Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4657728.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Major_Character_Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Peter_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski, Stiles_Stilinski/Original_Male_Character(s)
  Character:
      Stiles_Stilinski, Peter_Hale
  Additional Tags:
      Hurt/Comfort, Prostitute!Stiles, Crack_Fic, Sorry_Not_Sorry, Attempted
      Rape/Non-Con, but_not_between_Peter_and_Stiles, abuse_of_commas, Nice
      Peter, Snark, Moral_Ambiguity, i_am_trash
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-08-26 Words: 3692
****** As I Go Under, Please Tuck Me In ******
by peanuts1369
Summary
     After a tragedy, Stiles works his way through grief in an
     unconventional way. Peter saves him.
Notes
     Hello, children! Enjoy some unbeta'd, Prostitute!Stiles crack. A few
     things might be intentionally vague, cause this was part of a longer
     story I'm working on, but I had to scrap it from that story, so I
     decided to post this here. I'm just a sucker for prostitute stiles
     and also. I am trash. Title from the AFI song, "Of Greetings and
     Goodbyes".
See the end of the work for more notes
It’s nearing dusk when Stiles leaves his house for the first time that day. His
house. It belonged to him now, he thinks idly, yet it doesn’t feel like
anything resembling a home. You have to have a family to have a home. He
shivers a little when the cool, fall breeze hits his skin. He wasn’t wearing a
jacket, didn’t think it would do much good at this point. Not for what he was
doing.
He makes it to the seedy area of Beacon Hills, which consisted of several
blocks of liquor stores, bars, and run-down motels. Perfect. There weren’t many
people on the street at this time, most of the legitimate businesses were
closing down for the night. Cars pass, people driving home from jobs they
hated, home to see their families. He shudders again, rubbing his arms and
warming himself with the friction. He enters a particularly shitty looking bar,
hoping that a need for clientele would help him surpass the “underage”
obstacle. Sauntering up to the bar, he gives the bartender his most charming
smile.
“Hi there,” he says, taking a seat at a stool. He doesn’t dare order a drink
yet, thinks it would be too obvious. The bartender eyes him appraisingly, but
doesn’t kick him out, so he figures that was one in the win column. He thinks
briefly that he is glad he’s grown his hair out. It adds a few years to his
young-looking face. The tight jeans and snug Henley, pulled taut against small
but developing muscles doesn’t hurt either.
“Drinking tonight?” the bartender inquires with a smirk.
“Why, are you buying?” he smirks back for a moment, then looks down shyly.
The bartender chuckles softly, eyes dilating just a smidge. It’s hard to see in
the darkness of the bar, but Stiles knows he has him.
“Alright, I’ll bite.” And with that the bartender pours him a glass of some
amber colored liquor, “What are you doing out so late? Isn’t it past your
bedtime?”
Stiles ignores the man and takes the shot, letting the harsh liquid burn his
throat. He gets up from the stool, shooting the bartender a wink and takes a
seat in a booth in the corner of the bar, careful to find one in full view of
the door with his back to the wall. He sees a couple different groups come in,
friends or maybe co-workers out for an after-work drink to blow off steam. The
first group is three twenty-something ladies, dressed to the nines, giggling to
each other as they order a round of lemon drops. Typical, he thinks, rolling
his eyes. The second group is a few men, probably in their mid-forties. They
are each wearing a suit and tie, typical business-types. As they’re ordering
drinks, one of them catches his eye. The man quietly extricates himself from
the group, and saunters toward the table where Stiles is sitting.
“Come here often?” the man asks, obviously amused with his own terrible pick-up
line.
“Wow. Original.” Stiles snarks, but gives him an inviting smile, hoping the man
will take a seat. He does.
“So what’s your name?” the man asks as he slides into the booth, and Stiles is
finally able to get a good look at him. He’s maybe 35, not unattractive, but
not really memorable in any way. He has dark hair and eyes, his brow a little
too thick. His hair is combed forward a bit, an obvious attempt to hide early-
thinning.
