Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1704077.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Peter_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Scott_McCall, Derek_Hale, Alan_Deaton, Kate_Argent
  Additional Tags:
      Insomnia, Xenophilia, Rough_Sex, Wolfed_Out_Sex, Age_Difference, Post
      Nogitsune, Canon_Compliant, Panic_Attack, Hint_of_Derek/Stiles, Hint_of
      Scott/Stiles
  Series:
      Part 2 of Wolf_&_Boy:_A_Division_of_Cat_&_Mouse,_Inc.
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-05-28 Words: 2177
****** Hypnagogia ******
by calrissian18
Summary
     Stiles is a decent fuck and—more than that—he’s a broken thing trying
     desperately to become whole even as he crumbles further. Derek
     doesn’t have cable and it’s an entertaining enough show.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
After, Stiles stares up at the blades of the ceiling fan, hypnotized by their
slow rotation and swallows.  He doesn’t look over at Peter when he asks
hoarsely, “If it needs done, will you kill me?”  There’s an odd vulnerability
to a boy who’d shown none when Peter dragged claws down his thighs, bit into
the ball of his shoulder with fangs, wrapped a hand around his neck hard enough
to bruise.
He raises up on an elbow, casts his eyes down over Stiles’ frail, yet
deceptively muscular frame, says, “Yes.”  He thinks there might be more than
practicality behind the request, perhaps a faint desire to see it fulfilled.
 Stiles is weak, stuck in a permanent state of cool down after pushing himself
hard, and he doesn’t know how to feel strong again.
Peter flattens a palm over Stiles’ abdomen, taps the tips of his claws against
tender flesh.  He’s soaked in a cold sweat.  So far from fixed.  Peter can
taste his pain in the air between them. 
Stiles breathes deeply as soon as the singular agreement sinks in, like he’s
been suffering through a low-level panic attack since breaking free of the
nogitsune and he’s finally shaken it off.
Peter watches him tremble back into his pants once he feels he can stand.  The
cloth sticks to every slice in his skin but he doesn’t show it on his face.
 Peter’s playing with an already broken toy.  It both thrills and bores him by
turns.
===============================================================================
Stiles doesn’t trust him.  Peter would think the nogitsune had taken a few IQ
points with it if he did.  He does, however, come to understand two things:
Peter will never fuck him without his consent in place and he’s welcome to
revoke it no matter what stage of that they’re in and evil is nothing more than
a state of mind.
The nogitsune was engineered to bring chaos.  Used as a counterbalance in the
universe.  It didn’t want to cause pain, it was meant to.  It wasn’t evil, it
was surviving.
The knowledge, strange as it is, makes Stiles less stiff, less uncertain, a tad
bit more himself.  The almost mechanical working of his movements as though he
were acting according to a preset program fades away.  He’s smoother,bigger
with his gestures.  He’s pulling back the Stiles pieces and fitting them
together.
The world is gray now.  Black and white tossed into the trash where they belong
and he’s learning how to blend into the in between—maybe even figuring out that
he already does.
===============================================================================
He becomes rabid about ensuring it never happens to him again.  Militant.
 Crazed almost.  Peter likes the look of it on him, how fiery and determined
and reckless it makes him.
Deaton teaches him how to protect.  Chris teaches him how to hunt.  Derek
teaches him how to hurt.  Peter teaches him how to survive.  Their scents
linger on him now but none go so deep as the smell of hollowness and decay.
And none of it’s enough to curb the fear that Stiles will wake up not himself.
 He wires himself up, uses everything he can think of to keep his eyes open.
He makes Peter fuck him, claws and fangs always present, makes him leave
evidence that he was there.  He likes the marks because it becomes his way of
counting the days, of determining what’s real and what’s imagined in his
sleepless delirium.
===============================================================================
“I can choke you until you pass out,” Peter offers, hand already wrapped around
and pushed up under Stiles’ chin, spread over his neck, claws creating divots
in the skin.
“No,” he says sharply, turning back to stare.  Zero uncertainty in the word.
