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Weekend Pass

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Peter grins as he hears the crunch of Chris’s tires on the gravel driveway, and feels the familiar thrum of anticipation inside him. Chris has been away for the last nine weeks yelling at new recruits, and it’s been way too long since Peter put him on his knees. Or vice versa. For over two months their only contact has been via text message and phone calls, and that’s over two months too long. They work on the same base, for fuck’s sake, but Fort Benning isn’t exactly small, and Peter’s job is a nine-to-five. Someone has to come home every night and feed the goddamn cat that Peter never wanted in the first place, but who is now Peter’s loyal minion. Or vice versa. 

Peter nudges the cat off his lap when he hears Chris’s truck door slam shut, and then—

A second slam. 

Chris has brought someone else home. 

Peter wanders barefoot to the kitchen, and pulls out three beers. He twists the top off one and takes a long drink, and then carries them all into the living room. 

The afternoon is hot and humid, because fuck Georgia, that’s why. 

Peter sets the beers down on the coffee table, and then walks to the front door just as the screen door rattles in the frame. 

Chris is still wearing his fatigues, and he’s lugging his duffel bag. He dumps it in the hallway, flashing a grin at Peter, and then says over his shoulder, “Hurry the fuck up, kid, before the mosquitoes carry you away.” 

The kid is tall, pale, and his dark eyes look bigger than they should thanks to his god-awful buzzcut. He’s narrow-hipped, but broad enough across the shoulders. Peter has to imagine the rest since the kid is also still wearing his fatigues, but he figures Chris has had plenty of time to look over the past nine weeks, and clearly the kid passed his inspection. 

He wouldn’t be here otherwise. 

“Beers in the living room,” Peter says. “I’ll order some pizzas.” 

“Thanks,” Chris says. There’s a smile lurking just under his stern façade. Peter only knows it’s there because he’s been with Chris for fifteen years now. He’s buzzing with exactly the same anticipation Peter is. He jerks his head at the kid. “This is Stiles.” 

“Hey,” the kid says, eyes as wide as an owl’s. 

“Hey,” Peter returns. “Anything you won’t eat on your pizza?”

“Ah, no,” Stiles says. “No, I’m good with whatever.” 

Peter bets he is, because Chris sure can pick them. 

Peter heads back into the kitchen and takes his time pulling up the pizza app on his phone and ordering. Then he grabs another round of beers and heads into the living room. 

The TV is on, playing some dumb movie. Chris is sitting on the couch, his legs stretched out, and one arm resting on the top of the couch. His jacket’s lying in a heap on the floor, and so are his boots and socks. The kid—Stiles—is in the worn old armchair, and he’s stripped off his layers as well. He’s down to his pants and his t-shirt now, and he’s holding his beer bottle a little too tightly. His gaze cuts to Peter as Peter walks back in, and then darts back to the television. 

Poor kid’s out of his depth, Peter guesses, brain working overtime to figure out how the fuck he misread this whole situation. Hasn’t realized yet that he didn’t. 

Peter sets the fresh beers down on the coffee table, grabs his old one, and sits on the couch beside Chris. Drops his free hand to Chris’s thigh, and hides a smirk as Stiles can’t help staring. 

“You beat the traffic okay?” he asks. 

Chris nods. “Yeah, it wasn’t too bad, right, Stiles?” 

Stiles jerks his head and swallows, and shifts in his seat as Peter runs his hand up Chris’s inseam. Peter pretends not to notice his reaction. 

“Yeah,” Chris says, widening his thighs. “We passed an accident on the highway, but there was no hold up.” 

“That’s good.” Peter cups Chris’s dick, and squeezes a moan out of him. Then he glances at Stiles. 

“Um,” Stiles says, throat bobbing as he swallows again. “You want me to leave or something? Give you guys your privacy?” 

“You’re good,” Chris says, his voice low. “You can take a shower if you want, crash out in the spare room like I said you could. Or...” 

Stiles inhales sharply.

Chris takes a swig of his beer. “Or you can hang out here and see what happens. It’s up to you.”

Stiles squirms in his seat. 

“Look at you,” Peter says with a lazy smile. “All hot and bothered. You ever sucked a guy off before, kid?” 

Stiles shakes his head, still staring at where Peter’s gently squeezing Chris’s dick. He swipes his tongue over his lower lip. “N-no.” 

“You ever had someone suck you off?” 

Stiles shakes his head. 

“You got a girlfriend back home?” Peter asks. “A boyfriend?” Another head shake. “Fuck, Christopher, we’ve got ourselves a virgin.” 

“Yeah,” Chris says. “That’s right, isn’t it, cherry?” 

Stiles jerks his head in a nod, a blush staining his cheeks and his throat splotchy red. Peter can’t help but wonder how far that blush extends, and what other things they can do to make his pale skin turn pink. The kid might be almost vibrating out of his skin with tension right now, but Peter knows that Chris has picked him for a reason. He’s had nine weeks to watch him, to learn him, and Peter trusts that he hasn’t picked a runner. It’s never happened yet, and this is nowhere near their first rodeo. 

Stiles leans forward and sets his empty beer bottle down on the edge of the coffee table where it wobbles for a moment before settling. Then he grabs his second. He twists the top off and takes a swig—and coughs as it goes down the wrong way. 

“Slow down there, sweetheart,” Peter tells him. “You want to choke on something, how about you come over here and choke on Chris’s dick?” 

Stiles coughs again, tugging the neck of his t-shirt up to wipe his face. He snorts into it. But then, when Peter doesn’t laugh, he jolts. “Holy shit. You’re serious? Like, both of you are serious?” 

“No pressure,” Chris says. “We can watch the movie until the pizza comes, and the spare room’s yours for the weekend if you still want it. But if you came here looking for something else, then that’s on offer too.” 

“I thought, um…” Stiles shakes his head. “I didn’t expect you to have a boyfriend.” 

“Husband,” Chris corrects.

“That’s… that’s even weirder,” Stiles says. “Shit, sorry, no, I didn’t mean that, sarge.” 

“Yeah, you did,” Chris says. “Not the first time you’ve engaged your mouth before your brain, is it?” 

That wrings a smile out of the kid, and Peter guesses that Stiles has been the thorn in Chris’s side in more ways than one for the past nine weeks. Jesus, though, this is why Peter could never do Chris’s job. If Peter had been Stiles’s drill sergeant, the whole squad would have suffered multiple middle-of-the-night snap inspections, just in the hopes of seeing him in his underwear. 

“I just, um, I wasn’t expecting you to have a husband,” Stiles says. 

“You did come here looking to get fucked though, right?” Peter asks bluntly. 

Stiles ducks his head as his face floods with color again. “I thought it might happen, but I didn’t know.” 

“I’ll bet you thought it,” Peter says. “I’ll bet you imagined yourself on your hands and knees with Chris fucking you from behind, didn’t you?” He feels Chris start to harden under his hand. “He’s good too, Stiles. So fucking good. It’s gonna be so much bigger than you think your first time, but he’ll make you come so hard you’ll wonder why the hell you ever wasted your life up until now jerking off. Those past nine weeks of running and climbing and hauling your pack up and down a bunch of fucking hills? You know what he was really training you for, sweetheart? He was building your stamina so you can take a real pounding and make him proud.” 

Stiles’s wet mouth is hanging open, and his eyes are wide. He squirms in his chair again, a hand going to his crotch to readjust his pants. His gaze finds Chris, and then Peter, and then Chris again. 

“You want to come over here, cherry?” Chris asks, his voice low and calm. 

Stiles blinks, and then tumbles forward out of the armchair onto his knees. He sets his beer down and shuffles around the end of the coffee table, and then hesitates until Chris reaches out a hand. 

“Come on,” Chris says. “You want to get your mouth on me?” 

“But first,” Peter says, and reaches down and grasps the neck of Stiles’s t-shirt. He tugs, encouraging Stiles to stretch up as high as he can on his knees, and leans in to take a kiss. It’s less a kiss and more surprised smear of Stiles’s mouth against his own. The kid’s cherry, alright, and he hasn’t got a fucking clue what he’s doing. It’ll be a different story by the end of the weekend though. 

Stiles leans back, panting hard. His eyes are wide, pupils almost swallowing up his irises. He looks cum-drunk already, and they’ve barely even started. Chris reaches out and scrubs his palm over Stiles’s buzzcut, and Stiles shivers at the touch and sways toward him. Peter glances at Stiles’s beer bottle on the table, and wonders if he needs to re-evaluate cum-drunk to just plain drunk, but the kid’s hardly put a dent in the second bottle. Then again, he’s what? Eighteen or nineteen, which certainly doesn’t mean he’s not a drinker, because since when do kids give a fuck about the law? But even if he’s a graduate of a hundred high school keggers, he’s been in the forced sobriety of basic training for the past nine weeks, so he’s bound to be out of practice. 

“Hold on for a second,” Peter says, and pushes up off the couch. He goes to the kitchen and grabs a bottle of water out of the refrigerator. Cracks the seal as he walks back to the living room, and sits down on the couch and offers the bottle to Stiles. 

The plastic cracks as Stiles grips it too quickly, but he gulps down a few mouthfuls. 

Chris catches Peter’s eye, and Peter sees the fond amusement in his expression. Peter likes to tease Chris about being an asshole to his recruits, but they both know that it’s usually Peter who’s the asshole. Chris is paid to be mean, but Peter does it for free. For some reason it always seems to delight Chris when he catches Peter being a half-decent human being. Peter should probably be insulted by that, but he’s not. He knows he’s an asshole. Not a drill sergeant asshole either, but an asshole on a whole different level: Peter is a military attorney at the Office of the Staff Judge Advocate. Peter eats drill sergeants for breakfast. 

