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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.

 

                                                       'H'

 


 

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.

 

Chapter Text

 

Stiles stares at the contents of his suitcase in dismay – in particular, at the innocuous looking hard drive tucked in a side pocket that’s silently judging him for being a Bad Friend. Cora loaned it to him several weeks back, on the understanding that he’d return it before she left for home, and he honestly meant to because a pissed off Cora isn’t something anyone wants, but he just…didn't, in the frenzy of packing to come back to Beacon Hills.  

Shit.

He lets out a groan. His bag’s been sitting here for an entire week waiting for him to get his ass into gear and unpack properly, but he kept telling himself there wasn’t anything important in there. More fool him. Cora's going to skin him alive.

He bites his lip, thinking. He knows Cora got back a few days before he did, he just hasn’t caught up her yet – hasn’t seen her since before his night with H, in fact. (He tries not to think too hard why everything in his life seems to be divided into Before H and After H right now.) Since she hasn’t called him to harass him about the hard drive, maybe she hasn’t missed it yet? So if he takes it over to her place and adds some apology chocolates she can’t be too mad, right? Besides, a tiny part of his mind whispers, there’ll be witnesses at her house, so she can’t hurt you too badly.

In fairness, it’s not like Cora’s ever actually done anything to Stiles. In fact, now that he thinks about it, Stiles isn’t sure he’s even seen her touch anyone but him. It’s just that her whole being seems to exude a barely contained willingness to maim. It almost reminds him of the dangerous energy that seems to roll off H.

He sighs. Everything reminds him of H. Maybe he’ll get over it, with time. After all, he never even got around to asking the man’s real name, too busy being ravaged and loving it. He gives another tiny sigh and shakes off the thought, getting back to the matter at hand, trying to remember if Cora’s a Rocky Road girl or more of a peppermint fan. No, he recalls, peppermint makes her sneeze and pull weird faces. Rocky Road it is.

He stops off at the store and gets the chocolates and throws them in a gift box with the hard drive and a hastily scrawled apology card, then drives out to the Hale place. It’s right on the edge of the preserve and Stiles hasn’t been there in forever, so it takes him a couple of tries to find the turnoff, but then he sees it, the Hale house, standing alone in a clearing. He recognizes Cora’s car, parked with several others.

The Hales are a large family, and they all seem to come and go at random, moving in and out of the family home as circumstances dictate. He can’t imagine it, too used to it being just him and his dad. Cora had been talking about it once, how her sister had moved back home again for a while, and he’d asked if it didn’t get crowded living on top of one another like that. She’d arched one killer eyebrow at him and said, “Our family’s close, and home is always home. You got a problem with that?” while giving him a look that clearly said Shut up, Stiles.

Stiles had shut up.

He parks and walks up to the front door, gift box in hand, and he’s just raised his hand to knock when the door’s wrenched open and Cora’s there, arms folded across her chest, looking distinctly annoyed. She glances at the gift box and rolls her eyes. “How did you know he’s here? Who told you?”

“Um, who’s here?” Stiles asks, completely lost.

“Does everyone know? Oh my god, is it all over town? I should have known. And what, you bought him a gift? Honestly Stiles. What, were you hoping for an autograph?”

Stiles is at a loss, so he holds out the box. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. This is for you. It’s your hard drive, and I threw in some chocolates because I still had it and I’m slightly terrified of you,” he admits.

She narrows her eyes and examines him for what feels like forever. “You’re not lying,“ she declares. “So, you’re really not here because of my uncle?”

“Nope. Just dropping off the hard drive. Who’s your uncle?” he asks, intrigued by whatever has Cora acting so squirrely.

She runs a hand down her face and then cocks her head as if considering something, before reaching out and dragging Stiles inside by his collar. “You know what? You can meet him. But first you have to promise that you won't tell anyone he's here, okay? His identity's a secret."

"What, your uncle's Batman?"

He really should have expected the flick to his ear. “Idiot. No, he is kind of a big deal though. He’s a musician. He’s here for a break after touring, and this is his safe place. Nobody’s ever figured out who he is yet, so if it gets out, I’m coming for you.” She bares her teeth at him, and Stiles could swear, just for a second, that he hears her growl. “You promise?” she presses.

He raises his hands in a placating gesture. Personally, he thinks Cora’s taking this way too seriously. But Stiles is probably already in her bad books, so he goes along with it. He figures the guy’s probably a singer with a seventies cover band or something, maybe in Vegas. “Jesus, Cora, chill. I won’t tell anyone I met your mysterious uncle, okay?”

She seems satisfied with his answer, letting go of his shirt. She leads him through the house and towards the back door, muttering, “Just, be cool, okay?” before opening a door and leading him out onto the back porch.

Stiles wants to protest that he's always cool, thank you, but the words die in his throat when he steps onto the porch to see none other than H, his own personal rock god, the man he spent an unforgettable night with three weeks ago, laying barefoot and shirtless on the back lawn, tattoos and tanned skin on full display as he soaks up the sun, his eyes closed and a cigarette dangling from his lips,  his arms spread wide like some sort of dissolute Jesus.

Stiles freezes on the spot. ”That’s – ”

“That’s my uncle Peter,” Cora says, amused.

Stiles can’t breathe.

The man’s eye snap open, and in seconds he rolls to his feet with a sinuous grace, his gaze locked on Stiles. He strides over, stopping directly in front of Stiles.“It’s you.” Their bodies are mere inches apart, and he runs a fingertip down Stiles’s jawline. “It’s really you,” he repeats, with something like wonder in his voice.

“It’s really me,” Stile agrees, overwhelmed. H is here. He’s here and he’s Cora’s uncle, and Stiles is suddenly fervently glad of his decision not to share the details of his wild night with Cora – not that it ends up mattering.

Cora looks from one to the other. “Stilinski, what the hell did you do?”

H – no, Peter - smirks. “Me, Cora. He did me.” And then all his attention is on Stiles, and he’s cupping his face in his hands, and smiling softly. “Hello, sweetheart. You got away from me last time, but now I’ve found you again.” His gaze is intent, and Stiles doesn’t quite know what’s happening, but he’s distracted by the warmth of Peter’s palms, the tiny smile the man’s giving him, the way he’s talking as if their one-night stand was actually more. Stiles wishes that was true.

Cora throws up her hands in defeat. “Really? You’ve been pining over Stiles?

Peter holds up a hand to silence her. “He’s it, Cora. He’s the one.”

On hearing that, Cora’s face breaks into a smile like nothing Stiles has ever seen. “Really?” she asks again, but this time her tone’s reverent, awed. “You think he’s it?”

“I don’t think, I know.” Peter steps closer, flicks his cigarette butt into the dirt, and then he's kissing Stiles, one hand wrapped around the back of his head to hold him in place, the other tight on his hip, and Stiles thinks fuck it and leans into the kiss. He’s not sure what’s going on, but if it involves more kissing and Cora being nice, it can’t be a bad thing. Peter pulls away, leaving Stiles stunned and breathless. ”Definitely the one,” he says, the corners of his mouth pulled up in his trademark filthy smirk.

“What? What am I?” Stiles asks.

Cora’s gaze goes from one to the other, and she lets out a sigh, but it’s fond. She nods at Peter. “You want me there while you explain?”

Peter doesn’t seem able to look away from Stiles, his gaze roaming over him, both hands now on Stiles’ hips, holding him close enough that Stiles can feel the heat from his body. “That’s probably wise. It’s a lot to take in.”

“Explain what? Will someone tell me what’s going on?” It’s not that Stiles isn’t reveling in Peter’s touch or in the way he’s staring at Stiles like he’s something precious, but there’s definitely something weird going on here.

Peter’s hands drop from his hips and Stiles briefly mourns their loss, but it’s only so Peter can take his hand, holding tight like he never wants to let go. “Come inside, sweetheart. We have a lot to tell you.”

 


 

“You’re…werewolves,” Stiles says slowly.

Peter nods, but doesn’t make any move to touch him, just sits there, watching Stiles expectantly.  “Stiles?” Cora’s voice is quiet, more hesitant than he’s ever heard. “Are you okay with it?” Stiles can feel the tension building in the air, can read the way Cora’s tense, like when she’s stressed out before a big test.

There’s a part of him that immediately wants to reassure them, but it’s a lot to take in. He’s not sure if it’s the revelation of fangs and claws, or the realization that he got fucked by a werewolf, his crush is a werewolf, Peter is a werewolf, oh god oh god oh god…

“Breathe, sweetheart.” Peter moves immediately to sit next to him on the couch, one hand on the back of his neck, grounding him, and the other resting on his knee. It shouldn’t be comforting, it should be frightening, yet somehow, it feels…right. “Shhh, it’s fine, you’re safe.” The fangs Peter was sporting mere seconds ago are gone, the transition so smooth Stiles didn’t even notice it happening.  

Stiles takes a slow, steadying breath, and Peter nods approvingly. Stiles turns to look again at Cora, really looks, and sure, her face is kinda weird right now, and she’s lost her perfect eyebrows, and her claws look deadly, but it’s still Cora, still the girl who cried while she watched The Notebook and threatened to end him if he told anyone. It’s still his friend. Once that thought settles in his head, Stiles finds that the rest of it doesn’t matter quite so much. He gives her a weak smile. “I knew there was a reason you’re fucking terrifying. Is this why you threatened to punch me the one time I joked about it being your time of the month?”

Cora snorts. “No, that’s because you were being a sexist asshole.” She relaxes though, her shoulders unhunching the tiniest bit and the tightness around her eyes disappearing. “Luckily I taught you better since then.” She does...something, and her face transforms back to normal and Stiles won’t lie, he’s pretty happy to see her looking like herself again.

Peter’s hands are still on him, warm and solid and comfortable, and Stiles leans unconsciously into the touch even as his brain tries to assimilate the new information it’s been given. H is Cora’s Uncle Peter. The Hales are werewolves. It begs the question. He turns his head and asks Peter, “Why are you telling me this, if it’s so top secret? I’m just Cora’s school friend.”

Peter regards him seriously. “I like you, Stiles. And you’re going to be so much more than Cora’s friend. I want you.”

“Um. Thanks, I guess? But didn’t we already do that?”

Peter exhales loudly. “Not like that. I want you as part of my life, permanently. We’re meant to be together.”

Stiles jolts upright at that, backs away from Peter’s touch. “Dude, we’ve literally spent one night together.”

Peter pouts. “Yes, but you don’t understand. You’re my partner. My wolf has decided.”

Stiles stands and backs away. “No offense, but this sounds like some serial killer bullshit.” It does, too, like something out of every True Crime stalker special Stiles has ever watched. “You can’t just…claim me as yours and expect me to agree.”

Peter arches a brow at him. “Why not? You can’t deny you’re interested. I can smell it on you.”

“Okay first off, that’s just creepy, telling me what I want.”

“Am I wrong?” Peter challenges, standing and stalking towards him, slow and deliberate. “Do you deny that the thought of being with me, being in my bed every night, excites you? And don’t try and lie, I can hear it in your heartbeat.”

Fuck. Stiles forgot about that. In his defense, in the last hour he’s learned so much about werewolves that one or two of the details were bound to get lost. And the thing of it is, Peter’s right. Stiles does want him, more than is reasonable or normal, especially given what he’s just discovered. Peter’s mere inches away from him now, gazing at Stiles with what can only be described as hunger. Stiles tilts his head to one side experimentally, and watches as Peter leans in closer, drawn to the soft skin of his throat by some invisible pull.

His eyes flick over to Cora, who’s watching with interest, and it occurs to Stiles that Cora’s not freaking out at this, not even a little. Why, exactly, isn’t Cora freaking out at her uncle making wild claims about Stiles being his? “Okay, what aren’t you telling me? Is this some werewolf thing?”

Peter grins up at him, something like triumph in his eyes. “Clever boy.” Stiles’s insides melt at the praise, and that’s – it’s not normal.

“Tell me?” He means it as a demand, only it comes out as more of a plea.

Peter takes his hand and leads him back to the couch. He opens his mouth, hesitates, and finally speaks. “I’ve slept with a lot of people over the years.”

A stab of jealousy hits Stiles in the gut, sharp and unexpected. “Way to make a guy feel special,” he mutters.

Peter lets out a low growl of frustration, and Stiles stiffens and leans back, conscious all over again of the fact that Peter’s a werewolf, and Stiles interrupted him, and now he sounds pissed. Cora though, just rolls her eyes at the pair of them, and with a sigh she stands from where she’s been perched in the armchair. She walks over, threads a fingertip through Peter’s belt loop and yanks him to his feet, then herds him towards the door. He starts to protest. “Wait, no, I was about to –“

“You were about to screw this up completely. Go.” Cora plants a hand in the centre of his back and steers him relentlessly out of the room while talking quietly in Peter’s ear, and Stiles catches, “Absolutely useless…I’ll explain…how are you even…social skills of a child…don’t you dare whine at me, trust me with this…” and then the door’s closed firmly behind him and there’s just Stiles and Cora. Something in the atmosphere changes, loosens when Cora flops on the couch next to him and pulls a face. “My god, how does that man function in the real world? ‘I’ve slept with a lot of people’ How did he even think that was a good place to start?”

Stiles throws his hands in the air. “Did you just throw your uncle out? I’m so fucking confused right now."

 “Listen, I love Uncle Peter, but apparently being around you makes him stupid. So it’s better if I explain this, even though he’s probably listening at the door.”  She raises her voice just slightly for that last part, and snickers when they hear a definite huff. She grins at Stiles. “Yep. Out there sulking, even though I’m doing him a favor.” Cora leans over and bumps shoulders with him. “You know we’re friends, right?”

“Yeah?” Stiles eyes her cautiously.

“Do you trust me?”

“I guess. I mean, apart from the whole ‘not mentioning I’m a storybook creature and not telling you my uncle’s famous’ thing.” Stiles can’t resist taking a dig, but Cora looks pleased rather than annoyed.

“Apart from that, yeah. Anyway, Peter’s not being a creeper when he says you’re his.”

Stiles suppresses a sigh. “Just tell me?”

Cora sits up straighter and looks him in the eye. “You’ve heard of soulmates, right? One true loves? Their eyes met across a crowded room, and they just knew, that kind of thing?”

Surely Cora’s not saying what he thinks she’s saying.  “Sure. But – soulmates aren't real. Love at first sight isn’t real,” Stiles argues.

“And neither are werewolves, and yet…” Cora lets her eyes glow gold. “There’s a whole,” she waves a hand vaguely, “spiritual, biological, pull I guess? Who knows, exactly? Anyway, werewolves can have mates. One true loves. Perfect partners. And we just know, when we meet them.”

Stiles stares, open-mouthed. He doesn’t know what to say.

Cora must sense his confusion (scent it, his brain helpfully reminds him), because she props her chin in her hand and leans forward expectantly, asking, “Not that I want any kind of details, but when you met Peter, did it feel like maybe it was more than it should have been? Did you feel a deeper connection than you expected?”

Stiles doesn’t have to think twice. “Absolutely. I haven’t been able to get him out of my mind,” he admits. “But I thought that was just because he was, y’know, who he was. And because he was so good at –“

A hand clamps firmly over his mouth. “No. Details.”

Stiles licks Cora’s palm in petty retaliation. She just shrugs and takes her hand away before continuing. “The attraction isn’t one-sided, then. It’s a lot stronger for Peter, but you’re feeling it too. Congratulations, you have a mate.”

Stiles blinks, slightly dumbstruck. “Do I get any say in this? Can I say no?”

Cora shrugs. “Do you want to?”

The question gives him pause. Does he?

The thing is, the night he spent with Peter was amazing—and not just because of the sex, mind-blowing as that was. He felt secure in a way that he never does, like he was meant to be there and nothing else mattered. And he wasn’t lying—he really hasn’t been able to shake Peter from his thoughts.

He looks at Cora and shakes his head mutely, and she gives him a knowing smile. “Listen. We weren’t even expecting Peter home, but he turned up after his last concert acting like a bear with a sore head. Mom finally got it out of him that at his last gig he met someone, and he was sure they were his mate. Only whoever it was left some time in the night before Peter could get any kind of details, and he tried to find you but you were impossible to track down. And let me tell you, Uncle Peter pining isn’t fun for anybody. For weeks now he’s been moping about the place, and it’s been all, “I had his phone in my hand, why didn’t I give him my number?” and “he left me, why did he leave me?” and “I can never sing another love song.”  Mom’s ready to drown him just to put us all out of our misery.”

“Really? He tried to find me?” Stiles is both entertained and flattered.

“Yep. He tried tracking you down through the names on ticket sales, but nobody with your name was in the data base. Of course, if he hadn’t been so damn precious and told any of us he was looking for a Stiles, it would have been a lot easier. But nooo, it was all, It’s too painful to say his name.” She pauses. “By the way, what name was on your concert ticket, Stiles?”

“Mieczyslaw,” he mumbles, because yeah, it’s a pain in the ass, but all his legal documents, including his credit card, have his actual name on them.

Cora gives a smug smile. “That explains it. Anyway, Peter’s been pining like a lovesick fool, and it’s all because of you. He’s got it bad.” She leans in closer and confides, “Just before you arrived? He was laying on the back lawn moaning, 'Just leave me out here to die, alone and mateless in the elements.' He’s such a drama queen.”

Hearing that, some of the suspicion Stiles had that this is all some kind of misunderstanding lifts. Maybe Peter really does want him that badly. Maybe his incessant daydreaming wasn’t just hopeless fantasy after all, but part of the bond.

Perhaps he can have this.

He lets out a long breath of air. “I want this to be real, but I have no idea how it works.”

Cora’s eyes twinkle with mischief. “Well first of all, you don’t let Uncle Peter win too easily. You make him prove his affection.”

Stiles frowns. “That doesn't seem fair. Isn’t that manipulation?”

Cora shakes her head. “It’s a werewolf thing. He’ll enjoy the pursuit, and he’ll strut around like a peacock every time you’re pleased with him, trust me.”

Stiles shakes his head, confused. “It sounds like I’m taking advantage, stringing him along.”

 “You’re not stringing him along. You’re letting him show he’s worthy. It’s important to him. His wolf needs to be sure that you really want this.”

“But if we’re already ‘mates’,” Stiles makes air quotes, "what’s the point?”

Cora makes a noise like a dying seal. “Ugh. Peter is so buying me a new car for this. Just because you’re mates doesn’t mean you don’t still have to get to know each other, okay? It works like this. You tell him you’re open to his advances, and then he works his ass off to prove he’s good enough for you. It’s really not that different from regular dating.”

Stiles mulls that over. “So…I tell him yes, but make him work for it? And he gets to feel good about being the best boyfriend?”

Cora grins. “Now you’re getting it. Believe me, if you let him court you, he’ll enjoy every second of it.” At Stiles's dubious look she gets up and heads towards the stairs. “Wait here.”

Stiles does as he’s told and she’s back minutes later holding a book. “Here. Take this home, read it, call if you have any questions.”

Stiles takes it, examining it. It’s a slim volume, entitled “The Traditions of Mateship.”

“It’ll help,” she assures him. 

When Stiles stands to leave, he suddenly finds himself with an unexpected armful of Cora. She hugs him tight, and whispers, “Peter’s nothing but sweet under all those eyebrows and swagger. This is a good thing Stiles, I promise,” and he can’t help but believe her.

He returns the hug, and he’s heading for the door when it swings open and Peter’s right there, not quite blocking his exit, but not letting him past either. He extends a hand. “Can I please get your number before you leave me again?”
Stiles doesn’t even think before he hands over his phone. “So, you're serious about this? Cora wasn’t lying when she said you’ve been pining?”

“Cora,” Peter says with an arched eyebrow directed at his niece, “has been telling tales out of school. But yes, I’d planned to ask you over breakfast if you’d consider something more, only you slipped away.”

“In fairness, I didn’t think you’d want me to stay. You’re sort of notorious for, well,” Stiles tries to find a polite way to put it. He settles on, “not having relationships.”

“You mean I’m an infamous man-whore?” Peter says with a smirk.

Stiles blushes. “Yeah. That.”

“That’s what I was trying to tell you before Cora interrupted. I’ve had my fair share of partners, but none of them has ever affected me like you do. You’re—” Peter leans in and honest to god sniffs Stiles “—intoxicating. It’s what I’ve been looking for all my life. Tell me you’ll be my mate, Mieczyslaw?” The pronunciation’s perfect, his voice is warm and syrupy, and Stiles’s insides flutter with something like want.

It’s unreal, to think that someone desires him this much, especially someone as gorgeous as Peter. Stiles can’t quite fathom it, and he almost says yes just in case Peter changes his mind. Almost. “Give me some time to think about it. You can text me,” he concedes.

Peter’s face lights up, and he says, “Thank you, sweetheart,” in a breathy tone that causes another wave of lust to run through Stiles as he remembers their night together, that voice murmuring huskily in his ear. It’s oh, so tempting to give in. He doesn’t, though - he’s determined.

He’s going to read the hell out of that book before he gives Peter an answer.

 

 

Chapter Text

 

When he gets home, Stiles disappears into his room and buries himself in the book. The more he reads, the more he understands what Cora was talking about. It’s simple, but complicated. Even though they’re meant to be together, Peter still has to prove his dedication, fulfilling some base wolfy drive. If he doesn’t get the chance, it will apparently make Peter’s wolf unhappy. Stiles is actually doing Peter a favor by agreeing to be courted. (It’s such an old-fashioned term – Stiles loves it immediately.) If Stiles was a wolf, they wouldn’t need to do this, but since he’s human, it’s important to Peter’s werewolf side that Stiles accept Peter as his mate unreservedly.

Really, all Stiles needs to do is let him Peter woo him, and praise him when he gets it right. It seems like a pretty sweet deal- Peter spoils him, Stiles tells Peter he’s doing great, and hopefully they fall madly in love, or something close to it. Most importantly, as far as Stiles is concerned, he’s under no obligation here. He can ask Peter to stop at any time - although the writer of the book makes it clear that it’s something that’s unlikely to happen.

He lays the book down, lying back on his bed with his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling and thinking about everything that’s happened today. All he wanted to do was return a hard drive, and now werewolves are a real thing, it turns out his friend Cora is scary for a reason, and to top it all off he has, for want of a better term, a soulmate. 

A gorgeous, if pushy, soulmate.

Stiles picks up the book again, flicking through the pages, and decides that maybe that last judgement’s a little harsh. According to this, Peter’s not pushy. He’s just reacting to some inner imperative to make Stiles his partner. As far as Peter’s wolf side is concerned, it’s a fait accompli, and doesn’t understand why his human side’s dragging his feet, which makes Peter a little, well. Persistent.

He’s texted Stiles nine times in the past five hours. In the end Stiles told Peter he was going to sleep, which earned him ‘I can come over and tuck you in if you like?’

The thing is, Stiles was sorely tempted to say yes. He’s blaming the mysterious bond. It’s definitely not because he’s desperate to run his hands over Peter’s sin-worthy body. Not at all.

Stiles flops back down on his bed and lets out a sigh. He debates calling Cora, but a glance at the clock tells him it’s after midnight, and he’s not brave enough to wake her. He’s seriously thinking about calling Peter just to hear his voice, (and isn’t that an unexpected impulse?) when there’s a tap on the door and his father pops his head in. “What are you doing awake, kiddo?”

Stiles sits up, legs crossed in front of him. “I could ask you the same thing.”

His father opens the door and steps into the room. “Indigestion.” He glances at the book and his eyebrows raise. “I thought you were done studying?”

Stiles seriously considers not saying anything, because he doesn’t want to stress his dad out. But then he thinks again. If this does go ahead and he agrees to mate Peter, then his dad has to be told anyway. And Stiles could use some guidance that doesn’t come from a werewolf family right now. He pats the bed, and his father perches there. “So, I went to Cora’s today and her uncle was there.”

“Who, Peter?  Yeah, I heard he was in town. Came home after his last tour miserable as sin. He’s pining after the one that got away, Talia says.” He gives Stiles a knowing smile. “Let me guess, you embarrassed yourself in front of him?”

Stiles blinks. “Wait, you know who her uncle is?”

His father shrugs. “Sure do. Making sure he’s safe when he’s in town is part of the job.”

“And you never told me? Knowing I’ve been a fan for years?” Stiles glares at his father, betrayed.

His father sighs. “Kid, confidentiality’s also part of the job. I wasn’t gonna tell you, especially not when you were an obsessed teenager. You would have camped out on their doorstep.”

“I would not –“  His father folds his arms and gives Stiles a look, and he deflates. “Yeah okay. I totally would have.”

His father glances at the book again. “Anyway, is meeting Peter what has you sitting awake all night? Or does it have something to do with that werewolf lore you’re reading?”

“Oh my god! You know about werewolves too?” Stiles stares at his father in disbelief, before poking him in the chest. “You knew werewolves were real and never told me? I can’t believe my own father lied to me about something this big!”

“I never lied, kiddo. It wasn’t my secret to tell, is all. Now, are you gonna waste time being offended, or are you gonna tell me what’s going on with you and Peter?”

Stiles really hates it when his dad’s so fucking reasonable. To make it worse, he’s right.

 Also, Stiles needs his advice, so he pushes his annoyance aside for now, and hands the book to his father. “So, when I went to the Wolf concert last month, I maybe met Peter there, and we might have met up afterwards, and, y’know.”

He trusts his father can fill in the gaps for himself. Judging by the muttered, “Jesus Christ on a cracker,” and the shake of his head, he fills them in just fine. His father’s brows furrow, just for a second. “Wait – are you – you’re telling me – Stiles, are you the one that got away?”

“Apparently? And now Peter says we’re like, meant to be together, and this book says it’s real, and Cora says it’s real, and I feel like it’s real.  But, it’s just – it’s a lot, and maybe it’s a mistake, and - and - werewolves, Dad. Werewolves.

He’s breathing heavily by the time he finishes, and his dad lays a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Take a breath, kid. You're telling me you're Peter's mate?"

Stiles nods dumbly. He doesn't know why he's even surprised that his dad knows about this stuff.

His father looks at him with something like pity. "Just tell me one thing, son.”

“Uh huh?”

John looks him squarely in the eye. “Do you want this, with him?”

"Yes." Stiles nods without even considering it, before stammering out, “Wait, no, I mean maybe, but what if - “

His dad holds up a hand. “Nope. That was your gut answer. Stick with it.”

Stiles opens his mouth, then closes it. His dad’s always preached that you should follow your gut instincts, and he’s right. Stiles sighs, but he can feel the tension leaving him. “It just, it seems too easy? Like, the man I’ve had a celebrity crush on forever wants me back? Shit like this doesn’t happen in real life.”

John chuckles and reaches out, running a hand through Stiles’s hair. “Maybe it does when you’re running with wolves, kid. And maybe you crushing so hard is part of whatever this is, the mate thing.”

“You think so?”

John gets a mischievous gleam in his eye and tosses Stiles his phone. “Why don’t you ask Peter?”

Stiles frowns. “You want me to call him this late?”

John nods. “Consider it a test of his character- see if he’s still happy to hear from you when it’s one am.”

Stiles nods slowly. That actually makes a weird kind of sense. He shoves his dad’s leg gently, and his father gets the hint, slipping out the door and closing it behind him, giving Stiles privacy. He dials, and the phone only rings twice before it’s picked up and Peter answers, voice rough with sleep. “Stiles? What do you need?”

Stiles feels kind of bad now. “No, it’s, um. Sorry. I’ll call back.”

He hears the rustle of blankets. “It’s fine, sweetheart. If it’s keeping you awake, I want to hear about it.” There’s no annoyance in Peter’s voice, only concern, and that, that’s kinda nice. Peter sounds like he genuinely cares.

Not many people really care about Stiles. His dad, Cora maybe.

He wonders what it would be like to have someone who wants nothing but the best for him, a lover who's genuinely devoted to him. He thinks about the way Peter's face lit up when he saw Stiles, how thrilled he'd been, how he hadn't hesitated to tell Stiles they were meant for each other.

It occurs to him that he could just...go with this whole thing, let Peter have his way. It seems like it would be crazy, but the last crazy thing he did, blowing money on that concert ticket, is working out pretty well for him right now. Maybe this will, too. He considers his dad's advice to trust his gut, and takes a deep breath. What he means to say is, I wanted to let you know I’m considering your offer, but what comes out of his mouth is, “Yes,” and even as he says it, Stiles feels something settle in him.

“Yes?” Peter sounds cautious, hopeful.

“Yes. You can take me out and court me, and if you do it right I'll be your mate.” He shouldn't feel as certain as he does-it's sheer madness-but right now he doesn't care.

There’s silence for a moment, and Stiles wonders if Peter’s still there, but then he hears a quiet, ”You’re sure, sweetheart?”

Stiles swallows. “Yep. Do your thing. Show me I’m making the right decision choosing you.”

“I promise sweetheart, you won’t regret this. How shall we celebrate? I could come over, remind you how good we are together, make your body sing under my touch,” Peter purrs, and god, Stiles wants to say yes so badly right now.

Yes, please. Come over so I can ride you like a mechanical bull.

Except - “We can’t. My dad’s home,” Stiles sighs.

Peter sighs. “Shame. I dream about you, you know. That soft skin, those pretty pink nipples, the way you look when you’re laid out under me and begging for more. I want to explore you, touch you all over. I want to find all those spots that make you shudder. I want to wreck you.”

Stiles’s cock twitches and starts to thicken rapidly, and he moans despite himself. “Tease,” he accuses.

Peter lets out a dark chuckle. “Is it teasing if I deliver, sweet boy? If I can’t come over, maybe I can talk you through it instead, and you can put those clever hands of yours to work, stroke that pretty cock. What do you say?”

Stiles doesn’t think twice, already uncomfortably hard in his jeans. “Fuck. Yeah, okay.  Hang on.”  Stiles gets off the bed and pokes his head out the door. He can hear the sound of the TV going downstairs. He closes his door and locks it, then shucks out of his jeans and underwear and sits back against the headboard, hand palming his dick. He’s certain he can stay quiet for this. He did it enough as a teenager. He picks up the phone again. “You were saying?  Dreams, huh?”

Peter hums. “Such dreams, baby. I haven’t touched anyone since you, you’re all I can think about. Not a night goes by where I don’t wake up hard and aching, thinking about you and how good we were together, about the pretty sounds you made when I fucked you.”

Fuck. Just Peter’s voice, sultry and sinful, will be the death of him. His cock’s hard and leaking, and Stiles swipes a thumb over the head, gathering the precome and spreading it down his shaft, easing the way as he starts to stroke himself. Fuck it feels good. “You’re making me drip, Jesus. Keep talking.”

Peter groans, and then there’s the unmistakable sound of slick-wet skin on skin, and Stiles knows that he’s not the only one getting off on this. That makes it even better, somehow.

“The things you do to me, sweetheart,” Peter husks out. “Shall I tell you about the dream where I’ve got you naked with your hands braced on the glass door in a penthouse suite?  I’m fucking you from behind, and you’re making these delightful, choked off little sobs as you beg me to please, just touch you. And when I reach around and put my hand on your cock, it’s enough for you to come hard enough to dirty the glass.” Stiles whimpers and his hand speeds up, heat pooling in his belly. “Or shall I tell you about how I want to lay you out, hold you down, and take that gorgeous cock of yours in my mouth, suck you dry?”

Stiles remembers vividly the heat of Peter’s mouth on him, the way Peter had looked utterly debauched as he sprawled between Stiles’s spread legs, grinning up at him with come dripping from the corner of his mouth, and his breath catches as his cock throbs harder. “Yeah, that,” he rasps out, already closer than he thought he would be.

