
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/11677569.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Peter_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Peter_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      BDSM, Bondage, love_spells, Consensual_Love_Spell, Subspace, Safeword
      Use, Flogging, Flogging_as_penance, Dom_Drop, Dom_Peter_Hale, Sub_Stiles
      Stilinski, Fire_phobia, Fire_related_trauma, Post-Nogitsune_Stiles
      Stilinski, 3b_compliant, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Dysfunctional_Relationship,
      Eventual_Happy_Ending, Additional_Warnings_In_Author's_Note
  Series:
      Part 1 of Songs_of_Faith_and_Devotion
  Collections:
      The_Steter_Network
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-08-01 Completed: 2017-09-21 Chapters: 2/2 Words: 15418
****** The Love Thieves ******
by Malapropian
Summary
     "Love is not a bandage for dirty sores."
     But that doesn't mean they won't try their hardest to make it so.
     Unable to leave the guilt of his possession behind him, Stiles
     finally agrees to try Peter's unorthodox suggestion.
Notes
     I accidentally deleted this earlier today. This fic was complete. It
     was originally written and posted in May 2015 as a response to an
     informal Depeche Mode challenge by Neoladyapollonia. As far as I
     know, I'm the only one who wrote something for it. As it was for a
     Depeche Mode challenge, this was heavily inspired by The Love Thieves
     and In Your Room.
     The original title art by FckyeahSteter has been replaced by Pibroch
     since it still had my old pseud on it. I'm still thankful to Bones
     for editing this for me. It was the first time we worked on a fic
     together, and I remember it fondly.
     I don't recall if I ever specifically thanked TriDom and
     Alternativename for all of their feedback when I wrote this, but this
     wouldn't have been the story it is without them.
     I've changed the summary and made some edits to the story. The edits
     are nothing huge, but I did smooth out a few spots and fixed some
     contradictory bits.
      
     Extra warnings and tag explanations are in the end notes.
***** Chapter 1 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
                              [coverart Pibroch]
“You should reconsider accepting my offer, Stiles. You look terrible.”
“Whatever, asshole. I’ve gone this long without taking you up on any of your
creepy little offers. Just quit acting like you actually give a fuck.”
“Ahh, you wound me, Stiles... but what if I did? What if you could know that I
only have your best interests at heart?”
“Then I’d wonder if you were possessed for once. We can all take a turn. It’ll
be fun for the whole pack!”
“Why don’t you meet me at this address tomorrow, and I’ll show you what I
mean.”
“It won’t matter. I’m still not gonna say yes.”
“Oh, Stiles. Haven’t you learned by now that it’s useless to lie to me?”
===============================================================================
Stiles kneels quietly on his cushion, resting his head on Peter’s knee. Out of
long practice, he’s unbothered by his nakedness or the way his arms are tied
behind him, the rope looping through the buckles on his ankle restraints.
Though he’s blindfolded and immobilized—breathtaking in his
vulnerability—according to his body language, he’s completely relaxed in the
presence of the man he once helped to murder. None of that is his concern right
now.
All according to Peter’s plan. It’s only been a month since they started, but
Peter’s learned that nothing seems to clear Stiles’ mind as quickly as being
bound and forced into stillness.
Peter reclines in an armchair, running his hands through Stiles’ soft, dark
hair and indulging in the scent of warm contentment rising between them like
the smell of freshly baked bread. He enjoys the aesthetic of pale flesh and
bone kneeling before him—bare except for the collar and ropes Peter put there
himself—but it’s so much more than that. Deep in subspace, Stiles is lovely.
His wholehearted submission retains an edge of innocence; despite the
Nogitsune’s actions, Stiles is still good, still worthy to love and be loved.
For a few hours at a time, Peter can even help Stiles believe it.
“Stiles,” Peter murmurs. “It’s almost time. Would you like to keep going?”
“Hmm?”
“Sit up straight, and look at me, darling.”
“Don’t wanna,” Stiles slurs against the denim covering Peter’s knee. “A li’l
longer, Sir. S’nice here. Like it.”
Peter frowns at how far out he’s allowed Stiles to float. A foolish mistake,
but he can’t deny his own pleasure seeing Stiles sink so deeply into subspace.
Seeing the evidence of their mutual love and trust is nearly enough to take his
breath away. “No, darling. You’ve been on your knees too long. We don’t have to
stop, but let’s get you on the bed. I promise you’ll like that just as much if
not better.”
He keeps on petting Stiles while the boy processes the information, looking for
a trick. Finally, he agrees in a sulky (adorable) voice, “‘kay. But you hafta
carry me. My legs don’t work.”
“See,” Peter teases. “Aren’t you glad I thought to give your knees a rest?” He
makes short work of the knots and buckles but leaves the collar in place.
Stiles claims that it’s comfortable enough for 24/7 wear, and he always reacts
poorly to its removal—nevermind when he’s in this deep. Only after running
careful fingers over each limb and checking the flexibility of each joint does
he gather Stiles up in his arms.
“Mmhmm.” Stiles drags his face over Peter’s shoulder as though he’s actually a
gangly, human-shaped cat who’s happy just to rub his scent all over his owner.
“Hey, Peter,” he giggles drunkenly. “Take me t’bed or lose me forever!”
Peter hides a smile; his boy reeks of love and contentment. It’s infectious.
“Well, we can’t have that can we?” He lays down his burden, taking the utmost
care, and holds Stiles’ hands in his. He presses kisses to each blue-veined
wrist as Stiles settles under the fluffy duvet and feels his heart swell with
conflicting emotions. “And what should I do with such a demanding little brat
now that he’s in my bed?”
“Hmm....” His ridiculous, long lashes flutter as he pretends to think, drawing
out the moment. A shadow seems to pass over Stiles’ face, but his usual saucy
grin chases it away. “You should sit with me.” He lowers his eyelids in a
blatant attempt to be coy.
“And what…” Peter breathes in between sucking kisses down the vulnerable,
speckled skin of Stiles’ forearms, “should I do now that I’m here?”
The boy smirks up at him, posing like a king on his throne—a throne that Peter
willingly offers to him. “And then….” He stops to brush his mouth against
Peter’s, but a few short kisses turn into several while his tongue twines
filthily around Peter’s in a way that reminds him of everything else Stiles can
do with his wicked tongue.
They’re both breathless and panting when they break away from each other.
Stiles ruts against the heavy body blanketing him, shameless in his desire;
Peter is ready to make Stiles forget his plan, forget that they have a time
limit. But the boy turns his face away and stills beneath him. He starts to
detect the faintest scent of anxiety, and that simply won’t do. Stiles comes
here to have a few brief hours of freedom from guilt, from stress, from worry.
Peter levers himself up and away from the greedy hip thrusts and ignores the
resulting whine. He concentrates on Stiles’ steadying heart rate and the
receding scent of anxiety. When Stiles is docile and content once more, he
rolls to the side and cuddles him, grabbing for the bottles of water ready on
the nightstand.
After guzzling down a bottle and a half, Stiles looks more alert, perky even.
“So,” he chirps, “my plan.” He pauses to lend an air of false drama. “We’ve got
a few hours left tonight, if we want them. We should order in. Watch a movie.
It’ll be fun.”
Peter raises a brow in suspicion. “Oh? Which movie would you like, darling?”
Strident, off-key, and with no regard to the neighbors, Stiles wails, “You’ve
lost that loving feeling! Wo-ohh! That lovin' feeling. You’ve lost that loving
feeling now it’s gone, gone, gone. Wo-oh-oh-oh-oh.”
“Brat,” Peter mutters, but the fondness in his tone is unmistakable, judging by
Stiles’ unrepentant giggle-snort. “If you’re making us watch Top Gun, then I
deserve sushi.”
“You wouldn’t have me any other way.”
Peter turns away sharply, fingering the wooden heart in his pocket. “No. No I
really wouldn’t.”
===============================================================================
“So I came. Whatever. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Of course not, Stiles. By all means, keep lying to yourself.”
“I’m not. It’s not like that. Stop twisting my words around!”
“But you make it so easy.”
“Whatever, Peter. Stop wasting my time, and show me whatever you have to show
me. Or were you lying about having something?”
“Oh, no. I have no need to lie.”
“Yeah, you just do it for fun!”
“When have I ever lied to you, Stiles? Now try to put aside your bias and look
here.”
“What. The. Fuck. Are you serious? Do you even? This would mean…. You’re
insane. Just no, Peter.”
“Are you saying you wouldn’t trust me then?”
“No! Maybe. I don’t... I can’t... I... I have to go now.”
===============================================================================
Discreet acquisition and delivery of the crux decussata proves to be almost
more trouble than it’s worth, but the stutter and acceleration of Stiles’ heart
when he sees it goes a long way towards making up for the annoyance. Now, he
prowls around the gloriously naked boy bound to the crux, his fair skin nearly
glowing red from a bare-handed spanking. So much beautiful flesh to ruin, and
it’s all Peter’s. Stiles whimpers and cries from behind the gag, tears running
unfettered down his face, but Peter goes still. He stands behind Stiles and
waits. At the lengthy pause, Stiles flashes their hand sign for “all well”,
sobbing all the while. It had been too optimistic for Peter to believe that
Stiles would be satisfied so soon. It’s clear that tonight the screams of the
dead are too loud to bear. Stiles needs the pain so he can feel the cleansing
fire of atonement for his sins, real and imagined.
Which Peter will give to him. He can deny the boy nothing—not even this.
“I’ll even give you a choice, sweetheart.” He turns to the cloth-covered table,
flipping the fabric back to reveal one implement at a time. Never let anyone
say that Peter Hale doesn’t understand the value of showmanship. “Do you want
me to raise welts all over your pretty back, or maybe some lovely bruises that
you’ll need to hide?”
Stiles shakes his head. He holds up one finger, and shakes his head. He holds
up two, and shakes his head again. He holds up three fingers, nods, and makes
the “all well” sign.
Peter takes a moment to run that through his Concise Stiles-to-English
Dictionary. “You want both?” Stiles signals his agreement once more, and Peter
inclines his head. “But first….” He picks up the black and purple elk leather
flogger that he almost always chooses for a warm-up. Peter shakes out the falls
and takes a few experimental swings as he gets into position behind Stiles. The
sound of his preparation is almost as important to Stiles’ mindset as the
actual impact.
