Archive of Our Own ^beta

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.

Chapter Text

Stiles woke up to a sharp, uncomfortable pressure in his ears. Groaning, he sat up, squeezing his eyes shut and pressing his hands over them. “What the hell…” he muttered, his words trailing off as he blinked open his eyes to find himself inside… a plane. He was on a fucking plane!

“Peter!” he called, his mouth suddenly dry, a note of panic in his voice.

A few hazy memories surfaced--Peter helping him up, dressing him in the middle of the night, being in the car. And than after that nothing… why the hell was he on a plane? A sinking feeling of panic settled in. He was lying in a king-sized bed, soft sheets pulled over him. Next to him was a window, through which he could see clear blue skies and clouds drifting past. They were already in the air.

“Peter, what the hell?” he called out frantically, pushing himself off the bed and stumbling as he made his way through the plane. His breaths came in short, sharp bursts When he got no response and couldn’t see Peter anywhere in sight

What was going on?

Why was he on a plane? Where was Peter taking him? Or more importantly where was Peter? Stiles’s hands tangled in his hair, pulling slightly as a full panic attack began to build. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to focus on his breathing, trying to calm himself, but it wasn’t working. This was kidnapping--Stiles had been kidnapped by his mob werewolf boyfriend.

What the actual hell… this had to be some kind of joke. This wasn’t happening! Stiles needed to calm down. Clearly there was some logical explanation for this. For Peter doing this… Stiles was safe with Peter. He knew that. He did... But what if he wasn’t? What if he’d been wrong? And made a mistake by letting his guard down? Idiot! He was a fucking idiot…

His whole body started to tremble, and he felt like he might pass out, or be sick, or both. “Peter!” he screamed into the cabin, his eyes still shut, his breaths turning ragged as the lack of oxygen started to make his mind foggy.

Strong arms suddenly wrapped around him, pulling him close to a firm chest. A large hand pressed soothingly up and down his back, while Peter’s soft voice murmured in his ear, “It’s okay, sweetheart, it’s okay. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m here everything is okay.” Peter whispered the last words, nuzzling the top of his head gently.

Peter’s other hand pried Stiles’s own from his tangled grip in his hair, moving Stiles’s arms around his waist so he could grip the back of Peter’s sweatshirt tightly instead.

“What’s… going on?” Stiles gasped, fighting for air as he tried to look up at Peter. But the dizziness, the pressure in his ears, and his racing heart made him wince, his head dropping back onto Peter’s shoulder. Peter shushed him gently, stroking the back of his head.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Peter murmured, apologising again, pressing a soft kiss to the top of his head and holding him close. “I meant to be here when you woke up,” he sighed, his tone soft with sympathy as he continued to stroke Stiles’s hair.

Peter lifted him with ease, and Stiles clung to him, his breathing still shallow and his heart racing almost painfully in his chest. “I… what… Peter… why are we on a plane?” Stiles managed, his voice shaky as he clung to the wolf while Peter carried them both back through the cabin to the bedroom area.

Peter continued to make gentle, soothing sounds as he settled them both back onto the bed. With his back against the headboard, he curled Stiles up in his lap, his fingers tracing soft patterns into Stiles’s hair.

“It’s a surprise trip,” Peter admitted, his voice a low murmur. He sighed slightly. “I figured you might freak out a bit when you woke up. I was planning to be here, to put your mind at ease… I only went to go speak with the pilot for a moment.”

Stiles simply listened, focusing all his effort on calming his thoughts and slowing his heart rate. “A… surprise trip?” he asked quietly, turning his gaze to look up at Peter.

Peter offered an apologetic smile, his hand gently cupping Stiles’s cheek and wiping away a tear. Stiles hadn’t even realized he’d been crying. A flush of embarrassment rose, and dread crept in right behind it—a surprise trip. The last person who’d taken Stiles on a surprise trip was…

Theo.

No. No, this wasn’t happening again. It wasn’t! This was Peter; he was safe, he had to be safe. Stop it, Stiles, he told himself. You’re safe. Breathe. Breathe.

He clutched at his chest, gasping as tears rolled down his cheeks, memories forcing their way into his mind—Theo’s pack, his magic, the twins, blood, Lydia screaming, so much screaming, and blood…

“Stiles…” Peter’s voice broke through his thoughts, a worried and frantic tone Stiles had never heard before. “Stiles, you need to breathe.” Peter sounded almost desperate, holding Stiles tightly, rocking him gently back and forth, his hand rubbing steady circles on Stiles’s back, murmuring gentle reassurances.

Gradually, with Peter’s help--and Stiles forcing himself to focus on the small, familiar things about Peter that brought comfort, like the scent of his cologne, the smoothness of his voice, and his steady heartbeat--it began to take hold.

Stiles’s breathing began to even out. The tightness in his chest loosened, the fog of panic slowly lifting. He nestled closer, pressing his cheek against Peter’s chest, grounding himself in the slow, steady rhythm of Peter’s heartbeat.