Twice, if they ask nicely. 

Peter takes the bottle away from Stiles and sets it on the coffee table. “Okay, sweetheart, just stay down there for a moment for me.” 

Stiles’s eyes are as big as saucers as Peter unzips Chris’s pants. Chris lifts his hips, and Peter tugs his pants and underwear down to his thighs. Stiles stares at Chris’s dick, transfixed, and swipes his tongue over his lower lip. 

Chris arches his back as Peter curls his fingers around his dick, and rubs his thumb over the head. Chris is already leaking, and Peter lifts his hand away and holds his glistening thumb out for Stiles. 

And Stiles opens his mouth and sucks it in. 

Peter’s pretty sure they all groan at the same time. 

“Good boy,” Peter says at last, and slides his thumb free of Stiles’s mouth. “Okay, lean in now, sweetheart. Ready?” 

Chris groans as Stiles shuffles as close as he can, and sets his hands on his thighs. His long fingers clench around the bunched-up fabric of Chris’s pants and underwear, and he hovers uncertainly for a moment before he leans forward, mouth open, and darts his tongue out to lap quickly at the head of Chris’s dick. 

Chris’s hips jerk forward, and Stiles flinches back. 

Peter laughs, and reaches over to grab Stiles’s right hand. He guides it to Chris’s dick. “You can hold him still, sweetheart. Wrap your fingers around him, and don’t worry about trying to take him too deep for your first time.” 

“Okay,” Stiles says, and swallows before leaning in again. 

He’s a fucking vision. He’s awkward as fuck, but Peter has always found that has its own certain immeasurable charm. He clearly has no idea which angle is best, and keeps shifting this way and that on his knees, but he’s brave enough to progress immediately from cautious licks to taking the head of Chris’s dick in his mouth and sucking. 

“Use your tongue too,” Peter says. “How’s he doing, Chris?” 

“Fucking amazing,” Chris answers through a moan, and slides a hand around the back of Stiles’s head to guide him. “Knew I wanted him when I saw him in the shower room.” 

Stiles makes a small sound of surprise, but keeps at it. His mouth is making obscene noises now, slurping and sucking, and it’s glorious. 

Peter laughs. “Did you do your drill instructor schtick? One more stroke and it’s not washing, maggots, it’s masturbating!” He runs his thumb over Stiles’s cheek. “I’ll bet you didn’t know Chris was watching you, did you? Bet you didn’t know he’d already decided he was going to bring you here. Bet you didn’t know that for the past nine weeks he’s been lying in his sad little cot next to your barracks room, jerking off over thoughts of you on your knees like this.” 

Stiles groans and squirms, and pulls back gasping for breath. “Wanted him too,” he said, his voice rasping. He turns his wet gaze to Chris, and looks all the world like a penitent on his knees. “Sarge, I wanted you too.” 

Chris leans forward and grips Stiles’s chin gently. Wipes his thumb through the drool slipping out the corner of his mouth. “I know you did, cherry. I could fucking smell it on you.” 

Stiles gives a full body shudder at the words, and a whine rises in the back of his throat. 

“Get back to it, Private Stilinski,” Chris says, an edge of steel to his tone now. “I didn’t train a fucking quitter.” 

“Yes, drill sergeant,” Stiles rasps, and falls on Chris’s dick again. 




Stiles has no fucking idea how any of this happened. For the past ten weeks he’s been busting his ass at Fort Benning—nine of them under Drill Sergeant Christopher Argent’s special brand of torture. Like Stiles hated the guy at first, then worshipped him, which seems to be the expected trajectory for the relationship between a recruit and a drill sergeant—Stockholm Syndrome has nothing on basic training—except Stiles’s worship wasn’t entirely hero-worship. He caught himself sneaking looks at the guy more often than he should, not like he was seeking his approval like some of other recruits in his squad, but just because he was so fucking hot. He’s older, with streaks of gray in his hair and wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, but he still left the entire squad in the dust when it came to PT. Following graduation from basic, most of Stiles’s squad members got sent straight off to Advanced Individual Training, but Stiles doesn’t ship out to Fort Leonard Wood until after the weekend. 

“Got a weekend pass, huh?” Argent had asked him when he’d come into the barracks to find Stiles sitting alone on his cot, everyone else already packed up and gone. 

“Yes, drill sergeant.” 

Argent had laughed. “I’m not your drill sergeant anymore, Stilinski. You got any plans for the weekend?” 

And somehow Stiles had found himself agreeing to spend the weekend at Argent’s house off-base. The whole drive there he thought that maybe he was imagining whatever it was between them, that it was just wishful thinking, and his heart had sunk when he’d arrived and discovered Argent already had a partner. Like, score one for Stiles’s gaydar, but that was cold comfort since he’d be spending the whole weekend awkwardly wishing he was somewhere else. 

Except now he’s on his knees sucking Argent’s—Chris’s—dick, and he still doesn’t know exactly how it happened. All he knows is he’s not going to waste the opportunity. He came here hoping for sex, and now he’s got it coming at him from two different hot older guys, so he’s hardly going to complain. 

“Come on, sweetheart,” Peter says. “Make Chris proud.” 

Stiles hollows his cheeks and sucks harder, rolling the head of Chris’s dick over his tongue. He wishes he had the courage to let go of the shaft and just take it all in, but he doesn’t. He’d rather not trigger his gag reflex and vomit in Chris’s lap. 

Chris groans, and shifts his hips, and Stiles tastes a fresh burst of precum flooding over his tongue. His jaw is starting to ache a little, but he ignores the pain and pushes through it, because that’s what Chris taught him in basic, right? Heels so blistered he was bleeding into his socks, but he still had to climb that fucking hill. A twinge in his jaw isn’t going to stop him, not when the reward he’s chasing here is so much sweeter than anything from basic. 

He feels it before he tastes it: the muscles in Chris’s thighs tighten, and his body tenses, and then he’s pushing forward suddenly, and he’s coming, and even though Stiles has been working for this, he’s still surprised at the suddenness of it. He struggles to swallow, and chokes a little like he did earlier on his beer, and pulls back to catch his breath. 

He wipes his watery eyes, and he’s about to do the same to his mouth because he can feel cum sliding down his chin, but Peter grabs him by the shirt again and pulls him upright on his knees. 

He licks around Stiles’s mouth to clean it, and then kisses him, and Stiles dick throbs and aches in his underwear at the thought of Peter chasing Chris’s taste in his mouth. Stiles closes his eyes as Peter’s tongue pushes into his mouth, over and over again, and Peter’s hand on the nape of his neck holds him in place. He wants to come, but also, he wants this moment to last forever. 

It doesn’t. 

Stiles jolts back into reality when the doorbell rings. 

Peter releases him, smiling. “That’ll be the pizza. I hope you’re hungry, sweetheart.” 

Stiles nods dozily. 

He could eat, he guesses. 




They were very clear on the rules when they started this. Chris doesn’t proposition anyone. He just invites a likely candidate home, and leaves the propositioning to Peter. It’s a dangerous game they’re playing, but they’ve never had any complaints. They’re very good at making the right choices. Peter plays the role of the seducer, the guy who starts the ball rolling, because Chris’s former recruits don’t know him. There’s no history there. No nine weeks solid of learning not to refuse, like they have with Chris. Most of the guys they hook up with leave on Monday morning without even knowing that Peter is military as well, let alone an officer. 

“An officer and a gentleman,” Peter likes to brag. 

“Let’s just go with the first one.” 

There’s nothing gentlemanly about Peter now. He’s sprawled on the floor, a pizza box open in front of him, and he’s teasing the cat with a piece of pepperoni while Stiles watches, grinning. For a pair of guys who haven’t even come yet, they both look pretty relaxed. 

Chris leans forward and grabs another slice of Hawaiian. 

It’s good to be home after nine weeks stuck on base, even if the shit of a cat that Chris rescued pretends she doesn’t remember him. It’s always good to be home, where he can unwind in bare feet, eating pizza and doing whatever the fuck he wants. 

Peter catches his gaze, and smirks. 

It’s always good to bring someone home too, and play around with them for a weekend. Send them back on Monday morning dazed and aching in all the right places. 

Chris wipes his greasy fingers on his pants, and flips his pizza box shut. 

“You not hungry anymore?” Peter asks. 

“Hungry for something else,” Chris says, and lets his heavy gaze fall on Stiles. 

Stiles inhales sharply, and nods in answer to the unasked question. 

Peter arches an eyebrow. “You can put the leftovers in the refrigerator first, or we’ll be overrun with ants by the morning.” 

“Yes, dear,” Chris deadpans, and Stiles bursts out laughing. It’s a laugh that Chris only heard a few times in basic—basic isn’t exactly that sort of environment, or at least not whenever Chris walks into a room. Stiles has an open-mouthed laugh. It’s unbridled, loud, joyful, and totally lacking in self-consciousness, and Chris warms at the sound of it. He and Peter don’t laugh out loud like that; they were both born cynical, and they fit together well, sharp edge to sharp edge. And Stiles, though Chris suspects an underlying core of sarcasm and sass that he nevertheless managed to keep a lid on for the duration of basic despite Chris’s constant provocation, is something different. Neither Chris nor Peter are particularly demonstrative. Stiles’s laughter is a breath of fresh air on this humid Georgia night. 