While he doesn’t rush through the warm-up by any stretch of the imagination,
neither does he linger. On a different day, this could have been the main
event, but Stiles had arrived here snappish and jittery, eyes bright with the
incipient threat of tears. He’s only this calm due to the brief spanking he’s
already received. Peter knows that Stiles wants to bleed for his
transgressions, but that is a thing he won’t permit again. Not like this. Not
today.
As he replaces the elk flogger on the table, he wonders if he should bring it
out—a glance at Stiles tells him yes. Sighing, he eyes the newest flogger that
Stiles had begged for. Smooth black and gunmetal leather wrap around the handle
in a herringbone pattern, but the falls are a mixture of ¾ inch bison and brass
chain coated to match the leather. The chain falls are cut shorter than the
leather by an inch to decrease the chance of drawing blood. It’s a mean piece
of gear; but if that’s what Stiles needs, then that’s what he’ll get.
Besides, it’s not as though he won’t gain anything from the experience. Peter
moves towards Stiles and loosens the closure on the back of the ball-gag before
laying it aside. “Do you need anything before we begin? Water? A break?”
Stiles shakes his head while he opens and closes his mouth several times. After
cracking his jaw, he sighs in relief. “No, Sir. I’m ready. Everything’s green.”
“All right. You know what to expect. We’ll do sets of ten. I won’t stop until I
think you’ve had enough or you safeword.”
The boy grins back at him, empty and mocking. “Like I’d safeword over something
like this.” Peter hears: I deserve all this and more.
He purses his lips at the unspoken message, but he puts aside his misgivings,
picks up the flogger, and begins. Better that Stiles come to him for this than
he find a more dangerous outlet for his feelings. Standing straight and proud,
Peter plants his feet and lets his arm drop into the first strike using no more
force than normal gravity. Though Stiles prefers his penance fast and harsh
with no time to adjust to the blows, Peter opens the set with light strokes.
Stiles has no experience with metal falls, and no matter how profound a
masochist he is, there’s still the chance it might easily overwhelm his human
senses.
They move easily through the first set, and he performs a quick, visual check
of Stiles’ back. No broken skin, and the pale, red marks marring white skin are
the type that will soon transform into vivid blossoms: a riot of violet-purple
and maroon scored over with thin lines. Stiles always bruises like a sadist’s
wet dream, but Peter’s not much of a sadist. Not with this broken boy he loves
so dearly. Still, there’s a sort of compassion in meting out the punishment
Stiles craves. Even his cruelty can be another method of showing his devotion.
It’s time for the next set. “Why are we doing this, Stiles?”
He writhes against the crux, crossed beams and friction bruising his front, as
Peter approaches the sting and thud Stiles wants. His head drops down into the
vee, air whistling out through his teeth until he can gather the composure to
gasp out, “Because it was my fault.”
Peter’s body is still and steady but for his arm. He swings a fraction faster,
harder. It’s nowhere near his full strength, even if he were only a human.
“Do you think this will make it better? That it’s enough to make up for what
happened?”
“No,” Stiles moans. “But I need to. I have to try. Please, Sir. More. I need
more.”
“Drink first, and a check-in.” Peter is unyielding on this point. Although he
would smell the blood and even minute changes in Stiles’ emotional state before
seeing them, there’s no reason not to take every precaution. He put the flogger
down on the table and directs Stiles in taking small sips from the juice box
the boy prefers. “Color?”
“Green. I’m good. You can go harder. I need it. Please, Sir.”
“As you wish, darling.” Peter peers into Stiles’ eyes, checking pupil response
as he strokes a light hand over his marked back, pulling out the tiniest amount
of pain.
“We’ll go to sets of twenty from now on.”
And they do. For the next half hour, Peter reminds himself that this is what
Stiles begged him for. That after this, he’ll sleep the sleep of the just. That
one day Stiles will believe it wasn’t his fault, and he won’t need such rough
expressions of love. But as long as Stiles yields up his pain like a gift,
Peter can do nothing else but accept it. He’ll take everything Stiles gives him
and own it—even, or especially, the ugly and painful parts of him.
“Why are we doing this, Stiles?”
“Because!” he sobs. “Because I couldn’t stop it.”
“Was it your fault, sweetheart?”
“No.” The word is torn from him. He cries, “No, but I was weak. I was weak, and
they died.”
Peter winds down through the set. “You were so strong, darling.” Thud. “You’re
so good.” Thud. “Everyone’s forgiven you.” Stiles twitches at the barely-there
stroke as though it were a much heavier blow. “Everyone loves you so much.” He
sobs at the tickle of the falls on his shoulder. “I love you, baby. I hate to
see you hurt like this…. I wish you’d forgive yourself.”
"Red. Red. Red!"
The flogger drops to the floor from Peter’s nerveless fingers, and he rushes to
tear the straps from the crux. He’ll replace them later, if Stiles ever wants
to use it again. In seconds, he has Stiles off the crux and in a fireman’s
carry—not the most comfortable hold for either of them, but it’s better than
anything that puts pressure on his tender back.
Stiles’ tears soak into Peter’s shirt from his upside-down position, but he’s
soon put face-down on the clean sheets of Peter’s bed. He cries harder when his
attempt to curl into a fetal position is stymied by his fresh wounds.
“It hurts, Peter.” He smells bitter, like misery and bone-weary resignation.
They both know he’s not talking about his back. Stiles means the guilt, the
distance, the occasional look in his father’s eyes when he has to shake a
frantic, screaming Stiles out of nightmares, the fear that nothing will ever be
the same—that he’ll never truly recover. He knows that, more than anything
else, Stiles wonders if he possesses the fortitude to bounce back from his
ordeal or if the next threat will be the thing that breaks him.
“Shh. Just let it out, darling.”
He clutches feebly at Peter’s hand and tries to contort himself around Peter’s
hip. “I know they forgive me. I know they said there’s nothing to forgive. But
I can’t. I can’t forgive myself.”
“I’ll be here until you can.”
Stiles rasps, voice cracking over the words, “I know. Thank you… for
everything.”
Except for Stiles’ intermittent sobs, they remain in silence. Stiles is nearly
asleep, and probably not fully aware of anything when, like an afterthought, he
whispers, “I wish you didn’t make me happier.”
Lie.
Stiles falls asleep like that. Not stirring from unconsciousness as Peter
cleans his back. Mechanically applying salve and pulling the worst of the pain
from the bruises, he can’t help but feel frustration wash over him. It happens
whenever they have a scene based on Stiles’ need for the punishment he thinks
he escaped. This boy is so loved, so valued, and he’s so willful in his
blindness. Stiles doesn’t understand yet. He chases the chemical rush, and he
calls it progress regardless of how empty he feels after the fact.
He finds no redemption in the forgiveness of others. It doesn’t lift him up,
and it’s a bitter pill to swallow when Peter would do so much for the same
unconditional love they show Stiles. The love, the absolution, he disdains so
readily in exchange for the scourge and the flail.
Peter perches beside Stiles, agitated and uneasy. With one hand monitoring
Stiles’ pain, he opens a book with the other. Addressing the sleeping boy he
murmurs, “I do wish you’d let me take care of you.”
===============================================================================
“Someone looks like he hasn’t slept in a year.”
“Oh, fuck you, dude.”
“It’s a sad day when a man can’t even express concern without having his head
bitten off.”
“I’m sure you’d like it if I did something else with your head. Old pervert.”
“Stiles, that was rather weak as a comeback. And when have you ever known me to
be motivated by sex?”
“What? It’s not like I even know you. When we met, you were running around
crazy and trying to kill us. Now you randomly show up when shit’s going down or
you want to torment Derek.”
“Is that what you really think?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think about you, Peter. You know why? Because I’m not
going to say yes.”
===============================================================================
“Honey, I’m home!” Stiles carols as he unlocks the door and walks inside. He
grimaces in relief, already halfway out of his shoes, rapidly flapping the
soggy material of his undershirt against his skin. “Ugh. I’m disgusting. You
mind if I grab a shower? The A/C in Roscoe is still shot. It’s like a sauna
even with the windows down.”
“Of course, I don’t mind.” Peter makes a moue of distaste when the sweat-soaked
shirts come flying at him. “If it’s this bad, there’s no reason to keep
refusing to let me pay for the repairs.”
Stiles rushes past, scowling goodnaturedly, tangled in his own pants. “Maybe
because I’m not your damned kept boy?” Bangs and clatters follow him as he
disappears down the hallway. “Oh hey!” he yells back, forcing a wince from
Peter. “Sorry, sorry!” Stiles continues at a more reasonable volume to werewolf
ears. “I forgot the thing in my pants, could you go ahead and grab it for me?”
“Yes, dear.”
Peter rolls his eyes, but he stands up and fishes through the discarded pants.
He sorts through the bits and bobs, the general detritus from Stiles’ school
day, and locates the wooden heart tucked in the tiny coin pocket up front. It’s
magenta today. He rolls it through his fingers, thinks about breaking it while
Stiles is in another room and can’t notice. He wonders, in morbid fascination,
if the change would be sudden or all at once. He never sees what happens
afterwards, because Stiles leaves as soon as Peter does it. Peter sits again
and broods over the tiny heart, unsure if it is the author of all his problems
or the source of all his current happiness, but he spends too long in
contemplation. The pipes gurgle, signalling the end of Stiles’ shower, and the
moment is gone.
He tucks the little heart into a convenient drawer and puts on a smile. The
afternoon is young. He’s rich and in love. He has a gorgeous young thing naked
in his house, and Peter doesn’t intend to waste what the day has given him.
As the door creaks open, Peter smells Stiles before he sees him. A wave of
steamy air billows out, carrying with it the scent of Stiles, unmarred by any
foreign odors with the pleasant exception of Peter’s own bath products and
towels. It’s the unadulterated scent of the boy covered in Peter, seeping into
his home like Stiles belongs to him and this place. It makes his gums ache with
the same urge to bite that Stiles denied him so long ago. His claws elongate in
reaction, and the leather is only saved from punctures by Stiles’ quick return
to the living room. He’s still damp from the shower and naked save for his
collar, Peter’s lips quirk up more genuinely. “However did you manage that? You
turn into all elbows whenever you try to use that allen key.”
The boy drops to his knees in front of Peter and glances up through thick
lashes, the blatant adoration an addiction he can’t deny. “I guess I was
properly motivated.”
