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Waking up with Stiles in his embrace has always been the highlight of Peter’s day. Especially now – their duties in the city forgotten as they spend their time in a quaint cottage in the countryside, the spot positively capturing the 'middle of nowhere' vibe, a small body of water nearby, disturbed by ripples of the late summer breeze. Vacation.
One of the first he rather enjoys. Although Peter’s not quite sure whether that’s because of his lover’s close proximity or with their anniversary being today. Ten months. It’s unbelievable to think that it’s already been so long. Time isn't a concept here, merely the change, the blur of colours, the thawing of icy rivers and blooming of rainbows, but also the yellowing, wilting sprouts and the frost-bitten dew, the disappearance of many familiar cries as they drift off to a warmer climate or settle down in complex burrows. And them right in the middle of it.
Tousled strands of walnut fall over the autumn-themed pillows underneath and his fawn complexion with softly fluttering eyes framed by long lashes. They rest on the arc of his puffed-out cheek, still glowing red from the blush that left him speechless and stuttering a few hours before. A sight to behold.
Rosy lips are opened a hair’s width, a string of drool decorating his mole-dotted chin and Peter allows himself to comb his fingers through the thick hair, remembering to also trace the faint scar there, warmth blooming in his chest.
„I can handle it!“ Stiles reaches for the upper cabinets, utensils leaning dangerously far, creaking over the sound of Stiles’ repeated assurances.
Safe to say that Stiles, in fact, did not handle it. And that a metal bowl hurts like a „Son of a probably very nice parent, but GOD, does this sting–“
Luckily, werewolves have the ability to take another's pain.
A purr meets him in the early morning light, dim, peachy, golden from the dawn that creeps in from the windows. Bun must’ve sneaked into bed while they were sleeping.
Peter shifts, careful not to rouse the snoring figure next to him, holding out an arm to the curious cat blinking its heterochromatic eyes at him – amber and blue reminiscent of him and Stiles. An invisible line splits its face and snout into two, one part ginger the other a dark brown. Light and dark. Two halves of a whole.
„How do you always manage to slip inside?“ Peter wonders aloud, the animal only tilting its head at him, huge eyes trained on the approaching hand.
Bun’s whiskers twitch as they lean their face in the direction of Peter’s waiting palm, butting their head against it and twisting onto their back, showing off their fluffy cream belly and matching socks on their paws. Their pink tongue is partially out in a 'blep'. No wonder Stiles is so attached to them. They’re the ideal companion for someone like him. They’re an angel. And a cuddle bug on top of it.
He ruffles the long tufts of fur, purrs growing louder, an affectionate smile for the small creature playing on his lips.
„Come on, let’s get you back. It should be time for your breakfast.“ Scooping the loaf of fur into his arms without much reistance, he carries it back into the living room, a cat tower standing in the middle atop a beige rug, a scratching post and a rather spacious blue litter box arranged around it.
Various toys are strewn across the cherry hardwood floor of the rented cottage, a blackbird plushie laying off to the side, a few feathers already missing, the body sporting a few loose threads. Well-loved, as Stiles would say.
Quite fitting, since Stiles is well-loved as well. But also well-used, well-fucked – different words, same meaning. All fit to describe Stiles. All things he’d love to rasp into Stiles’ ear, while the man unravels beneath him. Stitch by stitch, thread by thread.
He reaches for some cat food in the nearby cabinets and prepares it exactly to Stiles’ instructions, supernatural abilities ideal to exactly weigh and measure each component, before refilling the water bowl and giving Bun some last head scratches, before returning to the bedroom, the cat immediately chowing down as if it hadn't eaten in three days.
Peter arrives to his boyfriend still dozing like a log among the sea of blankets and pillows, his soft thighs, rear and sides peeking up from the half-hearted placements of the covers.
Stiles is positively sprawled across the mattress, showing off everything without any coyness or an inkling of decorum, his posture eerily similar to Bun’s when the cat sleeps. Like the pet so the owner…
Peter shuts the door and closes the space between him and the rather spacious bed – the glaring opposite of Stiles’ tiny sleeping quarters at home – settling behind the other underneath the plush, skin-warmed sheets with the smell of stale sex embedded into its very fibres.
His densely muscled arms snake around Stiles’ waist, dancing across hand-shapes bruises – the evidence of the recent activities they indulged in – and cups the place he thoroughly showered with attention.
