
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/13119624.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Peter_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Peter_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski, Sheriff_Stilinski, Derek_Hale, Scott_McCall
      (Teen_Wolf), Lydia_Martin, Isaac_Lahey, The_Hale_Pack, The_Alpha_Pack_
      (Teen_Wolf), Jennifer_Blake, Nogitsune_(Teen_Wolf), Allison_Argent, Kira
      Yukimura
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Reincarnation, Alternate_Universe_-_Soulmates, Slow
      Burn, Creeper_Peter, Angst_with_a_Happy_Ending, Nogitsune_Trauma, Non-
      Linear_Narrative, Alternate_Universe_-_Historical, Non-Graphic_Violence,
      Alternate_Universe_-_Canon_Divergence, Nogitsune_Stiles_Stilinski,
      Magical_Stiles_Stilinski, Sheriff_Stilinski_is_a_Good_Parent, Stilinski
      Family_Feels, Steter_Secret_Santa, The_Steter_Network, Scott_is_a_Good
      Friend, eventually
  Collections:
      Steter_Secret_Santa_2017
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-12-24 Chapters: 1/2 Words: 3260
****** Fortuna ******
by the_brightest_light
Summary
     He thought he had known love. All paled in comparison to the moment
     he looked upon the face of the slave serving him during the secunda
     mensa. As their gazes met, he thought ‘there you are’ immediately
     followed by ‘I would do anything for you’. It frightened him. He
     knew, down to his core, that he no longer belonged to himself; this
     boy that he had only known for a few seconds had claimed him, heart
     and soul.
Notes
     Merry Christmas everyone!
     So I started this fic with the notion that if Peter Hale was anyone
     in a past life he would've been Nero. It was supposed to be a short
     fic but it's grown into this monster. I have taken a LOT of artistic
     liberty with historical events.
     All my knowledge of Roman and Greek history and culture comes from
     Wikipedia and 'The Roman Mysteries' series. Apologies for any
     inaccuracies. All the Latin words/phrases/names are explained in the
     end notes.
     Italics is the past, and everything in normal text is the present.
     The bits in the past are in a non-linear narrative.
     Hope you guys like it, and comments would be a wonderful Christmas
     present xxx
See the end of the work for more notes
As he stands before her marble replica, the blood of the vestal virgin cooling
and growing tacky on the plinth, he thinks he has failed. A journey of 100 days
made on foot with no supplies except those that he had begged for, offerings of
bulls at every shrine and temple that he encountered, and libations of only the
finest Falernian. All for naught.
“Wine and blood may be enough for those infants on Olympus but that will not
gain her favour”.
The torches lining the walls of the cave alight instantaneously. His eyes had
grown used to the cool darkness of the cave, and the sudden light disorientates
him. The shadows thrown against the wall twist and dance, and when they finally
settle she stands before him. The priestess of Ananke. Taller than any man,
wearing silk styled in a fashion that he has only every seen on oenochoe. He
averts his gaze to the ground, as he bows his head in deference.
“Domina, I apologise for any offence I have caused-”.
“Then you should be on your way before she decides to take offence.” The
priestess begins to walk towards the cave’s entrance, ushering him along. “I
should not have to warn you that she will show no mercy.”
“They were not offerings,” he replies. The priestess pauses for only a moment
but it is enough to encourage him to continue. “I simply wished to gain her
attention. I would never offer such lowly items. No, I offer a sacrifice the
likes of which have never been seen. A sacrifice awful and immense as befits
the Mother of the Moirai.”
“Speak then of what you desire.”
************************************************************************************
Regret is foreign to Peter. He learnt pragmatism early on, that any missed
opportunities would eventually come around again if one was patient enough. The
Argent Bitch being the perfect example. He could have easily killed her that
fateful night, even with Talia’s Alpha command to take Cora and run
reverberating in his bones. It was only Cora’s choking cries as the smoke
filled her lungs that stopped him. Even as he lay broken on that damned
hospital bed for ten years, he knew that Kate would eventually return. Although
he had to entice her first.