“Oh?” Peter’s voice lowers, roughens without his conscious permission. He
reaches forward to cup Stiles’ chin. “Maybe I should make you stand in the
corner for putting that on by yourself. Good boys don’t deprive their masters
of such pleasures.”
He stares, caught, in animal fascination when even, white teeth press into the
pink flesh of Stiles’ lower lip. The rush of blood in his face and plump lips
tempts Peter beyond his endurance. Almost as pretty as the pale throat
stretching before him, set off by the gleaming eternity collar which draws the
eye to the fluttering pulse point, the hollow of his throat, the wings of his
collarbones. Stiles is a feast for all senses, and Peter means to consume him
whole.
===============================================================================
“So how would it work?”
“How would what work?”
“Don’t even play like that, Peter. Maybe the thing you’ve been bugging me about
for months? Is that ringing any bells for you?”
“We do discuss other things. Why just last week, we were researching a sticky
little problem about dream-walkers, and before that it was pixies… So what’s
brought you back to my offer? Was it the dream-walkers, Stiles? Did they find
your treasure trove of nightmares and make you re-live them all over again? You
have the look of someone who’s woken up screaming for a week.”
“Does the reason even matter? You’re getting what you want, and you still have
to be a colossal ass. I don’t have any other options, so yeah. I’ll try it
out—but with some conditions! I don’t trust you farther than I can throw
Derek.”
“I wouldn’t expect any less from you, Stiles. You always were the clever one.”
“Fine. Then I want to research this spell you found, and I’ll provide the foci,
and collect the materials. You’re paying for everything.”
“Is that all?”
“No. I want to know you’re not playing me. You can tell when I lie to you, so I
want to even the playing field. I want something that will let me know if
you’re lying to me.”
“Temporary?”
“Yeah. Just for when we meet. And I want to test all of this first.”
“I may know something we can use. I’ll send the directions to you, so you can
research that as well.”
“Right. I’ll let you know when I’m satisfied with my research. See you then.”
“Goodbye, Stiles. I’ll see you soon.”
===============================================================================
It shouldn’t surprise Peter when Stiles appears at his door, one full-moon
night, face and chest obscured by a ludicrously large wicker basket.
Cheeky boy.
The last time Peter had been on a full-moon picnic was before Stiles had been
born, but Stiles grins and tells Peter that it’s a waste to live in the middle
of the preserve and not take advantage of the perks. At present, those perks
include being spread out on plush blankets with a pretty boy. Stiles sprawls
halfway across his lap as they lie amidst the remnants of their moonlit dinner
of tiny sandwiches, freshly-made herbal lemonade, and a chocolate confection
closer to fudge than cake.
As Stiles chatters, it’s easier to ignore the nagging voice in the back of his
mind that says none of this is under duress. Stiles, the picnic, the full-moon
bonding—it’s only happening by Peter’s own choice, because he wants it. He
wants the comfort of knowing his anchor is safe and drenched in his scent. He
wants to quiet the restless, more primal parts of himself. Every month before,
he had the itch under his skin urging him to keep Stiles nearby on a night like
this. The relief from his presence threatens to undo him. Before their
arrangement, Peter would never tolerate someone compromising him to such a
degree. This is so far beyond fascination and attraction that he’s shocked that
no one else notices the stench of his feelings for Stiles.
“—is weird isn’t it?” When he needs more than a few seconds to respond, Stiles
pokes him in the cheek and growls like a puppy, annoyance obvious in the set of
his lips and the angle of his jaw.
“Pardon?”
“Dude! Were you listening to me at all?”
Peter lets loose a low growl and snaps at the offending finger. “Stiles, what
have I said about calling me ‘dude’ while you’re wearing my collar?”
“Uhh… not to do it, Sir? But you were ignoring me.”
The insolent, little boy flutters his obscene lashes in mock coquetry. Peter
knows he should turn him over his knee this instant. He should follow his
routine and nip such bratty behavior in the bud—or that’s what he should have
done months ago. Training a person to shape a life around his demands is only
effective when followed by consistently reinforcing the rules. Creating and
maintaining boundaries are key when cultivating a healthy power exchange, but
he also knows that he won’t raise his littlest finger to Stiles for this
display of poor manners. He indulges Stiles shamelessly as his sub and in
other, more mundane, ways.
He sniffs. “Mind your manners.”
“Yes, Sir. But I was just saying. It’s weird, right? How much we love each
other. I mean, I didn’t earlier today—not really?” A tinge of nervousness
trickles its way through the scent of Stiles’ contentment. His heart thumps out
an awkward beat, as though even his body isn’t sure of the truth, but it
recovers seamlessly as he pushes forward. “But, like, I remember how it feels
to love you even when the spell isn’t active. I started making my mom’s
lemonade and shit without thinking. It’s not like I forgot we had plans or that
it was the full moon, but it wasn’t my top priority? I just knew I’d be
disappointed if I didn’t get things ready. I did all that before I even set the
focus. Then after I triggered it, all I wanted to do was be here with you.”
Stiles climbs the rest of the way into his lap and gives him an unhappy smile.
“I helped kill you, and now I hate thinking that you’re alone. I want to crawl
inside you and just make sure you’re happy.”
Peter swallows hard; he can feel his adam’s apple bob uncomfortably. He rests a
gentle hand on Stiles’ nape and leans back, pulling Stiles down with him. His
other hand drifts to his jeans pocket to fiddle with tonight’s heart—a lovely,
royal purple. “And that’s weird is it?”
Stiles scoffs. “How is it not? It’s totally weird knowing that we’re for real
in love with each other—like the forever kind where we only want the best for
each other—I didn’t even feel like this about Lydia. You know, it’s ironic.
This is what I always wanted, but I wouldn’t enjoy it if it we were for real.
Guess I’m too fucked up now.” His shoulders twitch. “Eh. It’s still nice to
feel it sometimes. It’s how I always imagined my parents felt about each other,
makes me feel closer to them….” Stiles slants a challenging glance his way, so
Peter keeps his face arranged in attentive neutrality. “But it doesn’t even
feel weird to tell you that, and it’s all gonna be gone in a few hours? It’s
pretty fucked up. Sir.”
His lips twist into the beginnings of a snarl at the reminder that their
feelings are temporary. That’s it’s all temporary. Peter has no claim on the
boy. Yes, he’s managed to hook Stiles with the lure of desire, validation, and
domination; but it’s all so fleeting. In the morning, Stiles will be free to
leave without a backwards glance until their next assignation. Peter can’t
prevent the spasmodic clench of the fist that’s crept into his pocket to hold
the heart, nor can he deny the surge of spiteful glee when it cracks, stabbing
him with the rough edges.
He casually slips his hand out and brushes it against his thigh before he tucks
it under Stiles’ shirt, dragging sharp nails up and down the boy’s fragile
spine, hard enough to satisfy the primal urge to cover Stiles in red welts for
the next several days. “Magic can accomplish great and terrible things. It
brought me back to life. Are you so surprised that it can engender true, pure
love in my deadened excuse for a heart?”
A cloud of their mixed desire perfumes the air, heavily spiced with the peppery
note peculiar to the early stages of Stiles’ arousal. Stiles shakes his head,
dragging his nose back and forth through the hair exposed by Peter’s low
neckline. “Mm. You always smell good.” Stiles releases a happy sigh then
removes himself from the distraction of Peter’s chest hair. “I guess not, if
you put it like that.” Peter can’t help the thrum of desire when Stiles’ tongue
pokes out to taste the sweat clinging to his skin. He wonders how long this
echo of love will last now that he’s destroyed the focus.
“You aren’t as burned or dead inside as you like to claim. I wasn’t even
talking about that. But I kinda figured love spells would be more traumatic or
brainwash-y. Way less about the healthy feelings and more about the sex.”
“I thought we had plenty of sex. Are you actually disappointed that the spell
gave you the best kind of love possible instead of turning us into brainless
sex addicts?”
“Well. No... Yes. Maybe a little?” Stiles holds his hand out, pointer finger
and thumb the merest millimeter apart to illustrate the precise level of his
disappointment.
The only warning Peter gives Stiles is the brief moment of tension before he
explodes into a motion. He rolls them both over, easily pinning a wriggling,
squawking Stiles and caging him within his arms. His voice drops into the same
soft, coaxing whisper from the night in the parking garage. The one that never
fails to make Stiles shiver in want. “I can’t have my boy so disappointed… what
can I do to make it up to you, darling?”
Stiles’ eyes gleam as they catch the moonlight, the pupils dilating until only
a thin ring of brown remains visible. He arches his neck in supplication,
collar glinting dully. He smells like potent lust and undiminished affection.
Painful relief crashes over him, and it seems like the most natural thing in
the world to catch Stiles by the hips and grind their denim-covered erections
together.
“Yeah, this is a good start,” Stiles moans when Peter sucks hard at the
sensitive spot directly above his carotid artery and nips at the rapidly
purpling bruise. “We’ve never had wolfed-out sex before. I want you to rough me
up. Lose control.”
His sight sharpens, painting the world red. His fangs lengthen on Stiles’
tender flesh, pinching at his jugular in a dangerous tease. Stiles whimpers,
long fingers threading into his hair and tugging him in for a sloppy kiss. He
traces the points of Peter’s canines, lets Peter suck on his tongue that still
tastes like rich chocolate and tart lemon.
Low whines burst from Stiles’ throat. He bucks up helplessly to gain some much-
needed friction on his cock, but Peter pushes up from Stiles—he holds his prey
immobile and waits.
Stiles moans in shameless abandon. “Please. I need you. I fucking love you.
Please, Sir.”
Though the spell is broken, Stiles’ heartbeat and scent can’t lie. Benevolent
in victory, Peter smirks at the boy quivering beneath him, a willing victim.
“Far be it from me to deny you your wishes, darling.”
===============================================================================
“A heart? How quaint.”
“Just shut your mouth. They’re made out of wood, so they were alive once—which
works better for the spell. Then the symbolism of two hearts made one.
Sympathetic magic is a thing for a reason. And I could buy them in bulk.”
“What else do you need from me?”
“I just need a drop of blood from both of us. I have the rest of the paste
mixed here. Thanks. Now we wait for it to kick… oh. That’s different.”
“Indeed.”
“Wow.”
“Aren’t you glad I had you do the lie detection spell before this?”
“Uh. Yeah. Good call. Oh my god, Peter. This is. This is really nice. I know we
were supposed to break it now, but can we, like, snuggle for a minute?”
“I live to serve, darling.”
