No one knew where Peter made his den, which considerably narrowed down the number of people who could be knocking on his door at four in the morning.
Narrowed it down to one, in fact.
He contemplated remaining in bed and simply waiting for them to go away—and then considered the likelihood of finding his visitor curled up on his doormat when he went out to buy milk in the morning, if Peter didn’t answer now. The probability was irritatingly high.
The probability that this particular visitor would, upon tiring of waiting to be let in, simply pick his locks and brush through his wards as if they weren’t even there, on the other hand—was practically a guarantee.
Peter swallowed a growl, and got out of bed. He didn’t want to have this conversation—spending a full day in the meditative state required for calling to and finding the kirin had drained him more than he liked, after going so long without practice at it, and he’d been badly shaken by how close he’d come to reaching Stiles too late. He could still smell, very faintly, the scent of Stiles’ poisoned blood on his own hands; could still, without effort, feel it smearing warm and wet as tears beneath his fingertips as he’d clutched Stiles’ face. He had already known both those things would make for a difficult night’s sleep, and he didn’t need it made any harder by being forced to a confrontation he would have to navigate as carefully as a minefield.
He did not think anyone should know, yet, that it hadn’t been the kirin’s horn that cured Stiles of Noshiko’s poison.
But if he was not at his best, then at least he wasn’t the only one. The nogitsune had been destroyed—he glanced at a clock—less than seven hours ago; if Peter was tired, then Stiles must still be weak and off-balance and shaken, more so than he was ever likely to be again. Peter’s advantage would lessen with every hour he put this off, every moment he gave Stiles to recover, to think, to bring that dazzling, labyrinthine intelligence of his to bear upon the questions of what and how and why. Stiles would force him onto the defence, if Peter let him, and if that happened Peter might as well bare his throat for the bear-trap jaws of Stiles’ mind, because Stiles would never let it go until he had the truth caught like a beating heart between his teeth.
He laid his hand flat on his front door, and briefly let his forehead rest against it, closing his eyes. Listened to the heartbeat on the other side, and felt his fingers throb with his claws’ desire to slide free.
Slide free, and tear down the door, and drag Stiles in and close and safe and tell him everything, tell him what he was, tell him what he could do and unleash him on the world and watch—
Fuck. Peter exhaled hard, deliberately. Fuck. This was madness. Damn the idiot for not being home in his own bed where he should be, anyway, for dragging Peter out of his in the middle of the night after too long a day. Let him stand on the doormat all night if he wanted to, let him catch cold or pass out from exhaustion while Peter went back to bed, while Peter tried to sleep through the scent of Stiles’ blood and the memory of his light and the full-moon pull of his presence just outside the door—
Peter felt himself will his wards down, felt his own fingers turning the keys of lock after lock and pressing the door-handle open, and the only thing he couldn’t feel was surprise.
“Should I even bother asking how you found me?”
Stiles’ brain skipped like static, and he could almost feel his pulse leap too, hitch and stutter. He didn’t need to feel it, could see it reflected in Peter’s face as clear as the neon spike on a heart monitor, for all that Scott, Derek, even Allison would have missed it: the precise fraction of an inch that Peter tilted his head, the micrometer-minute movement of his eyelids, the fleeting ghost of tension there-and-gone at the corner of the werewolf’s mouth. A reaction where no one else would have seen it at all.
Well. Lydia might’ve. Stiles never bet against Lydia. And even Lydia wouldn’t have blamed Stiles for that little jump, probably, because all werewolves were built like GQ models and Peter was always wandering around in those v-necked cardigans with nothing underneath, and Stiles had been possessed and un-possessed and poisoned and undergone magical surgery all in the last 24 hours, but he was still a red-blooded seventeen-year-old and that was a whole lot of shirtlessness to be faced with unexpectedly, okay.
Like. A lot. Peter slept without a shirt, because of course he did. And greeted middle-of-the-night visitors in the same state, because he had absolutely nothing to be ashamed of.
“Please, I found this place twenty minutes after the realtor logged your purchase agreement, and it only took me that long because I left my phone at Scott’s and didn’t get the alert until I sat down at my laptop.” The scoffing tone came out on autopilot, and Stiles was grateful because his mouth was dry; he could remember being held against that chest, the steady beat of Peter’s heart as the werewolf cradled him. The warmth of Peter’s body, that sense of solid strength wrapped around him, and most of all the slow, unhurried, even sound of that heartbeat against Stiles’ ear had been more reassuring than the results of all the hours of tests—both the hospital’s and Deaton’s—that had declared him free and clear and clean.
“You have alerts set up to notify you of my financial movements,” Peter said slowly.
“And your actual locational movements, your internet search history, and any and all uses of any of your four passports,” Stiles added, mock-helpfully. “Mr Hale-Delaunay-Mirren-Addams.”
“Of course you do.” The werewolf paused a moment, clearly considering. “I think I’m flattered,” he decided.
“Why did you do it?” Stiles blurted. And damn it, he’d had a more graceful segue into that question planned, he’d plotted out a whole dialogue in his head, but the need to know was like razor glass in his throat, cold and bloody and shredding any other words he tried to speak.
Peter rolled his eyes and stepped back from the door. “I realise you and your friends are all hormone-riddled barbarians, but let’s at least pretend to be civilised people and not have this discussion on the doorstep, please.”
Stiles licked his lips and tried to keep his fingers from twitching, from tapping out a rhythm only he could hear on his thigh. Every time his hands went to do that, he remembered his fingertips dancing over the hilt of the sword in Scott’s stomach, tapping out a quick and bright and bloody tune, and he felt sick at how not-sick the memory tasted. “Civilised? Doesn’t that disqualify you immediately?” he snarked as he stepped over the threshold.
Stepped past Peter, close enough to touch, to feel the furnace-hot werewolf-heat of him.
“You wound me, Stiles.” Peter closed the door behind him, and Stiles heard locks turning, metallic clicks that made him think of rounds being chambered. Manacles that could never hold him closing around his wrists. “Besides, I’m not the one dropping by at a wholly unreasonable hour.”
“Yeah, well, I had questions and I’m not that great with delayed gratification,” Stiles said.
“Oh, but it can be such fun,” Peter murmured, almost as if to himself. “Drawing out the anticipation, honing the excitement, braiding it through with the possibility that it might not come at all… There’s much to be said for it.”
Stiles stared at him, heart suddenly pounding, something tight and hot and clawed twisting in the pit of his stomach.
Peter smiled. “What was it you wanted, again?”
“Why did you do it?” Stiles had seen—had memorised—the floor-plan of Peter’s ridiculously sized penthouse the day Peter bought it, and in the corners of his vision he caught flashes that on another day would have made him gape, glimpses of a rich, elegant luxury that made Lydia’s and even Jackson’s homes look like dirt huts in comparison; paintings under climate-controlled glass and a seamless, beautiful blending of centuries-old objets d’art with furnishings so ultramodern they looked like something from science fiction; an honest-to-god tapestry on one wall and a multi-storied library visible through an open doorway; something that might have been a 3D printer and something else that was definitely the Heintzman crystal piano, holy shit. But right now, none of it mattered, none of it really processed; there was just Peter, leaning against a wall with his arms crossed over his bare chest, his head tilted with a playful inquisitiveness that fooled neither of them, and his eyes fixed on Stiles.
“You’ll have to be a little more specific,” Peter said.
“Why did you save me?” It clawed itself out of Stiles’ throat, raw and half-choked. “You knew—you know—I saw you see it, see me, Scott didn’t and Lydia didn’t but you did.” His hands had curled into fists at his sides without thought, his knuckles so white his nails cut into his palms. “You know what I—did, what I am, why it chose me—”
“I do.” Peter pushed himself away from the wall, and Stiles took a step back instinctively, because his mind shouted you should have let me die but his body, his flesh and bone, reacted with primal programming to the animal intensity in Peter’s face, the laser-like focus that locked onto Stiles like a sniper’s cross-hairs—like a wolf scenting blood. A slow, dark smile curved Peter’s lips like a blade at whatever he heard in Stiles’ heart, his eyes lighting with simmering blue fire at whatever he smelled in Stiles’ sweat, and Stiles didn’t know what that was, what signals he was giving off what he was feeling, because Peter came towards him slow and deliberate and fucking prowling and there was fire and ice beneath Stiles’ skin, steel and velvet, something like terror and something like exhilaration and something like starving, something that said run and something that said don’t and something that said bare your teeth, stand your ground, make him kneel and beg and break for daring to think you prey.
He was more terrified of that last voice than he could ever be of Peter.
