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Stiles watches the beads of sweat running down the face of the legendary rocker known only as H from a mere five feet away, and decides that yes, this was the best irresponsible decision he’s ever made. He’d had to work some serious magic on his bank account to find the several hundred dollars for decent tickets (he still winces if he thinks about the number too hard), and he sacrificed more than one meal to afford it, but when he heard that the band Wolf was coming to his city, he was damned sure he was going to get there somehow. He justified it as a graduation present to himself - a night watching his idol – no, his lifelong crush, perform live. 

It was worth every cent to be here, worth turning up hours early to secure a spot right at the front of the crowd, body pressed against the barrier, screaming along to the lyrics of the band’s many hits. The bass thumps, the crowd surges, and Stiles flails and sways in the press of bodies around him and calls it dancing.

When the front man for the band heads for his corner of the stage though, Stiles goes still, transfixed. H is abso-fucking- lutely gorgeous; dark tousled hair, perfectly groomed stubble that Stiles imagines would feel so good against the skin of his thighs, and vivid blue eyes that could pierce a man’s soul. When he smiles it’s more of a smirk, like he knows you want to fuck him and he couldn't be happier.

His face is tempting enough, but the body? It would make angels weep at its sheer beauty, if an angel was ever game to come within ten feet of all that sexual energy. H is firmly muscled, his sweat-slick skin adorned with tattoos, and he has an absolutely lickable throat and thighs that could crush a man, if he was lucky enough to get trapped between them.

Stiles stares, entranced, as H saunters across the stage, hips rolling sinuously. If that’s how he walks, Stiles can only dream about what he’d be like to fuck. As he watches, the guitarist goes into a solo and H lowers his mic, and then he’s crouching, arm extended, running his fingers over the hands of the crowd, and Stiles knows what’s coming next, even as he tells himself not to get his hopes up. H plucks a phone from the hand of one of the girls in the crowd, poses for a series of ridiculous selfies, face screwed up and tongue poking out, before taking a picture of them together and returning it to her amid squeals. It’s something he’s known for, and one of the reasons Stiles made sure to be as close to the front as possible, short people behind him be damned.

H takes another couple of pics for fans while Stiles holds his phone out, but the guitar solo’s winding up and he knows he’s probably out of time. It’s okay. H is still right there, and Stiles might not get a selfie, but he figures he has time, while the man’s posing, to take the perfect shot. He raises the phone, but when he looks at the screen, he’s greeted with the image of H staring at him intently, eyes practically boring holes in him. He almost drops his phone, and his breath catches.

Stiles is unprepared when nimble fingers pluck the phone from his hands, fingertips brushing against his. H stills for just a second, cocking an eyebrow, and then he mouths something at Stiles. It takes a second for Stiles to figure out what he’s asking.

Here alone?

He nods furiously, heart nearly beating out of his chest. H smirks and takes a few pics of himself just like he did with the others, and Stiles thinks he could die happy right now. But then, with a teasing grin, H just...keeps his phone. He makes a show of it, first sliding the screen across his sweat-streaked belly and then turning his back to the crowd and sliding the phone into the back pocket of his obscenely tight leather pants, before sashaying away with that sway to his hips that he’s infamous for, leaving Stiles open-mouthed and empty-handed.

“Dude! H stole your phone!” the guy next to him yells in Stiles’s ear, just in case he’d missed that little snippet.  Stiles doesn’t reply, mind working furiously. He’s giving it back, right? It’s a gag. He’ll take a picture of the crowd or something, and bring it back.

Except he doesn’t. The band performs another two songs, and Stiles is till phoneless. He’s just debating if it would make him That Guy if he tried to get on stage and retrieve it when a security guard taps him on the shoulder and says, “Hey, kid.”  Stiles nearly has a heart attack, convinced the man was reading his thoughts, but the guard just leans in and says, “H wants to see you after the show. Says you’ll get your phone back.” Stiles nods, and the guard tells him, “Stay here. I’ll come get you after the encore.”

Feeling reassured, Stiles does just that, rocking out to the final two numbers as the band finishes up in a blaze of glory and glitter cannons. As the people start heading for the exits, a seething, struggling mass of bodies, Stiles stays leaning against the barrier, trying his best to act casual and not look like some desperate fanboy hanging around in the hopes of stealing the setlist. (Although who is he kidding? He’d kill to get that setlist.)

After what feels like forever but is probably only minutes, the same guard indicates that Stiles should follow him. He expects to get taken backstage to a dressing room,  but no, he’s led through a complex maze of tunnels and then somehow they’re going out a gate and he’s standing in front of a limo. The rear door opens, and when a voice that’s featured in a thousand wet dreams drawls out, “You getting in, sweetheart?” Stiles knows right then that whatever H is offering, he’s taking.





