Leaves crunched beneath Stiles's shoes as he walked aimlessly through the preserve. It was fast approaching sunset, the trees around him lit orange in the fading light.

This probably wasn't his wisest choice, walking alone in an area known for violent deaths and (more often than not) riddled with murderers, but Stiles couldn't find it in him to really care.

Today held a special kind of agony for him. Well, for his dad too, but at least he was at work, using the town's recent craziness to push through the painful memories this date brought; Stiles was alone.

Today was the anniversary Stiles's mom's death.

It was also a Saturday, which meant no school and, consequently, no real distraction from Stiles's own memories.

Early in the morning before his dad had gone in to work, he and Stiles had shared a strained breakfast together, which had culminated in a brief, angst-filled hug on his dad's way out the door. And then Stiles had been left to his own devices. After running through every available time-consuming task Stiles could think of (ranging from finishing his homework to video games to straightening up the house with OCD precision), he had been left with nothing but the urge to move.

He'd felt trapped in his own house, suffocating under the weight of his memories.

Her easy smile and warm, affectionate hugs…

Her little quirks and mannerisms…

The half-remembered ghost of her laughter echoing through the halls…

That's when the walls began inching closer and closer to him, and Stiles had given in to his panic. Grabbing his keys, he had pelted from the house and, once in the safety of his trusted Jeep, sped off without a destination in mind.

The relief from getting away from his own home had been almost tangible within the confines of the Jeep's cab. Shame had hit Stiles hard, knowing he'd run from his mother's memory, from the bits and pieces still scattered around the house, remnants of her once-upon-a-time presence.

It was cowardly, running from a ghost, but after encountering and fighting more legitimate terrors than 'spirits' lately, Stiles figured he'd earned the right to indulge in a little spinelessness.

Somehow, he had found his way to the preserve after driving around in a daze. He wondered if his subconscious had driven him here intentionally, directing him to a place with different memories on which to dwell.

Nothing like drowning your depression with guilt and fear.

He had parked almost exactly where he had on the night Scott was bitten, after Stiles had dragged him out in the middle of the night in search of blood and gore. It all seemed like a big joke because now Stiles was lucky if he and his friends could avoid becoming gore on any given week. Strange how hindsight makes you appreciate your own stupidity.

If only it worked before hand…though he supposed that would be considered a premonition (which, after seeing werewolves, kanimas, and other freaky bump-in-the-night stuff, Stiles wasn't going to rule premonitions out as impossible just yet).

Walking through the trees was having a calming effect on Stiles, despite all the terrifying happenings in the preserve lately. Perhaps he was developing a thicker skin from dealing with the supernatural so often (part and parcel when your best friend was a supernatural being himself). Strolling through the reserve would have been more fun if said supernatural being was out here with him, but…

Loneliness lanced through Stiles at the thought of Scott.

Only a few months ago, the two of them had been thick as thieves, but, after the bite, Stiles had watched his friend slip farther and farther away. It showed when Scott kept information from Stiles until after things went to shit. Or when Stiles was left behind while Scott charged off to god knows where, hell-bent on fighting the baddies without him.

And it sucked.

No matter how weak and defenseless he might be as a human, Stiles knew he could help, could help twice as much as he already did if there was a working chain of communication between all parties involved, instead of their current half-assed mail route for need-to-know crap. He might not be a werewolf, but some of his friends were, and it's hard to help protect them when you're working with an incomplete data set.

Stiles moodily kicked a stone out of his path, wondering if he should have asked Scott to come out here, then immediately ditched his train of thought.

Scott desperately needed to catch up on the mountain of homework that was currently threatening to set him back a year in his high school progress. Now that Allison was actually broken up with Scott and the kanima business was over, the slacking wolf might have a chance at making it to junior year.

Besides, Stiles was slightly bitter that his 'best friend' hadn't contacted him at all today, especially today, when in the past he had always at least attempted to console Stiles on the anniversary of his mom's death.

It was kind of a slap in the face— and more painful than any of the punches Gerard had dealt him. The cut on his lip from that beating was mostly healed, but the bruises were still there, turning olive green and yellowish as they faded. Stiles counted himself lucky that Scott had even noticed the damage done to him in the explosion of crazy, murderous drama.

Or that he had gone missing in the first place, whispered a snide voice from a dark corner of his heart.

Speaking of crazy…

Stiles froze in his tracks when he noticed a figure sitting on the ground several meters away.

Even facing away from him, Stiles could tell it was a man, dark-haired and fair skinned, sitting cross-legged on a patch of exposed rock. All that Stiles could see were his jeans, black shirt, and the back of his head, but there weren't that many people that had the sac to wander these woods alone and only one person came to his mind: Peter Hale.