“I do,” Peter repeated, and he was still moving forward and Stiles was still moving back, thinking of wolves driving a deer where they wanted it and of flinging Derek across the loft like a doll and of coming back from the poison with Peter’s claws on his face. He was breathing faster, could feel and hear it and knew Peter could too, could feel himself trembling with want but he didn’t know, want for what, for escape or closer or tearing teeth and blood, relief or pleasure or pain, wanting to be hurt or not to be or to be the one doing the hurting—? “But then, I know a great deal about kitsune, Stiles.”
Stiles’ back hit a wall, and he froze.
He could have bolted, could have tried, but his body locked like the safety catch of a gun as Peter closed the distance between them because if Stiles moved, if he pulled the trigger, he might—
Might what —?
“The question is,” Peter purred, and Stiles fucking gasped, tried to catch it between his teeth and failed completely as Peter pressed the full length of his beautiful, powerful, dangerous body against Stiles’, with the same terrifying-maddening slow deliberation as every step that had led them here, gradually increasing the pressure to press him into the wall, pin him to it and the total unyielding strength of him made Stiles shudder, made something in him melt and something else twist to the breaking point, made him pant and tremble and every breath he took scorched his throat, carried Peter’s scent and Peter’s breath into his lungs, and something about that drove Stiles crazy, crazier than the unmistakable, shameless hardness of Peter’s cock through his drawstring sleeping-pants, crazier than it pressing unyieldingly against his own, not even moving, not letting Stiles move—no, it was the thought of all the tiny molecules of Peter passing through Stiles’ mouth and throat and into his lungs, from his alveoli into his bloodstream, into his everywhere, everywhere inside him as Peter seemed to be everywhere outside him, against him, chest-to-chest and thigh-to-thigh. The sweep of Peter’s mouth was sharp enough to cut Stiles open but Stiles already felt flayed, stripped bare; Peter laid his forearms either side of Stiles’ head to cage him in and he didn’t need to, the blue of his eyes seared Stiles to the core, set him alight and burned him down and lit the fuse of him, something building, something breaking, something going to explode—“how do you know?”
For a long, heady moment, Stiles couldn’t remember what Peter was talking about. He wasn’t sure he remembered his own name.
And then he knew he didn’t, because Peter ducked his head down and put his mouth just under Stiles’ ear and everything blazed blue inside him, Stiles smacked his skull back against the wall—no, into Peter’s palm, Peter’d moved his hand between Stiles’ head and the plaster quick as lightning, protecting him from himself, protecting him again—and arched, his spine curving and it was nothing like the poison, nothing like it, he just, he, wanted, needed, his hands flew to Peter’s shoulders and he was gasping and digging his
(claws) nails in, they couldn’t get closer but Stiles pulled at him anyway, clawed at him, tearing, he didn’t have names for the sounds he was making as Peter drew his lips open-mouthed down the line of Stiles’ jaw, down his throat—
Dragging his teeth—
“Did it tell you, Stiles?” Peter breathed, and Stiles shuddered full-bodied, Peter’s mouth against his ear now and his hands sliding down Stiles’ body, his claws grazing Stiles through his shirt and Stiles ripped at him, didn’t mean to didn’t think to didn’t care he had to, his nails tearing through Peter’s skin as Peter pinned Stiles’ hips even more firmly against the wall and rolled against him, sinuous, serpentine, sinful, Stiles wanted to scream at how maddening-good it felt and might have if he could have found the breath, if he could have, could have—
“Did it tell you that you were dark and terrible?” Peter whispered, his voice hoarser, rougher, maybe because his blood was on Stiles’ nails and Stiles fucking sobbed, fighting to writhe and thrilling down to his core when he couldn’t, when Peter wouldn’t let him. “Did it tell you that you were made for blood and screams and power, that you were born to make the whole world bow and burn? Did it tell you the light would never fit inside you, that it would drown in you, because you are a depthless wonder, you are greater than them all, too beautiful and too wild and too glorious to be chained by their laws, their rules, their pathetic moralities? Terribly beautiful and beautifully terrible, they should beg for the privilege of kneeling to you, it told you that and you knew it already, you’ve always known it, Void let you taste their pain and it was what you’ve been craving your entire life—”
Stiles shoved his blood-tipped fingers into Peter’s short hair and dragged their mouths together, burning-desperate, starving, tears falling from his eyes as they closed because it was so true it hurt, so good it hurt, he needed Peter to stop and he needed him to never stop, needed to swallow every word down into the aching empty place where the nogitsune used to be, take them all inside himself and know that he was known, seen, understood; they’d pulled him from the Void and it had been like dying, losing the one who knew him better than anyone else ever could, knew all the fucked-up dark vicious ruthless parts of him and loved him for it, chose him for it, twined around his soul and told him he was perfect because of not in spite of—
But Peter knew, Peter knew, Peter knew—
Peter made a startled, starving sound low in his throat as Stiles pulled him down and Stiles felt it like a line of fire down his spine, a thrill of power-lust that he could make someone sound like that, someone as dangerous, as always-controlled as Peter Hale, and god, fuck, he’d never been kissed like this, reeled between the contrast of Peter’s soft lips and hard mouth, opening Stiles up with sharp teeth and silken tongue, slick and cruel and filthy, licking Stiles’ moans out of him like he was feasting on every one, devouring them, devouring Stiles, like he couldn’t get enough—
Stiles dragged his nails lightly down the back of Peter’s skull and felt the werewolf shudder, felt it like a drug; he did it again, harder, ripping down the back of the werewolf’s neck and Peter snarled into his mouth, vicious and delicious, and Stiles felt the same sweet-sick thrill he’d felt as Void, feeding on the pain, feeling it light him up like foxfire—brighter than foxfire, hotter-better-more, because Peter didn’t try to pull away or escape it, Peter shoved harder against him and Stiles could feel the edge of desperation in it, the silver-sharp need toxic as wolfsbane and addictive as heroin, Peter fucking Hale’s perfect’s control fraying at the edges, coming undone, his body grinding into Stiles’ and his hands everywhere, cradling Stiles’ face, dragging hungrily down his sides, clutching his hips, shoving at and under his shirt and frenzied, rabid for him, for Stiles and it was so good, it was so terrifyingly good, Peter’s claws dragging lightning over his skin, the claws that had ripped Kate’s throat out, that could tear Stiles apart like paper, and Stiles felt himself pushing into the razored points, panting, biting at Peter’s mouth, craving, crazed, there were too many fucking clothes—
Some instinct-urge made him crook his fingers just-so, pressing the points of his nails into the back of Peter’s neck right where Scott had pressed his into Stiles for the mind-meld, and Peter went still against him. Stiles opened his eyes and found Peter’s right there, somehow both werewolf-bright and desire-dark at once; Stiles thought of Mission Bay in San Diego, the way the ocean there sometimes glowed blue at night as if the aurora borealis had been poured out of the sky and into the surf. Peter’s gaze looked like that, like phosphorescence over midnight waves, like magic and burning and drowning.
“If you want to stop,” Peter said, low and rough, “say so now. I won’t ask again.”
His pupils were dilated, blown. Deeper voids than the nogitsune had ever been.
Stiles pressed with his nails, used his grip to pull their foreheads together, lips so close they breathed each other’s breath. “I want you in me deeper than it ever was,” Stiles heard himself saying, not begging but commanding, hissing it against Peter’s mouth. “I want you to fall into me, I want you to drown in me, I want to swallow you whole—”
Peter groaned and cut him off with a savage kiss, his hands briefly raking through Stiles’ hair. “You can try,” he breathed against Stiles’ lips, and in one quick motion his hands fell and ripped Stiles’ shirt open like it was nothing, like it was paper, like it was skin. Stiles caught his mouth again, hungry, following him when Peter stepped away from the wall so they could disentangle Stiles’ arms from the remains of his sleeves. The fabric fell to the floor and Peter’s claws sliced through Stiles’ belt, Stiles wrapped his arms around Peter’s neck and tangled his fingers in Peter’s too-short hair as the werewolf cut through the buttons on his jeans. Stiles didn’t hear them land on the carpet, was too busy wrapping his legs around Peter’s waist and toeing off his sneakers as the werewolf just grasped the back of his thighs and picked him up, shoved them back against the wall again and Stiles was the one who snarled, the drag of skin-on-skin so blindingly good and the press of Peter’s cock against his stomach made his head spin but his fucking jeans, the crotch of them was cut too low and too tight, he rocked his hips and nearly screamed with frustration when he could get hardly any pressure where he needed it—
He wrapped his hand under Peter’s jaw and shoved his head back, dragged his teeth down Peter’s neck and bit. “Get these off me, Peter,” he breathed through Peter’s strangled almost-shout. He knew the werewolf could still hear him. “Get them off and fuck me.”
