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The hairs on the back of Stiles' neck prickle, and he hears his window squeak as it’s lifted slowly. Someone lingers just outside, as if scared to come in. It’s a pack member, he can tell; that pack connection lets him know it’s one of his own. But there’s something different, something off about them. He stays facing his laptop, shifting in his chair and tucking his leg underneath him as he continues typing his essay, not wanting to scare them away.
It seems to work, as soon enough, there’s a soft thud and the familiar smell of the forest that seems to cling to the wolves no matter how much they shower. It’s become a comforting smell to Stiles, and he can’t stop the small smile that settles on his lips; it has begun to smell like home. The wolf is sitting on his bed, hesitating before he senses them reaching down and unlacing their shoes. A jacket is placed on the back of his chair, then they move back to the bed.
The strange mixture of musk, something slightly spicy like dark amber, and—is that vanilla? Stiles’ mind races; it’s something new, something he’s not used to but something so familiar and intoxicating that his heart skips a beat or two.
A rumble escapes the wolf behind Stiles, and he would never mistake that sound: Peter Hale. Stiles turns his office chair around to see Peter lounging on his bed, a book in hand as he pretends to read it and be completely disinterested in him. The omega of the McCall Pack, the creeper-wolf with a tendency for violence, the wolf who has no pack. There’s an air of nervousness surrounding Peter as his eyes scan the page way too quickly to be reading any of the words there. If Stiles were a wolf, he would probably be able to hear Peter's heart pounding in his chest.
Stiles leans back in his chair, raising his feet to rest on the bed, and watches Peter. His lean figure is relaxed on the bed, displaying a subtle air of dominance that seems to come naturally to him. His toned physique is barely hidden behind his one-size-too-small tee shirt. His dark hair, slightly tousled, frames his angular face, accentuating his strong jawline and chiseled features.
“A picture might be better if you want to keep staring so,” Peter speaks, his voice carrying a hint of amusement mixed with a touch of apprehension. Peter’s voice has always possessed a seductive quality, laced with a velvety smoothness that holds a power of its own. The words roll off his tongue with an almost musical cadence, drawing Stiles’ attention further. It’s a voice that can be both soothing and enthralling, making it difficult to resist its allure.
Stiles decides he’s had enough of Peter avoiding why he’s here. He gets up from his desk and slides onto the bed with ease and grace for someone as clumsy as him. Peter never lowers the book once, despite Stiles now sitting at his waist level on the bed. So Stiles does the only logical thing: he pulls the book from Peter’s grasp and throws it onto his chair. He turns his head back to Peter, and his breath hitches at the blueness of Peter's eyes. He knew they were blue, but that shade of blue is the colour of the clearest ocean, depths of azure that captivate him. They hold a mixture of enigmatic allure and vulnerable longing, beckoning Stiles to explore the uncharted territories within Peter. It's as if the colour of his eyes holds secrets of a world beyond their own, a realm Stiles is eager to discover but would never admit out loud.
"Every member of the pack has visited me at least once except you. Why now, Creeperwolf?" Stiles asks, bringing his face dangerously close to Peter's, feeling Peter’s breath fan across his lips, causing his tongue to dart out to wet them. The nickname rolls off his tongue, a teasing reminder of the reputation that precedes Peter. The words hang in the air, carrying an unspoken invitation to reveal the truth behind his unexpected visit.
"Why didn’t you accept the bite the second time? Scott offered it to you, and you would make a fine beta." Peter finally replies, his voice carrying a weight of contemplation and a touch of longing. Each word is chosen with meticulous care, as if he's navigating a delicate path between vulnerability and self-preservation.
Peter's hand rises, gentle and warm, to caress Stiles' face. His fingers trace a path over Stiles' lips, sending a shiver down his spine. Stiles can feel the softness of Peter's touch, a contrast to the underlying strength that radiates from him. Peter's piercing blue eyes search Stiles' gaze, seeking answers and perhaps a glimpse of the emotions he keeps hidden. The question hangs in the air, pregnant with unspoken possibilities. Stiles can sense the genuine curiosity in Peter's voice, as if he's been searching for this conversation as much as Stiles has. It's an invitation for Stiles to reveal the truth, to share the reasons behind his decision.
Stiles opens his mouth to respond but finds himself unsure of what to say. He doesn’t have an exact reason why he didn’t take the bite and instead spent months healing like a mundane. It leaves him momentarily speechless, caught in the intensity of Peter's gaze and the unexpected tenderness of his touch. Peter's grip on Stiles' wrist is firm, yet there’s a gentleness in the way he brings it to his lips. The gesture mirrors the intimacy shared between an alpha and their betas, a connection forged through the transformative power of the bite. Except Peter is no longer an alpha, and Stiles is not a beta, but it doesn’t seem to matter to Peter. Instead of sinking his teeth into Stiles' skin, Peter's lips press against the tender flesh of his wrist, creating a sensation that sends shivers down Stiles' spine. The warmth and comfort of Peter's touch sweep over him, erasing any doubts or uncertainties that clouded his mind.
