It's not Stiles' first heat, but he's not used to them being so irregular. It's got to to be the stress and— and probably the nogitsune didn't help. Regardless, he's caught unaware these days. He feels like crap for a couple days — nothing unusual there — and then suddenly he realizes he's leaking.
And of course, it's when they're in the middle of something already. The whole pack is deep in the preserve, and it would take him a good two hours to get home and get dinner before he locks himself in his room.
So naturally, Peter slides into view right as Stiles realizes all of this — because how could Peter resist the opportunity to make Stiles' life difficult. Stiles holds up a hand to stave off whatever Peter thinks he's going to say as soon as he opens his mouth.
"Don't even," he snaps.
Peter raises his brow and doesn't even hide his smile. "Why Stiles," he says. "I was simply going to offer you help getting home."
"I just need to get to my jeep, okay," Stiles grumbles, nodding a grudging thanks when Peter points the way. "I can get myself home."
"Of course," Peter agrees, falling into step with him, "but what sort of citizen would I be if I left you unattended like this?"
"Your usual kind?" Stiles suggests. It's no secret that Peter has bad intentions at the best of times. To expect otherwise is dumb, no matter how frequently Peter insists that Stiles is his favorite.
That said, Peter does end up following Stiles home in his own vehicle, but Stiles is determined to ignore the familiar car in his rearview mirror. He doesn't even deign to acknowledge how Peter hugs up close to his shoulder while Stiles unlocks the front door to his home. That Peter's acting inordinately strange is no surprise. In Stiles' experience, even complete assholes start singing different tunes after they catch whiff of an omega's heat. It'd be weirder if Peter wasn't suddenly protective and keen on keeping close.
Regardless, Stiles makes a face when Peter follows him in. "You can go any time you like," he tells Peter pointedly.
"Don't be stubborn," Peter replies breezily. "What if you need something?"
Stiles rocks on his heels and bites his tongue in frustration. He doesn't know how he can explain the truth to Peter without it becoming something that Peter can use to his advantage. Stiles knows that if Peter stays, he would sooner satisfy his heat with Peter than with the meager supply of sex toys he has available already. There's no way that Peter wouldn't rub that in his face later on, and Stiles doesn't think he could stand it.
"All I need," Stiles stresses carefully, "is a shower and something to eat. I can handle that much on my own."
"Of course, you can," Peter agrees but in such a way that says that Stiles' capabilities mean absolutely nothing at the moment. He tilts his head toward the stairs and starts ushering Stiles toward them. "Go on then."
Narrowing his eyes, Stiles takes a moment to stand his ground before stomping up the stairs. He gives Peter a suspicious look beforehand, though, just so Peter knows that Stiles is leaving because he chose to, rather than because Peter told him. Still, the real surprise comes half an hour later, when Stiles comes downstairs from his shower to discover that Peter is still very much present — not just lurking like a complete creep, but actually cleaning up some dishes at the kitchen sink. There's one warm plate of food on the dining table, and Stiles sits cautiously, touching the edge of the plate with a fingertip.
The meal looks simple enough for being steak and potatoes. It's the kind of calorie heavy meal that Stiles planned on making himself, but the idea that Peter made it for him makes him stall uncertainly. No matter how delicious it smells or how hungry he is, Stiles hesitates to accept the gesture before he knows what it means.
"You should eat before your heat really sets in for the night," Peter says without turning from the sink. "You won't be thinking about food later."
"I know how heats work," Stiles replies irritably. "This isn't my first one."
When Peter faces him finally, he's drying his hands in a dish towel. He raises a brow at Stiles, who hasn't quite worked up the bravado to demand what Peter thinks he's doing.
"I haven't poisoned it, if that's what you're thinking," Peter says.
Stiles scowls. "I don't know what you're thinking at all."
Peter smiles to himself. Of course he'd be pleased with being mysterious and unknowable. "Indulge me," he urges Stiles. "I won't leave until you do."
