Peter stretches his arm over his head, feeling satisfied and relaxed. His other arm is around Stiles, whose head is resting on Peter’s chest. Late afternoon shafts of sunlight drift across the wall with the movement of the curtains in the breeze from the open window. It’s as close to perfection as anything could be, Peter thinks.
Stiles’s forefinger traces Peter’s skin, over his pecs and down to the hair on his belly and then back up again. He does that sort of thing a lot. Sometimes it’s after sex, sometimes they’re fully clothed. He’ll tap his fingers along Peter’s arm, or run his hand up and down his thigh, or take a curl at the base of Peter’s neck and wind it around his finger over and over, like he’s using Peter to stim.
It had almost felt like too much at first, after Peter had gone years with limited physical contact outside of sex. He’d had to learn how to be touched like this again, without any intent behind it, just contact for contact’s sake. Now he has to hold back the rumbling purr that threatens to overtake him when Stiles does this.
“Peter?”
“Yes pet?”
“I want to tell you something, but before I tell you, I just need you to know I’m only telling you because I want you to know, not because I expect you to do something about it.”
“Okay,” Peter says. He’d be nervous, but Stiles smells content and unbothered. It’s probably nothing serious.
“Okay,” Stiles says, sounding determined. His finger stops its path, and he rests his hand on Peter’s stomach instead, taking a deep breath before continuing. “I love you. I love you so fucking much. And not even in a romantic way. I mean, probably that too, but like, I love you. You’re smart and funny and awesome and my best friend. I could live without you, but I really don’t fucking want to ever again. Anyway, I just thought you should know.”
The words hit Peter like a freight train. How long has it been since anyone has said they love him? How long has it been since someone has loved him at all? Derek did once, and maybe he does still, but he’s not sure. He hasn’t been sure of anything like that in a long time.
“Hey,” Stiles says, uncharacteristically soft. He’s lifted his head to look at Peter now, his eyebrows drawn down in concern.
And that’s when Peter realizes he’s crying, tears running down to trickle into his ears. Well, that’s embarrassing. Maybe it’s not so embarrassing with Stiles though, who is wiping Peter’s tears away with his thumb while he peppers his jaw with kisses murmuring “it’s okay it’s okay it’s okay.”
Peter sniffs, pulls himself together. “Sorry,” he says, trying to muster some dignity.
“My dad says real men cry,” Stiles says with a little smirk. “You okay?”
“Yes.” He’s better than okay. He pulls Stiles into a real kiss, licking into his mouth to taste him, fingers clenched in his hair.
“I love you too,” Peter says, once they come up for air.
“I know,” Stiles says. He looks smug. “I would have known even if you never said it, but it’s nice to hear it.”
Peter feels another rush of emotion, but he’s not going to cry anymore, so he just buries his nose in Stiles’s hair and says, “Yes it is.”
(Bingo entry for Writer's Pride Month Bingo 2025 - Coming Out)
--------
“Are you lost, little lamb?” Peter purrs from the open doorway, one arm leaning intimidatingly against the door frame.
Stiles realizes his mistake the moment Peter’s lips curl into a sinister smirk, but he can’t back down now that he’s finally found the courage to take the elevator all the way up. It’s no surprise that Peter lives in the building’s penthouse, but Stiles is still generally awestruck by the elaborate wall sconces that light the hallway leading to Peter’s front door. “You’re the last person I’d ever think to ask this, but I don’t exactly have anyone else who’d be so…willing. I think.”
A curious brow cocks itself on Peter’s forehead. “Should I be so honored being your last resort, then? Or do you plan on turning with your tail between your legs now that you’ve arrived?” He steps aside, nodding towards the inside of his apartment, and for a second, Stiles heavily debates leaving. There’s no reason he can’t just find someone else - some random person - to help him out, but he’s already here, and Stiles figures asking wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.
All Peter has to do is say no, and then he’s out of there. First, though, he has to step inside - which he does after Peter shifts in the doorway, stepping away just enough that they wouldn’t risk rubbing up against one another while passing through. Inside is just as grandiose and fancy as the hallway and lobby downstairs, but the simple furniture and casual design are very Peter.
“Beacon Hills is a small town, and there aren’t many people I could ask, but - ” He probably rambles on for too long, but Peter doesn’t seem to be in a hurry.
Only when Stiles starts to repeat himself does he interrupt. “I’d love to watch you dance in circles around the point all day, but I think it’d be more beneficial if you tell me what exactly it is you need from - ”
“K-kiss me.” The words blurt themselves out. Stiles refuses to take responsibility for them now that he’s said them. Or rather, barked them, at Peter. “I - I need, no - I was thinking - uhm - fuck, I need to f-figure some things out and I can’t ask Derek or - shit - definitely not Scott.”
The amusement on Peter’s face is slowly draining, and Stiles can see his mistake even more clearly. It was dumb, so dumb to think he could come here and ask this of Peter Hale. Why? Why did he-?
“You came all the way here to ask me to kiss you?” His eyes squint, as if he’s trying to really focus on what Stiles is saying. His scrutinizing gaze is enough to make his face flush - heat rising as rapid levels of embarrassment fill him up from toe to tip of ear.
Stiles quickly mumbles an apology and makes for the door, but he only gets two steps in before Peter grabs him by the arm and tugs him around to face him again. “Just forget about it, dude.” He wants to leave, too busy mentally kicking himself over and over to realize that Peter has stepped into his space. It’s too late to pull back now.
Peter’s mouth is already on his, lips soft and gentle as large hands reach up to envelope Stiles’ face - holding him in place. It’s not as if he thinks of going anywhere just yet. He’s still too stunned that this is even happening, but when Peter’s thumbs begin rubbing small circles against his ears, Stiles can feel himself properly melting into the heat of it all.
He reaches up to grip Peter’s arms, worried he might fall as his knees begin to shake, but it seems to set Peter off. A rumble starts in his chest, a low hum as he licks his tongue along the tight seal of Stiles’ lips. It’s his mistake again when he opens his mouth to tell Peter to wait, only to have that dangerous tongue delve inside and shut him up.
