And let slip the dogs of war

None of your business.

[cryouthavoc]

werealldamned replied to your post:

@cruentusreus because you hurt me on the regular...

THIS IS SO MUCH BETTER THAN THE ACTUAL SCENE. (which i only experienced through gif posts… )

THIS IS ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND PERCENT CARLOTA’S FAULT

[cryouthavoc]

@cruentusreus because you hurt me on the regular

Time seems to slow down, the space between one heartbeat and the next a yawning chasm. 

He thinks of Malia, a sickly, sticky warmth in his gut that he cannot focus on, or it will be his undoing. He’s lived for family before, he’s nearly died for them, and all it got him was trapped in a prison of his own body. 

His charred body. The dirt beneath the Hale house. Eichen. The train station. His life is littered with prisons, and his sole focus needs to be freedom. Getting away. Being safe. 

“Stall them.”

He’s had the thought too many times in the last few hours. Riding the storm forever with you wouldn’t be so bad. What’s a dingy train station, devoid of color and light, if the company is good?

Peter would have made it work. A prison is a prison is a prison. Stiles is a prison all his own. A prison made of flesh and blood and bone that Peter closed the door on with his own two hands. 

But Malia is out there, and he can’t spend eternity knowing that he failed her. The way Talia failed him. 

Stiles is wearing his panic in fifty foot neon swathes. The words gather on the tip of his tongue. One last chance before he walks into the fire again. 

Born wolves mate for life. 

He smiles. 

“Use your head.”

[cryouthavoc]

cruentusreus:

“Yeah, well…some opinions matter.” Even if they’re not his own. 

He remembers all too clearly the look on Scott’s face when he thought Stiles had snapped and killed Donovan. That he’d slammed his wrench on that kid’s head over and over until he’d all but cracked it open.

He doesn’t want to see that expression directed at him again.

“The moment you base your decisions on emotion and not logic, you’re lost. Chasing someone’s approval is always a losing game.”

He’s speaking from experience. Loads of it. His mother. His sister. Derek. 

“And your Alpha isn’t exactly the best role model, now is he?” This conversation will be shut down fast. A loss of forward motion, just to take a pot shot. 

“He kills when it suits his agenda, he abandons when he feels like it, and he’s always got the moral high ground. Even when you’ve only done what needs doing.”

[cryouthavoc]

cruentusreus:

Regardless.

“…That’s not always a good thing.” Because they can’t become the villains in the story. And Scott is still set on saving as many people as they can, and that usually means finding ‘another way’.

“That’s a matter of opinion.”

Peter Hale is not the villain in his own story, and he finds it trite and tiresome to be considered the villain in anyone else’s. His life is his own, complicated by loss and choices and his own emotions. 

He’s not going to stand idly by. 

[winchestress]

make me choose from sipral: Peter&Stiles or Peter&Lydia

[cryouthavoc]

cruentusreus:

“But I am afraid.” Stiles latches onto that tiny flaw in Peter’s reasoning like man desperate to drown in denial. And yeah, he realizes what he’s doing. But he’s not ready to see it any other way. Logical or not, it can’t be true. 

“That’s me, that’s my thing, alright? I live in a perpetual state of anxiety and mild tachycardia, which according to literally every other werewolf out there — it stinks something awful. So…—” He nods. A sharp jerk of his head that might have just given him whiplash, but panic has never been all that kind to him or his motor functions.

So maybe get your nose checked and reconsider your options.

That is the tiniest, most inconsequential nitpick he has ever seen, Stiles. 

"Not afraid to do what’s right.” His correction comes with a lifted finger, and a haughty shake of his head that screams you’re better than this. “Which is a turn of phrase, not an actual state of emotion.”

He’s already worked up, what’s another step forward?

“Meaning that...” It’s a slow drawl, and he takes his time looking up and down the length of him.

“You get things done. Regardless.”

[cryouthavoc]

cruentusreus:

“Because it doesn’t make sense!” He snarls. A lash of anger, sharp and quick as the rise of his heartbeat. That residual rage the Nogitsune left behind, that gives him no room to breathe.

Stiles’ hands curl into fists. Shake with the urge to hit, to scratch, to push Peter away. He wants to fight, he wants to run, his instinct is cutting the air off his brain and he just can’t think.

“It doesn’t make sense.”

“It makes perfect sense.”

He’s unmoving, unchanged in the face of that rage. Stiles has come a long way from the cowering teenager in the parking garage. He’s found those instincts inside of himself, and it warms the cockles of his cold black heart to see him finally fighting back. 

