Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/959100.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Peter_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Peter_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski, Derek_Hale
  Additional Tags:
      other_characters_mentioned_briefly, other_relationships_mentioned
      briefly, Humor, Seduction, First_Time, Consensual, Blow_Jobs, Rimming,
      Anal_Sex, Barebacking, Anal_Fingering
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-09-08 Words: 5038
****** don't you see baby this is perfection ******
by rain_of_stars
Summary
     Low-hanging fruit is much less tempting when picking it would disturb
     a nest of wasps.
     In other words, Stiles’ tendency to be shamelessly attractive is
     going to get Peter killed one of these days.
     Written for (Sexy) Steter Week.
Notes
     This took way longer than it should have, both because I am really
     not good at choreographing porn and because my little PWP developed a
     plot. Oh well.
     Minor warnings at the end.
See the end of the work for more notes
It wasn’t as if Peter had ever expected a second chance. No one had trusted him
since his admittedly over-ambitious plan involving Scott, Jennifer Blake’s
stolen powers, and the remnants of the Alpha pack blew up in his face. After
that mess had been cleared up, the group had somehow managed to wrangle a
recipe for a werewolf truth serum out of Deaton and ambushed Peter with it.
He’d spent six full hours babbling about everything from how it had felt to
kill Laura to his severe dislike of pineapple. Among the plots, secrets, and
truths that he had involuntarily revealed, he had let slip the fact that he
would like to fuck Stiles Stilinski into the mattress. Hard. Several times.
The only reason he wasn’t in a shallow grave somewhere in the forest was that
Scott had convinced Derek they still needed Peter’s information. It was almost
enough to make him feel bad about trying to kill the teen. After some heated
discussion, the pack had reluctantly agreed to keep him around, though under
guard and practically powerless. Peter didn’t object; he’d heard the pack
discussing everything from decapitation to a wolfsbane-drenched shock collar
and thought he’d gotten off lightly.
So Peter had given up his downtown apartment and moved into Isaac’s old room in
Derek’s loft. His darling nephew used him as cannon fodder in any plan to fight
the numerous supernatural creatures now attracted to Beacon Hills, and the rest
of the pack either ignored him or gave him suspicious looks out of the corners
of their eyes. Everything he offered in terms of knowledge and lore was fact-
checked with the Argent bestiary or Deaton (when the man could be bothered to
divulge something useful). When there was a potion to be tested or a weapon to
be tried, Peter was automatically volunteered as a guinea pig. In short, he had
gotten used to being treated like something found on the bottom of a shoe for
the foreseeable future. Such was the role of an omega.
Some times the role grated more than others. The pack’s latest battle had been
against a herd of kelpies, and the few showers in the loft had been quickly
claimed when they returned from their wet and extremely muddy encounter. Peter
tried to sneak into the master bathroom but was glared down by Derek. “Room.
Now,” he said, pointing down the hall.
“Could I at least get the duckweed off?” Peter asked.
In answer, Derek folded his arms and glowered.
With an irritated sigh, Peter slunk off to his room. He hadn’t expected to be
given first shift in the bathroom, but he could have done without lake mud and
piles of vegetation rotting in his living area. He opened his door and stopped
dead.
Stiles was standing in the middle of the room, stripping off his wet t-shirt
and throwing it in a heap on the floor. Water dripped off the ends of his
lashes and trickled down the curve of his back. Peter’s eyes involuntarily
tracked the movement of the drops, registering each mole they passed, until
they disappeared along with the swell of the boy’s flesh under the waistband of
his jeans. Stiles was fiddling with the button on his jeans, swearing softly at
the wet denim, when he looked up and saw Peter.
Peter tensed as he waited for the inevitable explosion of indignation and
disgust. It didn’t come. Instead, the boy smirked and straightened up. Peter
couldn’t bring himself to back away as Stiles stalked towards him, his gaze
darting from the broad shoulders to the muscled chest to the dark line of curls
heading south from the boy’s navel. If these were going to be his last few
minutes on earth, he might as well drink his fill.