He places long strokes of his tongue with the occasional nibble onto the pliable flesh of Stiles’ rear, teasing his squirmy lover for an eternity before he’d move on to his main goal, Stiles a molten puddle of heavy limbs sparking with pleasure by then. His chapped lips mouth his approval when Peter finally grants him his wishes, words reduced to simple grunts and groans.
Stiles is always so pretty when he cries, his orgasms that much stronger and his sensitivity heightened beyond belief.
Peter’s cock reacts to the vivid imagery coursing through his inner-eye, straining against the curve of Stiles’ ass.
„So gorgeous, sweetheart…“ he croons, huddling impossibly closer to the other’s resting pile of limbs, body warmth bleeding into him as well.
He trails a finger over Stiles’ spine, starting at the tailbone, tracing the scratches he left, bruises, marks, indents and blooming petals of blood-red roses – the offerings Stiles enthusiastically takes him up on every time – arriving at his nape where the bite resides, inner wolf perking up, his fingertips tingling with the sensation of his claws itching to be released.
Claim, it tells him, orders him to. No debate with his rational thoughts. Even when Stiles is already his. Every bit of him. Body and soul.
He lifts the blanket off to the side and burrows his teeth into his lip at the sight of his lovely bruised flesh. A few globs of come and lube continue to stick to Stiles’ rim, trickling down his perineum and onto his thighs, sprouting indents of teeth decorating his full cheeks.
Knot me, Alpha. It’s nigh inaudible to human ears, a flutter among the undisturbed night air of the countryside, but Peter’s supernatural senses enhance it, this hint of a whisper echoing in his skull, biting into the base of it, mingling with the most primal urges of his wolf, driving him to completion with his inflating base fitting snugly into his oh so pliable partner, Stiles’ fourth orgasm leaving him weary and soft, yet his spirit remaining ever so willing for more. Always so eager for more…
Peter runs his thumb over it, dipping in to test its resistance – barely there, his sloppy hole eagerly swallowing his thick digit another reminder of the previous night. But that’s not what he’s after right now.
He follows Stiles’ sensitive entrance while collecting some of the viscous fluid, Stiles responding with a sigh and leaning into him that bit further. So responsive…
His vision flashes red. „Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of you, darling.“
Peter uses the gathered liquid and smears it along his half-hard cock, barely biting his tongue when another growl threatens to spill.
„You’ve been waiting so patiently, sweetheart. I believe that it's time for your proper reward, hm?“ He strokes the other’s waist with a gentle palm before getting a hold of one of Stiles’ endless legs, hooking a hand underneath to spread it a fraction of an inch and slipping the tip of his cock between his lover’s plush thighs.
They create a magnetic, tight channel, the addictive warmth it emanates hugging his length like it's made for it. A grunt catches in his throat, bubbling in his chest in a pleased rumble. „So perfect, baby. Such a good boy.“
„Are you sure that you would want this?“ His arms are crossed, defences up. It’s not Stiles he doesn’t trust, it’s himself. His wolf’s possessiveness is not a thing to take lightly.
The fervent nod and the confident 'yes' leaves no room to debate Stiles’ sincerity in this matter and no chance to change his stubborn mind.
„I trust you.“ His pulse doesn’t betray him either. Confident, strong beats. Perfectly steady.
Just as steady as Peter’s thrust, his hands coming to a rest atop the other’s thigh, a bit below the dip of his hip, drawing circles with half-out claws along his ivory canvas. Tear into him, leave your mark, the werewolf lingering at the edges of his conscience commands.
„And what if I lose control? You are perfectly aware of the risks, darling?“
The corners of his lips rise in a smile. „Yes. But by now, you should know that that’s an asset and not an issue or a risk for me.“ His tone is light, Stiles’ arm finding his way to Peter’s.
„You won’t hurt me. At least in ways that I wouldn’t want you to. You have my trust, wolfy.“ He repeats with full honesty, his breath trembling. Excitement. Peter can taste it; it’s thick on his tongue. Penetrates his senses.
And he is too.
„Alright then, pup.“
His cock effortlessly slides between Stiles’ closed legs from behind, wet squelches sounding in the otherwise peaceful atmosphere, zephyrs rustling teal curtains on the other side of the room, the steady in-and exhales of Stiles relaxing white noise by this point.
Peter gingerly noses Stiles’ shoulder, focusing on the moles he has already seen, touched and tasted more than he can count, suckling on them and skimming over them with his teeth anyway – still blunt, only edging on sharp, on feral – Peter taking in his addictive scent of cherry blossom laundry detergent and chocolate baked goods underneath his own heavily rubbing off on Stiles, both of them mixing beautifully. Contrasting so gorgeously. Complementing each other’s.
