Stiles' first instinct was to phone Erica, but his thumb hovered hesitantly over her number. He swallowed before backing out of his Contacts list and reread the note to make sure he hadn't hallucinated it.

What perfect timing; Scott and Allison would be on their big date that Saturday, so having plans meant he wouldn't be hanging around the apartment like a lonely cat. He had been planning to make himself scarce for that night anyway in order to give the couple the sexy alone time that they would need. Stiles tried not to think about engagement sex, but he assumed that it would be goddamn feisty.

Stiles didn't know how to react the first time Scott came back to their dorm room nearly five years ago one Saturday morning, all red-faced and goofy smiles. Stiles had immediately put together Allison and "her roommate was out at a party" so quickly that it was a little creepy. "I'm pretty certain that we're officially together now," Scott had said.

Pride in his best-friend-like-a-brother for finally getting laid was definitely one emotion he felt, but then Stiles felt weird in a way for objectifying Allison as a well-earned prize. (Erica had rubbed off on him in such an eye-widening way by that time.) Happiness was the second emotion, because Stiles really liked Allison. She didn't scorn him the way the girls in high school had, and had always made sure to include him in any non-date activities. (She had actually watched Star Wars unlike Scott and had shown Stiles a picture of her dressed as Princess Leia for Halloween from a few years back. "She's the one!" Stiles had told Scott, with Scott rolling his eyes whilst Allison laughed.)

The third emotion was a random allotment of horniness. As in, Stiles wanted to shove Scott against the wall and shove his tongue down his throat. He instead congratulated Scott, giving him a bro hug before texting Erica an S.O.S. They ended up having rigorous morning sex at her place where her annoying roommate was greeted with the sight of Stiles face-deep in Erica's pussy as she was coming through the front door.

Stiles shoved his phone into his pocket as he stared at the cheque. He definitely needed to get out for one night. Maybe whatever was forming between him and Peter could actually morph itself into something. A distraction would be good, for starters.

The next four days stretched into a mindless droll. Stiles went to work, coming back in the evenings to help Allison and Scott prepare dinner. He had Friday off, where he spent countless hours reading online articles about the earliest mental institutions and how to make the perfect glass of orange juice. When he got bored with that Stiles took the grocery list off the fridge and went out shopping for food. Allison came home and was greeted with cupboards filled with dry goods and her favourite cereal. She beamed at Stiles and hugged Scott when he came back with a somber look on his face. He had to help put down a dog at the vet today whose condition had been worsening for the past month with no signs of recovery.

Friday then passed over into Saturday, and Stiles still hadn't cashed the cheque in. It was crumpled up on his desk next to his wallet. Stiles stared at it as he pulled a clean shirt over his head, thinking about how nice it would be to flash a fan of green instead of cards for once.

Stiles picked up the cheque and quickly stuffed it into his pocket. "What am I doing?" he wondered out loud. Seriously, all he got was a vague note that didn't exactly say what he was supposed to do with the money. Peter didn't even give him a time or a meet-up place. His stomach churned at the thought of letting Peter into the apartment. He could see the scrutinizing look that Scott would give him and the passive-aggressive questions he would ask.

No, he wasn't going to step into their home, no matter how charming he was. At least, not until Stiles knew him fully.

Erica—well, she had always been the exception.

It would be best to rip off the Band-Aid in one fell swoop. Stiles grabbed his phone and dialled Peter's number. He picked up on the second ring.

"You should've waited a couple more rings," Stiles greeted sarcastically. "It won't make you look so desperate."

"Good morning to you too," Peter replied dryly. "Is there a reason for disturbing me at this hour?"

"Dude, it's fucking ten, get over it," Stiles said back, smirking a little. "Besides, it is you that's been disturbing me." He gestured at his pocket wildly, even though Peter couldn't see it or its contents.

"Do you always play the victim or only when you're drunk?" Peter asked.

"You're hilarious," Stiles said flatly. "So what possessed you to write me out a cheque anyway? It's been glaring at me all week!"

"You do know that a cheque is meant to be cashed in, right?" Peter told him. "I thought that you would at least understand that."