“Darling? I never figured you for being the pet name kinda guy.”
“So you’ve thought of how I might use endearments?”
“Duh. Who wouldn’t? I’m a sexually flexible teenage boy, and you’re hot. Now
shut up and snuggle.”
“Only if you’re the little spoon.”
“It’s just for a few minutes, then I’ll get up.”
“Promises, promises.”
“Ugh. Did you stare at me while I was sleeping like some big stalker weirdo?”
“Yes, Stiles. I lay here awake, holding you in my arms, wishing that you’d
sleep longer just so we could stay like this.”
“Dude, you should probably break the heart. That wasn’t a lie at all.”
“Of course.”
“Whoa. That’s just trippy as hell. I’m gonna take off now, but I’ll call you if
there’s a problem. If it works, then we’re all set for next Friday.”
“Until Friday.”
===============================================================================
Instead of following his months-long routine of throwing off his clothes and
kneeling by Peter, Stiles climbs into Peter’s lap and nuzzles under his jaw.
“Hi,” he breathes. “I missed you so much this week.”
“Did you now?”
“Uh-huh.” Stiles continues his exploration of Peter’s stubbled jaw and up his
chin, pressing sweet kisses to his face and the corners of his mouth. “It’s
nice being here. I don’t need to think about anything because you’ll take care
of it.”
“You just saw me a few days ago.”
“It felt like forever. It’s like I need to see you sooner and sooner or I’ll go
crazy. Just vibrate out of my skin.” Stiles sighs, breath ruffling the hair at
Peter’s temple. “You make it all go quiet.”
He feels Stiles relax into his hold as though his burdens are no match for
Peter’s mere presence, as though Peter has the ability to coax them free until
they drop one-by-one from his shoulders. A long exhale shudders out of him, and
Stiles goes boneless in relief.
They sit curled around each other long enough for Stiles to drowse with his
face tucked under Peter’s chin, close enough to his heart that he suspects
Stiles wants the comfort of hearing the steady beat of his heart. Too many more
of these casual intimacies, and Peter might be ruined for life.
“Hate you,” Stiles mutters and inhales deeply. “You always smell so good. It’s
totally unfair. I must smell like locker rooms, fast food, and gross things.”
“That’s not true at all.” Peter smiles and drops a kiss to Stiles’ gel-spiked
hair. “Yes, you smell like sweat, but it’s good, clean. It’s like you, but
more. You smell like your Jeep and that hypoallergenic detergent you’ve been
using since Scott was bitten.” He gives an exaggerated sniff and lets his eyes
glow blue. “You smell like lust and lazy contentment and me.”
“Lust and lazy contentment? What’s that like? Not acrid like deception?”
“Hmm. Let me refresh my memory.” He tilts Stiles’ face up and kisses him—a mere
press of closed mouths until Stiles opens his lips on a moan, begging for Peter
to deepen the kiss. With a last firm suck to Stiles’ plush lower lip, he slips
into the teaching voice that Stiles loves and loathes in equal measure. “And
therewe are, sweetheart. Your lust is always a little spicy, like cardamom and
freshly ground black pepper. Contentment is somewhat more abstract. Let’s say
that it reminds me fresh bread.”
“I smell like chai tea and a bakery? Is that why you always get dirty chai
lattes and bagels at Hot Corner?” Stiles giggles and bites his swollen lip to
hide a grin, the one when he knows he’s about to say something ridiculous. He
widens his eyes like an ingenue and asks in a breathy, high pitch, “Do I make
you hungry, Sir?” Stiles lays a hand on his chest, long fingers stretching past
his collarbones to brush exactly where his collar would rest.
Incorrigible brat. He ignores Stiles’ antics, curls his lip in amusement. He
listens for the tiny hitch of breath and tell-tale stutter in Stiles’ heart
when a hint of fang catches on his lip. Peter’s smile widens. “For you,
sweetheart? Positively ravenous.”
“Oh.” Now Stiles loses the wide-eyed innocence. His eyelids droop as he licks
his lips. The aroma of spiced bread and boy intensifies.
He leans closer until his lips brush the shell of Stiles’ ear and murmurs, “You
have five minutes to be stripped and kneeling on the bed. Put on the blue
blindfold.” After a brief squeeze to Stiles’ hips, he dips his fingers into
Stiles’ pockets and urges him away. “Off you go, sweetheart. And no talking
until I say.”
Stiles stumbles off his lap and pelts down the short hallway. Peter keeps one
eye on the clock and the other on the heart he just plucked from Stiles’
pocket. He listens as Stiles follows his orders. Judging by the stillness and
calm breathing, Stiles doesn’t discover the theft and gets into position with a
few seconds under a minute to spare, but Peter’s in no rush. He waits out the
full five minutes before cracking the pretty, blue heart in the vice of his
fingers. Pocketing the pieces, he stands up and strolls into the room.
As he steps over the threshold, Peter tugs off his shirt, uncaring when it
falls to the floor. He flicks open the button fly of his jeans and smirks at
the sight of a naked Stiles kneeling in perfect posture. Stiles is stunning—all
long, lean muscles stretched to their advantage as he grips his elbows behind
his back and keeps his head lowered. His fair skin practically glows against
the royal blue of the duvet and the blindfold. He only needs his collar to
complete the picture.
“Such a good boy, sweetheart.”
Stiles shivers at the praise and corrects his posture to an exaggerated degree,
pulling his shoulders back and thrusting his pink nipples out in the cool air.
He opens his mouth, but Stiles only flicks his tongue over his lips—as ordered,
not a word escapes him. For Stiles, love and praise always serve as the most
effective motivation. He really is an obedient little thing despite his bratty
tendencies.
He bypasses the neat pile of plaid and khaki to open the polished wooden box on
the dresser and lift out the lightweight titanium collar and allen key. A few
measured steps carry Peter over to Stiles’ side; he skates his free hand down
the knobs of Stiles’ spine, relishing in the sudden inhalation and pounding
heart. Already, the rush of blood through Stiles’ body sweeps its way from his
high cheekbones to his chest in pretty, uneven streaks of red.
“So pretty like this, darling.” he murmurs and, with a practiced twirl of his
fingers, twists the screw free just enough so that the collar falls open at the
hinge. Peter’s deft in manipulating the tiny screw and equally tiny allen key,
and soon lays the fastened collar in its rightful place at the base of Stiles’
neck. “You’re always gorgeous, but now you’re perfect.”
Stiles beams in the direction of Peter’s voice; his blush intensifies, but he
maintains Peter’s order for silence.
“Very good. You’ve been so good lately that I have a surprise for you.
Something you’ve wanted for a while, but you didn’t think I’d do.” Stiles tilts
his head in question, heart rate picking up in what might be anxiety. Peter
curls a finger into the collar and tugs him closer, until he can lean close
enough for his lips to brush Stiles’ with every word, “I promise that you’ve
mentioned it before. You know you can stop it all if you don’t like it, and I
won’t be disappointed.”
Peter nips at Stiles’ bottom lip in parting, and opens the only locked drawer
in the dresser. He keeps the key in plain sight, right by the box with Stiles’
collar. It’s the only place in the house where Stiles doesn’t have permission
to look—no exceptions—and Stiles hasn’t betrayed that display of trust in spite
of how Peter tested his resolve.
The contents of the drawer change regularly, and today it houses a small basin,
a set of jar candles, and matches. The candles are custom-made of 100%
paraffin—an undyed, low temperature wax specifically intended for the use
they’re about to see. Stiles’ head jerks as the glass clinks against the wood;
it’s the worst sort of torture to prepare when he has no way to know what’s
happening beside him. Incidentally, Stiles’ thwarted curiosity never fails to
satisfy the smug, petty parts of Peter’s psyche.
Smug satisfaction and love aren’t mutually exclusive. Besides, he doesn’t claim
to be a saint—they’re both works in progress here. And yet… he pauses, frowns
at the uncharacteristic pangs of conscience. In annoyance, he removes the heart
pieces from his pocket and flings them into the open drawer.
Out of sight, out of mind. None of it matters anymore. He has Stiles, and
they’re in love. And if his hands shake a bit, then that’s to be expected. He’s
about to pick up a candle and hold it in his hand. It has nothing to do with
his lies of omission to Stiles, nothing to do with the way he’s manipulating
their relationship.
As he likes to remind himself, Stiles walked into this with his eyes open. He
knows who Peter is and loves him anyway. So what if he believes that it’s a
spell? It’s still treacly, disgusting love of the highest order. It still
counts—and now he’s only distracting himself.
Peter takes a deep breath. Holds it. Exhales slowly. He does it again. Does it
a third time. He keeps doing it until he can feel every muscle relax. Until
that quiet, dispassionate corner of his mind notes that there’s no more tremor
in his hands. Good. All his practice won’t go to waste. He picks up the book of
extra-long matches, and strikes one. Swiftly, he brings it to the wick and
lights a candle. From the corner of his eye, he can see Stiles startle at the
odd hiss-flare of the match catching light. He discards the spent match in a
convenient dish. Stiles’ nose crinkles from the sulfurous scent—and it’s even
more potent to a werewolf recovering from a phobia of fire. The corners of
Stiles’ lips turn down, his mouth opens and shuts; he smells worried more than
aroused, and that simply won’t do.
He licks his lips, mouth unusually dry; yet he pulls off his usual voice with
panache. “You’ve been so patient for me, darling. Just a bit longer.”
“Yes, Sir.” Stiles smiles at Peter as though he’s the one who should be
offering reassurances in this situation. The boy really is oddly sweet
underneath the sarcasm and selfishness and ridiculous death drive.
“Stay right where you are. I’ll be right back.” Buoyed by that smile—by his
patiently waiting Stiles—Peter takes the basin into the attached bathroom. He
doesn’t check to see if Stiles obeys. There’s no need. Five months into their
relationship has shown Stiles the value of obedience.
When Peter steps back through with a cloth and a full basin, Stiles is in
exactly the same place and position on the bed. His face is calm, mouth slack
as he breathes deeply, working himself into the right headspace for whatever
comes. Peter sets the basin on the nightstand, within easy reach for
emergencies.
Peter thinks rather distantly that, for him, the line between love and insanity
must be exceedingly thin. He picks up the candle. The glass is warm. There’s
already a nicely growing pool of wax. To some people, the fire might be pretty.
