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During his late teenage years, someone defaced the ‘WELCOME TO BEACON HILLS’ sign so it would read ‘WELCOME TO BEACON KILLS.’ Stiles still thinks about it several years later. The addition to the sign should have served as a warning. Instead, there are several new developments, rows upon rows of carbon copy town-homes. New families are moving to Beacon Hills all the time.
The people who leave tend to do so in body bags.
Stiles feels guilty for driving past town limits. His fingers tighten on the steering wheel; his knuckles are still bloody. He’s walking away from the pack and leaving them to deal with whatever befalls the cursed grounds. There is only so much someone can be expected to take before they break.
And he is breaking.
He’s been living off ramen noodles and caffeine—and that’s when he remembers to eat or drink. He either can’t sleep for days, or sleeps too long and struggles to rejoin the waking world. He doesn’t remember the last time he just hung out with his friends and did something fun.
Beacon Hills is killing him, slowly eating him alive.
Fuck that.
He’s fought too hard for too long to let it be his end. He loves the town, the people in it; his family, his pack. He tells himself that he isn’t running away, he’s just taking a break. Who wouldn’t need a vacation from the crazy horror show that’s been his life?
There isn’t anyone on the road this late at night. It’s not like he’d be sleeping if he’d gone home anyway. Besides, he’s practically nocturnal at this point.
The lack of traffic cuts the time of his drive by a third. The town he drives into is small, quiet, dark, and entirely closed. Stiles turns down his music, not wanting to be that asshole waking up locals at nearly three in the morning. He follows the GPS directions on his cracked phone screen that lead him down a long winding back road. There are more and more trees as the road becomes increasingly narrow.
’YOUR DESTINATION IS ON THE LEFT’
The crushed gravel driveway is long enough it should almost be considered a road itself. He parks with the other two vehicles; an older model black SUV, and a sporty little red car that doesn’t look like it should have even been able to make the drive down the unpaved road.
The Jeep’s headlights illuminate the cottage. It’s old but well-kept. The inside is entirely dark. Of course it is, it’s three in the fucking morning and Stiles hadn’t called ahead. This wasn’t planned. He hadn’t even grabbed so much as a change of clothes.
For a brief second, he considers just sleeping in the Jeep, but one of the upper floor windows lights up.
He sighs and shoves open the door. The stretch feels good after driving non-stop for hours. He uses the flashlight app on his phone to help him through the pitch darkness and find the door.
Even though he knows at least one of the occupants are going to come to the door, he knocks. It doesn’t take long for the exterior light to turn on; he flinches at how bright it is. He sees a figure at the long panel window beside the door but they’re gone before he can figure out which one he’s going to be dealing with.
The door opens and it’s Chris on the other side; shirtless, blue and black checkered pajama bottoms, and a Glock in hand.
“Old habits die hard, huh?” Stiles asks dryly.
“Don’t usually have unexpected guests at three AM unless they’re here for a fight,” Chris says. “Instead, you show up looking like you lost one.”
Stiles rubs the back of his neck. “Well, you said… if I ever needed—“
“Of course,” Chris steps back, allowing him in.
Stiles shuffles in and catches sight of movement in the shadows over Chris’ shoulders. Stiles jumps back. The phone falls from his hands in favour of making fists. He has a second of wishing he had his bat before he realizes that Chris isn’t concerned, and the motion behind him is Peter.
“Easy now,” Peter says. He shuts the door, turns off the exterior light, then turns the interior one on instead. There are a few moths that Stiles let in that flock to the light.
“I’m sorry,” Stiles fumbles with the apology and hopes that they will understand. Sorry for coming here and breaking up your peace. Sorry for coming at this ungodly hour. Sorry for bringing all the baggage of Beacon Hills with me. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.
“I meant what I said,” Chris says, calm and even. Always the anchor in a storm. “Whenever you need, for as long as you need.”
“I think I could sleep,” Stiles says. He’s exhausted enough. There is still a good 50/50 chance that he’ll end up staring at the ceiling until the sunrise but now is as good of a time as any to try.
“Did you bring anything with you?” Peter asks, crouching to pick up Stiles’ phone. It’s only as he’s staring at the expanse of the bare skin of Peter’s back that he realizes the only thing Peter is wearing is boxer-briefs. Hell, he might just sleep naked and perhaps put them on when they heard the Jeep. It’s not something Stiles needs to be thinking about.
Stiles remembers there is a question to be answered. “No.”
“Does anyone know where you are?” Chris asks.
“I told Scott I was going to skip town for a bit while we were…dealing with the clean-up.”
“Okay, any injuries?” Chris asks.
“A couple bruises.”
“Headache, blurry vision, nausea—“
“I don’t have a concussion,” Stiles says, cutting him off. “Just point me to the couch and I’ll let you guys get back to sleep.”
“This way,” Chris says as he leads Stiles through the cottage. They pass hanging sheets that block off doorways, and cardboard boxes stacked against the wall. Chris stops in the half painted empty living room, and gestures to the area by the window. “This is where the couch would be”—he glares at Peter—“if we had one.”
“We’re in the middle of renovations, Christopher,” Peter replies shortly. “The couch is expensive, I’m not having it here while we’re painting.” He then holds up a hand as if to cut off the argument he knows is coming. “And no, we’re not putting a fucking futon there in the meantime.”
“Surely in a place this big you have a spare room?” Stiles asks.
“Of course we do,” Peter says, leading him to the stairs that are nestled between floor to ceiling bookshelves.
The hallway smells of fresh paint. It’s a nice, soft grey. Stiles hugs himself, not wanting to brush against the possibly still wet walls.
Peter walks past the first door on the right. The door is open and Stiles sees the messed up sheets before he averts his eyes. There are two doors on the left side of the hall; the first one is a bathroom they pass, and the second Peter opens the door to. “So, we have a spare room. Unfortunately, we were not expecting guests.”
There is a long box, the picture on it showing that it contains a bed frame.
Stiles is considering just curling up on the box versus sleeping in the back of the Jeep when Peter’s hands on his shoulders turn him around, pointing him toward the master bedroom. “The bed is big enough for all of us,” Peter says, his voice low and quiet, breath warm against the back of Stiles’ ear.
“Peter—“ he starts, but isn’t sure how to finish the sentence.
“We’re all adults here,” Peter says evenly, one thumb brushing against Stiles’ neck, and Stiles shivers. “You’ll be comfortable in our bed.”
Leaning in the doorway of the master bedroom, Chris rubs his eyes, exhaustion clear on his face. “If you’re not okay with sharing a bed, we did buy the mattress for the spare room. It’s in the basement. We could bring it up for you.”
Stiles already feels bad about waking them up, he’s not making them drag a mattress up from the basement. It’s probably brand new and still in plastic to protect it from the construction dust. They’d set it up for him if he asked, he knows that.
Stiles shakes his head. “No, I can—it’s fine…if you are both good with it.”
