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“Oh, bite me, zombie wolf,” Stiles grumbled absentmindedly, forgetting about his brain-to-mouth filter and the rest of self-preservation, in the thick of things.
When his ears caught up to his mouth, heat spread across Stiles’ cheeks like flames. But before he could add anything more sarcastic in his defense, Peter was boxing his frame against a wall, pressing their bodies close.
Stiles could feel his eyes rolling back in his head, when he shut them on instinct at a sudden movement. He barely stopped from betraying himself in a more obvious manner. He tried to control his other reactions but he knew it was to no use. He felt his heart thundering in his throat, desperately fighting down his inappropriate reaction at Peter’s proximity. Of course, this fucker was just as smooth with his stalking as he was with every other fucking thing.
Stiles went stock-still but he was trying to remember he was no prey. He might be simply human but he run with the wolves often enough, he knew the pack rules. Stiles knew, that Peter always saw him as just more or less sort of a pack-mate.
What he didn’t know, was that Peter was thinking more along the lines of simply mate, perhaps.
He could hide his eyes from Peter, the swell of his pupils at the implied manhandling but not his heart, his smell. Stiles’ heartbeat quickened at the barely there contact and he smelled so delicious right now, all that righteous indignation with a hint of desperately fought off desire.
Peter was still as careful as he had been every other time, making sure he didn't touch any of Stiles’ limbs or brush over any parts of his body without explicit consent.
As always in his own, special, predatory way. Where others would argue broken personal space, Peter simply presented possibilities.
His hands rested on the wall, claws digging into plaster next to Stiles’ head, as he closed the gap between them even more, to nose at Stiles’ beautifully exposed throat. Still, Peter’s breath was the only soft yet insistent touch at this show of begrudging submission, as he let his fangs ever so lightly linger over Stiles’ thundering pulse on the way to his ear.
Stiles went even more still, holding his breath at that.
Yet, the exact moment as Stiles’ self-delusion crumbled was unmistakeable. As the flow of lust won Stiles’ inside battle, the scent of pure want clogged Peter’s nostrils. He barely contained himself to not to roar in triumph at Stiles’ first, hesitant touch over his heart.
What a sweet victory this was.
Stiles’ reluctant surrender, when Stiles’ urge to feel Peter’s fangs against the rest of his skin; on his chest, his back, his stomach, everywhere, continued with desperate gasping for air and grasping over Peter’s frame. Peter revelled in the knowledge, that Stiles wanted to know what that would feel like. Wanted to know what Peter’s body would feel like under his own hands. How smooth the rest of that werewolf flesh was.
Peter was more that happy to oblige. At his own strategically chosen turf. With his strict terms and well chosen conditions.
In his own time, taking his sweet time, obviously.
In the meantime, there was always time for teasing.
“You really should refrain from saying that so often,” Peter mused, straight into Stiles‘ ear, finally nipping it lightly with his human teeth and getting a disappointed moan as he retreated, “someone might actually take you seriously one of these days.”