Of course, they’ve probably never experienced full-body burns. This is nothing
like burning. With the proper materials, from the correct height, the wax will
be no more than 110℉. It will be a pleasurable experience—not fire, not lava.
It will be like tiny rivers of warmth running over all that lovely, smooth
skin.
Stiles loves temperature play. He’ll love wax, and Peter will love wringing
those shocked gasps and moans from his lips. If he can bring himself to move
towards the bed. With leaden feet, he grimaces and takes his first slow step.
The rest of them follow more easily, and he’s there. Peter puts the candle down
next to the basin, and sighs softly. He strokes the soft tufts of hair sticking
up from the blindfold, and tells Stiles what to expect. “I know we’ve done
temperature play, but this is something new. You might find it startling or
unpleasant. I need you to tell me immediately if you don’t like it. Don’t wait
and see. Don’t try to be brave about this, okay?” He kisses Stiles’ temple,
lets the scent soothe him.
“I’ll be good, Sir. I promise to safeword if I need to.”
“Good boy. Lie down on your back for me. Keep your hands on the pillow.”
Stiles shakes his shoulders and stretches. He sinks down onto the sheets,
unfolding himself with a uniquely awkward grace as he turns over and grips the
pillow, adjusting it so his head rests at just the right angle. Stiles is a
waiting sacrifice, a pale canvas—all Peter’s to defile in whatever manner he
deems best. A gift unlooked for.
Candle in hand, he steels himself and splashes his inner wrist with a few drops
of wax. Satisfied with the temperature, he reaches for Stiles and runs a
warning fingertip across the skin, neatly bisecting Stiles’ chest. Enjoying the
heady spice of Stiles’ confused arousal, he tips the glass with a rock-steady
hand. Slow droplets meet skin as Peter neatly pours wax on the invisible,
guiding line he’d just traced. Stiles chokes on thin air, shocked and pained.
It’s a high whine, a sound of distress, but the rapid bloom of desire on the
air tells a different story. No matter the scenario, Stiles is always starving,
insatiable for sensation; pleasure and pain make no difference to him. He
circles a rosy, areola with the same fingertip and follows the motion with a
careful twist of the jar.
Stiles bucks his hips and gasps, half-hard cock bouncing at the movement. “Oh!”
“Is it everything you hoped?” Peter asks, expecting the answer to be yes,
green. Full speed ahead. Please, Sir, may I have some more. Yet somehow Stiles
always surprises him.
“Red, Sir.”
A hairsbreadth away from full panic, Peter extinguishes the candle and tucks it
behind the basin. His hands are gentle as he removes the blindfold, even as he
snaps out, “What’s wrong, Stiles? Are you hurt? Did I burn you?”
“What? No! Sir… Peter. I’m fine. I promise.” Stiles grabs onto Peter’s hands
where they’re trying to leech pain from the bits of skin beneath the hardening
dribbles of wax decorating his chest. He pulls an unresisting Peter into his
arms and kisses him, tears leaking from his eyes. After they break apart,
Stiles shifts Peter’s face into the crook of his neck and holds him
tightly—like Peter is the one who’s precious. It’s disorienting.
“And what the hell were you thinking? I knew I smelled matches, but I thought.”
Stiles chokes, rocks him furiously. “I thought, no way. Peter would have talked
to me about that first. Before bringing fire into the bedroom. I… what made you
think I wanted this from you? That I would want you to hurt yourself like this?
After everything that’s happened?”
Peter refuses to lift his face from the refuge of Stiles’ neck when he answers.
It isn’t often that he experiences shame, and he’d rather not look Stiles in
the eye when he feels this scraped-out and raw. “It wasn’t just for you, but it
made a good test for my progress.”
“You’ve been practicing. Of course, you’ve been trying to give yourself
immersion therapy. God forbid you have an easily exploitable weakness.” Stiles
blows out a harsh breath. “For fuck’s sake, Peter. I would have helped you! You
didn’t need to do this. I’ve been fucked up for a long time. I know I haven’t
always been the best. Even under a love spell, I’m selfish and mean and I’ve
asked for a lot from you. You didn’t always like beating me that hard, but you
did it. This is supposed to be a fair exchange. I just—” Stiles tugs a hand at
his own hair, frustration rolling off of him. “Really? What made you think I
wouldn’t ask for something I really wanted? I can’t keep my mouth shut most of
the time,” he continues quietly.
A trickle of hurt mingles with the frustration, and Peter noses at the soft
skin of Stiles’ neck, laps at the salty sweat there—giving and taking comfort
in the same gesture.
“I love you. I would never ask for this. Not from you. I don’t care how much I
liked it. That was so far from okay, I can’t even say. I helped kill you with
fire, and I never apologized for it. You were fucking nuts then, so I’m not
sorry we put you down… but the fire. That–that was really fucked up, man. Even
for me. We should have done something else.”
Perhaps he’s going crazy again, hearing things, but Peter never expected any of
them to apologize for even that much. Truth be told, that choice is part of why
he respects Stiles and Lydia so much. Who else of their little group could be
that cold and pragmatic? Still, hearing the words acts as a balm. It’s strange
how far they go to soothing his current state of mind, or maybe it’s not so
strange at all. All he knows is that this is precisely what he wanted in his
feral state, when he ran around biting teenagers willy-nilly. Yes, he had
needed revenge, but also pack, comfort, emotional validation.
His heart lighter, he mutters, “You did say you wanted to try it. When we were
watching Temple of Doom. You said you’d enjoy it.”
The recognizable sound of Stiles slapping his forehead interrupts his half-
hearted complaint. “Oh. My. God. Peter, can we please never base our kinky sex
plans on things I said when I was half-asleep and watching Indy burn the shit
out of himself on a bed of candles. And damn it. I can’t believe you even
watched that with me. We could have skipped it and watched Crystal Skull.” In
blatant, affectionate exasperation, Stiles grumbles, “How is this is even my
life?”
Peter sniffs. “Skip Temple of Doom for Crystal Skull? Heresy. I simply averted
my eyes.”
“You big, fucking nerd.” Stiles turns his face to nuzzle Peter’s forehead,
hands landing lightly on his temples. He applies just the right amount of
pressure in tight circles, easing a tension headache Peter hadn’t even noticed
developing.
He’s dimly aware of the soft muttering and random exclamations of “fucking
Indy” from Stiles as they shift to lie entwined, curved around and into each
other like perfectly interlocking pieces. It’s simple to enjoy Stiles’ long
fingers massaging the back of his neck and head. No one is hurt. No one is
burning. How strange that such care comes from one who would have happily seen
him dead barely more than a year ago. In soul-deep relief, Peter rests against
him and closes his eyes—only for a moment, and then he’ll clean up….
Waking in Stiles’ arms is a strange experience made stranger by the fact that
he’s grinding his hard-on in the juncture of Stiles’ thigh like he’s the
schoolboy in this relationship. The fact that Stiles thrusts back as much as
the position allows is a slight sop to his pride.
Despite the lingering oddness of this role reversal, Peter smiles into Stiles’
neck. “Hello, darling.” He punctuates the greeting with a fluid roll of his
hips. The air is redolent with happiness and arousal—the bitter tang of pre-cum
fills his nostrils, making him wonder how long Stiles has been trapped under
him with no relief.
“Ohh,” Stiles stretches languorously, rubbing the wet tip of his cock against
the well-worn denim of Peter’s jeans. “Someone’s in a better mood, huh?”
“Mmm. I woke up with a beautiful, naked boy writhing under me,” he smirks.
“What’s not to like?”
“How about the fact that you’re not naked and inside me right now?”
“Cheeky,” he reprimands, but his heart isn’t in it. Peter keeps rocking against
Stiles’ inner thigh. Every small discomfort is impossibly good, from the sweat-
damp friction to the hard bite of metal buttons and the catch and drag of his
cock against scratchy hair. They prove this isn’t a fantasy or something he
can’t have. They all contribute to the glorious, messy reality.
“You like it. Now c’mon. You should be way more naked for this.” Stiles tugs
pointedly at the loose waistband. “That can’t feel good on your dick.”
He huffs out a laugh. “You’re not the only one who finds pleasure in minor
discomfort.” But Stiles has a point about the pants; right now, they only serve
as an unnecessary restriction, crushing his balls. With a smirk and flourish of
claws, he shreds his pants all the way down the seam and rolls out of the denim
ribbons clinging to his legs. Eyebrows raised and fully nude, he reclines on
the pillows. “More naked, as requested.”
“Awesome,” Stiles breathes and launches himself on top of Peter so that they’re
skin to skin, a tingling line of contact from neck to ankle. It takes no
thought to grasp Stiles by the waist and pull him closer, aligning their hips
so Peter can rub against his blood-hot cock. Stiles moans at the spit-slick
hand Peter shoves between their bodies. “Oh god,” he whines. “Are we really
doing this? The lube’s right over—ugh! Sir. It’s right there!”
Peter jacks them lazily, like wake-up sex is something they do, like they have
all the time in the world to chase after their orgasms. He lives in the moment
during every encounter with Stiles—he knows that they won’t last—but today
feels different. Today could be the start of something new. His hand speeds up,
the pulls harder and the slightest bit rougher—still in control, but he’s
nearing the end of his endurance, and he wants them to come together. He needs
the smell of their release to sink deep in their skin, until it can’t be washed
away. Until even humans can smell them all over each other, so they won’t
mistake Stiles as anything but his.
“I want you to come for me, baby. Come all over me, let everyone know who owns
you. Who loves you. Be a good boy.” Peter thumbs over the glans and traces the
sharp edge of a nail over the slit, teasing the entrance with delicate pressure
as fluid seeps past.
“Please,” Stiles whimpers. “Peter. Sir. I’m close.”
“Let it happen, Stiles. Come. Come now.”
Peter’s hand spasms; he can feel the tension rising in his thighs, his spine.
Then the hot rush of Stiles’ cum coats his hand and belly—the sharp, musky
scent overwhelms him and triggers his own orgasm. By the time they finish
coming, Stiles has melted against him, a good-smelling armful of sticky, sated,
shuddering boy.
Stiles groans. “Ugh. I’m dead. Ten out of ten, would do again.”
“I suppose this means you want me to clean us up?”
Stiles’ head shoots up at Peter’s words. He scowls and pokes him in the
sternum. “No way, mister. You’re going to lie back and think of England while I
do all the work.”
“Well, aren’t you the sweetest thing?” Peter nips at the earlobe hovering
temptingly close to his teeth. “Taking care of me like that.”