Pain sang through him as Peter’s claws cut too deep this time, scratched long thin lines down the outside of Stiles’ legs, but the pain was a prize because it was a sign of how badly Peter was losing it, and that should have terrified him, it should have woken him up, should have made him realise how fucking stupid and dangerous and wrong this was, the hot stinging drag of a werewolf’s claws tearing him open too shallowly to bleed—but it thrilled through him instead, locked his legs tighter around Peter’s waist, not caring how it made it harder to shove the tatters of his jeans away, out of the way, drunk on Peter’s kisses and his need and the feel of his skin, the heat of him that burned all the places the nogitsune had left cold.
“Did it tell you that you’re lethal?” Peter murmured hoarsely against his mouth. “Because you are. Brilliant, beautiful, lethal boy—” He held Stiles up one-handed without any sign of strain, running the other up Stiles’ spine, ghosting the points of his claws against the base of Stiles’ skull, tracing nerves so sensitive Stiles half-whimpered, tipping his head to bare himself to the touch, pleading for more of it, panting at the velvet static it sent softly shocking through him, that he could feel all the way down to his aching cock. The delicacy of the touch, knowing Peter only had to exert just a little more pressure, only needed one quick jab of claws into flesh to sever Stiles’ spine, slice through his brain-stem, kill him instantly—it just made it better, it was a relief somehow, made him melt and moan and grind the damp cotton of his boxers, which were hanging on by literal threads after Peter cut his jeans away, into Peter’s rock-hard stomach. Somehow Stiles found his hands moving over Peter’s shoulders, sliding up his neck, found his palms brushing Peter’s jaw as Stiles kissed him. Cupping Peter’s face with Peter’s blood under his fingernails.
“Don’t let me hurt you,” Stiles whispered. It was nonsensical, he knew it—he didn’t have the nogitsune’s super-powers anymore, couldn’t pick up a werewolf and throw him across the room like a toy, couldn’t punch through a demon’s chest and rip its heart out, couldn’t swallow foxfire that would have burned a human alive—he was no threat to Peter at all—and yet. And yet. Brilliant, beautiful, lethal boy; the words made him shudder with pleasure and fear in equal measure, made his veins run with molten honey and with ashes. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
Peter nudged Stiles’ jaw, tipping Stiles’ head up, and Stiles let his head fall back, bared his throat not with trust but with anticipation-dread-demand, his fingers twisting into Peter’s hair and his whole body jerking around a cry as the werewolf’s teeth bit down, so delicately, precisely, perfectly cruel. It twisted like a knife in his gut, the pleasure and the pain together, flooding him with fire, proving he was real, he was here and awake and his body was all his, unpossessed and free—
“Do you know what I heard just then?” Peter murmured, and he licked at the bite, the marks of his teeth that would linger, no nogitsune-quick healing for him now, Stiles should have cared and didn’t, only moaned at the sugared-chilli ache of Peter’s tongue stroking the wound, only wondered if it was saliva or blood he could feel trickling down to his collarbone, wishing he knew which he wanted it to be as Peter’s hand slid down his back again, pushed claw-sheathed fingers along the crease of his ass— “Your heart beating slightly faster over the words I. Don’t. Want.”
Stiles’ hips bucked completely without permission; he made some nameless, choked sound and nearly came right then and there, might have if Peter hadn’t done something quick and wicked with his fingers between Stiles’ legs, pressing between his hole and his balls through his boxers in a way that jerked him back from that precipice, but only just—fuck, only just, because Stiles remembered, he fucking remembered the last time Peter had said those exact words to him, and he’d been right then as he was right now, and god Stiles was sick, he was so fucking sick that that could hit him so hard and low and hot—
Brilliant, beautiful, lethal boy—
“I’m not saying goodbye this time, Stiles,” Peter breathed, and then he was crushing Stiles to him, taking his mouth like he’d take a kill, Stiles’ sore swollen mouth and Stiles clawed at him, clutched at him, biting and tearing and he nicked his tongue on one of Peter’s fangs, a bright flash of pain and then the taste of copper filled both their mouths and they moaned in unison, Peter’s melting into a delighted laugh, Stiles’ into a growl of impatient want, and fuck, Peter’s strength, they were kissing and Peter was moving them, finally, carrying Stiles through the apartment without any need to put him down and it drove Stiles wild, the power in the arms wrapped around him, the muscles shifting against Stiles’s chest, abdomen, between his legs. Peter could break him, Peter could protect him, could protect himself, could take all that werewolf strength and drive it into Stiles until he shattered—
I will kill you, Peter had promised Noshiko, and he’d said it with Stiles in his arms, he’d said it for Stiles, meant it for Stiles, with his heart underscoring the absolute truth of it with every steady beat, his willingness, his readiness to kill for Stiles—
Why, why did that make him feel so perfectly safe and so utterly dangerous at the same time, so powerful and so shiveringly, deliciously weak; why did it make him want to tear Peter apart and be torn apart by him—?
He felt Peter stop walking, and Stiles opened his eyes, his heart racing, every nerve-ending straining towards Peter through his skin, reaching for him, howling for him.
“Your bedroom?” he asked, and was almost surprised to hear his own voice: husky, sultry, hungry. Nothing shy or hesitant in it.
“Mm.” Peter kissed him again, deep and slow with a predator’s lazy, easy confidence in its possession of its prey. “And you won’t leave it until I’m done with you.”
But then, how could he be shy with Peter looking at him like that? When he’d made Peter look at him like that? How could he harbour the faintest flicker of insecurity about his body when Peter had laid hands on nearly every inch of it and called him beautiful, lethal—? And as for his inexperience…
Stiles felt himself smirk, wicked and elated, and leaned in to bite Peter’s lip, very gently. “You know I’ve never done this before, right?” he murmured. Running the fingertips of one hand down Peter’s throat, onto his chest, playfully, teasingly. Knowing exactly, instinctively, how the knowledge would hit the werewolf like a silver bullet. “Not with anyone. Boy, girl, or other. Nothing but some kisses.” He brushed his lips over Peter’s cheek, tracing Peter’s cheekbone with his nose. “You’ll be my first everything,” he breathed.
The sound Peter made wasn’t even a little bit human, so savage-raw-rabid that it exploded straight through to Stiles’ lizard-brain, a billion years of instincts recognising danger-death-predator-run! as Peter fisted a hand in his hair and crushed Stiles’ mouth against his, under his, crescent-sharp teeth tearing him open and devouring—
And Stiles was sick, so sick, because he wanted to run towards not away, instead of making him afraid it only thrilled him seared him made a wild thing of him too, feeling Peter coming apart under his hands, his lips, the shape and press of Stiles’ aching cock grinding through the soft damp cotton that was all that separated them—
“Lethal,” Peter gasped, growled, desire-approval-awe-want-need, and he took a step forward and tossed Stiles onto the bed, threw him down into thick silken softness, and Stiles bounced once and laughed, delighted with and thrilling in his own power, in the taste of Peter’s lust for him, tipping his head back and stretching hedonistically on the werewolf’s bed, arching his spine and his hips in a taunt, a dare, revelling in the drag of fabric on his skin and the burn of Peter’s eyes on him—
For the half-instant it took before Peter fell on him like a starving thing, a maddened thing, his pants discarded and his cock dragging naked against Stiles’ thigh, thick and hot and real as he swallowed Stiles’ laughter in another of those deep vicious kisses that made Stiles shudder and melt for him, under him, open to him, drag him in and drag him down and oh god it was so good, Peter’s solid heavy weight pressing him into the mattress, covering him, caging him, crushing him to powder as their hips moved, rocking, seeking. Peter’s claws caught on the last of Stiles’ boxers and then they were gone, there was only skin, heat, Stiles gasped into Peter’s mouth and heard-felt-tasted him purr, kicking Stiles’ legs apart with such fucking casual strength that Stiles arched into him, helpless and feverish and so viciously desperate as Peter moved over him, sliding their cocks together, slipping and slick like Peter’s tongue in his mouth—
Nothing had felt this real since the nogitsune started scratching at the door in his mind—nothing had ever felt this real, this immediate, this urgent, this good—
Peter’s mouth broke away from his to kiss his jaw, his neck, drag the sharp razors of his teeth over the pounding pulse in Stiles’ throat, over the marks of his earlier bite, and Stiles groaned and tipped his head back, baring his neck for Peter’s lips, his mouth, his tongue, his teeth, twisting his fingers in Peter’s hair to encourage him on. There was no stillness, only shifting restlessly and endlessly against the sheets, against Peter’s skin, under Peter’s stroking hands, under his hips, the friction, the pressure, and everywhere Peter touched was branded, every point of contact and sensation a line drawn around Stiles’ self, re-affirming the boundaries of the territory that was his body so he knew where it was, where and who he was, not nogitsune or Void but Stiles—
Brilliant, beautiful, lethal Stiles—
And this was Peter, here and with him, wanting him, murmuring sin-sweet everythings against Stiles’ throat, in his ear, against his mouth as Stiles mapped the planes of the werewolf’s shoulders with his hands, the shape of his skull, the ivory sweep of his spine—the curve of his lips and the taste of him, the armoury of his teeth, the power that moved through every sleek muscle—Peter Delaunay-Mirren-Addams-Hale, whose hands were stained as red as Stiles’ own, whom even death itself could not keep caged; Peter, who had seen him embrace Void and still wanted him, still come for him, still saved him—
Clawed hands on his face, a steady pulse beneath his ear, a voice saying I do and I don’t care—
You are a depthless wonder—
It was like being the god and the sacrifice on the altar, both at once—
Peter pulled away from him, breathing hard, and smirked at Stiles’ rough sound of protest. “Lube,” he murmured, explanation and expiation, brushing his lips lightly over Stiles’—Stiles darted his tongue across the seam of Peter’s mouth, and revelled in the werewolf’s low groan.
