
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/12834867.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Peter_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Peter_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      First_Time_Blow_Jobs, Deepthroating, 3b, Steter_Week_2017, Light_Angst
  Collections:
      Steter_Week_2017
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-11-26 Words: 4895
****** sugar lips ******
by yesterday
Summary
     Stiles never shuts up.
     It’s a talent of his, Peter’s noticed. The talking. Stiles has been
     at it without interruption for the past five minutes, rambling on
     about the dangers of undercooked chicken and how it’s all fine and
     well for Scott or Isaac to eat it, but he doesn’t want to die of food
     poisoning or salmonella or e. coli, thank you very much.
     “You’re complaining to the wrong audience,” Peter says.
     Stiles stops, and looks at Peter like he forgot he was there. “Uh,
     hello? Did you forget you’re a werewolf too?”
     “Yes, Stiles, I forgot something I’ve known my whole life. I meant
     that you should take your complaints to the restaurant, not to me.”
     “Can’t a guy vent around here anymore?”
     “There are better things you could be doing with your mouth,” Peter
     murmurs, flipping the page of his book.
     ---
     In which Peter teaches Stiles how to give head, and then some.
Notes
     this was inspired by (nsfw) this_gif but took a bit of a different
     turn.
     disclaimer: i know nothing about calculus.
     thank you to everyone at the steter network who cheered me on while i
     was writing this!
See the end of the work for more notes
Stiles never shuts up.
It’s a talent of his, Peter’s noticed. The talking. Stiles has been at it
without interruption for the past five minutes, rambling on about the dangers
of undercooked chicken and how it’s all fine and well for Scott or Isaac to eat
it, but he doesn’t want to die of food poisoning or salmonella or e. coli,
thank you very much.
“You’re complaining to the wrong audience,” Peter says.
Stiles stops, and looks at Peter like he forgot he was there. “Uh, hello? Did
you forget you’re a werewolf too?”
“Yes, Stiles, I forgot something I’ve known my whole life. I meant that you
should take your complaints to the restaurant, not to me.”
“Can’t a guy vent around here anymore?”
“There are better things you could be doing with your mouth,” Peter murmurs,
flipping the page of his book.
Stiles freezes, heartbeat going rabbit quick. It’s enough to make Peter pause
and look up. Stiles has gone delightfully pink, tongue darting out to wet his
lips. Peter doesn’t need to be a genius to put two and two together-- Stiles
has no reason to be here. The loft is empty. Derek is off somewhere, Isaac
along with him. No other teenagers have invaded, and Peter was enjoying the
idyll before Stiles barged in here and made himself at home. Peter always put
the constant, low grade arousal in Stiles’s scent to him being young, but-
- well.
Not just young, but young and open to trying new things it seems.
“Yeah?” Stiles says. His voice has gone thick. “Like what?”
Peter considers him. Stiles is fiddling with the hem of his shirt, humming with
nervous energy. His eyes are two dark pools, and Peter can see the bob of his
throat when he swallows. Fresh faced and inexperienced. He sets his book to the
side, and leans back, spreading his legs wide. “Come here.”
Stiles does, and Peter is vindicated for a vicious second before he focuses on
Stiles standing in front of him. He curls one hand around Stiles’s hip, nudging
him until he’s kneeling between his legs. Stiles has long, dense eyelashes that
frame his doe eyes, and Peter can practically taste his nervousness.
“Have you ever done this before?” Peter asks.
“It can’t be that hard,” Stiles says, eyeing the front of Peter’s jeans. “I’ve
watched porn.”
Peter doesn’t bother to tell him porn isn’t exactly the same as first hand
experience, or even an entirely realistic version of sex. Stiles should know
that. If he doesn’t, he’s about to find out. Instead, Peter huffs a laugh.
“We’ll see.”
He doesn’t expect Stiles to make the first move, but Stiles does, glancing up
at Peter and reaching for his zip. The sound of the teeth parting is loud in
the loft. Stiles’s hands are sweaty from nerves when he pulls Peter’s cock out,
weighing it in his hands. Judging. Peter’s unphased. He doesn’t have anything
to be insecure about, but he knows it’s a lot for someone so fresh and
inexperienced to handle.