“Alex.” Stiles replies, the lie rolling off his tongue easily. Lying has become
an art form as of late, and no one was better at it than him. The man smiles at
him again, seeming innocent but his eyes evaluate Stiles with a predatory
glint. As if he were the one doing the preying tonight.
“James,” the man offers without being prompted, “How about we get out of here.
Find somewhere more private…” He gives Stiles a sort-of lecherous grin. He
fights the impulse to laugh, or chicken-out, god this guy was an idiot. Could
he be any more cliché?
“Well, I suppose that depends.” Here goes nothing.
“Depends on what?” James asks, quirking a curious eyebrow.
“On how much money you have.”
Realization slowly comes over the man’s features, and Stiles waits for the
other shoe to drop. Would anyone actually pay money to fuck him? Why isn’t he
at home watching The Avengers? What the actual fuck is he doing?
“I got $200 on me. What will that get me?” Apparently James has recovered
quickly from learning that “Alex” was a prostitute, that or he had already
assumed. Either way, Stiles tries to fight off a surprised expression and
attempts not to nervously tap his fingers on the table. He suspects he is
failing at both.
“Well, my friend, $200 will get you quite a bit.” Stiles rises to his feet,
offering the man his hand and they exited the dingy bar together. He had never
really thought about his “pricing”, honestly surprised that anyone would accept
his offer, his little game. This being at the top of his list as far as “risk-
taking behavior”, he was just looking for the thrill of it. That rush that made
him feel alive, feel anything.
They’ve only made it as far as the alley, when the man shoves him up against
the brick of the building. It takes him by surprise. He should have been on
alert, but once again he was caught up in his own mind-ramble. At least it had
been in his head. He can’t scare away his first customer by being an overly-
chatty spaz.
“So what exactly do you mean, by ‘quite a bit?’” The man, James, his mind
supplies, asks as he sloppily mouths his way up Stiles throat.
“Umm, well, what were you looking for?” Now that it was happening, he has the
sudden urge to get this over with as fast as possible. Once again he is struck
with the impulse to run (it’s not too late), but he knows. He knows it’s
already too late, and nothing will ever be the same or happy or good. There is
only this. He could feel excitement, pleasure, pain…all he has to do was push
through that last wall of his old self. The last remaining barrier of who he
was. Steeling himself, he accepts what he already knows. This is who he is now.
There is no going back.
“Mmm, I can imagine doing an awful lot to you,” James runs his hand over the
front of his jeans, gripping him roughly.
“Whoa, careful with the merchandise,” Stiles warns, and the man releases his
grip. He peers at him curiously.
“This is your first time isn’t it?” he asks, eyes glazed over in excitement.
“N-no, of course not.” He stutters and James smiles at him devilishly.
“Aww, don’t worry baby, I’ll take care of you.” James says in a patronizing
baby voice. Stiles wants to hit him. Determined to prove he’s not the scared
virgin this man apparently thinks he is, Stiles spins them around, so it’s the
other man’s back against the cold brick. He grabs his belt, unbuckling quickly
and unzips his fly with deft fingers.
“Why don’t you just enjoy the show,” he says with no small amount of heat as he
drops to his knees. He’s never given a blowjob before, his only experience,
really, is a drunk, fumbling handjob exchanged between him and Danny last
summer. It can’t be that hard though, right? Finally all those hours of porn-
watching can pay off. It was research for whatever role he’s currently playing.
The only way to do this right is to just dive in head first (no pun intended).
Stiles grabs the man’s hard dick, tip already dripping with precome, and closes
his mouth around it. He folds his lips over his teeth and bobs up and down a
few times, experimenting. Using smooth, even strokes with his hand and mouth,
he works up a decent rhythm, swirling his tongue the way he thinks he would
like it, if he were on the receiving end. He sneaks a peek at the man’s face,
eyes closed in pleasure, and a bolt of thrill hits him. He’s in control.
