Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1059939.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Peter_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Derek_Hale, Scott_McCall, Cora_Hale, Isaac_Lahey, Lydia_Martin, Allison
      Argent
  Additional Tags:
      Mildly_Dubious_Consent
  Collections:
      Teen_Wolf_Holidays_2013
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-12-01 Words: 10951
****** Thousands of Others Like You ******
by Llama
Summary
     It wasn't a big deal. Stiles would just have this thing with Peter so
     he wasn't heading off to college completely inexperienced, and then
     when they weren't thrown together all the time it'd be over. Simple.
Notes
     Title stolen from the B-52s. I'm not 100% sure why I kept thinking of
     them, but personally I'm blaming the barracuda. Calrissian18, I hope
     you enjoy this – I did my best to include a plot! I tried and failed
     to write a plotty Derek/Stiles, but if you see hints of interest from
     Derek in particular then you would (at least as far as what's in my
     head is concerned) be correct. Somewhere down the line I can see them
     getting there.
Whenever anyone made a comment about how Peter liked Stiles, Stiles always
assumed it meant 'like' as in the way Scott liked pizza with six kinds of meat
on it: yummy, yummy food that he couldn't be trusted to be left alone with.
Peter's teeth always seemed a little brighter, a little sharper than they
needed to be any time he was close to Stiles.
So it was spectacularly unfair that it was always him they sent to see Peter
whenever they needed something.
“I'm just saying,” he grumbled as he added the requests from today's meeting to
his urgent research list, “one day you'll find me decomposing in his freezer.”
He paused. “Does Peter even have a freezer?” He looked around Derek's
apartment, but he couldn't see one there. Maybe werewolves didn't care if their
food was kept fresh... and he was going to leave that right there, because that
was not a pleasant thought. Also, he was never eating here again unless it was
takeout.
“You tell me,” Derek scowled, and Cora slid out of her window seat and
sauntered over. Stiles didn't like the smile on her face.
“Why would I--” Stiles was going for a flip response when Derek's words caught
up with him. “What?”
“He doesn't know,” Cora said, looking from Stiles to Derek, and yes, clearly he
didn't know, that was why he'd asked. She poked him in the chest and he stepped
back quickly. “You're the only one he lets in, moron.”
“Nice, call the guy doing your research a moron. That's so helpful.” Stiles
stopped. “Really? Me?”
“Don't think it makes you special, Stilinski,” Cora said, with a fair imitation
of Derek's expression. “He won't let us in because we leave him out of
everything.”
“Or so he says,” Stiles said darkly.
“Or so he says, yes, and Derek can't make him do it now. Scott probably could,
but--”
“But Scott really doesn't want to,” Scott said hastily.
Stiles could sympathize with that. Who the hell knew what would happen if Scott
pushed things with Peter now he'd basically screwed over the whole werewolf
hierarchy. If there was a precedent for a true alpha who was bitten by a former
alpha who'd been dead at one point just to complicate things a little more,
then nobody was telling them about it. Even Google had not been helpful, and
that pained Stiles in a way that none of his friends and slightly-less-
reluctant-than-they-used-to-be allies could truly appreciate.
Although now he thought about it, Peter might.
“He's harmless,” Derek said abruptly. Then, because Derek was nothing if not
conscientious these days when it came to his dealings with them: “Probably.”
Stiles was staking his life on a 'probably' from Derek Hale. College could not
come soon enough.
“If it helps,” Cora added, “I don't think you'd be decomposing if you were in
the freezer.” She looked over at Derek, Stiles noticed. She did that a lot
these days.
Derek, predictably, just shrugged. Were his shoulders smaller? Stiles thought
they might be. Maybe he'd given up the endless workouts. Did this mean he'd be
less effective in a fight? He thought this might be something the squishy human
in the room needed to know, so he opened his mouth to ask, but Scott was
already talking.
“Stuff doesn't last forever when you freeze it,” Scott said. “So maybe it would
just take longer.”
Ah. It was good to know there was at least one werewolf who cared about the
freshness of his food. “Your mom still forgetting to write the dates on?”
Stiles asked him, and Scott sighed. “Bad luck, dude. Might be time to follow my
example and take charge of the grocery shopping.”
“Yeah, because I have so much free time these days.” Scott made his eyes big in
the way Stiles really, really hated. “Hey, maybe you could do it. You're so
good at it, dude.”
Stiles snorted. This was not his first time on this particular conversational
track. “Told you before, Scott – not doing the domestic thing for you unless
you're putting out.”
“You suck!” Scott moaned, but he was laughing as usual.
“Yeah, we'll see who gives in first,” Stiles said firmly, and left them all to
it.
 
Today was apparently meditation day at Peter's apartment. The sight of Peter
opening the door in loose pants and a half-buttoned shirt was still
disconcerting, but Stiles recognized the soothing music and the mat on the
floor from last time. Peter had taken off part way through Stiles's reading
time to perform his whatevers, and somehow completed them even though Stiles
had been sure to shout questions at him every three or four minutes.
Peter had just said Stiles might be surprised what could be achieved with
enough practice, and something about sitting on a rock in a thunderstorm that
sounded slightly pained. If Peter thought that was going to stop him doing it
next time, he was going to be disappointed. Stiles had been called much, much
worse things than a thunderstorm.
"Shoes," Peter reminded him, so Stiles kicked off his shoes and followed
Peter's barefoot path up to the kitchen table. Most of it was covered in small
bowls full of brown and green... stuff. Powder, mostly, though some looked like
they might be bark and some were definitely leaves, though Stiles couldn't have
said what type of tree they came from.
“Going into the drugs trade, are you?” Stiles asked, swinging into his usual
chair. There was a faint burnt odor to the air, with a not unpleasant woody
scent combined with it. “It's good you're keeping busy.”
Peter's laptop was already there, as if he was expected-- or maybe it hadn't
been moved since he was last there. Maybe that was where Peter always used it,
though Stiles would be surprised if he left it out in the open. Peter often
hinted that it was the only reason any of them still tolerated him, and Stiles
had never bothered to deny it.
The cup of coffee sitting next to it was freshly brewed though, and to Stiles's
taste, not Peter's. Of course, he'd probably known Stiles was coming from three
blocks away.
“It's just incense.” Peter sat down on the other side of the table and started
to crush some of the pieces of bark with his fingers. With werewolf strength,
did he even need to use a pestle and mortar, Stiles wondered. “Don't worry, you
won't be inhaling anything your father might have to arrest you for.”
“Like you'd tell me if I was,” Stiles snorted, but he wasn't going to take any
chances. He opened the window nearest to him and watched Peter carefully, but
all he did was roll his eyes. That probably meant there were no nefarious plans
on the agenda for today.
Which was handy because the folders he'd spotted on the laptop that he knew
would be useful were massive, he knew, and were going to need hours of reading,
if not days. Although he was sure there had been one large file that he'd been
planning to beg a copy of so he could read it more thoroughly, and he hadn't
been able to find it last time.
