#*w:complete

[usermischief]

♚ Pairing: Sterek ♚ Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale ♚ Tags: canon divergence, getting together ♚ Words: 2883

ao3

---

Stiles narrows his eyes. “Satisfied? Or do you need my social security number too?”

Still, Derek stays silent as he looks at him. It’s not particularly comforting – that is, until his gaze drops to Stiles’ mouth then flicking back up again, a slow smile curling around his lips.

Stiles’ heart jolts in his chest, and he clears his throat. “Delighted my trauma amuses you,” he mutters, disregarding the fact that he continues to make jokes about it as well.

“Delighted I don’t have to kill you.”

---

Click.

Cursing softly under his breath, Stiles flicks the light switch up again. Down. Up. Down. Up. “Fucking hell.” Stiles massages the bridge of his nose. His stupid light. Everything else – even exorcising this damned place – worked out beautifully. Which is a miracle. Thanks to the residual demon, who infested this place after the previous owners fucked around – and found out – with a Ouija board in the late 50s, this house has been in a nightmarish state. Every inch of this place was a deathtrap. Rotten wood. Broken stairs. A ceiling, roof and second floor so unstable, a gust of wind could cause everything to collapse in a heartbeat.

Stiles spent more than one night in a tent in front of the house.

A bark cuts through the silence of the house, startling him out of his thoughts. Drawing his brows together, he looks past the stubborn ceiling light to the second-floor landing. The puppy he’s found under the house, white fur crusted with dirt and blood – aptly named Bobak, Bo for short – and who has refused to leave Stiles’ side ever since he fed him for the first time, is staring at him almost expectantly. Although some dog owners most likely won’t be happy about his lifestyle – flipping and clearing out haunted houses and constantly moving around – Stiles refuses to give Bobak away. Bo might not be the cuddliest or most social of dogs, he still makes Stiles’ life less, much less, lonely.

Bo barks again.

Stiles quirks a brow. “What? It’s not dinner time yet.”

Wagging his tail, Bo bounds down the stairs, nearly tumbling down the last two steps. He catches himself, jumps up the front door once before all but flying around Stiles’ legs then, finally, making a mad dash out of the backdoor and into the yard. There, he keeps zooming around, causing colored leaves to fly into the air, and barking his adorable little head off, too big ears fluttering in the wind. He’s going to miss Bo’s floppy ears once he’s grown into them.

Before Stiles can follow him, there’s a knock on the door. He glances up at the clock, narrowing his eyes once more as it passes the current bane of existence – maybe he should just get an electrician this once – and turns to the front door. It’s not late, per se, but darkness is setting in, and people are still keeping their distance to this place. So, he isn’t usually expecting anyone to swing by, even less since his closest neighbor lives around a mile away, but the person he never imagined to come over is Derek Hale.

Drawing his brows together, Stiles swings the door open.

“Hey.” Derek’s smile seems strained. To be honest, he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else – not unlike the first time they met at the only diner in town. Well, met might be stretching it. That day, Derek couldn’t finish his lunch fast enough, even Sally was surprised by his precipitate behavior. So much so, she commented on it while serving Stiles his food.

He had chalked it up to Derek sensing something about him the same way Stiles clocked him as a werewolf the second he laid eyes on him – aside from noticing that the guy is a walking and talking Calvin Klein advertisement. Instead of avoiding him, however, Derek kept showing up all over the place. It seemed accidental, but Stiles has dealt with enough supernatural creatures and grew up with a sheriff that he can recognize stalking behavior when he sees it.

Derek’s never been lurking around here, though.

Well, not until today, that is.

And Stiles’ heart is having a field day with it, which is rather unfortunate with Derek’s supernatural hearing and all.

Stiles manages to clear his throat about thirty seconds into the terribly awkward silence. “Hey.” He sounds like an idiot. He feels like one too. “Can I- do you-” Bo interrupts him with a slew of excited barks, zooming through the hallway and back out again, sending more leaves flying around; it gives Stiles a few seconds to gather himself. “You wanna come in?”

“I bought dinner,” Derek says at the same time.

They both stare at each other, and the silence makes Stiles’ neck grow uncomfortably warm.

Luckily, Derek cuts it short. “I’d love to.”

Stiles steps aside and gestures for Derek to come in. This is happening. He’s not entirely sure how or why, but it is, and Stiles is not about to complain. The last time a hot guy walked into his home was – when? Stiles doesn’t really remember. Which is sad, honestly. Sure, he’s been aware that both his social and love life have sailed off a cliff once he started dictating his life to ghost and demon hunting, but now, watching Derek stroll into his kitchen, he realized for the first time how bad it’s really gotten in the past four years.

“Looks good,” Derek remarks, almost curious in the way he’s taking everything in. “You did an excellent job keeping the old charm alive.”

Crossing his arms, Stiles leans against the large doorway leading to the kitchen. “You’ve been here before?”

Derek shrugs as he puts the bag with the takeout on the dinner table. “Teenagers and haunted houses.”

“Werewolves too?”

If Derek is surprised that Stiles knows, he doesn’t show it. Instead, an almost cheeky grin curls around his lips. “Werewolves especially.”

Stiles snorts and crosses the room. “I expected you to be smarter.” He glances at Derek, smirking briefly, and steps in front of the only cupboard he uses. The good thing about moving around so much is that he never collects any clutter. As a teen and college student, things looked very different. Two boxes, a couple of suitcases and his backpack fit into Roscoe anyway. Now that Bo is traveling with him, he’s got to figure out the new logistics.

“How’d you do it?” Derek asks as he takes the two plates from him.

Their fingers brush, either on purpose or entirely accidental. Stiles doesn’t know, but the touch sends a tingle through his whole body. A good tingle, great even, and Stiles hates to realize how touch starved he really is.

Stiles opens the fridge, scowling a little as he’s greeted with emptiness. He really needs to go grocery shopping. “Very carefully,” he replies and grabs two bottles of beer. “And lots of research." Once he's figured out where to look, finding pictures of old houses isn’t that much of a struggle. Often, he meets the previous owners, who either think he’s suicidal or are very happy to help.

Derek watches him, arms crossed, eyebrows raised. “The demon or the house flipping?”

“Ah.” Stiles sets the bottles on the table and leans against the edge. “That’s why you’re here.”

Derek merely watches him, eyebrows climbing higher as his expression turns more and more expectant. An alpha after all. He’s probably used to people jumping at his command.

It might be fun to let him stew for a little longer. “You know, you could’ve just asked.”

“I just did.”

Stiles snorts out a laugh, “I meant ask me about why those werewolf senses are tingling whenever you’re around me.” He cocks his head to the side and decides to put himself out there, for once, “unless, of course, there are other reasons for that.” He’s got Derek in his house already and considering that he leaves as soon as it is sold, there’s no harm done, no awkward darting around each other needed in case he’s rejected. Two months tops, and he’s out of this town, where everyone knows everybody, and nothing ever stays secret.

Derek’s lips twitch.

Good. So, Stiles didn’t exactly imagine the lingering looks whenever they, clearly not entirely accidentally, ran into each other absolutely everywhere. In a town with less than 100 people, it’s impossible to hide anyway.

“Tingling?” Derek echoes, more amused than in disbelief.

Stiles lets his head fall back, watching out of the corner of his eye as Derek’s gaze drops to his neck then back up again. “You’re a poor conversationalist.”

“And you’re dodging the question.”

Stiles clicks his tongue, rolling his head to the left to look at the werewolf again. “Geez, D, you can’t just ask people why they’re making you feel weird.”

A flicker of annoyance dances over his features, either at the nickname or his refusal to give him the desired reply. Still, Derek props his hands on the table and leans closer, one eyebrow raised. “I can if I consider them a danger to my pack and territory.”

Fair point.

However, “I literally exorcised this fucking demon.” Although nobody has died in this house in almost a decade, Stiles considers it future deaths prevented.

Derek taps a finger against the table, allows red to bleed into his eyes.

Rolling his eyes, Stiles pushes away from the table and faces the werewolf, arms crossed firmly in front of his chest. Although Derek didn’t outright threaten him, Stiles is fully aware that this evening could easily turn into his last if the big bad alpha considers him too dangerous, which would very much be the exact opposite of how he’d prefer this evening to go. He sighs. ���I was possessed by a nogitsune when I was sixteen.” Stiles doesn't miss as Derek’s expression return to stoic, listening, waiting. He sees the way his shoulders tense, the way something in his eyes shift, ever so slightly. The moment of truth, always and forever. "It did some weird shit with my body, cracked my mind like an egg, hence the whole-” he waves his hand around. “Thought I could do something good if I can pierce the veil, you know?” It makes him feel less guilty about the shit the nogitsune did while using his body like a meatsuit.

But that’s something nobody else needs to know about.

Derek straightens.

Stiles narrows his eyes. “Satisfied? Or do you need my social security number too?”

Still, Derek stays silent as he looks at him. It’s not particularly comforting – that is, until his gaze drops to Stiles’ mouth then flicking back up again, a slow smile curling around his lips.

Stiles’ heart jolts in his chest, and he clears his throat. “Delighted my trauma amuses you,” he mutters, disregarding the fact that he continues to make jokes about it as well.

“Delighted I don’t have to kill you.”

“You think you can kill me?” Stiles chuckles, playing pretend. Dealing with demons is one thing. They’re very capable of murder, more so than ghosts, but depending on their strength and rank, they need time – time to get into your head, time to fuck with you. They have to chip away their target’s defenses. Knowing and being prepared for a demon makes dealing with them a lot easier. Plus, if he’s learned anything from his own possession, it’s how to keep things out of his mind. Werewolves are a different beast entirely. If they want someone dead, all they have to do is pin them down and rip their throat out.

Derek pushes away from the table and all but stalks closer to him, narrowing the small distance the table offers. “Of course, I could.” He runs his fingers along the edge of the table. It’s one of the few things Stiles could repair from the old furniture, so, luckily, Derek keeps his claws in check.

Stiles swallows drily and rips his gaze away from Derek’s hand, locking eyes with him again. “Awfully confident there, buddy.”

His words are met with a near predatory glint in the hazel eyes. Beautiful hazel eyes, at that. Easy to get lost in.

Focus.

“You don’t scare me.”

Derek stops directly in front of him. They’re nearly chest to chest, and although Derek isn’t necessarily taller than him, Stiles feels weirdly small. He can’t quite put his finger on it, but the way he is holding himself, the way he is looking at him – as if Stiles is a rabbit cornered by the big bad wolf. Red bleeding into his eyes accentuates the whole predator predicament.

Fucking werewolves, seriously.

“Cute,” Stiles comments anyway, uncrossing his arms and straightening his shoulders and spine. “Still not scared, though.” They’re probably both aware that’s not entirely true, but he’s never been someone to back down from a challenge. “You gotta do more than creeping around in the bushes and stare at me with your alpha eyes.” Especially since the latter is actually pretty damn hot, which isn’t exactly helping the situation.

“I’m not trying to scare you,” Derek informs him in a casual yet amused tone.

“Really? Could’ve fooled me, big guy.”

Derek chuckles, letting his head fall forward as he does so – and Stiles can’t help but watch his mouth move. It’s fascinating. Every time he’s seen Derek, the guy has been scowling. Stiles didn’t think he could chuckle, much less laugh.

Fuck, he’s pretty.

Beautiful even.

His heartbeat picks up when Derek locks eyes with him again. “You’re not very attentive.”

“Oh, really?” Now, that is just plain rude and so uncalled for. “How do you think I’m finding these demons? By paying very close attention to details. So, I am attentive. I’m actually the most at-”

Derek kisses him. No ifs. No buts. No hesitation. He just does, and his lips are so soft and warm, their touch makes Stiles’ stomach twist with anticipation. Derek moves his hands and cradles his cheeks, thumb tracing a slow, ever so gentle line along his skin. All of Derek’s hard edges are replaced by something tender and raw.

Stiles’ heart stutters in his too tight chest, and his mind blanks, every single thought swept away by the warm lips pressed to his own. He melts against Derek, pressing closer as he curls his fingers around Derek’s bicep and his eyes flutter shut. A soft, almost helpless sound escapes his throat as a warmth floods through him, followed by a kind of ache Stiles doesn’t quite have a name for. They both settle deep inside of him, spreading into every part of his body. His entire body lights up with a want he hasn’t felt in what feels like forever, a need for closeness more than just desire.

When Derek pulls back, Stiles moves with him, desperate to hold onto the kiss just a little bit longer.

Derek regards it with a soft chuckle, his warm breath ghosting over Stiles’ lips.  

The sound alone makes Stiles wants to kiss him again, but he doesn’t, clears his throat instead. No words come, which in itself is quite the curiosity, and Stiles is almost relieved at the sound of paws hitting the wood. Here to interrupt any possibility of an awkward silence. Stiles glances over his shoulder, watches as Bo enters the room and sniffs the air. It’s probably best to be upfront.

Once more, he clears his throat. “I’m not staying.” He crouches down and can’t help but smile when Bo bumps his head against his leg, demanding attention. “At least not forever. Until the house is sold, and I found the next… target, I guess.” He runs his fingers through Bo’s soft fur as he tries to ignore the way his heart aches at the thought of leaving.

For the first time in years.

Which is ridiculous. He doesn’t know Derek; not how he is as a person, that is. He only knows superficial stuff. What happened to his family, that he’s a werewolf and that he owns the only garage in town, and that he doesn’t need to crawl under cars or get car grime and oil all over himself because he’s loaded. So, he’s either doing it for fun or for the people living in this town… or both. Derek seems to be a good person, but so is Stiles, and Stiles won’t lie — he’s not only a handful, he’s also not particularly nice. Many people called him an asshole. They’re not entirely wrong.

“I’m not asking you to stay,” Derek says as he slides onto the chair at the head of the table, very clearly indicating that he’s not planning on leaving soon. “But maybe I can convince you to come back.” 

Stiles blinks up at him, scratching Bo behind his ears. “You don’t know me.”

“Yet,” Derek adds and looks down at him with a smile.

This fucking guy is going to give him a heart attack before Stiles has figured out his favorite color. Aside from that, it dawns on Stiles that he may have misjudged the guy. “So, you stalked me because you like me.”

The tips of Derek’s ears turn the slightest shade of pink. Adorable. “I never stalked you.”

Bo barks.

“He says you’re a liar.” Stiles raises to stand and pulls a chair out. “I think you followed me around, but didn’t know how to approach me.” Smirking, he sits down as Bo uses his chance to curl up under his chair.

Instead of replying, Derek opens the bag of takeout and pulls out only the best of Sally’s diner. His ears turn just a shade darker.

Stiles props his chin on his hand, not even bothering to hide the smile forming on his lips. He totally could get used to this.

[maruyamainn-blog]

Willie’s bloody memories translation version.

w:Completed by pasting a portrait of mommy here...OK!

o: Willie!where are you please answer to me!I have a bad feeling about this!!where are you!?

w:Mommy!!up here!!

o:Willie!!please do not get off the BIG ROBOT BILL!!because...

w:Mommy...?

o:Willie...forgive me...please...please...ah...Quater...

*boom!*

[usermischief]

Steo Prompt Request:

When Character A turns up at his rivals's door to yell at him, but Character B has a fever and mistakes him for a dream, then when Character A checks his temperature Character B leans into his hand, covering it with his own and says, "Stay ... You never stay."