Stiles half-groans at a particular demanding thrust, his body gradually stirring from sleep, his eyelids fluttering as they open to reveal bright, gold-streaked topaz below thick lashes – something Peter can never get enough of.
„Morning, handsome,“ Peter purrs against the side of his neck, Stiles tilting his head to widen the available space. „Hmm, mornin’, wolfy.“
Peter takes him up on the offer, sucking hickeys along the length of it to the base of his jaw. Stiles shivers, breaking out in goosebumps, pushing his thighs together around Peter’s cock and moving his hips back against Peter’s hard abdomen.
Peter answers with a pleased rumble, moving his palm over Stiles’ side, drifting to the other’s erection, palming it, eliciting a twitch and a drop of pre, smirking to himself. „Enjoying yourself, pup?“
„Fuck yeah…Very much.“ His slurred reply morphs into a moan as Peter’s nails prickle on the soft flesh of his thigh, little blades and daggers sure to leave a pleasant sting among the dull pleasure of his cock rubbing against Stiles’ from below, indirectly stimulating his as well.
Stiles twists his torso to reach for Peter’s face, meeting him in a kiss, Peter turning it into more teeth than tongue, more biting and tugging, pulling, breaking delicate skin, spiking the saturated lust that's dripping off of Stiles, than vanilla sweet nothings. Stiles breaks off with a moan, swallowing briefly and breathing hard against the other's stubble.
„I’d be enjoying myself a bit more, if you’d get that thing inside me already. Feeling a bit empty,“ Stiles speaks up, eyes meeting Peter in the tranquil light of a golden late-summer morning, twinkling with mischief. „Alpha.“
Peter's cock twitches in the makeshift space Stiles provides for him, a dollop of pre-come glistening on pale skin.
„Always so needy.“ Peter’s huge hand grasps Stiles’ thigh – softer, meatier than ten months ago, Peter’s cooking abilities and the other’s sweet tooth a good mix, perhaps too good – hoisting him up to lie on top of him. He angles them in a way, where Peter can comfortably settle before Stiles’ entrance, glans breaching the pucker just slightly. Stiles’ hole clenches and unclenches around him – anticipation.
However, despite the wriggle of Stiles’ hips, the man eager to advance, Peter takes his time to appreciate him, drawing the pads of his digits in languid strokes along the pliable flesh on his legs and stomach. Especially his stomach. He cradles it, squeezing ever so slighty. He's spoiling him. Peter breathes deep against the other’s shoulder blade, his breath rolling across the valley of his intertwined tendons and flesh. Control ever so slippery. „Always so pretty for me. So gorgeous…My sweet moth.“
It comes out hungry, ravenous. Not his initial intention, but it perfectly portrays his inner werewolf’s needs, the effect it has on Stiles imminent.
Blood rushes to Stiles’ cheeks and he arches his spine against him, forcing himself further onto Peter’s waiting length, but the lycanthrope's strength hinders him from doing so. He curses underneath his breath, nuzzling into his lover, his attempts at hiding his red-glowing face remaining futile.
„Patience, darling,“ Peter scolds with no real bite behind it, Stiles dick twitching with a glob of pre-come beading at its shiny tip, his arms straining to stay in place and not relieve himself. Peter nudges his cock into Stiles’ heat, glans disappearing into his eager lover, a low moan coaxed from him.
He sucks the spot behind Stiles’ earlobe, warm exhale a fire on the other's skin as he speaks. „Ready?“
Stiles nods, wispy dark brown strands bouncing. „God, yes.“
Savouring every tremble of Stiles’ limbs, Peter takes his time until he’s reached his base, causing Stiles to familiarise himself with every eager inch and vein ready to mark him on the inside as well, the mewl that escapes him perfectly capturing his appearance – wrecked.
Stiles’ lovebites still glow crimson against his complexion – the marks of impatient claws and teeth burning in contrast to peachy skin. Breathtaking.
The sinewy muscles on his arm bulge and flex as he holds Stiles’ torso, his hand laying atop his sternum, the organ beneath beating in a rhythm that reverberates in Peter’s palm, force dizzying.
„So excited for me, sweetheart,“ Peter rasps, rather an observation than a question, rocking into Stiles, his other hand possessing a firm grip on his leg, planting sharp-tipped claws into the supple meat, Stiles’ hole accommodating him as it always does, stretching far to welcome Peter within its blazing walls, the remnants of yesterday squelching as the warm mix of come and lube is fucked into him again.
