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Thirteen
“Are you going to make me one?” A smooth voice asks from the darkness.
Stiles smears peanut butter off the knife and onto a slice of loaf bread. It’s the crunchy kind because they ran out of smooth yesterday. Still, peanut butter is peanut butter—even if it isn’t in his preferred state. “Kitchen’s closed.”
He watches Peter drop his satchel into one of the chairs by the bar, before nodding to the bread sleeve.
Taking Stiles’s cue, Peter asks, “Who ate the smooth?” He quickly untwists the tie on the bread and pulls another two slices out. “ Where is the jam ?” He sounds scandalized.
“ Spoiled ,” Stiles chides, biting back a smile as he folds his own sandwich in half. Around the huge bite he takes, he says, “Beggars can’t be choosers.” He takes the bread from Peter’s hand, scoops out a big dollop of peanut butter on his knife.
“It’s not begging if it’s already my food,” Peter defends. He’s leaning against the kitchen island, opposite Stiles with his stretched out henley and charming smile on like it’s not almost three in the morning, like he’s still looking to get the next pretty girl’s number.
He sighs, put-upon. “Were you raised by wolves, Stiles? Peanut butter is better when it’s mated.”
“I didn’t come down here to make you a sandwich.” He holds back a teasing grin. It’s always fun to give Peter shit. He arches a brow in perfect Hale imitation.
Stiles chomps down the second part of his half sandwich before he starts making Peter’s. Sure, he’ll make the sandwich, but he’s still going to be a brat about it. “You want it, you get it,” he points at the refrigerator. “Or you could shut up and just be happy you don’t have to make your own.”
“Why are you up anyway?” Peter moves to the refrigerator and pulls the door open. “I do believe you have class in about five hours.”
Stiles makes a face at Peter’s back. “Midnight snack, duh.” He holds his hand out for the jam that Peter gives him. “As good as Joe’s lasagna is, that was hours ago. I got hungry.”
Peter hums. “Damn. I missed the lasagna,” he mutters, then goes back to leaning artfully against the granite counter. “But what I’m driving at, darling, is isn’t it past your bedtime? ”
He’s got the knife in the strawberry jam now, but Stiles pulls it back out. “Do you want the sandwich or what?”
Peter rolls his eyes, waves a hand. “Yes, continue.” With a sigh, he complains, “I don’t know why I even try.”
Stiles says, “Uh, yeah, mister frat boy rolling in at three a-m.” He shrugs and goes back to smoothing jam on the other bread slice. “Couldn’t sleep.” He keeps his eyes on the progress of the knife in his hand. “There’s an armed robbery going on at the gas station on Peach Street.”
Peter doesn’t say anything at first, but Stiles can feel the shift in the room at his admission. “I can check it out,” he offers after a pause.
“It’s fine. It’ll...be fine,” Stiles swallows down the familiar choking sensation that crawls up his throat every time he thinks his dad might be in danger. He finishes the sandwich and holds it out, meeting Peter’s eyes. He smiles.
Taking the sandwich, Peter says, “It will be.”
He’s got that confident, assured tone that pretty much all the Hales were blessed with. When it’s Talia telling him “It’ll be fine,” it’s comforting. Peter’s version of “It’ll be fine” is much more or else . And, Stiles has to admit, he likes Peter’s version better in this instance.
Stiles nods, “I know.” He starts cleaning up behind himself, twisting on the lid to the peanut butter after licking the last of the jam from his knife before tossing it into the sink. “‘M just a little obsessive about this, you know.” He smiles and knows it doesn’t quite meet his eyes.
“I know.” Peter comes around the island. “It’s understandable.” He holds Stiles’s gaze for a moment, “He’s family.”
That fear that he’s been fighting for the past hour slides into something a little more emotional. Stiles swallows that down too, and nods. “Yep.”
Stiles is technically Hale pack. His dad is, well, his father . Pack and family are the same to the Hales, but Stiles also knows their view on John Stilinski is a little bit strained even if they don’t have ill will towards him. Claudia had been pack—had been their emissary before she got sick. John Stilinski isn’t Hale pack. Still, Stiles appreciates the fact that none of them discount his feelings when it comes to his dad.
He really needs to get some sleep.
Peter tilts his head. “Are you wearing eye makeup?” The corner of his mouth tilts up.
Letting out a breath, Stiles rolls his eyes. “Crap. Yeah, I forgot about that.” He reaches up to rub at his eyes. When he lowers his hands, the skin on his knuckles are smudged black and beige. He probably looks like a raccoon now. “Laura was messing around.”
His face feels a little bit hot, and his heart beats faster in his chest unexpectedly when he thinks back to earlier in the evening. Laura had convinced him to sit down at her vanity so she could practice on him. Laura was elected to homecoming court, and she’s been focused on planning her look for the past week and a half. Stiles is just the latest victim. Cora complained loudly about being dragged around the mall two days ago so she could “help” Laura find the right shoes.
Peter chuckles. “It’s not a bad look,” he says as he brushes a firm thumb below Stiles’s right eye. “A little grunge chic with the way you just rubbed it though.”
Stiles really is blushing now. He scrubs at his face, undoing whatever correction Peter just made. “Ugh. I need to go wash this off.”
“And go to bed,” Peter tacks on.
When Stiles looks at him again, he’s grinning around a mouthful of peanut butter jam sandwich. Stiles can’t say he hasn’t missed seeing Peter around the house. Peter has always been one of Stiles’s favorites of the older kids. Adult now, Stiles reminds himself. Peter is in college now. He comes back almost every weekend—sometime after his last class on Thursdays—but it’s different somehow.
“Yeah, probably.” Stiles sighs. He finishes putting away the bread and peanut butter.