He looked up, still a little unsteady, into Peter’s face. The worry etched into Peter’s expression was like nothing he’d ever seen before—open, raw, and vulnerable, the usual calm mask shattered. Peter’s thumb stroked softly along Stiles’s cheek, his other hand still tracing gentle patterns across his back. His low murmurs, barely audible, kept breaking through the quiet, soothing as if his voice alone could shield Stiles from everything.

Stiles swallowed, guilt swelling in his chest. Here he was, in Peter’s arms, on a private plane that Peter had arranged just for them. Going to God knows where—it was probably somewhere breathtaking, somewhere beautiful and extravagant, because Peter was, well… Peter, and everything he did was a little extra.

And yet here Stiles was, spiraling into a full-blown anxiety attack, doubting him, letting his paranoia and anxiety put horrible thoughts in his head of Peter being dangerous and hurting him… and now being haunted by memories from years ago that he’d promised himself he was over.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and shaky. “I’m so sorry… Peter, you shouldn’t have had to deal with that.”

Peter’s thumb paused on his cheek. His gaze softened, the worry giving way to something even deeper, a fierce tenderness as he met Stiles’s eyes. “Hey,” he murmured, brushing a lock of hair from Stiles’s forehead. “Don’t apologize, sweetheart. I’ve got you. I’m right here... in retrospect I could have at least told you about the trip and just kept secret about the location.”

Stiles bit his lip, trying to hold himself steady, to stop the wave of embarrassment that still simmered beneath his skin. “No it’s my fault… I just ruined your whole surprise. And I swear I don’t… I’m not like this anymore. I don’t usually lose it like that…”

“So this has happened before? You’ve had attacks like this in the past?” Peter’s voice was soft but unyielding. He tilted Stiles’s chin up so their eyes met directly when Stiles tried to avert his gaze.

“Sweetheart, I’ve seen your anxiety flareups.” His thumb swept gently over Stiles’s cheek again, his gaze soft, searching. “This was not that. I know a PTSD attack when I see one…”

Stiles felt the corners of his mouth twitch into a frown, his heart still pounding but now for a different reason. He pressed his forehead to Peter’s shoulder, taking in a steadying breath of his scent—familiar, grounding… he thought he was over this. He didn’t want Peter to know.

“I just got worked up over something that happened years ago…” Stiles whispered, his voice distant. “I don’t want to talk about it, Peter… so can we move on from it? Pretend it never happened?” He asked, in a pleading tone, hoping Peter would just let this go.

Peter’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening, clearly unhappy with Stiles trying to dismiss the panic attack so easily. But he sighed softly, his expression softening as he leaned down to press a kiss to Stiles’s forehead. His voice was firm, yet gentle, as he said, “No, sweetheart, we can’t just pretend like it didn’t happen.”

Stiles’s brow furrowed, and the quiet protest in his eyes flared into frustration. He shifted out of Peter’s hold, speaking in a tight, hurried tone as he pushed himself off the bed. “Why?” he demanded, his voice trembling with sudden restrained anger. He began pacing, his hands running through his hair as he kept talking, unable to keep still. “I already told you, it’s fine. It was just one slip-up from the shock of the plane… it won’t happen again.”

Peter watched him, an unreadable expression in his gaze as Stiles continued to pace, words spilling out faster now, his tone more defensive than reassuring. “I’m over it. Whatever you think this was—it was nothing. Just nerves or… or whatever,” he muttered, his gaze darting away. He stopped, finally, looking over at Peter with a slightly desperate edge in his eyes, as if daring him to challenge it.

But Peter didn’t look away. Instead, he held Stiles’s gaze, calm but unwavering, his expression patient as if he had all the time in the world to wait for Stiles to understand. “Sweetheart,” he said softly, “you know I don’t believe that.”

Anger bubbled up in Stiles, fierce and sharp, and before he could stop himself, he shouted, “I don’t give a shit what you believe, Peter! I asked you to forget it, and you should respect that!”

Peter’s eyes narrowed, the warmth in his gaze instantly cooling to something harder, more calculating. “This isn’t something you can just push aside, Stiles,” Peter shot back, voice tight. “I need to know what happened so I can make sure I never do anything to trigger you like this again.”

Stiles threw his hands into the air, spinning back around to face Peter, eyes flashing. “It’s not going to happen again! I already told you, it’s been years since I’ve had an episode like that. Why can’t you just let it go?” He all but pleaded, desperation tinging his voice as he met Peter’s unyielding gaze.

Peter didn’t answer immediately, watching Stiles with a mix of frustration and something else, something deep and unreadable. He took a long breath, running a hand over his face as if he was fighting to keep his patience in check.

But as the silence stretched between them, tension building with every second, Stiles felt panic creeping up his spine all over again. He was desperate to break the wall between them, to make Peter understand, to get past this moment. Moving quickly, Stiles closed the distance between them, wrapping his arms around Peter’s neck, pressing his lips to Peter’s in a kiss that Peter didn’t return.

