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“Welcome to The Feeding Room, Mr Hale. Have you made arrangements to meet someone or are you just browsing tonight?” The maître d asks as he takes Peter’s jacket.

“Browsing thank you Marco. Anyone new on the menu, so to speak?” Peter knows he’ll probably be disappointed, but he can’t help but hope that this time, there’ll be someone worthy of his affections.

 Marco nods to a long table where a group of young men and women are chattering and helping themselves from various platters of finger food. They’re all human, and they’re all here of their own free will, hoping a werewolf will select them for the hand-feeding ritual that’s the first step in a courtship. “We have a variety of interesting morsels available for selection,” he purrs, his fangs lengthening slightly.

 Peter’s gaze is drawn to a long-limbed boy sitting at the end of the table, twirling a breadstick between obscenely long fingers. He has dark, haphazard hair, pale skin, and beauty marks peppering his face and neck. His head is thrown back in a laugh and the line of his throat is long and tempting. Peter wonders what that throat looks like when the boy swallows, and if he’ll make pretty noises when Peter feeds him. He imagines, just for a second, his fingers slipping between those lips, feeling them hot and wet around him.

 That one, then.

 He’s just about to approach his selection when another Were taps the young man on the shoulder and indicates the private feeding booths lining the sides of the room. The young man raises an eyebrow at the Were as if to say ‘who me?’ and Peter growls in frustration.

It’s Deucalion, of course, greedy unscrupulous bastard that he is. He’s known for courting humans right up to the point of mating them and then dropping them like a stone, claiming they’re not the one after all. It’s honestly a wonder that he hasn’t been banned, but then, money talks.  Peter’s hit by a wave of protectiveness for the boy, who probably doesn’t know what he’s letting himself in for. Duke will ruin him, and Peter can’t have that. His feet are moving forward before he even knows what he’s doing. “Sweetheart, there you are! I’m so sorry I’m late. Marco didn’t settle you in a booth for me?” He stares intently at the boy, willing him to play along.

The boy blinks, then gives an uncertain smile. “Oh! Yeah he did, but I saw a friend and came to say hello. And this guy thought I was available. Which I’m not,” he says with a nod in Deucalion’s direction. “Sorry, I already have a date.” He turns to Peter, ignoring Deucalion’s scowl completely, his expression pure mischief. “So tell me, what are you going to put in my mouth tonight, Alpha?”

And oh, Peter likes this boy. “Anything you’d like sweetheart. Shall we get settled?”

Peter extends an arm, but the boy doesn’t take it, instead gesturing and saying, ”Lead the way.”

A waiter directs them into the private booth and they settle into the chairs on either side of the deliberately small table. It’s big enough to hold a platter, some drinks, and not much else, designed so that they’ll be in reaching distance and the Wolf can feed their companion easily.  It’s supposed to be intimate, after all.

The waiter holds out a menu and Peter peruses it, even though he’s familiar with everything on there from his many fruitless visits. He’s never met someone yet who engaged his attention when he fed them, never had his wolf sit up and take notice. But he already has a feeling today will be different. He looks at his companion consideringly, notes that he’s less lean than he first appeared, his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow and exposing muscled forearms. “Hmmm,” he muses aloud. “Are you a sweet boy, I wonder?”

The young man cocks an eyebrow, smirking. “Try me and see.”

It’s part of the challenge, at the start of courting, to see if a wolf is in tune enough to guess what will please their partner. Peter knows that given Stiles’s age and demographic a platter with fries and chicken tenders would be a safe bet. But when Peter looks at that lush mouth, all he can think of is summer fruits - slippery slices of mango, juicy strawberries, lush chunks of peach flesh. This boy needs to be fed things that will drip.

He tells the waiter, “We’ll have the tropical delights, with a side of salted caramel dipping sauce and whipped cream.”

The waiter nods and retreats, closing the saloon doors of the booth and leaving them in relative privacy, and Peter’s companion breaks into a delighted grin. “I love fruit, but I thought you’d for sure go for the diner food. How did you know?”

“I didn’t,” Peter confesses. “But I couldn’t get past the thought of you licking juice from my fingertips. I’m Peter, by the way. Peter Hale.” He extends a hand.

The young man takes it, giving the barest of shakes. “Stiles Stilinski.”

Peter’s eyebrows raise. “You’re the sheriff’s son.”

The boy (Stiles, Peter has a name for perfection, now) nods. “And you’re the mayor’s brother.”

“Guilty as charged.” Peter leans forward, elbows on the table, and watches Stiles with interest. “So tell me, Stiles. What led you to signing up for The Feeding Room?”

