Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1144601.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Peter_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski, implied_one-sided_Stiles_Stilinski/Derek
      Hale
  Character:
      Peter_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      Consensual, First_Time, Bottom!Peter
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-01-20 Words: 3872
****** left to my own devices ******
by rain_of_stars
Summary
     "Coming here at two in the morning to escape boredom is a horrible
     idea. What were you going to do if I was asleep, watch me breathe
     until the sun came up?”
     Peter gives him a half-shadowed smirk and raises an eyebrow. Stiles
     stares in disbelief. “How is it possible that you haven’t gotten
     arrested yet?”
     Stiles can't sleep. Peter has a few suggestions.
Notes
     This fic has changed significantly since I first thought of it,
     because I am apparently incapable of writing both angry sex and PWPs.
     I am not opposed to writing more, though, if people want it.
     Set a week or two after 3A but before 3B. Title is from Pompeii by
     Bastille.
He can’t sleep. He’s usually not asleep at 2 AM anyways – too busy digging into
archives or finishing one more level or running from things intent on ripping
him limb from limb – but this time he really can’t sleep. Every time his head
hits the pillow he just stares into the darkness, feeling it crushing him,
slowly suffocating him, like being smothered by the world’s softest pillow. And
then the whispering starts, just beyond the edge of actual sound, and he’s
afraid that if he closes his eyes he’ll find another pair staring back at him.
So he’s doing research instead. He might as well do something useful with his
insomnia. Their current problem is dryads – specifically, those living in the
trees that Jennifer Blake did her sacrifices on. Apparently the blood splashing
over their roots gave them a taste for the stuff. Stiles could have happily
spent the rest of his life without seeing the mess of blood and flesh and hair
that remains after a dryad tries to drag a human into a tree. And as if that
wasn’t enough, they seem to have decided that Scott’s pack was responsible for
the current state of the Nemeton.
Stiles wonders what a dryad Nemeton would look like as he scans the tiny and
badly formatted text. Some sort of woman as scarred as Jennifer, perhaps. Her
bark-like skin twisted and gashed enough for the bones to poke out. Slithering
her root-fingers into him and Scott and Allison, tightening them round his
frantically beating heart-
The sound of the window being pushed open snaps him back to reality and he
thinks Derek with an almost involuntary relief. He hadn’t thought he’d miss the
grumpy werewolf quite this much, but Derek had been pretty much a constant
since Scott got turned and it was weird knowing he wasn’t out there, somewhere,
to be begged and cajoled and blackmailed into helping if things got really bad.
Stiles had composed a dozen texts but deleted them before he could send them.
Everything sounded too needy or begging or just trying too hard.
Derek didn’t need to know that, though.
“You know, you could have picked a better time for your little family bonding
road trip,” Stiles says, casually stretching as he swivels around in his chair.
“We’re kind of lacking in wolfy back-up. I mean, we’ve got the twins, but
they’re just not the -”
He cuts off in mid-sentence as he registers the figure standing there. Shorter
than Derek, and lighter. A v-neck shirt. Brown hair.
Peter.
The werewolf raises an eyebrow. “You could always call me.”
“Maybe if I wanted to get stabbed in the back,” Stiles answers automatically.
Peter smiles. “I’m not in the habit of wasting allies.”
“Okay, no, you’re not even at the level of trustworthy resource yet, don’t go
upgrading your status like that without my consent,” Stiles says. “And why are
you even here? Aren’t you supposed to be howling at the moon or scheming or
something?” A thought occurs to him and his stomach clenches. “Oh god, did they
get someone else?”
“Yes, there was a horrible triple murder, as you can tell by nonexistent blood
spatters on my clothes and the complete lack of screaming,” Peter says,
deadpan. He rolls his eyes. “No one’s dead, although they might be if you keep
dragging your feet over it. This is more of a social visit.”
Stiles is about to retort that he can just be the one who gets chased by a
crazy tree-girl with an axe next time when his ears catch up with his brain.
“You’re making social calls at two in the morning?”
“Mmm. Actually I was bored and needed some entertainment, but that’s the usual
extent of my social interaction,” Peter says, scrutinizing the network of
clippings tacked to Stiles’ walls. “Does Derek know you’ve got every article
about his arrests put up here under ‘Sourwolf’?”
