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Peter has sat across from Unpronounceable First Name "Stiles" Stilinski for two years, watching him play around with settings and spill so many cups of coffee and getting lost in wikipedia spirals. There are three screens blocking his view, so Peter rearranges his desk so that he can peer through the little slivers between screens and pretend he's just lost in thought when he gets caught staring. Which happens a lot. Stiles thinks it's just a little quirk--after all, he has so many himself. Peter is pretty sure Danny knows it's not, but luckily Danny just snorts and mostly keeps to himself and tells Stiles to go away when the boy can't seem to keep his hands to himself and leans too far over his shoulder to poke at some code on the screen.

They all work at a start-up firm that recruited those with a true, true love for technology and the internet to create the best social media site for nerds ever. Stiles works on the user experience, since he is the nerdiest nerd that ever nerded and this site is basically for people like him. Peter works on security, creating code and then revising it when Danny hacks it. Danny's official title on his actual business card is "Hacker." Danny and Peter have their desks across from each other so they can bitch at each other about code. Stiles was just put next to them because it was the only desk big enough to fit what he call his "n00b cave" set-up.

To be clear, Peter likes his job. But he doesn't need his job. He could take time off to travel or just do nothing. He is Peter Hale, of THE Hales. They aren't really lacking money--Peter is just 32 and has enough in his trust fund to last five very extravagant lifetimes. Whenever Peter name drops his family, Stiles always says "Of House Hale, second of his name and of the blood of Old Valyria."

But the moment Peter walked in the door and picked up Stiles's scent. Well. He was going to get that boy and the easiest way was to accept the position offered. Or maybe that was the most normal way. He could have knocked Stiles out and slung him across his shoulder caveman-style, but Talia wanted the pack to keep a low profile.

God, does he want that boy. He settles for sitting across from him and inhaling his scent and watching his every move and making sure he was always well-fed and had everything he needed. He includes Danny in this so as not to arouse suspicion, and taking care of Stiles satisfied the wolf. In all honesty, he’s disgusted by how much he was beginning to remind himself of his creepy nephew. Lurking and sulking and pining. Eugh.

He preferred to think of it as a Pam and Jim type situation, thankfully without the awful fiancé to compete with, but with just as many awkward moments. Stiles is just an awkward boy who says awkward things to clients and coworkers and his dad and the nighttime janitors. And throughout all of the foot-in-mouth situations Peter just wants him more and more. So, like Jim and Pam, but with cutaways to really violent, filthy imagination sex.

Stiles's long, pale neck is tantamount to werewolf porn. And he typically spends 12 hours a day working across from this temptation. Peter thinks maybe he should get a medal for, you know, resisting every werewolf instinct in his body. Especially the one that wants him to crawl inside of the boy like a taun-taun. No one wants to clean up that mess.

When 9pm rolls around, Peter starts his nightly routine of saving his work, shutting down his computer, and trying to persuade Stiles to go home and sleep. Everyone else is long gone. They have lives. Stiles doesn't really have one of those. And Peter's life kind of revolves around Stiles now, so.

Peter gathers up the remnants of the pizza they had delivered earlier and makes his way to the staff kitchen to toss it in the fridge for tomorrow.

"I'm going to turn off your surge protectors, Stiles."

"No, no, just five more minutes." His voice is flat as he barely pays attention to Peter. They both know their lines well enough that Stiles barely has to pull his eyes away from reading the article on--

"Prolapsed rectums, Stiles?"

"Stop looking over my shoulder, creep."

Peter kneels beside the desk to grab the surge protector and takes that moment to smell Stiles. So close and concentrated. "I hope you saved all of your work."

Stiles scoffs like he does every night. "I'm not a noob." With Stiles's eyes on the screens, Peter runs a finger along one shoe, staring at the line of skin he can see peeking out where his pants have ridden up.

"Five."

"Okay, okay."

"Four."

"It's shutting down, you monster."

"Three."

Stiles's hands fly from the keyboard and he kicks his rolly chair out away from the desk.

"Done."

As Peter does every night, he holds out Stiles's jacket for him to slip into, feigning impatience, trying to look like he's not exactly where he wants to be. They both sling their messenger bags over their shoulders and make for the elevators, snarking at each other.

