#*s:briles

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.

-------

Stiles lets out a breath before emptying his drink. This conversation feels like he should consider going home. He’s got to pick up his grandparents from the airport tomorrow anyway. “I’ll head home now.”

“But it makes sense.” Lydia crosses her legs, eyes roaming over the other partygoers in the living room. “Brett is just one more person Stiles believes to be unavailable. It’s easier to go for someone like that otherwise he might have to let someone in again.” Her smirk is uncomfortable enough that Stiles nearly jumps out of his chair.

Smiling as politely as possible, he shoves his chair under the table. “There are at least fifteen other people you can psychoanalyze, sweetheart.” Stiles glances around the room, briefly studying the more or less wasted teenagers and college students. They’re mostly Liam’s friends and cousins. Nobody is particularly interesting, but Stiles also doesn’t know a lot of them. If he’s entirely honest, he doesn’t know the name of at least half of them.

“Oh, don’t be silly.” Lydia takes a sip of her drink, still smirking at him with that annoyingly cooked brow. “Nobody here is nearly as interesting as you are.” Which also means, fucked. If she didn’t have a point, Stiles would be offended. But, to be honest, nobody here is as interesting as Brett Talbot, who has, as of right now, never left his field of vision. Even though they haven’t spoken since they greeted each other three hours ago, Brett has never been as long around him as he’s been now.

Still, that Brett is even here, feels like a giant joke of the universe but by the looks of it, they managed to put their differences aside.

Much to Stiles’ chagrin.

“I’ll call you tomorrow.” Stiles waves his friends goodbye before pulling his phone out to order an Uber. In any other city, he’d walk home. But he’s not going to risk anything in Beacon Hills.

“Love you,” Lydia calls after him.

Rolling his eyes, Stiles leaves the kitchen to Jackson’s snickering. He dodges Nolan and Gabe, having one of their usual spats in the middle of the hallway, and pulls up his app. There aren’t a lot of Uber drivers in Beacon Hills, much less ones who are willing to drive around this hellhole at 3am in the morning. People may not know about the supernatural world, but they do know that something weird is going on in this town.

He's willing to wait for a while, especially outside and way from—

“Hey, Stilinski.” Brett passes him in the entry and walks through the front door facing him. It really shouldn’t be all that impressive, but all Stiles can think about is that he would’ve broken at least four bones in his body — one on each stair.

Stiles lowers his phone and takes the other boy in like he’s done all night, tight black shirt, tight blue jeans and a crooked grin that makes Stiles feel all kind of things – none of them PG. Fuck, he really needs to get laid again. Fuck. He blinks. “Hey.” Swallowing, he taps his thumb against his phone. The longer he hesitates to call an Uber, the longer he’ll have to stay here and run the risk of either being psychoanalyzed even further or make an utter fool out of himself. The latter seems a lot more likely as long as Brett is grinning at him like a kid in a candy store.

“Going home already?” Brett raises his brows, twirling keys around his index fingers.

Humming in agreement, Stiles raises his phone. “About to call someone to pick me up.” He’s aware he makes it sound like somebody is waiting for him. Lydia would probably call it a defense mechanism.

She might be right.

But Brett doesn’t seem too concerned about that. “I could take you home.” Ever so confident. It shouldn’t be that fucking hot.

Taking a deep breath, Stiles is raising his brows. “You’re drunk.” Or at the very least, Brett has been drinking alcohol in the past couple of hours, and he’s sure Liam spiked most of the drinks so even the werewolves around are able to get wasted.

“I’m not drunk.” Brett actually looks offended for a second. “Satomi would rip me a new one, if I ever got behind the wheel wasted.” Sounds like someone would get along beautifully with his dad.

Stiles bites the inside of his cheek. Call an Uber. Just call the damn Uber, Stilinski. He lets out a breath. “Prove it.”

Idiot.

“And how,” Brett asks as he’s stepping closer with a smirk now firmly set in place, “would you like me to prove that, Officer Stilinski?”

“Special Agent, actually.”

“Damn,” Brett breathes, his soft looking lips parting.

Stiles really wants to kiss him right now.

Fuck.

Fuck.

“Impressive.” Brett twirls his key around his finger again. “But you still gotta tell how to prove to you I’m sober enough to take you home.”

The words are ringing in his ears, so loud that Stiles has to clear his throat to hear his thoughts again. Take you home. Those three fucking words shouldn’t have such an impact on him. It’s a simple statement, no need to freak out. “Close your eyes, touch your nose.” His voice is nowhere near as steady as he would like it to be.

Chuckling, Brett steps away and does as he told.

Of course, he nails it.

Stiles gets the feeling he will end up in Brett’s car tonight. His stomach flutters. He tugs on his shirt, suddenly feeling very restricted in his button-up, and bites his bottom lip. That’s what he wants. It’s what he’s been wanting for a while. Besides, if he ends up going home with Brett, he can prove Lydia wrong.

Because she’s wrong.

He’s not afraid of letting people in. Not at all. He doesn’t go on dates because his job won’t let him. That’s the only reason.

And it’s not like he does have to let Brett in.

Emotionally, at least.

Stiles pushes his phone in the pocket of his jeans and folds his arms across his chest.

Brett blinks his eyes open, smirking. “And?”

“Stand on one leg,” Stiles orders, unable to break eye-contact – even as Brett follows the instruction without any hesitation.

He doesn’t even look annoyed about it. Instead, he keeps smiling as he perfectly balances on his left leg and continues to twirl his key around his index finger. “You’re really strict about this.”

“I spent a lot of time in hospitals and police departments.” It’s the truth, but Stiles wastes time to find a way out, or prepare himself for the inevitable. He’s not sure. If he let his body have its way, he’d jump Brett the moment they’d step into his car. But his mind is a jackass. Life without anxiety could be so fucking peaceful.

Brett nods slowly, and although his grin gives way to contemplation, he still doesn’t look inconvenienced by the request. “Some things stay with you,” he sounds like he knows exactly what Stiles is talking about. Perhaps he does. After all, Stiles isn’t the only one who went through something traumatic as a kid. “That why you’re afraid of emotional connections?” Raising his brows, Brett puts his foot down again and cocks his head.

“I don’t know,” Stiles replies, rolling his eyes. Of course, werewolves are too involved of other people’s business. At this point, he shouldn’t be surprised. “Is it why you refuse to date?” Two can play this game. Plus, Brett’s dating history – or the lack thereof – isn’t exactly a secret around town. As far as Stiles is aware, the guy has never slept with the same person twice. Another reason why Stiles should stay away from him. He’s not good with one-night stands. His heart gets attached too quickly.

“Touché.”

Stiles pushes his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “You always listen in to other people’s conversations?”

“Only the ones who’re playing hard to get.”

Stiles opens his mouth then snaps it shut again. Playing hard to get. He should feel offended by this. He really should. He’s not playing hard to get. He is hard to get. The two relationships he’s had in his life have taken forever until they started. “Walk. A straight. Line.”

Licking his lips, Brett raises both hands. “Okay, Special Agent.” He shuffles a few steps back until he’s halfway down the driveway. His tone is still soft, and he’s grinning again – as if this whole thing is nothing more than a joke to him. Perhaps it is. At this point, they both know he’s sober.

Stiles walks down the last few steps, brows raised expectantly. Brett’s going to ace this as well, there is no doubt about it, and if he does – then what? Stiles will have no more excuse. He’s going to walk with Brett to his car, get into the passenger’s seat, and let the night run its course. Then he can deal with the fallout while driving to the airport tomorrow. All is going to be great.

Rolling his shoulders, Brett starts walking towards him. One foot in front of each other. He isn’t even looking where he’s going. His gaze is fixed on Stiles, never breaking eye contact, not for a single fucking second. His smirk broadens.

The bass of the music drums to the rhythm of his heart. Time seems to bend and stretch around him as Brett makes his way towards him, blue eyes bright and beautiful. He captures his attention, stealing his breath away. Stiles swallows around the sudden lump in his throat. The air shifts as Brett keeps approaching him. His steps, first perfectly lined up, changed into something Stiles can only describe as predatory.

He hasn’t felt like prey in a while.

Stiles opens his mouth, and his breath catches in his throat.

