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Stiles breathed deep, expanding his lungs with so much air that something in his back popped satisfyingly. He rolled his neck, earning three more toe-tingling pop-pop-pops, and didn’t even care when someone knocked into him from behind.
Because it was a gorgeous day. One of those sunlit, windswept days that were usually confined to movies or memories or the echo of dreams. Early spring chicks were chirping in their trees, and Stiles had nothing to do and nowhere to be.
Which meant one thing. It was hammock time.
So Stiles dropped into his dorm room on his way across campus, dumped his bulging bag, and groped under his bed for his hammock. He grinned as he pulled it out and then, with a quick look to make sure his door was shut, hugged it to his chest, tucking his nose into one of the folds. It was old and orange and ugly as hell but it smelt like home, like rich soil and wood smoke and his dad’s aftershave. Also, faintly, like slightly over-done burger patties. It was comfortable and warm and the best place in the entire world, nay the universe, for an afternoon nap.
With his hammock in one hand and his battered copy of Dracula in the other, Stiles set out for his hidden hanging spot. As he crossed the quad the Carillon began playing the Harry Potter theme tune and holy hell, it was like the fates were conspiring to make this the most magical day since he and Scott hot-boxed the Jeep on the 4th of July. He jogged up the small hill on the edge of campus, ducked behind the observatory, fought his way through a small copse of magnolia trees, and stepped into the best hanging spot this side of California – where someone else was already hanging.
Stiles stumbled to a stop and stood there gaping at the asshole. And he knew this guy was an asshole because he had one of those extra wide, woven hammocks with the fringing and the inbuilt pillow. And aviator sunglasses. And his hands tucked behind his head in that ‘I don’t give a shit’ way, which made the fabric of his white fucking V-neck t-shirt strain against his bic–
He was smirking. Asshole was smirking, with his face tilted toward the sun, swinging lazily in his asshole hammock.
Stiles clapped his mouth shut and ground his teeth together, and Asshole’s smirk grew wider.
“Excuse me,” Stiles snapped.
“You’re excused,” Asshole drawled.
“Wh– uh, no,” Stiles spluttered. “I meant ‘excuse me’ as in ‘you’re gonna need to move’.”
“And why would I possibly need to do that?”
Back and forth he swayed and Stiles noticed that his feet were crossed at the ankles, his bare toes wiggling.
“Because this is my hammock spot.”
“I don’t see your name anywhere,” Asshole replied, and god, wasn’t he a little old to be in kindergarten.
“Actually it’s written on the wall,” Stiles gritted, and Asshole raised his sunglasses with a single finger to look up at the sandstone wall of the observatory.
“That says ‘trespassers will be prosecuted’.”
“Exactly. You’re trespassing. So move before I prosecute your ass.”
“Just prosecute?” Asshole asked, tone all innocent while his elevator eyes dragged all over Stiles’ body.
Stiles flushed down to his chest and stammered long enough for Asshole to grow bored and drop his shades back onto his nose.
“Listen, fresh meat –”
“Hey, I’m a sophomore!” Stiles cut in indignantly, grateful for the distraction, because his brain was running away into dirty territory. And Stiles was adamant that he wanted nothing to do with Asshole’s …asshole.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Asshole said, all false sincerity and condescension, “that one year must make a world of difference.”
“It does,” Stiles agreed with a saccharine smile, “but I’ve heard that the passing of time becomes insignificant to the elderly. How old are you, anyway?”
Asshole surprised Stiles when he threw his head back, laughing brightly. He took off his aviators and hooked them into the neck of his t-shirt, and Stiles found his chest hair utterly unappealing. Utterly.
“How old do you think I am?”
“Too old to be stealing the best hammock spots from college kids who’ve earned them,” Stiles stated, gesturing wildly with his book. Asshole glanced at the cover and sorted derisively. “You have a problem with Dracula?”
“Not him specifically, no.” Stiles opened his mouth but Asshole continued before he could interrupt. “And I’m a grad student. Which makes me think I’ve earned this spot a little more than you have, darling.”