Reluctantly, he picks up the fork and knife and tries not to think about how he's wrapped in a fluffy bathrobe and wearing a pad. Peter's attention remains avidly fixed on him as he cuts a few bites of steak. It's mildly unsettling — not that his body seems to care. He still feels the warmth spreading across his shoulder blades. Being provided for during his heat appeals to every damn one of his instincts, and Stiles can't imagine that Peter wouldn't know that.
It tastes wonderful.
Eyes going wide, Stiles tries the potatoes next. They're also delicious. "It's good," Stiles says, unable to refrain from commenting, and he shovels in a couple more bites without hesitation just to keep from complimenting Peter further. He devours half the plate before he realizes that Peter's staring at him with a broad smile. "What."
"It's just—" Peter glances away, searching for words. He seems enamored with some private thought. "I don't recall ever seeing you in heat before."
"I was in heat the day you kidnapped me," Stiles says. He doesn't know why he says that. Stupid to even point it out, but there it is, blurted out between them.
Peter nods to himself. "That certainly explains some things," he says.
"Like what?" Stiles asks, curious despite himself.
Peter pushes away from the counter and approaches under Stiles' cautious eye. When Peter cups his cheek and leans in, tilting their faces close to each other, Stiles lets his eyes close. His breath starts to shake in his chest.
"It explains why you smelled so good that night," Peter confesses with a whisper. "Had I known the reason why, I might not have let you go."
"Okay, that's—" Stiles swallows dryly and feels Peter touch his mouth with his thumb. He licks his lips afterward. "That's pretty terrifying."
"A bit, yes," Peter agrees. "I'm much more in control of myself these days."
"I guess I should be grateful." Stiles would be embarrassed by how breathless he sounds, but this close to his heat, he doesn't care.
Peter doesn't speak for a moment, though he stays close. Still holding Stiles' cheek. Still breathing deeply at his hairline. Stiles opens his eyes slowly. He feels feverish and drunk on Peter's scent. Peter's only a beta, but he doesn't feel like a beta when he's standing over Stiles. Peter's eyes are blue, not red, when Stiles meets his gaze. Try to tell his body that, though. Stiles can feel his body getting wetter by the second, and Peter's nostrils flare as he scents it.
"How much control are we talking about here?" Stiles asks. He suspects not much, considering Peter should've been long gone already.
"Enough," Peter answers roughly. Stiles echoes it questioningly. "Enough to satisfy you thoroughly if you wanted me to."
Eyes widening, Stiles jerks back at the offer. He blinks rapidly, shaking off the heady daze of his heat. Peter's hand drops to his side. Stiles grips the edge of the dining table tightly. Stiles is shocked, and he stares at the meal Peter made for him, mind whirling at the possibilities.
Peter can take a hint, though. He straightens. "Enjoy your dinner," he says and starts for the door.
Stiles looks up in time to watch him go. He stands too, unsure if he means to give chase. He's there to catch the door before it can close completely. "Thank you for dinner," Stiles says quickly. "And thanks. For, um. For making sure I got home safe."
If it weren't for the screen door between them, Stiles is pretty sure Peter would touch him again. That's what his eyes seem to say. Stiles fists his hands at his sides to keep from pushing the door open, letting Peter right back in to do whatever he wants.
"If you change your mind," Peter says, "you know how to find me."
"Yeah," Stiles sighs and watches blankly for a second as Peter starts toward his car. Then Stiles sputters. "Wait no, I don't!" he shouts, suddenly irritated. "No one ever knows how to find you!"
Stiles slams and locks the front door on Peter's laughter, face red with humiliation. His whole body feels hot as he tromps up the stairs to his room. He ditches the bathrobe just inside his bedroom door and is fisting his dick before he gets completely settled on his bed.
With Peter and the touching and the offers, it feels like his heat tonight is worse than usual. His ass is soaked with slick when he touches it. He curls on his side miserably, biting his lip against the sounds he wants to make. His fingers aren't nearly as thick as he'd like. The grip on his dick is too familiar for his brain to think that it might belong to a heat partner, but he wants— he imagines that his hand belongs to Peter.
