Chapter Text
It’s early afternoon and Stiles is pent up. He taps his pen on his desk, twists side to side in his chair, starts clicking his tongue to the rhythm of “I’m Gonna Be” by The Proclaimers. He gets all the way to the Da-da da das before he remembers that he hates that song and tries to shake it out of his head. It’d be easier if he didn’t know all the words.
He pushes away from his desk, tosses the pen down, and then flops onto his bed. He could jack off? That would probably help him soothe his erratic energy enough to focus on his work. He’s got a fuckin’ massive section of his Masters thesis due in two days and it’s just—not even close to ready.
He shoves a hand in his pants and closes his eyes, tries to call up some kind of stimulating imagery. Stiles is an imaginative guy, so he has a pretty decent rotation of scenes to choose from. But today, for whatever reason—maybe it’s the pinball routine going on in his brain right now, or maybe it’s just that he’s outgrown his teenaged hair trigger—it’s just not doing it for him.
He pulls the hand out of his pants and flops over to groan into his pillow. It smells like Derek’s hair stuff from yesterday, when the broody werewolf had hung out here with a book so that Stiles could clean his room and get through some of his schoolwork. Just having someone in the room with him helps him stay focused sometimes.
Stiles takes a deep breath, seeking out that clean, sandalwood scent. And that… that’s helping, actually. It’s not like Derek would be a new feature in Stiles’ imaginary rotation, either, but with a tangible reminder of the guy, Stiles is thinking maybe it’s time for years of attraction and rolling tension to catalyze into something more solid. More hands on.
The drive to Derek’s place is quick, only about seven minutes, even with the red light. He parks the Jeep out front and lets himself into the building with his copy of the key. Derek knows he has it. Not that Derek technically gave it to him. But he knows and he didn’t take it away, so that seems like permission to enter whenever Stiles likes.
He’s a little jittery, but strangely not all that nervous as he trots up the stairs and pulls back the big rolling door to Derek’s loft. It occurs to him that he maybe should be nervous about propositioning a man that demonstrably hated him for the first several months of their acquaintance, but he and Derek have a good relationship now, have for years, and Stiles is like ninety percent sure that Derek’s attracted to him.
They’re both single and they’re comfortable with each other, so this just makes sense. Right?
He steps into the loft and closes the door behind him. When he turns around, he immediately knows that Derek isn’t here because Derek always greets him right away.
Peter’s here, though, sitting on the sofa with a book propped open on his crossed leg. He doesn’t even have a reading lamp on, the freak. Not that he needs it with his werewolf eyes, but still. He’s just sitting in the dark with all the shades down over the windows. There’s one sliver of light cast across the other side of the room, and that’s it.
“Hey, Peter,” Stiles says, coming down the steps. He can just wait for Derek to get back from wherever he is.
“Why are you here, Stiles?”
On second thought, maybe he’d rather not just hang out in the dark silence with Peter. “Oh, uh. You know what, nevermind.”
“You let yourself into my loft—”
“It’s Derek’s loft.”
“—clearly agitated, sweaty—”
“I am not sweaty.”
Peter puts his book down and gives Stiles a good once over. “What are you here for, Stiles? If you need something, you’ll get it faster by simply asking.”
“Dude, it’s nothing. I was just—”
“Looking for Derek. You said ‘it’s Derek’s loft,’ which means you were looking for Derek.”
“That’s a bit of a stretch. Who’s to say I don’t let myself into Derek’s loft all the time, regardless of whether or not I think he’s on the premises?”
Peter stands up from the sofa, wanders closer to Stiles, still studying him. Stiles tries not to fidget under his scrutiny.
Peter stops when he’s just pushing the boundary of Stiles’ personal space. He looks Stiles in the eyes, expression squinting ever so slightly. Then, “Don’t do that, Stiles.”
“Do what? I’m not doing anything.”
“Don’t do what you came here to do.”
Stiles’ mouth pops open in surprise. For some reason, he believes that Peter knows why he’s here. But how does he know? How does Peter just know things? Stiles recovers enough to close his mouth. “And why not?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest. “We’re both adults, with, I suspect, a mutual attraction, and what I assume to be an equally mutual need to get off.”
Peter looks considering for a moment before he speaks. “Because he can’t do casual. And he knows that about himself. So either he’ll turn you down, or he’ll want more from you. And you’ll be dissatisfied, whichever way it goes.”
Stiles tries not to pout. And yeah, it’s partially because he’s disappointed at the lack of fruits for this particular labor, but it’s also because he’s annoyed that Peter was able to call him out so easily.
“Stiles.” Peter calls his attention back.
