Work Text:
“Yo, Derek!”
The clang of the loft’s big metal door echoes loud enough to hurt Stiles’ ears—how does a werewolf stand to live in this place, anyway? Stiles ponders this as he lets himself in and calls out again.
“Dude, Scott is out with Malia, Lydia is with Parrish, and even my dad has a date tonight! I’ve got two pounds of chocolate here and somebody’s gotta help me eat it all.”
“Derek isn’t here.”
Stiles whirls around and almost drops the half dozen bags of candy in his arms. Peter is sitting at the top of the spiral staircase, examining his fingernails. He glances up to offer Stiles one of those blandly pleasant smiles that everyone and their mother knows better than to trust, even after two years of him officially being one of the good guys. It still manages to be charming, damn him. Stiles clears his throat.
“Where is he, then? And what are you doing here?”
“Believe it or not,” Peter says, abandoning his cuticles in favor of descending the stairs at a leisurely pace, “even Derek wants to get laid every once in a while. He’s out with some girl he met while jogging. As for me—” He comes to a stop right in front of Stiles, just a bit too close because he’s that kind of asshole. “—Well, you know me. I come and go as I please. I’m a wanderer.”
Stiles snorts. “You’re something, alright.”
Peter points to the bag of Snickers in the crook of Stiles’ elbow. “May I?”
Stiles weighs his options carefully. There aren’t many, and if any of them were appealing, he wouldn’t have come here in the first place.
He opens the bag and holds it out with a sigh. Peter snags a piece of candy and promptly sprawls out on Derek’s couch. The hem of his shirt rides halfway up his stomach as he tucks one arm behind his head, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He graciously leaves a sliver of space at the far end of the couch for Stiles to squeeze himself into, which he does with only minor hesitation.
The bags of candy get dumped onto the coffee table. Stiles picks out a Three Musketeers. It tastes like loneliness, loserdom, and sexual frustration.
“So why aren’t you out there sowing your wild oats or whatever?” Stiles asks after a few minutes of silent munching.
“My oats were sowed long ago,” Peter says easily. “I’ve no interest in sowing them again. I don’t think I’d be lucky enough to escape the child support payments this time around.”
“You know, there’s this newfangled invention called a condom? Ninety-nine percent effective, or so I’m told.”
Peter kicks him in the knee. Stiles throws a truffle at him, which Peter catches, unwraps, and pops into his mouth. He licks his lips with exaggerated relish, eyebrows waggling. Stiles staunchly ignores the rising heat in his cheeks and rips open another bag of candy.
“I’m not a big fan of Valentine’s day,” Peter volunteers, between kittenish licks at the chocolate residue on his fingers. “Too mushy.”
“All the pink hearts and sappy bullshit don’t do it for you?” Stiles says. “Who would’ve guessed.”
“What’s your excuse?”
Stiles scowls at him and shoves a handful of M&Ms in his mouth in lieu of an answer.
Peter goes on, though, musingly. “Really, I’m curious. It can’t be a lack of willing participants. You may be something of an acquired taste, personality-wise, but you’re an attractive one, and looks go a long way, especially if all you’re looking for is—”
“You think I’m attractive?”
Stiles wants to take the question back as soon as it’s out of his mouth. It wouldn’t be so bad if it had sounded skeptical or off-put or even just surprised, but, to his horror, it had come out sounding almost hopeful. The sharp rise of Peter’s eyebrow means the tone was not missed by him. Stiles stuffs his face with M&Ms again, inhales one, and nearly chokes to death. When he’s done coughing, he’s almost disappointed that he’s still alive to weather the judgment in Peter’s stare.
“Trust me,” Peter drawls, “I wish I could say I didn’t. And yet, here I am, helplessly aroused.”
Stiles peers over at him, eyes narrowed with the strong suspicion that Peter is making fun of him. But Peter is only watching him, one hand still behind his head and the other tracing lazy circles on the exposed strip of skin between his shirt hem and the waistband of his jeans. The corner of his mouth is turned up, but the amusement there isn’t the sharp kind that usually precedes vicious mockery. When Stiles runs his tongue over his bottom lip, tasting chocolate, Peter’s eyes follow the motion.