He's alone on his first heat night. That's nothing unusual. He's never had a heat partner, but now he knows he could have one. That makes all the difference, apparently.
He ends up using his toy days before he usually needs it. He slides it inside himself and groans into his pillow, wondering if Peter would feel anything like this. If he'd be thicker or longer or if he'd hold Stiles on the edge for as long as it took to make Stiles beg to be filled up— Stiles comes with a cry, surprised by the rush of it.
His toy is barely halfway inside him, but there's no mistaking the way he's clenching and twitching around it, sensitive and needy. Stiles lies in the middle of his bed, panting for breath, and with determined fingers, pushes his toy the rest of the way in. It fills him up as perfectly as it always has. It's thick enough to make him feel full and curves just right for his prostate, but…
For the first time in what seems like forever, it's not quite enough. It's lifeless and still. Even when it vibrates, it's not what Stiles wishes it could be. Nonetheless, it faithfully coaxes Stiles through three more orgasms before Stiles manages to sleep, and when Stiles wakes the morning after, heat temporarily subsided enough that he can shower again, he's still thinking about Peter.
There's a quick pack meeting during lunch to go over what happened the evening before. Someone has brought pizza, which Stiles scarfs down a few slices before he even greets anyone. He listens raptly to Scott and Derek's reports, asking questions, only half paying attention to how much he's eating.
He only picked up three slices, but he's sure he munches through more than that during the course of the discussion. It's only then that he notices Peter replacing the empty plate at his elbow with another piled high with three more slices of the pizza Stiles favors.
"Oh," Stiles says softly. "Thanks."
Peter shrugs off his thanks without a word and proceeds to jump into the conversation with questions of his own. No one else notices.
Later, when everyone is going their separate ways, Peter touches Stiles on the shoulder with his fingertips. Stiles' skin grows warm underneath them. When he turns, Peter's nearly chest to chest with him, and he inhales sharply, wavering when he recognizes the arousal in Peter's scent.
"Drink this," Peter says, pushing a bottle of juice into Stiles' hands. "You didn't have anything to drink during lunch."
Stiles takes the bottle and opens it without stepping back from Peter. They're still well within each other's space when Stiles tips his head back to take heavy gulps, drinking half the bottle before he stops. Peter's gaze is molten in his periphery and locked on the bare slope of his neck. Stiles feels unaccountably bold as he says his thanks, leaning close enough that their bodies touch.
"How was last night for you?" Peter asks.
"I've had easier," Stiles admits softly, aware that they're still outside Derek's loft.
It's not common for people to talk openly about heats with anyone other than those closest to them. Stiles is sure that his dad knows way too much about omega heats considering neither he nor Stiles' mom had been one.
That Peter, a beta, is asking about Stiles' heats after already expressing interest... Well. It makes Stiles feel kind of giddy.
"I hope I haven't been making things difficult for you." Peter speaks politely enough, but his fingers are around Stiles' wrist, stroking over Stiles' pulse — up and down and up and down. Stiles' eyelids grow heavy. The motion is meditative.
He's breathing more deeply than before, drinking in the heat between them. "I thought about you last night," Stiles whispers.
Peter's chest rumbles against his. "Did you now," he murmurs, pushing forward until Stiles stumbles back into the wall. "Tell me." Stiles flushes pink, turning to avoid looking directly at Peter's face. Peter noses along his jaw and says again, "Tell me."
"I—," Stiles shudders. "I have a toy I use. I like it, but last night, it wasn't— It couldn't—" He stammers to a halt. "Peter..."
Peter hums. His thumb is still drawing patterns along his wrist. "How wet were you after I left, Stiles?"
The flush of heat through his body is so sudden that Stiles struggles to remain standing. He leans into Peter, pressing his mouth against his shoulder to smother a moan. Forget being able to tell Peter about the night before, Stiles is wet right now and can only tremble as Peter continues to whisper in his ear, so so quiet.
"Did your little toy not satisfy you enough?" Peter asks. "Should I have stayed last night and kept you filled until morning?"
