he was
lying in the come splattered on Peter’s shirt—Stiles absently thought the mess
was obscenely beautiful, the opaque wet smears soaking into the burgundy
material.
Peter was running his hands all over Stiles, soothing away the last of his
trembling. The supernatural glow had left his eyes, but his erection hadn’t
flagged one bit. Hot and hard, it pressed insistently into Stiles’s stomach
every time he breathed.
Stiles felt dazed. He half expected to wake up and find that he had rutted
himself to completion against his own sheets. Shit like this didn’t happen to
him. Gorgeous older werewolves didn’t climb in through his window and take it
upon themselves to bring Stiles off (well, okay, they did, but usually things
stopped just short of the orgasm part).
Everything felt surreal, so he was grateful that Peter was still petting him.
The light touches were grounding him—and lulling him into a post-orgasm nap.
Just as Stiles’s eyelids began to droop, Peter gently cupped the side of his
face, his thumb brushing back and forth across his cheekbone.
“Now don’t quit on me just yet, Stiles,” Peter softly implored. He skimmed his
thumb down to rub at the teen’s plump lower lip and gave a slight buck of his
hips.
Oh.
Stiles flushed, embarrassed. He had almost forgotten that Peter hadn’t gotten
off yet. Fuck, twenty-four hours into his sex life and he was already making a
bad impression. Nothing says ‘bad lover’ like neglecting your partner.
The tip of Peter’s thumb nudged between his lips and, without thinking, Stiles
licked the digit. He could have sworn the older man’s eyes had flashed again
for a split second, but he wrote it off as a reflection of the street light.
Stiles felt heat coil in his groin. He wasn’t stupid. He knew what Peter wanted
(and he’d watched enough porn to have a pretty good idea of how to go about
it), but… None of his knowledge was first-hand, despite his occasional attempts
at fellating bananas (it wasn’t like he owned an actualdildo); he never managed
to do more than suck them into mush.
Still…
The thought of going down on someone—on Peter—was making his cock twitch in
anticipation of Round Two.
Eagerly, Stiles shimmied his way down Peter’s body (ignoring how his dick still
hung out in the open) and knelt between the man’s obligingly spread legs.
Tentatively, he undid the button on Peter’s jeans and unzipped the fly. Plain
black boxers covered the thick bulge of Peter’s engorged cock.
A shift in the mattress drew his attention up to where Peter was crossing his
arms behind his head again. He was watching Stiles with heavy-lidded eyes,
waiting.
Fuck, Stiles thought as his gaze wandered over the man.
With his slightly mussed hair and rumpled, come-covered shirt, Peter looked
downright debauched. A real-life wet dream all for Stiles. Stiles felt his cock
begin to harden as he leaned over the bulge of Peter’s boxers. Without breaking
eye contact, he pressed his lips to it in a chaste kiss.
Peter smirked.
Let’s see how funnythisis, Stiles thought as he mouthed at the hard length
through the black cotton, lightly sucking. He lavished attention up and down
the shaft before finally moving up to take tip into his mouth, soaking the
material.
He glanced up.
Peter wasn’t smirking anymore. In its place was an intense look of
concentration, his eyes fixed on Stiles’s face. Feeling smug, Stiles gripped
Peter’s shaft and stroked as he sucked, the friction from the boxers making his
hand warm.
“Tease,” the older man breathed at him.
Oh, yeah?
Stiles spread his knees further apart for more stability and comfort,
supporting his upper body with a hand on the bed.
Time to level up, his mind unhelpfully supplied as he released Peter to pull
the sodden boxers down, tucking the band down to rest under the base of the
man’s cock. Peter sprang free, the tip nearly lying against his belly.
His cock was beautifully curved, heavy and flushed. Last night in the falling
dusk (and with Peter’s hand moving around it), it had been difficult for Stiles
to see it in sharp detail. Here, up close with the stark street light
illuminating his room, he could see that Peter was uncut. Stiles was
fascinated. Most of the porn he watched featured circumcised men. Circumcision
was such a common procedure that he had never really given sex with an ‘uncut’
man any thought.
It wasn’t like foreskin was completely foreign to him. In fact, he had done
extensive research on the penis in one of his ADHD moments and couldn’t
concentrate on his homework (he had later used the results in one of Coach
Finstock’s essay questions).
But he’d never touched one before.
Curious, Stiles gently wrapped his hand around the base of Peter’s cock and
experimentally stroked up and down, gauging the stretch of the foreskin.
It was…different. There was more ‘give’ compared to what Stiles normally felt
when he jacked off and so he indulged himself, stroking and twisting Peter’s
foreskin, fascinated by how it stretched and contorted to his whims. He tugged
it up to entirely cover Peter’s crown before pulling it back down as far as he
could, making it bunch at the base to fully expose the shaft. A bead of precome
welled up at the tip of Peter’s cock and wiggled there with Stiles’s
explorations.
Peter took a deep breath and released it slowly through his nose, like he was
forcing himself to lie passively under Stiles’s hands.
Only, Stiles didn’t want Peter controlling himself. He wanted to rile the older
man, to push him to his limits and see what he would do.
It was probably one of the most reckless of Stiles’s desires—provoking a
werewolf— but it was the only clear driving thought in his head as he fisted
the base of Peter’s cock, licked off the welling of precome, and took as much
of the shaft as he could fit into his mouth.
He felt more than heard the older man groan, but Stiles’s attention quickly
narrowed down to the cock in his mouth. He had often wondered what dick would
taste like and the first thing that came to mind now was skin. Clean skin. As
though Peter had showered before swinging by. Maybe he had cleaned up in
anticipation of the sort of thing…?
The thought of Peter intentionally preparing for a blowjob made heat flare low
in Stiles’s belly. That was…way more of a turn-on than it should be.
Careful to keep his teeth covered with his lips, Stiles bobbed his head up and
down, flicking his tongue against the shaft as he sucked, trying to make it
look like he knew what he was doing. All of his time watching porn must have
paid off because Peter hummed approvingly. So either Stiles was doing a good
job or he wasn’t fucking it up enough to make Peter correct his technique.
Stiles nearly choked when a hand threaded through his hair, surprising him.
Mouth full, he looked up. He stomach did a happy sort of ‘flip’ when Peter’s
eyes blazed back at him. The older man kept petting him, dragging blunt
fingernails over his scalp, setting off goose bumps.  He directed Stiles into a
slightly faster rhythm with gentle tugs on his hair.
Stiles groaned when the tip of Peter’s cock nudged against the back of his
throat.
Fuck, that was…Stiles didn’t really know what that was.  All he knew was that
it made him feel full, made him want.
Peter pushed his head down a little harder, making him take even more, and
Stiles choked around him. Eyes watering, Stiles pulled away, rubbing at his
throat.
In an instant, Peter sat up and held Stiles’s face in his hands, brushing away
his tear tracks and whispering apologies. Earnest as the older man was, Stiles
wasn’t upset about the momentary roughness. In fact…
“Could you do that again?” Stiles whispered hoarsely, horribly aware of the
watery-eyed, flushed mess he probably looked. His mortification that he had
gagged was being drowned by the fear that Peter would stop. Stiles didn’t want
him to stop so he waited, pleading with his eyes, while the older man cocked
his head.
Peter’s expression was wary and unsure. “…be rough with you?” he asked, trying
to confirm the teen’s request.
Stiles ducked his head nervously and fidgeted. He was half-naked, aroused, and
slightly ashamed. He knew it wasn’t quite normal to want to gag on someone’s
dick, but he also couldn’t forget or ignore the heady rush he had felt when
Peter’s cock had pressed just a little too far, pushing Stiles’s own limits.
Peter studied him intently for a few seconds then released Stiles’s face,
easing back to his prone position on the bed.
Heart skipping quickly in his chest, Stiles steadied himself with a deep
calming breath, hoping that he wouldn’t end up looking like a fool. He wanted
this but, he knew that you don’t always get what you want. He was kind of
worried about what he would get…
As he leaned over the older man’s hips again, he absently wondered—if this was
one of Stiles’s kinks, then what kind of kinks did Peter have? He repressed a
snort. It would be just his luck if Peter was into watersports or watching
donkey shows or something equally extreme. Did sex with a werewolf count as
bestiality?
Stiles wrapped his hand around Peter’s cock again, pumping it lazily as his
mind wandered.
An image of Peter, wolfed out and holding him down as he fucked Stiles with
abandon, flashed through his mind.
Stiles inhaled sharply and accidentally squeezed Peter’s shaft a little tighter
than he meant, momentarily overcome by arousal. If it did count, Stiles didn’t
think he’d care too much.
Peter cupped the back of his head and guided his lips to the head of his spit-
slicked cock, effectively scattering Stiles’s errant thoughts and slamming him
back into the present. Obediently, Stiles dropped his jaw wide and the thick
length slid in to prod at the back of his throat again (only Stiles was
prepared for it this time). He let Peter control the pace, the older man’s hand
a firm pressure at the nape of his neck, tugging him up then pushing him back
down, then pulling back up…
Stiles gagged a few more times and had to pull away with each to catch his
breath, but eventually he could predict when his gag reflex would be set off
and how to breath to avoid it (he had read tips on the internet, but actually
implementing that theoretical knowledge was tricky, apparently). As his gagging
fits tapered off, his confidence grew and soon he was bobbing and sucking
faster. The feel of Peter’s hard dick sliding in and out of his mouth was
massively turning him on, so much more now that he could concentrate on the
sensations rushing through him rather than on his technique.
But his neck was starting to twinge from his movements and his shoulders felt
strained from bracing his own weight.
Then an idea hit him. He had seen it done in porn and, granted, the stars were
normally vertical, but it might just work…
Stiles stopped and peered up at Peter with just the tip of the man’s dick still
engulfed by his mouth.
Peter’s eyes were dark from his lust-blown pupils, but some sharpness bled back
into his blue eyes when he realized that the teen was no longer moving on him.
Brows drawn, Peter rubbed at Stiles’s neck encouragingly. “What’s wrong?”
Stiles shifted his arms around to grip Peter’s hips and tugged them upward,
trying to express what he wanted without having to take his mouth off of Peter.
Thankfully, he didn’t seem to need a detailed explanation, judging by the
blazing eyes and elongated fangs. Peter’s control was slipping.
Peter slowly rolled his hips up, watching raptly as he fed his cock into
Stiles’s mouth, then easing it out, then back in...
Stiles did his best to keep his head still and his teeth covered. He wanted to
make it feel as good as possible for the older man, but he was starting to lose
himself in Peter’s movements, his eyes drifting halfway shut. He felt kind of
high, like the only thing that mattered was the smooth, slick slide of Peter’s
hard cock between his lips.
“Shit,” Peter whispered, thumbing the hollow of Stiles’s cheek created by the
teen’s gentle suction. He thrust faster, groaning as he bucked up into the wet
heat surrounding him. Peter slid his hand up from Stiles’s neck to grip the
teen’s spikey hair. His rhythm faltered as his thrusts became rough and
shallow. He tugged at Stiles’s hair, trying to pull him off, but Stiles
resisted, staring determinedly at Peter as he sucked harder. “Stiles, fuck,”
Peter groaned as he jerked on the bed. His muscles were visibly straining as he
tried to keep from thrusting wildly into the teen’s mouth.
Stiles watched avidly as tremors wracked the older man’s body. I did that,he
thought, amazed by the change he had wrought in the (normally) collected man.
Pride flowed through him as he drank in every twitch and gasp that he had
caused.
He was so wrapped up in Peter’s orgasm that the first hot spurt of come into
his mouth caught him by surprise.
Stiles’s own neglected cock throbbed as he swallowed down everything Peter gave
him. Gently, Stiles lapped at Peter’s spent cock, mindful of the sensitive
flesh as he cleaned off stray drops.
Fuck, he thought, as Peter’s throaty groans turned to soft sighs of
contentment. This put at least 90% of his fantasies to shame.
Peter smirked lazily at Stiles’s unabashed wide-eyed staring. He hooked a
finger through one of Stiles’s belt loops and pulled until the teen was
sprawled onto the bed beside him.
Stiles’s cock was pressed to Peter’s hip and he couldn’t stop himself from
rubbing against it, leaving smears of precome on the older man’s jeans. Before
Stiles could say something embarrassing (like ‘so, how was it?’), his breath
exploded out of his chest with a helpless cry. Peter had grasped his cock and
was jacking it hard and fast and it was so fucking dirty that Stiles could only
bury his head in the coverlet and fuck Peter’s hand. Stiles fisted Peter’s
ruined shirt and held on like it was his life line.
“Come on, Stiles. Come for me,” Peter coaxed. His ravenous gaze was fixed on
Stiles’s face, blue eyes burning bright—burning straight into Stiles— and it
was too much, Stiles couldn’t—
With a pitiful whine, Stiles shot strand after strand of hot come all over
Peter’s shirt again, splashing over the drying patches he had left earlier.
Peter kept stroking him until Stiles squirmed, sensitivity making the older
man’s touch uncomfortable.
Feeling thoroughly wrung out, Stiles lay boneless on the bed. His arm was still
half-draped over Peter (if the older man minded, he certainly wasn’t
protesting).  “Fuck”, Stiles sighed. His throat, jaw, and back all ached and
though Stiles knew he’d probably feel ten times worse in the morning, he
couldn’t wipe the goofy grin off of his face.
That was a lot better than masturbation. That was…that was sex.
Maybe next time they could try that with Peter standing up? Or maybe something
else? Lord knows there were oodles of positions and things Stiles was itching
to try and—
Stiles’s thoughts were interrupted as his arm was jostled.
He popped his head up long enough to see Peter tuck himself back into his
boxers and zip up his fly. Not wanting to be the only guy with his junk hanging
out, Stiles moved to do the same, but only got as far as shoving his softening
dick into his shorts before lethargy overtook him. His arm flopped back on top
of Peter (who grunted at the impact), unmotivated to try to further clothe
himself.
If he wasn’t so freaking tired, Stiles would be angry by how fast he was
falling asleep, but he was only human. He wasn’t built to do a few hours of
hard labor, come twice, and still keep on going (he wasn’t the werewolf here).
Peter turned onto his side facing Stiles and pulled the teen closer, making him
curl around the older man.
Stiles, in his sleepy state, allowed the manhandling. Besides, it felt nice to
be pressed against Peter’s chest, his face nestled in the warm hollow of the
older man’s throat. “Are we cuddling?” he slurred, sleep creeping in on him.
“Hm, I suppose you could call it that. I prefer to think of it as a post-sex
extended hug,” Peter mumbled into Stiles’s hair.
“Whatever helps you sleep at night, dude…You gonna stay a while?” He hoped to
God that Peter wasn’t expecting him to run a marathon tonight. Sexathon?
Everything was blurring together and Stiles just flat out didn’t know anymore.
Peter chuckled softly. “Well, someone has to look after you.”
Confusion flitted through Stiles. “Dude, the kanima thing is over and the
Argents have backed off. What else is there to worry about?”
Tucked under Peter’s chin, Stiles didn’t see the older man’s face crease with
apprehension. But even Peter’s silence went unnoticed because Stiles passed out
after the question fell from his lips.
 
Chapter End Notes
     Anywho, there it is. My semester is about done, so that means quicker
     updates. Oh, and if you want you can follow me on Tumblr: http://
     collared-fantasies.tumblr.com/
     Comments and criticisms appreciated.
***** Chapter 6 *****
Chapter Summary
     Stiles does some thinking...and a little discovering.
Chapter Notes
     Hey guys, here's the chapter. =)
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Stiles set his lunch tray on the cafeteria table with a clatter before plopping
down on the bench seat opposite Scott. Just as he was about to dig into his
sloppy joe, he saw the scrunched-up expression on Scott’s face and he paused,
the sandwich halfway to his mouth.
“What?”
Scott hesitated, clearly uncomfortable. Stiles motioned with his sandwich for
him to continue. “Can we switch spots?”
Stiles blinked at his friend, confused. “Like, right now? Why?”
“Um.” Scott fidgeted, twiddling his fork. “You’re kind of sitting in front of
the stream from the air conditioning vent.”
 Raising a suspicious eyebrow at the request, Stiles tore into his sandwich,
wondering what the big deal was. They always sat here. Why Scott had a problem
with it now had him puzzled.
Scott hunched forward over his tray, looking for all the world like Stiles was
dragging the issue out by force. “You kind of reek.”
Throwing his arms up indignantly, Stiles protested through a mouthful of sloppy
joe. “There’s no way! I showered twice as long this morning to make sure.”
Granted, only part of his lengthy shower was to scrub off Peter’s lingering
scent. The rest had been devoted to jerking himself stupid while imagining that
it was Peter’s hand on him instead of his own. Stiles had slept undisturbed
through the whole night and had woken to find himself half naked and alone. And
that was fine, less awkwardness all around, but Stiles couldn’t help wondering
how it would feel to wake up with someone else beside him for a change.
Pushing his unhelpful musings to the back of his mind, Stiles chewed moodily.
There was no way he could still smell like Peter. He had soaped down two or
three times to make sure every trace of the older man was gone. And his clothes
were clean. The only piece of clothing on him that wasn’t “fresh” fresh was his
jeans. He had re-worn them because he had only been wearing them since after
his shower late last night, but—oh.
Oh…
Oops.
Stiles cringed at the realization that he was wearing the jeans that he had
straddled Peter in, that he had been wearing when Peter  had twice jerked him
off, jeans that he had slept in while cuddling with Peter (yes, cuddling,
Stiles wasn’t afraid to call it what it was).
Guess they weren’t as clean as he had thought.
“I don’t care how long your shower was,” Scott groused. “You still smell like
you rolled in Peter’s scent…and other things…”
Stiles ducked his head. He had the good grace to feel ashamed by his oversight.
“You’re not wrong,” he muttered down at his tray. Scott groaned through a
mouthful of mashed potatoes. Stiles snorted at the irony of the situation. “Oh,
sure, intimate details about you and Allison’s sex life are peaches and cream,
but the slightest suggestion of Peter and I getting hot and heavy together is
TMI.”
Shrugging, Scott played with his food. “Most of it is because I can smell it. I
dunno. But it is weird to think of you like that.”
“Like what?” Stiles prompted thorough another mouthful of his sandwich.
Scott dropped his gaze to his plate and shrugged again. “I don’t know.
Involved? Sexually? Performing…acts and things…with Peter…” He trailed off,
looking queasy.        
“What, are you saying I’m hideous? You are, aren’t you? I’m the ugly duck in
the picture and it’s grossing you out.”
Scott’s eyes went wide in dismay. “No! You look…you look alright for a dude,
y’know? I mean, you’re not my type, but you’re not…half bad,” Scott quickly
assured him, though his discomfort showed at having to weigh in on his best
friend’s attractiveness.
“Hey, you could do a lot worse than Stiles,” Stiles said, pretending to be
miffed by his friend’s disinterest.
“Oh yeah, like who?” Scott countered as he made a mess of his mashed potato
pile.
“Greenburg,” Stiles said, like it was obvious. Scott shook his head in
amazement and picked at his food.
Stiles was halfway through his sandwich when Scott tossed down his fork and
dropped his head into his hands. “Why couldn’t it have been Derek?” Scott
moaned, sounding as though his life was falling apart.
Stiles smirked, the sadistic part of himself finding Scott’s dismay kind of
hilarious. “Early bird catches the worm,” he quipped. Scott looked up at him,
his mouth hung open in stunned horror. “Kidding, jeez…but, yeah. Totally do-
able,” Stiles admitted. Because yeah, Derek was hot in a tall, dark, brooding
way that a lot of people swooned for, and Stiles may or may not have
entertained a fantasy or two involving the Alpha (especially when he needed
that extra edge to get himself off). It wasn’t Stiles’s fault that Derek looked
like angry sex walking…
But the Alpha had never offered. Then again, neither had Peter, really, before
Stiles had jumped his bones in the preserve. Maybe the Hale men were passive
when it came to approaching someone sexually?
A lunch tray setting down on the table broke his thought pattern.
“I’m sure Derek will be sorry that he lost out to his own uncle,” Isaac said as
he sat down beside Stiles, a smirk on his face.
“What, like he was interested before—hold on a second,” Stiles turning his
attention back to Scott when Isaac’s words sank in. “You tattled on me to
Derek?”
Scott shrugged and hunched in on himself defensively. “Derek’s his Alpha, he
should know what his betas are doing.”
“I think you mean who he’s doing.” Stiles countered, offended by his best
friend’s betrayal. “You wouldn’t have gone to Derek if he was putting the moves
on someone older, like your mom.” Scott’s eyes flashed warningly at him. “Okay,
not your mom, but you know what I mean.”
Scott fell silent and scooped up his fork, using it to moodily push his food
around on his plate.
“So you’re really boning the zombie?” Isaac asked.
“That’s…interesting…considering what Derek had to say about him. And, no
offense, but even if Scott hadn’t ratted on you, we still would have known.
When he came back this morning, he reeked of you. Tell me,” Isaac’s hand
suddenly latched around Stiles’s thigh, “have you always been such a slut or is
it just for werewolves?”
Scott growled threateningly from across the table, but Isaac didn’t so much as
twitch as he remained deep inside Stiles’s personal bubble, his hot breath
dancing across the side of Stiles’s face.
Stiles sat frozen, his eyes trained in his lunch tray, but mentally he was
flailing. He was shocked by Isaac’s sudden advance, unsure if it was genuine or
a sick power play, but, either way, Stiles didn’t feel like playing this game.
His heart pounded hard in his chest—from fear, not desire—and the awareness of
just how helpless he was drove him to the edge of recklessness. “Sorry,” he
said, finally turning his head slightly to look Isaac in the eye, shoring up
his anxiety behind a thick layer of bravado and anger. “I prefer born over
bitten. You know, more control,” Stiles said pointedly as he felt claws digging
into his thigh.
“You like control? Or being controlled? Because, to be honest, you kinda look
like you’d enjoy being somebody’s bitch,” Isaac whispered dangerously, his eyes
flashing yellow briefly as his clawed hand slid higher up Stiles’s thigh.