Without warning, Brett wraps an arm around his waist and cups his cheek. He doesn’t allow him to speak or even think. Which is probably a good thing because Stiles would’ve managed to fuck that up royally. It’s his specialty, really.

His eyes flutter close before Brett’s lips even brush against his for the first time. But when they do- fuck. He’s gone. His lips are so soft. So unbelievably and undeniably soft that the gentle touch makes him gasp quietly. In an instant, Brett’s fingers curl into the back of his shirt even though he pulls away again. A second passes. Then another.

Stiles can hear him take a deep breath before he’s finally crashing their mouths together. The sensation makes his head spin. Every part of his body has ached for this. He grabs the back of Brett’s neck, pulling him closer as he parts his lips for a curious tongue. It tastes like coke. There’s not even a hint of any alcohol.

His stomach flutters again, and Stiles breaks the kiss unable to stop the chuckle from falling from his lips. “You planned all along, didn’t you?”

Brett responds by shoving him against the fenced front porch. A low growl fills the air between them, but a grin is tugging at the corners of his mouth. “For months,” he mutters, brushing their noses together in a surprisingly gentle display of affection. “Convincing Liam to invite me to his little birthday party was a hassle. But I played nice-” he pushes both hands almost shamelessly in the pockets of Stiles’ jeans and squeezes his ass “- and it was worth it.”

It was worth it.

Stiles’ breath catches in his throat and resists the urge to press a hand to his chest like a swooning Disney princess. He forces air into his lungs, eyes darting back and forth.

Chuckling, Brett leans closer again. “Cat got your tongue?” he whispers, capturing Stiles’ lips again. He pulls him so close nothing could fit between them.

Stiles curls one hand around Brett’s waist, and he tangles his fingers in the blonde strands, keeping him as close as physically possible without crawling into him. His whole body is burning. This isn’t enough. Not at all.

“Yo, Mason!”

Stiles jolts away from Brett, but the guy’s grip on him merely tightens with a huff. His eyes narrow slightly as Stiles cranes his neck. Heat creeps into his cheeks when he catches Liam’s eye.

Leaning against the door frame, the young werewolf stares back at him with a blank face and his arms crossed. “Tell Lydia, I want my hundred dollars by the end of next week.”

Stiles’ mouth drops open. What the hell?

Brett scoffs.

“Don’t think I did this for you, Talbot.” Liam pushes away from the door frame and shakes his head. “The engagement ring for Hayden is fucking expensive, man.” With a wave of his right hand, he turns away and slams the door shut behind him.

Not before Lydia’s what is audible despite the music, however.

Stiles whips around and pushes Brett off him. “Let’s go,” he urges, heart slamming in his chest as if he’s just finished running a marathon. “Let’s go. Let’s go.” There’s no way in hell he is going to face Lydia now, not when she’s lost a bet while still be able to rub his nose in the fact that she’s been right all along.

Brett barks out a laugh, but he relents and grabs Stiles’ hand as he steps away. “Your place or mine?” Smirking, he intertwines their fingers, nearly turning Stiles’ legs to jelly.

“My dad’s working the night,” Stiles whispers, and he struggles to breathe properly. This is happening. This is really happening. Because he’s not afraid of hooking up with people or letting someone in. Not at all. Lydia has been wrong about that.

Totally.

“I’ll have to pick up my grandparents from LAX tomorrow, though.” Stiles bites the inside of his cheek. Maybe this isn’t the best idea after all. “So, I don’t know. Maybe-“

“Road trip,” Brett grins down at him and pulls them flush together again. “Sounds fun.”

Stiles squints at him. “I’m picking up my grandparents.”

“I’m a family man.”

“Listen, I-“

“No,” Brett cuts him off, even having the audacity to cover his mouth with his hand. “You’re not doing this.” Doing what, exactly? His expression must’ve been pretty clear because Brett continues, sounding as if he’s resigned himself to a fate Stiles has no fucking clue about, “I didn’t spend a whole evening with Liam’s family and friends, so you can tug tail and run just because some idiot broke your heart, or you’re insecure and think you’re fucked up because of the shit that happened to you.”

Stiles opens his mouth, closes it and frowns before he pulls Brett’s hand away. “I don’t know if I should feel flattered or insulted.”

Red creeps into Brett’s cheeks, and Stiles nearly combusts with the need to kiss him again. “I’m… not well versed in the whole romantic confession thing.” Drawing his brows together, Brett rubs the back of his head.

“Really? Thanks for telling me, man,” Stiles drawls, pressing a hand to his chest in mock-surprise. “I never would have noticed.”

Brett grabs his chin and kisses him, “asshole,” he mutters against his mouth.

It really shouldn’t be one of the hottest things that’s ever happened to him – it shouldn’t even be in the top three – but his love life has been a disaster. Stiles would be lying if he said this didn’t make him want to drag Brett in the backseat of his car. He’s easy, sue him. But Liam might kill him, so he behaves. “Don’t let Babcia Agnes hear you call me an asshole. She will throw you out of a moving car, werewolf or not.”

“Noted.” Brett nods, scrunching his brows together adorably. “Babcia?”

“Oh, grandma.”

“Right.” Brett considers him for a moment then, “grandpa?”

Stiles smiles. “Dziadek.”

Another pause. A bit of helplessness creeps in. “Do they speak English?”

“They’re fluent, actually.” Stiles barks out a laugh when Brett lets out a sigh of relief. “I thought you’re a family man?”

Brett grimaces. “I lied.” He opens his mouth again, closes it and pulls his shoulders up.

Stiles doesn’t push it. Instead, he presses a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Dziadek Mieczysław loves everyone. Adress Babcia Agnieszka as Pani Gajos. She’ll instantly tell you to call her Agnes. Then eat a healthy portion. That’ll remind her that I need to eat more, and you’re off the hook.” Although Stiles can tell by the look of mild horror on Brett’s face that he is questioning his life choices, he hasn’t run away yet. “You don’t-“

“Don’t even try.” Brett wraps his arms around his waist, pulling him even closer – something Stiles didn’t know was even possible. “You’re leaving for Quantico in a week. We’ll have to speedrun if we’re compatible.”

“Compatible,” Stiles echoes and raises his brows. Call it a hunch, but something tells him Brett is very new to the dating scene. Smiling, he runs his fingers through the blonde strands. “How about we figure out how compatible we are at my place? And then we’ll go from there?”

Brett hums and tries, but fails, to hide the grin that’s already tugging on the corners of his mouth. Then he grabs Stiles around the waist and all but throws him over his shoulder. “Let’s do that.”

“I hate werewolves,” Stiles mumbles under his breath. “I hate werewolves.” And their constant displays of strength. The guy is lucky Stiles doesn’t mind a bit of manhandling.

Brett squeezes his ass in warning.

Stiles takes a deep breath and crosses the room. “Good morning.” With a little awkward wave, he drops his bags on a chair next to Brett. “And thank you so much for the invitation. I know this is a pack thing…” A two week long vacation is exactly what he needs after the year he’s had, but he’s still a bit unsure about the whole thing. Part of him feels like he’s intruding on something private.

“Kira and Brett insisted to have you join us.” Satomi smiles up at him.

Brett too?

Surprised, Stiles glances at the werewolf, who jumps to his feet. “Let’s get you some breakfast. You must be starving.” He ushers Stiles away from his snickering sister and towards the buffet without waiting for a reply.

Stiles doesn’t have it in him to tell Brett that he already had breakfast, that usually ended in a very long discussion of his terrible eating habits. During college, Brett had made it his mission to make sure Stiles eats three times a day — even when he was stuck in one of his terrible relationships. Plus, Stiles doesn’t mind to spend as less time as possible with Morrell, who told him she’d kill him the last time they spoke, and Satomi, who still kind of scares him. He doesn’t get a read on her, and he’s not a fan of that.

“Are you sure this is okay?” Stiles asks as Brett pushes an empty tray into his hands. “I don’t want to intrude.” He glances back towards the table and catches Satomi’s eye. Great. Grinning awkwardly, he turns back to Brett. They’ve been close during college, but never meet-the-parents close.

“She likes you,” Brett tells him as he puts a bowl of scrambled eggs and two slices of toast onto Stiles’ tray.

Does she? “I don’t think I’ve ever talked to her.”

