The three of them have a system when it comes to Stiles: if only one of them got a text from him then he was in trouble. It was like a code—well, more of a tripwire that allowed the entire trio know that something had gone terribly wrong. Scott and Allison had learned that with Stiles, anything was possible and it was best not to let any loose threads fly off into the wind.
The system had started back in high school when it had just been Scott and Stiles after a devastating kidnapping. One of the Sheriff's suspects for a murder case at the time finally cracked and tried to go off the grid with Stiles in tow. The suspect tried using Stiles as a safety measure, a human shield in order to guarantee himself his freedom. In short, the guy's insane plan backfired when Scott (on his bike of all things) managed to track down the place where he was keeping Stiles hostage. The man's trial (found guilty, of course) was delayed greatly after being caught due to a number of broken ribs he received from one desperately loyal best friend.
For the longest time Scott refused to let Stiles out of his sight. At first Stiles appreciated—and was outright flattered—by his friend's concern. But soon enough, the claustrophobia and mild annoyance of having Scott so close by settled in, and Stiles managed to duck out of his sight long enough to get a breather at the mall.
'If I don't text you back in 10 minutes, call my dad. I've probably been murdered.' Stiles had sent this off as a lighthearted reminder for his buddy to check in on him, but Scott was less than amused. In fact, he began to freak out, phoning Stiles constantly until he got back to him twenty minutes later.
"I was just checking something out," Stiles had protested as Scott drew him into a tight hug. "Seriously dude, it's the middle of the day! Who would be stupid enough to—?"
It didn't matter that Stiles had been in a populated area buying the latest Billy Talent CD, Scott was so shaken that he refused to let his best friend out of his sight for the rest of the evening. Stiles remembered falling asleep at some point during their movie marathon that he insisted upon ("If you're gonna be my warden then we might as well keep ourselves entertained!"), and had woken up to finding Scott curled up in his lap, his eyes red and face streaked with tears. Guilt had gripped Stiles so tightly that he promised himself to never pull that stunt again. It had been unnecessarily cruel; he had thrown all of Scott's concerns back into his face without meaning to. He needed to give Scott a peace of mind, and remembered to text him whenever he left and arrived at a place from then on.
This continued into college, where Scott met Allison on their first day and fell head over heels in love with her. Stiles knew better than to ease up on their "security measures", even though ninety percent of his friend's brain was now occupied by thoughts of Allison, her smile, and his mountain of homework. The three of them hung out constantly, and Stiles worried that he was becoming the uncomfortable third wheel. Allison had laughed this off, saying that she loved his company. "You're welcome to leave when it starts to get intimate," she had said slyly, giving Stiles a wink before kissing his forehead.
Scott began to relax with Allison around, and didn't even scold Stiles when he forgot to text back one time. His need to touch and embrace Stiles every time he saw him wasn't ever going away, and Stiles could live with that. Hell, he lived for it.
With both of them now being so-called responsible adults, Stiles decided that now was the time to enjoy his freedom a little.
His first hook-up ever was the gorgeously scary Erica Reyes. They had met at the on-campus bar where she had worked part-time. Erica wasn't a student at the university, but that didn't stop her from flaunting her goods and flirting with the overstressed boys looking for company. She was off duty when she had ambled over to his table and took a seat right next to him. Stiles remembered Erica's plunging neckline and her massive flurry of blonde curls. He remembered how her seductive smile had turned his brain into a puddle of gray matter. He remembered how she had whispered into his ear, breathily telling him that her roommate was out of town for the weekend and had laughed softly when Stiles' face flushed a deep red.
It didn't matter that this was Stiles' first time with a woman or that Erica may or may not have several relationships before him. They both wanted to have a good time, and there was a relative compatibility between the two of them.
They discovered a few of Stiles' kinks that night, with one of them being the submissive partner. Erica had no problem taking up the mantle of the dominant; in fact, she relished in it. She straddled his hips, holding his wrists down as she bit kisses along his jawline and grinned victoriously from his eliciting moans. ("It doesn't take much to make you beg for mercy, now does it?")
