Archive of Our Own ^beta

The motel room door bangs open, and Peter stumbles inside, half-carrying, half-dragging Stiles in his shaking arms. His legs nearly give out before he can get the unconscious young man to the bed, but he makes it. Stiles's head bounces against the mattress as he's unceremoniously dropped over the wrinkled comforter.

Peter collapses to all fours, hanging his head and letting himself breathe for a moment—please, just a moment—before gritting his teeth and forcing himself to move in spite of the pain. Several of his ribs are most certainly bruised, if not broken, and the blood tacked to the side of his head and lazily oozing down his neck speaks for the pounding behind his eyes. His right knee-cap is mostly healed from the damage of being snapped backwards, but it still throbs with a painful heat as he finds Stiles's bag and tears it open.

He snatches at the healing draught rolling around in the bottom of the bag and drags himself back to the bed, grunting as he pulls himself up beside Stiles and lifts the young man's head. He uncorks the bottle with his teeth and gingerly begins to pour the thin liquid past Stiles's parted lips, hoping that instinct kicks in and the young spark starts to swallow.

Stiles chokes but manages to down most of the concoction, even unconscious, and Peter sighs in relief. Sure, there's still a chance that his injuries are just too much, that the potion Stiles toiled over for a whole week is completely useless, or that Peter couldn't get it to him in time. The wound in Stiles's side is vicious, black blood seeping from broken skin that already looks like it's decomposing.

But Peter trusts Stiles's potion-making ability. He has faith that the young man knows exactly what he's doing, even when he seems utterly aloof. He believes that, no matter the odds stacked against them, Stiles is a fighter, and he won't leave Peter to wander this life alone.

He believes.

Fuck, he believes, okay? Isn't that how it works? Belief?

Stiles jerks in his arms, and Peter drops the empty vial to hold him tight. The young man gasps and writhes and cries out, arms flailing and nearly smacking Peter in his attempt to keep him still.

“I've got you,” he repeats over and over against Stiles's ear, closing his eyes and gritting his teeth until, finally, the young man settles. Stiles's ragged breathing evens out, and he goes boneless in Peter's hold. The older man sags in relief, sinking back to the floor and managing to crawl his way to the front door, where he sits propped against it. He reaches up over his head, checking the lock, then lets his arm fall and his eyes close.

He wants nothing more than to curl around Stiles and wait for him to wake. But, for that very reason, he wants to be as far away from the young man as possible—because what if he doesn't wake? Peter wouldn't be able to bear it.

A shrill sound from his pocket jolts him from his doze, and he sluggishly digs for his phone with numb fingers. Derek's name flashes across the screen, and he answers it on speaker, far too tired to lift it to his ear. “Nephew,” he greets, trying and failing to keep his voice from shaking. He swallows and draws in a labored breath. “Checking in, I assume?”

There's a brief moment of silence from the other end, then Derek's gruff voice crackles from the phone. “What happened?”

“Oh,” Peter says whimsically, letting his head thump back against the door and studying the plethora of water stains on the ceiling. Stiles will, no doubt, entertain himself with pointing out their various shapes and try to convince Peter which particular sexual position they emulate from the Kama Sutra—as well as which ones they should attempt. “Just a run-in with the local Chupacabra. No need to worry, it's been taken care of.”

Derek pauses. “Chupacabras haven't been spotted in North America in almost a decade. The latest sightings have been in Puerto Rico.”

“You don't say...”

“Peter,” the young Alpha growls, and the tinny crackle of the speaker makes Peter's ears ring, “what are you doing in Puerto Rico?”

“Following up on a lead,” Peter says, his breaths becoming sharper and much shorter. “And Stiles needed some supplies.”

“Where is Stiles?”

Peter swallows hard on the lump that rises in his throat. “He's a bit indisposed at the moment. I'll certainly pass your query of his well-being along.”

Derek sighs heavily, and the noise cuts through Peter's defenses. He has to cover his mouth to keep the sob on the back of his tongue at bay. “Is he okay?”