If ever there was a prime example of how much Scott had neglected to share with him, it would be the suddenly-not-dead-ex-Alpha-werewolf-who-was-appare ntly-on-our-side-now? Stiles had been shocked to see him come out of nowhere, alive and well, to take down the kanima with Derek, but Scott, on the other hand, hadn't seemed phased by the appearance of a psychotic werewolf they had all teamed up to kill. Which, hello? Kind of a big deal? But no, nothing, meaning Scott had known about him and had deliberately left Stiles in the dark.

It was lacrosse all over again, only this first line was comprised entirely of werewolves and the puny human only got to play when enough of the pack was down for the count. Stiles was used to the treatment from his coach, but it pissed Stiles off that he was constantly benched by his own friend.

And the return of the guy who tried to kill your classmates? Definitely something you told your best friend.

And now Stiles was alone.

In the woods.

Where no one could hear him.

Within a stone's throw from the formerly-dead werewolf— who had to have heard Stiles coming from a mile away, but was still just sitting there, giving no indication that he had even noticed Stiles's presence.

Confusion blended with fear as Stiles stood there, running through his options. His heart rate was jacked up through the roof and it didn't help one bit knowing that Peter could hear it, could scent his fear on the slight breeze rustling through the trees around them.

Several seconds passed as Stiles stared at the back of Peter's head, the dark hair hardly tousled by the wind. Neither said a word, as though waiting for the other to make a move.

Peter was testing him, Stiles realized. He was seeing if Stiles had the nerve to approach him of his own free will or it he'd turn tail. As his heart rate came back down, Stiles resisted the urge to flee to his Jeep as fast as he could, like the wolf probably expected. But Stiles ran with werewolves and was a damn good member of Scott's pack: he wasn't going to show his fear— even if he reeked of it.

Exceedingly proud of himself for not tripping over his feet, Stiles walked up to Peter and sat down beside him, casually reclining back onto his hands with his legs stretched out.

He was on the same rock as Peter with a foot of space between them. It was a comfortable distance without totally announcing that being this close to the wolf made him want to squirm, but he could practically feel the boundary between them, a happy neutral ground that Stiles didn't want to look at too closely. Both stared straight ahead, all but ignoring each other.

The rock they were sitting on was a few feet away from a sizable drop-off that overlooked a large creek below. The water churned happily as it wound through the trees and twisted away deeper into the preserve, the peaceful rushing sound filling up the tense silence.

Stiles refused to be the first to break. He had made the first concession and got the ball rolling— now it was Peter's turn.

The werewolf inhaled deeply before releasing0 the breath slowly with an ambiguous hum.

Finally, he turned his head to look at Stiles. His eyes danced with repressed amusement as he studied the teen. "And to what do I owe the pleasure of your company, Stiles?" Peter purred softly. His brows were raised in curiosity, but there was a smugness dancing in his eyes from perceiving Stiles's nervousness.

Stiles turned to look at Peter, staring him down. "My mom died today, a few years ago," he said, hoping the blunt honesty would wipe off the smirk that was twitching at Peter's lips. Malicious glee twisted through Stiles as the amusement slid off Peter's face, but Stiles's triumph was short lived as that same humor morphed into something worse: understanding. He averted his gaze, choosing to watch the coursing water than to see his own pain echoed in those ice blue eyes. His teeth clenched together until his jaw ached, extremely aware that he had common ground with the murderer beside him and was unsure how to feel about it.

It was so much easier to hate the man, to focus on how many lives Peter's vengeance had irreparably altered, than it was to empathize with him and understand the agony that had driven him, that visibly still haunted him.

Fuck, Stiles thought. Why can't things be simple for once? Black and white instead all of these fucking shades of grey?

He rubbed a hand over his scalp rapidly in frustration, his fingers catching in the lengthening strands.

Peter was still watching him, silently assessing him, and it was setting his nerves on end. Nearly a minute passed before Stiles gave in and peeked over at Peter from the corner of his eyes. The werewolf was sitting perfectly still while scrutinizing Stiles's face, as though seeing him in a new light.

Stiles squirmed minutely on the rock, uncomfortable under the intense stare. So he stared right back, hoping to unsettling Peter in return— and ended up staring for other reasons.

This was the closest the two had been since the night of Peter's death (his first one, at any rate) and the bi-curious side of Stiles was appreciating the changes in the man. The dark hair was flawlessly smoothed back same as it had been before in the parking garage, but the goatee was new and it brought an edgy 'bad boy' look to his otherwise casual appearance.

It was downright sexy his hormonally charged brain observed.

