Chapter Text
After a year of seeing each other, Stiles and Peter had settled into a rhythm—though “settled” was a generous word, considering Peter’s unrelenting stress over pack business, especially after the Deaton fiasco.
Stiles had been furious when he first discovered the extent of Deaton’s negligence toward the pack. It was shocking that the man had gotten away with it for as long as he had. But what shocked him most was that Peter had let it happen. Stiles just couldn’t understand how Peter Hale—the wolf known for getting his hands into everything—had no idea what an emissary’s role truly entailed.
Peter later admitted that he’d always disliked Deaton, but since his sister was so fond of the druid, he’d chosen not to concern himself with it, trusting Talia, as the pack’s Alpha, to understand the role her emissary was supposed to play. Of course, that had been a mistake—a serious one. It made Talia look neglectful in her duties, as though she couldn’t manage any aspect of the pack without Peter’s oversight to ensure things ran smoothly.
Thankfully, Peter, being Peter, took control of the damage. Though furious about the situation, he always put the pack first, knowing mistakes and weaknesses couldn’t be allowed to surface. So he did his best to keep the whole situation quiet, ensuring Deaton bore the cost of his own negligence.
Stiles had no sympathy for the man—especially since the druid had cast a binding spell on Stiles’s core. In fact, Stiles was a little annoyed that Talia hadn’t just killed Deaton. Despite warnings from Peter and even some of her betas that keeping the man alive was a huge risk, Talia had only banished him from Beacon Hills, showing a mercy that Peter had shouted for the whole bar to hear might come back to bite the pack in the arse.
Stiles wasn’t part of the Hale pack but very much agreed with Peter. He knew it wasn’t his place to say, though, so he let it go, relieved that, at the very least, Deaton was gone from Beacon Hills and would hopefully never show his face again.
After Deaton’s departure, Stiles hoped the Hale pack would quickly find a new emissary. But instead, he found himself watching Peter’s mood sour further with every unsuitable candidate and the ongoing, unproductive hunt for the witches who’d cursed Talia. The edge in Peter’s restlessness was palpable, radiating tension and frustration that affected everyone around him, Stiles included. Having Peter in a bad mood was like dealing with a toddler throwing a tantrum, and Stiles had reached his breaking point.
Though he preferred to stay out of the pack’s darker dealings, Stiles decided something had to give. He wanted Peter in a better mood all around, and not just when he and Stiles were alone. To put it lightly, Peter was becoming insufferable. With the witches out there and Deaton just set free to maybe give out pack secrets, Peter’s instincts were constantly screaming at him that his pack was vulnerable, under threat. And as the left hand, it was his role to get rid of these threats.
Since Talia wouldn’t let Peter kill Deaton and they were having no luck tracking down the witches, Peter was on constant high alert. Stiles learned that this meant the wolf wasn’t going to let him out of his sight. Like, at all. Peter had basically forced Stiles to move in with him full-time.
At this point, Stiles didn’t actually remember the last time he’d stepped into his flat. Which led to Peter constantly telling Stiles to just give it up and move in with him—a move Stiles didn’t want to make. He liked having his own place to go to, his own office to work in, his own little reading nook to wind down in. And while Peter’s place was comfortable, it was very much Peter’s place, and Stiles doubted it would change into their space if he moved in.
But sleeping arrangements weren’t the only thing driving him crazy. Because Peter wouldn’t let Stiles out of his sight, it meant he didn’t want Stiles going anywhere without him. So if Peter was working late in the back office of the bar, Stiles was also stuck at the bar.
Peter was even getting grouchy at the idea of Stiles driving anywhere alone, even to his flat, which was a 20-minute drive at most. The restriction also meant Stiles couldn’t just pop out and run errands whenever he needed to without the wolf at his back. Apparently, to Peter, a bunch of witches might try kidnapping Stiles at the grocery store.
Stiles had rolled his eyes at that one and snapped that Peter was being ridiculous, telling him to stay in the flat while he went to pick up dinner. Long story short, Peter didn’t stay in the flat, and that was the first time Stiles had kicked him out of bed to sleep on the couch—like they were some married couple. Which sent alarm bells screaming in Stiles’s head to run.
So, yes, Stiles might have to admit to himself he’s got some commitment issues. Or it could just be that this relationship is the first one he’s ever been in where he can genuinely see a future, because even when Peter is driving him crazy, he’s still content to have the wolf around, and that’s big and maybe… just a little scary.
Still, Stiles was very much done with the whole overprotective wolf thing. He needed Peter to start chilling out again, and he knew exactly how to do it.
One night, while Peter was holed up in his office at the bar with Derek and Laura, conducting one of his “business” deals involving magical items, Stiles decided to give his wolf an anniversary gift of sorts.
Leaving their usual booth, Stiles walked straight into Peter’s office, ignoring the curious looks Derek and Laura threw his way. Peter looked up from his paperwork, raising an eyebrow. “Stiles, what are you—”
Stiles cut him off with a raised hand, eyes flashing with determination. “I’m done dealing with your grumpy ass all the time. So, consider this a one-year anniversary, gift from me,” he said, shooting Peter a sly smile. Then, without hesitation, he settled himself onto Peter’s lap.
Derek raised an eyebrow, exchanging a look with Laura. “Uh… should we give you two some privacy?” he asked, looking like he half-expected Stiles to drop right onto his knees right then and there.
Laura smirked, arms crossed. “If this is your anniversary celebration, I’m definitely not sticking around for the show.”
“Dirty-minded wolves,” Stiles muttered, rolling his eyes and ignoring them as he stayed firmly planted in Peter’s lap. “Hilarious, really. But no—you’re both staying right there. Trust me, you’ll thank me later.”
