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He drove for hours to get to the target, turning the knob between radio stations in the old, throwaway car he bought in cash for one trip only. His gloved fingers paused when the fist-pumping rhythm, scorching guitar, and sneering growl of “Rebel Yell” came blaring out of the speakers and he put his hand back on the steering wheel, drumming along and shimmying his shoulders. Apparently, they were playing alternating sets because the next two tracks were Billy Idol too.
Grinning and even more hyped he arrived at his destination after nightfall, a tiny community on the Northern California coast called Albion. He made the final approach to an isolated McMansion on the outskirts, its resident reclusive and paranoid. Too paranoid to trust others with his security, apparently, relying only on his guard dogs and technology.
Not paranoid enough, he thought, smirking. After parking the car out of view he climbed out and took off his black hoodie, strapped on a bulletproof vest, and then put it back on again, zipping it up high. This was his tactical hoodie, it had several custom compartments, including a passthrough pocket for his handgun and a sheath on the back for his bat.
Stiles tranq’d the quartet of Dobermans from afar with night vision goggles and dropped the dart gun to be collected later or left behind as circumstances permitted. It wouldn’t led back to him. He slipped inside with a hacked door code, the gentle beeping hopefully not yet alerting his quarry. Carefully, he made his way through the house, avoiding or disengaging a series of booby traps that he used the man’s own surveillance cameras to memorize.
He was almost to the wing with the sleeping quarters when suddenly an alarm that sounded like the apocalypse itself started going off. What the entire fuck? He knew he hadn’t messed anything up. Moments later it blessedly cut off again, but then he heard a roar of pain behind him as he sprinted down the hall and realized he wasn’t the only one breaking in tonight. Of all the dumb fucking luck.
Stiles turned and saw a man rushing toward him, shouting, and he sped up. The guy seemed to move unnaturally fast and gave the distinct impression of wanting to tear him apart. Yeah no, buddy.
He jumped a trip wire and then threw himself to the right, ducking under another sensor. From the sounds of gunfire behind him his pursuer hadn’t bothered to pay attention to his maneuvers, but must’ve been one lucky son-of-a-bitch because the footsteps kept coming, if somewhat slower.
Reaching the end of the hall, Stiles quickly triggered a thick metal door to descend, which slammed down between them before the mystery mission-crasher could get through. There was a narrow strip of some transparent bulletproof material in the otherwise solid steel door and he met the shadowed eyes of the man cursing him on the other side, an odd reflection making them seem bright blue for a moment. Seconds passed entranced as they stared, but then he shook himself out of it.
“Sorry, my guy. This is my party and you weren’t invited.”
There was an answering thud near his head and more muffled cursing and noises of frustration.
“If you let him get away I’m going to tear your throat out,” the man threatened. See? He knew the guy was a ripper.
Stiles scoffed. “You’re the one who fucked this up, asshole.” He turned away muttering, “Goddamn Leroy Jenkins over here.”
Luckily, he always had a backup plan, in this case the code to the panic room as well. That’s what too many simulations and drills would get you.
Humming softly, he withdrew his gun and prepared to go inside. Here she comes now, sayin’ Mony Mony. Shoot ‘em down, turn around, come on Mony.
When their eyes met again over what was now a mangled corpse it was…something at first sight. Well, technically, it was like, third sight, but this was his first time actually getting a good look at the guy. And vice versa from the way those light colored eyes were currently tracking up and down his body.
The man was older, but not yet middle-aged — perhaps 35 or so — and had impeccable style. Upscale business casual threads in blues and grays with a belt and shoes in an orange-brown for color.Stiles had no penchant for it himself, but could appreciate it all the same. He noted some red leaking through the navy blazer. The man didn’t seem concerned though, so it must’ve been a graze.
Stiles straightened up and wiped the blood spatter from his face. The mark had gotten off a couple shots, one going wide and the other embedding in the side of his vest. He’d shot the man’s right arm, causing the revolver to fall to the floor, and followed up with another one high on his leg. Then it’d been bat time.
This was personal, after all. The motherfucker — a former deputy — almost killed his father. Did kill innocent bystanders. Heather. He gave the piece of shit a last kick to the head and flipped him over.
“Darling, you look so good in red,” the man purred.
If it were anyone else Stiles would’ve hefted his still dripping bat in warning, but instead he found himself grinning like an idiot and felt himself flush more than from his recent exertion.