Not that fighting back is going to do him any good. 

“I need someone tactically inclined. Creative, but still pragmatic. Someone not afraid to do what needs to be done. Knowledgeable.”

[cryouthavoc]

How they got here is irrelevant.

What matters is the sheen of sweat down Stiles’ spine, the way his thighs tense and the loose papers on the table he’s bent over crinkle when he moves.

It’s a power play, stripping every last stitch of clothing from him and staying fully clothed. Stiles glares and mumbles, but any argument dies on his tongue when Peter’s tongue presses inside of him.

Patience is a weapon.

Peter wields it with precision, spreading Stiles open with big palms to spear his tongue inside of him, to feel the muscles flutter and clench around him. Over and over, long past swearing and pleading. Until that rabbit fast heartbeat kicks into overdrive and release in on the horizon.

Stiles calls him something that would make a convict blush, when he pulls back. But Peter only smiles that predator smile and fans fingertips down the knobs of his spine, giving him time to gulp in air and collect himself before he’s pushing a finger inside.

He’s pliant beneath him, body greedy. One finger becomes two, twisting and scissoring. Peter’s blood roars in his ears and howls in his blood, but his pace never quickens. Two fingers become three, and Stiles’ hands are scrabbling against the messy surface of his desk.

“No condom.” Stiles scoffs and starts to push up onto his elbows to argue, but Peter bears down with his weight against his back, working zipper and button open with one hand while he whispers against the shell of his ear. “I can’t catch anything and you’ve don’t have anything.”

And then, a killing blow as the head of his cock brushes against Stiles’ hole. “And I want you to feel all of it.”

A shuddering breath, and a nod. Stiles is smart enough to know where permission is needed, blowing out a noisy breath as Peter sinks into him, inch by inch, devastatingly slow. And when he’s buried to the hilt, Stiles grabs hold of the side of his desk, and waits.

And waits.

Peter is stock still behind him, breath quiet. “Go on, then.”

Stiles’ glare is withering, but he’s too worked up to argue, hips snapping backwards. Peter wants nothing more than to grab hold of slim hips and take. He wants to sink his teeth into a freckled shoulder, to rut like an animal.

All he does is stay still as Stiles pushes back against him with the single minded determination that comes with arousal, and the need for release. A hand creeps down between Stiles’ legs and Peter swats it away.

You’ve got to be kidding me. Again, Peter lays across his back, bearing down on him, only this time Stiles answers with a ragged, breathy moan. “He’s waking up. I can hear the hinges on the recliner squeaking.”

Stiles freezes. Clamps down. Peter’s lashes flutter. His voice doesn’t change. “Better hurry.”

Stiles moves like a man possessed. When his hand goes to slip between his legs again, Peter catches it, and the other with his own, interlacing their fingers into a prison against the desk’s top. Stiles rocks back into him, explosive breaths pushed out with the force of where their bodies meet.

I can’t. It’s practically a sob, and Peter can smell the liquid building at the base of Stiles’ cock, he can hear the thundering heartbeat that pushes through his veins. His lowered voice is little more than hot air against Stiles’ cheek. “Yes you can.”

He could kick those feet out of the way, spread his legs sinfully wide and have them both over the edge in less than a minute. But Peter stays his ground, hot and hard and twitching inside of Stiles. “He’s at the foot of the stairs.”

Stiles’ thighs are shaking with effort, and the shift up onto the balls of his feet to relieve the pressure gets him the perfect angle, ass slapping back against Peter’s abdomen. He’s close now, forehead pressed against the desk, chanting come on come on come on under his breath like a command.

Peter is desperately close to the edge, biting down on the inside of his cheek to flood his mouth with the taste of iron. The third step groans beneath the sheriff’s weight.

Stiles’ thrusts go erratic against him, the desk thumping against the wall in staccato bursts. When he comes, it’s a keening sound, shooting thick white strands across the front of his desk, back arched fiercely as he shudders through it.

“Good boy.” Peter pats him on the ass as he pulls out, still hard and aching. It isn’t pleasant, forcing his erection back into his pants. “Maybe next time you’ll do well enough to get the best part.”

By the time the Sheriff opens the door to Stiles’ bedroom, he’s covered up to his chin in blankets, the curtains fluttering over his open window.

[cryouthavoc]

cruentusreus:

It’s not fair. And it shouldn’t get under his skin like this. 

But that terrible little voice in the back of his mind is doing a great job of pointing out that Peter’s telling the truth. That he weighs every option before getting involved. That, for all his games and misdirection, he’s never really lied to Stiles. Not about this.

