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Being born with his soulmark has always set Stiles apart. Having a soulmate at least sixteen years older than you raises a lot of eyebrows, and the fact that about 70% of soulmates who find each other before they’re both past the age of consent don’t manage to wait for it before becoming intimate doesn’t help. No one’s ever successfully brought charges in any of those cases–no few parents have tried–but that’s not exactly reassuring.
Still, Stiles felt lucky growing up. Knowing that his perfect complement was out there, waiting for him, was something he clung to when his mom died, when his dad was drinking, when the kids at school got mean. The only dark spot, as far as Stiles was concerned, was knowing that his soulmate thought they were alone. They wouldn’t get their mark until Stiles turned sixteen.
Stiles spent his sixteenth birthday anxiously checking his phone every minute he could. His mark had been filed with the matching database since he’d grown big enough for the design to become clear. As an adult, his soulmate should be able to register right away. Stiles had been born at three in the morning, so whoever they were, they must have woken up to their mark that morning.
But the day drags on and on and no notification comes.
When his dad gets home that night, Stiles is sitting on the couch, clutching his phone and trying not to cry.
His dad sits next to Stiles and pulls him into a hug. “Maybe they just didn’t see it,” his dad says, rubbing Stiles’ back. “After all this time, they wouldn’t be checking for it every day. Maybe the mark is on their back, or the bottom of their foot, and they just need a little time to find it.”
“Sure,” Stiles mutters, but deep down he doesn’t believe it.
Weeks pass. Enough time for everyone at school to realize that he should have been matched by now. Stiles had never been quiet about his mark.
He regrets that, now. He hates that something that once brought him such comfort, such confidence, has become fuel for mockery. The only thing worse is the growing conviction that his soulmate just… doesn’t want him.
It's selfish, he knows it’s selfish, but the sudden invasion of supernatural bullshit into his life is a weird, adrenaline filled kind of relief. Soulmarks aren’t the only kind of magic in the world, and survival is more important than some mystical connection. He buries himself in research and only cries himself to sleep once after he finds out that Scott and Allison are matched. He goes entire weeks without thinking about his soulmate.
And then Stiles drags Peter out of bed for a 3am emergency research session and spots it.
It’s on his back, closer to the shoulder blade than the spine. Most soulmarks are colored, but this one is a stark black. An ouroboros is overlaid on the eight radiating arrows of a chaos star. Two well known symbols, but Stiles has only seen them combined once before. On his hip.
Peter is his soulmate.
Stiles says nothing. Even if he knew what to say, they were in the middle of a crisis. He might go on his own research binges at 3am, but he only drags Peter into them when it’s a legitimate emergency. Still, by the time the pack are all stumbling home to wash off the slime Stiles has thought of a dozen reasons to confront Peter and a dozen more why that is the worst idea ever and he should never take off his pants in the wolf’s presence ever, no matter what. Not that he regularly thought about taking his pants off for Peter or anything.
Their mark is all he can think about when Peter is around, which is unfortunate because they’ve become the default research team for the pack. Stiles spends a fair amount of time with Peter these days. In Peter’s apartment, even. Which is where they are when the thoughts chasing themselves around Stiles’ brain reach some sort of threshold and he blurts out, “So. Soulmates.”
Peter groans dramatically and throws himself back in his chair, away from the book he’d been bent over. “Do we have to have this conversation?”
In for a penny, in for a pound, Stiles figures. He closes his own book and pushes it to one side. “Yeah, I really think we do.”
“And to think,” Peter says, “I was sure that, out of everyone, you would be the one who wouldn’t buy into the bullshit.” The words are aggressive, even his tone is acidic, but the way he rubs his hand over his face says fatigue, not anger.
Stiles bristles. “Soul marks are not bullshit.” He’d spent his whole life dreaming of his soulmate.
Peter snorts. “Of course you’d say that. You’re seventeen. You’ve had your mark for what, a year? Two? And your best friend has already found his soulmate. It’s all sunshine and roses for you. You’ll never see the ugly side of it.”
Okay, Stiles doesn’t know how old Peter is, exactly, but he should know damn well that Stiles was born with his mark.
Unless he doesn’t know that Stiles is his match.
“Look, I just wanted to know–”
“No,” Peter cuts him off.
Stiles growls. “Why not?”
“Because there’s only one question anyone wants to ask someone who’s blank,” Peter sneers. “‘What does it feel like?’”
It hits Stiles like a ton of bricks: when Stiles turned sixteen, Peter was still in a coma. He’d been blank when the fire happened and had no reason to think that would change. “That’s not what I was going to ask,” Stiles manages. It’s true, and for once he’s glad for the listening-for-a-lie thing, because Peter’s hostility quickly fades.
“Well, maybe I wasn’t giving you too much credit after all.” He levels a curious look at Stiles. “Why did you bring it up, then?”
