#*s:briles

[msmischief101]

♜Pairing: Briles (+ Isaac) ♜Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Brett Talbot, Isaac Lahey ♜Tags/Warnings: Briles established relationship, alpha!Brett, explicit sexual content ♜Words: 6187 ♜Kinktober 2023: Sharing

ao3

a/n: I wish you a very happy birthday, @amatchinwater! 💖

———

sharing is caring

“Hey, you got a minute to talk?”

Stiles looks up from his files, quirking a brow as he studies Brett for a moment. “Sure?”

After closing the door behind him, Brett quickly crosses the distance and crouches down next to Stiles’ chair. There are only two instances when he acts like this; wanting to make peace after an argument, or when he wants Stiles to ask for a favor. They haven’t fought in a while. “You remember how we talked about that an alpha has to sometimes take care of their betas?”

Stiles raises his brows. “And how you’re not a fan of that tradition. Yes, I remember.” The first time Brett brought this topic up, Stiles had already read all about it — and he decided to date him anyway. He's aware that intimacy and physical contact have a very different meaning for werewolves, but he’s also aware that humans becoming members of a pack slowly changed the meaning of sex, especially for the alpha couple. Apparently, human mates turned the alpha more possessive and aggressive towards others and even the members of their own pack. Stiles could write a whole dissertation about how goddamn stupid it is to think a human getting involved with werewolves can’t protect themselves, but since Brett is against a lot of old traditions and never excluded him from anything dangerous, he didn’t have a reason to do so yet.

“That didn’t change.” Brett pulls his shoulders up and sighs.

“I can feel a ‘but’ coming.”

Brett grimaces a little. “It’s about Isaac.” They’ve talked a lot about Isaac in the past few days. Although he’s been with them for almost two months, it seems like he’s not fully integrated into the pack. There’s a distance there, one that’s been plaguing Brett. No pack activity seems to change that.

“So,” Stiles says, clearing his throat awkwardly, “you want to sleep with Isaac?” It will bother him, he’s not ever going to deny that. But he is also not going to stop Brett from doing it if he considers it absolutely necessary. Stiles did inherently agree to a more or less open relationship when he decided to date an alpha and continued to date him after they talked about everything.

“No.” Brett turns the desk chair Stiles is sitting on and slips between his thighs. Although Stiles isn’t a werewolf, he can’t deny that seeing Brett kneeling between his legs is doing things to him. It’s not a position an alpha would put themselves in usually, but Brett has never put himself above him in any way. They’ve always been equals, especially when it comes to decisions for the pack. “Isaac’s been in two other packs with you.” He straightens a little, just enough to wrap an arm around Stiles’ waist and pull him closer to the edge of his seat. “It’s possible he’s followed you to this one. It wouldn’t be the first time a werewolf instinctively anchors himself to a former pack mate, and with everything you two have been through…” he trails off, raising his brows.

Stiles blinks. “You want me to sleep with Isaac?”

Brett hums in agreement.

For a few moments, Stiles simply stares at his mate. Part of him still waits for the gotcha-moment, but Brett doesn’t really make these types of jokes. He probably mulled this over for at least a week, trying to figure out the best way to bring it up. Issue is, there is no best way to bring something like this up. Stiles has absolutely no idea what to say. Isaac is attractive, no doubt, and he totally would’ve been down to sleep with him — if he weren’t in a very committed relationship. Agreeing to this now feels weird. He clears his throat and runs his fingers through Brett’s hair. “What does Isaac say?”

“I haven’t spoken to him yet.”

Stiles draws his brows together. “And you’d be okay with it?”

“I’ll be in the room.”

“Babe.” Stiles puts two fingers underneath Brett’s chin, tipping his head a bit further back. “That’s not what I asked.”

Brett grimaces and ducks his head, cheeks flushing slightly. It’s such a rare sight, something that happened the last time the day Brett asked him out for the very first time. He’s been so awkward and unsure back then. This side of Brett startled him all those years ago, it’s not any less surprising now. “You know I love you, right?”

The smile slips from Stiles’ features as the words sink in. Nothing good ever starts with ‘you know I love you, right?’. Absolutely nothing.

“No.” Brett is instantly alert, straightening and reaching up to cup his cheeks. “No, don’t go into panic mode. I just want to—” he cuts off and closes his eyes, taking a deep breath as if to steady himself. “I’d hate to see you with somebody else, but watching you and Isaac... I don’t know.”

Stiles blinks as realization dawns on him. “You’d be into that? Watching me and Isaac have sex?” He’s not exactly turned off by that admission. It’s more that he’s confused. Although Brett isn’t outright jealous, he’s proven to be very possessive which, again, is on par for mates. Stiles can feel the same tug of possessiveness whenever Brett is close with someone else. So, hearing this is surprising.

For a moment, Brett studies him and presses a finger to his bottom lip.

Out of instinct, Stiles pokes it with his tongue.

“No,” Brett admits then, shaking his head for good measure, “watching you be good for my beta— making him feel good, welcoming him... that’s what I’d be into.” There’s a hint of something unspoken, of something Brett has never outright said or asked him, but something that’s been floating around in his mind, nonetheless. Nature versus nurture. Brett is undoubtedly raised to fit seamlessly into the human society. That does not mean he isn’t fully in tune with his werewolf, and that side of him got stronger after becoming the alpha. There are little things that are standing out. He’s more protective, less reckless, almost responsible, and he started proving that he could provide for Stiles as well as the pack.

But there’s something else too.

Although Brett would never dare to treat Stiles as anything but his equal, he’s become increasingly frustrated when Stiles outright defied him. After all, he is the alpha, the leader of the pack. Brett’s word is law.

That’s how his wolf wants it.

Stiles cocks his head to the side. They both know he’ll never submit to Brett or anyone. That’s not who he is, and Brett would never dare to force him. Thing is, Stiles has often thought about finding a compromise, a way to ease Brett’s wolf without compromising their everyday life. “You want me to be a good boy?” Although Stiles has been thinking about it for a while, hearing these words out loud is still a bit jarring.

But Brett’s eyes flash red for the fraction of a second, proving that Stiles hit the nail on the head. He licks his lips and pulls off the chair on his lap within a second, arms wrapped tight around his waist. “I love you,” he tells him, lips brushing over his neck. “You’re so good for me.”

Stiles chuckles. “I know, but I still have to work.”

“Take a break.” Brett nips on his skin, looking up at him with an almost wolfish grin.

“Go talk to Isaac,” Stiles insists, cupping Brett’s jaw to gently push him away from him. “We can continue this when I’m done working.” The disapproving growl is not lost on Stiles, but he refuses to act on it. The only place he’ll ever consider to submit to Brett will be in the bedroom, and he can growl and hate it as much as he wants. “Priorities.” Stiles kisses the corner of Brett’s mouth.

Brett growls once more for good measure, but he relents. “Fine.” For an alpha, he knows how to act like a petulant child. 

— — —

“Isaac’s here.” Brett slips into the guest bedroom and raises his brows. “You got out your best clothes, huh?” Scrunching up his nose, Stiles looks down on himself. He’s wearing one of Brett’s old college’s shirt and boxer briefs. Surely not his most attractive attire. “It’s comfortable,” he says with a shrug, “and I figured I won’t have to wear my clothes for too long anyway. So…” he trails off with a shrug.

Brett pulls him close by the hem of his shirt. “Are you still cool with this?”

“Yeah.”

“You need a bit more time for prep?”

Stiles squirms a little. “I did that in the shower.” The deal was for Brett to get him in the mood, but Stiles does not exactly need any help with that.

Chuckling, Brett grabs his ass and pulls him closer. “Excited to sleep with Isaac?”

That answer is ‘yes, very’, but it feels wrong to admit that. He doesn’t want to lie either, so he ducks his head instead.

“That’s normal, you know?” Brett grabs his chin, still smiling genuinely. “You’ve been in three different packs. You’re bound to feel an intense connection with him. I’m surprised you two never had sex before.”

Even though Stiles’ view on sex is pretty casual, it’s nothing against a werewolf’s opinion on sex — outside of a relationship that is. They’re usually pretty loyal once they found a mate. “Are you okay with this?” Stiles raises his brows. It’s going to be weird to have Brett watch them the whole time, but he gets that his wolf would never allow anything else.

Brett kisses him briefly. “I love you.” Smiling, he steps back. That’s not exactly a ‘yes’, but before Stiles can point that out, Brett has settled into the corner of the room. With the only light source being the left of two lamps on the nightstands, the armchair, and with that Brett, is almost shrouded in shadows.

“You look like a bond villain,” Stiles informs him.

Brett flashes his eyes.

“Now you look like a demon.” Stiles shakes his head when Isaac knocks on the door. Softly, almost as if he hoped it would go unheard. Stiles mouths ‘be nice’ before moving to open the door. They all agreed that this could be stopped at any time, but Stiles still would prefer it happened before starting anything. After all, Isaac has a hard time fitting in already. There’s no need to make this anymore awkward.

Isaac blinks at him, hands pushed deep into the pocket of his pants. “Hi,” he says softly.

“Hey.” Stiles steps aside, gesturing for Isaac to come in. “Ignore Brett. He’s being a dramatic asshole.”

Although Isaac chuckles, he’s clearly nervous when he glances at his alpha. He briefly nods at Brett before turning back to Stiles. Neither will be able to ignore Brett, but it’s probably still going to be the best if they at least pretend not to notice him. “You look…” Isaac trails off and sits down on the edge of the bed.

“Like I just rolled out of bed.” Stiles closes the door with a chuckle. He gets the feeling that Isaac is not going to be the one to make the first move. It’s not surprising, and to be honest, Stiles expected that. He rolls his shoulder and crosses the room. Flirting isn’t exactly his forte, but he’s pretty good at all the other stuff. Getting Isaac out of his shells should not be too hard.

Hopefully.

Stiles grabs his shirt by the back of his neck and pulls it over his head, tossing it in Brett’s general direction.

Isaac’s eyes widen slightly, but his gaze wanders over Stiles’ body regardless.

There used to be a time when Stiles would’ve shied away from it, yet Brett worshipping every inch of his body certainly did wonders for his confidence. That’s why he’s slipping onto Isaac’s lap without hesitation. “Hey,” he whispers again, chuckling softly as he bumps their noses together.

Isaac doesn’t respond, body stiffening slightly. Still, he grabs Stiles’ waist and tips his head back enough to give easy access to his mouth.

An opening Stiles surely isn’t going to miss. He cups his jaw and kisses him. As much as he’d love to ease Isaac into this, they are on a bit of a time limit here; Brett’s patience isn’t endless. So, Stiles grinds against Isaac, feeling elated at the soft gasp he gets in response. This whole thing may happen under Brett’s watchful eye, and there is a reason they’re having sex to begin with, but Stiles doesn’t want Isaac to think Stiles isn’t into it.

Because he is.

As confusing as the request was at first, Stiles can’t deny that he wants to have sex with Isaac.

But the werewolf stays passive even though he allows Stiles to deepen the kiss and starts kissing him back.

“You can stop at any time,” Stiles reminds him between kisses, “it’s okay.” Although, admittedly, it would suck.

Isaac shakes his head. “No, it’s just—"

It’s just Brett.

“Ignore him.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Isaac mumbles and scrunches up his face adorably.

Thing is, it’s really not. Stiles doesn’t have to be a werewolf to be fully aware of Brett staring at them. “Focus on me,” he tells Isaac, sliding one hand between them. “Just me.” He palms Isaac through his jeans, loving the way his eyes flutter and his lips part for a soft gasp. “Just. Me.” Smiling, Stiles kisses him again, and it seems as if Isaac’s courage follows his hard-on.

Finally, he slides his hands down to Stiles’ ass and deepens the kiss by tracing his tongue with his own. About fucking time. Brett isn’t the most patient of people, and he’s certainly not going to wait forever until Isaac got his shit together. He’d rather fuck him right in front of him to show him what he’s missing out on.

Stiles moans into the kiss.

That thought really shouldn’t be this much of a turn-on. Yet, here he is. Stiles gets the weird feeling that he’s going to learn a lot about himself today — and he’s not going to complain about it. Brett and his sex-life can only be improved by this; not that it isn’t fucking amazing already.

“You’re still very dressed,” Stiles mutters into the kiss. Not that getting fucked in clothes doesn’t have its very own appeal, but Stiles does prefer to have his partner naked. There’s something about the skin-on-skin contact that cannot be beaten by anything else.

Isaac gets to his feet, lifting Stiles without any issues, before tossing him onto the bed with a grin. Looks like someone’s gotten a bit more comfortable.

Good.

Without wasting a second, Isaac strips down to his boxers. His body is to die for, his dick a hard outline against his tight boxer briefs. He’s painfully attractive, and if Stiles is entirely honest, he can’t wait to get his hands on him — to taste him.

Stiles licks his lips and inches to the edge of the bed. Beckoning Isaac to come closer, he sits back on his heels. This is about Isaac. This is about making Isaac feel comfortable, about making him feel good.

For a second, Stiles cuts his gaze to his boyfriend, who stays unmoving in the corner of the room. His eyes are trained on him. Stiles wonders if Isaac can feel it too, the heaviness of those blue eyes; the way it’s making him feel hot and cold — the way it makes him want to please Brett. He wants, no, needs to hear him say he did good.

Still looking at Brett, Stiles hooks his fingers under the waistband of Isaac’s boxer briefs. There’s a nod. Short. Almost curt. And it snaps Stiles back into the moment. He looks up at Isaac, who stares down at him, wide-eyed. His hands are frozen in mid-air, like he stopped himself halfway through running his fingers through Stiles’ hair. When Stiles pulls his boxers down, Isaac, too, snaps back into motion. He curls his fingers into Stiles hair, guiding him towards his dick.

Moaning, Stiles wraps his lips around the tip. Heat rushes through his body when Isaac curses above him, voice nothing more than a breathless whisper. His fingers twitch in his hair, and something about the impact fills Stiles even further with the insane need to please. For the first time in forever, he doesn’t have the urge to be a little shit. He wraps a hand around Isaac’s dick and takes him deeper into his mouth, flattening his tongue against the underside of his dick. The tangy taste makes his mouth water.

He bobs his head, making sure to pay attention to every part of Isaac’s dick, tightening his lips around the tip — taking as much as he could and more each time until he pulls his hand away and grabs Isaac’s hips with both.

Isaac runs his fingers through Stiles’ hair almost like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands otherwise — until his grip turns near painful when his dick hits the back of Stiles’ throat.

Taking a deep breath through his nose, Stiles pulls back again. It’s best not to push his gag reflex. Stiles looks up at Isaac, flushing with pleasure at the bright yellow eyes staring right back at him. It’s entrancing and almost as hot as Brett’s red eyes.

Almost.

“Isaac.” Although Brett’s voice is light, a ripple of unease cuts through the other wolf as he turns his head to look at his alpha. Brett approaches him, face unreadable even though his dick is so hard it has to be uncomfortable in those jeans.

Stiles pulls away and sits back on his heels, shifting uncomfortably as he watches both werewolves.

Brett says something Stiles can’t quite catch, but Isaac merely nods, shoulders relaxing again. To Stiles’ surprise, Isaac’s even grinning when he locks eyes with hm again. That’s new. Isaac’s been nervous around Brett on the best of days. No wonder. After all, his track record with alphas isn’t exactly the best. The poor guy probably worried Brett would rip his head off since Scott threw him against a wall twice for simply liking Allison; yet here he is, about to fuck his alpha’s mate.

Werewolves.

“Someone’s impatient,” Isaac informs him, nodding in Brett’s direction with a sly grin.

Brett rounds the bed. “So cocky already.” His gaze is locked on Stiles, burning with both heat and amusement. “Looks like,” he continues, his voice dropping to a low whisper, “someone’s got a magic mouth.” Chuckling darkly, Brett wraps his fingers around Stiles’ throat and pulls him up until he can brush their lips together. “I love you, gorgeous,” he all but paints the words against Stiles’ mouth. “You’re doing so well.”

Stiles keens softly, reaching up to pull Brett down for a proper kiss.

“No.” Brett grabs his arm, stopping him in his tracks. “It’s still Isaac’s turn.”

A shudder runs down his spine. Isaac’s turn. It should make him feel weird, instead it makes his dick twitch in his already too tight briefs. There’s a part of him that still fully believes he shouldn’t be this excited about fucking Isaac. He’s in love with Brett.

And yet.

Dragging his thumb over his mouth, Brett lets go of him. He doesn’t sit back down in his corner, however. Instead, he gets comfortable on the bed, leaning against the headboard, legs spread open almost invitingly.

Stiles nearly loses his mind as he forces himself to turn away from him again. Brett is doing it on purpose, he knows that. He wants to push him, like the asshole he is. But Stiles is not going to cave. Two can play this game.

Isaac looks at him, hands awkwardly in the air like he’s not entirely sure how to continue now that Brett is right there, which is most likely the exact reason Brett did it. His methods may be questionable, but they usually work.

It’s annoying.

Stiles pushes the thought out of his mind. For a few heartbeats, he studies Isaac’s face – the dirty blonde curls hanging into his forehead, his sharp jawline, the bright blue eyes, and his mouth, so damn kissable. He all but lurches forward and does just that, pressing their mouth together in a greedy kiss that’s too much teeth for a couple of seconds. Stiles buries his fingers in the soft curls, pulling Isaac down and closer to him.

That’s all it takes to get Isaac right back where he left off. His hands are on his ass almost immediately. Kneading. Pressing and grinding their dicks together in a delicious way.

But he’s really not in the mood to drag this out any longer. “Fuck me,” Stiles whispers, about ready to beg him. He hasn’t needed anyone inside of him as desperately since the first time he slept with Brett – and the time after that, when they finally solidified their mating bond. The first month after the mating bite, Stiles had more sex than other people have in their whole lifetime. 

Isaac breaks the kiss and pushes Stiles onto his back, his mouth hot on his neck and shoulders and chest as he kisses his way down Stiles body, nipping his skin but never risking leaving a mark. He not deterred by Stiles’ fingers in his hair or nudging Brett’s foot with his elbow. His chin brushes against his dick, and his stupid curls tickling the inside of his thigh make Stiles whine.

“Please,” he begs, tugging in Isaac’s hair. “Please, please, please.”

Isaac chuckles.

Hot breath hits the wet spot on Stiles’ boxers. The sensation makes him nearly jump out of his skin.

But Isaac doesn’t tease him any longer. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of Stiles’ boxer briefs and pulls them down, tossing them into the corner of the room. As Isaac crawls back between Stiles’ legs, his gaze jumps from Stiles’ dick, to his face before he seemingly locks eyes with Brett.

