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One night, Stiles thinks.
One night without worrying about Darachs or Kanimas or Nogitsune or werewolves.
Well.
Maybe one werewolf.
One very specific werewolf with a chiseled jawline, a v-neck t-shirt so tight that it might as well be painted on, and the kind of lust in his electric blue eyes that Stiles thought was a figment of overactive imaginations and trashy romance novels until he felt it turned upon himself.
So yes, one werewolf for one night of carefree fun while he's still young and alive and only moderately scarred.
It's how he ends up in Peter's California king-size bed, sprawled out on his stomach as Peter eats his ass like a man starving; licking and lapping him open, getting him wet enough and stretched enough to add one, then two, then three fingers, pumping in and out, his tongue never stopping that targeted assault even as his fingers loosen the muscle.
It's how he ends up with Peter curled around his back, whispering the filthiest fucking things in his ear as he buries himself balls deep in Stiles' waiting hole, filling him fuller than Stiles thought possible because there's a goddamn reason that Peter is as cocky as he is. The smarmy motherfucker is hung like a horse (like a wolf? Stiles wonders, but only for a second because then his insides are being rearranged in the best possible way and his curiosity about wolf dicks sort of disappears along with his use of words and the last of his inhibitions).
It's how he ends up riding Peter like a championship bull rider, hands splayed out on Peter's chest for balance as he drops himself again and again on that magnificent dick that seems to grow bigger and bigger until...
"Holy fuck," Stiles pants, eyes wide as he rocks his hips and moans like a whore. "The fuck is that?"
Peter's eyes flash blue, claws and teeth sliding out as he throws his head back with a growl that bounces off the walls and seeps through Stiles' skin to wrap around his ribcage. Suddenly he's being pumped full of Peter's spend, an explosion of warmth inside of him, trapped inside of him, because Stiles can't pull himself up anymore.
"Knot," Peter gasps once the echo of his roar dies down.
He's still coming.
"Not what?"
"No, you idiot," Peter is so breathless that Stiles can't be bothered to take offense. "It's my knot. I'm locked in you."
Stiles isn't completely clueless. When Scott first turned, he researched everything he could on werewolves, of course, but everything he could about regular wolves, too. He knows what a knot is.
He knows what its biological purpose is.
And the thought of Peter breeding him, right now, pumping him full of his seed and plugging him up so it has a higher chance of taking, of knocking him up...
"Fuck, yes!" Stiles moans and grinds down even harder, squeezing around that unexpected thickness. He's never been more turned on in his life. He's so hard that it aches.
"Is that what you want?" Peter's voice drips with lust, deep and low and sexy as hell. "Want me to fill you up?" One hand drifts from Stiles' hip to settle on his stomach, over the gentle swell that's formed from how much come has been pumped inside of him. "Want me to put a baby in you?"
It doesn't matter that it's impossible, that he biologically can't get pregnant. The words are enough that Stiles abruptly shoots his own load, his cock completely untouched. And as Stiles clenches down on Peter, Peter comes inside of him again, triggering another orgasm in Stiles.
It's fucking glorious.
They're trapped like that for nearly thirty minutes. Stiles loses count of how many times they both climax.
And when Peter's knot finally deflates and his cock slips free from Stiles' body, the sheer amount of come that spills out of Stiles is enough to send him over the edge one last time. His final orgasm is dry, ripped from him almost painfully, and Stiles collapses on Peter's chest gasping for breath, blissfully boneless.
"I didn't know werewolves had knots," Stiles mumbles once he remembers how words work. His cheek and lips are plastered against Peter's chest and the words come out smooshed and maybe a little come-drunk.
"I didn't know you had a breeding kink."
Stiles doesn't even need to open his eyes to see Peter's smirk; he can hear it in his voice.
He also doesn't have the energy to smack Peter like he wants to, so he settles for lightly biting his nipple instead. "Shut up." But then, because something about the hush that surrounds them and the way Peter's fingers trail up and down Stiles' spine apparently leaves him feeling a little more open and honest, Stiles admits, "I didn't know I had a breeding kink either."
Peter's laugh is soft and warm and dances over his skin and Stiles decides that he likes it an awful lot. He even decides he'd like to feel it again. That he'd like to feel all of it again. But he doesn't say that. He doesn't say anything.
Because it's supposed to be one night.
That's what they agreed to.
So even though they fall asleep like that, with Stiles still starfished over Peter and so much come drying between them, Stiles doesn't suggest a repeat performance. As a matter of fact, when morning rolls around and the sun spills in through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Peter's ridiculously lush penthouse, Stiles creeps out of bed and tugs his clothes over his come-stained body, then sneaks out before Peter even wakes up.
He doesn't want to overstay his welcome.
More than that, he doesn't want a taste of what he knows he'll never have. Sleeping in together, maybe another round of sex, lazy and slow in the morning light. Cleaning up together in the shower. Breakfast in Peter's state of the art kitchen where Stiles could show off some of his hard won cooking skills.