Chris stands up, stretching to get rid of the twinge in his back. Goddamn, but he and Peter need to get a new sofa. Neither of them are young enough to treat their spines like slinkies anymore. Especially if they want to give Stiles a damn good ride tonight. He picks up his pizza box, and raises his eyebrows at Peter and Stiles. They shove theirs at him too, and Chris takes them to the kitchen and spends longer than he’d like rearranging shit so he can cram the boxes in. 

He’s not surprised to hear Peter jostling Stiles toward their bedroom before he’s done. When he finally gets the refrigerator door to close without popping open again, he heads down the hallway, drawn to the open bedroom door. 

When he gets there, he’s treated to the sight of Peter peeling Stiles’s t-shirt off him, hands running up his sides as he drags the fabric up. Stiles’s arms are raised, and for a second his face vanishes inside his shirt, and then Peter’s flinging the shirt across the room, and going straight for Stiles’s fly. 

Chris walks around behind them gets his hands on Stiles’s hips and pulls him close. Feels the full-body shudder go through the kid as Peter teases him, taking way too long to undo a button Chris knows from experience he can open with his fucking teeth

Stiles groans, his head falling back on Chris’s shoulder. Chris takes the opportunity to lick and nuzzle his jaw. 

“Peter,” Stiles moans. “Peter!” 

It’s both a plea and an accusation of unfairness, and Peter grins and finally pops that button. The rasp of Stiles’s zip is the loudest sound in the room in that moment. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” Peter says on a breath. “Look at you.” 

Chris looks down as Peter closes his fingers around Stiles’s dick. It’s engorged, red enough to look damn near painful, and Stiles jerks and shudders and comes before Peter has even managed a decent stroke. And then he’s trying to squirm away from them, his eyes squeezed shut and his face bright red. 

“Shit. Sorry. Shit. Shit.” 

Chris holds him tighter, refusing to let him wriggle away from them. “What are you sorry for, cherry? You’ve got plenty more in the tank, I bet.” 

“Come on,” Peter says. “Let’s see if we can get you good to go again, hmm?” 

Peter leans in and kisses Stiles, the sounds dirty and wet. Chris feels himself starting to harden again, and rolls his hips to get some friction against Stiles’s ass. 

The kid’s beautiful, no denying it. All pale skin, dotted here and there with moles, and lean muscle that’s been honed by basic. There’s more definition to him now than there was when Chris first saw him, and Chris enjoys the appreciative sounds Peter makes as he traces his cum-sticky fingers along Stiles’s abdominals, and down his faint v-line. It might be Stiles’s body, but Chris helped make it like this. He yelled Stiles and the rest of the squad up and down hills, through rope courses, and over walls. Surely he’s allowed to take a little pride in his work? 

He wonders how far they can test the kid’s stamina, and how many times they can make him come over the weekend. Only one way to find out, he guesses. 

He angles his body so that he can lick a stripe up the side of Stiles’s pale throat, and digs his fingers into his hips. Peter’s got his hand back on Stiles’s dick, and Stiles is making small, frantic sounds because he’s overstimulated, but he doesn’t try to pull away from them. 

“You ready, sweetheart?” Peter asks, his voice as low as sin. “Ready for Chris to fuck you so hard you scream?” 

“Y-yeah.” Stiles’s breath is coming in short pants. “Yeah, I’m ready.” 

Peter helps him step out of his pants and underwear, and leads him over to the bed. “Hands and knees, sweetheart, so Chris can get you ready, hmm?” 

Stiles nodes, and scrambles onto the bed. The jerkiness in his movements shows that his nerves are back again now, and they’ve brought reinforcements. Chris raises his eyebrows at Peter, who nods as he begins to strip. Then he joins Stiles on the bed, kneeling in front of him. Stiles goes wide-eyed at the sight of Peter’s impressive erection. 

“You want a taste of this, sweetheart?” Peter asks. “Want to show me what I was missing out on from before?” 

Chris grabs the lube and a condom from the bedside cabinet, and pulls his clothes off. He kneels on the bed behind Stiles, the mattress dipping, and Stiles flinches. 

“It’s okay,” Peter says. “Chris is going to take it nice and slow for you, sweetheart. Really get you stretched out before he fucks you.” He winks. “You’ll be begging for it by the time he gets his dick inside you.” 

Stiles huffs out a laugh, as though he doesn’t quite believe it. “Okay.” 

“Chris, I think we’ve got a non-believer here!” 

“Is that so?” Chris nudges Stiles’s knees apart, and reaches down to cradle the kid’s balls in his hand. He squeezes gently, and Stiles makes a strangled noise. “You think I can’t make you beg for it, cherry?” 

“Fuck.” Stiles twists around to look at him. “You gonna prove me wrong, drill sergeant?” 

Now there’s that sass that Chris knew was hiding under the boy’s skin all this time. 

Peter laughs, and turns Stiles face back toward him so he can steal a kiss. “Uh-oh. Someone’s angling for a spanking too!” 

Stiles snorts. “Are you fucking serious?” 

“Don’t tease, Peter,” Chris says. He runs a hand down Stiles’s flank, enjoying the shiver that runs through the kid. “Spankings are an optional extra only, cherry.” 

“The fuck.” Stiles shakes his head. “How many beers did I drink tonight?” 

“You’re sober as a judge, sweetheart,” Peter tells him with a grin, “and this is really a thing that’s happening.” 

“Yeah.” Stiles snorts. “Even my fantasies aren’t this fucking wild, man.” 

“Let’s see what we can do to expand your repertoire then,” Chris says, and slides a thumb down the crease of Stiles’s ass. Stiles gasps and jolts forward, Peter catching him by the shoulders to hold him steady. Chris rubs his thumb against Stiles’s hole, revelling in the way it tightens under his touch, and then leans back to open the lube. “Okay, cherry, let it happen.” 

He presses a finger inside, and Stiles groans at the sensation. He’s tight, but Chris is patient and slow. He rubs the base of Stiles’s spine with his free hand as he pushes in, and Stiles shifts restlessly under his touch. 

“He’s opening you up, sweetheart,” Peter says. “Making sure you can take his dick.” 

Stiles nods, sudden tension in his shoulders, and he tightens around Chris’s finger. He’s willing, but he’s nervous as hell. 

“Drop down on your elbows,” Peter suggests, and helps maneuver him into position. “It’ll make it easier.”

Chris rolls his eyes at Peter over Stiles’s back. Make it easier for who? It’s just a coincidence that this happens to put Stiles into one of Peter’s favourite positions, right? 

Peter shifts back, sitting up against the headboard and spreading his legs. Then he crooks his finger at Stiles, and Stiles crawls forward awkwardly, seeing immediately what’s expected of him and diving right in. He braces his forearms on Peter’s thighs, and leans in to suck his dick. Peter’s eyes flutter closed, and he curls his hand around the nape of Stiles’s neck as Stiles bobs his head up and down. 


Now there’s a fucking sight. 

Chris drinks it in for a moment before he shifts up the bed as well, sliding his slick finger back into Stiles’s tight hole and relishing the way it opens a little more each time. Stiles is stiff and nervous at first, and then pliant, and finally, by the time Chris has worked up to two fingers, he’s rocking back to meet each small thrust. His rhythm is unpracticed; he’s acting on instinct but he hasn’t got the muscle memory to back it up quite yet. His body wants something, but he doesn’t know how to move to make it happen for him. That’s fine. They’ve got all weekend to show the boy exactly how to fuck. 

Chris twists his fingers to find the kid’s prostate, and Stiles jerks forward and chokes around Peter’s dick. He pulls off, coughing, and Peter gives Chris an arch look as he cups Stiles’s face. 

“Took you by surprise, hmm?” Peter asks Stiles. “Found your sweet spot?” 

“Jesus,” Stiles rasps, this time pushing back into Chris’s touch. His movements are getting shaky again. 

“You want more, cherry?” Chris asks him, reaching for a condom. 

“Yeah.” The word shudders out of him on a breath. “Please. Please.” 

The kid’s standing right on the edge, and just needs that final push to send him over. Too bad he’s gonna have to wait for it. And work for it. 

Chris grins and wonders if the kid even remembers daring him to make him beg for it. He withdraws his fingers, and slathers more lube on them. This time he pushes three back inside Stiles, and a helpless whine rises in the back of Stiles throat as he clenches around him, body trembling. 

“You ready for me?” Chris asks, his voice a growl. He tears the condom open and rolls it down over his shaft. “You ready to take it, cherry?” 

“Yeah.” Stiles twists around to give him a wild-eyed look. “Yeah, please.” 

Chris can barely hold off coming as he finally pushes his throbbing dick inside the kid’s hot, tight heat. 




It’s big. 

It’s so big that the sensation sends a blast of static straight to Stiles’s brain, as he tries to make sense of a hundred different panicked, conflicting signals his body is sending that his brain can’t untangle. It’s too much like pain to feel good, too much like pleasure to feel bad, and Stiles’s breath hitches in a series of small choking motions in his throat as he tries to pull enough air into his lungs and fails. 

It’s big, and whatever it is Stiles is feeling right now it’s too much. 

“Shh,” Peter murmurs, his big hands holding Stiles’s chin up, forcing eye contact. “It’s okay. Just breathe through it and bear down. You’re in good hands, and it’s gonna feel so good any second now, sweetheart.” 

Stiles sucks a breath in through his gritted teeth, his eyes stinging. He whimpers. 

“Breathe,” Peter says again. “Don’t hold it in. Breathe.” 

Stiles does his best to obey. 

“Okay,” Peter says. He holds Stiles’s face in his hands, and rubs a thumb under his eye to draw away a stray tear. His expression is pleased, proud, careful. “He’s all the way in now, sweetheart, and he’s not going to move for a little while. How does it feel?” 

