"Wow. That's gotta be the sexiest car I've ever seen."

Peter huffs and unlocks the vehicle. "Shut up, Stiles."

Stiles just laughs, tossing his duffel into the backseat. "I think I might have to reevaluate our relationship here, man. Good taste is something I look for in a partner, and well…" he tilts his head at the silver car. "This might be a dealbreaker."

Peter growls, rushing forward and crowding Stiles up against the passenger door. He lowers his head and nips at the side of Stiles' throat. "Make jokes all you want, baby," Peter whispers smugly into his ear. "We both know my cum is plugged up in your sweet ass and that you can't wait for another round."

Stiles can't help but shiver in anticipation at the thought.

"Besides," Peter continues, pushing away and prowling around to the other side of the car. "It was the only rental those bastards at Enterprise had left." And then he ducks into the car.

Stiles pouts, adjusting himself in his jeans and before getting in. "No need to get all defensive, Fido." He buckles himself in as Peter pulls away from the lot.

"I was just commenting on the hilarity of the situation at hand. A cunning, deadly, international assassin." Stiles gestures at Peter. "Driving a…" he gestures at the car's interior. "Toyota Camry." Stiles can't help the mean little grin that spreads across his face. "This is practically a James Bond sequel."

Peter pinches him in the thigh while deftly navigating them out of the airport's busy parking garage. "You've got quite the mouth on you."

Stiles' grin grows wider. "You would know."

"I can't believe I'm going to share my hotel voucher with you."

"Ah, yes. Coupons, the epitome of romance."

Peter can't help but crack a smile. "Fuck, I like you."

Stiles reaches over and grabs ahold of Peter's hand. "The feeling's mutual, Daddy."

He notices as Peter's eyes grow brighter at his words.

And that brings Stiles to the next bullet point on his list:

1. Don't get killed by that fine ass Daddy

2. Have mind-blowing sex with that fine ass Daddy (hopefully #1 has happened or this list is absolutely fucked)

3. Latch onto Daddy and make sure he knows that he's not allowed to leave. Ever.

4. Talk to Daddy about the whole werewolf thing

5. Have more sex

6. Eat weight in tacos

"So," Stiles clears his throat obnoxiously. Peter looks over at him indulgently as he expertly maneuvers through traffic. "I'd like for this to continue."

Peter raises an imperious eyebrow. "I thought that was what we were doing."

"Yeah," Stiles agrees, untangling his hand from Peter's and curling his fingers nervously into his jeans. "I just…I want this to continue even beyond, you know, the voucher."

Peter blinks, his chest tightening uncomfortably at the mere thought of never seeing Stiles again. "I concur."

"I mean, I kno—" Stiles cuts himself short and looks over at Peter. "Wait, hold on. You concur?"

"Yes. I want to see you again after this. Preferably kneeling at my feet again. I quite enjoyed that."

Stiles barks out an incredulous laugh. "I'm sure you did." He leans back against the headrest and mumbles. "God, you concur. Why do I even like you? Jesus Christ on a tortilla, you're that asshole."

He looks over at Peter, all strong lines and sharp edges, and smiles to himself. Stiles snatches up Peter's hand again and starts to pet it. "It takes all kinds, I guess."

"I'm so glad you think so, darling," Peter mutters, his grumbled huff hitching as Stiles starts licking softly at Peter's knuckles. "Fuck, Stiles."

"Don't worry, Daddy," Stiles says sweetly. "I won't distract you too much." He grins wickedly as he drags an incisor along the pad of Peter's thumb. "It's not like I'd ever blow you in a Toyota Camry."

Peter's eyes darken as he glances hungrily at Stiles. "But you would in the right kind of car, is that it, baby?"

"Uh-huh," Stiles answer distractedly. He blows air on Peter's spit-slick palm and the man's fingers twitch. He looks up smugly, Stiles' smirk softening as he meets Peter's intense gaze.

"Good to know," Peter rasps, voice pitched low and promising.

Guh.

And now Stiles is seriously reconsidering his rule about blowjobs in Toyota Camrys.