“I don’t kiss and tell,” Stiles retorted dismissively, returning his attention
to his tray. He was hyperactively aware of the threat mere inches from him and
he was doing his best to ignore his steadily mounting panic. Regardless of how
pretty Isaac was, the werewolf’s aggressive attention deeply unsettled him (and
the claws hadn’t helped either).  But even on the off-chance that Isaac was
actually interested in more than freaking him out, Stiles wasn’t about to whore
himself out to another werewolf. Or anyone else, for that matter.
If his eight-year infatuation with Lydia Martin had taught him anything, it was
that Stiles was monogamous to a fault.
“Isaac,” Scott hissed angrily. Scott had enough control over himself to prevent
a full shift in the middle of the cafeteria, but his clawed hands threatened to
dig into the surface of the table.
With a cocky smile, Isaac released Stiles’s leg and leaned away. “No problem,”
he said smoothly. “Just a little teasing. It’s all in good fun.”
Stiles scoffed under his breath. Fun. Right.
Scott seemed to accept Isaac’s backing off and he calmed down, retracting his
claws.
The tension gradually dissipated as they all fell quiet, plodding through their
lunches—until the subject of Erica and Boyd was broached.
“Any word on the others?” Scott asked softly.
Isaac stiffened, apparently caught off guard by the change in subject. “No, we
haven’t heard anything. Not that I expected to. They wanted to leave and they
left. Didn’t really think that stopping Jackson would bring them back. Derek,
on the other hand, he still has hope. He has us out searching the woods every
day.”
“I thought they’d be back by now,” Scott admitted as he bit into his sandwich.
“I mean, Gerard and the kanima have been taken down. What else is there to keep
them away?”
“The rest of the Argents?” Stiles helpfully supplied while Isaac only shrugged.
Stiles thought Isaac looked almost uneasy and was about to ask him about it
when two familiar people walking into the cafeteria caught his eye: Allison and
Lydia. Scott noticed their entrance too (well, at least Allison’s) and he
hurriedly engaged Isaac in a discussion over the make-up chemistry assignments
Harris had given them— an obvious attempt to distract himself from his ex-
girlfriend.
Stiles tuned them out as he tracked the two girls, watching as they sat at a
table on the far side of the cafeteria, eating and talking and keeping to
themselves. They looked normal, as though Allison hadn’t tried to decimate the
Hale pack with her manipulative grandfather, as though Lydia hadn’t faced her
kanima-turned-werewolf ex-boyfriend (who had skipped town a day or two later,
the jerk). To see them acting as though nothing had happened disturbed Stiles
more than having a hostile werewolf in his face.
Stiles wondered what that said about himself.
He stared at them—stared at Lydia—and found himself in awe of the lack of
squirmy-fuzzy feelings in his stomach at the sight of her. He still thought she
was attractive and amazing, but the shortness of breath and tension low in his
belly that he was used to feeling when she was near him wasn’t there. Not for
her, anyways, not for the past couple of weeks. But it was there for Peter last
night when the older man had unexpectedly shown up in his bedroom and, for the
life of him, Stiles didn’t know what to do with that information. Part of him
was a little freaked out by the possibility that he may have already
transferred his obsession from Lydia to Peter.
Stiles just hoped that his dick wasn’t calling the shots on this one.
“. . . Peter?”
“Wha—?” Stiles whipped his head back to Scott, his attention snagged by the
mention of his lover.
“I was asking Isaac what it’s like living with Derek and Peter,” Scott
patiently explained.
Isaac shrugged, looking bored. “It’s alright. I see more of Derek than I do of
Peter though. Peter comes and goes when he wants. Sometimes he doesn’t come
back to the station at all. I can’t tell whether Derek likes it better when
Peter’s there where he can keep an eye on him or when Peter’s out somewhere
else. Probably both, knowing Derek.”
“I know which I’d prefer,” Scott muttered darkly.
Stiles didn’t even bother to rebuke his friend. A lot of the problems Scott was
currently faced with stemmed indirectly from being bitten by Peter that night
in the woods. As much as Stiles empathized with Peter, facts were facts: this
year would have gone much differently had Scott never been turned. Or if Stiles
had been turned instead (though Stiles tried not to let his mind ponder that
“what if” scenario too often—there were only so many unhealthy thoughts he felt
comfortable having at any given time).
“What I’d like to know,” Isaac said, keeping his voice low to prevent being
unheard, “is how he’s back. You guys helped kill him a few months ago, right?”
Scott nodded and stopped playing with a leftover lump of potato. “We burned him
and Derek slashed his throat. Stiles threw the Molotov cocktail that set him on
fire,” he said, pointing at Stiles with his fork.
“Really?” Isaac eyed him appraisingly and it almost made Stiles’s skin crawl.
Stiles was uncomfortable with being put on the spot (admitting that you helped
kill your current lover was awkward, okay?). He only just managed to keep from
squirming guiltily on the bench. “Any ideas as to how he came back?” Stiles
asked, half to deflect Isaac’s attention and half in the hopes of getting an
actual answer.
Isaac looked at Scott expectantly, but Scott shook his head. “I don’t have a
clue. Me and Isaac—““Isaac and I,” Stiles corrected. Scott rolled his eyes
exasperatedly at him. “Fine, Isaac and I found out at the same time.”
“And Derek hasn’t really said anything else about it. If he was actively
ignoring Peter, I’d say he was pretending it didn’t happen,” Isaac said. “But…I
don’t know. Either he doesn’t want anyone to know the details or he hasn’t felt
like sharing them.”
“Maybe he doesn’t know,” Stiles chipped in through his mouthful of sloppy joe.
“Nah,” Isaac immediately dismissed. “Derek usually knows more than he lets on.
He probably thinks it’s more of a ‘we don’t need to know’ thing. I can see why
he might not want to share, though. Knowing how to come back from the dead? Who
wouldn’t want that kind of information?”
“You think it’s only a werewolf thing?”  Scott asked vaguely as he openly
stared at Allison with a hangdog expression on his face.
“Probably, considering it involves massive and sudden tissue regeneration,”
Isaac said as he picked at his own food.
“Maybe he had help,” Stiles threw out carelessly. He was disappointed that the
others were as clueless as he was and he felt his attention begin to drift back
towards Allison and Lydia.
Scott snorted derisively. “Who would willingly help Peter?”
Stiles paused in thought with his fork halfway to his mouth, the question
having triggered something inside his head.
Who would help Peter come back from the dead? The Argents had vast knowledge on
different creatures (and  who knew what other kinds of supernatural tidbits
they had), but reviving a rabid werewolf contradicted their whole raison
d'être. Most people thought that Peter Hale was just a coma victim had
mysteriously disappeared, or had been kidnapped from his room at the hospital.
Everyone who knew the truth had essentially wantedhim dead (or stopped at the
very least).
Well, that was a technicality, considering Lydia Martin never knew the truth
behind the ‘animal’ attack on her at Formal.
Stiles stared across the room at the girls as he mentally ticked off names of
people who knew about werewolves (that he knew of).
Isaac, Erica, and Boyd: no.
Scott: NO.
Deaton: no.
The Argents: no.
Jackson: no—
Stiles frowned. Jackson was still the kanima at the time that Peter had come
back from the dead and under Matt’s control— and Matt couldn't have done it
because he hadn't known anything about Peter in the first place. Stiles
seriously doubted that the kanima could serve two masters at once and Jackson
himself definitely wouldn’t have known how to do it. He wasn’t smart enough to
figure out something as thorny as raising the dead. His ex-girlfriend, on the
other hand, could probably wrap her brain around an answer if she gave the
problem the time of day, but—
Stiles felt his heart skip a beat as a radical thought struck him.
Lydia had been marked by the supernatural, had been bitten by an Alpha and
proven immune to the change. But what if she was only physically immune? What
if, like Jackson, she was still mentally susceptible to supernatural influence,
to supernatural control?— to Peter’s control, through the bite that failed to
turn or kill her yet had irrefutably left his mark on her. 
Stiles felt his stomach turn and he broke into a cold sweat.
It was Lydia.
She helped Peter come back from the dead. She was the only one close enough to
all the werewolf drama who could potentially be involved. She had behaved
abnormally for weeks and displayed occasional mental instability—as though
someone else was pulling her strings. And she had thrown a party with a drugged
punch that had incapacitated anyone who might have gotten in the way of Peter’s
resurrection that night.
Now that he saw all the pieces for what they were, it was painfully obvious:
Lydia Martin, Stiles’s longtime obsession, had been driven nearly insane and
used like a puppet by the man who had nearly killed her.
By the man Stiles had let his guard down to.
Feeling sick, Stiles grabbed his backpack and made his way out of the
cafeteria, brushing off Scott and Isaac’s questions with a faint “I don’t feel
well”.
And there was no blip in his heart rate because it was true.
He wasn’t feeling well at all.
Chapter End Notes
     I know this chapter's short, but my next one will be longer (or I
     plan for it to be) and slightly more angsty. And probably more
     smutty. =)
     Comments and criticisms welcome.
***** Chapter 7 *****
Chapter Summary
     Stiles goes to confront Peter about Lydia. Things happen.
Chapter Notes
     Here's my newest installment =) I got this chapter out quicker than I
     thought I would. I guess when the porn spirit moves you...
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Despite carefully keeping to his Adderall schedule, Stiles could hardly focus
in the rest of his classes, his thoughts constantly wandering back to Lydia and
Peter. It was in a special kind of agony he was in. Stiles wanted to track
Peter down and vent his goddamn spleen on the man for tormenting his former
crush, but, at the same time, something was holding him back.
The same instinct that made him keep secrets from his father, that made him
tell lies and half-truths to protect others (and himself), was cautioning him
against seeking a confrontation.
Normally, Stiles didn’t bother too much with all of the “what if’s” before he
charged into something, but this time was different. He was new to this
situation, to having someone interested in him (in any capacity), and because
of that, Stiles was afraid of scaring Peter off―which sounded completely
ridiculous even inside of his head because, if he had any sense at all, then
hewould be afraid of Peter, period.
Unfortunately, a big part of Stiles’s indecision about confronting Peter about
Lydia stemmed from not wanting to fuck up…whatever it was that he and Peter
had.
And Stiles kind of hated himself for it.
Well, for that and the fact that he really didn’t know what he would say once
he got in front of the older man―’hey, you’re a dick for tormenting my former
crush in your effort to come back from the dead, even though it gave me a shot
at sexy times with an actual living, breathing person’?
Yeah, no Catch 22 there.
Needless to say, Stiles spent the rest of school flustered and restless, his
emotions oscillating between righteous indignation and mindless panic. He
counted himself lucky that his constant fidgeting and seat-shifting hadn’t
earned him a detention (especially in Harris’s class).
After school, Stiles had gone home and immediately set himself to tackling the
growing pile of laundry, content to set his dilemma on the backburner and
procrastinate his way to a decision―which essentially amounted to dicking with
shit around the house until he had no excuse keeping him from avoiding the
issue any longer.
Darkness had fallen by the time Stiles finally got in his Jeep and set off in
the direction of the abandoned rail station. He hadn’t bothered to text or call
Peter, but from what Isaac said Stiles figured that he had a 50/50 chance of
finding the older man there.
Stiles parked about a half mile away from the station. The distance had two
benefits: 1) to avoid suspicion in case someone happened to come looking and 2)
there would be plenty of time for Stiles to turn back unnoticed if he changed
his mind (it’s hard to save face when you chicken out on a werewolf’s
doorstep).
Stiles had only been walking through the woods for a couple minutes before he
stopped dead in his tracks. In front of him, a pair of eyes was glowing in his
direction.
Unfortunately, they weren’t blue―they were yellow.
Fuck, Stiles mentally groaned.
He had been so intent on finding Peter that it had slipped his mind that he
would probably run into one of the others in the process. And after what
happened at lunch, Stiles was in no mood to talk to Isaac.
“Hey, how’s it goin’?” he called in a fake-chipper voice as Isaac came closer,
stopping a few feet away. The werewolf was illuminated in splotches of
moonlight, making it difficult for Stiles to read his face.
Isaac shrugged, his hands half-buried in his pockets. “It’s goin’. The full
moon’s a couple of days off. The tension’s starting to set in already so I
thought I’d wander around the woods for a while, try to get rid of some of it.
You’re a little off the beaten path, though. Come out to see your boyfriend?”
For some reason, the word ‘boyfriend’ made the hair stand up on the back of
Stiles’s neck. Maybe because he himself had yet to string ‘boyfriend’ and
‘Peter’ together in the same sentence. Feeling overwhelmed, Stiles shoved the
issue of exactly what Peter was to him aside. He had more immediate problems to
deal with, like the temperamental werewolf staring intently at him in the
middle of the freaking woods.
A shiver ran through Stiles and he tamped down the urge to turn around and book
it to his Jeep.
“Uh, yeah,” Stiles said, trying to puff up a protective layer of bravado to
bluff his way out of his discomfort. “He doesn’t have a car so I figured I’d
save him a trip. Can’t make him come over allthe time, y’know? That’s not fair.
Sooooo I’ll just…get going. Don’t want to keep him waiting,” Stiles hedged as
he skirted awkwardly around Isaac.
The werewolf stood still and quietly followed Stiles’s progress with his eyes,
making no move to stop him. Stiles slowly released the breath he’d been holding
and kept on walking.
“There were other ways, you know.”
Stiles halted mid-step and whipped around to look at Isaac, dread clawing at
his insides. Somehow, he knew there was more to the other teen’s silence.
“What?”
Isaac had turned to face him and was stalking closer, his approach highlighted
by the patches of moonlight moving over him.
“To get in. You must want it bad, to go through Peter. It was smart though. I
mean,” Isaac chuckled, “you have to be the first piece of ass they guy’s had in
years. I can see why he couldn’t say no. Some scrawny, defenseless jailbait
coming on to him? I bet he couldn’t get you out of your pants fast enough.”
Isaac was close, too close, and Stiles had to fight to stay still as he felt
Isaac’s warm breath on his face.
Inside, Stiles cringed from the poison dripping from Isaac’s words. It was like
he was paralyzed by them and could do nothing but listen helplessly as each
word sank into his skin, making him feel sick.
He jumped slightly when Isaac’s hand brushed along his jaw.
“Using Peter might’ve been the easy way in, but you didn’t have to go through
him,” Isaac whispered cloyingly. “You should have come to me. I’m closer to
Derek than Peter is, more trusted. If you ask me…nicely,” Isaac’s thumb
smoothed across Stiles’s lower lip, “I could persuade Derek to help you out.”
A hand smoothed down Stiles’s abdomen and the touch brought him out of his
confusion-filled daze.
He glared and jerked back so that a few feet separated him from Isaac. “What
the hell are you talking about?” Stiles asked tersely. He had half a mind to
call Derek to collect his beta because Isaac was definitely losing it.
Isaac laughed, humorlessly. “The bite. Why else would you be banging Peter?”
Stiles grit his teeth and clenched his fists as his temper flared. “I don’t
want the bite, okay? Not all of us are so eager to try fixing our personal
problems by adding half a dozen supernatural ones. That’s not why I’m with
Peter.”
Isaac snorted and eyed him incredulously. “Really? Does Peter know that?”
“Yeah, he does. He was the one who brought the subject up a―, a while ago,”
Stiles said, glossing over the finer points of that conversation.
Isaac’s brows arched high in disbelief. “So you’re banging the pedo-zombie
because you want to?” Laughter bubbled in Isaac’s voice, like the idea was
hilarious.
Rage rippled through Stiles. He was done with Isaac’s insults and crude
innuendos. Scratch that, he was done with Isaac period right now. And Isaac’s
dumping on Peter over technicalities was the last straw. Blinded by his anger,
Stiles darted forward and swung his fist at Isaac’s face, uncaring of the other
teen’s greater speed and strength―both of which Isaac used to avoid Stiles’s
assault.
Isaac caught his fist easily, using Stiles’s momentum to swing him around and
pin him against a nearby tree.
Rough bark scraped Stiles’s cheek as he tried to free himself. The fist he had
thrown was twisted behind his back and held in Isaac’s hand. Stiles flushed,
humiliated. Isaac was holding him to the tree with only one freaking hand.
But he soon forgot his wounded pride as fear crept in.
It wasn’t from being shoved around by someone bigger and stronger than him
(sadly, he was almost used to that).  No, what really unnerved him was when
Isaac molded himself to Stiles’s back, becoming a solid line of heat from
shoulder to thigh.
“I’m curious,” Isaac whispered confidentially into his ear. “If Peter knows you
don’t want the bite, then what’s so special about a twitchy, annoying kid like
you that’s got his attention? Or are you just a good lay?”
Isaac’s free hand―his clawed free hand― dragged up Stiles’s thigh to his hip,
gripping it tightly.
Stiles’s heart rate skyrocketed. This level of unwanted touching had
exponentially surpassed Isaac’s behavior in the cafeteria. And Scott was miles
away when Stiles needed him most. Oh god, he should have just driven up to the
damn rail station. He should have let someone―anyone―know where he was going.
He should have just stayed home doing his homework or playing World of
Warcraft. He should have―
Stiles choked on his spit when Isaac’s hips started to move in a slow grind
against his ass. There was no mistaking what that bulge in Isaac’s pants was.
Isaac was hard as steel and Stiles’s mind blanked as the soft panting in his
ear took on a whole different meaning.
A soft growl escaped Isaac’s lips and it triggered Stiles’s (apparently latent)
survival instinct. He flailed his free arm backwards desperately, slapping at
Isaac’s hip and side; he even attempted to donkey kick Isaac’s shins, but the
closeness and awkward angle merely turned Stiles’s escape attempts into an
awkward wiggle that only served to dig the tree bark harder into his chest.
Isaac tightened his hold, his hand becoming a band of iron around Stiles’s
wrist. The werewolf pressed even closer, effectively hindering all movement
beyond pitiful hand flaps.
Stiles let his body go limp, held up only by the hard wall of supernatural
strength behind him.
“…no…” he whispered. The reality of the situation crashed down around him and
the shock of it wiped any other word out of his mind.
Isaac nudged the shell of Stiles’s ear with his nose. “Fuck, you smell like
sex. Such a fucking whore, showing up to school smelling like a bitch in heat.
You still smell like a bitch in heat. I bet you’re hot for it all the time. You
want me to help you out?”
“N-no,” Stiles whispered, his voice cracking. Tremors wracked his body and he
bit his lip to keep from whimpering.
Isaac pawed at his hip, his claws catching in the material covering it. “I bet
you’re gagging for it. You need,” Isaac ground his cock harder against the
curve of Stiles’s ass, “to be fucked, don’t you?”
“No,” Stiles gasped out, the word coming out louder as panic forced his breath
out in sharp, quick pants.
Isaac’s claws dug purposefully into his jeans. “Scream for me, bitch,” he
growled heatedly. “Tell me how much you want it.”
The sound of material tearing shot through the night air and suddenly Stiles
could feel a cool breeze on his skin. “NO!” Stiles cried out, using the last of
his strength to thrash violently between Isaac and the tree because like fuck
if he was going to lose his virginity like this, not to Isaac, not when he
wanted to lose it to―
A vicious snarl rang out just before the unrelenting pressure holding Stiles to
the tree disappeared.
Releasing a broken sob, Stiles slid down the tree trunk and collapsed on the
ground, only distantly aware of the fight going on behind him. Dull thuds (the
sound of flesh being repeatedly hit) reached his ears, but Stiles remained
facing the tree, numb to the world around him as he tried to get his breathing
back under control.
“Stiles.”
Limbs trembling, Stiles slowly twisted around and sighed with relief at the
sight of Peter, eyes blazing and fangs bared, kneeling atop Isaac’s back,
keeping the younger werewolf pinned flat to the ground with the threat of claws
on the back of his neck and the arm that Peter had twisted up behind Isaac’s
back.
“Are you alright?” Peter asked softly, his eyes darting over Stiles’s body in
search of injuries. He looked furious, his gaze hardening as he took in the
state of Stiles’s clothes and the scent of terror oozing from the teen.
“Um.” Quickly, Stiles skimmed his hands over his body. “Y-yeah, I’m good. My,
my pants are trashed, though.” They really were, too. There would be no fixing
this pair, not with how Isaac tore them: four long slashes angled right across
the side seam. A little darning here and there, Stiles could manage, but that
didn’t make him a fucking seamstress. But that was fine. It wasn’t like he
really wanted a keepsake from this, anyway.
Now that Isaac was restrained by Peter, Stiles felt himself calm down enough to
scoot closer, getting a better look at his almost-rapist.
Isaac was covered in dirt and forest debris, and there were several places
where blood seeped out through tears in his clothes (most likely damage from
Peter’s claws). His face sported cuts and bruises (all of which were already
slowly healing) and there was a smear of blood on his upper lip that made
Stiles think Peter had broken Isaac’s nose at some point during the scuffle.
But it was the expression on Isaac’s face that confused Stiles. 
He looked resigned, guilty. There was no trace of the cocky smirk he’d worn
most of the day.
Stiles cleared his throat nervously. “Why, uh, why did he do that? Attack me?”
he asked Peter, his eyes fixed on Isaac’s prone form in case he managed to find
his way out from under the older man.
“Probably several reasons,” Peter replied, watching Isaac, too. “The biggest
factor being the full moon coming up. Isaac’s newly turned. He doesn’t yet have
the level of control built up to reign in his baser urges, like killing or
fucking. Think of him as a giant toddler, only with the strength and knowledge
to get what he wants.”
“The full moon made him do this?” Stiles frowned. “I don’t get it. I’ve been
through several of Scott’s full moons and he never did anything like this.
Nothing past the attempted murder part, anyways. And Scott’s just as horny as
the next guy.”
Peter looked at him askance, like the answer was obvious. “Scott isn’t
attracted to men. He’s also so emotionally wrapped around Allison’s finger that
the ones he poses the most danger to are Allison and those that get in his way
to her. Scott’s something of a special case. While he’s got a particular person
to focus his attention on, the rest of us,” he dug his claws into Isaac’s neck,
making him flinch and whimper, “are somewhat less selective about who we take
our aggression out on.”
Oh.
Stiles squirmed uncomfortably on the ground. He’d been looking at it backwards.
Scott wasn’t the control group, he was the anomaly. Apparently comparing the
effects of Scott’s transformation to Isaac’s had been one of his suckier
mistakes.
