#this man has at least six girlfriends and they are all capable of bullying him

[phoenixyfriend]

"Guy who has multiple girlfriends and is mistaken for being a Top Tier Macho Man Harem Haver but actually all his girlfriends are dating each other and share the hobby of bullying him" is a Trope and I hope you all realize this is about Peter Parker

[gagmebucky]

hiiii i wrote this awhile ago but took it down because i was 👉🏼👈🏼 embarrassed about it (because i do not have the skill to pull off peter parker) and sorta still am but everyone’s been so nice to me about it i thought the best way to repay the kindness by posting it for those who did like it 😅 (originally inspired by spider man 2 with andrew garfield but loosely set in the 2018 issue of the amazing spider-man.)

in which the guys are making fun of peter and accidentally see a video of him fucking you. (includes avenger!peter x girlfriend!you, peter’s pov, voyeur!steve and voyeur!bucky, a sex tape featuring d/s dynamics, bondage, praise kink, exhibitionism, unprotected sex.) 

do not repost.

—

Despite being twenty-one years old; a proper adult who lives with his high school sweetheart, a photographer doubling as a seven-year veteran vigilante in the dangers of New York, Peter Parker is still considered as a super-powered amateur to his seasoned peers. 

Nonetheless, given his success in countless battles in the state, country, world and even galaxy-wide, he more than qualifies to hold the title of Avenger; it’s official now. A laid-back induction ceremony and his very own identity card: a sturdy rectangle, shiny with full clearance and all. Yet, as an official member, his teammates still treat him like he’s that same goofy, out-of-his-depths sixteen year old.

To be fair, yes, his style of heroism isn’t the most serious. He favors levity in the face of danger, a cheeky flare with smart quips and an infuriating grin. Even after taking a beating from the worst of foes, his demeanor never wavers because in the end, he wins. The villains are slayed and the people are saved, even comforted by the boyishly confident way he works. 

But beyond that persona, he has grown into a skilled warrior. On that note, he wants to be regarded as such—at least, to a certain extent. The jokes and teasing, poking fun at his age or the shenanigans he gets himself into, don’t bother him. No, his playful wit handles it with relative ease, and he’s a good sport about it. The only thing that he’d want to see change is some recognition that he isn’t a naïve kid anymore and is fully capable of taking charge when needed.

With his recent acceptance into the gifted pantheon, he’s intent on making that known. The jesting can continue but he wants it to be with an understanding of his capabilities. Luckily, a perfect opportunity has presented itself to showcase his abilities: a training session. 

He’s late. And yes, he knows that’s probably not a good impression to make.

In his own defense, it isn’t technically his fault. He forgot that you, his personal alarm clock (amongst other things), left early this morning because you volunteered to help his aunt move. Four years of mornings and nights, he’s gotten used to—and prefers—your languorous wake-up call.

Without your reminder, he regains consciousness fifteen minutes after the scheduled time and ends up scrambling to the compound. In a flurry, he throws on his suit—unknowingly backwards, he realizes later—trips at least three times over his own footing before he finally springs out of the balcony with webbed bursts.

When he reaches his destination, Captain America and the Winter Soldier are unimpressed; mid-simulation, it powers down. Both super-soldiers whirl around to face him, fixing raised eyebrows at his disheveled arrival.

He adjusts his now front-facing suit and shuffles forward into the space with as much confidence as an interrupter can have. “H - hey, guys,” Peter greets sheepishly and manages what he hopes is a charming smile, absentmindedly fidgeting with his phone. “Lookin’ good for a couple of geezers.” 

Unfortunately, Steve Rogers is not charmed or disillusioned from the tardiness. “You’re late, Parker.” His arms fold, and he shakes his head when punctuating his disapproval with an echoing, “Again.” 

Thankfully, to his right, more relaxed and cool, Bucky Barnes steps up. “C’mon, Stevie. Y’can’t be that surprised,” he chimes in matter of factly, contrasting against his friend with amusement sparkling in his blue eyes. “What’d you expect with Parker?” He gestures at the younger superhero. “Kid’s gonna be late to his own wedding.”

(Beside the point, but worth noting, he will not be late to meeting you at the altar. That is, of course, if you accept when he pops the question. Which is going to happen relatively soon, considering he has the ring in his nightstand drawer.)

The consult seems to relax him. “Yeah, I guess you’re right and—Peter, you—seriously, man?!” Steve sputters the last bit when he glanced over to see him blatantly check the notification that’s vibrated in his hand (on the device that is ruled to be stowed away during training). “Now the phone?!” 

Even though he shouldn’t, being on thin ice with Cap and all (pun not intended), Peter’s gaze flickers down to see your contact name appear on the screen, and he can’t resist. While Bucky guffaws a laugh at his audacity, he’s swiping up to pull up your text thread. 

> you 😛❤️🥰, 10:37AM: spider boyyyyy you’ll never guess what i found in a box labeled ‘peter’s junk’ ;;;)

peter, 10:37AM: those magazines are NOT mine and i don’t know how they got there.

> you 😛❤️🥰, 10:38AM: not quite but close, naughty boy

> you 😛❤️🥰, 10:38AM: for a man who depends on keeping secrets and a penchant for home movies, you might ought to keep a lock on your phone unless you want someone to see me like this...

> you 😛❤️🥰, 10:38AM: (video attached)

Immediately, he recognizes the pornographic thumbnail. One glance, and he’s remembering the first couple of times you guys explored the exhibitionism side of things. It was at the end of his freshman year of college and taped on a phone he thought he had lost. But he must've forgotten it at his aunt’s house, and she tossed it in the box until you came along. 

Although there’s been plenty more made, he recalls that one being a shared favorite, his especially. When long-distance duty calls, it was his go-to media. The angles, your face and body beneath the lights, the sounds it caught, you once asked if he considered switching to cinematography instead of photographer

Subconsciously, his teeth run over his bottom lip, feeling that blazing spark of desire igniting in the pit of his gut, partially at the memory and partially at what’ll happen once you guys can re-watch it together; his thumbs start typing away with that message.

“Peter!” Steve’s exasperated voice snaps, but to no avail—the real gall of the youngster, or the effect of you. His weight shifts toward his best friend, and he nudges him with his elbow. “Kids these days!” The hundred-something year old’s gaze cocks a brow back over. “Is that why you were late? Blowing off training to text your girlfriend?”

The text delivers with an audible bloop. Finally, his concentration gives, and he can look up, though his expression is clueless from the last minute. “Huh?” His brain registers what he missed, and he winces. “Sorry, Cap. My bad.”

Bucky chuckles. “Give him a break, Steve,” he faux comes to his defense, a teasing quality underlying his tone. “He’s young and in love. It’s not his fault he’s pussy-whipped.” He cracks him an antagonizing grin as Peter rolls his eyes. “He can’t go an hour without sending those little weird pictures with heart eyes, or she might not know he’s thinking about her.”

“As if you know anything about romance, old man,” he fires back and presses past them with squared shoulders, correcting him quite seriously: “And they’re called emojis, by the way. But that’s not what I was doing, if you want to know so bad.”

The brunette tilts his head thoughtfully, and small hackles arise for reasons he doesn’t understand, or pay attention to. “You know, I do want to know really badly,” Bucky decides and poses a question to his left, “Wouldn’t you, too, Steve? Aren’t you curious what his girlfriend sent that was so much more important than training?”

The blond mimics his actions and clicks his tongue. “Yeah, I am.” 

Peter’s eyebrows pinch while his skin tingles and the hair on the back of his neck stands straight up. “What—” Before his senses process it, one of the super-soldiers plucks his phone out of his hands and darts back beside his best friend. His jaw drops as he tries to follow after him. “Bucky, you asshole—”

“Some spidey senses, huh?” The Winter Soldier lifts it high over his head, utilizing his six-foot stature against his five-ten like elementary school bullies do and older siblings to their juniors. “Haven’t ‘cha heard about sharing with the class?” He laughs and practically stiff-arms him to squint up at the screen. “Aw, he can’t wait to see her. What’s it been, more than two hours since you two saw each other last?” 

Conceding to the height difference, Peter stops his physical efforts and diverts it to someone reasonable. “Cap, you gonna help me out here?” he addresses the entertained onlooker in the most friendly voice he can manage. 

“The kid’s got separate anxiety not just from his girlfriend but phone too, Buck,” Steve drawls with a lopsided curve of his lips. He side-steps Peter to stand next to Bucky, and for a second, he thinks he’s on his side despite the tease, but he simply adds a stern, “So be careful. You don’t want to break it, or Parker will have a fit.”