a/n: sorry, it took me a hot second to write this. I hope you like it. And thank you so much for the prompt! 💖

~~~

“Theo, I swear to— fuck.”  Stiles bangs his fist against the door once more for good measure.  

Three rooms down, a door swings open. Out pops the disheveled head of Donovan, Theo’s feral frat brother. He’s still sporting a black eye from the lacrosse ball Kira not-so-accidentally chucked at his face after one too many stupid comments on Stiles’ behalf. 

Stiles pins him with a glare. “You want another one of those?” 

Donovan opens his mouth, ready to argue, then purses his lips. A variety of emotions crosses his features — too fast for Stiles to decipher, but most likely none of them good. He probably still has a lot to say about yesterday's humiliation, but he slams the door shut instead. Surprising, albeit better this way. There is no way this would’ve been resolved peacefully with how pissed Stiles is at Theo, who still hasn’t opened is fucking door.  

Narrowing his eyes, Stiles whips around again, glaring at the immovable object. He could break into Theo’s room easily enough, but even Stiles has enough decency not to do that — especially if he’s running the risk of watching Tracy lounge in Theo’s bed. Naked, probably. He scrunches up his face. 

This really needs to stop. 

“Theo!” Stiles bellows once more, ignoring someone else yelling at him. He doesn’t care. Not at all. They’re lucky he waited until 6 am because he would’ve been ready to strangle Theo at 3 am too. Maybe he should’ve done it. It is entirely possible Theo’s door would have been open at that time.  

Fine.

He’s going to get into this room one way or another. 

Before he’s got the chance to move away, however, the lock clicks and the door creeps open. 

Theo looks, for the lack of a better word, terrible. His skin is pale, his eyes glossy, and he leans heavily on the door, almost like his legs won’t be able to support him for very long. He blinks at him, slowly, and leans towards Stiles for a moment before swaying back. It takes everything in him not to grab Theo before he falls on his ass. Come to think of it, Theo wasn’t really himself yesterday. Usually, he is the one to step in when Donovan takes it too far. Yesterday, however, Kira ended the argument.

Maybe that’s why.  

All of Stiles’ anger evaporates at once. That would certainly explain Theo’s weird text message. ‘Can you stop looking at me like you hate me?’. Sure, that text message could’ve been sent to him by accident – except Theo doesn’t make accidents like that. He lets out a breath and reaches for Theo’s face. His pink cheeks are already telling Stiles everything he needs to know, yet he’d rather make sure.  

Carefully, he brushes his fingertips over Theo’s forehead. It’s slick with sweat, and strands of hair cling to it. Stiles barely resists the urge to run his fingers through Theo’s hair. All the feelings he’s buried deep, deep threaten to spill out at once. Stiles grinds his teeth, forcing himself to swallow each and every single one of them, and puts the back of his hand against Theo’s forehead instead.  

As expected, he’s burning up. 

Theo makes a soft sound in the back of his throat and grabs Stiles’ hand, keeping it pressed against his skin – almost as if it helped him cool down somehow. “Stay,” Theo mutters, eyes closed. “You never stay.”

Stiles opens his mouth, ready for a scalding remark. The words, however, get stuck somewhere just underneath his jaw, refusing to roll over his tongue. He can’t even bring himself to pull his hand away. After all, Theo isn’t wrong. Stiles never stays, but Theo was the one who left. Sure, Theo was ten and didn’t exactly have much of a say in his parents’ plan, and while not living in the same city hurt like hell, what broke Stiles was the radio silence. Theo simply up and vanished as if he never even existed in the first place. 

And then he returned, acted like nothing ever happened, like he didn’t break little Stiles’ heart. 

“Please.”

It’s breaking all over again, just for an entirely different reason. “Okay,” Stiles whispers, allowing Theo to drag him into his bedroom. If Stiles is entirely honest, he’s doubts Theo has been fully aware of what’s happening around him. Considering he’s asleep before his head hits the pillow, Stiles wonders if he's even been fully awake at all. He drags the blanket over Theo’s sleeping form and turns away. Leaving would be the right thing to do. Theo probably didn’t mean for him to stay. Maybe he couldn’t even tell who was standing in front of him.  

Nevertheless, he can’t bring himself to leave. Growing up with a sick mother made Stiles hesitant of leaving sick people unattended. Most of the time, he is overreacting. Still, Theo seems completely out of it, and a high fever could turn bad quickly – and Stiles doubts Donovan is going to take care of Theo, or anyone here, really. The people Stiles would consider Theo’s friends aren’t part of this fraternity. Stiles would like to believe that not even Theo would be here if not for his father’s insistence on keeping up appearances. 

Or maybe he’s just hoping that’s the case. After all, Stiles hasn’t seen Theo for eight years. 

Sighing, Stiles strolls through Theo’s room. It’s clean, almost sterile, with white walls and no personal belongings aside from the stuff related to his studies. When Theo was a kid, his bedroom was full off clutter, little league trophies, pictures of his friends and sister, books and DVDs, clothes, and half-finished paintings. His bedroom used to be lived in. Now, everything’s at its designated spot and the room feels as if someone sucked out all its life. 

No thanks to Mrs. Raeken’s influence. 

He is still snooping quietly, flipping through books, opening drawers – when else would he have the chance, right? Maybe he can find something to kick Theo out of the lacrosse team. The guy loathed lacrosse when he was younger. Besides, he’s also on the football team. If he quit lacrosse, his coach would make him captain at once – and who wouldn’t want to be captain of the football team? It comes with glory and lots of sex.

Then again, Theo can probably get his dick wet whenever he wants.

Stiles grimaces at the thought, hating that he immediately thinks of Tracy. It’s hard to tell how Theo feels about her, but Tracy is head over heels. Just thinking about it makes Stiles’ clench his teeth. His stomach hardens. He hates her. Irrationally so, he’s fully aware of that. They’ve met twice at parties, and all Tracy did was hang onto Theo’s arm as if she turns into dust the second, she lets go. If only she weren’t so fucking pretty with her long brown hair and perfect figure. Then again, she’s not particularly smart. Kira mentioned she’s failing a few of her classes because she struggles with the general coursework and is more interested in everything that’s not her studies. That’s a big fat minus in Theo’s book. If he took anything to heart his parents drilled into him from a young age, it’s that a good education, determination, and the pursuit of a goal are extremely important.

Even if they were in any form of relationship now, it would never last. Theo would never settle down with someone like her. He’d be more interested in someone like-

Stiles gives his head a shake.

Nope. Not going down that road.

It’s probably a good idea to get his mind off Theo for a while. He spent so much time snooping; the sun is already setting.

Scrunching up his face, Stiles sits down at Theo’s desk and drags the laptop towards him. It’s a long shot, really, but his passwords for everything used to be his nickname for his sister and Theo’s grandmother’s birthday. Knowing his luck, it might be a different one now. Still, it’s worth a shot if he doesn’t want to end up spiraling until Theo wakes up again. He opens the laptop up, trying to remember Grandma Raeken’s birthday, when the background picture causes his heart to skip a beat. 

Oh.

Staring back at him are Tara, with the biggest and proudest grin on her face, ruffling her little brother’s hair. Theo is mid-movement to put his Little League cap back on, scowling up at his sister. Then there is Stiles himself, just nine-years old, Little League trophy clutched in his hands, doubling over laughing. 

This very moment happened exactly two months before the Raeken’s move, and six months before Tara’s death. She looked so incredibly happy here. 

“I hated it when she did that.”

Stiles jolts and slams the laptop shut, wincing a little at the sound of the impact. “You’re awake,” he says and pushes his hands in the pocket of his hoodie. Although Theo doesn’t look much better, the additional couple hours of sleep he’s gotten seemed to have cleared his head. His eyes look a lot more focused now; their intense stare rooting him to the spot on his chair.

“You’re here.” Theo’s tone is even, calm. His eyes narrow slightly, assessing the situation as his gaze flicks from Stiles to the laptop and back again, now focused on Stiles’ hand as he makes a dismissive gesture. “I didn’t think you were actually here.”

Furrowing his brows, Stiles lowers his hands into his lap. “You thought I was a fever dream?” Stiles quirks a brow. If that’s the case, it probably wouldn’t be a bad idea to get Theo to a hospital to get checked out. Now, however, he seems a lot more awake and aware of everything going on around him. “Is that why you sent me that stupid text?” Because that is why he’s here. Not to take care of Theo. Not to drive him to a doctor. He’s here because Theo has the fucking audacity to act offended by Stiles’ glaring at him.

Theo visibly winces and turns to look out the window. “That’s why you’re here.”

“You know,” Stiles says, getting to his feet with a shake of his head, “if you didn’t constantly try to upstage me in everything I do, I wouldn’t look at you like that.”

“Upstaging you?” Theo stares at him again, brows raised in utter confusion. “I’m not upstaging you.”

Stiles huffs out a breath and sits down again. That’s just ridiculous. Theo is and always has been one of the most competitive people in the world. He wants, no, he needs to be on top. Always and in absolutely everything he’s doing. While in the few classes they’re sharing, Stiles remains to be the winner – although Theo is very close behind – there’s nothing he can do in Lacrosse. Theo came in, rained on his parade, and too his spot as Co-Captain from him with no issue at all. That’s absolutely no cause for concern regarding his scholarship, it was still a nice feeling after his shitty high school experience. Plus, it’s Theo. Who hates lacrosse. Who is already co-captain of the football team. Who is just pissed that Stiles hasn’t welcomed him back with open arms.

“I’m just trying-“ Theo stops himself, pressing his lips together. “We used to be best friends.”

“And then you fucked off and acted like I didn’t even exist,” Stiles whispers.

Closing his eyes, Theo sinks back into his pillows. “I thought it was easier to lose you all at once than over time.” The words are sharper than any knife could ever be. It's a talent Theo has always possessed. Looks like he’s got the chance to refine it over the years.

Stiles isn’t any less successful in hitting where it hurts, but the words took all of his fight away in one foul swoop. He presses his hands together and stares at the ground. “Why’d you never—” but Stiles cuts himself off with a wince. How could Theo have ever said anything at all? Stiles made sure to flee the scene as quickly as possible whenever he appeared.

You never stay.

Swallowing around the lump in his throat, he gets up from the chair and crosses the room. Stiles kicks off his shoes without hesitation. It’s either now or never; if he doesn’t stay this time, Theo is not going to give him another chance, not when he’s opening the door this wide.

Theo draws his brows together. “What are you doing?”

Stiles tosses his jacket over the chair. “I’m staying,” he says resolutely, briefly glancing at Theo before he climbs over him and settles next to his head.

“Stiles, I’m sick.”

“Yeah, well…” Stiles doesn’t really have anything to say to that. Staying now most definitely will only make him sick as well, but he’d rather get sick than lose Theo like that again. “Just sleep,” he whispers, gently tugging the blanket up over Theo’s shoulders. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Theo raises his brows, and his eyes roam over his features almost as if he’s trying to catch him in a lie. Then he smiles. “Okay,” Theo whispers and closes his eyes, settling into a comfortable position next to him.

Despite knowing better, Stiles runs his fingers through Theo’s short stands. It would be best for him to ignore the way his heart rejoices at the way Theo smiles because of this simple touch. Stiles closes his eyes and leans his head back. He’s fucked. He’s so thoroughly fucked.

Stiles glances down at Theo again, unable to hide his smile this time.

Unless… maybe he’s not.

[usermischief]

♚ Pairing: Sterek ♚ Warnings: — ♚ Words: 907 ♚ Dialogue Prompt: “You're right.” - "I know... about what?" ♚ Mini Fic Roulette: 33/∞

---

Rolling over in the middle of the night to find one side of their bed empty is not unusual, yet Stiles still sits upright with panic when he notices Derek’s absence. Because Derek isn’t the one who leaves the bed in the middle of the night. He is the one who shuffles into the living room or the office to try and coax Stiles back to bed. That’s how their nights are, that’s their routine. Changes from the routine are never a good sign. 

Stiles rubs his eyes, listening to the silence of the night. At first, he doesn’t hear anything other than his heart pounding in his chest then he catches the soft murmur of voices. Derek watching TV in the middle of the night is almost more unnerving than the prospect of someone breaking into their apartment which is probably saying a lot something about him. However, it’s hard to be scared of criminals while living under the same roof as an alpha werewolf. 

Huffing out a breath, Stiles rolls out of bed. Even after years of being together, having to coax Derek back to bed is still very much unchartered territory. But on the rare occasions it happens, Stiles at the very least has an inkling as to what’s going on. Today, however, he has no clue what could possibly keep Derek up at night. There are no monsters causing mayhem in Beacon Hills. Nobody in the pack is in any sort of danger. Everything should be fine. 

But apparently not. 

Stiles tiptoes out of their bedroom and down the short hallway towards the voices coming from the TV. By the sound of it, Derek put on a rerun of Friends. He pushes the door open, not entirely sure what to expect — and he sure didn’t think he’d find a wolf curled up on the couch. “Derek, seriously.” Annoyed, Stiles flicks on the lights in the open-plan kitchen. “Get your filthy paws off my furniture.”

Derek’s ears flick in his direction. He doesn’t move immediately but decides to follow the command after a few seconds of contemplation. Judging by the way he stretches languidly, it seems like he doesn’t have a care in the world. 

If Stiles has woken up in an empty bed for nothing, he’s going to be pissed. He grabs the sweatpants from the backrest of the armchair and tosses them at Derek. “Unwolf and explain yourself, Mister.” His least favorite past-time is forcing his fiance to talk to him about feelings. No matter how long they’re going to be together, Stiles doubts Derek will ever be able to communicate freely about the shit that bothering him. So, occasionally Stiles has to get a little mean to make Derek open up. Cuddles can come after. 

The enormous wolf makes a sound akin to a huff. However, he shifts back into a human — not without a disgruntled rumble though. He still cooperated a lot faster than Stiles expected. Nothing would’ve stopped him from simply staring him down as a wolf, looking adorable as hell. Well, nothing but the knowledge that not even Derek, as emotionally constipated as he might be, is able to out-stubborn Stiles. 

“So?” Stiles asks and switches the TV off. “What’s going on?” 

Derek studies him as he slips into his sweatpants, head slightly cocked in a way that’s reminiscent of an animal. It always takes a few moments to leave his wolf behind. He blinks slowly, once then twice, and flares his nostrils just enough to be noticeable; almost as if he’s trying to figure out how mad Stiles really is — and truth be told, he isn’t mad, just a little frustrated that Derek decided to eat his feelings instead of waking him up. A conclusion his dear fiance clearly came to as well because his shoulders slump and he crosses the distance between them. “You’re right,” he says almost reluctantly before pulling Stiles into a hug. 

“I know.” The response is more instinct than anything else. After all, when is he wrong? Stiles wraps his arms around Derek’s waist and squints at him. “About what?” 

“Peter doesn’t have an emergency.” 

Stiles rolls his eyes. “She’s not going to eat you alive.” His grandmother has always been more bark than bite, but since Stiles is her favorite grandchild, she might be a little bit overprotective. 

“I’m not sure about that,” Derek mutters, and he looks genuinely worried. 

It takes everything in him not to bring Red Riding Hood into this conversation. “Babcia knows you make me happy,” Stiles reminds him, wrapping his arms tightly around Derek’s middle, and pressing a quick kiss to his lips. “That’s all she needs to know to approve of our marriage.”  

Derek doesn’t reply immediately, instead, he leans back a little and studies Stiles’ face again. “Am I?” 

“What?” Stiles raises his brows. 

“Am I making you happy?” That question could’ve only come from Derek. They’re engaged, about to be married in three months, and have lived together for the last four years. Still, he questions whether or not Stiles is happy, as if he’s the one burying his emotions under abs of steel. 

After kissing Derek once again, Stiles leans back and sighs. “That depends.” His attempt at keeping his face straight fails almost immediately. He grins slightly and cups Derek’s face. “Are you coming to bed?” 

Laughing softly, Derek hoists him into his arms and carries him back to the bedroom.

[usermischief]

♚ Pairing: Sterek ♚ Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale, Peter Hale, Nolan Holloway ♚ Tags: established relationship, 6b AU ♚ Words: 1014 ♚ Prompt: “If someone gets nosy, just, you know, shoot them." - "Shoot them?" - "Politely.” ♚ Mini Fic Roulette: 36/∞ 

⤚⁂↝♚↜⁂⤙

Nolan looks more than terrified, and judging by his track record, this is bound to blow up in his face. But they’ve made it this far, so Stiles hands him the crossbow again. Nolan knows exactly what’s going to happen in case he stabs him in the back now, so Stiles isn’t particularly worried about him. It’s the rest of his plan that might’ve been a bad decision. That, however, is a problem for future Stiles. Present Stiles finds himself with only a door separating him and Derek. One. If Nolan fucks this up, there will be hell to pay. “If someone gets nosy, just…” Stiles trails off for a moment, not sure what to say because Nolan won’t be able to talk himself out of anything — not when he perpetually looks like a deer in headlights. “You know… shoot them.” Stiles gives the crossbow a little pat.

Widening his eyes, Nolan stares back at him. “Shoot them?”

“Politely.” Giving him the thumbs up, Stiles pushes the door open and slips into the vast darkness behind it. They’re a bit on a time crunch, so there isn’t a time for a pep talk. Luckily, Stiles isn’t stopped by any locked doors. The hunters don’t think it’s necessary since they secured everything with mountain ash. They’re idiots, all of them, and it reeks of desperation on Gerard’s part to find recruits via fear mongering. If only they knew werewolves aren’t what they should be most afraid of. Then again, Stiles probably should be thankful. After all, this gave him a very easy in — after his dad finally informed him that shit hit the fan in Beacon Hills. The staggering number of hunters made it hard for the supernatural community, Stiles, however, had a very easy time to get in without rousing any suspicious.

As the door clicks shut behind him, Stiles can hear a faint growl in the seemingly endless darkness of the warehouse. “Keep growling at me, and I’ll leave your sorry ass here.” Stiles flicks the lights, raising his brows as he finds not only Derek but also Peter chained to an electric fence. “I cannot believe this,” he mutters more to himself than anyone in particular. How the hell did they manage to capture both Hales?

Stiles jogs towards them, still shaking his head in disbelief. There’s no doubt that Peter somehow dragged his nephew into some shenanigans that caused them to end up here. Judging by Derek’s glower, he’s even less thrilled about Stiles joining the fun. “You’re welcome,” he mutters, turning the electricity off.

“How did you get in here?” Derek asks as he’s breaking the chains holding him in place. When he takes a step, he looks a little unsteady on his feet.

“Gerard is overestimating the intelligence of his hunters.” Stiles shrugs, barely resisting the urge to rush forward and make sure Derek is okay. He’s not the biggest fan of being coddled in front of people, especially not Peter, and Stiles tries to respect that.

Peter looks quite put out by the fact that he’s not only been captured by a ragtag group of hunters, but also that he needed to be saved. “Don’t sell yourself short,” he says with his usual rather unpleasant and knowing smile. It’s like the guy has a sixth scene for Stiles doing something shady.

“Can you go grab Nolan, please?” Raising his brows at Peter, Stiles points over his shoulder. “Careful, though, he’s a bit nervous… and armed with a crossbow. Try not to startle him.” Although he’s pretty sure at this point, everything could startle the poor guy. He’s got no clue how he made it this far without a nervous breakdown.

Peter draws his brows together. “Aren’t we leaving?”

“Not through that door.” Stiles gestures for him to leave before finally crossing the distance between him and Derek, cupping his pale cheeks softly. “Are you okay?”

“Why yes, I am,” Peter calls over his shoulder, “thanks for asking.”

Ignoring not only his uncle’s comment but also Stiles’ question, Derek tilts his head just enough to press a kiss to the ball of his left hand. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Of course.

Stiles rolls his eyes and flicks Derek’s forehead. “I should’ve been here weeks ago.”

“It’s not safe—"

“Nowhere is safe,” Stiles interrupts him curtly. This isn’t a new argument, and it’s probably not the last time they’re having it. His dear boyfriend loves to bring it up. “Not for you, not for me… and this place is going to be especially unsafe in a few minutes.” He runs his finger along Derek’s left eyebrow, drawing his own together.

Sad brow moves into a deep frown. “What did you do?”

“I do not want to interrupt this heartfelt reunion,” Peter says, dragging Nolan after him by the fabric of his jacket, “but there’s a fire outside, and it’s closing in.”

Derek stares at Stiles.

“What?” Stiles shrugs, gesturing around. “Gerard wants his people to be afraid, so, I gave them something to be scared of.” After everything they have done, some of these hunters certainly deserve worse, however, Stiles is not quite the monster the nogitsune was trying to turn him into. But Derek keeps staring at him, and Stiles hates that it doesn’t take anything more for his guilty conscience to appear. As much as he loves Derek, Stiles really did not need yet another Jiminy Cricket in his life. “They’re going to be fine. I started the fire in an abandoned area. No one’s going to get hurt, Care Bear, who do you think I am?” It’s a loaded question, they both know that — and for the first time since they started dating, Stiles is scared of an answer.

Derek doesn’t reply, merely lets out a long breath and nods. His hand finds Stiles’ easily. He intertwines their fingers, squeezing tightly — believing him.

The guilt settles in Stiles’ stomach, making him nauseous. “Let’s go,” he says, glancing over his shoulder and catching Nolan’s eye. Hopefully the kid knows how to take a secret to the grave.

[usermischief]

♞Pairing: Steo ♞Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Theo Raeken ♞Tags: slice of life, alpha!Theo, future fic ♞Words: 1754

ao3

___

The blaring of an alarm startles him awake. His hand grasps at nothing, and he topples to the right. A noise rivalling the sound of the alarm escapes him. His stomach drops like a stone as the ground comes to meet his face at lightning speed – and then it stops moving, or rather, he does when the arm around his waist tightens and pulls him back on the couch.

Fuck.

It’s too early for his heart to pound as hard as it does right now. Holy shit.

The alarm stops, and Stiles sucks in a breath, craning his neck to check outside. It’s still dark. Why the hell did he wake up to an alarm? It’s fucking Sunday.

Wait.

He squints. “What time is it?”

Theo nuzzles the nape of his neck, scruff scratching the sensitive skin. “8 pm.”

Goosebumps spread across his skin. Stiles shudders at the sensation. He honestly wouldn’t mind if Theo kept doing that for the rest of the day, well, night.

Stiles groans. “I was supposed to call dad before work.” It’s a thing they started doing after everything they’ve narrowly survived in Beacon Hills, especially before the nightshifts, and after Stiles left for college. Knowing he’s spoken to his dad in case of a shift gone wrong makes him feel at ease.

“He called,” Theo whispers against his neck, “told me not to wake you up. Apparently, he’s got a full night of paperwork ahead of him.”

Frowning, he shuffles around until he can face Theo without craning his neck. They’re squished together on Stiles’ couch, almost nose to nose now, breathing each other’s air. Only nine months ago, Stiles was willing to throttle Theo on sight. Now, they’re spending almost every night together, and Theo is answering his calls, apparently. It snuck up on him, slow and steady, and sometimes, Stiles still waits for the other shoe to drop.

And then Theo brings Wedel chocolate and Delicje and his favorite butter and salt chips to their movie nights, he cuts out pork on during pack dinner night because Stiles allergic, watches Star Wars and comic adaptions without complaining, and listens to Stiles’ info-dumping on random topics with the patience of a thousand saints. He even makes sure he eats and drinks when he can’t bring himself to stop doing whatever he’s invested in at the moment.

He indulges him.

So much so, that his pack complains about Theo playing favorites.

Theo brushes hair out of Stiles’ forehead, small frown wrinkling the skin between his eyebrows. “what’s going on in that pretty head of yours?” He cups his cheek, brushing his thumb over Stiles’ mole.

The crush he has on the guy is already unhealthy enough, all this caring alpha act is going to drive Stiles up the wall. Theo wasn’t supposed to be a good alpha, he was supposed to be the lethal solution to all of his problems. That’s how their relationship of convenience started. Stiles was sick of allowing hunters and monsters to walk away, Theo was willing to dispose of all those problems.

Voila.

Then the feelings came.

And decided to stick around.

Stiles scowls, “you should’ve woken me up anyway.”

“You seemed like you needed sleep.” Theo curls his fingers around his chin and tips his head slightly back. “And you looked soft, like someone I'd ruin with a touch.” He brushes his mouth against Stiles’, more a whisper than a kiss, before pressing his lips to the corner of his mouth. Fucking give him a break. Seriously.

His fingers find Theo’s collar, and he tugs at it, holds him close. “That ship has already sailed, trust me.”

Theo growls, deep and low, a dark rumble in the evening of his apartment; it’s the hottest thing Stiles has ever heard. The grip on his hip turns vice-like as anger and frustration fill the air around them. It’s a warning, a saving grace, the only thing keeping Stiles’ sanity intact while every fiber of his body tells him to take what’s offered.

The is unstable, even more than Stiles himself.

He combs his fingers through Theo’s messy strands instead. “What’s wrong, buttercup?”

Theo curls his lips disapprovingly. Turns out, he’s not a fan of nicknames – even less when used mockingly. But he’s given up pointing that out long ago. So, he sighs instead, a sound only capable of being produced by someone who resigned himself to his fate. “I don’t want to go.”

Stiles runs his fingers up the nape of Theo’s neck. A low heat spreads from his chest to the rest of his body, almost as if his heart is slowly replacing his blood with molten lava. “What do you want instead?” Because, truth be told, as much as this started out as using Theo’s obsession against him, Stiles wouldn’t mind spending every night for the rest of his life just like this; limbs tangled, pressed together as close as possible, and their hearts beating in sync.  

“My teeth,” Theo whispers, brushing his closed mouth over sensitive skin, “in your neck.”

Fucking hell.

Stiles hooks his left leg around Theo’s and pulls him between his legs. “Sexually or violently?”

Another growl fills the silence around them before Theo nips Stiles’ jaw. “You really have to ask?”

Hands wander under Stiles’ shirt, and he shudders, pulling his shoulders up as goosebumps spread all over his body. The power this man has over his body should not be allowed — it wasn’t even planned. But Theo just showed up and turned Stiles’ whole world upside down, and when it comes to the chimera, Stiles is a weak, weak man.

He leans up, brushing their noses together, and presses a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Then stay?”

Theo lets out a breath. “I can’t.”

Stiles tries his hardest to keep his disappointment buried. “The duties of an alpha.”

Sighing, Theo sits up. “It’s more about keeping Donovan out of prison.”

“If you ask me—“

“I’m not asking.” Theo grabs Stiles by his shirt and pulls him back onto his lap. It is fascinating that, out of all the issues that could have possibly arrived between them, Donovan is the only one that constantly causes an argument.

Stiles huffs but as he tries to get up, Theo pulls him back down, a hand tightly around his neck. “He tried to eat my legs. Sorry, for still holding a grudge.”

Theo chuckles, dark and strangely enticing. “You’re not sorry.”

“Just saying,” Stiles mutters and scrunches up his face, “I’m not getting him out of prison.” If he’s entirely honest, he’s just waiting for the moment Donovan fucks up royally, and Theo admits that he’s more trouble than he’s worth. Donovan is constantly two seconds away from doing something stupid. All Theo needs to do is let him take the fall for once. Stiles’ dad can’t wait to put him behind bars again either.

This time for good.

“Hence why I need to be there.” His smirk doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but Theo tugs him closer by the nape of his neck regardless, curling his free arm around Stiles’ waist to pull him as close as possible once more. “You could join me,” he whispers pressing short little kisses from the left corner of Stiles’ mouth to his right. It such an intimate gesture, like they’ve known each other for years already, like they’ve known each other all along, and they haven’t just started fucking two months ago.

It would be their first outing as whatever they are, but that’s not the reason Stiles is more than willing to decline that offer. He’s not exactly in the mood to be around people today – aside from Theo, that is. Besides, “so, I’m one stupid comment away from getting my face rearranged?” They both know Stiles wouldn’t be able to keep his mouth shut, and Donovan wouldn’t be able to control himself – not even for Theo.

Theo narrows his eyes. His grip tightens to a point bordering on pain. “He’d be dead before he touches you.”

“Then maybe I should join you.” Stiles quirks a brow and puts a finger under Theo’s chin, raising his head – fully unimpressed by the red eyes glaring back at him. While it is more than unlikely that Theo will be voted “most-caring alpha” anytime soon, he’s not the biggest fan of jokes about weakening his pack; killing Donovan, unfortunately, means exactly that.

Instead of arguing, Theo huffs out a breath.

“Fine.” Stiles moves off Theo’s lap and flops onto the couch next to him. “Then maybe consider getting him laid. It would do him some good to get rid of all that pent-up up rage.”

Theo narrows his eyes. “I hope you’re not offering.”

“I’d rather make out with a dung beetle than let this guy get anywhere near me, thank you very much.” Stiles gets to his feet, stretching languidly.

Chuckling, Theo wraps his arms around Stiles’ waist and runs his lips along the side of his neck.

A shudder runs down Stiles’ spine. He hates Theo has to leave, and he hates that he hates it so much. If he had any energy left, he’d probably drag himself into the club and play nice just to make sure Tracy isn’t trying to climb Theo like a tree again.

Under normal circumstances, he lives to disappoint, and watching Tracy’s face fall whenever he strolls onto the scene is a special kind of pleasure.

But work has been torturous for the past few weeks. He’s drowning in overtime and doesn’t have any percent left in his social battery. He’d only end up moody and grumpy and be pissed at Theo for agreeing to come along, ruining a perfectly good weekend filled with sex, cuddles and good food.

Not necessarily in that order.

“I’ll come back later,” Theo whispers against his skin. “Just going to get Donovan through the night then I’ll be yours for the weekend.”

Stiles smiles, trying to ignore his heart dancing in excitement. “Sounds promising.”

“I’ll make it worth your while,” Theo whispers.

“I’m expecting nothing less.” Stiles closes his eyes, enjoying the last moments before Theo leaves to hang out with his pack. Turns out, he’s gotten embarrassingly attached already. “Make it quick.” Stiles doesn’t like how needy he sounds.

Theo laughs. “I haven’t left and you’re already missing me?”

“Don’t ruin the moment.”

Theo lips curve against the nape of his neck.

Stiles’ heart skips a bit. Yeah, he’s never going to live that down.

[usermischief]

♞Pairing: Steo ♞Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Theo Raeken ♞Tags: kidnapping, secret relationship ♞Words: 3319 ♞Prompt: inspired by "Rude" - Magic! (for @amatchinwater )

ao3

---

with heart in my hand

“Theo?” Stiles hovers his hand over his gun, heart hammering in his chest as the door falls closes with a soft click. Thanks to his job, he’s walked into too many homes that look like a crime scene — he just didn’t expect to walk into his own apartment looking the same. His clothes and other belongings are everywhere, bookshelves completely empty. There are drawers yanked out of dressers. His kitchen cupboards are opened. Someone even went through his pots and pans. The pillows on his couch have been sliced open. His mattress, Stiles realizes, has suffered the same fate as it leans against the railing of his loft, threatening to topple over. His TV is gone, but his laptop is still sitting on the desk on the corner of the room — the only place seemingly untouched.

Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Stiles pulls his gun out. “Theo?” He calls again, gaze darting from the closed bathroom door to the loft area. The mattress is blocking his view. Just today he was called to two break-ins, and as high as his adrenaline was during those times, his hands weren’t sweaty, and they certainly weren’t shaking. But this is different. This is his home, his life, and his boyfriend on the line. “Theo!” Even his voice is shaking, and Stiles wants to kick himself for it. Panicking doesn’t help, especially not when the intruders can tell he is.

Stiles carefully steps over a pair of shoes and a lonely boot, gaze darting back and forth between the mattress and the closed bathroom door. He’s not about to get jumped; not by hunters, supernatural assholes, or mundane criminals.

When he can finally see his bedroom area, it’s empty. The drawers have been ripped out of his nightstands. His lamps are on the ground, light bulbs most likely broken. Someone came into this place looking for something, and they were very determined to finding it.

But what?

Stiles doesn’t have anything valuable in his apartment. He’s not stupid enough to keep his supernatural artifact in a place where his colleagues from work are hanging out, sometimes with their nosy toddlers — and no one besides Theo know he’s rented a storage room for it. Unless someone figured it out? But how? And how did they learn where Stiles lives? He’s careful, and he went the extra mile to secure this place with magic.

Witches?

“Theo?” Stiles asks, his heart pumping fear through his body with every beat. Fuck his apartment. He can move. He can replace shit, but if someone dared to touch Theo— Stiles shakes his head. No. Absolutely not. Theo is going to be fine. Maybe he just stepped out to grab some food. He didn’t seem too thrilled about cooking earlier today.

Stepping over books and shoes and a bunch of apples, Stiles slowly makes his way towards his bathroom. The main reason he rented this place is that there are no spaces to hide besides the bathroom. He could shoot first and ask questions later, that is always an option, but if they’re not crouching behind the door like an idiot, all he does is alert everyone on his floor and waste bullets he may later need.

When he passes his desk, his gaze catches on things that are very clearly not his belongings. “What the fuck?” he breathes, his voice eerily loud in the heavy silence of the apartment. Handcuffs — not the fun kind — a gag, and an empty vial of… something. Stiles reaches for it, panic chocking him slowly. He brushes his thumb over the blue letters. Diazepam.

Great.

He’s been running out of nightmare fuel anyway.

The good news is, however, that it wouldn’t do anything to Theo. If someone did inject him with this shit, all they did was make him very angry. Bad news? An overdose will knock him on his ass very quickly.

Stiles drops the vial and aims the gun at his bathroom door again. He should shoot. Waltzing in there is an unnecessary risk. Stiles licks his lips, finger itching to pull the trigger. “Come out, come out wherever you are,” he mutters, more to himself than whoever is waiting to jump him behind that door.

