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Angelic Touch

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Art by Platypusesrneat

 The bar was in one of the quieter edges of San Francisco, away from any busy roads or other businesses. It was a little outdated, though clean, with a relaxing, quiet buzz to it. It clearly catered to the rich, more mature residents of the immediate area and did well enough by that. At any rate it had an exclusive feel, which Peter liked.

 

 He sat on a leather stool at the end of the bar. It had the benefit of allowing him to keep his back to the wall and eyes on the door, while keeping him out of the way of the subtly vibrant activity of the Friday night bar. He usually came mid-week to escape the overbearing rule of his sister and the pressures from work, all of which required him to maintain his cool façade of control. Here he could relax and just…be.

 

 He was confident in his appearance and self-assured enough to know he was attractive, so he wasn’t surprised to see that the young man a few feet away, waiting to be served at the bar, kept glancing his way. What did surprise him was the boyish smile, the way his dark eyes glittered like amber in the soft light, the way Peter’s own interest piqued.

 

 The young man held himself with an almost mischievous confidence that was as endearing as he was visually striking. His lips twisted with a little sideways smirk and he lifted his glass when the bartender arrived with it. Peter tilted his head to the side, studying the man for a beat longer. He had that eternally youthful glow but even from this distance he was gifted enough to glimpse the evening shadow on his jaw.

 

 With his own little private smile, Peter stretched his arm slightly across the bar, just enough to rest in front of the empty seat beside him. He tapped his forefinger on the gloss wood in invitation.

 

 “I would flirt with you,” the young man said as he arrived beside him, in a voice huskier and deeper than Peter had expected. “But I'd rather seduce you with my awkwardness.”

 

 “Careful,” Peter chuckled, “you might succeed. And you don’t know what you’re getting yourself yet.”

 

 The man slid onto the stool beside him, long legs wrapping around the stool, leaving his thighs slightly parted in a way Peter could only view as a temptation.

 

 “Is that an invitation to get to know you better?” He held Peter’s gaze even as he sipped his drink, his adam’s apple bobbing appealingly with each swallow.

 

 “Absolutely.” Peter gestured for two more drinks from the bartender, downing the last sip of his own. “I am astoundingly gorgeous, and that is the least interesting thing about me.”

 

 “And so modest,” the man laughed, his nose scrunching adorably at the corners and Peter couldn’t help but smile.

 

 “One of the first things you will discover about me.”

 

 “The second,” his younger companion corrected lightly, graciously thanking the bartender and Peter for the next drink when it was placed in front of him. “The first was that you have amazing eyes.” It was so cheesy, and yet so earnest, so charming as it tumbled from those lips. He seemed to realise he had delivered a classic cliché pick up line because he ducked his head almost sheepishly, before offering his hand.

 

 “My name’s Stiles, by the way.”

 

 Peter took his hand. He held on a second longer than was necessary, relishing in the lean, strong fingers, the little spark of static between them where they touched. “Peter.”

 

 He learned that Stiles came here fairly often too, although always on Fridays or the weekend, when he got off work, so that was why they had never crossed paths. He lived in a town a few hours south, a town where everyone knew everyone’s business.

 

 “Sometimes I just want to have one too many drinks and stumble home drunk without someone telling my dad, you know?” Stiles offered as he set down his third, empty glass. “I just want to relax like everyone else.”

 

 Peter hummed in agreement. He knew the feeling and told Stiles so, told him limitedly of how he came from a big family that seemed to dominate San Francisco. How overwhelming they were. It was a contrast, apparently to Stiles’s family unit, just him, his father and a few close friends.

 

 By the time they’d ordered a fourth drink each, he’d told Stiles about his demanding job managing the family firm, a stress that he thrived on, usually. He also told him of the less invigorating pressures of his family’s expectations outside of work. Stiles had told him some of his life working with his dad in the sheriff’s office of his home county, how, like Peter, he found it easy to talk to people but difficult to establish a connection any deeper than that.

 

 “Some of it is probably the fact that everyone knows my dad, I mean, who wants to date the gun-toting sheriff’s kid, right? But also I was sort of an awkward teenager and when you grow up in a small town, people unfortunately remember you in the worst stages of growth.”

 

 Peter laughed softly. “I can’t imagine that would put off anyone with any kind of taste.”