“I don’t think I can fit all of this in my mouth,” Stiles says. He’s
breathless, reeking of arousal.
“Did I tell you to?” Peter says.
“Right,” Stiles says. “Right.”
The first lick is tentative and barely there. Stiles scrunches his face up like
he can’t decide whether he likes it or not, and went in again to help make up
his mind. He was determined to try, Peter was willing to give him that much.
Eager too.
Stiles laps at his cock, getting it wet with little kitten licks, the pink dart
of his tongue mesmerising. Peter doesn’t push him. He enjoys watching Stiles
explore. By the time Stiles got just the tip inside his mouth, his eyes were
completely blown. His mouth was hot and wet, Peter hitching his hips an inch or
two further into the inviting heat.
“Keep your lips over your teeth,” he instructs. “And breathe through your
nose.”
Stiles does his best, eyes fluttering shut. He groans low in his throat. Peter
doesn’t move, letting Stiles do most of the work. It’s hard to resist the urge
to simply push him down on his cock and fuck his face, but Peter knows the long
term rewards are worth reaping. He handles Stiles carefully, palming the back
of his head and stroking his fingers through his hair.
“That’s it. Nice and slow. Just relax.”
About halfway through, Stiles withdraws, panting. He fists Peter’s dick in his
hand, spreading his spit over the length of him.
“I definitely can’t fit everything in,” Stiles says, pink-faced.
“Blowjobs aren’t all about deepthroating,” Peter tells him. “You have to take
into account what someone likes. Think about where you’re most sensitive and
apply that.”
He could be more detailed, sure, but half the fun is getting Stiles to figure
it out himself.
Stiles braces one hand on Peter’s knee, and nods. When he dives back in, he
takes the head of Peter’s dick into his mouth and tongues the slit. Peter
twitches, and Stiles makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like aha.
“Suck,” Peter says, and groans when Stiles suckles at him. It’s too sloppy, too
much saliva and sometimes teeth, but Stiles is enthusiastic, trying to get more
and more of him into his mouth like he needs it. He’s hard. Peter can see the
bulge in his jeans, the wet spot on the front of them. He pushes the flat of
his shoe against it, and Stiles whines, humping forward. Peter laughs, and
Stiles flushes a deep red all the way down his neck and past his collar, but he
doesn’t stop sucking Peter, bobbing his head up and down and pausing
occasionally to run his tongue along the sensitive underside. He’s moaning.
Something about it does it for Peter. Maybe it’s how needy Stiles is, or
knowing that he’s the first man Stiles has ever had in his pretty little mouth,
but he’s getting off on it.
“I’m going to cum,” he warns Stiles, because it is his first time, and contrary
to popular belief, he isn’t a complete sadist. And he has manners.
Stiles doesn’t back off. Peter suppresses a smile. Probably wants to know what
someone else tastes like on his tongue. He obliges, coming with a stutter of
his hips, shoving as deep inside Stiles as he can, Stiles choking him down.
(Not that nice.)
When he finishes, he pulls out. A thin string of spit or cum connects Stiles’s
swollen lips and the tip of Peter’s cock. It breaks when Stiles flicks his
tongue out. He swallowed. He looks absolutely debauched, colour high and hair
tousled from Peter running his hands through it. Peter tucks himself back into
his jeans.
“Peter,” Stiles bites out, pushing against Peter’s shoe.
“You liked that, didn’t you?” Peter says. He rubs the sole of his shoe across
Stiles’s jeans, pressing down hard. Stiles doesn’t need encouragement, grinding
against it and clutching at Peter’s leg. He buries his face against the side of
Peter’s knee when he comes with a keen. Peter massages him through it until
Stiles squirmed away.
After Stiles gets cleaned up, he emerges from the bathroom and leans against
the threshold.
“So like, on a scale of one to ten, how bad was it?” His voice is slightly
hoarse.
