Stiles scrambled to get out of the shower and dove for the small closet in the corner. He ripped it open and grabbed two oversized fluffy towels, tossing one over his head behind him before frantically drying himself.
He didn't hear anything hit the floor so he assumed Peter had caught it.
When Peter had told him Scott was standing on his front porch, Stiles had rinsed off as much soap as he could in five seconds before leaving control of the shower to Peter. He was starting to think that the universe really was plotting against him—and his virginity. Why else would Scott show up now when Stiles was covered from head to toe with a sexy, naked werewolf who wanted to do very naughty things to him?
It just wasn't fucking fair. Scott got sexy times with Allison, when would Stiles get his turn?
"Stupid werewolves and their stupid timing," he muttered angrily under his breath as he yanked his dirty jeans back on in violent tugs. He wasn't even going to try to wear his soiled boxers (he wasn't masochistic enough for that).
A soft chuckle made him pause on his way out of the bathroom. He finished dragging his jacket back on and turned Peter.
Peter— dry, for the most part— was pulling on his clothes as well, amused at Stiles's frustration.
Stiles felt his brain shift closer to overload. Shit. He had a werewolf in his bathroom, another at the front door, and (if he didn't figure out how to deal with both of them) dinner was going to become a casualty. Tonight was going steadily downhill.
"Um," he said, nervously fiddling with his jacket sleeve.
Peter raised an eyebrow at Stiles's pensive expression as he draped his shirt over his frame, fastening the buttons quicker than a normal human being could. It took a lot of will-power to stop Stiles from marching over to the older man to tear the shirt back off, but his best friend was at the door, and trying to fuse his face with Peter's really wasn't going to make his 'Scott situation' go away.
"Would you like me to stay up here?" Peter offered, wryly, when Stiles's attention remained glued to his water-dotted neck.
Stiles mentally shook off his Peter-induced stupor. "Yes, that is a great idea. You stay here and, uh, I'll go see what he wants." And hopefully make him go away, he thought as he slipped out of the bathroom, his bare feet slapping comically on the hardwood floor of the hall. He trotted gracelessly down the stairs, hoping Scott had the patience to wait for him rather than simply trying his luck with a window.
The doorbell sounded just as he reached the bottom of the stairwell. "Hold on a second, I'm coming!" Stiles called as he crossed to the door, thankful that his erection had long-since wilted.
He took a deep, calming breath and unlocked the door, pulling it open to smile in pretend-surprise at seeing Scott on his front porch.
"Hey buddy, didn't think I'd hear from—"
"Stiles, what the hell? I've tried calling you, like, ten times and you haven't answered any of my texts!"
Oh…
Before prepping dinner with Peter, Stiles had tossed his phone on the kitchen table. It was routine for him to place it where he could see the caller ID should someone (i.e. his dad) try to contact him when he was busy cooking. Today hadn't been the exception to the rule. Stiles hadn't had a chance to grab it before Peter toted him up to the bathroom, so while he had been getting soapy with Peter, his phone must have been blowing up in the kitchen. And he was fairly certain that the older man had been too distracted to care about a ringing cell phone.
A rival werewolf on the other hand… that he'd noticed.
"Ah…" he dragged out, rubbing the back of his neck, absently.
Scott's eyes zeroed in on his throat and worry etched into his frown. He stepped closer, staring at Peter's livid marks.
Fuck. In his haste, Stiles had forgotten all about them.
"Stiles, what the hell happened to—" Scott froze in his tracks, his outstretched hand inches from the bruised skin. His nostrils flared, scenting the air.
Stiles backed away slowly, holding his hands up in surrender as Scott stalked forward. Little by little, he was forced back into the house under his friend's glowing stare.
"Why do you smell like Peter?" Scott asked, his voice gruff around his growing fangs.
"Dude, whoa, calm down, alright? I'm fine, Scott, look at me," Stiles patted himself down one handedly. "I'm fine," Stiles emphasized, keeping his tone as even as possible despite how hard his heart was pounding in his chest.
He retreated backwards down the hall, matching Scott step for step, fighting his body's instinct to all-out run from the advancing predator.
"He hurt you," Scott growled, his gaze fixed on Stiles's bruised throat.