Stiles stopped barely an inch from Peter. The former alpha’s mouth went dry as
the boy met his eyes with a curious sort of challenge. Stiles’ wet skin was so
close he could feel the heat of his body, so close he could reach out and touch
-
Stiles leaned in, his breath ghosting across Peter’s cheek, and said, “This
room’s occupied.” With a smirk, he shut the door in Peter’s face.
Peter stared at the dark wood for several minutes. Strangling the urge to kick
it, he stomped back to the living room. Clumps of duckweed on Derek’s couch
would serve him right.
----
Peter decided to write the incident off as more of Stiles being his obnoxiously
attractive self after several days’ contemplation got him nowhere. It was
ridiculous to assume Stiles had been showing any actual interest, even if the
encounter had played out almost exactly like some of his more private
fantasies. (Said fantasies had now been updated and graphically rewritten.)
Stiles had simply seen an opportunity to mess with Peter and taken it. He
didn’t particularly care what effect he might have on the older wolf in the
long term.
Peter went on thinking this right up until the pack’s spring break We’re-Not-
Dead-Yet party. The weather had taken a turn for the better and Lydia was
hosting the party in her spacious backyard, which meant most of the pack was
ranged around the picnic tables talking and laughing while Peter was
alternately avoiding Lydia and nursing a bottle of wine in a dark corner. He
amused himself by predicting which couples would drift off to neck in an
upstairs bedroom first – the Mahealani kid and Ethan were the most likely, but
Sheriff Stilinski and Melissa McCall might give them a run for their money.
Scott and Allison and Isaac were all huddled around each other, trading grins
and soft touches. He’d long given up on understanding whatever was happening
there. Cora was starting to wear Derek down from his brooding and persuading
him to actually enjoy himself for once. Lydia had roped Aiden into helping her
serve drinks. And Stiles…
Stiles was seated halfway between Scott’s group and Lydia, holding a grape
popsicle, occasionally laughing at something Scott said but mostly staring at
the gathering with a fond smile on his face. The cost of his sacrifice seemed
to manifest in a dimming of his once-boundless energy, and some distance had
crept in between him and those happily paired. Peter wanted to distract the
boy, kiss away the shadows on his face, but assumed his attentions would be
unwelcome.
As if he felt Peter’s eyes on him, Stiles looked up and caught his gaze. He
grinned. Then, very deliberately, he slid the popsicle as far into his mouth as
it would go.
Arousal lanced through Peter as the boy sucked on the frozen treat, moving it
in and out. Grape juice collected at the base and dripped onto Stiles’ hand,
sliding down his forearm. The boy paused in his ministrations, raising his arm
to his lips and licking one long stripe-
Peter made a choked sound and tore himself away. He was fairly certain Lydia
wouldn’t take it too well if he started ravishing Stiles on top of her garden
furniture.
----
It wasn’t that Peter didn’t appreciate Stiles’ sudden interest in
exhibitionism, but the very real threat of being ripped limb from limb by their
newest Alpha dampened his libido considerably. Scott had made it very clear
that one condition of his continued existence was that Peter was not to touch,
look at, or even think about Stiles unless he wanted to find out whether death
was any different the second time around. The threat had been rather effective
in persuading him to avoid the teen.
Which was why when Stiles wandered into the loft kitchen looking absolutely
delectable in a t-shirt and loose boxers, hair sleep-mussed and yawning, and
steadied himself on Peter’s shoulder to reach the milk, Peter flinched from his
touch as though it were a brand and hightailed it out of there to demand an
explanation from Derek. Surely there was a reason for his torment. Perhaps he’d
mortally offended Stiles and the boy had decided to outsource his murder. No
one could be that cruel just because.