Stiles bristled at the pet name. Asshole grinned like he found Stiles endlessly amusing.
“Have you tried next to the tennis courts? Or on top of the physics building? Or down behind – ”
“This is my hammock spot,” Stiles argued stubbornly. “I don’t care that there are five other good spots, this one is mine. Go get your own.”
The amusement slowly faded from Asshole’s face only to be replaced with something far more considering. He watched Stiles for a moment, eyes sharp, like he could see right through Stiles’ skin to where his heart was beating at breakneck pace. He inhaled slowly, deeply, which was pretty fucking weird really, and then raised a single eyebrow.
“Well then, I’m afraid we’ve reach an impasse.” Asshole crossed his arms defiantly and Stiles eyes were drawn to his shoulders.
Asshole’s smirk came back like he knew exactly what he was doing, probably because he was doing it on purpose, and Stiles was 100% done with his superior attitude.
So he dropped his hammock, stalked over to where Asshole was hanging, and climbed right in next to him.
The look of unbridled shock on Asshole’s face was completely worth nearly falling to his death.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Asshole asked him as they swung around violently.
“Resolving the impasse,” Stiles said blithely, flipping open his book with one hand and clutching at the hammock with the other.
“By hijacking my hammock?”
“You weren’t moving, I sure as hell wasn’t going anywhere, this hammock spot is only big enough for one, and you have an extra wide douchebag hammock. So. We’re sharing.”
Stiles waited, and when silence prevailed he turned his head to find Asshole staring at him with his eyebrows raised almost to his hairline.
“Well do you have any other suggestions?” Stiles demanded.
Asshole pursed his lips and shook his head. Stiles turned back to his book.
Except it was extremely difficult to concentrate on Dr Seward’s problems when he had a veritable wall of hot, hard muscle pressed all along his side. He could feel it when Asshole breathed and hear it when Asshole let out a tiny sigh as the wind whispered through the magnolia trees. But he gripped his book tighter, stared at the page like he was trying to burn right through it, because he had a point to prove dammit and he was not going to let some well-built, yummy-smelling, older grad student asshole keep him from enjoying his ultimate hammock spot.
“Can you not?” Asshole grumbled from out of nowhere.
“Not what?” Asshole’s arm was practically cradling Stiles’ head and he was just not equipped to ignore that kind of distraction.
“You’re shaking the whole damn thing, stop it,” Asshole growled. Like actually growled.
Stiles glanced down to where his left foot was jigging back and forth, practically vibrating the hammock with his excess energy.
“Make me,” he muttered petulantly like the mature adult he was.
Asshole’s hand landed on his thigh, big enough to span all the way from the outside to the inside, hot enough to seep through denim and burn against Stiles’ skin. Fingertips pressed bruises into the muscle.
Stiles dropped his book.
Asshole was already leaning in when Stiles turned his head and they met somewhere in the middle. It was less of a kiss and more of a fight, with a whole lotta teeth and not much lip. Asshole was sharp and demanding, his stubble stung against Stiles’ chin and his hands yanked at Stiles’ hair, and Stiles loved it, gave back just as good as he got.
Asshole rolled on top of Stiles and the hammock didn’t so much as shudder, and how the fuck did he do that, was he some kind of ninja?
Stiles found that he didn’t really care what the hell Asshole was as long he kept biting Stiles’ neck like that. But then something occurred to him.
“Wait, wait, wait,” he panted, pushing against Asshole’s shoulders. Asshole pulled away with the most endearing disgruntled look that Stiles’ had ever seen mid-necking.
“I’m Stiles,” he said, sticking his hand out awkwardly into the limited space between them. Because apparently Stiles was the kind of guy who went for lame introductions after he’d already had a person’s tongue in his mouth.
Asshole blinked at him.
“Well, what’s your name?” Stiles demanded once it became clear that Asshole was crap at social niceties. (And honestly, he should’ve known.) “I can’t keep calling you ‘Asshole’ if we’re gonna get freaky.”
The grin that unfurled on Asshole’s face could only be described as wolfish. “It’s Peter.”
(They ended up breaking the hammock.)