Peter sounds breathless as he speaks, and Stiles imagines him naked and hard, the visual of it combined with his own touch making his nerve endings sing. “You want me to run my tongue over the head, play with your slit? Make you nice and wet so you can fuck my mouth? You could, baby. I’d let you fuck this throat raw, if you wanted. You could pull my hair, hold me there while you came in my mouth, and I’d swallow every drop.”

Stiles chokes on air, stripping his cock furiously and whispering, ”Ohfuckohfuckohfuck.” There’s a familiar tingling, balls drawing up tight in warning, and he gasps out, “I’m close.”

“Come for me sweetheart, let me hear you,” Peter growls out, and it’s that growl, the hint of steel in his voice, that pushes Stiles over the edge.

He spills over his hand as he bites back a shout, staying quiet nearly impossible when he’s flooded by sudden, sharp pleasure, overwhelmingly intense and different from anything he’s ever known. It’s only moments later that he hears a desperate whine, followed by a muffled ‘fuck!’ as Peter comes as well. There’s a low groan in his ear, and then silence, except for the sound of them both breathing heavily. Eventually, Peter murmurs, “Sweetheart? Are you with me?”

Stiles lays there catching his breath. “Uh huh.” It’s a struggle, but he manages to form words. “That was amazing,”  he says, looking down at his stomach that's covered in rapidly cooling jizz and grimacing,  “but I should go clean up.”

“Mmmm, same,” Peter agrees, but neither of them make any move to hang up, enjoying the sound of each other’s breathing, content just to bask in the afterglow.

Once his brain comes back online, Stiles lets out a soft snort. “So, I’m curious. Does phone sex count as courting?”

It takes Peter a moment to answer. “Absolutely,” he drawls. “A good courtship involves taking care of you in every way. But next time, I think we should do this in person.”

Stiles can’t wait, but he doesn’t tell Peter that, remembering that he’s not meant to make this too easy. Instead he says, “Just so you know, it’ll take more than amazing sex to impress me.”

Peter huffs out a lazy laugh. “I don’t doubt it. I’ll look forwards to sweeping you off your feet. But for now, we should get some sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he confirms, and smiles at the pleased noise Peter makes. “Goodnight, wolf.”  Stiles hangs up, still smiling.

Maybe this will end up being the best irresponsible decision he’s ever made.

 


 

Twenty minutes later, when he’s just barely asleep, Stiles is woken by a phone call from Cora. “I’m awake, Stilinski.” She doesn’t sound happy about it.

“Wha..?”

“Why am I awake? I’m glad you asked. I’m awake because Peter’s happy right now. And do you know what that asshole does when he’s happy?  He sings! This is the bullshit I’m listening to right now.” She must hold her phone out, because Stiles can hear Peter in the background and yes, he’s definitely singing. Loudly and enthusiastically. The corners of Stiles’s mouth twitch up.

It takes him a few seconds to recognize the song, unused to hearing it sung in Peter’s distinctive growl. “Is that…the Turtles?” he asks, just as Peter belts out a particularly passionate chorus of ‘I can’t think of loving nobody but you, for all my liiiiiiife…”

“Yes, it’s the fucking Turtles,” Cora snaps. “And before this it was the Beach Boys. He woke us all up to tell us you’d agreed to court him and now he’s dancing down the hallway in his boxers. He’s pirouetting, Stiles!” she hisses. “Nobody should be subjected to that, let alone at this time of night. So do me a favor, and next time you want to give him good news, wait till it’s fucking daylight!” She hangs up in his ear.

Stiles grins as he imagines Peter waking the whole household just to tell them that Stiles has said yes. He pictures Peter singing and dancing with abandon, ignoring his unimpressed family, and a rush of affection washes over him. It occurs to Stiles that H is notorious for never having relationships, and wonders if it’s possible that Stiles is  actually the one with a clue here. H is known for being the epitome of sex and seduction, sure, but Peter? He  might be something of an awkward turtle when it comes to things like this.  

Heh. Turtles.

He lies there for a while with Happy Together running through his head, and when he finally drops off, he sleeps better than he has in weeks.

 

 

 

Chapter Text

 

Stiles sleeps late and its after ten when he stumbles, still half-asleep, down the stairs. His dad’s there, sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee, wearing his pyjama pants. “So you said yes, then?”

Stiles stills with one hand on the coffee pot. “What makes you say that?”

“Oh, I dunno. Maybe the fact that Peter’s been parked out the front for an hour now?” his father says drily. Stiles sneaks a look out the window and sure enough, there’s an unfamiliar car parked across the street with a figure in the driver’s seat, about three houses up – just far enough away that you wouldn’t notice it, if you weren’t say, a cop or a cop’s kid. Stiles can’t quite explain the excitement that courses through him at the sight.

“You left him out there? Why didn’t you wake me, or invite him in or something?” Stiles darts over to the door and is just about to open it when his father stands a puts a hand on his shoulder.  

“Kid, go upstairs. Take a shower, get dressed. Then text Peter and invite him over.”

Stiles’s brows furrow. “But – he’s here?”

His father rolls his eyes, but its fond. “He needs you close, but he’s trying not to be overbearing. You think he wants to be sitting out there like some kind of stalker? I read that book. Instinct is driving him to be near you. So, he parks his car and waits, and knowing you’re nearby is enough. To my mind, the decent thing to do is pretend you didn’t see him, and call him when you’re ready.”

Stiles thinks about that. It certainly fits with the flashes of possessiveness he’s seen so far, and he doesn’t want to make things awkward. “Yeah,” he agrees. He downs a coffee before he pulls out his phone and sends a text.

Wanna come over?

The reply is lightning fast.  I’ll be right there.

Stiles snorts. Do I have time for a shower or are you already on your way?

Three dots appear, disappear, appear. Finally, Stiles gets How hard will you judge me if I say I’m parked up the street?

He considers his answer and decides to cut Peter some slack. Hmm. My actual wet dream is parked outside because he can’t wait to see me? Pretty sure I’m flattered. But I still need a shower, so if you come in now, you’ll have to wait and risk my dad giving you a shovel talk.

I’ll take that chance.

There’s a knock at the door thirty seconds later. Stiles opens it to find Peter standing there. He has to do a double take though, because Peter doesn’t look anything like Peter.

No, that’s not right.

He doesn’t look anything like H.

He’s wearing a baseball cap, an old football jersey, worn scruffy jeans and sneakers. His hair, what Stiles can see of it, is messy and unkempt. His carefully groomed stubble is longer than usual, just enough to soften his distinctive jawline. And to top it off, there’s a pair of dark-rimmed glasses perched on his nose.

Peter looks like someone’s dad. A DILF for sure, but still. It’s a million miles from his stage persona. Stiles kinda digs it. He gestures at Peter. “So, this is how you hide when you’re in town?”

Peter nods, and steps inside. “People see what they expect to see. Nobody expects to see H in Beacon Hills, so here I’m just one of the Hales.”

Stiles tilts his head, looking more closely. “I can see it. I mean, I know its you, but if I saw you in a coffee shop like this? I’d still doubt myself. It’s like one of those pictures they have that are “is this a horse or a duck?” and you can see one or the other but not both. My eyes are telling me you’re a duck, even though I know you’re a horse.”

Peter smirks. “I’m flattered by the comparison.”

Stiles realizes what he’s said and blushes, making Peter laugh. Peter steps closer till he’s mere inches away. “Can I-?”

It takes Stiles a second, but then he remembers. Werewolves like to scent people. No -they like to scent pack, scent mates. He nods, opens his arms, and tilts his head back. “Go ahead.”

It’s less intrusive than he expected, and he's disappointed if he's honest. Peter just rests his head in the crook of Stiles’s neck for a few seconds before pulling back and landing a barely-there peck on his cheek. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

Stiles shakes his head. “Nope.” Peter frowns, but his expression clears when Stiles says, “If we’re courting, you greet me properly,” before taking Peter’s face in his hands and kissing him so enthusiastically that when they finally part, Peter’s glasses are askew and they’re both slightly breathless.

“I was trying to show some restraint,” Peter says, smiling widely.

“I think that ship’s sailed, don’t you?” Stiles observes, and he’s about to pull Peter in for another kiss when the sound of a throat clearing reminds him that they’re not alone. He kind of forgot, once Peter was near. Is that part of the bond, he wonders, or is it just that he’s weak in the face of Peter’s new look?

He decides that he’s blaming the bond.

“You were gonna shower, kiddo?” Stiles glances over to find his dad smirking like this is all hilarious. Stiles would object, but it’s better than his dad being all stern faced and cleaning his shotgun, so he’ll take it.

“Yeah. Won’t be long,” he tells Peter, and can’t resist leaning in for one last soft kiss before heading up the stairs. The last thing he hears before he closes the bathroom door is his father offering Peter coffee, so he figures it’s safe to leave them unsupervised. He still showers and dresses in record time, though.

When he comes downstairs, Peter and his dad are sitting at the table chatting idly like they’re old friends – Stiles supposes they sort of are – but Peter’s face lights up at seeing him, and all his attention is immediately on Stiles.  “So, what are we doing?” Stiles asks brightly, sliding into the chair next to Peter and laying his hand on the table in invitation.

Peter’s hand closes over his and gives a tiny squeeze. “I thought we‘d go out for breakfast.” He glances at the clock. “Well, brunch.”

Something occurs to Stiles. “Can we go out, though? Are you sure you won’t get recognised?”

Peter waggles his hand in a back-and-forth motion. “Give the beard a couple more days and I’ll be free and clear. For now though, I thought I’d take you on a picnic. I have everything in my car.”

Stiles melts inside at the thought of Peter preparing them a picnic, and it must show on his face, because his dad snorts. “God, you two are hopeless. Go on, have fun.”

He flaps his hand in a dismissive motion, and the two of them head out the door and get into Peter’s rental car. “Hey, how come you were clean-shaven yesterday?” Stiles asks, curious. “You’ve been here for three weeks. I thought you would have started operation fake ID as soon as you got home.”

“I did. Up until yesterday I had a full beard. But then I couldn’t fight the urge to cut it all off. Maybe my wolf knew you were coming and wanted to make a good impression.”

“That sounds deeply creepy, but hey. Who knows? The whole fated to be together thing is wild, so...” Stiles shrugs. He pats Peter’s cheek. “I like this dad look, by the way.”

Peter huffs, offended. “Excuse me? Dad look? I’ll have you know this is the Hot Uncle look. It’s far sexier.”

Stiles lets out a snort of laughter. “Whatever. Either way, I’m a fan…Hot Uncle Peter.”

Peter smirks, arches his brows, and gives Stiles a very particular look over the top of his glasses, and okay, that shouldn’t be nearly as hot as it is, but Stiles finds himself wondering if they can skip the picnic and get to the part where they make out. Peter looks like he knows exactly what Stiles is thinking, and Stiles realizes with a start that he can probably tell, what with his wolfy superpowers.

“Soooo, after this picnic, you wanna fool around some?” Stiles asks, grinning.

Peter’s expression turns positively wolfish in reply.


 

Their picnic is delicious, just for the record. Stiles makes sure to show Peter his appreciation, which leads to activities not suited for an open space in the preserve, no matter how isolated. It’s Stiles who suggests they go somewhere more private. “My dad already picked me up once for public indecency as a teenager,” he confesses from where he’s perched on the hood on the car. “I ran naked through the preserve on a dare. He grounded me for a week.”

Peter chuckles as he runs his fingers through Stiles’s hair, standing in the vee of his legs. “Something we have in common. He let me off with a warning though, on account of it being prom night.”

“Yeah? What were you doing, or shouldn’t I ask?” Stiles slides his hands down Peter’s back and grips his ass firmly, pulling him closer and kissing him before Peter gets a chance to answer.

When they part, Peter smirks. “Actually, it started out a lot like this. And it was prom, and my date had this fantasy, and how is any red-blooded seventeen-year-old boy supposed to resist a leggy blonde on the hood of a car when she lays herself out like a gift to be unwrapped?”

“Oh my god. And dad caught you?”

“Thankfully, your father arrived after the main event, shall we say. But he was still in time to see my lily-white ass  and my pants halfway down my thighs.”

Stiles hides his face in Peter’s throat, but he can’t help the way he shakes with laughter. He feels vibrations running through Peter’s body where they’re pressed together, and knows he’s laughing too. “Okay. So, definitely don’t want the sheriff to catch us out. Where shall we go?”

In the end, despite being grown men, they’re still reduced to booking into a hotel to get some privacy. Stiles knows his house is out of the question with his dad off duty. Peter suggests going back to his place but now that he knows that everyone in the house can hear everything, Stiles claims there’s no way he could relax there, no matter how much Peter assures him the bedrooms are soundproof.  

So, with a stop for condoms and lube on the way, the Beacon Waters it is.

 


 

Stiles gets to see the duck/horse/duck thing in action when he checks them into the hotel. Peter’s booked and paid online under Stiles’s name, but as they’re collecting their key, for a split-second Stiles sees the desk clerk look at Peter and do a double take. But then he gives the tiniest shake of his head, as if to reassure himself that no, that isn’t who he thinks it is. Stiles can literally see the man’s mind changing.

“These are not the droids you’re looking for,” he mutters under his breath as he and Peter walk into the elevator. Peter lets out a quiet laugh and then pins him to the wall, and they make out all the way to the top floor. Stiles finds himself desperate for Peter’s touch. His arousal from earlier, which had settled into a low simmering heat on the drive over, roars back to life as soon as Peter’s mouth is on his. The ride to their floor takes forever, yet is over far too soon.

When they arrive, they tumble out if the elevator and towards their room, and it takes more than one try to unlock the door, both of them too distracted with getting their hands all over each other to manage sliding the key card into the slot. In the end it’s Stiles who opens the door, ignoring the way Peter’s hands are roaming over his ass. There’s a quiet beep, the door opens inward under his touch, and then Peter’s hands move up to Stiles’s waist, shepherding him into the room.

The door bangs when Peter kicks it shut, loud like a gunshot in the silence. There’s a charged moment between them where they just stare at each other, and then Peter’s burying his face in the crook of Stile’s neck, kissing and nipping along the ridge of his collarbone, and Stiles would be lying if he said he wasn’t flattered by the needy sounds Peter’s making. He tosses Peter’s baseball cap across the room so he can tangle his fingers in Peter’s hair and hold him in place, because holy shit, Peter’s mouth should be illegal, breath hot against the skin as he pants and licks at Stiles's flesh, sending bright sparks of arousal zinging through Stiles’s body and straight to his dick. Stiles has a split second of jealousy when he thinks of all the other people Peter’s done this to, but he shoves it aside.

That wasn’t Peter. That was H.

Peter’s all his.

Peter lifts his head, mouth open and searching, and Stiles kisses him hungrily. Their hips grind together in a messy sort of rhythm, both of them too eager to slow down and make it work, yet it’s still so, so good. Excitement fizzes in Stiles’s veins, need surging to the surface, and he slips a hand between them, cupping the bulge at the front of Peter’s jeans. Peter makes a hitched, cut-off noise of want, and Stiles grins against Peter’s mouth and rubs his thumb in lazy circles. Peter whines and bucks under the touch, rutting urgently against his hand, and seeing him like this, hearing him, makes Stiles’s own cock throb urgently. He has the sudden, shocking realization that if they don’t move right now, they’re both going to come in their pants like teenagers before they even get to the bed.

He puts his hands against Peter’s chest and pushes, trying to make some room, and Peter obliges, just. There’s barely an inch of space between them, but it’s enough that Stiles can think. “Bed,” he says, tilting his head, and Peter nods, lips pink and swollen, pupils blown with lust.

There follows a mad scramble to get undressed, both of them made clumsy with desperation. Peter nearly goes ass over teakettle trying to take his sneakers off at the same time as his jeans, and Stiles would laugh from where he’s already sprawled across the bed, except he’s distracted by all the gorgeous muscle that’s revealed when Peter finally gets naked. “Fuck, you’re pretty,” he breathes, and he can’t help himself, he sits up and reaches out, grabs Peter round the waist and pulls him onto the bed, then shoves him lightly so he’s laying on his back. Peter goes willingly, and Stiles straddles him.

He takes a minute to run his hands over Peter’s biceps, over his pecs, down the side of his neck, tracing the corded muscle there. “Like what you see, baby?” Peter asks, smirking.

“Uh huh.” Stiles lowers himself, elbows bracketing them, and revels in the heat of Peter’s body against his, the feel of skin on skin. They kiss - messy, hungry, desperate, and it’s not really a surprise when Peter surges up and flips them. Still, Stiles mutters, "Pushy,” just on principle. Peter responds by grinding against him, the line of his cock a solid heat against the crease of Stiles’s thigh, his abs a wall of muscle that Stiles ruts against mindlessly. He thinks he could probably come just from this, except that's not what he wants. “Wanna - can I blow you?” he gasps out.

Peter freezes, just for a second, and then there’s a low, almost subvocal growl, a sound Stiles feels more than hears as Peter’s chest vibrates. Peter rolls off to one side, legs spread wide, and Stiles takes it as a yes.

Stiles takes a moment to appreciate the beauty that is Peter Hale’s dick before he takes it in his mouth. It’s thick and uncut, wet with precome, and Stiles takes it in his hand and strokes it, just to watch the way it throbs and moves under his touch. Peter bucks up into his hand, then grasps the back of his head, gently guiding him down, and well. Stiles can take a hint.

He licks his lips and takes Peter in his mouth, a satisfying heft of hot flesh and soft skin. Stiles takes him as far as he can, all at once. Peter lets out a deep groan, and the hand in Stiles’s hair tightens just the slightest bit. Stiles runs his tongue around the head, then closes his eyes and loses himself to the experience, sucks wet and filthy, savoring the spurts of precome, sharp and salty against his tongue. He’s always loved this.

It’s barely a minute before Peter’s gasping out, “Stiles –“  Possibly it’s a warning, but Stiles doesn’t heed it. Peter thrusts desperately into his mouth, and when his hips stutter and he presses in deep, Stiles relaxes as much as he can and lets him in, swallowing convulsively when Peter comes down his throat with a choked-off shout. Stiles grins around the cock in his mouth, glancing up to see Peter’s head thrown back, the muscles of his neck standing out in stark relief as his body spasms and rocks.

Stiles keeps his mouth on Peter’s cock until it stops pulsing and starts to soften, laving his tongue gently over the head as he finally pulls off, just to watch Peter shudder. He crawls up the bed beside Peter, who turns to face him wearing a slightly glazed grin. Peter reaches out and wraps a hand around Stiles’s own erection, rubbing a thumb over the head to gather the slick there and spread it down his length before he starts to jack Stiles off slowly. It’s Stiles’s turn to arch and writhe now. He rocks his hips forward chasing more, want surging through him as Peter works his shaft, bringing him close to the edge in an embarrassingly short time. Peter seems to know what he needs just when he needs it, his grip tightening and his hand speeding up.  When Peter ducks his head and sets his mouth on Stiles’s nipple, tugging with his teeth, the unexpected sting of it, sharp and sudden, sends a wave of heat through him, and Stiles is sent headfirst into an explosion of bliss.

Peter continues to mouth at the nub as Stiles thrashes under him, cock spurting, and every time he suckles and pulls, Stiles is hit by another wave of pleasure until it’s too much, he’s milked dry, sensitive and panting. He tries to speak, to beg, but all that comes out of his mouth is a whimper, so he resorts to shoving at Peter’s head to get the message across. Thankfully it works, and the mouth leaves his skin with one last tender kiss. Peter lets out a lazy sigh and wipes his come-streaked hand against the sheet, before settling with his head on Stiles’s chest as they both recover.

Stiles loses some time to the inevitable wave of endorphins, and only stirs because Peter’s running his hands over his bare skin and it feels wonderful. He scooches closer and leans into the touch, and Peter chuckles, rich and deep and gorgeous. “Hello, sweetheart.”

“Hnngh,” Stiles mutters, eyes still closed. His whole body is heavy and relaxed, and it feels like his bones have melted from sheer pleasure. Peter’s hands are still on him, fingertips brushing over him gently, tenderly. Stiles opens one eyelid and is greeted by the sight of Peter gazing at him intently, wearing a soft smile, and it’s heady to find such affection there when really, it should be impossible - they barely know each other. But Stiles can feel something settle deep inside, a knowing, and he gets it. They’re made for each other- he can feel the rightness of it, now.

Mates.

He wants to tell Peter, but the best he can manage is a satisfied sigh and a stupid, fucked out smile. Peter must read something in his expression though, because he responds by leaning in and pressing their foreheads together. “You are everything to me, did you know that?” he whispers, and Stiles has no trouble believing it when Peter says it like that, no trouble at all.

 


 

There's an unexpected nap.

Stiles is woken with soft kisses and wandering touches, and this time he’s aware enough to arch into the touches and rested enough to respond, hardening under Peter’s expert ministrations. The afternoon passes in a haze of skin on skin. They take their time, exploring each other’s bodies thoroughly, and when Peter finally sinks into him, it’s like nothing he’s ever experienced. It’s so much more than just sex, this time.

Stiles thinks Peter must feel it too - it’s in the way he lays soft kisses at the base of Stiles’s neck, the way he whispers sweet nothings as he rolls his hips languidly, making it good, making it special. Stiles can feel arousal gathering in the pit of his stomach, and he presses his hips back, chasing more. “Please,” he begs, and Peter responds to the urgency in his voice, picking up the pace and fucking into Stiles solidly, sending sparks of pleasure racing up his spine.

Stiles comes on Peter’s cock, his orgasm punched out of him with short, sharp thrusts, and he collapses against the mattress even as Peter keeps fucking him, his breath hot on Stiles’s neck. Peter shudders and stills shortly afterwards, taking a moment to catch his breath before pulling out and rolling to one side. Stiles senses rather than sees Peter disposing of the condom, but he doesn’t bother to turn his head – he isn’t sure if he can even move, exhausted.

An arm stretches out moments later, dragging Stiles towards Peter, and Stiles lets himself be dragged. He ends up half splayed across Peter’s chest in a tangle of limbs while Peter runs his fingers through Stiles’s hair and hums a tune under his breath. Stiles settles in happily, cocooned in acres of warm skin and muscle. It takes a few minutes to get his thoughts straight in his head, before it hits him that he hasn’t told Peter about his revelation. It’s suddenly desperately important that he does so, so he rolls off and props himself up on one elbow so he can see Peter's face. Peter quirks a brow at him.

“So,” Stiles starts, “the mates thing?” Peter’s instantly alert, expression wary. Stiles hastens to reassure him. “I know it’s real. I feel it, Peter. It’s like an anchor, like we’re connected.” He leans forwards and brushes a kiss against Peter’s cheek. “I’m yours. I don’t think I could fight it if I wanted to.”

Peter breaks into a broad smile, perfect teeth flashing white, and Stiles just has to kiss him all over again. They break apart when they’re both breathless. Peter asks, “You’re sure you feel it?”

Stiles nods, and wonders why he isn’t freaking out more, but it’s like all his doubts have been swept away and replaced with affection for the man next to him. “I’m sure. You won me over with a picnic and your dick.”

Peter’s smile widens, and it could rival a sunrise now. “I should be disappointed. I had a plan, you know. I was going to spoil you rotten. And now you tell me I don’t get to?”

Stiles grins right back. “Oh, you can still spoil me. Do whatever your little werewolf heart desires. Just know that at the end of it, I’m a sure thing.”

Peter laughs quietly. “Should I tell you my plans, or shall I just surprise you?”

Stiles nestles back against the heat of him. “Surprise me. It’ll be fun, and I want to see what werewolf courting looks like.”

Peter pulls Stiles back down and plasters himself along the length of his spine, and Stiles hums contentedly at the contact. “I want to take you to Paris,” Peter murmurs.

“You can take me to Paris, Texas. I don’t have a passport.”

Peter sighs. “Of course you don’t.”

“We aren’t all international travelers with a mysterious alter ego, you know,” Stiles defends, and Peter lets out a snort. “Hey, where did you get your stage name, anyway?” Stiles asks. There’s been speculation about it in the media of course, but nobody’s ever gotten an answer, and Stiles has always been curious.

Peter sighs. “This never leaves this room, all right?”

“Of course not.” Stiles mimes locking his lips and throwing away the key.

Peter hauls himself up into a sitting position with a sigh, and Stiles does the same, sitting cross-legged facing him. “When we started the band, we were just broke college kids,” Peter starts.  Stiles nods. He knows this part of the story. How Wolf had started as a college band, been in the right place at the right time and caught someone’s eye, and gotten picked up as a supporting act for AC/DC.  Somewhere on their world tour they started slipping original numbers into their sets, and the fans loved it. By the time the tour finished, they were stars in their own right – fueled in large part by fans lusting after H, the mysterious, charismatic front-man with a suggestive smirk, smoking hot body, and talent to match. They’d been offered a record deal and hadn’t looked back.

“The plan was always for me to go by a stage name. Talia, my sister, is the pack alpha, and she was insistent I didn’t bring any attention to the family. We like to fly under the radar. So I chose Huxley, after the author. And yes, I’m aware it’s awful, but I was nineteen and a pretentious little tit,” he says, before Stiles can even open his mouth.

“Of course you were.” Stiles rolls his eyes. “So how did that turn into H?”

Peter quirks an eyebrow. “I’d love to say it was a deliberate stylistic choice but honestly? A friend arranged for the flyers to be printed for our first ever gig, said she’d get it done cheap.” He wrinkles his nose at the memory. “They were a disaster. Colors were awful, font was tacky, but worst of all, where it was meant to list the band member’s names, there was a godawful streak across the page, a printing flaw. Lead singer, H, followed by a blur.” He shrugs. “There wasn’t any time to get them reprinted, so we went with it. We figured it could be my hook – the mystery man who sings rock and roll and is a recluse when he’s not on tour. It worked.”

Stiles just stares for a moment. “You’re H because of a printing error?”

Peter gives him a wicked grin. “Not the story you were expecting?”

Stiles laughs. “Nope. But it’s the best thing ever.” Looking at Peter sitting there with blankets pooled around his waist, naked and delicious and right there for the taking, is making Stiles all kinds of hot and bothered, and his cock starts to thicken and fill. He waggles his eyebrows. “I think it counts as a courting gift. I should show my appreciation somehow.”

Peter's smirk turns filthy. “Hmm. Did you have anything in mind?”

Stiles does.

 


 

It’s not a penthouse suite, but Stiles lets Peter fuck him against the glass door to their balcony anyway.

Afterwards, Peter tells him that it was everything he dreamed of. And if that makes Stiles a little smug? Well, he just reduced his mate to a babbling wreck.

He feels he’s entitled.

 

 

Chapter Text

 

Peter drops Stiles home the next morning, and Stiles is glad his dad’s at work – it means he doesn’t have to put up with any knowing looks as he walks up the stairs gingerly. Peter hadn’t held back, and neither had Stiles, both caught up in a haze of lust, until Stiles finally begged off with a slurred, “Noooo, human, ‘member?” when it all got too much for him. Stiles’s whole body aches, every muscle objecting to last night’s workout, and Stiles thinks he could sleep for a week.

Totally worth it.

Stiles drags his jeans off and flops on his bed, recalling snippets of last night’s conversation, the one they’d had in fits and starts between sex and kissing and room service, the one where they’d talked about how this was going to work.

They didn’t reach any conclusions, too distracted by each other, but it’s okay. They have some time to figure it out.

Peter’s here for another six weeks, and Stiles has a month before he starts his job at Beacon Grafix as an in-house designer/artist, so they’re going to spend as much of that time as they can together. Then Peter has to leave to work on another album. That should take a month, and after that there’s a European tour. It’s relatively short, Peter had said – just eight weeks.  

Stiles has always been grateful his dad wasn’t one of those parents who flipped out when their kid wanted to get an arts degree -he’d just nodded, like it was something he’d expected.  And really, it probably was. After his mother died, Stiles was as much of a mess as you’d expect, and his father was at a loss as to how to help him, struggling to cope himself. When someone suggested art therapy, the sheriff grabbed onto it like a lifeline, and Stiles found himself shunted off to sessions twice a week. He was skeptical at first, but to his surprise and relief, it helped.

It didn’t take long for it to move from ‘therapy’ to ‘hobby’ and over time, from ‘hobby' to ‘passion.’ Not only was Stiles enthusiastic, he was talented, so a course in graphic design and illustration was a no-brainer, really. He graduated with honors, and thought seriously about taking a job elsewhere, but Beacon Hills called to him, and he missed his dad, so when a job there came up, he took it. But there’d been that niggling…something at the back of his mind, a compulsion almost, to take a break before he started work. Thus, the two months off before starting.

Past Stiles was a genius, because his decision to take some time for himself has resulted in him being free to spend time with his mate.

Mate.

Stiles rolls the word around in his mind, still getting used to the shape of it, and smiles to himself. It’s a lot, werewolves and predestined lovers and H (no, Peter) being someone who’s real and here and wants to be a part of Stiles’s life, and it’s still overwhelming, but in the good way. Stiles shuffles around in the bed, trying to get comfy. He really needs to sleep - Peter’s coming over later this afternoon and Stiles is going to meet the pack Alpha officially as Peter’s mate. He’d be freaking out, because Cora must have inherited her scariness from somewhere, except he’s met Talia before in passing, and she’s only mildly terrifying when compared to her daughter.  He just has to turn up, smile and nod, and not put his foot in his mouth. He can manage that.

Probably.

He rolls over again, Peter’s absence a physical ache, and wonders when it got so he couldn’t sleep alone. He picks up his phone, debating. Peter’s probably already asleep, or busy doing whatever rockstar werewolves do in their spare time, and Stiles doesn’t want to be needy, but he also remembers what the book told him, that the pull between them would be stronger at first. He’s just about to dial when his phone buzzes.

I miss you

He doesn’t think twice. Come over then. Can’t sleep without you.

He’s barely hit send when there’s a knock at the door. It’s embarrassing how quickly he flies down the stairs in his haste to answer, because he knows who it’ll be. He flings the door open, heedless of the fact he’s wearing just his underwear, and there’s Peter, looking almost sheepish, but his expression turns smug when Stiles grabs him by the front of his shirt and drags him inside. “Get in here, ” he demands, and when Peter wraps strong arms around him and lifts him, swinging him around like he weighs nothing, the ache of separation dissolves into nothingness and all Stiles can think is mine.

Peter carries him up the stairs while Stiles clings to him, grinning into the crook of his neck. “We’re just sleeping,” he clarifies. “No sex.”

Peter nods his agreement as he deposits Stiles on the bed, strips down to his own underwear, and octopusses around Stiles’s back. “Just sleeping. But let me know if you change your mind.”

Stiles snorts. “Trust me. I won’t.” His resolve is sorely tested when Peter starts laying whisper-soft kisses on the nape of his neck, though, so he amends it to, “Maybe when we wake up.”

Peter holds Stiles close and hums a soft tune, but his voice fades out soon enough and is replaced with the slow, steady, breathing of deep sleep, and Stiles doesn’t take long to join him.

 


 

They do fool around later.

Peter gives Stiles a fast and dirty handjob when they wake, Stiles keeping one eye on the clock because John’s due home soon, but that just adds to the appeal. It feels deliciously sinful, doing this in his childhood bed, and Stiles is briefly fifteen again, discovering the joys of jerking off and the thrill of not getting caught. He buries his face in the crook of Peter’s neck and bites back a moan as he comes, loving every second of it.

Peter rolls over onto his back, legs splayed wide, and Stiles doesn’t hesitate to duck under the covers and take that gorgeous thick cock in his mouth. The way Peter’s hips jerk and thrust is immensely satisfying, as is the low growling noise he makes when he comes barely a minute later. Stiles emerges from the blankets wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, and Peter drags him in for a kiss, heedless of the taste of himself. Stiles kisses back eagerly before settling his head on Peter’s chest, Peter’s arm snaking around him possessively.