There’s a new tension in the room, and suddenly, Stiles realizes that he’s in bed between two very lethal werewolves. This whole thing stands and falls with everyone being on board with everything that might happen – even someone stopping this.

It really shouldn’t turn him on as much as it does. Right now, if Brett were to allow it, Stiles would happily be fucked by them at the same time. That would certainly do wonders for the pack bond. Stiles shudders at the thought, clenching around nothing. He really needs someone to fuck him in the next couple of minutes, or he will do it himself. Stiles cranes his neck, looking up at Brett. His face is near unreadable, eyes ever so slightly narrowed – like it hits him only now what’s about to happen.

“Please,” Stiles whines, reaching a hand back. Awkwardly, he pats Brett’s thigh, fingers ghosting over his sweatpants until he’s able to palm his dick.

The moment he does, Brett’s fingers curl around his wrist in an iron grip. “I think I said no, didn’t I?” Oh, that’s his alpha voice. “Get on your hands and knees.”

Although he doesn’t look at him, Stiles knows this command is directed at him. But he can do that. He can totally do that if it means Isaac can fuck him in the very, very near future. Stiles rolls onto his stomach and hoists himself onto his hands and knees. Today isn’t about intimacy, not really. This is happening to forge a connection, to force Isaac to stop holding back.

Brett tosses Isaac a condom and locks eyes with Stiles. His fingers run over Stiles’ cheek, making him shudder with the touch alone. Brett smirks as he presses his thumb against Stiles’ bottom lip.

Almost out of instinct, Stiles pokes it with his tongue.

“He’s ready,” Brett’s voice is nothing more than a whisper. “You can fuck him.”

That seems to be all the permission Isaac needs. He grabs Stiles’ ass, spreading him open, and for a few seconds, nothing else happen.

Stiles can feel heat creep into his cheek at the thought of Isaac just staring at his ass – a thought that’s flying out the window when Isaac’s dick finally joins the fun. He grinds against him, hellbent on teasing Stiles just a little longer. Clenching his teeth, Stiles shoots him a look over his shoulder. “Isaac,” he snaps, “if you don’t-”

The press of Isaac’ dick against his rim cuts him off. “I’m sorry?” His voice is innocent sweet, almost like he isn’t on the verge of fucking him. “You were saying?” He pushes in, and they both moan loudly.

Stiles rocks his hips back, needing all of Isaac inside of him right fucking now. He curses under his breath, curling his fingers into the sheets. Isaac’s fingers dig into his skin, and a part of Stiles hopes they’re going to leave little marks on his body; something to remember this by, so when he wakes up in the morning, he knows this wasn’t some kind of fever dream. Funny, how he’s never realized how much he wanted to sleep with Isaac until now. At this point, he doesn’t even care if it’s their pack bond or his own desire. Does Isaac feel it too? Stiles wants to know, but he’s not going to ask with Brett right there.

That feels like crossing a line.

Then again, Brett can probably smell it on him; how desperate he is for another guy’s dick. Guilt churns in his stomach as the feeling of betrayal joins his desire.

Brett kisses his forehead, so strangely gentle. “Relax, my love. You’re perfect.”

The words ricochet through him, and he whines softly. Stiles is torn between wanting Isaac to fuck him into the sheets and his need for Brett, his mate. Letting out a breath, Stiles lowers himself onto his forearms and leans his cheek against Brett’s thigh. As Isaac continues to sink into him, inch by torturous inch. It’s so fucking slow, Stiles wants to scream.

But when he finally, finally buried fully inside him, Isaac kisses his shoulder blades, first left than right. “Sorry,” his words are cool against Stiles’ skin, “sorry, this is... a lot.”  So, he does feel it too. Good to know.

“I get it.” Stiles pushes himself up on his hands again and looks at Isaac over his shoulder. The werewolf looks utterly wrecked already, and Stiles wonders if it feels even more intense for him. It wouldn’t be the first time. Werewolves do have that benefit. “But I really-” Stiles grinds against Isaac, trying to get his point across “-need you to move.”

Preferably now.

Isaac doesn’t move immediately. Yet again, his gaze snaps to Brett. It’s a silent question for something.

“Oh,” Brett chuckles, running his fingers through Stiles’ hair. “He can take it.”

Before Stiles can even ask what he’s talking about, Isaac pulls back and snaps his hips forward. Stiles moans, hardly recovering from the first thrust before Isaac has found his rhythm. Hard. Fast. Barely holding back.

Stiles loves it. Maybe a little too much. There is something burning in his veins, something he’s never quite felt before — not like this, at least. Stiles remembers the addictive high of the mating bond, the strange warmth cocooning him for weeks after. If this is anything like this, this will have some interesting consequences.

But now, it’s probably too late to think about those.

It’s hard to think in general — at least about anything but Isaac trying his very best to fuck his brains out. If he keeps this up, nailing his prostate more often than not, Isaac might actually be successful a lot faster than Stiles would like to admit.

Cursing and moaning, usually at the same time, Stiles is trying to match Isaac’s rhythm; something that’s mostly impossible by how hard Isaac’s fingers dig into his skin. He’s taking over his body, claiming him for as long as Brett lets him — most likely chasing the same insane sensation that is drowning every corner of Stiles’ soul.

A soft moan reaches his ears.

Brett.

Stiles raises his head, nearly choking on air as he spots Brett’s fingers tight around his own dick. It shouldn’t be hot — it fucking shouldn’t. Brett shouldn’t be so turned on by Stiles fucking somebody else, and Stiles’ brain shouldn’t nearly short-circuit learning that Brett is getting off to it.

But damn, it’s one of the hottest things he’s seen.

Stiles reaches for Brett, curling his fingers into his blonde hair and crashes their mouths together. Finally, finally, Brett caves and kisses him back — and when Brett’s tongue brushes against his, and Isaac is still pounding into him just right, something snaps into place without any further warning. Stiles’ whole body stiffens as his orgasm slams into him without any warning – pleasure coursing through him like a tidal wave. He’s dimly aware of cursing against Brett’s mouth. Only a heartbeat later, Isaac’s weight comes crashing down on him, body shaking, and dick pulsing still deep inside of him.

Nobody ever told him that a pack bond snapping into place during sex almost rivals a mating bond.

Stiles blinks his eyes open, afterglow still lapping at his body, as hands are cupping his jaw and cheek. A shudder runs through Stiles’ body, his brain still too foggy to understand a single word that’s coming out of Brett’s mouth. It takes a hot minute until he connects the sounds to the movement of his lips. “Look at you,” Brett whispers, thumbs brushing over Stiles’ cheekbones, “so perfect.”

Isaac makes a quiet sound in the back of his throat then pushes himself u and pulls out only to collapse onto the bed right next to them again, spent and clearly deep in his afterglow. A sheen of sweat makes his curls stick to his forehead. Even looking as boneless as Stiles feels, Isaac is still unfairly attractive.

Never in his life has a pack bond snapping into place felt like that, and Stiles isn’t entirely sure if it was supposed to be this intense. He doesn’t get the chance to ask either because Brett is kissing him like a drowning person and pulling him closer.

Stiles’ heart is pounding in his chest, his body craving Brett as much as it’s pleading to slow down, to give him a chance to get over all that stimulation. “Wait,” he mutters into the kiss. “Hold on, give me-”

But Brett grabs his waist, whispering, “sorry, sorry.” as if he’s actively hurting him, or doing something Stiles isn’t down for.

Yes, Stiles would love to get a few seconds to catch his breath, and for everything to stop feeling like it’s too much. His nerves are on high alert, as if the pack bond snapping into place cranked his sensitivity up to a hundred. Still, he can tell that Brett isn’t entirely in control right now. He’s warned him about it, about his wolf’s need to reclaim, to drown Stiles in his scent again, to scrub Isaac away. There’s no anger in Brett’s touch, just the urgent need to fuck him that took over his entire body. Stiles knows the difference. They’ve had angry sex countless of times.

This isn’t it.

Brett’s fingers run over skin almost apologetically as he turns Stiles around, even chuckling softly as Stiles’ legs refuse to cooperate for a few seconds. Not that he needs them. Brett holds him with one hand, angling him in a way that makes it comfortable to lean against his chest. He lowers Stiles down until the tip of his dick is pressing against his hole. Despite having just been thoroughly fucked – or maybe because of it – Brett pushing in comes with an uncomfortable stretch.

Stiles squeeze his eyes shut. “Please,” he mutters, turning his head to speak against Brett’s throat. “Slow down. For me?” For them, more likely. Because Stiles wants it to be good for Brett as well. It should be more than just a fuck out of werewolf-principle.

The disapproving rumble is already answer enough, but Brett drives his point home by snapping his hips up and pulling Stiles fully onto his lap.

Stiles yelps then punches Brett’s thigh. “Fuck you.”

Brett sneaks his arms around his waist and kisses his jaw and cheek. “Sorry,” he whispers again. “Sorry, did I hurt you?”

“No.” Stiles takes a deep breath in through his nose and out through his mouth. He’s not entirely sure if this is one of the hottest things that happened to him, or if he wants to snap at Brett for being so fucking impatient. But he’s been warned. Still, he kind of expected to be pushed into the pillows and fucked.

Hard.

But he’s also not complaining. It’s beautifully intimate, the way Brett is slowly grinding against his ass. His arms are tight around him, fingers teasing his skin — and the way his dick is brushing up against his prostate is driving him slowly insane. As much as he wouldn’t have minded for Brett to make sure Stiles remembers who he belongs to, this is too good.

Brett rocks up into him, arms tightening. His breathing is shallow, fast, and Stiles can tell he’s close to his orgasm. “Babe, I need-” Brett cuts himself off, gasping into Stiles’ ear in a way that sends hot tingles down his body. “Relax, babe. Please.” He sounds way too desperate, too needy.

This is the hottest thing Stiles has ever heard.

He presses against Brett, rolling his hips, grinding down. Part of him wants to speed it up, wants Brett to cum so Stiles can hit the mattress and fall asleep. Another part of him would love to stay like this forever, wrapped up in this beautiful heat with Brett deep inside him — maybe even knotting him.

No sooner has the thought crossed his mind when he can feel Brett’s knot press against his rim. “Fuck,” he curses softly.

“I’m sorry.” Brett’s hot breath ghosts over his skin, thumb tracing invisible lines under his belly button.

Stiles really wants to tell him to shut up. There’s no reason to apologize. To be fair, Stiles should’ve probably expected this. It’s stupid he didn’t, but sometimes it’s so easy to forget that Brett is very much an alpha werewolf who is driven by his own instincts. He’s too Zen for his own good almost all the time. His words, however, leave his brain before he’s even got the chance to open his mouth as Isaac moves between his legs.

The grin on his lips speaks volumes, and he doesn’t hesitate. His lips wrap around Stiles’ dick in an instant.

The sensation alone nearly makes his brain melt.

Stiles lets his head fall back, shuddering and moaning. He curls his fingers into the sheets as his body struggles to figure out if it wants to press against Brett or thrust into the heat of Isaac’s mouth. This is nothing like using a sex toy when Brett sucks him off. This feels like fucking heaven. His dick is hard again, and when it hits the tip of Isaac’s throat and Brett’s knot finally slips in, he nearly combusts.

Stiles’ vision whites out for some glorious seconds. He arches his back, feeling Brett’s arms tighten even further around him as his hips move back and forth almost helplessly – locked into place by Isaac’s mouth working around him, and Brett’s dick pulsing deep inside him as he rides out his own orgasm. He cannot remember ever cumming this hard – or this fast for that matter – for a second time.

His body, however, goes from feeling absolutely amazing to too much in about two seconds. Hissing softly, Stiles curls his fingers into Isaac’s hair and pulls him off.

Isaac licks his lips, studying his face for a few seconds, before he leans up and kisses him. It’s a bold move, doing it with Brett not only still buried inside him, but also with his head right next to them.

Brett merely chuckles, either too high from his own orgasm or actually okay with this.

Sighing, Stiles parts his lips. He shudders at the taste of himself on Isaac’s tongue. If he’s honest, he didn’t know what to expect from this night, but it certainly wasn’t this. It was so much better than he could have imagined – and part of him wouldn’t mind doing it again. But not tonight or tomorrow, or even this week. He’s too fucking tired, his body painless and numb because of whatever werewolf magic Brett’s knot is working on him. He barely feels the stretch or pressure. Stiles is pretty sure his body is tricked into enjoying the sensation of being this full by some supernatural bullshit, but he doesn’t particularly mind.

When Isaac breaks the kiss, Stiles doesn’t bother to open his eyes. He leans back, pressing his face against Brett’s neck ready to pass out.

“I love you,” Brett whispers. Stiles hums in response.

-------

#briles #stisaac #stiles stilinski #brett talbot #isaac lahey #teen wolf #kinktober 2023 #*tv:teen wolf #*w:kinktober2023 #*w:complete #*s:briles #*s:stisaac

[msmischief101]

♜Pairing: Briles ♜Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Brett Talbot, Lydia Martin, Jackson Whittemore, Liam Dunbar ♜Tags/Warnings: getting together, cocky Brett, oblivious Stiles (kind of) ♜Words: 3,132

ao3

---

There are multiple reasons Stiles despises returning to Beacon Hills, the supernatural shenanigans are just a small fraction of it. Mostly, it’s the memories too many places here harbor – and then there is his love life, or rather, the walking and talking reminder of the lack thereof.  

“You’re staring.” Lydia taps a finger against her red cup and studies him with a quirked brow and a slight smile. They might be best friends for years now, but he will forever be unsettled by her stares.

Stiles purses his lips. “I’m not.”

“Sweetheart,” Lydia sighs and leans back in her chair, “you’ve been staring at Brett since he walked in, and instead of going over to him, you’ve been sulking next to me.”

“I’m not sulking.”

“Oh, please.” Jackson collapses in his previously vacated chair. “It’s like you’re taking personal offence to Talbot being in the vicinity, which, if you’re asking me-“

“I’m literally not-“

“- is ridiculous,” Jackson continues as if Stiles never even opened his mouth. “You could have anyone here, but you chose Talbot?” Typical, the guy just loves to hear himself talk.

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 slaps his in return. For some reason, he has the feeling that they’re more than compatible.

#briles #stiles stilinski #brett talbot #teen wolf #brett x stiles #stiles x brett #*tv:teen wolf #*w:complete #*s:briles

[msmischief101]

♜Pairing: Briles ♜Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Brett Talbot, Kira Yukimura, Lori Rohr ♜Tags/Warnings: getting together, explicit sexual content ♜Words: 8217 ♜Kinktober 2023: Reluctant Sex

ao3

---

this funny feeling

“And, here you go.” The hotel employee pushes the door to the dining room open.

Stiles smiles at her. “Thank you so much. I’m terrible with directions.” And he’s a bit too tired after having to catch a fight at 3 am to navigate a hotel he’s never been to.

“That’s absolutely no problem, darlin’.” The woman smiles before returning to the reception. Luckily, it’s early enough that not too many people are out and about yet.

So, Stiles isn’t surprised when the only people he spots in the dining room are Satomi, Morrell, Brett and Lori, as well as two couples with newborns. He’d have preferred for Kira to be up as well, but he also can’t expect her to crawl out of bed at 7 am during her vacation.

Stiles’ heart jumps when Brett turns to look at him — and a smile blossoms on his lips. Fuck. This is the worst. He thought he’d be over him, still, every time he sees Brett again, his crush on the guy all but punches him in the face. Going to the same university for two years brought them a lot closer together. They were friends, surely. In the beginning out of convenience, but that changed later. They hung out daily, and Stiles’ heart did what it did best — it got attached. He did date other people during and after college, but it didn’t fucking matter. Every time he sees Brett again, he’s right back where he started.

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.

“I love you too.” But hearing them feels so much better.

#briles #stiles stilinski #brett talbot #teen wolf #brett x stiles #stiles x brett #kinktober 2023 #*tv:teen wolf #*w:kinktober2023 #*w:complete #*s:briles

[msmischief101]

♜Pairing: Briles ♜Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Brett Talbot ♜Warnings: - ♜Words: 1094 ♜Dialogue Prompt: “I remember kissing you. Why do I remember kissing you?" ♜Mini Fic Roulette: 36/∞ 

---

Stiles sits on the hospital bed, tugging on the patch that keeps the IV firmly in his veins. The little zaps of pain keep his mind from wandering in a direction it has no right of going, which is made so much harder as he stares at Brett’s hand gently curled around his own. He digs his toes into the too-soft mattress, hissing softly as the glue pulls on his skin and hair. If the ground would kindly open up and sallow him for the rest of his life, Stiles would be eternally grateful.

Waking up in the hospital is one thing, but waking up here because he got wasted? Absolutely not He doesn’t even drink more than one or two beers. Stiles remembers having one. One fucking beer. And then what? He doesn’t remember shit, only—

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.

If only they weren’t in the hospital.

#briles #stiles stilinski #brett talbot #teen wolf #brett x stiles #stiles x brett #minificroulette #*tv:teen wolf #*w:complete #*s:briles

[msmischief101]

♜Pairing: Briles ♜Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Brett Talbot ♜Warnings: - ♜Words: 1493 ♜Dialogue Prompt: "My friend thinks you're cute" - "What friend?" - "Me, I'm the friend." ♜Mini Fic Roulette: 31/∞ | ao3

---

in charm's way

---

1 am is way too early to be out of booze at the first party of the new semester. Not that Stiles would necessarily say he’s drunk — he’s had two beers and a Vodka Something that tasted as if it came out of a boot; don’t ask how he knows that — or in need of getting wasted. Being mostly sober at a frat party, however, is a special kind of torture Stiles certainly did not sign up for. But Lydia and Jackson are back together again, and she refused to go by herself, so Stiles was dragged here against his will by the mere duty of being her best friend. He loves her, he really does, but she needs to get a better boyfriend. 

But since they’re a couple again, Lydia and Jackson have been inseparable for the past four hours. Stiles can only stomach so much of Jackson before he gets the urge to set himself and everyone around him on fire. So, he’s spent his time here dodging jocks and cheerleaders alike. It’s not exactly the evening he’s had in mind. If only Danny were here. Or Kira. But they’re both tied up with family matters — leaving Stiles alone with Liam, who sulks on the corner of the couch, looking like he hates his very existence, and Mason, who is quite the opposite and probably considers this his place in heaven.

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. 

Stiles waves at him, grinning.

#briles #stiles stilinski #brett talbot #teen wolf #brett x stiles #stiles x brett #minificroulette #*tv:teen wolf #*w:complete #*s:briles

[msmischief101]

work in progress: Kinktober 2022 - Intoxicated

Leaving for college on the other side of the country has been one of the best decisions Stiles has ever made. For the first time in years, he feels optimistic again — if he doesn't count the paranoia that's haunting every waking moment. At some points, it gets so bad he's in a constant state of anxiety for what feels like days.