Peter raises an eyebrow. “You’re fishing for compliments. I came, didn’t I?”
“Why can’t you be less awful for one minute? I just sucked you off!”
“Five out of ten,” Peter says.
“That’s it?” Stiles says.
“It was your first time,” Peter says. “What did you expect? And it’s a passing
grade.”
“Barely!”
“So get better.”
“How?”
Peter pauses. “Practice.”
“On you?” Stiles says, picking at a piece of lint on his jeans.
“Do you want it to be me?” Peter asks.
Stiles shrugs. “Who else am I supposed to ask?”
Peter doesn’t tell him that he could ask anyone, and few people would turn down
the tempting, plush promise of Stiles’s mouth. He doesn’t mention their
turbulent history or how their conversation is always one sore spot away from
becoming a full blown argument. He doesn’t say any of that, because he can
still smell the faint salt tang of cum on Stiles’s skin. When he crosses the
room and kisses Stiles, Stiles is uncertain against him, clumsy with his lips
and bumping his nose against Peter’s. It's unbearably sweet.
“All right,” Peter says.






It’s a working relationship. Peter teaches Stiles how to give head and kiss to
make up for his lack of inexperience, and in return, he gets a pretty boy on
his knees doing his best to make him cum. Win-win in his opinion. There's
nothing else to it, which is just how Peter likes it.
After the third mediocre blowjob from Stiles, Peter changes tracks. He lays
Stiles out on his bed one day and pulls him to the edge, on his knees before
him. He proceeds to blow Stiles until Stiles is shaking and pleading and Peter
is unrelenting, swallowing around the entire length of his dick until he cums
down his throat.
Stiles flops back on his bed, chest heaving. Peter circles his ankle with one
hand. He laps at Stiles and whatever little he missed. When he’s done, he noses
the crease of his thigh and breathes him in. Stiles smells like satisfaction
and sex.
“Mind. Blown,” Stiles says. They’re monosyllables, but they’re words. Peter
pops up from the floor and sits on the bed beside Stiles. Stiles says, “Where
did you learn to do that?”
“College,” Peter says. It’s half true. That’s where he refined his technique.
Stiles says, huh, and glances at Peter like he never much thought about Peter
doing normal things like going to school and studying and partying. That’s
fine. Peter gets that a lot these days. Normalcy is a far away thing, a thing
for other people. Not for him or for Stiles even these days.
Before Stiles can start up a game of twenty questions with him, Peter pulls the
box he brought with him front and center, sliding it over to Stiles. Stiles
looks at it like it might bite. It’s innocuous, as far as boxes go, smooth
white cardstock and no markings whatsoever.
“What’s in this?” Stiles asks.
“Open it and see,” Peter says.
“There better not be a human heart in here, I swear to god, Peter,” Stiles
says, peeling at the tape. He lifts the lid and drops it to the side.
Inside, lying on a thin layer of tissue paper in plastic packaging is a clear
dildo. Stiles chokes on air and gapes at Peter.
“I’m tired of you nicking me with your teeth,” Peter says.
“You heal!”
“It still hurts. That,” he says, jabbing his finger at the dildo, “doesn’t have
feelings.”
Stiles mutters something under his breath which sounds suspiciously like you
don’t have feelings either, and Peter refrains from rolling his eyes. Stiles
tears open the packaging, and touches the toy tentatively, lifting it up. It’s
heavy, velvety silicone, with a suction cup at the base.
“Make sure you clean it,” Peter says. “You can boil it, otherwise soap and
water will do.”
Stiles’s face does a weird thing. “I feel like I should say thanks, but…”
“You can thank me by keeping your teeth away from my dick,” Peter says, dry as
the Sahara. “I’ll give you a reassessment next week.”
“That’s it?”
Peter cocks his head. “What else?”
Stiles bites his lip, and shakes his head. “No. Nothing. I guess I’ll see you
around.”
Peter leaves through the window.






If he thinks about it later that night-- thinks about Stiles’s spit slick lips
closing around the dildo he bought for him, his cheeks hollowed around it,
practicing so he can earn Peter’s approval-- and jerks himself off to it,
that’s no one’s business but his own.