“Peter…” Stiles whispered, voice soft, aching, his fingers tangling gently in Peter’s hair as he pressed their foreheads together. “Please… just let this go.”

Peter let out a slow exhale, and, after a moment, the rigidity in his shoulders eased, his hands lifting to Stiles’s waist in a soft, grounding hold. “Stiles…” he began, voice low, almost reluctant. “I’ve let go of and respected every boundary you’ve given me. You don’t want to be part of my pack—I accept that. You want me to keep my distance from your family and friends—I can do that.” His voice softened as he began guiding Stiles backward, until Stiles’s knees hit the edge of a seat, and Peter nudged him down into it, his eyes never leaving Stiles’s.

Peter knelt down in front of him, his hand reaching up to cup Stiles’s cheek, his thumb brushing softly over the skin. “I’ve never asked you to share more than you’re comfortable with. You want me to avoid questions about your past… your mother… I’ll do that, too.” His gaze was steady, sincere, each word a gentle but firm reminder of his patience.

“But this,” he murmured, his hand slipping from Stiles’s cheek to take one of Stiles’s trembling hands, lifting it between them, his lips brushing over Stiles’s knuckles with a tender kiss, “this isn’t something I can overlook, sweetheart.” His gaze softened, filled with a quiet but undeniable determination. “Not when it’s hurting you.”

Stiles bit down on his lip, his gaze dropping to his lap as he took Peter’s hands in his own, fidgeting with Peter’s ring, sliding it gently back and forth. The weight of everything he’d pushed aside was heavy, but he knew Peter was right. Peter had given him so much space, respected boundaries that others might have pressed on.

“I… I can’t tell you everything,” Stiles murmured, the words fragile as they left him. “It’s… not my place to tell you everything. And I’m not giving you any names,” he added, his voice tinged with hesitation as he glanced up to meet Peter’s steady gaze.

Peter nodded, his eyes soft but resolute. “Okay. I can work with that for now,” he said, voice calm, accepting.

Stiles let out a breath, feeling a little steadier, but still aware of the tension winding through him. “Can we… maybe get a bit more comfortable first?” he asked, his voice almost shy.

An affectionate smile curved Peter’s lips. “Go get comfortable on the bed, baby. I’ll make you a drink first.”

Stiles felt a blush rise to his cheeks at the nickname. Baby. Peter didn’t use it often, and unlike the usual “sweetheart,” this one always seemed to hit differently, leaving Stiles feeling just a bit bashful, a bit shy. He slipped back to the bed, settling in and pulling a blanket up to his chest as he watched Peter move around the small bar area, pouring a drink with practiced ease.

His gaze drifted to the window, catching sight of the endless blue skies and the shimmer of the ocean stretching far below. He hadn’t expected this feeling of awe to hit him so suddenly, the realization settling in like a quiet thrill. “You know,” he called softly, his voice carrying across the cabin, “I’ve never been on a plane before… or left the country.”

Peter paused, glancing over at him, a warm light sparking in his eyes as he finished stirring the drink. “Really?” He set the glass down on the bar, crossing the cabin to join Stiles on the bed, handing him the drink before easing down beside him. “Well, then I’m honored to be your first.”

Stiles chuckled softly, taking a small sip from the glass. “Yeah… guess you get to cross that off the list for me.” He relaxed a little, leaning back as Peter’s arm wrapped around him, and for a moment, the tension that had shadowed them seemed to dissipate. “So… where are we going, anyway?”

Peter smirked, his gaze holding a glint of mischief. “Now that would ruin the surprise, wouldn’t it?” he said, walking over to the bed with two cocktails in hand.

Getting comfortable on the edge, he handed Stiles his drink. “I can’t believe you hired out a private plane.” Stiles snorted, taking a sip of his drink. “You’re such a snob,” he teased lightly, leaning into Peter’s side, relaxing as a strong arm wrapped around his shoulder.

“Hired?” Peter snorted in mock disgust. Whispering in a purring tone, he replied, “I own this plane.” He smirked as he took a sip of his drink, savoring the expression on Stiles’s face as his words sunk in.

“You… own this plane?” Stiles repeated, his eyes widening in disbelief. “Of course you do.” He let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “I don’t know why I’m even surprised anymore.”

Peter’s hand came up to lightly trace along Stiles’s arm, his touch warm and comforting. “I like the freedom it gives me,” Peter murmured, his gaze softening as he looked down at Stiles. “Being able to take off at a moment’s notice… go wherever I want.” His finger came up to trace under Stiles’s chin with a feather-light touch. “Whenever we want. It’s part of the luxury I get to enjoy, and now, so do you.”

Stiles felt a flutter in his chest, the warmth of Peter’s words wrapping around him as much as the arm on his shoulder. He leaned a bit closer, letting the quiet intimacy settle over them. “Well, you already know I don’t care about your money, Peter,” he muttered with a smirk, giving him a playful nudge. “It’s just an added bonus.”

