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A Werewolf's Nose Always Knows

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“You're growling.”


Eyes narrowing- full of worry and anger and guilt and worry- blue threatening to turn red at any moment, Peter turns to his nephew with his ill disguised emotions bubbling on the surface.

He says nothing to Derek, who's seated in a rough-fabricked hospital chair in the waiting room as he continues to pace again.

“They said he'd be fine Peter. Stiles said he'd be fine. A broken rib’s not the worst he’s gotten on Pack business.”

“Did he tell you that too?” Peter snaps, halting a foot away to scrutinize Derek.

Derek rolls his eyes and leans back into the chair. He focuses on his phone then, sending out a few messages to the Pack.

“He didn't need to. You’re just being your usual self. Stiles gets so much as a paper cut and you're all over him.” Derek replies, looking up at Peter. He regrets it immediately when he sees the look that the older man is sending him.

“If you're talking about that time you walked in on us, he really did need--”

“I do not want to hear about your sex life Peter.” Derek cuts him off. “God knows we've all heard and seen enough to know.” he grumbles under his breath.

Peter of course catches it with his enhanced hearing, but sure enough Derek's attempts have settled his nerves some. He knows logically that Stiles is fine, and a broken rib from bad timing and a miss-Spell aren’t going to keep the young man down.

Peter releases a breath, focusing back on the present and their surroundings. He also takes comfort from a familiar Packmate being near, enough so that their inner Alphas don’t even try to spar like usual. Instead it's tempered to snarking and huffing- an improvement, Stiles would say.

And then, finally, after two and a half hours, a nurse comes to tell them the news.

“See, he'll be fine.” Derek says lowly to Peter once she's told them. A few nights spent in hospice to watch for issues, some pain meds and bed rest and Stiles would be good as new (though he'll have to be extra careful with his ribs and doing anything strenuous--Peter can already hear Stiles complaining about it).

“I'll let you go see him first. I’m sure you'll be the first one he asks for.” Derek contues, louder this time so the waiting nurse hears.

“Thank you, Dear Nephew. While I’m away you can check on the p uppies. ” Peter replies, just as loud.

Glad to see Peter reassured and that Stiles is in fact ok now, Derek just hides his smile and watches as the nurse leads Peter out of the waiting room.

It's not Ms. McCall, but a nurse who's been around for just as long, and one who's seen their human Packmate come through plenty of times (to visit Melissa for checkups, or on rarer occasions treatment for himself or his father). She turns to Peter as they walk, the werewolf already smelling the path to his mate but following at her side for appearances sake. He's eager to see Stiles already, but he knows it'd be strange for him to rush ahead.

The nurse, a Miss Ryley according to her nametag, smiles at him sweetly as she gestures to the rooms ahead.

“Stiles is on some pretty strong pain meds right now, so he'll be a little out of it when you see him. Don’t let it worry you though! He's been strong through it all, and handled all the jostling we put him through.” She laughs. Peter remembers her saying something about an X-ray when she first showed up.

“Yes. He is very resilient.” Peter laments quietly, though Ryley chuckles when she hears him. He can’t help but feel a little lost whenever he's in a hospital- growing up a werewolf certainly had its pros and cons.

This would be the third time now coming here for an emergency related to Stiles: The first time being the Nogistune (which he hadn't really been there for, which he also still feels a great deal of shame over even though Stiles and he hadn't really been that close all those years ago). The second was after Stiles had graduated--A coven of witches passing through Beacon Hills thought Stiles’ Spark blood would make a good ingredient in their potions. They had burned for those thoughts, at the hands of one very delirious and lightheaded untrained Spark.

(Peter remembers being the one to find Stiles. Stumbling and weak-knee’d, the young man had practically fallen into Peter's arms. It was then that he’d blurted out how 'Of course it's you who finds me. Who doesn't want to be found by their crush covered in blood.’)

Peter had been all too happy to rub that in Stiles’ face when he was coherent and healing in the hospital unable to escape.

Both of those times were noticeably more life threatening than the one broken rib Stiles got today--but all three were very different from when Stiles willingly went through those surgery doors.

Stiles was, and is a man. But it had taken a lot of time and some outside interference to help him get there. Peter had personally paid for Stiles’ top surgery. It had been more than worth it to do so, even when the younger man had come storming into his apartment days before his twenty-first birthday waving the paperwork approving his surgery date and an accusing tone. Those had been the early days of their budding relationship, but at that point Peter had known his Mate was the spitfire known as Stiles Stilinski. You could say he'd known even as far back as that old parking garage--when his wolf had been unstable and yet still made sure that Stiles had a choice wether to be turned or not.

Never had Peter been more happy to have not bitten Stiles then when he saw the look on the youngers face when he got to see his new chest for the very first time. Being a werewolf could've ruined that for Stiles, and Peter would die before letting that happen.

(Not to mention the whole being a Spark thing and if The Bite would rid him of his budding magic.)

Now, four years and a hysterectomy later, Stiles was a champ at all this hospital stuff, whereas Peter was just there to listen to Stiles gripe about recovery. For Peter, it made the terrible memories of being comatose here feel insignificant.

They finally arrivd at Stiles’ temporary room, and as Peter’s brought out of his reminiscing, Ryley smiles at him one last time.

“Here we are then.” She knocks on the door firmly before opening it. “Mr. Hale? Your husband's here to see you!” She calls out cheerfully.

Peter's heart still gives a little jump whenever he hears Stiles called by his (as in Peter's) last name. Stiles just blames his possesive nature, which isn't completely wrong either.

And then he sees Stiles, and there his heart goes again beating like crazy. He's glad none of the other wolves are around to tease him but right now he wouldn't bring himself to care.

He rushes into the room to be by his husbands side, as if they hadn't just seen eachother a few hours ago, and the nurse quietly closes the door behind him as she leaves them.

“Stiles.” he says, lowly, reverently.

Stiles grumbles awake from his light slumber, blinking upwards untill he sees Peter.

“P'tr!” he calls out, a smile breaking across his face. It's blinding and beautiful and so very breathtaking, like from the very day he'd asked Stiles to marry him.

That's how Peter knows- Stiles is definetly high as a kite right now.

Peter chuckles, returning a smile that's just a bright and already planning on teasing Stiles about this later.

“Hello, Sweetheart.” Peter settles into the chair next to the hospital bed, reaching a hand out to grab Stiles’ in his broader one. Nimble and soft fingers squeeze back, and their wedding rings glint in the evening light coming from the window.

“Your forehead’s doin the wrinkly thing again.” Stiles says once Peter's seated. Stiles even goes so far as to poke at his face with his free hand--missing his mark by far and poking Peters cheek instead. Peter laughs and bares his teeth to playfully nash as the poking digit. Stiles just splays his hand out to cover Peter's whole face as if to push him away, untill the older man grabs it to lay it back over Stiles’ chest where it had been.

“Hmm. And I wonder why.” Peter says, tone light before turning serious. “Your magic seems to like fizzling out at the worst times.”

The change of tone has Stiles stilling, his eyes drawing away from Peter's knowing gaze.

