Peter is so, so tired right now. He has been for a while, actually. Of society, his family, his circumstances. So. Very. Tired.
The last thing he wanted was to have to attend a ball that will leave him with the same sour taste in his mouth as always in the end. Arrogant alphas, simpering omegas, all of them slaves to their own hormones and pheromones and no better than animals. No amount of alcohol can wash the foul taste that's already building in his mouth, barely one hour in.
Sadly, he had no say in the matter and here he is.
Then he spots him. He doesn't know what makes him pay attention, but he's glad anyways. The man is gorgeous, but that's not what catches his attention. What makes Peter giddy is the way he manipulates the alpha in front of him into snapping so badly that security sweeps in. Then the man feigns being horrified when Peter is sure he's ecstatic. It's beautiful and, since Peter has never been one to abstain from what he wants, he tells him so.
"So beautiful," Peter drawls and then he has to contain a delighted laugh when the man turns, a spark in his eyes that says that he's ready to destroy Peter.
Suddenly, Peter is not tired at all.
He called it.
Stiles fucking called it.
Did he say that loud enough for the ones in the back?
HE CALLED IT.
When he eventually gets out, he's going to repeat that until he loses his voice. And then he'll write it down, make copies of it and shove it in their faces. He'll let them keep their copy. Hell, he'll even frame it for them. The remaining copies will be stuck around the office, toilets included.
Because he called it, fuck dammit.
He said the mission was going to be the worst thing ever, and, just as he expected, this mission has turned out to be the worst thing ever. What's worse than the worst thing ever? Is that a thing? It has to be. Because once Stiles had to spend an entire week in the sewers and that was supposed to be the perfect example of the worst thing ever. And yet this is worse. So there must be a term whose definition is "worse than the worst thing ever".
And the mission isn't even over yet.
From bad intel to really bad luck, everything that could go wrong has gone epically wrong. (There's a horse hoof-shaped burn on Stiles' butt that's stinging like crazy, that's how bad the whole thing has gone! A hoof-shaped second degree burn! Stiles will have a hoof tattoo-like mark on his butt for who knows how long, fuck dammit!) Stiles is going to kill the intel and development people, he doesn't care if Danny or Lydia get pissed off for Stiles destroying their respective departments. This shit calls for retribution! The equipment failed, the intel was wrong, they deserve anything Stiles dishes out. Everything went wrong because of them!
Ok, fine, not exactly all. He's already gotten what he needed from his target's computer... even after said computer's OS crashed and nearly caught on fire. Physically. As in flames coming out of... Ok, whatever. Let bygones be bygones and all that shit. Stiles, hoof-shaped second degree burn on his ass cheek or not, needs to chill. He has the data and that's all that matters.
Now, he just has to figure how to send said data to base and then beat it. That would be wonderful. But, of fucking course, because this mission is the worst of the worst things ever, something is jamming the signal, which has made him lose contact with his handler and he hasn't been able to transfer it to headquarters. Sadly, that means that he has had to transfer the data to a memory stick (after having to patch the damn thing that was just seconds ago on fire with what he had in his pockets) and now he has to physically carry it outside the building. Which is no good but he'll have to make do.
He's taking a vacation after this.
(After making intel and development pay, that is.)
Just... fuck his life, ok?
His partner was able to slip out unnoticed but as he was trying to do the same, security showed up out of nowhere and he had to retreat towards a toilet or risk being caught otherwise. And sadly, an atypical and abrupt increase in security can only mean one thing: the breach has already been found out and they're trying to locate the source.
Maybe Stiles hasn't mentioned this before, but he really, really hates this mission.
(Like at least twenty times over the comms before he found himself alone.)
(After that he's been chanting it in his head.)
It's already been twenty minutes since that happened and he hasn't been able to leave yet, which just adds up to the shit-ton of things that have gone wrong in this operation so far. Right now, his only consolation for all his troubles is that Deaucalion and every single member of his merry band of human waste are going to be drawn out handcuffed in broad daylight when the bosses finally get their hands on the intel Stiles is carrying right now.
But first he has to leave this fucking place, dammit.
Which, again, brings him to his current situation, in which he's stuck in a ballroom, trying to make an alpha completely lose his shit out of sheer irritation and enjoying every second of it despite the dire circumstances. Now, Stiles would normally try to curve his vindictiveness when he's posing as an omega, but in his defense this alpha was asking for it. Begging. On his metaphorical knees even.
