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Peter gently places the cardboard box onto the floor, simultaneously glad that all his possessions have arrived undamaged and annoyed that he hadn’t hired movers. Despite the fact that he’d spent two hours arguing with the removal company from which he’d hired the van, the rest of the process had been rather smooth. His new apartment is an ocean of boxes, nothing unpacked but everything labeled. Peter hadn’t realized how many things he actually owned.
Peter takes a deep breath, breathing in that new apartment smell. Which is mostly cardboard and old books but still, his first proper apartment. It was worth celebrating. But first the apartment needs light. Peter flicks the light switch.
Nothing.
Peter tries again. Still nothing. Slightly disgruntled, Peter tries every light switch in the apartment. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Peter wanders over to the kitchen sink, fearing the worst. He turns on the tap. Nothing, not a single, solitary drop. Peter rubs a hand over his face, forcing himself to remain calm. He just has to go downstairs and talk to Mr. Harris. Easy. Simple.
Not simple. Not easy.
“It won’t be turned on till next week,” Mr. Harris says, sneering, “Nothing I can do.”
“What am I supposed to do with no electricity and no water?” Peter grits out, hands clenching and unclenching.
“Beats me,” Mr. Harris replies, “Not my problem.”
And with that he shuts the door in Peter’s face. Peter forces himself not to break down the door and rip Harris into tiny pieces. He marches back upstairs instead of taking the elevator, trying to work out excess energy. He slams his apartment door so hard the windows rattle.
Peter paces the apartment, rage bubbling beneath his skin. He yanks a pillow out of a box marked bedroom and flops down onto it. He fishes his phone out of his pocket, punching in Talia’s number somewhat viciously. The ringing cools his fury slightly. Talia will listen to him; perhaps invite him to stay at hers until his apartment was sorted. Admittedly he’d been looking forward to being away from his family but the universe has thrown a spanner into that particular work.
The moment Talia answers, Peter is ranting.
“Why does the universe hate me? I mean seriously, I have done everything right, endeavored to be a good person but no I am clearly being punished. I spent two hours arguing with those imbecilic morons at the removal company. I specifically asked for an automatic van, you know I can’t drive stick shift very well but no they just had to provide me with stick shift. It took another two hours before they found a suitable van. Needless to say I will not be using that company again. My new apartment is a disaster, I have no electricity, no water and the landlord is a complete asshole. I am without the basic essentials for a whole week. I have nowhere to store food so I can’t go shopping and you know that fast food doesn’t agree with me. This entire day has been an unmitigated disaster. This was my first opportunity for independent freedom Talia, not that I don’t love our family dearly but I was finally making it on my own as it were. I know your husband will see fit to tease me endlessly and Mother will make some irritating comment about how I should have stayed at home. Would you please reassure me that my life isn’t going to turn out like this permanently, because I need that right now.”
“Um…” the voice on the other end of the phone says nervously, “I’m not Talia but that’s rough buddy. Like I was going to stop you and tell you, you had the wrong number but I got caught up in the rant. Sounds like an awful day dude.”
“Who is this?” Peter enquires.
“Not Talia, who I’m assuming is your sister or something,” the voice says. It has a musical quality, uplifting and merry. “Out of curiosity, was your removal company Beacon County Removal?”
“Yes,” Peter replies slowly.
“Dude,” the voice says, brimming with excitement, “Did you move in apartment 4C of Faraday Apartments?”
“Yes,” Peter says, curious but apprehensive.
“Dude,” The voice crows, “You literally called the mobile number of the guy that lives a floor beneath you. How crazy is that? Come on down, we have electricity, water and food. You can vent some more and I might even let you borrow a beanbag for tonight. Unless you’d rather call Talia.”
Peter pauses. Certainly getting to know his neighbors isn’t a bad idea and he could avoid the hassle of home. On the other hand, it was entirely plausible that this voice belongs to a complete nutjob.
“Tell me your name first,” Peter demands, using a gentle tone to soften the command.
“Only if you tell me yours,” the voice replies.
“Peter Hale.”
“Stiles Stilinski, apartment 3C, come on down and claim your prize lucky caller. Your prize is a pretty mean bowl of homemade meatballs by the way.”
Peter looks around at his cold, lightless apartment.
“Be there soon,” he tells Stiles.
The bronze number 3 on the apartment door is facing the wrong way. The C is upside down. Muffled rap music appears to be slipping through the cracks surrounding the door. Peter raps his knuckles against the wood. The music stops.
“Coming,” a voice calls. Musical and uplifting, must be Stiles. The deadbolt is drawn back and the door swings open.