Neither answers verbally. Stiles is more or less guided into their space. There is evidence of them everywhere. A pair of Chris’ jeans are draped over a chair that Stiles would bet money that Peter bought. There are a couple bottles of cologne on a dresser next to a framed picture of the two of them. Chris disappears into the closet and Stiles hears the beeping of the electronic lock that Stiles bets is the gun safe, and it’s confirmed when Chris walks back out empty-handed.
The midnight blue walls make the room seem dark and smaller than it actually is. It’s intimate. There is a fluffy rug in the corner by the windows with dozens of different pillows with soft but varying materials that Stiles does not pay much attention to, knowing his imagination will wander into dangerous territory. There are a couple of cardboard boxes, things that still haven’t been unpacked despite the fact the two of them took off six months ago for this place.
The blankets are a mess on the bed and it looks all too inviting.
“Do you want something more comfortable to sleep in?” Chris asks, holding up a pair of pajama pants and an old white t-shirt.
“Yeah, thanks,” Stiles says, taking them gratefully. He thinks he’ll need an extra layer between him and his two very hot, very in a committed relationship with one another friends.
Peter guides him to the adjoining bathroom. “There are extra toothbrushes under the sink.”
Stiles is quick to get ready for bed. Even if he can’t sleep, he wants to be at least lying down. There is a hamper tucked away by the shower, but there is mud and some kind of gooey substance from the creature of the week on his shirt. He tosses his stuff in the garbage bin instead. He really should shower, but he just cleans up the best he can at the sink.
Chris is the only one in bed. He’s lying down closest to the door, the blankets pulled up to his hip. His eyes are closed and Stiles is pretty sure that Chris has already fallen back to sleep. He isn’t sure where Peter’s gone, but Stiles crawls into the bed on the other side, practically hugging the mattress’ edge.
Just sleeping (platonically) with his friends. One of which can smell arousal. Fuck. This is in the top ten dumbest things he’s ever done—okay, top twenty…top thirty.
Peter returns with a glass of water in hand. He walks around the bed and holds it out for Stiles. He thinks about arguing, but he is actually dying of thirst and chugs half the glass before Peter can stop him. The glass is set on the side table.
The lights for the room are on a dimmer switch. There is one by the bed that Peter turns until it clicks and plunges them into near pitch darkness. The only light is minimal from the moon.
Peter becomes a warm weight on him between one moment and the next. Peter’s got Stiles pinned on his back with one hand on his chest, thighs on either side of his hips. Stiles stays perfectly still as the stubble on Peter’s jaw roughens the skin of his neck.
“What are you doing?” Stiles asks, a little breathless.
“You’re in my bed with my mate,”—Peter’s voice is little more than a growl—“you will smell like me.”
Honestly, Stiles’ isn’t sure if the ensuing boner is from Peter or fear.
Peter sits up, and Stiles sees a rectangular shadow hit Peter in the head. “Knock it off,” Chris demands. “Lie the fuck down, and go the hell to sleep.”
Peter doesn’t immediately move and Chris goes to clock him with the pillow again. Peter’s too fast, he grabs and rips it away, before pouncing onto Chris.
Chris laughs and the ensuing play-fight doesn’t last long. The laughter and playfulness is not helping The Boner Situation. Who knew that was something Stiles is into? But it’s evidence of how happy, comfortable, and safe they are. Stiles loves that for them. They got out of the town that took and took and took from them; the town that made both men bury more than they could stand. They came out the other side together and built something for themselves, a safe haven.
Eventually, Peter settles. He takes up a large portion of the bed—and people accuse Stiles of being a sprawler. Their feet brush against each other when Peter shifts to get comfortable. It’s such a small but grounding contact.
Chris is the first to fall asleep; Stiles can hear him softly snoring. Peter doesn’t snore but there is no more playfulness, no whispers, no movement; Stiles assumes that he’s fallen asleep too.
Stiles stares at the large windows that take up the majority of the wall facing the lake. He half expects one of them to creak open, or for some entity to claw at the glass. Instead, Peter turns in his sleep and snuggles up against Stiles’ back, his arm warm, heavy, protective over Stiles’ middle.
There is really no place safer than in the arms of a werewolf while sharing a bed with one of the most skilled and dangerous hunters in the world.
The realization that he’s safe doesn’t lull him to sleep immediately but it does let him relax. He lets his mind wander and tries not to let it linger on the reasons he had to run in the first place. It might be minutes later, it might be hours, but he finally falls asleep.
°
There had been a yellow notepad on the nightstand when Stiles had woken up alone. All it had said was, ‘We’re out back. Help yourself to whatever.’ He’d spent enough time with both men researching various monsters and trading notes that he can confidently say it’s Chris’ precise cursive. Peter tends to write in all print capitals, like every note is also a threat. When he does write in cursive, it’s a messy, nearly illegible thing.
Stiles takes the note to heart and helps himself to a big mug of coffee from the pot sitting on the warmer. He can’t be bothered with something to eat, everything seems like too much effort. He locates the french doors, and steps out onto the wide patio. The stairs lead to a natural stone path that feels cool under his bare feet.
He spots Chris lounging in his pajamas on one of the chairs by a fire pit full of ashes and walks off the path to join him.
Chris watches him, a mug of coffee held in both hands. “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” Stiles replies, taking the lounge chair next to Chris.
“Did you sleep well?”
“Better than I have in a while.” Stiles gets the impression from Chris’ tight frown that it’s less sleep than he should have gotten. “What time is it anyway?”
Chris checks his watch. It’s the one Allison bought him on his last birthday before she died; Stiles knows, he’s the one who helped her pick it out. “A little after nine.”
Stiles sips on his coffee. He doesn’t care if it wakes him up or puts him back to sleep, just as long as it drags him out of this half-awake space.
“Do you want to talk about what brought you here, or do you just want some space?” Chris asks. It’s nice that both are options, that Chris is aware enough to present a choice.
“It wasn’t anything in particular,” Stiles says. “The last thing was just…the last thing, you know? The latest in a string of supernatural bullshit that has no end in sight.”
“The straw that broke the camel’s back.”
Stiles nods. “Yeah. That.” He sips his coffee. There’s the old saying of ‘you can’t fill from an empty cup,’ and Stiles has been running on vapours for ages.
The lake is calm, the sun reflects off the water. It’s already starting to get hot out. Maybe he’ll go swimming later and dry off just lying on the dock under the midday sun. How long has it been since he’s just had a day with nothing to do but laze around?
Stiles is about to ask where Peter is when Chris’ attention shifts to the long dock that goes from shore out into the lake. There is a ladder at the end, as well as a blue and white paddle boat that he can’t picture Chris nor Peter actually using. Stiles tries to see what has caught Chris’ attention. There are hands on the ladder, and Peter hauls himself out of the lake. Water cascades down his muscular body; swim trunks cling in all the right places. Stiles averts his gaze back to his coffee.
It’s good coffee. He wonders if it’s Chris or Peter who is the coffee snob. It could be either. Probably both.
Trying to force his mind to stay on coffee doesn’t work. He can’t help but sneak a peek at Peter walking up the stone stairs since the property slopes downward toward the lake. Stiles is paying way too much attention to Peter’s thighs as he approaches them.
