There are three levels to Stiles’ annoyance with the world: mildly perturbed, shaking his fist at the sky, and Peter Hale.
“You’d think the second chance at life thing would have made you more pleasant, but, if anything,” Stiles slams the car door extra hard for emphasis as he stomps from the driver’s seat, even if he does pat it soothingly a moment later, “I think you’re even more of a douchebag.”
“I aim to please,” Peter’s voice drawls from the other side of the car. He closes the door calmly, and that makes Stiles all the angrier, because now he feels irrational and immature and all the things Peter wants him to feel until he relaxes under his manipulation. Stiles doesn’t want to relax.
“Maybe the third time will do it,” Stiles grumbles, thundering up to the front door. His ears pick up on Peter’s casual footsteps following him and feels inexplicably irked. He whirls around. “You really think you’re following me in?”
“You’re overreacting,” Peter says with a soft sigh. It’s the kind of sigh Stiles is used to hearing from adults, like when Mr. Harris hands back his D paper or when his father watches him guzzle milk from the carton. He straightens up until he’s just as tall as Peter. “What I did was hardly that bad. Especially considering what I’m capable of. Compared to murder—”
“You are so fucking crazy,” Stiles says, and Peter does nothing but raise an eyebrow elegantly. He whips around again and tries to unlock the door. The key grinds and stutters into the lock.
“That’s a little hypocritical.”
“My crazy is nothing compared to your crazy, pal. If I put my mind to something I could probably discover lost treasure and find out who assassinated Kennedy. You, on the other hand—goddammit,” Stiles jiggles the key to no avail. Peter pipes up behind him.
“That’s the car key, by the way.”
He feels a hand pull at his shoulder, fingers firm as Peter flips him around and backs him up against the door. There’s something like impatience in his eyes, like he’s sick of Stiles’ grumbling. Stiles still has a good hour’s worth of complaining he could belt out, but before he can, Peter crowds up in his personal space. His palm spreads over Stiles’ stomach, low enough to skirt down over his thigh. Stiles feels a hint of his anger bubble into his throat before oozing into complacency. Damn him.
“I like you better,” Peter murmurs, sliding close enough to drag the point of his nose down Stiles’ cheek, “when you’re not talking.”
Stiles huffs, and is one second away from whipping out the three comebacks that just fell straight onto his tongue when he’s interrupted by Peter’s hungry exhale and an open mouth pressing into his, looking to devour and bite and leave marks. Stiles’ hands fly to Peter’s waist in spite of himself.
He still does the usual routine—the noises of protest, the wiggling against the door—but it only lasts a few seconds before Stiles’ reserve crumbles and he kisses back, teeth first. Peter angles their mouths just right so their tongues can slip together, and Stiles makes it very clear that even if his words are silenced, his mouth is still angry. He bites down on Peter’s lower lip and Peter smirks against his insistent teeth.
A moment later, a cricket chirps in the distance, reminding Stiles of the neighborhood around him. His eyes whip open, as if expecting crotchety Mrs. Holier-Than-Thou from next door to be glaring at him from the hedges, and he shoves Peter back.
“Not out here,” Stiles murmurs, casting a wary eye over Peter’s shoulder as the doorknob digs into his back. “Upstairs.”
Peter’s mouth is slick, so very close to his, and Stiles steals one last kiss that his erection instigates rather than his common sense, and the hand winding into his hair keeps it going for three more seconds before Stiles pulls back, back thumping against the door. Peter’s hand curls around his, snagging the keys from his lax fingers, and he unlocks the door slowly, very slowly, too slowly.
They make it inside and Stiles pushes Peter up against the door, desperate to stop talking and start ridding each other of clothes. Indoors, where the world cannot judge him, Stiles is somewhat okay with the fact that his nightly routine involves getting naked with Peter Hale.
It’s dark by the time Stiles is sated, sweaty and drowsy like napping on a boat, and he takes great delight in pushing Peter off the bed.
“Get out,” Stiles mumbles, and lets his eyes drift shut as he fumbles to shove at Peter’s naked torso.
“I don’t get to sleep over?” Peter asks, and Stiles is too tired to do anything but thump him over the head for his mockery. He misses and hits his shoulder instead.
“It’s a small bed,” Stiles says. “And this way I can pretend you're just a hooker who's earning dough to stay off the streets that I’m selflessly helping.”
“You couldn't afford me if I was."
The bed wobbles and croaks as Peter gets up, Stiles registering the sound of rustling fabric as Peter grabs his pants. He has no underwear with him, and this is something he knows about Peter now—he likes going commando, probably for the element of surprise. He would ruefully think that this is something he never wanted to know, but as a guy who has spent quite some time rummaging around with what's in Peter's pants, Stiles thinks he's a little past pretending.
"I'm still mad, you know," Stiles mumbles, rolling over to stretch out and occupy the space on the bed Peter vacated. "Feeling me up in front of everyone."
"They didn't notice," Peter dismisses. "And I think I made up for my behavior when I sucked you off."
"All right, so I'm slightly less mad than I was," Stiles acquiesces. He'll be over it by tomorrow. This is what he and Peter do after all, play games and annoy each other because that's all apparently a side effect of sex. Still, the games when Peter runs his hand up the inseam of Stiles' jeans when a few feet away stand all of his friends, Stiles isn't as fond of.
Peter leans to plant his hands on either side of Stiles' head on the mattress. Through the darkness, Stiles can see the smirk on his lips before he dips down and starts leaving open-mouthed kisses on his neck that Stiles is particularly powerless to.
"Then I'll just have to make it up to you more," he murmurs, words slick on his collarbone, "tomorrow evening?"
Stiles rifles through his mental knowledge of his father's work hours at breakneck speed. If he's lucky, they'll have until eight p.m. tomorrow to see how long it'll take for this no clothes business to stop being fun. Considering that it's already been five weeks, Stiles is betting on never.
"What are we gonna do?"
"I'll fuck you," Peter promises him. "But first spread you open with my tongue and watch you writhe on my fingers."
Now that's a weeknight he can get behind. He shifts on the bed, trying his hardest not to show exactly how affected his nether regions are by Peter purring filth in his ear.
"I'll unlock the window," Stiles tells him, very much aware of Peter's grin on his neck. "Six p.m. Bring snacks. Don't be late."
Peter pulls away from his slick chest after that, thoroughly wetted with his eager tongue, and slings his shirt over his shoulder. He's shameless, with his blatant sex hair and his come-do-me grin, and Stiles dearly hopes that it's late enough that nobody will be prowling the neighborhood and acutely aware of the half-naked man jumping from a second story window.
He thinks about saying something, something like check the coast is clear, but he's tired and lazy and happily post-coital, so all he does is salute Peter goodbye. It's not sentimental in the least, which both of them couldn't be more comfortable with.
And then he’s out the window blowing a smug kiss over his shoulder that Stiles ignores, and the bed feels just fine with just one person to avoid the wet spots.
Five weeks ago, the closest Stiles had gotten to touching a dick that wasn’t his was accidentally stepping on Danny’s foot while they were both naked in the locker room after a sweaty lacrosse practice, and now Stiles spends most of his brainpower thinking about giving head. This, he thinks, is how addiction starts.
It started at the beginning of summer, when the May evenings were still chilly rather than muggy with heat. There was a dead body in Stiles' backyard, a woman he'd never seen before sprawled in the dirt with blood down her chest like something out of a horror movie—or, in his life, something out of his every other Thursday. His father was in the middle of convincing him it didn't mean anything, it wasn't the uprising of new werewolves, it certainly wasn’t a threat aimed directly at Stiles, when Peter had come strolling out of the dark commenting on how he was in desperate need of some relaxation.
He had stuck his hand into Stiles’ pants after that, right there in the darkness while the police rummaged around his backyard looking for evidence and Stiles scrambled to pretend he wasn’t enjoying the hand on his dick. The consent had been iffy at best at the moment, and if Stiles hadn’t enjoyed it as much as he had, he would’ve gone about filing serious charges so he could be crowned the hero that finally put Peter in jail and out of everybody’s lives.