Peter crosses his arms and scowls. “Ha, ha,” he retorts dryly, only somewhat amused by their banter. He tilts his head up at them, and the duo look thoroughly pleased with themselves. “You know, you guys are kind of dicks.”

“No, we’re your mentors, kid,” Steve corrects with a wink and rests his arm on his friend’s shoulder. “This is a lesson. No phones—” He jabs his thumb back in reference to the device’s unlocked screen: “—when you’re supposed to be training.” 

“Yeah,” Bucky chimes in upon glancing up from his phone. “And a little advice, women don’t like clinginess. Try being a little more stern and see how that works for you. If you’re able to manage that. But I won’t hold it against ya if you can’t.”

“Uh-huh,” Peter patronizes with a bob of his head, biting back a response pointing out the hundred-something year old’s inexperience. Instead, he focuses on the electronic readily loaded up with some private content. With that, he decides to do the rational and mature thing and ask nicely. “Noted. So, uh, can I have my phone back now?” 

To his shock, Bucky merely flashes a smirk and his thumb scrolls half-heartedly over the thread. Thereafter, he leans toward Steve and raises his cell for him to see. “Oh, look, it’s a video,” he teases. “What could Y/N send that would take priority of training?” 

There’s an unspoken let’s see then a metal finger taps the play button. Before Peter can think, much less react, Captain American and the Winter Soldier are watching how he effortlessly renders his pretty little girlfriend into a cute nonsensical yet eager mess— 

In his point-of-view shot, the ratio holds in portrait view in a bid to capture every bit of you. Above you, the camera focuses on you and your beautifully debauched state beneath warm lighting where it’s unalienable that the camera was made for you. 

Your eyes are dilated brightly, desperate with desire as your lashes flutter up at him. A sheen coats your features and glistens like glitter at the highest points of your face while the shape of your face is framed by your stretched arms. 

Your wrists are bound over your head, splotched with expertly sprayed strong, white webs. The mesh sticks them together in a criss-cross, comfortable but nearly impossible to break out of, fixed in place atop his headboard. The tautness tugs a mild strain on your figure so your breasts are jutting out like an offering, and it’s obvious he’s taken advantage of it. Darkened marks adorn your glowing complexion, peppered across your décolletage with imprints of his teeth; including your nipples, sucked swollen and tender. 

The angle trails down until it reveals the sight of him mercilessly pounding inside of you. His better-than-average girth is sliding in and out of your tight channel; slicked in shared translucent essence, creaming around the base, your inner walls visibly clinging to his cock with every backward stroke. His hand splays on your mound, using his thumb to abuse your engorged clit. He easily keeps the sensitive nub pinned under his control despite your wildly twisting hips. 

Like the display, the soundtrack is equally obscene. Loud, your stuffed depths gush and squelch as skin slaps rhythmically. Your breathy, wanton moans overshadow both, drawn out whimpers, almost nonsensical other than the syllable of his name. A melody of neediness, you sound so fucking pretty, (depraved, like a whore, you once told him during your little film marathon with a sly smile), and for him specifically.

The frame pans upward and confirms you look just as good. A perfect mess, unhinged by the skilled ministrations of your boyfriend. Passion beads on your forehead like reflections off of a diamond. Panting, your lips are plumped from kissing parted with mewls of pleasure. 

“P - please—I need to—can I - I please—” You’re begging like the sweet little thing you are, incoherent babbling the result of his excessive edging. Of course, you know better than to give into the sensations ravaging you; instead you ignore your visceral desire and ask him for your release. “Peter, please!” 

A deep chuckle vibrates behind the camera as his big hand slides into view, trailing over your jiggling tits to the slope of your throat. “Maybe,” he says breathily and grasps the line of your jaw between his fingers. “Open your mouth first, babe.” 

No more preamble necessary, you follow his direction, your pink tongue flat over your Cupid’s bow. Immediately, a long string of his saliva drips into view and onto your taste buds; the vulgar act is accepted with a swallow and a quivering moan of, “T - thank you.” 

“Good girl,” he praises huskily, and the voiced approval has you visibly shivering. “Alright, then, pretty girl. Make it good for me, and c’mon—”

Before your otherworldly reckoning washes over you and his teammates can watch your bliss immortalized in film, Peter snatches his property back. 

Not much force is necessary as Bucky’s grip has been stunned loose. A dark expression permeates on young hero’s face but not because of embarrassment; if he was still nineteen or eighteen, he would’ve been mortified that his titular superiors caught a depraved glimpse of his sex life, on both his and your behalf. Rather than, there’s just a flit of annoyance when he folds his arms.

“Shit,” Bucky is the first to speak, exhaling the swear raggedly. His blue pupils have widened in obvious attraction, dilated dark, blinking rapidly as if it’ll help calm him down from the clip of you, his innocent seeming girlfriend, all ruined and begging. “Parker, fuck, I - I didn’t know you got down like that.” 

There’s a swell in his chest, pride beating steadily while he remains reticent-faced. He prefers you keep your bedroom activities secluded there. Yeah, he likes to be in control and you like to be controlled but it’s only in a sexual nature. Yet, their reactions—stunned, embarrassed and viscerally affected—surges smug satisfaction he’s never known before through his veins. 

Even the prestigious Captain America is bothered, though he may try to hide it. He clears his throat, a flustered pink coloring his cheeks. “Peter, uh,” he says, barely maintaining the confidence to look him in the eye after witnessing his girlfriend like that. “We - we shouldn’t have invaded your privacy like that.” 

“Uh-huh,” is Peter’s response, a hint of a smirk curling on one side of his lips. “Why don’t you guys call me after you’re finished with your cold showers, and we can actually train. Until then, I’m gonna go to my girl who’s more than eager to handle mine.” He pauses. “Maybe if you guys ask nice enough, I might let her show you how well I’ve trained her.”

[theperfectstormrp]

“There may be times when we are powerless to prevent injustice, but there must never be a time when we fail to protest.”

Frank Longbottom

Age: Twenty Six

Affiliation: Order Member

Blood Status: Pureblood

Career: Auror

RUMOR HAS IT… The quiet man with a plan, or so he thinks. Frank has been working for years to make the Longbottom name proud, except for adding the little wife to the family, if you ask the well-known Augusta Longbottom. Some think his devotion to his wife is cute, but most would tell you he’s just a sad puppy always following her around. While being an amazing Auror, and part of a very strong duo with his wife, Frank isn’t one to boast or brag about his work. Now it’s just time to see if he can actually live up to that Longbottom name. 

Growing up in the Longbottom household is the reason Frank is the man he is today. While his mother, Augusta might not always seem the friendliest of people, she was sure to raise her son in a way that he respected all people. No matter if they were pureblood, mixed blood, muggle-born, or plain muggles. Everyone deserved to be treated with respect and understanding. Her husband Reginald agreed with his wife’s ideas and was sure to help make sure their son understood that everyone deserved to be treated with respect. At least until they gave a good reason as to why they shouldn’t. It was a decision that wasn’t popular amongst some of the pureblood friends that the couple had, but they honestly didn’t care. The opinions of others had never truly effected Augusta. Even as a young child, Frank had a calm nature to him. He was able to look at situations and read them for a bit before he finally decided on what to do next. As he grew older, he started to notice that he was different from the children around him. His parents eventually sat him down and explained that their family was wizards. They explained to him why they were different, as well as explaining why he couldn’t tell anyone. It was a secret that had to stay with them. As much as Frank wanted to share with his friends that he had magic abilities, his thoughtful nature convinced himself to listen to what his parents had to say and kept the secret to himself. Continuing with his education like everyone else, for now. Eventually, as with every other wizard child, a Hogwarts letter arrived in the mail with Frank’s name written on the front. The young wizard was met with bittersweet emotions when his letter had arrived in the mail. Part of him was ecstatic to be going to a wizarding school in order to learn more about magic and expand what he was capable of, but the rest of him was sad to be leaving his friends. His parents had planned for this transition and had a proper story for why he was gone, assuring him he could see his friends on holidays. Arriving to Hogwarts and finally seeing the big castle in front of him had left the child in awe. The idea of going from a muggle school to one that was full of wizarding things was odd to Frank, but he knew that is was going to be amazing in the end. Frank had ended up being sorted into Gryffindor house and made friends with those around him, which wasn’t much of a surprise. Something that had been a bit of surprise for Frank was the shock of how some would treat students from muggle families. His parents had told him a bit about the ideals of some wizards, but he never knew how deep those opinions could be. Outside of Frank trying to defend those he felt were wronged, school was a breeze, only leaving him struggling in the classes that he just felt like didn’t make sense, like divination. Overall, the level-headed Gryffindor knew what he was working towards and had a pretty clear idea of what was going to happen. That is until he met a storm of a girl named Alice Fortescue. It had started when Frank heard a commotion and went to see what was going on. There was this small but extremely scrappy girl standing straight in front of some bully. He felt a little worried about the bully with the way she had was heading towards him. Honestly, Frank couldn’t explain what had taken over, but something was telling him to help her. Something told to him to move and he did. His hand grabbed hers as he noticed some of the professors approaching and he stood there with her until they were alone. From that moment of the spark that was shared between them, the couple was almost inseparable. Whenever there was one, the other had to be nearby. Nobody could really explain why they worked, but somehow, they did. It was almost like they had found a way to complete the other. The rest of Frank’s time at Hogwarts was spent going to classes, being with his friends, and spending time with his girlfriend. However, as the end of his time at the school came closer, he knew he had to decide about what he was going to do. His test scores seemed to be indicating that he was right for the job of an auror. Helping people was something he was good at and he wanted to do what he could to protect the world around him, so that was the job that he was going to reach. A new goal to accomplish. Once he graduated, he had to say goodbye to the school he had spent so much time in, as well as be apart from the girl he loved as she finished her last year. The next few months he spent preparing and training for the job that he would eventually become very accomplished in, like other things in his life. Eventually, the stormy girl joined the Auror department and it wasn’t long after they had a chance to establish themselves as Aurors. After a couple years of working and making themselves members of the wizarding society the two married and grew even stronger together. While Frank’s life seemed to be all well and getting off to a great start, there was a black cloud that was slowly approaching and would soon consume everything he did.