“I bet you say that to all the boys,” he said, cleaning his favorite weapon on the back of the dead man’s shirt before pulling out a bag from his hoodie, wrapping it up, and sliding it back in its sheath.
Then he unlocked a second door and backed away into the night, not taking his eyes off the man watching his every move until he had to disarm another trap in the side yard.
The next time they met he’d been the one to arrive to a murder in progress. And how. Stiles had seen a lot in his 21 years — especially the last two or so spent ever further outside of the law — but he never expected to come face to face with a hulking beast with wicked claws and ginormous fangs in a freaky, furry face. Furry everything.
He stood there stunned for several moments, gun pointed at the creature, but not firing as it finished off the lowlife he came to kill. It was disgusting, but impressive.
When it was done the beast looked at him, but made no move to attack. Then it started to change, the sight of flesh rippling and the sound of bones reforming quite disturbing really. Lastly, he watched as the fur receded and it became a man, the man, that he encountered when he took care of Haigh.
The man he couldn’t stop thinking about and kicked himself for not getting any information that he could’ve used to track him down. To find out more about him. Who he was and what he was about. If he’d liked to get naked sometime.
Speaking of which, he hadn’t really noticed before what with the very distracting eviscerating going on, but most of the beast man’s clothes had torn in his prior transformation, only scrapes of pants hiding his junk almost like a pair of extra ripped Daisy Dukes. Stiles had no qualms about checking him out and was tickled when he preened and set a hand on his hip.
“So we meet again, sweetheart. Like what you see?”
Always with the endearments, this guy. Monster guy. Werewolf, he supposed. It was obvious that he did like it, but that didn’t mean he was going to say so out loud. Stiles raised an eyebrow and changed the subject.
“Should we be comparing lists or something?”
There was an amused snort. “Perhaps.”
They stood around awkwardly for a few moments and then Stiles went to get a closer look at the thoroughly shredded Body Formerly Known As Todd.
“You’re not going to ask?” the werewolf blurted.
There was surprise and incredulity in his voice. And was that a hint of disappointment? Stiles bet he had a whole spiel prepared. He smirked.
“About what? You’re a guy who turns into a wolf-bear creature. And? Do you have another trick up your sleeve? Some fascinating hobby?”
The werewolf erupted into a full-body laugh, mouth open and eyes sparkling — Stiles was close enough now to see that they were blue — and he was pleased to elicit such a response. He wanted to hear that sound again.
“Eh, that’s about it unless you consider my day job interesting?”
“Which is…?”
“I’m a rather sought after lawyer.”
“Not in the slightest,” Stiles replied, grinning.
“Ouch, you wound me. I bet you’ll change your tune when you need my help getting out of jail and a long prison sentence.”
“Pbbt, your furry ass will be right there beside me the way things are going.” Which brought him back to the subject at hand. Or foot. “So about that list. Why were you after the likes of this scumbag?” Stiles nudged the body with his shoe.
He listened as werewolf explained that Todd here had been working with a group of Hunters — how original — that attacked supernatural creatures even when they’d done nothing wrong. A group that had killed several members of his family, only himself and his nieces and nephew surviving. That Haigh had helped to cover it up before moving and joining the force in Beacon Hills, where he took part — both directly and indirectly — in the deaths of multiple supernaturals and humans alike.
Stiles then he gave his own reasons for going after the same targets. His father’s near death and the indiscriminate killing of his childhood friend Heather and other folks who were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Stiles studied the man in front of him (he was definitely a man regardless of whatever else he was) and mentioned a few more names he was hoping to cross off, observing a reaction to one of them.
“Well, it sounds like a bunch of your enemies are my enemies.”
“Does that make us friends?” the werewolf asked, words laden with seductive promise.
Stiles put his right hand out flat and rotated his forearm back and forth. “Perhaps.” He winked and retrieved his latest burner phone.
They decided to meet up a few hours later about a 100 miles away at a brewpub in Santa Rosa. Stiles was more nervous on the drive there than he’d been when going a-murdering. At least after the first few times. He slid into a private booth where the werewolf waited upstairs, quiet enough to hear each other easily, but loud enough in the establishment to drown out their conversation.
He might’ve had a bit (a lot) more to drink than he intended, feeling all kinds of things in the presence of the attractive, deadly, supposed-to-be-mythological man who flirted like innuendos were the gas pedal in Speed. Stiles was amused. Conflicted. Aroused. Reckless.