And wearing his pheromone-covered jeans all day was probably what had tipped
Isaac over the edge, with Stiles virtually smelling like an animal in heat.
Okay, that wasn’t fair. Stiles had been the one attacked by a horny werewolf,
so why did he feel like the ass, here?
Peter leaned down to speak directly into the teen’s ear.
“Just so we’re clear, Isaac, if you ever touch him again,” he whispered, his
voice deadly calm, “if I so much as smell you on him, well…” Peter laughed
menacingly under his breath, an amused smirk playing around his lips. “I don’t
need to tell you what would happen. Do I, Isaac?” he asked, emphasizing the
question with a squeeze his hand, his claws puncturing the teen’s skin.
“N-no,” Isaac gasped out.
“You have two choices,” Peter said. “Either you go back to Derek on your own
power and explain to him what you nearly did or I’ll call him myself and have
him drag you back to the station like the out-of-control animal you seem to
be.” He viciously twisted Isaac’s arm up further. “Pick.”
“On, on my own,” Isaac grit out, looking furious, though whether it was with
Peter or with himself for losing control so badly, Stiles hadn’t a clue.
Stiles’s eyes were wide, shocked by Peter’s hostility on his behalf. This was a
side of Peter he hadn’t seen in a while, not since the night of Formal, the
side of him that could threaten bodily harm with a disarming smile and mean
every single word of it―and it almost gave Stiles butterflies to see it aimed
at Isaac (or at anyone besides himself, really).
After staring down at Isaac for a long while, assessing him, Peter retracted
his claws and released the teen, standing in one fluid motion.
Leaving Isaac to his own devices, he walked over to Stiles and offered him a
hand (non-clawed).
Stiles let Peter tug him to his feet and was grateful when the older man didn’t
immediately let go. His legs were still a little shaky and Stiles hoped
fervently that his control would return soon because he really didn’t know if
he could stand the embarrassment if Peter had to carry him.
Isaac was nearly to the tree line when Peter called out to him again.
“Aren’t you forgetting something, Isaac?” he asked, glancing pointedly at
Stiles.
A constipated look crossed Isaac’s features as he gazed at the teen he had
nearly raped. “I’m sorry for losing control. I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he
said morosely, his voice so quiet that Stiles almost couldn’t hear the apology.
Running his hand rapidly across his scalp, Stiles exhaled in resignation. “It’s
fine, dude. Just don’t make a habit out it ‘cause I’m gonna start carrying
around werewolf-grade pepper spray. Got it?”
Lips twisted in a wry grin, Isaac nodded hesitantly and took off into the
woods, leaving Stiles alone with Peter. Which was fine up until Stiles
remembered why he had come out here in the first place―and didn’t that make
things awkward.
How the hell was he supposed to let loose on Peter when the man had literally
just saved his ass?
Stiles started minutely when Peter gently grasped his chin, using it to turn
his head this way and that to better see the scratches on Stiles’s cheek from
when he’d been pinned to the tree. Peter released him to skim his hands over
Stiles’s chest and hips, making sure for himself that Stiles wasn’t hurt
anywhere else. He lingered over the tears left by Isaac’s claws, his expression
simultaneously sad and angry.
Stiles knew that the anger wasn’t directed at him, but he still felt
irrationally responsible, as though he was the one upsetting Peter (and if that
wasn’t victim self-blame cropping up already then Stiles was the Queen of
England).
Peter tenderly cupped the back of Stiles’s neck, his thumb skating across the
bruises he himself had created two days ago. “Are you alright?” he asked again,
his brows drawn in concern.
Leaning into the touch, Stiles nodded, taking comfort in the grounding touch.
He was fine, physically at least, though thoroughly exhausted. Emotionally, he
might be scarred for life, but Stiles had already chalked it up as another
byproduct of dealing with those of the werewolf persuasion.
“Come on,” Peter murmured, encouraging Stiles back in the direction he had come
with a gentle tug before letting his hand fall away. “Let’s get you home.”
Numbly, Stiles fell into step beside Peter and they walked in silence to where
the Jeep was parked.
Resting his hands flat on the driver’s door, Stiles closed his eyes and leaned
his weight against it, pushing as though it would transfer the fuzzy feeling of
nothing out of his head and into something else, anything else.
He heard Peter come up and lean on the Jeep beside him, but Stiles didn’t move
to acknowledge him. 
“What brought you out here tonight, Stiles?” Peter asked softly.
Huffing under his breath, Stiles gathered up the remnants of his pride and did
what he did best when he was unsure of how to proceed: he bluffed his way
through it.
“Can’t a guy just visit his…man…friend…thing?” he fumbled, unable to use the
word ‘boyfriend’ as easily as Isaac had.
“You could,” Peter allowed, “but that’s not all of it, is it?” He eyed Stiles
shrewdly, noting the tension in his shoulders and how Stiles wouldn’t quite
meet his eyes. “Whatever it is, you can tell me. I’m a big boy, Stiles, I can
handle it.”
They stood in silence for a long time before Stiles felt his resolve to leave
this conversation for another day crumble, knowing that Peter would only catch
him in a lie if he tried to dance around the issue any longer.
Still leaning against the Jeep, Stiles let his head hang between his arms.
“Lydia,” he sighed out, like that one word said it all.
Clearly it didn’t because Peter blinked at him in confusion, as though he had
expected Stiles to say something else. “What about her?” he asked, sounding
unsure of where the discussion was going.
To be honest, Stiles didn’t have that much of a grasp on it either.
He took a deep breath and barreled on, a small part him already mourning the
sex he’d never have. “It was Lydia, wasn’t it?” Stiles stated more than asked
as he finally turned to face Peter. He crossed his arms defensively in front of
his chest. “She helped you come back.”
Realization flickered in Peter’s eyes and some of the rigidity left his stance.
“Yes,” he admitted, his carefully neutral expression not giving away any of his
thoughts.
“So…” Stiles floundered, hoping Peter would volunteer more information, but
received nothing. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he finished weakly, settling on his
least accusing question. He didn’t have the stomach to go into a full-blown
fight at the moment and, quite frankly, even this was pushing his frayed
nerves.
Peter studied him for a few seconds before answering.
“Mostly because I know what she meant to you a few months ago, what she might
still mean to you, and I knew that the truth would upset you. That, and…I
really didn’t want to sabotage this just as it’s starting, not with something
from the past that I have no power to change. Not that I would change using
Lydia to come back because I couldn’t have used anyone else. She was my only
option and I had to make do with what I had. The initial dying part, though.
That I’d change,” he finished candidly.
Stiles mulled the older man’s words around in his head, wishing he could hear
Peter’s heart beat to weigh the truth in them. The words felt authentic
enough.  And Stiles couldn’t find fault in Peter’s logic. Irritating as it was,
Peter seemed to have done what Stiles would have done in his position―omit
information to protect someone, to protect himself.
“What did you mean by ‘sabotaging’ this? What isthis?” Stiles asked, wanting to
kick himself for asking the second after the words fell from his mouth.
Fuck, he was too tired and stressed to have a serious conversation to label
their relationship. Why did his verbal filter always vanish right when he
needed it most?
Peter cocked his head, looking faintly puzzled. “I’m not sure yet…but I’m
curious to find out,” he said softly, gazing at Stiles with a question in his
eyes.
And that’s what it came down to, really.
Curiosity.
Deep inside, Stiles was insatiably curious. And here was Peter Hale, a great
big question mark willingly offering himself to Stiles―and Stiles wasn’t
exactly known for his impulse control. Especially not when he was being given a
choice in the matter. Lately, it seemed like ‘take Stiles’s choices away’ was a
reoccurring theme and nearly everyone had participated.
His dad, Derek, Scott, Mr. Harris, Gerard, Matt, hell even Isaac had nearly
joined in―
A shudder ran down Stiles’s spine as images of what might’ve happened had Peter
not found them in time filling his head. Or if Peter hadn’t found them at all…
Isaac wouldn’t have given him a choice. But Peter was offering one.
Stiles wasn’t delusional. He knew that at the heart of most relationships lay
the hope of sex. And while he was new to this game, Peter wasn’t, and had still
given him a choice every step of the way. Peter hadn’t forced or coerced him at
all―and Stiles knew first-hand what it was like to have Peter use those
tactics.
To have an enigma like Peter offering more instead of simply taking it…
Stiles had already decided.
A hand brushed across his jaw, but this time Stiles didn’t flinch.
“What are you thinking about?” Peter asked, looking curious and apprehensive.
“Um,” Stiles cleared his throat. “Just…what might’ve happened if you hadn’t,
y’know, pulled him off of me.”
Peter’s thumb grazed his lower lip, eyes flashing dangerously. “I’d have ripped
him apart for hurting you, for taking something like that from you. You know
that, don’t you?” he asked, completely serious.
Stiles fidgeted with a corner of his jacket sleeve, shivering as a cool breeze
teased at the exposed skin of his hip. Oddly, he found Peter’s threat of
violence comforting.  
“Yeah, okay. I just…I’m glad you showed up before he did anything...because I
want my first to be you.” A thrill of terror (though nothing like he’d
experienced earlier) sang through him from telling Peter to his face that he
wanted the older man to take his virginity, from finally admitting that he was
new to all of this and wanted Peter to show him everything.
From the way Peter’s breathing had picked up, Stiles thought it was safe to
assume that he wasn’t the only one affected by the admission.
A hungry look crept into Peter’s eyes and suddenly Stiles was shivering for an
entirely different reason. “You remember what I said about the full moon, don’t
you? I might be more in control, but I’m far from unaffected by its influence.
It’s not a good idea to offer me something that I can’t refuse.”
Leaning back against the Jeep, Stiles wrapped his hand around Peter’s wrist,
tugging the older man into his personal space.
He could still feel the ghost of Isaac’s hands on his skin and he badly wanted
rid of it. He had a pretty good idea of how to go about it, but…he needed Peter
to lose some of his control.
And if it killed two birds with one stone?  Then all the better.
“I don’t want you to refuse,” Stiles whispered against Peter’s lips before
closing the gap between them. The kiss was gentle for a few seconds, but then
Stiles opened his mouth to Peter’s questing tongue and he found himself pressed
hard to the door of his Jeep as Peter kissed him rough and dirty with hints of
fang nipping at his lip.
Stiles wound his arms around Peter and ground his hips against the older man’s
hardening cock, eager to release some of the tension that had been building
inside of him for hours.
The answering urgency in Peter’s movements showed that he needed this as much
as Stiles did.
Stiles pulled away long enough to mutter “my house is empty, we should really―”
Peter cut him off with a kiss.
“We will,” he whispered raggedly against Stiles’s lips as he fumbled to open
the teen’s pants. “We will.” Then a warm hand wrapped around Stiles, jacking
him almost inhumanly fast, and it was all Stiles could do to stay on his feet
as he moaned and writhed against the Jeep.
It was over in less than a minute, Stiles spilling himself into Peter’s hand,
but he couldn’t find it in him to be embarrassed by how fast he’d come, not
when Peter had whipped out his own cock and was jerking it hard and fast,
Stiles’s come slicking the way, and then Peter was groaning through his own
orgasm, his come splattering over Stiles’s jacket and ruined jeans.
Breathing hard, Peter leaned forward to press his forehead to Stiles’s, seeming
not to care that their combined release was smearing onto his clothes. He
placed a chaste kiss to Stiles’s lips.
“Now, your house,” Peter said, nudging his nose against Stiles’s before
stepping back a pace.
Feeling lighter than he had all day, Stiles smiled to himself as Peter helped
him climb into the Jeep, his legs still shaky from orgasm. Christ, if only
allof his life threatening encounters ended in mind-blowing sex, Stiles would
be far more on board with all of the supernatural drama that found its way to
Beacon Hills.
Once Peter had settled into the passenger seat, Stiles fired up the Jeep and
turned her around back towards town, amazed by how he could go from dreading
the loss of his sex life to virtually being guaranteed one all in the same
night.
Chapter End Notes
     For fun times ahead, I promise!
     Comments and criticisms welcome, visit collared-fantasies.tumbler.com
     to follow me on, well, Tumblr. =)
***** Chapter 8 *****
Chapter Summary
     Peter and Stiles finally get some time to talk.
Chapter Notes
     Omg I'm *so* sorry it took this long to post this fic. I went on
     vacation in West Virginia and, upon arrival, discovered I wouldn't
     even have *cell phone reception*, much less internet connection. For
     an entire *week*. And I've had it done for about a week so I really
     am sorry for the delay. But anyways, here it is!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
They had driven in silence for a few minutes before Stiles’s ADHD cropped up
with a vengeance. He had questions― oodlesof questions― that he wanted to throw
at the man beside him, and he sat agonizing over what to bombard him with
first. A part of Stiles was still bothered that he wanted to jump into bed with
a man he knew next to nothing about (especially since that man was Peter).
Hell, even his obsession with Lydia had been about more than just her pretty
face, her nice body, her luscious strawberry-blonde hair…
Anyways, it had been everything else about her. And now Stiles wanted to know
Peter’s ‘everything else’ and he felt somewhat overwhelmed. Stiles felt Peter’s
eyes on him and, though he tried to keep from fidgeting restlessly in his seat,
suppressing himself only seemed to make things worse.
Sighing softly, Peter cocked his head so he could look at Stiles from more than
just the corner of his eye. “You seem antsy. Is there something wrong? 
Anything you need to ask me?”
Stiles let out an incredulous ‘puh’ and glanced at the man next to him as often
as he dared while trying to keep them on the road. “Uh, only about a million
questions. Although a few more have cropped up since this whole...escapade―”
“Escapade?” Peter interrupted, amused.
“Yeah, escapade.” Stiles asserted. “When you’ve only ever had your own hand
helping you reach nirvana, getting off three times in as many days with the
help of someone else definitely qualifies as an escapade, buddy, and I will not
let anyone tell me differently.”
Peter chuckled and shook his head. “Well…try to ask one at a time, then” he
said, a tiny smile playing around his lips.
“Okay, so…” Stiles breathed out as he slowed down for a four-way stop. “What
are you doing? I mean, like, generally? When you’re not at the rail depot?
Isaac said you’re not there all the time, so where do you go? What do you do?
Oh god, that was more than one question, wasn’t it?” Stiles cringed in his
seat, being extraordinarily careful accelerating to avoid grinding in second
gear.
Peter looked more than a little bemused by the volley of questions. “You want a
play-by-play of my daily movements? And Isaac says I’m creepy,” he smirked.
“Hey, Isaacjust tried to give me the bad touch against a frickin’ tree. I’m
willing to be biased if you are,” Stiles said, enjoying the banter. There
weren’t many people who put up with his verbal sparring. It was kind of nice,
having someone around who liked it as much as he did. It almost felt like
foreplay. “But no, I meant do you have a job or something?”
Peter grimaced at the question, as if it physically pained him. “Not yet,
unfortunately. That, like many things, are currently still in the works. And,
as much as I’d like, there’s only so much I can do to speed up the process.”
“’In the works’?” Stiles asked. “’Things’? As in a lot of them? What kind of
things?” He couldn’t imagine there were many priorities for displaced
werewolves beyond ‘avoid hunters’ and ‘brood in abandoned lairs’.”
“We’re moving to have me declared legally dead,” Peter said tonelessly, as
though he’d argued the subject so many times that he was emotionally closed off
to the issue.
Stiles gaped at him sidelong, only just managing to keep between the lines on
the road. “Dead? As in, not living? When you very much are?”
Sighing exasperatedly, Peter let his head fall back on the head rest with a
dull ‘thunk’.  “That doesn’t matter.”
“How does being alive not matter? What about your old life? Pre-Kate Argent?”
“That life ended the day my family was burned alive,” Peter murmured softly,
lolling his head to stare vacantly out the passenger window.
And wow, did Stiles suddenly feel like a total ass.
Peter sighed again and shrugged helplessly. “Peter Hale has been documented as
a longtime coma patient with extremely limited responsiveness and burns
covering half his body. There’s no possible way for me to just waltz back into
my old life, fully healed and mobile, after disappearing from my hospital bed
over three months ago. Not even plastic surgery can explain away my skin. I
mean, really, look at this,” Peter leaned closer to Stiles, peacocking. “You
see how smooth and flawless this is?”
Stiles smiled tentatively at the obvious attempt to lighten the mood. If this
was Peter’s way of forgiving his lack of tact, then Stiles was definitely on
board with it. “Wow, you’re not conceited at all, are you? You’re convinced,”
Stiles shot back with a playful smirk.
But he did reach over to stroke the smooth skin of Peter’s cheek with his
thumb. It really was flawless.
Peter caught his hand and pressed a light kiss to his inner wrist. “Very
convinced,” Peter purred over the sensitive skin.
Stiles shivered and pulled away, his pants beginning to tighten uncomfortably.
Damn charming werewolves and their sex appeal… He cleared his throat. “Right,
so no-go after being comatose, got it. So, what are you gonna do?”
“I’ve had Derek get in touch with our family’s old lawyer, both to make
arrangements for my official death ruling and for the suit against the
hospital. It’s slow-going from having to wait out the legalities. But I do have
a…less than reputable friend a lot of high-end resources who owes me a favor.
For a price, he can virtually create a new life for me: a new social security
number, a new history, a new employment record―the works.”
“But…?” Stiles prompted, because this felt like a place for a ‘but’ since
clearly there was a reason why ‘the works’ were still in the works.
“But,” Peter allowed, there’s a fee and he needs it up front―or most of it,
anyways. Which is where the lawsuit comes in. I’m hoping that having my death
made official combined with the charges we’re pressing will force the hospital
to take a settlement to keep the whole thing hushed up. It doesn’t look good
when a hospital ‘loses’ a coma patient. Their reputation is on the line.”
Stiles nodded to himself, following Peter’s reasoning. “Then you’ll use the
settlement money to pay your guy for a ticket back to a real life. Wait, what
about the nurse you killed? The one in the car? I haven’t heard anything about
her being found, but I just thought it got lost in the wake of the kanima
thing. Wouldn’t an investigation into her death make things difficult?”
“Only if she’s found,” Peter said, a sly smile creeping up onto his face.
“Until then, no. Derek managed to help me out there without even realizing it.
After he killed me, he found the car with my nurse in the trunk and drove it
into a water-filled sink hole deep in Beacon Hills Preserve. He figured that
the best course of action was to make her disappear. And since I disappeared on
the same night, it would look as though she’d had a hand in it somehow, seeing
as she was my main nurse and was on shift that night. Oh, and the photos that
she took of me probably don’t hurt, either. When they’re found, I’m sure
they’ll help make the case that she was obsessed enough with me to go through
with kidnapping.”
“What?” Stiles squeaked out, stomping on the break a little harder than
necessary for the red light of the first intersection into Beacon Hills. “What
photos?” A mixture of outrage and jealousy flooded his system at the thought of
the crazy bitch snapping shots of his Peter while he was weak and defenseless
(never mind that he may have already been a psychotic murderer at the time, but
Stiles found himself overlooking a lot of technicalities these days).
“Mostly of my face―the good side. I think there may have been a few of my
chest, but I wasn’t really mentally present during them. Possibly one or two
below the waist line. Who know? Maybe I was responding better to stimulus than
they have on record.” Peter cocked his head and studied Stiles with interest.
“You know, as flattering and intoxicating as your jealousy is, the light is
green, Stiles. Unless you want to wait for the next one?”
Cursing under his breath, Stiles fumbled for the gearshift and coaxed the Jeep
through the intersection just as the light turned yellow.
He wasn’t sure how much of the ‘picture’ story was real and how much was just
to rile him up, but it didn’t really matter since it had the desired effect of
making Stiles fume in his seat at the mental image of the bitch stroking
Peter’s cock to hardness, getting him nice and pretty for a freaking photo―
Peter’s hand squeezed firmly around his thigh as the older man leaned over to
speak in his ear.
“You have no idea how good you smell like this, but you really don’t have to
worry. Any erections sustained in her care, theoretical or otherwise, are
nothing compared to how hard I get just from thinking about you.”
“Well, ain’t you sweet,” Stiles drawled sarcastically as he tried for stoicism―
which, as it turns out, isn’t easy when the hand on your thigh moves up to cup
you through your jeans. Stiles may have nearly overcorrected the Jeep into the
ditch at that.
“I can be very sweet,” Peter purred in his ear, his voice husky with double
entendre. “I’d be even sweeter,” Peter stroked a line across Stiles’s cock with
his thumb, “but…I think it might be best if we kept the Jeep out of the tree
line, don’t you?”
And with that, he slid back into his seat, looking far too smug.
“So,” Peter said, as if he hadn’t just teased Stiles with thoughts of road
head, “essentially, I’m waiting for the wheels of the legal system to squeak
along so that I can buy a new life because, believe me, the hobo way of life is
not as appealing as you might think.”
“I dunno,” Stiles said absently as they came into town, the street lights along
the road cropping up more frequently to bathe them every few seconds with
light. “Derek seems to have it down to an art.”
“Derek has an endless tap of masochistic tendencies that are in desperate need
of therapy. Most of us are somewhat attached to clean clothes and basic
utilities,” Peter countered.
Stiles snorted at the jab, officially calmed down from his jealousy fit. “I
guess Derek’s the one making the arrangements? For the legal stuff?”
Peter nodded.
"He’s my go-between with the lawyer. It’s been like pulling teeth sometimes,
getting him to ask the right questions, fill out the proper paperwork… Most of
the time, all he wants to do is search for his betas. I have to keep reminding
him that the sooner the legal hoops are jumped through, the sooner I can pick
up the slack on the illegal end and be out of his hair. For the most part. I
still need him in some regard as my Alpha otherwise I risk falling to omega
status. You know, coming back from the dead was the easy part; dealing with all
the paperwork is the real hard part.”
He folded his arms petulantly, seeming highly put upon at having to bribe his
way back to independence.
“I’ll try to remember that that if I ever want to come back from the dead,”
Stiles quipped. He felt his attention beginning to wander to the prospect of
food as they passed fast food joint after fast food joint. “So, what are you
going to call yourself?” he asked curiously.
Peter raised an eye brow at him. “Peter Hale.”
