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Hierarchy and Autonomy

Summary:

In a werewolf society omegas are expected to succumb to their base urges. Stiles has refused for eight years, can he for one more?
Conceptually based off of:
Alpha Spikes By Starbeast
and
Devil of Mercy by KouriArashi

Chapter 1: You're on

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

           Biology.

           Biology is my greatest enemy.

           Stiles looks out his window with contempt. His birthday was two days ago and like always it signaled the worst week of the year. Ever since his 15th birthday, an entire year early, a normally depressingly solemn day became a shrieking horn of warning for what loomed ahead. 

           Heat week. The week of the year when every alpha and omega alive experience a massive uptick in their pheromone production and they each are consumed in a brutal haze of stifling warmth and desire. Betas experience it too, but it’s well known that it’s tame in comparison. 

           It’s his 12th time experiencing it and it’s just as awful this year. He can’t stand it. He can feel it crawling beneath his skin when he wakes. He can feel it when he eats breakfast. And he can definitely feel it when the knock at the hotel door snaps what little capacity he has to ignore it in half. He’s stationed in Southern California this year. He was brought to the hotel from Sacramento last week. He hates it here, it’s warmer in Corona Del Mar than most of the places he’s been schlepped off to for these things. 

           He grabs his taser and heads to the door. He’s dressed informally to make a point. 

           “You’re not wearing a regulation approved outfit,” one of the half dozen masked and armored guards state when he opens the door. 

           “Smart observation. It’s this or I show up naked to the ceremony; because, I’ll shred any suit you force me into.” 

           The lead guard stands still a moment scrolling through their tablet before responding. “Fine.” They say and gesture Stiles out of the door. 

           Half an hour later and one taser burst later, Stiles finds himself being shoved into his seat by his five remaining guards. He stills himself uncomfortably and waits on his 9th picking ceremony to begin. It’ll go the same way as it always goes.  Terribly. And he’ll end up in the same position he finds himself each year. Compromised and degraded. 

           The virgin omegas over eighteen are all shepherded off in a division away from all others in attendance. They’re closer to the stage, for convenience. This way the half dozen or so, semi-local, Alphas can sift through their crop easier and without challenge. 

           He isn’t afforded any information about the alphas this year, not that he ever is. Omegas never are, not until whichever selected emissary representative decides to begin prattling off about the first of the alphas. He can barely focus on the inane praises. He never can, not that he ever needs to pay attention to any rant other than the first. Between the pressure of his skin boiling from both the inside-out and outside-in, and his ADHD; his attention is shot. One of the male alphas is standing next to the podium and is whispering to an emissary in a pressured manner. He locks eyes with Stiles for several unnecessarily long moments and then finishes his conversation. The man had been third in line before, but when he returns to it; he’s first. 

           Stiles looks off to the crowd. He can smell his dad in the crowd somewhere in the back with the other betas sweating bullets. Scott’s there too, with Kira. Lucky her. She doesn’t have to experience this. Stiles remarks to himself. Other shifters don’t have to deal with this. Just werewolves. 

           Alan Deaton won’t shut up. And his announcements only get louder once the woman emissary whispers something in his ear. The droning bores into Stiles’s frustrated mind like a trepanation drill. An hour and a half later, once he’s finished delivering praises for the excruciatingly long host of twelve alphas he introduces the intimidating one who was moved to the front.

           “Peter Hale,” Deaton reminds them all, “will now begin the selection process for the Southern California region.” 

           His eyes catch Stiles’s own the moment he finishes his petty overtures and platitudes to the councils. Stiles rises from his seat and awaits what his every sense is already telling him. The man descends from the stage and saunters into the center aisle. Stiles is in the center of the next to last row on the right side of the stage.  Peter walks to directly Stiles and offers his hand forcefully. Stiles holds Peter’s gaze for a bit longer than he should, averts his eyes ruefully, and takes it. 

           The crowd cheers from behind the dividers. The familiar mournful sense of disgust and self-pity consume him, the way they have every year since he was first chosen on his eighteen birthday. 

           He’s led to the stage and gets the usual questions and his own introduction by the woman announcer, Morrel. The sexism and it’s basic link to his classification make the experience all the more indignant. He fields the questions with frustration:

  • Who are you? Mieczyslaw Stilinski but you can call me “Stiles.”
  • Where are you from Stiles? Beacon Hills, Sacramento now.
  • How old are you? 26.
  • What is with your outfit selection? Aren’t you at pleased to be chosen? No.

           This answer gets him hauled off stage by his latest conservator. He misses the rest of the selection process. A choosing ceremony tradition for him at this point. 

           He’s shoved into the back of a black limousine and the door slams behind him. I’ll never see that taser again. He turns to the opposing door before it opens and stares at it blankly as The Alpha descends into the seat next to his. 

           “You know. I heard that your scent was something remarkable. But, I never imagined I’d be able to smell it before I got on stage.” 

           “You’re welcome.” Stiles says into the glass. The response is automatic, detached, the way it’s been since his third choosing. Whichever alpha goes first always chooses him. They either change the line up or it’s a spur of the moment choice when they get in the lines; but he’s always first.

***

           “You’re by far the loveliest omega I have ever scented,” The alpha whispers into his ear. Deucalion is his name. Stiles can hardly stand still next to the guy. It’s only his first time at the choosing and usually eighteen-year-olds are never chosen. The man has a death grip on his shoulder and Stiles can barely focus on the podium. The touch of an alpha and the pheromones are already overwhelming his senses. He can feel his heat amping up several fold.

           He’s already 48 hours into the cycle, 48 more than everyone else, and it took everything he had just to get dressed before he’d been dragged from his hotel room. It took three guards just to get his first arm into the restraints and another’s rib cage being permanently sacrificed to constrain the other. The enchanted steel still chafes his skin as he fields questions through the panic. He’s nearly blinded from all the flashing cameras. It’s cold as hell in the Northern Canadian hall he was forced to attend for the ceremony. He shivers and leans into the microphone. He can’t remember what he’d said, but a moment after his third question he’d been ripped away and marched out of the public eye. 

            “Do not test me boy.” The grit of it through Deucalion’s teeth terrified him more than being pulled away from his dad just a few days prior. It worried him more than being stuffed into a car and being locked in it on the way to the airport. It sobered him more than stepping off the plane in Quebec. Stiles steeled his eyes and looked down on his way to the next car he was sure to be captured in. He didn’t breathe a word on the way to the strange complex of cabins and ski lodge looking buildings Deucalion kept as housing for his closest pack members. Hours of nervous silence and inching away from a pursuing predator made him skittish as he worked his way through the dim halls to the room he’d later find out he’d be in for an entire week.

***

           “What are you looking off at?”

           “Nothing.”

           “Then look at me. I’m far more interesting than the scenery.”

           “You guys always think that. Always demanding something of me. Why can’t you ever just let me rest or better yet not pick me.” Stiles shifts himself to another seat half-way up the limousine cabin and slumps against the leather interior.

           “So, the legends about you are true,” Peter says and dusts off his deep blue suit jacket. 

           “Which ones?” Stiles asks and turns towards the window. He rests his head on it, seeking the cool relief of the glass. He hasn’t been able to fully ground himself since 2AM on the 9th. April. What an ill timed month. He groans softly. 

           “That you’re the worst behaved omega to be chosen in the last century.” 

           “Sorry to disappoint.” Stiles says and rolls his eyes to himself. 

           “Hardly. It’ll make this weekend far more entertaining.”

           Stiles just whimpers and his first tear of the year falls from his eye, hidden from his cabin mate as it absorbs into his damp, grey-cotton sweat pants.

***

           Stiles arrives at the worst place he can remember. A strange stone house in the middle of the woods just outside Atlanta somewhere. Why the structure was built here he couldn’t imagine. It was an abomination in the damp heat of the southern state. He was clammy beyond belief the moment he stepped in. The feeling never departed his skin for his entire stay there. Ennis had constructed it. The cooling vents rasped in his ear no matter which room he was tied up in. He can still remember the feel of the endless bruises that marred his skin. Each hour brought up a new spattering of internal bleeding and half broken skin for his resistance. He refused Ennis multiple times the first day.

           Each rough touch to his skin was a punishment the alpha had used in a failed attempt to “seduce” him. The second day there he’d spent naked chained to a bed for his insolence. Ennis had worked his body over tirelessly trying to get Stiles to succumb to his heat. Ennis was hoping to see the fight fade from his eyes and his jaw slack as a function of desperate need and desire; like so many others had so easily. It never worked. Sleep deprivation, hand feeding, hours of foreplay, dirty talk: Stiles spurned it all. In the end, Ennis wanted him to beg to be taken.

           “You’ll have to beg me to relieve you. You little asshole.” Rung in his ears multiple times a day. Each insult was punctuated by a whip, cut, or paddling. He didn’t speak the week of his 21st birthday. A crown of wolfsbane soaked thorns was his only gift that year.

***

           They pull away from the city center and the half hour drive to Peter’s mansion is underway. 

           Peter demands attention. He just won’t be quiet. The entire ride, he’s whispering, or declaring something Stiles can’t hold onto. Promises, lost in a haze of smoke and confusion. Stiles gets out of the car and is floored by the sight of a large seaside mansion. The smell of the salt in his nose has him sprinting for the water in a moment of excited forgetfulness. He gets half way down the beach before Peter catches up with him and tackles him. He falls to the ground and the sand burns and scrapes his skin under his shirt. His elbows burn in the mid-day sun. Peter’s laughing above him. A hot kiss scorches his face when he’s flipped face up.

***

           Kali didn’t wait for permission. The moment they were in the car she lunged on him. The boiling Nevada heat pervaded even the car’s cabin through the air conditioner’s futile attempts. Stiles groaned against it. His body was rioting in the seat she had him pinned to. The affront had him off guard. At his last 4 choosing ceremonies, each of the other alphas had at least given him some illusion of choice the first day. His body fought him, trying to slake itself of the pressure. The intensity overwhelmed him on his way to her casino. She ushered him into an elevator and after a quick ten-minute drive and pursued him into wall after wall as he fought to regain some control of himself on the way up.

           The elevator dinged their arrival. He ran into the living room that opened out behind him and noticed the one thing the massive penthouse lacked. Sound. The entire room was silent. Kali pursued him quietly. Each surface was a danger as Stiles skirted around it.

           His pleads filled the room and died in the air. Each “Please, don’t” and “I don’t want this,” met a sonic death the moment it escaped his mouth. Each time she pinned him into something, trying to take from him what she wanted, their bodies were revealed slightly more. Clothes turned to rags in their dance of panic and pursuit.

           The first and last thing he heard that week were her shouts for help after she pressed a button half a room away from him. He didn’t know how she had ended up over a busted teak table, splinters filling the air like angry dust. But, he does remember the blankness of the pale sand walls in the containment room he was kept the rest of the week.

***

           When he comes back to himself Peter his standing several paces away looking winded. His suit is coated in sand and his hair is doused in it. Peter's thick black curls are a mess soaked in damp sand and granulated sea shell.

           “Well, I’ve certainly never received that kind of response.” Peter declares and dusts off his jacket. He frowns not a moment later when his fingers meet slices in the top half of the shoulders on each side. “I guess I won’t be wearing this again,” Peter remarks and slips it off to reveal blood stains on the thin, white, linen dress shirt. “This either, I suppose.” Peter unbuttons it and throws it to the ground.

           He walks over to Stiles and outstretches a hand for him to pull himself up with. Stiles takes it. His eyes are glued to the muscles in Peter’s arms as he aids pull Stiles up. “Fancy a swim?”

           Stiles looks out at the water. His mouth smiles and then frowns. “I don’t have a swim suit.”

           “You can borrow one of mine if you really want one.”

           “Sure,” he says and awaits the arrival of the clothes. He takes them quietly and begins stripping.

           “You sure you want to do that here?” Peter asks staring at Stiles’s pale upper body.

           “Would it matter if I didn’t.”

           Something in Peter’s scent turns foul and he turns around. “Go into the house and change. My butler will show you to the changing room.”

           So this is the kind of alpha he’ll be. Stiles walks back to the house and is shuffled into a powder room with a full vanity. He changes into the shorts quickly. He looks at himself in the mirror and frowns. He worries at the bottom seam. The shorts are vibrant, loud even considering Peter’s measured demeanor. They smell like they’ve been worn recently. They’re only a few inches long on the inseam so they’re revealing, but they’re loose which is more privacy than he’s used to being afforded. He sighs and walks out of the bathroom headed for the beach. He’s handed a towel on the way out and all the staff disappears by the time he gets to Peter’s side. Peter’s hovering, a half foot in front of the tide.

           Peter doesn’t even turn. But, the hairs on the back of Stiles’s neck rise anyway. He can hear light sniffs, just beneath the sound of the sloshing water. “Should we go in?” Stiles asks.

           “Do you like them?”

           “The shorts? They’re nice I guess,” Stiles acquiesces.

           Peter’s scent sours in his nose again. “I’ll have them choose different ones next time.” Peter grabs Stiles by the hand and pulls him in towards the water.

           They swim for hours. Stiles loses track of time. He’s adrift in the lapping water and heady purposeful teasing of Peter ebbing and flowing around him. The grazes are fast and light. Stiles’s senses barely grab onto each one before the water smooths it away. His heat abates in the cold early-spring water.

           At some point Peter takes his hand again and ushers him onshore. He frowns. Peter does too. A few moments after they get out they’ve made it to a table that materialized when they were in the water. It has their towels on it and Peter wraps him in one. His heat rises back up through the coiling pit in his stomach and he moans.

           “Are you hungry?”

           “Yeah.”

           Peter snaps his fingers and moments later a meal is placed on the table. Peter sets the two chairs close together facing each other next to the table and gestures for Stiles to sit. It takes him a moment, but he wills his feet to shuffle over to the proffered seat. He sits and avoids Peter’s gaze. He studies the table and notices a large numbered sundial steadied just off the far edge of the table. “Half past one,” Stiles observes quietly.

           “My staff are excellent at their jobs and know better than to intrude on me while I swim. Don’t worry, they won’t be around other than mealtimes after tonight.” Peter extends an arm out towards him offering a bite of shrimp. Stiles halts for a moment, and timidly takes a bite. Peter eats the other half not a moment later. It carries on like that until Stiles is full, not that he is full. He just can’t bring himself to eat more for fear of his growing daze.

           He keeps his face poised, but he can smell the excitement shifting beneath Peter’s repose. He stands up from the table, only to topple over into the sand sloppily. Peter’s above him in an instant pulling him from his place wrapped in the heat of the sand.

           “I’m fine. I’m fine,” Stiles says already doing his level best to pursue the ocean’s wake back out to sea.

           “You don’t seem fine.” Peter says pulling Stiles back around.

           “You smell good. Go away.” Stiles says weakly wrenching out of Peter’s grip.

           Peter lets him go after a few seconds of harsh glaring trying to discern what is going on. He stands there watching Stiles swim leisurely in the briny water while his brain clicks everything together like a puzzle. The selection had occurred late this year, but none of the others in the crowd had exhibited the familiar heady intoxicant of onsetting heat. Peter thinks of the combative conversations they’d had in the car and his curt responses to the questions on stage.  

           When Stiles finally gets back out looking distant, but sober Peter grins. More entertaining indeed. He meets Stiles with another towel.

           Stiles rebuffs him and walks towards the house. Peter follows as Stiles sniffs his way through his house, dripping sea water onto his cold stone floors. He follows Stiles all the way up the stars to his room. He stops outside his closet, into which Stiles marches determinedly and begins perusing. Stiles selects some thin linen boating shorts Peter hasn’t worn in years. Then he rifles through shirts for an old cherry red polo Peter had forgotten he owned. He digs through to the back of the underwear drawer and pulls out some sleeping boxers. Then Stiles pushes past Peter and slams the bathroom door behind him. Peter hums to himself and waits until he hears water pulsing out of the shower head to open the door.

           “How long have you been fighting a daze?” He asks confidently and rests against his counter, back to the vanity.

           “Leave me alone pervert.”

           “All day?” Peter asks lasciviously.

           “I’m not talking to you,” Stiles says and begins scrubbing the salt from his body.

           “Longer?”

           …

           “When did your heat set in?” Peter purrs.

           …

           “Yesterday?”

           “No.”

           “The day before.”

           “Will you give me some peace?” Stiles snaps.

           Peter grins and walks out of the bathroom. “I’ll see you in a bit,” Peter reminds him do try not to waste too much of my lotion or body wash. They're expensive.”

           Stiles opens his eyes. He can tell the bathroom door is still open through the opaque glass. He looks around, finds, and dumps the body wash out of the bottle. He watches it lather and swirl on the tiled floor of the large rainfall/steam shower hybrid until he’s ready to get out. He gets out and dries off roughly before getting dressed. When he has; he walks out into the bedroom and surveys it in earnest. There isn’t much to it. There’s a large bed against the center of the back wall. It’s adorned in slate grey sheets and has a white blanket folded back at the edge. They smell clean, almost sterile. Next to it is a black wooden nightstand with several charging cables all fastened into place. There is one pad to charge a smart watch, one for a phone, and a general cable next to them. The drawers are nearly empty. Supplies for the week, nothing else. On the other side it’s mostly the same, but with a host of snacks in the lower cabinet as well. The walls are a surprising off white that’s a little more aquamarine than most rich people would put in their homes. The far wall has a large sliding door behind a long line of blackout drapes that match the wall. The only personal belonging in the entire room is a large dotted abstract painting that’s a mix of red, yellow, and orange dots on the wall across from the sliding door. A small placard was next to it. Emily Kame Kngwarreye.

           Peter’s in the doorway when Stiles looks over. “It beautiful isn’t it? I saw a remarkably similar one in a gallery in 2015. This is the closest piece to it that’s ever been for purchase. I had to leave the hall prematurely and haven’t been able to find the work that enamored me with in the style since.”

            “It makes me feel like-” Stiles drifts off.

            “We should be a part of some collective? Yeah, me too. But, not all things are achievable. So, I have this. To remind me of what feelings are worth chasing.”

            “And which would those be?”

            “Serenity.”

            Stiles snorts.

            “Mock me all you want. But, this painting has bought me more peace of mind than some people will feel their entire lives.”

            “And they say money can’t buy happiness.”

            “That’s just what we tell the poor to make them feel less envious of what the rich have.”

            Stiles laughs. He laughs to the brink of collapse. He laughs until his eyes are welded shut and tears frame his mouth as he gasps for air and he’s forced to brace his hands on his knees.

            Eventually, he stands up straight and walks Peter with a pat on the shoulder. Peter frowns as the echoes of the sound deplete themselves from his bedroom.

            Peter follows him through the halls and sits next to him when Stiles comes to a stop at his couch in the main living room. Stiles shifts away a seat.

            “You really don’t like me do you?”

           “I have nothing against you. It’s this whole process. I hate it.” 

           “You’ll change your mind.”

           “No, I won’t.”

           “You will. Because, I’m going to make you want me. And then, you’ll never want anyone else,” Peter says voice smooth and buttery in Stiles ear. He draws in close to Stiles and lightly grips the back of his neck. 

           Stiles shudders for a while before he can talk again. “I don’t want anyone else either. I want to not be subjected to this every year.”

           “Then why not give in? Why not just, heed your body’s urges. You won’t be subjected to the next selection if you just participate.” Peter tries to pull him in, body to body, but Stiles stays in place. He’s steadfastly glued to the seat as if he’s willed  himself to become part of the couch itself. 

           “Because it’s basically non-consensual sex?” Stiles replies. His vision blurs and he feels himself slipping away.

           “I’ll convince you, you’ll want me.” Peter croons and tucks his head over Stiles’s shoulder. 

           “I’ll never give you what you want. Not like this. Just sitting here is unbearable,” Stiles whimpers. It’s never been this hard to resist before. It’s only two days in and he can already feel himself drowning in his heat. Peter dominates his senses. Stiles can feel a pull to him like iron to a magnet.

            “Never?”

            “Never.”

            “Then let’s make a game of it,” Peter says.

            “A game?” Stiles asks, incredulity pushing his mind back above the surface.

            “I like a challenge. And you’re possibly the best opponent I’ve ever had, even in this lust addled state. Maybe, you’re even more worthy because of it.”

            “What’re you proposing.”

            “A simple game.”

            “The rules?”

            “You allow me to make a growing list of rules you have to follow. For each one I have to make to advantage myself in the game, you get to make another request of me to fulfill at the end of the game.”

            “Do I get to make rules?”

            “Of course. Ground rules. To make sure, I can’t take advantage of you.”

            “And how would you win.”

            “Simple, I convince you to beg me to relieve you. Three times. You have to beg me specifically to relieve you three times and then after that I won’t hold back. We’ll alleviate your virgin status and if you want you’ll never have to see me again after your heat ends and your time with me ends."

            “It’ll have to be a specific phrase each time to make sure I’m thinking clearly enough to make the choice. And me getting off accidentally because of my heat can’t count. I can’t control it, especially if you start trying to leverage that end.”

            “Sounds fair.”

            “Write up some ground rules and we can start tomorrow.”

            “You’ll never break me, you know.”

            “Then it looks like I have a lot of expenses ahead of me.” Peter says, kisses him on the cheek and shoves off the couch. “Once I issue a challenge, I don’t take it back. If you make that list; I won’t relent until I win, or your heat abates. And, if you choose to quit at any point once we’ve begun; I will request your presence through the council next year.” Peter walks out of view into the kitchen, opens the refrigerator, and pulls out fruit water and pours himself a cup.

            Stiles walks in, his jaw is set firm. The look he gives Peter shakes something loose inside the alpha. “You’re on.” Stiles walks back out.

Notes:

I hope you guys enjoy the outset of this fic. I'm basically internally screaming trying to force y brain to focus enough to write it. I felt satisfied to end a first chapter here. The first 3k was easy enough to write but the last third was brutal with my brain fighting every moment to distract me from the page. I went back over it several times and think it ended up pretty good.

Tell me if the flashbacks need some sort of improved demarcation. Also, notify me of any tags you think are important that I forgot. Like I said, poor focus towards the end here.

Enjoy!
XOXO Iru_Naru
Peace

Chapter 2: Playing By the Rules

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

            “Stop that,” Stiles says.

            “Why?”

            “It makes it difficult to concentrate.”

            “Shall that go on your rules list then?”

            “Shut up.”

            “You’ve been saying both of those things for the last ten minutes. Yet, you still haven’t written it in your preliminary rules set,” Peter teases. He peers over at the paper in question from his place on the couch behind Stiles. Stiles is squirming and slumping in place as Peter’s fingers dig into his shoulder muscles. Stiles stares harder at the paper in front of him. “I always tell people that I want them to feel comfortable saying whatever they’re feeling to my face,” Peter says after another moment of silence. “They never do though.”

            “Probably because they know you’re just trying to get free information.”

            “Underhanded solicitation is beneath me. People reveal enough of themselves without me begging for more,” Peter says and digs his fingers in deeper.

            Stiles groans. His fingers crumple the page of paper in his hand. He closes his eyes and stands up. “Just stay there and let me focus.” Stiles walks outside, strides down the beach, and sits on the deep brown metal chair beside the glass table from earlier in the day. He places the paper on it and tries to smooth it on the rose gold painted metal edge. He looks inside the house. Peter’s out of view for the moment. The large red lounging couch’s low back reveals the hall behind it. The stairs are beautiful, but they break the room up and disguise the entrance. It has a glass encasement with a sleek chrome railing from bottom to top. Its wide enough to fit at least six people side to side Stiles estimates.

            Stiles studies the area for a while longer before returning to the paper. He looks at it.

  1. No deprivation on physical needs (Sleep, Food, Water, etc.)

            Stiles hears the faint rasp of a sliding door and his hand stalls above the page. He looks around, but Peter’s no where to be seen and the back door is still closed. He goes back to the page and starts to write again.

  1. No public appearances until the end of the week.
  2. No

            His hand scratches a hole in the paper when he smells it. His eyes twitch and he focuses in on a third-floor balcony. He folds up the paper and heads inside the house. Stiles marches directly through the building up the stairs back to Peter’s room. He slams the door open to the sight of clothes strewn across the floor. The bathroom door is wide open and he can see Peter in the shower. He'd left that door open as well giving Stiles an eyeful of everything the his nose already told him was happening. “Could you not?”

            “What was that? I couldn’t hear you over the water,” Peter says, a grin splits across his face. “Come in here.”

            Stiles goes to the glass door of the balcony and slams it shut. “I’m breaking it next time,” he declares and walks back out of the bedroom and closes that door too. He takes the paper out of his pocket, and slaps it on the wall. He finishes the third rule:

            No forcing me to watch you fuck other people.

***

            The Twins were nice at first, if not a bit odd. Ethan seemed interested. Aiden didn’t. They chose him together anyway. They were announced as “recently risen” alphas when the Milwaukee Region Emissary Council introduced them. That meant one thing. They left him alone during the car ride over, mostly electing to talk to each other. They didn’t haul him off early either, which was a surprise. It was hard focusing through the rest of his sixth ceremony, heat struck early this year for everyone, the second year in a row. When they got out, Ethan took his hand and then opened the doors for him. He was ushered inside and was shuffled into a near barren dining hall before being shown the rest of the house.

            Probably killed some old dude in his 60s. He thought as they showed him around their residence.

            “It’s under renovation. We were only released our funds recently, it takes time to update everything,” Aiden tells him while they’re in their eighth endless white hallway of the tour.

            “It’s very clean,” Stiles offers.

            “Aiden hates cobwebs, he made sure that the entire place was washed and repainted starting the first day we moved in.” They lead him down the hall to a large sunset orange room with a bay window overlooking Lake Michigan. There’s a large bed in the center of the room that’s adorned with white sheets and red pillows, other strangely shaped furniture is sprinkled across the room. “This is where you’ll be staying,” Ethan tells him. Several feet from the bed is a chrome pole that protrudes from the floor to the ceiling. Stiles nods and enters. He tries not to say anything, but the expectations are clear.

            “Can I ask you a personal question?” Stiles asks.

            “Conditionally,” Aiden says.

            “So long as it isn’t rude,” Ethan says and elbows Aiden in the ribs.

            “Why do you guys choose together?” Stiles asks and walks to the window.

            “Oh, that.”

            “We inherited our power together. So, we choose together,” Aiden says.

            “Okay, and why did you choose me?”

            “I just couldn’t resist. You smelled so, different from all the others,” Ethan says.

            “Does this mean you’re both going to try to, you know.”

            Aiden laughs. “No, I’m not interested. I was done with men the first time. Even if you’re an omega. I’m just not going for it.”

            “Yeah, we are totally opposite about the whole thing.” Ethan says. “We’re going to take turns choosing traditionally. But, this room isn’t just for you to be honest.”

            “What?”

            “We plan on finding several others to choose from for the week. Though, you’ll be Ethan’s primary focus. We want to remove as many omegas from the selection pool as possible,” Aiden informs him.

            “We were omegas last year. We got chosen as a pair, as requested,” Ethan says.

            “I wasn’t happy about who chose us,” Aiden grits out.

            “But now, we’re here.” Ethan lands a hand on Aiden’s shoulder.

            “Right.” Aiden forces a smile.

            “Well, make yourself comfortable. We’re going to find something to eat. If you need anything there’s a button on the wall to call for some beta security guards. They’ll help direct you to whatever you need.”

            Stiles sits on the pad on the nook of the window and stares out over the water. He waits for their voices and footsteps retreat before he sighs.

***

            Stiles starts investigating the house, looking for something to distract himself from the indecency he can’t tune out upstairs. He starts on the third floor but is met with a series of locked doors. He tries the second floor next. The first door is locked; however, the second door is already open. The slight crack reveals an artfully arranged series of vintage arcade games. The sounds of each is muted, but the blinking lights are a siren song in and of themselves. He slips inside and shuts the door quietly. He shuffles over to a Galaga machine and presses the start button. The music trills in his ears to signal the start of the game, and Stiles is instantly lost in a pattern of joystick jostling and button mashing. When he loses his last life, the sudden silence gives purchase to the goings on upstairs. He slaps the start button again.

            Stiles gets another ten stages in before Peter comes downstairs. Stiles registers an open and shutting of the door behind him but can’t afford to take his eyes off the screen.

            “Glad to see you’re enjoying yourself.” Peter says and Stiles eyes register motion in his periphery. The o.g. PacMan machine starts whirring and whomping next to him.

            “I hate losing. You reek,” Stiles says.

            “We all lose eventually. And try being on this side of things. You’d understand my predicament.”

            “And not me, not this year. You offering to trade?”

            “Of course not. You plan on staying in this room without food or drink for the remainder of your stay?”

            “No, you’ll feed me. You all do. You always do. I love it, probably the best thing about this whole set up. I wonder what level I can get to with your assistance. My brain absolutely shuts off and focuses when I’m eating. Probably the only time my brain is ever not splitting focus.” Stiles says and rapid fire clears the last of the enemy ships on the screen. “Yes!”

            “Good to know. Though I don’t really think we’ll be able to play our game if you’re here playing this one. I won’t feed you if I can’t even get a participation trophy.”

            “And what would that trophy be?” Stiles retorts.

            “Your attention.”

            “You already have it.”

            “Undivided.”

            Stiles glances over while the screen resets. Peter is smiling but isn’t looking away from the glowing screen in front of him. “Fine, but only if you can outlast me in this game here. Otherwise, you’ll never get my respect as a gamer.”

            “And so, it begins.”

            They spend the next half hour playing games next to each other. Peter keeps stealing touches from him. Fleeting grazes of his hand on Stiles’s skin serve only to distract. He loses several extra ships because of it. Peter breezes through levels as efficiently as can be made possible only dropping a single life.

            “You know I just realized how much of a handicap you’re playing.”

            “You set the terms. I’m just playing by the rules.”

            “You’re cheating.”

            “You told me to outlast you. Maneuvering a joystick efficiently is one of my many talents. You never said I had to play two handed,” Peter cajoles.

            “You’re depraved you know that. Truly, you joke like a teenager. Completely immature.”

            “What should I be? Decrepit? Tired? Sagely and wise? The world doesn’t work like that. You don’t age until suddenly you’re some sagely hermit. Sometimes, you persist long enough to embarrass a twenty something that’s half decent at Galaga.” Peter says in his ear. Stiles looks over and sees he’s between levels and frowns.

            Stiles hears a ship exploding coming from his machine. “Fuck!”

            “Lose your last ship?” Peter chides.

            “You wish.”

            “May I ask you a question?” Peter says some time later.

            “No, but I know you’ll ask anyway.”

            “Why didn’t you ever?”

            “Try to become an Alpha?”

            “It’s confused me since I read your file. You’ve launched several alphas, myself included clear across the room. It’s not like you lack the strength to take it.”

            “I don’t want to be like you.”

            “Want to try that again? I barely heard the lie when you said ‘I don’t want.’ Maybe if you tell me a second time it’ll be easier.”

            “Not that it’s any of your business,” Stiles says and turns. “I don’t want to use interpersonal violence to get what I want from people. It’s wrong. I protect myself when I have to, nothing more.” His last ship explodes in the background and he walks to the door to the room.

            Peter’s caught up to him by the time that he opens the door. He grabs Stiles by the hand softly. “Are you hungry?” Peter asks and points to the clock on the wall. 6:03.

            After a moment of consideration Stiles looks back at Peter. “Only because I know you’ll stop asking me questions if I’m chewing. You’re the polite company type of eater and I know you’d hate to watch me talk with my mouth full.”

            “We have an accord at last.”

***

            Stiles bites into the caviar with delight. The salty taste fills his mouth and instantly he relaxes. Peter gives him several more crackers piled high with it before changing to a more substantial dish. The cooking staff walks out with a lobster bisque and fresh baked sourdough. Peter tears several strips and dips the bread in the broth scooping some lobster onto it and giving some to Stiles. Each bite he takes is matched with a bite of what remains by Peter. Peter’s gaze is intense and poised, but Stiles can sense the motive beneath the surface. The longer they share a meal the more his shift is curling in his stomach and screaming for him to run. He stays seated for the full meal, but his toes tap and leg jostles until Peter steadies him. “Remain calm,” Peter says. “I won’t make any moves without your go ahead. If you can steady yourself, I can abate my temptation easier.” Peter feeds him a bite of squid ink crab tortellini with a shallow breath.

            “Why does me being nervous change anything? Is it like a turn on or something? I’ve never really gotten it from your side. Most alphas don’t want to talk,” Stiles asks after swallowing.

            “Sensory overload. It just taxes each sense that much more. I can’t not pay attention to everything you do. So, when you’re shaking, making extra noises, and letting of more types of chemical signals-”

            “It’s harder to focus on remaining calm.” Stiles finishes.

            “Yes.” Peter says and removes his hand from Stiles’s leg.

            “I gotta say you picked the worst possible person to ask not to fidget.”

            “Your ADHD.”

            “You can tell?”

            “I read about it. They put a lot in those files.”

            “Great.”

            “You’re probably lucky they do.”

            “Why?” Stiles asks.

            “It has a lot of alphas scared. Only people who want a challenge would pick you at this point. You’re basically a legendary catch, an unbreakable stallion. Most of the worst behaved going forwards will leave you alone after what you did to Kali and the one before the twins. What was his name again?”

            “Jonas.” Stiles sets his jaw and grips the arm of his chair.

            “German alpha, right? I hear he died last year, and Kali chose not to attend a choosing ceremony this year,” Peter states and then takes a bite for himself.

            “Can we not talk about that year?”

            “Very well, lets go back to eating,” Peter continues after a moment and Peter tilts Stiles’s chin up. “You should be proud of what you did that year.” Then after a pause he lifts another bite to Stiles’s mouth. Peter lowers his hand from Stiles’s chin and brushes his thumb lightly over the back of Stiles’s hand. A moment later it’s gone and somehow Stiles feels able to eat again. They finish out the rest of the meal in silence. Peter makes no moves to try for small talk and Stiles’s nerves settle out again. When he signals he’s done eating, Peter simply stands from his seat and ascends the stairs and disappears to a room on the third floor.

            Stiles is left sitting alone looking down at his paper and adds more rules to the list.

  1. Don’t ask about Jonas.
  2. No locking doors of rooms I’m in.
  3. I must have access to the time and date upon request.
  4. No physical abuse.
  5. No deprivation of stimuli or social interactions.

            Stiles finishes writing out what he can think of by nine thirty and then seeks out Peter upstairs. He knocks on the door next to the master bedroom and Peter opens the door quickly. He hands the sheet of pocket crinkled paper to Peter and walks to the bedroom and sits on the balcony beyond the sliding glass doors. He looks Peter joins him and hands the paper back a few minutes later.

            Joining his rules are two of Peter’s own

  1. All meals will be fed to you (Stiles) by me (Peter).
  2. We will shower and sleep together. I may wash you personally with permission.

            Stiles looks at the paper, looks back up and nods. “I’ll have trouble sleeping next to you though.”

            “I can command it of you to sleep if necessary.”

            Stiles fiddles his lips side to side and braces the paper on the railing. He scrawls out another rule:

  1. All “Alpha Commands” will be made upon my requests only and only to benefit my wellbeing.

            Peter looks at it and chuckles. “You’re surprisingly pragmatic.”

            “This isn’t my first time in an alpha’s home. I interned in a paralegal department during university. This is in no way professional. I didn’t even get to draw up paperwork or anything while I worked there. I mostly schlepped supplies and refreshments around. But, I saw paperwork drawn up a lot. I did my best, if not admittedly uninformed approximation of what I saw when I was working there,” Stiles says, punctuating his statement with a shrug.

            “Regardless of what professionals will say I believe this will do us well for this week.”

            “It’ll be more than a week. Most times my cycles last ten or more days. When I was fifteen… it lasted two weeks.”

            “Then I suppose we should get some rest. We woke early for the ceremony.”

            “Yeah, I could hit the sack right about now,” Stiles yawns and stretches.

Notes:

I hope you all enjoy.
For future ease of tracking, starting next chapter I will be linking and posting an accompanying fic that will be specifically to track the negotiation and rules page. It will be multi-chaptered as a result of the updates and wanting to keep the rules unspoiled for future readers if they want it but also be something that can be referenced so readers don't have to work so hard at getting it. Also, it saves me from having to put the whole document awkwardly into any one chapter. :)
Will it be cringe? Yes, probably.
Will it be helpful to both the reader and me as a writer to make sure I'm not rewriting things for no reason? Also yes.
Enjoy,
XOXO Iru_Naru

Chapter 3: Choice

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

             Stiles wakes up slowly to the bliss of his crotch rubbing against Peter’s own. At first, he doesn’t realize he’s gyrating against his heat mate. He’s still submerged beneath the heady warmth of the blankets and enveloped by the scent of the man next to him. The underwear between them is slick and drifts across his cock like the torturous silk that it is. 

             Stiles opens his eyes to Peter’s half-lidded blue eyes greeting him. The challenging glare Peter usually sports has been softened by a light smile. “Enjoying our morning, are we?” Peter whispers. 

             It jolts Stiles back into his skin and he uncouples their legs. He rolls out of bed and stumbles into the bathroom. He slams the door and turns on the shower. He slumps against the wall and grips himself hot and quick. He strokes in swift short motions playing the top of his cock mercilessly in his palm. He rests his head against the wall behind him and tries desperately not to think of Peter in the soft morning light. He finishes quickly the first time and can feel a rush as he starts again. It’s too sensitive, he’s roiling under his skin, but he can still smell the remnants of what Peter did the previous night in the now misty air of the bathroom. It beckons him forward. He can hear Peter’s leisurely breathless pants chasing after him from his station in the bed just beyond the door. In a host of a few more minutes, he’s finished again. 

             He lays against the wall spent, for a moment, until Peter walks in naked and picks him up. Peter carries him to the shower and sits him on one of the white stools that rests beneath the shower head. Peter sits in front of him and picks up the bottle of body wash. He pours some out and presents his hands with a pause. “May I?”

             “I can do it myself.” Stiles says and glances at the bottle. 

             “Suit yourself,” Peter says and starts to scrub at his own chest. The white stripes on his skin disappear beneath the bubbles. 

             Stiles picks up the bottle himself and is surprised that to find it heavy in his hand. Peter flashes a wry smile for such a short moment Stiles questions it even happened. He coats his hands and lathers it into his skin. The vanilla amber scent of the soap soaks into his skin. Stiles scrubs himself clean roughly, his nails dig into his own skin leaving quickly fading red marks. 

 

***

             Sitting in Deucalion’s clothes was uncomfortable. They’re mostly scratchy. They smelled weird. All the woolen sweaters reeked of pine wood, bonfire, and whiskey. All the pants smelled too clean. 

             It was stifling being in the lodge. Stiles spent most of the days dodging him to poor success. Deucalion took him out on the slopes almost as soon as they arrived. They’d skied for hours and Stiles had been exhausted by the time they’d gotten back inside.

             Each time he’d fallen Deucalion would be next to him in a moment righting him. His hand was reassuring in the small of his back with each primary push forward, but Stiles was off balance for more reason than one. Deucalion’s grip over his as he was instructing him how to hold the ski poles was unnerving. It made his skin crawl and his inner wolf claw to the surface. It made it harder to focus on the compacting snow beneath him and the directions Deucalion was straining to supply him, over and over again. Deucalion’s smiles were cold. They resembled the ones Stiles had only seen on violent offenders. 

             Every step closer together was another Stiles wanted to run away. He stayed still the first time Duec kissed him. It wasn’t his first time. He’d kissed girls before, even a guy in 10th grade, but this was different. His heat shrieked through his body and pushed him to kiss back. Each moment he remained still turned the thrill of it into a sinking weight crushing his guts. 

             Deucalion pulled away with a smile that Stiles didn’t know how to place. “That wasn’t so bad was it?” 

             Stiles squeaked in response. He did his best to smile. Deucalion pulled his sweater and shirt off and looked at him.  “Shower with me,” Deucalion said red bleeding into his eyes. 

             Stiles got up from the bedroom hearth immediately. He walked straight into the master bathroom and found himself standing naked beneath the lukewarm spray coming from the hose connected shower head. 

             His skin heated when Deucalion’s fingers began to trace over the speckles on his back. Deucalion stood behind him. But, he felt Deucalion’s smile on his cheek as he stared straight ahead at the harsh cured wood of the shower. Stiles felt the fingers slip between his arms and his body and grip his chest and abs. “So many firsts to discover and re-discover. I wonder what obsessions of yours we will uncover this week.” Duec punctuated it with a kiss on his cheek. 

             Stiles fled the shower the moment Deucalion had finished cleaning his body. 

             “Don’t worry. It seems impossible now, but soon you’ll not only accept my hands on you; you’ll be begging me to adorn you with my attention. You all do.” 

             Deucalion led him to the heat room at his request. Stiles fretted his fingers over his own skin for hours before blackness took him. 

 

***

 

             It takes a while for him to notice his hands have been caught, stuck an inch above his skin. He looks up at Peter and takes his hands back. 

             “As lovely a sight your body is in my shower, blood stains aren’t something my tile and shower chairs need.” Peter gazes down and Stiles sees pink specks on the shower chair beneath him. 

             “Sorry.” 

             “Where were you?” 

             “Just another castle, wrapped in clothes that seep into mind and remind me where I’m not, in another foreign shower I’ll never forget.”  Stiles stands and walks out of the shower. 

             He walks down to the dining room and glares at the service staff member until he leaves through the kitchen’s back door. He pushes a table in front of the glass doorway and puts it with a chair from the corner. He grabs an omelet, covers it, and places it on the table before walking off. He finds his clothes in the hands of a worker in a washroom. “Burn them,” he says and turns around. 

             Peter’s at the table dressed in more beach ware. A white cotton shirt with horizontal blue stripes stretches over his chest. The bottom most of the collar’s three buttons strains to remain in its place. The baby blue shorts he’s wearing are decorated with faded white waves. Stiles sits next to him. 

             “It’s time for breakfast.” Stiles says and waits for Peter to start. There’s more food on the table now. Fruits and juices adjoin the omelet. He can smell pastries beneath another platter cover. 

             He eats everything he’s offered and then looks off to the beach. “We should do something today. While I still can.” 

             “What would you like to do?” 

             “Something. Anything. I need to get clothes for my return home. Your housekeepers touched mine. I can’t wear them anymore.” 

             “Is that so?”

             “I’ll never get the smell out. The soap. The unrecognizable oils lingering in the cotton. I need something new.” Stiles says not looking Peter in the eye. 

             “Okay, where would you like to go?”

             “Somewhere nice. Something I’d never be willing to shop at myself.” 

             “This sounds an awful lot like something you’d be getting after winning our bet. “

             “Next week when I leave here triumphant you can look at me and appreciate how hot I look in an outfit you’ll hate to see leave your house. It’s just one more loss you can afford to risk, not that you think you’ll lose. Either way, I think you can find it in your heart to send me home with something to replace the lost wages from being here.” 

             “Your tongue is perhaps your most dangerous feature,” Peter hums and looks his body up and down. 

             “That’s saying a lot considering. I’ve grown a lot since my first choosing ceremony.” 

             “Is it? Your mouth doesn’t restrain itself, unlike your claws. No amount of muscle matters if you won’t use it.” Peter pulls out the paper and slides it over the table to him. 

             Stiles reads it. 

             C.  All physical injuries you inflict will be on me or not at all

             "What the hell is this?”

             “This week, I can handle the pain you can’t talk about.” 

             “What kind of masochistic bullshit is that?” Stiles stands and stomps up the stairs heading for the bedroom.

             “I won’t discuss my reasoning, and in any event it’s on the page now. You may relent at any time, otherwise abide by it.” Peter says pulls out his phone and pursues him leisurely. 

             Stiles finds the most abandoned clothes he can and puts them on. In a few short minutes, they’re in the front seat of “one of” Peter’s “Shelby Cobras”. A few minutes later, he’s in an Italian inspired boutique somewhere off the main drag in Newport Beach.

             The store just opened or seems to have. The woman behind the counter seems tired like her sleep was disrupted recently. “Welcome to my store,” She says. Her blonde curls hang loose along her neck and she’s wearing a fearsome black slip dress and killer red heels. “

             “Thank you for your help in my time of need, Erica.”

             “Anything for my most loyal customer.” She smiles, and Stiles laughs. 

             “Your customer service voice is amazing. But how tired you are makes it seem like you’d rather be eating us than be here,” Stiles says.

             “Where’d you find this one?” Erica sneers.

             "He’s a limited edition. Guaranteed to insult anyone he encounters,” Peter jeers and ushers Stiles further into the store. 

             “So, he’s only slightly less intolerable than you are.”

             “You’d be surprised how demanding he is.”

             “Only this week I bet.” She walks over to Stiles and walks around him. “Have you taken measurements for the suit you mentioned?” 

             “No. But, I’m sure we can have them done for you in a moment. Hand me the measuring tape?”

             Erica tosses the tape to Peter. “Stay still.” Peter’s hands wrap around his waist, shoulders, and chest quickly. He crouches and measures his legs and just about every other place Stiles didn’t know was important. He then rattles a bunch of numbers off to Erica who writes them down. 

             “How long do we have?” She asks.

             “Today? However long he wants to look around. But he needs them by Monday.” 

             “I’ll get some samples out. Any preferences?” She looks at Stiles.

             “Paisley.” Stiles returns looking her dead in the eye. 

             “Paisley?” Peter asks.

             “You have anything worth looking at in it?” Stiles asks.

             “I have beautiful everything,” Erica says and then disappears. 

             Stiles takes a blue and white thin-knit sweater. He holds it to his chest and turns to Peter. 

             “The gradient makes it look like a cloudy sky,” Peter says.

             Stiles looks down and back up. “Is that a bad thing?” 

             “Only if it’s made of poly blended fabric.”

             “Don’t even think about disgracing the name of my store,” Erica shouts from a back room. 

             “It says alpaca on the tag.” 

             “In that case I like it.” 

             Stiles tries it on. It fits him a bit loose, but Peter’s hum doesn’t sound like he’s retching so he figures it’s a good choice. He takes it off and puts it on the counter. 

             Erica comes out a bit later with several swatches of fabric for him to test. He flips through them looking for something, anything, that he likes. Midway through a surprisingly deep stack of thirty or more paisley samples he stops. He pulls out a soft two layered fabric with gold embroidery on the outward side laid over an inky blue, black, and purple base. He pulls it out and lays it on the table. “This is it.” Peter looks over and stares at it silently. 

             “Bold,” Erica says from beyond the counter. She pulls on its edges. “It has some good give to it. I’ll cut it to the dimensions you gave me, and I’ll have it ready soon. I wish I could pin it to you, but I don’t think that’ll be possible this week.” 

             “I can do the chalking after the preliminary cuts if you’d like to deliver the preliminary product to my home.” Peter says. “What color pants?” 

             “With this? Either a very deep navy or black slack.” 

             “We’ll take one of each,” Peter tells her. “Charge my account for your work. And this as well.” He points to the cloudy after noon sweater. 

             Stiles picks it up off the counter and let’s Peter guide him to the door. “Thanks Erica.” 

             “I expect photos to come with the chalking and I want to see how it fits once I send the finished garment as well. My portfolio could use some more exciting pieces. The rich snobs around here always ask for stuffy professional designs.”

             “I’ll email them. Thanks for opening early for us.” With Peter’s last words, they stumble out onto the street. Stiles grips the sweater in his arms. 

             “So uh, where to next?”

             “More shopping or something else?”

             “Something else, I don’t know what’s to do around here. What do you like to do?” Stiles walks back towards the car. 

             “I’m more of a socialite. It’s not the best week for it. Most of my peers are hopelessly overcome at the moment. Charming them while eviscerating their social merit wouldn’t be much of a challenge. Maybe we can find something quieter to do.” 

             “Are there any good places to walk around? I could use some exercise. It’d be a good way to waste some time.”

             “Sure, there are some lesser used trails we could walk or bike around. We’d have to go back to the house to pick some food depending on how long we’d be out.”

             “That sounds fine.”

             “Biking or walking?”

             “Walking. I could use a good shift. I haven’t gotten to go on a run in a long while. Even with the parks in my area, it’s just not the same.”

             “I wouldn’t be able to join you. I’ll carry the water and other supplies instead.”

             “Why not?”

             “Some abilities, impossible as it may seem, can in fact, be stolen from you.” Peter says. He twists the key and sets the Cobra into motion.

             Peter takes longer than Stiles would’ve wanted to get everything together. Stiles’s patience is thin by the time they get to the trails Peter takes him to. His hands are clammy. He knows it’s a risk. Running, here, now, with Peter so close by. But he can’t stop himself. As soon as they’ve turned the second time, he’s feverishly shrugging out of Peter’s clothes and shifting. He gasps as his bones creak, crack, and snap into new positions. The process leaves him panting. He fights the urge to howl. Peter won’t look at him when he shifts. He nips at Peter’s calves and races off into the brush.

             He lopes around for a while just breathing in the world around him. He chases the high that’s building in his muscles and flooding his body. Stiles loses himself. He fails to notice himself traipsing across the path past Peter over and over again. Eventually, he slows into a more leisurely trot. He circles the space absently until he notices what keeps drawing him back. Anxious pain radiates through Peter’s scent as he trudges the path that Stiles can’t help but orbit.

             It takes him a while longer but eventually he falls into step beside Peter. Not soon after he shifts back. Peter hands him his clothes. He pulls on the shorts and studies Peter’s face. “What did you mean when you said some abilities can be stolen from you? I know that alpha-hood can be stolen, but something tells me that’s not what you mean.”

             Peter rubs the right side of his face and takes a drink of water. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

             "Well, you reek of anxiety. I’m guessing that’s not a normal state for you. So, we can do this now or we can do this later. But, I’m gonna get it out of you.”

             “Another game to play.” Peter smiles and starts walking again.

             They don’t stop again until Peter guides them to an outcropping. Peter unslings the backpack from his shoulder. He sets it down on a rock and starts pulling out snacks. They eat in silence. Peter smiles, eyes intent, but doesn’t start a conversation. The food is fine, nothing he couldn’t get at the organic market down the street from his apartment.

             “Thanks.”

             “What for?” Peter asks.

             “Not being so… alpha-y.”

             “I’m not.”

