Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Moonlight streamed through the tall arched windows, painting silver stripes across the polished dark wood floors. Lysander, or Ly to his select few intimates, hummed a tuneless melody, adjusting a stray strand of his long, artfully styled hair. 

He certainly didn’t look like one of the city’s most efficient and elusive assassins. In his soft silk pajamas, with his delicate features, wide expressive eyes, and a figure that blurred the lines between masculine and feminine, he looked more like a fantastical prince. 

Which, ironically, was half the appeal – his targets never saw him coming.

Across the small, exquisitely set table, Merrick chuckled, a low rumble in his broad chest. Merrick was Ly’s complete opposite. Burly, scarred, his face a roadmap of countless close calls. They’d been partners for years, a strange, effective duo of velvet and steel.

"Another flawless extraction, Ly," Merrick said, raising his glass of amber wine. "To us."

"To us," Ly echoed, clinking his wine glass against Merrick’s. He took a sip, the wine a comforting warmth. "Though I do wish the target hadn't insisted on that particular brand of perfume. My allergies are still acting up." He wrinkled his nose playfully.

Merrick just smiled. "I have a surprise for dessert. Your favorite."

Ly’s eyes lit up. "Oh? You remembered. You spoil me."

Merrick disappeared into the small, state-of-the-art kitchen. Ly leaned back, content. The job was done, a hefty payment pending, and he was with the closest thing he had to family. He could almost forget the chill that had settled over him during the extraction – a premonition, perhaps, that he’d dismissed as fatigue.

Merrick returned, bearing a small, meticulously plated chocolate torte. It looked heavenly. Dark, rich, a dusting of cocoa powder. Ly’s sweet tooth was legendary, a weakness he often joked about.

"You really outdid yourself," Ly purred, taking the first, generous bite. The chocolate was decadent, the crumb moist, and then… a strange texture. A faint, almost imperceptible crunch.

His chewing slowed. His breath hitched.

The world tilted.

He knew that taste. That texture. The poison.

His throat began to constrict, a dry, burning itch blooming from the inside out. His skin prickled, a fiery flush creeping up his neck. He dropped his fork with a clatter.

"Merrick," he gasped, his voice already hoarse, strained. His vision blurred, spots dancing before his eyes. "What… what did you do?"

Merrick was watching him, impassive. The smile had vanished, replaced by a cold detachment Ly had never seen directed at him.

"Orders, Ly," Merrick said, and his voice was flat, devoid of emotion. "You were becoming… a liability. Too many questions. Too much conscience."

"A… liability?" Ly choked, struggling to stand. His legs buckled. Desperate, he clawed at his throat, but the air wouldn’t come. The anaphylactic shock was swift, brutal. His lungs screamed for oxygen. The rich smell of chocolate, once so inviting, now reeked of betrayal.

He collapsed, convulsing on the floor, his beautiful features contorted in a silent scream of agony and disbelief. Merrick watched, unmoving, until the last, rattling breath escaped Lysander’s lips, leaving only the lingering scent of chocolate and death.

Lysander opened his eyes.

The first thing he noticed was the light. It wasn’t the clinical glow of a hospital, nor the dimness of his death.

It was a car’s headlight. The headlight of the car he was now sitting in. He blinked, then blinked again. His body felt… different. Smaller, lighter.

And then, his gaze fell upon the taped up rearview mirror. He stretched towards it, heart hammering and body aching.

Staring back at him was not Lysander. Not the adult, femininely fierce assassin with the haunted eyes. Instead, it was a teenager, no older than seventeen. The face was delicate, with wide, curious amber eyes and a scattering of moles across the face. 

Short brown hair that looked like it had recently grown out.

A gasp escaped his lips. A different voice, higher, clearer than his own.

No. It couldn't be.

He knew that face. He knew this car. He knew this world.

This was the show Teen Wolf. And the teen staring back at him was Mieczyslaw (Stiles) Stilinski.

A laugh bubbled up in his chest, wild and disbelieving. 

He ran a fingertip along the curve line of his new jaw, feeling the oddity in every nerve. This was impossible. He hadn’t watched Teen Wolf in years—had barely escaped that particular spiral of fraught friendships and supernatural near-misses. Yet here he was, in a battered Jeep with a pine-scented air freshener dangling from the dashboard, limbs foreign and a pulse fluttering way too fast.

A phone buzzed at his side, screen lighting up. “DAD” read the notification. Without thinking, Ly—or Stiles, apparently—snatched it up, thumb suddenly nimble. His heart thumped a nervous Morse code against his ribs. The message glared at him.

Where are you? You said you’d be home an hour ago.

He stared, mind racing. If this was even remotely real, Sheriff Stilinski would soon be expecting an answer—something Stiles himself would say. Panic prickled at the edges of his new body. He drew in a shaky breath and typed.

Yeah, on my way. Got caught up. Sorry!

He hit send, wincing. It sounded right, didn’t it? God, he hoped it sounded right. 

Another look in the mirror confirmed no glitch, no crack in reality—just that same open, startled face. And behind those amber eyes, Lysander gathered every scrap of instinct he’d honed over years of living dangerously. New world. New face. Maybe, if he played this right, a second chance. 

But first, that bastard Gerard.

He remembered this world. Faintly, hazily. He’d watched Teen Wolf once—bandaging a stab wound after a mission gone sideways, half-loopy on painkillers and drinking cheap wine out of a thermos. It had been ridiculous and chaotic and, frankly, kind of a mess.

But he liked Stiles. Stiles had been clever, unhinged, and underestimated—his kind of guy.

McCall, though? Gods. Even bleeding out, Lysander had wanted to throttle him. All that moralizing, all that whining. If he’d been in Stiles’ shoes, he would’ve stabbed him halfway through season two and called it character development.

And now? He was in Stiles’ shoes. 

He also remembered this episode. 

This episode was the episode where Scott planned to violate Derek behind Stiles’s back.

The one that had made Lysander—knife wound and all—sit up and mutter, “Kill him. Kill that one first.”

The immense anger that he felt knowing that styles was getting tortured in the basement while Scott was playing happy family with Allison and her psycho grandpa was remembered deeply. 

That fury hadn’t dulled. If anything, it burned brighter now, hotter, more personal.

And now, in this bruised, battered body with eyes too wide and wrists too thin—they were going to pay.

Starting with that wrinkled ballsack that should have died the second he popped up in Beacon Hills.

Gerard Argent was crawling.

Pathetic, broken, wheezing—dragging himself through pine needles with one good arm while his skin boiled beneath his clothes. The bite he’d stolen, the bite he’d demanded, was turning on him now. Rejecting him. Rejecting everything he was.

His veins were black with infection. His face was a mess of sweat, blood, and rot. Every breath came out wet and thick, gurgling like he was drowning in his own failure.

Behind him, footsteps crunched softly. Measured. Unhurried.

Lysander—Stiles had followed the trail of black blood, his bat resting on his shoulder like a crown. He didn’t need to rush. Gerard wasn’t going anywhere.

“How’s the bite treating you?” he asked, voice light, curious, cruel. 

Gerard’s hand spasmed in the dirt, scrabbling for a weapon he’d never find. Pine needles clung to his ruined cheek. He managed to lift his head, just enough to meet Stiles’s eyes—a boy’s face, but there was nothing soft about the gaze fixed on him. Pure winter, that stare. Cold, rime-laced, utterly merciless.

 Lysander—no, Stiles—tilted his head, looking at the mess sprawled before him. The bat hung casually on his shoulder, but in his grip, it was a blunt instrument of retribution. “You always struck me as the type to hang on too long,” he said, voice low and steady. “No shame in quitting now.”

A harsh cough racked Gerard, black ichor bubbling from cracked lips, smearing onto the dirt beneath. Stiles stepped forward, boots crushing brittle needles, the forest silent except for ragged breaths and the bat’s faint scrape against the earth. 

He crouched beside the broken man, letting the bat rest loose in one hand. Softly, cruelly, he breathed, “What’s it like, realizing you needed the bite of the monsters you kill? Did you panic? I’d almost pity you.” He let the words settle like frost. “Almost.”

Gerard’s eyes flickered—rage, terror, arrogance flaring weakly before dying under the weight of sickness. His lungs gurgled, choking out nothing but wet, broken noises.

Stiles reached out, the bat now steady in his grasp. Without hesitation, he swung.

The bat crashed into Gerard’s clavicle with a sickening crack, splinters of bone shredding under the impact. Blackened blood sprayed, misting the air with the stench of decay. Gerard’s startled grunt was cut short as Stiles raised the bat again, each strike more brutal, the rhythm savage and unrelenting.

Blood spewed from shattered ribs, painting the ground in dark pools. Flecks splattered Stiles’s face, his amber eyes highlighted by the blood. With every blow, the bite’s poisoning seemed to slow, overwhelmed by the violence of justice.

When at last Stiles paused, Gerard was barely recognizable—a twisted mass of broken flesh and ragged breath, his life seeping away in a dark, gurgling tide. 

Gerard’s eyes rolled back, the last flickers of life fading beneath the crushing silence. Stiles rose, chest heaving, stained with the grim evidence of his vengeance. The forest held its breath, watching the boy who was not a boy—the assassin hidden inside the teenage face—deliver brutal closure with cold, bloody resolve.

Chapter Text

The forest was quiet again.

Birds had stopped singing. The breeze refused to rustle. Even the shadows seemed to lean away from what used to be Gerard Argent.

Lysan— Stiles wiped the blood from his face with the sleeve of his hoodie, more annoyed than shaken. The hoodie was ruined, of course. And the smell was already soaking in. But he didn’t flinch. Didn’t hesitate. He was used to it.

He stood over the corpse, breathing slowly. Steady. Focused. Like a man figuring out how to fold a fitted sheet, not how to dispose of a rotting war criminal in the middle of a national park.

“Alright, Wrinkly,” he muttered, nudging what remained of Gerard with the toe of his sneaker. “You made your bed. Time to make it disappear.”

Step one—Inventory

He checked the scene like clockwork. No witnesses. No cameras. Phone? Still in his pocket. Gloves? Nope, but he hadn't touched anything he hadn’t planned to destroy. Blood? Everywhere, but mostly on Gerard, who wouldn't be talking. He’d done worse with less.

Step two—Fire or decomposition?
He considered torching the body. Quick, flashy, theatrical, and not to mention ironic. But too much smoke. Too much attention. This wasn’t a high-tech clean room or the rooftops of Prague.

No, he needed a long-term solution.

Step three—Tools.

He jogged back to the Jeep, cursing as he rummaged through tragically mundane belongings. No weapons. No supplies. Just... high school nerd things. “Duct tape, a flask of expired Red Bull, and a bunch of mystery receipts,” he muttered, slamming the door shut. “Useless.”

But he did know where to go.

Beacon Hills had a vet clinic. A chemistry lab. A whole high school full of suspicious substances and dangerously lax supervision.

It took hours to drag the body, even with Lysander’s precise planning. He covered the trail with care. Pine needles replaced, blood scrubbed with homemade cleaner, and his scent masked with cheap body spray he found in Scott’s gym locker.

He dug the grave with ruthless focus, ignoring how the blisters on Stiles’s hands throbbed. Weak body. No stamina. He’d fix that later.

Finally, Gerard’s mangled corpse landed at the bottom with a fleshy thud. Lysander stared down at it.

“You’ll rot here,” he said, voice flat. “Like the coward you were.”

Then, as if sealing the whole thing with a kiss, he poured mountain ash in a careful circle. Not because he thought Gerard would rise—just as a fuck you to any creature stupid enough to sniff around.

“Rest in pieces, you crusty onion.”

By the time he made it home, he was exhausted and smelled like swamp murder. The sheriff had thankfully been passed out on the couch when he got there. So he snuck up the stairs to his room with the bathroom connected. He peeled off his clothes, dumped them in a trash bag, and stuffed it far back in his closet.

In the mirror, his reflection blinked back. Blood still crusted around his hairline. Under his nails. But his eyes—amber now—were hard. Hungry.

Not Stiles. Not entirely.

“Round one, bitch,” he whispered to his reflection. “Let’s see who else needs cleaning up.”

The shower hissed to life under his hand, steam quickly fogging the mirror. He stood under the spray for longer than necessary, letting the water sting and scald and carry away the grime of murder. He didn’t flinch when it ran red down the drain. Just watched. 

The smell of blood still clung to him afterward, but the horrible three in one soap had done its job. Somewhat.

He wrapped a towel around his waist, grabbed the first aid kit from beneath the sink, and began to patch himself up with quick, practiced fingers. Stiles’s body was unfamiliar in shape, but Lysander moved like a surgeon. Bruised knuckles wrapped. Split lip cleaned. Ribs taped tight.

Once bandaged, he limped to the bedroom. The sheriff was still snoring downstairs—oblivious, thank God—and the room upstairs was untouched, chaotic, and weirdly nostalgic.

He scanned it, then got to work.

Window: locked.

Door: double-locked.

Closet: checked.

Chair wedged under the doorknob like old instincts.

Only once the room felt safe did he allow himself to collapse on the bed.

It smelled like cheap detergent and sleep. Not his. Not yet.

He blinked up at the ceiling, breath slowing.

And then sleep dragged him under like a riptide.

It started with laughter.

Childish. Pure. He was small—no, Stiles was—and he was running through sunlit halls, chasing the sound of his mother’s voice. There were birthdays. Halloween costumes. A whole new language. The smell of pancakes and antiseptic. And then—a hospital bed. His mother’s smile strained at the edges. Her hands trembling. Her mind fracturing.

The grief hit like a punch to the chest.

Then came Derek. The first time Stiles saw his eyes glow. The horror. The awe. The way his own voice cracked when he whispered, “Werewolf?” like it was a joke he hoped wasn’t real.

A thousand moments bled together. 

And then—

Fire.

Not a memory. Not Stiles’s. Not Lysander’s.

He stood in a circle of flame, hands raised, arcane symbols etched into his forearms, glowing gold. The air shimmered. His mouth spoke words in languages he didn’t know. Power rippled outward from him, cracking the earth. A woman’s voice screamed his name—

—Mieczyslaw—

He woke up gasping.

The room was dark. Quiet.

His heart thundered. Sweat soaked the sheets. His bandages were damp, and his throat burned like he’d swallowed embers.

He sat up slowly.

In the mirror across the room, his reflection stared back. Amber eyes. Bandaged ribs. Lips parted like he was mid-confession.

But that wasn’t what caught his attention.

It was the faint golden flicker at the tips of his fingers.

Just for a second.

Gone before he could question it.

He exhaled, shaky. “What the hell…?”

Stiles’s memories still clung to him like cobwebs. But something else was waking up, too.

Something older. Something new.

Something that would only make sense in this universe.

Magic.

He flexed his fingers in the hush, half-expecting more sparks, but the only glow was the digital clock’s soft red numbers—6:08 a.m. He sat there, heartbeat stuttering, senses catching every phantom shift of air. Magic? Stiles wasn’t supposed to have magic. 

Not in the canon, not in any season. Yet his skin still tingled, nerves twitching with aftershock. He remembered the dream. The heat, the voice, the fire carving circles into earth and flesh alike. That tightening behind his ribs.

Either this version of Stiles came with extras, or Lysander’s arrival had shoved fate off its rails.

He pressed his palm to his chest, grounding himself in the simple beat of survival. 

Fine. 

Magic, then. 

He could work with magic. He’d spent years adapting—new jobs, new faces, new escape routes. Maybe, if he could unravel the trick of it, he could use this edge. Change how the game played out, instead of just rewriting the score with violence.

But he’d need information. Real answers. Books, notes, research—Stiles style, but sharper. The rest of the pack? They’d just have to wait. Everyone had their secrets; now he had one that could put werewolves to shame. One sharp enough to draw their blood.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, jaw set. If this world wanted him to have magic, he’d make everyone who wronged him regret the chance.

The sun was barely up when Lysander peeled off the sweat-soaked t-shirt he’d passed out in and checked his bandages.

The bruising was worse now—Stiles’s body clearly not built for dragging corpses and wielding bats like broadswords. Purple shadows bloomed across his ribs and hip. His knuckles throbbed with deep, sharp pulses. A normal teen body would take a week to stop whining.

But he wasn’t normal. Not anymore.

He narrowed his eyes, placed his palm lightly over his ribs, and focused.

Heat. Gold. Fire curled under his skin, slow and warm like honey turned molten.

The ache ebbed. Bruising faded beneath his hand like a time-lapse in reverse. Split skin reknit. He let out a breath through his teeth.

Healing. Actual magic healing. This body might be flimsy, but now? He had upgrades.

Magic wasn’t canon. But it was his.

By the time he padded downstairs, he smelled like soap and clean sweat. He wore a soft flannel, worn jeans, and Stiles’s crooked grin like a mask molded to his face.

The sheriff blinked blearily from behind his coffee.

“You’re up early,” he muttered.

“Insomnia,” Lysander chirped, sliding into the kitchen with practiced ease. “And a very aggressive craving for scrambled eggs.”

He cracked eggs like a pro, buttered toast, even poured coffee into the world’s ugliest “#1 Dad” mug. The sheriff raised an eyebrow but didn’t question it. Too tired. Too trusting.

Good.

They chatted about school and traffic and something about parking permits. Lysander laughed at the right spots, nodded on cue, and made it upstairs with barely a flicker of suspicion left in his wake.

Stiles was good at pretending. But Lysander? He was better.

School was a headache in a bottle of fluorescent lights.

Lysander leaned against Stiles’s locker, eyes flicking across the halls like he was casing a building. The swarm of teenagers and supernatural melodrama grated against every nerve.

He ignored them all.

Scott. Lydia. Allison.

The “pack.”

He swept past them like they were ghosts.

Scott looked confused. Hurt. He called after him once, then twice.

“Stiles? Dude, wait up—”

Lysander stopped walking.

He let the noise swarm around him—a tide of voices, footfalls, the metallic clang of lockers—before turning. Scott waited, caught mid-step, hope teetering behind brown eyes. Lysander—no, Stiles—met his stare head-on.

He sized Scott up the way he would a mark. His posture tense, hands empty, mouth already forming apologies he’d never mean. The familiar ache of old friendship twisted somewhere inside Lysander’s new ribcage, but it died quickly, scorched by memory. Gerard’s wet, gasping breaths. The smell of rot. The sour aftertaste of betrayal.

“Busy day,” he said flatly, popping the lock on his battered locker without looking away. “Don’t you have a pack meeting with the world’s worst grandpa?”