“Enjoying your lazy morning?” Peter asks.
Stiles isn’t sure if it’s him or Chris that Peter is aiming the question at.
“I’m enjoying the view,” Chris says, holding out a towel for Peter only to pull it away when Peter reaches for it.
Stiles doesn’t let himself squirm at the playful flirtation there. Peter finally gets a hold of the towel and dries a little before wrapping the towel around his waist. Instead of taking one of the other various styled chairs around the fire pit, he sits on the ground in front of Chris, using the other man’s thigh as a pillow. Peter’s wet hair is surely getting Chris’ pants wet, but he doesn’t seem to mind.
The quiet that befalls them isn’t awkward. Stiles doesn’t feel the need to fill the silence. They practically radiate soft contentment. The sun is warm. His eyes are heavy. Someone takes the coffee mug from his hand. He can’t bring himself to care.
He dozes in the lounge chair for a few more hours. When he wakes once more, Peter is sitting on the side of his chair, flipping through a book. His body is blocking out the direct sunlight that would have been hitting Stiles’ face. It’s oddly touching.
Peter closes the book and looks at Stiles. “Sleeping Beauty wakes.”
Stiles rolls his eyes. The stretch feels good, and he wonders how long he stayed asleep on the lounge chair. Peter’s eyes are on the bit of skin exposed between the hem of his shirt and the top of the pajama pants—both Chris’. Peter hadn’t thrown a fit when Chris had offered them, so he must not mind. Still, Stiles wonders if it bothers Peter a little that Stiles must smell at least a bit like Chris.
Peter takes one of Stiles’ hands in his own. “Chris went in to make us some lunch.”
Stiles just watches to see what Peter is up to. The knuckles on the hand Peter is inspecting are reddened, little cuts that look red and angry. Sometimes, when you’re human, all you have are your fists.
Thin grey lines move up Peter’s wrist until they disappear. The dull ache in his hands lessened to nothing.
“Thanks,” Stiles says. “Do you mind if I shower before lunch?” He really should have showered last night, or perhaps right after he crawled out of bed in the morning.
“Of course not, I’ll show you where everything is,” Peter stands. It’s only then that Stiles realizes that Peter must have gone into the cottage at some point, the t-shirt is plain but with a deep v-neck. Stiles isn’t expecting the loud blue and yellow print of the board shorts.
He follows Peter back into the cottage. The door leads them into the kitchen where Chris is cutting carrots into sticks. Peter doesn’t pause though, and leads Stiles upstairs and into their master suite. Instead of the bathroom, Peter turns Stiles toward the walk in closet.
Peter’s hands settle on Stiles’ shoulders then run down his body to his hips. Stiles knows Peter can hear his heart racing, and Stiles bites his tongue.
“You’re closer to Chris in size,” Peter says, his voice low. “But what’s ours is yours, take your pick. Towels are on the shelf beside the shower. I’ll leave you to it.”
Stiles stands there for a solid three minutes before whispering ‘holy fuck’ to himself.
The closet is meticulously organized. He grabs the plain black swim trunks from Chris’ side. Just to fuck with Peter, he rearranges a few of the shirts before he takes one of Peter’s v-neck t-shirts. It’s super soft and probably cost as much as Stiles’ entire wardrobe. The wolf wanted Stiles to smell like him last night, and there is a traitorous part of Stiles that wants to fuck around and find out.
He knows Peter and Chris are serious about each other. They bought a goddamn lakefront cottage in the woods with each other. If that doesn’t say commitment, Stiles isn’t sure what does.
Mulling all of it over, he walks into the ensuite bathroom. The shower is big enough to qualify as a room itself. One of the walls is glass with a door in it. Two of the walls are covered in white subway tile, and the back wall has a design in smaller black tiles. Stiles steps in and stares at the panel of various x-shaped knobs. There is no way he’s asking for help.
He walks right back out and into the guest bathroom across the hall. It’s much smaller and less fancy. He leaves the clothes on the counter, strips out of Chris’ clothes and gets in the shower. The water pressure is heavenly on his back and neck. The long drive and the nap on the lounge chair hadn’t done his body any favours.
While he washes, he thinks about the way Chris and Peter easily welcomed him into their bed, despite Peter’s werewolfy possessiveness that Stiles has seen first hand. The couple has an open door policy for him, and had no problem bringing him into their home during the wee hours of the morning. Knowing how important scent is to werewolves, it might as well be a declaration of intent for Peter to not only permit Stiles to wear Chris’ pajamas last night in their bed, but also let him loose in their closet.
There is something there. Something both dangerous and exciting.
He finishes showering and dresses in Chris’ shorts and Peter’s shirt. The last thing he ate was half of a sandwich he’d picked up at a coffee shop for lunch the previous day. He follows his nose into the kitchen and finds that Chris had prepared a variety of food that’s spread over the island.
There’s a veggie plate that Peter’s picking at. A bowl of strawberries sits out looking like it belongs in a magazine. Stiles can’t resist. He plucks one from the bowl and bites into it. The moan he lets out is damn near pornographic, and he knows exactly what he’s doing.
Peter chuckles and Stiles expects that sooner than later, Peter will get his revenge.
Chris acts like he didn’t even hear it. Instead, Stiles is provided with a plate holding the singular greatest grilled cheese sandwich he’s witnessed so far in his life. The thick sourdough bread has been grilled with garlic butter. Stiles suspects the cheese is expensive and likely from France. There is crispy bacon inside.
Stiles doesn’t hesitate to take a large bite. He’s never understood the concept of a foodgasm before but now he gets it.
“I’m going to marry you,” he tells Chris with a straight face.
Peter drags the stool Stiles is sitting on closer to him. He flashes his bright blue eyes. “You’re going to marry my partner?”
“I don’t see a ring,” Stiles says with a shrug. Peter’s wolf eyes might be on display, but Stiles isn’t afraid. “Maybe I’ll beat you to it.”
Chris sets another plate down in front of Peter. “Play nice,” he says to Peter.
“I am playing nice,” Peter practically purrs. He pulls Chris into a downright filthy kiss that Stiles is powerless to watch. When they’re done, Peter turns his attention back to Stiles. He leans in so close that Stiles thinks for a second Peter’s going to kiss him. “And I can share my toys.”
Chris flicks the back of his ear. “Don’t call me a toy.”
“Maybe I was calling Stiles my toy.”
“He’s also not a toy.” Chris returns to the counter to get his own sandwich. “Eat before it gets cold.”
Stiles is still stuck on the fact that Peter, in a way, just told him he’d share Chris—or that he wouldn’t mind Stiles joining them. The end result is the same either way. The remark isn’t something Stiles takes lightly. Peter wouldn’t say it in jest, and he wouldn’t say it to just anyone. He’s been giving Stiles hints since he arrived but isn’t even being subtle anymore.
As Stiles eats, he can practically feel Peter looking at him. When he glances over, his suspicion is confirmed. Peter grins like everything is working out exactly like he planned. A few years ago, that might have been cause for concern. Hell, it still might be. Drowning in Peter’s blue eyes, Stiles starts to fear he’s already in over his head.