Missing Brett doesn't help. While they're not in a relationship, Stiles' feelings for him are very much present, but he'd rather keep them to himself. It's probably better that way even though he expects Brett to tell him he caught feelings for somebody else almost every day. His roommate and other friends are not unaware of Stiles' mental state. Their solution? Drugs and sex, preferably together. No matter how much he likes his new group of friends, Stiles doesn't trust either enough to let go like that. He trusts hardly a handful of people, and only one of them could potentially give him both.

Stiles wants one night of peace, just a few hours without his goddamn anxiety. In the beginning, Brett is a bit hesitant but ultimately agrees to it under a set of rules. He gets the party drugs, they're staying home, and they can both stop it at any time without any whining. Knowing what's awaiting him at home, Stiles is pretty excited about returning to Beacon Hills.

After all, what could go wrong?

#twedit #fytwolf #briles #stiles stilinski #brett talbot #teen wolf #brett x stiles #stiles x brett #*tv:teen wolf #*w:ip #*s:briles

[msmischief101]

♜Pairing: Briles ♜Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Brett Talbot, Isaac Lahey, Danny Mahealani, Jackson Whittemore ♜Tags/Warnings: wall sex, anal sex, locker room sex, college au ♜Words: 3681 ♜Kinktober - Wall Sex a/n: This is a sequel to bad habits but you don't necessarily have to read it to understand this story.

ao3

---

old habits die hard

---

"Absolutely not."

Isaac blinks, staring at him a little dumbfounded. "But—"

"The last time you," Stiles says, pointing from Isaac to Danny and ultimately to Jackson, who looks highly offended, "tried to set me up on a date, I had to report a stalker." At that, all three of them have the decency to look a bit awkward — even Jackson, which is saying a lot. The guy restored and hardened his ego in London before coming back to the US to study. Stiles was extremely surprised when he ran into the three of them at the campus coffee shop at six in the morning. He thought all of this had to be one giant coincidence, but it turns out that Isaac and Jackson ended up living together in London with Danny and his family moving there after the whole Alpha Pack debacle — and now, they’re back in the States. 

Probably only to be a pain in his ass. 

Danny shakes his head. “You can’t be hung up on Number 28 forever.”

“It’s time you throw the hoodie out.” Jackson tosses his lacrosse ball from one hand to the other. 

Stiles stiffens. “No.”

“You don’t have to throw the hoodie out,” Isaac says, glaring at Jackson. They all know why he held onto the hoodie and what it means. They all know what Stiles went through. The topic came up pretty early in conversation when Jackson wanted to drag them to a party he and his fraternity was planning. The fraternity Jackson and Danny are members of is known for parties that include a shitton of drugs, so Stiles that he wouldn’t join them and why. Even though he’s been pretty good about staying away from drugs and alcohol for almost three years, he really doesn’t want to push his resolution. 

Jackson lets out a breath. “Okay, you don’t have to throw it out.”

“But you gotta move on.” Danny twists his lacrosse stick, studying Stiles through its net. 

It’s not that he’s still crying himself asleep over Brett, but he can’t forget him. Not really. And yes, the hoodie probably makes things a lot more complicated. Still, it helps him during hard nights — when the nightmares come and the temptation is high. The hoodie doesn’t smell like Brett any longer, and even though it’s not as big on him any longer since Stiles built a few muscles himself, it still feels like a warm hug, like coming home. It makes him feel safe. 

Stiles scrunches up his face. “Why do I have to date?” he asks, gesturing towards his friends again, “not one of you is in an established relationship.” 

"But we have sex regularly."

Isaac smacks the back of Jackson's head hard enough that even Danny winces. "Shut up, Whittemore." He turns to Stiles with a sigh. "I’ve been livin’ with him for four months now. He’s a good lad.” 

“I wanted to do a background check,” Danny tells him, sounding almost a little offended that he wasn’t allowed to. 

“Cyber stalkin’ my roommate is a bit too far, innit?” Isaac sounds exasperated enough that Stiles is pretty damn sure this conversation must’ve happened at least five times already. Which means they are pretty serious about the whole thing. Sighing, he returns his attention to Stiles. “You don’t have to marry him. I was just thinkin’ that you might be good for each other even if you’ll only hook up.” They weren’t this insistent about the girl who ended up stalking him, so maybe giving this guy a shot is worth it — even if there won’t be any sparks, they could end up becoming friends. 

Something he desperately needs more of since the ones he currently has constantly get him into trouble. 

Stiles massages his eyebrows then he sighs. “Fine.” He sure as hell hopes he won’t regret this. “But if he ends up being a creep, I will turn you into a fur coat.” 

“You’re recyclin’ jokes,” Isaac informs him dryly. “I think you should take a nap.” 

— — — 

Stiles chews on his hoodie string as he walks toward the lacrosse pitch. It's the first game of the season, and he has no idea who is part of the new team. After his high school lacrosse experience, Stiles decided that it's better to stay far away from this sport. 

It's unlucky that all of his friends are into lacrosse. As is the dude Isaac is trying to set him up with. The only good thing about this is that Stiles can see him before he's going on a date with him. If he figures out his name, he'll be also able to do some research on the guy. 

Isaac's head pops up, and he waves him over. Perks of being friends with the captain and co-captain. That means he usually gets the best places to sit. 

"So?" Stiles pushes his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

Isaac tugs the string from Stiles' mouth. "Number 21," he says, nodding in the direction of the pitch."He's about to snatch the captain title, so, Jackson's mood is accordingly." 

"And you want me to date him?"

"He's a great guy." Isaac shrugs, nudging him with his elbow. "Seriously. This will not be a Malia disaster." 

Stiles squints at Number 21. He's tall, which is very nice, and by the looks of it, he easily runs circles around Jackson. Of course, his mood is terrible. If this works out, Jackson will be a pain in his ass about dating his direct competition. But that’s just Jackson. He’d never make Stiles stop dating anybody unless they’re a truly terrible person. 

Stiles pulls his shoulders up. “I can’t imagine Coach would replace Jackson as a captain.” 

Number 21 misses his shot completely. 

Isaac huffs and tugs on the net of his lacrosse stick. “Is this dude trying to make an ass out of himself?” 

“You sure this is the same guy you wanna set me up with?” Stiles quirks a brow, smirking a little. “You made him sound very different just yesterday.” Because apparently Number 21 is super hot and extremely talented in lacrosse. Sure, everyone’s got a bad day, but that shot is one even Stiles would have made — and that’s saying something. 

Jackson yells something across the pitch, but Number 21 pulls his helmet off and turns around. 

Oh. 

Oh. 

Stiles takes a step back. “I— I gotta go.” He takes another step back, forgetting the bags on the ground, and in his haste to get away, he almost falls onto his ass. Wouldn’t that have been wonderful? Exactly what he would need right now. 

“Wait— what?” Isaac stares at him in confusion. “Why?” 

“I just…” Stiles gestures vaguely in the direction of Brett fucking Talbot crossing the pitch in long strides. “Listen, I’m sorry. I just gotta go.” Without another word, he spins around and all but runs past the bleachers. He can’t do this. Nope. Nope. This is the worst fucking thing that could have happened to him. 

“Stiles, hold on!” That’s Isaac calling out for him, probably confused at the spike of panic piercing his scent. 

He shouldn’t run. It’s so stupid that he cannot face Brett after almost two years of being apart. He should be over it. They weren’t even dating. But Stiles still has Brett’s hoodie, and he never said goodbye — neither did Brett. When Stiles returned from rehab, his father had told him they were moving. So, they did. He had bought a house in the middle of nowhere Minnesota. Stiles finished his senior year in a small town with a population of a thousand if he counted the animals. It had been three months of fucking torture, but he’d finished school at the top of his class, got his scholarship for Yale, and ran into Isaac, Jackson, and Danny. 

Meeting those three again has already been so much of a coincidence, how is there anything left for Brett Talbot? He never mentioned Yale. He considered community college. Looks like Satomi finally got through to him. 

But couldn’t it have been another fucking university? 

“Stiles!”

Nope. Nope. Absolutely not. 

Stiles slips through the doors. If he’s quick enough he can cross through the lobby and get to his car before Brett manages to sniff him out again. The stench of the locker rooms should cover him long enough — and once he’s home he’ll look into other universities. There is absolutely no way he is going to face Brett and get his heart broken again. Zero. Zilch. Nada. That’s going to throw him back way too far. 

He has to burn the hoodie. 

Or mail it back. 

Oh god. Fuck. Brett probably knows Stiles kept the hoodie. He most likely wants it back. 

“Stiles!” Brett grabs him by the back of his sweater and yanks him back. 

Before Stiles knows what happens, he finds himself shoved into the locker room. A lock clicks. “This is— I totally can explain this,” Stiles says, his voice a bit higher than he would have preferred. Whenever he dreams about meeting Brett again, everything is a lot happier, he doesn’t run away like a deer catching the scent of a hunter, and Brett is not almost strangling him with his sweater. He’d very much prefer the imaginary scenario right now. 

Brett adjusts his grip and slams Stiles against the door. “I fucking knew it.”

“Okay, listen… I—”

But Brett cuts him off. By kissing him. On the mouth. Hard.

What the fuck?

Brett pulls away again, grip loosening on Stiles’ sweater. “Sorry,” he whispers, pressing his hands next to Stiles’ head. “I’m sorry. It’s just… Isaac had your scent all over him. It was driving me insane.” 

Stiles curls and uncurls his fingers, unsure what to do with his hands, and laughs nervously. “Well,” he mutters, and he’s not even fucking sure what the hell he wants to say. 

Brett lets out a long breath. “I fucking missed you,” his voice is quiet, hardly a whisper, and he leans their foreheads together. It’s quite a shock. The last time they’d seen each other, Brett could hardly look at him. Now, it’s almost like he cannot possibly bring himself to create any sort of distance. “I thought I was over you, but then I caught your scent on him.” There’s a laugh cutting through the silence of the locker room. “God, I hated him. So much.” 

Stiles hears people yelling in the distance over the blood rushing in his ears. “Isaac didn’t mention that.” And he doubts the locker rooms right before the first lacrosse game of the season isn’t the best time or place to talk about this and the past and them. 

Brett laughs softly. “I was a piece of shit.” 

“Pretty sure Isaac doesn’t hold a grudge.” Stiles raises a hand and cups Brett’s cheek. “I’ve missed you.” And it only now hits him how much he really missed the other boy. There’s been something between them. Undeniably. Brett would have never let him keep his hoodie if there have not been feelings involved. Stiles wouldn’t have kept it for almost two years. 

“I thought I’d never see you again,” Brett says, wrapping his arms around Stiles’ waist to pull him closer. “When I heard you moved away…” he trails off and shakes his head. “The moment I caught your scent on Isaac, I looked everywhere for you, and then he told me he had a friend, and he’d like to set me up with them.” He presses closer and crowds him against the door. “I hope it’s you. I knew it was you.” And he kisses him again. Almost desperately. 

Stiles kisses him back with all he has, curling his fingers into Brett’s brown strands. There’s no way he’s letting him go again. No way in fucking hell. Stiles parts his lips to meet Brett’s tongue. 

Brett grabs his ass, grinding against him. 

“Wait.” Stiles breaks the kiss, pulling away, and clearly inviting Brett to kiss his neck instead, “wait, wait. The lacrosse game—”

“Starts in thirty minutes.” Brett sucks the skin between his teeth and then kisses the spot. “We have time.” 

“Brett—” 

Brett kisses his way back to Stiles’ mouth, playfully biting his bottom lip. “I’ll make it worth your time.” He wiggles his brows and kneads his ass with a fucking smirk — knowing there is no way in hell Stiles can or will say no. How could he when he’s wanted this for years? When he dreamed about this? When he couldn’t get over that one time they fucked? He never stopped wanting Brett. 

He grabs Stiles by his thighs and hoists him up in a very rude display of strength, pressing his back against the door.

Asshole.

Stiles crashes their mouths together and parts his legs for the werewolf’s knee. A moan catches in the back of his throat as he grinds against Brett’s thigh. Someone is going to come to look for Brett if he isn’t going to be back on the field anytime soon. As much as Stiles would like to, they really do not have the chance to drag this out. “Please,” Stiles moans into the kiss, “please, tell me you have lube in your gym bag.” 

Chuckling, Brett pulls away. “Who do you think I am?” 

“You don’t want me to answer that question.” 

Brett squeezes his ass. “I see the bleach blonde hair and tattoos don’t mean you're a whole new person.” 

Rolling his eyes, Stiles pokes the werewolf in the side — very delighted about the fact that Brett twists away from him. Looks like someone’s ticklish. “Get the lube, Talbot.” Stiles will file that information away for later. 

After one more kiss, Brett pulls away and hurries across the room to ruffle through his bag. Stiles watches him briefly, biting his lip, trying to work through his relief of seeing Brett wanting him still, of having Brett back, of getting the chance to start over new after ruining everything the first time. Then he fumbles with his belt and jeans and grins when Brett is pulling him away from the door, muttering “doorknob” before slamming him against the cool wall right next to it. His mouth is on Stiles’ neck, sucking skin between his lips and teeth, working a mark into Stiles’ skin that has Stiles moaning, has his fingers stumbling over opening his pants. 

But he manages and pushes his pants and boxer briefs down. 

Brett kisses the abused skin and looks down. There’s a grin on his lips, but his hand brushes past his dick, focusing on the edge of a tattoo and dragging his index finger over the tail of a black phoenix inked into his skin. He traced the dark lines up and up, over his hip where he grabs him and spins him around.

Stiles laughs. 

Brett swallows the sound with a kiss. One hand curls around his throat, two fingers pressing against his cheekbone. Two different fingers covered in lube massage Stiles’ hole. They don’t have time. Not enough to drag this out. Both fingers slip inside up until the first knuckle. 

Stiles moans into the kiss, pleasure zips up his spine despite the uncomfortable feeling of the stretch. It doesn’t hurt, it’s just a bit much at once. But they don’t have time, and Stiles doesn't mind it if it stings or hurts. He doesn’t mind it rough. He doesn’t mind pain. It’s something he learned during rehab. So, when he got the urge to hurt himself, Stiles made an appointment with a tattoo artist. He doesn’t crave it, doesn’t always gain pleasure from it — but right here, right now, things are different. 

They don’t have time, and Stiles wants to feel everything Brett does so he knows this isn’t a dream. Whining softly, Stiles presses against the finger. “Please,” he breathes into the kiss. 

Brett doesn’t need to be asked twice. He moves his fingers, scissoring them, searching for that bundle of nerves that’s promised to turn Stiles’ brain into mush — and he finds it, quickly. Stiles moans, holding onto Brett’s arm with his left hand, fumbling for purchase against the wall with the other. 

They don’t have time, but Brett massages his prostate until Stiles begs him to stop because he’s way too close to coming already, until he doesn’t trust his legs to hold him any longer, until breathing  

Chuckling, Brett presses his lips to Stiles’ ear. “You’re so fucking hot,” he whispers, and he pulls his fingers out, kissing Stiles again to distract him from how empty he feels. Brett nudges Stiles’ foot, a silent command to spread his legs further. 

And he does, breaking the kiss to catch his breath, shifting around until his shoulder is pressed against the wall and he could look over his other. It’s a bit awkward. It’s also uncomfortable. This doesn’t need to be perfect. It just needs to happen. They need to get it out of their systems. They need to know they’re here, they’re them. A promise of a future. A promise of together, of you and me, of us. 

Brett rips a condom wrapper with his teeth and rolls it over his dick. It’s less messy, Stiles knows, but he doesn’t like it. The bottle of lube is opened again. Stiles cranes his neck further, watching Brett’s hand add more lube to the condom as quickly as possible. When he’s satisfied, Brett drops the bottle of lube and the wrapper then presses the head of his dick against Stiles’ ass. 

Stiles takes a deep breath and closes his eyes as Brett grabs his hips again; one hand’s wet, the other is not. It’s an odd sensation that is quickly replaced by Brett pushing into him. Stiles groans, crossing both arms over the wall to lean his forehead against it. He breathes through the pressure, pushing against Brett. It’s perfect, and it’s too much, and there is a zap of sharp pain that makes him curse.

Then Brett is inside of him, pressing his closed mouth against the nape of Stiles’ neck. It’s a gesture he would appreciate on any other day, but they don’t have time, and Stiles doesn’t want to have Jackson complaining for the next two weeks that he stole one of the team’s best players. He also doesn’t want to be the reason Brett might miss out on becoming team captain. 

He raises his head and reaches back, curling his fingers around Brett’s wrist. “Fuck me.” 

Brett doesn’t need to be asked twice. He pulls back and snaps his hips forward again. It rocks Stiles’ whole body. He moans, scrambling for support with both of his hands. Brett wraps one arm around Stiles’ waist, slipping his hand under his shirt. His fingers press against his abs, thumb finding the rest of the phoenix tattoo, tracing it absentmindedly. Brett wraps his other hand around Stiles’ dick, just tight enough that Stiles fucks into it with every of Brett’s hard thrusts. 

Stiles isn’t going to last long. Not like this. Not with the brutal pace Brett fucks him with. He promised himself never to get addicted to anything else ever again, but this? Fuck. Stiles has been addicted to Brett, and it’s never going to stop. Especially not now. There’s no way. Stiles moans, and he couldn’t care less if anyone hears him. Them. Because Brett is moaning too, and sometimes, Stiles catches his name rolling off his tongue.

“Brett,” Stiles breathes, grabbing the other boy’s forearm because he doesn’t trust the wall, or maybe, he doesn’t trust himself enough to hold on, “Brett.” He can’t catch his breath for long enough to say it. 

But Brett understands him anyway. He tightens his fingers on Stiles’ cock, jerking him off in tune with his thrusts. 

Stiles presses his cheek against the cool wall. His body tightens. Brett drags a nail over the lines of ink near his hips. He fucks him, cock hitting that bundle of nerves inside of Stiles. There’s no doubt he tapped into his werewolf strength, just a little, just enough to shock Stiles to his core with every thrust.

And then his orgasm hits him. Despite having built for a bit, Stiles is overwhelmed by the explosion of pleasure. His thighs tremble, and he’s not sure if he could stand without the wall and Brett’s arms around him right now. 

Brett comes not long after him, dick twitching deep inside of him, and weight pressing Stiles further against the wall. They’re holding each other up for as long as it takes to catch their breaths and regain control over their bodies. 

It doesn’t take too long.