It’s not as if Stiles doesn’t know how to kiss, how to roam his hands on another person’s body - how to deepen the intimacy between him and his partner, but up until now, it’s only been with women his own age. Kissing a twenty-one-year-old is different than kissing someone in their thirties. At least, that’s the age he’s going with for Peter. The wolf has never been clear just exactly how old he is.
Peter has quite the skill over Stiles here, but Stiles isn’t complaining. Only when Peter pulls back does he make a sound in protest, a soft noise from the back of his throat as he tries to chase Peter’s lips. “You - you just did it without asking why?”
“Do I need a reason?”
Something pinches in Stiles’ chest. His heart already feels like it’s going to erupt from his body, but now it feels more like he can’t quite breathe. “And it doesn’t bother you that - ” He tries to collect himself, his mind already beginning to numb in an effort to disassociate from this awkward conversation.
Peter tilts his head a little, waiting patiently until it’s obvious that Stiles isn’t going to finish the question. “That you’re a man? No,” He shrugs. “It doesn’t matter to me, as long as I can feel good whilst doing it.”
Stiles stands there in front of him, words forming in his throat - threatening to bubble up. He wants to say them, to unload this burden that’s been weighing him down for a while, but they’re just lodged inside him. Burning a hole.
“I can kiss you again, if you think that would help, Stiles.”
His name on Peter’s lips makes the pinching feel worse, because while he desperately wants to kiss Peter again, he’s not sure if it’ll hold all the answers he’s looking for. “Help me with what?”
Shrugging, Peter crowds the space before him again, budging Stiles up against the wall near the door. “With whatever it is you need help with.” Stiles’ back hits the wall, his hands pressed flat on the solid surface. He can’t keep his eyes from flitting between Peter’s gaze, trying to find the joke somewhere in that head of his. There is none. Peter’s always been an enigma to Stiles, but right now he seems like the safest place.
Peter shouldn’t have noticed. The stumble wasn’t putting him in mortal danger. The fight was over. Peter hadn’t kept close track of him during it either; if there was anyone from the pack he trusted in a fight, it was Stiles. Not that he really trusted anyone.
But still- Stiles stumbled. And Peter noticed.
He looked sharply him, taking in the exhausted slant to his gait and the blood at his hairline. Peter shifted his stance slightly, getting a better look at his face. Stiles’ eyes were slightly unfocused, lines creasing his forehead.
He stumbled again, and Peter quickly found himself by his side, grabbing his arm before he could fall.
“Woah- thanks dude,” Stiles said. He leaned heavily on Peter for a moment as he dug around in his pocket for keys, brow furrowing more deeply.
This close, Peter could see that there was far more blood than he’d realized, hidden under his dark hair. It was suddenly the only thing he could smell.
“Did you get hit in the head?” he asked, voice tight.
He watched Stiles begin to nod, only to wince and then lean harder on Peter.
“Yeah. Just at the end there.” He finally dug his keys out and stared at them for a minute until Peter plucked them out of his hand.
“First tell me how many trees you see across the parking lot,” he said, fairly sure that no one with that much blood on their head should be driving.
Stiles squinted.
“Four,” he said decisively.
Peter looked at the two trees and nodded.
“You have a concussion.”
“Oh,” Stiles said, eyes still a little unfocused. “Yeah, that makes sense. I think I’m gonna throw up.”
Peter immediately found himself holding Stiles up around the waist as he leaned over the bushes, keeping him from toppling over.
“Where the fuck is McCall?” he growled. Any Alpha, hell, any regular best friend, should have stuck around after the fight to ensure that their only human pack member was alright. Peter’s gut clenched painfully at the stark reminder of just what a pack this wasn’t. The reminder of exactly how much loyalty they didn’t deserve.
Stiles teetered heavily as he tried to stand back up, and Peter ended up keeping an arm wrapped securely around his waist in order to keep them both from falling.
“Scott’s...” he waved a hand as he dismissed the sentence. “Gone. You’re here though.”
“I’m a murderer,” Peter reminded him. “And you’re vulnerable. You should have someone else looking out for you.”
Stiles scoffed.
“Murderer. Yeah, but like- so am I. So is Scott, even if he won’t admit it. Everyone in the pack’s killed someone. Hey, drive me home.”
Peter stared at him.
“Please,” Stiles added belatedly.
“That’s not- nevermind. I’m not driving you home,” Peter said, starting to move them toward the Jeep again.
“C’mon please? I don’t wanna have to sleep this off in the backseat like last time,” Stiles whined.
“Like last- Jesus Christ Stiles, how many concussions have you had because of the pack?!”
Stiles just shrugged. Peter clenched his jaw.
“I’m not taking you home,” he repeated. “I’m taking you to a hospital. You need a CT scan.”
“Ugh, no.”
“Yes.”
“Nnnnnnn,” Stiles said, leaning against the Jeep as Peter unlocked it, “-o.”
“You’re concussed. I’m not arguing with someone whose brain is jelly,” Peter reminded him, arranging him on the passenger seat and fastening the seat belt. By the time he looked up, Stiles’ eyes were closed and he appeared to be asleep. Peter’s throat tightened, and he hurried around to the other side of the car, determined to get to the hospital quickly.
One slightly reckless drive later, Peter supported a woozy Stiles into the E.R., somehow finding himself swept along into the triage room.
“How long has it been since the trauma occurred?” a stern nurse asked, fitting a blood pressure cuff on Stiles’ arm. Peter watched as Stiles just sat silently with a hand over his eyes, and startled when he realized the nurse was asking him.
“About forty five minutes,” he automatically answered.
“Trouble walking?”
“Yes, quite a lot. Nausea, vomiting, double vision-” he listed off the symptoms he’d noticed, hoping that they would be enough to get him in more quickly.
It was.