Without warning, his apartment is plunged into darkness. Stiles whips around, aiming his gun to where he knows his light switch is. Before he’s even got the chance to shoot, someone crashes into him. The back of his head bounces off the hard wooden flooring. Stiles groans as pain explodes in his skull. The impact sends his gun flying, and by sheer fucking luck, there’s no shot going off.

A cool leather glove his covering his mouth as a needle sinks into his neck.

The pain barely registers, but the panic snaps him out of his haze. One minute. Stiles remembers everything he read on Diazepam during a case he worked two months ago. This shit is going to work in one to three minutes. Barely enough time to fight them off and get away. But Stiles isn’t going to give up.

He moves his left hand, inch by inch, feeling for anything he can use to hit their head — and luck is on his side. His little finger bumps into the fruit bowl. It’s made out of glass and sturdy enough to do some damage. He curls his fingers around it and slams it against their head with as much might as he can.

Stiles hears a pained groan mere heartbeats before the grip on him loosens. Gathering all his strength, he shoves the person off him and rolls onto his stomach. His world tips around him, even in the dark. A wave of nausea rolls over him as he struggles to his feet. The ground is unsteady underneath him, and Stiles stumbles, flailing his arms to fight for balance. His ears are ringing.

He’s not going to make it out of here.

No.

Stiles shakes his head. The movement makes him nearly throw up and lose his balance. All his attention is zeroed in on the sheen of light coming from the ajar front door. That’s his way out. If he manages to get there— but the first step makes him loose his balance again. His concussion makes it impossible to walk. Or maybe it’s the drug. How much time has passed?

Or maybe it’s both.

He just needs to—

--- --- ---

Consciousness creeps up on him, slow, sluggish, a snail on its way to an unknown goal. It’s hard to stay awake, even harder to figure out if he’s passed out again. The room is dark all the time. At least, he thinks it is. Maybe he hasn’t opened his eyes yet. What time is it? What day is it?

Stiles blinks his eyes open.

Soft rays of sunshine are painting the ceiling with peaceful strokes, yet something about them makes dread pool in Stiles’ stomach. Unease pushes into his veins, taking over every inch of his body and quenches the exhaustion. With every tick of a clock somewhere close by, Stiles becomes more and more awake – and more and more aware.

This isn’t his home.

Because someone kidnapped him.

His heart lurches in his chest as panic takes hold of him. It’s not just the presence of a window that’s wrong. The mattress is too soft, the blankets too thick. It’s too warm.

There is someone lying right next to him. Asleep, judging by the sound of their soft breathing. What the fuck is going on? Who- Stiles doesn’t have a stalker. Right? Theo would’ve surely noticed if someone were following him. He did last time.

And what happened to Theo?

Okay, one step at a time.

Stiles turns his head to the side. There’s an alarm clock on his side of the nightstand, bright red numbers informing him that it’s 7:23 am. Next to the alarm clock is a lamp. That’s going to be helpful. Stiles reaches for it, curling his fingers around the cool metal, and slowly inches closer and closer to the edge of the mattress. It’s best to just take the lamp with him. Maybe he can get out of here without waking the freak that kidnapped him in the first place. But- but who is it?

His fear is stifled by reason. If he leaves, and he doesn’t get a face of a name, what’s stopping them from doing it again? The address won’t be enough. They might be long gone when the police arrive, and Stiles isn’t planning on waiting around. The more he wakes up, the worse the pain gets in his head. That’s a concussion. Someone gave him a fucking concussion and then drugged him... only to do what? Play happy family?

Stiles grinds his teeth and turns around again. The person is mostly blanketed by the darkness of the room and facing away from him. Should he turn on the light? Sneak around the bed? Should he-

“I can feel you staring at me.”

Light floods the room, and Stiles covers his eyes with a groan. His grip tightens around the lamp. He yanks it off the nightstand. For a second, there’s resistance but the then cable gives and Stiles is willing to swing it at everything that moves.

A hand clasps around his arm before the lamp connects with anything, however. “I still have a headache from the fruit bowl.”

Stiles freezes. His whole world stops, zeroing in on the sound of the all too familiar voice despite his head screaming at him. “What the-” Stiles open his eyes, sucking in a deep breath as his gaze falls upon none other than Theo “-fuck?” he finishes, yanking his arm back. The lamp hovers above his head, knuckles turning white as he debates to hit his boyfriend over the head with it anyway. “What the fuck?” he repeats because saying it once doesn’t put nearly enough emphasis on how much he wants to whack him with this lamp.

“Okay.” Theo gets onto his knees, hands raised almost defensively. “Before you get mad-”

“Before I get mad? Theo, I am mad.” Stiles slams the lamp back onto the nightstand and crosses his arms. At this point, he’s ready to do worse than hit him with a goddamn lamp. Strangling him sounds like a wonderful alternative. “What the fuck were you thinking? Are you insane?”

Theo scoots closer to his side of the bed. “I thought you like that about me.” The guy actually has the nerve to look amused after scaring the living hell out of Stiles, give him a concussion and drug him. Neither his smile, not his body – beautifully on display and only wearing boxer briefs that leave nothing to the imagination – can get him out of this easily. He knew Theo’s ideas are usually a little different, but this is taking the cake.

Sucking in a breath, Stiles glares at him. “If this is your idea of a practical joke-” Because he is not in the mood, not with his head feeling as if someone’s using at as a fucking trampoline. He needs pain meds, or a doctor; actually, a visit to the ER sounds great after a fucking overdose and a concussion. That’s going to be fun to explain.

“In my defense, it was your dad’s idea.”

Stiles stares at him. That is a joke. Theo cannot be serious. “Dad told you to turn my apartment into a crime scene and kidnap me?” While his dad’s humor can be quite questionable at times, this does not at all sound like him. Never, in a million years, has any of this been his dad’s idea.

Theo runs his hand over the back of his neck. “Well...”

Closing his eyes, Stiles sinks back into the pillows. “You better have a very good explanation for this.” Although what could explain kidnapping him? Sure, they’ve role-played before, and it’s not like they’re kinks are necessarily something a lot of people are into — probably, it’s not like he knows. But using actual drugs? Giving him a concussion? That’s not like Theo.

“If you let me talk.” Theo flicks something against his chest.

Stiles squints down at his lap. Tylenol. Good.

Offering him a bottle of water, Theo watches him with his brows raised expectantly. “As I was saying—”

Snatching the bottle of water from him, Stiles shoots him a look. As he was saying, yeah, right.

“I wanted to make it official.” Theo visibly deflates, shoulders hunching slightly as his gaze drag from Stiles’ face to the Tylenol between his fingers. His face darkens, eyes narrowing slightly. For a few seconds, it seems that he’s far away, somewhere deep in the corners of a memory that refuses to let go of him. “I’m not going to hide us any longer.” Without warning, he gets off the bed and starts pacing the room, his shoulders a tense line.

Stiles cannot tell if it’s the concussion, or if Theo is just not making any sense. It’s true that not everyone knew about their relationship. His dad does, so do Kira and Lydia, but for the sake of keeping the piece within their packs, Stiles and Theo decided that it’s easier to pretend they’re merely getting along. They’re both good enough actors that nobody noticed anything or over a year. “So, you kidnapped me to…” he trails off, hoping Theo would fill in the gap.

“He threatened to kick me off his territory,” Theo snaps, eyes flashing yellow as he struggles to control his anger. There aren’t many people who could piss him off like that, and there is only one person who would have the ability to essentially exile Theo.

“And instead of talking to me about it…” Stiles shakes his head, instantly regretting the movement, and decides to take the Tylenol at last.

Theo lets out a long breath. “I was scared.”

Stiles snaps his head up, staring at Theo in bewilderment. Those three words aren’t something his boyfriend would throw around lightly. “Babe-”

But Theo doesn’t seem to hear him. He’s standing still, looking strangely lost as he continues talking, “I had it planned out. I talked to your dad. I talked to Lydia about the ring. I bought a ring.”

“A ring?” Stiles echoes before he can stop himself. They’ve been dating a year, why would Theo- his heart leaps into his throat. I wanted to make it official. Theo wasn’t just talking about telling everyone about their relationship. Stiles swallows and sits up straighter. “Theo, why didn’t you come talk to me?” he asks, patting the bed. They’re usually pretty good when it comes to communication, which honestly surprised Stiles more than anyone else. They work, perfectly, and it’s not even mad that Theo staged a very real kidnapping, it’s that he didn’t talk to him about it beforehand.

Which probably says more about him than he’d like to admit.

“I wanted it to be perfect!” Theo throws his hands in the air, frustration returning in full force. “I asked your dad for your hand first, of course.” Of course. Theo acts like it’s normal. Sure, there are still a lot of traditional people out there, and it is a sweet gesture, Stiles can’t deny that. He still didn’t expect it. Not from Theo. “Then I went to Scott. I tried to bury the hatched for you. Lydia helped me talk to him. We told him about our plans, but he said ‘no’.” Their eyes met, and Stiles can see the same fury burn that must have enveloped Theo when he decided to take what he considers his and make a run for it. “And that it’s time for me to leave his territory.” His hands are curled into tight fists, but his shoulders slump, and he bows his head, staring at the ground with a suddenly unreadable expression.

Stiles lets out a breath. His concussion doesn’t exactly make it easy to think. “Well,” he says slowly, drawing his brows together, “I’m glad to hear a kidnapping wasn’t in the original proposal plans.” He massages his temple, waiting for the Tylenol to set in quickly so he can focus on Theo alone instead of having to deal with this pounding headache on top of everything else. “Or giving me a concussion for that matter.”

“You broke a fruit bowl over my head.”

“Because you gave me a concussion!” Stiles raises his hands in defensive. They’re going to go in circles. Theo isn’t any less stubborn than he is. The only reason for Stiles’ winning most of the time is that Theo is insanely easily distracted by the prospect of sex. Not that Stiles is much better, but he does have the edge – at least for a little while. “Still… why didn’t you just talk to me?” The one thing Theo might love almost as much as Stiles is complaining about Scott’s incompetence. So, it doesn’t make any sense that he’d keep this to himself. None whatsoever.

Theo runs a hand over his face and pulls his shoulders up for the slowest shrug this side of the universe. “I panicked,” he says, having the nerve to sound mad about it.

“Because Scott told you to get lost?” Stiles squints at his boyfriend. It’s hard to tell if Theo doesn’t make any sense, or if his concussion makes his fail to see it. “He does that twice a week, and you laugh in his face. I don’t get-“

Theo shoots him a look, cutting Stiles off mid-sentence. It’s impossible who he’s angry at – himself for overreacting, Stiles for not getting it, or Scott for having the audacity to try and order him around. Not a single possibility makes a lick of sense. “He told me to leave you!” Theo snaps, crossing his arms over his chest defensively.

Stiles blinks, staring at his boyfriend in bewilderment. “You think I care?” If he weren’t so utterly baffled by Theo’s words, he’d point out that Scott and he haven’t been the same since long before Theo returned to Beacon Hills. It doesn’t matter to him what Scott thinks. He certainly wouldn’t be dating Theo if that were the case. Plus, as a human, no alpha can boss him around. “Last time I checked, I decide who I’m going to marry.”

For a few heartbeats, Theo doesn’t say anything. His wide blue eyes are fixed on him, almost contemplating. What’s going on in his head is anybody’s guess, but the smile tugging on the corner of his mouth is almost sheepish. Theo releases a breath and crosses the room. “I panicked,” he repeats. An explanation, not an apology. He might not apologize at all.

Stiles doesn’t expect one. Sighing, he lifts his blanket and shakes his head as Theo crawls on top of him. “You’re an idiot,” Stiles tells him. “Talk to me before you kidnap me next time.”

A chuckle ripple through Theo’s body. He wraps his arms around Stiles’ waist. “Fine,” he whispers, leaning his head against his chest. It's probably not the most comfortable position, but Stiles isn’t about to argue. “Next time I’ll make sure to get your consent before I kidnap you.”

“That’s not-“ Stiles lets out a breath. There’s not really any point in arguing. “You’re impossible.”

Theo laughs again, it’s soft and gentle, and a sound to fall in love with. “But you’re going to marry me anyway.”

Rolling his eyes, Stiles bends down to kiss the top of Theo’s head softly. “Yeah,” he breathes, almost a little surprised how sure he felt about his answer. They might not have dated for long, but he’s not doubting his decision at all. “But only if I get the proposal you planned with Lydia.”

Theo tightens his embrace for all but a second. “And a ring.”

“I love you.” Stiles runs his fingers through Theo’s hair.

“I love you too.” 

[usermischief]

♜Pairing: Briles (+ Isaac) ♜Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Brett Talbot, Isaac Lahey ♜Tags/Warnings: Briles established relationship, alpha!Brett, explicit sexual content ♜Words: 6187 ♜Kinktober 2023: Sharing

ao3

a/n: I wish you a very happy birthday, @amatchinwater! 💖

———

sharing is caring

“Hey, you got a minute to talk?”

Stiles looks up from his files, quirking a brow as he studies Brett for a moment. “Sure?”

After closing the door behind him, Brett quickly crosses the distance and crouches down next to Stiles’ chair. There are only two instances when he acts like this; wanting to make peace after an argument, or when he wants Stiles to ask for a favor. They haven’t fought in a while. “You remember how we talked about that an alpha has to sometimes take care of their betas?”

Stiles raises his brows. “And how you’re not a fan of that tradition. Yes, I remember.” The first time Brett brought this topic up, Stiles had already read all about it — and he decided to date him anyway. He's aware that intimacy and physical contact have a very different meaning for werewolves, but he’s also aware that humans becoming members of a pack slowly changed the meaning of sex, especially for the alpha couple. Apparently, human mates turned the alpha more possessive and aggressive towards others and even the members of their own pack. Stiles could write a whole dissertation about how goddamn stupid it is to think a human getting involved with werewolves can’t protect themselves, but since Brett is against a lot of old traditions and never excluded him from anything dangerous, he didn’t have a reason to do so yet.

“That didn’t change.” Brett pulls his shoulders up and sighs.

“I can feel a ‘but’ coming.”

Brett grimaces a little. “It’s about Isaac.” They’ve talked a lot about Isaac in the past few days. Although he’s been with them for almost two months, it seems like he’s not fully integrated into the pack. There’s a distance there, one that’s been plaguing Brett. No pack activity seems to change that.

“So,” Stiles says, clearing his throat awkwardly, “you want to sleep with Isaac?” It will bother him, he’s not ever going to deny that. But he is also not going to stop Brett from doing it if he considers it absolutely necessary. Stiles did inherently agree to a more or less open relationship when he decided to date an alpha and continued to date him after they talked about everything.

“No.” Brett turns the desk chair Stiles is sitting on and slips between his thighs. Although Stiles isn’t a werewolf, he can’t deny that seeing Brett kneeling between his legs is doing things to him. It’s not a position an alpha would put themselves in usually, but Brett has never put himself above him in any way. They’ve always been equals, especially when it comes to decisions for the pack. “Isaac’s been in two other packs with you.” He straightens a little, just enough to wrap an arm around Stiles’ waist and pull him closer to the edge of his seat. “It’s possible he’s followed you to this one. It wouldn’t be the first time a werewolf instinctively anchors himself to a former pack mate, and with everything you two have been through…” he trails off, raising his brows.

Stiles blinks. “You want me to sleep with Isaac?”

Brett hums in agreement.

For a few moments, Stiles simply stares at his mate. Part of him still waits for the gotcha-moment, but Brett doesn’t really make these types of jokes. He probably mulled this over for at least a week, trying to figure out the best way to bring it up. Issue is, there is no best way to bring something like this up. Stiles has absolutely no idea what to say. Isaac is attractive, no doubt, and he totally would’ve been down to sleep with him — if he weren’t in a very committed relationship. Agreeing to this now feels weird. He clears his throat and runs his fingers through Brett’s hair. “What does Isaac say?”

“I haven’t spoken to him yet.”

Stiles draws his brows together. “And you’d be okay with it?”

“I’ll be in the room.”

“Babe.” Stiles puts two fingers underneath Brett’s chin, tipping his head a bit further back. “That’s not what I asked.”

Brett grimaces and ducks his head, cheeks flushing slightly. It’s such a rare sight, something that happened the last time the day Brett asked him out for the very first time. He’s been so awkward and unsure back then. This side of Brett startled him all those years ago, it’s not any less surprising now. “You know I love you, right?”

The smile slips from Stiles’ features as the words sink in. Nothing good ever starts with ‘you know I love you, right?’. Absolutely nothing.

“No.” Brett is instantly alert, straightening and reaching up to cup his cheeks. “No, don’t go into panic mode. I just want to—” he cuts off and closes his eyes, taking a deep breath as if to steady himself. “I’d hate to see you with somebody else, but watching you and Isaac... I don’t know.”

Stiles blinks as realization dawns on him. “You’d be into that? Watching me and Isaac have sex?” He’s not exactly turned off by that admission. It’s more that he’s confused. Although Brett isn’t outright jealous, he’s proven to be very possessive which, again, is on par for mates. Stiles can feel the same tug of possessiveness whenever Brett is close with someone else. So, hearing this is surprising.

For a moment, Brett studies him and presses a finger to his bottom lip.

Out of instinct, Stiles pokes it with his tongue.

“No,” Brett admits then, shaking his head for good measure, “watching you be good for my beta— making him feel good, welcoming him... that’s what I’d be into.” There’s a hint of something unspoken, of something Brett has never outright said or asked him, but something that’s been floating around in his mind, nonetheless. Nature versus nurture. Brett is undoubtedly raised to fit seamlessly into the human society. That does not mean he isn’t fully in tune with his werewolf, and that side of him got stronger after becoming the alpha. There are little things that are standing out. He’s more protective, less reckless, almost responsible, and he started proving that he could provide for Stiles as well as the pack.

But there’s something else too.

Although Brett would never dare to treat Stiles as anything but his equal, he’s become increasingly frustrated when Stiles outright defied him. After all, he is the alpha, the leader of the pack. Brett’s word is law.

That’s how his wolf wants it.

Stiles cocks his head to the side. They both know he’ll never submit to Brett or anyone. That’s not who he is, and Brett would never dare to force him. Thing is, Stiles has often thought about finding a compromise, a way to ease Brett’s wolf without compromising their everyday life. “You want me to be a good boy?” Although Stiles has been thinking about it for a while, hearing these words out loud is still a bit jarring.

But Brett’s eyes flash red for the fraction of a second, proving that Stiles hit the nail on the head. He licks his lips and pulls off the chair on his lap within a second, arms wrapped tight around his waist. “I love you,” he tells him, lips brushing over his neck. “You’re so good for me.”

Stiles chuckles. “I know, but I still have to work.”

“Take a break.” Brett nips on his skin, looking up at him with an almost wolfish grin.

“Go talk to Isaac,” Stiles insists, cupping Brett’s jaw to gently push him away from him. “We can continue this when I’m done working.” The disapproving growl is not lost on Stiles, but he refuses to act on it. The only place he’ll ever consider to submit to Brett will be in the bedroom, and he can growl and hate it as much as he wants. “Priorities.” Stiles kisses the corner of Brett’s mouth.

Brett growls once more for good measure, but he relents. “Fine.” For an alpha, he knows how to act like a petulant child. 

— — —

“Isaac’s here.” Brett slips into the guest bedroom and raises his brows. “You got out your best clothes, huh?” Scrunching up his nose, Stiles looks down on himself. He’s wearing one of Brett’s old college’s shirt and boxer briefs. Surely not his most attractive attire. “It’s comfortable,” he says with a shrug, “and I figured I won’t have to wear my clothes for too long anyway. So…” he trails off with a shrug.

Brett pulls him close by the hem of his shirt. “Are you still cool with this?”

“Yeah.”

“You need a bit more time for prep?”

Stiles squirms a little. “I did that in the shower.” The deal was for Brett to get him in the mood, but Stiles does not exactly need any help with that.

Chuckling, Brett grabs his ass and pulls him closer. “Excited to sleep with Isaac?”

That answer is ‘yes, very’, but it feels wrong to admit that. He doesn’t want to lie either, so he ducks his head instead.

“That’s normal, you know?” Brett grabs his chin, still smiling genuinely. “You’ve been in three different packs. You’re bound to feel an intense connection with him. I’m surprised you two never had sex before.”

Even though Stiles’ view on sex is pretty casual, it’s nothing against a werewolf’s opinion on sex — outside of a relationship that is. They’re usually pretty loyal once they found a mate. “Are you okay with this?” Stiles raises his brows. It’s going to be weird to have Brett watch them the whole time, but he gets that his wolf would never allow anything else.

Brett kisses him briefly. “I love you.” Smiling, he steps back. That’s not exactly a ‘yes’, but before Stiles can point that out, Brett has settled into the corner of the room. With the only light source being the left of two lamps on the nightstands, the armchair, and with that Brett, is almost shrouded in shadows.

“You look like a bond villain,” Stiles informs him.

Brett flashes his eyes.

“Now you look like a demon.” Stiles shakes his head when Isaac knocks on the door. Softly, almost as if he hoped it would go unheard. Stiles mouths ‘be nice’ before moving to open the door. They all agreed that this could be stopped at any time, but Stiles still would prefer it happened before starting anything. After all, Isaac has a hard time fitting in already. There’s no need to make this anymore awkward.

Isaac blinks at him, hands pushed deep into the pocket of his pants. “Hi,” he says softly.

“Hey.” Stiles steps aside, gesturing for Isaac to come in. “Ignore Brett. He’s being a dramatic asshole.”

Although Isaac chuckles, he’s clearly nervous when he glances at his alpha. He briefly nods at Brett before turning back to Stiles. Neither will be able to ignore Brett, but it’s probably still going to be the best if they at least pretend not to notice him. “You look…” Isaac trails off and sits down on the edge of the bed.

“Like I just rolled out of bed.” Stiles closes the door with a chuckle. He gets the feeling that Isaac is not going to be the one to make the first move. It’s not surprising, and to be honest, Stiles expected that. He rolls his shoulder and crosses the room. Flirting isn’t exactly his forte, but he’s pretty good at all the other stuff. Getting Isaac out of his shells should not be too hard.

Hopefully.

Stiles grabs his shirt by the back of his neck and pulls it over his head, tossing it in Brett’s general direction.

Isaac’s eyes widen slightly, but his gaze wanders over Stiles’ body regardless.

There used to be a time when Stiles would’ve shied away from it, yet Brett worshipping every inch of his body certainly did wonders for his confidence. That’s why he’s slipping onto Isaac’s lap without hesitation. “Hey,” he whispers again, chuckling softly as he bumps their noses together.

Isaac doesn’t respond, body stiffening slightly. Still, he grabs Stiles’ waist and tips his head back enough to give easy access to his mouth.

An opening Stiles surely isn’t going to miss. He cups his jaw and kisses him. As much as he’d love to ease Isaac into this, they are on a bit of a time limit here; Brett’s patience isn’t endless. So, Stiles grinds against Isaac, feeling elated at the soft gasp he gets in response. This whole thing may happen under Brett’s watchful eye, and there is a reason they’re having sex to begin with, but Stiles doesn’t want Isaac to think Stiles isn’t into it.

Because he is.

As confusing as the request was at first, Stiles can’t deny that he wants to have sex with Isaac.

But the werewolf stays passive even though he allows Stiles to deepen the kiss and starts kissing him back.

“You can stop at any time,” Stiles reminds him between kisses, “it’s okay.” Although, admittedly, it would suck.

Isaac shakes his head. “No, it’s just—"

It’s just Brett.

“Ignore him.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Isaac mumbles and scrunches up his face adorably.

Thing is, it’s really not. Stiles doesn’t have to be a werewolf to be fully aware of Brett staring at them. “Focus on me,” he tells Isaac, sliding one hand between them. “Just me.” He palms Isaac through his jeans, loving the way his eyes flutter and his lips part for a soft gasp. “Just. Me.” Smiling, Stiles kisses him again, and it seems as if Isaac’s courage follows his hard-on.

Finally, he slides his hands down to Stiles’ ass and deepens the kiss by tracing his tongue with his own. About fucking time. Brett isn’t the most patient of people, and he’s certainly not going to wait forever until Isaac got his shit together. He’d rather fuck him right in front of him to show him what he’s missing out on.

Stiles moans into the kiss.

That thought really shouldn’t be this much of a turn-on. Yet, here he is. Stiles gets the weird feeling that he’s going to learn a lot about himself today — and he’s not going to complain about it. Brett and his sex-life can only be improved by this; not that it isn’t fucking amazing already.

“You’re still very dressed,” Stiles mutters into the kiss. Not that getting fucked in clothes doesn’t have its very own appeal, but Stiles does prefer to have his partner naked. There’s something about the skin-on-skin contact that cannot be beaten by anything else.

Isaac gets to his feet, lifting Stiles without any issues, before tossing him onto the bed with a grin. Looks like someone’s gotten a bit more comfortable.

Good.

Without wasting a second, Isaac strips down to his boxers. His body is to die for, his dick a hard outline against his tight boxer briefs. He’s painfully attractive, and if Stiles is entirely honest, he can’t wait to get his hands on him — to taste him.

Stiles licks his lips and inches to the edge of the bed. Beckoning Isaac to come closer, he sits back on his heels. This is about Isaac. This is about making Isaac feel comfortable, about making him feel good.

For a second, Stiles cuts his gaze to his boyfriend, who stays unmoving in the corner of the room. His eyes are trained on him. Stiles wonders if Isaac can feel it too, the heaviness of those blue eyes; the way it’s making him feel hot and cold — the way it makes him want to please Brett. He wants, no, needs to hear him say he did good.

Still looking at Brett, Stiles hooks his fingers under the waistband of Isaac’s boxer briefs. There’s a nod. Short. Almost curt. And it snaps Stiles back into the moment. He looks up at Isaac, who stares down at him, wide-eyed. His hands are frozen in mid-air, like he stopped himself halfway through running his fingers through Stiles’ hair. When Stiles pulls his boxers down, Isaac, too, snaps back into motion. He curls his fingers into Stiles hair, guiding him towards his dick.

Moaning, Stiles wraps his lips around the tip. Heat rushes through his body when Isaac curses above him, voice nothing more than a breathless whisper. His fingers twitch in his hair, and something about the impact fills Stiles even further with the insane need to please. For the first time in forever, he doesn’t have the urge to be a little shit. He wraps a hand around Isaac’s dick and takes him deeper into his mouth, flattening his tongue against the underside of his dick. The tangy taste makes his mouth water.

He bobs his head, making sure to pay attention to every part of Isaac’s dick, tightening his lips around the tip — taking as much as he could and more each time until he pulls his hand away and grabs Isaac’s hips with both.

Isaac runs his fingers through Stiles’ hair almost like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands otherwise — until his grip turns near painful when his dick hits the back of Stiles’ throat.

Taking a deep breath through his nose, Stiles pulls back again. It’s best not to push his gag reflex. Stiles looks up at Isaac, flushing with pleasure at the bright yellow eyes staring right back at him. It’s entrancing and almost as hot as Brett’s red eyes.

Almost.

“Isaac.” Although Brett’s voice is light, a ripple of unease cuts through the other wolf as he turns his head to look at his alpha. Brett approaches him, face unreadable even though his dick is so hard it has to be uncomfortable in those jeans.

Stiles pulls away and sits back on his heels, shifting uncomfortably as he watches both werewolves.

Brett says something Stiles can’t quite catch, but Isaac merely nods, shoulders relaxing again. To Stiles’ surprise, Isaac’s even grinning when he locks eyes with hm again. That’s new. Isaac’s been nervous around Brett on the best of days. No wonder. After all, his track record with alphas isn’t exactly the best. The poor guy probably worried Brett would rip his head off since Scott threw him against a wall twice for simply liking Allison; yet here he is, about to fuck his alpha’s mate.

Werewolves.

“Someone’s impatient,” Isaac informs him, nodding in Brett’s direction with a sly grin.

Brett rounds the bed. “So cocky already.” His gaze is locked on Stiles, burning with both heat and amusement. “Looks like,” he continues, his voice dropping to a low whisper, “someone’s got a magic mouth.” Chuckling darkly, Brett wraps his fingers around Stiles’ throat and pulls him up until he can brush their lips together. “I love you, gorgeous,” he all but paints the words against Stiles’ mouth. “You’re doing so well.”

Stiles keens softly, reaching up to pull Brett down for a proper kiss.

“No.” Brett grabs his arm, stopping him in his tracks. “It’s still Isaac’s turn.”

A shudder runs down his spine. Isaac’s turn. It should make him feel weird, instead it makes his dick twitch in his already too tight briefs. There’s a part of him that still fully believes he shouldn’t be this excited about fucking Isaac. He’s in love with Brett.

And yet.

Dragging his thumb over his mouth, Brett lets go of him. He doesn’t sit back down in his corner, however. Instead, he gets comfortable on the bed, leaning against the headboard, legs spread open almost invitingly.

Stiles nearly loses his mind as he forces himself to turn away from him again. Brett is doing it on purpose, he knows that. He wants to push him, like the asshole he is. But Stiles is not going to cave. Two can play this game.

Isaac looks at him, hands awkwardly in the air like he’s not entirely sure how to continue now that Brett is right there, which is most likely the exact reason Brett did it. His methods may be questionable, but they usually work.

It’s annoying.

Stiles pushes the thought out of his mind. For a few heartbeats, he studies Isaac’s face – the dirty blonde curls hanging into his forehead, his sharp jawline, the bright blue eyes, and his mouth, so damn kissable. He all but lurches forward and does just that, pressing their mouth together in a greedy kiss that’s too much teeth for a couple of seconds. Stiles buries his fingers in the soft curls, pulling Isaac down and closer to him.

That’s all it takes to get Isaac right back where he left off. His hands are on his ass almost immediately. Kneading. Pressing and grinding their dicks together in a delicious way.

But he’s really not in the mood to drag this out any longer. “Fuck me,” Stiles whispers, about ready to beg him. He hasn’t needed anyone inside of him as desperately since the first time he slept with Brett – and the time after that, when they finally solidified their mating bond. The first month after the mating bite, Stiles had more sex than other people have in their whole lifetime. 

Isaac breaks the kiss and pushes Stiles onto his back, his mouth hot on his neck and shoulders and chest as he kisses his way down Stiles body, nipping his skin but never risking leaving a mark. He not deterred by Stiles’ fingers in his hair or nudging Brett’s foot with his elbow. His chin brushes against his dick, and his stupid curls tickling the inside of his thigh make Stiles whine.

“Please,” he begs, tugging in Isaac’s hair. “Please, please, please.”

Isaac chuckles.

Hot breath hits the wet spot on Stiles’ boxers. The sensation makes him nearly jump out of his skin.

But Isaac doesn’t tease him any longer. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of Stiles’ boxer briefs and pulls them down, tossing them into the corner of the room. As Isaac crawls back between Stiles’ legs, his gaze jumps from Stiles’ dick, to his face before he seemingly locks eyes with Brett.

There’s a new tension in the room, and suddenly, Stiles realizes that he’s in bed between two very lethal werewolves. This whole thing stands and falls with everyone being on board with everything that might happen – even someone stopping this.

It really shouldn’t turn him on as much as it does. Right now, if Brett were to allow it, Stiles would happily be fucked by them at the same time. That would certainly do wonders for the pack bond. Stiles shudders at the thought, clenching around nothing. He really needs someone to fuck him in the next couple of minutes, or he will do it himself. Stiles cranes his neck, looking up at Brett. His face is near unreadable, eyes ever so slightly narrowed – like it hits him only now what’s about to happen.

“Please,” Stiles whines, reaching a hand back. Awkwardly, he pats Brett’s thigh, fingers ghosting over his sweatpants until he’s able to palm his dick.

The moment he does, Brett’s fingers curl around his wrist in an iron grip. “I think I said no, didn’t I?” Oh, that’s his alpha voice. “Get on your hands and knees.”

Although he doesn’t look at him, Stiles knows this command is directed at him. But he can do that. He can totally do that if it means Isaac can fuck him in the very, very near future. Stiles rolls onto his stomach and hoists himself onto his hands and knees. Today isn’t about intimacy, not really. This is happening to forge a connection, to force Isaac to stop holding back.

Brett tosses Isaac a condom and locks eyes with Stiles. His fingers run over Stiles’ cheek, making him shudder with the touch alone. Brett smirks as he presses his thumb against Stiles’ bottom lip.

Almost out of instinct, Stiles pokes it with his tongue.

“He’s ready,” Brett’s voice is nothing more than a whisper. “You can fuck him.”

That seems to be all the permission Isaac needs. He grabs Stiles’ ass, spreading him open, and for a few seconds, nothing else happen.

Stiles can feel heat creep into his cheek at the thought of Isaac just staring at his ass – a thought that’s flying out the window when Isaac’s dick finally joins the fun. He grinds against him, hellbent on teasing Stiles just a little longer. Clenching his teeth, Stiles shoots him a look over his shoulder. “Isaac,” he snaps, “if you don’t-”

The press of Isaac’ dick against his rim cuts him off. “I’m sorry?” His voice is innocent sweet, almost like he isn’t on the verge of fucking him. “You were saying?” He pushes in, and they both moan loudly.

Stiles rocks his hips back, needing all of Isaac inside of him right fucking now. He curses under his breath, curling his fingers into the sheets. Isaac’s fingers dig into his skin, and a part of Stiles hopes they’re going to leave little marks on his body; something to remember this by, so when he wakes up in the morning, he knows this wasn’t some kind of fever dream. Funny, how he’s never realized how much he wanted to sleep with Isaac until now. At this point, he doesn’t even care if it’s their pack bond or his own desire. Does Isaac feel it too? Stiles wants to know, but he’s not going to ask with Brett right there.

That feels like crossing a line.

Then again, Brett can probably smell it on him; how desperate he is for another guy’s dick. Guilt churns in his stomach as the feeling of betrayal joins his desire.

Brett kisses his forehead, so strangely gentle. “Relax, my love. You’re perfect.”