Stiles shudders out an exhale. “It’s big.” 

The corners of Peter’s mouth turn up, and he leans down to press his mouth against Stiles’s fleetingly. “I know it is, baby boy. And it’s all for you.”

It’s like the centre of Stiles’s being has shifted. He’s so full, and there’s so much pressure, and his ass is throbbing, like he can feel his heart beating down there. It’s... it’s like nothing he’s ever felt before, but his balls are throbbing too, and his dick is hard, and he never met his prostate before today and suddenly his whole fucking universe is revolving around it. He wants... he wants more. He thinks he does. Maybe? And then Chris slides a hand under him and closes it around his dick, and Stiles’s uncertainty shatters like glass. He wants more. No fucking question. More, now

And suddenly, like a switch has been flipped in his head, everything feels so good. Chris pulls out, and Stiles whines at the loss, but then he’s pushing back in again and Stiles wants everything he can give him. He pushes back against Chris, and Chris rewards him by stroking his dick, and when Stiles is shoved forward again Peter is there to claim his mouth in a bruising kiss. Stiles arches up, every nerve in his body alight, every synapse firing, and his heart trying to beat its way out of his body as he climbs higher and higher toward pleasure. And then Peter’s shifting, rising onto his knees and offering his dick, and Stiles, open-mouthed, takes it, chokes on it willingly, his fingers digging into the backs of Peter’s thighs. 

Chris shifts his hand from Stiles’s dick, and back to his hips, and Stiles whines around Peter’s dick. And then—Stiles imagines some signal passing between them above him—they start to move in sync, both thrusting into him, not hard, not rough, but there’s nothing gentle about it either. There’s no mistaking the fact he’s getting soundly fucked at both ends, and a shudder runs through him at the thought of what he must look like right now. 

“You’re so fucking good, cherry,” Chris growls. “So fucking tight.”

Stiles moans in agreement as Peter angles his head so he can take more. He blinks up at Peter through tear-filled eyes, and finds Peter staring back down at him. 

“Time to test that gag reflex, sweetheart?” Peter asks with a smirk. 

Stiles moans again, and Peter’s smile grows. 




The kid’s a dazed mass of loose limbs and blotchy skin by the time Chris comes. He’s as shaky as a newborn colt. The only thing hard about him is his poor neglected dick. Peter pulls out too, and rubs his thumb against Stiles’s swollen lips. Stiles blinks at him blankly, a string of drool hanging from his lower lip. 

Peter stands up off the bed and stretches, grinning down at Stiles, who collapses onto his stomach. Chris stands up too, and moves to the head of the bed. He sits down against the headboard, and rubs his fingers over Stiles’s buzzcut. 

“You’re not done yet, cherry,” he says. 

By the time Peter rolls his condom on, Chris has Stiles on his back, half pulled up against him. He loops an arm over his torso, his free hand stroking the kid’s face. Then he hooks his ankles around Stiles’s, and tugs his legs open. 

“Come and get him, Peter.” 

Peter grabs a pillow and shoves it under Stiles’s ass to angle his pelvis just right, and crawls into the space between his legs. He lines his dick up with Stiles’s hole, and pushes in. 

Stiles drops his head back against Chris’s chest. “Oh, shit.” 

“Mmm.” Peter flexes his hips and goes deeper. “He opened you up nice, didn’t he?” 

Stiles squirms between them, reaching up to fist his fingers in Peter’s hair. His eyes are glazed. “Yeah.” 

Peter doubts he even registered the question at all, but he does love an agreeable boy. He rewards him with a long, slow thrust that rides over his prostate. 

Chris slides two fingers into Stiles’s mouth. He traces his other hand over Stiles’s chest, rubbing and pinching his nipples, and Stiles arches into it every time, his ass tightening around Peter’s dick whenever Chris pinches. Their bodies are slick with sweat now, and Stiles’s dick is smearing precum between them. Peter pulls back, pushing Stiles’s legs up and apart, and thrusts back inside him again. It’s not long until Peter’s on the edge of coming—the blowjob while Chris fucked the kid lit the fuse for him, and it’s burning quickly now with no way to shut it down—and he doesn’t spare the kid at all. And Stiles, to his credit, loves it. He wraps his legs around Peter, rough heels digging into his ass. 

Chris takes one of Stiles’s arms and stretches it up behind him, encouraging the kid to hold the back of his neck when Chris leans in to kiss him. The kiss is wet and messy, Stiles’s mouth hanging open as Peter fucks him closer and closer to release with every thrust. Chris takes Stiles’s other hand, and slides it lower, until both their hands, their fingers twined together, are wrapped around Stiles’s dick. 

“Work for it, cherry,” Chris commands. “Come on.” 

Stiles cries out, and jerks and shudders to an orgasm between them, his cum spraying. 

The sight of it is enough to undo Peter, who follows only seconds behind him. 

The three of them lie in a sweaty heap on the bed, slowly catching their breath. 

“Fuck,” Chris mutters at last. “Guess someone’s gonna have to change the sheets.” 

And then, before Peter can even open his mouth, Stiles mumbles “Not it!” and squirms away from them, burying his face in Peter’s pillow. 

“Lazy little fuck,” Chris says, but his smile is fond. 

“Aw, look at him,” Peter says. “We tuckered the little guy out!” 

“Fuck off,” Stiles mumbles from the pillow. 

“This one’s got sass,” Peter says, and slaps Stiles’s ass. “Can we keep him Chris?” 

“You couldn’t keep up, old man,” Stiles grumbles, and then, barely a moment later, sighs deeply and stretches, his toes curling. And then nothing. 

“Did he just–” Chris’s eyes widen as Stiles lets out a little snore. 

Peter laughs softly .

Yeah, he likes this one. 




Stiles staggers back out into the living room some time around midnight, wearing just his underwear and scratching the dried cum out of his treasure trail. He glowers at the sight of Chris and Peter sitting on the couch eating their leftover pizza, and Chris hides a smile at his petulance.

“Pizza? The fuck didn’t you wake me?” 

“There’s plenty left,” Chris assures him. “Get over here, cherry.” 

He watches as Stiles looks back and forth between them for a moment, then shrugs and steps forward, squeezing into the narrow space between them. The little shit wriggles his ass until they make enough room for him. 

“You’re not allowed to call me ‘cherry’ anymore,” he says, and reaches forward to snag a piece of cold pepperoni. “Pretty sure I no longer qualify.” 

“You’re in the army, kid,” Peter tells him. “You’re a cherry until you see combat.” 

“Fucking seriously?” Stiles takes a bite of pizza and chews it thoughtfully for a moment. “You know a lot of military slang, huh?” 

“Major Peter Hale,” Peter says, holding out his hand. “Pleased to meet you.” 

Chris grins at the expression on Stiles’s face. 

“Fuck,” Stiles says, eyes wide. “Someone wanna run the army’s fraternization policy by me again?” 

“Come see me at the Office of the Staff Judge Advocate,” Peter says with a smirk, “and I’ll print you out a copy.” 

Stiles’s mouth drops open, and for a moment Chris wonders how he’s going to react, and then he reaches for another piece of pizza and laughs loud enough to send the cat skittering into the hallway. 

Kid could be a keeper, Chris thinks, and the thought’s so casual, so natural, that it stuns him. 

He glances at Peter, and thinks he sees it mirrored in his speculative gaze. 




On Monday morning Peter smirks as Stiles moves gingerly down the front steps. Peter and Chris gave him a hell of a workout this weekend, and he’s gonna be feeling it for days. So is Peter, but he’s better at hiding it. 

It’s barely dawn, and Chris is dropping Stiles back at Fort Benning so he makes his transport to Fort Leonard Wood on time. In eight weeks, unless he washes out of AIT, he’ll be an MP. He’s not going to wash out though. Peter’s only known him the course of the weekend, but it’s long enough to know Stiles is smart as hell. 

Peter follows him down the front steps of the porch. Chris is already in the truck, turning over the ignition. Peter walks around to the passenger side, grinning as Stiles braces before hauling himself up into the cab. 

“If I flunk out of PT, I’m giving them both your names,” he mutters, but his smile belies it. “Sirs.” 

“Is that so?” Peter leans in the window. “And what about if you don’t flunk out?” 

Stiles raises his eyebrows. 

“You looking to get stationed anywhere in particular?” Peter asks. 

Stiles wrinkles his nose. “Dunno. My dad said it’s best to keep your expectations low in the army, so they can’t disappoint you.” 

“Georgia’s pretty low,” Peter points out. 

Stiles laughs. “Yeah, I guess it is.” He raises his eyebrows. “You gonna pull some strings for me, Major Hale? Get me posted back to Fort Benning?” 

“If such a thing were possible,” Peter muses, “and not totally unethical, is it something you’d like?” 

Beside Stiles in the driver’s seat, Chris starts to laugh silently. 

Stiles smiles widely, and leans out the window of the cab. He grabs Peter by the neckband of his shirt and pulls him close for a kiss. 

Peter hopes to hell the neighbors are still asleep at this hour. 

“Yeah,” Stiles says when he releases him. “I think I’d like that a lot.” 

Peter steps back from the truck as Chris puts it into gear. 

Gravel crunches under the tires as they drive off. 

Peter watches them until they turn off at the corner at the bottom of the street, and then climbs the porch steps again. He scoops the cat up to take it inside for breakfast, and checks his watch. He’s got time to do a load of laundry before he has to think about getting ready for work, and those fucking sheets still need changing. 

He whistles as he heads back inside. 

Hell of a weekend. 

He can’t wait for the next one. 