“Are you sure you haven't deleted any files recently?” Stiles asked him again.
Because really, he was so sure. It had been right there, name beginning with
'ch', maybe 'chr'. He'd checked the other folders just in case he'd remembered
the wrong one, but there didn't seem to be anything on the drive that was the
file he'd seen.
“Quite sure,” Peter said, as he had every other time, so Stiles just sighed and
settled down to read.
At least this was interesting research. There were apparently hundreds of
different types of tree spirits that didn't fit neatly with tree species as
such, but they did, Stiles thought, fit a pattern of sorts in the way they
seemed to be associated with trees that favored particular environments, or
that produced certain types of leaves or fruit. It took him a little while, but
eventually he had a rough list of spirits and possible tree habitats they might
prefer.
It hadn't shed any light on why they might be wandering the preserve in broad
daylight frightening the locals, but it was a start.
“You're very preoccupied today, Stiles,” Peter said, and Stiles jumped, because
he'd almost forgotten Peter was there. At some point Peter had finished his
chopping and grinding and moved over to his favorite armchair, but Stiles had
been too engrossed to notice. “Don't tell me you're bored with these little
visits already.”
“Yeah, it's not you I'm visiting, creepywolf,” Stiles told him without looking
up, because even Peter couldn't be that deluded. “I'm only here because you
won't let this laptop out of your sight, and because you apparently don't want
anyone else in here – couldn't be because you don't want any super-wolfy senses
sniffing around, could it?” Who was he kidding, of course that was it. The only
question was, what was he trying to hide?
“Do you have a freezer?” he asked, before he could stop himself.
There was no response until Stiles lifted his head to glance over at him, then
Peter raised one eyebrow. “What an intriguing question.” He settled himself
more comfortably in the armchair. “Of course I have a freezer. I thought we'd
already established that I'm not, in fact, an animal.”
Stiles just looked at him.
“Well, not all the time.” His smile was more wolfish than Stiles remembered.
Harmless, he told himself. Probably.
“So um. What do you keep in it?”
“In the freezer?” Peter lifted his eyes to the ceiling as if he was trying to
recall. “Just the things you'd expect. Meat. A few barracuda from my last
fishing trip.” He dropped his eyes to look at Stiles again. “The ice-encrusted
corpses of my enemies.”
“Funny.”
“You did ask.” Peter unfolded his newspaper and frowned at something in the
headlines. “You can check it if you want.”
“The freezer?”
“Hmm, yes.” Peter looked over the paper at him. “Then you can report back to
Scott and my favorite nephew that these suspicions you're all harbouring are
quite unfounded.”
“Nobody is--” Stiles started, but Peter held up his hand.
“I insist,” he said, and his tone suggested this wasn't optional. And it wasn't
like getting a look at the rest of Peter's place would hurt. Maybe he could see
something useful, or at least let everyone know that Peter didn't seem to be up
to anything right now.
There was only a tiny part of Stiles that thought maybe Peter was luring him
into the tiny utility room to add him to the bodies in his freezer, but anyone
would think that if they were ushered into a dark, cramped room ahead of a
psychotic and possibly undead werewolf. Anyone.
“See?” Peter said, switching on the light above the quietly humming chest
freezer. He lifted up the lid and gestured for Stiles to look inside.
“Those are barracuda?” Stiles asked, because they looked more like huge black
logs wrapped in plastic to him. Since he couldn't recall coming into close
contact with a barracuda he wasn't in much of a position to dispute Peter's
word for it, however. He couldn't help noticing that all the packages were
neatly labelled with the date frozen. Ugh, typical. But maybe Scott would feel
better if he knew about that.
“Caught them myself,” Peter said, and he must have leaned forward to peer in,
because his breath ghosted across Stiles's ear. “With my teeth.”
Stiles rolled his eyes, because really. “You are such a liar.”
Peter let the lid fall and Stiles jumped back. The lack of space meant he ended
up backed into Peter and that was not a place he needed to be, so he turned
around and leaned on the freezer instead. Peter was still closer than he'd
like, but at least he wasn't plastered against his back.
Stiles shivered, which didn't really help his attempt to look nonchalant.
“I don't lie to you, Stiles,” Peter said pleasantly. “I wouldn't do that.”
“And I believe you,” Stiles said quickly, before he remembered, seeing Peter's
lips curve up just slightly, that he was the one who shouldn't lie. He could
hear his own heart thudding against his ribs, god only knew what Peter could
hear. “Okay, I don't. Not that I need to tell you because you can hear it, or
smell it or something equally creepy.”
Peter's nostrils twitched. “It's a little hard to smell anything over the scent
of frustrated teenage hormones,” he said, but his voice was mild. “Do let me
know if I can help you out with that.”
“Help?” Stiles repeated, because his brain was officially offline while it
dedicated its systems to working out all possible interpretations of Peter's
words. It turned out there weren't that many. “You mean-- you--?”
Peter shifted, and his eyes glinted for a second in the dim circle of light. “I
was thinking more of a very nice young lady whose company I've enjoyed a few
times, but your assumption is interesting, Stiles.” He took a small step
forward, and Stiles shivered as Peter's eyes traveled up and down his body,
gaze so focused he could almost feel it. “And I do have some experience in that
area.”
“Experience?” Stiles squeaked, and that was embarrassing, but not half as much
as the way his body was reacting without even being touched. “That's--” He
cleared his throat, tried to will his voice back to normal. “You're kidding,
right? If anyone gets their kicks tormenting teenage virgins it would
definitely be you.”
Peter tilted his head to one side. “You know, I think I'm almost insulted by
that.” And his fingers latched into Stiles's belt to tug him closer.
Peter's knuckles were warm against Stiles's skin, his nails the lightest scrape
against his stomach. Stiles heard the clink of his belt buckle opening as if it
was from far away, and the tickticktick of his zipper lowering notch by notch
as if it was all too close, the pressure of a hand over his groin making him
buck his hips. He should be saying something, telling Peter to leave him alone,
but he wasn't. Oh god, he wasn't saying anything at all.
“Stiles.” Peter nudged his cheek with his nose, and Stiles realized Peter must
have said his name a couple of times already from the exaggeratedly patient
tone.
There was a cool sensation where his zipper lay open, and a warm hand pressing
down at the base of it. That hand, Stiles was all too aware, knew exactly what
effect this was having on him.
“I--” Stiles said, and “What?” Peter was supposed to just do it, not stop and
say his name. Stiles didn't want to talk about it. Just what the hell sort of
predator stopped for a little chat in the middle of the proceedings?
“Oh good, you're still here.” Peter moved his hand just a fraction, and Stiles
bit back a moan. “Focus for a moment, please.”
Stiles blinked. Focus. Right. He could do that. “It's difficult with your hand-
-” He gestured at Peter's fingers still grasping Stiles's zipper, the knuckles
pressing down where Stiles was getting harder by the minute.
