Chapter 1: Quiet And Ignored
The pack doesn't truly approve of Stiles and Peter's growing relationship. They don't care.
It was weird how well Stiles got on with Peter. And vice versa. You know, once the whole 'I'll kill/turn/burn/hurt you and yours' things were over. They were both past those now. Well, not to the point that they weren't used as teasing ammo, but whatever. Past those now.
In fact, they could probably be considered friends.
They frequented a quiet diner on the outskirts of town, just for coffee and a chat; sometimes for a meal and a serious conversation or research session (the latter mainly when they couldn't use either of their own houses - neither the Sheriff nor the other betas were wanted, needed or conducive for those).
They were normally found together outside school hours. And quite often during as well. After all, between Peter and the Sheriff, they had managed to get Stiles a pass to attend college and university lectures that could further his knowledge in certain areas that he was interested in, that he was looking to pursue (criminology, psychology, mythology etc.). Which meant he attended his actual school pretty irregularly. He was clever enough to skip BHHS altogether, but the school wanted the reputation of having had him as a student, of having taught him, so they kept their metaphorical claws dug in him as tightly as possible for as long as possible. And Peter attended these lectures with him. He was his 'chaperone' - the high school had demanded he have one. And its not like his dad could come.
So, between that, and the fact that they were rarely not at one or the other's house, they could definitely be considered friends. Maybe something more. After all, they fairly lived in each other's pockets, and had developed to be pretty co-dependent. Okay, okay, very co-dependent. Something most of the pack quietly disapproved of. But nobody had the guts or heart to approach them about it directly - that would be a catastrophe in the making and would doubtless split the pack three ways. With Stiles and Peter alone against the neutral and opposing pack members. And nobody wanted that. So the co-dependency was left alone.
Even when only Peter could talk him out of a panic attack. Or take a razor out of his hand before it drew any blood. Or prevent the nightmares from even arriving in the first place.
Even when only Stiles could block Peter's nightmares in return. Or could convince him to stay in Beacon Hills, not run until he could no more. Or not be hurt, to actually be able to stop it when the wolf flipped out, lashed out.
The two needed each other on a level nobody else in the pack could understand. And for now, they had all given up trying. At least for now.
Chapter 2: Alpha (pt.1)
"Yes." It takes of course. They both knew it would.
Mere hours later, Stiles the werewolf throws a molotov cocktail at his alpha. He collapses, writhing, to the ground, feeling every lick of flame as alpha power courses through his veins. Peter's alpha powers. Peter's pain. And he howls. Howls low and loud and long with remorse and agony and strength and wishes for things to have been different. With that, he sees only darkness.
He cries out in his sleep. For his mom. For Peter. For control of his wolf. There are tears.
He wakes up in his own bed. Above him, his father. He pushes away the feral wolf in his head. Tells it to draw his blood from the inside. He'll heal, right?
Then he pushes away the resultant agony in time to realise his dad's saying something.
His dad rolls his eyes fondly before growing serious once more.
"You're a werewolf now?"
"I- You-" he stops, sighs. Gathers himself,
"Yes. The alpha."
His father's eyes close for a long second, likely in resignation.
"But you're in control, aren't you?" The desperate, needy edge to the words gives Stiles the fortitude he needs to lie.
"Yes. Not perfectly, but enough. Now, what're we eating?" Because that makes it believable. And he has to fool his dad. If only to protect the man.
When his dad goes downstairs to start on dinner, Stiles rockets out of bed into his bathroom. Crouching over the toilet bowl, he vomits blood. Too much blood. But his wolf is calmed, however temporarily. Its own blood has sated it. And if that's what it takes to not go feral, then Stiles will pay any such price.
For the memory of Peter, if nothing else.
Chapter 3: The Names
It was bound to happen eventually. In a pack of supernatural creatures and Lydia it was impossible to keep a secret for any extended period of time. They thought they'd at least have a month though.
But no. Fate, destiny- whatever, the world had other ideas apparently.
"Get away from Stiles!"
"Oh my God, already?" Stiles and Peter stopped kissing, but their eyes remained closed, foreheads pressed together, breathing from the same inch of air.
