Archive of Our Own ^beta

Mścisław Stilinski hated his name. He’d been unable to pronounce it for a very long time, which wasn’t exactly surprising, and he’d spent a good deal of his childhood referring to himself as Mischief instead. It was the closest his childish tongue could come to curling around the too-many consonants that made up his first name. After his mother’s death when he was eight, he’d started going by Stiles instead. It was easier to pronounce, and garnered far less attention. And Stiles much preferred it, to the point where only a small handful of people had ever even heard his first name.

Which was why he was glaring down at the first name box on the paperwork he was filling out.

Because this...this wasn’t schoolwork, or even a job application in the small town he lived in where everyone knew him because he was the Sheriff’s son so it was perfectly okay to write Stiles Stilinski. This was a form for a Soul-Match Mixer event. Stiles had wanted to attend one for as long as he could remember; ever since he’d learned what the looping letters on his skin meant. They were the first thing he learned to read, eagerly begging his mom to teach him the sounds attached to each of the letters that marked his skin. The idea of meeting the person who bore the name scribed across his skin was what had carried him through his mom’s death, and through the hell that was high school.

And now, he was eighteen. Eighteen and thus legally old enough to start looking. And he knew that it might take years. Knew he might never meet the Soul-Match whose name he bore. Knew even if he met the man - Peter - that they might not work out. But Stiles wanted to meet him anyway. Was desperate for it, in a way he couldn't begin to explain.

Because Stiles’ favorite bedtime story had been about his mom protesting part of the Beacon Hills Preserve being cleared away for construction - in the name of capitalism and expansion - by tying herself to a tree. When the Beacon County Sheriff’s department had arrived to clear out the protestors, newly minted Deputy Noah Stilinski had been putting handcuffs on the beautiful and indignant young woman screaming insults at him when he’d noticed his name - Noah - scrawled across her wrist. Unable to resist asking, he’d wanted to know if her name was Claudia. It was and, as soon as she was released from the county lockup, he’d taken her on their first date. The rest, as they say, was history and Stiles had always wanted a story just as wonderful and hilarious and perfectly fated for his own Soul-Match meeting.

But he was also impatient, so of course he was signing up for the first mixer he could. Because he wanted this. He wanted it so badly it was like a constant, cloying taste in his mouth. Wanted it so much he’s almost choking on it most days, because how could he not feel suffocated by the fear that he might not get it. So with a hand that trembled, Stiles scrawled his given name across the correct spot on the form before handing it over to the woman behind the desk. As he left with an assurance that he’d receive an invitation in the mail to the next Soul-Match event they hosted, Stiles felt like his heart was doing somersaults in his chest.

He couldn’t wait.

Peter Hale had all but given up on ever finding his Soul-Match. It wasn’t uncommon, after all, though it was far less common for a werewolf not to find theirs. His older sister, Talia, had met hers when she was fifteen. His niece Laura had met hers when she was nineteen, and his nephew Derek had met his at fifteen, just like his mother. His other niece, Cora, had met hers when she was nine. And here was Peter, thirty-four and with no Soul-Match in sight. He brushed his fingers down the outside of his left thigh, an almost-subconscious gesture that took his fingers over the scrawling mess of letters that made up his Soul-Match’s first name. Shaking his head, Peter picked back up the pen and checked the box on the Soul-Match Mixer invitation that read attending.

After all, what was the harm in going?

Stiles was all but bouncing out of his skin as he pushed his way through the teeming mass of humanity crowding the basement-level lounge of Beacon Hills most upscale bar. Not even the tacky plastic bracelet banding his wrist and declaring him too young to legally drink could sour Stiles’ mood. Because somewhere in this loud, sweaty, too-close crowd of people might be his Soul-Match. And Stiles was going to talk to every single guy in here, just in case. The age-range of the group in question was a little daunting - Stiles was pretty sure he’d seen a guy with a beard to rival Santa’s, in both length and color - but he didn’t care. Even if his Match was older, Stiles would be thrilled to meet him. To know him.

Stiles absently rubbed at the small of his back, part of his mind mentally bemoaning the fact that his mark wasn’t somewhere he could easily look at it, the way Scott’s was; pretty cursive on the inside of his forearm, the tiny I dotted with a heart and everything. But he’d been told the elegant script scrawled in loops and twirls to rival calligraphy that was nestled in between the dimples set just above his ass was actually fairly attractive. Jackson had spent two years taunting him for having a tramp stamp for a Soul-Match Mark until Coach Finstock casually remarked that most Soul-Matches had a fondness for tracing the letters of their name with their tongue, and everyone had summarily decided that Stiles was lucky as fuck regarding the placement of his. Stiles wasn’t sure how he felt about the possibility, to be honest, though he was more than a little disturbed by Finstock’s method of delivering such information to the class at large.

Especially since Greenberg was Finstock’s Soul-Match. There were some things Stiles just did not want to think about, and that was absolutely one of them.

Pushing the thought aside - and cursing himself for not taking his Adderall before leaving the house for the Mixer, because it was definitely out of his system, if his erratic thought-process was anything to go by - Stiles bounced up to another group of people. Three women - two in little black dresses, and one in a daring red number - and two men, all with alcoholic drinks in their hands, chatting casually about who-the-hell-knew-what. Stiles imagined there was an etiquette to this sort of thing; to approaching strangers at a mixer and asking their names, to see if it was the same as the one on his skin. There had to be an etiquette to it, right? He just...didn’t care. Too high on the rush of being at one of these events, adrenaline and endorphins creating a heady cocktail in his blood far more potent than anything being served at the bar.

“Hi!” Stiles chirped when the group turned to look at him, after he’d been standing near them for a minute or two, bouncing silently on the balls of his feet in nervous anticipation. “Any chance one of you gentlemen is named Peter?”

The women’s faces all softened, even as the two men shook their heads. Stiles just shrugged and grinned cheerfully, because the night was young and he would not be deterred by failure. Not yet, anyway. “That’s alright; I’m sure there’s a Peter around here somewhere, right? Thanks anyway; good luck!”

As he walked away, he heard one of the women say softly. “I do miss having that sort of enthusiasm for the search, don’t you?”

One of the men laughed and replied. “Well, he’s young yet.”

And then Stiles was out of hearing range of them, pushing himself through a particularly tight patch of bodies and sort of stumbling out into a corner. There was a small, high table - round, and made of a dark wood - with two high chairs, nestled into the corner. An older man - mid-thirties, if Stiles was any sort of judge, and he was - was sitting on one of them; the seat across from him was empty. Not surprising, given the incredibly bored look on the man’s face. Stiles imagined it was off-putting to most people.

Stiles wasn’t most people.

He hopped up into the tall chair, settling his elbows on the table and perching his chin in his hands as he grinned at the older man. Who was actually quite attractive, Stiles noted. Thick, dark hair that was long enough to make you want to sink your fingers into it and pull. Blue eyes that were bright and piercing and made Stiles feel a little like they could see through him, but in a good way. Lips that pulled up into a smirk as devastatingly attractive as it was dangerously intimidating. The man had the faintest bit of stubble on his cheeks, thickening just slightly above his mouth and below the full curve of his lower lip. His button-up shirt was sans-tie, the top three buttons undone and revealing a rather tantalizing V of well-muscled flesh. When he brought his eyes back up to the blue ones, Stiles noticed that the man had picked up on Stiles checking out the bared portion of his chest. At least, the deepening of his smirk combined with a raised eyebrow seemed to imply that he had.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Stiles blurted out. “What’s your name?”