Since Peter dragged Stiles’ seat closer, their legs brush against each other when Peter shifts to grab a few of the carrot sticks from the veggie tray.
“You should come swimming with me after lunch,” Peter says. “Chris always abandons me to read in the hammock.”
“What’s the point in having a cottage and a hammock if I’m not going to relax?”
“Boring,” Peter says to Chris. His attention shifts to Stiles. “You’ll come swimming with me, won’t you?”
“Sure,” Stiles replies.
“Excellent.”
“But first we have to talk about the elephant in the room,” Stiles says. He can’t bear the tension. He’s afraid of misreading, misstepping, ruining two friendships in one swoop. He’s lost enough. He turns to Peter. “I’m pretty sure you’re flirting with me.”
Peter’s teasing smirk goes entirely deadpan. He leans to get a clear sight line to Chris. “Darling, am I being even remotely subtle about my flirtation with Stiles?”
Chris scoffs. “About as subtle as a brick to the face.”
“Are you teasing me by flirting?” Stiles asks. “It’s fine if that’s the case, but I need to know.”
“I like you, Stiles,” Peter says with grave seriousness. “I like your energy, your intelligence, your smart mouth. I like your loyalty and your bravery. I like the way you tackle problems with a bat in your hand and blood on your teeth. You are magnificent. If you want transparency, I’m flirting with intent on getting you into bed with me and Christopher. He won’t say so in as many words, but he wants you too. He’s just trying to be respectful and give you space.”
Stiles slowly turns to look at Chris. “Is that true?”
“You came here to relax—“
“We could definitely make him relax,” Peter says.
Chris shoots an annoyed glare Peter’s way before his attention redirects to Stiles and softens. “You are welcome and safe in this house, neither of those things are dependent on…”
“Having sex with you two,” Stiles fills in when Chris struggles to find the words, probably searching for a more polite way to say it.
“Yeah, that.”
“But you want to? Have sex with me? You both do?”
Chris frowns and Stiles knows he’s missed the mark.
“We wouldn’t say no to it,” Peter says.
“If we’re being entirely transparent, Peter and I have wondered if you’d be interested in being in a relationship with us.” Chris picks at his sandwich but doesn’t eat it. “We understand it’s unconventional, and we’re both considerably older, and that you might not even be intere—“ he’s cut off as he’s hit in the face with a grape thrown by Peter. Chris glares at his partner.
“Stop listing all the reasons to say no!” Peter leans in closer, barely any space between them, demanding Stiles’ attention with his presence alone. “Here are some reasons to say yes: Chris is a great cook and I like eating—“ Peter dodges the grape thrown at his head by Chris.
Stiles still knows where Peter was going with that sentence and laughs. Even with all the tension between them, on the precipice of a massive shift in their dynamic, he laughs in a way he hasn’t in so long.
Peter preens. He obviously got the reaction he’d been aiming for. “You enjoy my humour; you think I’m funny.”
“Yeah, funny looking,” Stiles says like he’s in fourth-grade and just discovered the best comeback of all-time.
Peter rolls his eyes. “Brat.”
“Come on, tell me all the other reasons I should consider this,” Stiles says teasingly.
Some of the playfulness leaves Peter, there is a hardening around his eyes. “We would take such good care of you.”
“If you’re not interested, it’s okay,” Chris says.
“I didn’t say that,” Stiles says. “I just need some time to wrap my head around it, y’know. The two of you somehow became two of my closest friends. I don’t want to just throw in and risk that without consideration.”
“That’s more than fair,” Chris says. “I appreciate that you are taking the time to think it over and take it seriously.”
“How long have you two been talking about me?” Stiles asks.
“Since you came back from university,” Chris replies.
Stiles had dropped out after second year. He’d spent too much of his time researching supernatural shit for the pack to the point his course load suffered and he had failed multiple classes. He’d returned to Beacon Hills three years ago. “And you’re just mentioning it to me now?”
“You were only twenty-three and always had such ambition,” Peter says. “We assumed you’d wrap up some shit with the pack and go back to university. Neither of us wanted to stand in the way of that.”
“We’re much older than you,” Chris says. “We wanted you to have the time and space to grow and have all those normal life experiences.”
“Instead, I got to come home to deal with a cursed doll and be stalked by The Dark Watchers,” Stiles shook his head. “I’ve given up on ‘normal.’”
He’s attracted to both Peter and Chris. He likes the way the two of them are together. Peter manages to get Chris to let his guard down and drags out his fun side, while Chris soothes Peter’s more malicious and manipulative nature. They are both better for having the other in their life. Stiles wonders what that looks like with him in the equation.
Both men are quiet, letting Stiles think while he finishes his lunch. Stiles can tell Peter is scheming to get his way and Stiles isn’t even mad about it. Deep down, Stiles is pleased that Peter finds him worth scheming for. He’ll permit the wolf his fun.
°
The unexpected weight of their lunch conversation washes away in the icy lake water. It’s a beautiful day, the sun beaming down. Stiles wishes he had some ridiculously shaped floaty; if he did, he’d probably spend the whole day drifting on the water. As it is, he tires out after swimming around a bit with Peter.
He sits on the dock for a while. The warmth of the sun dries most of him while his feet swing in the water. Peter’s at ease, floating on his back, eyes closed. Stiles has half the mind to cannon-ball off the dock, but he’s never seen Peter this calm before and would hate to be the one to ruin the moment.
Stiles can’t remember being this at peace before. He doesn’t remember his life before there were weights on his shoulders. His mother’s illness and his father’s battle with alcoholism were just warm ups for werewolf bites, a darach, the nogitsune, and dread doctors.
Now there are just sunny skies, clear blue waters, and a dense forest surrounding a cabin for three. It feels like they’re in a separate world where none of that other stuff can touch them.
Stiles stays on the deck for a bit longer, but he’s starting to worry he’s going to end up with a sunburn. He kicks his foot, just enough to get Peter’s chest a little wet. Peter opens his eyes and lifts his ears out of the water.
“I’m going to go in before I burn—I’ll see what Chris is up to.”
Peter nods and returns to floating.
By the time Stiles’ walks up the stone stairs, he knows his shoulders are already burned. He can feel the heat just touching the reddened skin.
He enters the cabin. The open layout of the kitchen, dining area, and living room give Stiles a clear view of Chris. Stiles grabs a few of the carrot sticks left out from lunch and watches. Chris had discarded his shirt at some point, and Stiles fixates on the way the muscles of Chris’ back flex as he rolls paint onto the wall.
Stiles figures that if he’s going to be sticking around indefinitely, he should help out. He pops the last bit of carrot into his mouth and ventures closer. The windows are open for the paint fumes, there are fans running, but it’s hot as hell.
Chris eyes him on his approach, and before Stiles can ask what he can do, Chris frowns. “You should have put on sunscreen.”
Stiles shrugs. “Maybe I just wanted an excuse to ask you to rub aloe all over my body.”
Chris smirks. “That could be arranged.”
Stiles shakes his head. “What can I do to help?”