“What? No, you can’t use the same name.”
“Why not? Peter retorted. “It’s hardly unique. And it’s mine.”
“Really?” Stiles threw back incredulously. “Really? A Peter Hale gets declared
legally dead in Beacon Hills, then another just so happens to crop up in his
place?”
“A comatose and badly scarred Peter Hale will be declared legally dead. Do I
look comatose and badly scarred to you?”
“Just― Really? You don’t see the problem with using your own name?” Stiles
asked, with no small amount of aggression as they pulled onto his street.
“Problems? What problems?Who in their right mind is going to connect the
healthy Peter Hale to the one who was an inch from death? What idiot would
believe―”
“The Argents,” Stiles interrupted heatedly as they pulled into his driveway.
They jerked to a halt as he parked the Jeep with less care than usual. Stiles
fumbled with his seatbelt, irritated beyond belief that Peter, who had nearly
died at the hand of an Argent, was refusing to take the danger of putting one
too many coincidences in one place seriously.
Peter stared at him, startled into silence by the vehemence in Stiles’s voice.
“They know who was responsible for Kate’s death,” Stiles hissed, “and now that
Gerard is dead, what if an entire fleet of them stormed Beacon Hills to wipe
out the Hale pack? What if coming back with the same name draws their attention
and makes them come looking for you, and they findyou, and they―”
The rest of Stiles’s tirade was cut off as Peter cupped the nape of his neck
and pulled him over to press their lips together, kissing him with a harsh
desperation that made Stiles scramble over from the driver’s seat into Peter’s
lap all without breaking the kiss, getting momentarily hung up on the
gearshift. Straddling the older man, Stiles fisted Peter’s hair and kissed him
like he meant to crawl into the older man’s skin. Peter gave as good as he got,
petting and groping as much of Stiles as he could reach.
It was rough and uncoordinated with a good amount of teeth clashing, but Stiles
felt vindicated at releasing his aggression on Peter, who was so frustrating
and charming and mind-bogglingly sexy in a way that made Stiles growl deep in
his throat and rock his hips down against the older man’s.
Peter broke the kiss with a snarl and attacked the vulnerable line of Stiles’s
neck, making the teen squirm and curse in his lap with every new bruise he
raised. Breathing harshly, Peter leaned back to admire his work. “You know, if
there was ever a time that I could kick myself for not biting you when I had
the chance, it would be now.”
Eyes narrowed, Stiles tugged warningly on the handful of hair he was still
gripping. “Oh yeah? And why’s that?”
Peter’s expression darkened.
“Because all I want to do right now is rip off your clothes and just take you,
and I can’t,” he growled from between clenched teeth, his eyes flashing briefly
with tightly contained power.
“Yeah? Well, I want a boyfriend who’s a little less hell-bent on getting
himself riddled with wolfsbane bullets right after he made the effort to come
back to life, but we can’t all get what we want,” Stiles snarled back.
He released his hold on Peter’s hair and sat back on the older man’s knees,
collapsing in on himself a bit. The fight drained out of him and left him
feeling absolutely exhausted, uncaring that (in a half-assed sort of way) he
had admitted to wanting to be more than just someone to fool around with. The
silence around them felt thick with all that they had and hadn’t said and, to
Stiles, it was suffocating.
Peter was considering him uncertainly.
“You’re worried about the Argents killing me?” he asked, the question sounding
confused and tinged with disbelief.
Stiles shrugged jerkily, feeling horribly fragile for some reason.
No matter what Peter could call himself, he would always be the potential
target of a hunter. But Stiles’s unstable concoction of scary/new feelings for
Peter made that possibility seem like more of a reality. It was fraying his
already damaged nerves that hewas more concerned about drawing the wrath of the
hunters than Peter was.
“Their leader is dead and their clan is divided. The Argent threat is gone,
Stiles. They lost their fight here and most of them have left. They won’t come
back to look for me, not when they think I’m already dead. They won’t make that
connection―”
“You don’t know that,” Stiles interrupted softly, his voice sounding broken
even to his own ears. “You can’t be sure―”
“I’m never sure,” Peter interjected. “Not 100%. Not since the night of my
death. I went into that fight feeling sure of my victory and I paid dearly for
it. I got my revenge, but I lost my pack and that is a lesson I can’t forget.
So, no, I’m not sure that the hunters won’t come back to Beacon Hills, but I
can promise you that they’ll have one hell of a fight on their hands if they
come for me because I will rip every last hunter to shreds should they try to
take me from your side,” he finished, his eyes bright with his conviction.
“And if you’re worried about me leaving, then stop. The only thing that can
force me away from you is you, Stiles. Not Derek, not Scott, or Isaac or anyone
else. Just you. The only ones with the power to keep me away with any
finiteness is you and death, and you need to understand that,” Peter whispered
urgently, taking one of Stiles’s limp hands into his own and held it, their
fingers winding together.
Peter rested his forehead to Stiles’s and waited patiently for the teen to look
him in the eye longer than in quick glances.
“I have the chance to live again, Stiles, and I’m going to take it. I’ve
suffered too long at the hands of people who would see me dead before letting
me live like a normal person. I won’t roll over and let them win.”
Stiles snorted involuntarily as an image of Peter rolling over like a dog
flashed through his mind.
“I mean it,” Peter said. He stared earnestly into Stiles’s eyes. “I’m not
worried about keeping my own name. Of all the things to worry about, that
doesn’t even make my top ten, right now.”
Stiles sniffed brusquely, hoping to play it off as allergies rather than a
fight to tamp down the tears that were threatening to fall. “What does make
your list?” he asked solemnly, somewhat mollified.
Oddly, Peter seemed to hesitate before smiling reassuringly at Stiles. “Nothing
that you need to worry about right now.” He passed a critical eye over the
teen. “What say you we go inside? Maybe get you into some clothes that haven’t
been mauled by a horny werewolf?”
Shaking his head in amazement, Stiles reached over and yanked his keys out of
the ignition. “Never thought I’d hear you tell me to put my clothes back on.”
Ignoring Peter’s eye roll, he opened the door and all but fell out of the Jeep,
Peter’s sudden grip on his arm the only thing preventing him from kissing the
concrete.
After Peter released him and smoothly (the graceful bastard) got out of the
Jeep, they walked up the winding path to the front door.
“You know, it’s still a shame that you’re not gonna take advantage of the
opportunity you have here,” Stiles said as he played with his keys. After the
tension in Jeep, he felt an overwhelming urge to lighten the mood. He couldn’t
resist teasing the older man and he hoped Peter would rise to the bait.
“Opportunity?” Peter’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.
“Yeah, you could pick any name you wanted and you’re sticking with ‘Peter Hale’
when you could make it, I dunno, something cool.”
Peter huffed indignantly, watching Stiles fiddle with the door lock. “’Peter
Hale’ is a cool name.”
“You’re biased,” Stiles tossed over his shoulder as he walked into the house,
not even checking to see if the older man followed, seemingly confident that
Peter just would. He wasn’t wrong. The door closing echoed throughout the house
and Stiles felt more than heard Peter walking behind him on his way to the
kitchen.
“I thought you wanted me to be biased?” Peter asked.
Groaning, Stiles hung his head, shaking it slightly. Jeez, give Peter and inch
and he’d take the whole damn county if you let him. Wondering at what exactly
he’d gotten himself into, Stiles gazed hopefully into the pantry, searching for
a quick meal idea since his brain was too mushy to come up with one off the
bat.
“Fine, what would you suggest?” Peter asked, resigned.
“Cliff,” Stiles said as he riffled through the boxed food, considering a
Hamburger Helper dish for a moment before settling on a mac ‘n cheese box.
Everyone liked mac ‘n cheese. And if Peter didn’t like it, then he could eat
somewhere else.  Right now, Stiles wasn’t up to cooking anything that didn’t
take less than ten minutes.
Peter looked equally horrified and fascinated at Stiles’s choice of names.
“Cliff. Cliff? What’s that supposed to be? Some sort of euphemism for your
undying love for me?”
“No, it’s more of a word to describe a land feature that ends abruptly and had
the potential to kill people painfully and messily, but we can go with your
reasoning if you want.” Whatever suits your ego, Stiles thought to himself.
Undying love, wow…
Stiles busied himself with heating a pot of water on the stove. Turning back
for the box of mac n’ cheese, he froze at the contemplative look on Peter’s
face. “Oh god, you like it don’t you?” It had been a joke, just a stupid joke
to rile the older man up, but Peter actually looked as if he were considering
it.
Shrugging nonchalantly, Peter sauntered over. “It’s interesting when you put it
that way.”
Of course it was, Stiles thought. It describes you perfectly.
When Stiles upended the noodles into the water, Peter took the opportunity to
wrap his arms around the teen’s waist. “I’m still keeping my name,” he
whispered into Stiles’s ear, somehow managing to make the innocent statement
sound incredibly dirty. Stiles was starting to accept that as one of Peter’s
quirks.
“Whatever floats your boat, dude,” Stiles sighed, gently stirring the pasta
with a wooden spoon. A thought occurred to him. “So…was that our first fight?”
he asked, his hand pausing over the pot.
Peter rested his chin on Stiles’s shoulder, humming to himself. “I suppose.
Why? Eager for make-up sex?”
Glancing curiously at Peter from the corner of his eye, Stiles went back to
stirring. “Is make-up sex better than regular sex?” Because, if it was, the
idea of picking a fight to up the ante in bed suddenly sounded a lot less
suicidal. Okay, not by much, but it was still something. Or it might just be
that he was eager for sex of any kind. Stiles wasn’t picky.
“It can be,” Peter murmured in his ear.
Stiles shivered as Peter started pressing butterfly-soft kisses down his neck.
It was weird how the barely-there touch felt almost as hot as Peter’s pseudo-
vampire attack in the Jeep.
Leaving the spoon to sit in the boiling pot, Stiles leaned back into Peter’s
chest and rested his head on the older man’s shoulder, basking in the attention
from Peter’s wandering hands and lips. Peter had found the holes that Isaac’s
claws had made in his jeans and was mercilessly rubbing the exposed skin there
in tight circles, driving Stiles crazy bit by bit.
Stiles’s cock throbbed impatiently but no matter how pointedly he rolled his
hips or tugged at Peter’s shirt sleeves, Peter steadfastly kept his caresses
away from where Stiles wanted them most. Releasing a frustrated whine, Stiles
turned his head to meet Peter in a needy kiss, only the older man seemed
determined to keep it just as slow and gentle as his touches, resisting
Stiles’s attempts to deepen it.  Giving up, Stiles slouched back against
Peter’s chest, ignoring the feeling of Peter smiling in victory.
Because it wasn’t a victory. 
It wasn’t.
It just took him a few seconds to realize that he liked this too, kissing soft
and sweet and unhurried.
The only thing that would have made it better was if they were horizontal
(though Stiles suspected that it was because he wanted to do other horizontal
things).
But the phone blowing up in his pocket—that could stop.
Stiles was content simply ignoring it, but Peter didn’t seem to agree with him.
Breaking the kiss, the older man dug the offending device out of Stiles’s
pocket for him and oh so nicely handed it over after glancing at the screen.
Stiles considered it a new low that he was being cock-blocked by his lover.
Maybe it was because he still smelled a bit like Isaac yet?
Though he couldn’t see how with Peter rubbing against him like a giant cat.
Werecat?
Sending Peter a sour look, Stiles groaned before answering the call. “Hey
Scott,” he said with less than usual enthusiasm. “What’s up?”
“Hey, are you doing anything right now?” Scott asked.
Stiles eyed Peter petulantly from over his shoulder. “No, why?” Even though
he’d like to be.
As if sensing Stiles’s annoyance, Peter smirked to himself as he reached around
the teen to stir the boiling pot, clearly listening in on the conversation.
“I was wondering if you wanted to come over to study for next week’s finals. If
I bomb any of the tests, I’ll get held back. I could really use the help,
dude,” Scott pleaded.
Torn between wanting to stay with Peter and going to his buddy’s aid, Stiles
floundered awkwardly for a moment. “Um…I’m…kinda in the middle of cooking
dinner right now…might be a while…” Stiles hedged. If another 5 to 10 minutes
could be called ‘a while’.
He was half aware of Scott’s response as a strange trill sounded in the room.
Looking over his shoulder in confusion, Stiles saw Peter frowning as he dug his
own phone out of his pocket, grimacing as he read the text he’d just received.
Scott’s voice became background noise as Stiles focused on the screen Peter
held up for him to read.
Get back to the depot. Need to talk. NOW.
It was from Derek, and there was little doubt in Stiles’s mind of what the
topic of discussion would be. “Seriously?” he whispered, upset by just how much
the universe was against him and his happy times.
Peter merely shrugged, forcing a look of passive indifference onto his face. He
made to tuck his phone away, but Stiles snatched it out of his hand.
If Stiles couldn’t have everything go his way, then he was going to dig in his
heels until something gave. He was tired of making concessions for everyone. It
was hisdamn turn to make demands.
“Stiles? Hello?”
“What? Oh, uh,” Stiles stalled as he typed out a quick reply to Derek’s
message.
This is Stiles. Im keeping Peter for dinner. U can hav him back after we done.
“Sorry dude, was messing with something. Um, maybe give me an hour or so then I
can head over. Sound good?”
“Yeah, that’s great” Scott said, sounding relieved. “Just send me a text when
you’re heading this way.”
Peter’s phone went off in Stiles’s hand. “Sure thing,” Stiles said, then ended
the call. He opened the message, incredibly aware of Peter’s chin resting on
his shoulder as the man read the screen.
Fine. Don’t give me that much information again.
Stiles stared at the screen, confused. “Why wouldn’t he want to know why you
might be late?”
Peter’s chuckle vibrated all along Stiles’s back. “He thinks we’re having,” 
nipped at Stiles earlobe, “dinner,” he finished huskily.
Stiles had to clear his throat before he could respond, his cock twitching with
interest. He was very on board with the idea of dinner. “Pervert much?”
Peter snorted at him, probably smelling the arousal coming off his skin. “Yes,
well, if the interrupting duo weren’t doing their best to ruin the night,
dinner would be followed with dinner, but…” he trailed off crisply with a trace
of irritation, turning off the burner with a precise flick of his wrist. Peter
moved away to poke around in the cabinets under the countertop, breathing out a
sigh as he went. 
Stiles pursed his lips moodily at Peter’s back. “We still could,” he insisted
softly, hopeful even with the new time constraints.
“I don’t like to be rushed. Especially since it’ll be your first time,
officially. I want to have all the time in the world when I take you apart,”
Peter said as he came back to the stove with a strainer. “And I don’t know
about you, but it kinda kills the mood knowing that I’d have to drag myself out
of your bed to go smooth Derek’s feathers.
A brief shiver ran down Stiles’s spine, already anticipating full-out sex with
Peter. “How did you know where that was?” He asked, belatedly realizing that
Peter had found the strainer far too easily.
At Stiles’s surprised expression, Peter smiled mischievously. “I familiarized
myself with the kitchen when you were talking with Scott two nights ago.” He
took up the pot and made his way to the sink.
“Wow, that was nosy of you,” said Stiles as he followed after Peter with the
cheese packet, tossing it up onto the counter on his way to the fridge for skim
milk and low sodium butter. In hind sight, Stiles supposed he should have
expected that Peter would snoop when he left to his own devices.
“What, you expected me to sit quietly at the table, twiddling my thumbs, while
you and Scott talked about me? I needed something to entertain myself.”
Stiles snorted. “And my phone wasn’t enough for you?” He set the remaining
ingredients down on the counter, watching as Peter finished draining off the
water. He kind of liked how Peter jumped in to help with the dinner
preparations. It reminded Stiles of how his dad would help him finish cooking
after coming home from work, but those times were few and far between now that
his dad worked odd hours to help fill shifts in the understaffed police
department.
A smirk twitched at Peter’s lips. “Of course not. I needed much more of a
distraction to keep from throttling Scott after the incident with the stairs.
Between him and Isaac, I’m not sure who I want to dismember more.”
“Well, if that’s your scale, does that mean Derek gets off with a maiming?”
Stiles asked jokingly as he tossed a splash of milk and a spoonful of butter
into the pot, smiling until he saw the veiled anger in Peter’s eyes. “My
nephew’s hurt you?” Peter asked. His body language was deceptively calm, but
the tension in his jaw and the icy gray of his eyes said better.
Aw fuck…hello, Scary Peter.
“What?― No!” Stiles said as he scrambled to pacify the (reformed?) murderer.
“Not really. I mean, he’s never broken skin or anything. Derek just doesn’t
know his own strength, is all. He’s like a puppy. With really big teeth. But
anyways, it’s nothing to freak out about, I kinda deserved it. I used him as
eye candy to extract a favor out of someone. Ironically, to try to find you,
so…no need to go all ‘avenging angel’. On anyone. Are you gonna finish―?
Y’know, I’ll just take over…”
Stiles cautiously inched the pot away from Peter since it didn’t look like he
was going to continue mixing the mac ‘n cheese.
Peter’s eyes were narrowed, his displeasure obvious. “And what exactly should I
do since every werewolf around you thinks it’s fine to abuse you?”
Stiles paused mid-stir and rolled his eyes at Peter’s melodrama. “Okay, first
off? Only halfof them could be counted as abuse. And second, I hope you’re
including yourself in that list too, buddy.” He gave the cooling pasta a few
more vigorous stirs before going in search of plates.
“Include myself how? I haven’t once forced you into anything you didn’t want,”
Peter said heatedly, his arms crossed defensively across his chest, leaning
back against the counter.
Ok, maybe spreading the blame hadn’t been the best way to calm Peter down. “I
meant the whole smashing my face into a laptop thing, not” he gestured between
himself and Peter, “with this.”
Peter aggressively snatched up the milk and butter off of the counter and
strode angrily (because Peter Hale does not stomp) to the fridge to shove them
inside it. “That was different.”
Seriously?
“Not really, dude.” Stiles arranged a couple plates and forks down at the
table. “But now that I think about it, the family resemblance between you and
Derek is unreal. You’re both fond of slamming my face into things.” He turned
to look at Peter and nearly knocked a fork to the floor when he found the older
man at his elbow, balancing the pot of mac ‘n cheese in one hand and two
glasses of tea in the other. “Would it kill you to make a little noise?” Stiles
grumbled.
Fucking werewolves and their silent footsteps. If it wasn’t kanimas and hunters
trying to kill him, it was werewolves popping up out of nowhere, trying to give
him a heart attack. Inwardly though, Stiles was rather impressed that Peter had
managed to pour tea from the pitcher in the fridge without him hearing it. It
was fucking creepy as all hell, but it was still impressive.
Peter smirked as he set his handfuls on the table. “It wouldn’t, but then I’d
miss watching you flail around like an octopus out of water,” he said, smug at
having surprised Stiles. Thankfully, he no longer seemed on the verge of
inflicting bodily harm (no more than usual, at least).
Relieved that Peter’s mood had swung back to manageable levels, Stiles
playfully elbowed the man in the ribs, smiling when he was elbowed in return.
This was the Peter that he liked best―that he could handle.
And after finally sitting down to eat, it struck Stiles how…nice…this was,
getting to spend time with Peter―actual time, when they weren’t groping at each
other like teenagers (ignoring the fact that Stiles was a teenager). If someone
had told him―even a week ago― that he and Peter would be having a domestic
moment in his kitchen, he’d have recommended they get their head examined.
But this was nice, Stiles liked this. And it kind of sucked that he had less
than an hour to enjoy it.
Peter must have sensed the slump in his mood because the older man stopped
eating and stared at him. “What’s wrong?” he asked, when Stiles pushed a
misshapen noodle around with his fork instead of eating it.
Startled, Stiles finally speared the noodle and ate it, shrugging. “Just
looking forward to spending the rest of the night studying for finals,” he
muttered sarcastically. Especially when he could be doing something productive.
Like losing his virginity.
Peter hummed thoughtfully.
“Maybe tonight won’t be a total loss.”
“Don’t really see how,” Stiles groused around a mouthful of mac ‘n cheese.
Scott was his best friend and all, but having someone around who wanted to
touch his cock was hard to top. Now that he fully appreciated the appeal,
Stiles had to cut his friend some slack for constantly ditching him for Allison
(some slack, not all of it).
“How curious are you about 69-ing?” Peter asked, calm and collected as if he
were talking about the weather.
Not surprisingly, Stiles’s appetite perked right back up.
Chapter End Notes
     Ok, you know the drill. Comments and criticisms welcome. Follow at
     collared-fantasies.tumblr.com if you likes my stuff. If you want. No
     pressure.
***** Chapter 9 *****
Chapter Summary
     Stiles and Scott talk while Peter and Derek do the same.
Chapter Notes
     Here's chapter 9!
     Fun fact: I write this fic out by hand prior to typing it up and
     proofreading it to death, and I literally filled up a entire single
     subject spiral notebook with chapters 1-9 alone. Front to back. It's
     kind of entertaining to flip through, seeing different shades of blue
     ink across the pages where I had to change pens, an endless sea of
     ink.
     If I get bored, I might make a gif of it, who knows. I've never
     completely filled a notebook before, not even in school, so I think
     it's neat. Leave me alone, I'm a nerd.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
“Stiles?” Is something wrong?” Scott asked.
Startled by the question, Stiles froze, the pencil he had been absently tapping
against his knee going lax between his fingers. “Wha—nothing’s wrong. Why would
anything be wrong?”
Scott shrugged from where he sat cross-legged on his bed, hunched over his
chemistry textbook. “I dunno. It’s just…you haven’t really said much since you
came over. And you keep looking at me then looking away again. It’s kinda
creepin’ me out, dude. Do you wanna talk? Is it Peter? Did he do something?”
His shoulders were tensed up, like he was seriously on the verge of hunting
Peter down.
Which was sweet, but—no.
Hauling up his own open chemistry textbook that was threatening to slide off
his lap, Stiles wiggled around in Scott’s desk chair to a more comfortable
position. “No, no problems with Peter. Things are good…uh, really good…” Stiles
trailed off, his mind flashing back to earlier: Peter’s hot mouth wrapped
around his cock, sucking and teasing and making it almost impossible for Stiles
to concentrate on pleasuring Peter in return—which apparently Peter had been
fine with, judging by his satisfied smile after he’d jacked himself off and
shot his load all over Stiles’s face (soon after, Stiles had discovered that
while having someone come on your face was hot as hell, semen really fucking
burned when it got in your eyes).