“My, my. Straight to it, then, with none of the niceties?” The man’s smirk widened into an actual grin, and holy shit, Stiles’ heart stuttered in his chest. This guy was completely gorgeous. “I can respect that, actually. I’m Peter.”

Stiles blinked rapidly, disbelief coloring his words as he responded. “No fucking way am I that lucky. Your name is seriously Peter?”

Peter laughed, looking delighted by Stiles’ outburst. “It is. Can I take it from your reaction that my name is the one on your skin? Not that that means much, given how common of a name it is, but still...hope springs eternal and all of that.”

And yeah; that was a sentiment Stiles could wholeheartedly agree with.

“Your name might be common, but mine isn’t.”

The kid’s rejoinder had Peter’s own heart picking up it’s pace, nearly matching the frantically racing pulse of the teenager across from him. Peter assumed the kid had to be barely eighteen, eager and fresh-faced and desperately hoping he’d find his Soul-Match at one of these hellacious mixers. But fuck, if his unique name matched the one on Peter’s thigh, he’d be thrilled. The age-difference didn’t bother Peter, and this kid was...well, he was beautiful. He had rich brown hair just long enough to card your fingers through, and warm eyes that were such a pretty amber they almost rivaled a beta wolf’s. He was tall - taller than Peter, perhaps, but only by an inch or two - and slender, and his pale skin was dotted with beauty marks. Peter sort of wanted to strip the kid bare and taste every one of them; play connect-the-dots with his tongue.

Instead, he raised an eyebrow and drawled lazily. “What is it, then? This not-common name of yours.”

“An absolute mess of consonants and Polish nonsense.” The boy admitted, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. “It’s Mścisław.” And the name dripped off the boy’s tongue, like honeyed wine, coming out like Mees-che-swaff. Which was not the name on Peter’s skin.

With regret sharp in his chest, Peter smiled sadly at his companion. “I’m afraid that’s not the name on my skin, more’s the pity. You’re rather lovely and I found myself hoping, for a moment...” Peter trailed off, shrugging as though that would dislodge the disappointment crowding his throat. “I hope you find the right Peter.”

“Me, too.” Mścisław said, his smile dimmed just the slightest bit. “I was pretty sure I wasn’t lucky enough to be Matched with someone as hot as you, but when you said your name was Peter...I mean, it was kind of impossible not to hope, you know? Just for a minute.”

“I assure you, you’re gorgeous enough to tempt me into not caring that you’re eagerly searching for your Soul-Match.” Peter leaned forward a little, grinning wickedly. “And if you decide you’d like a little experience under your belt for when you do meet your Match, please let me know. But no, I’d imagine it’s me that had fate intervening here. I’m not nearly a good enough person to merit a Match like you.”

Mścisław laughed, cheeks flushing darker, the color spreading over his jaw and down his throat. “That’s...very forward of you, actually. And kind of creepy? But also flattering, I think. Definitely planning on waiting for my Soul-Match, though. So thank you, but, uh...no? Not interested. I’m just...I’m going to go and, like...keep meeting people. See if there’s any other Peters here.”

The teen stumbled to his feet, adding softly. “It was nice to meet you.”

Peter watched him disappear into the crush of bodies, and murmured softly. “And you.”

Stiles hummed as he loaded a plate with a variety of finger sandwiches and canapes and all sorts of other things to snack on. This was his second Mixer and he was feeling a little more settled into his skin. Partly because it wasn’t in a crowded, noisy bar-lounge, filled to the brim. It was in the main ballroom at the largest hotel Beacon County boasted. It was still largely crowded, but the feel of the event was as different from the last as night-and-day. This had a more relaxed feel to it, for all that it was still a dress-up sort of affair. There was a DJ playing music, and some people were dancing. There was food, and tables strewn about for people to sit and eat or talk. It was almost like the various proms and homecomings Stiles had been to, except that there were once again people from eighteen to eighty walking around, mingling together.

Stiles was winding his way through various tables when he spotted a familiar face. Grinning, he made a beeline for the older man, dropping into the chair next to him at the otherwise empty table and greeting him cheerfully. “Hey there, not-my-Peter. Having fun?”

“Not in the least.” Peter drawled back, though he seemed amused by Stiles’ remark. “And I apologize for not being able to repeat your name back to you, but I’m afraid Slavic-based languages have never been my forte.”

“S’okay.” Stiles replied around a mouthful of cucumber sandwich. “I couldn't say it until I was, like, ten. Used to tell people my name was Mischief because it was the closest I could get. Dad always says it’s accurate enough it might as well have been my name. Mom...” Stiles’ voice got a little tight and he cleared his throat and swallowed loudly before continuing. “Mom would just laugh and say ‘All young things have mischief in them, Noah. Why should my fawn be any different?’ So I was Mischief, for years.”

Peter’s eyes were kind as he smiled at Stiles. “Mischief. I like that. Even if you hadn't all but said as much, I’d have had a feeling it suited you.”

Stiles was feeling a little tender - a little sore around his heart - from bringing up his mom, and the low, warm way Peter said Mischief made him feel flushed and a little dizzy, so he didn’t offer his current nickname instead. Let Peter call him that; what was it hurting?

As he resumed eating, Peter began a running commentary on the people around them. And Stiles found himself laughing, more than once, at the scathing remarks and dry wit Peter exhibited. When he’d finished eating, he found himself reluctant to rejoin the people mingling, though he did. Because the goal of these events was still to find his Soul-Match, and he couldn't do that sitting at a table, no matter how attractive the other occupant of the table was.

It became something of a regular thing. Stiles would see Peter at a Mixer, and he’d join the other man for a little while. Sometimes a few minutes, sometimes for longer; it all depended. They’d talk, and laugh, and Stiles would feel more comfortable and relaxed than he did with anyone who wasn’t his Dad or Scott. Inevitably, he would remember the purpose of these Mixers and excuse himself, Peter letting him go without a fuss or a protest because that was the sort of man he was. It just made Stiles like him even more. And part of Stiles felt guilty over that; over liking Peter as much as he did. Because he was a Peter, but he wasn’t Stiles’ Peter. And that should have made all the difference in the world.

Even if it didn’t seem to.

Peter watched Mścisław approach him, and felt a soft smile curve his lips as he leaned back against the railing of the boat. “Hello, Mischief. Enjoying the change of pace?” He asked, as soon as Mścisław was in hearing range.

“Not entirely.” Mścisław admitted, rolling his eyes even as he leaned against the rail beside Peter, staring out at the water. “I mean, I totally get why they do stuff like this. Champagne - which I can’t touch - and canapes and all the starlight on the water. Very conducive to romance. It’s just that, once you’ve circulated through the other fifty people on the boat and realized your Soul-Match isn’t on-board, it’s all just sort of depressing. And you can’t even leave because we’re stuck in the middle of a lake for another...” Mścisław glanced at his watch and huffed in annoyance before biting out. “For another three hours. So.”

“I think there’s more than fifty of us.” Peter pointed out, because the boat was actually kind of large, going so far as to have fifteen or so cabins below-deck and a galley kitchen, in addition to a lounge area...not to mention all of the room for mingling above deck.

