A/N: Fun fact: I wrote almost this entire story on my iPhone, tapping the entire thing out in my bed when I couldn't sleep. Here's what I'd like to see in the next iPhone, the ability to turn off the autocorrect that decides to change all filthy words into something safe and holy. Why would anyone ever need to write the word ducking?
Watching Stiles putter about in his kitchen fumbling to grab the coffee filters even though the appropriate time for caffeine has long passed, Peter composes a mental list of all the ways he'd like to corrupt him. It's long, unfiltered, and definitely a little obscene.
Actually, what's obscene is Stiles in nothing but navy blue boxers slung just low enough on his hips that Peter can zero in on the dark possessive marks he left on his hips last night. Possibly this morning. He's never one to date stamp his proudest bruises, just admire them from afar as they morph into muted greens and purples and the fingernail crescent fades.
"I have to say," Peter speaks up from the doorway. "Not turning you was one of the best decisions I ever made."
"Why's that?" Stiles' voice is distracted as he rifles through Peter's cabinets for the coffee grounds. Hopeless how he only ever has his full attention when Peter's sliding his dick into his ass.
"If I had," Peter says, coming closer, "you wouldn't have all of these delectable bruises." He presses his thumb into a deep red mark, blood suckled to the surface, in the dip of Stiles' back. He jumps at the sensation and Peter rakes his nails over the sensitive skin there.
"Fuck," Stiles groans as Peter's hands travel up his neck and his mouth fastens over the fingerprints he left over Stiles' pulse point last night. He feels Stiles' heartbeat on his tongue, rapid as ever, and he registers the sound of the thunk from Stiles dropping the mugs. It's not like either of them needs coffee at seven p.m. anyway. Especially Stiles, who always acts like he's overdosed on caffeine if his perpetually jiggling foot is any indication. "Again? Really? After that thing with the peanut butter?"
Peter nods against his neck, grabbing him by the hips to swivel him around and press him up against the cabinets. Stiles folds into him instantly, fingers winding into his hair and legs hitching over his waist, responsive to even the unspoken commands, and Peter licks his way into Stiles' mouth slowly, torturously. He still tastes of peanut butter, a pleasantly creamy reminder of an hour ago.
When he pulls away, Stiles' breathing is heavy, and Peter flicks his gaze downward to take in his bare chest and pale knees. He thinks of all the places he wants to leave marks, all the places he will leave marks, and digs his knuckles in hard enough to leave bruises that can't be forgotten. Stiles' breath hitches and Peter slides his grip upward to Stiles' ribcage so he can feel his lungs work under his hands.
"Peter," Stiles murmurs, and when he scoots forward on the counter Peter feels the insistent warmth of his hardness press into his thigh. He sounds like he's begging while purposefully avoiding the word please.
He's so infuriating, Peter thinks, because he doesn't even realize just how wild he makes Peter. Just with the subtle way his eyelids lower when he's aroused, or the way his slender hands wrap around Peter's biceps to keep himself afloat. It should probably be worrying, how Peter finds him irresistible no matter if he's clothed, naked, chattering, sleeping, or giving Peter age lines by bickering with him. Wanting something this much is never good.
"Get on the bed," Peter says, voice low, and he slides his hands free from Stiles' torso.
Stiles doesn't gripe about being the grunt of Peter's orders, instead leaning forward to kiss him again once more, headier this time, before breaking free and sliding to his feet. The heat of Stiles' ankles hooked around his back slips away, but Peter stays close behind him as he scrambles over to the bed and lays himself against the pillows. Peter lingers by the foot of the bed, eyes roving up his freckled skin and anxious hands, and wonders where to begin.
"What are you waiting for?" Stiles asks, impatience obvious in his voice.
"I want to look at you," Peter tells him, and drinks in the sight.
Stiles arches upward, just enough to chase Peter's mouth with a nearly inaudible whine for more, and Peter is just terrible at denying pretty boys with pink lips. He can gladly admit that self-control is not his best trait as he leans down and presses their lips together hard, passionately, forcefully enough to leave bruises that spell out Peter's name without using the alphabet.
He pulls back from the kiss with his tongue leaving licks behind on Stiles' wet lower lip, skirting down to pay attention to his jaw. Stiles shivers at the touches of his teeth on his chin, hands flexing on Peter's shoulders, almost like he's torn between resigning himself to a closet of turtlenecks or pushing Peter's attention further downward where it's easily hidden. Peter doesn't give him much choice as he bites down on his neck and feels the muscle pinned between his teeth swallow.
"You, Stiles," Peter murmurs reverently, breath warm on Stiles' neck as he presses his tongue flat against Stiles' pulse point and grinds his hips downward, "were built for corrupting." He sits up, Stiles' mouth already swollen pink, and touches his thumb to the corner of his lips. "You're so pretty I can't help but want to mess you up."
Stiles' eyes flash, whether it be in fear or thrill, Peter doesn't care. Hell, combine the two, keep it exciting, for all he minds. He leans back in to bite on Stiles' shoulder, a sharp nip that leaves a drop of blood oozing from near his collarbones. Stiles jerks.
"Hey," he yelps, but his voice still sounds breathy, fogged over with arousal. "You're such a freak."
Peter grins because he's absolutely fine with that. Stiles could call him Princess Bubblecakes right now if he so wishes, it won't deter him from his goal. He slithers down Stiles' torso, hands ghosting down his sides, and settles on guiding Stiles' knees apart to alternate between sucking and biting spots into the inside of his thigh. A private spot, someplace only for his eyes, and Stiles willingly spreads his thighs to accommodate him.
"You should always wear this little," Peter advises, pulling down his underwear with one smooth tug. Stiles laughs and twines his fingers into Peter's hair, thoroughly mussed after a day of tugging and grabbing in the throes of passion.
"Even in public?" Stiles giggles. Peter bites down on his hip at the sound, and Stiles only laughs louder. "Could your jealousy handle it?"
"It's not jealousy," Peter corrects, Stiles instantly unconvinced. "It's possessiveness." He digs his thumb into the purpled mark on Stiles' hipbone, drinking in his resulting gasp. "This means you're mine."
"Is that a werewolf thing or a horribly outdated eighteenth century husband thing?" Stiles asks. This is too much talking during sex, too many words leaving his mouth that aren't breathless pants for more. Peter trails his teeth down his leg to silence him. It works.
"I'm going to try something new," Peter murmurs, fingers a firm presence on his hipbones to keep him in place while his mouth stays latched onto his leg.
Stiles' eyes snap open, critically narrowed. "No wolfing out during sex."
"Nice idea, but no," he runs his hands over Stiles' thighs, sliding under them to squeeze his ass, feeling the resulting tremor that tickles through Stiles' body vibrate on his lips. "Turn over."
Stiles does so without questions, and that's enough to send a fresh shot of blood down south to Peter's cock. And then there's his bare ass on display for Peter's eyes and for his hands to touch, just another part of him that is unfairly obscene. He settles between the V of Stiles' legs, mouth still insistent on the inside of his thigh, trailing slowly upwards to his hole.