             “Not what?” Stiles asks confused.

             “Acting unlike an alpha.”

             “You’re acting unlike any alpha I’ve ever met.”

             “Stiles,” Peter looks off to the horizon. “Most of these alphas you met, they didn’t grow up like I did, in a stable family-based pack. Alphas are supposed to be leaders, support systems, guardians. It used to be passed down families in a matriarchal and patriarchal lineage a lot more than it does now. My father was an alpha, he passed it down to my sister before he died. She practically raised me. Her stifling motherly instincts were cumbersome and even cruel at times, but she tried to protect us. Alphas should be kind. I do my best to do right by those under my care when I can. This includes you for now.”

             Stiles looks out at the water as he chews on another grape. He waves his hand, “So, like, all the rest of them; they’re just like total random assholes. I know I don’t have a representative sample size, but I’m fairly sure only meeting like two decent alphas out of eleven isn’t just bad luck.”

             “Other than Deucalion, none of the other alphas you met gained their status through non-violent means. Once upon a time, he was a better man. But many awful things have happened since I was your age. Pack stability requires good consuls. I’m afraid that our current leaders are less in maintaining wellbeing than they are the balance. Eventually, I assume this will cause a problem so great that there will be total upheaval of the system we’ve fallen into.”

             “So, you’re blaming it on bad politics.”

             “Mmmm, more so malicious mismanagement,” Peter says. “The contingencies of humans that reject druidism have some known terrorists. They’ve worked hard to disrupt the peace. Deucalion and I have both had our paths warped by people who refuse to feel the pull of the earth.”

             “In what ways?”

             “Maybe another time.”

             “You can’t just say shit like that and then stop.”

             “But I can. Needless to say, as a result of such actions you’ve been greeted with a far harsher structure than you deserve.” Peter bites into an apple. Then he offers it to Stiles. They lock eyes for a moment before either of them move again. Against his better judgment, Stiles bites into it. Warmth coils in his belly. Peter smiles and Stiles feels his cheeks heat. He breaks their eye contact. “Provision is one of the few important traditions we still have.”

             “There are other ones that don’t make it suck to be an omega.”

             “There were. Not that you can find them outside the personal collections of alphas from long lineages and druids.”

             “Like what? Can I read through these books.”

             “I can have some printed off. I digitized all the books in my family’s supernatural library when I was sixteen. Provision is one of many things that benefit omegas. It’s said that an omega can rise to alpha status if their bond to their mate is strong enough and their will as strong. Though that may just be a legend. Also, there’s the matter of the strength you have during heat.”

             “That’s because of alphas?” Stiles asks and clenches his fists.

             Peter takes Stiles’s hands in his own and twines their fingers together. “No, but you’re unbreakable this week. Your body is was born to make a choice. Omegas are born to ensure the cycle continues. Betas have to band together to topple a tyrant. An omega can fight an undeserving alpha and win. Or they can choose to join with them and make the pack stronger with their own resolve.”

             “This benefits me how?” Stiles asks. He leans in at the touch.

             “For one week out of the year you have the power to overturn a regime. Imagine what that kind of focus could achieve if properly applied.”

             “That doesn’t give me equal treatment,” Stiles’s says. His throat constricts and his claws creep out.

             “Then make, a choice,” Peter hisses.

             “How am I supposed to choose when all I can do is focus on what move you’re going to make next and if I really want you to or not?” He pulls his hands free of Peter’s grasp.

             “Decide if the alpha you’re with is capable of helping you achieve your goals. And if you deem them unworthy of their status, take it for yourself. Better the pack. Take your power and exert it to change the world around you.”

             “Kill, you mean.” Stiles stands up.

             “Shift the balance. Move the cycle forward.”

             “And if I deem you unworthy?”

             “I’d have to survive, as I always have,” Peter says, not moving from his seat on the rocky outcropping.

             Stiles walks away. He pulls off his clothes and starts to shift. “Let’s go. This conversation isn’t going anywhere.”

 

***

 

             Stiles was nearly drunk on all the pheromones in the room. Ethan and Aiden have been deflowering the other omegas for hours. He hasn’t left the window since it started. His body was paralyzed, rolling through waves of lust he could only just manage to sate with his own hand. They hadn’t made him do anything yet, but he could feel himself slipping. The door was shut, but on the far side of the room was a ventilation shaft that connected to the room Aiden utilized. It’d been hours of torturous lust filling his nose, over and over again. It’d been hours of hearing Ethan pulling sounds from Danny that made Stiles want to rip their hearts from their chests.

             Danny was Ethan’s only other choice. They barely parted since Danny was escorted to the room. The only time that they stopped was for lunch. It was spent with Ethan feeding them both. But Stiles had to stop letting him. He started to pull from the plates himself. The taste of their cum was still on Ethan’s hands and he had barely managed to keep himself from attacking them when it flooded his mouth with the first bite of steak.

             Their words drifted through his mind hazily as the sounds pulled him back under once more.

             “We’re doing this so that people don’t have to sit through this shit anymore.”

             “You’re special. If you want to you could change things. But, not if you keep doing this. You need to make a choice.”

             “You have to choose someone eventually Stiles. Why not choose us, choose me? Omegas can gain access to the council through the alpha they first mate with.”

             “If you just go along with it this year you’ll never have to deal with this situation again unless you want to.”

             “We want to free omegas from this process.”

             He rioted against the words repeatedly. Their plan is just a band aid. It doesn’t fix anything. It just steals the choice out from under people without the same pretense of importance. We’re still not choosing to be here. Stiles whimpered when Ethan’s lips landed on his. He screamed when he had to push Ethan off himself. He cried could no longer remember why he was doing this to himself.

Notes:

I hope you all enjoyed. Don't even really know what to say about this chapter.

The companion fic can be found here:
Levies And Litigations
It is labeled by chapter it is relevant to. This way I can keep it all looking nice and y'all can have an easier time keeping track. It probably won't look nice unless someone knows how to make a thing look like its on a crumple piece of paper. If you do hit me up I guess.

Iru_Naru XOXO Peace

Chapter 4: I Insist

Notes:

I'm starting work on the Steter Secret Santa this year as well. I hope you guys enjoy this :) I'm going to keep chugging through this as best I can. I've really enjoyed this and as always if you guys feel there's any need for additional tagging etc please keep me posted with what you notice.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

      When they arrive back at Peter’s oversized villa Stiles stalks his way back into the rec room and starts in on a game of Donkey Kong. He stays there jumping, ducking, and climbing his way through the levels. He’s met with little success. He can’t focus and every time he gets hit, it just feeds his fury until he just winds up back at the starting screen. He plays the levels doggedly but makes no headway on progressing through the beginning levels. He moves on to a racing game but has about as much success.

      Peter comes in when Stiles has resigned himself back to Galaga.

      “Is this really how you want to spend the rest of the day?” Peter says. He leans in the doorway, arms crossed loosely in front of his chest.

      “No, but I can’t concentrate. I should have remembered to stuff my meds in my pockets before those guards escorted me to the ceremony.”

      “I took the liberty of having your belongings brought here. Washed hands and sterilized gloves were used per my orders.”

      “Great. Thanks.” Stiles turns back to the game.

      Peter makes to walk forward but stops himself mid step. “Did I overstep?”

      Stiles hunches over the controls more. He moves the joystick in faster choppier motions and slaps the fire button harder.

      “Should I leave?” Peter asks.

      “No,” Stiles says. “Just stop it.”

      “Stop what?”

      “This weird prodding thing you’re doing. If I want to tell you something, I’ll tell you.”

      “You say that as if you’re not the type to never say another word to me.”

      “Tch,” Stiles responds. “Any chance you’ll show me those books?”

      “You can start in my study. Two doors down. I’ll leave it unlocked for you.” Peter says and exits the room fully. Stiles hears keys jingle and a latch clunk. Then Peter’s footsteps retreat down the stairs and a muted scuffing sound precedes the house emptying of all organic noise.

      Stiles sighs. He walks out of the rec room and investigates the study. It’s surprisingly small. There’s a dark oak desk centered at the back of the room. Beyond it is a couple of matching shelves and a picture in an old, burnt frame between them.

      The left side is taken over by a long burgundy sofa and an end table. The right is occupied by another bookshelf and a smart board. He looks up to see a projector set as far from it as possible. The desk is clean, but markings on the wood make it obvious that the laptop has been stowed somewhere. He tries the drawers, but they’re all locked.

      He leaves it alone. Then he scans the bindings for whatever is looks oldest. It takes him a while, but he eventually pulls out a haggard spined brown leather tome. The embossing has worn off entirely making the title illegible.

      Stiles sits on the couch and opens it gingerly. The book is written in a soft faded black ink. The penmanship greets him kindly. He shuts it almost immediately after reading the title. “Hale Family Lineage: A Generational Recollection Of Traditions.”

      He places it on the end table behind him and a clunking sound has him flailing to catch whatever is falling to the ground. Eventually, his hands find a cool tablet on the ground between the couch and the wooden stand.

      He presses the home button and is surprised to find it opens to the home screen. He looks at it and finds that other than preset apps the only thing on it are several streaming apps. None of the profiles reveal anything interesting about Peter’s entertainment preferences. They’re all irritatingly blank profiles named Guest.”

      He turns to a news app and watches replays of the events. Several clips of hormone drunk Omegas flit across the screen. The news anchors are unkind as their respective alphas escort them out of whichever banquet halls they’re occupying.

***

      Theo had to be the most annoying alpha Stiles was ever claimed by. His presence was overbearing. Each sentence was another covetous innuendo. Each suggestion was another push, another pull in some direction to get a reaction.

      Theo’s reckless agitations had him on the verge of lunacy by the night of the banquet.

      “I’m not going,” Stiles slurred.

      “Yes, you will. And you’ll answer every question they ask you.” Theo strokes his thumb on Stiles’s chin.

      “Why?” Stiles grabs Theo’s wrist and turns his head away.

      “Because, if you don’t, you’ll never get to plug for your mission. I’m not going to bring you to any other event. This is your one chance.”

      “It’s mid heat week! I can barely think!” Stiles yelled and punched a hole in the sheet rock of the closet wall.

      Theo walked behind him and in one swift motion clasped a gold chrome collar with studs on the inside around his neck. Stiles tore at it, but the metal wouldn’t give.

      “Stiles, you should consider what you really want. I know what I’m after. Do you?”

      “This.” Stiles pulled at it harshly. “Changes nothing.” The studs dug into his neck as he yanked at the metal to try to dislodge it and free himself. He started to shift and immediately began seizing on the ground. The device pulsed harsh electricity through his body. He found himself again a while later still laying on the floor of the closet.

      “Finish dressing. We have a big night ahead of us.” Theo gave him a grin and walked out of the bedroom.

      Stiles rubbed softly at the rapidly healing burnt skin. He groaned softly and put on the deep green suit. He flubbed the tie knot on purpose and walked downstairs.

      “That looks great on you Stiles. I knew you’d clean up nice.” Theo said to him once he sat down in the foyer of the Victorian plantation style South Carolina house. Theo walked behind him, fixed the tie, and started massaging him. Stiles could barely keep his claws in check as he fought through the impulses. The more he curved away, the deeper Theo’s hands would dig into his upper back. His eyes flickered between their normal amber and the honey brown of his inner wolf. Each eruption of anger was met with a quelling tingling sourced at his neck.

      He watched forlorn as a regal looking table was carried into the front hall. Two plush chairs were placed behind it. Eventually, wires led from the table to the retrofitted wall sockets. Two microphones were placed on it and he watched and listened as several betas worked together on the sound check and finished the rest of the preparatory work.

      “Can you tell what I changed about my outfit?” Theo asked a few minutes before the reporters were let in.

      Stiles turned his head and looked Theo up and down, but the tight black suit and white shirt looked the same as they did earlier in the evening.

      “You’re using the wrong sense.” Theo whispered and straightened Stiles’s collar. Then he leaned in and ran his nose up Stiles’s neck.

      Stiles rose from his seat urgently and put a step between them. Stiles closed his eyes and did his best to reel in his unraveled focus. He sniffed the air. His eyes were bright when he finally caught his own scent drifting from Theo’s body. “What are you?”

      “Stiles, I think you know. You’re getting good at this. It’s why I chose you for my experiment.”

      “Those are-”

      “Mine. I had your stuff brought here.”

      “Take them off.”

      “I will. Later.”

      Stiles balled his fist and lurched forward to Theo. Electricity prickled light on his neck. Through his discomfort, Stiles fumbled for purchase on Theo’s belt. His hands were caught in Theo’s death grip before he could open the clasp. “Careful Stiles. You wouldn’t want to take us to a place you may not be able to stop. What would the reporters say? No doubt they can hear you from just beyond the door. Even a beta’s hearing can pick up on what you’re doing in here.”

      Stiles turned his head around, stricken. A tear fell from his eye before he could blink it back. His shoulders slumped and he felt Theo release him. He pulled his hands back and sat down at the table. “Call them in.”

      Theo sat next to him and waved at his beta, Tracy. She went to the door and opened it. Not long after the rooms were swarming with Theo’s guest. Stiles could barely breathe. Before he knew it, the interview had begun. He rambled through the questions with difficulty. Theo was silent the entire time he was struggling.

      “Mr. Stilinski, do you think you’ll be breaking your abstinence this year?” One reporter asked. This earned Theo getting up from the table and leaving.

      “No,” he answered once Theo had slipped up the stairs into another section of the mansion. “I still believe the system as it exists is a recipe for sexual assault. I couldn’t consent as it is. My body’s imperative robs me of that choice. If I weren’t so determined I’d probably take just about anyone, regardless of who they are as a person. Your partner should be more than just a body. Or, at least if you want… there should be the potential there.” It took him several minutes to get the answer out. It was so much easier when he practiced it in the mirror the day before. He’s split in half.

      Part of his mind was there, in the room, trying to answer. But, the other half was upstairs. The other half of him was trained on Theo. He could hear through all the feet shuffling and petitioning reporters what had taken place in the second floor in the farthest room of the house’s east wing. Theo was undressing. The click of the belt. The scrape of the button coming undone. The zipper rang. It beckoned his senses beyond his physical location.

      “Can you hear me Stiles?” Theo’s voice cut through Stiles’s sentence and stopped his ramblings short.

      “So you can. Good. I want you to hear me. Do you know what I’m doing?”

      Stiles twitched his ears and sniffed the air. He knew what was coming, the hectic scents of horny betas settled to the floor as the Theo’s scent finally travelled to his nose. It was faint, suppressed by the distance and noise, but the twisted arousal was clear. Stiles could feel his hands grip the table the moment Theo’s first gasp assailed him. Fighting to keep his speech going through the faint arrhythmic moans was like Chinese water torture. Every time he got to a point his train of thought fell into disarray as another bevy of desire disrupted his senses.

      When Theo finally came, he was loud. Stiles stood up. All his attempts at making his argument for omega rights ceased. His vision went red. Contempt boiled through him. Stiles heard soft fabric rub against the hair on Theo’s abs. “I’m going to put them back on now. They smelled like you. God, your heat scent is like heroine. I’ll see you soon.”

      Stiles clenched the table and straightened his back. He looked down at the wood beneath his hands. A wretched grin spread across his face. He pulled off the suit jacket and turned his attention back to the reporters. “You know I have to hand it to Theo. He’s by far the most impressive alpha I’ve met yet. I hate him perhaps most of all. He does everything he can to make me snap. The problem is, unlike his toys. I can’t be broken.”

      Stiles shifted just enough for his eyes to glow. He felt the power surge through him. He raised his hands up in the air and balls them into fists. Then without a moment’s hesitation, he slammed them down into the sturdy aged wood and shattered the desk. The splinters flew stinging his face. The crowd of party goers erupted, and he felt relief as the reporters scattered out the plantation house’s front doors. He roared. His claws slipped from his nail beds and pain roiled within him. His world went black.

***

      Stiles gives up his lost cause and goes to Peter outside. “Where’d they put my stuff.”

      “It’s in all airtight vacuum sealed bags in the heat room. Second floor. Third door on the left. Center hall.”

      “Alright.” Stiles shuffles off and finds his things. He undoes the seal and rifles through his things for his ADHD meds. It’s rough in his mouth when he swallows them. The after taste from the pill dissolving on his tongue while he waited for enough saliva to build up to down it was awful.

      He shoves the bottle in his pocket and closes the bag. He shuffles back down the stairs. He pauses at the last step and looks out to Peter relaxing on the beach. He has a book in his hand. His pink button-down shirt is open. It folds loosely around the sides of his chest. Small tufts of hair lay across Peter’s tanned chest softly rippling in the breeze. Stiles snaps his jaw back up when Peter looks at him through the glass and smiles.

      Stiles digs a pen and the paper out of his front pocket. Stiles licks his lips. Then he goes back outside. He sits down next to Peter and trains his eyes on the paper.

      “What should the different phrases be? They need to be...”

      “Distinct?” Peter eventually finishes for him. Peter puts a marker in the page, snaps it shut, and turns to the table.

      “Yeah.”

      “Let’s keep it simple.”

      “How simple.”

      “Very simple.” Peter extends his hands to take the pen and paper. “May I?”

      Stiles stares at Peter’s hands a moment before meeting Peter’s eyes. “Sure.”

      Peter takes the pen and hums. “How about... ‘Peter, please. I need this.’ Obviously, it would be contextual. I wouldn’t try to trick you into saying that and then take advantage. It would be a breach of contract.”

      “That’s too... general. I’d be more comfortable if it were more specific.”

      “What do you suggest?” Peter says, his brow twitches up and he leans in.

      Stiles gulps. He goes to take the pen back, but he meets Peter’s hand instead. He pulls it back and thrusts it down into his lap. Stiles ducks his head down.

      “What about ‘I need relief?’” Peter fields.

      “‘Kiss me.’”

      “What?”

      “The first request. It should be the phrase ‘kiss me’ as a demand. It would be a standalone.”

      “Isn’t that generic?”

      “I’ve never asked for it before.”

      “Would just kissing then be the full act?”

      “No. I’d want more.”

      “Okay. I can’t say this will help your chances.”

      “Concern yourself with your own odds.” Stiles snipes and then flees for the water.

      When Stiles returns, a waste bin has materialized and there’s a towel awaiting him on the beach table. It’s soft and smells new. He wraps himself in it and walks to the house. He dusts his feet off and then sits across from Peter who’s turned on a program about ancient art styles on the far wall. Peter picks up a remote. The voice covering the significance of the line structure halts.

      “Are you ready to eat?”

      Stiles nods.

      “Okay.” Peter slides over the paper and smiles. The first line he’d metered out is filled with Peter’s overly proper handwriting. “Kiss me.” Stiles nods. Then he scans down. 

      D) We shall both feed each other. 

      Stiles’s mind goes blank. He doesn’t stop looking at the page until he hears Peter chuckle. He looks up. Peter’s smile is soft. Stiles’s remembers how he’d looked in the morning. Naught, but a handful of moments later the edges return and the memory fades. 

      “Don’t look so surprised. We both like luxury after all,” Peter says. 

      “I just- no one’s ever asked me to before.”

      “I do love hearing that I’m original.”

      “I’ll bet.” Stiles says. “Alright, Let’s do this.” 

      “After you. I insist.” 

      Stiles’s hand starts shaking the moment he begins feeding Peter. His fingers feel clumsy as they grip even the simplest of foods to present them. He can barely aim his hand. Whenever he gets close enough; Peter moves to meet him. His skin prickles up and down his face. He focuses his eyes anywhere he can to avoid Peter’s eyes. Peter’s ears, hair line, chin. 

      Each time Peter’s lips graze over Stiles’s fingertips his eyes snap to Peter’s lips. It makes the shaking worsen. Each bite earns a Stiles little sound of delight from the man across from him. Each bite pulls Stiles forwards. Whenever Peter finishes a bite he smiles. Stiles’s body inches closer with each tender caress of Peter’s lips. They drag purposefully over his skin. Stiles knows Peter’s doing it on purpose. They drain the air from his chest, each consecutive breath shallows more. Halfway through Peter’s plate Stiles misses a grab with his left hand. He looks over to it and sees his own abandoned one next to it. Stiles realizes he hasn’t eaten anything. He hasn’t even tried. He hasn’t even thought of it. His lungs are rattling in his chest. He can’t steady himself. He drops the remaining half of a finger sandwich from his right. His arms go limp and he collapses a foot backwards into his chair rails. 

      Peter has a glass to Stiles’s own lips not a moment later. He tips up Stiles’s chin and gets him to swallow down some water. “You did better than I expected.” 

      “What. The hell. Was that?”

      “I never figured out a word for it.” Peter says. “Never needed one. There’s probably a word for it somewhere.”

      “You seriously don’t know?”

      “Would you have believed whatever information I might have been able to offer, even if I had warned you?”

      “Maybe. I- I’d probably do my own research anyway.” Stiles says begrudgingly.

      “Then what does it matter?” 

      “Because you knew it would happen?”

      Peter grins and wipes his own mouth. “You did better than I did my first time. Though, only in one certain way.” 

      “Which way is that?” Stiles asks and straightens in the chair. 

      “Time. You fed me hors d’oeurves for nearly fifteen minutes. However, the rate was agonizingly slow.”

      “At least we both suffered.”

      “Was it really that bad?”

      “Like being swarmed by hornets,” Stiles replies.

      “Time to rattle the nest and return the favor I suppose,” Peter says.

      The tacky anxiety subsides when he starts eating. The normal heady feeling of being fed simmers down into a glow that spreads to his extremities. So, he eats. He eats until his mind clears. He eats until his body stops feeling weak. 

      When they finish Stiles just feels warm. He feels tired. He lets Peter carry him upstairs when asked. Peter brings Stiles into the bathroom and places him on the tiles of the shower. Stiles steadies himself on the hand bar and peels out of the borrowed shorts. 

      They wash up and Stiles is nearly asleep when Peter joins him in bed. He drifts off to the sound of Peter’s murmurs. 

Notes:

Also: I'm considering getting a Beta if anyone is interested. Mostly because I want to make sure that the pacing of certain scenes is like... how I hear it when I type it out. IDK tell me if you're interested I guess. Not sure if you can DM on Ao3 but ya know it is what it is.

Be well, stay safe and healthy.
XOXO Iru_Naru

Chapter 5: Grasping At Smoke

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

      Stiles’s dreams taunt him. Men and women rush through his field of vision; each one promises less and demands more than the last. Hands grab at his body. Desperate, vile, heat and pleasure surge through him over and over and over again. Mouths suck at his skin and draw taught his overstimulated limbs. He coils and recoils endlessly in loops of memories. He’s carried limp through scene after scene of languorous sexual and physical toil.

      Each world of exquisite exhaustion and hateful lust sweep through him until they blend. His mind is awash with pain. With each moment his terror grows, and a dark figure grows in the background. Peter conjures himself forward to the center. The rest of his tormentors dissipate. Peter blows a kiss of white smoke.

       Stiles wakes up in a panic. His eyes flit open, bright. His claws are stuck steadfast in Peter’s arms. His breath comes in shallow short inharmonious puffs. He fights to get free, but he caught. Peter’s atop Stiles. He is pinning Stiles’s legs to the bed by entwining their legs and adjoining them at the ankles. Desperately Stiles bites at Peter, he strikes repeatedly, until his fangs draw purchase in Peter’s collar bone. The bone crunches in his mouth.

            The hot taste of blood grounds him directly back to the room. He gasps and gags on it. He coughs. He sputters it out into the darkened room. Eventually, his body slows, and his shift slowly fades. When it does, he becomes acutely aware of everything. He’s slick and sticky everywhere. Sweat clings to his legs and back. His chest is worse. It’s coated in all manner of fluids and he doesn’t know which is worst. The sleeping shorts he’d put on earlier in the night were nowhere to be found.

            He hears the crack of Peter’s body stitching itself back together. His attention finally pulls itself back outwards. Peter’s above him, breathing heavy. His body is rubbing firmly against Stiles at all points and he’s just so warm. He sees Peter’s mouth open above him. Stiles stiffens at the thought of the close-cropped beard against his skin

            A moment later, Stiles surges upwards and locks himself in a bruising kiss. His gaze is far off. His eyes are open wide but unfocused. Peter’s eyes are wide looking at him. Peter groans and his arms slip from Stiles’s biceps. Another moment later and Peter wrenches himself away and ascends from the bed. Stiles moves to pursue him. Red eyes glow back at him and he feels his own fade.

      “Stop,” Peter demands. A command doesn’t bulldoze Stiles like he expects. But hearing Peter sobers him, all the same. He sits back down on the bed.

      The room is cloaked in shadow. Light is afforded them by neither the windows nor the glass door. The moon is absent. The only light is the dim glow of a phone that hasn’t relocked itself fully from when it was displaced during his episode. The light comes on, it’s dimmed, but seeing the mess on Peter’s chest floods him with guilt.

      He’s up not a moment later and is on the sliding door in a flash. He rips it open and is off the terrace in an instant. His paws hit the sand and Stiles takes off. He circles towards the front of the house and sees a massive figure plummet to the ground.

      He runs for the woods.

      His breath ratchets up again. He submerges himself in the pines.

     The Sun, the Moon, and the Truth. The Sun, the Moon, and the Truth. The Sun, the Moon, and the Truth. The Sun, the Moon, and the Truth.

      Stiles repeats it countless times as he flees through the underbrush. He can feel the presence hot on his tail as he roots through the fallen trees and mosses of the coastal woodlands. Satomi had taught him how to manage it. She had taken one look at him after he’d returned from Deucalion and started teaching him coping skills.

      Step one is focus. So, he focuses on the mantra. Step two is to immerse himself in his senses. He does everything he can to feel the world around him. Shifting helps. The scents, the sounds, the different sight, it all lends to change the order of his mind. Step three is to regulate his breathing. He almost always fails; this time isn’t much different. She taught him endless ways to do it all. Each time he fails he tries again.

      The dreams are the hardest. Stiles can’t fend them off or see the signs coming. He can’t take medication to stem the bleeding in his mind. Suddenly, each time he’s just in their grasps. He can’t escape them, and they know it.

      His heat always makes it worse. The sensations flood through him. The emotions come on stronger. Hormones make remembering it’s a dream harder. They’re more intense. They change it from being caught in quicksand to being affected by kanima venom. Each time he’s frozen, paralyzed, but acutely aware of every sensation inflicted upon him. The shame that washes through him magnifies tenfold.

      Part of what keeps him running is the humiliation. He can’t outrun it. The feeling of stupidity that comes along with being unable to remain calm. The frustration at the guilt. The knowing he doesn’t deserve it.

      He runs away anyway. Each branch underfoot is one branch further from the pain of remembering. Each step is one step further from the disgust at the feeling of sweat, cum, and blood coating his skin. The dirt and cool night air scrubs it all off; the terror and the grime abate.  

      He doesn’t catch the scent until he calms. Peter’s out here too.

      He’s somewhere lurking in the woods. He catches it on a downdraft. He turns back to Peter’s house.

      He trots back quickly.

      A massive body is rustling its way through the foliage. He can’t see it. His hackles rise. He stops and looks around.

      There’s no sign of whatever it is. He howls and waits. A while later her hears his howl returned, several far-off calls resound. But, then a loud rumbling growl signals nearby. He resumes his return, thinking better than waiting out in the open of the forest where blind spots abound.

      When he’s almost out of the woods and back to the edge of the road he sees a dark shadow leap over to the top of the building and disappear over the other side. He lopes to the back door and shifts back to human form. He slides open the door and creeps in carefully. He listens for breathing, but only Peter’s rhythm comes to him. He makes his way back to the bedroom and knocks before entering.

      “Peter, may I come in?”

      “Yes, please do. I’m glad you returned, willingly.”

      “Honesty? I appreciate it. I’m a bit surprised though.”

      “On account of you mauling me?” Peter opens his arms wide. “I’m hardly so easily discouraged.”

      “If it helps it wasn’t personal.”

      “It felt a bit personal.”

      “Well, it wasn’t. But I am sorry.”

      “You shouldn’t be. It was a part of the deal, right?”

      “Yeah,” Stiles says and scratches his head. “What say we get cleaned up?”

      “Excellent suggestion.”

***

      The next morning Stiles has way too much energy. There’s immense amount of pressure bursting through every fiber of his being. He can hardly contain it. He does everything he can to avoid being too close to Peter. Peter’s glances never meet Stiles’s eyes. Stiles can only catch the glances whenever his half-lidded daze lifts long enough to see Peter struggling to rise above it himself.

      Peter struggles to do yoga on the beach. For an hour Stiles mirrors him from a distance to maintain some control. It’s a waste, rather than holding his focus; Stiles’s mind keeps wandering off mid-pose. He keeps locking himself in extensions. When the tug of his muscle’s hits he flinches inwards and regains the ability to continue.

      It isn’t until half past noon that Peter makes any kind of move. He lifts out of a full wheel and strides across the sand.

      Finally, the self-restraint and quiet repose breaks. “Stiles.”

      “Hmmm?”

      “I would very much like to massage you,” Peter says. His voice is low and thick.

      It sends Stiles’s body reeling. He can’t fight off the images forming in his head. His face goes warm and his shoulders slack.

      Stiles collapses. When he sits up, he immediately runs a hand over his face and through his hair. Tingling erupts in his fingers and leaps to his feet and creeps up his arms. “What would you do? I’m not good with…”

      “Your back, I’d massage your back. I have a massage table in the basement. I can move it to the roof if you’d like.”

      “I don’t know.” Stiles leers.

      “Anytime you need me to back off I will.”

      “If it’s on the roof, then fine.”

      “Okay, come with me.” Peter leads Stiles back into the house down a hallway and down a set of stairs set behind a door. Peter walks into a room at the base of the stairs flicks on a light and lifts a rather large white massage table.

      “I regularly hire someone to do this to me.” He says as he rests it on its side and collapses its legs. “But this week is about you.”

      He finishes. Then he picks it back up and ushers Stiles back up the stairs. When they get to the top floor Peter leads Stiles down an unexplored hallway and up another set of door-hidden stairs.

      When they get to the roof Stiles is nearly heaving. Each breath feels like he’s sucking in water. He stalls at the doorway. He opens the door. The bright light floods his eyes. 

 

***

 

      When he finally escaped Jonas’s compound, Stiles recoiled from the light. His lungs choked on the pollen. The chilly German, spring, afternoon took a sledgehammer to his mental order. 

      Stiles shrunk to the ground and balled up in the doorway. He hid his face and boxed his arms over his head and ears. Every sense assailed him. His eyes flooded and overfilled continuously. His breaths came in hot and fast.

      However, no one came for him until long after he had recovered. By the time the alarms had sounded Stiles had already run miles into the woods. He’d already shifted and was putting on speed. Recovering his sense of hearing from the twisted clinically devoid state of that building had left him scattered. He couldn’t track the world around him. 

      His only directive was to run, spurred by fear and the pursuit of freedom. For the first three nights he thought the liberty he’d stolen was another hallucination. He only slowed to eat and sleep when his body was too trodden to keep moving.

      Satomi’s emissary found him a week and a half later. They had tracked him despite his mastery of scent cloaking. He must’ve slipped. Normally, he was invisible when he wasn’t in heat. And he decidedly wasn’t any longer.

      Roars, red eyes, and commands disrupted his delirium on repeat until he’d arrived home the last day of April. 

      He still remembers the removal process. She didn’t take it all. She just took the time, the endless sucking void of missing stimuli. She abbreviated the experience. He kept the beginning and end. 

      He rarely left his apartment until the following December. He’d had food delivered the entire year. Other than doctors’ appointments and work he was a ghost, extracted from the world.

      He moved to a place in the city in January that was connected to a gym that had a track. He spent long hours running, coding, and sleeping. He retrofitted dimmer switches for every light fixture. 

      He spent each day and night in a twilight haze, shades drawn, lights dimmed or off. The city sounds ushered each day forward. The rise and fall of the clambering told him he was another day further from that house, those walls of empty space. 

 

***

 

      When Stiles comes to Peter is looking at him with concern. His hands are free, touching Stiles’s own at the tips of their fingers. 

      Stiles stands and walks down the stairs. He goes into the heat room on the second floor. He shuts the door behind him, turns off the lights, and shuts the blinds. He takes his phone out of the sealed packaging and plugs his ears with headphones.

      By the time Peter finally dares to breach the door the hallway is dim. The sunlight has faded, and the incoming, eerie, pre-dusk lighting does little to disrupt Stiles. Stiles looks up and shoves his phone and headphones back into the bag and seals it again. 

      Stiles unfurls on the bed and hangs his head off the mattress. The comforter is wrapped around his body. “Can I help you,” Stiles says. His voice is quiet and monotone. 

      “Can I help you?” Peter asks.

      “What does that mean Peter? I don’t have time for games.”

      “Seems to me that’s all you have time for, or at least what you agreed you wanted.” 

      “And what is it you believe I want?” Stiles drawls.

      “Curiously enough, you’re the first person I’ve met that I haven’t been able to figure that out for. At least, I can’t unless you tell me. I can’t pretend I don’t hate it. I do, however, enjoy the challenge,” Peter muses.

      “So, you’re asking me to speak?” Stiles considers. He flickers his eyes open and closed while rolling them. 

      “If you want to.” 

      “I’d rather not.”

      “May I enter?”

      “No.” 

      Peter pushes his lips together. “Alright, when you decide you’re ready come find me. I’ll make us something. I sent my pack and staff home for the day.”

      “Will do.” Stiles pops his lips. 

      Peter walks off and up the stairs. 

      Stiles lays there until the moon is high in the night sky. He lets the night slip from him. The door is open, Peter never closed it. Stiles paid it no mind. There was almost no change in the sound filtering into the room with it open. It was dark enough that the lighting was the same. He laid in the darkness until his thoughts got the better of him. 

      He pulls out the paper they’ve been writing on. He glares at it. He tosses it to the floor and slip from the warm blankets and travels up the stairs. 

      Peter is lying in bed reading. Peter lowers the book and glances at him but says nothing.  

      Stiles walks to the bathroom and stalls at the door. “Get up,” Stiles directs.

      Peter raises an eyebrow. 

      “Get up.” 

      “This isn’t quite the relationship I had in mind for this year,” Peter comments and lifts himself from the bed. 

      “Come over here,” Stiles says and walks into the bathroom. Water hits the floor of the shower before Peter even enters. Peter crosses to it and hangs his robe on a hook, leaving only his tight, square cut briefs on. 

      Stiles still hasn’t taken off his clothes. His fists are clenched. His eyes are closed. “Order me to do this.”

      “Stiles, are you sure?”

      “It’s the only way I’m going to get through it.”

      “We can wait until tomorrow.” Peter reaches for Stiles’s shoulder. 

      Stiles steps back. “Peter, I know alphas are used to giving the orders, but I’ve made my decision. Order me to do this calmly,” Stiles demands. “Now. Are you going to honor our agreement or not?”

      “Alright...” Peter’s eyes turn red and glow. The colors shift slowly. “Disrobe and get in the shower. Remain calm.”

      Stiles feels himself collapse underneath the weight of the command. His breathing steadies and skin goes quiet. The prickling that hasn’t stopped since he left the roof subsides. His eyes flicker and his lids feel heavy. His shift flows across his body and and settles back beneath his normal appearance. 

      He tugs off his shirt, Peter’s shirt. He places it on the bathroom vanity and then slips out of the shorts and underwear he’d donned this morning. Then he pulls off his socks.

      Stiles feels himself drift into the shower and settled on the seat he’s taken as his own under the spray. It’s cold, but he barely feels it. 

      Peter’s in front of him, overdressed, and frowning. He tests the water and adjusts the temperature. It goes hot. Stiles registers it, but it fades from his mind. 

      Peter sits in front of him and pours some body wash into Stiles’s hand. His eyes are still red, mouth still pinched. 

      “Stiles what do you need next?”

      Stiles closes his eyes. He tries to focus. Peter’s voice yanks him just above the current. 

      Stiles starts moving his hands, he rubs them together foaming the substance in his hands. He gingerly scrubs it into his skin. When he’s run out, Peter gives him more. 

      Slowly, ever so slowly, he finishes. Peter doesn’t offer shampoo. Peter just washes his own chest and back. He then stands and gets Stiles to his feet. “Dry off.” He commands. 

      The sound is quiet. It seeps through his mind slowly. Stiles gets out and does as he’s told. 

      Peter closes the shower door behind Stiles. Stiles pauses his drying when A schlop comes from inside the shower. He looks up. Nothing changed, Peter’s still upright so Stiles goes back to toweling his legs.

      Peter doesn’t come out for a few more minutes. When he does, he’s already wrapped in a towel. 

      “What next?” Peter asks. He cocks his head to the side a bit.

      “We should go to sleep. I’m tired."

      “Alright, get in bed I’ll meet you in a minute,” Peter says after his eyes have faded back to blue.

      “Okay,” Stiles says and walks out of the bathroom. He climbs on the bed and covers himself in the blankets. He turns about and tries to get settled. He slaps his hands on the covers and sighs. 

      Peter comes out and passes into the closet. He pulls on a pair of briefs and advances to the bed. He draws the covers and settles beneath them. He lays facing away from Stiles. 

      Stiles arches an eyebrow. He shifts more in the bed. He looks out on the water. Dark clouds roll across the horizon. 

      Stiles lays and fidgets. His heart nearly palpitates in his chest. 

      Peter strikes out a hand and rests it over Stiles’s heart. “Stiles.”

      “Could, could you just, tell me to sleep? I don’t think I’m going to be able tonight without.” 

      “Alright,” Peter says. He turns and his eyes flash. “Relax and go to sleep.” Once he’s issued the command he immediately turns back around.

      Stiles’s eyes grow heavy. His hands slow.

      Peter’s breathing is steady. Every few seconds Stiles is drawn in by the steady push and pull of Peter’s lungs. It steadies him. His world fades to black. 

Notes:

Ummmm, yeah? I hope y'all enjoy. I edited a bunch of the scenes for ordering and a bunch of other reasons. It's a bit short, but I think it works and I don't really think I could've added any more in. I think the next chapter will be a bit more of unpacking/ healing etc kinda stuff. I've been watching a bunch of stuff recently to figure out how to improve my craft so hopefully you all will reap the rewards of my efforts.

P.S. (I'm also trying to ensure I have enough word variance and avoiding having too many crutch words. I want to keep the imagery spicy and interesting. If you guys notice any I use a lot/too much feel free to tell me. A reader's eyes are always more keen than the authors.)

XOXO Iru_Naru

Chapter 6: Are You Dazed or Am I?

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Peter wakes to Stiles curled into his chest. His breaths are quiet and shallow. Peter smiles and closes his eyes once more.

 

Peter cuddles forward into Stiles. Stiles shifts and resettles his body in Peter’s arms. His face is warm and his vision behind his eyelids tinges a soft red. Stiles lets out a huff and Peter presses a kiss to his neck. He pulls back almost as soon as his lips graze Stiles’s skin.

 

Stiles rolls around and comes to rest facing Peter.

 

Peter’s eyes flutter open. He squints at Stiles.

 

Stiles’s face is neutral. Sleep has drained the ever-present curiosity from his face. The scowl is gone. Peter inches his face towards Stiles’s and stops just short of a kiss. The magnetism is unshakable. Stiles’s breath on his lips triggers a recollection of the heat and fear driven kiss Stiles had stolen from him the previous morning.

 

Peter’s shoulders go stiff and his hips roll instinctively. Stiles lets out a minute moan, a whispering breath. Peter drinks it in greedily. His lungs shudder when he finally breathes back out. Stiles’s chin hairs catch Peter’s and Peter feels the pull against his skin when he angles away.   

 

Peter rubs his chin with the hand that isn’t pinned beneath Stiles’s chest. When Stiles grabs his arm and pulls it in Peter’s heart skips a beat.

 

***

   

~20 Years Prior~


When he’d woken up on the day before the official start of heat week his brow was sweaty, and his palms were clammy. He stumbled out of bed and found Talia in the study. Her nose crinkled like a bag of chips and she frowned.

 

“Go take a shower, I’ll call Corrine to pick you up tonight.”

 

“What? Why?”

 

"Your first heat has started little wolf.” Talia pinched his ear. “You’re a man now.”

 

“I’ve been a man for a while Talia.”

 

“Not in the eyes of the Druid council,” She said. “Now go. I’ll have to alert them to the fact that you’ll be skipping the selection this year as we’ve made other arrangements.” She gives him a smack on the butt and points to the door.

 

“Alright,” Peter says. “Talia. Is it really that intense? I feel kind of-”

 

“Gross? James says it gets like that. Our first year he was a mix of shame and lust. I wouldn’t worry. Corrine should take good care of you. You’ve been discussing this for three years.”

 

“Okay,” Peter says and walks out.

 

---

 

Peter still couldn’t believe this was happening. He’d known it would happen for a while, ever since he met Corrine he’d known it would actually happen. Talia had been telling him so for ages. He’d always been a late bloomer. He hadn’t kissed anyone until he was eighteen, three years prior. He hadn’t considered it. All the silly little omegas and betas had been positively clamoring over the prospect and had started experimenting years earlier, but he’d always had his mind elsewhere.

 

He could smell the interest coming off others at school. If he ever caught someone looking at him, they’d be staring at his lips or his eyes. The girls would giggle when he’d walk by. Their whispers were always the same.

 

“He’s so pretty.”

 

“When he smiles, I could just melt.”

 

He understood the appeal. Aesthetically, he was drawn to many of his classmates. But it didn’t cause the same reaction in him until well into his senior year.

 

He was playing basketball at an away game. Every so often he’d smell something coming from the stands of the opposing team. His laser focus kept breaking and his tight red gym shorts were suddenly a lot tighter. It got so bad that his coach pulled him from the game.

 

“Go find whoever is making you act like a horny teenager like the rest of these chuckle heads you call teammates and fix your shit or you’re out of the rest of the game.”

 

“Uhhh, Coach are you really supposed to be encouraging teenaged delinquency?” Peter asks.

 

“If I don’t are you going to perform any better?”

 

“I don’t know. This has never been an issue before.”

 

“That’s a no. Now get out of here.”

 

Peter left the gym that night with a poor addition to his point total for the year and Corrine’s number. 

 

***

 

“Good morning,” Peter greets.

 

“Go back to sleep, your heart is all fluttery. I need the quiet for my beauty rest.”

 

The blood rushes to Peter’s cheeks at the sound of the sleep rough voice. “Sorry, I didn’t know it was a crime to be awake.” Shifting his arm free earns a groan. 

 

“I was more comfortable with that where it was,” Stiles pouts. 

 

“You’re aggressive for someone so contrary.” Peter says. “I should probably go. You’re intense this morning.”

 

“I’m intense?” 

 

“Yes. I’m going to fix us some breakfast. Come down when you’re more suitable. I set the massage table outside on the beach in case we’d like to do that later.” 

 

“Alrighty, thanks Mr. Alpha Man.” 

 

“Of course,” Peter says tersely. Pulling his wrist lightly from Stiles’s grip, Peter leaves the bed and changes. It’s not enough to cleanse himself of Stiles. His very essence has seeped firmly into all the clothes in Peter’s closet. Peter thinks of Stiles’s thin fingers flipping through his shirts, pants, and underwear carelessly. He jerks a shirt from a hangar and changes into it. He finds some other stuff to put on and clambers down the stairs. 

 

Peter gets into the kitchen and seals the door behind him, cutting the sound of Stiles shifting in his bed from his ears. He sighs. 

 

Opening his eyes, he realizes the kitchen staff are already at work preparing meals for the day. 

 

“Leave,” Peter instructs. “I’ll handle meals for today. Thank you for your work this week.” 

 

They put everything they were working on away and leave quickly. Once they’re gone, Peter pulls out several bowls and pans he gets to work setting up lavender honey waffles, sausages, and eggs for an omelet. There are labels on all the cabinets for those who need them, but he doesn’t. 

 

Peter cooks most of his meals anyway. Usually, he has staff on hand mostly because he’s expected to. He pays them if they work the day or not. The money would waste away in his accounts if he didn’t waste it manually. If it weren’t for parties he likely wouldn’t host the position at all.

 

Growing up in a legacy pack had an impact on his skill set. His parents insisted he’d learned how to cook from a young age. He’d memorized the first few recipes in their cook book almost as soon as he could read. 

 

Stirring the batter quells his nerves. By the time his waffle iron is hot, he’s not. Peter pours the first waffle in and seals the lid. Then he moves to the fridge and grabs green peppers, spinach, ham, onions, and cheese. 

 

The first waffle is done when by the time he finishes cutting up the veggies. He places it on a platter and finds a pan for the eggs. Before turning the heat on, he pours some olive oil in the pan and sets it on the burner. The fire ignites and he returns to pouring the next waffle. 

 

Then, he whisks the eggs again and pours them in the pan. They crackle quickly and he drops the ingredients in the center adding the spinach and cheese last. He folds it over and let’s it’s it finish cooking. 

 

The second waffle is done shortly. He removes it and places it atop the first and prepares the next. 

 

Peter finds the warming tray and turns it on. Then he gets a small platter and cover for the omelet. He sets them on the warmer. He goes back to the stove top and turns on another burner for the sausage. He dumps the links on another skillet. Removing the eggs from the heat; he turns off their burner. Dishing and covering them shortly after, he returns to the waffle. 

 

Peter removes it and places the plate on the tray next to the eggs before covering them both. 

 

The sausages are nearly done when the kitchen door creaks open. 

 

“Smells good.” 

 

“Thanks, everything should be done in a moment,” Peter says waving his spatula. “Find us something to drink while you’re in here.”

 

“Sure, uh, where are the cups?” 

 

Peter gestures to the cabinets behind him and rotated the sausages again. 

 

“What do you want to drink?”

 

“Whatever you’d like is fine. They don’t stock it with anything I don’t like unless there’s a special request or a party.”

 

“Sounds good. You did this all yourself then?” Stiles asks, opening the lid to the omelet. 

 

“No peeking. Focus on the task at hand.”

 

“I hope there’s no onions in there. I’m deathly allergic,” Stiles says with a grin and leans against the counter across from him. 

 

“No, you’re not. I read your file.” 

           

“Okay but when I-” Stiles makes a choking sound. “And die it’s on you.” 

 

“You ate onions yesterday,” Peter says and pulls the glasses from the cabinet.

 

“Did I?” Stiles says with the astonishment of a three-year-old being confronted about the whereabouts of missing cookies. 

 

“Yes, now would you like to get us a drink or shall I have to arrest that responsibility from you as well.”

 

“No, I think I can manage,” Stiles says and opens the fridge door. He pulls out milk and pomegranate lemonade. “I’ll take these and the cups out there. Would you like me to come back in to help?”

 

“No, you can wait out there.” Peter says and does his best to keep his eyes on the food. “I’ll be done soon.”

 

Stiles decides to come back in once more for the plates and silverware. Peter rocks forward against the counter and nearly spills the syrup container he’s holding.  Putting it down too quickly, Peter releases a clink that rings through Stiles’s spine. Stiles grabs matching porcelain plates and rushes out.

 

When Peter comes out of the kitchen with a large platter balanced on his right palm Stiles is sitting knees knocking together in his chair on the far side of their table. Stopping dead in his tracks; Peter floats through another rush. He focuses his eyes and sets them on the table. Putting the platter down is more difficult than he expected. Stiles had managed to set up the table in the exact way that would prevent it from fitting. Stiles scrambles to move everything as Peter waits. When it’s cleared, he sets it down and sits next to Stiles.

 

“You okay?” Stiles asks with a gulp.

 

“Yes.” Peter lies. “Shall we start?”

 

Stiles looks at the food on the table and hesitates. His fingers tremble and twitch. Peter remains still, transfixed, awaiting the next motion. It doesn’t come.

 

“It won’t be as difficult as last time,” Peter says. “You’re ready for it this time. The food is less intimate, that should help too.”

 

“Okay.” Stiles nods. “Who first?”

 

“Please, after you. I don’t think I could manage if I were to have to wait.”

 

“What?” After a moment Stiles blushes. “Right, sure.” He picks up a triangle of the cut up waffles and dips it one of the syrup saucers. “Here,” Stiles says offering it with a shaky hand.

 

Peter takes Stiles’s wrist to steady it and takes the first bite. He grumbles from deep in his chest as the flavor spreads like an infection over his tongue. Stiles continues to feed him, the trembling ebbs and flows away as he gets a handle on the sensation. By the time Peter can break away for something to drink Stiles has almost stopped shaking entirely. His cheeks are red, and the thready pace of his heartbeat draw Peter to him. He feels himself rise from his seat. Lurching off towards the middle of the room, Peter flees the magnetic sensation.

 

“Peter?” Stiles croaks out, voice rough and strained. It arrests Peter two steps away from the table.

 

“I need a moment. Please,” Peter says. “Cover the food. I’ll be back momentarily.” Rushing up the stairs towards the roof; Peter takes the steps two-three at a time. When he makes it up, he sucks in a gasp. His joints collapse and Peter collapses against the sandstone painted walls. The sheer black awning mocks him as it flutters in the wind. Even here the air has the faintest trace of Stiles. He waits until he can bear it and returns downstairs.

 

“Are you alright?” Stiles stands up and asks. “I can eat on my own. It’s really no trouble.”

 

“Stiles. It’s my turn. I will provide for you the same luxury you afforded me. Please sit.” Peter says and pushes a hand out in-front of himself. He rejoins Stiles at the table and uncovers the food. “What would you like to start with?” Peter asks and takes a gulp of the pomegranate lemonade.

 

“The omelet.” Stiles nods and grasps his hands together in his lap.

 

“Very well,” Peter says and grabs a fork. Peter does it by muscle memory. Each time, he portions out the food without looking. His eyes are trained on Stiles. Every twitch pulls him in a new direction. His partner’s body is always in motion. The man is a constant cascade of outputs challenging him to pull away while demanding Peter stay in place.

 

Stiles catches him in a perilous trap he’s loathed to escape. When they move to the waffles, Peter keeps with the fork to reinforce the distance. Even still, he’s still to close to Peter. He keeps grazing his fingers against Peter’s arm. It makes his arm hair stand on end in constant tension awaiting the next distracted caress and abrupt loss of contact Stiles forces him to endure. By the time Stiles finishes, the tray is empty.