Scott flinched, the word “grandpa” landing like a slap. “What’s up with you? You haven’t answered my texts. You’re not—You’re not acting like yourself, Stiles.”

Stiles’s lips twitched. “Maybe ‘myself’ just got tired of cleaning up your messes.”

He slammed the locker shut with more force than necessary. Silence thickened, students shuffling around them in rivers, none daring to wade in.

Scott’s jaw worked, a dog grinding its bone. “Look, I know things have been—hard. But we’re supposed to watch each other’s backs. I thought—”

Lysander’s eyes narrowed, amused and sharp. “Last time I did that, I ended up patching my own wounds while you played hero somewhere safe.”

Scott’s breath hitched. A whole library of speeches hovered on the tip of his tongue. “Stiles—”

“Don’t,” Stiles cut in, voice as cold as the January wind. “Save it for your pack.”

He turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Scott rooted alone in the hall, chewing on silence. The mask slipped just a fraction, letting the smallest ghost of a smirk curl Stiles’s lips. If this was a new game, he’d play it his way.

First rule: no more saving people who don’t want to be saved. Second rule: trust no one, especially the ones who come running when the damage is already done.

His footsteps echoed into the crush of morning, his head already racing down a checklist of names. Today, he’d burn some bridges. Maybe start a few new fires while he was at it. One thing was certain—Stiles Stilinski’s story was about to get rewritten.

Chapter Text

High school was hell.

Not metaphorically. Not romantically. Not in a “the popular girls are mean” kind of way.

It was actual hell.

Stiles hadn’t been in a high school classroom in over seven years, and it showed. The chairs were tiny. The desks were sticky. The air smelled like Axe body spray and disappointment. And the people?

Worse.

The teachers droned. The students droned louder. Someone behind him kept chewing gum like it owed them money. And every few minutes, a werewolf would huff dramatically like the concept of algebra was a personal insult.

By third period, his left eye was twitching.

By lunch, he was actively calculating the kill radius of a spork.

He picked at his cafeteria tray with the hollow, dead-eyed grace of someone who used to do high-stakes wet work for crime syndicates and was now being asked to eat square pizza with mystery cheese.

Across the room, Scott kept glancing at him like a puppy who’d peed on the rug and didn’t understand why he wasn’t getting forgiven with a head-pat and a Scooby snack.

Stiles gave him nothing.

Zero expression. Zero interest. Just cold, calculated silence.

By the time the final bell rang, he was vibrating with the need to punch something that wouldn’t heal.

He stormed into the student parking lot, flung himself into the driver’s seat of the Jeep, and nearly screamed when it coughed at him like it was dying of emphysema.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

The Jeep wheezed.

“Don’t you even think about—”

It backfired.

Stiles slammed his hand on the dashboard. Magic pulsed from his palm—unintentional, almost subconscious.

And then… something shifted.

Not flashy. Not cinematic. No sparks or lightning or anime transformation sequence.

Just a low hum. A warmth under the hood. A soft glow flickering beneath his skin.

He paused and turned the key again.

Purr. Smooth. Effortless. The engine rumbled like a big cat stretching in the sun.

The gas gauge, previously close to E, inched up. Then ticked up more.

Full tank.

“Huh,” he muttered, blinking at the dash. “That’s new.”

He sat back, the vibration of the engine soothing in a strange, intimate way. Not bad for a car that looked like it had survived five apocalypses and a Walmart parking lot fight.

“This’ll do.”

As the Jeep idled, Stiles stared out at the parking lot, filled with annoying children that he wanted to run over, thinking.

Magic. Real, actual, flicker-at-his-fingertips power. And no idea how it worked. He could feel it—simmering just beneath his skin, licking at his ribs—but it was wild. Untamed.

He needed information. Theory. Foundation.

Where would someone like Stiles get knowledge?

Books.

And where had he seen books?

The vet clinic.

Dr. Deaton’s cozy little supernatural Hogwarts-in-disguise.

Stiles’s eyes narrowed.

That place had answers.

And tonight?

It had a break-in scheduled.

He put the Jeep into gear, pulling out of the lot with a confidence that was half assassin, half spite goblin.

“Let’s go rob a vet.”

The sun dropped behind the trees, heat bleeding out of the pavement as Beacon Hills traded schoolyard noise for the hush of evening. Stiles rolled to a stop in the shadows across from the vet clinic, engine ticking softly, parking lights off. 

He slipped from the Jeep, blending into dusk’s edge like an old habit snapping back into place. This body was clumsy, but muscle memory—his old muscle memory—kicked in as he skirted the building’s perimeter.

He ditched the main entrance—too well lit, too visible. 

Instead, he circled to the back alley, boots whispering over gravel. The service door had a security sticker and the kind of deadbolt you could pick in your sleep. He’d picked harder locks in half-dark stairwells with a broken hairpin, three ribs fractured, and a pistol at his temple.

Tonight, all he had was a bent library card and a stubborn streak. He jimmied the lock—three minutes and two creative curses later, the latch slid back. Inside, the air tasted sharp, crisp with disinfectant and something old beneath it, knowledge piled in heavy books and dust.

He moved through the quiet, sneakers silent over tile, bright screens and stethoscopes blurred into background static. Every sense steady, methodical, so at odds with the adrenaline that rushed his blood whenever Stiles’s memories threatened to rise. Focusing kept things even—eyes forward, always searching.

He found Deaton’s office, locked (of course), but the frame was loose, the tools in the supply closet easy enough to pry it open. 

Stiles slid inside, closing the door behind with practiced care. It was everything he’d expected—shelves sagging under folklore, dog-eared grimoires mixed with dissection manuals. He scanned the spines, heart ratcheting as he pieced together titles in Latin, Greek, and the kind of English that came with warnings scrawled in the margins.

He reached for the first thick, battered volume and flipped it open flat on the desk. Sigils danced across the parchment, a sketch of fire burned in gold ink. Magic, wild and sharp-edged, hummed through his skin as his palm skimmed the page. This was what he needed. Finally, an edge.

The clinic creaked, distant and harmless, and Lysander—Stiles now, half-alchemist, half-shadow—leaned into the lamplight, ready to trade sleep for knowledge. The hunt for answers had begun.

He pulled his phone from his pocket, flash off, and began to work. Page after page, spine after spine, he captured every scrap of knowledge. 

Dusty tomes on ancient rites, leather-bound volumes on mythical creatures, and scribbled notes wedged between mundane journals. The images piled up like a secret arsenal.

No time to linger. He backed out as silently as he’d come.

Back in his room, Stiles sat in the dark, lit only by his screen, scrolling through sigils and diagrams like a soldier reviewing blueprints for a war only he knew was coming.

He translated pages he couldn’t read. Though it was still a weird feeling to read and understand polish knowing that he hadn’t learned it— well he did but it was the person who was here before him.

His fingertips tingled. His pulse thrummed with borrowed fire.

Finally, he thought.

An edge.

Chapter Text

He spent all night reading which meant the sun found him hunched over his desk, head resting on a heap of crumpled notebook paper, eyes burning in the early haze. 

Too many sticky notes. Not enough coffee.

He’d mapped circles of power, memorized protection spells, and catalogued spectral sigils that promised more than the usual Teen Wolf spark-and-flicker. 

He created his own bestiary without having to steal the Argents Nazi one. Because let's be honest, the reason the original cast struggled so much was because they had to translate old French so some things most likely got lost in translation. 

And there is the fact that Argents think anyone that isn’t human is a monster. Their idea of “documentation” was just murder instructions in cursive. No guides for self-control post-bite. No pack etiquette. No survival tactics. Just genocide in PowerPoint form.

In contrast, his notebook included actual information—like what helps a turned omega stabilize during full moons, or which herbs won’t make a banshee hallucinate their own funeral on accident. You know. Useful things.

Each method of warding, every obscure invocation—it all clicked against his old assassin instincts like puzzle pieces snapping tight. Distraction, misdirection, leverage. The principles were universal, even if the tools here were ghosts and glyphs instead of carbon wire and pistol safeties.

The question wasn’t what he could do with magic. As far as he could tell, he was a Spark—which was basically Beacon Hills’ version of “Congratulations, you’re a magical wildcard with zero user manual.” His power wasn’t about ingredients or incantations. It was belief. Willpower.

If he could conceptualize it—believe in it hard enough—he could probably do it.

It was how much time it would take before someone noticed. 

And more importantly…

Did he want them to?

He leaned back in the chair, popping his knuckles and watching the soft glow of dawn creep over the horizon. The world felt… more here. Like something under his skin was tuned to a different frequency now, catching signals most people missed.

Out of habit, and a hint of curiosity, he dragged his fingers in the air over the wood surface, slowly sketching a sigil from one of the older grimoires.

 A protection ward, nothing dangerous. Simple. Circular. Elegant.

The air around his hand thrummed.

He paused.

A faint shimmer bloomed in the space between his palm and the desk—golden threads of light winding into place like obedient snakes. It wasn’t flashy, wasn’t loud. But it was there.

Alive.

He exhaled, then thought about where he was in cannon.

Right now Erica and Boyd should be kidnapped by the alpha pack. He doesn't have any problem with Boyd, but he remembers Erica knocking him out with a piece of his own car.

That memory came with a flash of pain that still made his jaw twitch.

Still… he didn’t hate her. Not really. She’d been desperate to stop feeling powerless. He could respect that. Somewhat.

And if he did nothing, they’d both be tortured in some off-screen dungeon while the “pack” flailed dramatically and accomplished exactly zero rescue.

Which meant the question wasn’t: Should he get involved?

It was: How violently should he get involved?

He rubbed his eyes, wincing at the crusted exhaustion clinging to his lashes. He’d been alive in this body for—what, two days? And he already had murder on the schedule and a rescue mission pinned to the corkboard in his brain.

Typical.

Stiles pushed back from the desk and stood, stretching until his spine popped like bubble wrap. Before he did anything he needed to change some things. He knew that the both of them had been kidnapped for at least three months before the final showdown happened. So in the mean time he could get his body ready.

He needed muscle. Stamina. Speed—something more than a bruised ribcage and sharp tongue. A Spark with a glass jaw wasn’t intimidating—it was a running joke. If he wanted to be a threat, he had to earn it.

First step, upgrading Stiles’s body from “decaf beanpole” to something approaching “problem.” Maybe not a Derek-sized problem, but enough to put a fist through drywall and have it hurt the wall more than him.

He rifled through the dresser, pulled on running shorts—a laughable wardrobe choice, but fine—and laced up battered sneakers. The lacrosse stick in the corner caught his eye. Practice weapon. Fieldwork, in disguise. Good enough.

Down the stairs, out the door, into the gray quiet of morning. The world was empty, the streets drowsy. He set out at a jog, keeping to the back roads, pushing the body beyond what it wanted. Lungs stitched with cold air, thighs burning by the first hill. Good. Weakness was just a target for improvement.

By the time sweat stung his eyes and his pulse roared in his ears, he stopped—doubling over, wheezing, every breath bruising. He pressed a palm to his chest, coaxed the magic up, and let it burn away some of the ache. Not all. Just enough to let him keep moving.

Training. Recovery. Magic as his secret steroid. 

Already, he could feel it working—muscles knitting tighter, reflexes quicker, a little more control seeping into his limbs. He ran drills in the vacant school lot, swung the stick at imaginary threats, imagined claws and fangs and the glint of silver in hands that didn’t hesitate.

He grinned, teeth bared, sweat slick on his jaw. Magic or not, this body was going to learn the old way. 

With pain, practice, and the promise of payback.

When he got back to the house, he took a shower and looked in the mirror. He missed his long hair. He frowned at the short brown mop flopped over Stiles’s forehead. Buzzed at the sides, not even enough length for a useful disguise. 

Nowhere to hide a blade, no drama when the wind hit just right. No way to tie it back before a fight—just bangs that clung to his brow, prickling with sweat and annoyance.

He stared, searching for Lysander in that reflection. Only the eyes looked familiar—calculating, hungry, always taking measure. Everything else was high school awkwardness and moles.

“God, you’re a child,” he muttered, running wet fingers through hair that refused to obey. Still, he tugged until it stood on end—a challenge, petty and pointless, but it felt better than giving in. 

And then it moved.

Not the way hair shifts when it’s wet and you drag your fingers through it. 

This was intentional. A subtle tug. Like something had stirred inside his scalp and said, “You rang?”

He froze, his breath caught in his chest.

His hair—short, damp, infuriating—lengthened. 

Just a little. A whisper of change. Half an inch, maybe less, curling slightly longer at the tips, like the mirror version of himself had decided to be merciful.

Lysander blinked. The wet strands clung to his temples differently now, heavier. The mop no longer just a mop.

He touched it again.

His Spark answered like a purr under his skin. Soft and smug.

“Oh,” he whispered, staring at his reflection. “So that’s how it’s gonna be.”

No ritual. No incantation. Just… want. Identity. The need to be something more than this scrawny meat suit wearing his name like a borrowed hoodie.

He dragged his fingers through it again, this time slower, deliberate. Intent laced into every motion.

Longer, he thought.

And it listened.

His hair grew as he watched. Down past his ears. Brushing the nape of his neck. The color darkened slightly, richer in the light, catching a faint golden sheen beneath the overhead bulb. Like a blessing or a warning.

It was still Stiles’s face, still that same crooked mouth and awkward angles, but now?

Now there was drama. Now there was presence.

He cracked a grin, sharp and private.

“Welcome back, pretty boy.”

Chapter Text

The next morning, Stiles came downstairs with his natural loose curly hair that now reached his shoulders. 

The good thing about hair that you can grow is that you can cut it however you want and if you feel like having a mental breakdown you can regrow it.

The sheriff glanced up from his coffee, blinked twice, and said, “Huh.”

Stiles poured orange juice into a mug because he hated pulp and also hated the idea of explaining himself before 9 a.m.

The silence stretched. His hair framed his face, long enough to brush against his collar now. His oversized flannel clung to a body still sore from drills and bruises, but at least he looked less like a walking SAT score and more like a walking warning.

“You do something with your hair?” the sheriff asked, squinting like the glow might be a trick of the light.

Stiles smiled, wide and innocent. 

Noah then decided he didn't want to know, and he had other priorities —coffee, paperwork, probably a murder case brewing somewhere in the woods.

Stiles leaned against the counter, sipping orange juice and watching Noah over the rim of his cup.

Noah yawned, shuffled toward the fridge, then paused like he was about to offer some fatherly joke about “phases.” Instead, he just clapped Stiles on the shoulder, heavy and warm, all love, even if he’d never say it out loud.

“You’re getting tall,” he mumbled, as if height explained how his teenager could roll out of bed looking like something halfway between a folklore warning and a teen Vogue photoshoot themed ‘Ethereal But Has Definitely Committed Arson’.

Stiles smiled behind the mug. Just a hint of teeth.

“I drink my milk,” he said smoothly, even though they were definitely out of milk and had been since Tuesday.

The sheriff squinted. “Huh,” he repeated, clearly filing it under Not Today, Satan, and shuffled out of the kitchen in search of socks, justice, and probably a taser.

As his bedroom door clicked shut behind him, Stiles exhaled through his nose. He could feel it. Today was going to be an annoying day.

Stiles walked into school like he owned the place.

Not in the Scott McCall “I believe in teamwork” way or Jackson’s “my dad is probably a lawyer” way. But in the way a knife owns the room when it’s unsheathed.

His sneakers echoed too sharp against the tile. His long curls caught  in the hallway lights like gold thread spun into war banners. 

His flannel hung open over a dark tee, new muscles hidden under denim and confidence.

And he ignored everyone.

Lydia blinked when she saw him. Actually blinked. Like something had short-circuited in her brain for half a second.

Stiles didn’t even glance at her.

Just walked past like she was scenery. Like she wasn’t the sun his former self used to orbit.

She actually turned her head. Lydia Martin turned her head. As if watching a train that had come off the tracks and somehow hit a designer runway mid-collision.

Scott spotted him near the lockers and jogged up, face full of forced optimism and nervous golden retriever energy.

“Hey, Stiles! Man, we haven’t really talked in a while, are you—”

Trip.

Scott fell. Hard.

One foot caught on nothing and he slammed forward into a locker with the grace of a soggy bag of flour. His books scattered like sad confetti.

Stiles didn’t even blink. Just sipped his energy drink and kept walking.

“Must be the shoes,” he murmured without looking back.

Scott scrambled up, looking vaguely betrayed by the laws of physics. He tried again after second period. And again before lunch.

Every time, his feet found some invisible snag in the floor, a subtle flick of pressure that swept him out at the ankles.

Every time, he hit the ground a little harder.

By the end of the day, Scott was limping slightly, and Stiles’s eyes practically glowed with smugness.

He didn’t even touch his Spark directly. No sigils. No muttered spells. Just a nudge. A willful little push in the space where magic meets instinct.

Petty? Yes.

Satisfying? Absolutely.

By the end of the day, the sky was threatening rain and Coach Finstock was threatening everyone.

“Eyes up, you hormonal meat disasters!” he barked from the edge of the field, holding his clipboard like it was a weapon and the grass was personally responsible for his divorce. “We run plays until one of you pukes or sees God!”

Stiles strolled up late, lacrosse stick swinging casually over his shoulder like he was on vacation and not headed toward a Coach-induced aneurysm.

Finstock narrowed his eyes. “Bilinski. You’ve got five seconds to explain why you’ve been doing exactly jack-all while the rest of these emotionally unstable mannequins sweat out this week’s cafeteria pizza.”

Stiles shrugged. “I’m quitting.”

Finstock blinked. “You’re what now.”

“Quitting. Lacrosse. Organized sports. Institutionalized aggression with padded sticks.”

“You can’t just quit lacrosse, Stilinski! That’s not how this works. That’s not how any of this works. What’s next? Quitting breathing?!”

“I’ve considered it,” Stiles said mildly. “But I figured this was the safer option.”

Coach paced in a tight circle like he was trying not to spontaneously combust. “Do you have any idea how hard I’ve worked to sculpt you into the marginally adequate benchwarmer you are today?!”

“You made me run laps until I threw up behind the snack shack.”

“Exactly! Character-building! Vomit is temporary, team spirit is forever!”

Stiles tilted his head. “You really need therapy.”

Finstock pointed at him with a pen that had definitely been chewed to death. “Don’t come at me with your Gen Z sarcasm and emotionally intelligent boundaries. You think the other players want to be here? Greenberg hasn’t blinked in three weeks.”

“I’m not Greenberg.”