Peter began speaking the moment he was within earshot of Derek. “Before you
ask, I haven’t tried anything, you know I haven’t tried anything, can we just
skip the whole suspicion part and get to what Stiles is doing half-dressed in
the kitchen-”
“Stop. Talking,” Derek growled, and Peter shut up. “He spent the night here.
There’s a chimera coming this way and a lack of ways to kill it that don’t
involve winged horses. We’d been up for thirty-six hours and exhausted two
libraries, I wasn’t about to stop him when he passed out on the couch.”
Now that Peter took the time to look, there were definitely dark circles under
Derek’s eyes that werewolf healing couldn’t erase, and he had heard voices late
into the night. Stiles had probably been too bleary to even realize it was
Peter and not Derek in the kitchen. Peter ignored a slight pang of jealousy and
breathed out a sigh of relief. “Wonderful. I’ll just stay out of the way until
he’s gone, then, shall I?”
“I didn’t think my morning breath was that bad,” said a voice behind his
shoulder, and Peter took it as a bad sign that Stiles had managed to sneak up
on him twice that morning. He spun around to find the boy standing there with a
bowl of cereal in one hand and a banana in the other. “Sure you don’t want some
breakfast?” Stiles asked, his smile low and sweet. One thumb rubbed over the
skin of the banana.
Peter fled.
----
If anything, it got worse over the next few weeks. Stiles had apparently found
out what a turn-on necks were for werewolves, and Peter could barely get
through a pack meeting without excusing himself to jerk off to the image of
Stiles’ long fingers caressing his own throat. Even the other wolves were
starting to notice; Peter overheard Scott ask Stiles if he knew what he was
doing (Stiles brushed it off with a laugh) and Isaac was staring at the boy
more hungrily than usual. It didn’t stop Derek from shutting Peter down when he
asked desperately if Stiles had been bitten by a succubus after a scarf removal
that could have doubled as a striptease, but at least he knew he wasn’t
suffering alone.
----
Two days later Stiles decided to practice yoga in the loft living room.
“For the last time, Peter, Stiles is not possessed!”
----
Afterwards, Peter really thought he couldn’t be held responsible. The whole
pack had been involved in the defeat of the harpy flock, of course, but he was
the only one who’d been ordered to destroy the evidence of the battle – which
meant hours of backbreaking work under the supervision of Allison and Lydia.
(Lydia had silenced his objections to this division of labor with two words:
“Wolfsbane. Punch.”) They’d finally handed him over to Derek in the late
afternoon when the site was satisfactorily non-descript. Peter had almost
nodded off on the ride back and barely registered anything until he got in the
shower to start picking off blood and feathers. So the words “Stiles is making
dinner” might have been said to him, but they certainly weren’t processed or
comprehended.
Peter ambled wearily towards the kitchen, toweling his wet hair and following
the faint smell of something delicious. All he really wanted was to take a nap,
but he needed something to eat first. Well, maybe a massage and a nap. Some
long fingers digging into his sore muscles, smoothing out the knots…
The pleasant daydream distracted him so well that he’d actually taken two steps
into the kitchen before what he was seeing registered. Peter stopped short and
stared.
Stiles was bending over to remove a ham from the oven, humming something
slightly off-tune. Earbuds led back to an iPod clipped on the belt-loop of his
jeans, which jiggled as he moved his hips in time to the music. But all this
paled in comparison to the fact that Stiles was wearing his shirt. The V of the
black shirt dipped precariously low on Stiles and exposed a generous amount of
collarbone. Stiles was in his kitchen and swaying his hips and wearing Peter’s
shirt-
Stiles slid the ham onto the stovetop and noticed Peter for the first time,
reaching up to pull out his earbuds. A waft of scent – of their combined scent
– reached Peter, and the last straw of his self-control quietly snapped. Before
Stiles could get a word out Peter was backing Stiles into the counter, kissing
him furiously, one hand on his waist in a death grip and a knee shoved between
his thighs. He didn’t care what Scott would do to him, didn’t even care what
Derek would do if he wandered into the kitchen and happened to see. All he
wanted was the beautiful, intoxicating, maddening boy in front of him.