Peter’s lips quirked up, his gaze turning fond as he lifted a hand to brush a stray lock of hair from Stiles’s face. “You deserve to be spoiled,” he said simply, the words settling in the air between them, heavy with sincerity.

Stiles swallowed, feeling his heart beat a little faster. “You’re gonna make me soft, Hale,” he muttered, attempting a lighthearted tone even as the depth of Peter’s gaze made his heart feel like it was tumbling.

Peter chuckled, pulling him a little closer. “Somehow, I doubt that. I think you’d sooner take another swing at me… I’ve debated getting plastic cups.”

Stiles snorted, nudging Peter playfully. “Yeah, well… shouldn’t have let one of your old hookups into the flat. While I was there.” He grumbled the last part, remembering how that fake blonde had batted her eyelashes at Peter the whole time.

Peter just hummed in response, taking another sip of his drink. “Maybe I wouldn’t have if I’d known you were the jealous type, sweetheart,” he shot back. Stiles rolled his eyes, knowing full well Peter was trying to get under his skin. The wolf had a real thing for Stiles’s more possessive, jealous side.

“I’ll remind you you said that when you finally meet one of my exes.” Stiles shot back with a grin. “Then we’ll see who’s the jealous type.” He leaned up to press a chaste kiss to Peter’s lips. “You think I don’t notice how you have to make sure I’m constantly drenched in your scent?”

Peter let out a playful growl, leaning down to nip at the shell of Stiles’s ear. Stiles jumped, letting out a surprised laugh as he shoved the wolf off, his cheeks flushing as Peter chuckled lowly.

“Oh, no, you don’t!” Stiles muttered, trying to keep his composure as he shot Peter a mock glare, though the smile tugging at his lips gave him away.

Peter leaned back, feigning innocence with a smirk, his eyes glinting with amusement. But then his expression softened, and Stiles recognized that look; Peter was about to make him talk.

“Stiles…” Peter’s voice held a hesitant edge, and Stiles felt his pulse quicken. He began to pull away instinctively.

“I know, I know…” Stiles said with a sigh, rubbing the back of his neck nervously and setting his drink aside. Meeting Peter’s patient gaze, he took a deep breath. “You remember… a couple of years back, when that feral Alpha was wreaking havoc around Beacon Hills?” Memories surfaced of him and Scott going to investigate a dead body that night.

Peter frowned, nodding. “Of course. That whole situation was a nightmare for my pack. It killed one of our younger betas. Took us two months to put the thing down… We were just relieved it didn’t bite anyone,” Peter answered, his eyes narrowing with curiosity.

Stiles let out a nervous laugh. “Yeah, about that.” He pulled up his shirt, dispelling the glamour he’d been wearing since he’d first learned to hide the mark. He revealed a scar on his side—a werewolf bite.

Peter’s eyes went wide, and a vicious snarl escaped his lips as he zeroed in on the scarred bite mark. Before Stiles could say anything else, Peter’s hands were on him, pulling him close, fingers tracing over the scar possessively. His eyes flashed an icy blue.

Stiles quickly cupped Peter’s face. “Peter, it’s okay. Relax…”

“Bastard…” Peter snarled again, his fangs bared, eyes fixed on the bite. “I should’ve killed him myself. Shouldn’t have let my sister handle it…” Peter’s wolf was fighting to take over, furious that another wolf had marked Stiles. The need to replace the bite with his own was overwhelming. He felt he couldn’t let this mark stay; it had to go… it had to go now!

Peter snapped back to reality as Stiles sent a sharp pulse of magic through him, grounding him with a jolt of pain. Peter hissed, wrenching back, but it worked. His wolf receded, leaving him fully in control again. It was the closest he’d come to losing himself in years.

Blinking rapidly, Peter’s attention returned to Stiles’s gentle hands holding his. “You back with me, big guy?” Stiles asked, giving him a nervous smile, though Peter could still pick up the faint scent of distress coming from him. Peter shook his head, ashamed that his reaction had frightened Stiles.

“I’m sorry…” he began, but Stiles squeezed his hands, cutting him off.

“It’s okay, honestly, Peter. I expected you to be a little upset about the fact that I have a bite mark from another werewolf…” Stiles leaned in, brushing a soft kiss against Peter’s cheek before whispering in his ear. “Guess I didn’t have to wait for you to meet one of my exes to prove you’re just as jealous and possessive as me,” he teased, offering Peter a reassuring smile, though still tinged with nervousness.

Peter let out a low, almost dangerous chuckle, though his posture stayed tense, his gaze darkening as he looked at Stiles. “Jealous? Maybe,” he murmured, his voice a shade deeper, laced with a quiet, possessive edge. His fingers drifted back to trace the scar on Stiles’s side, feather-light yet loaded with intent, as his icy blue gaze locked onto Stiles’s. “But ‘possessive’ doesn’t begin to cover it, sweetheart.”