"I just love it when boys do my bidding," Peter murmurs, and Stiles wriggles to show the snort the pillow muffles. He bites Stiles in the thigh to keep him still. "Especially the handsome ones."
"Would you get to it?" Stiles barks out over his shoulder. Peter laughs, because apparently handsome comes side-by-side with irrevocably pushy.
"I want you to come with your cock untouched," Peter says, circling patterns on Stiles' ass cheek, He leans in to exhale a warm breath there, right by his entrance. Peter licks his lips as the muscle flutters. "Can you do that?"
"Can I—fuck, yeah, let's do it," Stiles says in one awed breath.
Peter chuckles, because he's so eager, so easy to rile up. He leans in and drags his teeth up Stiles' thigh and breathes in. He smells of arousal and eagerness and Peter, like he's spent hours in his scent, his sweat, being marked as claimed territory, and Peter doesn't remember the last time such an exhilarating scent filled his nose. Mine, he thinks, quite possessively, and bites down hard enough to draw blood on the soft skin of his ass.
"Hey," Stiles yowls, looking sharply over his shoulder. "I'm not edible, Mr. Big Bad Wolf."
"You smell like me," Peter says on his skin as if that explains it, his voice dragged down low by reverence, and he revels in the way Stiles shudders under him. "Like you're mine."
Stiles' eyes fog over, almost like Peter's rough words are turning him on, so Peter indulges in him by leaning in and flattening his tongue over his hole.
Stiles' response is instant. His back arches and his entire body goes rigid, stock still with pleasure, except for his rattling lungs, and this is really half the fun. Watching Stiles writhe and try to control himself, watching him clamp his teeth down on a pillow and buck his ass up into the air wordlessly for more, it sends Peter reeling. It makes him want to glue Stiles to the bed.
He spreads him apart with his thumbs, pulling back to admire Stiles' hole, pink and glistening from where Peter's flicked his tongue out over it. He rubs his thumb over it, paying close attention to the tremor that shakes Stiles a moment later, and then he breaches his entrance with his tongue and licks inward. Stiles is helplessly gone in an instant. Peter would grin if his mouth wasn't occupied.
He focuses his hearing and there's Stiles, already panting hard as Peter traces his rim with the tip of his tongue, hungry to hear him moan for more, plead for Peter to continue, and Stiles never disappoints. He's vocal and opinionated, clothes on or off, and the words that fall from his mouth when he's stretched open and at Peter's mercy as delectable. Right there, he gasps out, and then fuck, keep going. Peter teases him still, dragging his tongue down before licking over his furled hole once more. And again, just to hear him whimper.
"Peter," Stiles groans, and the way his tongue wraps around his name sounds like last words. "Oh god, yes."
Oh, and he just moans so nicely, Peter's head supplies as he slides his tongue back in. He's a plethora of sounds and squirms and reactions that Peter drinks up. He might have to handcuff Stiles to the bed just to always keep that scent around, that invigorating smell of submission and possession.
He slips a finger in next to his tongue next, just a gentle push helped along with the slickness of his tongue. Stiles groans, swallowing it back a moment later, and Peter has to slap him on the ass just to remind him that his father isn't downstairs and that Peter's apartment is one hundred percent equipped to handle his noises, however loud he might get. Peter wants to hear him get loud.
"Let me hear you, Stiles," Peter murmurs, pulling back from his hole and sliding his finger in. "Look at me."
Stiles obeys, craning his neck over his shoulder, and when his eyes land on Peter's slick lips, shiny from eating Stiles out, his head falls back with a needy moan. Peter slips his finger in further and smacks his hand down on his ass just once more for reactions, and Stiles responds with another groan, this one broken at the ends.
"More," Stiles croaks, his voice more frayed by the second. "I can handle it. C'mon."
"Is that so?" Peter asks, cocking an eyebrow, and Stiles' response is nothing but a heady whine and a jerk of his hips against the sheets, as if looking for friction. Punishable behavior, Peter thinks, and he pushes in a second finger, this one aimed directly for his prostate.
Stiles makes quite the spectacle, Peter thinks, the kind that awakens the animal inside him that's completely buried from the world. He's always needy for more, always ready to beg and demand, even when the back of his neck shines with sweat. It drives Peter crazy, crazy because Stiles doesn't even know how wild he makes him, and he leans in to suck over a reddened bite mark on the low of Stiles' back just so he knows, just so he remembers exactly who's behind him pulling him closer to the edge.
He teases his fingers back out, watching the way Stiles' hole swallows them back as he pushes in again, listening to the way Stiles' breath matches the rhythm of his thrusts. His ass looks like sinful art like this, the kind too provocative to end up in museums, and Peter bites down on his lip as he watches his fingers slip in and out of Stiles' hole. He adds another, making it three, and when he pushes in and pulls out, he gives Stiles a second to catch his breath.
"Fuck, Peter," are Stiles' first words, and he pushes his ass up into the air. Peter rewards his eagerness with another slow lick over his stretched hole. "God, don't stop."
"As you wish," Peter murmurs, and then slides his fingers back in. He rubs them relentlessly against his prostate this time, just hard enough to make Stiles jerk and whimper. They turn from whimpers to gasps to moans, and then he's clutching the pillow and barely making out words. He's close, Peter can tell, so he pulls his fingers back out and lets Stiles groan at the loss.
"I was gonna come," Stiles says over his shoulder. His cheeks are flushed, his mouth red from biting down on his lip, and Peter grins.
"Oh?" he murmurs, running his hands over Stiles' ass. It's sensitive, clearly, and Stiles jerks into the touch again. "Ask me nicely to let you."
If his cock wasn't leaking and his eyes weren't fogged over with arousal, Stiles would hit him right over the head, Peter knows this. There's something extremely magical about sex that brings out Stiles' usually dormant submissive side, pushing aside the part of him that likes to banter and fight for the top. Peter wonders how many other sides of him there are.
"Jesus," Stiles groans, and then he slides to his knees to give Peter a better view of his ass. "Make me come. Fuck, please."
And now that, Peter can't deny. Stiles' ass, poised in the air and waiting for attention after he begged so prettily, is a prospect too tempting to keep away from, even for the pleasure of watching Stiles squirm for more. He's not exactly a master when it comes to reeling in his self-control.
He slides his fingers back in, this time keeping the pace fast and hard, eyes glued to the way Stiles presses his cheek to the pillow and tries to breathe. Peter knows exactly when Stiles is about to come. He's catalogued all of the signs, the way his mouth falls open and his chest heaves faster than before, the way his thighs shake and his fingers turn white-knuckled around what he's grasping. It's the kind of thing Peter wants to record just so he can watch it again, just so his brain won't forget, and it's something of a shame that Stiles will never see just how much of a writing mess he becomes when he's close.
This time he lets him come, targeting his prostate with his fingertips and biting down on his thigh until he's coming, spilling over Peter's sheets with sounds of unconstrained pleasure. He moans and doesn't bother stifling the sound in the sheets, something Peter rewards him for with a few gentle nips on his ass.