Despite the fact that that’s what he’d wanted, there was nothing quite as worrying as being rushed back into the ER. Peter continued to be swept along, answering questions from the hospital staff, taking the intake paperwork and finding that he could fill a surprising amount of it.
It wasn’t until he was outside the imaging lab, waiting for Stiles to finish, that he fully realized he didn’t actually belong here. He wasn’t family, wasn’t even a friend really. He was barely a packmate.
Scott should have been doing this. Or Stiles’ father. Or Lydia, or even Malia. What did Peter think he was doing? He should walk away. Find someone else to some instead-
Stiles was wheeled out just as Peter began to pull out his phone. Despite fairly severe hits to his fine motor coordination, Stiles managed to hook a finger in his belt loop as he rolled by, more or less dragging Peter along with him. Peter indignantly protested, but Stiles just smiled for the first time since arriving at the hospital.
The orderly left as soon as she had carefully deposited Stiles back on the bed, assuring them that the doctor would be back soon and dimming the lights in deference to the hour and Stiles’ head. Stiles still had a hold on Peter’s belt loop; the warmth of his hand was burning into Peter’s hip.
Peter realized that he and Stiles were alone for the first time since the Jeep. He cleared his throat.
“I’m going to-”
Stiles cut him off, words less clumsy than they’d been in the parking lot, but still not quite up to his normal cutting speed- not quite as armored as usual.
“Thanks for being here with me.”
Peter looked at him searchingly, but Stiles’ eyes were closed.
“My dad’s out of town, and I wouldn’t trust anyone else to be here with me,” Stiles continued.
“Why?” Peter said before he could stop himself. “Why not someone else? Stiles, I’m not- you shouldn’t trust me. I’m not just a murderer, I’m selfish. I don’t care about anything outside of what’s mine. I’m the last person you should want with you in the hospital.”
Stiles opened his eyes, looking up at Peter.
“What about your pack? Is your pack yours?”
“I don’t have a pack,” Peter replied automatically, but the words felt false. He looked at Stiles silently. Stiles stared back.
“Yeah you do. I trust you Peter. You might rifle through my wallet while I’m passed out, but you wouldn’t abandon your pack.” His grip on Peter’s belt loop tightened, pulling him a little closer. Stiles closed his eyes again. “You’ll stay with me.”
Peter heard confidence in those four words. He wasn’t sure he believed them, but Stiles certainly did.
Carefully, he unhooked Stiles’ fingers from his belt loop, freeing himself.
Then, still holding his hand, Peter’s pulled a chair up next to the bed. He heard Stiles’ breathing begin to even out again, less erratic than when he’d passed out in the car.
The first time he finds Peter Hale in his house with his underage son, John pulls his gun on instinct.
The wolf is leaning against the wall, hands tucked in his pockets, everything about him unassuming, unthreatening.
John didn't buy it for a heartbeat.
Stiles was arguing with Derek and didn't notice his father's entrance or the sudden appearance of his sidearm, and as he took in the scene, took in Stiles loose comfort and lack of tension, he slowly put it away. Before he left, he glanced at Peter.
Ice blue eyes stared back, assessing.
~*~
Derek Hale becomes a fixture at his house, and Peter Hale seems to follow his nephew like a particularly stubborn mosquito. He accepts it. Derek has proven himself dangerous and protective, and John thinks Stiles needs both of those things trailing in his wake, to survive the supernatural shitstorm that never seems to let up.
It doesn’t mean he likes either of the Hales.
Especially when he overhears Peter and Stiles sniping at each other, the way Peter is over the top flirting, the way he laces innuendo with every leering smirk and sarcastic comment.
Stiles always rolls his eyes and shoves Peter aside, and if it makes John’s heart drop, watching his son so carelessly at ease with this dangerous creatures, he keeps that to himself.
~*~
“Get out,” Stiles snarls, and John’s eyebrows go up.
He’s heard Stiles short tempered and irritated, sleepy and amused and fond--but he rarely hears Stiles truly angry and he is.
Right now, he is.
Erica makes a whining noise, before she’s pulled away by Derek, the alpha muttering to the wide eyed, angry wolf.
He moves toward the kitchen and hears Peter. “Stiles,” the ‘wolf murmurs.
“It--it was Mom’s,” Stiles whispers. “I don’t--I know it’s stupid--”
“It’s not, sweetheart,” Peter says, gently, and he hears his son sniffle.
Tears and rage and laughter always linger just under the surface, exposed by the lightest pressure, in his boy, but it’s never failed to make his heart break, listening to Stiles cry.
He leans around the doorframe and his heart aches because Stiles is being held by Peter, and Claudia’s favorite apron is ripped, hanging limp and wrong on it’s hook.
Stiles’ shoulders are shaking and hsi face is hidden in Peter’s chest, but the wolf’s eyes gleam blue, bright with hurt, helpless anger, and John watches him for a long time before he steps away.
He tells himself it’s a pack member caring for another.
He believes it, too.
For now, he believes it.
~*~
Peter is enigmatic, egotistical, sometimes barely sane. He's sharp and cutting and takes more time to care for the pack than anyone.
And sometimes, John catches him watching Stiles.
He’s always known that his son was unique, that it would take a special kind of person to love him. Stiles was loud and abrasive, cruel when it suited and clung with a ferocity that only someone who had experienced deep loss could cling. He was not easy to love, or to be loved by, and John had come to terms with that, early.
Had known that it would be hard for Stiles to find someone in high school who valued him for exactly what he was.
Stilinskis’ loved deep and long, and most of the flighty silly kids in his school would never accept that kind of love.
But when he watched Peter watching Stiles, he thought that maybe Peter saw the wonder and worth in his son.
There is a part of him that hates it, that wants it to be anyone but Peter fucking Hale.
But there is a part of him that is fiercely glad, that someone like Peter fucking Hale would chose Stiles.
~*~
Peter is a killer.
John knows that, knows exactly how far he will go to protect or avenge the people he considers his.
