It's kind of peaceful without Stiles around sometimes. Of course, he'd gladly take daily beatings of quirky wit and vegetable lectures over having Stiles away permanently... but some time to himself is nice too. Working as a sheriff in Beacon Hills, or anywhere for that matter, can really take a toll on a guy. Right now? Right now John just wants to eat his steak and leftover Halloween chocolate in peace without worrying about a stern talking-to from his caring son.

He's watching something random on the TV, just keeping some noise in the background while he enjoys medium-rare beauty. He'll eat a carrot later for Stiles. The channel has only just started getting into a weird documentary on old war relics when there's a rather loud, obtrusive knocking on his door. He doesn't have time to get up and answer though; the door is already sweeping open by the time he's set his knife down. He merely blinks and a man is walking through, all determination and sterling silence.

Because apparently, a man isn't entitled to privacy in his own home, especially when it comes to the Hales. "Peter?" he questions, managing to stand just as Peter rounds the table, coming to a stop right in front of him. "Peter what the hell are-?" John starts, holding his tongue when the intruder decides to lean into his personal space, just a nudge away from touching lips to his neck.

And he's sniffing.

God damn it, he's sniffing. The Hales are always one nutty act away from an official order for a psych evaluation, but this is a new level of strange. Peter is scenting the air, a low rumbling noise coming from his throat. John does not know this man well enough for him to be popping his personal space bubble. "Hale, take a step back," he calmly orders, reaching a hand up in effort to push at his shoulder, but before he can he's being tossed right back down to the couch with an unflattering 'OOF'.

And Hale is right there against him, sniffing and nudging at him with his nose and... god damn it he's licking John's neck now too. "Hale! You have five seconds to get the hell off of me before I make you." he warns.

There's a small snort, like Peter's just laughed at him. So now, on top of being kinda creeped out, he's a little ticked. He pushes.

He gets a low growl and a persistent hand circling his wrist for his efforts. The small nudges and little licks are getting more insistent, Peter's chin filling the gap between his neck and his shirt collar and it's warm. Confusingly warm. Maybe he's just more touch starved than he'd previously realized, but John isn't quite sure he hates that subtle heat. A little bit of stubble scrapes against the damp skin that Peter's been toying with, and he actually squeaks. "Hale! Get the hell off of me!"

"Dad!"

Stiles and the younger Hale are dashing through the open door, hopefully to his rescue- but they stop halfway to him and John's hope dissipates. Peter goes rigid against him as they enter, shifting slightly so that his body is shielding John from Derek and Stiles, neck craned so that he can glare at the offending intruders over his shoulder. "Hale..." John starts, calmly, rationally, "Can you explain what the hell your uncle is doing in my lap?"

Stiles actually starts snickering. Derek shoves him. "I'm afraid that's difficult to explain, sir."

Peter is still growling, but he's less stiff, starting to press a rather noticeable erection into John's personal space. He glares at Derek. "Try me."

"Okay, Dad," Stiles begins, somewhere between nervousness and laughter, "so, before we can really... you know, properly explain," he brings his hands up in front of him, like he's talking down a shooter, and John feels a little surge of pride. Stiles is constantly proving he'd be a good cop. "I mean, not that I wouldn't love to just jump right into the explaining, but you know, life isn't easy."

"Stiles."

"First we've gotta try to calm Peter down."

"I tried that already," John supplies. His eyes suddenly widen and he glances helplessly towards his son. "Stiles," he panics, "he's humping my leg."

"Oh my god!" Stiles can't contain it anymore and actually lets out a full fledged howl, grabbing his side and still trying hard not to completely lose it. It's obviously a difficult chore. John is thankful Derek is glaring at him, since he can't really get good eye contact from underneath Hale. "Oh my god, your creepy uncle is all over my dad. Peter is so getting all of the shit for this. I don't know whether to cry or laugh!"

"I can make you cry if you don't stop laughing," Derek threatens.

"Watch it, Hale."

Peter seems to notice John's tension, because his light thrusts dissipate and he starts whining in earnest, nudging his face back into the sheriff's neck. He licks again, and then has the audacity to start sucking a hickey onto his skin. John is most definitely not going to let this man, or any man for that matter, do anything like that to him. Especially not in front of his son. Of course, it's too late to take back the little startled groan he'd let slip. It feels good.. he can admit, but the embarrassment he feels watching Stiles watch him takes away any pleasure. He hits Peter in the ear, ignoring the little hurt whimper he gives out. "Hale!"

"You're going to have a hard time if you keep calling them both Hale, Dad."

"Stiles, so help me God-"

"Right! Right. Okay, Peter... you're... gonna need to get off my dad now," he tries, ignoring the way Derek crosses his arms. "Come on, buddy, we'll find somebody who can help you. You've gotta let go now."

Peter pulls John a little closer to his chest. "That's not working, Stiles." John goes to knock his ear again, but he gets both his wrists pinned to the couch.