He turned his focus back to the desk, ignoring Peter’s curious look as he rummaged around until he found what he was looking for: a piece of clothing from one of the witches, something the pack had been trying—and failing—to track by scent.
But not any longer… time to find some curse-casting witches.
Stiles took a deep breath and closed his eyes, murmuring the incantation under his breath. His eyes flared into a brilliant, almost blinding shade of purple. Peter’s hands slid to Stiles’s hips, firm and grounding him.
The wolf’s fingers curled into the fabric of Stiles’s shirt, possessive and claiming, as he watched with rapt attention, a hint of pride mingling with the darker glint of predatory satisfaction in his gaze.
The clothing in Stiles’s hands began to smolder, then ignited fully, flames licking up around his fingers as he poured energy into the spell. His body shuddered from the raw power it took, but he held his focus until the garment was reduced to ash. As the spell’s energy ebbed, Stiles took a deep, steadying breath, relaxing back against Peter’s chest.
Peter’s arms immediately came around him, holding Stiles close, scenting him. His lips brushed Stiles’s skin in lingering kisses, filled with fervent, primal pride. Peter’s breath warmed his neck as he whispered, “My brilliant little spark…”
After a few moments, Stiles rolled his eyes with a fond smile. “Alright, alright,” he muttered, placing a hand flat against Peter’s face and giving him a teasing push back, earning a low growl of disapproval. Peter’s fingers flexed at Stiles’s waist, but Stiles ignored it, reaching over to grab a pen and paper from the desk. With a quick scribble he wrote down the location revealed to him by the spell and handed it over to Laura with a smug grin.
“Now, you,” Stiles said, turning back to Peter with a smirk. “Don’t ever say I don’t do anything for you.” He leaned in, stealing a quick kiss before slipping off Peter’s lap and heading back out to his booth, leaving Peter watching after him with a hungry look in his eyes.
Settling back at his booth, he took a sip of his piña colada, savoring the calm after showing off just a bit of his magic.
But even as he pulled his laptop toward him, he couldn’t shake the smug warmth bubbling in his chest. Stiles knew Peter wouldn’t be far behind, not after that little display. It wouldn’t take long before Peter would find his way to the bar, closer and closer until he dragged Stiles off, probably straight into bed.
A shiver of excitement curled through him at the thought, a smile curving his lips as he tapped away at his keyboard, savoring the feel of having turned the tables—if only for a little while.
Later that night, after Peter had thoroughly taken his time bringing Stiles apart under the sheets, they drifted into a deep, peaceful sleep, tangled together with Stiles’s head tucked under Peter’s chin and Peter’s arm possessively draped over him. For the first time in months, everything felt calm, and the tension that had plagued Peter seemed to melt away in the dark.
But Stiles’s blissful sleep didn’t last.
At some ridiculous hour—three in the morning, by the groggy guess Stiles could make of it—he felt himself being gently jostled awake. He mumbled something unintelligible, barely lifting his head as he blinked into the dark. Peter was up, moving around the room, pulling on a sweater, his motions quiet but steady. Stiles frowned, confusion mingling with exhaustion.
“Peter… what are you doing?” he asked, his voice thick with sleep, his body too heavy to do more than sit halfway up in bed.
Peter turned to him with a small, soft smile, crossing back to the bed. He hushed Stiles gently, cupping his face and pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. “Shh, go back to sleep,” he murmured, his fingers threading soothingly through Stiles’s hair. “It’s a surprise.”
But even though Peter had told Stiles to go back to sleep, the man was lifting him up. Stiles blinked up at him, squinting in confusion as Peter held him upright. His limbs felt like they were made of lead, Peter’s warm hands sending a shiver through him, guiding him with careful touches. Stiles tried to form a question but felt Peter’s finger press lightly over his lips.
“Trust me, sweetheart,” Peter whispered, keeping his voice as low and soft as his touches. “You’re going to love it.”
Stiles let out a soft whine, his head tipping back as he fought to keep his eyes open, feeling Peter’s hands slipping a sweatshirt over his head, then helping his arms through the sleeves. “Peter… it’s three in the morning…” he muttered, trying to sound annoyed but coming off as more plaintive than anything. “I want to sleep…” he whined, trying to lie back down into the comfort of the pillows.
Peter chuckled, brushing his thumb across Stiles’s cheek. “Just a little longer. Shh… lift your legs for me now, yeah?”
Stiles obliged, too tired to resist, as Peter eased his legs through the joggers he had picked for him, pulling them up over his waist. He found himself nodding off, leaning into Peter’s touch even as Peter coaxed him along, patiently dressing him as if he were a small child, murmuring comforting words with every movement. Each time Stiles tried to ask, Peter would just smile and press another kiss to his hair, rubbing gentle circles along his back.
“Almost done,” Peter assured him, reaching for a pair of shoes and easing them onto Stiles’s feet. “Then you can go right back to sleep.” With practiced ease, he slipped an arm beneath Stiles’s knees and lifted him up, holding him close against his chest. Stiles barely stirred, his head dropping against Peter’s shoulder, already half-asleep again as Peter carried him with quiet strength.
The next time he blinked awake, he was lying in the back of a car, nestled against Peter’s side. The light from passing streetlamps flickered through the window, flashing across his face every few moments. Stiles groaned softly, a little whine escaping as he raised a sluggish hand to shield his eyes from the light.
Peter’s arm wrapped tighter around him, drawing Stiles closer into his side. He felt Peter’s warm hand cup his cheek, gently turning his head so it was tucked securely into the curve of Peter’s neck, safely out of reach of the light. Stiles let out a soft sigh as Peter’s other hand pressed firmly against his back, rubbing soothing circles that gradually lulled him back into sleep.