“...’r you mad?”

Peter can't bring himself to judge Stiles’ magic capabilites when he's already down and probably feeling bad (if he were sober right now).

He just sighs deeply, leaning in and resting his forehead on Stiles’.

“No, of course not Love. I'm not mad. Not at you at least. More mad at the pixies that did this, honestly.” he grumbles out at the end.

“Pfft. Not pixies. Sprites. They only got mad cuz’ we called them pixies.” Stiles explains.

Peter huffs and leans back, though still hovering closely.

“That's hardly the point, Darling. They pushed you down a ten foot hole. The fall broke your ribs .”

“It was only one rib.” Stiles points out.

“Mieczyslaw.” Peter says, exasperated.

Stiles looks up at the use of his full name, and correctly at that.

Peter knew he was one of only three people who knew his name, the others being John Stilinski and Scott McCall. Which was ironic, knowing Stiles picked his name out specifically when he transitioned, and yet still only goes by Stiles. Granted Peter was, again, only one of three who could actually pronounce it, and who even knew Stiles was trans.

Stiles sighs, his hand squeezing Peter's reassuringly. “Sorry…”

Peter smiles, holding tight and leaning in to give Stiles a quick kiss. Stiles moans when it doesn't last. Then he groans when Peter speaks next.

“Lets just make sure the next time you fall, it's back into my arms again.”


Stiles is wide awake and full of un-useable energy when he sees Peter again the next morning.

He smiles at his husband, mindful of his ribs as he readjusts in the bed to better face Peter as the older man moves the chair from last night back by the bedside and settles in.

Stiles notices the bag in Peter's hand then, the one other than his usual bag slung over his shoulder as he sets it on the side table.

“Aww, you brought me breakfast?” he asks, a little fake gasp even added in.

Peter smirks knowingly.

“Sorry to disappoint dear. That's for Ms. McCall. Though I do believe I can smell your breakfast on the way.”

“Uuugh. The food here sucks Peter. Why does hospital food suck so much? I always thought that was just a cliche for stories and movies but it actually sucks.” Stiles complains. Then he takes note of Peter's words. “Melissa's here? She wasn't working last night right?” he asks, eyes a little wide all the sudden.

Peter shakes his head.

“Phew. She's so gonna flip when she finds out I got hurt doing Pack stuff again. It wasn't even completely my fault this time!”

Peter takes it all in, watching as Stiles tries to hold back his animated flailing to avoid moving his torso.

“Careful, Stiles. You're starting to sound like a highschooler again.” he teases.

“Hah. You wish. You'd be all over me if I were that age again.” Stiles snarks right back.

Peter raises his eyebrow before giving a dirty smile that makes Stiles (totally not!) blush.

“Ah, yes. Back when you had the most adorable squeak in your voice and were always smelling of sexual frustration.”

Stiles gasps, faking offense.

“R u de.”

The rest of the day went on as such, with the two tossing friendly barbs and snark back and forth in the usual manner (They'd yet to address anything related to the days previous Pack business, but Peter seemed content to let it be and so was Stiles).

Peter works a bit on his computer that he'd brought with him over at the small round table by the window, as he listens to Stiles talk and ramble over the TV playing on the wall when he's not checking his phone to text the pack. Scott had been by with Kira and Allison earlier with well-wishes from everyone in the morning before they had to leave for their own jobs.

Stiles’ Dad had come not long after, when Peter had been around for a while at least. The two shared a 'manly’ nod of acknowledgment that had Stiles rolling his eyes. They talked for a bit, Dad informing him that, yes, Melissa was mad as all heck that she hadn't been told Stiles was hurt until the next morning, but Peters’ food offering had helped win her good graces back (Peter looked a little too smug at that in Stiles’ opinion).

Stiles knows that his Dad had had his doubts about him and Peter being a thing at first, age mostly playing a part, but after so many years Peter had finally charmed the sheriff's heart (and stomach, much to Stiles’ chargrin) and now they spent one sunday a month talking about sports, hunting, or beer.

(Stiles would never admit it aloud to anyone that it warmed his heart to little bits to see the two most important men in his life getting along.)

After his Dad left though it was pretty calm and they were alone in relative peace and quiet, just enjoying eachothers company and the outside sounds of hospital life, until there was a nock on the door and a man in a white coat stepped inside.

He wasn't young, but not quite Peters age of thirty-nine either. Short black hair combed neatly aside, dark brown eyes, maybe an inch taller than Stiles with a normal build--hidden mostly by the white Doctor's coat he was wearing. Over all, someone very normal and easily forgettable.

He had a clipboard in his hand though, seemingly here for business.

“Mr. Stilinksi?” the man asked.

Stunned at the sudden arrival and use of his old last name, Stiles cleared his throat.

“Hale, actually. For a few years now, in fact.” he says, even going so far as to wag his ringed hand in the air. He may have also nodded his head to the side to point out Peter's presence at the table.

“Ah, my apologies.” the man says, clearly not expecting anyone else to be here at this time of day.

“Is there anything we can help you with?” Peter asks, tone seemingly polite yet still commanding, but to Stiles it was also guarded and suspicious.

The stranger gathers his bearings, though still clearly nervous under Peter's steel-blue glare.

“Yes, actually. My name is Doctor Henler. Mr. Sti--Hale, I had some questions about your medical history.”

Stiles was immediately tense and not at all liking where this was going. Peter was standing by his side in seconds, putting himself slightly between Stiles and the Doctor.

“What's the issue exaclty, Doctor?” Peter says, hands going into his pockets to appear casual, but could as well be hiding claws for all Stiles knows. Peter's always been over protective of Stiles when it came to this kind of stuff, not letting even a single biggoted doctor near him when it came time for his surgeries. Melissa had made sure that a good team had been put together for both times, but Beacons Hills Hospital was always growing and brining in fresh hands these days (which is totally the Nemetons fault).

Stiles is quietly relieved Peter had stuck around today if this new doctor proves to be a jerk.

“This is really only something that I should talk to the patient with privately, sir.” Dr. Henler says, trying to sound firm. He seems more irked that he has to deal with Peter more than anything.

Good, Stiles thinks.

“I'm his husband, and I’m not going anywhere. Whatever questions you have can be asked openly if they're that important.” Peter replies in his 'lawyer voice’, as Stiles calls it.

Visibly upset now, the Doctor scowls as he glares at Peter--the two completely ignoring Stiles, the very subject of the matter. He can’t help but feel a little miffed about that.

“I'm sorry sir,” clearly not really that sorry, “but there's such a thing as patient confidentiality.”

Now it's Stiles’ to turn to scowl, as he speaks up firmly from behind Peter, who moves over just a tad so Stiles is in view.

“Clearly not, since you're going through my old files. Peter's not leaving. You can ask your questions, and then leave yourself.” Stiles states.

Dr. Henler seems taken aback for a second, before finally giving in with a little nod of his head.