“Right. Well. Then I’m going. And don’t worry, I won’t, you know, try it with him.” Stiles turns back toward the door.
“I can do casual.”
Stiles stops.
“It’s been suggested to me that casual is all I can do, in fact. I believe the term ‘emotionally unavailable’ was used. On several occasions.”
Stiles turns around.
Peter steps closer. “Thoughts?”
Stiles’ heart rate picks up and he knows that Peter can hear it. Hell, if he were any closer, he could feel it.
“Is that because you’re nervous or excited?” Peter asks, glancing down at Stiles’ chest.
“Both.”
“Good.” Peter’s grin is sharp. He steps impossibly closer to Stiles, somehow still not touching him. Maybe he’s not going to. Maybe Peter’s just fucking with him. Seems like something he would do.
But then there’s a hand on Stiles’ hip. Thumb slipped under the hem of his shirt. Fingers squeezing. Stiles sucks in a breath.
When Peter kisses him, it’s not the bruising kiss Stiles is expecting. There’s a hand on the side of his face, and a firm but controlled press of lips.
Stiles lets his eyes fall shut, breathes through his nose as they get into it, get used to each other. It’s nice. Nicer than Stiles thought it would be. Not that he’s spent a lot of time thinking about what kissing Peter would be like. It’s crossed his mind, sure, but not in any kind of serious way.
This, though… this’ll be on his mind plenty. Especially if whatever happens next is as enjoyable as what’s happening now, because right now, Peter’s tongue is in his mouth and he’s got Stiles pulled in tight against him, and it’s all warm and good and Stiles feels a moan creep up his throat.
Peter pulls back, humming against Stiles’ lips. “Let’s go upstairs,” he murmurs.
Stiles nods and lets himself get pulled along up the spiralling staircase.
***
“Shh,” Peter presses a hand over Stiles’ mouth, stifling the hiccuping moans that keep slipping out with each of Peter’s thrusts. “They’ll hear you.”
It’s been three months of sneaking around and getting their rocks off, and frankly, Stiles can’t believe they haven’t gotten caught or called out yet. It’s been a series of increasingly ridiculous excuses and explanations, and if Peter wasn’t such a concerningly excellent liar there’s no way they’d still be getting away with this.
Not that they have to be hiding it. It’s not, like, illegal. Technically, they’re not doing anything wrong. They just know that the pack is going to have a lot of loud opinions about this arrangement and they don’t want to deal with that.
Besides, sneaking around is fun.
Like right now, for example. Right now, they’re in the laundry room of Scott and Allison’s little house, ostensibly working on getting the wine out of Peter’s shirt. The wine that Stiles very accidentally spilled all over him. And, conveniently, there’s a load of laundry in the dryer, which is not a new model and is rather loud when it’s running.
Peter’s got Stiles balanced on top of it, ass over the edge so Peter can thrust into him. Peter took off his soiled shirt, but the rest of their clothes are just pushed aside enough to be out of the way.
When Stiles comes, Peter takes his hand away from Stiles’ mouth to catch it, bringing his fingers up to his own mouth to lick clean with an intense look that Stiles has come to expect from him during sex.
Peter slows his movements, rolling his hips just as deep, but in more of a grind now. He leans forward and Stiles meets him for the kiss he knows Peter wants, lips parted for his tongue.
“You better pull out before you come,” Stiles murmurs quietly against Peter’s mouth. “No way they won’t notice if your scent is dripping out of me.”
Peter groans at that, barely managing to pull out before he finishes into the same hand as before.
They spend a few minutes half-assing an attempt at cleaning up Peter’s shirt, but they’re mostly just using a bunch of bleach-scented laundry products to smother the evidence of their activities.
When they emerge from the laundry room, Peter slips into his mask of annoyance and Stiles falls back into the act of their cover story.
“I said I’m sorry, okay?” he says over his shoulder, walking toward the kitchen where everyone else is. “I’ll get you a new shirt, Jesus.”
“Thank you, that’s so helpful in this current moment,” Peter snarks, looking down at his still-stained shirt.
Scott looks over from where he’s standing over the stove. “You wanna borrow something, Peter? It’ll probably be a little tight on you, but better than wearing a wet shirt for the rest of the night, right?”
Stiles snorts. “Tighter than what he usually wears?”
“Ugh,” Erica says, scrunching up her nose. “Go close the laundry room door. That bleach smell makes my nose itch.”
***
Stiles wakes up to the smell of strong coffee and follows it out to the apartment’s little kitchen. Isaac’s making breakfast already, shuffling potatoes around a pan.
“Morning,” he says over his shoulder.
“Morning,” Stiles answers.