It’s one thing to know and another to see Peter carrying Stiles into his kitchen, his boy limp and unconscious, and Peter bloody, his lips pulled back in a feral snarl.
“You have to put him down,” Derek murmurs, his voice low and soothing, and John isn’t sure how Derek can remain that calm when Peter is shifted and covered in blood and snarling over Stiles’ limp body.
“You have to put him down so we can help him.”
Peter stiffens and John winces as those sharp claws tighten on his boy’s hips and ribs--but then the tension bleeds out of him, and takes the shift with it, and Peter carefully relinquishes his precious charge.
Melissa and Deaton swarm in, and Peter, the wolves, John himself, are bumped aside,
He finds himself next to Peter, watching, gaze never leaving Stiles’ pale face, as they stitch the boy back together.
~*~
It doesn't surprise him, much, anymore, seeing Peter with Stiles.
They fit. He sees other things too--sees the baffled longing in Derek that fades into quiet contentment.
Sees the way Scott watches, anger brewing in his dark eyed.
Sees the way Lydia surveys them like a judgement, quietly pleased.
He sees the way other people in town watch, sharp judgment and wagging tongues and he smiles, because Stiles is vicious when protecting what's his and Peter is.
John isn't sure when he stopped minding.
~*~
Sometimes, he sees something in Peter that scares him.
The icy rage when Stiles is hurt--it reminds him this man who has slipped so carefully into Stiles’ life is a predator who has never hesitated to kill.
He sees it when Stiles is bleeding after tussling with a pair of redcaps and after he's cursed by a witch and after a boy at the Jungle spikes his drink and John doesn't ask what happens to those people.
He doesn't want to know what happens to the idiots who hurt his son.
Especially since Peter is only doing what John would like to do himself.
Still--sometimes he sees that fury in Peter and it’s raging helpless, while Stiles stands still and shattered.
Peter would, John knows, burn the world for Stiles.
He would kill for Stiles and not lose a moment of sleep.
But he won’t do anything to hurt Stiles, and hurting Scott--that would destroy him.
John watches, as Peter chokes back the fury, watches his helpless anger when Stiles is hurt by the boy he calls brother, and he thinks that Peter is a good man.
~*~
He sees Peter when Stiles isn’t paying attention.
The way Peter is always turned toward Stiles, even when he’s doing something else. The way he reacts, instantly, sometimes before even Stiles realizes something will upset him.
The way his gaze goes soft and and helpless, adoration painted clearly on the ‘wolf’s face.
He sees the love, pure and bright and undeniable, that he never expected to see from Peter Hale for his son and when he does, he sighs and thinks--there’s nothing to be done to stop this, to stop them.
Because he sees something else.
~*~
He sees Stiles.
Watching the wolf, wary and hopeful.
He sees Stiles, offering a hesitant hand when no one else will treat him like pack.
He sees Stiles talking to Peter on the phone, a tiny distracted smile on his lips.
He sees the cookbooks Stiles doesn't let anyone look at open while Peter peers over his shoulder.
He sees the way Stiles leans into Peter, when he's exhausted, the way he doesn't flinch away from his touch even when he's hurt. He sees the way he almost preens under that touch.
He sees the way Stiles’ eyes narrow dangerously when someone disparages him and the violent rage that took him when Peter was nearly disemboweled by a harpy.
He sees the way Stiles reaches for Peter without thinking about it, the way his gaze strays to him when he is lost in thought.
He sees a smile, small and helpless that makes his heart ache, and he closes his eyes because it's what he always wanted for Stiles.
John wanted Stiles to love someone as much as he loved Claudia and he watches Stiles smile at Peter the way Claudia smiled at him--and he knows his boy has found that kind of love.
~*~
When he sees Stiles, half asleep and leaning on Peter, a vivid bruise on his throat and his lips swollen and pink--and he sees Peter, his gaze guarded as he watches the Sheriff from Stiles bed, his hands possessive as he soothes the boy back to sleep--
John nods, and says quietly, “Take care of him.”
He doesn’t need to hear Peter say he will. He can already see it.
Summary: Stiles and Peter from the POV of an onlooker
On AO3
This was meant to be a 5 +1 type thing, but then it kind of got away from me. But ya, this is basically just fluff and crack.
*****
Claire let out a sound of frustration, looking between the three packages of pasta in their hands. One said whole grain, one said whole wheat and the other said multigrain. They just wanted a healthier option, but with there being so many options, they were so lost. Pasta was a cheap option that they could afford on their college student budget, but they didn't know the difference between all of the kinds of pasta in front of them. How were they supposed to know if what they were eating was actually healthy?
Claire grumbled again, about to just give up and buy ramen. They've survived two years on it so far, they could probably go for another two. If they kept pushing themself how they were now and graduated early like they wanted, that would be even less time their body had to keep running on ramen. Which was just another motivator to keep going.
Just as they were about to put the pasta packages down, a guy came walking down the aisle, pushing a grocery cart filled to the brim. The way he was looking around made it look like he was looking for something, and from the look on his face, he wasn't finding it.
His eyes looked a little crazy, clearly having been looking for whatever it is for a while. His short brown locks were pointing in every which way as if he had just rolled out of bed or had been pulling on it an awful lot. And he had the sleeve of his red flannel caught between his teeth, which Claire was sure would start fraying soon is he kept it up.
The guy dropped the sleeve from his mouth, starting to mumble as he did so. Claire couldn't hear about what exactly, but they picked up on a few words like "stupid wolf," and "needs a damn tracker." Finally, he stopped walking, looking resigned as he rolled his eyes and let out a sudden shout.
"Marco!"
Claire was about ready to call the looney bin, cause the guy, although extremely cute, seemed a little bonkers. But then, from somewhere in the store, the distant reply of "polo" was heard. The guy tilted his head as if assessing the direction that it came from, before his face fell into a glare. Then he turned to Claire, pointing a finger at them.
"That came from the wine aisle didn't it?"