 

 Stiles looked pleased with the subtle compliment. “Well, I was a late bloomer and when I… I guess sort of when I hit puberty it all changed? But well…that’s why I come here, to take advantage of what I’ve got now rather than deal with people who remember the gawky teenager I was.”

 

Like Peter, he knew his flaws, owned them, pushed passed them. It worked for him. Delightfully well, in fact. Stiles’s smile seemed a permanent fixture and it was stunning, the light in his eyes, the sprinkle of moles across his skin, dark hair in artful disarray. The way his long, dextrous fingers absently caressed his glass in a frankly obscene manner as he spoke about everything and anything.

 

 “It just makes it hard to connect to anyone, being what I am.” He sounded almost wistful, longing and Peter thought he wasn’t referring to being the sheriff’s son.

 

 “I know the feeling,” he admitted, letting his fingers reach out to curl intimately at Stiles’s wrist. Whisky coloured eyes fell deeply into his, open and honest. For a moment they were the only ones in the room, close and only just touching with a prickle of something just beneath their skin where they touched. A connection.

 

 Peter watched Stiles’s mouth as his tongue dampened them, a nervous tell at total odds with the confidence he’d projected at the start. Interesting.

 

 “I get the feeling you like me, Stiles.”

 

  His heart skittered. His throat bobbed temptingly as he swallowed again.

 

 “Do you usually rent a room when you come to San Francisco, or…?”

 

 “I get a motel. The one down near Harmony Rise. It’s decently kept but they don’t ask questions.” His voice held an almost sultry note now and Peter felt his stomach tighten with the pull of it.

 

 Peter smiled slyly. “You intend to garner a few noise complaints?”

 

 “Oh, I hope so.” Stiles grinned. “Want to help me with that?”

 

 Peter’s lips stretched into a smile and he gestured the bartender over without really looking away from Stiles, or removing his hand from him. Slowly, he circled the pad of his thumb over the inside of his wrist and felt his pulse jump beneath he delicate, warm skin. “You’re an intriguing young man.”

 

 “You’re a man of mystery yourself,” Stiles breathed in appreciation, studying his eyes carefully. “There’s something…different about you.”

 

 “Well, perhaps if you’re lucky, by the end of the night, you might find out what it is.”

 

*

*

 

 The motel looked and smelled clean, Stiles’s room dark and welcoming as he opened the door with his card key. As Stiles stepped over the threshold, however, Peter pressed in close behind him, wrapping an arm around his waist, nosing at the nape of his neck. His breath tickled at Stiles’s ear, making him shudder and roll his neck to unwittingly expose his throat.

 

 Peter stepped into the room fully, edging Stiles forward without releasing him, his fingers ghosting up Stiles’s belly, just lifting the fabric of his shirt as they moved.

 

 Stiles exhaled shakily. “What is it about you?”

 

 Peter smiled against his neck, letting his stubble graze the warm skin teasingly. “That’s for you to find out.”

 

 As if he’d taken it as a challenge, Stiles turned, bearing him back to the wall beside the door. He closed it as he set upon Peter, capturing his face between his deft fingers, kissing him hard. He writhed against Peter like a man starved of all sensation, hungry, desperate for it. It was like he would go mad if he had to wait another moment.

 

 Peter stepped into him. He backed him into the centre of the room, cupping the back of his head to hold the connection of their lips. Stiles groaned, tipping his head back into the kneading caress of Peter’s fingers in his hair, as if drunk on touch. Peter’s other hand moved between them, tugging open his belt and trousers, before searching by touch for the zipper of Stiles’s tight jeans.

 

 A groan jerked out of Stiles’s into Peter’s mouth as he tugged the zip down, delving in for the briefest touch of soft, stretched cotton.

 

 Stiles’s hands slid down to the buttons of Peter’s shirt in answer, sliding between the folds of fabric when they came loose to touch at his toned chest and the smattering of hair across it.

 

 “God, you’re so hot for me, I can feel you,” Stiles gasped out between kisses, pushing Peter’s shirt off his shoulders and protesting when Peter’s efforts to tug his own shirt over his head separated their mouths for a split-second.

 

 “What a peculiar thing to say,” Peter murmured lightly against the corner of Stiles’s jaw, teasing, nipping, sucking.

 

 Stiles rolled his head back to welcome the attention, giving a breathless, aroused little laugh. “I’m pretty peculiar.”

