Fandom: Teen Wolf
Summary: When Peter gets sick, Stiles is the only one who cares enough to check on him. That’s where it all begins.
A/N: This is the last chapter I have for this fic. so they won't come as quickly anymore. I've written a bit more but it's not long enough to be a chapter in itself.
After the conversation with his father, Stiles ups the ante. Now that he’s gained the approval of the only person whose approval Stiles actually gives a rat’s ass about, he figures that he may as well go full steam ahead.
Of course, it’s not a gradual sort of full steam ahead. Stiles’ version of it always tends to be as subtle as a car crash, so, one day, after Peter forgets one of his coats in Stiles’ bedroom again (‘forget’ his ass; the wily bastard probably just leaves various articles of his clothing to let even more of his scent linger in Stiles’ room, and consequently more of Stiles’ scent would be rubbed off on his clothes), Stiles pulls on his typical jeans and layers of plaid but instead of reaching for his own jacket, he pulls Peter’s coat on instead before heading for Derek’s loft for a Pack meeting. The coat’s a little big for him at the shoulders, but otherwise, it’s a warm, comfortable fit, and even without a super sniffer, Stiles can still pick up a faint hint of Peter’s aftershave mixed in with the stronger suggestion of pine trees.
Peter hasn't arrived yet by the time Stiles reaches the loft, but the others are all already there, and there are choking noises when he walks in wrapped up in Peter’s jacket.
He ignores them all. He didn't do this for them, and they can all take their judging faces and stick them where the sun doesn't shine.
“Uh, Stiles?” Scott looks gobsmacked. “You- What are- You know that’s Peter’s, right?”
Stiles just barely represses the urge to roll his eyes. “Yeah, Scott, I realize that, seeing as I'm the one wearing it.”
Scott’s features fall into a scowl. “Then why are you wearing it? Is he forcing you-”
“Dude, no, of course not!” Stiles does roll his eyes this time because the very notion is ludicrous. Before anyone can say anything else, the door to the loft swings open again, and everybody swings around to watch Peter walk in.
Peter strolls in, smirk firmly nailed in place, gaze already searching out Stiles, and then – the second he spots him – he literally freezes mid-stride.
Stiles’ heart thuds in his chest.
Peter’s eyes burn, flaring blue and hot like topaz and fire. Stiles can’t look away, not even when the werewolf begins walking again, practically prowling towards the couch that Stiles has commandeered like a particularly ravenous predator.
He takes a seat, every movement deliberate like he’s using all his self-control to keep himself in check. He doesn't say anything, but his lips part on an inhale, breathing in like he’s savouring whatever he’s picking up from Stiles, and the hunger in his eyes double in intensity.
Well, mission accomplished. More easily than he thought it would be. The clothes really do it, huh? Possessive bastard.
Stiles summons up a smile that he hopes looks innocent and totally cool, which – knowing him – it probably doesn't, especially since his heart is still beating too fast, nervous and excited, anxious and pleased.
Still, he makes a valiant effort to act normal, turning to where Derek is standing with his arms crossed and his eyes narrowed as he observes their interaction.
“So, let’s get this meeting started!” He says brightly.
Derek shoots him a condemning look but there isn’t really anything he can do in this situation, so after a long glare at both Stiles and Peter, he heaves a sigh like the weight of the world is on his shoulders before turning back to the room at large.
Afterwards, Stiles couldn't have told anyone what half the meeting was about. There was the usual mention of patrols but the next Big Bad hasn't hit town yet so Stiles doesn't feel all that bad about tuning out most of what his friends said. Ninety percent of the time, it isn't as if they listen to anything he says anyway.
Instead, even though he keeps his gaze on Derek, on Scott, on random points of the loft, he’s still persistently, emphatically aware of Peter’s eyes on him, never looking away for even a second, honed in on him like he’s the only person in the room.
Stiles is willing to bet that Peter hasn't the faintest clue what was discussed in the meeting either.
Derek ends the meeting with a curt dismissal, and before Stiles can do more than pack up his laptop and stand, Peter is on his feet in the blink of an eye, and his right hand closes around Stiles’ forearm like an iron band.
Two warning growls erupt from across the loft, one from Derek, the other from Scott. For the first time all morning, Peter looks away from Stiles, swinging around to flash Beta eyes and fangs at Derek.
“This has nothing to do with you, Nephew,” Peter sneers, voice dripping with derision. He doesn't even spare a glance for Scott before he practically drags Stiles out of the loft. It would be dragging if Stiles isn't perfectly willing to go, half-stumbling after the werewolf’s unexpectedly fast gait.
“Wait, wait, Peter! My jeep!” Stiles yelps as he’s stuffed into the passenger seat of Peter’s own car before its owner circles around to slide in behind the wheel.
“We’ll come back for it later,” Peter dismisses, and then they're off, tearing out of the parking lot and breaking at least half a dozen traffic laws as the werewolf books it back to his apartment post haste.
Stiles doesn't even have time to think of something to say before they've arrived, and the next thing he knows, Peter has hauled him out of the car, slammed the door, and crowded him against it.
“What do you think you're doing, Stiles?” Peter outright growls, close enough that their noses brush, and the Beta’s breath fans over Stiles’ mouth with every word.
Fingers automatically clutching at Peter’s shoulders, Stiles gulps rather audibly and – embarrassingly enough – squeaks out an unconvincing, “Er-?”
“Wearing my jacket,” Peter continues unheedingly, dragging his nose down the length of Stiles’ neck. “Covering yourself with my scent. You smell like mine, Stiles, did you know that? You always do these days, but then you go and parade yourself like this in front of the Pack, practically announcing it to the world.”