Dark splotches of red rise up in his cheeks—Stiles never blushes delicately. He
ducks his head, in something that might be genuine shyness and mutters into
Peter’s chest. “You’re always taking care of me. I thought you’d like it if I
did the same sometimes.” He lays a kiss over Peter’s heart and rests his cheek
there. “I’ve been thinking that this was a good idea. Maybe. Maybe this can be
a thing we do. Together. Eventually. I don’t know? It’s just nice, and maybe we
can have something nice?”
Peter’s arms close around Stiles and squeeze lightly. He needs to tread quite
carefully here. “With or without the spell, I’d like that very much. We can try
things out on a trial basis.”
“Yeah?”
“Of course, darling. I’ve always liked you.”
He sucks in a noisy breath. “Okay. Next week. We can try then.” Stiles
stretches within the circle of Peter’s arms and pushes off, nearly kneeing him
in the balls on the dismount. He dips a finger into the water in the basin and
recoils in horror. “Holy crap. This feels like icicles. How did you get this
out of the faucet?”
“It was normal tap water. I’m sure you’re exaggerating.”
“I am a fragile human flower, and I say this water is too damned cold to put
anywhere delicate. I think my dick shrivelled up at the thought of it.” He
shivers once more in theatrical disgust, scratching absently at the semen
crusting on his skin. Grimacing, he wrings out the hand towel and dabs at the
worst of the mess. “Guess that’s good enough for government work. I’ll be right
back with water that won’t give us chilblains.”
Stiles dumps the “frigid” towel in the water and picks up the basin. As he
turns, Peter sees it happen almost in slow motion. The drawer. The drawer of
secrets that Stiles never looks inside. In his earlier distress, Peter had left
it open carelessly—a foolish mistake. Stiles stands transfixed by what can only
be the remainder of the candles and the broken spell focus. His heart flutters,
races much too fast for safety before giving an odd painful thump and slowing
in an eerie calm.
It smells like a storm is coming.
Trembling hands deposit the basin back on the nightstand. For a long moment,
Stiles stares at the drawer, silent and immobile. When he turns to face Peter,
it’s as though every movement requires great effort. His face is chalk-white,
and his eyes are empty.
In a mechanical voice, he states the obvious, “You broke the heart.”
He can’t lie, doesn’t want to; he may as well own the truth. “Yes, Stiles. I
did.”
“Was this the first time?”
“No.”
“How long?” Emotion seeps back into his voice; it’s anger, but Peter supposes
that it’s better than the terrible emptiness from before. “How long have you
been lying to me?”
His lip curls. He can’t help sneering a bit. “It wasn’t a lie. You can tell
when I lie. I just withheld certain extraneous information. It didn’t hurt you,
and you said so yourself. You were happy. You can still be happy here, with me.
This doesn’t change anything, Stiles.”
“I told you before.” Stiles clutches at his wrists, his hair, his collar. He
grabs his clothes from the dresser and starts to pull them on haphazardly. “I
told you. I wasn’t okay. I’m not okay. I thought this had rules. Parameters. I
thought I could trust what was here and what wasn’t here, and then things
started getting confusing.” He pauses, hands shaking too violently to button
his overshirt. “I worried about bleed-through, but that’s not how the spell
worked. I thought maybe I was developing my own feelings. Real ones. But now.
How am I supposed to know what was real? What was manipulated? What was really
me? Now I have to go home and wonder about it. Think about when it changed. How
it changed. Oh my god.”
“Stiles,” he coaxes. “It was all real. Even the spell. That’s what it does. It
was designed to solve blood feuds. Everyone’s much less inclined to kill each
other if they can seal the deal with a happy marriage or two. Everything you
felt, with and without it, was real. I know it must frighten you.”
“Bullshit! You don’t get to decide what’s relevant to me, and you sure as hell
don’t get to tell me, ‘By the way, the spell you thought was working was
actually never fucking on.’”
“It was an accident the first time.”
“And the second time? The time after that? Fucking today?” Stiles glares
fiercely. “Yeah. I didn’t think so.”
It makes his head spin with how quickly the situation has shifted. Everything
had been going so well. He almost had it all. Now it’s slipping through his
fingers.
“Stiles, what about what you said? You said that you wanted to try next week.
I’ve broken the spell on your arrival for the last six weeks. How does that
change the situation? Nothing’s different,” he urges. “You’ll see when you feel
the same. You can have nice things. We’d be good together, you and I.”
Carefully, he leans forward to take Stiles’ limp hand in his. “I’ll help you
through this, too. I promised to be there for you. Stiles, I lo—”
“Stop,” he pleads in an agonized voice. “Just stop it. I can’t. Don’t you
understand?” Misery and rage and self-loathing pour off of him in endless
waves. “Every time you said that was true. It was real, and it wasn’t the
spell, and I can’t. You can’t just put that on me. You don’t know what it was
like being possessed. Not knowing. Losing parts of yourself every night. To not
know if you can trust your memories. I–you took that away from me when you
didn’t tell me what you were doing.”
“Darling. Please. Ask me if it’s real. Ask me if I love you. I never wanted
this to hurt you…” But Stiles turns away, shakes his head in hysterical denial.
In resignation, Peter murmurs, “You were never meant to discover it. We’d get
our happily ever after, and you’d never know how I cheated at the game.”
“That’s the difference between you and me, Peter. It was never a game for me.
If I fell in love, then I wanted to know it was happening. I needed that. For
my own peace of mind.” It’s a cold comfort that the collar is still locked
around his throat. He’s sickly pale and shaking in fury. Even now, hair mussed
and shirt inside out, Stiles is beautiful. “You’re right. We could have been so
good together. I trusted you, and you couldn’t help playing power games and
manipulating things. You ruined this."
Done with the conversation, Stiles stuffs his sockless feet into battered
sneakers and strides out. A moment later, Peter hears the jingle of keys. The
door slams shut. He hears Stiles kick his tires and shout, “fuck”.
Another door is wrenched open and banged shut. There’s the roar of Roscoe’s
engine turning over. Then Stiles is gone.
Chapter End Notes
     Whether it's new or old to you, thank you for reading! I'd love to
     hear what you think.
     This was the original ending, but I wrote the epilogue for people who
     couldn't bear the angst. I'll post it after giving this chapter time
     to breathe.




     Tag explanations:
     Consent issues: Peter pursues Stiles despite continued refusals.
     Peter also breaks the love spell that they've consented to use
     without telling Stiles. General consent issues for the love spell.
     Although its use is consensual, you could argue that anything they do
     under it is in an altered state.
     BDSM: Peter and Stiles enjoy it, but they also use it as a form of
     therapy for Stiles' post-Nogitsune issues. There are some unhealthy
     motivations surrounding the BDSM. Stiles wants to be flogged because
     he wants punishment. His desire at that point is mostly non-sexual
     despite his masochism, and Peter doesn't have a sexual reaction to
     Stiles during that scene. One of my pre-readers had a strong reaction
     to what they read as Peter experiencing dom drop. In the last scene,
     Peter surprises Stiles with a new kink mid-scene.
     Safeword use: Stiles uses his safeword twice. Once to protect his own
     feelings, and another time to protect Peter.
     Fire phobia: Peter begins a waxplay scene with Stiles despite his
     trauma and severe discomfort with it. Stiles ends the scene.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Notes
     This is the original epilogue, barring some minor edits. I wasn't
     going to repost it, but it seemed unfair to anyone who liked the
     original story or like I was trying to hide something I hated. I
     don't hate this epilogue, but it's true that I never wanted to write
     it.
     At a time, I plan to write an alternate epilogue more to my personal
     tastes than this one, but until that time: here you go.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
For a few days, Peter believes that Stiles will come back. It’s not the first
fight they’ve had. Each time, Stiles had reappeared at the house, rueful and
apologetic.
The day of their next meeting comes and goes. More meetings (dates) pass
without word from Stiles. He never calls or texts. Peter can recognize a
breakup when he sees it.
On one of those regularly scheduled visitation days, he sits in his usual
armchair, pretending not to stare at the ticking clock. Peter wonders what he
thought he’d accomplish by breaking the spell. If the momentary satisfaction is
worth the memory of that stricken look on Stiles’ face. The utter betrayal
written on every line of his body.
When he finds himself exiting Hot Corner, sipping a dirty chai latte and
holding a bag of everything bagels for Stiles, he knows it’s not. But what’s
done is done. There’s only the way forward—a truly pathetic future where Peter
buys Stiles’ favorite things because he can’t remember it’s over.
Peter refuses to be chained by the past. He believes in the future. He believes
in whatever unequal portion he can beg, borrow, or steal. And none of that
counts if he can’t hang on to it. Above all, Peter doesn’t do regret or self-
hatred... or that’s what he would have said before. Before Stiles. Before the
spell.
He can claw his way from the grave with his nephew as a spell-battery. He can
transform fear and indifference to true love. He can change the fabric of
reality.
It is intolerable that he can’t go back and fix what’s wrong.
It is even more intolerable knowing that he might be responsible.
===============================================================================
At the end of June (or twenty-three days after Stiles left), Peter forces
himself to leave the house. Not that his disagreement with Stiles has turned
him into a shut-in, even if Derek, of all people, brings it up—the concern
awkward in his nephew’s mouth. A few cutting words is all it takes to ensure
that it will take more than Peter turning into a hermit who obsessively rereads
The Count of Monte Cristofor Derek to interfere again.
Peter doesn’t have any concrete plans—all he knows is that the smell of Stiles
is fading more everyday. He needs to get out. Watch a movie. Perhaps see to the
shopping he’s put off for the better part of a week.
He showers because he refuses to lower himself to the level of the clichéd
lovelorn wreck, but shaving and trimming the goatee require more effort than
groceries deserve. If the henley he pulls on had been borrowed by Stiles often
enough to hold his scent in the fibers, then who can blame him? More to the
point, there’s no one to notice and smirk at Peter’s hidden vulnerability.
If it takes Peter twice the normal amount of time to drive to Trader Joe’s,
then that’s his concern. If he wants to waste the gas, well, that’s his god-
given right as the owner of an SUV. It is especially his own concern if he
bypasses the produce to fill his shopping cart with lobster ravioli,
microwavable Indian meals, and every damned Speculoos product that Trader Joe’s
carries. Peter has just made the momentous decision that, yes, he does need the
Rosemary Raisin Crisps and the Fig & Olive Crisps, when he smells it. Stiles is
here.