Hips thrust the length further down his throat, and he chokes a little, pulling
off to cough.
“Don’t stop now, baby, we were just getting to the good part.” James grabs his
head and pulls it back onto his dick, shoving the entirety of it into Stiles’
mouth in one swift movement. He fights it for a second, then relaxes his throat
and it’s easier to take. The man’s eyes are closed, mouth open, lost in his own
bliss. His eyes water a little from the strain. Suddenly the hand on his head
lets go, and Stiles looks up to see James staring down at him.
“You look so beautiful with my cock in your mouth,” the man tells him, and he
feels a weird sense of pride to see this guy fall apart, all because of him.
The thrusts become faster, but more shallow and finally he hears a loud grunt
from above and come is spilling into this mouth. He pulls off and lets go,
leaning over to spit the mouthful onto the pavement.
“Swallowing is extra,” he tells the man calmly and wipes his arm across his
mouth. James laughs heartily as he tucks himself back in. God, he would kill
for a drink and a shower right now, anything to wash the taste away and the
grimy, tacky feeling the man’s hand left on his skin.
“Money well spent,” James says and throws a wad of twenties down at Stiles,
starting back toward the bar.
“Tell your friends!” Stiles calls after him.
He sits in the dirt for a minute, thinking. That just happened. Part of him is
still can’t believe he actually went through with it, the other part is still
drunk on adrenaline. The thrill, the risk of doing something so taboo and
possibly dangerous…it’s better than anything else he’s done so far. He feels
something besides anger and sorrow and guilt. It’s addicting.
After the first time he sells himself for money, it gets increasingly easier.
Sex is fun, he enjoys it. As long as the customer doesn’t get too grabby or
rough, it’s easy money in his eyes. Once he had let someone fuck him for money,
one person was the same as the next. He mostly got men, in the closet and
looking for a young, little twink to fulfill urges that their wives couldn’t.
He didn’t really give a fuck as long as they paid him. Not that Stiles really
needs the money, his dad’s life insurance had left him enough the pay the bills
for ten years if he was careful with it. The problem was, “careful” wasn’t in
his vocabulary anymore. The excitement and adrenaline had never faded, each new
trick offered it’s own rush, it’s own risk.
A dark sedan pulls up at the entrance to the ally where Stiles usually did his
business. He’d gotten a bit of a reputation, referrals and whatnot making it
easy to him to stay in one place and wait for customers to come to him. It was
nice, not having to bounce around bars and clubs, worrying that someone was
going to spot his fake ID, or worse, run into someone he knows while he’s
trying to pick someone up. The driver of the car rolls down the window as he
approaches, and he sighs briefly, feeling an exhaustion well beyond his years.
The interior of the car is dark, and peering in, Stiles can barely make out any
distinct features of a face, but the voice that murmurs, “get in” is distinctly
male. A chill sweeps over him and that nagging twinge in his gut intensifies.
“Nice to meet you too, I’m Alex,” he says with a sly smile, extending his hand
through the window. A hand reaches out of the dark to shake his own firmly,
feeling much too formal for the situation.
“Get in,” the voice repeats, and Stiles complies, weeks of successful
arrangements making him more bold and careless than he ought to be. The
interior of the car was mostly plush leather, soft and expensive against the
bare skin of his back where his shirt is riding up. Running a hand through his
hair, Stiles nervously smiles at the man and he smiles back, all teeth and no
feeling behind it. He still feels weird, but shoves the trepanation to the back
of his mind and puts on his game face, “What can I do for you this evening?”
The man chuckles lowly and appraises Stiles like a fly caught in his web.
“You can take off your pants and get in the back seat,” He commands, voice
stern and final.