 

Finally looking Peter in the eyes, Stiles says “Thank you for cooking.” His voice is wrecked. It shambles into Peter’s ears and wakes him up, alerting him to the inversion of their circumstance. The man is nearly in his lap. Peter sets the fork down and retracts his hands. Stiles grabs Peter’s hand and pulls it to his face.

 

“Stiles? What are you doing?”

 

“Kiss me.”

 

“Stiles are you sure? Your scent is murderous today, you’re in a daze.”

 

“Peter. Kiss me,” Stiles demands.

Notes:

Hey guys, hope you enjoyed. I'm not really sure how to make the next scene go, but I do know what I'm going to have happen in general. I hope that you're all staying well. I can't believe this disaster has lasted a year all ready. I'm just glad that I've been able to maintain my sanity. Not sure how long it'll be on the next chapter. Sorry for the long absence, after sorting out my family drama I wasn't too interested in writing for a bit. And I wrote a one shot to distract myself from story development.
Kisses
XOXO Iru_Naru

Chapter 7: Waffling: I Wish He Made It Easier To Hate Him

Notes:

Ummm.... so I thought I was just going to continue the story, but then my brain decided to translate the events from the last chapter into this. So I hope you all enjoy the POV swap. Don’t worry. The next chapter will have entirely new plot development. I do know how far I want to take it, so i have a plan. On the upside you get more story earlier.

Chapter Text

Stiles wakes from his first dreamless night in years to the sensation of Peter grinding against him. Warmth spreads through his groin and drags him more towards consciousness. He can’t help making a sound on his next exhale. Peter’s body is solid against his and reassures him more than it has any right to.

 

He shifts, rolling to get more comfortable, he lands in the nook of Peter’s chest and arm. He grabs Peter’s arm on reflex to get the jostling to stop. He wraps it over his shoulder. The air in his lungs thins, heats, and goes clammy. It gives him a quiet head rush and drives him back below the threshold to sleep once Peter’s body goes quiet beneath him.

 

---

 

Stiles wakes again when Peter’s heart starts thumping loud enough to provide the bassline to a rave. He ignores it at first content to drift, but it’s inconsistent and worries at his ear. When he can’t stand it anymore, Peter speaks.

 

“Good morning.”

 

“Go back to sleep, your heart is all fluttery. I need the quiet for my beauty rest,” Stiles grumbles.

 

“Sorry, I didn’t know it was a crime to be awake,” Peter laughs.

 

“I was more comfortable with that where it was,” Stiles pouts when the arm holding him withdraws.

 

“You’re aggressive for someone so contrary.” Peter goes quiet for a moment before continuing to disrupt his doze. “I should probably go. You’re intense this morning.”

 

“I’m intense?” Stiles wonders. His eyelids are heavy. The meaning eludes him. Stiles catches Peter’s hand before he can sit up and slip away entirely.

 

“Yes. I’m going to fix us some breakfast. Come down when you’re more suitable. I set the massage table outside on the beach in case we’d like to do that later.”

 

“Alrighty, thanks Mr. Alpha Man.” Stiles settles back into the pillows and sighs.

“Of course,” Peter pulls his wrist lightly from Stiles’s grip and the bed rocks. Sounds come from the closet until Peter leaves the bedroom and his footsteps fade down the stairs.

           

Stiles lounges in the bed wrapped up in Peter’s musk and the warm blankets until the smell of food cooking downstairs lures him from the bed. He gets off the bed and his body drifts lightly over the hardwood floors. He gets halfway down the first set of stairs before the breeze hits him. His spine and legs shiver. Panicked, he turns around and makes way for the shower to rinse off and cool down. Under the icy spray, his head clears. He gets out, picks the loosest clothes he can find, and makes his way back out to the hall.

 

He hovers at the kitchen door, listening to the scraping coming from beyond the door. He opens it and walks in. He tries not to cringe as the door creaks. When he opens his eyes, Peter’s alone in the kitchen.

 

“Smells good,” He offers. Quiet to his ears, his voice still fills the empty room.

            

“Thanks, everything should be done in a moment,” Peter says without looking up.  “Find us something to drink while you’re in here.” He waves the spatula in Stiles direction while steadfastly holding eye contact with the waffle maker.

 

“Sure, uh, where are the cups?”

 

Peter gestures to the cabinets behind him and then rotates the sausages without explaining further.

 

“What do you want to drink?” Stiles prods.

 

“Whatever you’d like is fine.” Peter’s voice is level, monotone in its regularity. “They don’t stock it with anything I don’t like unless there’s a special request or a party.”

 

“Sounds good. You did this all yourself then?” Stiles asks, opening the lid to the omelet.

 

“No peaking. Focus on the task at hand.”

 

Stiles looks back to Peter who’s frowning at him. “I hope there’s no onions in there. I’m deathly allergic,” Stiles says with a grin and leans against the counter across from him.

 

“No, you’re not,” Peter denies, looking Stiles dead in the eye. “I read your file.” Peter smirks are Stiles and Stiles’s belly flops.

           

“Okay but when I-” Stiles jokes and cuts his sentence off with a grotesque gurgle while wrapping his hands around his own neck. “And die it’s on you.”

 

“You ate onions yesterday,” Peter catches him, waves him off, and turns around. He pulls some glasses from the cabinet and sets them between the two of them. He slides them towards Stiles and then retreats back beyond to the far side of the table where he’s preparing food.

 

“Did I?” Stiles continues the charade. His cheeks are warm. Stiles succumbs to the strange coziness of the environs despite the pristine chrome’s sterile appearance.

 

“Yes, now would you like to get us a drink or shall I have to arrest that responsibility from you as well.” Peter’s voice is strained. He won’t look at him again. Eye contact once again lost, Stiles pulls back in suit.

 

He shuffles his hands together before responding. “No, I think I can manage,” Stiles says and opens the fridge door. Studying the contents proves fruitless. The options are too numerous to provide him any incite. Eventually, he pulls out milk and pomegranate lemonade. “I’ll take these and the cups out there.” He points out to the dining room, but Peter is still looking away. “Would you like me to come back in to help?”

 

“No, you can wait out there. I’ll be done soon,” Peter dismisses him.

 

Stiles waits at the table for a few minutes. He forgot the plates and silverware of course, so all he set up was a set of glasses and two remarkably unimpressive half gallon jugs. He rearranges them several times. Unsatisfied, Stiles decides goes back in once more for the plates and silverware.

 

The moment he enters the kitchen again, Peter rocks forward against the counter and nearly spills the syrup container he’s holding.  The moment the porcelain hits the steel the resounding clink runs through his spine like his body’s a tuning fork.

 

Once he recovers, Stiles grabs silverware and matching porcelain plates before rushing out.

 

Stiles sets the plates and silverware in a dozen ways before he hears Peter preparing to leave the kitchen. He leaves everything at a diagonal that allows them to sit together. They’ll be closer this way. He looks at the paper. Reading the rules leaves a bad taste in his mouth. He folds the contract once more and puts it in his pocket before resting his hands in his lap.

 

Peter enters the room and stops mid-step.  The difficulty with which he regains motion hurts to watch. Peter eventually focuses his eyes on the table. Stiles looks at it and then back to the massive serving tray.

 

Stiles scrambles to move everything as Peter walks over. When it’s cleared, Peter sets it down. Then, he sits next to Stiles with a sigh.

 

“You okay?” Stiles gulps and settled back in himself.

 

“Yes.” Peter says unreadable. “Shall we start?”

 

Stiles looks at the food on the table and hesitates. His fingers tremble and twitch. At a loss for words, he looks back to Peter. His cheeks burn. Tingling spreads through his fingers.

 

“It won’t be as difficult as last time,” Peter rushes out. “You’re ready for it this time. The food is less intimate, that should help too,” he finishes slower.

 

“Okay.” Stiles nods. “Who first?”

 

“Please, after you. I don’t think I could manage if I were to have to wait.” Peter breathes out.

 

“What?” Stiles asks, and after a moment the burning of his cheeks scorches through his chest. “Right, sure.” He grabs the nearest option, waffles, and dips it one of the syrup saucers. “Here,” Stiles says and thrusts it towards Peter with a shaky hand.

 

Peter takes Stiles’s wrist to steady it and takes the first bite. Stiles eyes go fuzzy the moment Peter sinks his teeth into it. Lips glance off his fingers as Peter eats frazzling Stiles’s every nerve. A quiet rumble from deep within Peter’s chest builds to a roar in Stiles’s ears.

 

In Stiles’s better moments his vision clears, and the shaking ceases. However, he loses his composure often, causing his mouth to dry out each time. Peter saves him with a soft, grounding touch whenever the shaking threatens to send the food to the ground.

 

The terrifying full body prickle settles to a simmering sleep like numbness. By the time Peter stops feeding, Stiles has a handle on the sensation. He can still barely breathe and his heart is nearly palpitating, but he keeps from collapsing.

 

Peter rises towards him. For a moment their lips are barely separated. When Stiles leans in, Peter lurches treacherously off towards the middle of the room. As if he were dunked in a vat of ice water, Stiles snaps awake.

 

“Peter?” Stiles barks out, voice rough and strained. It arrests Peter two strides from the table. Stiles reaches out for him; but Peter doesn’t see it, doesn’t take his hand.

 

“I need a moment. Please,” Peter begs. “Cover the food. I’ll be back momentarily.”

Peter takes the steps two-three at a time.

In a moment or two he’s gone from sight and Stiles is left hungry and alone in the dining room. He covers the food and waits. The thumping in Stiles’s chest slows. His foot starts tapping on the rung of the chair. He wrings his hands until they go bright red. When he hears feet hit the stairs, he chugs a glass of milk and pours a new glass for himself.

 

“Are you alright?” Stiles stands up when Peter reaches the bottom of the stairs. “I can eat on my own. It’s really no trouble.” He moves to close the distance.

 

“Stiles. It’s my turn. I will provide for you the same luxury you afforded me. Please sit.” Peter blocks all further offers with an extension of his hand. He rejoins Stiles at the table and uncovers the food. “What would you like to start with?” Peter asks and then drains half a glass of the lemonade.

 

“The omelet.” Stiles grasps his hands together in his lap. He worries at the soft spot between his left thumb and forefinger.

 

“Very well,” Peter says and grabs a fork. Peter’s hand is steady in a vicious mockery of Stiles’s struggle. His eyes are trained on Stiles. They don’t leave even to portion out food. Stiles twitches under the force of Peter’s gaze. He squirms in his chair. His flush returns quickly. He fights it down and mutes the preening his body is reflexively engaging in.

 

When they move to the waffles, Peter keeps with the fork. Even still, he’s stiflingly close to Stiles. It gets worse every moment. Stiles’s feet keep knocking the chair forward.

 

Trying to make distance by pushing Peter away is a bust. Every time Stiles’s palms or finger tips make contact with Peter’s skin, another shot of dopamine floods his brain cutting the attempts short.

 

“Thank you for cooking,” Stiles says when he finishes. He croaks on the words as if he hadn’t just drained a pint of lemonade along with a meal for two.

 

Peter’s eyes are looking up at him. Cunning, clear, and blue, they’re searching him and it makes Stiles look away. The fork clinks on the table. On instinct, Stiles grabs Peter’s hand and pulls it to his face.

 

“Stiles? What are you doing?” Peter’s eyes are blown wide and he’s already pulling away.

 

“Kiss me.” Stiles pushes in as close as he can without initiating.

 

“Stiles are you sure? Your scent is murderous today, you’re in a daze.”

 

“Peter. Kiss me,” Stiles demands.

Chapter 8: Stay

Notes:

General announcement:

I'm going to be participating in the Steter Bang. I'll be writing some amount for that here soon, but it shouldn't be as much as it was for the period that I was writing for the Steter Secret Santa back in December. For the next while I have no idea how it'll impact updates so just assume that either
A) My two main fics will get irregular updates.
B) that could mean they get more chapters strangely often or much more infrequently for periods of time until that work is done.

hard to say. When I'm writing on routine it is easier, but it is also just a measure of what I'm feeling that I might do on top of the goal I already have set. So, I hope to see you all again soon. And until then:

XoXo Iru_Naru

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

            Peter slings his free arm around Stiles’s back and pulls the omega into his lap. Peter slides his hand up Stiles’s neck and pushes them together. Peter pulls his face in from the front and their lips meet.

 

            Stiles’s lungs feel like they’re collapsing the moment their lips meet. All the oxygen is sucked from his body and his vision dims. Peter’s lips pull softly at his own and his body goes feverish. Stiles moans quietly into Peter’s mouth.

 

            Peter slides his hand down Stiles’s back, over his ass, and scoops under his thighs. When he does, Stiles nearly vibrates out of his skin. Stiles rolls his hips forward. Peter answers it by gripping his inner thigh from below and squeezing. Stiles rises, pushing forward, nearly tipping them over. Peter rises to meet him. Peter moves his left hand, hooking it underneath Stiles’s arm and to pull him back down into Peter’s lap.

 

            Stiles breaks the kiss for a moment to gasp and halfway through Peter’s lips have captured his again. Unprepared, he sucks in hard. Peter relinquishes the air in his lungs to Stiles freely. It surges through him and sparks ignite behind his eyes. Eyes watering, Stiles pulls away. Peter chases him again, sucking in a quick breath before they meet once more.

 

            Stiles feels claws on his thighs pressing firmly against his clothes. Breaking again, Stiles speaks, quick and quiet. “Peter. Peter. No claws. Please.”

 

            Gone like a phantom, Peter’s eyes close and the claws retract not a moment later. In another moment, Peter’s already sucking kisses into Stiles’s neck.

 

            Stiles sucks in a breath, shuts his eyes, and throws his head back.

 

            “Do you like that?” Peter says, voice low in Stiles’s ears between presses of his lips. Peter supports Stiles’s back with his left hand and lifts him. Peter rises from the chair and Stiles wraps his legs around Peter’s hips. Digging his fingers into Peter’s shoulders, Stiles hangs on while Peter walks them to the door.

 

            They make it to the glass and Peter fumbles for the edge of the door handle to pull it open. Looking for the handle, Peter pauses his sonata of kisses. When he does, Stiles takes the opportunity to kiss Peter’s neck. Loosing a moan, Peter’s knees buckle. He braces them on the glass and knocks Stiles’s head into the pane.

 

            “Ow. Shit. No,” Stiles says. He pulls a hand away to rub the back of his head.

 

            “Sorry.”

 

            Stiles gropes for the door handle and cracks it open with a smooth glide.

 

            “Thanks,” Peter says.

 

            “Don’t mention it.”

 

            Peter pulls away from the glass and opens it the rest of the way. Then, he carries Stiles outside to the massage table. He places Stiles down on it and pauses. He searches Stiles’s eyes and asks, “What next?”

 

            “Kiss me,” Stiles says. Stiles’s voice is quiet, and fingers are light on his arms. They’re pulling away as much as they’re pulling in the man between his legs.

 

            Peter advances, and Stiles’s eyes shut just before their lips meet. A strained whimper trills in Peter’s ear and prevents him from doing the same. He pulls away after a moment and cover’s Stiles’s hands with his own. Stiles’s eyes flutter open and he lets his breath go.

 

            “May I touch you?” Peter asks.

 

            “May you? Touch me?” Stiles parrots distantly. His eyes lack focus and Peter fights back a frown.

 

            “Stiles, focus.” Peter drifts closer, unable to stay away. “May. I. Touch. You.”

 

            Stiles gulps and nods. “Yeah… yes.”

 

            Peter’s hands run up the length of Stiles’s arms and wrap around Stiles’s shoulders and grip his back. “Tell me to kiss you, I want to hear it again.”

 

            “Peter,” Stiles breathes out.

 

            “Yes?”

 

            “Kiss me.”

 

            Peter pulls him in and takes his lips gently. He pulls Stiles against his chest, slides one of his arms down Stiles’s back. He spreads out his fingers against the shirt Stiles took that morning. Peter quickly tangles his hand in the cloth and balls his hand up, clenching it in his fist as he deepens the kiss. He moves his other hand up to cup Stiles’s face. 

 

            Stiles lips react before his brain does. They’re sloppy, sliding against Peter’s, but the effect is brilliant regardless. Peter groans into Stiles mouth and as a result pheromones blaze into his lungs and Stiles feels himself shut down for a moment. One sticky, slick, awful, addictive moment where everything is exactly what they said it would feel like. His heart jack hammers in his chest and the pleasure spirals through his body like tendrils enveloping his entire being. 

 

            Stiles hands find Peter’s head in a moment and pull the man closer. When there’s no room left he starts leaning back, pulling Peter off balance with him. 

 

            Peter’s hand leaves his back, a revolting loss. As a result, they stop sinking backwards and when Stiles opens his eyes Peter’s are blazing bright red back at him. 

 

            Instinctively, Stiles’s claws erupt from his finger tips and dig into Peter’s neck. He tucks his feet in and kicks Peter off him. Stiles topples the massage table and slams into the sand. 

 

            “Fuck, ow,” Stiles says when he regains his senses. He rubs his head again and gets to his knees. Placing one hand on the up-ended table, he pushes up to his feet. 

 

            “You okay?” 

 

            “Yeah, sorry,” Stiles says already forgetting the pain. 

 

            “Don’t be.” Peter says. He crosses to Stiles and rights the table. “I should’ve known better. It was the eyes wasn’t it?”

 

            Stiles doesn’t answer.

 

            “Let’s get you back on the table.” 

 

            “Uh, I-“

 

            “I’m not trying to start off in the same place.” Peter dusts off the table. “But, it still has its intended use. If you’d allow me the pleasure.”

           

            “I guess, I could try.” 

 

            “Okay, you sit here. I’ll be right back with some supplies.”

 

            The sound of the squashing sand helps Stiles calm down as Peter retreats to the house. When he goes inside, Stiles can almost pretend he’s alone. Stiles focuses on the birds overhead. They’re far off, over the ocean somewhere squawking. For a split second he forgets Peter’s heavy scent in his nostrils. For a moment, he’s not fighting. 

 

            But it ends too soon, Peter is back out of the house faster than Stiles can process and has a basket of oils under his arm. Stiles is ground back against the once more too harsh reality by his senses. His thoughts go slack. 

 

            What will it feel like. Will he want it? Will he want to want it? Each pressing thought is shoved down by the lulling musk Peter exudes. He seethes against the sensation, but finds himself face down on the table before Peter even speaks. 

 

            “Comfortable?” Peter asks. His voice is even, cheery perhaps. But Stiles can scent the foul odor of apprehension under it. 

 

            “Not really,” Stiles says. “But, I want to try... at least once.”

 

            “Where should I start?” Peter asks. He’s at the beach table a foot or two off. His hands rustle through the basket, but refuse to pull anything from it.

 

            “Shoulders, but uhh... don’t touch my feet.”

 

***

 

            “If you don’t stop struggling, I’m going to do something you really don’t want me to have to do.” Jonas demands.

 

            “Like what sexually assault me some more? Will that make you feel like a big bad alpha? Pig!” Stiles says as he flails his legs into Jonas’s chest. His ankles slip out of Jonas’s grasp again and dodge the manacle. 

 

            “I‘ll snap your leg like a twig.” He grits out. 

 

            “Nice threat, too bad it’s midweek and I’m so high right now I won’t feel anything other than pleasure below my waist for the next three days.” Stiles says and thrusts his foot into Jonas’s jaw. 

 

            Jonas is thrown back a few feet and when he sits up his eyes are red. His thuggish features are transformed into a monstrous approximation of itself. “That’s it punk. You’re going to regret being so obstinate.” He says. “Stay there!” He commands through a growl. 

 

            The command hits Stiles like a freight train and his body goes limp. Jonas leaves the room and shuts the door leaving Stiles in the darkness. 

           

            Stiles struggles to break through the order, but he can’t move much more than a finger. Jonas comes back in and turns on the light, revealing a knife and a jar filled with purple and green goo. “Do you know what this is?” He asks with a grin.

 

            “No, What?” 

 

            “This is a jar of mashed mistletoe and wolfsbane. Specially made for, unruly, omegas.” Jonas says. “If I apply this to a wound, I can guarantee you’ll feel it.” 

 

            “That can’t possibly be a thing,” Stiles says, suddenly able to ball his hand into a fist. 

 

            “Oh, it is. Not even an omega in peak heat can resist the pain. I’m told it’s excruciating.” Jonas chuckles. “I had it made for you last year. Andrea, my last omega toy, assured me it was the worst experience of her life.” He opens the top and dips the knife in it. “I thought we could avoid this, but unfortunately I was wrong.” 

 

            “You’re lying,” Stiles says. 

 

            “Come now, have I ever lied before?” Jonas asks, his voice awash in pity and indignation. “If you’d like I’ll let you choose where the first cut goes. Would that make it easier for you?”

 

            “It doesn’t matter. I won’t feel it.” Stiles says, but he can feel his body shaking. His feet start moving again and he feels his back connect with the wall. 

 

            “Stiles, I do believe I told you. There are no lies in my house,” Jonas says. “I suppose I’ll have to leave you here again. I do so prefer when I get to be here with you though.” His eyes flare red as he approaches. “Stay still.” 

 

            Stiles’s limbs slow down. He feels like he’s wading through nearly dried cement. Jonas captures his left foot. Stiles tries to yank it away, but his muscles are too weak to pull free of Jonas’s grasp. 

 

            “I think, your foot, needs to learn that it’s not nice to kick people.” Jonas says with a soft shake of his head. 

 

            Pain is his only companion for the next twelve hours of darkness. It staves off the hallucinations of the previous three days, a cruel prison guard attending him dutifully until he passes out from exhaustion. 

 

***

            “Alright,” Peter says. He grabs a bottle of lotion and flicks open the cap. 

           

            Stiles twitches on the massage bed. He peeks around to see Peter he’s still a foot or so away when the squelching of the lotion meets Stiles’s ears. Stiles clamps his fingers around the edges of the table and waits for Peter’s hands. 

 

            However, they don’t come. 

 

            When Stiles opens his eyes he sees Peter squatting next to the head of the table looking at him. The pensive look pierces Stiles and sends his heat raging back through his limbs. 

 

            “Are you sure you’re ready?” Peter asks. 

 

            “Yeah, Yeah, I’m ready,” Stiles says. His hands relax and he’s suddenly grateful to be lying face down. 

 

            “Okay, tell me if you need me to stop.” Peter says. His hands collide with Stiles skin and rend a moan from his chest. “Or don’t, I’m sure your claws can send a message if you need them to. Either way, what sweet sorrow.” 

 

            “Peter.”

 

            “Yes?”

 

            “Stop talking.”

 

            A few moments later, Peter’s hands grace his neck and Stiles groans immediately. His hands are cold. The lotion cools his skin. The drastic difference in heat from his face to ears almost soothes the nagging feeling that he’s about to make a mistake. “Feel better?”

 

            “Yeah, what is that?”

 

            “It’s a specialty cooling lotion I buy. I can send you hone with some if you’d like.” 

 

            “Really? That sounds, ugh, amazing.” Stiles says, drifting off. 

 

            “It’s a plan.” 

 

            Peter shifts a bit lower down the table and pushes his broad fingers into Stiles’s back. They dig into knots as they drift leisurely from place to place. The attention to detail and release of tension make Stiles’s eyes water. He does his best to stay quiet, but everywhere Peter touches tingles and doesn’t quiet until long after he abandons it. 

 

            Stiles begins to arch into it. After fifteen minutes of Peter rubbing his shoulders and loosening Stiles’s lower neck his fingers pull away. 

 

            Stiles growls. 

 

            “You told me not to talk. How am I supposed to warn you?” 

 

            “Peter, don’t ruin the moment.”

 

            “Fine, but you’re being very high maintenance.” Peter squeezes more lotion out of the bottle and steps back over to the table. 

 

            “High maintenance,” Stiles mutters in a pitchy voice. 

 

            “You know I can hear you right?” Peter says, breath suddenly hot on his ear. He nips the tip of Stiles’s ear and then his breath is gone. 

 

            “Unfortunately,” Stiles says. His toes curl and feet flex against the sheet covering the leather of the table. “More... please.”

 

            “A please?” Peter asks aghast. 

 

            “Don’t count on getting another.”

 

            “I didn’t expect the first one,” he parries and taps his fingers on Stiles’s sides. 

 

            “It won’t work. I’m not ticklish.” 

 

            “Too bad.” Peter says and starts rubbing his palms into Stiles’s lower back. “Could’ve been fun.”

 

            “Others before you have tried,” Stiles says. “It wasn’t a good time for either party.”

 

            “May I ask about that?” Peter asks. 

 

            “Deucalion, my first year. He was... determined to find something, anything that would make me interested in him,” Stiles replies and goes quiet for a moment. “Some of his attempts were better received than others.” 

 

            “Did he ever try this?” Peter asks, voice tight, while rolling his knuckles against the small of Stiles back. Stiles feels his face go white hot and his vision blur. Then Peter slips his fingers around and grips Stiles by the hips. Stiles digs his teeth into his lips and stifles a whimper. Peter’s thumbs then press upward over Stiles’s tail bone and up his spine. 

 

 

            Stiles’s legs snap up beneath him. And he sits up quickly. He takes Peter’s face and gives it a rough kiss. “No,” Stiles says. He springs off the table, toppling it, and vaults over Peter’s head 

 

            His paws hit the ground and he’s on the run.

 

            A roar echoes in his ears as he lopes into the woods across the street once more. He stops immediately and looks back. A hulking black-brown body is barreling after him from across the street. He takes off running again, aiming for the nearest sound of flowing water. Every time he changes direction the crushing sounds coming from behind him get louder, more frantic. He does what he can to focus. He tries to mute his scent, to place his feet where they won’t snap anything, and avoid low branches.

 

            Every second, the snapping of branches gets louder, closer. He isn’t even halfway to the creek. He knows he won’t make it. He looks back for a moment. It’s nearly on him. He looks back in front of himself and sprints as fast as he can. He can barely breathe. He looks back again and he gets slammed to the ground. His hind legs get sucked under its mass. A massive mouth bites around the back his neck the moment they finish skidding through the dirt and moss.

 

            He yips, high and loud. His paws scrabble against the ground, but he can’t get up. The massive weight of the body above him is too much to lift. It ruts against him wildly and he screams. His shift shatters and instantly he’s human again. Tears flood from his eyes. “Stop,” he cries. “Please! No!” His claws erupt and he digs them into any part of it he can get to. The thrusts slow. He raises his arms over his head and slices at it’s face.

 

            It bellows and rears up.

 

            Stiles flips over and blood drips onto his face, covering it in wet, red streaks. He braces himself for the next assault. He covers his face with his forearms and shuts his eyes.   

 

            The monster above him lowers itself back onto him and wraps itself around him. It struggles against him as Stiles sinks his nails into its shoulders. It pulls him in, basketing him in a bear hug, and keens miserably into his ear.

 

            Stiles opens his eyes. His left one stings. He blinks it clean. By the time it clears and stops hurting, the fur is receding, and hugs swaths of the other man’s body are human again. Stiles pushes him away and looks the head of the beast in the eyes. “Peter?” He asks it and searches his eyes. The gashes on its face stitch together and the hybridized head reverts to human form.

 

            “Please, stop running,” Peter implores. Peter pulls him in for a hug and stuffs his face in the crook of Stiles’s neck.

 

            “I- I,” Stiles stammers. He scans the woods frantically.

 

            “Shhh, let’s just stay here a while.”

Notes:

So like, a lot of me had a lot of issues with writing the middle section of this.
Not sure why, but I've been mentally struggling with just not wanting to write sexual scenes (across fics) and this one was complicated because there're lots of moving parts and I wasn't sure how to balance the stuff that was supposed to be appealing and the stuff that was supposed to be contextualized to this AU and how to handle it all and make it work with them in general.
I think I stuck out a good balance in the end, but it was a fight.

Chapter 9: Red

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

They don’t talk on their way back to Peter’s house. Stiles keeps trying. Every so often, he opens his mouth; each time he does his tongue feels fat and dry and all that comes out is a cough or an aborted choking sound.

 

Peter keeps looking at him when he does. Each diverted gaze makes Stiles’ heart throb in his chest, punished for his lack of conviction. 

 

When they break the tree line Stiles shifts and trots across the street quickly. He steals into the backyard and runs to the clothes he’d abandoned on the beach. He snaps them up in his jaws and carries them back to the small concrete slab that protects the house from the sands. 

 

Stiles shifts back to human form and shakes out the sand dusted clothes. Forgoing the underwear, he pulls on the shorts and shirt. Then he rests against the sandstone colored exterior walls and waits for Peter to join him. 

 

Looking around at the upended table and torn clothes makes his skin tingle harshly. Closing his eyes, Stiles squeezes his hands into fists. 

 

A pair of hands meet his and relax them open. “It’s okay really, they were old anyway,” Peter near whispers. “Being an alpha means never getting too attached to your clothes. A lot of them don’t survive heat weak.” He chuckles and opens the door behind Stiles.

 

“You’re a shitty liar.”

 

“Patently false. But I suppose you could throw that underwear in the hamper if you’d like to help as some sort of penance. You can change when you’re done. We don’t need sand where it doesn’t belong.”  

 

“Sure, I’ll meet you upstairs. Try to have some clothes on when I get up there.” 

 

“No promises,” Peter says, brushes by him, and climbs the stairs at a leisurely pace. 

 

 Stiles goes back outside and rights the table. He picks up the dropped massage products and salvages the clothes he can in one hand and holds the tattered scraps in the other. 

 

Winding through the halls takes but a moment. The quiet humming of the house accompanies him down the hall and back again. Stiles can feel his feet picking up speed, each step pulls him closer, faster. One stair, then two, then one, then two then two. He can’t help it. 

 

It isn’t fair. 

 

He pulls out the paper and the pen that had managed to stay in him pocket amidst all the excitement. Scribbling quickly against the wall outside the bedroom, he fills out the paper more. 

 

“More rules?” Peter asks.  

 

“Not quite.” Stiles walks in the bedroom and hands the contract to Peter.

 

“I’d like waffles tomorrow morning? Seems like a terrible way to prevent yourself from quite a luxury.” Peter tucks the paper into his shorts and looks back up just in time to see Stiles staring at him. He couples the middle button of his white silk shirt in false modesty.

 

“Shut up. I figure, if I’m gonna break; I may as well get one request I know I’ll enjoy out of it.” Stiles goes into the closet to pick something out. 

 

Peter follows him in. “If I may-” he reaches past Stiles, breath hot on Stiles’ neck. “-I think you’d look amazing in this.” He pulls down a lustrous deep red silk shirt and hands it to Stiles. 

 

“It smells like you,” Stiles says. “A lot like you.”

 

“Oh.” Peter frowns. “Well, you’re free to choose anything you want. Whatever you’d prefer.” Peter returns the shirt to the rail and walks back out of the closet. 

 

Stiles trails him with his eyes. He bites the inside of his lip. “How do I compare with the others?”

 

“In what regard?” 

 

“Looks? Whatever.” Stiles touches some of the other shirts distractedly. “Alphas always talk to me about how I smell. I know I’m not much to look at. But I’m more than I was when this all started.”

 

“Stiles, you look irresistible, as always.” Peter says coolly. 

 

Stiles chuckles nervously. “I think I’d prefer it the other way.” 

 

“As would I,” Peter says. 

 

Stiles gulps. “So, what should we do?”

 

“Do you like oranges or strawberries?”

 

“Yeah? Why?”

 

“Let’s go picking. I have an orchard and a strawberry patch nearby.”

 

“That’s so boojee.”

 

“If you’re the owner, it’s more rustic and romantic than boujee. Boujee implies you don’t have money.”

 

“Will anyone... be there?” 

 

“Not this week.” 

 

“We could try it. I don’t get out to go to farms much. I haven’t been fruit picking since grade school.”

 

“Did you have fun?”

 

“The grapefruit was good. I liked-” Stiles’s face goes red.

 

“What?” Peter sits up.

 

“It’s stupid.”

 

“I didn’t peg you as the bashful sort.”

 

“Shame isn’t something one crafts; it’s something others craft for you,” Stiles says.

 

Peter’s on him again in an instant, hovering just millimeters away. His arms bracket Stiles’s body, narrowly avoiding skin to skin contact. 

 

For a moment, Stiles lets himself lean into it. The contact of Peter’s chest on his back soothes him. His eyes glow honey yellow. “I- I- I-“ Stiles stutters. His knees go weak. In a fit of resolve, Stiles clutches the hanging bar and drags himself away from Peter. 

 

The steel groans.

 

It’s affords him just an inch, but it’s enough. 

 

“Sorry,” he says when he manages to release it.

 

“I’ll just have it replaced.” Peter says huddling closer again. 

 

When Stiles turns around Peter’s eyes are shining a brilliant red. 

 

“Peter, I’m okay,” he manages. He pats Peter’s shoulders and immediately Peter’s against the wall, veneer of calm restored. 

 

Stiles grabs clothes behind him without looking and leaves the closet. If I were anyone else. 

 

“I’ll be waiting for you in the garage.” He tells Peter as he exits the bedroom. 

 

The moment he hits the stairs, Stiles checks his selection. A string of whispered curses spill from his mouth when he recognizes the incredibly soft red fabric in his hands.

 

When Peter joins him in the hall, the way he stops dead in his tracks makes Stiles’s stomach flip. Just like that, the warmth that had already spread through his body goes from simmering to scorching.

 

“It looks good on you,” Peter tells him. 

 

At hearing the compliment Stiles nods. The moment Peter’s lips stop moving he retreats to the garage.  

 

A silver convertible beeps and he jumps in. 

 

Peter’s right arm lands on the center console early into the drive, bumping Stiles’s into a hasty retraction. 

 

They don’t acknowledge it. Nor do they speak for the duration of the drive. 

 

***

 

Half an hour later, they pull off the highway to a smaller street and quickly make their way down a dirt road. Peter parks them at a small house with a sign that reads Hale’s Ruby Reds

 

“Ruby Reds?” Stiles asks pointing to the sign. 

 

“They’re blood oranges. I’ll be right back.” He runs inside and comes back out a few clangorous minutes later with a closed basket, by which time Stiles has managed to get out of the car and steady himself. “You ready?”

 

“Lead the way,” Stiles says leaving several feet between them.

 

Peter leads him around the house, through a tall white gate. He pushes it open and upon entering Stiles is immediately immersed in the space. The massive plot lies just beyond a seating area of well-kept, pure-white benches covered in red and white checkered blankets. 

 

The seating area’s fencing is covered in strawberry vines that are woven into the diamond shaped crossings of its wood. Overhead is a matching wide pergola from which hang delicate lighting fixtures meant to look like gas lamps. 

 

“Whoa,” Stiles says. 

 

“The people who visit like to think they’re having an idyllic day out. Rich people love pretending they’re low maintenance for a day.”

 

“They think this is low maintenance? No one I know could even afford to show up here.”

 

“Lucky you then.”

 

“Yeah, lucky me,” Stiles echoes. 

 

Peter goes over to a box and pulls out two pairs of gardening gloves. “Would you like to start at the tree line and make our way back or work your way to the oranges coming last?”

 

“I’d rather get the squatting out of the way first.”

 

“Good choice.” Peter lets Stiles lead the way stopping when Stiles does and squatting across from him. 

 

“So. Why strawberries?”

 

“They’re resilient. If even a root persists, they come back from the brink of destruction. I like their tenacity.” Peter plucks a few without looking and places them in the basket. 

 

A tickling sensation grips his stomach. “That probably says something about you,” Stiles says. He plays off the moment as best he can, pretending he doesn’t have to choke out the words.

 

“Did you expect me to say something about the fruit itself? The color? The taste?”

 

“I didn’t expect you to have an answer.” 

 

“I don’t believe you,” Peter says and plucks a few more. “You’re not the type to ask a question you don’t want the answer to.”

 

“It was just small talk,” Stiles lies. “I didn’t think you’d say something so...” 

 

“Direct?”

 

“Honest. You don’t seem the type for that,” Stiles says.

 

Peter takes off a glove and pulls out the paper. He scrawls on it and hands it back to Stiles. 

 

Stiles reads it:

 

We’ll always respond honestly.

 

“I hate you,” Stiles crumples the paper, takes off a glove, and shoves it in his pocket.

 

“Just tell me you relent. It’d be an easier way to lose the bet and wind up here again next year.”

 

“I thought the rule was I have to hurt you rather than myself,” Stiles jousts. He moves down the line to the next plant. 

 

Stunned for just a moment, Peter stares at him. He gives a huff, blinks several times, and gives Stiles a toothy grin. 

 

Stiles gives him a few darting glances, smiling all the while. “Finally shut you up.”

 

Peter shuffles over to Stiles and gently stalls his hand. “Kiss me,” Peter whispers.

 

“What? No.”

 

“Please,” Peter says. “Just once.” 

 

Peter’s plea plunges Stiles into a mist of the alpha’s pheromones. “Peter I-” Stiles leans in. He lets his lips close the space until he can feel the warmth of Peter’s breath on his lips. 

 

“Please. If you tell me not to, I won’t ever ask again.”

 

“You’re, you’re just stuck on the way we smell together, the shirt. It’s-” Stiles breathes, his hand now hovering a hair away from Peter’s face. “It’s not real.”

 

“I don’t care.” Peter propels Stiles hand the rest of the way with his own. He shudders at the contact when Stiles’s hand touches his face. 

 

Stiles’s hand tingles. Gingerly, he traces Peter’s brow with his thumb. 

 

Peter sighs. His lips tremble. 

 

For a single tender moment, they stay there, magnetized. 

 

Then, Peter breaks away.

 

“I shouldn’t have asked,” he says a moment later, his composure restored. “Let’s finish here and then move on to the oranges, okay?” 

 

“O-Okay,” Stiles says. He hesitates a moment before hastily sliding the glove back on and rifling through looking for ripe fruit. 

 

The continue in a near companionable silence. By the end of it, Stiles can feel the tension in his shoulders, but chooses to say nothing of it. He can smell it on Peter. It drafts off him in small spurts that pair themselves with morose looks Stiles can’t stand to return.

 

Peter stands some ten minutes later. “I think that’s enough of those. We’ll have enough to eat for the next week if we want.”

 

“You haven’t seen me eat fresh berries.” Stiles bites into one last one and then stands. “They’ll be gone by the day after tomorrow.”

 

“Then we’ll have to make a second trip.” Peter says. He picks up the basket and heads for the tree line. “Keep up.”

 

“What makes you think I can’t?”

 

“What should make me so certain that you’d intend to?”

 

“My respectful and obedient omega disposition.” Stiles says and bites into another strawberry, discarding it on the grass. 

 

Peter laughs. “If you’re so obedient you won’t mind carrying the basket.”

 

“Oh, I couldn’t on account of my delicate wrists.” 

 

Peter rolls his eyes and hands it to Stiles. 

 

Stiles takes it and immediately goes to eat another berry. 

 

“We’re supposed to feed each other. You’re terrible at playing by the rules.” Peter snatches his wrist and steals the bite for himself. 

 

“Sorry, I just figured field trips were a bit more... Laissez faire.”

 

“I thought you liked it when I feed you. Why ever would you give such a privilege up?”

 

“I feed myself most of the year. It slipped my mind.”

 

“Make sure it doesn’t again.”

 

“You’re exhausting.” Stiles says and gives him a shove. 

 

“So, I’ve been told.” Peter grabs a low hanging orange and tosses it to Stiles. 

 

“How long have you owned this place?”

 

“About as long as I’ve been an alpha. I had a lot of time on my hands the first few years. Had I stayed in my home all that time I would’ve lost it completely.”

 

“I’m glad to see you could hang on to some of your wits then.” 

 

“Me too.” 

 

“And how did the story of your meteoric rise go?”

 

“Secrets are painful Stiles. And what kind of mystery maker would I be if I gave the answer away.”

 

“The sub-game is still on then.” 

 

“I doubt either of us have the resolve to give up our secrets.”

 

Stiles picks an orange. “Probably not, but I’ll figure it out.”

 

“You’re cleverer than you are wise.”

 

“Almost every alpha I’ve ever met has taught me that moderation is for pussies.”

 

“You really shouldn’t pay heed to bad influences. It results in a poor temperament.”

 

“You knew about that when you chose me.” Stiles rips open the orange spurting out orange-red juice between them and walks off. 

 

“Don’t ruin that shirt.”

 

“I thought you’d learned not to grow too attached to your clothes.” Stiles takes a bite from its center and slurps up the juice before hurrying through the rows of trees snatching up more and more fruits. 

 

“I lied.” Peter says. 

 

Stiles turns to face him and keeps walking “Your true colors, just another lying Alpha.”

 

“Take it back,” Peter says hyperbolically aghast. 

 

“I shan’t,” Stiles turns up his nose and shakes his head.

 

“Shan’t?” Peter says. “When are you from, the 1800’s?”

 

“I could be a time traveler,” Stiles trips and must steady himself with a hand on a nearby tree. 

 

“You barely manage traverse the earth. I think it’s safe to say we can both keep traveling through time off the docket.” 

 

“Maybe. It would be cool though.” Stiles shakes off his embarrassment and starts walking again, face forward this time. 

 

“Don’t worry. When you end up back here next year, we’ll come back. Experiencing the familiar can be like a form of time travel in its own right.”

 

“Your confidence betrays you, Alpha Hale. I do think you’ve grown too fond of me already. I doubt you’ll survive my victorious departure.”

 

“At this point I’m uncertain which of us you’re lying to.” 

 

Stiles stops his parade through the grove. “Lying?”

 

“Self-delusion it is.” Peter says and reaches over his shoulder stealing the other half of the orange. Peter weaves in front of him and bites into the stolen half. 

 

When he finishes draining it, it he looks Stiles directly in the eyes and throws it on the ground. “Thanks for feeding me.”

 

“I didn’t.”

 

Peter wipes the red juice from his chin and smiles, a wry and cheeky glint in his eye. “You did the hard part.” 

 

“You stained your shirt.” 

 

Panicked, Peter looks down to inspect his shirt. Not even a drop has soiled the pristine white silk. He looks up and glares at Stiles. “I’ll get you for that.”

 

“Hoo hoo big boy. I’m so scared.” Stiles plucks another orange and poses to rip it open. “What are you going to do?”

 

“Stiles. Don’t.”

 

Stiles unsheathes his claws and slowly digs them into the orange. “Don’t what?”

 

“Don’t ruin that shirt.”

 

“Is that an order?” Stiles challenges.

 

Peter stares at him for a moment, muscles tense and unmoving. His expression shifts several times, each one is more muted than the last.

 

Suddenly, Peter turns around and walks deeper into the orchard, leaving Stiles alone in the grassy shade.

Notes:

Hey, I hope you all enjoy. I know its been a little while, but I'm working really hard on the Steter Bang. I have almost 30K made for that now and I'm excited to keep getting it done. I plan on doing another 20K for it, but I wanted to show you all the progress I'm making here as well. (This chapter does end on a bit of a cliff hanger but I like it that way.)
I'll be updating the companion fic here soon as well.
Until next time,
XOXO Iru_Naru

Chapter 10: Delegate Memories

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

“Where are you going?” Stiles drops the orange and hurries after Peter’s quickly distancing image.

 

“I’m not doing this.”

 

“What aren’t you doing?”

 

“Flirting with bad situations just so you can hate me for it.”

 

“Wait. Stop." Stiles's footsteps crack the fallen twigs behind Peter with increasing speed. "I thought we were having fun.”

 

“You were having fun. I’m trying to maintain my grip on a losing situation.” Peter continues his march through the lines of the trees. “I don’t play to lose Stiles. If this arrangement is going to work, there needs to be options other than lose and lose worse.”

 

“I wasn’t trying to do that to you.”

 

“Maybe not intentionally-” Peter stops. “-but I know what self-sabotage looks like.”

 

“And what does that look like Peter? Please tell me, because my life has been one huge explosion of biology fucking me over after another. So, what exactly am I doing that’s making this worse?”

 

Peter turns and looks him dead in the eyes. “You think I don’t see that? You think I didn’t understand the why? Every time I’ve ever been to a ceremony, I’ve felt exactly what you’re feeling right now. The pull to someone. The nigh irresistible urge to succumb to everything my body wants. I know the fight to maintain control. Manipulating me won’t work. It won’t give you control over this.”

 

“This whole system is manipulation. You bringing me here, coercion. You looking like that, torture. The way you smell, assault. This stupid fucking shirt that feels more right against my skin than anything I’ve ever owned, a perverse insult. I hate it all. All I want is to be at home, alone, and at peace.”

 

“I can’t give you that. Even if I could, I wouldn’t.” Peter drags his eyes over Stiles, relishing the way he looks and smells in his clothes. “No matter how desperately you want it, I can’t.”

 

“I know that,” Stiles says.

 

“Then you need to stop trying to play games where we both lose. If I hadn’t walked away what would’ve happened? What were you trying to get? You’re smart enough to know the answer.”

 

“It would’ve created a rift.”

 

“I would’ve either been angry at you for ruining my shirt, which would’ve made you my enemy.”

 

“Or you would’ve had to break the contract and command me not to.”

 

“Making me-”

 

“My enemy,” Stiles finishes for him, visibly deflating. 

 

“I’ve read all of the files. I know what you’re waiting for. I’m not giving you a reason not to trust me.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Because I don’t want just another subject. I’ve had my fill of meaningless, heat-ridden omegas. I want the man who resisted an alpha who’s had more omegas than anyone on the continent his first legal heat week. I want the man who even in blind fear can outwit more than one alpha.”

 

“I can’t give you what you want.”

 

“I’m not asking to possess you.”

 

“Aren’t you?”

 

“No.”

 

“Peter. You know everything about me. You know everything that’s ever been printed: my grades, my employment history, which alphas I’ve been chosen by, everything they’ve reported. I bet you even know about what happened two years ago. What do I know about you?”

 

“I’ve told you about my upbringing.” 

 

“Just that you had one. That it wasn’t like mine or the other alpha ‘suitors’ I’ve had.”

 

“What do you want me to tell you? Would it suffice to give you my version of events?”

 

“You could start with the truth.”

 

“If trust were built on truth alone, we wouldn’t be here today.” 

 

“Explain that would you Mr. Cryptic.”

 

“Did Deucalion lie to you? He’s a sycophantic zealot, but I’ve never known him to be a liar.”

 

“No, but-”

 

Peter rubs his temple. “What of Theodore and Ennis or Kali for that matter? Did they lie to you?”

 

“Not really. I wish Theo had.”

 

“Then why didn’t you accept their advances? Why didn’t you trust them?” He takes a step toward Stiles, which Stiles undoes with a step back. 

 

Stiles crosses his arms. “Because.”

 

“Because you didn’t trust how they made you feel.”

 

“Why do you keep finishing sentences for me like you know me? You don’t know me.”

 

“I know exactly what you feel.”

 

“No, you don’t. How could you?”

 

“I wasn’t born an alpha.”

 

“Betas don’t go into heat.”

 

Peter straightens his back. “No, they don’t.” 

 

“No. You can’t be serious.” 

 

“Why not? Omegas are born more often to mated alpha/omega pairs and their descendants. You’re more of a rarity than I was. You’re more uncommon than even that boy you grew up with who t no doubt triggered your early heat cycle.”

 

“You were an omega,” Stiles says, voice awash in disbelief.

 

“Should I describe in vivid detail for you the first time I went into heat? I still remember all the miserable, salacious details.” Peter mock laughs in a fit of deranged frustration. “Maybe I should tell you about the following several years of being left by the wayside. You see Stiles, you may think it’s hell now and you’re right. It’s a burning unending hell what you’re going through. It’s filled with temptations galore. You can’t choose a partner until after you’ve been discarded. But the icy wasteland of being undesired after your first time is not much better. What’s worse is that that hell, it can last forever.”

 

“Are you seriously trying to tell me I should like this?”

 

“No. I’m trying to tell you that unless you find an avenue that works; it won’t get better.”

 

“And you think you’re that alternative.”

 

“Maybe, but we’ve only just met. Regardless, if you don’t look for something other than being repaired yearly your rapidly declining alpha Satomi to put you back together this too will never end.”

 

“So what? Should I swallow the bitter pill; accept abandonment and insatiability? I’m not letting some asshole humiliate me. I won’t be carted back at the end of the week having been brought to my knees by biology. No thanks. I’m not letting the council forget about me or my objections.” 

 

Stiles’s rage pervades Peter’s senses through the chemo-signals. It extinguishes his desire and gives him freedom from the obsessive hunger that has plagued him from the moment Stiles arrived at the ceremony.

 

“The only thing that matches your determination to change the system is your insistence on playing by its rules.” Peter levels an icy glare that cuts through Stiles’s bravado in seconds. “Maybe I should save this for later. You’re clearly not ready for this conversation today.”

 

Stiles turns away from Peter, hugging himself. “Sure, it can wait.” His voice goes cold again. “Maybe you can tell me how I can elevate myself above it all via murder, abandoning my support system, or acceptance of a cycle of isolation at a later time. I’m sure I’ll be more receptive when I’m not hormonal.”

 

Peter winces. His vision flashes. The extreme heat of Stiles’s body the permeates his field of vision in stark contrast to the cool late April morning/evening. “I meant that we’re talking across a perceptive divide. We can’t even agree on what things mean. Can we put this aside so we can try to have a better day?”

 

“Fine.”

 

“Thank you,” Peter says.

 

He lets silence fall on the orchard. A minute later, with no indication that Stiles is going to make the next move; he decides to speak again. “If you check the other side of the basket there’s a large blanket. Put it down, will you?”

 

“Whatever. Sure. Why not?”

 

“Do you want me to tell you about my past or not?” Peter asks with a heavy sigh.

 

Instead of answering him, Stiles pulls out the blanket and shakes it out. They settle it on the ground and Peter smooths it before sitting. 

 

“This thing is huge,” Stiles comments when he sits on its rich violet surface nearly the full ten feet from Peter.

 

“It’s meant for families. I keep smaller sizes for couples. I wasn’t feeling like tempting fate today.”

 

“You thought bringing me on a romantic retreat to your picturesque farm was only tempting fate if you brought a smaller blanket. I’m not buying it.”

 

“That’s fine. I’m not selling you anything,” Peter says.