A brief tactical retreat behind the coffee grinders reveals his mistake. Peter
doesn’t know if it’s better or worse. Instead of Stiles, it’s a beleaguered
Sheriff Stilinski in eyeglasses and civilian clothes, standing by a display of
sea salt caramels. He looks like a normal father in his rumpled jeans and polo,
so different from Peter’s usual perception of him. The main thing Stiles had
said about his father was that he knew about the deal and wouldn’t show up to
shoot Peter for doing filthy, kinky sex-things to his only child. That’s hardly
a claim to inspire much faith.
It’s not as though Peter will definitely run into the man. It’s a big store
with a lot of aisles. A quick stop at the cheese section, and he can grab the
brie and filled pasta. After that, it’s smooth sailing to the checkout. Mission
accomplished.
“Peter Hale?”
Of course, it can’t be that easy. Carefully arranging his face in an expression
of polite interest, Peter turns around. “Oh, hello there, Sheriff. I didn’t see
you.”
The sheer disbelief on the man’s face is quite impressive. It reminds him of
Stiles’ eloquent face.
“Yeah, somehow I don’t think that’s true with the way you ducked by the
grinders,” Stilinski snorts. “Besides. I think you ought to call me John with
how well you know my kid.”
Peter’s head bobs in an abortive nod then stills. It’s irksome to be caught out
so easily, but running into the sheriff—John—has him a bit off-kilter.
“John then. Is there something I can help you with?”
“Sure,” John replies in a suspiciously friendly tone. “You can tell me why my
kid’s screaming nightmares started back up after he stopped seeing you.”
Shit. Stiles really had told his father about them. He glances around them,
thankful for the witnesses and the sheriff’s lack of gun. Subtly, Peter
inhales, interpreting the man’s scent and adding that to body language, tone,
and heart rate. Worry, annoyance, interest, but no anger. Well, that’s
unexpected. Leave it to the Stilinskis to surprise him.
“As you said, I haven’t seen him in weeks,” Peter replies. Twenty-three days
and twenty hours. “I’m sure I have no idea.”
“Is that right?” John lifts a can of coffee in each hand. “What do you think,
Peaberry or Sumatran? Stiles has been after me to buy the cold-brewed stuff,
but I’m a traditionalist.”
“Ah,” Peter stalls. This is an increasingly strange conversation, and he gets
the feeling that it’s not nearly over. “I’ve always been partial to Kona
myself.”
“Good choice.” He thunks both canisters back on the shelf and grabs the Kona.
“So those nightmares. It seems strange that they’d come back as soon as he
stops meeting you.”
“Circumstantial at best.”
“Maybe so.” John claps him on the shoulder. “Why don’t you walk with me for a
while, Peter? I’ve been wanting to have a talk with you for a few months now.”
The fingers tighten and slip away. “Stiles gave me a list, but his handwriting
is terrible. You might be able to help translate some of it.”
Peter glances from John’s determined face to the microwavable meals in his cart
and sighs. “I’d be delighted, Sheriff.”
“John. I insist.”
Which is how Peter ends up trailing after John as he painstakingly follows the
list Stiles gave him. It’s surprisingly pleasant to spend time with the man as
they wander through the offensively tropical decor and examine produce
together. Occasionally, John will squint at the list and mutter things like:
“What the hell is a carob?” and “They make flour out of tapioca?”. Peter
imagines that, given the chance, perhaps they might have learned to like each
other. Maybe they’d even be friends, drawn together out of a shared love for
Stiles.
He waits for John to finish checking out. What’s a few more minutes in the
scheme of things? Really, he wants to know why the man dragged him through the
entire store—it was hardly for the pleasure of his company. It’s clear that
John has something to say. It can only be about Stiles.
John picks up his paper bags and nods at Peter. “Let me walk you out to your
car.”
“Certainly, Sheriff.” Finally, his patience is about to be rewarded.
As they step outside of the store, a wave of heat and light assaults his
senses. John nods pleasant greetings to passersby as they walk. Peter’s
beginning to regret parking near the back of the lot to avoid careless dings
and scratches on his paint job. When they reach his vehicle without the sheriff
saying anything of substance, it’s just slightly annoying. He’s pretty sure
that the man is using a cheap interrogation tactic on him, and it’s working.
Damn it all.
He unlocks the trunk in continued silence, and John joins him in stowing the
bags in the grocery net.
“Oh, for crying out loud.” John clucks in disapproval. “They put your bread
under these glass bottles. And the dry pasta is in with the frozen stuff. Isn’t
that always the way?” The man shakes his head and waxes on about the importance
of proper bagging until Peter can’t take it anymore. He came out to buy some
groceries and indulge in his Speculoos habit. Not to be shanghaied into grocery
shopping with his… what wasStiles? Ex-submissive? Ex-boyfriend? Ex-lover?
Regardless of description, Peter didn’t come out to have a belated bonding
experience with the father of an ex-anything.
Groceries in place, Peter shuts the trunk and faces the man who still isn’t
angry—though he might smell a bit amused? Peter’s eye twitches. The apple
certainly didn’t fall far from the tree in this case. “John,” he interrupts,
“as pleasant as this experience has been—was there something you wanted to
say?”
John breaks into the first genuine smile of their time together. “I wondered
how long it’d take. If I tell Stiles I saw you, then I’ll have to let him
know.” Sharp, blue eyes narrow at Peter. “We talk more often these days. About
school, life, his special hobbies, you.”
Peter struggles to maintain his neutral expression. He’s already figured out
that John knew, but hearing it is rather more nerve-wracking that he expected.
“I’m surprised you didn’t arrest me. I know that Stiles isn’t eighteen.”
John laughs without much mirth, “I wanted to arrest you. For more than that,
but Stiles explained it. One day I noticed the hickies, and he had to confess
that he was seeing someone—which I already knew. Then he came back and told me
who it was…” John’s face tenses, his fingers stretch and curl like they want to
be wrapped around Peter’s neck. He takes a prudent step back, and John snorts.
“Yeah, I wasn’t thrilled about you or your age or the spell. It was a goddamned
stupid plan, and I’m shocked it went on this long without blowing up in your
faces. I love my kid, but he likes to overcomplicate things.”
The buried protective streak urges Peter to say, “It was actually my idea.”
“Christ! Aren’t you supposed to be the adult here?”
“We’re all works in progress.” The disbelief on John Stilinski’s face might be
worth the ice cream currently melting in his trunk.
“You two might deserve each other.” John shakes his head. “I don’t know if I
like you. Even if you had good intentions, you still preyed on an emotionally-
compromised teenager. I might never be okay with that, but you were helping,
despite yourself. He was happier. Sleeping the whole night through, regaining
his interest in school, picking up his hobbies again…” his voice wavers. “You
helped my son when I couldn’t, and I can’t hate you for that, even if I
disapprove of how you helped him. Don’t think for a second that I missed him
coming home three weeks ago with that, ah, necklace.”
This isn’t the talk Peter had been anticipating. In fact, it sounds a lot like
he wants Peter to repair his relationship with Stiles. “Excuse me, John, but
this isn’t quite the angry, shotgun rant I thought I’d hear from you. Why don’t
we cut to the chase? What do you expect me to do about Stiles’ nightmares? He’s
the one who ended our arrangement.”
“Uh-huh. And whose fault was it? I don’t know what happened, and I don’t want
to know unless Stiles tells me. But as angry as Stiles has been, it looks like
he’s the injured party.”
“Is he still angry?” The words are out before Peter can consider or calculate
their effect. If he’s sweating, then it’s because they’re standing on the
asphalt in a Californian summer.
“He’s upset. Hurt. Confused.” John’s shoulders sag. “Stiles loves you. I don’t
know how or why, but it’s there. It was there when he talked about you at
dinner. When he’d mention offhand that you like Russian novels and lemonade and
the same trashy TV shows. He still loves you, and what I expect is for you to
fix this. It doesn’t need to be over for you two.” John smells like the
particular festering pain of old memories, but nothing in his voice indicates
the surge of emotion. “At the very least, I expect you to be kind to him if he
forgives you. Even if it was just the spell and you don’t love him back, you
need to scrape up some shreds of decency and give him closure. But he said you
do love him. He said it like it was killing him to admit it.” Peter startles
when John grabs onto his forearm and grips hard. “I won’t pretend to understand
it, but you loving him. That hurt him. I expect you to start making that
right.”
There are few people in the world capable of shocking him. It doesn’t surprise
him at all that John Stilinski is one of them, so he says, with more honesty
than he’s accustomed to, “I’ll do my best, Sheriff. Thank you for the talk. It
was… illuminating.”
“Just take care of this, Hale. I expect my kid to be his usual infuriating self
before school starts again.” As John walks off, juggling his bags and keys,
Peter can’t deny his grudging respect. Not many parents can put aside their
personal feelings to do what’s best for their children. Though this might well
be the first time Peter’s been the best thing for anyone.
===============================================================================
A week flies by after his surreal shopping trip with John, and Peter hasn’t
made progress towards fulfilling his promise. It’s not that he lacks the desire
or motivation to see Stiles, but the situation is delicate. One wrong move
could send it toppling over. This time, the plan needs to be simple, flawless.
This time he needs to be honest.
With those requirements, it makes sense he hasn’t reached out to Stiles yet.
But while Peter agonizes over the perfect plan, Stiles tenuous claim to
patience or self-control snaps. At the least, the fact that Peter can hear the
Jeep's tires crunching over his gravel drive means that Stiles has decided to
do something..
It's been a long month without Stiles, but it's too soon. Peter's not ready. He
doesn't know the right words to convince Stiles to stay, and he has until
Stiles reaches the door to figure it out.
Too soon, Stiles taps out “Shave and a Haircut” on the front door. He doesn't
come in.
Oh.He wants an invitation into Peter's space. That's a level of respect more
characteristic of a Stiles in rope bondage than the everyday, normal Stiles.
“Come in,” Peter calls from the armchair, “I know you still have a key.” He
smirks when Stiles mutters “lazy asshole” under his breath. Keys jangle against
their carabiner and the doorknob, and then Stiles is here.
Stiles looks better than the last time Peter saw him—which isn’t a very high
standard—but he’s wearing all of his clothes right-side out. He’s not pale or
sickly or shaking. He smells fantastic even if his scent isn’t enough like
Peter’s.