Neither of them are inclined to move, not quite yet, so Stiles takes the time to admire the tattoos adorning Peter’s arm. Along the soft skin of the underside is a long line of what looks like planets. It’s takes Stiles a minute, but he snorts when he realizes it’s the phases of the moon. There’s a full tribal sleeve design that covers Peter’s entire pec and runs from his shoulder down to his wrist, all gorgeous curves and swirls. Stiles lets his fingers trace idly over the pattern, making Peter hum in satisfaction. “I love these, just so you know.”

Peter arches an eyebrow and uses the arm that’s not wrapped around Stiles to throw the blankets back so Stiles can see the rest of his body. “They’re all yours, sweetheart.”

Stiles lets his gaze roam freely, taking his time to appreciate the view. He hasn’t had a chance to just look, not really – their first night together he was preoccupied, and since then he’s been distracted with mates and werewolves and Peter being into him. He wiggles free of Peter’s grip and props himself up on one elbow, touching all the ink he can see.

There’s an impossibly vivid red rose nestled in grayscale leaves running across Peter’s hip, breathtaking in its simplicity, and rows of tiny writing across his ribs, which turn out to be the opening lyrics to Bohemian Rhapsody.

One thigh is covered in a portrait of a snarling wolf stalking forwards, and it looks like its about to step right off Peter’s skin. When Stiles runs his hand over that one, Peter murmurs, “A little higher?” and rolls his hips suggestively.

Stiles deliberately moves his hand up and lets his fingertips linger on the crease of Peter’s thigh for just a second, before taking his hand away and earning a whine. “Aren’t you ever satisfied?” he teases.

Peter’s gaze is heated, hungry. “Not where you’re concerned.” He pulls Stiles back down so he’s sprawled atop him, wrapping strong arms around his back. “I may never get enough of you, sweetheart.”

Stiles lets himself bask in being adored, and they trade soft kisses for a while, only pulling apart when they hear the front door opening. Stiles sits bolt upright, pulling the blankets over them instinctively. A minute later they hear his dad. “Stiles?”

“Be down in a minute!” Stiles calls, voice tinged with panic. He scrambles out of bed, wiping the mess of come off his belly with a corner of the sheet and pulling on his boxers and jeans. “Get up!” he hisses at Peter.

Peter rolls his eyes, but obediently gets out of bed and dresses. “You know, your father's a grown man. I’m sure he doesn’t think we’re up here having a bible study,” he observes.

“Doesn’t matter. Knowing and seeing are two different things, and I don’t want him coming in and seeing your naked ass,” Stiles retorts.

They head downstairs and to his credit, his dad doesn’t so much as raise an eyebrow at Peter’s presence, only asking, “You staying for dinner?”

“Nope. We’re going to see Talia,” Stiles tells him. “I’m meeting her as Peter’s mate. Officially.” He tries to make it sound like it’s no big deal.

John’s eyebrows do raise at that. “Quick courtship.”

“Nah, that’s still going on. But it’s kind of a foregone conclusion so, meet the Alpha time.” Stiles ignores the nerves trying to make themselves known. It’ll be fine, he tells himself firmly.

Peter’s suddenly there at his back, an arm around his waist. “It’ll be fine,” he says, unknowingly echoing Stiles’s thoughts. “Talia likes you already. You have the Cora stamp of approval.” He nuzzles Stiles’s neck.

Stiles sags slightly in his grip, accepts the reassurance. “Cora-approved, huh?”

“Mmm. Not to mention, my stamp of approval.”  The nuzzling turns into kissing, and Peter’s grip tightens ever so slightly.

“If you wanna stop stamping your approval on my kid while I’m standing right here, that’d be great,” his dad comments drily. Stiles elbows Peter in the ribs and pulls out of his grasp.  Peter doesn’t look even slightly sorry.

 


 

It’s almost anti-climactic, honestly.

Talia greets him warmly with a hug and welcomes him to the pack, leaving Stiles slightly lost. “So, that’s it?”

She arches one perfectly shaped brow. “What were you expecting? An interrogation?”

Stiles ducks his head. “Maybe a little one?”

Talia throws back her head and laughs. “I like you, Stiles. And Peter’s chosen you. That’s good enough for me.” There’s a devilish gleam in her eye that reminds him of Peter. “Want to see Peter’s baby photos?”

Stiles grins widely, ignoring Peter’s groans. “Hell, yes.”

 


 

Peter, it turns out, was adorable as a baby, all fat cheeks, dimpled smiles, and dark curly hair.  Stiles coos delightedly over the pictures, leaning over and pinching Peter’s cheek, earning a glare in return. “This is unfair, Talia,” Peter pouts.

Talia shrugs. “Payback for waking the household with your wailing the other night.”

“Excuse you, I’m an extremely famous musician. It’s just that no-one in this house ever wants to hear me sing.”

Talia gives Peter an affectionate shove. “We’re family. It’s our job to keep you humble.”

Stiles leans into Peter’s side where he’s seated next to him on the couch. “If it makes you feel better, I was so desperate to hear you that I ate ramen for a week to get to that concert.” Peter’s eyebrows raise and he opens his mouth as if to speak, but then he closes it, and Stiles doesn’t give it any further thought, instead following Talia outside when she announces that they’re firing up the grill tonight, since its warm. 

Dinner with the pack is easier that Stiles thought it would be. It’s a lot noisier than Stiles is used to, but nobody asks him any awkward questions about his relationship, all seeming happy to accept his presence there. Derek, who he only knows by sight, turns out not to be nearly as gruff as his appearance suggests, and when he laughs his whole face transforms.

Cora proves to be her usual asshole self when she overhears Stiles asking Peter, “So, how do you get tattoos to take on a werewolf? Doesn’t the healing thing make it difficult?”

She sidles up close and sits next to them on the grass, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Stilinski, you have no idea,” she says face grave. “Once they do the tattooing? They have to burn the skin away,” her voice drops a whisper, “with a blowtorch.”

Stiles jerks back. “Fuck!” He spins around to Peter, wide-eyed. “Is that true?”

 “Yes, Stiles. I let them set me on fire in the name of artistic expression.” Peter rolls his eyes, but it’s fond. “No, idiot boy. They add a specific strain of wolfsbane to the ink. It delays the healing just enough to allow color saturation.”

“Oh. That makes sense, I guess.” Stiles ducks his head, embarrassed that he fell for it.

Cora starts cackling gleefully. “Oh my god, I can’t believe you bought that. Werewolves use blowtorches for tattoos. You’re such a sucker!”

Peter doesn’t even look as he leans over and shoves Cora sideways, hard enough that she ends up sprawled in the grass. “Troll.” Then, so fast that Stiles can barely follow his movements, he grabs Cora around the waist and flips them so she’s face first in the dirt and he’s perched across the back of her thighs, one of her arms twisted up her back. He leans down and lets out a low growl. “Behave, niece.”

Stiles tenses up, wondering if this is going to turn into a shit-fight involving claws and if he should move away for his safety, but that’s not what happens at all. Cora just laughs harder, squirming under Peter’s weight, and she does something that ends up with her bucking Peter off into the grass and then it’s her on top. From there it devolves into playful brawling, and sure, they snarl and snap, but there’s no threat to it.

The rest of the family hoot and cheer and shout out advice, and Stiles wonders if all big families are like this, or just werewolves. Either way, it’s entertaining to watch as Peter and Cora scramble for advantage, and the flex of Peter’s muscles under his shirt is something he’ll never get enough of. The whole thing ends when Peter triumphantly hauls Cora over his shoulder and dumps her in the adjacent pond, to whistles and applause from the rest of the pack, while Talia calls out “Cora six, Peter three!”

Stiles doesn’t even get a chance to ask before Derek comes over and murmurs, “It’s how often they’ve kicked each other’s ass. Mom keeps score.” At Stiles unspoken question, he adds, “Cora fights dirty.”

Stiles would believe it.

Peter walks over, heedless of the grass stains on his shirt and the smear of dirt up his cheek, and pulls Stiles in for a kiss, hot and hungry. When they part Stiles says, “Defending my honor, huh?”

“Someone has to keep the pup in line,” Peter smirks. Stiles thinks about mentioning the fact that Cora apparently kicks Peter’s ass on the regular, but decides instead that Peter leaping to defend him was, in fact, pretty hot, and he lets Peter have his moment of victory.

He dabs at the dirt on Peter’s face. “You’re filthy.”

Peter’s grin widens and he purrs, “You know it, sweetheart,” before pulling up the hem of his shirt to wipe his face, treating Stiles to the sight of tanned abs and a tempting happy trail. Stiles swallows hard and tries not to think about how good those abs look, how tempting, mindful of the fact that apparently the Hales can smell how turned on he is right now.

Judging from the barely suppressed grins on Talia, Laura, and Derek’s face, and from the way Cora’s snickering even with her head under a towel, they can tell just fine. Stiles almost wants to walk away, not used to feeling like his every thought is exposed, but he hesitates. For better or for worse, Peter’s a werewolf. This is just one of those things Stiles is going to have to adapt to. And the looks he and Peter are getting aren’t mean- if anything, they’re fond. Plus, Peter really does look kinda lickable right now.

Screw it, he decides. Screw werewolves and their noses. So, he’s attracted to his mate. So what? He squares his shoulders, steps in closer, and places a hand on the rose on Peter’s hip. “I could clean you up, if you like?”

Peter grins wickedly, lets out a low growl, and the next thing Stiles knows, he finds himself hoisted over Peter’s shoulder, hanging there helplessly as Peter strides towards the house, ignoring the catcalling and applause from the rest of the pack. Stiles didn’t know he had a thing for manhandling, but wow, he really does, because his dick just went from vaguely interested to rock-hard in about four seconds.

They reach the house and Peter sets him down, but only long enough to open the door, and then he’s picked up again, a bridal carry this time. Peter carries him upstairs to his room, taking the stairs two at a time, and it’s only when they reach his ensuite that he deposits Stiles on the ground, stripping hastily out of his clothes. Stiles is still standing there when Peter arches a brow at him. “I thought you were going to clean me up?” he says, lips curling into that stomach-swooping smirk that Stiles has always loved.

Stiles nods rapidly and peels his own clothes off, getting naked just in time for Peter to pick him up and deposit him on the bathroom counter, crowding between his legs and kissing him as one thick finger traces down the line of Stiles’s spine, making him shiver.

 “I want to claim you,” Peter says, voice a low rumble, “in my bed, in my pack house. I want my room to smell of you, want to be reminded of you every time I go to sleep. Can I?” There’s something urgent in the way he’s asking, and how is Stiles meant to resist when he’s got his arms full of a gorgeous, naked man and his dick is throbbing so desperately? But still, Stiles hesitates, thinks fleetingly of werewolf senses, of the rest of the pack coming back to the house. Peter must guess the cause of his hesitation, because he whispers one word against the curve of Stiles’s neck. “Soundproofing.” He punctuates it with a roll of his hips, his erection brushing against Stiles’s own, and Stiles is convinced.

“Do it,” he breathes out. “Fuck me in your bed and make it ours.”

 


 

It’s nearly midnight before Stiles leaves.

Partly it’s because he doesn’t really want to walk downstairs into a room full of knowing looks from smug wolves, but mainly? It’s because he and Peter can’t seem to drag themselves away from each other. Peter’s possessive and demanding, and Stiles is helpless to do anything but give what he wants, what they both want.

It’s not just the sex, though. They take the chance to talk, laying tangled in each other. “Tomorrow, I’m taking you on a proper date,” Peter promises, fingers stroking across Stiles’s belly and around the curve of his hip.

“Mmm. The promised wooing. Are you going to spoil me?” Stiles teases.

Peter chuckles lowly. “Wait and see.”  The hand on Stiles’s hip travels lower, dips between his legs, and Stiles would love to, but he just can’t.

He bats at the clever fingers teasing his soft cock. “Nuh uh. I’m done.”

“You have such a pretty cock, sweetheart. I’m just showing it the attention it deserves,” Peter murmurs, but he stills his hand, cupping the tender flesh gently instead.

“You really can’t help yourself, can you? Is this a werewolf thing or a mate thing?” Stiles asks. Not that he minds either way - it’s kind of awesome being doted on.

Peter takes a minute to answer. “I think,” he says slowly, ”it’s a Stiles thing.”

Stiles lets himself roll around in the happy that statement brings him, before reluctantly moving Peter’s hand. “If I stay, you need to let me sleep. But if you can’t keep your hands to yourself, I’m going home.”

There’s a moment’s hesitation, and even though it’s dark, Stiles can hear Peter pouting.  “Fine. Go home. But tomorrow, I plan to take you out to dinner and spoil you.”

Stiles stretches and yawns, leans in for a quick kiss, then rolls out of bed before Peter can change his mind. “See you tomorrow – after lunch,” he stresses.

Peter lets out a dramatic sigh. “Fine. Tomorrow it is.”


 

Peter turns up at 12.01 pm.

His gifts start arriving long before he does.

Stiles hears someone at the door just after nine, and he opens the door to a delivery of flowers.

The delivery guy hands him a huge arrangement of red roses mixed with baby’s breath, and Stiles can’t help but grin. He sets them on the table and texts Peter.

Roses? Cheesy, but romantic. I approve.

I find you can’t beat the classics

Stiles sends back a kissy face emoji, and puts the flowers in water.

Half an hour later, just as he’s eating breakfast, there’s another delivery.

He laughs out loud when he opens the box to find it full of merch for Peter’s band, some of it signed. There are t shirts, CDs, posters, badges, the whole enchilada.  He’s still fossicking in the box when his phone pings. 

So I heard you like this band.

I do! He remembers protocol and quickly adds, Thank you, this is a great gift.

I’m glad you like it

 His next gift isn’t a gift, not exactly. He gets an unexpected email from the concert promoters informing him that a full refund for his ticket has been credited to his account. He stares at it for a moment, frowning and wondering if it’s a scam. But when he checks his balance, the money’s in there. He remembers the look Peter gave him when he talked about buying his ticket, and it suddenly makes sense. Stiles won’t deny that the cash will come in handy.

He texts I appreciate the refund, but I more than got my money’s worth from that show

He thinks for a moment and adds I bagged the hot singer

It takes Peter a moment to reply but Stiles grins when he reads No, I bagged you. And I’m keeping you.

The next delivery comes while he’s just getting out of the shower, and he’s forced to quickly drape a towel round himself when the persistent banging at the front door doesn’t stop. He opens it, still dripping, and is handed a large package. “Sorry, we were under instructions not to leave till you get this, and you need to sign,” the driver apologizes.

Stiles scrawls his name on the page and closes the door, then sets about opening the box. What’s inside takes his breath away, because the money and the merch and the flowers were nice, if somewhat generic, but this? This is personal – something that shows Peter’s been listening when he talks, that Peter takes his interests seriously.

It’s a graphics tablet.

But not just any tablet, no. It’s a Wacom Cintiq 22, the Rolls Royce of tablets. Stiles knows they clock in at around twelve hundred bucks, way out of his league, yet here he is, holding one in his hands, courtesy of Peter.

He’d mentioned in passing that he’d love to get his hands on a new tablet, that once he started work he’d treat himself, and Peter took that and ran with it. Stiles puts the box down reverently and just stares for a minute, taking it in.

This time the text he sends is simple.

Thank you. It’s perfect.

He beams at Peter’s reply.

As are you, sweetheart. Enjoy.

 


 

Stiles glances at the clock – nearly twelve. He guesses Peter will be here soon, so he regretfully sets his gift aside and ignores the impulse to open the box and play with the contents, getting dressed instead. Sure enough, at a minute past twelve, Peter’s at the door.

“Hello, sweetheart,” Peter breathes out.

Stiles lets himself be crowded against the wall, making sure to tilt his head to the side so Peter can scent him.  “Hi. I love the gifts.”

Peter lifts his head and his blue eyes sparkle. “I hope the tablet’s what you need. Have you used it yet?”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “No, because I only got it ten minutes ago. I haven’t had a chance.”

Peter pulls away, glancing over at the box. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

Stiles shrugs. “It’ll take some time to set up. Besides, you’re here now. It’d be rude.”

“I don’t mind. It’s not like we have plans.”

Stiles’s fingers twitch at the thought, and he’s sorely tempted, but. “I can’t expect you to just sit there while I do my thing.”

Peter plops down on the couch and picks up the remote. “Sweetheart, it’s fine. I’m happy just being near you.” He nods at the box. “Have fun.” He turns on the TV and starts scrolling through Netflix, apparently genuinely okay with just sitting there.

Stiles doesn’t need to be asked twice.

It doesn’t take long for him to get lost exploring his new tech, working out all the features and finding out what it can do. He looks up once or twice to find Peter looking back at him, a satisfied smile on his face. On impulse, Stiles starts sketching. The tablet’s an absolute dream to use, and he’s quick to turn his ideas into reality. When he’s done, he sits next to Peter on the couch and shows him the cartoon. It’s Peter, shirtless and forlorn, holding a microphone, his speech bubble lamenting, “Nobody ever wants to hear me sing,” while in the background a cartoon Cora is doubled over, scowling, with her hands clapped over her ears.

Peter takes one look at it and promptly bursts out laughing.

Stiles beams, pleased with the reaction, specially when Peter cups his face and kisses him soundly. “You’re very talented,” he says between kisses.

Is it just because the praise comes from his mate that it makes him blush so? Stiles isn’t sure, but he can feel his cheeks getting pink regardless. “Thanks.”

Peter hands the tablet back. “Go on, do another one. Do Derek.”

Stiles thinks about it for a split second before getting to work, Peter waiting patiently. It takes him a while, but he finally presents Peter with the finished product, a sketch of Derek with oversized eyebrows and his trademark frown, captioned Smile, Sourwolf.

Peter cackles delightedly. “I’m hope you know I’m using this as his birthday card.”

Stiles catches sight of the time, and is stunned to realizes it’s past four pm. Peter’s been sitting here watching him draw and dick about for hours, and he hasn’t complained once. He sets the tablet aside and nudges Peter gently with his elbow. “You know, you not minding waiting around while I do this? It’s the best gift.”

Peter‘s eyebrows raise. “Why wouldn’t I wait? Watching you work is fascinating. Besides, getting to be around you makes me very, very happy.”

Stiles melts, there’s no other word for it. “You’re making me glad I said yes,” he sighs happily, and when Peter pulls him close for deeper, more lingering kisses, he responds eagerly.

Stiles is absolutely in no way, shape or form, ready for any kind of sex any time soon, he tells Peter firmly. It doesn’t stop them making out like teenagers for at least an hour, but Peter accepts it when Stiles pulls back. It’s almost cute, the way he tries to hide his disappointment, but Stiles sticks to his guns. As great as all the sex is, he doesn’t want it to only be about that. He stretches and yawns, spine cracking, and pulls Peter up off the couch. “Come on, wolf. You said we were going out.”

Peter checks his watch. “I did. Come on, we’ve got quite a drive.”

Stiles looks down at his skinny jeans and button down.He thinks he looks okay, but it doesn't hurt to check. “Do I need to dress up?”

Peter looks him up and down, gaze lingering. “If you ask me, you’re always wearing too many clothes. But for where we’re going? Perfect.”

 


 

They drive for an hour, but it doesn’t feel like it to Stiles. They talk the whole time, Peter telling him stories of life on the road, and how there’s only one of the band that knows he’s a werewolf and his actual identity. The rest of them are happy to oblige when he doesn’t want to see them outside of work, and laughingly accept what they apparently call his Secret Squirrel Bullshit. “They’re not even slightly curious about your life?” Stiles asks.

Peter shrugs. “I’m the talent. As long as I turn up, we make bank. They don’t care if they never see me otherwise, and I need to spend the downtime with pack.”

Stiles’s brow furrows. “How much of a dick are you to these guys, exactly, that they don’t want to see you at all?” Because he’s not sure if this sounds like someone he wants to be with, if he’s honest.

“It’s not like that. It just that when we’re on the road, we live in each other’s pockets. All of us are glad of some space after a tour. And we all live in different cities, so it’s not like we can just get together for a drink.” The corners of Peter’s eyes crinkle attractively when he grins. “The official line is that I live on a farm in Idaho between gigs.”

“I don’t get how you’ve kept your identity secret, though. Don’t people go digging?”

“Not as much as you’d think. I’m not that interesting when I’m not on stage. There aren’t ever any scandals, and I don’t put myself out there. They know I like to sleep around - used to, anyway,” Peter corrects quickly, “but that’s almost expected behavior, in my profession.”

Stiles nods. He understands that people don’t really want to find out that H is anything other than his stage persona – it would kill the vibe to know he’s someone's uncle named Peter from Beacon Hills, he guesses.

They end up in Springfield, two towns over, and pull into the parking lot of a restaurant. Peter leads them inside and the waitress takes them to their table. It’s small but nice, with the décor giving off definite alternative vibes. “I know it seems hipster, but the food is to die for,” Peter tells Stiles in an undertone.

Sure enough, the menu is ever so slightly pretentious, a mix of bastardized French and culinary buzzwords. “Peter,” Stiles asks out of the corner of his mouth, “Are pommes curlinear what I think they are?”

Peter gives a tiny nod, lips pressed together to hide his grin. Stiles snickers quietly and goes back to the menu. He selects a steak, ( “a cowherd’s bounty” according to the menu) and a side of curly fries and salad.

Peter chooses the same, minus the fries, and they order a couple of beers to go with it.

As promised, the food is delicious, and best of all nobody seems to give them a second look. Stiles will admit, he still half expected Peter to get recognized, but apparently it’s not a concern. He guesses it has to do with the setting as well - nobody expects to see H in a hipster-esque restaurant in Springfield. But it reassures him that he’s not going to get thrown headfirst into a world of paparazzi and TMZ, which if he’s honest, is something he’s been concerned about, despite Peter’s reassurances.

“You’ve gone quiet. Everything okay?” Peter asks, sneaking a fry off Stiles’s plate.

“Just – it’s still surreal being here with you, okay? Sometimes I have to stop and remind myself that I’m not dreaming.” Stiles slaps Peter’s hand absently as he tries to steal more fries. “And I keep waiting for someone to spot us. Is that why we’re here and not in Beacon Hills? Are you…do you not want to be seen with me?”

Stiles knows that’s not it, not really, but still. The choice of venue is odd, to say the least.

Peter arches a brow. “Sweetheart, we’re not here for my privacy. We’re here for yours. If we go on a date in Beacon Hills, what are the odds of someone you haven’t seen since you left for college spotting you and wanting to catch up?”

Stiles considers it. “Pretty high, actually.”

“Exactly. And right now, I want you all to myself.” It should come off as creepy, but it doesn’t  - it just sounds affectionate. “Plus, the dessert here alone is worth the drive. Shall we order one?” Peter asks.

“Sure. You pick – surprise me.” Stiles knows letting Peter choose will make his inner wolf happy, and he’s not wrong. When Peter calls the waitress over and makes his selections, it’s with an air of contentment.

When the desserts arrive, Stiles takes one bite of the salted-caramel filled pecan pie with dark chocolate chunks and lets out a groan. It’s amazing. The filling is silky smooth, the chunks of chocolate and pecan adding the perfect amount of texture. Peter looks distinctly smug as he leans across and runs a thumb over Stiles’s bottom lip, catching a drip of caramel. “You like it, sweetheart?”  Stiles flicks his tongue out across Peter’s fingertips, then sucks them into his mouth, and he can see Peter’s eyes darken with lust.

He lets the fingers go with a wet pop and smirks, watching Peter’s adams apple bob when he swallows.  “Tease,” Peter accuses under his breath.

“Not teasing if I deliver. I thought we’d park up on the way home and I’d blow you,” Stiles says with a bright smile, and takes another bite.

Peter raises a hand and gets the waitress’s attention. “Excuse me? We’ll take these to go.”

 


 

Stiles spends almost every day over the next two weeks either with Peter, texting Peter, getting increasingly lavish gifts from Peter, having hot sex with Peter, or missing Peter.

It’s like being caught in a whirlwind, and Stiles just hangs on and enjoys the ride. He’s aware that soon enough they’ll be apart, but for now being with Peter is a strange, thrilling experience that tips over into the bizarre in unexpected ways.

Case in point – Peter’s turned up this morning carrying a stack of brochures. He hands them to Stiles. “Pick one.”

Stiles opens the first one and promptly sits down in shock. “You can’t buy me a car, Peter.”

“Why not?”

“It’s too much. I’d feel like your sugar baby.”

Peter sits down next to him and takes his hand, eyes wide. “Are you saying you’d deny my wolf the chance to provide and make sure you’re safe on the roads? Would you really do that to me Stiles? Make me worry about you when I’m not here?”

Stiles takes in the sincere expression, the slight trembling of Peter’s bottom lip. “Are you seriously trying to guilt me into accepting a new car?”

Peter’s lip quirks up. “Is it working?”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “If I let you buy me a car, will you stop with the gifts?” And wow, that’s not something Stiles ever thought he’d be saying to someone.

Peter hesitates. “One more after this? And then I’ll be done, I swear.”

Stiles looks at the brochures and sighs. He knows there are particular milestones Peter’s wolf needs to meet, Peter’s explained it to him, and the gifts have been getting more substantial as the weeks have passed. Really, he doesn’t know why he didn’t see the car coming. “Fine, but whatever you get me, it had better be black.”

Peter’s face breaks into a delighted grin. “Excellent.”

 


 

Stiles ends up with a sleek black Audi R8, and he loves it. The ten minute drive from the dealership takes forty as he puts the car through its paces, but Peter just smiles indulgently as they take yet another wrong turn, and Stiles is having fun, so he doesn't rush. He does speed, though. Finally, they make it back to his place and he turns the engine off, grinning wildly. “You know, Cora will be pissed I got a car and she didn’t. You heard her last night at dinner – she says you owe her.” Cora’s still dropping less than subtle hints every chance she gets that Peter’s happiness is entirely due to her.

“Oh, I’ve bought hers,” Peter says, surprising Stiles, ”But she’ll have to wait till it’s ready. I’m getting her something…special.” There’s a mischievous look in his eyes.

“What are you planning?” Stiles demands.

Peter tells him what he’s arranged, and Stiles bursts out laughing. He can’t wait to see Cora’s reaction.

She’ll hate it.

 


 

Three days later, Peter flies them to LA for two nights. He has an appointment with his lawyer, and he wants Stiles at the meeting, tells him he wants to go over some finances. Stiles assumes Peter just wants him in the know about what, exactly, being H has earned him, and he appreciates the gesture, but he doesn’t know why he needs to be there. But hey, two nights at a nice hotel? He’s down for that.

It’s fascinating, watching Peter prepare for the meeting. He shaves off his beard, slicks back his hair, dons his shades and leather pants, and…becomes H. He slips into it as easily as a second skin, his whole manner becoming loose and seductive. It takes everything in Stiles not to pin him down and peel him out of the whole ensemble right then and there, except they’re already running late, and Stiles knows that since they’re staying the night, he’ll get to do it later.

The lawyer doesn’t question his presence, making Stiles suspect Peter has already briefed him.  There are the usual pleasantries, and for some reason the lawyer’s confirming Peter’s net worth (which is a lot), before the man pulls out a folder and says, “So, we’re updating this?”

Peter nods, and proceeds to casually instruct his lawyer that Stiles is to be added to his will as sole beneficiary. Stiles can’t speak for a moment, too busy having a meltdown. His heart’s pounding out of his chest, head reeling, because what the fuck? Peter turns to him, eyebrows raised. “Does that work for you, sweetheart?”

Stiles has to take a second and try to remember how to breathe, before managing to sputter out, “What the actual fuck, Peter? You can’t just drop this on me!”

Peter comes over and crouches next to his chair, placing a calming hand on the back of his neck while Stiles tries to get a grip.  “This can’t be news, sweetheart. Use that big brain of yours - who else would I leave it to except you?”

Stiles lifts his head enough to see that Peter’s wearing his soft look, the one that he saves just for Stiles, and it helps some, lets him know that Peter’s intentions are good, but still. “I mean I get it, but warn a guy before you arrange something like this? It’s not something you just throw at someone!”

Peter’s instantly contrite. “I didn’t mean to shock you. I thought it would be a surprise, a gift.

The way he emphasizes the word slightly clues Stiles into the fact that oh, this is a wolf thing. He thinks about what he knows about wolves and their mates. “Provision?” he asks, hazarding a guess. Peter’s whole face lights up like a Christmas tree, and Stiles knows he nailed it.

“Exactly. Will you accept it?” Peter asks quietly, the slightest tremor in his voice, and Stiles knows immediately that this is the final gift. If he accepts, their courting will be complete, and Peter will be his. He doesn’t care about the money, but he wants his wolf.

He turns to the lawyer. “What do I need to do?”

The man lets out a soft chuckle. “Nothing. I just need your full details so I can complete the paperwork, then Peter  signs it.”

Stiles takes in Peter’s hopeful expression.  “Let’s do it,” he says, and he’s not talking about the paperwork.

Honestly, the most difficult part of the whole thing is getting them to spell his name right.

 


 

The trip to the bank is slightly less dramatic, but Stiles still insists on going back to their hotel and soaking in the hot tub alone while he contemplates the fact that he and Peter now have a joint bank account, and he has access to more money than he could dream of.

Peter had insisted, and Stiles has no intention of using the account, but he appreciates the level of trust it shows. Also, he’s not gonna lie, he gets a thrill pulling up the banking app and looking at all those zeroes. He soaks in the tub and lets himself get used to this being part of his life now. He knows Peter’s waiting for him to get out the bath, and he fully intends to go peel him out of his leather pants and get himself some of that, but first Stiles just needs a little chunk of time to himself, so he can adjust to the events of the day.

 

And then he’s gonna get out of the tub and go have wild monkey sex with his rock star.

 



 

 

You know I gotta give you pics of the ink, right?

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Text

 

“Shall I drop you off? Come and meet you for lunch?” Peter asks, expression hopeful.

“Nope. I can drive myself. And I don’t know when lunch will be. But I’ll call you straight after work, okay?” Stiles runs his hand through his hair one last time and calls it good. “I’m sure you can entertain yourself without me. Go write a love song or something.”

Peter sighs and sits on the edge of his bed. “I don’t write, you know that. Chris writes. I just make it sound good.”

He’s talking about Chris Argent of course, the one member of the band that knows Peter’s secrets. The man who comes from a long line of werewolf hunters, and who turned his back on tradition and became a bass player and songwriter instead, much to his father’s disgust.

Stiles sighs. "Practice your scales then. No offense, but this isn’t daycare. I don’t need you to hold my hand on my first day.”

“Yes, fine, off you go then. But I reserve the right to text and tell you I miss you,” Peter pouts.

Stiles softens when he sees Peter’s crestfallen face. “I’ll miss you too, you know that. But we can’t live attached at the hip. I’ll tell you what, I’ll come here straight from work, okay?” Stiles says it like it’s a concession, like he hasn’t practically moved into the Hale place anyway, and it does the trick. Peter’s frown is chased away by a smile.

“I’d like that.”

Peter stands and slots himself between Stiles and the mirror, arms wrapping round his neck, and Stiles closes his eyes and leans into the inevitable kiss. He’d like to stay here all day, but time and Beacon Grafix waits for no man, so after a minute he reluctantly pulls away, doing his best to ignore the want curling in his belly. “I’ll be late.”

Peter lets him go. “I suppose we do need to practice being apart.”

“Exactly. Now let me go and earn a living.” Stiles places a kiss on Peter’s forehead and then slips out the bedroom door before he can change his mind.

 


 

As jobs go, it’s okay.  Stiles spends most of his first day familiarizing himself with the software and procedures and feeling a little bit like a fraud, getting paid to drink coffee and stand around watching and being basically useless. He also fields multiple texts from Peter with kissy face emojis and sad faces, and he doesn’t even make fun of him because truth be told, he’s missing Peter as well.

