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Without even looking away from the train wreck in front of him, Peter reaches into the can and pulls out two hazelnuts and a cashew. One at a time, he tosses them up into the air and then catches them in his mouth as gravity puts them in their place, though he nearly misses the last one as Kira swings her katana at Scott and nearly slices Malia in half on the backswing.
Amateurs.
He actually looks down then, making sure to grab a walnut from the tin — he'd swear those things are only edible when baked into banana bread — and manages a perfect shot right to the middle of Kira's forehead.
"At this rate, your ragtag group of misfits isn't even going to survive until the next crisis," Peter drawls, perfectly content as he leans back against the front porch column that seems the sturdiest of the bunch. The flames of the fire all those years ago had obviously licked at the entire house, but the porch still remains sturdy and usable.
Mostly.
"You could help, you know," Malia huffs as she pulls herself off the ground and brushes the dirt off her legs. "Instead of just sitting there. Useless."
Peter reaches into the tin of mixed nuts and pulls out a Brazil nut, popping it into his mouth with a flourish.
"I am helping."
"Throwing nuts at us is not helping," Scott huffs but still somehow manages to look like a kicked puppy. Though lately, ever since Allison died, that's just been Scott's permanent expression.
And Peter knows that's what these training sessions are about. Scott is trying to prepare his pack for the inevitable battles that are sure to find them, trying to make sure he doesn't lose anyone else.
After losing almost his entire family in this exact spot years ago, Peter understands that urge better than Scott probably knows.
But that doesn't mean he's going to become their new trainer.
"Sure it is. Operant conditioning. If I throw enough nuts at you when you do something stupid, eventually you'll stop doing that stupid thing to avoid the nuts." That last brazil nut was so good that Peter actually shakes the can to find another and immediately starts munching on it. "You're welcome."
Malia's sigh is so dramatic and hard done by that Peter would swear he understands what fatherhood is from that single exhale. He's still not sure how he feels about missing out on his child's life — though he's more than a little furious at Talia for stealing those memories away and taking the choice from his hands in the first place — but in moments like this, he's not overly upset about missing out on the sheer attitude that children these days seem to possess.
And yet, he still somehow ended up at this after-school activity club for some godforsaken reason.
Well.
For one godforsaken reason.
And that reason has the gall to not even be there.
"Shouldn't you be waiting for the rest of the Scooby gang to arrive before you start trying to kill each other, anyways?" He tosses a few more nuts in his mouth, sure to keep his posture perfectly relaxed as he waits for the information that he's interested in.
"We're not trying to kill each other," Kira says quietly, not quite making eye contact.
Peter just arches a brow. "Could have fooled me."
Scott reaches out and gives Kira's shoulder a comforting squeeze when her face crumples a little. The poor thing still has almost no control of the fox spirit that's so inextricably bound to her body and soul, and Peter can smell the guilt that radiates off of her for her family's role in the loss of their friend.
But Peter isn't there to coddle any of them. He's there to entertain himself.
And maybe catch a certain someone's eye.
If the little shit even bothers to show up.
Until that happens, he'll just sit there and eat his nuts.
"Maybe we should take a break until Stiles and Lydia get here," Scott says quietly, earning an impressive eye roll from Malia.
Peter suddenly sees the family resemblance.
"I thought we're supposed to be training?" Malia says in her completely no-nonsense way. Peter respects her lack of empathy. "Do we really need the human and the banshee for that? They're way more likely to end up dead by accident."
She's not wrong.
"All the more reason they need to train."
Scott's not wrong either.
Either way, Peter doesn't care. And he's bored of waiting for the one person who makes this new pack tolerable.
At least when Derek was building his pack, training involved broken bones and open wounds and a startling lack of compassion. That, at least, was entertaining. But with Boyd and Erica long dead, Isaac licking his wounds in Europe, and Derek MIA — not that any of the Scooby gang have managed to piece that together — the standard of training has gone steeply downhill.