Claire thought about it, and yes, it did sound like that was the direction it came from. They gave him a nod, not really knowing how else to respond to him. His glare hardened, moving to start walking in that direction, before he stopped again and turned back to Claire.
"What are you making?"
Claire blinked a couple times, completely lost on the guys thought process.
"What?"
"The pasta. What are you making?"
"Oh! Uh, I found a recipe for a creamy Caprese pasta."
The guy nodded, taking the multi wheat and whole-grain packages from their hand and putting them back on the shelf.
"Get the whole wheat one. If you're trying to be healthier, never use multigrain, unless it specifically says whole multigrain. There are no standardized regulations or definitions for the label multigrain, so it can be added to any packaging as long as the food inside it contains more than one type of cereal grain. Something can be multigrain and still be processed, bleached, or refined in a way that removes any real nutritional value.
"The whole wheat label means the wheat in that product hasn't been refined so healthy components like endosperm and bran are left intact. Unrefined products also have many more nutrients like B vitamins and trace metals like iron, zinc, and copper. This isn't to be confused with things that say they contain a hundred percent wheat, that only means it's completely made of wheat, not that said wheat is unprocessed. Along the same lines, something labeled whole grain is made of unrefined cereal, like barley, rice, oats, or flax.
"So just make sure to read your packaging and nutritional facts, some companies like to be sneaky with their wording so you assume you're eating something healthy."
As he was saying all this, the guy flipped over the pasta package in Claire's hands, pointing at the things they should be looking at. Claire just blinked a couple of times, trying to take in that knowledge vomit.
"Um, thank you. That's actually really helpful."
"No problem, I hope you enjoy your pasta. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go stop my husband from buying ten bottles of wine when we already have so many at home."
And with that the guy pushed his shopping cart out of the aisle, heading towards the wine. As he was leaving they could hear him, although the whole store could probably hear him as he wasn't being too quiet, talking.
"Peter Michael Stilinksi-Hale! I swear to gods, if you have more than two bottles in your hands, I'm letting Scott pick what's for dinner for a week!"
Claire just shook their head, a faint smile on their face, as they placed the whole wheat pasta in their cart. Maybe eating cheap healthy food wouldn't be too hard.
They saw the guy again when they were checking out, this time accompanied by who they assumed was his husband. Peter, if they remember correctly. They noted a few things. One, that there were, in fact, three bottles of wine in their cart, two, the guy was very aggressively and angrily placing his items onto the conveyer belt, and three, Peter had a very smug look on his face.
Finally, after everything was on the belt, and they were just waiting for the cashier to ring it all up, Peter slinked (yes, slinked) over to the pasta guy. He turned him around so they were facing each other, wrapping one arm around the guy's waist, and using the other to cup the guy's cheek. There was so much love in Peter's eyes, Claire almost felt ashamed for watching and intruding in on that moment.
He didn't say anything, and neither did pasta guy, they just looked at each other. After a moment though, the guy broke and gave Peter a small, private smile. He brought his arms up, wrapping them around Peter's neck, before placing a chaste, but clearly, heartfelt kiss to his lips. Peter smiled too, rubbing circles into the guy's cheek with his thumb.
"I love you, Stiles."
(Stiles! Finally a name, now they can stop calling him pasta guy in their head.)
"I love you too, moja miłość."
Stiles pecked Peter's lips again, before turning to pay for their groceries. Peter stayed wrapped around him though, pressed firmly to Stiles' back with his arms wrapped around his waist. They were clearly truly in love, which made Claire happy. It wasn't too often you saw true connections like that, ones that will last for a lifetime and then some. They could only hope to have something like that someday.
"Scott is still picking dinner for the next week though, dear."
Peter visibly deflated, a scowl falling onto his face. He just sighed though, obviously too stubborn to back down.
"Yes, sweetheart, whatever you say."
Stiles smirked, twisting his arm back to pat Peter on the head, which Peter playfully snipped at Stiles' fingers in return. Claire sighed longingly, handing over their debit card to the cashier as they watched them walk out, hand in hand.
This was not how Stiles had planned on spending his Halloween. He’d planned on handing out candy to kids in between watching a marathon of the Scream movies and eating his own weight in candy. He’d been excited about that plan all week.
Instead he’s finally dragging his butt back to his place at nearly midnight, exhausted from hours of stumbling his way through the woods with the pack, tracking squirmy wormy creatures that he is immediately bleaching from his brain. There’s got to be a spell for that, right? If he has to have nightmares about giant earthworm-esq flesh-eating creatures now he’s going to lose his mind.
He’s getting a much-needed glass of water from the kitchen when the doorbell rings. That better not be anyone needing him. He would very much like nobody to ever need him ever again thank you very much.
He peers cautiously through the peephole of the door, and raises his eyebrows when he sees it’s Peter. He was actually out helping tonight, something he’s been doing more and more, much to Stiles’s surprise, but he took off while the rest of them were still standing around talking after they’d finished killing the last worm thingy.
“Trick or treat,” Peter says quietly when Stiles opens the door.
“I actually have lots of treats,” Stiles says grumpily, pointing to the full bowl of candy by the door, “Which is lucky for you because if you tried to pull a trick on me right now, I would end you.”
“I actually have a treat for you,” Peter says. He holds out a pumpkin, and when Stiles takes it, he realizes it’s carved out of wood, and he can see a line where the top comes off. He opens the pumpkin and finds it full of exquisitely wrapped chocolates.
“Specialty Swiss chocolates,” Peter says. “I think you’ll like them.”
Stiles sets the pumpkin down carefully beside his bowl of candy, and unwraps a piece. It turns out to be a coffee flavored truffle that melts perfectly on his tongue. His shoulders relax as he savors it.
“Feeling better?” Peter asks.
Stiles smiles, and finds himself pulling Peter through the door by his soft lavender sweater.