When he’s about to slip out of the kitchen, Peter hooks his arm around Stiles’s neck and reels him back. The sudden warmth against Stiles’s side when Peter pulls him close is firm and comforting . It feels like too much when Stiles has been doing good at ignoring his anxiety.
His dad is on his second swing shift of the week, so Stiles has been crashing with the pack for the past couple days. It is what it is. Stiles knows his dad is doing his best—working the long hours to make sure Stiles has everything he needs and most things he wants. He knows the job his dad does is important and, above that, integral to who his dad is. It’s dangerous, but somebody has to do it. His dad is doing it.
But it’s been almost four days since he’s seen him in person. Six phone calls and one Skype session when his dad had a half hour to sit down for lunch on Tuesday. Stiles misses him, and now the very real threat they constantly live under has been raised by some asshole who decided they needed to knock over a gas station.
Stiles’s eyes burn with tears he doesn’t want to let fall. He’s just tired. It’s making everything so much harder.
“I think it’s time for both of us to get some sleep,” Peter says, squeezing his arm around Stiles’s shoulders companionably. He uses his hold to guide Stiles through the living room and to the back of the house where Stiles’s bedroom is.
“I don’t need an escort,” Stiles complains. He clears his throat to displace the lump in it. “The house is big, but it’s not Buckingham palace.”
Peter slides his arm away, but not before tugging at the hair at the back of his head where it’s grown out since he buzzed it before seventh grade started a few months ago. “Who knows, you might have. Good thing you’ve got me to keep you on the path.”
He’s smirking, and Stiles snorts. “Not the good path.” Stiles waves his arms in a shooing motion. “Okay, I’m here. Safe and sound. Go away.”
“Good night, little lamb,” Peter sings softly as he turns to head back to the kitchen where he left his bag.
Stiles doesn’t immediately go to bed. He ducks into the bathroom and wets a washcloth. If he doesn’t take care of it now, he knows he’ll forget in the morning. Showing up to home room with smeared eyeliner and flaky mascara clumped in his lashes would not be the best start to his day.
When he raises the cloth and looks at himself in the mirror, Stiles pauses. It had looked pretty when Laura first applied the makeup. He doesn’t really understand how she did any of it, but he had kind of liked the shimmery gold and soft browns that she applied to his eyes. Reaching up, Stiles lightly runs a fingertip over an eyelid and feels the velvet softness of the powder still clinging to his skin. If she asks, Stiles decides, he won’t complain as much next time.
After his face is squeaky clean, he checks his phone one more time. It’s been sitting on his bedside table, plugged in, for the last three hours with the sound muted to vibrate. He’s switching the scanner on his desk with one hand as he quickly pulls his messenger up with the other.
>>Go to bed, kiddo...I know you’re listening to the scanner I’m not supposed to know you have. Love you... I’m okay.
His dad texted while he and Peter were negotiating peanut butter sandwiches.
Stiles feels the exhaustion hit him all at once when the words settle in his anxious brain. He flips the scanner back off, tosses the phone back to its resting spot, then face-plants into his bed with a heavy sigh.
His dad is fine.
—
Sixteen
“You done yet?” Derek asks with exasperation.
Stiles jumps and curses. “Fuck you,” he gasps, forcing himself to calm down by sheer force of spite. Derek doesn’t deserve the satisfaction. “What are you doing here?”
He swings his bag onto his back and stands. His hands automatically go for the keys in his pocket, but they’re useless for now. The Jeep is in the shop and things look grim for his baby’s fate.
When he reaches Derek by the door of the locker room, he says, “You don’t go to school here anymore. How did you even get in?”
Derek rolls his eyes. “This place isn’t Fort Knox. Besides, I heard you could use a ride home.”
Stiles winces, thinking about how Scott looked at him at the start of practice with his big puppy dog eyes. Scott was supposed to be his ride to and from school this week, but so far Stiles has only managed to catch a ride in the mornings. Allison keeps inviting Scott to “study” after school. And that’s definitely not the kind of session Stiles has any desire to join.
“You heard?” He squints, walking past him when Derek holds the door open. “Nice jacket, by the way. Does your dad know you stole it?”
Derek growls, but it’s just his typical grouchy one. “I should have let you walk.”
He doesn’t answer Stiles’s first question, which means Cora probably overheard Scott from the girls’ locker room and texted Derek. Her cross country practices go longer than Stiles’s lacrosse ones. He wouldn’t have been able to catch a ride with her seeing as she runs home because she’s crazy.
Bumping his shoulder into Derek’s, Stiles says, “No way. You just missed my wit and charm, right? You needed a dose of Stiles.” He smiles. “I know you, man. You might try to act all big and bad now, but you’re still a nice guy.”
Derek doesn’t say anything, and he doesn’t look at Stiles either. The way his jaw flexes makes Stiles’s stretch into a grin.
The camaro is parked in the fire zone by the steps even though the majority of the parking lot was already empty by the time Derek would have gotten here to pick up Stiles after practice. The sight makes Stiles roll his eyes.
“How long are you in town?” Stiles asks as they buckle themselves in.
“For the full moon,” Derek turns the engine over, and Stiles takes a second to enjoy the rumble. “It’s finally on a weekend.”
Nodding, Stiles starts rummaging around the console just to see what he can find. “Yeah, how’s that been going, bee tee dubs? I remember Laura didn’t do so hot with her first year away.”
He squeezes some hand sanitizer into his palm, it’s orange scented which makes almost no sense because he knows Derek hates that shit. He slathers it around his hands as it evaporates.
Derek grunts, which is about as much as Stiles really expected. He’s heard Talia on the phone a couple times, talking calmly and authoritatively to Derek. The tone apparently helps Derek center his wolf—when he can hear his alpha on the other end of the line. Stiles thinks he remembers Laura needing similar contact.
Derek asks, “Where am I dropping you?”