The words ricochet through him, and he whines softly. Stiles is torn between wanting Isaac to fuck him into the sheets and his need for Brett, his mate. Letting out a breath, Stiles lowers himself onto his forearms and leans his cheek against Brett’s thigh. As Isaac continues to sink into him, inch by torturous inch. It’s so fucking slow, Stiles wants to scream.

But when he finally, finally buried fully inside him, Isaac kisses his shoulder blades, first left than right. “Sorry,” his words are cool against Stiles’ skin, “sorry, this is... a lot.”  So, he does feel it too. Good to know.

“I get it.” Stiles pushes himself up on his hands again and looks at Isaac over his shoulder. The werewolf looks utterly wrecked already, and Stiles wonders if it feels even more intense for him. It wouldn’t be the first time. Werewolves do have that benefit. “But I really-” Stiles grinds against Isaac, trying to get his point across “-need you to move.”

Preferably now.

Isaac doesn’t move immediately. Yet again, his gaze snaps to Brett. It’s a silent question for something.

“Oh,” Brett chuckles, running his fingers through Stiles’ hair. “He can take it.”

Before Stiles can even ask what he’s talking about, Isaac pulls back and snaps his hips forward. Stiles moans, hardly recovering from the first thrust before Isaac has found his rhythm. Hard. Fast. Barely holding back.

Stiles loves it. Maybe a little too much. There is something burning in his veins, something he’s never quite felt before — not like this, at least. Stiles remembers the addictive high of the mating bond, the strange warmth cocooning him for weeks after. If this is anything like this, this will have some interesting consequences.

But now, it’s probably too late to think about those.

It’s hard to think in general — at least about anything but Isaac trying his very best to fuck his brains out. If he keeps this up, nailing his prostate more often than not, Isaac might actually be successful a lot faster than Stiles would like to admit.

Cursing and moaning, usually at the same time, Stiles is trying to match Isaac’s rhythm; something that’s mostly impossible by how hard Isaac’s fingers dig into his skin. He’s taking over his body, claiming him for as long as Brett lets him — most likely chasing the same insane sensation that is drowning every corner of Stiles’ soul.

A soft moan reaches his ears.

Brett.

Stiles raises his head, nearly choking on air as he spots Brett’s fingers tight around his own dick. It shouldn’t be hot — it fucking shouldn’t. Brett shouldn’t be so turned on by Stiles fucking somebody else, and Stiles’ brain shouldn’t nearly short-circuit learning that Brett is getting off to it.

But damn, it’s one of the hottest things he’s seen.

Stiles reaches for Brett, curling his fingers into his blonde hair and crashes their mouths together. Finally, finally, Brett caves and kisses him back — and when Brett’s tongue brushes against his, and Isaac is still pounding into him just right, something snaps into place without any further warning. Stiles’ whole body stiffens as his orgasm slams into him without any warning – pleasure coursing through him like a tidal wave. He’s dimly aware of cursing against Brett’s mouth. Only a heartbeat later, Isaac’s weight comes crashing down on him, body shaking, and dick pulsing still deep inside of him.

Nobody ever told him that a pack bond snapping into place during sex almost rivals a mating bond.

Stiles blinks his eyes open, afterglow still lapping at his body, as hands are cupping his jaw and cheek. A shudder runs through Stiles’ body, his brain still too foggy to understand a single word that’s coming out of Brett’s mouth. It takes a hot minute until he connects the sounds to the movement of his lips. “Look at you,” Brett whispers, thumbs brushing over Stiles’ cheekbones, “so perfect.”

Isaac makes a quiet sound in the back of his throat then pushes himself u and pulls out only to collapse onto the bed right next to them again, spent and clearly deep in his afterglow. A sheen of sweat makes his curls stick to his forehead. Even looking as boneless as Stiles feels, Isaac is still unfairly attractive.

Never in his life has a pack bond snapping into place felt like that, and Stiles isn’t entirely sure if it was supposed to be this intense. He doesn’t get the chance to ask either because Brett is kissing him like a drowning person and pulling him closer.

Stiles’ heart is pounding in his chest, his body craving Brett as much as it’s pleading to slow down, to give him a chance to get over all that stimulation. “Wait,” he mutters into the kiss. “Hold on, give me-”

But Brett grabs his waist, whispering, “sorry, sorry.” as if he’s actively hurting him, or doing something Stiles isn’t down for.

Yes, Stiles would love to get a few seconds to catch his breath, and for everything to stop feeling like it’s too much. His nerves are on high alert, as if the pack bond snapping into place cranked his sensitivity up to a hundred. Still, he can tell that Brett isn’t entirely in control right now. He’s warned him about it, about his wolf’s need to reclaim, to drown Stiles in his scent again, to scrub Isaac away. There’s no anger in Brett’s touch, just the urgent need to fuck him that took over his entire body. Stiles knows the difference. They’ve had angry sex countless of times.

This isn’t it.

Brett’s fingers run over skin almost apologetically as he turns Stiles around, even chuckling softly as Stiles’ legs refuse to cooperate for a few seconds. Not that he needs them. Brett holds him with one hand, angling him in a way that makes it comfortable to lean against his chest. He lowers Stiles down until the tip of his dick is pressing against his hole. Despite having just been thoroughly fucked – or maybe because of it – Brett pushing in comes with an uncomfortable stretch.

Stiles squeeze his eyes shut. “Please,” he mutters, turning his head to speak against Brett’s throat. “Slow down. For me?” For them, more likely. Because Stiles wants it to be good for Brett as well. It should be more than just a fuck out of werewolf-principle.

The disapproving rumble is already answer enough, but Brett drives his point home by snapping his hips up and pulling Stiles fully onto his lap.

Stiles yelps then punches Brett’s thigh. “Fuck you.”

Brett sneaks his arms around his waist and kisses his jaw and cheek. “Sorry,” he whispers again. “Sorry, did I hurt you?”

“No.” Stiles takes a deep breath in through his nose and out through his mouth. He’s not entirely sure if this is one of the hottest things that happened to him, or if he wants to snap at Brett for being so fucking impatient. But he’s been warned. Still, he kind of expected to be pushed into the pillows and fucked.

Hard.

But he’s also not complaining. It’s beautifully intimate, the way Brett is slowly grinding against his ass. His arms are tight around him, fingers teasing his skin — and the way his dick is brushing up against his prostate is driving him slowly insane. As much as he wouldn’t have minded for Brett to make sure Stiles remembers who he belongs to, this is too good.

Brett rocks up into him, arms tightening. His breathing is shallow, fast, and Stiles can tell he’s close to his orgasm. “Babe, I need-” Brett cuts himself off, gasping into Stiles’ ear in a way that sends hot tingles down his body. “Relax, babe. Please.” He sounds way too desperate, too needy.

This is the hottest thing Stiles has ever heard.

He presses against Brett, rolling his hips, grinding down. Part of him wants to speed it up, wants Brett to cum so Stiles can hit the mattress and fall asleep. Another part of him would love to stay like this forever, wrapped up in this beautiful heat with Brett deep inside him — maybe even knotting him.

No sooner has the thought crossed his mind when he can feel Brett’s knot press against his rim. “Fuck,” he curses softly.

“I’m sorry.” Brett’s hot breath ghosts over his skin, thumb tracing invisible lines under his belly button.

Stiles really wants to tell him to shut up. There’s no reason to apologize. To be fair, Stiles should’ve probably expected this. It’s stupid he didn’t, but sometimes it’s so easy to forget that Brett is very much an alpha werewolf who is driven by his own instincts. He’s too Zen for his own good almost all the time. His words, however, leave his brain before he’s even got the chance to open his mouth as Isaac moves between his legs.

The grin on his lips speaks volumes, and he doesn’t hesitate. His lips wrap around Stiles’ dick in an instant.

The sensation alone nearly makes his brain melt.

Stiles lets his head fall back, shuddering and moaning. He curls his fingers into the sheets as his body struggles to figure out if it wants to press against Brett or thrust into the heat of Isaac’s mouth. This is nothing like using a sex toy when Brett sucks him off. This feels like fucking heaven. His dick is hard again, and when it hits the tip of Isaac’s throat and Brett’s knot finally slips in, he nearly combusts.

Stiles’ vision whites out for some glorious seconds. He arches his back, feeling Brett’s arms tighten even further around him as his hips move back and forth almost helplessly – locked into place by Isaac’s mouth working around him, and Brett’s dick pulsing deep inside him as he rides out his own orgasm. He cannot remember ever cumming this hard – or this fast for that matter – for a second time.

His body, however, goes from feeling absolutely amazing to too much in about two seconds. Hissing softly, Stiles curls his fingers into Isaac’s hair and pulls him off.

Isaac licks his lips, studying his face for a few seconds, before he leans up and kisses him. It’s a bold move, doing it with Brett not only still buried inside him, but also with his head right next to them.

Brett merely chuckles, either too high from his own orgasm or actually okay with this.

Sighing, Stiles parts his lips. He shudders at the taste of himself on Isaac’s tongue. If he’s honest, he didn’t know what to expect from this night, but it certainly wasn’t this. It was so much better than he could have imagined – and part of him wouldn’t mind doing it again. But not tonight or tomorrow, or even this week. He’s too fucking tired, his body painless and numb because of whatever werewolf magic Brett’s knot is working on him. He barely feels the stretch or pressure. Stiles is pretty sure his body is tricked into enjoying the sensation of being this full by some supernatural bullshit, but he doesn’t particularly mind.

When Isaac breaks the kiss, Stiles doesn’t bother to open his eyes. He leans back, pressing his face against Brett’s neck ready to pass out.

“I love you,” Brett whispers. Stiles hums in response.

-------

[usermischief]

♞Pairing: Steo

♞Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Theo Raeken

♞Tags: wedding, getting back together, future fic

♞Words: 2047

Sitting on the steps at the front of the church, arms loosely crossed over his thighs and phone in his hand, Theo is the very definition of bored. Something you very much should not be on the day you tie the knot with the person you claim to be your soulmate. Not that those exact words have ever left Theo’s mouth. Those have only ever rolled over Tracy’s tongue. She’s always believed that this day would come, even during the time Theo dated Stiles. It’s hard to blame her. Theo is like a drug. Once hooked, it’s impossible to get clean.

That Stiles has managed to stay away from five years seems like a miracle. Yet, he’s here on the off-chance that Theo still feels the way for him he’s used to do – even though Stiles was the one who walked away. They were passionate, and Stiles still can’t begin to put into words how he feels about Theo, but they were explosive, more so once their respective careers took off. Theo Raeken, one of the best receivers seen in generations, and Stiles Stilinski, an up-and-coming actor people throw blank checks at, so he’d be in their movies or TV shows.

They were volatile, but they made sense.

They never made their relationship a secret, but they were private – too private for the media, who decided to spin their own stories. Stiles too the brunt of that. A new rumored romance at least once a month. Interview questions from journalist. Stiles reaffirming that he’s still dating Theo but refusing to give any further comments. A lot of people online kept coming to his defense, giving the media the engagement it so desperately craved, and the cycle went on and on.

Even when Stiles stopped commenting at all as his relationship crumbled behind the scenes, nothing changed. Theo’s possessive streak has been an issue from the beginning. It was manageable. Easy to handle. The constant onslaught of rumors, however, caused it to fly off the handle. After multiple near misses, Stiles decided to leave before they both explode and so or say something they cannot come back from.

The world learned of their break-up because Tracy posted pictures of herself and Theo everywhere.

Stiles, in return, fucked more people than he can count. He became who the media told him he is. Funny, really, that out of the two of them Stiles turned into a fuckboy.

And now he’s hiding in the last row of a church Theo never wanted to get married in. He knew about the wedding long before Josh and Corey popped up on his doorstep. Tracy announced it the very day of their engagement. Of Corey and Josh hadn’t continuously insisted, Stiles wouldn’t be doing this. He wouldn’t be here, putting his heart – and pride – on the line in front of too many strangers and at least twenty invited paparazzi, waiting outside the church, and, in turn, the whole fucking world. If Theo’s closest friends are right, all Stiles has to do is get up, be seen, and Theo would drop everything to take him back no questions asked. But Stiles knows he can only ask this of Theo if he’s sure they work out, if he wants to stay with him, knowing and accepting every part of Theo.

Only then can he allow Theo to uproot his life.

The longer Stiles waits, the worse it will get for Tracy too. Not that she would’ve cared. She tried to get with Theo every chance she got. Still, Stiles wonders what would feel worse, waiting until the officiant asks him to speak – and what if he freezes? – or ripping the band aid off and stop the ceremony from even starting.

Shifting on the pew, Stiles lets out a breath and allows himself to look away from Theo at the front of the church and glances at Josh and Corey, looking around as if waiting for something – someone. He had ample time to call Theo before today, to stop all of this from even happening.

He didn’t.

Is that answer enough?

His heart aches.

Stiles can’t let Theo do this. He can’t bring himself to miss what might be his very last chance.

Stiles takes another deep breath, taking in the guests in their expensive dresses and suits. He blocks out their chatter, the laughter, the good mood he’s about to drop a bomb on. All he has to do is get up and out of the dark corner he’s been hiding in, to step into the aisle. The moment he does, people will notice. Theo will see him. It feels like a small miracle nobody has until now. Stiles half expected Tracy had handed out flyers with his face on them to make sure he won’t ruin anything.

However, that’s exactly what he’s about to do.

Stiles cannot wait a second longer. He doesn’t know when the ceremony is about to start. He takes a steadying breath and slips out of the pew.

Theo people closest to him glance up. Although Stiles keeps his face angled away from them, he can tell the moment they’ve recognized him. There’s a shift in the air. Their quiet conversation turns into urgent whispers. It’s not hard to imagine how they’re trying to tell people in front of them. A doomed game of telephone that won’t reach Tracy in time. If someone tries to stop him, Theo will notice.

Stiles has made a decision.

For the first time in five years, he can finally breathe again.

Let’s see how long that lasts. His heartbeat picks up the closer he gets to the aisle. Every second, every step brings him closer to the moment Theo will spot him. The whispers seem to get louder around him, echoing in the church as the conversations die around him. Do they know who he is to Theo? Are thy aware of their history? Their feelings? Can they guess why Stiles is here? If they do, they-

Who cares?

Stiles isn’t here because of them. He’s here for Theo. He glances in his direction, watches as Theo scrolls on his phone, running a hand through his hair. It’s longer now, the way he wears it during off-season. It suits him. To be honest, Stiles likes it best on him, even more so when he’s sporting a designer stubble. Sadly, Tracy made sure that today will be stubble free.

His fingers tremble, and he curls his hands into fists then pushes them into his pants, unsure what to do with them. He can hardly wave at Theo. Should he wave at Theo?

No.

The inside of the church tips. On the left side, the conversations have grown silent. The right side has yet to realize something’s amiss.

Swallowing, Stiles glances back to the front at the same time Josh elbows Corey and points at him. The other groomsmen turn to look as well. Tara, who has been standing a little of to the side, widens her eyes. She smiles, contrasting the look of horror on the bridesmaids’ faces. One of them, presumably the maid of honor, breaks away from the group, her light blue dress fluttering after her. Every click of her heels is a gunshot going off inside.

The sound halts more conversations and catches Theo’s attention. Finally, he looks up from his phone. “What,” he asks, his tone cold and laces with annoyance as he studies the other bridesmaids, “is the issue now?”

None of the girls offer a reply.

Josh bounces over and taps Theo’s shoulder, whispering something in his ear.

Stiles steps into the aisle. He cannot bring himself to look away from Theo for even a second. So, he sees it all – the way Theo’s lips part, his eyes widening as they search for him in the mass of people, how they light up with a smile when he finally finds him, standing out like a sore thumb in his white dress shirt and black slacks. To tie. No jacket. But sneakers. Casual. Low key. The way they imagined their weddings to be on the few occasions they’ve talked about it.  

The phone slips from Theo’s fingers. The crack of it hitting the ground is followed by deafening silence. Nobody utters a single word as Theo is moving. Towards him.

“Theodore!” Mrs. Raeken’s voice cuts into the silence. Her eyes narrowed. The dark green dress probably the most expensive in the whole church.

Stiles didn’t miss her, and he’s sure, that feeling is reciprocated.

Theo doesn’t stop. Instead, he fidgets with his hand halfway down the aisle. He doesn’t run, and Stiles never expected him to. Just as Theo most likely didn’t expect Stiles to meet him halfway or jump into his arms. That’s not who they are.

Stiles’ heart hammers in his chest as he watches Theo approach, as he sees nobody else moving. It’s like the world around them has frozen, like it stopped turning for everyone but them.

And then Theo drops this engagement ring causing the church to erupt.

But Theo simply grabs Stiles’ waist and presses him against the wall, startling a laugh of out Stiles – one Theo steals from his lips as he crashes their mouths together. Their bodies fit together like they used to, like nothing has changed, and Stiles’ heart slows as its missing piece has returned. There is no question about this, about them. The world narrows around them until they’re the only people to exist. Theo kisses him like a starving person, lips and tongue and teeth, and Stiles pulls him closer by the collar of his jacket.

He's returned home after years and years of self-imposed exile.

“Get a room,” Tara mutters. Stiles can’t tell if it’s her voice or the hurried clicking of heels that pulled them apart.

“Let’s go, boys!” Josh drums his hands on Theo’s shoulders before following Corey and Tara out, hollering, “let’s go. Let’s go!”

Chuckling, Theo looks up at Stiles. His features soften for a moment, and he cups Stiles’ cheeks. “You ready?”

Stiles hums. “Waiting on you.” Truth is, he’s not ready to face the real world. He knows what happens once they leave. The questions. The pictures. The media shitstorm that Lydia will hate him for. But for Theo, he’s quite willing to risk it all. So, he intertwines their fingers and squeezes his hand.   

Theo pulls him along, leaving the church without sparing a single glance back.

Stiles does, however, and he looks past everyone else, finding Tracy’s eyes at once. She’s not crying, not screaming, not furiously making her way towards them. Her eyes narrow slightly as she raises her chin. She doesn’t seem surprised, just determined to keep her composure in check.

Someone calls Theo’s name, but he’s already pushing the doors open. He squeezes his hand once more and forces Stiles’ attention back to the reality in front of him – a shitton of cameras flashing, pointed at them, and a barraged of questions hurled in their general direction. Between them and the paparazzi, a black SUV with Corey hanging out of on of the windows.

“Come on!”

They hurry down the stars. The backdoor flies open and Corey scoots to the other side of the backseat.

Theo ushers Stiles in first then slams the door shut once he sits down himself, hand still holding on to Stiles’. “Step on it.”

Tara gives him a thumbs up.

A few moments later, they’re in the street, heading towards a destination Stiles doesn’t care much about as long as he reaches it with Theo by his side, who turns to look at him, cocked eyebrow and smirk firmly on his lips. “What took you so long?”

Stiles huffs out a breath. “Don’t even try to pin this on me, Raeken.”

“I swear,” Tara says before her brother has the chance to say anything, “if you start arguing, I will turn this car around.”

Theo barks out a laugh.

Chuckling softly, Stiles sins deeper into the middle seat and leans his head against Theo’s shoulder. He glances at Tara, watching her brother in the rearview mirror, eyes bright, slightly crinkled as her smile widens. Stiles squeezes Theo’s hand again, promising himself to hold onto him for the rest of their lives.

[usermischief]

♞Pairing: Steo ♞Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Theo Raeken ♞Tags/Warnings: mentions of rape, mentions of murder, explicit content ♞Words: 6233 ♞BTHB - Breaking a Promise | Kinktober '23 - Cock Warming

ao3

---

this thing between us

“You’re fucking yourself up like this.”

Stiles closes his eyes and lets out a breath. It’s almost five in the morning. His body aches, he hasn’t eaten in almost a day, and all he wants is to collapse into his bed. He doesn’t need a lecture from Theo Raeken of all people. Scoffing, Stiles shoves his key into the lock. “You always preferred the fucked-up version of me.” His door clicks open, and he pushes it out of the way of his escape.

“You know that’s not true.” Theo gets to his feet.

Stiles considers slamming the door in his face, but the thing about Theo is, he used to appreciate a lot of his persistence. “What are you doing here?” Although his first question should’ve probably been ‘how did you find me?’. But this is Theo, and Theo always finds a way. It was just a matter of time until they crossed paths again.

Dodging questions is another of Theo’s strange talents. “Why do you keep doing that?”

“Because the tips are fantastic.” Stiles turns around, trying to fill out the doorway as much as he can. Theo doesn’t need to get the impression he’s allowed in.

The message seems to be clear because Theo’s expression darkens with annoyance. But the worst part is, Theo still looks hot as hell and so much better than anyone Stiles has ever hooked up with in the past four years. “You don’t need the money,” he accuses in a hushed tone.

“And since when do you know what I need?” Stiles knows he’s right. After everything that has happened, he doesn’t have to lift a finger for the rest of his life — he doesn’t have any friends or family either. So, what good does all of this money do? It doesn’t erase the memories. It doesn’t stop the nightmares from finding him in the darkness. It doesn’t prevent people from whispering about him behind his back. “I haven’t seen you in almost five years, and now you’re here, acting like— acting like you’re my savior or some shit.” He’s been alone for too long now, he doesn’t need anyone; especially not Theo.

Drawing his brows together, Theo studies him for a moment. “You’re drunk.”

“Stellar conclusion.” Stiles rolls his eyes, “if only I drank alcohol.” And that’s true, although it’s not always easy as a bartender when everyone else around him is hammered.

Theo uncrosses his arms. The worry carved onto his handsome features makes Stiles want to punch him. “Did you take something?” As if he couldn’t be any more condescending. Looks like the past few years without him caused Theo to pick up some of his mother’s annoying mannerisms.

“I haven’t slept in 48 hours, I’m starving, and I just had mind-blowing sex—“ which isn’t entirely true, but Theo doesn’t need to know that “—not that that’s any of your business, by the way.” Although Stiles knows he doesn’t need to explain himself to Theo or anyone, really, he cannot deny himself the petty revenge — and he knows it hit home, can see it in the way a flash of pain cuts through the worry on Theo’s face. If only it would make Stiles feel any better or could undo what happened to and between them.

Unsurprisingly, Theo doesn’t deign this with a response. Instead, he doesn’t hesitate and wrestles Stiles into the apartment. It doesn’t take him a second to overpower him, easily forcing Stiles back enough so he can kick the door closed with his foot — like he owns the place.

“Get the fuck out,” Stiles snaps, nearly elbowing Theo in the face as he wrenches himself free from his ex-boyfriend’s all too familiar grasp. It’s a shame he missed.

The light flickers on. Theo neither moves nor reacts when he’s faced with a flight of stairs. He shoots Stiles a look before climbing them, making it abundantly clear he’s not going to leave any time soon. Because why would he? He’s Theo Raeken after all. Beloved and cheered on by his adoring fans. Everybody loves him. Everybody wants to be with him — even the person he hurt the most by breaking his fucking promise.

Stiles hates how much he still yearns for his touch.

Too tired to fight him or deal with the cops, Stiles shoves past Theo and hurries up the stairs. He hates them with a passion, especially after long nights, but they’re a pretty good advantage if someone decides to break in.

“So, what. You let random strangers fuck you for a few extra bucks every night?” There it is. Of course, Theo couldn’t just let it go. Five years, and the jealousy is still as strong as it used to be.

Stiles spins around at the top of the stairs. The moment Theo popped up at his bar, he should’ve had him kicked out. But that probably would have caused even more issues. “Are you pissed about me having sex, or are you pissed it wasn’t you who bent me over the bar and fucked me?”

Theo’s face darkens, which is already answer enough. As well as he may be able to hide his feelings, anger has never been an emotion he could control. “I’m not here to argue,” Theo tells him coolly as he steps onto the main floor. His gaze scans the room, slowly traveling from the immaculate and pretty much unused kitchenette, to the dining table with a bowl of fruit, the clean couch and empty coffee table, and the little office in front of the French windows.

Stiles can see the things Theo is seeing, the black exposed brick walls, the half empty shelves, the way his loft apartment doesn’t seem to be lived in if it weren’t for the clothes thrown over the steps of the ladder leading to the bedroom, and the mouth wash by the sink. No pictures. No personal items. Nothing that needs to be packed in case of a hurried departure.

“I’m going to bed,” he says, kicking his sneakers under the coffee table. “Make sure to be gone when I wake up.”

“You need help.”

Stiles whips around, and Theo can only consider himself lucky, he doesn’t own anything he could potentially throw at him right now. “No,” he snaps. “I needed you. Needed. You hear that? Past tense. So, you can fuck off.”

Theo’s anger visibly deflates. “Stiles—“

“You know what I needed? You, keeping your promise five years ago.” Stiles advances on Theo, and he’s never realized how much he wanted to get everything off his chest. “I needed you by my side, but instead you’re in your private clinic while I’m being stitched up and sent home. I was fucking alone, and you didn’t bother returning a single call or text. Instead of getting through everything together like you promised, I got a money-hungry guardian who sold the rights to my life to a journalist who gets off on other people’s trauma. I had to get a lawyer who couldn’t do anything to stop the publication of the book, but hey, at least I got a bunch of money while my worst nightmare is being read and discussed by people I’ve never seen. So, I was eighteen, and I was alone because my friends and family have been slaughtered by a fucking psychopath. I fired the person who got paid to make sure I stay alive, and the person who I thought loved me hadn’t bothered to talk to me in over a year.” Sties shoves Theo, and Theo doesn’t do anything. He merely stumbles back a couple of steps, catching himself on the railing. “I moved to LA only for your cunt of a sister to release the snuff film her psycho fiancé filmed. Just that he didn’t get to kill me like he wanted to. No, instead the world gets to see how I stab him twenty-five times. I packed my shit up again and moved to New York, and after I went through all of this by myself, you have the fucking nerve to come here, take one look at my life and decide I need help?” Stiles grabs Theo by the collar of his expensive leather jacket and slams him against the kitchen counter. “Your fucking family ruined everything for me. I’m 21. I should have a college degree. I should be on the way to the FBI, but do you think they’d hire the guy who stabbed someone over twenty times? No, they don’t. Not when the world doubts it happened in self-defense because Tara only released what she wanted the public to see.” Taking a shaky breath, Stiles yanks Theo closer. “So, get the fuck out of my life.”

Tears start burning in his eyes, but the last thing he wants is allowing Theo to see how he really feels. Stiles shoves him once more for good measure and turns around. Part of him hoped he would feel better after finally getting to tell Theo most of the shit he wanted to throw in his face for years. But he isn’t. Not even a little bit.

Stiles is about to climb the ladder to his bedroom when Theo finds his voice again. “I never knew.” His voice is soft, almost inaudible.

It makes Stiles stop in his tracks regardless. “I wonder why,” he mutters under his breath, fingers tightening around the ladder. Just move. Still, his body refuses to cooperate. Something keeps him drawn to Theo, like a part of him refuses to let him go. Stiles lets out a breath. “Knew what?” But he knows the answer, deep down, he knows exactly what Theo is going to tell him.

“That you tried to contact me.”

Stiles lets go of the ladder and decides to collapse onto the couch instead, face in his hands. He’s tired and exhausted and not even close to ready to have this conversation. His life got turned upside-down five years ago, but his wounds are still bleeding as if it happened mere hours ago.

Theo crouches in front of him, one hand gently placed on Stiles’ knee — a touch just as familiar as the pain. “You were the first person I asked for when I woke up. My parents said you didn’t want to see me, and when I finally got my phone—“

“I had changed my number.” Stiles crosses his arms over his thighs. “I didn’t want to believe your parents when they told me you thought it would be better to go separate ways, but the silence from you… it got to my head.” Perhaps he should’ve tried harder. Perhaps he was the one who broke their promise.

Theo is shaking his head lightly, gaze fixed on something over Stiles’ shoulder. “I never saw any calls or texts… I don’t…” He draws his eyebrows together and looks at Stiles again. “I don’t understand why they would delete them.” When it comes to trusting Stiles or his parents, Theo doubts his family.

It should make Stiles feel good, instead he feels hollow, like someone carved out every single emotion. Theo never particularly liked his parents because they had his life planned out for him, yet he never distrusted them, always believed that they wanted what’s best for him. Becoming a famous football player deviates from that what they wanted. So, his parents either changed their tune after almost losing him, or Theo stood up to them.

Stiles smiles, and he knows it looks as empty as he feels. The Raekens didn’t want their son to pursue a career in football, and they had very specific expectations for his partner — expectations Stiles didn’t even come close to. “Theo,” he says in a soft voice, cupping the other man’s cheeks, “your parents despised me.” While they never cared for Theo dating a guy, they very much disliked that said boy was not from the same social bracket and struggled with ADHD and anxiety, which was decided not up to their standards.

“They never said anything.”

“To your face.” Stiles bites his bottom lip and puts his hands in his lap, tugging at a loose thread at the hem of his hoodie. Swallowing heavily, Stiles looks down at his fingers. “Do you know why… he did what he did?” All those years, he can’t bring himself to say the name. It’s easier to think about him in describing factors.

Tara’s fiancé.

He.

The monster.

Theo grabs his hands, squeezing his fingers gently. The touch alone makes Stiles’ heart beat in a way it hasn’t in a long time — almost like it just now remembers how to be alive. “He had a criminal record.” Which really begs the question why he was welcomed into the Raeken family with open arms, after all, his criminal record was impressive. Then again, he came from a family with old money, and boys that age simply make mistakes. Nothing to worry about. Theo squeezes his hands softly. “People think he wanted to get back at your father… but it doesn’t make any sense because…” Theo trails off, unable to look Stiles in the eye any longer.

It’s something people tend to do mid-conversation when they suddenly realize who their bartender really is. Theo doing it hurts more than he’s ready to admit. He swallows the pain, something he’s accustomed to do. “Because why keep me for last?” Stiles finishes the question in a hoarse whisper. The tears threaten to return, and he pulls away from Theo, curling into the corner of his couch he’s always hiding in when thing become bad. His throat aches with unspilled tears, but he can’t stop. Not now. Not when he can finally say all the things he’s buried for too long. “Your mother knows the truth.” Stiles wraps his arms around his shins, pulling his legs to his chest. “You can ask her.”

“My mother?” Theo repeats slowly, drawing his brows together in confusion.

Stiles nods, staring at a single drop of coffee in the white fabric he’s never noticed before.

“Why would my mother know?” Theo stands up and sits down next to him, the dip in the cushion almost causing Stiles to fall into him.

He curls his fingers into his jeans, barely resisting the urge to get up and leave. Where would he go? Where could he go knowing exactly what’s going to happen in a matter of minutes? The dam broke open. This isn’t the first time. It won’t be the last. The memories will return whether Stiles says it out loud or not. “Do you remember Tara’s 21st birthday?” Every word feels as if it is ripped out of his throat.

Theo nods slowly. “You left that night. I still don’t know why.”

Taking another shaky breath, Stiles keeps his gaze fixed on the coffee stain. He can’t look at Theo, not now. “I excused myself to the bathroom because I needed a break from everyone.” Social gatherings still get to him. His job as a bartender doesn’t make it easy to deal with but the bar separating him from everyone else helps. “He followed me upstairs.”

Next to him, Theo stiffens — either because he remembers that night, or because he can tell where this story is going.

“I went into your room. I didn’t lock the door.” Why would he? Why? At that point, Stiles didn’t need to be afraid. He licks his lips, curls his fingers tighter into his jeans. “He found me there. At first, he was sweet and understanding. He tried to coax me back down… but then—“ The words get stuck in his throat, choking him; one of the dirty secrets nobody is allowed to hear.

“Miecio.” There’s a crack in Theo’s voice, cutting the nickname in half Stiles hasn’t heard in more than five years. Fingers dance ghostlike over Stiles’ back, waiting for a reaction, for permission. Theo understands what he’s trying to tell him.

“Your mother came upstairs. That’s when he stopped.” His knuckles turn white, his joints aching from the pressure. The coffee stain is the only thing he sees. “I tried telling her what happened. She told me to leave before I ruined her daughter’s party. So, I left, and I didn’t tell anyone, and eight days later, Melissa found her son’s body on the front porch.” Stiles wishes he could point a finger at Theo’s mother, blaming her for his secret, for the silence that killed everyone he loved.

Almost everyone.

Theo cups his cheeks again, gently tilting his head and forcing Stiles to look at him. “This isn’t your fault.” He knows him too well, knows the inner working of his mind — sometimes better than Stiles does himself. “You couldn’t have known.” But Theo doesn’t know the whole story, and he certainly doesn’t know the ending.

The memory hits hard, but it doesn’t come out of nowhere. It does, what it always does when his mind can’t stop wandering; wrecking him.

Stiles tears away from Theo and rushes to the sink, throwing up bile and guilt, but the memory claws itself into every fiber of Stiles’ being, refusing to leave, ready to make him suffer for the rest of his life. It burns his body with shame, and it’s something he can never purge, no matter how many strangers he’s going to fuck in the back of his bar.

In an instant, Theo is by his side, trying to calm and comfort him. But there’s nothing he can do, nothing to stop the memories from coming back, from reality crashing in on him like an avalanche.

When the worst is over, Stiles runs the water and rinses his mouth with the mouthwash until he can’t taste the bile burning on his tongue any longer. Then he collapses in the corner of his kitchen, the one space in his apartment that lets him see everything and pulls his legs to his chest again. He really hoped the high of an orgasm would help him through the night. It barely lasted long enough to get home.