Contemplating the options, Brett merely shrugs. “You saved my life. She’d marry me off to you if that were still acceptable in today’s society.”

Stiles squints at the French toasts that are added to his tray. “That’s been a thing?”

“Yup,” Brett says, reaching for a bagel before he continues, “provide and protect are the most important features of a future mate.” Deciding against the bagel, Brett adds a couple of waffles before Stiles even has the chance to move away — who the hell is supposed to eat all of that? “It’s a stupid tradition. Nobody cares about that any longer.”

“I’m good.” Stiles grabs Brett’s arm, stopping him from adding anything else to his plate. “You provided me with enough food. More than enough, actually.”

Brett stares at him.

Stiles tries not to laugh.

“Asshole,” the werewolf mutters eventually, flicking Stiles’ forehead. “Keep that up and you’ll sleep on the floor.”

“Sleep on the—" Stiles isn’t entirely sure if he heard that right. That’s a joke. It has to be. “Are we sharing a bed?” Hopefully, that’s not the case. Stiles hardly survived sleeping on a pull-out couch with Brett after a party, how the fuck is he supposed to get through two weeks of not only sharing a room but also a bed?

“Yup,” Brett confirms as if that’s the most normal thing in the whole wide world. “Don't hog the blanket.”

Oh god.

———

Sighing, Stiles sits up and rubs his eyes. He doesn’t exactly fall asleep on the beach often. To be honest, the last time he did that was when his mum was still alive. The fact that basically passed out in public says a lot about how desperately he needs sleep. This vacation has barely started, and Stiles already misses this freedom. But there won’t be a lot of time to sleep once work is starting again.

Stiles crosses his arms over his knees and scans the beach for Brett. He’s not too far away, entertaining a group of the youngest werewolves with a girl Stiles has never seen before. They look awfully… domestic. Like this is a thing that is happening all the time. It hurts watching them. It hurts in a way Stiles didn’t expect. Feeling like this is fucking stupid. He shouldn’t. After all, he threw himself in every relationship he could find. He stayed in every relationship that was convenient enough, no matter how terrible it ended up being, just to keep his heart occupied because he was too afraid to get his heart broken by losing Brett if he told him he loved him.

The girl brushes her hand over Brett’s arm, something Brett doesn’t react to — either because it’s a too common occurrence or because he doesn’t care.

Please, don’t care.

“That bitch.”

“Lori!” Kira is sitting up on her own towel, staring at her friend in shock.

But Lori doesn’t react. She crouches down next to Stiles, arms crossed over her thighs. “You know I’m right.”

Stiles bites the inside of his cheek. “Who is that?” He can’t deny the pang of jealousy, or the frustration gnawing at him — and he can’t help but wonder, however briefly, if he’s missed an opening, he’s never been aware of.

“It’s Finch’s daughter,” Kira informs him, propping her chin on her left knee.

Finch’s kid? So, she probably knows Brett well. They must be close with each other since Finch and Satomi have decided to go on vacation together. Maybe they’re close in a way that— Stiles shakes his head and curls his hands into his towel. Best not to think about that right now.

Lori looks as if she’s smelling something rotten. “Quinn thinks she and Brett will bring the packs together one day,” Lori drawls, her voice teetering somewhere between annoyance and disgust, “through marriage.” At that, Lori shoots him an exasperated look.

“Marriage?” Stiles laughs because if he didn’t do that, he might end up screaming. “Brett?” he keeps going, going, going, trying so hard not to let the fear creep in. “He’s never going to marry.” Every time they as much as scratched the topic of marriage, Brett instantly changed it.

Lori stands up. “Not her, at least. Come on.”

“What?” Stiles looks up at her, drawing his brows together.

“We’re going to go swimming.” Clearly not in the mood for discussions, Lori grabs him by the upper arm and quite unceremoniously yanks him to his feet. The Talbots’ bossy nature really is fucking exhausting. “Drop the shirt. Kira, let’s go.” Lori doesn’t wait for either of them to follow them.

Knowing a little too well that any discussion is pointless, Stiles yanks his shirt over his head and tosses it onto his towel. If Lori wants him to go swimming, he will go swimming with her. Kira seems to have come to the same conclusion since she’s joining him on his way to the sea.

That Quinn girl spots them first, her features darkening almost at once. Mrs. Finch disliked him ever since Stiles corrected her once during AP Biology. Clearly, she didn’t speak fondly about him in front of her daughter.

Fantastic.

“Lori, hold on.” To his surprise, she stops dead in her tracks — causing him to almost crash into her — and stares at him with the same intensity remembers very well from Brett. “I don’t want to cause trouble, okay?” For one, it’s the first day of his vacation, he doesn’t need thirteen tense days. His anxiety is going to kill him. For another, Stiles doesn’t need to make shit any more complicated between the two packs.

But Lori merely waves a hand. “You’re here to resolve some issues, trust me.” And with that, the discussion seems to be over for her. Instead, she turns around. “Quinn, the girls want to play mermaid, not sea witch. Feel free to leave.”

Kira covers her mouth to stifle a laugh. Clearly nobody like Quinn.

“Yukimura!” Brett bellows from somewhere to their right. “Time to put your money where your mouth is.”

“Oh, shit.” Without warning, Kira grabs Stiles’ hand and yanks him around, hightailing it in the opposite direction. Her grip around his fingers is tight, unrelenting, almost as if she expected him to take a moment to tap into his fox again. He’s never been the biggest fan of the remains of the nogitsune still deeply anchored in his DNA.

But his body does remember its powers a lot quicker than he expected. “What’s going on?”

Kira lets go of his hand, probably realizing that Stiles can keep up with her, and scrunches up her face. “I may have made a bet with Brett,” she admits, glancing over her shoulder, “saying that there’s no way they could capture us.”

Us as in kitsunes, Stiles assumes, but before he can dwell on it too long, he catches movement out of the corner of his eye. “A little warning would’ve been nice.” He grabs her around the waist and stops both of them in their tracks. Tierney and Jiang have cut off their path now that the beach has gotten a lot emptier. Both of them are brimming with excitement.

Stiles twists around, so he’s standing back to back with Kira.

And Brett is right there.

Fuck.

Stiles steps away from Kira, watching as Brett comes running at him fast. There’s an almost predatory grin on his lips. Heart hammering in his chest, Stiles chances a glance over his shoulder, hating that he can’t see Jiang and Tierney without looking away from Brett. The two of them, however, seem to be focused on Kira. Good. But going up against Brett isn’t exactly the outcome he would’ve preferred.

“Split up,” he says, and Kira doesn’t hesitate a second. She spins on around and dashes back the way she came from. Stiles does the same thing, rushing past Tierney in the opposite direction of Kira. They’re faster than wolves, for the most part, but running in sand is a fucking nightmare for Stiles. He’s more stumbling than running. Finding every fucking hole in the world is really on brand, meaning Stiles’ advantage is dwindling fast— because Brett is not a goddamn klutz while running.

Stiles glances over his shoulder, and instantly regrets his decision. He misses a quite deep hole and steps right into it. His shin smacks against the edge, and all he can do is trying not to eat sand. Cursing under his breath, Stiles pulls himself out. Before he has the chance to get his feet back under him, Brett’s arm is around his waist, and he spins him around, pushing him into the sand.

The grin on his lips is more than predatory. “You can’t run from me, little fox,” Brett whispers as he’s leaning down until their noses almost brush.

Stiles’ heart all but skyrockets. “Is that a threat or a promise,” he asks, and he hates how breathless he sounds, hates that his body wants to stay right here and not move whatsoever. He’s not exhausted, not in the slightest, and he’s here to win a bet.

“A bit of both,” Brett replies, sounding just as breathless. He doesn’t move either and remains kneeling over Stiles’ legs, fingers digging into the sand next to Stiles’ head.

Stiles licks his lips, breath catching in his throat when Brett’s gaze drops down to follow the movement. Despite himself, Stiles holds his breath for a moment, too scared to move a single muscle. What is going on? Why is he looking at his mouth like that? He sucks in a breath. “What’s going to happen now?”