Mścisław shot him a cross look. It was the first time Peter had ever seen him look angry, and he had to admit it was pretty damned appealing. “I was trying to make a dramatic point, Peter. Not be accurate. And if you want precision, fine. Not including the staff, who are all Soul-Matched to avoid any issues with people being distracted from their work by meeting their Match - and also excluding myself, for obvious reasons, and you - there were a mere eighty-eight people for me to meet. Of those eighty-eight, fully forty-five - so about half - were female and thus automatically not my Soul-Match. Which means I actually had to ask less than fifty people their names before concluding this was an absolute waste of my time.”

“A fair point.” Peter acknowledged, gently bumping his shoulder against the younger man’s, feeling oddly distressed by the sulky look on the teen’s face as he stared out at the dark water of the lake. “It’s only been a few months, you know. Surely you aren’t getting discouraged so soon? After all, if you’ve given up after so short a time, what hope is there for someone like me?”

“It’s not that I’m giving up.” Mścisław muttered, eyes flicking over to where Peter was still leaning his back against the rail. “It’s just hard. I mean, you get that, right? That this is hard? Because do you have any idea how many Peters there are in the world? How many I might meet before finding mine?”

Peter’s heart ached with sympathy for the teen, because he wasn’t wrong. Trying to lighten the mood, he teased. “I suppose you’ve considered visiting Poland? Considering your name, perhaps you’d have better luck over there.”

Mścisław snorted, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, except mine says P-e-t-e-r, as opposed to P-i-o-t-r. So the odds of finding my Peter in Poland are kind of slim.”

Peter hummed thoughtfully, then cast his mind out for a way to distract Mścisław. They had three hours to kill on this damned boat, and neither of them had met their Soul-Match, so it made sense to at least pass the time companionably together. And while Peter could think of quite a few pleasurable ways to do just that - he was no saint, after all, and at thirty-four the idea of waiting around in monkish abstinence for his Soul-Match had been long-since abandoned as laughable - he knew that Mścisław would never agree. He was still hell-bent on being with only his Match, and while Peter found the idea ridiculously antiquated in most instances, from Mścisław it seemed noble and honorable and terribly sweet. Whoever the teen’s Peter was, he was a lucky man.

But pushing aside those options - as they were not, in fact, options at all - Peter was left with mostly boring small talk and the like. Desperate for something else - anything else - to keep them entertained, he asked. “Do you want to play a game?”

“Depends.” Mścisław turned halfway, so he was facing Peter. “What sort of game?”

Peter let his gaze drift away from Mścisław and over the rest of the people on the boat. A smirk tugged at his lips. “I used to play a game with my nieces and nephew, when they were a bit younger. I also played it with my sister, when we were teenagers and bored. You pick a person from a crowd and give them a story. A history, a life...whatever you like. Then the other person chooses someone and does the same. You go back and forth like that until one of you can’t come up with something.”

Mścisław turned fully, tawny eyes bright and intrigued. “How about we make it a bit more interesting? The other person gets to choose who we’re making stuff up for.”

Peter’s grin turned wicked; he did like how this boy thought. “Very well. I’m in a generous mood, so you can decide which of us goes first.”

After a moment of careful consideration, Mścisław pointed to a woman in her early twenties, slamming back drinks at the bar on the far side of the deck. “Her.”

Peter inclined his head. “Well, she’s drinking like she’s had her heart broken, isn’t she? I bet her name is something common, like Mary or Susan or Emma. Let’s say Emma, as she looks a bit like one, doesn’t she? Her Mark is the name John and could that be any more basic? She’s met at least a half a dozen who have her name on them, and the last one...well, it might have been her handwriting. Might have. She couldn't be sure. But she wanted it to be, didn’t she?”

Peter was warming to his story now, really digging into it. “They’d gone on a few dates and she was hopeful. And then, of course, she caught him in bed - or rather, in the backseat of his car - with another woman, and isn’t that just the way sometimes? But she had to know, so she ordered him to write his name down, the same way he always does, and she compared it to her Mark. And it didn’t match. So now she’s back to looking, and cursing how common both her name and her Match’s names are, because this might take forever. Hence all of the drinks she’s knocking back, like a sailor on shore leave.”

Mścisław snorted, and Peter dared a look at him. He was grinning, eyes bright with laughter. “Okay, not bad. Let’s find someplace comfortable to sit and you can pick someone for my turn.”

“He’s pretty sure she’s dead.” Stiles said, leaning against Peter’s side because he was tired, and it was creeping past midnight, and Peter was comfy, dammit. As was the sunken sofa they’d been sitting on for over two hours, the two of them sharing whispered - made-up - stories about the other people on the boat. Sometimes the stories were funny, and sometimes they were outrageous or ridiculous, and sometimes they were heartfelt. Mostly, they were just a way to pass the time.

Peter had pointed out an old man, this time. Stiles was pretty sure it was the same man he’d seen the first night he’d met Peter; the one with the Santa-beard. Peter’s voice, when he spoke, was soft near Stiles’ ear. “Why does he think that?”

“Because it’s been so long.” Stiles murmured back, hoping he could stay awake long enough to get home after the boat finally docked. “He’s been searching for his whole life, and he hasn’t found her. He’s circled the globe, looking, before finally coming back to his hometown. He feels like, if he’s ever going to find her, it’ll be here. Part of him says he should check the graveyard - thinks he’ll find her name, with a date from when he was away, searching for her in all of the places but the one he should have stayed - but he can’t bring himself to look. Too afraid of being proven right. Half-afraid he’s wrong, because if she’s not dead it just means he managed to miss her, for the whole of their lives. He isn’t sure which possibility would be worse. Which would break his heart more.”

Peter hummed quietly beside his ear, and Stiles pointed to a middle-aged man in a pinstripe suit who’d just come up the stairs, a pretty young girl clinging to his arm with a dazzled look on her face. “Him.”

For a moment there was silence, then Peter said. “He’s married. To his Soul-Match, in fact. A pretty enough thing when they met, twenty years ago, but the shine’s worn off after so much time and two kids. She had fairly simple handwriting, and a common name - Beth - so it’s not hard for him to go to these things. Meet pretty young girls who have his name on them, because Steve is pretty common, too. He gets his jollies off, then moves on to the next event. He travels a lot for business, and finding mixers in the places he visits isn’t hard. He suspects his wife knows, but then, he knows she’s letting the gardener fuck her, so it makes no difference, really.”

“Harsh.” Stiles said, letting his head drop down to Peter’s shoulder at last because he’s just too fucking tired to keep holding it up.

Peter didn’t seem to mind, anyway, considering all he did was say pointedly. “And yours wasn’t?”

“Touche.” Stiles admitted around a yawn, because it’s not like Peter was wrong. “Okay, pick someone for me.”

“You sure?” Peter asked, voice low and gentle. “You can take a nap until we dock, if you want. I don’t mind.”

“Not the most comfortable place for it.” Stiles laughed, though it was tempting. “Besides, there’s a lot of strangers here. What if a frat boy decides to draw a dick on my face while I’m passed out?”

Peter snorted, then slid himself over to the corner of the sofa. It could comfortably hold four or five people, but they’d commandeered it by sitting directly in the middle. Now Peter was patting his thigh invitingly. “Come on and lay down, then. I’ll protect you from any stray frat boys.”

Stiles quirked a challenging eyebrow at Peter, though he laid down at the same time. Because he’d been up at five that morning and he was exhausted, okay. “How do I know you won’t draw a dick on my face while I’m sleeping? I bet you’ve got a pen on you. You look like the type.”

