Sep 14, 2023
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incorrect quotes: 41/?
♜Pairing: Briles (+ Isaac) ♜Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Brett Talbot, Isaac Lahey ♜Tags/Warnings: Briles established relationship, alpha!Brett, explicit sexual content ♜Words: 6187 ♜Kinktober 2023: Sharing
ao3
a/n: I wish you a very happy birthday, @amatchinwater! 💖
———
sharing is caring
“Hey, you got a minute to talk?”
Stiles looks up from his files, quirking a brow as he studies Brett for a moment. “Sure?”
After closing the door behind him, Brett quickly crosses the distance and crouches down next to Stiles’ chair. There are only two instances when he acts like this; wanting to make peace after an argument, or when he wants Stiles to ask for a favor. They haven’t fought in a while. “You remember how we talked about that an alpha has to sometimes take care of their betas?”
Stiles raises his brows. “And how you’re not a fan of that tradition. Yes, I remember.” The first time Brett brought this topic up, Stiles had already read all about it — and he decided to date him anyway. He's aware that intimacy and physical contact have a very different meaning for werewolves, but he’s also aware that humans becoming members of a pack slowly changed the meaning of sex, especially for the alpha couple. Apparently, human mates turned the alpha more possessive and aggressive towards others and even the members of their own pack. Stiles could write a whole dissertation about how goddamn stupid it is to think a human getting involved with werewolves can’t protect themselves, but since Brett is against a lot of old traditions and never excluded him from anything dangerous, he didn’t have a reason to do so yet.
“That didn’t change.” Brett pulls his shoulders up and sighs.
“I can feel a ‘but’ coming.”
Brett grimaces a little. “It’s about Isaac.” They’ve talked a lot about Isaac in the past few days. Although he’s been with them for almost two months, it seems like he’s not fully integrated into the pack. There’s a distance there, one that’s been plaguing Brett. No pack activity seems to change that.
“So,” Stiles says, clearing his throat awkwardly, “you want to sleep with Isaac?” It will bother him, he’s not ever going to deny that. But he is also not going to stop Brett from doing it if he considers it absolutely necessary. Stiles did inherently agree to a more or less open relationship when he decided to date an alpha and continued to date him after they talked about everything.
“No.” Brett turns the desk chair Stiles is sitting on and slips between his thighs. Although Stiles isn’t a werewolf, he can’t deny that seeing Brett kneeling between his legs is doing things to him. It’s not a position an alpha would put themselves in usually, but Brett has never put himself above him in any way. They’ve always been equals, especially when it comes to decisions for the pack. “Isaac’s been in two other packs with you.” He straightens a little, just enough to wrap an arm around Stiles’ waist and pull him closer to the edge of his seat. “It’s possible he’s followed you to this one. It wouldn’t be the first time a werewolf instinctively anchors himself to a former pack mate, and with everything you two have been through…” he trails off, raising his brows.
Stiles blinks. “You want me to sleep with Isaac?”
Brett hums in agreement.
For a few moments, Stiles simply stares at his mate. Part of him still waits for the gotcha-moment, but Brett doesn’t really make these types of jokes. He probably mulled this over for at least a week, trying to figure out the best way to bring it up. Issue is, there is no best way to bring something like this up. Stiles has absolutely no idea what to say. Isaac is attractive, no doubt, and he totally would’ve been down to sleep with him — if he weren’t in a very committed relationship. Agreeing to this now feels weird. He clears his throat and runs his fingers through Brett’s hair. “What does Isaac say?”
“I haven’t spoken to him yet.”
Stiles draws his brows together. “And you’d be okay with it?”
“I’ll be in the room.”
“Babe.” Stiles puts two fingers underneath Brett’s chin, tipping his head a bit further back. “That’s not what I asked.”
Brett grimaces and ducks his head, cheeks flushing slightly. It’s such a rare sight, something that happened the last time the day Brett asked him out for the very first time. He’s been so awkward and unsure back then. This side of Brett startled him all those years ago, it’s not any less surprising now. “You know I love you, right?”
The smile slips from Stiles’ features as the words sink in. Nothing good ever starts with ‘you know I love you, right?’. Absolutely nothing.
“No.” Brett is instantly alert, straightening and reaching up to cup his cheeks. “No, don’t go into panic mode. I just want to—” he cuts off and closes his eyes, taking a deep breath as if to steady himself. “I’d hate to see you with somebody else, but watching you and Isaac... I don’t know.”
Stiles blinks as realization dawns on him. “You’d be into that? Watching me and Isaac have sex?” He’s not exactly turned off by that admission. It’s more that he’s confused. Although Brett isn’t outright jealous, he’s proven to be very possessive which, again, is on par for mates. Stiles can feel the same tug of possessiveness whenever Brett is close with someone else. So, hearing this is surprising.
For a moment, Brett studies him and presses a finger to his bottom lip.
Out of instinct, Stiles pokes it with his tongue.
“No,” Brett admits then, shaking his head for good measure, “watching you be good for my beta— making him feel good, welcoming him... that’s what I’d be into.” There’s a hint of something unspoken, of something Brett has never outright said or asked him, but something that’s been floating around in his mind, nonetheless. Nature versus nurture. Brett is undoubtedly raised to fit seamlessly into the human society. That does not mean he isn’t fully in tune with his werewolf, and that side of him got stronger after becoming the alpha. There are little things that are standing out. He’s more protective, less reckless, almost responsible, and he started proving that he could provide for Stiles as well as the pack.
But there’s something else too.
Although Brett would never dare to treat Stiles as anything but his equal, he’s become increasingly frustrated when Stiles outright defied him. After all, he is the alpha, the leader of the pack. Brett’s word is law.
That’s how his wolf wants it.
Stiles cocks his head to the side. They both know he’ll never submit to Brett or anyone. That’s not who he is, and Brett would never dare to force him. Thing is, Stiles has often thought about finding a compromise, a way to ease Brett’s wolf without compromising their everyday life. “You want me to be a good boy?” Although Stiles has been thinking about it for a while, hearing these words out loud is still a bit jarring.
But Brett’s eyes flash red for the fraction of a second, proving that Stiles hit the nail on the head. He licks his lips and pulls off the chair on his lap within a second, arms wrapped tight around his waist. “I love you,” he tells him, lips brushing over his neck. “You’re so good for me.”
Stiles chuckles. “I know, but I still have to work.”
“Take a break.” Brett nips on his skin, looking up at him with an almost wolfish grin.
“Go talk to Isaac,” Stiles insists, cupping Brett’s jaw to gently push him away from him. “We can continue this when I’m done working.” The disapproving growl is not lost on Stiles, but he refuses to act on it. The only place he’ll ever consider to submit to Brett will be in the bedroom, and he can growl and hate it as much as he wants. “Priorities.” Stiles kisses the corner of Brett’s mouth.
Brett growls once more for good measure, but he relents. “Fine.” For an alpha, he knows how to act like a petulant child.
— — —
“Isaac’s here.” Brett slips into the guest bedroom and raises his brows. “You got out your best clothes, huh?” Scrunching up his nose, Stiles looks down on himself. He’s wearing one of Brett’s old college’s shirt and boxer briefs. Surely not his most attractive attire. “It’s comfortable,” he says with a shrug, “and I figured I won’t have to wear my clothes for too long anyway. So…” he trails off with a shrug.
Brett pulls him close by the hem of his shirt. “Are you still cool with this?”
“Yeah.”
“You need a bit more time for prep?”
Stiles squirms a little. “I did that in the shower.” The deal was for Brett to get him in the mood, but Stiles does not exactly need any help with that.
Chuckling, Brett grabs his ass and pulls him closer. “Excited to sleep with Isaac?”
That answer is ‘yes, very’, but it feels wrong to admit that. He doesn’t want to lie either, so he ducks his head instead.
“That’s normal, you know?” Brett grabs his chin, still smiling genuinely. “You’ve been in three different packs. You’re bound to feel an intense connection with him. I’m surprised you two never had sex before.”
Even though Stiles’ view on sex is pretty casual, it’s nothing against a werewolf’s opinion on sex — outside of a relationship that is. They’re usually pretty loyal once they found a mate. “Are you okay with this?” Stiles raises his brows. It’s going to be weird to have Brett watch them the whole time, but he gets that his wolf would never allow anything else.
Brett kisses him briefly. “I love you.” Smiling, he steps back. That’s not exactly a ‘yes’, but before Stiles can point that out, Brett has settled into the corner of the room. With the only light source being the left of two lamps on the nightstands, the armchair, and with that Brett, is almost shrouded in shadows.
“You look like a bond villain,” Stiles informs him.
Brett flashes his eyes.
