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Summary
"Take me away," Stiles breathes when Peter opens his door.
He's soaked through, heavy rain drumming against the stiff line of his shoulders, mud cached up his pants, his arms, teeth-clacking, bone-clinking shivers wracking harshly through him. He feels cracked open, desperate, hollow, and there's a tight, blistering ache in the back of his throat begging him to cry, to spill out all his secrets, his terror, his misery.
"Alpha," he murmurs, crumbling, nearly whisked away by the harsh winds, and Peter's eyes go molten, from ice to lava in a split second, the liquid magma in those irises so entrancing that Stiles, roughly, helplessly, raggedly, repeats what can only be a benediction, "Alpha."
Peter growls, rough and low, and drags him inside, shutting the door behind him a little gentler than he'd expect, but then, Peter is always doing things gentler than he'd expect.
He fucking drowned him gentler than he would've expected, and isn't that just... his life in a nutshell.
[Or: Peter is protective and violent, Stiles is fucked up but surviving, and they elope to canada to see the northern lights.]