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Flowers in the Window

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What sort of sappy dork hung flower boxes in the windows of an apartment? Stiles smiled at them from where he lay sprawled bare on the sheets. He could just see the sunny tops of the hyacinths, swaying as the warm breeze carried their perfume inside, along with the faint buzz of street noise from below. Stiles closed his eyes and stretched, arms over his head and toes poking over the edge of the bed. His muscles ached pleasantly.

From the other side of the room, he could hear the shower running. Over that, he could just make out a low, melodic humming.

Flowers in the window, Stiles thought, and he sings in the shower.

It sent a stab of fondness through him that should have had nothing to do with their little arrangement. Strictly casual, that was what they had agreed on. “I’m not looking to start a love affair with a college dropout who has no idea what he wants,” Peter had explained that first night, one warm hand cupped firmly around Stiles’s jaw to keep their eyes locked.

Good,” Stiles had shot back. “I’m not looking to start a love affair with a narcissistic old man.”

And that had been the end of it.

Not the end of the sex, clearly. No, the sex happened. Frequently, in many different positions and in some truly questionable locations. It kept happening, too, with increasingly satisfying results.

It had been the end of the conversation, though. The end of the possibility of a conversation. Neither of them had set out the rules explicitly, but Stiles knew, regardless, what sorts of topics would shatter the whole thing: What were they to each other? How long would this go on? Was Peter seeing anyone else? Could he see someone else?

A knock at the door stirred him from his thoughts. He sat up. Peter had left the bathroom door ajar so Stiles could just see the steamed-up shower door reflected in the vanity mirror. “You expecting someone?” he asked.

Peter called back, “That’s dinner. There’s a tip on the kitchen counter.”

Stiles frowned in confusion, but got up. His clothes had been discarded before they got to the bedroom, and he wasn’t in a mood to go hunting them down. Instead, he went to Peter’s dresser and pulled on a pair of his sweats and a v-neck. Stiles’s muscles had filled out over the past couple of years, but his pecs couldn’t begin to compete with Peter’s. The shirt gaped even lower on him than the tantalizingly low necklines that its owner favored.

He traded a forgery of Peter’s signature and the cash on the counter for two bags of gloriously pungent Vietnamese food. It was from one of his favorite restaurants in the neighborhood. The shower shut off as Stiles set it out on the table.

“Hey, when did you even order this?” he asked. Because Peter had been all over him from the moment he walked in the door and had gone straight to the shower after they were finished.

From the bedroom, he heard Peter reply, “Before you got here. You always whine that I don’t have food that doesn’t need to be cooked first. Which, again, is not true. I have a lovely collection of –”

“–weird, stinky French cheese,” Stiles cut in, unable to fight the fond smile from his lips.

“You have no taste at all.” Peter emerged from the bedroom in his ridiculous black silk bathrobe, which hung carelessly open as he toweled his hair dry. His pubes looked shorter than they had been before he went into the bathroom. Was he manscaping in there?

Peter had stopped short, eyes wide, fixed on Stiles.

“What?” Stiles looked down at himself, then remembered he had borrowed Peter’s clothes. “I didn’t feel like figuring out where you threw mine,” he explained. “What, am I sullying your fine fashion?”

Peter crossed the room in a few quick strides and reeled Stiles in by the back of his neck. Before he could even brace himself properly, there were warm lips on his, a tongue pushing into his mouth in a positively ravenous kiss. It made his knees wobble. When he pulled back, Peter tugged at the hem of the shirt, a smirk hiding in the dip of his cheek. “No. I like it,” he admitted.

“Okay,” Stiles agreed, breathless.

Another quick kiss, this one with a nip to his lower lip, and Peter was walking past him to the kitchen. By the time he returned with dishes and water, Stiles had only just gotten his brain back together enough to finish setting out the food. “Did you get bowls for the soup?”

Peter set them down next to him, pausing to drop a kiss on to the back of his neck before moving around him to put down the rest.

It wasn’t that Peter was usually reserved about touching him – far from it – but he usually didn’t mete out small affections quite so freely. Especially after they’d already fucked. It made Stiles think, recklessly, about flower boxes. His cheeks heated, but he tried not to betray his reaction further as he sat down and started pouring soup into his bowl.

“Thanks for dinner,” he said. “I love this place.”

“You mentioned,” Peter replied easily, as if casual fuck buddies always remembered restaurants that had come up in conversation. Once. Weeks ago.

Stiles narrowed his eyes. “Have you had it before?”

Peter hummed as he pulled delicate shrimp pancakes onto his plate. “I went after you brought it up. It’s very authentic.” He glanced up at Stiles. “I’m surprised your heathen palate is able to appreciate it.”

The tension broke with the spread of a grin, and Stiles flipped him the bird. “Hey, fuck off. My palate is fine. Just because I don’t want to be asphyxiated by a Cambert…”

Camembert,” Peter corrected, fully accented.

Stiles stuck a pinkie finger up and mocked a snooty expression. “Cam-om-burghhhh.” He only just managed to duck out of the way of a wadded-up napkin, thrown at his head.

“Brat.”

“Old man.” Stiles stuck his tongue out.

 




After dinner, Peter packed the leftovers while Stiles took care of the dishes.

In his peripheral, he saw the fridge close, then felt the light drag of a claw down the back of his neck. It tugged the collar of the v-neck lower. A warm mouth fitted over the knob of his spine, sucking a kiss there, then pulling back with a drag of teeth.

Stiles bit his lip and kept scrubbing, doing not-quite-his-best to ignore the attention. It was very nice attention, but certain inflated egos didn’t need to know that.

Peter pressed against his back, warm hands sliding under the hem of his shirt to splay over his ribs. A thumb flicked over his nipple. A tongue traced the side of his neck to the hollow under his ear.

An involuntary, gasping little whine slipped out of Stiles’s mouth. His eyes slid closed.

“I think that plate is clean,” Peter purred against his ear.