But Erica wasn't easily satisfied. Every kiss, hickey and scratch mark was all in preparation for their enjoyment, for something bigger and better. As her tongue explored the back of his throat she was digging two fingers into herself, moaning with pleasure. Stiles wasn't sure what to do while was doing this, so he slid his hot hands over bare hips. Erica soon broke the kiss, adding a third finger that went knuckle-deep. Stiles felt his entire body flush, an unbearable heat pooling in his—
Erica had ripped her fingers out, and had flipped the two of them with relative ease. She had Stiles hovering over her, hesitating. "I should get a condom," he muttered into her chest. Erica grinned wickedly, and grabbed both of Stiles' wrists. "Palms out," she ordered. Once Stiles obeyed, Erica placed his quivering hands on top of her breasts.
"Come on," she encouraged, seeing Stiles' burning face. "Give them a good squeeze."
"I, umm—shit," Stiles sputtered, because how was he supposed to react to this without sounding like an enormous pervert? Oh God, he was touching Erica's breasts but she put his hands there and oh God they were so soft and now he was acting like the biggest virgin ever—
"Honey," Erica whispered, leaning upwards to give him a filthy kiss, "I'm giving you my blessing. Touch all you want." She placed her hands over his, and pushed down. Stiles' heart was pounding, threatening to burst out of his ribcage. This was happening, actually happening, and here was Erica going through the motions with him. He swallowed, and gently tugged his hands out from under hers, gliding them down to her flat stomach. He felt tears stinging his eyes. "I have no idea what I'm doing," he admitted shamefully.
He felt Erica move underneath him, and was now in a sitting position. "Nobody does the first time," she murmured into his ear. "Not even me. Porn can't teach you all the tricks, as much as it would like to." She kissed the underside of his jaw as her arms entwined around his neck, drawing him close. "I'll guide you through it. Sex is all about satisfying one another. You scratch my back and all that jazz."
Stiles shuddered as Erica licked his mouth open, his brain going fuzzy from her playful tongue. After a long minute Erica drew back, and Stiles saw how dark and lust-filled her eyes had become.
"Stiles," she said breathily, "I need that big, hard cock of yours in my pussy. Right now." She slowly untangled her arms from his neck and palmed his perspiring chest, dragging them down until they reached his trail. "I'm getting wet just looking into those eyes of yours, and it's driving me crazy." She pressed her cleavage against his chest as she began to unhook her black bra. Stiles found himself gripping her hips as the bra fell free from its constraints.
"Condom?" Stiles asked, and Erica reached over into her nightstand and produced the square packet. Stiles hands shook as he pulled it on, making sure that it was on correctly. He was ready, really ready, so he lowered Erica back onto her mattress and began to slowly push inside her. He took her little moans as needy encouragement. Her nails digging into his back was a sign that he wasn't royally fucking up.
By the end of it Stiles was wiped out, drained and wrung out but completely satisfied.
"So, how did I do?" he had asked, because he honestly wasn't sure that he had lived up to Erica's expectations. She was the goddamn Champion, with Stiles merely being a Trainer without his first Badge. (God, did he just pervert his own childhood?)
Erica hummed absentmindedly, trailing her fingers down Stiles' chest, causing him to shiver. Erica grinned, baring her teeth at him. "Not too bad for a first-timer," she teased. "Though I felt you faltering near the end."
Stiles blushed fiercely. One of the highlights of their sex was when Erica had climbed on top of him and rode him like a champ. "Come on honey, don't make me do all of the work," she had ordered, her manicured nails digging into his shoulders. Stiles had groaned, and tried to keep up with her rabid pace. He failed miserably. She was still in control, and Stiles was willing to give it to her.
"We can, uh, try again?" Stiles meekly suggested. Erica responded by rolling on top of him and licked a strip up his throat and into his mouth.
The texting system held up for another good five years, and Stiles had moved on from steamy campus hook-ups to exploring the unchartered waters of low-lit clubs of downtown life. He and Erica still hooked up when they had no other plans or when one of them needed a quickie at Erica's place, though those were now few and far between as the years rolled by. Stiles once asked her if they were lovers, and she gave him a rare shy smile before dressing him in a necklace of hickeys. She must have rubbed off on him, sex-wise, because Stiles was now venturing off on his own, casually flirting with the other patrons. Sometimes he gained a new number and depending on the individual he would keep them for future purposes. Most of them he threw out for unexplained reasons. He told himself that he didn't want to get attached.