When she did, he took great joy in in stalking the streets of Beacon Hills
under the full moon, savouring the stench of her fear, delighted when it soured
into panic with every new kill. Despite all those years of brutal training
under Gerard, she couldn’t hide her scent completely. Not from an Alpha.
He let the madness take over him once more, let it consume him entirely.
Nothing could stop him. He would destroy everything and anyone who stood in his
way.
Except the the pale boy on the field.
As the boy kneels, his heart pounding like a rabbit’s but with eyes full of
rage, the perfect picture of submission and defiance, something inside him
stirs. A memory from a dream, it slips away as soon as he’s grasped it. It’s
tempting, so tempting, inhaling that addictive scent, new and familiar at the
same time, to simply bite down and take. Yet something warns him that if he
does so, he will lose the boy forever. And that cannot happen so he leaves him,
alone and shaking in the garage. He has his name now; he can deal with him
later.
It isn’t until his nephew’s claws are at his throat that he remembers. All
those lives lost, all that devastation he caused just so he would not have to
walk this earth without him. The one who the Gods so cruelly cleaved from him.
He would die again having only spent a few moments with him.
Regret has been foreign to Peter but in that moment it overwhelms him. 
*************************************************************************************
He thought he had known love. The initial excitement, where even a single
glance could set your heart pounding, the secret smiles, the lingering touches
that would eventually dampen down into the warm affection he felt for Poppaea.
The deep fondness and almost compulsory devotion he still felt towards his
departed mother. The warmth he swore he could physically feel on the many
nights Lucius and Sextus would stay with him, confiding secret hopes until
Aurora spread her rosy fingers, bringing light to mortal and immortal alike.
All of these paled in comparison to the moment he looked upon the face of the
slave serving him during the secunda mensa. As their gazes met, he thought
‘there you are’ immediately followed by ‘I would do anything for you’. It
frightened him. He knew, down to his core, that he no longer belonged to
himself; this boy that he had only known for a few seconds had claimed him,
heart and soul.
He cannot say anything, not now whilst he is surrounded by friend and foes.
Instead he takes one of the honeyed lemon-cakes from the platter offered by the
boy, and takes a bite. He then extends his arm so that the cake almost touches
the boy’s rose petal lips. Any other slave in this position would demurely take
a bite. Yet his boy boldly meets his gaze as he bites down, his amber eyes
dancing with delight, and then he slowly licks his lips. He grasps the boy’s
jaw and asks for his name.
“Sporus”, the boy breathes.
Later that night, he takes great pleasure in worshiping the boy’s pale thighs;
adorning that silk soft skin with violet and indigo blossoms. When he finally,
finally enters him, he feels strangely fragile as though he may shatter at any
moment. His skin is burning and the room is filled with the sound of his ragged
breaths and his boy’s sweet gasps.
“You are mine, now and always,” he whispers between hot kisses. 
“Swear it. Swear on all the Gods.”
How could he refuse his boy when he begs so beautifully?
 
***********************************************************************************
Contrary to what most would think, Peter has very little fondness for bygone
days. It still rankles him that despite him sacrificing almost everything he
had, including his sanity, to ensure that a crumbling empire not only survived
but thrivedhe is only remembered for his depravity and cruelty. He much prefers
this age where selfishness and greed are not only accepted but celebrated. The
mos maiorum where reliability, duty, discipline, and self-control were the ties
the bound society together, is obsolete. Peter is free to serve himself, and
himself alone.
Still, he cannot help but reminisce sometimes. How simple it was for him to
point at his boy and declare that he now belonged to the Emperor. Now, he must
tread carefully. Though this life may have offered Stiles freedom and luxuries
that he could never have imagined, it has also damaged him. He is full of
jagged edges, suspicious of everyone until proven otherwise. Peter must earn
his trust but he cannot be hasty. If he moves too fast, Stiles will immediately
suspect an ulterior motive and all of Peter’s work will be undone.