Peter uncovers his mouth and closes his eyes, tears loosing far too suddenly for his liking. “I don't...” He shakes his pounding head and draws in a tight breath. “I gave him a healing potion. All I can do now is wait.”

There's a long pause. Peter almost thinks that maybe the call was dropped. And then Derek speaks again. “I want you both home as soon as possible. I need to see you, make sure you're okay.”

Peter could make any number of disrespectful, degrading comments towards his nephew. But he feels the same way. As much as he appreciates his alone time with Stiles, the call of his pack is almost always at the back of his mind. He misses them. So the answer that bubbles forward almost immediately, the one that feels right, is: “Yes, Alpha.”

Peter passes out at his post by the door, hoping he won't wake to the cold, empty shell of someone (he has finally admitted to himself) that he cares about.

0 o 0 o 0

What wakes Peter is the soft warmth of someone crowding up against him, the scent of salt and tears. He doesn't need to open his eyes to recognize the body pressed to him. He's touched every inch of Stiles's skin, bitten and licked and sucked his way across the plain of his stomach, the stretch of his thighs, the arch of his back. He would know the smell of him anywhere.

“Peter,” Stiles whispers against the shell of his ear. “Please, please, please. Wake up.”

Peter draws in a breath as he lifts his head, waiting a moment to open his eyes. And when he does, liquid amber stares back at him with grief and hope and despair. “Hello, sweet boy. Did you sleep well?”

Stiles sniffles, raking his fingers through Peter's hair and nodding with a watery smile. “Yeah. I slept great.” His smile wanes, and he strokes the side of the older man's face. “Would have been better to wake up next to you, though.”

“Yes,” Peter agrees, his smirk half-hearted at best. “I am a delight to have in bed in the morning, aren't I?”

Stiles drops his head to Peter's shoulder and laughs wetly. “You are. You are, you are, you are.” He whispers the words like a mantra until Peter's phone jolts to life beside them, ringing loudly in the quiet of the early morning. Derek's name flashes on the screen, and Peter makes no move to grab it, so Stiles answers it for him. “Hey, Sourwolf. What's shakin'?”

“Stiles,” Derek breathes in desperate relief, “are you alright?”

Stiles nods, more out of habit than anything, and says, “Yeah. I'm good. I-I'm okay.”

“Is Peter with you?”

Stiles strokes the side of Peter's face, brushing blood-crusted hair from his eyes. “Yeah. He's here. He's fine.” Peter blinks lazily at him but doesn't break eye contact.

“Good,” Derek says, though the word is strained, like he doesn't quite take Stiles at his word. “When can you two be on a plane home?”

Stiles presses his chest to Peter's, breathes in as the man breathes out, lets the rhythm of it calm them both. “I think we need to lay low for another couple of days. But we'll be home as soon as we can.”

Derek clearly doesn't like the answer, but he doesn't override Stiles's decision—knows he wouldn't be able to, even if he tried. They say goodbye like it's a normal Wednesday afternoon and they've just made plans for the weekend. And as soon as Stiles presses the end call button, he drops the phone and wraps himself bodily around Peter again.

“Still alive?” he murmurs into the werewolf's shoulder, and Peter chuckles, blunt fingernails scraping down the fabric of Stiles's bloodied shirt. Another new one. Peter will buy him a hundred more.

“Still alive,” Peter confirms, looking up as Stiles pulls away just far enough to make eye contact.

One corner of Stiles's mouth quirks as a tear escapes down his cheek. “Show me?”

Something in the werewolf's chest ignites, and a burn courses through his limbs, nestling low in his stomach. “Gladly.” The sudden strength is almost overwhelming, and he growls low as he lays Stiles out on the floor, lifting his shirt and checking his wound from only hours ago. There's nothing but smooth skin and the smear of dried blood, but that doesn't mean that he's done healing internally. He presses on the spot lightly, watching Stiles's reaction with bright eyes and waiting for any signs of pain.