Stiles opened his eyes and saw that he was, indeed, scrubbing a clean plate. He rinsed it and set it on the drying rack before twisting around in Peter’s arms.

“Can you stay over tonight?”

The question caught Stiles off-guard. Normally, he only stayed over if it was a late-night booty call or they went at it too long. His dad didn’t mind him staying out all night (“You’re an adult, and I don’t need to know.”), but he grumbled when Stiles woke him up coming home at three in the morning. Otherwise, once he’d regained control of his legs and maybe whined at Peter to make him something to eat, Stiles usually put his clothes back on and slipped out the door like a common harlot.

“Uh, yeah,” he said, shaking off the surprise. “Yeah, I can – I don’t have to work until three tomorrow.”

“Good.” Peter’s lips curled into a dangerous smile as his hands slid down to Stiles’s butt. Peter’s robe, which he had tied for dinner, had fallen open again, so the sweats were the only barrier between them as he pulled Stiles flushed against him.

“Should we take this back to the bedroom?” Stiles suggested.

Peter’s smile inched wider. He shook his head. “Nah.” Then, in a flash, he had Stiles turned back around, bent forward over the empty counter beside the sink. A strong hand pressed between his shoulder blades, pinning him down. His other hand slid up under the v-neck, hiking it halfway up his back. “Put your hands flat on the counter,” he instructed. “Can you stay like that for me?”

“You’re in a mood,” Stiles commented as he laid his hands out obediently. Peter did like to get bossy in bed – they both did, honestly – but he usually played it much cooler than this.

The hand pinning him eased away, and then two held him by the waist. Peter’s tongue trailed from the base of his spine up to the middle of his back, where the shirt had bunched up. “You complaining?” Peter drawled, then bit lightly over the back of his ribs on the right.

Stiles squirmed under his touch, but kept himself flattened against the counter. “Nope. Definitely not.”

Claws traced over the dip of his back, and Stiles tried his very best not to analyze how hot that got him. He tried even harder not to analyze the fact that Peter definitely knew how hot that got him. They hooked into the waistband of his sweats – Peter’s sweats – and dragged them down over his ass.

Stiles reached behind him, gripping the back of his shirt to pull it over his head, but within a second, a strong hand had wrapped around his wrist. Peter leaned over him as he pressed his hand back onto the counter. With his robe open, his erection pressed hot and firm against Stiles’s ass. “I said,” he growled, “stay still.”

“You actually didn’t,” Stiles pointed out, and won himself a sharp slap to the ass that stung and faded into heat. He groaned and pressed his forehead against the counter. “Staying still,” he agreed.

Peter’s thumb brushed over his hole, stroking and teasing at it, tugging just enough to make Stiles’s breath catch in his throat. They hadn’t actually gotten around to fucking earlier, but Peter had fingered him within an inch of his life, so he was still somewhat relaxed. Not enough to fuck dry, though. Turning his head, he saw Peter’s hand wrap around the bottle of olive oil next to the spice rack.

“Is that, like, sanitary?” Stiles asked.

“The Greeks used it,” Peter said airily.

Stiles snorted. “Yeah, the Greeks also – hah!” His words caught at the cold dribble of oil down his crack, followed quickly by a thumb pressed inside.

“The Greeks also…?” Peter prompted, and Stiles could hear the smirk in his voice. His thumb curled in a way that made Stiles rise onto his toes, back arching.

“Also… also they were Greek,” he panted.

“Fascinating.” More oil dripped, then the thumb switched out for fingers, longer and twisting inside of him, stretching him in a manner that was not entirely perfunctory. Peter, he had found, could be both efficient and devastatingly thorough all at once.

“Oh god,” Stiles groaned against the granite, letting his mouth hang open as his breathing grew heavier.

Peter cupped his balls in his free hand, massaging them. “You want more, sweetheart?”

“Mmmyeah.”

“What was that?” Another finger slipped in with a satisfying stretch.

Yes,” Stiles enunciated more carefully. He gripped the edge of the counter to give himself some leverage, to fuck back.

Peter’s lips pressed against the dip of his spine. “You’re going to have to do better than that if you want me to fuck you.”

Stiles made a frustrated grunt, trying to shove back harder. “Peter, I swear to god, I’m gonna kill you.”

A laugh rumbled against the bare skin of his back. “That’s more like it.”

The fingers disappeared to the sound of oil squelching over a hard dick, and then Peter was pressing into him, not fast but not slow either as the breath stuttered out of Stiles’s chest. He didn’t give Stiles pause, didn’t wait for him to adjust to the feeling. Peter knew, better than anyone, the delicious ways that Stiles fell apart when overwhelmed. A hand closed around one of Stiles’s shoulders, holding him for leverage, and then Peter’s hips were snapping against his in a hard, steady rhythm.

“Oh god, oh fuck,” Stiles panted. “Yes, yes, yes, fuck, Peter.” He braced himself against the edge of the counter with both hands, whining and trying his best to rock his hips back. Pleasure rushed at him quickly, and Stiles soon found himself whining, babbling, “Please touch me. Please, please, I need it. Peter, I need you to, please.”

Peter’s voice was ragged. “You always beg eventually.” His hand wrapped around Stiles’s cock and tugged once, twice, and then he was shooting off onto the cabinets and the kitchen floor.

Stiles let himself go loose, sliding against the counter and listening to the rush of blood in his ears as Peter continued pounding into him.

Behind him, Peter said, “Fuck. Fuck,” and it took Stiles a few hazy seconds to recognize that it wasn’t just your normal, everyday mid-coital cursing but an actual exclamation of concern. He glanced back over his shoulder curiously, but at that moment he could feel the answer: the catch at his rim as the base of Peter’s dick started to swell.

Nonononono!” Stiles said quickly, sobering from his post-orgasm high like he’d just jumped into cold water. “Peter, not here! Not in the fucking kitchen!” Because like hell was he going to stay bent over the kitchen counter for twenty damn minutes.

It looked like Peter was sort of trying to pull away, but his hips were still humping in little, instinctual movements, body curling forward as he started to fall into orgasm.