"What? No! No, this isn't— he didn't— I mean, he did, but, oh God, come on Scott, just—"
Stiles's heel hit solid wood. The obstacle caught him off guard and he overbalanced, crashing backwards onto the stairs. His breath gusted out in an agonized 'oof' as his entire weight fell onto the edges of five or six stairs.
He watched helplessly as Scott prowled closer to his sprawled body with a fear he hadn't felt since his friend's first full moon.
A deep, vicious growl erupted from somewhere above Stiles, who partially contorted his body so he could look up at the top of the landing. Peter, completely wolfed out, was steadily descending the steps, staring Scott down. Stiles had never been so happy to see the older werewolf, despite being able to see Peter's extended fangs and unsheathed claws.
"Pull it back, Scott, before you hurt Stiles," Peter warned, coming to a halt on the step above the shaking teen.
"Like you hurt him?" Scott barked back, hunching menacingly. Stiles eased back as much as he could, his shoulders pressed against Peter's shins in his effort to put space between himself and his friend's misplaced rage.
"Stiles, have I hurt you?" Peter asked softly, his eyes on Scott.
"No, I'm fine— Scott, come on dude, calm down before I have to get the fire department out here to put out my dinner," Stiles implored, trembling between the two wolves.
Confusion replacing his anger, Scott's yellow eyes faded to their normal brown as he took in Stiles's cowering form. He frowned down at Stiles, clearly struggling to understand. "But your neck is all bruised… and you smell like him…"
Peter released a long-suffering sigh and crouched down behind Stiles.
Feeling the heat of the older man shift closer, Stiles tipped his head back and leaned back further into the protective curve of Peter's body. The smell of his own shampoo mixed with Peter's natural scent lulled him, soothing his stressed out nerves.
Peter gently ran his fingers across the love bites on Stiles's throat. The memory of the older man sucking and biting each one to life made his breath hitch and his eyelids droop lazily. Fuck, just having Peter so close and touching him made Stiles shiver. Desire flooded his system. When Peter tilted his head towards him, Stiles reacted without thought, meeting Peter's lips eagerly, begging entrance into his still-fanged mouth with a flick of tongue. He whined, disappointed, when Peter pulled away to watch Scott, his arms wrapped possessively around Stiles's chest.
Scott.
Wow, he'd actually forgotten about Scott, all from one tiny kiss. That should be worrying, right? That Peter could completely extinguish his fight-or-flight instinct at the drop of a hat? He told himself it would be much worse of Peter wasn't a bad-ass creature of the night with a soft spot for a certain hyperactive teenager.
But it didn't seem like that revelation would be appreciated by his (now) traumatized best friend.
Scott's mouth was hanging wide open in disbelief.
"Uh, Scott?" Stiles waved his hand at his buddy's stunned face. He hoped the movement would snap Scott out of whatever funk he had fallen into because Stiles really didn't feel like moving out of Peter's loose embrace.
For personal safety.
Mostly.
"I…you…" Scott visibly floundered, his eyes darting between Stiles and Peter as he tried to reconcile reality with whatever was going on inside his head. Eventually, he frowned down at Stiles as though he'd done something wrong. "But what about Lydia?"
Okay, ouch.
Stiles flinched, unaccountably feeling guilty.
It wasn't like there had been a real possibility of him and Lydia becoming a thing. Stiles had made his position very clear (several times over several years) and Lydia had still chosen Jackson—in front of the pack(s), the Argents, and an emotionally crushed Stiles. It wasn't going to happen and he had made his peace with it. But it wasn't fair of Scott to throw his unrequited love in his fucking face. Quite frankly, his face had suffered enough lately.
Stiles rubbed at the back of his neck. "What about her?" he asked, wearily.
Scott stared at him incredulously. "'What about her?' Dude, you've been crazy about her for years and now you act like you don't care? And what about this? I didn't even know you were gay!" He leaned against the wall, as though his whole world had just fallen apart.
Stiles mentally snorted. He should see the state of mine. What a fucking mess…
"Scott, she's with Jackson. I get that. I can respect that. He's what she wants, not me. And I'm not gay, I'm bi. There's a difference. I can still appreciate a set of curves, okay? I've been curious for a while, but I've never had the chance to…be proactive about it." Stiles supposed it was a nicer way of saying 'sorry, but I've never found a guy willing to let me mack on them before'.
