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“Close your mouth, Stiles,” Peter drawls. “You wouldn’t want any flies getting in.”
Stiles rolls his eyes. “Seriously?”
Peter crosses his arms, otherwise unruffled. “Too soon?”
Way too soon, Stiles thinks, but walking into Peter’s apartment for the first time was a shock.
“I was expecting more of a Dungeons and Dragons theme to your décor. Minus the dragons. Maybe a taxidermied animal on the mantle.”
“My nephew’s the urban minimalist,” Peter says, circling. “I like to be comfortable.”
Stiles would feel totally comfortable in this place if it wasn’t for the former alpha turned reanimated-pain-in-the-ass standing too close. Instead of being compulsively organized or hauntingly bare, there are books stacked on the coffee table facing a large leather couch, frames and sundries on hardwood shelves lining the mocha-painted walls. The only word that Stiles can think of to describe it is den.
“I thought you were going to ignore my offer.” Peter’s eye-contact is so steady, Stiles’ hands begin to feel clammy. “But here you are.”
The invitation Stiles received was nothing more than a text message with an address from a blocked number. He knew it was from Peter, but he left the message on his phone for two weeks before he Googled the address and discovered the building downtown where Peter lived.
“Why do you keep this place a secret?”
“I don’t think my neighbors would appreciate a revolving door of high school students coming and going at all hours.”
“But werewolves are okay?”
Peter grins. “There’s nothing in the bylaws against superior beings.”
“I bet there’s a line or two about violent dog breeds.”
Stiles catches a glimpse of a sharp canine when Peter snarls. A warm rush floods through him.
“Are you planning on turning me in to management?” Peter asks. “After everything I’ve done for you?”
That list wouldn’t fill a Post-it, but Stiles decides against that particular taunt. As amusing as it is, he’s not here to argue.
Stiles sinks into the extravagant couch and waits for Peter to ask why he’s here. He knew he’d end up here eventually, but the whole emotional recovery from extreme trauma thing didn’t leave him with much free time. And he loves Scott, his friends, his dad, but they’ve been hovering. The reinforcement was great for a while but he needed something else. That something came to Stiles this morning while he was brushing his teeth.
Peter Hale.
As soon as he realized what that meant, Stiles thought it might just be easier and less painful to put his forehead through the mirror. Come to think of it, he probably should have texted someone to let them know where he was going.
“There’s a reason I don’t have many visitors, Stiles.”
“I bet it gets really awkward serving hors d’oeuvres to the people you’ve tried to kill.”
“Still sore about that?” Peter lays his arm over the back of the couch. “How many times will I have to apologize?”
“Once would be nice,” Stiles grumbles.
“Then I’d better save it for a special occasion.”
This is why Stiles came: Peter’s snark is chicken soup for Stiles’ soul. That means the close-fitting grey henley Peter’s wearing is like hot chocolate, but that’s not the point. Peter won’t coddle him or make excuses for what he’s done.
Maybe it’s out of respect for Stiles, or perhaps Peter’s just that big of a bastard, but Stiles needs to be around the one person who won’t tell him it’s okay; who won’t insist that it wasn’t really you, Stiles. As many times as he’s heard both, it’s done nothing to assuage the guilt. Time might. That, point blank honesty, and a diversion.
“Since you won’t apologize, I won’t thank you for helping Scott and Lydia break me out of my own head.”
“My motives were purely selfish, I assure you.”
“I know,” Stiles concedes, but he’s not here to talk about that either.
“Does this mean you’ll trust me from now on?”
Stiles shakes his head. “You can’t un-ring the murder bell. Once a villain, always a villain.”
Peter holds his hands out. “Villain? It just sounds so…”
“Accurate?” Stiles offers. “Totally on point?”
“So silly,” Peter concludes. Somehow, in the space of a few heartbeats, the space between them has shrunk to a few feet. “But now I understand why you’re here. I’m actually flattered, Stiles.”
He’s not surprised Peter figured it out so quickly.
“Well, you shouldn’t be,” he responds, focused on the narcissistic little grin on Peter’s face. “You were the evil friggin’ alpha .”