"Came without touching," Peter murmurs, fascinated, as he pulls his fingers out and Stiles flops over onto his backside. He runs his hand down Stiles' flushed chest.
"God, that was hot," Stiles says to the ceiling at large, and he sounds wrecked and breathless as he tries to come back down to earth, so Peter is quite surprised when he sits up and crawls into Peter's lap, pressing their mouths together. Stiles is full of surprises.
"You just came," Peter mumbles on his lips. "Can you really—"
Stiles doesn't let him answer, pulling him closer by his shoulders and kissing him once more. It's more aggressive this time, Stiles licking into his mouth and grazing his teeth over Peter's bottom lip—that's a move Peter taught him, for sure—before he pulls back once more to breathe. Apparently Peter is underestimating the power of a teenager's reboot time.
"You stretched me open," he says matter-of-factly, the headiness still present in his eyes even post-orgasm. He rocks against Peter's hard cock, neglected up till now. "You're going to take advantage of that."
That's something Peter can't deny either. A naked boy point-black telling Peter to fuck him, that's like he just lucked out at a slots machine, a roulette table, and blackjack all in one night. He wonders if these urges are the kind of thing that Stiles has always had inside him, waiting to be provoked, or if Peter's taught him well and conditioned him into the perfect sexual companion.
"Well," he says with a sigh, smirking, and rubs his thumb over Stiles' lower lip. "All right."
Stiles kisses him again, pressing their bodies flush together until Peter can feel his chest, slightly sweaty and very warm, press against him. Peter pulls away from his mouth to dedicate more time to his neck, his chest, his unbitten shoulders, and gets to work tonguing his collarbone.
Stiles is frantic now, lower lip raw and red from biting down on it and hands eager to please, his chest flushed and his hair tousled. Peter yanks him closer by the hair, unable to resist when he looks so pleasantly debauched—by Peter's hands, no less—and Stiles doesn't object to a hard, insistent kiss when Peter tugs him forward. His tongue slips into Stiles' mouth, letting him snag a taste of himself, and Stiles gets impatient after ten seconds of wet kisses, hands scrambling on Peter's thigh.
"C'mon," he whines. "Where the fuck is the lube in this fine establishment?"
Peter cocks his head to the nightstand, watching Stiles scramble across the bed to find it. His ass bounces most pleasantly along the way, blissfully naked for Peter's viewing pleasure, and he snakes an arm around his torso to pull Stiles onto his hips and rut his cock against Stiles' backside the second he seizes the tube of lube from the drawer.
"Are you going to ride me?" Peter purrs in his ear, rolling his erection against the curve of Stiles' ass and nudging his wrist against Stiles' already hardening cock. This is why the young, hyperactive boys are the best.
"Yeah, yeah," Stiles groans, and he seems to be momentarily distracted by the hand stroking his cock before he swats it away and turns around, hands firm on Peter's shoulders. He faces him, eyes determined like he wants his shot of being in charge, and Peter is willing to amuse him. "Like this."
He kneels over Peter's lap, eyes straight on Peter's, and Peter nods as silent approval. It's not every day he has a lapful of naked, horny boy, and Stiles seems more determined than most to prove his sexual prowess. He slides his hands over Stiles' hips, thumbs slotting over his hipbones and paying his full attention to how Stiles squeezes lube into his hand and proceeds to finger himself, slicking his entrance. It's riveting, really, how fervent Stiles is, even as he fucks himself on his fingers and tips his head forward with that pull of pleasure. Peter grabs his chin, leaning in to drag his lower lip into his mouth with his teeth, and it seems to break the last of Stiles' patience, his fingers slipping free with a small oh that falls directly into Peter's mouth.
He slicks Peter up next, a slow, fidgeting hand smearing lube over his cock, and Stiles seems to enjoy it as much as Peter, eyes glued to Peter's cock and the weight of it in his hands. He might be hopelessly obsessed with women, Peter thinks, but he's still a boy meant to take dick. Doesn't matter where, he's perfect for it—the bow of his pink lips, the stretch of his hole, the grip of his slender fingers. He's meant to be pleasured and punished by a man.
"Don't keep me waiting, Stiles," Peter growls, growing just as impatient, and Stiles seems to share his sentiments. He nods frantically and suddenly he's aligning himself with Peter's cock and sinking down, probably too fast and too hard, but it makes Peter's carefully crafted reserve slip just that much further.
Stiles grunts, almost like he's stuck between riding him senseless and being annoyed with Peter's pushiness, and then he's all the way down, sitting on Peter's cock and letting out a shaky breath that lands on Peter's shoulder. They haven't fucked like this before, with Stiles sweaty in his lap as he rocks up and down on his hips, nearly eye-to-eye, and it feels oddly personal in the way that Peter pounding into Stiles while he's on all fours isn't.
Maybe Stiles feels it too, because he doesn't meet Peter's eyes, instead pulling himself up and back down with a rushing exhale, and then he slides his chin on Peter's shoulder, almost as if to hide his face, to hide the emotion raw and open there. Peter thrusts upward just enough to slide that much deeper and Stiles moans, low and dirty and right by his ear, and Peter wants to see, wants to memorize the way his eyes flutter closed and his mouth falls open.
And Stiles is so tight around him, warm and slick and inviting in a way that makes Peter wants to set up camp on his body for years. This is his, all his, all waiting to be discovered like uncharted land, and he thrusts his hips up to emphasize that point, Stiles' answering groan sounding a lot like yes, yours. Peter brings his teeth into the equation, his vision tinged with red as he bites down on Stiles' bare shoulder, sucking over the marks he leaves and making them that much deeper, redder, harder to remove, scraping his growing fangs above the collarbone where shirts won't cover.
"Fuck," Stiles is mumbling, over and over, his hips stuttering where they're sliding up and down, up and down on Peter's cock. He'll complain later, rub at the bruises in the mirror as if trying to smear them away, but Peter knows he enjoys it—the bite, the pain, the way his blood rushes to the surface and makes his pleasure that much sharper. Peter grins because this is what he can do, this is what no one else would have ever taught Stiles, how good pain can be and how primordially hot it is to leave marks where no one can see.
His fingers slide down to grip Stiles' ass, reveling in the flex of his muscles as he rolls down on Peter's dick. Every bounce of his hips results in a hiss and a moan right by Peter's ear, magnified with Stiles' heartbeat, rapid and unrelenting like gunfire. The drag of Stiles' ass around his length is too much, enough to pull the air from Peter's lungs and pull the wolf to the surface, and Peter digs his claws into Stiles' ass to keep himself at bay.
The air is hot, too warm, and Stiles' legs are slick with sweat as he grinds against Peter, his cock nudging Peter's stomach. He whines and Peter snakes a hand between them to pump his neglected erection, his palm rough on Stiles' length as he keeps up the pace of Stiles' hips bouncing back and forth. It's still too slow, too careful, and with a growl Peter has Stiles' hip in his free hand and is yanking him down onto his cock, harder than before, and Stiles seems to get the hint.
"C'mon," Peter growls right in his ear. "Want to see you move." And then, when Stiles keens, he pushes his cock upwards once more, driving right into Stiles. "You can do better than that."