“The type to carry a pen?” Peter asked, smirking. “Or the type to draw a dick on someone?”

Stiles laughed, soft and sleepy. “Both, really.”

Still, he let his eyes close as fingers began to card through his hair, soothing and comforting. Peter’s low rumble of a voice filtered into his sleep-hazy brain. “You’re safe with me, Mischief. Sleep.”

And Stiles did.

Peter looked down at the way Mścisław’s dark lashes fanned out against his pale cheeks. He looked even younger in sleep, and it was only the certainty Peter had that the other man was eighteen that kept him from feeling like a complete pervert for finding him so impossibly beautiful. The boat was slowly approaching the dock, and Mścisław was still deeply asleep. It didn’t take Peter long to make a decision. He waited until everyone had slowly started to disembark before gently rousing Mścisław. Those long, amber eyes fluttered open, his full lips parting on a yawn as he stretched himself awake, across Peter’s lap.

“Mmmm...we back?” He murmured, still clearly muzzy-headed; it helped solidify Peter’s choice.

“Yes, and I’ve got a feeling you’re in no fit state to drive back into town.” Peter told him, lending a supportive hand to Mścisław’s back to help him sit up. “I’d offer to drive you back myself, but that would trap your jeep here, which seems silly and pointless. But I’d like to offer you my family’s cabin for the night. It would ease my mind.”

Mścisław blinked owlishly at him, then said softly. “That’s really nice of you, Peter, but I don’t think I’d feel comfortable sleeping in a strange house by myself.”

“You misunderstand.” Peter laughed, shaking his head. “I’ve no intention of driving back to Beacon Hills tonight, either. We’ll stay at the cabin for tonight and tomorrow we can part ways, safe in the knowledge that neither of us will wrap our vehicles around a tree due to exhaustion.”

“Oh.” Mścisław bit his lip for a minute, then nodded slowly. “Yeah, okay. I, uh...I don’t have any other clothes with me or anything, though.” He glanced down at his blazer and button-up shirt and slacks, nose wrinkling. “I guess I’ll just have to make due, huh?”

Peter grinned and he shook his head, rising with Mścisław and ushering the teen across the deck. “The cabin has clothes, food, toiletries...the whole family uses it with some frequency. We might not even be the only ones in residence tonight. It’s no trouble to lend you whatever you might need.”

Mścisław nodded, a smile curving his full lips upwards. “Yeah, okay. Let me just grab my charger from the Jeep and call my dad real quick so he doesn’t worry. Or did you want me to follow you to the cabin...?”

Peter waved a hand dismissively as he followed Mścisław down the gangplank. “I’ll drive us, then drop you off at your Jeep tomorrow when we’re ready to head out. The cabin isn’t far, but the driveway is long and not easily navigated at night so I’d rather not risk it when you’re not fully awake.”

Peter stopped next to his car, leaning back against it and waiting while Mścisław ran to the beat-up, powder-blue Jeep to grab his charger and call his father. And while Peter could have listened in, he chose instead to focus his hearing on the sound of the lake lapping against the pilings under the nearby dock. Everyone deserved their privacy, after all.

Stiles stroked his hand lovingly over the hood of the matte black Ferrari Peter drove as he circled the car to follow Peter up to the cabin’s door. It was dark, which made him think no one else was in residence, though it was also after one in the morning so it was hard to say. Peter unlocked the door, not bothering to flip on any lights as he gently pulled Stiles into the entrance hall. Peter closed and locked the door behind them, then leaned back against it casually. For a moment, Stiles’ heart raced in his chest because he didn’t actually know Peter that well and now he was alone with the man in a remote cabin, at night.

Then Peter spoke softly. “Are you hungry? I can show you to the kitchen. Or, if you’d rather go right to bed, I can take you upstairs.”

Something about the way Peter phrased that had Stiles’ heart stuttering over a few beats. It had almost sounded suggestive; seductive. “I-i...” Stiles stammered for a moment, wondering when his knees had decided they were made of jello. “B-bed?”

Peter made a soft rumbling sound, something caught halfway between a growl and a purr, and for a moment Stiles wondered how the hell he’d produced it. Then Peter was pushing off the front door, curling strong fingers around Stiles’ wrist, and tugging him towards a staircase. “Upstairs, then. Come along, Mischief.”

Stiles wondered if Peter could feel his pulse, thundering away beneath his touch. Wondered if the heartbeat that was so deafening to him was also audible to the older man. Wondered why his mouth was suddenly dry and his palms were damp and his tongue felt thick and clumsy behind his teeth. When they reached the top of the stairs, Peter tugged him down a small hallway, stopping at the first door on the left. He pushed it open, then released Stiles to gesture into the room. Stiles couldn't see much. Just shadows, and the spill of silvery light from the full moon filtering through the double french doors along the far wall, and a huge canopy bed against the left-hand wall.

“Make yourself at home.” Peter’s voice was low and husky; dark and rich and threaded with something that screamed temptation and sin and wickedness. “There’s an en-suite bath, if you’d like to shower. There’s clothes in the dresser and closet, and there should be a new toothbrush in the bathroom vanity’s bottom drawer. If you get hungry, the kitchen is downstairs at the back of the house.”

Stiles licked his lips, then asked breathlessly. “Where’s your room?”

There was just enough moonlight filtering into the hallway for Stiles to track the gleam of Peter’s teeth as he grinned. “This is my room. I wouldn’t feel right, offering you my nephew’s clothes, or even my brother-in-law’s. I’ll sleep in one of the other rooms tonight.”

Stiles watched as Peter took a few steps away, back towards the stairs, then called out. “Peter?” When the man paused, his tongue continued without input from his brain. “You could stay here, if you want. With me.”

Peter was back at his side in an instant, so fast Stiles wondered at it. And then Peter’s lips were on his and Stiles couldn't think about much of anything. Peter’s stubble tickled and stung against his skin, and his lips were soft and firm and so sure against his. Stiles’ lips parted on a wondering sigh, and seconds later Peter was licking into his mouth with practiced ease. It wasn’t until his hands were fisted in dark hair that Stiles even realized he’d reached for Peter, but he couldn't bring himself to let go. Peter was claiming his mouth in a series of kisses that were slick and hot and more than a little filthy, and all Stiles could do was try to keep up.

When Peter’s wicked mouth moved, teeth scraping along Stiles’ jaw before pressing wet, sucking kisses to the tender line of his throat, Stiles arched his back and moaned loudly. Part of his brain was clamoring loudly that he could not do this; that this man was not his Soul-Match and he ought to stop. But Stiles was hard, and Peter’s hands were tugging at his belt, and that sinful voice was uttering obscene things in his ear. He didn’t want to stop; didn’t want to give this up. Because Peter wanted him, that was much obvious, and Stiles wanted him, too. So he curled his fingers a little deeper in all of that dark hair and used it to press Peter’s mouth back against his throat, hips stuttering forward when Peter obliged him with teeth and tongue and sucking-pressure.

“F-fuck...” Stiles rasped out hoarsely, letting his head fall back against the wall. He heard the clinking of his belt buckle as Peter finally got it undone, and groaned low in his throat.

Peter lifted his head, and Stiles’ heart tripped over itself when the moonlight caught on those intense blue eyes, making them almost glow for a moment. Before he could dwell on it, Peter growled. “Bed. Now.”