He decides he's going to try bucking the man off his lap, understanding Stiles' laughter is about to get worse. John can already hear the "riding the bull" jokes, but he's running out of options. He goes for it anyway, pushing off the floor with his feet, trying to knock Peter off, or at least shake his resolve. It doesn't get him much more than Peter happily pushing right back, grinding his hips against John with a pleased purr and another lick to his jaw line. "Hale, I will sue you for sexual assault!"

"He can't help it, Dad," Stiles tries. "I can't really explain it but... basically he's... umm... I mean I guess the best way to word it would be sex drugs."

"What was that?"

Derek is staring Stiles down, but he's trying his best to keep his eyes forward, ignoring his steel-like-glare. "Sex drugs. That's basically what's happened to him- or at least, the most basic explanation I can give. He can't really... think straight right now. No pun intended. He's on a one track train to boner town. Puttin' out his feelers-"

"I got it, son. Now can you get him off of me?!"

"Not... exactly..." Stiles pathetically tries, scrunching his shoulders up.

John's getting fed up with this. "And why the hell not?"

Derek groans, wiping a hand down his face. "Because Peter's state of mind is so out of whack he'll start attacking people if we try."

"Well then get him off me! If I'm in danger anyhow-"

"You're not in danger. He's not going to hurt you." Derek adds suddenly.

Stiles just nods. "Look, dad, there's going to be a much bigger explanation after this, obviously... but right now... we uh... we can't separate you guys." He looks sheepishly over to Derek, who shakes his head, then back to his father. "Actually, the only way for him to calm down is.. to uh... kinda... do the diddly. With you. You specifically."

John decides not to say anything. Peter has managed to slip a leg down between John's so that he can't try to shove him off anymore. He's a little more elevated above John now, but he's taken to breathing heavily into his ear. The warm, damp air sends a tingle down his spine with every exhale and John realizes he needs to make a decision. Now. "You're not going to help me get him off?"

"Well... you'll have to get him off."

The sheriff groans, "Get the hell out."

Stiles blinks. "I'm sorry, Dad, I was just kidding-"

"If you're not going to help me push him off of me and you're not going to make him stop, I'm gonna do it. If I can't, then I'd rather you weren't here for the repercussions," he muttered, trying to butt Peter's head away with his own. "Now get out, Stiles. You're gonna get an earful later, don't you worry."

Stiles drags Derek out with a red face, and they thankfully shut the door Peter had left wide open upon arrival. The TV is still going, but John isn't in a position to complain. "Alright, Hale," he grumps, trying to ignore how puppy-cute it is that Peter's relaxed now that the others have left, "you have three seconds."

"One."

Peter licks a slow stripe from his collarbone to his ear.

"T-two."

The knee between his legs pushes at his groin, and one of Peter's hands sweeps down to pull John against him, encouraging him grind into it.

"Th-" John's a little cut off by the quick jab of pressure he feels, a spiral of pleasure swirling up his body, making him crane for a moment.. but just a moment. "Three, Hale!"

He pushes with his chest, angry that the single hand holding his wrists is strong enough to keep them there. He tries to bite when that doesn't work, kicking up a leg to maybe knee Peter where it hurts. He gets an angry grumble for his efforts, and it looks like it's suddenly dawned on Peter that John isn't actually just playing hard to get. "Get. Off." he repeats.

Peter's face scrunches up a bit, he looks a little hurt, but then his nostrils flare and his eyes look more glazed over. It takes John a minute to realize what he's looking at afterwards, as Peter's eyes flash a deep shade of red.

His eyes flash a... his eyes just changed colors. "Wh-what the hell?"

Peter seems content now that John isn't actively trying to get away, and noses at his chin, trying to push it up and to the side. He fights it at first, but the pressure becomes more insistent and hurts. So he relents, and moves his chin so that his neck is extended and exposed. Peter makes a pleased sound and kisses John's jaw. "Hale. Talk to me at least..." he tries, giving in when Peter pulls him against his leg again, the sweet pressure returning. "What's happening?"

There's a short delay, and for a second John thinks he isn't going to reply at all. When he does, it's low and raspy. "Mate," Peter mutters into his skin, nipping and kissing until his neck is mostly red, and John can't even deny it anymore, he's a little turned on.

It feels like Peter knows his sweet spots, the way he drags a hand down his arm, fractionally tightening his grip on John's side and making him shiver. "M-mate?"

Peter nods happily. "My mate."

Then there's a sudden movement, and John's being pushed over onto his back, the leg trapped beneath Peter is pulled along with the momentum while the other stays angled to the floor. The clever bastard is now between John's open legs, arms bracketing his head and even though John's hands are now free and loosely pushing at his shoulders, he feels more encaged now than he did before. "Sex drug?" he manages just before Peter can dive in with his mouth again.

"Deaton's stuff," Peter replies vaguely, quickly, like he's trying to rush through conversation, "It spilled."

"Doctor Deaton? The veterinarian?!"