"I get that, but why?" Stiles whined. He pulled the cheque out and stared at it. "Besides, my account isn't under the name Stiles, you dumbass!"

"I apologize," Peter said. "If you had given me your full name then it would've been legitimate funds by now."

"I told you that it was Polish; you wouldn't be able to spell it right anyway."

"Try me."

Stiles sighed heavily, now pacing around his room. "Look, even if I was going to tell you something that personal it wouldn't be over the phone."

"Then I'll pick you up at seven," was Peter's reply.

Stiles ceased moving, stunned into immobility. "Excuse me?"

"Please tell me that you at least read my note," Peter said, sighing. "Or did you only see dollar signs and ignored everything else?"

"I did," Stiles stammered. "But it wasn't fucking clear, now was it? Saturday evening, blah, blah, blah. How vague can you get?"

"Vague enough to entice this conversation out of you." Stiles could practically see the victorious smile Peter was giving off.

"Oh, you bastard."

"Seven it is," Peter replied. "Wear something nice, alright?"

"Ally, I can dress myself," Stiles grumbled as Allison rifled through his closet. He sat on his bed; shoulders slumped in defeat while occasionally being smacked in the face with a flying article of clothing. "Hey, I had all of those rearranged in a specific way," he whined.

"Oh yes, an entire section dedicated to plaid." Allison then smiled victoriously, holding up the black dress shirt that she'd bought him last Christmas. "Ha, I knew it was in here somewhere!"

"Give it to me before you do more damage to my room," Stiles said, making grabby hands in her direction. Allison tossed it to him, a sly smile on her face.

"Try it on," she said. "I want to see what it looks like."

Stiles gave her a look. "Shouldn't I, you know, iron this out first?"

Allison tapped her finger to her wrist. "Time's a-wasting. Strip now, bucko."

"Geez, are you always this demanding?" Stiles asked sarcastically, but complied with her wishes. He pulled his T-shirt over his head, revealing a lean figure and a noticeable happy trail. Allison hummed in approval as Stiles buttoned up the shirt. He tried flattening out the light wrinkles, suddenly self-conscious.

"I look stupid."

"You look lovely," beamed Allison. She turned her head and shouted at the open door for Scott. Scott stumbled into the room, his tie hanging loosely around his neck.

"How does Stiles look?" Allison asked.

Scott was quiet, contemplating his answer before replying. "It looks like he's trying too hard."

"Scott."

"What?" Scott gave her his best puppy eyes. "Do you want him to look like he stepped out of a cheap porno? Just let him dress himself, Al."

Allison frowned, but replaced it with a small smile when she faced Stiles again. "Don't listen to Crazy over there. You're going to blow him away either way."

"That's what I was afraid of," Scott mumbled under his breath. Stiles barely heard him speak, but he had mastered the art of reading lips long ago. It was how he had found out the bad news the doctor told his parents before they ever got a chance to tell him themselves.

Allison was still in her PJs, so she gave Stiles one more approving nod before slipping out of his room to get changed. Scott was still in the doorway. He leaned against it, watching Stiles as he shrugged out of the black shirt, now only wearing his boxers and white tank top.

"Hey," they both said. Scott ducked his head while Stiles gestured at him to continue.

"I didn't mean that," Scott said, biting his lower lip. "I know I say a ton of things that I shouldn't, like making little comments about… your lifestyle—"

"Nobody else is more honest with me about it than you," Stiles interrupted. He was staring at a spot just past Scott, but he finally dragged his eyes over to lock with his. "Don't apologize for it. Maybe I need to hear it more often."

Scott slowly closed the space between the two of them. They were at an identical, even height; perfectly matched. Scott grabbed Stiles biceps, trailing his fingers down to grip Stiles' elbows. He briefly glanced at the silver scars on Stiles' shoulder that stretched down to his collarbone. They'd faded slightly since receiving them nearly a decade ago from his father's psychotic suspect.

"I don't understand why you want to see this guy, but I can try a little," Scott finally said. "It's just—" Here Scott swallowed before looking into Stiles' eyes. "Well, I thought you and Erica were going to be an item, you know? She terrified me at first, but I saw the way your eyes lit up whenever you mentioned that you were going over to her place, or when you two got back from a movie that one time and wouldn't shut up about it—"

"Scott," Stiles said, but it came out as a squeak. He felt a lump forming in his throat, blocking his airway and suffocating him. "It wouldn't work out between… She's better off this way. She'll be happier this way."