And yes; yes. Stiles all but fell over himself getting into the room, then over to the bed. His blazer was lost along the way, his fingers pushing small shirt buttons through smaller holes even as he sank down onto the edge of the mattress, toeing off his shoes even as he let himself fall backwards. Peter was standing over him a moment later, his own shirt gone and his slacks unbuttoned, clinging to his hips and revealing a tantalizing trail of hair that disappeared beneath the tented black fabric. Unable to resist, Stiles surged upwards and pressed his lips there, below Peter’s navel; let his teeth dig into the skin in a teasing bite that had Peter’s breath hissing between his teeth on a curse even as his hips jerked forwards.

Stiles fell back again with a push from Peter’s hands. He scooched backwards on the mattress, closer to the center of the huge bed, and he felt hunted when the man crawled up after him. Peter was nosing at his neck, hips rocking down against Stiles’ body, and pleasure was chasing itself across Stiles’ nerves from the delicious friction and heated pressure. It was everything Stiles had always imagined sex would be; everything he’d been frantically jerking off to thoughts of, since the first time he’d figured out what his dick was for.

“P-peter...” Stiles gasped out, nails biting into the older man’s back as he clung to him. It was the name Stiles had cried out during orgasm more times than he could count and it slipped from Stiles’ lips with ease, and suddenly it was as though he’d been doused with ice water. Because he’d always been crying out for his Soul-Match before, and now...now he wasn’t.

It made him feel ashamed, and dirty, and a little like he was maybe a horrible person. Because he was betraying the man whose name was written on his skin; the man that fate had chosen for him. And that was not okay.

He slid his hands back to the front of Peter’s body, wedging them between their chests and pushing as he whined pathetically. “Peter, stop.”

To his credit, Peter immediately froze. He lifted his head from where he’d begun kissing his way down Stiles’ chest, asking softly. “What’s wrong?”

“We can’t.” Stiles said, the words coming out almost like a sob, soft and miserable and damp around the edges. “I can’t. We aren’t Matched.”

Peter huffed, but the sound was all amusement and fondness, not anger or annoyance or even mocking. “You can, my little Mischief. I’ve been waiting for my Soul-Match for thirty-four years. And I’m still looking, obviously, because I want the person the cosmos have declared is mine. But until the day I meet them, my body is my own and I can share it with whomever I choose. And if they hold that against me, then the cosmos chose wrong. Your Soul-Match will understand you chasing off the loneliness, and if he doesn’t then he isn’t worthy of you.”

Stiles swallowed hard, his throat clicking dryly as he considered Peter’s words. He thought of the people they’d made up stories about on the boat; the people he’d seen at various mixers over the last few months. Thought of the eighty-something year old man, still looking. Thought of the dozens of people who were at least his dad’s age, still looking. Thought of this Peter - not his, but someone’s - who was sixteen years older than Stiles and still looking. There was no guarantee that he’d find his Soul-Match soon. There was actually no guarantee he’d find them at all.

He imagined what it would be like, if he never found his Peter. Imagined living his whole life alone, never again having someone kiss him the way this Peter was. Imagined giving this up, here and now, and never knowing what it was like to be with someone who wanted him, for no reason other than who he was. Because lying there beneath Peter, Stiles suddenly realized how amazing it was to be there. Peter wasn’t his Soul-Match. Peter wasn’t kissing him because of the lines on their skin, drawn there by fate or a higher power or the cosmos, as the older man had called it. Peter was kissing him because he wanted him. Because after months of being around Stiles, he wanted this; wanted more.

And maybe it wasn’t a Soul-Match, but suddenly Stiles felt like maybe this was better. Because Peter had no outside reason to choose him, and he was doing it anyway. Stiles wasn’t sure he’d ever met someone who could say the same. Who could say that they had been chosen for who they were; desired for who they were. That they had been claimed - even just temporarily - by someone who didn’t match their Mark, because even if fate disagreed they’d chosen each other. Stiles wasn’t quite ready to give up on the idea of his Soul-Match altogether - didn’t think Peter was, either - but he wanted this. Even if it was only for tonight, he wanted this.

“Okay.” Stiles said thickly, words heavy with the weight of his realization. He took a trembling breath, then nodded slowly. “Yeah, okay. I...I want this. I want you. And the hell if I’m going to let society, or fate, or whatever, tell me I can’t have it.”

Peter’s grin was dark and dangerous as he lowered his head and set his teeth against one of Stiles’ ribs. Stiles whimpered, and writhed beneath him, and let his hands sink back into dark hair as Peter’s mouth continued down his torso. Deft fingers undid his fly, and then Stiles was hastily kicking his slacks off. He accidentally kneed Peter in the ribs in the process, but the older man simply huffed out a laugh so Stiles tried not to be too embarrassed about it. Then Peter’s fingers were hooked in the elastic of Stiles’ boxers, tugging them down until Stiles could kick them off as well. Stiles was left bare to Peter’s gaze, feeling oddly exposed even in the limited moonlight spilling across the otherwise-shadowy bed. He wasn’t given much time to dwell on it.

Warm fingers curled around Stiles’ cock, stroking lightly. Seconds later - while Stiles was still trying to remember how to breathe around the pleasure - Peter’s head dipped low and wet heat was surrounding the head. Stiles’ limbs twitched, fingers grasping blindly at the covers beneath him, heels trying to dig into the bedding to no avail as Peter slowly but inexorably lowered his head. Stiles finally managed to suck in a heaving gasp of air, senses on overload as he looked down his own body at Peter. Peter, whose mouth was stretched obscenely around Stiles’ cock as he swallowed Stiles down like it was nothing. Like Stiles fit in his mouth - in his throat - perfectly.

Peter was looking up at him, watching his face as he panted and writhed and tried to keep looking because holy fuck, Peter sucking cock was, without a doubt, the hottest thing Stiles had ever seen. But also, he couldn't keep watching, because the head of his cock was at the back of Peter’s throat, and Peter was swallowing around him, and Peter’s tongue was doing sinful things at the same time, and Stiles was going to die if he kept looking at the older man while this was happening. So he dropped his head back on the bed, fingers clenching and unclenching around the sheets in a desperate attempt to anchor himself; to not have this be over in a few short seconds.

Peter watched as Mścisław fell apart beneath him. It wasn’t taking long, not that Peter was surprised. The teen was barely eighteen, and completely untouched. He’d never known any touch but his own before this; before Peter. And that was headier than Peter really thought it ought to be, all things considered. Because Mścisław wasn’t his; would never be his. And the fact that he was slowly falling in love with the younger man was irrelevant. He’d waited thirty-four years for his Soul-Match; he wasn’t throwing that away now. No matter how perfect Mścisław was beneath him, panting and moaning and writhing in ecstasy.

No matter that his little Mischief hadn't thought to demand Peter use a condom before swallowing him whole, unlike everyone else Peter had ever been with. And sure, Mścisław was a virgin and Peter was a werewolf so there was no danger, but Mścisław didn’t know that, so he simply trusted Peter not to hurt him. At least, Peter had to assume that was the reason, because Mścisław seemed far too intelligent to simply forget about something like safe sex. So Peter got to taste him - salty and bitter and sharp as he leaked across Peter’s tongue - and it made Peter want to throw back his head and howl. Made him want to drop fang and flick out his claws and mark the seemingly endless stretch of pale skin beneath him. Made him want to flip the smaller man over and fuck into him, quick and dirty, then pull out to come all over him. Made him want to flood the teen’s body with his come. Made him want to leave his scent everywhere, inside and out.