“Yes,” Stiles lies. “And coming here at two in the morning to escape boredom is
a horrible idea. What were you going to do if I was asleep, watch me breathe
until the sun came up?”
Peter gives him a half-shadowed smirk and raises an eyebrow. Stiles stares in
disbelief. “How is it possible that you haven’t gotten arrested yet?” he comes
up with at last.
“Probably because I tend to carry out my business while shifted,” Peter says
contemplatively. He traces a few of the lines across the wall. “You may have
been able to get your father to accept the existence of werewolves, but the
courts are a bit harder to convince.”
“Well, yeah,” Stiles concedes. “But I was talking more about your general air
of sexual predator creepiness.”
Peter’s grin deepens. “Fortunately for me, it’s not actually a crime to incite
lust in teenage boys.”
“Wow, not even going there,” Stiles says, ignoring the sudden spike in his
heart rate. He turns back to the computer, despite every instinct screaming at
him not to turn his back on the predator in the room. “Seriously, my room is
the last place to come for fun. I don’t come to my room for fun. Not since the
supernatural freight train hit Beacon Hills.” He gestures to the conspiracy-
theorist web of information on his walls. “Go stalk the late-night hipsters at
that coffee place in your building. Or, here’s an idea, go find some of those
vicious, murdering tree people, I’m sure you’ll have a lot to talk about.”
Silence. Not the comfortable kind or the sullen, one-upped kind, Stiles
realizes as the hairs on the back of his neck slowly rise, but the kind that
falls when a hunter sees his prey practically wander into his lap.
“I never told you where my apartment was.”
Stiles’ heart jumps. “I just – thought I’d look it up,” he says, voice a little
too high. He coughs. “I mean – someone should know where everybody lives, in
case of – things,” he finishes lamely. “You know, keep your friends close-”
“And your enemies closer,” Peter says, and how is he already right there. He’s
crossed the floor from the collection of Derek articles tacked up near Stiles’
headboard (because it was convenient, shut up) and is practically breathing
down Stiles’ neck, or he would be if Stiles hadn’t turned to face him and ended
up with a gorgeous faceful of abs. Not good. Definitely not good. “And which
one am I, Stiles?”
Peter’s blue eyes bore into Stiles and he swallows. “An annoyance,” he says,
struggling to find safer ground. “Did you randomly show up to annoy Derek and
Cora too? You totally did, didn’t you,” he accuses as Peter rolls his eyes and
steps back a pace. “I wondered why you were always hanging around the loft.”
“For your information, Derek gave me an open invitation to the place,” Peter
says dryly. “I just chose to interpret that more… liberally than he did.”
“Did that open invitation sound something like ‘don’t come anywhere near me
unless there are other people actively trying to kill me’?”
“Possibly,” Peter admits. “But that’s hardly rare around here. Especially for
him.” He shakes his head in mock chagrin. “You’d think he would appreciate my
offering to help.”
“Yeah, because criticizing every move he makes and sharing stories about his
dead girlfriend is so helpful,” Stiles says pointedly. “I thought you lived
there until you told me otherwise, and then it was just weird. I’d almost think
you were doing it for the company or-”
Stiles stops as the pieces come together in his head, because oh.
“You wanted pack. You were lonely,” he breathes.
Peter freezes by the wall. His shoulders stiffen. “Hardly. I was there to make
sure no one got it into their heads to kill me again. My nephew doesn’t have a
track record of making the best decisions.”
“You know that just makes you sound more guilty,” Stiles declares, enjoying the
hell out of the newfound chink in Peter’s armor. It was far too rare that he
got a chance to give back what he got. “Holy crap, you’re like that kid in Home
Alone, aren’t you? They left without you and now you’re lonely. That’s why
you’re here. They just up and left you and they didn’t even care-”
“You’re one to talk,” Peter sneers back suddenly. His eyes flash and his hands
flex like he’s trying to keep in his claws. “Lydia chose an alpha despite every
warning you tried to give her and Scott deserted you for the alpha pack. Derek
and Cora left you without even a goodbye. You’re the one left cowering behind
your research and smashed weapons because no matter what you do, you’re human
and helpless and they don’t even care enough to come see if you’re losing your
mind.”