"But what about you?" Scott demanded, but his tone wasn't accusing. Rather, it was sad. "Hey, Stiles? What your happiness?"

"I am happy," Stiles lied. He forced himself to smile, guiding his fingers along Scott's tie. He was good at tying ties; Scott always sucked at making them straight.

"So here's the deal," Stiles said. "I'm going to be out all night, so you two will have the place to yourselves. No, I'm not staying at his place before you ask—I'll get a room somewhere." Stiles cinched up the tie, standing back to admire his handiwork. "But when you do the thing,"—Here Stiles made a circle with his thumb and ring finger, smirking at Scott's shocked look while he made a thrusting motion with his other finger into the circle—"Don't do it in front of a crowd. That's what jackasses do in order to pressure the girl into saying yes. Do it in private, something secluded."

"We're still talking about the same thing here, right?" Scott asked.

Stiles rolled his eyes before grabbing his best friend's face. He touched their foreheads together. "Tonight it's all about her. Well, and you too, I guess."

Scott slowly nodded. Stiles breathed in relief before pressing his lips to Scott's. They were soft and warm, tasting like citrus. He slowly pulled back, brushing invisible dust off of his friend's shoulders.

"She was right. Allison, about the shirt," Scott added at Stiles' confused expression. "But uh, wear what you want."

"Thanks," Stiles said. He pulled a dark burgundy dress shirt out of his closet and slid it on, buttoning it up. Scott visibly relaxed in the shoulders. His fingers brushed against his pocket unconsciously before leaving the room with Stiles.

Allison and Scott left approximately five minutes before Peter drove up in his car. Even though he wanted to stay and scrutinize the hell out of Peter, Scott had reservations to uphold and he wasn't about to revoke them. Allison gave Stiles a kiss on the cheek and told him to not be nervous. Stiles didn't make any promises.

Stiles didn't want to appear too eager, but he didn't want to be alone in the apartment either, so he hung out in the lobby pretending to look bored. He played 'Unblock Me' on his phone and kept glancing at the time. His phone suddenly buzzed; Peter's name was on the screen. Stiles let it ring four times before answering it.

"It's exactly seven," Stiles said bluntly. "That's so fucking creepy, you know that?"

"Well I assumed that since you aren't a woman you wouldn't need an extra hour to get ready," Peter replied.

"Hey, that's sexist," Stiles said back. "Take that back or I'm not leaving the building."

"Touchy," Peter tsked. "Alright, I'm sorry for stereotyping the female gender. Now get out here before I come in to get you."

"Too bad," Stiles said, smirking. "You need a key to get past the front door."

"I have ways of getting in." Peter's voice had become cold and steely, almost robot-like instead of playful teasing when he said those words. Stiles shuddered, trying to shake off the weird feeling that he was getting. But the moment passed quickly, with Peter saying, "I didn't perceive you to be the type to get cold feet."

"Lies," Stiles said as he stood up and stretched. "I've balked out of every opportunity to spend some alone time with you, so you should be used to it by now."

"I would rather that you didn't make a habit out of it."

"I'm prone to making new habits," Stiles replied, getting up from the couch. He paused at the door, watching Peter's car through the window. He finally pulled it open, walking out into the warm evening air. When he got into the passenger seat Peter pulled away from the curve and drove onto the main street. Silence enveloped the car. Stiles kept checking his phone for any panicky texts that Scott might send his way. Surprisingly, his phone remained silent.

Wow, he thought. Allison must've put him at ease; that's a fucking miracle.

"You're so quiet," Peter said suddenly, breaking into Stiles' thoughts. Stiles' head snapped up, and blushed when he saw Peter staring at him. He never even realized that they weren't moving anymore. Peter had parked just outside one of the locally-owned restaurants that lined Wood Grove Avenue. He and Scott ate there once in a blue moon during their first year of university when they wanted to break away from their crappy meal plan.