He shakes his head a little to reorient himself. "Anyway," Stiles traces the lines running across Peter's wide palm. "Now that you're my Daddy and I'm your good little fuck toy, I think we should get to know a little more about each other. What do you say?"

Peter's fingers tighten on the wheel at the words good little fuck toy and he nods stiffly, eyes absolutely burning as he glances over at Stiles. "Good idea, sweetheart. But if you keep talking like that, I'm going to end up fucking you along the side of the road. Understand?"

Stiles giggles. "Okay, okay. So." He gets serious. Or, as serious as Stiles can get. "What's your kill count?"

Peter chokes on air. "What?"

"Your kill count. What is it? I'm looking to be impressed here."

"People usually ask for a favorite color or pizza topping."

Stiles shrugs. "Well, I guess you talk to really boring people, then. But if you want to play it that way, fine. My favorite color is purple, and I will die on the hill that bacon on pizza is the pinnacle of culinary innovation."

Peter lets out a low chuckle. "So, you really liked my tie, huh?"

Stiles swallows. "Yeah, Daddy. I really like the tie."

"Hmmm," Peter muses. He intertwines his fingers with Stiles'. "Burgundy. Jalapeños."

Stiles laughs. "Really? Interesting."

Peter nods, eyes fixed on the road. "342."

Stiles doesn't even hesitate, he just breathes out slowly and squeezes Peter's hand gently. "129."

"That's pretty good," Peter snarks, pulling into the most secluded area of the hotel's parking lot. "For a baby assassin." He winks at Stiles.

Stiles smacks him in the chest and leans over the center console, kissing Peter long and hard.

Peter gasps as they separate, and Stiles can't help but press more kisses against Peter's sinful mouth.

"I may be a baby, baby," Stiles murmurs against Peter's mouth, the air between shared between them growing hot and a little bit desperate. "But I still have a few tricks up my sleeve that might surprise you."

"Oh yeah?" Peter says, completely focused on Stiles' lips sucking at his jawline.

"Yeah, Daddy," Stiles says, moving fast and straddling Peter in the driver's seat. Peter, dazed and pliant by Stiles' demanding kisses, doesn't react in time to stop Stiles from biting firmly at the vulnerable line of his throat.

Peter freezes, eyes flying open and his hands coming up to claw at Stiles' narrow waist.

Stiles bites down harder.

Peter, a seasoned and unapologetic killer, is surprised at how okay he is with Stiles at his throat.

And at that moment—in the parking lot of a mediocre Holiday Inn in Miami—two facts that will irrevocably change Peter's life crystalize in his mind.

"You know, don't you?" Peter whispers, stunned in a way that he's beginning to suspect only Stiles can make him.

"Of course I do, Fenrir," Stiles soothes, pressing gentle kisses into the spot that he's decided now belongs to him. "Some of my best friends are werewolves."

All of the tension melts out of Peter's body. He finally stops avoiding Stiles' bright eyes, and it's then that Peter allows himself to sink deep down into the hungry certainty of the wolf that lives inside him.

Peter lunges forward, cradling Stiles' head in his hands as he ravages the man's mouth. He kisses him with the knowledge that the fledgling spark between them is new and fun and so very delicious and something—at least if Peter has any say over it—that won't ever stop.

When they part this time, Stiles is the one left panting. "God, you're so hot."

Peter smiles, the edges of it smug and content. "I know, baby." He smacks Stiles' ass sharply, grabbing a good handful after to soothe the sting. "Now let's get inside and waste away a few days on the Agency's dime."

Stiles grins, eyes lighting up in excitement. "Fuck yes, Peter." He scrambles over Peter's lap, tripping over his own feet as he launches himself out of the car. He leans back into the car and kisses Peter quickly. "I can't wait for you to fucking own my ass, Daddy."

And then he skips away to the hotel.

Peter's wolf rises to the forefront at the thought of giving chase, but he takes a moment to collect himself before getting out of the car.

He grabs their luggage and saunters lazily toward the hotel, and it's when the wolf allows Peter this indulgence that he knows.

There's no reason to rush, after all.

Peter knows, deep down in the marrow of his bones, that he already owns that sweet, insufferable ass.

It's just a little matter of letting Stiles know, too.