“Oooh so you’re one of those guys, huh? Get off on control and ordering me
around? I can work with that,” Stiles muses lightly, in stark contrast to how
he’s actually feeling. “I need payment up front,” he tells the man with a faux
sense of confidence. A stack of twenties hits him in the face and he shoves
them into the pocket of his tattered jeans before discarding them and awkwardly
crawling into the back seat. The man follows him back, and Stiles finally gets
a good look at his face, which is wrinkled and pale. He looks like the kind of
guy who’d shoo kids off his lawn on Halloween. Apparently, time for
pleasantries is over, and Stiles finds himself shoved down onto his back and a
hand groping at his dick a little too hard.
“Take it easy,” he warns, “we’ve got time.”
“You don’t get into this line of work to be treated like a fragile doll,” the
man growls at him, and he grabs ahold of Stiles’ hips, flipping his body face
first onto the cool leather. He yanks down Stiles’ briefs and shoves a dry
finger into him, holding his neck down with the other hand. Stiles bucks up,
flailing in pain and tries, in vain, to shove the man away.
“Ow, fucker!” he struggles harder but the hand on his neck is steady and hard.
More pain shoots through his body as one finger becomes two, body clenching in
agony against the intrusion. Tears trail their way down Stiles’ cheeks, and he
fights, throwing out errant fists that neglect to make purchase.
“Just relax, Alex,” the man chides sarcastically, and Stiles wonders briefly if
the man actually recognizes him, maybe enjoys the fact that the sheriff’s son
has stooped so low. He groans in pain, sandpaper fingers stretching him open.
He doesn’t hear the car door open, only barely registers the immediate lack of
pain as the man is ripped from the vehicle. A shrill cry echoes through the
ally. Wiping the wetness from his face, Stiles sits up and peers out the door.
“Didn’t your parents teach you? Never get into a car with a stranger,” his
savior’s back is turned, leaning over the lifeless corpse of his attacker, but
he recognizes the voice without question.
“Peter?”
“You’re a real idiot, you know that?” Peter says casually, looking quite
unamused in the dim glow of the street light.
“What are you-, why are you…” Stiles can’t wrap his head around the last sixty
seconds. Peter doesn’t answer, just lifts a brow and lowers his eyes towards
Stiles’ nakedness. Stiles flushes red, yanking his underwear up before leaning
more fully out of the car. There’s blood everywhere, dripping from Peter’s chin
and spreading slowly around the corpse at his feet.
“Care to explain?” Peter asks, wiping the blood from his chin with his shirt.
Stiles can’t stop staring at the dead body on the ground. He knows he should
feel some kind of remorse, but instead he just feels relief. Good. The guy hurt
him, now he’s dead. Some things really were that black and white. Peter clears
his throat and raises his brow expectantly, obviously awaiting an answer.
“I, uh…it’s just….” Stiles wracks his brain for any kind of plausible excuse
for his predicament and comes up short. “I picked him up in a club. Just out on
the town, looking for a good time…you know how it goes.” Peter looks at him,
then back down at the dead face staring up blankly.
“You picked him up in a club?” Peter replies skeptically.
“Uh, yeah. A boy’s got needs, you know,” it sounds stupid, even to Stiles ears,
but apparently this is what he’s going with.
“Needs huh?” Peter catches the obvious lie and Stiles can only pray to God he
ignores it.
“Are you just going to repeat everything I say back to me?” Stiles gets out of
the car, straightening his clothes to an appropriate level and then shrugs
lightly. Peter appraises him slowly, as if he’s trying to make some kind of
decision, inching closer to Stiles like he’s a frightened bird and reaching out
to take hold of his arm. He winces as Peter’s hand grips the newly-forming
bruise on his arm, a present from the wrinkled sack of shit that is now lying
dead on the pavement. Peter drops his hand like Stiles is on fire and for the
first time, actually looks a little worried.
“Are you ok?” Peter asks quietly, unable to take his eyes off Stiles’ arm. He
tentatively reaches out again, pushing up Stiles’ shirt sleeve and lightly
grazes the fresh mark. Stiles takes a step back, pulling away from Peter’s
touch, and just stares at him like Peter is a chimp on a unicycle wearing a top
hat. That seems more likely than Peter Hale showing anyone actual concern.