No, he knows it's best to leave before the more that they never agreed to becomes too tempting.
It's only one night, afterall.
He doesn't forget it, though. He couldn't if he wanted to. They were, by far, the best orgasms he's ever had. He jerks himself off to those memories for weeks afterwards, thinking of how Peter's knot felt tugging at his rim as it grew. The feel of his spend spilling inside of him. The look on Peter's face, the feel of claws scraping over his skin as they grew out with every ounce of control Peter lost.
The way his heart seemed to swell as they laid there afterwards.
So yeah, the memories stay fresh, but Stiles keeps reminding himself that it was only one night.
And he doesn't say a word about it to anyone. Not for two whole months, even though it kills him to keep it a secret when he wants to brag about it to the whole damn world. But then, in the middle of econ on a random Thursday, his stomach churns so suddenly and so viciously that Stiles doesn't even make it to the bathroom before he loses his breakfast in a hallway garbage can.
At first, he thinks it's food poisoning. And when it doesn't go away after a few days, he figures it's the flu. It's not until his dad insists he goes to see Melissa at the hospital that Stiles realizes his one night had very, very unexpected consequences.
"What do you mean I'm pregnant?" Even to his own ears, Stiles sounds almost hysterical. "I'm a boy. Boys can't get pregnant. Maybe you mixed up the test results."
Melissa arches an eyebrow, gaze darting from Stiles to the screen of the ultrasound machine to the wand that's pressing into Stiles' belly. "No, I'm pretty sure it's yours, kiddo." She's using her fake calm voice. The one she adopts when she's trying to be brave but she's secretly freaking out. "I don't know how it's yours, but that's most definitely a fetal heartbeat."
"Dude...I don't have the bits and pieces needed for that."
Stiles may not be a star student but he didn't skip that many health classes.
Melissa swallows, nods. "Until two minutes ago, I would've agreed." She pulls the wand away, wipes the gel from his belly. "Is there anyone you...want me to call for you?"
Who's the other father?
Asking without asking. Sneaky.
"Uh. No. I, uh. I should. Um. Go?"
Melissa nods absently, processing. She's still staring off into the distance, probably rethinking her entire knowledge of human physiology when Stiles walks out of the room.
He'll call and check on her later.
Right now, he needs to find Peter. And he needs to find a way to tell him that...they're pregnant.
Holy fuck.
He's pregnant.
Lost in his head, Stiles isn't exactly paying attention as he walks to the parking lot. At least, not until he runs straight into a muscled chest in a painted on v-neck. He starts to stutter out an apology, but then looks up and realizes it's Peter, stops, and tries to figure out what the fuck he's doing there.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" There's more confusion than anything else in the words. "You following me, creeperwolf?"
"I was in the area."
"Of the hospital parking lot?"
Peter shrugs, but his eyes dart down to Stiles' stomach and a million emotions seem to flash across his face between one stuttered breath and the next.
"So it's true," Peter whispers.
Stiles really isn't sure whether he should be relieved or angry or still just painfully confused. He settles on the latter. "You knew?"
There's a hint of...embarrassment? in the way Peter averts his eyes, in the soft tone of his voice. "I hoped."
"How?"
One little word, but it holds so many questions. How did this happen? How did you know? How long have you suspected? How come you didn't say anything?
"Werewolves..." Peter says quietly, inching forward, hands coming out slowly to rest on Stiles' hips like he's worried Stiles will pull away. He doesn't. "Can only knot their true mates."
"True mates?"
"Think soulmate, but supernatural," Peter hums. "Magical."
It doesn't matter that they're in the middle of the parking lot. Right now, Stiles would swear they're the only two people in the world.
"You've known all this time." It's not a question, not really. Peter must have known the moment he knotted him. "Why didn't you say anything?"
If Stiles is honest with himself, he's not angry that Peter didn't warn him about this whole true mates thing. He's not even angry about the whole apparently I now have a womb thing. He's mad that they missed out on the last two months together.
"I didn't know how," Peter admits quietly. "I didn't think you'd want to know."
Stiles thinks back to the way he'd snuck out the morning after, imagines how that must have felt for Peter when he woke up, knowing his true mate left him there alone.
"Well shit," Stiles says.
Peter cocks an eyebrow in response.
"I guess we need to talk."
Strangely, now that Peter is there with his hands on Stiles, the panic and fear and confusion all just sort of...fade away. It doesn't matter that he's a pregnant teenage boy who's apparently magically linked to a werewolf more than twice his age.
All that matters is they're together.
"We're having a baby," Stiles whispers.
He's not sure he's ever seen Peter smile before. Not a genuine smile, anyways. Not a smile without all the snark and anger and hurt he always seems to carry. But now?
Oh, now Peter's smile is beautiful.
"We're having a baby," Peter whispers.
Stiles doesn't hesitate to lean in, to taste that smile, because somehow, he knows that one night just became forever.
And he couldn't be happier.