The first thing he noticed was that itch at the back of his neck. The one he’d developed over the years of fighting supernatural baddies that could sneak up on you, that could cloak sound and scent, but couldn’t take away that instinct.
Someone was watching him.
Actually, two someones were watching him, but Stiles was pretty sure they took turns.
At pack meetings, he’d look up just as one was looking away. And his belly swooped with excited nerves, like a kid with a crush, but he was also a little annoyed because why? Why were they watching him?
During battles, one would usually be nearby, but more often both. It was as if they’d decided he couldn’t handle himself or something.
He was Stiles motherfucking Stilinski, ace private detective and supernatural specialist, and he could handle any damn thing.
“Do you think you guys could let me fight my own battles?” he brought up one day after the rest of the pack cleared out of his home.
Peter batted his eyelashes, Stiles would swear to it, but put on a confused expression. Chris flashed his eyebrows, and his mouth twitched at the corner, but otherwise he kept a straight face.
“What are you talking about?” they asked as one.
Because that wasn’t suspicious at all.
“I’m talking about how every time we have to fight something, you guys get in the way of my action.” Stiles leaned over to look at the grimoire spread across the table, but shot back up when a belt buckle dug into his back. Stubble scratched at his shoulder, and he huffed out a breath.
“Don’t distract me. I know what’s happening.” He pushed back, employing his pointy elbows until Chris moved, but then Peter came up in front of him and he was trapped.
Okay, becoming a Stiles sandwich between these two may have been a fantasy of his for…ever. Or at least since he was sixteen and incredibly horny, but really, who wouldn’t?
“And what, exactly, do you think is happening, Stiles?” Peter’s smooth, silky voice made him shiver, though Chris tracing little designs into his sides didn’t help either.
“You don’t think I can handle myself.” His stomach dropped like he was on the speediest elevator to hell, the hell of humiliation and invalidation, but he had to get this handled before it got worse.
Or continued, whichever.
“And if this is a pity fuck kind of thing, you guys can ju–mmph!”
Peter kissed him. Like, really kissed him, hands cupping his jaw, mouth moving against his, so soft and hot and a little wet, and Stiles whimpered when he pulled away.
“What the fuck?!” he tried to move his arms, but somewhere in there Chris had twined their fingers together, and now there were–tingles. Up and down his body, every time his fingers clenched, he got a little squeeze from Chris in return.
“We know you can handle yourself, Stiles,” Chris rumbled from behind him, and then he pressed a kiss to the bend where neck met shoulder. “We just…weren’t sure how else to show we cared. That we want you to be safe. You have to be safe.”
“If we didn’t think you could handle yourself,” Peter added, “then how on earth would you be able to handle us?”
Stiles stood there, blinking at Peter, partially reveling in the heat of Chris’ body at his back, and just. “So this is your weird fucking version of courtship? Jumping in the way when you’re not needed?”
“I wouldn’t say not needed, but aren’t three heads better than one?” Peter smirked. “And six hands better than two?”
“I’m not a virgin, you know.” But the flush crawled across his cheeks, down his neck, and over his chest anyway. “You could’ve just asked.”
“If all we wanted was sex, maybe we would’ve.” Peter chuckled.
Chris pulled Stiles’ hands to the small of his back, and yes that was definitely doing things to him. Which Peter could smell, even if Chris couldn’t, and damn it, they were doing the thing. The couple thing with the eye contact that spoke–
“Do you guys have telepathy or something?” The question came out before he could stop it.
“Maybe a little. Comes with a mate bond,” Chris explained, and that set off a whole other line of questioning.
“And don’t mates usually come in twos? Why are you guys…here? With me?” He may be grown up, but Stiles still had that voice in his head. Too skinny, too sarcastic, too smart, too twitchy, too…human.
“Usually doesn’t mean always. And we like you, Stiles.” Peter tapped a finger on the tip of Stiles’ nose.
“Tha-at’s great.” His voice broke when Chris’ grasp tightened, and his eyes shut of their own volition.
“Yes, it really is. Now, I’m fairly sure you have a bed in this place. You smell like we should perhaps move to a soft surface,” Peter whispered, his breath hot against the side of Stiles’ face.
“What, no wine, no dinner? Just, ‘where’s the bed?’ and that’s it? I thought you, at least, were smoother than that, Peter.” Stiles twisted his hands out of Chris’ grasp, which wasn’t all that tight in the grand scheme of being taken hostage and tied up with actual rope, and managed to free himself.
He backed away from both of them, and they watched him. The hairs on the back of his neck still stood, especially under their combined gaze, and his pants were uncomfortably tight now. “I’m not that kinda guy. You can’t just spring this on me, and expect things.”
They looked at each other, did their weird couple mind-talk shit, and Stiles stamped his foot. Peter laughed outright and Chris looked amused. “Okay. How about dinner, tomorrow night, at Giovanni’s?”
Stiles pretended to think about it. “Well, alright. Pick me up at seven.” He tried to act cool, but Peter heard the uptick of his heartbeat. His smirk said so.
They both approached head-on this time, but it was Chris who palmed his nape and pulled him into a kiss. Where Peter seduced, Chris dominated. He took Stiles’ mouth, bit at his bottom lip, and when Stiles gasped, he slid his tongue in easy as you please.
He withdrew, and Stiles stumbled after him, just a step. Just enough.
“See you tomorrow night, Stiles.” Peter patted his cheek, thumbed away some of the slick from Stiles’ mouth, and licked it as he turned to follow Chris out the door.
He swallowed hard, looked down, and decided research could wait until later. He had to go take care of himself.