Stiles kicked him in the shin. Hard.

Peter stumbled back finally and made an absolutely wounded noise. Stiles spun around and saw Peter’s hands immediately flying to the base of his dick, squeezing around the knot where Stiles’s body had been doing so before. Fuck, it probably needed the pressure or something. Stiles had no idea. Despite a disturbingly widespread need for them, werewolf anatomy lessons had not been part of the BHHS sex ed curriculum.

“Alright, alright,” he said in what he hoped was a soothing sort of tone. He dropped to his knees. “Just keep your hands there, keep squeezing.” Stiles stroked the shaft, hand twisting over the head before he leaned in and wrapped his lips around it. Peter growled above him, and Stiles had gotten fairly good at interpreting werewolf growls over the years. This one, he thought, meant ‘good, but hurry up.’ So he did. He jerked Peter fast and rough, not bothering to put more than the head in his mouth as he rubbed his tongue against the slit. Above him, Peter groaned, loud and low.

The first spurt spilled over Stiles’s tongue, quickly followed by – holy mother of macaroni – a truly baffling amount of come. Stiles knew that Peter came more when he knotted, but when it was safely inside of his ass, it never seemed like quite so much. He choked and frantically pulled off, sputtering, only to have another spurt hit him full in the face. Stiles turned away, and the rest landed safely on his neck.

One of his eyes hadn’t gotten closed quite quickly enough and stung. He peeked the other one open to see Peter standing over him panting, one hand braced on the kitchen counter.

Dude,” Stiles complained.

Peter reached over the counter behind Stiles’s head, then came down with a fistful of paper towels. “Not that it isn’t a good look on you,” he said, though the humor in his voice sounded strained, still a bit dazed. Though, if either of them had the right to be dazed, it was the one who just got glazed with come like an unholy cupcake.

Stiles scrubbed the mess off his face and neck as best he could, then hauled himself to his feet and jerked his head toward the kitchen door. “Bedroom,” he decided.

They only made it to the couch before Peter seemed to give up on this whole ‘walking’ thing. His knot was still swollen between his legs and probably uncomfortable. He sat down with a groan.

“Here, lie back,” Stiles said, nudging him over until he sprawled out lengthwise. He climbed on top of Peter, straddling his thighs, and wrapped both hands around the gland, giving it some pressure. At Peter’s sudden hiss of breath, Stiles glanced up at his face, finding him with eyes closed, lips pressed tightly together. “Is this… good?” he asked, not letting up yet. “Does it help?”

Peter nodded. One of his hands wrapped around Stiles’s wrist, thumb stroking at the pulse point. “It’s good. Thanks.”

“Is it uncomfortable?” Stiles asked, massaging it just a little, if only to remind his hands to keep up the pressure. “Because you didn’t knot in me?”

“It’s not bad,” Peter assured him. “Just a little sensitive. I think maybe...” He opened his eyes, looking at Stiles, and his words drifted off, forgotten.

“What?”

Peter’s lips quirked in amusement, which he quickly wrestled into a scowl. “There’s come all over my shirt.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Whose fault is that?”

He refocused his attention on the knot, which was slowly starting to go down. It had only made an appearance twice before – the first time a rather alarming ordeal – and Peter had been stubbornly vague in his explanations about why and how it happened. It was a complex interaction, he’d said, between control over the shift and environmental cues and the phase of the moon. Only the moon was barely half-full tonight, and Stiles didn’t think Peter had lost control of the shift more than usual.

Did the knot like being in the kitchen? Was it a sustenance sort of thing? An olive oil thing? Wolves were food-motivated creatures, Stiles supposed, but it still seemed weird as hell.

“You’re thinking too hard.” Peter’s voice broke through his reverie. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

Stiles made a face at him, tried to shake his racing thoughts.

Peter sighed, pulled Stiles’s hands away from the knot, and hauled him down against his chest. “Come on, then. What’s going on in that dilapidated hamster wheel you call a brain?”

He could feel Peter’s heartbeat against his cheek. “I was just thinking,” he said slowly, stalling for a response. Pressing to know why Peter knotted felt like the sort of topic that crossed into less-than-casual territory. Stiles ran his fingers through Peter’s chest hair, then looked up at him once he’d settled on a suitable deflection. “I was thinking about how much hotter you would be if you weren’t such an asshole.”

Peter rolled his eyes.

“I’m serious,” Stiles insisted. “It would be dangerous. That jawline, plus actual human empathy? Chaos! Cities would fall!”

Laughing, Peter ruffled his hair. “Maybe I just save my empathy for those more deserving.”

“Hey, I’ll have you know I’m a very pitiable person.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Truly pathetic.”

Peter caught Stiles’s chin between his thumb and forefinger and turned his face from side to side slowly, studying him. “Hm. No, I don’t see it,” he concluded. “Too pretty.”

 




“Hey, have you seen my shirt?” Stiles called across the apartment the next morning. He’d found his pants, his underwear, even both socks. The shirt was MIA. He poked his head into the bedroom and found Peter right where he’d left him: lounging on the bed with a cup of coffee, eyes fixed on his phone.

“Mm, no,” he said without so much as glancing up. “Just borrow one of mine.”

Stiles opened his mouth to argue that he liked that shirt, but Peter was already getting up, setting his coffee on the nightstand.

“Here, I’ll get one for you,” Peter said. He slid open the middle drawer of his dresser and pulled out another v-neck, much like the one Stiles had worn – desecrated, really – last night.

The one Peter had kept him in almost all night, despite said desecration.

Last night when Peter had been uncharacteristically frisky. And knotty.

Stiles’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t say anything, just took the v-neck and held it to his chest. He had a theory.

“What?” Peter asked, an unconvincing facade of innocence.

“Nothing,” Stiles answered quickly. He tugged the shirt on. “Thanks.”