And if that wasn't jaw torqueing, having the hot's for the man who had wanted Scott to kill him not too long ago. The last thing Stiles needed was for Peter to smell his…appreciation.

Ducking his head back down, Stiles frantically pictured Coach in a leotard, prancing about on the lacrosse field, and was absolutely relieved when his dick stopped twitching with interest. He pulled his legs up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, defensive in his embarrassment, but masochistic curiosity soon had him glancing back up at Peter.

The older man was contemplative as his sharp blue eyes quickly flicked over the teen.

Stiles's eyes narrowed, instantly wary. A calculating werewolf was a dangerous werewolf and Stiles was a long way from anyone who might hear him scream. But all Peter did was peer at him thoughtfully and unfold himself. He stretched his legs out before him and reclined his back onto his arms, mirroring how Stiles had first sat. The relaxed posture did much to sooth Stiles's nervousness and he wondered if Peter had done it on purpose.

"Far be it from me to deny a grieving man his space," Peter murmured, tilting his head back and closing his eyes, for all the world appearing to be enjoying the serenity of his surroundings.

Stiles stared at the older man in bemusement before he, too, closed his eyes, concentrating on the flow of the water below, letting it carry his thoughts away…

A tentative silence fell between them. It was kind of amazing, really, how easy it was to just sit here with Peter. He was free from distractions, free from having to smile and pretend to be happy and okay for people who didn't understand. Scott was great, but (no offense to him or anything) he didn't really understand what it was like to lose someone so close to him. Regardless of Scott's parents' divorce, the dude still technically had both parents, no matter how much of an asshole his dad might be.

Stiles supposed that was part of why it was so different, being here with Peter instead. The older man wasn't trying to draw Stiles onto conversation. He had accepted Stiles's explanation without question and then stoically kept him company.

Scott would have gone on and on about whatever he could think of, would have had endless suggestions on how to pass the time, but the obvious discomfort in his friend's eyes and his palpable relief when leaving at the end of the night killed Stiles a little every time. But there was none of that here with Peter because Peter understood Stiles's pain, understood what it was like to have your world torn apart. To have to deal with it and rebuild it as best you could.

Guilt bit at Stiles as he mentally reexamined Peter's time as Alpha, the man's search for revenge, and his attempt at creating his own pack.

How much of it had been his grief, driving him to seek retribution by any means necessary? How much from being whipped into a crazed fury by the power of becoming an Alpha?

What would Stiles have done had it been him?

The woods were gradually darkening with the setting sun, and Stiles marveled at how long he had been out here. Surprise jolted through him as he realized how clear his thoughts were, far past due as he was for his next dose of Adderall.

Was it being out here without all the pressure and expectations? Or could it be….Peter?

Stiles started at a soft touch to his bruised cheek. His eyes flew to Peter's, seeing the man's grim concern before focusing on a stain on his jeans. "Sorry, Sometimes I forget it's still there," he said to his knees, unsure as to why he felt slightly ashamed.

"Don't apologize for being human," Peter chastised softly. "The pack can be quick to forget that you don't bounce back as fast as they do, but... When I was burned… you could say I gained an appreciation for the healing power of my kind. It's…easy to take it for granted."

Like it was so easy to take me for granted, Stiles thought, tiredly.

Peter was still touching his face tenderly, careful not to press too firmly on the damaged skin. He met Stiles's gaze, smiling faintly as he brushed his blunt thumbnail along the edge of the teen's jawline.

Stiles inhaled sharply at the sensation, surprised and a little aroused by the gesture. There was a vulnerability in Peter's eyes that made Stiles lean into the touch. He was increasingly aware of how intimate the situation was getting, but he couldn't find it within him to care. It was rare these days for someone to pay attention to him, and rarer still to be looked at like he mattered, like he was worth something, even if he was only human.

Running with werewolves had made him all too aware of how weak he was in comparison and, more often than not, he seemed to just get in the way. But Peter wasn't looking at him as though he were a nuisance. It was almost as though…

Stiles licked his lips. His nerves were making his heart rate rise and he knew Peter could hear it plain as day.

Peter's eyes followed the quick sweep of tongue.

Was that a flicker of wolf-blue in his eyes or merely Stiles's imagination?

Certainly no one had ever looked at his lips like that. It was flattering, especially from someone as attractive as Peter (and as intelligent, though Stiles was sure the man wasn't appreciated for that trait). Stiles appreciated it. After all, the man did manage to track down and eliminate the people responsible for slaughtering his family after being in a coma for six fucking years. Hell, even the police hadn't been able to convict anyone for the crime until after Peter connected the dots for them.