“Hey, Stiles?”
Forcibly yanking himself out of the memory, Stiles shook his head to clear it
and brought his attention back to Scott. “Yeah?”
“Whatever it is that you’re thinking about right now, could you not think about
it?” Scott asked. His face was pulled into a grimace like the one he’d made at
lunch.
Oops.
Stiles rolled his eyes and sighed exasperatedly, “Fine, jeez…at least that’s
all you can smell right now. You’re lucky I love you. I showered for you and
everything before coming over.” Okay, mostly it had been about making him smell
less like a porn star, post-shoot, but Stiles figured washing off the reek of
sex doubled as common courtesy.
Scott shook his head and laughed under his breath, but he sobered up a few
seconds later. “So if it’s not Peter, what is it?” he asked.
The worry in Scott’s voice did a lot to sooth whatever ruffled feathers Stiles
still had from being left out of the supernatural loop the past few months. It
was so easy to get caught up in resentment that he tended to forget that Scott
had meant well and genuinely cared about him.
And remembering that, at the end of the day, his buddy still had his back made
Stiles’s stomach twist with old guilt.
He hadn’t had Scott’sback when he’d left him alone in the woods with an Alpha
werewolf (granted, Stiles hadn’t known werewolves actually existed then, but
the fact still stood). No matter what Peter said about the bite being a gift, a
part of Stiles would always be heavy with the knowledge that he had helped rip
away his best friend’s shot at a normal life. All of Stiles’s anger and
confusion in the past few months highlighted at least one thing —that he was
out of touch with his best (and pretty much only) friend. And that thought
rankled at him, especially since they had been nearly inseparable for years.
Stiles cleared his throat, self-conscious of the way his heart rate skipped
faster with trepidation. “”Um,” Stiles stalled. “Are you okay?”
Scott blinked in confusion. “Am I okay?”
“Yeah,” Stiles said, shooting for nonchalance despite the fact that his palms
were starting to sweat. “Like, how are you? You know…with your whole…wolfy
situation? On a scale of one to ten, one being hate and ten being great,
uh…where are you?” he finished weakly, hoping that he didn’t come off as too
overbearing.
It was just… Stiles needed to hear the words. He might agree with Peter’s
rationalization on becoming a werewolf, but that didn’t mean it held true for
Scott.
Scott leaned back against the wall of pillows behind him. Looking lost in
thought, he rubbed at rubbed at his shoulder absently, drawing out an exhale.
“Uh, I dunno. Decent, I guess? Now that no one’s trying to kill us, anyway.
Um…I’d put it at a six or a seven, I think, since I’m pretty much back to where
I was before school started—except for not being an asthmatic anymore. The
heightened senses push it up too, though. If I still had Allison, I’d probably
be at, like, an eleven, but…” Scott trailed off, shrugging in a ‘what can you
do?’ kind of way. “Why’d you ask?” He cocked his head curiously to one side.
Ah.
“Just wondering,” Stiles said, hastening to shell out a plausible answer.
“Things have been kinda crazy for a while and I haven’t found the time to get a
bead on your quality of life recently, so I just…thought I’d ask.”
Scott nodded, still looking a bit lost. “So, why’d you ask about the werewolf
thing? Does it bother you?”
Stiles snorted.
The only thing that bothered him about lycanthropy was the tendency to try to
tear people (like him) into little pieces. Besides, if Stiles had a problem
with Scott being a werewolf, there was a good chance he’d have said something
by now.
“No, I wanted to know if it bothered you.” There. Quick and easy, like ripping
off a Band-Aid.
Scott seemed a little taken aback, oblivious to how much his answer meant to
Stiles. “It’s got its ups and downs, but it’s fine. Couldn’t change it if I
wanted to, anyways,” he said with an uneasy chuckle. “Are you sure you’re okay
with it? You seem kinda concerned about it,” Scott said, a trace of worry in
his voice.
“Ah, well, you know…”
“What?” Scott prompted, when Stiles failed to elaborate.
Stiles worried at a fraying edge of his textbook with his thumbnail. Might as
well rip another Band-Aid off, he thought, despondently.
“I’m sort of the reason you got bit in the first place,” he muttered down at
his lap, hardly daring to look up at his friend in more than glances.
Scott frowned. “Dude, you’re not the one who bit me. I don’t blame you for what
happened that night—neither of us knew that was gonna happen. I mean, if you’re
gonna blame anyone, blame Peter.”
You know, the guy you’re boning—Scott didn’t need to say it, but Stiles could
hear the subtext as if his friend had shouted it, like Stiles was violating bro
code by willingly letting the older man anywhere near him. He wondered if he
was cringing on the outside as much as he was internally.
Some of his guilt must have shown on his face because Scott slumped forward
over his lap again, bracing his elbows on his thighs with a defeated sigh.
“Look,” Scott said, pacifyingly. “It’s fine, dude. Really. Over and done with.
If we all keep throwing around things we can’t change then we’re not gonna move
past it, so…consider us good. All of us, including Peter. But I’m still not
forgiving him for killing all those people,” he said determinedly, as though
Stiles was going to try to convince him to absolve Peter of all his sins.
Which Stiles wasn’t. Murder was still murder, regardless of the reasoning
behind it. Even if they were very good reasons.
Stiles raised his hands, placating his friend. “Not asking you to.” He went
back to scouring his textbook for a definition that he’d copied down wrong (how
the hell he’d mixed up metalloid and alkaloid, he didn’t know), his anxiety
assuaged.
Mostly.
“Thanks for showering for me, though.”
Stiles popped his head up and returned the grin Scott was giving him. “No
problem, buddy. I figured I’d be nice and come over smelling like me instead of
werewolves.” He stretched over sideways to rest his elbow on the desk, his body
twisted awkwardly as he lazily drew a line through the alkaloid’s definition
he’d written under ‘metalloid’, proceeding to scribble the correct definition
underneath it, his head moving back and forth from his textbook to his study
guide.
“Werewolves? As in more than one?” Scott asked, interrupting Stiles’s train of
thought.
“Huh?” Stiles said, still half concentrating on finishing his sentence.
“You said werewolves. Like, more than just Peter. Who else would you smell
like?”
“Ah.” Stiles froze again. He hadn’t realized that he’d pluralized ‘werewolf’,
but now that it was brought to his attention, Stiles couldn’t get himself to
stop thinking about how Isaac, how he had ground against Stiles and tore at his
clothes, trying to get closer…
The memory jarred through him and Stiles found himself unable to laugh off his
slip up as a mistake. His tongue felt heavy as lead in this mouth and, try as
he might, he couldn’t focus on the words he needed to write down, his hand
suspended mid-pencil stroke.
“Stiles?” Scott prompted, his face drawn with concern.
Feeling slightly ashamed, Stiles ducked his head and sat back properly in the
chair, abandoning his sentence for the moment. This was stupid. Nothing had
happened. No one was hurting him. So why did he feel so hunted right now, like
he was on the edge of flight?
His thoughts were becoming more and more chaotic as Stiles grasped at them.
He’d taken his Adderall, right? Before coming over to Scott’s? He’d popped his
normal dosage to go to a normal study session so why the hell couldn’t he
concentrate —?”
“Stiles?” Scott asked again, stronger, more insistent.
Isaac, it had to be Isaac. The attack was messing with Stiles’s head, the
memory fighting for his attention now that he couldn’t push it away and it
wanted out, wanted a voice—
He needed to tell Scott.
“Um…about the cafeteria incident,” Stiles haltingly began, the words reluctant
to fall from his lips even though his mind was flashing through the images like
someone had their finger pressed on a fast-forward button. “Part of it may have
extended beyond the cafeteria.”
At Scott’s imploring stare, he launched into a haphazard account of the events
in the Preserve, absently wondering just how many Band-Aids he could rip off
before he actually lost some skin.
 
 
 
 
                                ***Elsewhere***
 
 
 
 
The sound of Peter’s footsteps echoed through the open stillness of the train
depot as he steadily descended the concrete steps. The large hanging lights
illuminated the main room, flooding it with light and leaving nowhere for
anyone to hide but in the railcars.
Narrowing his attention to them, Peter picked up the steady heartbeat of his
nephew in the farthest car.
To all appearances Isaac was nowhere to be found. And that was fine, in Peter’s
opinion, because the irritation that simmered just beneath his air of calmness
itched for an outlet —like the wet behind the ears werewolf who had dared to
touch what was his. Perhaps after he heard what Derek had to say, Peter would
track down Isaac for a chat…
He rolled his shoulders, working out the tension in them, and made a beeline
for the car his nephew was in.
There was no fear in Peter. He had seen Derek’s bite, knew the ultimate and
fatal damage that his nephew’s wrath could cause, but he also knew that if
Derek had wanted to take it that far again, he’d have done it by now. After
all, why would Derek waste the time and effort to help Peter re-establish
himself if he wanted to kill him (again)?
So, really, it was his nephew’s bark he had to contend with.
It wasn’t often that Derek demanded his presence and, when he did, it was
usually over something Peter had done to piss the Alpha off— though Peter
supposed that dominating Derek’s only remaining beta would have struck a pretty
good chord.
He shoved aside the rusting door and hopped up into the car.
Derek was sitting rigidly in a seat halfway down the car, staring at him with
his arms crossed in front of his chest. He wasn’t surprised by Peter’s
appearance (then again, he had probably known the moment Peter set foot in the
depot).
Deciding it was probably best to avoid looking like a threat, Peter dropped
into a seat a few rows away from Derek, sprawling in it. “You called?” he asked
sardonically, patiently waiting for Derek to vent his frustration.
It was a few seconds before Derek spoke, taking the time to first catalog the
scents Peter had brought in with him.
Smart, Peter thought.
Scents couldn’t tell lies —but they could be misinterpreted.
“How is he?” Derek asked softly.
The question threw Peter, somewhat. He’d been expecting the violence and
yelling right off the bat. He eyed his nephew, assessing him. Something akin to
pride stirred inside Peter at the display of maturity.
“Physically, he’s undamaged, though his jeans weren’t so lucky,” Peter said,
keeping a neutral tone. “Mentally… it’s harder to tell. He has a knack for
repressing his feelings with sarcasm and he’s deflected discussing what
happened since I escorted him home. There could be problems in his future
interactions with Isaac, especially if he keeps avoiding the issue rather than
meeting it head on, but…” he trailed off with a shrug. “At least Isaac didn’t
get farther than aggressively humping Stiles against a tree.”
“Yeah,” Derek said, his eyes narrowed. “You stopped Isaac before anything else
could happen. In fact,” a hard note entered Derek’s tone, “considering the
little damage Isaac actually inflicted, you were apparently
very…enthusiastic…about separating him from Stiles. A broken nose, a dislocated
shoulder, a few broken ribs, not to mention the clawing of various parts of his
body —”
“If you’re saying I went overboard,” Peter said crisply, cutting off Derek’s
inventory of Isaac’s injuries (as if they even mattered when Isaac had likely
healed before reaching the depot), “I disagree. If I had found them just five
minutes later than I did, Stiles would have been raped, had his virginity
ripped away without his consen—”
“Virginity?” Derek interrupted, looking confused.
“Yes,” Peter grudgingly admitted. “Technically, he’s still a virgin, which
makes what Isaac did even worse, trying to take that away from Stiles by force.
Consider what that would have done to Stiles,” he finished coldly, his rage
broadcasted in his squared shoulders and crossed arms.
Isaac wouldn’t have been gentle, wouldn’t have stretched or slicked Stiles
before entering him. In his mind, Peter could vividly imagine Stiles’s screams
and tears as Isaac thrust in single-mindedly, brutally ripping Stiles apart. If
Peter hadn’t found them when he did, Stiles would be in the hospital right
now—or the morgue.
“You care about him,” Derek murmured in amazement.
Peter’s eyes snapped open, unaware that he had closed them against the pure
fury that had surged through him at the thought of what could have happened
tonight. Derek’s eyes were raking over him, as if he was something new, and
Peter mentally chastised himself for giving too much away. He wasn’t quite sure
what the extent of his affections for Stiles was yet, but he’d wanted to keep
his feelings private for a while longer.
Shaking off the haze in his mind, Peter became aware of a stinging pain in his
upper arm. He looked down and was surprised to see his claws, piercing his
shirt and digging into his flesh. Retracting them, Peter sighed, wondering if
he could still salvage the situation.
“Of course I care whether or not he gets raped. Do you understand the damage
rape does? Physically and emotionally? It’s abhorrent—a tool for cowards and
the lowest of the low. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, much less Stiles,” he
said, his nose slightly scrunched up in distaste.
Well, maybe on a hunter.
“That’s not what I meant,” Derek said. His eyes were narrowed, analyzing Peter
closely, looking for inconsistencies. “If Isaac had attacked anyone else, you
wouldn’t be this angry right now. But it matters to you whether Stiles gets
hurt. You care about him,” he said, the statement sounding more like an
accusation.
Peter cocked his head. “Is this an interrogation or an intervention?” he asked
curiously, careful to mask how wary the change in topic made him. He’d been
hoping that, after the ‘Q and A’ session at the house, all of Derek’s prying
into his personal business had ceased, but it seemed his nephew was more
tenacious than Peter gave him credit for.
Whether or not that tenacity was going to be a problem remained to be seen.
“It’s a reality check,” Derek said, his tone stern. “Stiles is human. Tonight,
he couldn’t fight off a beta. How do you expect him to defend himself against
an Alpha? When the Alpha Pack comes at us, what do you think is gonna happen to
him when he gets caught in the middle?”
“So what do you want me to do? Push him away because he might get hurt?” Peter
shot back, his proverbial hackles raised at the thought of casting the teen
aside. He refused to accept that as an option, not after the promise he’d made
to Stiles.
“He’s in danger by being close to you, and the longer he stays near us, the
more likely it is that the Alpha Pack will use him against you. You can’t
protect him all the time.”
“That’s why I want you to reconsider your decision to keep Scott out of the
loop,” Peter said, slowly enunciating each word as though his nephew would
actually listen if he could hear Peter’s frustration in every syllable. But
Derek just shook his head and Peter’s irritation with the Alpha mounted.
This martyring streak needed to end.
“We’ve been over this before,” Derek said wearily. “The Alpha Pack left their
mark on our door, not Scott’s. There’s no reason to bring him into a fight that
isn’t his. Let him— let them both be teenagers while they can. They don’t need
this.”
The sour stench of grief permeated the air, threatening to choke Peter. He
understood —understood, not empathized —that the fire had forced Derek to grow
up faster than he otherwise would have, but a short childhood wasn’t uncommon
in their kind.
Being a werewolf wasn’t easy.
Peter sighed heavily, feeling exhaustion beginning to set in. “No one needs
this, but, believe me, you don’t want Scott caught unawares by the Alpha Pack
—”
“I don’t want him in this at all,” Derek interrupted forcefully. “It’s not.
His. Problem!”
“Then at least tell Stiles. Kill two birds with one stone,” Derek snorted
derisively at him, “no, hear me out,” Peter said quickly. “You don’t want Scott
involved, fine, but at the same time you don’t want him to walk blindly into
this mess either, right? Bringing Stiles into the loop is the only way to make
sure that Scott stays out of the way without requiring you to watch his every
move. Stiles knowing the situation gives you an extra pair of eyes and a way to
lever Scott in whatever direction you need. At least one of them needs to be on
their guard.”
Derek looked away, but didn’t say anything, which meant that he knew Peter had
a point but didn’t want to admit it.
“Derek. You need Stiles in on this,” Peter implored softly.
Peter needed Stiles aware of the situation. He was in the same boat as Derek:
he couldn’t be there all the time to protect Stiles. Tonight’s drama had driven
that home. But Peter still had confidence in Stiles. After all, it was far
easier to spot danger coming from outside than it was to expect it from within.
Stiles just needed to know what to look for.
When Derek nodded his grudging acceptance with a terse “fine”, relief swept
through Peter, calming him, though he knew his peace of mind came at a cost.
There would be no peace for Stiles until the Alpha Pack was dealt with and no
longer a looming threat. And hoping for a swift resolution was probably a
double-edged sword.
“Thank you,” Peter said, infusing the words with all the gratitude he was
capable of anymore.
Derek nodded again, this time wearily, knowing as Peter did that the decision
condemned a teenager to a heightened state of paranoia for the foreseeable
future. But Stiles could have night terrors for all Peter cared, so long as the
teen stayed alive.
Derek didn’t offer any further comments and Peter jumped at the chance to take
his leave, having effectively thrown his nephew into a “fit of the broods”, as
Peter liked to call it.
Free of the stifling atmosphere of the railcar, Peter went in search of a
solitary place to crash for the night, content to put off worrying his new
lover for at least a few hours more.
Chapter End Notes
     I know this one was kind of short, but I'm hoping the next chapter
     makes up for it =)
     Comments and criticisms welcome!
***** Chapter 10 *****
Chapter Summary
     The day after Stiles's interaction in the woods. He's coping...with a
     little help...
Chapter Notes
     Omg I'm sorry this took so long, guys. School took up so much time, I
     only really got to work on it during Thanksgiving break. But it's up
     and now I can start thinking about the next chapter (and a future
     wrap-up). Not sure when the *next* chapter will get posted because I
     owe a couple of my other fics some love too x.x But now I feel less
     bad about putting this one off. Enjoy!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Stiles slammed the front door shut and collapsed back against it, happy to
finally be home and away from everyone after his nerve-wracking day at school.
Isaac had shown up for class today (which was something Stiles hadn’t thought
Isaac would do after last night). Throughout each and every class that Stiles
shared with him, Isaac had sat slumped over his desk, quiet and refusing to
make eye contact with anyone.
Spilling his guts to Scott had been both a blessing and a curse. Scott, best
buddy that he was, had done his best to stay between Isaac and Stiles as all
times, as though the melancholy werewolf would try to jump Stiles’s bones
again. With his spirit bolstered by his friend’s overprotectiveness, Stiles
hadn’t had the heart to point out that if Isaac was going to jump anyone’s
bones, it would probably be someone a lot hotter than Stiles Stilinski.
But even with Scott acting as his living shield, Stiles still had been able to
see how lonely and dejected Isaac was and, little by little, had started to
feel sorry for Isaac—which was stupid. There must be something messed up in
Stiles’s brain because it just wasn’t right to feel sorry for your abuser. It
wasn’t his fault that Isaac had tried to rape him and got his ass royally
kicked by Peter, but when the werewolf secluded himself in a corner of the
cafeteria, pushing his food around his plate with the same expression as a
kicked puppy, Stiles had made Scott drag Isaac over to sit with them, tired of
watching the Moping Werewolf Show (it made Stiles feel about as bad as Isaac
looked).
He had been certain that he could tolerate being near Isaac for the remaining
half hour, but within five minutes Stiles started regretting his moment of
pity.
Isaac, perhaps intuitively knowing that sitting beside Stiles was too much too
soon, had sat on the other side of the table while Scott slid onto the bench
with him, practically glued to Stiles’s side in a show of support (and probably
as a not-so-subtle warning).
Conversation between them had been stilted and awkward, carried on mostly by
Scott as Stiles and Isaac picked at their food, avoiding eye contact with each
other as much as possible.
It hadn’t helped.
Isaac’s furtive glances at him had been filled with shame and apology, but
Stiles couldn’t yet shake the memory of the night before, when the werewolf had
trapped him and touched him, whispering insults and filth into his ear.
Stiles’s skin crawled at having his attacker right in front of him. He had felt
vaguely sick—his hands clammy, his stomach rolling uneasily, his body
temperature fluctuated between too hot or too cold as though he had been coming
down with the flu. Stiles had hitched a smile onto his face all the same, even
though the three of them pretending that nothing happened felt like a travesty
at best.
But he was willing to fake it if they were.
Lunch went by tortuously slow until, finally, he could continue on avoiding
Isaac like the plague, occasionally sending the werewolf apologetic grimaces in
the hall or in class, hoping that Isaac understood that Stiles was trying.
Jumping back into the swing of things so soon probably wasn’t great for his
psyche, but Stiles was sick and tired of feeling slightly hunted all the time.
Having Jackson, Matt, and Gerard out of the way had been a major relief after
being in a heightened state of anxiety for so long. Having to worry only about
school was grounding(and somewhat anticlimactic)—at least until the other shoe
had dropped with Isaac’s attack, sending Stiles’s blood pressure straight
through the roof again as he was forced back into hyperawareness.
It was a good thing meals in the Stilinski household were almost always heart-
healthy because at this rate, Stiles was going to be fighting heart problems by
the time he hit thirty.
Having caught his second wind, Stiles pushed off the front door and trudged
upstairs, his backpack dragging behind him and knocking against every stop
along the way.
He was ready for a boring night of cramming for next week’s finals, making
dinner, and—if he still had time—researching some ways to deal with being
attacked because obviously pretending that nothing happened wasn’t working at
all. He could only hope that his brain wasn’t too frazzled to absorb anything
tonight. Maybe if Stiles asked nicely, Peter would come over and calm him down,
help him study.
Well, on second thought, that might be more distracting in the long ru—
“JESUS!” Stiles yelled, his backpack flying out of his hand as he fell back
against the doorway to his room, clutching at his chest.
He had flung his open his door as he normally did—only he normally came home to
an empty room.
“You know,” Stiles shot at Peter, irritated by how amused the man sitting in
his chair looked, “the really neat thing about having someone’s number is that
you can use it to tell that person when you’re coming over. That way you don’t
give them a freaking heart attack.”
“You don’t like surprises?” Peter chuckled as he turned back to Stiles’s
computer, which was on with a webpage open on the screen.
Stiles pushed off the doorframe and walked over to Peter, curiosity winning out
over his irritation. “Why are you on my laptop? Wait, how did you even guess
the passwor— What the—? Why are you looking up porn?” he asked incredulously.