Frank saw the war coming, as most did. A bad wizard slowly growing more and more powerful didn’t go unnoticed. Only downside was that it seemed the Aurors couldn’t do as much as they would’ve liked. Eventually joining the Order seemed to be the only thing Frank could really do to help the cause that he had been fighting for. He knew that he was adding an extra element of danger in his life, an extra element in his life that could easily lead to the end of it. It didn’t matter to him, he just wanted to help. He wanted this war over so everyone could get back to their lives. So now he fights not only for the ministry and for the wizarding world, but for everyone.

ALICE LONGBOTTOM – Frank had only heard rumors of an aggressive brunette who fought when she had the chance, but he didn’t realize her full power till he met her. The moment he saw her, his life had changed. Alice brings out Frank’s confidence and makes him a stronger auror every day. A truly strong pair. 

TED TONKS – It was in Hogwarts that Frank had met Ted, finding him to be a true friend. He enjoyed the friendship they have, even being there for everything with Andromeda, knowing how difficult it might’ve been. 

AMYCUS CARROW – Frank hasn’t said much to Amycus, except for some small words in passing, but that’s because something about him made Frank uneasy. He considered himself to be a pretty good judge of character, and he didn’t trust that one. 

OTHER CONNECTIONS – BIOS FRANK LONGBOTTOM IS MENTIONED IN.

Frank Longbottom is currently a TAKEN character with a FC of Aaron Tveit.

[capsicletho]

No More Running

a Steve Rogers x Reader series, written by @stvrktony | chapter 01

genre: romance

trigger: a car accident, but it’s not descriptive.

word count: 1488

author’s note: I was watching age of Adaline a while ago, and I started to realise how slightly similar Adaline and Steve are, so here’s a little something for you guys haha. Let me know what you think! If you want to watch Age of Adaline, you can watch it here. Events start to take place one year after Steve was awaken in the movie.

edit: this is a reposted first chapter, and i amended a few things in this chapter to fit the revamp ideas i had.

summary: reader had lived for a long, long time. the difference between her and cap is that, she was awake and fully aware as she watched decades after decades go by while she looked exactly the same in the mirror. she had to change her name and identity every few decades, losing loved ones, avoiding loved ones, and only owning a few things from her past that would remind her of who she really was. one day, she was met with a man who was a huge part of her old life. 

masterlist | nmr masterlist 

When the clock chimed its twelfth bell, everywhere in New York City was filled with laughter, chiming of glasses, applauds, and the beautiful fireworks lighting up the night sky. It was officially the first day of 1920. Meanwhile, exactly at 00:00 of the same day, your first cry echoed throughout the operating room’s walls. You were the first baby to be born in that year. It only took your mother one look to know that she’d sacrifice anything for you, and your father; well, let’s just say you had him wrapped around your tiny finger.

Your childhood was filled with happiness and utter perfection. Your father’s business prospered and your mother was easily the most loving and caring mother you could ever ask for. She bought you porcelain dolls to play with as she braided your hair and taught you to speak French fluently, just as she does. In time, you were enrolled into one of the best private schools in town, excelling remarkably.

Life seemed to be at your side even as you thrived to become a naturally beautiful and smart woman. Your parents had retired to the Hamptons, but you couldn’t come with them because you have an occupation to be responsible of, and you loved being an art curator dearly. You miss them every single day, but you knew that you would spend every Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Years with them and your family.

The year of 1945 was quite different for you. Right after you celebrated your twenty-fifth birthday, you decided that you needed to drive back to New York after you blew out the candles, kept your father away from the third glass of whisky, and made sure your mother enjoyed the cake instead of slaving away in the kitchen to serve your entire family with the best meals.

So out in the cold snow, you decided to drive about three hours back to Manhattan, which was not a problem until the headlights of the car coming from the opposite direction blinded your eyes for a few seconds. But those crucial few seconds had just sealed your fate forever.

Everything happened as if someone was pressing fast forward on a TV screen. Your car rolled off the street and you tried to keep your hands rooted on the roof of your car, but it was quite useless. Before you knew it, the freezing water seeped into your car, causing you to shudder  and everything went pitch black. When you woke up at the hospital two days later with bruises everywhere and a few cracked ribs, people were saying how miraculous it was that you survived.

But as years went by, death sometimes seemed like a better idea. Your bruises and cracked ribs healed, but something did not.

“Morning, Jane,” the receptionist greeted just as you walked into the Guggenheim.

“Good morning,” you replied with a smile, your feet continued pacing against the marble floor towards your office. With all the different aliases that you have been sporting for the last six decades, you were not surprised on how you are improving on quickly adapting to the new name that you will use for the next ten years before you had to change your identity again.

As you sat in your office, you groaned. You had forgotten that your assistant had resigned yesterday to become a full-time housewife, so now nobody is going to fetch you your coffee anymore. Although you told her that she did not have to, but without fail everyday, your assistant brought your coffee for you anyway and you had gotten used to it for the past two years. With a sigh, you stood up and grabbed your handbag, heading out to the streets to the nearest coffee shop, deciding you might as well have breakfast. On the way, your phone rang and so you picked it up and you were immediately engulfed in a conversation with a possible client.

You are Jane Hopkins, well, at least for this decade. You have been an art curator since you came back home to New York from living in Paris the previous decade, and since then the Guggenheim has named you the youngest but most capable art curators that they have. Little did they know, you were actually 92 years old, so of course you knew of all the art history that there is to know between now and then. Not to mention, this was also your job before you stopped aging in 1945.

Ever since the accident you experienced on the night of your 25th birthday, you had never aged a day. No one could’ve explained what was going on with you, and that was why since the day people started to question why you have never aged a day, and when you were captured to become a test subject, you ran away and never stayed in one place for more than ten years. At first you moved around the United States, but even the big country was a small place for someone on the run, so you had to move out of the continent as well. You hadn’t been back in New York for almost thirty years and you’ve decided to come back exactly nine years ago. You were planning to move right before Thanksgiving and everything was coming together perfectly, except for your excuse to quit this wonderful job.

You were about to reach for the coffee shop door when a gentleman from behind you beat you to it and opened the door for you. “Thank you,” you glanced to him and whispered because you were still on the phone. Under his cap, you saw the most mesmerizing blue eyes ever. But you dismissed that quickly and began to walk into the coffee shop when he stopped you by placing his hand on your arm.

“(Y/N)?” He called out your real name. The name you were born with; the name no one from this decade would know of.

Your heart froze as you stared at him, unable to form the words that you need to. For almost seven decades, you’ve never introduced yourself using your real name anymore, so it is quite impossible for anyone from this century to know who you are or call you by your real name.