 

 “Perfectly abnormal,” Peter crooned against his pulse like it was the most tender compliment. He worried Stiles’s pale column of throat with his stubble and teeth, soothing every rough caress with his tongue. “Your skin marks so prettily.” His words were a steamy whisper against his flesh and Stiles’s hips shuddered as if he couldn’t help himself. His fingers curled into Peter’s finely muscled shoulders to anchor himself as his body threatened to fly apart with arousal.

 

 “So not a problem,” Stiles assured him, voice distant and barely coherent. He stepped forward into Peter, trying to push him into something, anything to give them more leverage than their own feet on the floor. Stiles got caught toeing off his shoes and socks and they landed in a tangled heap on the double bed, Stiles hooking his legs behind Peter’s thighs and hold him against his body. His fingers scrabbled down Peter’s back, kneading the muscle there in hungry, almost desperate caresses, before cupping his ass and squeezing hard, further leverage to hold their hips together.

 

 “I’m pretty durable,” Stiles panted, throat arched back like a welcoming landing strip for Peter’s taunting, butterfly kisses and little nips. He undulated like a serpent under him, trying to press his groin up into Peter’s.

 

 “Me too,” Peter chuckled, sliding down so that he could suckle at Stiles’s collarbones, mark them up as gloriously as his throat. It made Stiles cry out with almost a pained mix of arousal and frustration, as the movement drew a small gap between their bodies with nothing for Stiles to rut up into.

 

 “Don’t be gentle with me,” he gasped, fingers losing their purchase on Peter’s ass and digging uselessly into his shoulders. He tried to hook his fingers in Peter’s hair, tug him back up so their mouths and cocks could kiss simultaneously, but Peter caught both hands and pinned them to the bed above Stiles’s head.

 

 “I don’t intend to,” he promised darkly, letting most of his weight fall on Stiles’s forearms where he pinned them, “I intend to test that self-proclaimed durability.” He punctuated his words with a savage kiss to his mouth, their lips mashing together with bruising, famished intensity. Stiles’s hips surged up like the turn of the tide and Peter rutted their clothed erections together, heedless of the friction just this side of painful.

 

 Stiles’s body sang.

 

 Peter removed one of his hands to reach between them, to tug at Stiles’s jeans and underwear without even fully separating their bodies. One of Stiles’s arms squirmed free to help, their mouths still locked and Peter seized it before it could join his. He trapped it efficiently alongside the other, pressing down harder and Stiles’s lips parted in an appreciative groan. Peter’s tongue darted into his parted mouth, just touching his tongue, which made Stiles twitch and shudder as if he were licking a static charge.

 

 He seemed right on the edge, had been since they’d touched, like every glancing caress in the bar had primed him and now he was an electric storm surging, a bomb waiting to explode.

 

 Somehow, with one of his hands bearing most of his weight onto Stiles’s arms, Peter managed to get Stiles’s jeans and underwear down to his ankles, where Stiles wriggled enough to kick them free.  Peter sank back onto him, devouring him with open-mouthed kisses, feeling his body heat up to burning point.

 

 So hot. He was unnaturally hot, like he would burst into flames at any second, flushed red everywhere and groaning soft, urgent, rough little whines into Peter’s mouth. His arms tensed where they were pinned and his toes curled.

 

 “Look at you,” Peter growled between kisses. “Grinding up and rutting against my trousers like a needy little pup.”

 

 Stiles’s fingers tensed, curling into fists, like he was barely holding on. Peter pushed up just enough to look down at him, a line of spittle connecting their mouths and breaking as he did so. He kept his groin firmly down against Stiles’s undulating hips, kept his weight on his wrists, watched him squirm. The hotter he grew, the more giddy Peter felt with arousal. He felt like his skin was humming with it, buzzing like their pleasure was combining, culminating into a barely contained hurricane waiting to burst free of its confines.

 

 Peter’s chest heaved in time with Stiles’s as he deftly shucked the rest of his clothing with only one hand. It’d been a while since he’d done this but some things were muscle memory. Still, he couldn’t completely undress with his shoes still on, so he stood back off the bed to step out of them, out of all of his clothing and as he stood there, he really looked at Stiles.

 

 Sprawled on the bed, chest heaving, lightly dappled with sweat, eyes lidded with pleasure, he looked up at Peter hungrily, arms still where Peter had left them, legs still parted as if unwilling to close the gap Peter had left between them. He was flushed and panting, but through the rosy hue to his pale skin, Peter saw it.