 

Stiles gives him a look that would cause a lesser man to wilt in shame.

 

Peter smiles, caught in the spotlight he’d anticipated. “Well, not anything out of the usual.”

 

“Okay, now that you’ve got the whole silver-tongued seductor schtick out of the way; can you start telling me about your past?”

 

Peter lays longways across his edge of the carpet before speaking. “Where should I start?”

 

“Your pack, tell me about them. What are they like?”

 

Peter frowns. “They were great. We were close, closer than any family really ever is I suspect. I miss that most days.”

 

“Oh, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have.”

 

“It’s fine. I’d rather you hear it from me than read about it online,” Peter’s heart waivers and he feels his stomach clench. He tries to smile for pretense, but it won’t come. “I was raised mostly by my sister. Our mom died when I was very young, and our father could barely keep himself together after that. They say when you lose someone that means as much as she did to our father that a piece of you dies with them.”

 

“They’re right,” Stiles says voice quiet in Peter’s ears.

 

“They are.”

 

Peter pauses for a beat, giving his face a moment to harden. “Talia presented as an alpha before I can remember. She basically took over everything. When she settled down and married, I was not great about it. Or so she told me. It got worse when she had Laura. She presented early. Ironically, it was the same year I did, though in opposing fashion. Insufferable as she was, I loved her like a little sister all the same.”

 

“Must’ve been weird. Growing up like that.”

 

“No weirder than being an omega born to a human mother and a beta father.”

 

“They thought I’d be human. We had to move when I presented.” Stiles laughs bitterly and runs a hand through his hair. “They didn’t buy a house with a heat room.”

 

“The house was a mess with two natural born alphas in it and a third deteriorating one. I prayed for years for the cosmic joke of it all to end. I even moved away to escape the stifling rules laden environment, for a time.” Peter clenches his fist and straightens his face. “But here we are and look at me now. I’m positively thriving.”

 

“Sure enough, but you’re rather alone.”

 

“I keep betas around like everyone else. Mostly, I take in those who don’t have packs for whatever reason. You’ve met Erica. Her lover Boyd as well.” Peter rests his head on the grass. “All of the people who work at my home as well.”

 

“And your family?”

 

“I have a nephew that still pops in every now and again when he can bring himself to look at me.” Peter stretches, long and leisurely like a cat lazing in the sun.

 

“What’s he like?”

 

“Emotionally constipated. He can’t take a joke. Whenever I say anything even a bit too interesting, he gets this look on his face. It’s something you’d make if you got a whiff of a weeks old dead fish while sucking on a lemon.” Peter scrunches his face to mime it for Stiles.

 

Stiles laughs. The sound is nearly a cackle, but his mouth is fully agape breathing life into each irregularity. It’s light and bubbly in Peter ears. 

 

Peter feels his lips tug up at the corners. Caught in the temporary unburdened levity rolling off Stiles, the tightness suffocating his chest unravels. He can’t hold the disgruntled look and rolls onto his back, sliding into a fit of laughter of his own.

 

“So naturally, everything you say to him is outlandish and subversive,” Stiles says when he’s recovered.

 

“Of course.”

 

“Good to know I’m not the only person you taunt mercilessly.”

 

“You think I’ve been bad to you; you should see me at Alpha summits. I’m always the talk of the event.”

 

“And what was your last debacle?”

 

“I was misanthropic as ever,” Peter says. “I spent most of the formalities insulting the honor of the other alphas in attendance. Deucalion nearly mauled me when he heard my declaration of intent to pursue you.”

 

“What? Why?”

 

“You may not know this, but any alphas that are intending on pursuing a particularly desired omega have to declare it ahead of time. I attended and the moment that opening statements were done, I immediately interrupted the decorum with my declaration. Deucalion was the most senior unpaired alpha in attendance. Not only did I usurp his position in the declarative processions and flout the fact that neither he nor any of the others could crack you. But also, before I had my first heat he came to my sister and sought to be my first.”

 

“He what?”

 

“Oh yes, he’s been serial deflowering for longer than I’ve been alive. He’s a lot older than he looks.” Peter points to the basket. “Toss me a water, would you?”

 

Stiles produces one and lobs it to Peter.

 

Peter takes several gulps. “When I strode into the room and cavalierly told him no at age eighteen, I thought his eyes were going to explode. I walked out without even a second thought I walked out. Apparently, they did.” Peter takes another sip. “I guess he’s held a grudge ever since.”

 

“I can only imagine the face he made thinking of the one who got away together with the one who flat out rejected him.”

 

“It was like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to strangle me or record the event,” Peter says. “Ennis and Theo were no better.”

 

“Why were so many of you in the same place? I thought those things were mostly regional.”

 

“There were some pressing security matters to address. They figured the more coordinated we could make it the better.”

 

“Sounds like they were wrong.”

 

“The diplomacy only devolved after that. But, I can’t claim to have had much of a hand in that pot. Scott however has.”

 

“Scott? What’d he do?” Stiles takes out another water and half drains one of his own.

 

“You should really talk to him more often. From what I’ve heard; he’s been touring the regions trying to support your stance. He’s gained a bit more traction from the younger crowd than you’d think. I added my support early into the third day of debates. The more established crowd was not happy about any of it.”

 

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Of course not. Accountability isn’t a favorable outcome for the entitled. I wonder why he ever told me about any of this.”

           

“He probably didn’t want to get your hopes up,” Peter actively flattens his facial expression. “Plus, if he told you he’d have had to kill you.”

 

Stiles gives him a look of pure apathy. “I guess you’ll have to do it instead. Now that I don’t have to worry about the consequences of anything anymore; I won’t feel bad about leaving here with all the shit you’ll have to give me.”

 

“Yes. My pocketbook is quite safe.”

 

“I’m sure you’re very relieved.”

 

“The second chandelier I’ll be able to afford for my banquet hall will look lovely.”

 

“Promise me you’ll send me the photos.”

 

“Which cemetery should I address the envelope to?”

 

“I’ll call my lawyer with the instructions on where to send them.”

 

“Perfect. I’ll be able to delegate the task.”

 

“I would hate to be inconvenient.”

 

“Too late.” Peter smiles.

Notes:

I hope you all enjoy. I had to rework my first draft to have a more clear POV. It was a MESS originally. I like where I took it overall. I'm about 35K through my Steter Bang fic now too. I'm trying to flesh out the world a bit more so the society is a bit more coherent. I hope it shows. If there are any questions you have about any of the functions please ask me so I can try to work them in for narrative consistency. I have to figure out how many days they've been together at this point though so I can figure out how to pace the rest of the narrative. I have a tendency to let the story length to get out of hand XD.

Chapter 11: Other Castles

Notes:

Hey guys, Very pleased to be back from hiatus.

I hope you enjoy this chapter.

You probably won't. XD

I'll be trying to edit my fic from the bang for a bit and then post to my longest fic and then add more here as well. See you again soon and enjoy. :)

XOXO Iru_Naru

Chapter Text

For once the rest of the day goes easily. Peter’s still close. He’s closer than Stiles wants him to be, but Stiles can’t bring himself to complain about it. It’s intoxicating, the proximity. Each thing they do has their personal spaces squeezing into one another’s, crossing the line without ever breaching it. 

 

Stiles makes his way to the shower at the end of the night, quiet and calm for the first time. Blaming it on the drinks, the hormones, or any number of things would’ve been easy. However, the reality is that it is the buzz that sets in is that of having a good day. It’s the buzz of not feeling mandated, the feeling of forgetting, if only for an evening, that he’s bound to this life. 

 

When Peter requests to touch him, Stiles stalls. For a moment he considers it. He thinks about what it would feel like to have someone he doesn’t completely hate touch him. Stiles turns him down anyway, not ready to depart from the solitary embrace of the water. 

 

***

 

He awakens the next morning to the feeling of soft skin against his lips. Roused by a moan that ruptured his dream of the orchard from the prior day, Stiles pulls his lips from Peter’s neck. Entire body hot once more, he can barely bring himself to put the distance between them. The comparatively cool warmth of Peter’s body beneath him is embarrassingly inviting.

 

The alpha laying beneath him paints a beautiful picture. His eyes closed, head tilted back, toned chest exposed, and fingers wrapped preciously in the sheets: the combination is hard to resist.

 

In the moments before his mind returns through the fog of waking Stiles enjoys the sight. But with each passing moment, more of his senses crash through the barrier that separate the conscious mind for the unconscious. As they do the sight becomes less and less appealing. And more so sexual attraction his body spurs forth separates from the aesthetic pleasure anyone in their right mind would take when greeted with similar conditions.

 

 

The raging inferno that consumes his senses, begging of him to seek shelter in the cool embrace of another registers for what it is: an instinct. Instinct out of control eventually sours the moment, turning it all inside out. With what little control he has, Stiles grips the sheets at his sides and pulls them away as he rolls off the bed.

 

Peter pursues him, husting him into the wall. His eyes, half lidded shine bright red stare at his.

 

Stiles can see how much of a stupor Peter is in in them. Unsure if Peter’s even awake, Stiles pushes a hand into Peter’s chest. An electrifying tingle greets him, rewarding the touch with the ample pleasure that the cycle can provide. One he has always rejected. “Peter. Your eyes. I like them better when they’re blue,” Stiles whispers into the thin air of the inches between their mouths.

 

A blink and a shake of the head rock Peter back into the world. The red bleeds from his eyes slowly. His eyes restored to their natural blue pierce Stiles. Peter smiles, expressions still enveloped by the decadence that overtook him in his sleeping state. “Let’s eat,” he says.  

 

  

The food is laid out for them when they get downstairs. Platters of fruits, unidentifiable delicate pastries and more adorn the table.

 

Stiles and Peter weather the ebb and flow of their game together in blissful misery. Neither can stand the tension each press of their lips to scented food brings and neither can bear to end it. Their companion, a light salted breeze, chills their skin; giving each of them moments of clarity which always give way again to the electric hum in their veins.

 

 

When he has no more endurance left, Stiles stands. Wobbly kneed, he makes his way out to the cold morning brack and dives into the waves still naked from the night before.

 

Peter, coerced by a siren song of admiration follows him in.

 

They spend most of the morning churning in the water, circling around each other endlessly. Each teases the other with proximity, daring themselves closer, seeing how close they can get.

 

The game in which they engage is aided by the chill of the water which tempers the boiling sensations that lie just underneath their surfaces.

 

Peter, tumbles in the water. Several times he’s caught up in daydreams about what it would be like to have Stiles, pleased and welcoming to his advances. More than once the laughs that echo over the water cause him to join in, only to get a mouth full of salt water from particularly ill-timed waves.

 

The result of his gagging is always a redoubling of Stiles laughter. The sound even if directed at him rather than with him is music to his ears. He knows it won’t last, he knows the moment they leave the water that Stiles’ joyful disposition will retreat back to its guarded form. So as his mouth dries out, as thirst and hunger draw him from the water, and Stiles pulls them back towards the shore Peter ebbs away from it beckoning Stiles away from the shore, borrowing just another moment of bliss as many times as he can.

 

Stiles can feel it, bubbling in him. His body bounces him against the moving island that is Peter. He circles it leisurely, knowing he doesn’t have to make landing here where the waves pull the intensity of the world away from him. Splashing Peter, tumbling trough the swell, diving into the dark depths, and then looking into the sun beams; all of it provides a relief from other thoughts. The moments of release never last long enough.

 

Watching Peter, not talking, he knows. He knows with Peter’s retreat further from the shore that their moment of freedom is coming to a close. The warmer the water gets, the brighter the sun gets overhead, the shorter his moments of clarity become; the more he knows they need to find new occupation. Stiles eventually makes for the shallows. When he does, he sees Peter frown.

 

Peter had been drawing them further out for too long.  

 

Stiles settles in the tide line where when sitting the water comes just above his belly button. He rests there.

 

Peter approaches from the waves, giving Stiles an all too appealing image of what it must have been like to be courted by Poseidon in Greek legends. His fingers tingle in the sand as his nerves get the better of him. He heaves in a breath and leaves his lounging spot to grab a towel.

 

“What next?” Peter asks, reaching over him to grab a towel.

 

Stiles stands stock still. “Run out of itinerary items this early into my stay? That just won’t do,” he says, hiding his stiffness best he can.

 

“In my defense, this isn’t how it normally goes. Not when you’re like…” Peter drops off for a moment. He lets out a quiet sigh before returning to the topic at hand. “We could go upstairs play games. We could cook lunch. I have plenty of options.  I’d take you out but you’ve outlawed it.”

 

“For good reason.” Stiles dodges under Peter’s arm and slips past him on his way to the house. He wraps the towel around his waist as he walks and pauses to scrub the sand from his feet before entering the villa. Once dusted properly he lays out on the lounging couch and turns on the television.

 

Without the cold embrace of the ocean around him his mind slows quickly. The couch is too soft. It sucks him in and makes staying in one place too appealing.

 

He barely registers that Peter is missing. He barely register’s Peter’s reappearance with two blankets until he requests to sit behind him and then flops a plush blanket in his lap.

 

“Can you restrain yourself?” Stiles asks apprehensively.

 

“Stiles, I promise that other than to cuddle I won’t act on baser urges without permission; though some parts of me will likely protest.”

 

“And you won’t do something stupid like caress me. I don’t want a repeat of yesterday morning.”

 

“If I start just sink your claws into my thighs. I’ll stop immediately.”

 

“I’ll try…” Stiles shifts way from the corner of the couch and watches Peter settle in and cover himself with a blanket to buffer between them. When Peter motions to him to sit, he lets his biology get the better of him and he complies with the beckoning.

 

Instantly upon covering himself with the blanket and laying back against Peter endorphins flood his system and the TV fades as he sinks into his inner world.

 

***

 

“Body to body contact is one of the quickest ways to bond an alpha and omega together.” Deucalion says, patience clearly already at a limit on this second morning of his stay. “If you lay here with me you’ll feel better. It’ll settle your nerves.”

 

“My nerves aren’t the problem,” Stiles says from the doorway.

 

“And what, pray tell, is the problem?”

 

“I don’t like the way you look at me.”

 

“With desire?” He says in a sultry yet disconcerting voice.

 

“Yes, a consumptive one. Every time you touch me it feels like you’re on the verge of devouring me. Every time you look at me; I feel like a possession.”

 

“In a way, for the next week or so you are. Is it really so wrong to be had?”

 

“I belong to myself alone.”

 

“I wish you’d resolve to serve your own thirst over these petty needs for control you have. Your biology clearly disagrees with your obstinance. I can smell it every time I touch you.”

           

“When I washed you last night your body was emitting more pheromones than most countries.”

 

“Do you not know the difference between volitional and non-volitional urges. Wanting something and wanting to want something that you want aren’t the same.”

 

“Is this how the entire week is going to be? Me wasting time convincing you that wanting things is okay?”

 

“And what is wrong with that?”

 

“It’s droll. Sit with me and you can decide later whether your meta level critiques matter to you,” Deucalion commands.

 

There it goes again. Stiles’s body cedes to the commands of the alpha. Deuc was shirtless when Stiles had come into the room. He’d decided to rest atop the covers of the bed in the heat room while Stiles had gone into the bathroom.

 

Disgruntled he reclines into Deucalion’s chest and feels his whole body shiver, pitching from hot to cold and back again as his captor removes his shirt and then presses them back together.

 

“There, that’s not so bad is it?” Deuc asks, letting his hands roam Stiles’s pale chest.

 

“I’ll need new blankets,” Stiles says as his head involuntarily slumps into Deucalion’s shoulder, exposing his neck.

 

“Ask me later.”

 

***

           

“Stiles are you okay?”

 

“No.”

 

“Is it-”

 

“Other castles Peter. Other castles. It’s likely I’ll never forget them. These things will never be simple.” Stiles leans his head into the crook of Peter’s neck and compulsively sniffs him. “That’s the worst part of this. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to do any of it and I don’t know if it’s because I wouldn’t have wanted to or if its because the scars are too deep.”

 

“Should we get up?” Peter asks.

 

Stiles can hear the heaviness in the offer. He can sense how hard Peter is fighting his own body, whether its how rigid Peter’s body is beneath Stiles’s own. Each aborted shift in body position speaks more to the restraint that’s likely consuming all of Peter’s mental faculties more than the offer does.

 

Stiles lets out a tired sigh. “No. You need this. If I don’t give you something…service it slightly it could get worse. I don’t need you flustered.”

 

“May I wrap my arms around you?” Peter asks voice tight.

 

“One arm,” Stiles says, he feels his throat constrict around the words.

 

Peter’s next motion comes slowly. His hand hovers just over Stiles’s skin as it positions itself across his belly. When done, Peter absently pulls Stiles higher up his chest. With that, Stiles’s claws sink into Peter’s legs and he loses himself to another memory.

 

***

 

Ennis was harsh, even when he thought he was being kind and generous.

 

Only three hours in and he’d already begun hauling Stiles around like a child. His massive body could’ve done it even if he hadn’t been an alpha. Everywhere Stiles sat in the room he’d been provided was marked by Ennis somehow. His presence was smothering.

 

On Stiles only true day of locomotive freedom, the first, he couldn’t go anywhere without pursuit. Ennis showed him around the building confidently. Each room had been constructed in his strange edificial manner. The vaulted ceilings should’ve helped the building feel cooler but they didn’t, not with Ennis only inches at most from his skin at any moment.

 

He’d guided him through the rooms, nearly dragging him from one to the next via his death-grip on Stiles’s hand.

 

The hauling began immediately after the end of the tour at the first meal together. Rather than allowing Stiles to eat like a functioning person in his own chair, he’d captured Stiles by the waist and lifted him into his lap. He’d then did his most oafish impression of snuggling by securing Stiles with one massive meaty arm around his chest and the other grabbing a random assortment of delicacies one by one to feed to him.

 

When Stiles was allotted the opportunity to eat it was like this, always like this. Had it not been so genuinely terrifying, it would have almost been sweet. But, Stiles could feel every ounce of arousal it caused Ennis to perform like this. He felt every drag of Ennis’s nose as he’d soak in the involuntary chemical responses the feeding would draw from Stiles’s body. It was the most pleasant thing to happen to him in that building. Several times the sheer relief of not being under duress of violence that the times would bring a near euphoric high to the sessions.

 

It was during one of these that he’d nearly cracked mid-week. After hours of Ennis’s rough hands roving his unyielding body, making every single neuron so completely overwrought with sensation and sensitivity the calm caress, and scenting had lulled him to a near comatose state while eating.

 

But Ennis, thuggish as he was shook Stiles back to his senses with his abrupt initiation of dirty talk.

 

“I can smell it. You’re finally ready for me, aren’t you?  You’ve changed your mind.” Ennis said, voice rough, brash, and loud in Stiles’s ear.

 

Stiles’s head snapped forward, his mind cleared all at once the interplay of his heat daze and Ennis’s rut completely lost. He immediately launched into a panic attack and threw up half the meal that Ennis had supplied.

 

The moment he did, he’d found himself on the floor and Ennis was several feet away calling some sort of attendant in a beleaguered tone.

 

When Stiles returned to himself, he was in the heat room once more. Ennis stopped by at the top of the hour to resume his unwarranted ministrations.

 

Stiles never apologized for it, he wouldn’t have even if he’d have normally wanted to. He never spoke of the moment again, but it was clear Ennis was all too smugly aware. The sessions got more and more intense after that. They’d alternate between his approximation of sweetness and sadism. But the meals never changed, one arm around his waist pulling him closer.

 

***

The feeling of entrapment fades slowly. Peter’s still there and his hands haven’t moved since Stiles lost track of time. Gradually, Stiles regains control of his motor functioning.  He lifts his head from Peter’s shoulder and feels the scratch of his heat mate’s stubble on his cheek. It feels as good as it feels terrifying. 

 

Stiles pulls away, each inch of distance relieves the tension a little more. He heaves in a heavy sigh once he’s bent forward, back fully independent of the entity behind him. 

 

Curling in on himself, Stiles works to separate Peter’s essence from his own one sense at a time. 

 

He reminds himself how the hand that now lays limp and loose at his waist isn’t a part of his body. He sifts through the differences between their scents until he can remember what they each smell like alone. Tracing his eyes along the lines of their bodies Stiles finds the places where the skin of  their legs touches beneath the blankets and knows once more where he ends and Peter begins. But he can’t feel satisfied until his own heart beat no longer beats in step with the even hum of Peter’s behind him. 

 

They’re bonding. Stiles hates it. Even when lost in all his fears, for the first time in all of this his heart isn’t jack hammering in his chest. 

 

Stiles stands to escape. 

 

Taking the steps two at a time he retreats from Peter’s presence and hides in the bedroom. He slams the door and locks it, knowing it won’t do much of anything if Peter doesn’t feel like allowing it to. He quickly finds the clothes that are the most unused, piling several of each in a stack in the corner and chooses a set of anything to cover himself in. 

 

Peter’s at the door.

 

There’s one knock. Then two. Then three.

 

Stiles collects everything and puts it in an old designer shopping bag that somehow Peter had never tossed out. He unlocks the door before scrambling to the deck. When Peter finally twists the door knob, Stiles is already over the railing and ready to drop to the sand below. 

 

He takes one look at Peter, nods, and then let’s go of his grip on the rails. He falls to the ground. Landing softly, he recovers quickly. 

 

Looking up, Peter is at the rails ready to pursue him. Stiles gives Peter a weak smile and walks to the outer door and renters the house. 

 

Another few moments of hurried steps and he’s at the door to the heat room. 

 

Stiles tucks the bag into the furthest corner from the door and then takes a seat by the window. 

 

Peter’s at the doorway. He can hear the steady heartbeat hanging in the door way. The firm reassuring thumping pounds in his ears from across the room. They stay like that for a while. Peter not moving; Stiles not talking, not looking. 

 

Clattering begins downstairs and Stiles lets out a sigh of relief. Soon he’ll have an excuse to do something else. Soon he’ll have an excuse to ignore the last hour. 

 

If he can just wait here long enough, food will be ready and he can suggest they eat rather than address his subdued panic. 

 

He closes his eyes. 

 

I just have to wait it out.

Chapter 12: One of Them

Chapter Text

Peter doesn’t wait for lunch. He doesn’t wait for the opportunity for stiles to avoid the problem to arise. 

 

“Are we going to talk about whatever that was?” Peter asks, evoking a full body cringe from Stiles.

 

“We could just not. That’s an option,” Stiles suggests morosely.

 

“Is it? What would it do for you?” Peter asks, tone even. It’s so even, in fact, that it makes Stiles feel like he’s alone in an empty room staring in a mirror. 

 

Suddenly, everything is far away. Every nagging thought evaporates, and he’s left only with one question: 

 

What about this am I afraid of?

 

Peter stands at the precipice for some time, waiting for Stiles’s answer.

 

It comes slowly. Stiles feels his lips open, close, and shake more times than he cares to count. His eyes dart along the cold blank walls of the heat room.

 

“I thought it was a fairy tale. I thought it was something that biology teachers cooked up to make the heat/rut cycle seem appealing. Every year, I became more and more sure that it was.”

 

“You’re not predicating your pronouns Stiles.”

 

“The bonding thing, alright!” Stiles yells, turning to Peter face full of rage. “Is that what you want to hear? I felt it! When I woke up earlier I was calm. It makes me sick!”

 

“You’re upset that you weren’t having a panic attack?”

 

“Yes!”

 

“You know that’s crazy right?” Peter says, uncrossing his arms and flapping out a hand. 

 

“You don’t get it do you?” Stiles’s head says between his knees. “I’m mad because I didn’t feel like me. When I woke up all I felt was you.”

 

“Is it really so unappealing? Feeling me? Having me to steady you? If the pattern is always the same as it has been you’ll never get to be you,” Peter says. When he starts up again his voice turns cold in Stiles ear expressing a dangerous edge. “Would you rather it that my presence feels like a predator’s? Should I be harsh? Should I abuse you? Would you prefer I be yet another untrustworthy alpha? Should I take parts of you by force? I can relish in your discomfort if that’s what you want.” Peter leans more heavily into the doorframe. 

 

“No,” Stiles chokes out, barely a whisper.

 

“What was that? I couldn’t hear you.” 

 

“No.” His voice is still shaky, but louder this time. 

 

“Say it one more time.” Peter demands. “Do you want me to be like them?”

 

“No!” Stiles’s head flips up, partly shifted. His eyes shine bright at Peter. He erupts from his seat and charges Peter. 

 

When close to the doorway, Peter’s arms move in a burst of speed. His hands grasp Stiles’s wrists and yank him off balance. They turn quickly in a near three-hundred-and-sixty-degree motion that ends with Stiles pinned against the heat room’s outer wall. 

 

Peter lets out a huff. “Then why do all of your actions indicate the contrary?”

 

What little fight survived his impact with the wall drains from Stiles’s body. “I just want to be me.”

 

“Was that you?”

 

***

 

“Is this all you are?” Jonas sneered. “Pathetic.”

 

“Don’t worry,” Stiles said through the exhaustion. “I’m just saving my energy for later.”

 

“After all you’d said about being above your biology; I thought you’d at least have the stamina to go more than three round.”

 

“You put me on a stretching wheel and threw daggers at me. I’m lucky to be alive, let alone for my joints are healing.”

 

“There’s that pesky voice of yours again, tempting me to tie you back up to the wheel.”

 

“Do what you want,” Stiles said. He bowed his head falsely, to distract Jonas. When he’s certain Jonas isn’t looking, Stiles gripped one of the many fallen throwing needles from the ground just beneath him and concealed it by pressing his hand against the underside of his leg. “I won’t let you have the parts of me that matter. I can handle much more pain than you can.”

 

“We’ll see.”

 

“Jonas. I just have one question before you ever so boringly start torturing me again.” Stiles winced and sucked in a breath when he dared to tense, spreading the toxic paste to a new formerly untainted section of one of his many injuries.

 

“And what would that be pet?” Jonas asked. His handsome yet stony features glowered at Stiles when he responds. His visage, in that moment, in that angle, was not unlike that of a grisly creature carved painstakingly in exquisite marble. The blessing of his classic beauty only served to highlight the danger lurking behind it.

 

“Come closer, I’m weak as you well know. I’m not sure I could bear to look you in the eyes without your help. At this point my body’s to heavy.”

 

“Of course.” Jonas’s predatory glee warbled through his voice disturbing the smooth calm he used to guise his nasty nature.

 

When his fingers touched Stiles’ chin, they were soft. They lifted his head to bring their eyes into alignment. The gentleness of the motion made Stiles want to vomit. Jonas’s eyes locked on him as if he could drink in every drop of pain that was racking Stiles’ body simply by tracking the building tension in Stiles’ jaw and his fear by tracing the tear streaks that crusted his cheeks.

 

“How many more days do you think we can do this?” Stiles asked. “I think I’m adjusting. I think I’m starting to like it. It’s making me stronger.”

 

“You shouldn’t lie. You already know what happens when you do that.”

 

“Don’t I.” Stiles says, in a flash he let go of his own guise. His exhaustion dropped away and his arm equipped with the silver needle struck in one fluid motion. His hand drove the needle through Jonas’ temple and until it punctured through his eye spiking it into Stiles’ vision. Victory super charged Stiles’ cells.

 

Jonas howled in pain.

 

The anguished noise hurt Stiles’ ears.

 

Stiles broke off the end of the needle and tossed off its remains. He punched Jonas clear across the room and shook off the pain of the chemical burn radiating through his hand.

 

Thinking as quickly as the disorientation would allow, Stiles grabbed another needle and moved to stand. Standing now for the first time of the day, Stiles’ legs shuddered. The difficulty of the simple action surprised him. Just another symptom of the toxin being that pervasive he supposed.

 

Stumbling, but quickly he strode across the floor to where Jonas laid, head half through the wall. He grabbed the sickly jar of toxin off the nearby table and straddled Jonas’ shock stunned body.

 

“Never again. You’ll never do this again.” Stiles jammed the second needle through to match the first. Stiles opened the jar. The smell of it, repugnant and revolting, caused Stiles to place it as far from himself as possible. “I wonder how much you can heal. Let’s see if you alphas really are superior.”

 

Stiles roared into the sound proofed room before taking a butcher’s knife to each of Jonas’ hands. Stiles shoved the stumps into the sluice filling the jar. In so doing Jonas snapped awake, the severe pain ripping him out of the sweet grip of unconsciousness which had prior spared him.

 

Stiles gripped his hands around Jonas’ head and pulled him up the voice module. “Speak.”

 

“Open.” Jonas whispered.

 

The door clicked and Stiles dropped Jonas to the floor. “I’ll keep you with me Jonas. Always.” He said upon departing the room into the darkness of the basement halls.

 

***

 

“That wasn’t an ounce of what I can be. It was nothing compared to what I have to choose not to be every day.”

 

“And what exactly is that?”

 

“One of you. One of them.” Stiles spits, face still smushed into the wall.

 

“The only thing about me that’s like them is the color of my eyes, and even that’s only sporadic.” Peter releases him and backs away.

 

Stiles lets out a huff and takes the hallway in rapid strides. The tears fall from his eyes hot and steady, but he doesn’t swipe at them. The sensation is wretched, but he’s hoping that Peter won’t see if he doesn’t react to it. He makes his way to the arcade room and does his best to channel his embarrassment and contempt for his body into the joysticks and buttons.

 

Peter joins him in the room playing a game a few machines over. He just quietly taps at the buttons and glances at Stiles, often.

 

Stiles feels Peter’s eyes on him like hands pressing into knots in his back. They make his hackles rise almost as much as they relax him again. The kitchen door opens downstairs, and he leaves the room without speaking.

 

Peter follows not two steps behind him.

 

Stiles can’t settle in the chair at first. His feet won’t still. His fingers worry at the seat beneath him. The pull between them starts again and they go from rapidly drumming and pulling at the underpinning of the fabric to clenching the base itself. After each hand fed bite of ribs Stiles feels his wolf rise to the surface. With each swell, he has to fight to shove it back down.  

 

The moments in which he can make eye contact with Peter, he can see the day has taken its toll. Peter’s wolf is making itself known as well as his own. Flickers of red eyes, pronunciation of his brow ridge, and straining in his jaw are evident.

 

Stiles does his best to eat quickly. The food is good. Too good. The meat falls off the bone wherever he sinks his teeth in and the marinate is rich on his tongue. When Peter finally switches to something else Stiles looses a moan of relief.

 

Water hits his tongue and suddenly he’s parched. He gulps it down like he’d been in a desert for days and finally found an oasis in Peter’s hands.

 

Instinctually, Stiles hooks his heel into the horizontal bar of Peter’s chair and reels him in closer. His hand goes out to Peter’s before the water can spill from the glass and steadies it. For a moment, his eyes fix on the glass itself and bright amber shines back at him.

 

His fingers slide over the back of Peter’s hand and he places the glass on the table for them. Stiles gasps as an after affect of the final gulp of water. He looks to Peter who’s slack jawed in front of him. “We should probably feed you too. If your mouth is left open much longer you’ll get dry socket.” Stiles snorts trying to play off the moment and then picks up ribs for Peter.

 

Peter’s jaw has shut when he looks back, supplanted by a strangled look.

 

“I can’t feed you like that.” Stiles says and raises the food to Peter’s lips sheepishly.

 

Peter’s first bite is too intentional. His lips pull at the food and his hand comes over Stiles’ own to keep him still. Fraying sparks tingle the entire way up Stiles’ arm and he about passes out. It takes all his will not to slip from his chair or rise from it. In the end, the only thing that keeps him in place is the look in Peter’s eyes.

 

It petrifies him. The intensity of Peter’s gaze. The unshakable thirst and hunger burning behind his clear blue eyes, all of it fills Stiles with dread.

 

Sensing it pours sand down his throat until his stomach his falling out his ass and dries cement blocks around his feet.

 

What terrifies Stiles more is how quickly the searing terror retreats. It cedes to the feeling of Peter’s desire, replicating itself within him.

 

The bite ends and Stiles’ fingers lose all their strength, dropping the food to the floor with a squelch and clack of bone on tile.

 

Stiles lets out a gasp and a then sigh in quick succession. It takes another moment for him to recalibrate. He shakes his head several times to try to aid the reset. “Whew! Sorry. I’ll pick it up and get rid of it,” Stiles says.

 

“No worries,” Peter says with a steadiness that’s so contrary to the off-kilter state Stiles is in. “We have plenty more.”

 

His eyes are still on Stiles, but the intensity has waned. The honesty of Peter’s disregard for the accident surprises Stiles. That he doesn’t care isn’t the surprise, but that for some reason Stiles knows it isn’t because Peter’s hunger just lies elsewhere. It stuns him to silence.

 

Peter whistles and someone comes out of the kitchen. Her nose is plugged and she scoops up the fallen food, wipes the floor, and disappears back into the kitchen without saying a word.

 

“Should we continue?” Peter asks, when she’s been gone long enough.

 

“Yeah.” Stiles licks his lips. “But, please don’t touch me. I can’t handle it right now.”

 

“I’ll do my best to restrain myself.”

 

Stiles starts again and the meal goes much more smoothly. The hunger and attraction are still there, but the avoidance of contact makes it tolerable. Tingles and animalistic desire still wear at the edges of Stiles’s sanity, but he manages to finish the meal without further incident.

 

“What should we do next?” Stiles asks, putting down his glass.

 

“Erica’s first drafts of the clothes are in. We could have you try them out.”

 

“I think I’ll wait until tomorrow,” Stiles says quietly. “Today-” He shakes his head. “Today would be asking for trouble.”

 

“Right.” Peter says, doing a worse job of disguising his disappointment than he’d like to think. “I can set to planning a party for the end of our time together, when you’re feeling more… yourself.”

 

“That’s fine. I could do with some time to read, maybe the boring minutia of pack lore will settle my…nerves. Should we go to your office?”

 

“Of course,” Peter says. “After you.”

 

Stiles can feel Peter’s hungry eyes on him the entire way up the stairs and well into the office. His hairs stand on end well past the onset of their activities. Stiles reads and re-reads the same passage for a while before contemplating if he should just take the books and seek refuge in the heat room. The lulling comfort of the couch keeps him planted in the room despite his preoccupations.

 

“Why do you have guest profile only tablets in your study?”

 

“For guests,” Peter says, disinterestedly.

 

“You expect many of those in your generally locked private study.”

 

“At least one per year.” Peter’s eyebrow arches, but he doesn’t look away from the screen in front of him. “If they can manage to get themselves out of my bedroom, this is the fourth most popular room in the house.”

 

“Behind?” Stiles finally turns a page.

 

“Arcade and dining room,” Peter says. “Most people aren’t as complex as you I’m afraid.”

 

“Unsurprising.”

 

“Agreed.”

 

The brevity of the insult makes Stiles laugh. The clenching feeling in his muscles relax and he settles more  fully into the couch. It smells like Peter, lightly, the way anything that inhabits a space with a person might. It smells like the bottles of scotch that litter the shelves as ostentatious book ends too. It’s smoky and out of place in this house Stiles realizes. Sure, it’s nice and the décor in the room was clearly adapted to accommodate it, but it wasn’t meant for the far more modern house.

 

“I like this couch,” Stiles says, feigning a casual compliment.

 

“Thank you. I brought it some distance to be here. It, like many of the pieces in this room, is a restored family heirloom.”

 

 “Really? Who restored it?”

 

“I did.” Peter pulls out a new sheet of design paper and places weights on it. “Only the frame was salvageable, but no one else could’ve gotten the feel and color right. I spent a year in classes learning how to refurbish antiques.”

 

“You did a great job it’s nice.”

 

“There’s something missing about it. You can never quite recapture the perfection of something you loved as a child.” Peter’s declaration is distanced from himself. His hand is already scratching away at the paper, summoning to life a new vision.

 

“I suppose not.” Stiles scans the new page with little interest. Introductory passages have always bored him in the past and today is no different. The massive tome on the Hale Family’s history was evidently written by a man far posher than even Peter; one that was prone to long bouts of braggartism. His account is started by the divination of their lineage back to an old English noble family that lived in the north of the kingdom which played little importance in the internal wars but provided an apparently vital role in the assimilation of Scotland.

 

According to him their first Lycanthrope was born in the late 1400’s. Her Lady Mera the youngest daughter of the house at the time, was bitten by a wolf one autumn night whilst spending an evening in the garden under the light of the full moon. The family kept her condition a secret for many years, seeking help from healers and druids in the Celtic lands to the west for years, and locked her away at the crest of each cycle until marrying her to a young smith in the village under the condition he always send her home the week of the full moon for rest.

 

To her parents’ dismay her ‘affliction’ was passed on to her children thus beginning their heritable line. It was stated that her eyes glowed red until the moment she passed, and her eldest son Caradoc’s eyes gained the same trait.

“What’s missing about it?” Stiles asks, beginning to page through in earnest, looking for something on the status cycles in specific.

 

“The piece used to smell of my entire family. When it was damaged, I had to replace all the upholstering, seating, padding, you name it. Oils only sink so far into the wood of a properly cured piece, so it doesn’t quite feel like home anymore.” He pulls a navy pen and compass from his desk. “How many people should we have at the event? I need to know how much seating space and how many tables we will need.”

 

“A modest amount, I guess. I’d rather not have to wade through people wall to wall. I like my space.”

 

“Not a problem.” He slides a ruler around to different spots and puts dots on the page with delicate clicks of pen against wood. “Should there be a reception area for press?”

 

“No. I don’t like to do interviews.”

 

“Should it be a closed event then?”

 

“No,” Stiles says. “I want them to see me triumphant in my resolve once more.”

 

“You say that when you’re afraid to let me take measurements today.” One long scratch and the first circle is added to the paper. “Pride cometh before the fall,” Peter tuts and adds another.

 

“Modesty is for the weak.” Stiles stops at a page with a diagram of a triskele, a little more than midway through the book, titled Rise and Fall. “It says here that while you guys were aware of the supremacy of the head of the pack, you weren’t made aware of the existence of Omegas as we now know them until you migrated to North America when your ancestors met a young woman named Lorelei who took to your then alpha, Donovan, near immediately.” He pauses for a moment. “Wow, the depictions of their lust for each other are graphic.” Stiles shuts the book.

 

“Up for a reenactment?”

 

When he looks up, Peter is staring at him. The smirk on his face is unsteady, but provocative, nonetheless.

 

“I’ll pass.”

 

He tosses the book on the stand. It slips from his sweaty palms loosely and slides a bit further along the surface than he wanted. Replacing it quickly with the tablet, he searches the internet for anything that can keep him occupied. He searches up Scott, looking for evidence that he’s campaigning against the system as stated, but can’t find anything helpful. Then he moves on and on from topic to topic until the scratching and organizing that’s occurring at the desk stops, the planning questions go from infrequent to rare, the battery is low on the tablet, and light from the window begins to wane.

 

He stands, shaky on his feet, and speaks an announcement he need not make. “I’m going to get something to drink.”

 

“I’ll join you,” Peter says. In a few heartbeats, Peter’s hand is next to his waiting for Stiles to take the next move.

 

Quietly, he takes it. Nodding when he’s ready and the swell of arousal has been subdued once more, Stiles leaves with Peter along side him.

 

“You’re doing quite well today,” Peter says, his rapt attention at Stiles’ neck. “Considering.”

 

Stiles’ cheeks and ears burn at the statement. “Better than you.”

 

“I doubt that very much.” Peter’s blunt nails drag on the back of Stiles’ hand.

 

This results in Stiles digging into Peter’s hand. His claws draw blood before he knows it and Stiles retracts them almost as quickly.

 

Stiles elects not to respond.

 

“Why do you choose to do this every year?” Stiles asks, back to Peter, when they break to grab glasses and fill them.

 

Peter pulls lemonade and a pitcher of water from the fridge. “Sport.” He places them on the counter.

 

“If that were more than half true, I’d let you leave it there. Seeing as it’s not-” Stiles hands the glasses over for Peter to put ice in them. “Spill.”

 

“I’m not lying.”

 

“I didn’t say you were.” He shoos Peter towards the fridge.

 

“I told you, I know what it’s like after being chosen. I know what it’s like before. The unshakable desire is miserable alone. Alpha or Omega, that stays the same. Betas and humans can only satisfy so much.” The grinding of the ice machine disrupts the statement. “The current system is to ensure a continuance of the lineage and power. If alphas are the only ones allowed to touch a presented omega, then they can be sure the most likely pairings will produce another alpha or omega. We’re all a piece of the wheel. I try to enjoy my insufferable position as a spoke.”

 

“That makes me?”

 

“A spoke hole, or part of the arch more likely.”

 

“What a flattering analogy,” Stiles scoffs and pours the lemonade into a glass and takes it from Peter.

 

“It isn’t supposed to be.” Peter pours himself one.

 

“That makes betas?”

 

“Axels. vital, but ultimately not the progenitive, visible pieces so intricately linked as we are.”

 

“Jesus Christ.”

 

“He has nothing to do with us. I’d rather you not speak of him again.” Peter takes his glass and moves to leave.

 

“Not a fan of other religions then?”

 

“I’m not a fan of their followers.”

 

“I’m not a fan of ours,” Stiles retorts.

 

“A dire contempt of religious zeal is a trait we share then.”

 

“I’ll drink to that.” Stiles exits the house with Peter into the cool salty wind of the evening beach.

 

“What would you like to eat tonight? We can make something, or I can call the cooks to come back.”

 

“I think I’d prefer the air. The kitchen gets hot, makes it harder to focus.”

 

“Okay, I’ll message them.”

 

“Thanks.” Stiles takes another sip of his drink.

 

“Of course.” Peter takes another of his own. “Is there any other way you’d like to spend the evening?”

 

“Nothing, ah, comes to mind.”

 

“Tell me if anything pops up.”

Chapter 13: Another Short Reprieve

Summary:

I hope you all had a good holiday season and will have a good new years.

Here's my present to you. I know it's a bit later but Christmas weekend I worked 3 16 hour days from friday-sunday so I know you'll understand the wait time.

I have a plan in mind for the net chapter so hopefully it won't take too long to write.

XOXO iru_naru

Chapter Text

 

Stiles wakes to a cold sweat. His skin is clammy everywhere. Standing quickly from the bed where Peter lies still asleep, Stiles’ hands graze his lower back. Immediately, he realizes his mistake. It’s not sweat. Front and back, his body is slick in an immense coating of precum. The smell hits him hard. Salty and thick, his and Peter’s, it’s so potent his vision blurs. He stumbles forward into the slight wind drifting in from the cracked balcony sliding door. It soothes him. It strips the panic back down to a subdued unease.

 

The immense warmth that licks covetously at his lower body is cooled by the drying wicking of the wind. He hangs there in the suspension of both sensations, lost.

 

Drip, drip, drip. Droplets fall on his left foot. He reels away from it in confusion and looks down. His body, the traitorous device that it is, is producing a continuous subtle stream from his dick- the source of all such betrayal of wills. Fully erect due to the hot meets cold embrace he’s been gripped by once again.

 

Stiles moves quickly, before it can regain its sway. “I tire of bathing this away.” He whispers to himself. The shower isn’t far out of reach, but the ocean calls to him. Stiles refuses its beckoning for the scalding lull of a million jets of water. Before he can get out, a shifted Peter joins him under the spray clearly still asleep and lured her by Stiles’ absence.

 

Massive monstrous paws push him off the shower chair and to the floor.

 

Stiles yelps and scurries to the back wall. Sparks ignite throughout Stiles’s vision. The moment he has, sharp teeth and strong jaws sink into Stiles’ shoulder. “Peter! Peter wakes up!” Stiles shouts as he tries to pull away.

 

Blank lustful eyes flutter open. Peter’s waking slowly, too slowly.

 

Stiles’ mind goes blank, and he strikes. His fist collides with Peter’s gut then his other with Peter’s snout. He strikes again and again, each gaining him fractional inches of freedom, until Peter releases him.

 

Peter wakes, back pressed into the legs of toppled chair. Stiles’s legs brace him from the front and the metallic twang of blood fills his mouth. It takes him a moment to really understand it all. He’s frozen under the burning mist. The droplets in the air carry the pheromones and chemosignals direct to his brain enlightening him to just how far gone he must’ve been.

 

That’s when Stiles sees it, sorrow. Pure unadulterated sorrow grips Peter. It rips through him like a shockwave, disturbing his fine features transforming him into a pitiable entity. Stiles hates it. The guilt-ridden man before him can’t even be hated for the actions he’s taken. The fear drops away and Stiles pulls Peter against himself.

 

They cry together. No discussion is needed. They know each other’s grief. It’s the pain of involuntary actions brought on by a hole in your heart, that your body seeks to fill whether you will it or not.

 

The water massages their skin, soothing the oppressive heartache that fills the entire shower.

 

They stay there until the punctures in Stiles’ skin heal, their minds clear, and they can bear to face the much more complicated next moment. The moment where they wash up. The moment where they both know Stiles won’t want Peter to touch him.

 

When it does come it is awkward and rushed. Suddenly, they’re apart. Stiles retracts inwards and Peter retreats. The carefully metered distance that they have been holding most of the week resumes its dominant presence. Speech however does not resume. Stiles stands slowly.

 

Peter having already stood up long before him, simply hands him soap and turns around affording him what little privacy they can pretend they still maintain. The rest of the shower is short thereafter.

 

Peter leaves first. The shower wasn’t really for him and the mortifying indignity of having failed yet again to hold tight to his intended projection of himself drives him from the space in swift order. Stiles isn’t long after. The shower doesn’t feel safe. It offers him no comfort save the embrace of the water which now feels ice cold against his skin no matter how much he increases the heat.

 

When he gets out, Peter’s gone. The footsteps which carried him away were light, barely audible, but the sight of the vacant room is no surprise.

 

Stiles marches to the heat room and dons another arrangement of clothing he’ll never wear again. Having clad himself in the linen armor, he marches to face his fate for another day. A simple platter of fruit bowls and toast with toppings await him on the table beyond Peter’s perch.

 

The presence of the cooling stones of the villa floor is sorely missed the moment he gets on the chair and Stiles’ feet leave the floor. A simple cream-colored mug filled with coffee is slid over to him wordlessly.

 

Stiles picks it up and puts the already sugared and creamed drink to his lips. The preamble to the steadying influence of caffeine begins. His exhaustion clears. The sun, not yet fully risen for the day, dimly illuminates the center space of the room through the sliding doors and the far away windows on the opposing side of the hall.

 

“Thanks,” He says, putting it back down. “How’d you get my coffee right?”

 

“You talk a lot in your sleep,” Peter says, letting a strawberry dangle in front of Stiles’ lips.

 

Stiles bites on it, if only to avoid responding.

 

“Will this suffice? I expected you wouldn’t or want anyone here today, so I gave the cooks the day off. Instead, we’ll be making everything today.”

 

“Hmm?” Stiles covers his mouth. “Mmhmm, yeah.”

 

“Good.” Peter presses more fruit to his lips, this time it’s a sugared grapefruit. His teeth sink in bursting the flesh of the fruit and splashing his lips with juice. The sugar tempers the grapefruit and Stiles groans as he’s taken to the space eating with an alpha always takes him. Tranquillity -however comparative-, unbridled euphoria, and the nagging drag of attraction tingle throughout his body. His mind slows. Intentionally or not, Stiles allows it to flow through himself.

 

Fingers still over and over at the threshold of his skin, each time afforded thin clearance produced by the next treat. Each exchange is a temptation he abhors as much as his body relishes it. Stiles keeps eating until the heady sensation produces enough of the accompanying dread to force him to change their state.

 

He stands quickly and tries to round his chair. To his dismay, the moment his feet hit the ground, his ankles flub. His body tumbles towards the ground. For a moment, the long-held panic Stiles constantly suppresses flushes through his system. He stretches his arms out, but his left is caught… it won’t move fast enough. His eyes close.

 

The impact with the cold, hard, floor never comes.

 

“You can open your eyes now.” Peter says, voice actively disinterested.

 

Stiles reels in his right hand to his face and opens his eyes. His head is but a mere inch from the floor. His uncooperative left arm is gripped by Peter’s strong hands. Pushing up from the tiles, Stiles rights himself. “Well, that wasn’t too bad.” Stiles smiles, licks his lips, and dusts himself off.

 

“I’m surprised it took this long,” Peter says.

 

“What did?” Stiles demands, haughty and insulted.

 

“Stiles,” Peter drawls. “You shouldn’t have even been able to walk down here this morning. Your heat woke me up. You soaked through my sheets several times. I could barely sleep last night. What little I did get was that type you get where you’re only pre-dreaming. I’ve never seen an omega get out of bed in a state akin to the one you’re in today.” By the end of the statement his irked drawl transforms into a gritted gabble.

 

Prickling embarrassment scorches his cheeks. Hot tears streak his cheeks and Stiles becomes a slave to yet another side effect of the season. Collapsing back into the seat he covers his face as a wave of unregulated frustration floods his being.

 

Hands softly grab at his shoulders; rage wet and hot bubbles through to the surface long enough for Stiles to push Peter out of his space. “I’m fine,” Stiles sobs out. “It’s just stupid hormones. Gods-” He hiccups. “-this is so. Fucking. Unfair. I can’t even just handle things that don’t matter. It’s so… ugh…”

 

Peter waits, hovering -as his instincts dictate-, just out of contact but no further. He allows Stiles to cry on his own until his emotions stabilize, and it stops.

 

When Stiles finally can see again, Peter’s empathetic look bothers him more than it should. He looks to the food and thinks for a moment, preparing himself to sound confident or convincing, whatever he can realistically shoot for and speaks, breaking the silence. “It’s your turn. I can do this. I’ll be fine.” He says, pleased that he keeps the warbling to a minimum.

 

Peter says nothing, just nods and puts more space between them, resuming their careful teetering on the edge of more. Within moments, Stiles can’t speak. He swallows every few seconds to keep the drooling at bay. His vision goes fuzzy at the edges. The only thing that isn’t blurred is Peter, who’s every feature is in high contrast. Every edge running throughout his face is sharpened. The crests of his lip and the sharp dip are pink, slickened by the sweet fruits. There’s a slight sheen of sugar sticking to his lower lip.