He looks like the last month has been good for him. Peter's not sure how he'll
react if John is wrong about Stiles’s desires. He tacitly promised to be kind
to Stiles no matter what he decides, but it remains to be seen if Peter has the
requisite shred of decency to accomplish such a great feat.
Stiles rocks back on his heels, staring critically around the room without even
trying to be subtle. Relief floods through Peter at this evidence that Stiles
hasn't been replaced by a weirdly polite doppelganger.
“My dad, um,” Stiles licks his lips, “he said he saw you at the store. Trader
Joe's. He said your cart was full of frozen meals and cookie butter. Isn’t that
a little lowbrow for you?”
“Cookie butter transcends caste. You’re the last person I thought would cast
aspersions on anyone’s snack choices.” Peter can exchange banter in his sleep,
but avoiding the elephant in the room won’t do them any favors. Strangely, he
feels an obligation to live up to the faith John placed in him. His motives are
never wholly altruistic, but he did want to be a good thing for Stiles. Before
sabotaging his own prospects, Peter had been a positive part of Stiles’ life.
Peter wants to be that again, wants to take care of Stiles—if Stiles will allow
it.
He inhales, tries to breathe deeply past the vice squeezing his chest. He’s a
werewolf, werewolves aren’t prone to anxiety attacks, but Peter might be the
first. “Stiles, we’re not exactly friends. You didn’t come over to talk about
my shopping habits.”
Stiles’ heart thumps out of rhythm; he smells hurt and ashamed and angry.
“We’re not friends, huh? What would you call us?”
Peter stays seated. The talk isn’t going quite the way he’d envisioned, and the
last thing Stiles needs is to feel cornered. He lifts his hands in the
universal sign of surrender. “I don’t want to fight,” he says simply. “But we
weren’t friends when we began, and the spell—everything that came after—it
muddied the waters. You can’t deny that much.”
“Fine,” Stiles bites out. “What about when you said you loved me? How can you
love someone if you’re not friends with them.”
“Don't put words in my mouth,” Peter snaps. “I loved you. I still love you. You
know that I was telling the truth. We had a spell for that, too.”
"Yeah! We did have a spell for that. Because I couldn't trust you, and it looks
like I was right. Good thing I was in charge of that one, or you would have
broken it too.” Red-faced with temper, Stiles stomps up to the chair and yells,
“Jesus, it's like all you know how to be is a paranoid, Machiavellian asshole.”
The top three buttons fly free as Stiles jerks at the placket on his shirt. He
pitches his voice lower and sneers in what’s obviously an impression of Peter,
“Look at me and my serial killer urges. I just can't make the effort to give a
fuck about anything unless it gets me something. Oh, I say nightly prayers to
Ayn Rand—the greatest philosopher of our time.” He pokes Peter hard in the
center of his forehead. “You’re such a dick. It pisses me off so much because
I've seen you act differently. I've seen you be kind. To me. You hurt yourself
to give me what I needed. I thought about it all month.”
Peter scowls defensively and opens his mouth to say something—he doesn't know
what—but Stiles slaps a hand over it. “Nope. You're not going to ruin it with
whatever shitty thing you feel compelled to say because this is getting too
real. Dad told me that you were supposed to be nice, but he should have known
that was asking for too much.” He shrugs, and it’s almost an apology. “Not that
I've got room to talk.”
Peter peels Stiles hand off of his face and lifts a brow. He pretends that he
doesn't feel an urge to keep Stiles close enough to taste and smell. It would
probably be easy to tumble him into bed now, while their tempers are flaring,
but they need to talk. They never talked enough before, and maybe this wouldn't
be the problem it is now if they'd handled their issues instead of willfully
ignoring anything that resembled a serious conversation.
“If I promise not to say 'whatever shitty thing I feel compelled to say' am I
allowed to speak?” Peter strokes his thumb over Stiles' rapid pulse. “Or should
I let you yell at me some more?”
“Oh. Yeah. Um,” Stiles stutters, the red in his face less about anger now and
more about embarrassment and Peter's proximity. “Sorry? I told myself not to go
off on you, but I just got mad. I thought we were friends.”
“I'm sorry,” Peter forces out the apology. “I didn’t mean to hurt your
feelings, but we're not friends. We would have never been friends. Friendship
is a weak, pale word for anything we've felt for each other.” He tilts his head
back, baring his neck in a mockery of submission. “Tell me I'm wrong.”
Stiles furrows his brows and chews on the ragged skin of his lower lip. “You
know that's super fucked up, right? Scott and I are friends, and our
friendship’s one of the most important things in my life. But fine. If it makes
you happy. You're right. We're not friends.” He turns his palm to curl his
fingers around Peter’s wrist. “So... what are we then?”
“Your father referred to you as the 'injured party', and he's not entirely
wrong.” Peter brings Stiles' hand to his face and scrapes his cheek across the
smooth skin, tenderly marking him by scent and the faint traces of stubble
burn. “What we are isn't up to me. You're the one who left—who had a reason to
leave. I don't want to be without you again, Stiles. Tell me what you want, and
I'll do it.”
Stiles is gobsmacked, his mouth hanging open a bit wider than usual. “We both
fucked it up, Peter, but anything I want? For real?”
“Anything.”
“In that case…” Stiles scrambles for the bag he'd dropped on his way to yell at
Peter and digs around until he turns up a sealed tupperware container, a red
heart, and a cheap-looking paintbrush. He smirks at Peter expectantly and
waggles his eyebrows. “I'll need a donation.”
He nods slowly. Of course Stiles wants control, wants the spell back. He can
work with this; it's more of an opportunity than he thought Stiles would give
him—Stiles isn’t much for second chances. Peter extends one claw and looks
pointedly at the closed container. “If you would,” he gestures with his clawed
hand.
“Oh, right! Got it.” He pries open the lid and pokes at the glop with the
plastic end of the brush. Gives everything a few stirs. “Just one drop. Ready
when you are.”
Peter stabs his thumb just enough to get the blood flowing. One crimson drop
wells up, and he lets it fall into the mix. Stiles mutters the same
unintelligible words from the only time Peter heard the spell performed. He
stirs three times clockwise and three more times counterclockwise. After a
moment, the stuff liquefies and takes on an oily sheen. Satisfied with its
appearance, Stiles paints the heart all over, and together they watch the heart
suck in the liquid, leaving no outward trace of the spell.
“Here you go, Peter. One fresh focus, made to order. Handle with care this
time.” From his position on the floor, Stiles casually tosses the heart to
Peter and asks, “So, how do you feel? Any different?”
“Stiles, we’ve repeated this spell dozens of times by now.”
“And your point is?” he drawls. “Why don’t you humor me?”
“What would you like to hear, Stiles? The truth or the lie? Which would comfort
you?”
Peter sighs and tucks the heart into his shirt pocket. Somehow he’s grown weary
of lies and half-truths—all the games he found so important. What’s the point
of winning if he can’t have what he wants?
“No. I don’t feel any different. Perhaps I wouldn't love you so much or so well
if we hadn't done it. Maybe the spell taught me how to love someone less
selfishly. But with or without magic, I love you. I want to wreck you. I want
to see you in my bed, eyes wet with tears because you feel so much.” The fresh
scent of Stiles' spicy arousal fills the room. Peter squeezes his eyes shut and
fights the urge to reach out and take. He grips the back of Stiles' head and
tugs him forward, so Stiles can lean on Peter's knee if he wants. “I want to
own you. I want to take care of you, soothe your hurts, kill your enemies. I
want everything about you, and a spell isn't going to change that.”
There’s nothing new about their position, but never has Peter been in the role
of the supplicant. Stiles may be the one on his knees, yet Peter is the
vulnerable one. The one with something to lose. Holding eye contact, Stiles
shuffles forward into the spread V of his legs and deliberately lays his head
down on Peter's thigh. Then his eyes close, relief and happiness suffusing his
scent.
“I was hoping you'd say that. I had this whole plan when I came here. I was
going to tell you that I wanted to do this with you again, and I'd tell you to
keep the focus safe. One day I'd ask you to break it. When it felt right.” His
eyes pop open and he leans for his bag again. This time, Stiles pulls out the
collar, clutching it like a lifeline. Only the spike of anxiety in his scent
and his trembling lips betray his nerves. “But fuck that. We already did the
hard part. We're already in love. I don't want to be without you either. Let's
just skip to the end where we're fine and go from there.” He aims a shaky grin
at Peter. “Tell me you don't want this.”
Peter cups his jaw and bends until their foreheads touch. This close Stiles'
smell is intoxicating, and his eyes seem backlit by a manic glow. “Are you sure
you want this, darling?”
Stiles breathes back, “Yeah. I'm game if you are. Sir.” He grins smugly. “Say
yes. You know you wanna.”
“Brat.” Peter tips Stiles' face up for a chaste kiss. “Yes. I do.”
“We're gonna be awesome this time. I promise.” Stiles puts some space between
them to thrust up his arms. He holds out the collar, flat on both palms, and
offers it to Peter. An ideal model of submission until he opens his mouth. “Now
what's a guy have to do to get his goddamn collar on again?”
Peter can't stop his laugh at Stiles' perfect, inappropriate response. He’s
willful, disrespectful, and so very dear to him. Peter accepts the collar from
his kneeling submissive and smiles faintly. “You have five minutes to be naked
and kneeling on our bed. Your time starts now.”
For a moment, Peter thinks he's pushed too far, but Stiles' face splits into a
cocky grin. He bounds up, racing for the room after tossing a sloppy salute in
Peter's direction.
He'll have to do something about that. In five minutes. For now, Peter sits,
one eye on the clock and the other on the heart he's taken out of his pocket.
The seconds tick by. At three minutes and thirty-six seconds, Peter crushes the
heart to powder and stands.
With a last glance at the clock, Peter brushes the grit from his hands. He's a
minute early, but they’ve waited long enough.
Chapter End Notes
     This is the first story over 10k that I ever finished. I suppose it's
     still the first story over 10k that I've finished. Whoops.
     I hope you enjoyed The Love Thieves whether this is your first time
     reading it or if you're reading it again, now that's it's been
     reposted.
     Lots of people helped me with this story, but I'd like to thank
     Bones, Pibroch, TriDom, and Mysenia for all the feedback and editing
     help they gave me.
     When I finally write the alternate chapter, I'll post it as a third
     chapter here, but until then, I'll mark this as finished.
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