“Not just any porn. Your porn,” Peter corrected cheerfully as he clicked on a
very familiar site logo. “’Hurt Me Daddy dot com’?” Peter asked, his voice
cracking with suppressed laughter. “I guess I don’t have to worry about you
preferring things ‘vanilla’ in the bedroom,” he said, clicking on a link that
led to a video of an older man flogging a bound younger man with a cat-o’nine-
tails.
Stiles felt himself blush as cries and moans emanated from the laptop speakers.
It could be worse, Stiles told himself. It could bedadscrolling through my
stuff. “You still haven’t answered my question: why are you looking at my
porn?” A particularly hard crack of the whip made the video ‘bottom’ scream
louder and Stiles rubbed at the throbbing that was started up in his temple,
wondering what he’d done to deserve such humiliation.
Maybe he’d run over a nun in a past life or something.
“I didn’t start out searching for it, if it helps,” Peter said pacifyingly as
he clicked out of the video (Stiles sighed in relief). “I got bored waiting for
you so I decided to entertain myself and I happened to stumble upon your porn
history. You really should clear it more often. Someone might find your
searches a little….strange.”
Peter clicked on a tab that held a search engine: the word highlighted in every
search was ‘knotting’. He eyed Stiles from over his shoulder with amusement.
“Is this something we need to talk about?”
Oh god…
Stiles fidgeted with a corner of his jacket sleeve. “Ah, that would depend on
whether or not, um… knotting is something that werewolves—”
“Stiles, I’m a werewolf, not an animal,” Peter said, disparagingly. “Don’t you
think it’s enough that I have fangs and claws without having to deal with the
base of my dick swelling up as well?” Peter closed the browser and history
windows then shut down the laptop. He turned the chair so he could face Stiles.
“But if you like, I’m sure I can get my hands on a specially made dildo to
fulfill that particular fantasy,” he said, mirth dancing in his eyes, clearly
enjoying every minute of Stiles’s pain.
Arms crossed defensively over his chest, Stiles squinted at Peter, trying very
hard not to pout. Men don’t pout. “You’re evil,” he said, shaking his head
admonishingly.
He turned on his heel and went to retrieve his abandoned backpack.
Supporting his weight with one hand on the door frame, Stiles bent down to grab
a strap of his backpack, but just as he was about to straighten up,
hands—Peter’shands—grasped his hips and then something warm and solid was
pressing tight against his ass. “Um,” he said, his mind stuttering at the
blatantly lewd contact, his mind blanking out completely when Peter began
rolling his hips in a slow grind. “This isn’t doing much to change my opinion
of you,” he breathed, releasing his backpack strap in favor of clutching at the
doorframe, half focused on the hard outline of Peter’s cock that was rubbing
between his cheeks.
“Change it? I was actually hoping to reinforce the idea,” Peter whispered
seductively. He kept a firm hold on Stiles’s waist to balance the teen as he
trailed claw-tipped fingers over the firm curve of Stiles’s ass.
Bent over double, Stiles dropped his head between his arms with a faint groan
as Peter’s elongated claws teased over him, moving higher to slip under his
shirt and trace over every bump and notch of his spine, making Stiles acutely
aware of the edges of unforgiving claws moving over his fragile skin.
Peter pushed up the edge of Stiles’s shirt the higher up he went, exposing
Stiles’s back inch by inch.
Stiles wondered if the claws were actually leaving marks or if Peter just liked
to watch.
Without warning, Peter stopped. His hips stopped grinding, his claws froze in
place midway up Stiles’s spine—everything stopped.
“Okay, you’re either the world’s biggest tease or something’s wrong. Do you
hear something?” Stiles said, trying not to not openly pant. His cock was
achingly hard in his pants and Stiles craned his head back as much as he could
despite the awkward angle to try to see what had made Peter freeze in his
tracks. Peter’s gaze was fixed on his back and it wasn’t until he gently
brushed against a particularly sensitive spot that understanding finally
clicked in Stiles’s head: the bruises from the stairs.
They didn’t hurt near as much as they had a couple days ago, but depending on
where you pushed there was still some discomfort from the yellowish-purple
stripes.
“Peter?” Stiles prompted when the older man continued his silent staring.
“You’re still healing,” Peter said absently, his expression unreadable.
“Uh, yeah. Human, remember? We had this conversation already,” Stiles said,
confused as to why Peter seemed to be getting upset all over again. “They look
worse than they feel, though. Last night, Scott rubbed this cream on my back
that his mom had and it’s helped out a lot with the tenderness. He gave it to
me so that I could put some more on this morning, but I couldn’t reach all
the—”
“Where is it?”
“Where’s— What?” Stiles asked, thrown by the interruption.
“The cream,” Peter said. “Where is it?”
“Uh, in my nightstand? I think that’s where I tossed it. I was kinda in a rush
this morning,” Stiles said, remembering how he’d gotten up late and wasted a
lot of time pretending that he was more flexible than what he apparently was,
bending his arms awkwardly behind him to apply the cream. He’d tried to spread
it evenly across his back, but there was only so much you could do on your own
when you only had a mirror for guidance. He’d looked over his shoulder long
enough to strain his neck (which had made his first few classes even more fun).
Abruptly, Peter moved away, disappearing from Stiles’s line of sight.
After he’d pulled himself upright, Stiles looked around and found the older man
at his nightstand, examining a long white tube he had pulled from its drawer.
“Take off your shirt and lay on the bed,” Peter said, not taking his eyes off
the directions on the tube.
Take off his—?
“You wanna put some on my back?” Stiles asked with disbelief. He hadn’t planned
on trying to apply more until he went to bed (because doing it on his own was
such a pain in the ass), but the thought of Peter’s hands on him had Stiles
scrambling to rid himself of his shirts. He was halfway to the bed when an idea
struck him. “Actually, could you hold that thought for a moment? I’m gonna jump
into the shower for, like, five minutes tops. Okay? That way the, uh, cream
will soak in better,” he said quickly, nearly tripping over himself as he fled
the room, leaving a bemused looking Peter in his wake.
Stiles was pretty sure the older man suspected the real reason behind the
impromptu shower decision, but he didn’t care. So far, each time Peter had come
over there had been some degree of nakedness and touching and Stiles was really
hoping that trend would continue.  But he was not about to let Peter rub him
down when he still stank of nervous sweat after being around Isaac all day.
Nope, absolutely not, wasn’t happening,he thought fervently, stripping off the
rest his clothes like his life depended on it once he’d dashed into the
bathroom.
It had to have been the fastest he had ever showered. The stall door had hardly
closed behind him before Stiles had the water running, not even waiting for the
water to warm up. He bypassed the shampoo and went straight for the body wash,
lathering himself from head to toe before frantically rinsing off most of the
suds, scrambling out of the shower stall soon after to run a towel over
himself.
It was only when he glanced around that he realized that all of his clean
clothes were in his bedroom. With Peter.
Sighing, Stiles vented his frustration by kicking his dirty clothes in to a
pile (he made sure to dig his phone out of his pocket first, though, because
god forbid there be another ‘Scott incident’).  Squaring his shoulders, Stiles
wrapped his towel around his waist for propriety and padded back to his room,
feeling slightly edgy from the utter lack of his usual protective layers.
Stepping through the doorway to his room took a lot more nerve than he’d admit,
but a lot of his anxiety melted away when Peter looked up and stared at him
from where he sat at the edge of the bed, having removed his shoes and socks.
Peter’s eyes were raking down his body and if Stiles hadn’t already wanted the
older man all over him in the worst possible way, he was sure he’d have felt
incredibly violated despite the ten or so feet between them.
His pride ballooning from Peter’s obvious interest, Stiles carelessly tossed
his phone onto his desk and walked up to Peter with a swagger in his step.
“See?” he said, holding Peter’s stare. “All done.” He stopped within arm’s
reach of the older man, making it easy for Peter to grasp him by the hips and
tug him closer and into the ‘v’ of Peter’s.
Teasingly, Peter traced the skin just above the towel’s edge and Stiles’s
breath hitched, his cock stirring at the light touch. The light, woodsy musk of
Peter’s cologne filled his senses, close as he was. A heady rush surged through
him, but when he swayed forward, Peter’s grip on him turned to steel, holding
him still.
Stiles’s needy whine died in his throat at the stern look the older man gave
him and he did his best to restrain himself, balling his hands into fists when
his fingers started twitching restlessly, wanting to touch.
They stayed like that for a moment, frozen, as though Peter was testing him.
Apparently satisfied, Peter’s lips curved up in a tiny smile. Keeping his eyes
locked on Stiles, he untucked the towel and slid it from around Stiles’s hips
to drop to the floor, the teen’s swiftly hardening cock bouncing free and
pointing eagerly towards the older man’s face. Peter stared it, seemingly
fascinated with the way it bobbed and swayed with every involuntary twitch of
Stiles’s body.
The tip wasn’t leaking precome yet, but Stiles knew it was well on its way now
that it looked like his cock might get some attention.
If he didn’t know better, Stiles would have thought Peter was indecisive,
judging by how long the older man sat eyeing him up, but over the past few days
Stiles had started to get a feel for what a world class tease Peter seemed to
be, and something told him that being kept on tenterhooks was exactly what the
older man wanted, drawing out every ounce of sweet suffering that he could.
Willing as he was, Stiles still wasn’t thrilled about being made to wait.
After what felt like an eternity, Peter’s eyes flicked back up to his. “Back
up, pet,” he said softly, the dark velvet of his voice enticing Stiles into
obeying the command. Not that the overtone really mattered, Stiles was all in
for whatever Peter had in mind.
Hoping that speedy compliance would get the ball rolling faster, Stiles
dutifully stepped back a couple feet, wobbling in place for a second.
Peter stood in one fluid motion and closed the gap between them, his clothes
brushing against Stiles here and there, making goose bumps rise up on Stiles’s
skin.  His head slightly cocked, Peter reached out and cupped the side of
Stiles’s neck, his thumb sweeping over the fading bruises on the teen’s throat.
“You didn’t put any cream on these,” Peter said, more of a statement than a
question.
“Well, yeah, I actually like these,” Stiles said, like it was obvious (at least
he thought it was, considering he’d yet to protest each time Peter made a new
mark).
Peter hummed noncommittally and let his hand fall away as he walked around the
teen, making Stiles shiver as the older man’s body heat moved from his front
around to his back. “Lay down on the bed, face down,” Peter murmured, his voice
brooking no argument as he leaned in close to whisper the words into Stiles’s
ear.
It took a moment for Stiles to process the command and about as long to
convince himself to move, but then he was pitching forward and clambering onto
the bed, dropping his head heavily onto a pillow and crossing his arms under
it. His hard cock was trapped between his hips and the sheets and, though he
desperately wanted to rut and grind against the first real friction he’d gotten
since walking into the room, there wasn’t a doubt in Stiles’s mind that Peter
would find some way to punish him if he gave in to that urge.
He tried to ignore the pulse of heat that ran through him at that thought.
A light touch at Stiles’s ankle had him jerking in surprise. Peter’s fingertips
dragged up his leg and over the back of his knee, tickling Stiles for a moment
at that sensitive spot. The feeling passed as Peter’s hand kept going higher,
sliding along Stiles’s inner thigh towards the crux of his legs, closer and
closer to where Stiles wanted to be touched most—
And then Peter’s hand moved away completely.
Stiles bit his tongue to stop himself from growling in frustration.
Evil, definitely evil.
His irritation flew from his mind when the bed jostled under Peter’s weight as
the older man knelt astride Stiles’s hips, resting enough of his weight on
Stiles’s ass to press the teen firmly into the mattress.
A low groan sprang from Stiles’s lips before his could stifle it. Fuck, if he
had friction before… Unfortunately, he couldn’t move if he tried, pinned as he
was to the bed.
Without warning something cold landed on his back and Stiles yelped, flinching
and clawing uselessly at the bed as he tried to get away from the unwanted
feeling.
“Sorry,” Peter said evenly as he began rubbing in the cream he’d dribbled onto
Stiles’s back.
No you’re not, Stiles wanted to say, convinced that Peter had done it on
purpose, but instead he dug his chin into his pillow as he settled down from
the shock, his body relaxing more and more with every stroke of Peter’s hand.
The older man worked the cream into what felt like every bruise slanting down
his back, being exceptionally not to press too hard on the spots that were
still a purplish-blue, and gradually Stiles’s eyes drifted shut, riding the
high sweeping through him from having such attention lavished on him.
It was weird, though. Usually when he had a hard-on, it was all he could think
about, the urge to come pulling at him until he gave in. But right now, even
though he was solid as a rock, he was content to simply lay and enjoy Peter’s
ministrations, vaguely aware of the older man’s hands wandering away from the
bruised area to places like his ribs, his shoulders, the dip in the small of
his back…
In the back of his mind, Stiles knew that the cream had to have been rubbed in
by now, but he figured that Peter would stop when he wanted to (besides, who
turns down a massage?)
Stiles sighed happily, slipping into a light doze until nails grazed down his
spine—long, sharp nails. His eyes snapped open, instantly awake as energy
thrummed through him, brought on by the sudden awareness of potential danger.
His cock gave a sympathetic throb and the urge to rut against the sheets
returned with full force.
“I can smell you in here,” Peter said conversationally, as if he wasn’t
trailing deadly claws distressingly slow down Stiles’s spine. “Your arousal,
your come. It’s everywhere. Like it’s seeped into the walls, the bed—especially
the bed—they reek of you. It’s like a slap in the face when you walk into this
room. Well…for someone like me, anyways. And I can’t tell you how much it made
me want to lie in your bed and bring myself off, to blend my smell in with
yours.”
Stiles held his breath, spellbound by Peter’s low, silky voice, imagining the
older man touching and stroking himself until he came, painting yet another of
his button-down shirts with thick, opaque strands.
“That was my first thought when I got here today, when I was trying to think of
ways to pass the time until you came home. But I restrained myself,” Peter
continued in confidential whisper, his claws tracing across Stiles’s ribs now,
the light touch almost a tickle. “I distracted myself with guessing your
password to get into your laptop…and when I was in, I got bored again. But then
I got curious. I wanted to know more about you, about what makes you tick, what
you think about when youtry to find your way out of the real world. I found
your browser history, your bookmarks, that secret little folder hidden in your
homework files…and you know what Stiles?”
Stiles barely pulled his thoughts together to squeak out “hmm?”
“I saw all of those stockpiled images and videos of young men being held down
by an older man, watched them being taken apart and broken and fucked —and I
couldn’t restrain myself anymore.” Peter went back to tracing down the notches
of Stiles’s spine. “So I pulled up the link that you seem to visit the most
lately, a page with a video of a spike-haired brunette handcuffed to a bed as
an older man just tore into him, and I jacked off right there in front of your
computer. Good thing I did, too, otherwise I probably would have pinned you to
the door as soon as you came in,” Peter finished, his voice having dropped to a
husky purr.
Silenced by the sudden dryness in his mouth, Stiles felt Peter shift on top of
him until the hard line of the older man’s erection was pressed against his
cleft and he swallowed roughly, struggling to work up enough saliva in his
mouth to talk.
God, if he had gotten home earlier, he could have watched.
He managed to force out a throaty “hng” as he tried to wiggle back against
Peter, only to have the movement stilled by the older man’s legs clamping
around him, keeping him in place.
“But I think I prefer this,” Peter said, sounding a little more in control of
himself. “You, naked under me, nothing to cover up the smell of want coming off
you.”
Stiles felt Peter move on top of him again and then his ear was being nuzzled.
Was—was Peter sniffing him?
Stiles shivered. Pinned to the bed with someone’s hot breath ghosting over his
ear brought back memories of the night before, when Isaac had trapped him
against a tree, and he felt his breath catch in his throat. Suddenly, Stiles
wasn’t getting enough air, his chest tight with the fear of being unable to
move, unable to do anything at all. His mind went terrifyingly blank but for
the primal urge to get free—only his body wasn’t listening, his limbs frozen
and useless.
“Stiles?” Peter prompted, worry and uncertainty in his gravelly tone as he
shifted his weight back and off of Stiles’s torso, allowing air to rush in
between their bodies while he knelt up, careful to keep the bulk of his weight
off of the panicking teen beneath him.
Fear spiked in Stiles again, but this time it was because Peter had moved away,
the very person who had protected him last night was deserting him—
He flung a hand behind him, blindly reaching for the older man, and the
pressure in his chest dissipated slightly when Peter grasped his flailing hand
and held it lightly, as though he didn’t want to cage Stiles in any more than
he already was.
Time seemed to grind to a halt as they sat there, Stiles sucking in breath
after breath, his eyes squeezed shut against the nausea that had hit him, until
the world around him finally stopped closing in on him. For what could have
been seconds or even several minutes, Stiles clung to Peter’s hand like it was
a life line—and in a way, it was.
“We need to talk about this,” Peter murmured softly as he stroked up and down
Stiles’s back with his free hand, the motion comforting rather than arousing
like it had been earlier.
Stiles bit back a hysterical giggle, pushing his face down into his pillow.
All things considered, he probably needed to go to an actual psychiatrist, but
if he spilled his guts about even a fraction of the shit threatening his mental
health, he’d be thrown in the loony bin (especially after repeated use of the
word “werewolf”). So that was out of the question…
“I know,” Stiles said, his words muffled by the pillow against his mouth.
“Just…not right now? Please?” He turned his head as much as he could to send
Peter a beseeching look over his shoulder.
Peter’s face was a blank and masklike, free of emotion. His eyes, though, were
sharp and calculating. “Then what do you want me to do?” he said flatly, almost
like he was disappointed with Stiles.
Sucking in a slow, calming breath, Stiles arched his spine as much as he could,
bridging the gap Peter had made between them to press his ass against the older
man’s crotch. The bulge there didn’t seem quite as hard as it had been before
Stiles’s meltdown, but there was enough of a chub to make Stiles hopeful.
“Distract me. Make me forget,” Stiles said, quiet but determined.
He was far from the preserve and its darkness, far from Isaac’s threatening
overtures. None of it was welcome here in his room, not when Peter was with him
and Stiles needed to cement that fact right now before the fear of being
touched had a chance to sink in even deeper.
Fuck Isaac and his lack of control. Stiles wanted to get laid. Today.
Eyes narrowed with doubt, Peter renewed his light petting of Stiles’s back,
having paused at the teen’s proposition. “I shouldn’t,” he said softly after a
moment, sounding like he was trying to convince himself of it. He dropped his
stare with Stiles so he could follow the movement of his hand over the teen’s
mole-dotted skin.
“But?” Stiles prompted, when the older man trailed off, apparently more
interested in touching Stiles than in continuing his sentence (which Stiles
counted as a good sign).
“But,” Peter said crisply, practically spitting out the word, “I’ve never been
good at resisting temptation. Especially when it I’m being offered what I
want.”
“What do you want?” Stiles asked.
Whether Peter was more keyed up than he was letting on or just easy to seduce
Stiles didn’t know, but instead of protesting any further, Peter fell silent.
His hand wandered lower than it had thus far, smoothing across the dip in
Stiles’s back and down to cup a firm ass cheek.
Swallowing hard, Stiles felt some of the tension run out of him, chased away by
a surge of arousal that made his softening cock twitch with interest again.
He’d meant it last night when he’d said he wanted Peter to be his first.
Everything that had happened between them in the past few days had been about
them dancing closer and closer towards this cliff and all Stiles wanted to do
was just fall the fuck off of it—and like hell was he about to let Isaac’s lack
of self-control ruin this for him.
Shunting the memory of the night before as far to the back of his mind as he
could (for the time being), Stiles pushed back against Peter’s hand, trying to
show the older man that he was fine with going forward.
When Peter, instead, swung his leg from over Stiles’s hips and got up from the
bed, Stiles frowned, his stomach clenching uncomfortably.
Had he done something wrong?
His heartbeat must have given away his distress because Peter paused after
picking up Stiles’s wet towel.
“Relax,” Peter murmured as he wiped his fingers off on the damp cloth. “I’m not
going anywhere.” A small, knowing sort of smirk was playing about the man’s
lips and for some reason it comforted Stiles more than Peter’s reassuring
words.
The towel slid out of Peter’s hands to flop onto the floor, discarded once
more.  On his way to the night stand, Peter scooped up and recapped the cream
he’d thoroughly worked into Stiles’s skin, tossing the tube carelessly into the
drawer before digging out a very different tube.
A flush began to blossom across Stiles’s cheeks as Peter returned to the bed
with the bottle of lube.
It wasn’t like it was the first time it had been used or anything, but it was
the first time that someone else was handling it, and that knowledge made
Stiles feel simultaneously aroused and embarrassed, like being caught with a
boner (which was ridiculous because Peter had already seen his boner).
As Peter began unbuttoning his shirt, Stiles dropped his head back onto his
pillow, trying to get a grip on himself while the older man removed his
clothes. He could do this. He’d made out with Peter and sucked his cock
already. This was just the next step. No big deal.
The bed dipped under Peter’s weight as he gracefully knelt on the bed again,
settling between Stiles’s legs. He nudged them further apart with his knees to
give himself more room.
Stiles suppressed a shiver at being so open. Flat on his stomach and splayed
out, it hit Stiles just how vulnerable he was, bare and virtually helpless
underneath someone faster and stronger than him. Peter could do anything he
wanted and Stiles wouldn’t be able to stop him.
Stiles liked it.
A lot.
More than he felt he should, at any rate, considering his mishap with Isaac,
but this wasn’t Isaac hovering over him. This was Peter, the man Stiles wanted
over him, on him and any other way Stiles could have him.
Apparently consent made a difference. Who knew?
A light touch to his hip made Stiles jump slightly in place, drawing him out of
his thoughts.
“You’re quiet. Are you sure you want to do this tonight?” Peter asked,
smoothing his hand over Stiles’s ass, petting, like he couldn’t help touching
Stiles even as he offered the teen an out.
Irritated, Stiles narrowed his eyes over his shoulder at Peter. “You know,
you’re gonna give me blue balls if you keep stopping every five seconds to
treat me like I’m made of glass. You sure you’re not stalling because you don’t
remember how to do this? Which, I don’t even know how that’s possible
considering you just got done snooping through my porn. I didn’t think you’d
need step-by-step instructions, dude.”