"Um…okay," Scott's eyes flicked between them, noticeably uncomfortable. His nose was crinkled, like he smelled something offensive…
Shit, Scott could probably smell what they'd done. Stiles had put on the first clothes he'd seen without a thought. In retrospect, it probably hadn't been a great idea, confronting a werewolf in come-covered clothes.
Stiles hunched in, belatedly realizing that he reeked even though he couldn't smell it.
Peter's arm pulled him closer into the man's chest, comfortingly, as though he knew what was making Stiles self-conscious. Pressing back, Stiles smiled to himself. Fuck Scott's nose, he smelled like Peter. Contentment flowed through him. He rather liked smelling like the older man, like he was owned.
Was this what being 'pack' felt like?
Both Stiles and Scott jumped when the raucous chattering of the kitchen timer rang down the hall. Either Peter had better control of his reflexes or he'd known the damn timer was going to go off because he hadn't so much as twitched at the god-awful noise.
"Dinner's ready," Stiles piped up helpfully, grateful for the break in tension.
Peter leaned around to look at him. "Do you want me to get that, Darling?" There was an infectious glimmer in his ice-blue eyes and a playful twist to his lips. Deciding to dig a little at Scott's expense, Stiles played along. He made a show of snuggling closer to Peter. "Would you?" he simpered, batting his lashes for flare.
The bug-eyed look on Scott's face was far more satisfying than it should have been.
Peter pressed a quick kiss to the side of his head before standing in a long, sinuous movement. "Thank you, dear!" Stiles called after him. Peter chuckled softly, ignoring Scott's death glare as he sauntered his way to the kitchen.
Scott jerked his thumb in the older man's direction. "You do know he can still here us from in there, right?"
Shrugging, Stiles gingerly moved off of the staircase and carefully stretched the muscles of his bruising back. "It's the illusion. He gets it." Stiles waved Scott to follow him down the hall to the open front door. Once they were out on the darkened porch, Stiles firmly closed the door, internally readying himself for a fight. Scott was leaning back against one of the support beams. He had his arms crossed and a 'what the fuck?' look on his face that Stiles could make out even in the dark.
Stiles released a sigh and shoved his hands inside his jacket pockets, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
"Why Peter?" finally came, after a few moments of strained silence.
Some of the tension drained out of Stiles's limbs. 'Why Peter?', not 'why a guy?'. Part of Stiles had worried that Scott finding out he was more than 'curious' about guys would be a problem, that it would change their 'dynamic' or whatever. But Scott didn't seem to care that Peter was a guy so much that he was, well…Peter.
Stiles ran a trembling hand through his hair. "I…don't really know," he admitted.
And it was true. He didn't know why Peter's touch made him forget his own name or why just one heated stare from the werewolf set his blood afire. All he did know was that he didn't want it to stop, not before it had a chance to get anywhere. As it was, Stiles already wanted to hit Scott for his newest set of blue balls.
Scott's eyes were wide, disbelieving. "You don't know why you did him? Really?"
Stiles scowled at him. "I haven't done him, okay? Way to make me sound like a slut," he said defensively, ignoring the fact that he had been well on his way to letting Peter into his pants before Scott came along.
Raising an eyebrow skeptically, Scott looked pointedly at Stiles's clothes. "Then why do you smell," he jabbed a finger at the door, "like, I don't know, like you've been letting him mount you or something? You're covered in his scent."
"'Mount me?' Are you serious? He's not an animal."
"He's a werewolf," Scott shot back in an angry whisper. "You don't get it, he's dangerous."
Eyes narrowing at Scott, Stiles felt his temper flaring.
"I don't understand? What is it exactly that I don't understand? About how strong werewolves are? How they could rip me to shreds— especially on a full moon? Tell me what I don't understand about how my best fucking friend could kill me if he lost control. 'Cause believe me, I am more aware than any of you of how fucking fragile I am in comparison. I already get it, Scott, I don't need a reminder."
Irritated, he kicked at a porch beam.
"What I don't get," Stiles said, bravely taking a step towards Scott, "is how you have the audacity to harp at me for getting with a werewolf when you'renot exactly stopping yourself from being with Allison. From all of your lovely stories about your 'fun times'," emphasizing with air quotes, "it doesn't sound like you've had too much trouble not tearing her apart."