"Fucker."
It does the trick, it always does, and Stiles steadies himself on Peter's shoulders and speeds up, riding Peter in earnest, and this is the point where Peter wants to see exactly what he looks like. He pulls Stiles' hair until his head jerks back, eyes riveted to the way Stiles' eyelids are at half-mast and his lips are parted and his eyes are fogged over with drunken pleasure, and Peter did that. Peter's responsible for this, and he roughly grabs Stiles by the cheek to push their mouths together.
"Amazing," he says, right into his mouth, and Stiles' hips stutter where they're rocking onto him, finesse gone and replaced with a frantic push and pull of their bodies.
"What?" Stiles asks, out of breath and panting and delicious. Peter's fingers dig into his cheek, his mouth red as he speaks. "What?"
"You," Peter says, licking over his bottom lip. Stiles slams back down at that, pulling something feral out of Peter's chest. "Look at you."
"Kinda busy," Stiles says in return, voice hoarse at best, and then Peter's twisting his wrist on the upstroke on Stiles' cock and Stiles is coming, a broken groan landing in the air as his thighs shake and his forehead lands on Peter's cheek, right where the stubble catches onto him.
Peter pumps into him still, jerking his hips up and down while Stiles tries to catch his breath between gasps on his shoulder, close enough to come in Stiles, to watch his come trickle out his hole when he pulls out, and then Stiles is pressing his mouth to his ear to whisper something.
"Peter," Stiles murmurs, his hands squeezing Peter's arms to grab his attention. "Use my mouth."
He pulls his forehead from Peter's chin, licking over his lips and nodding to give him the green light. God, Peter thinks, this one's a keeper, and he rubs his thumb over Stiles' plump lower lip until he climbs off his lap, Peter's cock slipping free from his ass. It makes Stiles whimper almost like he misses the fullness, but then he's scrambling to his knees and opening his mouth for Peter, and it's exactly the kind of image Peter wants to take photographs of to replay over and over.
"Perfect," Peter murmurs. For everyone's talk about how terrible he is, apparently the heavens still think he deserves a naked boy on his knees for him. He gets to his feet, slipping from the bed to align his cock with Stiles' mouth, rubbing the tip over his lower lip and watching Stiles' tongue dart out to taste the precome. "Your mouth waiting for my cock. Do you want it?"
Stiles' eyes glaze over, and it reminds Peter exactly how much Stiles loves sucking dick. For a self-proclaimed straight boy, he's an expert at giving head, at hollowing his cheeks and using his to tongue and letting a dick fuck his throat. He's always clamoring to have Peter in his mouth, an oral fixation Peter is all too obliged to help him fulfill.
Stiles nods, just a tiny jerk of his head as he spreads his lips and lets Peter mark his mouth.
"Tell me," Peter growls. "Tell me what you want."
"Your cock," Stiles says, and his cheeks still flush. He's not nearly the same stuttering virgin he was when Peter had first spread him out on his mattress, but his face still goes pink whenever Peter pulls filth from his mouth.
"Good boy," Peter murmurs, and then he's slipping his length into Stiles mouth and watching him work around it, watching his tongue wrap around his erection and his cheeks hollow around him. His pink tongue flicks out over and over, curling around the tip to taste him, running over the underside of his cock. Peter's control is practically nonexistent by now as he feeds his cock into Stiles' mouth, fingers gripping his hair to pull him onto his dick.
He comes down Stiles' throat, and Stiles, dear lord, doesn't even pull back. It's not even slightly reminiscent of how he began sucking Peter off, mouth hesitant and tongue tentative to taste, how Peter had to coax him to put his mouth to good use. But Stiles is a natural, easy to persuade and fast to learn, and he keeps his mouth on Peter's cock until he's sated, pulling back when Peter's grip on his hair lessens. Peter leans down to kiss him on the neck, just once or twice next to his rapid pulse, and Stiles leans against the solidness of his shoulder.
"I'm all sweaty," Stiles says, still lost of breath, and Peter pets the hair away from his damp forehead, watching his eyes shut at the ministrations.
"Sign of a good time," Peter says with a chuckle, and Stiles shrugs in agreement. He looks worn and swollen all over, lips bruised pink and eyes at half-mast. Peter never wants to stop corrupting him, counting the ways he can make him come, watching his face as he does. His eyes flick over to the kitchen, coffee filters still sitting unattended to next to the mugs. "Still want that coffee?"
"Tomorrow," Stiles mumbles, and then he's dragging Peter down on the mattress, away from the wet spot.
He thinks about making a joke about sleepovers, about how at this point Stiles should be braiding his hair while they cry over chick flicks, but then Stiles is draping himself over Peter's chest and he thinks tomorrow. There's always time to make jokes tomorrow.
Peter wakes up to a mouth drooling on his shoulder and an errant leg slung over his thigh just as the sunrise is tickling the dark gray out of the clouds. He rolls over, receiving several snoring grunts of protest in his ear at the jostling, and surveys Stiles' lax face in the dark. There could be better ways to wake up, like with Stiles' mouth coaxing him awake by dragging his tongue up his cock, but then again, there have been worse as well.
His eyes zero in on a dark bruise, muted in the quiet light of a budding morning, dotting the line of Stiles' jaw. If he leans in, he can see the hint of teeth marks, and this is exactly what Stiles' pale skin and responsive flesh was built for. Endless marking.
Peter shifts, dragging his foot up Stiles' calf under the sheets just to watch his eyebrows furrow discontentedly in his sleep. He reaches out to run a hand over Stiles' chin right where the bruises are smattered, too high for even the bulkiest of scarves to hide, and feels a grin tug at the corner of his lips.
This, he thinks absently as he trails a single fingertip up to Stiles' ear, skipping over the barely there traces of stubble present on his jaw, this I could get used to.
Well. That's interesting in a never-going-to-happen sort of way.
It makes him straighten up, actually, back tense and limbs rid of their early morning ease. That sounded like a human thought, the kind of ruminations that people who labor under myths like "there is good in others" are gleefully privy to. Peter knows better.
And it's a little baffling to hear his own brain come up with such a thought, because it's centered around Stiles. Someone who isn't himself. Some kid, some powerless teenage boy whose hands never lay still and mouth gets him in trouble. It's so ridiculous Peter considers laughing, which would be easier if the smile hadn't been wiped off his face.
He thinks about something else, something more appealing than the moles that chase Stiles' spine. Like fresh toast or a strenuous work out or murdering a passerby in good fun.
It sounds like a solid plan doing all three in order, starting with the nourishing breakfast, up until Stiles throws a curveball into his plans by waking up. His entire body squirms and wiggles like it's making up for all that tranquility his limbs were forced into during sleep, and then he's blinking his eyes open, dark brown and sleepy and framed with thick lashes. He catches Peter's eyes on him and freezes, all soft morning stretching gone.
"Is it weird that I'm used to waking up to you staring at me like Edward Cullen?" Stiles murmurs, voice rough with sleep. Or rough like he'd just finished blowing Peter deep in his throat. Peter prefers the latter. "You and I may need to discuss boundaries."