“Now you look like a demon.” Stiles shakes his head when Isaac knocks on the door. Softly, almost as if he hoped it would go unheard. Stiles mouths ‘be nice’ before moving to open the door. They all agreed that this could be stopped at any time, but Stiles still would prefer it happened before starting anything. After all, Isaac has a hard time fitting in already. There’s no need to make this anymore awkward.
Isaac blinks at him, hands pushed deep into the pocket of his pants. “Hi,” he says softly.
“Hey.” Stiles steps aside, gesturing for Isaac to come in. “Ignore Brett. He’s being a dramatic asshole.”
Although Isaac chuckles, he’s clearly nervous when he glances at his alpha. He briefly nods at Brett before turning back to Stiles. Neither will be able to ignore Brett, but it’s probably still going to be the best if they at least pretend not to notice him. “You look…” Isaac trails off and sits down on the edge of the bed.
“Like I just rolled out of bed.” Stiles closes the door with a chuckle. He gets the feeling that Isaac is not going to be the one to make the first move. It’s not surprising, and to be honest, Stiles expected that. He rolls his shoulder and crosses the room. Flirting isn’t exactly his forte, but he’s pretty good at all the other stuff. Getting Isaac out of his shells should not be too hard.
Hopefully.
Stiles grabs his shirt by the back of his neck and pulls it over his head, tossing it in Brett’s general direction.
Isaac’s eyes widen slightly, but his gaze wanders over Stiles’ body regardless.
There used to be a time when Stiles would’ve shied away from it, yet Brett worshipping every inch of his body certainly did wonders for his confidence. That’s why he’s slipping onto Isaac’s lap without hesitation. “Hey,” he whispers again, chuckling softly as he bumps their noses together.
Isaac doesn’t respond, body stiffening slightly. Still, he grabs Stiles’ waist and tips his head back enough to give easy access to his mouth.
An opening Stiles surely isn’t going to miss. He cups his jaw and kisses him. As much as he’d love to ease Isaac into this, they are on a bit of a time limit here; Brett’s patience isn’t endless. So, Stiles grinds against Isaac, feeling elated at the soft gasp he gets in response. This whole thing may happen under Brett’s watchful eye, and there is a reason they’re having sex to begin with, but Stiles doesn’t want Isaac to think Stiles isn’t into it.
Because he is.
As confusing as the request was at first, Stiles can’t deny that he wants to have sex with Isaac.
But the werewolf stays passive even though he allows Stiles to deepen the kiss and starts kissing him back.
“You can stop at any time,” Stiles reminds him between kisses, “it’s okay.” Although, admittedly, it would suck.
Isaac shakes his head. “No, it’s just—"
It’s just Brett.
“Ignore him.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” Isaac mumbles and scrunches up his face adorably.
Thing is, it’s really not. Stiles doesn’t have to be a werewolf to be fully aware of Brett staring at them. “Focus on me,” he tells Isaac, sliding one hand between them. “Just me.” He palms Isaac through his jeans, loving the way his eyes flutter and his lips part for a soft gasp. “Just. Me.” Smiling, Stiles kisses him again, and it seems as if Isaac’s courage follows his hard-on.
Finally, he slides his hands down to Stiles’ ass and deepens the kiss by tracing his tongue with his own. About fucking time. Brett isn’t the most patient of people, and he’s certainly not going to wait forever until Isaac got his shit together. He’d rather fuck him right in front of him to show him what he’s missing out on.
Stiles moans into the kiss.
That thought really shouldn’t be this much of a turn-on. Yet, here he is. Stiles gets the weird feeling that he’s going to learn a lot about himself today — and he’s not going to complain about it. Brett and his sex-life can only be improved by this; not that it isn’t fucking amazing already.
“You’re still very dressed,” Stiles mutters into the kiss. Not that getting fucked in clothes doesn’t have its very own appeal, but Stiles does prefer to have his partner naked. There’s something about the skin-on-skin contact that cannot be beaten by anything else.
Isaac gets to his feet, lifting Stiles without any issues, before tossing him onto the bed with a grin. Looks like someone’s gotten a bit more comfortable.
Good.
Without wasting a second, Isaac strips down to his boxers. His body is to die for, his dick a hard outline against his tight boxer briefs. He’s painfully attractive, and if Stiles is entirely honest, he can’t wait to get his hands on him — to taste him.
Stiles licks his lips and inches to the edge of the bed. Beckoning Isaac to come closer, he sits back on his heels. This is about Isaac. This is about making Isaac feel comfortable, about making him feel good.
For a second, Stiles cuts his gaze to his boyfriend, who stays unmoving in the corner of the room. His eyes are trained on him. Stiles wonders if Isaac can feel it too, the heaviness of those blue eyes; the way it’s making him feel hot and cold — the way it makes him want to please Brett. He wants, no, needs to hear him say he did good.
Still looking at Brett, Stiles hooks his fingers under the waistband of Isaac’s boxer briefs. There’s a nod. Short. Almost curt. And it snaps Stiles back into the moment. He looks up at Isaac, who stares down at him, wide-eyed. His hands are frozen in mid-air, like he stopped himself halfway through running his fingers through Stiles’ hair. When Stiles pulls his boxers down, Isaac, too, snaps back into motion. He curls his fingers into Stiles hair, guiding him towards his dick.
Moaning, Stiles wraps his lips around the tip. Heat rushes through his body when Isaac curses above him, voice nothing more than a breathless whisper. His fingers twitch in his hair, and something about the impact fills Stiles even further with the insane need to please. For the first time in forever, he doesn’t have the urge to be a little shit. He wraps a hand around Isaac’s dick and takes him deeper into his mouth, flattening his tongue against the underside of his dick. The tangy taste makes his mouth water.
He bobs his head, making sure to pay attention to every part of Isaac’s dick, tightening his lips around the tip — taking as much as he could and more each time until he pulls his hand away and grabs Isaac’s hips with both.
Isaac runs his fingers through Stiles’ hair almost like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands otherwise — until his grip turns near painful when his dick hits the back of Stiles’ throat.
Taking a deep breath through his nose, Stiles pulls back again. It’s best not to push his gag reflex. Stiles looks up at Isaac, flushing with pleasure at the bright yellow eyes staring right back at him. It’s entrancing and almost as hot as Brett’s red eyes.
Almost.
“Isaac.” Although Brett’s voice is light, a ripple of unease cuts through the other wolf as he turns his head to look at his alpha. Brett approaches him, face unreadable even though his dick is so hard it has to be uncomfortable in those jeans.
Stiles pulls away and sits back on his heels, shifting uncomfortably as he watches both werewolves.
Brett says something Stiles can’t quite catch, but Isaac merely nods, shoulders relaxing again. To Stiles’ surprise, Isaac’s even grinning when he locks eyes with hm again. That’s new. Isaac’s been nervous around Brett on the best of days. No wonder. After all, his track record with alphas isn’t exactly the best. The poor guy probably worried Brett would rip his head off since Scott threw him against a wall twice for simply liking Allison; yet here he is, about to fuck his alpha’s mate.
Werewolves.
“Someone’s impatient,” Isaac informs him, nodding in Brett’s direction with a sly grin.
Brett rounds the bed. “So cocky already.” His gaze is locked on Stiles, burning with both heat and amusement. “Looks like,” he continues, his voice dropping to a low whisper, “someone’s got a magic mouth.” Chuckling darkly, Brett wraps his fingers around Stiles’ throat and pulls him up until he can brush their lips together. “I love you, gorgeous,” he all but paints the words against Stiles’ mouth. “You’re doing so well.”
Stiles keens softly, reaching up to pull Brett down for a proper kiss.
“No.” Brett grabs his arm, stopping him in his tracks. “It’s still Isaac’s turn.”
A shudder runs down his spine. Isaac’s turn. It should make him feel weird, instead it makes his dick twitch in his already too tight briefs. There’s a part of him that still fully believes he shouldn’t be this excited about fucking Isaac. He’s in love with Brett.
And yet.
Dragging his thumb over his mouth, Brett lets go of him. He doesn’t sit back down in his corner, however. Instead, he gets comfortable on the bed, leaning against the headboard, legs spread open almost invitingly.
Stiles nearly loses his mind as he forces himself to turn away from him again. Brett is doing it on purpose, he knows that. He wants to push him, like the asshole he is. But Stiles is not going to cave. Two can play this game.
Isaac looks at him, hands awkwardly in the air like he’s not entirely sure how to continue now that Brett is right there, which is most likely the exact reason Brett did it. His methods may be questionable, but they usually work.
It’s annoying.