 

 

"So, Stiles," Danny says one Wednesday as Stiles returns from his third run to the coffee pot that morning. Stiles and Peter both freeze and look up because Danny never initiates conversation. Even with work stuff, he just sends an e-mail like a douche. Because he's “above all of Stiles's shit.”

"Yes, my sweet?"

Danny rolls his eyes and then looks like he may be considering terminating the conversation right there. Somehow, he finds the strength to move on. "I have a friend. Adam. I was telling him about you." Peter pretends he's not listening, he forces his body to relax, he types nonsense into a word document.

"Aw, you talk about me to your friends? That's pretty serious. When am I going to meet your parents?"

"Stiles, we went to the same high school. You know my parents. They gave us Gatorade and orange slices at every lacrosse game."

"Speaking of, how's your mom's new cat? She was telling me last week that--"

"You talk to my mom?"

"Yeah, she send me recipes and cat pictures. We're Facebook friends. Moms love me."

"Oh, my god, we have gotten so far away from the point of this entire conversation."

"I thought we were just having a friendly chat. You have a friend you talk to about me, you're in love with me, you're obsessed with me, blah, blah, et cetera."

"No. Stop. Listen. My friend Adam is interested in meeting you. Like on a date. Somehow he found the extensive list of your every flaw endearing. And he thinks you're cute." Peter's mouse makes a loud crunch as it breaks apart in his fist and his desk buddies look at him in alarm.

"Pete, are you okay?" His teeth grind as Stiles calls him that horrible nickname.

He wonders if he can answer without growling. He runs his tongue over his teeth to make sure they're humanish. "Fine." He doesn't sound very convincing. He sounds like he's been strangled.

Stiles gets up and comes around the desk. "You're bleeding!" Peter forces his body to slow down so that it doesn't look suspicious when his hand is bloody and there's no wound. "Come with me, the first aid kit is in the break room." Stiles grabs Peter's uninjured hand and pulls him towards the kitchenette. The enthusiasm would pull his arm out of socket if Peter didn't possess supernatural strength.

Stiles sits him down at the small table and grabs the kit from under the sink. He takes Peter's bloody hand and places it on his thigh, gently unfurling his fist. "There's a little piece splintered in. Luckily, I'm great with tweezers." Stiles looks up to smile at Peter, but he doesn't see it. His eyes are closed as he tries to ignore how close they are. "I'm sorry, am I hurting you?"

Peter sighs and shakes his head. "Uh, I'm not much for blood." Peter lies. Peter lies all the time. This may be the biggest lie he's ever told. He loves blood. The smell and the taste and the color and the way it feels when he's tearing into some poor woodland creature's throat.

Stiles starts to dig the plastic splinter out. "I used to get sick at the sight of blood, but I got used to it."

"Why would you get used to it."

At that moment, he hears Stiles's heart rate rise. "Uh, you know me, so clumsy and accident prone," he lies. Interesting. Everything about Stiles is just so fucking interesting. Peter will think about that later when he's not concentrating on not letting his body repair itself in an instant. He'll think about how if he weren't a wolf, Stiles could have convinced him. That he's a good liar is a weird turn on, even for Peter, but at least it doesn't make him want to snap his neck and drink his blood. He mostly curbs those fantasies now.

When he next opens his eyes, he just sees Stiles staring expectantly at the wound before he puts a band-aid over it. He seems…disappointed. "All better."

As they return to their desks, Danny shoots Peter an all-knowing smirk and the urge to carve his dimples out of his face rises up. Adam isn't mentioned again and Peter digs his claws into his own thigh to control his urges.

 

 

They go from coworker-snark-friends to hang-out-outside-of-work friends on a Friday. Well, technically, a Sunday. They are, as ever, the only ones left in the office, but Stiles is packing up around 7:30 this time. What a treat.

"PETER. DO YOU HAVE HBO."

"Can you not talk like you type?"

"...maybe. Do you have HBO?"

"Of course. I'm not an animal." Not much of one, anyway.

"Well, I am an animal. A part of the uncouth, unwashed masses who doesn't want to pay for premium channels. That's what the internet is for. Who even pays for things? Copyright laws are such a joke and--"

"Stiles. Me--HBO. You--point. Sometime soon."

"What are you doing for the Game of Thrones Series 6 premiere on Sunday?"