They are both different now, changed by circumstance. Peter spends most nights
learning everything he can about Stiles. He lies for hours in the tree outside
the Stilinksi household, his scent blocked by magic so no pesky teenage
werewolves can discover his nocturnal activities. It reassures him to see that
his boy is still desperate to please the ones he loves; the way he spends so
much of his free time ensuring that his father returns to a clean home, and a
healthy meal cooked from scratch, or the way he drops everything to aid Scott
with whatever petty issue is bothering him.
There are times when Peter struggles to remain hidden; when the Sheriff fails
to notice how much Stiles does for him, when Scott ignores Stiles in favour of
Allison or Isaac and Stiles’ disappointment and hurt permeates the air with its
bitter stench, it takes everything he has to not leap into Stiles’ bedroom to
comfort him, worship him like he deserves, and ensure that no one ever hurts
him again. On nights like those, Peter has to remind himself continuously to
wait, eventually Stiles will come to him.
And once he does, Peter will never let him go.
*********************************************************************************** 
From the moment he met the boy, he knew that Poppaea would have to die. She was
blameless, guilty of only the fact that she was not his twin flame. His boy
deserved to be adored, to rule at his side. But there can only be one Augusta.
Under his instruction, Locusta had prepared for him a vial of poison that would
cause no pain or discomfort. She had assured him that it would feel like
falling asleep. A dignified end for the ruthless woman who had fooled so many
ambitious men and tricked her way into becoming Empress. He admired her, and
would continue to do so after her death.
His plans go awry the moments he enters her apartments and smells that mixture
of myrrh, rose, cinnamon and saffron.
“Now where did you manage to obtain susinum? As far as I’m aware we’ve received
no shipments from Egypt”, he asks.
She continues to watch her reflection in the polished bronze mirror and applies
kohl to her eyes as she answers.
“Oh it wasn’t too difficult. We should order more, it’s divine.”
He moves closer to her dressing table and spies a familiar bottle; shaped like
a bird in flight, made of blue glass, and small emeralds for eyes. The same
bottle he had commissioned and filled with susinum for Sporus. He had presented
it to him only a few days ago, had applied it to his boy’s pale throat and the
delicate insides of his wrists. His boy had been delighted, having never
received such a luxurious gift.
“Where did you get this?” He asks, lifting the perfume bottle for her to see.
Poppaea turns on her stool, lifting her chin, and meeting his gaze. Still, she
cannot fully mask the small tremor in her voice as she answers.
“In the slave quarters, of all places! I should have had that boy whipped but I
decided against it; I wouldn’t want your bed warmer being in too much pain to
perform his duties.”
He breathes, slow and heavy, fighting the rage growing inside him.
“You have no right to take this away from him. I can shower him in jewels,
grant him titles and lands, or even make these rooms his apartments if I so
wish.”
“You’re a fool!” She shouts. “Do you not hear the whispers? Ever since you had
your mother murdered they say the Kindly Ones caught you and have driven you
mad. You are fixated on this slave, while those you consider friends are
plotting your death!”
“If I am guilty of matricide, then you share at least half the blame. Or have
you forgotten how you begged me to have her killed? As for the boy, he is of
now a slave no longer. I declare him a freedman.”
“Do you not hear yourself? Fuck the boy as much as you want but remember that
you have a duty to serve Rome, and a duty to me as the woman who birthed your
child!”
“I titled you Augusta and let you keep that title even after Claudia died, an
honour that you are no worthy deserving of. You have until sundown tomorrow to
vacate these rooms.” He begins to exit the room, having already laced her wine
cup with the poison whilst she was distracted by their quarrelling. She’ll be
dead before she finishes her nightly drink of Surrentinum.
You think I would let some tart take my place! Let’s see how much you care for
him when I ruin that pretty face.”
He cannot entirely remember what happens next. All he knows that when the red
mist of rage lifts, Poppaea is lying on the ground, her neck twisted to an
unnatural angle.