“Ashmedai,” Peter said hoarsely, and Stiles grinned up at him, smug and wicked.
“King of Hell and prince of lust? I hope you don’t expect me to take that as an insult.”
“No,” Peter said. He dragged his thumb across Stiles’ lower lip, his pupils so wide and dark only a sliver of shimmering azure showed around them. “It’s only the truth.” He kissed Stiles again, bruisingly, and then pushed himself up and away.
Stiles propped himself up on one elbow to watch him, admiring the smooth flexing of lean muscle and feral grace, hunger and anticipation twisting together like heated wires inside him. For the first time, he saw Peter’s back as the man swung his legs onto the floor and reached for the bedside table, and felt a flicker of surprise: the room was dim, but enough light spilled through the uncurtained windows and from beyond the open bedroom door to make clear that, like Derek, Peter was tattooed—not with the same splayed-hand’s-width triskele as his nephew, but with three massive interlocked crescents that covered his entire back. One swept like a razored smile across his shoulder-blades, and the other two curved down before and behind and through it, interwoven, crossing each other in the process, all three black as ebony, as ashes. It was dark and stark and elegant, all sharp curves and deadly-looking points, the lowest of which reached all the way down to brush the base of Peter’s spine.
And probably it meant something, the way Derek’s triskele meant something—the three werewolf castes and their interconnectedness, the implication therein that the unity of the pack was the most important thing, the core of all—but for once Stiles’ curiosity was drowned out by something stronger. At some other time, any other time, he would have asked Peter about his tattoo, what it meant and when he’d gotten it and why—but not now, when even this brief pause made craving drag hot claws through his insides, made him feel touch-starved. Instead Stiles followed Peter up, looped his arms around the man’s torso from behind and put his mouth on that top kukri crescent, tracing the sweep of it with his tongue.
He hadn’t expected to, but he could taste it: bitter, and sweet, and strange in a way that set jewels on his tongue, that sent ribbons of embers braiding down his spine. It was unnaturally smooth under his lips, silky like a scar.
“I like it,” he said simply. He scraped his teeth over the back of Peter’s neck, and felt the werewolf shudder under his lips; the rush of dark, hot desire spilled into the pit of Stiles’ stomach like mulled wine, all sweet red heat.
Without answering Peter turned swiftly into his embrace and kissed him, hard and fierce and maybe desperate, pushing Stiles onto his back in the process. They hit the mattress together and Stiles arched into him, twisting around him, hooking his ankles around the back of Peter’s thighs to pull them closer together, to rock and grind and gasp and groan. But Stiles couldn’t hold him; Peter broke his grip with an ease that stabbed into Stiles like a blade still hot from the forge, pushing Stiles’ thighs apart and holding them flat against the bed, swallowing the sound Stiles made with that savage hunger, that primal, animal greed that made Stiles shake and burn and surge up into Peter’s mouth.
Which one of them was the more dangerous: the one with fangs and claws and a wolf’s tearing hunger—or the one that made him rabid and unleashed him?
The question simmered in the line Peter’s lips drew down Stiles’ throat, pounded in the pulse at the base of his neck, curled like heated satin under his collarbone. Peter’s hands held him down and his teeth dragged over Stiles’ ribs, sharp and catching at Stiles’s breath, breaking his harsh panting into a stifled gasp as Peter laved one hard nipple with his tongue, closed his teeth around it so fucking gently Stiles wanted to claw him, bite him bloody, one hand in Peter’s hair and the other fisted in the sheets, his hips jerking against Peter’s hold uselessly, helplessly. It felt like worship, Peter’s hands on him, the silken heat of his tongue drawing a line down Stiles’ body, his thumbs on the jut of Stiles’s hip bones stroking circles whose tenderness belied the sharp prick of his claws, and Stiles couldn’t breathe and didn’t want to, not with Peter shifting predator-smooth down the bed, moving down Stiles, leaving citrus-sharp bites and dark-chocolate kisses in his wake, sucking dark, bruising marks onto Stiles’ skin and Stiles wanted to snarl and wanted to sob, to beg and to command, hovering on a knife’s edge of black bliss between the two conflicting urges as Peter drew closer and closer to Stiles’ aching cock—
The blue glow of his eyes flicked up to watch Stiles’ face as if to be sure he was watching—as if there were any chance Stiles could have been looking anywhere else—and if someone had asked him Stiles would have said he’d expected Peter to smirk, to look smug, silkily mocking and supremely pleased with himself for working Stiles into such a state—but Peter was none of those things; he looked up at Stiles and Stiles saw him, saw into him, saw through the human skin and the wolf beneath it to the pomegranate-raw core of what Peter was, and it was like gazing into an obsidian mirror, staring into the abyss, the howling-burning-vicious thing inside Stiles perfectly reflected back at him through Peter’s eyes, every drop of his own savage hunger echoed in Peter’s face, the deadly joy and fierce shameless euphoria of being a monster and the need, the soul-screaming need to share it, to run through the darkest woods alongside another, to be seen and adored and known—
And in that moment Stiles understood it right down to the bone, wordless and absolute: Peter had saved him because they were both beautiful lethal things, and to let Stiles die would have been to doom himself to run alone through that inner forest, to howl and hear nothing but silence in answer.
Because before the nogitsune he’d glimpsed Stiles through the trees, running too fast to catch, too far away to be certain of, a shadow on silent feet refusing to answer Peter’s call.
But then Void had come, and Stiles’ soul had finally, finally howled, loud enough to make the stars ring with it: not with fear and terror, but with the joyous-defiant triumph of freedom and the rush of intoxicating power, a piercing cry of dark and untamed celebration, and Peter could no more have let it go unanswered—let it be silenced—than he could will himself not to breathe.
Lust was too small a word for it. Love was too small a word. No human language had a name for what Stiles saw in Peter’s face then.
Or for what it made Stiles feel, to be allowed to see it, to see it at all, to recognise it, understand it, know it—
“Peter,” he whispered, and the name was a prayer thick with fear and awe and longing on his tongue, blood and syrup and holy water—
As if he could only bear to be so naked for so long—naked in a way bare skin could never match—Peter ducked his head. He dragged his cheek against Stiles’ cock, open-mouthed, the points of his teeth trailing sweet fire down Stiles’ abdomen, and Stiles choked as much at the sinful sight of it as at the sensations. His hips bucked, helplessly, so hard only Peter’s werewolf strength kept him pinned to the sheets and Stiles’ fingers were still clenched in Peter’s hair, tightened and twisted as Peter turned his face to Stiles’ arousal, brushing his lips lightly against it, touching just the tip of his tongue to the flushed, swollen skin—
“Peter,” Stiles—gasped, whimpered, snarled, he could never remember which afterwards and it tangled together in his throat, in his head, in the pit of his stomach, in his cock that twitched heavily against Peter’s mouth, and Stiles nearly lost it completely as the little spurt of pre-come gleamed on Peter’s lower lip.
“Stiles,” Peter purred. His palms stroked from Stiles’ hipbones down his thighs, skimming the edges of his claws against soft, vulnerable skin. Stiles remembered how Scott’s flesh had opened beneath Kira’s sword and his eyes shivered closed; what was this, this penance-pleasure, the black fire that coiled tongues of ebon flame around his bones every time he thought of how easily Peter could tear him apart? “There’s no need to hold back, sweetheart. Really, I don’t know if I should be insulted you’ve managed to hold on so long.”
