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The Problem With Portals

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“Oh, hey, Peter, I didn't expect to see you here.” Stiles is clearly caught off balance but trying to hide it, combing an awkward hand through hair too short to be in disarray.

Peter puts on his most charming smile and turns on his heel to face the boy. “Not to worry, Stiles. Here to see Derek, are you? He'll be along shortly, no doubt. Do come in.”

“I'm just here to do homework, actually,” he mumbles, walking uncertainly through the door. “Uh... everything okay?”

“Peachy, peachy. Although... I do have one teensy problem you may be able to help me with. A research issue. Not violent at all.” He smiles wider, making sure to keep his eyes relaxed and his teeth covered.

“Sure. I mean... what is it?”

Peter opens his mouth to answer, but before he can, a clatter of footsteps steals Stiles' attention and the boy swivels to look up the stairs, attention and wariness in every [taut] line of his body. Safely hidden behind Stiles' back, Peter rolls his eyes and sighs in exasperation.

“I thought that was company I heard!” The intruding voice is bright and cheerful, brimming with false ignorance. “Aren't you going to introduce us?”

Stiles spins around, looking between the two men with wide, disbelieving eyes. “Peter—Peter?”

“Ah, yes, Stiles. This is the research problem I was just telling you about. Research Problem, this is Stiles.”

* * *

“Peter, don't be rude,” the man chides, two-thirds down the staircase now. He jumps lightly over the remaining steps to land in front of Stiles, just slightly too close for comfort, smiling wide and toothy and holding out his hand to shake. “Peter Hale.”

“Stiles Stilinski,” he says faintly, taking Peter's hand.

The new Peter—younger, definitely, beardless and smooth-skinned and without the desperate, wild anger shifting restlessly beneath his skin that regular Peter is only 98% successful at hiding—bends low over Stiles' hand to kiss it, murmuring “Charmed, I'm sure,” into the skin in a way that can't possibly be appropriate under any standards of etiquette. Stiles swallows, and swallows again, unable to think of anything to say that wouldn't be fatally embarrassing.

New Peter springs back to his feet, calling to Peter over his shoulder, eyes never leaving Stiles' face. “Oh, he's adorable. Listen to that little heartbeat! Can we keep him?”

“Moon above,” Peter grumbles. “Getting rid of him is the hard part.”

New Peter chuckles, low and dirty, and takes a step towards Stiles. “I don't know if I would say that, Peter. There's no need to be rude, is there?”

Stiles swallows a third time, throat clicking loudly in the quiet loft, and walks backward until he comes up hard against kitchen cabinets. He holds up both hands in a doomed attempt to protect his personal space and finally speaks. “What the hell is going on here, Peter?”

“Let. Me,” Peter hisses when New Peter moves to speak. New Peter acquiesces and Peter slinks forward, his bunching muscles somehow flowing like water—not close enough to threaten, but close enough to set a half-pleasant-half-squirming heat burning through Stiles' belly. “I have made mistakes, Stiles. I have made mistakes, and Derek has made mistakes, and the Argents—they have made the most mistakes of all. They are not mistakes I can bring myself to forgive, but I can fix them. Or so I thought.” A pointed glare at New Peter, who had been creeping closer again. “So I went to a certain market, I purchased a certain scroll, and I opened a portal.”

“A portal?”

“Yes, a portal. Do keep up. The portal was intended to bring me to a few months before the fire, when I could tell Talia what Derek had been up to when he was meant to be at swim practice. When I could do to the Argents what they did to us.” And yes, there's the murderous glint Peter can usually keep in check. “So I did the ritual, I burnt the scroll, and this fucking whippersnapper burst through the portal before I had time to go back myself. The portal snapped shut, you showed up, here we are. So now I need your help finding a spell that will send him back where he came from, and me to where I had intended to go in the first place.”

“Woah, my dude-”

“Don't-”

“-that may be a tiiiny bit beyond my abilities. Have you talked to Deaton?”

The werewolves scoff in unison.

“Have you thought about maybe going back to the market you went to before?”

Peter rolls his eyes in a way that can only be described as unnecessary. “It was a fae market; it won't be reachable from our plane for years, at least.”

“Impatient,” New Peter tuts.

