#bamfstiles

Then he was waking up, his mind slow and foggy. All he could smell was smoke, his eyes sluggish as they tried to see through the heavy haze. He was tied up, ropes wrapped tight around his chest, forearms, wrists. The tree he was hanging from had bark digging into his bare back - and he spent just a moment's thought wondering why he was naked. He could hear shallow chanting, the quiet murmurs of spell work echoing around him. Everything was fuzzy, as though he were looking through a heavy fog.

Until he smelt ozone and storm clouds. He vision cleared up with his mind, whatever spell they had cast over him being shoved away as rain began to beat down on the clearing. It hurt, the drops of water were fat, heavy as they assaulted the clearing. It felt nice as the water cleared away the remaining heaviness of his mind and he was able to focus. The witches were chanting louder, the smell of mistletoe slowly leaving the air as the smoke in the clearing was whisked away.

“Who are you!” One of the witches screeched, her voice shrill in the still air. The rain had finally stopped as figure in red stepped forward.

The red was a hooded leather jacket, tight black jeans adorning his boys legs. He looked good, Peter thought absently and couldn’t find himself to be embarrassed at the hardening of his cock when Stiles finally raised his head. His skin was pale, glowing a soft white as his eyes burned brightly, his iris replaced by the glow of his magic. His boy laughed then, lightning striking close, so close behind him as the smell of burnt foliage flooded his senses.

“Beacon Hills is my land, the Hales are my wolves, and I don’t like when people take my things!” Stiles said, his voice booming around the clearing though Peter was sure he was hardly talking above a whisper.

Peter watched in fascination as one of the witches cast some sort of spell, her voice screaming in a different language. Stiles said something in Polish - his native tongue - and without even a wave of his arm the witch was withering on the floor, screaming and begging as Stiles watched for a long moment. Finally he flicked his wrist and the woman’s head snapped to the side, neck breaking from the force. Silence fell over the clearing at that, the four other women slowly moving together, further away from the boy.

Stiles came over to Peter then, turning his back on the witches though the man knew they weren’t far from his attention. His body was held tight and when two of the woman shouted in unison he didn’t even look back, just raised an arm above his head and a soft glow erupted from his body. He looked like the moon, Peter thought, as his magic poured from his body and into the clearing. He did turn then - Peter never wasting an opportunity to ogle his boy's ass looked his fill - and directed his glare at the coven, his lips pulling back in a wolfish sneer.

He muttered a few words, too low and too fast for Peter to make sense of before three of the four witches screamed in outrage, their bodies seizing before lighting began to strike them down. The clearing was light bright, fire exploding along the forest's floor, only to be put out when it began to pour. The rain washed away the ashes - all that was left of the three bodies - before Stiles turned to the last one. Peter could see how Stiles’ magic was glowing softer, fading back into his skin as the boy smiled.

“Spread the word that Spark Stilinski is claiming Hale Land as his own.” And with that he turned his back to her, finally looking at Peter.

He could hear the boys heart beat stutter as it looked over his body, speeding up considerably when he glanced over Peter’s cock - still hard and standing at attention, so what if he had a very clear power kink - even as he remained outwardly calm. He stepped closer, flicking a finger and the ropes dropped away, Peter falling to the floor only to be caught in thin arms.

“I didn’t want to do that,” Stiles pouted down at Peter, then the man was burying his face into Stiles’ neck to breath. The sharpness was fading, his scent turning salty and fresh as he calmed.

“I’m sorry sweetheart, I didn’t plan on being kidnapped,” Peter muttered into the boy's neck, arms looping around the thing waist, hands settling gently atop the swell of the boys ass, “If you come home with me I can make it up to you?”