"But he could—"
"Yeah, he probably could. But if you're worried about him hurting me in 'the heat of the moment'" Stiles said, gratuitously using air quotes again, "then don't, okay? Not every werewolf has difficulty reigning in their urges. Peter's a werewolf from birth, dude. He's got more than a few months experience in keeping his claws to himself."
Scott had the constipated look of someone who knew they were backed into a corner. "What if he's using you?" Stiles's heart skipped hard, the question hitting squarely on his doubts. "Come on, Stiles, he's twice our age. He's probably some kind of pervert trying to hook up with a high school student."
Rolling his eyes, Stiles snorted derisively. "Did he try anything with you?"
That seemed to throw Scott for a loop. He tilted his head in confusion. "…no, why?"
God, he's such a clueless puppy, Stiles mentally bemoaned. "Because you're man-prettier than me. Besides, if he wanted into a high schooler's pants, don't you think it would have been way easier to try for the teenager he bit? One he already had a freaking mental connection with that he could use to get his way?"
Scott blinked dumbly at him.
Guess he hadn't thought of that.
"Okay, fine, but he tried to get with my Mom!" Scott whined, clearly offended by the memory.
Sighing, Stiles leaned back against the front door. "Dude, if I thought I wouldn't get smacked down like a fly, I'd probably hit on her. Not that I ever have!" he said quickly, holding a hand out to pacify his friend's indignation. "Or ever will. Like, ever."
Calmed down but by no means mollified, Scott looked at him askance. "I don't like the feel of this. What if he's just using you for kicks? Or if it's some fucked up power play of Derek's? I don't want you to get hurt," Scott whispered.
And there it was, Scott's hero complex shining through, regular as clockwork. Stiles found it less annoying when it wasn't completely cock-blocking him. Not that he didn't appreciate being on Scott's priority list of people-to-save, but if Scott had his way, Stiles was going to stay a virgin for the rest of high school.
"Scott," he began wearily, "I don't want to get hurt either, but my odds of finishing high school unscathed dropped significantly when werewolves came back to Beacon Hills. If I'm gonna get hurt, I'd at least like a say in who does it. Please, can you just trust me in this? If it goes to shit, I promise you can say 'I told you so' for, like, a month, okay? Please?"
He backed his plea with puppy eyes, folding his hands together mock-prayer style.
Scott's face scrunched up as he bit his lip, regarding Stiles pensively.
When Scott's shoulders slumped, Stiles knew he'd won. He bounced excitedly on his toes and cocked his elbows back, clenching his fists victoriously. He threw his arms around Scott in a boisterous hug, grinning like a mad man. Or at least he was until Scott jerked out of his embrace to hold him at arm's length.
"Yeah, I love you too, buddy," Scott said, his voice strained and his head turned away from Stiles. "But you really need a shower."
Stiles blinked at him. "We just had a shower," he said, unthinkingly. "But then Peter heard you get here and I didn't have time to find clean clo—"
"Wait, what? 'We'? 'We' took a shower? As in you and Peter?" Scott looked faintly queasy.
"Well yeah," Stiles shrugged, as though it was normal for him to shower with thirty year old men. It certainly wouldn't be the weirdest thing he'd ever done. "Needed to get stuff off of me and Peter wanted to help." "Argh," Scott groaned, closing his eyes. "And then you got here," Stiles continued oblivious to his friend's discomfort, "and I wasn't about to open the door naked." "Argh," Scott groaned louder, clutching at his hair in dismay. "So we had to put out dirty clothes back on 'cause we didn't have time to hunt for clean ones," Stiles finished, reasonably.
"Stiles," Scott ground out, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hands. "Bad visuals. Please, no more visuals."
Stiles winced when he realized that Scott was cringing away from more than his 'smell'. "Ah… I've scarred you for life, haven't I?" he asked, sympathizing. Payback really was a bitch. Lord only knows how many times he'd had to endure Scott's reiterations of his undying love for Allison.
Oh well…
Understanding as he was of Scott's aversion to his new-found sex life, Stiles still couldn't keep from smiling. He backed up to lean against the door and ruffled his hair, stupidly happy for gaining Scott's pseudo-permission. Not that he needed it, but…it was still nice, having one less person to hide this from— whatever this proved to be.