“You don’t need to do anything. Just relax, Stiles.”
“But I want to.”
“This is why you’re burnt out. You want to help everyone with everything.”
“I do not!” Stiles says. Chris just levels him with a stare. “Okay, maybe I do.”
“It’s not a bad thing”—Chris rolls the brush in the paint—“as long as you don’t overdo it.”
“I’m not overdoing it here. I haven’t done anything but be lazy all day. Let me paint with you.”
Chris sighs but sets aside his work to get a smaller set up going with white paint. He tosses a cushion down on the floor by a part he’s already done. “The baseboards need to be done and I’m too fucking old to be hunched over doing them.”
“Ah, you need the flexible youth to handle it.” Stiles winks. “Got it.”
Chris shakes his head and goes back to painting the wall in long strokes. Stiles has a hard time starting on his task, distracted by watching Chris, but once he gets into it, he makes good progress.
Peter walks in as they’re getting close to finishing the wall. He’s completely dry, probably laid out in the sun on the dock for a while. Lucky bastard heals too fast to get something as mundane as a sunburn. “Well, you two have been hard at work.”
“While someone else has been lazing around,” Chris says, still painting, his back to Peter.
“You told me I’m not allowed to paint anymore.” Peter shrugs. “Not my fault.”
“Yes, it’s your fault! You ruined my favourite jeans with paint.”
“I’m sure he didn’t mean to get paint on them,” Stiles says.
Peter laughs. “Yes I did. Two hand prints right on his ass.” He makes grabby hands, but Chris aims the pole of the brush and takes a shot at Peter’s gut with it. Peter dodges. “I improved those jeans.”
Stiles can picture it. The flirtation and play fighting, paint on Peter’s hands. Chris doesn’t even look mad, he’s barely keeping a straight face. Stiles is sure that both Chris and Peter enjoyed those jeans and getting them off.
“Get out of our way and go get dinner started,” Chris says to Peter.
“Fine,” Peter says with a long suffering sigh.
°
During dinner, they skirt around the whole relationship thing.
None of them bring it up while they’re doing the dishes together.
They avoid it while they’re sitting out by the fire pit in the evening.
The tension is still there. The interest. The longing looks. How it all plays out is in Stiles’ hands, he understands that. He has faith that their friendships would survive if he decided to say no—it’s part of the reason he wants so badly to say yes. They respect him, they’d allow him his boundaries, he’d have control. It’s appealing in every way.
The only light comes from the fire, and a few little solar lights that line the pathway up to the cottage and down to the dock.
Stiles listens to the fire crackle, watches the flames dance. A part of him wishes the rest of the pack was here; he wishes they knew this peace.
Peter and Chris are whispering to each other. Whatever they are discussing, they come to an agreement quickly. Chris stands first and holds out his hand to Stiles. “Come with us, we want to show you something.”
Stiles lets Chris help him up and tightens his grip before Chris can pull his hand away. The firelight illuminates the soft smile on Chris’ face.
Stiles really feels how much the night has cooled down now that he’s away from the fire. He’s glad that he’d stolen one of Peter’s sweaters earlier in the evening but wishes he’d also taken some sweatpants.
The three of them make their way down the stone steps and Stiles is surprised when Chris keeps walking onto the dock. “It’s too cold to swim,” Stiles says. After the nogitsune, he really hates being cold.
“We’re not going in the water,” Chris promises as he releases Stiles’ hand. He steps into the paddle boat. “We’re going on it.”
Peter steps in after, unbothered by the way the boat rocks a little. He holds out a hand for Stiles. “Trust us.”
Stiles lets Peter help him step off the dock and onto the boat. It’s small and he’s stuck in the back but since there isn’t a fourth, he can take up a bit more room. Peter unties the rope, pushes off, then sits down.
It’s still beyond strange to even think of Chris and Peter doing something as mundane as paddle boating. He can see Peter on a fancy yacht and he can imagine Chris canoeing or going through white water rapids, but this seems silly and he has to bite his lip to keep from laughing.
It’s nice though. The water is calm. The boat makes steady progress toward the center of the lake.
“Are you sure you’re not just going to drop anchor and dump me in the lake?” Stiles asks, leaning between their seats.
“If I was going to kill you, I wouldn’t be disposing your body off of a paddle boat,” Peter replies dryly.
The darkness is so complete on the lake. He can look back to the shrinking dock, the tiny lights that illuminate the path but it isn’t much. It’s too dark. Something could reach out of the lake and grab them. They’d be dragged down into the icy waters—Peter’s hand on his chin, just tight enough to break through his thoughts.
“I’m okay,” Stiles mutters.
Peter tips Stiles’ chin up. “Look.”
The stars are twinkling up in the sky, a blanket of constellations. He knows some of them from the astronomy section in science class. Living in Beacon Hills his whole life, he’s only seen the sky with light pollution, the smaller stars washed out. It’s breathtaking to see the stars this way.
“It’s only when you’ve experienced true darkness that you can fully appreciate the light,” Peter says.
“Did you get that out of a fortune cookie?” Stiles asks. Peter’s words hit a little too close to home. They’ve been through so much, all three of them, so much grief and death and pain. Stiles wonders if he has appreciated the good moments, the lights, in the way that he should.
He carefully climbs to the front. He can’t see a damn thing but there are hands on him, steadying, guiding, holding. He ends up settling down on Chris’ lap but he has a hold of Peter’s hand. The three of them stay connected, staring at the stars.
°
The dimmer switch in the bedroom is on it’s lowest setting. Stiles once again is handed a small pile of clothes that he carries into the bathroom.
The toothbrush he’d claimed sits with Chris’ and Peter’s. It’s something so small and insignificant but it feels big. He’s a guest but he doesn’t have to be. He’s a friend but he could be more. The clothes are an offering for his comfort, not something required.
His mind drifts to the other men in the bedroom. They were both still fully dressed when he left the room. They were probably stripping down right now. Maybe they’re sneaking in a few kisses, letting their hands wander in a moment without company.
What would they be doing now if Stiles wasn’t third wheeling? It isn’t hard to imagine them together. He’s fantasized about them both in a dozen different scenarios. Peter’s hands; the thickness of his fingers, the strength he has. Chris’ voice alone could get him off, Stiles is sure of it. He’s already half-hard at the thought of their hands on him, at the words of encouragement as they push him to the edge.
The reasons he’s held off has become smoke through his fingers. He wants. It’s as pure and as simple as that. He wants Chris. He wants Peter. If it all goes tits up, he’ll deal with it if it happens. He’s been fighting for years for the causes of others, why not fight for himself and his happiness for once?
The clothes are left on the counter. He walks back into the room with just his boxer briefs on. It’s interesting to see the two of them so casual in the moment before either of them notice him. He’s walked into the middle of a conversation about the renovation. It’s remarkably domestic. Peter’s sitting up against the headboard with a tablet in hand. If he’s wearing anything, it’s hidden by the blankets pulled up to his waist. Chris is in pajamas and checking the locks on the windows.