“It doesn't hurt,” Stiles says sincerely, placing his hand over Peter's. “Try and take my pain, if you don't believe me.”

Peter believes him. But he tries anyway and only gets a few threads of black in his veins for the effort. The reassurance makes his eyes blaze electric blue, and Stiles moans at the sight.

“Whatever you need, Peter,” the young spark says breathlessly, spreading his thighs under Peter's penetrating gaze, “it's yours. I'm yours.”

Mine, Peter thinks but doesn't say aloud. Instead he grinds his teeth together until they sharpen into fangs. “Lift your hips.” Stiles complies, and Peter makes short work of removing the young man's pants and boxers before shredding his shirt with his claws. The young man doesn't remark on the loss of another shirt—it was ruined anyway. “Lube.”

Stiles reaches off to the side, holding out the bottle from one of their bags. He thought ahead. He knew Peter was going to fuck him on the floor. The thought sends jolts of pleasure to his cock. Peter is already rock-hard, and his jeans are far too restricting. But he likes the power play, being fully dressed with Stiles stretched out naked in front of him. And he also doesn't plan on fucking Stiles yet—not until he's panting and begging and sated from Peter's fingers.

With carefully contained claws, he runs his hands up Stiles's sides, fingers ghosting over newly-stitched skin. He presses into the muscles of the young man's arms, guiding them up and over his head. “These stay here,” he warns, squeezing until Stiles gives a sharp nod, then he takes the bottle from the young man's hand and leans back.

He lubes two fingers and presses them against Stiles's entrance, circling the ring of muscle there until the young man is squirming and pushing against him for more. Stiles's fingers clench into the thick carpet. His erection strains, red and full, against his stomach. “Peter. Don't tease.”

“Whatever I need,” Peter repeats, baring his teeth and flashing his eyes. Stiles groans but says nothing else, and the older man continues to circle Stiles's tight hole, delving in with the tips of his fingers every now and again, but dragging back out once more and repeating the process.

Stiles writhes, arching his back and spreading his legs further. Peter takes the opportunity to lave at the young man's stomach, just inches from Stiles's cock. His stubble grazes the shaft and Stiles cries out, a stream of unintelligible nonsense falling past his bitten lips. His arms strain and shake with the want to reach out and touch—both Peter and himself.

“Fucking beautiful,” Peter mouths into the wet skin of his stomach, watching pre-cum leak from the tip of the young man's cock. “Stretched out for me so pretty, sweetheart. I've never seen anything so amazing.” Stiles arches again, breathing harsh and ragged. “Look at me.” The young man does, his eyes half-lidded and swimming with frustrated tears. “Beg me. Beg me to be inside you.”

“Please, Peter,” Stiles whispers, and his whole body trembles. “Please, I need you to stretch me. I need your fingers in me. I need your tongue in me. I need your cock in me. Please, Peter. Everything. Give me everything. I need you inside me.” Stiles gasps as Peter finally, slowly works his fingers inside of him, twisting and crooking them, fucking them deeper and deeper, harder and harder.

“Look how you take me, darling. Greedy boy, I can feel your insides quivering. Wanting me, wanting my thick cock inside you.” He pulls his fingers all the way out and shoves them back in the young man with a force that nearly moves him across the floor. Stiles arches and cries and clenches trembling fingers into the carpet. “I'm going to make you come on my fingers. I'm going to get you slick and open and ready, and when you're completely spent, when you're sensitive and overloaded with pleasure, I'm going to fuck you until you're hard again, and then I'll make you come again on my dick.”

“Jesus, Peter,” Stiles moans, writhing as the older man adds a third finger and starts a punishing rhythm. “Yes. Yes, all of it. Do it all. I want it. Harder. More.”

