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God, the boy had a great ass. Peter tracked long, shapely legs as Stiles paced to the other end of Derek’s loft. He spun on his heel and came back the other way, muscles flexing beneath taut denim that, if Peter looked closely, showed the barest outline of his cock. Peter licked his lips.
Did anyone else know what was hiding under all those layers?
Peter narrowed his eyes. They better not. That could cause a problem because Peter was relatively sure that if he caught anyone else looking at his boy, he’d rip their eyeballs straight from their skull, and then Stiles would be annoyed with him. He shot a glare in Chris’ direction anyway.
“Cool it, Peter,” Chris said with a grunt as he shifted on the sofa beside him, his injured leg stretched out on the cushion.
Peter huffed and turned back to the room. His vision went a little wonky with the movement, but he blinked until it cleared again. Allison and Lydia had a tome spread between them. It was Peter’s—the “Bugs and Plants Book,” as Stlies liked to call it. Peter had given up on correcting him. Derek and Scott were arguing about something over in the kitchen. Nothing new there. They should really just fuck already and get the Alpha posturing out of their systems.
Chris started coughing suddenly. Peter ignored him. He didn’t particularly care if Argent choked. His eyes drifted back to Stiles, whose shoulders were tense as he shoved a hand through his hair. Peter was glad he’d left it grown out. The length suited him and helped balance his other features, like his big eyes and pretty cock-sucking lips.
Chris groaned something like, “Someone, please shoot me,” and pulled a throw pillow over his face. Peter would be happy to help, but guns weren’t really his thing.
“Oh my fucking god,” Stiles suddenly bit out. “Can we please hurry up and do something?” He was nearly vibrating with tension, his fists clenched and his nostrils flaring.
“You look stressed, baby,” Peter called across the room. “Want to bounce on my cock until you feel better?”
Stiles turned to him, his jaw gaping, big brown eyes wide, and eyebrows climbing toward his hairline as he rapidly flushed pink, then red.
Peter stared at his lips. “Or I can fuck your mouth nice and deep the way you like. I’m not picky.”
“Holy fuck, Peter,” Chris sounded somewhere between shocked and amused. “How much of that pollen did you inhale?”
Peter lifted a hand that refused to stay steady and held his fingers a pinch apart. “Not much.”
There was commotion from the kitchen and the warning growl of an Alpha werewolf. Peter blinked at Scott’s bright red eyes as he held back a snarling Derek.
“Oh my god,” Stiles said, his voice thready. Peter looked at him again and saw he was flushed from the tips of his ears all the way down his throat. So pretty. He flushed like that when Peter fucked him just right. “I’m going to murder you, Peter.”
Peter gave a fang-baring grin. “Primal play. Fun. We haven’t done that in a while.”
Derek’s snarl nearly covered Scott’s groan.
Stiles spun towards the door. “Dead, Peter. You’re so fucking dead as soon as I finish saving you.”
“Baby,” Peter called after him.
“Don’t call me that, you asshole. I’m breaking up with you.” He snagged his keys off the table. “If Deaton calls, tell him I’m coming to him instead. If we can’t find something to cure him, I’m at least going to knock him out until this shit is out of his system.” The door slammed behind him.
“You’re so screwed, dude,” Scott said as he slowly released a calmer-looking Derek.
Peter waved a hand dismissively and let his head fall against the sofa cushions. It was fine. Stiles would forgive him. If he didn’t, Peter would pull out the big guns. His boy would forgive anything after an hour with Peter’s tongue up his ass and a few orgasms.
There was a snarl and a shout in the background as Derek and Scott crashed to the floor, wrestling. They really should just fuck all that aggression out of their systems. It worked for him and Stiles.
*
“Get out of my room, asshole.”
Peter sighed and ignored the demand, making his way across the hardwood floor to the bed. “Technically, it’s my room. In my apartment.”
“Don’t care,” Stiles mumbled into the pillow. “You can fuck all the way off.”
“Stiles,” Peter said, lowering himself to the edge of the mattress. “It wasn’t intentional.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Stiles rolled over, pillow clutched to his chest to glare at Peter through red-rimmed eyes.
Peter frowned. Had he been crying?
“I’m the one who knew which book to look in, identified the plant, and the antidote.”
“Then why are you mad at me?” Peter was honestly confused. Yes, it wasn’t the way they planned to tell the pack they were together, but Stiles was generally more rational than to hold toxic pollen against him. It wasn’t like he’d been able to control himself.
A mass of fluff smacked him in the face. “Because you absolute jackass.” Stiles hit him with the pillow again. Then, when he hauled back for a third strike, Peter caught his arm and gave him a warning growl that made Stiles deflate. It was then that Peter smelled the salt-prick of tears and felt the minute tremor of Stiles’ muscles.
“Baby,” he soothed, tugging Stiles into his lap and wrapping his arms around him. “Talk to me.”
“It could have been so much worse,” Stiles said into Peter’s shoulder, his voice cracking as his arms wrapped around to cling to the back of Peter’s shirt.
“Worse than offering to fuck you in front of the entire pack?”
Stiles growled and bit Peter’s shoulder hard enough to make him wince. “I’m talking about the pollen. Not your verbal diarrhea. Fuck, Peter. You could have died.”
Oh. That.
Peter tightened his arms. “I recognized it. I knew it wasn’t deadly.”
Stiles shook his head without looking up. “Before or after you inhaled it?”
Peter grimaced and said nothing. Stiles seemed to take that as an admission.
“You have to be more careful,” he said wetly. “I can’t lose you.” His fingers dug into Peter’s back, clinging.
Peter pressed a kiss to his temple. Guilt was an annoying emotion, but he couldn’t deny he felt it now. “I’m sorry, baby boy. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Well, you did. And don’t call me that. I’m still mad at you.”
Peter huffed a silent laugh. That was a lie, for sure. Stiles melted when Peter whispered endearments in his ear. He tipped his boy back onto the mattress and started laying kisses down his throat. “How can I make it up to you?”
“Besides not running headlong into danger again?”
Peter didn’t answer that because he knew he would do it again, especially if it were to put himself between Stiles and the threat like he had earlier that night. He slid his hand down in a slow caress instead.
“Maybe.” Stiles broke off to wet his lips as his tone shifted. “What you said earlier?”
Peter grinned. “What was that? You wanted to bounce on my cock until you feel better?”
“Yes, please, Daddy,” Stiles begged, squirming against the sheets, arousal flooding his scent.
Peter ducked his head and caught Stiles’ lips in a deep, slow kiss. That sounded like the kind of apology Peter could get behind. Or, under, as the case may be.