"Well, as fun as it's been watching you all fail miserably, I have somewhere I need to be," Peter announces before more teenage drama breaks out. Besides, he's almost out of walnuts and he doesn't want to waste any of the good nuts on these idiots. "Try not to die. Or not. I don't actually care either way."
He takes his can of nuts and heads off through the woods. He didn't bother driving out, figuring there was a distinct possibility of getting a ride home in a very particular blue Jeep, but, just like watching Scott's most recent training session, he's once again sorely disappointed.
With his speed through the woods, it doesn't take him all that long to get into the city proper, and even once he slows to a more human pace, the rest of the journey passes quickly enough. He's surprised, though, when not long after he's arrived, he gets a call from the concierge that he has a visitor.
One Stiles Stilinski.
Peter can't help but grin as says, "Send him up, please."
He takes a moment to tidy up, tossing the now empty can of nuts in the trash and fluffing the pillows on his bed, but by the time Stiles reaches the penthouse level, Peter is ready to greet him.
"This is a surprise." Peter leads him into the living room and gestures to the couch for Stiles to take a seat. "Aren't you supposed to be learning how to defend your virtue?"
Stiles lets out something caught halfway between a huff and a snort as he lowers himself to the couch. "Pretty sure I lost that a long time ago." An unexpected twinkle in Stiles' eyes warns Peter of what's coming before he even opens his mouth again. "Actually, I think maybe you stole it."
"If I remember correctly, it was freely given, darling."
Like it always does when Peter uses the pet name, Stiles is left squinting at Peter suspiciously, and Peter can't deny that he likes it. Likes throwing Stiles off-balance, just a little.
The thing is, they're not dating. They're not anything to one another beyond a quick tumble beneath the sheets now and again. Honestly, Peter isn't entirely sure Stiles even likes him.
But since Peter himself refuses to admit that his feelings for Stiles are anything more than just sexual, it's not as if he really cares one way or the other.
They get each other off. And that's really all that matters.
And to that end…
"Why are you here, Stiles?"
He doesn't actually need to ask; there's quite literally no other reason that Stiles would show up at his home other than a burning desire to be fucked into the mattress.
But Peter likes to make him say it.
"I'm here because whatever it was that you said to Scott had him calling off today's training. He said he needs time to come up with a plan. A way to train us without risking that we'll get hurt."
Peter rolls his eyes and pushes to his feet, then wanders over to the bar cart at the side of the room. He has a vision in his head of Scott bundling the whole pack up in every piece of protective gear he can find before their next training session. And while Peter would enjoy seeing just how ridiculous they all look, it would certainly make it less of a spectator sport.
"He's an idiot," Peter hums and pours himself two fingers of his finest single malt whiskey. He may not be capable of feeling the buzz of the alcohol, but he can still appreciate the explosion of flavours over his taste buds and the mild burn as it slides down his throat.
"He's trying his best to keep us safe," Stiles sighs. "If you think you're so much better, you could offer to help, you know."
He could.
He won't.
"I can think of other things I'd rather be doing than helping Scott become the best Alpha he can be."
As Peter turns back around, he takes a swig of his whiskey, all while simultaneously popping the button on his jeans. The simple action draws Stiles' gaze like a beacon and Peter has to bite back a grin as he watches Stiles' tongue peek through those luscious red lips, priming himself for what comes next.
Stiles most definitely has an oral fixation.
And Peter is more than happy to indulge him.
So as Peter walks over, he's unsurprised to see the way Stiles shuffles forward on the couch until he's on the edge of the seat, his legs spread open just a little, enough for Peter to settle himself right in front of Stiles.
"So what's the plan here?" Stiles asks, but his fingers are already fumbling with the fly of Peter's jeans. "Help me become the best cocksucker I can be instead?"
"I know," Peter grins then takes another sip. "I'm rather magnanimous by nature."