Peter crooks his fingers on every thrust into Stiles's body, watching in awe the way the young spark undulates beneath him. The noises that Stiles makes are obscene. If they don't get complaints from the rooms surrounding their own, Peter thinks they must be doing something wrong. “Are you still hungry for my fingers, sweet boy? Think you can take a fourth? Make your hole stretch so I can go deeper? Give you what you want?”

Stiles groans loud and long. “Yes, more. Give me more, Peter. I need to come.”

It's all the encouragement that Peter needs. He carefully slips a fourth finger into the young man, his entire hand practically pistoning into the stretched hole. Peter will have to suggest fisting one of these days.

Stiles screams as his orgasm hits, and it's the loudest Peter has ever heard him come. It almost shocks him into forgetting to stop moving his hand. Panting and sated and moaning, Stiles softly begs him to stop, and Peter does, letting the young man rest for just a moment. The straining of Peter's cock in his jeans reminds him of his promise, though.

“Turn over,” he commands, and Stiles slings an arm over his eyes with an exhausted huff.

“Need a minute.”

Peter grabs at Stiles's hips and roughly flips him onto his stomach. “Not what we agreed upon,” he says breathlessly, working his belt buckle open, frantically popping the button, and nearly ripping the zipper in the process. He pushes his jeans as far down as they'll go on his thighs. “Spread your legs.” Stiles moves his knees apart a little further, but not where Peter wants them. He uses his own knees to move the young man's legs apart, and Stiles whimpers at the stretch. “Good boy.” He grabs the lube and coats himself generously with only two pumps to his cock. “I don't want to tarnish my reputation in stamina, darling,” he says as he positions Stiles's hips for a smooth entry, “but I don't think this is going to last long.”

“Good,” Stiles groans from his position, forehead pressed into his arms.

Stiles is stretched perfectly—slick but still tight. Peter glides inside the young man in one thrust, and they both release guttural moans. The older man circles his hips once, breathing deeply as he lets Stiles adjust to him. He runs a slick hand down Stiles's spine, making the young man shiver. “Ready?”

Stiles's chest heaves, and he manages a breathless, “Yeah,” before Peter's instincts take over, and they both hold on for dear life.

The pace is brutal, painful. Peter almost doesn't feel the pleasure in it, but he is determined to make good on his promise. Stiles is loosing long, breathy whines, and his cock is filling again, a string of curses following Peter's name.

“That's it, darling. You know you want to come again. You can feel it, can't you? With my cock inside you?” Stiles's moans are getting loud again. “How about a different angle, hmm?” Peter wraps an arm around Stiles's waist, pulling him up against his chest and pinning the young man's wrists to keep him from touching himself. Stiles gasps as the older man grabs his throat with his other hand, squeezing just this side of too tight and using it as leverage to pound up into him. “You can feel all of me, can't you? Every. Fucking. Inch of me.” He punctuates each word with a harsh thrust, and Stiles cries out on every hit to his prostate. Peter feels the coil of heat in the pit of his stomach and presses his mouth to Stiles ear. “Come for me, Stiles.”

Stiles does. Loud and long and hard. He clenches tightly around Peter, and the older man manages only a few more thrusts before he's coming, pounding into Stiles and riding the shock waves of his orgasm until it's completely wrung out of him. They both fall forward, Peter catching both Stiles and himself before they collapse into a pile of limbs and managing to lower them onto their sides. The older man's hand still clutches weakly at Stiles's throat, and he squeezes it once before releasing him.

He doesn't notice the bite mark at the base of Stiles's neck until he's pulling out of the young man and rolling onto his back. Peter frowns at it, unable to recall when it happened, and runs trembling fingers over it. Stiles hisses and reaches behind him to catch his hand.

“What is that?” the young man asks, gingerly prodding at the mark he can't see.

Peter is quiet for a long moment before admitting, “A claiming bite.”

Stiles turns, suddenly, adrenalin pushing the pain and ache aside for a moment. “A claiming bite?” he repeats, glazed eyes becoming more lucid by the second. “Did you...Peter, did you claim me?”

