It's been a long night for Stiles. He's hungry, so fucking hungry and it's just his luck but for once humanity seems to be actually fucking behaving decently. So far he is a hunter without any prey in sight. He's moved from club to club, bar to bar, and not once has he heard the sick cajoling of a predator or seen the surreptitious addition of an illicit substance to an unsuspecting fellow's drink.
And that's a good thing, it is. But he's hungry, and if he doesn't find someone the world can do without tonight, he'll be edging into dangerous territory. He's done it before, rather than take someone innocent, painful as it may be to starve. He can do it again, if he has to. But he would really rather drain a douchebag rapist instead.
A stray bit of garbage gets a frustrated kick, bottle rattling down the concrete and breaking the quiet over the distant thrum of traffic and the fainter vibrations of dance-club music further down the block. He shouldn't have taken so much time away from it this past couple weeks. He'd just wanted to feel normal for a while. Not sit around constantly assessing who was a rapist, who he could kill and feel justified for it. He just wanted to go hang out at the bookstore and eat a sub sandwich in the park, or go for coffee with friends. Not that he has any friends now - no real ones, though seducing someone into friendship is as easy as smiling these days. But real friends? Scott is the only person not befriended under his aura and he's three thousand miles away now.
He doesn't particularly like hitting the back alleys and the streets for his hunt. Seriously, nasty smells and cold aside, the ones who get away with it in the public places because they have money and influence tend to piss him off more than the rough edges of the dregs of society. But it's about all he's got left at this point. He curses himself under his breath. He should never have let it get to this point. It wasn't like pretending he was human would make his troubles go away. He knows better than that.
It's his own fault that he's a little cold in the thin white synthetic shirt that's more absent than present really, held together by decorative little chains on the sides. They keep catching the night wind and biting where they touch his skin. But he's never had to worry about the cold on hunt nights, not once he'd had his prey and been juiced for the rest of the night. His tight black jeans aren't much better, though at least the punk-rock leather boots he gets to wear with his getup are warm.
He glances up as a patrol car turns the corner behind him, headlights flaring slowly down the alley as it drifts to a crawl beside him in the wide space with its uneven asphalt and well-worn dumpsters. He watches the window roll down and lifts his eyebrows.
"You being careful out there tonight?" the beat cop says, his eyes lingering a little too long on Stiles's trim body.
"Sure am, officer," he replies with a bland smile to cover the hunger and annoyance he feels.
The low grumble of the well-powered engine is the only sound in the deserted alley, save for the rustling of the mild city wind against the detritus around them. Now would be about the right time for the cop to wish him well and move on, if he were a good cop. Stiles hopes, though he has a feeling it's in vain.
"You need a ride somewhere?"
Stiles glances at the empty horizon, frowning at the mild weather. "I was just walking a while."
The leer the cop gives him turns his stomach when he glances back down. Belatedly he catches the possible implication his words have. It's been a while since he walked the back alleys and his street skills are apparently a little rusty.
"I figured as much. Boy like you on streets like these."
Stiles eyes the cop warily, shifting his assessment from disgust a little higher up towards potential threat. The car hasn't moved on, just keeps drifting along slowly beside him. It has him wondering if the cop's going to harass or attempt to take him in.
Not that a lone human offers him much challenge these days.
The guy heaves a speaking sigh, filled with boredom and impatience that sets off Stiles's red flags.
"Well, you're new around here. This is my patrol. It's not a nice place but if you let me give you a ride I'm sure it'll make things… easier for you around here."
Rage wells up in his chest at the implication. Stiles had already wanted to spit in the guy's face. The temptation is hard to resist. After all, he could just turn and walk away. He certainly doesn't need to worry about this guy's benevolence since he's not actually a street walker around here. He doesn't need a cop's protection or lenience because he's not going to be here in any sort of regular capacity. But…
But he is on the hunt.
"It can be tough out here if you don't make the right friends," the cop prods, voice hardening.
Stiles really wants to punch the guy now.
"Yeah, okay," he says instead, smiling and turning towards the patrol car. It drifts to a halt and Stiles pulls the handle to the door, body warming up at the surge of adrenaline and excitement of the hunt. He slips into the passenger seat with a sinuous stretch of his torso, relaxing into sensuality like the second skin it is. He shuts the door behind him and lets the dirty bastard slide a possessive hand over his thigh and up to squeeze his crotch. It just feeds the anger in his chest, hardening his resolve even though he knows he's being impulsive in his target.