The sharp snort of disbelief it earns him ruffles over newly exposed skin as Stiles tugs Peter's jeans and boxer briefs down in one smooth motion. "Not exactly the adjective I'd choose for you."
Peter arches an eyebrow and offers a few alternatives. "Well-hung? Masterful? A God in bed?"
"I was thinking more along the lines of conniving, pompous, egotis—"
The words cut off easily as Peter reaches down and guides his newly exposed cock to Stiles' lips. "Your pillow talk could use some work. Darling."
What doesn't need work is Stiles' technique. It's like he was born for this.
He starts slow, warming Peter up with shallow bobs of his head and some sort of tongue action around the head that has Peter's grip on his crystal tumbler tightening dangerously and leaves Peter wondering if Stiles is one hundred percent human or if he has some sort of magic flowing through his veins.
But that thought, and most of his others, slowly evaporate as Stiles begins to work in earnest, taking Peter deeper and deeper. The first time the tip of his head bumps against the back of Stiles' throat, Peter groans and nearly drops his glass, but Stiles, the sneaky little shit, seems to have been waiting for just that. He pulls off with a wet pop just as his hand drifts from Peter's hip up to the glass.
"Don't mind if I do. Thanks for the offer," Stiles grins. Considering he hasn't even taken Peter down his throat yet, his voice is surprisingly rough. He even rubs at his throat before he helps himself to a mouthful of Peter's very expensive whiskey.
"I didn't offer because I wasn't exactly keen on having my dick in your mouth after you've imbibed. If it burns the throat I can't imagine it feels like rainbows and butterflies on more…tender bits."
"We both know a little pain makes the pleasure that much better." Stiles leans forward and sets the tumbler on the coffee table, pausing to press a light kiss to Peter's hip bone as he does. Once he gets back in position, though, he pauses with his mouth hovering just beyond Peter's cock, waiting for the okay to keep going.
The thing is, Stiles is right and Peter knows it, so he's more than happy to give it a whirl. He just doesn't want Stiles getting a big head over it.
"You're a menace, you know that?" Without really thinking, Peter runs a hand through the back of Stiles' hair, probably more tenderly than he intended, but Stiles really is beautiful like this, lips already just a little swollen, looking up at Peter through those absurdly thick eyelashes. And when his tongue darts out to lap up the precome that pearls up on the tip of Peter's dick, that sight only becomes infinitely more alluring.
"Mmhmm."
"Fine. Carry on," Peter says with a wave of his hand, like he's the one doing Stiles a favour by allowing this.
They both know it's not true.
"How kind of you." There's a little more sass than strictly necessary but Peter can't exactly call him out on it because suddenly those plush lips are wrapped around his cock once again and this time, Stiles doesn't hold back.
The expected burn never arrives but the pleasure that blooms through Peter's entire body as Stiles begins to swallow him down is more than enough of a prize.
At least, at first.
It isn't long before Stiles begins to rub at his throat, and not in the 'I want to feel your cock as it stretches me open' kind of way.
More like something isn't right.
But he keeps working Peter, holding him in his throat and swallowing around him like he's trying to milk Peter dry before he's even begun to come. It comes as a surprise, then, when Stiles abruptly pulls off and coughs hard, almost gagging. Peter had joyously discovered during their first encounter that Stiles doesn't have a gag reflex, so watching him now is more concerning than Peter expected.
"Must be the whiskey," Stiles wheezes.
"Should we stop?" Peter tries to keep the worry from his words but he's pretty sure he does a piss poor job of it. Stiles doesn't call him out on it, though, which is thoughtful, but also a bit of a red flag.
Instead, he just massages his throat a little before looking up with a smirk. "Hell no. If I suck one out of you now, I know damn well you'll get me to come twice before we even get around to fucking. We're doing this."