He calls the guards to remove the body. He barely notices as they enter and
they know better than to ask questions. His mind is preoccupied with how he
will redecorate these apartments.
After all, his boy deserves only the best.
***********************************************************************************
“That smells familiar, what is it?”
The previously quite clearing is now filled with the sound of Stiles’ erratic
heartbeat and his careless footsteps trampling the undergrowth. Peter remains
kneeling in front of the small shrine. Almost half a year of slowly gaining
Stiles’ trust on the many nights they were left alone together whilst the runts
faced off another threat, the careful planning and manipulation has paid off.
Just before the last full moon, he had mentioned to Stiles that he has his own
way of spending time during the full moon, in the preserve away from that poor
excuse for a pack. When Stiles had failed to appear, Peter had not been
disheartened. He knew the boy’s curiosity combined with the way the others
neglect him until they need something would eventually drive him towards
Peter. 
He hides the triumphant smile on his face.
“Les Larmes Sacrees de Thebes. Though you’re probably confused, I doubt you’ve
ever come near this scent in your life.”
Stiles huffs, and Peter can guarantee that he’s rolling his eyes. “And how
would you know that? I could be a budding aromachologist for all you know.”
“That may be, but this costs more than $1500 for a quarter ounce.”
“Dude! That’s enough money to buy curly fries everyday for like a year, and I’d
probably still have some money left over!”
Peter wrinkles his nose in displeasure. “Don’t call me ‘dude’ again.”
Stiles moves to sit down beside him. The small marble statue at the centre of
the shrine glows under the full moon. The wine Peter had poured at the plinth
appears almost black.
“I seriously didn’t picture you as a pagan. I have to say this is kinda
destroying your image, I’m picturing you dancing naked in the woods with your
coven.”
Peter can’t help but leer. “Do you often spend time imagining me naked Stiles?”
Stiles splutters. “What- why would you even say-. I’m not even into guys- “
“Do I need to remind you that I can hear when you lie?”, Peter asks. Stiles let
out an exaggerated sigh.
“Whatever. Also Deaton laughed when I asked him if werewolves worshipped the
moon or something like that. Well, he just gave me a blank look but I know he
was laughing at me on the inside. So either he lied, which wouldn’t surprise
me, or is it something us mere mortals can’t know about?”
Peter had been enjoying the delicate flush that had slowly creeped up Stiles’
neck and the delicious scent of his embarrassment but he decides to have mercy
on his boy and answers his clumsy deflection.
“It’s highly likely that in the past, they did worship Selene. After all, she
is the moon and without her we would be nothing. But werewolves are creatures
of magic, so they cannot practice it. Even if they tried, nothing would
happen.”
“So what are you doing?”
“What I’ve done since I was young. Offering the best wines and perfumes to
Selene in the hope that I may gain her favour.”
“But like you said, it won’t do anything so what’s the point?”
“I wasn’t always a werewolf.”
Stiles had been listening but at this point his mindless fidgeting ceases.
Peter waits for his response but when he remains silent, he continues.
“I was born human. The first human, in fact, to be born into the Hale pack in
17 generations. The only thing that stopped my father from trying to turn me as
a baby was Deaton declaring that I had a Spark and would train under him.”
“What happened? And wait if Deaton was...Deaton when you were born, how old is
he?”
“As far as I know, Deaton has served our pack since my great-grandmother was
Alpha. Maybe that's why he was so slow to teach me anything practical, he
preferred method of spending a great deal of time on theory. My father was
never a patient man and shortly after I turned 10 he decided to give me the
bite; I suppose to him it was a win-win situation, either the human runt died
or the pack gained a new werewolf.”
“But magic! You could have been like Merlin or something, weren’t there enough
werewolves already?”
“A Spark is just that, a spark, a possibility. I could have been great
sorcerer, or I could have just ended up having a particularly green thumb. I am
in no way justifying what my father did, but all I could have done for the pack
was create wards, use location spells…Services that Deaton was already
providing.”
