be good. be a little bad.



Nothing makes me happier than fixing somebody’s day who’s just been hammered with the cruel fist of math. “A little blurb” turned into about 3,000 words of a tiny AU peterstiles. I hope you like it and it cheers you up, anon! (◕ω◕✿)

Stiles is licking drops of tequila off the communal alcohol bottle that landed in his lap after Jackson passed it around the circle after downing half of it when he starts feeling his first hints of wooziness, a tiny tickle of warmth that’s lacing around his spine and running down his midsection like spider’s legs. He likes getting drunk, for the most part, but only when he’s alone with Scott in the back of his car without any fear of his father knocking on the window with his police flashlight. Right now he’s drunk without Scott anywhere to be found, left to his own devices to lose his inhibitions while Lydia watches him prance into a wall or make himself a crown out of toilet paper.

Stiles will bet good money that Scott is currently upstairs necking with Allison in a coat closet, having completely forgotten that his best friend is getting thoroughly sloshed downstairs while techno music thrums through the floor and the truth or dare games get a little too personal for Stiles’ liking. Allison isn’t a problem to Stiles, even if it reduces the amount of time Scott spends at Stiles’ place stuffing his face with chips and getting his ass beaten at video games, more the fact that it’s making Scott more social than ever in an effort to impress her. He’s sitting in the house of a kid he isn’t even sure the name of—Dirk? Derek?—under Scott’s persuasion that there will be booze and girls and maybe even Lydia will show up.

Lydia, as it turned out, did show up, but the way she’s currently swapping spit with Jackson a few three feet away isn’t exactly giving Stiles any green lights to start hitting on her, so he’s stuck trying to keep the cocktail of death that is vodka, gin, and tequila settled in his stomach without throwing up in the nearest potted plant he can find while Scott gets lucky upstairs.

"Hey, Stilinski," Greenberg says after he snatches the bottle Stiles was paternally cradling in his arms from his grip. Something in the alcohol is urging Stiles to punch the guy in the face, but the fact that he’s seeing two of him is throwing his aim off. "Can you get more beer from the kitchen?"

"Do it yourself," Stiles slurs. Greenberg is practically surrounded by empty beer bottles and Monopoly game pieces and he is no one’s busboy. "Whose house is this?"

"Derek Hale," Greenberg tells him, looking extremely proud of himself for either knowing the answer through the haze of his intoxication or having made it into the party at all. Stiles, meanwhile, feels a pit of dread form as he recognizes the name, and with it, a face that could crumble mountains.

"Oh god, no,” Stiles moans. “That guy’s going to pummel me into next week if I throw up in his house.”

Greenberg starts laughing—guffawing might be more accurate—and Stiles stumbles to his feet if only to get away from the noise. The living room has become a veritable orgy by this point, Erica half naked on the coffee table while a horrible remix that sounds like banging pots and pans plays on the speakers. Stiles feels along the wall and blindly follows his instincts down the hall until he eases into a room that’s refreshingly cool and vacant of pyramids of shots that will be tipped down his throat like someone’s putting a gas nozzle down his throat, and he breathes a sigh of relief.

A moment later, he realizes the room isn’t empty, and he curses his luck for finding the one adult in the entire house that’s probably in the middle of calling the police on all of the minors sucking the brown splotches of fallen whiskey out of the carpet.

"Shit," Stiles groans, going flat against the door. He’s staring right at what he guesses is Derek’s father, a man twice his age who’s leaning against the counter in a black button-down with a glass of deep red wine in his fingers as his eyes rake up and down Stiles’ disheveled appearance. His shirt is buttoned incorrectly after the minor incident where Isaac came onto to everybody and everything in the room resembling a person—including the hat rack—and he’s pretty sure there’s tequila dribbled down his front. Stiles licks his lips and tastes not only over-sweetened margarita, but the rotten taste of guilt as he sinks in the realization that he’s been thoroughly busted. He’s going to kill Scott, if only for the fact that he’s not standing next to him knee-deep int he same shit stammering out excuses so his mom doesn’t ground him when she finds out about what his Friday night "study session" turned out to be.

"It’s fine," the man says, sounding incredibly amused. "Seems like quite the party."

It’s fine? Stiles mentally repeats, wondering if he heard that correctly. The guy looks nothing at all like the typical too-cool-for-school dad who rides a motorcycle and leaves vodka out for his kid to share with his classmates, but here he is, staring at Stiles like he’s waiting for the tension to drain out of his shoulders.

"Are you sure you’re one of Derek’s friends?" the man asks, readjusting himself so his hip’s leaning against the counter and he can examine Stiles more carefully. "You look a little too," he licks the wine off his lips as he considers his words, "happy."