“Alright then. Let's not get heated here. They're simple questions really.” Dr. Henler starts, before bringing the clipboard up to flip through the papers. Stiles is pretty sure he's just doing it for show since he clearly already knows what he came to ask. “It shows here that in the month of December 20×× you underwent Chest Reconstruction Surgery, and then a Hysterectomy in 20××, but I see no record of a therapits approval for such actions. I’m sure you can see why this is concerning.”

Why isn't Stiles surprised it's something to do with that? Its always is it seems.

“Actually, I don't.” Stiles replies, hiding his agitation. It's impossible to hide his rabbiting heart from Peter though, who leans back against the bed slightly so their thighs are touching. “Plenty of Doctors allow it these days. I had approval from the staff and hospitals’ director, if you must know. Small town, after all.”

“Yes, but that was quite a few years ago. Things have changed for the safety of our patients.” Dr. Henler says, as if speaking to a child.

“Well it's done now, so I don't see any reason it's an issue.” Stiles can't help but snap.

His tensing muscles ache and his ribs are starting to throb from sitting up. But Stiles refuses to lie down and show weakness in front of this Doctor (a stranger, really). Peter is quiet by his side, letting Stiles take the lead right now, but a warming comfort all the same.

“I disagree, seeing as you're currently using the pharmacy here for your HRT. Also without an approval letter from a therapist I might add.”

“What does that have to do with anything? Any of that? I'm here becasue of my rib, not useless old medical papers.” Stiles demands, fed up with being questioned about past actions that made him who he is today (but he knows already; deep down what the issue this Doctor has is).

“It's a problem because I must insist you stop taking such medication until you have the right paperwork in order. It’s enough that you already underwent such drastic measures to alter your body, but coninuing to be on--”

“Were done here.” Peter all but growls, cutting Henler off and standing up straight. Peter is all attack mode now, not needing--nor wanting--to hear anything more.

Stiles can't see his face, but it must be pretty intimidating because the doctor actually steps back and his face pales. Stiles doesn’t feel an ounce of guilt over it. His own anger is budding up, threatening to manifest sparks in his palms or flicker the lights. He reigns it in the best he can, and only the lamp on the table shakes imperceptibly.

Henler looks past Peter to try to talk to Stiles more. “I know this a lot to take in, but think of what you're doing to your body--”

Enough . Get out.” Peter says, physically pushing past the doctor to grab the door handle and open it wider, seconds away from pulling the Doctor out by force.

After a few stuttered and halted sentences, Dr. Henler sighs and goes to leave but his path is stopped when Peter crowds him in the doorway.

“You can expect to hear from our lawyer soon. I believe what you're doing goes against the hospital's LGBT protections guidelines. Rules I myself helped write so Doctors with a nack for gatekeeping don't pull off exactly what you're trying to do right now.”

Henelr had the audacity to look offended, sputtering and red-faced.

“I wasn't-That's not-”

“Is there a problem here?”

Stiles stifles a groan as he hears, and then sees, Melissa walk up to the blocked doorway.

“Yes. I was just telling Doctor Henler here how he can expect a formal complaint filed on his desk before the end of the day.”

Melissa's eyes widen, before turning to Henler with a look that could shame anyone. Stiles had been on the receiving end of that look along with Scott plenty of times throughtout his childhood and teen years to know it really works.

“Is that so? Dr. Henler, I believe Director Lang had you stationed on floor B going through your current patient files for review.” She says to him, accusing without outwardly doing so.

Its obvious the doctor doesn't like being talked to like so by a nurse, but he's at least smart enough not to say anything about it.

“And I was, Nurse McCall. I was looking through some of the other records for comparison when I cam across Mr. Hales incomplete forms. I was just worried that--”

“Going through old files? That's hardly necessary for what the director told you to do. And I don't recall you being made his primary doctor.” Melissa states, cutting him off. She's still calm and collected, even more so than Peter (who's positively seething) and handling it way better than Stiles could've right now.

“I know that. I just wanted to gather more input when I came across--”

“Are. You. His doctor?” Melissa asks.

“N-No...No I’m not.”

“Then I think you're done here.”

And just like that, Melissa has the doctor scurrying off in shame and defeat. Stiles would've cheered if he felt up to it. But the whole situation has left him frustrated and sore and tired. He settles back into the bed to get comfortable as Melissa and Peter step into the room, leaving the door slightly ajar.

“Ok, so what did he do and or say to you both?” She asks, neither accusing nor jumping to conclusions.

Peter is livid as he walks back to Stiles’ bedside, only to round on her once again.

“He threatened to take Stiles off his hormones.” Peter all but snarls out.

Melissa gets a look of utter shock and disgust on her face. She turns to Stiles.

“I am so sorry that happened Stiles. I'll get Director Lang to set him straight. Henler’s a new transfer, about three months now. But he had no right to go snooping through old papers, and then come bother you about them.” Her sincerity has Stiles feeling a little better, though he's still on edge.

“Is it...Is it true? Can he take me off them because I never saw a therapist?” he hates sounding like a scared child, but he honestly feels like one right now.

Melissa gives him a smile: one that's calming and kind and motherly.

“No, Sweety. He can't. Maybe if you were just starting them, we might've made you take some sessions first just to be safe. And even so, requiring that now would be pointless. On top of that, he's not your doctor. Stacy is, and I'm stationed under her. So therefor, you have nothing to worry about.”

Secure in that knowledge, Stiles grumbles out, “Good. Cause I don't need a therapist to know who I am and what I need.”

Peter grabs his hand to give it a light squeeze.

“We know, Stiles. We know.” Melissa laughs, warmed at the sight.

“You can still expect a complaint by the end of the night.” Peter calls out to her before she leaves to finish her rounds.

“Oh, I know. You won't be the only one putting one in.”


Stiles tries to not let one bad Doctor get to him, so for the time being he just relaxes and tries to take it easy so he can heal and get out of here quicker. They'd been left alone for the rest of the evening aside from dinner being dropped off (which Stiles refused to eat and instead stole some of Peters homemade sandwich he'd brought). During that time Peter worked some more while holding Stiles’ hand as he dozed and doing a good amount of werewolfy pain-drain in the process.

(Having a supernatural husband who could do that sure was nice.)

The second day went much the same way, sans rude doctors. Peter hung around, some pack showed up to chat--and possibly discreetly scent mark him, if Scott and Erica's long hugs were anything to go by. But that was the norm in Stiles’ weird life. Peter didn't seem to mind at least.

That was until he'd whispered into Stiles’ ear before his coffee run:

Just means I get to rub it all away with my own scent at home in bed.

Now that had left Stiles squirming from more than just being cooped up.

And then by the third day he felt well enough to walk around his room for a bit in some sweats and a button up. The shirt was Peter's so it hung loosely in the arms and chest, since the other was more...muscley than Stiles. But he liked how it fit, and how it reminded him if when he was healing from top surgery, instead of this anoying broken rib business. He was finally going home tomorrow morning though, so he wasn't feeling too bad.

Peter had just finished packing up his workspace at the table, turning to Stiles with a fond look.

“I best be off now. You look about ready to break out through the window.” he laughs, walking over to caress the side of Stiles’ face. His hand rests there, warm and broad and tender.

Only Stiles could bring out that side of him.