It took him a few minutes to realize that Stiles was quaking underneath him and
he pulled back, worry filtering through his lust. He’d done it now. Assaulting
a member of the pack was out of the question, especially this one, especially
this way. They’d hand him over to the Argents, or worse-
Stiles was laughing.
“Oh, my god,” Stiles managed. He waved a hand weakly. “Sorry, just… wow. I owe
Scott a case of Red Bull for that.”
Peter gave Stiles a blank look. “I seem to be missing something.”
“You missed a lot of things,” Stiles said, wiping away tears of laughter with
the backs of his hands. He took a glance at Peter’s uncomprehending expression
and frowned. “Or maybe no one- yeah, I bet that’s it. Derek never told you?”
“Told me what?”
Stiles rolled his eyes and sighed. Leaning over Peter’s shoulder, he yelled
down the hall, “You’re an asshole, Derek!”
“I’m not supporting your insane hook-up, Stilinski!” came floating back from
somewhere in the loft.
Stiles scoffed. “Jerk. I kinda miss when he was plain old aggressive instead of
passive-aggressive.”
“Back to the missing bit,” Peter said, slightly impatient. He would have been
more annoyed at the obscure conversation except that Stiles’ arm had circled
around his waist and was rubbing soothing lines into the small of his back.
“Oh, that,” Stiles said. He looked up at Peter. “You do know I’ve been flirting
with you for weeks, right? Sourwolf over there takes some of the blame for not
giving you the okay, but I still thought you’d crack ages ago. If this didn’t
work I was probably going to show up naked and covered in chocolate or
something.”
Peter’s dick twitched at the thought, but he was more concerned with clarifying
what was going on. “You’ve been driving me crazy on purpose? The changing, the
neck stroking – all of it?”
Stiles grinned impishly. “Yep.”
“It never occurred to you to say ‘Hey Peter, let’s have sex, I fully consent
and by the way everyone else is okay with it too’?” Peter said, his words laced
with sarcasm. He paused and darted a glance at the doorway. “If Scott’s about
to come in and slash my throat out, I’m taking you with me.”
“Dude, no,” Stiles protested, pushing himself up on the counter, a move that
conveniently brought his chest closer to Peter’s and his knees around Peter’s
waist. “That’s not even a thing anymore. Well, okay, Derek obviously has issues
with the idea of me and you and Scott practically choked on his soda when I
told him, but it’s not- I’m not trying to trap you or anything. I convinced
Scott and he and Derek said they’d stay out of it. Hell, Scott even gave me a
few tips.” Stiles plucked at the shirt he was wearing, then shrugged. “But
yeah, I guess I could’ve been more direct.”
“Then why, pray tell, did you feel the need to torture me for three weeks?”
Peter growled, his hands tightening on Stiles’ thighs.
“I figured a little psychological torment was the least I could do to pay you
back for last year,” Stiles retorted. His smirk faded and for the first time he
looked almost vulnerable. “Besides, you… get inside my head. You make me
question everything.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I had to know
that I could do the same to you.”
Peter breathed out, his heart rate slowing. “Stiles, this isn’t a game for me,”
he said. “If it was just victory you wanted - if this isn’t serious, you need
say so. Now.”
Stiles met his eyes squarely. “I’m not playing,” he said softly.
Stiles grabbed the ends of the towel around Peter’s neck and leaned in, kissing
him with a slow intensity that made heat pool in Peter’s stomach. The teen
rolled his hips against Peter’s waist, still only half-hard but getting harder
by the second. Peter returned the kiss, sliding his tongue into Stiles’ mouth
and his hand up the teen’s shirt. His shirt, marking Stiles before he’d even
touched him, and the thought sent another spike of arousal down his spine.
Peter groaned into Stiles’ mouth, his hand flexing on the boy’s waist.