“But…—why?”

“Will an itemized list actually make a difference in your thought process?” They both know the answer to that is a resounding no. Peter could line out his every saving grace, the things about him that make him stand above the rest of Beacon Hills, and it wouldn’t change a thing. 

Hate yourself enough and even the truth looks skewed to your eyes. 

“You know I’m telling the truth. Just like you know you’re going to tuck tail and run any minute now, because God forbid something not fit your narrative.”

An escape, offered up easily and free of strings. 

[cryouthavoc]

cruentusreus:

“…And the reward is really worth that risk?” 

Because this is what really bothers him. What he can’t fathom. That Peter Hale would be so willing to wait him out, to play the long game on something like this. Because Stiles can’t possibly be worth that.

That flicker of gaze, that moment of doubt, it’s a tick in the ‘W’ column. He’s gotten beneath Stiles’ skin. 

“When have you ever known me to risk my neck for something that wasn’t worth it for me?”

Yes. 

He’s worth it. 

[cryouthavoc]

cruentusreus:

So, basically, it’s either choose Peter or die unfulfilled. Apparently he’s got a lot to look forward to in life. 

Peter could have left it at that. With the pack and the issues they keep sweeping under the rug. But he had to mention Derek. And the sting of the reminder is not enough to keep him from cutting right back.

“And you live out the rest of your days alone, with an unfinished game. Unfulfilled.”

Half the fun of this game is that he never lies to Stiles. Never. He may choose his truths carefully, he may display them in a way that works best for him, but they are always the truth. 

And this is the truth. He made his choice, and he will see it through to the end, no matter what. 

“No risk, no reward.”

[cryouthavoc]

cruentusreus:

“Yeah, but what if I’m never ready?” It’s less sharp, less barbed than he intended. Lost in his own twisted up thoughts and the reminder that Peter will probably outlive him anyway.

“You could wait too long.”

“Then you die unfulfilled and relying on your idiot friend.” 

It’s enough. The perfectly planned and executed potshot. If it were anyone else, his tongue would still. But it’s not anyone else. 

It’s Stiles. 

“Or alternately, you die unfulfilled, waiting on voicemails and bi-annual visits to keep you warm at night.”

[cryouthavoc]

cruentusreus:

“Yeah, so you keep saying.” 

He can feel his heartbeat rise, and his jaw clicks with annoyance. Because he knows Peter did it on purpose, and Stiles should really take up some meditation or breathing exercises at this point. Seriously, every. single. time!

“You got anything less vague than in time? I should probably clear my schedule for this momentous occasion.”

“Whenever you’re ready.”

There’s something, some nebulous something like pressure against his sternum. If Peter thinks too hard about it, his throat tightens, and he can’t breathe. 

How could you forget about me?

“I’m a patient man, Stiles. And born wolves live a very long time.”

And what does it say about him that he’s content to wait like some heeled dog while his nephew runs through the wilds of the jungle without much more than a backwards glance?

[cryouthavoc]

cruentusreus:

“And you’re waiting on my say so to take what you want?”

He’s actually considered it a few times. Too often, lately. 

At best because there’s something addicting about bouncing ideas off each other. And at his worst, because he knows he will not be so casually dismissed — and because for all his quips, Peter knows to take Stiles at his word when he suggests something a little more extreme.

How many lives could they have saved if they were willing to kill for this town?

It’s the sort of poisonous thinking that actually scares him. 

“Because you respect me?”

“I won’t force you.”

That much should be obvious. No matter what color his eyes are, Peter is an Alpha. And someone with true power? They don’t have to take. 

“I don’t have to.”

He doesn’t even have to stalk forward. But he does, because he enjoys it. Who wouldn’t like the way Stiles’ heartbeat kicks upwards every time he gets within arm’s distance. 

But there is no touch, hands loose at his sides. 

“You’ll come around, in time.”

[cryouthavoc]

@cruentusreus ( x )

“Respect.”

The word is chosen carefully, offered up in dulcet tones. He knows what Stiles expects to hear, and what he wants to hear, and those two lines get further and further apart as time goes by. 

It infuriates him. The more times he watches Stiles bend to Scott’s will, the more times he gives up instead of digging in, the more Peter wants to tear this idiotic, infantile pack apart with his bare hands. 

“Because I respect you.”

[trixietrotter]

steter + text messages part three [part one] [part two]

[prettiestcaptain]

“I don’t wanna be like you.”