Stiles could see the value Peter's experience and intelligence could bring to Derek's pack, experience the pack needed. They were newly bitten, half of them scattered to the winds from the Argent threat and lack of proper leadership. Yet, reformed from his psychopathic ways and willing to help as Peter seemed, the man was clearly kept to the fringes of Derek's pack, like Stiles was in Scott's pack. As lonely as Stiles often was, it must be worse for Peter. He had been part of a pack and it had been ripped away from him. Stiles wasn't even sure if Derek had accepted Peter into his pack, but, if he had, Peter seemed to be pushed to the side in it. Stiles ached empathetically because you could see his loss fractured within the werewolf's ice-blue eyes, if you looked close enough.

And Stiles wanted to change that, to take that pain away. When his mom died, Stiles had stepped up to take care of his dad—it had been instinctual— and that same impulse to try to fix things was thrumming through him now. He wanted to comfort Peter. He wanted to show him that something beyond grief still existed, but he had nothing to offer him, he only had himself.

He only had himself.

Bolder than he normally was (and probably twice as crazy), Stiles slowly rolled to his knees and positioned himself in Peter's lap.

The werewolf made no move to stop him, watching with bemused interest as the teen straddled his hips. His hand, the one he had been stroking Stiles's cheek with, now cupped the back of Stiles's neck, thumb lightly stroking across the soft skin of his throat.

Hesitantly, Stiles leaned forward, awkwardly placing his hands on Peter's firm abdomen. He had never done this before, had never touched another person like this, so he let his instincts guide him.

He leaned forward and nuzzled at Peter's throat, breathing in his masculine scent.

The older man tipping his head back. He briefly squeezed Stiles's nape, giving the teen permission to continue. Stiles reverently pressed his lips to the warm skin before experimentally running his tongue across the spot.

His first taste of werewolf.

Peter tasted of salt, skin, and something…exotic, wild, and Stiles wondered if all werewolves tasted like this or if only Peter was this addicting. Stiles whimpered faintly as he licked and sucked along the length of the man's neck, drawing bruises that faded soon after their creation.

His taste…his smell… It was driving him crazy, inciting a dull buzzing in the back of his head as he feverishly put his mouth on Peter wherever he could reach. Maybe werewolf pheromones were more potent than a human's because Stiles had never felt a need like this: he wanted to taste every inch of Peter's skin, to devour him.

Peter groaned deep in his throat under Stiles's ministrations, rubbing his thumb in circles over the teen's bobbing Adam's apple. His other hand was wrapped around Stiles's hip, controlling the helpless twitches they were making. When Stiles nipped his earlobe, the werewolf gave a throaty growl and yanked Stiles back by his neck.

Peter's electric blue eyes sent a thrill through Stiles as he pulled the teen into a heated kiss, short-circuiting his brain. It was rough and wet and everything Stiles had hoped his first kiss would be. The older man speared his tongue into Stiles's mouth, fucking into it with deep, confident strokes that made Stiles's toes curl and his hips to rock in want.

Stiles whimpered under the onslaught of sensation as he breathed heavily through his nose. He was stupidly happy for catching onto that particular trick so fast because he was pretty sure he'd have suffocated by now without it. Stiles hardened, his body going pliant under Peter's dominating kiss.

Peter dragged Stiles forward against him by his hips. They groaned as their trapped erections pressed dragged against each other and, abruptly, Peter pulled away.

Stiles whined at the loss, but quieted when, in a show of werewolf strength, Peter wrapped an arm around his waist, lifting and rolling with him. Almost tenderly, he laid Stiles on his back and propped himself above him, settling between the teen's lewdly spread legs.

Knowing that Peter was stronger than him but was purposely reigning in his power— determinedly being gentle with him— snapped something inside of Stiles. He didn't want gentle right now. He wanted to be reckless and helpless (without fearing for his life, for once). Everyone treated him like he was made of glass; he didn't need that from Peter as well.

Before Peter could do more than rumble warningly in his chest, Stiles threw his arm over Peter's neck and pulled his head down to slot their mouths together in a biting kiss. Stiles tugged on a belt loop to bring the older man flush against him. He bucked his hips up against Peter, moaning and writhing like a whore.

It was like a switch flipped in Stiles's head as soon as their bodies had touched. Pure need overtook him, making him a desperate, wanton thing, begging for Peter's touch.

His forwardness seemed to set Peter off, their kiss turning messy with hints of teeth. Peter hooked one of Stiles's legs over his waist, gripped his ass, and ground against Stiles, hard and rough. Stiles's cry stuttered out of him at the manhandling, the friction just shy of being painful but only making it better. The hand on Stiles's ass, fucking kneading it, was driving him crazy. He was torn between rutting against Peter and arching back into that hand.