“Come now, Stiles. Be reasonable. You can barely stand having one of me around; surely you don't want to suffer through two of us.”

* * *

“Or maybe,” Peter purrs directly into Stiles' ear, “you could think of me as less of an extraneous Peter Hale and more of an... improvement on the old Peter Hale.” He trails light fingertips up the thin skin of the human's wrist and then—when the boy shudders adorably, choking back a moan—flicks out his claws and does it again.

He can just hear the eyeroll in Old Peter's voice when he speaks. “Fucksake, do you really intend on seducing the boy to your side?”

“Don't knock it if it ain't broke,” Stiles slurs, pulse pounding under the soft drag of Peter's lips.

“Honestly, Peter, I can't believe you didn't think to try this first. The boy's obviously gagging for it, and he smells as sweet as—well, there's no need to get into cliches just yet.” He smirks, locking eyes with Old Peter as he licks a firm stripe up the side of Stiles' throat.

Old Peter heaves an aggrieved sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose. “He's also the sheriff's son. Do you have any-”

“Well, now. That certainly sounds like it could be a big big problem for whichever Peter ends up staying in Beacon Hills.”

Stiles grins dopily and pushes backward into Peter's grip. He's taller, but narrower, and folds himself up small and rubs his head against Peter's neck, eyes fluttering closed. “I finally found a Peter who will fuck me,” he sing-songs smugly. “Right, nice Peter?”

Peter kisses the side of Stiles' head while making constant eye contact with his future-self. “That's right, sweetheart. Old Peter wouldn't fuck you?”

“He's mean.”

“He's an idiot.” The boy gasps prettily at teeth on his neck but explodes with a broken moan when Peter reaches for his fly. “He never touched you here at all, did he?”

Stiles is obviously having trouble stringing two words together but soldiers stubbornly on. “He said if he was the first person I dated we'd break up for sure.”

“I guess since he's so insistent I go back, I won't have to worry about that.” Stiles has a button fly, and Peter has two of them open.

* * *

“Fuck it,” Peter hisses and closes the distance in one step, his hands under Stiles' shirt and his lips closing over Stiles' open mouth. Stiles groans and pushes forward into Peter's kiss, half-pliant and half-belligerent.

And then Stiles is gone, his nose rubbing against velvet-shorn hair. Not good. But then again, a surprisingly plush ass squirms into him and that—very good.

“Which Peter kisses better, baby?” New Peter asks directly into Stiles' mouth, smarmy and trying to be sly.

“Oh, umm... I don't know yet.” And Stiles twists around again, snugs right into Peter's chest and chases his own kiss this time, a little clumsy and a lot eager. His tongue darts into Peter's mouth and right back out again, daring a chase.

Peter takes the dare.

In a second, he has Stiles in the air, legs around his waist and both hands down the back of Stiles' loosened pants. In two seconds, he's halfway up the stairs.

* * *

“I can't believe you got my sex toys out, you fucking sneak.” Peter's anger only sounds half-feigned.

New Peter quirks his mouth and rolls one shoulder. “I wanted to know what I'm like when I'm big. Pretty freaky apparently.”

“Uh—guys?” The wolves spin in unison to face Stiles and the blindfold draped over his outstretched hand. “You gonna keep arguing or...?”

“We don't have to argue if you both do what I say.”

“Yeah, okay,” Stiles gulped.

New Peter says nothing, which Stiles assumes Peter assumes to be agreement, or at least a biding of time.

“Research Problem, put the blindfold on him.”

New Peter doesn't even sass, just nods quickly and slides behind Stiles, swiping the blindfold as he goes. He runs his hands up Stiles' sides, slowly, and Stiles can't help but tremble. The soft, almost liquid cloth slips over his eyes; New Peter's hands have just met behind his head when Peter speaks again.

“Sweetheart—before we start—you have to tell us what you want.”

Stiles can't help but whimper as his mind runs away with the possibilities. He has just enough experience (and has done enough research) to know what he doesn't know, and his knees literally buckle. Oh. Not just a saying then. He takes a long breath to collect himself and manages, “I want to come, and make you both to come, and if one of you doesn't let me blow you I might cry.” He can feel the blush burning all the way down his neck, and is suddenly grateful for the blindfold saving him from the pressure of eye contact.