Think fast! “I found my soulmate, but he doesn’t know it’s me, and I’m not sure if I should say anything,” Stiles says, and gives himself a silent high five because that is totally fucking true.
Peter raises an eyebrow. “And you wanted advice from me about that?”
“Well, you have a unique perspective,” Stiles says. He is on a roll. “And you know if I asked Scott I’d get an hour of romantic cliches and nothing at all useful.”
“No, if you’d asked Scott, you’d get an hour of rambling about how amazing Allison is,” Peter says dryly.
Stiles has to snicker, because he loves his bro, but it’s still true. “So, thoughts on soulmates?” Stiles prompts.
“My perspective may be unique,” Peter says slowly, “but I’m not certain it's helpful.”
“Let me decide that? I mean, if it's not too painful to talk about.” Too late, Stiles realizes that Peter might take that as a challenge: he’d never admit to pain. Not this sort, anyway.
He doesn’t look at Stiles as he considers his answer, but that’s not unusual with Peter. Especially if he’s talking about something personal. “It took years before I realized something was wrong. After all, someone always has to be the older one, so fifty percent of people don’t receive their mark until after they turn sixteen, and the average age gap between couples in the US is just over two years.” The statistics roll off Peter’s tongue easily, obviously familiar. “People started talking around my twentieth birthday. Ninety-two percent of people have their marks by twenty.” Stiles is almost holding his breath, afraid to interrupt. Peter’s gaze is distant. “Ninety-nine percent by twenty-five, but I’d heard it from plenty of people before that.”
Stiles hesitates, but he can’t not ask. “Heard what?”
Peter’s lips twist, but it’s not a smile. “People only call you ‘blank’ or ‘markless’ when they’re being polite. The rest of the time, they call you ‘soulless’.”
Stiles has the sudden, sinking feeling that he might have called Peter that once. Not because he lacked a mark, but because of what he’d done to Scott and to Lydia. It had taken him a long time to believe that Peter was on their side, now, and Stiles has never been known for holding his tongue. The bitterness in Peter’s tone is sharp, deep rooted, and the fact that he’s letting Stiles hear it speaks to a level of trust Stiles isn’t sure he’s earned. “People are assholes,” he offers, because he has to say something.
Peter snorts. “So they are.” He sits up and turns back to the book he’d been studying. Stiles lets his leg bounce nervously until Peter turns and glares at him. “What.”
“You didn’t actually give me your perspective,” Stiles says. “On, you know, my situation.”
“Tell him,” Peter says, not looking up from the book.
“Tell him? That’s all you’ve got? Just tell him?” Stiles throws his hands up. “Like it’s that easy? What if he doesn’t want me?” God knows why Peter would want a spastic teenager. “What if he’s planned out his life and me showing up screws it all up?” Because he knows that Peter has plans; these days he’s pretty sure they don’t include killing any of his friends, but other people are not off the table and that isn’t exactly good. “What if I’m too much trouble?”
No one has ever put him first. For his dad it was work. For Scott it was Allison. For Derek, the betas. For Lydia, Jackson. No one he’s cared about has ever put him first and the most terrifying part of being Peter’s soulmate is that for Peter, Peter always comes first.
Peter slams the book shut and turns to face Stiles so abruptly that his chair screeches over the floor. “Then you’ll know!” he snaps. “You’ll know, and you can start making your own fucking plans. You can stop waiting and start living instead.”
“But–”
“Shut up,” Peter snarls. Stiles closes his mouth so hard his teeth hurt. “You want to know what it feels like to be blank?” Stiles nods silently, wide eyed. Peter leans forward, eyes glowing blue, his voice as sharp as a blade. “It’s like treading water. Not for two hours,” and Stiles remembers the pool, the exhaustion, the dwindling hope, “not for two days, or two weeks, or two months. Imagine treading water for two decades. You’re alone, and you’re cold, and you’re doing everything you can to keep from drowning, because maybe, if you can just hold on long enough, maybe a miracle will happen. But around you,” Peter waves, barks out a harsh laugh, “there’s nothing. No land. No life preserver. Not even a hint of a boat in the distance. Nothing. So don’t,” he pins Stiles with a hard look, “tell me that it’s easier to do without.”
Peter launches himself out of his chair and is halfway to the door before Stiles gets his shit together and all but shouts, “You’re not blank!”
Peter stops in his tracks but doesn’t turn around. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?” he asks, voice dangerously even.
Stiles stands and rubs sweaty palms on his jeans. “I’m not screwing with you. I swear. You’ve got a mark. It’s on your back, next to your shoulder blade.”
Peter turns very, very slowly. Stiles’ heart is pounding so hard he has to stop himself from putting a hand to his chest to hold it in.
“I checked my back,” Peter says evenly. “I shaved my head, Stiles. More than once. I couldn't have just missed it.”
“But not since you woke up from the coma, right?” Stiles says.
Peter is staring at him now. “No.”