"Stiles move, now! Peter, get out!" Neither of them moved. Stiles could practically see the amused, if somewhat frustrated, smirk on his boyfriend's lips. The teen couldn't even bring himself to find the humour in the situation.
"Scott, I love you bro, but this is Peter's home and he hasn't forced me to make out with him or anything. Its all consensual."
"I- You- What?"
"What Mieczyslaw means is-"
"Peter Derek Jacob Hale, shut up now! We do not bring the names into things!"
Both of them now had their eyes open, glaring lightly at each other. Though the wolf's hands never left his young mate's hips and his hands never left the older man's neck. The betas in the doorway were already forgotten.
"But you just did."
"Only after you did!"
"Fine. You win, this time."
"Hmph. Every time." Peter only hummed thoughtfully before licking a long stripe up Stiles' cheek and chin.
"Eww!" But the teen was giggling happily, rubbing the spit off on his boyfriend's shoulder.
"Not in front of the others."
"But they know now love."
"Oh, yeah, but still-"
"What the hell is happening?!" Scott burst out, interrupting his best-friend. Peter's eyes flashed.
"Look, Scott, me and Peter and together, okay?"
"No, not okay! When did this happen? Why?"
"Why?" Peter growled, teeth elongating, anger emanating. But Stiles cut him off before he could say another word.
"Because we love each other. Accept it or go away. Oh, and we got together a few weeks ago. Which really, isn't that long, we wanted to be settled... within ourselves before telling the pack."
"Oh... um... okay?"
"Yes, Scott, okay. Now why are you all here?"
"That's not important," Lydia jumped in, she had a satisfied, although still-curious gleam in her eyes,
"Since when was Derek named after Peter?"
Chapter 4: Blood Brings Bonds
Scott was beyond being a jerk now. Stiles had been forced to k- to kill Donovan. To protect himself, his dad, his pack - and Scott had the nerve, the assholery to criticise him for it. When Stiles was a second from the worst panic attack ever, was already hating himself, mere minutes from something dangerously drastic, Scott could only preach his self-righteous anger and disappointment. And now he was shouting it. In his face. And Stiles had had enough!
"SHUT UP!" he roared, the wolf-like ferocity in his voice betrayed by its cracking. Then he walked away. Limbs trembling from sheer emotion and exhaustion; hands stained in blood that neither rain nor tears were washing off, he walked away. Scott let him.
Once he was out of sight of the 'True Alpha' - what a joke - another wolf approached the human. Gently he tugged on the shaking hands - "No Peter, no. You'll be covered in blood too." "Hush dear boy, I already am." - and led Stiles to his own inconspicuous hybrid car. The teen couldn't even think where he had left the Jeep.
For some reason that was what finally triggered his panic attack.
It had been building. A pressure behind his eyes, at the base of his spine, crushing his heart and lungs but now it squeezed. With the strength of a dozen alpha packs. Every muscle in his body spasmed - not too badly but enough to see him locked in place, no control, collapsing onto the drenched pavement. His vision drowned in intermittent black, white, red. All death and darkness and blood and bones. His breath was seized by some phantom force. Screams and pleas echoed. Stiles was nothing, nothing, just a drop in the ocean, just a mote of dust, just a single atom, nothing, yet he was the cause of everything and that thought sent him spiralling head-over-heels into disturbed darkness.
A time later, he woke up. On a leather sofa. In what seemed to be... Peter's apartment. There was a blissful minute of ignorance, albeit with a insistent little voice in the back of his voice that whispered of something. Something bad. Something damning. Something terrifying. Something that Stiles had done.
And Stiles forced it away. Refused to listen to its bitter poison. Instead, he moved to push back the soft woollen blanket that was covering his legs and torso. But his hands were red with still warm, still dripping, blood. He let out a choked, whimpering facsimile of a scream. As hushed footsteps came hurrying down what sounded to be metal stairs, he gladly passed out once more.
Something was being called. A word. What an odd word.
Seriously, what's a Stiles?
"Stiles, can you wake up for me?"
Ohhh, it's a name. Whose?
"Dammit Stiles, I'll bite you! This isn't funny!"
Whos- It's mine!