“Blindfold?”

“Ohh, yeah. Please, s-Peter.” Fabric tightens at the back of head, and the slit of light across the bottom of his eyes vanishes. “I like it,” he sighs, melting even further when New Peter's hands slide from his neck to his wrists, bending his arms into a position that's hopelessly vulnerable.

Modern day Peter Hale leans against the wall of the loft, smirking. In front of him, a younger Peter holds Stiles' wrist tightly. Stiles wears a black blindfold and a blue baseball shirt. Young Peter has his werewolf face on but older Peter does not. In the background are the loft's distinctive windows.

Peter makes a considering noise. “You want rope, baby?” That stops Stiles in his tracks. He imagines how he would look, how he might feel, but-

“N-no, not this time. Wanna touch you.”

“Well, in that case...” and then Peter is in his space, grabbing his hips, pushing him back, pushing him into New Peter's hard cock. Suddenly all three of them are on the bed, legs tangled, and Stiles' fly up to Peter's shoulders as he lets out a loud moan. “Listen to me now, Stiles. In thirty seconds you're not going to be able to talk, so if you aren't enjoying yourself or you want to slow down or speed up or change anything at all, you're going to double tap either me or Research Problem over there. Got it?”

“Yeah, Peter. I can do that.”

“Good boy.”

Before he quite realizes what's happening, his shirt is gone, he's been flipped over onto his belly, and his already loosened pants are pulled down around his thighs, Peter's strong hands grabbing each ass cheek and pulling them firmly apart, New Peter's denim-covered cock rubbing like sandpaper over his face. It's dark and warm and safe where he is, sandwiched between his two Peters.

“I'm not gonna fuck you, sweet thing,” Peter croons, and Stiles barely has time to let out his whine of disappointment before he continues, “but I can make you feel real good,” and a wet finger is skating lightly down from his tailbone.

His attention is soon diverted from the squirmy-hot-embarrassed-good feeling building deep in his gut, though, when New Peter bucks up against his gaping mouth. Stiles rolls his eyes up on instinct, feels the silk soft but unrelenting against his fluttering eyebrows, and whimpers, just a little, just in the back of his throat. He'd seen blindfolds in porn before, of course, and thought it would be fun, silly maybe—but he didn't expect it to hit him so hard.

He can't see it, of course, but he can hear it, the quirked eyebrow and the smirk in New Peter's voice when he asks, “Well? Are you going to cry, or are you going to start sucking?”

He gets his elbows underneath him so he can work the zipper and then—there it is. No underwear, of course; he doesn't have to look for it because it points straight up as soon as it's freed it whaps him in the cheek... the first dick besides his own that he's ever touched. He takes a long breath to steady his nerves and curses under his breath when that backfires terribly. Somehow, he was not expecting the smell, jizz and sweat and spring-wet soil, something he needs in his mouth and his heart and his life.

Peter said thirty seconds, but it can't even be fifteen. Say what you like about werewolves, they move fast.

He slides his hand up once, slowly, experimentally, and back down, gratified to hear New Peter's sibilant hiss of air, and then his mouth waters and he just has to taste it.

So he does. A soft little lick, and salt bursts across the tip of his tongue. He doesn't mean to open his mouth, but he does, and the whole head slips in, easy as anything.

He can hear New Peter moaning above him, a soft stream of encouragement, but he's too focused on his task to really listen.

Too focused, that is, until Peter's tongue follows the path his finger had traced before, tailbone to taint and back up, circling his hole, slowly, firmly, wet and silk-soft and perfect.

He wants to hold still, he really does, but he just can't. His torso jackknifes up, out of his control and even worse, out of Peter's reach. “Still good, baby?” Stiles doesn't mean to brag, but Peter sounds wrecked. He hums in what he hopes is a cheerful way and sucks hard on his mouthful, shoving one hand out to the side to flash Peter a thumbs up.

Peter yanks his pants down his legs until they stick around his angles, closes thick fingers around Stiles' hips at the same moment his mouth lands firmly on Stiles' ass.

His brain stutters as the sensation surges through him, starting where Peter's wet tongue licks firmly against him and spreading across his whole body, setting his nerves alight. He can't help but twist in Peter's immovable grip; his spine curls down and he chokes himself on New Peter's cock. He tries to move back, to catch a breath, but another hand curves around the back of his head and halfway down his neck, holding him firm.