“Try your best,” Peter advised him, and pressed a little harder.
Stiles choked back a groan.
“Now, I have a little proposition for you, Stiles.” Peter's nostrils flared as
Stiles reacted to the images that brought to mind, and he smiled. “I'd very
much like to suck your cock, how would you feel about that?”
Stiles should feel repulsed, he knew that. He didn't like Peter, he didn't
trust Peter. The only thing he trusted Peter to do was look after himself, and
to stab them all in the back the moment it suited him.
He knew he should say no, but even though he opened his mouth, the word didn't
seem to want to come out.
Peter raised his eyebrows when no sound emerged. “I need you to say 'yes' or
'no', Stiles,” he said mildly. Like it was no problem for him if Stiles didn't
want this. “No strings, no reciprocation required. I won't tell anyone about
it, you don't tell anyone. This is just something I can do for you that we'll
both enjoy. But only if you want it.”
Stiles shouldn't want it.
“Do you want it, Stiles?” Peter asked him, his face so close that his breath
was warm against Stiles's throat. “Do you want me on my knees for you, sucking
your cock until you come in my mouth? Do you want to be in control for once,
see what it's like?”
And there was only one thing Stiles could say to that, because even if he lied,
Peter would know.
“Yes,” he blurted out, even as some more sensible part of his brain screamed at
him to reconsider. “Yes, I want that.”
“Good boy,” Peter said, and slid down to his knees, right there on the floor of
his cramped, dimly-lit utility room, with Stiles still leaning against the
enormous chest freezer. He tugged Stiles's jeans and boxers down just far
enough for Stiles's cock to leap out, hot and hard and ready, and nuzzled his
face against it. Nuzzled, that was the only word for it.
“Oh my god,” Stiles mumbled, because Peter was such a tease, and also, what the
hell was he doing? This was such a bad idea, but there had never been another
person, another face, another mouth so close to his cock, and this was going to
happen, that was Peter opening his mouth to--
Heat, that was his first thought. So much warmer than a hand, than his own
hand, hot and wet and sinfully good, just sliding over his flushed, swollen
flesh. Peter's eyes were closed, his face intent, and his mouth moved so, so
slowly, tasting as much as sucking, as if there was nothing it would rather be
doing than swallowing Stiles down.
“Delicious,” Peter said, pulling his mouth away just long enough for Stiles to
miss it. “You know, I'd forgotten how much I enjoy this.” He licked his lips
and the ghost of a shift passed across his face. There was a faint growling
sound rumbling from somewhere deep in his chest, and Stiles watched his
features flicker between human and werewolf as he took him in again, less
gently this time, letting Stiles's cock bump wildly against the roof of his
mouth, the inside of his cheek, but never, Stiles was hazily aware, letting him
feel a hint of tooth or fang.
Or a hint of claw in the fingers that held on to his hips so tightly, the
thumbs that tucked themselves just under the bone like they were never letting
go.
“I--” Stiles gasped out, but Peter's nostrils were already flaring, werewolf
senses clearly a much more reliable warning system than anything a kid getting
his first blowjob could manage. Stiles couldn't help wondering, even as he felt
Peter swallow around him, as he came in that tight, warm mouth, just how much
experience Peter had with exactly that.
“Enough to make it good, wouldn't you say?” Peter was smirking when Stiles was
able to move his head enough to look down at him again, but Stiles wasn't going
to apologize for thinking out loud. Just because they'd done-- what they'd
done, didn't mean they had to be friendly.
“If you want me to be shocked that you've made a hobby of corrupting the young
and innocent,” Stiles said, carefully pulling up his jeans, “then I can try.”
He gave a theatrical gasp and his hand flew up to his mouth. “No, sorry.” He
let his hand fall back down to fasten his zipper. “Zero shock here.”
“The downside, as you can see, is they are always so ungrateful,” Peter said as
they walked back to the kitchen. It was light, almost teasing, but Stiles
thought there was an undercurrent of something else. Disappointment?
He started packing up his notes and turned off the laptop, because there was no
way he was getting any more work done here today. Not after that.
“I'm not--” Ungrateful, he wanted to say, but it sounded defensive even in his
head. “Look, I know you said no reciprocation needed, but if you want me to--”
He wasn't sure what he was offering, and typical, his mouth was far ahead of
his brain at the worst possible moments, since it was only now coming up with
the possibility that this was what Peter had been angling for. Fortunately he
didn't need to finish the thought.
“No, no.” Peter waved him away. “That wasn't the deal. I told you, Stiles, I
don't lie to you. I want you to see I can keep my word.”
“Okay.” It didn't seem enough, somehow. Stiles hefted his bag over his shoulder
and shuffled his feet a bit closer to the door. What could he say? This was
entirely new territory. “Um. So, I'll see you?”
It hung between them for a moment, as if neither of them was sure exactly what
that meant.
“No doubt,” Peter said eventually, and went back to his armchair.
 
Stiles didn't exactly plan on avoiding Peter for the next few days, it was just
that when he woke up the next morning he was... confused. Confused as to how,
why he would have let Peter Hale be involved in his first sexual experience
that involved another human being. Werewolf. Person.
Had it even happened? It didn't seem likely, didn't feel real. Except that
Stiles knew how it felt to be sucked into a warm, wet mouth; knew how it felt
to have a throat swallow around the head of his cock, how it felt to look down
and see it happening as well as feel it.
He definitely hadn't had that material to work with before, but now? Now he
did. Now he could summon it up when he stood under the hot shower spray with
his dick in his hand; couldn't turn it off, in fact, even if he wanted to. All
he could see was Peter's mouth taking him in, Peter's tongue licking his lips.
What had Peter said or done to make Stiles think that would be a good idea? He
couldn't even remember.
So he avoided. He avoided like a fucking champ.
“Not that it isn't nice to have you here, Stiles,” Allison said when Scott put
the third movie of the night on.
“Again.” Isaac pointed out.
Allison elbowed him under the blanket and Isaac grimaced. “Though you're
welcome, obviously.”
“Obviously,” Allison repeated. “But does this mean you've finished the
research? Because we should really go to Derek and Cora if you have news.”
“Right, yes.” Stiles drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. He hadn't
really come up with an excuse for why he was avoiding being alone with Peter.
Except, oh, there was one thing. “I wanted to see Lydia, actually.”
Lydia was curled up on one end of the McCall's couch like a cat, a large pile
of text books separating her from Scott. It was pointless telling Lydia she
didn't need to study; they'd all learned that the hard way.
“Hmmmm?” she said, fingers flicking through a chemistry book that Stiles was
sure was far too advanced for anything she was going to need to know for years
to come. Stiles couldn't even understand the title. “Spit it out then, I don't
have all night.”
“There's a file missing from Peter's laptop,” he said. “I'm sure of it, but
Peter says he hasn't deleted anything.”