 

 The complex spider’s web of veins through his body seemed to be glowing softly through his skin. It was subtle, barely noticeable perhaps to anyone other than him, but definitely glowing yellowy-red as if his blood were illuminating him from the inside. The webbing of subtle light covered him all over and Peter knelt between his splayed legs once more, tracing them with the pads of his fingers, feather-light and reverent.

 

 “You’re incredible,” he breathed heatedly, open palm coming to rest over Stiles’s frantically pounding heart and then the thickest gathering of glowing light at his solar plexus.

 

 “You’re hot as fuck,” Stiles panted, “It feels like you’re on fire you feel so good…” He sounded almost delirious.

 

 “You’re burning up yourself.”

 

 At that, Stiles glanced down to Peter’s hand on his glowing skin and his pulse seemed to stutter at the sight. He reached up, wrapping his arms around Peter’s neck and hauling him down to mesh their lips together again. Whether it was to distract him from the unnatural web of light across his flesh, or just because he couldn’t bear another moment where they weren’t touching, Peter wasn’t sure. He didn’t care.

 

 He grumbled appreciatively into the kiss, into Stiles’s devilish tongue and hungry lips, pinning his wrists with one hand above his head once more. Without lifting off of Stiles an inch, without breaking the intimate, heated connection of their mouths, Peter reached down to brush the backs of his fingers up Stiles’s cock.

 

 A broken, rough little gasp caught in Stiles’s throat, his cock jumped. Peter smiled into the kiss, drawing back only enough to look at the lust-sheen over those dark eyes. “You haven’t had any attention in a while, have you, sweetheart?”

 

 Stiles’s tongue darted out across his lips and Peter nudged his chin up with his own mouth, enough to capture that tongue before it could retreat, before Stiles could answer.

 

 “No, not…not enough, not like this, not so…” Stiles’s broken reply trailed off completely as Peter’s fingers closed around his erection, stroking slow and teasingly, barely holding him. His thumb just traced the exposed tip. Stiles cried out. His fingers clenched into white-knuckled fists where they were pinned and his hips rolled up.

 

 “That’s it, show me everything,” Peter crooned, tightening his grasp so that Stiles could fuck up into his fist with wanton abandon, his tendons and muscles tight beneath his skin. Peter dipped his head to catch a tanned nipple between his teeth. He bit gently, just at the edges and Stiles made a noise of heady, hurt arousal. Pre-come stuck to his fingers, thin and clear and gloriously sweet, filling Peter’s senses.

 

 “You’ve never been touched like this, have you? Never had someone give you everything? Make you feel them right down through your skin?” Peter squeezed at the peak of each thrust of Stiles’s hips, making slick, wet noises with every movement. Stiles’s cock leaked steadily like a dam about to burst.

 

 “You’re so used to taking, you’ve never had someone push it all into you until your skin sings with it…” He couldn’t stop talking, couldn’t stop watching, feeling the way Stiles shuddered with every word, his thrusts broken and limp and not enough. He seemed overwhelmed, as he’d not been since perhaps his first time, if ever, Peter thought. Because he’d seen Stiles look at him and known him instantly, not his name or who he was, but something far deeper than all of that, right down to the blazing core of things that mattered. His sister would call it kindred spirits, Peter would call it looking into someone’s soul and knowing that you were both lacking the same thing. A connection.

 

 When his hand was soaked with Stiles’s pre-emission, when his cock was hard and tight and heavy, fit to burst in his grasp, Peter drew his hand back. He smeared the glossy sheen of clear pre-come across Stiles’s mouth, torn open in a cry of betrayal at the stolen orgasm. Peter kissed the sheen off his lips, tasting him deep and finally released Stiles’s hands. They flew to his ass where they tried to coerce him back into some rhythm that would grind their cocks together.

 

 “Do you need me bare?” Peter murmured against his lips. He caught a little frown of distant confusion on Stiles’s face, as if Stiles weren’t sure why he were asking that, or perhaps at least why he was phrasing it that way.

 

 “I don’t have anything,” Stiles managed hoarsely and Peter’s eyes sparkled as he reached around to tease at his ass, tap his tight, soft little hole. Did Stiles really not see what he was admitting by making such a vague admission? Because neither of them were stupid and if they weren’t stupid or naïve, then only one other person didn’t have to worry about protection with a man they’d just met.

 

 Stiles was drunk on him, too far gone to realise what secrets he was leaving bare, high as a kite on pleasure, eyes near wet with it.