Theo kneels next him, brushing sweaty strand from Stiles’ forehead. “Something else happened that night,” he says, and his voice is even, almost as hollow as Stiles felt mere moments earlier. “And my sister knows.”

For a long time, Stiles wanted to tell Theo exactly how fucked up his family is. Theo’s always been aware they’re far from perfect, but Stiles doubts he knew how far they’d really go to protect their reputation. Now, that he knows the truth, Stiles doesn’t feel any better — not with the flashbacks, and most likely not without them.

Stiles leans against Theo, pressing his face against his chest. Then he’s in Theo’s arms, shuddering, curling his fingers into his soft shirt. A strong contrast to the rough hands tearing off his pants and boxer briefs, rolling him round and pressing his face against the dirty floor, an arm’s length away from Theo bleeding out. He told him Stiles could save his life as long as he behaved. So, he whispered, “okay,” and didn’t make another sound, didn’t dare to move as the monster claimed his body, tainting him for the rest of his life. But that was okay as long as he got to keep Theo. Because that’s what he promised; Stiles’ body for Theo’s life. It seemed like a simple trade at that time.

Theo rocks him softly, protecting him from ghosts.

“We’re going to get through this,” he had promised, bleeding from his wounds. None of them lethal. They were supposed to kill him only if Stiles didn’t behave.

“You promised,” Stiles whispers.

Because he behaved. Stiles behaved. He said so too only to decide that Theo needed to die anyway. It would be better that way, he’d said.

To this day, Stiles doesn’t know why the knife was left on the ground next to him. Maybe he thought Stiles to be too broken to do anything. But he forced himself to move, and he got dressed, grabbed the knife, and hid it behind his back.

You promised.

The words ring in Stiles’ ears, making it impossible to understand anything Theo is saying to soothe him.

Because he’s stuck in the past, stuck with Tara’s fiancé crouching in front of him, smiling as if he’s won their little game. Stiles didn’t smile back. He rammed the knife into his throat instead. He still remembers the feeling of the warm blood on his face just as much as the rage that took a hold of him as he stabbed him twenty-four more times before he collapsed, unable to move for what feels like an eternity.

Just like he is now.

Theo kisses the top of his head. “I’m here,” he whispers reassuringly. “I’m not going to leave, okay?” It’s a promise he’s heard before, a promise that was broken by outside force — it’s a broken promise, nonetheless. But Theo’s arms feel safe, and Stiles wants to believe him, wants to trust that this time nothing is going to come between them again. “How about you go to bed, and I find something to eat for you?”

“Sure,” Stiles whispers, although he’s neither hungry nor tired, however, he’s aware when people need a minute to breathe. Theo’s life has been crumbling too when Stiles was having his mental breakdown. His life will be falling apart for a little longer while the truth carves its place.

Stiles gets to his feet, Theo’s hand secure at the small of his back, and then he crosses the room, alone and feeling just as empty as every single day of his life.

Upstairs, Stiles tosses his clothes in the hamper and slips into his sweatpants. He doesn’t go to bed though, instead he crouches by the opening, listening to Theo looking through his kitchen. For a few moments, that’s all he hears.

Then Theo’s icy voice cuts through the apartment. “I don’t give a shit about how early it is, Tara.”

Stiles swallows and backs away. He should’ve known. Squeezing his eyes shut, Stiles curls into bed, trying his very best to block out Theo’s voice. It should be easy. Theo doesn’t yell when he’s angry after all. But his cold tone crawls into his consciousness, and there is nothing Stiles can do about it.

“You know exactly what video I’m talking about.” A drawer slams shut, the only outbreak Theo will allow himself to have. A Raeken does not lose his temper. They are composed and always in control of the situation. That’s why Theo is made of repressed rage. “Tell me what he did, and don’t you dare lie to me.”

Biting back a sob, Stiles curls into a ball and pulls the blanket over his head. That’s how the monsters stay away. He covers his ears with his hands. That’s how Theo’s words won’t reach him.

That’s how he stays until the mattress dips.

Stiles lowers his arms, moving the blanket enough that he spots the sandwich Theo placed on his nightstand. He doesn’t say anything, neither does Stiles. Both waiting for what will happen next. Theo told him he wouldn’t leave, but that was something he said before he knew the full extent of what happened.

The mattress dips again. This time, Theo is crawling into bed with him, slipping under the blanket and back into his life as he wraps an arm around Stiles’ middle. His warmth and body are familiar, safe, a remnant from a time that was easier, happier, hopeful.

Sleep refuses to come regardless. Theo doesn’t fall asleep either, Stiles can tell by the way his body never fully relaxes, and how he tries to breathe softly enough as if not to startle him. With the truth out in the open, Theo considers him fragile. Stiles wonders what the world would think about him if they knew the whole story.

When the first rays of sunshine find their way into his bedroom, Stiles turns around only to find Theo already looking back at him. “Hey,” he whispers.

Theo’s eyes crinkle slightly. “Hi.”

Stiles watches as the soft morning light draws patterns on Theo’s cheek. He traces one, unable to stop himself, and smiles as blue eyes flutter shut. He looks peaceful like this, as if nothing bad ever happened in his life. But his body speaks a different language. Stiles trails his fingers down Theo’s chest, eyes never straying from his face when he finds his scars; scars he got because of Stiles, because he’s stubborn and needed to learn which battles to pick.

Before he can talk himself out of it, Stiles kisses Theo. Everything from the shape of his lips to the way they fit against his makes his whole body ache — and Theo kisses him back, arm tightening around his waist. The familiarity is breathtaking. Suddenly, no time has passed. They’re in Stiles’ bedroom, trying to be quiet, trying not to wake his dad.

But when Stiles slips his fingertips underneath the waistband of Theo’s boxer briefs, he grabs his wrist and stops him inches away from his dick. He doesn’t pull away. Not yet, at least. “What are you doing?” he asks, lips moving against Stiles’.

Drown out the memories. Reclaim his past, his body. Trying to be whole. “What do you think?” Stiles replies instead, casual, like this is something that happens every other day. It doesn’t. Not like this. People don’t usually stop him when he tries to hook up with them. Usually, they can’t fuck him fast enough. Theo used to be like that. He couldn’t get inside him fast enough, and usually, he enjoyed his afterglow still buried deep inside of him.

This is new.

Stiles doesn’t like new.

Theo pulls away, not far, just enough to study his face. “Stiles…”

“I’m not broken.” Stiles dragged himself out of the gutter too many times to be broken. He won’t deny that he’s damaged, but he is fine. After all, he has survived so far – and most of it, he did on his own. Stiles doesn’t need to be coddled, especially not by Theo; not years after everything has already blown up in their faces. 

Smiling, Theo brushes his thumb over the back of Stiles’ neck. A soothing gesture. The exact opposite of what he needs. “I know.”

“Do you?” Stiles yanks his hand free and sits up, anger and shame and desperation swirling inside of him. This is why he fucks strangers. Commitment causes issues. Commitment means people look at him and see him for how fucked up he really is. Commitment means allowing someone in the way he let Theo in, and Stiles can’t go through that again. “Maybe you should leave.” Stiles closes his eyes and falls back into the mattress.

Theo rolls over and leans over him. “I don’t think so,” he whispers before bending down again and crashes their mouths together. It’s too hard, a bit to clumsy, not the way Theo would usually kiss him. But there’s something desperate in the way clings to him; almost like he’s afraid that if he lets go, Stiles will force him out.

Perhaps he would.

But Stiles is just as desperate for this than Theo. “Good,” he mutters into the kiss, pushing a hand between them again. This time, Theo doesn’t stop him when he reaches for his dick. “Then fuck me like you mean it.”

Theo shudders above him, either because of his words or because Stiles is dragging his thumb over the tip of his dick. He still remembers what Theo enjoys, what gets him hard the fastest, how to wrap him around his little finger and make him cum so hard he forgets his own name. Today, however, isn’t about Theo.

And Theo is aware of that.

He pulls away and grabs Stiles’ waist, easily turning him onto his stomach. “Lube,” he commands in a low voice as he pulls him onto his knees. There’s nothing particularly gentle about it, not his touch, not the way he opens Stiles’ pants and yanks them over his ass, or the way presses a finger against his rim.

This time, Stiles shudders and closes his eyes. It’s easy to forget how well Theo knows his body too. He needs a few seconds to remember that he’s supposed to grab lube. Although Stiles doesn’t take anyone home with him, he keeps a bottle of lube in the box next to the bed. He pushes the lid open just enough to push his hand in, fingers brushing over pill bottles before he manages to fish out the lube, which he tosses unceremoniously at Theo.

The hands vanish from his ass, and Stiles uses the time to get rid of his clothes. In his hopeless dreams, his reunion with Theo always ended up being a bit softer, full of longing and love. There’s love still, somewhere deep inside of him, but as of right now, there’s lust and despair, the desire to drown with hard sex what he’d usually use pills for.

Theo’s hand returns, grip tight on his hip and stilling Stiles, as two wet fingers push against his rim without any hesitation. He pushes into him until his second knuckle, making a sound that’s somewhere between annoyance and want. It’s not too hard to figure out that Theo’s thoughts are wandering to what he saw earlier tonight.

‘Your fault,’ Stiles wants to say, but he merely groans and pushes his face into his pillow. “Warn a guy,” he utters against the fabric, sounding way too breathless already. They’ve barely started.

Theo huffs and pulls his fingers back. There is even less softness now that Theo is clearly pissed off at Stiles sleeping around – as if he has any right to be angry or hurt. Nobody forced him to watch. He’s free to leave. But he doesn’t. He stays and buries himself in Stiles with a quiet grunt. When they’re pressed together so close nothing could fit between them, Theo stills, and Stiles reminds himself to breathe because he forgot how good it felt to have Theo inside him.

There used to be a time when Stiles could relax like this after a stressful day. Sometimes, he even managed to fall asleep with Theo balls deep inside of him – for a while, at least. Usually, he woke up to his boyfriend’s resolve breaking.

Ex-boyfriend.

Stiles licks his lips and looks over his shoulder, watching Theo staring down at him. “Do you need any help?” he asks and quirks a brow. “Or are you going to fuck me anytime soon?”

For a few heavy heartbeats, Theo simply looks at him, eyes almost searching for something. His lips curl into a disapproving line as he isn’t successful – and then he pulls back, only to snap his hips forward in a way that’s so familiar, so achingly hard, so right. Theo fucks him confidently and without further hesitation. His mouth explores every inch of Stiles’ body he cans reach – as if he doesn’t know him inside out. His fingers leave marks, reclaiming ownership of something he thought has left him.

But it’s worse.

Someone stole it.

The desperation and anger are clear in every thrust, in the way his fingers press into his skin, short nails digging in enough to leave little half-moons.

It’s hurts just right. The edge of pain making him harder than he’s been in the past few years – since he’s lost Theo. There could probably something be said about him, said about the way this type of sex feels so much better than all the other random hook-ups with strangers in the back of his bar. Maybe it’s the pain, or maybe it’s simply Theo; his body remembering everything.

His name rolls over Theo’s tongue, and this hurts in a different way. It cuts deeper, memories cursing him, a future that could never be trying to drag him under.

Stiles bites into his pillow and squeezes his eyes shut, trying to match Theo’s thrust as best as he can. Although he doesn’t have to do much. The hands holding his waist in an iron grip are doing the work for him. They’re having sex, yes, but in a way, they both are chasing their very own needs that simply seem to line up in some way.

Theo keeps fucking him in the same all but violent pace. Hips snapping forward, slapping against his own with an almost obscene sound, and nailing his prostate with almost every thrust.

Stiles spits the pillow out, propping himself up enough that he can see. A gasp escapes him, every sound punched out of him by Theo's dick. He grabs his own, fingers cool against the hot skin. Opening his mouth, Stiles watches the muscles in Theo’s thighs work, how his fingers dig deeper into his skin – as if he’s scared, he might vanish. Theo is chasing something, something he lost years ago, something Stiles gave away to protect him.

Part of him hopes he’ll find it again.

Maybe it’s better if he doesn’t.

Squeezing his eyes closed, Stiles moves his hands up and down his dick, fingers tightening near the tip. He’s chasing his release, the moments of freedom it gives him from his thoughts.

His muscles tighten when Theo’s thrust turn shallow, more irregular, and he’s so fucking close to cum. But Theo beats him to it. He moans his name, a sound somewhere between a curse and a moan.

Stiles cusses under his breath, struggling to keep up on his legs and arm with Theo’s weight splayed on top of him. He’s jerking himself off, desperate for his orgasm. His brain all but short-circuits when it finally hits him. For a few blissful moments, Stiles is in heaven – no thoughts, no memories, just his body, unchained.

Perhaps that’s part of the reason he’s chasing this so much.

But the return to earth is never fun.

This time, however, Stiles feels Theo’s hands brushing over his sides, his mouth placing soft kisses over his back, on his shoulders, the very bottom of the nape of his neck. He’s also still buried deep inside of him.

Stiles lets out a breath. For the first time, he prefers that his hook up hasn’t moved an inch. He embraces the weight of his body on top of his, although he’s gained some muscles in the past few years while Stiles isn’t much more than skin and bones. “Theo,” he says anyway, trying to get the word ‘move’ out of his mouth but it refuses to pass his lips. Things can’t be like they were before. Theo can promise him to stay all he wants, too much has happened, too much has changed. Stiles is too much.

But he can’t bring himself to end it.

Very carefully, Theo eases them both on their sides without pulling out. “What happens now?”

Stiles closes his eyes. So much for his afterglow. “You go back to being a football star, I go back to fucking myself up further. Everyone’s happy.” The lie burns on his tongue, but it’s easier to pretend than to open himself up emotionally only to lose Theo again. He’s not going to survive that. It’ll be a miracle if he survives this night.

“What if I don’t want that?” Theo runs his left hand up his chest, resting it above his heart. “I didn’t come here to walk away from you again.” His breath is hot on the back of his neck, the arm around him pulling him closer. 

Despite himself, Stiles grabs Theo’s hand and intertwines their fingers. It comes so easy, so natural. “You don’t want that.” He would like to pretend it’s more instinct than his fear of losing Theo as well. Everything with Theo feels so natural, like nothing ever happened, like they’ve never been apart for even a fucking second. “My life’s a shitshow, and the world’s going to drag you into it.” I’m going to drag you into it a nightmare.

Theo kisses his shoulder. “I don’t care.”

“Don’t—“ There’s a part of him that wants to pull away, to get out of bed, but Stiles doesn’t want to lose the feeling of Theo against his back or his dick inside of him – despite a bit of cum sticking to his thigh, cooling against his skin.

“I promised we’d get through this together,” Theo whispers, running his fingers up and down Stiles’ sternum.

“It wasn’t your fault.” Even though it still feels like it. Five years of believing Theo simply dropped him aren’t going to vanish overnight. Stiles places his hand on top of Theo’s again, squeezing his fingers tightly.

Theo kisses his shoulder, lips curling into a smile against his skin. “I’m never going to leave you again.”

“It’s not worth it.” Stiles can see the headlines, can already tell what the world is going to think if their golden boy is seen with him. The stories they spin. They’re going to dig deep. They’re going to find out Theo’s been there too; keeping his name out of the media is the one thing Stiles and the Raekens could agree on.

But Theo pulls him closer, body so warm and safe and comforting. “You’re worth it. You’re worth everything and more.” 

Stiles hums and closes his eyes, allowing himself to believe Theo.

At least for one day.

---

[usermischief]

♞Pairing: Steo ♞Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Theo Raeken, Mason Hewitt, Liam Dunbar ♞Tags/Warnings: - ♞Words: 5320 ♞ @steodiscord's SteoSpooktober Vol.5 - Costume ♞Part 1 - House of Darkness / Part 3 -

a/n: This fic can be read without reading Part 1, but there will be references to what happened in "House of Darkness".

ao3

***

once upon a do-over

Stiles pushes his hands in the pockets of his jeans, squinting at the old structure maybe 250 feet away from them. It might have been a castle once. The sand-colored bricks and tower still left standing seem to hint at it. There’s no shot it’s from royalty; there would have to be records of that. Biting the inside of his cheeks, Stiles squints at the tower. He can’t quite figure out why, but something about it makes him feel a bit… queasy? Perhaps. He just doesn’t like the feeling it causes in the pit of his stomach. There’s something wrong about it, Stiles can’t put his finger on what. Although, it could very well have everything to do with the no-trespassing signs all over the goddamn place.

What he knows for certain, however, is that he’s been right. Not the biggest surprise. He didn’t expect Mason to calm him months after the Conjuring House debacle to invite him to a costume party. Luckily, Stiles will be going on a costume party later today, so, Lydia’s three hour-long makeover will not be for nothing. Her very recent obsession with American Horror Story’s first season has translated into his costume, and since she wasn’t allowed to paint Jackson’s perfect face white, Stiles ended up as the Tate Langdon to her Violet Harmon. The good thing about this costume is, the skeleton make-up does make his face unrecognizable, something he’s still very much interested in. The bad thing? His clothes – especially his black jeans – are tight, much tighter than any clothes he owns.

Still, since Mason and Liam clearly lied to him, questions need to be asked. “Why are we here?”

Mason turns to him, beaming like a thousand watts. “Because this is Satan’s Castle.”

Liam bounces on his heels, clearly sharing his best friend’s excitement. They’re infuriatingly happy about absolutely everything. It’s terrible.

“No,” Stiles says, gesturing back and forth between Theo and him – because, yes, Theo joined this trip as well – “why are we here?” This isn’t an emergency, especially none that required Stiles and Theo. Together. Joining Liam and Mason on their stupid little exploration. They’re not friends. Never have been. Lydia asked Stiles to keep an eye on these shitheads during their visit to the Conjuring House. That does not mean he’s required to be around all the time whenever they go to some shady sounding places.

It's not that he wouldn’t, Stiles simply hates that Theo is here too after he finally stopped being pissed at him.  

But, hey, this is what he gets for taking a gap year and deciding to live closer to home again. Not that Los Angeles is that close. Ever since the Conjuring House adventure, Stiles isn’t sure he wants to become an FBI Agent. That was his dad’s dream until a kid was in the picture. Stiles gets the appeal, and part of him still wants to help the living. The more time he spends away from Harvard, working jobs most people don’t even know exist, he wonders if perhaps the dead and other creatures not fit to be around the living are his forte – and it pays more than well. People are giving him surreal amounts of money even if he just tells them they have rats in their walls instead of a poltergeist.

Mason exchanges a quick glance with Liam. “Well,” he says because the latter decides that his camera is a lot more interesting than the conversation, “you’re brilliant and mysterious and can see dead people, and you—” Mason cocks his head to the side a little and shrugs, “you’re hot.”

Theo raises his brows. “You mean I have the money.” That he's ignoring the comment about his appearance says a lot about what type of mood he's in. Although Stiles doesn’t have any idea why Theo is mad. He’s not the one who’s been ghosted for seven fucking months.

“Our viewers don’t exactly care about that,” Liam says barely loud enough to be heard.

Stiles folds his arms over his chest. “There’s no costume party.” Mason is a terrible liar, but Stiles agreed to this because as angry as he’s been with Theo, part of him wanted to see that asshole again – either to draw a line in the sand officially, or to give this another shot. He’s not quite sure yet. He’s not exactly proud of it – and he's even less proud of allowing Lydia to put him in these ridiculously tight jeans.

But it’s working; he’s caught Theo looking more than once.

Mason tugs on his own costume – Count Dracula, judging by the impressive cloak he keeps stumbling over – and pulls his shoulders up. “It’s a Halloween special.”

“It’s a—" Theo cuts himself off and turns away with a roll of his eyes.

“You didn’t even come in costume,” Liam snipes, who – very lazily, mind you – threw on a pair of scrubs and a doctor’s coat.

Theo bares his teeth, fangs looking as deadly as always. “I don’t need one.”

“I think the more pressing issue is that you guys lied to us.” Stiles isn’t the biggest fan of being used. It’s fucking rude in general, but after being a meat puppet for a 1000-year-old fox demon, shit like this hits very differently. “You could’ve just asked.” Although Stiles isn’t entirely sure he would’ve agreed after the disaster the Conjuring House ended up being. He really didn’t appreciate being flung around like a ragdoll.

Fucking demons and their audacity.

“I wouldn’t have come—”

“You agreed the moment I mentioned Stiles,” Liam shoots back, clearly done with everyone’s attitude.

Stiles glances at Theo, who resolutely stares in the other direction. Even his gnashed teeth don’t hide the slight tinge of pink on his cheeks. Fuck. What the hell does that mean? Theo never called after the night they spent together, and Stiles gave up after his second text went unanswered but read for months – and that’s why he should have said ‘no’ instead of ‘sure, why not?’ the moment Mason brought him up.

Yet here he is.

Sighing, Stiles raises his hands in mock defeat. “Fine,” he says, trying his hardest not to sound as delighted as he feels, “we’re already here. Give me your research.” He beckons for the phone Mason has been clutching to his chest like his prized possession.

The huge grin on his lips certainly proves that he’s been waiting for his request. “The story is wild,” Mason tells him as he hands over his phone.

Stiles draws his brows together. “The first sentence states that—"

“I know.” Mason waves his hand around dismissively. “But every legend has a kernel of truth, right?”

“I mean… in theory, I guess, yeah…” Stiles trails off, understanding why they wanted him to come so desperately, they dragged Theo here as well. They want to figure out the truth, or rather, they want someone to confirm this research. Frowning at the phone, Stiles sighs. He’d like to be a bit more optimistic, but everything Mason found points in a very different direction. Nothing is known about this place, not even who built it; the best guess is some random tycoon living in the late 1800s. They can’t even say what it was used for — only that Robert Atkinson apparently owned it at one point. Otherwise, the usual rumors are attached to these ruins, dark rituals, satanism, secret tunnels, and— “fucking hell.”

“400 kids?” Theo asks, startling Stiles as he leans even closer to continue to read. “They flew them back and forth and nobody noticed?”

“Not at once.” Stiles rolls his eyes. Still, Theo does have a point. “Also, it’s the ritualistic assault that’s concerning me more, but good to know where your priorities lie.” Shaking his head, he hands the phone back to Mason. There’s not really anything in there that’s remotely helpful. It sounds as if people are desperately trying to fill the history of ruins that should have plenty already. Of course, they want to believe that means some bad shit went down here. People are wired that way. But the ruins are part of somebody’s backyard, and it doesn’t look particularly decrepit. So, whoever owns it, takes pretty good care of it — and unless they’re a Satanist, too, it’s hard to imagine something’s going on here.

Besides, Tara, who once again decided to follow her brother around, has no qualms inspecting the place. She’s been quite nervous at the Conjuring House. She’s completely different here. Perhaps, she is enjoying the view as well.

The Rim of the World is undoubtedly breathtaking.

Staring at the horizon isn’t going to get him any faster to the party, though. Stiles sighs again and heads towards the ruins. “This better not be a waste of a good costume.”

“And my priorities are out of whack?” Theo asks with a snort.

Stiles shoots him a look over his shoulder. He grimaces a little when he spots Liam already handling the camera. There’s no way he’s ever going to enjoy or get used to being always filmed.

“Are you seeing anything?” Liam asks.

Now that Stiles has stopped ignoring every single ghost, it has gotten significantly easier to see and hear them. It’s quite unsettling, if he’s entirely honest, because blocking them out becomes increasingly harder. Here’s to hoping the same doesn’t go for anything else. “Aside from the ‘No Trespassing’ signs?” Or the aggressive neighborhood watch sign informing them that the police will be called immediately. Stiles is very glad his face is obscured by paint because there are most likely more cameras around.

“Ghosts,” Liam deadpans. “Demons. Entities?”

“Take your pick,” Theo adds with a bark of laughter.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “No, there’s nothing.” Well, aside from Tara roaming the grounds, but she hardly counts. Her relaxed state and the absence of other ghosts can only mean one thing; nothing happened here. If there had been as many satanic rituals as the research suggested, the place would be crowded. They are dawn to evil places, to places with a brutal history; all those lingering negative feelings are like catnips to the spirits who refuse to move on — or to the entities who have no business being here.

“We’re not even there yet,” Mason mutters, sounding more than annoyed as he walks off the street and heads towards the field, his cloak swooshing dramatically after him.

Liam follows his friend, panning the camera slowly away from Theo and Stiles, over the ruins, and to where Mason is now awkwardly stumbling downhill. Someone clearly has no intention of getting too close to the person owning the castle. Probably not the worst idea. If they have to trespass, it’s most definitely smarter to do it from below. They’re taking a risk, overall, and it would suck if they did so for nothing.

But Stiles doesn’t want to play pretend or straight-up lie, and he doubts they would want that either. He doesn’t know the guys very well, but their final product about the Conjuring House has been pretty honest. It was more of a documentary than a scare-fest, littered with solid history spoken over beautifully shot B-roll of the house. Maybe that’s why people enjoyed it so much. There was no script, no weird sound effects — just the raw footage cut together into a mostly coherent narrative. They’re probably planning to do the same for this place.

“You don’t have to feel guilty.”

“Keep your nose out of my chemo signals, Theodore.” Stiles narrows his eyes and studies the other boy for a few moments; the fact that he looks amazing in his leather jacket, tight jeans and skintight purple tank top suddenly pisses him off, although it’s not Theo’s fault Stiles got his hopes up. “You lost that right when you couldn’t pick up the fucking phone or text me back.” He’s not usually this aggressively honest about his feelings, but Theo’s behavior really got to him. It felt different. He didn’t sound like the usual dickhead trying to talk his way into someone’s pants.

And usually, Stiles is a magnet for those exact dickheads. He should’ve listened to his gut, but no. Trust the jock with the sad childhood story, why would he end up as a cliché? Clearly, Stiles was very wrong about that, and he’s not planning on making that mistake again.

“Okay,” Theo amends, the smirk betraying his apologetic voice, “I know, but I—"

Stiles holds up a hand and turns away. “Save it.” This discussion can wait, or even better yet, it does not need to happen. It was clearly a misunderstanding, although Stiles isn’t entirely sure what could be misunderstood when they’d both exchanged numbers. Theo changed his mind, or maybe he simply did it to placate Stiles, thinking he’d never see him again.

Whatever.

Stiles turns away and heads down the hill to join Mason and Liam. The last thing he needs is being alone with Theo any longer than strictly necessary. They’ll have enough time to pass between each other when Mason and Liam gather some B-roll.

The hill is a lot steeper than it looked from up top, and the ground underneath his feet isn’t exactly sturdy. Rocks and dirt roll down the hill. Neither his Vans nor the tight jeans Lydia forced him into are helpful in this endeavor.

What was he even thinking? That Theo would magically change his mind just because his ass looks great? He’s such an idiot, and soon, he might be an idiot rolling down a mountain on camera. This evening is going swimmingly. But at least he’s not sweating his ass and makeup off.

“Fuck,” Theo curses softly. A moment later, he falls past him, a bunch of rubble joining his tumble down the hill. He ends up on his ass and slides a bit further down until he manages to stop himself on a bigger rock jutting out of ground.

Stiles presses his lips together, trying his best not to laugh.

Heaving a breath, Theo glares at him over his shoulder.

Liam and Mason are still engrossed in a conversation, checking something on the latter’s phone.

“Pay me enough, and I didn’t see a thing,” Stiles tells him, carefully continuing down the mountain. If he falls, his pants are toast, and he’s certainly not going to be on camera with his jeans ripped in unfortunate places.

Brushing off dust and dirt, Theo huffs out a breath. “Name your price.”

“You wouldn’t be able to afford me,” Stiles shoots back instantly, although he’s not entirely sure about that. Judging by all his comments, Theo seems to be loaded. He’s usually the one driving, and he was the one paying for the hotel back in Rhode Island.

He’s almost reached Mason and Liam standing by the tower when something catches his eye. It’s a flurry of motion, drained of color like ghosts usually are. Stiles cranes his neck to see where it went, unsure if it’s Tara or someone else. In this moment of inattentiveness, he puts his foot on rubble and dirt that instantly gives way underneath him — his balance goes straight out of the window. Stiles curses under his breath as he frantically looks around for something to catch himself on.

There is nothing.

Of course.

Liam turns around, probably alerted by noises of stones rolling down the hill right behind him. His eyes grow wide, and he presses the camera into Mason’s hands. Before he has the chance to move, however, strong hands grab Stiles’ waist, stopping further disaster from happening.

“Careful now, we don’t want you to ruin your costume, do we?” Theo’s voice is barely a whisper. It’s sending shivers up and down Stiles’ spine.

He loathes the effect this guy has on him regardless of the months of frustration he suffered. But that’s in the past. Stiles let his guard down once, he’s now learned from his mistake, and he will not do it again — although Theo’s hands on his waist feel amazing regardless of his current resentment of the guy. He certainly wouldn’t complain if his hand slipped under— no. Absolutely not. “I think I saw something.” Stiles straightens himself, his foothold just secure enough that the ground won’t give away under him, and elbows Theo in the ribs. Sharp pain travels up his arm. He grimaces.

Fucking werewolves.

Mason’s eyes light up. “Where?” he asks, pushing the camera back in Liam’s hands.

“Somewhere over there.” Stiles points in the opposite direction of the ruins. “It might’ve been Tara. I’m not sure.”

“Where’s she now?” All the playfulness has left Theo’s voice. His sister remains a sore spot. It probably hasn’t gotten any easier now that he knows she’s following him around; if he believes it, that is.

Stiles shakes his head. “I can’t see her right now.”

“And that’s a good sign?” Liam inquires, glancing around the mountain.

“I don’t know yet.” Although the place doesn’t necessarily feel as evil as the name Satan’s Castle would suggest, now that Stiles is up close and personal with it, something feels… weird. Not inherently evil. This is nothing like the Conjuring House, but there is something. He just can’t tell if it’s bad history or something entirely different.

Mason rubs his hands together. “Could fire cleanse this place?”

“You mean ‘burn it down’? Theo asks, stepping so close his shoulder bumps against Stiles’.

It’s almost impossible to shut down the shouting match between his brain ordering him to move away and his body begging to step closer. Instead, Stiles crosses his arms. “That depends on how they did it.”

“With fire?”

Stiles turns to glare at Theo. “Do you ever shut up?” Despite everything he went through at the Conjuring House, he’s still a fucking shithead. Unbelievable. How the hell can he still be so doubtful regarding everything that’s going on?

The grin spreading on the other’s lips doesn’t bode well. “Feel free to use kisses as a method to shut me up any time.”

Stiles has never been so happy to wear makeup because nobody can see his cheeks flushing under all that white covering his whole face and throat. Maybe he should consider wearing costumes more often — especially when he’s around Theo. He’s not at all interested in giving the guy any inclination about his feelings for him. Once this is over, the first thing Stiles is going to do is teach himself how not to be hung up on people who only give a shit about him whenever he’s conveniently around.

After a moment of silence, in which even Mason and Liam stared at Theo in surprise, Stiles merely shrugs. “If they salted the place, then yes, they might have cleansed it.”

Although the evening sun is still having enough strength, a shiver runs down his spine. It’s too quiet for something to be here. Maybe it’s just the place itself that gives him the creeps. Ruins often have this effect on him. There’s something strange about being in a place that used to be full of life, that was a home to someone; its history lost, and all that’s left are rumors that can’t be disproven. The tower with its five points — so easy to believe it’s meant to be a pentagram — does the rest. Stiles wonders if it’s the shape that gave birth to all the horrors people believe happened here.

“So…” Liam trails off, the camera still facing Stiles and Theo. “It’s not haunted?”

Stiles sighs. “It might not be no.” It’s not the answer either of the boys wants to hear — Theo most likely won’t care — but it’s the only one he can give them if they keep standing beneath this goddamn tower. Seeing a stray ghost, that may or may not have been Tara, isn’t proof for anything. “Wait here.”

“What? Why?” Mason asks, his voice stuck between frustration and hope.

Raising his brows, Stiles gestures past the scrub surrounding the tower — probably to keep people out. “Because I’m going to go there.”

“There’s a ‘No Trespassing’ sign right next to us,” Theo points out, raising his brows and looking at Stiles like he’s seen him for the first time.

Stiles snorts out a laugh. “Aw, are you worried? That’s so sweet.”

Unsurprisingly, that hits a nerve. Theo narrows his eyes. “It’s your trespassing charge. Have fun.” He really acts as if he’s never done anything wrong before in his life. That sounds insanely boring.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” Stiles promises, watching as Liam and Mason exchange a look that’s more than a little loaded. It’s not like they could technically stop him from “I’m just going check for any activity. If anyone asks, you tried to stop me.” It’s not the first time Stiles trespassed. So far, he hasn’t been caught, and now, he’s got a few more tricks up his sleeve. He’s going to be in and out. Well, not really in. Still, he should probably remind them to cut this part out. Although nobody can see his face, his trespassing doesn’t need to be on video for the world to see.

Giving the two boys a thumbs up, Stiles presses as closes to the tower as possible to shimmy between the scrub and the wall. He’s not interested in going any further down that mountain with his tight jeans — even this is a terrible idea.