“I’m sorry, you have the wrong person,” you managed to let out after a person bumped into you as they were trying to get inside the coffee shop. You turned around, deciding against going into the coffee shop and quickly leaving.

“No, I’m sorry, wait,” he said, chasing after you. He got hold of your arm and stopped you again, he was ridiculously strong that you didn’t dare move. “It’s just that you…you look like someone I used to know,” he said.

That moment, you registered who the man was. They all call him Captain America, but to you, he was just Steve Rogers.

You were seven years old, walking down the street on your way to the sweet shop when you heard it. The sound of the metal trashcan in the alley banging here and there and boys shouting around. You peeked at what was going on.

“Hey! Stop it! Get away from him!” You yelled, stomping your flat shoes while your curls bounced as you approached the two boys who seemed to be beating up the skinny boy they had shoved against the pile of trash bags and trashcans. Angry, you shoved one of the boys and they stumbled onto the ground. The other one who appeared to be stronger looked at you, seemingly directing his anger towards you.

“Oh, look, Rogers! There’s your girlfriend,” he mocked.

Your face grew red with anger as you decided to kick the boy’s shins, causing him to exclaim in pain. His friend grabbed him and pulled him to run away. Meanwhile you turned to Steve who had already started to groan.

“Are you okay?” You asked, offering a hand to help him stand. He took it and stood up.

“Yeah, thank you,” he said. He seemed a little embarrassed that a girl was capable to shoo away his bullies more than he can; you can see it through his blue eyes –– they were mesmerizing.

“Where are you going?” You asked, examining the boy who lived just a few houses down from you.

“Uh...the candy shop,” he said.

“That’s where I’m headed too! Come on, we can go together!”

“No, I think…I think I should be going home,” he rejected.

“Oh…okay,” you sounded a little bit more disappointed than you should have. You had been watching Steve from afar in a while, and you have always wanted to get to know him, even if he was two years older than you, he did not seem as intimidating as the other nine-year-olds did –– so of course, you were disappointed that the one chance you finally have to talk to him was not going the way you wanted it to. “Bye, then!” You tried to call out to him, but he was already walking away from you.

TAG LIST:

@patzammit @lovelykhaleesiii

[feelingsdusk-writes]

Count to five, do it again

Chapter 6

It isn't even a conscious choice, really.

When Stiles woke up a few days ago, he would have given anything for the hustle and bustle of his town to come back, but, oh, how things have changed. They say it takes around three weeks to form a new habit, but it's only taken Stiles six days to become used to the almost complete silence, for his hearing to become more sensitive. So, now, the racket Thomas is making is grating and jarring and, three streets and a park after leaving the hospital, Stiles has put a few meters between them without even noticing what he's doing.

Stiles has tried telling him to tone it down, telling him he's drawing too much attention towards them, but Thomas refuses to listen. And what can Stiles do? Threaten him with the bat? Hah, because that would go well. So no, he has to roll with it and make the most of the situation.

Thomas curses loudly when he trips over his own two feet and Stiles cringes at how his voice carries even from a couple of feet ahead. Everything the blond does is obnoxiously loud, and the more noise Thomas makes, the more distance Stiles leaves between them.

So now he's completely aware of what he's doing... and he doesn't feel even the tiniest bit bad about it. So sue him. If Thomas wants to draw a huge target on his back, that's on him. Stiles is not going to get harmed because of it. He has to get out and find his dad and he's not going to fail because an asshole is being an idiot. Let Thomas draw the attention of whatever is out there to himself, and Stiles will be able to see the threat coming from miles away.

(If there's really something or someone out there, because Stiles' suspicion about the wall being for them is stronger and stronger with each passing minute.)

Or if Stiles doesn't, he's pretty sure Peter will, because he seems to be sharing Stiles' idea of using Thomas as bait since he's "offered" so readily. And if Peter shares any similarities with the wolf he so much resembles, his senses will be much sharper than Stiles', and he'll be more capable of noticing anything before it shows than him.

Stiles eyes the manbeast walking beside him warily. He still makes Stiles' skin crawl something fierce. Sure, so far Peter's made no move to harm him, but Stiles can't trust that. He has the feeling that Peter is the type of person that doesn't do anything that won't benefit his interests. Which means that he won't hurt Stiles unless it benefits him somehow, but he won't help him either if it will cause him any type of loss. Or more like, if the benefit he'll gain from helping Stiles will be less than the damage it will cause him.

Stiles is surprisingly fine with that. Well, not surprisingly, because isn't Stiles the same? Isn't he wired exactly like that too? He is. People like to lie to themselves, but Stiles never does. Everything Stiles does is self-serving in a way. Everything. In one way or another, it always comes back to Stiles.

He brings Tara the cookies she loves because he likes the way she smiles at him, because that makes Stiles feel warm and nice. He kept silent about her for a long time because it made Stiles feel like a better son. He hounds his dad to eat healthy because Stiles is terrified of losing him and being alone.

Stiles, Stiles, Stiles, Stiles. Always ultimately Stiles.

So yes, Peter makes Stiles' skin crawl, but not because of his appearance or his morally grey stance in life. Who wouldn't be wary walking beside a hulking beast that could kill you with its pinky's nail? Stiles hasn't proven himself indispensable or gained Peter's loyalty, after all.

But then again, neither has Peter. And Stiles may be 147 pounds of skin, bones and sarcasm, but he's not one you would want to mess with either. There's a reason he's never bullied at school, and it's not precisely that he's popular. Stiles tends to inflict back the pain that's bestowed upon him tenfold, and that has garnered him a reputation that he's proud of. Peter had better be careful with his choices because Stiles will go down kicking and screaming, and quite possibly dragging Peter himself with him.

And yes, Stiles may be making assumptions about how Peter is, but he's never been wrong about anyone before. He knew Harris would be a dick the moment he met him, he knew Finstock was going to be weird and mouthy, but ultimately good. Even as a kid, he knew Tara would be an angel that came from heaven and he knew that Johnson was a good guy that would sneak him chocolate when his dad wasn't looking, but Michaels was the one to approach for advice. At first glance, Whittemore a douche, Cooper a backstabbing but mousey-looking idiot, Daehler a creep, Martin a genius, Mahealani a nice cool guy, Maldonado a sweet and shy girl, and so on, and so on.

So for now, he walks beside Peter.

---

It takes a while to reach the Preserve by foot and Stiles isn't going to waste that time completely. Now that Thomas is unknowingly acting as bait and Peter is beside him keeping an eye out, Stiles feels secure enough to divide his attention from the road and look around more carefully. Again, not that he trusts him to keep him safe, but it's a given that Peter will be faster, so Stiles will react accordingly.

His eyes dart around continuously, trying to take in every detail. As always, besides the noise they're producing, there's no other sound. Not even the buzz of electronics. Which, now that he thinks of it, it's really weird. In every place he's been to (that's not damaged), the electronic devices worked perfectly well and were completely silent. The station, the mall, the supermarket... All the machines at the hospital were on, but they never produced any sound at all. And Stiles knows they should. And now that he thinks of it... Well, he'll have to wait until they're back to check that but he's sure...

Stiles stops suddenly and looks around frowning. There. And there too. But how? And when? And he has... He takes another uneasy look around, heart starting to beat faster.

Peter notices him stopping and looks at him quizzically, which is really strange that Stiles can tell, because his face is that of a wolf's and not as expressive as a human's. But somehow he knows. Which is another thing to add to the list of weird things, but he'll get back to it later. Now there are more important matters.

"Thomas," he calls him, trying to do it as low as he can while still making sure he's heard.

"What," he snaps back loudly and Stiles winces internally at the volume.

Stiles ignores him, pretty sure by now that Thomas is doing it on purpose; partly to annoy Stiles, partly to convince himself that he's not scared, which is so, so stupid because how can he overcome his fears if he doesn't acknowledge that he's afraid? In any case, stupid or not, Stiles doesn't want to let him know how much it affects him because it will only make things worse with someone like Thomas.

He makes a gesture to make him wait and looks at the nearest building that drew his attention. He swallows thickly and approaches it cautiously. He peers inside through the glass, frowning and clutching his bat tightly.

"Is now really the time for window shopping, man?" Thomas says incredulously and a touch derisively.

Stiles jumps slightly at hearing him so near, and then resists the urge to shut him up by force. He breathes in and goes back to inspecting the inside of the shop.

"Well, it's never going to be cheaper," he replies blithely because his tongue is a better weapon where Thomas is concerned, and he hears Peter snort softly.