“I’m not so bad anymore,” Peter tells him, shrugging off the sobriquet Stiles has given him. “If you’re worried about being lumped in with the likes of me, you shouldn’t be.”
Stiles refuses to rule out the possibility of Peter secretly being telepathic. He reads people too well which can be valuable, but also terrifying.
“Scott never blamed me,” Stiles says, and why - why - is he telling Peter this? “But some of my friends seem…cautious, I guess. Derek, too.”
“My nephew is cautious around bunny rabbits. Don’t take it personally.”
Stiles finds himself leaning forward to the point where Peter’s subtle cologne tickles his nose. Or perhaps that’s his scent. Scott is constantly asking Stiles if he smells different now that he’s a werewolf, but since Scott never smelled close to anything Stiles would call good, eau de werewolf is actually an improvement.
“People like you, Stiles.”
“Not everyone.”
“But not everyone needs to,” Peter says. “Some people matter more than others. Do you care whether or not I like you?”
Stiles relaxes. “I know you do. You invited me here to your secret sanctuary.”
“I’d appreciate you keeping it a secret.”
“I will,” Stiles assures. The word sanctuary had popped randomly into his mind, but he’s surrounded by the feeling the word evokes. Everything in Peter’s place, from the expansive flatscreen facing the couch to the thick pile rug under Stiles’ feet, calms his disordered mind. And if there’s one thing Stiles desperately needed, it was a refuge away from the legacy of his actions.
Stiles never expected his sanctuary to look like this, or to include Peter sitting on the same couch. But when has he been able to predict anything these days? Only a year ago, Stiles would’ve foreseen an uneventful junior year flying under the radar with Scott. Ignored by Lydia, harassed by Mr. Harris because of his ongoing issues with authority figures. Not sacrificing himself to save his dad and making himself vulnerable to possession by an ancient spirit of chaos, pain, and strife.
Peter was the one who brought all three of those things to Beacon Hills – he’s patient zero in this entire catastrophe. Stiles wouldn’t be on this couch without Peter, but now that he’s here, it feels right. Almost inevitable.
None of that explains why Stiles bridges the gap and kisses Peter, or why he only realizes he’s doing it when Peter opens his mouth and becomes an active participant.
Peter kisses the way he acts, intentional and abrasive. His mouth is far from gentle but his hands are, skimming up Stiles’ arm from elbow to shoulder, thumb pressing down on his collarbone. The part of Stiles’ conscience still bound to the pain he’s endured is unwrapped, set free. Stiles’ lips absorb and return the frantic pressure, fingers forming deep craters in the denim-covered muscle of Peter’s thighs.
For each move, there’s a counter-move, but it doesn’t seem like either of them are playing towards checkmate. Stiles is satisfied with simply messing up the silly coiffed ridge in Peter’s short hair, at the same time tilting his head into the sharp massage Peter’s fingers are providing.
When Stiles opens his eyes mid-kiss, Peter’s irises are ringed in blue flames, cheeks flushed. Welcome evidence that he’s not the only one affected here. Peter catches him off-guard, tugging and maneuvering until he’s on his back, Stiles swinging an elbow down so as not to land on Peter’s chest.
“I knew –“
“Shut up, you did not know that was gonna happen,” Stiles says, trying not to huff indignantly when Peter wraps his arms around Stiles’ torso. “I’m not your stuffed animal.”
That gets a rise out of Peter – a rise of his hips, that is. “What I was going to say,” he glares up pointedly, “is that I knew there was more to you. A lot more,” he teases, swiveling his hips.
Stiles has no idea what’s going on with his brain. He’s aroused – lust seeping out of his pores – but he’s not getting hard. There’s a roadblock between mind and body. The reality that Peter Hale is grinding up on him like a teenager on a first date is a massive thing to process.
Talk about unpredictable. Stiles’ one-on-one interactions with Peter never follow a set of rules. They’re either violent or tender. Composed of threats or banter. There’s no way to prepare, anticipate. But he can retaliate, react in ways Peter won’t expect. In this case, he can press down onto Peter’s shorter, broader body and let instinct overrule logic. Two simple ingredients with this kind of pleasure: friction and heat. Stiles provides both, thrusts his hips while Peter’s mouth lures him back in. Stiles might not be hard – and Peter might not even care about that – but he’s never made out with someone under these circumstances.
