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“Stiles, I’m cold,” Theo says, a quiet whine in his tone.
He scoots closer, body slithering on the sheets and chest pressing to Stiles’ back. Stiles flinches at the difference in temperature, whimpers as a knifelike ache spreads over his skin.
“You’re a werewolf. You’re hot by nature, okay? I’m human, I’m sick, and I’m cold,” Stiles mutters, punctuating his words with a forceful yank on the blanket.
There’s a second’s silence before Theo’s chuckle echoes in the dark and down Stiles’ spine; Stiles would roll his eyes if he hadn’t closed them.
“Shut up,” Stiles says, instead, voice muffled by his pillow. He draws in a breath that is all Theo and fabric softener and perspiration, buries his face further into it. “You know what I mean.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
Stiles moans at the pleasure/discomfort Theo’s mouth causes as he traces lukewarm kisses down the side of his neck, as Theo’s teeth find the tender skin on the curve of his shoulder.
“Hey, Stiles,” Theo says, in-between kisses, a laugh hidden in his voice, and Stiles could care if Theo’s hand weren’t doing such a good job of distracting him.
Stiles sets his jaw as Theo’s hand flattens against his navel, fingertips touching but not sliding past his boxers, and the subsequent shiver that runs down his body has nothing to do with his fever.
After a swallow, Stiles whispers, opening his eyes to stare at the dark, “Yeah?”
“You’re pretty hot yourself,” Theo adds, hand dipping further down Stiles’ skin.
Stiles counts to three, a breath caught in his throat, and says, “Please, shut up.”