“Got plans today?”
It’s a Saturday and Stiles is actually at a good place with his schoolwork, so he’s planning on giving himself a day off. “Nah,” he says, pouring himself some coffee. “Nothing, if I can help it. You?”
“Wanna watch that new spooky limited series?”
“Ooh, yeah. Let’s binge it. We could finish it in a day, right?”
“I think so. Pretty sure it’s like eight episodes.”
“Nice.”
Isaac’s a good roommate. He moved in when Scott moved out to get a place with Allison. It was perfect timing, too, because Isaac used to live with Erica and Boyd, and they’d just gotten engaged, which, according to Isaac, made sleeping in the next room less than ideal.
The one problem with living with Isaac, though, is that he’s got an excellent nose. Better than the other wolves, even. It just means that Stiles has to be extra careful after seeing Peter. Or having Peter over at their place.
It’s not like it would be strange for Peter to be here, it’s just that it might seem strange if Isaac noticed that Peter’s been visiting a lot more often, and that it’s conveniently only when Isaac isn’t home. Which is why Stiles says, “I think Peter wanted to watch that, too. I’ll let him know we’re starting it. Anyone else?”
Isaac hums in thought. “Not really Derek’s thing, he’s not super into the gothic horror stuff. Erica and Boyd are having a date day. Lydia?”
“Oh, good idea. I’ll text her, too.”
An hour later, Lydia is on their couch in her favorite sweatpants (that she stole from Stiles back when they dated) and her hair up in a bun. She started letting herself be comfortable sometime around six months into her PhD. Stiles likes her this way. He likes her all ways, but it’s nice to see her relax.
Lydia’s a frequent feature of their apartment, regularly sleeping over here after a late night of parallel studying or watching the newest psycho-thriller to hit streaming. Stiles is endlessly grateful that they somehow managed to come out as even closer friends post-breakup. Sure, they’d needed a few weeks of adjustment, but it wasn’t so hard to find how they best fit into each other’s lives.
They’re all set for a full-day binge watch—comfy clothes, coffee table covered in snacks, mugs of coffee within reach. Now, they’re just waiting for Peter. He said he’d be here twenty minutes ago, so Stiles figures he’ll show up in the next ten. There are only two things Peter’s ever been punctual for in Stiles’ experience: plans that serve Peter’s own purposes and hookups with a narrow window of available time.
Peter lets himself in the unlocked door when he does get there, doesn’t say hello, just pours himself coffee and takes a seat on the couch beside Stiles, draping his arm across the back and sipping from his mug.
“We’re going to stop inviting you to things if you keep making us wait,” Lydia says, picking up the remote and pressing play.
“No you won’t,” Peter answers. “Stiles likes it when I come.”
It takes all of Stiles’ self-control not to turn and give Peter an unimpressed glare. He does roll his eyes, though.
They’re a couple episodes in and have all settled into the couch cushions and each other over the last hour and a half. Lydia’s curled up on her side with her feet in Stiles’ lap and her head on a pillow in Isaac’s. It’s great that the pack as a whole is cuddly because it makes it less suspicious when Stiles leans sideways, resting against Peter’s chest, tucked up under his arm.
Sitting on the couch and binge-watching TV for hours on end is not generally the way Peter would choose to spend his day, Stiles knows, but Peter seems content enough even a couple hours later when they’ve made it through four episodes. He hasn’t pushed Stiles off and walked out the door the way Stiles was kind of expecting him to. In fact, he seems pretty settled. Stiles has to look up to see if Peter’s even watching or if he’s fallen asleep.
Peter’s not sleeping, but Stiles isn’t sure that he’s really watching either. The man’s eyes look heavy-lidded, face relaxed in a way that it almost never is. Peter’s just about always got some kind of tension or exasperation or smug satisfaction going on in the facial region. Also, Stiles is pretty sure Peter is mewing, like, most of the time.
Stiles elbows him lightly, catching Peter right under his sternum. Peter glances down at Stiles and arches an eyebrow. Stiles tilts his head in the direction of the screen, in what he thinks is a clear Are you even watching? Peter doesn’t give him any kind of response, just shifts a bit where he’s sitting, letting his arm settle more heavily over Stiles’ shoulders.
The movement sort of filters down the couch, each of them adjusting in turn, and maybe that’s what makes them all aware of the need to stand up and stuff.
Isaac hits pause, saying, “Take a break before we start the second half?”
“Mhmm,” Lydia agrees, sitting up and stretching her arms over her head. “I need new snacks, too.”
“Good luck finding anything else in there,” Stiles tells her when she gets up to go poke around in their kitchen.