“Hello apartment 4C, welcome to the humble abode of Stiles Stilinski and his best bro Scott McCall, and occasionally the wide variety of friends that we have,” Stiles says, sweeping his arm back in a wide gesture. He appears to be vibrating with energy. Peter gives him a once over and smiles. Stiles is simply exquisite, all sharp angles and pale skin. Moles decorate his face like constellations. Wide, golden eyes sparkle with glee. Peter likes his tattoo sleeve peeking out from beneath the red plaid shirt; it’s similar to a watercolor painting. If watercolor paintings had a H.P Lovecraft theme.
The apartment is chaos but carefully organized chaos. The walls are a mess of color, something akin to a Jackson Pollock painting. None of the furniture matches and instead of a couch, there appears to be various different sized beanbags for seats.
“Your apartment is very unique,” Peter comments, turning to Stiles, who is in the kitchen, depositing meatballs onto plates.
“Thank you,” Stiles replies, his back to Peter. Peter smirks, enjoying the view. “Due to us being dirt poor, most of it is from various thrift shops, hence the whole uncoordinatedness of it.”
Stiles gestures as he talks but with his whole body. He is clearly incapable of keeping still.
“Anyway, you’re free to kip on the beanbags tonight,” Stiles continues, handing Peter a plate, ‘A good neighborly gesture and all that. You can repay me in cups of sugar or whatever. Isn’t that the typical neighbor borrowing thing?”
“You’re very kind,” Peter says, taking the plate. The smell is intoxicating, practically heavenly. And the food doesn’t smell too bad either.
“SCOTT!” Stiles hollers, “Get off the phone to your lovely but time consuming girlfriend and get your food. Also we have company.”
Scott turns out to be a muscled Mexican boy with puppy dog eyes and puppy dog attitude. He’s friendly, polite and gone within two minutes, apparently returning to Skype his long distance girlfriend, who’s apparently an Olympic archery champion.
“So Harris is an ass,” Stiles says, relaxing into the plush, neon orange beanbag in front of the TV, “If this wasn’t the cheapest place we could afford then we’d move out tomorrow. He’s got it out for me ever since the pop rocks and coke incident of 2014.”
Scott sticks his head out of his room to shout, “We do not speak of that!” before shutting the door with a little more force than was probably necessary. Peter raises an eyebrow.
“Pop rocks, coke, destroyed bathroom,” Stiles replies, pointing a fork at Peter, “And that’s all I’m legally allowed to say.” Peter shrugs, not pushing the issue. He’ll find out later.
“So do you make a habit of inviting your neighbors round?” Peter asks, twirling spaghetti on his fork elegantly.
“Sometimes,” Stiles replies, “Isaac, Boyd and Erica from 3B are old high school buddies. Kira and Malia from 3A are good for a laugh, though be warned, Malia is so protective of Kira, despite the fact that Kira is a sword welding badass. Also avoid 2B at all costs, Kali and Jennifer live there and they are such bitches. Also they fuck practically all day and night so if you happen to walk past, always carry headphones.”
“Duly noted,” Peter remarks, placing his empty plate on the floor. “Your meatballs are excellent, thank you for your hospitality. I would love to return the favour.”
“No problem man,” Stiles replies, shaking his head, “Cook for me sometime.”
“How about the first night I have electricity?”
“Deal. Do you want to watch a movie or something? Pretty sure we downloaded some new ones.”
They end up watching a terrible, low budget horror but Peter enjoys himself. It’s nice to watch something ridiculous, with no expectations or desire to understand the message. Stiles lets Peter pile the beanbags together to create a makeshift bed. The borrowed blanket smells like Stiles.
The next morning is a rush of coffee, gentle hellos and the pleasant sight of Stiles in an oversized Peggy Carter t-shirt and boxers. Scott rushes off to his vet job, toast dangling from his mouth. Stiles, it turns out is a tattoo artist and gives Peter a business card in case the urge ever arises.
“Pretty sure my Mother would disapprove,” Peter says, tracing the bold lettering on the glossy card.
“It could be small,” Stiles counters, “And on your ass.”
Peter smirks into his mug of coffee. It’s the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
After several furious phone calls and arguments with Harris (see: blatant threats), Peter gets his water and electricity switched on. He unpacks everything, even puts together his bed and bookcases before retrieving his ancient leather couch from storage. And it only takes him two days. And he doesn’t have a meltdown or call Talia once. He’s independent. He doesn’t need to lean on his family.
Once his laptop is set up he can finally check his emails and take some photography jobs. He makes a few calls, schedules a few expensive shoots and a couple of weddings and feels better for it.
Stiles invites him round on Friday night to meet the other tenants of Faraday Apartments. It’s pizza and video game night apparently. Peter brings a bottle of wine, very pleased to spend more time with Stiles. Stiles is very detailed in his introductions, parading Peter around like a new toy.
