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Moving In

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"Where the hell is everyone?" Stiles mutters to himself as he flops down on one of the slightly lighter boxes he's managed to lift out of the moving van on his own. He checks his phone – nothing. He asked each and every one of his friends to be here today to help him move into his new apartment. They all said they would be there, and seemed very enthusiastic about the whole thing; the girls cheering about how they would watch the guys work their asses off while they would sip fruity cocktails and talk about the interior décor of Stiles' new place and – of course – shirtless werewolves.

Stiles obviously planned on joining the girls. He doesn't know the first thing about interior décor and is – or was, until now – perfectly okay with giving them free rein over his apartment, but he does enjoy looking at shirtless boys (minus Scott because that would be weird) and can't lift heavy boxes anyway. So he was planning on enjoying this day and maybe drinking a cool beer while the other pack members worked their asses off.

Stiles has been waiting for fifteen minutes now, and not one of them has actually shown up. Which – wow, what a bunch of assholes!

Since he has his phone out already, he checks the reception bar – and wouldn't it be just his luck to move to an area with no cell reception? – but everything seems to be in working order. So why the hell is no one showing up? What is the point of having super-strong werewolf friends if he can't even rely on them to help him on a day like this? He always helps them with their stuff, so the least they could do is return the favor every once in a while.

For a moment he worries that some new evil's in town and they all got held up fighting an epic battle, but that seems unlikely. The bad guys never show up at 10 in the morning.

"I hate you all," he murmurs and resists the urge to throw his phone to the ground and run the moving truck over it repeatedly. It's evidently not his phone's fault that his friends don't give a shit about him. Or forgot. Or overslept. He doesn't even care about their reasons anymore – after everything he's done for them over the years, he's just pissed that they can't show up the one time he asks them to do something for him.

He rises to his feet and sighs as he looks at the furniture and at least two dozen boxes he's going to have to carry up to his new apartment by himself, and slumps back down onto the box in defeat. He's never going to be able to do this on his own.

Still, now that he's here, he might as well make himself useful. Moping won't make the boxes disappear any faster.

Muttering under his breath, he once again gets up, pushes the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows, and gets to work.


"Need any help with that?"

Stiles is just attempting to drag another box (that hopefully doesn't have anything too important or breakable in it) out of the van when the voice startles him into almost tumbling right out of the van. He lets out an embarrassing yelp, flails – but is caught and righted by a steadying hand just a moment before he loses his balance entirely.

He whirls around and stares at–

"Peter. What the hell are you doing here?"

Peter has his perpetually amused smirk on his lips and raises an eyebrow in response. "You called for help, didn't you?"

Stiles narrows his eyes at him because – what? "How do you even know about that? I know for a fact that I didn't text you, considering I don't have your number."

"Erica forwarded it to me," Peter supplies helpfully.

Stiles blinks. "Why? What on earth would possess her to do that?"

"I like to keep tabs on everyone in the pack," Peter says conversationally, acting nonchalant like he didn't just basically admit to stalking him and everyone else.

Stiles frowns. "So what you're saying is that you've got some dirt on her and blackmailed her into sending every remotely interesting text she gets on to you, is that it?"

Peter hums, neither in denial nor confirmation.

"I don't need your help."

Peter raises a brow skeptically. "Is that so?" he asks, looking around at the surprisingly small amount of boxes Stiles has managed to get out of the van since the appointed time of 10 am. "Could've fooled me."

"I don't! I can do this on my own," Stiles snaps, folding his arms over his chest and, okay, maybe that's childish. He doesn't care right now. "No one else bothered to come, so I don't need anyone's help. Fuck them."

"I showed up, didn't I?" Peter raises his hands defensively when Stiles just glowers at him. "Fine, fine. You do it on your own then. I'll be over here laughing at your pathetic attempts to get those boxes out of the van and up the three flights of stairs. Why you chose to move into a building without an elevator is beyond me but – not my problem."

Stiles stares at him. "How do you even know – no. You know what? I don't want to know."

He shakes his head, and then goes back to tugging on the box he was working on before Peter's sudden appearance. He's sweating by the time he's managed to pull the box to the very edge of the van, and pauses briefly to tug off his hoodie, tossing it aside.

He takes a breath and then lifts the box up, carrying it the couple of feet over to the sidewalk before it gets too heavy and he has to let go. He keens as he drops it unceremoniously on the pavement. He winces at the sound of something breaking, and reaches up to wipe the sweat off his forehead, brushing his damp hair out of his face.