"Just what I've done for the last five seasons--nothing. I don't watch it."

He gasps. And then actually says "Gasp. How does this even."

"I'm not too into fantasy. Not my genre."

"You are a grade A Tolkien and Potter nerd."

"Outliers."

"You're an out liar."

"..."

"Game of Thrones isn't fantasy--it's its own genre. It transcends genre, even. It unites enemies, calms the most beastly hearts, bridges age gaps. Even my dad watches it! Even Scott watches it! Even Derek watches it!"

"Der...what?"

"-ek. Duh-air-ick. Sound it out. Your broody nephew, who, as it turns out, is a huge Peter Dinklage fan. Who knew? We chat on Monday mornings during the season."

"Why, pray tell, have you been talking to my ridiculous nephew?"

"Cora got us talking."

"Cora got you talking."

"Yeah, she's more into French lit and crime procedurals and I'll never understand that, so she pointed me in Derek's direction. Family reunion next month, eh?"

"You are a fucking invasive species. I should have never let you friend me."

Stiles just shrugs and says, "So can I come over on Sunday or what?"

If Peter weren't so intelligent, he'd get whiplash from Stiles's ability to derail the conversation to put it back on a previous track. There was one instance when he resumed a train of thought a month after the initial conversation. As it is, he's stunned by Stiles asking to come over. To his apartment. His den. He'd get his scent all over his couch and then when Stiles left, Peter could roll around in it like a dog. And if it were a successful thing, he'd be there every week to renew the fading scent.

"Yes, of course."

That smile was worth it. "Oh, great, awesome, thanks. I'll bring snacks. Where do you live exactly?"

Peter texts his address to him the next day and hopes that Stiles doesn't notice that he really doesn't live in the same direction as him and Stiles's apartment isn't actually on his way anywhere. He's used that excuse on multiple rainy days and had hotboxed Stiles's scent in his car to get a decent fix. Those are the nights he can't get his pants off fast enough as he runs up to his apartment and just leans against his closed door and jerks off.

It's an excruciating few days. He spends Saturday trying to read some obscure Greek text on sirens and pretending he's not freaking out about a boy coming over. He wasn't even like this as a teenager, so this is all new to him.

His apartment is already impeccable except for the books and articles covering every inch of the shelves and his kitchen table and, in some places, floors. So, not impeccable, but clean. Beautifully furnished and decorated. He makes his bed on Sunday morning because wishful thinking. He moves some photos of his family around because Stiles is a sucker for that kind of shit. He stocks his pantry with Stiles's favorite snacks and has a six pack of Stiles's favorite Belgian ale perfectly chilled. Now all he has to do is wait for him to show up in...four hours.

 

 

For all that Stiles comes over to watch Game of Thrones, he certainly doesn’t end up...doing that. He ends up a little tipsy and talking about all the people he misses from home. And, as Peter finds out, when Stiles is tipsy, Stiles has even less of a sense of personal space. He’s pressed up against Peter’s side and Peter’s body is simultaneously trying to strain towards and away from him. He probably looks like a complete lunatic, but at least he’s managing to say the right things at the right time.

"No, no, dude, I wish I was joking right now. His username is allison and his password is also allison. For everything. I can't complain since I hack all his shit and try to ruin his life when I miss him too much."

Stiles continues to talk about people Peter doesn't know or care about and Peter nods along. At one point, he leans forward to grab the remotes and scroll through Peter’s Netflix queue and both layers of shirt slide up to show a strip of skin that Peter almost reaches out to touch. With his claws. He catches himself halfway there and then decides to shift away under the pretense of stretching his legs out.

“Watch Buffy much, dude?”

“Is that a problem?” Because, really, if Peter were going to have a Seinfeld moment and fall out of love with someone over something stupid, it would be because that person didn’t like Buffy. She’s gotten him through some shit.

“Uhhh, doesn’t this fall under fantasy? Thought you weren’t really into it. You’re a huge fucking liar. You’ve watched every episode on Netflix, gave it with five stars, it’s at the most recently watched spot, and you own it on DVD and Blu-Ray, the DVDs are by season, but you also bought the box set.” Stiles is really observant and normally Peter loves it, but he’s been told to stay away from that his whole life to keep himself safe. If Stiles noticed all of that while hanging out and getting drunk, maybe the furry face and claws will be next. And then the screaming will happen and then the hunters will come and try to burn his whole family alive again.

