A/N: It's been decided-weekly updates every Friday!
"I am so fucked."
"What's wrong?" Panic is the immediate edge that chases Scott's voice, followed shortly by a suspicious pause. "Are you naked right now?"
"Now, no," Stiles concedes. He feels like he should be smoking leisurely out the window with his feet propped up and a silken robe draped over his shoulders. It fits the afternoon sex stigma. "Earlier was a different story."
"Oh god," Scott says, and his voice is a strange blend of the wrinkled nose that comes with too much sharing and the proud encouragement of a best friend's obligations to cheer on his pal's sexual adventures. "Where are you?"
"Peter's apartment," Stiles tells him, bare feet padding on the floor as he heads to the kitchen. Sex makes him hungry. There's something so powerful in that statement, sex makes him hungry. Like he's had enough sex to know. Like he's ferocious enough during to need refreshments and snacks after.
"And where's Peter?"
"Out to get food," Stiles pokes his head into the fridge to find himself a refreshing post-coital beverage. What he finds are water bottles and a rack of wine by the fridge. He ought to sneak a few sodas on Peter's grocery list, even if he does shop at the pretentious organic food market that prices tomatoes at twenty dollars. "I was hoping you could help me out."
Scott's trepidation makes itself clear in the pause that follows. "...what do you need?"
"No sexual condiments of any kind, I promise," Stiles swears. He has to bear the knowingly judgmental glance of the cashier each time, but he'd rather get his own flavored lube than enlist Scott. "I need you to tell my dad I'm sleeping over at your place tonight. I'm staying at Peter's and I need a cover."
Scott groans, clearly not on board. Stiles is willing to bring up all the instances Stiles lied for Scott if he has to, starting with the time he vacuumed up the class hamster and Stiles told Melissa he personally saw it leap out the window, and peaking at the undercover werewolf shenanigans.
"Come on," Scott wheedles. "Haven't you had enough sex?"
Never, Stiles thinks dizzily. This is probably when he should check himself into the clinic. "Says the guy who I know buys his condoms in bulk," he twists open a water bottle and guzzles a few gulps. "Just for tonight."
"Just one night?"
"Yeah," he says. Two or three at the most, his brain supplies. "Call my dad and tell him we got caught up in Call of Duty. Star Wars. Game of Thrones. Your call."
He is a good friend, and he deserves this. He deserves a few uninterrupted hours of meaningless sex at his fuck buddy's abode without having to worry about every car that rolls down the street in case it's his father coming up the driveway. That's the sort of thing that can really kill a mood, and Stiles deserves orgasms. He's about to mention this interminable truth when Scott seems to come to the conclusion by himself.
"Okay," Scott says. "I'll tell him." He stops himself, clearly planning on saying more. "Be safe. Use a condom."
He's about to solemnly promise that they will raise the child together should they run out, but then Peter's key slotting in the front door distracts him.
"Oh, I hear the door," Stiles cranes his neck in time to see the front door open and Peter's shoes slip inside. "The caveman has returned with a haul of hunted food. Gotta go."
Peter raises an eyebrow at that as he toes off his shoes and sets the Chinese food down on the kitchen counter, Stiles pushing the phone back onto the nightstand as Scott says a hasty goodbye.
"I'm a caveman?" Peter asks him, sounding mildly amused. Stiles shrugs, getting to his feet to rifle through the nearest bag to locate the chow mein.
"You fit all the descriptions," Stiles says. "Animalistic, hairy, inclined to act on all your baser primal urges."
"I'm flattered," Peter murmurs. "How's Scott?"
It's a mark of how weird Stiles' life is that he no longer has the energy to be annoyed at how intrusive listening in to both sides of a conversation is, and he grabs the preferred fork out of Peter's hand to start chowing down.
"Probably disturbed since he knows how supremely sexed up I am," he says with relish.
"What happened to staying discreet?" Peter asks dryly. He twirls his noodles onto his fork, literally twirls like the queen might when having brunch with prime ministers, and Stiles watches it knowing one more idiosyncrasy about Peter he didn't think he ever would. "You were the one threatening to surgically remove my kneecaps in my sleep if I told anybody how pretty you sound when you come, and now you're sharing intimate details with Scott?"
"I can't help it," Stiles says. His mind breezes right over the how pretty you sound when you come comment that would've sent his eyebrows into his hairline a few months ago. Either he's become marginally filthier, or he's become used to Peter's tendency to decorate his sexual language. "Bragging about having sex is so satisfying. Can we eat this in bed?"
He points his fork at the chow mein container in his hand, slurping a noodle into his mouth as he talks while Peter watches his table manners with noticeable contempt.
"Only if I can eat it off you," Peter murmurs. Stiles is still a little sticky and a little sore from the last time they involved refrigerated snacks in their naked time, so he settles for finishing his dinner at the table for now.
"Anyway," Stiles says. "I called Scott to ask if he could cover for me to tonight so I could sleep over."
Peter's fork stutters on its way up to his mouth, halting in front of his lips.
"You're sleeping over?"
Stiles looks at him. "Relax, I won't paint your nails. It's gonna be an adult sleepover. No pajamas necessary," when his words do little to convince, Stiles sets down his fork and sighs. "Come on, I've slept over before."
"You haven't slept over. You stayed the night because you were too out of it after being fucked senseless to drive yourself home."
"Why are you saying that like it's some tedious thing?" Stiles swallows a chunk of chicken and snatches some of Peter's noodles from his takeout box. He dangles them into his mouth like the teenager he is, refusing to roll them on his fork with dignity. He garbles his words out around the food in his mouth. "You're the one doing the fucking."
"True," Peter concedes. Stiles goes to grab another forkful of his noodle dish and Peter promptly digs his claws into his hand. Amazing how fast he can pull those out. "Did Scott already agree?"
"Yeah," Stiles leaves out the relevant adjectives like reluctantly l. "So you might as well take advantage while I'm here."
He grins at Peter lewdly over the table, making a show of snaking his tongue around his fork as he shovels up another bite. Half of the mouthful goes tumbling on the table.
"You're making a mess," Peter observes, even if his eyes did stick to Stiles' mouth that extra second. That extra second matters. "Why do I have you around?"
"Hey, I was thinking the same thing," Stiles says around a mouthful of food, and Peter shuts him up by leaning in to lick stray sauce off his lower lip. It's unfair, because that was a tactic Stiles was more than prepared to use himself, but then Peter yanks him across the table to coax Stiles to settle in his lap, the food flying as the table sways and shifts.
Their mouths collide, sweet from teriyaki sauces, and Stiles gives himself thirty seconds of passion where their kisses go from languorous slides of their lips to something deeper that involves quite a bit of tongue action before he pulls back to shovel another forkful of food in his mouth. Peter watches with a raised eyebrow. He's hungry, dammit.
"You're the worst," Stiles says, just to make sure Peter knows. Now and again, he feels he has to say the occasional insensitive comment just to assure Peter that he hasn't fallen in love with him. Peter probably appreciates the indirect sentiment.
"If I was the best, I wouldn't be doing this with you," Peter says. His hand slides to Stiles' thigh as he talks. For a second, the words give him pause, like maybe Stiles tends to chase after people who are bad for him on purpose, whether for the challenge or for the rush, he doesn't know. It's moments like these where he looks too deep into the simplicity he and Peter have maintained between them, pulling up questions like why he even finds him attractive or why he agreed to any of this ludicrousness in the first place.
And then he remembers it's just sex, and those are the kind of introspective questions he's blissfully immune from, and goes back to chowing down his food so they can take this evening from PG to R rated.
The best part by far of Scott being in on the secret of Stiles' dastardly affair with Peter is Scott being able to cover up the sexathons, which is really just more than sixty hours in each other's company minus any and all clothing.