Stiles pushes the thought out of his mind. For a few heartbeats, he studies Isaac’s face – the dirty blonde curls hanging into his forehead, his sharp jawline, the bright blue eyes, and his mouth, so damn kissable. He all but lurches forward and does just that, pressing their mouth together in a greedy kiss that’s too much teeth for a couple of seconds. Stiles buries his fingers in the soft curls, pulling Isaac down and closer to him.
That’s all it takes to get Isaac right back where he left off. His hands are on his ass almost immediately. Kneading. Pressing and grinding their dicks together in a delicious way.
But he’s really not in the mood to drag this out any longer. “Fuck me,” Stiles whispers, about ready to beg him. He hasn’t needed anyone inside of him as desperately since the first time he slept with Brett – and the time after that, when they finally solidified their mating bond. The first month after the mating bite, Stiles had more sex than other people have in their whole lifetime.
Isaac breaks the kiss and pushes Stiles onto his back, his mouth hot on his neck and shoulders and chest as he kisses his way down Stiles body, nipping his skin but never risking leaving a mark. He not deterred by Stiles’ fingers in his hair or nudging Brett’s foot with his elbow. His chin brushes against his dick, and his stupid curls tickling the inside of his thigh make Stiles whine.
“Please,” he begs, tugging in Isaac’s hair. “Please, please, please.”
Isaac chuckles.
Hot breath hits the wet spot on Stiles’ boxers. The sensation makes him nearly jump out of his skin.
But Isaac doesn’t tease him any longer. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of Stiles’ boxer briefs and pulls them down, tossing them into the corner of the room. As Isaac crawls back between Stiles’ legs, his gaze jumps from Stiles’ dick, to his face before he seemingly locks eyes with Brett.
There’s a new tension in the room, and suddenly, Stiles realizes that he’s in bed between two very lethal werewolves. This whole thing stands and falls with everyone being on board with everything that might happen – even someone stopping this.
It really shouldn’t turn him on as much as it does. Right now, if Brett were to allow it, Stiles would happily be fucked by them at the same time. That would certainly do wonders for the pack bond. Stiles shudders at the thought, clenching around nothing. He really needs someone to fuck him in the next couple of minutes, or he will do it himself. Stiles cranes his neck, looking up at Brett. His face is near unreadable, eyes ever so slightly narrowed – like it hits him only now what’s about to happen.
“Please,” Stiles whines, reaching a hand back. Awkwardly, he pats Brett’s thigh, fingers ghosting over his sweatpants until he’s able to palm his dick.
The moment he does, Brett’s fingers curl around his wrist in an iron grip. “I think I said no, didn’t I?” Oh, that’s his alpha voice. “Get on your hands and knees.”
Although he doesn’t look at him, Stiles knows this command is directed at him. But he can do that. He can totally do that if it means Isaac can fuck him in the very, very near future. Stiles rolls onto his stomach and hoists himself onto his hands and knees. Today isn’t about intimacy, not really. This is happening to forge a connection, to force Isaac to stop holding back.
Brett tosses Isaac a condom and locks eyes with Stiles. His fingers run over Stiles’ cheek, making him shudder with the touch alone. Brett smirks as he presses his thumb against Stiles’ bottom lip.
Almost out of instinct, Stiles pokes it with his tongue.
“He’s ready,” Brett’s voice is nothing more than a whisper. “You can fuck him.”
That seems to be all the permission Isaac needs. He grabs Stiles’ ass, spreading him open, and for a few seconds, nothing else happen.
Stiles can feel heat creep into his cheek at the thought of Isaac just staring at his ass – a thought that’s flying out the window when Isaac’s dick finally joins the fun. He grinds against him, hellbent on teasing Stiles just a little longer. Clenching his teeth, Stiles shoots him a look over his shoulder. “Isaac,” he snaps, “if you don’t-”
The press of Isaac’ dick against his rim cuts him off. “I’m sorry?” His voice is innocent sweet, almost like he isn’t on the verge of fucking him. “You were saying?” He pushes in, and they both moan loudly.
Stiles rocks his hips back, needing all of Isaac inside of him right fucking now. He curses under his breath, curling his fingers into the sheets. Isaac’s fingers dig into his skin, and a part of Stiles hopes they’re going to leave little marks on his body; something to remember this by, so when he wakes up in the morning, he knows this wasn’t some kind of fever dream. Funny, how he’s never realized how much he wanted to sleep with Isaac until now. At this point, he doesn’t even care if it’s their pack bond or his own desire. Does Isaac feel it too? Stiles wants to know, but he’s not going to ask with Brett right there.
That feels like crossing a line.
Then again, Brett can probably smell it on him; how desperate he is for another guy’s dick. Guilt churns in his stomach as the feeling of betrayal joins his desire.
Brett kisses his forehead, so strangely gentle. “Relax, my love. You’re perfect.”
The words ricochet through him, and he whines softly. Stiles is torn between wanting Isaac to fuck him into the sheets and his need for Brett, his mate. Letting out a breath, Stiles lowers himself onto his forearms and leans his cheek against Brett’s thigh. As Isaac continues to sink into him, inch by torturous inch. It’s so fucking slow, Stiles wants to scream.
But when he finally, finally buried fully inside him, Isaac kisses his shoulder blades, first left than right. “Sorry,” his words are cool against Stiles’ skin, “sorry, this is... a lot.” So, he does feel it too. Good to know.
“I get it.” Stiles pushes himself up on his hands again and looks at Isaac over his shoulder. The werewolf looks utterly wrecked already, and Stiles wonders if it feels even more intense for him. It wouldn’t be the first time. Werewolves do have that benefit. “But I really-” Stiles grinds against Isaac, trying to get his point across “-need you to move.”
Preferably now.
Isaac doesn’t move immediately. Yet again, his gaze snaps to Brett. It’s a silent question for something.
“Oh,” Brett chuckles, running his fingers through Stiles’ hair. “He can take it.”
Before Stiles can even ask what he’s talking about, Isaac pulls back and snaps his hips forward. Stiles moans, hardly recovering from the first thrust before Isaac has found his rhythm. Hard. Fast. Barely holding back.
Stiles loves it. Maybe a little too much. There is something burning in his veins, something he’s never quite felt before — not like this, at least. Stiles remembers the addictive high of the mating bond, the strange warmth cocooning him for weeks after. If this is anything like this, this will have some interesting consequences.
But now, it’s probably too late to think about those.
It’s hard to think in general — at least about anything but Isaac trying his very best to fuck his brains out. If he keeps this up, nailing his prostate more often than not, Isaac might actually be successful a lot faster than Stiles would like to admit.
Cursing and moaning, usually at the same time, Stiles is trying to match Isaac’s rhythm; something that’s mostly impossible by how hard Isaac’s fingers dig into his skin. He’s taking over his body, claiming him for as long as Brett lets him — most likely chasing the same insane sensation that is drowning every corner of Stiles’ soul.
A soft moan reaches his ears.
Brett.
Stiles raises his head, nearly choking on air as he spots Brett’s fingers tight around his own dick. It shouldn’t be hot — it fucking shouldn’t. Brett shouldn’t be so turned on by Stiles fucking somebody else, and Stiles’ brain shouldn’t nearly short-circuit learning that Brett is getting off to it.
But damn, it’s one of the hottest things he’s seen.
Stiles reaches for Brett, curling his fingers into his blonde hair and crashes their mouths together. Finally, finally, Brett caves and kisses him back — and when Brett’s tongue brushes against his, and Isaac is still pounding into him just right, something snaps into place without any further warning. Stiles’ whole body stiffens as his orgasm slams into him without any warning – pleasure coursing through him like a tidal wave. He’s dimly aware of cursing against Brett’s mouth. Only a heartbeat later, Isaac’s weight comes crashing down on him, body shaking, and dick pulsing still deep inside of him.
Nobody ever told him that a pack bond snapping into place during sex almost rivals a mating bond.
Stiles blinks his eyes open, afterglow still lapping at his body, as hands are cupping his jaw and cheek. A shudder runs through Stiles’ body, his brain still too foggy to understand a single word that’s coming out of Brett’s mouth. It takes a hot minute until he connects the sounds to the movement of his lips. “Look at you,” Brett whispers, thumbs brushing over Stiles’ cheekbones, “so perfect.”
Isaac makes a quiet sound in the back of his throat then pushes himself u and pulls out only to collapse onto the bed right next to them again, spent and clearly deep in his afterglow. A sheen of sweat makes his curls stick to his forehead. Even looking as boneless as Stiles feels, Isaac is still unfairly attractive.
Never in his life has a pack bond snapping into place felt like that, and Stiles isn’t entirely sure if it was supposed to be this intense. He doesn’t get the chance to ask either because Brett is kissing him like a drowning person and pulling him closer.