“And you look about ready to let me.” Stiles replies.

“Hmm. If only to get this dreaded hospital smell off of you. But alas, one more night won't kill us.” Peter concedes.

Stiles arches a brow, and crowds in closer.

“You sure about that?”

Peter laughs, tipping his head to rest against Stiles’.

“Brat.” he says, fondly.

“Dirty old zombiewolf.” Stiles returns just as sweetly.

Peter pulls him in for a kiss. It's the first passionate one they've had since the accident, so Stiles makes sure to enjoy it as he presses his lips back against Peter's. The stubble burns in just the right way, a nice contrast to Peter's soft and warm lips. Peter likewise is happy to plunder and taste his delectable mate and husband. Any amount of time is too long in not kissing him.

They break apart just as tongues were getting involved though, for the sake of any passing nurses and their own. Hospital sex wasn't on either of their long lists of 'Places to have sex’ for obvious reasons.

Too many eyes; And Peter is one hell of a possessive lover.

“Go on then. I’m sure the Pups back home miss your creeping around the loft. Tell me, are they still washing out glittery pixie blood from their hair?”

Peter smiles all too knowingly.

“Pfft. You didn't tell them it stains like that after I left, did you?” Stiles accuses, but he's smiling too.

“I was as helpfull as they wanted me to be.” Peter replies cryptically. Meaning, the Pack is still iffy about Peter and this is payback for telling him to stay behind. Terrible planning, seeing as that only ended up getting Stiles hurt since Peter hadn't been there to help lead the evil pixies ( Sprites ) away. So yeah, Stiles didn't feel all that bad.

Stiles laughs, gives Peter one last quick peck on the lips before pushing him towards the door.

“Alright, go home now. I'll see you in the morning my dearest hubby.” he teases.

“Goodnight Stiles.” Peter purrs. “See you tomorrow.”

He stops at the doorway one last time.

“I love you.”

Stiles melts a little inside.

“Love you too, Peter.”


Stiles expects the rest of the evening to go by uneventfully and quietly all on his lonesome, but when there's a knock at his door just as he's ginergly crawling back into bed he knows it's not meant to be.

“Um, come in?” he calls out.

Nurse Ryley had just been by to check his vitals and wouldn't be back for a while yet.

The door glides open, and Stiles immediately regrets speaking up. He should've just pretended to be sleeping already.

Dr. Henler steps in, a tray in his hands. It's Stiles’ hospital dinner, fruit cup and all. How the man knew he still needed his food for the night, Stiles didn't want to know. But it set him back on edge all the same.

“Can I help you?” he asks simply, with an added scowl for good measure. Just in case.

“eh-hem. Mr. Hale, good evening. Ah. Yes. Think of an apology. Nurse McCall talked to me, and I see how I may have come off as offensive earlier.”

Piqued, but nowhere near ready to forgive, Stiles is skeptical. “Really now?” he crosses his arms over his chest, just barely remembering his pained rib but hiding it behind grit teeth. “Crappy hospital food hardly makes up for what you did earlier. I have my husband to cook for me at home for that. And his food is way better.”

At the reminder of Peter, Henler visibly tenses, and actually seems to look guilty for his actions.

“I am aware that it wasn't very professional of me to come straight to you with my enquiries not knowing the whole situation. But I'm sure you can see where I was comimg from.”

“I really can't.” Stiles deadpans.

The other man just sighs, before setting the foodtray down on the beds’ own moveable one attached to the side.

“I figured you'd say that. I just wanted you to be aware of what you're doing. It's a very drastic process after all.”

“Yeah, I am aware. Now could you leave before I call security on you?”

Instead of being threatened, the doctor just leans over to grasp Stiles’ hand.

“I'm sure you were beautiful before, and it must hurt to have lost that.”

Stiles’ mind goes white for a few seconds.

Then it's returning with force and a jolt that manifests in his palm--the same palm Henler is holding. The man jumps, feeling the static shock like millions of little needles.

“Get out.” is all Stiles can bring himself to say.

Distracted from the strange occurrence, Dr. Henler stalks out of the room with parting words.

“I apologize for any offense. Goodnight, Mr. Hale.”

The door clicks closed and Stiles releases the breath he didn't know he was holding.

He hasn't felt such rage since the Nogistune…That thought alone has him doing the old habit of counting his fingers.

After ten minutes of internal cursing and screaming with nothing but the drone of the TV as background noise, he catches the smell of the food beside him.

He's not very hungry now, not after all that, but he supposes he has to eat to keep his energy up for healing. And using his magic, even unintentionally and in little bits, always leaves him starving for some reason.

“Whatever.” he sighs out into the empty room.

He brings the tray over, and eats.


Stiles is dreaming.


It's a nice dream, because Peter is here with him, whispering sweet nothings into his ear.

He feels no urge to count his fingers now.

He can't hear what's being said though. Everything is foggy and jumbled, but it must be Peter because there's a warm hand caressing his side. It's not as soft as usual, but it avoids his aching torso and follows all the curves and dips along his body, just like always.

It feels nice…

Everything is so warm and soft.


(Why isn't Peter's hand then?)


It's been so long since he's felt his husbands’ bedroom touch (half a week is so, so long).

He wants to curl around the hand, pull Peter closer. Feel all of him. He groans in pain when his rib hurts, even lying on his good side it aches.

A voice soothes him, mumbling, quiet.

Peter's never that quiet during sex. He likes to narrate and embarrass Stiles. To growl and bare teeth that make Stiles go both hard and and wet instantly.

He whimpers, trying to call out, wanting that Peter and not this quiet one who hesitates and holds back. must be his ribs. Of course, Peter's just being careful…

The fog comes back, and Stiles rubs his thighs together in this dream world. He aches, deeper and sweeter in a place other than his side.

“Peter…” he whispers.

The touching haults, freezing in place on his hipbone. There is no reply, but then the warm hand goes down, down...down between his legs, under stifling sweatpants and boxers.

He gasps, feeling the fingers toying with him. Rubbing along folds and pulsing skin. It feels good...but not like how his Peter does it.

They don't dance around his little cockhead to touch all the other sweeter places--No, these ones go straight for it, rubbing hard and fast.

It’s too much. He's too sensitive to enjoy direct stimulation. Peter knows this.

He squirms in discomfort, and finally the fingers move on. They go down again, searching and finding his entrance.

He gasps out once more when the fingers just push in, two at once, forcing themselves inside. It hurts becuase he's too dry, and the fingers are rough and not gentle or knowing at all.

They push in and out as he tries to pull away, but an arm around his waist keeps his weakened body in place.


He wants to struggle, to demand that this Peter stop and let him adjust. It hurts and it burns and--

--Then it doesn't.

He moans when the fingers hit that spot inside him just right.

The pleasure and warmth and fog all come back at once as the fingers--Peter's fingers--grind into that spot over and over agian.

Oh yes !

His hips shake and rock back on the hand, rubbing his growing cock on the palm. This dream Peter just needed time to get it right he guesses.

There's puffs of breaths hitting his neck from behind but Peter doesn't kiss and suck at it like usual. Stiles doesn’t dwell on it too much, since he's enjoying the fingers so much.