Staccato breaths escape Stiles with each movement, his frame pliant, writhing, his entrance warm and enticing, softly pulsing around cock.
Peter pulls out with only his glans remaining, teasing him, before he repeats the motions, rhythm slow, languid, Stiles’ thin voice expressing his contentment with feeble moans disappearing into his heavy exhales. Each roll of Peter’s hips drive the air out of him and stokes every ember of pleasure inside, Peter coordinating himself to bump against the other’s prostate, inferno raging in Stiles’ bones and marrow, his very core alight – it radiates through Peter too via the bite on his mate’s nape, that pleasure simmering deep underneath his surface. Mate…Somehow stronger than a promise, meaningful. As endless, timeless, as an oath.
„Harder,“ Stiles pleads, keens, bright pools of golden-brown forced shut, his hands holding onto Peter’s arm on his chest, his head tilted to expose his well-loved throat, showing off the unmistakable signs of their intimacy in the form of scarlet rings and maroon half-moons with indents of teeth settled into lavender blotches – unyielding submission.
And Peter grants him his wishes, the heel of his palm driving fresh bruises into his thigh – purchase for when he continues with amplified force – his primal instincts edging on his conscience, closer with every following snap of his hips into his ever-willing mate.
„Say it, pup. No human could ever make you feel this way, ruin you, mark you, breed you just like I do.“ Peter nuzzles into the bared expanse of Stiles’ throat, his scent ten times stronger like this, licking along the column before grazing over it with his canines, his action, coupled with his stubble scratching along the sensitive skin, prompting a shudder, the quiver and goosebumps erupting underneath his patient teeth delicious. „They wouldn’t know how to treat you right, what to give to satisfy that filthy mouth and hungry hole of yours. They'd lack the libido and the strength to come close to sate you. Pathetic little creatures...“
It’s impossible to ignore the thick and sickly-sweet scent of Stiles’ pre-come curling around them like the persistent fog rolling in from outside when he plunges his teeth in the slope between shoulder and neck, unhurried and intent on savouring the heat of Stiles’ warm flesh wrapping around him in more ways than one, Stiles bleeding his warmth into Peter.
The other’s enjoyment is rather obvious, plainly hard to miss with his consistent mewls – little hiccoughs escaping between breathy grunts. The melodic sounds of his cresting pleasure.
„No one. Only you.“ Stiles inhales hard, gasping, lungs heaving, his dick oozing onto his abdomen with Peter’s base swelling, every nerve in him ready to snap.
„Good boy. Such a perfect boy for me,“ Peter praises, speech slurred by obstructing teeth, burgeoning knot prepared to be placed into its designated spot, the mixture of come and lube that seeped out turning tacky on their skin where they’re connected.
„Knot me, Alpha.“ Stiles is high on endorphins, his heart hammering, every cell in him burning hot with blinding pleasure. He’s greedy for more, a glutton for whatever Peter offers. His pleas reverberate in Peter, loud, deafening. „Fill me.“
The knot tugs on Stiles’ stretched rim, the push, the pull, orgasmic in itself. Stiles screams. „Breed me, Peter.“
And Peter snarls, fitting them together with a lewd plop, the following moan that spews from Stiles’ lips obscene. As Stiles’ dick shoots ropes of watery come onto his stomach, up to his torso, the walls of his glorious channel pulse and squeeze rhythmically around Peter’s cock, coaxing out his own impending climax, his swollen, fist-sized knot spreading his partner’s hungry hole filthily, holding in the next waves of come that enter him in hot spurts.
Breed. It’s merely a fantasy. But it echoes, clings, setting his primal insticts up for a new goal.
So Peter doesn’t stop there; he growls and continues rutting into his partner with frantic, restless motions, forcing his knot deeper, further – animalistic need – increasing the pressure on Stiles’ prostate, a few tears pricking at the man’s eyes from oversensitivity, but he doesn’t stop Peter, lets him carry on as before.
The pleasure winds hot in Stiles’ stomach, coiling, until another torrent of thick come fills him wholly, Peter’s pulsing base and cock too much for his body, and another round of release collects on his belly, adding onto the first, trembles wracking his frame, saline drops running down his crimson cheeks – the exact colour of Peter’s eyes.
The other’s muscles ripple as Peter slows his rut to a languid roll of his pelvis until they’re both still, panting.
„Shh, I’ve got you, darling,“ Peter hums, turning the other’s head on his chest and kissing him gently, his hand rubbing soothing circles onto his raw skin.