Stiles dives back in with gusto and Peter thinks that he's absolutely right. Once he comes, he intends to take Stiles to bed to eat his ass until the kid is a whimpering mess and the sheets are completely ruined beneath him. Only then, when Stiles is already exceptionally sensitive and almost overwhelmed, will Peter fuck one last orgasm out of them both.
But first, he needs to come.
Stiles reaches up and takes hold of Peter's hands, then guides them to the back of his head. It's almost more of an order than an offer, but Peter figures he's more than happy to follow along just this once. He fists Stiles hair, then tightens his grip because it always draws the most delightful noises from Stiles when he does, and then nearly comes on the spot from the filthy moan that fills the room and vibrates around Peter's cock.
And when Stiles looks up and gives the tiniest nod, Peter knows he won't last long.
Peter's never met anyone that enjoys having his face fucked as much as Stiles and he can actually smell Stiles' pleasure crescendo as Peter starts to snap his hips, fucking hard and fast into Stiles' throat.
Peter will never admit it, but that aroma that rolls off of Stiles — pleasure and lust and sheer satisfaction — is what pushes him over the edge. It's just as Stiles' eyes begin to water that Peter pulls his head all the way in and shoots his load down his throat, just barely keeping the wolf at bay as he comes.
He only allows himself a moment like that before he pulls back. As much as Stiles jokes about wanting to choke on a dick, Peter is sure the reality of it would be a bit of a mood killer.
The dreamy look that takes up residence on Stiles face as Peter steps back is no surprise at all — he almost always looks like that after a thorough face fucking — but the hives that seem to be swelling up from the collar of his t-shirt all the way up to his chin are decidedly new.
And Peter quickly realizes that what he thought were sexy, cock-swollen lips are, in fact, just plain swollen.
"Jesus Christ."
"I mean, I know it was good," Stiles rasps and takes a short, almost gasping breath, "but I think you can just keep calling me Stiles."
"No. Fuck. Stiles, what the hell?" Peter tucks himself back into his jeans and then drops to his knees in front of Stiles. "How are you feeling?"
For the most part Stiles just looks confused, but Peter would swear he can actually see Stiles' face swelling, specifically around his mouth and eyes.
"Uh. A bit itchy. And my throat is a little tight but, really, you sort of just destroyed it, so…"
"I think you're having an allergic reaction."
"What?"
There's a large mirror over the fireplace at the side of the room and Peter doesn't think twice about yanking it down to hold out in front of Stiles.
"Holy shit!"
With the swelling the way it is, Peter suspects Stiles' eyes aren't open nearly as wide as they would be otherwise, but still, the shock is easy to spot.
"Are you allergic to anything? Is there something in Whiskey you can't have?"
"No." Stiles grabs at his throat with one hand and it looks like he's having trouble keeping from clawing at the skin there. "Not unless Whiskey is suddenly—" he has to stop for another panting breath, "made with brazil nuts."
"Is that…" It's almost like Peter's brain does a record scratch, suddenly wondering if it's possible. If Peter eating brazil nuts throughout the day was enough to cause this sort of reaction. "You're allergic to brazil nuts?"
Stiles shoots him a look that screams duh, but Peter thinks the lack of a verbal dress down probably has more to do with Stiles' increasingly laboured breathing than his trademark facial expressions.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Peter doesn't shout but it's a near thing. This is not the way he'd imagined their night going.
"Why…would I?" Stiles wheezes. "It's not like…we're dating." His words come out just a little more strangled with each breath. "We're just…fucking." Despite it all — the fear and the pain and the panic that's starting to fill the room — there's something weighted in Stiles' gaze as he looks up at Peter. "Right?"
And Jesus fucking Christ, now is really not the time for this conversation.
"You know what? Hospital first. Awkward relationship questions later."
Peter barely thinks twice as he scoops Stiles up and rushes towards the elevator. On the way down, he debates the wisdom of calling 9-1-1, but Peter knows damn well he can get Stiles to the hospital faster than an ambulance would show up at the apartment. Especially since he fully intends to ignore the speed limits entirely, and his Bugatti tops out at a little over 250 mph.