Because they don’t have a lot of time. 

Brett pulls out, and Stiles whimpers at the feeling then swats at the other boy when he presses a kiss to the top of his head. His steps are soft. Groaning quietly, Stiles leans his head against the wall and looks down at himself. His hands are clean so he grabs his sweater. Clean as well. 

A shower turns on in the other room. 

Stiles pushes himself away from the wall and pulls his pants up. He can’t wait to sit for the next 90 minutes. He’s working on his belt when Brett walks back, drying his wet hand on his pants. He grins, and Stiles is a little jealous of all that werewolf stamina. “Asshole,” Stiles mutters, for no reason at all. 

Snorting out a laugh, Brett kisses him again. It’s a bit softer now and Stiles can’t help but close his eyes. He curls his fingers into the jersey, pulling Brett closer. He’s not going to fuck it up this time. He’s not. Smiling, he pulls away. “I still have your hoodie.” 

Brett kisses the corner of his mouth. “Good,” he whispers, leaning their foreheads together, “because it’s still not a present.” But they both know Brett is not going to ask for it back.

Stiles runs his fingers through Brett's hair. Some habits are impossible to quit, but Stiles doesn't mind. Not this time.

#briles #stiles stilinski #brett talbot #teen wolf #brett x stiles #stiles x brett #kinktober 2022 #*tv:teen wolf #*w:kinktober2022 #*w:complete #*s:briles

[msmischief101]

♜Pairing: Briles ♜Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Brett Talbot ♜Tags/Warnings: public sex, anal fingering, anal sex, canon divergence, college au ♜Words: 3416 ♜Kinktober - Sex in Vehicles

ao3

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wilder nights

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Stiles curls his hands tightly into Brett’s hair, moaning into the kiss. The rumble he hears in response is undoubtedly a chuckle. He probably would have retaliated if he weren't pinned between the bus window and an extremely hot werewolf. But he is kind of occupied with something else. 

Brett slips a hand under his ass and pulls Stiles onto his lap without any effort at all. It’s infuriatingly hot — it’s even hotter that Brett is hard. But that also means they should probably stop. Brett, however, has very different plans. He grinds up against him, breathing heavily into his mouth. “Fuck,” he whispers, biting Stiles’ bottom lip with a grin. “I should’ve done this earlier.” 

Stiles pulls away. “Snuck me into your team’s bus?” Because that’s where they are right now — and not at all alone. Devenford’s team is in here with them, including the coach and the bus driver, listening to classical music in the front of the bus. It’s still too close, and there is the rear-view mirror too. They’re hidden, not invisible. 

“Make a move.”

“Aww, did you have to gather courage first?” Stiles grins, brushing his fingers down the nape of Brett’s neck. 

The noise he makes can only be described as the human equivalent of purring. It’s quite endearing. “You’re hard to read.” Brett slips his hands into Stiles’ sweatpants and squeezes his ass unabashedly. “And a little scary.”

“You’re scared of humans?”

“No.” Brett kisses him again. “Just you,” he whispers against his mouth.

The last thing Stiles expected was for Brett to consider him hot and scary. It’s a compliment, really — especially coming from a werewolf. But that doesn’t mean he’s going to ignore the fact that they’re in a bus full of Brett’s teammates. If kissing Brett wasn’t so fucking addicting… or Brett’s hand in his pants so very distracting, or the way he grind their hips together so— fuck. 

Stiles' grip on Brett’s hair tightens. “Fuck,” he breathes, pulling away. “We probably should stop.” 

Brett raises his brows. “Do we really, though?” 

“Talbot, we’re in a bus full of people,” Stiles says with a shake of his head. No matter how much they try to keep their voices down, there is not enough room between them and the rest of the team. “Your best friend is like two feet—”

“They’re all asleep.”

“The driver is not.” 

Brett grins at him. It looks a little dangerous in the dim light of the bus. “We just have to be very quiet.” 

“We just have to be—” Stiles cuts off with a shake of his head. “The motel is like two hours away.” 

Brett wraps his arms around his waist, keeping him as close as their positions allow. “I can’t wait that long,” he whispers, nosing the crook of Stiles’ neck,” not when you smell like this, like me.” He kisses a trail up his neck, up to Stiles’ pulse point, and sucks skin between his teeth. That and the way Brett rolls his hips make it almost impossible to say no. 

He’s still trying, “we’re right behind your buddies, we can’t do that here.” 

“We shouldn’t,” Brett mutters, grinning up at him. “But we can.” 

Stiles stares at him. It would be kind of hot. And if they are really quiet— Stiles can't believe he's even considering this. Because he should not. This is a terrible idea. It’s a terrible, horrible idea. Unless… unless maybe it’s not. It could also be one of the hottest experiences he’s ever had. Not that this should be a reason to say yes. There are other ways to have some spicy fun. Other people do not have to be involved… or even witness them having sex. Like, at all. 

And yet. 

“I’m so going to hell,” he mutters.

Grinning, Brett pulls him back into a kiss. When Brett started hitting on him, Stiles never expected to find himself on a bus with his college’s lacrosse team about two weeks later — and he certainly did not expect to end up having sex with him inside of said vehicle. All he can hope for is that all of his teammates either have a very deep sleep or listen to loud music. Then again, Brett probably wouldn’t ask him if heard anything. 

Hopefully. 

“I have lube,” Brett mutters into the kiss and presses the little package into Stiles’ hand. This whole thing was planned before Brett even asked him if he wanted to join this trip. It is kind of hot. “It’s probably easier if you do it yourself.” 

Stiles snorts out a quiet laugh. “Romantic.” 

“Listen,” Brett’s voice is soft as he brushes his fingers through Stiles’ hair, “the other stuff is for the motel.” 

Shit. This isn’t going to be another hook-up for Brett. It’s kind of what he expected if Stiles is totally honest, and it would have been fine. Stiles didn’t exactly go into this expecting a long-term relationship with Brett fucking Talbot. Looks like they both had very different expectations. Even though he expected otherwise, Stiles would lie if he said he wasn’t thrilled about it. He’s very much into the idea of showing Brett off and holding his hand, going on dates with him, and cheering him on while wearing his jersey. 

Stiles kisses him quickly. “I have high expectations.” He gets off Brett’s lap and gets into a mostly comfortable position next to him. Everything about this is awkward. He’s kneeling on one leg while also hunching over a bit to look less suspicious. The last thing he needs is the driver to notice he’s still awake and watch him. It also doesn’t help that Brett is watching him as he pushes his sweatpants and boxer briefs under his ass. 

“Can you…” Stiles trails off, licking his lips, and squirts lube onto his index and middle finger. “Stop staring at me.” 

“Why?” Brett whispers, leaning closer to steal another kiss, “am I making you nervous?” 

Stiles hates to admit that he’s hit the nail on the head, and Brett can probably smell that. Not that Stiles is about to say that out loud. He prefers to keep a bit of his dignity intact — not that there is much to save right now. Stiles has done a lot of things he’s not proud of, and working himself open in a bus full of people is certainly quite high up on that list. It’s not going to be something he’ll tell his friends about, that’s for sure. 

He lets out a breath, pushing his middle finger against his rim. “Can you grab a towel or something?” Anything, really, that’s going to cover Stiles up a little while he’s going to sit on Brett’s lap — and that’s stopping him from staring. 

“Right.” Brett turns away from him and reaches for his gym bag sitting above them. The fact that he had lube in the pocket of his hoodie is more than a little telling.

Stiles can already tell that this guy is going to push him far out of his comfort zone. It’s not bad, per se. He just didn’t expect to be shoved off a cliff. Shaking his head, Stiles pushes the tip of his middle finger in. He gasps quietly, biting his bottom lip. The sound most likely wasn’t audible over Brett trying to get his bag down. Still, he’s not going to risk it. He also doesn’t want to drag this out too long. 

By the time Brett sits down again, Stiles has worked a second finger inside of him. His thighs are trembling a little, and he puts his free hand on the back of his seat, gripping it tightly. He’s trying his best to stay quiet, to keep his breathing in check. But it’s hard. Anticipation, pleasure, and anxiety form a cocktail in Stiles’ body that makes him want to make a sound, to release whatever is building inside of him. Instead, he grinds his teeth together and watches Brett rifle through his bag, pushing things back and forth. 

“Fuck,” Brett mutters eventually and huffs out a breath. 

Stiles stills his fingers and takes a breath, staring at the other boy. “What?” 

Scrunching up his face in what could only be described as annoyance, Brett turns to him. "I didn't pack any condoms."

Stiles blinks. "What?" There's no way he just worked two fingers into himself for nothing. He pulls them out slowly, and he almost whines at the feeling, wiping his lube-slick fingers on Brett's sweatpants just out of principle.

"We don't really need them." Brett raises a brow when Stiles flicks him off. "For obvious reasons. Also, I'm a werewolf." That's a fair point. It's not like Brett could get or transmit anything. So, fucking without a condom wouldn't necessarily be an issue or a bad decision. They'd just need a bit more lube. 

But there's also another problem. “People—” Stiles licks his lips. Just talk. “People are going to check this bus,” he whispers, “after we leave.” And it's not like sex is particularly clean. Their clothes aren’t the issue. They can change in the bus restroom. It’s the seats that are going to be an issue. A very huge one. People know who sat here. 

Brett merely hums. 

That is not the response Stiles expected. He pokes Brett’s bicep. “Do not ruin it.”

“Ruin it?” Brett presses a quick kiss to his shoulder, still struggling to get the blanket out of his gym bag. “I won’t ruin any seats. I’ll just come inside you,” the smirk is almost devious as Brett grabs him by the neck to pull him close, brushing their lips together. “Problem solved.” He kisses him again, thumb pressing against his jaw. 

Stiles leans towards him, capturing Brett’s bottom lip with his teeth then he pulls away. “Get the blanket ready, Talbot.” 

“So bossy.” Brett steals one more kiss before sinking back against his seat. He curls one hand into the blanket, and the other hovers in the air, almost as an invitation to grab it. 

Stiles surveys the bus. This is stupid and risky, and they can be lucky they’re mostly on backroads instead of the freeway. Terrible idea. Absolutely fucking terrible. He shakes his head and lets out a breath. “Okay.” Nobody moves. Nobody seems to be awake. Hopefully, the driver is too busy humming to his classical music to notice him moving around in the back. 

Carefully, he gets up and pushes his sweatpants a bit further down. He bumps against Brett as he shifts his legs, almost making him fall on his face. He’s not entirely sure how he’s supposed to do this. Getting completely naked would most definitely be a lot easier, but he’s absolutely not going to do that. 

“Okay,” Stiles breathes and presses a hand against the window, trying to find some sort of purchase. Car sex looks always so much easier in the movies. Well, to be fair, they’re usually fucking in a car without the risk of waking someone up who’s sleeping right in front of him. 

Brett presses a kiss to his neck. “I can hold you, relax.” 

“Leave me—” Stiles reaches back, finding purchase on the backrest of Brett’s seat. This is— Stiles can’t believe he’s doing this. But he does. He’s actually about to fuck Brett Talbot while he can hear his teammates sleep. A hand appears on his waist, gently guiding him a little. It takes a couple of seconds until he’s feeling the blunt pressure against his hole. Stiles wonders if now would be a good time to announce that he’s never had a cock inside of him before. Fingers? Yes. Toys? Absolutely. He’s curious enough. But Brett feels bigger than his toys, and the angle is awkward, and—

The head pushes in.

Brett’s hand clasps over Stiles’ mouth before he can make a sound. Thank fuck for werewolf hearing. His moan is thoroughly muffled while Brett tries to cover up his curses by biting into Stiles’ sweatshirt. 

Being spread open like this is both hot and a little uncomfortable. Stiles certainly would have preferred for time and location not to be an issue, but it makes the whole thing a lot more exciting too. Who would have thought? People told him college would be exciting. This, however, exceeds all his expectations. 

Brett’s fingers twitch as Stiles lowers himself onto him. The hand covering his mouth is a lot more helpful than Stiles thought it would be. There’s absolutely no way he could have been silent throughout all of this. Not when Brett feels so fucking heavenly inside of him. 

When Brett is finally buried balls deep, Stiles pulls his hand away from the window and closes his eyes. 

Brett muffles a groan that still sounds way too loud in Stiles’ ears. But nobody moves, nobody stirs, and for a little while, the only sound Stiles can hear is Beethoven’s 9th symphony. 

“Fuck,” Brett breathes eventually, “you’re so tight.” 

Stiles pokes Brett’s hand with his tongue. 

Chuckling, Brett pulls it away. “You sure you can be quiet?” he asks in a low voice, biting at his jaw playfully, and shifts to grab the blanket he brought onto the bus. 

The movement makes Stiles gasp. He’s not really used to this stretch, and at this point, he can’t decide if he wants Brett to move or not. This was a terrible idea, absolutely and utterly terrible. How the hell did Brett manage to rope him into this? He takes a deep breath, trying to cling to the bit of sanity he still has left. 

Fucking hell. 

Brett tosses the blanket haphazardly over them. It is supposed to hide them in case someone goes to use the restroom, but when the soft fabric hits his cock, Stiles has just enough brain power left to bite his bottom lip. This is going to be something. An adventure. One that can go so very wrong in a single second. It’s probably best not to think about it. He closes his eyes and leans his head against Brett’s. 

“Come on, Gorgeous.” Gorgeous. This guy is going to be the death of him. “You gotta relax for me.” Brett brushes his lips against the side of Stiles’ neck. “I’ll make you feel so good.” A hand slips under the blanket, fingers curling around his cock firmly. 

Stiles takes a deep breath through his nose. All of this, everything Brett does feels a million times better than it should. 

“Your foot,” Brett utters, nudging his leg a little, “can you put it on here?”

Stiles gets the hint. Pressing a bit closer to Brett, he sets his right foot on the small radiator near the floor. That, somehow, makes the feeling of Brett inside him even more, and Stiles turns his head to kiss him. That should keep his mouth occupied. 

Slowly, Brett starts to roll his hips with slow and short thrusts. Stiles tries to move with him, but his leverage is awkward, and he’s scared to bump into the seat in front of him. Instead, he tightens his muscles — judging by the way Brett groans into the kiss, it didn’t only feel fucking amazing for Stiles. 

The whole thing is painfully intimate, almost a little too gentle for Stiles’ liking. But all of that is easy to ignore because Brett knows what to do with his dick, his mouth, and his hands. He pumps him firmly, thumb teasing the tip of his cock every now and then. 

Properly kissing Brett becomes complicated embarrassingly fast. 

Brett bites his bottom lip with a chuckle then pulls away a little. “Feel good?” 

Stiles nods breathlessly. Pleasure builds inside of him, making him feel as if his blood is mixing with molten lava. The warm blanket, Brett’s body, his clothes — it’s so fucking hot. In every sense of the word. 

“Good,” Brett breathes, catching Stiles’ bottom lip with his teeth once again. Figures that he’s into biting. Stiles wonders if he’d enjoy being bitten too. Next time. He’s going to figure this out next time. “Fuck, you feel so good, Gorgeous.” If Brett had any idea what this fucking pet name did to Stiles — he makes a noise in the back of his throat, unable to help it. “Like you're made for me.” 

Stiles nods slowly. “I am,” he breathes, leaning forward to press their foreheads together. “Yours. Just yours.” He doesn’t even think about what he’s saying. They hardly know each other. They’ve hardly been fooling around for two weeks. 

But fuck, Brett’s reducing him to a babbling mess with his words and the way he’s just so fucking deep inside of him all the time. 

Brett grabs the back of his neck, holding him close to his face. “Mine,” he whispers, dragging his thumb over the tip of Stiles’ cock. "I like the sound of that." 

Stiles' whole body is humming with pleasure. Being silent becomes harder and harder with every shallow thrust, with every move of the skilled fingers working him. Hearing Brett talk doesn't help.

"You know," he whispers, almost breathes against Stiles' mouth, "I'm going to tell everyone you're mine now. And I'm going to mark you." He kisses him, just for a second, and then he switches hands, pressing his right to Stiles' mouth and wrapping the other around his dick. He's rolling his hips faster, and part of Stiles wishes he could fuck him harder, faster, make him remember him tomorrow every time he sits down on those stupidly hard bleachers. 

Brett isn't done. He presses his mouth to the shell of Stiles' ear. 

Stiles feels the smile, the hot breath ghosting down his neck. He tastes the precum on Brett's fingers too. 

"When we're at the motel," he whispers, painting the words against Stiles' ear, "I'm going to spread you out on the bed." Oh fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. "I'm going to mark you in places people can see, and in those only you and me know about." 

His orgasm is like a gut punch. It hits him without warning, and he’s never been so glad that Brett presses his hand harder over his mouth, silencing him as best as he can. His muscles tighten, and he arches his back, pressing his shoulder against Brett. For a second, he doesn’t feel anything but pure and perfect bliss. 

The next thing he notices is Brett fucking biting his shoulder. Stiles is about to elbow him, but then he realizes that Brett is coming too. Fucking hell. He can feel his dick pulse, can feel how he’s being filled, and fuck, fuck. This is the hottest fucking thing that’s ever happened to him. This is so much better than everything he’s tried by himself. 

Brett pulls away and kisses his shoulder. “Sorry,” he mutters before carefully lifting Stiles off of him. Almost as if he’s weighing nothing, he holds him up with one hand and wraps the blanket around Stiles. “Restroom, go.” 

His legs aren’t exactly excited about the rush, but it’s not like Stiles can argue with what’s going on. He slips into the tiny restroom and tosses the blanket at Brett before locking the door. His cheeks are flushed. It’s the first thing he sees when he catches sight of himself in the dimly lit mirror. He really just had sex with Brett Talbot in a bus full of people — in a bus he technically isn’t even allowed to be on. There’s no denying it either considering the cum running down his inner thigh. 

Fuck. 

Lydia is going to have a field day with this. If he tells her. Stiles probably shouldn’t tell her, but he’s ninety percent sure he will not be able to keep this a secret. Fucking hell, what is Brett doing to him? Stiles bites his bottom lip, glancing one last time at his flushed face, before gathering paper towels to clean himself as best as he can. Good thing he panic-packed more than enough clothes. He flushes everything down the toilet before slipping out of the door again. 

The blanket vanished, Brett is clothed, and nothing looks in any way suspicious. Brett grins at him, patting the empty spot between the window and him. “We still have a bit over an hour left,” he tells him once Stiles sits. “We should use that to recharge.”

Stiles yawns and curls against Brett as best as he can. “We should.”  

Brett kisses the top of his head before settling against him as well.