 

 “How do you want it?” Peter kissed him softer then and that more than anything else seemed to make him break.

 

 Stiles surged upward, pushing Peter back and over, until he was lying across the bed and Stiles, with legs shaking rose up over Peter’s hips. He held Peter’s gaze for a long moment, hair dishevelled, sweat dappling his chest along with a sparse sprinkle of hair and the glowing web of veins beneath it all. Then he stretched across him to reach for the rucksack sitting open on the side table.

 

 Peter’s hand slid up to stroke over Stiles’s thighs when he saw the bottle of lubricant in his hand. “Came with expectations?”

 Stiles exhaled a little laugh. “A guy can hope.”

 

 It was why Stiles had come to San Francisco, he supposed.

 

 “Hmmm.” Peter’s fingers stretched back, over his hips, skittering over his ass to cup it, stretch him open in a way that tugged at all the right places. “Come here.”

 

 Stiles was unsteady but eager, shifting up so he was kneeling over Peter’s chest, as he did so, Peter nosed at the trail of hair leading down to his groin, nipping at his sensitive stomach, nuzzled into the apex of his thigh where his scent emanated so richly. Then he snatched the lube off Stiles to coat his fingers liberally.

 

 “You’re positively vibrating with pent-up hunger, aren’t you?” Peter murmured, pressing to inhale at the dark hair at the base of his cock.

 

 Stiles reached down, cupping Peter’s neck, so gentle but no less urgent for his tenderness, all while Peter reached around to smear clear, sticky lube down his crack. His fingertips moved in slow, constant circles. They pressured Stiles’s hole as they moved down to the tender place just behind his balls, then back up, leisurely, teasing, wet caresses that made Stiles’s hips roll back and forth. His balls brushed Peter’s chest, his thighs squeezed either side of him, his cock bobbed urgent and neglected against Peter’s cheek.

 

 “Has anyone ever teased you like this?” Peter punctuated his words with soft, pulsing little taps against Stiles’s hole, testing but never breaching him. Then Stiles’s cock leaked against his cheek, rutting against it more firmly now, grinding into his face.

 

 “You talk too damn much,” Stiles groaned.

 

 “Coming from you?” He turned his head so that Stiles was near enough fucking his face and at the same time, he pushed just the very tip of one finger in and out. He opened him with little pulsing movements, just glancing his prostate before drawing back to tease him open again, fuck the ring of muscle wetly.

 

 Stiles squirmed, groaned, cried out in frustration. He bowed forward and braced himself on the bed above Peter’s head, so he was curled around his head. “Not enough, fuck you, not…need…can’t feel enough of you, need…” When his hips gave the next, abortive little spasm, Peter opened his mouth and sucked him in, sliding two fingers into his ass at the same time. He pushed them into him, twisted them so his hips followed instinctively and his cock sank deeply into Peter’s throat.

 

 Stiles jerked, hips rolling in a frantic fuck all of their own, grinding into Peter’s face, rolling back in time to swallow his fingers greedily when three stretched him open without pause, his hole wet and supple. Hungry.

 

 He was made for this.

 

 Peter knew.

 

 He knew Stiles had done this before too but never with it all about his pleasure, never with his partner teasing him to breaking point for his enjoyment. Oh, Stiles had enjoyed the sex as readily as any man, Peter guessed, but it had never been all about him, not like this.

 

 I know what you need.

 

 Peter knew.

 

 He closed his eyes, relishing in the scent and the heat all around him, the satisfying feeling of something to suck down his throat. Stiles was free of all inhibitions or concern now, fucking Peter’s throat as if that were all that mattered. There was no hunger to sate, no secrets to keep or urges to follow, only pleasure to chase. Peter twisted his fingers with every thrust, feeling Stiles’s cock pulse in his throat with every firm pass of his prostate, then, when he felt Stiles’s entrance go soft and pliant around his fingers, he drew back.

 

 There was a brief moment, a startled cry of loss from Stiles, who rocked into Peter’s mouth harder as if to make up for the lost sensation, the emptiness in his ass. Peter fumbled with his free hand for the discarded lube bottle, squirting messily over his fingers before plunging them, all four inside. He cupped them as he did so, thumb resting just against Stiles’s perineum and then he moved. Like a piston he pounded them into him, hard and fast, plunging wet and messy inside with slurping moist sounds and inescapable heat.