It makes him ache for more. He wants all of Peter; not just his fingers. He wants that familar warmth filling him up, reaching deep and making him feel whole.

He's never been afraid to give himself to Peter that way. Not when the werewolf will just as easily let himself be taken.

Oh how Stiles loves those it good to Peter from behind, the Alpha only ever submitting to his Mate and enjoying it.

Stiles writhes and shakes in pleasure.

Peter always fucks him extra good and hard after that once he's recovered.

He thinks he hears words, but they're not in Peter's timbre so he pays it no mind. The fingers stretch and it feels like more. He's so wet and needy and it feels just like Peter's cock.


It delves in and pushes deeper, deepr, and Stiles comes to the thought of Peter coming inside him.


Stiles is groggy when he wakes the next morning.

His eyes feel heavy, his mouth is dry, and his side is hurting more than it was yesterday. He thought it had been feeling better, but maybe he slept on it wrong?

It doesn't help his mood that he had the sexiest dream ever of his husband and can barely remeber it. All he's got for it are drenched boxers and sticky thighs.

Well, at least no nurses had walked in on his wet dream last night, or early this morning when he put on some new underwear Peter had brought for him for his temporary hospital stay. Small merices.

But he's still tired and groggy and not feeling the best.

“We're almost done here Mr. Hale. Your husband will be here to pick you up any minute now to go home.” Nurse Ryley says as she checks off his charts for release.

Home .

Stiles can't wait to get there so he can hog the bed. It’s far more comfortable than the one he's been sleeping on here. And bigger.

He hides a yawn behind his hand, mumbling an affirmative.

Stiles is dressed in his sweats and a new T-shirt, sitting up on the side of the bed with his legs hanging off. His back is to the door, and Ryley is just finishing up her marks when a knock brings forth Peter, dressed in a stylish spring jacket and bright eyed.

”Hey Peter.” Stiles greets, Peters’ name rolling off his tongue with easy familiarity.

Peter takes one step into the room before freezing, droping the bag with Stiles’ shoes and jacket onto the floor without care.

His face is paling by the second as he just stands there and stares at Stiles’ like he can't believe his eyes.


Nurse Ryley seems to sense the tension as she sets her clipboard on the bed behind Stiles.

“Mr. Hale. We just got finished up if you--...” her voice fades out as Peter ignores her and finally steps into the room.

He goes straight for Stiles, his hands coming up to hold his face on either side, fingertips digging in just a little too harshly.

His eyes are flashing back and forth from blue to red.

“Peter? What are you doing?” Stiles can't help but ask, lost as to why Peter would be loosing control. He glances over at Nurse Ryley to see if she notices the changing eye colors but she's turned away to gather up her things to give them some privacy.

“What happened?”

Tone-less, cold and hollow, Peter's words jolt Stiles into resting his hands on Peters wrists as they hold his face. He's never heard his wolfs voice so void emotion.

“What are you talking about?” he asks, more than concerned for his husbands strange behaviour.

Peter leans in, his eyes burning into Stiles’ as he whispers with dread.

“You smell like sex Stiles. I can smell another man's scent on you.”

The words don't click right away.

Stiles goes through a multitude of emotions, rolling along like a train of grief.

He doesn't believe it at first. But Peter is a werewolf, and if he says there's another scent on him…

“Oh my god.”

His voice quiet and near broken at the revelation. Peter doesn't say anything, but his face shows he's waiting; listening.

The glass in the window shakes and the lights flicker.

“I thought...I-I thought it was dream…I thought it was you …”

Peter doesn't wait to hear anymore. He doesn’t need to. His reply is as quiet as the rest of the conversation.

“I'll kill them.”

Peter steps away abruptly, taking his warmth and rage with him. Stiles is too dazed in his own head to feel the loss.

“Nurse Ryely, could we have a word outside for a moment?” Peter asks. He's all calm and polite on the outside, and when she nods with an “Of course!” she follows him out with a worried look thrown towards Stiles.

Stiles doesn't know how to feel.


Peter walks down the hallway, goes until he comes across an unoccupied room and enters it. Ryley is not far behind. She looks a little nervous but Peter pays it no mind. It's not her smell all over Stiles.

But it's a familiar scent--One he can't quite place yet.

He wants answers.

“Who gave Stiles sleeping pills last night?”

She looks taken aback by his curt question. “No one. He never asked for any and it's not on his list of meds we gave him when he first got admitted. Mr. Hale, what's going on?”

Peter doesn't reply right away; instead he just snarls under his breath and turns away to hide his changing eyes.

He can't outright say that he could smell the drugs still in Stiles’ system--she probaly just thought he hadn't slept well due to his side. But it's clear as day, for any Wolf at least, to see the signs. To smell them.

He's struggling to control his shift. He's struggling to comprehend that someone touched his mate while he was drugged. Peter knows whoever did this was smart enough to not leave behind easily spotted evidence.

But whoever hurt Stiles didn't take into account his werewolf husband.

“Mr. Hale? If I may…” Ryley cuts in. He turns to her, careful of what she can see of his eyes. She still looks nervous, but she is also very bright and has caught on that something isn't quite right. “I didn't think much of it at first, but last night, when I went to bring Stiles his supper--well--he already had it. He was out cold when I took it for the cleaning crew. I thought maybe Nurse Melissa had given it to him since she'd done it before…”

“So you never saw anyone come in or out right before then?” Peter asks, a little lighter for her sake. She was doing her best afterall. (And Stiles seemed to like her so he'd behave the best he could right now).

“I'm sorry, sir. I didn't.” She says. She smells sad and her worry is stiffling the air.

He sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose to better hide his eyes.

“Thank you Nusre Ryley. Sorry to worry you. Im sure it's nothing. If you'll excuse me…” he turns to leave; wanting and needing to find anwsers before he returns to Stiles. He's already left him to stew in the sickening news of what's happened long enough. But neither of them would be able to rest untill the culprit was found. It's how they both were.

An arm on his jacket sleeve stops him from going far.

“Wait! Actually, now that I think about it...I thought I saw one of the doctors leaving his room not long before supper was supposed to be served. I had just assumed it was for some last minute checkup us nurses don't do, or maybe Doctor Stacy visiting him. But they were rather taller than her...”

And just like that Peter knew.

There wasn't anyone else it could be. The smell of strong ginger and sanitizer, covering the deeper scent of interest and curiosity.

Dr. Henler set off all of Peter's warning instincts the second the bland man had walked in to try to gatekeep Stiles from his meds.

And of course, by coincidence , Peter didn't smell him here today. It would take too long to scout the town for his scent, and Peter wasn't about to go tell the Pack to go looking for some random doctor without explanation. He didn't plan on telling them at all without Stiles’ permission.

But there was one person who could, and would, help. Someone who had just as much reason and willingness to break a few laws for Stiles’ sake.


John Stilinksi stood by and watched as Stiles was helped into Peter's car--similar to Derek's by design but better--and didn't quite know how to address what he was feeling at the sight.