“No, because Greenberg doesn’t have the guts to stare me down and throw his future away in the name of—of who even knows what’s happening with you right now. Your hair’s long. Your shirt’s black. You smell like confidence and spite.”

Stiles blinked. “That’s just my conditioner.”

Coach flailed the clipboard like it had personally betrayed him. “What am I supposed to do, huh? Replace you with a traffic cone? A semi-sentient mop?”

“Both would have better aim.”

Coach threw his hands in the air. “Fine! Quit! Be free! Go write poetry or join a cult or whatever the hell this vibe is now. But if I catch you running in the halls for fun, I will personally duct-tape you to the bleachers and make you watch JV drills until your soul dissolves.”

Stiles gave a two-finger salute and turned on his heel.

“Bilinski!” Finstock shouted after him.

Stiles paused, one brow raised.

“Tell your dad he still owes me five bucks. And if that hair gets any longer, you better join a rock band or start summoning demons. No in-between.”

Stiles didn’t look back. He just smirked—and walked off the field like the epic end of a movie.

Scott leaned against the vending machine like he thought it made him look casual and cool. 

It didn’t. 

It made him look like he lost a fight with a Snickers and gave up halfway through.

Lydia stood a few feet away, arms crossed, sunglasses perched on her head like a crown, eyes locked on the far end of the field where Stiles had disappeared not five minutes ago.

Jackson tossed a lacrosse ball up and down in one hand, catching it with casual precision. He looked like he could not possibly care less, which usually meant he cared a lot.

“I’m just saying,” Scott said, “he’s being kind of dramatic.”

Lydia turned her head slowly. So slowly it probably counted as a threat in at least seven languages.

“Dramatic,” she repeated, deadpan.

“Yeah! I mean, his hair? The clothes? That thing with Coach?” Scott gestured vaguely like he was drawing a pentagram in the air. “He’s making it a thing.”

“Stiles is a thing,” Jackson said, flicking the lacrosse ball a little harder this time. “You just didn’t notice until he stopped orbiting you like some neurotic moon.”

Scott frowned, not understanding a single word Jackson just said. “I just think he’s going through something. We should—y’know, support him. Like, bring him back. Help him be Stiles again.”

Jackson snorted. “Why would he want that?”

Scott barreled on. “Plus, Allison’s single again, right? Maybe if she got back with me, things would even out. Like, emotionally. For the group.”

Jackson actually stopped tossing the ball.

Lydia blinked.

Scott didn’t notice.

“We could talk to her,” Scott continued, visibly proud of the plan forming in real time. “Get her to think about it. She liked me. That was real. And if we all worked together—”

Lydia turned to Jackson. “We’re leaving now.”

“God, yes,” Jackson muttered. “Before I lose brain cells by proximity.”

They started walking.

“Wait, what? Guys? I’m serious—don’t you think it would help?” Scott called after them, tone somewhere between confused golden retriever and sad trombone.

Neither of them turned around.

Lydia tossed a final line over her shoulder as they disappeared down the hall.

“Stiles isn’t the one who needs fixing, Scott.”

Scott was left standing alone.

Still leaning on the vending machine.

Still not sure where he lost the plot.

Chapter Text

Stiles sits cross-legged on the floor, a journal open in front of him. It’s filled with neat, obsessive handwriting, sketches of runes, and weapon designs scribbled in between grocery lists.

He’s wearing a hoodie that might belong to Scott, sweatpants that definitely don’t belong to him, and an expression that screams “I miss having offshore accounts.”

He clicks his pen aggressively as he flips through a hunter catalog on his phone.

Laptop: $398.99

Knife’s: $367.93

Bat: $478.92

Protective Clothes: $1,200.64

Mountain ash: $369.53

High powered taser: $1,136.78

He adds them all to his cart.

Total: $3952.79

His current balance: $3.17

He squints at the screen like he can force capitalism to be less evil.

“Okay, first of all… rude.”

He tosses the phone aside and gets on his 8-year-old laptop. 

He had already cyber protected this thing to hell and back. Passwords, firewalls, double authentication—the works. The laptop wasn’t bulletproof (nothing was), but if the NSA wanted in, he’d at least make them sweat. 

He encrypted a wallet, signed up for three new burner emails, and routed everything through a proxy in Riga.

He opened a private browser and started browsing the shadiest corners of the internet for his next move, his fingertips drumming restlessly along the spacebar.

URL: killswitch.dred

The site loads like it’s being powered by a haunted potato. The home screen is just a black background with blinking neon text.

“NEED SOMEONE GONE? OR ARE YOU THE SOMEONE?

LOG IN / REGISTER BELOW.”

No intro video. No terms & conditions. No vibes check.

He clicks “REGISTER.”

Username: SpecterThirteen

Backspace. Backspace. Backspace.

Username: softboy.exe

Email: [email protected]

He pauses at the next field.

“SPECIALIZATION:”

He types: Discreet. Quick. No collateral. Will work weekends.

UPLOAD PROFILE PIC (optional)

He uploads a photo of a fox flipping off a camera. Professionalism? In this economy?

He clicks submit.

ACCOUNT CREATED.

UPLOAD PROOF = GET PAID. NO QUESTIONS. BTC, MONERO, OR GIFT CARDS.

Stiles grins. It’s all so beautifully untraceable.

A list of nearby bounties loads.

• Rogue Witch, multiple love hexes gone nuclear – $15k
  
  
• Hunter, ex-Argent affiliate – $30k
  
  
• Siren, brain-melting voice confirmed – $22k
  
  
• Demonic raccoon (??) – $1000 or best offer
  
  

He clicks on the Siren.

ACCEPTED. TARGET INFO DOWNLOADED.

Below that, in green a text appeared

“DON’T FORGET THE RECEIPT. 📸 DEAD BODY OR IT DIDN’T HAPPEN.”

He leans back in his chair, stretching like a cat preparing to commit violence.

“Guess I’m freelance again.”

He pulls out his phone, opens the camera app, and checks the flash settings. Just in case.

Stiles spent the next twenty minutes rifling through a pile of notecards and dollar store pens, plotting logistics.

Taking out a siren wasn’t exactly in the Teen Wolf monster-of-the-week playbook, and the only lore in his shiny new beastiary involved a lot more saltwater and shipwrecks than Beacon Hills could muster.

Still, the payout nearly made him giddy. 

Thirty seconds and he’d sourced a public library eBook on Mediterranean cryptids, hacked into a local police archive (“suspicious vocal incident at DeSoto Motel”—two years old, but worth a look), and pinned three possible locations on Google Maps.

His hand hovered over his phone before he scrawled, You need a disguise, in the margins of his journal.

Something nobody would connect to Stilinski, or to the string of barely-explained break-ins lighting up the station’s bulletin board this month.

He thought about his old toolkit—liquid latex, powder dyes, a foolproof British accent—but this new world had different ingredients.

He bundled his hair tight at the nape of his neck, knotted his longest scarf around the lower half of his face, and pulled a battered cap low.

Not perfect, but he doubted anyone in Beacon Hills would stoop to scrutinizing CCTV footage for Russian supermodel cheekbones. They barely locked their doors.

He ranked his priorities.

Weapons first, then magic, then improvisation.

He gutted a dollar store highlighter for the neon ink and, with a swipe of his converted Spark, pressed fresh-drawn sigils into the lining of his sleeves—one for silence, one for speed, something newer for luck because even trained killers weren’t immune to cosmic voices.

As he got to the location the sky was dark and sour, promising rain.

Good.

Fewer people on the street, less chance of witnesses, fewer teenagers lurking in parking lots pretending to smoke.

The siren’s territory stretched over the motel and two miles of riverbank. Stiles ducked behind rusted dumpsters, checked sightlines, counted streetlights.

Easy and quiet.

This was what Lysander had always been best at. New body, new name, sure—but a job was a job. He would earn that payday, one way or another.

And as he melted into the darkness, every move felt more familiar, more his.

Rain taps out a slow rhythm on the rusted metal roofing of the motel—lazy, almost bored.

Stiles moves through the shadows with deliberate ease. Every step calculated. Every breath silent.

Room 6B glows faintly. Warm yellow light filters through moth-eaten curtains, and from inside comes a voice—soft, melodic, almost beautiful in a way that makes your teeth itch.

“Come away, oh human child…”

A siren’s lullaby. Crooked. Off-key. Trying too hard.

He rolls his eyes. God, this town’s supernatural threats were always so aesthetically disappointing.

He pulls a charm from his sleeve and presses his thumb to the metal. A quick pulse of Spark energy activates it—sound barrier. Thirty seconds of tactical silence.

Timer starts now.

He slips in through the door. No dramatic entrance. Just a whisper of motion and the soft snick of a lock giving way.

Incense and perfume. Underneath: mildew and rot.

The siren lounges on the bed, one leg propped up like she’s trying to reenact a perfume ad on a budget.

She glances up, eyes gleaming with unnatural light. Her smile is slow, practiced.

“Well, aren’t you bold.”

Her voice tries to sink into his bones. It doesn’t.

She tilts her head. “Do I know you?”

He doesn’t answer. Just keeps walking, slow and measured.

“No name? No introduction?” she pouts. “Rude. I usually get dinner first.”

Still nothing.

Her smile twitches, slipping at the edges.

“I can’t decide if you’re shy or stupid.”

He pulls a small blade from his hoodie sleeve. Flat, clean, rune-slicked. It reflects her glow like a warning.

She eyes it with growing wariness.

“You’re not a hunter,” she mutters. “Too quiet.”

Her voice lowers. Darkens.

“You don’t even smell like Beacon Hills.”

That makes him smirk.

Her voice lifts again, sharp and slippery.

“You don’t have to do this. You’re clearly new. Maybe I don’t report you. Maybe we walk away, yeah? I forget you ever—”

He moves.

A flash of silver. A shimmer of Spark.

The silence field blocks her scream.

The sigil cuts across her collarbone in a swift, practiced arc—sealing her voice. Her lips move, wide and panicked, but nothing comes out.

She’s still reaching for a sound when the blade sinks beneath her ribs.

One jerk. One twist. Efficient. Quiet. Permanent.

Her body crumples like a marionette with its strings cut.

Lysan—Stiles stands still. His breathing steady.

The charm fizzles out, silence cracking like glass.

The siren’s body lies limp, one hand twitching open like it has something left to say.

He pulls out his phone.

Click.

One photo. Clean. Unmistakable.

Proof.

Then he’s gone.

When he gets to the parking lot he melts into the dark. Hoodie up. Hat low. Blade tucked away. Blood wiped from his gloves.

Behind him, the motel flickers like nothing happened. No screams. No struggle. No name exchanged.

Just another ghost in Beacon Hills.

The rain is still pattering outside when Stiles slips through the front door, silent as a shadow. The Sheriff’s on night shift. The house is dark. No one’s supposed to be home.

He pads up the stairs, blood already drying beneath his jacket, and shoulders his bedroom door open.

Then stops dead.

Peter Hale is sitting on his bed.

Casual. Smirking. Like he owns the place. One leg crossed over the other, perfectly still, like a snake pretending to be a man.

“You’re home late,” Peter says, tone light and infuriating. “I was starting to think you’d stood me up.”

Stiles just raises an eyebrow.

Peter’s eyes trail over him. His hoodie damp, hat in hand, gloved fingers still flecked with gore.

“You look like you had fun,” Peter purrs. “Who’d you kill?”

Stiles says nothing. Just kicks the door shut behind him and drops his backpack with a thud.

He peels off his scarf, tosses it on his chair, and pulls off the gloves, one finger at a time. Then he grabs his laptop, flops into the desk chair, and opens it like Peter doesn’t exist.

Peter’s lips twitch.

“I could help, you know,” he offers, voice low. “If you’re going to run around murdering things in my town. I have connections. Experience. A certain flair for theatrics.”

Stiles clicks through tabs. Types quickly. Business mode.

“You have a flair for being annoying,” he mutters without looking up.

Peter chuckles. “You wound me, darling.”

Stiles opens the encrypted browser. Navigates to killswitch.dred like it’s his Twitter feed.

UPLOAD PROOF – “SIREN: BELINDA CRANE”

He drags the photo in, uploads, hits send.

Ding.

“BOUNTY VERIFIED. PAYMENT PENDING.”

Peter, who’d been smirking the whole time, goes absolutely still.

“…Was that a picture of Belinda Crane?”

Stiles still doesn’t look at him. Just leans back in the chair, cracking his knuckles.

“Yup.”

Peter blinks. “You… killed her.”

“Yup.”

“Do I want to ask why you have access to a supernatural assassination platform?”

“Do I want to explain it to you?” Stiles asks flatly, finally glancing over. His voice is light, bored. “Nope.”

Peter stares at him. Then slowly, smiles.

“You are so much more interesting than I thought.”

Stiles snorts, already shutting the laptop. “Don’t flirt with me. I’m working.”

“You were working. Now you’re ignoring me,” Peter says, rising smoothly to his feet. He steps closer, into Stiles’s space like he belongs there. “I don’t like being ignored.”

Stiles shrugs. “I don’t like having uninvited guests in my room, yet here we are.”

Peter leans in, voice dropping to a velvet purr. “If I’m going to be the Batman to your little vigilante act, don’t I deserve a seat at the table?”

“You’re more like Catwoman,” Stiles says, standing. “And I don’t share my loot.”

Visions of Merrick flood him. All he could think was “I don't miss Merrick. I don’t. I just… wish I could hate him more than I do.”

He turns away to start wiping his blade clean with the corner of an old Beacon Hills High hoodie.

Peter watches him, eyes alight.

Then, softly, “What would your father say?”

Stiles pauses.

Then looks over his shoulder with a smile that has no warmth whatsoever.

“Its a good thing he’s not going to find out then huh.”

Chapter Text

Ever since that night Peter hasn’t left him alone. He pops up everywhere, always with that predatory smirk and a hundred syrupy compliments Stiles can’t decide if he wants to punch or copyright. 

In the parking lot, leaning against the Jeep. Near the forest, Stiles runs by every day. 

Once in the supermarket, holding a jar of olives, eyebrows wiggling as if he knows secrets about every vegetable in the aisle.

Stiles plays it cool. 

He keeps his answers clipped, never gives more than a sideways glance, and pretends not to notice when Peter trails a step behind. 

Most people would get the hint and slither back to whatever lair they crawled out of. 

Not Peter. 

Every refusal just adds fuel—he’s like a magpie with a grudge and unlimited free time.

Right now Stiles is in the mall. After some thought there was no reason to keep dressing or acting like the original anymore.

Partially because he was the original. 

A month in this world, and Lysander and Stiles had fused together like mismatched puzzle pieces that somehow still made a picture. 

The mind, the memories, the power—they had merged.

And this version of Stiles?

He dressed different. He moved different. He had presence. 

Aura. 

Swag, even.

His hair grew half an inch every day until he stopped it, so it was now down to his upper back when straight and at his neck when styled and curly.

Now he was looking for clothes that actually fit him and ignoring Peter trailing behind him.

Well, he had been. Until Peter started picking up and buying whatever he looked at for more than two seconds.

Stiles thumped a hanger back onto the rack, already regretting letting Peter follow him into the third store like some kind of overgrown demon chihuahua with a credit card.

“Stop that.”

Peter, who was already carrying a growing pile of carefully selected outfits like some deranged personal shopper with fangs, turned with that smug little glint in his eye. “Stop what?”

Stiles gestured at the armful of clothing Peter had hoarded in the last fifteen minutes: a cropped mock turtleneck in black, a pair of skin-tight faux leather pants, slouchy cargo joggers with 17 unnecessary zippers, and a hoodie that said “Not Your Problem Unless I Want to Be.”

“Buying everything I even look at. This is harassment.”

Peter held up the leather pants. “This is a public service.”

Stiles groaned and made a sharp turn toward the changing rooms. Peter followed, whistling an ominous little tune that felt like it should summon a thunderclap.

Inside, Stiles changed fast. He wanted to see how ridiculous this would look. (Also he was curious. Very, very curious. Shut up.)

He yanked on the cropped turtleneck first—it clung to his ribs and made his waist look slim and sharp. He was starting to get used to the way his new body carried itself—fluid, calculated, like every movement could end in a blade or a smirk.

Then came the pants. Tight, high-waisted, and leather with a sheen. He hated how good they looked. Not too femme. Not masc either. 

Just hot. 

Like someone who knew exactly how far they could push you before you’d thank them.

Next came the baggy pants—black, oversized, with strap details, deep pockets, and a chain on the belt loop. He threw on a fitted crop tee and layered it with an oversized hoodie. 

Let the tension cook.

He pulled on heavy black boots with silver hardware, then took a moment to mess with his hair in the mirror—fluffing the curls, running his fingers through them until they framed his face just right.

He stepped out of the stall.

Peter was waiting like a raccoon in a jewelry store. He took one look and visibly recalibrated his entire life.

“Okay,” Peter said, voice hoarse. “You win.”

Stiles raised an eyebrow. “I wasn’t playing.”

Peter waved at him with the air of a man experiencing cardiac distress and took out his phone. “Please. I need to document this. For my shrine. I mean memories. Yes. Memories.”

Stiles turned and walked away.

Peter followed. Obviously.

Over the next hour, Peter bought:

• 20 cropped turtlenecks in various colors and materials: ribbed, sleeveless, sheer, one with tiny embroidered knives
  
  
• 20 oversized hoodies, some plain, some with designs like “Trust Issues Aesthetic” and “Hex Your Ex”
  
  
• 20 pairs of pants: tight leather, ripped denim, tactical cargo pants with enough straps to parachute off a building
  
  
• A cursed amount of boots — combat, platform, ankle, one pair that lit up slightly (Peter claimed it was for “visibility”)
  
  
• 15 belts with buckles shaped like wolves, daggers, and one that said “BAD AT FEELINGS” in rhinestones
  
  
• Socks. So many socks. Thigh-highs, fishnets, striped, celestial, black lace-trimmed, and one pair that looked suspiciously like they were meant for provoking someone
  
  
• And—because apparently Peter has no shame or impulse control—underwear.
  
  

Nice underwear. Expensive. Lacy in some places, soft in others, mostly black with tasteful patterns and no logical reason for him to know Stiles’s size that accurately.

When Stiles found the bags stuffed with it, he stared at Peter for a full ten seconds.

“Did you seriously buy me underwear?”

Peter didn’t flinch. “It’s functional.”

“It’s mesh and silk.”

“It’s breathable.”

Stiles looked into the bag again. “…There’s a thong in here.”

Peter smiled. “You’re welcome.”