Tables, chairs, lamps... Sofas, bedposts, wardrobes, cupboards... Cash registers, telephone at the back. Lots of places to hide and spring from...

"The fuck?! You're worse that my woman, man," he snarks snidely, something ugly in his voice.

... and Thomas keeps wailing. He takes a step back just in case, but keeps looking inside through the corner of his eye. At the moment, Thomas is the one closest to the window.

"Your woman," Stiles says, disbelieving.

There's something in the way he says that... Stiles contains a grimace. The more time he spends with this guy, the more he rubs him the wrong way and raises his hackles.

"My girlfriend, man. Always buying shit that she doesn't need. Like all that fresh... What's wrong with the frozen stuff? It tastes ok! And then she pitches a fit when I buy a car without telling her. If she hadn't spent so much on food, we wouldn't have had problems with the rent, dammit. It would have been at least... what, fifty dollars less? No, eighty, I think? Fresh food is fucking expensive..."

Stiles doesn't know what face he's making, but it must be epic, because it's prompting Thomas to talk and talk more to explain his reasoning. And the more he talks, the more disgusted Stiles feels by this man-child that thinks that buying protein powder (to get more muscle, because he needs it to protect his house, his things, his woman, you know?) with his girlfriend's money (because he's already spent his own and then some on a car he didn't need, and he can't go without the protein!) when they're short to pay the rent is ok. And he gets angry because his girlfriend got pissed off, because he knows she has something stashed away for emergencies. And isn't paying the rent an emergency?

"... always bitching about every thing I do! Do you see me complaining about how much she spends on tampons or whatever?!"

Fuck, Stiles really wants to bash this asshole's head against the wall. How can that poor woman stand him? Stiles would have... Then, something clicks suddenly.

"Ah, so you mean the girlfriend that you no longer have?" Stiles cuts in before he can stop himself.

(A Stiles with his hackles raised is a nasty Stiles, so sue him.)

"What?! I never said... How did you-?!"

"Because no woman would lower herself to stand a piece of shit like you for long. Or man, for that matter."

"You little-" Thomas starts growling at the same time that he shoots a dark look at Peter for his amused snort.

Peter smiles with all teeth and Thomas backs off hurriedly, shutting up instantly. Which is interesting, because he obviously can't see what Stiles can see. Does this mean that Thomas' subconscious somehow does? Because it's certainly not because of anything Peter has said that has made alarms ring in his head. Peter doesn't talk much. How many times has Stiles heard him speak since yesterday? Twice? Thrice? He even kept silent during their discussion this morning.

Other things to file away for later.

"This was destroyed yesterday," Stiles continues, ignoring Thomas' glower.

"What?" Thomas sneers at the same time that Peter makes an inquiring sound. "No, it's not."

"Yesterday it was," Stiles replies, completely sure.

"You are crazy. Can't you see it's not? Look I've come here like a thousand times with my girlfriend..."

"No longer your girlfriend," Stiles corrects him gently and with a smile, taking pleasure in how he grits his teeth.

"...and it looks exactly the same! What, did a crew of elves come? Did they repair it with their magical magic?"

"I don't know," Stiles replies, still in that same gentle tone and smiling. "Were they the ones that built the wall in one night? Or destroyed about half the buildings in this town? Or made all the people disappear?" Thomas' mouth snaps shut with a click and Stiles feels inordinately pleased about that. Stiles doesn't know what it is about him that sets his teeth on edge, but the more time he spends with Thomas, the more acutely he feels it. It's not about him being a douche, it's something else and Stiles doesn't like it at all. And it's absurd because Peter is the one that looks like a monster out of a horror movie. Then again, not all monsters look like monsters, right? "All I know is that this shop was completely destroyed yesterday. And that coffee shop over there? It was too. And now they aren't, so why?"

"Fuck this," Thomas snarls, throwing his hands in the air dramatically. "I'm out. I'm not going to go into a forest with a psycho like you." He looks at Peter and sneers. "Or Mr. Silence of the Lambs here. I'm out."

"Wow, what a record," Stiles mocks nastily. He doesn't care about Thomas staying or not. If he leaves, he won't be painting a target on their backs anymore. If he stays, they get to keep their annoying bait. Stiles (and Peter) gains and loses something whatever happens. "You've managed to hang onto your balls for this long. Congratulations, it must have been so hard for you!" He claps softly but quickly. "And now that you've found an excuse to leave, you can go and hide with Donna. You know, stay in one place, where you can be found easily and you're an even easier target. But at least that will give Donna the time to help Ally and Marion, so hey, you have your uses after all."

"Fuck you, man! You think you're the shit, don't you? Hah, you're going to get killed while I'm safe, bitch. Good luck in hell, getting your ass busted by-"

"And good luck to you on your way back," Stiles cuts in, smiling at him, wide and sinister, and twirling his bat for effect. "Alone, asshole."

Thomas gapes. He looks wide-eyed at the road they've left behind them and then at the one in front of them. Then he swallows audibly, sneers at both Stiles and Peter, and turns to go back to the hospital. Some twisted part of Stiles finds it funny that he tries to be silent as he walks.

"Also good luck trying to find a way to get out of here on your own if we get killed," Stiles singsongs at his retreating back.

Peter starts laughing. It's a barking sound, guttural and the stuff straight out of the worst horror movie.

(Thomas hastens his pace.)

---

Peter and Stiles continue walking in silence. It takes a long time to get to the preserve by foot and Stiles is missing his bike fiercely. It's going to be a long day.

He's not being as thorough as he was before, when he had Thomas acting as bait, but he's trying to keep an eye out for more anomalies while paying attention to his immediate surroundings. So far, he's spotted another three buildings that he's sure were destroyed the last time he checked them. It's really confusing and unnerving.

He takes a look at Peter and his heart skips a beat at the primal expression on his face and the glowing blue eyes that had been normal since they left the hospital this morning. As if sensing his turmoil, Peter turns to look at him, eyes unnervingly focused.

"Three more buildings," he blurts out.

"The elves magical magic again?" Peter growls lowly, obviously as a mock towards Thomas, not Stiles. (How he knows that, Stiles doesn't know.) His enunciation sounds weird, as if it's difficult for him to get out the words.

"Yeah," Stiles confirms.

"How many so far?" Peter asks, his enunciation clearing marginally. The more words come out of his mouth, the less primal he looks. Stiles swallows thickly.

"Five that I noticed," Stiles hums, peeling his eyes from Peter as if he's noticed nothing. "And I'm not sure, but I think that at least two and a half floors of the hospital were full of rubble before, and when I came back with Ally yesterday they weren't."

"Not sure?"

Stiles shoots a dirty look at him. "I was busy running for my life, sorry for not being able to give to a clearer answer."

Peter snorts, amused. "So touchy," he purrs mockingly. His words are clearer with each passing minute.

Stiles narrows his eyes dangerously as he brandishes his bat. "So touchy that I'll make your brains splatter against the ground if you do something like that ever again."

Peter pauses to study Stiles openly. Then he smiles widely, obviously delighted. "You're not lying. You do believe you can do that."

That tone. Stiles frowns. "And you somehow can tell that."

"Well, you have very expressive eyes, sweetheart."

"You're lying. It's not that."

He is. Peter is lying, Stiles knows. But it's not his face or his eyes that give him away, Stiles just knows.

Why? Just what is Stiles? Is he like Peter? Does he look human to others, but Peter can see he's not? Just like Stiles can see Peter is not human? Can he tell Stiles wasn't bluffing because of that?

"Am I? Hmmm. How are you so sure?"

"I just... I just am. And you're trying to..." He's toying with Stiles... Wait, no, he isn't. He's fishing. But there's nothing to catch because Stiles doesn't know. "How can you tell? Does it have to do with..." He looks at the wolf features, the fur, the snout, the fangs. By the time Stiles lowers his eyes, they're watering from the splitting headache he suddenly has, and there's a ringing in his ears. Thunder explodes not far away. "What do you see?" he blurts out, his hand closing reflexively around Peter's arm. It's warm and he can feel the powerful muscles shift beneath his palm. It helps him keep himself grounded and upright on his trembling legs.

Peter takes a sharp intake of air at the touch and shakes under Stiles' palm. "What do I... see?"

"Yes," he chokes out. "I see something like a wolf walking on two legs when I look at you." He reaches with his free hand, his index finger brushing briefly against the protruding muzzle before retracting, lightning fast. "What do you see when you look at me, Peter?"

What is Stiles?