“Definitely better,” he says. He should let go of the sweater. He’s not done more than wash his hands yet, and he’s still grimy from his time out in the woods, unlike Peter who smells good and looks perfectly put together. He doesn’t let go though.
“Why’d you bring me this?”
“Because I like you,” Peter says easily. He’s said it so many times by now, in so many different tones, Stiles doesn’t know why he didn’t really get it until now.
“Oh, you like me,” he says. “Like me in the way that makes you show up at my door on holidays with nice things for me.”
Peter’s smile is dazzling. “You’re finally getting it.”
Stiles feels a little light-headed, but mostly happy. “If I weren’t disgusting right now, I’d kiss you,” he admits.
“You should kiss me anyway,” Peter says.
So Stiles does. He doesn’t have to lean in very far, having never moved back more than a few inches since he pulled Peter through the door. When their lips meet it feels as natural as breathing. He can’t believe he didn’t do this sooner. What was he thinking?
“Will you stay?” He asks, after a few minutes of luxurious kissing. “I need a shower, and honestly I’m way too beat to do much more than sleep, but I…I’d like you to stay.”
“Of course I’ll stay,” Peter promises. He kisses Stiles one more time before sending him off to shower.
So okay, this isn’t how Stiles envisioned his Halloween, but maybe it wasn’t so bad after all.
A little something for @steterweek Doesn’t exactly fit the prompt, but the spirit is there ;)
Stiles looks down at the book in front of him, biting his plush pink lips. His long lashes flutter against his cheeks when he blinks. The thumb and forefinger of one hand caress the corner of the page he’s reading, back and forth, back and forth.
All these things, Peter can handle. He’s had time to adjust to how maddeningly pretty Stiles is, his big eyes and long lashes and that mouth, the way he can’t keep his hands to himself.
As tempting as all these things are, what’s caught Peter’s attention right now is Stiles playing with the long hair by his ear, twisting a curl around his finger. Because Stiles’s hair is long enough to do that now. Stiles’s hair is curling gently around his ears and down his neck and it’s driving Peter wild.
His boy looks even softer, even prettier this way. And there he goes again, thinking about Stiles as “his” when he really has no right to at all. God he wants that right.
He jerks at a hand on his arm. It’s Derek, grabbing his arm and dragging him out of his seat, down the hallway to the study.
“Would you just talk to him,” Derek says, once he’s closed the door. His arms are folded across his chest, and he has his most judgmental eyebrows in full play. “I’m sick of watching you pine after him like some lovesick teenager. Either get over it or ask him out already.”
Peter snorts. “Fine talk coming from you.”
“Hey, only one of us has a partner here, and it’s not you,” Derek says smugly.
“Yes, because she asked you,” Peter says, not willing to give up the fight.
“Oh so you expect Stiles to ask you? Stiles, the kid who somehow still doesn’t think he’s attractive? The one who regularly jokes about being single forever? The one who still hasn’t figured out after a year that you’re basically courting him? That Stiles?”
He won’t admit it out loud, but his nephew might have a point. God he hates when Derek’s right. “What if he says no?” Peter asks, and maybe he’s hoping that Derek knows something he doesn’t, will assure him that Stiles wants him. He doesn’t.
“Then you can deal with it and get on with your life. Do you really want to waste another year pining over him when maybe he could be yours?”
Derek’s made two good points in a row. The universe must be out of alignment. “Fine. I’ll talk to him,” he grits out.
“See that you do,” Derek says, sounding almost exactly like his mother. Peter’s heart aches, even in the midst of his annoyance.
“What was that about?” Stiles asks when Peter gets back to the dining room.
Peter holds out his hand instead of answering. “Come for a walk with me?”
Stiles tilts his head, looking like an adorable puppy, trying to figure Peter out. Eventually, he takes the offered hand, and doesn’t let go as they walk out of the house, down the steps, and out into the forest.
Peter lets himself soak in the moment, listening to the sounds of the trees and Stiles’s heartbeat. Stiles’s hand in his feels warm and comfortable. He wants to live this moment a thousand times in the years to come.
“You’re not like, dying or anything, right?” Stiles asks after some time. “You’re kind of freaking me out dude.”
Peter can’t help it, he laughs. His intentions being horribly misread is exactly how this would go with Stiles, isn’t it? They’ve been that way since the beginning.
“No, sweetheart,” he says once his laughter has calmed, “I’m in love with you.”
“Oh,” Stiles says. His heart speeds up, but he sounds calm when he says, “I thought you might be? But you’re really hard to read.”
Peter’s stomach drops. “You don’t feel the same?” He asks. They’re still walking, still facing forward. Stiles hasn’t let go of his hand at least, so there’s that.
“Of course I do,” Stiles says. “I’m absolutely crazy about you.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Peter asks.
“Why didn’t you? You’re the one with the super sense of smelling. I figured you knew how I felt, and if you didn’t say anything, you must not want me. I didn’t want to ruin our friendship by bringing it up.”
“Not want you?” Peter does stop then, touches Stiles’s cheek softly, reverently. “How could I not want you, you gorgeous, brilliant, amazing boy.”
Stiles’s smile is small but delighted, his eyes dance. “Why now?”
“It’s this goddamn hair,” Peter says, reaching up to tug at a strand. It’s soft. His fingers linger.
Stiles laughs. “This hair really does it for you, huh?”
“Like you wouldn’t believe.”
“What if I told you that I’ve imagined you pulling on it while I…um…you know,” Stiles says, suddenly shy.
“I’d probably have to kiss you.”
“You should definitely kiss me then. Because I’ve imagined it. A lot.”
“Oh really?” Peter says, pulling Stiles up against his body.
“So many times,’ Stiles says, nearly touching their lips together. “Other things too,” he adds, brushing his nose against Peter’s. “Filthy, filthy things. I’ve been a very naughty boy, Peter.”
Peter kisses him then, a kiss that Stiles quickly turns wet and messy in the best way, the sweetest moans falling from his lips.
“You’ll be mine?” Peter says, feeling a little drunk on his boy already.