Stiles flushes. His laugh comes out shaky and unconvincing. “What, did you really swing and miss so many times today that you’re reduced to scraping the bottom of the barrel?”
A pout replaces Peter’s smirk. He levers himself up into a sitting position, the motion bringing him directly into Stiles’ personal space. Already pressed against the couch’s arm, there’s nowhere for Stiles to back up to. It does nothing to reduce the heat in his face.
Undeterred, Peter leans even closer and says, “I don’t scrape,” like it’s some kind of secret. “I have standards.”
Stiles swallows. “And I meet them?”
“Well, I am here,” Peter says with a roll of his eyes. “Am I not?”
He is indeed. Very much present, not quite close enough to touch but more than close enough for Stiles to feel the heat that all werewolves seemed to radiate. He smells good, damn it, like spicy aftershave and caramel. Maybe it’s all the truffles. Or maybe Stiles is just horny and hungry at the same time and getting his wires crossed. Of course, that excuse would only hold water if this was the first time Stiles had had the thought.
“You said you didn’t like Valentine’s day,” Stiles points out, accusatory. “No interest in oats-sowing.”
“Yes, well…” This time, Peter’s smirk is wicked. “You know me. I’m a liar.”
His hand finds Stiles’ knee. He has to knock aside two Twixes and a Kit-Kat to get to it, and the candy clatters to the floor where it is immediately forgotten. The hand slides up, and up, and up. Stiles grabs Peter’s wrist before he can reach his destination.
Strangled, he says again, “You're something, alright."
Peter lets himself be caught, making no effort to free his hand or keep creeping upward. He just cocks his head to the side, insufferable smirk widening even further. His fingers flex against Stiles’ inseam as his eyes flick across the room.
“We could fuck in Derek’s bed,” he says, casual as anything, like he doesn’t know what a suggestion like that will do to Stiles’ poor libido.
Stiles’ startled snort of laughter can’t possibly be cute. And yet, Peter’s hand stays where it is, as does that fucking smirk. “He would be so mad.”
“That’s half the appeal.”
“But the other half,” Stiles feels the need to clarify. “That’s…that’s just me?”
Peter does pull his hand away then, but only to relocate it to Stiles’ cheek. His expression softens in a way that Stiles has never seen before. When he leans in, Stiles lets him, and the kiss is a sweet one—and not just because of the sugar on both their breaths.
“Yes,” Peter says plainly. “The rest is all you, sweetheart.”
Stiles can’t help his grin. Peter obviously senses the danger. In an attempt to preemptively shut him up, he kisses Stiles again. He’s very good at it. Good enough that that tactic would probably work with anyone else, but not even the extremely talented and experienced tongue of Peter Hale is enough to keep Stiles from saying, “Who’s mushy now, huh?”
Peter huffs against his lips, which is unfair. He knows Stiles; he should’ve expected this.
“Gonna start putting up pink heart decorations?” Stiles asks with the most shit-eating of grins. “Buying me flowers? Jewelry? It better be the good stuff. I’ve got very expensive tastes, I’ll have you know.”
With a very put-upon groan, Peter sweeps the rest of the candy off the couch so that he can get his hands under Stiles’ thighs and hoist him up. He applies himself more vigorously to distracting Stiles. It works to keep him quiet until Peter can dump him on the bed, at which point his mouth is free long enough to say, “Are we seriously gonna fuck in Derek’s bed? Like, for real? We’re gonna do that?”
Peter shucks off his shirt, tosses it aside, and says, “Unless you don’t want to.”
“Oh, I want to,” Stiles says. “I very much want to. But poor Derek is gonna be traumatized when he smells it.”
“Is traumatizing your relatives not the height of romance?”
Stiles laughs so hard, he almost can’t get his pants off.