The words land like a punch to the gut and it takes a long few seconds for
Stiles to draw in breath past the hurt. “Fuck you,” he says with as much venom
as he can manage, and turns away.
He doesn’t see the words on the screen for several minutes as the bitterness
swirls inside him. Because they haven’t come by. Lydia has been nursing Aiden
back to health (and how much care does a werewolf need, anyway?) and Scott’s
been busy dividing his time between homework and saving lives. Allison and
Isaac have been drifting into their own little world. And Derek…
Stiles clicks several links viciously and at random, ignoring the thick silence
behind him. Derek obviously doesn’t care about a place that holds so many bad
memories. It’s not like he had people left who cared about him. It’s not like
he had friends.
“I’d like that.”
Stiles blinks and finds that he’s looking at an article on Persephone. “What?”
he asks, turning around.
There’s an expression on Peter’s face that’s as close to wistful as Stiles has
ever seen. It’s quickly masked by the usual cocky amusement, and Peter shrugs
and starts to take his shirt off. “It’s fine with me. Certainly a good way to
pass the time. I understand that the first time is often a little nerve-
wracking and you might like a little more control. It’s been a while since I’ve
bottomed, but I’d be more than happy to if it gets you-”
“Whoa, slow down, what? Stop taking your clothes off!” he says, because Peter
has kicked off his shoes and is going for the top button of his jeans.
Peter stops and looks up at him, raising an eyebrow. “Can’t say I’ve often had
that reaction.”
“Okay, this is so not about your ego right now,” Stiles says, starting to get
up to move farther away from Peter and sitting back down as he realizes any
movement would just bring him closer. “Would you just – people don’t usually
apologize with sex. At least, not outside of porn. And not to me. Not that I
would mind, particularly-”
“You think I’m apologizing?” Peter interrupts, all offended pride.
Stiles pauses. “Yeah, you’re right, that would require you to have some degree
of empathy. I take it back.”
Peter shoots him a dirty look and then sighs, his shoulders dropping. “As much
as you hate to believe it, sometimes I really am capable of having no ulterior
motive other than getting laid.”
“Now that I don’t believe in the slightest, but – supposing I did,” Stiles
says, ignoring a warning growl from the werewolf. “Supposing you’re just horny
and not saying sorry in a really kinky way.” He spreads his hands. “Why me?”
This time both eyebrows go up and Peter studies him for a minute. “You’re
joking,” he says eventually.
Stiles glares.
Peter’s brow furrows. “You’re not joking.” He runs a hand through his hair and
regards Stiles with a serious expression. “Well. Despite your occasional bouts
of dim-wittedness and your tendency to dress in clothes that fit you like a
linebacker’s hand-me-downs, you’re still one of the few people in this town who
are both intelligent and attractive enough to interest me. Faced with an alpha,
you fight back; faced with a problem, you find a solution. Those are all parts
of it. But if you’re asking why tonight-”
Peter steps towards him and Stiles tenses. “Maybe you were right about why I
came here,” Peter says, low and intimate. “But I’m not the only one here in
need of… company. Am I?”
There’s just enough light from the computer screen to highlight Peter’s
features, all angles and curves and shadows. His eyes aren’t glowing blue but
they might as well be with the way they focus on Stiles, holding his gaze.
Stiles tries to look anywhere else and finds his gaze sliding over the smooth
muscle of Peter’s shoulders. His chest. The cut-outs of his hips disappearing
beneath the still-unbuttoned jeans. He aches to reach out and trace those
lines, his body warring between desire and caution.
A low sound reaches his ears and he looks up to see Peter staring at him
hungrily. Stiles can’t pretend he wasn’t looking, but the words to say yes or
no just won’t come. He stares at Peter, his breathing heavy in his ears,
wishing he could move.
Peter takes a small step forward and picks up his wrist, rubbing it with a
thumb. “Stiles,” he says. Soft the way he isn’t, ever. “Please.”
Stiles’ paralysis cracks and he hears himself say “Yeah, okay,” as he stands up
and takes Peter’s other hand. They’re almost the same height, and he stores
that fact away to be smug about later as he leans forward and kisses the older
man.