Stiles was quiet, withdrawn and eerily still. It reminded him too much of when his son had been possessed, and that thought alone brought with it so much pain.

He felt no hesitation in handing over the man who hurt his sons’ life to Peter Hale.

Peter closes the passenger door for Stiles before turning to John.

From an outside view it would just look like the towns good Sheriff was escorting off his son and son-in-law after a brief hospital visit.

Looking closer, it shows Johns slipping a piece of paper into Peter's hand as they share a quick familial hug.

John can see Stiles over Peter's shoulder through the car window, lost and dazed ever since he arrived to see them off.

Peter had called not an hour ago to tell the Sheriff the sickening news.

Someone had hurt his baby.

Someone had touched his child against their will (drugged and helpless and all alone).

No. Not just someone, but a grown man in a doctors suit who was supposed to help people heal. Not break them.

Though that was not right either. Stiles has survived through much worse (and even that makes John want to take his son and hide him away where no one could ever hurt him again). His son will always bounce right back, if those past experiences are anything to go by.

He wasn’t about to let this slide though. Not even close.

“Don't make me regret this Peter. Don't make me have to take you in in front of my own son.”

Peter nods imperceptibly.

“I follow trails John, not leave them.”

He's learned by now that he'd break any law for his son. He'd been halfway out the Station with his gun full of bullets with Henlers’ name on them. Screw being the Sheriff--the man needed to pay. Peter's voice through the phone had stopped him from sentencing himself to years in prisonl for manslaughter. He couldn't do that to Stiles, and with Peter offering to…

“Make him pay.”

With a whisper, the deal is sealed, and the two break apart. John watches them drive away, a dreary look in his eyes and in need of a reason to believe he's doing the right thing for Stiles.

The thought of doing this the legal way--of getting a statement from Stiles, a DNA swab, and the hallways’ hospital footage to prosecute Dr. Henler that way--it never once crossed his mind.

There's no doubt in his mind he'll be getting called in about a body before the night is up.

He goes inside to find Melissa.


It's nearing later in the evening as Peter folds up the slip of paper into his pocket. He doesn't need it, he’d already memorized it earlier, but it doesn't hurt to have it on him to dispose of once he's done.

He grabs the black bag he packed, full of spare clothes and shoes. His strength and claws are all he needs for tools.

“...You're leaving?”

Stiles’ voice reaches across the living room of their home as he stands leaning against the bedroom doorway. It’s the first time he's been out of there all day (Peter couldn't stand seeing him pulling away from his touch when he tried to comfort, so he let him be).

Peter hesitates before turning around, already at the front door.

“Go back to bed Stiles.”

“Where are you going, Peter.” Stiles says, not really asking.

“Out for a run. I'm not sure how long of one it'll be I’m afraid.” Peter tries.

“Bullshit.” Stiles snaps out. “You wouldn't leave me here alone for a fucking jog in the middle of the evening. Not after--...Not after…”

I was raped goes unsaid. Stiles can't bring himself to. So he deflects, tries for another reason.

“Not after what you said.”

And not after I overheard who did it while you called my Dad.

Peter relents as well, setting the bag by the door so he can walk across the room to stand in front of Stiles and hold his face like the dear thing it is to him.

“You're right. I shouldn't have tried to lie. I just wanted to attempt to make this easier for you. That man doesn't deserve to take up even another seconds time of your thoughts.”

Stiles leans into the touch, taking in the warmth as even now Peter does a light pain-drain.

“Since when have you ever wanted to exclude me from plans of murder?”

It's weak as far as jokes go, and of all of Beacons’ ‘Monster Of The Week’ this is by far the most personal attack. For them; as a couple, as husbands, as Mates.

“Since you're still healing and I want you to shower and rest.” Peter states.

Stiles jolts from Peter's hold, as he only just now remembers his words from earlier.

“Oh god, do I still smell like--?”

“Stiles, Stiles look at me. Good boy. Come here.” Peter soothes and pulls Stiles in, holding him close and breathing in the junction of his smooth neck. The rabbiting pulse and smell of panic lessens and he hugs tighter. “You smell of everything but me. So I want you to stay here and relax and let me take care of this.” as he says this he reaches up to grip the back of Stiles’ neck. For them, it means that Peter is in charge and will handle everything Stiles is too distraught to do himself.

It was their thing. Each knowing when to dominate and when to submit in their Werewolf-Spark relationship. Right now, it was exaclty what Stiles needed to ground himself. To know that Peter was in charge and was going to make things better.

He still had to complain, if not for anything than at least for appearances sake.

“I could do it too you know…Kill him. I want to.” Stiles says, shaky but every bit true.

“I know sweetheart. And I'm sure you would do it so beautifully too. But I don't ever want you two in the same room again in his missrable lifetime. And frankly, I'd probably wolf out and kill him far too quickly with you there.”

“Who says I don't want you to do exactly that?”

Peter growls, face pressed against Stiles’ cheek, corded arms squeezing nape and waist.

“Because I plan on making him suffer for what he did.”

Stiles visibly shudders in Peters strong hold, eaqual parts pleasure and disgust. Pleasure, because seeing his Wolf in action is like nothing else--all corded muscles and red eyes and fangs to rival any beast. And disgust for having been so weak as to let this all happen in the first place.

As if reading his mind, Peter softens his hold and leans back to look into Stiles’ honey-colored eyes.

“It's not your fault, love. What happened wasn't your fault. You were drugged and no matter how powerful or not you are it wouldn't have mattered. We've always known the real monsters aren't always...the monsters.”

“You're not a monster.” is all Stiles can think to say to that.

“And you're not weak either.”

Both of them would always be trying to convice the other of those things.

“My little Spark.” Peter rumbles, soft hand caressing soft cheek.

Stiles smiles a weak smile, but it's real and sincere.

“I'll come home right after. And when I do, I want to hold you if you'll allow me. Just us, lying together.”

Releasing a puff of breath, Stiles holds Peter tightly back and nods against his shoulder.

“Just make sure to come back alright? And not in handcuffs.”

Peter is reminded of Johns parting words, and vows that after tonight, they won't even be able to find the body.


Greg Henlers’ doctor status was boasted through the size of his house.

White pristine siding, white picket fence, in a friendly suburb on the North side of Beacon Hills with all caucasian neighbors no doubt.

It's all too easy, really.

Peter can't help but begrudge the use of Johns’ connections. They would've come in handy when he was hunting his familys’ killers.

But Stiles is his family now. His Mate and lover and husband. And the man sitting not twenty feet away in his cozy expensive home, going on as if he hadn't just raped his partner the day before-- His Stiles-- he won't stand for it .

Red eyes glowing in the night, Peter moves in.


Stiles doesn't cry.

He can't. Or he'll never stop.

He walks around the living room mindlessly, in circles around the couch and lost in his head.

He wishes more than anything that he'd pushed at coming along more.

He knows that Peter has more control over himself than what he tells others. But there was probably some truth to him saying he'd kill Henler on the spot if Stiles was there.

And Stiles...he wants the man to suffer. He's not in control of his magic enough yet to make his death slow or intricate, which is no doubt Peter's plan.