Stiles immediately threw it at his face. “You are deranged.”

“And yet,” Peter said, catching it without blinking, “you keep me around.”

Stiles walked off, muttering threats.

Peter trailed behind, carrying ten shopping bags like a fashion-forward cryptid.

By the time they left the mall, Peter had spent an amount of money that could probably fund a small country’s military. 

Stiles didn’t carry anything.

And he looked good.

Too good.

Which was maybe why, when they passed a mirror, Peter paused and murmured, “You really do wear power well, you know.”

Stiles didn’t answer. But he smirked. 

Just a little.

After their little shopping trip and letting Peter put the bags in his trunk, Stiles decided he was hungry and pulled into a little cafe.

Peter of course followed behind him in his very obnoxious sports car.

The place looked like Pinterest forgot to take its meds—exposed brick crammed between mismatched armchairs, fairy lights swallowing half the ceiling, and a chalkboard menu written in the kind of handwriting that screamed existential crisis. 

Stiles ordered and picked a table in the back, scouted all of the exits, and slumped down, chin in palm.

Peter prowled in two minutes later, shedding expensive sunglasses with a flourish. 

He ordered a black coffee and a tart. Stiles had ordered for a grilled cheese and fries, because new world or not, comfort food never judged.

They sat in silence waiting for their orders. 

Peter watched him with that look—calculating, hungry, almost impressed. 

Stiles ignored him, scrolling through his phone, the hum of Spark in his fingertips threading through a dozen backup plans and fail-safes. Every nerve screamed ready.

After the waiter gave them their items Peter finally broke the quiet, voice low. “So, are we going to keep pretending we’re just two people who enjoy a post-mall snack, or are we going to acknowledge the fact you’re running freelance in my territory without me?”

Stiles broke a fry in half and popped it into his mouth, smiling around the salt. “If its someone territory its not yours. Last I remember Derek was the alpha.”

Peter leaned closer, elbows on the sticky table, words sliding like silk over broken glass. “You know, I could help. With the jobs. With the magic. It’s more fun when you have backup.” His meaning curled sharp between the spaces—a dare, a promise, maybe a threat.

Stiles’s eyes flicked up. “I don’t need backup. 

Peter’s lips curled. “You used to beg for it.”

“I’m not who I used to be.”

Peter studied him for a long, quiet beat. “No,” he said finally, “you’re not.”

There was no accusation. No suspicion.

Just a gleam of intrigue in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.

A hunger to understand. To possess. Maybe even protect.

And he still didn’t know.

Not really.

Not yet.

Stiles leaned back, eyes half-lidded. “If you’re done interrogating me, drink your sad coffee. My fries are getting cold.”

Peter raised his tart in a silent toast. “To transformation, then.”

Stiles clinked a fry against the edge of his sugary treat. “And the people too stupid to recognize it.”

Peter laughed.

And the moment passed.

But Stiles could feel it hanging in the air—not yet, but soon.

Peter was going to find out.

And when he did?

Stiles would either kill him or Peter will grow on him enough that he may let him stay alive.

Chapter Text

The loft door swung open, and like some goddamn movie entrance, Stiles walked in first, curls still damp from the rain and hoodie slouching just right over a body that no longer screamed “frail nerd,” but “confident enough to ruin your life and ask for a snack after.” 

Peter trailed behind, effortlessly smug, still weighing the wolfish glances Stiles tossed at empty corners and shadowed beams.

The pack sprawled across mismatched couches and battered chairs. Derek was perched like a stormcloud over everyone, arms folded, jaw set. Isaac slumped sideways, picking at a loose thread on his sleeve. 

Lydia, unreadable as ever, kept her attention fixed on her glowing phone screen with the intensity of a sniper. Scott stood in the middle of it all, looking lost and eager in equal measure.

Stiles didn’t hesitate. He dumped his bag on the floor, stretched his arms until his joints cracked, and surveyed the room with the same energy most people reserved for checking exits in a burning building.

Derek’s eyebrow twitched. “We started ten minutes ago.”

Stiles shrugged, a little too casual. “You’ll live. Or you won’t. Depends on the day in this town.”

A flicker of satisfaction bloomed as Derek bristled. There it was. Control. 

Peter was already making himself comfortable, draping across a chair like some modern art piece titled ‘Petty Threats and Family Issues.’

Scott, ever the optimist, stepped forward. “Stiles, you okay? You’ve been different lately.”

He smiled, just a little. Not enough to raise alarms, but enough to sting . There was a delicious ache behind his ribs that always came when he felt like the smartest person in the room. Or the most dangerous.

The rest of the pack shifted, picking up the tension but missing the point.

Peter spoke first, tone smooth as ever. “Apologies for the delay. My associate needed to moisturize.”

“I needed to bleach the part of my soul you keep talking to,” Stiles shot back without missing a beat.

Peter’s eyes lit up, clearly delighted. “And I love that about you.”

From the couch, Jackson raised an eyebrow, voice deadpan. “Are you two… like, a thing now? Or is this just really intense hate-flirting?”

Peter smiled serenely. “Depends on which one of us you ask.”

“Don’t ask,” Stiles said flatly.

Deek, trying to corral the energy, raised his voice. “Can we please focus? Boyd and Erica are still missing and—”

“Already know where they are,” Stiles cut in, tone clipped.

“He’s very efficient,” Peter added, eyes sparkling. “I’d offer to help, but he insists on doing everything himself. Stubborn, sexy little trait.”

Derek’s face cycled through five distinct stages of grief in two seconds.

Lydia finally looked up, her eyes narrowing. “Stiles. What’s going on with you? You’re acting like a completely different person.”

Peter leaned forward with faux concern. “Oh, darling, don’t be jealous just because he stopped orbiting you.”

Stiles didn’t respond, just crossed his arms, golden static flickering around his fingertips like the Spark was listening.

“I’m not jealous,” Lydia snapped. “I’m concerned.”

Yeah, concerned like someone watching their favorite toy get a little too sharp.

“Well, I’m enchanted. And a little turned on. But that’s just me,” Peter replied.

Derek scowled. “Peter, what the hell—”

Peter didn’t even glance at him. “I’m just appreciating evolution. You should try it sometime.”

Lydia stepped closer, voice more measured now. “You’ve always been clever, Stiles. But this? Whatever this is? It’s not you.”

His expression shifted, eyes going dark. “You mean it’s not the version you liked best. The obedient one. The one who ran after you like a dog, hoping you’d throw him a compliment.”

The air turned heavy.

“I never—” Lydia began, Peter, gleeful as ever, cut her off. “Oh, sweetheart. You always. He just finally stopped fetching.”

Jackson muttered under his breath, “This is the horniest conversation I’ve ever heard in a murder meeting.”

Scott, bless him, tried again. “Stiles, you’ve changed. We’re supposed to be your pack.”

Peter moved beside Stiles, close—too close. His voice dropped.

“I think what you mean is, you liked him better when he was your emotional support genius.” He tilted his head, eyes never leaving Stiles. “Now he doesn’t need you. And you don’t know what to do with that, do you?”

“He’s not your attack dog, Peter,” Scott growled.

Peter’s smile was lazy. “He’s not anyone’s dog. Which is exactly why I like him.”

Stiles didn’t pull away. He felt the whole room waiting for him to. But he didn’t. He loved the silence that followed.

Lydia exhaled, voice flat. “I still think you’re making a mistake.”

“And I think you’re used to being the smartest person in the room,” Stiles replied coolly. “Sorry about your ego.”

Peter practically moaned. “God, marry me.”

“You’d cry at the prenup.”

Peter leaned in, too close, breath brushing Stiles’s ear like the ghost of a threat. “Let me know if you ever get tired of playing with puppies. I bite.”

Stiles didn’t even blink. “You’d probably whine during sex. Pass.”

Peter choked on air. Jackson wheezed. Lydia looked like she just aged three years. Isaac clapped like he’d been waiting for that moment all his life.

“I hate all of you,” Derek muttered from the corner.

Before leaving, Stiles tossed a notebook onto the table. It thudded like a dropped mic. “Here’s what I’ve got. Be good, and I might keep helping.”

Peter smirked. “You should charge. You’re wasted on them.”

And with that, Stiles walked out first. Peter followed one step behind, like a well-dressed apocalypse on a leash made of sass and shared secrets.

Scott stared after them, voice cracking. “Why is he following Stiles everywhere now?!”

Jackson didn’t even look up. “Because he has taste. Duh.”

The front door creaked open. Stiles stepped inside, hoodie dripping faintly from the rain, keys jangling in his fingers like wind chimes for the damned.

He didn’t turn around when he said, “I know you’re behind me.”

The door closed with a polite click.

Peter’s voice followed. “You didn’t lock it.”

“I knew you’d follow me.” Stiles kicked off his shoes, movements lazy. Graceful, even. He moved through the house like someone who didn’t need to rush. Like someone who’d already won.

Peter stepped into the foyer, glancing around like he was casing the place.

“I brought groceries,” he said mildly.

Stiles made a noncommittal hum, padding into the kitchen. “Either you’re trying to poison me, or you really think pasta can fix my personality.”

He opened a cupboard and pulled out two bowls. Clean. Because he’d cleaned everything already.

“It’s carbonara,” Peter offered, unbothered. “And you skipped lunch. Again.”

Stiles pulled out a chair, spun it around, and straddled it backward. He rested his chin on the top of it, arms draped over the back. Watching.

“So what now? You stalking me when I eat too?” he asked, tone light. “You cook. I eat. We banter. And then what? You ask me what I am now?”

Peter smiled faintly. “I already know what you are.”

“Oh?”

Peter moved around the kitchen with fluid, predatory ease. “You’re beautifully new.”

Stiles’s lips twitched into a slow smile. “That’s flattering. A little creepy. Ten points.”

He didn’t ask what Peter meant. 

He didn’t have to. 

He’d seen the looks the pack gave him. Like he was a puzzle someone forgot how to solve. Like he was someone else wearing Stiles Stilinski’s skin.

They weren’t wrong.

“Why’d you really come with me?” he asked after a pause.

Peter grated cheese with all the solemnity of a man preparing for war. “Because I like watching people realize they were wrong about you.”

Stiles tilted his head, gold flickering faintly under his skin like a warning light no one could see. “You’re making me dinner because you’re a fan of my villain arc?”

Peter looked over, deadpan. “Wouldn’t be the first time I backed the monster.”

Stiles grinned, slow and sharp. “That’s sweet. I’ll save you for last, then.”

That got a soft laugh from Peter. “How merciful.”

Dinner was served without flourish—just pasta, hot and creamy, the scent of garlic and bacon thick in the air.

Stiles didn’t say thank you. Just took a bite and nodded once, like he’d decided to let Peter live a little longer.

“You don’t trust me,” Peter said after a moment, casually.

Stiles shrugged. “I don’t trust anyone.”

There was a pause.

Peter studied him. “You’re quieter than usual.”

“I’ve been busy,” Stiles said mildly. “Planning murders.”

“Anyone I know?”

Stiles smiled without teeth. “Probably.”

They ate in silence for a while. The lights buzzed faintly overhead.

Peter reached for his wine, still watching him. “So. What are you planning to do next?”

Stiles leaned back, tapping the fork against his plate like a clock counting down. “Not sure yet. Depends on who disappoints me tomorrow.”

Peter smiled. “God, you’re fun like this.”

“I know,” Stiles replied, lifting his glass. “Isn’t it awful?”

Later, Peter sat on the couch, rolling his shoulder. A thin cut ran along his hand. He'd slipped with the knife after Stiles got too close while he washed dishes. Blame touch starvation or distraction or both.

Stiles walked in from the hallway with a first-aid kit in one hand and a half-empty bag of chocolate chips in the other.

“You’re bleeding,” he said calmly, like Peter had just forgotten to take out the trash.

Peter blinked at him. “It’s fine. I’ll heal.”

“Yeah, but I’m the one with the white couch.”

Stiles dropped the kit on the table and knelt beside him, chocolate chips still clutched loosely in one hand. 

He didn’t ask permission, just took Peter’s hand and began wiping blood off the knuckles with alcohol like he was brushing crumbs off a countertop.

Peter hissed. “No bedside manner?”

“I’m not a nurse,” Stiles replied, reaching for gauze. “I’m the last person you see before karma finally catches up.”

Peter watched him in silence, letting him work. 

The touch was careful. Not gentle, but precise. Like Stiles knew exactly where the pain lived and how to poke it without breaking anything important.

“You’re very good at this,” Peter said finally.

Stiles popped a chocolate chip into his mouth without meeting his gaze. “You learn a lot stitching up your dad at 2 a.m. because the local meth head got tased mid-arrest.”

There was a silence then. A long one.

Peter’s voice came quieter. “You’re not what I expected.”

Stiles shrugged. “I’m not what they expected, either. That’s kind of the point.”

He finished wrapping the hand and tied it off with mechanical efficiency. Then he finally looked up, chocolate smeared on the corner of his mouth, eyes faintly gold and a little too calm.

“If you betray me,” he said softly, “I won’t kill you fast.”

Peter didn’t flinch. He smiled, just a little. “I’d be disappointed if you did.”

Stiles offered him the chocolate chip bag like a peace treaty signed in snacks and veiled threats. Peter took one.

They sat on the floor in silence, chewing like this was all very normal.

The living room was quiet.

Not peaceful—more like the eye of a hurricane pretending to be a dinner party.

Stiles sat cross-legged on the floor, still holding the first-aid kit. Peter was beside him, one hand freshly wrapped in clean gauze, the other lazily reaching into a bag of chocolate chips they were sharing like war buddies.

Stiles didn’t look at him. He was focused on twisting the lid back onto the alcohol bottle. His movements were methodical. Calm. Too calm.

Peter was watching him though, like Stiles was more interesting than every bloody war he’d ever fought.

The front door opened.

Boots on the floor.

“Stiles?”

Stiles didn’t flinch. “Living room.”

Noah Stilinski stepped in and froze like he’d been hit by a brick.

There was his son, sitting very close to Peter freaking Hale, casually nursing his hand like they were tender roommates from hell. 

There was a half-eaten bag of chocolate chips on the floor between them. And the air was so heavy with unspoken tension it might as well have been crime scene tape.

The sheriff blinked. Then blinked again.

Stiles looked up, totally relaxed. “Hey, Dad.”

Peter smiled with criminal calm. “Good evening, Sheriff.”

The sheriff stared at the bandaged hand. Then the proximity. Then the goddamn intimacy in the way Peter was sitting like he lived here now.

“What… what is happening right now?” Noah asked slowly.

“I cleaned his hand,” Stiles said simply.

“You cleaned—” he pointed at Peter. “His hand.”

“He was bleeding on the couch. I like the couch. We all make sacrifices.”

“You cleaned Peter Hale’s wounds.”

Stiles nodded. “And didn’t even poison him. Personal growth.”

Noah turned to Peter, eyes squinting dangerously. “Did you ask him to do that?”

Peter tilted his head. “No. But I was smart enough not to stop him.”

“You let my son touch you.”

“Wouldn’t you?”

The sheriff made a sound. Something between a gasp and a despairing sigh.

“Okay, you know what, no. No. I’m stopping this right now. Are you dating him?”

Stiles, without blinking: “No.”

Peter, at the exact same time: “Not officially.”

The sheriff threw up his hands. “Jesus Christ.”

“Dad,” Stiles said flatly, “I am not dating him.”

Peter smirked. “But we do spend time together. Eat meals. Clean each other’s wounds. Exchange thinly veiled threats. It’s very romantic.”

“You’re thirty-four,” the sheriff snapped. “You were legally dead until six months ago! You had to argue with a DMV employee to prove you still existed!”

Peter nodded thoughtfully. “That was a Tuesday. Karen was lovely.”

“This isn’t funny!”

Stiles stood, brushing chocolate crumbs off his hoodie. “Look. Nobody’s dating. Nobody’s dead. Yet. Isn’t that a win for everyone?”

Peter stood too, still way too close to his son for Noah’s comfort. “He’s safe with me.”

Noah pointed at him. “You’re the opposite of safe. You are the human version of a gas leak in a locked room.”

Peter smiled pleasantly. “But at least I’m warm.”

He turned to Stiles. “I can’t let you date someone who has to reclaim their legal identity before they can file taxes.”

“We’re not dating!” Stiles repeated, then paused. “…I think.”

“You think?!”

Peter leaned down toward Stiles, all slow-lidded menace and velvet smirk. “Should we be worried you’re catching feelings, sweetheart?”

Stiles shoved him. “Should you be worried I still have peroxide on my hands and very bad impulse control?”

Peter looked delighted.

The sheriff just looked done. “I’m going upstairs. If he’s still here in the morning, I’m calling arresting him.”

Stiles just popped another chocolate chip into his mouth and grinned.

“Night, Dad.”

The sheriff groaned his way up the stairs like a man already drafting a will.

As the bedroom door closed, Peter turned to Stiles.

“…So are we or are we not dating?”

Stiles didn’t even look up. “Eat your damn chocolate before I rethink the poison thing.”

Chapter Text

After finishing the bag of chocolate, Stiles proceeded upstairs.

Peter, of course, followed—like some perfectly tailored demon who’d decided to haunt him full-time.

Stiles sat on the edge of his bed and stared at the wall like it held the answers to the universe.

Peter sprawled across his bed like a smug hallucination, legs crossed at the ankles, hands behind his head, watching him with that damnable expression that said “I worship you, please pay attention to me.”

Stiles didn’t look at him. That would give him power. He stared at the opposite wall and let silence stretch, until Peter finally shattered it.

“So,” Peter drawled, “are we a thing, or are you just letting me pine for you in increasingly expensive and public ways?”

Stiles’s eye twitched.

He turned to face him slowly, like a predator deciding if now was the time to pounce. “We are not a thing.” he said flatly.

Peter blinked. “But we’ve gone on multiple dates.”

“No,” Stiles said. “You’ve followed me places, insulted my taste in pants, and paid for things I looked at for more than three seconds. That’s not a date. That’s predatory retail behavior.”

Peter sat up, practically purring. “I bought you coffee. I bought you food. I gave you access to my card with no spending limit.”

“You didn’t even bring me flowers after.” Stiles crossed his arms. “No flowers. Not a date. Just threats with benefits.”

Peter stared at him, momentarily speechless. "Your… favorite flowers? Since when do you care about floral arrangements?"

Stiles gave him a blank stare.

Peter huffed and tilted his head. “What’s your favorite flower?”

Stiles scoffed. “You’ve been stalking me. You should know.”