It’s scratchier than he thought it would be, which is annoying, but Peter’s
lips are soft, and he parts them readily as Stiles probes deeper. Heat pools in
Stiles’ gut as he tastes coffee and something metallic. He doesn’t know where
to put his hands. He settles for one cupping the back of Peter’s neck and one
resting lightly on his waist. Peter has no such compunctions, and Stiles yelps
as both hands grab his ass.
Peter’s grin is lecherous as Stiles pulls back to glare at him. “You’re wearing
too many clothes,” he points out, toying with the hem of Stiles’ shirt.
“I thought I was supposed to be the one grabbing your ass,” Stiles says as he
quickly strips off the offending clothing.
“Too slow,” Peter says, divesting himself of his jeans and catching Stiles in
another kiss as he takes off his boxers. Stiles moans into Peter’s mouth as he
feels the heat of their erections separated by a thin layer of fabric. He’s
getting harder by the minute, and Peter is nothing but encouraging, all licks
and nips and wandering hands.
He breaks for air, taking in deep breaths as Peter comments, “You know, there
is a bed right here. Not that wall sex doesn’t have its charms, but I’d
probably be the one holding you up.”
Stiles opens his mouth to retort and catches the glint in Peter’s eye. Despite
his admirable attempt to sound cool and collected, his pupils are wider than
the low light of the room accounts for and his breathing is quick and ragged.
Stiles takes in a last gulp of air and straightens his shoulders. “Yeah? You
got any ideas as to how we can put it to better use?” He puts an arm around
Peter’s waist and starts to maneuver him towards the bed.
Peter’s smile tells him he’s on the right track. “A few,” he says, and kisses
the boy again as he pulls Stiles down on top of him.
They keep making out as Peter wriggles out of his boxers and takes both of them
in hand. A wave of pleasure rolls through Stiles and he gasps, rolling his
hips. Peter works his hand back and forth, and it’s a little dry and a
different rhythm but the friction is so much better than anything Stiles has
felt before.
A thought occurs to him and he pulls back. “Wait, I’ve got some-” he says,
scrabbling for his nightstand drawer. Peter wordlessly accepts the bottle of
lube he brings out and Stiles hears the pop of a cap as he feels around for the
other item he bought surreptitiously at a convenience store.
“Okay, got it,” he says, locating the foil packet and holding it up
triumphantly. Peter looks at the condom and frowns. “What?” Stiles asks self-
consciously. “I practice safe sex.”
Peter sighs. “If you want. But you do know that werewolves can’t catch or carry
sexual diseases, and I can hardly get pregnant.”
“No, actually, I must have missed the part of sex ed where they taught us about
supernatural creatures,” Stiles says, nettled. Peter says nothing, and Stiles
wavers before dropping the packet back into the drawer.
“I’m taking your word for this,” he warns Peter as he straddles the man’s hips.
“A bad idea in general, but I’ll try to keep from stretching the truth
tonight,” Peter says.
Stiles groans as a hundred dirty jokes flood through his mind. “You did that on
purpose,” he accuses, and the son of a bitch actually laughs.
Stiles gives him a kiss to the neck for that, sucking and biting hard enough to
leave a mark that should take a few minutes to fade. He’s momentarily
disappointed that the hickey won’t last when Peter groans quietly and he
realizes that Peter’s hand is busy somewhere below him. “Are you-” Stiles says,
sitting back.
Peter’s lube-covered fingers are already working him open, and Stiles watches,
mesmerized. He touches his hand and Peter stops. “I could-” Stiles says. “I
could help.”  He swallows. “I mean, if you’d let me.”
Peter nods. “Be my guest,” he murmurs, and lays back, spreading his legs wider.
The lube bottle is laying on the side of the bed, and Stiles uses a bit more on
his own hand for safety’s sake. Then he cautiously presses two fingers in. It’s
hot and slick and so tight – Peter wasn’t lying when he said it had been a
while. Stiles might be his first since the fire, and the thought makes his dick
throb. He takes a deep breath and pushes in further, searching for the spot
that will make Peter fall apart.
If the way Peter suddenly clutches at the bed and moans is any indication, he’s
found it. Stiles grins and starts scissoring his fingers. He takes his time,
finding out exactly what movements produce which needy, breathless sounds from
the man.