Brett blinks and locks eyes with him again. “Ocean,” he mutters, brows slightly furrowed. It almost seems as if he’s not sure himself if that’s really what’s going to happen. He certainly doesn’t move to get Stiles any closer to the ocean. Instead, his gaze darts back to his mouth again. Brett swallows, licks his lips, and his gaze flicks up to meet Stiles’ again. “I—" Brett cuts off, and he cups his cheek.

Something clicks into place.

Oh god.

Brett is trying to kiss him. Brett wants to kiss him.

And for a second, Stiles considers letting it happen. Because why not? This is everything he wants. Kissing Brett has been on his mind since meeting him again in college. Stiles swallows, parts his lips. But he’s going to leave, and Brett is going to return to Beacon Hills — and he can’t do that to himself. He fucking can’t.

“Ocean,” Stiles repeats softly, but Brett doesn’t even react. His thumb is tracing his jaw, and Stiles’ heart feels like it’s about to leap out of his chest. Bad. Bad. “Shark!” Stiles yells, ripping his hand out of the sand.

Brett pulls away, staring at him as if he’s lost his mind. Which is fair. It’s not like sharks are usually hanging out in the sand, but it’s really the only thing he manages to come up with to distract the werewolf — and open up a chance to push him off.

Something he does instantly, forcing a grin on his face and pretending as if Brett didn’t hear his heartbeat or pick on his chemo signals. “I’m not going to be captured by a wolf.” Twisting away, he gets to his feet surprisingly quickly and doesn’t hesitate to dash back in the direction of the others — in the direction of safety.

———

“You’re up early.”

“Look who’s talking.” Stiles grins up at Kira and pets the blanket next to him.

She plops down, body warm and sweaty from what’s very clearly been a morning workout. Her dedication is admirable. He didn’t make it a week, and he’d especially not do it on vacation. Kira yawns and pulls her legs to her chest. “What got you out of bed? Insomnia?”

Stiles wishes insomnia was the issue for once.

“What did he do?”

“Nothing.” Aside from spooning him and giving Stiles the worst and most awkward morning boner, he’s had since fucking high school.

Kira cocks her head. “But he drove you out of bed at 5am?”

Stiles falls back and crosses his arms over is stomach. Only a second later, Kira does the same. They haven’t been able to do this in years. He’s been so busy working on getting the FBI’s supernatural division up and running, he hardly had time to even miss his friends. But right now, he hates being so far away, hates how occupied he is with travelling everywhere, sitting in hour-long meetings, trying to make supernatural creatures understand that he’s with them instead of against them.

And then he goes home alone, or crashes into a strange hotel bed in a strange town with no one to keep him company.

If everything goes well, Stiles will have another 12 months of this.

Stiles lets out a breath. “I can’t do this.”

“You still love him.” It’s not a question. It never has been a question.

“I can’t sleep in a bed with him for two weeks and walk away with my heart in one piece.” At this point, Stiles can’t even tell if he’s not too far down the rabbit hole already. How the fuck is he supposed to be this close to Brett and then act like nothing at all happened?

Kira turns onto her side, brushing strands out of her face. Her eyes are heavy on him, searching. “What if you tell him?”

“That I’ve been in love with him since college?” Stiles barks out a laugh, cold and humorless, a sound that hurts in his throat.

Kira gently pokes his side. “You’re not unlovable.”

Huffing out a breath, Stiles rolls onto his side too, facing her, and instantly, he’s transported back to college. How many nights have they spent exactly like this? More than he can count, that’s for sure. He’s never felt more peaceful. “But it’s Brett. Do you remember him ever being even remotely interested in a relationship?”

“But what if he is interested in you?” Kira urges, raising her brows in question.

Stiles pinches his. “Do you know anything?” It’s not necessarily unlike her to be this pushy, but it’s still a little unusual.

“No.” She shakes her head a little before propping herself up onto her elbow. “But Brett wouldn’t give away his right to a single room for just anyone.” That’s phrased very kindly. They both know Kira means that he wouldn’t give up his chance to have sex with various hot people hanging out at the hotel. “When I talked to him about inviting you, he instantly offered.” It’s not hard to see where she’s coming from. Brett wasting two weeks of sex with strangers without a second of hesitation isn’t exactly like him.

Stiles lets out a breath. “Okay, but even if he just so happens to like me back romantically…” he scowls a bit, but he cannot bring himself to say love. Just thinking about it makes him feel nauseous. “What good is it going to do? I’ll leave in two weeks, and there’s nothing I have to offer in terms of a relationship. I can’t even say when I’ve got the time to see him again. Do you know how hard it was to get these two weeks off?” He knows he’s being unfair by making it sound like this is some type of hardship. He wants to be here, but he’s a one-man-team at the moment. It’s a fucking nightmare. “Please, don’t get me wrong—"

“Oh, I know.” Kira sits up, smiling down at him over her shoulder. “But maybe things are easier than you think. You know how a different perspective can help.”

“So what?” Stiles its up too, bumping against her shoulder. “I should just tell him?” There’s no way that’s going to lead anywhere, not when Brett is Satomi’s second in command, and Stiles is the leader of the supernatural division. Maybe things will be calmer when everything is established.

Stiles squints at the storm in the distance, watching it creep closer minute by minute.

That’s a big fucking maybe.  

“I’m just saying that you shouldn’t knock it till you try it.” She bumps into him with a chuckle.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “I’ll think about it.” But he’ll doubt he’s ever going to admit to his feelings. He doesn’t want to allow himself the type of hope that will eat him alive.

“And if it gets too much for you, I’ve got room in my bed too.” Kira wraps an arm around him and scoots closer, so she can prop her head on his shoulder.

The first rumble of thunder is audible when Stiles leans his head against hers. It won’t take much longer until the storm is right above their heads. But neither of them moves.

———

Instead, they ran inside through the rain, laughing and cursing and probably being a menace for the hotel staff. Stiles does feel a little bad in retrospect. They did leave behind a few tracks, but Stiles only cared about getting into the shower, and now he desperately needs to get some food into him.

But the moment he reaches the dining hall, Quinn steps in his way. “So, you’re this year’s conquest.” She leans against the wall right next to the door. As she shifts in front of him, Stiles has the weird feeling that she’s been waiting for him.

Drawing his brows together, Stiles glances from her to the rest of the room and back again. “Sorry?”

“Haven’t you heard?” Quinn’s smirk is about as pleasant as nails on a chalk board. “Every year, Brett finds someone, makes them feel special, fucks them, and then doesn’t even look at them the next day. Didn’t peg you as one to fall for that.” 

Stiles stares at her, trying his best not to let his feelings get to him. It’s not like there’s a relationship in the cards; they’re living at opposite ends of this country. Stiles’ schedule with the FBI is a nightmare, and Brett, well, he’s supposed to be Satomi’s successor. He can hardly leave the pack. Stiles doubts he’d— why is the even thinking about this again? Only an hour ago, he’s talked this through with Kira, and as much as he’s trying to find it in himself to look for something positive, he can only focus on the negative. Probably because there are so much more arguments for keeping quiet.

Stiles shakes his head, deciding that not deigning this with a response is probably the best idea, and moves to walk away.

Quinn steps in his way.

“What the fuck do you want from me?”

“An apology.”

Stiles blinks. “For what?” They haven’t spoken a single word since he’s arrived. All she did was glaring at him from a distance.

“You’re ruining this,” Quinn tells him, stepping closer. Her eyes burn yellow, reminding Stiles that he should bring a weapon the next time he joins this type of fun. She looks ready to jump him. “Brett and I are supposed to—.”

“Bring the packs together?” Despite everything, Stiles has never been afraid of most werewolves. He whacked the fucking twins with a baseball bat when they were morphed into one weird as hell abomination, and he very colorfully told one of them what he’d do with a branch of mistletoe. He’s not going to be intimidated by Quinn. Raising his brows, Stiles leans forward a little. “I don’t care about your future plans, so back off before I forget that I’m with the FBI.” Stiles is really good at picking fights with people he doesn’t know. But this time, it’s at least not his fault.

Not entirely at least.

Quinn steps closer again, but before she has the chance to do anything, Brett appears out of nowhere and fits easily into the space between them. “Hey.” His voice is light and charming, but his rigid body speaks a different language. “Is there a problem?”

Stiles lets out a breath. Part of him wants to push Brett out of the way and deal with Quinn himself. He doesn’t need protection.