So he gets down to the garage and straps Stiles into the passenger seat and then pulls out in a squeal of tires and an outrageous roar of the engine.
Stiles is still breathing next to him, but the wheeze is becoming more prominent and Peter can hear his heart racing in his chest, though he can't be sure if that's part of this allergic reaction or if Stiles is just frightened.
Either way, Peter doesn't like it.
"If you die on me," Peter growls with just a glance towards Stiles; he needs to keep his eye on the road or there won't be enough left of either of them for a hospital to treat, "I will find a way to bring you back so I can kill you myself. Do you understand?"
He'd swear Stiles almost smiles.
By the time Peter bursts through the hospital doors with Stiles in his arms, the hives are far more widespread, angry pink welts that seem to be attacking Stiles skin with a vengeance, spreading all the way down his arms.
Thankfully, Peter doesn't even need to call out before several nurses rush forward and in just a few short seconds, Stiles is on a bed, rushed off to be treated.
"What the hell happened?" Melissa asks, clearly choosing to ignore for a moment just how awkward it is to run into each other again.
"I think it's an allergy to brazil nuts."
Melissa's face scrunches up in confusion. "He knows not to eat anything with brazil nuts. He's always so careful to ask if he's not sure."
Something inside of Peter rankles at the fact that Melissa knows this about Stiles when Peter himself had no idea. He's well aware that Melissa was basically a second mother to Stiles growing up, but Peter and Stiles have been…whatever it is that they are…for a while now, and he feels like he ought to have known something so vital.
"Well. He didn't eat them," Peter says, putting aside the irritation and strange ache inside of him to focus on providing whatever information is needed to help Stiles. "I did. He just swallowed some of my…bodily fluids afterwards."
"What?"
"I didn't know," Peter half-snarls. He's already angry at himself. He doesn't need her judgement as well. But he quickly discovers it's not the unintentional oversight that has her frozen in place.
She, of course, didn't know they were together at all.
And she does not look pleased about it.
He's pretty sure it doesn't even have anything to do with their own foiled date when Peter first came back from the dead.
"You and I," Melissa says slowly. Threatening. "Are going to have a conversation. But right now, I need to fill the doctor in. He ingested your semen after you consumed brazil nuts? Is that correct?"
Peter sighs. This will be unpleasant. "Yes."
He's pretty sure she's just barely keeping herself from eviscerating him, but she promptly turns on her heel and jogs down the hall in the same direction that Stiles was just taken.
Things are about to get complicated.
The thing is, he knows he could leave. At the end of the day, he doesn't really owe Stiles anything. Like Stiles said, they're just fucking.
Right?
But Peter isn't so sure about that anymore.
Which is why he's still there, sitting in the waiting room, as the sheriff bursts through the doors about a half hour later, looking almost frantic. Fortunately, he walks right past Peter without even noticing him.
Unfortunately, that doesn't last.
He hears it coming as he listens in, unashamedly eavesdropping as the doctors and nurses treat Stiles. And while Peter finally begins to relax as Stiles' wheezing settles into slow, deep breaths and his heartbeat begins to calm, he also picks up on the strained tones of Melissa's voice as she fills the sheriff in on some, but thankfully not all, of the details.
"Peter Hale!?"
It's not as though he's frightened of the sheriff — frankly, he could break the man in half with hardly a flick of his wrist — but he still pushes to his feet and braces for what comes next.
"Hale!" John yells as he rounds the corner and stomps down the long corridor to where Peter has been not so patiently waiting for news. "What the hell did you do to my son?"
Based on the pull of his shoulders and the scent that hits Peter before the sheriff even makes it down the hall, John is debating between arresting him and throwing a punch. But when he finally arrives, he ends up fisting the front of Peter's v-neck t-shirt (the extra slutty one he'd chosen in hopes of running into Stiles), and slams him back into the wall.
