Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Is that a new shirt?”

The burger in Stiles's hands stops halfway to his mouth, his lips parted in anticipation of a much-needed bite of the luke-warm food. He blinks at the man across from him in the booth, piecing together the words before his brain finally makes sense of them.

“Huh?” he manages. A tomato slice falls out of his burger.

“The shirt you're wearing,” Peter elaborates patiently, taking a sip from his coffee cup—the only thing he'd been inclined to order—and grimacing. It tastes like it's been sitting at the bottom of the pot for a few days. Which is probably true, considering they're the only patrons in the highway diner at 3am.

He grabs Stiles's glass of Coke to wash the taste out of his mouth, which makes the young man throw a hand out in a what-the-hell motion. The beverage is only slightly more tolerable.

An onion that looks a little past its prime slips its way out of the burger.

“It's new, isn't it?” Peter continues, sliding his coffee cup towards the edge of the table. As soon as his fingers release it, a tired waitress appears out of nowhere, scooping it up and taking it with her into the back. Peter watches the door swing back and forth in her wake. “I haven't seen you wear it before.”

Grease drips down Stiles's fingers as he shrugs noncommittally. “Who says you've seen my entire wardrobe?” He attempts a bite again but stops when Peter lays his crossed arms on the table and leans forward. Stiles sits back with a frown. “Dude—”

“Darling, you own seven flannel shirts, all in various states of disrepair, and maybe four pairs of jeans, which you refuse to wash on a regular basis. That shirt,” Peter indicates the garment with a nod of his head, “is new.”

Stiles opens and closes his mouth a few times as a blush creeps into the hollows of his cheeks. A glob of mystery sauce plops next to the tomato and onion. “You need a hobby.”

“I have several.”

“And weird, creepy stalking is one of them?”

“Observation and stalking are vastly dissimilar.”

Stiles ticks one eyebrow up and huffs. “Tell that to a judge, buddy.”

“I wouldn't,” Peter states, words clipped, when Stiles tries for a third time to take a bite of his food.

“Dude, I'm starving,” Stiles whines. “We've been cramped up all day in your stupid car—”

“That car is worth five times your father's annual salary.”

“—which you won't even let me drive, by the way. We don't know where we're going, we don't know what we're looking for, and I just want to eat my burger without you commenting on my wardrobe.”

Stiles looks at the man expectantly, Peter slowly leaning back from the table and raising his hands in a surrendering gesture. “Fine.” He says nothing more until Stiles, narrowed eyes watching him suspiciously, bites into the hamburger, which is really only meat, lettuce, and bread at this point. “I hope you enjoy human remains.”

The young man freezes mid-chew, eyes going wide and searching Peter's face for any sign of a lie. “You've got to be fucking kidding me.”

Peter looks again towards the kitchen as Stiles spits the bite out onto his plate. How he was managing on chewing and swallowing a bite that size, the werewolf isn't certain. But it definitely gives Peter a better idea of how much he can fit into that mouth.

“Peter, are you just messing with me?” Stiles demands, already sliding his plate away from himself. “Because I really was hungry.”

Peter turns his attention back to the young man, watching as he wipes grease off of his chin with a stained napkin. “I think we found our source.”

Stiles purses his lips and glances around the unassuming diner. “It is just off the highway where most of the victims disappeared.”

“Secluded enough to not draw attention,” Peter points out.

“There was a refrigerated truck leaving as we pulled in. It could be how they transport their supply.”

“And the auto repair shop next door could easily dismantle and dispose of the victims' vehicles.”

The two lock gazes, and Peter smiles despite the grim realization blooming between them. There really is no one else the older man could stand to partner with on these little missions that Derek sends them out on. Recon only, the Alpha painstakingly stresses. But they almost always return with a successful, albeit bloody, end to the problem.

Stiles gives his plate one last longing glance before muttering, “Fuck,” and raising his hand. He does something oddly simplistic-but-not with his fingers—something that no one in the pack can seem to replicate despite their multitude of attempts—and suddenly a wooden bat appears in his hand. It's carved with runes and glyphs that would give an erilaz wet dreams.

Peter smiles with his fangs, and Stiles rolls his eyes. “Let's just get this over with. I think I saw an Arby's a ways back.”

“You're still not eating in my car,” the 'wolf says, smoothly easing himself out of the booth and offering a hand to the young man.

Stiles ignores it, pointing his bat at the older man as he stands. “I deserve curly fries after what you just pulled.” He rests the end of the bat against his shoulder and turns towards the kitchen. “And we're getting a motel room. I'm not sleeping in your car.”

