Five Times Stiles Told Peter to Do the Damn Dishes

"Marriage is an alliance entered into by a man who can't sleep with the window shut, and a woman who can't sleep with the window open."
- George Bernard Shaw

**

One.

Stiles woke slowly, comfortable and warm, familiar in his surroundings: the mattress beneath his stomach was a familiar one, soft enough that the amber-eyed teen's weight dipped into it slightly. The sun was a steady warmth against the bared line of his spine, and he smiled slowly into the featherdown pillow as Stiles felt the first of many stubbled kisses brush against a shoulder.

"Mmm..." he hummed quietly, sound muffled the smallest amount as he burrowed his way deeper under pillows and blankets both. Peter chuckled quietly at the confirmation that the younger man was finally awake, shifting to press down over Stiles' lanky form. Teeth scraped playfully over the meat of the other's shoulder, the 'wolf's weight pinning Stiles completely to the bed now, and the teen knew that his skin was blushing, reddening immediately beneath the sandpapery brush of Peter's kisses.

"Good morning, Stiles," the werewolf rumbled against the shell of Stiles' ear, and the whiskey-eyed teen could feel the solid, thick line of Peter's erection shifting to press against the curve of his ass as the older man began a lazy, slow-motioned rut. At one particularly slow grind, the 'wolf's voice dipped lower as he murmured against Stiles' ear: "Feeling up to a bit of fun?"

Stiles groaned low in his throat, fingers digging in deep into the sheets beneath him—not bothering to hide, either, how his hold went white-knuckled and desperate. "Peter..." the teen husked, lashes fluttering as the boy forced himself to open his eyes, gaze hazy as he stared at the opposite wall from their bed. "W-wanna know what you can do to really make me moan...?"

He could feel the curve of Peter's smile widening, going predatory at the thought of making a kill: fangs pressing the faintest of kisses against the thin skin pulled taut over Stiles' throat. "And what's that, sweet boy?"

The teen's vision cleared abruptly, and Stiles twisted just enough beneath Peter to shoot a truly formidable, disgruntled scowl the 'wolf's way. "You can go and do the dishes that you've been promising to wash for three days. That will one hundred percent get me all hot and bothered, Peter."

Two.

"Stiles! You made it," Malia greeted cheerfully, smile wide and pleased upon her face. She paused in the middle of washing the leftover dishes used during dinner, drying soapy hands to tug Stiles closer and into a tight hug. Not all animal instincts had left her, even years later, and as they pulled apart, she shifted just enough to ensure that the edge of Stiles' jaw brushed over the top of her head—subtly scentmarking, reassured by the sense of Pack that the gesture left behind, and the smile she offered the other teen was even more settled than the one previous.

"Of course we came," he corrected her gently, mouth crooked and affectionate as the werecoyote perked up even more at the confirmation of the bonds between them: of reassurance and belonging. "This is your first apartment—which means that you definitely need to have everyone throw a housewarming party for you, Malia. Free leftovers for days and getting presents of things you no longer have to buy yourself."

She preened at that, pleased with herself and subtly standing taller in her confidence of that; the pride—and rightly so—that she had learned enough, adapted enough, progressed enough from when the others had first found her: barely functional to the point that the Tate patriarch had felt like he had no other choice but to put her in Eichen House, struggling to readjust and find some sort of foundation to cling to... and here, now, she had managed to juggle all of the normal, standard societal expectations and was renting her first apartment.