Stiles gave his phone one more glance. "Yeah, um, sorry." He quickly tucked it into his jeans pocket, now giving Peter his full attention. "I'm just surprised that you knew that this place existed."

"Why?" Peter asked, smirking. "Because it's beneath my assumed social status?"

"It's low-key," Stiles corrected, rolling his eyes. "And students can actually afford it. Jesus, I feel that you're going cheap on me."

"You're the one paying for the meal."

"Says who? That cheque is no good to me."

Peter pulled out a chequebook, dramatically flourishing his pen across it as he scrawled out several zeroes. "I'd be glad to give you a new one, if you—"

"No way," Stiles interrupted. "Telling you my full name is not even a third base privilege; you have to make a fucking home run to get such high security knowledge."

Peter sighed, but he seemed amused. "Fine," he said, and Stiles gave him a confused look as Peter pulled out of the parking spot and began driving away.

"Uh," Stiles began, lacking a better start. "Where are we going?"

"To my place," Peter said bluntly, giving Stiles a look.

Stiles' heart jack rabbited in his chest. What?

"What?" he squeaked out, and he was instantly embarrassed by how high his voice sounded. "Uh, why? Like seriously, why? Aren't you supposed to do the whole 'do you want to come in for coffee' cliché until after the date? I think you're getting it all backwards."

"To tell you the truth Stiles, I don't date like a normal person," Peter replied. "In my line of work I don't have the luxury of hitting all three bases."

"Line of work?" Stiles repeated. "What, are you traveling businessman?"

Peter was quiet for a moment. "Something like that."

"Interesting," Stiles muttered. Peter took a turn and rolled to a stop as the yellow light was turning red. Stiles turned in his seat a little to face him. "Are you going to elaborate on that or what?"

Peter was quiet for a moment, as if he was carefully weighing his words. "That," he said, raising an eyebrow, "would need a 'home run' from you."

"Ugh, you're no fun," Stiles grumbled. He slumped back in his seat as Peter softly laughed. It was a nice laugh, and somehow Stiles felt a little more settled despite his insides squirming with apprehension.

Was it nerves? He wasn't sure. But Stiles felt his face redden when Peter gave him another piercing look. His eyes were so fucking blue that Stiles could write sappy poetry about them.

"So," Stiles asked. "Where do you live exactly?"

"On the Heights," Peter replied calmly. The light turned green and the car sped up considerably.

"Seriously?" Stiles said warily. The Heights cost a bloody fortune to just gaze at in awe. It was at the center of the city, consisting of several mansion-sized homes and an elite apartment complex. Sure, Peter drank expensive wine, but Stiles just assumed that he had an acquired taste for it. That, or he wanted to look impressive without being too pretentious.

"Top floor of the Aubrey Building," added Peter, smirking at the shocked look Stiles was giving him.

"Who did you have to kill to afford that?" Top floor meant the penthouse. Stiles had once whined to Scott that they'd be dead ten times over before they could afford such extravagance.

Peter huffed out a laugh. "My work pays well."

"Yeah, no kidding."

Peter and Stiles were greeted by the secretary in the front lobby, who was all smiles and blonde highlights. She seemed genuinely friendly, and Stiles almost regretted having to abort their conversation when Peter started steering him toward the elevator.

"Too lazy for the stairs?" Stiles grinned as they stepped inside.

"I get plenty of exercise," Peter replied, pressing the button for the top floor. He punched in an additional numbered password (twelve digits, Jesus Christ) on the keypad above the regular buttons and swiped a card through the card scanner, which glowed green with acceptance. "I don't want to exert myself over something so trivial."

Stiles' sinful mind had mixed up the word 'exert' with another word starring the same amount of letters. He felt his cheeks grow warm, and he tried averting his eyes from Peter's face.

The elevator doors dinged open, and Stiles practically jumped out. He saw Peter shaking his head, but he looked as amused as usual. He seemed amused by everything Stiles did.

The elevator opened up right into the open-spaced penthouse. A single wall separated the kitchen from the luxurious-looking living room. There was a giant window, overlooking the city below. A mahogany bookshelf took up the entire back wall, filled with an assortment of books. Stiles walked over to it, finger trailing across the spines as he read each title.