Peter nipped at his bottom lip with blunt human teeth, startling a gasp from Stiles. There was a slight shift of hips and, fuck, that was Peter against him, hot as a brand and hard as steel, hard for Stiles.

Fuck, Stiles thought brokenly, canting his hips up and rubbing against the older man shamelessly.

Rutting, definitely rutting, it was never not going to be rutting.

Frantically, he dug a heel into the rock bed and, using it and the leg thrown over Peter's waist, tried to match Peter's rhythm, clumsy in his lust.

The werewolf didn't seem to mind his enthusiasm, if the glowing eyes and claws— extended, threatening to pierce his jeans— were any indication. Peter brought the forearm supporting his weight closer to Stiles, allowing him to slide his hand under Stiles's neck and grasp his nape: a not-so-subtle reminder of Peter's dominance.

Feeling sharp claws trace over the fragile skin of his neck, just barely digging in, had Stiles throwing his head back against the rock, overwhelmed and moaning raggedly.

Still rolling his hard cock over Stiles's, Peter nuzzled the bared throat, purring happily as he licked and sucked livid marks to life.

Stiles buried a hand in Peter's hair and gripped the silken strands, unable to stop his whimpers and groans now that Peter's lips weren't muffling them. As much as he liked Peter's mouth on his, Stiles couldn't help but love having it at his throat, taking him apart.

There was a fire in his veins, burning fierce low in his abdomen. His groin was pulled tight, anticipating orgasm.

Stiles clawed Peter's back. The feel of his fingernails snagging in the material helped ground Stiles as wave after wave of bliss pulsed through him from Peter's touch. The strong muscles in Peter's back strained back and forth as the werewolf thrust with abandon, panting his groans into Stiles's neck.

Stiles felt his heart skip when Peter closed his mouth around the flesh of the crook of his neck, sucking hard and, oh, oh my God, those weren't just teeth those were fangs—

The sharp points dragged over his skin with enough pressure to make them known, but not hard enough for them to break skin. Not with Peter restraining himself, holding back from hurting Stiles even when wolfed out and lost in passion. Vibrations ran along his neck where Peter's lips touched it and it was a moment before Stiles realized what it was: growling— not the rumblings of human vocal cords, but the coarse, territorial sounds of an animal.

It finally sank in that Stiles had a very dangerous, very aroused werewolf on top of him, a thread away from being out of control for want of him.

With that thought, Stiles convulsed as pleasure shot through him, his muscles pulling tight as he clutched desperately at Peter's shirt, eyes rolling back in his head with the force of his orgasm. His hips bucked uncontrollably as he came and came hard, still fully clothed. Utterly spent, Stiles lay prone on the rock.

He reeled, nerves tingling, until the warmth above him suddenly vanished, prompting him to loll his head around in search of Peter.

He didn't have far to look. Peter had reared back on his knees to tug at the opening of his pants and oh fuck…

It was gorgeous, absolutely gorgeous. There was no other adjective that truly described Peter Hale's hard cock. It was long and thick with veins elegantly spider-webbed underneath the skin, jutting proudly from his pants. Peter jerked himself violently with inhuman speed, his hand blurring over the reddened shaft. Never taking his glowing eyes off of Stiles, he panted and growled as he fucked his hand, snapping his hips up into what had to be a tortuous grip.

Exhausted as he was, Stiles could still appreciate the fact that, had he not just ejaculated his freaking brains out, he would be rock hard from the vision before him.

He startled when Peter lunged forward to yank Stiles's shirts up, exposing his torso. Peter snarled, his elongated canines flashing menacingly as he hovered above Stiles, hand still flying over his cock as he held himself up effortlessly with one arm. When Peter came, he wasn't particularly loud, but the man's climax was nevertheless intense.

Perhaps because he didn't break eye contact with Stiles as he shot thick, opaque strands all over Stiles's bare chest, some of the drops managing to land on Stiles's neck and face. The heady scent of Peter's come filled the air and sank into Stiles's skin, permeating it.

It felt like a claim, Peter's claim.

And Stiles was surprisingly…okay with that, with Peter marking him as his.

Dazed, he watched as Peter slowly stroked his cock in lazy pulls, a last spurt of come dribbling down the shaft and coating his fingers. Fixated on the milky fluid, Stiles licked his lips, wondering how it tasted.

Realizing he had been trailing his fingertips through the slickness on his chest, Stiles brought a hand up to lap experimentally at the sticky come. He knew what his own semen tasted like, so he wasn't squeamish or anything (after all, when a good portion of your spare time is spent producing the stuff, a guy gets a little curious). The underlying sharp tang was the same, but there was a hint of something else, something unique and wholly Peter that had Stiles licking his digits clean of every stray speck.