"Boundaries?" Peter repeats. He slides a hand around Stiles' upper thigh, his knuckles nudging a part of his body much more awake than his brain is so far. "I lick your asshole until you're begging for me to fuck you, but this is crossing a line?"
"Seven in the morning and you're already talking asshole?" Stiles sputters with one glance at the clock on the bedside table. There's a blush creeping up his cheeks that Peter finds oddly endearing. "That's different."
"It isn't," Peter dismisses once and for all. "We have no boundaries."
He looks at him and he looks so comfortable, wrapped up in Peter's blankets and sleepy against a wrinkled pillow, almost like he came furnished with the apartment. Like he fits there, like somebody cut out the pieces missing in Peter's apartment and pushed them in. He had no idea company was one of the things it was missing. He was sure it was only a blender.
"Are you like that with everyone?" Stiles asks, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Never mind. You really think you and I have no boundaries?"
Physical boundaries, no. Emotional boundaries—that's another story. There are corners of his mind only meant for himself to see, and that's just for the safety of others. Not that he's a large fan of show and tell and sharing is caring and all other ludicrous ideas shoved into children's heads, so there's that as well. He looks at Stiles, naked in his birthday suit under the light summer sheets, and knows that he has the same mental walls up. Peter likes relationships when they include walls rather than hand holding and long campfire stories about how rough the past was.
"Essentially not," Peter says. "Except for the few departments where I prefer the boundaries."
"Let me guess," Stiles mutters dryly. "Anything involving actual emotion?"
Right on the nose. Peter grins at Stiles, a flash of his bright teeth his gold star for guessing correctly. "Yes. How did you know?"
"Because you're a soulless monster," Stiles says right away, burrowing further into the bed. He furrows his eyebrows together, fixing Peter with a displeased glance. "You don't care about anything other than my penis, do you?"
It's not exactly true. There's also his mouth and the way he moans and the scent he leaves behind on Peter's sheets, or the stupid jokes that keep Peter somewhat young and the sex that keeps him even younger.
"Why?" is what Peter ends up saying, because he was not hired for compliment patrol. Stiles shrugs instantly.
"I don't know," Stiles mumbles, and he looks exhausted again. A good few orgasms will do that to a man, even after a night's rest, and Peter supposes he could let Stiles sleep in a few more hours while he scrounges up breakfast. "I'm just trying to figure you out."
"You already have," Peter says. Stiles frowns at him as Peter's hands sweep demonstratively down his own naked torso. "Have you considered that this is all there is?"
"Is there?" Stiles asks, momentarily baffled. Peter thinks about it, and yes, that's all there is.
"What you see," Peter explains, leaning to murmur the words atop Stiles' unresponsive lips, "is what you get with me."
"So, crazy eyes and a tendency for murder?"
"That, and dashingly good looks," Peter adds on, because honestly, how could that bit be pushed to the wayside? It's an important part to his spiel. Nobody trusts a face that isn't pretty and everyone loves one that is, even if they can see the blood surrounding their handsome smiles and the knives hidden behind their backs.
Stiles snorts, not amused with Peter's nutshell of himself. "Okay, fine," he concedes. "Then maybe I wish you weren't so easy to figure out. That you were a bit complex."
The words are ambiguous, but Peter knows what they mean nonetheless. Loosely translated it can be understood I wish you had reasons for being so evil, or if only you weren't so black and white.. Peter is perpetually gray, and better yet, he likes it there where he has no tragic villain origin story and no one ever asks for explanations when he does something morally wrong like intentionally trip a small child or commit a mass murder.
"You know, Stiles," Peter says nonchalantly, crossing his feet at the ankles. "Despite what young romance novels might tell you, you really don't have to like me to sleep with me."
That seems to hit a nerve with Stiles, like even entertaining the idea of finding admirable qualities in Peter would drag down his reputation to depths only sewage could rival. He pulls away from Peter, a change from comfortably sharing space to defensively finding distance tangible in the air as Stiles frowns at him.
"I'm not trying to like you," Stiles snaps, sitting up from Peter's chest. "Maybe I'm just trying to figure out why you're such a big asshole."
"It's a gift," Peter says, giving Stiles a smile that's all teeth.
Something in the conversation feels stiff, emanating mostly from Stiles and his judgmental eyebrows. He's probably questioning every decision he ever made, Peter thinks idly, watching the crease between his eyes deepen, specifically the one where he agreed to let Peter fuck him. He agreed because he's also a bad person, Peter is sure of that much. Bad people are magnetized together by each other's refreshing lack of morality. Stiles' badness just needs a little coaxing to the surface.
Peter rubs his thumb over where Stiles' eyebrows are furrowed together. "Too pretty for wrinkles," he says, and Stiles' frown only sets in harder. Peter mirrors it. "For heaven's sake."
He rolls his eyes and pulls Stiles in, swallowing his complaints with his tongue. Stiles fights it valiantly for a solid six seconds before he resigns himself to the kiss, angling their mouths together just right. Then he seems to remember that he's cross with Peter's horrible self—or perhaps himself for being attracted to such a horrible self—and pulls away, rubbing at his jaw.
"And would you shave already?" Stiles grumbles, wriggling like a displaced worm under the sheets. "Every time we make out it feels like I'm getting rug burn."
And it's truly unfortunate for Peter, because the more he bickers and stands up for himself, the more Peter finds himself wanting to pull him down to the mattress and keep them there for years just to see how he'll grow up, how he'll change, how he'll still beg for Peter after months have passed.
He looks at Stiles, wrestling with the sheets knotted around his ankles, and knows that keeping Stiles for years is not an option, not for either of them. Peter doesn't keep people around for that long. It's a miracle if he still wants them to stay for breakfast. Stiles has slept here three nights in a row, and by all means that should be pushing it. The fact that Peter doesn't mind irks him like cockroaches under his skin.
He slips from the bed, not bothering to do so carefully and nearly whipping the sheets tangled around his and Stiles' unit of limbs off the mattress like a tablecloth, and hears Stiles' usual grunt of disapproval. Peter doesn't drape the linen over his shoulder because he's not anybody's fucking babysitter.
Well, Peter thinks, taking another look at Stiles' lithe eighteen year old frame. Maybe he is.
Right. Toast.
It's almost adorable how passive-aggressively disapproving Derek is, even all the way across the loft. Every time Peter's hand casually rests on Stiles' ass, it results in a heavy huff audible to even human ears that probably creates wind on other planets. It could also be because Peter isn't helping with the moving in the least, but in his defense, he never agreed to helping. He just showed up.
Isaac is lugging out boxes of worn hoodies alongside Scott, Derek watching it all like he's either mourning the baby bird leaving the proverbial nest and going to college or he's watching the sorting of items carefully so none of his easily replaceable crap gets mixed in with Isaac's replaceable crap. Peter is staying a generous distance away, quite amused, and then Stiles wanders over to him and hooks his chin over his shoulder, cheeky and just as lazy as Peter if his lack of helpfulness is any indication.