Stiles responded with more enthusiasm, and they kissed for several minutes
until Stiles put his hand down on a spatula that banged into a pot and made
them both jump. Stiles made a face and pulled back. “Okay, so the idea of
kitchen sex is still awesome, but I’d rather not burn my ass on a pot of
macaroni. Might make things difficult later on.”
Stiles had a point. Peter leaned over, turned off the stove, and grabbed a
double handful of Stiles’ ass as he picked the boy up and walked out of the
kitchen. Stiles yelped and locked his legs around Peter’s waist, laughing. He
was still laughing when Peter dumped him on the bed and started covering him
with kisses, though his noises eventually turned to ones of delight.
Peter’s dick was painfully hard against the confines of his jeans, and he
wondered why he’d ever decided to put them on again after his shower. He
straightened up and stripped off his shirt and jeans. His cock tented the front
of his boxers, and he was reaching for the waistband when he paused.
Stiles was watching him with kiss-bruised lips and ruffled hair, eyes dark and
excited. Despite that, the teen hadn’t removed a single article of clothing.
Peter wondered if he’d reconsidered going through with his whole plan.
Peter slowly eased off his boxers, making it a show, until at last his cock
sprang free, jutting from between his thighs. Stiles said “Wow,” softly, his
gaze raking Peter up and down and coming to rest on his cock. He suddenly
seemed to realize that he was wearing too many clothes and hastily pulled off
Peter’s shirt, tossing it to the side.
Reassured by this, Peter leaned over Stiles and licked a stripe down his chest,
making the teen moan. He took the button of Stiles’ jeans in his hands and
said, “I still need a yes, Stiles.”
Stiles blinked, rousing from his daze. “What?” he asked, voice heavy with lust.
Peter’s thumb dragged across the sensitive skin at Stiles’ waist and the boy
shuddered. “Tell me what you want.”
“I thought that would be obvious by no- jesus!” Stiles yelped as Peter bent
down and circled the boy’s navel with his tongue. “Fuck, god, yes, I want you
to fuck me,” he panted. “Want you to suck me off and work me open – oh god,
there – want you to come in me, want to feel you for a week-”
With a growl, Peter unzipped the boy’s jeans and tugged them down around his
thighs, barely pausing to appreciate Stiles’ flushed cock before swallowing it
down. Stiles let out a yell, hands flying to Peter’s hair, and if Derek didn’t
know what they were up to before he certainly did now. Served him right. The
thought of his nephew being driven out of the loft by the sounds of loud sex
made Peter resolve to elicit as many of those noises from Stiles as possible.
Peter took his time with Stiles, teasing him the way the boy had been doing for
weeks, varying pace and pressure with little flicks of his tongue. Before long
Stiles was babbling, all please and yes and holy fuck, what is that you’re
doing with your tongue, could you – nngh, and Peter was licking away salty
precome.
“Peter, stop, you’re gonna-” Stiles swallowed another moan and pulled
ineffectually at Peter’s hair. “I’m close, I’m so close, if you don’t slow down
I’m-”
Peter hummed in response and hollowed out his cheeks, stroking the boy’s balls.
Stiles came with a shout, clutching at him, then sprawled bonelessly back onto
the bed.
Peter licked away the last traces of come and crawled up beside Stiles,
nibbling on his neck. “You’re such a dick,” Stiles slurred, even as he arched
into the touch. “Told you I was…”
“It’ll be easier this way,” Peter explained in between sucking dark marks onto
Stiles’ neck. “I wanted you relaxed.”
“I was relaxed,” Stiles protested. He stretched and rolled onto his stomach
willingly at Peter’s nudge. “Completely, totally relaxed.”
He’d been as tense as a coiled spring, but Peter wasn’t about to bring that up.
“Then this shouldn’t take long at all,” he said instead.