"Peter," Stiles whispers, sitting back up as he realises just how close he still is to Peter. But Peter follows, sitting up too, with Stiles' wrist still in his gentle grip. Stiles' eyes are drawn to the connection of skin on skin, feeling something completely different from the mothering instinct the other pack members give him. No, this is strong, and he fears Scott can feel it through the Alpha-Pack Mum bond or pact or whatever they call it. They made it, and Stiles is scared Scott will appear out of nowhere and tear Peter to shreds for even being this close to him.
"Darling," Peter’s voice is velvety and rich as he speaks, "you’re thinking too hard." One of his hands cups Stiles' jaw, running his thumb soothingly over Stiles' cheek. Stiles lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, sinking into the softness of Peter's touch. With Peter's thumb still caressing his cheek, Stiles closes his eyes briefly, relishing the sensation and letting Peter's words sink in. In Peter's touch, he finds solace and a respite from the relentless analysis of their situation. The world outside fades away, leaving only the two of them in this delicate moment. When Stiles opens his eyes, he meets Peter’s gaze once more, finding an openness he hasn’t seen before.
"Thinking too hard," Stiles murmurs, echoing Peter. He brushes his thumb over Peter's bottom lip, and a real smile tugs at the corners of Peter’s lips. In this small moment, where the weight of the world seems to dissipate, Stiles feels a surge of courage and desire welling up within him. Without hesitation, he leans forward, closing the distance between them, and presses his lips gently against Peter’s. The touch is soft and tentative at first, as if they’re both savouring the delicate moment.
As their lips meet again, a current of warmth and longing courses through Stiles, igniting a fire that had been smouldering beneath the surface. The kiss deepens, a blend of passion and tenderness intertwining as their mouths mold together in perfect harmony. It feels all too cliché, the kiss a dance of emotions and desires, a silent confession of mutual want and longing for each other. Peter responds to the kiss with a hunger that matches Stiles' own, his arms encircling him as he pulls him closer, one hand tugging Stiles' hair to angle his face and deepen the kiss. Stiles slides onto Peter's lap effortlessly, as if they were always meant to fit together in this way. Something in the back of Stiles' mind screams "mate," and he knows Scott feels it too; there’s a small surge of worry and happiness somewhere in the distance. It flows through Stiles, but it feels so far away and detached from right now that he can ignore it in favour of sliding his hands up Peter’s toned chest and into his hair.
A growl rumbles in Peter’s chest, and Stiles can vaguely feel claws pressed against his back and scalp, but they’re in no way threatening. Instead, they make him feel safe. Peter’s lips are intoxicating, soft yet demanding, as they meld with Stiles' over and over again.
In one seamless motion, Peter flips them over, his body now pressed against Stiles, and the kiss momentarily breaks. Stiles' breath catches as he takes in the sight of Peter partially wolfed out, the now werewolf electric blue reflecting a mixture of vulnerability and apprehension. Yet, there’s an underlying trust that radiates from Peter, a belief that Stiles will accept him in all his forms—and he’s right. Without any hesitation, Stiles reaches up and cups Peter's face, his fingers grazing over the soft fur on Peter's cheeks, his touch gentle and reassuring as he leans up, capturing Peter's lips in another searing kiss. A silent declaration that Peter's transformation doesn’t change the way Stiles feels about him, that he is drawn to the entirety of who Peter is, human and wolf alike.
This kiss is a collision of desire and acceptance, an exploration of passion and longing. It’s a fusion of heat and tenderness as their mouths meld together, as if their emotions are bonded, and Stiles can feel Peter's and Peter can feel his. Stiles finds himself drawn to Peter, craving the connection even more now.
As the kiss deepens, Stiles becomes acutely aware of Peter's hands, strong and possessive, as they roam his body. The touch of Peter's fingertips against his skin sends shivers cascading down Stiles' spine, igniting a trail of sensation that dances across his flesh. He feels Peter's claws, once sharp and threatening, receding, their presence fading into the background as Peter's human touch takes precedence. Peter's hands slip under Stiles' shirt, exploring the curves and contours of his body with a mix of urgency and reverence. It's a dance of desire and discovery, Peter's touch leaving a trail of tingling warmth in its wake. Stiles arches into the caress, craving the sensation of Peter's hands against his bare skin, revelling in the intimacy of the moment.