They don’t meet privately again until the aftermath of the Alpha pack and
Darach fiasco, of which Peter is relieved to have escaped from intact. Derek
and Cora are alive too, which is all that matters. He thinks about leaving.
Derek is making noises about it, and for Cora Beacon Hills isn’t home anymore.
It’s changing. Has been changing since the beginning of time, only now their
era’s passed here. Peter doesn’t want to stick around and watch the town slowly
turn into something he will no longer recognise.
(So what does he want?)
He runs into Stiles at the gas station in the middle of the night. The too-
bright fluorescents don’t do him any favours, Stiles’s pale skin washing out
blue.
“You’re up late,” Peter says from the neighbouring pump.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Stiles says. “What did you go to college for?” When Peter
doesn’t answer, he presses on. “Are you any good at calculus?”
“Are you asking me to help you with your homework?”
“You’re filling up past midnight, I figure you don’t have anything better to
do.”
“I was going to get waffles,” Peter says.
“I’ll go with you.” Stiles finishes filling his tank. “The place by the
library, right?”
I didn’t invite you, Peter doesn’t say. He nods, and Stiles runs his hand
through his hair. Says, great, see you there, and gets into his car. Peter
thinks about not going. He thinks about Stiles waiting for him. He hangs the
nozzle up in the cradle, and drives off.
They take over a corner table in the restaurant, Peter with his back to the
wall, watching Stiles pull stacks of paper out of his backpack. A thick
textbook thumps on the table. Stiles sticks a pen between his lips while he
rifles through his notes, opening up his notebook. The other patrons are mostly
older students cramming for exams, working their way through their third coffee
refill.
Peter orders, and Stiles waves vaguely at the waitress, asking for “one of
whatever he’s having”.
“That isn’t how it works,” he’s telling Stiles when the waffles arrive.
“Differentiation is what you use to find the derivative of a function. You
should have asked Lydia to lend you her notes. Yours are terrible.”
They are. They’re mostly chicken scratch, and jar to a stop when Stiles ends up
distracted or doodling in the margins.
Stiles throws his hands up. “What’s the point of calculus anyway? Why did I do
this to myself?”
“It’s a standardized requirement designed to make students cry,” Peter says.
“But if you’re genuinely curious, calculus is used to calculate changes.
Minute, infinitesimals ones.”
“I used to think you were scary,” Stiles says between bites of his pumpkin
spice waffles, “but you’re kind of a huge nerd, aren’t you?”
Peter looks pointedly at Stiles’s Batman shirt.
“Were you a mathlete?” Stiles says.
“No, Stiles. I was captain of the basketball team.”
“Okay, whatever, defend your jock cred. But what’s this used for?”
“I told you. To calculate change. In everyday context, you can use it to find
solutions.”
Stiles remains unconvinced, and Peter has to admit. Calculus hasn’t come in
handy for him either past graduation. He has other ways of problem solving.
“You learn plenty of useless things in school. Why complain about this one?”
“Because you’re letting me vent.” Stiles smiles, licking the cream off his
fork. “Or are you gonna tell me to find something better to do with my mouth
again?”
Peter blinks, and barks with laughter.
Stiles gives up two hours in, claiming that the numbers and letters were
blurring together. But he doesn’t go. He orders a coffee instead, and jiggles
his leg the entire time while he’s waiting until Peter rests his palm on his
thigh. He’s kitty corner to Stiles, having moved when Stiles started badgering
him about derivatives.
“So this was nice,” Stiles says.
“It wasn’t unbearable.”
“Don’t lie, you wouldn’t have stayed if you didn’t want to.”
Peter doesn’t have a retort to that. He checks his watch. The short hand points
at three. Stiles is doing the same, but with his cellphone.
“I should get home,” Stiles says. The graveyard shift will be ending soon at
Beacon Hills Police Department. Stiles glances at Peter from under his
eyelashes, tongue darting out to lick his lips. “I’ve been practicing. So-
- I’ll see you soon?”