It was absurd, of course. Peter shouldn’t want that with Mścisław. They’d only known each other for a few months, and they weren’t Matched. But Peter’s wolf was pacing beneath his skin, closer to the surface because of the full moon outside, and he was demanding. Demanding that Peter claim Mścisław; make him theirs. Peter pushed the snarling thing aside, focusing instead on swallowing around Mścisław’s cock as he let his tongue trace the underside. Mścisław keened, hips trying to jerk up; trying to push deeper. But Peter had a firm grip on Mścisław’s slim hips and he kept him pinned to the bed.

It didn’t take long for the younger man to spill himself down Peter’s throat, and Peter rumbled contentedly as he swallowed it all. He drew back slowly, licking Mścisław clean before straightening up. He had his own cock out a moment later, still kneeling between Mścisław’s trembling thighs. Tawny eyes fluttered open and locked on where Peter’s hand was stroking his own cock, a breathless little moan shivering past Mścisław’s full lips. A heartbeat later, Mścisław was stretching beneath him, head tipped back against the mattress in a way that bared the full expanse of his long, slender throat to Peter’s gaze. His body elongated as well, arms stretched out above his head to grip the far edge of the mattress, and every inch of his lean torso was spread out beneath Peter. And Peter’s wolf was baying now, in victory, because this was submission in the most instinctive way. Stiles’ was baring his throat and belly to Peter; laying himself out beneath him to be marked; to be claimed.

And suddenly it didn’t matter that he wasn’t Peter’s Soul-Match; that the name on his skin was not Mścisław. This boy was his, and Peter wasn’t going to let him go. Not without a fight.

Groaning, Peter moved his hand a little faster, pleasure coiling tight and hot low in his belly. It wasn’t long - just a few more strokes - before he was painting sticky-wet heat across Mścisław’s belly and chest, the last few drops falling on those still-parted thighs. As soon as he was done, he dropped to the bed beside Mścisław and began rubbing his come into the younger man’s skin. He wanted - needed - his scent to linger; to cling long after Mścisław had showered. Unable to resist, Peter leaned in and nuzzled at Mścisław’s throat, closing his mouth over Mścisław’s racing pulse and sucking the skin into his mouth so he could worry it with his teeth; leave a bruise that would last for days, if not longer.

And Mścisław was moaning under him, still squirming restlessly, but he wasn’t protesting; wasn’t shoving Peter away or telling him to stop. He was letting Peter mark him.

When Peter was finally satisfied, he kicked off the rest of his clothes and arranged them both beneath the covers, tugging Mścisław securely into his arms. Mścisław went without a fuss, seeming content to curl into Peter’s chest and listen to the older man’s heart beneath his ear. Peter’s fingers trailed up and down Mścisław’s spine, in a slow and soothing rhythm, and he wondered how he was going to convince the younger man that this - what they’d found in each other - was worth more than the marks on their skin. Wondered if Mścisław would be able to accept the name on Peter’s skin as unimportant, or if he would forever be afraid that Peter would leave him for the person bearing that name, should they suddenly appear.

As Mścisław’s breathing settled into the slow, even cadence of sleep, Peter silently vowed he’d tattoo over the damnable name before letting it come between him and this beautiful boy. Fuck fate and all of it’s capricious cruelty; he’d made his choice and it was Mischief.

Peter woke to the sound of the shower running. He debated joining Mścisław, but vetoed the thought a moment later when he heard the sound of a car coming up the driveway. Damn. Unable to tell which of his relatives it was, Peter knew it was best if he didn’t push his luck. Cora would mind her tongue. Derek would be hit-or-miss, depending on his mood. But Laura would tell her mother if she caught Peter in the act, as it were. And heaven help him if it was Talia herself. With that in mind, Peter grabbed some clothes for himself and hurried to use one of the other bathrooms. He didn’t have time for a shower, but a quick wipe-down would be better than nothing. Hopefully Mścisław would be done showering by then, so he could warn him of their impending company.

If not...well, Peter would deal with it as best he could.

Stiles paused halfway down the stairs at the sound of a low female voice talking to Peter. He wondered if he should join them, or wait for Peter to come and get him. Wondered what the hell the etiquette was here. Wondered who the voice even belonged to. Peter had said his whole family used the house, so his sister, maybe? Or one of his nieces? Peter had a Matched nephew as well, so it could be her voice, even. Whatever the case, Stiles was wearing his slacks from the night before and a dark blue v-neck t-shirt he’d found in the dresser in Peter’s room. He was carrying his dress shirt from last night, and his blazer, and the livid bruising on his neck wasn’t leaving a whole lot to the imagination, in regards to what had happened the night before.

Suddenly, Peter’s voice was raised as he called out. “I can hear you lurking, Mischief. Come and say hello before we head back to your car.”

Blushing, Stiles hurried down the last few steps and through the entrance hall to a large den, complete with a fireplace that Stiles imagined made the huge room toasty warm even in the dead of winter. Peter was standing across from a scowling - incredibly gorgeous - man with a short, dark beard and seriously fierce eyebrow game, and a young woman who looked to be six or seven months pregnant. She had dark, curling hair pulled up into a ponytail and pale skin dotted with almost as many moles as Stiles’ own, and she was glowingly pretty. She smiled at Stiles and waved.

“Hi! I’m Paige, and this glaring asshole is my Match, Derek. He’s Peter’s nephew.” Paige was clearly the friendlier of the two, though Stiles noted that when he looked at her, Derek’s face softened into the sweetest, sunniest smile Stiles had ever seen.

“I just thought we’d be alone.” Derek grumbled, though he did manage to shoot an apologetic smile at Stiles. “I don’t mean to be rude, I just...I didn’t realize Peter was here, or that he’d have company.”

“It’s okay.” Stiles shrugged. “We only spent the night because the stupid Soul-Match Mixer last night went so late and I was dead tired. Peter figured me driving home would very likely result in me wrapping my car around a tree and he was probably right, so. We’ll be leaving in a few minutes, I’d imagine.”

Stiles let his eyes skip over the room as Peter asked Paige about her most recent prenatal checkup, and he startled when he spotted what appeared to be a family picture on a bookshelf. He crossed to it, picking up the frame and noting both Peter and Derek - younger than they currently were by a good ten years - as well as two young, dark-haired girls - Derek’s sisters, Stiles figured - and an older couple - Derek’s parents, most likely. It was the younger of the two girls who’d captured Stiles’ attention, though.

“Your last name is Hale.”

Peter and Derek both looked over in surprise, then Peter nodded. “It is. I’m used to people recognizing me, so I never thought to mention it.”

Stiles huffed out an amused laugh, then rolled his eyes. “It’s fine. I should have figured it out when you told me the names of your family, but I can be a little scatterbrained sometimes. It’s the ADHD. Cora and I will be graduating together next week.”

Derek’s eyebrows did something complicated as he looked at Peter. “He’s in high school?”

“Hey, bucko, I’m eighteen.” Stiles snapped, bristling a bit indignantly. “That makes me legally an adult. So you can take your judgy eyebrows and fuck right off with them.”