When he looks up, Peter is still there, Stiles' discarded hoodie clutched in one hand and–

"Oh my god, are you sniffing that?" Stiles asks in disbelief and horror, and yanks it out of his grip. "What the hell is wrong with you? Oh my god."

He glares at Peter, then shoves the hoodie into the first box he finds before slumping against the van, panting as he reaches for a bottle of water. Time for a well-deserved break. He glances at his watch and groans inwardly – if he keeps going at this speed, he'll still be here at midnight… the day after tomorrow.

Resigned to his fate, he looks over at Peter as he gulps down his water. "What are you still doing here anyway? I thought I told you to go home."

"You didn't, actually," Peter says softly, giving him a smile. "You told me you didn't need any help – you never said anything about not wanting me to watch you as you make a complete fool of yourself."

"It was heavily implied!" Stiles yells, his glare deepening. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?" He scoffs. "Of course you are. If it made any sense, I would say that you have something to do with this; that you're the reason none of the others showed up. But I literally can't think of a single reason for you to want to get rid of everyone and then show up to help me yourself, so. I guess they're just assholes, and you're…" He stops and shrugs, waving a hand in Peter's direction. "You're you. A fucking sadist who enjoys nothing more than to ruin my day."

Peter tilts his head, still smiling that infuriating little smirk as he inspects his (probably professionally manicured) nails. Vain bastard. "Don't be ridiculous, Stiles. There are plenty of things I enjoy more than torturing you."

He pauses, then adds, "But no. I had nothing to do with your friends not showing up."

Stiles eyes him, trying to detect a lie; for some reason, he highly doubts Peter is telling the truth. Stiles may not know why Peter decided to fuck with his plans but there's still a possibility that he had something to do with it. On the other hand, this seems more like a stupid prank Scott came up with than some sociopathic old werewolf's evil master plan – and Peter's more the type of person to engage in the latter than the former. It doesn't matter anyway; his friends aren't showing up, and he's apparently stuck with Peter for the rest of the day.

Could this get any worse?

Well, technically – yes, it could. They could be interrupted by a group of vindictive pixies or some other supernatural evil. Maybe he should be more grateful that a few heavy boxes and Peter are the only annoyances he has to deal with.

He scowls at Peter for another minute, hoping the intensity of his glare will eventually just make him go away, then sighs when Peter just smiles back at him and looks instead at the veritable mountain of boxes and furniture he needs to get out of the van and upstairs. On his own. Unless… ugh.

It pains him to admit it, but Peter has a point – this is going to take Stiles all day – at least – and some things are too heavy for him to move anyway.

Whether he wants to admit it or not – he needs help. And since, in a shocking turn of events, Peter is here and has supernatural werewolf strength, he seems like the obvious choice.

"Ugh," Stiles groans loudly, rubbing his face as he looks over at Peter who already has that smug, triumphant smile on his face that makes Stiles want to punch him in the face repeatedly. "Fine, you can help. Now stop gloating and get to work."

Peter doesn't move a finger. "What's the magic word?" he practically sing-songs.

"God, I hate you," Stiles mutters before clearing his throat and giving Peter a fake, sardonic smile. "Please, Peter, would you be so kind as to help me move into my new apartment?" He can't help but add, "And if you don't, get lost. I don't have time for your games."

Peter seems to contemplate whether that's good enough for him, then shrugs and smiles back just as sickeningly sweetly. "Of course, Stiles. Why didn't you say so right away?"

He pushes himself off the building he was leaning against, and grabs the heavy box Stiles just dropped a moment before with ease. Stiles can't help but notice the flexing of muscles in his biceps as he does, and is momentarily distracted when Peter asks, "Where do you want this?"

Stiles blinks, feeling his cheeks heat up, hoping Peter didn't notice him looking. His expression seems relatively neutral, which is a good sign. "Uh. I figured we should," he starts, gesturing at the van behind him. "You know, get the furniture upstairs first? It's just my bed, really – the rest of the apartment is furnished, but I guess we should get the bed inside first?"

He looks at the van and frowns when his miscalculation becomes obvious to him. "Of course it is all the way in the back with about ten thousand boxes blocking it. Crap."

"Didn't think that through, did you?" Peter sounds amused, and Stiles rolls his eyes.

"Oh, sorry for not being an expert at this; I've lived in the same place all my life; I've never really had to think about how to pack a moving van." He sighs and tugs on his hair. "Okay, fine. Whatever. We'll carry the boxes up first then."

Peter shrugs. "Fine by me. Load me up."

Stiles blinks at him – he figured Peter is good to go, since he already has one heavy box in his arms. "Are you serious?"

Peter gives him a look. "You think this is the extent of our strength?"