“Isaac Lahey, scarf wearing aficionado and adorable social worker. Erica Reyes, blonde bombshell. Owns a record store with her boyfriend Boyd, here he is. Boyd is the strong silent type,” Stiles says, pointing at each of the tenants in term. Erica waggles her fingers at Peter playfully whilst Boyd gives his a reassuring nod. Stiles drags him over to the TV where Scott is getting brutally slaughter at Mario Kart by a Japanese girl.
“Kira, sword welding badass,” Stiles says, patting her on the shoulder, “Her over zealous girlfriend Malia is the one devouring pizza like an animal.”
Malia flips Stiles off but does chew less viciously.
“There is no-one else worth knowing in this block,” Stiles says, hunting around in the kitchen cabinet for a glass. He settles on a chipped mug for Peter’s wine, shrugging apologetically. Peter stares at the mug, chuckling gently. It’s covered in floral rainbow penises. Peter didn’t expect anything less.
Peter doesn’t take part in the video games, his family prefers non-technological entertainment, but he does enjoy it immensely watching Stiles act as referee when Malia and Erica get too competitive.
Peter begins to look forward to video game night every Friday, even going so far as to take part occasionally. Stiles is a patient teacher, guiding him through with gentle, reassuring touches. Peter will never admit that sometimes he messes up on purpose just so that Stiles will clap a hand on his shoulder and squeeze. It’s a guilty pleasure, not that Peter ever feels guilty about anything.
Eventually though, his family creeps back into his life.
“Are we ever going to see your apartment?” Talia asks pointedly.
“Soon,” Peter replies, rubbings his eyes with the hand not holding the phone before fiddling with the hob. It flickers to life so Peter puts a pan on top and drizzles wok oil into it. “I’m still unpacking.”
If Talia recognizes the blatant lie, she says nothing. In all honesty, Peter is not ready to share Stiles with his family yet. Their relationship is still developing and Peter wants to be completely sure that Stiles is into him before he begins to parade Stiles to his family. Talia is notorious for meddling and Peter would prefer to seduce Stiles in his own time, without the interference of his prying older sister.
“Met any neighbors yet?” Talia presses, the sound of children screaming in the background. “Cora be nice to your brother. Well have you?”
“Some,” Peter says, using his shoulder to hold the phone to his ear while he cuts up carrots into thin slices.
“Frustratingly vague little brother,” Talia says but her voice is muffled. Peter rolls his eyes when he hears Talia reprimand Cora for putting icing sugar in Derek’s hair.
“You’re coming to Laura’s birthday party on the 28th aren’t you?” Talia asks a few minutes later.
“Of course,” Peter replies, dicing an onion and adding it the pan. The oil hisses.
“Good. How’s the photography business?”
That leads to a half hour rant on irritating grooms and meddling mother in laws.
Peter falls back on his sofa, rubbing the back of his neck. It aches, a deep, irritating ache. He hates school dances, despises the bratty teenagers demanding the perfect photo of their silly high school relationships that will burnout within minutes. Peter has to remind himself that the exposure and money is worth it but god is he tired. He wants a glass of wine and a good book. That’s if he doesn’t fall asleep here.
He’s jilted out of his impromptu nap by the sound of impatient knocking. Peter sighs heavily; reminding himself that prison is not an ideal career choice. He gets up to answer the door, counting to ten in his head. Gripping the door handle more tightly than he should, he pulls the door open.
Stiles is standing there, grinning madly with a halo made from orange glow sticks sitting on his head at a jaunty angle. His face has been decorated with neon pink paint, a multitude of Celtic patterns. His clothes are criminally tight, his tattoos on full display. Peter raises an eyebrow.
“Can I help you?” Peter asks. He crosses his arms.
“Firework party on the roof,” Stiles says, waggling his eyebrows suggestively and pointing towards the ceiling, “Come and party with us.”
“Is the neon paint a requirement?”
Stiles grins, nodding happily.
“And Harris’s opinion of this shindig?” Peter enquires. He’s aware that Harris has broken up several parties over the couple of months that Peter has lived here, although usually he never leaves his apartment for anything even when residents complain about Kali and Jennifer.
“Shindig, excellent word,” Stiles says, stroking his chin, “I’m going to try and shoehorn that into conversation. Anyway, Harris is away visiting family or whatever. I mean I’m not sure the dude has family: I’m convinced he congealed under a damp rock one day. Anyway, come on Peter, it’ll be fun. Malia got hold of illegal fireworks.”
“How?” Peter begins but Stiles cuts him off.
“Don’t ask. You don’t want to know. But time is a wasting, go put your dancing shoes on.” Stiles does jazz hands and a weird tribal dance for a few minutes following this statement.
“I assume that you are going to consistently badger me until I agree to go,” Peter says, watching Stiles do the running man.
“I like badgers, used to draw them on my chemistry homework to brighten it up. And in answer to your question, yes there will be much badgering. All the badgering.”