Drawing his nails lightly down Stiles’ spine (the boy groaned and lay still),
Peter dug his fingers into Stiles’ ass and kneaded it the way he’d been longing
to do for weeks. He spread Stiles’ cheeks apart. About to reach for the lube,
he paused. Since he had the opportunity…
“Okay, I see your point, but I oh my GOD,” Stiles yelled as Peter bent down and
licked his way inside Stiles. His words diminished to a sort of high keening as
Peter thrust his tongue into the tight space, working it back and forth over
the rim. Peter savored the way Stiles fell to pieces all over again under the
pressure of Peter’s tongue slowly working him open.
Stiles almost whimpered when Peter withdrew. “Wait, no, do that again, that
felt awesome.”
“Patience,” Peter said hoarsely, rummaging in his nightstand for the small
bottle of lube. He poured out a dollop of fluid and warmed it between his
fingers as he used his other hand to keep Stiles spread. God, but he was
beautiful like this, wet and ready and wrecked, marks starting to bloom on his
neck and back. Peter slipped one finger in just as Stiles moaned, “Come on,
Peter, fuck me.”
A wave of arousal swept through him and he froze. The wolf was far too close to
the surface. Peter hadn’t felt this out of control since he was a teenager, and
at the moment, shifting would be very, very bad.
Stiles twisted around to see what the delay was. “I thought ‘fuck me’ usually
meant ‘keep going’,” he remarked. He noticed Peter’s labored breathing and
frowned. “You okay?”
Peter carefully removed his finger and sat back on his heels. “Unfortunately,
it seems I’m a little too keyed up for this to work,” he said. He gave Stiles a
twisted smile. “You did your job well.”
Stiles looked puzzled for a moment. Then understanding dawned, and Peter
watched several expressions flit across Stiles’ face before he settled on a mix
of discomfort and awe. “First of all, ow, never make me picture that again,” he
said. “The mood is dead now. You’ve killed it. Completely stone cold.” He shook
his head. “But I guess it’s kind of… flattering, too.” Stiles sat up, wincing
at the odd sensations, and took one of Peter’s hands, examining it. “All it
takes is my sweet ass to make Peter Hale lose control.”
"I think a few months of repressed lust might factor in there as well,” Peter
replied, rubbing Stiles’ fingers with his own. “I haven’t had this problem in
the past.”
“Thank god. I was starting to think I’d broken you.” Stiles gave a little laugh
and then sighed. “So I guess this is it. And here I was looking forward to this
part.”
Peter raised an eyebrow. “As if I’d let you go just yet,” he said. Bringing
Stiles’ hand to his lips, he licked a swathe over the boy’s fingers. “Have you
ever tried fingering yourself?”
All the breath seemed to leave Stiles’ body as he watched Peter take two of his
fingers in his mouth. “Yeah,” he said, voice cracking. He cleared his throat
and started again. “I never- not all the way, like, just enough to get me off,
but yeah, I’m totally on board with this. Jesus.”
He reclaimed his hand and repositioned himself on the bed, angling his hand to
work himself open. Peter picked up the lube – saliva wouldn’t do for long – but
looked up when he heard his name moaned. Stiles’ eyes were closed, the lids
fluttering, one finger deep in his ass and another nudging at his entrance.
Sudden, deep satisfaction welled up within Peter.
“You’ve done this before, haven’t you,” he said, leaning in close to whisper
into Stiles’ ear. “Pretended it was me inside you. Thought about how I’d
stretch you out and fill you up.”
“Yeah,” Stiles admitted. He pushed another finger in and shuddered deliciously.
“Pretty much all the time. I’d go home and…” He trailed off as his fingers
apparently found the spot they’d been searching for and let out a noise of deep
pleasure.
“You thought about all the things I’d do to you,” Peter encouraged. He couldn’t
help rutting a little on Stiles’ side as he mouthed at the boy’s neck and
covered his hand with his palm, helping Stiles push deeper. “You’d imagine
riding me as you stroked yourself. Getting fucked against a wall. Sinking
yourself deep into me and pounding me until I begged for mercy…”
Stiles was breathing hard by now, cock back to full hardness and leaking,
stretching himself wide. “Do it, please, come on, I need you inside me now,” he
begged.