Stiles stares at him for a moment, then shrugs. "I don't know; never thought about it."

Peter looks unimpressed. "For being the so-called brainiac of this pack, you don't use your brain a lot, do you?" He raises a brow. "Well, then go ahead and give it to me."

That last line is delivered with an actual leer.

Stiles cringes. Does he have to make everything sound dirty?

But Stiles complies and manages to shove two more boxes into Peter's hands before Peter makes a sound of protest to signal he has enough. Then he (still somewhat easily) carries the three boxes into the building and up the stairs.

"Damn," Stiles murmurs, surprised. If they work at that speed, they'll be done before noon.

He refuses to feel gratitude towards Peter Hale of all people but – okay, fine. He's pretty glad he's here right now.

When Peter comes back, Stiles shoves more boxes into his arms and watched him wander off again. He figures this time he should probably make a trip to the apartment as well, so he grabs one of the lighter boxes and follows Peter up the stairs. Peter doesn't even look like he's done anything particularly tiring when he arrives upstairs and sets the boxes down in the living room; breath even, hardly sweating at all. Stiles, on the other hand, feels like he's just run a marathon.

"Jesus," he murmurs, using his t-shirt to wipe his brow.

Peter looks at him in amusement and Stiles narrows his eyes at him. "Don't even start. If you even so much as think about making a statement about my stamina, I'm going to kick you."

"I wasn't going to," Peter says, though he definitely looks like he's biting back a stupid comment. Stiles has to give him points for his restraint; it's almost impressive.

Stiles inhales deeply through his nose, then nods. "All right, back to work."

He walks down the stairs, the hairs on the back of his neck raised a little because Peter is right behind him; too close. He moves faster when they reach the lobby, bringing some distance between them.

Outside, he grabs a box from the van and turns to Peter, then almost drops the box because Peter is tugging off his shirt in one swift, elegant move.

"Wha– what are you doing?"

He doesn't squeak. Okay, maybe he does a little, but it's a manly squeak.

Peter raises a brow at him, and Stiles makes sure to keep his eyes on Peter's dumb smirk rather than his slightly sweaty body and – okay, so he can admit that Peter's in good shape. But that's hardly something to wonder at right now, or ever. He's a werewolf – of course he's fit. Stiles has yet to meet a werewolf who's in poor physical condition.

"I don't want to get my shirt sweaty hence I took it off," Peter says mildly and holds his hands out impatiently.

That... makes sense actually, so Stiles just nods and hands him another box.

Peter makes another couple of trips upstairs on his own, Stiles sometimes following with the smaller boxes.

Finally, they've narrowed the number down enough for them to be able to take the bed out of the van.

Stiles pushes up his sleeves as he climbs into the back of the vehicle and grabs the first part of the bed frame. "Okay, so I'm gonna take the front and you take the back?"

Peter smirks slowly. "That's the way I generally like it, yes."

Stiles groans and points a finger at him accusingly. "Oh my god, do you have to do that? Fucking pervert."

Peter merely smiles, and Stiles sighs. "Whatever."

He starts shoving the piece of bed frame forward until Peter can grab the end and lift it up. Stiles barely has to do anything at all as they make their way upstairs; Peter is carrying the majority of the weight, and, okay, so Stiles is never going to admit it out loud but Peter's strength is kind of impressive. And hot, his traitorous brain supplies, but that's – no, he's not even going there.

"Bedroom?" Peter asks when they reach Stiles' floor, and Stiles nods; together they manage to maneuver it into the bedroom. Stiles helps Peter with the other longer parts while Stiles moves the smaller ones upstairs on his own.

Back outside after a couple more trips to his apartment, Peter grabs the large mattress on his own, and Stiles pointedly does not look at the way his muscles bulge with the effort. He swallows hard and decides that this is not going to be a thing – he's not going to look at Peter Hale that way because why on earth would he? The guy's a creep; always has been. So no ogling, he tells himself.

He breaks his self-imposed rule just a couple of seconds later when he follows Peter up the stairs with a box and tries not to stare at his broad shoulders and back, and the tiny beads of sweat on his skin, but it's getting increasingly hard to ignore the fact that, yeah, Peter looks good for a man his age. Not that Stiles knows how old he actually is. Mid thirties? Early forties? Older than that? Stiles has no idea how age works for werewolves. Do they get extremely old compared to humans and look the same for several decades; always young and in good shape, whether they're thirty or sixty? He makes a mental note to research that at some point, or ask Derek, maybe.