“I’ve been yours for a very long time,” Stiles says.
The walk back to the house is slow and meandering, their hearts as intertwined as their hands as they share confessions and secret wishes and hopes. Peter can’t wait to be absolutely insufferable to be around, sickeningly in love. It’s going to be wonderful.
14. "Are you sure? Once we start, I might not be able to stop."
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“I want more,” Stiles says. He swallows, and he swears it sounds like a gunshot in the quiet room.
Peter raises an eyebrow. “More?”
“I’m a feelings guy. I told you that the first time you shoved your hand down my pants, but you were so sure you could change me. You seemed to think if we never did it in a bed, if it was always rough enough, if you were enough of a dick to me when we weren’t having sex, then somehow I’d turn into a casual sex guy. Well, you were wrong.”
”So you don’t want to have sex with me anymore,” Peter says flatly. Stiles sees a flicker of disappointment in his eyes though. It makes him think suddenly and viscerally of that time in the parking garage when he said no to the bite.
“That’s the thing though. I don’t want that with someone else, I want it with you.” He gives a short, bitter laugh. “I know, I think it’s crazy too, but I’ve been gone on you since I was sixteen, dude. It was a terrible idea then, and it’s a terrible idea now, but you know me, something being a terrible idea has never been enough to stop me.”
Peter gives a slight smile at that, but he’s still looking at Stiles intently, as if he can read his mind if he looks hard enough. “You never said you were interested in me like that,” he says finally.
“Can you blame me? You’ve never once indicated that you wanted anything more than to get in my pants. Very “creepy uncle vibes”, not boyfriend material.”
“So why are you bringing it up now?”
Very good question, and while Stiles has an answer, he’s still wishing he could just crawl into a hole and die instead of being this vulnerable with Peter. “Because I want you to fuck me like you love me.”
Peter’s mouth opens like he’s going to say something, but Stiles stops him with a raised hand.
“I’m not saying you have to actually love me, I just want you to pretend for once. You’re a good actor, I know you can do it. Derek told me you were in every school play by the way, amazing stuff, but I’ll tease you about that later. I want to have sex with you in a bed. I want you not to hurt me at all, not that I mind that generally, but I wanna be treated like a fucking delicate prince this time. I want you to fuck me slow and deep and kiss me and gaze into my fucking eyes like you’ve never wanted anything more than me. And if you want me to keep fucking you, you might have to give me that every once in awhile because sometimes I need a second to pretend I’m getting what I actually want for once in my life.”
He feels extremely winded and flushed and embarrassed when he’s done with his little speech, but at least he said it. He has no idea what Peter’s going to do. He may indulge him, or he may throw him out of his apartment, or he may try to just roughly molest him up against the wall to see if he can get him to shut up. Frankly, he usually likes the unpredictability of Peter’s responses, but tonight he’s wishing he could know which way this is going to go.
Peter tilts his head and studies him for a moment, then he steps into Stiles’s space. “Okay.”
”Okay?” Stiles squeaks.
”Okay,” Peter repeats, and then he kisses him.
This is not like any kiss they’ve had before. They don’t kiss that often to begin with, Peter’s attempts to keep it casual, Stiles suspects, but when they do it’s usually hard and biting.
This is not that at all. Peter’s hand cups Stiles’s face, and the other one scratches softly through his hair, and his tongue explores Stiles’s mouth in a way that is thorough but gentle.
Jesus, Stiles’s knees are already weak, threatening to give out on him until Peter drops his arm and wraps it around his waist, pulling Stiles in closer.
“Fuck,” Stiles whispers when Peter finally lets him up for a breath. He’s trembling all over just from one kiss. This might kill him.
“C’mon,” Peter says. His voice is softer that Stiles has ever heard it, and he twines their fingers together to lead Stiles back to the bedroom.
Stiles looks down at their joined hands and tries to get his brain to comprehend that he’s holding hands with Peter Hale. It feels way too nice.
Peter strips him slowly of his clothing, then lays him down on the bed. He easily props himself up on his elbows, and hovers over Stiles’s body, the fabric of his shirt dragging tantalizingly across Stiles’s belly.
“Are you sure?” Peter asks after staring down at Stiles for an uncomfortably long moment. “Once we start, I might not be able to stop.”
Stiles’s forehead wrinkles in confusion. “What? What does that mean?
”It means if you let me make love to you, dear boy, I might never stop.”
”I-“ Stiles’s brain is flashing an error signal. He’s missed something. What is happening? He shakes his head against the pillow, tring to clear it, trying to form words. He finally settles on, “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying,” Peter says slowly, like he’s trying to explain something to a very stupid person, “That I didn’t have sex with you like that because I was trying to convince you to be casual, I did it because I thought you wouldn’t want me any other way. You were, by your own admission, a ‘feelings guy’ and you did not have feelings for me.”
”I didn’t say that,” Stiles protests.
”True, but I’d always assumed, what with the way you kept wishing for my death and saying how I couldn’t be trusted and all,” Peter says.
“I didn’t want you dead. I was trying to stop being into you!”
Peter dips down to graze his nose along Stiles’s neck. “Well, I know that now, but you were very convincing at the time.”
Stiles’s head is reeling. He clutches at Peter’s arms and tries to make sense of it all.
“So what I’m saying,” Peter continues in between light kisses and nips at Stiles’s neck and jaw, “Is that if you let me make love to you now, you may never again get that rough sex I know you like, because I will be too busy worshipping you and telling you how much I adore you every second we’re in bed together.”
“Adore?” Stiles says, his brain still only partially working.
Peter gets off him, and pulls Stiles up and into an awkward embrace then, kissing him with a tenderness that leaves him gasping. “Adore, Worship.” He traces a finger over Stiles’s collar bone, and then down to his wrist. “Do you know why I offered to bite you here?”
”Convenience?” Stiles guesses.
“No, because I didn’t want you to be my beta. I wanted you to be my equal. My mate.”