Stiles’ heart is pounding in his chest, his body craving Brett as much as it’s pleading to slow down, to give him a chance to get over all that stimulation. “Wait,” he mutters into the kiss. “Hold on, give me-”
But Brett grabs his waist, whispering, “sorry, sorry.” as if he’s actively hurting him, or doing something Stiles isn’t down for.
Yes, Stiles would love to get a few seconds to catch his breath, and for everything to stop feeling like it’s too much. His nerves are on high alert, as if the pack bond snapping into place cranked his sensitivity up to a hundred. Still, he can tell that Brett isn’t entirely in control right now. He’s warned him about it, about his wolf’s need to reclaim, to drown Stiles in his scent again, to scrub Isaac away. There’s no anger in Brett’s touch, just the urgent need to fuck him that took over his entire body. Stiles knows the difference. They’ve had angry sex countless of times.
This isn’t it.
Brett’s fingers run over skin almost apologetically as he turns Stiles around, even chuckling softly as Stiles’ legs refuse to cooperate for a few seconds. Not that he needs them. Brett holds him with one hand, angling him in a way that makes it comfortable to lean against his chest. He lowers Stiles down until the tip of his dick is pressing against his hole. Despite having just been thoroughly fucked – or maybe because of it – Brett pushing in comes with an uncomfortable stretch.
Stiles squeeze his eyes shut. “Please,” he mutters, turning his head to speak against Brett’s throat. “Slow down. For me?” For them, more likely. Because Stiles wants it to be good for Brett as well. It should be more than just a fuck out of werewolf-principle.
The disapproving rumble is already answer enough, but Brett drives his point home by snapping his hips up and pulling Stiles fully onto his lap.
Stiles yelps then punches Brett’s thigh. “Fuck you.”
Brett sneaks his arms around his waist and kisses his jaw and cheek. “Sorry,” he whispers again. “Sorry, did I hurt you?”
“No.” Stiles takes a deep breath in through his nose and out through his mouth. He’s not entirely sure if this is one of the hottest things that happened to him, or if he wants to snap at Brett for being so fucking impatient. But he’s been warned. Still, he kind of expected to be pushed into the pillows and fucked.
Hard.
But he’s also not complaining. It’s beautifully intimate, the way Brett is slowly grinding against his ass. His arms are tight around him, fingers teasing his skin — and the way his dick is brushing up against his prostate is driving him slowly insane. As much as he wouldn’t have minded for Brett to make sure Stiles remembers who he belongs to, this is too good.
Brett rocks up into him, arms tightening. His breathing is shallow, fast, and Stiles can tell he’s close to his orgasm. “Babe, I need-” Brett cuts himself off, gasping into Stiles’ ear in a way that sends hot tingles down his body. “Relax, babe. Please.” He sounds way too desperate, too needy.
This is the hottest thing Stiles has ever heard.
He presses against Brett, rolling his hips, grinding down. Part of him wants to speed it up, wants Brett to cum so Stiles can hit the mattress and fall asleep. Another part of him would love to stay like this forever, wrapped up in this beautiful heat with Brett deep inside him — maybe even knotting him.
No sooner has the thought crossed his mind when he can feel Brett’s knot press against his rim. “Fuck,” he curses softly.
“I’m sorry.” Brett’s hot breath ghosts over his skin, thumb tracing invisible lines under his belly button.
Stiles really wants to tell him to shut up. There’s no reason to apologize. To be fair, Stiles should’ve probably expected this. It’s stupid he didn’t, but sometimes it’s so easy to forget that Brett is very much an alpha werewolf who is driven by his own instincts. He’s too Zen for his own good almost all the time. His words, however, leave his brain before he’s even got the chance to open his mouth as Isaac moves between his legs.
The grin on his lips speaks volumes, and he doesn’t hesitate. His lips wrap around Stiles’ dick in an instant.
The sensation alone nearly makes his brain melt.
Stiles lets his head fall back, shuddering and moaning. He curls his fingers into the sheets as his body struggles to figure out if it wants to press against Brett or thrust into the heat of Isaac’s mouth. This is nothing like using a sex toy when Brett sucks him off. This feels like fucking heaven. His dick is hard again, and when it hits the tip of Isaac’s throat and Brett’s knot finally slips in, he nearly combusts.
Stiles’ vision whites out for some glorious seconds. He arches his back, feeling Brett’s arms tighten even further around him as his hips move back and forth almost helplessly – locked into place by Isaac’s mouth working around him, and Brett’s dick pulsing deep inside him as he rides out his own orgasm. He cannot remember ever cumming this hard – or this fast for that matter – for a second time.
His body, however, goes from feeling absolutely amazing to too much in about two seconds. Hissing softly, Stiles curls his fingers into Isaac’s hair and pulls him off.
Isaac licks his lips, studying his face for a few seconds, before he leans up and kisses him. It’s a bold move, doing it with Brett not only still buried inside him, but also with his head right next to them.
Brett merely chuckles, either too high from his own orgasm or actually okay with this.
Sighing, Stiles parts his lips. He shudders at the taste of himself on Isaac’s tongue. If he’s honest, he didn’t know what to expect from this night, but it certainly wasn’t this. It was so much better than he could have imagined – and part of him wouldn’t mind doing it again. But not tonight or tomorrow, or even this week. He’s too fucking tired, his body painless and numb because of whatever werewolf magic Brett’s knot is working on him. He barely feels the stretch or pressure. Stiles is pretty sure his body is tricked into enjoying the sensation of being this full by some supernatural bullshit, but he doesn’t particularly mind.
When Isaac breaks the kiss, Stiles doesn’t bother to open his eyes. He leans back, pressing his face against Brett’s neck ready to pass out.
“I love you,” Brett whispers. Stiles hums in response.
-------
incorrect quotes: 29/?
♝Pairing: Stisaac ♝Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Isaac Lahey, Malia Tate ♝Tags/Warnings: mentions of domestic abuse, canon divergence, post canon ♝Words: 3264 ♝Bad Things Happen Bingo - Attacked In Their Sleep
♝Ao3
“Don’t fucking patronize me, Deputy,” Stiles warns. A shadow crosses the man’s features so quickly, Stiles almost misses it. Looks like he isn’t the only person running out of patience. “I can’t do anything with this.” he slaps his notes with the back of his hand. “There’s nothing I can do for you, Special Agent Stilinski.” His voice carries venom enough for at least three people. Stiles decides not to push it. “I want you to file a report.” “A report?” “Yes.” Stiles folds his hands on the desk and takes a deep breath. “I want you to file a report about this conversation because if something happens, everyone knows where to start.”
the wake-up call
“You’re an FBI agent.”
Stiles blinks. “What does that have to do with anything?”
The deputy glances at his notes and then back up at Stiles, crossing his arms over his desk. It is the universal sign of ‘I don’t take you seriously’. Great. “You’re an FBI agent,” the deputy repeats, “and she’s a girl who’s not gotten over you yet.”
Stiles wants to punch him. It took him ages to admit that a restraining order might be the way to go, and now he is sitting in front of a fucking idiot. Even if Malia weren’t a werecoyote, Stiles would still like to do something about her stalking him. “She broke into my apartment,” Stiles reminds him, “twice.”
Deputy Dipshit’s smile turns a little condescending. “You should change your locks then.”
“If you considered your notes, you’d know I did that.” Stiles crosses his arms over the desk as well, leaning closer to the guy and raises a brow. “Twice.” It is hard to gauge if this dude does all of this because he hates FBI agents or doesn’t believe girls could be dangerous in any shape or form. The most likely explanation is that he’s a fucking moron.
The deputy, Stiles should probably remember his name, huffs and leans back in his chair, now playing with his pen. He couldn’t act more disinterested if he tried. “That’s not enough for a restraining order.”
“What more do you want?” Stiles straightens again. His patience is very close to walk out of the door, and it*s not going to be fun when that happens. “Does she have to try and rip my throat out before you even consider taking me seriously?”
“Listen, son—”
“Don’t fucking patronize me, Deputy,” Stiles warns.
A shadow crosses the man’s features so quickly, Stiles almost misses it. Looks like he isn’t the only person running out of patience. “I can’t do anything with this.” he slaps his notes with the back of his hand. “There’s nothing I can do for you, Special Agent Stilinski.” His voice carries venom enough for at least three people.
Stiles decides not to push it. “I want you to file a report.”
“A report?”
“Yes.” Stiles folds his hands on the desk and takes a deep breath. “I want you to file a report about this conversation because if something happens, everyone knows where to start.” Quirking his brows, Stiles a finger against the back of his hand. “Let’s go. Type.”
— — —
“What do you mean, they can’t do anything?” Isaac sounds absolutely stunned.