"Hey, uh," Stiles gestured over his shoulder to the house, "you wanna come in? Dinner's ready and there's enough to feed a pack of wolves in there," he joked, trying to lighten his friend's mood.
"Ah," Scott glanced fleetingly at the door behind Stiles. "Naw, I think I'll just…go. I'll, uh, leave you to your…date…thing," he said, shaking his head in bemusement as he hopped off the porch.
Stiles was twisting the doorknob when a thought struck him.
He whirled around and half-dangled over the porch railing, calling out to Scott in his loudest 'whisper'.
"Yo, Scott?"
Scott paused halfway to his car and turned to look at him. "What?" he stage-whispered back.
Stiles hesitated for a moment, wondering if Peter really was listening in, then gave a mental 'fuck it'. "If things get, uh, really good, I can tell ya, right?"
Even in the dull lighting from the street light and waxing moon, Stiles could see the twist in Scott's face, like he'd eaten something that didn't agree with him. It was a mark of how good of a friend Scott was that he ducked his head with a 'yeah' instead of flat out shutting Stiles down like he probably wanted.
Stiles swallowed his urge to crow, settling for watching Scott drive off, leaving him alone in the dark on the porch.
Silently thanking whatever deity that watched over him for giving him such a laid-back friend, he sighed and reentered the house, ready to turn his attention back to the werewolf in his kitchen.
Ha, he thought, as he walked down the hall. Sounds like the title of a children's book. 'The Werewolf in my Kitchen'…hmm, or maybe a bad porno…
Pain spiked up his leg when Stiles's ankle shifted under his weight. He shouted as he crumpled to the floor, barely throwing his arms out in time to avoid breaking his nose. He groaned, cursing that same sadistic deity for playing with him like a goddamn yo-yo.
A jean-covered knee dropped next to his face.
"Are you alright?" Peter asked, worry in his tone.
"Yeah, 'm 'kay," Stiles forced out, his face beet-red with embarrassment. At least Peter hadn't seen his little swan dive.
Slowly, he turned over, helped by Peter's strong, guiding hands. He stared up at the ceiling, infinitely annoyed. When he'd imagined lying on his back underneath the older man, this wasn't quite how he'd pictured the circumstances.
Peter's hands skimmed over his clothing, feeling out for injuries he couldn't immediately see.
"My ankle gave," Stiles grumbled, squirming as the older man brushed the inside of his kneecap (he was ticklish there).
Peter hummed noncommittally as he stood. "Stay here. I'll only be a moment." And then he was gone. Seriously, Stiles had blinked and the dude vanished. Deciding to give his abused body a rest, Stiles closed his eyes and laid as still as possible, trying to ignore the ache setting into his limbs. He heard something rest near his head with a dull 'thump' and he panicked, his eyes shooting open as he flailed wildly on the floor.
Peter had returned with the medical kit.
"Jesus Christ," Stiles groaned. His body went limp with relief even as his heart drummed fast in his chest. And wasn't that strange?— subconsciously, he seemed to have already dismissed Peter as a threat…
"I'm gonna have to already put a bell on you," Stiles said, glaring half-heartedly up at the older man.
Peter merely smirked as he dug through the Stilinski tackle box of miscellaneous medical supplies. "Implying that you'd like to see more of me if you're willing to make that much of an effort," he remarked as he pulled out a long bandage wrap, unfurling the stretchy material.
Awkwardly, Stiles propped himself up on his elbows, wincing as his back muscles protested the movement. Lying flat out in the hall was starting to make him feel vulnerable.
Coincidentally, the new position brought him closer to Peter and, well… that was enough to make him forget a lot more than discomfort.
"It wouldn't be the worst thing if you came over more often," Stiles said, jerking his shoulders up briefly in a hampered shrug. "You're kinda useful to have around. Kitchen assistant, personal aid, and now medic?— you should be wondering how I'm gonna let you leave," he teased.
Stiles dragged his injured leg up obligingly and Peter rolled up his pant leg.
Ew.
Feeling the pain was one thing, but this— actually seeing the swollen, purple-tinged tissue— somehow made his ankle throb even worse. Stiles bit his lip against a whimper. He nearly jerked away when Peter closed his hand around the damaged flesh, expecting a surge of pain, but instead he froze with disbelief.