Chapter Text

Peter’s alarm goes off at 3 a.m. 

Fucking time zones. 

He shoves the cat off his chest so he can climb out of bed, and yawns as he shuffles through the dark house to the bathroom to take a piss. He goes back to the bedroom once he’s done to grab his phone and apologize to the cat. Then, flicking the lights on as he goes, he heads to the kitchen to grab a coffee. 

The night is dark and quiet and humid. From outside, Peter can hear the leaves shifting in the scant breeze that whispers through the trees. The breeze isn’t cool enough or strong enough to lift the humidity. 

Fuck Georgia.

The thought crosses Peter’s mind at least once a day. He dreams of retiring to California, somewhere in the northwest close to where he grew up. Maybe get a little place there where the summers aren’t oppressive, and the winters are actually cold but not too cold. But then he looks at the cost of living and thinks fuck California too. 

He takes his coffee and goes and sits on the couch in the living room. 

The house feels too empty. 

Chris is stuck on base for another three weeks with his latest squad of recruits, and, like usual, their phone calls and text messages aren’t cutting it. 

And Stiles is… 

Well, Peter doesn’t like to count down the days. He’s not a superstitious man at all, but marking the days off on a mental calendar feels a little like tempting fate, doesn’t it? Wanting a thing so much, and knowing that the universe is a spiteful bitch who’ll snatch it all away if he lets it show, like an older sister holding a favourite toy just out of reach and laughing in his face. 

Which reminds him… 

Peter smirks, and sends Talia a meme he’s been saving. He’ll claim later he had no idea what time it was when he sent it, and also no idea she doesn’t put her phone on silent at night. 

He turns the television on and flicks through the channels. 

Gets Skype set up and ready to go. 

Falls asleep on the couch by four, and doesn’t wake up again until daylight. 

It’s okay. It’s normal. Shit like this is hard to schedule. 

Nothing’s wrong. 

Still, the unease doesn’t fade until Stiles calls the next night, in a lagging Skype feed that keeps freezing. His laughter cuts in and out, and Peter loses whole sentences, but the kid’s fine. He’s sweaty and stubbled and there are bags under his eyes, but the kid’s fine. 




Chris glances at the empty passenger seat beside him as he pulls the truck into the gravel driveway. Used to be there’d sometimes be some young guy sitting there, a bundle of nerves and hormones wondering exactly what the fuck was going on, but the days of Chris bringing someone home are long behind them all now.  

Stiles likes to say it’s because they know they can’t win the lottery twice. 

Peter likes to say it’s because they didn’t want to risk getting another one like him.

Chris thinks they’re both idiots. 

He climbs out of the truck and slams the door. 

The screen door swings open, and Peter steps out onto the porch. He grins at Chris. “You’ve got ten minutes until the pizza gets here. Think that’s enough time for me to blow you?” 

Chris snorts. “I haven’t seen you in nine weeks. I reckon I could finish in three minutes, and that’s including the time it takes to get my boots off.” 

Peter smirks, licks his lips, and holds the door open for Chris to get inside. 




The phone call comes five weeks before the kid is due home. 

Five lousy fucking weeks, when he’s already been gone for ten months. 

Peter’s in his office on base when he gets it. 

Fifteen minutes later he’s walking into a barracks room full of new recruits, who all snap to attention when they see the insignia on his fatigues, even though Peter’s not sure they’ve been at Fort Benning long enough to tell their asses from the elbows, let alone a major from a mechanic. 

Chris is in drill sergeant mode, posture ramrod straight and face expressionless. 

“Major Hale,” he says, and salutes, and then follows Peter outside. 

It’s hot. The sun is blinding. 

Someone’s squad is running past, boots slapping on asphalt. 

A jeep roars by them.

“He’s alive,” Peter says, and sees Chris’s façade crack. “He’s in Germany. I don’t know how bad it is.” 

“He’s alive,” Chris repeats. He clenches his jaw, and it trembles. 

Peter wants to reach out and cup his face, wants to provide comfort as much as seek it himself. But there are rules, both written and unwritten, that they’ve followed for the length of their careers, of their relationship. A single step would close the distance between them, but it’s one that neither of them can take. 

“I’ll text you as soon as I know more,” Peter says. 

“Yeah,” Chris says, his voice rasping. “You tell me as soon as you hear.” 

Peter watches him walk back inside to deal with his recruits, the line of his shoulders as proud and rigid as always. 




Stiles took up smoking on his tour, because he was bored, because he was lonely, and because it was something to do with his hands. Now it’s about the only thing that stops his fingers from shaking. He’s gonna catch hell for it from his guys, he knows, but these are the tools he’s working with right now. Cigarettes and the SSRIs that were prescribed to him in Germany. He’s got a bottle of painkillers too, but he’s rationing those as carefully as the candy from an MRE.

He spent three weeks in Germany, then two more at Walter Reed, and now at last he’s back in Georgia, climbing awkwardly out of an Uber because he didn’t have the fucking guts to tell Chris or Peter he got an early flight back. 

He didn’t want a fuss, or something. What-the-fuck-ever. Didn’t want them to be waiting at the airport for him, or maybe he didn’t want them not to be and this way it saved him being disappointed or something. Fuck if Stiles can figure out his own head at the moment, but he knows it’s not like they can drop everything to come pick him up. That’s not how shit works in the army. The past two and a half years has been nothing but snatching the occasional few hours with Chris and Peter when he can, even though they all live under the same roof. 

Chris’s truck is in the driveway, and Stiles feels his gut clench as he shoulders his duffel bag and limps past it. He can’t see Peter’s car, but sometimes he parks it around back. Maybe he’s home too, or maybe they’re both out and took Peter’s car. 


He wants them both to be home. He wants neither of them to be home. He doesn’t know what the fuck he wants, because suddenly everything seems too big to deal with. Is it gonna be just like normal? Like Stiles walks in the door, and everything’s the same as it was? That’s what he wants, right? Except how can that happen, when Stiles isn’t the same as he was? He’s fucked up, and he doesn’t just mean his leg. 

His hands are shaking and he wants a cigarette. 

The porch steps creak as he climbs them. 

He drops his duffel bag on the porch, and searches his pockets for the keys he hasn’t used in the past eleven months. He pulls them out—and they slip right through his trembling fingers and land with a jangling thump on the worn boards of the porch. 

The porch light flickers on. 

For a moment Stiles sees the shadow of a man standing there, and then the screen door squeaks open. 

“Stiles?” It’s Peter. “Stiles!” 

Peter embraces him, and Stiles inhales deep and deeper still even as he feels himself start to shake apart at the seams. His breath hitches. His eyes sting. 

“Hey,” he says, pushing himself out of Peter’s arms with a lopsided grin. “Don’t make it a big thing. This. Okay? I’m back. I’m fine. It’s whatever.” 

He limps inside, dumps his duffel bag in the hallway, and heads to the bathroom to take a piss. 




When he hears the sound of Stiles’s arrival, Chris’s heart skips a series of beats. He pushes up off the couch just in time to see Stiles moving down the hallway to the bathroom. Chris makes to follow him, but Peter catches him by the arm and shakes his head silently. 

“Hey, Stiles?” Peter calls down the hallway. 

The answer comes a heartbeat too late, his voice a fraction unsteady. “Yeah?” 

“You allowed beer with your meds?” 

“I’ll have one.” And then the bathroom door closes. 

Peter smiles slightly, and reaches us to brush Chris’s cheek with his knuckles. “Get the kid a beer, Chris.” 

Chris moves to the kitchen. He can feel his heart pounding faster, hear the rush of blood in his skull. It’s like walking underwater. He grabs three beers from the refrigerator, the glass bottles clinking together, and carries them back into the living room. 

He sits, drinks, waits. 

He hears the toilet flush, and the faint blast of water in the sink, and then moments later Stiles is standing in the living room doorway. He looks tired, drawn, and when he makes his way across to the armchair, he’s limping. 

Stiles sits, unbuttons his tunic and takes it off. In his t-shirt, he looks skinnier than Chris remembers him, but weeks in hospital will do that. Stiles leans forward and grabs a beer. Twists the top off and gulps it halfway down. 

This is where they were sitting that first night, Chris remembers. Stiles, so nervous and unsure, vibrating out of his skin on that old armchair while Peter and Chris sat on the couch and teased their little cherry. Stiles looks about a million miles from naïve these days. 

Stiles wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Fuck. That’s good.” 

Chris finds his gaze drawn to Stiles’s outstretched right leg. 

Remembers the kid from basic, how easily he moved. Remembers how easily he moved in other ways too, gasping out soft, sweet noises as Peter and Chris took him apart between them. Thinks of him sprawled naked on the bed afterward, loose limbed and grinning lazily, stretching like the goddamn cat. 

Stiles has a hard cast to his features now, and a shuttered expression. 

“Did you eat yet?” Peter asks. 

“Yeah.” Stiles jerks his chin in a nod. “Had some, ah…” He pauses for a moment, as though he’s struggling to remember the words, and shakes his head as though to clear it. “Some sandwiches. On the plane.” 

Chris feels a creeping sense of worry steal over him. He wants to rationalize it away—the kid’s tired, he’s still recovering, he’s on meds—but he’s not fool enough to pretend it might not also be a sign of something else. 

Stiles takes another swig of beer and sets his bottle on the table. Then he grins. “So what’s a guy gotta do to get a fuck around here?” 




They’re in the bedroom and Peter has Stiles’s pants unbuttoned and shoved halfway down his thighs when his fingers brush against a puckered ridge of what can only be scar tissue. Stiles freezes for a second, and pulls back from Peter’s kiss. 