Stiles didn’t miss the way Peter’s eyes widened just slightly, taking in the sight of Stiles in his shirt, or the way his nostrils flared. Maybe a scent thing, too? Stiles smelling like Peter? He had always been a possessive bastard. Whenever he tried to ‘help’ with cleaning his come off Stiles, he always ended up just rubbing it into his skin like the world’s most disgusting lotion.

“I’ll give it back later,” Stiles added, then turned to go.

Peter caught him by the elbow, tugged him back. The kiss was brief, almost chaste, and sweet as hyacinth blossoms in a summer breeze. “Bye.”

Oh, something was up with him.

 




A day later, Stiles had not only a theory but a plan. He strutted into the lobby of Peter’s apartment building around eleven, a mostly-empty backpack slung over one shoulder. Waving at the front desk attendant, he greeted, “Hey, Henry!”

Henry frowned. “Um, Stiles, hi. I’m sorry, but Mr. Hale is out right now.”

This was where the super-slick secret agent moves part of his plan came into play.

Stiles went to the front desk with a broad grin, leaning across the marble counter to properly chat with his buddy Henry. “I know,” he agreed cheerfully. “I was just at his office to pick up the key.” He lifted a key – his own house key, but Henry wouldn’t know that on sight – and dangled it from one finger. “I forgot my laptop charger yesterday.”

The crease in Henry’s brow didn’t ease. “He didn’t say –”

“Hey, can I ask you something?” Stiles interrupted, frowning at the key. The real key here was to convince Henry that he was more than a casual fuck. Casual fucks were not to be trusted alone in a resident’s apartment. A boyfriend, though? “How long do you think you’re supposed to wait before you give the person you’re dating a key?”

Henry’s eyebrows rose. “Oh, I don’t know...”

Stiles snorted and leaned on one elbow, twirling the key around his finger. “I mean, I’ve been over here, what, two or three days a week? At least? For five months. Is it a commitment thing, you think? Honestly, I don’t need him to give me the key in a velvet box or anything. He could have just said –” Stiles put on a mock of Peter’s arrogant drawling tone and bored expression. “–‘Oh, while you’ve got the key, head to the hardware store and make yourself a copy, save us both the trouble next time.’” He spun the key a final time, then snatched it into his palm, tucked it into his pocket. “Easy. No big deal, right?”

Visibly flustered, Henry rubbed at the back of his neck and laughed. “Well, I guess for some people it is a big step in the relationship...”

“I mean, I have a drawer,” Stiles informed him seriously. He didn’t. He did not have a drawer. “I have a toothbrush here.” Also a lie.

“It sounds like maybe this is something you should talk to Mr. Hale about,” Henry advised.

Stiles sighed, sagging against the counter. “Yeah, you’re right.” He nodded. “Alright, I’m gonna do it when I bring the key back.” He flashed a winning smile. “Thanks, Henry. You’re the best.”

Henry winked at him and waved him toward the elevator. “Any time, Stiles.”

Stiles was, he decided, pretty much better than James Bond.

Once he got upstairs, it was the master thief part of the plan. Stiles picked the lock fairly quickly, then slipped inside. Peter didn’t actually have much in the way of security, but that didn’t stop Stiles from crossing the living room as if he were stepping over, crawling under, and diving through moving laser sensors. On the other side of his imaginary obstacle field, he held his arms up in triumph.

“Master thief!” he declared in a whisper.

In the bedroom he faced the real tricky part of the plan: what did he actually want to take? Another v-neck from the dresser, for sure, since that was more or less his control sample. Or, no, maybe his normal clothes were the control sample. The shirts from the dresser were him trying to duplicate the results from last time. Or something like that?

God, no wonder he’d failed chem.

In any case, he definitely needed more than a single v-neck from the dresser, if for no other reason than to make this whole thievery production worthwhile.

Stiles opened his backpack and pulled out a few gallon ziplock bags. The dresser v-neck went into the first one. He opened Peter’s hamper, relieved to see it was about half full. He found yet another v-neck in there, and put that into a bag. Then, after a moment’s oh god is this too creepy?, he took a pair of Peter’s dirty briefs, too.

“This is not a panty raid!” he reminded himself as he sealed the final bag. “It’s for science!”

The bags disappeared into his backpack, and then it was just a matter of crossing his imaginary laser beam field on the way out. As he stepped out of the elevator, he waved and called, “See ya, Henry!”

“Good luck with your talk!”

And Stiles might have felt a little bit guilty about pulling one over on Henry, but mostly he felt like a complete and total badass.

 




Stiles went straight to work from Peter’s. He had been working part-time at a greenhouse since he dropped out of college. It wasn’t thrilling, and the pay was laughable, but he got to stay active and work outdoors. It also provided the opportunity to grow some magically useful herbs on the sly. There was a lot of downtime at the end of the summer, though. Most people had already picked out their summer plants, and the bulbs wouldn’t start moving until fall. Farmers’ markets on the weekends provided a bit more action, but on a Wednesday afternoon, all he could do was water, weed, and watch the plants grow.

Toward the end of his shift, he lingered by a pallet of hyacinths, brushing his fingertips over them. He pulled out his phone and shot off a quick text.

To Peter: How’s work?

The answer came almost immediately.

From Peter: I need you to remind me that homicide is not a viable problem-solving technique.

Stiles grinned.

To Peter: Homicide is just a stress-reliever. Bet I can think of a better one.

From Peter: I wish. Working late.

This, he decided, was the perfect opportunity to try out the underwear. The point of those was to control for the smell factor.

Since sitting down and thinking about this, Stiles had decided that it didn’t actually make sense for the clothes turn-on to be about smell alone. After all, Stiles regularly walked around smelling like Peter Hale’s personal cum dumpster – or so Isaac liked to tell him. Wearing a piece of his clothing really shouldn’t have much more effect on it than that.

He ducked into the bathroom with his backpack before leaving work and swapped out his own boxers for the black briefs he’d fished out of Peter’s hamper.