But the day goes reasonably fast, and Stiles heads over to Peter’s straight afterwards as promised, and he can’t deny there’s something eminently satisfying about the way Peter practically pounces on him, accosting him on the front porch before he even makes it in the door. Stiles lets himself be scented and kissed thoroughly before making his way inside, kicking off his shoes and flopping on the couch. Peter sits down next to him, close enough that their thighs are pressed together, and says, “So? Tell me.”

Stiles shrugs. “It’s fine. The boss seems like a good guy, and the others are nice.”

Peter hums, and Stiles knows what’s coming next – they’ve had this talk. “I know I’ve said this before, but you don’t have to work. I’m happy to support us.”

Stiles sighs. “And I’ve said this before. I’m not going to sit home on my ass while you flit around the world.”

“You could flit with me?” Peter gives Stiles a pleading look.

It’s kind of adorable how committed Peter is to the idea, but Stiles knows that what he’s suggesting just isn’t practical. “Maybe one day. But right now?” Stiles ticks the reasons off on his fingers. “One, no passport, so no going anywhere. Two, I want the chance to support myself like an adult, not just feel like your arm candy. And three, I like what I do, Peter. I worked hard for my degree, and it’s not fair of you to expect me to give it up before I’ve even started.”

Peter’s shoulders slump. “I hate that you’re right. At least promise me that you’ll apply for a passport, for future flitting?”

Stiles grins. “Already done. Posted the paperwork last week.” Peter makes an approving sound and lifts an arm so Stiles can nestle in close. “I’m not against traveling with you in the future, you know that. But this tour, we might just have to suck it up.”

“You’re no fun,” Peter grumbles, but Stiles knows that he’s right about this. And really, eight weeks is totally doable. They’ve got the month while Peter’s away recording to get used to being separated, although there are plans for weekend getaways already in place, and Stiles is looking forwards to those.

“No fun, huh?”  He crawls into Peter’s lap so he’s straddling him, and grinds down subtly. “Well then, if I’m no fun, I guess you’re not interested in taking me upstairs and having your way with me before dinner?”

It’s still a turn-on when Peter uses his strength, standing with both hands under Stiles’s thighs, lifting him effortlessly. ”Oh, I never said that,” he growls out, and Stiles grins into the crook of Peter’s neck and lets himself be carried upstairs.

 


 

The days fly by and suddenly it's time for Peter to leave, and as Stiles watches Peter packing his bags for his departure the next day there’s a heaviness dragging low in his gut. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out it’s the bond. “I’ll see you in four days, alright sweetheart?” Peter says as he cups Stiles’s face in his hands. “And I’ll miss you like air, but it’s only temporary.”

Stiles wonders who Peter’s trying to convince.

“Yeah. Friday night flight, all booked and ready to go,” Stiles gives Peter what he hopes is a reassuring smile. This day was always going to come. No point making it worse than it has to be. “And I hope you kept Saturday free, because you’ll need it to rest. Friday, I plan to keep you up all night.”

It seems that Peter’s also doing his best to lighten the mood. “So, just like our first time?” he quips.

“Not quite. This time I’ll be there when you wake up.” 

Peter laughs, and some of the tightness in Stiles’s chest eases. Peter’s phone chimes just then, and when he checks the message a gleam appears in his eye. “Cora’s car is on its way – should be here in a few minutes. Coming to watch me give it to her?”

Stiles grins. “Please. As if I’d miss this.”

They leave their room and Peter’s half-completed packing to go downstairs, Peter calling for Cora as he heads out the front.  He gets back an irritated, “What? I’m busy!” from the direction of her room.

“Well if you don’t want your gift, I’m sure Derek’s around somewhere…” Peter calls back, leaving the implication hanging.

There’s the dull thud of footsteps as Cora races downstairs. “You never said there was a gift. Gimme!” she demands, hands outstretched.

Peter makes a tutting noise. “Not even a please?”

Cora rolls her eyes. “Uncle Peter, may I have my present? Pretty please with sugar on top?”  

Peter smirks. “Look out front. It’ll be here in a minute.”

Cora lets out a high pitched squeal and rushes out the door, and sure enough, it’s not long before a sleek silver Audi that’s the twin of Stiles’s black one rolls up the driveway.  Cora lets out a ‘yesss!’ and fist pumps before skittering down the porch steps and running her hands over the hood of the still idling car.

“Not that one,” Peter calls, and his smirk widens. “That one’s mine – I was due an update.”

Cora turns on her heel, eyes narrowed and clearly suspicious, and Stiles grins - she’s right to be. “What did you do?”

“Oh, I got you the same model,” Peter assures her. “I just had it…customized.”

Stiles would almost feel sorry for Cora right now, except he knows that she and Peter have had this prank war running for years now. She’s definitely earned what’s coming to her. There’s the crunch of tires on gravel, and Cora’s head whips around. Stiles watches her eyes widen and her mouth drop open as the car comes into view.

It’s pink.  No - it’s hot pink. Barbie pink. It has a pearlized finish, making the entire car sparkle in the sunlight, like raindrops on a spiderweb. The front headlights have had those atrocious false eyelashes fitted, and there are rhinestones all around the outside of the number plate. The customised plates, the ones that say COCOBEAR

“What the fuck?” Cora hisses out.

“Like it?” Peter asks, intentionally oblivious. “I had the interior done as well.”

Cora stalks over and pulls open the passenger side door, and Stiles can’t help but feel sorry for the poor soul who’s in the car on the receiving end of Cora’s death stare right now. He edges closer and sees that the seats are covered in barbie pink faux fur, and the steering wheel cover is pink leather. More rhinestones line the dash and cover the stereo. The knob on the gear shift is a giant fake diamond. The whole thing is tacky as hell, and Stiles loves Peter for every last inch of it.

Cora stands, and levels Peter with a terrifying glare. “You –“

“Bought you a car, yes, just like you asked. You’re welcome, niece,” Peter says, grinning. “Why don’t you take it for a spin?” He nods at the driver, who seems only too happy to get out and hand over the keys.

And this, Stiles knows, is the best part of all this. Cora might hate how the car looks, but she’ll love how it handles. It’s a hell of a nice car, and she can’t deny it. It’ll drive her nuts.

“Go on, Cocobear,” comes Talia’s voice, and Stiles turns to see her watching from the doorway. Talia’s obviously doing her best not to laugh, as is Derek, who’s watching over her shoulder.  Cora looks like she’s about to refuse, but there’s a hint of what Stiles can now identify as Alpha authority when Talia says, “Don’t be ungrateful. Take it out for a ride.”  

Cora’s shoulders slump. She snatches the keys, hops in, and spends a minute adjusting the seat and mirrors before roaring off at speed. They watch the car disappear towards the main road, and then Talia says, “Cocobear, Peter? Really?” before letting out a snort of laughter.

“It was her nickname when she was little, right until she turned seven and declared she was too old for it,” Peter explains to Stiles, still grinning madly. “She hates it.”

“You’re evil. My mate is an evil genius,” Stiles declares. He leans in close and whispers, “It’s kinda hot.”  

“She had it coming after what she did last week,” Peter says, unrepentant. The fact that he’d already had this planned before Cora pulled the stunt where she replaced their lube with one that smelled like bacon is apparently irrelevant.

They don’t have to wait long before Cora comes roaring back up the driveway and gets out of the car, slamming the door. “Thanks, I hate it. It drives really fucking nicely!” she snarls, before stalking inside and slamming that door as well, leaving the rest of them outside. It’s Derek who breaks into fits of laughter first, but it doesn’t take long for the rest of them to join in, and Peter spreads his arms wide and basks in the congratulations of his packmates at finally having gotten the better of his niece.

Stiles wonders if this is how all families with more than two people tease each other, or if it’s a werewolf thing. Normally he’d ask Cora, but he has a feeling that now’s not the time.

 


 

Peter kisses Stiles soft and deep before he leaves for the month, and then he’s gone. The Peter who leaves isn’t Peter, though. He’s cleanshaven, wrapped in tight jeans and a leather jacket, and he’s back to being H. He looks hotter than sin when he’s like this, and Stiles gets something of a thrill from knowing that although the persona’s public property, Peter belongs to him.

Peter doesn’t know what his schedule will be, and he can’t say when he’ll call or if he’ll be able to answer if Stiles calls him. Recording’s a messy business, apparently. The only thing that’s set in stone is their weekends together – Peter made sure of it. He tells Stiles the rest of the guys were happy for him when he told them there was a special someone who’d be coming to see him, but they hadn’t pressed for details and Peter hadn’t offered. Stiles wonders how long they’ll be able to keep this quiet, and part of him wonders why they’re trying. It must get out someday, right? Why not just go with it?

But Peter’s concerned for their privacy, and Stiles guesses being a man of mystery is a hard habit to break, so he doesn’t press the point. It’ll come out when it comes out.

Peter takes a cab to the airport, and Stiles is glad – he’s not sure he could have coped with watching him walk through the departure gate. He showers and gets ready for work. His dad doesn’t try and cheer him up, just shoves coffee and toast at him, and they eat in silence. It’s the first time Stiles has been home for breakfast in a week, and he finds himself missing the noise and hustle of the pack in the morning. Mainly though, he just misses Peter. Four days, he reminds himself.

The week drags.  Stiles is certain its at least six months long. Peter texts, but it’s  not the same when he sends miss you and Stiles can’t reply with come on over.

They manage a phone conversation late on Thursday night. Peter sounds tired, and he tells Stiles that they stayed up most of last night and worked through the day to get the track they’re working on just right, and now he’s ready to crash. “I wanted to talk to you first, though,” he says. “I miss you so much.”

“I miss you too,” Stiles whispers into the dark. “But I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Can’t wait, sweetheart.”

Stiles hears a yawn. “Go to bed. You’re no good to me tired.”

“I will,” Peter hums, but neither of them make a move to hang up. Instead they chat about stupid stuff. Stiles tells Peter how he’s seen Cora driving round, face like she’s sucked a lemon, and Peter confesses that the car’s getting a respray in three months to a respectable white, but Stiles isn’t allowed to tell her. “Let her suffer,” Peter says with a chuckle.

They talk a little longer, but when they’re both yawning Stiles calls it. “I gotta go. I’m seeing my stupidly hot boyfriend tomorrow and I need to look my best.”

“Well you’d better get some rest. He probably has plans.” Stiles can hear the smile in his voice.

“He’d better have. I’m not flying all that way to hold hands.”  Peter laughs softly, and the sound just makes Stiles miss him more. They say their goodnights and hang up, and despite how tired he is, it takes Stiles a long time to get to sleep.


 

When Stiles steps out of the arrivals gate, the last person he expects to find waiting for him is Chris Argent.

If Peter’s the rock god of Wolf, Chris is the Jesus. He’s the one who talks to the crowd. He’s the relatable one, the approachable one. It’s Chris whose voice booms across the arenas, asking, “Y’all havin’ a good time tonight?”  It’s him who introduces the songs while Peter towels sweat off his torso and gulps down a drink between sets. He’s the Brian to Peter's Freddie, the one who rolls his eyes and laughs good-naturedly at Peter's over the top theatrics. And he's the one who writes the hits that Peter brings to life.

Stiles recognizes him immediately despite the baseball cap and shades, and walks towards him hesitantly, wondering why he's here when Stiles told Peter he'd be fine catching a cab. Has there been a problem? Is Stiles getting sent home? But Chris is giving him a lazy smile and waving him over, so Stiles figures it can’t be anything bad. That’s confirmed when Chris wraps an arm around one shoulder and guides him towards the exit, drawling, “Peter would have come himself but, y’know.” Stiles does know - secret squirrel. “He said you’d catch a cab, but I figured I’d come meet the kid that has him all in a spin. Mates, huh?”

“Uh – um, hi, yes, hi. I’m Stiles,” he stammers out, starstruck.  Don’t get him wrong, Peter’s his one and only, but Chris is a gorgeous human being and Stiles has idolized him for years, and he’d be lying if he said Chris hadn’t featured in his dreams more than once. Stiles finds himself sneaking glances at that pretty face as they move swiftly through the airport.

“You got any bags?” Chris asks him.

Stiles shakes his head. “Just a carry on.”

“Good job. You gotta learn to travel light in this business.” Then they’re out the doors and Chris takes his arm away and strides ahead, and Stiles hurries to keep up as they make their way across the parking lot. Once they’re in the car, a nondescript black SUV that makes Stiles think of black ops and superhero films, Chris takes off the hat and glasses and Stiles gets a decent look at him. He’s smiling, and it looks good on him. “So you’re it for him, huh?” He looks Stiles up and down. “Gotta say, he has taste.”

Stiles blushes and Chris laughs, but it’s not mean. He starts the car and they drive in silence for a few minutes while Stiles catches his breath, and its just as he’s relaxing that Chris says, “You know wolves mate for life, right kid? No going back?”

“Yeah, I know.” Stiles tries not to get annoyed at the assumption he wouldn’t know something as important as that. Chris is probably being helpful, he tells himself. “I didn’t walk into this blind.”

Chris hums. “Just checking. It’s a hell of a thing, seeing Peter like this, stupid in love. I just wanna make sure you’re not some starstruck fanboy who’s just along for the ride and who’ll leave him when it stops being fun. You do that, you’ll break him. And you break him, I’ll come after you.” Chris’s face is expressionless, but Stiles doesn’t doubt that he means what he says.

Still, it rankles. “What, you think I’m just some fuckboy who didn’t spend any time finding out about this before I said yes? And you think Peter can’t tell who his own mate is? I guess it’s true what they say about hunters being assholes,” he snaps.

He regrets it immediately, half expecting Chris to pull over and order him out of the car, but instead Chris throws his head back and laughs. “Yep. Definitely Peter’s match right there.”  He glances across. “Listen, kid. Peter meets some random guy at a concert, and then next time I see him he pulls me aside and tells me you’re mates? What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t threaten you at least a little?”

He smiles then, all straight white teeth and sunshine, and Stiles finds his ire dwindling. He guesses he can see where Chris is coming from. “Yeah, I guess. But I’m not some random guy. This has all come out of nowhere, yeah, but I do know what I’ve signed up for.”

“Then we’re good.” Chris gives a hum of satisfaction, and they drive the rest of the way to the hotel in comfortable silence.


 

Stiles thought that he and Peter might go out, get a drink, maybe sightsee.

Stiles is very, very wrong.

Peter pins him to the wall the second he walks in the door of their hotel room, scenting him and honest to god whining, and from there on in the entire weekend is a haze of sex and room service.

It’s exhilarating, and exhausting, and utterly fantastic.

 


 

Whoever decided the work to fun ratio of life was five days to two was a sadistic asshole, Stiles thinks miserably. It’s only Wednesday and he’s already so very done. He doesn’t get to fly out till Saturday morning this time – something about backup singers and double bookings and the only studio time being Friday night, but it’s better than nothing. And Peter’s been calling and texting more this week, so at least Stiles knows he’s not the only one feeling this way.

He manages to get through the day and when he gets home his dad takes one look at him and says, “Bowling.”

“Bowling?”

His dad nods. “You need to get out of the house, stop your damn pining. So we’re going for burgers, then I’m gonna kick your ass at bowling.”

Stiles has to admit, his dad has a point. Stiles doesn’t feel like going out, but it’s probably what he needs, so he summons up a grin. “Oh, you’re gonna kick my ass? Good luck, old man.”

His dad huffs out a laugh. “We’ll see.” He grabs his keys. “You ready?”

“Gimme five to get out of my work clothes.” Stiles eyes the keys in his father’s hand and digs in his pocket, holding out his own set. “You wanna drive mine?”

John’s face breaks into a grin. “You know it.” It’s become a running gag that he’ll take any excuse to drive Stiles’s car. Stiles doesn’t mind, enjoys watching his dad enjoy himself. He wonders idly if he can ask Peter about getting  his dad one just like it, and then it hits him. Yes, he could. He wouldn’t even have to run it past Peter. He could just…go ahead and drop that kind of money if he wanted. The shock of it makes him dizzy for a second, and his dad peers at him, concerned. “You okay, kiddo?”

Stiles takes a couple of deep breaths. “Yeah. It just hit me, that’s all.”

“What just hit you?” His father’s hand hovers over his shoulder as if he isn’t sure if he should touch him or not.

Stiles gives a shaky smile. “I’m – Dad, Peter’s a millionaire, did you know that?”

His dad’s brow furrows. “I mean, I kinda figured.”

“No, you don’t get it. I was thinking about the car and how you like it, and if I should get you one. And that’s – its not normal, okay? I spent the last four years as a student scraping by, and now I’m thinking about buying a car as if it’s nothing?  It’s just – it’s my new normal, and it threw me for a minute.”

At that, his father pulls him in for a hug, and Stiles lets the warmth and familiarity soothe him. Finally his father speaks. “I don’t need a new car, kiddo.”

Stiles lets out a shaky laugh. “Not the point, Dad. The point is that it even occurred to me. Am I gonna turn into one of those rich assholes who throws their money around?”

His father sighs. “Firstly, wanting to spend your money on other people is the opposite of being as asshole. And secondly, the fact you’re worried about it means you won’t let it happen. But I'll tell you what. If you look like you’re heading that way, I promise I’ll let you know, okay?” Stiles nods against his dad’s shoulder, and laughs when his dad adds, “But you’re definitely paying for dinner, rich kid.”

 


 

Turns out his dad can still kick his ass at bowling.

It’s a good night though, and Stiles is loose and relaxed when they get home. Peter hasn’t called, but then Stiles didn’t expect him to. He knows that in between recording sessions they’re squeezing in as much rehearsal time for their tour as they can – he’s not sure why that surprises him, but somehow he’d thought they’d be able to play on autopilot by now. Peter had just laughed when he’d suggested it. “Sweetheart, it’s because we rehearse that it looks easy.”

Stiles falls into bed and sleeps solidly, and when he wakes up he feels better than he did yesterday. He stretches, and takes comfort in the fact that it’s only two more nights till he gets to see Peter. As if summoned, his phone lights up with Peter’s image, and he’s quick to answer. “Hello?” Stiles doesn’t try and hide his excitement. 

“Hello, sweetheart,” Peter purrs. “I was hoping to catch you before work.”

“Yeah. It’s early. I’m not even out of bed yet.”

“Is that so?” Peter voice deepens, takes on a sultry note. “Are you naked, Stiles? All warm skin pressed against the sheets?”

Stiles swallows. It sounds like this isn't going to be just a good morning call. “One second.”  He slips out of bed and locks his door before getting back between the sheets. “I’m here, wearing nothing but a smile. You like that idea?”

Peter growls. “Miss you so much. Want to touch you.”

Stiles plays along. “Want me to touch myself instead?” Peter’s breath catches and Stiles grins. It’s a rhetorical question – he already has his phone on speaker, one hand wrapped around his cock, teasing himself to hardness. He lets out a soft moan, knowing Peter will want to hear him.

Sure enough, he gets a breathless, ”Tell me.”

“Feels good,” Stiles says softly. “If I close my eyes I can imagine it’s you, that you’re here getting me off.” He does close his eyes then, speeds up his strokes, and makes tiny uh-uh-uh sounds as his cock starts to throb with need.

Peter groans. “Sweetheart, you’re killing me.” His breathing speeds up and Stiles can picture it, Peter sprawled across a hotel bed, bare chested, with his boxers shoved down to his thighs, working himself languidly, teasing. Peter always does like to take his time, savor the moment. “I want you here,” Peter whispers. “Want to wrap myself around you, put my mouth on you, tease you till you beg.”

It’s Stiles’s turn to moan at that. Peter has a truly wicked mouth, and he can reduce Stiles into a thrashing, begging, mess in minutes. “Yeah,” he pants out. “Blow me, then when I’m all relaxed you can open me up, fuck me nice and slow.” His cock pulses in his hand, precome dripping over his fingers, and Stiles uses it to slick his cock, make his movements smother, better. “Fuck, I’m dripping at the thought of getting your cock in me,” he husks out, tightening his grip just enough that he whines without meaning to. He’d meant to tease Peter, but somehow he’s turning himself on as well, and fuck, they've barely started but he’s close, so close, is desperate to come. He uses his other hand to tease at a nipple, pinches it sharply, the sting making him gasp and his balls draw up tight.  He does it again, and it’s almost enough to tip him over the edge. “Oh, oh fuck, gonna -gonna –“

“Let me hear you, baby. Give me those pretty noises, come on,” Peter growls out, and that’s it, Stiles is gone. He gasps and whimpers out Peter’s name as he comes, strokes himself through it and pretends its Peter’s hand on him.

Seconds later Peter’s cursing in his ear. “Fuck Stiles, Jesus Christ, I -“ He cuts off with a deep groan that sounds like it’s been punched out of him, and then there’s just the sound of him breathing heavily.

Neither of them speak at first. Stiles smiles to himself, one sticky hand wrapped around his softening cock. It’s only been days but fuck, he’s missed this. Finally he says, “You know, I never tried phone sex before I met you. I  didn’t see the appeal. But I get it, now.”

He gets a satisfied hum in return, and Peter drawls, “Glad to hear it.”

Stiles would love to lay here and talk and melt into the blankets forever, but he has to get ready for work. He sighs and reluctantly sits up. “I wish I didn’t have to go, but I’m gonna be late otherwise.”

Peter lets out a snicker. “I’m already late.”

“What?”

“I’m meant to be at a breakfast meeting with the producer right now, but I played hooky. It’s fine, I’m only a little behind schedule.”

Stiles huffs out a laugh. “Are you telling me you blew off a meeting for a booty call?”

“Absolutely. It’s the only time I knew you’d be home.”

“I feel like I should disapprove of your unprofessional behavior, just for the record.”  

“But you don’t.”

Stiles sighs. “But I should. Nobody wants to be Yoko.”

There are the sounds of movement. “If it makes you feel better, I’m barely late. Twenty minutes is nothing with us creative types.” Peter’s voice lowers. “Besides. Talking to you? Worth it.”

Warmth spreads through Stiles’s belly at that. “Flatterer.”

Peter laughs. “I’ll see you on Saturday.”

“I can’t wait,” Stiles tells him, and it’s nothing but the truth.


 

The next three weeks both fly by and drag, depending on whether Stiles is home working or away spending time with Peter. There’s one weekend where he doesn’t manage to go and visit – he’s meant to, but he’s flat out exhausted. It sounds romantic, flying out every weekend, but the reality of it is that Stile doesn’t get any down time, and it’s taking his toll. When he lets it slip to Peter that he fell asleep at his desk and got sent home early, Peter’s adamant. “Stay home this weekend. Rest up. Come see me next week, before we fly out.”

“But I want to see you now,” Stiles whines at Peter over Skype. Peter just arches a brow in response and fine, maybe he’s overtired after all. “I just miss you,” Stiles says, with less petulance this time.

“I know sweetheart, and I want to see you too. But I don’t want you getting sick. You humans are so fragile. Next week, I promise,” Peter soothes.

Stiles sighs. “I guess it’s good practice for when you’re gone. Which will suck, by the way,” he adds.

Peter gives a sad smile. “I know. But it’s not like I can cancel, and you can’t come with me, so we’ll have to make the best of it.” He leans in closer. “If it makes you feel better, just imagine the reunion we’ll have when I get home.”

He’s right there on the screen, and Stiles wants nothing more than to touch him. “Are you sure I shouldn’t come this weekend?”

“Absolutely not. You’re exhausted. I’ll do what I can to make sure we get everything wrapped before I see you next though, so there are no distractions. Just you and me, spending time alone.” Peter cocks his head as if listening, and grimaces. “I have to go. They need me for rehearsal. Love you, sweet boy.” He kisses his fingertips and presses them against the screen, and then the call disconnects and he’s gone.

It must be because he’s tired, Stiles decides. That’s the only reason there could possibly be for wanting to cry right now.

 


 

He sleeps all of Saturday and half of Sunday away, and he hates to admit it but Peter was right. He needed it.

When he goes to work on Monday though, he asks to see his boss, and explains that he knows he’s new and that it’s probably a no, but his boyfriend’s going to be travelling for work and this weekend is the last time Stiles will see him for months, and if he makes up the hours, is there any chance? 

He emerges triumphant and texts Peter.

Asked the boss for a long weekend next weekend. Got Friday and Monday off. I’m yours for three nights.

The reply comes in seconds.

Have I told you I love you today?

His phone rings. “Technically, if you could get here on Thursday night we could make it four nights,” Peter purrs. “And we’d get an extra day if you flew out late on Monday evening.”

Stiles grins into the phone. “Let’s do that.”

 


 

Four nights is so much better than two.

Once they get past the frenzy of reunion sex, (it takes them a day and a night to get it out of their system) they have time to talk, to leave the hotel, to just be, and Stiles finds he’s forgotten how nice that is, how much he enjoys Peter’s company. It still gives him a thrill every time he wakes up and Peter’s there, and he hoards their moments together in his memory, something to take out and treasure later, when Peter’s gone.

They spend a lot of time reassuring themselves that eight weeks will fly by, everyone knows that – just look at how fast Christmas comes every year – one minute it’s Halloween and the next thing you know it’s all tinsel and snowmen in the blink of an eye. This will be just like that, they tell each other, and pretend that they believe it.

They spend their last day together in bed, and by unspoken agreement they carefully don’t mention their upcoming separation. The closest they come is when Peter sets to work mapping out every inch of Stiles’s body with his mouth, kissing him all over and covering him with lovebites. “Staking out your territory?” Stiles teases with a gasp as Peter sucks a dark mark next to his right hipbone.

“Yes,” Peter growls out. “Need to remember the taste of you when I’m gone.” And then he goes back to what he was doing, and Stiles is lost to a wave of pleasure as Peter sucks him off like his life depends on it, and he doesn’t notice the slip.

They only falter once, at the airport. “I wish I wasn’t leaving,” Stiles confesses, the weight of his departure sitting like a stone in his chest.

“I wish neither of us was leaving,” Peter says, and drags Stiles close, burying his face in the crook of his neck and breathing deeply. “You have no idea how much I’ll miss you.”

“I might.” Stiles's voice cracks just the slightest bit, and his eyes sting.

Peter takes one, two, deep breaths, and pulls back. “Eight weeks is nothing. And we’ll Skype. You have my schedule?”

Stiles nods. He’s been studying it for weeks, and it’s etched into his brain at this point. “And don’t worry about time zones. If you can only call at night, I don’t care,” he says in a rush. “Wake me up, it’s fine.”

“And you’re sure you won’t come with me? I could show you the world, shining shimmering, splendid…” Peter sings quietly, and Stiles knows he’s only partly joking.

But he can’t. He has a life, and they’re still so new, and this was always the plan, so. “No passport, remember. Nope-you’ll just have to go and have fun in Europe without me.” He tries not to let the way Peter’s shoulders sag at the reminder break his heart, fights the urge to cling and cry. Instead he squares his shoulders and picks up his bag, jerking his head towards the check in desk. “I’d better –“

“Yes. Don’t want you to miss your flight.”  Peter reaches out a hand and runs a finger down the curve of Stiles’ jaw. “You’ll call me when you get home?”

“Yeah. And you’ll call me when you hit Heathrow?” God. It sounds surreal, like he’s in a movie.

“Of course, sweetheart.” Peter’s hand lingers a moment more, and then they’re announcing that Stiles's flight is open for boarding, and Stiles picks up his bag and walks away before he can change his mind.

He doesn’t look back.

 

Chapter Text

 

When Stiles gets up for work on Tuesday his eyes are gritty and sore, and he tells himself its from staying up too late sharing one last conversation with Peter, and definitely not from fighting back tears after they said goodbye. He has a shower, but it does nothing to lift his spirits, and when he gets to work his boss takes one look at him and says, “Jesus, you look like shit. Did you guys break up?”

“No. He’s flying out today, so we stayed up late on the phone, that’s all.” Stiles turns on his computer and pretends to examine the screen, not interested in talking right now.

His boss takes the hint and leaves him in peace, as do his co-workers. Stiles is quietly glad there are only five of them in the office. It means the atmosphere is informal enough that nobody expects him to act happy. He puts his head down, gets on with his work, and does his best not to check his phone every two minutes. Peter’s midair – he’s not going to hear from him.

He makes it through the day, and the weight in his chest eases somewhat when he gets a single text that evening that says “Here safe. Miss you.”

“Miss you too,” he sends back, and he’s not even surprised when the phone rings seconds later.

“Hello sweetheart.” Stiles can tell that Peter’s walking as he talks by way his breath comes in huffs, and in the background there’s the sound of boarding announcements. He warms at the thought that Peter hasn’t even left the airport before calling. “Remind me again why I travel?” Peter grumbles.

“Because they haven’t invented a working teleport? And because it’s your god-given duty to bless thousands of screaming fans with the sight of you in leather pants?”  Stiles tries to keep it light, because if he admits how lonely he is already it’s going to make their time apart unbearable.

Peter lets out a low hum. “I do look good in those pants.”

“Mmm. I can say from experience you look better out of them, though.”

That earns Stiles a laugh, and then Stiles hears in the background calls of “H! H! Got a second for a picture?”

Peter sighs. “I’m sorry sweetheart, but I have to go.”

“Already?” Stiles fights to keep the whine out of his voice, but he isn’t sure he succeeds.

“I’ll try and call later. I just needed to hear your voice, that’s all.”

Stiles pushes his disappointment down. He was lucky to hear from Peter at all. “Yeah yeah, go be famous, call me when you can.”

“Love you,” Peter says, almost too quiet for Stiles to hear, and he’s gone before Stiles gets a chance to reply.

 


 

It’s Friday before they talk again.

There are texts, sure, but Peter always seems to be in the middle of something, and Stiles doesn’t want to disturb him when he’s working, so he waits for Peter to call him and tries not to take it personally when he doesn’t.

He goes online instead, avidly watching the video footage of the latest concerts, of Peter strutting around the stage like he owns it, replaying the clips over and over until the ache in his chest eases. And when his phone rings at 8 am Friday morning just as he pulls into the parking lot at work, he doesn’t hesitate to answer. He’s just have to be late, that’s all. He’s sure his boss will understand.

“Sweetheart,” Peter breathes out the word, and it sends a tingle up Stiles’s spine.

“Heeey. Missed you.”

“I know. I wanted to call but it’s been…” there’s a pause and Stiles can just picture Peter waving a hand vaguely.

“I know,” he says. “You’re on tour. We knew you’d be busy.”

“But I’m calling now. Just finished up for the night and made it back to the hotel, and I needed to hear your voice.” Peter tone turns low, seductive. “I was hoping maybe we could…”

It nearly kills Stiles to say no, but “Um, I’m in my car. At work. We really can’t.”

There’s a volley of cursing, something about time zones being the work of the devil and a stifled groan, and it’s then that Stiles realizes that Peter sounds…off. It takes a second before it hits him.

“Are you drinking right now?”

“Yes. I’m drunk and I’m lonely and I miss you,” Peter says, his voice plaintive.

“How?” Stiles knows werewolves burn through alcohol too fast for it to have an effect.

“Added a little somethin’ somethin’ to the scotch, baby,” Peter slurs out.

Stiles guesses he shouldn’t really be surprised – it’s all a part of the rock and roll lifestyle, right? But part of him is disappointed. He’d hoped to talk to Peter properly, and he can tell that’s not gonna happen. Still, a drunken call is better than no call at all. He suppresses a sigh. “It’s good to hear from you,” he says quietly. “How’s the tour going?”

It’s the right question. “Tonight was amazing,” Peter sighs happily. “God, I’d forgotten how good it is to be in front of a crowd.” And then he’s off, telling Stiles about the show, gushing about the adrenaline rush, and Stiles fights down a stab of jealousy when Peter tells him about the girl who’d almost fainted when Peter pulled her out of the pit and onstage. The pang recedes slightly when Peter goes on to tell him it was a set-up, that her boyfriend got dragged on stage as well so he could propose, and just wait till Stiles sees the footage, its sure to go viral, but a dark part of his mind hisses - where’s his onstage declaration of love, huh?