His dad thinks he's "sleeping over at Scott's," a horrendous lie confirmed by Scott should the sheriff feel the need to call the McCall residence to check on Stiles' whereabouts. They have everything but a Ferris Bueller style dummy in Stiles' stead underneath a sleeping bag in Scott's room.
The lying isn't great, even if there's at least four obstacles his dad would have to wrestle through to find the truth, the first being ditching his trust in Stiles and his ability to make decisions and the last finding Stiles' jeep in the parking lot of a questionable apartment in the thrum of the city after tracking the GPS in his car. Still, after all his years of lying about animal accidents and how he spends his Friday nights secretly running with—occasionally from—werewolves, lying about whose house he's in during the night and if it just so happens he'll be pleasured by an older man through most of it is surprisingly refreshing. Almost nice. Almost like this is the sort of thing he should be lying about as a teenager.
It takes about four weeks before things migrate from the shadows of Stiles' room for afterhours handjobs to Peter's place, an apartment kept hidden for so long Stiles was convinced he was either camping out in the woods or living in a cave stolen from a Batman movie set.
"Don't be ridiculous," Peter had said when Stiles had pointed out how much nicer his inner city apartment was to the shrubbery he had been expecting. "Indoor plumbing is a must."
Moving their arrangement to Peter's place had been alarming at best. It took whatever they shared out of the dark, away from the secrecy of a disheveled bedroom, into the reality of daylight. At the time it had seemed like the way their bodies whispered through sweat and groans couldn't survive the light, only knew how to touch in the safety and anonymity of the darkness, but then Peter had pushed him onto his sofa even as the traffic blared through the window and the sunlight poured through the curtains and everything was still just as toe-curling as it was in the safety of the shadows.
The thing about his thing with Peter is that he doesn't want anyone to see its inner workings. It goes beyond just the sheer terror of imagining his father walking in on him naked atop an older nameless gentleman, because Stiles wouldn't even want Scott to see him around Peter in fear of him or anybody else drawing inaccurate conclusions about their relationship. Sometimes they sit around a kitchen counter eating Chinese takeout and talk about the weather and when Stiles is finally getting an overdue haircut, and all of that isn't sexy. It's mind-numbingly normal. Stiles can practically see the squinting onlookers loudly misunderstanding were they to acquire a peephole into Peter and Stiles' private life.
He's just so unaware of how he acts around Peter. Sometimes he lays awake at night reliving the horror of the moments when he grew hard in public because he thought of him giving Stiles head, and that's just the sex. What if Stiles's body has grown accustomed to Peter's, what if it arches into him like a plant seeking out sunlight, what if he starts grinning when he walks in a room just because he knows what's in those pants? Stiles could never watch his own sextape, that's for sure. The idea of watching himself unabashedly rut against Peter's body and beg for more is too much embarrassment for one human body to handle.
So Peter's apartment, that's a safe place. No watchful eyes following him, no judgmental glowers in his direction, nobody whispering about him in the corner. People are free to do all these things, just not when Stiles is around. He already judges himself enough for this to have others join in.
But here's the downside to Peter's apartment: it means Stiles has to acknowledge that Peter is watching him, that Peter is aware of his every movement, and that Peter knows how hot and bothered he gets when Peter drags him on his lap. It forces him to accept that the person he's chosen to meaninglessly fuck is Peter Hale, mostly because his presence is everywhere in his own apartment. Imagine that.
He doesn't own a lot of things, but the things he does own speak for themselves. The pretentious leather couch that Stiles refuses to get naked on, the silky black sheets on the bed, the marble countertops and the porcelain dishes in the cupboard that imply that Peter actually does his own cooking. The closet full of v-necks and the adjacent bathroom full of musky aftershave. Everything smells like Peter, looks like Peter, feels sleek just like Peter. In the darkness of his own room, he could pretend that the man in between his legs was just about anybody if he closed his eyes and tried hard enough. Here, it's not so easy to pretend.
At least being at Peter's means no longer worrying about being caught. He's had dreams, horrible dreams that have him staring at his ceiling in horror, where he's being sucked off into heaven when his father materializes in the room just for the purpose of being disappointed. And then he blinks and it's his entire family, including the supposedly dead, all gravely shaking their head at Stiles' choices. He's not sure what they're judging, the homosexual sin part, the bit about using an older man to accomplish it, or that he's lying on his grandmother's homemade throw strewn over his bed while it's all happening.
Still, it's strange, looking at Peter's things and the appliances he uses. There's something oddly, unexplainably intimate about watching someone load a dishwasher, much more intimate than the same person then touching your genitals. Stiles hasn't figured out that particular mystery quite yet.
So the phrase "not cut out for it?" Doesn't apply to Stiles and Peter in the least.
It's actually a little disconcerting how well they do fit. He's not talking chronologically or mentally or even emotionally, but sexually, it works. Like shapes that just slot together after you experiment with the angles.
"I don't think that goes there."
"What are you talking about?" Stiles asks hotly over his shoulder while Peter stays no help at all. "This is where it goes."
"Put it on the other side," Peter advises loftily from where he's still naked on the couch, and Stiles doubtfully moves the lamp knocked awry because it was in the wrong place at the wrong time during a heated race to third base two feet to the left to the opposite end of the coffee table. Peter makes a vague noise of approval.
Stiles takes a step and surveys the room. Everything looks to be in place again with the exception of Peter's clothes still lying in a heap on the ground, which Stiles promptly scoops up to toss at Peter's head.
"I'm never having sex in my living room again," Stiles declares, firmly this time, as he rights the crooked lampshade. He's just being finicky now, but the less is out of place, the less his horribly observant sheriff father will notice and inevitably question. "You knock so much shit over."
"What can I say," Peter murmurs proudly from where he's stretching out on the sofa like a cat in the sun, hand on his belly. "I'm enthusiastic."
"I know," Stiles mumbles, and leaves it at that. He can't exactly complain when he's the one at the receiving end of Peter's enthusiasm. Idly, he touches a sore mark under his jaw that tingles at his touch. Must be fresh.
He's distracted a moment later by Peter throwing the bundle of clothes deposited on his face at Stiles' feet. Stiles crosses his arms.
"Would you get dressed?"
"No," Peter says easily, arching off the couch to snag Stiles by the waistband of his boxers and reel him in closer. "And I have no interest in the activities we could do while you're dressed either."
"Flower arranging? Robot building? Pottery painting? None of this rocking your boat?"
Peter tuts, unimpressed, and fists Stiles' shirt to pull him down onto his lap. For all his griping, Stiles goes willingly, straddling his hips and rutting against Peter's bare cock, the soft cotton of his boxers creating just enough friction for Peter to growl and yank him down by the hair. He sinks in teeth first, biting down on Stiles' lower lip, and Stiles reciprocates with flattening himself down on Peter's body, cocks deliciously aligned.
"This is not," Stiles mumbles between kisses, Peter shushing him with his tongue and digging the blunt of his nails into his neck, "something my dad," another sharp bite to his lower lip, "would approve of."
"Really," Peter says into his lips, words slick. He reaches down to slither his hand between the lack of space between their bodies and squeezes Stiles' dick through his underwear. "What about this?"
Stiles jumps. "Ah, not that either."
"Hmm," Peter squeezes him again, finger trailing the seam of Stiles' boxers and reveling in every shiver that shakes off Stiles' body in return. "Then let's just resign ourselves to a daddy unfriendly evening, shall we?"