“Like you can trust him,” Allison said, and Stiles couldn't argue with that.
“I know you had something to recover lost files, the program Danny made? I was
wondering--”
“Of course,” Lydia said. “But you might want to check this first.” She tossed
something at him and he caught it, with only minimal flailing and loss of
dignity.
“And this is?” Huh, a flash drive.
“My back up copy, of course.” She smiled at him when his jaw dropped open. He'd
been going over to Peter's apartment, risking life and limb -- well, maybe not
quite that, but his virtue had been more than a little compromised – and Lydia
had a copy of it all the time?
“It's only a partial one,” Lydia said, going back to her book. “But it's worth
a look, right?”
“You mind?” Stiles asked, turning to Scott.
“Go for it,” Scott said, and because he knew Stiles far too well, he hit play
on the remote.
Lydia was right, there was maybe only a tenth of Peter's files on her drive,
but that was still a hell of a lot of data. It didn't take him long to find the
right folder, and he knew he'd been right – there was the file he'd remembered.
And it was a goldmine. If he'd been at home Stiles might have kissed the
screen.
Damaged trees, that was the only way tree spirits would get restless and
careless this way. Someone had been vandalizing or otherwise hurting the trees
in the preserve. But it was huge, how were they ever going to work out which
trees, even with Stiles's notes on habitats and preferences? And the spirits
weren't necessarily tied to the tree they came from any more, so they could
have wandered for miles looking for any parts that had been removed.
Then he remembered Peter's kitchen table. The bark, the leaves. Damage to
trees, that would include stripping pieces of bark off, right? It didn't seem
enough somehow, but maybe what he'd seen was just the tip of the iceberg, and
Peter had been doing much, much more.
Peter had deleted this file from his laptop for a reason, and Stiles very much
doubted it was just about a few harmless spirits that had people telling
stories about ghosts in the woods.
“Stiles?” Scott mumbled when Stiles started packing up his stuff and shut down
Scott's computer. Stiles hadn't even noticed him come up to bed. “Be careful
with Peter. I don't like-- he smells funny when he's around you.”
“I'm careful, Scott,” Stiles told him, though he wondered for a moment if that
registered as a lie. If it did, Scott was too sleepy to spot it.
“Don't, you know, eat stuff. Or drink, don't drink.” Scott yawned widely and
turned over. “Don't want him to hurt you, dude.”
Did Scott really think Peter would... what, poison him or something? Roofie
him? Stiles didn't really think so, but magically roofie him, that might be
more Peter's speed. And Stiles had entertained similar thoughts, hadn't he? It
would explain a lot. It would explain why Stiles had found himself unable to
resist Peter's offer for a start.
Stiles might not be able to tackle Peter directly about the file he'd hidden
away, not without giving away Lydia's backup, but at least there was one thing
he could clear up. And at the same time, make sure Peter was aware it was never
going to happen again.
It was only when he arrived home that Stiles realized how badly he'd lost track
of the time. There was no way he was going to get any sleep and still make it
out of bed in time for his first class tomorrow, and getting lost in research
would be an equally bad idea. It seemed sensible to use the time productively,
however, which is why Stiles ended up at the only 24 hour grocery store in
Beacon Hills at almost 4am on a Friday morning.
At that hour it was populated mostly by drunks, lost travelers buying in
survival supplies and--
“You!”
Peter didn't even flinch when Stiles punched him ineffectually on the arm, just
raised one annoying eyebrow at him as usual.
“Do be careful, Stiles,” he said mildly, stepping away from the shelf displays.
“I'm sure the delightful staff here spent hours stacking these tins, and it
would be cruel to undo all that hard work.”
The delightful staff currently consisted of a figure slumped near the cash
register that Stiles wasn't even sure was fully alive. Zombies, actual ones
that ate brains rather than just people who magically brought themselves back
from the dead-- those were a real thing, he'd checked. Mostly so he could prove
he hadn't wasted all those hours he'd spent preparing anti-zombie strategies
for the apocalypse, and incidentally collect 50 cents from Scott that had been
at stake since approximately ten minutes after they met. It was the principle
that mattered.
If anyone was a real life zombie, it was the guy at the register. He didn't
look like he'd be starting any apocalypses any time soon, however, so Stiles
probably had a few minutes.
“You drugged me!” he said, resisting the temptation to raise his voice. As it
was a couple of old guys counting out all their spare change gave them a
suspicious glance. Stiles smiled and nodded, and generally did his best not to
look like a crazy person. The last thing he needed was his dad turning up to
break up a fight between him and Peter.
Peter just smiled, which was... infuriating, as always. “No. I didn't,” he
said, enunciating it clearly and precisely, as if that would convince Stiles.
“I can't believe I--” Stiles stopped and took a deep breath. “You-- the
incense, I knew—”
“Was just incense, Stiles. Nothing mystical. Nothing that would act like a
potent aphrodisiac, allowing me to seduce passing virgins.” Peter cast his eyes
down Stiles's body and back up again, and when he reached Stiles's face he was
smirking. “I can prove it if you like.”
“If you think I'm setting foot in your apartment again,” Stiles ground out,
“you're even crazier than I thought.”
“Fine by me.” Peter shrugged carelessly. “If you can do without access to the
laptop then feel free to stay away. But we don't need to go there to prove I've
done nothing to you except get your hormones all in a tizzy.”
He slid around the corner, forcing Stiles to follow him or give up his
confrontation.
“Though I must say, I didn't think you were the type to have a gay crisis over
a single blowjob,” Peter called over his shoulder. “Or at all, really.”
“I'm not having a--” Stiles clenched his jaw in frustration, but he put down
his basket and followed Peter. “That's not what this is about. It's about you
using the incense smoke, or the coffee, or, or--” He cast around for other
possibilities. “Or something on the laptop keys absorbed through the
fingertips,” he said triumphantly. That was probably it, he was a genius.
“My, you really do have a high opinion of my cunning and ingenuity,” Peter
said. “I'm blushing here, Stiles, truly I am.”
Stiles couldn't tell if he was lying about that, because Peter didn't turn
around until they'd stepped out of the back entrance of the store and into an
alley. The only illumination was from streetlights at the store front, and a
fizzing, flickering emergency lamp over the back door that didn't provide
useful light so much as make a tempting target for moths.
“Now,” Peter said, before Stiles could think better of being out here alone
with him. “Have you been inhaling any incense smoke since the afternoon at my
apartment, Stiles?”
“No,” Stiles said. “Obviously not.”
“Have you drunk any coffee made by me? Had your grubby little fingers all over
my laptop?”
“You know I haven't.”
Even before Peter stepped forward Stiles was beginning to have a suspicion
where this was going.
“So if I offered to get you off again right now, you'd say no?”
It was there on the tip of his tongue. No. That's all he had to say to walk
away from this confrontation the victor, or with his dignity intact at least.