Dropping the box upstairs, Stiles takes a breath and once again uses his already damp t-shirt to wipe the sweat off his face. "All right, uh. I think I can take care of the rest on my own," he says when Peter comes out of the bedroom after depositing the mattress in it. "There's only a couple of boxes left and they're not that heavy, so you can go and… do whatever it is that you usually do. Eat small children, scare the elderly…"

Peter gives him an unimpressed look, and Stiles shrugs before adding, in a more serious voice, "Thanks, though. You didn't have to help me, yet here you are, and I really appreciate it. Who would've thought that out of everyone, you would be the only one willing to help?"

He tries not to sound bitter, but he fails. His friends have abandoned him when he needed them most, and he isn't going to just let them laugh it off whenever they do come around eventually. Peter, on the other hand has helped him move in with minimal complaints, and well, Stiles is both surprised and… not, because from time to time he does get the impression that there's a halfway decent man underneath all the evil and creepiness. Sometimes he even thinks that he might actually like Peter under different circumstances. Right now, he kind of does.

Sure, there are the occasional unnecessary innuendos and the constant mockery, but in the end, Peter was here for him when the rest of his friends weren't, and after spending most of the morning with the guy, Stiles can admit – only to himself, though – that Peter isn't that awful to be around.

"I could help you put the bed together," Peter offers after a moment of silence. "Knowing you, you'll put a screw right through your hand in the process, so…"

Or maybe he's just an asshole who's sometimes very good at faking being nice. That's probably more likely.

Stiles' responding glare at him is weak – but he can totally put together an Ikea bed without anyone's help, thank you very much. In fact, he's a pro at all things Ikea.

Still, Peter's offer is tempting and it would save him time, and before Stiles has fully thought it through, he hears himself say, "Yeah, thanks, that would be great."

"You'll be okay with the boxes?" Peter inquires, and Stiles nods briskly, suddenly feeling like he has to get out of there and take a deep breath of fresh air because things are starting to get really weird, considering he actually feels a little relieved about the fact that Peter's not going to leave him just yet.

"Yeah, I'll be fine."

Stiles watches Peter nod and turn around to go back into his bedroom, and then shakes his head and rolls his eyes at himself before heading downstairs again to grab the last couple of boxes and lock up the van.

He doesn't go back inside right away; instead he leans against the van for a moment to finish the rest of his water and contemplate what the hell is wrong with him and why Peter suddenly doesn't seem like the worst person in the world anymore. Actually, that one's pretty easy to explain – Peter sacrificed his morning to help him, and after the initial mockery and smugness, ended up acting like a pretty normal person.

What's more disconcerting is the fact that Stiles still can't stop thinking about the man's muscles or his dumb smirk that's becoming increasingly charming rather than more obnoxious.

But it's probably nothing he needs to worry about. Maybe it's Peter's current niceness that's making Stiles look at him differently. Soon enough, Peter will be back to being his usual creepy self, and Stiles will once again see him as nothing more than Derek's weird uncle.

He glances at his watch and realizes he's been out here for a little longer than planned, so Stiles takes the last few items out of the van, closes the back door and locks it, and heads back up the stairs.

Once again out of breath by the time he arrives, he closes the door behind him and leans against the wall beside it to breathe deeply. He feels sweaty and gross, and decides that the first thing he'll do after getting rid of Peter, is take a long shower. And then he's going to leave and yell at his friends for being giant assholes. Or maybe the passive-aggressive approach would be better; ignore them until they come crawling back and beg for his forgiveness. He slides his hand into his pocket and reaches for his phone, momentarily hopeful as he checks his messages. Surely at least Scott's awake at this point and ready to apologize. But no – still nothing.

Stiles snorts angrily and tosses the phone onto the couch, then tugs off his seriously sweaty t-shirt and leans against the wall again, still trying to catch his breath. He runs a hand down his slightly damp chest and rests it on his stomach, feeling it rise and fall with his breaths.

When he opens his eyes, Peter is standing mere centimeters away from him, and Stiles jumps and resists the urge to squirm away and bring as much distance between them as possible. Except his back is already pressed against the wall; there isn't anywhere he can go without making it too obvious.

Peter watches him for a moment, clearly enjoying Stiles' discomfort.

"The bed is done," he says when the silence threatens to turn awkward.

Stiles blinks in surprise. "What? How? You literally just started!"

Peter shrugs, pleased with Stiles' reaction. "Werewolf speed and strength," he points out, a smirk tugging on his lips. "Comes in handy sometimes – and not only during fights against various supernatural forces."

Stiles nods slowly. "True, I guess," he says, sighing. "Well, thanks. I really appreciate your help today."

He tries to give Peter a smile but it comes out more like a grimace because Peter's still staring at him and it's making him feel a little awkward.