His knowledge of handjobs and blowjobs and everything else his elderly neighbors and the nearby churches and his dead grandmother might disapprove of increased exponentially after that, most of the credit going to Google. God bless the Internet, he had thought as he browsed the explicit videos on free porn sites and learned the art of sodomy.
The idea of having unbelievable tantric sex with Peter hadn't been the bit that unnerved him. It had been the idea that he wouldn't be able to reciprocate with equally earth-shattering sex, and if there's anything Stiles isn't a fan of, it's looking inexperienced in front of his rivals. Looking back, it probably should have been a concern that would logically be runner-up to concerns like well, he is an untrustworthy maniac.
But keep your enemies close, and all that. Probably not so close that they know your boxer size and they have their tongues in your mouths, but Stiles isn't one to go strictly by the book anyway. So sex with Peter becomes a thing he starts actively preparing for.
It takes him a few weeks, but he gets used to a foreign hand on his cock and a body on his. He gets to the point where he starts liking it, he starts downright craving it, and suddenly Stiles could put master cocksucker on his resume should he be applying for unsavory jobs in a brothel.
The constant oral fixation had helped. Stiles likes having things in his mouth, something to curl his tongue around and taste to keep his body occupied. It was only a matter of controlling his teeth and leaning to put his tongue to use after that.
“Such a fast learner,” Peter had murmured while he carded his hands into Stiles’ hair and dragged him closer, hips pushing forward into Stiles’ mouth. It had been the third, fourth, maybe fifth time he had gotten on his knees for Peter, this time in his kitchen right up against the fridge in the broad daylight while his dad was at work.
Not just a fast learner, but a fast addict too. Not that Stiles would admit it, but it only takes him about twenty-four hours to realize that he loves cock. He loves how he understands it much better than the mysteries in a girl’s pants that they expect him to master without a manual, how it feels in his mouth, the weight of it in his hand, how it responds to his touches.
“My favorite type of learner,” Peter would say while his thumbs felt himself through Stiles’ cheek. “Favorite type of car too.”
So cheeky, always cheeky. He only ever shut up when Stiles made him come, the smirk wiped clear off his face in favor of parted lips and eyes closed in pleasure. Stiles vastly preferred the latter to the former, so he made Peter come a lot. Not that it was exactly a chore.
It progresses quickly after that. It goes from learning how to handle another man’s dick to becoming well-versed in how to have absolute, all-the-clothes-off sex. This is probably the time in his life when he’s supposed to have an existential crisis about his sexuality, but Stiles is in too much of a sex haze to do so. So fine, maybe he likes dicks. Some people have more than just one favorite flavor of ice cream and nobody thinks that’s strange.
This thing with Peter, it’s simple. It’s not long talks on the phone and sharing pie on park benches. It’s sex, just really good sex, and Stiles refuses to make it more complicated than that.
They keep it a secret. Not because Stiles is particularly fond of the thrill of sneaking around or trying to keep secrets from unfairly perceptive werewolves, but because he has literally no words to explain himself with should he be caught. The alphabet and the English language do not have enough potential stored in their arsenal for logically explaining away an extensive sexual relationship with Peter Hale. So Stiles doesn't.
“You’re keeping me under lock and key?”
Peter, however, is not fully on board as he watches Stiles stuff him into a closet at the sound of a knock on the front door from downstairs. He promptly disentangles himself from Stiles' hoodies and watches as Stiles peeks through the blinds on his window to watch the curmudgeonly old lady from across the street trot about the patio waiting to be greeted.
“No, I’m keeping you under me," Stiles says from over his shoulder, keeping his eyes on the visitor. He has his sneaking suspicion she's here to complain about unsavory neighborly behavior, like feeling up gentlemen callers in broad daylight, and he's not interested in getting an earful from her. "Literally, most of the time. You can't possibly be offended."
"I am offended. To the highest degree," Peter says loftily from where he's begun to rifle through Stiles' clothes. Stiles looks over his shoulder from where he's crouched by the window and watches him turn a critical eye to his stud muffin shirt. "Dear god, I'm fucking a nine year old."
"You're not offended," Stiles dismisses, letting out a breath as his neighbor grows impatient and stalks across the street back into her own yard. "Yeah, that's right, just walk away."
Stiles stands up from where he's kneeling by the window, the very picture of stealth, and snatches the graphic tees in Peter's hands away to throw back into his closet. "Stop judging my shirts," he says hotly. "And you can't honestly tell me you wouldn't mind if Derek knew you were banging me. On the daily."
"I could use the excitement," Peter grins, as if reliving a fond memory. "It's been so long since my nephew tried to kill me."
"Well, I don't want anyone to know," Stiles says, leaving no room for discussion. "I thought I made that clear months ago when I had a heart attack trying to get you out the window when I thought my dad was home early."
"Not sure why, I'm delightful with parents."
"Ha ha ha," Stiles emphasizes each ha carefully so they sting. "I have it on good authority that Scott's mother thinks otherwise."
Peter rolls his eyes, moving from Stiles' closet to his desk, leafing casually through the books stacked there in between crumpled papers of Internet research on google searches like "do werewolves mate for life" and "can you die from too much sex." Stiles snatches the papers out from under Peter's eyesight a second too late.
"Always trying to dredge up the past," Peter sighs dramatically, even as a smile tugs on the corner of his mouth. "I could always try and make nice with her, you know."
Stiles doesn't know what he's implying, but he already knows he doesn't like it. Something rash washes over his chest that for once isn't irritation at Peter's truly remarkable ability to find his sorest buttons and sit on them, something that's either protectiveness of Melissa or possessiveness of Peter. He acts on the feeling, tugging Peter in by his belt loop.
"You and I are creatures of the night. The night is ours, the darkness belongs to us, you know the drill," he decides to pull crap out of his ass, as Peter seems to be amused by it. "No one will ever understand. They would fear us and come after us with pitchforks. America loves tearing down things it doesn't understand."
"That was a lovely load of bullshit," Peter murmurs, snaking his arms around Stiles' shoulders to keep him close. "But it would be oh so fun to slide my hand up your thigh and watch a vessel in Derek's brain burst as I do so."
"I could think of many funner things to do, like mini golf," Stiles suggests, and then veers the conversation back on track. "Seriously, nobody would understand. A few might faint. I might faint."
"I'm counting on them not understanding," Peter says, and then leans in to whisper, "I would slaughter you in mini golf, and I'd hate to see you cry."
Stiles is pretty sure he wouldn't hate it. He pushes him to a more agreeable distance again, one where he isn't in danger of falling prey to being distracted by a tongue on his ear. "You're not telling anybody."
Peter stares at him and Stiles stares back, unwavering. Peter looks away first with another dramatic sigh. "One day, you will get tired of the morals you have left," he drawls, "and then you and I will understand each other perfectly."
He nibbles on Stiles' neck while Stiles contemplates the horror of actually understanding Peter, of comprehending exactly how the gnarled gears turn in his twisted brain. According to Peter's haughty fortune telling skills, it'll be because Stiles' brain is built just like his own. Stiles steadfastly refuses, with angry picketing signs and the works.
And then the front door is knocked at again by the persistent neighbor who has decided to come back to scare Stiles’ heart into his feet, and Stiles all but jumps out of Peter's grip at the sound.
“Should we perhaps prepare a drill?” Peter asks him. “Tornado, fire, incoming onlookers in danger of seeing you being sucked off?”
“You think this is funny.”
“It’s horribly funny,” Peter admits, grinning. He trails his hand down Stiles’ hip, slotting his fingers there at the curve of his waist, and cocks his head downstairs. “Are you going to get the door?”
“Are you going to behave?” Stiles asks, because he’s sure Peter is currently devising at least thirty scenarios in which he casually walks down the stairs half-naked while Stiles is placating the woman knocking on the door, absent-mindedly calling out that they need more lube just to scar Stiles for life. He thinks about verbalizing that particular suspicion but decides against it, realizing he’d just be giving Peter step-by-step instructions in how to give him a heart attack at a ridiculously young age.
The idea of anyone knowing really is physically nauseating. It makes Stiles feel like his ugliest self will be out for the world to judge, the side of him that is easily seduced by older maniacal men with a thirst for murder. He has two halves of himself, it seems, the boy who is in the throes of passion and never wants Peter’s dick out of his life, and then there’s the opposing side that wants to curl into a ball of regret every time he thinks about his friends and family materializing in front of him as he’s in aforementioned throes of passion. If you’re not comfortable having someone watch, you probably shouldn’t be doing it. Stiles is living shakily by this maxim.