“Your pantry is incredibly disappointing,” she says, standing in front of the open cupboard.
“Sorry, Lyds.”
She lets out a big sigh. “Well, I need a pint of strawberry Halo Top. And maybe a bottle of Riesling. Someone come with me,” she says, collecting her bag and digging around for her keys.
“I’ll go with you,” Isaac says gamely. “I could use a walk around the store. You guys want anything else?” he asks Stiles and Peter, neither of whom have moved from their positions on the couch.
Lydia answers for them, saying, “We’re getting Stiles his own ice cream so he doesn’t eat all of mine.” And then she’s out the door and Isaac is trying to quickly get his shoes on to go after her.
“Text me if you think of anything,” he tells them before shutting the door behind him.
Stiles turns around as soon as he hears the door latch, leaning into Peter’s space and Peter meets him for a kiss, getting a hand on Stiles’ face to pull him in.
Peter kisses in a way that had surprised Stiles at first. Still surprises him sometimes, even months into this. Doesn’t matter if they’re short on time or spurred on by need, Peter’s kisses are never frantic, never urgent. Instead, they’re fervent.
Even now, when they’ve got maybe thirty minutes tops, Peter is taking his time. It’s almost like he’s savoring it, the feel of Stiles’ mouth on his, but Stiles knows that’s not it. That’s not what this thing with Peter is. This isn’t a fleeting romance built on stolen moments. It’s a fuck buddy situation born of convenience, proximity, and a mutual surface-level attraction.
And it’s working out great. After that first time, they’d sorta tip-toed around it for a week, testing the waters of a possible repeat performance with sly looks and thinly-veiled suggestive comments. The second time went as well as the first, and by the third time, they’d realized that they’re very sexually compatible.
Peter holds Stiles’ face while they kiss, wraps his other arm around Stiles’ back to press him closer. He slips his fingers under the hem of Stiles’ shirt and when he slides his warm palm up the line of Stiles’ spine, he lets a breath out through his nose that Stiles would be tempted to call a sigh if this were anyone more sincere than Peter.
“Mmm, we don’t have time,” Peter murmurs against Stiles’ mouth.
“We’ll be quick,” Stiles argues, not backing off in the least. If anything, he’s now trying to move things along. Peter is not cooperating, though.
He uses the hand on Stiles’ face to hold him by the jaw more firmly, pushing him back a few inches. “We won’t have time to clean up. Isaac will know as soon as he steps through the door.”
Stiles pouts in Peter’s grasp. “Fine.”
“Come over later.”
“Derek won’t be home?”
“What do I care if Derek’s home?”
“Peter.”
“Yes?”
“Oh, my god. Can you be less difficult for like two seconds?”
“I don’t care if Derek knows. Derek doesn’t gossip and he doesn’t get involved in other people’s business. The same cannot be said for any of the others.”
Stiles adjusts to a more comfortable position, one knee between Peter’s legs, sitting on his thigh. “And we’re still sure they can’t just know?”
“I thought you liked sneaking around.”
“I do.”
“But if you’re willing to weather the scrutiny of the pack, by all means, tell them who you’ve been spreading your legs for. The secrecy is more for your sake than mine. I don’t care if they know who I fuck.”
Stiles fixes him with an unimpressed look. “You know they would blow it way out of proportion.”
“Yes, but I just ignore them.”
“Well, I don’t.”
“I know. And now we’ve arrived back at the beginning of this banally circular conversation.”
Stiles tries to kiss him again, but Peter holds him back. At Stiles’ affronted expression, he says, “Your lips are already swollen. No more for now.” It sounds so dismissive, but he’s pushing the pad of his thumb into Stiles’ lower lip while he says it and that soothes whatever irritation Stiles might have felt otherwise.
By the time Lydia and Isaac are back with the ice cream and other assorted treats and ingredients, Stiles has managed to extricate himself from Peter’s personal space long enough to drink a glass of water and get his heart rate in check.
He and Isaac make a big batch of nachos while Lydia sits on the counter and tells them how much of what to put on her portion, pleased as punch in Stiles’ old sweats with her glass of white wine.
The three of them finish the show, but Peter leaves somewhere around episode six. He doesn’t push Stiles off him to get up and leave, but he does bodily move Stiles off his chest and to the side. Stiles thinks he’s just getting water or something until he hears the door open and close.
“Bye, Peter!” Isaac calls out, and then collects Stiles into his own space, pulling Stiles in with one of his lanky arms around Stiles’ shoulders. Lydia’s already tucked under Isaac’s other arm, and Isaac lets out an overly-dramatic sigh of contentment. “Now that he’s gone and done hogging you, it’s my turn,” he says, burrowing backwards into the couch cushions and giving them both an emphasizing squeeze. “My little matching set of hot bitchy nerds.”
