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a fifty-fifty shot (that i'll regret this in the morning)

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It was an experiment Stiles was doing for a sociology class. He was supposed to write a paper on the experience, elaborating on how letting a coin decide his fate for a week either broadened or limited opportunities in his day-to-day life. It seemed easy enough.

And it was. At first.


He flipped the coin Monday morning – heads for his usual coffee, tails for the barista’s pick. He got tails, and the barista smiled in a way that made Stiles’ gut roll queasily. Despite that, he walked out of the coffee house with something rich with chocolate, covered in whipped cream, and utterly delicious. No regrets.


His dad took him out for dinner and said that Stiles could choose between a steak house and the new vegan place on main street.

“You’re only doing this because you know about my project,” Stiles accused, but his dad only grinned as he rocked back on his heels and waited for Stiles to flip the coin.

The steak house won, but Stiles still made his dad get a side salad to go with his steak. Silently, Stiles flipped the coin at the end of the night – heads for stopping the experiment early and tails for continuing. The quarter told him to continue, and Stiles huffed before getting ready for bed.


“Hey, Stiles, you should come out with us tonight,” Scott said. “We’re going out to the Brass Tap for drinks. You in?”

Stiles tossed the quarter and smiled, pleased at finding the face looking back at him. “Sure, count me in.”


“Oh god, I shouldn’t – I can’t —” Stiles waved his hands in front of him as another shot was offered.

The crowd around Stiles and his friends hooted and hollered. They’d found out earlier that Stiles was using a coin for his decisions, and so far, the coin had betrayed him mightily. Thanks to it, Stiles had taken about four shots too many in the last hour and was increasingly grateful that Scott was his designated driver tonight. The bartender waggled the bottle of vodka between them. The crowd started to chant – “Flip! The! Coin! Flip! The! Coin!” – until Stiles obliged by spinning the quarter across the bar top and slamming his hand down on it. When he cupped his palm up, he cursed, the bartender poured the new drink, and the crowd went wild with cheers.

“This is statistically extremely unlikely!” Stiles complained as he grabbed the shot and tossed it back with a grimace. “If I die from alcohol intoxication, I want the police to arrest my sociology teacher!”

“You got it, buddy,” Scott said, patting Stiles on the shoulder.

The jostle made Stiles feel suddenly queasy. He straightened up rigidly, putting a hand to his mouth. “Ugh,” he groaned. “Oh god… oh fuck me–” And he promptly threw up.


Peter dropped into the seat next to Stiles on the couch. “So…” he began.

“Whatever it is you want, the answer is no.”

Peter sighed happily and threw an arm over Stiles to rest his knuckles against the back of his neck. “That sounds an awful lot like a decision, Stiles, and I hear that a coin is making those for you this week.”

Stiles stared incredulously at him for a moment. “You’ve got to be kidding me. I’m not flipping a coin for you.”

Buffing his nails against his shirt, Peter hummed. “Your loss.”

“Damn right it is,” Stiles said and returned back to his homework, expecting Peter to leave as soon as he didn’t have Stiles’ attention.

But Peter didn’t leave. He stayed right next to Stiles with his body burning a line of heat into Stiles' side and his arm pressing warm behind Stiles’ shoulders. He seemed to be hovering, reading over Stiles’ shoulder as he wrote his essay. He kept making disparaging noises at odd points while Stiles typed, but didn’t seem inclined to explain himself when Stiles glared at him.

Finally, Stiles snapped. “What.”

Peter raised a brow. “Hm?”

“What do you want?” Stiles ground out.

Peter smiled. “Are you sure you want to know?”

“Just tell me.”


It seems to me, you’re not really exploring the possibilities of this experiment. That’s what Peter said.

Forget the little decisions, Peter said.

Why don’t you try to have an adventure?


You can blame it later on the project.


Stiles' laptop sat on the coffee table. The screensaver was on, lines haphazardly bouncing across a dark background. It was a dizzying backdrop to the elegant curls of Peter's hair. It cast soft shadows between the two of them, making a silhouette of the way Peter settled between Stiles' knees. The quarter sat within reach, George Washington's face peering at the ceiling. Peter’s hand skated under Stiles’ shirt, fingers skimming the waist of his jeans and scooping around him to settle against his spine.

Peter's beard rasped against Stiles’ collar as he asked, “Can I touch you?”

“You’re already touching me,” Stiles told him, even though he knew that Peter was waiting for him to reach for the coin again.

Peter chuckled and whispered, “With my mouth.”

Stiles shivered and shakily flipped the quarter. It came up heads again, and Stiles nodded his permission silently. Peter stretched up to rub his mouth along the line of Stiles’ neck – not kissing, not even opening his mouth to bite or lick. It was just a brush of his lips and his beard dragging roughly against his skin. Stiles couldn't help his sharply drawn breath. He couldn't help the way his fingers dug into Peter's arms when he felt Peter's waist settle firmly between his thighs. Stiles was already flipping the coin again before Peter finished asking his next question.

Peter teased him slowly. He made Stiles feel flushed and sensitive all over, but then failed to push the situation further than Stiles would’ve expected. They were still fully clothed, though both their hands had wandered in search of skin. Most of all, Stiles remained disappointingly unkissed, despite feeling completely ravaged. It was frustrating. Especially when they were laying side by side on the sofa and Peter leaned over Stiles, pressing his hard dick against Stiles’ thigh. Was he ever going to do anything with it?

“Should I stop?” Peter asked.

He was breathing deeply, and his eyes were lidded heavily. His mouth was red from being rubbed all over Stiles’ neck and collar bones. He looked as ravaged as Stiles felt.

His gaze dropped to the fist that Stiles had clenched around the quarter. “Go ahead,” he says. “Ask it.”

Stiles flipped the coin shakily, and it sailed high.

Peter nosed in close to Stiles’ ear and whispered, “Heads for stop. Tails for —”

The quarter clattered loudly to the floor and rolled under the sofa. Stiles didn’t go looking for it.

“Tails,” Stiles breathed as he turned toward Peter. His face felt hot with embarrassment as he searched out Peter’s mouth with his own. “Don’t stop.”