"Derek doesn't approve of us," Stiles whispers conspiratorially in Peter's ear. There it comes, Derek's glare right on cue, so Peter slings his arm over Stiles' shoulder and drags him that much closer.
"Whatever will we do," Peter drawls. He watches as Scott and Isaac pull a mattress up from the floor together. "You've been helpful today, haven't you?"
"Hey, I'm a human," Stiles says defensively. His own arm crawls around Peter's waist, his hand comfortable on his shirt. It feels a little too old-couple-walking-down-the-beach-together for Peter, but he supposes anything that makes Derek's forehead vein tick so beautifully is worth it. "Why am I the one expected to do all the heavy lifting?" He furrows his eyebrows. "Why aren't you helping?"
"I'm just here for the eye candy," Peter says idly, and across the room, blatantly listening in, Derek rolls his eyes. He turns to Stiles. "How did you figure out Derek won't give us his blessing?"
"He told me," Stiles says with a shrug. "He said I should be careful. My heart is fragile, love is a battlefield, yada yada." He looks over at where Derek's eyes have zeroed in on them and cringes. "He's listening, isn't he?"
Peter nods, quite amused. Life just isn't as entertaining when someone isn't judging him, a role Derek is always happy to fulfill. Peter is happy to proudly wear his disapproval like royal jewels and a golden crown, so he catches Derek's eye as he deliberately leans in to bite down on Stiles' ear.
"We should get out of here," he murmurs, "so I can tease your ass with my tongue and slick you up for my cock."
Stiles isn't fooled, roughly disentangling himself from Peter's arm. "Eww!" he yowls. "You know he can hear us, you creepy bastard!"
"He's not the only one," Isaac pipes up from where he and Scott are taping up boxes, sounding quite disturbed. The more people's nightmares Peter fuels, the better.
Derek comes up to him twelve minutes later, cornering him none too discreetly by the stairs in the corner while Stiles adds unnecessary amounts of tape to Isaac's sad heap of boxed belongings.
"Do you know what you're doing?" he asks Peter, voice dangerously low. He looks horribly displeased, like listening in to Peter murmuring filth into Stiles' ear all afternoon was the worst form of modern day torture, and Peter feels like his mission of the day has been accomplished.
"Is this the part where you threaten me to keep Stiles safe or else?" Peter asks him, eyebrow raised. "Big brother routine on your uncle?"
Derek's lips thin out into an annoyed white line, like Peter's missing the point. He steps closer, as if daring Peter to step back. Peter doesn't. That particular intimidation tactic is one that runs in the family. "It's Stiles," Derek says, enunciating like he's waiting for comprehension to sink into Peter's brain and for him to swear off underage boys forever and ever. "His father's the sheriff. His best friend is Scott."
And that makes Peter freeze, because it doesn't sound like a threat. It sounds like a warning. He raises an eyebrow. "Are you showing concern for me?" He resists the urge to chuckle. "Stiles is a willing participant."
"I know," Derek says, and he looks constipated again, like memories of Stiles laughing when Peter groped his ass are flitting through his brain again. He seems to shake them aside. "How long are you planning on keeping this up for?"
Peter raises an eyebrow. "Would you like to see a schedule?"
"He's leaving for college," Derek points out, doing a marvelous job of ignoring the other half of the conversation. "You know that, don't you?"
"Really?" Peter drawls. He makes sure the sarcasm is dripping from his words as he grins and adds, "That'll really interfere with my plans to chain him up in my basement."
"Would you," Derek stops himself, and he looks amazed at the pure fact that anybody can be this annoying. He shifts back on forth on his feet, probably trying to distribute the anger as he mentally counts to ten, and fixes Peter with another stern look. "What's going to happen when he leaves?"
"He leaves," Peter says simply. Over Derek's shoulder, Stiles is roughhousing with Scott and Isaac and roaring about an unfair supernatural advantage on their edge. Stiles will be fine, Stiles has friends and hopes for the future and a pretty face that'll get him in just about anywhere. He says as much. "Stiles will be fine."
"And you?"
"Me?" Peter repeats back dubiously. Derek's looking at him like he's waiting for the moment of truth, for the confession of human feelings and a crumbled wall that he tried valiantly to keep up to no avail, that Stiles' love has him barreled over the edge. He frowns. "It's sex. Just sex. I know that your encounters with that always seem to end in death and disaster and horrible betrayal, but," Derek's eyes flash, and Peter realizes he's finally cut himself a shortcut to the end of his conversation, "sometimes it's just sex."
Derek doesn't bother with a response, turning on his heel with one last sharp look in Peter's direction, and Peter watches him stalk away with a stiffness in his shoulders. It's a stiffness Peter is almost always responsible for, like Peter is simply impossible to talk to without needing a back massage, and Peter feels the same way about Derek. Derek has a frustrating need to complicate everything. Peter doesn't.
All of this is simple. It was always meant to be easy, and it is. Stiles will leave, and Peter will be fine. Unbeknownst to Derek, apparently, this is not a romance movie where both of them have fallen tragically in love. Their story would never make it into the movies. It's too r-rated, too simple, too boring for an audience. And that's just how Peter likes it.
It's past ten p.m. on a Sunday too hot for even the scorching sidewalk to stand when Peter's phone buzzes on the counter, a quiet vibration that catches his attention. It's Stiles, sending got my first college class schedule today, oh my god.
Peter looks at it, turns his phone around a few times, and wonders if he's the first person Stiles sent his news to. It's an odd thought, past the mere possession of leaving a few teeth marks on his neck, and it tickles him in all the wrong ways to imagine being the second, or even the third. He likes it best when Stiles' attention stays on him, like when he's sitting atop Peter's hips riding his cock or taking his dick to his throat, and for a white hot second, the idea of sharing him makes Peter want to scratch the familiar itch of murdering a few bodies.
Congratulations, Peter texts back, and then after a moment's consideration, come over tomorrow. Want to fuck you.
Stiles writes back okay :p, the smiley face ludicrous and implying familiarity, and it feels like he's staring at something more intimate than what his eyes are allowed to see.
Stiles shows up at Peter's door the next day with a large duffel bag and an ever larger smile.
The message is not lost on Peter, especially as his eyes fall on the clear outline of condoms bulging out the side of Stiles' bag. He snorts.
"Someone's smug," he drawls, closing the door behind Stiles as Stiles all but struts in.
"Not really, I just know you're easy."
Stiles reels him in by the shirt, dragging him closer to push their mouths together and grope his ass as a cheeky grin splits over Stiles' lips. It feels unsettlingly like a hello kiss, the kind of make out that has no intention of leading to dropped pants and blow jobs, and Peter frowns as Stiles pulls away.
"We aren't an old married couple," he tells Stiles, smirking when an indignant pink spreads over his cheeks. "Hello kisses?"
"Hey, I used tongue," he says defensively.
Peter shrugs, conceding. He leads the way to the kitchen, Stiles following behind him after dumping his bag by the couch. He grabs a wine bottle from the rack by the fridge as Stiles gets situated at the island counter, clearly curious about tonight's choice of beverage.