“I am not a bitch,” Stiles says at the same time that Lydia says, “I am not a nerd!”
“I notice neither of you contested being hot,” Isaac says and smacks a loud kiss to the top of each of their heads.
When the credits roll on the final episode, Stiles stretches obnoxiously, sliding his way off the couch and thrusting an arm right across Isaac’s face. Isaac pushes it away and hauls Stiles up by the armpits, standing up with him.
“I feel antsy,” Stiles complains.
Lydia gets up and stretches much more gracefully than Stiles had, and says, “Hm. Wonder why that is. It’s not like you just spent seven straight hours being a lump in front of the TV.”
“Let’s take a walk,” he says, and doesn’t wait for either of them to agree, just goes for his shoes.
They walk aimlessly down the sidewalks in their neighborhood, stopping at a corner store for a bag of sour Skittles to share. They end up at the park, even though the sun is about to go down and Stiles is pretty sure that the park technically closes around now, but that doesn’t stop them from playing like kids. Stiles and Isaac each take a swing and Lydia stands in the woodchips in front of them, tossing Skittles at their mouths. Only Isaac has actually caught one so far, but they’re all laughing so hard, Stiles thinks he’s at a real risk of falling off the swing. When the bag of Skittles is empty, Isaac launches himself off the swing at its highest point and lands with a graceful roll to his feet.
“Stiles, don’t you dare try that!” Lydia warns.
“I’ll catch him,” Isaac says gleefully and moves in front of Stiles’ swing with his arms out, grinning.
Stiles and Isaac have a friendship built on a foundation of teasing mockery and small annoyances, so there’s a not-insignificant chance that Isaac will let Stiles eat shit, but he decides to go for it anyway and absolutely crashes into Isaac. Though, to his credit, Isaac does more or less catch him.
They walk home under the streetlights and Lydia ends up staying over because she’s too tired to go back to her house. At this point, she probably wouldn’t mind sharing Stiles’ bed, but the first time she slept over, it was a little too soon after they’d broken up, so she’d claimed Stiles’ bed for herself and made him go share with Isaac, and then that just became the routine. So Lydia kisses their cheeks goodnight and Stiles goes to bunk with Isaac.
“Psst,” Isaac whispers in the dark.
“What?” Stiles answers.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Pretty sure you’re going to no matter what I say.”
“That’s true. So what’s up with you and Peter?”
Stiles freezes, even though Isaac can probably barely see him. “What do you mean?”
“Why does he like you so much?”
Stiles forces himself to make a sound resembling a dismissive laugh. “What are you talking about? What makes you think he likes me, like, more than the expected amount?”
“Come on. He does whatever you ask him to.”
“Does not.”
“Does too. If I invited him today, he wouldn’t have come. If it were a text, he wouldn’t have responded. And if I called, he would’ve said something dickish like, Why would I submit myself to extraneous company when I could simply not do that? And then he’d hang up on me.”
This time Stiles laughs for real. “That was pretty good. He would totally say that.”
“Thanks. So answer the question.”
Stiles searches for something to say. “I don’t know, dude. Maybe I’m just more likeable than the rest of you.”
“No, that’s not it.”
“Okay, well does anyone really know why Peter does anything?”
“Sure. Peter does things when he gets something out of it.”
“Then I’m as lost as you are, dude.”
Isaac is quiet for a beat. Then, “You’re lying to me, Stilinski.”
“Am not.”
“You just did it again.”
“Go to sleep.”
“I’ll find out.” It’s the last thing he says before rolling over and falling asleep.
***
Peter: Come over.
Stiles: Is the loft empty?
Peter: Yes.
Stiles: Say please ;)
Peter: You have ten minutes to get here or I’m leaving.
Stiles scowls at his phone screen. Peter’s such a dick. He should leave him hanging, not even bother to tell him to fuck off, just not show up.
Stiles isn’t going to do that. He grabs his keys and drives over to the loft. He lets himself in and closes the door behind him. Locks it, too, just in case, even though it was unlocked when he got here.
Peter’s in the kitchen, filling a glass of water.
“Nine minutes,” he says, not even turning to Stiles.
“Eleven, actually, and yet you’re still here.”
Now Peter turns around, full glass in one hand. He comes forward until he’s standing in front of Stiles, lifts the glass to Stiles’ lips, and tips it just a bit, raising an expectant eyebrow.
Stiles pulls his head back with a snort. “Are you trying to water me?”