"You gonna get hard for me baby? Or are you gonna stay soft and scared?" the guy asks as he fondles Stiles and pulls out from the alley, merging into the light evening traffic smoothly. "I know I'm pretty tough looking but you don't have to be scared of me, not since you're being so good for me."
No. He's not afraid, and his body is very much ready for the hunt. He lets his hips shift and nudges his dick against the pressure on it, letting himself swell against the confines of his jeans. The guy isn't arousing, and it's not that he actually wants to please him either. Stiles just wants him aroused. He can feel the energy just thrumming under the guy's skin. The arousal that Stiles is going to drink down to the very last drop. And that turns him on, morbid though it may be. So he lets himself ride the swell of anticipation, the feedback loop of sexual arousal his presence can create.
The car ride is short. They're already in a shitty part of town. He doesn't have much mojo to spare to forcibly persuade the cop, hungry as he is, but he doesn't need any to get the guy to drive to somewhere nondescript, hidden from prying eyes. He picks an empty lot just a bit off the road that crosses under the giant concrete pylons that support the highway far overhead.
He shuts off the engine and Stiles rocks his groin against the groping hand to the sound of the engine ticking over. His cock gets an uncomfortably firm squeeze and then the guy pats his thigh and says, "Be a good little bitch and hop out for me. It's easier out here."
Stiles rolls his eyes. He'd been hoping to tease towards a quick tug-and-chug without prolonging it. But he doesn't want to waste the power to make the guy sit back just for the sake of not having to go anywhere. He pushes the door open and steps back into the cool night quickly, ready to get this over with.
Stiles moves around the car to the driver's side (around the back, thank you, avoiding the dash cam if it's there). He waits as the cop gets out instead of approaching the cab. Stiles leans against the rear window, canting his hips appealingly as the guy approaches, sliding idle fingers over the bulge in his jeans.
"Aren't you sweet, not gonna fuss or nothing," the cop says as he strides closer. "Bet you're gonna whine when I shove my cock in your hole though," the guy says, reaching up to cup Stiles's jaw and push a thumb between his lips. Stiles is more than ready to plant a final kiss to the asshole and be done with this. He nips at it and then twists his head to slip the finger from his mouth as he slides closer.
"Hey, I ain't a fag," the guy spits, shoving Stiles back and cuffing the side of his head hard. He shoves him up against the side of the car, bending him down over the trunk in a practiced motion, a cop restraining a suspect against the vehicle. Stiles doesn't fight. He doesn't need to make it any harder than it already is. Even still, Stiles is weaker than he thought given the way the guy is able to manhandle him up against the car. The cop shoves his hips against Stiles's ass, grinding his hardon against him, and for a fleeting moment Stiles lets himself indulge in the fantasy of being taken, of not being the literal sexual predator that he is and for once being the prey. But this guy makes him sick. Stiles heaves a sigh of frustration as he fumbles for Stiles's belt.
He'll never get it open. It's a point of amusement for Stiles when he lays his trap for his 'predators', watching them fumble and more often than not cut themselves on the complicated metal-worked buckle. It proves advantageous again tonight, making the guy distracted enough to not actually bother pinning Stiles down after a moment.
It just takes a quick drop of bodyweight and a sweep of leg to the knee and the guy goes crashing down to the concrete. The years of self-defense seminars his dad had insisted he take had long since proven their worth. Stiles is straddling him a moment later, clamping hard hands on either side of his face as he opens his mouth over the predator's surprised gawk.
Only he's the predator now.
Sometimes he wishes he could see it, the way his eyes are probably glowing blue. He can just barely see it in the reflection of the other man's wide eyes as he breathes in, sucking in an entirely different manner than the guy had intended. He can see the edges of the wispy tendrils of the man's life energy tangling around their joined mouths as he pulls. And he pulls hard, fast, sucking the life out of him with abandon.