He closes his eyes for another moment, trying not to let the fact that Peter is standing really damn close get to him, and swallows hard. When he opens his eyes again, it's just in time to see Peter's gaze travel up his bare torso and fasten on Stiles' lips.

Stiles' heart skips a beat and his tongue darts out to wet suddenly dry lips. His heart is hammering in his chest, and Peter can probably hear it. Stiles isn't sure how he feels about that, and feels the sudden need to break the silence, but then Peter meets his eyes again and whatever words Stiles wanted to say die on his lips.

"You should test it," Peter says, voice low; almost like a purr. "The bed, I mean. See if it's as sturdy as it looks."

He raises an eyebrow in what is definitely a suggestive manner, lips quirking up. Taking another step towards Stiles and gaze once again fixed on Stiles' mouth, he adds, "I could help you with that."

He looks at Stiles inquiringly, and Stiles holds his breath at the implication. There is no way to misinterpret that.

Peter's flirting with him. Peter's suggesting they have sex on his new bed. Peter wants to fuck him.

Holy shit.

Peter is looking at him with a hunger and intensity Stiles has never seen directed at him before, and, fuck, okay, so he's spent the entire morning trying not to notice how well-built and handsome Peter actually is, and wondering at the fact that he's clearly capable of acting like a normal human being.

And maybe it's the worst idea he's ever had and Stiles will end up regretting whatever is about to happen, but his cock is already straining against the fabric of his jeans, and the way Peter is looking at him makes him feel wanted in a way he's never felt before. He's undeniably aroused, and Peter obviously wants him too, or he wouldn't be suggesting it, so…

It only takes a few seconds for him to contemplate the pros and cons before he lets out a shaky breath and murmurs, "Fuck it."

Before he knows what he's doing, he slings his arms around Peter's neck and kisses him with a fervor that even surprises himself. He pulls Peter against him and slides his tongue into his mouth, hoping the part of his brain that's protesting and telling him that this is a horrible idea will shut up soon. Peter doesn't hesitate for a second before returning the kiss, large hands trailing down Stiles' back, fingers digging into his waist. He pins him against the door with his entire body, showcasing the strength Stiles has been not so subtly admiring all morning. Stiles struggles briefly, just to see if he could get away if he wanted to, but Peter doesn't budge an inch, and okay, that's hot.

"Fuck," Stiles breathes when the kiss breaks and Peter attacks his neck with his mouth, dragging blunt, human teeth down to his collarbone. Stiles reaches up and tangles his fingers into Peter's soft hair and tugs at it, his whole body jerking forward without his permission when Peter bites his earlobe. "Oh god."

Peter yanks him forward when he takes a step back, and then picks him up as easily as he lifted the considerably less heavy boxes he's been carrying all morning. Stiles makes a surprised sound and throws an arm and both legs around Peter to steady himself while his free hand slides down to Peter's bicep, squeezing it; feeling the hard muscle beneath his skin.

"Fuck," he gasps again just before Peter presses their lips together in another searing kiss.

"I have no idea what I'm doing," Stiles murmurs when Peter sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and his hands tighten on Stiles' ass.

"Just stop thinking," Peter suggests, and then they're moving and Peter's carrying him into the bedroom, holding Stiles like he weighs nothing.

Stiles' shoulder hits the doorframe by accident and he hisses, "Ow, watch out!"

He smacks the back of Peter's head, but then kisses him again, sucking and biting at Peter's lips because he just can't help himself. Peter's an incredible kisser; clearly experienced, and Stiles can't get enough of it.

He gasps, then whines when Peter suddenly lets go and drops him on the bed unceremoniously. "Wha–"

"I told you," Peter says in a low voice, eyes darkening as he takes in Stiles' form, spread out on the bed. "We're christening your bed."

Stiles stares at him and has a brief moment of panic when he realizes that – yes, this is about to happen. And he's going to let this happen because he can't remember the last time he was this aroused, and as much as a part of him still finds the idea of fucking Peter Hale, of all people, incredibly disturbing, the bigger part of him is down with the idea. So down with it.

He licks his lips and his eyes widen slowly when Peter, after studying him for a moment, unbuckles his belt and drops his trousers.

And apparently Peter Hale doesn't believe in underwear, which, wow. Hello there! Under normal circumstances, Stiles would take the opportunity to make a snarky comment about it but right now, all he can focus on is Peter's erection and the fact that it's that hard for him.

Stiles' mouth literally waters at the sight of Peter Hale naked; something he never thought was even possible. But here he is, and Peter's standing above him, looking like some sort of God, and Stiles can't stop staring at the broad shoulders and narrow hips and muscular thighs and, above all, his seriously impressively large cock standing to attention between his legs.