“Oh my god,” Peter breathed, delighted. “This is a test.”

“Everything is a test,” Stiles hissed. “And failing means I add your name to the list I keep in my sock drawer.”

Peter laughed. “Admit it. You like me.”

“I tolerate you like one tolerates chronic migraines,” Stiles muttered. “Violently. With pills. And an ice pack. And the occasional hallucination of murder.”

“You let me into your bed,” Peter said, smug.

“Because killing you would stain the carpet and I just deep-cleaned it.”

Peter’s grin widened. “Romantic.”

Just then, the door opened.

Sheriff Stilinski stood there. Silent. Staring.

Peter froze.

Stiles didn’t move. He just sipped his water and said, “I know. He’s the worst.”

The Sheriff’s eyes narrowed. “If you were on a date, he should’ve asked my permission first.”

Peter made a noise that sounded like someone choking on their own charm.

Stiles turned to Peter and smiled. Slowly. Dangerously.

“Looks like someone forgot to talk to Daddy first.”

Peter blinked, then groaned. “Please never say that again.”

“Then bring me flowers.”

“Just tell me your favorite—”

“No,” Stiles said, practically vibrating with violence. “Figure it out. Or I start booby-trapping your apartment.”

“How do you know where I li-”

Two hours later Stiles found Peter hunched over his laptop, surrounded by open books on botany, Victorian flower language, and at least one guide to “floral gestures in courtship rituals of Eastern European Forest spirits.”

Stiles snorted. “What are you doing?”

Peter jumped, nearly knocking over a stack of encyclopedias. "Research! It's called research, Stiles."

"Researching what? How to summon a demon with a bouquet of daisies?"

Peter glared at him. "I'm trying to ascertain your favorite flowers. It's proving surprisingly difficult."

"Maybe because I'm not telling you?" Stiles said, grinning.

Peter's face darkened.

After having his late run Stiles walked into the kitchen and promptly froze.

Peter was standing there, cornering Noah Stilinski like he was proposing a merger.

“Sheriff,” Peter said, voice unusually polite. “I was hoping I could have a word. About… taking Stiles out. Properly.”

Noah slowly lowered his coffee cup. “You’re asking me for permission to date my son. Now. After not getting him his favorite flowers?”

Peter ran a hand through his hair, looking every bit like a man facing judgment day. “I’m working on it! I’m doing research. I was hoping you might… offer some guidance. Maybe a hint. A petal. A clue.”

The Sheriff stared at him for a long moment, then smiled.

It was not a kind smile.

“Well, Peter,” he said casually, “maybe if I knew you were going to treat my boy right. Or brought me a donut. Maybe then I could help you.”

Peter blinked. “A donut.”

“A good one. None of that gas station garbage. Boston cream, preferably.”

Peter nodded slowly. “Right. Donut. Favorable bribery. Got it.”

Noah sipped his coffee again, deadpan. “Until then, good luck with the guessing game.”

Peter turned and saw Stiles standing in the doorway, arms crossed, absolutely grinning.

“Still not telling you.” Stiles said smugly.

Peter muttered something in Latin and stormed out, muttering, “Fine. I’ll interrogate your Pinterest boards next.”

Stiles just waved cheerfully. “Hope you don’t pick something tragic. Get it wrong and I’ll assume you don’t really love me.”

Peter groaned from down the hallway. “I hate you so much.”

“Uh-huh,” Stiles called after him. “Say it with flowers.”

Peter Hale was not known for subtlety.

So, when he walked into the Stilinski house the next day with a sleek, temperature-controlled pastry box from a bakery so exclusive it didn’t even have a storefront, Noah Stilinski was rightfully suspicious.

“What,” Noah said, arms crossed as he eyed the white box like it might explode, “are you doing?”

Peter placed it gently on the counter, like it was a newborn child or a cursed artifact. “A peace offering.”

Noah squinted. “Is it laced?”

“No.” Peter muttered with a side eye, then lifted the lid.

The kitchen filled with the intoxicating scent of sugar, butter, cinnamon, and something that could only be described as glamour by glaze.

Inside, nestled in silk paper, sat a row of golden, pillow-soft donuts.

Not just any donuts.

These were from Petrousky’s, a Manhattan bakery so elite it only sold to Michelin-starred restaurants and high-level government cults. (Probably.)

There were six.

• A brown butter maple cruller, twisted into a perfect golden spiral, still warm with a crisp exterior and a custard-soft middle
  
  
• A dark chocolate ganache donut filled with whipped raspberry mousse, topped with edible gold leaf like it knew it was royalty
  
  
• A vanilla bean brioche donut glazed in rosewater and topped with candied petals
  
  
• A matcha cream donut with a dusting of toasted coconut, so delicate it looked illegal
  
  
• A churro-styled donut dusted in cinnamon and filled with dulce de leche that oozed like it had secrets
  
  
• And one lone jelly donut, gleaming with granulated sugar, filled with blackcurrant jam so rich it looked like it belonged in a vampire novel
  
  

Noah stared at them. “Where did you even get these?”

“I have connections,” Peter said simply.

Noah, after a long pause, picked up the churro donut and took a bite.

The world stopped turning for three solid seconds.

His knees nearly buckled. “Son of a bitch.”

Peter smirked. “So. About those flowers—”

“I’m not telling you jack until I try the raspberry one,” Noah said, mouth full.

Noah Stilinski was halfway through his second Petrousky donut, blissed out and mumbling something about “liquid gold and sin.” Powdered sugar dusted his fingers like he’d robbed a baker.

Peter stood to the side, arms crossed smugly, watching it all unfold like the glorious manipulative bastard he was.

Peter cleared his throat. “Okay. Okay. So. Great. Now that everything’s out in the open and you haven’t shot me yet… maybe I can still get some help?”

Noah raised a tired eyebrow. “With what, exactly? Cleaning up your life, or whatever black magic lets you afford pastries like these?”

Peter hesitated, then gestured at Stiles. “I’m still trying to find out his favorite flower.”

Noah snorted.

“He won’t tell me,” Peter said, exasperated. “Claims I should already know.”

“Well, yeah,” Stiles chirped. “You’re the one following me around like a cursed Victorian suitor.”

Peter sighed. “Can you just tell me what it is?” he asked, turning back to Noah like he was a lifeline. “Please?”

Noah blinked.

“I don’t know.”

Peter face went blank. “What?”

“I don’t know what his favorite flower is,” Noah said, shrugging. “I tried. Asked when he was ten. He said, quote, ‘whatever grows on a grave.’”

Stiles cackled mid-donut, powdered sugar flying like confetti.

Peter looked like he was rethinking his entire life. “You don’t know?”

“I raised a cryptid,” Noah deadpanned. “You think this is new?”

Noah wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and gestured vaguely with his donut. “But… you can take him on a date. Long as he agrees. And you don’t do anything weird.”

Peter blinked. “Seriously?”

Noah looked up, expression grave. “You brought the good donuts. That’s the kind of commitment I can respect.”

Stiles choked on his donut.

Peter turned to him, triumphant. “Looks like I have parental approval.”

Stiles stared at him. Then stared at his dad. Then grinned wide and wiped his fingers on a napkin.

“Oh,” he said brightly. “Cool. Now that he’s approved, I should probably mention something.”

Peter’s smile faltered.

Noah glanced up. “What?”

Stiles leaned over the counter, propping his chin in one hand, sugary fingers drumming ominously on the wood.

“Peter’s a werewolf.”

The kitchen fell silent.

Like apocalypse-level, someone-just-pulled-the-pin-on-a-grenade silence.

Noah stared at his son.

Peter froze, eyes wide like a cat that had just been thrown into a bathtub.

“…What.” Noah said flatly.

Stiles shrugged. “Thought you should know. Y’know. Before the date.”

Noah set his donut down. Carefully. Like it was a landmine.

“You’re dating a werewolf?”

“I mean, I haven’t signed anything official,” Stiles said breezily. 

Peter made a sound like static and betrayal.

Noah turned to Peter, slow and deadly. “You’re a werewolf and you’re dating my son?”

Peter held up his hands. “Technically, I haven’t dated him yet—”

“You brought me donuts,” Noah hissed. “You bribed me with PASTRY and you didn’t think that was worth mentioning?”

“In my defense,” Peter said, glancing at Stiles like he was trying to manifest spontaneous combustion, “someone clearly has boundary issues.”

Stiles was grinning like the cat who murdered the canary and used its bones for a summoning circle.

Peter turned back to Noah. “Listen. Yes. I’m a werewolf. A very charming, well-groomed, emotionally available one. I’ve been nothing but respectful.”

“You bought him lace underwear.”

Peter’s mouth opened, then closed. “Emotionally and financially available.”

Noah rubbed his face like he was trying to erase the last five minutes from existence.

“I need a drink,” he muttered.

“It’s ten in the morning,” Peter said gently.

“I know.”

Noah stormed off toward the living room, muttering “goddamn supernatural” and “I should’ve gotten a cat.”

As soon as he was gone, Peter turned back to Stiles, eyes narrow.

“You snitched on me.”

Stiles popped the last bite of donut in his mouth and chewed slowly, eyes twinkling. “You got permission first. I just provided context.”

“You are unhinged.”

“And you want to dating me. Better buckle up.”

Peter stared at him.

Then sighed. “I’m going to bring you a whole damn greenhouse.”

“Good,” Stiles said, licking sugar off his thumb. “Because you’re gonna need it.”

Chapter Text

The Stilinski kitchen hadn’t changed since he was a kid. Same cracked tiles, same humming fridge. Same man sitting at the kitchen table pretending his coffee could fix a damn thing.

But he wasn’t the same. Not even close.

Stiles hovered by the doorway like it was a line he wasn’t sure he wanted to cross.

“Stiles,” Noah said, quietly, like a man approaching a wounded animal. “I just… I need to understand. Why didn’t you tell me any of this?”

Stiles scoffed, bitter. “Why would I?”

Noah looked genuinely hurt. “I’m your father.”

“And that used to mean something,” Stiles said, sharp and immediate, like he’d been holding it in for years. “But when things got bad, when I really needed you? You didn’t listen. You didn’t even see me.”

Noah leaned forward, hands curling around the mug like he could wring the guilt out of it. “I didn’t know. I thought I was protecting you—”

“You thought I was overreacting,” Stiles snapped. “You always thought that.”

He was eight years old again.

The night had been too quiet. The kind of quiet that made the walls hum and the air press down like a weighted blanket full of teeth.

His mother had been standing in the doorway.

Just standing.

The moonlight through the small window made her hair glow silver, her robe hanging loose like she’d forgotten how buttons worked. Her eyes—God, her eyes—were wrong . Vacant and sharp at the same time, like something else was wearing her face from the inside out.

“Mom?” he’d whispered, voice small, a rag still clutched in his hand, water rippling around him.

She didn’t blink.

Just looked at him like she didn’t recognize him.

And then she moved.

Fast.

Too fast.

He remembered the sound of her frail body hitting the tile when she fell later. But before that?

Before that, he remembered her hands .

Trembling. Cold. Wrapping around his throat like she was trying to quiet a noise only she could hear.

“Stop talking,” she hissed, voice paper-thin and cracking. “You never stop. You never stop, and I can’t think. I can’t sleep. You’re not my son. You’re wrong , you’re wrong, you’re wrong— ”

He didn’t scream.

He couldn’t.

His throat was already closing, heart hammering like a hummingbird’s wings.

It was him who stopped it. Who got her off of him. Who held her while she sobbed and said she didn’t know what she was doing, over and over and over.

But Stiles remembered.

He remembered the look in her eyes—how it wasn’t madness. Not just madness. It was fear . Like he was the monster under the bed.

He remembered splashing trying to get her off. He remembered throwing his rag at her face. He remembered her slipping. Her falling. Her cries.

He hadn’t cried.

Not then.

He’d just curled up in his room after putting her to sleep, silent, blanket clutched like a lifeline, and promised himself he’d never make anyone feel like that again.

Never be too much.

Never let anyone see the thing in him that even his mother tried to drown.

He crossed into the kitchen now, steps clipped and tense, like if he didn’t keep moving he’d shatter.

“You remember when Mom started getting worse?” he asked, voice quiet but sharp. “When she’d confuse me for someone else? When she got paranoid and scared?”

Noah nodded slowly, as if afraid of where this was going.

“She attacked me, Dad.” The words came out flat, like a punch with no windup. “She thought I was something pretending to be her son. She tried to drown me. I still have nightmares about water.”

Noah’s mouth parted, but no words came.

“I was eight. I came to you, terrified, bleeding, shaking—do you remember what you said?” Stiles laughed, broken and tired. “You told me I was making it worse. That she didn’t mean it and I needed to stop scaring her.”

The silence was thick. Choking.

“I learned something that night,” Stiles went on. “That even the people who are supposed to believe you, protect you? They won’t. Not if it’s too scary. Not if it doesn’t fit what they want to be true.”

Noah’s eyes were rimmed with red. “I didn’t know. I swear to God, I didn’t know it was that bad.”

“I did,” Stiles whispered.

Noah stood slowly, like his legs barely wanted to hold him up. “I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t want sorry,” Stiles said, voice cracking. “I want you to have believed me then. I want a version of my life where I didn’t have to become a one-man emergency response unit because everyone else failed me.”

“I can’t undo it,” Noah said, voice raw. “But I want to try. Please, let me try.”

Stiles didn’t answer.

Back in his room, the walls felt smaller than usual, like they were closing in. He didn’t even react when he found Peter already there, lounging on his bed like a bored cat, flipping through his spell journal.

“I could throw wolfsbane in your eyes,” Stiles muttered, deadpan, as he shut the door behind him.

“You could,” Peter agreed. “But then who would get you hot chocolate and get your dad gourmet donuts?”

Stiles sighed and dropped into his desk chair like his bones were jelly. “He wanted answers. I gave him some.”

Peter’s head tilted. “How’d he take it?”

“He cried.” Stiles stared blankly at the desk. “I didn’t.”

Peter set the journal aside and stood, quiet as a shadow. “That doesn’t mean you’re okay.”

“I’m not,” Stiles admitted. “I feel like… like all the pieces of me are rattling around in a box and if I open the lid, I’ll just fall apart.”

Peter reached out, slow and deliberate, and placed a hand on his knee. The touch was careful— asking , not taking.

And Stiles didn’t flinch. Didn’t recoil like usual.

Instead, he leaned forward, forehead tipping against Peter’s shoulder like a puppet giving up its strings.

“You smell like espresso and death,” Stiles mumbled.

“I know,” Peter said, quietly smug. “It’s called brand consistency.”

For a long, silent minute, they just breathed.

Not healed.

But still breathing.

Stiles exhaled, shaky. Like his lungs had been packed with smoke.

“I found a new one,” he whispered.

Peter tensed. “Target?”

Stiles pulled up the site on his laptop. “Just outside of town. Teenage weresquirrel went missing. Report says she ‘ran away,’ but I’ve been tracking the signals. It’s a hunter.”

Peter stood. “Let’s go.”

The hunter was a drifter, a self-proclaimed 'purifier' named Silas, new to the area but with a digital footprint Stiles easily hacked. 

He'd been boasting in obscure online forums about a "unique kill," a "vermin cleansed from the woods." The squirrel tail charm was his signature.

They found him in a rundown motel, cleaning his rifle. 

Peter, moving like a shadow, disabled the room's power grid. Stiles kicked the door in, a shotgun (illegal, but effective) held steady in his hands. 

Silas, startled, went for his weapon, but Peter was already on him, a blur of fangs and claws. The hunter didn't even have time to scream before Peter’s fist connected with his jaw, sending him sprawling, unconscious.

"The old mill," Stiles said, already thinking ahead. "No one ever goes there."

The old mill was perfect. 

Isolated, derelict, its concrete walls echoing the slightest sound. 

Silas woke with a ragged gasp, arms twisted behind him, wrists bound in wire that bit deep into his skin. One ankle was chained to the rusted base of a support beam. He jerked, and the chain clanged—a hollow, final sound.

In front of him, Stiles crouched, elbows on knees, casual as a cat. Behind him stood Peter, eyes gleaming in the flickering light, the predator barely restrained beneath his human skin.

“Morning, sunshine,” Stiles said lightly, voice bright and awful in the stillness.

Silas’s breath hitched. He tried to speak, but his throat was dry, cracked from whatever sedative Peter had used. Blood crusted at his temple, dried into his hairline like rust.

“I know who you are,” Stiles continued, tilting his head. “Silas Wynn. Calls himself a purifier. Killed seventeen confirmed—werewolves, kitsune, a banshee, and most recently…” He leaned forward, tone dipping into cold. “Clara Bell. Fourteen. Newly turned. Still couldn’t even shift fully without sneezing.”

“She was a freak,” Silas rasped.

Peter moved, just a step forward, but it was enough to send Silas recoiling like prey. That chain yanked taut.

“You hung her tail on a chain like a trophy,” Stiles said, voice hollow now. “Posted about it. Got off on it.”

Stiles opened the tackle box. Inside, amidst various mundane items, were a pair of gleaming pliers, a small, wickedly sharp knife, and a few other less identifiable instruments. "See, Silas, we could just kill you. Quick, uncomplicated. But Clara didn't get that. She got fear. Pain. Confusion. We want you to understand."

"What do you want?" Silas spat, trying to sound brave, but his eyes darted nervously between Stiles and the silent, menacing Peter.

"Tell us about the kill," Stiles said, picking up the pliers. "Describe it. Every detail."

Silas started to bluster, to deny, to justify. Peter took a slow step forward, and Silas's words caught in his throat.

"Let’s start with the trigger finger, shall we?" Peter's voice was soft, persuasive. "The one that pulled the trigger on a little girl."

Stiles nodded. He gripped Silas's hand, his touch surprisingly firm, and used the pliers to snap the first joint of his index finger. The hunter screamed, a raw, piercing sound that reverberated through the mill.

Stiles didn’t flinch. "That was for her fear, Silas. The fear she felt when she realized she was being hunted."

Peter moved next, a flash of motion. He didn't use fangs or claws, not yet. He simply snapped the bones in Silas's left arm, cleanly, efficiently. The hunter screamed again, a gasp of agony.

"That," Peter rasped, "was for her struggle, her desperate attempt to flee. She was fast, Silas. But not fast enough for you, was she?"

Stiles picked up the small knife. "Now, Silas, the charm. The squirrel tail. You carved it, didn't you? A trophy. You thought it was clever." He leaned in close, his breath cold against Silas's ear. "Tell me, did you hear her last breath? Did you see the light leave her eyes? Because you’re going to hear a lot of your own, very soon."