He remembered flashes of what followed after they settled on a joint course of action. The hawk-eyed stare as he suggestively ate various vaguely phallic finger foods. Stumbling on the steps outside. A hand reaching into his pocket and being buckled into a different car than he arrived in. Asking if the werewolf knew how unfair it was that he was “just so fucking hot” and singing that he wanted to, quote unquote, “Lick lick lick lick you from your head to your toes.”
Being guided through the door of his motel room and onto his unmade bed. A face pressed against his neck and the lightest brush of lips on his throat. Murmured words, a streetlight briefly flooding the room, and then darkness and silence.
Stiles woke with a start, but soon began to relax after taking stock of first himself and then his surroundings. He was unmurdered, unmolested, and by all accounts still in possession of all of his belongings. The only things out of place were a pair of playing cards tucked underneath his wallet on the beside table. Well, the first was a playing card, the Ace of Spades of course. The second had the back of one, but was actually a fairly standard business card on the other side. It had a triple spiral symbol on the left.
Peter Hale, Attorney at Law.
He smiled.
Stiles watched as Peter was punched and pistol-whipped, dragged bloodied and bruised into the inner sanctum of some mid-level mobster’s wannabe chateau. Listened as he begged while henchmen laughed and jeered, taunting that he’d never leave this room alive as they continued to pummel him before tying him up for their boss to interrogate.
And the award goes to…
When “Mr Marc” entered the room it was his cue to cut the lights. That unsettling sound of rearranging came through his head piece and then the screaming and gunfire began.
Stiles took out a few soldiers on the way with his second favorite weapon, a semi-automatic pistol, but the rest had already converged on the custom made cell. Unfortunate for them. By the time he peeked inside it was all over, but the cursing of one gasping Carl Marconi. The man who’d been financing the likes of Haigh and Todd and dealing less-than-legal weapons to the Hunters, not out of any particular animus, but finding the extermination of supernaturals and related fuckery profitable.
“You messed with the wrong folks,” he said, leaning against the wall as Peter lifted Marconi by the throat in the green light of his night vision goggles. Seconds later there was ripping and gurgling and a trachea landed a few feet away from him with a soft thud.
“Gross, dude.”
Stiles invited him over after they cleaned up what they needed to, leaving the bodies for their affiliates to find. Perhaps they’d have second thoughts about their business. He booked a nicer place this time, an actual hotel instead of his usual hovel-esque lodgings.
Despite all of his suggestive behavior Peter actually seemed surprised when he pounced as soon as they made it inside.
“Well, this is kind of our third date,” Stiles joked, wagging his eyebrows before kissing him again.
They made out against the door for a bit, getting more and more heated with little nips and delving tongues. It was obvious that Peter assumed that he would be in charge, but Stiles had other plans at the moment. The wolf followed his unspoken directions with an air of being put upon as he went down to his knees, eyes glowing that inhumane blue, but going nonetheless.
Stiles pulled out his cock and Peter dropped his fangs with a smirk, but that was no deterrence. Danger only made him harder.
Carefully, he rubbed the head over Peter’s top lip and then on the fronts of both elongated upper canines and the werewolf shivered, whispering his name before retracting his sharpness and taking him into his mouth. Stiles caressed his head as it bobbed, eventually giving a testing tug. Peter groaned and increased his tempo so he did it again. Soon he was holding him stationary and fucking his face, so incredibly turned on be having his way with the werewolf — being allowed to use him — and when he came with a shout Peter swallowed it all, lips wet and eyes shiny.
As he leaned back against the nearby dresser in the midst of his afterglow Peter rose effortlessly to his feet, riled up up and ravenous.
“My turn,” he rasped, plundering Stiles’ mouth and sharing a taste of himself. Pressing him hard against the wall, Peter extended his claws just long enough to tear off his pants and boxer briefs, leaving tiny lines that didn’t quite bleed on his skin.
“Suck,” he growled, sticking blunted fingers between his lips.
Stiles obliged, jerking his hips at a jolt of arousal. It’d take a while before his dick got back in the game, but he wanted nonetheless. Before he could fully register that his mouth was empty again two fingers were rubbing over his hole. He tried to relax as one pressed inside, burning slightly.
“So tight, you’re going to feel amazing around my cock,” said Peter, grasping under a thigh and around his back to carry him over to the bed.
Stiles’ heart raced with both nervousness and excitement knowing what would happen next. He’d been fingered before — mostly, though not solely, by himself — but he’d always topped with his previous partners when it came to fucking. He was also aware that this would not be a gentle deflowering, but he didn’t want to stop.