He tamps down on those emotions hard. Now’s not the time. Peter’s made the effort to call, and Stiles is going to enjoy it and take what he can get. He makes the right noises in the right places, and when Peter tapers off and asks him how he’s doing, he manages to make it sound like designing a new set of fridge magnets for the local pizza place is his life’s dream.

They’re disturbed by a tap on Stiles’s car window – it’s his boss, looking pointedly at his watch. Stiles nods rapidly. “Listen, I gotta go. Boss is giving me the stink eye. Call me back later?”

“I’ll call you when I wake up, if I can. But we’re playing in Paris tomorrow so we’re on the move.”

“I get it. No promises.”

“One promise,” Peter corrects. “I’ll be thinking of you.”

A smile tugs at the corner of Stiles’ mouth at that. His mate’s such a smooth bastard. “Travel safe. Love you.” he makes sure he gets to say it this time.

“Love you too, sweetheart.”

Stiles disconnects the call and gets out of the car. His boss says, “Lemme guess, the traveler?”

Stiles nods, and wave of melancholy sweeps over him, because that’s what Peter is right now, and every day takes him further away. “Time zones,“ he mumbles. “Sorry.”

His boss surprises him by clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Back when my wife and I were dating in high school, she made the national swim team. For a while there she spent a lot of time on the road competing. I remember what it’s like.”

Stiles looks up, surprised. “Does it get any better?” he asks, before he can stop himself.

His boss gives a wry smile. “You pretend that it does. It helps if you remember that its temporary.” 

Stiles nods, and tries to ignore the sinking feeling in his gut. Because its not temporary, is it? Peter does this all the time.

He wonders if he'll ever get used to it.

 


 

It’s 4 am on Sunday morning when Stiles’s phone chimes, and when he answers there’s Peter’s face, smiling at him from the screen. Stiles sits up in bed and turns on the lamp so he can see better, running a hand through his hair and trying to drag himself to alertness. “Peter!”

“Hey, sweet boy. I’m sorry it’s early, but now’s the only time I could sneak away.”

“S’fine. I told you, I don’t care if you wake me. Where are you?”

“Still Paris. Another two shows here. It was a sellout so they added extra.”

“Of course they did,“ Stiles says, beaming. Peter looks tired, but Stiles still drinks in the sight of him.  It’s been far too long. Its been less than a week, a tiny voice reminds him. Stiles ignores it. “It’s good to see your face.” He doesn’t bother saying I miss you, figures it’s a moot point, and it doesn’t make anything better anyway.

“Same, sweetheart, bedhead and all,” Peter smirks. “You are still in bed, right?”

Stiles’ brow furrows. “Uh, yeah? It’s four in the morning, where else would I…”  Peter raises an eyebrow and licks his lips, and Stiles registers, finally, that Peter’s shirtless, and there’s a certain hunger to his gaze.  “Oh. You want to…”

He lets the question hang there, and sure enough, Peter’s grin turns filthy. “If you’re up for it?” As if there was ever any chance of Stiles saying no.

“Hang on. Lemme get organized.” Stiles scrambles out of his boxers and t shirt and manages to sit against the bedhead and hold the camera in such a way that it pans over his body and Peter can see his other hand stroking himself slowly. “This what you want?”

Peter lets out a low growl in response and angles his own camera down so Stiles can see where he’s already hard and leaking. Stiles takes a minute to let himself feel smug about the fact that he caused that. Him. The awkward teenager that he once was still doesn’t quite believe it. Stiles gives a nod. “That for me?”

“Always, sweetheart.” Peter’s hand starts to move, and there’s something unbearably erotic about it, the slide of skin on skin, the way Peter lets his palm ghost over the head and lets out a tiny sigh every time he does so.

Stiles groans. “Fuck that’s hot.” He starts to stroke himself faster, need building in him. He wants to close his eyes, concentrate on what he’s feeling, but he can’t look away from Peter. from his hand, from his face.

Peter makes a sound that’s almost a whine, hand speeding up, and then he gives a grunt and he’s coming, spurting messily all over his naked stomach, and Stiles is overwhelmed at the sight and comes only seconds later. He’d be embarrassed by how quickly it was over, but it’s been a week. Peter must feel the same, because he pants out, “We need to do this more often.”

Stiles gives a breathless laugh, wiping his hand on the sheet. “Agreed.”

 


 

They get to talk afterwards for a whole forty minutes, and it’s not nearly enough.

Stiles schools his face into neutrality when there’s a knock at Peter’s door and a shout of “H? We gotta go.” He’s not going to make this harder on them by pouting.

Peter, though? His whole face crumples. “Oh, sweetheart. I wish I could ignore that, but...”

“The show must go on?” Stiles suggests.

“Exactly. There’s an interview and a sound check and I can’t miss either of them.” Peter looks devastated, and Stiles’s heart aches for him.

“I get it. We knew it would be like this,“ he reminds Peter softly.

There’s another knock at the door, and Peter snaps, “In a minute!” He turns back to Stiles, camera moving now, and he must toss the phone on his bed because all Stiles can see is a patch of ceiling and a vague moving shape. After a second he realizes it’s Peter’s elbow moving in and out of shot as he gets dressed. Then it’s Peter again, dragging a hand through his hair. “Nearly one week down, sweetheart. I’ll call you when I can. Or you call me.” He blows a kiss at the screen and Stiles returns the gesture, and then the screen goes black.

It takes Stiles a long time to get back to sleep.


 

It’s noon when he’s woken by a hammering at the front door.  Stiles drags on a pair of jeans and stumbles downstairs  and when he opens the door it’s to find Cora standing there. “You weren’t answering your phone,” she says by way of greeting.

“I was asleep. What do you want?” A terrible thought strikes him. “Has something happened? Is Peter okay?”

Cora rolls her eyes. “Trust me, you’d know. Your bond would tell you. No, I was calling to tell you mom wants you to come over for dinner tonight. Your dad too, if he’s home. But since you weren’t answering, I had to drag my ass all the way over here.”

Stiles steps aside and lets her inside. “It’s the weekend. Normal people sleep in, Cora.”  

“Yeah, well. Neither of us has ever been accused of being normal.” Stiles snorts at that. Cora tilts her head, looking at him closely. “How are you really doing, Stiles?”

The concern in her tone is almost his undoing but he keeps it together, just. If he starts falling apart every time someone asks how he is, he might never stop. So he summons up a casual shrug. “It’s okay. We talk when we can. And the tour’s going great.”

Cora gazes at him intently. “Uh huh. And you’re not pining in the least?”

Stiles chooses his words carefully. “I mean, I miss him. But one day at a time, right? Its fine.”

Cora leans in and gives his shoulder a gentle shove. “Don’t bother lying to me. You’re miserable.” Stiles slumps. Damn Cora and her inbuilt lie detector. The next thing he knows he’s been dragged into a hug. “It sucks, huh?”

Stiles nods against her shoulder. “It does. It really does.”

He feels rather than hears her sigh. “Come on. Get dressed and I’m taking you out.”

He pulls back enough to ask, “Where are we going?”

“You’re coming home with me. You need some time around your pack.”

An afternoon with the Hales does sound inviting, but Stiles shakes his head, confused. “I’m not pack, Cora. I’m not a wolf.”

The way she rolls her eyes is painfully reminiscent of Peter. “You’re the mate of a wolf, Stiles, and before Peter went away, you’d practically moved in. You’re pack, trust me. Besides,” she adds, “we’ve missed you.”

It’s uncharacteristically nice of her to say so, and Stiles tries to figure out if she means it. “Why?” he asks in the end.

“Because you’re a smartass and I like your company, even if you are doing the nasty with my uncle. Now get dressed and get in the car.”

If it was Talia asking, Stiles would have obeyed without question. But its Cora, so. Stiles tilts his head in the direction of the Cocomobile. “Yeah, no thanks. I’ll take my own car. A guy’s gotta have some standards.”

Seeing the look of outrage on her face is almost worth the stinging slap to his ass as he ducks out of her way.

 


 

“Explain why this feels so good?” Stiles asks Talia later, sprawled across the back lawn, head almost in her lap. It should be weird, but it's not. The contentment he feels just at being here and in the presence of pack is almost palpable, like it’s soaking into his very bones. Talia had spent long minutes hugging him when he arrived, until the tension had eased from his body somewhat, and then it seemed like every time he turned around another pack member was holding him close, almost as if they were consoling him.

Derek gives excellent hugs, not that Stiles will ever tell Peter that.

Talia just gives him a soft smile and runs a hand through his hair - werewolves really are touchy feely, or maybe that's just the Hales. “Peter’s bonded to the pack, and you’re bonded to Peter, so we’re interconnected. You’ll always feel better when we’re around, even if he isn’t.”

Stiles supposes that makes sense. The anxiety and loneliness of the last week has drifted away. It’s not completely gone - he still aches for Peter’s presence - but he doesn’t feel quite so much like he’s going to fall apart. His phone pings and he grabs it, but it’s just his father replying to his earlier message. “Dad says he’ll be here for dinner and thanks for the invite,” he recites.

Talia’s smiles widely. “Wonderful. I wanted to talk to him.”

“Oh?” for a split-second Stiles wonders if he’s done something wrong.

“I wanted to ask if you’re interested in staying here while Peter’s gone, but I wanted to do your father the courtesy of filling him in, that’s all.”

Stiles blinks at the sky, and then sits up. He can’t have this conversation lying down. “You want me to move in?” He thinks of the conversation he’d had that time with Cora, how she’d said, ‘home is always home,’ and wonders if that applies to him.

Talia gives him a knowing look. “It’s hard, being apart from your mate. If we can make it easier, why wouldn’t we? And it will help Peter too, knowing you’re here and protected by pack.”

Those are all good reasons, but still Stiles hesitates. It seems like he’d be taking advantage.  It’s then that Cora walks by and drops down in a crouch next to them. “Stop overthinking it, dumbass. Yes, we like you, and no, you won’t be in the way. Move in, Stilinski.”

Talia fixes Cora with a look. “What did we say about bending people to your will, Cora?”

Cora just shrugs. “Stiles doesn’t count. He’s an overthinker. He needs the push.”

Stiles has to admit, she has a point. “Don’t worry, I’m used to it,” he assures Talia. “At college, she’d bully me into looking after myself all the time.”

“See?” Cora proclaims, triumphant. “Stiles knows that I know best.”

“Is it okay if I talk to Peter first?”  Stiles is pretty sure Peter will be on board, but moving in is a big step and he’d prefer it if they were all on the same page.

“Take your time,” Talia assures him. “I’m surprised Peter didn’t move you in before he left, if I’m honest.”

He’d tried to, Stiles realizes with a guilty start. It had been late one night or early one morning, depending on your viewpoint, and Peter had nuzzled up and said, “Would you consider staying here while I’m gone, sweetheart? I like the thought of you waiting in my bed.”

And Stiles? Well, he’d been well fucked and half asleep, and they’d barely been together six weeks. How was he meant to know Peter was serious? “Nah. Too  many people here already,” he’d mumbled out, not giving it a second thought, and Peter hadn't mentioned it again.

“He, um. He might have asked? But we were…” he swallows at the two sets of raised eyebrows, and settles for, “I wasn’t really thinking straight at the time. I didn’t think he meant it.”

Cora lets out a snort of laughter. “He asked you when you were fuck drunk, didn’t he?”

“Cora!” Talia hisses.

Cora continues to laugh as Stiles blushes and mutters, “I didn't know he was serious.”

“Oh my god, he actually thought the best time to ask you was when you were in a cock coma?” Cora cackles even louder. “What a dumbass!”

Talia’s lips twitch with suppressed mirth. “I’ll admit, communication’s never been my brother’s strong point,” she concedes.

“You’ve got that right,” Cora snickers. She catches Stiles’s eye, and he’s reminded of the debacle that was Peter trying to tell him that they were mates. He lets himself imagine living here, and decides that yes, it's something he wants.

He closes his eyes for a second and does some mental calculations. Peter’s around eight hours ahead, so its close to midnight where he is, but Stiles knows that means nothing – between shows, travel times, and rehearsals, Peter’s schedule is fucked six ways to Sunday. He might be still be awake.

Stiles texts rather than calling though, just in case.

Call me when you can?

It’s only ten minutes later when his phone rings, and he scrambles awkwardly to stand and walks inside in an effort to get some privacy. “Stiles? Is everything okay?”

Peter’s voice is filled with concern, and Stiles takes a moment to wonder exactly how much Peter worries over him. It just reinforces for him that this is the right thing to do. “Everything’s fine. Did you know that your mate is an idiot?”

Peter takes a moment to reply. “I’m sure you’re not, but if you were, why would that be?” he asks carefully, and Stiles is hit with a wave of affection. Peter really is terrible at this relationship stuff, but he’s trying his best.

“You asked me to move in, and I never even considered that you might mean it.”

“Of course I meant it. Stiles, what's going on exactly?"

Stiles is overwhelmed by everything he wants to say, but he doesn't know where to start, so he just...opens his mouth and lets it all out. “I was miserable today because I really miss you, and Cora turned up she just knew, which, werewolf senses, man, gonna take some getting used to, and anyway, she dragged me out to your place and Talia explained to me about pack bonds and how they work, which, by the way, might have been nice to know about and it would have been good if you’d told me about those before, instead of me looking like an idiot while I melted into all the hugs and your sister stroked my hair like I was a little kid. And Talia, she asked me to move out here, said she was surprised you didn’t ask already, and then I remembered that you had asked me, except you asked when we were both high on endorphins from the good sex and I didn’t think you were serious, but yeah, if there’s any other important werewolfy things I should know about could you maybe give me a heads up in future, and also don’t ask important stuff when I’m fuck drunk that’d be great, thanks?” Stiles reaches the end of his rant and takes a breath.

There’s a moment’s silence. “You didn’t tell me you were miserable.” Peter’s voice is sharp.

That’s what you took from that?” It almost sounds as if Peter’s accusing him of something.

“You should have told me. I would have explained about the pack bonds if you’d told me you were feeling lonely. But instead you’ve been letting me think it’s fine, and you’ve been lying?

Stiles takes a deep, breath. Don’t start a fight. It’s not worth it. But he’s not  prepared to let this go, not entirely. “I mean, excuse me for trying to making it easier on you. I figured that telling you I missed you would just make you miserable as well, so what was the point of me saying anything?  Like, maybe if you’d explained about all this mystic werewolf bullshit to begin with, or let me know your offer to move in was genuine, instead of asking me when all my brain cells were leaking out between my legs and never mentioning it again, I would have taken you up on your offer. But no, go ahead and accuse me of lying, that’s definitely what I need to hear right now.”

Peter’s immediately contrite. “Oh, sweetheart. I didn’t mean to accuse you of anything. It’s just…”

Stiles waits, but no words are forthcoming, so Stiles nudges Peter along. “It’s just?”

There’s a sigh. “I've been panicking. I thought perhaps you didn’t miss me as much as I miss you. You don't call me, I always call you. You keep telling me you're fine. And even though I know we’re mates, I found myself worrying you’d find someone else while I was gone.”

Wait – Peter, insecure and jealous? That’s the last thing Stiles was expecting to hear. They’re mates, for fuck’s sake.

Peter really is bad at this.

Stiles runs a hand down his face. “You’re kidding, right? I fucking hate us being apart. I spend all day thinking about you. I just didn’t want to rub it in when there’s nothing we can do about it. But I miss you so, so much. We barely get to talk, and you can’t exactly call, and I don't call you because who wants to be that needy guy who always calls when you're busy? But seven weeks seems like forever. I’m lonely and it sucks, dude.”

Stiles doesn’t expect Peter to sound quite so pleased about his confession. “Am I a bad person if I say knowing you miss me is reassuring?”

It’s not what Stiles was expecting to hear. “Thanks? I think?”

Peter huffs out a soft laugh. “It just means that I know we’re in this together. And I know it’s tough, but this is the last tour for a while. We just need to make it through this.”

“Yeah, I know.” Stiles slumps into a chair. “Being with the pack definitely makes things better.” Something occurs to him. “Wait, if I feel like this and I’m not even a wolf, how do you manage without pack?”

“I make the most of the time while I’m home, and if it’s a long time on the road Talia will fly out and see me for a few days if I need someone to ground me. It helps.”

Stiles chews his bottom lip, thinking. “And me being here, that would help as well?”

“Knowing you’re safe and waiting for me? That would make me very happy indeed, sweetheart.”

“In that case, I’ll move in this weekend. And I’ll tell you when I’m missing you, as long as you do the same.”

“Sweetheart, if I’m breathing, I’m missing you.” Hearing that Peter needs him makes Stiles feel weirdly happy, and it occurs to him that maybe he gets where Peter’s coming from after all.

 


 

Turns out his father’s not even slightly sad to see him go. It would almost be insulting, except Cora takes him aside while his dad’s loading up his car with boxes and whispers, “It means he can go back to getting it on with that hot Nurse McCall, dumbass. You’ve been cramping his style.”

Stiles’s mouth drops open, and Cora gently eases it closed with a fingertip. “How do you even know this stuff?” Stiles whispers back.

Cora just taps the side of her nose. “Spidey senses, baby.”

 

 

Chapter Text

 

When Stiles moves in with the pack, he stays in Peter’s room – their room now, he supposes, and it helps some, but it still sucks being stuck in Beacon Hills and watching videos of Peter prowling across the stage and taking selfies with fans. Peter’s having the time of his life in Europe, and the high point of Stiles’s day is currently getting to park next to Cora and watching her scowl at his sleek black car like it’s personally offended her.

Stiles is upbeat by nature, and he generally doesn’t stay down for long, but there are more and more days when he feels the weight of Peter’s absence so keenly he can barely muster up a smile, and those are the days when he wishes he’d never agreed to this. He should have made Peter wait until after the tour, he thinks morosely. Then he wouldn’t be this miserable. But he knows he’s lying to himself. If he had waited, he’d just be jealous as well as lonely – he was already pining for H, and there’s no way he was going to turn down his offer.

At least now, when it gets bad, he’ll find himself corralled on the couch between Hales, who all show their affection and soothe his jangled nerves in their own ways -  a hand scruffing his hair (Talia or Laura), a body leaning into his so their shoulders press together (Derek), or an affectionate punch to the arm (Cora). And he knows it’s safe to let himself grumble as he watches sad movies, to pout and mutter that this is bullshit and Peter had better hurry back. It's reassuring, to know they won’t judge him for it, but instead will sympathise and keep him close until the comfort of the pack bond helps him hold himself together, at least for another day.

Peter calls as often as he can, and Stiles goes to work more than once with dark rings under his eyes from sitting up till all hours talking, or sometimes, from lying awake after what turns out to only be a five-minute call. His boss just makes sympathetic noises and asks, “How long now?”

Stiles will tell him, normally knows right down to the hour, which in itself is fucking depressing. Time is made of quicksand, and two weeks take approximately 700 years to drag past.

Stiles starts calling Peter as well, aware of what he’d said about worrying that Stiles wasn’t missing him. Time zones are the fucking devil, and a lot of times Peter can’t answer, but Stiles figures that at least if he sees a missed call, he knows Stiles is thinking of him.

There’s one glorious window three and a half weeks in where the band has two days off before they start their concerts in Rome, and Stiles barely sleeps the whole time. Peter’s constantly texting or calling him, and Stiles actually calls in sick so he can spend a day curled up in his bed with his phone clutched to his chest waiting for the next message. They facetime for a full three hours, and only stop when Peter gets dragged away to work. It’s wonderful and awful all at once, over far too quickly, and when Stiles comes downstairs for dinner Talia takes one look at his face and pulls him in for a hug until he feels like his heart isn’t aching quite so much, like maybe he can breathe again.

When he goes to work the next day, his boss has a new project for him, and he does his best to concentrate on the design work in an effort to distract himself. He’s almost successful. He makes it to five and goes home and the first thing he does is check his phone, but the message screen remains empty of any new content. He’s not surprised – there was a show tonight, the first one, and he knows that means they’ll get together afterwards and iron out any wrinkles that they discovered during the performance. He’d been surprised when Peter had laughingly told hm that the mockumentary This Is Spinal Tap was far too accurate for satire, but Peter had assured him that it was true.

He doesn’t hear from Peter for three days – not directly, anyway. He sees him, though. He sees him because plastered all over the internet are pictures of H with Chris and the rest of the band, posing with some girl who won a meet and greet contest. Stiles does his best not to be upset, but she’s not even subtle, the way she’s cocked her hip and leaned in so that she’s plastered to Peter’s side, practically humping his leg. It wouldn’t be so bad, but Peter has the gall to be grinning like he’s enjoying it.

Stiles knows that it’s just an act, okay? He knows that not an hour after the picture was taken Peter was on the phone with him, telling him how he missed him and needed him, sweet talking Stiles while they jerked off together. But there’s a seed of doubt there -maybe Peter was only horny because that gorgeous little darked-eyed thing had been rubbing up against him, and it wasn’t Stiles he wanted at all?

He slams the laptop shut and closes his eyes, trying to will away the picture his mind has provided of Peter’s hands sliding under her top, of Peter pinning her to a wall and kissing her, and his stomach roils. He sits there for a minute, trying to get himself under control, and startles when a firm hand lands on the back of his neck. “Stiles, you okay? You reek of jealousy.”  Cora spins the office chair he’s sitting in around without warning, and crouches in front of him. “What did he do?”

Stiles gives a helpless shrug. “Nothing? His job? There are pictures of him with this girl and she’s all over him, and he’s smiling, and she’s – “

“Not you?”

Stiles throws an arm up so it covers his eyes, so he doesn’t feel so exposed. “Not me.” Cora cocks her head for a second and then climbs into his lap uninvited. He flails for a moment and is forced to bring his arm down and wrap it around her so they don’t overbalance and end up on the floor. Cora doesn’t say anything at first, just lets him lean into her while he finds the words. His voice is muffled against her shoulder when he finally speaks. “It kills me to see him out there being public property and acting like I’m not here waiting for him.”

Cora puts a finger under his chin and lifts it gently. “Stiles? You’re an idiot if you believe for one second that Peter's interested in anyone but you.”

“I know that, okay? But nobody else does. They all think he’s fair game because of this whole stupid secret identity thing, and what if they won’t take no for an answer?”

Cora raises an eyebrow, “You wanna tell me exactly how a tiny girl like that is going to make a full-grown werewolf do something he doesn’t want to do, Stiles? What, she’ll flutter her eyelashes till he submits?”

Hearing Cora say it out loud makes Stiles realize how ridiculous he’s being. “Fine,” he grumbles. “He won’t cheat. But it still leaves me feeling like a dirty secret.”

Cora does that thing she does that always catches him by surprise, where she’s not an asshole. “I promise, he’s desperate to show you off. But he’s not going to just throw your identity out there and then take off for two months and leave you at the mercy of the media. One, his wolf would go out of its mind with worry, and two, he’ll want to pick his moment. He’s a showman, remember. He’ll want to present his new partner to the world with all the razzle dazzle he can manage.”

Stiles snorts. “Razzle dazzle? What is this, the roaring twenties?”

Cora scruffs his hair in retaliation. “Quiet, you. My point is, the time’s gonna come where you’re not a secret, and it's not as much fun being in the public eye as it seems. I think Peter just wants to spare you that while he’s not here to protect you.”

Stiles ponders what she’s said, and he’s forced to admit she’s right.  He shoves half-heartedly at her, nudging her off his lap. “Have I mentioned that I hate it when you make sense?”

“All the time. Doesn’t stop me being right, though.”  She stands and saunters out of the room, and Stiles follows her, determinedly leaving the laptop and the pictures behind him.

 


 

He does ask Peter about it, though, when they finally talk the next night.  “I saw the contest winner. Pretty. Seemed to like you a lot.”

Peter laughs softly. “Jealous, sweet boy?”

“No. Yes. Kind of. I’m not jealous as in I think you’d fool around jealous. It’s more that I’m jealous that she got be close to you and I don’t,” he explains. He sounds like an idiot even to his own ears. He lets his head fall back against the headboard with a thunk.

Peter seems to get it, though, sighing his agreement. “And I spent the whole time wishing it was you. It’s…difficult for me, without you here.”

There’s a heavy silence between them while Stiles ponders exactly what Peter means by difficult, thinks about pressing the point, before he decides that no, he’s not going to waste a precious phone call being maudlin. “Tell me all about the meet and greet. I always wonder what it’s actually like to win those things, if they just get to shake your hand for ten seconds and get a picture taken, or if it’s the full enchilada. “

“Oh, we go all out. We don’t do them often, so we make it worthwhile. Dinner and drinks and a backstage pass.”

“Well she looked happy enough. In fact, she looked like she wanted to eat you alive in the pictures.”

Peter snorts. “Trust me, she wasn’t there for me. She was all about our big man on bass.”

Stiles will deny to his dying day how glad he is to hear that. “Yeah? She’s a Chris fan?”

Such a fan. Within five minutes of arriving she’d managed to accidentally trip and land against Chris’s chest. Of course, he caught her and held her up while she caught her breath, which I must say, seemed to take an awfully long time. I think she could have died happy right then.”

“I mean, I can’t blame her. It’s a hell of a chest. How did Chris feel about it, though? Being fangirled over?”

“A gorgeous young thing who’s exactly his type, literally throwing herself at him? What do you think?”

Stiles can just imagine. “So she got dinner with the band and Chris for dessert?”

“My lips are sealed.”

Stiles snickers. “Like that, huh?”

“You know what they say. What happens on tour, stays on tour.”

“I’m taking that as a yes, just so you know. Now tell me about the rest of your week.”

They settle in and talk for a good hour. Stiles gets to hear about Rome second-hand, and listening to Peter talk about it is almost as good as being there. Almost.

 


 

It’s at around five weeks that Stiles really starts to feel the strain on their bond.

If Stiles thought Peter's absence was bad before, it’s torture now. Peter’s constantly on the move as they work through smaller cities, often only there for a night, and phone calls become a rarity, often made while Peter’s rushing from one place to another, and Stiles gets used to hearing airport noise and crowds in the background. Skype calls are non-existent. Phone sex is a distant memory.

Stiles sulks quietly, keeps to himself at work and does his job – he's cranky and unapproachable, he knows it, but they’re good enough not to call him on it. The pack does their best to comfort him, but it’s not enough. He can’t sleep, barely eats. For want of a better term, he yearns. And yes, he’s aware he sounds like a Victorian maiden in a Harlequin novel, but that’s the only word that comes close to describing what he’s suffering through.

Maybe those Victorians knew a thing or two about distance and heartache.

He’s still following the tour online, searching for any footage of Peter, and apparently, he’s not the only one wilting under the strain. When he reads the reviews, he can’t help but notice that they’re less than glowing. Terms like lacklustre and workmanlike start to appear.  The writers speculate that Peter looks tired, overwrought. Stiles, when he looks at the photos, has to agree. If Stiles is feeling as wrung out as he is, he knows it must be ten times worse for Peter. But when he asks, all he gets is, “I’m counting down the days, but I’m coping, sweetheart,” and then Peter will swiftly change the subject.

His dad comes to visit him on a Sunday afternoon, waving an envelope at him. “This came for you, figured you’d wanna get your hands on it.”  

Stiles opens it to find his passport. “Thanks.” He puts it aside with a sigh. Maybe he’ll get excited later, when everything’s not such an effort.  

His dad catches his eye. “You doing okay, son?”

“We’re over half-way. That’s gotta count for something, right?” He tries a smile. He knows it doesn’t look right, but it’s the best he can manage for now.

His father casts an eye over him, frowns. “You’ve lost weight. You eating?”

“Yeah.” It’s not a complete lie – Talia gently bullies him into eating at least something every meal, it’s just that he has no appetite, and it’s such a lot of work. His father gives him his don’t bullshit me look, and Stiles amends, “I’ve been trying to eat? I just can’t.”

His father sighs. “It’s that bad, huh?”

Stiles nods, miserable. “And I mean, I knew it was gonna be rough, pops. Just…not this rough.” His voice catches.

His father steps forward and pulls him into a hug. “Jesus, kid.” Stiles lets himself be hugged, nuzzles against the rub of soft flannel under his cheek and inhales the familiar scent of his dad’s aftershave, and feels the tiniest bit better. Pack is pack, but his dad’s what he needs right now.

They stand there on the front porch for a long time, and Stiles didn’t think he was crying, yet when they finally pull apart his cheeks are damp somehow. “Stay for dinner, Pops?” The thought of his dad leaving’s suddenly unbearable.

“Sure, kiddo. Someone’s gotta make sure you eat something, right?” John keeps an arm around him as he shepherds Stiles inside, and Stiles lets him, suddenly grateful beyond words for his pack and his family who are doing their best to take care of him.

But at the back of his mind, he wonders - who’s taking care of Peter?

 


 

Stiles mopes into work the next day, and as soon as he arrives his boss says, “Stilinski? My office.” He’s not smiling, and that in itself is worrying.

“Sure thing, Coach.” It’s hard sometimes, to remember that he’s not at school anymore and Finstock’s not his teacher. It’s indicative of Bobby’s mood that he doesn’t call Stiles out on the slip up for once. Stiles wonders morosely if his work’s gotten bad enough that he’s getting canned. At this stage he wouldn’t even care, if he’s honest. He just wants to crawl into bed and sleep for a thousand years or until Peter’s here, whichever comes first.

He slumps into an office chair and doesn’t bother trying to fill the silence while Coach stares at him in that intense way of his. Finally, he sighs. “Stilinski, I hired you because I know you’re smart, and good at what you do.”  He tosses a sheaf of paper in front of Stiles – his latest design brief. “And this? Is still ten times better than some of the crap that gets turned in by my other artists. So, you’re keeping your job.”

On one level, Stiles is relieved – he hasn’t fucked up too badly, then. “Thanks, Coach.”

“Call me Bobby. It’s been a while since I got out of teaching. Damn Lacrosse team’s gone to hell since I left.” That pulls a tiny smile out of Stiles. “So yeah, kid. You’re still employed. But I’m sending you on leave, starting today.”

 There’s a jolt in Stiles’s gut at that. “What? You said my work’s good. Why stand me down?”

Finstock’s eyes widen. “You have to ask? You look like shit, and you’re a pain in the neck to be around. And let’s face it, that werewolf bond’s gotta be kicking your ass right now.”

Stiles’s head snaps up from the pile of papers. “Um…” His mind races. Nobody ever told him what to do if someone mentioned werewolves.

“You've got a mating bond with this boyfriend of yours, right?” Finstock continues, apparently unaware that he’s not meant to know about the existence of werewolves.

“How did you find out about – “Stiles curls his hands into an imitation of claws.

Finstock snorts. “Please, kid. You think I haven’t seen enough flashing eyes and unexpected sideburns in the locker room to figure it out? Half the town must know. Those hairy bastards aren’t exactly subtle.”

Stiles shoots a glance at the closed office door and lowers his voice. “I don’t think anyone else knows, Coa – Bobby. I mean, I didn’t, not before this.”

“Huh. So…it’s not common knowledge?”

Stiles shakes his head vigorously. “Definitely not common knowledge.”

“Well waddaya know,” Coach muses, a smile on his face.” I figured it was one of those things everyone knew and people just don’t talk about, like the fact Mrs Wilson’s year-old twins are actually her sixteen-year-old daughter’s.”

“They are?” Stiles is starting to seriously wonder what he’s missed while he was at college.

“They sure are.” Finstock gives Stiles an appraising look. “How long till Peter’s home anyway? I know they’ve still got a string of dates to play, but damn your boy looks tired.”