"Can I get you something to drink?" Peter asked. Stiles nearly jumped; Peter was standing behind him, a hand lightly brushing his shoulder. Stiles hadn't felt his presence until the last second.

"Uh, nothing alcoholic please," Stiles replied as calmly as he could. It was hard to remain indifferent with Peter's breath hitting the back of his neck in that perfect, tantalizing way.

Peter drew back and Stiles caught himself from whining from the loss of that closeness. "Water it is." Peter strode over to the kitchen, opening his sleek black fridge and pulling out one of those Brita filters.

Erica used to have one, until she got tired of having to replace the filter part in it.

Stiles shook away the thought. Dammit, he had been doing so well.

He decided to distract himself by inspecting one of the two framed photographs perched on the coffee table. Stiles sat down on the leather couch, carefully placing his wallet, phone and keys down before grabbing the nearest one.

In the picture was a trio of kids, one boy and two girls. The boy and the elder girl looked to be close in age; both were teenagers with dark hair and cutting features. They could be fraternal twins for all Stiles knew. The younger girl had to be around nine and ten, laughing at whoever was taking the photo. Their facial features and physiques were similar to Peter's.

Stiles felt a weight settling in his stomach. They couldn't possibly be Peter's children; the photo looked like it had been taking about a decade ago, judging by the fashion statement that the kids were showing off. Were they relatives?

Stiles quickly assessed the other picture frame. It was a picture of a dark-haired woman, with knowing eyes and laugh lines around her mouth and eyes.

He nearly dropped the picture in his hands when an arm snaked past his shoulder, setting a glass on the coffee table. "I forgot that I still had those out," Peter murmured into his ear. He walked around Stiles and sat down next to him, watching him with those piercing blue eyes. Stiles quickly set the frame back on the table, heart pounding. Why did he feel like he'd been caught doing something illegal?

"Don't look like that Stiles," Peter said, leaning forward as his expression softened. "I'm not mad at you. They're just photos."

"Who are they?" Stiles blurted out, gesturing at the photos. Peter tilted his head, watching Stiles for a while. Stiles sat there, feeling increasingly nervous until Peter nodded stiffly at the photo of the three kids.

"They're my nephew and nieces," he answered quietly. Sadness flitted across his eyes; it had happened so suddenly and so quickly that Stiles barely registered it. "Well, they were my nephew and nieces."

"Oh" was all Stiles could muster. The implication was grave, and Stiles didn't know how to veer away from that topic without looking heartless.

"It happened a long time ago," Peter said. "There's no point in grieving over it now."

An awkward pause formed between them, with Stiles' gaze constantly flickering from Peter's face to the photograph and back.

It didn't last long, luckily.

"I'm sor—" Stiles began, but then felt Peter's lips pressed against his.

The kiss was soft, surprisingly tender. Peter tasted nothing like Scott, Allison, or Erica, but it was still addicting as hell.

After a moment Peter pulled away, and this time Stiles actually whined. Peter smiled victoriously, then gripped Stiles' chin, and pulled him closer. Their second kiss was intoxicating, full of hunger and want. Stiles felt Peter's tongue swipe across his lips, and Stiles parted them to give him more access.

Peter's tongue, holy shit.

Stiles grabbed Peter's face with both of his hands, sighing and moaning as Peter pushed him back on the couch, straddling him with his thighs without their mouths breaking contact. Peter was already working on Stiles' belt, loosening it before starting on the zipper on his pants.

"Peter," Stiles moaned out, pushing at the older man. Peter paused, his eyes cloudy with lust. He loomed above Stiles, his weight pressing him down into the couch.

"Going too fast?" he panted out.

"No," Stiles replied breathily. "Not fast enough. But I'm not fucking you on the couch. I could fall off; hit my head on the corner of that table and fucking die."

"So melodramatic," Peter sighed heavily, licking a broad strip up Stiles' neck before peppering it with kisses. Stiles shuddered, his back arching, wanting and needing this so badly. His body was soon going pliant and boneless from Peter's touches. He regained some of his senses as Peter began to work away at the buttons on Stiles' shirt.

"Peter, I mean it," Stiles said sharply, pushing harder this time. "Bedroom. Now."