 

 He fucked his prostate, his soft, burning hot hole until Stiles was screaming, rocking on Peter’s fingers and against his mouth, trapped helplessly between two points of pleasure. Peter felt the wetness leaking down his wrist, onto his chest, felt the humid air caught between their bodies and didn’t care. He could feel Stiles coming apart and he drank it in like all the sustenance he’d ever need.

 

 Spoil him with pleasure, let him drown in it, then when he was giddy with it…

 

 Peter’s wrist cramped and he didn’t care, didn’t stop. He curled his fingers tighter, barely leaving Stiles now as he pounded up into him, grinding against the hot spot behind his balls, against the special place inside. Stiles’s cock was so hard, he was so hot inside that Peter feared he would melt.

 

 When Stiles’s hips were no longer thrusting but jerking in short, sharp, erratic bursts, as if in aftermath of electrocution, Peter pushed him. He drew his fingers out, still wet and grasped his hips, shoving him roughly back. Stiles’s cock left a sticky wet trail of pre-come and spit across Peter’s lips, his chest , it slapped against Peter’s stomach as Peter pushed him down. With his dry hand, Peter steadied his protesting hips, his wet fingers curling around the base of his own steel-hard erection and guiding it up.

 

 “Ohh-h-h-h…” Stiles’s little exhale of appreciation was ragged and broken. “Such a nice dick, so…”

 

 Peter slid all the way up, snug against his ass just once, then he drew back. His cock punched up into Stiles before the frantic sounds of protest he was making could even form words and then Stiles just melted. His eyes were wet, his limbs shaking and the sounds he was making were sobbing, gasping groans of overwhelmed pleasure. So far gone, sky high with how good he felt.

 

 He curled over Peter again and Peter wrapped around him, going for broke, giving into his instincts and sinking blunt human teeth into the soft place between Stiles’s neck and shoulder. He held onto him, just this side of painful as he rocked him hard and fast over his cock. He felt him tighten, felt him grip him like a man afraid of falling. He was so wet, so on fire with need.

 

 Peter felt near delirium himself.

 

 Stiles’s cock squeezed between their bellies, grinding, slapping wetly whenever their erratic dance gave enough room. Peter bucked up hard, the movements lifting Stiles effortlessly, his muscles tight with it all, with the promise of orgasm. He could practically feel Stiles’s nerve endings crackling each time he pounded his sweet spot, his tight, sinful hole. With one hand grasping his hip, fingering digging into his ass to help his shaking body back and forth against his thrust, Peter snuck the other between them, stroking his cock with quick, hard strokes, revelling at the wetness of it, the weight of it. He was so close, so close…

 

 “I’ve got you,” Peter promised huskily against his bruised neck, pulling his knees up to better rock Stiles with his hips. He barely left his body now, pounding so hard and rough he couldn’t open his eyes for how bright the dim light of the shabby room felt against his too sharp senses now, keyed up this high. “Take it, come on, what you need, what you want…” His thumb swept the steadily beading tip of Stiles’s throbbing hardness, milked him like the hard thrusts to his prostate.

 

 Stiles’s pulse soared when his orgasm ripped through him and Peter’s head spun at the sound of it. Stiles’s body curled impossibly tight, right from his fingers to his toes, hunched over Peter like he couldn’t help it. Peter didn’t stop moving, although when Stiles started to shudder from the overstimulation, he did slow.

 

 When his muscles tensed in a prelude to movement, Peter released his cock to help guide Stiles back, until he was straddling Peter’s hips with his softening, spent cock still leaking across Peter’s stomach. Stiles’s eyes were shining and dark. Frought with spasms, like someone crying and yet so far from it, he braced his hands on Peter’s chest.

 

 Come drunk, movement slow and shaking, it took a few moments for a delirious Stiles to realise that Peter’s chest was glowing too, a spider’s web of golden heat glowing hotter and hotter where Stiles touched him. They spread like cracks in a glass until it mirrored Stiles’s own. Stiles jerked as he registered the sight but Peter held his gaze, covered the hands resting on his chest with his own.

 

 His skin glowed brightly all over. So was Stiles. There it was at last, he thought, the incubus fire. And Stiles looked glorious with it. A normal man would’ve already been lost to the thrall, too far gone to see it.

 

 So close, drawn so tight, ready to burst himself, Peter couldn’t find the words but he knew Stiles couldn’t mistake his look.

 

 Take what you need. Take it all.