His partners varied in gender; Stiles saw no purpose in being picky as long as the person wasn't an asshole or seemed genuinely understanding that no, he wasn't looking for a committed relationship at this time. Scott often asked if he had found "the One." "Uh, they didn't show up tonight," Stiles would jokingly say, and for some reason his gut twisted in a painful manner.
Stiles would watch the way Allison and Scott would look at each other with adoring eyes. Their universes were perfectly aligned with one another, and Stiles truly believed that he would never find someone so impeccably in tune with him and vice versa. He once confessed this to Allison while Scott was working at the vet, and suddenly found a lump in his throat. He couldn't breathe, and his eyes burned. Allison noticed immediately—God bless her—and made Stiles sit down on their couch, holding his hand until Stiles was ready to burst.
He had finally broken down into tears. Allison held him while he sobbed out his fears into her shoulder. Was he destined to be alone? Should he feel guilty that he didn't care? Would his mom be disappointed in him for selling his soul to every warm body that was willing to fuck him for the night?
Once he had calmed down enough she had made him green tea and soothingly asked him to drink it. "Am I a slut?" he asked her after taking a few sips. The water scalded his tongue, but he didn't care. Right now Allison's answer meant everything to him.
"No honey," she said, and Stiles' body flooded with relief at that simple answer. "There are many types of relationships and how people go about them. Some people like a monotonous or a poly one and some are more comfortable with casual ones. Some people are content to be by themselves and there's nothing wrong with that. As long as there's consent on both sides and you don't get hurt, Scott and I will support you."
When Scott arrived at home that evening he was greeted with the sight of Stiles' groggy form spread out on the couch, his lanky limbs hanging off the edges. Pacific Rim was playing on their PS3, which was Stiles' go-to movie for when he was having a rough day. Scott quietly sat down in front of the couch, twining his fingers with Stiles' and giving them a squeeze. Allison soon joined them, saying that she ordered some food from that little Vietnamese restaurant that they all liked.
Old habits die hard, but Stiles was at least trying to break them. When he went to the bars and clubs he became choosier about his partners, selecting those who possess compatible personalities for one. Sometimes he would go home without engaging in a blowjob session in the bathroom stall. The relieved look on Scott's face and Allison's small smile before asking him if he wanted to get take-out with them made him feel like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
Stiles especially felt proud of himself when he refused to go back to some hotel with a jerk-off named Jackson. He didn't like the idea of shagging some creep who obviously compensated with the shiny Porsche that was parked out front. Stiles may enjoy being the submissive one, but this Jackson looked like he would fully advantage of it and not for the right reasons.
"I'll pay you," the asshole insisted, digging his fingers into Stiles' thigh. Stiles jerked away, despising that hungry look on Jackson's face.
"I'm not a whore," Stiles said coldly. He grabbed Jackson's wrist and shoved his hand away from him.
Jackson glared at him, as if he was used to getting his way. He probably was, and Stiles' rejection was like the biggest blow to his ego. "I heard you were easy, that's the only reason why I asked," he sneered viciously, ditching Stiles at the bar counter for a group of barely legal girls at one of the corner tables. Stiles felt tears stinging his eyes, but he quickly wiped them away before ordering another beer. That douchebag wasn't going to ruin his night. He ordered a beer and concentrated on his breathing.
When the bartender—Stiles remembered his name being Vernon—handed him the cool bottle he said, "The gentleman at the end says it's on him."
Stiles' eyes immediately zeroed in on the mentioned guy. He was older, probably in his mid to late thirties. His hair was carefully gelled back and he wore a dark V-neck with a dangerously low neckline. He gave Stiles a wry smile, gripping the stem of his wine glass before giving him a brief toast. Stiles raised an eyebrow, but followed suit, taking a long dreg of beer. It had taken him a long time to get accustomed to the taste, but it was the cheapest drink on the menu, so he wasn't complaining.
