Stiles perks up when he hears the faint snick! of the hotel suite's door opening and closing. He closes his eyes and lets the warm spray of the shower wash over his face. Stiles has to hold back a moan at the thought of what he and Peter are going to do for the next twelve hours.
The mere thought of it makes Stiles want to drop to his knees.
Again.
Stiles' normally steady hands tremble slightly in anticipation. He soaps up quickly, calling out for Peter to come into the bathroom.
Silent, prowling footsteps stop just outside of the shower curtain and then Stiles hears an amused, "You caterwauled, baby?"
Stiles pokes his head out from behind the plastic curtain and pouts. "Now that's just mean, Peter."
Peter huffs quietly and rests his forearm against the wall next to the spot where Stiles is peeking out from, leaning forward until their lips are only inches apart. "Did you need something specific?" Peter asks seductively. "An extra pair of hands, perhaps?"
Stiles lets his face drift even closer to Peter's. He watches as Peter presses closer in response, the werewolf's eyes flashing blue and his breath hitching.
It's when Peter's cheeks flush slightly that Stiles lets his lips stretch into a cheeky grin. "Actually, no," Stiles answers, pulling himself back quickly. "I just wanted to ask you to bring my bag into the bathroom." Stiles winks and then yanks the curtain shut.
A feral growl fills the room, making Stiles laugh silently in victory.
"Mother Moon, you're a tease, aren't you?" Peter rumbles. Stiles can hear him grumble to himself, the words becoming fainter as Peter exits the bathroom.
Stiles has to bite down on his knuckles to keep his laughter contained when Peter stomps back into the room, dropping Stiles' duffle bag onto the floor in a way that can only be described as a werewolf assassin's blue ball-fueled temper tantrum.
Try saying that five times fast.
"Thank you, Daddy!" Stiles sing-songs cheerfully, voice warbling with suppressed laughter.
He showers off the suds on his body leisurely, shutting off the water before grabbing one of the towels hanging next to the bath.
Stiles pats himself down and tosses the towel over the curtain rail. He patters over to his duffel and scrounges through it, pulling out his favorite sleepwear set.
God, his Daddy is going to love this.
Stiles puts his clothes on the sink basin, running a comb through his damp hair before mussing it up artfully and letting it fall gently around his face.
He smiles to himself in the mirror before grabbing the bottle of lube he keeps in the side pocket of his bag.
Nimble fingers and an already thoroughly ravaged backside make his preparation quick, and by the time he's ready to get dressed, Stiles is already half under.
He breathes in and out slowly as he pulls on a fresh pair of panties, knowing deep down in his gut that this—this right here in a shitty Miami hotel room—is the start of something new. Something real and strong and likely to last the rest of his life.
Stiles isn't quite sure where the certainty is coming from, but it's there, thick in the air like the steam from his shower. He feels it in the ache in his chest and in the throb of his ass.
Stiles trusts it, whatever it is, because for a guy like Stiles, trusting his instincts is the only way to live.
He twirls a bit when he gets his underwear seated perfectly on his narrow hips. They're silk, a soft baby-doll pink, and bikini-cut. They're covered in artful layers of ruffles, and two bows hold the whole ensemble together where they're tied at his waist.
They're completely and utterly ridiculous, and one of his favorite pairs.
Stiles grabs his oversized gray sweater and pulls it on over his head, letting the sleeves cover his hands and the stretched neck hang off of his right shoulder.
He sits down on the toilet and unrolls his thigh-high socks. They're a lighter shade of gray, knitted with two light pink stripes circling the tops.
When Stiles is done, he stands and looks himself over in the mirror.
Fuck, he's hot.
He gives himself a confidence-boosting bro-nod in the mirror, turns the lights off, and then slinks out of the bathroom.
Stiles finds his Daddy sitting on the edge of the queen-sized bed, jacket and tie off and his shirt partially unbuttoned. He's on the phone, his words terse and strangely soft—like he has something important to say, but he hates who he's saying it to.
Stiles hears the words human and can't be and are you sure?
And then Peter's shoulders grow tenser and his phone creaks slightly under his tightening grip—and Stiles can't stand the sight of him upset, so he does the one thing that he can.
Stiles lets his body language grow softer, slumping against the wall where he's standing. He uses his free hand to scrunch up his sweater, angling his bared hip outward to show off the pretty ruffles and bows of his panties.