"What did you do to my son?"
Peter could easily dislodge him, but instead he raises his hands to shoulder height, his claws quite clearly retracted so the sheriff can see he means no harm. "I didn't know he had an allergy."
"Why the hell were you with him in the first place?"
Peter casts a quick glance over John's shoulder to where Melissa is standing with her arms crossed over her chest and an eyebrow arched up towards her hairline. It's obvious she has no intention of stepping in.
"Training?" It's more of a question than a statement but John's grip eases just a little regardless.
Melissa, though, looks like she's trying to make him spontaneously combust with her glare.
Peter can't seem to win.
The universe, however, seems to want to give Peter a break. A petite nurse in kitten scrubs comes down the hall, slowing when she sees the way the sheriff has Peter pinned to the wall, but she still walks up to Melissa.
"He's stable. And asking for a Peter?"
The sheriff's grip falters as he spins to look at the nurse and Peter takes the opportunity to try and smooth out the wrinkles that mar the front of his shirt, but he's afraid it's a bit of a lost cause.
"He's asking for Peter?" It almost sounds like John thinks he couldn't have possibly heard that right.
But the nurse just nods. "Quite adamantly."
It's probably for the best that John is turned away and doesn't see Peter's smirk, because he's pretty sure Melissa wouldn't stop the man from drawing his gun. He thinks she might actually be debating on pulling it herself.
But he can't help it.
Stiles is asking for him out of everyone, and Peter thinks he deserves to feel just a little smug about that.
So he smooths down his shirt one last time and somehow survives the two death glares shot his way as he follows the kitten-clad nurse down the hall and into the room where Stiles is halfway reclined in a hospital bed, his own clothes replaced by a hideous blue gown.
"Not exactly your best look, darling." Peter purrs as he walks in. The swelling has gone down, but those angry hives still litter Stiles' usually pristine skin and he looks more than a little exhausted.
Peter would guess that may have something to do with whatever medications they've given him to treat the reaction.
"Yeah, well, that's on you." Stiles' voice is rough and jagged and tired, so the statement lacks the bite that Peter is sure it's supposed to carry.
"Perhaps next time you should mention any life-or-death allergies ahead of time?"
He stops next to the bed and pauses. Peter Hale is not used to feeling unsure and he quickly finds he dislikes the sensation entirely. So he gives himself a mental shake and reaches out to take Stiles' hand as if he's sure of his place in Stiles' life, sure that their…relationship?...permits such an action.
A sudden uptick of Stiles' heartbeat, a catch of breath in his throat that has nothing to do with those fucking nuts. It seems as though Stiles is reevaluating their relationship the same as Peter.
It's annoyingly nerve-wracking.
But then Stiles wraps his fingers around Peter's hand. A purposeful decision. A choice.
Stiles never fails to surprise him.
They'll need to discuss things, to discover what it is they both want, but now is neither the time nor place and they both seem to realize that. So they leave any talk of them hidden away for the time being.
"What happened to your shirt?"
"Your father. I don't think he likes me," Peter grins. "No accounting for taste, I suppose."
Stiles almost smiles, but it turns into a grimace as he obviously realizes he'll need to have a conversation with his dad about all of this. Soon.
Peter doesn't envy him.
"He'll come around. Eventually. Maybe?" Stiles doesn't look entirely convinced even as he speaks, but he also doesn't appear to be overly worried, either. "This wasn't exactly the best way to break it to him."
"Agreed."
Though truly, until now, neither of them really knew there was any news to break. But Peter is especially glad he didn't just toss the sheriff to the side when he laid hands on him. That would have been an even worse first impression as Stiles' new…whatever they are to one another.
"Well, next time you nut on my face, let's leave Brazil out of it. I'm sure avoiding another hospital trip will go a long way to him hating you less."
Peter can't help but chuckle, lips tugging into an easy smile as he leans in to kiss Stiles.
"Deal."