“It’s like you think I have no manners,” Peter says. He leaves Peter with a look of warning over his shoulder, and goes downstairs.
Stiles is sure that he has no manners, and that animalistic urges ate them all. Then again, he’s the one stupid enough to hang around him anyway.
"I am so happy I'm not in love with you," Stiles huffs out when he catches his breath, everything from his forehead to his toes damp with sweat. He grins at the ceiling, and Peter noncommittally hums in response.
"That's nice," he says, and then rolls over to try and shut Stiles up with slick kisses. Stiles is too talkative after sex to be deterred.
"No, really," he says in between the quiet moments where Peter's tongue slips into his mouth. "I am so not in love with you."
"I don't love you either," Peter says in return. "Glad we cleared that up."
"I don't want to spend my life with you," Stiles says, feeling slightly giddy in his post-orgasmic state of utter freedom. "I don't like you. That 'all I need is love' stuff? Elton John didn't know what he was talking about."
He feels powerful like this, shoving his middle finger in the face of stereotypical relationships. There's something great about sex without love, passion without feelings, and it's putting all of Stiles' years spent pining over his unrequited love to shame. He could've been doing this, finding someone attractive yet random and hopefully STD free and using them as stress relief.
"What?" Stiles lifts his head to stare at Peter.
"All You Need is Love," Peter says. "You said Elton John. It was the Beatles." Peter frowns at him like a teacher handing back a D paper. "Your pop culture knowledge is deplorable."
"Wow," Stiles breathes in awe, flopping back down onto the mattress. "Did I really say that? I love the Beatles. I really do. You must have fucked me stupid."
And that feels powerful too, the admission that Stiles is officially part of the unspoken group of people who have had sex. Crazy sex, unbelievably hot and rough sex, in Stiles' case. He remembers how he had laid still in bed after the first time Peter and him had sex, how he'd stared at the ceiling and tried to come back down from the high he had rolled through when his orgasm came in, completely different than what just his hand and some lotion could give him. Sex stimulated parts of him never touched before, made him sticky and hot and very aware of his hidden erogenous zones. The human body is amazing, he had thought, Peter licking the sweat off his collarbone.
This is just too good to be true. Sex without strings, without a single attachment. Surely he’s accidentally sold his soul somewhere he can’t ever get it back from for this.
“Hey,” Stiles asks, feeling the air come back into his lungs. “Do you think I could top next time?”
Peter covers his face in his hands, shielding it from Stiles’ eyes, and his shoulders shake. Stiles might mistake it for emotional crying if it wasn’t for the fact that he knows perfectly well that Peter’s laughing and doing a poor job of hiding it. He yanks Peter’s hand away from half his face, unveiling a hearty snicker twisting his lips. Stiles frowns and hits him in the shoulder.
“Hey!” he says again, this time with indignation. “I’m serious!”
“Oh, I know,” Peter says. He has the gall to wipe wetness from his eyes. “Your humor is classic, Stiles.”
This is not the moment when Stiles wanted Peter to start admiring his comicality. He hits him again, harder this time, but Peter’s snickers refuse to relent.
“Yeah, definitely not in love,” Stiles grumbles.
And if he were to put money on anything, it’s that that will not change.
Stiles bites his own tongue twice in his effort to keep Peter from slamming him into his desk, a task done in vain as a desk lamp and three binders worth of loose paper go tumbling to the ground. Through the eight p.m shadows, Stiles makes out at least half a school year's amount of paper scattered by his ankles.
He curses again as Peter ignores the lamp crashes to the ground, thankfully staying in tact, focusing his energy instead on grabbing Stiles by his throat and pulling him in for a savage kiss. He kisses open-mouthed, with the intent to leave no survivors, and Stiles feels his fingers dig in where they’re holding him in place right under his jawbone. Then he’s pushing him down on Stiles’ desk, right on the chessboard he left out, and Stiles feels what’s probably a knight jam into his vertebrae.
“Fuck, careful,” Stiles grits out. He’s not made of sugar, but he’s also not a self-healing prodigy who can recover from being impaled on tiny wooden castles.
If Peter's sorry for manhandling him, he wastes no time verbalizing an apology. The extent of his apology comes in Peter whirling him around and pushing him hard against the wall instead, teeth biting down on his lip and soothing the hurt with his tongue. Stiles can practically feel the wall rattle behind him as his spine undergoes yet another bruising, but he's actually pretty distracted with the hips rolling in circles against his to complain. This is how Peter works—a blend of pain and pleasure that just results in unimaginable heat and bruises that feel like certified stamps of Stiles' wild sexual escapades.
“Pick up that lamp, dammit,” Stiles grumbles, readjusting his spine against the pressure of the wall behind him. Peter grinds their hips again, hands caging him in by his head, and doesn’t listen.
“You want me to pick up that lamp right now?” he asks, low and sultry and so damn cocky by Stiles’ ear, and then he slithers his hand down to cup his erection through his jeans. Stiles considers the options—interior decorating or hot sex against a wall. Maybe the interior decorating can wait.
“Fuck,” Stiles groans, and struggles to undo the button on his jeans and kick them off. His shirt goes next, and when he’s done wrestling it off his head, he sees Peter, staring at him like a starved animal. Stiles snaps him out of it by grabbing for his shirt and yanking it upward.
Peter grabs him by the nape of his neck and kisses him again, harder than before, and Stiles tilts their mouths together and is the first to bite this time. He feels Peter’s fingers clench at that, clearly surprised, and Stiles grins onto his mouth and does it again.
“Oooh,” Peter murmurs at that, licking over where Stiles drew blood on his lower lip. There’s probably something incredibly wrong with him considering Stiles finds it extremely arousing, his dick straining in his boxers and Peter’s eclipsed face close to his. Stiles parts his lips and nudges closer, just enough of a hint for Peter to pull him back in and lick into his mouth. He strays after the kiss, dragging his lips down Stiles’ arm to his wrist. He always gives special attention there, licking over his pulse and nipping at the easily breakable skin.
And then Peter’s lips are gone and a hand slaps over Stiles' mouth just as he's leaning in and practically whining for more, and he focuses on Peter's face through the dark. His eyes are riveted over Stiles' shoulders like he's concentrating his hearing, and just as Stiles is about to lick his palm to grant his freedom Peter's finger goes up to his lips to signal for silence.
Except Stiles is hard and eighteen and pretty damn impatient, so he wriggles against Peter's hand until it tightens over his mouth, a firm reminder of who's in charge and oh, something about that is oddly thrilling. Peter's eyes seem to flash as he notices the slight speed up in the pulse under his fingers right before he remembers the task at hand—focusing on whatever's just out of human hearing.
"Your father," Peter murmurs, and then carefully examines the air again, "just brought home a greasy dinner and is back from the station. Taco Bell, I believe."
He slides his hand down from Stiles' mouth as he stills, his fingers instead settling in the dip of his collarbone.
"Shit," Stiles curses, his erection duly noting the fact that his dad is downstairs. Peter doesn't back away, instead pushing their hips together until an unintentional groan falls from Stiles' mouth. "What the fuck?"
Through the darkness, he makes out a pleased smirk on Peter's face. "What's wrong?"
He steadies Peter with a hand on his shoulder, and then his hips come rolling forward again and he momentarily loses track of logic, reality, the world around him. "My dad is downstairs."
"I know," Peter says, leaning in close enough to drag his nose under Stiles' ear. "So I guess we'll have to be quiet."
No, no, no, Stiles’ head is pointedly chanting, just as Stiles' cock joins the discussion with a rebuttal of yes, yes, yes. That’s all Stiles’ vocabulary can really create about Peter, just monosyllabic affirmations or refusals that stammer from his mouth.
His dad is downstairs, the very dad that would be traumatized for years if he knew his son was upstairs at the mercy of a man who probably wants to see how hard he can make him scream when he very much has to curb his enthusiasm. A man who is probably enjoying this just like all the other games he and Stiles play, like getting each other hard when Derek and Scott are in the room or seeing who will come first. This is such a bad, bad idea—
But then Peter's teeth sink into the curve of his neck just as his fingers slither up his throat to investigate what they discovered earlier, teasingly trailing up and down his jugular before gently squeezing and licking up Stiles' ear.