Because it’s not a spur of the moment thing, Peter knows. Werewolf courting is no joke.  There are all sorts of screenings that take place before a human ever gets to set foot in the pace, to weed out anti-werewolf protesters and hungry students who are just after a free meal.

There are questionnaires, evaluations and background checks, as well as information nights on what exactly Werewolf courting entails, what a human can expect if they’re selected. If Stiles is here, it’s because he wants to be, that’s not in question. What Peter wants to know is why.

Stiles shrugs, faux-nonchalant.  “What if I said I saw what the human dating pool had to offer and I wasn’t interested, so I decided to cast my net wider?” His heartbeat stutters the tiniest bit.

Peter frowns. “That’s not it. Why are you lying?”

He stares, unblinking, waiting for an answer, and Stiles squirms under his gaze. Finally he rolls his eyes and huffs out a breath. “Okay, maybe it’s not quite that. Maybe it’s more that the human dating pool wasn’t interested in me. And maybe I have friends who are wolves, and I’ve seen how they treat their partners, how devoted they are. And I want that.”

His heartbeat’s steady this time, and Peter flashes him a smile. “Well in that case, the human dating pool is either blind or stupid, I don’t care which if it means I get to dine with a divine creature like you.”

Stiles blushes, ducks his head. It’s adorable, and Peter has to fight back the desire to scoop Stiles up and set him on his knee. He resists though, because there are protocols in place, even in the privacy of the booth. He has to feed his boy first, see how his wolf reacts, see how Stiles reacts, figure out if they’re compatible. (They are compatible, Peter can already feel it in his bones.)

He settles for pouring Stiles a glass of ice water from the carafe on the table, and watching raptly as he drinks it down, head back, throat exposed, looking absolutely mouth-watering. Stiles places the empty glass on the table and traces the tip of his tongue delicately over his lower lip, one eyebrow raised. Peter finds his own tongue tracing his bottom lip in response, and Stiles smirks.

Definitely compatible.

 


 

 

The food arrives and Peter surveys the tray with satisfaction. There’s a wide variety, and it’s all so sweet and messy.  Stiles is waiting expectantly, so Peter asks the question that will kickstart their evening. “May I feed you, Stiles?”

Stiles leans in close and grins. “Feed me, Seymour.”

That’s… not the expected response, but Peter gets the reference and is completely charmed by it, so he goes with it. He raises an eyebrow and whispers, “It’s suppertime.”

Stiles beams, obviously pleased with his response. After a second though, the smile drops off his face. “Shit. Sorry, I haven’t screwed this up have I?”

The sour stench of anxiety starts to bleed through Stiles’s otherwise warm, earthy scent, so Peter hastens to reassure him. “It’s fine, sweet boy. Nobody here but us. We can just pretend you answered properly.”

Stiles though, shakes his head, a determined set to his jaw. “Ask me again? If I'm doing this, I want to do it right.”

Peter finds it far more endearing than he should. He picks up a plump segment of mandarin from the platter and extends his hand. “May I feed you, Stiles?”

Stiles gives him a grateful smile. “You may feed me Peter, as a prelude to courtship.” Having gotten the wording perfect, he opens his mouth and snags the segment between his teeth, biting down and tugging it out of Peter's fingers. Drops of juice spurt onto Peter’s hand and he licks it without thinking. Stiles swallows the fruit and lets out a low moan that does all sorts of things to Peter’s libido.

He’s possibly a little eager when he dips a strawberry in the salted caramel and presses it to Stiles’s lips, if Stiles’s amused expression is anything to go by. He opens wide though, swirls his tongue around the berry, licking the sauce off, and then lets his teeth slice through the fruit. “Mmmmm, more of that please?”

Peter nods wordlessly, transfixed by the sight before him, and dips another strawberry. Stiles sucks the caramel off this time and then chews slowly, deliberately, his eyes closing and appreciative sounds falling from his lips. Peter feeds him a spoonful of the sauce just to see if he’ll make those noises again, and Stiles laps delicately at the spoon.

“Good, sweetheart?” Peter murmurs, selecting a chunk of pineapple. 

“Mhmm,” Stiles nods, as he leans forward slightly and steals the fruit from between Peter’s fingers. Peter’s fairly sure Stiles is flicking his tongue out on purpose, because no normal person eats like this. He doesn’t really care if it’s deliberate though, because his wolf is yipping in approval, Peter’s mind whirling with yes and this one and ours.

Stiles makes a forlorn noise, and Peter realizes with a start that he’s stopped feeding his boy and is staring, a strip of mango held between his fingers just out of Stiles’s reach. “Sorry, sweet boy. I was,” he pauses, searching for the right word. (Lovestruck? Enamoured? Overwhelmed?) He settles on, “distracted by your sinful mouth.”