“You should find a different bitch, that one bites.” Quinn spits, stepping away from Brett with a sneer.

Stiles lunges forward, but Brett is faster than him. Grabbing his waist, he pulls him flat against his side, holding him back with no effort whatsoever. “Call him a bitch again,” Brett says in a low voice that’s so much more threatening than any growl could ever be. “I dare you. See what happens.”

For a moment, Quinn stands stock-still, staring at Brett as if she’s trying to figure out what the right thing to do is. She flares his nostrils as she takes a breath then gives Stiles a nasty smile. “We’ll continue this conversation probably much sooner than later,” she drawls, shooting Brett a look before stepping away. “Have fun.” Turning his back on them, Quinn walks into the dining hall.

Does she think Stiles is afraid of facing her alone? Because if that’s the case, she’s dead wrong. If Brett weren’t having an iron grip on him, Stiles would show her exactly what he thinks of her.

Fucker.

Brett doesn’t let go of him, holding him flush against his side, fingers digging into his waist, probably sensing that Stiles is very much itching to jump the other werewolf.  “Let’s go outside.” It’s not a request, and he’s not waiting for a response anyway. Instead, Brett grabs him by the back of his shirt and yanks him around so fast, he almost lost this footing. “You’re a fucking idiot,” he informs him in a hushed tone.

Once through the door, Brett lets go of him with a shake of his head.

It’s stormy outside. Rain is pounding on the canopy of glass. The conversations from inside barely reach them here, even less when Brett pulls the door shut behind them. Stiles nudges a chair with his foot, barely repressing the urge to kick it across the patio and into the pool or turn around and snap at Brett as well. Just for good measure. He can’t believe the guy had the nerve to drag him around like a rag doll. Instead, Stiles takes a deep breath and directs his gaze to the dark horizon. “There’s a beach ten feet from here,” he mutters, pushing his hands in the pockets of his jeans, “why the fuck would they have a pool?” Stepping right up to its edge, Stiles contemplates throwing himself into the cool water. Maybe that would drown the anger.

Stiles gets the feeling this whole vacation was a terrible idea.

“Sharks.” Brett doesn’t hesitate to reply and comes to stand next to him, so close their arms are almost touching. “But I bet you don’t fear those either.”

Stiles shoots him a look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Humming softly, Brett shrugs. “Not many people would talk to a werewolf like that. You’d probably punch a shark in the nose before it got too close.”  

“That’s how you lose a hand,” Stiles replies, fixing his gaze on the thunderstorm in the distance. “You want to hit the gills or eyes. Preferably the gills.”

“And threatening a werewolf is how you lose your head.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, but Brett is probably right. “Noted.”

“Can we go back inside without you trying to kill her?”

Pressing his lips into a thin line, Stiles keeps staring towards the horizon.

Brett huffs out a breath. “I’ll take that as a no.”

“I didn’t do anything.” Stiles crosses his arms over his chest, glaring at the dark clouds as if they’re to blame for this. “She came at me.” He doesn’t even understand why she’s so upset at him. After all, Quinn said herself that Brett is always hooking up with random people. Besides, if she knows him even a little, she’s fully aware that Brett isn’t at all interested in anything that’s even remotely like a relationship. The guy has serious commitment issues. If Quinn really believes Brett will settle down with her, she absolutely has to rethink her world view.

Sighing, Brett wraps an arm around Stiles’ shoulders and pulls him close. “I know.”

Stiles hates how his body instantly melts against Brett’s. At this point, the guy doesn’t even have to be a werewolf to notice that something’s up. But waking up next to him, missing him since graduating from college — part of him is tired of hiding his feelings. Maybe Kira is right. Maybe he should say something. If Brett doesn’t reciprocate his feelings, he might be able to finally move on. “She believes you’ll settle down with her.” Stiles knows he sounds jealous, but perhaps this is another way to figure out what’s what without serving his heart on a silver platter.

“And?” Brett cups Stiles’ jaw, easily moving his head so Stiles has to look up at him. “What do you believe?” 

That’s not the answer he hoped for.

Stiles swallows around a lump in his throat. “I can’t see you settling down,” he whispers, suddenly hit with an awful déjà vu.

“Not with her, at least,” Brett mutters, a smirk curling around his lips, and just like that, he leans down.

Slowly.

Giving Stiles time to react.

Panic floods his veins. The moment he kisses Brett, the moment he allows this to happen, there is no going back. There’s no way to stop his heart from free-falling. But he can’t be Brett’s hook-up for this vacation. He can’t do it. So, Stiles jerks backwards — and loses his footing completely. The pool, he realizes belatedly.

Fuck.

Stiles flails, knowing very well that there’s only Brett to hold onto, but Brett merely watches him, hand now pushes in the pockets of his jeans.

Asshole.

He crashes into the water, deciding that breakfast can very much be happening without him. There’s no way in hell he’s leaving his room today.

———

“Well,” Brett says, kicking the door shut behind him, “that day is going swimmingly, isn’t it?” With the most annoying grin this side of the universe, he sets down a box filled with various breakfast foods on the bet next to Stiles. The guy really makes it hard to be annoyed with him. Then again, it’s hard to blame Brett for letting him fall into the pool after pulling away from a kiss twice.

If not for his stupid heart, Stiles would jump at the chance to hook up with Brett fucking Talbot for two weeks straight. But he can’t do that to himself.

Shooting the werewolf a narrow-eyed look, Stiles pulls the box towards him. “Can’t wait for your full routine, Mulaney.”

“At least I’m not holing myself up in my hotel room to mope.” Brett toes off his shoes and collapses into bed next to him, his mood unbearably good.

“I’m not holing myself up,” Stiles shoots back, ignoring the pointed look towards the drawn curtains. Yes, he went straight to his room after falling into the pool. No, he did not come out to eat breakfast — and he will not leave it for lunch or dinner either. This day is very much over for him. “I hate thunderstorms, you know that.” He hates how accusatory he sounds. The storm is hardly Brett’s fault.

Quinn’s bratty behavior isn’t either.

For a moment, Brett doesn’t reply and instead watches him nibble on a waffle with near uncomfortable intensity. “You got up pretty early today,” he says then. It sounds like he’s been meaning to talk about this for a while now.

Stiles isn’t entirely sure what that has to do with anything, so he merely hums in agreement and hopes that’s the end of it. He’d love to watch IT since he, for one, paid money for it — ha — and for another, he really doesn’t want to go into any details of anything that may or may not have happened.

Not even in the slightest.

“Why? Nightmares?”

Stiles gestures towards the TV with his waffle. It’s not like he needs to watch it, he knows the movie inside out. He still very much prefers it over this conversation.

But Brett keeps pushing, “insomnia?”

Once again, Stiles doesn’t reply. Mostly because he has no idea what to say to get out of this. Because the truth is a terrible start.

“Or the fact that we cuddled, and you woke up horny?” Brett snatches the remote and turns the TV off without hesitation. “You know I noticed, right?”

Know would be a bit much, but Stiles somewhat suspected it. Shit like this is just his luck. “Listen,” he says as his cheeks grow uncomfortable warm, “I just…” what? What could he possibly say to get out of this? “Haven’t been close to anyone in a while.” Aside from sounding absolutely pathetic, it’s at least the truth. “Can I please get the remote back now?”

The gin curling around Brett’s lips is positively wolfish. “I’ll trade it.”

Stiles puts the waffle down and pushes the box of food towards Brett, raising his brows expectantly. Of course, that’s not what Brett meant at all. “I’m so not in the mood for this.” But Brett is a shithead, and there’s absolutely no way for Stiles to get out of this. He’s too drained to try and out-stubborn a Talbot. “What do you want?” For some awful reason, the question tasted bad in his mouth, as if part of him new he is making a huge mistake giving Brett’s stupid idea even a second of consideration.

“A kiss.”

His breath catches in his throat. “What?” Sure, Stiles probably should’ve expected it since Brett tried to kiss him twice already. Hearing it this bluntly, however, is a very different story. “The fuck is this coming from?” It’s also not technically a lie. Brett has never tried kissing him before.

A flash of surprise cuts through Brett’s expression of confidence. For all but a second, it seems as if he questions his calculations — no matter how quickly the grin returns. “You kissed Kira and Lydia.”