"Don't!" Stiles exclaimed. Well, tried to. It came out as more of an urgent grunt. Accompanied by a flinch of pain. Because, moving? Ow! A large, warm, rough hand settled lightly on his shoulder, another on his forehead. Almost immediately, the pain began to drain away. Stiles could picture black veins dancing up muscled, V-neck-clad arms. Unfortunately, it couldn't ease the tight stiffness in his muscles that came from adrenalin overloads and violent fit-like trembling.
"Well?" Slowly, Stiles allowed his eyes to open. The mid-morning light pierced, sending needles stabbing into his brain.
"Ma't'op." (Make it stop)
"Hmm?" came the vaguely amused reply as Peter slid his hand from the human's brow to just hovering over his eyes, allowing little light to filter through. Stiles groaned in thanks. And relief. Because God it still hurt.
"Your wolfy painkillers are past their expiry date," he mumbled. His eyelashes brushed against the man's palm as the elder chuckled - deep and quiet and somewhat desperate, somewhat relieved - with muted mirth. It was overshadowed by the blood - now dry and flaking but remaining all too present - still covering his hands. His arms. His face. His entire body. It itched. Irritated.
"You'll get covered in blood Peter."
"As I already said dear boy, it's too late for me. I've been covered in it for quite some time."
And, despite it all, Stiles actually smiled at that.
Chapter 5: Wonderful Dreams
It's a Thursday when Stiles collapses. He'd had roughly five hours fitful sleep across the last week, and had spent even less time with food in front of him. Peter had been lingering - in a surprisingly non-creepy creeper way - and had threatened to force feed him a few times, but it never quite amounted to that. Until now.
Stiles was five minutes from home. Ten from school. Struggling to keep his eyes and focused, he hadn't even noticed the sleek, dark Jeep tailing him. Which, when he finally collapsed, face smooshing into the steering wheel, powder blue jeep careening into a tree, throwing him around like rag doll, trapped by the seatbelt, blood and metal everywhere, skidded to a halt. Various curses could be heard. Before his vehicle had even stopped the werewolf was out and running to the wreck.
"Stiles? Stiles!" Thank God! There was still a heartbeat!
As carefully as he could, Peter forced open the car door, ripped the seatbelt in half and pulled the teen out.
Cautious not to jostle him too much, he carried the prone body back to his own car, lying him down gently across the backseat. As he began a cursory inspection for wounds, he rang up the police station.
"Hello, Beacon Hi-?"
" I need to speak to the Sheriff. Now."
"I'm sorry sir-"
"It's about Stiles. I need to talk to John. Tell him it's Peter."
A pause. The werewolf could hear the woman -Tara - calling out. A muffled reply and the sound of hurried footsteps.
"Peter! Is Stiles alright? What happened?"
"I'm taking him to hospital. Nothing life-threatening from what I can tell. He finally collapsed whilst driving to school. Roscoe's a mess."
"Dammit! Okay, I'm on my way to the hospital now. How long?"
"Right. They'll be ready."
With that, Peter hung up, flung his phone onto the front passenger seat, ensured the teen was secure and began driving. Driving, not speeding. But it still only took nine minutes. Stiles' breathing and heartrate had become laboured and erratic. More blood was soaking into the seats than Peter cared to think about.
"Come on Stiles. Nearly there." He received a weak groan in reply - at least he was semi-conscious. Though with the pain that could be smelt, maybe that was a bad thing.
As they arrived at the hospital Peter scooped Stiles up, not allowing the doctors and their gurney to take him. A werewolf could move faster after all. Not that they knew that. As he jogged steadily part John, the older man murmured where to take his son. Internally, the 'wolf cursed as he carried on past, wishing he could move faster without fear of worsening the condition of his precious cargo or simply missing a sign leading him to his destination.
Soon - it felt like a dozen eternities - the man was storming into the emergency care unit and, somewhat reluctantly, handing Stiles over to the staff. He resisted the urge to growl as they began wheeling him away, hands all over him, checking his vitals, his wounds. Stiles was his, his, his and how dare they- No. Stiles needed them right now.
So he controlled himself.
For over three hours he paced. Back and forth. Back and forth. Wall to seats. Return. Wall to seats. Return. Repetitively venting his frustration. He could hear his- Stiles' heartbeat, but it wasn't enough. He needed to see, touch, smell. He needed Stiles.