"Fuck me," escapes Stiles with a groan before he can silence himself, and Peter perks up, eyes twinkling as he winks at him.

"That's the idea, yes."

Stiles rolls his eyes; a sarcastic retort on the tip of his tongue, but then Peter's lowering himself onto the bed, slowly crawling towards him in a decidedly predatory manner, and Stiles swallows his words. Verbally keeping the upper hand really shouldn't be his priority right now, but the naked man above him. Yep, he's going to focus on that instead.

He can't help but compare Peter's way of moving to that of a wild animal, and despite his aversions to some of the things Peter's done in his past – well, most of the things he's done in his past – Stiles reaches for him, volunteering to be his prey.

Peter stares at him for a moment, letting his gaze move over the exposed plane of Stiles' chest, and Stiles feels himself blushing under Peter's stare, shivering all over when Peter leans down to suck one of his nipples into his mouth.

"Fuck," Stiles murmurs again, and sinks his fingers into Peter's hair, twisting the strands between his fingers and tugging encouragingly. Peter grazes his teeth over Stiles' nipples, teasing until they harden under his touch and Stiles is panting heavily, eyes squeezed shut in pleasure.

When Peter moves his lips down his body, Stiles sucks in a breath and tightens his hand in Peter's hair, swallowing hard. "I have no idea what I'm doing," he says again, because he doesn't and he feels like repeating that is the only way for him to keep some semblance of control over what he's doing.

Only this morning the idea of being in this position would never – ever – have occurred to him, and now he's in bed with Peter Hale and letting him do things to him that he's only done a handful of times with other guys, and it's just weird and surreal. For a moment, he considers telling Peter to get off him – but the thing is, he doesn't want that. What he wants is more of Peter's surprisingly skilled tongue, and to get his hands on that ridiculously beautiful cock.

Deep down, he doesn't forget that this is a bad idea but right now, he just doesn't give enough of a fuck to stop.


Stiles blinks and only now realizes that Peter's stopped playing with his nipples and is looking up at him with dark blue eyes. "Huh?"

"Stop thinking," Peter says, and then yanks down Stiles' jeans – when did he unzip those? – and takes his cock into his mouth. Stiles keens in surprise and holds on to Peter's hair and shoulders as his whole body arches upward at the sudden wet heat surrounding his cock.

"Jesus," he breathes and lets himself fall back onto the mattress, his hips jerking up to thrust his cock into Peter's mouth of their own accord. He tries to keep them still out of consideration for Peter's throat, but rather than keep him pinned, Peter slides both hands under his hips and encourages him to thrust, and – fuck, Stiles doesn't hesitate for a second before he takes Peter up on the offer and seeks out more of the tantalizing heat of Peter's mouth.

He's panting uncontrollably by the time Peter releases him with an obscene wet 'pop' of his lips, and lifts his head to glance down at Peter to find him looking back at him; unbelievably smug, smirk still in place.

"I hate you," Stiles tells him, though whether it's because his dick is no longer in Peter's mouth or because everyone else Stiles has been with and will ever be with has just paled in comparison, he doesn't know. He reaches down and touches the back of Peter's head again, trying to get him to put his mouth back on him, but Peter seems to have other ideas and sits up on his knees, out of reach.

"Peter," Stiles groans before he can stop the needy sound from escaping. He's a little embarrassed by how much he wants this, but Peter's looking at him, eyes dark with lust and approval, and it makes Stiles want to do the opposite of shutting up, and whine, plead, beg for Peter to touch him again.

"Turn around," Peter says, fingers almost gentle on Stiles' thigh, caressing lightly.

Stiles opens his mouth, then nods silently and rolls around as fast as he can, not even questioning it. He knows he should probably be more on his guard around Peter but he's so horny right now that he can't muster the energy to distrust him. And if he's about to die… well, at least he'll have the comfort of knowing that his friends will avenge his death and make Peter pay for it.

If they can be bothered to.

He sighs and pushes the thought of his treacherous friends to the back of his mind in favor of rutting against the mattress to give his already neglected dick some much-needed friction. Peter's taking his time and Stiles momentarily wonders if he's even still there. He looks over his shoulder to check and finds Peter still in the same position, staring at him.

Stiles' hips still and he feels his cheeks flush in embarrassment, then nudges Peter's knee with his foot and frowns. "Come on. What the hell are you waiting for?"

Peter blinks and meets his eyes, lips curling as he snaps out of his momentary reverie. "You seemed to be doing just fine on your own," he murmurs, but then gets back to whatever he's planning on doing to Stiles, and nudges his legs apart, arranging Stiles the way he wants him.