“That’s different.” Stiles regrets those words the second they leave his mouth. Why can’t he think before he speaks? Sure, technically, the situations have been a bit different; mostly because they haven’t been alone in a hotel room. He kissed them during a stupid game. It’s never been serious. Besides, he also didn’t have feelings for either of them when it happened.  

Brett’s on his case like a fucking bloodhound. “Oh, is it? We’re friends too, aren’t we? Or is it because—"

Before Stiles can think any better of it, he leans over and presses their mouths together. The very second their lips touch, he pulls back again, not allowing himself to give this any thought at all because if he does, throwing himself out of the window might be the more painless option. “There,” he mutters, not daring to meet Brett’s eyes.

The laugh filling the room is surprisingly breathless. “You call that a kiss?”

“You didn’t specify—"

“A real kiss, Stiles. I thought that’s obvious.”

But it’s not. Nothing is obvious right now. Stiles is two seconds from running away; this time not into a relationship but into Kira’s room. Maybe he should’ve taken her up on the offer the second she made it. “This is fucking stupid.” Stiles sits back on his heels, still staring anywhere that’s not Brett. That, however, is stupid too. Setting his jaw, he locks eyes with the werewolf. “Are people falling for this shit?” He’s angry and defensive, and Stiles knows Brett is more than aware of it — of everything, even the feelings Stiles harbors for him. How could he not? “It’s so stupid.” And it’s certainly not funny.

Brett laughs, tapping the remote against his thigh. “You mentioned that.”

Stiles makes a grab for it. Unsurprisingly, he’s unsuccessful. “I’m really not in the mood.”

“You mentioned that too.”

Stiles wants to smother this asshole with a pillow. It certainly would solved absolutely all of his problems in one go. “Seriously, if you want to kiss me that bad—" stupid, stupid, stop talking “— just do it. Don’t act like a fucking middle schooler.” Stiles snaps his mouth shut entirely too late. With Brett, there’s always a risk that he might do it.

And, of course, Brett doesn’t hesitate.

He tosses the remote aside; because it’s never been about this fucking remote, because Stiles could tell things have been different since the moment he arrived, because Brett attempted to kiss him twice already. He would have, too, if Stiles hadn’t pulled away to protect what’s left of his heart.

But Brett doesn’t allow that this time. He pulls him in by the front of his shirt and crashes their mouths together.

The collar of his shirt digs into the nape of his neck, and Brett’s lips glide over his. He holds him there, doesn’t allow him to pull away again in any shape or form. He wants to, and he doesn’t want to. His body screams for Brett, begs for his hands and his mouth everywhere on him.

But he can’t do that to himself. He’ll have a night, if everything goes well, he has two weeks with Brett, two weeks of living his heart’s desire — and then reality comes crashing down on him.

Brett’s tongue traces Stiles’ lips, and his thoughts evaporate. Stiles cups the back of Brett’s head, holding him close. Brett wraps his arms around his waist, pulling him even closer. His eyes flutter shut, and his heart pounds in his chest.

Shit.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Stiles sighs softly into the kiss, giving Brett the chance to deepen it. His tongue flicks Stiles’ teasingly. His whole body tingles, and Stiles shudders as the werewolf grabs his ass shamelessly. This fucking guy has a way to consume him entirely too easily. It’s not fair.

Before Stiles knows it, he’s on his back, Brett above him, his body warm and heavy. His kiss is desperate and bruising and eager for more.

So much more.

For something Stiles would rather not give.

Fuck.

Stiles let’s go of Brett and pulls away. “Wait,” he whispers breathlessly. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Their relationship is meant to remain strictly platonic. There’s too much risk to ruin it, too much risk to ruin himself.

And he can’t.

Not this time.

But Brett clearly doesn’t get the memo. He kisses him again, and Stiles kisses him back because he really, really wants everything that’s happening so, so fucking bad; the way Brett tastes like orange juice, his nose bumps against Stiles’ and his hands are roaming his body, and the way he bites his bottom lip.

It makes him dizzy.

Stiles curls and uncurls his fingers then grabs Brett’s shoulders. “Stop,” he mutters into the kiss. Wait doesn’t set the right signals. “Stop.” And he finally manages to turn his head to the side. “Brett—" He really needs him to fucking stop.

Instead, Brett drags his lips down to his jaw, trails them further down to his throat.

Stiles leans his head back, gasping when Brett sucks on his sensitive skin. It’s so easy to just give in.

No.

No.

“I said, stop!” Stiles gives Brett’s shoulders a shove and finally, finally, the werewolf raises his head, but he’s not moving off him. “I don’t— I don’t want this.”

Brett quirks a brow, clearly not buying it — not when Stiles’ body sends a very different signal. “I beg to differ.”

The amusement rubs him the wrong way, and he gives Brett another push. “I’m not going to sleep with you just because you offered me to stay in your room.”

Brett sits up as if Stiles slapped him in the face. “Is that what you think?” His voice is icy, his muscles rigid, and suddenly, the way he towers over him now is terrifying. It’s easy to forget how dangerous Brett can be — and he’s got every right to be pissed. “Do you believe Quinn? Do you really think I’d treat you that way?” They both know the answer to that question — and that’s most likely why Brett hasn’t kicked him out of the room yet.

Shaking his head, Stiles props himself onto his elbows.

Brett collapses onto the bed next to him. “Are you going to tell me the real reason?”

“I can’t.”

“Can’t? Or won’t.”

Stiles drops onto his back and squints at the ceiling. “A bit of both, I guess.”

To his surprise, Brett laughs. It’s breathless and soft and everything but angry. “Can I tell you something then?” He rolls onto his side and props his head on his hand, studying Stiles’ face with sparkling blue eyes. He’s so pretty it hurts. “Something only Satomi knows?”

Stiles licks his lips and nods. Slowly. He’s not entirely sure what he might hear. “Sure.”

“I love you,” Brett tells him as bluntly as always. He chuckles when Stiles bolts upright — not entirely sure if his heart is going to stay inside his body in the foreseeable future. But Brett continues talking as he scoots behind him and wraps both arms around his waist, “and I can’t stand another year of being away from you.” His left hand slips under Stiles’ shirt.

A shudder runs down his spine, and Stiles grabs his wrist. He doesn’t stop him, not yet, merely holds on for dear life.

With ease, Brett pulls him closer, running his fingers over Stiles’ lower abs. “I wanted to take my time and try to figure out how you felt.” His lips are so close, every word is painted against the shell of his ear. All the while, his hand creeps lower at a snail’s pace. “But the bed is still drenched in your scent from this morning, and… I overheard you talking to Kira”

“Oh god,” Stiles breathes, not sure if it’s because of the admission or because Brett pushes two fingers past the waistband of his sweatpants.

The soft chuckle paves its way straight to Stiles’ dick. He wishes he could say it’s because he hasn’t been close to anyone in forever, but that’s not true — it’s Brett, all of this is fucking Brett.

“And I just can’t help myself,” the werewolf whispers, grabbing Stiles’ chin to turn his head just enough to brush their lips together. “I want your scent all over me.” He hooks a finger under the waistband of Stiles’ boxer briefs, tugging once, twice. A question. ‘Stop me’, it seems to offer.

Stiles lets go of Brett’s waist and curls his fingers into the sweatpants instead, blood rushing in his ears.

And Brett continues; he keeps talking, allows his hand to slip further into Stiles’ boxer briefs. “I hated seeing you with others. I hate how they treated you.” Just like that, Brett curls his long fingers around Stiles’ dick — the touch alone makes him almost jump out of his own body. “I knew I could treat you so much better. I will treat you better.”

Stiles groans and lets his head fall back.

Another chuckle.

Stiles tugs on Brett’s sweatpants.

“You smell so good,” Brett whispers, free and sliding from his chin to Stiles’ throat. His thumb rests right above his pule. He hums, sounding so smug, so fucking happy with himself.

It should be embarrassing that all it took were a few choice words to change Stiles’ mind, but it’s hard to feel bad with a hand wrapped around his dick. “Brett,” he breathes.

Brett hums again and kisses his temple. “Want me to make you feel good?”

“Please.”