Stiles gives him a thousand-watt smile at that. “Yeah?”

“You’re very pretty, and my wolf finds you quite delightful,” Peter tells him. No point in beating around the bush.

Stiles’s cheeks go pink, making him even prettier. “Your wolf doesn’t know me,” he objects, but it’s half-hearted at best. “I’m really not much of a catch.”

Peter reaches out then, even though it’s a breach of the rules, to touch without permission, and cups Stiles’s cheek. “My wolf finds you delightful,” he repeats firmly, “and so do I. Are you telling me we’re wrong?”

Stiles’s lips part and his eyes widen at the touch. His already delicious scent changes, deepens, and Peter can sense the thread of desire laced through it. “It’s just – I’ve been called a lot of things, and delightful isn’t one of them,” he breathes out, and he looks distinctly pleased. 

“Well that’s why you’re here, right? To meet someone who appreciates your finer points, surely?” Peter reluctantly removes his hand from Stiles’s cheek, already missing the touch of soft skin against his palm, but there are rules to be followed and he’s already pushed his luck.  Stiles makes a sound of disappointment.

Peter holds out the other hand with the mango as consolation, and Stiles tilts his head back and chases the slippery flesh with his tongue, sucking it into his mouth with an obscene slurp when he finally gets a hold of it. Peter just wants to take Stiles home and see what other noises he can draw out of him, wants to hear pretty little gasps, high pitched whines, more of those pleased moans. He wants all of it.

Later, he reminds himself.

If they follow the protocols, he can have it later.

For now, though, he picks up a handful of blackberries and deliberately presses them against Stiles’ lips, making them bleed black and sticky, staining Stiles’s face and drawing a laugh from the boy. Stiles chases the berries down and chews them eagerly, then licks Peter’s palm clean.

When Peter picks up the halved passionfruit, Stiles holds up a hand. Peter stops, frowning, but then Stiles indicates the overstuffed floor cushion that’s sitting in the corner. “Can I – would you mind, Alpha, if I kneel for you while you feed me?”

It takes Peter a moment to figure out that the low, pleased rumbling he can hear is coming from him. Peter’s never asked anyone to kneel for him before when he feeds them, has never felt quite worthy of that level of intimacy, yet here Stiles is, offering. Peter lets out a shaky breath and his voice isn’t quite steady when he asks, “Are you sure?”

Stiles slides off his seat and places the pillow beside Peter’s chair, and Peter swings his legs sideways to bracket it. Stiles drops to his knees between Peter’s legs, head back and mouth open in an obscene imitation of a baby bird, and Peter can’t help the way his cock twitches. Stiles’s eyes gleam with anticipation as he pokes out his tongue and gazes longingly at the fruit.

Peter can take a hint. He loosens the pulp with a spoon and holds the passionfruit (and isn’t that aptly named?) above Stiles’s waiting mouth, tilting it so the whole soft mess slides slowly onto his tongue. Stiles swallows convulsively, the flesh working its way down his throat, and Peter has to close his eyes lest he lose control. His cock’s straining against the fabric of his pants now, and it’s not helped by the groan Stiles lets out.

He manages to find his voice. “Are you teasing me, sweetheart?”

Stiles grins. “Yes. Is it working?”

Peter huffs out a laugh. He must have come here dozens of times, fed dozens of young men, and he’s never been affected like this. Never. He prides himself on his control, yet here he is, at the mercy of this doe-eyed, plush - mouthed boy. “It certainly is, sweetheart. If we were anywhere but here I’d have you bent over that table already. But it’s The Feeding Room, so…”

He leaves the implication hanging.

Stiles quirks an eyebrow. “Lucky we’re here then, and my virtue’s safe.”

Peter tamps down on his disappointment that Stiles won’t be tempted, and reminds himself that if all goes well, they’ll get to that later. Instead he picks up the next item on the tray and holds it out in silent offering. Stiles lets out a snort, and then wraps those plump lips around the banana. He’s not even subtle, sliding his mouth along the length of it, suckling and moaning and humming, making Peter seriously doubt the wisdom of his selection. The sight of Stiles on his knees, eyes closed, mouth full, makes Peter’s cock throb uncomfortably and draws a moan from his own lips.

“That’s it sweetheart, take it all,” he whispers,  voice rough with want, and that’s when the doors slam open.

Marco’s standing there, wearing a thunderous expression that’s quickly replaced by one of mortification.

Peter scowls at the man, and lets his fangs drop. “Do you mind? We were having a private moment!” he hisses out. It’s unthinkable for a handfeeding to be disturbed.