But he knew, had already known really, that it wouldn't be a real victory,
because the lurch in the pit of his stomach, the breath that caught in his
throat, the way he could feel himself growing hard just from this much
proximity to Peter, to someone who he'd had sex with, of a sort, who was
offering to do it again-- all those things said that Peter was telling the
truth.
“It's not a gay crisis,” was the only thing he could say, and it sounded
childish even to him.
“Of course not,” Peter said, moving in closer. “I was only teasing you,
Stiles.”
Stiles backed up, but he locked gazes with Peter, and even in the almost dark
he could tell Peter knew what he was doing when he caught hold of his wrist.
Stiles's back hit the wall just as he brought Peter's hand to rest against his
zipper, pressed it down hard.
“Much as I enjoyed our previous encounter, I think I'd prefer not to kneel out
here,” Peter said, his fingers working their way into Stiles's jeans. Stiles
pushed them down, and his cock sprang out, the cool night air across the head
making him gasp out loud. “But if my hand will do, I think we can still make
this work.”
Peter's hand would more than do if the confident way he took hold of Stiles's
cock was anything to judge by. Another first, and if Stiles was doing this, he
was going to do it properly. He took a deep breath and reached for Peter's
zipper, skimmed his other hand up under Peter's jacket, under his shirt.
Peter pressed in closer, keeping the chill off them as well as hiding them from
casual onlookers. He looked down and watched as Peter folded his hand over
Stiles's, wrapped it around both their cocks and began to stroke. He let his
head fall back when Peter moved and his leg pressed between Stiles's knees, and
felt rather than saw this time that Peter's features had shifted, his breath
hot against his neck, his face scratchy with more hair than there should have
been.
“I want to come all over you, Stiles,” Peter murmured into Stiles's ear, making
him shiver. “I want to rub my scent into your skin, smell it there all the
time.”
“That's a werewolf thing, right?” There was something in Stiles that could
definitely go for that sort of thing, but he wasn't sure he'd be up for that
with Peter. It sounded incompatible with the whole 'no strings' scenario, for a
start. Stiles liked the 'no strings' scenario.
“Hmm, maybe,” Peter breathed. “But it's definitely a 'me' thing.”
“I don't even know what my 'me' things are,” Stiles said, and he didn't think
he was imagining the way Peter's hand sped up their movements, the way Peter's
cock leapt and rubbed against his.
“I'd be more than willing to help you find out, Stiles,” Peter said, and leaned
in closer, pressing Stiles hard into the wall as he tightened their grip and
let out a long groan. It only took a few more strokes and Stiles followed Peter
over the edge.
“Oh,” Stiles said, when he could breathe again. This was a thing he was doing,
apparently. A thing he liked doing. With Peter. Denial was officially over,
dead and buried. “Okay. I guess we can do that.”
 
Even though Stiles was fifteen minutes late for the next pre-arranged meeting
at Derek's a couple of weeks later, somehow he was the first one to arrive. The
way Derek sat down next to him at the table made it clear this wasn't an
accident.
“We haven't seen much of you lately,” Derek said, and although there was a
crease that might be the beginning of a frown between his eyebrows, he wasn't
scowling. For a change. He was doing his best to be friendly and approachable,
which for him meant being slightly less growly and scary.
Not that Stiles was scared of Derek any more. It was pretty much impossible
once you'd seen him play werewolf pillow for a sleeping Cora, or watched him
help Scott out at the clinic that time with the litter of abandoned puppies.
“Lots of research to do,” Stiles pointed out, gesturing at the pile of notes
and books in front of him. “I think I'm really onto something with these tree
spirits.” Not that it was going as fast as it might when he was spending half
of his research time having his brain sucked slowly out of his dick by Peter,
but try as he might that wasn't something Stiles could bring himself to regret.
He'd had to revise his previous estimate of Peter's honesty from zero to maybe
one per cent, because he certainly hadn't been lying when he said he had
experience.
“That's good,” Derek said, but there was clearly something else on his mind,
and-- oh god, Stiles had showered four times since he'd left Peter's yesterday,
and surely that was enough. Surely Derek couldn't smell what they'd been up to,
because he'd seen Scott and Isaac already today and there'd been no sign that
they'd been able to. “But we can find another source of information if we have
to. If Peter is... making you uncomfortable.”
Derek looked like he'd rather chew his own arm off than pursue this
conversation any further, and Stiles was right there with him. But Derek was
making an effort, so if he wasn't going to be a dick about it neither was
Stiles.
And Derek was talking to Stiles about it himself, which meant he hadn't gone to
Scott about it as technically he should have. That was... really nice of him,
actually. Because Stiles was in no way ready to have the 'seeing an older guy
that nobody likes and is probably still evil' conversation with anyone closer
to him just yet. He'd mostly been hoping that particular conversation never had
to happen. It wasn't a big deal. Stiles would just have this thing with Peter
so he wasn't heading off to college completely inexperienced, and then when
they weren't thrown together all the time it'd be over.
Simple.
“Um.” Stiles really didn't want to have to explain all of it. Any of it,
really. He had it all under control, after all. “If I promise that he's not
making me do anything I don't want to, can we stop having this unbelievably
excruciating conversation?”
Derek stared at him then, and it occurred to Stiles that Derek had probably not
quite believed his suspicions were true until Stiles admitted it.
“You--” Derek took a deep breath and visibly steeled himself. “I don't know,”
he said, and if Stiles had really been in trouble he'd have been so, so
grateful for the effort Derek was making, but right now this was just-- “You're
seventeen,” he said finally, as if that was the winning argument.
“Seventeen and perpetually horny, yes.” Stiles sighed. “And Peter's there, he's
willing, and bonus – I get to snoop about a bit when he's--” Cleaning himself
up, he didn't say, or taking a nap, because Derek already looked like he was
never going to bleach the images he was getting out of his brain.
“You shouldn't have to do that to spy on him for us,” Derek said, because he
was apparently stuck on Stiles being the innocent victim of the big bad wolf.
“I wouldn't ask that of you, and Scott--”
“Would have a shitfit, absolutely.” If Stiles was having trouble getting the
concept of his willingness to engage in sexual shenanigans with Peter into
Derek's head then he had no hope of convincing Scott. “Look, Peter is up to
something. I found this file he'd tried to hide from me, and-- well, I think
he's responsible for what's been going on in the preserve. You know this is our
best chance of putting a stop to whatever he's up to, I'm the only one that
can.”
Derek was silent for a moment, and Stiles tried to school his expression into
something competent and grown up as Derek's eyes searched his face, looking for
any flicker of doubt there.
“All right,” Derek said at last, and Stiles heaved a sigh of relief. “Show me
what you've got.”
 
Stiles had to admit that having Derek on board was more helpful than he'd
expected. He'd been keeping closer tabs on Peter than Stiles had imagined for a
start.
He'd even remembered Peter's barracuda fishing trip.