The way he looks, hopeful and a little shy, makes Peter want to suggest soon be
now. But it’s late, and his father will wonder.
“I’ll see you soon,” he says, and is rewarded by Stiles ducking his head
sweetly and shuffling out of the cafe.






Soon winds up being a few days later, Peter slipping through Stiles’s window
after a perfunctory knock. Stiles is sprawled out on his bed. Dead to the
world. Purple smudges underline his eyes.
Peter plucks a book off the shelf. He’s reading when Stiles wakes up, shooting
upright in bed. His heartbeat is going crazy.
“Bad dream?” Peter says, looking up from the page.
Stiles rubs his eyes. He squints at Peter like he can't decide if he's awake or
not.
“I don't remember,” he says. “Are you reading Harry Potter?”
Peter shows him the cover in full. It's the third book and objectively the
best, and he tells Stiles as much. Sweat overlays the warm milk of Stiles’
sleep scent. His hairline is damp, and he leans against his pillows like his
spine is soft and malleable, liable to collapse. Peter checks what page he's
on, and snaps the book shut.
“Go back to sleep, Stiles,” he tells him.
Stiles’ eyes are two pools of black. His face is devoid of any expression
before the frown. “But we haven't done anything yet.”
Something else rings Stiles’ scent. It's fragrant and ancient and smells a bit
like burning wood. Peter's nostrils flare, and he stands.
“You're tired,” he says.
“Since when did you care?”
“You falling asleep while we're in the middle of things isn't ever going to be
a compliment.”
Peter’s already halfway to the window. He pauses, glancing back at Stiles.
Stiles lounges on the bed, indolent. Peter waves, and drops down to the lawn.
When he looks over his shoulder, Stiles is silhouetted in the window, nothing
but a blob of black blotting out the light behind him. Peter pulls his jacket
tighter around him, and leaves.






Stiles finds Peter at the loft two weeks later, all jittery energy and restless
pacing. He doesn't notice Peter nudging a stack of books under the couch, or
him closing the lid on his laptop, or the deep whiff Peter takes of his scent.
It's 60% caffeine and 40% Adderall, which can't be a healthy combination, but
is signature to Stiles. Peter is better at the waiting game than Stiles will
ever be, which is why he wins and Stiles breaks the silence first.
“So,” he says, licking at his lips, “haven't seen you around recently.”
“I got caught up in a personal project,” Peter says.
Stiles stops and takes in the current state of the coffee table. Aside from the
quiet hum of Peter's Macbook and a memo pad scrawled full of notes, there's
nothing remarkable to see. It's nothing like the mess and chaos Stiles
generates on a research binge.
Stiles’ hand twitches; he drums his fingers on his thigh. Peter waits. Stiles
looks tired. Peter wonders how much longer he has.
“I want to suck you off,” Stiles says, flushing. A spike of arousal accompanies
his words, spicy and tempting. Peter breathes it in. He stands, toe-to-toe with
Stiles, and takes his wrist. Under his thumb, Stiles’ heartbeat is rabbit
quick. Peter wants to bite.
Instead, he leads him to up the winding staircase to the guest room that might
as well be his room. The energy humming around Stiles settles, honed by his
absolute focus on Peter.
“Have you been practicing?” Peter asks.
Stiles goes pinker. “Yeah.”
“But it isn't the same.”
“I don't exactly get verbal feedback from a toy, so yeah, it isn't the same.
Are you going to let me suck your dick or what?”
Peter raises his eyebrows. “All right, let's see if you've improved.”
Stiles makes grabby hands at Peter, and Peter nods. He watches Stiles slide to
his knees and shuffle closer, hands balanced on Peter’s hips. Peter pops the
top button for him.
“Try undoing the zipper with your teeth,” he suggests.
The zipper parts smoothly, Stiles nosing down the front of Peter’s briefs,
breathing him in. His eyebrows are knit together in concentration, and he crows
a little laugh when he gets to the bottom. Peter murmurs a brief encouragement.