Out in the forest, Stiles hadn't been able to see what Peter had been doing, could only feel it, and all he'd felt was the pain leaving him. But now he could see perfectly, could see the veins in Peter's hand and arm turn black, stark against the pallor of his skin, as though something noxious was seeping up through them from his hand to the rest of his body.
Or being absorbed, he thought with dawning horror.
Peter was absorbing his pain.
Stiles's jaw dropped, surprise muting him as Peter gently began to wind the bandage around his ankle.
"Thank you," he whispered.
Peter glanced up, his surprise quickly masked. He minutely shook his head." It's no trouble," he murmured as he tucked in the bandage end.
"I didn't mean the wrap," Stiles said. "That thing you did, with the pain. You didn't have to do that."
Peter tugged Stiles's jeans down, his eyes focused on where he was silently fussing with straightening the material.
Stiles frowned at the lack of response so he pinned the older man's hand to his leg. That at least got him an arched brow and something of a smirk, like Stiles had performed a clever trick by being so forward. "Seriously," he said, holding Peter's amused gaze. "Thank you." He hesitated momentarily before giving in to his curiosity for all things werewolf. "Does it…does it hurt you, when you do that?" Stiles hated the miniscule tremor in his voice as he spoke.
It was kind of 'bass-ackwards', really, worrying about Peter's well-being over a little "sprain pain". Where was this inner Mother Teresa of his when he'd lobbed a Molotov Cocktail at the guy?
Peter seemed likewise intrigued, regarding Stiles with an uncomfortable intensity. "It does, but it passes. Our bodies don't hold pain for long." His gaze lingered on the fading bruises on Stiles's face then dropped to his throat, eyeing the marks on he'd personally left on it a few hours ago. A small furrow appeared between his brows as he frowned, reaching out to caress a particularly deep bruise that sported teeth marks.
The touch didn't draw the reaction Peter had been looking for, if his surprised approval was any indication.
When Peter's hand had cupped his neck and stroked the mark with his thumb, Stiles had sucked in his breath in a hiss and leaned into the pressure. Humming contemplatively, Peter scraped a sharp talon over the same spot, his eyes flashing bright blue at Stiles's tiny moan. He seemed to like that Stiles didn't shy away from the less than gentle attention— which was good because Stiles kept picturing Peter leaving a set of handprints on his hips.
Peter's nostrils flared.
He flashed Stiles a toothy smile. "What am I going to do with you?" he asked absently, letting him go to pack up the med kit.
"Ah, I've got a few ideas. More than a few, actually, to be honest. Feel free to ask, I am all about sharing," Stiles yammered, disappointed that Peter had pulled away from him again.
The med box snapped shut.
Heat coiled low in Stiles's belly at Peter's smoldering gaze.
"Oh, I have a few ideas of my own," Peter purred, straightening in a lithe motion that was more cat-like than wolf. He held a hand out to Stiles and pulled him to his feet. Relief washed over Stiles as his ankle held firm and true under his weight. His arms shot up into the air as he whooped joyfully. Shaking his head at the display, Peter waved for Stiles to follow him to the kitchen. Stiles shadowed him, his ankle hardly troubling him after the older man's ministrations.
The glorious smell of the casserole surrounded him as he stepped into the kitchen and his attention immediately zeroed in on the stove where the dish sat, cooling.
"You know, we should collaborate," Stiles said coyly, digging a serving spoon out of a drawer. "You share your ideas, I'll toss out mine, and we'll see if we can't find something…mutually satisfying." He was in the middle of splitting the dish into sections with the spoon when a solid line of muscle and heat molded to his back.
"Hmm…sounds like a long list," Peter murmured into his ear, his hands massaging Stiles's hips.
Stiles's breath hitched, torn between the food before him and the werewolf behind him. Just as he was about to go with Option #2, he felt Peter stiffen against him— and not the "good" kind. "What is it? What's wrong?" Stiles froze, his voice cracking with his rising anxiety.
"If I'm not mistaken, it's a Beacon Hills police cruiser," Peter said, his calm, even tone at odds with his rigid body language.
The spoon slipped from Stiles's limp fingers into the casserole.
"I am so dead," Stiles whispered, the irony of having spoken similar words in Peter's presence completely flying over his head as his breathing quickened to match his racing heartbeat.