 




“Is Mr. Hale expecting you?” the receptionist asked, eyes wide behind her wire-rimmed glasses. Her name tag said, ‘Connie.’ Stiles hadn’t met her before, but that wasn’t surprising. Peter went through receptionists like chewing gum, and he suspected felt like old chewing gum by the time they were done working here.

“Uh, no, I’m surprising him,” Stiles explained. “He said he was going to be late, so...” He held up a paper bag with grease-stains on the bottom. “I figured I’d make sure he gets something to eat.”

Connie frowned in confusion, then looked him over, looked at the bag, and slowly smiled. Stiles could almost see the pieces clicking into place in her brain as she labeled him, the boyfriend. Most of Peter’s ill-fated staff thought they were dating, and Stiles didn’t bother to correct them. “Well,” Connie said, “he’s on a call right now, but it should be wrapping up in ten minutes or so.”

“Is it alright if I just head in?” Stiles asked. He jerked his head toward the door. “I’ll be quiet, I promise.”

Giving him a conspiratorial wink, Connie motioned him past her desk.

When he opened the door, Peter was already looking at it expectantly. He made a quick gesture to the headset in his ear, then waved at the small meeting table in the corner of the office.

Stiles closed the door behind him and set the food on the table.

“Well, the thing we have to remember about these third quarter projections is that they’re just that,” Peter said, leaning back in his chair with a huff. “They’re projections. If they’re coming in here telling you that’s exactly the numbers you’ll see come October, they’re either time travelers or they’re full of shit.” He had this whole different Business Voice when he was working. Sharper, less drawling, and an authoritative register lower than usual.

Stiles kept his back turned while he fought off the smirk it brought to his lips.

“Alright, run their numbers by me, and I can tell you exactly how bullshit they are.”

Expression adequately subdued, Stiles turned around and approached the desk.

Peter glanced at his watch, squinted, then held up five fingers.

With a wide-eyed expression of faux-naivety, Stiles held up his own hand, fingers splayed, then lowered it down to make a jerk-off motion. He pointed toward Peter’s crotch, made the motion again, then quirked an eyebrow in question.

Peter glared at him. Rolled his eyes. Shook his head.

Stiles feigned an expression of reluctant understanding, nodding his head quickly, then made the motion at his mouth, tongue poking into his cheek in an obscene imitation of a blowjob. Pointed to Peter’s crotch. Grinned and nodded.

He saw the laugh twitch up to Peter’s lips, but he didn’t make a sound. He waved widely toward the meeting table. “No, I got that. Go on,” he said into the headset.

With more faux-misunderstanding, Stiles sank to the floor and crawled forward under the desk. Once he got between Peter’s knees, he looked up, grinning at Peter’s scowling face. He nuzzled against Peter’s crotch.

Peter tapped a button on the headset, then hissed, “You’re a menace! What are you –” Then something on the call caught his attention, and he was quickly hitting the button again to say, “Right, so the problem with this particular market is...”

Stiles tuned out the business talk and mouthed at Peter through his slacks.

A hand came down, covering his whole face, and shoving him back. “–really wouldn’t advise moving anything when the market is this volatile, especially – hrm – especially–”

Two of Peter’s fingers had disappeared into Stiles’s mouth, sucked down to the knuckle.

Above him, Peter rolled his eyes, saying, “See, that’s exactly the sort of prudence I’m talking about,” as his free hand started to undo his belt buckle.

Stiles smiled around his fingers.

“Here’s what I want you to do, Tom,” Peter said, shifting to scoot his slacks lower with Stiles’s help. He stroked himself twice through his briefs, then tugged the elastic down under his balls, leaving his half-hard cock hanging heavy in Stiles’s face. “I want you to sit down with your team and think about this from a risk perspective. Iron out exactly what level of risk you’re comfortable with.” Peter pulled his fingers out of Stiles’s mouth and tangled them into his hair, pulling him forward to feed his cock into his mouth instead.

A soft moan won Stiles a scolding tap on the nose. He scowled and sank his mouth down on Peter’s cock until he choked.

Peter cleared his throat, his professional expression faltering for just a moment. “Right, then once you’ve got that figured out –” He lifted his hips, rolling them against the soft suction of Stiles’s lips. “–call me back, and we can talk about whether or not this strategy fits in with that.” His mouth dropped open soundlessly, eyes squeezing shut.

Stiles braced his hands against Peter’s thighs, dragging his tongue hard against the underside of Peter’s cock on the upstroke, then back down fast and sloppy.

The next time he spoke, he sounded decidedly more distracted. “Alright, I’ll… well, I’ll make a note here to follow up in...” His fingers tightened in Stiles’s hair. “Right. Two weeks sounds good.” He rushed the last words. “Great talking with you, Tom. Yes, have a good one.”

His hand flew up to the headset, switching it off and flinging it down onto his desk. “You’re a fucking devil,” he groaned, hips rocking more insistently now.

Stiles hummed his agreement. His throat was going to be wrecked by the end of this, but it was so worth it. For a brief moment, he thought about the knot and his experiment and how truly horrifying it would be – for them both! – if Peter were to accidentally pop a knot in his mouth. But before the worry could even solidify in his mind, Peter was gasping above him.

“Gonna come.”

No knot, no absurd gushes of come. Just a polite little spurt down his throat and a slightly-less-polite yank to his hair.

Peter sank back in his chair with a satisfied groan, and Stiles settled onto his butt under the desk. “Good way to end a meeting?” Stiles asked, voice a little too raw to sound properly smug.

“I’m going to tell Carrie not to let you in here anymore,” Peter laughed.

“Her name is Connie, and, no, you won’t.” Stiles climbed out from under the desk and headed over to the table. “Now, come here. I got us burritos.”

Peter got to his feet, hesitating just shy of the table. “Do you want…?” he offered gently.

Stiles waved a hand at him. “I’m gonna jerk off to the thought of your Business Voice later.”

“My what?” Peter sat down and took the burrito Stiles handed him.