Peter hums, back at his collar, this time pulling at his shirt with a hand. The buttons pop easier than John would have liked, but he can't help the small, alarmed yelp he lets out when Peter's all-seeking-mouth finds its way over a nipple. God, he hasn't been touched like this in years. Well, this specifically? Even longer. He was a college kid once too... but... it was never like this. College guys were self-driven, and any experimenting was for their own pleasure. But Peter... Peter's entire attention was on him. Over him. He's groaning when a caressing hand skids down his side, untucking the open shirt from his pants and starting to caress down the outside of his thigh. The movement forces John to lift his leg, so it's slotted almost over Peter's hip. It's Peter doing, so you can't really blame John, even if he goes easily and leaves his leg up when Peter's hand moves again.

"Mmmine," Peter half-groans, bringing his mouth directly over John's, hovering just centimeters above it.

His breath is warm against John's lips, and John is overwhelmed with the sudden urge to just throw caution to the wind and kiss him. Because this feels good, Peter feels insanely good against him, and he hasn't even kissed John yet. He's nipped and licked and sucked but he hasn't kissed John. He's hovering, a small smile on his face, like he's content just to be in John's breathing space, sharing his air, like a kiss would be a privilege. John takes a look at his face and realizes with a jolt of emotion that that's exactly what it is. He's asking John for permission.

And God, John really wants to give it to him. He jerks his head forward just a fraction, like he's simply reacting to the *ehem* lower movements, hoping maybe they'll accidently brush lips and then it won't look intentional. But Peter's fast to draw his face back an inch, keeping his body moving against John even though his lips aren't. They're just... there. Tantalizing him... Breathing heat against his own and making them tingle. He gives one consenting thrust up, hoping that will acknowledge his encouragement so Peter will keep things moving.

Peter doesn't. Instead he stills completely, dropping his weight down on John so he can't move like that anymore. He keeps his eyes locked with John's, mouth still just a small movement away, unblinking. Because this is important. John doesn't really understand how important, and he gets that, but he can see it in the determined face Peter's wearing. As sweet as it is, John's left horny and unsatisfied. He wants the friction back. He's become a little desperate for this delicious thing going on to keep going on.

Jesus, he's as sexually frustrated as his son.

And at least Stiles has puberty to blame.

Peter just continues to silently wait, slowly stroking a thumb over John's cheekbone in small brushes back and forth. It's sweet, and intimate... not quite what John had been expecting from Peter. Especially if he's hopped up on some sex drug, shouldn't he be all over John? Riding out the wave of whatever he was high on? John takes another look at Peter's face and it clicks. He's waiting for consent.

Even high on hormone-inducing drugs, Peter's being a gentlemen, he's waiting for permission. John groans, sucks in a nerve-steeling breath, and gives it. He tentatively plants the tiniest of kisses on Peter's lips. It's not even really a kiss, just a little peck, but apparently it's enough. Peter smiles a positively wolfish grin and ducks his head, capturing John's mouth in a real kiss. A rewarding kiss. One that leaves him a little breathless and lightheaded, combined with the friction that has kicked up again, and it's delicious.

Peter's got him out of his pants faster than John's brain can track, unlatching the button of his slacks and tugging down the zipper. It's not what John was expecting, but he's thankful Peter isn't diving right into anything right away. He's getting up there in years and the last thing he needs right now is a broken back from ill-prepared sex or, god forbid, a split anus. But he didn't want to think about that. It wasn't happening, so he could and should just focus on the blissful feeling of Peter's naked skin, forceful against him, grinding and leaning over him with a lustful, purposeful gaze. His shirt was off. Somewhere in the mix, that had happened and John had missed it. He suddenly felt even older, watching rippling, sweaty muscles contract and shape with every thrust, slotting their erections together in wonderful friction. Peter was cut... He looked strong and young... and John was... not. John suddenly wanted to cover himself, his greying chest hair and slight belly. He settled for slinging an arm over his eyes, hoping maybe if he couldn't see he'd be less ashamed.

Peter huffed, slouching down and faltering in his thrusts so he could pull John's arm away. John expected some sort of scolding, or even something sweet and encouraging at this point. But instead of saying anything, he kissed John, deep and hard, flinging that arm carelessly around his shoulder, where John gripped fiercely. His rhythm got faster, harsher, the pressure and friction a wonderfully stimulating overload for John, who decided to just hold on. Both arms around Peter's neck, scratching lamely at his back as Peter came.

It wasn't a twin orgasm at all, but John whimpered lightly when Peter lost it all the same, foreign semen splaying over his stomach. There wasn't much recoup time however. Peter was moving again before John could catch his breath, licking his own cum off of John's chest happily. He hummed, slipping down further and further until he was planting kisses into John's hip bone, biting, scratching ever so slightly, then taking him into his mouth. John came with a wild, embarrassing cry, and did end up flailing an arm over his face in the end.

He kept it there. Even going so far as to work a muscle holding it in place when Peter huffed and tried to pry it free. John had seen his display of strength, knew he could make John let go if he really wanted to, but he obviously wasn't working to his full potential. Instead, Peter settled for lazily lounging over the sheriff's belly, content to rub his stubble over where he'd just cum all over John. Like he was marking his territory.

John groaned, huffing with a lack of energy, and gently bopped his head with his free hand, "You are so going to get shit for this tomorrow, Mister."