The idea is plenty tempting, just rolling over and hooking his legs over Peter's hips and letting himself be corrupted with Peter's tongue, but then his eyes catch sight of the clock, slow by nineteen minutes, hanging over the mantle and he vaguely remembers that there is a reality that exists outside of sex. He pulls away from Peter's mouth just as a steady bruise is being sucked into his neck, hands firm on Peter's chest.
"Not here," Stiles says. "My dad said he'd be home at seven and I'm not ready to be disowned before college if he walks in and sees me taking a middle-aged man's dick."
"Middle-aged?"
"Really?" Stiles deadpans, sitting up. "That's the part of the sentence you focus on?"
Peter rolls his eyes, almost fond, and follows suit, rolling up on the couch so Stiles falls between his legs and his nails rake up his naked back. It feels like he's being lulled into acquiescence, Peter's fingertips trailing up and down his spine in relaxing lines, and Stiles wonders exactly when Peter figured out how much he enjoyed back stroking. He clambers off the couch, snatching the heap of Peter's clothes up to tuck under his arm, and Peter follows begrudgingly, stretching his shoulders as he goes.
"Fine," he says, and he's still naked from head to toe. Stiles takes a moment to collect himself before listening. "Where to?"
"My room," Stiles says. For one insane moment, he hopes he'll be reincarnated as Peter's pants just to forevermore feel the satisfaction of pressing up against Peter's cock. He's definitely not sharing that one out loud.
They go upstairs and manage to fit a dizzying sixty-nine session in before the telltale rumble of his father's tires on the driveway prompts Stiles to push Peter unceremoniously out the window, and his dad stays none the wiser as Stiles wanders innocently downstairs, tousled sex hair tamed and clothes back on and lamp perfectly in place. He's not one to toot his own horn, but he is good at this keeping things under wraps thing.
Okay, so maybe he isn't quite as good as he thought he was.
For all his work with the lamp and the meticulous interior decorating to cover up his sex adventures, Stiles gets confronted two days after he rubs the come stain out of the sofa cushion.
It seems so innocent at first, Stiles bounding down the stairs looking for some barbecue chips to pilfer to his room to continue sexting with Peter, and then his dad is calling him over from where he can hear the TV murmuring in the living room for what he falsely assumes to be a pleasant chat.
And there's his dad, comfortably situated on the same spot Stiles was jerking Peter off on the couch just a few days ago, and Stiles tries to act as nonchalant as possible as he digests that fact. He sits down in the nearby armchair, the picture of unworried casualness, and tries to think about anything other than Peter's filthy words in his ear while he plowed into him on that exact pillow that his father's side is nestled against.
"What's up?" Stiles asks him.
"Just wanted to check in with you," the sheriff says in response. Innocent, it all sounds so innocent. False advertising, that. "Everything been going okay?"
Summer break, no homework, hanging out in GameStop with Scott, squeezing in a good amount of bedtime blowjobs. Can't complain.
"Yeah," Stiles says, scratching the back of his head. "I mean, no school is kind of nice."
"Anything new in your life?"
That's where it starts sounding suspicious, the kind of question that someone already knows the answer to but is creating an opportunity to have it be said out loud. Stiles seesaws back and forth on the chair, slowly shaking his head. His phone vibrates in his pocket and he briefly slides it out. It reads then I'd lick from your cock to your hole and spread you open for me with my tongue. He turns pink and jams it back into his pocket.
"Nah," he says, very, very casually. He tries to remember how he did this back when he was keeping werewolf secrets under his belt, and if he had been at all convincing at the time. He smiles and tries to keep the fidgeting at a low. "You know me, same old."
Stiles can't think of a less accurate statement to describe his life even if he had time to leaf through a dictionary. It's never the same, always something new, always something crazy dangerous. His dad seems to catch on to the discrepancy as well.
His eyes flick down to Stiles' collarbone, visible by the neck of his t-shirt, and back up to his eyes. Stiles idly touches the spot where his gaze lands as he follows his father's eyes and consciously fights the cringe that tries to make itself present. Well, fuck. That souvenir from last night is one he never agreed to sneak into his suitcase.
"Listen, I think it's... really great," his dad says. "That you're in a relationship."
"Oh," Stiles feels every part of his body heat up in a fierce blush like someone's poured volcanic ash on him. "Yeah, it's. It's great."
His dad smiles, something unsure in the way his mouth tugs upwards, and Stiles has the feeling this isn't the end of this conversation. Chances are, he just waded out of the marginally pleasant part.
"Tell me about him," the sheriff says, all supportive grins, and Stiles freezes, because him. Not her. Not even close to sounding like he was saying her.
Oh. Oh. So he knows. Stiles feels a moment of white hot panic surge through him at wondering how much he knows, and what his sources are. Whoever they are, Stiles has to them cut them off straight at the piehole if only for forcing him into this conversation. It's probably ironic, Stiles thinks, because he can sit down with his dad having long discussions about the supernatural creatures in his life but struggles when talking about who he's been canoodling with. His phone vibrates against his ass again. The heat on his ears gets hotter still.
"Um," Stiles forces himself to look directly into his dad's eyes. His dad is friendly, his dad is great. Deep breaths. "He's, uh, different. How did you know—?"
The sheriff shrugs, clearly embarrassed that he found information about Stiles through the grapevine rather than Stiles himself. Stiles is positive he's still more embarrassed out of the two.
"Mrs. Privot told me," he says, pointing vaguely across the street. "She said she's seen you with a guy a few times."
He's probably leaving out the behaving inappropriately by groping each other on the patio like they should be carrying an r-rating around with themselves that Mrs. Privot presumably added, only cementing Stiles' belief to never trust a woman who gardens before morning cartoons even come on in her hair curlers. He supposes this is what he gets for making out with Peter in full sight of the cul-de-sac even if he does maintain the unreasonable hopes that the neighborhood has more common courtesy than to spend their days spying through their windows at the rebellious young folk. He runs a hand shakily through his hair.
"Listen," his dad speaks up before he has the chance, clapping a hand on Stiles' shoulder. "I don't mind. I think it's nice that you're in a relationship, and you don't have to tell me about it if you don't want to."
"Thanks, dad," Stiles says, and he's thinking he's going to have to go for the latter. There's just no good way to chatter on about his middle-aged serial killer werewolf fuck buddy. Yeah, no.
"Just know that I wouldn't be against you bringing him by for dinner," his dad suggests. "I promise I wouldn't pull my gun on him."
That idea's a straight up hell no, but for the sake of his father's sanity he nods along pleasantly like he's actually considering the idea. He's not. He's considering the best way to turn the nosy curmudgeon across the street blind without it looking like he was involved in the incident.
"Sure," Stiles nods. "I'll ask." His phone is vibrating in his pants again, and it sears his butt like a reminder of how very uncomfortable this conversation is. He shoots to his feet. "I'm just gonna."
He points to the stairs and is one, two, three blissful steps closer to freedom when his father cuts in with a sharp, "Hold it."
And god, he knows more. The worst of the worst scenarios are running through Stiles' head, making him slightly nauseas, and he never ever should've agreed to do anything with Peter that he wouldn't feel comfortable doing if his father were watching. Rules he should start living by.
He turns around, quite petrified, and there's his dad with outstretched arms waiting for him to close the conversation with a pat on the back and a fatherly hug. Stiles lets himself inhale again and leans in to wrap his arms around him, laughing uneasily over his shoulder.
"I hope you know you can tell me anything, Stiles," his dad says after three solid pats. He pulls away. "I won't judge."
A statement Stiles isn't in the mood for testing. He could easily smile, clap his father on the back and challenge his declaration of support with the facts of his boyfriend's age, criminal records, and the small snag where he's not really his boyfriend, just his convenient sex partner. Instead he nods like he understands and pulls back from the hug.
"I know, dad," Stiles says while his brain thinks if only you knew. "And I will." But not about this.