Stiles’s eyes widen, he feels almost dizzy with all the new information he’s having to process tonight.
“Have I scared you off yet?” Peter asks. He sounds wry, but Stiles can see the genuine fear shining through.
“Not even a little,” he assures him. He leans forward to kiss Peter again, curling his hand around his neck. Peter gives a small, contented sigh, and Stiles is suddenly brought fully back into his body, into what’s really happening here. He gets to have this. Not just for a night, not pretend. Well…”You’re not just acting really well right now, right? Don’t mess with me, Peter.” He’s not even ashamed of how near panic he sounds at the idea that this might be some kind of method acting on Peter’s part.
“Absolutely not. I would never do that to you,” Peter assures him, petting soothingly along his back.
“Fuck,” Stiles says. The relief and joy that course through him are overwhelming in the best way. “Then you need to get undressed right now, because I need you to make good on those promises.”
Peter listens, and soon he’s back in bed, wonderfully naked, fingers already wet with lube and stretching Stiles open. That sensation is certainly not new to Stiles, but the way Peter’s looking at him is. The mask has been stripped away, and in its place is a bare adoration that has Stiles leaking against his stomach and feeling hot all over.
“You really love me,” Stiles says, full of awe. He hadn’t mean to say love. They’ve used a lot of words tonight, but love isn’t one of them.
Peter doesn’t hesitate though. “I really do,” he says, leaning down to kiss him again.
Stiles laughs. “We are so stupid. Oh my god. I can’t believe we spent all that time pretending we didn’t like each other.”
Peter looks slightly chagrined at the reminder. “Yes,” he says tightly, “for two smart men, we were remarkably stupid in that regard.”
Stiles pets Peter’s cheek. “Aw, don’t be mad, baby. We’ll just have to make up for lost time.
Peter’s eyes flutter closed at the soft contact, and Stiles is perhaps a little mad too now, because he thinks Peter needed the affection and the closeness as much as he did all that time.
Oh well, there’s no use wishing they’d done things differently. Right now, he can have this, and he doesn’t want to waste it thinking about what could have been. He welcomes Peter between his legs, sinks the pads of his fingers into Peter’s perfect back while Peter’s cock sinks into his hole.
“You always feel so good,” Stiles tells him, ‘Every fucking time. I never get tired of the way it feels when you’re inside of me.”
Peter sucks on his throat, stays still inside him. “Someday you’re going to warm my cock,” Peter says finally. “Would you like that? Would you like me to stay inside you while we watch a movie? Or to sit on my cock while I make phone calls?”
”Mmm, yes please,” Stiles moans out. He arches a little, and squeezes down on the cock inside him. Not because he needs Peter to do anything, but because he needs to move himself, needs to let his body feel everything or he might burst right out of it.
It’s not just that the thought of warming Peter’s cock is hot, it’s the reminder that the scenarios Peter is talking about aren’t just sexual. There’s a layer of domesticity to them—that he and Stiles would be watching a movie together, that Stiles would be hanging out in his office with him while he makes phone calls. All the relationship things they never did while they were trying to hide their feelings from each other.
He can picture himself getting fucked over the counter before he and Peter sit down and have a meal together, and it’s making him so hard it’s nearly painful.
“Peter!” He says, and it’s like all the desperation and hope and love boiling up inside of him burst out with that one word.
Peter begins to move, every thrust slow, but deep. “You will be mine in every way,” Peter promises, his lips brushing Stiles’s ear.
“Can’t wait to go grocery shopping with you at your dumb expensive grocery store,” Stiles says.
Peter laughs, the sound muffled as he buries his face against Stiles’s neck.
Stiles smiles too, because it’s a ridiculous thing to say, especially out loud to Peter, who hasn’t been inside his head this whole time and lacks context.
Maybe he doesn’t need it though because he says, “You really get off on the idea of us doing couple things together, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” Stiles admits.
“I can’t say I fully understand it, but I…I like it. I like that you feel that way.”
“Good.” Stiles wraps his legs around Peter and drags him deeper. They don’t say anything for awhile. They kiss and they touch and their skin gets warm and slick against each other. Stiles can feel his orgasm slowly building, but he’s in no rush. Peter feels too good. Everything feels too good.
Peter has the benefit of constant friction against his cock, so he gets close first. Stiles gently scrapes his nails down Peter’s back, coming to rest on his ass, where he loves to feel the muscles bunching under his fingers as Peter speeds up his thrusts.
“That’s it, babe,” he murmurs, “Come inside me. Wanna feel you.” God, he’s never gotten to hold Peter like this, never gotten to gaze up at him like this, to watch everything play across his face. The flashing blue eyes. The slight hint of fang. The reminder of who and what he’s with only makes him hotter, happier.
Peter’s head drops down as he fills him up, and Stiles pets his hair. “You’re perfect for me,” Stiles says, because Peter isn’t perfect, but he thinks he might be perfect for him.
He hasn’t come yet, but this is nice, just making out while Peter slowly slips out of him. But then Peter slides down his body and takes Stiles’s cock into his mouth while his fingers play with his messy hole, and holy wow, that’s nice too.
He comes down Peter’s throat with a sharp cry, fingers tangled in Peter’s hair, holding him to himself until he can’t take it anymore.
After a few minutes, Peter rolls to the side and pulls Stiles with him to rest against his chest.
Stiles is blissed out, but of course his brain never stops rolling things around. “You said you don’t get off on the domestic stuff like I do. What do you like to think about when it comes to us? Besides the sex of course, we both already know that’s going to be good.”
“Power couple,” Peter says immediately. “We already work well together, but if we’re not at each other’s throats anymore? Oh darling, the things we can do.”
“World domination?” Stiles says, grinning.
”Maybe not,” Peter replies, “But people will know who we are. Everywhere.”
Stiles lets his mind wander, mixes his visions of domestic bliss in with him and Peter building an empire, taking down threats before they become a danger, being feared and admired. “I could be into that,” he says.