"You can't just say things like that," Stiles insists fervently, reaching to grab Peter's arm with the hand he still has free.
"Why not?" Peter demands. He bares his teeth. The only reason Stiles knows is because they scrape along the shell of his ear and leave him breathless. "I'm only speaking my mind. When I said that I could satisfy you, I meant it."
"You don't know that," Stiles says for the sake of argument.
He doesn't feel the least bit combative at the moment, but a kind of restless uncertainty sits hard in his gut. He doesn't understand why Peter might be interested in him, and there's the very real possibility that Peter might be disappointed in what he finds.
"God, I don't even know what it would be like to have a heat partner." A new fear runs through Stiles' mind, and he pushes for some space so that he can look Peter in the eye. "What if this heat is different? Last night was more powerful than I remember my heats ever being. The rest of my heat could be too."
A sly smile forms on Peter's face, like the idea of weathering a more demanding heat is absolutely delightful. "I think I can handle it," he says. It sounds like a promise. Stiles yearns to believe in Peter's blatant confidence. "I'll take the risk, Stiles. I want to."
Peter touches the underside of Stiles' jaw, tilting his face up. He kisses Stiles gingerly and only falters when Stiles surges into the kiss without hesitation. The juice bottle falls to the ground and rolls away. Stiles digs his fingers into Peter's shoulders. He's very nearly climbing Peter with his eagerness, hungry for every kiss and for the way Peter's hands are suddenly grabbing at him and lifting him onto his toes.
Stiles breaks away for air, groaning as Peter just moves his mouth down to his neck. "Oh, oh," Stiles gasps. He fists a hand in Peter's hair, determined to keep him where he is. Stiles makes a low noise when he feels Peter's teeth. It sounds animal, that noise. It feels feral.
"You better be good on your word. Once I have you inside me, I'm going to milk you until you're dry. And then," Stiles goes on, whispering fiercely, "I'm going to do it again the next day and the day after that. Do you think you can keep up with me?"
Peter answers with a growl as he captures Stiles' mouth again. He grabs Stiles around the waist and shoves one hand down the back of Stiles' jeans, past the elastic of his underwear, until his dry fingers are rubbing around Stiles' entrance.
Stiles is thankful that his shout is muffled against Peter's mouth. The last thing he wants right now is for Derek to walk out and see him writhing between Peter and the brick wall, coming in his pants just because he has a fingertip inside him.
"That's it, sweetheart," Peter murmurs against Stiles' slack mouth. "Feels so good to be touched finally, doesn't it?" Stiles shivers violently, feeling Peter's fingertip moving just inside his hole, stirring along the edges while he twitches. "I think I could make you come again right now with just my finger, don't you?"
"Peter..." Stiles grabs at Peter's shoulders in anticipation. His knees already feel watery. There's no way he can stand on his own.
This time, Peter's finger tugs at his hole, stretching him open, letting his slick spill out. Stiles struggles for breath and gets caught up in the idea that maybe Peter's dick will stretch him like this, filling him up more than his toy ever as. He whimpers helplessly as he begins to harden once more, feet slipping on the dirty concrete as his knees finally give out. Peter tightens the arm around Stiles' waist.
"Just think," Peter coaxes. "This is just one of my fingers. Imagine what I could do to you with more."
A second finger teases at Stiles' hole but doesn't enter him, but oh oh, Stiles wants it to. He wants Peter to fill him up completely. Stiles doesn't realize he's coming again until it's nearly over, leaving him shaking and hot and wet as Peter's hand leaves him empty and clenching around nothing.
"Perfect," Peter praises, kissing Stiles' throat delicately.
Stiles curls into Peter's embrace. "I can't walk," he complains, playfully petulant. The glow from two back-to-back orgasms is way too good to be truly angry, even if it does mean that Peter ends up looking smug as hell. "It's all your fault."
Peter's chest puffs up with pride shortly before he hefts Stiles into his arms. "I suppose I'll take responsibility then. Let's get you home."