Breathe, he thinks. Breathe, Stiles. Breathe because Peter's lips are moving but he can't hear a thing. Breathe!

In.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Out.

One.

Two.

Thr-

---

Can't you see?! Please, John!

Please!

He's going to kill me!

---

I won't let you.

---

Stiles wakes up with a start. Rain is pouring heavily outside. It's hitting the window continuously, almost as fast as his racing heart. He can hear it going down the drain heavily too, like a never-ending cascade. Lightning illuminates the cloud-filled sky every now and then, and thunder follows it almost immediately.

Stiles' body is being shaken by full body tremors. He swallows with a grimace and shivers, feeling cold on too many levels. Peter, unlike him, is like a furnace, he notices detachedly. Not just warm, but scorching hot. Under his fingers, he can feel Peter's pulse. It's a steady thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump.

Thump-thump.

Thump-thump.

Thump-thump.

He doesn't remember when he closed his eyes but it's not like it's important anyways. Stiles opens them sluggishly. The storm is easing up outside and the thunder and lightning have stopped completely. The furry rug under him is so soft that he can't help but bury his free hand in it. He closes his eyes again.

Thump-thump.

Thump-thump.

Thump-thump.

He opens his eyes and raises them to meet Peter's. Stiles' hand twitches where it's still clasped around his forearm. He should let go but he doesn't want to. (Why?) He realizes vaguely that Peter hasn't made a move to detach him either. (Why?) He's so warm. So, so warm.

Thump-thump.

Thump-thump.

Thump-thump.

"I'm not a... something, Stiles," Peter says suavely in his guttural voice, breaking the easy silence.

It rings with a subtle but powerful warning, but Stiles doesn't need it. Just like Stiles is not crazy, Peter is not a thing.

Stiles blinks slowly. "You're a werewolf," he says simply.

"Hmm," Peter hums.

"You were born a werewolf."

"Hmm," Peter hums again.

"I can tell when people are lying to me. I know how people really are the moment I meet them. What am I, Peter?"

"I don't know."

"What do you see?"

Peter leans over him for a few seconds. Then he raises his free hand and lets it hover over his face. One claw traces the outline of Stiles' eyes in the air for a second before Peter speaks. "Whiskey colored eyes." He grazes the skin over his nose and cheek, surprisingly lightly. "Moles." He lifts the forearm Stiles is grasping and shakes it gently, but making sure to not dislodge him. Stiles tightens his grip. Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump under his hand. "Gangly limbs everywhere."

So nothing out of the ordinary. No extra appendages or different features. Just 147 pounds of Stiles, sarcasm and anxiety included.

He locks eyes with Peter. Peter's eyes are incredibly blue and they're making something niggle at the back of Stiles' mind. Has he met Peter before? Thinking about it is making his head hurt. But wait, didn't Thomas say it? Didn't he say Stiles woke up calling a Peter? Stiles swallows around the lump in his throat.

"What am I, Peter?"

"I don't know."

Stiles sighs and closes his eyes for a second. He rubs his forehead tiredly, hoping to ease the slight headache that he has. He feels somewhat numb, but that's normal for him after what happened. He pushes himself up as he reopens them to take a good look around, hand still clasped around Peter's forearm.

It's an arts and crafts shop. It's colorful and cozy, the type of shop that has too many things filling every space in sight and looks a mess, but has a method to its madness. It's ironic that Stiles had never set foot inside before today, and now he has spent who knows how long unconscious on its rug covered wooden floor. He's also pretty sure he wouldn't have been able to sense how soft the rug was before today, because three days ago, a mixture of rubble and dust covered that same floor.

"Six," he announces tiredly. At Peter's inquiring look he elaborates. "Magical magic."

Peter looks around for a moment, an expression of distaste crossing his face briefly before disappearing. "It's exactly as I remember it... Down to the coffee stain on the counter."

"Coffee stain?" Stiles asks, his lips twitching at the affronted tone.

"Same exact spot as a month ago," Peter nods with a grimace.

Stiles snorts softly. "Well, this was completely destroyed three days ago, so that elven magical magic is the bomb, then." Peter's head turns abruptly to look at Stiles. "What?"

"Three days you say?"

"I think so? I'm pretty sure I checked this one on my third day, but I may be wrong. After so many buildings it kinda got blurred." Peter is frowning, Stiles notices. "What? What is it?"

"When did you...? How many days have you been...?"

"Inside Silent Hill minus weird coming at me from dark places? Oh, wait," Stiles contains the impulse of making a crack about his first encounter with Peter. It's a close thing, but he manages. Peter narrows his eyes at him but Stiles knows he's amused. "About six days."

"Huh," Peter replies simply.

"Huh?"

"The day I followed you? Yesterday?" he says as if he's checking to be sure that Stiles is following him.

"Yes?" Stiles says, prompting him to continue because he doesn't know what Peter is trying to get at.

"That's when I saw the town empty, Stiles. It was perfectly normal before."

A beat of silence and then.

"What?!" Stiles exclaims, gaping.

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[feelingsdusk]

Count to five, do it again (chapter 6)

I’m baaack!!! Sorry for the wait? I was really exhausted and I decided to just do what I felt like for a while. Hopefully I’ll be able to resume a constant posting schedule ^^; Anyways, hope you like it!

It isn’t even a conscious choice, really.

When Stiles woke up a few days ago, he would have given anything for the hustle and bustle of his town to come back, but, oh, how things have changed. They say it takes around three weeks to form a new habit, but it’s only taken Stiles six days to become used to the almost complete silence, for his hearing to become more sensitive. So, now, the racket Thomas is making is grating and jarring and, three streets and a park after leaving the hospital, Stiles has put a few meters between them without even noticing what he’s doing.

Stiles has tried telling him to tone it down, telling him he’s drawing too much attention towards them, but Thomas refuses to listen. And what can Stiles do? Threaten him with the bat? Hah, because that would go well. So no, he has to roll with it and make the most of the situation.

Thomas curses loudly when he trips over his own two feet and Stiles cringes at how his voice carries even from a couple of feet ahead. Everything the blond does is obnoxiously loud, and the more noise Thomas makes, the more distance Stiles leaves between them.

So now he’s completely aware of what he’s doing… and he doesn’t feel even the tiniest bit bad about it. So sue him. If Thomas wants to draw a huge target on his back, that’s on him. Stiles is not going to get harmed because of it. He has to get out and find his dad and he’s not going to fail because an asshole is being an idiot. Let Thomas draw the attention of whatever is out there to himself, and Stiles will be able to see the threat coming from miles away.

(If there’s really something or someone out there, because Stiles’ suspicion about the wall being for them is stronger and stronger with each passing minute.)

Or if Stiles doesn’t, he’s pretty sure Peter will, because he seems to be sharing Stiles’ idea of using Thomas as bait since he’s “offered” so readily. And if Peter shares any similarities with the wolf he so much resembles, his senses will be much sharper than Stiles’, and he’ll be more capable of noticing anything before it shows than him.

Stiles eyes the manbeast walking beside him warily. He still makes Stiles’ skin crawl something fierce. Sure, so far Peter’s made no move to harm him, but Stiles can’t trust that. He has the feeling that Peter is the type of person that doesn’t do anything that won’t benefit his interests. Which means that he won’t hurt Stiles unless it benefits him somehow, but he won’t help him either if it will cause him any type of loss. Or more like, if the benefit he’ll gain from helping Stiles will be less than the damage it will cause him.

Stiles is surprisingly fine with that. Well, not surprisingly, because isn’t Stiles the same? Isn’t he wired exactly like that too? He is. People like to lie to themselves, but Stiles never does. Everything Stiles does is self-serving in a way. Everything. In one way or another, it always comes back to Stiles.

He brings Tara the cookies she loves because he likes the way she smiles at him, because that makes Stiles feel warm and nice. He kept silent about her for a long time because it made Stiles feel like a better son. He hounds his dad to eat healthy because Stiles is terrified of losing him and being alone.

Stiles, Stiles, Stiles, Stiles. Always ultimately Stiles.

So yes, Peter makes Stiles’ skin crawl, but not because of his appearance or his morally grey stance in life. Who wouldn’t be wary walking beside a hulking beast that could kill you with its pinky’s nail? Stiles hasn’t proven himself indispensable or gained Peter’s loyalty, after all.