This time, Stiles isn’t hasty. He rubs his palms over Peter’s thighs, taking in
the muscle taut under skin. When he drags Peter’s underwear down it’s with the
anticipation and breathlessness of someone unwrapping a gift. Peter watches the
blush creep over his cheeks. He isn’t hard yet, but he will be soon.
“It’s different,” Stiles says. “I mean, you should know, right? When it’s just
the toy you don’t have to worry about everything else. But I kinda like it. The
everything else.”
Peter makes a vague noise of agreement. “Is that why you’ve been so desperate?”
“I haven’t--”
“You have,” Peter says. “I have ears, Stiles.”
He’s heard Stiles make offhand comments about his sexual experience (or lack
thereof) plenty of times in the typical, self-absorbed teenage fashion,
thinking no one would ever be interested in him when really, everything is just
beginning for him. Peter likes it. Likes the idea of being Stiles’ first more
than he should. Likes knowing that one day someone will ask Stiles where he
learned how to do that with his mouth, and Stiles will think of Peter.
“But that’s okay. Desperation looks good on you,” he says. He twines his
fingers through Stiles’s hair, and yanks him in. Stiles whines low in the back
of his throat, pitching forward against Peter.
“God,” Stiles says, “you have such a dick.”
There’s a pause.
Stiles scrambles to correct himself. “I mean, you’re such a dick, I’m not
complimenting your dick, not that it isn’t a great dick-- I’ll just, I’ll just
get on with it.”
Peter raises his eyebrows, but says nothing further. He’ll spare Stiles this
time. Stiles curls a hand around Peter, his palm warm as he weighs Peter’s cock
on it. He leans in and breathes, hot breath hitting the sensitive skin there.
Peter feels his cock twitch in interest. Once, twice, and again when Stiles
licks a broad stripe over it before taking as much as he can into his mouth. He
withdraws after a few seconds to suck at the underside of Peter’s dick, tongue
running over the veins. Then he slides down on Peter’s cock again with renewed
determination.
“That’s it. Wrap those pretty lips around me and get me hard,” Peter says. He
knows Stiles enjoys compliments mixed with commands.
Right on cue, Stiles groans, and bobs his head in earnest, pumping what he
can’t fit with his hand, spit slicking the way. It isn’t long before Peter is
hard, his dick flushed and jutting out before him.
“Good boy,” Peter says.
Stiles grins up at him around the length of Peter’s cock disappearing into his
mouth. His eyes are bright as he pops the head in and out, closing his lips
tight around the very tip and sucking hard. Peter cups his face, stroking over
the fine line of Stiles’ cheekbone with his thumb. The rest of his fingers play
over the soft underside of his jaw, the tender skin there. He doesn’t move and
lets Stiles do the bulk of the work. The teeth don’t make an appearance,
leaving the glide of Stiles’ mouth slick and perfect.
“How much can you take in?” Peter asks, and remembers Stiles can’t answer.
“Try. As deep as you can go, sweetheart.”
Hot hot heat surrounds him on and on, Peter breathing out in a long, shaky
exhale. When he opens his eyes and looks down, Stiles has his eyes closed in
rapture like he could kneel in front of Peter all day doing nothing but sucking
his cock. He has over half of it in his mouth, slurping sloppily at it before
pulling back.
“Not bad. Not bad at all,” Peter says, pushing his cock against the inside of
Stiles’s cheek and stroking over the bump of it from the outside. Stiles makes
a punched out noise. Peter gently feeds Stiles the rest of his cock again,
right up to where Stiles stopped. “Let’s work on that pesky gag reflex.
Remember to relax.”
Peter rests his hand on the back of Stiles’ head, nudging him forward in
increments. “Take a deep breath.”
Stiles does, and chokes a little when he hits his limits. Peter backs off
seconds later. Stiles is glassy eyed and his mouth is swollen. “Again,” he
says, his voice hoarse.