 

His beard, once cropped short at their first meeting, is longer now. The hairs flair out wildly like a man who’s been too occupied by something pressing that’s been running on empty for a week. It somehow looks incredibly soft and frames Peter’s face in the perfect complement to his perfect tussled waves. He stares back at Stiles, obviously waiting, watching him. Those blue eyes search Stiles’ face in return. Stiles cannot bear it. The scrutiny pushes his own rapt attention elsewhere.

 

He grabs another object and tries to accelerate his heavy limbs back to an acceptable rate of motion. If I can do this, it’ll work. I can get through today. I don’t need him. Stiles recites internally, fighting his urges. Another three bites and Stiles’ breath comes in ragged. When it does Peter’s desire overpowers every other accompanying scent, only serving to further the difficulty of the task. He feels the presence of the paper in his pocket balefully.

 

Each moment, each progressing taste softens Peter’s roguish smile into something more and more honest. More romantic. His bare chest is slowly and excruciatingly illuminated more by the rising of the sun. It calls attention to the ridges of muscle which have clearly been gifted to him as rewards of both effort and status.

 

The scene ties his stomach in knots and fills those knots with trapped butterflies that want desperately to be free. Each moment is more torturous than the last. When he can manage to free his mind from the trappings of his field of vision, Stiles’ attention is instead called to his own lower half. The borrowed clothes do little to hide his own arousal.

 

He chugs another draught of water. Desperately, he tries to replace the water his heat so harshly wrings from his body. The slick feeling of leaking precum sullies the silk fabric of the borrowed boxers and darkens the linen shorts. He glances down at Peter’s lap. His shorts are just as strained and compromised as Stiles’ own. The sting of futility prickles at the back of his mind. “I can’t do this,” Stiles pants putting his cup back down.

 

“A deal’s a deal,” Peter breathes, voice weak clearly just as tortured by his efforts at withholding as Stiles.

 

“This rule is evil.”

 

“There’s always next year if you have to tap out,” Peter says, a minute tinge of hope crushed below an occlusion of bravado simpers out to Stiles’ ears.

 

The sound spurs him forward. It dares him to do something drastic to service his body’s needs. Stiles heeds its scornful beckoning, bending but not breaking to the impulse. “I’m going to regret this,” he mutters. Using the table for support, he gets off the chair and approaches Peter.

 

“Stiles what are you-”

 

Peter cuts off when Stiles climbs onto the chair and straddles him, sitting on his lap, face to face. “I have to service my wolf okay. This is too hard.” He settles into Peter’s body and the rigid form beneath him begins to soften as he tucks his head over Peter’s shoulder. He takes a long drag in, and a cluttered mixture of different signals fill his nose. Arousal, surprise, confusion, and a dozen other things greet him once he lets his nose swipe over Peter’s neck.

 

They settle slowly, perched on the tall chair, Stiles legs framing Peter’s hips and their crotches pressed firm to one another. Stiles feels several aborted thrusts grind against him. They stall when two firm hands wrap around his back and a relieved sigh escapes Peter’s mouth.

 

A few tears slip from his eyes, roll off his face, and disappear down Peter’s back. After another short reprieve, Stiles rears back reaches for more food. Without a word, he resumes their game.

 

Heat builds in his body bubbling and broiling him alive as Stiles attends to his agreed upon duty. His skin sends merciless radiant pulses of pleasure to his brain from every point of contact. Slack jawed at the feeling of powerful thighs beneath and a slack arm at his back, he soldiers on. The provocations go unstated but are no less clear for it. Peter’s unserviced desire clashes with Stiles’ own as they test their will to uphold their restraint.

 

They finish eating, held in that same tenuous position, when Peter finally puts up a hand to stop him. “We should stop now,” Peter says, eyes held firmly shut, withheld from Stiles’ search for meaning.

 

“Of course,” Stiles says. He awkwardly puts his hands on Peter’s thighs so he can get out of the position. He climbs down, back to the floor. “Um, ah. Thanks.” He clasps his hands together and then takes a seat on the couch. He feels clammy against the red leather. “Could you ah-ah open the door? It’s like really hot in here,” Stiles requests while pulling at the already slack collar of the shirt. 

 

Peter is slow to respond, his hungry eyes transfixed on Stiles’ sprawling body for several moments after the ask. When he does, it’s a slow quiet motion. The door itself feels deafeningly loud in the near silent house in comparison to Peter’s muted footsteps. The creak ends and they’re plunged once more into the tense silent sauna biology has crafted for them. 

 

Peter sits at another nearby, his body is visibly heavy as he slowly shimmies into a seat deep in its cushions.

 

They don’t speak. 

 

Stiles doesn’t want to. Peter clearly does. 

 

Extended moment after extended moment pass in reproachful silence until Peter’s machinations come to an end. His face opens from clenched seriousness, and he speaks. “Stiles, you said yesterday that we could try today for the measurements. I know you’re struggling, but you could lean on me for support. I also know you clearly can’t stay in those clothes forever. If you’re open to it. I could get my tape measure, we could go out to the water now, and we could get this done somewhere that you will have the cold to sober you. We could wade further in as I work my way up your body.”

 

Stiles feels sweat bead down his face as he considers a response. Wiping at it with the back of his hand, he winces when his hand comes away and he feels several more beads form in its place. He sighs heavily and stalls out. “I’m not sure I can handle you touching my body like that today,” he pants out as his cock leaps and produces another short soaking spurt of precum. 

 

Stiles watches as Peter’s hand flexes rapidly at his side. “Sure, I can’t do this, but you can just set yourself atop me whenever you want,” Peter grumbles. 

 

“Are you really complaining that I touched you?” Stiles snipes, already hot under the collar. “If I did nothing it would’ve been worse. I could’ve shifted and ran causing another incident. You don’t exactly do well when I run away.” 

 

“There are other options.”

 

“Yeah, I could tear your hands off.” 

 

“I was thinking of one where we wake up tomorrow and have a delicious breakfast.”

 

“Peter,” Stiles says, exasperated to his limit.

 

“Stiles.” Stiles smells the desperation hidden beneath Peter’s thin veil of returned irritation.

 

Groaning, Stiles breaks- deciding this once to meet Peter in the middle. “If I can’t take it you stop. Immediately.”

 

“Deal.” Peter says and rushes to the stairs and down a hallway on the second floor to a room Stiles has yet to open. When he returns, he has a measuring tape in one hand and a pen and paper in the other. 

 

Stiles is still on the couch, trying desperately to sink deeper into the it. If he can, maybe it’ll swallow him whole.

 

“Up. Up. Up,” Peter ushers him.

 

No such luck, he thinks. When Stiles doesn’t get up, he pouts and waits for Stiles to extend him a limp hand before pulling him to his feet. 

 

“How are you even going to do this without getting the paper wet?”

 

“The paper’s for show. I’ll keep this information in my mind’s eye. Don’t you worry.”

 

“Why is it that even that creepy statement has to be dripping in honey,” Stiles says as he drags his feet to the water’s edge. 

 

“I’m just naturally alluring.”

 

“It’s definitely nature’s fault. You have nothing to do with it,” Stiles says, voice shaking as Peter’s fingers grip his ankle. 

 

“Maybe you’re just not ready for the truth.” Peter slides his hand up to measure Stiles’ inseam. 

 

Stiles squirms, making a discomforted trill in his throat. “And what would that be?” 

 

“That you’re going to end up here. Many times. Of your own volition.” Peter scratches down measurements and then taking his out-seam before moves back down to Stiles’ ankle. He progresses quickly going up to the widest part of his calf, then knee, then his mid-thigh -several times-, seat, and waist. Each upward tick drives Stiles further into the surf. 

 

Before they get to his torso, they’re already thigh high in the waters and Stiles is swaying, having to grip Peter’s shoulders for stability. When Peter wraps his arms around Stiles’ torso, Stiles stumbles back. “Whoa,” he gasps. “Slow down.” 

 

Peter’s eyes snap to his and lock him in place. “Should I stop?” 

 

“I need… I need… I’m gonna kneel.” Stiles says, motioning and pointing all the while, and sinks down into the cold morning ocean. He rests his hands on his knees. Peter looks on him from above with careful concern. 

 

“We can finish this tomorrow,” he says and scribbles a few more numbers into the paper. 

 

“I’m-” Stiles shakes his head once in a long drawn-out action. “-I’ll be fine.” His eyes flicker and he draws in a breath, fighting off his shift. Here in the soak and the sand, Stiles senses Peter for the riptide he is. Every moment draws him nearer to a breaking point where the current will sweep him under and drown his will, permanently altering the world for its absence. The daunting enormity and strength of the grip extending towards him fills Stiles with lead feet first. 

 

He can’t rise from it. 

 

Then Peter is gone. 

 

A strangled panicked scent hits his nose and the umbral eminence encompassing passes. He’s alone in the sea foam. Stiles rises, lifted by its airy qualities. The tide rushes back out to sea. 

 

Now on the beach alone, his heart screams inside his chest. What for, Stiles knows not; but it does scream. 

Chapter 14: Siren's Song

Summary:

Hey guys, I really enjoyed the perspective shift last time and did again writing it this time. I wrote this all very quickly and enjoyed every moment of it. I hope you will too. Happy new year.

Chapter Text

~Earlier~

Peter can’t sleep.

 

Stiles makes that impossible.

 

They’d done little this evening save spend time together. They didn’t talk. It was evident by the way Stiles eyes laid upon him for extended moments that he wasn’t fairing well.

 

Now, here, in his bed; it’s Peter who isn’t fairing well. He isn’t built for this. He’d thought his heats were bad when he’d still had them. But now, lying here next to Stiles it’s evident just how mild his were. The sheets are damp.

 

Stiles is asleep next to him, has been for hours. Drool is cooling on Peter’s chest but that’s not the real problem. Everyday Peter thought, surely the intensity of chemosignals couldn’t get any worse. Every day he’d been wrong.

 

Stiles is mouthing on his collar bone. It’s maddening. Everything the younger man does in his sleep taunts him. Fingers splay soft and tender over Peter’s ribs, caressing him in slow circles. His dick is hard and rubbing into Peter’s thigh.

 

A long, subtle yet unending stream of precum comes from the man settled blissfully unaware half on top him, half snuggled into his side. It beads down his thigh, into the crevice between his leg and crotch and down until it slides off and into the sheets.

Peter is quickly becoming more and more aware of the downward curve to Stiles’ shaft as it edges closer and closer to the upward bend of his rising and painful erection.

 

He can feel his breath, each heave is labored and strained here- completely antithetical to his resting state.

 

How he longs to bridge the gap between their arousal, slot their dicks together and end his suffering. With just one thrust and angling of his hips he could do it, but he can’t bring himself from his agonizing state. He can’t toss off his self-restraint to take what he wants. A single moment of unabashed pleasure wouldn’t be enough. He needs more. To get that he needs to play by the rules, needs Stiles to know he won’t ever breach them.

 

Instead, he stays; paralyzed by conflicting desires, Peter does nothing. He allows the suckling and quiet soft moans and the merciless, lazy gushing of slick down his leg, ass, and up his back in anguishing silence. Sleep is beyond him.

 

Murky fantasies preoccupy him. Visions of Stiles on him, visions of Stiles under him, visions of Stiles wanting him, wanting more run through his dim waking mind like a plague one after another. As they do his desire causes his body to add to the soiling of the sheets. When it becomes unbearable, Peter gets up, moves a lounger upstairs and covers it with another of the same kind of plastic sheets he has for the bed, and lifts Stiles to it so he might change the sheets.

 

He repeats this more than once.

 

Stiles never wakes. More than once his hateful mouth ratchets up its moaning and the smell of cum bursts into the room like a hidden firework. Each time it’s like a roman candle straight to his gut, shattering his cool and lurching him ever closer to a full shift. When his temporary partner isn’t busy torturing him, he’s busy giving orders to some unseen agent of dreams. Coffee, food, any other quiet request one can think of is babbled into the night just to keep Peter from the peace of full sleep.

 

 It’s during one of his short periods of restfulness when a body, unnoticed leaves the bed. The scent of all that was muted by the sheet is given freedom fully in the air and a quiet pull draws his body from the bed.

 

Still unawake, his body shifts and seeks out the source.

 

A shriek rouses him, but he can’t get above the call. He’s still drunk and drowning in it, too tired to fight his instincts.

 

An actual punch to his gut lands, then another to his face.

 

They aren’t enough to pull him out alone, He’s rising above it slowly, too slowly, and each strike is another hand gripping his and pulling him back above the surface and onto the lifeboat.

 

When he does sober, his mouth tastes of cupric blood and Stiles is beneath him. His eyes are wide and wild. The misting of the shower says everything, says too much. He pieces it together, the puzzle of what happened slotting together in perfect horror in just a single moment.

 

Agonizing shame and regret pulse through him. Burdened tears flow from his eyes and are swept away by the overhead faucets.

 

Then, before he can understand why, Stiles is hugging him. He allows it. The contact basks his skin in attentive kindness and for a moment, for the first time since that fateful night he feels something old… something lost. He braces his soul against that feeling, the feeling of home, of pack. He whispers not about it; lest he break the spell holding them together.

 

Eventually, the glowing warmth burns him inside. He recoils from it, slowly, as to not betray how much it means.

 

Peter leaves the shower shortly, unsure of how in such a short period it has become another’s. He dresses himself below the waist, lacking the presence of mind or will to do more. Then, looking to leave the night and traitorous morning behind, Peter goes to the kitchen to put food together for breakfast and calls the kitchen staff giving them the day off.

 

Stiles’ footfalls crash above him and he hurries to put everything out and settle in his chair. He watches quietly as Stiles closes the distance from the stairs to the table, eyes never meeting his own.

 

Peter slides across a cup of coffee he’d filled with creamer and sugar and caramel shots from the kitchen, having only been able to hold onto that information as he weathered the storm of the previous night.

 

Stiles picks it up and sips it. Bliss spreads over his face.

 

Peter drinks in the sight greedily but mutes his own expression.

 

Stiles speaks first. Peter waits for it, not wanting to set the tone himself.

 

“Thanks, how’d you get my coffee right?”

 

Tingles erupt at his ears and he covers it by starting their exchange of food. “You talk a lot in your sleep,” he says, trying his best to sound dismissive, unaffected.

 

Stiles doesn’t respond. Their ritual begins.

 

Some time after the thrilling buzz that comes along with hand feeding an omega in heat sets in he informs Stiles of his plans and is given an affirmative response.

 

Peter continues the game, but it’s harder today more so than ever. The sugar, water, and juice spreads the pheromone laden oils on Stiles’ lips more quickly into the ridges of his hands than ever before. What’s more, Stiles overzealous and clearly unaware, blissfully submitting to his urges is grazing his lips over Peter’s fingers mercilessly with every bite. No matter if how much room he gives, the lips pull over his fingertips disastrously while Stiles is clearly painfully unaware.

 

Something changes in Stiles’ state and he’s off the chair. Then he’s tumbling to the floor. Peter lunges out his hands, catching Stiles with just enough time to keep the man from face planting on the cold hard tile.

 

Panic subsides as relief surges through him when Peter is sure Stiles won’t be injured. Stiles hangs there for a moment doing nothing, eyes closed.

 

“You can open your eyes now,” Peter says.

 

Stiles ever the exaggerant man that he is, frets and feels himself in shock as he understands he’s not losing a tooth.

 

A moment later, Peter can’t help but unleash his frustrations about the failure of insight Stiles has had to his own state this morning. His critique speeds as he sprints over his wit’s end.

 

When he’s done Stiles wont talk. He’s crying again, the second time this morning and it’s hardly been an hour and a half.

 

Peter moves to comfort him, grabbing at Stiles’ shoulders. He’s pushed away heftily.

 

“I’m fine,” Stiles sobs out. “It’s just stupid hormones. Gods-” He hiccups. “-this is so. Fucking. Unfair. I can’t even just handle things that don’t matter. It’s so… ugh…”

 

Peter feels himself go to blanket Stiles with his body. But, just before he does, realization hits and he stops. Peter can’t back away. His body, driven by instinct, won’t allow it. So, he pauses there, staring at the beautiful sight of Stiles in rapt adoration and consuming grief as he watches his junior grapple with reality.

 

When Stiles recovers, he launches into feeding Peter as he babbles self-affirmations. Quickly, the man attached to the feeding hands falls mute. Peter barely notices the silence; he’s awash in the rapt attention he’s receiving from Stiles as he stares and examines Peter’s own face.

 

Quickly, Stiles’ breath is roaring in Peter’s ears reminding hi of the moaning sounds he’d made the entirety of the previous night. Desire unfurls within him, supplanting the quiet pleasure of being attended to.

 

He softens, wading through it. His body however, is in stark contrast to his mind. His muscles feel taut. The tension of keeping calm exerts itself throughout his muscles. Stiles clearly notices, eyes now transfixed on the muscles of his chest.

 

Desire rings out in Stiles’ scent and he averts his gaze, chugging a glass of water to cope. The cursed scent of dampening cloth fills the air again. Stiles’ khaki shorts are dark, just as he knows his are.

 

“I can’t do this,” Stiles whispers when he finishes off the glass.

 

“A deal’s a deal.” Peter’s voice rasps and breaks in his own ears embarrassingly.

 

“This rule is evil,” Stiles says and Peter can’t help but agree. However, he wouldn’t change it. He’d write it again and again and again just to have another of these moments, just to grasp at this feeling for even a second longer.

 

“There’s always next year,” Peter says shooting for a mirthful tone.

Stiles breaks him from his daydreaming by getting off his chair.

 

“Stiles what are you-” He manages before hands push into his thighs. All thoughts cease. His heart soars. Elation reverberates throughout his body. Legs brace around Peter’s as Stiles straddles him. His body seizes and he thinks for a moment that he could get off like this, to this feeling of Stiles in his arms, against him alone.

 

“I have to service my wolf, okay? This is too hard.” Stiles whispers in his ear.

 

A nose drags against his neck and Peter comes dizzyingly close to climaxing to that single touch alone. His body shudders. Fangs and claws descend. It takes everything in him not to grip Stiles by the neck and kiss him until they’re both short of breath and ready to pass out.

 

He recovers slowly as he forces several reflexive attempts at jerky thrusts down. He wraps his arms around Stiles and sighs. A single tear of relief slips from his eye and is taken in by the fabric of his stolen shirt. A few tears slip down his back.

 

He marvels at Stiles’ allowance until the man pulls away and starts their task anew. The fruits are good, but he only pays minor attention to them. Instead, he takes in the smallest of details on Stiles’ face while Peter is being served by him. His eyes whiskey eyes flutter and flash amber whenever Peter takes a bite and he bites to close, grazing his lips on Stiles’ fingers. So, feeling bold he does so more and on purpose.

 

Pink blush creeps in around his full cheeks and contrast with his pale skin that the constant days in the sun here with him at the villa has yet to tan. He charts the moles that fleck his skin, down his neck and hide under his shirt. It smells more like Peter than any of the ones from earlier in the week and he like it. The play of their scents together is intoxicating.

 

Peter relishes in the way Stiles trembles, the way he shifts above him grinding down oh so softly as he reaches one way or another. His arm is slack, low on Stiles’ back.  He tries not to stroke over the small of Stiles’ back but finds it as difficult a task of any of his self-restraints. It, like all of them, is getting harder to resist.

 

Wanting is Peter’s state of mind. He’s always had a healthy appetite, but with Stiles above him he’s growing ravenous. He can barely breathe under the weight of it. So, mournfully, he stops Stiles.

 

A single hand between them after one last bite is all it takes.  Stiles hesitates. Peter closes his eyes, knowing he won’t have the strength to say the words if he’s looking Stiles in the eyes. “We should stop now.”

 

“Of course.” The simple, nervous response slaps Peter across the face. Stiles removes himself and Peter feels the loss of proximity all too keenly. 

 

Stiles reclines into the lounger in an uncomfortable and awkward manner that he shouldn’t find as charming as he does. “Could you ah-ah open the door? It’s like really hot in here,” Stiles requests. 

 

Peter can’t tear his eyes away to do it. Visions grip him. Stiles in that same position, making those vile hated delightful sounds he panted out all night while he attends to his every desire. The potential look of his fuck ruffled hair, a disparate state to the one he so unnaturally inhabits now. Pink flush turned burning iron hot red as he screams Peter’s name in lustful ecstasy. All the fathomable eventualities are so apparent now and he wants to taste each one, savor them each more than any meal he’s ever had. 

 

Stiles shifts. 

 

The spell breaks. 

 

He goes to the door and pulls it open slowly. His eyes are still on Stiles, but at least his mind isn’t raking him over the coals as it was a moment ago. He takes the lounge seating next to Stiles’ but dares not share one with him. The temptation would be too great, he can’t risk his body betraying him again and definitely not so soon. 

 

Peter tries to get comfortable, but he knows he won’t. Stiles is just a reach of his fingers, an outstretching of his arms away. Longing pulls at him. 

 

Instead, Peter turns inward. Devising plans has always been his forte and he needs one now more than ever. He ponders how to approach Stiles for a long time. The plan is slow to form. Each idea he rejects slows his progress towards making another. Eventually a glimmer appears in the back of his mind. A heinous memory comes to prominence. 

 

Yesterday. The wording used. It’s perfect. 

 

The plan comes together like a precarious Jenga tower. And like a threatened viper he strikes, toppling it all in trained precision. 

 

“Stiles. You said yesterday… that we could try today for the measurements. I know you’re…struggling. But, you could lean on me for support.” He makes it sound casual, hoping to avoid spooking the man next to him. 

 

No response. 

 

That’s good. It means he’s thinking it over. He isn’t rejecting the idea outright, Peter thinks.

 

Quickly but not too quickly he follows up. “I also know you clearly can’t stay in those clothes forever. If you’re open to it, I could get my tape measure, we could go out to the water now, and we could get this done somewhere that you’ll have the cold to sober you. We could wade further and further in as I work my way up your body.” Peter manages to keep his voice calm, steady, and non-threatening throughout by some miracle. He thanks every deity he can think of for his good fortune. 

 

Stiles is sweating. He doesn’t speak, but the way his brows are stitched together evidences that he’s considering it. Hope does spring eternal after all. 

 

Stiles swipes at his forehead and a visibly pained expression screws into place. Stiles stalls out more, but Peter can feel a rebuff coming before it’s even out his mouth. “I’m not sure I can handle you touching my body like that today.” The statement is contrary to every signal his body is giving. A salty sweetness wafts from Stiles as the man strains in the borrowed shorts. 

 

Peter flexes his hands to help keep from lunging for it. He must stay calm. “Sure, I can’t do this, but you can just set yourself atop me whenever you want,” Peter grumbles, beside himself, unable to mask his frustration. 

 

Immediately, Stiles responds. “Are you really complaining that I touched you! If I did nothing, it would have been worse. I could’ve shifted and ran causing another incident. You don’t exactly do well when I run away.” 

 

“There are other options.” He suggests wickedly.

 

“Yeah, I could tear your hands off,” Stiles barks adamantly.

 

Petulance overtakes him as he says what comes next: “I was thinking of one where we could wake up tomorrow and have a delicious breakfast.”

 

“Peter!” The grit of the exclamation abrades his face, sobering him. 

 

“Stiles.” It’s a simple response, but the game is over. He’s given up. 

 

An anguished groan erupts from Stiles. “I’d I can’t take it you stop. Immediately.”

 

“Deal.” Peter leaps on the agreement and rushes up the stairs down the second-floor hallway and into his crafting room. He grabs the soft measuring tape, pen, and paper from their drawer and returns to the couch where Stiles still is.

 

“Up. Up. Up,” he says when the man doesn’t move to join him if his own accord. He pouts and reaches out a hand. 

 

Stiles returns it with a limp one of his own and Peter takes it, hauling the man to his feet in short order. 

 

“How are you even going to do this without getting the paper wet.” 

 

Emphatics exhilaration permeates Peter’s mind. “The paper’s for show.” He assures Stiles. “I’ll keep this information in my mind’s eye. Don’t you worry.” 

 

Stiles is dragging his feet, not moving nearly fast enough to keep pace with Peter’s hurried movements. 

 

“Why is it that even that creepy statement has to be dripping in honey?” Stiles whines. 

 

Never before has someone griping about him filled him with such pride. “I’m just naturally alluring,” he says.

 

“It’s definitely nature’s fault. You have nothing to do with it.” 

 

Not to be deterred, Peter begins measuring Stiles from the ankle up. Stiles shakes the moment his fingers contact the man’s skin. Waiting a moment for acclimation to occur Peter says what comes to mind. “Maybe you’re just not ready for the truth.” 

 

A squirming half step occurs when he resumes and quickly moves his hands up the inseam of Stiles’ leg. 

 

“And what would that be?” He asks Peter in a failed attempt at sounding unimpressed that’s more than offset by the trembling of his voice.

 

“That you’re going to end up here. Many times. Of your own volition,” Peter says. Maybe you’ll even stay permanently one day. 

 

He doesn’t speak the words aloud like the rest. Instead, he takes measurement after measurement as the seductive pull of Stiles’ pheromones draw him deeper and deeper out to sea like a siren’s song. 

 

They’re thigh high when Peter wraps his arms around Stiles’ waist. He’s still bent over, dangerously close to the front of his consort’s crotch. 

 

Suddenly, strong hands grip his shoulders. Peter’s heart pounds in his chest. 

 

Stiles stumbles back. “Whoa, slow down,” he gasps. 

 

Peter’s eyes fly from his waist and up to lock eyes with Stiles once more. “Should I stop?”

 

“I need… I need…” Stiles sways in place, despite his ever-tightening one-handed grip on Peter’s shoulder. “I’m gonna kneel.” He motions with the other, sinks into the water, and suddenly, is in a submissive position to Peter. 

 

Peter is stricken. Fear, hunger, and a million other feelings dash through his mind but he settles on concern. “We can finish this tomorrow.” He scribbles a several measurements onto the paper. 

 

“I’m-” Stiles shakes his head once, clearly trying to say something that won’t be a lie, rather than some automated response. “-I’ll be fine.” A wisp of fur prickles out and then fades almost as quickly. 

 

Peter panics. He knows if he doesn’t leave now Stiles will. 

 

Peter runs. 

 

He runs for his room. He runs for his shower. He runs for anywhere else in a mad dash. He realizes the best place is a room where Stiles hasn’t been. In a desperate search for safety, he goes for the basement. He locks himself away in the room beyond the one where he normally keeps his massage table. 

 

It’s the last place Peter wants to be right now, but it’s the only somewhere he can be that he won’t be immediately drawn back to Stiles. Like Odysseus, Peter takes this life raft alone barely gripping his sanity as he escapes Ogygia. 

Chapter 15: Contempt:Pleasure

Chapter Text

The water drags out past Stiles’ body harshly as the crest of high tide ends and the descent into low tide begins. Peter’s presence quickly ebbs from him in similar fashion. The man’s absence is like a shift in phase of the moon from full at perigee to a new moon at apogee. He still feels the draw, knows the presence remains, but is obscured leaving him in control once more. The waves push and pull around him like breaking ice, harsh and unfeeling. 

 

Slowly, as power and volition return to him, Stiles stands. He doesn’t know what to do. The relief of the quick cut to the pressure valve has saved him from something. This lurking imminence has an accompanying fear that grows mightier the more aware of it that Stiles becomes. 

 

Pushing himself out of the swells, Stiles attempts to face it. The heat buries itself back under his skin the moment his feet hit the warming sand. His head, no longer enjoys the fleeting clarity the ocean gifted him. 

 

Stiles soldiers on regardless. The closer he gets to the villa, the more the electric buzzing of anxiety creeps in. By the time he arrives at the left open rear door, it has overwhelmed the unslaking lust this period encumbers him with. 

 

The enormity of his next move, breaching the threshold halts him. He kneels. The cool indoor air escapes through it onto his face, but he isn’t ready. The tingles take an eternity to fade. When they do, he rises. His stomach ties in knots the moment Stiles gets to his feet. 

 

One step.

 

Feet pass the metal doorframe.

 

 Another step. Turn. Push. Click. Turn again. Each act stretches out in his mind. No matter how simple, they’re effortful. 

 

Making it to the center of the room is less difficult, but once there; paralysis overtakes him again. 

 

A decision is before him. 

 

Where to go? 

 

He could follow his nose, seek out Peter. The overwrought odor he’s exuding is coming from just down the center hall. He could go upstairs. He could even run. Nothing is stopping him. Only Stiles himself is keeping his feet glued to the spot. But his normal choice, running, isn’t as simple or forthcoming as usual.

 

He isn’t running. Instead, his feet start moving on their own. They carry him up to the heat room. His hands pick up everything he needs to get dressed and don them one at a time. And then, his feet carry him back down the stairs to the precipice of the doorway to the basement. 

 

Transfixed by the looming darkness of the staircase, Stiles braces himself. Panic rises and he sinks to the floor. It won’t be like last time or the time before. He repeats to himself, hoping the chant will steel his nerves. 

 

—-

 

“This is where you’ll be staying.” Jonas told him. “I prefer basements this time of year. Heats are better balanced with the cool air that lingers underground.” 

 

Stiles was standing over an abyss. Danger surrounded him. Jonas’ voice was disarming, almost pleasant in this instant; there’s something off about it though. It’s too metered, too prepared. The draft whooshing air around them carried a distinct void of scents. The only things wafting up the stairs is the smell of cleaner, fresh laid tile, and the faintest hint of metal. Heat rooms and bedrooms have never and will never be this sterile. 

 

A terror gripped him cold and tight. It seized his heart and threatened to crush it in prompt fashion. 

 

Jonas flicked on the lights. A grey staircase illuminated quickly. Visibly no threats jumped out at him, but that meant nothing to Stiles anymore. He’d learned years ago these castles are anything but harmless. Each fortress has a dungeon, the den of an alpha is no different. 

 

 

For a moment, the thought that this would be the first literal dungeon ran through his head. Ennis had one, but it was above ground. Surely, he couldn’t be right. 

 

 

Yindi was nice. She was pushy, sure, but she took a no for an answer… eventually. She even took him for a tour of Cairns, The Great Barrier Reef, and it’s outlying waterfalls the last two days of their stay together. 

 

The car ride with Jonas was… fine. The chocolates he’d been fed were intoxicating, the best he’d ever had. ‘Surely, not all of the alphas that are men can be atrocious,’ he thought, countering his fear.

 

Yet he still couldn’t force his feet to take that first downwards step. 

 

“Stiles,” Jonas said, from the first step. “I really do want to show you this part of the estate next.”

 

“Could we… maybe… see this part later? I’d like to go out to the cabana again.” 

 

“There’s plenty of time to hang out there later. I want to show you this first. I just remodeled this area. Its state of the art.” A hand takes his and pulls him into the stairwell. 

 

He doesn’t go easily. 

 

Jonas’s face clearly shows the effort he’s putting into pulling Stiles forward, but his grip isn’t harsh. 

 

When Jonas finally manages to get him down the first two steps, Jonas goes back up and pulls the door closed. As the door closes behind him, Stiles notices what had set off those tell-tale alarms. The keyhole has a key receiving inlay on their side. 

 

—-

 

Rising to his feet, Stiles makes a determined face. For the first time, this game is being played on his initiative. He takes the plunge into the abyss. 

 

The descent is quick. He flicks a light and the despair lifts, if only marginally. He looks around the space and it’s mostly empty. Peter isn’t in this first room. He goes to a door at the back of the room that must’ve been left ajar in Peter’s haste. He passes by pictures on the walls, but dismisses them as they’re large ornate things meant for others to look at and feel envious of your wealth. Peering through it he finds yet another empty room. There are more pictures in this one. However, this time there aren’t indents in the center of the room’s carpet. This room is generally unoccupied as well, but there are some spaces where furniture has clearly been removed and a black leather bench in the corner seemingly bolted to the wall. There’s a mirror overhead and some eye hooks in the ceiling around it. 

 

Seeing this, Stiles considers leaving. He rolls his eyes instead. At the far end of this room there are two doors. The first is a door to a closet, or so he thinks. It’s not quite the same width as the other doors in the villa. He ignores it. 

 

The other door, however, has the distinct sound of Peter’s heart pounding behind it. Stiles comes to it and stops. It’s a bricky red color unlike its dark wood companion on the other side of the wall. He tries to knock, but his hand stops just short of the first impact. 

 

Huffing out a breath, he tries again. And again. And again. 

 

His knuckles never impact the wood surface of the door. 

 

Stiles bites his lip hard, hard enough to draw a prick of blood before the puncture closes back over. He makes an about face and leans back against the door. Then he slides down it. Knocking his head back, Stiles lets out an exasperated sigh once seated on the ground. 

 

He sits there for a long time, eyes closed, fists clenched, silent. Peter’s heartbeat is the only sound other than his own in the room. Both their hearts are out of tune, rapid, and thumping hard. 

 

Stiles tries to withstand it, but he can’t. 

 

“Peter, we made a mistake. We should’ve waited.” The statement comes out as a groan. Misery seeps into the room, infesting the soft beige carpet and making ugly the ostentatious images on the wall. The mirror threatens to create a world all its own and swallow Stiles up where he sits. 

 

After a time, Stiles’ hand braces against the door. Peter isn’t moving. His heart isn’t steadying and it’s making this all worse. 

 

Where they go from here is a nebula. It spins them around like an out of control tilt a whirl, blurring the world and making Stiles want to vomit. 

 

He wishes more than anything, in this moment, that he could get off this ride. He could do just that. He could call it quits right now. Stiles won’t though. If he does, then he’d be back here next year. If he does, he forestalls this battle. If he does, he doesn’t win. 

 

All Stiles wants is to win. Just once, just this time, he wants to win. 

 

So, instead of tapping out, he decides to get to his feet. Peter is still curled up on the floor, Stiles doesn’t have to be. Pushing away from the door with his hand rattles it as he rocks to the balls of his feet. 

 

Stiles walks away. 

 

He gets across the room past the mirror and the door swings open, slams into the wall, and punches a hole in the drywall. Stiles whips around and backs up as quickly as he can. 

 

Peter’s standing at the door. His claws are digging into the frame, rending it slowly. The cracks and creaks coming from the wood unsettle him, but Peter hasn’t done anything yet, so Stiles doesn’t have to react just yet. 

 

His back hits the wall. 

 

Peter’s standing at the door, eyes flashing, body pulsing as it shifts back and forth as the man grapples with whatever terror inducing thoughts are running through his head. 

 

Don’t run. Don’t run. Don’t run.

 

Stiles straightens his back. 

 

The misery has shifted. It’s now run over by innervating desire. 

 

“One kiss. It’s all you get. When I push you off, it ends, or I maul you.” 

 

Peter sets to stride.

 

Why did I say that? I didn’t mean to say that. This is a bad idea. I shouldn’t do this. I can’t. But he… curse my b-.

 

Stiles’ internal monologue is cut off when Peter’s hands slap against the wall around his head. Peter’s breathing is heavy. His teeth are back to normal. His eyes are bright red, but his features are otherwise settled back to human. 

 

“You need to take the edge off. I should’ve said no earlier,” Stiles whispers. 

 

Peter’s so close to him, so direly close. Red leeches from his eyes slowly, restoring their serene crystal blue. “I should have been more mature,” Peter says solemnly. 

 

No sooner does his sentence end than his kiss begins. Peter joins their lips, and a frantic breath pulls in through nose. Stiles grabs at Peter’s throat, but doesn’t push, not yet. 

 

Pleasure and contempt clash as Peter’s passion courses through Stiles’ body. The lips pulling at his own are soft and tender, but hands find his neck and back. They pull him in and flush his body of its internal sensors. For a moment, he’s Peter’s. For a split second, he loves it. Thrill courses through his body as the natural processes surge through him. Then it’s over. 

 

The mounting response his experiences have crafted put him right where he expected, disgust. Stiles pushes Peter away. He pushes hard. He must. 

 

Peter’s grasp is firm, but a prick of his claws at Peter’s neck to accompany the push is all the punctuation his message needs. 

 

Hands slip away and lips detach from his own. They’re separate beings again. 

 

An unexpected dopey grin splays wide on Peter’s lips. It complements his wild hair and the subtle remnant of saltwater sheen on his skin. “Thank you,” he breathes out heavily. 

 

“Don’t get used to it.” Stiles slips away and goes for the stairs.

 

Chapter 16: Hooks

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

 

As he ascends the stairs a sense of power flits through Stiles. It rises with him like bubbles in glass of soda, making him almost giddy. With Peter following him sluggishly and at his heels, he feels on top of the world and at least as light as air.

 

The proverbial chase is a real one for once, but it isn’t the quick and terrifying thing he thought it’d be. This chase is a leisurely game and Stiles is settling into his seat at the table with a hand of cards he doesn’t hate to look at. Kissing Peter didn’t feel much better than kissing any alpha before him had. However, there was one major difference that was. It ended when he demanded it.

 

This one change meant everything to him. It’s the difference between being snared in a jaw trap and navigating narrow straits. He doesn’t have much wiggle room, but for the first time he trusts that if he’s careful enough he can make it through unscathed.

 

The day passes quickly. The sickening pressure that he’d started the day with evaporates more with each passing moment. His feet are steady beneath him, and he realizes late into the evening after dinner and after their shower that his cycle is no longer at its peak. The vicious persistent dripping venom is receding.

 

“Peter.” The name escapes his mouth joyfully, not for the first time that day. “You can finish the measurements now. We need to head to bed soon, so we should get it out of the way before tomorrow, it’s best we have it done sooner, right?”

 

“Of course.”

 

***

 

Stiles wakes, calmly. Peter’s with him. His beard’s back to a five o’clock shadow, refreshed by the shave the previous night. The steady heartbeat and breathing pull him in.

 

Stiles rubs his cheek against it. The stubble pulls and pricks at Stiles’ skin. It sends a shiver through his body.

 

He’s never done that before. It’s so simple, but the action grips him inside his chest. A tear drops from his eye onto the pillow. He pulls himself to Peter and goes back to sleep.

 

Peter wakes him up again shortly. The man’s wide chest heaves up in a sudden motion sending Stiles to the far side of the bed. Stiles’ hand juts out and catches against the bedframe in practiced reflex from years of tossing and turning due to endless nightmares, keeping him from toppling to the floor.

 

Taking a moment to gain his bearings, Stiles looks around. Peter, still heaving in deep breaths, is on the other side of the bed sitting tense and erect as a soldier.

 

Stiles groans and rights himself. Once back in the center of the bed, Stiles speaks. “Hey, are you okay?” Very tentatively, he reaches out to Peter’s lap for his companion’s hand where it lays just above the sandy blanket and pure white sheets.

 

There’s no response until his horrifyingly slow-moving hand breaches physical contact.

 

Whatever fear had paralyzed the man, disintegrates under Stiles’ touch. It starts with a jerky grasp of Stiles’ hand, then a turn of his head. Within moments, he reanimates from the stone he’d been before it. His eyes meet Stiles’ own and then look down to his lap where Stiles’ hand is lightly touching his fingers. A relaxed pleased expression eventually overtakes Peter’s lifeless disbelief.

 

The fingers of Peter’s hand thread between Stiles’ and Peter looks back to him. “I am now,” Peter says, with a relieved sigh,

 

Stiles chews on his lip and gives a nod. “Any response from Erica?”

 

Peter finds his phone on the nightstand, a flick of his thumb slides through several notifications and Erica’s name shows on the lock screen. Peter swipes through a passcode and reads it.

 

I’ll get to it tomorrow.

 

The simple message is on the screen. It had come just before midnight. It’s already ten.

 

“We should go see what’s for breakfast.”

 

“Would it even be warm?”

 

“They can remake anything that isn’t.” Peter’s smiling, the haunted look now whisked far, far away.

 

Peter, hand still grasping his, slips out of bed and pulls Stiles out as well with just a gentle beckoning tug. He doesn’t step back as Stiles stands the way he’d have expected. Instead, Peter stands still and lets the space between them collapse.

 

They stand there, nose to nose, for several moments. Stiles looks away first. A jittery burn splashes his cheeks. “A little space please,” Stiles whispers.

 

“I don’t remember you wanting space earlier.” Peter cajoles.

 

“I! I- I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Stiles stammers.

 

“You don’t remember scenting me and then tucking yourself back in.”

 

“A moment of weakness. Hormones,” Stiles chirps.

 

“It’s too early for dishonesty. Let’s eat.”

 

The cadence of the meal is different. They feed each other in turns. The change produces an erratic pattern in the rising and falling tension of Stiles’ heat wracked body. The buzzing under Stiles’ skin changes frequency and intensity each moment. His focus is better, but with short term bursts of disabling arousal. 

 

These bursts sublimate the halting pauses and tremulous overstimulation Stiles had become accustomed to here in the beachside dining room. Whenever he’s hit with one, Stiles rocks forward and blinks. With a flutter of his eyes the sensation clears over and over again. He can’t brace for them; they’re too irregular.

 

Electric nerves ping in his fingers with each of Peter’s bites. Nervous flutters and scintillations vibrate Stiles’ lips, lashes, and down his spine making him squirm in his seat. His own bites do nothing to quell the breathless advance of symptoms. They don’t quiet his mind, sending it to the fortified mind palace he’s built over the years, as they should.

 

But despite the development of each new trail, one is missing. That which doesn’t come is the customary overwrought intensity and disabling fear of the event. Underneath the pleasure of their simple shared moment is only a weak thready pulse of familiar discontent. It develops as a nagging voice asking Stiles if this is what he wants. The voice never ceases, but neither do the alluring tremulous sensations. 

 

He can’t know what he wants.

 

And because of this, the knowing that Peter is giving him control of their interactions makes it harder to control his body in a strange and inexplicable manner. Control over circumstance is foreign. With it comes the lulling embrace of a flow state; one which makes the fight against Stiles’ heat difficult in novel and impossible ways. The transference and bond have him pulling at quickly toppling straw for some semblance of self-control, something which usually comes so easily.

 

More than once, the full brunt of his heat and Peter’s desire bear down upon him. The hooks of that desire dig into Stiles’ chest. Quickly, it establishes a constant drag in towards Peter’s embrace.  They accompany him to the beach, pulling him into Peter’s lap for a few brief moments before Stiles jolts up and dives back into the waves. They follow him to the woods, where they play a game of fools called hide and seek where despite his considerable skill, Stiles can’t help but give away his position. Each time he does, Peter lurches into his space and lifts him out of whichever hollow he’s crouched into. He fights and yells each time. But by the time Stiles recovers, and they each have air in their lungs once more, they break to laughter in ceaseless fits. To the car. To whatever private reserved venue Peter set up for him that he’s blind to within moments of their arrival. 

 

Their straining energies tangle and fight for purchase in this most dangerous dance. Neither wins. A true stalemate forms, a first for Stiles.

 

The hooks even remain lodged in Stiles all the way to the bedroom, back from their second shower of the day, where they cause him to curl into Peter who’s still wide awake as ever immediately upon falling asleep.

Notes:

A bit shorter, but no less important. I hope you guys liked this as we transition in to what's essentially the back half of the fic and the drama, etc etc takes on a new life, tone, and aspect as we move forward.

The last several chapters were very intense, not just for me to write but hopefully for you to read. I hope you'll enjoy what's to come. I also hope that what this chapter represents is taken the right way. All the angst and trauma from the previous chapters will still be woven in directly still as we move forward, but I didn't know how else to write this kind of chapter.

There's a lot in my mind about this world I've cooked up. I hope you'll all trust me to deal with the subjects and their very burdensome effects they have on the characters with the due diligence I've been trying so desperately to show that I am.

Chapter 17: Argyle and Paisley

Chapter Text

Not long after breakfast, a package arrives. With heat week now mostly over, most messengers are willing to go out again. The package this one left at the front door is surprisingly large when Stiles spots Peter carrying it in.

 

“What’s that? And why is it wrapped in seashell patterned wrapping paper?”

 

“I think.” Peter heaves the package onto a table. “It’s for you.”

 

“That’d be a first. Who’s it from?”

 

“Erica. She’s always like this. Wrapping the box like this is as much to annoy me as it is to preserve the contents.”

 

“Is there a tag?”

 

“Yeah.” Peter spins the box around to reveal a large red edged sticker with Stiles’ name on it.

 

“For Stiles, give him hell. -E” Stiles reads aloud in a skeptical tone.

 

“Well… open it.”

 

“I just don’t get why the box is so big. I only got one outfit.” Stiles says and sets to work ripping apart the paper. He has to lift it to get to the last edge. “Why is it so heavy?”

 

“Don’t ask me.”

 

After removing the last connecting piece he finds the seam and slices through the tape holding it together. Before Stiles opens it entirely, he pauses. “Wait, we should do this upstairs.” Stiles picks up the unwieldy box and heads for the stairs.

 

“Why on Earth?” Peter follows him.

 

“Because it’ll smell less like you if it’s opened in the heat room.”

 

“Oh.” Peter responds quieting for the remainder of their trip to the stated room.

 

“No offense. I just want this to be mine.”

 

“No, I get it.” Peter says, face stony and neutral once more.

 

“Thanks.” Stiles says and shifts his attention to the box once more. He chews at his cheek one last time and lifts the flaps of the box away from its contents.

 

Inside is another slightly smaller box covered in a bright peachy floral print on baby blue. He pulls off the lid and within is far more than he expected. A dozen airtight bags containing various pants, shirts, and sweaters lie within it. Tucked in between them is a simple white piece of paper with a fanciful cursive message on it.

 

“Hey kid,

 

Figured you could use a few choices of clothes to wear, and a couple treats for the road too. Send back the Reyes originals with marks for final adjustments and if you get them back to me quick enough, I’ll have them done by closing tomorrow. I hope you get that day in the spotlight. With these, I’m sure you will. I added an inner layer for comfort. The rest of these, take them home. You could use a wardrobe upgrade. I know its intentional how you look on stage, but you deserve better.

 

Kisses

-E”

 

“P.S. I’m glad you’ve been keeping out of everything. That kid from Omaha had a terrible moment on screen yesterday. Promise me you’ll don my armor before meeting the media.”

 

“Did you know about all this?”

 

“I figured she would do this. My first time in that shop she measured me and sent me about fifteen things I didn’t order. All of them better than anything I’d seen at Milan’s fashion shows in years.  

 

“How could she have even gotten all of this on such short notice?”

 

“She probably eye-balled it all. The woman’s a genius. I bet she ordered them when we left the shop that day.”

 

“They all have pictures of the garments in with the bags. Look at this!”

 

“I’m familiar with her packaging schemata.” Peter chuckles lightly. “Are you going to open any of it?”

 

“No way loser. It’s mine and it’s going to smell like me.”

 

“So, my clothes for the remainder of the weekend. That’s good.” Peter purrs. He sidles up to Stiles and wraps an arm around him to grab the package containing the outfit they’d decided on for the potential party.

 

The simple act sends electric jolts through Stiles’ spine.

 

***

“You know Stiles. This doesn’t have to be unfun.” Theo said. His arm then slithered across the small of Stiles’ back. It dipped down towards his waist only to dart back up and settle on his hip.

 

Stiles shoved his feet into the foot of the table and pushed it a foot forward. He crossed into the empty space he’s created and dodged away from Theo’s grip.  

 

It’d been two days by then and the alpha was still being overly familiar.

 

“Smug bastard.” Stiles thought contemptuously.

 

“I swear you’re going to regret touching me if you don’t stop,” Stiles said.

 

“That’s no way to speak to your alpha Stiles.”

 

“You may be an alpha, but you’re not my alpha. She’s back an hour outside Sacramento with the rest of our pack. You’re an infant by comparison. As if I’d ever want you.”

 

“Oh, but you do.” Theo said, voice low thrumming soft and threatening in Stiles’ ear. “Do you know what your arousal smells like? Stiles?”

 

“Oh, great, this again. Go ahead. You perverts with a poor understanding of the word consent always blather on and on about it. Tell me about how alluring it is.” Stiles backed further while rolling his eyes and making for the door with his retreating steps. 

 

“I didn’t ask you if you knew how good it’s smelled. I asked you if you knew what it smelled like.” Theo followed him out of the room and backed him back against the external wall, trapping him with two shoulder bracing arms. “It’s very particular, a call to nature. It’s what makes us all chase you. It douses the area and drowns out every other competing scent. When you’re pitching through your feverous heat you smell akin to the moment after the breaking summer rain on an open field. It’s all there. The mud, the heavy dissipating steam that carried with it all the floral scents of the refreshed plant life, the musk of the animals washed away, the rain itself so fresh and clean you can almost taste it. The intensity draws us in near and makes us want it always. And it just bursts from you. You couldn’t hide it, even if you wanted to.” 

 

“You could memorize everything about me physically and never know me. I’m not interested in being your sexual Febreeze wall plug in.”

 

Theo’s face twisted in disgust at the comparison. “I still don’t know where you pull comments like that from. When it said you had a venomous tongue, I thought they meant hateful not noxious.” 

 

“I have plenty of hate saved up for you too. You can have some of you’d like,” Stiles snarled and shoved his thumb into Theo’s arm, breaking the caging and allowing himself to slip away once more. 

 

“Your passion gives you away.” 

 

“I urge you to understand I’d probably fuck a tarp tomorrow if it were polite enough. You’re not special.” Stiles shuffled down the hall of the large home in search of some sort of bathroom inside of which he could have locked himself. 

 

He hated that wing’s wallpaper. The white diamonds painted on a deep red in this section of the house came off tacky and overly true to the style of home it resided in. It made the hall stretch on forever like some sort of madhouse with meant to make him go that much more insane. 

 

The mansion sprawled, endlessly, pointlessly, on the large Oregonian estate. It was nestled into Sauvie Island just off Sturgeon Lake not an hour outside Portland by a feat of land acquisition only an alpha could accomplish. Each wing of the house, more overwrought with complex design and maze-like twists than the last vexed him to no end. 

 

Two and a half hours into the tour he’d felt entirely lost. Now rushing through he felt equally lost as he had that first day and evermore trapped. The phantasmal echoes of slithering overreaching hands chased him down the hall. 

 

He never did find that bathroom.

***

 

“Don’t!” Stiles exclaims. “Do that,” he follows more calmly a moment’s pause later. 

 

Peter recoils his hand in the intervening moment like a man burnt by acid. “Sorry,” he says, pulling away. “I thought we were-” 

 

“We weren’t,” Stiles interrupts shakily.  