“Fine, I’ll change into something more appropriate,” Peter replies, closing the door on Stiles attempting to twerk and looking like an idiot.
“Get a move on Hale,” Stiles shouts from behind the closed door. Peter rolls his eyes when he hears Stiles fall against the door presumably doing another stupid dance move.
The roof is lit up with multicolored fairy lights, strung between the satellite dish and telephone wires. Speakers have been set up, blasting out something trashy and pop like; it vibrates through Peter’s chest. A makeshift bar has been set up on the opposite side of the roof. Multicolored cocktails are the drink of choice, each more decadent and bright than the one before. People are milling about, each decorated with varying designs of neon artwork. Erica, who looks like a fairy princess, flowers woven into her blonde hair, is painting Celtic symbols onto Boyd’s bare chest. Malia and Kira look like an ancient warriors, their decoration is like tribal markings. Kira is wearing a halo of glow sticks as well but it sits primly on her head unlike Stiles’. Peter focuses his camera, capturing the moment.
Stiles drags Peter over to where the neon paint is situated. A ginger girl who like Erica has flowers woven into her hair and painted upon her face is decorating Scott to look like a Mexican day of the dead skull. Stiles dips a finger into the overflowing pot of yellow paint before he wiggles it at Peter. Peter rolls his eyes but gestures towards Stiles, allowing himself to be painted. He closes his eyes, anticipating the soft caress of Stiles nimble fingers. His camera hangs loosely round his neck. Stiles fingers are gentle, light feather touches along Peter’s face. They leave to trace patterns onto Peter’s arms. Then they are gone completely.
Peter opens his eyes. The paint is drying. He can feel it. Stiles is holding up a mirror so that Peter can see his face. He laughs merrily, pleased with Stiles design. It makes him look lupine, a wolf amongst the people. Peter has always likened himself to a wolf, in nature and personality.
“Nice design Stiles,” a Hawaiian boy shouts from the dance floor. He is painted to look like flames surround his body. Stiles gives him the thumbs up.
“Cheers Danny,” Stiles yells back. Danny grins before he is lost to the crowd and pounding beat. Stiles turns to the ginger girl, tapping her shoulder and surveying her work. “You’re getting good Lyds.”
“I’ve been practicing on Jackson,” She replies, applying a finishing stroke to Scott’s bare torso. “He currently looks like his body has been ripped open though given his pretentious attitude, he’s argue he bleeds blue not neon pink.”
“Speaking of Bitchmore,” Stiles says, leaning in to observe Lydia’s work up close, “Where is the pretentious ass?”
“At the bar,” Lydia replies, rising gracefully, her ebony gown billowing around her, “Getting me a vodka martini if he knows what’s good for him.” Her eyes rake over Peter; he can feel them analyzing him like a prospective piece of meat. Peter decides to lay on the charm. He extends a hand towards her, open and friendly.
“Peter Hale, I live in the apartment above Stiles.”
“Lydia Martin,” Lydia replies, accepting the handshake. It’s firm and has an underlying edge of power. Power tipped in Lydia’s favor it seems; perhaps she is giving him a warning. Their hands drop. “I will see you later Stiles.” Her words are pointed. Stiles makes a noncommittal grunt and a wiggly hand gesture and with that Lydia is gone, disappearing into the thrumming crowd.
“Hey take a Snapchat for Allison,” Scott says, standing up and handing his phone to Stiles. Stiles grins whilst Scott poses. However instead of snapping a photo of Scott, Stiles yanks Peter over to him. The phone clicks, flash blinding them both. Scott pouts whilst Stiles cackles, adding their selfie to Scott’s story. It’s a silly one, Stiles has stuck his tongue out and Peter’s expression is one of mild shock.
“Pose again dude, I promise this one will go to Allison.” Another shutter click, another flash. Stiles hands the phone back to Scott, who then meanders off, presumably typing a suitable caption. Stiles shakes his head, chuckling to himself.
“Ah young love,” Stiles says, tone oddly nostalgic, “That boy has been smitten from the moment he met Allison. Bless him.” He turns to Peter, smiling brightly. Peter holds up the camera. Stiles laughs then, head thrown back. Peter captures the moment.
“Hey Stiles,” Erica yells. They turn to see her holding up a dustbin lid covered in shot glasses. The liquid changes color with the strobe lighting. “Bet you five dollars I can down more shots than you.”
“Yeah right Erica,” Stiles hollers back. He claps a hand on Peter’s shoulder, a reassuring heavy weight. He points at Peter with the other hand. “Don’t hide behind the lens all night buddy.”
“I promise,” Peter replies. Stiles grins and scampers off. Peter smiles softly and clicks another photo.