Paige snorted out a laugh, probably half at Stiles’ words and half at the shocked look on Derek’s face. “Well. I think it’s safe to say he doesn’t need your protection, Derek.” Paige shot Stiles a teasing grin. “Derek’s not used to people barking at him like that, given how intimidating he can be.”

“Please.” Stiles rolled his eyes. “Cora’s always going on about what a freakin’ softy her brother is, so eyebrows of doom or not, I’m not scared.”

Derek muttered something under his breath about loud-mouthed little sisters, making Paige laugh again. Stiles couldn't resist rolling his eyes one more time before turning to Peter. “Can we go? I’m kind of starving and I was hoping we could stop at a diner or something for some breakfast before heading to the Jeep. Or, you know, I can just get something after you drop me at the dock.”

Peter was smiling softly at him, though, as he spoke. “We can get breakfast together. Come on, then.”

Stiles let Peter lace their fingers together and pull him out of the den, then out of the house. It wasn’t until Peter was closing Stiles’ door on the Ferrari that he wondered if maybe he shouldn’t be allowing this. Because they’d slept together, sure, but it wasn’t like they were dating. Except maybe Peter was just being courteous, and if Stiles said something he’d make it weird. It was hard to gauge, when Stiles had never done something like this before. He had never dated, because he’d been determined - as most people his age were - to wait for his Soul-Match. He supposed he was going to have to rely on Peter, then. Trust that the older man knew what he was doing, and what was appropriate, given the circumstance.

Peter watched Mścisław as he smeared peanut butter over his waffles before drenching them in syrup as well. It looked disgusting - a sticky-sweet mess of unhealthy nonsense - but Mścisław practically moaned when he took his first bite so Peter imagined it wasn’t terrible, anyway. Peter, for his part, had an omelette with peppers, tomatoes, onions, mushrooms, and cheese with a large order of bacon and a bowl of mixed berries with whipped cream. He caught Mścisław eyeing his bacon a few minutes into their meal and teasingly held a piece out. Mścisław grinned and leaned forward, closing his teeth around the end of it to take it from Peter’s fingers. Peter rumbled at him before he could stop himself, but it just made the younger man laugh, golden eyes bright and happy.

“You sound like a cat when you do that, though I’m never really sure if it’s a happy noise or an angry one.” He reached out and stole another piece of bacon off Peter’s plate and, while the werewolf could have stopped him, he didn’t.

“It’s generally a happy sound.” Peter admitted, though he was chafing a bit at the idea of the sound being compared to a purr of all things. “I don’t usually mean to make it. Trust me when I say that if I make a similar sound in anger, you’ll be able to tell the difference.”

Mścisław hummed thoughtfully, and Peter wondered at the sharp and considering look on his face. Wondered if he’d have to tell the teen he was a werewolf, or if it was possible that Mścisław would figure it out on his own. He knew he’d flashed his eyes at least once the night before. Knew he had a bad habit of forgetting to hide his speed and strength, always far too fond of showing off. Knew, too, just how intelligent Mścisław could be - had seen glimpses of it in the younger man over the last few months - and imagined the pieces would click into place in that too-quick, too-clever brain soon enough. Was almost eager for the moment it happened, in fact. Eager to show Mścisław all of him, though he’d never told anyone before. Had never even imagined telling anyone, other than his Soul-Match.

Mścisław stole a third piece of bacon, then held out a forkful of his waffle-creation to Peter with a saucily raised eyebrow. “Come on, then. Give it a try.”

Peter sighed in a put-upon manner but obligingly leaned forward. He closed his teeth around the tines, pulling back to dislodge the sticky-sweet bite of food. His eyes went wide with pleased surprise as he chewed. After swallowing, he admitted. “That’s actually not half bad, is it? I don’t think I’d eat a whole one, but a few bites from your plate now and then...”

“Planning on eating breakfast with me often?” Mścisław teased, eyebrows wiggling suggestively.

And, well, Peter was never one to let an opportunity pass him by, so. “Every morning for the whole of our lives, if you’ll let me.” And maybe it was a dramatic way to say it, but Peter had always been a dramatic sort. Besides, he meant it; kept the timbre of his voice low and serious to show just how much.

Mścisław’s heart was racing on the other side of the table, and his eyes were huge even as his fingers twisted his napkin restlessly between them. When he spoke, it was precisely what Peter had expected him to say, so it didn’t deter him at all. “We’re not Matched.”

“A few short months ago, that would have mattered to me.” Peter told him, because it was true. “Hell, before last night, I’d have said it mattered. But it doesn’t. Not now; not after knowing you. I don’t care what name is on my skin, or that the Peter fate chose for you isn’t me. I’ll tattoo my own handwriting into your skin, and let you do the same, and color clean over the marks that were chosen for us. I want you, my little Mischief. You and no one else, I swear it. You, for however long you’ll let me have you, at least. And longer still, if I can convince you to let me keep you forever.”

Mścisław’s eyes were welling up with tears, but Peter could smell that he was happy. Thrilled, even. And then he was sliding out of his side of the booth and into Peter’s. Long-fingered hands cupped Peter’s cheeks as Mścisław crushed their mouths together in a kiss far too heated for a family diner, but Peter couldn't bring himself to care in the slightest. Because this was Mścisław saying yes. This was Mścisław agreeing to be his. This was Mścisław standing side-by-side with Peter and telling fate to kindly fuck off and leave them to their happiness; to their lives; to each other.

This was everything.

And when Mścisław drew back to rest his forehead on Peter’s, the two of them sharing breath in the close space between their mouths, Peter couldn't have held back his next words if he tried. “I love you.”

Mścisław laughed, low and breathless and delighted, then pressed a quick kiss to Peter’s lips. “That’s convenient, since I’m pretty sure I’ve been in love with you almost since we met. I just...didn’t know what I was supposed to do about it, considering.”

Peter rumbled happily again, then nodded towards their breakfast. “For the moment, we’re going to finish eating and then I’ll drive you back to your Jeep. But before I let you drive back to Beacon Hills, you’re going to give me your phone number and we’re going to schedule our first date. Then we’re going to cancel our subscriptions to those god-forsaken Mixers and tell everyone how blissfully happy we are.”

Mścisław was still grinning as he shifted back to his side of the booth, though his voice was serious as he said. “You know it won’t be easy. Not a lot of people have serious relationships outside their Matches, unless their Match is dead. People won’t understand.”

“Fuck people.” Peter retorted with a shrug, though the words had an edge to them. “I’ve spent my life waiting for someone I might never meet, because everyone said that person would make me feel complete. Because everyone told me I’d love them straight away, and that I’d be happier than I could imagine with them in my life. Well, I’ve met the person who makes me feel that way and I don’t give a damn that it’s not who everyone said it would be. I’m not giving this feeling up to make someone else happy.”

“Fair enough.” Mścisław agreed, and now he was giving Peter a soft look of adoration. “Besides, I think this is better than a Soul-Match. We chose each other. Not fate; us. And I think that’s pretty fucking awesome.”

Peter listened to the steady beat of Mścisław’s heart and couldn't help smiling in response. The younger man meant every word, and Peter knew he was right. “I couldn't agree more.”

Peter had taken Stiles on three dates so far, and they’d all been wonderful. One had been for ice cream, on Thursday night, to celebrate the last of Stiles’ final exams. Another had been for dinner on Friday night, when they’d discussed how to tell their respective friends and families that they were flouting convention and ignoring their Marks to be together. The third had been a movie on Saturday night.