Stiles rolls his eyes and says nothing as he folds his arms underneath him, pressing his forehead against them, shifting until he's comfortable. His eyes flutter closed when he feels Peter's hands move up the backs of his legs, spreading his legs further. Peter's hands wrap around Stiles' ass cheeks then, squeezing them almost painfully, and Stiles stifles a moan.

He almost thinks he's going to have to remind Peter again to just fucking do something already, when suddenly, warm breath ghosts across his hole, and Stiles lets out a yelp of surprise when a swipe of Peter's tongue follows.

This is happening. This is actually happening, and ohgodohgodohGOD, it feels amazing when Peter starts circling his entrance with the tip of his tongue, hands still gripping his cheeks firmly and spreading them further apart. Stiles digs his teeth into his arm and moans helplessly at the teasing licks. Peter starts thrusting; tongue unrelenting as he slides it past the tight ring of muscle, and he keeps fucking Stiles with it until he's a panting, sweating mess underneath him, reduced to incoherent little moans and whines. He pushes back against the wet warmth of Peter's mouth almost unconsciously, hands clawing helplessly at the mattress.

"Peter," he babbles over and over again until Peter's tongue disappears and is replaced by a slick finger that slides in easily, now that Stiles is completely relaxed. He moans at the intrusion of a second finger, and starts pushing his hips back against Peter's hand, body trembling in anticipation of what's to come.

His cock is leaking what feels like copious amounts of pre-come onto his brand new mattress but he can't even bring himself to care right now. He also finds himself idly wondering where the lube Peter's clearly using on him right now even came from, but then dismisses the thought, figuring it doesn't matter as long as there is lube.

A third finger slides in and Stiles hisses at the combination of slight pain and pleasure before Peter seeks out his prostate and brushes against it lightly, making Stiles see stars and his cock twitch where it's trapped between his body and the mattress. He whimpers when he feels Peter's lips press against his ass cheek; he mouths his way down to the inside of his thigh while his fingers keep fucking him insistently.

Stiles almost comes then and there when Peter bites his thigh none too gently. He finally seems to find his voice again, and gasps out, "Peter, please, I need– I want–"

Peter hums softly, rubbing his slightly scruffy chin against the sensitive inside of his thigh, followed by a soothing swipe of his tongue. "What do you need, Stiles?" he asks, voice soft as his warm breath ghosts across his skin.

And – of course. Of course he's going to make Stiles say it – as if he hasn't begged enough already.

"You," Stiles manages, then corrects himself, and says, "Your cock. I want you to fuck me."

Peter makes a pleased sound, and Stiles can almost see his smirk as Peter pulls his fingers out of him. Stiles lets out a breath and shifts a little, managing to push himself up on his knees, cheek still pressed against the mattress. Peter seems to approve of the position; Stiles hears a sharp intake of breath, and smirks a little as well.

He hears the slick sound of lube being spread over Peter's dick, and Stiles realizes that he still hasn't gotten to touch Peter's cock, and that just seems wrong. He makes a mental note to rectify that later.

Peter's hands land on his sides as he rubs the slick length of his cock against Stiles, pressing his cheeks together with his cock trapped between them; thrusting against Stiles several times without actually entering him. It feels good – it feels amazingly good, but it's not what Stiles needs right now, and he lets out a series of impatient sounds before he finally feels the tip of Peter's cock nudge his entrance.

"Patience," Peter murmurs and takes his sweet time getting his dick inside Stiles. Stiles holds his breath as Peter pushes past the initial resistance and then slides in easily, filling him up, then lets out a gasp when Peter bottoms out; hips pressed firmly against his ass.

"Oh god," he groans and clenches around Peter as if to hold him there. Peter's hands are still on his hips, thumbs rubbing soothing circles into his skin as he shifts so slightly that Stiles probably shouldn't even be able to really feel it, but he's so focused on the sensation that even the smallest shift feels mind-blowing.

"Move," he hisses when Peter once again takes a longer-than-necessary break.

Peter leans over him, pressing his chest to Stiles' back, and his lips press firmly against Stiles' shoulder. It changes the angle a little and Stiles keens as he pushes back and fits himself fully against Peter's body behind him.

"Bossy," Peter remarks, seeming amused – but there's something else in his voice, and Stiles knows that he's enjoying this as much as Stiles is; that he's just as eager as him to get things moving.