It’s midnight when Stiles corners Peter and pushes him onto the dance floor. Peter just manages to hand his camera into Boyd’s sober hands before he’s lost to the crowd. The beat pulses through them, thick and heavy. Stiles’ pupils are dilated and the the way he sways implies that he is no longer sober. Peter places a hand on Stiles waist, pulling him flush so that they grind together. Stiles tosses his head back.
“Malia is setting up the fireworks,” Stiles shouts, words only slightly slurred. “They’re gonna be what’s the word.” Stiles pauses. He looks confused, pondering hard. His eyes brighten a moment later. “Spectacular. That’s the word. Spectacular.”
Peter laughs. He leans into Stiles space, their foreheads touching. Peter isn’t one for fancy cocktails, especially when he cannot even begin to fathom the contents therefore he is still relatively sober. He won’t take advantage of Stiles inebriated state but he will have a little fun. Stiles wraps his arms around Peter’s neck. They grind together. The beat pulses. The lights pound. The air is heady with the scent of cheap alcohol and sweat.
There is a loud boom. It slices the air ricocheting around them. Peter looks up to see the explosion. The color is luminescent, lilac and gold blending together against a star strewn backdrop. People break away to gaze towards the cacophony of color. There is the usual murmur of appreciation, many oohs and aahs. Stiles is looking up in awe, mouth parted in a soft O. Peter relishes in the way that Stiles beautiful amber eyes glow under the exploding electric blue fireworks.
Stiles is beautiful. Peter has taken many photos in his short career but he has never wanted to capture anyone like this. Stiles has so many expressions that should be photographed. He is in constant motion, never in the same position twice. Individually his features are exquisite. Strong, capable hands with thin fingers. Lithe body, slender but muscled. Soft mouth, plush and inviting. His eyes change with the light but typically they look like a glass of whiskey with sunlight streaming through it. And Stiles mind is fascinating. Loyal, cunning, intelligent, creative. Everything that Peter values in a potential partner. Put them together and well, Peter is helpless to resist. He’s fully aware that he’s gazing like a love-struck idiot but Peter doesn’t care.
“They’re awesome,” Stiles, yells, turning to look at Peter, “Wonder where Malia nicked them from.”
“I thought we weren’t supposed to ask,” Peter shouts back. Stiles laughs. It’s a good laugh and holy shit is Peter in deep. To prevent further embarrassment, he excuses himself to retrieve his camera from Boyd. Boyd raises his eyebrows at Peter but says nothing for which Peter is grateful. He wanders to the edge of the roof, capturing the fireworks and wide array of guests.
“YES I AM THE QUEEN OF DESTRUCTION!” Erica shrieks, running past Peter with a large sparkler. Kira runs after her with a bucket of sand. Peter shakes his head, huffing a soft laugh. He turns and Stiles is once again in his line of vision. The red lamp above him highlights the bronze tones in his hair. Peter snaps a photo, zooming in to focus on Stiles face. When he drops the camera he notes Malia’s piercing gaze. It’s unsettling. Her eyes are laser focused upon Peter, tracking his every moment like a coyote stalking prey. Peter returns his attention to the fireworks to avoid her.
Peter is sifting through his mail in the lobby a few days after the party when Malia confronts him. She stalks up to him, her wild eyes narrowed. She’s dressed in gym clothes, clutching a water bottle in her hand like a weapon. Peter observes her with caution, fully prepared to run if she gets violent.
“I know you like Stiles,” Malia says, pointing a threatening finger at him. Peter almost goes cross-eyed looking at the sharp but beautiful painted nails. Blood red. How wonderful.
“I imagine a lot of people like Stiles,” Peter replies, trying to remain calm in the face of evisceration, “He’s very likeable.”
“You want to have sex with him,” Malia says, blunt as always, “I can see it in your face. Like I could see it when you were dancing with him.”
Peter says nothing. Malia takes his silence as admission.
“I’m warning you Hale,” She hisses, “Stiles is a good friend. He’s a good guy; he was there for me when nobody else was. He helped me to ask Kira out and has basically been like a brother to me. If you hurt him, I will hurt you. Ok?”
Malia doesn’t wait for an answer. She stamps off, taking the stairs two at a time. Peter shivers with unease and drops junk mail into the bin nearby while he watches her go.
Peter returns from Laura’s birthday party with cake in his hair courtesy of Cora and a bruise on his cheek from getting hit by the piñata stick. He waits for the lift, which has finally been repaired after two months, trying to pick the hardened icing out.
“Jeez was your latest wedding that violent?”
Peter turns his head to see Stiles come up behind him. Stiles is holding a bag of Mexican takeout, its scent curling around the hallway.
“Grooms these days,” Peter replies when Stiles becomes level with him. “I swear they get more crazy as the year progresses.” Stiles chuckles and ruffles Peter’s hair affectionately. Bits of icing flutter to the floor like confetti. The lift dings, Stiles retracts his hand and Peter pretends he doesn’t miss the comforting warmth.