"Oooh, adult juice," Stiles croons. "Get me a glass."
Peter raises an eyebrow over his shoulder as he pulls a wine glass from a cupboard, hesitating before grabbing another. Stiles nods encouragingly, so Peter humors him and grabs a second glass. He places it in front of him and gives Stilesa solid five seconds to change his mind and ask for juice instead.
"Are you sure I can't get you a Capri-sun?" Peter drawls, holding the bottle a far distance always from Stiles' glass.
"Hey, I'm an adult," Stiles insists. He reaches out to tap Peter on the wrist until he gives in and starts slowly pouring.
"Sure you are," Peter nods. "You can tie your own shoelaces and cut up your own meat and everything."
It makes Stiles frowns, a wave of agitation wafting across the counter. Peter wonders if he's taking it personally, or if perhaps he's completely oblivious to the age gap between them, or if Peter really looks that young and fresh—
"Old enough to have sex with you," Stiles mutters, and then adds for good measure, "and for you not to get arrested for it."
Peter cocks his hip against the counter, pausing the trickle of wine into Stiles' glass to consider him. That's strange. If he wanted to understand the mindset of a teenage boy more thoroughly, he might have a clue as to what Stiles is griping about. He keeps pouring.
"Anyway," Peter says, steering the conversation in a different direction. "When are you moving out into your big boy dorm?"
"August, actually," Stiles says, and he sits up a little straighter. "I'm glad you brought it up."
Peter raises an eyebrow, waiting for elaboration.
"So," Stiles says, eyes low as he circles the rim of his wine glass with his thumb.
"So," Peter returns levelly. He sets down the bottle after filling Stiles' to a comfortable halfway point. Something tells him Stiles is more of a sickeningly sweet daiquiri type of drunkard than he is a fan of acclaimed sophisticated wines, but who is he to judge by appearances. "What is it you're thinking?"
"Well... I'm leaving the nest. Soon," at Peter's rolled eyes, he continues. "College." He grabs his glass and downs a generous gulp, nose wrinkled as if his face has been brutally pinched by a clothing pin after he swallows. Peter was definitely right about his palate not being refined enough for grown up alcohol just yet, but Stiles is much too proud to admit as much as he stonily swallows another gulp. "And I don't know what that means for... our arrangement."
Stiles is looking at him with questions in his eyes with just an edge of hopeful, almost like he hopes Peter will have all the brilliant ideas to fix the distance issue. Peter hadn't even thought that far ahead. When summer began, it was without an end in sight. It was just lazy fucking during sweaty summer nights with warm breezes fluttering through Stiles' window, not conscious thinking about Stiles' plans for the fall.
"I mean, I thought you could come out to my dorm now and again," Stiles offers when Peter stays quiet. "I know it's a bit of a drive, but... you know, there'd be sex."
"Trying to relocate your fuck buddy?" Peter asks him, only mildly amused. He can't identify the other emotion churning in his stomach. "How practical is it to smuggle a man twice your age through a dorm of judgmental peers?"
"Oh. Right, well," Stiles looks miles more uncomfortable than he did a second earlier, unsure in his own skin. He always looks infinitely smaller when the consciousness of his actions takes over him like this, infinitely younger, and Peter leads his wine glass to Stiles' mouth to relax the tension in his shoulders. Stiles swallows dutifully, even if the curl of his lip makes his opinion of the wine obvious, and Peter considers bringing out the chocolate milk. "Guess that might bring up some weird questions."
"Trust me," Peter drawls around the rim of his own glass. "You won't be short on sex in college. Frat boys will be gagging for a mouth like yours."
Stiles blinks at him at that, almost as if someone addressing his appeal still surprises him. Peter snorts, reaching forward to swipe his thumb over a stray residue of wine on his lower lip. Lovely mouth indeed.
"And you'd be fine with that?"
"Stiles," Peter murmurs, unimpressed. His eyes briefly flick down to the deep red bite marks on Stiles' neck and wonder if they contradict his statement. "I thought you'd stopped reading up on werewolf lore on the Internet. This may come as a bit of a shock, but we don't actually mate for life."
For a second there's something unreadable on Stiles' face, something past the usual level of scorn whenever Peter makes a jab at his intelligence or his hair, and before he can inspect it further, it's gone. Stiles' lips quirk up at the left. "Thank god. Because I didn't sign up for sticking with you for the rest of my life."
"Oh?" Peter leans across the counter. "Would that be so bad?"
"Uh huh," Stiles says, the lopsided smirk morphing into a smug grin. "I have other plans."
"What would they be? Becoming an accountant? Two point five kids and a receding hairline?"
"You're right, I should really have loftier goals. Like creeping around my nephew's apartment after finishing a murderous revenge spree while chasing after barely legal high school boys to sex up. Got anybody I can chat with for counseling on making my dream become a reality?"
God, this one's snarky. Peter's really quite proud, if not impressed with himself for knowing how to pick them. He watches Stiles smile, all satisfied sarcasm shining through as he leans closer on the countertop to mirror Peter's stance.
"I wouldn't recommend the first two for someone so," Peter tickles the air as he takes his time sorting through his vocabulary for the right words, "faint of stomach." He grins, curling his fingers into the fabric of Stiles' shirt. "The chasing young boys? That's a real perk."
He yanks Stiles in before he can drum up a clever retort, tugging his bottom lip into his mouth with teeth that never fail to effectively silence the talkative. His mouth really is quite something, the kind of asset that could either get him into a lot of trouble or keep him out of it, and Peter can only imagine how much attention he'll receive in college. The thought isn't a pretty one, his hands tightening on Stiles' shirt in his hands, and Peter considers the image. A drunken frat boy with bad decision highlights in his hair pulling Stiles close by the strings of his hoodie, begging him to take his cock between those lips. It makes a volcanic heat flare behind his eyes.
He growls, his hands moving to Stiles' shoulders until his grip is brutal enough to leave bruises in his wake, and deepens their kiss without asking. Stiles all but melts into it, needy whimpers that tells Peter he's already hard from where he's arching across the counter to slant their mouths together, and Peter pulls back leaving the torturous, almost kisses in his wake that he knows drives Stiles to insanity.
"I think," he murmurs, eyes riveted to Stiles' lips, slick from Peter's tongue, and his dilated pupils. He tilts his head a fraction, considering, because there are plenty of ways he could go with his sentence. I should keep you under lock and key. You don't need a college education anyhow. You're wearing too many fucking clothes. "That it's time for the vodka."
Okay, so the vodka was probably a bad idea.
Stiles is drunk, drunk enough to start climbing the ceiling fan, and it's making Peter feel a bit like the one rogue adult who supplied beer to an underage junior high drinking party. Watching Stiles stumble around his apartment, sloshing alcohol right from the bottle onto the floors and fiddling with whatever his hands can hold onto firmly enough, Peter remembers how young Stiles is.
"We should have a sex playlist," Stiles says as he leans against the stereo Peter has propped up on the wall, punching buttons in his fruitless attempt to bring it to life. "Something to ride the baloney pony with."