"What do you say, Stiles?" He whispers, his breath warm and intoxicating on Stiles' ear. "Can you be quiet?"
He can't, he knows he can't, but there's a pair of lips skirting over the lobe of his ear and a hand around his throat making him light-heated and dizzy like he's spent a day in the August heat, persuading him to let Peter pull him into a bad idea.
He doesn’t have time to protest, he doesn’t even have time to nod, because then Peter’s spinning him around and pressing his chest flat against the wall, cheek hard on the cool expanse. His hand climbs up to slide over Stiles’ mouth, firm on his lips to keep him quiet, and Stiles breathes hard as Peter’s right hand snakes around his torso to crawl up his torso, pinching a nipple on the way. Stiles keens and his hips knock against the wall.
“Shhh,” Peter says on his ear, his teeth grazing his neck, and then his free hand trails back down, flattening on the flutter of Stiles’ midsection. “Don’t want daddy to hear, do you?”
He waits, actually waits until Stiles nods his head, murmuring approvingly on Stiles’ ear as he does and pulling his pants down. The cool air breezes past his legs as Peter teases the waistband of his boxers, slipping two fingers in and running them along the curve of his hips, all the way around to his backside. He tugs them downward torturously slowly, like he’s going to take his time even as Stiles already feels precome dotting the front of his underwear, and drags them down his thighs.
His mouth is dragging down Stiles' ear a moment later, tongue darting out to lick his neck. He makes a noise, something soft and sudden, that Peter's hand on his mouth muffles.
"I'm going to fuck you against the wall," Peter murmurs like a promise on his ear, the words vibrating on his skin. "And fill you up with my come, and you're going to be quiet. Aren't you?"
Stiles nods again. Peter’s hips are pressed against his ass, stealing away his coherence, and Stiles feels the world tilt beneath him as a hand slides over his ass. His touches start out like soft worship, sliding over the small of his back with reverence, right before they shift into a hunger that's apparent when Peter's claws graze his skin. Then something snaps—probably the cap of a lube bottle that Peter keeps perpetually at hand in his back pocket, and something cool and slick catches Stiles off guard as it dribbles down his ass crack.
Peter's touching him again a second later, a thumb sliding his ass cheek out of the way for him to watch the lube slide over Stiles' hole, the sensation too little and too much at the same time. He's hard and aching and wants more, so he arches his back and pushes his ass out into Peter's hands. He might as well be shameless at this point. The hand on his mouth shifts, just a fraction.
"You want it badly, don't you?" Peter's murmuring, a single finger trailing up his spine, down again, tracing the bumps of his vertebrae before slipping all the way down to—oh.
The fingertip on his hole drags lube down with it, slowly tracing his rim while Peter's mouth leaves marks on the back of his neck. This is what Stiles would give up chocolate and video games and American freedom for, just for the dizzying sensation of a finger teasing the puckered muscle of his entrance. He could probably come just from being fingered, just from rocking down on Peter's digits with sweat in his eyes and quivering thighs. One day he should try just that.
His fingers slide in, slick with lube and unbelievably slow, and Stiles' breath hitches. He doesn't even bother starting off with just one, instead slipping in two to the knuckle and watches how Stiles' back arches and curves into the touch. His body feels like it's accustomed to this to the point of being made for finger fucking, for unrelenting intrusions and fingers in his prostate. If he could go back in time, he'd frantically tell his younger self to start drifting lower than just his dick when it comes to masturbating because he's missing out on a whole world of pleasure.
Peter's hand is warm where it's still pressed against his mouth, making breathing that much harder and the air that much hazier in the dark. This is probably what being corrupted feels like, Stiles thinks, just as Peter pushes his fingers up against Stiles' prostate and his entire body shudders at the sensation. He's still slightly loose from last night when Peter fucked him after licking him open, and two fingers go in easily, something Peter doesn't fail to comment about.
"Always open and ready for me, aren't you?" He's whispering by his neck, and when he leans in Stiles can feel the protrusion of his hardness against his backside. He whines. "You want it so badly I can smell it. It's like your body was made to be fucked by me."
It sure feels that way sometimes, and that scares the hell out of Stiles. Peter reads his body like a comic book laying open, two pages at a time, and he doesn't know how anyone will ever be able to do the same in the future, when Peter's long gone and the mind-boggling sex is a thing of the past. Then a third finger slides in his hole and Stiles flies rapidly back to the present.
"Are you ready?" Peter's murmuring on his ear. Of course he is, his ass pressing into Peter's touches and his low whimpers making it obvious, but Peter's never satisfied that easily. "Beg for it."
He doesn't pull his hand off Stiles' mouth, letting his body do the talking instead. It should be humiliating, and if he wasn't hard enough to slice diamonds in half he would be unthinkingly embarrassed, but as the situation stands he finds himself whimpering against Peter's palm and rubbing his ass backwards into Peter's touches. Peter's cock, free of his pants and lubed up by now, starts dragging up and down his ass, torturously skipping over his hole. It's the teasing that Peter is frustratingly known for by now, but Stiles knows him well enough to know that his body is Peter's weak spot. He leans back into his body, back flush against Peter's chest and ass lined up with his dick, and rolls against his torso. It seems to do the trick nicely.
"You want to be fucked, don't you?" Peter mutters, and when Stiles nods, the only warning he gets is a low growl and a tightening of the fingers clamped over his mouth before Peter's cock slides into him.
He pushes in, fast and rough and in one dizzying second, and it shoves the air from Stiles' lungs in a stifled groan. He looks over his shoulder, catching only a glimpse of the nearly primal expression on Peter's face, and for one moment, he wonders if that's the same face he'd make were Stiles to fuck him for once, to push him down on the mattress and watch Peter's eyes roll back into his head—and then Peter's pulling out and thrusting back in, mercilessly this time, and his free hand comes around to scratch down Stiles' stomach and leave sharp red marks in his wake. Sometimes Stiles has to remind himself that Peter's an animal, as primordial and rough as it gets, and then remind himself exactly how much he enjoys being roughed around even if every instinct should tell him not to. He should want safety and comfort and vanilla sex after a lifetime of inadvertent abstinence, but he likes it dirty and fast the way Peter does it. As a matter of fact, he fucking loves it.
"Look at you," Peter's panting, the hand that's digging marks into his chest snaking around to rub at Stiles' hole as his cock slips nearly all the way out right before sliding back in. Stiles wonders what type of picture he makes right now, sweaty and debauched and curving himself into Peter's thrusts, and cries out when Peter's teeth sink into his shoulder. This is what sex with Peter is—too many thoughts, too many sensations overloading his body, his brain skipping from pleasure to pain to don't stop, right there.
Peter's dick hits his prostate then, dead center, and Stiles feels his legs shudder. Peter's arm is around his hips a second later like an anchor, his fingers spreading out over his hipbone before stroking his erection. And that, that really is too much, Stiles watching the white explode behind his eyes as Peter hits his prostate and squeezes the base of his cock simultaneously.
"Ooh," Peter whispers, licking over the bite mark on Stiles' shoulder. "Let's see if we can do that again, shall we?"
And he does, without warning, hips snapping forward. Stiles feels it thrum through his entire body, head to toe, and he tries to figure out what he should lean into, the hand on his cock or the dick in his ass. It’s a combination of ministrations that nearly leaves him crumpling to the ground, his muscles hardly supporting his legs as Peter laps over the sweat gathering on his back. His teeth are sliding over his shoulder blades, just soft grazes here and there that leave Stiles alert, and the roughness of his stubble burns over Stiles’ skin.
Peter fucks him in earnest, with deep thrusts that seem to abuse his prostate with each hit, and Stiles pushes his ass into it. He shouldn’t enjoy this as much as he should, the way the breath seems to be vacuumed from his lungs when he’s at the mercy of Peter’s cock, but maybe Peter’s right, maybe he was born to be fucked, and maybe this is the only thing that will ever matter in his life, how the pleasure pushes through his bloodstream with every thrust.