“Don’t want to come until you’re inside me,” Stiles said without thinking, and Peter’s face, his playful smugness—it whited-out, everything human in it seared away in an atom-bomb flash. Before Stiles could take another breath Peter lunged for him, was back on top of him and his mouth came down on Stiles’ like a lightning strike, flooding his every nerve and vein with skyfire, with power and light and heat until he shook and blazed with it, until he felt like living flame—
“Lethal,” Peter hissed against his lips, hoarse and wrecked, and Stiles wanted to laugh and purr and moan, licked back into Peter’s mouth and rolled his hips to rub them together, skin dragging on skin and Peter’s teeth sharp as knives as they parted for his tongue, letting him in, letting him take, the rush of it enough to make Stiles shudder—
To be deemed a dangerous thing by someone like Peter, with his werewolf-strength and crescent-moon claws, who had cut through Beacon Hills like a scythe to avenge his pack—whom death itself had not been able to hold—to be caressed like a precious, priceless thing by hands that could destroy him without even trying—
It should have been horrifying.
It was everything but.
After some instantaneous eternity Stiles fisted a hand in Peter’s hair and dragged their mouths apart; his cock twitched against Peter’s stomach at the look on the man’s face, the dazed and rabid hunger. “I meant what I said,” Stiles told him. His tongue still stung where he’d cut it on Peter’s fang; his lips ached, hot and swollen. “I don’t want to come until you’re inside me. So get inside me, Peter.”
Some far-away and insignificant part of him couldn’t believe what he was saying, who he was saying it to, the fierce and wild shamelessness he was drunk on. Stiles didn’t care about that small voice in the back of his mind, barely heard its stunned whispers, certainly didn’t listen. Not when Peter’s lips, just as kiss-bruised as Stiles’, parted around a soft snarl that stroked down Stiles’ spine like velvet and made him shiver; not when Peter darted down to kiss him once more, a kiss like burning brandy spilling down his throat, before moving to obey.
Peter. Moving to obey. To obey Stiles.
Good boy, something in Stiles purred, hot and heady; the same silky, obsidian-fanged darkness that had wanted Peter on his knees and begging, breaking, for looking at Stiles as if he were prey, earlier. But Peter hadn’t been thinking that at all, had he? No, he’d known what Stiles was—known it all along—
Couldn’t get enough of it—
Peter slid down Stiles’ body and Stiles pushed himself up on one elbow and watched him, amazed and aroused almost beyond bearing by the sight; the scratches Peter’s claws had left on his legs throbbed in time with the heavy pulse in his cock, and Stiles could already feel where his hips and waist would be bruised with Peter’s fingerprints tomorrow. He didn’t, couldn’t resist as Peter pushed his thighs apart and settled himself between them, pressing his face to Stiles’ hip and inhaling deeply, as if the very scent of Stiles’ skin were a drug.
God, nothing he and the nogitsune had done had made Stiles feel as powerful as the cobalt shimmer in Peter’s eyes when he glanced up at Stiles’ face to see him watching.
He had more sense than to actually murmur good boy aloud, no matter how smoothly it rested on his tongue, but he slid a hand into Peter’s hair, letting his nails brush the back of Peter’s neck, and felt it low in the pit of his stomach as the werewolf shuddered for him.
And slowly, watching Stiles all the while through half-lidded eyes, tipped his head into the caress, just enough to deliberately bare his throat.
For Stiles. To Stiles—
Whatever Peter saw in his face, it was enough to make him shudder again, closing his eyes briefly, though they were lit so brightly Stiles could make out the glow of them through his eyelids. Even through the dark roaring in his ears, even through the Void-vicious craving to drag Peter back up and flip him over and sink his teeth into the werewolf’s neck until he bled, Stiles thought he’d never seen anything more beautiful, more intoxicating, than the radiance of Peter’s eyes burning too brightly for him to hide.
They left a blue glow on Stiles’ skin when they opened again, and Stiles half-imagined he could feel it, a whisper-warm caress, just before Peter turned his face and ran his tongue up the length of Stiles’ cock.
“Fuck!” Stiles jolted; only Peter’s hands on his thighs stopped Stiles’ hips bucking up against that wicked smirk. The muscles in Stiles’ arms trembled, threatening to drop him back onto the bed, but he didn’t want to lose sight of this, the curve of Peter’s lips as he licked another slow wet ribbon over Stiles from base to tip, only to lap at the head, at the pre-come beading and smearing there, and if his goal had been to clean Stiles up then it was completely backfiring because every stroke of Peter’s tongue only grew more filthy, saliva and pre-come mixing together under Peter’s lips and Stiles’ hips strained against Peter’s grasp with helpless little jerks, desperate for more, desperate to come and just as desperate not to, not yet, but oh, fuck, oh, fuck—his knuckles went white in Peter’s hair and Peter’s growl of approval vibrated all through Stiles’ cock and Stiles was swearing, curses spilling from his lips and high, keening whines from his throat, the blue light of Peter’s eyes gleaming on the wet, slick mess between Stiles’ legs and Stiles’ toes curled with the effort of not coming all over Peter’s face.
He hardly noticed when one of Peter’s hands went away, except to wrap the freed leg around Peter’s shoulders, holding him close without thinking about it; later he didn’t remember hearing the cap of the lube clicking open, though it must have, because Peter’s lips closed around the head of Stiles’ cock just as his fingers slid slickly between the cheeks of Stiles’ ass and against his hole.
Stiles nearly cried out, bucking up; and then he did make some loud nameless noise because Peter let him, let him thrust up and push deeper into Peter’s mouth in the process, his cock sliding between Peter’s lips and over his tongue, all hot wet vicuna taking him in and sucking, leisurely, fucking evilly, and Stiles didn’t need to look to feel Peter’s smirk wrapped around him. Not that he could look away, even for a second, even with the arm propping him up shaking with the strain of not just collapsing back on the bed and bucking into Peter’s fucking mouth, his deadly-beautiful-wicked mouth, all sharp silk tongue and sharper fangs and the relief-release-terror-thrill of knowing that Stiles had never been more vulnerable, not even when a spirit of chaos had been slithering into his fucking head—
As Void—it had felt so good to be so powerful, so in control; and it still did, he still was, Peter’s eyes burned that bright a blue because Stiles lit the fire but there was something—something about knowing how easily Peter could hurt him—something about surrendering to that, and to the pleasure, in a way that was nothing like letting the nogitsune in had been—something about knowing that there was someone who could stop him if he couldn’t or wouldn’t go back, now, to being good, being human, being Stiles instead of Void—
(Even though Peter would never stop him, even if he could; would be right there beside Stiles as the blood splashed and the ashes rained down and why had the nogitsune never thought to ask Peter to play with them, oh god it would have been so good, the games they could have played together—)
(Even though Stiles didn’t want to go back and didn’t know how, how to close the Pandora’s box in his deepest self now it was open, how to pretend he wasn’t what he was: someone Void could fit inside like a tailored glove, someone who had danced with Chaos and loved it, someone who had exulted in ‘It is now’ and had hurt, hurt like dying, when he’d been pried free from the spirit’s sick-sweet embrace—
Someone who’d overturned the board when he saw his friends watching him play and felt like such a coward, such a two-faced, back-stabbing traitor, for doing that to the one person who’d known him completely and loved him anyway, loved him because—)
(It wasn’t love, it was killing him, he knows it all and yet it doesn’t seem to matter—)
Peter’s fingertips were satin-rough beneath the lube, cruelly gentle, tender torture stroking over Stiles’ hole again and again, circling it, pushing just enough to barely dip inside, enough to make Stiles jolt and gasp and thrust up into his mouth and Peter just took it, letting Stiles slide in almost all the way into his throat, and it was all jagged shards of lightning crashing together and interlocking in a flash of searing blue heat, Peter’s fingers and his tongue and his smirk wrapped around Stiles’ cock, his eyes like marsh-fire in the dim room and it was all so good, so much, like being Void again, except instead of devouring agony he was feasting on pleasure, it was filling him up until there was nothing else and Stiles felt drunk on it, wild with it, heard himself snarling with impatient, vicious desire and felt Peter groan around him.
Stiles slid his hand down the back of Peter’s head, pressed his nails to the back of Peter’s neck again, right where an Alpha would slide their claws into his soul. “Now, Peter,” he ordered, his voice pitched low and dark and demanding—and felt the darkness in him crack apart again as Peter’s finger pushed into him, slow and steady and strange, making him Stiles again, a wise-cracking teenager looking to lose his virginity and not a, not a—
Beautiful, brilliant, lethal boy—
It ached, a little; Stiles had tried this once or twice by himself but Peter’s finger was thicker than any of his, and longer (and could grow clawed, could turn razor-sharp at any moment), immediately and obviously different—but it wasn’t bad, it was fine, Stiles was just impatient to get on with—
And then a wave of bright silver rapture pulsed through his body, lighting him up like a nebula, and Stiles nearly screamed, only managed not to because it hit him on the in-breath and he choked on it instead, forgot how to breathe as molten silver spilled through his every nerve-ending, pouring from Peter’s finger to gild him inside, every vein, every cell—
Peter let Stiles slip from his mouth and laughed softly; he licked a slow, wet stroke over Stiles’ cock, watching him. “Did you think we could only take pain?” he asked, fucking purred, and another throbbing wave of pleasure seared through Stiles, an aurora borealis all in shades of burning blue bliss curling and blazing inside him, flooding him from toes to skull sweet as honey, if he screamed now would light or ambrosia come spilling out of his mouth—?