He lets his mind drop even further, Peter's mere presence in the room just enough to let Stiles' hindbrain know that it's safe to do so.
It's a fucking rush, exactly like it was in the bathroom only a few short hours ago.
Stiles lets himself grow soft for Peter, and then he bites his lip and lets out a soft and needy, "Daddy."
Peter's double-take will forever be imprinted on Stiles' brain.
The man looks over quickly, his eyes still distant while he listens to whoever's on the other end of the line. And then a split second passes, Peter's eyes widening as he looks back at Stiles.
Peter's eyes glaze over, his mouth parting in surprise.
Stiles pads over to where his Daddy is sitting, motioning for the man to scoot back a little. When Peter complies readily, Stiles slowly crawls on the bed, settling himself on top of his Daddy's lap.
He braces one sock-covered knee on each side of Peter's thick thighs, gently squirming in Peter's lap until Stiles is able to settle his ruffled ass right on top of his Daddy's cock.
Stiles takes the phone out of Peter's hand, and the man doesn't even blink. He hangs up the phone and then tosses it over his shoulder.
Peter lets out a shaky breath as Stiles places both of his hands on Peter's broad shoulders, stroking and petting until the man is panting in his arms.
"Do you want me, Daddy?" Stiles whispers.
Peter nods quickly, the werewolf leaning forward for a kiss.
"Okay then," Stiles breathes, lips hot and wet against Peter's. He lets his hands travel down the muscular expanse of Peter's chest until he finds the man's belt buckle. Stiles makes quick work of Peter's belt and pants, reaching one hand inside and pulling his Daddy's cock out.
"Okay," Stiles repeats, kneeling up and over Peter's hard length until he feels it pressed against the split of his cheeks.
Peter moans, burying his face in Stiles' neck and his hands in the ruffles of Stiles' silky, pink underwear.
Stiles reaches a hand back and slides his panties to the side. He takes ahold of Peter's cock and slowly lowers himself down.
Peter jolts under him, twitching violently and looking back up at Stiles worriedly, groaning out, "Wait—Stiles! Are you…? We didn't—" Peter falls silent as Stiles easily glides down his cock, coming to rest fully in the man's lap.
Peter's hands tighten and release their grip on Stiles' ass in rapid, little movements. He looks into Stiles' eyes dazedly. "So warm, Stiles," he practically purrs. "You…for me. So hot and slick and open." Peter gasps against Stiles' lips. "Just for me."
"Yes, Daddy," Stiles whispers, reaching out to balance his hands on Peter's shoulders. Stiles rocks his hips, clenching around the cock in his ass until they both moan. "Just for you."
It's practically silent as Stiles leisurely fucks himself on Peter's cock. He starts by raising himself up and down on his knees, bouncing in slow motion as he lets himself feel every inch of his Daddy.
Then he decides he wants it even slower, so Stiles sinks all the way down and grinds his hips.
Peter whines into his mouth, their tongues tangling wetly as Stiles rolls his hips in circles and clenches rhythmically around Peter's cock.
He fucks himself on his Daddy's cock until he can feel Peter's hands on his ass start to shake, until he notices fangs start to bite at his lips and the cock inside him starts to twitch.
"Daddy, please," he begs softly, knowing that this one's for his Daddy. That this time is all about Peter's relaxed shoulders and darkened eyes and fucked-out hair.
That it's all about what Stiles can do for his Daddy.
How he can be so good.
Peter moans. His hips start to rock up into Stiles in short, aborted thrusts.
"Daddy I want it," Stiles pants, sweat trickling down the backs of his knees. He leans forward and nibbles at Peter's ear. "I want it," Stiles whispers. "Daddy, I want your cum. Please fucking come in my ass, I need it so bad."
Peter trembles underneath him, his thrusts becoming more and more erratic until Stiles can't take it anymore.
He throws his weight forward, knocking Peter backward until he's sprawled on the bed. Stiles straddles Peter's waist and slams himself down to the root.
Peter howls as Stiles tightens around him, fingers puncturing the sheets. Stiles gets a good grip on Peter's pectorals and then starts to fucking ride the man into the mattress.
"I fucking want it," Stiles pants harshly. The sound of their coupling fills the room—the breathy sighs and soft squelch from earlier turning into desperate huffs for air and skin slapping against skin.