John had tried to make him sit down. Calm down. But Peter and his wolf were having none of it. So they continued pacing. Until suddenly he stiffened, whirling to face the room Stiles was being treated in.
A moment later a doctor strode out, gaze dancing over a thick medical file. Stiles' file.
"Here," John rose to his feet,
"What can you tell us? How is he?"
"Umm..." the woman glanced uncertainly towards Peter, who returned her stare with an impatient, intense glare of his own. The sheriff noticed.
"Peter's fine. A family friend."
"O-okay then. There was nothing too dangerous. There was some internal bleeding in the abdomen, and a broken rib came close to puncturing his right lung, but we prevented that via our surgeries. He also suffered multiple superficial lacerations, some of which will likely scar. Though he's already got quite the collection," she added pointedly.
Peter couldn't help the subvocal growl that ripped through him - his human shouldn't be scarred. Shouldn't have to be. And how dare she- A calloused hand was placed heavily on his shoulder.
"Thank you. Can we see him?"
"He's being moved to a private room as we speak, you can stay with him then. But no more than a person at a time. He needs to stay still and calm."
Peter resisted the urge to snort at that. Stiles was never still. Nor calm. It wasn't in his nature. Apart from when he was sleeping, he barely even breathed then. But for nightmares anyway. Then he'd writhe and whimper and scream and twi- Not the time, nor the place.
Shaking himself from his thoughts, he trailed after the Sheriff, simultaneously trying to smell nothing at all - hospitals were the most sickening combination of medicine, illness and death - and pick out that gingery scent that was Stiles. To no avail. Everything else was just too overwhelming. It masked the delicate yet spicy smell that Peter so loved, that so reminded him of the person himself.
And then the two men were entering a room already perfumed with ginger and copper - Ah. Stiles and blood. They instantly rushed to the teen's bedside.
Around them, various machines beeped incessantly, obnoxiously, but neither of the concerned men were complaining. It was a constant reassurance of the life of their loved one. They would rather hear it every second of the day - Peter did when they were nearby, although that's not the point - than not hear it at all.
With a deep, world-weary sigh, the werewolf sank into a chair next to the teen's bed. Silly, foolish boy of his. He wasn't very good at looking after himself, then had the nerve to complain when Peter tried to do it for him! Silly, foolish boy. With a matching sigh, John ran fingertips gently over his child's forehead before turning to the man,
"I'm still on shift. Peter, can I leave him with you?"
"Of course. I'll ring if anything happens."
And with that the Sheriff left, returning to his job. Realising the pack would probably be worrying by now - Stiles was missing first lesson already - Peter got out his phone. After texting the betas and Derek with a round-robin 'Stiles crashed Roscoe. He's alright, but in hospital. Stay in school.' he proceeded to ring up the high school itself. Once his absence was sorted out, the werewolf allowed himself to focus solely on his young mate.
Grasping tightly onto the pale hand on the bed in front of him, he lowered himself over it a little, not wanting to move the injured teen. Inhaling deeply, that scent of ginger and medication and ozone and cinnamon overwhelmed him in the best way possible. Peter's wolf was no longer scratching to be released, to keep any and all potential threats away from its hurting mate. Said mate's scent alone calmed it down. Actually, it sent it straight into a tension-drained nap. And, well, if it had the exact same effect on Peter as he slumped onto the edge of the bed, torso curled around the hand he held, he'd never admit it.
Two hours later, Stiles half-woke. Blearily, he looked around him. Ah, Peter was there. He was safe then.
With that, Stiles fell back into a deep sleep. Neither of them awoke for another six hours, regardless of who walked into the room to check on them. Both of them were dreaming wonderful dreams.
Ones of a boy and a wolf running and playing in a sunlit forest.
And it wasn't too far from the truth, or what would soon be.
Chapter 6: First Time For Everything
When Stiles throws the molotov cocktail at Peter it isn't the first time he kills.
But it is the first time he feels remorse, guilt, sorrow over it.
Of course, he pushes such unnecessary emotions to the back of his mind, locking them away in a dark, heavy metal box wrapped in chains and throws away the keys. Because he refuses to regret killing a psychpathic werewolf. Well, he refuses to regret killing anything. Its no different to normal he tells himself. Its just another body. Just another baddie gone from the world.