Puffing his chest out, Stiles put on his best imitation of the Business Voice, though between the rasp of a recent blowjob and his own ineptitude, it came out more like a Ron Burgundy impression. “The market is in shambles!” he declared. “You’re an idiot! Put your money in burritos right now!”

You’re an idiot,” Peter informed him with deep sincerity.

“Be nice,” Stiles scolded. “This hand just fed and blew you. No biting.” He dropped into a chair with his own burrito.

“You are being awfully generous today,” Peter said, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

Stiles sank lower in his seat and sighed. “I know. I’m the best.” He watched Peter as he ate, but got nothing. Not so much as a nostril flare to acknowledge his dirty, stolen underwear.

God, maybe he did smell like a cum dumpster.

He also got no odd little bits of affection, no smooches – not when Peter thanked him for the food or when Peter told him to get the fuck out of his office so he could work. Clearly, he could rule out the smell factor as a solitary cause.

“Made sure he got his food, then?” Connie said as he left the office, a knowing smirk on her lips.

Stiles was sure he must look some level of debauched. “That’s a well-fed man in there,” he agreed. “And, hey, he’ll probably be way less of a dick for the rest of the day, so...” He shrugged. “Y’know, you’re welcome.”

She laughed. “In that case, you’re welcome back any time.”

 




“Stiles, I refuse to believe that you actually know this little about the scientific method,” Lydia lectured from his computer screen.

He steepled his fingers in front of his nose, peering curiously at the three v-necks lying on his bed. “See, if I wear the one that I already washed in my washing machine, I can rule out the v-neck by itself,” he explained, “because that one won’t even smell like Peter’s detergent or anything. Just pure, unadulterated Stilinski funk.”

“Okay, but you already said that your personal ‘Stilinski funk’ –” She said the words with every ounce of disdain she could muster. “–has come to include a whole lot of… well, I’m not going to repeat what you said before.” Her lip curled in distaste.

“Isaac’s words!” Stiles insisted.

Lydia barreled on: “Besides, there are so many other factors you’re not even considering here. You said you tried the – oh my god, I can’t believe I’m saying this – the dirty underwear at his office, not his apartment. If environmental cues are important, then being outside of his home is a huge factor.”

“Yeah, but if I went to his apartment, there’s no way I’d keep my pants on,” Stiles argued.

Lydia shook her head. “Whatever. Try the washed shirt, then. At the very least, this project seems to be keeping you entertained.”

Stiles turned to her with a frown. “Hey, who says I need entertaining?”

She gave him a top-notch bitch face. “Have you picked out your classes for this fall yet?” she asked, and a-ha, there it was. Right on time, the Lydia-grade concern for his steadily disintegrating prospects.

Rather than face down her terrifying gaze, Stiles flopped onto his back. “Mm, no, I’m thinking about going to clown college instead. Sounds interesting, you know. I hear you get unlimited handkerchiefs.”

“Stiles, I’m serious!” she scolded. “It was important for you to take some time off, but you do need to go back to school eventually, even if it’s just at Beacon Community.”

Stiles whined and flipped her off. “Maybe I’m just not cut out for college.”

“That’s not true, and you know it. You stopped going to therapy, you fucked up your meds, and you smoked way too much pot. None of that has anything to do with your ability to be a good student.”

Lifting up onto his elbows, Stiles glared at her. “It has something to do with my ability to be a functional human,” he argued. “Besides, they were about to kick me out for not picking a major anyway.”

“Registration deadline is in two weeks,” Lydia said firmly. “Email me the classes you’re thinking about if you’re having trouble picking. Okay?”

The line beeped twice, and then Lydia’s picture shrank to the left to make room for Scott’s smiling face. “Hey, guys! Sorry I’m late. What are we talking about?”

Lydia opened her mouth, but before she could get Scott on the nag-train with her, Stiles blurted out, “Peter’s v-necks!”

“Is this a sex thing?” Scott asked, already cringing. “Should I leave you two to it?”

Stiles sat up. “No, it’s not a –”

Lydia interrupted him. “Yes, it’s a sex thing, but no you absolutely cannot leave me alone with him again. Scott, you are the only person on this earth qualified to put up with his insanity.”

“If there are graphic details, you’re paying for my future therapy,” Scott informed him.

“Buddy,” Stiles said, feigning offense in different shades with each word. “Bro. Pal. Mi Amigo!” He sighed. “You know I can barely afford my own therapy.”

Scott snorted. “Alright, fine, let’s hear it.”

“So!” Stiles picked up the first v-neck, the one he had borrowed legitimately, and held it up to his chest. “I put on one of Peter’s shirts the other day because I couldn’t find mine, and he acted like… like weirdly romantic? Like, affectionate and shit? And horny. Super horny.”

“You keep re-telling the story,” Lydia said, “I have to get changed to go out tonight.” She moved off-screen, but the camera stayed on.

“Okay, so he was super into seeing you in his clothes?” Scott summarized. “Is that it?”

Stiles huffed in frustration and set the shirt aside. “More than just super into it, though. I mean, he almost accidentally knotted me, and that’s –”

“Woah!” Scott interrupted. “Wait, what?”

“I know, I know, I’m paying for your therapy,” Stiles groaned, waving his hands at the screen.

“No, dude, that’s like… Peter knotted you?” On the screen, Scott had gotten closer to the camera, his eyes wide, mouth gaping open.

Stiles frowned. “I mean, almost, but we were in the kitchen so I made him pull out.”

“Remind me never to eat at Peter’s,” Lydia called from off-screen.

“Wait, so has he done that before?” Scott asked, and Stiles knew something truly insane must be going on because Scott was actively asking for details of his and Peter’s sex life.

“Yeah, like, twice,” he agreed. “He said it happens when he’s not in control and the moon is close to full or there are environmental cues, only this weekend –”

Lydia’s head popped onto the screen, upside-down in a loose wave of red curls. “Stiles, shut up. Clearly, Scott knows something about knotting that we don’t. Scott, care to share with the class?” She disappeared off-screen again.