 

“Oh.” Peter stands up straight and backs away as if repulsed by the statement alone. “Understood.” With that single word a crossed his lips he drops the bag and leaves the room. 

 

The bag crunches and zips against the hard surface of the tile floors, boxing Stiles’ ears. A pang of guilt infiltrates his heart stinging him mercilessly as a man-o-war. 

 

“It’s not fair,” Stiles whispers. His breath is still strung out, tight from the after effects of the memories and the shame of the impact they still have on him. “I need to be stronger,” he mumbles, a whimpering single tear falls from his right eye. 

 

Sometime later, he picks up the bag, clenching the edge of it in his fingers. It crinkles in his grasp, but the clothes stay firmly pressed in their neat wrapping, refusing to wrinkle. The bag clacks into Stiles’ knee many times in a rhythmic pattern on his walk to Peter’s office. 

 

When he arrives, Peter’s heartbeat is slow. It’s beyond the door, but its steady delayed tempo unsettles Stiles even further. He decides to enter without knocking first. 

 

“I don’t hate you,” Stiles ejaculates. The words burst from his mouth, hot and pressured. They electrify the air within the room with a terrifying static charge that threatens to turn itself back on him in an instant. He falls silent. 

 

“Is that so?” Peter meters the words callously. “Perfect.” 

 

The brevity of the response hurtles the poised bolts directly back into Stiles’ chest as he expected. Rambling words churn in his mouth and convulse from it.  “I wish that this wasn’t torture for me, that I were more. I’m not. I can’t be what you’re looking for. I can’t do that.”

 

Stiles searches the room for something to steel his gaze, but he never finds purchase. His mind is already fast retreating inwards anyways. Grip on the moment lost with shame and dread sinking in, he isn’t long for capable conversation.  Havoc consumes him. The bag crunches against the floor once more. 

 

“You don’t give yourself enough credit.”

 

“What?” Stiles asks, incredulity barely breaking through the merciless misery and exhaustion in his voice. His vision blurs with welling tears. 

 

“You were a victim before you knew you could fight. Yet you stand here with me, trying to make the best of our time together. It’s admirable. People with as little resiliency as you think you have would have shattered under the weight of this system over half a decade ago.” Peter says. “You’ve been through this crucible more times than anyone has a right to put you through it. The cruelty of it grows less and less lost on me every day I see you resist your conflicting impulses to instead simply stand still.”

 

“You’re not making any sense.”

 

“You shouldn’t feel ashamed about what you cannot do. Your will to continue existing through the endless brunt of your circumstances makes you stronger still than anyone I’ve ever met. And you shouldn’t have to be,” Peter says, not yet crossing to him.

 

“I’m not.” Stiles declares, voice unsteady, eyes in his palms, sealing his mind from the image of Peter’s face which he’s sure is full of pity.

 

Calm hands lightly touch Stiles’ fingertips. They settle for a moment. Stiles doesn’t react. Another moment passes. He keeps himself still through the unbearable tears streaming from his eyes. 

 

“Stiles.” Peter’s voice cracks in Stiles’ ears. “You don’t know how wrong you are.” 

 

Stiles can’t process the tone. It doesn’t make sense to him. Here behind his protective veil, he can’t grasp the ripe fruit that lies readily beyond. 

 

Slowly, painfully, Peter peels Stiles fingers and palms from his eyes. 

 

The light stings Stiles’ eyes. The discomfort makes him all the more self-conscious knowing his eyes are red and puffy, that his nose is running. He feels raw as the nerve of a broken tooth. The scrutiny of being seen by Peter, Stiles cannot stand it. “Stop.” He croaks. 

 

Peter’s hands lift. 

 

With their removal the tether binding the pair wobbles, like a stretching bungee cord. The loss of security make Stiles feel even more insecure. He hates that more than the feeling of caring how Peter sees him. 

 

“Look at me,” Peter says, voice low, supplicant. 

 

Nodding no, Stiles blinks the tears from his eyes. He wipes his hands on his borrowed shirt. 

 

“Stiles, look at me,” Peter repeats it. It’s softer even than the last request. The words massage their way into Stiles’ mind until he can bear the weight of Peter’s gaze and meet it.

 

“You’re not the sum total of the scar tissue left behind by others heinous deeds. If we were, I’d be too burnt out inside to care about what you want, and we’d be having a very different visit.”

 

Memories of Peter’s shift come to prominence in Stiles’ mind. Short patchy black fur. Long wrinkled limbs. Scarred hide. A skull somewhere between wolf and man and twice as large as either. Ears alert but permanently damaged. Large, clawed hands. 

 

Recognition. Understanding. Grief. They all run through his mind. 

 

The wildfire in south central California during summer solstice three years ago. 

 

He nods in vigorous affirmation. “Okay,” Stiles rasps. Eager to change the subject. “Let’s pin the clothes.” 

 

“Whatever you want.” Peter picks up the bag and opens it. “May I?” He asks as his hands lightly grasp the lower hem of Stiles’ shirt. 

 

Stiles nods. 

 

A cold intense moment rushes through them as the shirt lifts and raises their arms with it. Stiles face hides once more but only for a moment, he lets out a breath in that instant. It rattles from his chest. The chill transfers to his skin but only for a moment before his heat counter acts it, pumped back into his blood by the meeting of their eyes when Peter removes the veiling garment and tosses it away. 

 

Peter nods to him and sways forward before pulling away again. He kneels putting distance between their two bodies, but none of it adds to the distance between their eyes. Whatever the space is in measurements is now irrelevant.

 

Hands meet Stiles’ hips lightly. Peter’s waiting here for the next permission. Stiles can feel it. The thrums that reverberate and plunder his chest at the sign of respect rock him. His body rocks forward in damped thrust. He must resist a buckling of his knees. His skin goes taut, and his mouth salivates. 

 

Stiles braces himself; closing himself he finds courage in the darkness. One nod and his shorts are gone. 

 

Pants turned inside out replace them. Dashing chalk and quick pinning needles work their way down his legs. They’re followed by a similar set of each on his arms and the sides of his chest. 

 

Stiles’ eyes reopen. The world is steady once more. Peter’s no longer clinging to his body. 

 

Peter’s efforts gave the clothes a tight but non-restrictive fit. They’re not as soft inside out as they would be, but Stiles doesn’t care much. The discomfort grounds him all the more. 

 

A moment later and light hands undo the top button of the shirt. “We can get you back into your other outfit now.” Peter murmurs the words to him. It’s quiet, an intimate warning of the progression of the next few actions. 

 

The buttons pop. Peter crowds him close; for just a moment, they’re chest to chest as he peels the shirt from Stiles arms. The motion pulls him forward and then pushes him back in a rapid beat. 

 

Another motion and the shirt is gone, slipping off his fingers and being drawn away and placed into the bag. Peter goes to pop the button on the pants, but this time Stiles beats him to it. 

 

They’re gone in a clumsy hasty moment and placed in the bag with the shirt unceremoniously. Another brief moment and Stiles has reassembled the outfit. 

 

Then they’re standing there, speechless and worlds apart with only a handful of inches separating them. Half-lidded, light blue eyes stare back at Stiles for a time. Their breathes halt. 

 

Stiles’ knees quiver and the air gusts in from the door behind him that one of them must have left open at some point. His foot moves forward to keep him on balance. 

 

A breath rattles in. “We should go deliver this to her,” Stiles says, at a loss for something better to say. 

 

“What?” Peter responds, it’s a late response one mired in a distraction. 

 

“We should go deliver this to her,” Stiles reiterates, voice clearer, stronger.

 

Peter blinks. His half-lidded eyes return to normal. His lips close. “Good idea.” Peter shuts the bag and departs the room, headed for the main floor and the garage.

 

Fingertips clack on Peter’s phone on their way down and Peter gets in the car. A second beep and a clunk signal the unlocking of the car on the passenger side. Stiles gets in. 

 

Soon, the wind is rushing in his ears and sweeping away the intensity that had captivated him not but a handful of moments prior.

Chapter 18: You Can't Kill the Dead

Summary:

Sublimation and Grief

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

 

The whipping wind drags away the tightness that has built up in Stiles and Peter both. The breeze had brought a cleansing breath of air with it which now allows Stiles rise out of the seat to greet the door of the previously unknown store to be easy and simple. 

 

Peter can see it on his features. His gait is steady for the first time in days. The clothes he inhabits lay on him rather than wrinkle and wrestle the man’s body into submission.   Stiles has something akin to but not quite identical to a smile on his face. 

 

Peter knows he’s lost. 

 

Any chance he had at cracking that casing and winning their game ended yesterday, not that he cares anymore. And so, he smiles. Peter smiles knowing the game is over and that though he cannot win, it excuses him a little more time in the sunlight and mossy field that is Stiles’ presence. 

 

Their session with Erica begins the moment the door opens. He loses one of those rays as it turns towards her. 

 

“Oooffffff, Stiles. I thought you’d be further along. Most are by now.” Erica waves a hand in front of her nose and punches it with her opposite hand. 

 

“Don’t remind me,” he jeers playfully. “We have something for you.” 

 

Peter waves the bag at her, presenting it the way he can tell Stiles’ propped hands wish it to be. 

 

“Thank you,” Erica says. “Lay it on the counter. I get to work on it in a bit. Did you like my present?” She drums her hands on the counter and stretches over it. 

 

“They were amazing.”

 

“Did they fit?”

 

“He hasn’t tried them on yet. He’s saving them for a later date. Exquisite taste as always.”

 

“Glad to hear it. Do you need a care package?” 

 

“I’m still dealing with the last collection.” 

 

“You’re no fun anymore Peter,” she pouts. 

 

“He should be ready soon. I’ve been running through plenty of his old stuff to clear out his closet,” Stiles says. 

 

“I knew I liked you.”

 

“Careful or I’ll have to keep you coconspirators apart in the future.” Peter says, ambling around the racks which are plumb full of new collections. “There’s been quite the turn over since we were last here.”

 

“Business always booms around heat week. Lots of ruined fabric to replace. Gifts too. Boyd was busy sending shipments all yesterday.” 

 

The curtain opens and a behemoth of a man walks through carrying a stack of order print outs. “And I will be all of today,” he says waving a few. “Glad to see the courtier got to you.” He nods to Peter.

 

Peter returns it. “Having a good week then?”

 

“Oh yeah,” Boyd derides. “If sending out a ton of shipments to sex addled men and women when I should be on vacation is having a good week.” 

 

“Just say you love me and be quiet.” Erica puckers her lips. 

 

He kisses her and then steps away. “I love you baby.” 

 

“I know.” She pulls back and sends him on his way to pick out more clothes that he’s run out of in the back. “If you’re going to get something you’d better do it soon. This round of product is selling fast.”

 

“I’ll look around, but I’m not in need of anything.” Peter says going to move through the racks.

 

“Why’s no one in here?” Stiles asks.

 

“Peter is the only rich person I know that gets out of bed this week before 10 a.m. and  most betas, other shifters, and humans avoid public places for fear of catching sight of something they shouldn’t. There’s a lot of voyeurism this week.”

 

“Really?” Stiles asks surprise in his voice.

 

“Oh yeah, you didn’t know?”

 

“I’ve never been in a position to know,” Stiles says voice wavering. 

 

“I didn’t realize. Sorry,” Erica says. “I knew you were like the most famous omega out there, but I never thought about what that would mean for you.

 

Peter resists the urge to surge towards him. Instead, he walks over slowly and puts out a hand in offering.

 

Stiles gives him a brave smile. “I’m fine, Peter. Maybe one day I’ll get to live unfamous.”

 

“Maybe. You know the media they move on quickly,” Erica offers. 

 

“Should we get going?” Peter asks.

 

“Yeah, I’m sure Peter has another stunning date planned for us.” 

 

“Ooohhh, like?”

 

“Well he took me out to his orchard and strawberry patch. His private beach behind his house is insane. And yesterday he took us… where did you take us?”

 

“The cliffs overlooking the ocean. Remember? We paraglided home.” 

 

“Oh! Yeah. Sorry I had trouble focusing yesterday.” 

 

“That you did,” Peter says matter-of-factory.

 

“Do tell,” Erica says, voice dripping with interest for the anticipated salacious nature of the story. 

 

“Nothing happened,” Peter says. “He won another day of holding out against my best romantic overtures.” 

 

“Did he now?”

 

“Yes unfortunately I could not get a repeat of the kiss I got the day before yesterday.”

 

“Stiles! You let him kiss you?”

 

Stiles fumbles shyly through his response. “It was the only viable solution to the situation we had ended up in.”

 

“Which was?”

 

“I think that’s enough story time for now,” Peter intrudes.

 

“I accidentally made Peter so horny that he ran away and hid in his basement,” Stiles speaks the words like he’s branding them into wood. The words tingle with the sense that they’re a relishing of power and control. 

 

“Peter? Skittish. Huh, never would’ve guessed.” She flicks her fingers towards Peter. “Figured you were too suave for that.”

 

“When I’m not making promises I intend to keep. I am.” Peter forces the words out as a warning. He turns to Erica fully. “Thanks for your glowing service. We must be off, to do, anything else.”

 

“Bye Peter,” Erica giggles. “Bye Stiles.”

 

“Bye Erica.”

 

Peter leaves the store and gets back in his car. Stiles is along shortly after and hops into the car. 

 

“Do you have to get in like a teen in an movie about greasers?”

 

“Will I ever be able to afford a fire red convertible worth over two-hundred and fifty thousand dollars?”

 

“Not unless you marry rich.”

 

“Then yes, I have to get my jumps in while I can.” 

 

Peter rolls his eyes and turns over the motor with a frown. He knocks it into reverse and peels off. 

 

“Whoo-hoo! Off to our next adventure.”

 

Peter’s eyes dart off the road to Stiles who’s next to him. The lines that had creviced the omega’s forehead all week are gone. His hands are up high and his head is back. The wind whips his hair and Peter wants this. He wants it now. He wants it tomorrow. 

 

Without the burden of his rising arousal Stiles looks so much younger than he had when they’d first met. No longer is he a weary sailor on rough seas. He’s the captain of a ship. 

 

Peter looks back to the road and attempts to not glance from it again. He fails. 

 

He fails first when Stiles blasts the radio.

 

Peter gawks at the noise and his head snaps to Stiles. Stiles is rapidly changing the stations, looking for something to his taste. He doesn’t stop until he settles on an oldies station playing Born in the USA. 

 

Stiles belts it at the top of his lungs just above the roar of the wind and the radio. The noise is horrid and ugly and loud and emphatic. 

 

Peter hates that he loves it. Turning back to the road he takes a curve hot and fast. He’s racing to their next stop. He’d scheduled a host of things hoping to draw Stiles’ interest but in this moment he knows which one to go to. 

 

The horrible disillusionment erupting from his partner is entwined with the evident rush of freedom he’s exhibiting. The raging heat is there beneath his voice. 

 

Peter peels off the main road to a street leading up to a large warehouse he’d acquired some months ago. He parks his car in the first parking space and flicks through his key ring. 

 

Producing the building’s master key he lets them in. 

 

“What are we doing here?” Stiles asks stepping into the main room that’s primarily lit by the large paned windows this time of day. 

 

“You’ll see in a moment.” Peter flicks on the lights and the main storage hall comes into view. “Take that hall. First door on the left.”

 

“Okay weirdo.” 

 

“I’ll be in in a moment to help, I just have to unlock the floor space over there.” He points to the opposite side of the entrance room. There’s a a massive neon light that he lights with another flick of a switch. 

 

Red, yellow, and blue neon blares the words: 

 

Ready

Set

Break! 

 

in large winding letters above the proffered door.

 

“Fine I’ll bite.” Stiles says and takes off.

 

Peter goes to the door unlocks it and stops the door with the creaky down hinging metal doorstop. It squeaks against the massive polished stone floors once then ceases all motion. 

 

“I don’t get it. What is this place? Why did you send me to a supply closet filled with plates, old appliances, and stuff?”

 

“Think for a moment.”

 

“Wait a minute! Is this a break room?”

 

“Ding ding ding! We have a winner.”

 

“Duh! But we both knew that. I told you when I met you. I won’t lose.”

 

The words prickle Peter under his skin like a million tiny needs rolling from his fingers up to his face and down to his feet. After that it takes everything in him not to press Stiles into the nearest wall and suck on his neck until he’s begging for something more. He wants to see the light of newly kindled fire rage in the man’s eyes. 

 

Peter grabs a stack of plates and grips the edge of a tv screen. “I think I still have plenty to show you about how good I am at breaking things.” Peter turns. “I felt inspired by that video of you from that press conference where you shattered Theo’s teak desk. That thing was an antique you know. They don’t make those anymore.”

 

He passes through the rooms until he can settle the tv on a pedestal and then the plates on a nearby table. 

 

“If you saw that you’ll be familiar with what happened as a result.”

 

“Yes, I’d met alphas who used collars before. It’s barbaric,” Peter says. “I narrowly avoided a few when I was younger.”

 

“Lucky you.”

 

“Yes.” Peter takes a bat wrapped in barbed wire from the wall. “But, the problem is, in experiencing such people, I developed quiet an appetite for ripping things up.”

 

“Tell me about it.”

 

Before Stiles can even quite finish saying ‘it’ Peter swings the bat heavily into the screen of the tv. The fiberglass screen shatters and tears as the barbed wire pulls across its surface and the bat launches it across the room into the wall. “Would you like a turn?”

Peter offers him the bat.

 

Stiles grabs the handle expediently. His eyes sharpen at the edges and a terrifying glee cracks across the surface of his lips. “Yes.” 

 

Peter retrieves the now splintered television and replaces it on the stand. Dodging out of the way, he retreats to a distant corner of the room. 

 

Stiles squares his hips and does a few test swings. Peter sees his feet shift and then plant themselves in position. 

 

A moment later, a splendid crack radiates and echoes through the room as Stiles pulverizes the already damaged television. The force of his swing rips it in half and sends one part flying high, the other low and shards and splinters of electronic debris around the room. 

 

The two slam against the wall and shatter further, pancaking the impacted halves in like a poorly built cage of a car in a large wreck when hit by an 18-wheeler.

 

Stiles whoops and hollers. His glee fills the room and he pulls off his eye shields. “That was-“

 

“Exhilarating?”

 

“I was gonna say awesome, but yes. What next?”

 

“Ever play baseball?”

 

“Three years of little league.”

 

“I bet plates are an easier target. Batter up.” 

 

Stiles drops the glasses and squares up again. His body is a single hard line in Peter’s view. 

 

Peter tosses a plate and for a suspended moment it’s in the air until Stiles swats it and slivers of ceramics explode and litter the room with dust. 

 

They continue it with old pots and anything else they can bring into the room for hours taking turns with the bat, axes, hammers, and more. The trip lasts for hours. Eventually, Peter’s stomach rumbles and he pauses his turn mid swing. 

 

“Hey, one more round.”

 

“Sounds good.”

 

Peter looks to the large metal cabinet in the corner of the room and grins. Quickly, he trains his focus back on the rotting old nativity set that’s on the stand. One downward swing of the axe ruptures it, slicing it in twain. Splinters float to the ground, twisting in the natural currents of the room and air resistance.

 

The dust settles and Stiles goes to pick up a massive plastic toy dream house.

 

“Wait, I’ve got something special saved up for you. I had it made for this.”

 

“You had something made for this?” Stiles parrots skeptically. “You were that confident I’d partake.”

 

“I prepare for all eventualities. Close your eyes.”

 

“You cannot be serious. Again, with the closing my eyes thing?”

 

“I want to be able to see the look in your eyes when you realize you get to destroy it.”

 

“FINE. But it had BETTER. BE. GOOD.” Stiles shuts his eyes and Peter leans down to open the cabinet. From it he arrests the first of a series of busts of each of the previous alphas who’d claimed Stiles. He places it on the stand and then pulls another wider stand to accompany it in the middle of the room.

 

“How long is this going to take? What are you getting out that you need to drag things across the room.”

 

“Just another minute. You’ll see.” Peter arranges the rest of them in a sinusoidal pattern turning each to face Stiles. First, Deucalion, then Marceline, Yindi, Ennis, Theo, the twins, Ethan and Aiden side by side, Jonas, and finally, Kali. To cap them off Peter places a small ceramic triskele as a book end on its own little table alone.

 

He lifts a sledgehammer and gently pushes it into Stiles’ grip. “Now, you can look.”

 

“You’re joking.” Stiles says in a state of disbelief.

 

“I was a big fan of the burning effigies stage of American history. This is something along that. Also, they were quite fun to order. I imagine shipping the shattered remains to any of them that may still receive them will be even more fun.”

 

“So, our final game of the afternoon is whack-‘n-alpha?”

 

“Quite the tour de force if you ask me.”

 

“They weren’t all that bad.”

 

“Yes, I’m told Yindi learned the word no at some point. Not exactly a huge point in her direction, but I expect it was an improvement for the next omega in her clutches. The twins never touched you themselves but did make you scent the rank scent of other omegas satisfying their lust for a week and Kali let herself get scared off day one but not before encroaching on your rights. They’re all excellent specimens.”

 

 “You did plant one on me that first day too.” Stiles’ voice is almost flirtatious in its chastising of Peter.

 

He relishes the sound for naught but a moment before responding. “I succumbed to a moment of temptation. I don’t believe it’s the same. We’ve established that the anticipation of a chase is something I’m unfortunately vulnerable to, I’d explain more as to why… However, I get the sense you already know.”

 

“And why would that be?” Stiles asks. He punctuates the question by obliterating the first bust, all but annihilating the remarkable likeness of Deucalion. His eyes are glimmering in the rapidly changing lighting.

 

“I’d rather not drag down the end of our afternoon with such talk.”

 

“Why’s that?” Stiles hammers Marceline’s bust, his aim is a bit to the back, and it allows part of the stone to crack off and preserve half of her face.

 

Peter clenches his jaw. “It’s quite a depressing tale, full of trauma.”

 

“And? Mines right here.” Stiles draws the hammer along the line of the displays and smashes Yindi’s unceremoniously. The soft lines of her face immortalized no longer, cannot lie to him anymore.

 

“I did not choose to become an alpha and while appreciate its privileges; the manner by which I rose to power wasn’t favorable. A huntress killed my entire family. She set fire to the entire region to kill us. Only my nephew and I survived. He took on his sister’s mantle as I did. Now, we barely talk.”

 

“My father and I were like that for a while.” Stiles puts down the hammer. “After I came back from my time Ennis and Deucalion, the both of them made me… well, I couldn’t talk about it.” Stiles picks up the statuette of Ennis’s head. “He couldn’t understand how hard it was. Betas can’t. Hell, most omegas can’t. I’m not exactly normal. But I just didn’t talk to him for a long time. They stole that from me. Maybe one day, it’ll be better.” Stiles punctuates the word better by shattering the visage in his palms. “If not, you probably know someone worth buying statues from. They can let you kill her over and over.” Stiles picks up the hammer again and swings it underhanded like he’s golfing and smacks the bust of Theo’s head. It crumples against the hard face of the hammer, launches into the wall, and explodes into marble dust.

 

“Maybe one day,” Peter says, misery setting in. “If he stops hating himself.”

 

Stiles picks up the bat and hands it to Peter. Then, he moves the bust of Ethan to the far side of the stand and nods to Peter.

 

Peter looks at the bat in his hand and grips it tighter, twisting his palms around the cloth grip of the bat. He sets up just off the edge of the stand and pulls his arms back to swing. Connecting his gaze with Stiles’ gives a moment for them to meet the same purpose. One nod later and they both volley their assaults. A purposeful clank, pop, and crash please Peter’s ears.

 

A partial shift creeps in for a moment. Eyes flare their red and amber. For a moment, each of them sheds their shame and frustration. It wanes quickly.

 

Stiles maligns himself once more upon focusing on Jonas’ visage. “There’s not enough damage I could do to this one. It won’t feel as good as what I did to him anyway.”

 

“Yeah, but, he’s dead. This is right here.”

 

“You can’t kill the dead. This thing has no purpose,” he says it and pushes Kali’s statue off the end of the display where the vibrations had shaken it to. “Let’s go.”

 

Notes:

Hope you all enjoyed. It took a while to really figure out what I was doing with this chapter and how to resolve it.

Be well.

XOXO Iru_Naru

Chapter 19: Love

Chapter Text

Stiles smiles on the way back to the house. The ride is shorter on the way back than it was on the way there. He knows that its not true. Peter speeds no more drastically on the way back than he had on the way there. It feels that way all the same.   

 

He sticks his hand out over the side of the car and lets the wind make his hand rise and fall while he tilts it up and down. It’s not long before they’re back. He wishes they weren’t. Looking at the road to turn into the bluff that runs into Peter’s hidden row of beach houses that have their own extended driveways is aversive. Before they turn onto it, he speaks, “Peter… can we turn the other direction. I’m not ready to go back just yet.”

 

“Do you have anything in mind?” Peter asks, letting the turn pass them by.

 

Peter’s arm is on the center console. Offered, but carefully placed; it doesn’t crowd his space. “No. I’m just not ready to get off the road yet.” Stiles lets his hand leave his lap and collide carefully with Peter’s. Their fingers touch, just the sides of their pinkies but the touch brings more butterflies to life in his belly than anything any alpha had ever chosen to do to him.

 

Surprise flits across Peter’s features, but he never takes his eyes off the road. “Okay, I think I have a good idea.”

 

“Where to?”

 

“I know a place a town over. Small, but the food is great. Interested?”

 

“I’m down. We’re late for lunch anyway. They won’t be too busy?”

 

“We won’t have to eat near anyone else.” Peter takes a turn back onto the main highway and sets off.

 

***

 

Lunch is a lot later than Stiles had thought it’d be. The drive totaling in at a solid hour took them more than one town over. When they get to a small permanent outdoor farmers market with an attached restaurant, his mouth starts salivating before they even come to a stop. He’d smelled fresh herbs, spices, and more from far enough out; but the aromas coming from inside the building are enough to have him leaping from the car in a hunger fueled mad dash.

 

Coming to an abrupt stop underneath the awning, Stiles awaits Peter or which ever attendant is supposed to greet him at the podium beneath it.

 

Peter reaches him first. He bumps shoulders with Stiles and then offers his hand.

 

Stiles freezes for a moment. It doesn’t have to mean anything, he tells himself. The guarding should be expected, Stiles thinks and hesitantly takes Peter’s hand in his own. He gives Peter a wincing half smile and nods. In public, even now after most people are putting the extra pomp of the week behind them, Stiles knows his expectations aren’t gone. He’s been lucky that so far, he hasn’t had to be attached at the hip to Peter; he hadn’t been so lucky with the others.

 

The uneasy rush hits him. His fingers tingle and the world feels just a far more sweltering under the normally mild April sun. They’re greeted by a dizzyingly frantic young man who’s covered in peach preserves who’s wiping off his hands hurriedly.

 

“Hello, sorry for my appearance. I’ll be back in a minute, there’s been a mishap in the kitchen. Feel free to find a seat out in the rear seating area. I’ll find you when able,” He says and then rushes off after shoving some menus into their hands.

 

“That was something,” Peter whispers, his voice soft and intimate in Stiles’ ear.

 

Looking around, Stiles can tell that the judgement was for his ears only and that no one else heard. Something about it makes him blush. “I guess we should find a seat.”

 

“Okay, but I need to swap menus. Mine is sticky.”

 

“Ew.”

 

Peter reaches around him to the podium and his chest brushes Stiles’ shoulder. When he finishes the swap, Stiles makes the move to get them to a table. The rear seating area is full of short topiaries and dwarf fruit trees in large pots. They surround large wooden tables which have high reaching umbrellas sprouting from their centers and add to the shade and privacy of the scene. They find one in the far back corner.

 

The seats are large wicker with cushions that look they they’re cleaned with surprising regularity. Stiles takes one towards the entrance but along the dividing topiary wall perpendicular to the building, so they’ll be easier to spot. He looks back out on the area and realizes just how much space there is. There are a few dozen tables back here, but most are empty.

 

Peter rounds the table and takes the seat next to him.

 

“It must be a slow day,” Stiles says, trying to make small talk.

 

“Usually they’re full up, especially on a day like this. But this week, most people are watching the festivities. No doubt someone is being embarrassed on national television right now.” Peter takes his hand again and starts stroking the meat of his hand softly. “I feel terrible for all the reels of ‘unruly omegas’ that happen. Anyone forced to go out, even a few days past peak deserves some privacy.”

 

Stiles looks at Peter and then promptly looks away. “Yeah,” he says, voice unsteady. Stiles looks around again. “You said this place was small.”

 

“I should’ve said secluded,” Peter corrects himself. “I figured it would be safe from prying eyes. No one should recognize us. I try to make sure that I’m not a figure when I go out. I don’t like cameras trained on me.”

 

“No two-hundred-dollar tips then.”

 

“I make sure that the person attending to me has a good day, but I leave before they see the tip; I want to be sure they’ve already forgotten my face by the time they get it.”

 

“Hard to conceive of anyone forgetting what you look like,” Stiles says flippantly.

 

“My dear, I do believe you’ve paid me an actually compliment.”

 

“Just playing into your vanity.”

 

“Well, it worked.” Peter lifts Stiles’ hand to his lips and stares into his eyes awaiting some sort of sign that he can push it further before making contact.

 

Stiles can feel his heart ratchet up tenfold. It pounds loudly in his chest, and it feels like a panic attack is over taking him, but instead of fear, a wave of excitement pulses through his body. His head nods without permission. Lips kiss the back of his hand and a surge of arousal vaults through him. Each nerve in his body blazes red hot. A moan escapes Stiles’ lips. Stiles bursts to his feet, tears his hand from Peter’s grasp, and slams his palms on the table to steady himself.

 

***

 

Whenever they weren’t doing something terrifyingly private, they were in public. At the lodge or at a restaurant, it didn’t matter. Deucalion was all over him. Stiles could feel himself falling apart. It was messy and his body loved every moment. One mantra was the only thing that was holding him together.

 

“You have the right to refuse.” Satomi and his father had told him that endlessly ending up to the choosing.

 

Satomi had told him to be prepared to be chosen. She hadn’t sugar coated it. She knew he would be. She’d told him it was inevitable. For most, it wasn’t but for him she was certain it would be. So, instead of telling him he shouldn’t get his hopes up; she told hammered the mantra into his mind every day since the end of his first heat.

 

He’d been glad here now that she had more than ever. Here in this gala that smelled far more like an orgy, at this event somewhere in the middle of all these cameras, under the immense weight of Deucalion’s selfish talents, that mantra was the only thing keeping his clothes on. It was the only thing that kept him from being one of those embarrassed omegas plastered on the reels over and over again, blurred for false modesty as he would’ve been, caught taking much more of Deucalion than he could’ve survived.

 

It saved him.

 

Instead of falling apart and ripping his clothes off there, he’d kept them on. In the face of kisses and suction on his all too sensitive neck and roaming hands, he’d kept just enough composure not to. He wasn’t a display. He’d refused to be.

 

Deucalion was trying. Stiles could tell how effortful the attempt was. Varied pressures in search of the perfect amount to make Stiles keen and fall apart just a bit more. Eventually, Stiles had just let himself sink into the back of the magnificent booth he’d been brought to for the meal and took the ravenous kisses for what they were. It was all he could do to push the probing hands back up his chest or down his legs whenever they wandered too far in either direction.

 

“You have the right to refuse.” He told himself through the daze. He was in a well-worn suit Deucalion had refitted for Stiles’ body himself. That experience had nearly knocked him to the floor and wrapped his thighs around Deucalion’s neck.

 

“You have the right to refuse.” Stiles thought it until it was true. He used the mantra as a shield. It protected him from being seen as another conquest falling to Deucalion’s expert hands on camera. He couldn’t bear to be seen with Deucalion rutting into him here like he’d seen so many other omegas in the reels Satomi had prepared for him weeks prior when she’d discovered where he was going.

 

Knowing the attempts were coming and what the outcome would have been was comprised the steel which gave the shielding mantra power. He made no efforts to move. Stiles didn’t buck into it no matter how hard his body had rioted for him to do so. Choking on and stifling moans was a new skill to master at the time, but he’d quickly acquired it. Instead, the reels had shown him limp and uncaring underneath Deucalion, warding off pressing hands.

 

He'd known that his thwarting would result in harsher pushes later, that this first public refusal would only make the older man more determined.

 

It did.

 

He paid for this denial in form of torturous languid pleasure. But choosing to obey his mind rather than outside influence had to start somewhere. It would take everything from him.

 

 

This publicly held lust filled hall was the beginning. And it was as debauched and overwhelming as it could have been, but he hadn’t buckled. In the face of inexperience and instinct, he’d saved himself from being subjugated for another man’s glory.

 

He proved that he did, in fact, have the right to refuse.

 

***

 

“Stiles?” Peter whispers. “Stiles? Are you okay? Stiles?”

 

Stiles hears it just above the violent ragged breaths he’s heaving in. The branding touch is withdrawn, has been since he pulled away, but he still needs a moment to recover.

 

“Did I-?”

 

“No. It’s not you.” Stiles reigns himself in and removes his hands from the table. He takes in the area. No one is looking at them. Not now that he’s back to himself at least, but the anxiety in the air is obviously more than just his. Knees shaky, he sits back down on the wicker seat.

 

Again, Stiles takes in his surroundings. As he does so, the man from before comes out from behind a separating hedge into view. He’s in a new shirt, his hands are scrubbed red, and has donned a forced but not entirely unwelcoming smile. His approach takes a while giving Stiles a few moments to slow the jack-rabbitting of his heart and take in the menu.

 

“Hello, my name is Roman. I apologize for before, as you can see, I’ve sorted it out. How may I help you this afternoon?” 

 

Peter starts talking before Stiles can leave the moment open for an uncomfortable silence. “Yes, I think we should start with an appetizer to open. Could you bring some asiago rolls with brie and red pepper jelly?”

 

“Not a problem. Could I start you off with anything to drink?”

 

“Two pomegranate juices and two waters. Please,” Peter replies.

 

“Right away.” Roman says, giving Stiles a meaningful look from behind his square wire rimmed glasses which rest faithfully on his long, hooked nose.

 

Stiles gives a weak smile and nods to him.

 

Roman presses his lips together, letting the smile that graced his full lips, and deeply tanned skin of his face drop. He nods back and turns around, disappearing into the maze of shrubbery not long after.

 

“I hope you didn’t mind me ordering for us.”

 

“It’s fine. I wasn’t ready to at all anyway,” Stiles tells him. The conviction in his voice is weakened by his general distain for this situation and letting alphas do anything.

 

“If it helps, I think you’ll like it,” Peter says, evidently unconvinced by Stiles’ unambiguously despondent answer.

 

Turning to the menu, Stiles redirects the conversation. “Let’s just skip the part of the afternoon where you apologize relentlessly for the last ten minutes when we both know none of it had anything to do with you. I can manage myself,” Stiles tries to say the words kindly, but he knows his tone doesn’t match it.

 

“Of course. Consider it over. Does anything on the menu look good to you?”

 

“This is all from stuff sold at the market here?”

 

“More or less. There are some things that are only made for the restaurant from things that are sold here, mainly preserved fruits that would go bad otherwise. All the meat is from various local farms that don’t sell here due to the cold storage building not being built yet.”

 

 “You’re bank rolling the expansion I presume.”

 

“If only, no, the proprietor is a dear friend. She’s done quite well for herself, but I’m not here to talk about my friends. I’d rather talk about you or anything else.”

 

“Then let’s talk. What exactly would you like to know about me that you couldn’t read in an encyclopedia length dossier?”

 

“What do you like to do, other than play videogames that is?”

 

I spend a lot of time reading when I’m not stuck at work. My settlement from the time I spent in Germany covers most things I need these days. I spend a lot of the time in libraries. No one goes looking for people in a forest of books and the people aren’t likely to bother you unless the want to talk about what you like or if they need help with finding something.”

 

“What’s your favorite type of book?”

 

“Murder mystery. My mom read Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys to me every night.”

 

“Seems potentially triggering.”

 

“I like the catharsis.”

 

“Fair enough. I’m partial to romance novels personally.”

 

“Really?” Stiles asks making no effort to mask his disbelief.

 

“There are some very good ones out there. It is, to my knowledge one of if not always, the best-selling genre for a reason. I have a small collection of low print run queer ones in my study.”

 

“I’d have pegged you for a spy or thriller book fan.”

 

“Second place is still good.”

 

“I’d never allow it for myself; but for some of us, sure.”

 

“I only come in second place when I wish to.”

 

“Of course,” Stiles says with a hum of his lips.

 

Peter raises his brow at the younger man but chooses not to take the bait.

 

The conversation lulls between them, resting into a comfortable silence until the waiter returns with their appetizer and drinks. He passes each to them to them deftly before asking them for their order.

 

Peter speaks first. “I’ll take the prime rib and truffle fries.”

 

“Would you like the coleslaw?”

 

“No thank you, but I’ll have the garden salad.”

 

“Alright, and for you?”

 

“I think I’ll have the Kobe steak in the red wine sauce, rare, mashed potatoes, and braised broccoli.”

 

“Sounds great. Would either of you two like anything else?”

 

“No,” they say in near unison.

 

“Alright. I’ll be back when it’s ready. We’re on reduced staffing through the end of the week, so even though there’s not as many patrons it’ll still be a while. I hope that won’t be an issue.”

 

“Not a problem,” Stiles says handing over their menus.

 

“Thank you for your understanding,” Roman says and slips away yet again.

 

“The kid’s a mess.” Peter says once he’s out of ear shot.

 

“Be nice. I think one of his coworkers is an omega. Maybe more than one, he probably isn’t supposed to be doing as much as he is.”

 

“How can you tell?”

 

“Well, he’s human and yet his new shirt reeks of omega heat scent. My guess is he’s borrowing one from a coworker who left it in their lockers after their last shift before the picking.”

 

“How astute.”

 

“Satomi’s taught me a lot about staying grounded. A lot of it is about keeping yourself attuned to surroundings.” Stiles looks down and twiddles his fingers in his lap. He bites his lip and tries to avoid letting it be too obvious that he’s hating this whole thing a lot less this time than usual.

 

“Has that been difficult historically?” Peter asks, tone sensitive to the fact that he may be asking a question Stiles wouldn’t want to answer.

 

“The first few years after I presented were hell.” Stiles hesitates before expanding his response. “Even other times of the year everything is so much louder when you’re an omega than it is before you present. Doesn’t help that my ADHD makes paying attention for anything for all too long a challenge in and of itself. God, I can’t tell you how many hours she and I spent in the woods somewhere trying to figure out how to manage my exact combination of sensory issues and squirrely behavior.” He finishes with a dilapidated laugh.  

 

“It’s harder than being an alpha. I remember the day my sister died far too clearly. The world muted itself in more ways than one. An alpha’s senses are strong, but they’re subtle. You command them, rather than them commanding attention. All the stupid stereotypes about omegas don’t really grasp how much more intense everything is.”

 

“They actively ignore it.”

 

“There were some privileges though.”

 

“Such as?”

 

Peter hums to himself for some time looking for the right words. “There’s the way your mouth waters when you’re cooking, and you know exactly what it will taste like before it’s even ready. The near guarantee that you can do a full shift. The fact that when you’re swimming, and you’re underwater the entire world goes quiet because so many of your senses turn off that you feel like the blue light that illuminates clear water may as well be a gift from the heavens.”

 

“I’d trade all of that for the ability to avoid another choosing ceremony and full control over my body’s impulses.”

 

“I can help with at least one of those.”

 

“You can’t seriously think we’re ever going to get to that point.”

 

“Probably not, but I think that’s more about you than me,” Peter says. “Oh look, there’s our meal,” He diverts.

 

It takes a few moments but Peter’s right eventually. Roman shows up with their plates resting comfortably on his arms. He approaches with a smile and puts them down carefully. “Thanks for your patience. I’ll be back in a bit to check in on you.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“You ready love?”

 

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Don’t call me that.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“It makes you sound like a cartoon villain. I’ve met enough of them to know exactly what that tone is like.”

 

“Well, if it’s on that alone I suppose you wouldn’t mind if I said it like this.” Peter says and slices a bit of Stiles’ steak. “Open up, love-” Peter rasps his voice nearly at a whisper and drops it an octave almost like it’s a threat. “-it’s time for me to serve you.” His hand comes gently to Stiles’ jaw and runs softly up to his ear.

 

“I’m gonna- I’m gonna go.” Roman says and scurries away.

 

Stiles slaps Peter’s hand away. “Why the hell did you do that?” He exclaims, feeling his face flush. Knowing that his face is turning pink just amplifies his irritation, being affected bothers him as much if not more than the preceding act did.

 

“I’m sorry? Did our arrangement change? I thought I was just fulfilling my end of the bargain.”

 

“You should’ve asked before touching me first,” Stiles snarls.

 

“For that I apologize. How can I make it up to you?”

 

“By not doing it again.” Stiles flashes his eyes and grips the table to the point that it starts to crack underneath his grip.

 

Peter hums for a moment. “If only to keep my testicles attached to my body, I promise I will not. No matter how close we get or how well I think we are doing I won’t cross that line again. Have we come to terms?”

 

“Yes. But, only because I want to eat.”

Chapter 20: Delays

Notes:

Hey y'all,

I'm currently trying to maintain a schedule of 1 chapter per month per fic (which is a lot for me). I try to keep these chapters n this one a bit longer, but I found a line I liked and I ended on it, which is definitely my MO. so this is a bit shorter than the average, but I hope you'll all enjoy.

I'm going to be posting for Steter bang as well so there'll be 2 extra fics when those go live. (one original and one a remix.)
ttyl XOXO Iru_Naru

Chapter Text

Their meal is tense, Stiles barely speaks. Even towards its end, his focus is still shoddy from the seething rage that had flooded his body when Peter had touched him. Rage turned inwards and outwards. He hates those parts of him don’t hate all of Peter. He hates the parts that want to. He hates how good it feels when their skin collides and for a moment, he forgets every single terrible thing that’s happened and then the immediate ice-cold splash to the face that follows when he remembers.

 

Each sensation here in this garden styled restaurant feels like its own original sin, tempting and baiting a new horrific elation he cannot forgive.

 

Peter feeds him and the scent of the plants around them fleck a new variety onto his palette that he wouldn’t recognize when he’d less hormonal. The heat reaction of feeding Peter in return is more subtle now. Instead of the dizzying buzz he was first greeted with that stamped out all thoughts; it’s a hum striking him like a turning fork pulling him into attention.

 

Peter’s lips. Peter’s eyes. Peter’s scent and the way it twists pleasurably around him every time they touch and Peter tastes something he’s giving to him. Each is its own siren song in the back of his mind.

 

Another betrayal of the flesh.

 

“This isn’t the Monday I’d imagined when I took you to the shop.” Peter says, wipes his face with a napkin and pulls away from his next bite.

 

“How’s that?” Stiles asks. He tosses it onto the plate and cleans his own hands off.

 

“Well, here we are out in public. You’re functioning.” Peter gives Stiles a knowing look. “Mostly. And had I been a little less provocative; we’d be having a good time.”

 

“You’d have found another way to ruin it, I’m sure.”

 

“Stiles. Don’t. I saw how you looked in the car. When I turned the car around for you, you were happy,” Peter says, steadfast. “We could choose to have a good time, when able. You won’t be with me much longer.”

 

“Sentimental already?”

 

“Stiles I…” Peter clamps down on every running thought he’s had since he woke up the day the peak of Stiles’ heat cycle ended. He doesn’t say how he feels. He knows Stiles won’t hear it. There’s no reason. Stiles will be with him for three more, four more days maximum. Even if the cycle is the longest on record, he won’t get more out of the man next to him than that. The words ‘I’ve lost. We both know that.’ don’t pass his lips. Instead, something else sprouts out. “In the unlikely event that I lose, I offer you the opportunity to return to my home next year either way. All you’ll have to do is contact me before the event and I’ll make it happen.” 

 

“Peter, I, I couldn’t.”

 

“Of course not. You have another alpha to overcome next year.” Peter smiles incongruously and drains his glass. “We should probably get going.” He stands and tosses several times the would be bill onto the table and offers his hand to Stiles.

 

Stiles takes it reticently and they leave in short order.

 

The car ride home is quiet. Peter drives. His scent and face completely shut to even Stiles’ enhanced observation skills. It’s almost as if the car is driving itself. The development unsettles Stiles. He can’t sit still in the car. There’s no comfort to be found in these expensive seats. The wind carries none of his worries away this time. For once in his life, Stiles couldn’t find the words to speak even if he wanted to. Instead, he chews his cheek and tries not to bore a hole into the side Peter’s head with his gaze.

 

They arrive back at the house after what’s nearly two hours of dead silence.

 

Stiles couldn’t even get up the gumption to turn on the radio during the intervening time for fear of disturbing some unsettled peace that had been shoddily stapled around them. The garage door opens, its smooth well-kept wheels make little noise as the humming motor pulled the door up. Peter parks the car back in its place, turns off the car, nods to Stiles and gets out.

 

Stiles, dumbstruck, doesn’t follow.

 

Instead, Stiles sits in the car and doesn’t get out for a while. A long while. The whole time, something in his chest is pulling at him like a wire. Its grip is airtight around his lungs and he can’t do anything about it. 

 

The stress isn’t his. The corrupting frustration isn’t his. The grief isn’t his. But they’re suffocating him anyway. 

 

***

 

Stiles’ father came into the room quietly and picked him up off the floor. He couldn’t do it himself. 

 

There was just no possible way for him to pull himself off the ground or do anything. 

 

His world ended the day that door slammed the first day of his first heat week. It hadn’t started again yet. Not after the second and decidedly not after the third. 

 

This whole thing makes him feel guilty. The pain. The anxiety. The fact that he can’t yet work. It took a while for him to function again after meeting Deucalion, but this time it’s worse. 

 

The misery was worse. 

 

Ennis. 

 

He didn’t want to make it fun or good. He wanted submission at any cost. There was no pretense with that beast of a man. 

 

Two weeks in that house doing nothing but feebly clinging to resistance. 

 

Traitorous instinct writhing against his every thought. Writhing against the most contemptuous man he’d ever yet met. 

.

Every moment he laid on the floor or the bed or sat at the table getting effortfully fed by his father and nursed back to life made him feel worse. 

 

A brief stint in the hospital changed little. The extended one didn’t either. For a while, once he returned home to his father’s place, he’d even craved the quiet cold wing of Eichen House Home for Werewolves. He’d stayed there when it became too hard for his father to care for him with work. Even then, he’d only been sent there after the entire pack had finished taking more turns each than could strictly be considered reasonable. 

 

Every breath in drained his spirit further, until the crushing weight on his lungs made him feel as if he’d never refill them. 

 

Then one day, in the blinding midday sun, he grew so angry at it all that he could stand again. Eventually, he could not only stand, but walk. Then not only walk but run. It took months, but he got a job. He forced the pieces together until they moved when he applied torque to the gears. 

 

They creaked and groaned, but they moved as he did. 

 

They were never normal again. 

 

But they still operated. 

 

They had to. 

 

As they always had and always will have to do. 

 

He reforged them with a cold iron purpose. Never again would he cease.

 

That was his will.

 

Anguish would never stop him again. 

 

From then on, all delays would be temporary.

 

***

 

“It’s just a delay,” Stiles whispers. With great effort he braces himself on the car door and rises to his feet. 

 

The distance between them exerts itself on Stiles’ body. It presents itself in the form of mount dread to accompany the negative emotions he’s mimicking. His shoes drag across the floor to the foot of the stairs. 

 

Guilt. 

 

It’s not his but it’s weighty and causal. The caustic sensation sets burning acrid fire to his cells and reels him up the stairs to the door of Peter’s study. 

 

Stiles enters without pause. 

 

“I need you to understand.”

 

“Understand what?” Peter says it and puts down the book he’d pointlessly posed in front of his face. 

 

“It isn’t about you. I can’t be what you want. This experience…” Stiles searches for the right words. “It rips me open at the seams and I spend months pushing it all back in. I don’t think I can spend heat week with anyone. Not happily.”

 

“Check the computer, Stiles. Read the headlines,” Peter says. “Many omegas are preparing to leave for their homes with the alphas either having been done with them or the other way around. After Wednesday, the only one who will be keeping you here is you. We can set our party day any time you like, and the council will let you leave the next morning.”

 

“I’m not ready for that. I might…”

 

“Might what?” Peter says, frustration giving way to a tiny glimmer of hope. 

 

“I don’t want to make a fool out of myself.” Stiles shuts the heavy door behind him and leans into it. 

 

“I’ve made the offer for you to stay. I’ve made the offer for you to leave. What more could you possibly want?”

 

“I want you to stop being under my skin.” Stiles slams his fist on the door. “It fucking had to be you.” 

 

“Has anyone ever told you that you make no sense?”

 

“It had to be you that chose me. This should be easy by now. I’m days past the worst of it and it’s not getting easier,” Stiles tries not to scream it all in frustration. “My dazes are weaker. My heat is receding. I don’t feel like I’m in a constant brain rotting fever anymore. But, when you’re around. It just doesn’t matter.”

 

“And what on Earth could it possibly mean that it doesn’t?” Peter asks, with a biting edge to his tone.

 

Stiles looks down. He looks away from Peter, knowing the exact implications that are being slung at him. “Peter, I can’t like you. It’s too hard. If we became actual friends,” Stiles sighs. “I think it would change me on some level. I’ve worked to hard to be able to survive this. I can’t let myself be anything other than the war forged steel that I am.”

 

“You obstinate child! You can’t fight time any more than you can change the tides or the erosion of the earth at the bank of a river. It will change you with or without me. At least…” Peter stands up and huffs. “At least with me, when you stop being the coldest, hardest material you can be; you wouldn’t be falling off a cliff at the same time. At least I’m trying to care.”

 

 Stiles’ hackles raise. He bristles under the derision. “You think I’m not trying?” He shouts. “All I do is try. I try to control myself. I try to recover from these feelings. I try to not feel like some powerless hostage the entire time I’m stuck at one of these villas or lodges or homes or condos. I try to keep myself together when every single thing puts so much pressure on me, I feel like I’m about to shatter into a million tiny useless pieces!” Stiles takes the nearest book he can find and shreds it. “I try not to run! Because heaven forbid, if I do; I get hunted.” He throws the pieces at the desk. “I try more than you can imagine.”