Stiles takes one step forward, then another. Peter glances at him, smirks at his state of undress and pulls up a corner of the blankets in invitation. Stiles maintains eye contact with Peter as he crawls onto the bed. The tablet is discarded and immediately forgotten. They’re close enough to share breath. He looks from Peter to Chris, who has frozen with his hand on the watch he’s taking off.
“May I?” Stiles asks and he’s honestly not sure which one he’s asking. It really doesn’t matter because both men say ‘yes.’
The kiss is nothing but the barest brush of lips at first. Stiles is all nerves that is slowly blooming into jittery excitement. Peter deepens the kiss a little, cupping Stiles’ face with hands that have been stars of a few fantasies he wouldn’t mind making a reality. A quiet whimper escapes him and then Peter’s hands are in his hair, and no longer is it an even give and take. Peter is possessive, demanding, and Stiles bends to his will.
Their lips never part as Peter guides Stiles onto his back. There is a sharp tug on his hair and Stiles gasps into Peter’s mouth, his back arching. Peter rears back with a growl, glaring off to the side where Chris stands, undisturbed. “Yeah, yeah, you’re real menacing,” Chris says dryly. He looks like he’s going to keep talking but Peter grabs a fist full of his shirt and yanks him closer. They kiss like they’re both trying to dominate the other and Stiles stares while he tries to get his breath back.
Chris has a height advantage being the only one standing, forcing Peter’s head back. It doesn’t last long, Peter doesn’t break the kiss as he moves off of Stiles and the bed. On even footing, neither has a height advantage but Peter’s fist is still twisted in Chris’ shirt and he uses it to keep Chris close.
Stiles can’t see where Chris’ hand goes considering his vantage point on the bed, but Peter groans and Stiles can make a pretty good guess.
Peter’s hand releases the shirt and is around Chris’ throat, light but commanding. They stare at each other, panting as Peter keeps that grounding touch as he walks around Chris, pulling him so they stand chest to back. Chris is smirking, his head tipped back on Peter’s shoulder. Stiles sits up as Peter’s fingers graze along Chris’ jaw, tilting his head just so before they start kissing again.
Stiles’ fingers clench in the blankets. Peter’s hand slips under Chris’ shirt, partially holding it up, and it’s the single hottest thing Stiles has ever seen in his life. He has a feeling it’s only going to get hotter from here, and it’s going to break his brain. Which is fine. What a fucking way to go.
They’re definitely putting on a show. Peter’s got them angled in such a way that Stiles can see everything. It’s enticing, inviting, he wants to reach out and touch. He can, he knows he’s allowed. They want him here.
He’s still a little anxious as he stands. Peter looks Stiles in the eye as he slowly lifts Chris’ shirt. “He’s overdressed, isn’t he?”
Stiles doesn’t trust his voice not to break. He nods.
“We should even the playing field.” Peter keeps lifting the shirt, exposing more and more skin and scars of varying ages. “Take his pants off.”
Yeah, Stiles can manage that. He lets his fingertips graze along the top of the waistband. Peter tugs the shirt up some more and Chris raises his arms so Peter can strip it all the way off. It’s tossed onto the floor and forgotten about.
Stiles realizes he’s kissed Peter but not Chris, and sets to fix that immediately. He expects the same demanding heat as Peter, the fight for dominance, but Chris lets Stiles set the pace. He wonders if it’s because they’re still so new. Chris is the type to gain all the information first and then plan an attack, it isn’t so far-fetched to believe he’d be the same in the bedroom.
Stiles’ fingertips hook under the waistband of Chris’ pajama pants, and he slowly kneels as he pulls them down. The full attention of both Chris and Peter is on him, and he’s going to make the best of it. He grabs Chris’ ankle to prompt him to lift one foot out of the pants, then the other. Stiles throws them out of the way—how embarrassing would it be if he tripped over them later? There is no way he’s leaving it as a possibility.
There is the desire to touch everywhere. His hands work their way up Chris’ legs, feeling the muscles. There is a curved scar on his thigh. Judging by the thickness, Stiles would bet on it being from a claw of some kind. He’s tracing it with his fingertips before he can think better of it and looks up to see Chris’ reaction.
Chris looks calm, leaning back against Peter who has his chin hooked over Chris’ shoulder. They’re both watching him, waiting to see what he does. For the sake of unpredictability, he lets his hands wander up to the waistband of Chris’ briefs, but instead of pulling them down, he licks over the fabric covering Chris’ cock. The shocked gasp is worth the odd sensation of the cotton on his tongue.
It’s Peter who becomes impatient first, pushing the waistband of Chris’ briefs down until Stiles finishes the job. This time when he licks the length of Chris’ cock there is nothing between them. It’s a little overwhelming to finally get what he’s wanted for so long. He looks up at them as he takes Chris’ cock into his mouth. There is no rush, he can take his time and tease.
“Look at him,” Peter murmurs, lips brushing against Chris’ ear. “So gorgeous.”
In all honesty, Stiles isn’t sure who Peter intends on working up but it manages to have an effect on both partners. Chris is slack-jawed, staring down in wonderment, and Stiles is desperate to prove his worth and earn more of that sweet praise. He spends time figuring out what Chris likes, experimenting, watching his reactions. Every twitch of Chris’ hips, each little moan earned has Stiles aching for more.
He watches Peter’s hand possessively splayed over Chris’ chest moving up to his neck until those fingers tighten, cutting off Chris’ next breath.
“Peter,” Stiles snaps, arousal turning to anger in a flash.
The hand loosens but remains. “Relax, Stiles,” Peter says. “Do you really think I’d hurt him?”
He doesn’t. He trusts Peter. He’s just been fighting so hard for so long that it looked too threatening, too dangerous. It’s different now that he’s not so focussed on Peter’s hands around Chris’ neck, but instead on the contemplative expression on Chris’ face.
Chris kneels down in front of Stiles, putting them back at eye level. He cradles Stiles’ face, his thumb dragging along Stiles’ bottom lip. “It’s okay,” Chris promises. “But he shouldn’t have done it without talking to you first. If it makes you uncomfortable, we won’t play like that in front of you.”
He’s too horny to want to be having this conversation, but the mood has taken a sharp turn, and he’s no longer thinking he’s going to be getting laid tonight. “It’s okay if you like it…”
“I do,” Chris confirms with unwavering certainty.
“Okay. But I don’t want to be choked.”
“Neither of us would do anything like that to you without your permission,” Peter promises, he crouches down, no longer looming over them. “But I admit, I misstepped. We’re used to it just being the two of us.” He looks at Chris and there is concern in the pinch of his brow. “We know what the other likes”—his attention shifts back to Stiles—“but we still have so much to learn about you. Let me make it up to you.”
“How do you plan on doing that?” Stiles asks.
Peter stands and holds out a hand to help Stiles back up to his feet. “However you’d like.”
Stiles stands back up with Peter’s help. “Anything?”
“Well, not anything,” Peter says. He helps Chris back up too. “As we’ve established, what pleases one does not always please another, but anything we find mutually satisfying, I’ll happily deliver.”
Stiles sits down on the bed, trying to sort through all the fantasies he’s has about the two of them. He doesn’t even know where to start.