Scott let out a heavy breath. “It’s… it’s kind of a big deal, dude,” he said. “Deaton explained it to me because it happened with Allison, and like… I mean, we both freaked the hell out.”

“What?” Stiles squawked. “And you didn’t tell me!”

“You know Allison told me she’d kill you if I told you about her lady bits,” Scott reminded him.

“As she should have!” Lydia called.

“But you told Deaton?”

“Uhh, yeah,” Scott answered. He laughed. “I told the guy that knows werewolf medical stuff. I don’t think he’s actually bound to client-patient confidentiality, but I’m pretty sure he follows it anyway.”

“Oh my god, what did he tell you?” Lydia demanded.

“He told me it’s, like, an emotional response,” Scott explained. “When a werewolf feels like someone is their… like, their forever person. It’s not destiny or whatever. It’s just based on how you feel at the moment, but that’s what it means.”

Stiles’s brain promptly stopped working. Blue screen. Error 404, brain not found. You can take the brain to water, but you can’t make it think.

“Stiles?” Scott prodded gently, and Stiles got the sense that he had been saying other things before that. Lydia was sitting in front of her camera now, too, wearing a silky purple top.

“It’s casual!” Stiles blurted. “He told me – he said...” But what had he actually said? He said once, five months ago, that he wasn’t looking for a love affair. They literally had not talked about it since. Stiles put a hand over his mouth and stared into the middle distance.

“Oh my god,” Lydia groaned. “Please tell me you two haven’t been fucking all this time and never once discussed what your relationship was?”

Stiles squinted, aiming more for the distance-distance this time.

“Scott, this is why we don’t let him operate interpersonal relationships unsupervised,” she lectured. “He’s a complete idiot! You need to be checking in on him more.”

“Dude, Stiles,” Scott said, and when Stiles looked back at his computer screen, Scott was grinning. “Peter thinks you’re his forever person.”

“Apparently particularly when you’re wearing his clothing,” Lydia added.

Stiles didn’t realize how widely he was smiling until he felt the ache in his cheeks. Because five months ago, he’d said that he wasn’t looking for a love affair with a narcissistic old man, but now? Now he definitely wanted a love affair with a pretentious dork who had hyacinths in his window and sang in the shower and ate stinky cheese. And Peter had said he didn’t want a love affair with a college dropout who didn’t know what he wanted, but maybe he did want one with someone that stole his shirts and made room for himself in Peter’s home. Besides, now Stiles knew what he wanted.

“Lydia, I’m enrolling in classes tomorrow!” he declared.

She opened her mouth to ask how in the hell his brain had gone from A to Z so quickly, then seemed to think better of it. “Great,” she agreed.

“And the Peter thing?” Scott asked.

“I have a better idea than the shirts!” he declared, shoving them off the bed with a sweep of his arm.

“It’s too much for me to hope that your idea is human communication, isn’t it?” Lydia lamented.

“Yep!”

 




Did you break into my apartment?” Peter said over the phone in place of a greeting.

“Twice!” Stiles agreed, putting his phone on speaker and sticking it to the dashboard mount.

There was a long moment of wordless, confused noises on the other end of the phone until, finally, Peter said, “There’s a toothbrush.”

“And a drawer,” Stiles added. “Did you find the drawer yet?” It was only half a drawer, really. He hadn’t needed that much space.

“I found the drawer,” Peter agreed. “What I haven’t found yet is where you put the shirts that were in there before.”

“Oh, those I stole,” Stiles explained. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, then flipped on his blinker as he turned toward downtown.

More confused noises. Finally, Peter said, “Where are you now?”

“Like five minutes away.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I’ll see you in five minutes.”

 




Stiles rushed into the lobby, waving at Henry as he charged for the elevator.

“Did you get your key?” Henry called after him.

Stiles held it up in the air with a triumphant grin. “All thanks to you, buddy!” The doors opened, and he slipped into the elevator. Once they closed, he added, “And thanks to a little secret agent thievery.”

He used said key to open the apartment door and found Peter inside, both eyebrows raised, arms crossed over his chest as he stared at Stiles in the doorway. “You have a key?” he asked.

“Yeah, I took the extra that you keep in the kitchen drawer,” Stiles said, waving it at him. He dropped his backpack next to the door and started toeing his shoes off.

“While you were stealing my shirts and leaving behind a toothbrush and superhero-themed loungewear,” Peter supposed.

“Yup.”

“Why do I get the feeling that I’m not going to get a coherent explanation for any of this?”

Stiles looked up at him with a grin. “Because you wanna jump my bones so bad you know you won’t have time. Obviously.”

Peter opened his mouth to respond, but only a laugh came out. His arms relaxed to his sides, and he crossed the apartment in three quick strides. Stiles’s back hit the door with a satisfying thud, and then Peter’s mouth was on his in that same sort of desperate kiss he’d gotten while he was in the v-neck. Stiles clung to Peter’s shoulders, knees going the best kind of wobbly.

When they parted for air, Peter started working his way down Stiles’s neck, sucking and licking and probably giving him horrendous hickeys and beard burn.

“Bedroom,” Stiles gasped. “Definitely bedroom this time.”

Peter didn’t argue, though he didn’t rush their progress across the apartment either. They got diverted a few times, to make out sitting against the back of the couch or leaned against the bookshelf by the hallway. Stiles’s shirt came off somewhere between, Peter’s closer to the bedroom door.

“I’m gonna ride you,” Stiles informed him, words gasped against his lips as he tugged at the fly of Peter’s jeans. He’d been thinking about how he wanted to do this all day, just imagining how it would feel if Peter knotted him after all of this. How it would feel to know that he was right, that Peter wanted more. “I fingered myself before I came over,” Stiles added, and Peter’s hips hitched against his helplessly. “I’m ready for you.”

They shimmied Peter out of his pants together, and then Peter sank onto the end of the bed. He stared at Stiles like he couldn’t decide whether to hunt him or worship him. Stiles undid the fly of his own pants. “Lie back on the bed,” he ordered. “Hands behind your head."