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a hushed, almost chilling tone. “You do realize, don’t you?” he whispered, his thumb brushing over the scar as though the reminder of it alone lit a fuse inside him. “I’d kill anyone who even thought of taking you from me.”

Stiles swallowed, feeling the weight of Peter’s words. Even if he couldn’t hear heartbeats, he knew Peter was telling the truth. Really, it should have been disturbing, and Stiles was very aware that he was a little messed up for finding it hot.

“I know,” he answered, a little breathless. “And if it had been my choice, I wouldn’t have let him do it.” He forced himself to hold Peter’s intense stare, his voice soft but firm. “But it’s not like it’s some deep connection. The Alpha attacked me; I was just a target he thought he could claim… instead, it just awoke my magic.” Stiles sighed, remembering that night like it was yesterday, reapplying the glamour to hide the scar and dropping his shirt back down.

Hoping to shift Peter’s focus off the scar, he redirected the conversation. “And… just for your information, it wasn’t just me that Alpha bit.” Peter raised a curious eyebrow at him. “How do you know this?”

Stiles’s mind wandered to Lydia… but he wouldn’t give any names. Lydia wanted nothing to do with the supernatural after what happened with Theo and his pack. “She’s a friend of mine… and also didn’t turn into a wolf. But something else instead, like me.”

Stiles could tell from Peter’s calculated gaze that he wanted to ask more, probably going through every name of Stiles’s friends in his head, trying to figure it out. But he wouldn’t, because Stiles had never even hinted at Lydia since they’d started dating.

Peter snorted, “Unlucky bastard, trying to make two different Betas and failing each time… that’s very rare, you know. Usually, the bite either turns you or kills you.” His gaze flickered back down to where Stiles’s shirt covered the scar.

Stiles shook his head, deciding to skip ahead. Peter didn’t need to hear about every little detail that happened after his magic awoke. “Anyway, that’s how we were brought into the supernatural world… and a while after that, we met a guy.” Stiles’s voice went cold as he turned his gaze away from Peter’s.

“My gut told me not to trust this asshole immediately…” Stiles said through gritted teeth, remembering the arguments he’d had with Lydia about the whole thing.

“But my friend and I were alone. I was struggling with my magic. I kept randomly setting things on fire, glasses exploding… I needed a way to control it, and this guy seemed to be the only one with answers at the time. My friend was the same. After the bite, it was like she was losing her mind, and we were desperate kids.” Stiles snorted, remembering just how naive he’d been back then, with no idea what he was stepping into.

Peter’s hand tightened around Stiles’s, grounding him. “After a while of hanging out with this guy… who was a werecoyote, by the way… the real shit show started. He kept hitting on me, wouldn’t take no for an answer…” A low growl filled the air, and Stiles looked up to meet Peter’s intense gaze. Leaning in, he placed a soft kiss on Peter’s lips, murmuring, “Don’t worry, nothing happened. He was just… persistent.” Stiles reassured him, hoping to ease the tension building in Peter.

Leaning back, Stiles continued, “Anyway, long story short… he drugged me and my friend one night. We passed out cold and woke up in the back of a car.” Stiles’s voice softened, his mind drifting back to that car ride, the look of fear in Lydia’s eyes, the tremor in her voice.

“He said it was a surprise trip…” Stiles whispered, glancing up at Peter through his lashes, hoping he’d understand. Peter gave a single, resolute nod. “Said he was taking us to meet his pack…”

“He drove us to some random warehouse outside of Beacon Hills. Untied us even, still pretending to be ‘friendly’… tried to play it off like this was the only way he could bring us.” Stiles let out a bitter laugh. “Complete psychopath,” he muttered, the disgust in his voice unmistakable.

“After that, we ‘met his pack,’” he said, making quotation marks with his fingers. “Really, it was just a bunch of messed-up betas with a sicko for an Alpha. My magic started going haywire the moment we stepped inside. First time it ever warned me of danger.” Stiles explained quietly, taking a shaky breath, the memories stirring up anxiety as his heart raced.

“They wanted me and my friend to join the pack. We knew it was a terrible idea, but we were surrounded, and they didn’t seem like the type to hesitate to kill… so we agreed.” His voice wavered slightly, and his jaw clenched as he fought for composure. Peter gently stroked a hand through his hair, giving the back of his neck a reassuring squeeze.

Then Peter asked, “Is that why you don’t want to join my pack, sweetheart? Were you… forced into one before?”

Stiles shook his head sharply. “No,” he replied, clenching his fists. “After we agreed, that’s when things really went to hell.” His voice turned tight, anger and vulnerability woven through every word.

“The Alpha said there was an initiation process… then they dragged out two guys—werewolf twins, chained up.” The terrified faces of Ethan and Aiden flashed through Stiles’s mind, rage rising in his chest. “Said we had to kill them to prove our loyalty.” He spat out the words, his magic surging restlessly within him.

“Like hell was I going to kill two people just to join their twisted pack. My friend and I freaked out, and from there, things… got bloody. They tried forcing us into submission, beating the crap out of us…” Peter growled low, but Stiles pressed on, feeling he had to get through this, finally say it all.