"Mmm…."

Stiles looked up at Peter's low hum to see his eyes (which had returned to his normal clear blue after shooting his load) flash wolf-blue momentarily, seemingly riveted by the sight of Stiles's tongue licking away the come.

Smiling predatorily, Peter stretched out on all fours above Stiles, his face hovering less than an inch from Stiles's.

His breathing shallow from the werewolf's proximity as much as from his pleased expression, Stiles waited for the other shoe to drop before understanding struck.

Tilting his head to the side, he raised his head and closed the distance between them. He pressed his lips to Peter's in a gentle, unhurried kiss, allowing entrance to Peter's begging tongue when it flicked against his lip. After a few moments of mutual exploration, Peter pulled away, regretfully, to take in the dusk that had fallen with the sun.

Naturally, Stiles would trek through the preserve a few nights before the full moon, but this area of the Preserve was thick with trees and their leaves blotted out much of the moonlight. Peter might be able to see in the dark, but Stiles would be lucky to find his way back to his Jeep without tripping over something and snapping his own neck. Which was going to be such a fun walk anyway, with the cooling come in his shorts.

He wrinkled his nose disdainfully, feeling the mess move as he sat up. Stiles squinted up at Peter, hardly able to make out the surrounding trees much less the hazy form of the man a foot away from him.

Now that lust wasn't clouding his judgment, the reality of the situation was beginning to set in, heavy and confusing in the pit of his stomach.

I just had sex with a werewolf. I just had sex with Peter Hale.

Of the two thoughts, Stiles wasn't sure which was the more terrifying. Previously, when Stiles had given serious consideration as to who might be the first to touch him (his hopes and dreams of Lydia finally seeing the awesomeness of Stiles, aside), Peter Hale had never been on the list. Or anywhere near the list, for that matter. I mean, sure he'd given the werewolves of Beacon Hills a passing thought (or more) because he was hormonal even in his sleep, and yeah, the idea of doing a freakin' werewolf was really fucking hot. Kind of like the werewolves of Beacon Hills—really fucking hot.

Except for Scott.

No offense to the dude's arguably cute puppyish-ness, but no, just no, he was not going to think about his best friend like that, his best friend who could smell certain things like 'wayward arousal'.

To be honest, Derek had always felt like the most likely one of the group he'd have jumped, and Peter, well…

Up until recently, Peter had been dead.

But now he wasn't.

And Stiles had just gotten off with him in the middle of the freaking forest.

God, if just frotting with Peter had felt amazing, then penetrative sex would probably kill him, supplied the perpetually horny and supremely unhelpful part of his mind. Hell, Stiles didn't even know what this was and his hormonally-charged brain was already thinking about more, again, soon.

Forget being a werewolf, just being human was fucking hard enough.

Stiles cleared his throat, awkward and uncertain of how to proceed. "Well, um—"

"Where are you parked?" Peter interrupted, tucking himself into his pants and straightening his clothes.

Glancing down, Stiles saw that his own shirt was still rucked up on his chest. He pulled it back down, grimacing as the material smeared through the drying mess and pulled at his hair. "Uh, couple miles away? I think?" He waved in the general direction he'd come from as a different brand of worry filled him.

How the hell would he find his bearings in the dark?

Peter took Stiles by the arm and pulled him back onto his feet. Keeping his hand on the crook of Stiles's arm, Peter tugged him in direction indicated, his grip lax but alert. Puzzled, Stiles cocked his head to the side. "What are you doing?"

Peter sighed— or was it the dead leaves being kicked around by their feet?

"I'm helping you back to your Jeep. It's not like you brought a flashlight, right?"

Stiles frowned at the shadow walking beside him. "I've still got my phone, dude."

"Mhmm… And when did you last charge it?" The cynicism was heavy in Peter's voice.

"I charged it, like…" Stiles racked his brain for a time, coming up with nothing, how could he not know this? He charged it, like, every night—

Except last night. He'd been preoccupied, thoughts of his mom driving away his sleep as well as his normal pre-bed routine, which included plugging in his phone. A brief check of his remaining battery life proved both he and Peter right: there was power left, but keeping the App on all the way through the woods would likely suck it away before he'd find his Jeep.

Fuck.

Peter hummed noncommittally when Stiles failed to contradict him.

Silence fell between them, this time laced with an unfamiliar tension. Stiles was no stranger to awkward silences, but…he'd never done this before. He didn't know what the protocol was after you got off with another person. Should he compliment Peter on the fantastic way he'd drawn Stiles's brains out through his dick? Should he make small talk? Try to hold Peter's hand?