Lost in the moment, neither of them hear the front door open or the pounding of feet on the stairs until Stiles' bedroom door flies open, and he shrieks in surprise, the kiss breaking. Looking over Peter’s shoulder, Stiles sees Scott standing in the doorway, trying to catch his breath while letting out a warning growl as he realises who is currently on top of his friend.
"PETER?!" Scott suddenly yells, and Stiles cowers slightly. "PETER IS YOUR MATE?!" Scott’s emotions, heightened by the bond, prompt Peter to get on his feet and challenge the alpha in seconds. Stiles groans, climbing off the bed and stepping between them, his back pressed to Peter’s chest. He ends up choking on his words as he feels something hard poking into his ass.
"Scott," Stiles raises an eyebrow at him as his gaze stays locked on Peter, an unspoken warning still lingering in the air, "Scottie!" Stiles says again, using the bond. Scott’s expression softens, his eyes flickering with a mix of concern and protectiveness as Peter wraps an arm around Stiles' waist.
“You hurt—”
“Yes, yes, you hurt him and I’ll kill you, I know the whole script.” Peter cuts Scott off with a bored tone, earning a light smack on the thigh from Stiles, who knows Peter isn’t helping the situation.
“You’re the one who’s telling Derek about this,” Lydia chortles as he drags Scott out of the room, a shit-eating grin on his face.
As Scott and Lydia make their exit, their voices fading down the stairs, Peter and Stiles are left alone in the aftermath of the abrupt intrusion. The tension in the room begins to dissolve, replaced by a lingering arousal. Peter’s arm around Stiles' waist provides a sense of grounding, pushing the bond between Stiles and Scott completely out of Stiles' mind so Scott can’t feel anything he’s feeling.
It’s as if Peter senses it because, as soon as Stiles has done it, he’s being spun around and pressed against his bedroom door, his hands pinned above his head as Peter's lips graze against the sensitive skin of his neck. A surge of electricity courses through Stiles' veins, reigniting that fire within him. Peter’s kisses are soft and teasing, leaving a trail of tingling sensations in their wake. With each gentle press of his lips, Stiles feels the weight of Peter’s desire and the intensity of their connection. Peter’s touches become more deliberate, his lips lingering over the sensitive spots that make Stiles' breath hitch and his heart race. Stiles can feel the warmth of Peter’s breath against his skin, his exhales sending shivers down his spine. The anticipation builds as Peter’s lips venture dangerously close to where wolves mark their mates, the thrill of it heightening the intensity of their encounter.
A soft moan escapes Stiles’ lips, surrendering to the pleasure that courses through him, Peter’s thigh pressed between his legs. The world outside ceases to exist as Peter’s attention is solely focused on Stiles, his lips and tongue leaving a trail of hickeys that he knows Dad will question. He can’t mate mark Stiles yet so hickeys will have to do for now and he understands and love shim for the control he is having to exert.
Stiles can't help but arch into Peter’s touch, his body craving more of his intoxicating presence. The sensations overwhelm him, filling him with a mix of desire and vulnerability. Each touch, each nibble, feels like a declaration of his possessiveness. Stiles feels his pulse quickening, matching the rhythm of their escalating desire. The thrill of being on the edge, the precipice of giving in to the primal instincts that lurk within them, sends a surge of adrenaline through his veins but then Peter’s pulling back, blue eyes dark.
“Sweetheart if we don’t stop now I don’t think I’ll be able to hold back.” He all but groans, a feral and needy sound following the testament and it just sends another wave of arousal pooling between his thighs, making him harder than he thought possible with the fact that he knows Peter can smell with his heightened werewolf senses, “Fuck, you gotta… shit, you gotta stop sweetheart.”
“Or what?” Stiles teases, pressing his hips down and the material of their jeans rubs just the right way that a moan slips past his lips.
“Don’t,” Peter warns, eyes glowing again, “I don’t wanna rush this.” A mischievous smile plays on Stiles’ lips as he revels in the effect his teasing has on Peter. His warning only fuels the fire within him, igniting a desire that burns hotter with each passing moment. Yet, there's a sense of restraint in Peter’s voice, a reminder that they really shouldn't rush what is unfolding between them.
Stiles presses his lips just below Peter’s ear, his breath hot against the werewolf’s skin. "Who said anything about rushing?" He whispers, making sure his voice is laced with a mixture of playfulness and longing. "We have all the time in the world, Peter.” His grip tightens ever so slightly, a silent acknowledgement of the power struggle between them. They find themselves standing at the precipice of something profound, where pleasure and connection intertwine. The desire in Peter’s eyes mirrors Stiles own, an unspoken promise of what lies ahead.
“All the time in the world.” He echoes.
“Make me yours.”