Stiles finished exploring the console without finding anything very interesting besides the artificially scented sanitizer. He moves to the glove box, ignoring the registration that probably still has Laura’s name on it even though Derek’s had the car for like six months. A stale pack of tissues get pushed aside and he finds some pens, a pack of gum, and an opened tube of what looks like lip gloss rolling around the bottom.
“Dude, you have a girlfriend?” He asks, delighted as he grabs the lipgloss and opens it.
He looks from the sparkly pink liquid on the applicator to Derek and finds Derek blushing . “Oh my God, what did you mom say?”
Derek reaches over to snap the glove box closed. He clears his throat. “You don’t know anything.”
Stiles pumps the wand in and out of the tube, enjoying the gross squelching noise it makes. He hopes Derek is imagining some raunchy sex. “You know she’s going to like, demand, to meet her right? She’s a human, isn’t she?”
Talia Hale is kinda fucking scary sometimes. Especially when it comes to outsiders. She made Laura cry when she brought her last boyfriend him because Talia had been able to threaten the truth out of him—that he was, in fact, planning to move to Toronto after school and had no plans of asking Laura to follow him. Not that Talia would have been cool with the heir apparent to the alpha status just uprooting the entire pack so she could fuck off with a civil engineer with a weak chin.
“It’s not that serious,” Derek mutters.
Stiles twists the lid back into the lip gloss. “Serious enough that she’s leaving her shit in your car. I think Lydia would say that’s pretty serious.”
“I don’t even know who Lydia is.”
“You’re missing out,” Stiles fidgets, fingers tapping along the door. “Actually, no. The thought of you two knowing each other makes my dick shrivel in fear.”
“Gross.” Derek makes a face. “Don’t talk to me about your dick.”
“I’m offended on behalf of my dick. It’s great, and you should be grateful I even deign to talk to you about it.” Stiles isn’t pouting, but he does feel defensive. “Take me home.”
Derek makes a right at the next light. Stiles realizes he’d been driving them back to the Hale house.
“Let’s just stop talking about dicks, in general.”
Stiles nods, silently agreeing. He pushes the button to lower the window, before raising it again.
“Her name is Emily,” Derek offers a few minutes later. His hands are tight around the steering wheel. “She’s from Ohio.”
“She sounds really sweet .” Stiles grins. “Emily from Ohio. How wholesome.”
Derek glowers, apparently torn between being offended and being pleased. “Shut up.”
“Well, at least you guys will be pretty busy this weekend. So maybe your mom will be chill about it.”
Stiles thinks there’s a fifty-fifty chance, depending on how Derek actually smells . It should make things interesting, at least. Stiles wasn’t necessarily planning to go to the run this time, but he might. Laura said something about coming back before the holidays. She might already be back in town.
“I think she’s going to be too distracted by Peter’s new guy to care about my maybe-girlfriend.” Derek looks over at Stiles. “I think he’s supposed to be coming for the weekend.”
“Damn,” Stiles exhales, slumping back in his seat.
Peter has never brought anyone home for a full moon run. The thought of Peter settling down and getting serious is confusing. It’s something else Stiles can’t describe yet. It makes him miss things, even if that doesn’t make sense.
Everything’s changing. It sucks.
Derek parks outside Stiles’s house. “Let me know if you need a ride over. Dinner starts at five tomorrow.”
Stiles nods, “Yeah. I don’t know if I’m gonna go. I mean, if it’s going to be a full house, I might just skip.”
“You’re pack. There’s always room for you.” Derek says it with such determination that his earnestness is endearing. He looks and sounds a lot like Talia in that moment.
Stiles chuckles as he gets his shit together and opens the door. “Thanks. I’ll remember. See ya around.”
Derek leans over to yell out the window, “You’re welcome for the ride!” before he’s pushing his sunglasses on and driving off.
After Stiles drops his bags next to his bedroom door, he plops into his desk chair. The little lip gloss tube he found in Derek’s car is still in hand. He hadn’t meant to take it, but Stiles doubts it will be missed.
Scott texted him some time during the ride home about swinging by soon. Allison’s dad tried intimidating him into staying for dinner. The only way Scott could get out of it was by coming up with a prior engagement. Apparently that meant saying he was eating with Stiles. They can order pizza and play COD for a few hours, so at least Stiles gets some time with his friend after all.
Stiles twists the lid off the lipgloss and looks at the shimmery liquid. It’s bright pink and nothing like Stiles would have thought someone as grumpy as Derek might want to kiss.
He swipes it on the inside of his wrist the way he’s watched them do it in YouTube videos. Once it’s actually on his skin, it looks less bright. The glitter catches in the light.
—
Seventeen
The fake ID Danny hooked him up with last year isn’t the greatest , but it’s apparently enough to fool the bouncer outside The Jungle. Or, Stiles thinks as two thick black X’s are drawn on the backs of his hands, maybe the bouncer doesn’t care if he’s under eighteen as long as the liquor license won’t be in jeopardy anytime soon. He should have paid the extra thirty for an over-twenty-one ID.
Seventeen isn’t eighteen. And he’s nowhere near twenty-one, but Stiles can’t hold back the growing smile on his lips as he slips past the red velvet ropes towards freedom.
Freedom for the night anyway.
He pushes through the little corridor that leads into the main section of the club. Trying to look like he belongs there and this isn’t his first time here takes way more effort than it should. He’s awkward, no way around that, but no one’s looking at him even though he feels so obvious. It’s exactly what he’d been wanting.
In the Jeep, he’d sat staring at the dim reflection of his sun visor checking and rechecking his makeup. He had to psych himself up to leave the isolated safety of the interior, heart pounding in his chest with equal parts excitement and uncertainty. The black eyeliner and lipgloss he bought in a rush decision two weeks ago barely stand out in the strobing lights when compared to some of the other patrons. It’s a relief that leaves him feeling somewhat silly for all his insecurities. He can just do his thing and not worry about looking weird.