Stiles slams his car door shut and sinks into his seat, squeezing his eyes shut for a few seconds. “Yeah,” he breathes, trying his best to gather his thoughts to the sound of rain hitting the roof and windows. A shudder runs down his spine. He drops his phone on the passenger’s seat and puts Isaac on speaker. “The fucker thought it’s funny an FBI agent is scared of a girl stalking him.” He wrestles out of his wet cardigan.
“Bloody hell.” Wood cracks under Isaac’s movements. “What are you gonna do?”
That’s a good question. Stiles runs a hand over his face, watching the grey world around him with a heavy heart. As much as he enjoys complaining about New York, this is his home. His friends are here, his work, his apartment. His job isn’t even the biggest issue. As a profiler for the supernatural division, he can work from everywhere. But that doesn’t change the fact that he doesn’t want to leave this city. He doesn’t want to be chased away. Sighing, he grips the steering wheel. “Guess I’ll have to invest in a security system.”
“I thought you wanted to get dogs?”
Stiles huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, that’s the plan.” His and Malia’s relationship has gone on so much longer than it should have. There were many things going on, and it’s not just about her desire to have a child, however, that conversation certainly made Stiles realize that they’re nearing the end. The issue wasn’t her wanting a child. Stiles would love to have kids in the future, just not with her. Admitting that to himself caused an avalanche of realizations Stiles is surprised he didn’t see it sooner.
Bedding rustles, reminding Stiles that it’s already almost 1am in London.
“Do you want me to come over?” Isaac casks, making it sound like they’re neighbors instead of an ocean apart.
Stiles’ heart jolts as all too familiar giddiness takes over. He swallows, intending to stifle his excitement at the mere suggestion. “I can’t ask you to do that.”
“You’re not asking,” Isaac tells him, “I’m offering.”
“I—” But Stiles doesn’t know what to say. There couldn’t be anything better than having Isaac back with him. They stayed in contact after he left for France. Stiles was the one who told him to go to London to chase his job as a physician. But calls and facetime aren’t enough. It hasn’t been for a long time.
Isaac taps a finger against something. “You know I always come when you call.”
Stiles covers his mouth with one hand, glad to be sitting as a sob makes his whole body tremble. Isaac’s departure made him feel like someone ripped out his limbs one by one. There hasn’t been a day that passed when Stiles didn’t miss him, when he didn’t hope Isaac would come back — not just for a couple weeks but for good. But Stiles knows Isaac won’t uproot his life for the same reasons Stiles refuses to do so.
“Stiles?” Isaac’s voice is unfathomable soft.
Before he answers, Stiles takes a deep breath. “What about your work?”
“Let me worry about my work,” Isaac replies. “Do you want me to—”
“Yes.” His voice trembles slightly when Stiles answers way too quickly. He’d never ask Isaac. Not for help with this and certainly not to stay, but he cannot say no. Not when Isaac offers. He’s too selfish for that. It’s going to hurt like a bitch when Isaac leaves again. Still, it’s a price Stiles is willing to pay.
— — —
When the doorbell rings late at night, Stiles rushes downstairs. Despite knowing Isaac will only arrive in two days, a stupidly hopeful part of him would like him to arrive sooner. Although Isaac is not above surprises, Stiles doubts he managed to convince his colleague to return to work three days earlier. It’s a miracle he got time off on such short notice in the first place.
Someone bangs their fist against the door.
Stiles slides to a stop, goosebumps creeping up his arms. Suddenly, the room is awfully silent, and he wishes he’d gone through with getting a dog instantly after all.
“I know you’re there,” Malia calls, voice slightly muffled through the door.
He takes a deep breath and crosses his arms over his chest. “Leave.”
“Why did you change the locks?”
Stiles’ hair stands on end at the sharpness of her tone. “Because you keep breaking into my place.” he darts his gaze around the room, trying to find his phone. As much as last week’s visit at the police station pissed him off, Stiles isn’t above calling 911 on her ass — something he should have done before.
Malia knocks on the door again, reminding him why he’s still living in an apartment complex, no matter how badly he wants his own house. “Open the door, Stiles.”
His neighbors don’t usually get involved in other people’s business, but they draw the line at missing out on their beauty sleep.
Finally catching sight of his phone, Stiles crosses the room. “Malia,” he says loud enough that people who might be eavesdropping know who this is, “get fucking list, I mean it.”
“I’m not going to hurt you.” Like that promise has ever stopped the little ‘accidents,’ as Malia kept calling them. There was a time it could be blamed on her struggling with control.
Stiles should’ve caught on earlier. “I’ve heard those words before.” He grabs his phone so tightly; his knuckles turn white. A smooch as he hates to admit it, he longs for Isaac to be here. He’d feel a lot safer with him around. For now, however, he has to get through with mountain ash on top of the doorframe, the threat of neighbors intervening, and being one phone call away from NYPD to get Malia to leave.
She pounds her fist against the door. It rattles in its frame, causing mountain ash to trickle to the floor.
Stiles takes a deep breath. His heart races in his chest, and he takes a single step away from the door. “For the last time, Malia,” he calls, voice steadier than he expected it to be, “leave me the fuck alone.”
Once again, his front door rattles as Malia slams her fist against it.
Someone yells from the other end of the hallway.
Stiles waits with bated breath and a heart trying to jump out of his body. Please, leave. Please, just leave.
Footsteps retreat to the left.
Sighing a breath of relief, he collapses into his armchair. He needs to move, there’s no way around that. Money won’t be an issue, luckily, but finding a house in New York isn’t exactly easy.
Isaac can’t come quick enough.
— — —
It’s still dark when his phone yanks him out of his sleep. He groans and winces a bit as he moves his head to the left. His neck and shoulders absolutely hate him, which is no surprise after falling asleep sitting up on his couch.
Yawning, Stiles rubs a hand over his face and feels for his phone with the other. It’s way too early, he just knows it. So, whoever woke him up better has a good reason, or he’ll unleash hell on earth.
After finding his phone next to his dead laptop on the coffee table, Stiles is proven correct that it’s still way too early to be awake. It’s 4:17 in the morning. Who the fuck texts him at ass o’clock in the morning? Narrowing his eyes, he checks the text message. His heart pounds in his chest.
Isaac.
His fingers tremble slightly, and he tries his best to stifle his excitement. Stiles opens the text message, licking his suddenly dry lips. Isaac texted him this early because he’s on his way here. Judging by his message, he landed half an hour ago and should be arriving here in around fifteen minutes.
Stiles has never gotten ready as quickly as today. His hair is still wet as he all but falls downstairs to open the door. Stiles glances around his loft, grimacing a little at the chaos that is his office and living room area. There are papers and books and empty energy cans absolutely everywhere. Fuck. But there is no time to clean this up now.
His heart somersaults, and Stiles has to take a deep breath before he finally opens the door. “Hey.” Stiles breathes, feeling heat rising in his cheeks. He was hoping to be much more composed when Isaac arrived after not having seen him in person for almost two years, but that’s impossible — not when Isaac is standing right in front of him, hair messy, smiling, eyes sparkling and cheeks pink from the cold despite the thick coat and scarf he’s wrapped up in.
“Hi.” The sound of Isaac’s voice makes Stiles’ heart melt. “May I come in?”
Stiles blinks. “Sorry, sorry.” Once again, a flush is creeping up his neck. Fuck’s sake, he’s behaving like a middle schooler meeting his crush for the first time. This is ridiculous. “Come in.” He steps aside, ducking his head a little. If he can hardly get through half a minute without acting like a fool, Stiles has no clue how the hell he’s supposed to get through the next three weeks. “Sorry for the mess,” he murmurs as Isaac passes him, his suitcase clattering softly against his wooden floor.
Isaac laughs. “My flat has a bunch more dirty dishes,” he replies, putting his luggage next to the armchair. “Don’t worry about it.” He tugs on his scarf, studying his surroundings curiously.
Closing the door, Stiles can’t help but stare at Isaac. Although he looks exactly the same as he does on every video call, there is something very different about the way he holds himself in person. He seems taller, more confident with the space he takes up. He’s breathtaking.
Stiles is so fucked.
Isaac places his scarf over his suitcase and turns back to Stiles, now studying him in silence. His expression is unusually unreadable, but there’s something his eyes.
Stiles’ nerves are on edge. He has no clue if the tension building between them is wistful thinking or reality. The silence sits heavy between them, and for once, Stiles’ mouth refuses to fill it. He should ask Isaac how his flight was, if everything went well, how he’s doing, if he’s hungry. But his mouth is dry, his lips refuse to part, and all he is able to do is stare at Isaac, a mix of excitement and anxiety cursing through his veins that makes his head spin.