But his heart is adamant to twinge whenever he thinks of the fires burning their victim. His victim.
Peter had been beautiful in his madness. In his bloody tactics and biting words. In his killings.
Peter had been beautiful.
And Stiles had wanted him. The thought hadn't occurred to him until it was all too late, but once it did he froze for a time. He wanted Peter.
Not just for sex either - though that was sure to be simply amazing. For his mind and soul and heart and body and his everything.
Stiles didn't love him. Not yet. It would have come with time. But now, not ever. He'd literally killed any chance he may have had.
Or so he had thought.
Chapter 7: Alpha (pt.2)
It had been several difficult months of establishing and looking after his pack. Of forcing his wolf under control. Feeding it his own flesh; allowing it to feast from the inside out. So every few days he was left, shaking, trembling, leant against his toilet, blood staining the bowl before he flushed it away, the loud gurgling of the plumbing only heightening his nausea.
His pack now consisted of 8 betas, including a banshee and a hunter. Plus the pack adjacent of Chris, the Sheriff and Melissa. They were a mish-mash of characters to say the least. But under Stiles, they were a cohesive, cool, collected unit. Beyond that in fact: a family.
Three pack nights a week - two at the Stilinski household, one at Derek's loft. That meant pizza, movies, research, puppy piles, home-cooking, plans, gossip. Afternoons and evenings spent as a true family. One that bickered, comforted, teased. And, really? None of them could ask for more.
They were happy with Stiles as their alpha.
The only problem was that he was all too good at lying. He kept his feral wolf at bay, strictly controlled it when he needed to shift. And kept it a secret from everyone that it was wild - even Lydia and his dad. But he was beginning to struggle. The insatiable need for blood, death, submission was more frequent every time. The best he could do was hunting deer in the Preserve to supplement his own innards.
His was an alpha wolf. And that of course made the situation all the worse.
And then Lydia's troubles began.
Geez, talk about stress.
Chapter 8: Yes, Little One, I Do
A little one-shot. Enjoy!
After the Nogitsune, the pack had tried to surround Stiles. To wrap him up in their reassurances and acceptance and make him see that they didn't blame him for even a drop of blood the fox demon had drawn.
But none of that stopped Stiles blaming himself.
Which in turn meant that he pulled away from the pack, his dad, withdrew into himself.
And after a while, they began to give up. Allison and Aiden's deaths were still fresh, and grief was still afflicting the pack. Scott and Isaac had lost their lover. Lydia had lost her best-friend and her boyfriend; Ethan had lost his twin brother. And through the pack bonds, the grief of those four amplified what the rest of the wolves felt. But Stiles was human, he barely felt the pack bonds. And all he sent through his was regret, guilt and his own grief. He didn't bother trying to feel what was ever sent back.
Else maybe he'd have noticed a certain zombie wolf.
For over a week now Peter had sat on the roof outside Stiles' bedroom window. The entrance was locked against any canine interlopers, though the lack of mountain ash meant it would have been easy enough to force his way in.
But Peter was content just to listen. After all, the curtains were drawn. He couldn't see inside. And with the teen being more insomniac than not, it was always interesting to listen in. Most nights there was only the rustle of pages or tapping of a keyboard to be heard. But sometimes there was talking. Stiles would mutter and rant to himself or imaginary demons.
These conversations gave an... interesting, if somewhat disturbing, insight into the younger man's mind. His guilt was constant and unwavering. His self-hatred mirrored that. His melancholy came and went, interspersed with fits near-hysterical bitterness.
And at some point Peter realised this upset him.
His human shouldn't be feeling depressed or suicidal. His boy shouldn't be shutting himself off from the world. This wasn't his Stiles. And weren't those thoughts just a little disturbing?
Well, in face of the teen's thoughts, they were nothing.
So, when Peter evntually could stand it no longer, he carefully opened the window, causing as little damage to the frame and lock as possible. That night was one where Stiles was numb. These nights perturbed the ex-alpha. Made him disconcerted. He'd rather Stiles felt something negative than nothing at all. He'd rather Stiles was fidgeting, pacing, than simply sitting, staring into the middle distance. He'd rather Stiles was rambling to figments of his imagination than he remained in unnatural silence, even his breaths barely making an indent in the impenetrable fog that was the audial void.