At the bar, he has to squeeze onto an empty stool and wait to be served. He orders a bottle of water that’s actually free, so he shoves the five dollar bill he’d expected to pay into the tip jar. That gets him an unexpected smile from the bartender. He gives Stiles a once over as if he actually cares if he remembers what Stiles looks like later.
Cracking the bottle open, he decides having the guy who controls the drinks not hate you is a good move. If he’d talked to anyone about this trip beforehand, they probably would have told him the same. So far, so good. He slinks off the stool to make room for actual paying customers and sips the too-cold water.
Maybe he should have asked Danny when he was planning to come here next, ask to tag along. Stiles moves around the perimeter of the dance floor in an attempt to look busy and less like an oddball who doesn’t really know what he’s doing. Even Scott would have been a good distraction from himself. They could make fools of themselves and just have a good time.
It’s not like Stiles really thinks he’s going to hook up with anyone tonight. He just wanted a chance to break out of the box of conformity he’d accidentally put himself into over the years. He knows his friends, pack, and family wouldn’t care if he dressed up like this more often. But it would be weird , because they’ve only know him as the goofy guy who prefers about three layers of clothes and who doesn’t quite know how to walk like a normal person.
Stiles is still that guy, but. But he wants a chance to see if he’s something else too, without needing to explain it or justify it to anyone he cares about. He doesn’t want to see the seconds of confusion, or worse, see them shrink away a little until Stiles is held at arm’s length because they don’t know how to be close to him anymore.
Stiles sucks down the rest of the water, concentrating on the cold weight in his stomach. He’s got to relax. After he tosses the bottle into a nearby recycling bin, he pushes onto the dance floor and just goes for it.
He dances by himself for the most part, but sometimes others pull him into their groups for a song or two. Arms and chests, beards, hair, fingers, everything touches and sticks. Someone gets him around the waist during a dirty, fast song, and grinds against him. Stiles feels sexy for the first time ever, he thinks, and lets it happen.
His eyes are closed when the hands leave him in a sudden rush of movement that doesn’t quite flow with the rhythm of the song.
“Enjoying the night?” A voice—a familiar one—croons against Stiles’s ear.
The hands that left are replaced by new ones, fingers smoothing along Stiles’s stomach where his open flannel shirt reveals skin. He sways a little with the person behind him, but it’s barely the pretense of a dance.
Stiles looks down at the hands framing his navel—not too low or too high on him—and deflates a little. Peter holds his weight without any trouble. Stiles asks, “What are you doing here?”
If it had been anyone else from the pack, Stiles thinks he’d be more embarrassed. As it is, he’s only slightly regretful of the night if it’s going to end like this.
Peter tugs him away from the press of bodies on the dance floor and manages to find a relatively quiet corner. He cages Stiles against the wall with only his size working to keep Stiles in place as Peter gives him a speculative look.
“You reek,” he announces, crossing his arms over his chest. Peter is dressed in tight slacks and a dark blue button-up that isn’t buttoned very much at all. He looks like he planned to have a little fun tonight.
Stiles mirrors Peter’s stance, tugging the front of his shirt closed a little so he doesn’t feel as exposed. “Gee, thanks.” He sighs. “Are you sending me home?”
Peter looks him over again, slower this time, before unfolding his arms so he can press a hand either side of Stiles. “You never answered my question.”
Stiles knows his heart is kicking hard against his chest, adrenaline coursing through his veins. He shrugs.
Leaning close, Peter’s breath rolls across Stiles’s cheek as he says, “Sure smells like you have been.”
“Thought you said I reek?” Stiles rebuts. He looks over Peter’s shoulder and sees another guy smirking at them. It probably looks like they’re making out. Stiles’s stomach flips at the thought.
Peter only makes it worse when he drags his nose up the side of Stiles’s neck, ending the gesture by nuzzling Stiles’s temple. “You do. You smell like lust and other people ,” he says, sounding a little bit disgusted.
Stiles tips his head, giving into the moment and allowing Peter to replace the smell of others with his own, with Hale scent. In the context of the club, with pulsing music and lights all around them, he feels almost obscene even though there’s nothing inherently sexual about what Peter is doing, not when it’s just Stiles he’s scenting.
He lets himself pretend, a little, that he’s desired.
Peter straightens up and suddenly he’s got the ID Stiles used to get into the club in hand. He’d pulled it from Stiles’s back pocket. “I’m keeping this.” He tsks, looking judgemental as he skins over the info on the card. “I can’t believe you didn’t pay for an over twenty-one ID. At least you’d gotten something better for your trouble.”
Stiles watches as Peter pockets the ID. “Good thing I didn’t, if you’re gonna be an asshole about it. I don’t get brownie points for not trying to drink underage?” He lifts a hand and brandishes a black X at Peter.
“Your birthday is in four months; I think you can wait until you’re actually legal.” Peter straightens up, catching Stiles’s hand and pulling it out to the side.
The movement causes the front of Stiles’s shirt to spread back open and reveal the halter bralette he bought online from a ship that makes them for men. It’s snug against his chest, the restraint and slight scratch of the material against Stiles’s skin had felt perfect. Now, Stiles has goosebumps and a cold sweat breaking out along his hairline. What if Peter thinks he looks dumb?
Peter raises an eyebrow. “Especially if you’re going to insist on dressing like that. It’s one thing to look like jailbait and quite another to actually be jailbait.”
Stiles blushes hot as Peter lets go if his hand to take hold of the front of Stiles’s shirt. Stiles is wearing the tightest pair of skinny jeans he owns and a soft-from-age flannel shirt. He thinks it’s less to do with those items than the extra one he bought specifically to wear to The Jungle. The bralette is covered up as Peter takes his time but toning up the front of Stiles’s flannel.