It took them ten minutes to reach Peter's bedroom, but only because Peter kept pushing Stiles up against the walls of the long hallway, smothering him with kisses, sucking and biting at his neck as his hands caressed every curve and dip. Stiles had always been oh so submissive, so he allowed Peter to get away with this. His dick was enjoying the arousing sensation, that's for sure.

Stiles barely had time to register the look of the room as Peter grabbed him by his hips, lifting him up and forcing him down onto the bed. It was decked out with silky sheets and about half a dozen pillows. Peter admired the view for half a second before he stripped Stiles of his jeans, underwear, socks and shoes. Stiles was already pulling off his shirt and tossing it to the side, leaving him completely naked.

"So pretty," Peter breathed. Stiles squirmed, blushing fiercely from Peter's intense gaze.

"Not fair," Stiles said. "You still have all of your clothes on."

Peter shook his head, laughing softly. "You shouldn't have been eager to rid yourself of yours." He began to slowly—so agonizingly slowly, fuck—undo the buttons on his own shirt, his eyes never leaving Stiles' body. After a long, torturous minute he slid the shirt off of his shoulders, revealing a nicely defined torso. He was muscular and toned, and all Stiles wanted to do was lick those abs until his tongue fell out of his throat.

Stiles propped himself up on his elbows, glaring at Peter as he began to fiddle with his belt buckle. "Hurry the fuck up," he whined, opening up his legs to give Peter more of a view, a motivation to join him on the bed. "I need your big, fat cock in my ass right now."

"So needy," Peter said, sliding his belt out of the loops. "But how do you know how big I actually am? I don't even have my pants off."

"You're being an asshole, you know that?" Stiles growled out, bucking his hips, hoping to entice Peter to take his goddamn clothes off faster. Peter shook his head, smiling with his teeth bared. His fingers traced the inside of Stiles' thighs as his other hand unzipped his pants. Stiles bit his lip, trying to stifle a moan. His dick was rock solid, straining and throbbing to come. When Peter finally slid his pants off, Stiles saw that he was in the same position. He felt his mouth salivating with anticipation.

Peter pushed Stiles down into the pillows and climbed on top of him, aligning their bodies in a way so that Peter could slot their mouths together perfectly. Peter's hands were trailing down the sides of Stiles' frame, gripping his hips when he reached them. Stiles moaned when he felt Peter's blunt nails scraping their way across his groin before pushing Stiles' legs open even further with his knees.

"I've wanted you in my bed since the first time I met you," Peter whispered into his ear. "I wanted to see you like this, mewling and begging and reacting only to my touch." He bit Stiles' neck, eliciting a loud, shameless moan from him. It was enough pressure to leaving an aching bruise, but not enough to break the skin. He then grabbed Stiles' legs, bending them so tightly that Stiles felt his circulation ceasing. Peter reached for one of the pillows and lifted Stiles just enough to settle it under his back. "When I touched you at the bar all I could think about was having you on your hands and knees and fucking you until you screamed my name." Peter slid his body up Stiles', kissing and licking his stomach on the way. Stiles' head was thrown back into the pillows, gasping and moaning and shaking.

He needed to come so badly. Peter's devious expression said that he could tell, but he wasn't about to let Stiles get off.

"But then you disappeared," Peter murmured, kissing the underside of Stiles' jaw. "The month crawled by and you never returned to Vernon's. I was afraid that I'd scared you away."

"I… freaked out…" Stiles gasped out. He was gripping the sheets, balling them tightly into his fists. Peter had begun to grind up against him, causing a frenzied friction that drove Stiles insane with insatiable lust. He was mouthing at Stiles' neck, beginning to work away on a patch of dark hickeys while Stiles tried to stay coherent during his confession.

"And?" Peter urged quietly, kissing Stiles' neck.

"I freaked out… and…" Fuck, how was Stiles supposed to come up with a believable story that somehow explained his own complicated feelings regarding a relationship? One night stands were one thing, but the way that Peter was touching him went way beyond that, like he was expecting more from Stiles.

Just like the way Erica used to touch him.

"Keep going," Peter said. Stiles felt the older man's weight shift as Peter reached over into his nightstand's drawer and pulled out a condom and lube.