Stiles knows his mouth’s hanging open, but he can’t seem to close it. How the hell does Coach know this stuff? “What?”

Coach rolls his eyes and makes an expansive gesture. “Europe. Tour. How long left?”

His face creases in a grin while Stiles lets out a shaky breath and tries to find the words to reply. “How long have you known who he is?”

He doesn’t need to clarify which he they’re talking about, apparently. “Jesus, let me see. How about always? Doesn’t take a genius. Hale disappears every time there’s a tour, then comes home and holes up with the pack. Plus, those eyes, that face, that ass? No mistaking them. I’m surprised he’s kept it secret this long.”

“You won’t tell anyone?” Stiles is seized by a sudden rush of panic that his madman of a boss is going to spill the beans and that Peter will somehow blame him.

Finstock laughs. “Haven’t told anyone yet, kid. Last thing I want is a pack of pissed off wolves on my tail. Besides, why would I do that to someone, invade their privacy?”

Stiles feels the knot in his gut loosen, tries to get a grip on his emotions. He’s not even sure what he’s feeling right now. Overwhelmed seems to just about fit, though. It takes a second before he realizes Finstock's still waiting for an answer to his initial question. “There’s around three weeks of touring left.”

Finstock makes a hissing noise between his teeth. “Wow. Sucks to be you.”

At the reminder, Stiles sags. “It really does.”

Bobby leans back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head. “Kid, I’ve been there. Long distance is bullshit.  And all I can offer is, hang in there. It seems like that time will never pass, but it does, I promise. Now go home. Call Peter any chance you get, whatever the hour. It’s not like you’ve gotta get up in the morning now, am I right?”

Stiles takes a moment to reflect on the truth of that. Without an alarm in the morning to worry about, he can flip his sleep schedule to match Peter’s. They might actually get to talk. The realization that Finstock’s just thrown him a lifeline, albeit in an ass-backwards way, makes his heart swell with affection for his oddball employer. “Yeah, you’re right. I really appreciate this, Bobby.”

Bobby flaps a hand at him. “Yeah, yeah. I’m a saint. Now get out of here, before I change my mind.”

Stiles does.

 


 

Because the universe is unfair and hates Stiles, he can’t get hold of Peter to tell him he'll be available more often. The irony's not lost on him. He consults the tour schedule and sighs. They’re opening in Copenhagen tonight, so that means they’re probably on the road. He waits an hour and tries again, and then again, and again an hour after that. On his fifth try someone answers, but it’s not Peter. It’s Chris. “Stiles? Thank god.”

There’s an urgency to his tone that Stiles doesn’t like at all. “What is it? What’s wrong?” Stiles’s minds throws a thousand possibilities at him, all worse than the last, and his heart races in his chest. It doesn’t help that Chris doesn’t answer right away. “Just tell me?” he begs.

“Peter’s…well. He needs you, kid. He’s falling apart.”

“What do you mean, falling apart?” Stiles demands.

There’s a heavy sigh. “Hang on, he’s in the shower. Take a listen.”  Stiles hears footsteps, and then Peter’s voice. It’s muffled by running water and a closed door, but it’s still unmistakable. Stiles strains to hear the lyrics, and recognizes them immediately - how could he not?  The same damn track’s been on his own playlist for weeks, the depth of despair buried in the lyrics somehow comforting. Misery loves company, maybe. But it makes a cosmic sort of sense that even halfway across the globe, Peter would pick the same dirge.

He's singing Exit Music, if the pitiful wails he’s making could be called singing.

Breathe, keep breathing...don't lose your nerve...breathe, keep breathing...I can't do this alone...Peter howls out mournfully, and Stiles finds his lips moving as he sings along silently.

“Radiohead, kid,” Chris growls. “He’s singing Radiohead. I don’t think he’s gonna last the tour.”

“What can I do?”

“Ideally, I’d say get your ass on a plane, but we might have to get Talia over here, since I know you can't make it."

Stiles is about to agree, to say that he can’t just get on a plane, when it hits him.  He can. He has the time and the money now. But most importantly? He has the passport. “Actually, I can. I'm coming over. Tell me where I need to be and I'll meet you.”

“Really?” Chris lets out a gusty exhale, and it’s almost enough to drown out the background noises of “I hope you choke…I hope you cho-oke…”

The panic that had been welling in Stiles’s chest morphs, turns into adrenaline. Peter needs him, and now he can actually do something about it “Really. Passport just arrived. I’m catching the first available flight.”

“You're a damn lifesaver, kid. I knew I liked you.” The relief in Chris’s voice is palpable.

They figure out some details before Stiles hangs up, and he immediately heads downstairs, bellowing,“Talia?" at the top of his lungs, driven by worry and excitement in equal parts. She appears at her office door, head tilted curiously. "I need to get to Denmark," Stiles says in a rush. "Help me?”

Talia doesn't ask any questions, just nods like it's a completely reasonable request. “Come on, let's get you booked.” With her assistance, Stiles discovers that it’s surprisingly easy to arrange flights when money’s no object.

 

He’s on a plane four hours later.

 

 

 

 

Chapter Text

Stiles is beyond tired by the time he lands twelve hours later. He tried his best to sleep, and being in first class certainly helped, but he doesn’t think he managed more than three solid hours. When he lands, he’s momentarily confused, expecting it to be morning but somehow, it’s afternoon. Time zones, he remembers, and wonders what day it is. His brain is foggy with lack of sleep and jetlag, but overriding all of that is his excitement, one thing pushing all else aside.

He’s going to see Peter.

Even with his priority disembarking it seems to take forever to get his baggage, and then customs take one look at him and promptly question why he’s there. In fairness, he can see why it looks sketchy – a twenty-something American with a brand new passport, a last minute booking, and no return ticket- but he does his best to appear relaxed and unaffected by their questions, assures them that yes, he’s here on legitimate business. Their attitude changes soon enough though, when they ask who he’s meeting and he utters the magic words Chris Argent. (The woman interviewing him honest to god squeals and fans herself.) All it takes is a quick call for Chris to confirm that Stiles’s story is on the level and then he’s free to go.

It all takes time though, and by the time Stiles walks through the arrivals gate it’s been over an hour. Chris is there and he steps forward and grabs Stiles’s bag, puts a steadying hand around his shoulders. “You look like hell, kid. Rough flight?”

Stiles fights a yawn. “Just long. You didn’t tell him, right?”

Chris shakes his head. “The way he is right now? He’d have been insufferable. Nope, surprising him is better.” He guides them out of the airport and really, Stiles doesn’t know why he’s surprised when Chris shepherds him into a waiting limo. Rock n roll lifestyle, he reminds himself.

Stiles casts glances out the window, talking in the city, but really, his mind's only on one thing. “Will we have much time before tonight’s show?”

Chris grimaces. “Thing is, customs stole a chunk of time. By the time we get to the hotel? I’d say an hour before we have to leave for the venue.”

“An hour?” Stiles almost wants to cry. He flew across the globe for an hour?

Chris sighs. “Maybe a little more, but honestly?  You’re lucky you’re getting this. I made sure all the sound checks were done earlier today to buy you extra time. Otherwise we’d be there now, setting up.”

Stiles wilts. “I guess it’ll do. I’ll just wait at the hotel till after the show.”

Chris laughs, soft and low. “Kid, if you think Peter’s gonna let you out of his sight once he sees you? You’re dreaming. You’ll be coming with us tonight.”

Stiles grins through his tiredness. “Awesome – your concerts are amazing.”

“Glad you think so. We’ll get you all set up backstage, and you can watch from there.”

Stiles can’t hold back his yawn this time, and Chris gives an amused shake of his head. “Come on, let’s get you to your man before you fall asleep on your feet.”


 

Chris directs Stiles to Peter’s room but stops at the end of the hallway leading up to the door. “Go on, make his day. I’ll be back in an hour.” He glances at his watch. “Make it an hour and twenty, if you can have him dressed and ready to go,” he concedes. Stiles isn’t sure he can, but he nods anyway. His chest aches with anticipation at the prospect of seeing his mate.

 As Stiles approaches the sound of Paranoid Android, complete with Peter’s dire vocal accompaniment, drifts through the door.  Stiles knocks but there’s no reply so he knocks again, harder this time. “Go away.” Peter sounds distinctly petulant, and Stiles can imagine the scowl he’s wearing.

Stiles grins to himself and leans close to the door. “Is that any way to greet someone who just flew twelve hours to see your sorry ass?”

The music stops abruptly, and there’s an incredulous, “Stiles?” The door flies open and Peter’s there, staring at him open-mouthed. They stay like that for maybe five seconds, and then Stiles is swept off his feet as Peter swings him around, laughing madly. “It’s you!”  Stiles clings on like a spider monkey and grins as Peter buries his face in the curve of his neck, mumbling, “My god, my god, it’s really you. How are you here?”

“Chris, phone call, passport,” Stiles gets out, and then Peter’s kissing him hard, mouth hot and plush and velvety, and god, Stiles had forgotten how good this feels, how right, when they’re together. His tiredness evaporates in a wave of contentment at being near Peter, being able to put his hands on him, touch him, taste him. He wants to stay like this forever, wallowing in the taste of his mate and the heat of his touch. He’s aware that they’re currently in a hotel corridor though, so he pulls back just enough to ask, “Gonna ask me in?” Peter wastes no time carrying Stiles inside and kicking the door closed.

Stiles revels in the sensation of being held, being safe, while Peter holds him up against the wall, rubbing his face over the side of his throat and scenting him. “You’re here, you’re here, you’re here,“ Peter chants quietly, like he can’t quite believe it.

Stiles can’t quite believe it either. Yesterday he was in Beacon Hills. “You needed me,” he smiles against Peter’s hair, “course I’m here.” He starts to say something else, but it’s lost in a huge, spine-cracking yawn.

“Oh sweetheart. Have you slept?” Peter pulls back and sets him on his feet, brow creased with worry.

Stiles makes a seesawing gesture with his hand. “Some, on the plane. But I was too busy thinking about you.” He puts his hands on Peter’s hips and pulls him close again. “And now I’m here, so can we please just enjoy the hour we have before your show? I can sleep later.”

“Gladly.” Peter drapes his arms around Stiles’s neck and kisses him, long and slow, slotting their mouths together. Being in Peter’s arms is like taking a breath after being underwater, like a fresh breeze against his skin on a warm afternoon – it makes him feel alive again in a way he didn’t know he’d been missing. Stiles can’t get enough of Peter’s touch, marvels at the way it eases the ache in his chest.

“Missed you so much,” he breathes into Peter’s ear when they finally part.

“Oh sweetheart, same.” Peter’s hands untwine from round his neck and slide down Stiles’s body, skating over his ribs through the fabric of his shirt. “I pined,” he admits, a small smile quirking the corners of his mouth, “but you probably guessed that.”

“Well yeah, the Radiohead was a pretty big clue.” Stiles takes a tiny step forward, then another, then another, slowly steering Peter backwards across the room and towards the bed, and Peter doesn’t resist. “I called yesterday and Chris picked up, said you were struggling. I heard you singing in the shower. And my passport had arrived the day before, so I got on a plane and here I am.”

“Chris never said you were coming,” Peter grumbles, vaguely indignant.

“Yeah, he said you’d be too jittery if you knew. I would have gotten here sooner, but customs took forever.” Peter’s knees hit the back of the bed and then he’s sitting, arms spread behind him to hold himself up, and Stiles straddles his lap, cupping Peter’s face in his hands and kissing him some more. Peter lets out tiny satisfied noises that get swallowed up, and they lose a few minutes just like that, before Peter eases back so he’s laying flat and pulls Stiles down with him.

He wraps his arms around Stiles and rolls them so he’s on top and then rocks his hips, the bulge in his jeans obvious. “The things I want to do to you right now.”

Stiles groans, a burst of arousal overtaking his tiredness. He’s missed this so much. “Tell me?”

“Want to mark you,” Peter growls out, “scent you so you smell like you’re mine. Want to fuck you so hard you can’t even remember your name.”

Stiles can’t help the broken sound he makes, nor the way his own cock starts to plump up, but. “We can’t. There’s not enough time.”

Peter cocks an eyebrow. “Is that a challenge?”

Stiles runs his hands up Peter’s back, hands sliding under the hem of his t shirt. “Trust me, I'd love it if we could, but I promised Chris you’d be ready to go when he comes to collect us in –“ he checks his watch - “forty minutes.” He can’t help but be amused at the way Peter pouts like a toddler who’s been told no. “Hey. I’m coming to watch the show, and afterwards you can plow me like a cornfield, but in the meantime, wanna get naked and jerk me off?”

Peter perks up at that, quick to shuck out of his clothing while Stiles does the same. Then Peter’s bracing himself over him and slotting their bodies together while he rolls his hips again and fuck, that’s good. Stiles closes his eyes and enjoys the press of warm skin, the way Peter leaves a trail of tiny wet kisses as he nibbles down his throat, all the while rocking their bodies together. “You’re perfect,” Peter breathes against his skin, and then he’s licking his palm and sliding it between them, wrapping a broad palm around both their cocks. Stiles arches into the touch and wonders how he ever thought he could survive without this, without Peter. “Just you wait baby, I’m gonna take you apart later, get you to make all those noises I like,” Peter murmurs softly as his hand starts to move. “But for now, this will do.”

Stiles moans out his agreement as his body reacts, want and arousal bubbling through him, nerve endings sizzling under Peter’s expert touch. Peter’s hand tightens the slightest bit and speeds up, and its good, so good. He swipes a thumb over the head of Stiles’s leaking cock, gathering precome and spreading it down the shaft, and it just gets better from there. Peter’s mouth is on his, both kissing and panting against each other as they rock together into Peter’s touch, and Stiles can feel his orgasm approaching at roughly the speed of sound. He barely has time to think, at least we won’t be late for the concert, before he’s coming with a soft cry. Peter makes a low grunting sound seconds later, adding to the mess between them, and then he lets out a small, satisfied sigh.

Stiles echoes the sound, his whole body a mess of endorphins and exhaustion as he comes down from his high. He lets Peter roll them onto their sides, having apparently lost the ability to move on his own, and tilts his head back so Peter can press his face close to the curve of his neck the way Stiles knows he loves -no, needs to when they’ve been apart. A warm puff of air against his skin tells him that Peter has, indeed, snuggled up close and is breathing him in, and it’s comforting and familiar in a way he’s missed.

He must doze, because the next thing he knows there’s a warm, damp cloth tracing over the skin of his belly and a soft voice whispering “Sweetheart? You need to wake up.”

His eyes snap open and he sits bolt upright, confused for a moment as to where he is and what’s happening, but then there’s hand on his shoulder, Peter’s hand, and it all comes rushing back. He’s in fucking Denmark. He blinks once or twice, rubs his hands down his face, and gives himself a shake in an effort to get himself together. Peter’s sitting on the side of the bed, dressed in his stage gear and with his hair perfectly styled, and Stiles is struck by an awful thought. “Fuck, are we late?”

Peter shakes his head, smiling softly. “We’re fine. You didn’t sleep for long.”

Stiles is still groggy and off kilter, but he feels a wave of relief. “ ‘Kay. How long do I have?”

“Maybe fifteen minutes.”

Stiles levers himself out of bed and staggers just for a second, and Peter’s immediately there supporting him. “Stiles?”

Stiles takes a moment to stretch, and when he’s confident his legs will support him, he shuffle-walks towards the bathroom. “S’fine. I can do this.”

He has the world’s shortest, hottest, shower and the water helps him get himself together. He dries himself briskly, painfully aware of the seconds ticking away, and steals some of Peter’s hair product. He finger-combs his hair into respectability, then slips into a pair of jeans that don’t reek of sweat and airports.

When he steps out of the bathroom Peter takes one look at him and pulls him close before he has a chance to choose a shirt, running his hands up and down Stiles’s back in a possessive gesture. “I still can’t believe you’re here.” He looks halfway between hopeful and desperate when he asks, “How long do I have you for? Please tell me it’s not just a night or two?”

Stiles grins. “Finstock sent me on leave because I was moping, and I don’t have a return ticket. I’m here as long as you want me.”

Peter breaks out in a breathtaking smile. “Really?”

“Really. You’re stuck with me for the rest of the tour. Unless…” Stiles bites his lip as he realizes it never even occurred to him to worry about logistics. “Will that be okay? Is there even room for me? Can you get me on flights and shit?” God, he’s an idiot, turning up and assuming that things will magically get taken care of. He’s probably going to end up stuck here, waiting for Peter all over again.

Peter’s quick to reassure him, though. “Sweetheart, I’ll make certain of it. Now you’re here, I’m not letting you go.” Stiles didn’t know he needed to hear that until he did, and the tiny part of himself that had been tense and panicked eases. Peter’s hand slides down and cups his ass. “I have plans for this later, but for now,” he gives Stiles a playful slap, “get dressed. We need to get going.”

While Stiles dresses, Peter makes a phone call. “Hey. Need to change the transport arrangements for the rest of the gig, we’re adding someone. It’s – oh, he did? And you did? Perfect. Thanks for that.” Peter listens for a minute, his face splitting into a grin, and he laughs at whatever the person says. “Yeah, he really is.”  He hangs up with a bemused expression. “Chris already took care of everything. You’re booked to travel with us.”

Stiles feels the tension he’d been carrying ease even further, which translates to him pulling Peter in for a kiss - part passion, part relief. Peter must feel it too, because he responds eagerly, and when Chris turns up not five minutes later Peter’s managed to suck an impressive string of hickeys all up the soft skin of Stiles’s throat.

 


 

Stiles’s leg bounces with excitement, and he makes the most of the chance to drink in the sight of Peter in all his stage-ready glory. Peter hasn’t let go of his hand once since they left the hotel room, and the heat and weight of his palm is comforting. Chris sits across from them in the limo and asks, “So Stiles, ready for backstage?"

Stiles nods -  he's looking forwards to seeing how it all works behind the scenes.  As the car slows to let them out at Parken Stadium, Chris leans forward and slips a lanyard around Stiles’s neck with a pass that says STAFF – ACCESS ALL AREAS.

Stiles squints at it in confusion, and Chris says, “This’ll get you in and out of anywhere you wanna go.” He drops a baseball cap on Stiles’s head next. “Little bit of camouflage for when we leave the car.”

Chris looks at Peter expectantly and Peter heaves a sigh, untangling his fingers from Stiles’s. He leans in and gives Stiles a quick kiss, says “See you inside, sweetheart,” and then he’s climbing out of the limo to a flurry of flashbulbs. The limo starts  to drive again, and Stiles is left sitting there with Chris, wondering what just happened.

Chris tips his head in the direction of the closed car door. “We’ll give him a few minutes, circle the block, then we’ll go in.” Stiles’s confusion must show on his face, because Chris’s lips quirk up in a rueful smile. “H isn’t ever seen arriving with someone, kid. Ever. We send you out there with him, and your secret’s out. Now, me? I’ve been known to roll up a time or two with a sweet young thing in tow. Nobody’ll give it a second thought.”

A vague feeling of being inadequate starts to stir in his gut, but Stiles slaps it down. It’s temporary, he reminds himself. Cora explained all this. So instead he asks, “And the rest of the band?”

“Already here, ready to go.” Chris chuckles. “We really have taken it down to the wire getting here.” The car slows, stops, and when Chris opens the door this time Stiles is hit by the wall of sound that’s the crowd cheering wildly for the support act. Chris loops an arm over his shoulder and tucks Stiles against his side, saying quietly,”Head down, don’t make eye contact, don’t show them your face,” and Stiles does his best to comply, which means his view of their entry to the rear of the stadium mainly consists of feet and flooring. Chris guides him effortlessly though, and they arrive where they need to be soon enough.

Chris hands Stiles off to a woman with a lanyard and a clipboard with the instructions, ”Anything he wants, okay?” and  after introducing herself as Meg and assuring him she’ll take care of him tonight, she leads him over to a seat where he has a full view of the stage. It’s a pretty sweet setup, and he settles in to watch the show.

The support act is just winding up, and Stiles glances around, looking for Peter. He spots him all the way on the other side of the stage, pacing back and forth, head down. There’s an intensity to him that Stiles can read in the lines of his body, the way he prowls across the stage. “Isn’t he something?” Meg sighs next to him. “What I wouldn’t give to tap that.”

“Excuse me?” Stiles stares at her, taken aback. Surely she knows who she’s talking to?

But apparently not. “Yeah. I mean, Chris is gorgeous, and I can’t fault your taste, but H? He’s the holy grail. I’ve got no chance, though. He has a strict policy – doesn’t sleep with anyone working for the band.” She sighs again and walks off, leaving Stiles with a hollow feeling in his gut. They think he’s here with Chris. Stiles was under the impression that was just to get him backstage, but no. It seems like it’s going to be a thing. He wonders if this is how it will be  for the rest of the tour, if Chris is going to be his beard, for want of a better term. He looks around trying to find Chris to ask him,  but when he spots him he’s deep in conversation with Peter and there's a certain look about them both that screams working. He doesn’t want to intrude, and he can’t get their attention anyway.

And then the lights dim, and a hush falls over the arena. Chris strides out on stage to wild cheering, Peter following, and Stiles knows that for the next two hours he won’t be talking to either of them, because they’ll be working their asses off pleasing this crowd.

 


 

Stiles always though being backstage would be amazing. He thought he’d get the best views, and get to be up close and personal with Peter.

That’s not what it’s like at all.

He can’t help but get lost in the thumping bass and familiar music, and it’s a hell of a view, sure, but he may as well be invisible for all the attention that Peter - no, H, shows him.  H looks over occasionally, but his glance seems to slide right over Stiles, barely stilling for a second before his focus is back on the crowd. Stiles isn’t sure whether he’s trying not to draw attention to the fact there’s someone backstage, or if he’s truly so caught up in his performance that Stiles isn’t worth a second look.

He chooses to believe the former, and shoves his paranoia down, tells himself it’s born of jetlag and exhaustion. He almost believes it.

Except, Chris somehow manages to catch his eye and throw him the odd wink, mouthing you okay kid?  and Stiles doesn’t know if that’s to sell the story that he’s there with Chris, or if Chris just cares more about Stiles right now than his actual mate. Stiles nods and smiles and gives him a thumbs up every time, and does his best to enjoy the show.

About forty minutes in Chris starts in on a bass solo, and Stiles knows that means Peter will be coming off stage for a few minutes to catch his breath and rehydrate. He’s been killing it out there tonight -Stiles can’t remember when he’s seen Peter so energised, so alive, during a performance, and it’s been breathtaking. He can’t wait to tell him so.

But Peter strides off stage, downs a bottle of water and pulls his shirt off for the second half of his performance, all without glancing in Stiles’s direction. Stiles is stung, but then he thinks, fuck it. He slips off his stool and walks over, reaching out and grabbing Peter’s shoulder. Peter turns and his eyes light up, but it’s just for a second, and then he schools his expression, and it hurts.

“What the fuck, Peter?” he hisses out. “Are you ignoring me right now?”

Peter raises his eyebrows. “What? No. I’m protecting our privacy.” He takes a step back, just enough so that Stiles can’t touch him. “We talked about this.”

“So what, you’re happy for everyone to think I’m Chris’s, is that it?”

A crease appears between Peter’s eyebrows as he scowls. “Not happy, no. But it’s necessary.”

“Why?” Stiles demands. “Why is it necessary? How long do you intend to hide me?”

Peter’s eyes flick up and away, over his shoulder, and when Stiles turns to follow his line of sight he sees Chris jutting his chin out at Peter in a gesture that clearly says get your ass back on stage, and he knows that for tonight at least, he’s playing second fiddle to the crowd. “I can’t talk about this now.” There’s something like regret in Peter’s eyes as he brushes past Stiles and strides out, dominating the stage like the god that he is when he breaks into the opening lines of the next song.

That’s the thing about gods, Stiles thinks bitterly. They belong to everyone.


 

It’s Chris who gets to come off stage next, pulling off the shirt he’s sweated through and grabbing a fresh one. He does talk to Stiles, coming over to him as soon as he’s changed. “Glad to see someone remembers I exist,” Stiles mutters bitterly. He knows he’s being unreasonable - he knows, okay? But he’s tired and cranky, and whiles it’s true that they did in fact talk about this, that was back in Beacon Hills, where keeping their relationship quiet was an abstract concept. Stiles hadn’t known that the reality of it would  feel quite so much like a slap in the face.

The barely-suppressed sigh Chris gives only makes him feel worse. “I know, kid. I told him this was a bad idea. But you know what they say.”

“What do they say?” Stiles asks, grudgingly curious.

“Some people learn by hearing, some people learn by watching, and some people gotta pee on the electric fence for themselves. Wanna guess which one Peter is?”

It’s so unexpected that Stiles lets out a snort of laughter. It’s an apt analogy, he guesses. “That does sound like him.”

Chris pats him on the shoulder. “He’s played his cards close to his chest for so long that he’s forgotten there’s any other way. This isn’t forever. Cut him some slack?”

Stiles can see the truth of what Chris is saying, but that doesn’t mean he’s happy about it. “I guess,” he grumbles, and Chris nods his approval.

He heads back onstage, and Stiles make a conscious effort to let go of his resentment. He reminds himself that this whole thing is new for both of them, that there’s no guidebook, and that here are other factors at play here apart from Stiles’s ego.

It doesn’t quite stop the spectre of spending the rest of the tour tucked away backstage from flooding his thoughts, though. He spots a spare microphone in a case, and something about the way it's laying there discarded hits home. He can't help but feel like he's just there to be taken out and used when needed, too. He blinks hard at the depressing analogy. He’s not crying, he’s not. He’s just tired, that’s all, and the artificial smoke from the stage must be stinging his eyes.

The tension in Stiles’s chest eases a little when he looks up and finds Peter’s gaze locked on him. Peter’s staring at him, his face filled with wordless apology, and it hits Stiles that Peter probably hates this as much as he does. Stiles sulking won’t change anything, and he didn’t fly all this way to make Peter more miserable. So he takes a deep breath, pastes on a smile, and blows Peter a kiss. He doesn’t imagine the relief he sees on his mate’s face.

It unlocks something in him, a reservoir of inner strength that he didn’t know he had.   He'll worry about what’s happening between him and H after the show, he decides. Because it is H out there tonight, and he’s a different person to Peter. Stiles gets that, really gets it now.

H is all sleek sexuality, breathtaking and intimidating all at once, a man who stole Stiles’s phone and showed him the night of his life, but couldn’t find the words to ask for his number afterwards, and who needed his niece to step in and explain that Stiles was his mate, because he’s hopeless.

It’s a stark contrast to Peter, his lover, his mate, who once threw the same niece into a pond, and who spent a morning parked outside Stiles’s house because he couldn’t bear not being close to him, and who danced around the pack house singing in his underwear at one in the morning because Stiles agreed to court him.

Six months ago, Stiles reminds himself, he would have killed to be backstage at a Wolf concert. Now that he’s here, he’s going to do his best to enjoy it. He pushes his concerns to the back of his mind, and lets the music take over.

He slides off his stool and edges closer to the stage, lets himself get caught in the rhythm and the lyrics, singing along and swaying his hips. He closes his eyes and twirls around, soaking up the adrenaline release of dancing. He doesn’t hold back, doesn’t care how he looks, just lets himself ride the wave of emotions that the music unlocks in him, dancing and flailing with wild abandon - it's not like anyone's there to see him, anyway. He looks up once to see Peter watching him with affection, and Stiles blows him another kiss.

He can do this, Stiles tells himself. For three more weeks, he can play this game. It's far from perfect, and he’ll probably hate it, but he’ll tolerate it. Because Stiles loves Peter, and that means he needs to be patient with H.

 


 

The rest of the show flies by, and by the end of it Stiles feels slightly better about his situation. After all, it could be worse. He could be stuck in Beacon Hills.

The band comes streaming off stage, talking and laughing as they catch their breath and wait in the wings. Stiles hangs back, stays out of the way, suddenly self-conscious. He’s not sure if the rest of the band members are even aware of his presence, and that suits him just fine, because he doesn’t know how to answer if they ask him why he’s there.

Peter and Chris don’t appear, though.  Stiles cranes his neck and catches a flash of movement, and spots Chris. He’s …is he dragging Peter along by the scruff of the neck? Peter’s pouting and Chris is rolling his eyes. What the hell?

Stiles’s curiosity overrides his desire to stay hidden, and edges over towards where they’re hidden behind a curtain, eavesdropping shamelessly, doing his best to catch the muffled voices over the screaming of the crowds.

He hears Chris’s deep growl. “…is enough, Peter. Kid didn’t fly all this way to be ignored…”

Follow by Peter’s plaintive, “… that’s the business we’re in, he knew what it would be….”

“…don’t care about your persona. Stop acting like a goddam diva, pull your head out of your ass, and do the right thing for once, before he gets sick of your shit and leaves…”

“…think he would?”

“Would you stay, if it was you?”

“Fuck…messed up, … I?”

“Yep. But you…to fix it.” 

Stiles slips back into the shadows and tries to fill in the blanks, but he barely has time to start processing what he’s heard when Peter and Chris appear. Stiles hangs back, watches as Chris spots him and elbows Peter in the side.

Peter rolls his eyes and elbows Chris back, making him wince visibly. Peter’s eyes lock onto Stiles and then he’s moving towards him, like a predator advancing on his prey. Stiles freezes in place - what’s happening? Before he knows it, Peter’s right in front of him, hands tangling in his hair as Peter pulls him in for a bruising kiss. Stiles’s eyes widen and his breath catches, before instinct takes over and he kisses back, reminded vividly of the first time Peter caught sight of him at Cora’s, that same sense of urgency flooding him again. When they finally part, Peter grins savagely, and spins Stiles around to face the rest of the band, who are all staring, shocked. “This is Stiles,” Peter declares into the silence, “And he’s the love of my life.”

All other sounds seem to fade away as Peter’s words ring in his ears, and it hits Stiles what Peter’s doing. He’s claiming him publicly – well, as publicly as he can given the circumstances. Still, it’s a step in the right direction, and Stiles is utterly grateful for it.  

He knows he probably looks like hell right now. He’s wrecked from the flight, he’s covered in hickeys, and he’s sweaty and disheveled from his one man dance party. But Peter’s looking at him with a kind of reverence, and the adoration that’s contained in his gaze almost makes Stiles want to cry.

The rest of the band nod in acknowledgement and shoot him smiles, but it’s all they have time for. “We’ll introduce you properly after,” Chris cuts in, “but now we gotta –“ he jerks his head in the direction of the stage.

Stiles nods his understanding – encores wait for no man.

No man except H, apparently. 

“Wait,” he calls out as the drummer starts to walk on stage, beckoning her back. There’s some kind of huddle, and Stiles hears, “you’re kidding, H...” and “…but we don’t, we’ve never-“ and Peter’s firm, “Tonight, we do.” The band all nod their agreement to whatever the hell it is and go on stage to take their places, and Peter gives a satisfied smirk and gives Stiles a tiny wave.

Stiles really has no idea what’s going on now, but he’s just going with it, still buzzing with contentment at Peter acknowledging him. He grins and waves back.

Peter’s nothing if not a showman. He takes his time, waits till he can hear the buzz of voices wondering where he is, before he walks out on stage and into the spotlight. He soaks up the cheers and whoops for a minute, but then he holds up his hand for silence, and in under a minute it’s so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Stiles isn’t surprised. Peter sings, yes, but he rarely speaks, and when he takes the mic like this it normally means he’s about to do something special.

Peter clears his throat, and fifty thousand people sit up and take notice.

No.

Fifty thousand and one, because Stiles is completely transfixed. Peter waggles the mic back and forth and rocks on his heels for a moment before finally speaking. “Couple of things I never do, Copenhagen,” he says, eliciting the mandatory cheers for remembering where he is.