"I don’t think Derek has any friends," Stiles blurts out, damning the alcohol a moment after his charming vodka-induced candor makes an appearance. "Shit."

"I didn’t either," the man says, and he’s actually grinning. Stiles isn’t used to parents like this, laid-back and happy to chat about how antisocial their son is. All he knows is Mrs. McCall, who would already be yelling herself hoarse right now if she smelled even a hint of heavy liquor in Scott’s room.

"I, uh, don’t actually know Derek. Just seem him around school," Stiles admits. "Are you his dad?"

"I’m his uncle," he says. If Stiles squints, he sees only a slight resemblance, like the same sharp jawline that Derek has when Stiles sees him walk down the school hallways. "Call me Peter."

"I’m Stiles," Stiles says. Down the hall, he hears a few muffled chants of shots! shots! shots! and an answering war cry that sounds like Boyd just swallowed five glasses in a row. He should probably be there, getting the karaoke started or throwing the ice bucket down Jackson’s shirt so he can record his response and put it on YouTube.

"You look awfully drunk," Peter says, suddenly standing right in front of him with a glass of water he’s holding out to him. It’s cool, condensation on the glass as Stiles grips it and swallows back a few gulps that ease the gargling of his disgruntled stomach. He’s always been kind of a lightweight, but he can normally reel himself in before he splatters his sick all over the toilet bowl. Right now, a few sips of water was exactly what he needed to avoid retching over Peter’s shiny shoes.

"Shhh," Stiles says, moving to push a finger on Peter’s lips. He misses, seeing double again, and his hand lands on the smooth line of his collarbone instead. Peter’s lips are stained red from the wine as they quirk upwards into a smirk, and Stiles has the strange feeling of relief that he won’t be reported to the police tonight.

"I won’t tell," Peter says, Stiles’ hand slipping off his chest as he returns to the counter. Stiles sways on the spot and drinks more water to stay grounded before he goes toppling onto the floor and denting the floorboards. There’s been enough damage done out in the living room, from the lamp Greenberg smashed playing ping pong with the light bulb to the numerous alcohol stains littered about the rugs for Stiles to be making a mess in the kitchen as well.

"My friend’s upstairs," Stiles shares for no reason. He left the truth or dare game out in the other room, but starts divulging secrets anyway to the room at large. Peter swims back into focus in front of him, taking the glass from him and leading him to the sink as a precaution in case he throws up. Probably a good idea. "Getting lucky."

"Why aren’t you?" Peter asks, and Stiles snorts.

"Trust me," Stiles says into the sink, staring at the drain as he thinks of Lydia draped over Jackson’s lap. "Nobody here wants to get lucky with me. They’d probably call it getting unlucky."

There’s a hand on his back—was it there all along?—rubbing up and down the wrinkled fabric of his shirt. It mollifies his churning insides and Stiles arches into the warm touch of a broad palm slowly dragging itself up and down his spine. His toes are tingling with the thrill of being drunk, not a single cell in his body currently concerned with the impending hangover, and Stiles turns around from the sink to look at Peter. He doesn’t look old enough to be an uncle.

"I don’t know," Peter drawls. His lips are tugged upward in a way Stiles knows he wouldn’t be able to move his own mouth, and the hand that was previously on Stiles’ back slides to his ribs when he twists around. "I’d say I’m feeling pretty lucky right now."

His voice is a low purr like the wine’s roughened his throat, every word a deep, low sound that vibrates through Stiles’ very body. The alcohol is making everything seem like a great decision, from the way Peter’s hand is warm on his stomach to how his eyes are boring into Stiles’.

"Are you a cannibal," Stiles asks, very seriously. "You look like you want to eat me."

"Good observation skills," Peter says. His lips seem to have a perpetual tug on them, a default smirk that makes Stiles feel like he’s part of a master plan. The only person who told him to go into this kitchen is Greenberg, who most definitely didn’t expect this fate for him. He’s probably still under the delusion that Stiles is bringing him beer. He’s sort of occupied at the moment.

Suddenly Peter leans in, a warm breath on his ear as his lips brush the lobe of his ear. It makes Stiles shiver because this is absolutely what is supposed to happen at parties, people pressed up against counters while someone cages them in and makes their very bloodstream start racing. Only vaguely does Stiles register that this someone is Derek Hale’s uncle, a man who’s lack of wrinkles makes him seem young but his voice makes him seem like a forbidden adult out of reach. Stiles reaches out blindly and fastens his fingers around the smooth fabric of Peter’s button down while Peter whispers to him and their cheeks brush together, the slight burn of their stubble like sparks against his skin.