 

He leaves the study and jumps down to the first floor. He strips as he walks to the rear exit. Stiles wrenches open the door and before he even steps onto the small landing, he’s shifted. His paws hit the sand and he breaks for the ocean.

 

A roar echoes from the building.

 

Wood shatters and clatters to the ground in the main room. A massive bulk impacts the title making it shriek. Claws clack and scrape at the tile. The door shudders as a mass slams against it and pushes itself through the gap in the door.

 

Sand shifts itself at an alarming rate as Stiles races to the water. His fur wets and before the steps behind him can catch up he’s neck deep in the waves and diving into the ocean.

 

Another howl erupts from the shore. Then a massive splashing clambering beast breaks through the water seeking him.

 

Stiles dives deeper and deeper, hoping he can dive so deep that nothing could find him. His breath is easy to keep even in this form. Oxygen bubbles in his lungs and slowly leaks from his nose. For a moment, he dares to hope he’ll never rise above the glimmering rippling water over his head. But that moment ends.

 

The beast finds him and lifts him above the tide.  

 

Chapter 21: Siren's Call

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Stiles gasps as open-air bombards his skin and scents return to his nose. Saltwater pours over his eyes from the locks of hair which spatter his face; surprise having shocked him back to his human state.

 

Peter’s grisly monstrous arms hold him tight and secure as he marches back from the depths to the shore. His snout large and pronounced nuzzles Stiles’ face and compresses every last drop of personal space out of existence.

 

Stiles writhes and lashes against the confinement; but Peter, strong and enlivened by the chase is unshakable. Every forced inch Stiles gains is constricted out of existence not a moment later by Peter’s body. His body is hard against Stiles mirroring the prominent length poking Stiles in his back.

 

Stiles regains his volition and shifts back and forth trying to make it hard to hold him, but Peter is far more adaptable, dexterous, and agile than anything his size has any business being. Stiles scrapes with his claws against Peter’s arms and legs begging for freedom, but none of that grants it to him. Nor does the gnashing of his teeth.

 

Instead, the beast itself gives him his freedom. Just when they reach the shore, and the water no longer laps at Peter’s feet, Stiles feels himself drop onto the wet and squishy sand. He takes off to run, but Peter places a hand on his shoulder. This time however, the massive furred and clawed mitt that had been clamping him in place a moment before is now a perfectly manicured hand.

 

“It’s best we do not replay past events,” Peter says.

 

The simple statement pulls the rage out of Stiles like a snake milker extracting the venom from a snake into a jar. Stiles feels his soul seat itself back into place at his core. “Let’s not,” he sighs, trying to be something he hasn’t been since he was fifteen. Calm.

 

He turns to Peter as the man’s body fades back into itself from the beast he’d been as he’d dragged Stiles kicking and screaming to shore.

 

Here in the bright light of spring, his golden tanned skin, muscles, and kind, if not a bit devious face resembled something out of an ancient myth. He appeared to Stiles not unlike Odysseus returned from the war, ready to love Penelope once more in earnest. For a moment, Stiles indulged the fantasy.

 

His mind carried him to a world where this was the life of his dreams. It carries him to a place where all the miseries that had never occurred and he knew nothing of the ugliness of sexuality or people.

 

Then, Peter’s hand falls away and the spell breaks. The sirens’ call ends. No treasures are found upon the shore.

 

“I apologize for touching you,” Peter says. “It was the best compromise I could force through my instincts.”

 

In a moment of resignation, Stiles chooses not to fight. “You’re forgiven.”

Notes:

Just a short little chapter to round out this day in the fic. a bit out of character for this fic, but I felt like I needed this scene to be it's own. books do this and I can do it too. I'll see you all with what's likely going to be a normal sized chapter which starts the next day a bit sooner than normal I think. Hope you all enjoyed as usual. be well.

XOXO Iru_Naru

Chapter 22: Terrible, Not Terrible

Summary:

Stiles and Peter practice something new.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Stiles has never liked sleeping, not since this endless cycle started. Dreams are complex and terrifying when your birthday is a one-way ticket to hell most years. They’re even worse when the whole world leaves you jaded. Worse still when there’s no real out.

 

So, when he wakes from a night of calm sweet dreams to his arm outstretched and reaching for something that is decidedly absent in an otherwise empty bed…

 

The result is a confluence. Anger. Revulsion. Confusion. Not one of them alone could describe his state of mind.

 

Instead of the moments after waking where he puts himself back together like a dangerously teetering Jenga tower, he feels himself falling apart. The fading coil in his gut has shifted into his chest and is roiling there, no longer satisfied to twist him up inside so far from his seat of power, his mind. His lungs feel full, but he cannot take in enough air to clear his mind. Answers that are generally taken for granted feel obscured.

 

Why is he alone?

 

The world mutes itself while he lays there, head still in the pillow, mind in the strange lull of a half-panicked stupor. For a moment, he’s caught in the thrall of the question of whether he’ll end up reaching out in his sleep when he goes home or not. It makes him frown, unable to move forward. He tries grounding himself, but for the first time in two weeks his senses aren’t on over drive. His skin isn’t quite on fire. He can’t taste the salt in the air anymore. And Peter’s pulse doesn’t thunder in his ears. He’s almost confined to his own person.

 

Even his sense of smell is dimming back down to its standard. It’s not a massive shift just yet, but the clothes he’s been avoiding until now are far less overwhelming. He has to own himself again, he has to deal with the thought that moving forwards most of his impulses are his own. When he finally gets out of bed, the change in his body chemistry punches him in the face.

 

No matter how long he chastises himself about it the truth of the matter is this: the scent of Peter isn’t at all repellent. It’s almost soothing, not that he’d ever willingly say so out loud. He pulls at the thoughts like unravelling threads at the seams of a shirt. He picks them apart until the whole things falls apart and he cannot attend to them any longer, it’d be too painful.

 

Now that he can, no matter how grievous the wound of being able and willing, Stiles pulls on something Peter clearly favors. The increased tolerance his dimming senses grant makes it manageable; that’s what he tells himself anyway. They’re comfortable anyway he tells himself to assuage his self-directed guilt. A ridiculously thin, wear-softened, white linen shirt and a seafoam-colored pair of pants to match is the selection. The pants are a bit large, but a cloth belt secures them well enough. He’s never had a barrier between himself and another that was thinner, no matter how little he wore.

 

Because he can’t rely on his mind, Stiles puts his ears in the driver’s seat and follows them to Peter. Peter, who’s already in his study looking over seating and floor plans.

 

“You woke up early,” Stiles says and yawns. “What do you have there?”

 

“Plans for the end of the week. I figure that Friday could be a good day for a press attended party.” The response is attentive, but Stiles can tell that Peter’s mind is elsewhere from the tone of his voice.

 

“Okay, should I make something while you work?”

 

Peter’s face scrunches and then looks up at him. His eyes blow wide, just for a moment, as he takes Stiles in. Even in the somewhat muted light of the dimmed study before the full force of dawn he can see the pinkness of Peter’s lips increase. “No, it can wait. It’s only Tuesday after all; and I prepared most of this stuff weeks ago.”

 

“Of course,” Stiles says, trying not to let it sound like he’s sighing the automated response out. “I’ll head downstairs. Meet me when you’re ready?” He tosses his thumb over his back and then begins to turn to follow it.

 

He barely manages a quarter turn before Peter interrupts him.

 

“Stiles.” Peter’s chair scrapes against the floor. “We can go over them later and make adjustments together.”

 

The offering is small.

 

But it’s huge.

 

It’s not an offer he’s received before.

 

Stiles nods and completes his turn. “That sounds nice,” he says and whisps himself out of the room, putting distance between himself and Peter as quickly and subtly as he can. His cheeks are hot. His heart is caught in a tight grip.

 

Each stride he makes towards the stairs is deliberate. Each strike of his feet on the floor is a supplication.

 

Let me be the one to choose.

 

Peter is hot on his heels as he descends the stairs, but his hands which Stiles can feel in his personal space never greet Stiles’ skin in earnest. They dodge each other in terrifying and thrilling synchronicity.

 

He lands on the cold tile of the entrance hall and with only a few more steps Peter falls away.

 

Breaking orbit the man makes his way more directly to the kitchen. “Should we make breakfast together?”

 

“Sure, but I’m actually not that hungry so maybe we could have something lighter this morning.”

 

“Not a problem. Toast and fruit sound okay?”

 

“Yeah,” Stiles says.

 

“I have sourdough today, but if you want, we can go to a bakery,” Peter says.

 

“Sourdough sounds great,” Stiles replies, already pulling butter from the fridge.

 

“Something’s different today,” Peter says, looking him up and down greedily. “Something about, you.”

 

“I feel better,” Stiles confirms. He slides the butter into the range of a food warmer and flicks it on to soften it while the bread toasts. “My body isn’t screaming at me. It’s more of a loud whisper.”

 

Peter sighs fondly, “Yeah, I remember the relief.” His voice is nostalgic. “I wouldn’t trade the compulsion I feel now for that relief, but I do miss the euphoria of the ending phase of the heat cycle.”

 

“It’s good.” Stiles sniffles and rests his palms on the center metal preparation table. “It always signals the end. It means that this will be over soon, and I’ll have free will again.”

 

“I’ll hold out hope for you to change your mind. I usually get what I want,” Peter says solemnly. “Maybe you’ll see to it that this time is no different now that you can think for yourself again. Some impulses aren’t so terrible.”

 

“Peter… I don’t want to argue this early in the morning. I don’t think I could take it today.”

 

“Of course. How many pieces of toast would you like?”

 

“Just two. Can I help at all?”

 

“You could get whatever fruit we’re going to have today out of the fridges. I’ll get a serving tray.”

 

“On it.” Stiles goes to the fridge and pulls out raspberries, strawberries, and a bowl of mixed melons. He sees the ruby red label on the strawberries and gives it a flash of a smile before opening it.

 

Peter slides over the tray and they put the food together quickly. “How do you keep these raspberries from molding. The ones from the market are always halfway to the bin by the time I get them home.”

 

“It’s nothing special. A vinegar rinse and the berry bowl they’re in help a lot.” Peter scoops a handful onto the plate and then the toast pops up.

 

He hands them to Stiles and then puts more in. “Nutella?”

 

“Sounds like a healthy breakfast to me,” Stiles jokes, buttering the first few slices.

 

Peter pulls a jar from a cabinet and places it on the tray.

 

The last two toast pop up not long after and they head out to the table on the beach to eat. The world is still quiet, even though dawn has sprung over the sand. The birds are still far away and murmur in the woods content to let them have their moment. The ocean is still, only faint short waves lap over each other to provide background noise to their meal.

 

It’s a short affair, made easier by the fact that Stiles can feed Peter without losing all other motor functions. The intensity rises to similar levels of sensation as when they were at the height of his heat due to the increase in pheromonal exchange. But, Stiles manages to eat bite after bite until the small meal is gone. The raspberries pop in Stiles’ mouth and then his teeth crunch around the seeds, providing the grounding he’d been so sorely missing earlier.

 

Peter’s quiet too. His eyes study Stiles as they make the exchange as agreed upon. It makes Stiles more than a little unsettled for a bit, but nothing comes of it. Peter behaves.

 

Soon enough, they’re putting everything back in the kitchen and heading back to Peter’s office.

 

“Does Friday sound good?” Peter asks, sitting down.

 

“No. But skipping the press conference isn’t an option. So, it’s as good a day as any,” Stiles sighs and pulls a chair around to sit next to him.

 

“I never thought I’d hear you so resigned.” Peter flips through some sheets of paper until landing on one he likes.

 

“I’ve lobbied for injunctions and policy changes since my twentieth birthday. No dice.”

 

“Why haven’t you just gone out and had sex with a beta?”

 

“I can’t bring myself to have sex with alphas while my body may as well be a roiling vat of molten hormones and you think a beta during my off week is compelling enough to break through that blockade?” Stiles derides.

 

“I suppose not,” Peter says, shifting in his seat. “Should we get to it then?” He pushes the papers closer to Stiles and starts pointing to different places on the floor map. “It’s pretty straight forward. Press is allowed in the main hall and the main hall only where we will have two seating areas for them near the entrance for the questions and answer part of the evening.” He flips to the next page. “There will be outdoor seating for guests as well as open use of the arcade. The guest rooms which are generally open for discrete moments will be closed. However, the heat room will be available in case of emergency.”

 

Stiles chews on his inner cheek for a moment before speaking, “I can accept that. What about the roof and basement?”

 

“The roof yes, basement no,” Peter clarifies. “The purpose of it is not fitting of the even, nor is it fitting of our arrangement. There will however be masseurs on the roof, so I’d advise you remain on any of the lower floors. I am expected to provide some number of amenities, so this is my compromise.”

 

“Will people be swimming?” Stiles asks thoughtfully.

 

“Yes, but clothing is not optional. There will be changing stations on the beach with a variety of options for those who are not good at planning ahead.”

 

“Is there anything else I should be aware of?”

 

“The dining room and lounge will be separated to allow for dancing. There will also be a dancefloor outside. The music will be moderated for volume, but people do love to raise their voices to be heard, so expect the evening to be overwhelming.”

 

“It’s fine, I’m used to it.”

 

Peter glances between Stiles and the pages. “If you’re willing, I’d like to dance with you. One song, no more.”

 

Stiles frowns. “I’m not very good at that. Grace isn’t exactly something I have in spades.”

 

“I’m sure no one will be looking at your feet. But I would like to represent that we got along well enough that you’d do me the honor of a dance,” Peter massages. “It is custom after all.”

 

Stiles recedes into himself for a moment of internal debate. Warring factions pull at him, vying for dominance. One side demanding he say no; the other enchanting him with the implications of saying yes.

 

Saying no means, he signals that there’s no exception and there never will be. He refutes not just the man but also the system. It must be torn down.

 

Saying yes cries out that there is a better way. That he can reform things. He does hold the power to change these things which have tormented him his whole life. Yes, is a refutation of the behaviors of the individuals who harmed him. Yes, is accepting that the nurturing kindness that he’s seen from Peter is real and be instituted elsewhere.

 

Each is fraught with disaster. No means that he must deny Peter not only in this moment, but state he wasn’t kind enough to deserve this small sign of respect. ‘Yes’… yes means that he was. ‘Yes’ is the lurking danger that they get closer. ‘Yes’ terrifies him.

 

“Can I decide Friday?” Stiles eventually pleads.

 

Peter’s face plunges into disappointment. “Can we practice either way?”

 

Stiles gulps. He screws his lips together and nods yes stiffly.

 

“Okay,” Peter accepts. “Tonight, before we go to bed. We’ll start dance lessons.”

 

***

Music starts and the lights of the dining room dim from the bright overture they’d held all day into a soft more amber glow. The last attendant of the day gives Peter a nod and leaves through the front door. Peter had shaved and washed just before dinner. The day had been difficult to say the least. His face framed in perfect locks and a light lining of dark black five o’clock shadow terrifies Stiles as it turns to him.

 

Peter struts towards him, in clothes that mirror the paper-thin outfit Stiles had chosen this morning. His bare feet glide across the floor towards Stiles.

 

The scene playing out before him fills his body with trepidation. It isn’t unusual to him. But, it is unusually difficult to cope with. The threads which obscured Peter’s skin hide little, and even if they were to hide more, nothing would hide the look on the man’s face. Unbridled desire, tender and soft in nature but voracious in intensity splays clear over his face in perfect view for anyone, even those as unwilling to as Stiles, to see. His relaxed posture, lips parted with an easy smile that pair with soft crinkles at the edges of this his eyes; those eyes which hold Stiles within their gaze like a dying man praying for water in a desert. The expression does more to raise his own desire than chemicals ever could. 

 

“Do you know basic steps?” Peter asks, stopping a few feet in front of him.

 

“Kind of but I never got any good at it. I mostly have made whomever nabbed me for these events push me around the floor while I trample their feet.” 

 

“Is it okay if I lead?” 

 

“Yes. I’d rather not have to concentrate on what I’m doing while I’m dealing with the stress of having all the cameras on me.” 

 

“We’ll start with your form, may I move your hands into place?” Peter asks, body poised to move into Stiles’ space. 

 

“Umm… sure.” 

 

Peter face shifts, but he moves in anyway, eyes watching Stiles’ attentively. When he speaks again his voice is much quieter. “Form is pretty simple. Stand up straight,” Peter starts, giving time for Stiles to meet him.

 

Stiles does, tepidly. 

 

Peter takes one hand firmly and raises it out in front of them. “I’ll be leading so my hand will be resting on your mid back and yours will be on my shoulder. Do you think you can handle that?”

 

Stiles nods curtly. The fingers of his free hand come to rest on Peter’s shoulder as directed and a palm splays over his back. “I’ll keep the moves simple. Any turning you’re going to do will be with me so don’t worry about spins, walking under my arm, or anything else for now. I’ll make sure you’re ready for any moves we’ll use.” Peter pulls Stiles in.

 

“Oh, um…” Stiles lets out. 

 

“Is this fine?” Peter asks, puffing out his chest giving more room between them. “I know we’re a bit close, but I’ll keep my head back.”

 

“I could get used to it,” Stiles says. “So long as this is the all we are like this for.”

 

“That’s your prerogative not mine.” Peter smiles. “What steps do you know?”

 

“None. I intentionally neglected all of those courses.”

 

“How did you even graduate? I thought it was mandatory learning for omegas still.”

 

“I got a compassionate exception on account of me having worse coordination than a rabid howler monkey.”

 

“Alright. Well, at least I’m starting from a blank canvas, better than having to break a bunch of bad habits I suppose. We can start just with the basics of the steps. When I walk you walk with me, alright?”

 

“Okay. I hope you don’t regret this.”

 

“So do I.”

 

***

 

When they finally break Stiles’ fingers are tingling, his back is sore from the rigid line Peter is forcing it into, and he feels like his breath will never return. Holding Peter that close was a mistake. It made it too easy for everything in his body to act up. By the end his body was relying more on Peter’s guidance than his own restraint. He could feel the expression on his face straining to reveal far more of his besotted state than he could handle being known. In turn, most of his attention was in turn focused on the futile task of maintaining an image of neutrality.

 

Luckily, it didn’t much matter what he himself was doing because Peter was right about the blank slate. There wasn’t much to the simple steps. Stiles just let Peter guide him around the floor and it was simple enough even if it meant doing his best not to fall over his own feet. But Peter held him so close, so gently. And they kept getting closer. Eventually, Stiles had puffed out his chest just to gain some more distance between their lips. 

 

It was all too much. 

 

Now, he’s just hoping that the real event will be shorter. With as much as will be going on Friday, he’s not sure he’ll be able to handle it. 

 

I just need fresh air. Stiles tells himself. “I’m going to get a bit of air,” Stiles says and slips out of the house. 

 

Peter’s eyes follow him on the way out, a knowing look on his face.  

 

Embarrassed shame fills Stiles’ lungs anew with each desperate drag of salty ocean air. Each inhale brings in the shame of needing to bolster his resolve. Each exhale clouds the air with the shame of knowing some part of him wants something from Peter. What can he do? How can he make the world slow down? What could his life be like if his life were eternally Thursday?  

 

A few minutes of huffing and puffing later, Stiles returns indoors. Peter doesn’t say anything, just lounges on the couch giving him a pointedly non-accusatory look. He doesn’t have to say anything. They both know their positions. Peter wants him to stay. Stiles wants to stay, but doesn’t want to want to stay.  

 

Instead of making today harder, Peter gets up and gives him a nod. They head to the arcade and play, side by side, neither of them acknowledging how much harder Stiles is fighting his inner turmoil. The night recedes deeper into the cloak of darkness and soon enough the rituals of the night begin again. 

 

A wash in the shower, intimately close but never touching. A moment of simultaneous self-care after as they brush their teeth dry their hair and do the ridiculously long skin routines Peter engages with every day. Then cuddling. Stiles passes out with Peter at his back, strong arms bracketing his chest making him feel safe in a way that he could never outwardly admit. 

 

All in all, it’s not a terrible way to step one day closer to his return home. It is in fact something far from terrible and that is terrible.

 

Notes:

I hope you all enjoyed. Sorry for the later than intended posting, I faced a series of protracted and inevitable break downs following life's struggles. But, I'm back feeling much better, ultimately I think a good break down is good for the soul. I'll be trying to update more regularly again both here and on my other WIP. That one is stalled because I lost my work book and am having to rewrite it's next chapter which has me trudging rather than running. But, I hope to have more completed soon.

I feel so lucky that I have a clear vision for this fic. Just a few more major chapters left and then it's something between epilogue and main story. I hope you all will enjoy the ending I have cooked up. I've been marinating on those ideas since the beginning. Be well.

XOXO Iru_Naru

Chapter 23: Tacit Rules

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

 

Peter sleeps lightly. His last real day with Stiles is upon him and the younger man is wretched in the bed beside him. His body grinds into Peter’s in his sleep like he’s contemptuously alleviating something within himself, something deep seated languid, and too rough to face when awake. Peter feels himself reacting as he gets close to dreams and each time a picture forms in his mind unease sets in bringing him just above the burning flames which accompany them. He floats uneasy and painstakingly on the edge of this world and the one within to combat it all. He floats arrested for hours.

 

There’s too much and then there’s too much. So just like yesterday, when he cannot take the scent of Stiles in his nose seeping ever further into what’s left of his own husked-out soul; he gets out of his own bed.

 

 He flees for occupation. It isn’t far. He goes to the study, makes more plans. Peter ever ready for inevitabilities prepares more. The caterers were told to be ready yesterday. They’re in house anyway so they’ll arrive tomorrow to begin it all. Several hundred guests will soon descend upon his home like vultures.

 

There’s nothing like it. The isolation of being in a crowd of unscrupulous investigators. He lost his taste for it long ago. But the world can’t know that; it couldn’t accept it. So as he does with all things boring and beneath him, Peter puts on a debonair smile and retreats behind his practiced mystique.

 

Place settings, arrangements, seating schemas will be perfected before Stiles ever wakes. His partner of the hour is not interested in such things. He isn’t either but striving towards perfection is sufficient distraction from what’s roiling in his bed. That bed which he won’t be able to leave for several weeks taunts him as much now as it will in a few days. He’ll reside in it sheets unchanged as every last remaining whiff of Stiles’ heavenly scent fades from them.

 

 

His betas will have opinions. He knows they will, especially those worth having around. But, he must find a way through today. Stiles has expectations of him regardless of whether he will admit to them or not. There are tacit rules to this game that Peter has had to learn.

 

When to ask. Where. How.

 

What it means to offer.

 

What may be offered.

 

How much of himself he might put into any suggestion. How much of his own biting wit and frustration can be applied to any interaction.

 

And many, many, more rules plague Peter.

 

Soon, Stiles will wake sad, frustrated by his own past and ill begotten self-governance and request patience of Peter. Patience is something Peter is running short on. It has been taxed beyond all anticipation and threatens to fracture what remains of his sanity.

 

As such, he monologues to himself what kinds of retorts he will have for the press and other noteworthy guests who will be in attendance. There are more set to be here than is usual for most events despite the bold urgent updates which instructed people to find release elsewhere. The timing is the obvious reason.

 

This event is taking place some four days later than any other closing party on this coast. Stiles had agreed to a party only when he was no longer addled by hormones meaning Peter had to endure his heat and the corresponding rising instincts in solitude. He took that deal on the chin. It’s reasonable. He remembers his first heat week party well.

 

It had overwhelmed him. He’d been several days out of the peak of his own and it had required him to take several recesses with Corinne to survive. The sights, the sounds were more than he could’ve deal with otherwise. People exchanging touch, arousal, contempt, suspicion, and more required desperate coupling to mute. Even that barely helped, only taking the edge off.

 

Contrastingly, Stiles has been through many of these and has been affixing himself with rage instead. It never did satisfy the urge. Not unlike how satisfying an itch with a slap doesn’t alleviate the need to scratch, the relief is incomplete.  

 

Peter’s hoping that the added time will allow them to avoid such impulses altogether.

 

A whimper from the bed draws Peter from his planning back upstairs. He lays back down in it and allows Stiles to wrap himself around his body. Here his trap lies. Wishing to leave but being unable to leave of his own volition.

 

Peter cannot shake this urge. The urge to comfort and protect. Stiles needs it from him, but Peter cannot mention it. Nor can he do it while Stiles wakes. Just another infuriating tacit rule. Peter sighs into it and allows himself to precariously endure the sensuous and blessed touch of another. It’s something he hates and something he cannot live without. He’ll miss this in the year between now and the next heat week.

Notes:

Hope you all enjoy. Wasn't really expecting this short scene to blossom in my mind, but its a nice little detour

XOXO Iru_Naru

Chapter 24: White Linen

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

 

For the first time in nearly two weeks, Stiles wakes entirely out of the influence of his heat and without a layer of sweat on himself to wash off. Peter’s beneath him and he has to slowly uncoil his arms to not disturb the man. Peter’s skin is soft, only faint immaterial whispers remain of whatever trauma had altered his shift so titanically. Wrinkles, deeper than are fitting of a werewolf his age stripe his forehead even in his sleep. It’s a fact that makes Stiles frown when he notices it.

 

He has to resist the urge to massage them away. The impulse is strong, and to his dismay it isn’t something entirely biological. Resisting it would be easier if it were. Acknowledging that makes him bristle. Knowing that their jagged edges fit together maybe not perfectly, but compatibly in the same way that pieces of sandpaper grip each other forces him out of the bed. With his goals and Peter’s acid tongue they’d be a nigh unbreakable duo at inter-pack councils, a fact he refuses to give himself time to think about.

 

That frustration is nothing in comparison to the rage that boils up when Stiles sees black tendrils fading from Peter’s arm as he gets out of the bed.

 

“Are you awake?” Stiles demands.

 

Peter doesn’t rouse, nor does his heart spike.

 

The indignity of it spikes again.

 

“Even in your sleep you’re insufferable,” Stiles grumbles. He grabs some clothes and stomps down the stairs. While passing through the dining room he grabs an apple and crunches through it on his way to the water. He tosses it to the shore blighting gulls unfinished and dives in.

 

When he rises back to the surface he hears the sounds of footsteps retreating to a car as the last attendant leaves until this evening, when they’ll begin swarming the place to ready the titanic villa for tomorrow’s party. Stiles seeks a moment of peace below once more, but finds the spring waters don’t chill the storm from a deluging torrential down pout to a snow storm. He’ll find no quarter here. Still he remains beneath the waves as long as he can, hoping his breath will give out on each dive, though it never does. Each time he returns to breach the world once more. And eventually, he returns to the land where Peter awaits him.

 

He's at the table of course, lounging in an obscene outfit of white linen so thin it’s pink. It raises phantom sensations of the now passed heat week, refreshing that lust in a minute diminished form. Its just a memory, but it makes him sway out of Peter’s vicinity a little more all the same.

 

Peter keeps his eyes trained on a tablet, but smiles at Stiles’ approach. “Did you have a nice swim?” He asks as Stiles lurches in to grab his clothes, his voice a bit smug.

 

“No.” Stiles throws the towel at Peter once done with it. And pulls on his clothes, with the added difficulty of wet cloth.

 

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.” Peter sniffs it harshly and then discards it. “You want to eat?”

 

“I’m not in heat anymore. The game is over, we don’t have to keep playing. You don’t have to feed me.”

 

“And what if I want to?”

 

Miserable clawing embarrassment blasts through him like a foghorn for a second time. “Somehow, I think today and tomorrow are going to be harder to get through than the last two weeks were.”

 

“I’d hope so. I’m still waiting for your next request. ‘I’d like waffles tomorrow morning.’ What a wonderful way to state your interest and it would be a wonderful way to wake up after, a glorious celebration of our time together.”

 

“Finally, your true colors.”

 

“They’ll come out a lot quicker if you keep letting me watch you change.” Peter rises from his seat. “I’ll wait for you inside. Hurry along, before I forget to save you any pastries.”

 

“I look forward to them tasting normal and not evoking a cocaine like response from my nervous system.”

 

“Don’t underestimate my betas and their abilities to cook my great-grandmother’s recipes.”

 

***

 

The day shifted and shifted as it crept closer to the evening. They busied themselves with organizations and arrangements once they’d met it.

 

They busied themselves until that dreaded moment where the night came alive.

 

Music and lights flooding the dance floor change everything by pulling Stiles back into Peter’s steady embrace. A hand at his waist, feather light in contrast to the firm grip in his own dazzles his nerves. Peter never changed, shameless in his clothes which would bare all if not for the extra layer a pure white fabric below the waist which provides the barest modicum of restraint and modesty. The fabric should be a sin to don.

 

It probably is.

 

Alpha’s have tried more condemnable methods to coerce him and in worse conditions.

 

Stiles could tolerate it a little longer.

 

Peter does a lot of the work for him, so its almost easy for him to check out. The simple routine work of learning the steps commits itself to muscle memory easier if he’s off somewhere forgetting just how beguiling Peter is like this. With Peter’s guidance it isn’t as hard as he’d expected, especially now given his spine is ramrod straight to keep him from accidentally grazing Peter’s skin and deepening their cautious embrace.

 

Those poor coordination issues he’d struggled with seemed so false now. All he’d ever needed was proper motivation. He has it now.

 

All he needs is to want to keep his head on straight hard enough and his body follows suit.

 

“You’re learning this easier than you made is seem like you would.”

 

“I’m letting you do all the work. My feet are listening for the moment, which is good… but if you talk too much, they’ll probably turn into dead fish again. It seems to me that the key to dancing well is replacing one’s spine with a flagpole; a task which was accomplished when you put your hand on my back.”

 

“Should I remove it?”

 

“I can handle another few songs.” Stiles says through a mostly forced half smile. “I don’t want to make a fool of myself this year.”

 

***

 

“How are you so much better at this than I am? You’re blind.”

 

“I’ve had many years of these events to acquire this skill. And I assure you, nothing evades my perception.” Deucalion pulled him closer in time for a camera flash.

 

“How many years exactly?”  Stiles asked quietly.

 

“More than you have any reason to know.” His teeth grazed Stiles neck for punctuation. A threat and a promise, one which made Stiles’ knees buckle and cock jump. The rush of it flooded his head with impulsive thoughts and his heart with crushing fear.

 

The camera didn’t catch those things. They did however capture the image of the Deucalion’s latest teenaged omega fall prey to his hormones. They recorded in living color as his eyes changed, legs flexed, claws shred an expensive suit, and feet scuff designer shoes. In the following moment, they captured the sight of Stiles shoving Deucalion into and over a nearby couch.

 

His reflexes pounced on the man and rutted far more than once into him. His lips, thankfully remained under control, a victory Deucalion stole from him by reeling him in for a heavy kiss.

 

It was dirty, a gas fueled arson for all to watch as he burned with it. And they burned with him if the gasps and moans he and the attendees let out, already being broadcast on live air were any measure. The entire experience witnessed and rewitnessed with poignant clarity by all nearby reporters and all far flung viewers.

 

He was half-dressed, falling over, and dripping by the time he extricated himself from Deucalion’s devilish grasp. The hormones flying around the room all night had shaken his resolve free of his grasp only for a handful of moments, but he’d never be allowed to forget them. His biology taunted him and nothing could deny it. It took him over.

 

The smell of sex wafted in from nearby rooms where honored attendees stole moments not unlike the one he’d just partaken in. But they obtained their relief off camera, he wasn’t able to evade the surveillance of the audience like them. Deucalion put the entertainment rooms just off the main hall for a reason. This was his design. This room was a weapon.

 

Nothing could’ve recovered the loss of self-respect he felt in that moment as he scrabbled across the floor half dressed, practically lactating from what was just a scrape of teeth, a brush of stubble, and the following calamity that was Deucalion’s hands.

 

The lust sent memories to the forefront of his mind; memories of the previous three days where the man had rubbed his skin raw over and over again with that beard rushed Stiles. They replayed the various firmness of the drags, the varying length of the beard as it bristled his skin as Deucalion sought out Stiles’ exact preference. It hit him with the shame of knowing just how obviously stubble had won.

 

And now the entire collective accompaniment and the world got to witness it’s effects too.  

 

He cried as he fled to an unseen room to recover.

 

He cried when the druid that came to collect him shoved him into an identical untarnished suit. He cried when it happened again not even an hour later.

 

***

 

“You’ve grown a lot since then. I wouldn’t be worried if I were you.”

 

“Well, that was the last night I danced publicly. I’m sure the press will bring it up.”

 

“I’ve asked they don’t. they’ll be removed if they do. I can also contact the committee to have you get extra stipends or allowances to work from home for the next month to help you avoid reels if you’d like.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“Thank you. That’s really kind.”

 

“If you feel overwhelmed at any time tomorrow, tell me. I’ve set aside a spare room for you.”

 

“I could almost kiss you.”

 

“I wish you would.”

 

At that, Stiles falls silent. A silence which follows them for the next few songs until they slow and fall apart.

Notes:

We're closing in on the end now. I have a bunch written up that I haven't had time to type and then after that I'll be pretty close to the main "ending" beyond which will be a series of chapters which will serve to epilogue and outline the way the world shifts in their wake.

Sorry to make you all wait.
Kisses
XOXO Iru_Naru

Chapter 25: Insurmountable

Summary:

A brief counter to the previous chapter from a different perspective.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

 

Bravado can get you through a lot. For Peter, it is getting him through Stiles’ looming departure. He rises from bed and dons his sheer armor, cloth or attitude it is all the same. Today, he’s what he needs to be not who he is.

 

When Stiles returns from the water like a selkie visiting a lonely sailor, Peter’s already starving. Starving for a drop of attention that he won’t get. There’s no amount of feeding that could sate his famished state, but he seeks it’s source all the same in a reckless act of self-flagellation he’ll hardly be able to rise from in a few days.

 

So, he lays it on thick. Stiles is intriguing in this moment. He always is, but his peculiarity is that the more he doesn’t hate Peter and his eccentricities and being here, the more that he hates not hating it. The more he wallows in that agony, not unlike Peter will be agonizing in naught but forty-eight hours.

 

So, Peter helps Stiles hate it here just a bit more. He pours salacious innuendo from his hot, venomous, silver-tongued mouth to cure Stiles’ affliction.

 

It works of course. A few too obvious innuendos and unsolicited glances are all it takes to make Stiles hate Peter just enough to stop hating himself and hating it here with him.

 

By the end of breakfast, his companion’s mood has improved considerably. He’s still sullen, but several intentional withholdings serve to reassure Stiles of his safety. It’s not long until the boat he’s in has the hole plugged and the man across from him can scoop the water out by himself.

 

When Peter finally gets to hold Stiles near for their dance practice the game is afoot. More than anything, endearing himself to Stiles is a pursuit of exhaustion. It is a series of proofs, sacrifices, and compromises ran in an infuriating algorithm. Every step is wrong, but if he gets enough wrong he gets it right. The proofs are of his honorable nature. The sacrifices are evidence of respect. He has each in droves.

 

Stiles’ body is responsive enough, but his mind. His mind is a beast of insurmountable nature. Bonding with him is a harsh labor. He’s more Stiles’ captive now than the reverse.

 

When Stiles checks out, Peter can feel it and every fiber of his own body sings in a joyful repose. Finally, the younger man has achieved something of a calm in his presence. It’s nothing short of a miracle. Counting his escape from the fires which sought to consume him, he only needs one more to be sainted.

 

For a few moments, their hearts beat in unison. For a few moments, he has Stiles to himself before his partner is mired by another memory. They part not long after the intrusion, but Peter offers reassurance before they break. They’ll not be alone again until Saturday in the brief hours before his attendants arrive and Stiles leaves.

 

Peter isn’t the kind of man to pay homage to gods, but this night he prays things will go well tomorrow.

Notes:

This interlude will be the last update for about a week or so, I have to work quite a bit through next Tuesday and though the next chapter is mostly done in my work book, I doubt I'll be able to transfer it to the computer. I do loathe the process of typing it up and it is already 15 pages (about 2100 words before edits, expansions, and rearrangements) so I will not be loving that task. However, it's so nice to be wrapping this story up. I hope you all will be well.
XOXO Iru_Naru

Chapter 26: I Could Tolerate One More

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

When Stiles wakes he’s presently aware that they’re not alone. There’s always a minimal sign, some cook about to leave, but today it’s so much more. People are scurrying around the house making more decoration adjustments than he could count. Some are familiar footsteps but most aren’t.

 

Peter’s already up and wearing some sort of pre-formal attire as if he should dress well for the off chance that someone might sneak a peak at them during the day. “I chose something for you if you want it. Feel free to look for yourself, but there are only a few things left that haven’t been worn recently. They’re hung just inside the closet. I’ll meet you downstairs for breakfast.”

 

“It’s fine. The smell won’t bother me today.”

 

“Glad we’re resolved.”

 

Peter’s words are heavy on his ears, but Stiles doesn’t react.

 

The breakfast is simple. Omelets with fruit and something akin to a Danish for each of them. Stiles doesn’t mind the shift in palette, he isn’t nearly as ravenous anymore. There’s an ease to Peter’s posture that lets Stiles know that the lingering effects of heat week have all but entirely faded for him too. Stiles takes his chair and sits next to Peter.

 

“To our last day together,” Peter says and raises his glass.

 

Stiles meets the toast “I’ll drink to that,” he says and downs his glass of lemonade.

 

The food exchange feels goofier this time. The world is in focus and Peter’s pheromones don’t warp the taste of everything that meets his tongue. Each cut of each portion takes just a few seconds too long. Chewing takes forever.

 

They quickly change to exchanging bites to make the wait feel a bit shorter. The romance that could be there is present, faintly. But the compulsion that always accompanied it isn’t. the oddity and clarity he feels in the moment makes it like watching a movie through a mirror. It’s all there, but the experience is a bit absurd when flipped.

 

They finish and walk to the study together. Peter divides some of the remaining tasks to oversee up into two lists and gives Stiles one of them. “It’s not much but it’ll keep us busy.”

 

“A distraction,” Stiles confirms.

 

“Better than dying in Galaga or Ms. Pacman for the next twelve hours. Carpel tunnel is a bitch.”

 

“Neither of us can get that.”

 

“Let’s keep it that way.”

 

“Fine, but I know this is just a ploy to save your high score. I got to just about three thousand points below it yesterday.”

 

“You’ll get there someday. Maybe next year.”

 

“As if,” Stiles scoff and takes his paper out to the hall. Once there he takes a second to breathe the moment out.

 

The list in his hands is short when he looks at it in earnest.

  • Check the flower arrangements.
  • Arrange the seating, outdoor and indoor.
  • Check lighting, outdoor and indoor.
  • Test the sound system.
  • Contemplate answers for the press.
  • Change at four p.m.

 

He’d never say it out loud, but Stiles is looking forward to this press conference. He got to choose his clothes, isn’t under duress, and for the first time his mind isn’t clouded by raging hormones. Peter doesn’t have any weird guidelines on what to say either. There’s just this list, one night of discussion, three shared meals, and a night of dancing between him and his return home.

 

He busies himself with the tasks, checking each one in each room on each floor that will be open to use as he goes. Guiding the betas through the lay out of the tables, seats, and name placement is the most grueling part of the day. Peter’s incredibly organized, but the settings are grouped alphabetically rather than by table so he has to file through the names over and over again to fill any single table. It costs him more than an hour and a half to sort it all out due to the sheer volume of names to arrange. After that the rest of the preparations go smoothly and he has naught but two hours to kill before it’s time to change.

 

Inevitably, Peter finds him at the helm of the Galaga machine at five minutes to four. “How many times have you failed to best my score this afternoon?”

 

“Only twice. I’m pretty close right now though.”

 

“How many ships do you have left.”

 

“Three. You’re distracting me. It won’t work.”

 

“Sounds like a good run, it’s a shame that we’ll have to end it prematurely.”

 

“It’s four already?”

 

“Just about.”

 

“Alright.” Stiles comes away from the machine and hears three ships exploding in rapid succession. The run is over before he even clears the room.

 

The bedroom isn’t far, but a companionable silence envelops them as they make their way to it. The clothes are on the bed still in their packaging. Next to them is a contrasting white suit which covers a fuchsia shirt with silver paisley designs that match his own.

 

“I thought we could play with expectations together.”

 

“It’s a bold statement.”

 

“I’m a bold man.”

 

Stiles chuckles affectionately, “That you are.”

 

***

 

“You look good. I’m glad she included that gold backed vest to match the shirt.”

 

“It’s perfect. But you’re not wearing one, nor are you wearing a tie. You can’t even manage to do up all of your buttons.

 

“You’re free to do it for me.” Peter smiles.

 

“I’ll pass. Let’s show them what I’m not partaking in.”

 

“Be careful, you’re dangerously close to sounding like you enjoy what you see.”

 

“I’ve seen worse.”

 

“There’s my contrary Mary.”

 

“I’m not your anything.”

 

“That’s what makes you so irresistible.” Peter turns on his heels and offers his arm. “Shall we?”

 

Stiles takes it and together they descend into the viper’s pit.

 

Lights don’t flash, cameras don’t flare. Only soft shutters greet them in unison with the clamor outside as they exit through the front doors.

 

Satomi is the first in the doors. She and her partner garnered their invite easily and commanded the most seniority in the room granting them primacy for their entrance. She accepted an invitation to a ball for the first time in over decade.

 

“Nice to see you again boy,” she says as they walk up.

 

“Nice to see you too,” Stiles replies.

 

“You of course too dear.” She pulls him in for a hug. “But I was talking to this one.” She bows to Peter who mirrors her and bows a bit lower even. “I’ve known him since he was only as tall as my hip. Always so poorly behaved. I’m glad to see you’ve helped him shape up.”

 

“Has he now?”

 

“You’ve never bowed back before.”

 

“I’ve never had you at a ball before where we met as peers.”

 

“Has he been treating you well,” she asks Stiles, brushing Peter’s response off.

 

“Well enough.”

 

“Good. I’m glad his mother’s words were not lost on him.”

 

“Ho could they be? She had a voice loud enough to wake the dead and you a hand stern enough to shape the earth. It’s your stern teaching that forged that unbreakable will of his no doubt.”

 

“That is his mother’s doing,” She looks to Stiles fondly. “Not mine. I’ll see you both later. She pats Stiles once more on the shoulder and sees herself indoors.

 

“You know Satomi.”

 

“I know more of the kinder members of our community than you’d have ever dreamt existed.”

 

The rest of the guests pass through much quicker. Short greeting mark the evening.

 

Eventually, only press remain outside with them. At their heralding, Stiles and Peter retreat to the table they’d set up for the interviews. Opening statements go smoothly, despite a sinking sense that something was wrong setting in, the first portion is all smiles and pleasantries as expected. But disruption comes at the first opportunity.

 

Only three questions and a deep sultry voice chimes in from the crowd. “So you failed to couple with the boy. Can’t say I expected much else.”

 

Stiles freezes, hackles up, spine stiff as recognition dawns on him of who the speaker is and what the familiar unsettling scent on the wind is.

 

Peter on the other hand responds immediately. “Well, I prefer my partners have sex with me willingly. Quite the triad we make; myself having rejected you when I was young, Stiles having rejected us both, and you. Here. Uninvited. Still interested in unsolicited interactions I see. Please, enter the venue at your earliest discretion, we still have more statements to make. I’m sure that we can rearrange a distantly placed table to accommodate you, Deucalion.”

 

“I haven’t completely rejected him, by the way. I find his company quite preferable. He’s funny, likes many things that I do, and understands the trauma of the system that we live through quite well,” Stiles says once his mind returns. He grabs Peter’s hand and brings it to his lips to kiss it gently. Mindful of the cameras, he smiles. “Most importantly his restraint and respect for me and my boundaries has made my stay here comfortable. My stay here has been a greatly welcome reprieve from the difficult cycle you initiated on my eighteenth birthday.”

 

“You were remarkably well developed for your age. The way you responded didn’t indicate that your stay with me was too offensive. I remember I could hardly keep you off of me at my party.”

 

“Strategic timing placed me at unfair disadvantage. I could barely stand at your party. Speaking of it I remember that morning quite clearly. I remember waking up, you were so taken with my pheromones that you were rutting against my ass, cock slobbering, begging me for entrance. It seems you were eager to replicate that ugly behavior here tonight. Tell me Deucalion, do you ever tire of being led around by your dick like a dog?”

 

Deucalion snarls. “Watch your tongue boy or I’ll-”

 

“You’ll what?” Peter shouts, cutting him off. Eyes strike red as a burning forge. He erupts from his chair. His skin turns blue black and Peter sprouts fur as his face reconfigures momentarily displaying a massive and terrifying snout. The shift doesn’t last long, and doesn’t reach past his neck. The crowd parts immediately, not wanting to between two feuding alphas. “Guards! Escort this man from my premises! Collar him if you have to!” He shakes off his rage. “Someone, inform the council of his infraction. I want sanctions placed.”

 

Several beta guards equipped with subdual weaponry approach Deucalion.

 

The moment he’s gone the hushed reporters resume their clamor even louder than before. A juicier scoop hadn’t happened in years. An unmated alpha showing up, insulting another alpha in his home and then threatening his omega guest. Questions rang out, derailing the discussion and adding another half hour to the interviews.

 

After that, the night blurs util the dance. Chatting, walking away, an approach, chatting with another new face, walking away again. Then it’s time for dinner, which causes the chittering voices to remark on how they were feeding each other. Then more chatting.

 

But when the clock strikes nine, the energy in the building shifts. Tables already cleared for them to make room in the main hall for everyone to dance allow them to take over the space. Some people are in other rooms which helps as well, but everyone stops for their first dance. Suddenly, the entire party is focused on the two of them.

 

Sweat forms on Stiles’ brow. Not even one step in, not even one note into the first song and he’s stricken by both the moment and the man in front of him. A hand takes his and before he can calculate what’s going to happen, he and Peter are orbiting each other in some sort of covalent bond.

 

A step forward, a step back, a turn, on and on it goes. The tense and high flying experience of performing and performing well at that overtakes him. It’s clear the crows is affected as well. A smile creeps across his face, weak and timid at first; but surely as the sun rises his smile strengthens to a radiant beacon.

 

One song closes, opening to another. Then it passes into another and the attendees join them, but he doesn’t notice. Another begins and they’re on the fourth before Stiles thinks to rest. When he does uproarious clapping follows them off the floor.

 

Satomi catches him as he’s retreating to a private room. “That was a wonderful display child. Your mother would be proud. Consider your next few hours carefully, I’ll see you in a few days.” She clasps his hand for an instant and then slips back into the crowd allowing him to resume his retreat.

 

Peter finds him some time later and cajoles him into rejoining the party. It ends earlier than he’d expected, sometime around eleven thirty Peter requests the attendees take a shuttle to his vineyard for an afterparty. They all leave without a fuss.

 

Peter clicks a button and soft music plays. “One last dance?”

 

“I suppose I could tolerate one more.” Stiles accepts Peter’s hand.

Notes:

Only one more chapter until it's time for the next stage in the story. I'm so excited. i hope you guys are too!
XOXO Iru_Naru

Chapter 27: Different This Time

Summary:

Stiles leaves Peter's.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

 

Joy’s the wrong word. Stiles doesn’t think he could ever wake up joyful here in another person’s home. But relief that it is almost over does greet him before his eyes even open to the sunlight filtering in through the mostly shut curtains.

 

“Wake up.” He prods at Peter’s sleeping body. “It’s time for our last shower.”

 

“Easy now, I’m not as eager to wash myself of you as you are of me.” Peter rolls over, body less put upon than his voice.

 

“Fine, I’ll start without you.”

 

“Just hold on a second,” Peter says, rolling over, hand going to try to capture Stiles’ before he can get off the bed. “I’ll come with you.” His hand pulls off and away from Stiles’ fingertips, the only thing it had taken hold of. “Sorry.”

 

“I knew you’d see it my way,” Stiles brushes off the overly familiar act, keeping his voice light - the way he wanted to feel.

 

“As if you’d leave me a choice.”

 

Stiles makes his way to the shower and turns the spray on high and hot. The water immediately cascades down in a near boiling wall of water.

 

Peter turns the heat down the moment Stiles removes his own hand from the knob. “I’d rather not be boiled alive by my shower.”

 

“If you say so.” Stiles grabs his bar of soap that he’d brought with him from home from under the sink where he’d placed it last night just before bed. Unwrapping it, he reenters the shower.

 

“I’d ask permission to wash you, but I know that window’s passed. Could I bother you for one last kiss before you scrub your face? Just one last thing for me to hold onto before you cleanse your skin of me forever.”

 

Stiles looks at Peter’s lips, half of him wants to be affronted by his nerve. The other half of him is stunned by the feeling that washes over him when he remembers what Satomi told him last night. He stalls, brain blunted by the force of the situation, unable to make a quip or easy denial. It isn’t that he doesn’t know the answer, it’s that saying the word no is too horrible, to cruel for some reason. Instead, he turns away and pushes his head into the falling water.

 

Peter’s exhausted sigh rips into his shoulders. No punishment is enacted. He just has to suffer through knowing he’d served Peter one last miserable disappointment. Not seeing the alpha’s face doesn’t really help it be any less uncomfortable.

 

***

 

Stiles carries himself to the clean room as quickly as possible once he’s out of the shower and unpacks the outfit he wants for his ride home. It’s nothing remarkable, just a sweater made from alpaca hair meant to look like a cloudy sky and bright yellow jeans. But when he put on unhandled clothes for the first time in two weeks he could scream from the relief.

 

The change of clothes into something that is now definitively his makes it hard to sit. It makes it hard to walk, to touch anything for fear of soiling them with something that wasn’t him. But, Stiles will worry about that once he’s done packing last night’s suit back into the last unopened suit case. Keeping it for later wasn’t a decision he thought he’d make, but here he is putting it through a vacuum sealer and putting it with the rest of his clothes.

 

It reminds him of his victory. It’ll continue to do so, he thinks. Maybe that’ll give him the ability to pull through the doom he envisions ahead when the world gets hard again.