After tossing him face down on the bed Peter quickly sniffed out his lube before Stiles could tell him that it was still in his luggage — he deserved a reward for not making a dog joke — and then two slick digits were entering him, alternating between spreading him and brushing over his prostate and then just pumping repeatedly. He wiggled and moaned, rubbing against the bedsheets below him.
“Such a good little whore,” Peter crooned, palming an ass check with his other hand and then lifting it off again. “I know exactly what you need.”
Stiles’ face heated at the words, but he discovered that he liked it. He heard a bottle cap being flicked open and viscous liquid being applied to Peter’s cock. Then he was being pulled up by the hips onto his knees, which were nudged farther apart, and the werewolf climbed over him. Hot, hard flesh pressed against his rim. Stiles realized then that he hadn’t even seen it and had no idea what he was getting into. Or rather, what was getting into him. Breathe, breathe. Relax, relax, re—
With a snarl Peter pushed steadily inside him and he gasped as his body struggled to accommodate the intrusion. His hands clenched in the sheets as he was stretched wide, panting with tears instantly forming in his eyes.
Groans of pleasure from just above him punctuated the sound of Peter’s balls slapping against him as he was pounded for several moments and willed himself to just take it. He’d taken Peter’s mouth after all, it was only fair.
Then the movement paused, the fact that he was unusually quiet and still perhaps pulling the older man out of his own blissed out world.
“Sweetheart, are you okay?”
Stiles turned his head and gave a shaky smile, nodding, but Peter shot him a skeptical look and then seemed to concentrate inward. He watched in amazement as dark lines began to flow along the werewolf’s veins and suddenly most of the pain was gone, leaving only a mild ache. Taking some deep breaths, he focused on relaxing and letting himself adjust. Then he experimented with rocking his hips.
Peter shifted his position a bit and when he pushed back again he lit up with pleasure, moaning.
“There we go, darling.”
The thrusting continued, slower this time, and the werewolf leaned down to lick and suck on his neck. His own cock was beginning to get hard once more and Stiles began to writhe and gyrate, desperate for more friction.
Strong hand clamped down on his neck and waist, stilling him as Peter speed up again. “You’re going to be a good boy and take what I give you,” he growled, snapping his hips.
Stiles gave himself over to the wolf’s control and the cock mercilessly targeting that wondrous little bundle of nerves. He was starting to get close, but then he felt something happening. An increased pressure.
Peter swore and paused momentarily, grabbing the bottle of lube and drizzling more over them. As he resumed fucking him Stiles felt it again, something stretching him even more.
“Peter?” he gasped.
“Shhhh. It’s okay, darling. Do you trust me?”
Strangely enough, Stiles did. He probably shouldn’t, but that didn’t seem to matter.
“Yeah,” he answered honestly. The hand at his neck moved to stroke gently down his left side.
“Do you want to be mine? For me to be yours?”
“Yes,” he sobbed, feeling suddenly vulnerable. Not understanding what was going on. He wasn’t really sure what Peter meant either, but he wanted it all the same. The idea of belonging. Wishing that could be true.
Peter made a pleased, guttural sound and he felt himself being opened wider still. He whimpered and the part of the sensation that had crossed over into pain was siphoned again. Finally the source of the pressure slipped all the way inside where it nestled against his prostate. The wolf began to swivel his hips, grinding into him over and over.
Stiles cried out as he came, clenching around the large object and then suddenly sharp fangs were embedded where his shoulder met his neck. He was already overwhelmed before a rush of foreign information — impressions and feelings and things he had no words for — flooded his brain just as Peter's hot cum flooded his body and he passed out to the sound of roaring.
He floated back to awareness being held to a warm chest, a hand gently stroking his back and neck. He felt sticky and slightly sore, bombarded by sensations and emotions.
“Is that what bottoming is always like? Holy fuck,” he muttered, half-lifting his head groggily before letting it fall again.
Peter paused his petting and Stiles almost begged him to continue the grounding contact.
“You…I assumed…” The wolf was actually at a loss for a moment.
“S’fine,” he mumbled into the pillow. The soothing touch continued more softly.
When his brain truly came back online some minutes later he jerked up, pulling back to look at Peter, who’d apparently been doing that pain drain thing again. He was going to ask about that later, but he had more pressing things on his mind.