Because as worrying as those things were, they were still Stiles. They were still that ADHD spaz of a sarcastic teen. And that was the Stiles that Peter... that Peter loved.
So the wolf entered the bedroom. He couldn't stand this twisted, ruined version of his boy, and it was time to do something about it.
"Stiles? Stiles, little one, can you hear me?" There was no reaction. No muscles tensing or flailing limbs or biting words.
"Stiles?" This time the teen jumped up from his perch on the edge of his bed, spinning around to face the intruder with wide, shadowed eyes and tight, pale lips. He looked like death warmed up.
"Thanks." Oh, apparently that had been out loud. But at least there was a reply from it.
"Are you alright little one?"
"Alright? Hmph. Try again."
"How bad are you?"
"God Peter, you don't even know." For recent weeks, that had to be a record for words in a day.
"Stiles, I do. I understand. I know. Its... its bad, isn't it? I understand. How could I not?" And why exactly was he spilling his guts to the teen? The teen that had once earned his respect and admiration, but was now a killer, if only indirectly. So why-
Ah. Of course. It was that exactly. They were so similar. And yet so very different.
"You- You understa-?"
"Yes little one, I do." And with those words Stiles fell apart. Great, heaving sobs that seemed to be physically ripped from his fragile, pale body. Tears tracking silver down his face. Peter could only rush forwards, gather the younger into his arms. Hold him close and tight. Comfort him with all he could.
"Its okay. I understand. I know, I know. I'm here. Its okay Stiles. You're okay."
Four lines of salty tears were shed that night as they supported each other.
They had nobody else.
And maybe they didn't need them.
Chapter 9: Over The Years
Mates are for life, no matter what happens.
When Laura first brought her best-friend home, Peter took little to no interest beyond the perfunctory 'oh? How sweet'. Until of course, he caught the boy's scent.
It was intoxicating. It was apple-tart, cinnamon-spicy and vanilla-sweetness. There was an underlying sourness of medicine.
It was Mate Scent. His Mate Scent.
Five years later, and Stiles had never been far from Peter's thoughts. Perhaps strangely though, he had never been close to Peter's fantasies. Well, a grownup Stiles had often featured, appearing slightly different every time. But never like he was - already gangly at 11 - or as he had been. Only ever ten, twenty, thirty years in the future.
A year later, Peter graduated from best-friend's cool uncle and partner in crime to pillar of support. When John - the tween's father - wasn't able to drive his kid around due to shifts, Peter stepped in.
On the way to drop Laura off at school, they'd go past the Stilinski household to pick Stiles up too.
On the way home, the three would either visit Claudia together or the two wolves would take Stiles to the hospital and then leave him with his mother. Peter hated leaving his young mate like that, but he was, at best, a family friend. What more could he do?
Four months later Peter attended the funeral of a Mrs. Claudia Stilinski. Took the place of the father drowning in alcohol, grief and debt and comforted the man's son. Held him tight in the rain as he sobbed. Held together the pieces of the fractured child.
He was with her when she died you know people whispered.
Held her hand through it all I heard people whispered.
The poor sheriff had been out on a call people whispered.
It painted a sad, sad picture.
A month later, Stiles turned up on the Hale's doorstep. Tearful, skinny, bedraggled. A cut on his cheek steadily bleeding. It was nearly midnight.
Peter had answered the door and immediately let the boy inside, mouth already forming near-frantic questions. His wolf was whining a litany of mate hurt and help mate and protect mate. So that's what Peter did.
He ushered the boy into the nearest bathroom, gently pushed him down onto the closed toilet seat, and hunted in the cupboard for the first aid kit. Stiles had yet to say a word.
It only took a minute to clean the wound, give it a single stitch and tape a little gauze on top. The tween barely flinched but for the needle passing through his skin.
As Peter guided Stiles to the guest room in between Peter' and Laura's rooms that basically belonged to the boy anyway, the man allowed his thoughts to wander.
The pack had barely seen the human since his mother had died.
Laura had reported that he reeked of sadness and - strangely - guilt. Perhaps a form of survivor's guilt?
She had reported that he was becoming ever-skinnier, often coming to school without any lunch or money. Laura always shared her's with him instead.