Brett makes a sound that’s somewhere between a moan and a grow. Everything after that is rushed. They’re moving, getting rid of clothes. Brett’s shoe refuses to cooperate. It’s fun to see Mr. Smooth getting frustrated enough over such a small thing. A moment later, the shoe is gone, and Brett is on top of him again, kissing him with a hunger that leaves Stiles lightheaded and painfully hard.

Biting his bottom lip, Stiles watches as Brett rummages through his backpack. He’s hard lines and muscle where Stiles is skin and bones, lack of training and time to eat carving their marks into his body. His dick is long and hard and, apparently, now exclusively for Stiles’ pleasure — well, and Brett’s, but that’s a given.

If Brett told him the truth, that is. Which he did, right? They’ve been friends for years. Brett wouldn’t lie to him just to get into his pants.

Right?

“I can hear you overthinking.” Brett drops the backpack next to the bed, flicking a bottle of lube at him.

Stiles catches it awkwardly. For a moment, he stares at it as if the weight of his future rests inside of it. “Are you sure about… this?” Stiles gestures vaguely around, not daring to look at him.

“You mean the sex thing, or the whole I-love-you speech?” Brett asks, and although he smirks at him, his blue eyes have gone unbelievably soft. “Because I fully intend to be your trophy boyfriend.”

Stiles rolls his eyes.

“I’m serious about us. If you let me, I will come with you after this vacation. I’ll travel the US with you. I’ll make sure you eat and sleep, and I fuck you as often as you want me to.”

“And here I thought romance is dead.” Stiles can’t help but grin at the idea. It’s easy to see Brett by his side, to come home to him. Still, “it’s going to be boring for you, though, isn’t it?”

Brett raises his brows, shuffling closer until they’re nose to nose again. “Relaxing by the pool? No way.”

“I’m not staying in hotels like this.” Not usually, at least.

“Stiles,” Brett sounds exasperated, yet he cups his cheeks ever so gently. “I can deal with a year of ratty motels in the middle of nowhere if that means I’m with you, okay?” The moment Stiles opens his mouth for a reply, Brett leans over and kisses him, very clearly done with the conversation, and pushes him back into the pillows. “You’re not going to talk me out of this,” he whispers against Stiles’ mouth. “Stop wasting your breath.” With a chuckle, Brett plucks the lube from his fingers. “And relax, my love.”

Fucking hell.

Stiles runs his fingers through Brett’s hair and pulls him down for another kiss. He’ll allow himself to dream, to imagine this future Brett is painting will have a happy ending. Perhaps it does. He’ll never know if he refuses to try. So, he tries — tries to be an optimist, tries to relax as Brett’s hands and mouth explore every inch of his body, and tries desperately to hold onto his sanity as Brett’s tongue and fingers do their very best to make him fall apart.

Something that gets significantly harder the moment Brett thrusts in to the hilt. He presses their foreheads together, breathing heavily as he stays still for way too long.

Stiles hooks a leg around Brett’s thighs and rolls his hips. The way Brett moans his name makes him almost cum on the spot. “Fuck,” he breathes, “warn a guy.”

Brett chuckles as he captures his lips for another kiss mere seconds before he pulls back out and thrusts back in, fast and hard, yet not quite hard enough. Brett does it again, harder this time — testing how far he can go, or how much he has to hold back.

Stiles moans into the kiss when he does it for a third time, unable to stay quiet any longer.

“Okay?” Brett asks, stilling again.

“Yeah,” Stiles gasps, “better than okay.”

Brett lets out a breath. “You’re perfect,” he mutters, and it almost sounds like a curse. But Stiles can’t be bothered. Now that they’re here, he’d like to feel it for as long as he can, even when Brett won’t be leaving his side anytime soon — or ever, hopefully. God, he wants his marks all over his body, wants to feel this with every step he takes.

Brett seems to be thinking along a similar vein because he keeps the pace, fucking Stiles as if he’s got every intention to leave his mark everywhere. His fingers curl around Stiles’ dicks again, adding more fuel to the fire burning absolutely everywhere inside of him.

Stiles digs his fingers into Brett’s back, feeling his muscles tighten as he rushes towards his orgasm.

They’re hardly kissing any longer, instead, they’re breathing, gasping, moaning against each other’s mouths — lips brushing against each other’s more an accident than purpose.

And then, it hits him. His orgasm cuts to his core, and Stiles throws his head back.

Brett holds him, fucks him, until he collapses on top of him, boneless, skin hot and sweaty, face hidden in the crook of Stiles’ neck.

His brain is still trying to catch up while his heart is already beating in sync with Brett’s. His body truly never fails to disappoint. Stiles lets out a soft breath and runs his fingers through the blond strands. “I could get used to this.”

Growling quietly, Brett nips at his skin.

Stiles flicks his ear. “What the hell was that for?”

Brett chuckles and props himself onto his elbows. His eyes are bright, his lips ever so kissable, and he ducks down and brushes their noses together. “I’m not going to get a quiet afterglow, do I?”

“Have you met me?” Stiles raises his brows, not exactly expecting an answer to a question that couldn’t be any more rhetorical if he tried. “I could offer you cuddles in exchange for the remote, though.” He’s going to finish that movie, even if he has to stay still in Brett’s arms for the rest of it.

Sighing dramatically, Brett kisses him again. “Fine.”

Stiles grins. “I love you.” Three words he’s been wanting to say for years.

He tugs at the patch again. This time, he can’t stop the audible wince.

Next to his hip, Brett stirs. He doesn’t move for a moment, grunting very softly at being woken up, then he straightens with a yawn and rolls his shoulders and neck. Stiles knows exactly how he feels after many nights spent exactly like that. Brett’s blue eyes become quickly alert when he finds Stiles awake. “Hey.” His voice is soft and full of concern. “How are you feeling?”

“Parched,” Stiles croaks, returning his gaze to the IV. He doesn’t tug on the patch anymore, not when Brett is watching him closely.

“Why didn’t you wake me up?” Brett hurries around the bed to grab the bottle that’s well within Stiles’ reach; he simply didn’t trust his stomach enough to keep anything down, and the last thing he wanted was to wake up Brett by throwing up all over him.

Stiles takes the offered glass and carefully takes a sip. His mouth almost instantly stops feeling like a desert.

“Anything else?” Brett asks, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “Headache? Are you hungry?”

Stiles shakes his head.

“Fucking hell.” Brett runs his fingers through his hair, something Stiles struggled not to do while he was still asleep. “I’m glad you’re okay. Your dad scared the shit out of me.”

Stiles grimaces. “My dad knows?” His voice sounds rough now that he tries to string words together to form an actual sentence.

“Of course, he knows.” Brett draws his brows together. “Someone put some shit in your beer. If I hadn’t told him, Melissa would’ve, and then he’d be pissed at me for keeping him in the dark.”

“Someone did what?” Stiles can’t tell if his brain is just slow, or if it doesn’t make any sense. There’s no fucking way Stiles left his drink unattended — not after countless lessons and horror stories from his dad when he started to get to the age where he could go to parties — but it makes even less sense for Stiles to drink a lot, or to be this wasted after a single beer. So, yeah. His drink getting spiked does seem a little more likely.

“Your dad’s turning the bar upside down right now.” Brett pushes his hands in his jeans. He’s wearing last night’s outfit. Did he really stay with him the whole time? “I told him your drinks were never unattended, so the barkeeper is pretty high on his list of subjects.”

“The barkeeper?” Sure, it does make sense. Stiles just wishes he would remember the barkeeper. Did he flirt with him… her? He has no clue who the barkeeper was, much less what they looked like. Perhaps he didn’t give them any attention, and that’s why they— Stiles closes his eyes. Shit like this doesn’t happen to him. He runs with wolves and gets rid of supernatural threats. A fucking barkeeper with ill intentions shouldn’t be the thing that put him in the hospital. And yet.

Brett smiles, but it doesn’t seem to reach his eyes. Not really. “You don’t remember much, huh?” He sounds almost a little too casual. Does he want him to remember? Or would he rather Stiles doesn’t remember a thing. Because if it’s the latter…

A wave of nausea comes with that thought. Staring at the glass in his hand again, Stiles shakes his head. Best to pretend even though he knows they need to talk about it. Maybe he should just apologize, and tell Brett he doesn’t really mean it. After all, he was drugged. Their friendship is something he highly treasures. He cares about it just as much as he cares about his friendship with Lydia. He doesn’t want to ruin it with his fucking feelings.