 

 Peter’s eyes flashed gold. Stiles flinched, moving as if to start back but Peter’s hands pressed Stiles’s hands to his chest more firmly. Not forcing him to stay but imploring him. The very air around them was humming, Peter’s skin on fire, prickling all over, his insides tight and locked on the permanent rolling high of pre-orgasm, right on the precipice, sharply, painfully good.

 

 “Go on, take it, what you need,” Peter demanded huskily. He jerked his hips up to emphasize the not quite pleading in his voice. He was so close. It was like a permanent throb of pleasure with the intensity of orgasm bursting over and over tight in his groin, spilling out through his blood like the sweetest drug high.

 

 The initial alarm on Stiles’s face died back into sweet ecstasy, hunger and he curled his fingers slightly under Peter’s letting his blunt nails drag over Peter’s chest as he rolled his hips. Even shaky as he was he was glorious. Every pulse of bursting pleasure through Peter’s body made him spasm as if he were directly plugged into him. When Peter felt the rush come, he twisted his head back, bared his teeth into the exquisite torture of it and Stiles was overcome by it too.

 

 Stiles grinded, circled his hips down over Peter, rode him hard. He looked as gone as Peter, as helpless to fuck until they could move no more. Then Peter felt white-hot fire seize him deep in his belly and he cried out.

 

 For a moment, his vision blacked out, filling him with illusions of fire and heat and desire. In his mind’s eye, he thought he even saw Stiles amongst it all, glimpses of his sated face and shuddering bliss. Yet an overwhelming safe cloud cradled it all, like a safety net ready to catch them both when they drifted down from oblivion.

 

 When he came back to himself, Peter felt limp to the bone, yet calm and relaxed. He felt sated in a way he hadn’t been in years as he lay with Stiles sprawled over him, forehead pressed to Peter’s collarbones as he panted in the afterglow.

 

 Peter expended the great effort of lifting his hands to cup Stiles’s hair, sweat-damp just like his, and to his delight Stiles didn’t flinch at his touch. Instead he squirmed like a lazy, pleased house-cat, the movement making Peter gasp with Stiles still impaled on his oversensitive, softening cock. Grasping Stiles’s hips he urged him upward, off his cock and just enough so that Peter could smear his lips against Stiles’s lips in a clumsy, sated kiss.

 

 “Mmmh,” Stiles groaned nonsensically into it, ghosting shaking fingertips along the line of Peter’s neat stubble. Peter felt his skin spark subtly at the contact, like something milder than static and he didn’t even care that he felt his own come leak out of Stiles and onto his stomach.

 

 “What are you?” Stiles whispered as he drew back, just enough to look into his eyes, which, Peter thought felt like their usual blue now. His baser instincts were like the rest of him now, they were replete and soft with completion.

 

 Peter chuckled lazily, stroking Stiles’s shoulders, his shoulder-blades, down his back and then up again, slow and affectionate. “Someone who can keep up with you.”

 

 Stiles studied him carefully. “When did you know what I was?”

 

 “When you looked at me across the bar. I’ve met one or two of your kind before, just in passing, in my family’s business. I remembered the scent.” Peter kissed him again in reassurance and because he felt like it. He never usually felt this tactile after sex. But then, sex had never been that good. He’d never had anyone who could keep up with him until today. Not even other wolves had been able to match his hunger, his wicked streak, no one except Stiles.

 

 Stiles pushed up straight then, staring down at him with his brow furrowed as he tried to figure Peter out. “So…you have some sort of incubus kink or something?”

 

 Peter tilted his head slightly, completely unworried and wanting to lure Stiles back down to that lazy comfort with him. “Not particularly. You’re the first one I’ve known intimately. You might say I’m attracted to people whatever their gender, race or even species.” He slid his hands up to caress Stiles’s thighs either side of him. “Perhaps I have a Stiles kink, since I’ve never felt like that before in my life. And I’m hardly inexperienced.”

 

 Maybe it was his admission, or perhaps the sheer tranquil honesty as he’d offered it, but Stiles seemed to relax once more. He dragged his fingers through his hopeless hair and rolled off Peter to sprawl out beside him, where he dragged half of the sheets over them as best he could without them moving.

 

 He felt surprisingly cool now, his sweat-dampened skin almost chilly now the fire in him had been quenched. Peter wrapped an arm around him and Stiles curled into him willingly, tangling his legs around Peter until he was pressed to him nearly head to toe.