Stiles stares right at him, gyrating his hips in clumsy circles, just in case he didn't catch onto his drift. Peter did. He wonders if he should find this endearing or if he should find this hopelessly immature, just another reminder to drop Stiles off at college and find himself a distraction. If it's the former, Peter doesn't have an appropriate course of action to follow.
Those helpless moans and whimpers you let out are music enough, Peter's mind helpfully supplies. He smirks, and instead says, "What are you suggesting?"
"Something sexy," Stiles manages to slur out, and then trips over a shoelace as he steps closer. "The saxophone is pretty sexy, right?"
"It's smoking," Peter says, indulging him. He watches Stiles stumble through the apartment—an amazing feat, considering there's hardly any furniture to trip over—and puts his glass of wine down to try and herd Stiles in the direction of the couch to at least cushion any blows he inflicts on himself. "Sit down before you hurt yourself."
"Oh, all right," Stiles acquiesces with a huff, and then deposits himself on the floor.
Peter watches him crumple to the ground and lay himself out on the hard wood, eyes glossy where they're fixated on the ceiling and one hand still firm around the neck of his bottle. He sprawls himself out in a large X, perfectly comfortable on the floor, and Peter watches him stare at the notches in the ceiling like they hold the answers to life's greatest questions.
"I have a couch," Peter decides to offer.
"That's nice," is Stiles' response, and then his eyes focus on Peter like he's just noticed his presence. He pats the floor next to him. "What are you doing all the way up there."
It must be nice to be so drunk one doesn't know up from down, Peter thinks as he begrudgingly sits down on the floor and stretches out his legs. Stiles looks like he's enjoying it, perfectly at peace in his state of inebriated obliviousness, a lazy smile curling his lips. He's really quite pretty, with pale skin begging to be touched and a pink mouth asking to be kissed swollen, and if Stiles tries hard enough to emulate Peter he'll probably be capable of breaking plenty of hearts.
Stiles reaches out and drags himself closer until he's pillowed his head on Peter's lap, nestled in the dip of his legs. Peter listens to his heartbeat, a sluggish crawl of groggy palpitations, and it feels like the steady pull and push of the ocean. It's oddly relaxing, the weight of Stiles' head in his lap and his heartbeat, much slower than the fidgeting of his fingers, soft enough for Peter's to match.
And he doesn't know what he's doing here, with a boy in his lap that stinks of too much liquor with hopes of dragging Peter into his future. He didn't know what to expect of this back in May, back when all of this was nothing but a proposition that Stiles was desperate enough or curious enough to agree to, and this, Stiles draped over him like he couldn't be more comfortable, this really throws a wrench in his plans. Probably because this feels nice. Peter doesn't do nice. He doesn't even really do feeling.
"You keep things fun," Stiles is saying from his lap, laughing at nothing. Peter looks down at him, eyes lit up with golden specks from the yellow light of the living room lamp, and wonders if he knows what he's saying. "You know?"
Fun. Yes, it's been fun. Pushing Stiles against walls and blowing him when his father's downstairs, chuckling with him over Derek's sour disapproval, taking his time slowly pulling Stiles apart every time he has him naked and waiting underneath him.
"What happened to terrifying and unhelpful being my main descriptors?" Peter asks, and he slings an arm around Stiles' waist. His shirt is riding up and he's catching a view of the bruises on his hips, dotted upwards in sundry shades of purple.
"Don't forget manipulative and creepy," Stiles adds, and then he's laughing again, the hiccupping of his chest reverberating through Peter's body. "They still apply."
"Ah," Peter says. It feels nice to joke about what people insist are his flaws and what he insistently calls his best traits—and there's that phrase again, feels nice.
"Whatever this is—" Stiles gesticulates between them, hands clumsy as he does so.
"A conspiracy," Peter answers for him.
"Right, a conspiracy," Stiles giggles, like hearing it labeled as so never fails to make him laugh. Peter feels something tighten in his chest—probably rusty chains wrapped around his ribs—at the sight of his drunken laughter. "Well, I like it. It makes me feel… I don't even fucking know. Free?"
And he does look free. He looks happy and young and easy in his own skin, one hand wrapped around the neck of the bottle and the other curled around the soft cotton of Peter's shirt. It makes Peter wish he could get drunk just to feel the same careless high Stiles' smile is riding on, or better yet, to be just as young and undamaged. Peter is so damaged, sometimes he feels like he has to pin himself together by the broken seams in the morning before he gets up.
And he could do the very same thing to the dynamic between them as well. He could damage it just by digging his fingers into the seams and pulling apart the spots where affection or comfort or familiarity has filled the gaps, and Stiles would eventually get bored or offended or both and then leave. It's inevitable, the leaving. They will leave—maybe Stiles will first, or maybe Peter will—but the sooner the better, rather than draw this out and fix an unsteady ticking clock over their heads. One day their bodies won't know each other at all, and it makes Peter feel strange. Strange in a way he can't even identify. One day Stiles will fall in love with a sun-kissed frat boy who holds his hand when they walk to class, and Stiles will get new marks on his neck right where Peter's used to be, and he'll have someone else claiming him every night. It leaves a bitter taste in Peter's mouth, because even if it's easy to pat Stiles on the head and reassure him that he's going to be breaking hearts left and right, imagining it is a bit more troublesome. Maybe he ought to start leaving right now, walk out the door and forget to come back before he sinks his claws into Stiles' heart for good. Stiles would get over it eventually.
"Is that okay?" Stiles asks after beats of silence have passed. He looks slightly more unsure now, the laughter gone and replaced with a hint of uncertain sobriety. He looks so very human lying sprawled on the floor with his head in Peter's lap, and who is Peter to ever deny him?
"Yes," Peter finally gets his voice to say, sliding his hand to Stiles' head to brush back his disheveled hair. "That's perfect."
"You know," Stiles says, and he's back to smiling now. "You should come with me. To college." He reaches out to snag Peter's wrist, thumb sliding back and forth over his pulse point. "I don't want to have to miss you. This."
You. This. Is there even a difference anymore?
He looks at Stiles' eyes, glossed over with intoxication and something that looks like ease, even in Peter's presence, and Peter feels a strong desire to say something. Anything. Probably something more human than what his vocabulary is made for, so he settles for sliding his hand up Stiles' thigh until he's alert again.
"You have anything else nice to say about me?" Peter asks, feeling a little clipped. "Or would you like to suck me off?"
Stiles chuckles, and he pushes aside the bottle to heave himself up from Peter's lap. He settles into his personal space, breath strong of vodka, and licks over Peter's smirk so his lips fall open. "I'll stroke your ego or your dick, but not both."
"You drive a hard bargain," Peter murmurs as Stiles' teeth graze his chin, hands fastening over Stiles' hips where he knows his marks still are, always are. He slots his thumb into the nook of his hipbone, pressing in until Stiles gasps.
He fingers Stiles that night until he comes, twice, and in the back of his mind he thinks this is when I promise to wreck him forever.
Instead he bites down on his thigh and watches his body shudder, and leaves it at that.