He splutters and shudders and his eyes roll back in head and he's coming before he knows what's happening, messing himself and the bed.

* * *

Stiles comes with a broken mewl that makes Peter's blood pound in his hands and his throat. He gentles his unrelenting tongue and lets the boy ride it out as he wheezes next to Research Problem's cock.

Peter makes himself still for a moment, nose pressed into Stiles' perfect peach ass, until he hears Stiles resuming his first blowjob. That's fine. Let him learn about teeth on an equally young and clueless Peter. Then he ducks his head and licks Stiles clean with wide, slow, flat-tongued strokes. And if he hums contentedly as he does, well, he's earned it.

The noises above his head are getting louder and wetter, Research Problem making the dumb, constipated-sounding grunts Peter himself remembers from his own idiotic fear of sounding “like a girl” in bed.

Reluctantly, he pulls off Stiles' ass and wipes his face against his forearm. Stiles squawks in outrage but settles prettily when Peter's shirt lands on his head. Peter drops his pants, too, and slides his cock along the slick valley of Stiles' ass. He moans sweetly and Peter can't help himself; he leans low across his back, fits teeth to neck, and whispers, “Gonna come just like this, princess. Mark you all over your sweet little ass.” He tugs Stiles' hair and Stiles twists around to kiss him, messy and wild, making desperate pleading noises into the kiss. “You want that, sweet thing?”

Stiles breaks the kiss to pant, “Sir, please, yes,” before turning back to the cock bumping insistently at his jaw. Peter locks eyes with his doppelganger and both wolves begin to chase their own orgasms, hips pumping with the force of the same punishing muscles that keep wild wolves jogging along for thirty miles at a stretch.

Research Problem arches backwards when he comes a few minutes later, but Peter folds forward and whuffs against Stiles' neck, filling his lungs with the tangy sweat stink of him, closing his ears and pretending for this brief second that this is real, that this is his.

At last, Stiles whines and rolls over to rub his cheek against Peter's own, smearing jizz across both of them as he goes. He yawns, hugely, and murmurs, “You should both stay,” against Peter's throat, sounding half drunk.

It's not the time or the place for this discussion, it really isn't, but Peter can't say nothing, so he pulls off the sweat-soaked blindfold and nuzzles the back of Stiles' sticky neck and pulls the boy over onto his side to be spooned, crooning, “Sweetheart, sweetheart,” as he goes.

Chapter Text

In the foreground, Stiles holds up a page from a spellbook, looking proud. Lydia stands in the midground, looking somewhat unimpressed. Behind her are the bare branches of a winter forest.

They emerge for the eternal yellow-green spring light of the fae forest into the dull grey-brown of their own, much wetter, winter California woods. The fae wilds are beautiful, of course, but Stiles has to work hard to disguise his relief to be out of them. “Peter! Look what Lydia got from her creepy godmother!”

* * *

A stubbly, older Peter Hale leans close to whisper in young Peter's ear. Young Peter looks shocked and not entirely pleased. Behind them, a cloudy twilight sky is visible.

“Obviously, I don't care what happens to most people. But for some reason I feel protective of you, and I would hate for you to miss out on all those good years between twenty and the fire. For instance...” Stiles can't hear anything more, but he watches New Peter's face closely as Peter leans in to whisper in his ear, stubborn annoyance giving way to dawning surprise and finally unmitigated excitement and glee.

“That's really going to happen?”

“Barring any other meddling time travelers, absolutely.”

* * *

Peter pushes his younger self firmly through a portal in the middle of a dark forest. Young Peter looks back longingly at Stiles, returning his gaze from the foreground.

The fingers of Stiles' right hand twitch in an aborted wave. Peter hadn't allowed to him to go through the portal, insisting the few people who went mucking around in the past, the better. A little rich, coming from him, but whatever.

Still, Stiles feels more than a little farklempt as he watches the young man disappear through the portal. He pushes into the tree behind him, grounding himself against the rough bark, and forces himself to speak through the lump in his throat. He can't manage more than a whisper, but that's more than enough for werewolf ears.

“Goodbye, New Peter. I love you.”