“So wait, what the fuck was up with your dick? And why do I feel like…like there’s more…just more in my head?”
For the first time he saw actual worry on the werewolf’s face, before it smoothed back into a neutral expression.
“Well…”
The more Peter explained about werewolves and mating and wolf mates the narrower his eyes got until he could barely see the mouth still flapping only a few feet away.
“And you didn’t think to tell me about any of that beforehand, you son-of-a-bitch?!”
The worried look was back again, but even more pronounced. Stiles could feel -- because he had some mystical bullshit feeding him another person’s emotions somewhere in his head now — Peter’s anxiety and fear. His defensiveness and discomfort and a flash of hurt, as well. Boo-fucking-hoo. Tellingly, there was only the barest whisper of guilt. The bastard.
Peter opened his mouth to respond, but he cut him off.
“Blah blah blah, wolfy instincts I’m sure. You’re a selfish bastard.” Stiles glared into stormy sea eyes. “But then so am I.”
Peter huffed, crossing his arms. “Well, you can always kill me if you want out.”
“I know.”
He hadn’t actually known until just then, but he’d figured that would be the case. Peter grimaced and nodded.
“Are you going to?”
A numb resignation drifted through the bond. That’s what it was called. The bond. Pack bond. Mating bond. He was a mated man. Claimed.
“Hmm…perhaps,” he answered with bared teeth.
“Lie," the wolf hissed. He then leaned forward slightly and sniffed, his head tilted and eyes unfocused before they narrowed in turn. “You’re…not actually angry about this, are you?”
“Not really,” Stiles said, shrugging and sighing deeply. He let out go of the anger that he’d been purposefully trying to cultivate. That he probably should feel, but didn’t. He wondered what that said about him. “But it’s the principle of the thing,” he added, punctuating the words with a finger jabbing into Peter’s chest.
The asshole flashed a triumphant grin and that occupied little corner of brain was all happy and relieved and smug.
“Eat me,” he retorted, flipping double birds.
And well…Peter did.
God, his tongue. A++, would be rimmed until he babbled and cried again. And again. He had half a mind to make it a stipulation whenever they got around to drawing up the legal papers as well.
The next morning the wolf — his wolf — was in the process of getting out of bed, but Stiles wrapped around him from behind like an octopus and pulled him back to sit on the edge of the mattress. He spat in his hand and reached around and down to grasp his hardening shaft, tweaking a nipple with the other and leaving disappointingly brief hickeys on the side of his neck. Peter thrusted up into his hand for a minute or two and then twisted to push him onto his back, sliding over his body and settling between his legs.
He lined up their cocks and then began rutting between, making those hot growly sounds as Stiles moaned and wrapped long legs around his waist and moved his hips.
“I’m going to give that sweet ass of yours a break,” Peter whispered in his ear, licking and nipping at an earlobe. “But I’ll be fucking you again real soon.”
Perhaps I'll fuck you first.
Stiles followed Peter into Growing Gaines, a cozy, fairly new shop which sold flowers, plants, and natural remedies. He turned the sign in the door to “Closed” and quietly twisted the lock behind him.
This was a more impromptu job than usual, the result of his mate showing him bestiaries and other books about the supernatural a couple mornings ago and suddenly coming to the realization that the recent influx of missing children in the area was probably due to some kind of fae creature. Likely in Oakland, around 15 miles away from Peter’s apartment in Walnut Creek, based on the pattern of disappearances.
A wandering Higher Unseelie it turned out, though the exact species was unknown. Ancient. Beautiful. Deadly. And in this case, rather sloppy, sometimes literally.
There’d been no time to waste — they wanted to make sure she didn’t strike again — so they collected what they knew to work against the fae, much of it already in the wolf’s possession. (Peter had informed him that he was something called a Left Hand, a pack’s protector and enforcer. An instrument of vengeance should harm befall them.) Purified salt, mistletoe, holly, and silver. Rowan, which was part of the rose family and also known as mountain ash. Peter had it in both wood and powdered forms despite not being able to touch it himself. And of course “iron — cold iron — is master of them all.”
There was some debate about exactly what “cold iron” meant: iron turned into a weapon, iron that had been cold-worked instead of forged or welded, raw iron ore or just a poetic term for iron in general. Stiles made sure to cover all his bases by selecting a sharpened, cold-worked spike made from a meteorite and attached to a rowan handle from the Hale vault. Hell, he threw it in the freezer for good measure and packed it in a cooler bag with ice packs even though the wolf laughed and laughed at him.