Peter shrugs. “You don’t drink enough water. I want you hydrated.” He presses the glass forward again. “Now drink.”
And Stiles… does, lets Peter tilt the glass for him, gulping obediently.
“All of it,” Peter insists.
Stiles finishes the glass. “Happy?”
“Thrilled. Upstairs, please.”
“You are so bossy today.”
“Clothes off.”
“I feel like you’ve made a lot of stereotypical assumptions about our dynamic,” Stiles says, but he turns around and heads for the stairs, shrugging out of his overshirt on the way. “Like, just because you’re older and significantly stronger than me, you just assume that this is some kind of daddy dom situation.” He pulls his t-shirt over his head when he’s halfway up the stairs. “Which, first of all, I have never called you daddy and I’m pretty sure I’m not going to.” Belt unbuckled in the hallway outside Peter’s room. “Not that I’m necessarily uninterested in discussing certain things that would fall somewhere in that category of sex,” shoes kicked off at the foot of the bed, pants unzipped, “but it does need to be an actual discussion before you start tying me up and spanking me or whatever.” Jeans and boxers pushed down and left on the floor. “And I’m not really in the mood for a conversation at the moment, so you’ll just have to put a pin in all that.” Stiles flops onto Peter’s bed, landing on his back with his hands behind his head, and snorts at the way Peter’s eyes follow him, pupils so dilated Stiles can tell even from this distance. “You just gonna stand there or what?”
Peter crawls over him, one hand smoothing up Stiles’ skin from his hip to his throat, fingers just resting there, not squeezing, not applying any pressure. It’s something Peter does, Stiles has noticed. The first time he did it, Stiles was this close to batting his hand away, a lecture about negotiations on the tip of his tongue, but then Peter never tightened his grip. He just held Stiles that way, and stroked the edge of his jaw with a thumb. So Stiles let him. Now he expects it.
Peter’s weight settles on top of him and Stiles lets out a pleased humming sigh. Peter kisses him and Stiles gets lost in it for a bit, the warmth of Peter’s tongue in his mouth, Peter’s hands on his skin.
Stiles wants to touch him back, but— “Why are all your clothes still on?”
“If you want them off, you’ll have to ask nicely,” Peter says between attentive kisses.
“Fuck you.”
“Maybe someday.” He ducks down to suck on Stiles’ collarbone.
“Wait, really?” Stiles breaks off into a gasp.
“Not today, though.”
“Take off your shirt, asshole.”
“I said nicely.”
“Please take off your shirt, asshole.”
Peter drags his tongue over the spot he’d been sucking and then moves an inch lower to repeat the process, pausing only long enough to say, “Tell me why you want me undressed.”
Stiles groans. “God, you’re such an egomaniac.”
Peter doesn’t respond, and he doesn’t stop his descent down Stiles’ torso, but he doesn’t take off his shirt either.
“Pete, come on.” Stiles tugs at the offending fabric, trying to pull it up Peter’s back. Peter is no help at all.
In fact, when his mouth makes it to the crease of Stiles’ hip, he’s now too far away for Stiles to make any more progress getting him out of his shirt.
“Oh my god, fine, I want you naked because you’re fucking hot and so I can feel your skin on mine, you absolute fucking Narcicuss—Aaaahh,” Stiles moans when Peter takes his dick in his mouth all at once, no teasing, no working up, just swallows Stiles whole. “Fucking hell, Pete.”
If anyone can match Stiles in a game of malicious compliance, it’s Peter fucking Hale. So, of course, Peter makes sure that Stiles is good and riled up before he pulls off Stiles’ cock with a pornographic pop and stands back to strip. Stiles whines, both at the loss of warm, wet suction, and at the sight of Peter taking his clothes off.
When Peter gets back on the bed, he pushes Stiles’ thighs up to his chest and leans down to lick over Stiles’ hole, getting another groan out of him. Stiles dutifully holds his legs by the backs of his knees and Peter licks into him, adding fingers and lube until Stiles is about ready to scream at him to hurry up and fuck him.
Peter positions himself so he’s sitting on his heels between Stiles’ legs, lines himself up, and then with one hand braced on Stiles’ hip, pushes in. He exhales, brows crashing together over closed eyes. “Fuck, Stiles,” Peter beathes out, and then starts to thrust in long, smooth movements.
His pace stays measured and Stiles feels all lit up inside, groaning with Peter’s thrusts and fighting to keep his eyes open so he can enjoy the view. Peter looks good like this. Peter looks good, like, all the time, but especially like this. This, with his muscles working, skin glistening with a sheen of sweat, his lips parted and pupils blown. The whole thing does wonders for Stiles’ self-esteem, too. Something about the combination of watching Peter, looking like that, fucking Stiles, and seeing the pleasure plain as day on Peter’s face while he does it.