He all but trips over himself in his effort to amble back up to his room. Forget about salt and fast food, now this would be responsible for his father's heart attack.
"We have to instigate some rules," Stiles says one day later when a good twenty-four hours and a long sleep have washed the memory of his father congratulating him on his new gay lover successfully out of his mind. Two of Peter's fingers are in the middle of sliding into him in the back of his Jeep parked so very far away from his father's jurisdiction they might have made it to Mexico borders, but he's never prided himself on his exceptional timing before.
Looming above him, Peter furrows his eyebrows. "What?" He says, like the ideas of regulations are foreign to him. They probably are. "No. There's no need for rules. This is sex. Anything goes."
He says it airily, like that's the end of that, so Stiles grabs a handful of his fastidiously slicked hair to hold onto his attention.
"Rules," he repeats, more firmly this time.
Peter raises an eyebrow and gets back to sliding his fingers in to the knuckle. It briefly wipes the air from Stiles' lungs, and he stares pointedly at where he's pushing Stiles' leg up by the knee and is circling his rim with his fingers. "Seems a bit late for that."
Stiles tries to concentrate, even as Peter's fingers slip out, then straight back in, this time aiming for his prostate. Life blurs over for a moment in the dark mugginess surrounding the car, and he tries to find focus on the upholstered ceiling. Right. Rules. He seizes Peter's wrist and tries to stall him, which if anything, only encourages Peter to try that much harder to distract him. He leans in, tongue finding the back of Stiles' knee.
"Stop it," Stiles mumbles, half-heartedly at best. His hips jerk as Peter finds his prostate, the breathy moans leaking from his mouth contradicting his demands horribly. "I had the worst—oh. The worst conversation with my dad."
"Ugh," Peter says, twisting his fingers sharply and making Stiles jump and hiss. "Bring him up another time. Honestly. I'm fucking you on my fingers."
But he doesn't stop, not even in tempo, scissoring his fingers apart and sliding his free hand down Stiles' thigh, kneading at the sensitive skin on Stiles' leg as he goes. It's too hot to be doing this, too hot to even leave the house, so he doesn't know why he agreed to an under the radar romp in the pants in his car when he knows the air conditioning broke months ago. Peter has sucked all the logic out of his body.
"He saw us," Stiles gasps out, trying his very hardest to retain his composure. Peter's reached around to lazily pump his erection in time with the thrusts of his fingers, and Stiles fights the simultaneous urges to beg him to speed up and swat his hand away. This is a serious conversation. "Actually. Mrs. Privot saw us."
"A name that bears no meaning for me," Peter murmurs around Stiles' slick knee where he's dragging his teeth up and down.
"My neighbor," Stiles clarifies in the one short breath his lungs allow. "She tattled on us and now—sweet jesus, come on," Stiles gasps out in a moment of weakness, Peter's fist frustratingly loose on his cock. "Now my dad thinks I have a boyfriend."
"This story is already longer than I wanted it to be," Peter says. He sounds awfully bored for a man twisting his fingers into Stiles, slipping in a third without warning. The stretch drags through Stiles before he crooks his fingertips toward his prostate again, this time lingering on it. Stiles throws his head back and hits the car door, the entire car creaking in response. If the windows start fogging up like Titantic, he's leaving. "Get to the point."
"Fine," Stiles grits out between his teeth. He's already close to the edge, and having to force out words before he loses his train of thought entirely is nearly physically agonizing. "No more making out in public places."
Peter narrows his eyes at him, apparently considering it, and pulls his fingers out, Stiles' hips bucking just to chase them. He pauses, fingers poised at his hole and rubbing along the edge, and leans in. "Fine," he says too. "Then no more emotional monologues."
He slips his fingers back in, harder this time, and Stiles thinks it's an amazing accomplishment that he manages to speak through it. "Emotional monologues?" he repeats defensively, and then grips Peter's arm in a talon-like grasp just to stay afloat as Peter pumps his fingers in faster. "What?"
"All the talking," Peter explains, rolling his eyes like every time Stiles opens his mouth and he's forced to listen he ages five years. "Learn to close your mouth."
"Ugh," Stiles groans, and he'll get him back for that one when he's more coherent. He moves his grip from Peter's arm to his hair, yanking just a little to make it sting. Peter responds with a sharp push of his fingers into Stiles, this one a little earth-shattering, and Stiles bites down on his lip to keep the noises at bay. "No more texting me dirty things when you know I'm hanging out with Scott." He circles his hips into Peter's fingers. "Or my dad, fuck."
"No more talking about rules when I'm trying to make you come," Peter grits out next, and that's one regulation Stiles can get behind. He nods shakily and closes his eyes, breathing through the heat in the air that's nearly suffocating next to the ruthless thrusts of Peter's fingers, fast and hard.
Peter's hand twists upward on his cock, pulling a whine from him, and then he's pressing kisses down Stiles' leg and pushing his fingers with a sharp push that has Stiles seeing stars. He moans out something that might have started with a P and ended with a t and an r, and then he's coming with jerks of his hips that don't deter Peter's fist sliding up and down his length until he's completely spent and almost passed out in the backseat. A wave of heat washes over him, reminding him of the summer night around him, and when he opens his eyes he's grinning lazily at the upholstery.
"I'm going to die of heatstroke," Stiles mentions off-handedly, the hand in Peter's hair drifting down to land on his chest, equally sweaty as his. "But that was worth it."
"Aren't you forgetting something?" Peter pipes up with a clearing of his throat, nudging his erection into Stiles' leg. Stiles glances at him from where he's stuck to the leather seats, sweaty and sated, and reaches out to languorously slide his hand up Peter's leg and stroke his length.
"I have another rule," Stiles brings up, detaching himself from the seats. "No more sex in cars with leather seats. I think I just lost a layer of skin."
"So sexy," Peter murmurs, bucking his hips into Stiles' hand, and promptly crawls on top of him, pushing him back down to the seats. "Didn't I say less talking?"
"Maybe I chose not to hear that," Stiles says, stifling the laughter that threatens to fall out of his mouth when Peter closes his teeth on his shoulder, biting down where it's particularly sensitive. He squeezes his cock for that and Peter growls, grabbing his free hand to pin over his head onto the window, muggy in the heat. The urge to arch up and chase Peter's mouth is almost overwhelming, like Peter's a drug he needs more of, needs another fix from, and Peter seems to be having the same thought as he tilts his mouth down and slots their lips together.
Needless to say, Stiles stops talking.
It's only been a few weeks, and Stiles is already used to the weight of a body next to him in bed.
It's a bit ridiculous, actually, because it's nearing the end of a steamy July and a good three months ago, Stiles' best companion was his right hand. Sometimes his left hand if he wanted more of a challenge. He adapts too fast, a trait evolution probably wasn't prepared for, and now here he is wide awake while he lays sprawled over his sheets staring at the darkness of his ceiling. The bed feels too warm, the linen too hot for his skin, and even though his limbs feel exhausted after battling the blazing sun all day, his mind is as awake as ever. He blinks, watching the way spots of light travel when cars drive slowly through the neighborhood below.
It's not that Peter even sleeps over all that often anyway. Lack of room is one problem, the only solutions being either one of them camping out on the floor or lying tangled together as one octopus-limbed unit spread out on two feet of space, options Stiles finds less than favorable. The sheer idea of the sheriff overhearing them or worse, wandering unsuspectingly into Stiles' room when he's forgotten the crucial importance of locking the door, is another problem. The last problem—either the most significant or the most trivial, Stiles can't be sure—is avoiding the intimacy that comes with spending the night at your booty call's house. It's a strictly in and out arrangement, like ten dollar hookers.