Peter must mistake his silence for nerves or embarrassment. “How about I tell you something I like and something I don’t? Does that make it easier?”
He’s not sure it makes it easier, but he’s dying of curiosity and nods.
Peter’s hands cradle his face and then Peter takes them back, thinking better of it. “Was that okay?”
“Yeah, I fucking love your hands,” Stiles says.
Peter smirks. “Noted.”
“Tell me,” Stiles demands.
“I love being edged and I love edging my partners. Do you know what that means?”
Stiles nods. Oh fuck. He can happily get on board that train.
Chris snorts. “Yeah, means you’re a hedonist.”
Peter shoots Chris a smile. “Yeah, so?”
Stiles pokes Peter in the chest, gaining his attention once more. “And something you don’t like?”
“Anything with fire, wax play, candles in the bedroom—it’s all a hard no.”
It’s an unsurprising answer. Stiles glances up at Chris.
“Me too?” Chris asks. Stiles nods. “Obviously I like being choked—probably leave that to Peter though, he knows what he’s doing.”
“I don’t think I’d trust myself to do it anyway,” Stiles says.
Chris nods. “Not a fan of bondage,” he said with more of an air of indifference than how Peter spoke of fire.
“Your turn,” Peter says.
“I don’t like being hit or spanked.” Some hook-up had slapped him once and Stiles had got up, grabbed his stuff and left. “I haven’t tried being tied up but I like being held down. I like…” he trails off, it’s too hard to find the words while looking right into Peter’s eyes. “I like getting fingered. Like a lot. Or like fingers in my mouth. Just…hands?” He braves a look at Peter, who is grinning like a shark, then Chris who is worrying his lip between his teeth.
“Yeah, we can work with that”—Peter glances up at Chris—“can’t we, Christopher?”
“Yes we can,” he replies slowly.
Stiles stares up at the two men standing shoulder to shoulder and just knows he’s about to get wrecked in the best possible way.
Peter bends down and kisses Stiles. He’s glad that their chat hasn’t scared Peter off, or made him overly concerned. Stiles wants to be kissed within an inch of his life and it feels like Peter is siphoning the air right of his lungs. Peter pushes the messed up blankets out of the way and something clatters onto the floor.
Peter freezes. “That was my tablet, wasn’t it?”
Chris snorts. “Yeah.” He picks up the tablet. “The screen is fine.”
Stiles’ attention is once more demanded by Peter who now is able to lay him out flat without the bunched up blankets getting in the way. The lips on his are so distracting that he doesn’t even notice Peter stripping him of his boxer-briefs until they’re tangled around his knees and Chris is helping to pull them all the way off.
“Off,” Stiles demands, shoving at Peter’s boxers. “Naked, now, please.”
Peter obeys the request. Stands and shimmies out of his boxers. Stiles ogles the two naked men shamelessly.
“Get comfortable,” Peter says as he opens the top drawer of the nightstand.
Stiles gets his legs up on the bed, but stays parallel with the headboard, sprawled across the sheets. Chris joins him, lying beside him, kissing him to distraction.
A lubed up finger brushes against his hole and he tenses. Unlike with the kissing, Peter doesn’t push, there is no force or demand. In this instance, Peter is patient. It’s good, it’s so good. Stiles whines when Chris moves out of his reach, kneeling instead, stacking Stiles’ wrists over his head and pinning them to the bed.
They’ve got him. He can relax. They’re going to make him feel so fucking good, he knows it.
“Please?” Stiles asks. Peter kisses the inside of Stiles’ knee, it’s so soft and tender and then there is the press and holy fuck. “Yeah, yeah, that’s good, like that, please.” There is no rush. Peter moves slowly but it feels so good.
The only points of contact being Chris’ hand on his wrists and Peter inside of him leaves him disconnected in a way he doesn’t like. Maybe another night, but not when everything is so new and all he wants is to be held.
“Let go,” he says, tugging his wrists a little.
Chris’ attention returns to him. “Are you—“
“Yeah, I’m fine,” he says already knowing Chris is going to get all concerned. “I just…can I lie on you?”
Chris lies down and Stiles shifts so he’s partially lying on Chris’ chest. All the skin on skin contact is comforting in a way he can’t explain. Chris’ arm holds him around his waist and the other hooks under his knee, leaving him exposed to Peter. Chris distracts him with kisses as Peter joins them on the bed, curling up close behind Stiles. He’s surrounded, warm and safe.
A curse slips from his lips as Peter presses his fingers back in. There is more of a stretch, and Stiles isn’t sure if he wants to pull away or push back. Peter pauses with his fingers buried inside, murmuring soothing nonsense until Stiles squirms with his limited range of motion trying to urge Peter back into action. It works. Every thrust of those fingers has him panting against Chris’ lips, completely incapable of kissing him back.
“Does that feel good?” Peter asks him, his voice low, breath hot against Stiles’ ear.
“Yeah,” the word is punched out of him as Peter drives his fingers in again.
“Pass the lube,” Chris says and Peter is quick to comply.
Stiles is peppering Chris’ chest with kisses to keep his mouth busy and the sounds he makes muffled. Peter slows and then is gone, before Stiles can protest, Chris’s fingers fill him instead.
“Oh fuck.” His forehead hits Chris’ shoulder. A hand trails down his spine. Chris’ fingers leave him only to be replaced by Peter’s.
“Enjoying yourself?” Chris asks smugly as he presses one of his fingers alongside Peter’s. It cuts off whatever Stiles had managed to wrangle his brain cells into responding, he just moans and hopes it’s enough of an answer that they’ll keep going.
They don’t quite move in tandem and that only makes it better. Peter’s quicker, harder; Chris crooks his finger in search of his target.
“Do you think you could come like this?” Peter asks.
“I don’t know.” Stiles grinds his cock against Chris’. Usually he’s not so passive in bed, but there is no way he’s up for anything but taking it.
Chris changes that ‘I don’t know’ to ‘I’m going to blow’ when he takes them both in hand. “Yes. Yes, yes, yes,” he chants, thrusting into Chris’ hand, and back onto Peter’s fingers. “Please, don’t stop.”
A tongue traces the shell of his ear. “Watch Chris,” Peter says.
It’s enough to make Stiles focus because clearly Peter knows something that Stiles doesn’t. There is a wonderment on Chris’ face that Stiles has never quite seen that expression before and is floored that it’s directed at him. The hand holding both of their cocks strokes a bit faster, Chris’ back arches a little, his neck tipped back open and vulnerable, jaw clenched as he comes silently.
Without even missing a beat, he lets go of himself and just jerks Stiles off with his hand still covered in come and Stiles has no choice but to follow suit, crying out with his pleasure, his two lovers working him through it and stopping just on the right side of overstimulating.
He doesn’t care about the come on Chris’ chest when he sprawls over Chris’ body. He’s not moving unless someone moves him. He can be grossed out about it in the morning but his legs are trembling and even his fingertips are tingling.