Get is together, Stilinski.
“Are you wearing my shirt?” Isaac asks, and those really aren’t the words to interrupt his particular silence.
Stiles looks down at himself. Sure enough, he’s wearing a dark grey t-shirt with the St. George’s logo — the university Isaac used to study at in London. “Yeah,” Stiles whispers, wishing he’d checked his clothes before rushing to open the door, “you forgot it at my dorm, and I…” he trails off and swallows. He could’ve sent it to him. He should have sent it to him, and yet—
Isaac makes a small sound that’s impossible to decipher, and then, before Stiles knows it, Isaac has slammed him against the door, and kisses him with an urgency that takes Stiles’ breath away. The kiss is electric, setting all his nerves on fire. Everything he’s wanted for years; it’s happening right now. Isaac’s kiss, the touch of his fingers seemingly everywhere — it makes Stiles’ skin prickle with want.
“I wanted—” Isaac murmurs between kisses “— to do this years ago.”
Years ago. A shudder runs down Stiles’ spine. “You should have,” he whispers, curling his fingers into Isaac’s hair. “But we can still make up for all that lost time.”
Isaac doesn’t reply. Instead, he crashes their mouths together again and lifts Stiles off his feet.
— — —
They spent the next three days in bed for the most part, only leaving to shower or grab some food. Although Stiles usually isn’t all that interested in wasting his time in bed, Isaac keeps his mind occupied — either with his mouth or his dick.
Stiles can happily admit that those three days have been the best of his life. Just the thought of Isaac leaving in three weeks breaks him. Waking up next to him makes him feel as if he can get through whatever the day might throw at him. Sleeping next to him, Stiles has never been calmer. Even falling asleep seems easier than normal.
Yawning, Stiles closes his eyes, curling against the warm body next to him. He smiles as Isaac makes a soft noise in the back of his throat and wraps an arm around him to pull him even closer. Stiles can’t help but smile into the crook of Isaac’s neck, staying as close to him as possible. Waking up, limbs tangled, Stiles never loved waking up as much as he does currently.
Until he’s torn away from Isaac. His scalp explodes with pain, but before he can do anything, his back, and head slam into a wall. He groans, pain all but immobilizing him. Dark spots appear before his eyes. His vision is blurry. Someone says something, but the words drown in the sound of his blood rushing in his ears.
Stiles blinks multiple times, trying to get his bearings, but his vision still is fuzzy, and his scalp burns. He reaches out a hand, trying to figure out where he ended up on the floor, hoping to find light, his phone, anything. Something hits him in the side of his face. Stiles yelps, slamming to the ground again. His chin hits something hard, teeth clacking together painfully. Tears spring in his eyes.
What the fuck is going on?
Someone grunts behind him.
Stiles fumbles for something familiar. A shoe, a book, anything that might point him in the right direction.
His fingertips brush against some papers. Good. That means he is next to the bedside table. He feels for it, finding the knob to the second drawer. He’s got his gun and ammunition locked away like a law-abiding citizen, but his paranoia refused to let him sleep without a weapon near his bed, especially since his break-up with Malia.
He rips the drawer open, not caring about the fighting noise behind him, and fumbles for his flip knife. Relief rushes through his body when he curls his fingers around the handle. He pulls it out and slams the drawer shut, now fumbling for the light switch.
Just as he finds it, he hears a yelp, followed by the sound of a body tumbling down the stairs. “Isaac?” Stiles turns on the light and whips around, panic constricting his chest.
“I’m okay,” Isaac calls. He’s standing by the stairs looking down into the living room, claws still out and eyes bright and yellow. His body stays poised for an attack.
Stiles stumbles to his feet, head screaming in pain. He flicks his gaze from Isaac, barely registering the bruised knuckles, to the bottom of the stairs, not surprised to find Malia there — knocked out cold, but far from dead. Carefully, he steps over the broken glass of wine on the floor; empty, luckily. It’s a bitch to get red wine out of the carpet.
Isaac wraps an arm around him, pulling him flush to his side. His body relaxes against Stiles,’ and he sighs. “I think moving should happen rather sooner than later.”
Grimacing, Stiles leans into the hug. As much as he hates to think about it, Isaac’s right. Malia is losing her patience, and once Isaac is back in England, there is nobody here to help him out. Stiles can’t tell where she draws the line. At this point, he’s sure she won’t stop at anything to continue their relationship.
“I can’t protect you when I’m working the nightshift.”
“I know,” Stiles mutters, “I know I need a—” Wait. Stiles steps away and looks up at Isaac in confusion. “What?”
Smirking Isaac runs his fingers through Stiles’ hair. “I’m staying with you, Pretty Boy,” he whispers, pulling Stiles close again. “I’ve got enough money to last me a while. We’ll find you a place, and wherever you wanna go, I’ll follow.”
Stiles’ heart leaps into his throat, making it impossible to speak. He can’t believe what Isaac is saying.
“How does that sound?” For a moment there, Isaac almost sounds unsure.
Stiles leans up and kisses him, smiling against his mouth. “I’d love nothing more.”
“Good,” Isaac mutters, “but before we celebrate that—” he pulls back, grimacing a bit “— we should probably deal with her.”
“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, but he’s not too disgruntled about that — nothing could take away the high of knowing Isaac is not going to leave him anytime soon - not even the prospect of dealing with the police again. He hides his grin against Isaac’s shoulder for a moment.
He’s staying.
With him.
♝Pairing: Stisaac ♝Characters: Isaac Lahey, Stiles Stilinski ♝Tags: blow jobs, hand jobs, daggers, pining, oblivious!Stiles, hunter!Stiles, canon divergence ♝Words: 3983 ♝ Kinktober 2022 - Knife Play
ao3
---
trust fall
---
"How disappointing."
Stiles has no idea who this alpha is or where he has come from. All he knows is that he doesn't want him and his potential pack to stay in Beacon Hills any longer than he already has and that he’s probably not easy to deal with judging by the tense line of Peter's shoulders.
"Really, Peter? That's what the mighty Hale pack came to be?" The alpha, Keith if Stiles remembers correctly, sneers. "You, your bastard son—" Jackson tenses next to Peter, fingers curling into tight fists, his knuckles turn white "— your nephew's beta, and…" Keith stops, eyes catching on Stiles as if he's seen them for the first time tonight. "And what are you, doll?"
Doll?
Stiles goes rigid, anger pulsing through his veins. "What did you just call me?"
"Ah." Peter tuts at the comment or Stiles' reaction. It's hard to tell with him. But as Isaac shifts a little closer, Peter pats Keith's shoulder as if they're old friends. "He's best not to trifle with."
Stiles cuts his gaze to the former alpha. They're not here to save Peter's ass. Stiles has agreed to come tonight because he owes him a favor for having helped with the nogitsune. Jackson most likely joined him because he learned that Peter is his father two months ago, and he doesn't want to lose him again so soon. Isaac tagged along because, well, Stiles isn't exactly sure why he did, but he's not going to complain.
Keith brushes Peter's hand off like an annoying beetle and uses his impressive height of 6 foot 8 to look down on Stiles. Considering his status and size, Keith is probably used to people backing down. But Stiles has always been dangerously stubborn. After surviving a nogitsune, he won’t be scared by an alpha with a superiority complex. So, he merely stares back, hands in the pockets of his hoody, firmly clasping the Chinese ring daggers he got from Chris.
“I told you—”
“Peter,” Keith cuts him off, for the first time sounding impatient, “when I told you I’d visit, I expected you’d have something to offer to an old friend.” Whatever their relationship might be, ‘friends’ is the last word Stiles would have used for them.
“He’s not here to be dealt away.” Isaac puts a hand on the small of his back. It’s a subtle but possessive gesture.
And noticeable enough for Keith to raise a brow. “You don’t have to settle for a pack of omegas, doll.”
“Stiles,” Isaac warns.
But Stiles really has never been all that good at listening. “Did nobody tell you,” he wonders, pushing the sheath off the dagger in one swift movement, “that dolls kill?” Without any hesitation, and accompanied by the sound of exasperation from Peter, Stiles slams the dagger to the hilt into Keith’s side. The yellow wolfsbane takes effect almost immediately, and the mighty alpha falls to his knees in front of Stiles. “If you survive this, I want you to go back where you came from.” Smiling, Stiles shakes off a bit of blood and wolfsbane and then places the tip of the dagger right underneath the alpha’s jaw. “There is nothing here for you.”
“Fox,” Keith spits.
“You make it sound like an insult.” Stiles pats his cheek ever so gently before merely pushing the werewolf over. It will never not be satisfying to see people with huge egos fall. Most of the time, they deserve it. Twirling the dagger around his index finger, Stiles turns to Peter. “You need new friends, you know that?”