He broke from the older man's half-embrace to dash across the room to the kitchen doorway, skidded to a halt, turned back a split second later to dash back towards the stove, stopped again, then began dancing back and forth from foot to foot as he gripped his hair in frustration.
"Shit, shit, shit. He can't— you— I don't even— oh my God, oh shit, oh fuckfuckfuck…"
Stiles swore under his breath as he freaked out in the middle of the kitchen, terrified that his father was about to stumble across more than one of his secrets tonight. He was dangerously close to having a panic attack and he couldn't find the will to stop it; his thoughts were scattered to the winds and it was all he could do just to breathe.
Warmth surrounded his face and he blinked at Peter in surprise. The older man was cupping his cheeks in his large hands, standing so close that his eyes encompassed most of Stiles's field of vision. And just like that, Stiles felt his pulse begin to drop and his breathing even out under the mesmerizing clarity of Peter's ice-blue eyes.
"Calm down, Stiles. It's fine. I'll leave out the back so you won't have to worry," Peter soothed lowly, stroking the teen's cheekbones with his thumbs. He pulled away and started for the back door.
"Wait!" Stiles blurted, a thought breaking free from the chaos of his mind.
Peter turned and watched patiently as Stiles threw open a cupboard and retrieved a plastic container. Hurriedly, Stiles shoveled a helping or two (or three) into it, sealing it with a lid. Grabbing a fork from the cutlery drawer, Stiles held both it and the container out to Peter.
"Here, since things got cut short. Don't want to renege on my promise to feed you."
Peter stared at him, looking amazed and amused all at once as he took the offered meal.
In the silence of the house, even Stiles could hear the faint click of the front door unlocking, closing seconds later with a reverberating slam. Stiles's heart jumped into his throat. His father most likely wouldn't come straight to the kitchen, but that still left precious few theoretical seconds before his dad caught him with the thirty-something year old werewolf.
Fuck this was going to be close and Peter, Peter was…what was Peter doing? Why was he putting his food down on the counter?
Stiles opened his mouth to ask the other man what he was doing when Peter used his speed to dive in and seal his lips to Stiles's.
Peter's wicked tongue swept into his slack mouth and tangled forcefully with his own, startling a soft moan from Stiles. Eyes drifting shut, Stiles instinctively wrapped his arms around Peter's neck as he lost himself in the rough, biting kiss, letting the older man press him against the counter. A drawer handle dug into his hip, but it could have been a knife for all Stiles cared. He had Peter's mouth on him, had talon-tipped fingers on his hips, pinning him in place and preventing Stiles from arching against him, and God that was frustrating because all Stiles wanted to do was rub his hardening cock against Peter until he came—
"Hey, Stiles?" his dad called, his voice echoing from down the hall.
Alarmed, Stiles ripped away from Peter's intoxicating lips, yanking his hands off the man's shoulders as though he'd been burned. Peter used the opportunity to back away, smirking as he slid his dinner off the counter and sauntered to the back door.
Great, now he was hard on top of everything else.
Irritated, Stiles ruffled his hair and glared at the retreating werewolf. But not pouting. He was definitely not pouting. "You're evil," he muttered, shifting himself more comfortably in his pants.
Peter merely winked— actually fucking winked— at him and slipped out the door. Unfortunately, he closed it hard enough to jostle the miniature cowbells attached to the top of it, their happy jingle mocking him.
"Stiles?"
Well, fuck. So much for the discrete exit.
Stiles groaned. "I'm in the kitchen, Dad. Dinner's ready."
He got out plates and started setting the table, if only to have something to do while his nerves recovered from so much shock. Between Scott and his own freaking father, he wasn't going to have to worry about protecting his virtue when they were inadvertently doing it for him. He was about to set the silverware when his phone went off, startling him into dropping them onto the table. Heart skipping away, he fumbled for the device and frowned at the screen.
What the… When did he ever text a 'Peter'? The only Peter he knew just left and— oh.
Huh.
So that's what happens when you leave a werewolf alone in your kitchen: they program their number into your phone. Less awkward than asking for it, he supposed.
Curious, Stiles opened the message.
Peter: Evil would be having no intention of finishing what I started. I can assure you, I'm not that cruel.
Innocuous as it was, the text still sent a delicious frisson down his spine. This was a promise of more to come.
A grin wide enough to hurt spread across Stiles's face.