“Actually,” Peter continues, entering the lift. He presses the button for Stiles and his floor. “My niece Cora felt that I could do with some frosted tips so obliged through the medium of birthday cake.”
“Whose birthday?”
“My niece Laura, she’s sixteen as of today.”
“I remember being sixteen,” Stiles says, voice thick with nostalgia, “Getting my license, trying to make first line for lacrosse, trying to woo Lydia Martin, looking for dead bodies in the woods. Good times.”
“Dead bodies?” Peter asks, eyebrow raised. Stiles smirks, waggles his eyebrows and doesn’t answer the question.
“Is Laura enjoying being sixteen?”
“She got her drivers license, crashed her ridiculously expensive car and is already planning the tattoo she wants at eighteen even though she’s been grounded till she’s thirty.”
“Send her to me,” Stiles says, readjusting the takeout bag, “I’m the best in the city, ask anyone.” Stiles makes a gun with one hand and pretends to shoot the ceiling, making a soft gunshot noise.
“I have no doubt of that,” Peter says fondly. Stiles grins. Despite the terrible lighting Stiles eyes still sparkle although less so than usual. Peter could drown in those eyes; they’re the color of angry waves crashing against the rocks. The lift grinds to a halt, the doors opening with a shudder.
“You want to share awful Mexican with me?” Stiles offers as he exits. Peter follows quickly, thrilled to spend any time with Stiles. He’s slowly working his way up to seducing him; Peter has firmly situated himself within Stiles circle of friends, even spending time with them without Stiles presence. The party on the roof was a promising step forward; he now knows the feeling of Stiles hips beneath his fingers.
“Why are you having Mexican that you know is awful?” Peter enquires, taking the bag from Stiles hands when he notes Stiles struggling to juggle that and his keys.
“It’s my sadness food,” Stiles replies. Peter furrows his brow. Stiles sticks his tongue out, fiddling with his keys until he finds the right one. Peter enters behind Stiles, still processing Stiles statement. When he thinks about it, there is a slump in Stiles shoulders and his gestures are more muted than usual. Peter deposits the takeout bag onto the kitchen counter. Stiles is rooting around in the cupboards, presumably looking for plates.
“What happened?” Peter asks.
“Nothing important,” Stiles replies with a wave of his hand but it’s missing its usual flamboyant flair.
“I know when you’re lying Stiles,” Peter says, leaning against the kitchen counter. He crosses his arms, raising an unimpressed eyebrow when Stiles turns to face him.
“It’s nothing really,” Stiles says, staring at his hands rather than Peter, “My ex Heather came into the shop and wanted a tattoo of her new husbands name and I couldn’t exactly refuse to serve her.” Stiles twists the bottom of his shirt in his hands.
“I’m guessing it didn’t end amicably?”
Stiles laughs. It’s hollow and fake. Unnatural. Stiles looks uncomfortable in his own skin. Peter loathes this woman, despises the way she makes Stiles appear small.
“Let’s just say the pop rocks and coke incident was minor compared to the way that we broke up.”
“How minor?” Peter presses.
“You know the saying if it starts dirty it will end dirty? Well we got together when she was with someone else even though we both knew it was wrong. So it started dirty. Months later it ended dirty. Destroyed possessions and a fist fight dirty.” Stiles voice is tight. Bitter.
“It’s not like it was a good relationship,” Stiles continues, “She wouldn’t hang out with my friends. Wouldn’t meet my dad. We fought over everything and she refused to back down even if she was wrong. It was a car crash from start to finish.”
Peter moves away from the counter, into Stiles space. He puts a hand on Stiles arm, a comforting weight, using his thumb to rub small circles into the skin. Peter lets Stiles lean into him, lets Stiles take comfort in Peter’s loose embrace. Stiles unknowingly nuzzles Peter’s neck. The embrace tightens. Stiles smells like cinnamon and orange blossoms.
When they part, Peter cups Stiles face with both hands to wipe away the traces of tears.
“Will the Mexican food keep?” Peter asks, letting go of Stiles face albeit reluctantly.
“Probably,” Stiles replies, “Scott and Allison get back soon from the airport so they’ll eat it. Why?”
“I promised to cook for you, did I not?”
Stiles eyes light up. Peter has brought handmade desserts to Game Night, each more decadent than the last, but Peter has never cooked a meal.
“Shall we go upstairs?” Peter asked, voice deliberately low and husky. He’s moving his seduction plan forward a few steps and a hand-cooked meal is the best place to start.
Stiles moans around the spoon. Peter shifts subtly in his seat, doing his best not to stare at Stiles lips. Stiles puts the spoon down, leaning back in his chair to rub his belly.
“Dude,” Stiles says, “Best meal ever. I’m going into a food coma that was so good.”