When he looked up again the gentleman was sitting next to him. His leg brushed up against Stiles', causing a shiver to run down his spine.
"Thanks," Stiles said, gesturing at his empty bottle.
"Was that guy giving you any trouble?" the man asked him. His eyes were focused on Stiles, a burning blue color that was impossible to ignore. Stiles felt transfixed, so he quickly took in the rest of the man's face—clean-shaven, a hint of a tan—before replying.
"He basically called me a slut. It's nothing new."
Stiles would never give in to someone like Jackson. As long as there's consent on both sides and you don't get hurt, Scott and I will support you was Stiles' safety mantra in moments like these.
The man raised his eyebrows before shooting a quick glance in Jackson's direction. He had somehow coerced one of the girls into a make-out session at her table. "It looks like he got over his tantrum pretty quickly," he mused softly before returning his focus back onto Stiles. "I could break in his kneecaps for you if you like."
Stiles laughed. The man smiled, and politely asked Vernon for another round of drinks.
"Is this on you as well?" Stiles asked, cradling the bottle in his hand. The condensation was dripping down the sides, slicking his fingers with its cool moisture.
The man cocked his head, his face collective and calm. "That depends," he said carefully. "Will you give me the honor of your name?"
"Depends," Stiles parroted, feeling a small smirk coming on. "Can I get yours first? It's proper etiquette to introduce oneself before asking someone their name."
The man shook his head, but looking amused all the same. "It's Peter."
Peter. Stiles rolled the name around in his mouth, trying to get a good feel for it. "Hmm, not sure I can trust a guy named Peter," he said, faking deep concern about it.
Peter raised an eyebrow before raising his wine glass to his lips. "And why is that?" he asked. His voice ghosted over the top of the glass, breathy and curious.
"Anyone named Peter is a liar," Stiles explained. "Peter Parker is secretly Spider-Man, for one." He began to count off the examples on his fingers, keeping a straight face throughout it. "Peter Pettigrew betrayed his friend's family and allowed someone else to take the blame. Peter Simon denied Christ three times, making him a liar who on top of that basically bailed on his friend."
"All of those Peters are fictional," Peter replied smoothly, taking a sip of his wine. Stiles made a guess at the type: red, so maybe a Cabernet Sauvignon? (Allison's family were advocate wine drinkers, so she was always bringing home a new bottle for them to try.)
"Wait, are you implying that the Peter of the Bible wasn't real?"
"I couldn't care either way," Peter said, "I gave up the faith long ago." Stiles detected a hint of bitterness in that tone. He wanted to pry, but this was neither the time to delve into personal histories nor religious outlooks. The two subjects sometimes didn't mix well.
"Now it's your turn," Peter said, cutting into Stiles' thoughts. "Since you've so thoroughly judged my mother's preference for her son's name, how about I do you the same kindness?"
"Oh, right," Stiles said quickly. "It's Stiles."
"I meant your first name."
"Stiles is my first name," Stiles insisted.
Peter gave him a disbelieving look. "You expect me to believe that your parents named you that?"
"It's a nickname," Stiles remedied. "The real thing is Polish and unpronounceable. Only my mom could say it without stumbling over it like an idiot." Thinking about his mom made his chest tighten. After she died he refused to let anyone else say his name, even his own father.
This seemed to amuse Peter, who was now swiveling the remains of his wine in its glass. He polished it off neatly—Stiles was suddenly distracted by Peter's mouth, fuck—before setting the glass back on the counter.
"I like you Stiles," he said, giving him a hungry look. Stiles' face suddenly flushed red. He wanted to blame it on the alcohol and so not on the way Peter's hand had stealthily landed on Stiles' knee. Peter's eyes were concentrated on him, and Stiles couldn't handle those intense blues.
"I have to go," Stiles murmured. He reluctantly pulled away from Peter's hand, standing up next to his stool. Peter's eyebrows rose, but made no further comment.
"Thank you for the drinks," Stiles added hastily. He could feel Peter's eyes watching him as he exited the building, hoping that the cold air outside would cool off his searing skin.