“It’s not pretty,” he mutters. 

“I don’t give a fuck,” Peter says. “And neither does Chris.” 

Chris’s agreement is a tightening of his fingers on Stiles’s hips as he leans in from behind and licks a stripe up the side of the kid’s throat. 

Peter loves the way that Stiles’s eyes flutter closed under the sensation. He kneels down and tugs Stiles’s pants the rest of the way to the floor, revealing a marbled swathe of scar tissue, whorled like the knots of a tree, from Stiles’s right calf all the way up to his thigh. Shrapnel wounds. His knee looks like patchwork. 

Stiles stares down at him, his dark eyes wary. 

Peter hesitates for a moment, an action so unlike him that it throws him for a loop. Peter is unused to being indecisive. His instinct is to talk about this, to reassure Stiles, to dig and dig and dig until there’s no emotion left unexcavated and dissected, but he remembers what Stiles said on the porch: “Don’t make it a big thing.” And so he leans forward instead, pressing a quick kiss to Stiles’s knee, and then helps lift his feet out of his pants. 

 There was a time when it took nothing more than a heated look and a smirk to get the kid’s erection raging, but tonight it’s different. It takes a little time for Peter to coax Stiles to hardness, and Stiles seems more interested in sharing kisses than in whatever Peter’s doing to his dick. That’s fine. Peter can work with that. 

Chris tugs Stiles’s earlobe in his teeth, pulling a moan out of him. “What’s your range of movement like with your leg, Stiles?” 

Peter doesn’t miss the moment of sudden tension before Stiles shakes it off. 

“Fuck me on my back,” he says, and disentangles himself from their wandering hands to limp to the bed. 

There’s a demanding note to his tone that Peter would usually very much enjoy, except it hits the wrong pitch in ways he can’t quite untangle yet. This isn’t Stiles who is frantic with desire. This is Stiles with something to prove, and Peter doesn’t like that. This isn’t the fun sort of something to prove, when the stubborn little brat insisted he could deepthroat only two days after giving his first blowjob: a disaster, by the way, but points for effort. This isn’t even the idiot boy trying to outdo the rest of his squad when it came to doing shots at someone’s birthday: Peter and Chris had to peel him off the sidewalk when he tumbled out of the Uber that night, and sit with him in the shower while he vomited and swore never to drink again. This, Peter suspects, is Stiles trying to prove to them, and to himself, that nothing’s wrong, that nothing’s changed, that nothing’s happened to him at all. 

Stiles clambers awkwardly onto the bed and rolls onto his back. He’s all long limbs and lithe muscle, though he’s lost more weight that Peter approves of. He jerks his dick almost mechanically, his gaze sliding over both Peter and Chris, and something flickers in his expression. Peter isn’t sure if it’s a challenge or a plea he sees in those dark eyes: “Don’t make it a big thing.”  

He exchanges a glance with Chris and sees his own unease reflected there. 

“Jesus Christ,” Stiles says. “I’m not gonna fucking break , you assholes!” 

Well then. Nobody has ever been able to accuse Stiles of not knowing what he wants. 

Peter saunters forward, flashing Stiles that old familiar smirk. “How do you want it, sweetheart?” 




It’s been a while. Over eleven months since Stiles had Peter’s dick in him, and the ache and the stretch feels so good. It’s right on the edge of too much, but that’s a limit Stiles has always liked to push, and at least it distracts him from the persistent pain in his damn leg. He hitches his left leg around Peter, and raises his right leg as much as he can bear it. Drags his heel up the mattress to prop it there, and wishes he could do this on his hands and knees like they used to, so he could suck Chris’s dick at the same time. 

Chris is kneeling beside him on the bed, but the angle is wrong, so Stiles makes do with a few awkward sucks on the head of Chris’s dick before the strain in his neck forces him to back off again. 

“Sorry,” he rasps, arching his spine off the mattress as Peter hits his prostate and pleasure sparks through him. 

“It’s okay, cherry,” Chris says, the corners of his mouth turning up. “I’ll wait my turn to get inside your tight ass.” 

The old nickname causes a thrill of pleasure to run through him. Chris always makes it sound dirty and possessive all at once, and Stiles loved it once, but he forces away the faint bitter aftertaste it leaves in him now. The first time Chris called him that, Stiles thought he was making fun of him being a virgin still, but it turned out it was also army slang for someone who hadn’t seen combat yet. Stiles sure a fuck isn’t cherry anymore, in any sense of the word. 

“Can you kiss me?” he asks Chris, sudden desperation sweeping over him. He wants to be Chris’s cherry again. Wants Chris to take charge and make him feel like he’s in capable hands, and not in fucking freefall. He wants to feel like he’s new again. 

Chris’s smile is his only answer, and then he’s stretching out to lie beside Stiles on his side, his weight resting on one elbow. He puts two fingers on Stiles’s jaw and turns Stiles’s face toward him, then leans down and kisses him. It’s an open-mouthed kiss, dirty and wet and hungry, and Stiles groans and loses himself in it. 

Peter’s steady, long thrusts are pulling him closer and closer to the edge, and Chris’s kiss is a spark skating over the surface of a powder keg. Stiles just needs it to catch, and then—

Bad metaphor. Bad fucking metaphor. 

Another thing to push out of his mind. 

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut. He slides a hand down his abdomen to grab his dick, but Peter nudges him away. 

“Not yet, sweetheart.” 

“Fucker,” Stiles says on a groan into Chris’s mouth, but his body thrums with the thrill of being denied. 

Stiles twists one hand in the sheets and curls the other around the back of Chris’s neck as Peter pushes into him, again and again and again, each slow thrust making his body sing. He’s missed this so much. Needed it like fucking oxygen. 

Peter comes, hips jerking, and fingers tightening where they’re digging into Stiles’s skin hard enough to leave bruises. Stiles grumbles as they both leave him, though it’s only long enough to change positions, and then  Chris is sinking into the space that Peter made for him, and Peter is teasing Stiles with quick, dirty kisses. 

“You miss us, sweetheart?” Peter asks him between kisses and evil nips of his teeth on Stiles’s bottom lip. 

“Yeah.” Stiles exhales the work on a breath, as Chris rocks him almost gently on his dick. “Chris! More!” 

Peter laughs into Stiles’s mouth as Chris picks up his pace, and rubs a hand across his chest. He pinches a nipple, and Stiles almost jackknifes off the bed as sensation tears through him. His dick is so hard it aches, and his balls are tightening up. He’s so fucking ready, and he hopes his frantic, demanding noises tell them as much. 

“Please.” He tears his mouth from Peter’s. “Please. Please .” 

Peter pinches again, so hard that Stiles sees a flash of white, and his dick spurts out precum. He must have clenched down hard as well, because Chris cries out. Stiles keeps his hands off his dick, because experience has taught him that sweet torture like this is more than worth it in the end. Except now, through the tightly building pleasure he’s also aware of his knee throbbing. It’s gonna be an issue soon, like an angry neighbor banging on the door while the rest of his body is trying to have a party. Stiles is suddenly terrified that he won’t be able to come before his knee ruins everything. 

“Peter!” He grips Peter by the chin. “I need to come. Now, please.” 

He can hear the desperation in his own voice, but it’s not the usual sort of desperation they subject him to in this bed when they tease him for hours and hours until he’s a wailing mess. And he thinks that Peter hears the difference too, or sees it in his face. 

“We’ve got you, sweetheart,” he says. “Chris?” 

“You come whenever you want, cherry,” Chris agrees, breathless as he pumps harder into Stiles. 

Peter reaches down and closes his hand around Stiles’s straining dick. He strokes it once, twice, and on the third stroke Stiles comes, crying out and arching off the bed. He sinks back down onto the mattress then, and into Peter’s soft kisses as Chris finishes in him. He’s tired, and aching, and his eyes are stinging and it’s not just from his knee. It’s a good tired though, for once, a good ache. 

His eyes drift closed as Peter and Chris move around him and talk in low voices. There’s a water bottle pressed into his hands, and a cool washcloth wiped over his skin. Kisses pressed to his forehead. 

Maybe he’ll sleep through the night for the first time in weeks and not wake up choking for air. 




The guilt lodges in Chris’s craw like an obstruction he has to learn to swallow around. Stiles’s scars, Stiles’s cigarettes, Stiles’s shaking hands and thousand yard stare. He knows what it is, and he knew to expect it. Neither he nor Peter are naive, are they? But it’s only one of them who takes groups of dumbass kids straight off the bus and teaches them how to go to war. 




Stiles comes back to them in tiny increments in the days following his return home, like a feral animal they keep their backs half turned on just to win its trust. The days, they’re winning. It’s the nights where they lose all their ground again, when Stiles wakes covered in sweat and gasping for breath, and when Chris slinks out to the living room to pour himself a drink. Peter feels caught in the middle, spinning in circles to try to catch them and somehow letting them both slip through his fingers like sand. 

“Retirement,” he says one night. 

Stiles jerks his head up from whatever video game he’s playing. He plays the racing games these days, Peter notices, not the shooters. “What?” 

Chris doesn’t say anything, but his gaze is fixed on Peter. 

“Retirement,” Peter repeats. “Chris and I have been talking about it for a while now. We’re both getting too old for this army shit.” 

Peter isn’t. He’s younger than Chris, and his job is nowhere near as physical. But he’s always chafed under authority a little more than Chris has. Always preferred to swim against the tide, even when he knows it’ll drown him. Chris, though. Chris has always loved his job, but he hasn’t got the heart anymore. They both know it. 