He feels like he's being held up by a single thread, his head tipping back to Peter's shoulder. Peter's fingers slip from his mouth then and he's gasping in gulps of air, the world dizzy and hot and demanding all at once. He's going to be so sore after this, everything from the hips locked in Peter's grip to the ass he's pounding into, and he braves himself on the wall with sweaty palms as Peter pushes in again.
"No one," Peter is murmuring, voice rough and short and interrupted with growls masquerading as pants. "No one can take my dick like you. Say you want it."
"Fuck, I do," Stiles groans, and it sounds like a death wish if he ever heard one.
"Want me to come inside you?" Peter growls. Stiles can feel him everywhere, pressed against his back, mouth on his ear, hand snaked around his torso to stroke him, and he still wants more.
"Yeah, yeah, do it," Stiles pants. He doesn't even feel alive during moments like this, suspended between life and death and what is clearly the questionless bliss in the middle, and he clenches around Peter's cock to give him the go ahead.
Peter groans against his ear and then he’s coming inside him, warm and full and too much, and Stiles tries to find purchase on the wall. The hand gripping his cock is relentless still, stroking him closer and closer, and Stiles fights to remember that he has to be quiet, he has to stay in control. Peter doesn’t seem to approve, and promptly sinks his teeth into Stiles’ neck in a moment of shaky passion. Stiles cries out and Peter’s fingers slip in his mouth to quiet him.
That’s how he comes, his tongue wrapped around Peter’s knuckles and his moans stifled there, Peter’s free hand stroking him through the quivers and keeping him afloat as he feels the world sway beneath him. This is how all orgasms should be, so demanding they nearly blind him, and Peter pumps him until he’s sensitive enough to be made of Jell-O.
He winces at the emptiness Peter leaves behind as he pulls out, dragging sticky come with him that slides down Stiles' thigh, and if he were in any sort of state to be disgusted, he would be. As of right now, however, he's in the state of trying to find the air that the room was clearly stolen of and waiting for his vision to come back to him in more than just fuzzy dots. His thighs quake and his jaw his hanging open, and the only thing that appears to be holding him up is the hand around his waist and his own flat against the wall.
"I've got you," Peter says, and yup, Stiles was afraid of that as he tries to find his footing. Peter’s voice is rough like gravel against his ear. Like being dragged down gravel until your knees split open, more like it.
"Then I'm in trouble," Stiles replies, the arm steadying him tightening around his middle. Stiles hates these vulnerable moments after sex, how easy it would be for Peter to tear him slowly apart with his teeth, and he twists his way out of Peter's arms to grope his way through the dark. He trips over something that might be a foot—possibly his own—and falls flat on his bare ass.
"If you had let me hold on, this wouldn't have happened," Peter says. He sounds smug. Friends don't sound smug when friends have tumbled gracelessly to the floor. Then again, who is he kidding trying to file Peter away in his group of friends.
"Use your inside voice," Stiles hisses as sounds of his father's footsteps croaking on the old kitchen floorboards reminds him of the company downstairs. "Your inside of a barely legal sheriff's son's bedroom voice."
"Barely legal," Peter rolls his eyes. Stiles doesn't even need to flick on the light to tell. He picks himself up from the floor, legs still shaky and ass still naked, and reaches for his boxers. "Do you know how laws work? The word barely doesn't apply."
"Tell it to the judge,” Stiles says.
“So we haven’t covered government in school yet, have we?”
Stiles would punch him straight in the jaw if he had the strength to do so. This is something he should be used to by now, like Peter sleeping naked and going commando ninety nine percent of the time, the way Peter always spoils amazing sex by making a few jabs at his immaturity or his personality or even worse, his sexual performances, and Stiles is left shoving him out the window wishing he could hear Peter’s bones snapping as he lands on the grass. He never does.
If only he wasn’t so goddamn attractive, Stiles thinks. This would be so much easier—probably because it would’ve never happened—if he was the modern day Hunchback. It would certainly fit his personality, nasty and gnarled and twisted beyond repair, but instead he has a clean-cut jaw and riveting eyes and hands that Stiles is unreasonably attached to.
“All right, I’m done with you,” Stiles groans, slipping into his jeans. They’re the wrong way around, but he’s in the middle of ushering Peter outside and is in no mood to look like a fool. The light in his room always looks significantly darker after he’s come and he’s standing on shaky legs trying to urge the naked man in his room to get dressed and haul ass out the window, extremely different from the hormonal haze pre-ejaculation. “Get out.”
Peter is unperturbed. It grates on Stiles’ nerves a bit, because nothing he says, nothing he does ever manages to penetrate Peter’s smug exterior—except for, perhaps, when he’s totally naked and at the mercy of Peter’s cock—like he’s heard it all before. He’d like a little reaction now and again when he’s dishing out the class A snark, but Peter only seems amused, like he’s found a smaller, less nefarious version of himself when it comes to at-the-ready wit. It makes Peter seem perpetually in charge, and Stiles is not willing to constantly be stuck with the underhand.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” Peter tells him, and makes a show of whispering as to not alert Stiles’ father puttering about in the kitchen downstairs.
He’s gone before Stiles can ask for specifications, like when and where, leaving Stiles grumbling in his wake. He’s so fucking smug, so sure of himself and his assertiveness, that Stiles should really just end this here and now. He wavers on the spot, considering it as he clambers back into his pants the right way around this time, and wishes his resolve was stronger.
Actually, he wishes the sex wasn’t so goddamn good.
Peter’s naked body, bare from head to toe, should not be tempting as it is when Stiles is in the middle of seriously soaping up in the shower.
There he is, kicking away his pants without a shred of embarrassment, low self-esteem not a problem for Peter and his opinion of his own body. Stiles has to agree. He might not be built exactly like Derek or have all the same muscles as Scott, but he’s full-bodied and rough and there’s a trail of hair leading down his hips that Stiles refuses to admit makes his mouth water, but the stutter of his heartbeat against his neck probably vocalizes that particular opinion for him.
“No,” Stiles says firmly, sticking his head out of the shower. There’s shampoo threatening to trickle down into his eyes, but keeping Peter out of the bathroom is more important as of right now, not that his cock agrees. “Get out.”
Peter raises an eyebrow like Stiles’ attempts at dominance are cute, and then he’s tugging aside the shower curtain Stiles is trying valiantly to shut, planting a palm on Stiles’ chest to push him back into the tub and make room. Stiles hates how willingly his body complies.
“Show some hospitality to your guests,” Peter chastises, and then he maneuvers Stiles under the spray of water to presumably quiet him.
“No vacancy,” Stiles sputters, wiping the water from his eyes. “Closed for business.”
And then Peter’s massaging the shampoo out of his hair, holding him under the spray of warmth until it runs down his shoulders, and the second he’s free of residual suds Peter’s backing him up against the steamy tiles and flattening his tongue against his neck, dragging upwards. Stiles’ hands find Peter’s hips, wavering there as if he’s unsure if he wants to push away or pull him those last few torturous inches separating them closer.
“Stop complaining,” Peter murmurs on his skin, Stiles grumbling all the while. “You get naked me in your shower.” He says it with a crooked smirk like it’s a privilege most commoners have to shell out money for, and then he reaches out to run his hands down Stiles’ soapy flanks. No, no, no. “You should really learn to relax.”
Stiles scrubs all the more vigorously, swatting Peter aside as his hands start wandering into bad idea territory.
"Stop trying to get me all dirty in the shower," Stiles says, and retaliates by dumping a handful of pearly shampoo on Peter's head. He looks extremely displeased, like a drenched cat. "I'm trying to get clean. You being here is counterproductive."
"Ouch," Peter says with little conviction, and then starts massaging the suds into his hair. Anything that occupies the fingers hell-bent on getting Stiles interested in wet, sudsy shower sex is fine by Stiles. "What happened to teenage boys and their eternal sex drive?"
Stiles considers saying something along the lines of some old man wore me out, but decides to spare Peter's inflated head the praise. "I'm still trying to wash your come off my chest," Stiles ends up saying. "And you're trying to start up round two?"