“All I could hear was her screaming in pain… my friend begging them to stop… screaming my name.” Stiles shook his head as if to clear the sound of Lydia’s agonized cries from his mind.

“I just… lost it. My magic exploded.” He recalled Lydia’s scream—a banshee’s first cry—echoing in his mind, loud enough to almost deafen him. “I killed most of the people in that room… then passed out,” Stiles whispered. And even in the pristine, quiet plane, the smell of blood filled his senses all over again, like he was right back there.

He remembered waking in Lydia’s arms, her tears soaking his shirt as she rocked him, whispering for him to wake up, saying she just wanted to go home… just wanted to go home.

Stiles took a shaky breath, looking down at his hands before glancing back at Peter. “That’s… all I’m going to say,” he said quietly, his voice taut but resolute. He drew a line there, a boundary that showed he didn’t want to go any further into those memories—not tonight, maybe not ever. Peter didn’t need to know that the twins survived and that, to this day, Stiles kept in contact with them.

Peter also didn’t need to know that after he and Lydia escaped the warehouse, Stiles went back a few days later and took every piece of paper, every electronic device, and anything else he could find. And that’s how Stiles discovered that the Argent family were hunters. That was how he found contacts who could give him the information he needed--how to control his magic and how to help Lydia regain control of her mind…

Or the most troubling part. That Theo lived.

Peter wrapped his arms around Stiles and pulled him into his lap, a steadying warmth that seemed to pull Stiles back from the edge. “Thank you for telling me. I’m sorry you had to go through that—I understand now why you’re so reluctant to join a pack, and I can respect that it comes from the trauma you experienced,” Peter said, his voice deep and soft, with an uncharacteristic gentleness that made Stiles’s heart clench.

He didn’t press for more, didn’t ask for any other details. He just sat there, holding Stiles, solid and unwavering, as if he were willing to bear the weight of what Stiles had shared.

Stiles managed a small smile, though it was tinged with a faint sadness. “It’s strange, you know. After all this time, I thought I’d buried it so deep that… talking about it wouldn’t matter.” He paused, running a hand through his hair. “But, god, it still gets to me.”

Peter’s fingers moved to the back of Stiles’s neck, rubbing gentle circles there. “Trauma’s funny like that. It waits, lingering in the background, and then… sometimes, it just refuses to stay quiet.”

Stiles leaned into the touch, letting Peter’s words settle over him. There was a long, quiet pause, just the hum of the plane around them, grounding them as they settled into comfortable silence.

Chapter Text

The plane touched down smoothly, but the unfamiliar rumble of the landing jolted Stiles awake from the light doze he’d slipped into during the final stretch of their flight. He blinked, trying to shake off lingering shadows of memories that clung to him.

As they stepped out onto the tarmac, a wave of warmth hit him—the Mediterranean sun bright and intense, the air thick with the scent of salt and sun-baked stone. Stiles squinted, momentarily distracted by the change in scenery and the feel of the warm air on his skin, so different from the cool shadows of Beacon Hills.

Even after hours of watching movies with Peter, trying to ease the last of the tension from his body, his mind kept pulling him back to that night—the dark warehouse, Theo’s twisted smirk, the blood, and Lydia’s screams. Each time the memories surfaced, his chest tightened, and he had to take a few steady breaths to ground himself.

Peter, always attuned to him, seemed to sense the lingering unease. Without a word, he slipped an arm around Stiles’s shoulders, his grip firm and grounding—a quiet, steady comfort that kept Stiles from drifting too far into the darker corners of his mind.

A sleek black car waited on the tarmac, the driver stepping out to open the door as they approached. Peter guided Stiles in first, his hand resting lightly on his back, the touch lingering just long enough to remind him he was there—solid, present. Settling into the plush leather seat, Stiles let the cool interior embrace him, trying to let the physical comfort wash away the ache that still gnawed at him beneath the surface.

As the door closed and the car pulled smoothly onto the road, Peter’s hand slipped down to rest on Stiles’s knee, his thumb tracing slow, comforting circles. The small gesture, the warmth of Peter’s touch, and the gentle hum of the car finally began to soothe the last of the tension clinging to him.

Stiles looked out the window as they drove away from the plane, then turned back to Peter. “Now are you going to tell me where you’ve whisked me off to?” he murmured, his voice low, a soft smile breaking the silence in the car.

Peter grinned, giving Stiles’s knee a gentle squeeze. “We’re in Greece.”

Stiles’s eyebrows shot up, his face lighting up in surprise. “Greece?” he repeated, the disbelief and amusement clear in his tone. “And is there any reason why you suddenly felt the urge to take me to Greece?” He leaned in, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Or were you just so desperate to have me all to yourself that you had to go full kidnapper on me?”