While Peter turned on the charm and distracted the sweetly smiling platinum blonde he got to work “browsing” the plant section out back and laid out a binding circle. Well, it was more of an oval really. When she led Peter toward the weigelas he asked about Stiles knocked her out with a rag soaked in mistletoe extract and rolled in silver dust.
They’d been pretty damn certain that they had the right culprit, but to make absolutely sure Peter rifled through the office inside while Stiles kept watch over the unconscious “Alisha Gaines.” When he felt a sense of nausea followed by rage through the bond he knew that they did before the wolf returned with a look of disgust on his face. It took about another ten minutes for her to wake up — they wanted her aware of why she was going to die — and everything was ready.
“You know all you had to do was not be a complete piece of shit and you could’ve lived just about forever,” Stiles said, shaking his head at the triple bound fairy. “It’s not like you even needed to eat people — children — to survive or anything. You just wanted to.” The malevolent creature glared at him with pure hatred, but thankfully looks couldn’t kill unless you were dealing with a basilisk. “Oh well.” He drove the iron spike into her heart.
With a muffled scream she began to dissipate, which was both fascinating and very convenient. Power coursed through him —as he’d read that it would — and also into a set of seven amulets that he had wrapped around his right wrist. Stiles didn’t have magic himself, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t use it if harnessed in certain ways. And he could definitely benefit from the general upgrade in health and vitality from a transference of life force.
“God, you’re so fucking sexy when you do that,“ Peter growled, burying a hand in his growing hair and all but mashing their faces together. “The planning.” He licked over the seam of Stiles’ lips. ”The set up.” A teasing tongue worked into his mouth. “Keeping it short and sweet…” Peter sucked on his lower lip. “Instead of a whole monologue.”
Stiles slipped his tongue into the wolf’s mouth.
“The execution,” Peter hissed, resting their foreheads together, breathing each other in. “Pun intended,” he added a few moments later before diving back in again.
The kissing turned into wrestling for dominance and surprisingly enough Stiles won, arms wrapped around the wolf from behind with teeth set to the side of his throat. He wasn’t sure if the fae power gave him that much of a boost or whether Peter simply relented for once.
“Looks like I’ll be having you tonight” he teased, swatting Peter on the ass. The wolf huffed and stalked away, but he could tell that he was actually pleased. Excited even. This whole bond thing was pretty cool after all, at least when it worked to his advantage.
Stiles gathered several bunches of hanging herbs that were drying in the sunshine knowing that Mr. Fancy Pants would totally love that shit. He also swiped two bouquets of roses from inside, one with classic, long-stemmed red flowers and the other a pretty light purple variety. The tag called it Plum Perfect and described it as “lavender” and “double flowered.” What could he say, he was a romantic.
Peter made them a lovely beef roast for dinner with root vegetables — parsnips, carrots, Yukon gold and sweet potatoes, and freakin’ rutabagas because he was extra like that — cooked in a red wine sauce with some of the fresh thyme. Afterwards, Stiles found him in the bedroom naked and spread out on his back for him. He hurriedly pulled off his clothes and climbed onto the slate blue 1000 thread count sheets.
The wolf wore a come-and-get-it smirk on his face, but Stiles could feel that he was nervous too. He just lay on top of Peter for a while, kissing him and mouthing his neck while frotting lazily between his legs, enjoying a nice, slowly building heat. His wolf grabbed one of his hands and kissed it, looking up at him with such affection in his eyes.
“Go ahead, sweetheart. It’s just been a long time.”
Then he took two of those fingers and sucked until they were sopping wet, guiding his hand down between them. Stiles didn’t need to be told twice.
He bit Peter’s shoulder and closed his eyes after inserting that first finger, circling and rubbing inside. He reached over for the lube when he was about to add another, but then held it over the other man’s left hand instead.
“I wanna see you fuck yourself open for me.”
Peter inhaled sharply and moved to obey. The slick sounds watching those shorter, but thicker fingers pumping into his ass, went straight to Stiles’ already rock hard cock.
“C’mon, show me how much you want it.”
Peter’s eyes flashed that beautiful bright blue and he started to thrust up with his hips to meet his hand, the tendons in his neck standing out as leaned forward and threw himself into it. Stiles was practically drooling as he stared and decided to put that pooling saliva to use, letting it drip down over his mate’s now three busy fingers. He bent down off to the side and suckled the head of Peter’s leaking cock, licking and kissing and then enveloping it again a few times before pulling away, the wolf trying to keep him there with the scrabbling digits of his other hand.