He stares at the ceiling, pretending in vain to be fascinated by the shadows playing over the popcorn notches. The one thing he was never prepared for when he agreed to start having sex on a regular basis was that masturbation would start paling in comparison. A good orgasm would probably help close his eyes.
He toys with the idea of calling Peter for six minutes in his head, wondering exactly how much fun he'd be made of if he confided that he's having trouble sleeping without Peter serving him up an orgasm to go. Counting sheep used to do the trick, and he tries valiantly to imagine furry animals pouncing overhead until that ends up sprouting more questions in his head about the lifestyles of sheep than he began with and he starts considering pulling up google and conducting some harmless research. Okay, fine, he'll call Peter.
He checks the clock by the bed as he dials, the bright neon numbers 2:11 A.M. shining back at him. If Peter grumbles at him for waking him up, he'll just pull an old man joke out of his ass. That'll wake Peter right up.
"Isn't it past your bedtime?" Peter says three rings later, and it seems he got to the age jokes before Stiles could.
"I was about to say the same thing."
"What is it you want, Stiles?" Peter asks, looking to get straight past the formalities.
"I can't sleep," he says into the phone, softer than intended. He never means to be soft around Peter. He makes a conscious effort to be hard around the edges, but then a gentle breeze blows through the darkness on the other side of the window and the night seems to lull him back into something relaxed and quiet that rarely exists during the daytime.
"And you want me to sing you a lullaby?"
Stiles stares hard at the ceiling and wonders if hanging up now would be the best option. It probably would be, but there's a stirring in his midsection, something that's still young enough to ignore, but Stiles wants to feed it. That's how everything he does starts—he fuels an inkling until it's a full blown mess, whether it be wandering in the woods to look for bodies or having sex with Peter Hale.
"No," Stiles says. He pauses to play with a stray thread hanging off the waistband of his pajama pants. "What if I said yes?"
"You'll find that I have a spectacular singing voice," Peter says smoothly without missing a beat. Stiles fights the urge to smile and rolls his eyes simultaneously. That, in under a second, is how he feels about Peter, which is still better than the trembles of terror that he used to induce. Perhaps that's what growth is, Stiles thinks.
"I already tried counting sheep," Stiles says. He hears Peter breathe on the other end of the phone—just barely audible exhales that drift over the line—and he realizes he doesn't even know why he called. Maybe it's the recklessness that comes with staying up past midnight. There's something invincible about the deep hours of the night. "I just can't sleep."
There's a moment of silence where Stiles thinks Peter's lost interest in the conversation and the call is over, and then he hears, "Then don't."
"What?"
"Don't sleep," Peter emphasizes. "Where are your hands?"
The fingers that aren't curled around his cell phone twitch on his thigh. He drags them up and hitches the cotton of his pants into wrinkles as he goes.
"Attached to my arms," Stiles says, and he swears he hears a second's worth of a chuckle filter through the phone. He slides his palm back down, smoothing over his thigh, and the touch tingles this time. "Are yours disembodied?"
"Can you take orders from me, Stiles?" Peter asks, and there's an edge in his voice that Stiles recognizes as restraint. He's only ever heard it a handful of times, not when people like Peter indulge in their every whim whether it be late night snacks or murdering the neighbor, but when it's there, Stiles can tell. It slices through the phone like a blade of warning.
"Depends," Stiles tells him, shifting on the sheets.
"You don't want to sleep?" Peter asks, and Stiles nods. He seems to know. "Touch yourself."
"Touch myself?" Stiles repeats faintly, but he lets his fingers trail down his torso anyway. They linger by his thigh, right where the seam of his pajama pants brushes his hand.
"Just a bit," Peter murmurs. "Don't want you getting excited too quickly."
Stiles listens, maybe because he's suicidal, and presses his palm into his cock through his boxers.
He exhales, another gust of warm wind rushing over him through the window as he slides his hand over the seam of his pants to cup his hardening cock. He rolls his hips into his grip, gently squeezing.
"Are you touching yourself?" Peter asks, seemingly riveted by the idea that somewhere in Beacon Hills Stiles is at the mercy of his own wandering hand.
"Yeah," Stiles says. He wonders if this should be weird, sharing this intimacy without physically touching, just their voices breathing their pleasure through the phone, or if this is just another thing he and Peter do together that no one would understand should he have to explain it. "Through my pants."
"Good, good," Peter murmurs. "Are you hard?"
Embarrassingly so already, Stiles thinks. Something about this feels naughtier than all the rest they do. Maybe it's because they operate purely on ardent touches and strong fingers creating bruises like possessive lipstick marks, not imagining each other behind their eyelids as they make themselves come to sound of each other's voice. Stiles should, by all means, be imagining the pretty waitress he saw yesterday with the creamy complexion, or the beautiful babysitter he had dreamed about kissing when he was seven, but he's not, he's imagining Peter bent over his body licking a wet stripe up his neck while stroking him slowly.
"Yeah, I am," Stiles admits, squeezing his dick through the flannel barrier of his pants again. He parts his legs, just an inch, and a tiny whimper escapes his mouth. "Can I take my pants off?"
And he doesn't even know why he asks. Maybe he's more of a sucker for Peter purring commands in the phone than he thinks, and he keens waiting for an answer. He's glad he stayed up now, even gladder that he gave in and called Peter.
"Take them off," Peter says, and Stiles gets to work kicking them aside. The air suddenly feels muggier, hotter, much too warm for an open window on a July night. He lets his boxers follow suit, not at all interested in their presence right now, and wraps his hand around his naked cock.
He rubs his thumb over the head of his dick, hips tilting into the touches as he lets his eyes close. Like this, he can almost pretend that it's Peter stroking him even though their hands are different. Stiles had felt it first the first time he had another man's hand actively working his cock—Peter's hands were rougher, his fingers not as long, his technique ranging from much slower to more feral at times.
Peter's voice rumbling through the phone reminds him of the phone warm against his ear. "Keep that pretty mouth talking for me, Stiles."
"Just thinking about what your hands feel like on me," Stiles tells him. He feels a phantom shiver run up his legs at the memory of the way Peter touches him, fingertips ghosting up his thighs and nails lightly scraping back down. His hands have been everywhere on Stiles, touched everything, and he wonders if he'll ever be able to let another hand touch him when he knows what it felt like to have Peter do it first, and probably better.
"What do they feel like?" Peter coaxes.
"Different than mine," Stiles huffs out on a laugh. He's getting slightly breathless as he pulls on his cock, speeding up his pace even though there's something in the hot night luring him to go slowly, just like the warmth that washes over him with every lazy breeze.
For seventeen years of his life Stiles always thought that he'd know what he likes best when it comes to fingers on his dick trying to get him to come, but apparently, Peter's thirty plus years on him has given him experience Stiles' hand hadn't yet learned. He twists his hand as he strokes up, running his thumb down the underside as he goes, and can practically imagine Peter's hand on him teaching him new tricks.
"I can picture you perfectly," Peter is murmuring through the phone. "Thin layer of sweat, mouth open, slender hands wrapped around yourself while you pretend it's me. Are you pretending so?"
Stiles plays with the precome dotted at the head of his dick. "Yeah, yes."
"How I'd crawl up your body and whisper in your ear that I'm going to put you on your hands and knees and fuck you until you're spent," Peter's words are so filthy, so perfect for feeding his mind's eye's thirst for imagination. "Tease my hardness against your thigh and then have you suck me off. Your pink lips pulling me into your mouth and slicking me up for your hole."
Something about Peter's voice is so melodic, so lulling, like an anchor dragging him closer to the tide that sweeps him under with bursts of pleasure, and he feels himself inch closer, very close, just a bit more—
"Now stop," Peter says sharply, and Stiles feels his hands stutter where they're wrapped around his cock. "Pull your hand away."