“Theo!” Liam snaps.

“Go get some B-roll,” Theo calls over his shoulder.

Stiles glances at him. “Shut up.” Although people are most likely aware that they’re sneaking around here, they really do not need to announce their trespassing. Carefully, he pokes his head around the tower and surveys the area. The castle must’ve been huge before they burned it down, but the thing that interests him the most is the doorway across from him. He doubts that’s where he’s going to find the entrance to a tunnel, but for now he at least wants to check if this place even has graffiti that could potentially be satanic. The tower itself is suspiciously clean for an abandoned and allegedly haunted location.  

With Theo right behind him, Stiles hurries along the old path, his steps silenced by the overgrown grass. He ducks under the ivy covering the top of the doorway and steps into the room. The drop in temperature is noticeable, but that’s pretty much the most exciting thing. It doesn’t take more than two people to make this room almost a bit too claustrophobic for Stiles’ taste. The charred walls don’t exactly ease the tight feeling in his chest.

This part of the history is plain to see. People have burned this place down. Stiles swallows around the lump in his throat while brushing his fingertips over the cold stonewall. Nobody burned, at least not in here.

“Well, that’s anti-climactic.” Theo steps next to him, nudging the leftover chain-link fence on the floor. “Anything on the ghost radar?”

For a moment, Stiles contemplates elbowing Theo in the face, but it’s not going to be worth the pain he’ll feel. “If you think it’s so funny, try living with it.” Stiles turns away from the unused fence and furrows his brow at the graffiti on the opposite wall. ‘Spikey Kelly’ in bright red. That’s really the only thing of note in the whole place. All the other graffiti is worn with age.

Stiles has no idea what that even means. Is that a name?

“Sorry.” Theo offers him an apologetic smile. “I’m still trying to wrap my head around your whole thing.” He gestures around, and for what it’s worth, he seems genuine.

Stiles opens his mouth, tempted to ask, ‘is that why you never called me back?’, but he shakes his head instead. “There’s nothing here.”

There’s absolutely no way he’ll have this conversation in the burned down ruins of an allegedly satanic castle — a satanic castle with no satanic symbols whatsoever. An evil place is easy to recognize by the shit all over the wall. Spikey Kelly, however, doesn’t exactly invoke fear. Stiles shuffles around Theo and pushes the ivy away.

“At least the view is great.”

That’s hard to deny. The view from up here is breathtaking, almost like they’re in a completely different world with the sky and a picturesque landscape as far as the eye can see. It’s hard to imagine Los Angeles is just a little over an hour away. They’re standing on top of the world, free, ready to fly at a moment’s notice.

Stiles wishes it were that easy.

Theo steps next to him, his body warm. “I bet the sunset is beautiful up here.”

Yeah, it’s probably worth the drive.

Ignoring the loaded statement, Stiles turns towards the tower. There’s a white wooden door leading into it, so new it ruins the image of the castle — as does the light just above it. This would be the first place Stiles prefers to be by day. “Let’s check out the tower.” Knowing his luck, the door is locked.

“Stiles.” Theo grabs his arm and pulls him back in, pulls him almost too close. “I know you’re mad—"

“I’m not mad,” Stiles interrupts, and he’s very clearly lying. The thing is, he is more pissed at himself for falling for the same bullshit over and over again. “You made your choice, whatever. Just don’t expect me to fucking swoon because you’re gracing me with your presence.” He pulls his hand free, not ready to admit out loud that Theo is still very successful at working his magic, and Stiles very much could swoon every time he simply smiles at him. That pisses him off even more than Theo not having the balls to tell him he wanted sex and nothing more. “Let’s go. I don’t want to hang out here any longer than I have to.” There is still the risk of being found, after all.

Without waiting for a reply, Stiles turns on his heels and hurries towards the white door. Here, he is very much out in the open. The light above his head turns on, but the door doesn’t budge.

Fuck.

“Why does that lamp have a motion sensor?” Theo asks, hovering directly behind him. Looks like he still doesn’t have any respect for personal space or boundaries.

Stiles covers most of the door with his body, brushing his thumb along the lock. “Try sneaking in at night when this place lights up like a Christmas tree.” Anger and spite have been surprisingly great teachers. Instead of wallowing in self-hatred, Stiles spend his time leaning into what he can do post-nogitsune. If he didn’t accept himself for who he is, how are other supposed to take him seriously? So, he buried his nose in books and has gotten the hang of little magic tricks, like opening and locking doors. It has worked on his apartment door every time so far, and this can’t be too complicated a lock.

He hears a soft click.

Yes.

Stiles pushes the door open just enough to slip into the room behind it.

“How,” Theo asks, closing the door swiftly behind him and plunging them in total darkness, “did you do that?”

A moment later, light illuminates most of the room and confronts Stiles with an almost disappointing reality. He didn’t exactly have his hopes up high, but he still hoped to find something. This? This is a waste of everybody’s time. No doors, nothing that even hints a secret door. No pentagrams, no 666, no graffiti that could even remotely been considered satanic. But the room isn’t looking too clean either. There are random graffiti smeared all over the walls, and the room itself looks like a bomb went off on it. Clutter is lying all over the ground, and the shelves are filled with it as well. It’s a miracle they didn’t step on anything.  

It’s nothing more than a storage room.

Stiles scrunches up his face. “That was a bust.”

“Excuse me?” Theo snaps his fingers in front of Stiles’ face. “How’d you get that door open?”

“It was stuck.”

“I heard the lock click.”

Stiles makes a dismissive gesture. “You imagined that.”

With an exasperated sigh, Theo points the flashlight directly in his face. “I get it. You’re still mad—"

This again. “Put the fucking flashlight down.” Stiles cannot believe he has to tell him that. He blinks and squints a little, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dimness of the room.

“Stiles—”

“Fine.” He barely resists to throw his hands in the air. “I thought you giving me your number meant we’d stay in contact. You didn’t call or text me back. I moved on.” Quite literally, in three occasions. Well, four if he counts the thing with Lydia and Jackson. It took him longer than he’d care to admit, but it’s not like he broke down crying. His mind simply liked to play the ‘what if’ game. What if Theo did call back? What if Stiles just tried one more time? What if he visited Beacon Hills and accidentally bumped into him? Endless possibilities, none of them happened. “I thought you were different. That’s why I was mad at first, but if you think I cried my eyes out because a jock doesn’t want me back, you’re dead wrong.” And that’s the truth. As angry and a little heartbroken as he was, his dignity wouldn’t allow to shed a single fucking tear for Theo Raeken.

Theo raises his hands defensively. “I want you, but the whole thing with my sister…” he trails off, staring at the ground for a moment.

Stiles stares at him in shocked silence. I want you. Three simple words that shouldn’t stun him, that certainly shouldn’t get to him. But they do because he can’t shake his attachment to people no matter how much he likes to pretend that’s not the case. He swallows drily. Those three words aren’t what he should focus on. He takes a deep breath. “You think I wouldn’t have understood if you told me?”

Theo glances up at him, smiling apologetically. “I regret ghosting you. No… no pun intended.”

Rolling his eyes, Stiles carefully steps away from Theo. He’s pissed. Again. This time because Theo is essentially opening the door, Stiles fully intended to keep shut. “Yeah well, I regret a lot of things too,” Stiles mutters, trying his best to shut his feelings off. “Having this conversation? It’s at least in the top five.” It’s uncalled for, Stiles knows that, but he’s not interested in talking about this any longer — even less inside this disappointed, entirely non-satanic storage room.

Theo stares at him, opening his mouth before deciding against whatever he’s intended to say first. A mask slips onto his features as he steps closer, a hand reached out to grab his arm. “I wanted to see you again, desperately, so I could apologize.” The smirk returns in full force, eyes flashing almost mischievously as he inches closer. “But maybe my tongue can do a better job of saying sorry than my words can.”

Stiles’ heart stutters in his chest, cheeks flushing hotly once again. Fucking hell. Theo shouldn’t be allowed to have this much power over him still, but it’s like his body is drawn to him, impossible to get away, impossible to fully let go. Get it together, Stilinski. “Tempting offer,” he replies, hoping that his voice won’t give away how he really feels about the words — even though it doesn’t matter, Theo can probably smell how bad he wants him too, “but I’m not going to waste this costume on you.”

The response startles the smirk off Theo, and he lowers his arm, brows drawn together. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Relieve flushes through Stiles when he realizes control is firmly back in his own hands. Now, all he needs is to get out of here. “We’re going to a costume party.”

[usermischief]

♞Pairing: Steo ♞Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Theo Raeken ♞Tags/Warnings: explicit sexual content, mentions of alcohol ♞Words: 3229 ♞Kinktober 2023 - Swallowing

ao3

***

Stiles weaves through the crowd, feeling strangely at ease between so many strangers. As much as ghosts enjoy to be close to the living, a gathering like this would be too much for the strongest of them. Tara, too, decided to hang back, clearly not particularly thrilled about the amount of people inside. It looks like there are at least a hundred people who decided to attend the party. Jackson is going to be so awfully pleased with himself. He was the one who pushed Stiles to use his connections so they could have a party at this abandoned mall — well, rather so Jackson could have a party here because Stiles doesn’t know a single person aside from his friends. Jackson bought the alcohol and paid for the venue, and Stiles hired a few people — a couple of bartenders, security, and students working the cloakroom. He also set the rules; no cameras, no phones, something Liam and Mason accepted only begrudgingly.

It’s not a rule he set up because Stiles didn’t want his face all over social media. The owner of this mall specifically asked that they don’t go around advertising it because he’s struggling with trespassers as it is. Stiles is the last person to complain about that, if he’s entirely honest. This is supposed to be a party, nobody needs to be on their phone the whole time.

“Stiles!” Lydia’s voice cuts through the music, and Stiles cranes his head to the left.

He’s not been around while they were preparing the mall for the party, but he’s not at all surprised to find Lydia waving at him from the gallery above. It looks like the ground floor has been turned into the dance zone with a bar at the side, while the seating areas have been moved upstairs. It’s a good idea since the whole ground floor is exposed from the next level. Climbing up the non-working escalators, however, is another adventure in his tight jeans. Wearing these really is an absolutely terrible idea.

“Is that Lydia?” Theo calls from behind him.

“Yeah.”

“Good, I’ve got to thank her.”

Stiles shuffles off the escalator and shoots Theo a confused look. “Why?” They don’t know each other, after all, and Stiles is the one who dragged Theo and the other two here. It’s not like he’s got anything to thank her for.

“For your jeans.” Theo steps closer, so close, in fact, that Stiles can feel his warm breath on his neck. “Your ass looks phenomenal.”

At this point, Stiles doesn’t even know why he’s bothering to ask Theo anything. Ignoring the heat creeping up his neck, he starts walking again — otherwise he might be tempted to shove the guy back down the escalator.

“Stilinski, nice jeans.” Jackson raises his brows with an almost appreciating smirk. Although his bisexuality came less of a surprise after the many comments he made about guys and girls, Stiles is still not entirely sure what’s more of a shock – the supernatural, or the fact that Jackson wanted to get some experience with him. He very much gets why Jackson didn’t want to sleep with his best friend – Stiles is too close to Lydia to want to have sex with her – but that doesn’t mean he expected to make the top of Jackson’s list; or that he actually approached him while being engaged to Lydia.

Stiles scrunches up his face. “I’m never going to wear tight jeans again.”

“Oh, please.” Lydia rushes to his side and hugs him. Her giggle makes it abundantly clear that she’s had more than once cocktail already. “You look amazing.” Her eyes roam over his face, probably checking if his makeup is still fully intact.

Theo clears his throat behind him.

“Right.” Stiles gestures at him dismissively. “That’s Theo.”

Lydia’s mouth curves into an oh.

Yeah, ‘oh’ probably sums it up the best. Stiles doesn’t stick around for any more introductions. Lydia knows exactly who Theo is after he cussed him out for hours in end; that probably means Jackson is very aware as well. The two haven’t kept anything secret between them ever since they got back together. That’s why Lydia knew Jackson wanted to sleep with Stiles before Stiles has been made aware of that. He still can’t believe he agreed to that. While it wasn’t a threesome – because he very much drew the line in the sand at sleeping with Lydia – they negotiated him down to letting her be in the room. He’s not sure he’d like to repeat that anytime soon; not that sex with Jackson was bad, but Lydia watching him made him feel decidedly weird.

Kira nearly crushes him with her hug, pulling him out of his thoughts effectively, before launching into how she’s planning to move to LA like ‘the rest of them’. It’s not the first time he heard about that, so Stiles assumes the pack is planning to locate to LA as well. Which is fine and all, by moving away he intended to bury his past.

Danny shakes his hand. “I’m going to get drinks.”

Unsurprisingly, Jackson made sure they’re having a bar close to their VIP area. Good, because Stiles isn’t in the mood to go up and down those escalators more than he needs to — not in these jeans.

He drops onto a chair next to Isaac, who ruffles his hair as a greeting. The wolf was the first to follow him to LA after starting a modeling career in Paris. It’s strange how they all slip into jobs they haven’t planned for. Isaac wanted to become a doctor. Lydia achieved her dream in becoming the smartest person at MIT, yet decided that her passion is with fashion and has been starting to work towards her own company in the past year. Kira meant to work with children, and now is instead about to get her degree in photography. Only Jackson stayed on his path on becoming a lawyer.

At least all of them are sure what to do in the future. Stiles is still on the fence about it. He likes what he’s doing now, but he’s not sure if that’s something he can do forever. He's not Ed Warren.

Yet.

While Mason and Liam are chatting with Lydia, Stiles watches Theo’s interaction with Jackson. They seem tense, and Stiles wonders if Jackson’s protective bubble now includes him as well. But instead of saying, ‘I’ll rip your head off’ Jackson snorts out a laugh, pats Theo’s shoulder and says, “good luck.”

Rolling his eyes, Stiles sinks into his chair.

———

Overall, the night is going great. Stiles missed partying with his friends. There’s something freeing about it, something relaxing, pushing him back into the comfort of his very own life — the part of his life he had before the nogitsune. Nothing has been the same, but in the middle of the crowded dance floor, Kira, Lydia, and Isaac brushing and bumping against him, and the ghosts scared away by the living, Stiles feels better than he’s done in a long, long time.

He's leaning his head back, catching Theo’s staring back at him. It’s hard to make out his expression, but his eyes flash yellow for only a brief moment. Even from a distance, Theo radiates possessiveness. It’s hot. Infuriatingly so.

Cocking his head to the side, Theo beckons him to come back up. A shudder runs through his body, and he has to actively fight his own instincts because every part of him wants to run up to him. He knows what Theo wants; the touches, the words, the flirting – the guy has never intended to be subtle.

But Stiles’ pride keeps him rooted to the dance floor, even as Theo pushes away from the railing and walks away.

“If you’re not going to accept that invitation…” Lydia trails off with a chuckle.

Stiles shoots her a look. Although he’s more than aware Lydia would never dare to go after someone he’s interested in, he couldn’t deny the burst of jealousy burning in the pit of his stomach. It leaves as quickly as it arrived. There’s no need to be jealous, after all, they’re talking about Theo.  

“Go.” Lydia shoves him not so gently.

Huffing out a breath, Stiles peels away from his friends and pushes out of the moving crowd. He wipes his hands on his jeans, hating that he’s suddenly nervous about allowing Theo close again, but he’s way too curious about the apology Theo promised him. He hasn’t forgotten that yet — just like he hasn’t forgotten that Theo ghosted him like a fucking asshole.

Still, he very much remembers all the things Theo’s tongue can do, he’d be stupid to pass up on an offer like that. He wants him so bad; it will take all his willpower to keep him an arm’s length away while simultaneously hooking up with him.

This is going to end in disaster.

Stiles hurries up the escalator, or rather, he climbs it as fast as his jeans allow him; at this point, he’s still not sure why being a skeleton for Halloween required skintight jeans. He does appreciate it for what it did to Theo, who seems to have magically disappeared once he’s made it upstairs.   

Fantastic.

He didn’t read that wrong, right? No, he can’t have. Lydia saw it too, and she is a weird detector for dead people and living people who want to have sex with him. Plus, Theo’s made it very clear that he’s still interested. Theo beckoned him to come to him. But where the fuck—

Someone snatches him by the hood and drags him into one of the abandoned shops to his right. Despite himself, his heart jumps into his throat as his foot catches on debris on the ground. He stumbles but doesn’t fall because an arm wraps tightly around his waist. Before he even has the chance to get his feet under himself, he’s crowded against a dusty old jewelry display cabinet.

Unsurprisingly, it’s Theo, who is pressing against him. “Didn’t expect you could dance like that,” he says barely loud enough to be heard over the bass of the music outside, shamelessly pressing his groin against Stiles’ ass. That Theo got hard just from watching him dance is equally surprising as it is fucking hot. “It should be illegal,” Theo continues, grinding against him as his fingers work on his belt and zipper without hesitation. “I don’t think anyone else should be allowed to see that.”

There’s that possessiveness again. Stiles hates how easily it’s getting to him, how Theo just dives right through his defenses and sweeps him up. If he asked, he’d probably let Theo bend him over this stupid cabinet and fuck him senseless. If he waits any longer, Theo won’t even have to ask.

So, he grabs Theo’s hands and pulls them off, ignoring the grumble of discontent. “I was promised an apology,” Stiles remarks, turning so he can look at Theo and lean against the cabinet. His tight jeans have become even more of a problem now than they were before. It does not help that they’re face-to-face, and so close, Theo’s warm breath ghosts over his skin. It’s easy to remember the last time they were this close.

Good times.

When Theo leans in for a kiss, Stiles keeps him at a distance with both hands on his chest. “Lydia put in too much effort into this costume for you to ruin it.” He taps his thumb against Theo’s collarbone, raising his brows. “And again, you promised me an apology.”

Although the light from outside barely reaches into the former store, Theo’s smirk is visible enough. “How demanding.”

“Demanding?” Stiles moves his hands up to cup Theo’s jaws. “No.” God, he wants to kiss him so, so bad. “You promised. Take it or leave it.”

Chuckling, Theo moves closer again. “Fair.” He cocks his head to the side, eyes roaming over Stiles’ face. It’s clear he’s debating on kissing him anyway – part of Stiles wishes he’d do it because he refuses to let him close, but if he pushes enough.

It’s so fucking stupid.

Theo flashes his eyes again, bright yellow in a face hiding mostly in shadow. Like that, he looks exactly like the predator he is.  

It does things to Stiles’ dick he’s not at all ready to admit.

But Theo notices. It’s obvious by the smirk deepening on his features. He’s so fucking full of himself, and it’s painfully hot — although admittedly, it’s not as hot as watching Theo getting on his knees right in front of him. That’s a sight to see, and a sight that makes his dick twitch in his pants. It’s not fair Theo can see so plainly what he does to his body with little to no effort.

And yet.

Thankfully, Theo doesn’t seem to have any interest in teasing him any further. He makes quick work of his zipper and pushes Stiles’ pants and boxer briefs down just enough to have easy access to his dick. Before he knows it, Theo’s mouth is on him. His lips wrap around the tip of his dick, and his tongue- fuck, his tongue.

Stiles can’t help but moan. He leans his head back, curling his fingers around the edge of the cabinet. Theo’s mouth felt way too good on him. There’s no way he could stay silent.

Good thing he doesn’t need to, not with the music drowning out his sounds.

Even when people are happening to look into this shop, all they will see is someone standing in the darkness like a weirdo. Nobody will care too much.

Theo moans around his dick, and it nearly pushes Stiles over the edge, which would’ve been the fastest he’s cum in his life; there’s no need for that embarrassment to happen when he should savor having Theo on his knees, pleading for forgiveness. He never thought the day would come, so, Stiles really wants to make it last.

But Theo is trying his very best to make it as hard — ha — as possible for him.

Closing his eyes, Stiles leans his head back. Watching Theo suck him off would not do him any good, or well, it would do him too much good. He curls his fingers into Theo’s hair, not trying to stop him, but, fuck, he really needs to hold onto him.

Theo is going to make him forget his own name if he keeps going like that, if he grabs and squeezes his ass shamelessly, pulling closer and taking him deeper into his mouth.

Moaning, Stiles tightens his grip on the display. Theo’s mouth has no right to feel this good. Fuck. Theo’s tongue has no right to make him feel like this. But it does; pressed flat against the underside of his dick or swirling the tip — if he keeps going like this, Stiles will meet his Polish ancestors a lot sooner than he anticipated. He can feel his orgasm building deep in the pit of his stomach already.

And Theo is having the time of his life with it. His fucking chuckle makes Stiles almost cum on the spot.

There’s no way his going to last much longer.

“Theo,” he breathes, forcing himself to open his eyes, and tugs carefully on the other’s short strands. Locking eyes with Theo is a terrible decision. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he mutters, squeezing his eyes shut again. His heart seems ready to jump straight out of his chest, it’s beating so fast.

Theo takes more of him into his mouth, and when the tip of his dick hits the back of his throat, Stiles barely resists the urge to yank Theo even closer. His fingers twitch in his short strands, and he breathes through gritted teeth. He can feel his muscles tighten. “Theo—" he warns, despite knowing that werewolves are usually able to tell when he’s close.

Humming, Theo squeezes his ass again and doubles his efforts.

Stiles lets go of him, curling both hands around the edge of the display cabinet instead. He’s staring down at the other boy, unable to look away and holding his gaze. Somehow, Theo manages to look unbearably smug while sucking on the tip of his dick. Stiles hates that this is one of the hottest things he’s ever seen. The asshole has the nerve to fucking smirk, and Stiles just knows this will haunt him in his dreams for days to come.

Theo takes him into his mouth again as he rubs a finger along his perineum then pushes it ever so innocently against his rim.

And that’s the end of it.

Stiles cums with a shout that may or may not be Theo’s name, arching his back. For a few blissful moments, his brain completely short-circuits, and all he can feel is his dick pulsing in Theo’s throat and his own fucking high.

But then, he returns to reality, a bit too quickly for his liking. Theo’s hands are on his thighs, holding him up, and his mouth is still on him. What was heaven a few seconds ago, quickly gets too much. Scrunching up his face, Stiles grabs Theo’s hair again and pulls his head back.

The first sound out of Theo’s mouth is a laugh.

Stiles wants to slap him. Instead, he puts himself back together. “You have cum on your chin.”

“And here I thought I swallowed it all.”

Fucking hell. Stiles shakes his head, hating that another flush is already creeping up his neck. “I hate you.”

Chuckling, Theo stands up and crowds Stiles against the display. “No, you don’t.”

Stiles shoots him a look. Of course, he doesn’t hate Theo. He wouldn’t be here if he hated him, fuck, he wouldn’t even have invited Theo to tag along if he didn’t at least like him. But he’s not going to admit to that. “You’re so full of yourself.” And it’s infuriatingly attractive.

Theo hums and wraps his arms around him, pulling him close — most definitely trying to point out that he’s still hard, and Stiles should do something about it.

See, if Theo hadn’t ghosted him for months because he didn’t have the guts to tell him the truth, Stiles would gladly do something about his not so little problem. He probably would’ve let Theo do whatever he wanted. But Theo did ghost him.

Smiling, Stiles cups Theo’s cheek, wiping the cum off his chin then cleans his thumb on the other boy’s shirt. “I think that’s what people call a ‘you problem’.” He pats his cheek once more before pushing the chimera off. “Have fun.”

For a few seconds, Theo circles through a bunch of emotions from anger to surprise, to something hard to decipher before he eventually settles on a trademark smirk that does not quite reach his eyes. “I’m going to get you back for this,” he promises in a low voice, and the only reason Stiles can hear it is because they’re still standing close.

“I’d like to see you try.” And that’s true, in every sense of the word. Maybe the key to Theo’s attention is making him chase him. If that’s the case, it’s exactly what he’s going to do.

Blowing Theo a kiss, Stiles pushes himself off the display and walks out of the store.

Things just got a whole lot more interesting.

[usermischief]

♜Pairing: Briles ♜Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Brett Talbot, Lydia Martin, Jackson Whittemore, Liam Dunbar ♜Tags/Warnings: getting together, cocky Brett, oblivious Stiles (kind of) ♜Words: 3,132

ao3

---

There are multiple reasons Stiles despises returning to Beacon Hills, the supernatural shenanigans are just a small fraction of it. Mostly, it’s the memories too many places here harbor – and then there is his love life, or rather, the walking and talking reminder of the lack thereof.  

“You’re staring.” Lydia taps a finger against her red cup and studies him with a quirked brow and a slight smile. They might be best friends for years now, but he will forever be unsettled by her stares.

Stiles purses his lips. “I’m not.”

“Sweetheart,” Lydia sighs and leans back in her chair, “you’ve been staring at Brett since he walked in, and instead of going over to him, you’ve been sulking next to me.”

“I’m not sulking.”

“Oh, please.” Jackson collapses in his previously vacated chair. “It’s like you’re taking personal offence to Talbot being in the vicinity, which, if you’re asking me-“

“I’m literally not-“

“- is ridiculous,” Jackson continues as if Stiles never even opened his mouth. “You could have anyone here, but you chose Talbot?” Typical, the guy just loves to hear himself talk.

Stiles lets out a breath before emptying his drink. This conversation feels like he should consider going home. He’s got to pick up his grandparents from the airport tomorrow anyway. “I’ll head home now.”

“But it makes sense.” Lydia crosses her legs, eyes roaming over the other partygoers in the living room. “Brett is just one more person Stiles believes to be unavailable. It’s easier to go for someone like that otherwise he might have to let someone in again.” Her smirk is uncomfortable enough that Stiles nearly jumps out of his chair.

Smiling as politely as possible, he shoves his chair under the table. “There are at least fifteen other people you can psychoanalyze, sweetheart.” Stiles glances around the room, briefly studying the more or less wasted teenagers and college students. They’re mostly Liam’s friends and cousins. Nobody is particularly interesting, but Stiles also doesn’t know a lot of them. If he’s entirely honest, he doesn’t know the name of at least half of them.

“Oh, don’t be silly.” Lydia takes a sip of her drink, still smirking at him with that annoyingly cooked brow. “Nobody here is nearly as interesting as you are.” Which also means, fucked. If she didn’t have a point, Stiles would be offended. But, to be honest, nobody here is as interesting as Brett Talbot, who has, as of right now, never left his field of vision. Even though they haven’t spoken since they greeted each other three hours ago, Brett has never been as long around him as he’s been now.

Still, that Brett is even here, feels like a giant joke of the universe but by the looks of it, they managed to put their differences aside.

Much to Stiles’ chagrin.

“I’ll call you tomorrow.” Stiles waves his friends goodbye before pulling his phone out to order an Uber. In any other city, he’d walk home. But he’s not going to risk anything in Beacon Hills.

“Love you,” Lydia calls after him.

Rolling his eyes, Stiles leaves the kitchen to Jackson’s snickering. He dodges Nolan and Gabe, having one of their usual spats in the middle of the hallway, and pulls up his app. There aren’t a lot of Uber drivers in Beacon Hills, much less ones who are willing to drive around this hellhole at 3am in the morning. People may not know about the supernatural world, but they do know that something weird is going on in this town.

He's willing to wait for a while, especially outside and way from—

“Hey, Stilinski.” Brett passes him in the entry and walks through the front door facing him. It really shouldn’t be all that impressive, but all Stiles can think about is that he would’ve broken at least four bones in his body — one on each stair.

Stiles lowers his phone and takes the other boy in like he’s done all night, tight black shirt, tight blue jeans and a crooked grin that makes Stiles feel all kind of things – none of them PG. Fuck, he really needs to get laid again. Fuck. He blinks. “Hey.” Swallowing, he taps his thumb against his phone. The longer he hesitates to call an Uber, the longer he’ll have to stay here and run the risk of either being psychoanalyzed even further or make an utter fool out of himself. The latter seems a lot more likely as long as Brett is grinning at him like a kid in a candy store.

“Going home already?” Brett raises his brows, twirling keys around his index fingers.

Humming in agreement, Stiles raises his phone. “About to call someone to pick me up.” He’s aware he makes it sound like somebody is waiting for him. Lydia would probably call it a defense mechanism.

She might be right.

But Brett doesn’t seem too concerned about that. “I could take you home.” Ever so confident. It shouldn’t be that fucking hot.

Taking a deep breath, Stiles is raising his brows. “You’re drunk.” Or at the very least, Brett has been drinking alcohol in the past couple of hours, and he’s sure Liam spiked most of the drinks so even the werewolves around are able to get wasted.

“I’m not drunk.” Brett actually looks offended for a second. “Satomi would rip me a new one, if I ever got behind the wheel wasted.” Sounds like someone would get along beautifully with his dad.

Stiles bites the inside of his cheek. Call an Uber. Just call the damn Uber, Stilinski. He lets out a breath. “Prove it.”

Idiot.

“And how,” Brett asks as he’s stepping closer with a smirk now firmly set in place, “would you like me to prove that, Officer Stilinski?”

“Special Agent, actually.”

“Damn,” Brett breathes, his soft looking lips parting.

Stiles really wants to kiss him right now.

Fuck.

Fuck.

“Impressive.” Brett twirls his key around his finger again. “But you still gotta tell how to prove to you I’m sober enough to take you home.”

The words are ringing in his ears, so loud that Stiles has to clear his throat to hear his thoughts again. Take you home. Those three fucking words shouldn’t have such an impact on him. It’s a simple statement, no need to freak out. “Close your eyes, touch your nose.” His voice is nowhere near as steady as he would like it to be.

Chuckling, Brett steps away and does as he told.

Of course, he nails it.

Stiles gets the feeling he will end up in Brett’s car tonight. His stomach flutters. He tugs on his shirt, suddenly feeling very restricted in his button-up, and bites his bottom lip. That’s what he wants. It’s what he’s been wanting for a while. Besides, if he ends up going home with Brett, he can prove Lydia wrong.

Because she’s wrong.

He’s not afraid of letting people in. Not at all. He doesn’t go on dates because his job won’t let him. That’s the only reason.

And it’s not like he does have to let Brett in.

Emotionally, at least.

Stiles pushes his phone in the pocket of his jeans and folds his arms across his chest.

Brett blinks his eyes open, smirking. “And?”

“Stand on one leg,” Stiles orders, unable to break eye-contact – even as Brett follows the instruction without any hesitation.

He doesn’t even look annoyed about it. Instead, he keeps smiling as he perfectly balances on his left leg and continues to twirl his key around his index finger. “You’re really strict about this.”

“I spent a lot of time in hospitals and police departments.” It’s the truth, but Stiles wastes time to find a way out, or prepare himself for the inevitable. He’s not sure. If he let his body have its way, he’d jump Brett the moment they’d step into his car. But his mind is a jackass. Life without anxiety could be so fucking peaceful.

Brett nods slowly, and although his grin gives way to contemplation, he still doesn’t look inconvenienced by the request. “Some things stay with you,” he sounds like he knows exactly what Stiles is talking about. Perhaps he does. After all, Stiles isn’t the only one who went through something traumatic as a kid. “That why you’re afraid of emotional connections?” Raising his brows, Brett puts his foot down again and cocks his head.

“I don’t know,” Stiles replies, rolling his eyes. Of course, werewolves are too involved of other people’s business. At this point, he shouldn’t be surprised. “Is it why you refuse to date?” Two can play this game. Plus, Brett’s dating history – or the lack thereof – isn’t exactly a secret around town. As far as Stiles is aware, the guy has never slept with the same person twice. Another reason why Stiles should stay away from him. He’s not good with one-night stands. His heart gets attached too quickly.

“Touché.”

Stiles pushes his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “You always listen in to other people’s conversations?”

“Only the ones who’re playing hard to get.”

Stiles opens his mouth then snaps it shut again. Playing hard to get. He should feel offended by this. He really should. He’s not playing hard to get. He is hard to get. The two relationships he’s had in his life have taken forever until they started. “Walk. A straight. Line.”

Licking his lips, Brett raises both hands. “Okay, Special Agent.” He shuffles a few steps back until he’s halfway down the driveway. His tone is still soft, and he’s grinning again – as if this whole thing is nothing more than a joke to him. Perhaps it is. At this point, they both know he’s sober.

Stiles walks down the last few steps, brows raised expectantly. Brett’s going to ace this as well, there is no doubt about it, and if he does – then what? Stiles will have no more excuse. He’s going to walk with Brett to his car, get into the passenger’s seat, and let the night run its course. Then he can deal with the fallout while driving to the airport tomorrow. All is going to be great.

Rolling his shoulders, Brett starts walking towards him. One foot in front of each other. He isn’t even looking where he’s going. His gaze is fixed on Stiles, never breaking eye contact, not for a single fucking second. His smirk broadens.

The bass of the music drums to the rhythm of his heart. Time seems to bend and stretch around him as Brett makes his way towards him, blue eyes bright and beautiful. He captures his attention, stealing his breath away. Stiles swallows around the sudden lump in his throat. The air shifts as Brett keeps approaching him. His steps, first perfectly lined up, changed into something Stiles can only describe as predatory.

He hasn’t felt like prey in a while.

Stiles opens his mouth, and his breath catches in his throat.

Without warning, Brett wraps an arm around his waist and cups his cheek. He doesn’t allow him to speak or even think. Which is probably a good thing because Stiles would’ve managed to fuck that up royally. It’s his specialty, really.