Stiles' eyes widened and his heart pounded fiercely against his ribcage. Oh God, oh fuck, oh fuck yes this was happening. It was actually happening and his brain was turning to mush as Peter lubricated his fingers nice and slick before prodding him open.

"I didn't understand what you're intentions were and what you wanted out of me or if you were just being nice to a guy who was being harassed or someth—oh fucking Christ, don't stop."

Peter's fingers were knuckle deep in him, scissoring him open, hitting his prostate in just the right way. Stiles' legs were trembling so badly that they were going numb. He rambled out a few shaky words, but they were intangible from his filthy moans and pleas for Peter to just fuck him now.

Peter tilted his head, watching Stiles' pleading eyes were slowly dragging his fingers and replacing it with his cock.

There was a brief flare of pain from the stretch because it didn't matter how much Peter had fingered him; he was fucking huge. Stiles uttered out harsh sobs and cried loudly when he came, screaming out Peter's name just like he'd predicted. Peter stroked him gently, whispering small praises into Stiles' ear that made him flush with happiness.

"Such a good boy. You look so beautiful right now."

Peter held Stiles' wrists down into the mattress, picking up the pace of his thrusts until his hips were snapping with such force that Stiles' body was moving up the bed, inch by inch. Stiles sobbed from the impact, tears streaming down the sides of his face.

"Peter," he whimpered. He briefly looked over to the side, and saw that the condom package was unopened. He had been so distracted that he'd never noticed that Peter hadn't bothered putting it on.

"Peter," he repeated shakily. Peter was looming over him, panting as perspiration dripped down his body. His eyes were fixed on Stiles' as he continued to pound into him unforgivingly. He slowed when he felt Stiles shaking with uncontrollable sobs, his breath hitching as he tried to reclaim oxygen. He remained inside Stiles, releasing his grip on his wrists and bracketed his arms around Stiles' face, leaning in close for that they're lips brushed each other's.

"Stiles?" he asked softly. "What's wrong?" Worry creased his brow. Stiles hated seeing that look; it almost looked like pity.

"Don't stop fucking me," Stiles whispered, pushing his lips against Peter's. "I need you to come inside me, like right now. Then we start with round two. I want to be on my hands and knees for you so you can fuck me like an animal. I want to ride you and suck you off and I want you tie me to your bed so you can fuck me raw again. Deal?"

"So many ambitions for one night," Peter sighed, but he was smiling. He kissed Stiles, biting his bottom lip.

"Who said that it had to stop after tonight?" Stiles said, grinning a little. "I hope you have the stamina for all of this, old man."

That's when Peter came, hard. His back arched and Stiles gripped his shoulders in order to ride it out with Peter. It wasn't even his own orgasm, but Stiles felt himself shaking uncontrollably while Peter remained relatively steady. The older man slowly pulled out, eking out a low whine from Stiles from the loss. Peter then promptly rolled Stiles onto his stomach and lifted him to his knees.

"I like you like this," Peter whispered breathily into Stiles' ear, five minutes later. His chin was hooked over Stiles' shoulder; one of his arms was looped around Stiles' middle to keep him steady with the other hand supporting their weight on the mattress. "I like it when you're greedy and wanting, begging so beautifully for my cock. Your resistance beforehand was foreplay, wasn't it?"

Stiles couldn't answer; his elbows were holding him up and he was concentrating on not falling on his face. Peter pounded into him, and the noises that came out of Stiles was indescribable. Peter repeated the action, becoming more ruthless with each snap of his hips. Stiles sobbed loudly; Peter was so deep in him that he could barely move without feeling his cock rubbing against his prostate. Peter stroked him, and he came again.

Stiles' vision blared with stars, and his body slumped forward, exhausted and drained of all of his energy. He still felt Peter thrusting into him even as he faded out of consciousness.

Stiles woke up, blinded by the sunlight coming through the curtains. He rolled over, wincing from the pain coming from his ass. He felt sore all over, and his stomach itched from the dry come. He got up slowly, and the silk sheets felt from his shoulders.