#briles #stiles stilinski #brett talbot #teen wolf #brett x stiles #stiles x brett #kinktober 2022 #*tv:teen wolf #*w:kinktober2022 #*w:complete #*s:briles

[msmischief101]

♜Pairing: Briles ♜Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Brett Talbot, Lori Rohr, Donovan Donati ♜Tags/Warnings: attempted rape, violence, drug use, blood, mentions of self-harm, canon compliant up until 3b, canon divergence, Stiles goes to Devenford, ♜Words: 7037 ♜Bad Things Happen Bingo - Attempted Rape ♜Ao3

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broken innocence

Stiles has concluded that he does not like his worlds to mingle. But Beacon Hills is a small town. Keeping everything separated is like trying to keep your toys to yourself in kindergarten. Things become even more complicated when lacrosse is involved. Suddenly, even Beacon County looks like becomes a rural village where everyone knows everyone. He has absolutely no desire to be here tonight, watching his new school wipe the floor with his old one. He doesn’t have any interest in running into his old pack either. 

But Brett wanted him to come to tonight’s scrimmage, and Stiles learned rather quickly that it’s all but impossible to say no to Brett Talbot; for a variety of reasons, Stiles doesn’t want to dissect any time soon. 

Stiles twists the Twizzlers between his fingers, scanning the bleachers for Lori. Since most of his friends are on the field tonight, and he does not want to join the girlfriend league, his only options are sitting with Lori or sitting alone. He enjoys Lori’s company, so the other option has never really been one. 

“Stilinski.” Donovan cuts into his path, easily snatching the Twizzlers out of his grasp, and grins in a way that sets Stiles’ teeth on edge. “Just the man I was looking for.” Raising his brows, and clearly trying to bait a reaction, he opens the treat and bites onto it.

Well, there goes his dinner. 

“What are you doing here?” Stiles asks, straightening his spine and shoulders almost instinctively. Donovan Donati is not supposed to be a part of his everyday life. Stiles made just enough room for his presence that didn’t interfere with anything or anyone else. That’s how his second shot at a normal life is supposed to work. It needs three pieces; the past he avoids, the present he tries to enjoy, and Donovan for when the darkness makes him feel too much or nothing at all.

Donovan’s grin is uncomfortably sharp. Then again, everything about him is, almost like he designed himself to hurt whoever comes too close. It’s enviable and pathetic. “You wanna come to a party later tonight?” It seems like all those unanswered text messages aren’t doing it for him any longer. 

Stiles didn’t expect him to care. “I hate parties.” Because joining Donovan and his gang has never been about socializing. It’s always been about feeling better. He couldn’t care less about it being Donovan. If he had a better option, he’d go for that. 

“Do it for me?” 

Stiles scoffs. “I hate you too.” But Stiles doesn’t need to like someone to spend time with them — as long as they prove to be useful. 

Donovan’s lips twist. 

“Hey.” Brett appears at Stiles’ side, one hand protectively curled around his shoulder. “What’s up?” Brett is polite. Brett is also the only person Donovan won’t cross. They are polar opposites, yet not impossibly different. Brett simply knows better than to go down the wrong path, probably because he has people who care about him. Donovan is surrounded by his little puppets.

Stiles shakes his head. 

Donovan sneers. “See you at school.” Without regarding Brett, he turns away, pointing the Twizzlers at Stiles like he would a loaded gun. Not even the most feral werewolf manages to make every single gesture look like a threat. Staying away should be easier, but Stiles keeps crawling back in desperate need to feel something — even if it hurts.  

Brett doesn’t look satisfied with the end of the conversation. “What did he want?” 

“Nothing.” Stiles shrugs his hand off, knowing full well he’s being a dick. “His usual bullshit.” 

“What’s his usual bullshit?” 

“Fuck, Talbot.” Stiles pushes his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Talking shit. Acting tough. The fuck do I know.” His connection to Donovan is not supposed to leave the shadows. They don’t have this type of relationship. Nobody hangs out with their dealer. 

Brett does not look like he believes him, but he drops the topic. “The girls are—“

“I’m sitting with Lori.” The girls are nice enough, but Stiles doesn’t have the energy for them. He also feels a little weird about joining them. He’s not part of the girlfriend group, and he doesn’t want people to dwell on his and Brett’s relationship too much. It’s enough that Stiles overanalyses absolutely everything. 

Brett smiles, features getting unbearably soft. “I’m glad you came,” he says, and for a moment, he looks almost sheepish. “It means a lot.” 

Stiles smiles, hating the way his heart grows three sizes. This is not going to end well.  Not at all. 

— — — 

“You look like you haven’t slept a second,” Brett comments, sitting down opposite him. His backpack hits the ground like a ton of bricks. “Nightmares again?” 

If by nightmares he meant the questionable decision to join Donovan’s even more questionable party, then yes. Stiles should’ve known better, really, but it is what it is — and his bruised ribs are going to heal eventually. Stiles simply did not expect Donovan’s fucking minion to hit that hard. Sighing, he pokes his milkshake cup with his middle finger and shrugs. “It’s easier to tell you when I don’t have nightmares.” 

Brett sighs, crossing his arms on the table. “Stiles.” His name sounds as if Brett wanted to say something entirely different, only to lose his courage before opening his mouth. It’s an odd sensation. Brett Talbot doesn’t usually lose his courage. He shifts in his chair, long legs bumping into Stiles’. A warm breeze rushes down the street, rustling the menu and Brett’s hair. He fixes it, frowning at himself in the reflection of the ice cream parlor’s large windows.

Two girls sitting inside watch him transfixed — Stiles stops himself from doing the same. Swallowing around the lump in his throat, he taps the menu. “I heard the banana split is great here.” 

Tugging on a strand one last time, Brett turns to look at him. “I don’t like whipped cream.” 

“Tell them you don’t want it.” 

Their legs are still pressed together.

Brett raises his brows. “Tell them…” he trails off, lips curling into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Such an easy solution.” His gaze darts over Stiles’ face while the wind is messing with his hair again. He’s not talking about the whipped cream any longer. Maybe he never has. Sometimes, he is as hard to read as Parrish. On other days, it’s easy to see more on his face than there really is. 

Usually, Stiles doesn’t have issues reading people, yet Brett still feels elusive. He’s never been able to look at Brett and feel like he knows him — unlike Brett is doing right now. And that’s the scary part. Although Stiles is not afraid of being known, he fears someone knowing him and leaving anyway. It’s not unreasonable. It happened before. It might just happen again. Perhaps that’s why being with Brett makes him anxious despite being unable to stay away. Losing Brett would break him all over again. 

Stiles licks his lips. “I died tonight,” he says then, knowing Brett would not drop the topic, “strangely enough, it helps feeling more alive in the morning.” It’s as close to the truth as he can get without telling Brett he spent the night at one of Donovan’s underground parties. It’s not the type of party someone like Brett Talbot would attend. It’s the type of party Jordan Parrish would shut down if he knew it happened right under his nose. It’s filled with drugs, with teenagers doing everything they aren’t allowed to, with people betting on others fighting in a cage, and with Donovan being the king of it all.

“How often does that happen?” 

“I think it’s easier to tell you how often I get a normal amount of sleep.” 

Brett shakes his head with a humorless chuckle. “I get it.” He stands up, now fixing his hair again. “You don’t wanna talk about it.” 

Stiles hums in agreement and sips on his milkshake, watching the other boy out of the corner of his eyes. He’d rather be open about everything he does. It would probably help to talk to someone about it — someone who isn’t Donovan, who deals in violence, or his therapist, who deals in prescription drugs. Neither is particularly interested in talking to him, much less listening. Maybe Brett would if he gave him the chance, or Stiles might ruin a perfectly good thing. 

“Banana split?” 

“Banana split.” 

Brett nods, pulling his wallet out of the pocket of his jeans. “You want something else?” 

“I’m good,” Stiles says around his straw and watches as Brett walks into the ice cream parlor. There are six people in front of him, all of them wanting to enjoy the last days of summer. He scrunches up his face when the cold shake touches his teeth and bites down on the straw for good measure before leaning back in his chair with a grunt. A dull ache echoes in his ribs. Touching the sore spot carefully, he shifts in his chair. As much as he loves this place, they need to upgrade their furniture. If it weren’t so crammed inside, Stiles would’ve chosen the more comfortable benches. 

Stiles closes his eyes, trying to enjoy the warm rays of sunshine. He’s not felt at ease like this ever since he learned about the scrimmage. Stiles was aware that he would have to confront his old friends eventually. It still messed him up. Seeing them. Watching how their world simply kept turning without him being there. They looked like he never belonged anyway, as if his absence doesn’t leave the same hole Stiles is so desperately trying to fill right now. It’s pathetic, really. If they can move on as if it’s nothing, Stiles should be able to do the same. 

Yet he finds himself at Donovan’s fucking parties more often than he can count. 

The chair next to him scrapes over the asphalt. 

“That was quick.” Stiles blinks his eyes open, but it’s not Brett who settled into the chair. It’s Donovan. His blood runs cold. This happens entirely too often for his liking. “What are you doing here?” 

Donovan tosses a small bag at him. “You won a bunch of money last night.” His leg shifts, pressing against Stiles’. 

“Why the fuck,” Stiles snaps, snatching the money from the table, “are you giving this to me here?” It’s not like the next party will be months away. Donovan never makes it longer than a few days, and even if Stiles didn’t appear, there could have been a more subtle way. But it seems like Donovan is done with being subtle. He wants something else. Something Stiles won’t be able to give him. “Don’t be a fucking idiot.” He pulls his leg away, hating the sensation of their bodies touching more than Donovan being here. There is something poisonous about the other boy, and Stiles doesn’t want to get it all over him. 

The response doesn’t seem to bother Donovan. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you don’t want your boyfriend to know about us.”

“He isn’t my boyfriend.” Because that’s the important part about everything Donovan said. But at least it’s the truth. Brett isn’t his boyfriend, and he most likely won’t be — not as long as Stiles doesn’t bother to get any better, and especially not as long as Stiles keeps a company like Donovan Donati. “And there is no us.” 

Donovan grins. It’s cold and calculating, and in a strange way, comforting. Because that is the Donovan Stiles is familiar with. “If it wasn’t totally unethical, I’d blackmail you with this.” That’s rich coming from the guy who makes sure to include a fight club in every single one of his parties.  

Stiles grinds his teeth before he forces himself to relax. “Because you’re a shining beacon of ethics, right?” Everything was fine for four months. Why does Donovan have to go out of his way to fucking ruin everything? “Just go away.” 

“Aw, Stilinski, you’re hurting my feelings.” 

“Good.” 

Something dark flicks over Donovan’s expression. His lips pull away from his teeth, and he leans closer. “I know what you want,” he says in a low voice. “Talbot can’t give it to you. Not the way I can.” His fingers creep towards Stiles’ hand and before he can pull it away, Donovan grabs it tight, squeezing it until his bones hurt. 

Stiles stares at him, eyes wide, heart hammering against his ribs, but he doesn’t struggle. It would only cause a scene. Donovan might be violent, however, he’s not stupid enough to pull a stunt on a crowded street. 

“I’ve let this slide for long enough,” he says through his teeth. His eyes narrow as he spits out his next words, “there is only with or against me. Make a fucking decision.” Without warning, Donovan lets go of his hand and gets to his feet. The chair clatters to the ground. Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t put it back up again and isn’t particularly bothered by the surrounding people staring at him. Some are shaking their heads, others look like they want to make sure Donovan doesn’t spot them. It’s how you can tell who knows him and who has never heard his name. 

Stiles wishes he could disappear. His chest tightens. He should stop. He should fucking stop. There are other ways to get through this. Maybe he should find a new therapist, or maybe he should toss his principles in the bin and take the shit he prescribes him. But Stiles doesn’t want to take drugs. He doesn’t want to drink. Donovan isn’t that kind of dealer for him. Stiles goes to Donovan to get rid of his rage. He goes to Donovan so his body hurts whenever he moves, to make sure he knows his body belongs to him. 

To feel something. To claim this body as his own.

Winning money is just the cherry on top. 

Stiles ducks his head and bends down to pick up the chair, but somebody else is faster than him. 

“Talbot,” Donovan sings entirely too happy, “fancy meeting you here.” 

Brett sets the chair down with more force than necessary. “Donati.” His wallet hits the table. There’s no banana split in his hand. “I suppose you’re leaving.” 

“Don’t know, man. A milkshake does sound good, doesn’t it?” 

Brett does not reciprocate the grin that’s plastered on Donovan’s lips. Usually, he is too calm to look dangerous, but right now, Brett looks every bit like the predator he is. “Then I suggest you get something to go.”

Despite himself, Stiles reaches for Brett. His fingers find his wrist, pulse hammering under his skin, and curls his hand around his arm. The touch is soft. Brett barely would have to move a muscle to break free, but he relaxes instead, turning to look at him. Not everyone knows Donovan, but people know Beacon Hills’ rising lacrosse star. The last thing Stiles wants is for Brett to get a dent in his reputation because of someone like Donovan. He’s not worth it. Neither is Stiles. 

“Fuck, Talbot.” Donovan’s dark eyes are locked onto the spot where Stiles touches Brett. It takes a long moment for him to look up again. When he does, his almost feral smile does not reach his eyes. Maybe Donovan knows because he flicks his sunglasses down. “You gotta lean to share your toys.” 

Brett’s muscles go taut under his hand, and Stiles squeezes his arm in warning. “Ignore him,” he says under his breath, staring at his milkshake. He can’t bring himself to look up, not while everyone is still looking at them. 

“Leave.” Brett pulls his arm free and crosses them in front of his chest instead. “Or I’m going to share something with you, you won’t enjoy.”

Donovan barks out a laugh, sudden and cold, like nails on a chalkboard. “Damn, maybe I didn’t give you enough credit.” Or maybe he simply didn’t look close enough. Then again, why should Donovan pay someone like Brett any attention? He doesn’t need popularity because he already has a crowd following him around like lost puppies. After all, Donovan can provide them with whatever they want. 

Even Stiles fell for it. 

“Is there something you want?” Brett inquires icily. 

Donovan tilts his head just enough to give the impression that he’s looking at Stiles. It’s not a great feeling. “There’s always something I want.” 

“Then get it somewhere else.” Brett sits down, turning his back partially towards Donovan. The conversation is over. So when he grabs Stiles’ milkshake and takes a sip, it’s more than obvious that he is very much trying to prove a point. It’s kind of sexy. 

If Donovan is in any way bothered by it, he certainly knows how to hide it. Which is unusual. He’s not exactly known to mask his emotions very well. Without another word, he pulls his phone out and turns away, blending into the crowd without much of a problem. 

A few seconds later, Stiles’ phone buzzes in his pocket. He ignores the itch to grab it. He doesn’t need to read it to know Donovan repeated his threat. There’s only with or against me. The decision should be easy. “You gonna finish that?” Turns out it’s a lot harder than he could have ever expected. 

“You gonna keep hanging out with him?”

Stiles lets out a breath. “I’m not—“

“It’s never,” Brett interrupts him, putting the milkshake down to grab Stiles’ hand instead, “a good idea to hang out with Donovan.” That’s not exactly a big secret. The guy comes with his very own warning brighter than any neon sign Las Vegas has to offer. It’s just that warning signs aren’t for everyone; some are blind to them, and others love to ignore them. Stiles belongs to the second category. “Donovan is… he is the opposite of friendly. As in, he is unfriendly. As in, don’t be friends with him!” 

Stiles blinks. “I’m rubbing off on you.” 

“Oh, shut up.” Brett huffs out a breath, sounding not unlike a laugh. His thumb brushes over the back of Stiles’ hand, causing a rush of goosebumps up and down his body. 

Stiles shouldn’t crave his touch so much. It shouldn’t make him feel like he’s wrapped up in a cloud of cotton candy. There is absolutely no reason for Brett to grab his hand either. There is even less reason for Stiles not to pull it away. “Donovan isn’t all that scary,” he says softly, trying his best not to intertwine their fingers when Brett starts playing with them absentmindedly. “I’ve seen worse.” 

Brett nods. “I know.” 

“I promise I’ll be careful.” It’s an admission. Stiles is aware of that, and so is Brett judging by the grimace on his features. “But, if it makes you feel any better, you’ll be the first person I’ll call if I ever need help.” He’d probably be the only person he’d call for help. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Jordan, but having a werewolf on speed dial is still the safest bet. Besides, Stiles knows Brett would drop everything to come and help him. 

Humming in what can only be agreement, Brett slides his fingers in-between Stiles’. He looks up and smiles. “Cocky bastard.”

— — — 

Stiles watches Donovan argue with two of his friends about what food to get, lips pressed into a thin line. He shouldn’t be here. The second he saw that tonight’s location was a hotel instead of an empty warehouse, Stiles should have turned around and left. Donovan’s parties don’t happen inside expensive hotel suites. This feels more intimate. It feels like he shouldn’t be here. But he can’t be home alone either. Meeting everyone again fucked with his head much more than it should have. 

He eyes the cocaine residue on the glass table. His phone screen flashes, catching his attention. Stiles snatches his phone as Donovan moves next to him, almost as if to grab his phone as well. Pulling a leg onto the couch, he unlocks his phone. To his surprise, it’s a message from Brett. 

> Want me to pick you up tomorrow? 

Stiles’ heart does a very complicated thing, and he has to take a very deep breath before replying. 

I’d like that <

> How about we grab some breakfast before school too?

Why does this sound so much more like a date than meeting up at the ice cream parlor does? Stiles bites his bottom lip.

Surprise me. <

> Believe me. I will. 

> Sleep well

Stiles twists his lips into a pitiful grin. Yeah, sleeping probably isn’t going to happen. Not that he’d get a second of sleep by staying home. The darkness is a lot darker than since the scrimmage against his old school. As much as he hates being around Donovan, it helps. He swipes his thumb to stop the screen from going dark. Sleep well. His chest grows warm. 

He’s so fucked. 

You too <

Stiles bites his cheek, thumb hovering over his keyboard. Just yesterday, Brett held his hand, played with his fingers, and protected him from Donovan. Maybe, just maybe, Stiles should take the leap and stop seeing Donovan. 

Can’t wait to see you again <

The message is being read almost immediately. Stiles’ throat closes up. Part of him wants to throw his phone to the other side of the hotel room, but his grip around it tightens instead. He doesn’t have the money to replace it anyway. 

Brett sends him a heart. 

He sends him a fucking heart. 

Stiles grins, pressing his phone to his chest. Maybe he isn’t quite as fucked as he thought he might be. Maybe this is his cue to finally stop destroying himself. Not for Brett but because of this. This feeling. This giddy stupid sensation wraps around him like a safety blanket. The nogitsune didn’t win. It didn’t break him. Not entirely. He isn’t too broken to be liked — maybe even loved. 