Peter smirks, clearing away the plates. Stiles smiles sleepily in reply, eyes drooping.
“I should probably go back to mine,” Stiles says before yawning. He looks so docile, like a tired kitten. Peter was hoping to get Stiles beneath him tonight but the poor boy looks so exhausted.
“Or you could stay here,” Peter offers, switching on the dishwasher. He puts a glass pan into hot water to soak overnight and returns the wine to the fridge. When he turns around Stiles is standing. He’s practically dead on his feet.
“I shouldn’t impose,” Stiles says, fingers tracing patterns in the hardwood table. Peter shrugs.
“I have a perfectly good bed we could share,” Peter says, walking up to Stiles so they’re only inches apart. “I presume since Allison is home for the first time in a month that they are going to be fucking all night long.”
Stiles groans, rubbing a hand over his face.
“Stay,” Peter encourages, “I have a spare toothbrush and a very comfortable bed.”
“I should take the sofa,” Stiles protests.
“Nonsense,” Peter chides, “My bed is more comfortable and better for your back. No need to damage your spine. We’re friends, we can handle sleeping in the same bed.”
Stiles runs his tongue along his teeth before sighing.
“Where’s the spare toothbrush?”
Peter sits in bed, back against the headboard, I-pad in hand. He flicks through a few emails, considering the prospective clients. It would be nice to do something other than weddings for a change.
Stiles pads into the room. He’s discarded his jeans and red plaid shirt, leaving him in a white vest and boxers. His hair is rumpled, eyes drooping. The perfect picture of sleepiness. It’s endearing to say the least. Stiles climbs in next to Peter, moaning quietly as he sinks into the mattress. He nuzzles the pillows, turning on his side to face Peter.
“Would you like me to switch the light off?” Peter asks, looking down at Stiles. He ignores the twinge in his chest at the prospect of having Stiles permanently in his bed. Stiles is usually sharp angles and blurred movement. Here his edges have been softened.
“If you wouldn’t mind,” Stiles murmurs. Peter goes back to the emails, filing a few away for safekeeping before putting the I-pad on the bedside table. He flicks the bedside light off, slipping further under the covers. Stiles snores but it’s almost like a deep rumble, possibly a purr. Peter isn’t quite sure when he falls asleep but the last thing he remembers is the rhythmic rise and fall of Stiles chest.
Peter stirs, light hitting his eyes through the gap in the curtains. He really should invest in some shutters. He blinks. The light is practically blinding so he turns his head away. He notes a weight on his chest, heavy and warm. Eyes that have finally adjust tell him that the weight is Stiles.
An awake Stiles. An awake Stiles who is creating patterns in Peter’s t-shirt with his fingertips.
“Happy there are you?” Peter rumbles, smile somewhat smug.
“I came to a realization,” Stiles says, amber eyes flicking up to look at Peter’s face.
“Did you?” Peter teases, caressing Stiles hair. Stiles leans into the hand happily.
“I like you. I like you a lot. I know you like me too, Malia told me.”
“Did Malia also tell you how she threatened me?” Peter asks.
“Yeah,” Stiles says, a smile touching his lips. “I though you’d make a move last night to be honest. But you didn’t. You offered me a toothbrush and let me stay in your bed.”
“You were exhausted,” Peter counters.
“I know and that’s why I like you. You didn’t try and push me even though I was vulnerable last night. I knew the moment you cooked me a meal would be the start of your seduction but once you knew I was tired you stopped. It was nice. Different.”
“Did Heather push you?” Peter asks. Stiles nods. Peter hates this woman. He pulls Stiles in closer, pressing gentle kisses into his hair. Stiles shifts so they’re facing each other, leaning in to brush his lips against Peter’s. It’s tentative. Questioning.
Peter reels Stiles in, kissing him passionately. Stiles licks against Peter’s lips so Peter grants him access. His lips part and Stiles is licking the inside of his mouth almost desperately. Hands are twisted in t-shirts, gripping tightly. Stiles moves so that he’s straddling Peter, not breaking the kiss. Peter nips at Stiles lip, reveling in the soft moan that produces. Stiles grinds down, rolling his hips. Peter growls, biting down on Stiles bottom lip.
It’s easy for Peter to sink into the sensuousness of Stiles soft lips and warm, yielding body. His tongue is wet and willing, snaking out to tease Peter’s lips with promises. Peter feels a tingle down his spine when Stiles rolls his hip again, it leaves him feeling lightheaded. Peter’s hands are eager, they grasp and pull and tease. Stiles breaks the kiss, panting heavily. He smells like orange blossoms and Peter’s cologne.
“Wanna ride you,” Stiles murmurs. Peter smirks, lip curling at the thought.