He stops to rub at his face, trying to gather his thoughts.

He feels the nervous sweat there like a second skin, shame and disgust rolling over him in waves at the sensation.

Settled, and secure in the knowledge that Peter would come back to him, (and that everything would be and has to be fine) he makes a beeline for the bathroom.


It doesn't take long to have the doctor sniveling and crying on the forest floor. Dragging the man out of his house without so much as a seconds hesitation or introduction, it had been a sinch to get him where Peter wanted him.

The forest was dark this time of night, and the moon herself was avoiding her gaze behind grey clouds.

But Peter could see just fine. Like red highbeams from hell, his gaze was solely focused on the being before him.

“You hurt someone very dear to me.”

The sound of his voice is deep and gutteral, distored by fangs and rage.

Greg Henler never saw who took him--Peter made sure of that. His inner predator wants to see his preys’ face fall in fear when he finds out just what the price of his actions will be.

“I-I don't know what you're-you're talking about! I don't even know who you are!” The man tries to defend, turning in circles to try to see into the night.

Lying , his rabbiting heart says. Peter relishes in the fear.

He never would've been able to draw this out if Stiles had come.

“Please! I'll pay you whatever you want! I swear I didn't do anything!” Lying again.

“Oh, but you did.” And finally, in a moment of Peters usual dramatic villan-ness as Stiles would call it, he steps forward, showing his face just as the clouds thin above.

“You?! O-oh god, what are you?” Falling onto the leavy ground, Greg backs away until his back hits the sturdy trunk of a tree.

Half shifted, eyes red as blood, Peter must surely look like a demon to the man.

“Hardly the monster you are, filth.

Peter let's his voice drop even more, claws itching to dig into soft flesh. But he holds back, because he wants this to be slow.

“No. You're far worse than what I will ever be or will ever become.” at that, he saunters closer, stalking like the wolf he is before crouching just feet away from Greg.

“I'm the husband of the one you raped. And your death will be excruciatingly painful.”

Gregs’ animal brain must have finally kicked in, because he is suddenly making a break for it.

Peter gives him a ten second head start, letting the adrenaline and rage fule his senses.

Henler is as loud as a stomping elephant, and Peter brings him down easily. He slams hard into the other mans back to throw him down, and steadies them by gripping his arm in a clawed hand. They dig in deeply without care.

Greg shouts in pain, body shaking. They haven’t even started and he's acting as if Peter's already killing him.

“Tell me, did you really think you could get away with it? How many others were there, huh? Twelve, going by all the records of lawyers you bribed off. You're not as subtle as you'd like to believe yourself.” Peter snarls.

“I didn't do it, I swear! None of it!” the twitchy man yells. He tugs at Peter's grip but it's held tight with supernatural strength. “Oh god, please I didn't-didn't--Auuugh!”

“Go ahead. Lie to me one more time.” Peter threatens, crushing the arm till bone creaked and twitsted--and then snapped.

Greg nearly looses consciousness, the simpering filth, so Peter shakes him hard and gets close in his face.

He nearly looses it at the closeness. Henlers smell, the ginger and sanitizer, borring in and burning his sensitive nose. That very smell had been all over Stiles. Saturated in a way only intimacy could do.

Greg comes around, becoming aware of Peter's closeness and the pain.

“I--I did...I did it…” He sobs out between gasps and hiccups.

“Did you enjoy it ?” is growled out. “Drugging and raping my husband?”

He squeezes at the broken arm, threatening to tear it off completely.

“But I didn't!” Greg screams and pleads. “I just. I-I just…”

Peter leans in, baring his fangs and watching as Greg blanches in fear. His face is a mess of snot and tears, a grown man turned pathetic under Peter's making.

“Just what?” was said quietly, demanding.

Sobbing hard, the man breaks. “It was just my fingers, I-I swear...It was just my fingers…I just w-wanted to show good it could be...”

‘Just my fingers.’

No jump in heartbeat. Not a lie.

As if that made it any better. As if it erased his poisonous presence and actions from Stiles’ life.

But there is an inner moments breath of relief released within Peters mind.

The dark and possessive side of him that is selfish and primal, saying that only he would ever be able to fuck and claim Stiles. That part of him is glad that he won't have to reacquaint his Mate to his ownership in that degree.

On the outside, his gaze goes to the hands that had touched what is his.

He looks at the hands as if they'd touched him . As if they'd raped him .

They might as well have.

He brings his burning gaze back to the vile human before him.

“Then let's be glad I won't have to tear off your dick. But maybe I will...for HIS sake and of the others you hurt.”

He smiles, all teeth, before digging his fangs into each finger one by one.


It's well past two in the morning when Peter saunters back into their home.

He's surprised to find Stiles still up, soaking in the bath. The young man looks up when Peter enters the doorway.

“You're back.” is all Stiles says.

He looks so lost and small, huddled with his knees to his chest and lean arms wrapped around his legs. His skin looks pink and rubbed raw where it's visible above the waterline.

The sight makes Peter both ache with the need to comfort, and to kill Greg Henler all over again.

“Is it done?” Stiles asks when Peter doesn't reply right away.

“Yes.” Peter answers lowly. He feels at a loss at what to do for his lover for once. He hates it.

Stiles looks up at him, their eyes meeting.

“Join me?”

“I still have some blood on me.” he says lamely. A weak excuse, when he's always eager to join Stiles in being naked.

“I don't fucking care.”

The strength in Stiles’ resolve has Peter jumping to undress from his spare clothes (the others trashed and burned far in the woods and buried).

Stiles moves over in the tub as Peter slinks in, automatically going to pull Stiles into his arms, mindful of his sore side.

There they rest, soaking in the lukewarm water, Peter's hand idly roaming over soft skin.

“I found out some news...while taking care of him.” Peter says into the quiet of the bathroom.

Interested, Stiles looks up at him from where his cheek rests on Peter's shoulder.

“He didn't fuck you. It was just his hand.” Crude, but Stiles would appreciate bluntness over coddling.

And he was right. Stiles gives him a hard look, before nodding. His whole body droops then, sagging into Peter's hold like a terrible weight’s been lifted off his shoulders.

It still didn't make it better. Didn't make it right, or easier. But it was the truth.

“Thank you, Peter.” Whispered, so softly but full of sincerity.

Thank you for taking care of him.

Thank you for staying safe while doing so.

Thank you for still loving me...

“I don't remember it you know. Not really. It felt like a dream, and I thought it was you.”

“I know, sweetheart. That's all his memory will ever be. Just a passing nightmare who thought it could hurt you and get away with it.”

“You don't think it makes me dirty?” Stiles can't help but ask, though he's not sure if he meant to do so out loud or not.


Without a second thought Peter takes Stiles’ chin in his hand and kisses him with a fiery passion. It goes from soft to bruising to deep and light in the span of seconds. All their favorite types of kisses mixed into one. Stiles loves it, and lets the comfort of it take over his mind and heart. Peter leaves him no room for breath or extra thoughts, licking and nipping like his life depends on it.

Nothing could ever ruin this. Ruin them .