"Peter," is the first thing that Stiles says, whining and greedy. His fingers twitch on his thigh, desperate to misbehave.
"Not yet," Peter tells him. "How hard are you, Stiles? Are you close?"
His voice has taken on an edge like sticky honey, low and filthy and music to Stiles' ears. His cock is aching, and the need to come pulls at him like a hook in his stomach, and if only Peter were here right now.
"So hard it fucking hurts," Stiles says. Through the darkness, he sees the smattering of shiny wetness on the head of his cock, precome his fingers want to smear down to the base, but something holds him back. "I want to touch, please."
"In a minute, sweetheart," Peter is murmuring, and Stiles is so strung up with what feels electricity holding him captive that he doesn't bother berating him for the nicknames he can't stand. "I want you to tell me. Tell me what you want."
He's not good at this. Stiles always feels the words knot up in his tongue, get lost in translation, come out unsure and awkward. Then Peter practically purrs on the other side of the line, coaxing him to speak, and Stiles gives in.
"I wanna come," he tells him, fingers itching to get closer again. "Wish you were touching me, cause you always tease."
"You like being teased?"
"Maybe I do," Stiles whispers, and he slides his knees up. "Let me touch, please."
"Okay. But first, put your fingers in your mouth," he says. "Okay. But first, put your fingers in your mouth," he says. Stiles curses under his breath, knowing full well Peter is listening.
He does as he's told, slipping two fingers into his mouth and wrapping his tongue around them. Peter would be downright panting if he could see Stiles now, how he rolls his knuckles into his mouth and wets them while keeping eye contact. It's an oral fixation he's always had, whether it he sticking pens in his mouth or sucking on lollipops in elementary school or now, dicks.
"Now move lower," Peter says, and Stiles' heart stutters. He wonders if Peter can hear it through the phone. "Touch your hole."
Stiles nods, slipping his wetted fingers down, past his dick, all the way down to his entrance. He tips his legs apart a few shaky inches, circling his hole with his fingertip. He does it slowly, like how Peter likes to do it when he's trying to get Stiles to beg for it. He feels the muscle, feels the way it pulses against his touch, and slides in a single finger. It reminds him of the last time they fucked, how Peter had taken his time fingering him open slowly and steadily.
"Tell me how it feels," Peter murmurs. Stiles vaguely registers the sound of shifting fabric, like Peter's slipped out of his pants or is gripping himself through his boxers, and lets out an involuntary moan at the thought mixed with the way his finger is slipped in to the knuckle. "Tell me you're imagining it's my hand."
"Obviously," Stiles huffs out on a breathless laugh. He can practically see Peter in front of him, crouched between his legs sliding in finger after finger and watching Stiles' each reaction with rapt attention. Peter's gaze never wavers when he's got Stiles naked and spread out in front of him, almost fixed on his eyes, his lips, the heaves of his chest as he gets closer and closer to coming.
"I can imagine you," Peter murmurs. His voice sounds low and breathy, exactly how he would if he was leaning in close to Stiles' ear to tease him. Stiles knows these things about Peter, things no one else probably does. "Thighs shaking, head thrown back. The way you fuck yourself on my fingers. Making these sinful noises that make me want to fuck you on all fours."
Stiles can't help it, he whimpers. Peter's has the dirtiest mouth, the kind Stiles very much wants to punch when he's wearing clothes and kiss when he's not. His excessive need to decorate his words comes in handy when he's describing to Stiles exactly how he'd fuck him, how he'd lick him open and stretch him with his fingers until Stiles is sobbing with need. He paints the kind of pictures that could work as Stiles' masturbatory aid for centuries.
"Keep going," Stiles manages to say. He's pushed another finger in, slipping both of them in to the knuckle, a soft hiss escaping him at the drag.
"So needy," Peter laughs. Even his laugh makes Stiles' harder, and he's not entirely sure what that means. He wants to touch, wants to slide his hand over his cock, but Peter would never let him. Peter would want him to come just from his fingers, just from playing with his hole. "You first."
"Fine," Stiles agrees, and slips his fingers out. He pushes them back in and exhales on a shaky moan. "Two fingers now. Doesn't feel full enough."
"Oh really?" Peter murmurs. "What would?"
"Your cock," Stiles says. He's burning up, his from his cheeks to his legs, the humidity of the night only partly contributing to the redness on his face. God knows what Peter did to make Stiles agree to talk filth with him over the phone. "Wish you'd be fucking me."
Peter exhales very slowly this time, like Stiles has succeeded in pushing his buttons. It makes Stiles grin through the breathlessness, the rhythm of his fingers making his wrist cramp and his hand grow tired, but he doesn't dare think about stopping.
"How would you like to be fucked?" Peter asks him, low and rough like honey. Stiles takes another breath.
"I'd like to ride you," he says. "Until it'd get too much and you'd—you'd flip me over and fuck me."
"Mmm," It's just a soft syllable, but it sounds reverent and fascinated, like there's no one else he'd like to be sitting up at two in the morning talking riding and fingering with. The feeling is mutual, not that Stiles would say it out loud. "You sweaty, your hand on my hip while you take my dick. Perfect."
It does sound perfect, like the most ideal Saturday afternoon ever after eighteen years worth of near death experiences and uncomfortably deadly encounters, never mind that it's with a man twice his age with a mind bent for murder. Their bodies are in sync, perfectly attuned to each other after months of you like that?s and yeah, I dos. Peter knows exactly how he wants it, even if he doesn't ask for it out loud.
He pushes his fingers in and whines, his cock craving a slick hand and his hole wanting a better fuck. He positions his phone between his ear and his shoulder and asks, "Please, I wanna—I need to touch—"
"Do it," Peter says right away. Stiles doesn't waste time, reaching down with his free hand to slide over his cock. He moans right there, too loud in the softness of the night, and tips his head back onto the pillow stuffed under his neck. His toes are curling now, the sensations of his hand and his fingers combining into something that's too much, too disorienting.
Stiles comes with a cry that spills from his lips without asking, hips shaking with rolls of pleasure as he tumbles over the edge. White dots speckle his vision for a good few seconds where he wonders if he's being pulled to heaven's pearly gates, and then Peter's low chuckle interrupts his otherworldly pleasure. He opens his eyes, and there's come splattered over his thigh and a generous portion of his sheets.
"I know you're alive," Peter says over the phone. "I can hear you breathing."
"A near death experience, then," Stiles says, still breathless. "I think I saw a dead grandmother for a second there."
"Impressive," Peter murmurs. Stiles ought to stop feeding his ego so much before he becomes bloated with Stiles' praise. He sounds quite composed, too much to have come, and Stiles furrows his eyebrows.
"Did you come?" he asks. He probably shouldn't care, but he wasn't raised in the jungle and asking a few courtesy questions never killed anybody.
"No," Peter says. "Knowing how fingered open you are… I'd rather bend you over a table and fuck you than come by myself."
Stiles feels his throat go dry and his dick give a feeble twitch by his thigh.
"Seriously?"
"No, I'm just teasing," Peter growls, sounding impatient. Stiles picks up on the rustle of clothes through the lines. "Come over."
"To your place?" Stiles asks. "To spend the night?"
"You can spend the night if you don't plan on sleeping."
Sleeping? The idea of Peter, still hard and itching to fuck Stiles the second he walks through the door is enough to pump him up to the idea of rocketing to the moon right about now. He wonders how quickly he can do laundry—or alternatively, stuff his come-stained sheets under the bed where they can wallow in shame and hide from his father—and checks the clock blinking on the nightstand. He grins.