It's hotter this way, turns his body on full when he just drinks it down like this. He doesn't particularly feel like having a raging hardon for a predator he's executing, but it's apparently just how his biology works. It's probably why some of the historical tales of his kind feature the vain as victims of the incubus's kiss. After all, who doesn't like it when their food looks good? But this isn't about him. It's about the other kids this douchebag would have molested under the guise of honor and power that his uniform lent him.
They're safe now.
The man spasms, likely ejaculating in his trousers, though Stiles doesn't check. He lifts his head and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. Dragging every last drop of life energy from the guy has left him with a horrible rictus of impossible pleasure, a hideous death mask. Stiles grimaces and sets about getting up. As he pushes away his erection rubs hard against his too-tight jeans. He grunts in annoyance at the unsatisfied organ. Sometimes if the person's attractive or he's already got a half-full tank it'll be enough to push him over in the throes of the feeding.
Not tonight. He groans, skimming fingers through his short brown hair and resisting the urge to put his hands to pleasurable use on his cock. But his frustration is going to have to go unmitigated. He's at a crime scene, one that could mean quite a few pissed off people putting in overtime to catch a cop-killer. He should know better by now than to let his particular hatred for dirty cops to get in the way of his better practical judgment. But then again, wisdom is relative. Being a supernatural vigilante in the first place isn't exactly the wisest thing he'd ever done, but it gives him solace. And if that means that sometimes a kill is harder to handle then so be it.
"Fuck," he mutters under his breath, staring at their surroundings. No obvious cameras, thankfully. He'll probably have to leave town if this guy isn't already under suspicion. And it definitely means he can't jerk off and risk leaving his DNA evidence around. He needs to get the hell out of there and soon, but there's another problem too. The officer's service weapon and the patrol car are dangerous in the wrong hands and there's no fucking way he could live with himself if he didn't fix that.
After a few moments of quick thinking he pulls open the door of the idling car. He lifts the officer easily enough, now that he's got his strength back. Moving quickly he puts the guy back into his seat and shuts the door before getting back into the passenger seat. It takes some doing but he gets the car oriented towards the brick enclosure for a dumpster instead of the highway support they'd been angled towards. Then he shoves the guy's stiff foot down against the gas and charges them straight into the brick.
The impact isn't really so bad. The way his head aches after being forcibly introduced to the dash is a little uncomfortable but with all the extra energy he's protected against physical damage and easily alright within moments. The car and its other occupants are most definitely not. Shaking it off he reaches for the center console to see if the radio equipment still has power or functionality. Being the Sheriff's kid has its perks, one of which being that he knows how the police radio works. He intentionally screws it up a little, making some frustrated sounds until someone tries to talk to him.
"He-hello? I… this cop needs some help. I think he had a heart attack or something," Stiles says breathily, voice higher than normal. "Please help, he crashed his car and I don't think he's breathing."
Dispatch asks him for more information but he ignores her. When it becomes apparent he's not answering, she starts calls for status updates from her assigned units immediately, trying to source out who it is that's in trouble.
He smiles, pleased at his solution as he slips out of the car, ready to disappear into the shadows and watch, making sure nobody else comes along to steal what they shouldn't.
His smile is short lived as an unmarked SUV pulls off the road, attached police lights flashing to life as the headlights drag over Stiles's form. He throws a hand up to shield his face from sight and spins on his heel, bolting for the darkness beyond.
He hears a man shout after him, telling him to stop for the police. Yeah no. He just runs, knowing that the guy will likely deal with the injured officer first. He laughs, giddy and breathless as his excess energy spreads through his body, every pumping muscle fueled by his life-high. It's not a familiar part of town so he takes a few quick turns at random, ducks through a couple mostly empty alleys before he slows down. He's warm but the night is getting colder, the wind hissing and moaning as it slips through the narrow, angular paths of the city, catching on sharp corners. He tips his head back and laughs to himself, still so high on all the excitement, dick still more than half-hard in his jeans despite the discomfort of chafing against the denim. He's actively considering whether or not to whip it out right here in the empty alley and let himself enjoy it properly when out of nowhere, he's slammed bodily against the wall.
He yelps in surprise and scrambles to get his hands under him, to focus on the present rather than on his dick. But actual fear doesn't cross his mind. Nothing truly scares him right now.