Peter gives a hard thrust and Stiles’ eyes flutter, wide, innocent even while
being fucked hard.  Stiles’ father isn’t home and his bed is the same twin he’s
slept in since he was a child.  Peter wonders what the sheriff would think, if
he walked into his son’s room and found a man twice his age sodomizing him.  He
almost wishes he could make the fantasy materialize.  He wants to know what the
sheriff would do, wants to know what Stiles would do.  “You can’t keep going
like this.”  Peter tsks.  Stiles is already not as responsive, slightly removed
from all he’s experiencing.  Peter doesn’t want to make him gasp, he wants to
make him scream.
“Fuck you,” he hisses, face twisting up unpleasantly.  “I don’t want you to
tell me what to do, I want you to fuck me so hard you’re as sore as I am after.
 Save the lectures for someone more suited to give them.”  He digs his fingers
into Peter’s thighs and pulls him closer.
He drops down onto his chest, spreads his thighs and fucks back into Peter’s
hips and it’s better than the last few times they’ve done this.  Peter’s hand
finds Stiles’ hip, his claws sink in deep and he pulls Stiles back onto his
cock.
He pants out the same thing he always does after, Peter’s come leaking out of
him, “You’ll kill me?”
Peter’s answer is always the same.  “Yes.” 
Somehow, it still reassures Stiles to hear it.
===============================================================================
Stiles has been avoiding the others, keeping to himself, texting when he has
to.  Peter knows the second he stops.  It slams into him in the form of Scott
clenching a hand around his throat and lifting him halfway up the wall.  Scott
snarls, eyes infuriatingly red.  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing with
Stiles?”
Peter grins despite the light-headedness.  He’s weaker than Scott, can’t fight
him off, and that’s a sting under his skin.  “Exactly what he’s asked me to,”
he hisses.  The red eyes on this teenager unsuited to gold mock him.  If he
hadn’t been so wild, so driven by instinct, he never would have chosen Scott.
Scott tilts his head to the side, like he hadn’t even considered Stiles might
be a willing participant. 
“Let him go, Scott.”
Twin glowing gazes cut over to the owner of the tired voice.  Stiles’ shoulders
are slumped and he’s already shrugging out of his jacket, dropping his bag.
Scott lets Peter down slowly, doesn’t entirely take his hand away but loosens
the grip.  “You okay?”  His concern is so grotesquely prevalent, his attention
only for Stiles.
Stiles nods.  “Go home, Scott,” he says tiredly, eyes fluttering over to Peter
though he’s still ostensibly speaking to Scott.  “He’s going to fuck me until I
can’t think and I don’t think you want to be here for that.”
Scott doesn’t argue, walks over to Stiles and wraps a hand around the back of
his neck and holds.  “I would stay, if you needed me to,” he tells him, no
tremor in his heartbeat.  “It doesn’t have to be him, I could—”  There’s guilt
in Scott and Peter has to wonder why he’s accepted so much blame for a series
of events that he can’t possibly be at fault for.  The rest of it is relief,
clearly spending weeks thinking the day would end in Stiles’ death has broken
down the last of the barriers between them.  Their friendship has warped beyond
the recognizable but, given what they’ve been through, neither of them seem
particularly affected by it.
Stiles doesn’t seem surprised by the offer, shakes his head.  “You couldn’t,
not the way I need it.”
Stiles isn’t wrong.  Scott would never hurt him, not even to keep him from
Peter’s claws.
Scott frowns, squeezes his hand before he pulls it away and leaves the loft.
Stiles still doesn’t sleep even after Peter’s finished with him.  He’s wrung
out, exhausted, but his eyes stay open.  He stumbles redressing, starts up that
horrid Jeep and Peter wonders if it’ll be front page news tomorrow that the
sheriff’s son fell asleep at the wheel and wound up dead in a ditch.
It would be a damn shame if it was.  Stiles is a decent fuck and—more than
that—he’s a broken thing trying desperately to become whole even as he crumbles
further.  Derek doesn’t have cable and it’s an entertaining enough show.
===============================================================================
Derek sits on the opposite end of the couch, book in hand, and his nose
wrinkles.  Peter and Stiles had fucked on it two days earlier.  Derek doesn’t
seem particularly surprised to have come across the scent.  He simply moves to
the armchair with a grunt.  Peter hadn’t expected he was smart enough to have
realized it yet.  And if he had, Peter would’ve expected a reaction similar to
Scott’s.  He arches an eyebrow.  “No lecture or snappy zingers designed to make
me rethink my awful ways?”  Truthfully he finds his nephew’s tantrums amusing
more than anything else and he’d certainly expected this to push him into one.