And now it was Sunday afternoon, and he was walking through town with Peter, their fingers tangled together as they window-shopped. Peter was carrying a bag with several books he’d purchased for Stiles when they’d ducked into the town’s used bookstore, and Stiles was carrying an iced coffee that Peter had bought him from the coffee shop they’d passed a couple of blocks back.

“So, are you coming to graduation?” Stiles asked curiously, swinging their hands slightly between them as they walked. “I mean, you probably are, right? Because of Cora. But like, you can totally be there for me, too, and you can meet my dad and stuff. If you want.” He knew he was babbling, but he couldn't seem to stop.

Thankfully, Peter just squeezed his hand reassuringly. “Of course I’ll be there, darling boy. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. The rest of my rather overbearing family will be there as well and I’d love to introduce you to the lot of them, if you promise you won’t run away.”

Stiles laughed, shaking his head and grinning fondly at Peter. His Peter, no matter what fate decreed. “If you promise not to run when you see Dad’s gun, I think I can promise not to run from your family.”

Peter shot him a mildly alarmed look. “Why in the world would your father have a gun at your high school graduation?”

Stiles snorted, because it occurred to him that Peter wasn’t the only one who’d failed to provide their last name during the months since they’d met each other. “Because he’s the sheriff, so he’s pretty much always got a gun on him and I doubt Wednesday will be an exception. We’re actually pretty lucky not to have run into any of the deputies while on our dates. They’re like a bunch of overprotective uncles and brothers, and they will not hesitate to give you a shovel-talk, believe me.”

Peter’s first thought when Mścisław said his father was the sheriff was to think, ‘Thank god he’s legal.’ His second thought was, Sheriff Stilinski and an odd sort of tickling at his brain, as though he were trying to remember something from a dream and it was just out of reach. Mścisław was babbling on about the deputies and Peter was about to reassure him that he wasn’t that easy to scare when his heart was stopped by the sound of a female voice calling out.

“Stiles!”

Peter went stock-still, shock reverberating through his body. Part of him wanted to turn around; to seek out the person who’d called out and demand to know who they were calling by that name. The rest of him wanted to scoop Mścisław into his arms and run away. To get as far from where they were as he could, and never look back, because no. No, not now. Fate couldn't possibly be that cruel.

But a male voice was calling out as well, loud and cheerful. “Yo, Stiles! Wait up!”

Peter glanced down at Mścisław, who was turning around to look behind them. A huge grin was on Mścisław’s face and he was waving frantically, and Peter’s heart was thundering so loudly in his own ears that he wasn’t sure how it wasn’t audible to the younger man. “Let’s go.” He said, the words pleading; almost desperate. He refused to look anywhere but at Mścisław; he refused.

“One sec, kay?” Mścisław said a bit distractedly. Then he looked up at Peter and his eyes widened for a second before his whole face went soft with concern. “Hey, are you okay? You don’t look so good...”

“I don’t feel very good.” Peter said, and heaven help him but it was the truth. “Can we go?”

Mścisław immediately nodded. “Yeah, of course. Just...my friends are crossing the street to say hi, so can you hang on for like...one more minute? I’ll just say hi, introduce you real quick, and then we’ll go. I swear.”

Peter nodded, helpless to do anything else. He kept his eyes on Mścisław until two more teens were right in front of them, and when he finally looked up it was to see one set of confused brown puppy eyes and one distrustful set of eyes belong to the youngest Argent. ‘Well,’ Peter thought, feeling amused despite himself. ‘Looks like Mścisław might not have to figure out what I am after all.’

“Seriously? Peter Hale?” Allison Argent’s voice was cool and clipped, which was at direct odds with the sweetness of her face.

“Chill, Allison.” Mścisław rolled his eyes, huffing out a laugh. “I know you’re all rawr, werewolves but I promise Peter’s not going to hurt me.”

Peter staggered back a half-step, his breath rushing out of his lungs as though someone had just physically struck him. “Wh-what?”

Mścisław laughed loudly then, grabbing Peter around the waist to help steady him even as he apologized. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have told you I knew like that. It’s just...Allison told Scott about what her family does because they’re Matched and Scott told me because we haven’t had a secret from each other since were six, and even though I didn’t know who the local wolves were, you’re not exactly subtle. Figuring it out wasn’t hard, though I wasn’t completely positive until you flashed your eyes at me during the full moon.”

Before Peter could say anything else, Allison was scolding Mścisław. “And I still say you were an idiot to have sex with him during a full moon. What if he’d hurt you?”

“He’s a born wolf and he’s thirty-four.” Mścisław retorted, voice laced with exasperation. “I’m pretty sure he’s in complete control of himself, no matter the time of month. He didn’t even drop fang on me. Give me a little credit here, in the knows what he’s doing column, please.”

Scott’s voice broke in then. “We just worry about you, Stiles.”

Peter’s heart stopped.

Stiles softened a little at Scott’s words. “I know, man. But like...grown-up here, you know? I can handle myself and I don’t need anyone babysitting me. Not even a kickass hunter like you.” He directed his last sentence at Allison, who shrugged as though to say ‘Fine, but don’t expect me to be happy about it.’ He figured it was about as good as he was going to get from her, anyway.

He glanced over at Peter and noticed that the man had gone rigid beside him. He was breathing shallowly, and his eyes were flickering, and it was...a little alarming, honestly, because Peter had always seemed very in-control of himself before this. “Are you okay?” Stiles asked, pushing himself a little closer to the older man.

“He...” Peter practically gasped the word out, voice hoarse and strangled. “He called you Stiles.”

“Uh, yeah?” Stiles frowned for a moment, then his face cleared as he realized why Peter was confused. “I don’t normally go by Mścisław, Peter. It’s a horrible mouthful of a name. Most people don’t even know it’s my name, actually. And I stopped going by Mischief when I was eight. I’ve been Stiles for more of my life than I haven’t been, it just...never came up with you, I guess.”

Peter’s next words were wondering, and still hoarse, and Stiles really didn’t know what to do with them. “You’re my Soul-Match.”

Stiles blinked, because...hadn't they covered this? “No, I’m not. You told me the first time we met that you don’t have Mścisław on you.”

Peter nodded, and suddenly he was grabbing Stiles’ free hand with his own, tugging and turning so they were facing each other fully, both of Stiles’ hands tangled with Peter’s. “I don’t. I don’t have Mścisław on me. I have Stiles on me. On the outside of my left thigh. Stiles.”

For a moment, Stiles was frozen in shock. For a moment, he couldn't breathe. Because Peter...Peter was his Soul-Match. Peter had Stiles - the name he’d chosen for himself when he was eight - inked across his skin. Had had it there, long before Stiles was using that name; long before he was even born. Fate had known that he would choose it; would make it his own. And so fate had given it to Peter, first; given him to Peter. But...

Stiles pulled his hands free of Peter’s and cupped the older man’s face, leaning in close until they were nose-to-nose. Then, voice fierce and heated, he snapped. “This was not decided by fate, Peter Hale. We chose. We decided. Fate had no part in me loving you. Do you understand?”

Then Peter was laughing even as he kissed him, soft and sweet and lovely. “I understand. And I agree. I would have defied fate to keep you, darling boy. And knowing that, I don’t think fate had any choice but to acquiesce gracefully to our wills. You are mine because we chose it. Fate just knew better than to argue.”

And Stiles had to agree.