Marco stammers out, “I’m so sorry, Mr Hale. It’s just, one of the other patrons said he thought you were breaching the guidelines, and given the noises and your history…” The man gathers himself and clears his throat. “My deepest apologies for the disruption. Obviously, Mr Blackwood was mistaken.”

Of course it was Deucalion, angling for petty revenge. Peter snarls, and the man retreats hurriedly, the doors banging behind him.

Stiles bites off the end of the banana, chews and swallows, and asks, “What history, Peter?”

Dammit. Peter should have known that this would come back to haunt him. “It was years ago,” he mumbles. “My first time here. I was young and eager. There was a girl. She begged me so nicely, how could I resist?”

Stiles’s eyes go wide. “Did you – Peter, did you fuck someone at The Feeding Room?” he asks, looking scandalized.

“No! That would be unthinkable!”  Although Peter knows what he did wasn’t actually any better.

“Well what, then?” Stiles makes a go on gesture, and Peter knows he’ll have to confess.

“I ate her out,” he mutters. Stiles starts to laugh, and he only laughs harder when Peter adds, "It would have been fine if she hadn’t been a screamer.”

Stiles chokes back his laughter long enough to ask, “How are you even still allowed here?”

Peter sighs. “Bribery, apologies, and a promise to never do it again. And I haven’t. I’ve never been tempted again.” He looks down at the boy still on his knees, and adds, “Till now.”

Stiles stops laughing, suddenly serious. “Cards on the table. I think you should know that if we do go ahead with this, you don’t get to touch me until the courtship’s complete. It’s all or nothing with me.”

Peter’s simultaneously thrilled and devastated. Stiles is implying he wants to go ahead, and Peter couldn’t be happier. But the courting steps can take months to complete, and he despairs at the thought of having his boy so close and yet still out of reach. They won’t even get to kiss until four chaperoned dates in. It’s going to be the sweetest kind of torture.

He runs a hand down his face and groans. “If you choose to accept my offer of courtship, we’ll follow the rules.”  Stiles perks up at that. “But it will be a fast courtship,” Peter tells him firmly.

Stiles beams at him. “We should finish the feeding then, so you can offer, and I can accept.” And with that casual acceptance, he opens his mouth, waiting.

Peter ignores the way his cock throbs, takes a deep breath, and does his best to get himself under control. He picks up a wedge of dragonfruit and offers it, and makes himself focus on Stiles’ blissed-out expression as he bites into the blood red pulp, trying to ignore the ruby stained lips while at the same time mentally planning how quickly they can complete the rest of the courting rituals.

He feeds Stiles crisp apple slices, orange segments, plump raspberries, slowly working his way through the platter, heaping murmured praise on his boy, until finally there are only a few strawberries left.  Peter dips those in whipped cream and pops them into Stiles’s mouth, and when the last one’s gone Stiles lets out a happy sigh.  There’s a tiny blob of cream and a trace of caramel on his lower lip and Peter can’t help himself. He holds out a thumb and asks, “May I?”

Stiles nods, and Peter notes his rapid breathing, the way Stiles’s pupils are blown wide with desire. At least he won’t be the only one suffering. He traces his thumb along Stiles’s lower lip, and Stiles breath catches. Peter smirks, presses the tip of his thumb against Stiles’s mouth, and Stiles opens and sucks it in. Its warm and wet and everything Peter imagined.

A low groan escapes him and his eyes close as he lets himself have this, savors it. Then Stiles starts suckling lightly on his thumb and Peter has to pull his hand back abruptly before he does something he’ll regret. When he opens his eyes, Stiles looks hurt, and Peter hastens to explain. “As delightful as your mouth is, we have to stop, before I can’t.”

Stiles expression clears, and he looks like he wants to say something, so Peter waits. Finally, Stiles says, “I’m glad. That you stopped. I’m not interested in someone who can’t control themselves.”

Peter can’t help but confess, “I can control myself around you. But you’re making it very difficult to want to. If I didn’t know better, I’d suspect you plan to tease me the whole courtship.”

“Who, me?” Stiles flutters those stupidly long lashes of his, all innocence. Peter’s not fooled for a second.

“Yes, you. But that’s all right, sweetheart, tease away.” Peter leans in close, his mouth pressed against the shell of Stiles’s ear. “Because at the end of it, you’ll finally be mine, and I’ll have the rest of our lives to make you pay.” Peter runs two fingers down the nape of Stiles’s neck, and then squeezes lightly. The way Stiles shudders from that single touch is deeply satisfying.

 

Just wait till Peter gets his hands on the rest of him.