His dad would be proud of him. 

All he has to do is end this. For good. And that’s why he came in the first place, right? Stiles isn’t entirely stupid. He noticed the changes. He noticed Donovan changing his approach. Stiles would have put his foot down if he were a better person. Still, part of him needs this outlet. If he really wants to change this — if he wants to change himself — tonight will be the last night. 

Donovan isn’t going to like that. 

But Stiles doesn’t care. He’s going break this fucking habits once and for all. He is going to quit tonight. If he’s got a chance with Brett, he doesn’t want to ruin it. 

“Stilinski,” Donovan drawls, his pupils are blown as wide as he’s high, “you shitting me?”

Stiles glances at him out of the corner of his eyes. The guy really had the fucking nerve to lean close enough to read his messages. “Privacy, fuckface.” He elbows Donovan away, who bares his teeth in a terrible copy of a grin. Sometimes he wonders if Donovan is ever sober and if he’s being perfectly honest. Seeing that he had to repeat his senior year twice because his attendance was abysmal, Stiles very much doubts that. He’s probably failing the year again — not that Donovan is actively trying to change that. But why would he? If he can rent a suite like this— 

The door clicks shut.

Stiles whips his head around. 

The suite is empty. Donovan’s friends left the room without saying anything. Unless maybe they’re grabbing food and drinks? Maybe they said something, and Stiles simply didn’t catch it. That’s entirely possible… right? “So,” Stiles says, trying to stifle the panic swelling in his chest, “where’s the rest?” 

Donovan lets out a huff. “What rest?” 

Licking his dry lips, Stiles turns around. Something about the way Donovan leans towards him makes him feel highly uneasy. He should have never come here, and he shouldn’t have acted like Brett’s worry was exaggerated. It wasn’t. Stiles knows something is wrong with Donovan. That’s why he attends his parties. Still, a person who gets drugs as easily as Donovan and offers people a violent outlet is dangerous. Or maybe, just maybe, Donovan simply likes to watch other people ruining themselves. That still makes him dangerous, just not actively so. 

He’s being stupid. 

How the fuck could he risk ending up alone with Donovan Donati?

“Well,” Stiles says, tightening the grip on his phone — Brett is just a message away. One single message. “The rest of the party.” His eyes dart around the room. He can’t help it. Keeping track of ways of escape is a necessity when running with wolves and other creatures of the night. It’s probably smart to treat Donovan similarly. 

Donovan merely scoffs and crosses the room, leaving the entrance unguarded. That’s good. That’s good. “You think I’d pay that much money for the room to be trashed?” He grabs a bottle of water, tossing it at him without warning. 

Stiles catches it awkwardly. “So… what’s this then?” He gestures a little, still not entirely sure what to make of this situation. He doesn’t get it. Who rents a huge ass suite to pre-party with their friends? It doesn’t make any sense. 

“To chill,” Donovan says and reaches for his glass of whiskey. “To have fun.” Despite everything Stiles knows about him, he manages to look like a sleazy politician who only cares about his pleasure. 

Stiles twists his lips. What does that make him? 

“Nobody needs to rent something like this for fun.” He makes air quotes with one hand before opening the bottle. It’s almost entirely silent. This bottle has been opened before. It has been tampered with, his paranoid mind suggests. Stiles twists the cap back and forth. Donovan’s eyes are on him. He can feel his gaze like a spider crawling up his spine. This is wrong. Something is wrong. Everything is wrong. 

Donovan sets his glass down. His posture is relaxed, yet there is something off about him. “Not thirsty?” 

“Not really, no.” Stiles shakes his head and clears his throat, trying to figure out what to say without giving Donovan a reason to fly off the handle. “I should… I think I should probably… go.” Stiles puts the bottle down, ignoring the rise of Donovan’s brow. Every second he stays here is a second too long. Why has he come here? Why didn’t he just ignore Donovan like he usually does? He could have called Brett. 

Fucking dammit. He’s so fucking stupid. 

“No?” Donovan turns on the couch, now fully facing him. There’s no humor left in his tone. “You go on a date with Talbot, and suddenly — poof — your innocence is restored?” 

Stiles glances in the direction of the door. If his gut feeling is right about Donovan, he won’t make it to the door. “I never said I’m innocent.” But that seems to have been the wrong thing to say… which he probably should have expected. 

And yet— 

Donovan’s grin remains a grimace, but he reaches his hand and places it on Stiles’ thigh. His touch is strangely soft, his thumb dragging a small circle over the inside of his jeans. “I can give you everything you want. I can give you everything Brett Talbot can’t.”

But that’s not the point. The point isn’t about getting what he wants. Not all the time, at least. Stiles isn’t fucking stupid. Sometimes, he’s gotta keep in mind what he needs. And Brett? Brett is capable to give him both. Brett is who he wants, but Stiles is aware that he’s not the person to let him get away with his bullshit. That’s not who Brett Talbot is, and that’s what Stiles loves about him. 

Loves. 

Shaking his head, Stiles pushes his hand off. “Don’t be a fucking idiot.” 

But Donovan merely reaches for him again, moving closer in the process. His hand returns to his thigh — and this time, it’s a lot closer to his crotch. 

Stiles shoves it away again. “Stop.” 

“I think you owe it to me.” 

When Donovan reaches out this time, Stiles slaps his hand away. “I said stop.” He pushes his phone into the pocket of his jacket and gets to his feet. “I’m leaving.” Nothing in their relationship ever indicated that Donovan is interested in fucking him, and Stiles surely never gave him any reason to believe otherwise. 

“No.” Donovan jolts to his feet. “You’re not fucking leaving.” 

“Oh, but I am.” Stiles takes a step back, mindful of the table and the couch. If he stumbles, he’s— he doesn’t want to think about it. The last thing he wants is to get into a position of weakness in front of a pissed-off Donovan. “I don’t want y— this.” 

Without any warning, Donovan lurches forward. His grip is tight and painful, and so is Stiles’ back connecting with the wall. “I don’t care.” Sneering, Donovan forces a leg between his thighs, “it’s time to pay up.” 

Panic explodes in his chest when Donovan leans closer. He’s trying to kiss him. He’s trying to kiss him. 

No. 

No. 

It’s so much worse. 

“Stop.” His voice isn’t half as assertive as he wants it to be. It cracks as he turns his head away, merely avoiding Donovan’s lips on his. “Please, stop.” As if begging is going to lead to the desired result if struggling doesn’t do anything. As if Donovan fucking cares because he doesn’t. It’s like he doesn’t even notice Stiles trying to push him off. Maybe that’s why Donovan didn’t bother to grab his hands. He knew he was stronger. He knew he could easily overpower him. 

Fuck. 

Stiles wants to scream, but he can’t. It’s like the sound catches in the back of his throat, refusing to come out. He should have listened to Brett, but no. No. Stiles thought he knew better, and now this is what he gets; Donovan’s mouth on his neck. It’s a touch that makes Stiles’ stomach heave. “I said stop.” There. That came out a bit more assertive. 

But Donovan doesn’t back off. He doesn’t even flinch. He does, however, adjust his grip and places his hand at Stiles’ hip instead of his upper arm. 

And that gives Stiles enough room for a punch. 

So he does just that. 

The second his fist connects with Donovan’s cheek, a sharp pain jolts from his knuckles up to his shoulder. It feels like he’s punched a brick wall with full force. It’s a way too familiar feeling, and the shock freezes him for a moment. There is blood on his knuckles and blood on Donovan’s face. Stiles is pretty sure both belong to him. But that means… 

Donovan whips his head around, baring unnatural sharp teeth. Those aren’t what pushes Stiles to sprint to the bathroom. It’s Donovan’s silver eyes. 

Stiles rushes through the open door, almost sliding on the expensive tiles. His heart slams against his chest, panic making it hard to breathe. There’s no way out of this bathroom, but there is time to be found here. Stiles slams the door shut and locks the door. Nothing else but a small cabinet could offer any additional safety. It might only give him seconds, but maybe that’s everything he needs. 

With trembling fingers, Stiles pulls his phone out of his jacket. He doesn’t even think about calling the police or Jordan. He calls Brett. 

The doorknob rattles. 

“Hey, Stiles!” Lori answers in a singsong. There is soft music in the background and something that could be the soft rumble of an engine. 

Stiles swallows around the lump in his throat. “Is Brett there?” 

“Yes, sorry, I’m driving.” 

There’s a thump on the door, and Stiles covers his mouth to stop the panicked sound. It’s going to be fine. It’s going to be fine. He swallows, lowers his hand, and scratches his neck. “I fucked up,” he whispers, voice cracking all over again. There’s no way Lori and Brett haven’t heard that. “I need your help.” 

“Where are you?”

“The hotel downtown.” Stiles licks his lips, watching the doorknob wriggle again. “Brett, I’m sorry, I—“

“Stiles!” By the sound of it, Donovan slams his hand against the door multiple times, every punch feels angrier than the one before. “Open the fucking door.” 

“Is that Donovan?” Brett asks over the sound of his engine howling as he seemingly puts off changing gears in favor of gaining speed.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles whispers again, backing away until he bumps against the sink. “I thought—“ 

“Stiles, don’t apologize.” The engine quiets. Besides the music, Stiles can hear Lori talking to someone. Her voice is muffled enough that he cannot make out what she says, but she sounds hectic. “I’ll be there in ten minutes, okay?” Although Brett can’t see it, Stiles nods. Brett breathes in and out audibly. “Listen to me. I need you to find a weapon. Whatever you can get your hands on, you hear me?” 

Again, Stiles nods, frantically looking around the bathroom, while Donovan is trying his best to get through the door. But there is nothing in this bathroom. What did he expect? This is a hotel. There are no personal items. There is nothing he could use — and it’s not like it matters. Donovan isn’t human. “I can’t—“ Stiles cuts off, feeling his throat close up. Don’t panic. Don’t panic. “I can’t find anything. There’s nothing here.” 

“Where are you right now?” Brett’s voice sounds unbelievably soft given the current circumstances. 

Stiles can’t tell if this is relaxing or stressing him more. All he knows is that there is nothing in this room that is going to help him against whatever Donovan is — or what he’s got planned. There is only Brett, but Brett is not here. Not yet anyway. “The bathroom.” Stiles swallows, grabbing the sink to stay upright even though every part of his body wants to drop to the floor and hide in the corner. “Please, Brett…” he’s not entirely sure what he’s asking him to do. He’s on the phone with him. He’s on his way here. What more does he want? To get out of here. Stiles digs his blunt nails into the skin of his neck. To get out of here with his bodily autonomy still mostly untouched. 

He’s worked for months to remember that his body belonged to him. Every day, Stiles is still struggling with it. That’s why he goes to those parties. Because the bruises and the pain are his choices. They are a reminder that this is his body, and he can do with it whatever the fuck he wants. He can destroy himself. He can rebuild himself. 

The door shudders. 

“Stiles?” Brett calling his name drags him out of his head. “Talk to me, Gorgeous. What’s happening?”

His voice drops to a whisper. “He’s about to get in. Brett, please.” 

“I’m almost there. Just a little longer. I need to you—“

The door finally gives way to Donovan’s violence, and the small cabinet does nothing to protect Stiles any longer. 

“Please, come quick,” is the last thing Stiles allows himself to say before he drops two phones. If he wants to have at least a fleeting chance to fight, he will need both hands. “Donovan, I— let’s talk about this.” ‘Let’s talk about this’? Stiles wants to bang his head against the wall. He can’t believe that’s the first and only thing he came up with.  

Donovan rolls his shoulders. There’s still blood on his cheek. “You should know how this goes, Stilinski,” he says in a low voice, advancing on him slowly — like he has all the time in the world. Perhaps he didn’t hear his conversation with Brett. Maybe, just maybe, Donovan does not have super-hearing. “The more you struggle, the more it’s gonna hurt.”

The bathroom is in no way big enough to rush past him, Stiles well and truly cornered himself coming here, but he’s trying anyway. That way, he at least goes down fighting. 

Donovan doesn’t even have to put any effort into catching him. He simply grabs him around the waist. For a brief second, he lifts him off his feet like Stiles is nothing more to him than a little unruly child that needs to be put into a timeout. “We could have had fun, you know?” Donovan snaps, clearly nearing the end of his patience as he curls his free hand into Stiles’ hair. “But you had to make it difficult.” 

And just like that, Donovan smashes Stiles’ head against the sink. 

The pain doesn’t come immediately. For a little while, there is nothing. That’s what it feels like at least. There is no light. There is no pain. There isn’t even any sound. All of that only returns when he opens his eyes. 

Stiles groans, pressing his eyes shut again. Light explodes behind his lids. The pain makes him sick. There are hands on his body, cold and rough, dragging him over hard tiles. He should open his eyes. He has to open his eyes. But he can’t. His lids feel too heavy. His whole body feels so fucking heavy. But someone moves it. Someone moves him. His elbow connects with the hard ground. The pain shooting up his arm startles his brain into action again. 

He’s inside the bathroom. 

Those hands touching him belong to Donovan. 

He’s not wearing any pants. 

“No,” Stiles mumbles, trying to move as a cold finger hooks into his boxer briefs. “Stop. Please. Stop.” He twists his hips, but Donovan’s grip is vice-like. There’s no getting away. There’s nothing he can do. Stiles forces his eyes open. The lashes of his left eye stick to his skin. There’s blood on the floor. Blood on his skin. Blood on the rug in front of the bathtub. What happens here tonight will leave a stain. Eventually, the hotel will throw it out. Because it doesn’t matter. They might never know what happened here. If they do, they’ll hide it. Nobody wants to rent a room where somebody was raped. 

He sobs.

His stomach heaves violently when Donovan raises his hips off the floor. There’s a tug on his boxer briefs. 

Then his body collapses onto the floor. 

Something crashes behind him. 

“Stiles!” Feet appear in his vision. The tip of white sneakers dips into his blood. “Stiles. It’s me. It’s Lori.” She crouches down next to him, offering him a hand. His blood drenches her jeans. She doesn’t seem bothered. 

Stiles takes her hand. 

“Careful,” she whispers. Her touch is gentle as she helps him sit up. “Careful, your head.” She places a hand on his cheek, tipping his head just enough to study the damage better. “You should get that checked out.”

Nodding turns out to be a terrible idea. He closes his eyes, collapsing against the girl next to him. Another sob claws its way out his throat. It hurts. Everything hurts.

Lori curls her arms around him, pulling him as close as their awkward position allows. “It’s going to be okay.” 

It’s easy to say, and right now, it’s almost easier to believe. Stiles opens his eyes. His pants are lying in a heap next to the cabinet. His shoes have been tossed in the direction of the hallway. One has tumbled through the door. It’s now sitting next to Donovan and Brett’s legs. 

Donovan doesn’t move, pinned underneath Brett, who can’t seem to stop moving. He brings his bloody fists down and down again. There are no other sounds than Donovan’s near maniacal laughter and a fist connecting with somebody’s face. Over and over and over again. It’s a sound Stiles is more than familiar with. He’s caused it more nights than he cares to count. 

And it was all for nothing. All those fights didn’t mean shit in the end. All those nights he spent running with wolves, and he still couldn’t fight off a single supernatural creature. 

Stiles closes his eyes. 

“Hey, hey.” Lori jostles him. “Stay with us.” 

Slowly, Stiles blinks his eyes open again. His view is obstructed by a pair of legs. There is more blood on clothes, but this time, it doesn’t belong to him.

Donovan isn’t laughing any longer. 

“You gotta stay awake, Gorgeous.” Brett crouches down, smiling a little. If not for his busted knuckles and Donovan’s blood sticking to his skin, it would be easy to believe nothing at all happened.  “Can you stand?” He holds out both hands.

Stiles doubts he’ll be able to get to his feet without help, but he wants to get out of here. He needs to get away from Donovan. Swallowing dryly, he grabs Brett’s hands. They feel so different from Donovan’s. They’re so much safer, so much softer. His eyes burn at the thought of it. His throat closes up again, making it almost impossible to breathe. But he pushes through it and nods very carefully when he realizes Brett waits for his sign. 

Getting his feet under him is a slow process. Frustrating almost. His legs don’t feel like his own. The pressure in his head is sheer agony. When he stands, the world tips and turns. Stiles is pretty sure any movement might cause him to throw up. Concussion, the rational part of his brain suggests. 

“Look at that,” Brett says, the smile audible in his voice, “steady as a newborn fawn.” 

Despite himself, Stiles laughs. “Fuck you.” But the short feeling of happiness doesn’t last long. The second he takes a step forward, is the moment his legs give way, is the moment he starts sobbing again. “I’m sorry.” Stiles lets go of Brett’s hands and wraps his arms around the wolf instead, hiding his face. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve listened. I should have—“

“Hey, hey. Don’t.” Brett hugs him to his chest, his arms loosely wrapped around his shoulders, and kisses the top of his head once. “There is nothing you have to apologize for. This isn’t your fault.”   

Stiles curls his fingers into Brett’s shirt, holding onto the other boy for dear life. 

“It’s okay,” Brett whispers. “You’re gonna be okay. I’ve got you.”

---

#briles #stiles stilinski #brett talbot #teen wolf #brett x stiles #stiles x brett #*tv:teen wolf #*w:complete #*s:briles #*w:bthb

[msmischief101]

♜Pairing: Briles ♜Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Brett Talbot ♜Tags/Warnings: Established Relationship, Post Canon ♜Words: 2348 ♜In bed at 2 am blissfully drowsy + “"I just want to let you know that I love you. A lot. Never forget that.” (@amatchinwater)

---

“Thanks, Jordan.” Stiles works his fingers through his hair, staring down the pile of files on his coffee table and sofa. “I really don’t want him to be alone tonight.” To be perfectly honest, Stiles does not want his dad to be alone at all, but it’s not like he can make his dad date Melissa. He understands their hesitance considering Stiles and Scott’s falling out a few years back, but they’re both grown up enough to get along when they have to. 

Jordan lets out a breath. “What about you? Are you alone tonight?”

“No,” Stiles says, probably a bit too quickly, and hates that he’s lying about it. Because he is alone tonight. He considered staying at the office with whoever is having the night shift, but being around people just was a tad too overwhelming on the anniversary of his mother’s death. Plus, he really doesn’t need to see Rafael’s fucking face on a night like tonight. 

Jordan huffs. “You’re not burying yourself in work are you?” 

“Nope.” Stiles grimaces a little. Lying to Jordan feels absolutely horrible — even more so than usual. “Brett’s coming over after his work.” Another lie. Because Stiles told him specifically not to do so. Hopefully,  he listens to him for once in his life. Maybe Stiles should have stayed at the office. Then again, being at work does not prevent his boyfriend from coming by unannounced. 