Peter looks away, towards the ceiling where the water stains show clear instructions on The Spider and The Accordion. Have they tried those positions yet? Will Stiles want to after this?

“Hey.” Stiles smacks Peter's shoulder, bringing him out of his thoughts, then cups the man's face and turns it towards himself so that they have to look at one another. “Did you claim me?”

Peter blinks slowly. “Evidently.”

The light in Stiles's eyes begins to dim, and he shrinks away from the other man. “So you didn't mean to.”

Peter snatches at Stiles's hand and pulls him back towards himself, studying the younger man for a long moment before taking a breath to speak. “No. I didn't mean to.” Stiles tries to tug his hand back, but Peter only tightens his grip. “But I've been meaning to,” he amends, and the young spark stills. “I should have spoken to you about it sooner. It wasn't supposed to be sprung on you like this. The bite is meant to be a mutual decision between partners, and to bite someone without their permission is...It's inexcusable. Stiles, I'm sorry. I'm not upset because I didn't want to claim you. I'm upset because you didn't have a say in the matter.”

Stiles stares back at Peter with wide, calculating eyes. Peter can practically see the cogs turning behind them, the maddening thought process that is truly only Stiles.

“Partners,” Stiles repeats quietly, his gaze shifting between the older man's eyes.

“Yes,” Peter says cautiously, his heart thudding against his ribcage.

“So,” the young man continues, “you're saying you like me?” The smirk on his face puts all insecurities that Peter felt to rest, and the older man breathes out a relieved huff.

“Yes, Stiles. I'm saying I like you.”

Stiles's smile is blinding, radiant, brilliant.

Beautiful.

“Sooo, does that mean you'll go get us breakfast?”

Peter slumps against the young man with a groan, burying his face in the crook of his neck. “Give me a minute. I've just fucked my own brains out.”

“And mine,” Stiles says cheerfully. “We'll definitely need a shower. Think you've got another round in you?”

The older man laughs incredulously, and the sound is broken, tired, burnt.

“I'll see what I can do.”

Beautiful.

BONUS SCENE:

Stiles carefully pours another cup of water over Peter's hair, watching it turn red as it swirls down the sink drain. Peter sits in a crooked desk chair, his back to the sink and his head leaned back into the basin while Stiles straddles his lap.

“Tell me why we couldn't have done this in the shower?” Peter sighs, eyes closed and eyebrows rising and falling with his general annoyance.

“Because someone took too long to come down my throat, and the water got cold,” Stiles explains casually, squirting the small amount of shampoo they have left into one hand and gently running his fingers through Peter's hair.

The older man sighs in content, the lines on his face smoothing out as Stiles massages his scalp. His hands move from the young man's hips to his ass, squeezing appreciatively. “Maybe you're losing your touch.”

Stiles rocks forward, grinding against the other man and eliciting a sharp breath. “Maybe you're getting too old for more than one round.”

Peter pulls Stiles against him hard, and they both moan. The young man moves his hips in lazy circles as he continues to clean Peter's hair, the lather bubbling and turning pink.

“This is my last clean pair of jeans, Peter,” Stiles warns, but he doesn't stop the older man from rocking their hips together over and over, faster and faster.

“There's a laundromat down the street,” Peter states quickly, the chair creaking as he bucks his hips to meet Stiles's. The noises he makes are getting breathier, louder. “Or we can just buy you new jeans.”

“Are you kidding?” Stiles demands, panting as his fingers work their way to the back of Peter's scalp. “These are the perfect amount of worn-in. I don't want to start over with new jeans.”

“That's the point of new clothes, darling,” Peter chuckles, mouth dropping open as he feels the pit of his stomach tighten. “You get to wear the new ones in.”

Stiles's hips stutter, and he shudders as he comes, moving in time with the older man until he finds his own release. With a breathless laugh, he asks, “Can we wear them in like that?”

Peter cracks one eye open and smiles at the young spark. “We can wear them in any-which-way you like, sweetheart.”