“He really went?” Stiles knew there must have been some truth in the story, but
his default was to assume Peter was lying and he'd seen no compelling reason to
change that yet. “He didn't catch them with his teeth though, right?”
“No, Stiles, he caught them with a line, from a boat. Same as everyone else.”
Derek shook his head, as if despairing of Stiles. “He used to go every June in
the old days, same dates as this year.”
“Wasn't this trip then,” Stiles said. “He must have gone again. The dates on
the fish said they were frozen in October, I saw them.”
Derek looked up at him. “You can't catch barracuda off this coast in October,
Stiles.”
Which was why Stiles was sprawled out mostly naked on Peter's bed the following
afternoon, sweaty and sticky with come drying on him everywhere from his hair
to his toes, or so it seemed. Peter was a mess too, but a relaxed, mellow one
for now. Just the way Stiles needed him.
“I'm dead,” Stiles groaned. “If I expire for real, will you bring me back?”
“What's in it for me?” Peter asked, so Stiles kicked him.
“For that you're having the first shower,” Stiles informed him, and nudged him
with a toe. “Go on, off you go.”
Peter always took exactly eleven minutes in the shower, so as soon as Stiles
heard the bathroom door close he was up and moving. When the shower started up
he crept into the utility room and opened up the freezer.
He was right: the top two parcels were both dated October. And Derek was right
too, because the ones underneath were all dated June. Stiles scrabbled for the
opening on the plastic covering one of the October parcels, and-- that was a
surprise. Though perhaps it shouldn't have been.
The parcel contained a long, tapering piece of wood. Not just wood, he
realized, as he felt it almost come alive under his fingers: root. His stomach
lurched as he realized what Peter must have done. He wrapped the length of root
back up in the plastic and laid it back in the freezer, hoping it was in the
same place as before.
His phone said he had two minutes clear to get back to the bedroom, but Stiles
had barely made it out of the utility room before Peter, damp from the shower
but no less menacing when wrapped in just a towel, loomed up before him.
“Stiles?” Peter said, suspicion clear in his voice. “Where have you been?”
Stiles's heart thudded, but he tossed the carton of ice cream he'd been holding
at Peter.
“I brought lunch,” he shrugged, and Peter's face cracked into a grin.
As soon as they'd finished eating, Stiles made his excuses and left. He drove
halfway home to get some distance between himself and Peter, then texted Scott.
The reply came just as he was sliding into his desk chair.
cellar dug out some roots chopped up, howd u kno?
“Because it's always the worst case scenario in good old Beacon Hills, buddy,”
Stiles muttered to himself, and headed right back out to his jeep.
He made it to Derek's in record time, thanked any gods who were listening that
Cora was staying with Lydia for the weekend, and fell through the doors that
opened just as he leaned forward to knock.
“Heard you coming,” Derek smirked, because he was still a dick at heart. It was
some sort of obligatory Hale trait, Stiles was sure of it. If any more were
going to come back from the dead he wanted advance warning so he could get the
hell out of Dodge.
“From all the way over here?” Stiles said, because two could play at that game.
“Sorry dude, I'll try to keep the noise down, but Peter likes to--”
“Stop, Stiles.” Derek looked pained, and Stiles couldn't blame him. If he
wasn't the one getting magnificent orgasms from Peter he wouldn't want to hear
about the man's sex life either. “Please.”
“Okay, well, fun as it is grossing you out,” Stiles said, tipping his bag of
books and notes out on the table next to his laptop. “We have a big, big
problem.”
“The Nemeton, I know.” Derek held up a photo that must have come from Scott,
just as Stiles's phone rang out with a new message alert. “That has to be
Peter's work.”
“Oh, you have no idea how right you are. He's hiding chunks of the root in his
freezer,” Stiles said. “That's why the dates on some of the packages didn't
make any sense.”
“He wants power,” Derek said slowly. “That means a sacrifice. But if he managed
to dig the cellar clear, why wouldn't he just do it there?”
It was a good question. “Because he might get caught?” Stiles suggested. “The
full moon would be the most effective time for a werewolf to perform a
sacrifice, but you'd all be out there.”
Derek shook his head. “We wouldn't go near there unless we were expecting
trouble. Chances are we'd be in the areas the spirits were spotted, and they
were miles away. Maybe he can't get the sacrifice to the Nemeton.”
“So he needs to take the Nemeton to the sacrifice!” Stiles exclaimed. “That
makes sense.”
“He's not as strong as he could be, we know that,” Derek said. “Even on Friday
with the full moon--”
“Friday?” Stiles gulped. How had he not realized that before now? He blamed
Peter for keeping him too distracted with sex, and-- okay, that maybe wasn't
just Peter's fault. “The next full moon is Friday?”
Derek just looked at him, but Stiles could see the realization dawning across
his face.
“Stiles.”
“Derek?” Stiles tapped blindly at a few keys on the laptop, and hoped to god he
wasn't doing anything he couldn't fix later. Friday. Oh holy shit, Friday.
Peter was such a conniving, manipulative little--
“Stiles, do you have plans with Peter on Friday?” Derek's voice was calm now,
but that wasn't going to last.
“I may have possibly had plans,” Stiles said, mentally shuffling through his
top ten list of ways to dispose of bodies so that they'd never be found. He
wanted a really good one for Peter. Memorable. Painful. “But I'm thinking now I
might cancel.”
“I don't even want to ask this.” Derek wasn't kidding, he looked like he'd
rather take a dozen wolfsbane bullets than go where his brain was obviously
taking him. “But you and Peter. Have you--”
“Have we?” Stiles repeated, then realized what Derek meant. “Oh, no. He hasn't,
I mean we haven't-- He wasn't pushing, you know? I might have been pushing just
a little, so he gave in and--”
“Friday.” Derek said.
Stiles let out a deep breath. Of course. On the positive side, at least Peter
probably wasn't planning to kill him, that was something. “Would that even
work?”
“Still a sacrifice,” Derek shrugged. “Still a virgin, still involves...
fluids.” He grimaced again. “Most crazy people just prefer blood, I think. More
dramatic. But one sacrifice wouldn't make him strong enough to get away with
killing you.”
The implied threat might be the nicest Derek had ever been to him. It was
sweet, in a fangy, growly, bloodcurdling sort of way. “Right, because Jennifer
needed a lot more than one.”
Derek's jaw tightened, but he nodded. “He'll be trying to avoid the suspicion
and attention deaths would bring.”
Stiles was silent for a moment. The plan was obvious, but-- did he really still
want to go through with it? “You'll have to keep the others out in the
preserve,” he said eventually. “Convince them to hunt out the spirits, keep
them away from town.” He could do as much as he needed to, he thought. As long
as Scott wasn't there. That would just be-- no.
“Scott and Isaac can do that.” Derek didn't look thrilled about it, but he did
look determined. “You're going to need my help.”