“I’m fine,” Stiles tells him, shifting nervously and fiddling with a loose
thread on the hem of his thin shirt.
“Yeah, you seem fine. Turning tricks in an alley is a totally normal thing to
do,” Peter says sarcastically, rolling his eyes.
“I wasn’t-“
“Look, you don’t owe me an explanation, but don’t act like I can’t hear you
lying to me. I’m really just asking if you’re ok.” Stiles lets out a sharp,
mirthless laugh and gives Peter an incredulous look.
“Well, thanks for helping a guy out. But like I said…”
“You’re fine.”
“Yep,” Stiles tells Peter, popping the ‘p’. It’s another lie, and Peter glares
at him, annoyed. He doesn’t really know what to do with that, so he turns to
leave and gets a few strides away before Peter grunts out an exasperated sigh.
“You’re so fucking stubborn. It’s infuriating,” Peter calls after him, and
Stiles turns quickly on his heel, marching back to stand directly in front of
Peter.
“What do you want me to say?” he flails his arms out wildly in question. He’s
confused, and embarrassed, and his ass fucking hurts but those are not things
he is ready to admit to anyone, let alone Peter. It’s gotten colder, little
goosebumps form up his arms again now that the adrenaline from his attack is
wearing off.
“Just,” Peter shrugs off his blood-covered jacket and places it around Stiles’
shoulders, “let me help you.” He lets his hand linger on Stiles’ neck, and
Stiles licks his lips nervously as he searches for words. Any words that will
make sense in this fucking alternate-universe situation where Peter is some
nice, caring guy that just wants to help.
“Peter, I’m not some sad orphan on the street sucking dick for food money. And
I’m more than a little confused by this uncharacteristic show of kindness. I
just need to go.” He blinks away a few tears, overwhelmed and exhausted. Peter
slides his hand up Stiles’ neck to his cheek, softly brushing away the wetness,
and pulls his face up so Stiles is looking directly in his eye.
“I know I’m not known for my philanthropy, but maybe I just remember what it’s
like to be lost. To be alone. Maybe this is what empathy feels like,” Peter
tells him softly, never breaking eye contact. Peter’s got this look like he’s
realizing something, and Stiles doesn’t think he’s ever seen Peter this
unguarded before, actual true emotion flitting across his face. It’s surreal.
“Or maybe this is all part of my master plan. You never know,” Peter shrugs and
the moment is gone.
“I guess not,” Stiles chuckles a little and shakes his head.
“So come home with me. You can clean up, and I’ll put you to bed.” Stiles lifts
an amused, skeptical eyebrow and Peter rolls his eyes again, “On the couch.
God, what kind of monster do you think I am?”
“I’m not gonna answer that,” Stiles smirks. Apparently you can never be too
tired for snarky banter with a homicidal werewolf.
After they wipe away any trace of Stiles’ prints from inside the man’s car,
Peter leads him away from the mess and back to his apartment. It’s downtown.
True to his word, Peter doesn’t ask for any further explanation from Stiles,
for which he was ever-grateful for. They eat dinner in companionable silence,
and Peter tosses a pillow and blanket onto the couch before retreating into his
bedroom for the night. Stiles doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to sleep,
despite his exhaustion, because the acid-trip that was this evening was
hammering over and over again through his skull. Though he can’t hear Peter
puttering about in his room anymore, Stiles knows Peter can hear the steady
metronome of his heartbeat and he thinks, just for a second, that maybe it’s
comforting to the wolf. Maybe he didn’t want to be alone, either.
Stiles wakes in his own bed the next morning, feeling groggy and confused,
assuring himself that the night before was just a dream. It had to be. Out of
the corner of his eye, he sees something shiny and metal sitting on his
nightstand. It’s a key. Underneath it, a small piece of paper with three words
written in swirly cursive: Just in case.
End Notes
     Thanks for reading! My tumblr blog is yourejealousofthisname if
     you're interested in chatting about all things Steter :-D
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