He smirked and Peter glared at him — all flushed and sweaty and shameless…beautiful — until he saw him slicking himself up. When Stiles grasped the backs of his thighs just above the knees and lifted the wolf finally withdrew his fingers so that he could take their place. He shuffled forward and rubbed the tip of his cock over his mate’s quivering hole, teasing and savoring the delicious anticipation.
“Fucking hurry it up!” Peter barked.
Stiles had half a mind to make him wait even more, make him beg, but he was more than ready to get on with it himself. No, he’d give Peter exactly what he wanted.
“Fuck,” he breathed as he entered that tight, engulfing heat, steadily sinking in until he was sheathed completely. Peter’s mouth hung open, his rim stretched and clenching around Stiles’ cock, but he wasn’t experiencing true pain. Still, he waited until Peter started to wiggle around and then he snapped his hips, setting an even pace.
Stiles settled down onto his forearms to kiss him and then buried a hand in his hair, tugging his head up and latching onto his neck. His tips tingled from the vibrations of Peter’s moans. He switched to undulating his hips every so often, dragging long and slow.
It was so so good, but soon he began to crave something else. A wilder, animal impulse urged him to claim.
Peter whined when he suddenly pulled out, but he wouldn’t be left empty for long. Stiles flipped him over and lined himself up, pushing back in with a single forceful thrust. He grasped the wolf by the throat, not choking him, but holding firmly, and began thrusting again with abandon. Deep, hard strokes that pressed him into the mattress. Peter gasped and tilted his hips back, spurring him on even more.
“That’s a good bitch,” Stiles said before biting the back of his neck.
And then Peter was tensing up all over, making low, breathy sounds and clenching around his cock as he came and came and came. Stiles felt his rapid pulse against his palm, squeezing once before letting go and planting both hands on the bed. He sped up then, chasing his own end as the wolf still twitched beneath him. It wasn’t long before his balls drew up tight and he began to shoot his load.
“Mine mine mine,” he chanted, just as Peter often did when he was the one coming apart under his mate. Stiles only wished that he had a knot to bury in him too. Perhaps he’d check out some of those not-entirely-fantasy-after-all sex toy makers.
He continued to slowly thrust into Peter even after he emptied every last drop inside him.
They were on the road again, this time all the way to Austin, TX. They could’ve just flown in and gotten a car down there, but it became an excuse to do some gallivanting on the way. Vegas. Albuquerque. Maybe they’d swing down across the border to Monterrey on the drive back. Hit up some museums and stuff themselves with cabrito al pastor.
Stiles all but skipped into their first stop in the city — one of the dozen and a half or so record stores he pulled up on the map — excited to buy some vinyl now that he had access to a turntable and a state of the art sound system. He was browsing the H-Me section when Billy Idol’s Rebel Yell caught his eye. Memories of that fateful trip to Albion and his first encounter with Peter ran through his mind and he grinned. Of course he had to get it.
The fact that this was their final mission practically made it a sign. An auspicious one, he hoped. Their kill lists had significant overlap, but there were a number of targets who only made the mistake of enraging one of them. Not that that mattered, they were no less dead for it. If someone made it onto Peter’s then, by golly, that was reason enough to land them in his sights as well and vice-versa.
This one made the top of both of theirs, though. Gerard Argent. Leader of the Argent clan despite their supposed matriarchy. The Hunter who bribed corrupt policeman like Haigh and introduced the likes of Marconi to the existence of the supernatural. Who approved his daughter’s heinous attack on the Hales.
Stiles had been happy to learn that she’d been left to rot in scattered pieces — or perhaps to become a meal for some lurking scavenger — in a landfill somewhere in the southwest. Arizona or New Mexico. His mate had been kind of out of it at the time, apparently. Kate Argent was one of Peter’s first post-fire kills and understandably the most emotional.
Now it was time for her father to pay. They’d saved him for last.
Things went wrong almost immediately, a series of cascading minor mishaps requiring them to adapt everything on the fly. All they needed was for Peter to wearingly declare that he was too old for this shit (he would never) and it would’ve been a perfect cliche. But in the end the mission was salvaged, Gerard was super dead, and they were still around to return one day and piss on his grave. The worse for wear for sure — he’d been injured enough to need all 3 of the amulets he brought and would probably have nightmares from having to burn that much wolfsbane out of Peter — but alive. That was all that mattered.