“And before all of that, I had to buy individual VHS tapes.” And he still has them in a box somewhere. And, okay, when he was 16, he joined the fan club. And he still has the card.

“I knew you were a super nerd.” Peter just shrugs and smirks and then Stiles wants to know his favorite character and episode and didn’t he want to be Giles when he grew up?

Stiles falls asleep on Peter’s shoulder in the middle of the pilot episode that he insisted they watch despite having seen it a million times each. Peter stays still and stares at the boy as he drools on his shirt. It feels like he’s being marked.

 

 

After that, Sundays become a regular thing and Stiles insists that they start Game of Thrones from the beginning for Peter's sake. Stiles is right. The show transcends genre and is pretty great and he probably relates to Arya's ruthless killing way too much. More than that, he enjoys the domesticity of Stiles inevitably falling asleep on his couch.

 

 

It finally happens on a full moon. Peter's been through dozens of them since crossing paths with Stiles, so it's more that it's a combination of things that lead up to Peter losing his cool. The morning starts at 8:55am, when one Stiles Stilinski decides that he would like to be on time for work for once. That leaves Peter in an elevator alone with a mildly sweaty boy, face flushed from the bicycle ride in. This in itself would be unfair. The boy is also wearing these obnoxiously red, red skinny pants that Peter can't help but stare at. Even if he weren't a werewolf, he'd have a hard time with this development, but as it is, red has always triggered something primal and predatory in him. And then the boy opens his mouth and his voice sounds so good and god, Peter’s skin feels like it hurts when his clothes move against it.

He presses himself into a corner of the elevator and pretends to search for something in his bag as Stiles rambles on about Harry Potter.

"…so, my god, if you think about it, Neville was the greatest character."

Peter frowns, tries to keep up and answer when he should. "That can't be right."

"No, I mean Snape's the best, obviously, but that's subjective to me."

"Oh, yeah? I thought it would be Hermione with you."

"In my high school days, maybe, and Hermione will always have a place in my heart. But, after much reflection, Snape is and will always be my favorite character. I like my intelligence with a lot of snark and a little bite."

Peter looks up in time to see Stiles staring at his reflection in the elevator doors, but he quickly looks away when they make eye contact. The doors ding open anyway and the tension is gone. He may be the only one feeling it, that clench in his abdomen, the repressive feeling of the air around them.

The morning goes by a little more quietly than usual and Peter can sense that Stiles knows that something is up with him. Danny knows something is up with the both of them and mutters about UST and only Peter can hear him and sometimes he wishes he was human.

At one point, Stiles realizes his desk is shaking and snaps to and tries to figure out which part of his body is fidgeting. Then he looks up and realizes that it’s Peter's leg that’s going a mile a minute under his desk.

He shoots a look at Danny and then decides to send him an IM.

Stilinski: You okay, there?

The shaking abruptly stops. Peter looks up to find Stiles staring straight back, worry all over his face.

Peter Hale: I'm fine. Just feeling a little under the weather.

Now Stiles just looks confused.

Stilinski: You never get sick.

Peter Hale: Even I am no match for the common cold, it seems.

Stilinski: Alrighty, let me know if I can do anything.

Stiles looks kind of doubtful re: Peter being able to take care of himself, but returns to his work. Peter vividly imagines everything Stiles could do for him.

Later, when everyone is gone, Peter kind of zones out and forgets to pull the plug right at nine. As ten approaches, Stiles actually looks up from his computer and says, "You have five more minutes before I pull the plug, Hale." Peter nods and starts to clean up the detritus from eating two meals at his desk. Really, it's Stiles's garbage; Peter didn't eat much all day.

When he comes back from the kitchen, Stiles is wearing his jacket. Peter's jacket. Leaning up against his desk wearing his jacket, wearing those red red pants, arms crossed over his chest, head tilted to the side to expose his neck. In an instant, Peter is next to him, a growl in his throat, claws and teeth fighting to elongate. Who knows what color his eyes are right now. Stiles doesn't flinch. Not even as Peter brings one hand to his throat and one hand to his waist.

"Oh, no, Peter, what's wrong."