“Brett?” Jordan repeats, slight confusion in his tone. “You’re on again?” 

His microwave dings. Stiles turns on his heels to walk into the kitchen area. Leftovers sounded good an hour ago, now that he actually put them in and talked to Jordan, his stomach is in knots. “Yeah,” Stiles mutters, opening his microwave to stare at his fried rice. Maybe he should toss it. “Two weeks ago, I think.” To be honest, Stiles lost track of time. But they’re dating right now, that’s what matters. 

Jordan sighs. “I don’t wanna be that person, but are you sure that relationship is going to head somewhere?” 

Stiles slams his microwave shut and opens the fridge instead. “As soon as he loses his fear of commitment.” He grabs a bottle of beer. Maybe he should drown himself in alcohol instead of work tonight. Then again, he’s got to get ahead in this case because some very original piece of shit is sacrificing virgins to unleash something. It would be very nice to stop them before they succeed. “Okay, Jay, I gotta get back to work, thanks for staying with Dad tonight. It means a lot.” 

“Of course,” Jordan sighs again. “Take care tonight.” 

“I will. Talk to you tomorrow.” Stiles hangs up, taking a deep breath. He’s gonna drink a beer, work for a bit and go to bed. This day is almost over. He got through most of it, tonight is going to be just fine. 

Stiles takes a deep breath and slams the fridge door shut again. 

Someone is standing in his living room area. 

He’s so not up for this tonight. “You know, you could use the front door like a normal person.” 

Brett shrugs. “I don’t have a key for that.” 

This is— Stiles licks his lips. “Didn’t I tell you that I want to be alone tonight?” And he was very persistent about it too. That’s usually when Brett gets the hint, but tonight he just had to be fucking stubborn. 

“I’d be a terrible boyfriend if I left you alone tonight, wouldn’t I?” Brett drops his backpack on the edge of the two-seater that’s not covered in files. “I come with copious amounts of food and snacks.” He turns to Stiles again, an eyebrow raised and the smallest of smug smiles tugging on the corners of his mouth. “Since you clearly didn’t plan on eating tonight.” As messy as their relationship can get, Brett knows him better than most people in his life. 

And it’s so fucking hard to get angry at him in the first place. “I should probably get extra security for my balcony door.” 

“You could also just give me a key to your flat.” 

Stiles huffs. “You don’t have key privileges yet.” 

“Oh, come on.” Brett crosses the short distance, tugging Stiles closer by the pocket of his sweatpants. “We’ve been dating for three and a half years.” 

“We started dating three and a half years go,” Stiles corrects him and flicks Brett’s nose, “but we have not been together the whole time, and that’s why you don’t have any key privileges, Mr. Cold Feet.” That is a very distinct difference. It’s hard to put a time on their relationship, but Stiles’ best guess would be that they’ve been officially dating for about half that time. Their hookups and booty calls make the whole thing a bit muddy. 

Brett grimaces. “You’re never gonna drop this, are you?”

“Nope.” Stiles pats the werewolf’s chest, slipping past him. Shaking his head, Stiles closes the balcony door. His dad talked about locks for his windows a while ago, maybe he should consider it too. That’ll certainly keep werewolves out of his flat. “Are you gonna stay the night?” Now that Brett’s here, Stiles kind of doesn’t want him to leave. 

Brett hums. “As long as you need me to.” This is why it’s impossible to let him go. As chaotic and aggravating his fear of commitment is, Brett has never once let him down or turned him away if Stiles really needed him. Brett helped him through nightmares and mental breakdowns, never forgot important dates, and usually makes sure Stiles is eating enough — even when they aren’t dating. They never had a bad fallout, Brett was just honest. It sucked, but Stiles would rather he’s honest than stringing him along. 

But Brett also keeps coming back — and he will until Stiles tells him no. Something he’d probably never do. 

Stiles puts his beer on a free corner of the coffee table. Smiling, he turns back around and wraps his arms around Brett’s shoulders. “Thanks for coming,” he whispers, pulling him down to kiss him. 

Brett slips his hands under Stiles’ shirt and grabs his hips, hands cool against his skin. He deepens the kiss before pulling away. “How about,” Brett whispers, leaning their foreheads together, “you get some work done. I’ll make us something to eat, and then we’ll go to bed and watch a movie.” He cups Stiles’ neck. “How does that sound?” 

Stiles nods slowly. “That sounds great, actually.” 

“Good.” Brett kisses his forehead, and Stiles feels like he’s about to burst from gratitude — and love. Fuck, he loves this guy so much despite seeing him walk out of their relationship more than once. 

Or maybe he’s just overly emotional tonight. 

---

Stiles presses his hands to his eyes as if that would help him fall asleep. It won’t. He’s been here before. Every fucking year on the same date, he feels the same type of emptiness creep up on him, no matter how many people are around him or how loud his surroundings are — he always ends up back in the hospital, sitting on his mother’s bed, absorbed in a book when the alarm set in. 

Sometimes, he can still hear the machine flat-lining. 

“Stiles?” Brett mutters, turning around. “Gorgeous, are you okay?”

‘Okay’ does feel like a bit of an exaggeration, but at least he’s not on the verge of a panic attack like last year. “I’m—“

“Please, don’t say fine.” 

Scowling, Stiles looks at Brett. Lights from the movie keep flashing over his face, making his expression a little harder to read. But he certainly looks tired. Stiles reaches for him, cupping his cheek, and smiles as Brett closes his eyes, leaning into the touch. “I am fine,” Stiles tells him, even though his baseline for five is probably a lot farther down than that of other people. “But I wouldn’t mind you fucking the sad out of me.” 

The laptop is bright for long enough that Stiles can see the whole extent of Brett rolling his eyes. Charming. “A wise person once said that talking about your feelings is a much better way of dealing with them.” 

Stiles grimaces. “That sounds like terrible advice.” 

“We’re quite the couple, hm?” Brett pulls Stiles’ hand away from his face and intertwines their fingers instead. “I keep running, and you never talk about your feelings.” 

Stiles wishes he could argue with that, but even though Brett keeps backing out of their relationship, he has always been the one who is very open about his thoughts and feelings. Funnily enough, Stiles talks a lot about everything but how he really feels. It’s a stupid habit, yet it’s so hard to change. Sometimes, he wonders if that’s why Brett keeps leaving — why people keep leaving. Because he manages to talk a lot without actually saying anything at all. “I guess we’re not made for each other.” 

“But we could be.”

“What?” Stiles draws his brows together, heartbeat speeding up. Usually, he would not be interested in talking about their relationship during a day or night like this, but he figures it’s better than the alternative. Besides, Brett isn’t a monster. He’d never break up or question their relationship today of all days. He’d rather stay with Stiles for another month despite not loving him than rip his heart out tonight. 

Brett sits up, placing his free hand on the nape of Stiles’ neck. A smile tugs on his lips. “I said we could be,” Brett repeats, and his voice is ever so soft, “we could be perfect for each other.” That’s strange coming from the person showing commitment issues — but Stiles probably shouldn’t judge this statement before he knows where Brett is going with this. “I’d have to stay once things get serious—“ he chuckles as if that’s somehow funny “— and you would have to talk about your feelings.” Brett squeezes his hand. “Just imagine how that would be.” 

Stiles snorts, but he can’t deny that the sound of that makes him feel warm and fuzzy. “We’d be too powerful.” Because, the truth is, they work. Their good times are perfect, and even their bad times aren’t horrendous — if he doesn’t count all the times Brett ran. “We’d be unstoppable.” 

Humming, Brett nods. “That’s what I’m thinking. So…” Brett trails off and licks his lips. 

The chance of tone is almost palpable in the air. 

Stiles stiffens. 

Brett takes a deep breath. “So,” he repeats a little firmer this time, “Iwanttomarryyou.” What? That’s new. The words tumble out of Brett’s mouth uncharacteristically quickly. Even he looks about as surprised as Stiles. Brett squints and raises a hand, shaking his head. “Let me… hold on.” Brett runs his raised hand through his hair. 

Stiles gives him the time because he’s not even trying to make sense of that word salad. 

After a few more deep breaths, Brett wraps both hands around Stiles’. “I want—“ Brett cuts off again and shakes his head before smiling softly. “Marry me.” 

Wait… what?

Stiles blinks. Did he hear that right? “Marry you?” He winces at his own tone. That was not meant to come out as rude as it did. “Sorry, I—“ Furrowing his brows, Stiles rubs his cheek — his heart the little traitor is already on board with the whole thing — but his head, it’s spinning because… because it doesn’t make any sense. “I don’t— I don’t understand.” 

“You don’t understand?” Brett licks his lips, but the smile is still there. Almost like he knows how this will end. Maybe they both do. “Do you need me to explain?” 

“I—“ Stiles runs his free hand through his hair, then runs the back of his neck. “We’ve gotten back together two weeks ago.” After Brett, once again, decided that they’re going too fast three months ago. “And now you want to marry me?” They didn’t even trial run living together. Maybe they should start with that first. 

Brett lifts Stiles’ hand to his mouth and kisses his knuckles. “I just want to let you know that I love you. A lot. Never forget that.” He sounds so genuine. So fucking honest and open and… and vulnerable.

Oh.

It’s the first time Brett has said those three words as well. They’ve been together for a while. Shit. Stiles hasn’t even said it. For the first time in their relationship, Brett jumps ahead — and he jumps ahead so far, Stiles has to take a giant leap of faith to follow him. He takes a deep breath, cupping Brett’s neck. “I love you too, you know that.” He chuckles, “or I wouldn’t have taken your sorry ass back every single time you came running again.” 

Brett grins. 

“But marriage?”

Brett scowls. “I’m serious about this… you… us. I—“

Stiles covers Brett’s mouth. “If we— if I were to say yes,” he says, and Stiles can’t even believe he’s considering any of this, “that would be your last chance. No backing out. If you do, we’re done. It’s over. Alright?” This is an ultimatum, Stiles is very aware. He’s also aware that Brett usually backs away when he’s confronted with one. 

But Brett pulls Stiles’ hand away. 

And kisses him.

Stiles melts into it, curling both arms around Brett’s neck. The way he kisses him, the way his arms tighten around him, the little sound Brett makes in the back of his throat — all of that, it’s killing Stiles in the most delicious way. 

After a moment, Brett pulls away and leans their foreheads together. “Marry me,” he whispers, and the smile in his voice is infectious. 

Stiles nods, heart and body tingling with a sensation he’s never felt before. But he knows, deep down, and with every fiber of his body, that he’s doing the right thing. He takes a breath, tears stinging in his eyes, the smile almost painfully wide. 

“Yes.” 

Brett kisses him again, hard but with the kind of love you’d only find once in your life — with your soulmate, your other half, the one. 

And Stiles couldn’t be more excited about the future. 

#briles #stiles stilinski #brett talbot #teen wolf #brett x stiles #stiles x brett #*tv:teen wolf #*w:complete #*s:briles

[msmischief101]

♜Pairing: Briles ♜Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Brett Talbot ♜Tags/Warnings: Mutual Pining, Party Games, Truth or Drink, Alpha Brett ♜Words: 4517 ♜Someone is jealous/hurt + "I never want you to feel like you're not good enough." (@raksh-writes) ♜ ao3

---

Truth or Drink

---

“I can’t decide if this is the most brilliant or the stupidest place to party,” Stiles mutters, trudging alongside Brett towards the abandoned distillery. There is a lot of nothingness that’s followed by the preserve. “It’s like you want someone to get eaten or murdered.” Or, since this is Beacon Hills, first eaten and then killed. As the resident alpha of Beacon County, Stiles really expected the werewolf would know better. 

But Brett seems more amused about that than anything. “It’s just a party.”

“It’s never just a—“ Stiles’ foot catches on something. Despite this being absolutely not surprising in the slightest, he’s got no chance to catch himself. 

Luckily, Brett has no intention of letting him kiss the ground. With ease, he catches Stiles around the waist and sets him back onto his feet. “I swear,” he mutters, wrapping his arm around Stiles’ shoulders, “you could trip over your own shadow.” 

Now is probably not the time to inform him that tripping over his own shadow is basically a daily occurrence. Sometimes, Stiles is still surprised he graduated at the top of his class with the FBI. “What can I say?” Stiles tries not to squirm away because he still isn’t sure if he can handle all this casual intimacy. It’s so different from having sex with Brett — and Stiles doesn’t know how to feel about that. “My shadow likes to see me fall.”

Brett chuckles and pulls him closer. “I’m glad you came.”

If Stiles is going to feel the same way remains to be seen. Agreeing to accompany Brett to this lacrosse partly mostly happened because his dad threatened to drive him here himself. Ever since his breakup five months ago, Stiles made a point not to leave the house — especially after moving back home from Quantico. Beacon Hills is a wayward station on his path to figuring out where to go — and a place to wallow in self-pity. It didn’t matter how many people considered him smart and attentive, he still didn’t notice that his girlfriend fucked other people for more than a year. 

Stiles doesn’t want feelings. He doesn’t want a relationship either, but something threw a wrench called Brett in his plans. 

Stiles fucking hates it. Because his goal is to leave, and Brett can’t leave this hellhole now that he’s Satomi’s successor. This— whatever this is, it’s already doomed. When Jordan told him his caffeine addiction would become his undoing, Stiles did not expect it to be in the form of Brett fucking Talbot. 

Sighing, Stiles slips out from under Brett’s arm and walks the small path up to the distillery in front of the wolf. The music and voices are much more distinct now — they also come with memories of other parties; especially the one he finally caught his girlfriend with somebody else. His birthday was explosive, to say the least. Stiles grimaces. “I’m way too sober for this.” 

Chuckling again, Brett nudges him towards the door. “Don’t be so damn dramatic.” 

Dramatic feels like an understatement, yet again something Stiles decides not to point out. He also tries his best to ignore the pack symbol clawed into one of the walls. That’s certainly not a bad sign. Not at all. 

“Talbot!” A guy Stiles doesn’t know throws his hands in the air almost in a winning gesture. Turns out, this guy isn’t the only person Stiles doesn’t know. He wasn’t sure what he expected, to be fair. After all, he hasn’t been involved in anything Beacon Hills lacrosse for almost six years. 

“No way.” That voice comes from his left, and it sounds far too familiar. “Stiles!” And that would be Mason. Fantastic. “I didn’t know you were back.” 

Stiles isn’t surprised to find Liam right next to him. Those two are inseparable — and without their partners. That is quite the unusual picture. 

“Hey,” Stiles says, trying his best to sound excited to be here, “how are you guys doing?” It’s probably best not to mention that he’s been back for almost two months. Turns out he decides not to mention a lot of things. Then again, it’s not like he owes anyone. Unless it’s Brett. Stiles has told Brett a lot more than he thought he’d be ready for — even about the shit his ex pulled despite promising himself he wouldn’t bury that six feet under. But Brett is easy to talk to, and, if you know what you are looking for, just as easy to read. Even though his face seems closed off, Stiles can see the annoyance in the way his lips narrow ever so slightly.

It could have a lot to do with Liam, however, something about the way Brett places his hand on the small of Stiles’ back indicates differently. It’s a weirdly possessive gesture. Something he never really expected Brett to do. But he does, and that’s opening a whole other can of worms. Brett leans down, brushing his nose against his temple. “I’ll grab us something to drink.” He presses his thumb against his back before walking away. 

Us. 

Stiles blinks. Us. Stiles hasn’t been aware this was an ‘us’ situation. When did this turn into an ‘us’ situation? Sure, they arrived here together, and, yes, they have seen each other at least three times a week for the past couple of months. But just because they had sex — he’s getting paranoid because of a single fucking word, isn’t he? Brett is probably just being nice, so Stiles can catch up with Mason and Liam. He needs to leave this town as quickly as he. It’s already starting to drive him insane again. 

Well, it’s not just the town. It’s also being fucked over for more than a year by his ex. 

“I didn’t know you two are a thing.” Liam’s voice may be barely audible over the music, but his bitter tone is hard to miss. 

“We’re not.” His reply might have come too quickly if Mason’s raised eyebrows are any indication. Stiles gestures dismissively. “We ran into each other a while back—“

“A while back?” Liam echoes and his face goes through a lot of emotions until it seems to settle on irritation. “How long are you back?” Which really means, ‘how long are you back without telling us? And why did you tell Brett instead of us? And would you have ever told us?’. That’s a lot of questions wrapped up in a very short one. 

Stiles has no clue how to answer that without making it worse. “I’m not sure,” he replies with a half-shrug. That’s at least partially true. At first, he didn’t even plan to stay here. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision. He wanted to see his dad and Jordan… and then he just didn’t leave. He quit his job, got rid of his apartment, and moved back into his bedroom. Working the supernatural cases for his dad while living at home helps him to save a bit of money until he’s figured out where to go and what to do. It’s not what he wanted with 24, but it’s still better than nothing. “I didn’t even plan to stay this long, so I didn’t even announce it.” Nobody would know he’s back if he didn’t run into Brett because Stiles doesn’t leave the police station or the house unless he had to do something about his caffeine addiction. 

“Other than Brett you mean,” Liam mutters, his tone again drenched in bitterness. It’s not like they’ve spoken a lot ever since Stiles went to college. 

Mason raises his hands. “Let’s just get a drink as well.” Without waiting for their response, he walks over to the group of tables that seems to be the makeshift bar.

Brett is standing next to the tables, holding two red cups, laughing at something the guy next to him said. His gaze darts to Stiles almost immediately, however, and when he locks eyes with him, a weirdly private smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. 

Stiles can feel his heart leap into his throat. This is bad. This is so fucking bad. Still. Stiles finds himself walking toward the werewolf and accepts the drink with a grin. “How drunk am I gonna be tonight?” 

Chuckling, Brett wraps an arm around his shoulders again. “I’ll take good care of you.” 

“Uh-huh.” 

The guy talking to Brett shifts more into Stiles’ view. “Hi,” he says, smiling almost uncomfortably wide, “I’m Gabe.”

There’s the smallest moment of Brett’s arm stiffening around him, but Stiles can’t really tell if Brett is pulling him closer or if Stiles is stepping further into the embrace. Either way, his shoulder bumps against Brett’s chest, and he’s suddenly very aware of the scent clinging to Brett’s skin; it reminds Stiles of something wild, fresh, and, strangely enough, a night spent at a bonfire. He likes it. To be exact, Stiles can’t get enough of that scent. “Stiles,” he says, more interested in his drink. The vodka is another thing Stiles can smell. He still gives it a chance and carefully sips on his drink. The moment the liquid touches his tongue, he grimaces. “Oh god.” That’s what he gets for letting a werewolf make his drink. “You could’ve just given me vodka straight.” 