“The seats are heated,” Peter argues without any real flame, sauntering behind the young man and enjoying the view. “And they go all the way down.”

Stiles stops and twists himself at the waist, eyeing Peter up and down with a delicious smirk. “We're getting a room.”

Without anymore preamble, he kicks the swinging door open, the wards carved into the bottom of his sneaker making it fly off its hinges.

Peter growls low in his throat and follows his boy. “Yes, dear.”

Chapter Text

There's goo on Stiles's shirt. Blood too, but that's surprisingly less disconcerting than the fucking puss-colored goo that smells like the offspring of a sewage pipe and a Chinese restaurant's back-alley dumpster. Stiles can already tell this shit isn't going to come out. He's surprised Peter even let him into his car, considering the werewolf got away without any trace of goo on him at all.

Blood, yeah. Between the two of them, they could probably open their own blood bank. But that's a pretty normal day for them. The seats in Peter's car are treated for stain-resistance.

This fucking goo, though...

“You were right,” Stiles says exhaustedly, turning around as Peter kicks the door to their motel room shut with his boot. They stare at one another and breathe heavily into the quiet of the room until the air conditioner hanging haphazardly in the window kicks on. “This was a new shirt.”

Peter leans back against the door, shoulders shaking as he laughs, quiet and genuine. “I like it.”

Stiles plucks at the bottom of the shirt and looks down at it. “So did I.” In one swift motion, he has it over his head and on the floor, his hands moving to undo his belt as he backs towards the bathroom. “I definitely need a shower.”

“Agreed,” Peter says, watching him through half-lidded eyes as he leans his head back against the door.

The young man snorts. “You do, too, asshole.”

Peter's jacket finds the floor, followed quickly by his shirt. “If you insist.”

This thing between them, whatever it is, started months ago, soon after Derek started pairing them off together. Peter found a new respect for the younger man as his magic began to take shape, and Stiles—considering the shaky terms he was on with Scott these days—began to realize that the black-and-white of their past was fast shifting into something unrecognizably grayish.

They make a good team. And the sex is fucking awesome.

Stiles kicks his pants away before heading into the bathroom and starting the shower. The water coughs and sputters but comes out relatively clear, and there's actual steam as the temperature rises. “Well, that's a first,” he mutters, turning and dropping his boxers as Peter enters, naked and half-hard. “We should probably take an actual shower first. I don't know how long this hot water is going to last.”

Peter smirks. “I'll scrub your back if you scrub mine.”

“Deal.” Stiles takes the man's hand and pulls him close, their mouths a breath apart as they revel for a moment in the proximity of each other. The warmth and the life in one another. Too many close calls have almost ended with one of them not being here. And perhaps it's just the closeness of another body, another heartbeat, but the comfort they find in each other is something they've grown to expect, to crave. To need. “Come on.”

The water immediately runs red as they step beneath the spray. “Well, the water pressure leaves something to be desired,” Peter sighs as Stiles leans around him to grab what might be an already-used bar of soap.

“It's warm. Stop complaining and turn around.”

Peter does as he's told, letting his head hang as Stiles runs the bar of soap up and down his spine, nimble fingers pressing into his shoulder blades and sliding down until they're squeezing his ass. “I don't think any blood got down that way, darling.”

Stiles nips at the older man's shoulder, breathing sharp puffs of air into his skin. “Doesn't hurt to check.”

Peter groans as Stiles nips and kisses and licks his way down his back, landing on his knees and giving his ass the same focused attention. “Thought you wanted to make this quick.”

The younger man presses his forehead to Peter's hip, making small, pained noises before squeezing the older man's thighs and demanding, “Turn around.”

Peter does, and the sight almost leaves him breathless. Stiles's hair hangs wet and dark, his bangs plastered to his forehead and nearly in his eyes. Peter brushes them aside, letting the water skate down smooth skin, flushed cheeks, parted lips. “Beautiful.”

Stiles blinks, droplets collecting on his eyelashes as he stares up at the other man. A pink tongue darts out, licks at chapped lips. “Let me,” the young man begs, eyes wide and chest heaving with want.

Peter rests his hand on the back of Stiles's head, lightly fisting the hair at his nape. “Anything you want, sweet boy.”

Stiles wastes no time in reaching forward, stroking Peter to full hardness before taking him almost all the way down his throat. Peter hisses and braces his other hand on the wall in front of him. What Stiles can't reach with his mouth, he strokes with his hand, using his other hand to cup and gently squeeze Peter's balls.

“It isn't a race, sweetheart,” the older man manages to say between gritted teeth and harsh breathes. Stiles hollows his cheeks, and that's almost it for Peter, but then the young man suddenly pulls off of him, saliva slick on his chin as he gives a cheeky smirk.