Peter’s lips curved into a wicked grin. “Well, I’d be lying if I said the thought of whisking you away to have you all to myself isn’t something that hasn’t crossed my mind once or twice, my little spark… keep you locked away… have you all to myself.” His tone dropped to a low, playful growl, his icy blue eyes flashing. “But this time, you came willingly… even if I did have to dress you.”

He lifted Stiles’s hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to his knuckles before murmuring, “The truth is, this trip is my present to you. Happy anniversary...”

The car rolled up to a secluded coastal villa, and Stiles’s eyes widened as he took in the view. The whitewashed house stood right against a private cove, framed by tall palm trees and backed by rocky hillsides.

The ocean lapped just steps from the villa, crystal-clear waters fading from turquoise to a deep blue as they stretched out toward the horizon. Smooth stone paths wound down to the beach, where lounge chairs were arranged under the shade of trees, inviting relaxation.

Peter’s hand remained on Stiles’s knee the entire ride, a proud glint in his eye as he watched Stiles absorb the view. “Welcome to our little home for the next two weeks,” Peter said, his voice warm and pleased.

Stiles stepped out of the car, his shoes sinking into the soft, white sand as he looked around, still processing the sight. “Peter… this place is incredible. It’s like something out of a postcard,” he whispered, almost in disbelief. The sound of gentle waves and the fresh scent of the ocean surrounded them, washing away the last bit of tension he’d been holding since the flight. “This must have cost you a fortune to rent.”

Peter stepped up beside him, slipping an arm around Stiles’s shoulders and drawing him close. He leaned down, his breath warm against Stiles’s ear as he murmured with a smug, velvety purr, “Rent? Stiles, I own this place. I thought you’d learned by now—I own everything important in my life. And that includes you, my little sweetheart.”

A shiver ran down Stiles’s spine at Peter’s words, but before he could respond, Peter continued, his voice softening while the teasing lilt remained. “I thought we could use somewhere quiet,” he said, nuzzling the back of Stiles’s neck, inhaling his scent, as the soft sound of waves soothed him. “No distractions, just us—and a little Greek sunshine.”

Stiles leaned closer, a playful glint in his eyes. “You’ve really outdone yourself this time,” he laughed, tipping his head up to meet Peter’s gaze. “But let me set you straight on one thing, wolf.” He held up his hand, wiggling his fingers with a bratty smirk. “Until there’s a ring on this finger, you don’t own me.” He joked, leaning up to kiss Peter’s chin, his stubble tickling him.

Peter’s grin turned wicked. “Is that so…” he hummed, his voice laced with mischief as he guided Stiles toward the villa, his hand resting possessively at the small of Stiles’s back. “I’ll keep that in mind…” he whispered, voice trailing off. “Now, come on, let me show you around.”

Inside, they were greeted by a warm, sunlit space filled with rustic charm and Greek elegance. Whitewashed walls and wooden accents framed a cozy interior, and Stiles fell in love with it instantly.

Peter’s voice dropped to a low purr. “There’s even a balcony upstairs where I think you’d love to settle in with a glass of wine, maybe work on that book of yours. Or…” he smirked, giving Stiles a knowing look, “we could sit by the beach and watch the sunset, drink in hand…”

He took Stiles’s hand, pulling him closer and guiding it to rest against his hip, the movement slow and deliberate. His other hand lifted, tipping Stiles’s chin up as he leaned in, pressing his lips to Stiles’s in a firm, lingering kiss. Stiles melted into him, feeling Peter’s fingers threading through his hair, nails grazing his scalp just enough to send a shiver down his spine. Peter deepened the kiss, his touch both gentle and savoring, as if cherishing every second.

Peter’s tongue moved slowly between Stiles’s parted lips, sending a spark of arousal coursing through him. Stiles’s breath hitched, a quiet moan slipping from him as Peter’s touches grew more heated, both of them swept up in the intensity of the moment.

After a few moments, Stiles pulled back just enough to look up at him, a soft, slightly breathless smile on his face. “Thank you for this,” he murmured. “Honestly, I’d be just as happy with some cheap takeout and a movie, as long as I get you to myself for the night. But this, Peter… it’s perfect.”

Peter’s gaze softened, his voice tender as he whispered, “You’re welcome, baby. I thought you could use somewhere that’s just ours for a while. No pack stuff, no family drama, no daily stress… just us.”

Over the next few days, the villa became their sanctuary. They spent lazy mornings sipping coffee on the balcony, wrapped in each other as they watched the waves lap against the shore. Stiles found himself unwinding in ways he hadn’t imagined, his guard finally lowering.

Peter would sometimes join him in the afternoons while he worked on his book, lounging nearby with a book of his own to read, sneaking glances at Stiles every now and then, a satisfied smile playing on his lips.

Some nights, they’d stay up late talking, Peter tracing gentle patterns on Stiles’s bare skin as they lay tangled in the quiet of the villa. In those dark hours, with only their whispers filling the room, Stiles would feel Peter’s hand slowly tracing up and down his skin, weathered and warm. He’d look into those soft blue eyes and realize he was completely, undeniably in love with this man.