“Oh, god,” Stiles choked, “oh, fuck, oh god, what are you, Peter, fuck, Peter—”
Peter pushed a second finger into Stiles and Stiles came instantly, went supernova, so much so good and he probably did scream, spine a crescent-moon arch lifting him off the bed with Peter’s mouth quickly back around his cock, swallowing him down, taking it all as Stiles bucked and writhed and came apart, shattering around the silver Peter was still pouring into him, wave after silken wave of it, what did it matter if he swore by God or by Peter when right here, right now they were the same thing—?
“You did come with me inside you,” Peter said smugly when Stiles collapsed against the mattress, trembling with the sweet aftershocks. The werewolf crooked his fingers and yeah, no, refraction time was apparently not an issue with werewolf magic playing your pleasure receptors like harp-strings and making them sing. It should have hurt, probably, getting so hard again so fast, but Peter’s fingers just kept stroking in and out of him, nuzzling and lapping at Stiles’ cock, and it was so good, Stiles couldn’t stop shivering and twisting his hips and panting as Peter worked him back up. Not that he’d really let Stiles come down to start with.
“Cheat,” Stiles managed, and Peter laughed, dark and delighted, sending another steel-razor shiver down Stiles’ spine and another ripple of that supernatural power twisting hot and sleek up inside him. “Fuck. No w-wonder Allison went straight from Scott to another werewolf, this is so not in the Bestiary—”
Peter nipped his thigh. “Please. Just because we can, doesn’t mean we all know how. I guarantee your friends have no idea how to properly please a bed-mate. I know my nephew doesn’t.” He flicked a look up at Stiles’ face. “And that is the last mention of Scott I will tolerate in my own bedroom, thank you.”
It was Stiles’ turn to laugh, breathless. “No, but seriously, we should put it in the Bestiary, they’d make you guys a protected species in seconds if they knew you could holy fucking shit—”
He lost his words for a while, which was no doubt Peter’s intention. After that first brutal-bliss jolt to shut him up, though, Peter kept the pleasure to languid waves, lapping at Stiles’ body like silver surf. Stiles’ pulse skipped and his head fell back, lips parting on nothing, no curses or gasps just, just—feeling it, the slow thrust in and out of Peter’s fingers, a little deeper every time, anticipation beating bronze wings in his ears, strobing in his head, blurring into the twist of Peter’s tongue, everything simultaneously winding tighter and tighter and turning hot and molten inside him, melting, melting open for that second finger, and then a third, and Stiles didn’t remember deciding to move but he found his hips rolling with it, slow and easy and anything but, all at once. It was like a dream and a nightmare twisted into one, the hazy taffy-sweet stretching of time and the taut-wire tension, the feeling of flying and falling, spiralling from one to the other and back again with the crook of Peter’s fingers, the graze of his teeth, the tide-like rise and fall of his power—
Stiles was either going to hit the sun or crash to earth and he didn’t want to, not again, not yet—savagely, viciously didn’t want to, and he didn’t know if he was ready, prepped enough, but ready or not he was ready—
And his nails were still on the back of Peter’s neck.
He pulled—pulled with his nails, sharp and brutal and dragging Peter off of him, and Peter made that sound again as Stiles’ cock slipped from his mouth; low and animal, something caught between a moan and a snarl, arching to press his neck into Stiles’ human-claws, baring his throat in the same motion, and the look he gave Stiles was all hunger and challenge, daring him—
Daring him to be lethal—
And Stiles slipped his legs from the werewolf’s shoulders and dragged him up, his free hand flying to clutch at Peter’s hair and pull him back up Stiles’ body so they were face-to-face again, those blue eyes deadly-dark even as they burned, lips red as blood as Stiles pulled them down onto his, surging up into the kiss even as Peter fell on him like a starving wolf. His hands were clawed again as they ran greedily down Stiles’ body, catching on the soft skin of Stiles’ thighs as he pushed them where he wanted them and Stiles could taste himself in Peter’s mouth, not a good taste but one that made his whole body clench tight with hunger and heat anyway.
“Condom,” he managed when they broke for air.
Peter bit Stiles’ lip, and Stiles shuddered, his cock twitching against Peter’s stomach. “I don’t have any.”
Everywhere they touched Stiles could feel the silver threads of Peter giving pleasure unspooling into him, and they were touching everywhere; he had a flash of what it would feel like with Peter’s cock inside him, and nearly whimpered, nearly let it go, but he’d been raised smarter than that, damn it. “Bullshit,” he accused, flexing his nails on Peter’s neck; the werewolf’s hips jerked sharply, something like a hiss escaping from between Peter’s teeth. “You have some, go get one so you can fuck me.”
“Why would I have condoms here?” Peter asked hoarsely. He nudged his hips forward slyly, his cock sliding against Stiles’ ass and Stiles snarled at him, reactive, bestial; he raked his nails down the back of Peter’s neck and heard him choke, saw his eyes roll back a little.
“Don’t you dare,” Stiles hissed, fury like dark wine rushing through his veins. “Condom, Peter. Now.”
“I don’t have any,” Peter repeated, hoarse, and Stiles felt himself bare his teeth.
“I don’t believe you.” His hand trailed down from the already-healing scratches he’d left on the back of Peter’s neck—and slid to smoothly grasp his throat, the throat Peter had bared for him, tight and hard. Peter moaned, his eyes fluttering closed and his pulse racing under Stiles’ fingertips, and he was so beautiful like that Stiles almost forgot what he’d been saying. Almost. “Don’t tell me everyone you bring back here forgets basic sex ed when you bat those pretty blue eyes at ’em—”
“I don’t bring people here.” Peter looked drugged—probably why he hadn’t made Stiles pay for calling him pretty—and without thinking Stiles found himself stroking his thumb up and down the side of Peter’s throat, revelling in it when Peter shuddered full-bodied for him. “It’s a non-issue for werewolves anyway, since we can’t catch or carry human diseases, but on those occasions I feel the need for another body,” and it was the way he said it, another body, making it so clear that that was all they were, “I make a call to one of several discreet escort services and meet them at a hotel. If they want condoms they bring them themselves so I don’t have to bother thinking about it. I don’t bring people here.”
Stiles’ thumb stilled on Peter’s throat. He stared up at the werewolf, and Peter stared down, his eyes dark even through the azure fire in them, and it happened again: they saw each other, monster to monster, stripped naked of all masks and pretence, obsidian mirrors reflecting back each other’s howling hearts into infinity—
There was no telling who moved first: Stiles surged up and Peter lunged down and they kissed like comets colliding, all teeth and heat and Stiles’ fingers sliding into Peter’s hair and Peter’s hands dragging claws and silver bliss over Stiles’ hips and thighs, lifting them so Stiles could wrap them around his waist, skin dragging against skin and three of Peter’s fingertips still just a little slick and Stiles’ blood was a rushing roar in his ears. He wrapped one arm around Peter’s shoulders and Peter was licking into his mouth and pushing himself forward, his cock silky with lube—when had he done that?—as it slid against Stiles’ perineum and down, one of Peter’s hands guiding it and the other wrapped around Stiles’ thigh, fingertips just brushing the scratches his claws had left earlier and pushing thin silver threads into them, mixing pleasure into the stinging pain and Stiles bit him for it, for how shudderingly-good it was, for the anticipation-dread-desire-now whirlpooling in the pit of his stomach.
The head of Peter’s cock brushed Stiles’ hole, and the werewolf broke off the kiss. “Show me,” he murmured, almost against Stiles’ lips, hunger so raw Stiles could nearly taste it.
“Ruin me,” Stiles hissed, and Peter snarled against his mouth and pushed into him.
It wasn’t gentle and it wasn’t quite slow but it was exactly, exactly what Stiles wanted, everything he’d craved and more than he’d imagined; the thick burning ache of someone else’s flesh sliding into his, bruising and sweet and strange; the heavy weight of Peter’s body over him, pressing him down, pressing into him, solid and real; the taste of Peter’s breath on his tongue, their mouths so close they almost touched, the hyperawareness of his lips as seemingly the only place they weren’t touching; the sharp delineation of their bodies even as they interlocked because Peter’s ran just a few critical degrees too hot to be human, just enough to whisper werewolf down Stiles’ spine, just enough to spiral down into Stiles’ cold dark hollowness and light it up with incandescent blue.