"Deal," he says, jumping to his feet and balancing the phone between his ear and his shoulder. "Come pick me up." When Peter huffs, like being assigned chauffeur was never something he agreed to, he adds, "How badly do you want to fuck me again?"
Peter pauses. Stiles can practically hear him smirk. "Bribing me?" he murmurs. "I'm impressed. I'm coming."
"In more than just one way, eh?" Stiles says suggestively, a lewd waggle to his eyebrows as he chuckles at his own humor, and the line clicks dead. Whatever, Stiles is freaking hilarious.
Peter announces himself in Stiles' slumbering cul-de-sac approximately two hours past midnight right during Mrs. Privot's stage three sleep not with a polite knock on his window or by shimmying up the drainpipe like the certified monkey he's proven himself to be, but rather by blasting loudly disruptive rock music from his car radio. It seems to shake the whole neighborhood as it first starts playing, jolting Stiles out of the post-orgasmic lull he was enjoying as he stuffs a few just-in-case tubes of lube in the back pocket of his sweats.
"Are you fucking insane?" Stiles hisses once he clambers into the passenger seat and cranks down the volume with scrambling hands.
"I have testimonials that would say so, yes," Peter murmurs, completely unperturbed even as Stiles is casting wary looks out the window for lights flicking on in bedrooms and disgruntled families in slippers coming to investigate the ruckus from their driveways. "But this was just laziness."
Laziness. Stiles doesn't know if he should be impressed or disturbed. He settles for passive-aggressively buckling up.
"Just drive," he demands impatiently, and Peter actually listens and pulls out of the neighborhood, sleek car vanishing in the darkness.
Despite his promise, Stiles falls asleep on the ride into the inner city where Peter's apartment awaits, sweats too comfy and car ride too soothing to keep him awake. His limbs are still lax from coming twenty minutes ago and the soft warmth drifting in through the window as Peter drives is like a sleepy breeze ruffling his hair, perfect conditions for tipping his head against the window and closing his eyes.
He's jolted awake fifteen minutes later by Peter nudging him in the side, and he takes another thirty seconds to remember his whereabouts. Right, sex in Peter's apartment. All night sexathon. He nods to himself as he remembers, vision groggy as he tries to awaken himself, and Peter huffs out laughter at watching him try to orient himself.
"Don't laugh, I'm awake," Stiles assures him, reaching for the car door and stepping out. The world is dark and quiet, even in the busier parts of the city, and it's not helping Stiles stay awake. Peter appears beside him, steadying him with a hand on his arm.
They make it upstairs, Stiles pinching his forearms on the way to alert himself and scare the last vestiges of sleep away. Peter unlocks the door as Stiles is slapping himself aware, strolling in first. He seizes Peter's wrist and pulls him in once the door is shut behind them, pushing their chests together.
"Okay, let's do this," Stiles says with the enthusiasm of a PE teacher, wrapping his arms around Peter's shoulders and leaning in to mash their lips together and get this party started. Peter indulges him with a slow kiss with twining tongues, putting it to an end a moment later by tugging Stiles' arms off his shoulders.
"Get in the bed," Peter murmurs, and when Stiles nods, he grabs his wrists to stop him. "To sleep."
"What? No!" Stiles rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet to show just how awake and ready he is. "You don't want some of this?" He puckers his lips and motions to his body, perhaps not in its most seductive state in his sweatpants and ratty t-shirt, but hey, he has sex appeal.
"Normally, I would insist," Peter assures him, starting to back him up toward the bed. "But I'm not quite sure I'm up for fucking you when I know you'll fall asleep halfway through. That sort of thing could bruise a man's ego."
"You can bruise me anyway you want," Stiles murmurs on his neck, and then his knees hit the bed and he falls gracelessly backward onto Peter's mattress. His sheets are soft and cool, luring him to take off his pants and pass out for the next ten hours, but Stiles won't give up without a fight. He sits up. "Since when do you care for my well-being?"
"I need you well-rested," Peter says with a smirk. "I'll fuck you tomorrow."
"This is a slippery slope," Stiles grumbles even as he starts pulling his shirt off his head and tugging the sheets up over his knees. "Before you know it we'll only be having sex three times a week."
"Insatiable," Peter murmurs, and he props one knee up on the mattress to lean in and push their lips together, just a quick promise of incoming passion tomorrow. Stiles continues grumbling, but he's quite exhausted and slumber is calling him closer with open arms, so he lets the argument slide. He slips his pants off and decides to let his underwear follow. Being modest has probably flown out the window by now.
"This is the part where you tuck me in," Stiles says petulantly as Peter slips out of his pants and flicks on the bedside lamp. "I want to be swaddled like a burrito and read a bedtime story, no less than fifty pages."
Peter snorts, just something quiet and amused by Stiles' antics that don't fail to deliver even at three in the morning. He folds his pants together, Stiles watching the flex of his back as the golden glow of the lamp licks up his spine and shades his muscles like a detailed drawing. There is a water bottle on Stiles' side of the bed, unopened and inviting on the bedside table, and it feels like it might have been put there for him.
For a second he feels the need to reach out and thank Peter for letting him stay, because there they are, both naked and tucked under the sheets but decidedly not tucked around each other, and it feels nothing like what Peter's original terms of condition had been. Sex all night, not a moment of falling prey to something as boring as sleep. Sleep is for the weak, after all.
"So not even a little something-something under the covers, huh?" Stiles asks, lowering his voice as Peter flicks the light off and the apartment is blanketed in a serene quiet.
"So insistent," Peter mumbles, rolling onto his back, and leaves it at that. For a moment it all feels very private, laying in the dark next to Peter in his bed, wrapped in sheets that smell like his aftershave. Sex feels like the habitual thing to do, the thing they've been routinely doing for weeks whenever they're alone together, but oddly enough, it feels just as relaxing without the swapping of bodily fluids. Just lying there. Unconcerned about where the hands should be or where to touch.
"Fine, I'll wait," Stiles says back into the silence. He spares a glance in Peter's direction, eyes falling on the line of his silhouette. "Just so you know, I'm a sleep snuggler."
"I should have known," Peter says. "I should start asking more questions to the people I take to bed."
"Make a questionnaire," Stiles murmurs around a yawn. "You never know what freaks you'll bring here otherwise."
Peter chuckles, a softer sound than usual. "Glad I dodged a bullet this time."
And if he says anything else, Stiles' body is too eager to pull him to sleep for him to hear it.
True to his word, Stiles wakes up with his legs draped over Peter's and his mouth tucked into his neck. It's a quirky trait that was one of the reasons his father thought it unnecessary to buy him anything larger than a twin bed, as no one is ever quite brave enough to share a bed with him twice. It's actually a little surprising he doesn't wake up to being bodily kicked to the floor for getting too handsy in his sleep, instead just to Peter's impatient huff as he tries to wriggle his body free from Stiles' clutches.
"Nice try," Stiles says through a sleepy smile. His limbs feel incredibly loose and his muscles feel lax, uninterested in moving more than what is absolutely necessary. Peter's mattress is magical. That, or Peter's chest is particularly soft. "Once I'm on you, there's no escaping."
"I feel sorry for everyone who's ever had to endure this situation," Peter says dryly, prying Stiles from his neck by the tuft of hair on the back of his neck. "Remind me why I let you stay the night."
"So you could fuck me in the morning," Stiles says, his smile growing. He hand slips down from Peter's chest to feel him through the thin sheets, nudging his groin and feeling the noticeable presence of his morning erection. Peter stills his wandering hand by the wrist.
"Brush your teeth first," Peter demands, leaving no room for argument. Stiles really shouldn't be surprised by his bluntness at his point.
"Oh, come on," Stiles groans. "We don't have to kiss."