That he spoke little. And never loudly or insincerely. Never joked or teased.
That he came smelling of too much soap. Like he was hiding another scent from her supernatural senses.
The pack had agreed - told themselves more like - that this was natural. A phase. That Stiles was merely grief-stricken and in shock.
Perhaps the Sheriff was handling his wife's death even worse than anticipated or experienced from an outsider's point of view. And perhaps he was taking out some - or all - of those emotions on his innocent, grieving, helpless son. On Stiles. Peter was going to do something about it. Peter was going to look after his precious, precious mate. Starting now.
Chapter 10: Alpha (pt.3)
Peter was there. Just stood there.
Stiles' wolf was rabid with anger and blood lust - hurt pack hurt us hurt hurt hurt - but at the same time it recognised the man as its once-alpha. The man that Stiles would have rather liked, if not for the whole creepy psychopathic elements. Which apparently were now gone.
Inside Stiles, his wolf scrabbled to be let out, howled and bit and clawed. He too howled at the agony inflicted, hunched over, blood already choking him as he vomited. Eyes flashed. Claws dug into their own flesh. His pack gathered around protectively, growling hopelessly. Reaching out, trying to help. He had to-
"Stay!" he ground out. As the protests began, he leapt clean over his pups' heads, desperation lending him strength. He was running as he landed, headed deep into the Preserve. He had to get away from his town, his pack. He couldn't hurt them. He couldn't. He'd rather die. He'd rather be killed by his own wolf. As he ran, he shifted, taking on a full wolf form. It was his first time and bones cracked, stretched, rebuilt themselves in foreign yet familiar shapes. Joints dislocated and muscles warped. The pain was excruciating.
Then he was a wolf.
Knowing he was leaving a bloody trail, but unable to act on the importance of it, Stiles ran. For hours; daylight to moonlight to sunlight once again. He ran. Adding to the sanguine destruction in his wake with various deer, rabbits, foxes, birds, badgers. They were a poor substitute for his wolf, but to him they were the largest prey he was willing to go after.
After all, he could hardly go after Peter, now could he?
He wasn't even sure if he wanted to anymore.
Chapter 11: Attacks To Be Laughed At
Peter woke up to giggling. High-pitched, childish giggling. Something was tickling his nose.
"Wha-" he grumbled, reaching up to bat the... whatever it was off of his face.
"No! Peter, leave it!" From the whiney tone alone he could hear the pout on his mate's face. Sighing, he obliged.
"Good doggy!" The man sighed again, though it was fond. Well, more fond than not at least.
"What are you doing Stiles?"
"I'm balancing whipped cream on your nose."
"Yep!" replied Stiles, popping the 'p' loudly.
The elder finally worked up the energy to open his eyes. And glared at Stiles with a not-uncommon 'I'm a creepy creeper wolf and I will get you back for this - as soon as I find out why you did in the first place'. A few seconds of staring sure had a lot of meaning. The teenager understood every word. He was used to it after all.
"Beause it's funny. Smile!" With which, before the man could even blink, he raised his phone, snapping a few pictures.
Spluttering indignantly, Peter shot up. Whipped cream promptly fell with a splat! onto the open book still perched in his lap. The centuries old, very important, very expensive tome.
"Stiles..." Blue eyes flashing, voice a growl.
And then the tickle attack commenced.
"N-no! Pet-te-er, s-s-stop it!" But the werewolf was already crouched over his mate, running his calloused fingers mercilessly down the heaving sides and trembling tummy of the victim. Stiles was reduced to writhing, letting out breathy, breathless laughs. Peter gave a rare answering grin. He even bypassed the typical smirk.
So engrossed in their game as they were, neither noticed the pack sprawling into the loft. And gaping. And snickering softly under their breaths. Until Scott finally couldn't hold it in and dissolved into full-on belly laughing. The sound echoed and boomed around the wide open space.
In an instant, Stiles and Peter were a few metres apart, blushing furiously, coughing abashedly yet still with small smiles (okay, Peter had reverted back to a smirk, but whatever) and mirth dancing in their eyes. The human was attempting to straighten his crumpled, rumpled clothes. The werewolf was attempting to wipe the remaining cream away from his nose.
And the teens just laughed all the more.