It was all he could see, that azure blaze. Even when he closed his eyes, letting himself gasp instead of hiss, letting his head fall back with a shuddering whimper, baring his throat in a tease that wasn’t teasing at all—there was the blue fire, and Stiles let it drive away, just for a minute, the wild snarling darkness inside of him, let it burn through the part of him that was dangerous to the part that was defenceless, raw, young and vulnerable; he let the masks and armour fall away and showed Peter exactly what he’d wanted to see, the desecration of the one little bit of innocence Stiles had had left and Stiles feeling every second of it—
Peter’s teeth closed around his throat, and the silver spilled from his teeth into Stiles’ veins in whorling, star-bright curlicues and distantly Stiles wondered if this was what the Bite was like, pleasure so bright and strange it hurt as it seared through you.
If it was, no wonder some people died of it.
Peter let go of his neck, but the silver still stroked through Stiles in shimmering waves, rippling through him from Peter’s hands and the lap of his tongue over Stiles’ lip, from every place they touched and Stiles moaned, arching into it because he’d so, so underestimated how that werewolf-magic would offset and twine with the dull pain of being fucked, how it would melt into the heat of Peter’s body and the brush of his claws over Stiles’ skin. It made every scratch and bite and bruise sting and sing, jewels set in flesh Peter was replacing cell by cell with precious metal—and that was all on top of, or beneath, the purely mortal pleasure-strangeness of two bodies joined, the terror-thrill of the raw intimacy of it, the vulnerability of being open and full of someone else, not just someone-anyone but Peter, werewolf, adult, the worst monster Stiles knew—
(Even Duecalion never came back from the dead, even Jennifer had been human, even Jackson-as-kanima was only being controlled the whole time—)
He opened his eyes.
—except for the one he saw reflected back at him in Peter’s gaze, his own face rendered in cobalt fire.
It should have been terrible, not beautiful, that realisation-reminder, but it was both, terribly beautiful and beautifully terrible and the wild rush of it was beyond words, those blue flames licking over Stiles’ black-oil-core and igniting with a roar, the wild darkness that had never belonged to Void surging through him again and Stiles leaned up and caught Peter’s mouth with his teeth, pulling him down with the fingers still in the werewolf’s hair, the arm wrapped around his shoulders, tightening his legs around Peter’s waist as he swallowed Peter’s snarl and it should have been horrifying, terrifying, Stiles knew it and didn’t care, laughed with rich and bloody delight as he stole Peter’s lips and tongue and breath, daring him, teasing him, challenging him.
Touch me with your bloodstained hands, kiss me with your killing teeth, burn me down with your blue fire—
Give it to me, give it all to me—
He ran his palm down the back of Peter’s neck, and up again, stroking over the healed-smooth skin—and stabbed his nails in deep, deep enough to feel wet blood against his fingertips, feel it spilling down like a collar of crimson wire around Peter’s throat, dripping onto Stiles’ collarbone warm as tears—
And Peter broke like a bone for him.
Stiles felt the difference in the splinter of a second before Peter moved, tasted it as Peter’s teeth were suddenly sharp as shards and Stiles’ mouth was full of blood, his own as Peter’s snarl savaged his lips and the blinding blue neon leaving sunspots on his vision and Stiles was laughing, was moaning, was maybe even screaming as he was suddenly the only human in the room, whatever shape Peter wore it was the wolf in bed with Stiles now and oh, god, it hurt, it did, but it hurt like fire, like lightning, jagged bolts of flashing silver spearing through him as Peter thrust so hard, too hard, not hard enough, dragging his clawed hands over Stiles’ thighs and waist and shoulders as if he wanted Stiles closer, wanted in deeper, wanted to tear him open and eat him alive and Stiles twisted bloodstained fingers in Peter’s hair, urging him on, sick and wrong and wild with triumph and power and pain, pain Peter snatched away even as he gave it, a dizzying whirl of a storm spinning Stiles ’round and ’round and upside-down, the silver currents of blazing bliss rushing into him and the black coils of pain slithering out and the hot solid weight of the werewolf’s body the only anchor, moving over him, moving in him, rough and raw and real—
But not deep enough.
‘I want you in me deeper than it ever was—’
‘I want to swallow you whole —”
It was something Alison had shown him and Lydia in one of their how-to-be-human-and-survive-the-supernatural training sessions, and it probably only worked because he whimpered prey-sweet and sugar-soft into Peter’s mouth to distract him (not only to distract him) first; he felt Peter’s low growl of savage, hungry approval reverberate in his chest (it skittered over Stiles’ every bone) and then Stiles had him, one leg trapping Peter’s and one arm hooking over the werewolf’s shoulder and the twist of his hips, shoving down against the bed with his other foot, made Stiles groan and Peter snarl, and almost before Stiles flipped them over Peter was sitting up, surging up to meet him, wrapping an arm around Stiles’ waist to settle Stiles in his lap.
Distantly, Stiles noticed that Peter’s other hand was a clawed fist in the sheets, shredding the fabric in his grip. But that was far away, far away and irrelevant; he moaned, rolling his hips a little, stunned by and revelling in how much of Peter this position let him take. He did it again, pressing forward a little to grind his cock into Peter’s stomach, falling back to screw himself open. His hands were in Peter’s hair again, restlessly carding through it as he figured out how to move, how to take—
He didn’t realise he’d closed his eyes until Peter made a sound like a wordless prayer of violence and lust; when he opened them he saw the werewolf staring up at him as if drugged, watching him with a raw and starving desire. His eyes burned darkly, and his mouth was smeared with Stiles’ blood; without thinking Stiles cupped Peter’s face and bent down to him, licked his own blood from Peter’s lips until they parted for him with a groan.
Stiles was still bleeding. It slicked the slip and slide of their mouths, their tongues, dark, coppery silk spilling down their throats, dripping down their chins. When Peter’s hand pressed against the small of Stiles’ back, pulling him, pushing him, showing him how to rock his hips—when Stiles broke the kiss to let his head fall back with the intoxicating pleasure-pain-power of it all, shuddering-simmering through him—when Peter buried his face in Stiles’ bared throat with another saw-toothed groan, thrusting up to meet him so silver fire burst behind Stiles’ eyelids, Stiles felt the wet of Peter’s lips against his skin and knew it was his own blood, and his knuckles went white where they twisted in the werewolf’s hair.
His body rose and fell, again and again, his hips rolling slow as summer surf; savouring, lingering. But it was too good, too much, and Peter’s hands settled on his hips, his ivory claws pricking Stiles’ skin, black and silver threads twining around his fingers, drawn out of Stiles’ body or sliding into him like Peter’s cock, pleasure so bright and pure it was cruel, a razor of bliss. His hands tightened on Stiles and Stiles’ pulse raced, thinking of that werewolf strength, feeling it twist deep into the pit of his belly as Peter lifted him and pulled him down with every thrust, moving him as easily as a doll, a grip Stiles couldn’t escape if he tried. And if he did, if he tried to run, Peter would only catch him and drag him down before Stiles even reached the bedroom door, before he reached the edge of the bed, even—
“I thought he was you,” Peter said hoarsely. He dragged his teeth across Stiles’ jugular, star-splinter sharp, and Stiles shuddered, whimpered, jerked his hips hard in Peter’s hold. “Your scent was on his jacket…”
“What?” Stiles barely heard, didn’t understand, didn’t care with the silver ensnaring him like Sleeping Beauty’s killing rose-vines, closing around him like a cage, Peter’s cock thick and hot inside him, sliding, thrusting, a bright blue spiral twisting tighter and tighter in his core—
Peter raised his head, pressed his lips to the corner of Stiles’ mouth. “That night,” he said, and his voice was rough, guttural as if he were mid-change, moon-drunk, a wolf trying to shape human words. “I was confused, reeling from taking an Alpha’s power, more than half-mad from the burns, the memories, the coma…There were two boys in my woods, my territory, and one—one stank of fear, and the other was fearless. He hunted for death and was excited by it, wanted to find it. Which meant he wanted to find me.”
Stiles was breathing faster; his skin felt drawn tight and hot over his bones. He couldn’t—he didn’t—he whimpered again, bucking in Peter’s hold, and his cock jerked in the tight press between them, slick and messy with pre-come, dragging against the werewolf’s skin with every thrust—
Peter’s mouth brushed along Stiles’ jaw. “Your scent was on Scott’s jacket,” he whispered. “I thought he was you. I wanted you, Stiles. I knew you’d make such a beautiful monster—lethal—strong—brilliant—and you did. You do.”
He sounded…he sounded like he was on his knees before a god’s altar, and Stiles couldn’t imagine Peter ever kneeling, ever submitting that wholly, no matter how great the Greater Power—
Except. He’d bared his throat for Stiles, hadn’t he?