There is nothing safe in this world. And there's nothing sure in this world. And there's nothing pure in this world. Look for something left in this world. Start again.
They were somewhere between Artesia Wells and Encinal, about 60 miles from the border, when Stiles was directed to turn off onto an unmarked dirt path and through a gate. It was covered in signs declaring it private property and promising trespassers a plethora of bodily harm. Stiles raised his eyebrows and glanced over as he continued farther down.
“It belongs to friends of the family,” Peter stated, completely at ease
The pack. Sometimes the fact that he was now part of it too, if not yet officially, made him slack-jawed with disbelief. Stiles Stilinski, guy who runs with wolves.
Well, just the one at the moment. And he preferred a brisk walk or a jog at most. A nice sedate stroll from time to time.
They built an unnecessarily large bonfire from the stack of dry branches next to the large two room shed, which was stocked full of water and nonperishable food on one side and various tools, cleaning solutions, and other potentially useful miscellanea on the other. Nice.
He was about to toss in any last detritus from their venture — a pair of shoes, certain fake IDs, some papers (written in code, but still,) a blood-soaked woven tote bag and such — when Peter grabbed his wrist.
“Ah ah ah, dear heart. Smores first, then incriminating evidence. Who knows what awful chemicals are in that stuff.”
Stiles snorted. “I’m still going to breathe it in, babe.”
“Not if you go back to the car and let me and me and my superior constitution handle it. After dessert.”
He rolled his eyes, but sent a burst of affection through their bond. Peter might often wrap it up in jerkitude, but it was these small, thoughtful gestures that showed how much he cared.
“So what’s on the agenda when we get back? Redecorating? Adopting a pet?” he inquired between gooey bites of chocolate-y marshmallow deliciousness.
Peter didn’t dignify the first suggestion with a response. “Hmm, a well-behaved adult cat might be negotiable.”
“If…?”
“If you accompany me to the Pack House.”
Stiles felt his face warp into something merely resembling a smile.
“Um…sure.”
He just couldn’t help being anxious about it. What if Laura refused to accept him after she actually met him? Or the three of them just didn’t like him. He learned about how important packs were to wolves when Peter explained about being a Left Hand and all that.
His mate chuckled and rubbed his shoulders consolingly.
“Okay love, not yet. But soon. And it’ll be fine, I promise. They’re going to love you.”
Stiles wished he could say the same, already imagining the look on the retired Sheriff’s face when introduced to the older man who was even more bloodthirsty and chaotic than he was, not to mention kind of a snob to boot. And that wasn’t even getting into the werewolf thing, assuming he ever broached that topic at all. But hopefully in time his dad would come around once he saw how well they were suited and how doting and devoted Peter was, even if would have studiously not look too closely should any more trash need to be disposed of.
Almost a week later they returned to Peter’s apartment. Their apartment now he supposed unless the wolf wanted somewhere new. There was no way in hell he moving into Stiles’ shanty studio situation up in Sacramento, that was for sure, and the idea of living apart was…discomforting to say the least. He liked to blame it on the mate bond or the frequency with which he awoke to Peter’s mouth around his cock, but he also loved cuddling and spooning and breakfast in bed, okay?
The Pack House was in Emeryville about 20 minutes away, but he knew his mate liked having his own place. Hadn’t spent much time there at all recently, what with the various “errands” and then being, ahem, tied up with him. He knew Peter missed them and that they wanted to see him too. Both of them. Perhaps he would invite them over for dinner this upcoming weekend. Yeah, hopefully it would be less nerve-wracking if they met in his territory so to speak.
Stiles made a beeline for the record player to put on his latest purchase. Peter rolled his eyes, smirking at him until music filled the living room and he started to strut, advancing on the wolf and slipping fingers into his belt loops to encourage him to move. "Last night a little dancer came dancin' to my door..." he sang, alternating his shoulders up and down and gyrating.
It turned out that Mr. Hale could shake it with the best of them.
“Never breathe a word of this,” the enforcer threatened as he shimmied forwards and back and then spun, swinging his hips and tossing his head.
“Sure, babe,” Stiles said, embracing his mate and grinning wickedly behind his shoulder as they swayed together. He wouldn’t say a thing.
Texts or pictures once he was finally introduced to his Alpha and the rest of the pack, though…
Perhaps.