Weak groans are Stiles’ only answer, forming words a seemingly impossible task at the moment, his body going slack.
They sway with each added grind of Peter’s hips – lazy and drawn-out motions – knot tightly locked between sloppy and well-used walls, floods of fresh, viscid come nestling into Stiles, the man’s molten copper eyes misty with the post-orgasm haze, dew-like sweat beading on his forehead, pooling into collar bone dips, ruby flush extending to his shoulders and chest.
A pang of guilt almost mixes into the surge of his ecstasy as the image of Stiles’ pristine skin of night one comes to mind again, perfectly smooth and untainted, unclaimed, fit to be devoured by his storm. A canvas with endless possibilities. And Peter every bit the artist that doesn't mind getting his hands dirty.
It’ll never be the same as it once was.
And Stiles is far from complaining about his rather peculiar situation; he’s the one that encourages it, harder, deeper, more, Peter’s inner wolf all the more thrilled to take him up on each sinful whine. He begs so prettily.
It's nigh intoxicating.
Especially when Stiles observes them the days after, counting them, the corners of his mouth pulled wide, round eyes twinkling as he trails over each one and shows them off as if they were his very own prized collection.
Peter secures Stiles’ hand by the wrist, letting the mellow glow of dawn hit it at precisely the right angle, splashing a wash of golden red onto it while assuring himself that Stiles is watching too, absolutely focused on their hands as Peter threads them together, uniting them slowly, carefully, making sure that every nerve in his smaller hand is alight, feeling the rough texture of Peter's hand slipping into it, gripping it, like this is the most important thing in his life. Like its liquid gold and the 2007 Château Suduiraut – the white noble rot grape wine with the highest of praises he drank the hours before all these months ago. All worthless in comparison to Stiles.
Stiles’ lips, chapped and puffy, part to run his tongue over them, wetting them before speaking up. „You know, back then, and even at that bar, I thought that we could be beautiful together.“ At the bar…wine forgotten and Stiles the centre of his attention. No surprise there, it’s always been that way after all.
„That’s why you came back to me?“ Peter's voice is rough too, gravelly, the post-climax rush settling into an afterglow pushing his limits to keep it steady, another pulse of come streaming into the brunet half-spread across his chest.
Stiles nods, his hips seeking out further friction.
Peter’s other arm, slunk around Stiles’ torso, pulls the man closer. Reassurance. „We are.“
He tilts Stiles’ head to face him, doe-eyes glassy. Peter noses his cheek, still warm to the touch, flushed in that wonderful cherry tint. They collided. „We are a whole supernova.“
As he leans in to kiss Stiles’ forehead, peppering it with gentle traces of his lips, a smile spreads across the other’s features, who returns the gesture in a longer, more demanding kiss, mouths slowly moving against one another.
„We’re total saps,“ Stiles announces against the hollow of the other’s neck when they part, his breath tickling Peter's skin.
Peter places another peck on top of his head while stroking his arm, keeping Stiles closely nestled into his side. „How could we possibly survive now?“
A mewl from the foot of their bed redirects their focus, Bun treading up to them and settling in the space between, getting as close to them both as possible and kneading the fall-themed sheets before snuggling into the makeshift nest, faintly purring.
He closed off the room, didn't he?
Peter raises his brows as a realisation dawns on him. „Did you teach your cat to unlock doors?“
A moment passes. Then another.
„I thought it’d be good for Bun. You know? Basic skills?“ Stiles admits, fumbling with his hands.
And right there – one of the many reasons he fell in love with Stiles.
Peter shakes his head with an emerging grin. „You’re something else, darling.“
Coffee and Me, the name of the place has a nice ring to it. The whimsical decor certainly has its charms as well. Dimly-lit yet warm, a honey brown and dark green colour palette gracing the interior design elements, and a staff whose aesthetics embody the style of said establishment to a T. No wonder it’s Stiles’ favourite – tranquil, cosy, a home. They even allow cats inside.
It’s almost empty when they arrived, only the baristas milling around the register, wiping the counters and reordering different kind of boxes, some metallic, some wooden – the whole ordeal creating a nice ambient sound.
Stiles shifts his stare from the item in his grasp to Peter after studying it for a good few minutes, doe eyes wide and teary, the silver ring and sapphire gemstone reflecting the evening hues the windows bring forth. Pink, purple, red... He knows them well. Stiles always wears those colours proudly. Neck, collar, thighs... Carries them like an oath. Even when they draw attention. Maybe that’s another reason he keeps doing it.