If there's a word Stiles despises, it's defective, with unnatural or it's various synonyms right after it on the podium. Especially so if they're being used to describe another human being. They get his hackles up and his level of viciousness goes first through the roof and then the stratosphere. Easily.
When he was a teen he would even get violent, but time (and the anger management therapy the State of California, his crying omega mom and disappointed™ alpha dad forced on him) toned down his knee-jerk reaction to those words. Don't get him wrong, his view on the whole thing is still pretty much the same, he has just learned to dish out his response in a much more undetectable and productive way.
Because, by definition of the majority of the population nowadays, Stiles himself is defective and unnatural. Doctors have tests to know it before babies like Stiles are born so that the parents can knowingly decide if they still want to have a Beta child or not. In some parts of the world people like Stiles are sacrificed, in others they have to be terminated before they're even born or face being persecuted and killed along with the parents that dared to defy the law and had them. Never mind that if an Alpha, an Omega and a Beta are examined side by side, physically speaking they are almost identical. The only thing that's different is that Betas can't produce any of the two kinds of pheromones or smell them when they're being emitted. That's it. The rest of their bodies work just fine. They have to eat, drink and sleep to survive just like everyone else. If they are female, they are perfectly able to get pregnant; if they are male, they can impregnate a woman. Just like every Alpha or Omega on the planet.
But again, since Betas lack of the equipment to process pheromones, don't go into a heat or a rut, and lack those instincts associated with them, they are defective. Hell, the very term "beta" is a slur that comes from the programming slang (first version of a program that has the necessary basics for it to run but it's incomplete). Betas may have made it their own, but that doesn't change its origins. That's the kind of world Stiles lives in.
And this asshole Alpha, who apparently also finds Omegas utterly vapid and vexing, has packed more Beta slurs in the twenty minutes Stiles has been there blending in than what he can stomach without popping a vessel if he doesn't answer somehow.
Admittedly, Stiles was running on a short fuse to begin with, but he knows he would have done this anyways because it may provide the necessary distraction to slip out unnoticed.
And no one beats Stiles at being an asshole, so by now he has lost count of the number of times he's had to bite his cheek and mask his glee covering his face coyly with his flute of champagne to avoid giving himself away. Asshole Alpha looks about ready to give in to the temptation of strangling him and it shouldn't be this amusing, but it is. Immensely so, in fact. Especially since Stiles is keeping up the hare-brained and innocent act flawlessly and drawing every single omega in the vicinity into the conversation, thus managing to crowd Asshole Alpha quite effectively.
A small pleasure in a completely shitty situation, that's exactly what this is. Now, if he could just leave somehow... But no, impossible. Security is still at every door and Stiles has no way of getting out without being caught with the memory stick and photographic evidence he has on himself.
Asshole Alpha finally snaps and lets out a threatening growl. Stiles forces himself to back off frightened instead of snickering delightedly, copying the reaction of every Omega around himself down to the distressed whimpers at the (he guesses by the reaction) onslaught of angry pheromones. Two guards swoop in almost immediately and make the man accompany them. He resists the temptation of waving cheekily at him as they drag him out and joins the horrified and appalled whispering left behind instead.
"So beautiful," someone drawls at his back and Stiles bites back an irritated groan before turning around to look at most possibly Asshole Alpha, take two.
His breath catches slightly when he takes in the new Alpha's appearance. Ok, wow. Asshole or not, that's one fine specimen of a man. Like, top model worthy wow. Stiles never thought he'd see anyone other than Tony Stark (who cares if it's a fictional character?) who would do justice to a goatee, but holy shit.
What. He may hate people and the dynamics they're run by, but that doesn't keep him from appreciating eye candy, ok? That's a completely different matter, after all. Also, eye candy or not, Stiles will destroy him anyways if he's a douche. It will even be sweeter, because good looking alphas are the epitome of privilege and the thought of being played by an Omega doesn't even enter the realm of possibilities for them.
"Hi," he chirps sweetly, looking at him through his eyelashes and tilting his head just so. Alpha's smile widens and Stiles fights a smug smirk. He's going to destroy him.
"Hello," Alpha purrs. "My name's Peter."