It doesn’t.
Derek shrugs.  “Waste of breath either way.  You killed your own niece, right
and wrong don’t exactly have much bearing on what you do.”  He no longer sounds
on the cusp of true fury saying the words.  Instead it’s resigned, like he’s
accepted who and what Peter is.  “And Stiles doesn’t do anything he doesn’t
want to.  You’re not forcing him—couldn’t if you tried”—There’s an odd note of
respect in the words—“which means it’s not my business.”
It’s a remarkably mature take on the situation.  Or perhaps simply a defeatist
one.  Either way, at some point, his nephew has gone and grown up and stopped
thinking the sun only rises to begin another miserable day for him.  He has to
wonder what Derek’s anchor is now as it’s clear he’s let go of the anger.
===============================================================================
Kate smells like freshly turned dirt and gasoline.  Even though Peter is the
one who sliced into her, she only has eyes for Derek.  She claws into him,
something primal and vicious and it takes Scott and Peter together to drive her
off.  Stiles slams down in front of Derek, keeps him from collapsing, and Peter
should be tracking Kate.  He isn’t because Derek’s blood is thick in the air;
it makes him pause.  What makes him stop is that Stiles’ joins it.
Scott’s on the phone with the vet, voice steady if slightly more urgent than
usual.
Derek’s claws are out, hands having darted out and caught Stiles around the
wrists.  They’ve scraped him, not deep but enough to break skin. 
Peter’s surprised to find how much it makes his skin itch, someone else making
Stiles bleed.
Derek yanks his hands up without gentility and stares at Stiles’ fingers.
 “Ten,” he breathes out, torso torn to pieces and his eyes glazed over.  “Ten.”
It clicks for Stiles before it does anyone else.  “Derek?”  He holds Derek’s
face in his palms, Derek’s hands still wrapped tight around him, and he says
clearly, “This is not a dream.  Derek, you need to stay conscious until Deaton
gets here.”  He presses their foreheads together when Derek won’t stop saying
the word, ‘Ten,’ breaths coming shorter and shallower.  Stiles closes his eyes,
swallows.  “Breathe with me.  You’re having a panic attack and I need you to
focus on mirroring my breaths.”
He presses a hand to the back of Derek’s neck.  It moves Derek’s arm at an odd
angle because he hasn’t let go.  “Derek, focus.” 
Slowly, Derek’s breaths start to even out.  Deaton arrives and Peter feels his
lip curl independently of his desires as he glares at the two men locked
together on the floor.
The question of what—who—has replaced Derek’s old anchor still smells of
Peter’s sweat and come.
===============================================================================
Stiles is shaking too badly to dress himself when they finish.  Peter pulls him
back, drags him close, promises to fuck him again after a long enough
refractory period.  Pushes his hips and softening cock up against Stiles’ ass.
 He’s lazily keeping him fingered open, sharp tooth over his carotid, when
Stiles swallows.  His breath hitches at a brush to his prostate and he
strangles out, “Why did you offer it to me?”
Peter considers ignoring him, nearly ready to fuck back into him.  It would be
easy enough to distract him but there’s something about Stiles.  Something that
makes him want to give, if only to see what he can get.  “Consent would have
been paramount if you had accepted what I was offering.”
Stiles squirms, Peter can’t tell if it’s uncomfortable or pleased.  It irks him
that he doesn’t know.  “And why were you offering that, to me?”
Peter’s asked himself more than once, what instinct it was that led him to
reach for Stiles’ wrist.  It isn’t a simple answer—a scent, a certainty.  It
was a ‘sum of all its parts’ moment and one of the smarter decisions he’d made
driven half-mad by revenge.  He tells Stiles the only answer he’s ever been
able to content himself with.  And he keeps it present tense.  “Because you
have the potential to be an equal.”
He’s ravenous to know what Stiles will offer him in return for that particular
truth.  He has a feeling it’s going to be more than worth giving it.
End Notes
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