Peter’s thumb traces along the satin band stretching across Stiles’s chest when his fingers reach Stiles’s chest. He rubs his finger over the purple laces sitting just below Stiles’s nipple once before he fastens two more buttons.
His throat feels tight, chest constricted like he can’t quite catch his breath. Peter is being oddly careful. Even though Stiles knows he’s being given the boot, his body is reacting wildly opposite.
“I’m not trying to tempt anyone,” Stiles says. It’s true, but it’s also true that he wants to be wanted. “Just was trying to...” He makes a face, not willing to explain it out loud, not even to Peter.
Peter hums low, but they’re close enough that Stiles can hear it. When Peter removes his hands, it leaves Stiles feeling the loss.
“You might not be trying to, but you are quite tempting, Stiles.” Peter’s gaze is heavy on him, dark. It lasts for a heartbeat before Peter is pulling back and tugging Stiles forward, a guiding hand low on Stiles’s back. “Time for all good little lambs to go home before they’re devoured.”
Stiles has goosebumps popping out along his arms again for no discernible reason, but he lets Peter steer him through the crowd and outside where the cool of the night licks across his sweaty skin. He shivers. “Uncool,” he pouts.
Peter reaches back and pulls Stiles’s keys out of his pocket, smirking down at him the whole time. “Go home. This is my one good deed of the night. Don’t make me regret it.”
Stiles takes the keys and stomps towards the Jeep. When he gets the engine started, he looks at the club. Peter is still standing there, leaning against the brick and staring right back at him.
—
Twenty
“Dad!” Stiles calls out as he yanks on a pair of jeans. “We’re gonna be late!” He zips up the front, and lifts his shirt tail to sniff it.
“I’ve been ready for the past fifteen minutes, kid.”
Once he’s done shimmying out of the shirt, he sees his dad standing just inside the door. He’s got on his nice jeans and a stiff looking polo that Stiles bought him three years ago for Father’s Day and has worn maybe two times.
“Could of told me,” Stiles mumbles, flipping through the contents of his half empty suitcase. “I fell asleep. I was going to shower before.”
Dad chuckles. “You’d have to take five showers to get rid of that college boy stink, I bet.”
Stiles’s fingers catch on the zip case in the corner of his suitcase. He glances up at his dad to see if he notices the contents through the clear plastic. Dad’s not looking though. Stiles shoves a crumpled tee over the bag and pulls a green sweater up when he stands.
“Honestly, you’re probably not wrong.” He tugs on a plain tee before covering that with the sweater. By the end of the night, he’ll end up feeling stuffy, but at least he sort of looks decent. He’s not wearing one of his hoodies which he knows Talia will appreciate.
Not that the pack really expects him to come home looking dolled up. It’s just the Christmas Eve dinner.
**
Cora leans over after Stiles hands off the green bean casserole and whispers, “I’ve got dessert.” She smirks.
There’s no way like half the people sitting at the dining room table didn’t hear her. The only reaction they get is Joe clearing his throat at her and giving the two of them a significant look. Stiles looks away from him with feigned innocence.
He bumps Cora’s fist below the table, sneaking a glance at his own dad to make sure he hadn’t heard. Thank God the sheriff doesn’t have supernatural hearing. He’s busy talking to Emily about the bakery she opened in town a few months ago. Stiles knows his dad sneaks there at least once a week for bear claws—but his dad probably knows Derek sold him out already.
It’s fine. His dad’s cholesterol levels were down when his blood was last checked. The guy can treat himself every now and then.
“I want in on that,” Peter says casually. He’s on Stiles’s other side, portioning out some mashed potatoes into his plate. “I’m going to need to unwind by the end of the night,” his eyes cut over to Talia.
“You weren’t invited,” Cora hisses across Stiles, but she’s mostly just giving him a hard time. Even Stiles can see that.
Peter places his hand on the back of Stiles’s chair, turning towards the two of them. “I know you’re not trying to shut me out. Not when I’m the reason you even know...” He trails off with a weighty look at his niece. It’s kind of comical.
Over Peter’s shoulder, Stiles can see Talia’s attention snag on Peter. Her eyes narrow the same way Derek’s do when he’s thinking. Like Peter can feel her gaze—maybe he can—he turns and picks up his glass of wine. He gives her a sarcastic salute before downing the rest of the dark red liquid.
Cora snorts and Stiles says, “You’re thirty. You should not be bumming off the kids.”
Peter uses the hand propped on Stiles’s chair to cup the back of his neck. The pressure isn’t hard, just present. “I’m twenty- nine . And you two aren’t kids anymore.”
Stiles thinks about the finals he took just before he came back home, about the R2D2 piggy bank on his book shelf in the dorm that he uses to hold his laundry money, remembers the loan he took out to pay for his first year of college when he’d politely declined Talia’s insistent offer to cover the tuition. He tips his head back dramatically, pushing into the warm cradle of Peter’s palm. “Don’t remind me.” He twirls his fork between his fingers and looks at Cora. “Do you ever wish you could just like go back to being a dumb eleven year old?”
“You really were dumb,” Cora rolls her eyes, small smile on her lips. She says, “And no. I do not want to be a kid again.”
Peter’s fingers squeeze gently before he pulls his hand back to take up his own fork once again. “I think I would end up killing one of you if I had to live through your childhood again. You were all insufferable.”
Stiles suppresses the shiver that threatens to roll down his spine after Peter’s nails lightly grazed the short hairs at the back of his head. Peter takes a bite of his meal none the wiser.
Stiles counters, “ You’re the insufferable one. Pretentious.” He puts on a contemplating expression. “Finicky.”