But then again, neither has Peter. And Stiles may be 147 pounds of skin, bones and sarcasm, but he’s not one you would want to mess with either. There’s a reason he’s never bullied at school, and it’s not precisely that he’s popular. Stiles tends to inflict back the pain that’s bestowed upon him tenfold, and that has garnered him a reputation that he’s proud of. Peter had better be careful with his choices because Stiles will go down kicking and screaming, and quite possibly dragging Peter himself with him.

And yes, Stiles may be making assumptions about how Peter is, but he’s never been wrong about anyone before. He knew Harris would be a dick the moment he met him, he knew Finstock was going to be weird and mouthy, but ultimately good. Even as a kid, he knew Tara would be an angel that came from heaven and he knew that Johnson was a good guy that would sneak him chocolate when his dad wasn’t looking, but Michaels was the one to approach for advice. At first glance, Whittemore a douche, Cooper a backstabbing but mousey-looking idiot, Daehler a creep, Martin a genius, Mahealani a nice cool guy, Maldonado a sweet and shy girl, and so on, and so on.

So for now, he walks beside Peter.

—

It takes a while to reach the Preserve by foot and Stiles isn’t going to waste that time completely. Now that Thomas is unknowingly acting as bait and Peter is beside him keeping an eye out, Stiles feels secure enough to divide his attention from the road and look around more carefully. Again, not that he trusts him to keep him safe, but it’s a given that Peter will be faster, so Stiles will react accordingly.

His eyes dart around continuously, trying to take in every detail. As always, besides the noise they’re producing, there’s no other sound. Not even the buzz of electronics. Which, now that he thinks of it, it’s really weird. In every place he’s been to (that’s not damaged), the electronic devices worked perfectly well and were completely silent. The station, the mall, the supermarket… All the machines at the hospital were on, but they never produced any sound at all. And Stiles knows they should. And now that he thinks of it… Well, he’ll have to wait until they’re back to check that but he’s sure…

Stiles stops suddenly and looks around frowning. There. And there too. But how? And when? And he has… He takes another uneasy look around, heart starting to beat faster.

Peter notices him stopping and looks at him quizzically, which is really strange that Stiles can tell, because his face is that of a wolf’s and not as expressive as a human’s. But somehow he knows. Which is another thing to add to the list of weird things, but he’ll get back to it later. Now there are more important matters.

“Thomas,” he calls him, trying to do it as low as he can while still making sure he’s heard.

“What,” he snaps back loudly and Stiles winces internally at the volume.

Stiles ignores him, pretty sure by now that Thomas is doing it on purpose; partly to annoy Stiles, partly to convince himself that he’s not scared, which is so, so stupid because how can he overcome his fears if he doesn’t acknowledge that he’s afraid? In any case, stupid or not, Stiles doesn’t want to let him know how much it affects him because it will only make things worse with someone like Thomas.

He makes a gesture to make him wait and looks at the nearest building that drew his attention. He swallows thickly and approaches it cautiously. He peers inside through the glass, frowning and clutching his bat tightly.

“Is now really the time for window shopping, man?” Thomas says incredulously and a touch derisively.

Stiles jumps slightly at hearing him so near, and then resists the urge to shut him up by force. He breathes in and goes back to inspecting the inside of the shop.

“Well, it’s never going to be cheaper,” he replies blithely because his tongue is a better weapon where Thomas is concerned, and he hears Peter snort softly.

Tables, chairs, lamps… Sofas, bedposts, wardrobes, cupboards… Cash registers, telephone at the back. Lots of places to hide and spring from…

“The fuck?! You’re worse that my woman, man,” he snarks snidely, something ugly in his voice.

… and Thomas keeps wailing. He takes a step back just in case, but keeps looking inside through the corner of his eye. At the moment, Thomas is the one closest to the window.

“Your woman,” Stiles says, disbelieving.

There’s something in the way he says that… Stiles contains a grimace. The more time he spends with this guy, the more he rubs him the wrong way and raises his hackles.

“My girlfriend, man. Always buying shit that she doesn’t need. Like all that fresh… What’s wrong with the frozen stuff? It tastes ok! And then she pitches a fit when I buy a car without telling her. If she hadn’t spent so much on food, we wouldn’t have had problems with the rent, dammit. It would have been at least… what, fifty dollars less? No, eighty, I think? Fresh food is fucking expensive…”

Stiles doesn’t know what face he’s making, but it must be epic, because it’s prompting Thomas to talk and talk more to explain his reasoning. And the more he talks, the more disgusted Stiles feels by this man-child that thinks that buying protein powder (to get more muscle, because he needs it to protect his house, his things, his woman, you know?) with his girlfriend’s money (because he’s already spent his own and then some on a car he didn’t need, and he can’t go without the protein!) when they’re short to pay the rent is ok. And he gets angry because his girlfriend got pissed off, because he knows she has something stashed away for emergencies. And isn’t paying the rent an emergency?

“… always bitching about every thing I do! Do you see me complaining about how much she spends on tampons or whatever?!”

Fuck, Stiles really wants to bash this asshole’s head against the wall. How can that poor woman stand him? Stiles would have… Then, something clicks suddenly.

“Ah, so you mean the girlfriend that you no longer have?” Stiles cuts in before he can stop himself.

(A Stiles with his hackles raised is a nasty Stiles, so sue him.)

“What?! I never said… How did you-?!”

“Because no woman would lower herself to stand a piece of shit like you for long. Or man, for that matter.”

“You little-” Thomas starts growling at the same time that he shoots a dark look at Peter for his amused snort.

Peter smiles with all teeth and Thomas backs off hurriedly, shutting up instantly. Which is interesting, because he obviously can’t see what Stiles can see. Does this mean that Thomas’ subconscious somehow does? Because it’s certainly not because of anything Peter has said that has made alarms ring in his head. Peter doesn’t talk much. How many times has Stiles heard him speak since yesterday? Twice? Thrice? He even kept silent during their discussion this morning.

Other things to file away for later.

“This was destroyed yesterday,” Stiles continues, ignoring Thomas’ glower.

“What?” Thomas sneers at the same time that Peter makes an inquiring sound. “No, it’s not.”

“Yesterday it was,” Stiles replies, completely sure.

“You are crazy. Can’t you see it’s not? Look I’ve come here like a thousand times with my girlfriend…”

“No longer your girlfriend,” Stiles corrects him gently and with a smile, taking pleasure in how he grits his teeth.

“…and it looks exactly the same! What, did a crew of elves come? Did they repair it with their magical magic?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles replies, still in that same gentle tone and smiling. “Were they the ones that built the wall in one night? Or destroyed about half the buildings in this town? Or made all the people disappear?” Thomas’ mouth snaps shut with a click and Stiles feels inordinately pleased about that. Stiles doesn’t know what it is about him that sets his teeth on edge, but the more time he spends with Thomas, the more acutely he feels it. It’s not about him being a douche, it’s something else and Stiles doesn’t like it at all. And it’s absurd because Peter is the one that looks like a monster out of a horror movie. Then again, not all monsters look like monsters, right? “All I know is that this shop was completely destroyed yesterday. And that coffee shop over there? It was too. And now they aren’t, so why?”

“Fuck this,” Thomas snarls, throwing his hands in the air dramatically. “I’m out. I’m not going to go into a forest with a psycho like you.” He looks at Peter and sneers. “Or Mr. Silence of the Lambs here. I’m out.”

“Wow, what a record,” Stiles mocks nastily. He doesn’t care about Thomas staying or not. If he leaves, he won’t be painting a target on their backs anymore. If he stays, they get to keep their annoying bait. Stiles (and Peter) gains and loses something whatever happens. “You’ve managed to hang onto your balls for this long. Congratulations, it must have been so hard for you!” He claps softly but quickly. “And now that you’ve found an excuse to leave, you can go and hide with Donna. You know, stay in one place, where you can be found easily and you’re an even easier target. But at least that will give Donna the time to help Ally and Marion, so hey, you have your uses after all.”

“Fuck you, man! You think you’re the shit, don’t you? Hah, you’re going to get killed while I’m safe, bitch. Good luck in hell, getting your ass busted by-”

“And good luck to you on your way back,” Stiles cuts in, smiling at him, wide and sinister, and twirling his bat for effect. “Alone, asshole.”

Thomas gapes. He looks wide-eyed at the road they’ve left behind them and then at the one in front of them. Then he swallows audibly, sneers at both Stiles and Peter, and turns to go back to the hospital. Some twisted part of Stiles finds it funny that he tries to be silent as he walks.

“Also good luck trying to find a way to get out of here on your own if we get killed,” Stiles singsongs at his retreating back.