Peter chuckles at that, clearly proud, and grabs Stiles by the shoulders to manhandle him to the other side of the shower while he steps under the spray and rinses his hair clean. It gives Stiles a truly spectacular view of Peter's drenched ass, nearly shining in the water running in rivulets down his back, one he enjoys as quietly and platonically as possible to keep Little Stiles from getting any ideas.
"You wouldn't be trying to wash my scent off of you so no one gets any ideas, would you?" Peter asks slyly under the loud rush of the spray.
"That's exactly what I'm doing," Stiles deadpans without a single shred of guilt. "I have a lot of friends with supernatural nose abilities, you see."
"Fascinating," Peter says, running his fingers through his hair as the last of the shampoo's residue slides down his shoulders. He holds his hand out wordlessly for the conditioner. "How did that happen?"
"They're all werewolves," Stiles slaps the bottle into his open palm. "Thanks to a certain someone who can't control his urges."
He shoots an accusatory look at Peter—or a look he hopes is at least mildly daunting under the crippling circumstances of water in his eyes—because Peter is the base of all his problems. Peter's such a nice scapegoat. Peter's the root of all evil, whether it be turning his best friend or making his dick try and set sail when he's in public by blowing up his phone with provocative messages.
"Controlling urges," Peter repeats, and then he reels Stiles in by the hip until he's stumbling into his chest. "Would you happen to know anything about that?"
He says it while he has the gall to roll his hips forward, slow and steady, and Stiles knows zilch about controlling one's urges, especially the naughtier ones. He tries, futilely at best, to wrangle himself free even as their cocks rub together in the process.
"Stop, dammit, wet shower, hard tiles, vulnerable skull not wearing helmet," Stiles grits out, feet very slippery on the slick bathtub floor beneath his stiles. Peter takes his words as his cue to hold on tighter.
"Werewolf reflexes make it highly unlikely I'll drop you," Peter reasons. Stiles keeps struggling nonetheless.
"I know you have the capability not to drop me, I just don't trust you not to anyway," Stiles says. Peter's gall grows more incredulous still as he dares to look surprised by his declaration.
"Weeks of me stroking you to completion and memorizing the way your mouth falls open when you orgasm and you still don't trust me?"
"My orgasms are just about the only thing I trust you with," Stiles says, and struggles on in vain until his attempt at a sudsy escape to the other end of the shower where washing and rinsing is sure to happen without interruption reaches its end. He stills, Peter's hands taking the opportunity to slide down to his ass.
"Wise choice," Peter says just as Stiles pries his fingers away to focus on lathering himself up with soap instead. "You might just survive long enough to graduate college."
"You're saying I shouldn't trust you?" Stiles asks.
"Well, I certainly wouldn't. You have no idea what goes on in my head."
Stiles stops lathering in his tracks. "Oh god. Have you been planning my death?"
"No," Peter makes no effort to hide the derision in his voice. "But if I was, you wouldn't know. That's the danger of having people close to you."
"All right, this shower has officially become a bit too Psycho for my taste."
That's probably his motto, Stiles realizes faintly as he violently scrubs down his thighs where the bruises are the most prominent, as if hoping to wash away all traces. That people coming close means flashing neon signs of danger, danger. The fire and the coma probably didn't help negate that particular mindset, but still. He desperately needs to spend a weekend bathing in puppies.
"You need so much therapy," Stiles says off-handedly, the soap threatening to slip from his fingers as he cleans the tricky spots on the small of his back where his arms don't bend.
It takes him half an hour, what was practically half a bar of soap, and a lot of dodging Peter’s hands to get clean, and another fifteen minutes to wipe away every last trace of Peter’s fingerprints. He probably loses a good layer of skin in the process, but it’s the price he’s willing to pay for sex.
The inconvenient thing about summer, Stiles realizes one month into summer break as he's staring at himself in the bathroom mirror, is that turtlenecks and decorative scarves are no longer discreet options when it comes to hiding any incriminating love bites.
Incriminating might be putting it lightly. Stiles doesn't think he's ever seen this shade of purple in nature, certainly not mottled with dark blots of brown and blue, and his bathroom is woefully understaffed with concealing make-up. Doubtfully, he tries to smear away the marks with a wetted thumb. No such luck.
It's July. It's hot. There is a constant film of heat over the air that ceiling fans are no match for, and standing in his own kitchen feels like squatting behind a bus' exhaust vent. This is no time for anything other than shorts and tank tops, so it's a little disconcerting that his choice of attire also happens to glaringly draw attention to the purpled spots on his neck, his shoulder, the inside of his arms, his stomach, and his thighs.
Peter's probably doing this on purpose, Stiles thinks as he stands in front of the mirror, speechlessly fuming. He probably thinks it's a riot to have Stiles walk around like a deed signed and claimed and marked up with Peter's proverbial signature. He wonders which would be worse, going out and buying make up to conceal the bruises taking up rent-free residency on his body or stopping Peter from doing that regrettably delightful thing with his teeth where he nibbles on Stiles' neck.
He entertains the idea of telling the people in his life—or at least all the people who have eyes and moderate deduction skills—the truth, for approximately two whole minutes. Then he decides that flimsy hoodies and staying as nonchalant as possible will have to do the trick.
"Aren't you a bit warm?"
Stiles is very warm. Quite warm—some might think boiling from the inside out would be an accurate term. He shakes his head no and grabs the Xbox controller Scott is offering him. Scott is resting luxuriously next to him in a tank top and shorts and bare feet, the absolute epitome of utter comfort, and Stiles regrets never getting the werewolf makeover if only to no longer have to worry about carrying Peter’s signature around all over his body. He doesn’t know how obvious it is, or if the marks themselves are easy to read as the work of Peter’s tongue, but he’s not willing to chance it. He has absolutely no explanations up his sleeve, so he zips up his hoodie up to his jugular.
He isn’t exactly fond of lying to his best friend. Typically he and Scott are in on the lies together, working as a team to hide their secrets from the judgmental world, and now it’s him and Peter snowballing a fib together. It’s an odd partnership, he has to say, mostly because he doesn’t want to share anything with Peter other than saliva, and he wonders if he should feel guilty for betraying Scott. Is he betraying Scott? Or is he just withholding information with a new partner in crime? That sounds like it merits guilt.
“Did you get a bug bite?”
Stiles jerks up from where he’s aggressively blowing up passerby in the video game in front of them and follows Scott’s gaze to his neck where a small, angry red mark has wheedled its way to the daylight from underneath the protection of his hoodie.
“Oh, yeah,” Stiles says, blessing the fact that he’s fast in a crisis. Quick thinking is a must when he spent most of his everyday high school life lying straight to people’s eyes while relying purely on the believability of his poker face to sell the validity of his fib. “Must have.”
“Yeah, from a real pest,” Stiles says grimly. He's seen it in the mirror, knows it looks nothing like the mark of a mosquito, and wonders if Scott knows and is purposefully trying to prod the truth out of him. He looks at Scott critically, trying to find that knowing glint in his eyes, and doesn't see it.
He's a terrible friend, he thinks as he burrows down into his hoodie and starts sweating lava. Perhaps making it easier for Scott to figure it out on his own would keep Stiles from wrestling with ways to break the news to him. Perhaps he should start walking around without the protection of fleece sweatshirts in summer and let Scott come to conclusions of his own.
"Dude," Scott pipes up suddenly. "Can you believe that I haven't had to deal with a bug bite since... sophomore year?"
A simpler time, Stiles thinks woefully. He feels acutely aware of every achey lovebite on his body right now, like an unwilling museum exhibition, and wishes it was darker just to be able to hunker down in the shadows, where his sex bruises are safe to come out without being examined and scrutinized. At least back then Stiles was still keeping secrets with Scott.
Telling him wouldn’t be that bad, Stiles tries to rationalize. It’s not like he’s in secret cohorts and is planning on taking down Beacon Hills with Peter Joker and Harley style. He’s just having sex. Meaningless, addictive, completely unattached sex. Surely Scott would understand such a basic concept without judgment.
Stiles deflates as he lets his overly chipper logic settle. Stiles can’t even understand such a basic concept, not when he’s constantly berating himself for stooping so low as to sleep with Peter Hale, so he can’t expect Scott to. It’s a shame, honestly, because he’d like to share the details, even the gory ones where he can finally verbalize what a real orgasm feels like, nothing like the ones he was experiencing when it was just him and his hand keeping him company.