“It’s up to you, Stiles,” Peter says. “You could stay in, if you wanted, or you could take the ticket your injuries have given you and tell the army to go fuck itself.” 

Stiles is borderline. His physical injuries are responding well to rehab, but Peter knows it’ll be no effort at all to get him a medical separation because of his PTSD. Especially not with Peter pulling some strings behind the scenes. And frankly, Peter doesn’t want the kid to stay in the army, not with its less than stellar track record dealing with mental health. 

Sitles is wary. He picks up his pack of cigarettes and flips them over and over in his palm, like he’s itching to take one out and limp out onto the porch and smoke it. “You want me to get out,” he says, his voice flat. “At twenty-one.” 

“I’ve got twenty years on you, sweetheart,” Peter reminds him, arching a brow. “If I can think of starting over, what’s your fucking problem?” 

Stiles lifts his chin at the challenge, and Peter can see his brain ticking over behind those dark, clever eyes. 


“I hear California is nice,” Chris says, one side of his mouth quirking in a barely-there smile. 

“I’ve heard that too,” Peter says, and leans back on the couch. 

It’s a long time before Stiles answers. He leans forward at last and picks up his game controllers. Toggles the buttons without restarting the game. Chews his lip, and jiggles his uninjured leg. And then he says, at last, “My dad lives in California.” 

Peter feels the low burn of satisfaction spread through him. 




Chris has given over twenty years of his life to the army, and he’d thought it would be hard to put that all behind him. And maybe it would be, except he’s got the promise of a life in California with Peter and Stiles shining like the beacon of a lighthouse as he steers his way through uncertain waters. Chris’s retirement comes through first, which leaves him at home day to day for the first time in years. He gets a start on packing, and on fixing all the little things around the house that Peter tells him not to fucking worry about since they’re selling, but why should Chris leave that leaking tap for the new owners if he can take care of it for them in the meantime? 

Chris throws himself into sorting out the logistics of the move as a way to stop worrying about what to do once he gets there. Peter is already planning on taking the bar exam in California. He has marketable skills. Chris, not so much. And he’s not quite ready to sit on his ass and live off his pension just yet. 

It is what it is. He’ll figure it out, he guesses, once they arrive in California. 

Peter’s retirement comes through next, but they’re still stuck in Georgia for another two months waiting for the Medical Evaluation Board to make a decision on Stiles. It’s an inevitable one—Stiles’s knee isn’t ever going to be a hundred percent, he has documented PTSD, and he wants out—but there’s no such thing as a quick and easy process when it comes to military bureaucracy. 

“I don’t care about my fucking leg!” Stiles yells one night after another session with the army doctors. One night when he taps out during sex because his knee gives out. “I don’t care if I can’t fuck! I care about the two guys who were walking in front of me when the IED went off!” 

Chris runs to grab an ice pack and Stiles’s painkillers. When he gets back Stiles is sitting on the end of the bed, his head in his hands, and Peter is kneeling on the floor in front of him, running his palms up and down Stiles’s thighs. 

“They’re not coming home,” Stiles whispers, his voice hitching. “They don’t get to come home.” 

Sour guilt burns like bile in Chris’s gut. He sits down beside Stiles and presses a kiss to the top of his bowed head. 

It is what it is. 




It takes four days to drive from Georgia to Beacon Hills, California. Peter and Chris share the driving—Peter sold his car, so they take Chris’s truck. Stiles sits in the back of the cab where he can stretch his leg out if he wants. They’re barely in Alabama before he falls asleep, but the cat takes up position of most annoying passenger and yowls all the way past Montgomery before she finally gives up. 

“Should have taken it to a shelter,” Peter grumbles. “A kill shelter.” 

Chris side-eyes him. “You love that cat.” 

“I fucking hate it,” Peter says, and Chris has the decency not to call him on the blatant lie. 

“We leave no man behind,” Chris reminds him. 

“There’s a reason cats aren’t in that saying.” But Peter leans back and sticks his fingers through the bars of the cat carrier, which shuts the cat up for at least a few minutes. 

It’s a long trip, punctuated by gas stations and ugly motel rooms, by highway rest stops and fast food joints. Peter feels haggard by the time they make it to Beacon Hills. He and the cat are both officially fucking over it, but Stiles and Chris, both used to being fucked over in the ways only enlisted men can be, are a lot more stoic about the entire process. They sleep when they can, piss when they can, eat when they can. Peter and the cat are accustomed to a little more comfort in their daily lives. 

They arrive in Beacon Hills on a Wednesday afternoon. It’s getting late, and the afternoon sunlight is golden and casts long shadows on the road. 

The house that Peter has rented is small and basic, and tucked away in a little suburban street on the north end of town. They have a two month lease, which gives them a little time to find somewhere to buy. Peter already has his eye on a place right on the edge of the Preserve, but he wants them all to inspect it in person before they sign anything. For now, the little suburban house will do. 

They collect the key from the realtor, and Stiles directs them to the street in question, his eyes bright. 

“And it’ll be on the right down here,” he says, leaning forward between the front two seats. He’s vibrating with energy again, but for the first time in a long time it doesn’t feel like the precursor to an episode. For the first time in a long time Peter sees that kid that Chris brought home that weekend two years ago, thrumming with excitement, with a laugh as easy as sunlight. 

They pull into the driveway. 

Chris grabs their duffels from the back of the truck and dumps them on the front porch. Then he comes back to lend Stiles a hand. After another full day sitting in the truck, Stiles’s limp is more pronounced. 

Peter hauls the cat carrier inside, and sets up the litter in the bathroom. By the time he’s done that, Chris in on the phone ordering something for dinner. 

There’s no furniture in the house, and theirs won’t arrive for another day, but they brought a couple of air mattresses with them in the truck, so they set those up in the living room. 

Chris brings back a six pack of beer when he goes out to collect dinner. 

No furniture, no TV, and nothing to do except sit around on the floor and eat and talk and laugh. 

Just three guys and a pissed off cat sitting in an empty house. 

Peter has never been happier. 




“So you’re with both of them?” John Stilinski asks on Friday morning, rubbing his forehead like that’ll somehow make it make sense. 

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “Hey, give me a hand with this laundry?” 

“Both of them?” John clarifies, but helps dump the laundry into the machine. 

Chris and Peter are out getting groceries. The cat is sitting on top of the dryer, glaring at John. 

“Both of them,” Stiles confirms. He leans down to rub his aching knee. 

“You never did do things by halves, did you, kiddo?” John asks, a rueful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

“Nope,” Stiles agrees. He thinks this might have been a very different conversation a few months ago, but it turns out that getting blown up and almost killed really puts shit like this in perspective. He’s glad his dad obviously feels the same. 

“So,” John says, in that casual tone that means the exact opposite. “Any plans for your future?” 

“Um.” Stiles shrugs, and exhales, “College, maybe? I don’t really know yet. I’ve got a few months before next year’s admissions anyway, so I figured I’d concentrate on my rehab for now.” 

“For your knee,” John says, and nods. “And what about therapy for the rest? For the PTSD?” 

“I’ve got... I’ve got meds for that,” Stiles says, his heart pounding faster all of a sudden. 

“Good,” John says. “But you’ll get therapy too, right?” 

“Yeah,” Stiles says. He flings a towel into the machine. “Yeah, I will, Dad.” 

“Good,” John says again, and pulls Stiles into a hug. “I almost lost you once, kiddo. I don’t want to lose you again when you’re right here.” 

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut, hot tears stinging, and hugs him back, hard. 




“O’Malley!” Stiles bellows, his voice echoing through the house. “No!” 

Too late. The dog, fleeing the cat, skitters into the step ladder and brings a can of blue paint crashing to the floor. Paint spills all over the floorboards. 

“Don’t blame O’Malley!” Peter calls. “Blame the cat!” 

“Jesus!” Stiles grabs O’Malley by the scruff and leads him gently outside. “My fucking therapy dog needs a therapy dog!” 

Chris rights the can of paint, and dumps a dropcloth on the puddle of it to stem the tide. “Lucky we’re doing the floorboards last, I guess.” 

Peter smirks, and leans against a patch of unpainted wall. “See? This is why you’re in charge.” 

Chris rolls his eyes. He knows he’s in charge because both Peter and Stiles are easily distracted and liable to just wander off in the middle of a project without a former drill sergeant yelling at them to keep them focussed. Stiles is young and has ADHD, and his PTSD does him no favours when it comes to keeping him focussed either. He still has occasional memory issues, and what Chris has come to think of as blurry moments when he zones out. Not episodes, not exactly, but moments when he isn’t entirely present. And Peter is just an ass. 

Chris cleans up what paint he can, while Peter wanders around with a brush and manages to do nothing. Chris rolls his eyes at him. Luckily Peter has other skills. 

Peter’s been working at a law firm in Beacon Hills for the past two months, and he’s already making plans to headhunt half the staff and start his own firm. Stiles is at the local community college, studying to be a youth counsellor. And Chris is in his third week as a park ranger. Yelling at campers for leaving food out and fires to burn isn’t that much different than yelling at dumbass kids in basic, it turns out. 

It’s not where any of them ever thought they’d be, probably, but since when does that matter? They’re here, and they’re together, and that’s what counts in the end. 

Chris bundles the paint-soaked dropcloth up and heads outside to dump it in the trash. 

Stiles is standing on the back porch, his posture stiff, his splayed hands shaking. Staring at nothing, and caught in some memory he can’t share. As Chris watches, O’Malley trots over to him and presses his nose into Stiles’s palm. 

For a moment Chris can’t breathe.

And then Stiles sags, bending down to fuss over O’Malley, murmuring reassurances to him as O’Malley wriggles into his space. 