"I. I'm not feeling quite like myself today."

"No shit. Maybe it's the full moon, you dumb fuck."

"Excuse me?"

"Did you ever think that coming to work on a full moon when you are obviously struggling with something might not be the best idea?"

"…"

"You should be out running in the woods and killing bunnies, jeez."

"Why would I be--"

Peter thinks Stiles may be the first person to ever audibly roll his eyes. "You may be dumber than Scott. My best friend. Who has been a werewolf since high school."

"Oh."

"Yeah, oh."

"Why are you here with me if--"

"If you're so dangerous right now? Bitch, please, I think I can handle myself against a lone beta by now."

"I'm not a cuddly forest animal, Stiles." Stiles rolls his eyes again and brings up both hand and shoves them in Peter's hair. And starts petting him. Peter's eyes may or may not roll back, Peter may or may not let out a whimper.

"Big. Bad. Wolf." He can hear the smirk in the younger man's voice.

"Little Red Skinny Pants."

"Oh, yeah, I thought you might like those. And the sweat. And the jacket. Though, I prefer more hands-on scent marking." Stiles is so manipulative and so much the best thing in the world. He tugs Peter's hair and Peter has never been this out of control of a situation. He lets his face get pushed into Stiles's neck and inhales until he thinks he might pass out. His cock is throbbing in his pants and for once he couldn't care less. For once he is the most patient man in the whole world and perfectly happy to be bossed around by someone else. Stiles's smell and his smell combined to smell like home and oh, god, how has this taken so long. The only other time Peter had felt so helpless was when he learned that, because he was born in the wrong order, Talia would be the alpha, the leader. Then, Laura. He'd never had a chance. This is a different kind of helpless, one that leaves him giddy and not empty and disconnected.

"How did you know?"

"Dude, you thought you were so stealthy, but you're super creepy and predatory. Most people probably just assume you're a serial killer, but I've got better instincts than that. And also you scent the air when you can't look away from your screen. Also also, you're a Hale. Every wolf knows who the Hales are."

"Why didn't you say anything before?"

"Uh, the first rule of being an ally is that you never out someone. I figured you'd tell me if you wanted me to know. Or if a mugger ever came up to us walking home and you ripped his throat out with your teeth." Peter finally brings up his face to look at Stiles. Stiles is definitely enjoying their close proximity, but despite how confident he sounds, his face shows that little niggling of self-doubt that’s always there.

Peter may be on edge, but he’s still present enough to understand that these next few moments will be very important to his future with hopefully Stiles in it. So he pulls back a bit, brings his hand up to softly rub a thumb across the boy’s lower lip. His eyes flutter closed as if the gentle sensation is too much and then Peter leans in for the sweetest, purest kiss he’s ever experienced.

Being gentle and going slow isn’t something Peter’s good at. He’s never wanted to be. Especially during the full moon. But he’s also never kissed his anchor during the full moon. Apparently, the combination makes him pretty (relatively) docile.

It’s kind of worth it when Stiles pulls back with his eyes still closed and says, “Whoa, did we break a curse with that kiss or what?” He’s in rare form, soft and sweet with zero sarcasm in his voice, no flailing. Peter did that and it’s scary and thrilling and amazing and nerve-wracking. “Get back here.” Stiles pulls him in for more and they continue their sweet rainbows and kittens kissing until Stiles seems to decide that he wants things to move a little faster. At the same time that he grabs Peter’s ass and deepens their kiss, he turns them around so that Peter’s against the desk.

Peter moans and just lets himself be pushed around by this human boy who has so much power over him.

After a bit, Stiles pulls away and, smirking, says, “Yeah, baby, who’s your alpha?” It’s supposed to be a joke. But, god, Peter and his dick really like that idea. He can’t control himself as his hips thrust into Stiles and he lets out a whimper, causing Stiles’s eyes to widen. “Oh, you like that? Want me to tell you what to do?”

“Obviously.” Peter’s still Peter, regardless of the full moon, and he can roll his eyes while bucking into Stiles’s hand as he palms him through his jeans. He needs to keep up appearances because he’s pretty sure his legs are shaking.

A throat is cleared and they both pull away from each other as Marisol pushes her cleaning cart into the office. She seems completely unaffected, which makes sense in her line of work. She's probably seen worse.