Other nights, they’d wander the winding paths of the nearby seaside town, fingers laced together, as Peter would lead him through hidden corners and charming streets, always finding little places to stop and explore

Stiles took a special liking to a street stall selling souvlaki—skewers of perfectly grilled pork wrapped in warm pita, topped with tomatoes, onions, and tzatziki. The first taste had him hooked, and soon he was insisting on seconds—and then thirds—earning a laugh from Peter, who could never understand Stiles’s bottomless stomach, yet noted he never put on an ounce of weight.

As the days passed, they collected pictures of each other, stolen moments that would linger frozen in time. Stiles’s favorite were the ones from sunset walks along the beach.

They even snapped pictures of each other when they thought the other wasn’t looking. Stiles captured Peter one afternoon in the kitchen, his expression relaxed and carefree as he cooked, sunlight streaming through the window and casting a soft glow over his face. In turn, Peter snuck a photo of Stiles fast asleep on the balcony, his book hanging loosely in the grip of his fingers, his face softened by the fading light of dusk.

In these quiet moments, they found a rhythm that belonged only to them. The villa, the town, the nights spent in whispered conversations.

Unfortunately, their peaceful getaway didn’t last long. A week into their stay at the villa, Peter got a call from Talia. He and Stiles had just finished breakfast and were lounging on the sunbeds when he rolled his eyes and answered the phone in a bored tone. “Hello, dear sister. What can I do for you?” he asked, catching Stiles’s curious gaze.

“Peter, I’m sorry to disturb your vacation, but I need you to come home… as soon as possible,” Talia replied coolly, her words immediately sparking a sliver of annoyance in Peter.

He sighed into the phone. “Why is that? Surely whatever’s going on can wait another week, Talia,” he answered, watching Stiles give him a sympathetic smile.

“It can’t, Peter.” Talia snapped, her voice faltering for a moment, which caught Peter off guard—Talia rarely lost her temper unless things were serious. “A new alpha has come onto the scene and wants to negotiate for some of our rarer items, but that’s not all. He’s also been asking questions about…”more quietly, “Is Stiles within earshot?”

Peter glanced over at Stiles, who was no longer paying attention and was instead tapping away on his phone. Standing up from his sunbed, Peter placed a hand on Stiles’s shoulder, catching his attention. Stiles looked up, and Peter gave him a reassuring smile. “I’m just going inside to handle some business, sweetheart. I’ll be back in a moment,” he said, leaning down to press a soft kiss to Stiles’s temple.

Stiles hummed, leaning into the kiss before waving Peter off casually. “Okay,” he replied, returning his focus to his phone.

Once Peter was behind closed doors, his tone turned serious. “You’ve never asked me before if Stiles is around, Talia. What’s going on? Why should we care if some new alpha wants to buy from us? We don’t work by the client’s timeline; we work by ours. And if they don’t like it, we take them out of the picture.” His voice dropped to a low growl.

The thought of some rookie alpha attempting to call shots with his pack made Peter bristle. “And what questions has this new little hotshot been asking?”

“He’s been asking about Stiles…” Talia’s voice hesitated, only to be cut off by an immediate snarl from Peter.

“Why is he asking about Stiles? How does he even know about him?” Peter demanded fiercely into the phone, a wave of anger and protectiveness stirring within him at the thought of another wolf showing interest in Stiles. But what troubled him more was that this newcomer even knew about Stiles at all.

Stiles wasn’t part of the pack—he was known solely as Peter’s partner, and every beta understood well enough not to share Peter’s business with anyone, inside or outside of the pack.

“I’m not sure… but apparently someone’s been spreading word that there’s a Spark in Beacon Hills, up for grabs,” Talia said, her tone serious.

Deaton.

Peter would bet anything that Deaton was behind it, likely feeling bitter over being expelled from the pack and from Beacon Hills due to his actions against Stiles and his negligence in his role as emissary, which Stiles himself had exposed. Peter had warned his sister that letting that man live was a mistake.

He hummed angrily into the phone. “Oh, who could it possibly be?” he drawled, voice laced with sarcasm. “Perhaps a certain druid we let live after kicking him out of the pack for his disgraceful negligence in the role we paid him for.” Peter sneered, pacing back and forth as he spoke to his sister.

Talia’s voice tightened defensively. “Peter, you have no proof that it’s Deaton. There could be any number of reasons—”

Peter cut her off, his voice a dangerous snarl. “I don’t want to hear it, Talia. I’m getting real sick of your delusions, pretending he’s anything but a liability we should’ve dealt with long ago.” He paused, his words simmering with controlled anger. “I’ll be home in two days. Text me the name of this new hotshot alpha.”

Without waiting for a response, he ended the call and exhaled a deep, frustrated breath, forcing himself to calm down. He knew he couldn’t return to Stiles with any hint of the fury he felt, not if he wanted to keep him from worrying or finding out what was going on.

A moment later, his phone vibrated with a text. He looked down to see his sister had finally sent him the name: Marcus Grey.