“You want to, uh, go to the bathroom? Check in the mirror?” Stiles waves in the right direction and then rubs the back of his neck. Peter is still staring. “Yeah, you should. You know. Look.” Peter still doesn’t move, so Stiles crosses the distance between them, takes him by the arm, and drags him to the bathroom. Peter, fortunately, doesn’t resist. Stiles positions him with his back to the mirror. “Okay, shirt off.” Peter doesn’t move, and when Stiles meets his gaze he sees something there that he never imagined.
Fear.
“Hey,” Stiles says quietly. “It’s there. I promise. Take your shirt off and you’ll see.”
After one more still moment, Peter slowly pulls his shirt over his head. He doesn’t turn, closing his eyes for a moment first. Gathering his courage, Stiles thinks. Stiles takes a quick look over his shoulder just to make sure–if the damn thing has somehow vanished, Peter will kill him–but it’s there, just like it had been a couple weeks ago. When he looks back at Peter the wolf’s eyes are open, fixed on Stiles. Stiles nods toward the mirror.
Peter turns his head, craning his neck to see over his shoulder. When he catches sight of the mark he makes a quiet, wounded noise and stumbles back into the counter, trying to get closer. He reaches around like he wants to touch the mark, but of course he can’t. Peter’s eyes are shining, not with a supernatural glow but with unshed tears, and when he realizes the mark is out of reach he chokes out a whine.
The words slip out before Stiles even realizes he’s made a decision: “There’s more.”
Stiles kind of thought Peter would struggle to tear his eyes off his mark, but he must have a sense, somehow, of what’s coming, because instead he snaps his head around to face Stiles immediately. “More?” he prompts, voice rough.
Stiles unbuttons his jeans and can’t decide if he’s relieved or nervous that Peter doesn’t make some sort of crack. Instead he’s silent, eyes fixed on Stiles’ hands as he pushes down his jeans and boxers just enough to expose the mark on his hip. Peter reaches out slowly, curls his hand around Stiles’ hip, and rubs his thumb over the mark. A shiver goes through Stiles. He looks up nervously. Peter’s still looking at the mark, but after a moment he meets Stiles’ gaze.
It’s a total cliche, but Stiles swears that time stands still for a minute. He forgets about his pounding heart, about what Scott’s going to say, even about the heat of Peter’s hand on his skin. All he knows is that his soulmate is here with him.
Between one blink and the next the moment is over. Stiles licks his lips uncertainly. “So–”
That’s as far as he gets before Peter hooks a hand around the back of Stiles’ neck and pulls him into a kiss so filthy it belongs on pornhub.
A startled noise escapes Stiles, but he throws himself into the kiss with gusto. It’s hungry and open mouthed and fuck, he is not used to kissing like this, but Peter doesn’t seem to mind and Stiles learns fast. He quickly picks up the trick of breathing through his nose and snatching bits of air as they change the angle of the kiss and fuck, Peter is an expert with his tongue. Stiles kind of wants to take notes except he doesn’t want to stop kissing.
God only knows how long they spend like that, making out in the bathroom. Long enough that Stiles starts to wonder if Peter is going to make him come right there, but hey, if that’s what Peter wants Stiles isn’t gonna say no.
But Peter stops him before that happens. “Wait, wait,” he murmurs, breathless, pressing their foreheads together, his hands on Stiles’ hips stopping his grinding.
“Gimme another minute and I’ll be done,” Stiles promises, and Peter laughs softly.
“I know,” he says, and Stiles has never heard Peter sound that warm before. “But you deserve better than a quickie in a bathroom.”
Stiles groans. “I can’t have both?”
“Greedy,” Peter accuses, but he kisses Stiles again anyway. Not for too long, sadly. When they break apart again, Peter cups Stiles’ face in his hands. “I’ve been dreaming about this for so many years,” he says intently. His mouth quirks up at the corner. “Please let me–”
“Be the totally extra asshole that you are?” Stiles finishes, smirking.
Peter laughs, dropping his hands, but only to rest them on Stiles’ hips, like he can’t do without the contact just yet. “Yes,” he says shamelessly, but then his expression sobers. “The only thing that’s ever really mattered to me, besides revenge, was finding some substitute for a connection I’d given up on having.” Peter traces the circle of the ouroboros with the pad of his thumb. “Forgive me if I revel in it for a while.”
Hearing that Peter considers him that important unravels a knot of anxiety that Stiles had almost managed to ignore; the relief is a rush. “Revel all you want.” He hooks his fingers into Peter’s belt loops and gives him a light tug, though not enough to move him. “Just don’t tease.” Stiles is not good with delayed gratification.
“Sweetheart,” Peter purrs, “I always follow through.”
Stiles flushes. “You sure that a quickie in the bathroom is off the table?”
Peter laughs and Stiles grins back at him, pleased. Even if he was only mostly joking.
~End~