“If you don’t get on with it, I’m going to leave you with a case of blue balls
that lasts for weeks,” Peter snarls, gripping the bedsheets like he wishes they
were Stiles’ neck.
Or he could just go ahead and fuck Peter.
“Okay, point taken,” Stiles says, withdrawing his fingers. Peter steals a
pillow to slide under his hips as Stiles slicks himself up, shaky with nerves
and excitement. He has a feeling this might be embarrassingly brief.
“Ready?” he asks, positioning himself at Peter’s entrance.
“Yes,” Peter says, and Stiles has to look away from the heat and possession in
those eyes. Instead, he pushes his way in.
Peter makes a sort of happy sigh, which Stiles considers incredible because
he’s holding his breath and trying not to come on the first thrust. He’s pretty
sure he can feel Peter’s heartbeat through the warmth and slickness surrounding
him and it’s intimate in a way he hadn’t even considered. He takes several
shuddering breaths.
A hand lands on his waist and squeezes lightly. “Stiles?” Peter asks.
Stiles shakes his head at the unasked question. “I’m fine,” he says, and dares
a slight thrust of the hips, sending a wave of pleasure through him. “Oh yeah.
Good, actually. Really good.”
Peter grins and pulls on Stiles’ waist. “It gets better.”
It takes a few awkward minutes to get better, in fact, Stiles working out where
he should be and where Peter’s legs should be and how to keep a steady rhythm,
Peter murmuring encouragement the whole time, which adds another dimension of
the surreal to the whole thing. But the problems get dealt with, and then it’s
just skin on slick skin, his breathing hard and fast and pleasure reaching a
new peak at each moment. Peter’s back arches as he meets each thrust, stroking
himself in time. His low moans drive Stiles ever faster until he’s teetering at
the brink.
Stiles steals a glance at Peter and realizes that his eyes are shut, a look of
ecstasy on his face. Suddenly, irrationally, he needs Peter to look at him, to
acknowledge that this is between the two of them and not whatever fantasy he’s
picturing. “Hey,” he says. “Peter, look at me.”
The man doesn’t respond. Stiles grasps his shoulder, giving an extra hard
thrust. “Peter!”
Peter’s eyes snap open, and Stiles gets a glimpse of that startling blue before
he’s coming, hard, and he hears Peter groan and feels wetness splash his
stomach and for some reason it seems like the most logical thing to lean
forward and bite Peter on the shoulder, right on that swell of muscle between
arm and neck. Then the moment is over.
Stiles’ arms give up any pretense of strength and he half-slides, half-
collapses onto Peter’s chest. Peter nudges him off after a few panting breaths,
and Stiles lets him, pulling out on the way. He can’t see much – his computer
must have finally gone into sleep mode - and his body is soaking in the
afterglow, but he thinks he sees Peter prop himself up and touch the bite with
a kind of reverence. “That,” he says, loses his thought, tries again. “Didn’t
mean to. I think. Sorry.”
A hand brushes through his hair. “You don’t need to be.”
The bedsprings creak noisily as Peter shifts and gets up, padding across the
room to the door. Stiles squints against the flare of the hall light. Then the
door shuts again and Stiles is left in darkness.
He dozes off without meaning to and startles awake to find Peter cleaning off
his stomach with a damp washcloth. Peter presses a kiss to the skin when he’s
done, giving Stiles a funny tight feeling. He feels the presence move away and
hears the rustle of cloth. “Don’t use the door,” Stiles says, yawning.
Peter’s outline pauses. “I wasn’t planning on leaving just yet.”
Stiles blinks. “What’re you going to do, then?”
The sound of a chair being moved across carpet. The creak of a man’s weight
settling into it.
“Watch you breathe until the sun comes up.”
Stiles laughs at that and thinks he hears a soft chuckle in return. The idea
doesn’t bother him any more, somehow. “Fine. For tonight. Just don’t let my dad
catch you.”
“Mm,” Peter says in agreement. He pulls the sheet up to cover Stiles. “Sleep
tight.”
The darkness of the room is just darkness. No voices whisper to him; no roots
writhe at corner of his vision. He knows it won’t last, but Peter’s presence
seems to have driven out the rest of his demons.
“Night,” he says to Peter, and slips at last into a blessedly dreamless sleep.
 
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