“Hey, you want any chips?” Stiles says, making the decision to steer the conversation into a different direction for good. His chance at being honest waves goodbye to him as it flies away, and Stiles thinks it’ll come back. Surely it’ll come back, and he’ll do this properly.
So the way your eyes are inevitably drawn to those animals on the side of the road—the bloody, mangled ones with half their body smeared across the street—even if you really, really don't want to look, that's exactly how Stiles is drawn to Peter. It's morbid, it's a little gross, and it's probably something he would've been better off without.
He might also liken Peter to those itchy bug bites that downright ruin summer. Wanting Peter is like sitting down while trying hard to think of anything but scratching, because he knows it won't help, he knows it'll aggravate the skin, he knows it'll only feel good for that one second. Getting his want of Peter fulfilled is like giving in and scratching with frantic fingernails, five seconds of yes yes yes yes right before the skin turns red and he regrets his poor sense of control.
Or maybe like the aftermath of a demolition, that works too.
It used to be a reflex, that upon seeing Peter, the proverbial hackles would rise, and with it, the lingering threat of pissing himself out of residual fear. It’s only best to fear those who could—and have proven—that they could rip you apart and don’t even need a chainsaw to do it, so Stiles doesn’t know where the wiring in his brain went wrong that his instincts shifted and suddenly, looking at Peter meant heat coiling in his belly and his libido demanding attention.
Now he looks at Peter and the first thought that comes into his mind is how many bruises he wishes he could leave up his neck, how his stubble feels burning up Stiles’ cheeks, how easy it would be to unbutton Peter’s pants.
Okay, so it’s something short of a miracle that they managed to keep it secret for so long.
He's staring at the graffiti words loft 3a sux dick all day for no pay spray painted onto Derek’s rusty front door and trying to curb the tactless laughter before it bubbles up his throat, avoiding Derek's glower as it passes over all of the gathered subjects—namely him, Isaac, Scott, and Peter. If this is his line-up of suspects, he really ought to include the bratty kids from downstairs as well who leave their bikes in parking spots.
"It was you," Derek deadpans without a hint of mirth as he crosses his arms in Peter's direction.
"Of course not," Peter dismisses. "I did pass second grade English, you know."
Derek seems unconvinced, squinting at Peter as if trying to lure a confession out of him. Stiles stifles his laughter by biting forcefully down on the inside of his cheeks.
"You thought it'd be funny. You sneaked up here last night for a laugh."
"I have an alibi," Peter says hotly, and his gaze drifts over to Stiles out of the corner of his eyes. Stiles fixedly ignores him, but unfortunately, everybody else is too busy paying attention.
The air gets thick with the proverbial crickets as sharp looks are exchanged that Stiles wishes he could intercept if only to avoid this horribly uncomfortable moment, and then Isaac breaks the tension with, "Well. That explains the smell."
Oh, it’s bad. It’s really, really bad. Stiles shuts his eyes like he’s awaiting a blow to the head, or maybe a surprise earthquake that swallows him away, or maybe for a leprechaun to descend from the sky and divert everyone’s attention with a well-coordinated jig over a pot of gold. None of the above happen. What happened to laughing over provocative graffiti, Stiles wonders faintly.
“Wait,” Scott says, just as Derek interrupts with a heavy groan. Stiles sees none of it, eyes hermetically shut from the world as he critically berates himself for every decision he’s ever made up to this point in his life. It isn’t happening if he can’t see it, and it won’t continue if he pretends he’s not even here.
“You've got to be kidding me," Derek mutters, and he sounds like this is just another problem dumped on his lap he has to deal with. He turns to Stiles, and through the cracks of his fingers he sees a judgmental look aimed at him like Derek was sure he had better taste.
And then Scott is breathing in, inhaling loudly enough to be overhead, and Stiles hunches in on himself as if trying to mask the pheromones, the lingering smell of sex, the scent of Peter's come rubbed onto his chest.
"Oh," Scott says, just one tiny realization wrapped up in a single word. Stiles refuses to look him in the face.
"Care to explain?" Derek grumbles.
"Please," Peter scoffs. "As if we owe you an explanation."
We. Dear god. Never so badly in his life has Stiles wanted to be a singular unit not at all affiliated with Peter Hale. He feels like he’s just been made an accessory to a crime.
“It’s pretty obvious,” Isaac pipes up, completely unnecessarily. “They’ve been fucking.”
Okay, that’s it. Stiles is going to have to find new friends. Forget that, he’s going to have to find a new home, a new city, a new life, one where no one knows that he was thoroughly deflowered and corrupted by Peter’s dick. People who can’t smell someone else’s touch on him, who can’t give him the look of utter distaste that Derek is currently sending his way.
“Don’t—don’t look at me like that, jesus,” Stiles grits out. He feels like every eye on the earth is on him right now, loudly judging without having to say a single word. They might not owe anyone an explanation, but Stiles still feels the strong urge to explain himself. The need to write this off as an alcoholic mistake or colossal misunderstanding fights to stutter itself from his tongue.
“Him, really?” Derek jabs his finger in Peter’s direction. Yes, him, Peter, as in everybody’s least favorite murderous uncle. No need to point.
“Derek,” Peter cuts in smoothly. “You’re in no position to judge anybody’s sexual choices, considering what all of yours ended in.”
Derek’s glare snaps straight back over to Peter. Stiles is secretly hoping that a fight will break out just to cause a diversion that he can use to pry open the earth and jump inside and say goodbye to this mortal world. He catches a glimpse of Scott’s face, completely ashen like a ghost’s hue, and wishes they were all still talking about the graffiti.
Fainting would probably provide the escape he so desperately wants. All it would take is one dramatic swoop to the floor and he'd be unconscious through most of this. After what he's been through in life, he thinks he deserves a few moments of peace where he doesn't have to worry about everybody's eyes on him and Peter like they're some sort of partners in crime.
"This is," Stiles stutters helplessly. Four pairs of eyes rivet over to him. "I mean, this isn't. I don't think anybody." He's hyperventilating, surely. Derek's squinting at him as he tries to smile and breathe. "I'm not. We're not. This is just. Jesus fuck." He manages to get the important bit out in the end. "We're not in love."
Someone thunders up to him, and he prays that it isn't Peter because now is not the time. A hand lands on his arm, a soft grip sliding around his elbow, clearly Scott. Stiles looks up and sees Scott's brown eyes a few inches away.
"Come on," he says to him. "I'll get you some room."
He nods, shooting one last look over his shoulder where Peter is fixing him with a look of pure exasperation for all his histrionics, and standing next to him looking baffled and bothered, Derek sends him judgement he could feel from a mile away, no postage needed. He focuses on Scott's firm hand on his arm, leading him away from the chaos like a bodyguard, and lets himself be pulled away from the mayhem.
He's pretty sure that mayhem will still exist wherever he's being taken and that "get you some room" can be loosely translated to "find someplace quiet where you can explain your horrid choice in sex partners," but Stiles decides to go without trouble.
It's like the dentist, he reasons as Scott ushers him out into the fresh air. You dread it, you dread it, you dread it, you dread it, and then it's finally over and you feel great if not a little numb and violated.
“So let me get this straight. You and Peter have been in a private relationship for the past few weeks and never did you feel like it was something you should bring up with your best friend?”
Stiles is not a big fan of the sum ups. Nor is he a fan of the guilt that creeps onto his face and stays frozen there for hours at a minimum as Scott stares him down, looking slightly faint in the face, like the mere idea of Stiles sucking Peter’s dick is enough to cause the screws in his brain to topple free. To be fair, Stiles has trouble wrapping his head around the idea sometimes too.
“Just to clarify,” Stiles adds in helpfully. “We’re not in a relationship.”
The clarification doesn’t wipe any of the befuddlement off of Scott’s face. Stiles can sympathize, unless he thinks back to how mind-blowing it felt to have Peter finger him into a sobbing mess, and then his understanding is diminished just a bit.
“Not a relationship?” Scott repeats. “What’s going on then?”
“Just sex,” Stiles says. “We literally couldn’t be less interested in each other on an emotional or mental basis. I don’t even know what his favorite color is.”