Brett chuckles, tapping his finger against Stiles’ upper arm. “You said you’re too sober for this.” 

“That was a statement,” Stiles says, but he can’t help the quiet chuckle, “not a challenge.” 

Gabe points at him, continuing to grin uncomfortably wide. “You sound like you’re in desperate need of a round of Truth or Drink.” 

“I’m definitely too sober for that.” Stiles carefully sips on his drink again. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say Brett is trying to get him drunk. But considering the guy is a werewolf, Stiles highly doubt he has any clue how alcohol affects humans. Let’s hope his Polish genes help him not to make a fool of himself. Then again, he can hold his liquor. So, he probably shouldn’t be too worried. 

“That’s kind of the point of a drinking game, isn’t it?” Brett quirks a brow, grinning in a way that really does not bode well. “Let’s go.” And with that, he drags Stiles towards a group of people already sitting in a circle. 

This is going to be great. 

“Move ladies, Talbot graces us with his presence.” 

The good thing about coming here with Brett is that people are mostly not interested in him. So, Stiles will probably mostly be a bystander — something that’s proven correct because aside from Lori, who is sitting to his right, as well as Mason and Liam, he’s hardly asked a question at all. Not that Stiles complains. He does not mind just sitting here watching all the other people giggle or make an ass out of themselves for either replying or not replying to a question. 

But people are getting more tipsy and the questions riskier, and Stiles just knew that his luck would run out eventually. Gabe cuts his gaze towards him — and something about his expression makes his stomach drop. “So, Stiles,” Gabe says, grin only getting bitter, “who’s the best person you’ve ever had sex with? Name some names.”

Stiles licks his lips. His gaze darts to Liam and Mason, and he really tries his best not to look at Brett at all. That would probably give everything away. Besides, it’s simply nobody’s business who he is and isn’t sleeping with. Clearing his throat, he takes a sip of his drink. 

“Oh, come on! Really?”

“That’s the game, G,” Brett chuckles, nudging Stiles as he shifts into a more comfortable position. 

Tapping the rim of his now empty cup, Stiles considers who — he still hardly knows anybody attending this party — and what to ask. They seem to have entered the intimate partner stage, so he settles for something safe. “Mason, what was your last first date like?” 

Unsurprisingly, Mason immediately starts talking, rattling on and on about his last first date with Corey, and giving Stiles enough time to refill his cup — with a much better mix — and settle back down between the Talbot siblings. 

After a few more rounds, it’s Lori who addresses him. “If you could cheat and no one would ever find out,” she asks, without even the hint of a smile on her face, “would you?” Her hazel eyes are intense. It’s almost a little scary. 

Stiles hates the question, mostly because cheating is a seriously sore topic for him, and no matter how much he pretends that it’s okay, it still hurts. But it’s not like Lori knows she’s basically stepped into something. Stiles shakes his head. “No.” He’d rather die than hurt anybody in this way. “I’d never cheat on anybody. Ever.” 

For a few moments, Lori keeps staring at him. It almost feels as if she’s looking for the truth in his statement — or for the lie. After a few seconds, she nods and smiles. “Good.” That word weighs a ton for some reason, and her smile is weirdly relaxing. 

Stiles doesn’t want to think too much about it. Pursing his lips, he looks around the circle of people and takes a sip of his drink. He’s far from drunk, but he cannot deny that Brett’s vodka mix gave him a bit of liquid courage. 

“Brett,” Stiles says, leaning back a little to look at the alpha, “do you like telling your partner what to do in bed, or do you prefer to be told what to do?” They never really talked about what they liked and disliked during sex. It’s more a relationship than a casual hook-up conversation. But this game feels like a good opportunity to learn something new. 

Brett tips his cup back and forth, studying Stiles for a few prolonged seconds. The music is loud, but Brett’s almost inaudible chuckle makes Stiles shudder despite himself. When they lock eyes, Stiles wishes they were back at Brett’s place. Alone. But they aren’t, and it’s killing him. 

Smirking, Brett bends his leg and props his arm on his knee. “I’m dominant by nature,” he says, punctuation every single word. “If my partners are up for it, I very much enjoy telling them what to do.” Brett tips his head to the left, eyes roaming over Stiles’s face. “Did that answer your questions?”

More than enough. Maybe Stiles should go into detail about that later. “Yes.” Stiles nods, hiding his grin by sipping on his own drink.

“Good,” Brett says, and again this word seems to weigh a ton. Licking his lips, he looks up. “Liam, what do you think? Does size really matter?” 

Stiles elbows Brett in the ribs, fully aware that he’s hurting himself more than the werewolf. Those two are going to go after each other no matter how much time has passed. They’re never going to be friends, but despite Liam’s narrowed eyes, whatever Mason told him seems to keep him mostly civil. Instead of answering or snapping at Brett, he simply shoots him a dirty look, takes a sip of his drink, and continues the game. 

More questions are bouncing around. A few people leave, and a few others join them. People getting bolder with their answers and questions. 

“Stiles.” He has no idea why Gabe seems to have made him his target, but Stiles honestly isn’t the biggest fan of it. Either way, the guy seems to have way too much fun to stop. Grinning, he leans forward in an almost conspiratorial manner, “what are your thoughts on sex with me?” 

What?

Stiles blinks and opens his mouth. 

“Bastard,” Brett mutters, and judging by the way he shakes his head, he did not mean for anybody to hear over the music. But Stiles heard, and, for the lack of a better word, Brett looks pissed. He’s glaring at Gabe too, something the guy seems to be completely unaware of. For some reason, Stiles doubts they’ve ever actually been friends at all. Even Mason and Liam, who he’s never been all that close to, thought they are a thing. If Gabe were Brett’s friend, Stiles doubt he wouldn’t notice anything. 

Wait. 

Wait. 

Is Brett jealous? No. No. That’s just ridiculous. Why would Brett be jealous of a question like that? 

“Stiles?” Brett turns to look at him, quirking a brow. “Did… did you drink?” Because not answering this question is answer enough. Right? No. Unless. Unless maybe Brett is just— okay, this is getting ridiculous. They’re fucking. That’s it. There’s nothing else going on. Because Brett knows Stiles is going to leave eventually, and because Brett isn’t stupid enough to fall for someone as paranoid as him— or for someone who forced him into agreeing that they’re nothing more than a booty call. 

But they are, aren’t they? They ate dinner together. They watched movies together. They watched movies with the pack. They made breakfast. Stiles complained to him about work. Brett grumbled about his alpha duties. They talked about ex-partners. They text all the time. 

Fuck.  

“No, I—“ Stiles licks his lips and swallows around the lump in his throat. Shit. He didn’t mean to stare at Brett. “What… what was the question again?” Focus, Stilinski. This is getting ridiculous. Taking a breath, he turns to Gabe. Cool and collected. He’s going to tell the truth, he just needs to be sure about the question again. Before he says something stupid. 

Gabe smirks now, cocking a brow as he points at Stiles. “What are your thoughts about sleeping—“ he opens his arms, almost as if he’s some big shot “— with me.” 

“Not for a million bucks, buddy.” Stiles shakes his and takes a sip of his drink regardless, smirking a little as Gabe’s face falls as if he’s actually expected a different answer. 

Brett relaxes next to him, and he looks almost a little smug with his raised eyebrows and the way he grins before sipping on his drink. 

Clearly unamused, Gabe gets to his feet and leaves the circle without another word. 

Lori laughs into her beer. Yeah, there is clearly something going on between Gabe and Brett that Stiles is very much not aware of, but it feels like some form of rivalry. They’re just weirdly passive-aggressive about it — and it’s probably born out of some stupid lacrosse thing. 

Stiles forces himself not to read into this any further. “Jiang, what’s your biggest turn off?” 

Jiang scrunches up his nose for a few seconds then he shrugs. “Not sure, so I’ll just…” he trails off and raises his cup to his mouth with a chuckle. After drinking the contents of his cup in one go, he points at Lori. “What’s the kinkiest thing you have ever done during sex?” 

Lori doesn’t even stop to think about an answer. She sips on her drink and turns to her brother, looking right past Stiles with an unreadable expression. “Brett,” she says in a tone that makes her brother stiffen a little, “what’s your last text message? Show it to the person on your right.” Lori sounds like a woman on a mission, and Stiles has no idea why because he is the person on Brett’s right. Why would Lori want him to see a text message? 

Oh, no. No. He is reading into things again. 

Brett’s grip around his drink tightens, and for a few seconds, Stiles is sure he’s not going to show him anything. Mostly because it’s probably the text he sent Stiles when he was pulling into the driveway to pick him up. Still, Brett hesitates for a few seconds, studying first Stiles and then his sister before shifting a bit so he can reach his phone. After another couple of seconds of hesitation then Brett unlocks his phone and goes through it before holding it out to Stiles. This time, he isn’t looking at him, however, he is staring his sister down with the most closed-off expression Stiles has ever seen him with. 

Furrowing his brows, Stiles grabs the phone and looks down. It’s not the text message Brett sent him last. It’s a chat with Lori. 

>> No, it’s not enough. But I can’t force him. His girlfriend fucked him over. I just wanna

The text message cuts off there, and Stiles feels like he’s invading Brett’s privacy. But he gave him his phone. It’s basically impossible to only read the last text message. 

Stiles is scared to get hurt again. Can you blame him?<<

Stiles can feel his blood run cold. 

>> You know I’d never hurt him. I wanna show him off. I wanna tell people about him, bring him around to pack nights and shit. I’m ready to do whatever he wants to with him. Fuck. I can’t even think straight. I just want to be with him. 

I just want to be with him. 

Shit. 

Shit. 

Stiles doesn’t meet Brett’s eyes when he returns the phone. The silence of the group sounds louder than the music. Leave. Stiles needs to leave. Every fiber of his body begs him to stand up and run. He clears his throat. “Excuse me for a moment.” Without looking up, he gets to his feet and turns on his heels. Fuck. Stiles empties his cup in one go and drops it on a table. He needs to get out of here. He needs to breathe. This is the worst thing that could’ve possibly happened. 

Brett wasn’t supposed to catch feelings. 

He wasn’t supposed to give Stiles hope. 

Fuck. 

Pressing his lips together, Stiles rushes past a group of people, pointedly ignores Gabe calling his name, and all but runs towards the door. He can feel the panic set in again. The panic of falling in love before having it ripped out from right under him. Stiles is not going to get through that again. Especially not with Brett. No. Brett is— he’s different. So fucking different it hurts to even think about losing him. 

“Stiles!”

And that’s his cue to go faster. Stiles hurries out of the door. The fresh air is like a punch in the face. Yup, that first drink hit him after all. He stops for all but a second, squeezing his eyes shut to clear his head. When he opens them again, the world around him seems steady enough that he dares to hurry down the path they walked up only a couple of hours ago. It feels like an eternity. 

It’s at the end of the path that Brett finally catches up to him. “Stiles.” His fingers loosely wrap around his elbow yet they seem to root him to the spot. “Why are you running away from me?” Brett looks hurt, so fucking hurt that Stiles has the urge to throw up. 

He doesn’t want to hurt Brett. It’s the last thing he deserves. “Because…” Stiles takes a deep breath, trying to string the words floating in his brain into something coherent. “Because I think I’m falling in love with you, okay?” It sounds like an attack even to his own ears, as if all of this is Brett’s fucking fault — and maybe it is. “That’s why I’m running. I can’t do this. I can’t feel like this again, knowing I’m gonna lose it anyway. Fuck, Brett, I don’t even want to fucking stay in this town, what am I supposed to do?” 

Despite everything he just threw at him, Brett cups his neck, thumbs brushing over his jaw. “Just talk to me,” he says softly, not looking angry at all, “you could’ve said something.”

“Why?” Stiles curls his hands around Brett’s wrists, but he doesn’t pull his hands away. He simply can’t. “I don’t want to stay here. I hate this town, but you can’t leave. I would never ask you to either. It’s just not worth it. I’—“ 

“Hey, hey.” Brett moves his hands, cupping his cheeks now. “Don't just assume everything. You read the texts—“ 

“Brett, I’m a paranoid mess. I have a mountain of trust issues. You deserve someone better.” 

“No.” Brett leans their foreheads together. “I never want you to feel like you're not good enough. You hear me?” 

Stiles closes his eyes and lets out a breath. “You  deserve someone who wants to stay here with you.” 

Brett kisses the corner of his mouth. “But I want you, all of you. The good, the bad—“

“The crazy?”

Chuckling, Brett kisses him again, a little longer this time. “We’ll work on that self-deprecating humor first thing in the morning.” 

Shaking his head, Stiles leans back. Something about the way Brett looks at him clears his head — and makes him feel calm. He’s never felt this type of stillness before. But that doesn’t change any facts. “I don’t want to stay here.” 

“Then we’ll figure something out.” 

Stiles sighs. “Brett—“

“I said,” he interrupts him in the softest voice he’s ever heard, “we’ll figure something out. Please.” Ever so gently, Brett nudges their noses together. “Let me prove to you that I meant every word in that text message.” 

For some reason, Stiles has the feeling that ‘no’ isn’t exactly a word existing in Brett’s vocabulary — and he certainly isn’t taking it for an answer. Stiles leans his head forward, and Brett simply opens his arms, allowing Stiles to curl against him. Sighing, he wraps his arms around Brett’s waist, breathing him in, allowing himself to fall for him just a little bit further. Maybe… maybe they’ll figure something out. They have to figure something out. Because walking away now that he knows Brett is feeling the same way is going to hurt just as much as walking away in the future. 

Stiles takes a deep breath. 

He’s going to give this a chance. 

“So,” he whispers, tilting his head enough that his nose brushes against Brett’s throat — a touch that rewards him with a shudder, “you said you’d do whatever I want?” 

His question is followed by a short huff, but the smile is audible in Brett’s voice. “Somehow I get the feeling that I’m gonna regret that.” 

“Maybe in the future,” Stiles mutters, pressing his lips to the crook of Brett’s neck for a second, “but for now I just want something to eat and then go back to your place to figure out if you answered my questions truthfully or not.” 

Brett hums. “Sounds like we should grab some food right now.” Smirking, he curls two fingers around Stiles’ chin and tilts his head up. “Because I have a few ideas that’ll keep you up tonight.” 

Now, that’s something Stiles loves to hear a lot. “Good thing tomorrow is my day off then.”

“Oh, good.” Brett brushes their lips together in a way that makes Stiles’ legs go weak. “So, I can have my way with you tonight and fulfill your every wish tomorrow.” He paints every word against his lips, “how does that sound?” 

“So good that I’m considering skipping the food.” 

Brett barks out a laugh and picks Stiles up, throwing him over his shoulder quite unglamorously. “You’re gonna eat. Trust me. You need it.”

#briles #stiles stilinski #brett talbot #teen wolf #brett x stiles #stiles x brett #*tv:teen wolf #*w:complete #*s:briles

[msmischief101]

Bad Things Happen Bingo - Domestic Abuse

Stiles and Malia have been dating since their senior year of high school. It was never perfect. Stiles isn't even sure he's ever been in love with her. But she's always had a way of making him stay. She was his first girlfriend. Deep down, Stiles knew better, yet he never left. Not after their first fight. Or the second. Or the hundredth.

When he got his first roles, things got bad. After his breakthrough, everything turned from bad to worse. Malia didn't stop at yelling anymore. Her insults turned physical. Her jealousy got out of hand in ways Stiles never expected.

On set of his next movie, Stiles meets Kira and Brett. She is an up and coming movie director, he is his co star. There is an instant spark between them, one Stiles can't deny no matter how hard he tries. And Brett knows. It's obvious in the way he looks at him, the way he touches him during scenes, the careful way he approaches him. Brett promises to help him — he promises him a better life too.

All Stiles has to do is say 'yes', but saying 'yes' comes with consequences, and seeing that he's been in the public eye, Stiles isn't sure he's ready to face those.

#briles #stiles stilinski #brett talbot #teen wolf #brett x stiles #stiles x brett #fytwolf #*tv:teen wolf #*w:ip #*s:briles #*w:bthb #yes I am still working on these #i'm just slow #sooo slow #😂😂😂😂 #abuse tw #domestic abuse tw

[msmischief101]

It's Wednesday... go figure 😂 This is a little snippet for @raksh-writes prompt. This story refused to be short, so it took me forever, but I'm almost done. ... almost.

---

“Brett,” Stiles says, leaning back a little to look at the alpha, “do you like telling your partner what to do in bed, or do you prefer to be told what to do?” They never really talked about what they liked and disliked during sex. It’s more a relationship than a casual hook-up conversation. But this game feels like a good opportunity to learn something new. 

Brett tips his cup back and forth, studying Stiles for a few prolonged seconds. The music is loud, but Brett’s almost inaudible chuckle makes Stiles shudder despite himself. When they lock eyes, Stiles wishes they were back at Brett’s place. Alone. But they aren’t, and it’s killing him. 

Smirking, Brett bends his leg and props his arm on his knee. “I’m dominant by nature,” he says, punctuation every single word. “If my partners are up for it, I very much enjoy telling them what to do.” Brett tips his head to the left, eyes roaming over Stiles’s face. “Did that answer your questions?”

More than enough. Maybe Stiles should go into detail about that later. “Yes.” Stiles nods, hiding his grin by sipping on his own drink.

“Good,” Brett says, and again this word seems to weigh a ton. Licking his lips, he looks up. “Liam, what do you think? Does size really matter?” 

#briles #stiles stilinski #brett talbot #teen wolf #brett x stiles #stiles x brett #*tv:teen wolf #*w:ip #*s:briles

[msmischief101]

@brilesevents - Valentine's Day

incorrect quotes: 34/?

#twedit #fytwolf #briles #brett talbot #stiles stilinski #brilesedit #teen wolf #brett x stiles #stiles x brett #*tv:teen wolf #*s:briles #*w:incorrectquotes #*usermischief

[msmischief101]

Brett Talbot in 4x05 - I.E.D.

We're gonna break you in half out there, and it's all gonna be your fault.

#twedit #fytwolf #briles #brett talbot #stiles stilinski #cody saintgnue #dylan o'brien #teen wolf #dailyteenwolf #cinemapix #dailytvgifs #filmtvcentral #smallscreensource #*tv:teen wolf #*s:briles #*usermischief

[msmischief101]

incorrect quotes: 19/?

#briles #stiles stilinski #brett talbot #liam dunbar #brilesedit #twedit #teenwolfedit #fytwolf #teen wolf #*tv:teen wolf #*s:briles #*w:incorrectquotes #*usermischief