 

He’d never left a palace with a trophy before, but the paisley suit is a worthy first. it’ll remind him that it isn’t all nightmares if he displays it somewhere easy to see. He will display it, even if he isn’t sure where to do so yet.

 

Once that’s done, he removes his gloves and washes his hands before going to meet Peter downstairs.

 

“Have you chosen your boons?”

 

“A few.”

 

“You’ll have to decide before you leave. I won’t chase you down to grant them.”

 

“That’s fine.”

 

“It’s a shame you’re going so soon. I haven’t had a good sparring partner in ages. I’ll miss the entertainment of your verbal jabs.”

 

“Imagine the potency they’d have had if I hated you.”

 

A prideful if not mischievous smile overtakes Peter’s neutral face. “I witnessed that last night. You disgraced Deucalion in front of everyone.”

 

“Thank you for covering for me. I wasn’t ready to see him.”

 

“I should’ve known he’d arrive uninvited,” Peter says, finishing a bite of a honeyed croissant. “He hates to lose. Making an attempt at embarrassing us was his only opportunity to save face. Gratefully, we both have barbed tongues far more treacherous than his.”

 

“You hate losing too. It’s a common problem among alphas.”

 

“And omegas.”

 

“Just when I thought you were tolerable, you besmirch me.”

 

“I am tolerable. You have an allergy to refined beings.”

 

The volley is their last. Stiles lets it go with a smirk, not wanting to ruin a good moment by taking the joke too far. It makes him almost sad to think there may not be another.

 

Looking around the massive villa now is strange. Normally, he’s leaving behind a prison. It feels different this time. He feels different this time. If this event were to ever be capable of making him feel like he’d made a friend, this would be the closest he’s gotten. That fact makes him worry that this is the best it’ll ever get.

 

Peter has it all. He’s smart, funny, stands up for what he believes, and has ruthless standards both for himself and others. The man leaves no quarter for the things he cannot abide. It makes Stiles almost jealous that several of those traits are ones he cannot afford or cannot enforce.

 

Worst of all, somewhere underneath all of those things that are good and bad Peter is just sentimental and kind enough to endear himself to others. At least he’s able to endear himself to those he wishes.

 

Stiles trusts him, as far as he can.

 

“I’ll let you feed yourself today. Just this once I’ll allow you to break the deal so that you can go home as free of this place as possible. Please, sit.” Peter says, handing Stiles a plate.

 

Stiles takes it, but a knot forms in his stomach. “Thank you.” Something about the food is harsher, drier, almost stale as it passes his lips and courses over his tongue on its travel down his throat. It’s fresh, that he can tell. It is no different than the food was the day before, but his tongue dries out and feels fat quickly as he tries to work through the pastries. They’re small, but he gives up after the second.

 

What little of Peter’s scent that does slip into the air around them is soured. Clearly, he’d learned a lot from Satomi, but he is worse at it than Stiles himself is. And today, his control is shaky. It reeks of acrid pain and anxiety even at its carefully regulated levels.

 

Stiles has to fight to refrain from smoothing the difficulty out with a touch of his hand. Instead of taking Peter’s hand and stroking it until the man settles, Stiles tries to soothe him with words. “I’m sure that your choice of mate next year will be more amenable.”

 

He hates the words the instant he’s finished uttering them. It’s evident that Peter does as well from the way he flat lines and what’s left of his scent trails off, capped by a higher degree of focus.

 

“Perhaps.” Peter sucks down a cup of sangria.

 

It’s never been this hard to close an encounter before. Stiles has never had to fear this reaction before either. Normally, the alpha he’s with is upset that they never got what they wanted, not that he’s leaving in the first place. “Thank you. You were right about alphas, some of you can be kind. I’m glad to have been wrong, for once. I hope you’ll be willing to lend me a book or two about our history some time so I can research the pack structure for myself.”

 

 A very key screw comes loose in Peter’s façade. “You’d like to keep in contact?” he asks. The words aren’t warm, they’re too cautious for that. But they betray something far more devastating than that. Hope.

 

“If you’d let me.”

 

“I’ll have the driver give you my number when you get to the airport,” Peter says, voice already back to an even keel.

 

“Alright… well… I think I’m full.”

 

“Of course. I should get you home.” Peter claps once and the garage door opens. Peter stands. “After you.”

 

Stiles takes his rolling luggage and makes for the garage. Peter follows at a distance, watching as he pushes the beast of a suitcase into the trunk.

 

The knot in Stiles’ stomach worsens all the while making orienting it all the more difficult.

 

“Before you get in, what four things do you want?”

 

“Four? I think you mean five.”

 

“Four, D overrode A as it was just an add on.”

 

“Five. D had additions. Counting it that way would effectively be a two for one.”

 

“Fine. Five.” Peter says and takes a step towards the car.

 

“First, I want you to show the person who’s here next year the same kindness you showed me this year.”

 

“As if that’s even a question.”

 

“Peter,” Stiles says already exasperated.

 

“It’s done. Next?”

 

“Vote for Scott’s reforms.”

 

“I already have. But I’ll vote for them again the next time they come up.”

 

“You… thank you.” Stiles thinks for a moment. “I want you to come up with an outfit for me. One of your designs, an appropriate one, suited for special events. I want to have something special for next year, something that’ll upset the next alpha who decides to choose me.”

 

“A worthy challenge.” Peter breaks out in a wry smile. “You’ll have it, though not soon. I’ll have to perfect it first.”

 

“I’d expect nothing less.”

 

“Number four?”

 

“Be kinder to your wolf, it needs healing.”

 

“You’re one to talk,” Peter scoffs.

 

Stiles takes a step towards him head held high. “My wolf is fine. It’s me that needs to heal.”

 

“I’ll take your demand… under advisement. What is your last request.”

 

“Send me copies of your books. My family never had a solid history of werewolves and Satomi as great a resources as she is was bitten just like my parents were. She just didn’t have much on the structure of a pack. I went through her personal resources within a month and a half of my presenting as an omega back when I was fifteen. It’d be nice to have some more for the next sad sack who gets saddled with this role.”

 

“It’d be my pleasure to share my family’s legacy with you.”

 

“Well… I suppose I should get in the car now.” Stiles says, pulling away from a now much nearer Peter. His backing up results in him bumping into the car door and slamming it shut. “Oops.”

 

“I suppose you should. Safe travels, Stiles.” Peter backs away and heads for the door back into the house.

 

The garage door shuts and the mechanism whirs opening the garage to the bright morning light. As he gets in the sedan and it pulls out of the building onto the drive, Stiles feels his chest constrict. The vehicle doesn’t lurch, nut his stomach turns regardless.

 

It reverses into the loop, presenting itself before the entrance to Peter’s home. For the first time, he’s hating this part.

 

“Stop!” He shouts at the driver as he puts on the gas and it begins forward momentum. Stiles rolls the window down with as much haste as the window’s motor will allow. “Peter!” he calls out the window, head and shoulders now out of the car.

 

The design on the front of the door flutters with movement as Peter’s face comes into view.

 

“I relent!” Stiles shouts. The words burst from him harsh like the soft wind would gobble them up if he hadn’t put everything into the two simple words.

 

The reaction is near instant. His phone buzzes in his pocket. It’s illuminated with an unknown number. He thumbs the green button on the screen.

 

“I’ll see you next year.”

 

“I still expect my prizes.”

 

“I’m a man of my word.”

 

“Goodbye Peter.”

 

“Until next time. Stiles.”

Notes:

My god I've been waiting for this chapter practically since I started this work. This was always the plan and I'm so happy with how it turned out. I'm so happy that it felt like the characters as written would travel to this conclusion as well.

I have more in the works, but for most intents and purposes this is where the story is complete. I don't intend to ever write sexual scenes for this piece mostly because I cannot decide if I want Stiles to be Ace-sex repulsed or just in dire need of severe amounts of therapy and a trusting relationship, but I want to leave it open to either interpretation so I'll leave that to the individual reader.

I hope you've all enjoyed this so far. It isn't over over, but in many way I feel like it's complete here. there's still chapters on the continued changes to the system and several other things which I will be writing when I know how to put them all to page. But I'm so happy to have gotten this far. I really needed a win this week.

I hope you all enjoyed.
Until next time,
XOXO Iru_Naru

Chapter 28: Continuance

Summary:

The Epilogue:

Here's their happy ending. I tried to leave it open to interpretation, mostly because I cannot decide how I really want Stiles to be (Ace or Allo). Either way its important to me that displaying finding the right partner doesn't make trauma and sex repulsion etc just go away.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Stiles collapses into a hug the moment his dad comes in range for one at the airport. His father came in his restored 1965 mustang to pick him up, as he had several times. He wanted to laugh at it, but surviving the hug came first. He felt like a marionette sans string, held aloft by his father’s embrace. Needing it more than anything, he’s willing to withstand the bright shining light that glinted off the car behind his father. It doesn’t matter. 

 

Here in his father’s arms, the exhausting pressure of the week was over. He is safe. The world could be worse later; right now, it was perfect.

 

“That bad, huh?” Noah asks.

 

“Worse. I actually liked him.”

 

“That’s what it seemed like on the news. They still haven’t stopped talking about your confrontation during the supernatural segments. The pundits have been speculating on it all day. Some say you sealed it, some say you’re just leading him on. Very few of them have been respectful.”

 

“Either way, they’re getting more of me next year. As always, they’ll get more pot shots in. I’m not worried about them right now,” Stiles says breath becoming increasingly more strained as he rambles the words out.

 

“That’s better than your usual mounting anxiety.” Noah grips him by the shoulders and forces his spine into some sort of functioning structure and gives him a smile.

 

“That was some solid casual snooping dad. I could almost pretend you’re not a master interrogator.”

 

“By now, the fact that I’m not the most overprotective helicopter parent of all time is a blessing. You’ve given me a few too many trips through the wringer kid.” Noah lets him go and grabs his bag to toss it in the back. “Let’s get you home.”

 

“Thanks dad.”

 

***

“So, he made you agree to hurt him?” Noah asks.

 

“if you don’t believe me you can look at the hand writing yourself.” Stiles picks up his luggage and places it on the table in his modest living room. He pulls the suit out of its bag and digs into its pant’s left front pocket. Handing it over quickly, Stiles frees himself of any further responsibility over the words on the page.

 

Noah’s face goes blank, delving into a practiced form of neutrality he’d developed over all his years on the force. “That’s a lot… And he agreed to this? He stuck to them all?”

 

“Yeah,” Stiles says, putting the clothes Erica chose for him on the hangers he’d vacated earlier in the month. “I’m as shocked as you are. Honest.”

 

“So, you have five wishes coming?”

 

“Yep.”

 

“Any chance he’ll deliver on them?”

 

“I’m pretty sure he will.”

 

“Oh? And why’s that?”

 

“I… I’m going back next year.”

 

“I read the paper, doesn’t that mean you lost?”

 

“it’s a bit of a grey area. I agreed to return as I was leaving.” Stiles holds the cloudy sky sweater to his chest. “I never made it to two full break downs in control, so I think we maybe both won.”

 

The retired sheriff looks at his son with incredulity. “I’ve got to say son, this is the oddest partnership I’ve ever heard of. I should be less surprised than I am given your history, but this eclipses even your most deranged childhood antics.”

 

“We are not partners.”

 

“If you’re going back next year, you’re something.”

 

“We’re people dad.” Stiles grabs the paper out of his father’s hands and turns away from him. “I was leaving, and I don’t know. Something gripped me. Something just kept nagging me asking… ‘what if this is the best it’ll ever be?’ It’s stupid but somehow it felt like I made a friend or an ally or something. I just, maybe I was just hoping to spare myself a worse fate next year.”

 

Stiles seals the suit and the agreement back in the bag and tosses it over his desk chair.

 

His phone buzzes. The text is simple, and it makes his palms go sweaty:

 

Request sent.

 

“Stiles, I hate to break it to you, but I think you like him more than you think. Even I can smell that. But more to the point, that’s how I felt about your mother at the end of our first date.”

 

“Dad!”

 

“Just consider it,” Noah kisses him on the forehead. “I’ve got to go see Melissa. Come over tonight, okay?”

 

“Sure thing. Is she cooking?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Then dinner will be edible. I’m in.”

 

“See you tonight, punk.”

 

***

 

-The Next Day-

 

A knock on his door wakes him from an uncomfortable mid-afternoon nap. “Huh?” Stiles starts upright and searches his immediate area. “Who is it?”

 

“Stiles! Open up! We’ve been out here for fifteen minutes,” Scotts voice calls urgently.

 

“Alright, just give me a minute.” Splashing some water on his face and swapping into a cleaner shirt isn’t enough, but its all he can manage. “Why didn’t you just let yourself in?” He asks when he gets to the door.

 

“I forgot my key at home.” Scott hands him a box. “I saw it on my way up. It’s kind of heavy what’s in it?”

 

“I don’t know who’s it from?”

 

“P.H.?”

 

“”P.H.!” Stiles checks the sticker on the front. The return address is marked for Peter’s home address in Corona del Mar. “It must be Peter.”

 

“He had a Sunday courier deliver it overnight to you from southern California? Stiles. Did you manage to leave a good impression?” Kira asks amused.

 

“I asked for books. I didn’t think he’d send them so soon,” Stiles tries to downplay his surprise. He sets the box on the counter and slices it open to reveal the several aging leather-bound tomes within. The last one in the pile he recognizes as the family history book that he’d picked up the first time he’d visited Peter’s study.

 

“He sent you his family history?” Scott asks overwhelmed by irritation at the pomp.

 

“Yeah, uh… I told him about how thoroughly lacking Satomi’s collection was on account of her being a bitten wolf. I asked for information about traditions, the cycle between omegas, betas, and alphas, you know to have more options for myself and whoever comes next.” He puts it on a shelf behind him in the kitchen. “I guess this was a spare,” he lies.

 

“It looks like there’s a note in the front,” Kira says in a clear effort to be helpful.

 

“Oooh, I bet it’s a love note.”

 

“I doubt it,” Stiles dismisses. “I’ll read it later.” He pours them each a glass of water in an effort to divert their focus.

 

“Boo!” Scott shouts.

 

“You’re going to tease me about whatever it says either way, so I may as well just keep it to myself. That way you can’t ruin a decent moment by being a twelve-year-old. And don’t even think about grabbing it. If your hand follows your eyes, you’ll lose it.”

 

“So you did like him.”

 

“Scott don’t be mean.”

 

“Yeah Scott, listen to Kira.”

 

“Seriously, did you like him. You said you did at the press conference, but that could’ve just been to spite Deucalion. I wouldn’t blame you. Discussions with him around are only slightly more pleasant than those when I have to debate with Ennis. And normally, when I get here you’re ready to dish out every insult in the book at whatever loser alpha chose to torment you for a week and a half.”

 

“He was… alright.”

 

“So, you did like him.”

 

“I did not say that. Come on Scott, just let me have this one. My stay there was comfortable for a change. It’s not a big deal.”

 

“It kind of is. He’s the first alpha that isn’t me or Satomi that you’ve tolerated. And even you have to admit that the reasons we’re outliers is abundantly obvious.”

 

“Scott’s right, we should celebrate. Let’s go out for dinner. On us.”

 

“Dangerous proposition Kira. We all know I can clear a restaurant.”

 

“So long as you haven’t gotten into the habit of eating gold and diamonds, I think we’ll be alright.”

 

The relative silence of the car ride breaks as they sit down to eat. “How ling are you tow in town for?” Stiles asks.

 

“Not long. There’s pack business near Beacon Hills to attend to. The council designated me to take over the region due to the vacuum that’s existed there ever since the last pack got wiped out by some sort of monster.”

 

“And a monster that could take down a pack doesn’t worry you?”

 

“No. I have Kira. Plus I have the rest of the pack. It should be fine.” Scott takes her hand. “The monster was taken down at the same time anyway. Some sort of mutually assured destruction thing. They just want a ‘stabilizing force’ in the area and think I’m the right guy for the job. Something about how my spark is different for the usual. They think it’ll attract more community camaraderie or something.”

 

“I’m excited personally. My mom says the leylines there are really strong. She spent time there when she was younger and says that it really shaped who she became and developed her abilities a lot. It’s been a hot spot for shifters for decades.”

 

“Satomi mentioned the area once. She had less than kind things to say about her stay there. But, she did mention the Nemeton there was really powerful. Not sure what to think of it. I could ask Peter and her for more information if you want. I think his family was stationed there for a while too.”

 

“That’d be great. What should we get?” Scott asks.

 

“I’m getting caviar?”

 

“Fish eggs? Gross.” Scott retches.

 

“You literally ate unfrosted Pop Tarts and oatmeal for breakfast for the entire duration of middle school. One time in fifth grade you ate a worm in science class just to gross out Erica Reyes. No one even dared you. You just did it. I don’t want to hear it.”

 

“I think I’ll have some too,” Kira says, all smiles.

 

***

 

It isn’t until his fifth straight restless night that Stiles hazards a guess as to why he isn’t sleeping. When he does, he kicks off his sheets and roams the apartment aimlessly. The suit which for some reason he’d displayed in the hall taunts him each time he passes it. Each time, the worrying impulse to take it down and open the airtight packaging reasserts itself in the far recesses of his mind.

 

The books on the counter don’t help. Even with how dissipated the smell is, with the faintest traces of Peter on them they tug at his mind and reinforce the impulse to grab for the suit. Their vanillin, and leather smells both carry just a hint of the oils of Peter’s hands. It makes him hotter under the collar than he’d prefer.

 

Anxiety simmering beneath his skin, Stiles breaches his contract with himself not to ask the question. He gives into the thought, letting it rise to the forefront.

 

Is it because I’m sleeping alone?

 

Immediately, the smell of the ocean, the party, and most importantly the smell of Peter sledgehammer his mind. The memories of their hour long dance alone once the party had cleared erupt. Those memories, still fresh, danced through his apartment, infecting it with links to his time there.

 

At three o’clock in the morning he finally manages to shut himself in the claustrophobic heat room that his apartment had come equipped with. The moment the doors’ closed he screams. When he shifts it shifts with him from a terrifying wail to a haunted, lonesome, loathsome, howl. That howl lasts until long after his human throat should have gone hoarse.

 

Tears all dried up, he hobbles, sleep addled, back to his room and passes out at five.

 

When he finally wakes, his mind is blunted, hateful of the late hour. He drains a water bottle and returns to bed. Sleep, merciful as it isn’t, takes him for another eight hours when he does.

 

When he wakes on Friday, he almost feels normal. Many calls and texts have piled up on his phone but only a few really matter. Only the ones from Peter and Satomi stick out.

 

Peter’s messages range. Wednesday night’s messages were light, curious but not overtly obvious in any form or concern. Simple things, like, “how are you coping with out me?” or “Isn’t it miserable having to feed yourself?” Cheeky but not necessarily anything that wasn’t possibly self-centered. Thursday as Stiles slumbered, they slowly graduated from jokes to confusion, then concern when the responses didn’t come. “Must be tired without my radiance, talk to you soon.” “Did I do something?” “Are you okay? Do I need to send someone to check in with you?”

 

Satomi’s message was different, sent just one hour ago. Her voicemail was cautious, but also had an edge to it. Requesting his presence wasn’t uncommon, even after his return; but this was phrased with concern. More importantly it lacked command.

 

So, he started with Peter. “Sorry I finally got around to sleeping. I’m fine. Thanks for the books. They’ve been enlightening. Don’t worry, I haven’t changed my mind.” He taps out.

 

Then he calls Satomi. She picks up swiftly. “Hello Stiles.”

 

“Hello Satomi. My apologies for any worries I’ve caused you. I was asleep. I haven’t been able to much recently.”

 

“That’s fine. Come over tomorrow evening to talk. I’d like to discuss this year’s events.”

 

“Of course,” he replied trying not to let himself sound too uncomfortable.

 

“I’ll make your favorite.”

 

“Taro rolls?”

 

“I’ll have them ready at four,” she says conspiratorially.

 

“That’ll spoil my appetite,” he says, grinning so wide it colors his voice.

 

“I couldn’t make that many if I tried.”

 

“I’ll be there at four fifteen.”

 

“See you then, boy.”

 

***

When Stiles arrives Satomi’s home smells of freshly made pastries. The smell of taro wafts all the way from the back of the large country estate style home. The familiar home nestled on the far edge of Sacramento’s suburbs as close to forested areas as she could. The walk to the kitchen is easy, he could do it with his eyes closed and nose pinched.

 

But he doesn’t need to do that. What he needs is to walk around these familiar halls taking in the pictures of him and his packmates. He sees the old photos of him and his parents before his mother got sick. The pictures of his packmates families. The entire space is filled with collages and trophies and other mementos of her pack’s flowering over the years. He draws strength from them, feeling a wash of the sense of returning home steady him.

 

When he sees her, images of her younger self fresh in his mind, it strikes him how much more grey hair she has now than when they’d met. Her reserved look, however, is the same. It makes his skin shift, discomfort at knowing what’s coming the way it always does when they must have a frank discussion. He can’t dodge this with a joke the way he can with his father or Scott.

 

Only the third of its kind, it feels like he’ll buckle under the weight of it. He’s worried that if he does, he’ll fall from the precarious edge he’s been teetering on all day. Knowing she sees it in his eyes and facial expressions only makes it worse, more inevitable. But as they close on each other, she provides him an offering, the luxury of being able to hide his face for a moment.

 

A hug.

 

Regardless, he has to show his face eventually. And when he does, he spills the cards fully, as his tears are seen and not just heard.

 

She smiles at him and wipes his face clean. “Fear not, you’ll soon come to know how to wade these waters.”

 

He hiccoughs out a laugh and purges out the self-pity and remaining composure. A faint hit of resolve pieces his normal determination back together enough for him to form words. “I’m not who I was. I didn’t want it. I still don’t. How could he change what I wrote in stone, what I worked so hard for.”

 

“Because dear, he showed you something new. We don’t change in the presence of the expected. It is the unexpected which transforms us.” She rubs the decades faded bite mark on her forearm and smiles. “Don’t lie to yourself, it just makes it worse. Even if you could go back, you’d be worse than you are now. I can see hope in there. It’s been a long time since that. Don’t sacrifice what he gave you to guard your heart. As with when you learned to control your shift; open yourself to it and become more of who you were always meant to be.”

 

“I don’t know who that it.”

 

“Find out.”

 

***

 

~A Month Later~

 

“Stiles just text him. It’s been weeks,” Scott’s bemoans over the phone. “It’s three a.m. calls like this should really go to your boyfriend.”

 

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

 

“You’re right. He’s your partner. And you NEVER stop texting him.”

 

“Okay, that’s an exaggeration,” Stiles rebuffs, incensed.

 

“The last time we hung out you spent half the night waiting on messages and the other half tapping out the responses. Theme parks suck a lot more when you’re effectively there solo.”

 

“How many times did you ditch me for Kira.”

 

“Never. Not once! Not while you were standing right there next to me at least.”

 

“Scott!” Stiles whines. “Help me.”

 

“I am helping you. Call him.” Scott cuts the call short.

 

“He’s not my partner either,” Stiles mumbles to his empty apartment.

 

He’s not not your boyfriend. A small voice in his mind replies unhelpfully.

 

“he’s not my boyfriend,” Stiles repeats trying to convince himself. But the lie is ineffectual. Still, he cannot press the dial button; he cannot sleep either.

 

It’s a terrible sign. Almost as bad as the horrible realization that the most recent shipment of books already smells less like Peter than himself.

 

Peter had handled the books himself, copying them, pressing them binding them. Stiles could smell the oils from his skin and scent of his breath on the pages when they’d first arrived. But now, they barely had a hint of Peter left on them. Instead, there’s a mix of their scent on the pages which is dominated by Stiles’ own scent. He hates how right it feels.

 

He doesn’t call. Instead, he finds a way to sleep that doesn’t include hearing Peter’s voice.

 

***

 

Peter thought sleeping with Stiles was difficult, but nothing he’d ever faced could compare in wretchedness to the task of sleeping without him. Sure, things have hurt worse. Sure, things have been more agonizing or more grievous. But nothing, in his life had ever left him feeling this pathetic.

 

He’d had foresight. He did all he could to prepare, but no amount of preparation could’ve fixed this. He sleeps in used sheets that reek of Stiles. They’re hardly a comfort.

 

Every day he dresses in the unwashed clothes Stiles wore during his stay. All they do for him now is chafe.

 

He listens to the same music they danced to on repeat, hoping to grasp onto those memories just a little longer. Yet, they still fade. The ghost of his touch is gone.

 

The world lacked a balm for this burn. No enhanced healing could stitch the husk of his heart that remained without the younger man back together. Yearning, an emotion he’d long though ta crux of lesser men had finally dug its teeth in his throat. And like a cub caught in the clutches of a much larger beast, he was powerless to fend off its vile grip.  

 

So, he fights it in little ways. Binding book after book steadies his hand. The hand which he then uses to transcribe page after page so he might steady his mind. He even deigns to ship them at the post office himself to get out of the house.

 

He designs outfit after outfit after outfit. Erica becomes a regular guest in his study with samples of new cloth every few days for him to consider. The actions never become and adequate substitute for Stiles’ tangible presence but it was all he had. He was a creature of habit. His new habit is the most treacherous of all his ill-reputed devices: desire.

 

He’d desired many things. Wealth, respect, admiration were all surmountable , but love and attention subjugated him. They brought him to his knees to worship at the altar of his phone. The moon never ruled his days and nights like this. Assuredly, not even Orpheus longed to see Eurydice this much. Achilles being parted from Patroclus at spear point must have been easier.

 

No other form of separation could be worse than waiting for that which is willfully withheld. Eight more months of agony were to come. How would his parched roots survive this drought.

 

***

It was odd, the shift he’d felt in his mind since returning home. Six months of chatting with Peter and his solitary life was decidedly lacking in conventional solitude. He started sleeping better again. But, when he couldn’t Peter was always at the forefront of his mind occupying that void that once laid beside him. It was an unshakable presence.

 

Every time he’d dare to think the urge to call or text Peter was gone, it would reassert itself in stupefying fashion. A grin in the mirror thinking how much Peter would like to see him in an outfit. A burst of tears during a rom com. An announcement about the Alpha council’s continued deadlock over Scott’s referendum sending him into a frenzy.

 

Worst of all the heart sickening strain of receiving a new shipment from Peter direct from his hands. Each was like a series of repetitive splinters catching themselves in his finger ad infinitum. His body couldn’t quite keep them out.

 

But the intrusions got easier to live with. A callous developed around them so he could grip the emotions without fear. Save an errant scrape which would cause them to sting once more and make the world entirely intolerable.

 

In a sense Peter built himself a very real place in Stiles’ life without ever touching him directly. It was one Stiles would not have predicted some six months earlier.

 

That place asserted itself in the form of an avatar constructed of hand written tomes made for Stiles and Stiles alone. Stiles, being the bibliophile he was, just can’t bring himself to begrudge Peter for it. And he couldn’t begrudge himself for not either. He wants to but that contempt is just missing.

 

***

 

Another month in and Peter’s on the ropes worse than he’d ever thought possible. Last week he finally broke. He gave into the temporary fixes. It started with the club. Erica asked him to come out, which was code for ‘you look terrible and if you ask me for another swath of samples I’ll kill you myself.’ In the interest of his own dying vanity, he obliged.

 

Shaving his beard, grooming his hair into a careful coif that flopped just enough to make himself look approachable was almost satisfying. Adding in an outfit that made him look more decadent than sin helped as well. For the first time in six weeks, he left his home. He didn’t even hate himself for it.

 

When he returned home with some young beta who evidently worked hard enough on his body to make Heracles jealous; Peter even felt a spot of pride. It lasted the entire ride home and promptly ended upon the man’s leaving.

 

It didn’t slake his thirst for the unattainable thing which was absent. So, he made a habit of taking these mouth drying gulps. Every night he found a beauty beyond compare, used them until his body lost interest, and then slept off the guilt so he could start the process anew.

 

Tonight is no different.

 

The prowl had brought him to the opposite side of Corona Del Ray. A woman with a lithe body, long brown hair, honey brown eyes, and fair skin is already in his sights. She’s thirty one maybe thirty two by his estimates and her desire for a good time is evident.

 

She’s with her friends but her posture indicates she wants to be anything but. So, he requests a song and waits. When it starts, he strides over to her table.

 

“Pardon me.” He flashes his best smile. “May I have this dance?”

 

When she looks up at him her obvious intention to rebuff him washes clean off her face, giving way to surprise. Then it shifted forward to interest. She smiles and looks away. “Hey Marcy, I’ll be back later.” She offers him her hand.

 

They float to the dance floor together. Her hand is soft and Peter wants to want her. In service of that desire, he begins their dance.

 

She’s good, matching each of his moves. The song is quick and somehow they manage a very constrained fox trot while they chat.

 

“I’m Ari.”

 

“I’m Peter.”

 

“I know.”

 

“You know?”

 

“Yeah, I’ve seen you around before. Plus, there was the coverage from heat week.”

 

“Of course,” Peter pretends to be embarrassed. “You saw that?”

 

“You’re a good dancer.”

 

“You are as well.”

 

“I’d hope so, I’ve been teaching dance for six years.” She smiles and increases the complexity of her moves.

 

“Impressive. My stint only lasted a few days.”

 

“You taught dance?” She chuckles in disbelief.

 

“It was a private affair.”

 

A new song starts, shifting them into something of a waltz as the tempo decreases.

 

“I’d like to see what that’s like.”

 

“I’d love to show you,” Peter says, a smile breaking only to be cut short by his phone ringing. Stiles’ specific ring tone unleashes itself into the room, masked by the sound of the music in the club, but still oppressive to his ears. Peter grimaces. “I’m sorry. I have to take this.”

 

“Oh, alright.” She frowns, mirroring his dismay. “Find me again later?”

 

“I’d certainly hope so.” For a moment, he contemplates kissing her hand. Ultimately, he walks away without doing so. He makes his way to the open-air patio and picks up the call.

 

“Peter?” Stiles’ asks plaintively, anxiety and exhaustion running through his voice.

 

“Stiles,” Peter replies, already hating himself for his expedient supplication to the younger man’s needs.

 

“I…”

 

“Stiles? What’s going on?”

 

“I… Erhm… Why…” Stiles starts slowly. “Why do you always respond so quickly?”

 

“What?”

 

“You always respond to me immediately. When I call or text… hell even email. It’s only like a moment before you respond.” Stiles’ voice inquests in search of an answer he already has, breathlessly and without giving the words space to breathe into discrete entities. “Even Scott, who’s like my best friend, doesn’t respond that quickly. And we don’t talk every day.”

 

“I think you know.”

 

Stiles goes silent. Peter can practically hear Stiles calculating his next words over the phone. He can imagine the licking of Stiles’ lips that accompanies his deep thought. But, when it comes, the question isn’t the one he expects.

 

“Why did you stop? This week. Why did you stop?”

 

The audacity of it runs through him like bleach. It burns his every neuron. The heat of it appalls Peter. Here he is, disrupting his night after months of fickle disruption and apologizing and pining, and Stiles dares to ask him why he stopped his world for him. Not only that he had the gall to ask why Peter restarted it. It makes his blood boil.

 

“Because Stiles, you’ve yet to accept reality,” He bites the words out one at a time. “You push me to confess to you, to reassure you of my feelings without ever acknowledging your own. You won’t give me what I need. So, I must take what I want. It isn’t enough.  But at least, it’s something.”

 

“Right. Of course. Sorry. Good night, Peter.”

 

Peter wants to cry with rage. He can smell Stiles’ shame from here on the patio, hundreds of miles separated. He hates it. Hates himself. Hates the words. Hates it all.

 

All he wants is to mask the frustration, go back indoors, and continue his evening. But he cannot. So, he heads inside and walks over to Ari. “My apologies. I have to go,” he tells her. “Maybe another time.”

 

“Maybe next time. My friends and I come here most weekends.”

 

“Have a good evening.”

 

“You too.” Peter retreats from the table, but he can hear their whispers of confusion as he walks off. He slides a hand over his face in frustration and makes for his car. A lonely night awaits, but its all he can bear to believe he deserves. Like a ghoul, he returns home and haunts the halls of his seaside mansion. He has a terrible night and the next several are even worse.

 

***

 

A week later and they still haven’t spoken. Stiles can’t say he’s surprised. Why should he be? At every turn, he’s made their lives more difficult. Still, the silence is hard. It’s worse now that Scott is at the summit for this quarter and is unavailable what feels like all the time. Stiles feels like he’s losing track of time along with his mind.

 

Scott’s been locked in debate or back room chats since Tuesday and is only free just before bed. He normal opts to call Kira instead of Stiles.

 

Peter is there too. Scott has said that much, but apparently Peter hasn’t been saying much which is a marked change which has been making Scott’s job harder. Peter clearly isn’t going to break his silence and Stiles can’t bear to put himself up to the assured rejection he’ll receive if he does.

 

***

 

Another two and a half months, and its already February. The last two months have been difficult. The overwhelming urge to call Peter accosts him at all times of the day. He’s taking up more of Scott’s time than he has since high school. But that’s coming to an end tomorrow with the final session of the inter pack council coming tomorrow.

 

Scott’s been tense all week. He’s worried about the session and how it’s the last one before this years’ choosing. Still, he keeps trying to inject his usual optimism into their conversations, assuring Stiles that he’ll make headway on the referendum.

 

Stiles doesn’t know how to help any more than he already has. He’s fed Stiles answers to just about everything that he can bear to have people hear happened to him. He’s gone to endless meetings for formerly chosen omegas to collect theirs. He’s aided in research on omega biology, tendencies, and mental health condition diagnoses pre vs post first choosing. He’s offered argument after argument.

 

But nothing has put Scott at ease. There’s no confidence in his best friend’s eyes.

 

Satomi hasn’t been any more of a source of confidence for him either. But, Stiles is still gripping onto some hope that somehow, someway, things will turn out.

 

***

Trying endlessly to convince others to do the right thing has been oppressive for Scott. It’s harder still knowing that Stiles’ fate and the possibility of another year of Stiles being traumatized is on his shoulders, potentially more.

 

If that wasn’t enough, there were the countless omegas worldwide he had to protect too. They were subject to the rulings of the council. The votes are too close. A fifty-fifty split for all of those who are willing to vote. Many still won’t cast a vote for fear of the damage some alphas on his opposition’s side will do to them.

 

This is something that swaying them away from is harder now. Peter’s voice has fallen silent in the talks. He votes the same and nods along, but the steady calculating and mildly threatening tone of his voice make their case stronger. The dagger of his strength isn’t at their throats so they speak more candidly, more dismissively, more threateningly in debates.

 

Interest is waning in the eyes of his allies as well as those who he was targeting. Peter’s guised threats no longer bolstered their resolve or willingness to be swayed to his side. He was losing the fight for this year. The twins help, many fear their combined strength. Satomi’s argument about the barbarism of proceedings and how it makes their community helps to bring some over as well, but just as many alphas show up for the other side casting offending vote in a state of obvious fear. She points out how the increase in the number of omegas causing issues at press conferences in recent years has led to several press scandals that were nightmares to handle. But, most of the rational and kind hearted votes had already been cast.

 

He needs shot in the arm to get them over the hurdle.

 

More power lies in the hands of the silent than he wants to admit. He hates it. He resents Peter for the power he held so effortlessly.

 

So, he storms into Peter’s private quarters after they recess for the day. Contempt boiling in his throat, Scott erupts upon the other man. “Why are you silent in there? We need you! You’re the only alpha in our coalition able to unsettle the alphas frozen in place by our opposition. That pack of bullies couldn’t keep others in an arrested state of indecision if you were to just speak.”

 

“Careful boy, your toothless display may work on others but not me,” Peter says, not even moving the eye mask from his face or shifting position on the couch.

 

“Peter, you could end this today. Are you really this mad at Stiles? You’d stoop this low to harm him? You’re pathetic,” Scott spits.

 

“I have no intention of harming him. He’s the one twisting me around barbed crucifixes.” Peter waves him off. “Moreover, his fate is secured. Regardless of anything that happens here, he’ll be safe. Nothing I do here poses to benefit him or endanger him in any way.”

 

“What on Earth does that mean? If we don’t get this passed, he’ll have to go through another heat week selection.”

 

“Has he not told you?” Peter sits up, removes the mask, and grins. “Last heat week he agreed to return to me for heat week. He signed a contract and everything. I put the request in to the druid council the same day he left. They checked with him if I was telling the truth and then approved it not a week later. He’ll be put in the front of the crowd, protected. We’ll leave not five minutes after the crowd has fully formed and the ceremonial introductions have finished. No one will harm him come April.”

 

“What?”

 

Ask Deaton if you don’t believe me. I don’t have the energy for this; so if you don’t mind, I’d like to be alone.” Peter lays back down and covers his face.

 

Scott huffs, feeling like his strings have been cut. He stands there for a moment, stupefied. When his anger finally abates and his confusion clears, he smells it. There’s an overwhelming amount of melancholy permeating the room. The entire room is cloaked in a renewing mist of miserable chemo-signals that align with severe depression, anxiety, anger, and sustained high levels of cortisol. “My apologies,” he says tersely and leaves.

 

The session closes with no further movement on either side.

 

***

 

Scott finds Stiles in his bedroom immobilized under the covers. “Why didn’t you tell me you agreed to return to Peter’s this year? You let me think you were in danger. Do you know how terrified I was that I was going to put you in harm’s way? My hair nearly went white in frustration during those meetings.”

 

Stiles, less than pleased to be barked at in his bedraggled state, groans and wraps himself deeper in the blanket cocoon.

 

“Stiles! Get up!” Scott shouts and rips the blankets off him only to be assailed by an amplified version of the negativity that’s choking the entire apartment. “What is going on with you two? I thought it was about next heat week before I left but it’s something else, isn’t it?

 

Stiles!”

 

Receiving no response, Scott goes to the windows and flings them open one at a time until the room is flooded with the mid-day light and an ample breeze to help whisk away the misery. A cool late winter breeze flushed the air.

 

When he turns back to face him, Stiles has covered his face with a pillow.

 

“Nope. Come on. Get up.” Scott pulls it off him and then wrenches him into the air, over his shoulder, and carries him into the kitchen despite Stiles’s rag dolling of his own body in protest. He sets Stiles on a chair. “Tell me everything, now.”

 

“Scott…” Stiles whines and rest his face on the counter.

 

“Have you even eaten today? I know you have stuff. I sent Cindy on Thursday.”

 

“Ugh.”

 

“What do you want?”

 

“I dunno. Omelet.”

 

“Ham or sausage?”

 

“Ham.”

 

“Fine. While I’m making it you’re going to explain everything to me.”

 

“Scott. No.”

 

“Stiles, you owe me an explanation.”

 

“Too early.” Stiles stomps on Scott’s foot in retaliation for the manhandling.

 

“It’s three p.m.”

 

“It’s too middle of the day for emotional confessions.”

 

“I have plenty of time to wait.” Scott cracks an egg into the pan.

 

Eventually, the scent of eggs, ham, cheese, and vegetables brings Stiles’ head to attention. A plate slides into his hands and he gives Scott a grateful look.

 

Scott nods and starts on his own. “So?”

 

“Where do I start?”

 

“Probably with your agreement to go back and your failure to tell me about it.”

 

“Fine but its involved.”

 

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

 

“Get ready,” Stiles says and begins on an often-interrupted retelling of just how tolerable Peter was and how even though it started out as a game of wills their contest ended up very serious.

 

“So, you won and yet you told him you’d return anyway?” Scott asks incredulously.

 

“I don’t know if either of us won or lost at this point. We both got what we want, so we won. But with how I’m feeling now I’m pretty sure I lost.”

 

“He’s miserable right now too.”

 

“Then we both lost.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because that means we like each other.”

 

“And that’s a bad thing?”

 

“Scott. I hate people touching me.”

 

“Do you hate him touching you?”

 

“Yes! No? It’s complicated. When he touches me; I’m elated and revolted simultaneously. My body loves it, but my brain hates it. The moment his hand touched mine I’d turn into a roiling ball of fire. And he smells so good. But I don’t want that, at least I don’t want to want it.”

 

“Sounds like a mate worht having to me.”

 

“No Scott. You don’t understand. He’s like heroin. By the third day, his scent was heavenly. But I knew he’d be a problem sooner. For a moment, my brain turned off when he was touching me and I kissed him. Then I just leapt of him, shifted, and ran.”

 

“You mean like fully wolfed out?”

 

“All fours,” Stiles can feel his cheeks heat and he looks just about anywhere but Scott’s face.

 

“What did he do?” Scott asks carefully.

 

“He shifted into a massive beast and pursued me. It was horrifying.”

 

“Did he?”

“No. Thankfully. He stopped when I shifted back and screamed for him to start. But I knew better. Shifting like that and running, it was as good as consent. He would’ve been fully within his rights to keep going.”

 

“That takes a lot of control. More than I think I’d have had.”

 

“I know,” Stiles says miserably.

 

“Then why is that a bad thing?”

 

“Because we bonded. Like its actually real.”

 

“You mean you’re why he was sulking all session.”

 

Stiles launches himself to the couch and plunges face first into the nearest pillow.

 

“Stiles, act like an adult for one minute.

 

“I’m not enough for him. I can’t give him what he needs.”

 

“So instead of talking it out you’re going to destroy everything you could have instead?”

 

“That’s not fair,” He shouts, muffled by the pillow.

 

“If you don’t try for something, you’ll never have anything.”

 

“Deserves more.”

 

“Is that what he said? Or is it what your self-contempt is whispering in your ear?”

 

Stiles buries himself further in cushions.

 

Scott sits next to him. “Either way, you’ll have a few weeks to figure out. Try not to hate yourself in the meantime.

 

I’ll be back Friday. Eat. Or else.”

 

Stiles shrugs and Scott gets up.

 

“I love you.”

 

“I love you too.”

 

***

 

Tomorrow is his birthday and his final present from Peter is here in his hotel room. A ruby red box wrapped tight with a bow and a large tag that holds both of their names on it resides safely on the dresser. The man himself is only a few miles away. Heat week’s selection day is tomorrow, just another perfect day. He gets to spend the night before it barely holding off the instinct to elope from the building and follow his nose to Peter’s home. It’s causing him problems that the betas outside his room have no doubt heard and smelled by now.

 

Inside the box is his outfit for tomorrow, obviously. That’s what the carrier said, but he would’ve known either way. Stiles cannot bear to look at it. Just beneath Peter’s scent is the smell of the beach and the cool water’s he’ll no doubt seek out many times during his stay.

 

At four p.pm. he puts in a request for sedation. It’s a normal pre-selection ritual for him at this point, but it comes earlier than normal. Morell comes in with a pitying look and not long after his world shutters for the remainder of his waiting hours.

 

Stiles wakes just before breakfast is scheduled to be delivered. He doesn’t know why but he thought he’d feel better with some sleep, though it’s never helped before. But when he wakes, just as before hunger isn’t the only thing eating a hole in his stomach.

 

His nerves are frying him alive from the inside, turning his organs into some sort of gelatinous acid. Every inaction hurts as much as the last. Each action punishes him even more. He’s paralyzed by the agony of what lies inside that ruby red box.

 

It persists until a guard knocks on his door and issues him a thirty-minute warning. The only thing he fears more than facing Peter and the masses he’s headed for, is disappointing him more than he already has. As such, he stands and agitates the package.

 

The package, merciful tormentor that it is, opens easily. From the box’s center emerges a lovely peach wrapping, one last veil to pierce. This one bears enough of Peter’s scent to evoke a memory of their first kiss. He pulls off the paper as unceremoniously as his dismounting kick to Peter’s stomach.

 

Within it is an outfit he couldn’t have guessed if he had had a decade. It’s fit improves with each piece he dons.

 

The first of these is a beautiful semi-sheer onyx dress shirt with a preacher collar. The buttons are made of jade and stop just below his collar bone. Somehow, Peter’s managed to starch it so it isn’t flimsy despite its sinfully thin material.

 

 The next is an emerald jacket affixed with obsidian cuff links. The design of it has silvery threads to give the saturated green an immense shimmer. The matching pants are tight, almost too tight. But they’re able to give him just enough room for comfort in the front.

 

He adorns them with a silver snakeskin belt.

 

The shoes are something to behold. They’re jet black with glistening jewels encrusted into silver settings which pontify the designs stitched into the leather. Even here in the poor lighting of the hotel, they sparkle with unparalleled beauty.

 

When it’s all assembled, he nearly cries at how beautiful it all looks on him. But he hasn’t the time. He must leave soon and if he gets distracted, he’ll never manage to get his hair smoothed into something presentable. If he doesn’t, the suit will wear him. So he has to fix it, if only to keep from letting Peter down.

 

When they come for him, he’s already shoved his clothes from last night into a bag and sealed his luggage. He’s ready for transport early for the first time in a decade.

 

Arriving and being placed in the front row all by himself is a novelty. He can feel the cameras focus on him. He can hear the news casters commenting on his return and how they’ve heard from the council that he’s going to be going with Peter again. Their speculation beyond that makes him mad, but he has to keep himself from digging his claws into his palms. He cannot mar his outfit, not after remaining silent for the last three months. It’s imperative that he looks perfect.

 

In a few minutes, he knows something’s off. He can smell it. People are upset behind the entrance area for the alphas and druids. It’s the kind of irritation that spreads itself to the omegas behind him and makes them all restless.

 

The alarm signaling the beginning of the procession charms and the crowd hushes. The press area quiets to a whisper. But, no one comes on stage, not at first.

 

After several minutes of hushed arguing, the visiting alphas and residing druids come on stage. They’re all ruffled about it and Peter isn’t in the line-up. They seat themselves, only three this year. Then the announcement begins.

 

“Welcome all to Corona del Ray. This is the home of Peter Hale’s pack, hosting for the second year in a row. Please a round of applause,” Morrel says, clearly trying to maintain composure as she gestures to their entrance.

 

The applause starts raucously and ends immediately at the appearance of the man himself. The man who is clad so brazenly that had Stiles not been warned by his nose, he surely would’ve been stunned just as the entire assembly is.

 

But, fortune favored him. Stiles isn’t surprised because some number of minutes earlier he placed the odd scent of himself, stale, and aged on clothes he was not wearing mixing with Peter’s from somewhere out of view. It clogged his nose once he figured it out. It had been so long since that he forgot that he was the only one left standing when Peter came into view.

 

To his abject horror and devious pride, Peter emerges in his selection outfit from last year. He’s astride in the heinous rumpled grey sweat pants and sweat, heat-scent soaked T-shirt. They look almost starched, even here off stage.

 

He can tell how slack jawed everyone else was. If it weren’t for that he’d be unmanageably angry. But the schadenfreude of hearing everyone else’s response keeps that anger at a low simmer.

 

In the end he balks a laugh.

 

Peter hasn’t even gotten to the podium and already Stiles is pushing past the astonished security onto the stage. They pose little difficulty for him. They’re all just as distracted by the spectacle and he’s a few pounds lighter than he is most times of the year, so slipping by is easy.

 

By the time the notice him and go to stop him it’s too late. Peter is at the stand and is making pointless platitudes all while staring Stiles in the eyes with a devilish grin. He shifts gears seamlessly when Stiles joins him at the podium.

 

“As you can all see, we’re in for a very interesting year in Corona Del Ray. My partner, Stiles, is quite eager this year, which is a stark contrast to last year’s heat week. I must have made a good impression. Maybe he was in fact telling the truth at our party last year.”

 

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, big boy.” Stiles pushes himself into Peter’s space to get at the microphone.

 

“Stiles, lovely to see you. How’s the outfit I designed? Comfortable, I hope.”

 

“You tell me. Is it show stopping.”

 

Peter touches the fabric lightly without ever touching Stiles himself, holding his gaze into Stiles’ eyes. He asks implicitly for permission.

 

Stiles returns the intensity giving permission by not reacting.

 

“Quite. It even made you bold enough to take the stand of your own accord. You do know the alpha usually does the choosing at these things,” he jokes.

 

“I’m contractually obligated to be here,” Stiles jokes back.

 

“This is true, but they didn’t need to know that.” Peter laughs. “Would you like to inform our audience about that detail further?”

 

“I think I would.” Stiles grins mischievously. “Last year at the beginning of my stay I agreed that if I said a certain statement, I would return to you this year and I did. You see Peter, last year you offered me something no alpha before you ever had.”

 

“And what’s that?”

 

“A choice.” Stiles looks out at the crowd as he says it. “And I look forward to continuing to make choices. Every year possibly.”

 

“My word,” Peter fakes a gasp. “Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”

 

“I am Peter.” Stiles looks Peter in the eyes once more. “I challenge you to a rematch. Same rules, same consequences.” Stiles produces a typed version of the contract they ended with last year.

 

“I’m not sure, losing last year was expensive and time consuming. What’s in it for me?”

 

“As always. Me. The one prize no other alpha has ever had a chance at obtaining. For the years to come. I offer myself. However, the implementation is different from this year on.”

 

“I’m still on the fence I must confess. Please elaborate.” Peter offers Stiles his hand.

 

Stiles takes it. “If you win. I’m yours forever, not just for the season.”

 

“I do like the sound of that. Even if it is the same as last year.”

 

“Well, that’s because you haven’t heard the rest of it.” Stiles turns to the crowd. “If I win, I get to stay with you next heat week and the one after ad infinitum until one of us no longer wishes to continue our game. Each year, we will stand here and announce if our game will resume.”

 

“This would make us the reason for the season.”

 

“I do know how you love to be the center of attention.”

 

“I do. It sounds like either way I win.”

 

“I was thinking you might see it my way. Because I win either way as well. Better yet, the council always loses.

 

Peter smiles wickedly and turns to the cameras. “I accept.”

 

“I look forward to seeing you this time next year.”

 

“Same time, same place?”

 

“It’s a promise.”

 

The pair steps off stage to an overwhelming applause from the sea of omegas attending the ceremony in the center of the open-air arena.

 

As they pull away in the car, they can see Morrell smiling in agony on the large screens.

 

“Peter.”

 

“Yes?” he asks innocently.

 

“Change. Now.”

Notes:

I hope that his nearly 9k chapter was worth the wait.
XOXO signing off this fic for the last time:
Iru_Naru

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