He used the knife to carefully, meticulously, start flaying a thin strip of skin from Silas’s forearm, just enough to be excruciatingly painful without causing massive blood loss. 

The hunter bucked, tears streaming down his face. 

Peter watched, his eyes gleaming with a primeval satisfaction. This was beyond justice. This was retribution. This was a lesson etched in pain.

For hours, they worked. 

Stiles, cold and calculating, using his knowledge of human anatomy and pain thresholds, asking questions, forcing answers. 

Peter, a silent, terrifying enforcer, using his strength to break bones, dislocate joints, administering just enough pain to keep Silas conscious, lucid, and terrified. 

They forced him to relive Clara's final moments, describing her terror, her small, furry form, her desperate cries. Every denial, every justification, was met with another wave of torment.

By the time the first hint of false dawn appeared through the cracks in the mill walls, Silas was a broken, whimpering mess of a man, his body a ruin, his mind shattered by terror and agony. 

He was no longer arrogant, no longer defiant. 

He was just a raw, quivering mass of regret and pain.

Stiles threw the bloody pliers down. He knelt, looking Silas in the eye. "She was just a kid, Silas. Trying to live. Trying to understand what she was. You took her future. You took her life. And you mocked her."

He stood up, looking at Peter. The unspoken question hung in the air. Peter met his gaze, then slowly nodded. "He understands now," Stiles said, his voice flat. "The lesson is complete."

Peter walked over to Silas, bypassing his mangled limbs, going straight for the throat. 

His fangs extended, gleaming in the dim light. There was no theatricality, no lingering malice. Just a quick, brutal bite, severing the carotid artery. Silas convulsed once, a final, wet gurgle, and then went limp.

Stiles watched the life drain from the hunter's eyes. There was no joy, no triumph, only a grim, bone-deep weariness.

They worked in silence, systematically wiping the concrete floor, meticulously removing any evidence. 

Peter used his strength to carry Silas's body, and they buried him deep in the Preserve, in an unmarked grave where the very earth seemed to reclaim its own.

As they walked out of the Preserve just as the sun broke through the trees, casting long shadows. 

It was heavy, chilling, but beneath it, a faint, bitter satisfaction. 

Clara had been avenged.

Stiles glanced at Peter. 

He knew they wouldn’t be going back to how they were before.

The woods around them were quiet, almost reverent, like the earth itself knew what had transpired and was holding its breath. Dew clung to the grass, the morning mist curling around their ankles. 

"You didn’t have to stay the whole time," Stiles said softly, breaking the silence.

Peter didn’t answer right away. He reached out instead, brushing a smear of blood from Stiles’ cheek with a surprisingly gentle thumb. "Of course I did."

Stiles froze at the contact. It was a small touch, a nothing touch, but after what they’d just done—after what they were—it felt like a loaded gun pressed to his chest.

Peter's hand lingered for a second too long. Long enough to make Stiles' stomach twist. Not with fear. With something worse. Feelings that he’d never had before.

They stood like that, unmoving, tension thick as sap between them. Not the kind of tension that led to shouting. The kind that smoldered. That crackled with static.

Peter's eyes flicked down to Stiles' mouth. Just briefly. Just enough.

Stiles let out a breath like he’d been holding it for months. "If you kiss me right now, I’m either going to kiss you back or punch you. And honestly? I don’t know which one I want more."

Peter huffed a laugh, dark and breathless. "That's the most honest thing you've ever said to me."

They didn’t kiss. But they also didn’t move apart.

Instead, they started walking back to the Jeep, shoulders almost brushing. Like gravity was confused about who to pull harder.

Back at the Jeep, Stiles paused with his hand on the door. Peter stood beside him, too close again.

"You keep showing up," Stiles said.

Peter tilted his head. "You keep needing me."

Stiles didn’t look away this time. "What happens when I don't?"

Peter smiled. Not cruel. Not smug. Just tired. "Then I guess I start needing you."

Neither of them said anything as they got in and drove.

Chapter Text

The kitchen smelled like breakfast and ego.

Peter stood at the stove, sleeves rolled to his elbows, flipping something in a skillet with the smug serenity of a man who knew everyone in the room would be less effective in his absence and deeply annoyed about it.

Then the hallway creaked.

And Stiles walked in.

Peter froze. It felt like the whole world took one massive, synchronized breath.

Because Stiles Stilinski looked like temptation wrapped in sin and domesticity.

He was barefoot, legs long and gleaming with the lazy sheen of freshly showered skin. His thighs—thick, sculpted, the kind of thighs that could break necks or just rest prettily across a throne—peeked out from beneath dark gray boxer briefs (That Peter had bought him), riding low on his hips and clinging in all the right places.

And then—the shirt.

Peter’s button-up, black and slightly too big, hung open at the collar and fell past mid-thigh. One shoulder slipped just enough to see a hint of collarbone. The fabric hugged his waist before flaring subtly at the hips, cinched by the natural curve of a body that had no business being on a teenage boy.

He had an hourglass figure. Not exaggerated. Not cartoonish.

Just dangerously elegant.

His waist drew the eye like a secret. His hips moved with languid purpose. Every step was like the Spark had gotten bored and decided to cosplay as lust.

And his hair?

It hung in perfect, tousled curls—wild and soft, like he’d just woken up from a fever dream of power and still managed to look like the cover model of “Hexed & Handsome Monthly.” Not even a single frizz dared challenge him.

Stiles didn’t acknowledge him at first. He just padded into the room, yawned delicately, and plucked a strip of crispy bacon off Peter’s pan like this wasn’t a cinematic thirst trap made of pure sin.

He perched on the counter, one leg swinging lazily, the hem of the shirt riding up in ways that should be illegal before 10 a.m.

Peter handed him a mug of coffee like a ritual, fingers brushing Stiles’s as he murmured, “Sweet, two sugars, no judgment?”

Stiles smiled sleepily. “You do know me.”

After he took a sip, he couldn’t help it. “But you still don’t know my favorite flowers.”

Peter huffed. 

Then came the knock.

The knock is not friendly.

It’s aggressive. Urgent. A rhythmic doom doom doom that says, “We’re staging an intervention but forgot how to mind our business.”

Peter doesn’t look up from the stove, where a cream sauce simmers like sin. “Guests?”

“Ignore them,” Stiles says, perched on the kitchen counter, stealing parmesan with a fork like a feral cat in a five-star restaurant.

Peter raises a brow. “They’ll keep knocking.”

“They’ll get bored.”

BOOM BOOM BOOM.

Peter hums and turns down the heat. “You want me to hex them?”

Stiles considers. “I’d say yes, but I’m not in the mood to hide the bodies before dessert.”

The door creaks open.

Stiles sighs. “And that, kids, is why we shouldn’t keep keys under the doormat.”

The Pack pours in like they’re storming the Bastille.

Scott leads the charge. “Stiles, we’re worried about you!”

Lydia’s already scanning the room like it might be booby-trapped. Isaac lingers near the stairs. Derek looks two seconds from growling. Jackson’s just here for the drama. As usual.

Peter, utterly unbothered, sprinkles fresh basil into a bowl. “Should’ve knocked softer.”

Scott takes a deep breath. “This isn’t a joke.”

“No,” Stiles deadpans. “It’s a home invasion.”

Lydia steps forward. “We just want to know what’s going on with you. You’ve changed.”

Stiles hops down from the counter, bare feet thudding softly on the tile. He walks over slowly, lazily, like a predator who’s not hungry yet.

Peter slides a plate onto the table, sets down silverware with the precision of a man who has definitely murdered people with cutlery.

And then—without a word—he reaches out, he follows behind Stiles and gently takes his hand.

Not possessive. Not performative.

Just a solid, silent anchor.

Stiles doesn’t look down. Doesn’t react.

But he doesn’t pull away either.

Scott blinks. “Is he… are you two… holding hands?”

Jackson rolled his eyes. “Yes, Scott. That’s the part of this situation you should be focusing on.”

Scott’s jaw drops. “You’re dating Peter Hale?!”

Stiles cocks his head. “Define dating.”

Peter grins. “Domestic partnership with murder potential.”

Lydia’s voice is low, razor-sharp. “You’re being reckless.”

“I’m being effective,” Stiles shoots back. “Something this pack should try sometime.”

Isaac shifts uncomfortably. Derek scowls. Scott steps forward, desperate.

“Stiles, this isn’t you. You used to be—”

“What?” Stiles cuts in, voice smooth and deadly. “Used to be what, Scott? Your errand boy? Your supernatural tech support? The guy you only remembered when you needed Latin translated or your moral compass serviced?”

The room goes still.

Stiles keeps going.

“Lydia only noticed me when she needed a clue. Derek only tolerated me when I stayed quiet and useful. Isaac couldn’t even remember my name half the time. And you—” he turns to Scott, eyes going cold, his spark humming at his fingertips, “you let me rot in basements, bleed in bathrooms, and fall apart right in front of you because you were too busy playing superhero.”

Scott flinches like he’s been slapped.

“You want to stage an intervention?” Stiles hisses. “Cool. Here’s your intervention. I’m not your pet human anymore. I’ve got power. I’ve got plans. And I’ve got someone”—he squeezes Peter’s hand, just once, hard—“who actually sees me.”

Peter, unfazed, guides Stiles to the table like he didn’t just witness a full emotional exorcism. “Eat before it deflates,” he murmurs.

Lydia's voice was faint “He made omelets?”

Jackson claps once. “Okay, I know I said this before, but I really think you two are a thing now.”

Peter just smiles.

Scott stares at Stiles like he doesn’t recognize him. “You’re serious.”

“I’m serious about not letting any of you guilt me back into servitude.” Stiles grabs a spoon and breaks the top of the soufflé, steam curling into the air like victory smoke. “I’m done dimming myself to make your egos feel full.”

He takes a bite. Chews. Swallows. “Also, this is amazing Peter.”

Peter smirks and bows his head. “I do my best.”

Derek stood stiffly by the edge of the table, arms crossed so tight it looked like he was trying to compress his own anxiety into a singularity.

Stiles, meanwhile, sat perched in a chair—legs crossed, plate half-devoured, looking like murder dipped in smugness and wrapped in domestic bliss.

Peter sat next to him, turned just slightly in his seat, not even pretending to look anywhere else. If devotion could be weaponized, Peter’s expression would’ve leveled a city.

Derek finally snapped.

“This is insane,” he muttered. “You’re seriously sitting here, eating an omelet made by Peter, like he hasn’t tried to kill half the people in this room.”

Stiles didn’t look up. He cut a neat triangle of fluffy egg with the edge of his fork and popped it into his mouth. Chewed. Swallowed.

Then, finally, he tilted his head.

“First of all,” he said, voice syrupy with faux innocence, “this omelet has goat cheese, caramelized onions, and love. And if you’re going to insult it, I will hex you bald.”

Peter’s smile turned positively feral.

Derek growled under his breath. “He’s manipulating you.”

“I mean,” Stiles mused, pointing his fork thoughtfully at Peter, “he’s also been buying me books, baking me muffins, and massaging my shoulders after training, so if this is manipulation? It’s got a five-star Yelp rating.”

Peter looked like he was actively restraining himself from proposing marriage.

Derek stepped forward. “Stiles, he’s evil.”

Stiles raised an eyebrow. “And yet I’ve never seen you scramble eggs with anything other than rage. You ever put chives in your omelette, Derek? You ever kiss someone’s forehead while handing them coffee?”

Peter let out a soft chuckle and reached over, gently tucking a stray curl behind Stiles’s ear like this was a romcom brunch montage and not a supernatural argument in a cursed kitchen.

Stiles kept eating, utterly unbothered. “Besides, evil is relative. Peter’s a morally flexible cryptid with good taste and a great jawline. You’re a brooding cautionary tale in leather.”

“I’m trying to protect you!” Derek hissed.

“And I am trying to eat breakfast,” Stiles snapped back. “Which one of us is succeeding?”

There was a pause.

Peter very softly murmured, “You’ve got a little cheese on your lip.”

And before Derek could stop him, Peter leaned in and wiped it away with his thumb.

Stiles smiled, eyes gleaming with mischief and victory. “Thanks, My Love.”

Derek looked like he aged six years in thirty seconds.

“You’re impossible,” he muttered, turning away in disgust.

“I prefer ‘enigmatic and thriving,’” Stiles called sweetly after him, spearing another bite of omelet like this whole exchange was mildly amusing brunch entertainment.

Peter sighed contentedly and leaned back, sipping his coffee. “I love when he gets like this.”

Stiles didn’t look at him, but the corner of his mouth lifted. “Yeah, well. Keep making omelets like this and I might let you do more than tuck curls behind my ear.”

Jackson, from the corner: “I’m gonna vomit. But like, in a supportive way.”

Derek was still mid-meltdown, eyes blazing, voice raised.

“I’m just saying,” he barked, hands slicing the air like punctuation, “Peter is dangerous. He manipulates people. He lies. He kills. He monologues.”

Stiles lazily twirled a forkful of omelet, unbothered. Peter just held his hand like he had all the time in the world and a second omelet in the pan.

Then—

Click.

The front door opened.

In walked Sheriff Stilinski, paper coffee cup in one hand and a box of case files tucked under his arm. He looked around, completely calm.

• Peter at the table, wearing his smuggest “I did your dishes and maybe your son” expression.
  
  
• Stiles in Peter’s shirt and boxers, glowing and looking like he deserved it.
  
  
• The Pack frozen like a bad Scooby-Doo reboot.
  
  

The Sheriff blinked.

“Morning,” he said, like this was normal.

Scott practically lunged. “Sheriff! You’re here—good. You have to stop this.”

The Sheriff just set his coffee down, crossed to the fridge, and opened it like he was looking for milk instead of patience.

“Stop what exactly?”

Lydia gestured wildly. “That.” She pointed at Stiles and Peter. “Whatever this is.”

Stiles sipped his coffee. “It’s breakfast.”

Peter added, “With feelings.”

The Sheriff finally turned, raised a brow, and took a long, deliberate sip of coffee. “He got my permission.”

Scott blinked. “Wait. What?”

The Sheriff shrugged. “Peter came over last week, had a whole speech ready. Brought donuts. Expensive. None of the weird powder kind.”

Jackson’s voice was incredulous. “You can’t be serious.”

“Son,” the Sheriff said calmly, “you think I don’t know how dangerous Peter is? I used to lock up meth dealers with less eye contact.” He waved his coffee cup. “But I also know when someone is playing the long game. And this one?” He pointed his cup at Peter. “He’s all in.”

Peter gave a little mock bow like, guilty as charged but make it domestic.

Lydia practically exploded. “You approve of this?”

The Sheriff shrugged. “He hasn’t tried to kill anyone this week. And my kid’s smiling again. And sleeping. You want me to not like the guy who brought donuts and makes gourmet omelets?”

Isaac mumbled, “I feel like we’ve lost control of the narrative.”

“You never had it,” Stiles said, popping a bite of goat cheese and smug into his mouth.

The Sheriff walked to the stove, lifted the lid on the second skillet. “Is this one for me?”

Peter nodded. “Three eggs, sharp cheddar, touch of thyme. Just how you like it.”

The Sheriff clapped him on the shoulder like they were fishing buddies. “God, you’re wasted on crime.”

Scott looked like he was about to combust. “You can’t be okay with this!”

The Sheriff turned, omelette plate in hand. “Scott. You broke into my house, tried to stage an ambush therapy session, and interrupted my Saturday. You want to talk about bad decisions?”

Scott opened his mouth. The Sheriff raised one finger. “I have eggs. Choose wisely.”

Scott very quickly quieted down.

Peter handed the Sheriff a fork like it was a peace treaty.

Jackson muttered to Isaac, “I think Peter’s alpha now.”

Isaac whispered back, “No, I think the Sheriff is.”

Lydia just stared at the ceiling like she was trying to astral project out of the timeline.

The Sheriff took a bite, nodded approvingly, and settled into the chair across from Stiles.

“Alright,” he said around a mouthful of omelette. “Let’s talk about anything that’s not my son’s love ife. Who wants juice?”

Chapter Text

Lydia was done.

Done with the gloating.

Done with the smugness.

Done with Peter Hale handing the Sheriff coffee like this was a meet-the-in-laws breakfast special.

And done with the fact that everyone was acting like this was fine. That the boy who used to stammer through Latin and flail during lacrosse was now gliding around like a demonic househusband in boxers.

So she did what any ex-queen bee with a data plan and a bad feeling would do.

She texted Allison Argent.

Lydia: I think Peter Hale is controlling Stiles

Lydia: And maybe his dad

Lydia: Bring arrows

Fifteen minutes later, the window shattered.

The window shattered.

Everyone turned.

Allison Argent rolled into the kitchen like a SWAT team of one, crossbow raised and righteous fury locked in. She looked around, found Peter, and then narrowed in on—

“Stiles,” she barked. “Step away from him.”

And that?

Was the wrong move.

Because across the table, Stiles paused mid-bite. He didn’t even look up right away—just slowly set his fork down on the edge of the plate with the kind of control that only barely hides incoming violence.

Peter tensed instantly. “Stiles—”

Too late.

Stiles lunged.

Not with magic.

Not with words.

With the fork.

He snatched it back up and launched himself across the table like a goddamn possessed cat burglar.

Allison raised the crossbow—

But Stiles was faster.

They hit the floor with a thud, her back cracking against the hardwood. Her weapon skidded out of reach.

And then—

Stiles straddled her, one knee pressed down on her wrist, and the fork was in her arm.

She screamed but Stiles just ripped it out and went for her face.

Specifically?

Her eyes.

He held it with perfect, stabbing precision—like he’d practiced. Like he’d fantasized about this.

Peter leapt up. “Stiles!”

But Stiles wasn’t listening.

“You came into my house,” he hissed. “Aimed a weapon at me in front of my breakfast. My dad. My—” he jerked his chin toward Peter without looking away from Allison, “—not yet partner slash feral support system.”

“She thought I was controlling you,” Peter said quickly, stepping in.

Stiles just growled. It was eerily close to a wolfs

The fork inched closer to Allison’s wide, horrified eyes.

And the whole time—sitting at the damn table, sipping coffee with one hand—Sheriff Stilinski had his gun out and calmly pointed right at Allison.

“Kid,” he said, tone mild, “you know I love you. But if you take out her eyeballs with my good forks, you’re doing the dishes for the next year.”

Peter barked, “You’re worried about cutlery?!”