 

 “Me too,” Stiles admitted at last, voice a little husky. “I’ve…I’ve done this a lot, I have to, being what I am, and I enjoy it, don’t get me wrong but I’ve never felt like…” His tongue swept across his lips and Peter drank in his expression as Stiles continued, “You made me feel almost…shy, like it was my first rodeo or something.”

 

 He looked as radiant as he had when he’d smiled earlier in the night, as he had when he’d come and yet there was a tinge of sadness to him now.

 

 “What’s the matter?”

 

 Stiles sighed. “It’s nothing, just part of it.” He stroked along Peter’s jaw again, then down to trace his chest. “It’s part of why I can’t do this on my home turf. I don’t like doing this with strings and it’s hard to have so many unattached strings floating loose around a small town, you know? People talk and my dad…well he knows what I am, of course, it’s an inheritance from my mom’s side, only presents in the males of the family. But he doesn’t want to hear about it. Most people are happy with a one-nighter with me, but if I or they want to go deeper it’s just…hard to know if what they feel is real, you know? Because of the thrall.” He shrugged. “It’s no big deal, it’s just…it was different, with you, I felt–”

 

 “A connection?” Peter supplied and Stiles’s fingers, his long, endearing ramblings stilled at last. How had an incubus survived, when he wore his heart on his sleeve as Stiles did? He supposed the rush of sex for a newly presented teenage incubus had been novel to start, and now Stiles was in his early twenties he was only just beginning to feel the urge for something more.

 

 Something in Peter felt greedy at the thought of it.

 

 “Since I felt the same connection, and since it is as rare for me as it is for you, let me speak plainly,” Peter said, pushing up onto his elbow to look down at Stiles. “I don’t know the extent of your knowledge of the supernatural world, or if what you are means you can recognise what I am but…I’m a wolf. Part of the Hale pack that dominates most of San Francisco, actually. My sister is the alpha.”

 

 It sounded silly, thrown out there like that but it was the truth. Perhaps werewolves weren’t an entirely foreign concept to Stiles because he didn’t flinch back or look afraid or disbelieving, he only nodded slowly as he processed Peter’s words, as calmly as if he’d said he had blue eyes or a brown hair.

 

 “I can’t recognise it in people – if they’re supernatural or not, that is,” Stiles said after a long silence. “My mom had some knowledge of the supernatural world, she relayed some of it to me but I’ve never come across anyone super-human, not to my knowledge anyway.” His post-orgasmic daze rapidly dwindled into endearing curiosity right before Peter’s eyes.

 

 “I saw your eyes change,” Stiles continued thoughtfully, “and when I drank you in, when you gave me your energy I felt this…rush. It’s always good, it always satisfies me for a little while but this just felt….” His eyes that had drifted to Peter’s lips as he’d been speaking, flicked back up to meet Peter’s gaze as he admitted, “it felt like more. You felt like more, like I could not need this for months now. Like…like I’ve been eating nothing but snacks to tide me over since I turned eighteen but that was a three course meal and dessert.”

 

 Peter laughed, stroking Stiles’s arm distractedly. “Maybe that is the effect when you…drink from someone more than human, they have more to give you, more to keep you full.” His voice turned smoky toward the end and Stiles’s eyes lidded with lust at the sound. His breath and pulse skittered as excitement brewed slowly in him again, not out of need this time but out of pure desire, just for desire’s sake.

 

 “You look positively radiant,” Peter crooned, leaning in to brush their noses together. “Did I make you feel that good, sweetheart?”

 Stiles groaned, curling his fingers behind Peter’s neck to hold him close. His eyes fluttered closed. Worrying his lip, he nodded.

 

 “Perhaps we’ll have to explore this connection a little further, see if you can last on a diet of werewolf alone?”

 

 Stiles gave a breathless little laugh that Peter swallowed with a languid kiss. It was slow and unhurried, tender and all the sweeter for knowing that it was only happening because they both wanted it, wanted each other, not because of survival or anything else.

 

 “Stiles?” Peter whispered against his lips, so, so softly. “You should know, the incubus thrall doesn’t affect werewolves.”

 

 Stiles’s eyes flew open and he stared at Peter, stunned. It took him a moment but eventually, Stiles got his mouth working again. “We have a lot to talk about.” But when Peter drew back, as if to give them the space to talk, Stiles tightened his grip around his neck and shoulders. “After, I mean.”