“Well I wouldn’t say no,” Peter, says, pressing sweet butterfly kisses along Stiles left cheek and down onto Stiles slender neck. He bites down, reveling in Stiles breathy moans. Peter sucks the mark, determined to make it stay. It’s a possessive mark of ownership. Peter doesn’t share well with others. Stiles leans away to remove his vest. Once removed, Peter traces a finger down Stiles sternum, watching Stiles quiver under the touch.
“There needs to be more nakedness,” Stiles concludes, his hand cupping Peter’s jaw to bring him forward into a chaste kiss.
“I wholeheartedly agree,” Peter murmurs. He pulls back to shuck his shirt. Stiles scrambles off Peter, removing his boxers and flinging them across the room. Stiles cock is hard, flushed red with precum beading at the head. Peter runs his tongue along the edge of his teeth. Stiles is hard and it’s all for him. It’s difficult for Peter not to just suck Stiles down and bring him to orgasm with his tongue but the promise of being ridden is far more inviting.
“I don’t need to much prep,” Stiles says, eyes watching as Peter removes his pajama bottoms. “I’m quite err… liberal with my toys.” Peter feels a heady rush of arousal at the thought.
“Come here now,” Peter orders and Stiles is all too happy to oblige. They grind together. Stiles moans gutturally. The friction is heaven. The room is filling with Stiles gasps and the sweet scent of sweat. Peter trails a hand down Stiles ass to his hole. Stiles is right, it is a little loose, probably needs only a two fingers to stretch it for Peter.
“Lube,” Stiles pants, “There’s always time for lubricant.”
Peter grins. He opens the bedside table draw, rooting around until he finds the bottle. He drizzles it onto his fingers, the smell of strawberries curling around them. Stiles occupies himself with placing gentle kisses along Peter’s neck, eager to leave marks of his own. Peter groans. Stiles teeth are sharp.
Peter traces a finger teasingly around Stiles entrance before he plunges in. Stiles has clearly played with his hole in the last twenty-four hours, which Peter is happy about. It means he’ll be inside Stiles all the quicker. Stiles is moaning. Loudly.
“That’s right baby boy,” Peter says encouragingly, adding another finger. “Let me hear you.” Stiles gasps when Peter prods his prostate.
“Want you in me like yesterday,” Stiles pants, breath hot and heavy.
“Ok baby, let me get a condom.” Peter presses a gentle kiss to Stiles forehead. He grabs a condom from the drawer, ripping it open. Stiles plucks it from his Peter’s finger, waggling his eyebrows. He places it in his mouth before proceeding to roll it onto Peter’s dick. Once it’s done, he smirks up at Peter from beneath long lashes before he leans back, grinning. He then rearranges himself, holding Peter’s dick in place before sinking slowly onto it. Peter breathes out through his nose. He grips Stiles hips. They’ll bruise leaving behind Peter’s fingerprints in Stiles skin.
Stiles’ mouth is open in a soft O. He rolls his hips, adjusting to the fullness. Peter gasps with each movement; it sends warm tingles of pleasure up his spine. Stiles begins to move faster. They are both slick with sweat, mouths slack with pleasure. Stiles moans, ramming himself on Peter’s cock, determined to hit his prostate each time. Peter thrusts his hips, leaning upwards to suck more marks into Stiles skin. He bruises so prettily.
“Everyone will know you’re mine with these marks,” Peter says conversationally though the hitch in his voice gives away how much Stiles affects him. “Everyone will see who you belong to. Who do you belong to baby?”
“You,” Stiles gasps, “I belong to you.”
“Such a good boy,” Peter purrs, thrusting harder, “So perfect for me. Such a perfect baby boy.” Another hard thrust leaves Stiles reeling. Peter wraps a hand around Stiles cock, jacking him in time with his thrusts.
“Wanna cum,” Stiles pants, his voice shaky, “Please let me cum.”
“Ok baby boy,” Peter says, kissing Stiles slack mouth, “Come for me.”
Stiles does, a low groan escaping his mouth as he spills over Peter’s hand. Peter follows soon after, resting his head against Stiles shoulder. Their breathing settles.
“Baby boy?” Stiles questions when Peter leans back. He eases himself off of Peter’s cock, falling down next to him in the bed. Peter removes the condom, tying the end and throwing it into the wastepaper basket beneath the bedside table.
“You seemed into it at the time,” Peter replies, snuggling down and pulling the covers over them. “But if you don’t like it I can use something else. Pet. Darling. Sweetheart.”
“Baby boy is fine,” Stiles, replies, resting his head against Peter’s chest. “Just not outside the bedroom if that’s alright.”
“That’s alright baby,” Peter says, dropping a gentle kiss upon Stiles head. Stiles smiles, eyes fluttering closed. Peter strokes Stiles hair, his own eyes closing. He’ll make Stiles breakfast later, for now he’s content to cuddle and sleep.