And Peter isn’t about to say no. He does it again. Gives Stiles as much as he
can take and then some, because he knows from experience practice is what makes
it easier. Tells Stiles how well he’s doing, how gorgeous he looks with his
mouth stuffed full of cock, revels in the cling of his mouth and Stiles
swallowing desperately around him. His words stutter and long groans punctuate
them.
“How many times did you practice this with the toy I gave you?” he pants. His
nails scratch over Stiles’ scalp in accompaniment to the filthy purr of his
next words. “Were you thinking of me when you were trying to deepthroat that
plastic cock? Wanting to get better so I’d praise you? Tell you what a good boy
you are for me.”
Stiles can’t say much back, can’t do anything but moan around Peter’s dick,
tears clinging to the dense sweep of his eyelashes. The colour is high on his
face, his hands clinging to Peter for balance. He reeks of arousal even as he
gags on Peter’s cock. He’s lovely.
“So hungry for it,” Peter says, and then he’s coming deep down Stiles’ throat.
Stiles’ eyes are wide and shocked, and he looks utterly debauched. The sharp
scent of cum fills the air. Stiles must have cum in his pants. Peter’s hips
jerk. He doesn’t pull out immediately after though he backs off a bit so Stiles
isn’t struggling, leaving only the head of his cock in Stiles’ mouth and
thrusting in and out. Drawing out the last aftershocks. Stiles catches on
quick, sucking gently until Peter slips out for good. He rests his head against
Peter’s thigh, a lazy smile on his red mouth, the pale line of his throat bared
for Peter: an immaculate marble column to be admired.
A work of art.
That was the first of the last of the lessons.
One day, Stiles comes to him hollowed out and haunted. He’s been waning like
the moon. Peter noticed, because he notices everything.
They’re kissing when the scent returns. The taste of his own cum mixes with
something that’s inherently Stiles, Peter lapping the inside of Stiles’s mouth
clean. Stiles licks back tentatively, but bolder than he was weeks ago. It’s
when Peter noses along his cheek and breathes in with his face pressed to the
side of Stiles’ neck that he smells it: sandalwood and incense, the heart-
pounding roiling of something old and dangerous.
Peter recoils.
“Peter?” says the thing wearing Stiles’ face.
Peter blinks and it’s just Stiles again, hair tousled in the aftermath like it
usually is because Peter enjoys running his hands through it and tugging. “You
look terrible lately.”
“Gee, thanks,” Stiles says.
“I’m serious,” Peter says. “The only thing about you that’s improved are your
blowjobs.”
“Wow, backhanded compliment much?” Stiles is trying, but his heart isn’t into
it. Peter can tell. He picks up his jeans and pulls them on. Stiles scrambles
to do the same, doing them up when he asks, “So it’s been a while. One to ten?”
“Nine,” Peter says.
“What-- seriously?”
Peter rolls his eyes. “Yes, Stiles. I’ve taught you everything you can learn.
You pass.”
“That’s it,” Stiles says, and it isn’t a question.
“That’s it.”
“Well,” Stiles says, “well-- what now?”
“We go our separate ways. Some boy catches your eye and you dazzle them with
your amazing skills. Wasn’t that the goal?” The words are bitter on his tongue.
Stiles droops. He rubs at his face, and nods. “But maybe we can meet up again
anyway. Calculus is the worst mistake of my life, and you really helped last
time.”
Peter says nothing. He hasn’t been to the diner with the pumpkin spice waffles
since the night Stiles invited himself along. He doesn’t think he’ll go back
again. It’s better this way. Safer.
Stiles hunches in on himself. “Forget it.”
“Stiles,” Peter says. The naked hope in Stiles’ eyes is almost unbearable.
Peter wants to warn him that something’s crept in under his defenses, taken
advantage of the cracked open door and slipped in. Made itself at home. But it
doesn’t know he knows yet. “Take care of yourself.”
Stiles shakes his head and laughs, the sound hollow. “I don’t know why I ever
thought you cared.”
When Stiles storms out, Peter tells himself this is for the best. The thing
that has Stiles is old and strong, and Peter?
Peter is no match for it.
End Notes
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