“Show me?” Stiles asks--pleads--breathlessly.

Peter doesn't wait.

He stands up, lifting Stiles up in his arms like it's nothing as water cascades down their bodies and trailing on the floor as Peter takes them into the bedroom.

Despite his sudden actions, he's careful as he lays Stiles down on their bed. He's never rushed showing Stiles just how much he loves him, and his body, and so Peter's not going to start now.

“How is your rib?” he asks as he crawls over his husbands prone from.

Stiles goans with impatience. “Just fine. Come on, I want to get to the good part already. Have to...wipe away the filth, right?”

Peter growls. “You could never be filthy, Stiles.”

And indeed, his love is a sight to see right now.  Splayed out beneath Peter, wet and glistening from the water, chest rising and falling with panting breaths, he's magnificent.

All long limbs and leath muscle, the fading scars on his chest a delectable sight. Neither of them barely notice them these days.

Just as Peter is, Stiles too takes in the sight of generous exspance of skin above him. Stiles is by no means soft, but Peter's muscles and fine chest hairs would make anyone feel inadequate. But Stiles doesn't feel that way--Peter's never let him, and that thought alone has him aching for his lover.

Not the dream version either.

The real Peter.

They are not opposites of each other, but more like two pieces of a whole. Snark and sweetness all rolled into one when they’re together. The proof was Peter's tender care, and willingness to destroy anything that opposed them. Stiles had and always would do the same.

Stiles arches his head up, just a breath away from Peters. “Then prove it.” he challenges.

With reverent hands and lips, Peter does.

He leaves no place untouched, and he's forever grateful that Stiles lets him--that what happened will not ruin the intimacy that always been so easy for them. Stiles being transgender had never been a hurdle they needed to cross. It was just a part of Stiles’ uniqueness. If that hadn't stopped them from getting together and staying together, then no outside force ever would.

His touches are light and gentle over torso and chest, but hard and firm at waist and thighs.

Their bodies gleam in the darkness of the room as the moon finally shows her light through the window, and both men lose their breath at the sight of each other. The space between them disintegrates as they entwine legs, and Peter's hand goes lower and lower to remind Stiles exactly how his fingers feel inside him.

Stiles moans out in pleasure, hands gripping and clawing at Peter's shoulders and hips shaking. Soft fingers dance and play just right within him and he relishes in the feeling of rightness it has.

He may not feel the werewolf pull of Mate, but he knows Peter is his one and only.

“Easy love, easy.” Peter breaths in his ear. “I've got you.”

Stiles relaxes, warmed by their proximity and growing arousal.

“Please Peter, I want you.” Stiles pleads, and Peter is weak to it.

He never stops moving his arm, fingers flexing into wet softness, all thoughts filled with ‘ StilesMateHusbandClaim! ’.

“What do you want Stiles? Be clear.” What seems like a tease, is what Stiles knows as Peter asking permission. He was only ever so serious one other time--Their first time, to be exact.

Now it's Stiles’ turn to growl as he grabs Peters face in his hands and kisses him deeply.

“I want you to fill me up. Make his touch mean nothing compared to yours. Make me yours again.”

The words go straight through to Peters wolf, his breath coming up short in the face of Stiles’ desire. Stiles doesn't need to be bitten--he's already a wolf at heart.

Mine. ” Peter says simply, before giving Stiles what he wants.

“Y-yours.” Stiles pants, face breaking out in pleasure as Peter sinks inside him, making good on those words by reclaiming and carving his space into Stiles’ body.

Their bodies become undulating silhouettes under the moons gaze, something slow and sensual as they make love. It would be cheesy, if Stiles were so inclined to tease right now.

Instead, they just rock back and forth, taking and giving pleasure in equal measure. Peter takes in the sight, his eyes a steady blue for once.

The stretch and reach of Peter inside him has Stiles panting, neck arching back as he rolls his hips up and into his loves’ thrusts. Peters’ name falls from his lips over and over again so the wolf claims them as well. The heat, the rhythm, it gets to them and they climb higher and higher into bliss.

Stiles grips Peter's waist with his thighs and squeezes their hands together.

“D-Do it. Peter please. Tie us-- mmnn-- together.”

Peter nearly goes feral right there.

He can't help but pick up the pace, their skin slapping together, still just on the edge of tipping into rough.

“Stiles.” he moans, and buries his face in the inviting neck before him. He is helpless in his need to claim, to own, to heal his Stiles with his touch. And Stiles does feel healed.

It's ridiculous, and not entirely feasible nor sensible, but he feels like having Peter make love to him is the only right way to go about it.

Climax nears, and they both shake as wet muscles squeeze and hot skin glides deep.

Peter comes first, his hips jolting as he lets the half-shift take over to knot his lover.

It's so overwhelming, the flood of endorphins too much in this form and leaving him weak to resist. He whimpers into Stiles’ neck, and Stiles caresses his hair and holds him tight through it all.

But his own pleasure peaks then, as the pressure grows and heat floods his insides like a balm. It's a chain reaction that has him plunging over the edge into the abyss with Peter. It drags out for both of them, feeling their mutual orgasms with clenching muscles and grinding hips and shaking shoulders.

Stiles kisses every inch of skin he can reach to sooth Peter, rocking his hips lightly to feel the tug and pull of his knot.

Their hands are still clasped together, with rings shining in the moonlight. Tied together, in more ways than one.


The next day brings with it the old Stiles. His eyes are alight and he laughs when he manages to wake Peter up with nips and kisses.

Incorrigible, Peter calls him.

Peter hides his smug smile as he watches Stiles waddle to the bathroom, oozing a trail of Peter's come like a snail.

The wolf is utterly pleased that things are back to as they should be, scents and all.

(There may yet be more to talk about, more time needed to see if all is truly alright, but for now, this has to be enough.)


There is no fuss made over the missing doctor.

The reports of rape cases against him had mysteriously come to light, and thus he would no have no place at Beacon Hills Hospital if he were to ever show up again.

The police don’t seem worried, and no inquiries have been made.

Months pass and not even a body is found.

(If it had, the most notable thing about it would have been the missing fingers, each bitten off one by one by some kind of animal. The second, the torn and crushed genitals shoved into a cold and dead mouth.)

Stiles feels pride swell in his heart for the skill his wolf has at hunting. The vengeance feels sweet like nectar.

But he hasnt let himself be idle either. Oh no, never. He's trained his magic to feel out any ill-will someone might have towards him or his Pack. In fact, he's cast it all across Beacon to affect any of the humans on the off chance another Henler thinks to hide here.

He may be able to feel healed with just Peter's touch, but others might not be so lucky and he won’t allow anyone else to go through what he did, or worse. He's made it his duty to watch his home as the towns’ one and only Spark.

“Stiles darling, you coming?” Peter calls out. “Those damned pixies are back. And this time, I’m coming with.”

“Sprites, Peter. They're called Sprites.” Stiles corrects him. Peter grumbles something about ‘semantics’ and 'we're killing them either way for being conniving menaces’.

Stiles just rolls his eyes and heads out to follow Peter.

Yes, he thinks, things will be just fine from now on.