Laura puts her elbows on the table where she’s sitting across from Stiles. “Ooh, are we making fun of Peter?” She gives her uncle an amused look.
Peter covers Stiles’s mouth when he starts to confirm it, answering for him. “No. We are not. Because you respect and admire me and know I’m the most dangerous person in the room.”
Cora snorts and Laura tilts her head like she’s willing to silently agree with Peter on at least one of his points. Stiles, on the contrary, licks Peter’s palm and pushes it away.
When Peter makes a disgruntled noise, Stiles says, “The most dangerous person shouldn’t have to announce it.” He’s full of shit, because he knows just how far Peter is willing to go for the pack. He’s not Talia’s left hand for no reason, after all.
That doesn’t deter Stiles from antagonizing him a little. Peter hadn’t been in town the last three times Stiles came back home. It’s been a weirdly long time since they saw each other, and Stiles missed him.
“Watch it,” Peter flashes his blue eyes. His smile is sharp, dark and shining.
Out of sheer reflex, Stiles makes a snotty face before quickly turning to his food. The hair on the back of his neck is on end, and the pit of his stomach feels warm.
—
Twenty-one, just after midnight
There’s a perfectly nice coffee maker in the common area that makes single serve coffee (if you provide your own coffee pods). Stiles doesn’t stock those overly expensive pods though, so he uses the banned coffee maker he took from his dad’s office when he first started college. The deep gurgling sound it makes from its cherished spot in his desk snaps Stiles out of the light doze he fell into.
He’s got another twenty pages to read, and he already spent the last hour catching up on some of his favorite YouTubers. There’s not enough time in the night.
>>wyd
Stiles gives his phone a dark look and shuts his laptop with a little more force than necessary. He gets up to refill his oversized Darth Vader mug. The bottle of creamer he bought the other day is already empty, so he pours in the dregs of the milk and too much sugar.
>>i got smth 4 u
The second text pops up. Stiles opens his phone and leaves the messages on read.
Another text from a different number this time lights up the phone in his hand. This time he smiles.
>>Happy birthday
After carefully setting his coffee down on the table next to his bed, Stiles folds himself down into the rumpled sheets and blanket. He texts back a happy face and a heart emoji.
A soft knock draws his attention from his phone, causing him to frown. It’s not late for college kids, but none of his friends generally take the time to knock. They usually just barge in the room.
He calls for whoever it is to come inside as he hurriedly makes sure he doesn’t look completely terrible. The worn out pajama bottoms aren’t doing him any favors, but at least he still has on that burgundy v-neck tee he knows looks good on him.
“Peter!” Stiles scramble up, forgetting his phone and his books of which half fall to the floor. “What are you doing here?”
Peter looks out of place in Stiles single, too put-together for midnight on a Wednesday. He’s got that effortless high end quality that he perfected when Stiles was still wearing jeans two sizes too big for himself.
“Dropping in to tell you happy birthday,” Peter smiles. With one finger, he holds out a small, familiar black bag. “Give you your gift.”
Stiles steps close enough to take the bag and then hook an arm around Peter’s wide shoulders, pull him into a quick hug. That hug lingers because it’s been about three weeks since he was back home and longer than that since he’s seen Peter. He presses his face against Peter’s shoulder, isn’t disappointed when Peter turns into the embrace and scents him lightly.
“Thanks,” Stiles says thickly. Unearned emotion is caught in his throat at the surprise visit. Peter doesn’t even live in this state but here he is in Stiles’s dorm room, ten minutes after midnight.
Peter makes a small noise before pulling back. “Well, things were getting boring without you around. And it’s your birthday.”
Stiles scoffs. “You just missed my beautiful face. Admit it.” He plops down onto his bed with the bag in his lap. “There better not be anything embarrassing in here.”
Peter smirks, which isn’t very reassuring. “Cross my heart.”
Stiles rolls his eyes. “Great.” He pushes the tissue aside and finds a tiny little bottle of Grey Goose, and he snorts. “Fancy. You do know I probably drank more than this two nights ago.”
“Yes, but this is just a gesture. Now you can do it legally .” Peter sits down next to him and takes the bottle from Stiles. “I would have gotten something better, but I’m sure it would have been wasted in this place.” He gives Stiles’s dinky dorm room a judgemental look.
“I saw your dorms when you were in college,” Stiles reminds him, taking the bottle back and setting it aside. He’ll put it in the fridge later.
“Shush. You remember nothing. I’ve always had class.” Peter leans back and perches with his hands on the bed. “Are you going to see what else is in there?”
There’s no reason for Stiles to feel suddenly shy, but he does.
In the bottom of the bag he finds the newest released palette from one of his favorite brands. He’s actually been putting aside money so he could buy it this weekend. Stiles pulls it out and runs his fingers over the hard plastic and fake leather.
“That’s one you like, right?” Peter asks, sounding...almost unsure. He leans closer as if getting a better look at it in Stiles’s hands will confirm or deny.
Stiles’s eyes get a little blurry, but he blinks it back and nods. “Yeah,” the word croaks out of his throat.
“So do I get a demonstration?” Peter takes the pallet from Stiles and turns it over, examining it as he leans into Stiles’s personal space.
Makeup is something Stiles likes . It’s fun and pretty, and it’s creative. It’s something he still usually only does when he’s alone. Occasionally, he wears it out to bars—full face and all—other times he just lines his eyes with a demure brown before a tough exam.
He’s never put it on for anyone though, even the people he’s dated on and off over the past couple of years. The makeup wasn’t a thing he really shared with them.
Stiles clears his throat, taking the palette back from Peter and standing. He doesn’t say anything, but he sits at his desk and pulls the lighted mirror he bought specifically for applying makeup from the bottom drawer. When Peter pulls a folding chair close enough that their knees touch, Stiles blushes, concentrating on opening the box.