He about choked on his tongue at the thought of skipping happy-go-lucky through the woods, hand in hand with Peter, maybe with Stiles wearing a red hood and carrying a basket while Peter sported a tail.

Oh god, he was never mentioning that to Peter, ever, on pain of death. So far, the werewolf liked him and he wasn't going to mess that up with some half-assed comedic relief.

At least, it seemed like Peter liked him (Stiles doubted he rubbed one out on just anyone), but he had to admit, it was hard to tell since Peter hadn't said anything in several minutes. Like, at all. He just walked beside him, leading him along with the hand on Stiles's arm.

Doubt and self-consciousness seeped in, preying on the insecurities in Stiles's heart.

Was it…bad?

No, that couldn't be it, Peter had totally wolf-claimed him, marked his territory with his freaking scent (frankly, Stiles was grateful the guy hadn't peed on him). He wouldn't just come and then go, would he? The ridiculousness of that idea smacked him in the face because, yeah, some guys were douchebags and did that kind of thing. Maybe Peter was one of those guys?

Stiles pushed the thought away. He didn't want to consider that.

He wanted Peter to be different.

He was different. I mean, hello? Werewolf. Can't get much more different than that, but…werewolves were also people. And people tended to suck every now and then and, to be honest, Stiles knew next to nothing about the person beside him. For all Stiles knew, he might just be an easy lay for Peter, another notch in a bed post probably littered with marks and, no, he was not fucking tearing up like some little girl whose crush didn't like her back.

Stiles shook his head viciously from side to side, trying to rid himself of the sting of his own imagination, when his foot slipped on a loose rock. Pain stabbed through his ankle.

"Shit!" Stiles spat out, his knees buckling.

He never made it to the ground though. As soon as Stiles lost had his footing, Peter was there in a whirl of speed, catching the teen against his chest and effectively breaking his fall. Stiles's arms found themselves hooked around Peter's neck for support (not that he needed it, per se, as tightly as Peter was holding him).

He huffed quietly into the hollow of Peter's throat, aggravated by his own clumsiness.

"Are you alright?" Peter was tilting his head awkwardly to look at him, concern in his voice as his thumb stroked the small of Stiles's back.

"Um…"

Stiles bit his lip, using the discomfort to drive away the fresh stirrings of accidental arousal that being this close to the older man, under his touch, spawned.

Stiles got his feet underneath himself and pressed down experimentally on the injured ankle, his nerves flaring under the pressure. He shifted his weight to the other leg, embarrassed by the inconvenience.

Yep, Stiles Stilinski can totally take care of himself. Walking along in the woods? No problem. Yeah, right. Couldn't get halfway through the preserve without twisting his goddamn ankle. This really wasn't helping to make his case as a potential suitor. His ankle was making him pull a 'damsel in distress' thing, and 'damsel' didn't look good on Stiles.

Not that he was thinking about going steady with Peter.

Okay, not a lot, but still, options are options, and any option that could show Stiles a 'good time' like that was worth considering. Not that he was easy or anything.

Stiles winced as he gingerly rotated the sore joint, the movement hampered by jabs of pain.

"Well, I uh, I think I sprained my ankle. Doesn't feel broken, but it's gonna make walking a bitch. I'll be fine if we just take it slower," he said, covering his irritation with as much bravado as he could muster.

"Hmm…"

Peter unwound Stiles's arms from around his neck and dropped to a knee, helping Stiles maintain his one-legged balance with an inhumanly strong hand on his side.

"That's, that's just, uh, what are you…" Stiles stammered, unfamiliar with having a man on his knees in front of him at crotch level— but he sure was familiar with the desire that surged through him at the sight (hey, thousands of porn sites dedicated to fellatio couldn't all have it wrong).

His reawakening lust was cut short as Peter pulled up his pant leg to expose the injured ankle and wrapped his hand firmly around it.

Stiles frowned down, perplexed. There should be more pain from the pressure, but instead there seemed to be less, like it was being sucked away. What the fuck? "Werewolves have healing powers? I thought only worked, like on yourselves?"

Straightening back up, Peter chuckled softly at him. "No, we can't really heal others. But we can take some of their pain away. Temporarily, at least. Try it now."

Hesitantly, Stiles distributed his weight a little more evenly and was pleased to find the pain had receded to a dull ache. Not completely gone, but enough that he could walk. He beamed at Peter and, without fully thinking about it, stepped further into the man's space to wrap him up in a hug.

"Thank you, man, you have no idea how much of my pride you just saved. Seriously."

And then it dawned on him: he was hugging Peter.