“Are you actually trying to provoke me?” Peter asked, his disbelief evident in
his tone and condescendingly cocked eyebrow.  
Suddenly, sharper-than-normal fingernails dragged across the sensitive skin of
Stiles’s ass, belatedly reminding him that this was a werewolf he was baiting,
here. Christ, it was like his sense of self-preservation completely vanished as
soon as his dick got hard.
“Ah, that depends,” Stiles said, mentally backpedaling. He propped himself up
on an elbow, twisting his torso enough so that he could look at Peter without
getting a cramp in his neck. His back ached with the movement, but he ignored
it. If there was anything he’d learned in the past year, it was to keep
potential threats directly in your line of sight (and Peter had a habit of
falling in and out of the ‘potential threat’ category).
“On?” Judging by Peter’s little smirk, the older man knew Stiles was all talk,
but he seemed more amused by it than anything, like Stiles was as intimidating
as a puppy.
Okay, yeah, he kind of was, and a year ago Stiles might have said it with
confidence, but that was before werewolves were real, before his classmates
became murderers, before Stiles himself had helped light someone on fire. Peter
wanted to play the big bad? That was fine—so long as he realized that Stiles
had a habit of falling in and out of the ‘potential threat’ category, too.
“On whether or not or not you’re actually gonna do something about it,” Stiles
tossed out, relying on bravado and his hard-on to cover his remaining
insecurity.
Peter’s smirk became a lot more tooth-y as he slid down the bed a bit,
crouching further and further down over Stiles’s body. “Like this?” he asked,
hovering over Stiles’s ass, then he cupped Stiles’s cheeks, held them apart,
and licked a hot, wet, stripe right across the teen’s exposed pucker.
Stiles’s jaw dropped as he stared at Peter, shocked to the core.
That was— He just—
Okay, it wasn’t like Stiles had never seen a guy get eaten out in a video
before, but it wasn’t something that he really focused on when he thought about
two guys together. Only this wasn’t porn, this was real life—this was his ass
getting licked— and he didn’t know if he liked it or not. Mostly because the
only thoughts floating in his head were ‘Peter just licked my ass’ and ‘thank
god I showered’.
“Um,” Stiles stalled, unsure of what the etiquette was for this. He had a
feeling that ‘thank you’ was a little out of place, though.
“No comeback?” Peter was grinning over the curve of Stiles’s ass.
“Um,” Stiles said again, still trying to string something together, but his
mouth wasn’t cooperating, Peter’s tongue having shocked him into silence.
Peter bent his head down again and this time Stiles was ready for it, wasn’t
surprised by the feeling of the older man’s tongue flicking and circling where
no one but Stiles had ever touched,
It was weird (really weird), but it was good in a way that he was starting to
enjoy as Peter patiently ran his tongue over the tight ring of muscle, teasing
it until Stiles tentatively pushed back, silently asking for more. Peter’s eyes
flashed blue for a brief moment as he made a show of pausing with his tongue
extended, the tip resting dead center on the tight ring of muscle before slowly
pushing forward, in , in, in , in, and Stiles had to look away, burying his
face into his pillow as a shiver ran through him.
He’d played with himself before, curious about how I would feel to be the
‘little spoon’ so to speak, but it had never felt this dirty, this obscene,
when he’d fingered himself. Stiles didn’t know if it was different because it
was Peter doing it or because it was a tongue inside him instead of fingers.
Maybe it was because Peter’s tongue was furling and wriggling in a way that
fingers couldn’t quite mimic.
Not wanting to shove his ass completely against Peter’s face, Stiles settled
for grinding his cock against the bed, trying to get a little closer to the
orgasm that had been tightening up inside him for a while.
Peter’s tongue slid out and the hands holding Stiles open pulled away.
Stiles groaned, aggravated.
What the hell was—
He flinched as a sharp, staccato sound erupted behind him. It took less than a
second for Stiles to match it to his lube bottle as the sound its cap would
make once you dug a thumbnail under it to flick it open. A crisp snap followed
a moment later— the cap being closed.
Goosebumps broke out over Stiles’s arms in the sudden silence of the room. He
didn’t need to look behind him to know the older man had coated his fingers
with the slick, was giving it a chance to warm up on his skin (at least that
was what Stiles always did, anyway, so it was easy enough to picture Peter
doing it).
This is really happening, Stiles thought dazedly, part of him still struggling
with that realization, but as much as he wanted to think that he was ready,
Stiles still clenched up at the return of Peter’s hands on him, his muscles
pulling tight under the older man’s touch.
“If you’ve changed your mind—”
“No!” Stiles interrupted, shooting a glare over his shoulder. “Oh my god, what
the hell do I have to do to get you to just fu—oh my god…” he broke off,
dropping his head back onto the pillow with a dull ‘plop’.
Peter’s finger, buried knuckle-deep inside him, wiggled around, stroking
Stiles’s inner walls in frustratingly tiny movements.
It wasn’t enough—not nearly enough—and the smooth inward push of a second
finger soon after the first made it seem like Peter understood that.
“Better?” Peter chuckled, twisting and scissoring his fingers to loosen up the
tight ring of muscle clamped around him.
“G-getting there,” Stiles bit out, riding out the pain of the stretch. “Guh.”
Sparks went off behind his eyes as Peter brushed against his prostate, making
Stiles clench around the older man’ finger.
“How about now?”
On reflex, Stiles wanted to do something about how fucking pleased Peter
sounded, but before he could come up with something to knock the older man down
a peg, a third finger was pushing in, and Stiles hummed contentedly into his
pillow, feeling slightly drunk on the mixture of pain and pleasure from being
really opened up.  The nervousness in Stiles was quickly vanishing, a wanton
neediness settling into its place. Without conscious thought, Stiles arched
back onto Peter’s fingers, his hand fisting in the covers for leverage in his
splayed out position on the bed.
He whined when Peter pulled out of him entirely again, wanting something in
him, but a crinkling of plastic had him peering over his shoulder curiously,
momentarily sidetracked.
Peter was turning a condom over between his fingers. “Seeing how things have
progressed between us over the past several days, I decided to come prepared,”
he said simply, a question in his clear blue eyes.
Stiles pursed his lip, indecisive.
So many of his fantasies (and favorite pornos) featured guys going bareback,
leaving their partners so full of come that it would just drip from their
partner’ stretched hole.
But…
“Suit up, I guess,” Stiles said with a lopsided shrug, his sensibility winning
out over his dick.
“You sound so thrilled about it,” Peter murmured as he tore open the package
and rolled the condom onto himself.
“Hey, I’m being a good boy and making you use protection, alright? That doesn’t
mean I have to like it,” Stiles groused.
He’d heard sex felt better without it, but he didn’t care to add unprotected
sex to his list of stellar choices this week (the jury was still out on whether
getting this close to Peter was on that list as it was).
“Take a deep breath,” Peter said, holding Stiles’s cheeks apart so he could
press the tip of his cock against the teen’s slick pucker.
Obediently, Stiles drew in a shaky breath and slowly began to release it, only
to huff it out with a bitten-off groan as Peter slowly pushed in, bit by bit.
It hurt.
Even with prep, it hurt and Stiles chewed on his pillow to try to distract
himself from the burn of something larger than Peter’s fingers breaching him.
It didn’t help.
“Easy, Stiles. Relax,” Peter said, pausing about halfway in to run a hand up
and down the teen’s back.
“Easy for you to say. You don’t have a friggin’ freight train knocking on your
back door,” Stiles gritted out from around his mouthful of pillow.
“I think that was a compliment,” Peter chuckled softly. He leaned forward to
drape himself over Stiles’s back, making the teen hiss in pain as the movement
forced him in a little more. ”Relax,” he breathed into Stiles’s ear, nuzzling
it.
Sure, I’ll justignorethe dick in my ass, Stiles thought sardonically, but he
just huffed into his pillow in response.
Seconds drifted by almost unbearably slow while they lay there, breathing, and
the burning stretch became somewhat less as Stiles’s body got used to the
intrusion. Not that it felt any less weird, but there was a lot less ‘oh my
god, get it out of me’ running through his head, at any rate. “Um, are you
planning on moving sometime today?” Stiles asked, exceedingly aware of how
still and quiet the older man was above him. Inhim.
“Maybe.” Peter’s nose brushed against Stiles’s ear one last time before Stiles
felt it drag through his hair down towards his nape, where Peter gently closed
his teeth around Stiles’s skin.
It wasn’t an actual bite, but Stiles could remember when Peter had offered to
really bite him, could remember the glimpse of too sharp teeth inches from
sinking into his flesh, and the fact that Peter couldn’t turn him anymore
didn’t make the gesture any less powerful. Like how a dominant alpha wolf will
grasp a beta pack mate’s scruff to remind it of its place in the pack, to make
it submit.
A shiver ran through Stiles as he, without question, bowed his head forward,
further exposing the back of his neck.
Submitting.
The effect on Peter was instantaneous.
Peter’s teeth tightened a fraction more as a soft growl slipped from between
them, tickling Stiles’s skin with its vibrations. In one swift movement,
Peter’s hips lunged forward and buried the last few inches of his cock inside
Stiles, sending the teen scrambling for a better hold on the covers as the
thrust shoved him up the bed a little.
Panting through the pain of being so full so fast, Stiles laid as still as he
could, waiting for Peter to continue thrusting.
But he didn’t.
Breathing heavily onto Stiles’s neck, Peter remained crouched in place,
completely frozen but for the mild tremor Stiles could feel running through the
man where their bodies were connected, as though Peter was holding himself back
bit only just in order to give Stiles time to adjust.
Caught in a mixture of fear and arousal, Stiles bit his lip against the whimper
that threatened to escape, not wanting to do anything that might set Peter off.
A sigh puffed across Stiles’s skin as Peter finally eased his teeth apart and
rested his forehead against the back Stiles’s head, nuzzling at the teen’s neck
in something of a silent apology.
When the teeth were gone, Stiles’s body relaxed—all over. The burn of Peter’s
first thrust faded to nothing, leaving just the feeling of pressure inside of
Stiles.
He choked down a laugh. It took a near-mauling to get him to relax. He hoped
that wouldn’t always be the case.
His forehead still resting against Stiles, Peter pulled his hips back an inch,
testing, then pushed forward, huffing out a dry laugh when Stiles gave a tiny
groan.
Peter did it again.
And again.
And again.
Each time, he pulled back a little further, slowly lengthening his thrusts.
I’m getting fucked, Stiles thought absently, inwardly marveling at how easily
his body was taking Peter in—at how good it was starting to feel. His muscles
felt like goo and he was glad that he was already lying down on the bed because
he was unsure of how well he’d be holding himself up right now.
He felt Peter’s head lift off of him as the older man pulled away almost
entirely before he paused again. He hovered above Stiles, their bodies only
touching at their legs, on either side of Stiles’s ribs where Peter was braced
on the bed, and Stiles’s ass, where only the tip of Peter’s cock was still
lodged inside.
Confusion soon melted into irritation and Stiles tried to scowl over his
shoulder at the older man.
What the fuck?
His throat had gone dry, so instead Stiles settled for pushing his hips back
with a pointed growl, trying to get Peter to fucking move.
It seemed to work because, a second later, Peter was moving forward again,
driving his cock deep with a lewd smack.
There was no holding back the moan forced from Stiles’s lips—not that he even
tried—as Peter brushed against something inside him that made him tremble.
Prostate, Stiles’s brain helpfully supplied while the rest of his body did its
best to arch back, trying to get Peter in deeper.
“More,” he breathed out, not even bothering to raise his voice. Hell, Peter
would have been able to hear him from across the room.
The bed jostled as Peter rearranged himself before grasping Stiles by the hips,
tugging them up and back until the teen was on all fours.
Stiles’s complaints about being manhandled into the new position died in his
throat when Peter pulled out a little and snapped his hips forward, thrusting
in rougher than he had so far.
And this time, he didn’t stop.
Panting out little moans, Stiles sank down onto his elbows to take the strain
off of his arms and cried out as the change in angle made Peter hit that spot
in him over and over and over…
The sounds he was making couldn’t even be called words, just garbled syllables
mixed with broken whines. He was probably drooling, too, but all he could
concentrate on was the feeling of Peter moving in and out, and thinking ‘don’t
stop, don’t stop,pleasedon’t stop’.
The hands on his hips were clamped around him punishingly hard and, more than
likely, he’d have bruises tomorrow, but Stiles didn’t care. Peter could mark
him from head to toe right now and he wouldn’t care, so long as the man kept
fucking him hard and fast in obscene slaps of skin that seem to echo off the
bedroom walls.
One of Peter’s hands abandoned its hold, reappearing a moment later around
Stiles’s leaking cock, jacking it with a steel-tight grip—and that was it.
Stiles stuttered out a gasp as he finally fell over the edge he’d been skating
for so long, his release spurting all over Peter’s hand and the bed as he
clenched around the cock still moving inside of him. Shuddering from orgasm,
Stiles’s head dropped heavily onto the bed as the rest of him slumped
listlessly in place, his ass held in the air by Peter’s strength alone.
As soon as Stiles had finished, Peter renewed his hold on the teen’s hips,
smearing come across Stiles’s skin as his thrusts grew savage and almost
inhumanly fast before he gave one last deep thrust. His hips twitched
abortively, like he was trying to get every last inch of him inside of Stiles
as he came with a groan, his elongated fingernails digging into (but not
piercing) the teen’s skin.
Through his post-coital haze, Stiles vaguely noticed Peter shifting above him
to brace himself with a hand on the bed, his breathing slightly shaky.
Thankfully, Peter’s death grip on his hips had slacked. The warm, livewire-like
pleasure was quickly ebbing and the beginnings of a pleasant ache were setting
into various places of Stiles’s body (like his hips and ass).
Gently, Peter lowered Stiles to the bed, Stiles’s nose wrinkling distastefully
when his stomach came into contact with his cooling patch of come. “Gross.”
“Give me a second,” Peter groused. He shifted back on the bed and withdrew from
the teen gradually, slowing down at Stiles’s hiss of pain.
Now that his brain wasn’t being distracted by spikes of dopamine, Stiles was
fully aware of the soreness in his ass, particularly at his hole, which gave a
sharp twinge as the thick head of Peter’s cock slid free, catching slightly at
the rim.
He hummed nonsensically, feeling empty in a way he’d never experienced before.
It was weird, weirder even than having a dick in his ass. But he didn’t hate
the sensation.
Peter got off the bed and Stiles rolled to sprawl in his back, mostly to get
out of the come spot, but also so he could see where the older man was going. 
Anxiety bubbled up within Stiles as doubts started to surface. Had he sucked so
much at sex that it drove Peter out of the bed?—
Relief flooded him when he realized that the older man had stopped at the
trashcan beside his desk to carefully slide off the condom, wiping off the
excess mess with tissues.
Oh.
So Stiles,at least, wasn’t driving Peter away.
His initial panic assuaged, Stiles allowed his eyes to wander admiringly over
Peter’s body, completely free of clothing for the first time. He was beautiful.
Not an inch of excess fat showed on his lean, lightly muscled form. What the
hell did he see in Stiles? The way Peter was built, he could pretty much have
his pick of partners—and he chose a scrawny, twitchy teenager?
The residual lube started to ooze out of Stiles, doing little to help how gross
he suddenly felt in comparison. He closed his splayed legs, hoping to hide the
fact that he was having anal seepage, and the movement ended up forcing out
more with a horribly wet pfft.
Stiles’s face went hot with embarrassment. Oh, god, kill me now, he thought
when Peter’s eyes flicked up from where he was dabbing at his flagging
erection.  
An amused little smirk tugged at the older man’s lips as he grabbed a few more
tissues and made his way back towards the bed. “Don’t worry,” Peter said,
holding out the tissues, “that’s normal.”
Skeptical, Stiles wiped at the smears on his stomach before getting the nerve
to do the same to his ass, resignedly taking care of this new kind of mess.
Gross. “Your normal or my normal?”
Bending down to retrieve the towel again, Peter actually snorted at him.
“Everyone’s normal. Even porn stars. They just get to edit to make people
happy.” He laid the towel over the wet spot and got in the bed next to Stiles,
propping himself up on an elbow. “You don’t actually think they do hours-long
gangbangs without breaks and adding more lube, do you?”
“Well, no, but it’s not like I want to watch them just sit there in a robe and
drink coffee. It’s porn for a reason,” Stiles pointed out.
That earned him an eye roll.
                                                                            
Wadding up the soiled tissues as best he could without looking (he didn’t want
to know, he really didn’t want to know), Stiles tossed them to the floor on his
side of the bed, somewhat mollified that Peter wasn’t treating him like a
freak.
The irony wasn’t lost on him.
Settling onto his back, Stiles was finally able to take stock of himself. Oh
yeah, his hips were definitely bruising up. Purplish-blue finger marks had
begun to wrap around the side of his hips and fan out towards his abdomen.
Peter seemed to take notice of them, too, stretching out a hand to gently trace
them.
The satisfied smile on the man’s face pretty much confirmed Stiles’s previous
suspicions. “So you like marking me, huh?”
“You liked it,” Peter said matter-of-factly, not even glancing up from admiring
his handiwork. It wasn’t a denial, though.
Stiles didn’t bother to fight him on the subject (because he had liked it, not
because the sex was kind of making him sleepy).
Casting his eyes around the room, his mind wandering, Stiles noticed the time
on his alarm clock (placed far enough away that Stiles would have to actually
get out of bed just to turn it off). It was almost six o’clock.
Crap. He hadn’t even started dinner yet.
But the bed was warm and there was a gorgeous naked werewolf in it that was
willing to have sex with him. Comparatively, the prospect of having to cook
didn’t measure up by half.
A hiss left his lips when Peter pressed his thumb more firmly into a
particularly dark mark on his hip. Stiles’s flaccid cock twitched hopefully at
the mini shock of pain. The masochist.
Peter noticed.
“Round two?” Stiles chuckled nervously, only half kidding.
The hungry leer Peter returned, however, banished any thoughts of leaving the
bed for a good long while. Thank god there were still leftovers.
 
Chapter End Notes
     And there's the loving people have been aching for for a while. =)
     Again, sorry it took so long, but life sucks and won't pay me to sit
     at home and write porn. *sighs* Anywho, same ol' rigamarole: comments
     and criticisms welcome. Follow me on tumblr if the spirit moves you:
     collared-fantasies.tumblr.com.
***** Chapter 11 *****
Chapter Summary
     Stiles starts to deal with the new friction in his life.
Chapter Notes
     I know, it's been *far* too long since my last update. Most of the
     blame can be place on my school endeavors, but the rest is deservedly
     mine. I don't foresee many more chapters after this one, but we'll
     see how inspiration strikes. I'll try to update more and more
     frequently on this and my other works now that I'm more or less free
     (both school-wise and romantically) for the summer. Apologies and
     regrets all around. You all know I love you.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
The waistband of his jeans was digging into his bruised skin and his gait was
noticeably stiff, but neither was enough to knock the thousand-watt smile off
of Stiles’s face as he awkwardly made his way from his parking spot and up the
school walkway. He earned a few odd looks including a second, considering
glance from Lydia, and he couldn’t care less.
One less virgin at Beacon Hills High, Stiles thought, his hips swaying with a
slight swagger.
Well, it was less of a swagger and more of a cautious mosey because he was
reminded of the soreness in his ass with every step, but on any other day it
would have been a swagger.
“Hey!”
Stiles looked back at the shout just as Scott caught up with him, tapping him
on the shoulder.
“Hey—ah,” Scott faltered, taking in Stiles’s grin as well as the new clusters
of bruises that Peter had enthusiastically raised. “So I guess things got
better for you after school yesterday?” he asked apprehensively.
“Oh yeah. Like, astronomically better,” Stiles chirped cheerfully as he used
the handrail to help drag himself up the steps to the school entrance.
It was true. He did feel better. Despite the aches and pains Stiles had, they
were still the result of sex. With another person. It wasn’t like he was a
whole new person or anything (he wasn’t), but now he carried himself with more
confidence, his pride bolstered by the idea that someone actually found him
desirable, worth touching over and over like Peter had.
It was…kind of heady.
“Really? Cuz you’re not walking like it went better.” Scott patiently slowed to
keep pace with Stiles as they made their way through the halls towards their
lockers.
“What, this?” Stiles waved a hand at himself. “Nah, this is the aftermath of
multiple rounds of mind-blowingly hot sex last night—”
“Shh,” Scott hissed as they passed a cluster of teachers, but they were
engrossed in their own conversation.
“What? You said I could have bragging rights. This is my time, Scott.” Hell,
he’d be running up and down the halls, crowing his de-virginized status at the
top of his lings if he didn’t think he’d get hauled into the principal’s office
for misconduct.
“Yeah, I know. You can tell me anything you want,” Scott whispered pacifyingly,
checking over his shoulder for eavesdroppers as he steered Stiles to his locker
with a hand on his back. “I just think you should wait until no one’s around
that’ll…y’know… call the cops for child molestation.”
Stiles rolled his eyes, pausing with his hand on the combination lock of his
locker. “Dude, I’ll be seventeen in less than a year. And if you look up the
ages of the other 49 states’ age of consent, California is a total prude by
comparison.” He spun the dial left, right, left again, and popped open the
lock, carefully swinging the battered metal door open in case the haphazardly
stacked books and folders decided to make a break for it. “Besides, almost
everyone think’s Peter’s dead. Who’s gonna go looking for a dead guy to
arrest?” he asked, aware of how hypocritical his own nonchalance was after
harping on Peter just days earlier for fluffing off potential danger.
“What?” Scott’s attention snapped away from where he’d been scanning the
thickening traffic in the hall. “Who else knows Peter died?”
“Besides those of us who were there that night and the Argent clan? No one,”
Stiles said. “But Derek’s trying to get a death certificate for his missing
comatose uncle so it’s not like Peter’s been strolling around town, risking
someone recognizing him.”
Not that Stiles was aware of, anyway.
Stiles dug through the mess of his locker for his first period things,
wondering if it even mattered that Peter laid low. People who knew him would
expect him to be burned, right? But it was better to be safe than sorry, he
supposed.