Peter nipped at Stiles’ jaw and moved down, slicking himself and Stiles
generously with lube. This would probably hurt no matter how much prep they’d
done, but he would try to make it as painless as possible. He lined himself up
with Stiles’ hole, braced himself, and pushed inside.
Both of them groaned. Stiles at the blunt pressure on his sensitized skin,
Peter at the tight, wet heat. He moved forward a bit and Stiles clutched at his
arm. “Wait,” he panted. “Just- give me a moment.” Peter held himself still with
an effort while Stiles took a few deep breaths. “Okay,” he said at last. “Keep
going.”
Peter pushed in farther, inch by inch, until he was fully seated inside the
boy. He stayed there for a few seconds, feeling Stiles slowly relax. “Better?”
he asked.
Stiles’ eyelids fluttered. “You have no idea,” he said thickly. He squirmed a
bit, getting comfortable. “Moving would be even better, though.”
Peter grinned and pulled out a little, thrusting back into Stiles, who jolted
and gasped. “Be careful what you wish for.”
Stiles’ reply was cut off by a groan at the next thrust, and for a while there
was no sound but pants and groans. Peter set a quick pace, knowing he wouldn’t
last long, and Stiles looked likely to follow him. His senses were full of
Stiles – the taste of his sweat on Peter’s tongue, his thready gasps, his
fingers digging into Peter’s ass, his body clenching and unclenching around
Peter’s cock. He gritted his teeth, fighting to keep his last bit of control,
and wrapped his hand around Stiles’ hard length, pumping twice.
Stiles let out a guttural cry and came, spilling over Peter’s hand and down his
stomach. The sensations pulled Peter over the edge and he followed Stiles,
yelling the boy’s name and burying himself inside Stiles as his pleasure
crested and broke.
They lay still for a few minutes, panting. Peter thought idly that he should
probably clean them off or at least pull out, but was far too satisfied to
manage either. He’d been strung along for weeks – he could spare himself this
one indulgence.
Stiles stirred, and Peter shifted himself enough to let the boy out from under
him. “That,” Stiles said, staring up at the ceiling, “was definitely worth the
wait.”
A peculiar pang went through Peter. He kept his tone light and casual. “Glad
your efforts didn’t go to waste.”
“That was the complete opposite of a waste,” Stiles said, throwing an arm
across Peter’s chest and drawing himself closer. “That was a gain, or a
positive, or something. Brain’s not working too well right now.” He yawned,
fingers tracing idle patterns across Peter’s chest. “If I pass out in the next
few minutes, it’s a compliment, by the way.”
“Because you weren’t planning on sticking around after a one-night stand?”
Peter asked, a little more harshly than he’d intended. He’d been well and truly
outmatched. He acknowledged that, but that didn’t mean he had to like it.
Stiles’ fingers stopped. “That would make it kind of hard to do this again
after dinner.”
Peter turned to look at Stiles. The boy glanced away as a faint blush crept up
his cheeks. “I mean, assuming you want to, of course. Except it’s kind of late
now and the food’s probably crap anyway, that happens when you leave it out. We
could- go out to eat or something, or- no, we should probably get takeout, we’d
have to get dressed to go out and I wanted to take you out some other night. Or
to go see a movie, except I don’t even know if anything good is on, and-”
“Stiles,” Peter said, silencing the stream of words. “Are you asking me out?”
“Yes?” Stiles said hesitantly. “In the awkwardest and most painful way
possible. After the mind-blowing sex. God, we’re doing everything backwards,
aren’t we? Can we just pretend I’m not dying of embarrassment and actually
thought to ask you out before-”
Peter’s response, though not verbal, was most definitely an enthusiastic yes.
End Notes
     Mention of potential internal injuries caused by werewolf claws (no
     actual injuries); Peter ignores being asked to stop once (unrelated).
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