Peter shifts to lean over Stiles, pressing their torsos close, giving Stiles all the skin-on-skin he could want. Stiles instinctively wraps his arms around Peter, fingers digging into the muscles of his back. He digs so hard that he knows his nails are leaving red tracks as they rake up and down with the force of Peter’s hips snapping against Stiles’ ass. Some part of Stiles’ brain spares enough attention to wish that the marks wouldn’t be gone before they’re even done here.
Stiles’ dick is trapped between their slick stomachs and the friction sends him over the edge with a cry that Peter chokes off, sticking his tongue into Stiles’ gasping mouth. And then Peter groans into the kiss as he finishes, too.
Peter lets his weight rest on top of Stiles for a moment before rolling off him. They lie there side by side on Peter’s bed, and Stiles stares up at the ceiling, waiting for his breathing to even out and his brain to come back online.
“I’m using your shower,” he says, peeling himself off the sweat-damp sheets.
In Peter’s shower, Stiles scrubs himself down with a washcloth and the plain unscented soap the wolves prefer. He’ll have to remember to put the washcloth in Peter’s hamper. Peter has nice shampoo with a mild scent. Stiles has the same shampoo in his own shower. After the first time he showered here, he realized he’d have to start using the same shampoo as Peter or else everyone would be asking why he smells like Peter’s shampoo. When he went to go get some for himself, he’d called Peter from right there in the haircare aisle at Ulta just to bitch at him for having such bougie taste. Until a few months ago, Stiles had never spent more than eight bucks on shampoo, and now he’s routinely shelling out twenty-seven dollars for one bottle that isn’t even one of those giant pump-top ones. And then, when he’d brought the stuff home and put it in his bathroom, he’d had to lie to Isaac about the reason for the switch-up, telling him that he noticed it’s what the Hales use, so he figured it must be nicer for werewolves. And technically, that’s all true, so Isaac didn’t clock it as a lie. In fact, he thought it was very sweet and considerate of Stiles, and then he bought Stiles a thank-you pastry the next morning, which Stiles ate with only a small amount of guilt.
After his shower, he doesn’t even dry off, just drips his way into the hallway to grab a new towel from the closet and then heads back to Peter’s room to get dressed. Except he left his clothes littered across the loft, which means he’s going to have to go collect them. Ugh.
But when he looks for whatever he dropped in the hallway, there’s nothing there. He goes to Peter’s room and Peter’s there, reclined against his pillows, unabashedly naked, eyes closed and hands folded over his ribs. Stiles’ clothes are all sitting in a neat pile at the food of the bed.
“Thanks,” Stiles says, tossing his used towels at Peter and pulling on his clothes. And then, once he’s dressed, “See you later, man. And don’t forget to wash those towels.”
Peter makes a noncommittal sound in response and doesn’t bother to walk Stiles out.
***
Pack dinner is at Erica and Boyd’s place this time, and it’s pretty cute, the way the two of them have been nesting for the last year or so since Isaac moved out.
It’s not a huge apartment, but there’s a nook for a dining table that they can all squeeze around, and Boyd’s a great cook, so dinners at their place are always a good time.
Stiles takes a seat next to Scott and ends up with Peter at his other elbow. It’s not a suspicious arrangement or anything, though, because everyone knows that Peter tolerates Stiles and Lydia better than he does any of the others.
Boyd comes out with a steaming dish balanced on each hand and sets them in the middle of the table. “Alright,” he says, taking his seat, “have at it.”
The pack digs in, passing plates and reaching over each other. The meal is awesome, as usual when Boyd’s the one in the kitchen, and by the time they all migrate to the living room for a movie, everyone’s comfortably stuffed and Stiles is teetering on the edge of a food coma.
Isaac tugs Stiles down onto the sofa with an arm hooked around his waist and Stiles lets out a plaintive sound. “Oh my god, you’re gonna make me puke, dude,” he complains, but lets Isaac tuck him into the couch cushions anyway. Lydia scooches in on Stiles’ other side, and they manage to smoosh five people on a three-person couch by simply ignoring any traditional ideas about personal space.
Scott and Allison cuddle up in the recliner and Derek sits on the floor, propping himself against Erica’s and Boyd’s legs, letting Cora and Malia use his shoulders and chest to get comfortable on the ground in front of the TV.
Since Peter will only deign to touch Stiles and Lydia, it’s not a surprise that he settles himself down on the rug, his back against their knees. What’s surprising is that he actually seems like he’s planning to stay for the movie. He’ll come to pack gatherings and hang around for a drink, sometimes a meal, but that’s usually where his tolerance for pack bonding runs out.