“Nothing at all?”

But the thing is, their friendship has blossomed so quickly and is still going strong because they don’t keep secrets from one another. They’re brutally honest too. “I remember kissing you,” Stiles replies in a horse whisper, barely resisting the urge to pull at the patch again. “Why do I remember kissing you?” Part of him hopes it’s merely a drug-induced hallucination or a very vivid dream.

The tiny grin on Brett’s lips tells a very different story. “Because you love me,” Brett informs him entirely too delighted. “At least that’s what you said last night.”

“Oh, my god.” Stiles presses a hand to his face. Somebody, please kill him.

“You do… right?” Brett sounds painfully small and… scared? “Love me?”

Drawing his brows together, Stiles lowers his hand and stares at his friend. His best friend, who is looking back at him like a deer in headlights, expects a collision that’ll render him dead or broken. Stiles bites his bottom lip, considering his response despite knowing he’ll tell the truth regardless. “I do love you, yes.”

Brett’s face lights up. “Good because I kinda told the EMTs that I’m your boyfriend, who then told the nurses who I think told Melissa, who might’ve told your dad. It would’ve been super awkward if I had to tell them I was wrong about our relationship.”

“You’re aware that makes us the gossip in the staff room, right?” But Stiles can’t help but smile. If he’d known before that Brett felt the same, the past six months could’ve been very different.

“Our relationship has been the topic of various bets in my pack.” Brett sits on the bed next to him, smoothing the edge of the patch with his thumb. “I think I can handle nurses.” Smirking down at him, Brett squeezes his hand and kisses him as if he wants to make up every single second they missed out on.

Curling his lips, Stiles raises a bottle of rum. He shakes the measly content that’s left over and heaves a sigh. “Great.” He drops the bottle between the others. Someone’s gotta have some alcohol around here. His jock quota is reached, and he desperately needs some booze to make this bearable for another hour or two. 

Stiles whirls around as someone touches his shoulder, only to find himself face to face with a v-neck covered by a varsity jacket. Stiles blinks and takes a step back, eyeing the guy in front of him warily. “Hey,” he says slowly, pinching his brows together. Why does Brett Talbot know he exists? 

Brett flashes him a smile. He’s painfully attractive, but Stiles has never been particularly receptive to the charm of jocks. Perks of growing up with Jackson Whittemore. “What’s up?”

There’s movement behind him. A group of guys are trying to be conspicuous but failing spectacularly. 

“You guys are out of booze,” Stiles informs him and pushes past him with a pat on his arm. If he does so just to get a feel of Brett’s impressive biceps, then nobody needs to be any wiser.

Brett, however, hasn’t given up yet. Still smiling his cocky yet awfully pretty smile, he steps in his way. Someone clearly is not used to his charm falling flat. “I’ve got some upstairs.” 

Stiles struggles to keep his expression in check. Of course, he just so happens to have booze upstairs. See, under different circumstances, Stiles probably would’ve said yes, would’ve allowed Brett to drag him upstairs and fuck him against a wall, or into a mattress, or whatever he’s intending to do. His idiot friends, however, are currently very much cockblocking him. “Dope,” he says with a very obvious lack of enthusiasm and pushes Brett out of his way carefully — people are unpredictable, and he’s been around enough to know not everyone takes rejection very well; especially when said rejection happens right in front of his friends.

This time, Brett gets the hint. His smile slips, yielding utter confusion before it turns to anger at the howl of laughter coming from his friends. 

Stiles makes a beeline to Mason and Liam, who suddenly looks more than excited while Mason is as confused, if not more than Brett. 

“Dude, dude,” Mason whisper-shouts just loud enough to be audible over the music and conversations. “That’s Brett Talbot. Did you just reject Brett Talbot?” 

It’s madness, really. Who doesn’t want to hook up with him? But Stiles has absolutely no interest in ending up as some sort of conquest. Not even Brett Talbot’s. He’s a senior in college, only a few months away from starting at the FBI. It’s about time he finds his pride and sticks with it. 

Liam punches his shoulder. “He’s not done yet,” he says, his voice almost shrill with excitement.

Rolling his eyes, Stiles turns around to face Brett with raised brows. “I see you didn’t get your booze.” His friends, Stiles notes, have disappeared somewhere in the crowd. He wonders if he told them to piss off or to be less suspicious. He also wonders if being told ‘no’ is a turn-on, wouldn’t be the first time. 

Brett rubs his left collarbone, scanning the faces of Mason and Liam briefly. His brows pinch slightly before he returns his attention to Stiles. Resuming this conversation in front of a very curious audience probably isn’t exactly high on his agenda, but Brett takes a breath and smiles. This time, it’s only half as bright as before. “I’m sorry,” he says, sounding awfully genuine as he tugs on his black v-neck before pushing his hands into his jeans. “See, the thing is…” Brett trails off, once again studying Stiles’ friends behind him. His shoulders drop, and for all but a second, he looks almost defeated. “My friend thinks you’re hot.” 

What?

Stiles blinks, checking out their immediate surroundings. That doesn’t make any fucking sense. Said friend would most likely watch them like a hawk, looking ready to throw up from nerves. But there’s nobody here who fits that description. “What friend?” 

Brett’s face does something complicated as he’s going through a bunch of emotions in three seconds. Eventually, it settles on resignation. “Me,” he admits softly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “I’m the friend.”

“I’m—” Brett grimaces as if he’s in pain. “Listen, I’m not—”

“Usually this bad at getting into someone’s pants?” Stiles offers, crossing his arms over his chest. 

Brett shakes his head, looking as if he’s in progressively more pain, and rubs his collarbone again. “I’ve been trying to talk to you for… a while.” 

A while. Stiles uncrosses his arms. A while? That sounds highly unlikely. Someone like Brett has issues starting up a conversation with his scrawny ass? Not that Stiles considers himself ugly. He grew into his gangly limbs in his senior year at high school, but he also has two sets of working eyes, and they’re telling him very clearly that Brett should be miles out of his league. “I think,” he mutters, shaking his head a little as if that would in any way shape, or form change what he’s just heard, “I’m having trouble processing—” 

“You’re hot,” Brett interrupts him with a little more confidence this time around, “and… can we have this conversation somewhere in private?” 

Stiles opens his mouth, closes it again, and stares at Brett with his heart in his throat. What the hell is happening? “Well, shit,” he mumbles, not even sure what exactly he’s referring to, “at least buy me dinner first.” Did someone give him drugs without him noticing? Because Stiles is pretty sure he’s having delusions. 

“Sure thing.” Brett grins now, open and happy, and, fuck, Stiles wants to kiss him. “I’ll pick you up on Monday after your Criminal Law and Procedure class.” Winking at him, Brett turns around and shuffles away. 

And before Stiles can even process what happened, much less that Brett knows his fucking class schedule, Mason pops up in his vision. “Did you just talk our resident golden boy into going on a date with you?” 

Stiles can’t believe it either. Brett Talbot thinks he’s hot. Fucking hell. Without a reply, he pushes past him and grabs Brett’s arm before he’s got the chance to vanish into the crowd. 

The smirk on Brett’s lips is a little too confident, but that doesn’t bother Stiles any longer. Instead, he pulls him down by the collar of his jacket and kisses him. His lips are soft, and the taste of beer clings to them. His heart lurches back into his throat because he’s kissing Brett, who very clearly needed a few seconds to process what’s going on. Then Brett grabs him by the hips and kisses him back with a hunger that’s dizzying. Stiles makes a sound in the back of his throat he’s very much not proud of, and Brett pulls them flush together. If he lets this go on for any longer— 

Stiles pulls away, chuckling softly as Brett chases his mouth. Everyone can fuck their college's golden boy. But getting to date him? He leans close again. “Consider this a taste of what you can get if you play your cards right on Monday.” 

“Trust me,” Brett smiles, blue eyes bright with excitement. “I will.” And with that, he’s vanishing into the crowd, giving him a perfect view of Lydia and Jackson pushing their way toward him. Oh, Jackson is going to hate this.