Oh, god, the silver—the blue—
“It was supposed to be you,” Peter said, like he was falling, like Stiles was swallowing him whole after all—only Stiles couldn’t tell who had who—which of them had the other—who was in control— “It was you I meant to Turn. I wanted you.”
And maybe every word of it was a lie, Peter had always lied as smoothly as Lucifer, but—
Stiles dragged his fingers through Peter’s hair, ran his palms over the back of the werewolf’s skull. “Bite me now,” he breathed against Peter’s lips, stroking a fingertip along the line of drying red around Peter’s neck, the collar of blood— “Peter. Bite me now.”
For an instant their eyes met, and Stiles had no name for the expression on Peter’s face—wondering, fierce, starving, awed, savage, collared—
And then Peter ducked his head under Stiles’ chin and Stiles tipped his head back, pressed Peter’s face into his neck, urging-commanding-wanting-needing as those teeth closed around his throat like something beautiful, like jewellery—
Like something brilliant, and beautiful, and lethal—
And suddenly Peter surged forward, driving his fangs into Stiles’ skin, slamming Stiles onto his back again, and the pain met and meshed with the spiralling silver, the blood and the meat and Stiles clung to the monster as if to a life-raft, locking his legs around Peter’s hips, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, fisting a hand in his hair, shattering under the wolf’s body over and over with every rutting thrust, snarling and sobbing and screaming until Peter sealed his bloodied mouth over Stiles’, not to silence him but to take the sounds for himself, into himself, and afterwards that was always how Stiles would remember it: the taste of his own blood on Peter’s lips as the world exploded into blue and silver, silver and blue, detonating into something as far beyond pleasure and pain as it was beyond the ability of words to describe.
At some point he felt Peter shudder above him, and come, inside him, a rush of wet heat into bruised, raw flesh, and that, too, was viciously, impossibly perfect.
Stiles had lost all sense of time a while ago; he didn’t know how long the two of them lay there, breathing hard, still joined, echoes of pleasure and throbbing ripples of pain shivering through them both. Peter was still taking his pain, or at least some of it; when he nuzzled Stiles’ mouth, and softly kissed it, Stiles’ savaged lips hurt far less than they probably should have done. Their tongues stroked lazily between their mouths, slow and easy, rich and sweet, until Stiles turned his face away, not in rejection, but just to breathe.
“Addams?” he asked finally. As if he wasn’t bleeding and bruised, wasn’t lying naked in Peter Hale’s bed. Didn’t have Peter’s softening cock inside him. “Really?”
Peter smirked. “‘We gladly feast on those who would subdue us’ is a crede I can get behind, even if they butchered the Latin.”
And Stiles couldn’t do anything but laugh.
Unsurprisingly, Stiles’ energy faded quickly as the rush of adrenaline and endorphins settled; it was something of a miracle—and rather personally flattering—that he had stayed awake so long, after all he’d been through in the last 24 hours. Peter took enough of the teenager’s pain to allow him to drowse comfortably as Peter reluctantly left the exquisite tableau he made sprawled on Peter’s bed to fetch the necessities.
He returned to find Stiles more than halfway asleep, which was probably for the best; Peter would have been too tempted to try for another round if Stiles hadn’t been so clearly in need of rest. He hardly stirred as Peter used a damp washcloth to wipe him clean of blood and semen, and only murmured nearly inaudible nonsense syllables when Peter carefully applied a healing salve—not one of the estimable Dr Deaton’s—to the worst of the teenager’s cuts and bruises.
He brushed the magic-imbued cream over Stiles’ lips with his thumb, gently, and used the same care to apply it internally, sliding his fingers between Stiles’ legs and into his body to massage the honey-scented stuff into beautifully abused flesh. There was an undeniable thrill to touching Stiles so intimately while he was unaware of it; as near to unconscious as made no difference, terribly, stunningly vulnerable. Peter couldn’t quite resist the urge to stroke, so very lightly, over the boy’s prostate; the faint shiver that ran through Stiles’ body at the touch made Peter’s teeth ache to bite into the back of his neck, roll him over and have him just like this, slack and loose and soft, that beautifully terrible creature rendered into something Peter could mount and rut and own, for however short a time. The thought was intoxicating in a completely different way than meeting what Stiles would probably insist on naming his ‘dark side’ had been; teasing the wolf’s prey-instinct, and the man’s urge to cage and possess, rather than seducing wolf and man alike with the appeal of a true peer, however young.
He massaged a different ointment into the marks he’d left on Stiles’ throat, watching as they closed over and faded a little. Nothing he possessed could heal Stiles completely; his injuries didn’t melt away and vanish as they would have on a werewolf, but the magic in the various bottles and jars sped their healing, as though it had been days and not minutes since they’d been inflicted. It was the best Peter could do—and, however much his baser instincts wanted to see Stiles covered in his claim, necessary. There would be far too many irritating questions to answer—not to mention a shotgun-wielding father to deal with; how far would the Sheriff’s gratitude for Peter’s saving his son’s life extend? Best not to find out—if Stiles were unable to walk tomorrow.
Later today, rather. It really was abominably early.
His phone rang as he was boxing up his medical supplies, and Peter picked up device and elderwood chest both before Stiles could stir, slipping into the ensuite bathroom. Only a few numbers had the necessary permissions to make it through his phone’s night-mode; a glance at the screen made him smile as he swiped to answer the call. “Miss Martin?” he said politely, softly enough not to disturb Stiles in the next room.
“Peter,” Lydia acknowledged crisply. “Stiles is missing. His father took him home from the hospital around midnight, and he supposedly went to bed then, but he wasn’t in his room when the Sheriff checked in on him a little while ago. Do you know where he might be?”
This was why her number was on the whitelist: because she only called if it mattered, and she never wasted his time. She offered no apology for disturbing him at this hour, and he liked her better for it. Almost as much as he appreciated the keen intelligence that had her calling him at all. Were he a betting man, he would place a great deal of money on the likelihood that no one else in Scott’s little band of misfits had thought or wanted to consult him, despite Stiles having every reason to crave the proximity of the one who’d saved him. Plagued by memories that played like nightmares, shaken and left raw by the night’s events, he might well have turned instinctively to the one source of proven safety. It would have been a perfectly understandable reaction.
But then, Peter doubted anyone, even Derek, could imagine finding Peter a reassuring presence.
Except Lydia. Not for the first time, Peter felt a fleeting regret for the necessity of the actions that had alienated her from him. She would make a formidable ally—and an exquisite wolf, if not for her immunity to the Bite. However well that immunity had served him, in the end.
“Stiles is with me,” he said simply.
“I thought he might be,” she said, once again confirming his opinion of her intellect. “Is he all right?”
“He was distressed when he arrived,” Peter said, which was perfectly true, if misleading. “But he’s sleeping soundly now, and I’d rather not disturb him. Please reassure the Sheriff that all is well, and I’ll escort Stiles home in the morning.” He paused, considering the likelihood of Stiles getting up before noon. “When he wakes,” he corrected himself.
He heard her cover her phone to consult with someone else. Even werewolf hearing didn’t allow him to hear more than the phone transmitted; he was hampered by the technology’s relative deafness. But it was another safe bet that she was passing his words on either to Stiles’ father or to Scott.
“Acceptable,” she said briskly when she returned. She’d spoken to the Sheriff, then; Scott would have put up much more of a protest. “Thank you for clearing that up for us. And for taking care of him.” Whatever your motives, he could almost hear her thinking. “Good night, Peter.”
“Believe me when I say that the honour is mine,” he said, unable to resist. Let her stir that into her stew of suspicions. Besides, it was nothing but the truth. “Good night, Lydia.”
He put the potions away and made his own ablutions before allowing himself to return to bed, a soft thrill not racing but drifting through him as he slipped beneath the sheets and drew Stiles against him.
“An honour, huh?” Stiles said blearily, without opening his eyes.
Peter kissed the back of his neck. “Go back to sleep, Stiles,” he murmured.
“M’kay.” Belying his promise, Stiles wriggled to turn in his arms and nuzzled into Peter, tucking his face against the werewolf’s chest. “You’re so warm,” he sighed blissfully.
And Void had been cold, and left him even colder when they were separated, before it was destroyed.
“Sleep, silver boy,” Peter said, still more softly. From a space inside him he’d thought as dead and cold as his family’s ashes an impulse rose, irresistible; as if from very far away, he saw his thumb gently trace a crescent moon on the boy’s brow. Waxing, for blessing, benediction. “Sleep.”
He felt the last of the tension in Stiles’ body melt away, listened to his breathing deepen and slow as he slid into dreams as trustingly as any cub nestled against one who was pack.
But it was a long, long time before Peter closed his eyes and followed him into sleep’s embrace.
 A Nepalese knife with a curved blade.