Lydia turns to arch an eyebrow at Stiles, nodding down at Peter. Stiles shrugs.
The movie plays and somewhere around the hour mark, Stiles becomes increasingly aware of Peter’s weight against his shins, the subtle way that Peter’s let his head tip back, the ends of his hair tickling Stiles’ knee through the rip in his jeans. Stiles slides his hand, resting on his thigh, further out so he can lift a finger to brush against the nape of Peter’s neck. Peter doesn’t have any kind of obvious reaction, but Stiles can feel the way his skin prickles and muscles tense under Stiles’ touch.
When the movie ends and Erica kicks them all out, Stiles tries to catch Peter’s eye. For no particular reason, just because, just to see what happens. When Peter looks back at Stiles on his way out the door, all Stiles gets is the barest hint of an arched eyebrow, and then Peter’s gone and Stiles heads home with Isaac.
Isaac closes the door to their apartment and then turns around and announces, “I’ve figured it out.”
“Good job, buddy!” Stiles says like he’s talking to a dog or a kindergartener. “Figured what out?”
“You and Peter. I figured it out, what’s going on with you two.”
“Oh, have you?” Stiles puts on his best this’ll be good facade and hopes it’s enough to cover up his actual nervousness, because what if Isaac really has figured it out?
“Yep.”
“You gonna… share with the class?”
Isaac crosses further into the apartment, past where Stiles has stopped to lean on the counter. “You guys are fucking.”
Stiles schools his features before he speaks. “Uh-huh,” he says. “Interesting theory. And what are you basing this hypothesis on?”
“I notice you’re not denying it.”
“Well, I want to hear you try to justify this accusation. It’s more fun for me this way.”
“Okay.” Isaac nods. He’s now standing in the middle of their small living room like he’s about to give a powerpoint presentation. “Here’s my evidence: one,” he puts up a finger, “Peter likes you way more than he likes the rest of us, and he’s been actually hanging around whenever you’re there—”
“That’s not evidence, that’s the reason you’ve launched this amateur investigation.”
“Two,” Isaac barrels on, “you shower significantly more than you did when I first moved in.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re obviously washing off Peter’s scent after your filthy, secret liaisons with him.”
“Sure, okay.”
“Three, the shampoo.”
“I told you, I got that stuff for you because it’s what all the Hales use—
“Oh, I know what you said. But now I’m pretty sure that was just a cover story so I wouldn’t know you were scent-matching Peter, and to be honest, my feelings are hurt. I really thought that was a significant step in our friendship, Stilinski. I got you a bearclaw because of that. And you ate it!”
Stiles sighs, grinds his molars for a beat. “Two things can be true at once, man.”
“Oh my god, you really are fucking Peter.”
“What? You just laid out all your evidence—”
“I was fishing, dude. There was part of me that didn’t truly believe it. Why Peter?” Isaac is looking at Stiles with tension around his eyes, like he’s studying something fascinating and difficult to understand.
Stiles shrugs, lets out a huff of breath and goes to plop himself on the couch. Isaac comes and sits against the other arm so they’re facing each other. “I mean, why not? He’s hot, he’s interested, he’s good in bed.”
“Ew.”
“Don’t say ew, it’s not ew. It’s just sex.”
“Does Derek know?”
“I don’t think so, but maybe? I don’t think Peter tries as hard to keep it a secret with him because Derek probably wouldn’t make it a whole thing. But if he doesn’t know, you can’t tell him. You can’t tell anyone.”
“I won’t.”
“That means you cannot tell Erica and Boyd.” Stiles points a stern finger at Isaac’s face. He’s making that I’m so innocent puppy dog face. Stiles is not convinced.
“Okay, okay. I won’t,” Isaac insists.
“I’m serious, Isaac.”
“I’m not gonna tell them, I swear.”
“You tell them everything.”
“I do not!”
“Did you tell them about what you overheard Scott and Allison calling each other last week?”
Isaac maintains eye contact when he says, “No, I did not.” He’s too smug.
“Show me your group chat.”
“You’re in the group chat, Stiles.”
“No, show me your group chat that’s just you, Erica, and Boyd. The one the three of you think we don’t know you have. That you use to text each other while we’re literally all in the same room.”
Isaac blinks. Crosses his arms. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Do you think I can’t tell you’re lying just because I’m not a wolf?”
Isaac just shrugs. Then, after a momentary standoff, he asks, “So how old is Peter?”
Stiles sighs. “I don’t actually know and now I’m afraid to ask.”