In the background, there’s the low tap, tap, tap of a snare drum, subtle and barely there as Peter starts to walk the stage in time to the beat. “I don’t talk,” there’s soft laughter at that, “that’s Chris’s thing.”

At the mention of his name a spotlight hits Chris and he gives a lazy wave before he kicks in with a low bassline, one that thrums in time with the drums, forming a vaguely familiar rhythm that tugs at the edges of Stiles’s mind as he strains to recognize it. Peter keeps walking, tapping a finger against the handle of the mic in time to the music. “Another thing I don’t do, we don’t do, is covers.” 

A murmur runs through the air at that. It’s true - Wolf don’t play anything that’s not an original. “Tonight though, is something special,” Peter proclaims, throwing his arms wide. “Tonight, we’re gonna do a cover, because we’re celebrating.” He looks pointedly over to where Stiles is sitting. “At least, I hope we are.”

Stiles’s heart starts beating faster in his chest. What the hell is Peter doing? And then, Peter extends an arm and crooks a finger. “Why don’t you come on out here, sweetheart?”

What?

A collective gasp runs through the stadium at that, a few people letting out high pitched squeals. Stiles can feel his mouth hanging open, but then Peter catches his eye, raises an eyebrow in silent plea, and he finds himself moving forward, drawn like a moth to flame, like a wolf to his mate.  As he comes into view, the crowd erupts in a deafening roar, and all Stiles can think is how the hell does Peter stand this? The heat and the noise are overwhelming, the lights are blinding, and all he can do is keep his eyes trained on his target. It seems to take hours to cross the stage, even though it’s barely ten steps. “You’re doing good, kid,” Chris murmurs as Stiles passes him, and that reassures him, helps him walk the last few feet to Peter’s side. Peter wraps an arm around his waist and pulls him close, planting a kiss on his cheek.

The squealers in the crowd let loose again, and Stiles thinks he might join them. There’s a tap on his shoulder and he turns to find a roadie dropping a high stool into place just as Peter says, “Sit there for me, sweet boy.”

Stiles is in a daze as perches himself on the stool, a combination of jetlag, shock, and fifty thousand people staring at him. Peter circles the chair once, slow and steady, and all the while that nigglingly familiar backbeat plays. Finally, Peter extends an arm to the crowd and waits till they settle to silence. Even in his current state, Stiles can’t help but admire the way Peter plays the crowd.

“The other thing I don’t do is relationships,” he says quietly, drawing the crowd with him as he crouches at the edge of the stage, staring down the barrel of the closest camera as if he’s sharing an intimate secret. “Except, I met a man. This man.” He stands and prowls over to Stiles, “and he’s it. He’s the one. And if he agrees, I’d like to marry the hell out of him.” Stiles has to remember how to breathe when Peter drops to one knee right in front of him and asks, “Be my Mr H?”

“Fuck. Really?” probably isn’t the appropriate response, but that’s what falls out of Stiles's mouth anyway.

“Is that a yes, baby?” Peter smirks in that way he has and fuck, Stiles is gone.

His heart is pounding, his eyes are damp, and there’s only one possible answer. “Yes, you asshole!”

The crowd goes wild, and at the back of his mind Stiles knows that this will go viral – he’ll forever be known as the ‘yes, you asshole’ proposal guy. Cora’s never going to let him live this down, and it doesn’t matter, he doesn’t care, because this is the best thing that’s ever happened to him

Peter laughs, elated, and he sweeps Stiles off the chair and swings him round before setting him back on his seat and kissing him soundly. When he pulls away, Peter gives a nod to the guitarist. “This is where we celebrate!” He shouts to the crowd “Gonna sing you our song! Join in if you know it!”

 The volume of the back beat increases, the guitar kicks in, and the first few notes are startlingly familiar – really, Stiles doesn’t know why he didn’t recognize it sooner.

Imagine me and you, I do, I think about you day and night, it’s only right…

It's the fucking Turtles.

Stiles can’t help it. He bursts out laughing. He’s so happy he might actually combust, and his face hurts from smiling so hard. Peter’s serenading him, circling him back and forth, hand cupping his face as he croons out the lyrics in that dirty growl of his, and it sounds nothing like any version Stiles has ever heard before, but it’s the best thing ever.

He sings along lustily, swaying on the stool and waving his arms over his head at I can’t help but loving nobody but you, for all my liiiife

To his delight the crowd joins in, and he gets it suddenly, why Peter does this. It’s intoxicating, having all those people follow his every move. Maybe, he thinks idly, I should join the band.

That dream’s cut short moments later when Peter drapes an arm around Stiles’s neck and brings the mike up so they can sing together, and Stiles gets to hear firsthand how he actually sounds. It’s terrible – he sounds like someone’s strangling a duck, nothing at all like he sounds in his head- and Peter’s quick to pull the microphone away with a kiss to his cheek and a laugh, before smoothly taking over the vocals again.

Stiles just shrugs and lets himself be serenaded, lets the wall of sound as the crowd sings wash over him, and soaks up the experience. He’s going to remember this night forever.

 


 

Unsurprisingly, the band don’t get to leave the stage after that. The crowd are in a frenzy, chanting “H! H! H!”, screaming at the top of their lungs, and so of course there has to be another encore –  it's the rock anthems they usually play, this time.  

Before they get started though, Stiles nudges Peter and nods at the side of the stage. Being publicly proposed to was a dream come true, sure, and he loved getting a tiny taste of Peter’s world, but the lights and the noise combined with his tiredness? It's too much. Peter seems to understand, but he makes a point of grabbing Stiles and honest to god dipping him as they kiss, sending Stiles off stage to a roar of approval, slightly dazed and very, very happy.

He stands stock still, staring at nothing, the events of the day hitting him. Holy shit. He’s engaged now. Peter just proposed, in front of a capacity crowd.  And Stiles said yes. He starts to laugh, slightly hysterically, and the next time he turns around someone’s handing him a glass of water and someone else is asking if he’s okay, and he waves them all away, unable to speak as laughter bubbles out of him. Is he okay?

Is he okay?

He’s on top of the fucking world.

 


 

                                            

 

 

Chapter Text

 

The crowd are still screaming for more when Peter and the band tumble laughing off the stage, and Stiles finds himself pulled into a crushing hug by a wildly grinning Peter. For a minute Stiles thinks Peter won’t let go, that he’ll just carry him away from all this madness, but then Peter loosens his grip and takes the time to actually introduce Stiles to the band. Stiles already knows their names of course– Dana on drums, Josh on lead guitar, Alex on keyboard, but he gets to actually shake their hands and talk to them, and all of them roll their eyes at Peter’s theatrics and tell Stiles he really must be something special.

Right now, he feels like that might even be true.

Someone produces champagne to celebrate, and Stiles accepts a glass gladly, and then a second and third, enjoying the cool sharpness of the bubbles on his tongue. Peter hasn’t stopped grinning, and he hasn’t taken his hand from the small of Stiles’s back either – it’s possessive and familiar in a way Stiles hadn’t even known he missed. He drains his glass and spins, draping his arms around Peter’s neck and kissing him tenderly. When he pulls away he murmurs, “You’re ridiculous, you know that? You literally went from secret squirrel to grand gesture over the space of two hours.”

Peter squirms slightly. “I didn’t like hiding you. I could see you didn’t like it either.”

“Still,” Stiles says, amused, “zero to proposal? I keep telling you, warn a guy when you’re gonna drop things like this on me.”

 “I’m a creature of impulse, Stiles. My urges can’t be controlled.” Peter arches an eyebrow and lets out a low, almost subvocal growl, and Stiles gets what Peter’s trying to tell him. The wolf takes over sometimes, and Peter really can’t help it. But he can’t say that of course, not here, not now.

Stiles rests his forehead against Peter’s. “I love you and your creature,” he says quietly.

They’re pulled out of the moment by a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “What the hell, H?”

Peter tenses for a second but then he turns to face the owner of said hand. “Stiles, this is our manager, Mike.”

Mike’s in his mid-forties maybe, solidly built and almost as tall as Stiles. He gives off a distinctly long-suffering vibe, and Stiles has a pang of sympathy for him. Mike looks Stiles up and down, then sticks a hand out. “Pleased to meet you. I hope you know what the hell you’re signing up for.”

Stiles grins and shakes the proffered hand. “Not a clue, but I’m with this guy, so I guess I’ll learn.”

“Good,” Mike says absently, all his attention turning to Peter. “I hope you’re ready to do an interview tomorrow morning. This thing’ll be online inside half an hour.”

Peter honest to god whines. “Mike, no. Not the morning. Stiles just got here, and you know tomorrow’s a free day.”

“People who propose in front of a full house don’t get free days,” Mike says firmly. He looks at Stiles, humming thoughtfully. “Kid, how do you feel about getting in on this? The internet’s gonna go crazy trying to figure out who you are. You wanna get in first, before they start digging?”

Stiles shrugs, floating on euphoria and champagne. “Sure thing.”

Peter frowns. “Are you sure, sweetheart?”

“Yeah, why not? It’s an epic love story. We tell people how we met at that concert and fell for each other, and then they leave us alone.”

Mike snorts. “You wish, kid. TMZ will be camped on your front lawn, trying to get an unflattering picture of you.”

“Except they won’t. I’ll be staying at my dad’s place, and anyone who camps on his lawn will be arrested for trespass. He’s the local sheriff.”

Mike’s face curves up in a smile at that. “Well that makes things easier. Still, you ready to be in the public eye?”

Stiles nods. “I guess. I’ll just have to get used to life being a wild ride, huh?”

Peter huffs out a laugh, and it’s mostly relieved. “Rock and roll, baby.”

 


 

Mike lets them choose who they want to give the exclusive to, saying any of the networks will snap up the offer, although he tells Peter he doesn’t really deserve to have any say after pulling a stunt like that.

“Late Late with James Corden?” Stiles suggests. “I like him, and Carpool Karaoke is the shit.” Mike agrees that yes, he can make that happen, and then walks Stiles through what to expect and how to answer any tricky questions about Peter’s identity. Stiles laughingly admits that he’s been talking rings around his father since he was ten and doesn’t think this will be a challenge. Peter looks dubious. “Relax,” Stiles assures him. "I took media studies as part of my degree. I know how this works.”

After they’ve sorted out the details (three phone calls and Corden is on board), they celebrate some more, because everyone wants to meet H’s fiancé, and there’s more champagne to be drunk. By the time they wind up it’s well after one but heading back to the hotel, Stiles knows there’s no way he’s going to be able to sleep. He’s wired from excitement, champagne, and having Peter within touching distance. Jetlag be damned, all he wants is to get Peter alone and do filthy, filthy things to him. Peter feels the same, if the way he pins Stiles to the elevator wall and licks a stripe up his throat is anything to go by.

When they get to their room though, there’s a moment where Stiles holds Peter at arms’ length, taking a second to assure  himself this is real. “That just happened. You actually proposed. You’re my fiancé now.”

Peter nods, and for a moment he looks uncertain. “Please tell me you meant it when you said yes?”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “I flew across the world to be with you because I was pining. You even have to ask? Of course I meant it.”

The uncertainty disappears and is replaced with something like triumph, and Peter crowds Stiles against the wall, nuzzling at his throat. Stiles laughs softly at his enthusiasm and lets him, before sliding a hand under Peter’s shirt and up his abs. “Take me to bed?”

“Gladly, sweetheart.”  Peter reaches down and hoists Stiles up with a hand under each thigh, carrying him across the room to the bed. “I believe certain promises were made, something about cornfields and plowing?”

“Uh huh.” Stiles isn’t sure where it comes from, but a wave of desire sweeps over him. “Want you to fuck me so hard I feel it in the morning.” He might be tired and overwhelmed, but he also needs Peter in him, to wipe away any lingering trace of their separation.

Peter plops him down on the edge of the bed and Stiles bounces in place, laughing a little. He strips off his shirt and lets Peter pull off his socks and shoes and wrestle him out of his skinny jeans, and as he does so Stiles’s phone falls out of his pocket. It’s been buzzing all night but Stiles has been studiously ignoring it, and the screen’s full of text notifications, DMs, and missed calls. Peter picks it up and holds it out, one eyebrow raised, but Stiles shakes his head. “Nope. I can’t. It’s too much. If I look I’ll freak out. And yeah, I know my Dad’ll probably kill me for not calling him back, but right now? I just need you to myself.”

Peter nods and turns the phone off without further ado, before doing the same with his own And tossing them both on the bedside table. “I feel the same. The world can have you tomorrow, but tonight?  It’s just us.”

Stiles melts at the thought of it and pulls Peter down onto the bed with him. “Just us,” he echoes, before Peter leans in and kisses him hungrily, and there’s not much talking after that.

 


 

Stiles keeps his eyes firmly closed and tries to ignore the hand shaking him awake, but Peter whispers, “Sweetheart? We have to get up,” and he won’t stop shaking him, and in the end Stiles lurches into a sitting position and bats the hand away, opening one eye and squinting into the gloom. Sitting reminds him of exactly what they got up to last night, and he feels deliciously achy in all the right places. He’s almost reminded of the night they met – it’s the same scenario, waking early with his body pleasantly throbbing - except for one important detail. This time, Stiles isn’t slipping away into the night.

“S’time?” he gets out, groggy and slightly disoriented.

Peter grimaces. “Seven. I let you sleep as long as I could, but Mike will be here in half an hour.”

Stiles flops back on the bed and groans. “Nooo. Why?”

“Because you told Mike you’d go on television in the heat of the moment, and time zones mean we have to get up?” Peter reminds him, and that’s definite amusement in his voice.

“Past me was a moron,” Stiles grumbles, but he drags himself upright.

“Is that any way to talk about the man I’m marrying?” Peter asks, rewarding Stiles with a kiss and holy shit, that’s right.

“We’re engaged. Peter, we’re engaged.”

“We definitely are, sweetheart,” Peter says, far too cheerfully for this ungodly hour.  “Also, you probably want to call your father.”

Stiles’s eyes snap open at that. “Shit.”

He and Peter got so lost in each other last night that everything else melted away. It wasn’t even just the sex, although that was pretty great. It was taking time to talk, reconnect. It was holding each other close and vowing never to be apart like that again. And then it was trying to figure out how they could make that happen, exactly. By the time they’d talked everything through it was after three, and Stiles was beyond exhausted. He doesn’t even recall falling asleep, just has a vague memory of Peter kissing his forehead and pulling the blankets over him.

He reaches over and turns his phone on. He doesn’t bother reading the slew of messages but instead, and after doing time zone math, he calls his dad. He’s greeted with an amused, “Hey, kid. Anything you wanna tell your old man?”

“Um, hey. So I guess you heard I’m engaged?”

His dad snorts. “Oh yeah. There’s a whole lotta footage of you going around right now.”

Stiles cringes. “I would have called, but it got kinda crazy and then I crashed, and I only just woke up.”

“Still. A little warning? It would have been nice to know before Cora sent me a link.“ The rebuke is subtle, but it’s there.

Stiles groans. “I would have warned you, but I don’t think Peter even knew he was gonna ask – he can be impulsive.”

“You don’t say.” Stiles is starkly reminded where he got his sarcastic streak from.

“I know it was out of the blue, but its not really a surprise given everything, is it?”

There’s a long-suffering sigh, one Stiles is intimately familiar with. “I guess not. And I gotta hand it to the man, he did it in style.”

“He sure did,” Stiles grins at the memory.

“So you really didn’t mind being dragged into the limelight like that? I don’t have to shoot him for violating your privacy?”

“I didn’t mind, Pops,” Stiles says. “Right now, I’m tired and hungry and a little bit terrified – We’re on our way to tape an interview - but the way he proposed? That, I’m happy about. I loved it.”

“And you didn’t say yes just because a crowd of screaming fans were watching? You really want this?” The concern in his voice is clear, and Stiles loves his dad a little bit more right now for even thinking to ask. When he thinks back to Peter's proposal though, he doesn’t even remember the crowd. He was far too focused on Peter asking him to marry him.

“I wanna marry him, Dad. The answer would have been the same if he’d asked me while we were naked in the shower.”

It’s his father’s turn to groan. “Kid, I’m gonna assume your filter’s completely shot because you’re tired, and pretend I didn’t hear that last bit. But if you’re happy, I’m happy for you.”

Stiles would love to stay talking, but he knows they’re up against a deadline. “Listen Dad, can I call you back later? We’re kind of in a hurry.”

“Yeah yeah, now you’re a celebrity you’re too busy for your old man,” John grumbles affectionately. “Call me back when you can.”

“I’ll try. Love you, Pops.”

“Love you too, kid. Just don’t sneak off and get married in Vegas without telling me, okay?”

Stiles grins. “I promise.”

He hangs up and leans his head against Peter’s shoulder, knowing he could hear every word. “Well, there go our elopement plans.” Peter gives a soft laugh. “Do we really have to get up?”

“We really do. Come on, shower.” Peter eases him upright and helps him out of bed, one arm around his waist as he leads Stiles towards the bathroom.

“The rock n roll lifestyle isn’t meant to include early starts. I feel I’ve been lied to,” Stiles grumbles. Peter just kisses his forehead and shoves him into the shower.

 


 

Once Stiles is fed and caffeinated he feels a little better, and when Peter tells him he already called Talia and the rest of the pack while Stiles slept and Stiles can ignore their messages demanding he call, it’s honestly a weight off his mind – he's still too tired to deal. He’ll probably call Cora in a day or two, though, just to hear her voice and let her mock him. Her text, sent to the both of them, had said I DON’T BELIEVE YOU TWO. THATS SO FUCKING CUTE I MIGHT BARF.

The interview is surprisingly okay. It's a videolink, and they spend a few minutes chatting with the host, going over the list of questions and no-go areas, and Stiles has always been a fan, so he flails for a hot minute just to get it out of his system. He apologizes in advance in case he turns out to be useless and explains he’s jetlagged and might screw the whole thing up. The cameraman laughs and assures him that however badly he messes it up he can't be worse that Cruise. He reminds Stiles that it's not live anyway and they can always edit it, and hearing that reassures him.

By the time they start recording he’s over his nerves. It helps when he reminds himself that he must have something going for him, since he just got engaged to one of the hottest men on the planet.

When James asks where they met, Stiles squirms just the right amount as he confesses that he was a total fanboy, and  H took him home after a show. He produces the ticket stub from his wallet where he keeps it as a memento. “It was love at first sight, and we’ve been together ever since,” Stiles says. When Peter sees the stub, he makes a surprised sound, leans in, and gives Stiles a soft peck on the cheek. Their host coos, and it’s perfect.

All that stuff Stiles learned in his media studies course comes flooding back, and it’s easier than he imagined to give entertaining but vague replies to any questions he doesn’t want to answer. Case in point, Stiles doesn’t lie about where he lives exactly, he just lets it be assumed that it’s the city where he and H hooked up. (Always H, never Peter, he reminds himself constantly). He talks vaguely about how distance relationships suck, but that being with H is worth it.

Beacon Hills? Never heard of it.

Stiles does most of the talking while Peter sits next to him looking smug and keeping a hand on the small of Stiles's back. He occasionally offers a one or two word answer, but it soon becomes clear which of them is more forthcoming. Not that that’s much of a shock – Peter’s always been notoriously hard to pin down in interviews. He does open up when they ask why he proposed the way he did, though. He looks straight down the barrel of the camera and says, “Because Stiles is the one for me, and I didn’t want to hide that,” and Stiles laughs and blushes and covers his face with his hands.

Somehow, and Stiles isn’t even sure how he does it, they get through the thing without revealing anything about Stiles at all apart from his name, the fact he’s going to be just as weird about my privacy as this guy (which elicits a loud laugh from H), and that he’s deliriously happy. He also lets it be known that he’ll be joining the band when they tour from now on.

When asked about wedding details, Stiles shrugs and says, “Who knows with this guy? Maybe we’ll hire a stadium.”

At that, Peter shakes his head and leans forward in his seat. Slowly and clearly, in a tone that brooks no argument, he states, “It’ll be very, very, small, and very, very private.” Stiles had assumed it would be some kind of three ring media circus, and he was prepared to do that if Peter wanted it, but hearing that they’re keeping it simple has him breathing a sigh of relief, and he reaches out and squeezes Peter’s hand in a silent thank you.

After that they talk briefly about the rest of the tour and the upcoming album, and then it’s done and they’re home free. As Stiles leaves the studio the events of the past two days catch up with him, exhaustion hitting him hard, and he’s suddenly so tired he’s nauseous. He stumbles a little and Peter’s quick to put a hand round his waist, keeping him upright. “Sweetheart?” Stiles sways slightly in place, and Peter frowns. “Bed for you,” he declares as he steers Stiles into the waiting car.

Stiles doesn’t mean to fall asleep on the drive back, but next thing he knows he’s being shaken awake and guided into the elevator and up to their room, and when Peter leads him through the hotel room door Stiles buries his face against Peter’s neck because it just looks so comfy and he wants to lean there for a thousand years or so. Peter smells good, and he really wants to tap that, but he’s too tired. He must say something to that effect, because Peter chuckles softly. “We don’t fly out till tomorrow morning. We have plenty of time for both. Sleep first, though. I might take it personally if you fall asleep on me while I’m seducing you.”

Peter peels Stiles out of his clothes and helps him into bed after insisting he drink some water, then he draws the blinds and turns out the lights, and the last thing Stiles remembers is a warm naked body wrapping itself around his back before he’s out like a light.

 


 

Stiles wakes to the sound of soft, steady breathing. Peter’s fast asleep, his head resting on Stiles’s chest. Stiles takes a moment to let his eyes open slowly, taking stock. He doesn’t know how long he’s slept, but it’s long enough that he feels halfway human at least. He also needs to pee, but he lies there as long as he can and enjoys the feel of Peter’s skin against his.

Finally, he wiggles out from under the warm body and shuffles to the bathroom to take care of business. He splashes his face with cold water and brushes his teeth, and debates for a second whether to get dressed. In the end though, the lure of his mate is too much to resist, and he slips back under the covers, sighing happily when Peter immediately plasters himself against Stiles’s side and throws one leg across his without ever waking. Stiles drifts back into that lovely ethereal space that exists between sleeping and waking for at least an hour, before slowly surfacing to full consciousness.

Peter snuffles and squirms against him, one hand locked on Stiles’s hip, and Stiles runs his fingers lightly over Peter’s bare skin, just because he can. He thinks vaguely that his plans to go and see some of the city's sights are probably a write-off, but he can’t deny that he needed the sleep. He squints at his phone - 8.38 pm. He’s slept for nine hours, and he’s starving – that’s what woke him. He tries to remember the last proper meal he had, and he can’t. He needs to eat, so with a regretful sigh he eases himself away from the warm body next to him and pads over to the phone to call room service.

He half expects them to refuse his order, call him an interloper, but when he gives his room number he hears a whispered conversation that includes ,’yes its for H!’ and the woman taking his order assures him she’ll bring it up personally, as soon as possible. Stiles feels like something of a fraud, but he also has a sneaking suspicion that if he corrects her assumption he won’t get fed nearly as fast, so he keeps quiet.

He turns to find Peter propped up on one elbow, a smile playing across his lips. “I hope you ordered some for me?”

Stiles nods. “I figured you’d be hungry. Is it okay that I called? I can cancel if it’s not.” There's part of him that still thinks of room service as this mysterious, forbidden thing. Memories of being twelve years old and on a weekend away with his dad, of his father’s dire warning of, ‘Don’t touch that phone, kiddo,’ echo in his brain from long ago.

"It's fine, sweetheart." Peter sits up on the side of the bed and stretches, and wow, that’s a view. Stiles could watch it all day. Peter knows it too, if the way he smirks when he stands and stretches exaggeratedly is anything to go by. “See something you like?”

Stiles lets his eyes linger on the swell of Peter’s ass, making no attempt to hide his interest. “Yep. Wanna do something about it, after we eat?”

Peter prowls over to him and drapes his arms around Stiles’s neck. “I plan to make up for lost time,” he murmurs, sultry and seductive, and fuck, what was Stiles thinking, ordering food? He could be in bed with Peter right now, but instead they’re stuck waiting. A needy whine escapes him. Peter nuzzles at his throat before he whispers, “Patience, sweetheart. I plan to take all night with you, explore every inch of you, get to know you all over again. Can I?”

“Please?” Stiles should probably be embarrassed at how needy he sounds, except he can feel Peter’s erection pressing against his belly, knows he’s not the only one.

Peter steps in closer and nuzzles at his throat before pulling back with a sigh. “After dinner,” he says softly, and Stiles isn’t sure which one of them he’s reminding.

 


 

Peter does grab his phone, but it’s only for a minute, his fingers flying over the keys as he sends a series of texts. “Just making sure we’re not disturbed. I’m telling everyone we’re unavailable unless someone’s dying. Otherwise Mike’s likely to turn up and want to show you the sights.”  

“I can see everything I want right here, thanks,” Stiles says, slotting himself in Peter’s lap and getting his hands in that hair, tugging lightly in the way he knows drives Peter crazy. They spend the rest of their wait making out hungrily, only parting reluctantly when there’s a knock, both shrugging their way into a t shirt and jeans before Peter answers the door. The woman wheeling the cart is wide eyed and starstruck – Stiles recognizes the look – and she does her best to maintain her professionalism, but when Peter makes gives his trademark smirk and offers her an autograph and a selfie, that all flies out the window and she giggles like a schoolgirl as she accepts, much to his amusement. What he’s not expecting is when she hesitantly asks if she can get a picture with both of them. Peter grins and asks, “What do you say, sweetheart? Embrace your newfound fame?”

Stiles wants to protest that he’s not famous, but he catches the way the woman’s biting her lip like she’s unsure if she’s overstepped, so he shrugs and replies, “Sure thing,” going over to them and posing for several shots. He might not have much experience at being in the public eye, but selfies, he’s good at.

Once she’s gone in a flurry of thank you’s and heart-eyes, they sit at the ludicrously large dining table and attack their meals with enthusiasm. Stiles ordered steaks, and they’re perfectly cooked, but he barely tastes it, too focused on what’s coming afterwards.

Him, hopefully.

Peter smirks as if he knows exactly what Stiles is thinking, which. Yeah. Werewolf. Stiles still isn’t quite over that, wonders if he ever will be. He pushes his plate away and leans back from the table, fingers splayed over his full stomach, and muses, “Is sex like swimming, do you think?”

Peter quirks a brow. “Wet, you mean?”

Stiles laughs and makes his way over to Peter’s side of the table, straddling his lap. “No, I meant do we have to wait half an hour after eating?”

“I certainly hope not, since I was planning on having you for dessert,” Peter purrs, hands settling on Stiles’s waist.

“Mmm. Good plan,” Stiles says, leaning in for a kiss, which Peter returns enthusiastically before starting to kiss his way down Stiles’s throat, the touch of his lips on sensitive skin making Stiles’s breath catch. Stiles lets out a breathy whimper when Peter slips a hand under the hem of his shirt and drags the flat of his thumb over one nipple.

Peter pauses, looking up. “You want that, baby?”

“Uh huh,” Stiles nods frantically, and arches his back in a less than subtle hint.

Peter grins, all teeth and intent, and lifts Stiles up and back so his ass is balanced on the edge of the table and Peter's mouth is at chest level, and then he leans in and sucks on the hard nub through the fabric of Stiles’s shirt, making him shiver at the sensation of wet-warm-cold.  He pulls back long enough to ask, “Shall I spread you out right here like a feast, put my mouth all over you until you're begging?” before leaning in again and circling Stiles’s nipple with his tongue.

Stiles moans at the very idea of it, reaching blindly behind him and shoving Peter’s plate to the side and leaving a clear space. Maybe that’s why the table’s so big, he thinks dimly - so people can fuck on it. Peter chuckles, dark and hungry, and peels Stiles’s shirt off over his head before lowering him onto the table’s polished surface, one hand cradled gently behind his head. The wood’s cool against his back but Stiles welcomes it, enjoying the contrast against Peter’s warm hands that are roaming over his skin, touching every inch of him. He reaches down and pops the button on his jeans, shimmying out of them, then pulls his legs up so his feet are flat on the table, letting his knees drop open so he’s on show.

For a split second he feels embarrassed, exposed, but then he sees the way Peter’s standing in the vee of his legs, looking along the length of his naked body with something like reverence. “Mine, now,” he says quietly, letting out a satisfied rumble and running broad palms up the soft insides of Stiles’s thighs. His mouth follows his hands, and Stiles squeals and squirms at the heat of Peter’s mouth on the tender flesh as he licks the salt from Stiles’s skin, at the pleasant sharp sting as he sucks deep bruises, marks of ownership that no one but them will ever see.

Peter works his way up both thighs, and by the time he's done, Stiles is hard and aching. “Please,” he breathes, not even sure what he’s asking for. Peter seems to know though. He presses Stiles’s knees back towards his body, exposing Stiles further, and then there’s a wet warm tongue lapping at his ass. Stiles doesn’t even know what you’d call the sounds he’s making, but Peter growls out his approval when he hears them before going back to what he was doing, little kitten licks that are maddeningly gentle, soft and perfect and everything Stiles didn’t know he needed. A thrill of arousal runs through him at every touch, and when Peter uses one hand to pinch and tug at his nipples it just gets better and better.

Peter takes his time, lapping and teasing at Stiles’s hole till the muscle is soft and pliant and Stiles is panting and begging, and when he takes his mouth away he slips two fingers right in, brushing unerringly against Stiles’s prostate, and Stiles is lost to a brand new wave of pleasure. Peter kisses him softly but Stiles barely notices, all his attention focussed on the warmth gathering in the pit of his belly, on his straining, desperate cock as it throbs and leaks, desperate for attention.

Peter mouths his way carefully down Stiles’s ribs before finally going down on him, and the sudden wet heat of a mouth on his cock has Stiles nearly jack-knifing off the table. Peter clamps a firm arm across his stomach holding him in place, and drags Stiles’s legs over his shoulders before starting to bob his head in earnest, and Stiles is so pent up, so sensitive from all the attention Peter’s already paid him, that he comes in thirty seconds flat, his whole body shaking with the force of it.

Peter, the asshole, has the effrontery to laugh when he pulls off, a gleam in his eye as he swipes the back of his hand across his mouth before lowering Stiles’s legs carefully off his shoulders. “Do I need to carry you to bed, sweetheart?”

“Yeah, carry me,” Stiles sighs, boneless.

“As you wish,” Peter says, and sweeps Stiles into his arms and carries him to bed.

 


 

When Peter fucks him it’s slow and deep, and Peter growls low in his throat the whole time. Stiles is stupidly turned on by it. “Someone’s feeling possess-unh!,” he chokes out, even as the word is punched out of him by a particularly hard thrust.

“Mine,” Peter grunts, and fucks him that little bit harder.

 


 

Two hours later, Peter’s still going strong, nuzzling, touching, teasing, and he shows no signs of stopping. Apparently when he said he was going to explore every inch of Stiles’s body, he was serious. He’s fucked Stiles three times, and Stiles came every time, but now he’s beyond done.

Still, he revels in Peter’s continued affection. The way Peter can’t keep his hands off his body, rubbing against him and scenting him, he feels like some mystical treasure from a pharaoh’s tomb, or a priceless work of art.

He feels…adored.


 

Later, when Peter’s finally done, he curls up contentedly against Stiles, stretching and yawning like the cat who got the cream. “Happy now?” Stiles teases.

“Wolf’s happy,” Peter mumbles, reaching out and grabbing Stiles’s hand, clumsily kissing at his fingertips. “Claimed you properly.”

“Yeah well, tell the wolf I’m not going anywhere,” Stiles says, amused. “Stuck with me now. Proposed in front of everyone.”

“Mmm,” Peter nods his agreement, almost asleep. Before he dozes off though, he manages to mumble, "m'keeping you," and then his eyes flutter closed and Stiles is left with an armful full of sleepy, cuddly werewolf.