 
Friday, Stiles was quite sure, had never come around so quickly before.
“Candles?” Stiles could take a wild guess they were intended more for ritual
trappings than any desire on Peter's part for a more romantic setting, but
still. It was kind of nice. “Wow.”
Peter stopped in the doorway behind him, and Stiles felt a hand slip up under
his t-shirt, large and warm, surprisingly gentle as always. “Too much?”
“No, it's good.” Except that Peter had him off-balance already, and he needed
to stick to the plan. “Do you have any of that incense? The flowery one, I
liked that.”
“I'd prefer to be able to smell you as you are,” Peter murmured, nuzzling into
his neck. “But I'm glad you trust me.”
“Yeah, don't get carried away,” Stiles muttered, but Peter just laughed. He
waited until he could hear Peter going through his kitchen cupboard for a
burner and the incense, and opened the closet. A quick poke around showed him
nothing out of the ordinary. The bedside cabinet was similarly empty except for
lube, which Stiles pocketed quickly.
He'd just managed to open the window when Peter came back with the burner.
“Don't want to keep you from your full moon,” he said, and Peter looked
surprised. “How does it feel?” he asked, before Peter could get too suspicious.
“The full moon, I mean. You can feel it, right?”
Peter set a match to the charcoal and watched it until it smoldered properly.
“It's difficult to put into words,” he said thoughtfully, and reached for
Stiles's belt. He didn't try to unfasten it for once, just pulled Stiles
closer. “But I'd say it feels something like this.”
Even when Peter's face moved forward, Stiles wasn't expecting the kiss. If he
had, he might have expected something forceful, bruising, passionate. Even with
the way Peter was being tonight he would have expected that, because this was
an act, and he couldn't forget it. Peter was getting something out of this that
wasn't anything to do with Stiles, he knew that. But the kiss was soft, and
Peter's hands holding his face were just there, not pushing or manipulating or
controlling. Stiles opened his mouth without even thinking about it, and kissed
him back. Stiles had kissed a couple more girls and one boy since he turned
seventeen, but none of them had felt anything like this, like there was a
current buzzing under his skin.
“Yes, rather like that,” Peter said when they pulled apart. “The moon cares for
us, but it also makes us more than we are. The full moon just amplifies
everything we feel, everything we can do. It's... exciting.”
For the first time then, Stiles thought maybe it would be worth it to be one of
them. Mostly it was enough to ask questions to satisfy his curiosity, but it
wasn't enough to really understand. He leaned in for another kiss before he let
his mouth run away with him and say so, and Peter didn't seem to mind.
Stiles was all too aware that this wasn't progressing Peter's real plans,
however, so he wasn't surprised when Peter tried to move them towards the bed.
“Do you have everything we need?” Stiles bit his lip, hoping it made him look
nervous and vulnerable. “Condoms? Lube?”
“I can't catch diseases, Stiles, you know that.” Peter pulled open the drawer
of the bedside cabinet. “And I have a new--” He stared down, puzzled, and
Stiles tried to keep his heartbeat steady. He focused on his breathing,
imagined how quiet and still Derek was having to be in whatever niche he'd
found for himself outside Peter's window. Stiles really hoped the incense was
covering any scent.
“Dude, I don't care how many candles you light, nothing is going near my ass
without a gallon or two of lube,” Stiles said firmly. He tried not to fidget
with the tube in his pocket, and hoped Peter couldn't smell that either.
“I thought I left some in here,” Peter said, still looking faintly puzzled. “
But I have more. Don't go away.”
It had been too much to expect Peter would need to make a run to the store, but
Stiles had kind of hoped. It was plan B then, assuming he could find the roots
at all. There were only so many excuses that would get Peter out of the room
when he was so close to getting Stiles into his bed for his insane power-
seeking ritual. Huh. The bed. Stiles ducked down on a sudden inspiration, and
there, there they were. Two long, tapering sections of root, dark and still
chilly to the touch from the freezer.
They were heavy too, and it took all of Stiles's strength to get them to the
window and pass them to Derek. The replacements weren't as convincing as Stiles
would like, but if Peter just glanced under the bed then the shadows should
disguise any differences.
“I can carry you down,” Derek whispered, when Stiles had everything arranged.
Which was ridiculous, when he had to carry two insanely heavy lumps of tree
already. “You don't need to stay.”
“No time,” Stiles mouthed back, and he ducked inside again just in time to pull
his t-shirt off as Peter walked back in the room.
“I really could have sworn--” Peter started, but Stiles had plenty of ways to
distract Peter by now, and he was prepared to use every single one if he had
to. It didn't take much. Stiles took the lube from him and set it down on the
bed, then started undoing Peter's shirt buttons. His belt went next, but it
wasn't until Stiles went for his jeans that Peter stirred himself to join in.
“You always manage to surprise me,” Peter murmured, and Stiles had to hide a
smile at that, pushing his face into Peter's legs as he helped him step out of
his jeans.
“I try,” Stiles shrugged, and let Peter push him down on the bed.
Peter's hands smoothed their way over his chest and down his sides, and
although his face was human, there was a flash of blue in his eyes when he
moved his face down to Stiles's crotch. Stiles couldn't help bucking his hips
when Peter's teeth took hold of his zipper and pulled it down easily; his dick
had fond memories of having that mouth in its vicinity, and Stiles wasn't
responsible for it getting ideas at this point.
It was getting the right idea, as it turned out. “You need to relax,” Peter
told him, in between trying to kill Stiles with his mouth. “Let yourself come.
You're a teenager, you'll be able to have another orgasm before I've managed
one.”
And by that time Derek would be lurking outside, no doubt. Stiles was wishing
he'd shut the window now.
“We have lube,” Stiles grumbled. “If that's not going to relax me enough,
what's the use of it? Just fuck me before I give up and go home.”
“So demanding,” Peter sighed, but Stiles could see him smirk against his
stomach. Then his stomach was up in the air, and his legs dangling over Peter's
shoulders, and this was so not what he'd signed up for.
“Oh, stop squealing,” Peter told him. “You're the one who wanted to get on with
it. Young people today have no appreciation for taking things slow.”
“You do know that makes you sound like my grandpa, right?” Stiles regretted
thinking of his grandfather when Peter's lubed-up finger breached him a moment
later. Peter's face said he knew exactly what was going through Stiles's mind,
and his timing had been no accident. “I hate you,” Stiles said, but Peter's
grin just grew wider.
“I don't think you hate me, Stiles,” he said conversationally, adding another
finger. “I don't think you'd be here if you did.” He twisted his fingers and
Stiles gasped, because holy fuck, that was good. “This isn't like getting a
quick hand job in an alley, now, is it?”
God, the tiny part of Stiles's brain that wasn't focused on what Peter was
doing with his fingers really hoped Derek wasn't back yet.