"I do," Peter whispers like a confession. "Want to eat you."

Stiles feels his mouth open in a soft o, ready to ask questions like what does that mean, but then Peter trails his lips down his jaw and licks over the sweaty, salty crook of his neck and grazes his teeth over the muscle curving down his chest and Stiles gets what he means. His eyes flutter closed.

"Tickles," Stiles says with a soft smile as Peter bites down on the tendon and his teeth sink in tenderly. Peter makes a noise, a rumble stifled by Stiles’ skin, and the alcohol swims around his head like a halo of blissful obliviousness to the party raging on a wall away. Party? Stiles doesn’t even remember the party, only memories of someone dancing up against his side and a loud game of spin-the-bottle. That bottle hated him, hiccuping over him every time onto Jackson fucking Whittemore instead.

"You’re so young and," Peter murmurs on his neck, fingers flexing on his sides and digging into the soft flesh there, "and responsive.”

"Yeah," Stiles mumbles along thoughtlessly, the coherency having left him a while ago. He reaches out and grabs Peter’s chin, tipping it up until a mouth is lingering over his, the taste and smell of crisp and musky wine falling into his parted lips. Peter grabs him by the nape of his neck and pushes their mouths together, kissing like somebody who knows how to kiss, nothing at all like those wet, chaste kisses in dark and sweaty corners at seventh grade school dances.

His father vaguely flits through his mind as he thinks of how he’s sitting in a patrol car looking for parties just like this one to bust so illegally drinking kids can be driven home in shame to their parents sleepily answering the door in tartan pajamas. What Stiles is doing is a whole different kind of illegal, because Peter’s older than him and nipping into the sensitive flesh of his lower lip like he doesn’t care that Stiles is only sixteen. Right now, Stiles doesn’t care either. He really hopes he’ll forget this tomorrow.

Stiles is barely along for the ride, the alcohol slowing his reflexes and making his mouth sloppy, but Peter doesn’t seem to mind. His hand worms its way under Stiles’ knee, guiding it up around his hips, and Stiles’ limbs are pliant and go along with it as their bodies press together. The kiss turns filthy, Peter’s tongue sliding against his while Stiles grabs onto his hair desperately to keep up, and he knows, just knows, that this is better than whatever kids are doing in the other room as they grind in each other’s laps. Peter’s kisses are fierce and demanding, no room for niceties or sweet closed-mouthed pecks, nothing childish about them.

Peter pulls back a moment later and Stiles is left with a saliva-slick neck and lungs that are heaving for oxygen, lips wet and swollen from when teeth were swiping over his mouth, and for a moment Stiles is sure that he’s blacked out. There’s the sound of a low bass thumping through the wall and Greenberg yelling for more alcohol, and god, can’t he even be unconscious in peace?

That’s when he realizes that the world is black because his eyes are closed, and it takes every ounce of strength to open them and encourage his body to stand up straight. Peter is looking at him, so close he’s blurry, and Stiles stares into his eyes. They look older, more haunted, more intense than any of the eyes he’s ever looked into. There’s still something hungry lingering there in his face, right under the surface that’s being restrained that Stiles is peering into with momentary x-ray vision, and then he blinks and Peter’s body isn’t pressing into his anymore, but rather standing a step back with the glass of wine in his grip again. His lips still look red, but now it’s courtesy of Stiles’ mouth.

"They’ll be looking for you," Peter says. The smirk is back on his mouth as he cocks his head to the door leading into the hall. Stiles spends the next moment wondering if what just happened was actually reality, and then Peter slips the rim of his glass under Stiles’ lips and tips it upward until a tiny sip of bitter wine slides down his throat and leaves his mouth feeling inexplicably dry. It’s disgusting, but it tastes like Peter’s mouth and Stiles can’t imagine wine ever reminding him of anything else.

"Did you get the beer?" Greenberg asks the moment Stiles slips out of the kitchen. His hands are still tingling and his mouth still feels bruised from the force of Peter’s kisses, but Greenberg doesn’t notice a thing from where he’s sprawled on the floor staring dreamily at the ceiling.

"I told you," Stiles says. "Get your own."

The next morning, his head hung in the toilet bowl, Scott asks Stiles if he hooked up while he was upstairs with Allison getting to second base. Stiles says no through a mouthful of sick that tastes like cheap beer mixed with blended wildebeest, but through a fuzzy memory that sits on the tip of his brain only to duck and hide the moment Stiles focuses, he remembers the taste of wine and the feeling of a mouth pressed into his that he can’t identify.