Still looking unconvinced, Scott shrugged, readjusting the strap of the
backpack hanging off his shoulder. “Fine, just…tell me you’ll be careful,
alright? Especially with all the…neck stuff. It looks like you got attacked by
a vampire? What did your dad say when he saw ‘em?”
Quickly, Stiles feigned interest in sorting a mass of loose papers. “Ah,
well…he definitely doesn’t think it was a vampire,” he said, squinting at the
topmost sheet even though he really wasn’t taking in a single word of it. Crap,
he’d hoped to avoid this subject.
“Okay,” Scott said, sounding slightly confused. “So what does he think? I mean,
you didn’t actually tell him who you’re...doing things with, did you?”
The absurdity of the question nearly made Stiles laugh. “Yeah, Scott, I told my
dad that I’m sleeping with a guy twice my age, who just so happens to be the
murderer who nearly stressed him back into a bottle of Jack. And since that
wasn’t enough to give him a heart attack, I decided to tell him about
werewolves, kanimas, and the family of hunters who recently moved into town.”
Stiles scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Are you insane? I couldn’t tell him the
truth—not without condemning myself to a lifetime of sneaking out through my
bedroom window.”
He threw an incredulous look over his shoulder at Scott as he shoved the jumble
of papers in his hand back into his locker, giving up on the charade of being
interested in them. “You need to get into your locker?” Stiles asked, hefting
his backpack further onto his shoulder and shifting his hold on the books in
his arms so that everything wouldn’t tumble to the floor.
“Wha— no” Scott blinked, looking a little lost. The change in subject seemed to
throw him, but it didn’t take more than a few seconds for him to jump back on
track, moving closer to Stiles’s side to lessen the risk of being overheard.
“So? What did you tell him?”
Words failing him, Stiles glanced around for a distraction that wasn’t there.
Crap. “Uh, well, I didn’t really say that much,” he stalled, edging into the
throng of students on their way to class.
They were cutting it a little close to the start of first period. Maybe if he
could just get to the classroom, then maybe—
“What do you mean?” Scott had squeezed his way through to Stiles’s side and
looked like he was going to stay there. “There’s no way he’d have let you go
that easy.”
“Why do you want to know?” Stiles asked, looking askance at his friend. This
was like trying to get a bone away from a dog that wouldn’t. Let. It. Go. He
never would have dreamed that Scott would be so interested in how Stiles was
maintaining a low profile with all of this, but naturally the universe set out
to prove him wrong. Why couldn’t he catch a break?
“Because if your excuse was good enough to get past your dad, then my mom would
totally have to eat something like that up. Come on, please? In case I have to
fly something under my mom’s radar in the future?”
Dark, pleading puppy-eyes were leveled his way and Stiles sighed, knowing how
much he was about to disappoint (at the very least). “I didn’t really have to
say much because he already thought it was you,” he forced out quickly, as
though talking faster would outrun the awkwardness of the conversation Stiles
could feel coming.
Scott’s face scrunched up for a moment before it slackened with horrified
comprehension.
Moving just a hair too fast for a normal human, he grabbed Stiles by the arm
and pulled him to the nearest empty corner, ignoring how Stiles squawked
indignantly as he was knocked against several students along the way. “He
thought it was me? That we’re—” Scott broke off, making a weird distorted hand
gesture instead of finishing his sentence.
“If that’s supposed to be sign language for screwing each other’s brains out,
then yes, that’s exactly what he thinks,” Stiles said wryly, raking his fingers
nervously over the back of his head.
Scott’s eyes went comically wide, his mouth opening and closing like a
goldfish’s before he finally found words. “And you didn’t say no? Seriously?
Seriously?”
“What? I couldn’t tell him the truth about Peter. And when he started talking
about you, I just sort of…went with it,” Stiles winced. “I panicked, okay? I’m
sorry,” he pleaded. “It’ll just be until…until…”
He floundered. Until when?
Apparently, Scott had the same idea. “Until when?” Scott prompted critically,
his brows raised expectantly.
Stiles cringed. “Would you consider waiting until after graduation?” He didn’t
even need to hear Scott’s answer to know that wasn’t in the realm of
possibility.
“You want me to pretend to be your boyfriend for two years? What the hell are
thinking?” Scott asked, looking at Stiles like he had just grown a second head.
“I don’t know,” Stiles hissed, gesturing wildly in frustration. “You keep
asking me questions as if I have answers to them, which I don’t, because I
didn’t exactly plan this, okay?” He doubted anyone could plan for Peter.
“Yeah, well, if you had planned it, I’d be a lot more concerned about you than
I am right now,” Scott muttered, casting an eye around before he checked the
time on his phone. “We need to get to class soon, dude.”
Annoyance flared within Stiles. Class could wait. This couldn’t, or else he
wouldn’t be able to concentrate for the next hour. “Yeah, but can you cover for
me at least until this year’s out? I know you don’t like it, but I’m begging
you, Scott. We can figure it out when summer break starts. I just…I need to not
be worrying about something this”–stupid—“small with finals coming up.”
It felt like his heart was pounding in his throat as Scott leveled a measuring
stare at him.
“Fine,” Scott finally said, and Stiles nearly fell over from the sudden rush of
relief. “But on one condition.”
“Anything, name it,” Stiles said swiftly, a grin stretching across his face as
he practically bounced on his toes in excitement, glad to be able to push aside
this complication for another week or two.
“You’re gonna help me study for finals next week for like a minimum of three
hours a night,” Scott said firmly, crossing his arms over his chest.
Stiles’s grin faltered. “Three hours a night? What, like every night?” Already,
he’d been mentally building a list of things he wanted to try out with Peter,
wondering if some of the things he had come across in porn felt as good as the
stars made them sound of if they were just as awkward as they looked. If he had
to account for Scott’s study time on top of his house duties, then fitting in
rounds of marathon sex was going to be difficult.
“Every night,” Scott affirmed. “Both our grades have taken a hit with
everything that’s happened in the past year, and I don’t know about you, but I
don’t want to be held back so, yeah, we’re gonna do this. Booty calls can
wait.” He looked at Stiles expectantly. “What’s it gonna be?”
Easy for you to say, you’re not getting any,” Stiles thought bitterly,
hesitating for a few seconds before his shoulders slumped in defeat. “Fine,” he
sighed, tipping his head back to thump against the wall behind him. He scowled
at Scott’s triumphant smirk. “But the rating on my sex-capade recaps is getting
moved up from NC-17 to R, just so you know.”
Scott didn’t even bat an eye at the threat. “I can handle it.”
“Oh really?”
“Yeah,” Scott laughed, tugging Stiles forward into the thinning stream of
students, “now come on, honey, or we’ll be late for class.”
Despite himself, Stiles laughed under his breath, feeling unbelievably grateful
that he still had his best friend at his side.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Hours later, after latently trying to absorb as much information as he could
before finals week, Stiles once again found himself trudging up the stairs to
his bedroom, dragging his battered backpack behind him.
Scott had been awesome enough to order pizza, but the free food had been the
highlight of the night (because memorizing math equations, history dates, and
chemistry formulas was about as thrilling as it sounded).
His dad had been fine—though skeptic–about him and Scott “studying” together
(Stiles could hear the air quotes in his dad’s voice over the phone, but hey,
they wouldn’t be in Stiles’s house so no “rule-breaking”). A tiny part of him
felt guilty about not bringing his dad anything to eat, leaving him to fend for
himself, which would probably be something greasy and heart-stopping, but Coach
had kept the whole lacrosse team late with suicide runs after school, which had
pushed Scott and Stiles’s study plans back by an hour by the time they’d
finished their showers and gathered all the equipment back up. And then there
hadn’t really been time to make a meal run for his dad.
Stiles hadn’t been happy.
He supposed that’s why Scott had offered to buy diner. At least his friend now
had a firm handle on controlling his urges on the night of a full moon
otherwise Stiles would have been torn apart as fast as their pizza had been.
Nearing his bedroom door, a spark of hopefulness sprang up inside of Stiles
through his exhaustion. Maybe he’d find Peter at his computer, snooping through
his porn again even though Stiles had texted the older man that he would be
busy tonight.
That hope was what kept him from jumping back when he opened his bedroom door.
Well, he’d been partly right in his anticipation, only the wrong Hale was
sitting in his desk chair. And in retrospect, he probably should have seen this
coming.
“Y’know, normal people at least bother to call if they’re coming over,” Stiles
said, doing his best to affect an air of annoyance, even though Derek’s
unwavering stony stare was giving him the creeps.
Like, seriously, blink already.
“Normal people don’t actively get involved with murdering psychopaths,” Derek
retorted, watching Stiles’s face closely.
For what, Stiles wasn’t sure.
He raised his brows at Derek mockingly. “Is this supposed to be an
intervention? Because you’re gonna need a lot more people to make it anywhere
near effective. Especially with the whole ‘Kill the kanima’ campaign that you
headed for the past month or two. But let me guess—that was different.”
He crossed over to his bed, feeling Derek’s eyes follow him as he dropped his
backpack on the floor along the way.
Derek, to his credit, didn’t bother to rebuke him. “You don’t know what he’s
capable of. What he could do to you.”
“I can do some damage, too,” Stiles said defensively. Derek snorted. “Hey,
remember that night at the rave? I worked some serious anti-supernatural mojo.
I can take care of myself,” Stiles boasted.
The single brow Derek arched showed just how unconvinced the alpha was.
Stiles’s pride shrank a little. “If this is because I’m human and he’s not,
then save it, alright?” he sighed. “Scott’s been a werewolf for, like, a second
in comparison, and he’s never hurt Allison when they were…together.” He
gestured, but Derek seemed to get the point, if his bored eye roll was anything
to go by. “I’m not worried about his self-control.”
He really wasn’t. Sometimes, Peter had more control than he really cared for.
Granted, that line of thought might stem from Stiles being new to other people
touching him.
“I’m not either,” Derek said, showing (in Stiles’s opinion) far more teeth than
absolutely necessary. “Which is why you should be worried. Because, if he does
hurt you, it won’t be because he didn’t know his own strength or got careless.
It’ll be because he meant to.”
An uncomfortable squirming feeling settled in Stiles’s stomach as he weighed
Derek’s words.
It wasn’t like the idea hadn’t occurred to him. Stiles had even addressed his
concerns with Peter a few days ago. But the older man’s outright dismissal had
set him at ease, or had at least pushed his doubts away for the moment. Until
now, as they threatened to choke him.
“Do you think that’s what he’s doing?” Stiles managed to force out, the words
warbling slightly. “So he can get close enough to really hurt me?”
Human as he was, Stiles had no way to know if Peter had been telling the truth,
couldn’t hone in on his heartbeat and listen for any irregular palpitations.
The same went for Derek, too, but the fact that he seemed to be here out of
some weird sense of concern almost made Stiles want to believe what Derek had
to say (whatever his bias was).
Surprisingly, Derek seemed to hesitate, a touch of uncertainty in his
expression before it closed off, becoming pinched with anger, his lips pursed
in a thin line—in other words, his normal, constipated look of aggravation. “I
don’t know,” he admitted. “If he had approached you instead of the other way
around, I’d be more convinced but…” He trailed off with a huff, shaking his
head. “I still think this benefits him somehow. He doesn’t do anything for
free.”
Like that was a newsflash.
Stiles snorted derisively, “Yeah, well, he’s not the only one getting benefits
here.” Derek looked at him like he was brain damaged. “What? Dude, your uncle
is hot. And the sex, oh my god—hey, what are you doing?” Stiles broke off when
Derek got up from the desk chair.
“I don’t need to hear this,” he said dismissively, shoving his hand into the
pockets of his leather jacket.
Satisfaction curled through Stiles at having made the alpha uncomfortable. It
wasn’t often that he ruffled the alpha’s proverbial feathers, so Stiles counted
it as an accomplishment.
The discomfort must have been enough to tick Derek off because a moment after
getting to his feet, he scowled and began making his way towards Stiles’s
window, which was still open from when Derek had entered through it.
“What, leaving so soon?” Stiles called after him, crossing his arms in front of
his chest. It kind of pissed him off that Derek thought he could just break
into his home, stick his nose in and then just take off like that.
“You aren’t taking this seriously so why should I stand here when I’m clearly
just preaching to the deaf?” Derek asked exasperatedly over his shoulder.
The alpha had one foot on the window sill poised to launch himself outside by
the time Stiles had crossed the room and grasped Derek’s shoulder to keep him
inside. The move worked, making Derek pause, but a pointed glance at Stiles’s
hand had the teen hastily retreating a few paces (in case the alpha was in a
maiming mood).
“You don’t think I’m taking this seriously?” Stiles laughed incredulously.
“I’ve taken this whole werewolf thing more seriously than even Scott has, okay?
From like the beginning. I get that if everything goes to shit then I’m the one
that’ll catch it in the face, but I don’t have a set of teeth or claws what I
can just pop out at a moment’s notice and nothing you say could possibly make
me any more aware of that. So beyond carrying around a little baggie of
mountain ash or a gun with wolfsbane-laced bullets, I don’t know what you want
me to do to make you feel better,” Stiles hissed, gesturing violently, using
the movement to vent some of his frustration because throwing a punch at an
alpha werewolf wasn’t a bright idea.
Derek was so quick to barge in and throw his opinions around, yet didn’t stop
to consider the fact that Stiles wasn’t exactly equipped to handle potentially
dangerous situations in the same way that Derek was. Not that it stopped Stiles
from walking into them anyway. And it wasn’t going to stop him from doing what
he wanted—even if that included Peter.
“Breaking things off isn’t an option?” Derek asked dryly.
All at once, the wind seemed to go out of Stiles’s sails.
Breaking things off with Peter?
As real as the possibility was that Stiles could end up hurt (physically being
just as likely as emotionally), the idea of telling the Peter to get lost made
Stiles’s stomach roll uncomfortably, his heart to quicken with a surge of
possessiveness.
“Maybe I don’t want it to be,” he muttered, embarrassed by how attached to the
older man he seemed to have become in less than a week. Not that he really
minded. It felt nice to have someone who wanted him (and could protect him, if
need be). Call him stubborn, but Stiles didn’t want to break things off just
because some people didn’t like his choice of partners. If being with Peter was
a mistake, then let Stiles discover that for himself.
How the hell else was he supposed to learn?
His determination must have shown on his face because Derek huffed softly under
his breath, shaking his head. “Fine. But it wouldn’t hurt to keep something on
you just in case. A back-up plan. I’ll be checking you for it when I see you
Saturday.”
“Whoa, Saturday? What’s on Saturday?” Stiles asked, frowning. The only plan he
had for this weekend was to study his ass off with Scott. Had he forgotten
something?
Confusion registered on Derek’s face before it was replaced by a dark scowl,
his hand clenching around the window sill hard enough to make the wood creak.
“Nothing,” he said dismissively as he pulled out his phone and sent a quick
text. “Seriously, though, get yourself some protection. Against Peter,” he
rushed to clarify, “And don’t come crying to me if he breaks your heart.”
Before Stiles could do more than sputter indignantly about being treated like
some love-sick girl with a stupid crush, Derek launched himself out of the room
and into the air, his body going into a graceful tuck-and-roll then landing on
all fours before striding off towards the nearby tree line, as though he hadn’t
just defied the laws of physics.
Unbelievable,Stiles thought to himself as he slammed the window down. Stiles
thought about having his window sills replaced with ones made of mountain ash,
but then trashed the idea.
Peter wouldn’t be able to get in if he did that.
So much for the nuisance deterrent. Werewolves…
Late as it was, he doubted that Peter would bother to come over, what with the
full moon tonight and Stiles having school in the morning. His dick twitched,
still optimistic of having Peter’s hand, mouth—anything— on it, despite the
next-to-zero chance of getting any action tonight.
Tired and fed up, Stiles did the bare minimum to get ready for bed, stripping
down to his shirt and boxers before climbing into bed, his hand drawing out his
cock before his head had even hit the pillow. He might be stuck with Thumbelina
and her four ladies in waiting to help him out tonight, but he had more than
enough “jo” material built up over the past few days to manage. In fact, he
spilled all over himself in less than ten minutes to the sharp memory of Peter
grinding against him in the woods.
After he had sopped up the mess on his belly with a few tissues, lethargy
finally sank its claws into Stiles and he absently pulled up his boxers just as
he nodded off, the covers half-rucked up around his body.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
After what felt like a few minutes (yet could just as easily have been hours),
Stiles found himself dragged out of a sound sleep when the mattress under him
lurched.
Panicked, he flailed wildly, his hands hitting something solid that he couldn’t
see since his eyes were slow to adjust to the darkness of the room. Then, his
wrists were grabbed and forced to the mattress near his head, pinning him in
place.
A heavy pressure settled on his hips and, after several quick blinks, he
realized it was Peter straddling him, recognizing the older man by the blue
burn of his eyes and his woodsy scent before Stiles could make out the rest of
his face.
“What the he—”
“Why was he here,” Peter hissed, cutting off Stiles’s tirade before the teen
could get any steam built up.
He?
“What are you talking about? He who?” Stiles stammered, shock still coursing
through him from the rude awakening.
What the fuck?
“Derek. He was here,” Peter enunciated slowly, as though Stiles wouldn’t be
able to understand if he talked any faster. “Why?”
The hands around Stiles’s wrists squeezed a fraction tighter, prompting a
stream of words to fly out of his mouth. “Wha–Derek? I dunno, he was here when
I got back from Scott’s. Tried to go all ‘Obi Wan Kenobi’ on me before he
turned into a brick wall and left—” He fell silent as the fingers squeezed
again and this time it was enough to cut off circulation, jamming the small
bones in his wrists together (not enough to hurt, but enough to stir a flicker
of fear in Stiles, who was held down by someone who could snap him like a
twig).
Hysterically, he wondered how pissed Derek was going to be when he found out
that Stiles hadn’t started making an anti-werewolf kit the moment the alpha had
left. Because Stiles himself was wondering if he needed one right now.
Peter snarled. “His scent is all over this room. On you. On this,” he released
one of Stiles’s wrists to roughly cup the teen through his boxers.
Stiles’s body was at odds with the rest of him, responding to Peter’s hand on
his dick while mentally he oscillated between fear and confusion, worried by
the intensity in the older man’s voice.
“H-hey, I don’t know what you’re talking about, okay? We didn’t do anything. He
didn’t touch—“ he broke off as memory struck him, of him grabbing Derek’s
shoulder to keep the alpha from jumping out of the window, of climbing into bed
not long after Derek had left and jacked himself off, stroking himself with his
dominant hand, the hand he’d touched Derek with... “Dude, there’s been a huge
misunderstanding—”
“The only misunderstanding,” Peter interrupted angrily, his voice barely above
a growl, “is Derek thinking that he can take what isn’t his.”
A loud tearing of fabric rent the air and then Stiles felt slightly cooler
around his genitals before his brain caught up with the fact that Peter had
just ripped his boxers open.
A strong hand gripped Stiles’s cock and he gasped, bucking up into the touch,
his body not arguing in the slightest, but the dark possessiveness of the older
man was throwing the teen for a loop, making him reach out with his free hand
for Peter’s wrist, panting out a breathless “wait”. He was unable to do much
more with his other hand, still pinned to the bed above him.
But Peter ignored him (and there was almost no chance that Peter hadn’t heard
him), instead choosing to brace himself over Stiles’s body, his ice-blue eyes
bright in the darkness. “You’re mine. No one else’s. Mine.” And with that, he
dove forward to lick his way past Stiles’s slack lips, essentially taking
kisses, not seeming to care whether or not Stiles responded.
A particularly harsh nip to Stiles’s bottom lip made the teen inhale sharply
and then Peter was gone, finally releasing his hold on Stiles’s arm so that he
could move further down on the bed. He glanced up hungrily as he pinned the
teen’s hips down just before he bent his head to take most of Stiles’s dripping
cock into his mouth in one hot, wet slide.
Stiles choked out a groan, the sudden pressure enveloping him almost
overwhelming. A couple days ago, when they had messed around after the
“incident” with Isaac in the forest, Peter had carefully sucked Stiles off
while coaching the teen on how to give pleasure while receiving it. He had been
gentle—teasing, even—but it was like Peter was a different person now, sucking
and swallowing around him, his pace fast and aggressive, like he was trying to
get Stiles off as quickly as he possibly could.
Which, if that was the older man’s goal, he was going about it rather
effectively.
Stiles couldn’t buck up into Peter’s mouth with the unnaturally strong grip on
his hips, but his hands were free now and able to grasp the short crop of
Peter’s hair. He still didn’t have any control over Peter’s rhythm (the older
man was much too strong for that), but being able to viciously tug on the dark
strands gave Stiles satisfaction from defying Peter in some small way, showing
the older man that he wasn’t just going to lie there and takeit.
Seemingly goaded, Peter pulled off long enough to wet two of his fingers before
recapturing Stiles’s cock with his mouth, bobbing up and down as he prodded at
the teen’s tight pucker, pressing one in and in, crooking it to stroke against
the sensitive gland that made Stiles cry out and leak into Peter’s demanding
mouth.
A second moistened finger slid in soon after, barely wet enough to feel
comfortable, but then it too was being used to sporadically brush against the
teen’s prostate, sending jolts of pleasure through Stiles, who was muttering a
constant stream of gibberish and profanity as the fingers began fucking their
way in and out, always managing to re-find his happy spot with every other
thrust.
In a span of five minutes (which felt much longer under the onslaught), Stiles
was shooting his release down Peter’s throat, quaking and gasping as the older
man swallowed around him again and again until the teen was too sensitive to
stand it, making Stiles push weakly at Peter’s forehead to get him to stop.
Thankfully, the older man relented, letting Stiles’s spit-slicked cock slip out
of his mouth, looking immensely pleased with himself.
Limp and overloaded, Stiles was dimly aware of Peter moving off him and the
bed, but by the time he could shake off some of the fuzziness in his mind, the
older man had vanished as quietly as he’d come, leaving nothing but an open
window and Stiles’s tattered clothing to show that he’d been there.
Chapter End Notes
     More upset/friction to come (and more smut, if I can wrangle it ^_-).
     Comments and criticisms welcome. Follow at collared-
     fantasies.tumblr.com if you wish.
End Notes
     Comments and criticisms welcome! Thank you for reading.
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