“It's not like closing your eyes and letting just anyone suck you off.” Peter
buried his face in Stiles's neck for a moment and took a deep breath. Stiles
could feel something that wasn't his fingers hot and damp against his ass now,
and he was surprised that he didn't have any real urge to leap off the bed and
run, but he didn't. He wanted to do this; he wanted to do it with Peter, even,
for some reason he was going to have to explore later. “I'm going to put part
of my body inside yours. Do you think there's anything more intimate than
that?”
“I think it's as intimate as you want it to be,” Stiles said, because he wasn't
an idiot. He'd had an internet connection and a healthy, if virginal, libido
for a long time. But Peter smiled like he'd said something profound.
“Exactly,” Peter said, and pushed inside.
It was the strangest sensation, his body opening up to allow Peter inside. It
was nothing like fingers, nothing like his own, or even Peter's when he'd been
opening him up. When Stiles fingered himself, it was fascinating how his body
did his best to push them back out, but that wasn't happening now. Peter wasn't
pushing hard, wasn't forcing anything; it was just relentless, slow pressure
that felt like it went on forever, like it would never reach the end. Like
Peter would burrow his way into Stiles and stay there, find a place to hide.
“Good boy,” Peter whispered to him, and Stiles hadn't even noticed his face
come so close. He realized he was breathing shallowly, felt the sweat cooling
on his skin. “I knew you'd be special,” he said, which was ridiculous. Peter
was ridiculous. Stiles was just Stiles, special only to his Dad and hopefully
Scott, ignored by the vast majority of even his peers. He thought he might have
said something along those lines, but Peter still kissed the side of Stiles's
nose, the corner of his mouth. Never his lips, which Stiles knew were vibrating
with labored efforts of his lungs.
Peter's hands stroked up and down his legs, over his hips, and the touch was
soothing, grounding. Stiles blinked up at him, and Peter ran a finger over his
lips then, just lightly.
“There you are,” Peter said, and “I'm going to move now, just--” and there it
was again, he rocked into that spot he'd found with his fingers. “--there.”
Stiles urged Peter to do it again, and again, and his hands gripped Peter's
arms where they braced above him, setting the pace of Peter's thrusts inside
him. He came once, but barely even registered it beyond the hot splatter that
flew across his ribs, he was so caught up in the rhythm, and felt himself
growing hard again when Peter moved and his thrusts became deeper, harder,
faster.
“Stiles,” Peter murmured, and his eyes flashed blue beneath his lashes as he
groaned and let his head fall onto Stiles's chest. “Stiles.”
“Can you--?” Stiles managed, and Peter lifted his head, watched Stiles bite his
lip as he moved, nudged his cock this way and that to find-- Stiles's eyes flew
open wide and Peter slipped a hand down between them, took a firm hold on
Stiles's cock and thrust-stroked, thrust-stroked until Stiles sighed and
spurted across Peter's fingers.
It was nice, lying there with a warm body on him, inside him, heart beating
wildly against his. There was nothing wrong with enjoying it for a few minutes,
or however long it lasted. He heard a jingle from his phone then, but he didn't
move to answer it. It wasn't the sort of message that needed a reply. Stiles
watched Peter stretch above him, felt him pull out, leaving Stiles damp and
sticky, and with a sadness he hadn't expected. And then, as he realized part of
him had hoped wouldn't happen, he watched Peter lean down over the side of the
bed.
“I wouldn't bother,” Stiles said. He reached for the tissues, but god, he was a
mess. A shower was probably going to be out of the question here, but maybe
Derek would let him use his before he went home. There was no way he was
walking in his front door like this.
“What?” Peter said, but his arm stilled for a moment. He turned his head, and
although Stiles felt calm, calmer than he had any right to be at that moment,
he knew his heart must have given him away. “Stiles, what have you done?”
“You can wipe that hand all over those pieces of wood under there if you like.”
Stiles gave up the tissues as a bad job and reached for his jeans instead. “Do
whatever sacrifice-y jizz ritual stuff you like with them. But nice as it was,
I don't think there's ever been anything magical about the legs from Derek's
table.”
Peter growled then, and snatched the closest piece of wood out from under the
bed.
“I'd think very carefully before you do anything with that,” Stiles said. He
turned his t-shirt the right way out and pulled it on over his head. “Derek is
outside now, and the others aren't all that far away. You know they won't let
you get away if you hurt me.”
“If I hurt you,” Peter said, but Stiles wasn't going to listen. He couldn't
afford to get sucked back in, not now.
“You need to leave,” he said, as he pulled on his shoes. His fingers shook as
he tied the laces, but his voice was still steady. “Go tonight, and they won't
stop you.”
“Well.” Stiles risked a glance over to the other side of the bed, and Peter was
staring. Not at him, though. His gaze was fixed on the window. “Thank you for
that, I suppose.”
Stiles walked out of the door, down the stairs and onto the street, all the way
expecting footsteps to come up behind him, stop him getting away with this. Or
even... no, Peter wasn't deluded enough to ask Stiles to go with him, even if
he'd wanted anything of the sort. Peter had been using him, plain and simple;
it was ridiculous to even consider anything else.
The only footsteps that joined his were Derek's, and they stayed in step with
him all the way back to his jeep.
 
Eight months later
College. Sometimes Stiles thought this was what he'd been waiting for his whole
life. A whole new city that was his to explore, to learn, to grow to love, or
at least that was the plan. His mom had always talked about her college days
with a fire that had inspired him even when he was too young to really grasp
what was involved
The first few days were a flurry of socials, settling in and getting to know
the neighbors on his floor. His roommate was the last to arrive, and promptly
went off to meet up with 'some friends from back home' that lived off-campus.
Stiles had the feeling he wasn't going to see very much of him, which suited
him just fine.
Since they were starting lectures on a Tuesday, his first turned out to be
Mythology and Folklore 101, which really, Stiles had put down just to give him
a lie in one morning a week. If he couldn't pass that course without skipping a
few classes, there was no hope for him at all. It seemed bad form to skip out
on the first lecture of his college career though, so he dutifully rolled out
of his bed, noted the continued absence of his roommate, and made his way over
to Parson Hall.
He grinned as he ran up the steps, because this was it. He was a real college
student, and this was just the beginning. He smiled and nodded at a couple of
faces from his floor he recognized, holding the door open for them when he
realized they were heading the same way.
“And there's more!” he heard a voice say from inside the room. A voice that
made him freeze where he stood, with his arm outstretched. A red-haired girl
gave him an odd look as she passed him, but he couldn't care about that right
now. “You know, I was half expecting an empty room,” the voice continued. “But
it looks like your professor will have to start earning his pay this morning
after all.”
There was a smattering of laughter, and footsteps that grew louder, echoing in
Stiles's ears until they came to a halt right in front of him.
“Do come in, Mr Stilinski,” Peter said, his polite smile turning predatory as
he looked Stiles up and down. “I think you'll enjoy this class a great deal.
We're going to start with the history of werewolves."
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