Stiles strangles back a moan when he feels teeth nip at the arch of where his neck meets his shoulder, followed by a tongue – holy shit that’s definitely Peter’s tongue – laving over the spot to soothe the sting. Hips slot together with his, and there is absolutely no mistaking the hard line of Peter’s arousal pressed against his own.
It’s a struggle but Stiles does manage to gather enough brain cells together to rally blithely, “You're the one who keeps leaving your clothes behind all the time. I might as well start making closet space for you. I mean seriously, you are not subtle.”
He gets a wolfish grin in response, followed by a roll of Peter’s hips that drags a perfectly audible whimper from Stiles’ throat as pleasure courses through him. His head tips back as the werewolf shoves a leg between his, and he isn’t at all surprised when a mouth descends on his neck again, sucking marks into his skin even as he ruts back helplessly against Peter’s thigh.
“We’re- We’re in the parking lot, Peter!” Stiles manages to gasp out as he scrambles for some semblance of rationality even as he continues riding Peter’s thigh, dizzy with lust and pleasure. “And- And you haven’t even kissed me ye- mmph!”
A hand cradles his jaw as Peter captures his mouth in a fierce kiss, all tongue and teeth and relentless heated passion. Stiles groans, one hand tangling in Peter’s hair, barely able to keep up with the onslaught what with his senses spiralling between the kissing, Peter’s erection grinding against his hip, and the delicious pressure against his own cock.
It’s pretty much inevitable when he decides to give up on all sense of propriety and focus on chasing after his orgasm instead. Some part of Stiles has always found Peter too hot for words, and after months of dancing around each other, he’s not about to turn this down, even if they are in public.
It doesn't take long before he’s coming in his pants, muffling a shout against Peter’s shoulder as his brain goes fuzzy for several long seconds. He feels blunt teeth biting down on the meat of where his neck and shoulder joins, and a moment later, Peter’s hips are stuttering against his, tensing as he also comes with a low rumble of a groan that sounds like Stiles before going lax and effectively trapping Stiles against the car with his body weight.
Their combined panting sounds rather loud in the parking lot, and anybody could see them if they walked this way, but Stiles just had one of his best orgasms to date, and he isn’t in any frame of mind to complain.
“I need a change of clothes,” Stiles mumbles against Peter’s neck.
Peter hums with something a lot like deep satisfaction. “Good; you can borrow mine. Lucky we’re already at my apartment.”
Stiles rolls his eyes and finally pulls away, though he doesn't get far what with Peter still standing mere inches in front of him, one hand still clasping Stiles’ waist while the other brushes a thumb over Stiles’ kiss-swollen bottom lip. A gleam enters Peter’s eyes, and Stiles can’t stop a shiver from running down his spine.
“Lucky my ass,” He musters before his tongue darts out cheekily to lick Peter’s thumb. He grins when the werewolf’s eyes darken with hunger all over again. “You're not fooling anyone, you sneaky wolf.”
He wrinkles his nose next, gingerly shifting his weight. Both of Peter’s hands move down to hold him by the waist, like the man wants to keep Stiles there. Stiles would be all for it, except his boxers are rapidly getting not so comfortable, and there’s always later. “Clothes,” He says pointedly, squirming out of Peter’s grasp. “I’ve gone through your closet before. I want one of those sweats you own; they're really soft. And does this mean I get to raid your underwear drawer too?”
He flicks a glance at Peter, who’s watching him with a quiet sort of smile now that makes Stiles’ ears go pink, but at the same time, it also sends a rush of warmth pooling in his chest. He clears his throat, reminds himself that he sort of has the right now, and without warning, he darts forward to plant a chaste kiss at one corner of Peter’s mouth before ducking away again. He gets a fleeting glimpse of Peter’s startled expression before he scurries off towards the stairs leading up to the werewolf’s apartment.
“Shower, pants,” Stiles calls back over his shoulder. “And then I’ll cook us lun- oof!”
Peter catches up to him in the blink of an eye, one arm snaking around his waist and reeling him in, the other catching his chin, tilting his head up, and drawing him into a far more thorough kiss than the one Stiles gave him, slower this time, languid, but the slick glide of tongues is just as sensual as their first kiss.
When the werewolf finally pulls back, Stiles can’t even reprimand him for looking so pleased with himself what with how dazed Stiles probably looks right now.
“Really?” Stiles huffs hoarsely, but he makes no move to wriggle away from the arm still circling his waist.
“How about we go out for lunch?” Peter suggests as he guides them towards the stairs.
Stiles side-eyes him. “Like usual? Or like, um, like a date?”
Peter chuckles. “Like a date. Although I suppose I should mention this new development to your father sometime soon. Does he have wolfsbane bullets?”
Stiles snorts with laughter. “Yes, yes he does, but don’t worry, my dad’s okay with this. We just talked about it a few days ago.” He coughs. “But, er, no sex until I'm eighteen, which-” He throws a glance over his shoulder in the general direction of the car. Wow, he’s really bad at following rules.
“I’m sure he meant no fourth base until I'm eighteen?” Stiles offers hopefully.
Peter looks positively delighted. “Oh, Stiles,” He outright purrs, nosing along Stiles’ hairline, breathing him in. “I’m sure we can work something out.” A wicked smirk gives Stiles a fleeting glimpse of white fangs. “After all, I don’t have to fuck you to take you apart.”
Stiles is more than onboard with that proposition, especially when Peter joins him in the shower later. They even manage to keep it to a handjob each, if only because they want to go out in time for a late lunch.