“I just bought that set!” the Sheriff snapped back. “And it’s hard to explain ‘fork-to-face homicide’ to Internal Affairs.”

“Stiles!” Peter yelled, finally gripping him under the arms and hauling him off like a wriggling demon child. “Enough!”

Stiles thrashed once. Twice. Then finally—let go. The fork clattered to the floor next to Allison’s face.

He panted, chest heaving, hair wild, eyes stormy and very much not glowing, thank you very much.

“I wasn’t gonna kill her,” Stiles muttered, brushing Peter’s hands off. “I was just gonna poke something sensitive until she got the point.”

Peter rubbed a hand over his face. “You need therapy.”

The Sheriff finally stood, gun still trained on Allison, who was frozen like a deer in a glittery, homicidal headlight.

Noah surveyed the pack.  “The next person who comes into my house and points a weapon at my son is going to need an ambulance.”

He paused. Then looked down at her.

“You want me to call one now?”

Allison shook her head.

“Good choice,” the Sheriff said, holstering the gun. Then turned to Peter. “Do we have any more of that soup?”

Peter blinked. “…Yeah.”

“Great.” He sat back down. “Somebody reheat it. I lost my appetite for eggs.”

There was a long, tense silence as Peter led Stiles back into his chair, like that wasn’t an attempted homicide.

The only sound was the quiet hum of the microwave reheating soup and the crack of Jackson biting into a piece of toast like it was his emotional support pastry.

Stiles adjusted his shirt, which had slipped dangerously off one shoulder in the scuffle, and calmly picked up a new fork. He stabbed a piece of omelette, took a bite, and let out a satisfied hum.

“Mmm. Still warm.”

Peter stared at him, both impressed and lightly alarmed. “You just tried to fork someone’s eyeball out.”

Stiles waved his fork dismissively. 

Across the room, Allison was sitting very still on the floor, back against the wall, trying not to make any sudden movements like she was in the room with a very stylish, very stabby raccoon.

The Pack?

Malfunctioning.

Scott was still trying to reboot his worldview like an emotionally overwhelmed iPhone.

Lydia was dialing back her “Peter’s controlling him” theory in real time.

Isaac whispered to Jackson, “Do you think he’d use a salad fork next time?”

Jackson noded, “Depends if she deserves dignity.”

The Sheriff, now with a bowl of steaming soup, blew gently on the surface and said, like this was completely normal, “Well, that’s one way to handle a home invasion.”

Peter sighed, dropped into the chair next to Stiles, and rubbed at his temples. “You can’t keep attack people over breakfast.”

“I didn’t use a knife,” Stiles said, far too cheerfully. “So technically I showed restraint.”

“You tried to scoop her corneas out like melon balls.”

Stiles grinned around another bite. “Still restrained.”

The Sheriff just nodded thoughtfully. “Honestly? I’ve seen worse at PTA meetings.”

Scott finally found his voice. “That was—Stiles, that was not okay. You tried to blind her!”

“She broke my window, I hope you know that you have to pay for that too,” Stiles said, voice flat now. “And she pointed a crossbow at me. I reacted like anyone would—with force and cutlery.”

Lydia, hesitant: “That’s not… normal, Stiles.”

Stiles turned to her slowly. His expression wasn’t angry. Just blank.

“You’re right,” he said. “It’s not normal. But you know what else wasn’t normal? Being ignored, sidelined, and gaslit for years while I nearly died helping all of you.”

He tilted his head.

“So maybe normal doesn’t work for me anymore.”

Peter looked at him then. Really looked. Like he was seeing a storm calm just enough to be dangerous.

He reached out. Touched Stiles’s hand.

Stiles didn’t pull away.

“I’m proud of you,” Peter murmured.

Stiles stabbed another bite of omelette, shrugged. “She got off easy. I didn’t even throw the fork.”

Chapter Text

Stiles was pacing again.

Back and forth across his living room like a caged, caffeinated wolf in a skin tight crop top. His jaw was clenched so hard it looked like he was trying to bite the air itself.

Peter watched from the couch, sipping coffee with one hand and resting the other dramatically across the back like some noir villain waiting for the betrayal to start.

“You know,” Peter said, eyes trailing Stiles like he was trying to solve a particularly sexy puzzle, “there are healthier ways to cope than trying to carve a trench into the floorboards with your anxiety.”

Stiles stopped pacing just long enough to shoot him a look. “You’re one bad suggestion away from catching this chair to the face.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “Violence is a coping mechanism, sure. But it’s messy. And the sheriff frowns on homicide. Especially using his furniture.”

“Why are you here again?”

Peter smirked. “Because I care.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes. “You care like cats care. With malice and the promise of dismemberment.”

Peter leaned forward, pulling something from his coat pocket. “Actually, I left to get you this.”

He tossed a small black object onto the coffee table.

Stiles squinted at it. “The hell is that?”

“A chew necklace.”

Stiles blinked. “A what now?”

Peter looked unbothered. “It’s silicone. Meant for people with—how do I put this delicately—rage issues and the impulse control of a feral raccoon.”

Stiles gawked. “You brought me a chew toy.”

Peter smiled serenely. “You’re welcome.”

“I’m not a dog.”

“No, but you do growl. And I’ve seen you gnaw on pens like they insulted your mother.”

Stiles picked up the necklace suspiciously. It was matte black, flexible, just thick enough to feel stupid holding.

“I swear to God, if this has your name engraved on it—”

“I considered it,” Peter said, crossing his legs. “I thought ‘Property of Hale’ would be cute.”

Stiles stared at him. “You need therapy.”

“You need a bite ring.”

“You’re a menace.”

“And you’re vibrating like you’re about to commit a felony,” Peter said sweetly. “Just try it. For me.”

Stiles hesitated. Chewing things wasn’t new. He bit bottle caps, pen caps, straws, his own hoodie strings. But doing it intentionally?

That felt… exposing.

He bit down on the necklace.

Just once.

Peter let out a low, satisfied sound.

“Oh, I am absolutely keeping that image forever.”

Stiles pulled it out of his mouth, cheeks pink. “Okay, no. You do not get to sexualize my anger management.”

Peter grinned. “I do if it’s working.”

Stiles glared and bit down again.

The tension in his shoulders dropped by a degree. He wasn’t about to admit it out loud, but—fine. Maybe it helped. Maybe he’d just been too keyed up for too long and this gave his teeth something to do that wasn’t biting people emotionally.

Peter studied him, expression shifting from smug to something more interested. “See? Controlled. Composed. Still sexy. Now if you could redirect your homicidal tendencies to the lacrosse team instead of me, I’d consider it a win.”

“I will use this necklace to strangle you.”

Peter purred. “I would be honored.”

There was a long pause.

Stiles rolled the necklace between his fingers, biting the end idly, brow furrowed.

Peter watched him with far too much interest for someone who claimed he was just here to help.

Then Peter said, way too casually, “You know if you ever need someone to chew on who talks back...”

Stiles spit the necklace out. “Peter.”

“I’m just saying—”

“Say less.”

“But—”

Stiles stood. “I’m leaving this room before I launch you into traffic.”

Peter leaned back on the couch, perfectly relaxed, perfectly smug. “Take your chew toy. I’ll just be here. Thinking about you gnawing on things.”

Stiles growled and stormed to the kitchen, necklace still hanging from his mouth like a threat.

Peter smirked after him, and whispered to no one, “Yeah. He’s definitely keeping it.”

The Stilinski living room had known peace once. Long ago. In the ancient era before Peter Hale started showing up like some deranged puppy that could pick locks and flirt with furniture.

Now?

Not so much.

Stiles was chewing something.

Not gum. Not a pen cap. Not even ice.

Noah Stilinski paused mid-sip of his nightly coffee, brow furrowing as he stepped into the living room to see his only child gnawing—absolutely gnawing—on what looked like a matte black ring on a cord.

Peter Hale was on the couch. Which was already a red flag the size of a CVS receipt. He was lounging like a Bond villain, one arm tossed over the back cushions, watching Stiles with the smug patience of someone who’d orchestrated at least three coups and gotten away with it.

Noah cleared his throat loudly.

Both heads turned.

Stiles blinked. The chew ring dangled from his mouth.

Peter smirked, all teeth and poor life choices.

Noah squinted. “What… exactly… am I looking at here?”

Stiles pulled the necklace from his mouth with a slick pop, then immediately made a face like he’d just been caught licking a doorknob.

“Stress thing,” he said, voice casual, way too casual. “Coping mechanism. Self-soothing. Not drugs.”

Peter added, “Though if it was drugs, I’d still be impressed. He's very creative.”

Stiles glared at him. “You are not helping.”

Peter grinned. “I never am.”

Noah stared between them. “So let me get this straight. You’re chewing on silicone.”

Stiles opened his mouth.

Peter got there first.

“And I gave it to him.”

Noah blinked once. Twice. Set down his mug very gently, as if any sudden movement might trigger an aneurysm.

“You gave my son a chew toy.”

“It’s a therapeutic sensory aid,” Peter said smoothly.

“You gave my son a chew toy,” Noah repeated, slower this time. Like he was narrating a police report.

“To keep him from stabbing people with forks,” Peter clarified.

Stiles nodded helpfully.

Noah rubbed a hand over his face. “This is not the sort of conversation I envisioned having before my second cup of night coffee.”

Peter leaned forward, fingers steepled. “Would you prefer I installed a punching bag in the kitchen? Or perhaps one of those fancy rage rooms downtown.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Stiles, biting the necklace again just to avoid saying something worse, mumbled around it, “Look, can we not make this a thing? I chew it. I feel better. No property gets destroyed. Everyone wins.”

Peter smiled, all sharky delight. “Besides. It’s cute.”

Noah deadpanned. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

“Oh no, please do,” Peter purred. “He’s adorable when he’s all tense and broody and biting things.”

Noah’s soul visibly left his body for a moment.

Stiles groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Can we not make this weirder than it already is?”

Peter winked. “Too late.”

Noah turned and walked to the kitchen, muttering, “I’m getting coffee. I need plausible deniability and at least 80mg of caffeine before I process any of this.”

He paused at the doorway and said over his shoulder, “Stiles, if I find bite marks in the furniture, you're both going to therapy.”

Peter, utterly unbothered, called sweetly, “We’ll pick a couples therapist while you’re gone!”

Noah nearly tripped over his own feet.

Chapter Text

The smell hit him first.

Not blood, exactly. 

Not magic, either. It was something older, something sour and sweet, like decayed flowers on a grave.

“Class, settle down!”

The announcement didn’t help. Half the class was already buzzing from the rumor. Mr. Warner was gone. 

Like, gone-gone. No sub. No warning. Just… poof.

And now they were getting someone new.

The classroom door opened, and every hormonal teenager in the room sat up like meerkats.

Jennifer Blake walked in, smiling like she owned the place.

Soft curls, lips too red for a Monday morning, and an outfit that screamed Pinterest board titled, “innocent but hot.” 

She carried a canvas tote, a metal travel mug, and what Stiles swore was a talisman made of bone hanging off her bracelet.

“Good morning,” she said, her voice all honey and hallelujahs. “I’m Miss Blake. I’ll be taking over for the rest of the semester.”

A collective exhale occurred. 

Jackson perked up like he was going to hit on her by third period. Lydia tilted her head, analyzing. Even Isaac blinked, thrown off by the perfume-cloud of deception.

And then there was Scott. Sitting to Stiles’s left, leaning over with a hopeful whisper.

“She seems nice.”

He didn’t know why Scott was near him but Stiles didn’t answer.

Because he knew that voice. That face. That name.

Jennifer Blake.

The Darach.

Blood ritualist. Spine collector. Murderer of virgins, warriors, healers, and teachers.

And now she was standing in front of him with laminated handouts and a demonic glint in her eye.

He leaned back in his chair, teeth sinking slowly into his chew necklace.

Not yet. Not here. Not in front of witnesses.

But soon.

Jennifer passed out syllabi like she hadn’t dismembered an English teacher last week. The classroom reeked of her magic. A syrupy sweet, cloying, heavy scent.

And the Spark inside Stiles hated it.

The second she opened her mouth, something in his bones went tight. The classroom looked the same, but the air shifted—like it was breathing wrong. Like something was coiling beneath her words.

He leaned back in his chair, chewing the necklace harder.

She glanced at him once. Just once. Smile perfectly professional. But her eyes lingered. Just long enough.

“Mr. Stilinski, is it?” she said, pausing near his desk.

He blinked up at her, all wide-eyed innocence with a jaw sharp enough to cut glass. “That’s me.”

“You look like a reader,” she said. “Are you a fan of Shakespeare?”

Stiles tilted his head slowly. “Only the tragedies.”

Something flickered behind her smile. Just a flash. Like she’d been expecting something else.

She moved on, but he kept watching. Watching how her shadow didn’t quite match the angle of the light.

The door creaked open.

Stiles kicked it shut with his heel and slung his bag onto the floor, teeth already grinding into the chew necklace around his neck. 

After having to be in the same room as Jennifer and dodging Scott and his pack he was twitchy. His magic was still buzzing under his skin from pretending to be a normal high school student for eight straight hours.

He didn’t even flinch when he saw Peter sitting on his bed like he owned the place.

Again.

Peter was lounging on his navy comforter, legs crossed, sleeves rolled up, reading one of Stiles’s assassination logs like it was a beach novel.

“Your syntax’s improving,” Peter said without looking up. “Though you spelled ‘eviscerate’ wrong on page three.”

“You’re not supposed to be in my room,” Stiles muttered, kicking off his boots.

“You don’t lock your door. That’s an invitation.”

“I should start lining the frame with mountain ash.”

Peter smirked. “You’d miss me.”

Stiles ignored that. He peeled off his hoodie, tossed it at the laundry basket, missed, and paced straight to his desk. Started rifling through papers. Trying to distract himself from the rage still skittering under his skin.

Peter watched him for a beat, then sighed.

“Rough day?”

Stiles let out a sharp laugh. “Jennifer Blake is my new English teacher.”

That got Peter’s attention.

“Who?”

“You’d probably know her as Julia Baccari."

“The Druid?”

“Now the Darach.”

“You don’t like her.”

“No.”

Peter didn’t hesitate.

He leaned forward, voice low and dangerous. “Then she dies.”

No disbelief. No patronizing tone. Just agreement.

Stiles blinked. “Wait, seriously? No ‘Are you sure?’ No Scott McCall monologue?”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Stiles, you’ve accurately predicted murders, survived a siren, and almost killed a Argent with a fork. If you say this woman’s no good, I believe you. No questions.”

A pause.

Stiles tried not to melt.

“…Hot.”

Peter smirked and stood, brushing off imaginary lint. “But for now, you’re wound too tight. Let’s kill something smaller to take the edge off.”

Stiles looked up, brow raised. “Like what? A hunter?”

“No, that demonic raccoon you flagged last week. The one in the junkyard off Route 9. Owner’s offering a thousand for clean removal.”

Stiles blinked again. Then slowly grinned.

“You’re taking me raccoon hunting.”

Peter’s smirk could’ve stripped paint. “Only the best for my favorite Person.”

The junkyard reeked of rust and roadkill and something darker. Peter had to claw his way through a sentient stack of brake pads to get to the den.

The raccoon burst out like a tiny hell-beast.

Its eyes were glowing red. Its teeth? Way too long for raccoon biology. It hissed in Latin.

Stiles, perched on top of a rusted-out El Camino, cackled.

Peter snarled, arms up. “You didn’t say it could fly!”

“I didn’t know it could fly!”

The raccoon launched itself. Straight onto Peter’s chest.

Peter staggered back, trying to pry it off without actually maiming it. “Get—it—off—me!”

“It likes you!”

“It wants my soul!”

“It has good taste!”

Peter finally managed to grab it by the scruff and yank it off, holding the snarling beast at arm’s length.

Stiles doubled over laughing, nearly falling off the car.

“You look like a Disney princess from hell.”

Peter glared at him, fur stuck to his shirt, glowing raccoon still hissing epithets.

“I’m never doing you a favor again.”

“You say that every time.”

They killed it five minutes later with a salted sigil trap. 

Peter dropped it in the grave they had dug in the preserve with unnecessary force.

“Payment?” he asked.

Stiles checked his phone. “Already wired. Thousand bucks, plus a meme of the raccoon riding your head like a hat.”

Peter sighed. “I hate this town.”

Stiles beamed, finally relaxed. “I love it.”

After school, Scott had tried to organize a hangout. Because he thought the Pack was “drifting apart” and Stiles was “being weird.”

Stiles ignored them.

They met up at the Preserve.

And found Stiles and Peter.

Stiles was in black jeans, boots, and an oversized hoodie with some very concerning stains on the hem.

He was chewing his necklace like he wanted it to be someone’s throat.

Scott smiled. “Hey! Glad you came, man.”

“I didn’t.” He looked around. “I was already here. I was burying something.”

Scott paused. “…What?”

“Homework,” Stiles said flatly. “Obviously.”

Peter was leaning on a tree, watching this unfold like it was art. His eyes glittered with amusement as Stiles plowed through the Pack’s attempts at small talk.

Lydia grimaced with disgust “You’re chewing that thing like a toddler. Is it a comfort item?”

Stiles gave her a blank stare. “No, it’s a restraint device. I bite it so I don’t kill people.”

Isaac stepped back.

Scott frowned. “You’ve been… different.”

Stiles smiled like a wolf. “I’ve been better.”

Peter, quietly, to himself whispered, “God, you’re magnificent.”

Later, Stiles walked into the house still chewing his necklace like it owed him rent. Noah was at the table, flipping through case files and sipping stale coffee like it was wine.

“Stiles,” Noah said without looking up. “Please tell me that red stuff on your hoodie is paint.”

“…Tomato sauce?”

“Okay, I’m going to pretend I believe that.”

Stiles dropped into the chair across from him and started swiping through his phone. Noah raised an eyebrow.

“You’re not researching murder again, are you?”

“I’m not researching,” Stiles said without looking up. “I already know how.”

Noah went sighed.

“Stiles.”

“Relax. I’m not gonna kill anyone in town.” Beat. “Except maybe Miss Blake.”

Noah sighed deeply. “This a teacher thing? Is she being inappropriate?”

“She’s a predator.”

“You said that about your geometry teacher.”

“He was a predator.”

“I know, and I apologized for not believing you.”

Stiles smiled sweetly. “So believe me this time.”

Noah leaned back, rubbed his face. “If I let Peter talk to her, will that make you feel better?”

Stiles blinked. “If you let Peter eat her, that would be a start.”