He can't think of anything better.

 

 


                                   

                                               

 

Chapter Text

They tour the rest of the Scandinavian countries, and Stiles gets used to odd hours and breakfast at lunchtime and not quite knowing what day it is. Touring is exhausting and fantastic and a glorious mess, and Stiles marvels that anyone would ever do this while simultaneously wondering why they would ever stop. Peter’s apologetic that he can’t take Stiles out sightseeing, but rehearsals and setup and soundchecks eat up his time, and Stiles wouldn’t have it any other way - it’s what Peter does, who he is.

Besides, Mike has taken Stiles under his wing, and when he goes out and about with the manager nobody looks at them twice. Stiles appreciates the company – he’d like to think he’s capable of traversing the cities of Sweden and Norway footloose and fancy free, but in reality, he knows he’d flounder. Mike though, has enough local knowledge to get them where they want to go, and Stiles enjoys his company. Mike tries his best to find an hour or three in every new city while Peter’s busy rehearsing, and it means Stiles gets to take in the major landmarks and take photos for his Dad.

He and Peter do steal away for an entire half day together in Oslo. They go on a boat tour of the fjords, and it’s magnificent - crisp blue skies, the lap of water on the hull, and houses and buildings lining the banks that Stiles can only describe as quaint. Once they’re on board, time slows. It’s a tiny oasis of calm in the chaos of touring, and they bask in the quiet and let the commentary of the tour guide wash over them as they hold hands.

Peter scruffs up his hair and wears his DILF clothes, and Stiles wears a baseball cap, they both keep their sunglasses on, and for a wonder, nobody gives them a second look.  

It’s a perfect day with his fiancé.

Stiles doesn’t go to all the shows. There are nights where he just needs to spend some time alone at the hotel, catch up on his sleep and rest his body – he and Peter are still making up for lost time, and sometimes after a show the adrenaline means Peter’s wolf comes to the fore and he wants to play hard. Stiles loves it, encourages it even, but it does mean that in the morning he moves like a eighty year old man as his hips groan in protest from Peter pressing his knees up around his ears.

Peter always acts concerned but Stiles knows he’s not entirely sorry, not with the smirk he wears when he listens to Stiles groan as he rolls out of bed. Peter also always pulls the sting from his aches and pains though, and that particular werewolf power Stiles is completely on board with.

For most nights of the tour though, Stiles is there at the side of the stage watching and cheering, getting to know the backstage crew, learning the rhythm of touring. It still astounds him, the amount of manpower that goes into assembling and disassembling the set every night, and he understands now why it was so hard for Peter to make time to call him.

The clip of the proposal went viral, as they knew it would. The Corden interview’s a hit and Mike wants them to do more, but Peter point blank refuses. “They’ve had their pound of flesh,” he says, “and you know how I feel about the press. My private life is private.” (Which Stiles secretly thinks is pretty fucking rich coming from a man who proposed in front of fifty thousand people, even if Peter does insist the wolf was entirely to blame.)

There is one wrinkle that makes its way into the tour, and it’s Chris who suggests it. “Gotta give the people what they want,” he says, a twinkle in his eye. The band agree, and so now, there are some nights when, during the encore, the drums will kick in, tick-tick-tick, Chris will start a now familiar thumping bass line, and the fans will start to scream, because they know what’s coming. Peter will hold up a hand to stop the squeals and whistles before asking, “You sure wanna hear this?”

The crowd will invariably chant and start a slow clap in response, and Peter will throw up his arms as if he’s making some huge concession, before absolutely belting out Happy Together to a chorus of squeals and shouts. Somehow Wolf makes the song their own, their interpretation far more Metal than Pop, with Peter growling out the lyrics in a way that’s dark and sexy, almost possessive. It’s a far cry from the original, and Stiles knows every word of it’s meant for him.

He fucking loves it.

 


 

Stiles calls Bobby a week into his trip. It’s not an easy call to make, but he knows the decision’s the right one. It’s painfully obvious that wherever Peter is, Stiles needs to be – he’s not prepared to risk either of them falling into the dark despair caused by their separation again, and if this is the price he pays, so be it.

When he offers his resignation though, Bobby just laughs at him. “Don’t be an idiot. You don’t need to quit. You’ll just work for me when you’re in town, and when you’re on the road you’re on the road. It’s fine.”

Stiles gets a lump in his throat at that. Because he'd been prepared to quit, but the thought that he doesn’t have to? Stiles can’t help the almost-sob of gratitude that escapes. “Thank you so much, Bobby,” he chokes out, “you’re the best. You don’t know what this means -”

Bobby cuts him off. “You’re a talented little bastard, Stilinski. You think I’m letting you waste all that skill so you can retire at twenty-something to be a trophy wife? Forget it. Work a day in your damned life, kid.”

Stiles recognizes the bluster for what it is – Coach never did cope well with compliments - so he takes a deep breath and gathers himself, and instead of continuing to tell Finstock how grateful he is, he says, “I guess you have a point. I mean, I gotta pay my student loans somehow.”

“Damn straight you do,” Bobby agrees, and Stiles can sense his relief at the shift in the conversation.

“Listen Coach, I have to go get ready for tonight.”

“Yeah, yeah. The show must go on, huh?” Finstock snorts, and then he hangs up, leaving Stiles grinning at his phone.

 


 

There are three days left in the tour, and Stiles is tired right down to his bones. He’s ready to go home.

Except they’re not going home, not exactly. They’re going back to the US, but before they head back to Beacon Hills they’re stopping in Dubois, Idaho - population 698.  It’s where Peter is reported to live sometimes, and he wants to go and stay for a week to keep up the fiction of that being his residence when he’s out of the public eye.

Stiles laughs himself sick when Peter reveals that he actually owns a property there, a small farmhouse. He stops laughing when Peter points out that they’d be alone for the entire week - no fans, no family, nobody.

“Oh my god,” Stiles says, eyes widening. “We’ve never had alone time before.”

Peter smirks and pulls Stiles close with a hand on each hip. “Exactly,” he murmurs before kissing Stiles softly. “For once, it’d just be the two of us.”

“Sign me up,” Stiles says, grinning, and texts his dad to tell him they’ll be away for another week.

 


 

They hit home soil and there’s a pack of photographers at the airport. Stiles knew there would be, lord knows he’s seen enough photos of H getting off planes in the past, but he doesn’t expect to hear his own name called, and he stumbles slightly as his head whips around trying to find the source.

“Stiles! Stiles! Over here, smile for me! Is there a ring? Stiles! Look this way! Where to now? Are you glad to be home? When’s the wedding?”

He’s frozen in place, but then Peter’s arm is slung across his shoulders, guiding him, and he’s never been more grateful. “Do I answer them?” he whispers.

“God, no. Smile and wave, boys, smile and wave,” Peter tells him in an undertone, smiling and waving as he speaks, and Stiles follows his lead. The cameras flash and Stiles keeps a smile fixed on his face as they move forward at a steady pace, never slowing, never stopping, and before he knows it the cameras are trained on Chris and Dana who are following behind.

He shakes his head, bemused. “Why would they bother asking me questions?”

Peter smirks. “Because they know they won’t get an answer out of me.”

 


 

Idaho’s nice.

It’s quiet, and there’s nothing much to do there except wander into town to the diner be seen by the locals. Peter’s somehow perfected the ‘shadowy stranger’ persona, and not many people actually talk to them bar the waitress, who’s just thrilled to have a new face to show pictures of her grandchildren to.

Stiles takes some pictures of himself in open fields, and one with a goat, while he waxes lyrical about country living, and he posts them to his new ‘official’ Instagram and twitter pages– these are the places he’ll curate the public image of his life with H - his own personal accounts have all been locked as private.

They spend an entire week together, with no demands on their time and nowhere to be, and it’s the perfect way to wind down after the stress of their trip. Peter stops shaving, and so does Stiles. They make love in the middle of a field under the stars one night at Stiles’s urging. Peter owns the field after all, so Stiles figures they may as well take advantage. They enjoy it so much they do it again the next night.

Peter indulges his wolf and chases Stiles around the house while they’re both naked, making dire threats (or are they promises?) about what he’s going to do when he catches him. Stiles makes sure Peter catches him, and he holds him to those promises.

But the week passes far too quickly, and then they’re packing their bags again and heading to the airport, preparing to face the real world. “Are you sure we can’t actually just live here?” Stiles sighs as he zips up his bag.

“I tried it once just after Cora was born, in an effort to get some peace,” Peter tells him with a wry smile. “Trust me, the shine wears off after a month.”

Stiles tries to imagine it, wrinkling his nose. “Yeah, I guess I can see that. Besides, I’d miss my dad.”

“And I need to be near the pack. But we can always come back here.”

“Maybe for our honeymoon?” Stiles teases.

“Absolutely not.” Peter looks positively offended at the suggestion. “I told you, I plan to take you to Paris and spoil you.”

Stiles grins. “Fine. Now all we have to do is set a date and get hitched.” Peter goes strangely quiet and his face does something complicated, his lips pressing together in a thin line. “Peter? What is it?”

Peter’s eyes remain fixed on the contents of his suitcase. “It’s nothing.”

Stiles glances at him, worried. “No it isn’t. Spill.”

Peter flops onto the bed and throws a hand over his eyes. “The wedding…there’s something I haven’t asked you.”

“What? Is there a legal hitch? Do we have to have one of those celebrity things after all? Is there a prenup? Wait, you want me to sign a prenup don’t you? Which, I have no problem with it but my dad’s not gonna be happy. He’ll want to go over it with a - ”

“Stiles!” Peter says, louder than necessary.

Stiles stops mid-sentence and waits. Peter groans and pulls himself upright, then turns to face him, regarding him silently, and Stiles has to stifle the urge to lean over and shake the information out of him. Finally, Peter says, “It’s none of that.”

“Then what the hell is it? Because you were literally just talking about our honeymoon, and as soon as I mentioned setting a date you started acting weird, so what gives?” Stiles demands.

Peter closes his eyes and takes a deep breath and for a split second Stiles’s gut clenches with fear that somehow this is all going to go wrong, but then Peter opens his eyes and Stiles registers that he looks more shy than anything. He reaches out and takes Stiles’s hand, squeezing it gently. “It’s just…I proposed, but I never  asked you to mate with me.”

Stiles’s brow creases. “Pretty sure you have?”

“No, I haven’t. I was meant to ask you to take part in a formal mating ceremony, but I chickened out."

“A what, now?”

Peter bites his lip, and Stiles finds it strange to see him like this, unsure, a far cry from his stage persona.  “Werewolves have a mating ceremony. We commit ourselves to each other as true mates in front of the pack and the Alpha, and we receive their blessing. You become officially accepted as pack, and I give you a ceremonial bite. It traditionally takes place under a full moon.”

 “So…what, this is instead of getting married?”

“No, it would be in addition.” Stiles takes a moment, tries to imagine it, and Peter must takes his silence as refusal, because his voice is quiet  when he adds, “ I knew it would be asking too much. If it’s not something you’re prepared to do, there’s no obligation,” and Stiles wants to shake him all over again because it’s painfully obvious this is a big deal, but for god knows what reason, Peter is downplaying it. Bad at relationships, he reminds himself.

“Peter, exactly how important is this? And I plan on checking with Cora, so don’t even front with me.”

The hand holding Stiles’s tightens. “In a lot of ways, it’s more significant than marriage, more binding. That’s why I didn’t want to pressure you.”

Stiles sighs. He’s marrying such an awkward turtle. “So let’s pretend this is you asking me, so I can say yes.”

Peter’s expression goes from worried to hopeful in the blink of an eye. “Yes?”

Stiles nods. “Yes. I’ll do your werewolf mating ritual.”

Peter’s face splits into a wide grin. “Sweetheart,” he breathes, and he doesn’t need to say anything else, Stiles knows what he’s saying just fine. Then Peter’s leaning over, pulling Stiles down on top of him for a filthy kiss, and it doesn’t take much after that for them to push both suitcases to the floor and put the bed to better use.

 


 

Afterwards, Stiles nudges a dozing Peter gently with his elbow. They’ve missed their flight but he doesn’t much care, because this may actually have been the best sex they’ve ever had. “Hey, this ceremony?”

“Wzuh?” Blue eyes open and Peter blinks at him, not quite awake. It’s hardly surprising he’s tired – Peter was insatiable, Stiles’s agreement to the mating ceremony bringing his wolf to the fore, and Stiles has a suspicion the bolts in the bed frame will need tightening after this.

“When you say commit in front of the pack, there’s no like, naked sex on an altar or anything is there? Cause no offence, but I’m not getting my junk out in front of your sister.”

Peter sits bolt upright and stares at him in horror, before leaning over and shoving Stiles in the chest so hard that he falls out of bed.

He yelps as he hits the floorboards, but the ache in his ass is worth it for the look on Peter’s face when he shudders and states, “Never, ever, mention my sister and sex in the same breath again.”

 


 

Once they get home Talia wastes no time, not even letting them unload their bags from the car before starting to tease Peter about being a show pony and proposing on stage, but when Peter says, “Stiles has agreed to the mating ceremony,” she stops and draws a sharp breath, then drags Stiles into a crushing hug, so tight he can barely breathe, and it takes Peter to extricate him and scold her gently. “No breaking the human, Tee.”

“Sorry, just, you don’t know what this means, Stiles.” She can’t resist squeezing him one last time, causing Peter to emit a low growl.

“Shhh, you. Our Alpha’s talking,” Stiles scolds him, and that? Makes Talia’s throat bob and her eyes glisten, and she pulls Stiles close all over again.

“I’m keeping you,” she says quietly, before giving Stiles a brilliant smile, and it strikes him that she’s just as unfairly gorgeous as her brother. All the Hales are, really. Talia lets go after only a few seconds though, rolling her eyes at Peter who’s started making those vaguely threatening noises again.

Cora stalks over and shoves at Stiles’s shoulder gently. “You’ll be my uncle. That’s so weird.”  Then she crash-tackles him into a proper hug. ”I’m glad you two idiots got there in the end.”

Stiles laughs. “Cora Hale, are you having an emotion?”

“Shut up and hug me back,” she grumbles into his chest. “You’re gonna be pack, I’m allowed.”

Stiles wraps his arms around her and lets her hug and scent her fill while Peter watches on, amused. Once Cora lets go, she gives herself a tiny shake and gathers herself, and they finally get to go inside.

They take their suitcases upstairs and Stiles can hear the sounds of pack echoing through the house. It’s soothing in its normality, and Stiles hums contentedly as he flops down on the bed. “S’good to be home.” He holds out a hand to Peter. “Join me?”

Peter shakes his head. “If I lay down with you, we both know how it will end, and your father’s coming over.”

“You’re no fun,“ Stiles grouses half-heartedly, but he knows Peter’s right. He has unpacking to do, he wants a shower after their flight, and his dad’s due any minute. He levers himself into a sitting position with a groan – he’s still aching from their last romp at the farm, but he doesn't really mind. It’s a welcome reminder.

He showers and dresses and comes downstairs just in time to greet his dad, who pulls him into a hug, and then, unexpectedly, does the same to Peter, who looks slightly stunned at first, but then goes with it. Stiles probably should have warned Peter that not only werewolves are tactile -Stilinskis are too. His dad finally pulls back, claps Peter on the back, and says, “Congratulations, you two. How you gonna make this work, exactly?”

They sit down together, and Stiles explains that Finstock has agreed to him working on a casual basis, and the rest of the time he’ll travel with Peter. He was able to make himself useful during the last part of the tour, even if it was just as a runner, and he’s happy to keep doing that – backstage is fascinating, and they can always use an extra pair of hands. John nods his approval. “Sounds like a good plan, kiddo. Any idea of when the wedding will be?”

“About that.” Stiles leans forward, elbows on his knees. He hasn’t asked Peter about this, but doesn’t think he’ll object. “There’s this werewolf mating ritual that happens on a full moon. Wait - my Dad is invited to this thing, right? It’s not wolves only?” Stiles swivels to look at Talia - it's only just occurred to him that this might be secret wolf business.

“Of course he’s invited,” Talia says, smiling warmly. 

“Cool. In that case, I was thinking that if Peter agrees that we could do it…in two weeks?” Stiles says. “What do you say?” Stiles nudges Peter, who’s sitting next to him, still open-mouthed. “Mating in two weeks, wedding in two months?”

“Um –“ Peter says,  eyes wide.

“Aaaw, do you not like having people spring things on you Uncle Peter?” Cora crows, clearly enjoying Peter’s confusion.

Stiles turns to her next. “And you’ll be my best girl at the wedding, right?” He gets to see the same stunned look on her face and Peter’s at the same time. He didn’t do it intentionally, but he’s enjoying the hell out of it just the same.

“-um,” Cora says, echoing her uncle, and Stiles snorts.

“I promise you won’t have to wear a hot pink tulle explosion, if that helps you decide.”

Cora blinks and seems to regain control. “Hell no, Stilinski. I’m wearing a tux.”

“Deal. As soon as my fiancé agrees?” He turns to Peter, who’s finally managed to close his mouth.

“That sounds – yes.”  Peter beams at him, and then Stiles is dragged into his lap and Peter’s kissing him soundly, only stopping when John clears his throat pointedly and tells them to save it till he's gone.

 


 

They make some phone calls to the band members to check availability, pore over the calendar for half a day, and set a date for the 24th of December. Stiles didn’t mean to have a Christmas wedding, but that’s the what works for everybody involved, and Stiles’s romantic little heart is secretly thrilled. Chris will be Peter’s best man, and they’ll fly everyone to LA and get quietly married. Peter's footing the bill for them all to spend Christmas at one of the premier resorts.

Cora gets a gleam in her eye and announces she’ll arrange everything. She points out that if Stiles is seen so much as sniffing a gardenia a reporter will pick it up, whereas she’s an unknown, so they’ll just have to trust her.

Stiles thinks about the car Peter gifted her and feels distinctly uneasy, but when he talks to Talia she’s miles ahead of him, and assures him that not only will she be double-checking the arrangements, but that Cora’s under strict instructions, from both her mother and her Alpha, to play nice, and she wouldn’t dare disobey. Stiles arranges for Cora’s car to be resprayed a sleek charcoal color and the seat covers replaced anyway, just to be on the safe side. For now, Stiles is more focused on the mating ceremony, and he sits down down with Talia and Peter and they fully explain its significance.

The ceremony itself really is as simple as it sounds. Him, a shifted Peter, under the moonlight, pledging themselves to each other. Stiles will bare his throat to Peter, and Peter will mark him with a claiming bite. Stiles is kinda nervous about that part, but he gets that it’s important. Peter’s promised him it’ll be quick and he’ll take any pain, and Stiles trusts him – isn’t that the whole point of the ceremony, after all?

Afterwards, there’ll be food and drinks and celebrating, before the pack runs under the moon. Whether Peter and Stiles join the pack is their choice. Stiles can already tell from the gleam in Peter’s eye that the only running he’ll be doing is up the stairs to their bedroom.

 


 

Somehow, time drags even more slowly than it did when Peter was away, and it seems to take forever for the night of the full moon to arrive. Stiles is twitchy and nervous, causing his dad to lead him outside one afternoon a few days before the ceremony and settle him at one of the picnic tables, away from werewolf ears, and ask, “You’re really sure about this, kid? Cause it doesn’t seem like it.”

“I’m really sure. I just wish it was done already, you know?”

“In case you change your mind?” John asks quietly, and Stiles appreciates his concern, but he’s so far off base right now.

“The opposite. I keep worrying that there’ll be some weird werewolf law that nobody’s remembered that stops it going ahead, or Peter’ll get a call from his manager and have to fly to Burkina Faso at the last minute.”

“Burkina Faso? Why the hell would Peter go to Burkina Faso?” His father shakes his head fondly.

Stiles flaps a hand at him. “Shut up, I was playing trivial pursuit with Cora and the name came up. She cheats, by the way.”

The worried expression leaves John’s face, and is replaced with understanding. “I get it. I remember the week before I married your mother. Every day I was convinced there’d be some disaster that’d stop the wedding.”

Stiles nods. “Right?”

John leans over and ruffles a hand affectionately through Stiles’s hair. “Kid, I don’t think there’s a single thing in this world that could stop that ceremony going ahead.”

Stiles didn’t know how much he needed that reassurance, but his dad’s words loosen the ever-present tightness in his chest. “You’re sure? What about, I dunno…bears?”

His father grips his hand and looks him in the eye. “I’d like to see the bear that would dare take on Peter Hale when he’s protecting his mate.”

His father has a point. Stiles may have been jittery, but Peter’s taken territorial to a whole new level. He spends every moment he can touching Stiles and holding him, and nobody in the pack even blinked the first time he settled a stunned Stiles on his knee at the dinner table and fed him, following every bite with a kiss. Stiles thought at the very least Cora would make some smartass comment when it happened, but nope, it’s apparently normal wolf behavior before a mating. Peter makes it his business to know where Stiles is at all times, says his wolf needs to protect him, and it’s a wonder he hasn’t come looking for him already.

As if summoned by a thought, Peter comes around the corner, but when he sees the way Stiles and John are sitting, hands clasped together, he halts in his tracks before disappearing back into the house. “See?” Stiles’s dad chuckles. “Now go reassure the man you’re fine, and make sure Cora’s not going wild with the wedding plans.”

“She was threatening Peter with ice sculptures,” Stiles says with a grin, and scampers off inside to find his mate.

 


 

Peter as a werewolf looks beautiful by moonlight.

The ridges of his brow are cast in shadow, the hair on his face is startlingly dark, his fangs gleam dangerously, but even like this, Stiles can only think, he’s beautiful.

Stiles takes a step forward, just the way he’s practiced, and takes Peter’s hand. “I, Stiles, acknowledge our bond of mateship.  I pledge myself to you and promise to love you, be faithful to you, and cherish you, till the end of my days.”

Peter squeezes his hand. “I, Peter, acknowledge our bond of mateship. I pledge myself to you and promise to love you, be faithful to you, and cherish you, till the end of my days. You’re the light of my life, sweetheart, and I love you.”

Stiles grins at the addition. Peter’s been in a fever of excitement all day – partly the pull of the moon, partly anticipation- and Stiles isn’t surprised he messed with his vows.

“Love you too,” he whispers back, before unbuttoning his crisp white shirt, exposing bare skin, and tilting his head to the side. They’ve decided that Peter’s going to bite him low on the curve of his neck, where it won’t be freely visible, instead of on the traditional spot under the right ear  – the last thing they need is for someone in the know to catch a glimpse of the scar and connect any dots.

Stiles takes a deep breath to steady himself, closes his eyes, and recites, “I offer you my throat, in trust and love.”

“I offer you my mark, in trust and love.” Peter’s hand tilts his chin a little further to the side, and then there’s a bright flare of agony as fangs pierce his flesh, and Stiles can’t help the whimper that escapes. “Shhh,” Peter soothes, hand resting just above the bite, and the sting is replaced by a barely-there throbbing as Peter drains the pain away, just like he promised. Stiles looks into the face of the man he loves and gives him a tiny nod, a silent reassurance that he’s fine, and Peter leans in and kisses him softly.

Talia waits until they part before she steps forward. “As Alpha, I accept this mating, and declare Stiles a member of the Hale pack, with all of its protections and privileges.” She leans in and kisses them both on the cheek, then takes both their hands and holds them aloft. “Welcome to the pack, Stiles!’ she proclaims loudly, before throwing his head back and letting out a howl. The rest of the pack joins in, and Peter’s howl of triumph is the loudest of all. Stiles knows the feeling – he’d howl himself, if he could.

After everyone’s hugged and congratulated them, Cora starts passing out glasses of a potent-smelling punch, although she holds it out of Stiles’ reach. “Not for you or your dad,” she warns, “this is super juice. Wolves only.”  Stiles recalls the time Peter called him drunk, how he said he’d added a ‘little something’ to the scotch, and guesses this is the same kind of thing.

Cora disappears for a moment and comes back with a bottle of champagne, and two glasses, handing it over. “Here you go, Stilinski, for you and your old man.” It’s the good stuff, Stiles notes.

He makes his way over to his dad, who winces when he sees the bite mark. His hand twitches like he wants to prod at it. “Damn, kid. That’s gotta hurt. You gonna dress it?”

“Nah, it's meant to scar. Besides, I’ve had worse. remember the time I fell out that tree in the preserve?”

“Sure do. And you didn’t fall, you jumped. You were ten, and convinced you could fly with those goddam paper wings you made. Broke your arm in two places.” His father chuckles.

“In my defense, why call it construction paper if you can’t build things out of it?” Stiles shoots back – he remembers at the time he’d thought it was a perfectly valid argument.

His dad lets out a full belly laugh, and Stiles joins in. It was rough for a while after his mom passed, but he and his dad got there in the end. They’re now at the point they can laugh about the small disasters, the speed bumps they hit, things that  seemed so big at the time, but with the benefit of time and hindsight turned out to be milestones, markers on their road to life after Claudia.

John’s thoughts must be following a similar path to his. He inclines his head toward the pack. “Your mom would have loved this.”

“What, werewolves?” Stiles knows his mother always did have a taste for anything with a hint of otherness.

“No, this. You, being happy, finding the man of your dreams.” John pops the cork from the champagne and pours them both a glass, before handing one to Stiles. “To Claudia,” he says quietly.

“To Mom,” Stiles echoes, clinking their glasses together.

 


 

When Talia said there’d be food, she wasn’t kidding. There’s an honest to god pig on a spit, a table full of various salads, heaped platters of baked potatoes, a massive basket of bread rolls, and what must be a bucket of gravy, not to mention the desserts. Stiles doesn’t say a word when his dad bypasses the salads and heads straight for the meat and gravy – it’s a special occasion, after all.

Personally, Stiles has never been more thankful for werewolf catering, because it means he doesn’t feel bad when he loads his plate a second time. He’s found it hard to eat over the last couple of days, nerves and excitement making his stomach churn, but with the aroma of fresh roast pork drifting through the air and the consumption of quite a few glasses of champagne, his appetite’s returned with a vengeance.

He’s almost finished eating when Peter appears, siting down next to him and pulling him close. “Happy?”

“mhm,” Stiles gets out through a mouthful of pork belly, before swallowing. “You?”

 “I’m over the moon, sweetheart.” Peter presses a kiss to his temple.

"Or under it," Stiles grins. “Cause, y'know, werewolf."

Peter groans. "I'm having second thoughts," he declares. "Nobody told me about the terrible jokes."

Stiles elbows him affectionately. "No take backs. You're stuck with me."

Peter kisses him just to shut him up.

They’re interrupted by John coming to say his goodbyes. “I’m heading out, kiddo. I’ve got an early start tomorrow.” Stiles notices that he has half an apple pie tucked under his arm. “Talia insisted,” John defends, and pulls the plate closer, like he thinks Stiles might take it off him.

But Stiles just stands and hugs his dad. “Enjoy it. Love you, daddio.”

“Love you too, kid.” John gives one final squeeze before he lets go and walks off, still clutching his pie.

Peter stands and puts an arm around Stiles’ waist, watching him leave. “Did you want some dessert?”

Peter’s shifted back to his human face after the ceremony, and Stiles takes in the sight of his mate - the blue eyes, the straight jaw, the perfect smile, and decides he’s hungry for something else. “Depends.  Are you on the menu?”

Peter’s eyebrow quirks up. “I could be, if you ask very nicely. Although I did see a pecan pie over there. Are you sure I can’t tempt you?”

“You’re tempting me plenty. When can we leave?”

Peter’s hand slides down and skims over the swell of his ass, then Peter places a series of soft kisses up Stiles’s throat. Soft lips brush against Stiles’s, and then Peter’s sliding his tongue into his mouth, teasing his way inside and kissing him breathless. The hand on his ass gives a light squeeze, and Peter purrs in his ear, “Anytime you’d like, sweet boy.”

Stiles glances over Peter’s shoulder. The pack are gathered in a group, eating and laughing and drinking, and nobody’s paying them any attention. Stiles can see signs of restlessness, and Peter says quietly, “They’re ready to run, sweetheart. They won’t care if we leave.”

“In that case, why are we still here?” Stiles tugs on the collar of Peter’s shirt, pulling him in the direction of the house, and Peter follows.

 


 

They have the house to themselves, and they make the most of it.

At first, it’s slow and soft - gentle touches and reverent kisses, lips and tongues, mouths and hands, declarations of love breathed out against sweat-slick skin. It’s Stiles, high on champagne and giddy with excitement, giggling like a little kid that they did it, they’re werewolf married, and can he please suck Peter's cock now?

And later, when desperation takes over from devotion, it’s hard and fast, grunting and moaning and bucking and thrashing, a hallelujah chorus of colorful curses. It’s werewolf instinct let loose. It’s being held against the wall and fucked relentlessly until they’re both a sweaty, panting mess. It’s hand-shaped bruising on hips, kissed better in gentle apology later, when they’ve both caught their breath.

It’s everything.

 


 

Peter lays Stiles out on the bed afterwards, and Stiles lets him. He’s perfectly content to lay there and recover while Peter goes to work wiping him down with a warm cloth, drawing the ache from his bruises, all the while telling him how wonderful he is. Both his ego and his body soak up the attention. “My perfect mate,” Peter coos.

Stiles hums, eyes heavy-lidded, muscles aching, utterly content. “Yours. You an’ me.”

"No matter how they toss the dice, it had to be." Peter crawls under the covers with him and wraps himself around Stiles, singing quietly to himself.

Stiles grins at his choice of song. “What is it with you and The Turtles, anyway?” he asks sleepily. “It’s not exactly your style.”

Peter sighs and rolls onto his back, dragging Stiles across the bed with him and settling him against his side. Stiles melts into the contact. “I’ll tell you, if you promise you won’t laugh at me and call me a sap.”

“I would never accuse you of such a thing,” Stiles lies.

Peter elbows him gently. “You will, but I’ll tell you anyway.”

Stiles snuggles in closer and waits, inexplicably skin hungry right now, and Peter cards his fingers through Stiles’s hair as he speaks. “My parents were mates. They were stupid in love, you know? The kind of couple you think don’t exist outside of movies. Even as a kid it was obvious. They laughed, and they fought, but they were totally gone on each other. And that? That was their song. My dad used to sing it to my mom all the time.” Peter smiles at the memory. “Sometimes he’d sing it purposely badly, and Mom would roll her eyes and laugh and tell him to behave. But other times? He’d pull her close and croon it in her ear, and she’d smile while they slow-danced around the kitchen, and you knew he meant every word.”

Stiles nods quietly, picturing it, and Peter continues. “I never quite understood the appeal, when I was younger. It was just a stupid pop song, and I was far too cool for that. I was all about rock and roll, thank you.” Peter pauses, runs his fingers through Stiles’s hair again, and lets out a soft sigh. “When I met you though? It made sense. I fell in love with that ridiculous song at around the same time I fell in love with you.”

Oh.

There’s a lump in Stiles’s throat, and he has to swallow a couple of times before he can speak. “That’s - wow.”

A wry smile quirks Peter’s lips. “This is where you accuse me of being a total sap, sweetheart.”

Stiles traces patterns in Peter’s chest hair while he gathers himself, overwhelmed with a wave of affection and possessiveness. Peter really is his, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. “You’re not a total sap,” he says finally, “only mostly a sap. And I love your stupid pop song. Just like I love you.”

Stiles cranes his neck so they can share a kiss, and then he curls up close and settles his head on Peter’s chest, the sound of his heartbeat solid and comforting. And maybe Stiles is being fanciful, but it almost sounds like Peter’s heart is beating out a certain rhythm, one that Stiles sings along to in his head as he drifts off to sleep. 

After all, he knows all the words now.

Imagine me and you, I do, I think about you day and night, it’s only right…