“Do you miss it?” Stiles asks.
“Miss what?”
“Your Spark.”
“For a few years, I felt as though I would never be complete again. But then
circumstances arose when I was a teenager that made me realise that the bite
hadn’t destroyed my Spark, that it had simply been lying dormant. After that I
studied the old magic and chose Selene as my guardian. I’ve had her favour to
this day.”
Stiles snorts. “No offence dude but you’re not exactly the luckiest person I
know.”
“Mountain ash surrounded our home and blocked the exits of all the tunnels,
even the accelerant for the fire had been mixed with wolfsbane to weaken us.
There is no explanation for how I survived. Yet here I am. Not to mention the
little matter of me coming back from the dead. Something that those who
practice magic have tried and failed to attain for thousands of years. Catch”
Peter throws the pyramid shaped bottle of perfume to Stiles. He flails, but
unexpectedly manages to catch it with only minor injury to himself.
“You can keep it.”
Stiles is busy removing the stopper and in the process almost spills the
perfume.
“Agh, this is pissing me off. I’m like 99% certain that I’ve smelt something
like this before but I can’t remember where or when. What is it made of?”
“Amongst other things: myrrh, rose, cinnamon, and saffron.”
Peter doesn’t think that Stiles is even listening. He’s too busy inhaling the
scent. In a small, unsure voice that Peter has never heard from him before he
says,
“I think…I think someone gave me something like this before. But-No wait that’s
crazy, who would give a kid perfume? It probably just smells like something my
babcia wore.”
Peter stills. It’s too early, if he even hints at their connection Stiles would
run. No, he needs to handle this delicately.
“You clearly have a Spark, a rather powerful one from what I’ve observed. I
could train you, teach you how to harness your potential.”
“Whoa, really? Wait, how do I know you’re not going to sacrifice me for my
power or something? Or that you’re even teaching me legit stuff?”
Peter sighs before answering, “You can’t gain someone else’s Spark. Once the
vessel is dead, the Spark is gone forever. And you could always double check
everything I tell you with Deaton.”
“Well why don’t I just get Deaton to train me? Cut out the middleman and all
that.”
“Your far too impatient, but more importantly you don’t trust Deaton. You have
good instincts, don’t ignore them.”
“I don’t trust you either.”
Peter smiles, slow and sure and this time he makes sure that Stiles sees it.
“Like I said, you have good instincts.”
 
 
 
 
 
End Notes
     Vestal virgin- Priestesses of the Roman goddess of the hearth, Vesta.
     Falernian- The most renowned wine produced in ancient Rome.
     Oenochoe- An ancient Greek wine jug.
     Domina- Latin for ‘mistress’. Polite form of address for a woman.
     Ananke-Ancient Greek Goddess. She emerged self-formed at the dawn of
     the creation and mingled with Chronos (personification of Time) to
     form the universe. Personification of inevitability, compulsion and
     necessity. Associated with celestial love and violence/violent haste.
     Moirai- Also known as the Fates. Three sisters who controlled the
     thread of life for every mortal from birth to death. Not even the
     Gods could change what they had ordained. Daughters of Ananke.
     Poppaea- First wife of Emperor Nero
     Aurora- Roman Goddess of the dawn
     Secunda mensa- Dessert course of a Roman dinner party.
     Mos maiorum- ‘The way of the ancestors’ or ‘ancestral customs’. A
     code of conduct that described the values that ancient Roman social
     custom was derived from.
     Augusta- Honorific title for the Empress of Rome
     Locusta- A famous maker of poisons. She was favoured by Nero and
     played a role in the assassinations of his enemies.
     Susinum- an expensive ancient Egyptian perfume.
     The Kindly Ones- Also known as the Furies. Agents of vengeance, they
     chase those who have committed crimes and punish them.
     Surrentinum- Type of Roman wine. Dry, thin, and almost like vinegar.
     Please leave a comment!
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