“Tell me about it.” Peter sighs dramatically.
Jackson rolls his eyes. “Can we go now? I’m supposed to pick up Danny in an hour.”
Stiles hums in agreement and turns around, catching Isaac staring at him in the process. At his hand holding the dagger specifically. “Something wrong?”
Blinking rapidly, Isaac shakes his head. “Starvin’.”
“Oh, I could eat something as well.” Stiles sheaths the dagger again and pushes his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Let’s go.”
— — —
At first, Stiles wasn’t sure if what he heard were footsteps. This Airbnb and its noises are still very unfamiliar to him. When Peter called him a couple of nights ago, this was the only available accommodation in Beacon Hills he could stay for longer than two days. After all, if he’s back in town anyway, he might as well spend some time with his dad. But when he stepped out of the shower and onto the soft bath mat, the sound could not have come from him.
He towels himself down haphazardly — he doesn’t want to be mauled while naked — and slips into his jeans and hoodie. Good thing he’s been carrying the daggers around with him since losing it on the alpha last night. That’s what he gets for calling him ‘doll’. Stiles huffs, slipping his fingers through the ring, and grabs the dagger. He probably should stock up on yellow wolfsbane, just in case.
The patio door is open, and Stiles isn’t entirely sure if that was his doing or not. He opened it before he decided to shower, but he could have sworn that he’s closed it again. He wouldn’t be that stupid. Would he? Maybe not stupid but certainly forgetful enough.
Stiles stops just outside of view, watching the shadow shift and move with the person standing outside the door. It looked strangely familiar. Especially what seems to be curly— Stiles rolls his eyes and steps forward. He reaches around the door, curling his fingers into a soft sweater. Without further ado, he yanks Isaac inside.
Yelping, the werewolf stumbles. He manages to twist onto his back before he hits the floor.
Out of principle, Stiles straddles him and presses the dagger to his throat. “And you’re dead.”
Isaac chuckles, but it sounds slightly nervous. To be fair, he’s been looking at him a little differently ever since Stiles attacked that alpha with a dagger. It’s not unreasonable. Stiles acted a little rash. He probably should’ve ignored the condescending behavior, that would have been a smarter decision, but he’s never claimed to make rational decisions. He’s a great planner, but in the heat of the moment, he slams a wooden baseball bat over a giant werewolf’s head.
“Sorry,” Isaac mutters, squirming a little underneath him.
Stiles lets out a breath, trying to make it sound like a chuckle. He’s pretty sure that failed. There’s a frustratingly huge part of him who wants to have Isaac squirming underneath him for an entirely different reason — a part he should have locked away a couple of years ago. “What are you doing here?” He quirks a brow.
Clearing his throat, Isaac pulls his shoulders up in an awkward shrug. “Checking in on you.”
“Aww, that’s so sweet.” Stiles means it even though he’s hiding that behind a mocking tone. Knowing Isaac is worried enough to keep an eye on him makes him feel weirdly protected despite knowing that Stiles isn’t exactly in need of protection. He is capable of defending himself — then again, there’s nothing he would be able to do against a pack of werewolves. He might not even be able to hold off a single alpha werewolf without his daggers and a bit of good old wolfsbane.
“So,” Isaac swallows heavily, Adam’s apple moving just above the blade, “you usually run around with your daggers?”
“Only after threatening an alpha,” Stiles replies, cocking his head a little to the side. “Why?” He glances at the dagger pressed against soft skin again. There is something weirdly… hot about this whole thing. Stiles is dimly aware that maybe he shouldn’t think it’s hot as hell that Isaac is pinned down— or rather, lets himself be pinned down by nothing more than a dagger to his throat.
Isaac swallows again, shifting underneath him a little as well. It’s then that Stiles notices why Isaac seems so nervous. He’s hard. Heat flushes all of his body. Isaac is hard. He is hard underneath him. Isaac’s bright eyes widen in a panic, and he pushes Stiles off a little clumsily, the dagger nicking his throat slightly. “Sorry,” Isaac mutters, turning away. It’s almost comical how his head swivels back and forth between the door to the bedroom and the door leading to the outside. They’re not the same, but they probably look eerily similar for a werewolf who’s about two seconds away from dying of embarrassment.
Slowly, Stiles gets to his feet. “Isaac.” Don’t do it. Don’t do it. Don’t do it. They talked about Allison just last night, and Isaac clearly still has feelings for the late huntress. It’s hard to blame him. She was ripped from him when they’d hardly started a relationship — and then he had to hear her say how she still loved Scott. He’s using Allison’s daggers because Chris gave them to him after he finished training.
Isaac doesn’t turn around, but his shoulders are a tense line. “Listen, I’m sorry. I—”
Stiles crosses the room, and — despite knowing better — runs the tip of the dagger over the nape of Isaac’s neck. Goosebumps spread over the werewolf’s neck and arms. Huh. “What do you want me to do?”
“I— it’s…” Isaac clears his throat again and turns around slowly. “The dagger, it’s—”
Smirking, and ignoring every single warning bell, Stiles presses the dagger against Isaac’s throat again. This time, he’s pushing him not quite as gently as he possibly could have and forces the other boy to walk backward until he hits a wall. “It’s fun, isn’t it?” Stiles wants to kiss him, but he buries the urge. Kidding is different. Kissing is reserved for people you love. It’s an odd thing to think about, but it’s something he cannot shake. Blowing someone in the restroom of a club isn’t very intimate if you keep kissing out of the equation. Stiles can do that. He absolutely can. He will not be slapped in the face by feelings he's totally not having any longer.
Nope.
Isaac swallows again, and there is something so fucking tantalizing about watching his skin move against the blade. It looks like their interests align more than a little. Eventually, Isaac nods again.
"I could make you feel even better." Stiles has no clue where this courage comes from. He doesn't have an issue doing anything like this with a stranger at a club, but with someone he knows? Someone he's got feelings for? Feelings that probably aren't reciprocated? That's a disaster waiting to happen. "But you'd have to open your pants for that."
To his surprise, Isaac follows the instruction, eyes darkening in the process.
Stiles shudders at the sound of a zipper being opened and can't help but look when Isaac pushes his pants down. They’re doing this. They’re doing this because there is Isaac’s cock, hard and shiny and beautiful. This is— a terrible idea. But it’s not like he is known to make good decisions when it comes to his love life. He’s quite literally the worst.
But fuck it.
Fuck it.
Without breaking eye contact, Stiles sinks to his knees. Now, being face to face with Isaac’s dick, he’s a little intimidated by it. His anxiety is always out to get him. It’s wonderful. Stiles won’t let it ruin this moment, though — no matter how wrong this might be. He swallows and tilts his head back up, making sure Isaac is looking at him. “You trust me, right?” Stiles raises his brows. Kneeling between Isaac’s legs, he looks up at the werewolf. He never expected to have a dagger in his hand while blowing someone, but that’s exactly why this question is more than a little important.
Licking his lips, Isaac nods very slowly. “Still kinda thinking about—” he cuts off, shaking his head very vehemently. “No, I trust you.”
Stiles traces the tip of the dagger up the inside of Isaac’s thigh. The werewolf above him stiffens, but he doesn’t pull away. Most importantly, his dick twitches in response. Stiles smirks, locking eyes with Isaac again, whose cheeks turned a darker shade of red. First, he’d considered doing something else, but now he is more than content with making Isaac feel very good. After all, the wolf was — more or less subtly — lurking near him to make sure he’s not about to get jumped by a pack of angry werewolves. It’s a very sweet gesture. “Good.” Stiles scoots a little closer and wraps his fingers around Isaac’s cock, feeling his own twitch in response to the slightly nervous moan above him. Strangely enough, he gets the feeling as if Isaac isn’t as experienced in the matter as Stiles imagined him to be. “You can stop me at any time, okay?” He runs the knife down again, leaving a soft white line in its wake. “For anything.” And up again. Slow and steady with just enough pressure that it all but breaks skin. “Unless you’re coming. You’re going to do that in my mouth, got it?” He nudges the tip of the dagger against sensitive skin. It catches, barely drawing a drop of blood.
Isaac bangs his head against the wall, moaning loud enough for neighbors to hear.
Good.
Stiles brings his mouth up to Isaac’s cock, brushing his lips against the tip. He’s smirking a little and purposefully not looking up even though he can feel the wolf’s heavy gaze on him again. There’s a subtle tremble in the other boy’s legs. Briefly, Stiles wonders if this is going to last long. He kind of hopes it doesn’t. Knowing he can bring Isaac to the edge in no time would be absolutely breathtaking. Stiles shifts his grip a bit, dragging his thumb over the underside of Isaac’s cock as he parts his lips to take the tip into his mouth.