“If you say so,” he says breathlessly, carefully licking at Peter's cock as he stares up at him with dark honey eyes.

“You fucking tease,” Peter spits with a bark of laughter. “I should fuck your mouth for that.”

“You mean the mouth that took a bite of human remains?” Stiles asks sweetly, pressing light kisses up and down Peter's straining shaft.

Peter moans and rests his forehead on the tiles in front of him, blocking the younger man from the shower's spray. “It was beef.” Stiles pulls away from Peter and cranes his neck to look up at him. “Not Grade-A by any standards, or even Grade-B as far as I'm concerned.” He smirks down at the young spark's incredulous face. “But it was beef, all the same. Not human.”

“You made me spit out a perfectly good burger,” Stiles accuses, and Peter reaches down to run his thumb along the young man's jawline, swiping at the spit on his chin and pressing his fingertip to his bottom lip.

“I made you spit out a perfectly terrible burger,” the werewolf amends, playing with the young man's swollen mouth. “And I bought you over-seasoned curly fries to make up for it.” Stiles takes Peter's thumb into his mouth and bites down playfully before sucking it down to the last knuckle. He moans around the digit, and Peter's mouth drops open with a groan. “Not to rush you, darling, but the water is starting to get cold.”

Stiles releases Peter's thumb with a lewd pop, a string of saliva trailing between the digit and his mouth. He wastes no time in engulfing Peter's cock in warm heat once again, this time taking him all the way down and swallowing while making his throat vibrate with little noises. Peter claws at the wall to keep himself steady, forcing himself to stay still as Stiles works him, alternating between bobbing up and down and holding him deep in his throat.

His vision whites out as he comes, his thighs shaking as he tries to keep from collapsing. Stiles continues to bob his head on Peter's cock until the werewolf is completely spent. Peter has to pull the young man away as the sensations become almost painful. “Up,” he demands, ignoring the smug look on Stiles's face when he needs to brace himself on the young spark's shoulders. “Give me the soap.” Stiles does, letting the older man clean him as the water starts to become uncomfortably chilly.

Stiles is achingly hard. It wouldn't take much to make him come, but Peter refrains from touching the young man below his waist just yet. There is a pungent goo stuck in Stiles's hair, and Peter decides it needs to come out.

Stiles is shivering by the time they leave the shower, and neither of them are completely dry when they tumble onto the bed and desperately rut against one another, Peter attacking the young man's lips and plunging his tongue into his mouth with every thrust of their hips. He reaches down, spreads Stiles's thighs apart, and presses a fingertip to the young spark's hole. It's all Stiles needs. He comes with a tremor of a shout, breathing hard as Peter continues to move against him. The older man is almost completely hard again.

They kiss, alternating between bruising clashes of mouths and teeth and slow, gentle presses of lips and tongues. Peter thrusts into the crease of Stiles's thigh over and over until he comes again, shuddering against the young man as he collapses over him. Stiles shifts his legs until Peter is settled comfortably between them, pulling the older man closer to him and inhaling deeply as he presses his face into Peter's shoulder.

They lay like that for a while, breathing and listening to each other's heartbeats.

“We're alive, aren't we?” Stiles whispers, the words hesitant and almost lost against Peter's skin.

The older man lifts his head, runs his fingers through Stiles's hair until the young spark meets his gaze. “Of course we are, sweetheart.”

Stiles studies him for a long moment before swallowing and closing his eyes. “Show me,” he pleads, tears shining in his eyelashes. “Show me we're alive.”

Peter surges forward, kisses the young man long and deep, scrapes his teeth along his jaw and bites at his collarbone. “Okay,” he concedes, reluctantly pulling himself away and finding his bag near the door. He returns to the bed, lube in hand, to find Stiles sitting up.

“Lay down,” the young man says, and Peter does, watching as the young man straddles his hips and leans forward to mouth at the werewolf's chest. He licks a trail from his collarbone to a peaked nipple and bites down, rolling it between his teeth before sucking hard. Peter bucks his hips, claws snatching and tearing at the sheets beneath him. “Touch me,” Stiles demands, and Peter obeys, clawed hands dragging down the young man's back, fingers clutching at his hips. Stiles grabs the lube from the bed and pours a generous amount on his own fingers. He sinks two fingers into himself at once, throwing his head back and grunting at the stretch.

“Careful, sweet boy,” Peter cautions, hands running up and down Stiles's sides.

Stiles shakes his head, thrusting his fingers in deeper and groaning as it burns. “Need this,” he says, his voice desperate and shaking. “Need it to hurt.” He scissors his fingers, and his jaw drops, his free hand bracing against the older man's chest. “I want it to hurt, Peter. Please.” A tear slips free down Stiles's face, and Peter quickly reaches up to thumb it away.