Peter grinned. “Bossy.”

“Do it. You’re gonna like your reward.”

So Peter obeyed him, tugging off his socks and underwear before shifting up the bed. He lay in the middle of it, hard cock curled against his stomach, hands tucked under his head.

Stiles kicked off the rest of his clothes, then retrieved the lube from the dresser and tossed it onto the bed. He climbed up the length of Peter’s body, dropping little kisses and bites as he went – his thighs, his hips, his belly. Once astride his thighs, he took the lube in hand and looked up to meet Peter’s eyes. “You want this?” he asked. “Want me to fuck myself on you?”

“More than anything,” Peter agreed, his gaze somehow hungry and satisfied at the same time. That was a thing with Peter, Stiles decided: always a study in contradictions.

Stiles didn’t give himself more than a quick couple of fingers to push the lube in, then stroked the rest over Peter’s cock. Taking it firmly in hand, he rose up onto his knees and teased himself with it. “Tell me how bad you want it,” he challenged.

Peter’s eyes flashed. “Stiles,” he growled. “I’m going to kill you.”

Sighing in satisfaction, Stiles said, “Perfect,” then sank down onto Peter’s dick in one movement.

It stole the breath from both of them, the suddenness. They stayed still, panting for a long moment, Stiles shifting his hips and whining.

“My hands,” Peter gritted out. “Please, let me – my hands.”

Stiles nodded quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, you can,” he agreed, and he would take time to be pleased at Peter’s willingness to be obedient later. For now, he only had time to focus on the strong hands wrapping around his hips, helping to raise him up, then drop him back down, hard. Stiles groaned, arching backward as the movement dragged against his prostate.

“Yesyesyesyes,” he panted, “Okay. Okay, I’m gonna – gonna move.” He lifted up onto his knees of his own power this time, though Peter’s hands stayed wrapped around his hips, and sank down. Soon, with Peter’s strength aiding him, he had set a quick, greedy pace that had his whole brain blanking out. No thoughts, just fucking. No words, just incoherent moans that were maybe ‘Peter’ adjacent. In the rush of pleasure, he nearly forgot about his plan.

But there, tugging at his rim, he felt the undeniable swelling of Peter’s knot. Stiles could have crowed in victory. He knew it!

“Fuck, m’gonna...” Peter murmured, reaching down to where they were joined.

“I know,” Stiles panted, no longer lifting up as much and switching to a grinding roll of his hips instead. “I know you are.”

The first time it had happened, Stiles had been too panicked to properly enjoy the stretch of the knot, the way it pressed right against his prostate. The second time, he had already come when it started to swell, so it had mostly felt overwhelming. And, of course, the third time was the face-glazing.

Now, fully expecting it and still chasing the crest of his pleasure, Stiles felt like he was on the goddamn moon, rocking down against it with low groans. “Come in me, Peter,” he gasped. “Come on, give me your knot. Fill me up.”

Peter’s hands tightened on his hips. “Stiles,” he gasped, like a prayer and a curse all at once.

And then Stiles could feel it, the heat of Peter’s come, the twitch of the knot. It was all too much. His eyes rolled back with a loud moan as he came, spilling onto Peter’s stomach.

He collapsed forward on top of Peter, arms splayed out wide in exhaustion. His brain had gone fuzzy, sex-stupid with an undercurrent of triumph.

Peter’s fingers walked down his spine one knob at a time, slipping on the sweat.

“I knew it,” Stiles murmured against his shoulder. He shifted carefully, not wanting to tug on the knot as he stretched his legs out.

“Knew what?”

“I knew that leaving a toothbrush here would make you knot me.” Stiles tipped his head up and met Peter’s surprised expression with his own smug one.

Peter schooled his reaction and rolled his eyes. “So you figured it out, then. Finally.”

Stiles laughed and bit Peter’s nipple in retaliation. “Finally? You so were going to let me never figure it out, you dick.”

The haughty expression on Peter’s face softened into something else, something Stiles might even have called fragile. “You said you didn’t want a relationship,” he murmured.

“I actually didn’t,” Stiles argued pedantically. “I actually said –”

Stiles.”

Stiles sighed and poked at Peter’s ribs. “You said you didn’t want one either.” Then, before Peter could get pedantic with him, added, “Well, you said you didn’t want one with someone who didn’t know what he wanted.”

Peter’s hand slid up and cupped Stiles’s cheek, thumb brushing over it. “What do you want?”

He could smell hyacinths.

“I want to be a forensic scientist,” Stiles answered firmly, smugly satisfied by the confusion and surprise on Peter’s face. “I’m told I have quite a way with the scientific method.”

The confusion slowly melted into a smile. “Is that so?”

“Mhmm.” Stiles leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth, partly because he just wanted to, partly to hide his face as he said, “And I want to be with you.”

Peter turned enough to catch his lips fully, kissing him slow and sweet. “Good,” he said against Stiles’s lips. “I just have one more question, then.”

“Mm, what’s that?”

“Why the hell did you steal my shirts?”

Stiles snickered, tucking his face down against Peter’s neck until he could get his laughter back under control. He picked his head up, grinning. “I’m going to wear them to make you horny at inopportune times,” he explained. “I know seeing me in them gets you super hot, so...” Stiles gave a helpless shrug.

“Is that so?” Peter asked, smirking.

“I have scientific evidence.”

Peter laughed and rolled them over. The movement made the knot tug at his rim, but not in a bad way, definitely not in a bad way. “You have my shirts is what you have,” Peter said, digging his fingers into Stiles’s ribs. The tickling made Stiles squirm, made him tug against the knot, made him go hot and breathless. Peter stopped when Stiles gave an outright moan, hips shifting restlessly for friction.

“You’re a terror.” Peter said the words like the highest praise he knew how to give.

Stiles traced a finger down the bridge of Peter’s nose, then leaned up and kissed him. “And you’re a dork,” he praised right back. “You’re my dork.”

“Okay,” Peter whispered against his lips. “I can be that.”