 

 

Despite the big reveal and the kissing and some neck biting and light frottage in the elevator down, nothing else happens because Peter can't bring himself to say "I never want you out of my sight and I need you like breathing and if anyone ever touches you, I'll rip out their throat and fuck you next to their corpse."

Even though Stiles seems informed enough about werewolf behavior and could probably convince him not to follow through with his most violent ideas. And he's pretty sure Stiles knows him, can see right through him, could ask him to do anything and Peter would do it.

They part on Friday evening, Stiles looking completely disheveled and blissed out as he hops on his bike. He just says “text me when you’re ready” as if he knows that Peter needs to work through some shit before this goes any further.

For the first time in maybe ever, Peter feels at home, like Stiles is his pack. Like Stiles is the first person who sees him as he truly is and accept him completely. Derek has come close, but he’s spent his whole life pretending that his werewolf and human sides are separate. He’s more man than wolf. And Peter’s more wolf than man. Which has saved his life on more than one occasion. Hell, his instincts kept his whole family from burning alive.

Peter’s instincts are telling him that he can trust Stiles and he’s inclined to believe them. He thinks Stiles wants all in, understands what it means to be with Peter, to belong to him. To belong to each other.

Then, there’s this voice that sounds like Talia in his head. The one that says to suppress and hide his baser, violent, and generally creepy urges. In the name of keeping the pack safe, but really for the sake of her reputation.

Peter finally has another option that doesn’t mean holding back. Talia can fuck right off.

 

 

When Monday rolls around, Stiles is there and grinning and making prolonged eye contact with Peter over his screens. Every now and then he fiddles with the big, obvious teeth-shaped bruise in his neck with a small, private grin on his face. With the moon waning once more, the edge is off and he doesn't feel like he might actually maul Danny for brushing past Stiles on the way to his own desk. He just really, really wants to.

Right at five, he hears the sound that signals an inner-office message and checks it out. Only one person ever messages him.

Stilinski: I think I jerked off like six times this weekend thinking about you.

Peter chokes on air and absolutely does not look over his screen. He's so instantly hard that he think he might die. He can feel himself blushing for the first time in ever. But he's no shrinking violet. He's Peter Hale, seducer, destroyer, man of many v-necks.

Around them, people are donning jackets, retrieving lunchbags, leaving for the evening.

Peter Hale: Pics or it didn't happen.

Stilinski: Maybe later. This isn't exactly the best time to send you a dick pic.

Peter Hale: You've never been one to back down from a challenge. There's a perfectly good bathroom down the hall. It has stalls and everything.

Stilinski: But it will be so hard to get a full view of my flushed, leaking cock AND this bruise on my neck.

Peter digs his claws into his thighs. Second pair of pants ruined in less than a week. Eh, he can afford it. But there are people still in the office, so he can't afford to lose his cool and fuck Stiles over his desk while everyone looks on in horror.

Stilinski: Are you sure you wouldn't rather me tell you what I thought about instead? Although, I may not want to incriminate myself much more on the company messenger.

Peter Hale: If they didn't fire you that time you forwarded hardcore porn to everyone, I think you're safe.

Stilinski: I could bribe Danny into hacking the archives and deleting messages.

A growl comes out then, small enough that only Stiles can hear. He can see Stiles's wide smile in his periphery, but he can also see his flushed face. He can smell Stiles's arousal mixing with his own.

Peter Hale: As you were saying before you intentionally made me jealous...

Stilinski: Baby, in my dreams you fuck me so hard that I won't remember my own name, much less anyone else's. Throw me on my stomach on the bed, fuck into me, pull me back so that I'm riding you, teeth on my neck.

Peter has to look away, can't read the next two messages that ping. He stares at Stiles, knows the glowing yellow of his eyes is bleeding through.

Stiles looks up and mouths "soon." He looks slightly apologetic. But only slightly. As the last straggler heads out the door, Peter is up and looming over him. They have an hour until the cleaning crew shows up.

"Stiles." He makes his voice sound as dangerous as he can. Which is pretty scary to most people. But Stiles is not most people. Stiles leans back into him and tosses his head to the side so that his neck is there. Peter may have a neck fetish, but Stiles does too.

This is going to be so perfect.