Peter pulls out almost painfully slowly, and Stiles is about to complain yet again when Peter's hips snap forward so hard Stiles almost doubles over. He whines and pushes back against Peter desperately when Peter fucks into him with the same force again and again. The sound of Peter's hips slapping against his backside and their heavy breathing and moans and gasps fill the room, and Stiles wishes he could see what they look like right now.

Peter keeps fucking into him repeatedly, sometimes changing his angle slightly, but always seeming to hit a spot that renders Stiles completely speechless, and after a while, Stiles doesn't even try to push back anymore, limbs going weak and boneless as intense pleasure washes over him.

"Peter," he breathes when Peter reaches around him and tweaks one of his nipples. His hand moves down to wrap around his cock while his other hand slides up Stiles' back and grips the back of his neck, keeping him firmly pinned to the mattress. Peter's hips never falter; his rhythm steady and forceful. "Oh my god…"

When Peter starts jerking him off in time with his thrusts, it doesn't take much longer for Stiles to feel his orgasm approaching, and all it takes is one more push, one more little twist of his cock before he comes, his body trembling beneath Peter with the most intense orgasm he can remember experiencing.

Peter fucks him through his orgasm and beyond, hips slamming into him harder and faster now, his thrusts becoming erratic before his hips still completely and he lets out something that sounds suspiciously like a growl as he comes, buried deep inside Stiles. His hands dig into Stiles' hips, probably leaving marks, and then he's gone, pulling out of Stiles carefully.

Stiles can't move; can't even be bothered to stretch his knees in order to get into a more comfortable position, but then Peter's there, easing him onto the mattress and throwing a leg and arm over him, head resting on his shoulder.

They lie there, panting heavily as the aftershocks of their orgasms wash over them.

"Fuck," Stiles whispers, letting out a breathless laugh.

"Mhm," Peter hums in agreement, his chin scratching Stiles' collarbone as he leans in to press a few open-mouthed kisses to Stiles' neck.

With his ability to breathe, Stiles also regains the ability to think, and for a long moment, he lies there, boneless, trying to process what just happened. Before this started, he was sure he would end up regretting it but now that it's done, he doesn't really feel bad about it. He wonders if it'll come later.

"Where'd you even get the lube?" he asks, brow furrowing when he realizes that this is his new apartment and he hasn't had the time to put his stuff in the drawers and shelves yet, considering he's literally just moved in.

At Peter's silence, Stiles frowns, and then pushes himself up on his elbow, forcing Peter to stop kissing his neck. "Oh my god, did you come here expecting to fuck me?"

Peter looks smug, rather than sheepish, and Stiles stares at him in awe, mouth opening and closing a few times as he tries to come up with an appropriate response. He doesn't find one, and instead, just shakes his head and winds an arm around the back Peter's shoulders, carding his fingers through his hair. His hand stills when he realizes what that means. "So you did have something to do with the fact that no one else showed up here."

It's a statement, not a question, because at this point, it's pretty clear that this is Peter's doing.

"I may have faked a supernatural emergency and discouraged the rest of the pack from bothering you with it," Peter admits, though he still sounds proud of himself, rather than sorry.

"I can't believe you," Stiles mutters, shoving him lightly, but there's no real anger behind it. "You led me to believe my friends abandoned me and don't care about me at all. I should be kicking you out right now."

Peter shifts beside him and props his head up on his arm, looking down at him. "Hmm," he hums, eyes focused on Stiles. "But you're not going to, are you?"

He seems so sure of Stiles' answer, and if Stiles didn't have his mind set on getting his hands on Peter's cock, he would so be kicking him out right now. But as it is, he does hope there'll be a round two and maybe three, so it would be stupid to cockblock himself right now.

He rolls his eyes at Peter and shoves at his face, making Peter chuckle and wrap his arms around him, pulling him closer.

Stiles sighs heavily and stares up at the ceiling, ignoring the sticky spot of drying come against his back. After a moment, he turns to look at Peter who's still watching him. "Thanks, though. For helping me. I mean, obviously it's all your fault that no one else showed up in the first place, but you could've just left me here without any help at all, so… thanks."

"You're welcome, Stiles," Peter says.

After a moment, he adds, "Looks like the bed's passed the test, though."

Stiles frowns thoughtfully and pushes himself up on his elbows, eyeing him with a raised eyebrow. "You think so? Personally, I think we need to verify that with a second test round. Maybe even a third."

He wiggles his eyebrows and grins at the bark of laughter that escapes Peter, then squeaks when Peter pounces and kisses him again.

"I like the way you think," he murmurs against Stiles' lips, and Stiles bites him teasingly, hand sliding down to finally wrap around Peter's already hardening cock.

Test Round 2.0 is officially a go.