One such mark peeks up from underneath his sweater – a magenta cloud – moving with the slightest gulp.
„You…ass.“ His words aim to insult in his usual sarcastic tone, yet it falls flat with an interrupting sob. The fairy lights twinkle above him as he wipes the tears, dots of gold speckling his face, hair and Bun, who’s peacefully napping on the paw-print pillow set up next to them.
„I tend to enjoy yours more, if I am being honest.“ Peter laces his fingers and rests his chin atop it, blinking innocently, while the vivid memory of what occurred between them a few days ago lingers fresh in their mind.
Stiles’ ears turning red, he examines the crystal, turning it between thumb and index finger, tracing over it like it’d vanish if he didn’t. „I–God. This looks like it costs more than my apartment. Plus furniture. And rent.“
„I have not heard a no yet. Must be a good sign.“
The glittery, partially-translucent lace curtains, framing the walnut borders of the windows, flutter with an incoming breeze, their golden hem, and the tiny stars embroidered into the material, merrily swaying to and fro.
And then Stiles is on him again, molten amber eyes watery with unshed tears, toothy grin spreading across his face.
He shoots forward, connecting their mouths, both of his palms on Peter’s stubbled cheeks. „Of course, I will, you…you absolute jerk!“
This time, Peter kisses back, tender, oh so tender, returning the gesture of cupping the other’s jaw before dropping his hands and intertwining them with Stiles’ the shake in them hard to miss.
„I love you too, Stiles.“
Peter retrieves another box from his coat pocket to reveal a second ring, this one golden with a yellow topaz stone, offering it to Stiles. „And that one, you may put on me.“
Stiles doesn’t say anything as he takes it, his heart audibly thumping against his ribcage enough to express his unsaid words. Sapphire and topaz – blue and brown – he must understand the implications behind it by now.
„Peter…“ A few of Stiles’ stray tears drip onto the oak table while Peter wipes away the others with his thumbs, taking the sapphire jewellery and sliding it onto Stiles’ ring finger, placing a ginger kiss on it as well.
„There. Now it is official,“ Peter murmurs, affection colouring his words, „You are mine.“
Stiles returns the gesture afterwards, a tremble still running through him, his lips brushing a flame onto his skin. „And you're mine.“
„I always have been,“ Peter corrects, threading their decorated fingers together.
When a meow reaches their ears, they turn their attention to the side where Bun resides, Peter stretching out an arm to the dozing loaf of fluff, stroking the spot beneath their right ear, the kitty eagerly tilting his head into it. „Yes, you’ll be a part of the family too, feline.“
Stiles leans his head on the hand with the ring. „Well, look at that. Peter Hale, enthralled by a mortal creature,“ he jokes.
„Not the first, I would say. Do you remember a certain Stiles? I even proposed to him.“
Stiles pinches his brows as if deep in thought before bending over the table and dropping his voice. „Hmm, you might have to remind me again, wolfy.“ He emphasises the last word. As he always does to rile Peter up.
Stiles nuzzles into the side of Peter’s face and Peter responds by placing his hands on the other’s shoulders, a knowing expression on his features. „Later, sweetheart.“
„Okay, okay.“ Stiles slumps back into the plush red leather seat, extending his arm to run his palm over Bun’s fluffy head and neck fur. „But you’ll totally have to make them our ring bearer now. No exceptions. Otherwise, they’ll be devastated.“
Peter snatches a cookie from Stiles’ half-forgotten plate of 'goodies', some orange slices still sitting there untouched, and shoves it between the man’s lips. „Of course. Quiet now and enjoy your cookie.“
Stiles replies with a thumbs up and continues to nibble on the pastry, his eyes flicking to the newly acquired items proudly displayed on both of their digits. His gaze lights up with a fleeting thought. „Scott’s gonna be pissed about this.“
Peter responds with a smirk of his own. „Worth it all the more.“
He positions his elbows on the oak wood, rushing forward to take a swift bite out of Stiles’ cookie, the other voicing his disapproval with the situation.
„Sharing is caring,“ Peter playfully tuts, tongue darting out to catch the remaining crumbles on his face, wiping the rest with the back of his hand.
Stiles joins into their light-hearted banter. „Till death do us part, wolfy. You’re the one that placed their whole bank account onto my ring finger. No getting rid of me now. You’re stuck with me.“
Peter’s palm sidles up to his cheek, guiding Stiles closer for his lips to connect with the other’s forehead. „Wouldn’t have dreamed of it, pup.“