“Okay?” Chris asks softly. 

“Yeah.” Stiles moves over to the steps and sits, and buries his face briefly in O’Malley’s fur. He looks up again and offers Chris a shaky smile. “Getting there.” 

Chris sits beside him on the steps and puts an arm around his shoulders. Kisses him on the temple, and wishes he had the power to draw away every bad memory, every flashback, every nightmare. 

O’Malley squirms between them, his tail thumping on the boards of the porch. 

But they’re here and they’re healing, and that’s what counts. 




“Oh, man,” Stiles says. “You remember when I could rail both you assholes like a fucking... a fuckin’... what’s something that rails something else like really hard?” 

“A stevedore?” Peter suggests. He finds himself suddenly overwhelmed with love for this messy, drunk, tongue-tied boy, and leans into him, knocking their shoulders together gently as he waits for him to respond. 

Stiles blinks at him dozily, and slides from the edge of the couch onto the floor, where he splays like a starfish. “I don’t even know what that is.”  

“And that’s enough beer for you,” Peter says fondly, reaching down to pluck Stiles’s bottle from his hand before he spills beer everywhere. “Even if it is your birthday.” 

Stiles beams up at him for a moment from the floor, and then his grin fades. “No, but remember?” 

“I do remember,” Peter says. 

“And remember that time I said I didn’t care if I couldn’t fuck?” Stiles belches, and it smells like beer. “That was a fucking lie.” 

“I know, darling.” Peter raises his voice. “Chris? Can you bring our messy drunk a water bottle, please?” 

Stiles exhales heavily. “That was a lie.” 

Peter sits down on the floor beside him, and helps him shift so his head is in Peter’s lap. “Sweetheart, you have more movement in your knee that you did this time last month, and even if you never get it all back, then so what? Chris and I are decrepit old men, and, frankly, we couldn’t keep pace with you at your full strength, hmm?” 

“That’s a lie too,” Stiles says, but it’s a lie that earns Peter a smile. 

Peter cards his fingers through Stiles’s hair. It’s longer now, and Peter loves it. Stiles makes a small, happy sound and closes his eyes. 

Chris appears in the doorway with a bottle of water just as Stiles begins to snore. 

“I guess birthday sex is out,” he says wryly. 

“I guess so,” Peter says. “I think all we have to look forward to is birthday vomiting and a birthday hangover.” 

“Still worth it,” Chris says, and there’s an easiness to his smile that seems new. 

“Completely,” Peter agrees, twisting elflocks into Stiles’s hair. 




Stiles slams the door of the Jeep twice before it catches—he really needs to get that looked at—and then heads inside the house with O’Malley at his side. It’s been a long day, and he just wants to get inside, get his knee brace off, and stand under a hot shower for a while. Except the moment the front door’s open Stiles is distracted by the smell of something amazing cooking, and he dumps his backpack on the floor and heads for the kitchen instead. 

The sight of Peter wearing an apron is one that’s never going to get old. And the sight of Peter wearing an apron while Chris is plastered to his back, hands tight on his hips while Peter smiles and leans back against him? Even hotter. 

“What’s for dinner?” he asks. 

“Nothing, if this big lug doesn’t get the hell off me,” Peter says with a smirk. “But if you can distract him, sweetheart, chicken tetrazzini.” 

Stiles whistles. “Fancy.” 

“You philistines think anything not out of a can is fancy.” But Peter’s smile is half smug, half pleased. 

“Hey, Chris,” Stiles says. “Come over here and let me distract you. Chef’s orders.” 

He feels a little swoop in his gut when Chris obeys, striding toward him. He takes a step back, ending up against the counter, and Chris brackets him in with his arms. 

“How are you going to distract me, baby?” Chris asks, his eyes sparkling. 

Baby . It’s new, but Chris says it the way he used to say cherry. Like Stiles is new too. It makes him melt, every fucking time. Stiles never thought he’d be the sort of guy who liked pet names, but with these two assholes apparently nothing is off the table. 

Stiles tilts his head like he’s considering the question. Gives Chris is best wide-eyed innocent look, that doesn’t fool anyone for a second. “I dunno. I guess I’m open to suggestions.” 

Chris laughs, and grips Stiles by the waist. Hoists him up onto the countertop, and steps into the space that opens up for him between Stiles’s knees. Then he leans in and licks a stripe up Stiles’s throat that leaves Stiles breathless. “This working for you, baby?” 

Stiles pulls him in for a kiss. “Yeah. Keep doing this.” 

Ever since his doctor adjusted his meds, Stiles’s sex drive has come back in full force. It helps that his knee is doing a lot better these days as well, and finally Stiles’s body can cash the checks his libido’s busy writing again. When he got home after he was injured, Stiles wanted sex, but he thinks now that he was trying too hard to prove something, and that the reasons he wanted it didn’t have as much to do with arousal as they should have. He’d wanted to prove nothing had changed, when everything had. Now though... now the heat that rushes through his body has nothing to do with pride or fear or anger at all. 

He moans into Chris’s mouth as they kiss, and wraps his legs around Chris. There’s a faint dull ache in his right knee, but not enough to make him stop. He slides a hand up the back of Chris’s neck and curls his fingers around his nape. Keeps his other hand on his shoulder, holding him so he can’t escape. Pulls him even closer with his legs, so that he can feel Chris’s erection pressing against his own. He grinds up into it, and they both gasp for breath. 

Stiles hears the clatter of a knife hitting the sink. 

“Fuck it,” Peter says. “Dinner can wait.” 

Stiles laughs into Chris’s shoulder as Chris lifts him and carries him toward the bedroom, Peter following close on his heels. 

Chris drops him on the mattress, and then there are hands reaching for his fly. Stiles lifts his hips so that Chris can tug his jeans and underwear down, and laughs again when he can’t get them off because of his shoes. 

“And he calls himself the planner,” Peter says with a sigh, unlacing Stiles’s Converse and pulling them off. His socks are next, and then the tangle of denim and cotton wedged around his shins. 

“Up,” Chris says, and gives Stiles his hand. He pulls Stiles up for long enough to divest him of his t-shirt, and then lets him sink into the mattress again. 

Peter curls his hand around Stiles’s ankle, his thumb rubbing. “How do you want to do this, sweetheart?” 

“Hands and knees,” Stiles says. “I want to suck you off while Chris fucks me.” 

Peter and Chris share a look, but they don’t argue. 

“I’ll tap out if I need to,” Stiles says. “I promise.” 

He rolls over onto his stomach before they can argue with him, and pushes himself up onto his hands and knees. The ache is there, like always, but it’s not sharp enough to call pain. And he’s still wearing his knee brace, which will give him extra support. 

“Come on,” he says, staring over his shoulder at them. “I’m ready when you are.” 

“You’re not ready at all,” Chris tells him, but there’s a wry note to his voice as he grabs the lube from the bedside table. “You want it bareback, baby?” 

“Yeah,” Stiles says, his balls throbbing at the thought. They’ve all been tested, and they’re exclusive, but they generally use condoms because it’s easier for cleanup. But tonight Stiles wants to feel messy. Wants to feel Chris leaking out of him even when they’re done. 

The mattress dips when Chris settles behind him, and Stiles flinches at the first touch of a lube-cold thumb against his hole. Then he pushes back, and lets Chris’s thumb sink inside him. It rachets up his low burn of arousal into something stronger, something with a sharp edge of need to it, and he moans, squeezing his eyes shut. 

The mattress dips again, and Peter’s fingers are clenched gently in his hair, lifting his face. Stiles keeps his eyes shut, loving the sensation of Peter guiding him where he needs him. He licks his lips, and lets his mouth fall open, and a moment later feels the heat and the weight of the head of Peter’s dick bumping his bottom lip. 

He opens his eyes then, and smiles up at him. 

“Sweetheart,” Peter says on a whisper. “So beautiful.” 

Stiles shudders as Chris withdraws his thumb and sinks two fingers into him, and leans forward to suck Peter’s dick into his mouth. He loves the taste of him, the weight of him. Loves to press his tongue to the underside of his dick and make them both shudder and moan. Loves the way that Peter tightens his grip in his hair and rolls his hips forward as Stiles opens his throat. He could come from sucking dick alone, probably, though he’s never had to. 

Chris stretches him slowly, until Stiles is pushing back on his fingers needy for more, and then shifts into position. The head of his dick feels hot and hard against Stiles’s hole, and then he’s pushing forward in a long, slow thrust, and Stiles is crying out around Peter’s dick. Then Chris holds him by the hips, his hands large and warm, and they have him. They have him, and they love him, and they’ll hold him between them until he shakes apart and shatters into a thousand pieces. 



Stiles crashes out on his stomach on the mattress, and Chris goes to get a washcloth to clean him up. 

“So much for dinner,” he says when he gets back to the bedroom. 

“It’s probably ruined now anyway.” Peter is leaning back on the headboard, his fingers playing through Stiles’s hair. “Worth it.”

Chris sits down on the other side of Stiles, and tugs the comforter up so their boy doesn’t get cold. He doesn’t know what Peter and he did to deserve the kid, but he’s not going to question it either. They got lucky, first with each other, then with Stiles. 

“Guess we’ll order pizza when he wakes up,” he suggests at last. 

Peter grins. “I guess we will.” 

That’s the thing with plans, Chris guesses. Sometimes they don’t work out, but you roll with it. 

He never would have imagined ending up here, with Peter and Stiles. Never would have imagined a series of events that led him to this, but now that he’s here he can’t imagine wanting to be anywhere else. 

They fit, and that’s all that matters in the end.