“Dude,” Scott says, and he looks deadly serious, like he’s the only one who can pull Stiles free from the sex haze clouding his mind. “You’re having sex with a guy who spent a year trying to kill us.”
“Foreplay!” Stiles says with a breezy laugh. “Listen. We don’t even share feelings. We just make noise.”
It doesn’t mollify Scott like it should. Honestly, Stiles is touched. Under all that terror on Scott’s face is concern, like he’s genuinely worried about Stiles’ well-being and how he’s planning on emerging alive from Peter’s clutches. He probably has many, many questions, and Stiles isn’t sure he has a single answer to offer.
“How did it even start?” Scott asks after taking a deep breath. He looks like he’s really trying, genuinely attempting to understand and pay attention to reason, which is a little concerning, because nothing regarding Peter involves reason. The extent of Stiles’ logic when it comes to agreeing to sleep with him is it felt good which then progressed into it still feels good and that’s about all he can drum up in favor of this entire arrangement.
“Um,” Stiles tries to think back to the day. Blood in his backyard, police cars lined up in the driveway, Peter prowling out of the shadows and rambling about tension relief. A hand suddenly in his pants. Stiles coming embarrassingly fast and Peter telling him he knows where to find him if he’s interested in a repeat performance. “Remember that day when there was a body in my backyard?”
“For that long?” Scott looks upset now, straightening up. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I don’t know!” Stiles does know, actually. He wanted desperately to avoid this entire conversation where he has to explain his actions like a child who ate ten lollipops before dinner. He grimaces. “Honestly, I sort of thought you already knew. I mean, you have werewolf senses and I was busy a lot more than usual and I didn’t think you’d actually believe the bug bite stories.”
Instantly, Scott’s eyes rivet downwards to Stiles’ collarbone where a few smatterings of healing marks are barely concealed with his shirt. Stiles compulsively pulls it up to shield them. Scott looks speechless.
“Oh god, you hate me,” Stiles announces a moment later after the silence settles. He feels very aware of his body, of how every moment Scott is probably coming to another conclusion about why Stiles sounded so breathless on the phone that one time, or why he was perpetually wearing a jacket zipped up to the chin throughout most of June.
“What? No,” Scott reaches out to grab him by the shoulder and look him in the eye. He doesn’t even look uncomfortable, and Stiles feels like he must’ve hit the best friend jackpot if Scott is willing to try so hard to pretend that the idea of Stiles and Peter doing the nasty isn’t making him want to hurl. “I would never—Stiles, I’m not judging you.”
“You should,” Stiles says, nodding vigorously. “I mean, I am.”
“I just don’t want to see you get hurt,” Scott tells him earnestly. “And Peter, well—nobody really trusts him.”
“Yeah, me neither,” Stiles agrees.
“And you’re okay sleeping with him?”
“Well,” Stiles thinks about it, and thinks about how Peter would say it. Stop confusing marriage and sex, would be how, probably. The only thing I trust him to do is make me come. “You don’t really need one to have the other.”
Scott's face pinches together. "Are you sure?"
"Yeah," Stiles says, about ninety seven percent positive that's the truth. "And if not, all my earthly possessions go to you and my dad and you guys can brainstorm on how to avenge my death."
Scott doesn't laugh, just ends up forcedly smiling like he's watching a brutal execution disguised as a clown's magic trick.
"The sex must be really good," Scott says, clearly marveling over Stiles' choices in life as he tries to make sense of them. Stiles knows from personal experience that doing so is a waste of a perfectly good four hours. Maybe the sex really is that good. Maybe it's has made him brain dead. Maybe this is what all those sex ed lectures scaring youngsters from sex that Stiles never paid attention to were taking about. "Not that you have to tell me about it."
“So you’re okay with,” Stiles gesticulates rather than saying it out loud. Saying out loud that he’s in sexual cahoots with Peter Hale seems a bit final. “All this?”
“As long as you are,” Scott tells him. “So what happens when we leave for college?”
“The sex stops and Peter moseys back into his cave,” Stiles says. “Easy peasy.”
And honestly, what could go wrong with a plan that simple.
“What are we doing?”
Stiles looks up carefully from his hamburger, a good chunk of lettuce still sticking out his mouth. He wipes the grease on his fingers off on Peter’s car seat for no reason other than to watch the tick in Peter’s forehead vein pulse.
“What, eating?” Stiles asks him around his mouthful of food, the bread pressing against the roof of his mouth swallowing most of the consonants. “Sort of a basic human need, you know.”
“I meant,” Peter clarifies hotly. “Why aren’t we having sex?”
Stiles swallows another bite and looks at the way his feet are crammed into the foot room and the console is hip-checking him. “Like there’s room,” he snorts. “Besides, I’m not dying giving you road head.”
“The car’s not moving.”
“Fine,” Stiles grits out, and sweeps his arm out over the parking lot. “I’m not going to jail blowing you behind a Burger King.”
Peter looks unimpressed, like the short length of Stiles’ imagination is greatly disappointing him. If Stiles had the room, he would dig his elbow into Peter’s rib for that look, but Peter seems to be moving his discontent to the greasy meal spread out in his lap. He drops his hamburger with an aura royalty might possess while looking down at peasant scraps.
“If I were human,” he says haughtily, licking ketchup off his thumb in a way that Stiles finds much too distracting for somebody who loves boobs as much as he does. “I would be careful about what slew I would put into my body.”
“Didn’t know you cared,” Stiles shoots back without missing a breath. Peter’s eyes flash when he notices Stiles’ gaze riveted to how Peter’s tongue is wrapped around his thumb, taking care to slip it further into his mouth. Stiles remembers his train of thought and looks fixedly away. “I’m trying to get Scott used to the idea. Of, you know, this.”
“And for whatever reason that means punishing me to abstinence?”
Without looking up, Stiles pelts a fry at his face. Peter dodges it, but it feels good to throw things at him nonetheless, even if it results in nothing more than oil stains on his clothing. He deserves it.
“I just don’t want to walk around smelling like your sperm for a few days,” Stiles tells him, wrinkling his nose at his own wording. He looks at Peter, hotly cleaning the grease off his shirt with a napkin, and is concerned for his own sexual attraction in men. After high school, he really ought to psychologically look into that.
“So I take it he took it badly?”
Stiles shrugs. “Actually, I think he sort of underreacted,” he says, absently scratching his head. He probably doesn’t value Scott and his maturity as much as he should. He ought to send him a mug or an apron, something that shows his appreciation that he didn’t react like the average person would have if he’d shared with them that he’s banging a zombie serial killer werewolf.
“And your excuse was?”
“The excuse you inevitably gave to explain as to why you’re sleeping with me,” Peter says casually, like he’s one percent comfortable with being lied about as long as he’s in on the lie. For a second, Stiles doesn’t know if he’s pathetic or admirable. Peter turns his head sideways to survey him. “Did I drug you? Blackmail you? Just want to make sure we’re on the same page with the storytelling.”
“No! No, no Beauty and the Beast situations,” Stiles clarifies. “I just told him it… happened. I didn’t say we were in a relationship. Because, well. That’s not exactly what this is.” He looks at Peter, now pilfering fries from Stiles’ lap and patting Stiles’ thigh with his claws bared when he tries to snatch them back. “I don’t even really like you.”
“How sweet,” Peter says dryly as he licks the salt off of fingers, once again going out of his way to make his tongue’s involvement in the clean up as obscene as possible. “We’re not a in a relationship.”
“That’s what I thought,” Stiles says, saving the last of his fries from Peter’s greedy fingers by stuffing the remainders in his mouth. It takes him a good forty seconds just to chew, but Peter’s glare is worth it. “Then what exactly is this?”
He just wants a name, just something his brain can wrap around. He’s not even comfortable using the term fuck buddy when never in a million years would be clap Peter on the back with a jovial “buddy!” leaving his mouth.
“It’s a conspiracy,” Peter says, flashing him a grin. “We’re in a conspiracy.”
Conspiracy. Like two people hiding something secret that the government probably wouldn’t approve of. It probably fits better than anything Stiles could have come up with.
All right then. Stiles can live with being in a conspiracy, as long as he’s not in a gang.