He was alone in the bedroom, tangled in the sheets and the pillows askew across the bed and floor. He looked over, and saw his clothes in a crumpled pile on the floor. He inched his way out of bed, fingers scrambling to grab his pants.

Stiles stumbled out of the bedroom, looking for the bathroom. Peter never did give him a proper tour of his place, and it looked like he'd left sometime after fucking Stiles into submission.

Whatever; Stiles liked exploring anyway.

He easily found the bathroom, which was adorned with a slipper tub in the corner and a matching, cream-colored sink. Stiles checked himself out in the mirror; he looked wrecked. A line of purple hickeys trailed down his neck, ending at his collarbone. His lips were redder than usual from biting them so hard during sex.

Stiles walked over to the tub and pulled the shower curtain across. He turned on the water as hot as he could stand and used the bar of soap to scrub away at the come on his skin. He lathered his hair with shampoo and rinsed it out; shaking his hair dry once he turned off the taps.

His legs still felt like jelly from last night. Sex with Peter had been… different. Peter, he could tell, loved playing the dominant partner. Stiles didn't really get to do anything, now that he thought about it. He was used to eating Erica's pussy out and swallowing her come. He never asked her reciprocate, but Erica always insisted on deep-throating him.

Stiles quickly toweled off and pulled his pants and shirt on and headed to the living room. He frowned when he reached the coffee table. The pictures were missing, as was his wallet, phone, and keys.

"Peter?" he called out, but he was greeted by silence.

Why did Peter take his things? A brief flutter of panic flared in him. He needed his phone to tell Scott and Allison where he was. Stiles suddenly felt a deep cold settling in his stomach. Peter had driven him here; he had no way of getting home without his Jeep. Even if he had his wallet, there was no money in it for a taxi.

Stiles made his way back down the hallway, opening every door he came across and hastily searching for his things. He couldn't find anything, not even a cordless phone to ring Scott up with. The last room was a huge walk-in closet that would put Erica's to shame. Stiles slowly walked in, making his way to the back. Peter had a shitload of clothing. There was the usual; suits, slacks, dress shirts. But there was some other attire that made him frown in confusion. Peter did say that he kind of a traveling businessman, but what businessman needed a contamination protective suit? And why was it splattered with old blood?

Stiles' heart hammered, pushing the hung clothing to the sides. The closet was deeper than he'd expected. Behind the clothing was a raised ledge, where several black cases lay side-by-side on it. Stiles breathed, and undid the latches on them.

One case held an assortment of knives; a machete, butcher knives and ones with jagged edges meant for shredding flesh. Stiles' heart hammered as he opened up the next case. A gun with a silencer attachment laid there in the indented padding alongside a loaded clip.

What the fuck?

All of the cases had assault rifles, sniper rifles, and a fucking machine gun. The smallest case contained wire for choking someone to death.

Stiles shook his head. He must be dreaming; none of this made sense. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a manila folder with Peter's name on the front. Across the top in bold red letters was the word 'CLASSIFIED'.

With trembling fingers, Stiles opened it up and pulled out the document. The top of the front page read 'TERMINATION ORDER: URGENT'. Below was a list of requirements and warnings about the… target.

Bits of their conversations flashed through Stiles' mind: Peter's lack of faith, his mysterious career that kept him loaded…

That brief sadness in his eyes over the family picture he still kept.

Stiles quickly flipped to the next page, which contained a glossy photo and a name underneath. It was someone Stiles didn't recognize. A big red 'X' was across his face. The next couple of pictures were all marked with an 'X'. Stiles got to the last four pages, and his chest seized up when he saw Allison's picture smiling up at him.

Allison. Sweet, awesome Ally. The one person that was like his older sister, who hugged him and reassured him and looked after him like he mattered.

Why did Peter have a picture of Allison?

Stiles felt numb as he went through the last three photos. They were photos of Allison's parents, and one other person that Stiles didn't know by face but by name: Katherine Argent.

Allison sometimes talked about her Aunt Kate, but Stiles and Scott had never met her in person. Apparently she was up for assassination.

"I wish that you didn't go through my things."

Peter was already behind Stiles before he had time to react. His arm snaked around Stiles' middle, the other hand coming up to his mouth to muffle his scream.