Stiles laughs again and fills the cup with clean(ish) water from the tap, pouring it carefully over Peter's hair and watching the pink lather disappear. “Can I tell you something?”

“Anything,” Peter says automatically.

Stiles fills the cup once more and rinses what's left of the blood and shampoo from the older man's hair. “Promise?”

Peter frowns, opening his eyes as Stiles begins to towel-dry his clean locks. “Did you dye my hair?”

The young man huffs, shaking his head. “No. I would never do anything to hair as perfect as yours.” He pauses in his drying and looks down his nose at the older man. “Unless you deserved it.”

The werewolf smirks. “Well, let's pray I never deserve it.” He rubs at Stiles's thighs and sits up, running a hand through his damp curls. His hair always curls when it's wet. Where's a hair dryer when he desperately needs one? “What do you have to tell me?”

Stiles smooths back a few stray hairs, avoiding eye contact as he takes a breath and says, “Do you like me?”

Peter has the decency not to scoff or laugh at the question. He merely smiles and reaches a hand back to run fingers gently over the fresh claiming bite on Stiles's neck. “I think we've established how I feel about you.”

“Right,” Stiles says, eyes fluttering shut at Peter's touch. “But do you, like...more than like me?”

The older man furrows his eyebrows and studies his spark carefully. “Is this an elementary school reference I don't understand? Do the kids still say 'like-like' instead of 'like'?”

“Do you love me, Peter?” Stiles blurts, breath catching in his throat as their eyes lock.

Peter studies the younger man carefully, his hand still on the mark. “Yes,” he admits, the word barely more than a whisper. “Yes, Stiles, I love you—more than I've loved anyone in this lifetime.”

The air in Stiles's lungs shudders out of him, and he swallows thickly, nodding as he says, “Good.”

Peter raises an eyebrow and repeats the word. “Good?”

The young man closes his eyes and laughs nervously with a shake of his head. “I mean...It's good. It's really good.” He opens his eyes and smiles, bright and beautiful, at the man he can call his. “I love you, too. Peter, I love you—so much.” The last words are barely heard as Peter surges forward and captures Stiles's lips, pressing down on the mark and swallowing the gasp it elicits.

When they finally come up for air, panting into each others' mouths, they smile and laugh and hug. “Not to ruin the moment, but we should probably move this celebration to the bed,” Peter says, nuzzling into Stiles's neck and pressing kisses into his skin. “I'm not sure how much longer this chair is going to hold our weight.”

Stiles hums his approval. “You know, we could also celebrate by...going out?”

Peter lifts his head and looks at the young man fondly. “You mean a date?”

With a bashful shrug, Stiles quirks one corner of his mouth. “Could be nice, maybe. A real one, I mean.”

“A real one,” Peter says with a chuckle, lifting Stiles with hands under his thighs and maneuvering his way out of the small bathroom door. “And all those times I paid for your dinner, those weren't real dates?”

“You never asked me out,” Stiles informs him matter-of-factly. “Formally.”

Peter drops to his knees, placing Stiles on the edge of the bed and looks up into amber honey with adoration and awe and affection beyond imagine. “Oh, my darling, will you please allow me to whisk you away from all this and...take you out for a strawberry milkshake and curly fries?”

Stiles laughs and cups Peter's face in both hands, smiling into the kiss he presses against the other man's lips. “Yes. Yes. Yes.” He peppers the man's mouth with kisses between each word, then pulls away so that they are barely a breath apart. “But first you have to buy me some new jeans.”

Peter pushes Stiles back onto the bed and covers his body with his own. “Anything for you, my love,” he whispers against his jaw, placing open-mouthed kisses along his neck. “I am yours.”

Stiles arches into the attention, gasping as he says, “And I'm yours.” The older man raises himself up, and looks down at his young spark. His sweet boy. Stiles smiles wide and bright and beautiful.

“I'm yours, Peter.”

Beautiful.