Noah groaned. “I miss when your problems were just bad grades and online hacking.”

“I was still committing felonies back then,” Stiles said, sipping his coffee. “You just didn’t know.”

The bathroom was still foggy, steam curling along the mirror in slow, sleepy spirals. Stiles stepped out of the shower, towel slung low on his hips, hair dripping down into his eyes.

He felt better.

Lighter.

The demon raccoon was dead. Jennifer Blake was flagged for future elimination. And Isaac had looked genuinely afraid of him again. All in all—a good day.

He padded into his room, rubbing a towel through his hair—then froze.

Peter Hale was in his bed. Again.

This time he wasn’t even pretending to be subtle. He had a book in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other, and his shoes were off.

“You know,” Stiles said, not looking at him, “most people knock.”

Peter didn’t even glance up. “You weren’t going to answer.”

“That’s because it’s my house.”

“And yet,” Peter said, sipping his coffee, “here I am.”

Stiles rolled his eyes and turned toward his dresser. He didn’t bother covering up more than necessary. If Peter was going to haunt his bedroom like a bored, beautiful ghost, then he could deal with a towel and a view.

He grabbed boxers and a hoodie, grumbling under his breath. “Next time I’m putting a wolfsbane on the doorknob.”

“Looking forward to it,” Peter murmured.

There was a pause. Peaceful. Quiet.

Then the bathroom door opened again.

Stiles blinked. “I just got out—what are you—”

Peter stepped inside, already peeling off his shirt. “You’re not the only one with blood in your hair.”

Stiles watched, mouth open, as Peter just climbed in. Naked. Like it was his shower. Like this was normal.

“I—did you just—”

The water turned on.

Peter’s voice echoed through the steam. “I’m using your body wash.”

“You what—”

“I like the way it smells.”

Stiles stood frozen in the doorway for a full five seconds. Then, very slowly, went back to his room and sat on the bed.

“This is my life now,” he said to no one.

Fifteen minutes later, Peter walked back out—hair damp, dressed in one of Stiles’s spare black hoodies like he didn’t have expensive predator couture hidden in the back of his closet somewhere.

Stiles, now curled under the blankets, eyed him warily. “You smell like me.”

Peter crawled in beside him without asking. Again.

“I smell like victory.”

“You smell like citrus and boundary violations.”

Peter tucked an arm around his waist and pulled him close.

Stiles let it happen.

They lay there in silence for a beat. Peter’s breath warm against the back of his neck. Their limbs overlapping like this had happened before. Like this would happen again.

“…You’re wet,” Stiles muttered.

Peter hummed. “You’re warm.”

“You’re a menace.”

“You love it.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. But he didn’t move away.

After a moment, he mumbled, “Don’t use up all the body wash next time.”

Peter’s lips brushed the shell of his ear.

“No promises.”

Chapter Text

The sun pressed through the blinds, lazy and too bright for anyone’s good.

Stiles squinted, groaning, and found Peter sprawled across half his bed like he had some sort of long-term lease.

“Seriously?” Stiles muttered, voice still rough from sleep. “Do you even have a house, or is this just—what? Rent-free squatter chic?”

Peter didn’t bother opening his eyes. “Why leave when this bed is already perfect?” He stretched like a cat that knew it owned the world.

Stiles shoved him with a knee. “Perfect my ass. You hog blankets, pillows, and apparently oxygen.”

“Your cute when cranky,” Peter murmured, half-lidded eyes tracking him as he swung his legs to the floor.

Stiles groaned, rolling out of bed, and tugged on a red skin-tight shirt and black jeans. He knew Peter was watching, smirk tucked firmly on that face like he’d just won some invisible contest. Stiles refused to give him the satisfaction.

By the time he got to the bathroom, Peter had already claimed the sink. Comb running through his annoyingly perfect hair, smirk firmly in place.

“Do you ever leave?” Stiles asked, glaring through toothpaste foam.

Peter glanced up, grin smug. “You’d miss me.”

“Like a rash,” Stiles spat, rinsing quickly.

Breakfast smelled like eggs and coffee when Stiles padded downstairs. Peter moved around the kitchen with that same infuriating ease, plating food like he had done it a hundred mornings before—none of which were Stiles’s mornings.

“Wow,” Stiles said, stabbing a fork into his eggs. “Two steps from being a 1950s housewife. Should I get you a frilly apron too?”

Peter leaned forward, brushing a stray curl from Stiles’s face. “Careful, darling. Keep talking and I might start enjoying this domestic nightmare.”

“Gross,” Stiles muttered, cheeks burning. He wasn’t entirely sure if it was the eggs, Peter, or the way Peter’s blue eyes pinned him like prey.

Footsteps creaked above.

“Morning,” Noah grumbled, reaching for the coffeepot. His eyes flicked between the two of them, unblinking.

Peter slid a plate toward him. “We’ll behave.”

“No,” Stiles said immediately, stabbing a piece of egg like it owed him rent. “We’re not behaving. I am.”

Peter smirked over the rim of his own plate. “Planning minor chaos. Totally harmless.”

Noah pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering under his breath as he retreated with his coffee. “I’m going to need twelve coffees to survive this week.”

Stiles watched him go, chewing the edge of his fork. “He’s gonna die of stress one day.”

“Then he’ll have stories to tell at the reunion,” Peter said, sliding closer. “Also, he’ll get to see you look spectacular in action.”

Stiles rolled his eyes, but there was a twitch at the corner of his mouth he couldn’t fully hide. 

Peter noticed. 

He always noticed.

During class Stiles purposely let some of his magic leak.

Jennifer snapped her head up, her eyes narrowing on him. Static crawls over the desks as the air tightens. 

Stiles keeps his pen tapping, head bent, mouth set in a bored line. 

Jennifer’s chalk freezes mid-arc, then resumes, letters too perfect. Her gaze cuts back, hungry and curious. 

He lets another thread slip, just enough to entice her. A smile blooms that doesn’t reach her eyes. Her magic rides back along the leak. It feels like wet earth, old blood, the taste of something bound. 

Stiles smirks. ‘Got you.’

The leak thins to a string, then coils, and he winds it through the margin of his notebook like string through a buttonhole.

Chalk ticks, kids laugh at something not funny, and he sketches a lazy figure eight that isn’t lazy at all. 

Her power noses along it, eager, and he lets it find the bait—ink, oil, a smear of salt from the fries he ate at lunch. 

It hooks, stutters, and he bites the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning. 

As the bell rings he lifts his gaze just enough to catch her looking and flips the notebook close.

She followed.

Her footsteps matched his through the hallway, sharp in the tide of bodies. 

She thought she was subtle. 

She wasn’t. 

He could feel her magic prickling like a moth’s wings behind him, testing, searching.

He didn’t hurry. Didn’t look back. Just let the thread spool out of him in careful, invisible coils, leading her along.

Down the main corridor. Past the cafeteria. Around the west stairwell. Each turn tugged her deeper, her focus snagged on him so tight she didn’t notice the crowd thinning.

When the lockers gave way to fresh air, she didn’t notice.

The thread pulled. Her steps followed.

No students jostled past. No teachers barked reminders. The hallway had thinned, then emptied, then disappeared.

Jennifer blinked.

She was standing at the edge of the woods.

He pretended not to notice.

Hands in his pockets. Chew ring between his teeth. Pace unhurried, like he’d wandered out here to text in peace and maybe pee behind a tree.

Behind him, Jennifer’s heels clicked once on pavement, then fell silent on dirt. Her breath stayed even. Her magic didn’t.

It brushed his shoulders like a hand that thought it was invisible.

He let the thread tug her right where he wanted her.

Past the treeline. Over the brittle carpet of leaves. Between trunks slick with shadow.

“Lost?” he asked the air, like he was just talking to himself. He didn’t turn.

A smile shaped itself in her silence. He could feel it without seeing it.

“I don’t get lost,” she said, voice low, lacquered sweet. Too close now. “I arrive.”

“Cute motto,” he said, biting down on the ring. “Put it on a tote.”

She stepped nearer, confidence wrapped around her like perfume. “You radiate, Mr. Stilinski. Leaking power in class? Bold. Or sloppy.”

“Or bored,” he said lightly. “Some of us have to make public school interesting.”

Her magic nosed along his spine again, tasting. Counting. Eager. She was certain. She’d decided. Easy kill. Sweet prize. Take the Spark, eat the boy, wear his shine.

He let her think it.

The path narrowed, then opened into a small clearing.

He stopped.

In the center sat a stump.

Gray. Split. Weather-pocked. The kind of dead wood that made good seats and bad stories.

Stiles rolled his shoulders and finally glanced back, all lazy boredom and teenage apathy. “Did you want extra help, Miss Blake?” He gestured to the stump like a host offering a barstool. “Go on, it’ll help you real good.”

Her gaze flicked past him, already feeding. Her power slid forward, sugar-thick and hungry, headed straight for the heart of the clearing, and skated. Slipped. Found nothing.

No thrum. No pull. No door under the dirt.

Just dead wood.

Her smile didn’t falter. But the corner of it tightened. “Adorable,” she said, the word crisp as a slap. “A stump.”

"Oh, it's a stump alright," Peter said, stepping in front of her, his eyes glowing an amused, predatory blue. "Just not the kind you're thinking of."

Stiles wave his hand, magic rippling and it was like the stump become a beacon, and grinned. It was wide and slightly unhinged in a way that was pure Lysander. "Surprise! You're the sacrifice!"

Julia’s eyes widened, her face contorting from confusion to pure, unadulterated terror. "You... you tricked me! The Nemeton! You fools, you don't know what you're doing!"

"Oh, we know exactly what we're doing," Peter growled, lunging with a speed that left her no time to react. His hands closed around her wrists, twisting them behind her back as he shoved her towards the Nemeton’s exposed roots.

She landed hard, her back hit the roots and the wood answered in a low hungry thrum that crawled up her spine.

Peter pinned her there, wrists wrenched high, while Stiles flicked his fingers, threads of Spark knotting around her wrists until they snapped tight. “Wow. Creepy serial killer commentary and root bondage? Really pulling out the classics tonight.”

Peter’s eyes flicked to him, blue burning bright. “You lured her out here like it was prom night. Don’t act innocent.”

“Please,” Stiles scoffed, leaning casually against the Nemeton like they weren’t literally about to feed someone to it. “If this were a date, I’d at least expect flowers. You find my favorite ones yet, Peter, or are you still confusing carnations with commitment issues?”

Peter’s lips curved into that dangerous, infuriating smile. “When I find it I won’t be letting you go.”

Stiles rolled his eyes, but his smirk was pure indulgence. “God, that’s the worst line you’ve ever used. Congratulations.”

“And yet,” Peter purred, “you’re still here.”

Julia, eyes blazing with furious defiance, spit, "You'll regret this! The Alpha pack will destroy you, and you won’t win without me!"

The clearing’s sigils—ash, copper wire, a smear of “totally tomato sauce” at the cardinal points—lit in a slow, pretty bloom.

"Oh, but we can," Stiles said his smile still fixed on his face. 

Peter looked at him, the yearning look in his eyes prominent, and purred out, “You look beautiful darling.”

Julia watched them, utterly horrified, her eyes darting between Peter's chilling smirk and Stiles's manic enthusiasm. "You're insane! Both of you!"

"That's half our charm, Julia," Peter drawled boredly, his hand finding Stiles's and squeezed it softly. "Now, the Nemeton demands a full... offering. And since your already here, won’t you be a good one?"

The Darach screamed, a raw, piercing sound that dissolved into a choked gurgle as the roots went through her. There was a sickening thump-thump-thump, a spray of crimson mist, and the sound of something wet and chunky hitting the ground.

Peter merely observed. "Well, it is rather visually striking on the gray. Makes a statement."

Julia was still alive, writhing and screaming incoherently, but losing strength fast. Her eyes were wide with a terror that surpassed even the pain.

The Nemeton pulsed, hungry and ancient, roots writhing like serpents as they sank deeper into her flesh.

The sigils along the ground burned gold and bloody, casting long flickers across her face.

Jennifer—or what was left of her, mask slipping to reveal the wreckage beneath—all ritual scars and panic, mouth open in a scream cut off by splinters at her ribs.

She thrashed, body arching, nails scraping at the tangled wood. 

Stiles watched, arms folded, his expression indecently pleased. 

His Spark trembled under his skin, giddy on the violence and the raw, sick heat of her agony. It was intoxicating—the power, the noise.

Peter looked at him. 

Looked at his pleased face and couldn’t help himself. He reached up and brushed his hand along Stiles’s face. 

Stiles didn’t flinch. 

If anything, he leaned into the caress—a slow, deliberate tilt of his head, eyes burning with fever-bright satisfaction. 

The Spark inside him sang in time with the Nemeton.

Jennifer’s agony was background noise. Irrelevant. All that mattered was the thrum of magic, the reek of blood, the way Peter’s thumb smeared gore along his cheekbone.

As her screaming calmed down and her body disappeared the Nemeton looked better. 

The roots had stopped writhing.

Silence folded in, heavy, satisfied, and old.

The Nemeton’s bark, once gray and splinter-dry, took on a deeper sheen, like oil slicked through wood grain. Cracks knit. The rings under the cut surface darkened and gleamed, pulsing once, twice, like a slow heartbeat restarting after a winter.

Then the ground answered.

It began at the base of the stump, thin, red threads nosing up through loam, shy at first.

They split. Curled. Unfurled.

Spider lilies bloomed in a sudden, gorgeous shock, scarlet stars exploding against the nondead wood. 

More surged up through leaf litter, a ring of them encircling the Nemeton in a halo of red that looked almost obscene on the dark earth. 

Then the scent hit, a gentle high sweetness, bright enough to cut through the smell of blood and old magic.

Stiles went still.

His throat worked once. He didn’t move closer. Didn’t breathe for a second. His fingers flexed at his sides like he was holding himself back from reaching out.

Peter watched his face, not the flowers.

“Oh,” Peter said softly, the word halfway between discovery and confession. “Spider lilies.”

Stiles dragged his eyes off the bloom closest to his boot. “Don’t get sentimental. It’s feeding me back, not flirting with you.”

Peter stepped forward. He crouched by the base where the first stems had broken the soil, reached into the circle with careful, long fingers.

Stiles’s voice came out low. “Break them and I hex your teeth loose.”

Peter didn’t break them. 

He touched the stem delicately, then slid two fingers down to the base and pinched clean. 

One perfect bloom came away. 

He held it up to the light, smiled in a way that made his eyes look younger and sharper at the same time.

“You never told me,” he said, already reaching for another, “what your favorite was.”

“You never asked,” Stiles shot back, but his voice lacked heat. He chewed the inside of his cheek, chin tipping down like the flowers embarrassed him.

Peter took another, and another, working an easy rhythm. “I did ask. Repeatedly. You pretended to forget. Then threatened me with herbicide.”

“Only because you kept guessing peonies like I was a Regency widow.” Stiles shifted closer despite himself, eyes tracking Peter’s hands. “And carnations are for funerals.”

“You like funerals,” Peter murmured, tying stems together with a strip of copper wire from his pocket like he’d planned this all along.

“I like the outcomes of my work,” Stiles corrected. A petal brushed his knuckle. He held it gently.

Peter glanced up, mouth curving. “Outcomes like... this?” He tilted his head toward the Nemeton, which now hummed like a cat finally fed. “And bribes.” 

He lifted the growing bouquet. “You did say we weren’t dating because I didn’t have flowers in my hand.”

“I also said you didn’t know my favorite,” Stiles said, but it came out softer.

Peter stood, the bouquet in his palm. He slid one last stem free, bit the tip of the wire to tighten the wrap, and stepped into Stiles’s space, close enough that the fragrance sat between them like a secret.

“Correction,” Peter said, offering them with a small, almost formal bow. “I know now.”

Stiles stared at the lilies, then at Peter’s face. He didn’t take them.

“Say it.”

Peter’s eyes warmed. “Spider lilies. Lycoris radiata. The color of trouble.” His voice dropped even lower. “Yours.”

Stiles’s mouth twitched. “You Googled that.”

“I learned it the slow way,” Peter said, not looking away. “Watching the Nemeton listen to you.”

A beat. The Nemeton pulsed again, faint and smug.

Stiles took the bouquet.

Not snatched. Not reluctant. He slid it from Peter’s fingers like accepting a blade he planned to keep.

The red looked obscene in his hands. Beautiful. Wrong in a way that felt right.

“So,” Peter asked, very mild, very pleased, “are we dating?”

Stiles smelled the nearest bloom to hide the way his smile tried to break out. “You have flowers in your hand?”

“I did.”

“Then you’re halfway there.”

Peter huffed a laugh, stepped closer, and with his free hand, because of course Stiles had stolen the flowers, hooked a finger under the chew ring at Stiles’s throat. He lifted it gently, tugging Stiles an inch nearer, eyes bright with triumph and something dangerously close to awe.

“Better?”

Stiles tilted his chin, red petals brushing his jaw. “Ask me again when you learn the bouquet-to-coffee ratio for forgiveness.”

Peter’s mouth curved. “Two lilies per crisis. One coffee per confession. And if I bring both…”

“Then I stop pretending I don’t like when you use my body wash,” Stiles said, finally letting the smile happen, small and sharp. “And maybe I let you keep using my bed.”

Peter’s lashes dropped. “Conditional domesticity. Be still my un-beating heart.”

Stiles bumped the bouquet into his chest. “Say thank you.”

Peter did. Quiet, real. “Thank you.”

“Not to me,” Stiles said, glancing past him to the Nemeton, which gleamed. “To her.”

Peter turned, inclined his head to the stump like an old-world courtier paying respect to a queen covered in blood. “My compliments,” he said. “Excellent taste.”

The Nemeton thrummed once more, and three more lilies opened in a chain, like laughter.

Stiles’s fingers tightened around the stems. He looked at Peter from under his lashes, satisfied and a little wicked. “Fine. We’re dating.”

Peter’s smile went feral and unbearably fond. “I’ll bring a vase.”

“You’ll bring two,” Stiles said, stepping past him, trailing red. “One for the kitchen. One for my room.”

Peter fell into step, hand brushing the small of his back. “And coffee.”

“And coffee,” Stiles agreed. He didn’t look back, but his voice went warm. “Sweet. Two sugars. No judgment.”

Peter’s laugh slid along his spine, pleased and easy. “I do know you.”

Stiles flicked a look at the lilies, then at Peter. “Yeah,” he said, quiet enough the trees had to lean in to hear it. “You do now.”