Why did it feel so much more intimate than rubbing against the werewolf?

Before he could step back, Peter reciprocated the hug, stroking lightly down Stiles's spine with a thumbnail. "You're very welcome, Stiles," Peter purred in Stiles's ear, enticing a shiver from the teen.

A whimper escaped Stiles's lips. Teeth nipped at his earlobe and he rocked closer, his hands fisting convulsively in Peter's shirt. Stiles moaned when the hand stroking his spine drifted lower to cup his ass.

Peter buried his face in the crook of Stiles's neck, breathing in his scent in deep, ragged pulls. He gave a lingering kiss to Stiles's bruised throat, then stepped back, letting the night air rush in to cool the heat flaring between them.

Stiles felt his face flush as he swayed on his feet, already missing having Peter pressed against him.

Peter cleared his throat. "We should keep moving. The sooner we reach your Jeep, the sooner your ankle gets wrapped. That little trick of mine isn't permanent. I'd prefer we find the vehicle before the pain comes back." He resumed his hold on Stiles's bicep as they started off again, but not before Stiles had seen the man palm his own crotch.

He'd had to adjust himself.

Stiles's pride crowed, ridiculously pleased that he wasn't the only one affected. That he, Stiles, could make the sexy Peter Hale hard.

The remaining half hour walk went by fast, but more comfortably than before, knowing that their initial moment of passion hadn't been a fluke. There was something between them, something primitive and malleable, and Stiles itched to know what it could be, how far this could go.

He had to be careful though. Peter was the wild card here. Alpha or not, he was still dangerous for a human to play with— but Stiles thought that might be half the fun.

They emerged from a thick line of trees and found themselves on one of the wide paths built for vehicles that ran through the preserve. And there, about twenty meters down the haphazard road, sat Stiles's Jeep.

"Whoo!" Stiles exclaimed, throwing his arms up wildly in his ecstatic relief.

Ignoring his twinging ankle, he sprinted to the vehicle and draped himself across the hood in an exuberant hug. He was still crooning nonsense and caressing the thinning paintjob when Peter sauntered over, amusement all over his smug face.

"I take it she survived your absence?" Peter asked wryly as his eyes roved over Stiles's bent-over form.

Peter's wandering eyes didn't go unnoticed and the recently discovered slutty part of Stiles immediately responded to the attention. His eyes lock on Peter's, he shuffled his feet further apart and subtly tilted his hips back in invitation.

Peter's eyes flashed warningly as he stalked over and plastered himself to Stiles's back. "We really should get that ankle wrapped, Stiles." His voice was low and husky in Stiles's ear, like he was on the verge of wolfing out and it made Stiles shudder with want.

"Ye— Yes, that's — We should really do that," Stiles choked out, stuttering when Peter's hands encircled his hips and pinned him to the Jeep. He panted harshly as he ground back onto Peter's crotch, trying to goad him into action.

Abruptly, Peter dragged Stiles off the hood and steered him towards the driver's side door.

Arms flailing about, Stiles stumbled into the door and turned to the older man in confusion. Had he gone too far?

"What—"

"If you keep that up, I'll take you on your Jeep. Dry," Peter whispered as he slowly retreated, his eyes shining bright blue in the dark.

Oh.

Stiles's guts did an odd backflip. He'd known he was pushing Peter's buttons, but he hadn't really considered the man's limits.

Well…

Stiles hadn't been thinking about anything beyond feeling Peter's cock again. Still, he wasn't about to have his first time sans lubricant. Lust-addled, Stiles was. Crazy, he was not.

Wait what? His first time?

Holy fuck, he wanted it to be Peter. This was pushing the bounds of recklessness even for Stiles, but Peter wanted him, had just admitted it in an offhand sort of way that he wanted to fuck him. And Stiles was willing. Was so freaking ready, he was practically dripping pheromones.

Biting his lip nervously, Stiles leaned against the door seductively (he hoped)."So…you're not coming?"

Peter froze in place, a few feet from the tree line behind him.

"I mean, come on," Stiles cajoled, "you single-handedly gave me the best orgasm of my life, so far. The least I can do is feed you." He absently wondered how close to prostitution this came.

Peter cocked his head slightly. "Is that wise?"

Stiles snorted. "Is any of this? Come on, the house will be empty for hours. You can,I don't know, relax for a while. Unless you're eager to go chill with His Broodiness?" Stiles waited with baited breath as the werewolf turned over the offer. A grin broke onto his face when Peter walked over to the passenger side of his Jeep.

"I drive that hard a bargain?" Stiles quipped, getting behind the wheel.

Smirking, Peter settled into the passenger seat. "You say that as though there was a contest."