Stiles keeps his pace brutal and efficient, his fingers digging into Peter's chest as he twerks his ass on Peter's cock.
"Give it to me," Stiles begs. "Please, Daddy! Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease—"
And then Peter fucking snarls, back bowing and he fucks up mindlessly into Stiles. He moans and moans as he fills Stiles' ass, Peter's hands darting out and gripping Stiles' waist to ride out his orgasm.
"Yes!" Stiles breathes. "Yes. Thank you—thank you so much, Daddy! Oh, fuck!" Stiles rolls his hips as Peter comes down from his high.
Neither of them can look away from the other.
A few minutes pass before both of their breathing evens out. Stiles leans forward and rests his head on Peter's chest, snuffling into the lightly furred area over his heart. He feels one of Peter's hands sneak between them and curl around his aching erection.
"Not yet," Stiles says, lifting his head to meet Peter's questioning gaze. "I want you to fuck it out of me."
Peter growls, his hand squeezing once around Stiles' cock before letting go. He searches Stiles' face, and he must find whatever he's looking for because Peter sighs happily.
Contentedly.
"You're so fucking perfect, baby," Peter rumbles, shaking his head in awed disbelief. "I'm going to ruin you."
And he does.
Peter has him five more times that night.
He has him on his back, Stiles' long legs trembling around Peter's waist as he comes in his pink panties.
Peter has him with Stiles' face buried in the pillows, his legs spread obscenely as Peter ruts against the plump curve of his ass. Peter watches Stiles' hole as it swallows his cock, the whole picture perfected by the silk bows Peter uses holds onto as he comes.
He has him on the edge of the bed, Stiles' back laying flat and his legs bent up around Peter's shoulders as his Daddy kneels naked on the floor—Peter's tongue in his ass as he eats out Stiles until he comes again.
Peter has him like a bitch in heat, on the ground in front of the hall mirror. Stiles' knees rub raw against the scratchy carpet and Peter's claws trace red lines up and down his spine as he takes him savagely. Stiles lowers his shoulders to the floor, curving his body at the perfect angle for Peter to fuck into him with abandon. Peter snarls when Stiles closes his eyes, fisting a hand through Stiles' hair and lifting his head until he has to meet Peter's feral, possessive gaze in the mirror. Stiles comes screaming, drool dripping down his face and Peter's own spend sliding down his thighs.
He has him in the early hours of the morning, both of them naked and sleepy and just a little too sore. Peter works him over until Stiles cries, body shaking and eyes burning with want.
When it's over—when both are too tired to continue and anything but sated—Peter curls himself around Stiles, equal parts unconscious and aware of the rapidly cementing bond between them.
It's quiet at 3:17 am, and Peter is just working up enough courage in the dark to start the conversation that needs to be started, when all of a sudden Stiles whispers, "I don't want this to be over."
Peter tightens his hold around Stiles' middle and scents this beautiful, brave boy. "As far as I'm concerned," Peter says lightly. "This will never be over."
Stiles freezes in his arms.
Peter traces an idle thumb across Stiles' belly button. "You said you had friends that were werewolves, correct?"
"Yes," Stiles replies quietly, his heart beating faster with uncertain anticipation.
"Have they ever mentioned the concept of mates before?"
Stiles lets out a shuddering breath.
Oh.
Oh.
"Oh," he breathes out. "Oh, fuck."
"Exactly," Peter agrees.
Stiles' busy mind falls quiet, and then it's just him and Peter together in a room. No doubts, no worries, no thoughts about the Agency or the real-life consequences of two of the world's top assassins becoming completely and thoroughly compromised.
By each other.
"I've always wanted a partner," Stiles says slowly, the words tasting like candy on his tongue. He thinks about the aches and pains in literally all of his muscles and smiles. "And it looks like you might even keep up with me."
Peter retaliates by tweaking Stiles' right nipple sharply. "Cheeky, darling. Are you looking for a spanking?"
Stiles groans. "No, Daddy."
"Well then behave, pet," Peter murmurs in his ear. "We have a hell of a day tomorrow and I don't want to stay up all night to teach you a lesson." He tweaks Stiles' nipple again. "But I will if I have to, baby."
"I'll be good," Stiles giggles, completely and utterly lost in the sensation of being Peter's. "I'll be the best you ever had."
"I know, Stiles," Peter says quietly as he snuggles them further into the sheets. "You already are."