"You always do." Peter tells him, unpersuaded.
"So I can use your toothpaste and your toothbrush?" Stiles asks. Peter wrinkles his nose at the idea of sharing his personal hygiene products.
"I'll buy you your own," Peter promises, the hand around his shoulder sliding down to pat his ass. It certainly doesn't stomp on his fervor for early morning sex.
"You're gonna buy me bathroom essentials?"
"You're not moving in," Peter clarifies with a pinch to his hip. "I just happen to prefer you with fresh breath."
"Romantic," Stiles says dryly. It's oddly amusing, sitting here with Peter bickering over the requirements of having sex before breakfast. If he could fly back in time and tell his past self that one day, he'd be lying naked on Peter Hale's chest squabbling over the freshness of Stiles' teeth, he would probably have to sit down and reach for his inhaler.
Then again, he doesn't remember it being this comfortable a few weeks ago when this first started. The sex had been messy, no words really necessary other than the ones that stumbled out in the heat of the moment, and that was only after Stiles had passed his phase of uncertainty, unsure how to touch a man and unsure how to take off his clothes. The first few blowjobs had only happened in the safety of his pitch black bathroom, and even then, every second felt like an opportunity to whip around and make sure his family hadn't appeared out of thin air around him just to impart judgment.
"So," Stiles mumbles from where he's stretched out on Peter's chest. It feels a bit like he's starfished himself there, content feeling his warm skin contract with every breath. "How does murder impact your conscience?"
Peter's fingers freeze where they're trailing rhythmically up and down Stiles' side. "I assure you, I sleep very well at night," he says, unamused. "You should give it a try."
Stiles' response is a dry laugh that would probably be longer if only Peter's chest wasn't so distracting. God, that trail down under just barely covered with the sheets could probably be recruited into the army as a torture device. "So no remorse?"
"You don't feel remorse when stepping on insects, do you?"
Stiles props himself up on Peter's chest, eyebrows knotted together. It sounds so simple when he wraps it up like that, like he and Stiles are kindred spirits, or maybe that the entire human race is destined to embrace their primal urges. Peter watches him with a curious tilt to his mouth which, unfortunately, is no less distracting than his chest.
"You're comparing humans to bugs?"
"A life is a life," Peter says, just like that. "People who think they're perfectly innocent while they grind beetles under their shoes are..." He grins. "...living in a very delicate state of mind. One bent specifically to their idea of what murder is."
"That's," Stiles tries to think of an adequate word, "just twisted."
"It really isn't," Peter says with a heavy sigh, stretching out and pillowing his head on his arms. He looks perfectly at ease, which is more than Stiles can say during the current conversation. "Just because ants and flies don't scream you think they don't feel pain? That they deserve murder?"
Stiles tries to process this. He sits up entirely, forgoing the idea of a morning rub under the sheets. He crosses his legs together and makes sure to keep a distance lest Peter try and distract him by running his fingernails up and down his back until he's complacent.
"When did you become an insect rights activist?"
"I didn't," Peter says with a shrug. "No one is. That's the point."
"Hold on," Stiles says. "So you're saying that if you could murder all those people you killed all over again, you would?"
"They deserved it," Peter says. His eyes flick up and down Stiles like he's reading his defensive body language and seems to send his last hopes for a slow morning fuck out the window. He sits up with a sigh, tossing the sheets aside as he wanders to the kitchen, idly scratching his stomach as he wanders to the fridge in the nude. "Do you want coffee?"
What he wants is to erase this conversation and his will to have it from his mind, much more than bitter coffee that Peter insists on serving without cream or sugar. "So it was only ever the people involved in the fire you killed," Stiles tries to clarify, watching Peter's back flex as he grabs his mug from one of the upper cabinets. "Right? How many people have you killed, actually?"
"Do you want a list?" Peter murmurs over his shoulders, the epitome of nonchalance. Stiles does not want to see a fucking list. He suddenly feels very aware of how very naked he is in a murderer's apartment, and why Peter wanted this to be strictly sex. No talking.
"This has been lovely," Stiles says dryly, not bothering to answer his question as he struggles to climb into his sweats. He checks the watch on his wrist, still plenty early but too late to be sitting in the harsh morning light of Peter's apartment, and pulls his shirt over his head. "I'd better go before my dad starts getting suspicious."
"As nice as it is that you would lie for my benefit," Peter says, and Stiles really wishes he would put his damn clothes on to make this exchange easier. "I can smell your discomfort from here."
He wanders toward Stiles with a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and the other reaching out to grip his chin. Stiles looks at him, always with the upper hand, and wonders if there's anything under the murderer shell other than trivial things like eating noodles with a twirling fork and sleeping in the nude even in the winter. Probably things more disturbing than what he sees on the outside.
"You're upset because I make perfect sense," Peter says. "And you don't want me to. You probably don't want to comprehend a single word I'm saying because understanding means you and I are alike."
Alike, as if. Even the idea is laughable. Stiles is young and clumsy and actually has a sense of humor, and no matter how much they have in common, Stiles still hasn't flown into a rage that ended with him slaughtering half the town, and that, he thinks, is more important than all of their similarities. Then again, Peter's looking at him with that shit-eating smirk, the kind that knows more than Stiles and is only willing to share his information for a price, and it makes Stiles wonder if Peter thinks he has Stiles all figured out. That one day he'll go on a cathartic murdering spree of his own like some people do yoga retreats and he and Peter will be kindred spirits Peter's planning on recruiting for his immoral pack of corrupt wrongdoers.
"What are you trying to say?" Stiles asks, quite rigidly.
"That you should loosen up, mostly. Especially your morals."
Stiles opens his mouth to say something, probably that morals are plenty loose already considering he agreed to sleep with Peter, but then Peter's pushing his mug of coffee against Stiles' lips and tipping it up into his mouth. A splash of hot, unsweetened coffee lands on his tongue that Stiles struggles not to dribble down his front in his surprise.
"What was that for?!"
Peter shrugs, unperturbed, even as Stiles sticks his tongue into the air to try and cool it down after the surprise gulp of coffee burns his tastebuds. "Figured you could use a shot of caffeine before leaving. You're are leaving, aren't you?"
And sometimes, Stiles hates that, how Peter can read his every emotion just by off-handedly sniffing the air. Some things he wants to keep to himself, like flagrant discomfort, even if Peter should start learning what conversations make the general public uncomfortable sooner rather than later. He considers lying about it, making up a convenient excuse about summer homework or promising to wash his car today, and decides Peter is not worth disillusioning.
"Yeah, I'm leaving," he announces, toeing his way into his shoes. "Get your keys and drive me home."
Peter sighs. All this work and no play, he's probably thinking. Stiles wants to punch him. Actually, he wants to start driving himself places rather than rely on Peter like he's a twelve-year-old who needs a ride to school, even if his jeep missing from the driveway at six a.m. might be suspicious.
"Fine," he says, yet makes no move to waver from his spot in the kitchen to put on clothes or snatch up his keys. He takes another leisurely sip from his mug of coffee. "Should I come over Monday?"
And he should say no. A man with better self-respect would. Stiles is too busy wondering exactly when Peter saw his father's schedule and memorized that Monday would be his next all-nighter at work.
He doesn't seem to answer fast enough for Peter's liking, Peter downing the rest of his drink with a disgruntled sigh at his lack of cooperation. "Fine. If your window latch is open I'm coming in no matter what."
"Fine," Stiles spits back.
He's thinking he's going to lock the window to teach him a lesson, but maybe he'll keep the porch door open. A little extra effort on Peter's part won't kill him.
Stiles walks home that day after Peter drops him off a block away and makes a conscious effort not to step on a single bug.