His eyes flutter close before Brett’s lips even brush against his for the first time. But when they do- fuck. He’s gone. His lips are so soft. So unbelievably and undeniably soft that the gentle touch makes him gasp quietly. In an instant, Brett’s fingers curl into the back of his shirt even though he pulls away again. A second passes. Then another.

Stiles can hear him take a deep breath before he’s finally crashing their mouths together. The sensation makes his head spin. Every part of his body has ached for this. He grabs the back of Brett’s neck, pulling him closer as he parts his lips for a curious tongue. It tastes like coke. There’s not even a hint of any alcohol.

His stomach flutters again, and Stiles breaks the kiss unable to stop the chuckle from falling from his lips. “You planned all along, didn’t you?”

Brett responds by shoving him against the fenced front porch. A low growl fills the air between them, but a grin is tugging at the corners of his mouth. “For months,” he mutters, brushing their noses together in a surprisingly gentle display of affection. “Convincing Liam to invite me to his little birthday party was a hassle. But I played nice-” he pushes both hands almost shamelessly in the pockets of Stiles’ jeans and squeezes his ass “- and it was worth it.”

It was worth it.

Stiles’ breath catches in his throat and resists the urge to press a hand to his chest like a swooning Disney princess. He forces air into his lungs, eyes darting back and forth.

Chuckling, Brett leans closer again. “Cat got your tongue?” he whispers, capturing Stiles’ lips again. He pulls him so close nothing could fit between them.

Stiles curls one hand around Brett’s waist, and he tangles his fingers in the blonde strands, keeping him as close as physically possible without crawling into him. His whole body is burning. This isn’t enough. Not at all.

“Yo, Mason!”

Stiles jolts away from Brett, but the guy’s grip on him merely tightens with a huff. His eyes narrow slightly as Stiles cranes his neck. Heat creeps into his cheeks when he catches Liam’s eye.

Leaning against the door frame, the young werewolf stares back at him with a blank face and his arms crossed. “Tell Lydia, I want my hundred dollars by the end of next week.”

Stiles’ mouth drops open. What the hell?

Brett scoffs.

“Don’t think I did this for you, Talbot.” Liam pushes away from the door frame and shakes his head. “The engagement ring for Hayden is fucking expensive, man.” With a wave of his right hand, he turns away and slams the door shut behind him.

Not before Lydia’s what is audible despite the music, however.

Stiles whips around and pushes Brett off him. “Let’s go,” he urges, heart slamming in his chest as if he’s just finished running a marathon. “Let’s go. Let’s go.” There’s no way in hell he is going to face Lydia now, not when she’s lost a bet while still be able to rub his nose in the fact that she’s been right all along.

Brett barks out a laugh, but he relents and grabs Stiles’ hand as he steps away. “Your place or mine?” Smirking, he intertwines their fingers, nearly turning Stiles’ legs to jelly.

“My dad’s working the night,” Stiles whispers, and he struggles to breathe properly. This is happening. This is really happening. Because he’s not afraid of hooking up with people or letting someone in. Not at all. Lydia has been wrong about that.

Totally.

“I’ll have to pick up my grandparents from LAX tomorrow, though.” Stiles bites the inside of his cheek. Maybe this isn’t the best idea after all. “So, I don’t know. Maybe-“

“Road trip,” Brett grins down at him and pulls them flush together again. “Sounds fun.”

Stiles squints at him. “I’m picking up my grandparents.”

“I’m a family man.”

“Listen, I-“

“No,” Brett cuts him off, even having the audacity to cover his mouth with his hand. “You’re not doing this.” Doing what, exactly? His expression must’ve been pretty clear because Brett continues, sounding as if he’s resigned himself to a fate Stiles has no fucking clue about, “I didn’t spend a whole evening with Liam’s family and friends, so you can tug tail and run just because some idiot broke your heart, or you’re insecure and think you’re fucked up because of the shit that happened to you.”

Stiles opens his mouth, closes it and frowns before he pulls Brett’s hand away. “I don’t know if I should feel flattered or insulted.”

Red creeps into Brett’s cheeks, and Stiles nearly combusts with the need to kiss him again. “I’m… not well versed in the whole romantic confession thing.” Drawing his brows together, Brett rubs the back of his head.

“Really? Thanks for telling me, man,” Stiles drawls, pressing a hand to his chest in mock-surprise. “I never would have noticed.”

Brett grabs his chin and kisses him, “asshole,” he mutters against his mouth.

It really shouldn’t be one of the hottest things that’s ever happened to him – it shouldn’t even be in the top three – but his love life has been a disaster. Stiles would be lying if he said this didn’t make him want to drag Brett in the backseat of his car. He’s easy, sue him. But Liam might kill him, so he behaves. “Don’t let Babcia Agnes hear you call me an asshole. She will throw you out of a moving car, werewolf or not.”

“Noted.” Brett nods, scrunching his brows together adorably. “Babcia?”

“Oh, grandma.”

“Right.” Brett considers him for a moment then, “grandpa?”

Stiles smiles. “Dziadek.”

Another pause. A bit of helplessness creeps in. “Do they speak English?”

“They’re fluent, actually.” Stiles barks out a laugh when Brett lets out a sigh of relief. “I thought you’re a family man?”

Brett grimaces. “I lied.” He opens his mouth again, closes it and pulls his shoulders up.

Stiles doesn’t push it. Instead, he presses a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Dziadek Mieczysław loves everyone. Adress Babcia Agnieszka as Pani Gajos. She’ll instantly tell you to call her Agnes. Then eat a healthy portion. That’ll remind her that I need to eat more, and you’re off the hook.” Although Stiles can tell by the look of mild horror on Brett’s face that he is questioning his life choices, he hasn’t run away yet. “You don’t-“

“Don’t even try.” Brett wraps his arms around his waist, pulling him even closer – something Stiles didn’t know was even possible. “You’re leaving for Quantico in a week. We’ll have to speedrun if we’re compatible.”

“Compatible,” Stiles echoes and raises his brows. Call it a hunch, but something tells him Brett is very new to the dating scene. Smiling, he runs his fingers through the blonde strands. “How about we figure out how compatible we are at my place? And then we’ll go from there?”

Brett hums and tries, but fails, to hide the grin that’s already tugging on the corners of his mouth. Then he grabs Stiles around the waist and all but throws him over his shoulder. “Let’s do that.”

“I hate werewolves,” Stiles mumbles under his breath. “I hate werewolves.” And their constant displays of strength. The guy is lucky Stiles doesn’t mind a bit of manhandling.

Brett squeezes his ass in warning.

Stiles slaps his in return. For some reason, he has the feeling that they’re more than compatible.

[usermischief]

♜Pairing: Briles ♜Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Brett Talbot, Kira Yukimura, Lori Rohr ♜Tags/Warnings: getting together, explicit sexual content ♜Words: 8217 ♜Kinktober 2023: Reluctant Sex

ao3

---

this funny feeling

“And, here you go.” The hotel employee pushes the door to the dining room open.

Stiles smiles at her. “Thank you so much. I’m terrible with directions.” And he’s a bit too tired after having to catch a fight at 3 am to navigate a hotel he’s never been to.

“That’s absolutely no problem, darlin’.” The woman smiles before returning to the reception. Luckily, it’s early enough that not too many people are out and about yet.

So, Stiles isn’t surprised when the only people he spots in the dining room are Satomi, Morrell, Brett and Lori, as well as two couples with newborns. He’d have preferred for Kira to be up as well, but he also can’t expect her to crawl out of bed at 7 am during her vacation.

Stiles’ heart jumps when Brett turns to look at him — and a smile blossoms on his lips. Fuck. This is the worst. He thought he’d be over him, still, every time he sees Brett again, his crush on the guy all but punches him in the face. Going to the same university for two years brought them a lot closer together. They were friends, surely. In the beginning out of convenience, but that changed later. They hung out daily, and Stiles’ heart did what it did best — it got attached. He did date other people during and after college, but it didn’t fucking matter. Every time he sees Brett again, he’s right back where he started.

Stiles takes a deep breath and crosses the room. “Good morning.” With a little awkward wave, he drops his bags on a chair next to Brett. “And thank you so much for the invitation. I know this is a pack thing…” A two week long vacation is exactly what he needs after the year he’s had, but he’s still a bit unsure about the whole thing. Part of him feels like he’s intruding on something private.

“Kira and Brett insisted to have you join us.” Satomi smiles up at him.

Brett too?

Surprised, Stiles glances at the werewolf, who jumps to his feet. “Let’s get you some breakfast. You must be starving.” He ushers Stiles away from his snickering sister and towards the buffet without waiting for a reply.

Stiles doesn’t have it in him to tell Brett that he already had breakfast, that usually ended in a very long discussion of his terrible eating habits. During college, Brett had made it his mission to make sure Stiles eats three times a day — even when he was stuck in one of his terrible relationships. Plus, Stiles doesn’t mind to spend as less time as possible with Morrell, who told him she’d kill him the last time they spoke, and Satomi, who still kind of scares him. He doesn’t get a read on her, and he’s not a fan of that.

“Are you sure this is okay?” Stiles asks as Brett pushes an empty tray into his hands. “I don’t want to intrude.” He glances back towards the table and catches Satomi’s eye. Great. Grinning awkwardly, he turns back to Brett. They’ve been close during college, but never meet-the-parents close.

“She likes you,” Brett tells him as he puts a bowl of scrambled eggs and two slices of toast onto Stiles’ tray.

Does she? “I don’t think I’ve ever talked to her.”

Contemplating the options, Brett merely shrugs. “You saved my life. She’d marry me off to you if that were still acceptable in today’s society.”

Stiles squints at the French toasts that are added to his tray. “That’s been a thing?”

“Yup,” Brett says, reaching for a bagel before he continues, “provide and protect are the most important features of a future mate.” Deciding against the bagel, Brett adds a couple of waffles before Stiles even has the chance to move away — who the hell is supposed to eat all of that? “It’s a stupid tradition. Nobody cares about that any longer.”

“I’m good.” Stiles grabs Brett’s arm, stopping him from adding anything else to his plate. “You provided me with enough food. More than enough, actually.”

Brett stares at him.

Stiles tries not to laugh.

“Asshole,” the werewolf mutters eventually, flicking Stiles’ forehead. “Keep that up and you’ll sleep on the floor.”

“Sleep on the—" Stiles isn’t entirely sure if he heard that right. That’s a joke. It has to be. “Are we sharing a bed?” Hopefully, that’s not the case. Stiles hardly survived sleeping on a pull-out couch with Brett after a party, how the fuck is he supposed to get through two weeks of not only sharing a room but also a bed?

“Yup,” Brett confirms as if that’s the most normal thing in the whole wide world. “Don't hog the blanket.”

Oh god.

———

Sighing, Stiles sits up and rubs his eyes. He doesn’t exactly fall asleep on the beach often. To be honest, the last time he did that was when his mum was still alive. The fact that basically passed out in public says a lot about how desperately he needs sleep. This vacation has barely started, and Stiles already misses this freedom. But there won’t be a lot of time to sleep once work is starting again.

Stiles crosses his arms over his knees and scans the beach for Brett. He’s not too far away, entertaining a group of the youngest werewolves with a girl Stiles has never seen before. They look awfully… domestic. Like this is a thing that is happening all the time. It hurts watching them. It hurts in a way Stiles didn’t expect. Feeling like this is fucking stupid. He shouldn’t. After all, he threw himself in every relationship he could find. He stayed in every relationship that was convenient enough, no matter how terrible it ended up being, just to keep his heart occupied because he was too afraid to get his heart broken by losing Brett if he told him he loved him.

The girl brushes her hand over Brett’s arm, something Brett doesn’t react to — either because it’s a too common occurrence or because he doesn’t care.

Please, don’t care.

“That bitch.”

“Lori!” Kira is sitting up on her own towel, staring at her friend in shock.

But Lori doesn’t react. She crouches down next to Stiles, arms crossed over her thighs. “You know I’m right.”

Stiles bites the inside of his cheek. “Who is that?” He can’t deny the pang of jealousy, or the frustration gnawing at him — and he can’t help but wonder, however briefly, if he’s missed an opening, he’s never been aware of.

“It’s Finch’s daughter,” Kira informs him, propping her chin on her left knee.

Finch’s kid? So, she probably knows Brett well. They must be close with each other since Finch and Satomi have decided to go on vacation together. Maybe they’re close in a way that— Stiles shakes his head and curls his hands into his towel. Best not to think about that right now.

Lori looks as if she’s smelling something rotten. “Quinn thinks she and Brett will bring the packs together one day,” Lori drawls, her voice teetering somewhere between annoyance and disgust, “through marriage.” At that, Lori shoots him an exasperated look.

“Marriage?” Stiles laughs because if he didn’t do that, he might end up screaming. “Brett?” he keeps going, going, going, trying so hard not to let the fear creep in. “He’s never going to marry.” Every time they as much as scratched the topic of marriage, Brett instantly changed it.

Lori stands up. “Not her, at least. Come on.”

“What?” Stiles looks up at her, drawing his brows together.

“We’re going to go swimming.” Clearly not in the mood for discussions, Lori grabs him by the upper arm and quite unceremoniously yanks him to his feet. The Talbots’ bossy nature really is fucking exhausting. “Drop the shirt. Kira, let’s go.” Lori doesn’t wait for either of them to follow them.

Knowing a little too well that any discussion is pointless, Stiles yanks his shirt over his head and tosses it onto his towel. If Lori wants him to go swimming, he will go swimming with her. Kira seems to have come to the same conclusion since she’s joining him on his way to the sea.

That Quinn girl spots them first, her features darkening almost at once. Mrs. Finch disliked him ever since Stiles corrected her once during AP Biology. Clearly, she didn’t speak fondly about him in front of her daughter.

Fantastic.

“Lori, hold on.” To his surprise, she stops dead in her tracks — causing him to almost crash into her — and stares at him with the same intensity remembers very well from Brett. “I don’t want to cause trouble, okay?” For one, it’s the first day of his vacation, he doesn’t need thirteen tense days. His anxiety is going to kill him. For another, Stiles doesn’t need to make shit any more complicated between the two packs.

But Lori merely waves a hand. “You’re here to resolve some issues, trust me.” And with that, the discussion seems to be over for her. Instead, she turns around. “Quinn, the girls want to play mermaid, not sea witch. Feel free to leave.”

Kira covers her mouth to stifle a laugh. Clearly nobody like Quinn.

“Yukimura!” Brett bellows from somewhere to their right. “Time to put your money where your mouth is.”

“Oh, shit.” Without warning, Kira grabs Stiles’ hand and yanks him around, hightailing it in the opposite direction. Her grip around his fingers is tight, unrelenting, almost as if she expected him to take a moment to tap into his fox again. He’s never been the biggest fan of the remains of the nogitsune still deeply anchored in his DNA.

But his body does remember its powers a lot quicker than he expected. “What’s going on?”

Kira lets go of his hand, probably realizing that Stiles can keep up with her, and scrunches up her face. “I may have made a bet with Brett,” she admits, glancing over her shoulder, “saying that there’s no way they could capture us.”

Us as in kitsunes, Stiles assumes, but before he can dwell on it too long, he catches movement out of the corner of his eye. “A little warning would’ve been nice.” He grabs her around the waist and stops both of them in their tracks. Tierney and Jiang have cut off their path now that the beach has gotten a lot emptier. Both of them are brimming with excitement.

Stiles twists around, so he’s standing back to back with Kira.

And Brett is right there.

Fuck.

Stiles steps away from Kira, watching as Brett comes running at him fast. There’s an almost predatory grin on his lips. Heart hammering in his chest, Stiles chances a glance over his shoulder, hating that he can’t see Jiang and Tierney without looking away from Brett. The two of them, however, seem to be focused on Kira. Good. But going up against Brett isn’t exactly the outcome he would’ve preferred.

“Split up,” he says, and Kira doesn’t hesitate a second. She spins on around and dashes back the way she came from. Stiles does the same thing, rushing past Tierney in the opposite direction of Kira. They’re faster than wolves, for the most part, but running in sand is a fucking nightmare for Stiles. He’s more stumbling than running. Finding every fucking hole in the world is really on brand, meaning Stiles’ advantage is dwindling fast— because Brett is not a goddamn klutz while running.

Stiles glances over his shoulder, and instantly regrets his decision. He misses a quite deep hole and steps right into it. His shin smacks against the edge, and all he can do is trying not to eat sand. Cursing under his breath, Stiles pulls himself out. Before he has the chance to get his feet back under him, Brett’s arm is around his waist, and he spins him around, pushing him into the sand.

The grin on his lips is more than predatory. “You can’t run from me, little fox,” Brett whispers as he’s leaning down until their noses almost brush.

Stiles’ heart all but skyrockets. “Is that a threat or a promise,” he asks, and he hates how breathless he sounds, hates that his body wants to stay right here and not move whatsoever. He’s not exhausted, not in the slightest, and he’s here to win a bet.

“A bit of both,” Brett replies, sounding just as breathless. He doesn’t move either and remains kneeling over Stiles’ legs, fingers digging into the sand next to Stiles’ head.

Stiles licks his lips, breath catching in his throat when Brett’s gaze drops down to follow the movement. Despite himself, Stiles holds his breath for a moment, too scared to move a single muscle. What is going on? Why is he looking at his mouth like that? He sucks in a breath. “What’s going to happen now?”

Brett blinks and locks eyes with him again. “Ocean,” he mutters, brows slightly furrowed. It almost seems as if he’s not sure himself if that’s really what’s going to happen. He certainly doesn’t move to get Stiles any closer to the ocean. Instead, his gaze darts back to his mouth again. Brett swallows, licks his lips, and his gaze flicks up to meet Stiles’ again. “I—" Brett cuts off, and he cups his cheek.

Something clicks into place.

Oh god.

Brett is trying to kiss him. Brett wants to kiss him.

And for a second, Stiles considers letting it happen. Because why not? This is everything he wants. Kissing Brett has been on his mind since meeting him again in college. Stiles swallows, parts his lips. But he’s going to leave, and Brett is going to return to Beacon Hills — and he can’t do that to himself. He fucking can’t.

“Ocean,” Stiles repeats softly, but Brett doesn’t even react. His thumb is tracing his jaw, and Stiles’ heart feels like it’s about to leap out of his chest. Bad. Bad. “Shark!” Stiles yells, ripping his hand out of the sand.

Brett pulls away, staring at him as if he’s lost his mind. Which is fair. It’s not like sharks are usually hanging out in the sand, but it’s really the only thing he manages to come up with to distract the werewolf — and open up a chance to push him off.

Something he does instantly, forcing a grin on his face and pretending as if Brett didn’t hear his heartbeat or pick on his chemo signals. “I’m not going to be captured by a wolf.” Twisting away, he gets to his feet surprisingly quickly and doesn’t hesitate to dash back in the direction of the others — in the direction of safety.

———

“You’re up early.”

“Look who’s talking.” Stiles grins up at Kira and pets the blanket next to him.

She plops down, body warm and sweaty from what’s very clearly been a morning workout. Her dedication is admirable. He didn’t make it a week, and he’d especially not do it on vacation. Kira yawns and pulls her legs to her chest. “What got you out of bed? Insomnia?”

Stiles wishes insomnia was the issue for once.

“What did he do?”

“Nothing.” Aside from spooning him and giving Stiles the worst and most awkward morning boner, he’s had since fucking high school.

Kira cocks her head. “But he drove you out of bed at 5am?”

Stiles falls back and crosses his arms over is stomach. Only a second later, Kira does the same. They haven’t been able to do this in years. He’s been so busy working on getting the FBI’s supernatural division up and running, he hardly had time to even miss his friends. But right now, he hates being so far away, hates how occupied he is with travelling everywhere, sitting in hour-long meetings, trying to make supernatural creatures understand that he’s with them instead of against them.

And then he goes home alone, or crashes into a strange hotel bed in a strange town with no one to keep him company.

If everything goes well, Stiles will have another 12 months of this.

Stiles lets out a breath. “I can’t do this.”

“You still love him.” It’s not a question. It never has been a question.

“I can’t sleep in a bed with him for two weeks and walk away with my heart in one piece.” At this point, Stiles can’t even tell if he’s not too far down the rabbit hole already. How the fuck is he supposed to be this close to Brett and then act like nothing at all happened?

Kira turns onto her side, brushing strands out of her face. Her eyes are heavy on him, searching. “What if you tell him?”

“That I’ve been in love with him since college?” Stiles barks out a laugh, cold and humorless, a sound that hurts in his throat.

Kira gently pokes his side. “You’re not unlovable.”

Huffing out a breath, Stiles rolls onto his side too, facing her, and instantly, he’s transported back to college. How many nights have they spent exactly like this? More than he can count, that’s for sure. He’s never felt more peaceful. “But it’s Brett. Do you remember him ever being even remotely interested in a relationship?”

“But what if he is interested in you?” Kira urges, raising her brows in question.

Stiles pinches his. “Do you know anything?” It’s not necessarily unlike her to be this pushy, but it’s still a little unusual.

“No.” She shakes her head a little before propping herself up onto her elbow. “But Brett wouldn’t give away his right to a single room for just anyone.” That’s phrased very kindly. They both know Kira means that he wouldn’t give up his chance to have sex with various hot people hanging out at the hotel. “When I talked to him about inviting you, he instantly offered.” It’s not hard to see where she’s coming from. Brett wasting two weeks of sex with strangers without a second of hesitation isn’t exactly like him.

Stiles lets out a breath. “Okay, but even if he just so happens to like me back romantically…” he scowls a bit, but he cannot bring himself to say love. Just thinking about it makes him feel nauseous. “What good is it going to do? I’ll leave in two weeks, and there’s nothing I have to offer in terms of a relationship. I can’t even say when I’ve got the time to see him again. Do you know how hard it was to get these two weeks off?” He knows he’s being unfair by making it sound like this is some type of hardship. He wants to be here, but he’s a one-man-team at the moment. It’s a fucking nightmare. “Please, don’t get me wrong—"

“Oh, I know.” Kira sits up, smiling down at him over her shoulder. “But maybe things are easier than you think. You know how a different perspective can help.”

“So what?” Stiles its up too, bumping against her shoulder. “I should just tell him?” There’s no way that’s going to lead anywhere, not when Brett is Satomi’s second in command, and Stiles is the leader of the supernatural division. Maybe things will be calmer when everything is established.

Stiles squints at the storm in the distance, watching it creep closer minute by minute.

That’s a big fucking maybe.  

“I’m just saying that you shouldn’t knock it till you try it.” She bumps into him with a chuckle.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “I’ll think about it.” But he’ll doubt he’s ever going to admit to his feelings. He doesn’t want to allow himself the type of hope that will eat him alive.

“And if it gets too much for you, I’ve got room in my bed too.” Kira wraps an arm around him and scoots closer, so she can prop her head on his shoulder.

The first rumble of thunder is audible when Stiles leans his head against hers. It won’t take much longer until the storm is right above their heads. But neither of them moves.

———

Instead, they ran inside through the rain, laughing and cursing and probably being a menace for the hotel staff. Stiles does feel a little bad in retrospect. They did leave behind a few tracks, but Stiles only cared about getting into the shower, and now he desperately needs to get some food into him.

But the moment he reaches the dining hall, Quinn steps in his way. “So, you’re this year’s conquest.” She leans against the wall right next to the door. As she shifts in front of him, Stiles has the weird feeling that she’s been waiting for him.

Drawing his brows together, Stiles glances from her to the rest of the room and back again. “Sorry?”

“Haven’t you heard?” Quinn’s smirk is about as pleasant as nails on a chalk board. “Every year, Brett finds someone, makes them feel special, fucks them, and then doesn’t even look at them the next day. Didn’t peg you as one to fall for that.” 

Stiles stares at her, trying his best not to let his feelings get to him. It’s not like there’s a relationship in the cards; they’re living at opposite ends of this country. Stiles’ schedule with the FBI is a nightmare, and Brett, well, he’s supposed to be Satomi’s successor. He can hardly leave the pack. Stiles doubts he’d— why is the even thinking about this again? Only an hour ago, he’s talked this through with Kira, and as much as he’s trying to find it in himself to look for something positive, he can only focus on the negative. Probably because there are so much more arguments for keeping quiet.

Stiles shakes his head, deciding that not deigning this with a response is probably the best idea, and moves to walk away.

Quinn steps in his way.

“What the fuck do you want from me?”

“An apology.”

Stiles blinks. “For what?” They haven’t spoken a single word since he’s arrived. All she did was glaring at him from a distance.

“You’re ruining this,” Quinn tells him, stepping closer. Her eyes burn yellow, reminding Stiles that he should bring a weapon the next time he joins this type of fun. She looks ready to jump him. “Brett and I are supposed to—.”

“Bring the packs together?” Despite everything, Stiles has never been afraid of most werewolves. He whacked the fucking twins with a baseball bat when they were morphed into one weird as hell abomination, and he very colorfully told one of them what he’d do with a branch of mistletoe. He’s not going to be intimidated by Quinn. Raising his brows, Stiles leans forward a little. “I don’t care about your future plans, so back off before I forget that I’m with the FBI.” Stiles is really good at picking fights with people he doesn’t know. But this time, it’s at least not his fault.

Not entirely at least.

Quinn steps closer again, but before she has the chance to do anything, Brett appears out of nowhere and fits easily into the space between them. “Hey.” His voice is light and charming, but his rigid body speaks a different language. “Is there a problem?”

Stiles lets out a breath. Part of him wants to push Brett out of the way and deal with Quinn himself. He doesn’t need protection.

“You should find a different bitch, that one bites.” Quinn spits, stepping away from Brett with a sneer.

Stiles lunges forward, but Brett is faster than him. Grabbing his waist, he pulls him flat against his side, holding him back with no effort whatsoever. “Call him a bitch again,” Brett says in a low voice that’s so much more threatening than any growl could ever be. “I dare you. See what happens.”

For a moment, Quinn stands stock-still, staring at Brett as if she’s trying to figure out what the right thing to do is. She flares his nostrils as she takes a breath then gives Stiles a nasty smile. “We’ll continue this conversation probably much sooner than later,” she drawls, shooting Brett a look before stepping away. “Have fun.” Turning his back on them, Quinn walks into the dining hall.

Does she think Stiles is afraid of facing her alone? Because if that’s the case, she’s dead wrong. If Brett weren’t having an iron grip on him, Stiles would show her exactly what he thinks of her.

Fucker.

Brett doesn’t let go of him, holding him flush against his side, fingers digging into his waist, probably sensing that Stiles is very much itching to jump the other werewolf.  “Let’s go outside.” It’s not a request, and he’s not waiting for a response anyway. Instead, Brett grabs him by the back of his shirt and yanks him around so fast, he almost lost this footing. “You’re a fucking idiot,” he informs him in a hushed tone.

Once through the door, Brett lets go of him with a shake of his head.

It’s stormy outside. Rain is pounding on the canopy of glass. The conversations from inside barely reach them here, even less when Brett pulls the door shut behind them. Stiles nudges a chair with his foot, barely repressing the urge to kick it across the patio and into the pool or turn around and snap at Brett as well. Just for good measure. He can’t believe the guy had the nerve to drag him around like a rag doll. Instead, Stiles takes a deep breath and directs his gaze to the dark horizon. “There’s a beach ten feet from here,” he mutters, pushing his hands in the pockets of his jeans, “why the fuck would they have a pool?” Stepping right up to its edge, Stiles contemplates throwing himself into the cool water. Maybe that would drown the anger.

Stiles gets the feeling this whole vacation was a terrible idea.

“Sharks.” Brett doesn’t hesitate to reply and comes to stand next to him, so close their arms are almost touching. “But I bet you don’t fear those either.”

Stiles shoots him a look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Humming softly, Brett shrugs. “Not many people would talk to a werewolf like that. You’d probably punch a shark in the nose before it got too close.”  

“That’s how you lose a hand,” Stiles replies, fixing his gaze on the thunderstorm in the distance. “You want to hit the gills or eyes. Preferably the gills.”

“And threatening a werewolf is how you lose your head.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, but Brett is probably right. “Noted.”

“Can we go back inside without you trying to kill her?”

Pressing his lips into a thin line, Stiles keeps staring towards the horizon.

Brett huffs out a breath. “I’ll take that as a no.”

“I didn’t do anything.” Stiles crosses his arms over his chest, glaring at the dark clouds as if they’re to blame for this. “She came at me.” He doesn’t even understand why she’s so upset at him. After all, Quinn said herself that Brett is always hooking up with random people. Besides, if she knows him even a little, she’s fully aware that Brett isn’t at all interested in anything that’s even remotely like a relationship. The guy has serious commitment issues. If Quinn really believes Brett will settle down with her, she absolutely has to rethink her world view.

Sighing, Brett wraps an arm around Stiles’ shoulders and pulls him close. “I know.”

Stiles hates how his body instantly melts against Brett’s. At this point, the guy doesn’t even have to be a werewolf to notice that something’s up. But waking up next to him, missing him since graduating from college — part of him is tired of hiding his feelings. Maybe Kira is right. Maybe he should say something. If Brett doesn’t reciprocate his feelings, he might be able to finally move on. “She believes you’ll settle down with her.” Stiles knows he sounds jealous, but perhaps this is another way to figure out what’s what without serving his heart on a silver platter.

“And?” Brett cups Stiles’ jaw, easily moving his head so Stiles has to look up at him. “What do you believe?” 

That’s not the answer he hoped for.

Stiles swallows around a lump in his throat. “I can’t see you settling down,” he whispers, suddenly hit with an awful déjà vu.

“Not with her, at least,” Brett mutters, a smirk curling around his lips, and just like that, he leans down.

Slowly.

Giving Stiles time to react.

Panic floods his veins. The moment he kisses Brett, the moment he allows this to happen, there is no going back. There’s no way to stop his heart from free-falling. But he can’t be Brett’s hook-up for this vacation. He can’t do it. So, Stiles jerks backwards — and loses his footing completely. The pool, he realizes belatedly.

Fuck.

Stiles flails, knowing very well that there’s only Brett to hold onto, but Brett merely watches him, hand now pushes in the pockets of his jeans.

Asshole.

He crashes into the water, deciding that breakfast can very much be happening without him. There’s no way in hell he’s leaving his room today.

———

“Well,” Brett says, kicking the door shut behind him, “that day is going swimmingly, isn’t it?” With the most annoying grin this side of the universe, he sets down a box filled with various breakfast foods on the bet next to Stiles. The guy really makes it hard to be annoyed with him. Then again, it’s hard to blame Brett for letting him fall into the pool after pulling away from a kiss twice.

If not for his stupid heart, Stiles would jump at the chance to hook up with Brett fucking Talbot for two weeks straight. But he can’t do that to himself.

Shooting the werewolf a narrow-eyed look, Stiles pulls the box towards him. “Can’t wait for your full routine, Mulaney.”

“At least I’m not holing myself up in my hotel room to mope.” Brett toes off his shoes and collapses into bed next to him, his mood unbearably good.

“I’m not holing myself up,” Stiles shoots back, ignoring the pointed look towards the drawn curtains. Yes, he went straight to his room after falling into the pool. No, he did not come out to eat breakfast — and he will not leave it for lunch or dinner either. This day is very much over for him. “I hate thunderstorms, you know that.” He hates how accusatory he sounds. The storm is hardly Brett’s fault.

Quinn’s bratty behavior isn’t either.

For a moment, Brett doesn’t reply and instead watches him nibble on a waffle with near uncomfortable intensity. “You got up pretty early today,” he says then. It sounds like he’s been meaning to talk about this for a while now.

Stiles isn’t entirely sure what that has to do with anything, so he merely hums in agreement and hopes that’s the end of it. He’d love to watch IT since he, for one, paid money for it — ha — and for another, he really doesn’t want to go into any details of anything that may or may not have happened.

Not even in the slightest.

“Why? Nightmares?”

Stiles gestures towards the TV with his waffle. It’s not like he needs to watch it, he knows the movie inside out. He still very much prefers it over this conversation.

But Brett keeps pushing, “insomnia?”

Once again, Stiles doesn’t reply. Mostly because he has no idea what to say to get out of this. Because the truth is a terrible start.

“Or the fact that we cuddled, and you woke up horny?” Brett snatches the remote and turns the TV off without hesitation. “You know I noticed, right?”

Know would be a bit much, but Stiles somewhat suspected it. Shit like this is just his luck. “Listen,” he says as his cheeks grow uncomfortable warm, “I just…” what? What could he possibly say to get out of this? “Haven’t been close to anyone in a while.” Aside from sounding absolutely pathetic, it’s at least the truth. “Can I please get the remote back now?”

The gin curling around Brett’s lips is positively wolfish. “I’ll trade it.”

Stiles puts the waffle down and pushes the box of food towards Brett, raising his brows expectantly. Of course, that’s not what Brett meant at all. “I’m so not in the mood for this.” But Brett is a shithead, and there’s absolutely no way for Stiles to get out of this. He’s too drained to try and out-stubborn a Talbot. “What do you want?” For some awful reason, the question tasted bad in his mouth, as if part of him new he is making a huge mistake giving Brett’s stupid idea even a second of consideration.

“A kiss.”

His breath catches in his throat. “What?” Sure, Stiles probably should’ve expected it since Brett tried to kiss him twice already. Hearing it this bluntly, however, is a very different story. “The fuck is this coming from?” It’s also not technically a lie. Brett has never tried kissing him before.

A flash of surprise cuts through Brett’s expression of confidence. For all but a second, it seems as if he questions his calculations — no matter how quickly the grin returns. “You kissed Kira and Lydia.”

“That’s different.” Stiles regrets those words the second they leave his mouth. Why can’t he think before he speaks? Sure, technically, the situations have been a bit different; mostly because they haven’t been alone in a hotel room. He kissed them during a stupid game. It’s never been serious. Besides, he also didn’t have feelings for either of them when it happened.  