Once he gets that done, he finds his voice. “It’s late. No point in doing the whole thing,” he explains as he rummages through the small makeup bag he keeps his brushes in when he isn’t using them.
He’d like to have the space and the money for a better collection, but what he has is enough for now.
Peter nods and gets comfortable. He leans his elbow on the desk and rests his chin on his fist expectantly. It’s a whole lot of attention that weighs against Stiles like a touch. “Up to you.”
Stiles ignores him, and starts talking because that’s what he does when he’s nervous or angry or...pretty much any time. “I’ve got like twenty pages to read before tomorrow. Fucking poli-sci is killing me because I keep getting pissed off about all the bullshit that happened and keeps happening.”
He leans forward, words drifting off as he starts dabbing the brush against the arch of his brow bone and down to the inside corner of his eye. He’s been thinking about what looks he wants to try with this palette for a while. But as nice as it is that Peter bought it for him, Stiles shies away from going very bold tonight. In the ritual of applying his makeup, his nerves calm and his words dry up as he concentrates on the reflection in the mirror.
He can feel Peter watching every stroke of the brush and every pat of Stiles’s finger over his skin where he has to correct and smudge. Pale pinks blend into a darker red across his eyelids. It doesn’t take very long. He dithers over adding liner or not.
Liquid liner is still tricky for him, but he manages to steady his hand against his cheek bone and draws an even line into a simple cat eye. When he’s finished, he finds the bottle held out for him by Peter.
Stiles takes it with a soft thanks, not quite able to meet his gaze yet. He twists the lid on and starts putting away his brushes.
“Hey,” Peter says, quietly.
Stiles startles when Peter lifts his chin up with two fingers beneath his chin, turning Stiles’s face so he has no choice but to look at him. Peter looks him over slowly. “Pretty.”
“I tried,” Stiles smiles a little, rolling his eyes at himself. He doesn’t pull away from Peter’s hand. “The pallet helps a lot. It’s quality. Thanks.”
Peter shakes his head. “The makeup doesn’t have very much to do with it, but that looks good too.” He smiles in this secret, dark way that has Stiles’s stomach all a flutter. He’s good at making people feel good when he wants to.
Stiles pulls away and turns back to his mirror, unplugging it so he can put it away. “Flattery,” he comments flippantly. He gets up, more than aware he’s fleeing the moment that couldn’t have possibly been real.
“You didn’t need to come all the way up here for my birthday. You know I’m going home for the weekend, right? Talia planned a big thing.” He picks his books up from the floor and sits down on his bed with them in his lap.
Peter turns in his chair, crossing his legs and leaning back as if he’s relaxing in a smoking club or somewhere fancy instead of a dorm room, sitting in a cheap folding chair. Stiles envies Peter’s native ease.
“I’m perfectly aware. But then I wouldn’t have had the pleasure of giving you your gift in private.” He smirks. “You know I don’t like sharing.”
Stiles pulls his legs up on the bed. He catches the way his phone lights up with a missed text message.
>>last chance babe
Peter must catch the quick frown. He nods at the phone. “Something wrong?”
Stiles lazily opens his messenger and sends a curt reply.
>>I’ll pass .
“Just someone who's trying way too hard while not trying hard enough at all,” Stiles answers cryptically. It’s not like he’d had a whole lot of hope in a real relationship with a guy he met on Grindr. Still, it would have been nice not to be texted for a booty call on his birthday. Especially because his birthday is listed right there on his profile for anyone with half an ounce of interest to pay attention to.
Peter’s expression darkens. He sits forward, hands dangling between his knees as he clasps them together too casually. “I could send a message of my own. All I need is a name,” he offers, voice light.
>>fuck u bitch
Stiles turns his phone over and pushes it under his pillow so neither of them have to look at it. “I’m handling it.”
Peter watches him, weighing what he’s said with whatever signals Stiles’s body is accidentally sending. He seems satisfied though. “Offer still stands.”
“Here,” Peter says as he stands. “Scoot over.”
He settles on the bed next to Stiles, toeing off his shoes so they drop onto the floor by the end of the bed. Stiles lets him maneuver the both of them until Stiles is lying with his head resting on Peter’s chest.
“Where are you?” He’s got the poli-sci textbook open in his lap. When Stiles tells him, he flips to the page and starts reading out loud.
After a few paragraphs, and after Stiles’s eyes start to grow heavy and his breathing slow, he says, “This isn’t going to work.”
“Shh,” Peter shushes him and turns the page. His hand traces inarticulate designs against the skin exposed between Stiles’s shirt and pajama bottoms where Peter’s other arm is wrapped around him. “Just listen.”
Stiles tries to stay awake, if only to indulge in the deep rumble of Peter’s voice against his ear, but it’s a lost cause. He a college kid. He never gets enough sleep.
When he finally wakes the next morning, Peter is gone. His books are stacked on his desk with pages of printed notes that Stiles just knows Peter took down for him from the reading assignment. His phone is on the charger, lacking the latest text message conversation he remembers. On his bedside table is another small gift bag, grey and black and nondescript. When he opens it, he finds a wisp of lace so soft and fine Stiles worries he might tear it in his hands. A small card falls to the floor when he unfolds it.
It’s a lace camisole barely meant for wearing, and not for wearing out —light purple.
He’s blushing hard, face hot, when he picks up the card.
For your collection of pretty things.
—Peter
—
Twenty-two
It isn’t quite fall yet, but there’s a chill in the air that promises the leaves will be changing soon—greens turning yellow, orange, and red. When he exhales, a puff of air blooms in front of him before vanishing just as soon as it appears. His lungs burn from the short run he just finished, sucking in the cool air as he settles in to wait.