Peter starts laughing. It’s a barking sound, guttural and the stuff straight out of the worst horror movie.

(Thomas hastens his pace.)

—

Peter and Stiles continue walking in silence. It takes a long time to get to the preserve by foot and Stiles is missing his bike fiercely. It’s going to be a long day.

He’s not being as thorough as he was before, when he had Thomas acting as bait, but he’s trying to keep an eye out for more anomalies while paying attention to his immediate surroundings. So far, he’s spotted another three buildings that he’s sure were destroyed the last time he checked them. It’s really confusing and unnerving.

He takes a look at Peter and his heart skips a beat at the primal expression on his face and the glowing blue eyes that had been normal since they left the hospital this morning. As if sensing his turmoil, Peter turns to look at him, eyes unnervingly focused.

“Three more buildings,” he blurts out.

“The elves magical magic again?” Peter growls lowly, obviously as a mock towards Thomas, not Stiles. (How he knows that, Stiles doesn’t know.) His enunciation sounds weird, as if it’s difficult for him to get out the words.

“Yeah,” Stiles confirms.

“How many so far?” Peter asks, his enunciation clearing marginally. The more words come out of his mouth, the less primal he looks. Stiles swallows thickly.

“Five that I noticed,” Stiles hums, peeling his eyes from Peter as if he’s noticed nothing. “And I’m not sure, but I think that at least two and a half floors of the hospital were full of rubble before, and when I came back with Ally yesterday they weren’t.”

“Not sure?”

Stiles shoots a dirty look at him. “I was busy running for my life, sorry for not being able to give to a clearer answer.”

Peter snorts, amused. “So touchy,” he purrs mockingly. His words are clearer with each passing minute.

Stiles narrows his eyes dangerously as he brandishes his bat. “So touchy that I’ll make your brains splatter against the ground if you do something like that ever again.”

Peter pauses to study Stiles openly. Then he smiles widely, obviously delighted. “You’re not lying. You do believe you can do that.”

That tone. Stiles frowns. “And you somehow can tell that.”

“Well, you have very expressive eyes, sweetheart.”

“You’re lying. It’s not that.”

He is. Peter is lying, Stiles knows. But it’s not his face or his eyes that give him away, Stiles just knows.

Why? Just what is Stiles? Is he like Peter? Does he look human to others, but Peter can see he’s not? Just like Stiles can see Peter is not human? Can he tell Stiles wasn’t bluffing because of that?

“Am I? Hmmm. How are you so sure?”

“I just… I just am. And you’re trying to…” He’s toying with Stiles… Wait, no, he isn’t. He’s fishing. But there’s nothing to catch because Stiles doesn’t know. “How can you tell? Does it have to do with…” He looks at the wolf features, the fur, the snout, the fangs. By the time Stiles lowers his eyes, they’re watering from the splitting headache he suddenly has, and there’s a ringing in his ears. Thunder explodes not far away. “What do you see?” he blurts out, his hand closing reflexively around Peter’s arm. It’s warm and he can feel the powerful muscles shift beneath his palm. It helps him keep himself grounded and upright on his trembling legs.

Peter takes a sharp intake of air at the touch and shakes under Stiles’ palm. “What do I… see?”

“Yes,” he chokes out. “I see something like a wolf walking on two legs when I look at you.” He reaches with his free hand, his index finger brushing briefly against the protruding muzzle before retracting, lightning fast. “What do you see when you look at me, Peter?”

What is Stiles?

Breathe, he thinks. Breathe, Stiles. Breathe because Peter’s lips are moving but he can’t hear a thing. Breathe!

In.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Out.

One.

Two.

Thr-

—

Can’t you see?! Please, John!

Please!

He’s going to kill me!

—

I won’t let you.

—

Stiles wakes up with a start. Rain is pouring heavily outside. It’s hitting the window continuously, almost as fast as his racing heart. He can hear it going down the drain heavily too, like a never-ending cascade. Lightning illuminates the cloud-filled sky every now and then, and thunder follows it almost immediately.

Stiles’ body is being shaken by full body tremors. He swallows with a grimace and shivers, feeling cold on too many levels. Peter, unlike him, is like a furnace, he notices detachedly. Not just warm, but scorching hot. Under his fingers, he can feel Peter’s pulse. It’s a steady thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump.

Thump-thump.

Thump-thump.

Thump-thump.

He doesn’t remember when he closed his eyes but it’s not like it’s important anyways. Stiles opens them sluggishly. The storm is easing up outside and the thunder and lightning have stopped completely. The furry rug under him is so soft that he can’t help but bury his free hand in it. He closes his eyes again.

Thump-thump.

Thump-thump.

Thump-thump.

He opens his eyes and raises them to meet Peter’s. Stiles’ hand twitches where it’s still clasped around his forearm. He should let go but he doesn’t want to. (Why?) He realizes vaguely that Peter hasn’t made a move to detach him either. (Why?) He’s so warm. So, so warm.

Thump-thump.

Thump-thump.

Thump-thump.

“I’m not a… something, Stiles,” Peter says suavely in his guttural voice, breaking the easy silence.

It rings with a subtle but powerful warning, but Stiles doesn’t need it. Just like Stiles is not crazy, Peter is not a thing.

Stiles blinks slowly. “You’re a werewolf,” he says simply.

“Hmm,” Peter hums.

“You were born a werewolf.”

“Hmm,” Peter hums again.

“I can tell when people are lying to me. I know how people really are the moment I meet them. What am I, Peter?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you see?”

Peter leans over him for a few seconds. Then he raises his free hand and lets it hover over his face. One claw traces the outline of Stiles’ eyes in the air for a second before Peter speaks. “Whiskey colored eyes.” He grazes the skin over his nose and cheek, surprisingly lightly. “Moles.�� He lifts the forearm Stiles is grasping and shakes it gently, but making sure to not dislodge him. Stiles tightens his grip. Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump under his hand. “Gangly limbs everywhere.”

So nothing out of the ordinary. No extra appendages or different features. Just 147 pounds of Stiles, sarcasm and anxiety included.

He locks eyes with Peter. Peter’s eyes are incredibly blue and they’re making something niggle at the back of Stiles’ mind. Has he met Peter before? Thinking about it is making his head hurt. But wait, didn’t Thomas say it? Didn’t he say Stiles woke up calling a Peter? Stiles swallows around the lump in his throat.

“What am I, Peter?”

“I don’t know.”

Stiles sighs and closes his eyes for a second. He rubs his forehead tiredly, hoping to ease the slight headache that he has. He feels somewhat numb, but that’s normal for him after what happened. He pushes himself up as he reopens them to take a good look around, hand still clasped around Peter’s forearm.

It’s an arts and crafts shop. It’s colorful and cozy, the type of shop that has too many things filling every space in sight and looks a mess, but has a method to its madness. It’s ironic that Stiles had never set foot inside before today, and now he has spent who knows how long unconscious on its rug covered wooden floor. He’s also pretty sure he wouldn’t have been able to sense how soft the rug was before today, because three days ago, a mixture of rubble and dust covered that same floor.

“Six,” he announces tiredly. At Peter’s inquiring look he elaborates. “Magical magic.”

Peter looks around for a moment, an expression of distaste crossing his face briefly before disappearing. “It’s exactly as I remember it… Down to the coffee stain on the counter.”

“Coffee stain?” Stiles asks, his lips twitching at the affronted tone.

“Same exact spot as a month ago,” Peter nods with a grimace.

Stiles snorts softly. “Well, this was completely destroyed three days ago, so that elven magical magic is the bomb, then.” Peter’s head turns abruptly to look at Stiles. “What?”

“Three days you say?”

“I think so? I’m pretty sure I checked this one on my third day, but I may be wrong. After so many buildings it kinda got blurred.” Peter is frowning, Stiles notices. “What? What is it?”

“When did you…? How many days have you been…?”

“Inside Silent Hill minus weird coming at me from dark places? Oh, wait,” Stiles contains the impulse of making a crack about his first encounter with Peter. It’s a close thing, but he manages. Peter narrows his eyes at him but Stiles knows he’s amused. “About six days.”

“Huh,” Peter replies simply.

“Huh?”

“The day I followed you? Yesterday?” he says as if he’s checking to be sure that Stiles is following him.

“Yes?” Stiles says, prompting him to continue because he doesn’t know what Peter is trying to get at.

“That’s when I saw the town empty, Stiles. It was perfectly normal before.”

A beat of silence and then.

“What?!” Stiles exclaims, gaping.