Brett’s on his case like a fucking bloodhound. “Oh, is it? We’re friends too, aren’t we? Or is it because—"

Before Stiles can think any better of it, he leans over and presses their mouths together. The very second their lips touch, he pulls back again, not allowing himself to give this any thought at all because if he does, throwing himself out of the window might be the more painless option. “There,” he mutters, not daring to meet Brett’s eyes.

The laugh filling the room is surprisingly breathless. “You call that a kiss?”

“You didn’t specify—"

“A real kiss, Stiles. I thought that’s obvious.”

But it’s not. Nothing is obvious right now. Stiles is two seconds from running away; this time not into a relationship but into Kira’s room. Maybe he should’ve taken her up on the offer the second she made it. “This is fucking stupid.” Stiles sits back on his heels, still staring anywhere that’s not Brett. That, however, is stupid too. Setting his jaw, he locks eyes with the werewolf. “Are people falling for this shit?” He’s angry and defensive, and Stiles knows Brett is more than aware of it — of everything, even the feelings Stiles harbors for him. How could he not? “It’s so stupid.” And it’s certainly not funny.

Brett laughs, tapping the remote against his thigh. “You mentioned that.”

Stiles makes a grab for it. Unsurprisingly, he’s unsuccessful. “I’m really not in the mood.”

“You mentioned that too.”

Stiles wants to smother this asshole with a pillow. It certainly would solved absolutely all of his problems in one go. “Seriously, if you want to kiss me that bad—" stupid, stupid, stop talking “— just do it. Don’t act like a fucking middle schooler.” Stiles snaps his mouth shut entirely too late. With Brett, there’s always a risk that he might do it.

And, of course, Brett doesn’t hesitate.

He tosses the remote aside; because it’s never been about this fucking remote, because Stiles could tell things have been different since the moment he arrived, because Brett attempted to kiss him twice already. He would have, too, if Stiles hadn’t pulled away to protect what’s left of his heart.

But Brett doesn’t allow that this time. He pulls him in by the front of his shirt and crashes their mouths together.

The collar of his shirt digs into the nape of his neck, and Brett’s lips glide over his. He holds him there, doesn’t allow him to pull away again in any shape or form. He wants to, and he doesn’t want to. His body screams for Brett, begs for his hands and his mouth everywhere on him.

But he can’t do that to himself. He’ll have a night, if everything goes well, he has two weeks with Brett, two weeks of living his heart’s desire — and then reality comes crashing down on him.

Brett’s tongue traces Stiles’ lips, and his thoughts evaporate. Stiles cups the back of Brett’s head, holding him close. Brett wraps his arms around his waist, pulling him even closer. His eyes flutter shut, and his heart pounds in his chest.

Shit.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Stiles sighs softly into the kiss, giving Brett the chance to deepen it. His tongue flicks Stiles’ teasingly. His whole body tingles, and Stiles shudders as the werewolf grabs his ass shamelessly. This fucking guy has a way to consume him entirely too easily. It’s not fair.

Before Stiles knows it, he’s on his back, Brett above him, his body warm and heavy. His kiss is desperate and bruising and eager for more.

So much more.

For something Stiles would rather not give.

Fuck.

Stiles let’s go of Brett and pulls away. “Wait,” he whispers breathlessly. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Their relationship is meant to remain strictly platonic. There’s too much risk to ruin it, too much risk to ruin himself.

And he can’t.

Not this time.

But Brett clearly doesn’t get the memo. He kisses him again, and Stiles kisses him back because he really, really wants everything that’s happening so, so fucking bad; the way Brett tastes like orange juice, his nose bumps against Stiles’ and his hands are roaming his body, and the way he bites his bottom lip.

It makes him dizzy.

Stiles curls and uncurls his fingers then grabs Brett’s shoulders. “Stop,” he mutters into the kiss. Wait doesn’t set the right signals. “Stop.” And he finally manages to turn his head to the side. “Brett—" He really needs him to fucking stop.

Instead, Brett drags his lips down to his jaw, trails them further down to his throat.

Stiles leans his head back, gasping when Brett sucks on his sensitive skin. It’s so easy to just give in.

No.

No.

“I said, stop!” Stiles gives Brett’s shoulders a shove and finally, finally, the werewolf raises his head, but he’s not moving off him. “I don’t— I don’t want this.”

Brett quirks a brow, clearly not buying it — not when Stiles’ body sends a very different signal. “I beg to differ.”

The amusement rubs him the wrong way, and he gives Brett another push. “I’m not going to sleep with you just because you offered me to stay in your room.”

Brett sits up as if Stiles slapped him in the face. “Is that what you think?” His voice is icy, his muscles rigid, and suddenly, the way he towers over him now is terrifying. It’s easy to forget how dangerous Brett can be — and he’s got every right to be pissed. “Do you believe Quinn? Do you really think I’d treat you that way?” They both know the answer to that question — and that’s most likely why Brett hasn’t kicked him out of the room yet.

Shaking his head, Stiles props himself onto his elbows.

Brett collapses onto the bed next to him. “Are you going to tell me the real reason?”

“I can’t.”

“Can’t? Or won’t.”

Stiles drops onto his back and squints at the ceiling. “A bit of both, I guess.”

To his surprise, Brett laughs. It’s breathless and soft and everything but angry. “Can I tell you something then?” He rolls onto his side and props his head on his hand, studying Stiles’ face with sparkling blue eyes. He’s so pretty it hurts. “Something only Satomi knows?”

Stiles licks his lips and nods. Slowly. He’s not entirely sure what he might hear. “Sure.”

“I love you,” Brett tells him as bluntly as always. He chuckles when Stiles bolts upright — not entirely sure if his heart is going to stay inside his body in the foreseeable future. But Brett continues talking as he scoots behind him and wraps both arms around his waist, “and I can’t stand another year of being away from you.” His left hand slips under Stiles’ shirt.

A shudder runs down his spine, and Stiles grabs his wrist. He doesn’t stop him, not yet, merely holds on for dear life.

With ease, Brett pulls him closer, running his fingers over Stiles’ lower abs. “I wanted to take my time and try to figure out how you felt.” His lips are so close, every word is painted against the shell of his ear. All the while, his hand creeps lower at a snail’s pace. “But the bed is still drenched in your scent from this morning, and… I overheard you talking to Kira”

“Oh god,” Stiles breathes, not sure if it’s because of the admission or because Brett pushes two fingers past the waistband of his sweatpants.

The soft chuckle paves its way straight to Stiles’ dick. He wishes he could say it’s because he hasn’t been close to anyone in forever, but that’s not true — it’s Brett, all of this is fucking Brett.

“And I just can’t help myself,” the werewolf whispers, grabbing Stiles’ chin to turn his head just enough to brush their lips together. “I want your scent all over me.” He hooks a finger under the waistband of Stiles’ boxer briefs, tugging once, twice. A question. ‘Stop me’, it seems to offer.

Stiles lets go of Brett’s waist and curls his fingers into the sweatpants instead, blood rushing in his ears.

And Brett continues; he keeps talking, allows his hand to slip further into Stiles’ boxer briefs. “I hated seeing you with others. I hate how they treated you.” Just like that, Brett curls his long fingers around Stiles’ dick — the touch alone makes him almost jump out of his own body. “I knew I could treat you so much better. I will treat you better.”

Stiles groans and lets his head fall back.

Another chuckle.

Stiles tugs on Brett’s sweatpants.

“You smell so good,” Brett whispers, free and sliding from his chin to Stiles’ throat. His thumb rests right above his pule. He hums, sounding so smug, so fucking happy with himself.

It should be embarrassing that all it took were a few choice words to change Stiles’ mind, but it’s hard to feel bad with a hand wrapped around his dick. “Brett,” he breathes.

Brett hums again and kisses his temple. “Want me to make you feel good?”

“Please.”

Brett makes a sound that’s somewhere between a moan and a grow. Everything after that is rushed. They’re moving, getting rid of clothes. Brett’s shoe refuses to cooperate. It’s fun to see Mr. Smooth getting frustrated enough over such a small thing. A moment later, the shoe is gone, and Brett is on top of him again, kissing him with a hunger that leaves Stiles lightheaded and painfully hard.

Biting his bottom lip, Stiles watches as Brett rummages through his backpack. He’s hard lines and muscle where Stiles is skin and bones, lack of training and time to eat carving their marks into his body. His dick is long and hard and, apparently, now exclusively for Stiles’ pleasure — well, and Brett’s, but that’s a given.

If Brett told him the truth, that is. Which he did, right? They’ve been friends for years. Brett wouldn’t lie to him just to get into his pants.

Right?

“I can hear you overthinking.” Brett drops the backpack next to the bed, flicking a bottle of lube at him.

Stiles catches it awkwardly. For a moment, he stares at it as if the weight of his future rests inside of it. “Are you sure about… this?” Stiles gestures vaguely around, not daring to look at him.

“You mean the sex thing, or the whole I-love-you speech?” Brett asks, and although he smirks at him, his blue eyes have gone unbelievably soft. “Because I fully intend to be your trophy boyfriend.”

Stiles rolls his eyes.

“I’m serious about us. If you let me, I will come with you after this vacation. I’ll travel the US with you. I’ll make sure you eat and sleep, and I fuck you as often as you want me to.”

“And here I thought romance is dead.” Stiles can’t help but grin at the idea. It’s easy to see Brett by his side, to come home to him. Still, “it’s going to be boring for you, though, isn’t it?”

Brett raises his brows, shuffling closer until they’re nose to nose again. “Relaxing by the pool? No way.”

“I’m not staying in hotels like this.” Not usually, at least.

“Stiles,” Brett sounds exasperated, yet he cups his cheeks ever so gently. “I can deal with a year of ratty motels in the middle of nowhere if that means I’m with you, okay?” The moment Stiles opens his mouth for a reply, Brett leans over and kisses him, very clearly done with the conversation, and pushes him back into the pillows. “You’re not going to talk me out of this,” he whispers against Stiles’ mouth. “Stop wasting your breath.” With a chuckle, Brett plucks the lube from his fingers. “And relax, my love.”

Fucking hell.

Stiles runs his fingers through Brett’s hair and pulls him down for another kiss. He’ll allow himself to dream, to imagine this future Brett is painting will have a happy ending. Perhaps it does. He’ll never know if he refuses to try. So, he tries — tries to be an optimist, tries to relax as Brett’s hands and mouth explore every inch of his body, and tries desperately to hold onto his sanity as Brett’s tongue and fingers do their very best to make him fall apart.

Something that gets significantly harder the moment Brett thrusts in to the hilt. He presses their foreheads together, breathing heavily as he stays still for way too long.

Stiles hooks a leg around Brett’s thighs and rolls his hips. The way Brett moans his name makes him almost cum on the spot. “Fuck,” he breathes, “warn a guy.”

Brett chuckles as he captures his lips for another kiss mere seconds before he pulls back out and thrusts back in, fast and hard, yet not quite hard enough. Brett does it again, harder this time — testing how far he can go, or how much he has to hold back.

Stiles moans into the kiss when he does it for a third time, unable to stay quiet any longer.

“Okay?” Brett asks, stilling again.

“Yeah,” Stiles gasps, “better than okay.”

Brett lets out a breath. “You’re perfect,” he mutters, and it almost sounds like a curse. But Stiles can’t be bothered. Now that they’re here, he’d like to feel it for as long as he can, even when Brett won’t be leaving his side anytime soon — or ever, hopefully. God, he wants his marks all over his body, wants to feel this with every step he takes.

Brett seems to be thinking along a similar vein because he keeps the pace, fucking Stiles as if he’s got every intention to leave his mark everywhere. His fingers curl around Stiles’ dicks again, adding more fuel to the fire burning absolutely everywhere inside of him.

Stiles digs his fingers into Brett’s back, feeling his muscles tighten as he rushes towards his orgasm.

They’re hardly kissing any longer, instead, they’re breathing, gasping, moaning against each other’s mouths — lips brushing against each other’s more an accident than purpose.

And then, it hits him. His orgasm cuts to his core, and Stiles throws his head back.

Brett holds him, fucks him, until he collapses on top of him, boneless, skin hot and sweaty, face hidden in the crook of Stiles’ neck.

His brain is still trying to catch up while his heart is already beating in sync with Brett’s. His body truly never fails to disappoint. Stiles lets out a soft breath and runs his fingers through the blond strands. “I could get used to this.”

Growling quietly, Brett nips at his skin.

Stiles flicks his ear. “What the hell was that for?”

Brett chuckles and props himself onto his elbows. His eyes are bright, his lips ever so kissable, and he ducks down and brushes their noses together. “I’m not going to get a quiet afterglow, do I?”

“Have you met me?” Stiles raises his brows, not exactly expecting an answer to a question that couldn’t be any more rhetorical if he tried. “I could offer you cuddles in exchange for the remote, though.” He’s going to finish that movie, even if he has to stay still in Brett’s arms for the rest of it.

Sighing dramatically, Brett kisses him again. “Fine.”

Stiles grins. “I love you.” Three words he’s been wanting to say for years.

“I love you too.” But hearing them feels so much better.

[usermischief]

♝Pairing: Stisaac ♝Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Isaac Lahey, Malia Tate ♝Tags/Warnings: mentions of domestic abuse, canon divergence, post canon ♝Words: 3264 ♝Bad Things Happen Bingo - Attacked In Their Sleep

♝Ao3

“Don’t fucking patronize me, Deputy,” Stiles warns. A shadow crosses the man’s features so quickly, Stiles almost misses it. Looks like he isn’t the only person running out of patience. “I can’t do anything with this.” he slaps his notes with the back of his hand. “There’s nothing I can do for you, Special Agent Stilinski.” His voice carries venom enough for at least three people. Stiles decides not to push it. “I want you to file a report.” “A report?” “Yes.” Stiles folds his hands on the desk and takes a deep breath. “I want you to file a report about this conversation because if something happens, everyone knows where to start.”

the wake-up call

“You’re an FBI agent.”

Stiles blinks. “What does that have to do with anything?”

The deputy glances at his notes and then back up at Stiles, crossing his arms over his desk. It is the universal sign of ‘I don’t take you seriously’. Great. “You’re an FBI agent,” the deputy repeats, “and she’s a girl who’s not gotten over you yet.”

Stiles wants to punch him. It took him ages to admit that a restraining order might be the way to go, and now he is sitting in front of a fucking idiot. Even if Malia weren’t a werecoyote, Stiles would still like to do something about her stalking him. “She broke into my apartment,” Stiles reminds him, “twice.”

Deputy Dipshit’s smile turns a little condescending. “You should change your locks then.”

“If you considered your notes, you’d know I did that.” Stiles crosses his arms over the desk as well, leaning closer to the guy and raises a brow. “Twice.” It is hard to gauge if this dude does all of this because he hates FBI agents or doesn’t believe girls could be dangerous in any shape or form. The most likely explanation is that he’s a fucking moron.

The deputy, Stiles should probably remember his name, huffs and leans back in his chair, now playing with his pen. He couldn’t act more disinterested if he tried. “That’s not enough for a restraining order.”

“What more do you want?” Stiles straightens again. His patience is very close to walk out of the door, and it*s not going to be fun when that happens. “Does she have to try and rip my throat out before you even consider taking me seriously?”

“Listen, son—”

“Don’t fucking patronize me, Deputy,” Stiles warns.

A shadow crosses the man’s features so quickly, Stiles almost misses it. Looks like he isn’t the only person running out of patience. “I can’t do anything with this.” he slaps his notes with the back of his hand. “There’s nothing I can do for you, Special Agent Stilinski.” His voice carries venom enough for at least three people.

Stiles decides not to push it. “I want you to file a report.”

“A report?”

“Yes.” Stiles folds his hands on the desk and takes a deep breath. “I want you to file a report about this conversation because if something happens, everyone knows where to start.” Quirking his brows, Stiles a finger against the back of his hand. “Let’s go. Type.”

— — —

“What do you mean, they can’t do anything?” Isaac sounds absolutely stunned.

Stiles slams his car door shut and sinks into his seat, squeezing his eyes shut for a few seconds. “Yeah,” he breathes, trying his best to gather his thoughts to the sound of rain hitting the roof and windows. A shudder runs down his spine. He drops his phone on the passenger’s seat and puts Isaac on speaker. “The fucker thought it’s funny an FBI agent is scared of a girl stalking him.” He wrestles out of his wet cardigan.

“Bloody hell.” Wood cracks under Isaac’s movements. “What are you gonna do?”

That’s a good question. Stiles runs a hand over his face, watching the grey world around him with a heavy heart. As much as he enjoys complaining about New York, this is his home. His friends are here, his work, his apartment. His job isn’t even the biggest issue. As a profiler for the supernatural division, he can work from everywhere. But that doesn’t change the fact that he doesn’t want to leave this city. He doesn’t want to be chased away. Sighing, he grips the steering wheel. “Guess I’ll have to invest in a security system.”

“I thought you wanted to get dogs?”

Stiles huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, that’s the plan.” His and Malia’s relationship has gone on so much longer than it should have. There were many things going on, and it’s not just about her desire to have a child, however, that conversation certainly made Stiles realize that they’re nearing the end. The issue wasn’t her wanting a child. Stiles would love to have kids in the future, just not with her. Admitting that to himself caused an avalanche of realizations Stiles is surprised he didn’t see it sooner.

Bedding rustles, reminding Stiles that it’s already almost 1am in London.

“Do you want me to come over?” Isaac casks, making it sound like they’re neighbors instead of an ocean apart.

Stiles’ heart jolts as all too familiar giddiness takes over. He swallows, intending to stifle his excitement at the mere suggestion. “I can’t ask you to do that.”

“You’re not asking,” Isaac tells him, “I’m offering.”

“I—” But Stiles doesn’t know what to say. There couldn’t be anything better than having Isaac back with him. They stayed in contact after he left for France. Stiles was the one who told him to go to London to chase his job as a physician. But calls and facetime aren’t enough. It hasn’t been for a long time.

Isaac taps a finger against something. “You know I always come when you call.”

Stiles covers his mouth with one hand, glad to be sitting as a sob makes his whole body tremble. Isaac’s departure made him feel like someone ripped out his limbs one by one. There hasn’t been a day that passed when Stiles didn’t miss him, when he didn’t hope Isaac would come back — not just for a couple weeks but for good. But Stiles knows Isaac won’t uproot his life for the same reasons Stiles refuses to do so. 

“Stiles?” Isaac’s voice is unfathomable soft.

Before he answers, Stiles takes a deep breath. “What about your work?”

“Let me worry about my work,” Isaac replies. “Do you want me to—”

“Yes.” His voice trembles slightly when Stiles answers way too quickly. He’d never ask Isaac. Not for help with this and certainly not to stay, but he cannot say no. Not when Isaac offers. He’s too selfish for that. It’s going to hurt like a bitch when Isaac leaves again. Still, it’s a price Stiles is willing to pay.

— — —

When the doorbell rings late at night, Stiles rushes downstairs. Despite knowing Isaac will only arrive in two days, a stupidly hopeful part of him would like him to arrive sooner. Although Isaac is not above surprises, Stiles doubts he managed to convince his colleague to return to work three days earlier. It’s a miracle he got time off on such short notice in the first place.

Someone bangs their fist against the door.

Stiles slides to a stop, goosebumps creeping up his arms. Suddenly, the room is awfully silent, and he wishes he’d gone through with getting a dog instantly after all.

“I know you’re there,” Malia calls, voice slightly muffled through the door.

He takes a deep breath and crosses his arms over his chest. “Leave.”

“Why did you change the locks?”

Stiles’ hair stands on end at the sharpness of her tone. “Because you keep breaking into my place.” he darts his gaze around the room, trying to find his phone. As much as last week’s visit at the police station pissed him off, Stiles isn’t above calling 911 on her ass — something he should have done before.

Malia knocks on the door again, reminding him why he’s still living in an apartment complex, no matter how badly he wants his own house. “Open the door, Stiles.”

His neighbors don’t usually get involved in other people’s business, but they draw the line at missing out on their beauty sleep.

Finally catching sight of his phone, Stiles crosses the room. “Malia,” he says loud enough that people who might be eavesdropping know who this is, “get fucking list, I mean it.”

“I’m not going to hurt you.” Like that promise has ever stopped the little ‘accidents,’ as Malia kept calling them. There was a time it could be blamed on her struggling with control.

Stiles should’ve caught on earlier. “I’ve heard those words before.” He grabs his phone so tightly; his knuckles turn white. A smooch as he hates to admit it, he longs for Isaac to be here. He’d feel a lot safer with him around. For now, however, he has to get through with mountain ash on top of the doorframe, the threat of neighbors intervening, and being one phone call away from NYPD to get Malia to leave.

She pounds her fist against the door. It rattles in its frame, causing mountain ash to trickle to the floor.

Stiles takes a deep breath. His heart races in his chest, and he takes a single step away from the door. “For the last time, Malia,” he calls, voice steadier than he expected it to be, “leave me the fuck alone.”

Once again, his front door rattles as Malia slams her fist against it.

Someone yells from the other end of the hallway.

Stiles waits with bated breath and a heart trying to jump out of his body. Please, leave. Please, just leave.

Footsteps retreat to the left.

Sighing a breath of relief, he collapses into his armchair. He needs to move, there’s no way around that. Money won’t be an issue, luckily, but finding a house in New York isn’t exactly easy.

Isaac can’t come quick enough.

— — —

It’s still dark when his phone yanks him out of his sleep. He groans and winces a bit as he moves his head to the left. His neck and shoulders absolutely hate him, which is no surprise after falling asleep sitting up on his couch.

Yawning, Stiles rubs a hand over his face and feels for his phone with the other. It’s way too early, he just knows it. So, whoever woke him up better has a good reason, or he’ll unleash hell on earth. 

After finding his phone next to his dead laptop on the coffee table, Stiles is proven correct that it’s still way too early to be awake. It’s 4:17 in the morning. Who the fuck texts him at ass o’clock in the morning? Narrowing his eyes, he checks the text message. His heart pounds in his chest.

Isaac.

His fingers tremble slightly, and he tries his best to stifle his excitement. Stiles opens the text message, licking his suddenly dry lips. Isaac texted him this early because he’s on his way here. Judging by his message, he landed half an hour ago and should be arriving here in around fifteen minutes.

Stiles has never gotten ready as quickly as today. His hair is still wet as he all but falls downstairs to open the door. Stiles glances around his loft, grimacing a little at the chaos that is his office and living room area. There are papers and books and empty energy cans absolutely everywhere. Fuck. But there is no time to clean this up now.

His heart somersaults, and Stiles has to take a deep breath before he finally opens the door. “Hey.” Stiles breathes, feeling heat rising in his cheeks. He was hoping to be much more composed when Isaac arrived after not having seen him in person for almost two years, but that’s impossible — not when Isaac is standing right in front of him, hair messy, smiling, eyes sparkling and cheeks pink from the cold despite the thick coat and scarf he’s wrapped up in.

“Hi.” The sound of Isaac’s voice makes Stiles’ heart melt. “May I come in?”

Stiles blinks. “Sorry, sorry.” Once again, a flush is creeping up his neck. Fuck’s sake, he’s behaving like a middle schooler meeting his crush for the first time. This is ridiculous. “Come in.” He steps aside, ducking his head a little. If he can hardly get through half a minute without acting like a fool, Stiles has no clue how the hell he’s supposed to get through the next three weeks. “Sorry for the mess,” he murmurs as Isaac passes him, his suitcase clattering softly against his wooden floor.

Isaac laughs. “My flat has a bunch more dirty dishes,” he replies, putting his luggage next to the armchair. “Don’t worry about it.” He tugs on his scarf, studying his surroundings curiously.

Closing the door, Stiles can’t help but stare at Isaac. Although he looks exactly the same as he does on every video call, there is something very different about the way he holds himself in person. He seems taller, more confident with the space he takes up. He’s breathtaking.

Stiles is so fucked.

Isaac places his scarf over his suitcase and turns back to Stiles, now studying him in silence. His expression is unusually unreadable, but there’s something his eyes.

Stiles’ nerves are on edge. He has no clue if the tension building between them is wistful thinking or reality. The silence sits heavy between them, and for once, Stiles’ mouth refuses to fill it. He should ask Isaac how his flight was, if everything went well, how he’s doing, if he’s hungry. But his mouth is dry, his lips refuse to part, and all he is able to do is stare at Isaac, a mix of excitement and anxiety cursing through his veins that makes his head spin.

Get is together, Stilinski.

“Are you wearing my shirt?” Isaac asks, and those really aren’t the words to interrupt his particular silence.

Stiles looks down at himself. Sure enough, he’s wearing a dark grey t-shirt with the St. George’s logo — the university Isaac used to study at in London. “Yeah,” Stiles whispers, wishing he’d checked his clothes before rushing to open the door, “you forgot it at my dorm, and I…” he trails off and swallows. He could’ve sent it to him. He should have sent it to him, and yet—

Isaac makes a small sound that’s impossible to decipher, and then, before Stiles knows it, Isaac has slammed him against the door, and kisses him with an urgency that takes Stiles’ breath away. The kiss is electric, setting all his nerves on fire. Everything he’s wanted for years; it’s happening right now. Isaac’s kiss, the touch of his fingers seemingly everywhere — it makes Stiles’ skin prickle with want.

“I wanted—” Isaac murmurs between kisses “— to do this years ago.”

Years ago. A shudder runs down Stiles’ spine. “You should have,” he whispers, curling his fingers into Isaac’s hair. “But we can still make up for all that lost time.”

Isaac doesn’t reply. Instead, he crashes their mouths together again and lifts Stiles off his feet.

— — —

They spent the next three days in bed for the most part, only leaving to shower or grab some food. Although Stiles usually isn’t all that interested in wasting his time in bed, Isaac keeps his mind occupied — either with his mouth or his dick.

Stiles can happily admit that those three days have been the best of his life. Just the thought of Isaac leaving in three weeks breaks him. Waking up next to him makes him feel as if he can get through whatever the day might throw at him. Sleeping next to him, Stiles has never been calmer. Even falling asleep seems easier than normal.

Yawning, Stiles closes his eyes, curling against the warm body next to him. He smiles as Isaac makes a soft noise in the back of his throat and wraps an arm around him to pull him even closer. Stiles can’t help but smile into the crook of Isaac’s neck, staying as close to him as possible. Waking up, limbs tangled, Stiles never loved waking up as much as he does currently.

Until he’s torn away from Isaac. His scalp explodes with pain, but before he can do anything, his back, and head slam into a wall. He groans, pain all but immobilizing him. Dark spots appear before his eyes. His vision is blurry. Someone says something, but the words drown in the sound of his blood rushing in his ears.

Stiles blinks multiple times, trying to get his bearings, but his vision still is fuzzy, and his scalp burns. He reaches out a hand, trying to figure out where he ended up on the floor, hoping to find light, his phone, anything. Something hits him in the side of his face. Stiles yelps, slamming to the ground again. His chin hits something hard, teeth clacking together painfully. Tears spring in his eyes.

What the fuck is going on?

Someone grunts behind him.

Stiles fumbles for something familiar. A shoe, a book, anything that might point him in the right direction.

His fingertips brush against some papers. Good. That means he is next to the bedside table. He feels for it, finding the knob to the second drawer. He’s got his gun and ammunition locked away like a law-abiding citizen, but his paranoia refused to let him sleep without a weapon near his bed, especially since his break-up with Malia.

He rips the drawer open, not caring about the fighting noise behind him, and fumbles for his flip knife. Relief rushes through his body when he curls his fingers around the handle. He pulls it out and slams the drawer shut, now fumbling for the light switch.

Just as he finds it, he hears a yelp, followed by the sound of a body tumbling down the stairs. “Isaac?” Stiles turns on the light and whips around, panic constricting his chest.

“I’m okay,” Isaac calls. He’s standing by the stairs looking down into the living room, claws still out and eyes bright and yellow. His body stays poised for an attack.

Stiles stumbles to his feet, head screaming in pain. He flicks his gaze from Isaac, barely registering the bruised knuckles, to the bottom of the stairs, not surprised to find Malia there — knocked out cold, but far from dead. Carefully, he steps over the broken glass of wine on the floor; empty, luckily. It’s a bitch to get red wine out of the carpet.

Isaac wraps an arm around him, pulling him flush to his side. His body relaxes against Stiles,’ and he sighs. “I think moving should happen rather sooner than later.”

Grimacing, Stiles leans into the hug. As much as he hates to think about it, Isaac’s right. Malia is losing her patience, and once Isaac is back in England, there is nobody here to help him out. Stiles can’t tell where she draws the line. At this point, he’s sure she won’t stop at anything to continue their relationship.

“I can’t protect you when I’m working the nightshift.”

“I know,” Stiles mutters, “I know I need a—” Wait. Stiles steps away and looks up at Isaac in confusion. “What?”

Smirking Isaac runs his fingers through Stiles’ hair. “I’m staying with you, Pretty Boy,” he whispers, pulling Stiles close again. “I’ve got enough money to last me a while. We’ll find you a place, and wherever you wanna go, I’ll follow.”

Stiles’ heart leaps into his throat, making it impossible to speak. He can’t believe what Isaac is saying.

“How does that sound?” For a moment there, Isaac almost sounds unsure.

Stiles leans up and kisses him, smiling against his mouth. “I’d love nothing more.”

“Good,” Isaac mutters, “but before we celebrate that—” he pulls back, grimacing a bit “— we should probably deal with her.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, but he’s not too disgruntled about that — nothing could take away the high of knowing Isaac is not going to leave him anytime soon - not even the prospect of dealing with the police again. He hides his grin against Isaac’s shoulder for a moment.

He’s staying.

With him.

[usermischief]

♚ Pairing: Sterek ♚ Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale ♚ Tags: getting together, future fic(ish) ♚ Words: 905 ♚ Prompt: “I do talk a lot, huh?” - “But it’s nice. I like hearing your thoughts.” ♚ Mini Fic Roulette: 35/∞ 

---

“I’m serious, you haven’t experienced heat until you’ve been to Europe in the summer. Don’t get me wrong, it’s hot here, but the heat in Poland?” Stiles runs his hands over his face. He can still feel the scorching heat from the memory alone. “And they don’t have AC. I don’t know how Babcia survives — or deals with my aunt. For two days, I was sweating my balls off and had to endure her constant nagging. At the same time.” Huffing out a breath, Stiles leans back onto his elbows. The sky above them is dark and full of stars, giving the night a welcome calmness. The last few days have been a whirlwind of family gatherings and feelings. Derek was right. The nights are a lot clearer in the middle of nowhere. Just lying here, next to him, it’s worth the stress of the last couple of days.   

Stiles flops onto his back with a sigh, absently playing with a string of his hoodie. “She’s nothing compared to Peter.”

Derek chuckles, the sound ever so soft in the gentle breeze of the night.

“She’s still a bitch. I know you shouldn’t call you aunt a bitch, but, like, if we’re lucky and our schedules line up, we see each other once a year for Babcia’s birthday, and she spent the whole time berating me and my dad. Mostly me, though. My accent’s too heavy. I shouldn’t go by a nickname. I need to learn how to sit still.” He gestures towards the sky, squinting his eyes against the light of the stars overhead. As much as he promised himself not to let her words get to him again, Stiles curls his hands into fists either way and sits up again. “She said I won’t make it far at the FBI because I talk too much. Can you believe that? As if the amount I talk somehow changes how good I am at my job.” Stiles pauses and presses his lips together. His heart beats against his ribs, once, twice. He takes a breath, stealing a glance at Derek, who’s remained awfully silent since the rest of the pack left to catch some sleep. After all, they were on the road for almost ten hours.  

Pushing his heads into the pockets of his hoodie, Stiles lies back down again. “I do talk a lot, huh?”

Derek hums in agreement. “But it’s nice,” he tells him, gaze suddenly heavy on the side of Stiles’ face — palpable like a fingertip tracing his cheek. “I like hearing your thoughts.”

Heat creeps up Stiles’ neck. He hopes it’s not too visible in the light of the moon. His mouth going dangerously dry, Stiles turns to look at Derek, whose face has never looked so soft. He smiles, trying his hardest to keep his heart under control. If he’s honest to himself — something he rarely manages to be — he’s been dreaming of a moment like this forever. Not exactly this, but something similar; the two of them, alone, in a somewhat romantic setting, and Derek looking as if he likes him. In a romantic kind of way. Stiles bites his cheek and looks away again. Better to stop right there. He’s jetlagged, hasn’t slept since boarding the plane almost 26 hours ago, and that glass of wine most definitely hit harder than it usually does.

He itches to touch Derek’s face, tracing the curve of his mouth, the sharp line of his jaw.

Fuck.

Stiles clears his throat as he attempts to sit up again, but Derek cups his cheek, successfully freezing him in place. Stiles’ heart leaps into his throat. He opens his mouth, but the words are lodged underneath his jaw, refusing to spill out of the first time in — shit, the first time ever, actually.

Derek doesn't say anything either. He simply smiles, his touch gentle as his thumb glides over Stiles' cheek, then brushes the corner of his mouth. "I like hearing you talk," Derek murmurs in a low voice, shattering the heavy silence around them. "And I don't want you to stop."

“Are you—” Stiles swallows, struggling to get the words out with all of his nerves getting in the way “— are you sure? Because I can totally stop right now. If you want to- if you want me to.” If he’s misreading every single social cue, he still has a chance to deny absolutely everything.

But Derek props himself onto his elbow. “Right now, I want to kiss you.”

“Oh.” Stiles licks his lips, flushing even deeper. “Yeah, that’s totally something I want to do to… wanted to do for like a really—”

Huffing out a breath, Derek pushes Stiles onto his back. Then his mouth is on his, and Stiles is pretty sure his heart stopped. Because Derek Hale is kissing him. Because shit like this doesn’t happen to him. He’s died and gone to heaven. This cannot be real. It simply can’t. As Derek presses his knee firmly between Stiles' thighs, snapping him out of his trance, the reality crashes upon him like a tidal wave.

Fuck.

Stiles grabs at Derek, curling his fingers into the short strands and collar of his shirt. This is very real. This is happening. This is happening to him.  

Holy shit.

Derek chuckles into the kiss.

This man is going to be the death of him, and Stiles couldn’t be happier about it.