"I said, 'Stop. Police,'" the voice of his assailant practically growls against his ear as his bodyweight pins Stiles to the dirty cinderblock wall and his foot kicks between Stiles's, automatically shifting him off balance and hindering his ability to move. "Or didn't you hear me?" he murmurs, voice low and argumentatively taunting.
"Seemed like more of a guideline than a rule to me," Stiles says, laughing at the way he only gets harder in his jeans at the force. Everything feels like foreplay right now. The guy's scent is richly earthy, a little sweaty but it's good in the way of the tangy heat of erotic exertion. Sandalwood maybe.
He shudders at the way the cop draws in a deep, scenting breath of his own against the back of Stiles's neck. It's not exactly normal behavior but then again just his presence tends to bring out the fetish in people when he's high from a kill and especially when he's scared. It's a physical defense mechanism he's sure.
The man draws in another deep breath next to his skin. "Why did you run?"
Stiles grunts, pushing back against him lightly. He's strong - not likely strong enough to hold Stiles if he actually wanted to get loose. But for the moment he's in no real danger and he's enjoying his incidental frottage.
"Gee, I don't know, maybe because it's really hard to tell which cops are rapists and I've already had more than my share of that bullshit tonight. Gonna prove me right and keep grinding on me?" he demands, rolling his hips blatantly against the other guy's lap.
The hands on him loosen immediately and the officer steps back. Stiles immediately twists around so he can get a look at his assailant. He's startled when he does, seeing dark hair and sharp cheekbones accompanied by pale eyes that contain too many slivers of blue and amber to be accurately described as merely green. Then come the attractively downturned lips which are surrounded by a beard so sexy he has to bite his lip against a needy sound.
His eyes narrow as he searches Stiles's face. "What do you mean? What happened, are you alright?"
Stiles straightens against the wall, letting himself wobble a little so that it is easier to land a hand on the cop's arm without sending his defenses up. He seems like a decent cop, not like the bastard he'd just taken out. He doesn't want to have to use more force than necessary to allow them to go their separate ways now.
Stiles offers a wry smile as he lets his hand linger on the man's wrist. "It's no big deal. I mean, I'm pretty sure it won't be happening again."
He slides his thumb up past the cop's glove and under the sleeve of his leather jacket so that he can touch skin. That makes it a lot easier to use his powers of influence. More-so if the guy finds him attractive at all, and the way his eyes dilate when Stiles leans into him a little tells him he's well on his way to an easy escape to freedom.
"Look, I know you've got a job to do and all, but don't you think I've been through enough tonight?" Stiles suggests, tilting his head and looking up through his lashes at the guy, putting his heated mojo into their joined skin.
The cop's frown deepens and Stiles pushes harder, using more energy than usual. "I didn't really see anything important. You don't need me. You should forget you ever saw me and go back to your car."
It's not long before he sees it happen. The guy's lips part and his eyes shift into a slightly glassy, aroused state, dragging over Stiles's form more blatantly, though this time Stiles doesn't find it offensive at all since he's encouraging it rather forcibly. Stiles smiles at him, rubbing his wrist just a little.
"Maybe," the cop says softly, eyes getting caught lingering on Stiles's mouth as the tips of his ears start to redden.
"Definitely," Stiles says, lifting a hand to the guy's jaw to cement the word with another push of mojo, way more than usual. It has the guy sucking in a shuddering breath, his eyes slipping closed in bestowed pleasure and not for the first time Stiles wishes he could actually share that with someone. That he could actually know what sex with someone else would be like without killing them. But he only goes the dangerous route of actually teasing his sexual pleasure with people worthy of a premature death - people decidedly unworthy of his having sex with them at all. So maybe it’s ironic for what he is, but as it turns out, he never fucks anyone.
But oh, oh how he wishes he could have sex, just once, with someone like this man. He shifts his hips, drawing a low, pleased sound out of the man and it's then that he realizes that he's lingering dangerously too long, basking in the sensual press of the cop's body to his instead of making his escape.
"Who are you?" the man whispers, gloved fingers brushing slowly against Stiles's throat.
He wants to tell him. Wants to stay, to do more than touch. But he can't. He knows he can't, so he slips away from the cop with a low, "Don't follow me," heading deeper into the night, leaving both of them very, very unsatisfied.