Stiles thinks he missed the practicality mark with his outfit, fiddles with the sleeve of his sweater self consciously. His tight, ripped jeans didn’t allow for the best range of motion. Then again, he hadn’t been planning to run —not really. Well, not a whole lot he can do about the outfit choice now except commit and hope he still looks okay.
He’s been in these woods a hundred times before. There’s only one small difference, really. Tiny .
Stiles grinds the heel of his boot into the dirt below him like that will help stomp down his nervous energy.
When he looks up at the sky, he can see the full moon just over the treetops. There are a handful of clouds up there, gently drifting along, playing hide and seek with the moon. Wind ruffles the pine trees. Everything is quiet this deep in the reserve. He can’t even hear the waterfall from where he’s perched against a rotted out tree trunk.
He taps the screen of his phone so it wakes up, taps the passcode in. Stiles clasps the little pendant on his necklace and runs it back and forth, back and forth over the silver chain as he checks Twitter. It’s in his mouth and between his teeth before he opens up Instagram.
Almost two minutes have passed since he let himself check the time again. It feels like he’s exhausted all the feeds in his social media accounts. Stiles huffs and pockets his phone then shoves his hands in the pockets of his skinny jeans.
When a rustle of leaves nearby draws his attention, Stiles stands up and searches the darkness best he can with just his sight. For a long minute there is nothing else before the sound of a breaking limb cracks through the silence in the opposite direction.
His heart is racing, which is sort of ridiculous. He knows these woods, the things that go bump in the night. He knows he’s not alone.
He’s not scared .
“Very funny,” he calls out, finding his perch on the log again. He scans the surroundings in an attempt to pick out the shadow that is playing with him. “Are you going to skulk out there the whole night?”
He doesn’t get an answer. The ambient sound of bugs chittering around him goes quiet. It had been silent before, but now the lack of noise causes Stiles’s spine to straighten and his skin to prickle. His heart is loud in his ears. His stomach swoops.
Bright blue shining in the pitch darkness of the trees is the first concrete sign that he wasn’t just taunting the rocks and dirt. The blue separates into two pinpoints that grow until the outline of a man emerges.
“I don’t appreciate your lack of respect for the moment,” Peter comments as he saunters into the clearing. He looks larger than usual, even though he’s not fully shifted into his beta form. It’s the supernatural power, Stiles knows, wrapped up in the sinew and muscle released to flourish beneath the full moon.
Or maybe Stiles is letting the romance get to him.
He scoffs. “Right. My bad.” Stiles clears his throat and leans back, hunching his shoulders. “Oh mister werewolf, please don’t hurt me.”
Peter takes four steps closer, still a good two yards away, and gives him that look.
Trying not to smile, Stiles asks, “Please ravage me?”
Within the space of a blink, Peter is right there . His claw tipped fingers wrap around the front of Stiles’s neck. The blue of his eyes shines. His fangs glint in the moonlight. Peter is fierce and powerful and everything about him screams weapon .
Stiles loves him.
“Oh little lamb,” Peter purrs, gaze trailing down Stiles’s body. His eyes come back to trace along Stiles’s exposed neck. “Just what am I going to do with you?”
Stiles pushes slightly into the grip Peter has on his neck. “This is all ceremony. Surely you haven’t forgotten.” He can’t help the way his mouth dries as he looks his own fill of Peter, mouth running on autopilot as Peter smiles softly.
Peter rumbles. “Do you? Why don’t you refresh my memory?” He steps closer until there’s barely any space between them.
Wetting his bottom lip, Stiles tilts his head down just so he can look up at Peter through his lashes the way he knows for a fact looks good— especially with the makeup he has on tonight. His cheeks feel warm.
“You’re supposed to ‘chase’ me.” Stiles uses his fingers to mime running before balling his hand into a fist. “And if I accept the symbolic gesture, I let you ‘catch me.’” Stiles lifts his head back up, smiling. “It’s kind of old fashioned, if you ask me.”
Peter’s fingers slide down a little. His claws drag lightly over the skin between Stiles’s collarbones where the cowl neck of his sweater leaves him vulnerable.
“I did ask you,” Peter reminds him, smirking a little as he leans in almost imperceptibly. He’s closer, closer still, and his breath ghosts across Stiles’s ear when he says, “You said yes.”
Stiles is full on grinning. “And you caught me.”
Peter’s lips touch that sensitive spot just behind Stiles’s ear, softly. Then his mouth opens and thick fangs press there. Stiles’s nerve endings light up like a midnight carnival. He takes hold of Peter by the waist.
“You let me,” Peter corrects, pleasure rolling off him as his smile is tucked into the crook of Stiles’s neck.
His hand skims down Stiles’s chest, over the thick, flowing fabric of his sweater, down some more until he finds the bottom hem and pulls it up. Peter’s hand is a hot brand on the flat of Stiles’s stomach, possessive in every way Stiles ever wanted.
“I’m not fucking in the woods,” Stiles breathes out. His eyes slip shut when Peter’s fingers slip into the front of his jeans and skim along the top of the silk underwear he has on.
Peter’s tongue is hotter and more enticing than it has any right to be when he licks along the column of Stiles’s neck. “ Lie ,” he teases. His fingers dip lower before the pull free completely. “I really want to mess up your lipstick.”
Stiles doesn’t moan. He doesn’t , because that would be embarrassing and he’s progressed past doing that to himself so often. He makes a sound though. “Not tonight, satan.” The rest of the pack is out there running, a respectable distance away—but Stiles has standards.
Peter chuckles. “Fine.” He pulls back enough so the two of them can catch their breath. His eyes aren’t glowing anymore, but they’re just as hot. “But the minute I truly get you alone, I’m going to unwrap you like a present.”
He steps back and holds his hand in invitation.
Stiles takes it, lets their fingers thread together. “Lead the way.”