“Whatever you need, Stiles,” he says, hoping he doesn't have to intervene if things get out of hand. It's happened a couple of times. Stiles somehow loses himself, lets his mind shut down and his lust take over. Peter didn't know what to do the first time. He stopped what they were doing, and Stiles went nearly catatonic for two days, holding himself prisoner in his own mind. Peter learned that it wasn't stopping that helped the young man. Slowing things down, guiding him through it, getting him to the other side—that's all he could do in times like these.

Stiles has a brilliant, beautiful mind. And sometimes it's his worst enemy.

The young man finger-fucks himself for a few more moments before taking the lube again and squirting what's left of the bottle into his hand, working Peter's cock until the older man is gasping.

“Are you sure you're ready?” Peter manages to ask as Stiles runs his thumb over the older man's slit.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, his chest heaving as he moves against Peter, leaning down and kissing the man wetly. “Yeah, I'm good, Peter. I promise. I just need to feel it. Okay?” He begs Peter with his eyes, waiting for the older man to nod before he lifts himself up and positions Peter's cock against his slick entrance. They share one last glance before Stiles begins to impale himself, the tightness almost too much for Peter handle without thrusting.

The older man grits his teeth and tears at the sheets with his claws, shaking with the effort of keeping still. He needs to move, to claim. But Stiles needs this, needs control.

It seems to last forever, Stiles slowly moving down Peter's cock as he makes noises of both discomfort and pleasure. And when he's finally seated on Peter, hands pressed flat against the older man's chest, he sits and breathes for almost a full minute.

“Stiles,” Peter says softly, and wet amber eyes find his own. The werewolf lifts a trembling hand, cupping Stiles's flushed face and running a thumb over his cheekbone. “Stop if you need to.”

Stiles sniffles and nods, carefully lifting himself up an inch and bringing himself back down with a shudder. The contradicting looks of pain and pleasure war on his face, and he continues a slow but steady rhythm of lifting himself up and dropping back down. Each time he goes a little higher, comes down a little harder, and each time the pleasure on his face outweighs the pain. As his hips begin to move faster, Peter ventures to run his hands up and down the young man's thighs, encouraging him with quiet praises.

“So good, baby. You feel amazing. Fuck, Stiles, you look so beautiful. You were made for this. That's it. Take it. Take what you need.”

A litany of punched-out noises fall from Stiles's lips as he grinds himself down again and again. He arches his back, crying out as the new angle shifts Peter deeper, hits the spot he needs most. “Peter,” he sobs. “Peter, I need you to fuck me.”

Peter has them flipped in less than a second, spreading Stiles's thighs wide as he presses forward to capture his mouth in a filthy kiss. “I've got you, darling,” he promises before he pounds into the young man with an unrelenting fervor. Stiles's head falls back, his mouth open as an unending stream of moans and cries erupt from him. He grasps the headboard as his toes curl, the pit of his stomach tightening.

He comes with Peter's name on his lips, letting himself drift as the man continues to thrust into him until he finds his own release. Peter chokes out Stiles's name as he jerks his hips through his orgasm. When he's completely spent, he pulls out of Stiles and carefully lowers the young man's legs to the bed, collapsing beside him and waiting for the spark to come back to himself. It takes a few minutes of stroking the young man's sides and running his fingers through Stiles's damp hair before honey eyes blink back into consciousness.

Stiles lazily turns his head and breathes hotly onto Peter's face, dazedly searching the older man's eyes. “Still alive, Peter?”

Peter smiles, pressing kisses to every inch of Stiles's face before nuzzling his neck and whispering into his skin, “Still alive, sweet boy.”

0 o 0 o 0

In the morning, after a round of blowjobs in bed and another shower, Stiles and Peter step out of their motel room and make their way to the car. There's a slight limp in the younger man's gait, and Peter can't help the smirk that stretches his lips.

“How about some breakfast?” he asks, unable to keep the amusement out of his tone as Stiles gingerly lowers himself into the passenger seat.

“I want a McGriddle,” Stiles demands, breathing out through his mouth in a sharp gust. “And a hashbrown.” He grimaces and grabs Peter's sunglasses from the dashboard, shoving them over his eyes. “And I'm eating in your car.”

Peter raises an eyebrow as he clicks his seat belt into place. “A little sore this morning, are we?”

Stiles lowers his chair back halfway and breathes through his mouth again. “Just turn the seat warmers on.”

Peter smiles and starts the car. “Yes, dear.”