“Fuck.” Isaac’s curse is something between a moan and a groan.
The noise sets Stiles' nerves on fire. Giving a blow job isn't something he necessarily hates, but it has never been this fun, this fucking hot to know he can make Isaac come undone with his mouth, hand, and a dagger pressed against his thigh. They should do this more often. Stiles removes his hand from the equation, placing it on Isaac's hip again. He'd rather get used to his size before the other boy does something unexpected. Although Stiles doubts it. Not with the dagger pressed against him. He swirls his tongue around the tip, moaning a little at the taste of precum.
Isaac's fingers curl and uncurl, as if he's considering grabbing Stiles' hair. It's adorable, really, that he's not doing anything without permission. Maybe it’s not that Isaac’s innocent, maybe he’s more so respectful of boundaries. Whoever ends up dating him is going to have a wonderful boyfriend.
Stiles stomach twists.
Don’t think about it.
Stiles pulls off and looks up at Isaac. "You can grab my hair," he says, tapping a finger against his hips, "or pull it. I don't mind." You could do everything to me. There’s an edge of bitterness cutting into his pleasure, and Stiles hopes Isaac isn’t paying any attention to his chemosignals. Grinning a little, he leans forward and takes his cock back into his mouth. Only a second later, fingers curl tightly into his short strand. There you go. Stiles hollows out his cheek, taking more of Isaac into his mouth. He struggles a bit with coordinating his hands and mouth, especially when he's doing something different with all of them. For now, he should probably focus on his mouth the most, and on relaxing his throat. Part of him wants Isaac to fall in love with him, but it’s stupid. They both know why this is happening.
He’s a hunter.
He’s using Allison’s daggers.
Stiles is fucked up for using this to his advantage. He’s fucked for allowing this to happen. But he couldn’t say no. He couldn’t stop — still can’t. Not with the noises Isaac makes — his little punched-out moans — or the way his fingers tighten in Stiles’ hair every single time he takes more of his cock into his mouth. He’s going to hell for this. He is so going to hell for this.
But it’s too late anyway. Stopping now wouldn’t undo how far they’ve gone. Might as well go all the way.
Stiles shifts the dagger in his hand, pressing the flat side against Isaac’s thigh, more of a reminder that it’s still there, but also to keep the other boy pressed against the wall — even though they both know that he wouldn’t be able to hold him if Isaac actually wanted to do something. His dick twitches at the thought. Fuck. Stiles closes his eyes. Isaac. Focus on Isaac. That’s what counts. Stiles decides on letting the tip of his cock touch the back of his throat a few times. He can feel the muscles in Isaac’s legs tighten, probably fighting the urge to just thrust his hips forwards.
The fifth time, Stiles doesn’t stop there. He relaxes his throat and focuses on deep breaths through his nose. It’s not the first time he deepthroated someone, but he wouldn’t exactly call himself an expert — or someone who enjoys doing it all the time. His gag reflex is a little too sensitive for that. But Stiles moves his open mouth down the length of Isaac’s cock, breathing through his throat trying to actively work against him until he’s pressing his nose against Isaac’s crotch. The noises he’s rewarded with are worth fucking everything.
Isaac half curses, half moans. Stiles is half sure he's heard his name somewhere in that string of sounds, but he's not sure, and he's too afraid to look up. He's afraid to find Isaac standing there with his eyes closed, imagining somebody else, while his imagination is playing tricks on him.
Stiles pulls back. The hold Isaac has on his hair is slightly uncomfortable, but he doesn't mind. Not at all. For all he cares, Isaac could hold him in place and use his mouth and throat. But Isaac wouldn't do anything like that without Stiles' permission. The last thing he wants to do is talk, however, so Stiles keeps his mouth occupied, putting everything he's learned into this blow job.
Listening to Isaac slowly lose his mind is the hottest thing Stiles has heard in forever. He is saying something or babbling rather. It's impossible to say if Isaac struggles to form a coherent sentence, or if Stiles' brain simply can't comprehend a single word. Both are more than likely.
Either way, Stiles can't ignore his own dick any longer. He struggles with his belt, button, and zipper. Regretting he didn't change into his sweatpants like usual. When he finally gets his hand on himself, Stiles moans around Isaac’s cock.
"Stiles, Stiles." His name sounds like a prayer on Isaac's lips.
Stiles almost came because of that. He whimpers softly, trying to move his own hand in some sort of rhythm, but he struggles to focus on everything all at once. He takes another breath through his nose, his own hips rocking forward involuntarily, as he takes all of Isaac again, and when his nose presses against Isaac’s crotch again, the grip on his hair tightens painfully. Isaac's cock pulses on his tongue, knees buckling slightly, as he's coming down his throat.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Tears sting in his eyes as he's gagging on Isaac's dick.
"Stop."
Stiles blinks, trying to look up but the angle is fucking awkward, and Isaac isn't letting go of his hair — and it's hard to stop his throat from working when there's a cock shoved down it. He's spreading his precum over his cock, trying to focus more on his pleasure than the slight discomfort.
Isaac all but yanks him off. Drops of his cum give Stiles a taste of what he's missed out on. "Stop. Stiles," Isaac sounds just as breathless as Stiles feels. "Stop. You said—" Isaac tilts his head back, forcing Stiles to look up "— you said I could stop you at any time." His accent’s become thicker, almost like he can’t really control it.
Confused, Stiles draws his brows together, but he stops chasing his climax anyway. Instead, he just kneels there, looking up at Isaac staring down at him, wondering what he looks like to him now that this is over. Licking his lips, Stiles drops the dagger next to him.
Isaac's gaze cuts to it for all but a second.
"Please," Stiles whispers, squirming a little.
Isaac releases his grip on his hair and offers him a hand. "Come on, up."
There's absolutely no way Stiles will be able to stand. He can feel his legs from being stuck in a kneeling position for too long, and he's still uncomfortably hard. "Isaac," Stiles whispers, running his hands over his thighs.
"Fine." Isaac drops to his knees, grabbing Stiles' jaw. "This works as well." And he kisses him. He fucking kisses him. Stiles is sure his heart is about to explode. Isaac curls a hand around the nape of his neck, pulling Stiles closer to him.
The position is a bit awkward, his thighs trembling now that he's more upright, and Stiles hates the way the muscles in his thighs start to ache. But Isaac deepens the kiss, wraps his long fingers around Stiles' dick, and— fuck everything else. He's kissing Isaac as if his life depended on it, and maybe it does. Just a little.
"Bloody hell," Isaac breathes, pulling away from the kiss. His fingers are skilled, and his movements secure. There’s nothing of the restraint he showed in the beginning. "That mouth of yours." He chuckles, almost as if to himself, and drags his thumb over the head of Stiles' dick. "That blow job made me want to write my vows."
Stiles grabs Isaac’s arm and shoulder, holding onto him. He needs to fucking breathe, but it's so incredibly hard right now — and Isaac talking really does not help at all. Swallowing heavily, he tips his head forward and watches Isaac’s hand move on him, thumb swiping over the tip of his dick, spreading more precum. His grip tightens. Stiles can feel Isaac’s muscles work. He bites his bottom lip.
“I know you’re close,” Isaac says softly, and Stiles cannot tell if his words are what makes him notice his orgasm rolling in, or if Isaac convinced his body. “Come on, Pretty Boy, let go.”
And just like that, Stiles is coming all over Isaac’s hand. Even though his blunt nail digs into the other boy’s arm, trying desperately to hold onto him, Stiles collapses against him. Breathe. Breathe. His poor brain struggles with its most basic tasks right now.
Isaac wraps his arm around Stiles’ shoulders, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Just so you know,” he whispers, lips so close it’s like he’s painting the words into Stiles’ skin, “I usually go on a date first.” The Cockney accent hides behind an American one again.
Stiles raises his head, squinting at Isaac. “What?” Once his brain works better again, he really needs to ask why he’s fighting his accent so much. It’s kind of hot.
Chuckling, Isaac grabs his chin again. "I usually go on a date first." He pecks his lips, ever so gently, and Stiles is pretty sure he's about to combust.
But he's still not entirely sure he heard him right. Unless… maybe it's just small talk?
“Soo… dinner?”
Stiles snorts out a laugh, and Isaac draws his brows together, looking almost offended at the reaction. Offended not hurt. Seems like he knows exactly how Stiles is feeling about him. Fucking werewolves and their supernatural noses. “More like takeout and a movie,” he replies, grinning at Isaac. He feels stupidly giddy. It’s annoying.
“Oh, I like that better.” Isaac kisses his nose. "Let's do that instead."