This way he can’t ignore what Peter is. A sliver of unnaturally bright blue where his eyes aren’t quite closed; more of a snarl than any normal man would possess; way more strength than Stiles is used to. Peter’s arms wrap him in place, but the rhythm is all Stiles. By the time Peter comes – not thinking about it, not thinking about it! – Stiles is beginning to feel a stirring of interest. Not enough to roll with, but a twinge to let him know he’s not ignorant of the situation.
Maybe next time. Jesus. Did he just think that? And holy shit did he just have sex with a supernatural creature? That was definitely not on his bucket list.
“I think I’ve made my point,” Peter says, nearly unaffected by his orgasm. Stiles won’t be fooled – he’ll never forget that Peter came in his jeans just from a little foreplay. One point for Team Human.
“That you’re kinda easy?”
The color fading, Peter’s eyes go soft. He shakes his head, nearly brushing the tips of their noses together. Too affectionate for Stiles, he pushes himself up. Moving off the couch would be too blatant, and he’s not sure he minds the warm comfort of these close confines.
“I’ve done terrible things in the name of my own self-interest, but you still came over and indulged me with a rather tremendous experience.”
“And your point is?”
“I was your enemy,” Peter points out, “and I’m willing to bet I’m still not your favorite person in the pack. Or your fifth favorite.”
“Try tenth.”
“Either way, we’re overcoming our history. Your friends trust you, Stiles. They’ve probably already forgiven you.”
Oblivious to the mess in his jeans – Stiles didn’t even manage to find out if Peter wears boxers or briefs, or something sexier – Peter situates himself beside Stiles, roles shifting.
“You came here because I wouldn’t play into your need to be absolved for what you’ve done,” Peter tells him, all up in Stiles’ personal space. “You don’t want it from me anyway, but you won’t listen to the rest of your pack when they tell you the same thing. Stop looking for reasons not to forgive yourself,” he insists, staring Stiles’ argument into submission, “and just do it already, before the next crisis comes around.”
“Next crisis?”
“This is Beacon Hills. There’s always another crisis.”
Stiles files that away for later consideration. “I still don’t trust you.”
Peter shrugs. “I’ll live.”
He makes it sound so easy, like Stiles can snap his fingers and forget. It’s all still in his head – he wakes up clutching his face and hyperventilating, seeing visions of the nogitsune crumbling before his eyes. But if Peter is right, Stiles is the only one who isn’t moving on. They’ll always mourn Allison, but if Stiles doesn’t dig a grave and bury his guilt along with the memories that aren’t really his, there’s no telling how much he’ll end up losing.
Peter slaps him on the back. Good to know that one orgasm hasn’t domesticated him. Bastard.
“What was that for?”
“Getting you out of your head, and I’d be willing to do that over and over until you stop acting like the hanged man.”
“Does that mean you’ll invite me back?” Stiles asks.
“I know I’m going to regret this,” Peter says, slipping something out of his pocket and handing it to Stiles, “but you can come over anytime.”
Looking at the unfamiliar key in his hand, Stiles is forced to deflect his emotions with humor. He smirks. “Aww, you’re letting me in your den?”
“Don’t call it that.”
“Totally what it is,” Stiles insists. “I mean, look at this place…”
Stiles stays for another two hours, thoughts circling well above anything troublesome thanks to Peter’s endless supply of distractions. When he leaves, the knot in his chest is a little looser, and he’s agreed to see Peter again in a few days.
There’s a text waiting on his phone: Scott inviting him over for dinner and some Gears of War. No Kira, no Isaac – just the two of them hanging out like bros again, and for the first time in weeks, Stiles doesn’t decline.
Scott’s response ends with too many exclamation points, and Stiles smiles to himself. He steers his Jeep away from Peter's apartment and thinks about the next time. Peter owes him - Stiles has a feeling that his virginity finally has an expiration date - and though it still feels freakin' crazy, Stiles can't wait.
FIN