Stiles wakes at 4am with his ass throbbing deliciously, and lets out a happy sigh. The sex was, in a word, phenomenal. It was everything he’d imagined and more. When they got to the hotel, H whisked Stiles up to the penthouse, pinned him to the bed and fingered him open till he was begging, and then Stiles found himself flipped, held down, and fucked hard and fast. H filled him perfectly, and it was so good that Stiles almost cried when he came, simply because he didn’t want this to be over.

And it wasn’t. Stiles had barely recovered, still sprawled on his belly, when H had started kissing down the back of his neck, impossibly hard again, and murmured, “Up for more, sweetheart?”

Stiles had nodded dumbly, and the second time had been oh, so slow, time stretching out until it felt like hours had passed in the blink of an eye, and Stiles had lost himself to it, let himself be manhandled, wondering dimly how the hell H still had energy left to move when Stiles was as limp as a ragdoll – except for his cock of course, which took an interest in the proceedings almost immediately.

H exuded the same sort of animalistic energy in person that he gave off on stage, dangerous and arousing all at once, like a tiger waiting to pounce, and Stiles let himself become prey. They barely spoke, but their bodies fit together like two parts of a puzzle, perfect and satisfying and so, so, good. The second time blurred into the third, and then the fourth, and Stiles never thought his body was capable of responding the way it did, but obviously H was some sort of supernatural being – maybe an incubus, feeding off Stiles’s pleasure, able to tease and torture Stiles in the best ways, until he had to beg him to stop, unable to take anymore.

H had pulled back with a dark chuckle, and Stiles had almost expected to be asked to leave, but instead the man had held him close and kissed him tenderly, and Stiles isn't sure how long they spent with H idly running his hands over his skin, he only knows that he'd fallen asleep to fingertips tracing gently down his spine.

He dresses silently and slips out of the hotel room. He figures the last thing H will want when he wakes is to find Stiles staring at him all doe-eyed and needy, and he knows himself well enough to admit that if he stays, that’s exactly what he’ll do. But that's something else H is known for- he'll happily bed all the pretty young things who throw themselves at him, but he's never been in a relationship. Not once. So Stiles is aware that this was always going to be a one-night stand, something to tick off his bucket list, and he’s not going to spoil it by being a creeper. It takes almost superhuman restraint not to snap a picture of the man laying there naked while he sleeps, but he manages it, barely, because yeah. Not a creeper. (That doesn’t mean he doesn’t stare for long minutes, committing the sight of tattooed flesh and a gorgeous ass to memory.)

When Stiles gets back to his share house it’s too early for his roommates to be awake and ask where he was, and he’s quietly glad. The memory’s too new, too fresh, to cheapen it by telling anyone.  This isn’t something he’d share with his roommates anyway.  Stiles gets on with them, but they’re not what you’d call friends. They’re all too busy trying to pass their courses and not die of malnutrition and/or exhaustion to have time for any kind of relationship building.

The closest friend he has at college is Cora Hale, who he kind of knew already from high school and who he shares classes with. They have a friendship based on neither of them having any tolerance for fools, and both being just as sarcastic as the other. They get together, have the occasional dinner, and bitch about the idiots in their class. It works for them. Weirdly, Cora always seems to know when he’s worked too hard and driven himself to the edge of a meltdown, and she’ll turn up on his doorstep with takeaway and a movie, telling him, “You need to chill, Stilinski.”

She’ll plop herself on the couch, not taking no for an answer, and Stiles has learned it’s best to just do what Cora says. Even though he grumbles that she’s cutting into his study time, he’s grateful for the interruption, because otherwise who knows when he’d ever take a break? He still hasn’t figured out exactly how Cora knows when to turn up – he’d asked her once, and she’d just tapped the side of her nose and laughingly answered, ”My spidey senses were tingling.” He thinks briefly of telling Cora about tonight, but reconsiders. She’d never believe him, anyway.

Hell, he still can’t quite believe that it happened at all. He showers and flops down on his bed, exhausted but sated. He’ll never see H again, but he knows the shape of him under his fingertips now, will never forget the little growls and hungry sounds the man made, or the feel of broad hands holding him down as H claimed him, made Stiles his own. Stiles has a sneaking suspicion he might be ruined for anyone else. But then, Stiles has always fallen far too hard, far too fast.

No, he thinks determinedly.  Not this time. It was a one-off, he knew that going in, and he’s just going to appreciate it for the gift it was. A wonderful, sexy gift. He thinks again of tattooed skin, a predatory smile, and the sharp sting of stubble between his thighs, and slides into sleep with a smile on his face.