He remains a little spaced out. Hands caress his back, thighs, ribs, anywhere they can reach. He hears Peter panting, stripping his cock. Next time he’ll be more active, next time he’ll demand a taste, next time—
“You two look so good together.” Peter groans. “So perfect.” A hand runs up his spine and lightly grabs the back of his neck. “You smell like us. Ours, ours—“ Peter groans and it’s over. Stiles knows he’s an absolute mess but he’s never leaving this bed.
Peter leaves a trail of kisses along his shoulder, and then he’s kissing Chris, sandwiching Stiles in the middle. Yeah, he’s never leaving. They’re stuck with him now.
Peter shifts away and Stiles looks over his shoulder at Peter leaving the bed and walking away. He’s not happy about Peter leaving, but he does like staring at his ass.
“He’s just getting something to clean us up with,” Chris whispers.
Stiles tucks his head under Chris’ chin. “I don’t want to move.”
Chris chuckles. “I don’t mind the cuddly octopus act, but there is come and lube everywhere.”
“I don’t care,” Stiles says petulantly.
“You will in the morning,” Peter says, surprisingly close. Stiles hadn’t heard him return. The warm cloth runs over his skin. “I should probably just dump you in the tub.”
“I’ll drown,” Stiles says, unwilling to help in the least, forcing Peter to manhandle him around as he wipes him off. Once Peter pulls Stiles off of Chris, Chris gets up. “No,” Stiles whines. “Stay.”
“I’m having a quick shower,” Chris says, gesturing to his chest.
Stiles really didn’t need the directions, he’s already staring. “You’re like a glazed doughnut.”
Peter barks out a laugh.
Chris runs a hand down his face. “Definitely taking that shower, thanks.”
“Chris is one of those clean freaks, isn’t he?” Stiles asks when the bathroom door closes.
“Yes, which is why we also are going to change the sheets before he gets back.”
Stiles pouts. “I don’t want to move. If I wanted to move, I’d join Chris in the shower.” He whimpers as Peter wipes the soft cloth over his soft cock. Once finished, Peter tosses the cloth aside.
Peter stands at the edge of the bed and drags Stiles up into a seated position. “Arms around my neck, sweetheart.”
It’s the endearment that gets Stiles to cooperate. Peter picks him up like he weighs nothing and Stiles tightens his thighs around Peter’s hips, ankles locking behind him.
“It’s just for a minute,” Peter promises, sitting him down on the expensive looking chair in the corner of the room. “Be good for me.”
Stiles lets go. He watches Peter strip off the sheets, then walk into the closet. He emerges with a fresh set of sheets and gets the bed made faster than Stiles ever has. When Peter turns back toward Stiles, Stiles raises his arms, ready to be picked back up and taken where he wants.
Peter wears a small, amused grin. There’s no fuss as he picks Stiles back up.
“Can I have the middle tonight?” Stiles asks.
“Hmm.” Peter nips Stiles’ jaw. “I suppose you have been very good for us.”
“I could be better,” Stiles says.
“Is that so?”
“Yeah.” Stiles yawns, which severely breaks up the whole sexy vibe he’s going for. “Tomorrow my mouth is going to get very well acquainted with your dick. It might take some time. It’s gonna take hours. And we can’t leave Chris out, so while you’re calming yourself down, I’ll play with him instead.”
“I see you have yourself a plan,” Peter says, setting Stiles back down on the bed, and giving him a little push toward the middle.
“I’m the plan master,” Stiles says sleepily. He curls up on his side, reaches back and drags Peter over to spoon him. “I have lots of plans. Could take weeks, could take months.”
He lifts his head a little when Chris emerges, dried off, clean, and still naked. Nice. Chris zeroes in on the pile of dirty sheets and sets about collecting them, the soiled cloth, and their discarded clothes, taking them all to the hamper in the bathroom.
“Told you he’s a clean freak,” Peter whispers in Stiles’ ear.
Chris returns, settles onto his side of the bed. Peter pulls away to reach for the light switch, plunging them into darkness.
The three of them are a tangle of limbs. Stiles’ eyelids are heavy and it’s hard to stay awake. There is a promise of tomorrow, of next month, of next year in the way that they hold him. It’s not for now, it’s forever.
“Earlier, when we were on the lake…” Stiles pauses trying to find the right words. “You said that thing about we’ve lived in darkness and now we appreciate the light or whatever.” He’s paraphrased it badly, he knows, but Chris’ thumb keeps doing comforting sweeps on his leg and Peter kisses his shoulder. “You two are my lights.”
Chris kisses his forehead, Peter’s teeth press where his neck and shoulder meet. He knows they understand what he’s trying to say.
“Sleep, little light,” Chris says.
The endearment gives him a stupid dose of butterflies, and he does just that.
°
All good things must come to an end. Stiles had just thought it would be longer than a week. That’s a quick turnaround even for the hellmouth that is Beacon Hills. If the caller had been anyone else, he might have told them to figure it out themselves. But the caller was his dad, and Parrish has been missing for three days.
A missing hellhound doesn’t bode well.
“What’s wrong?” Peter asks, wrapping himself around Stiles, chin over his shoulder.
“I have to go home,” Stiles says, wishing the words didn’t push him near tears. He’s not ready to leave Chris and Peter. He doesn’t want to go back to Beacon Hills.
Peter sighs. “Chris!”
“Yeah?” Chris calls back from the living room where he’s building one of the end tables.
“Come here.”
Stiles hears Chris’ groan and he pulls out of Peter’s arms. He has to stand on his own again. He has to. Chris joins them in the kitchen and immediately his posture goes from loose and relaxed to ready for a fight and Stiles hates that he’s brought that here. This cottage was supposed to be an escape.
“I have to go,” Stiles says. “Parrish is missing. They need me.”
Chris nods. He looks to Peter. “We’re taking my vehicle.”
“Mine is faster on the highway,” Peter argues.
“Mine fits an arsenal.”
Peter reaches out, grabs Chris by the front of his belt and yanks him in close. “Ooh, talk dirty to me.” He kisses Chris hard and quick. “You get the weapons, I’ll pack our bags.”
“What?” Stiles shakes his head. “Wait, no.” Both men pause and stare at him. “You left! Okay? You got out! You have this cottage and each other—“
“And you, little light,” Chris says. “You go, we go.”
Peter crowds him, tilting his chin up. “We meant it when we said we wanted a relationship. All in. Do you think either of us are stupid? We both knew what it would mean. You have too much of a saviours complex to ever leave it fully. So we’ll go with you, and we’ll keep each other safe, and then we’ll come back here. Okay?”
Stiles sniffles a little. “Careful, Peter. Someone might think you’re altruistic.”
“There is nothing altruistic about it. The sooner we save the town from whatever evil has befallen it, the sooner I get to drag the two of you back here and fuck you into Chris until one of you cries. Or Chris into you. Honestly, I haven’t decided. We’ll play it by ear.” He kisses the tip of Stiles’ nose and is out of the room before Stiles can wrangle enough brain cells for a response.
Chris pulls him in close. “We’ll handle it. It’s going to be okay.”
Stiles nods and believes it. He’s not afraid of walking into the darkness. He has his lights.