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Don't you darling me!

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Stiles huffed loudly, angrily waddling about the parking lot as magic sparked along his shoulders. He was furious, his hands shaking at his sides where they were fisted so tightly the skin of his knuckles was stretched white. Embarrassment was hot in his belly, making his anger and the flush on his cheeks burn even hotter. He opened his mouth, closed it, repeated the action and then turned to his husband with the most murderous glare he could muster up.

“Well, we can't go back to that bar again!” Stiles spat sarcastically, raising an eyebrow as the sheepish expression on the older man's face. “Which is just fucking great, since it’s the only supernatural friendly bar around here!”

“Darling...” Peter said soothingly, but it only caused to anger Stiles more.

“Don't you darling me!” Stiles shouted, his magic arching between his hands when he threw his arms out away from himself. “All I wanted was a nice night out!”

“I know,” Peter told him, holding his hands up in surrender. “But I couldn't let that mutt get away with looking at you like that.”

Stiles took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and said a little prayer for the strength to not murder his husband. He loves Peter, he reminded himself, and murdering is not something you do to loved ones. Taking another deep breath, Stiles did his best to keep his voice level as he said, “You can't throw people through windows just because you don't like the way they look at me, Peter. I shouldn't have to tell you this.”

Peter's eyes flashed, a deep, ruby red that Stiles gave Stiles a little thrill to see. “You should have smelt what that creep was feeling and you would have—”

“Yes, Peter, I would have. Because I can handle myself. Or did you forget that?” Stiles asked him quietly but not without malice, the wind picking up around them as Stiles' anger only grew. “I am not some damsel in distress that needs a man to protect their virtue! Hell, I'm not even a damsel!”

“You don't understand—”

“Peter Stilinski-Hale, I am pregnant, not invalid,” Stiles growled, his eyes flashing with power to prove his point.

“Love,” Peter said, reaching out and gently grabbing hold of Stiles' wrist. Peter rubbed over his pulse, his thumb brushing over the silvered-scar that he left there on their wedding night, and Stiles shivered. Narrowing his eyes, he cursed Peter for knowing his weak spots and did his best to maintain his annoyed frown. “Believe me, I know that. But I love you, and you are not only my mate, but you are carrying my pups. Every fibre of my being wants to protect you and keep you safe, and my wolf does not take kindly to others lusting after what belongs to them. I am sorry for how I acted, but I will not apologize for wanting to keep you safe.”

Stiles maintained his narrowed-eyed glare for another thirty-or-so-seconds before his hormones got the better of him, and he burst into tears. Peter gently pulled him forward and wrapped him in his arms, letting Stiles tuck his face into his shoulder and cry. Stiles hugged him back tightly, tension leaving his body as he breathed in the familiar scent of his mate. “I am still so mad at you,” he muttered into his skin, pinching Peter's back when the man chuckled. “If I didn't need your super-heat, I would make you sleep on the couch.”

“Of course, sweetheart,” Peter said. He ran a hand up and down Stiles' back, his skin so, so warm that Stiles could feel the heat seep through his entire body. He made a pleased noise and pressed as close as he could with his belly between them, focusing on how it felt to be wrapped up in Peter's arms and nothing else.