Work Text:
1 - Sheriff Stilinski
"Honestly, kiddo, I would be lying if I told you I hadn't been waiting for something like this to happen eventually."
Stiles tears his gaze away from the utterly fascinating sight of his brand new claws popping in and out of the tips of his fingers to shoot his dad a betrayed look. "That's just rude, you know."
His complaint comes out in a wobbly lisp, which makes dad snort, and Stiles pout up at him around his mouthful of unfamiliarly big, sharp teeth. Dad’s face softens, though there’s still a bunch of amused crinkles around his eyes as he curls an arm around Stiles, tugging him closer against his side.
Tucking his face into dad’s shoulder, Stiles mumbles, somewhat sulkily, “Who decided to call it a lisp, anyway? Intentionally making people screw up the word they need to use in order to describe what’s going on with them is extremely sadistic.”
“Mhm,” dad hums, mildly indulgent, but Stiles very graciously decides not to take offence, on account of the fingers running slowly through his hair. It feels good, all right? “What I, personally, am much more curious about, is how all of this happened in the first place.”
It takes Stiles a moment to realize the sudden tickle in the back of his throat is a spike of tangled emotions emanating from the miserable ball of fur wedged under their coffee table. Literally tasting someone’s feelings, even if he can’t really pinpoint individual ones yet, will definitely take some time getting used to.
Sitting forward, Stiles peers down at Peter, who’s doing a terrible job of affecting a disinterested, unaffected air. And he doesn’t even need his new, super cool wolfy senses to tell him Peter’s acting strange; the lingering full shift plus the folded back ears would’ve been enough of a clue for human Stiles, too.
Peter bares his teeth when Stiles reaches out to smoosh his fluffy face between his hands. Their newly formed bond pulses. With what, Stiles can’t quite say, but it isn’t anything good. Which, Stiles figures, is fair enough, given the rollercoaster of a day they’ve both had.
“Rogue Alpha,” Stiles blurts, belatedly, in answer to his dad’s question. Dad’s eyebrows rise. One of Peter’s ears twitches upright. “Yeah, uh, almost feral? Just, you know, wrong place at the wrong time, all that jazz.”
Dad regards him warily. “Didn’t go so well the last few times we had random Alphas running around the woods unchecked,” he points out, annoyingly reasonable as usual. Then, ducking his head to smile shrewdly at Peter, he adds, “No offense.”
Peter makes a grumbling noise, but it’s halfhearted at best, and he doesn’t even try to shake Stiles off. So Stiles only squeezes his face a little harder, and smooths his thumbs over Peter’s cheeks. Glancing up at his dad, he assures him, “Don’t worry, pops, we took care of it.”
Dad’s brows quirk up even further. “Uh-huh. I’m sure you did.”
“This unwarranted and, frankly, disrespectful skepticism is incredibly hurtful, you know.”
Peter nips at Stiles’ fingers. Stiles chooses to interpret that as silent support.
2 - Derek Hale
Stiles is allowed a one day reprieve before Derek howls him awake in the middle of the night.
The summons doesn’t come as a surprise, since Derek is one of the two Alpha werewolves currently residing in the territory, but Stiles would have appreciated a text or a call at a more reasonable hour. There are few things he wants to do less than drive all the way up to the preserve at three in the morning while it’s pouring outside.
Well.
The human part of Stiles’ brain is more than happy to send Derek the middle finger emoji, put on his noise-cancelling headphones, and curl back up under his warm, dry blankets. The wolf in Stiles has him scramble out of bed before he’s fully realized what’s going on, excited and ready to go while Stiles is still rubbing sleep out of his eyes.
“Damn it,” Stiles yawns, kicking off his sweats.
He does take the time to down a cup of coffee, though, and to write his dad a note in case he isn’t back by the time he returns from the station. He wanders out into the backyard in the nude, suddenly glad that it’s still dark out, closes his eyes, and lets the shift take over.
Being on four legs instead of two should mean double the chance of stumbling over his own feet, but luckily, Stiles as a wolf seems to be perfectly capable of such daunting tasks like walking. In fact, it is kind of freeing, Stiles notices, to sit back a little, and let the animal part of himself take over. He’s still present, but in a more passive, sedated way, and he barely has to think at all, brand new instincts guiding him along perfectly.
Ha.
Take that, ADHD.
He can smell Derek long before he spots him sitting daintily—good thing being a werewolf doesn’t come with mind reading, because Derek would definitely bite his head off for that one, no matter how true it is—on a mossy tree stump. He gets up slowly as Stiles approaches, his glowing red eyes moving all over Stiles, taking him in.
Stiles sneezes when Derek rubs their muzzles together. He’s pretty sure the low, rumbling sound Derek makes in response would be a laugh, if Derek wasn’t shifted.
And then Derek yips, licks at Stiles’ nose, and darts away into the trees.
Oh.
Oh!
It is on. So on!
It’s hard to tell while shifted, but they must run around the woods for hours, chasing each other through leaves and mud, splashing around in a stream they find, tussling and wrestling and pinning each other playfully.
Or, well. Derek pins Stiles, and chuffs at him in obvious amusement when Stiles fails to shake him off.
The sun’s starting to come up when, by unspoken agreement, they head towards the new Hale house. Somehow, Stiles isn’t surprised to find Peter sitting on the porch steps, clearly waiting for them.
His eyes flash at Derek, who flashes his own back before he moves closer. Peter strokes a hand down Derek’s back, and Derek leans into it for a moment before he vanishes into the house.
A few years apart while Stiles was in college had done wonders for their relationship. Then Peter had turned up again one day out of the blue, all Alpha once more, and the few remaining members of the pack had braced for another round of the famous Hale vs Hale smackdown. Only for Derek to take a gracious step aside to make room for his uncle at the head of the pack, and for Peter to slot into his new role with ease, and none of his usual tricks or manipulations.
Stiles doesn’t get it, but they work better together than either of them ever managed by themselves, so. Why look a gift horse in the mouth?
“Did you bring the whole forest back with you?” Peter asks, nose wrinkling as he takes in Stiles matted fur.
Obviously, that leaves Stiles with no other choice than to go and sprawl all over Peter, despite the man’s protests. He tips his head back to lick at Peter’s chin, attempting the wolf equivalent of a grin when Peter sighs, relenting. He starts scratching behind Stiles’ ears, and Stiles lets his eyes fall shut, basking in the attention.
He only glances back up once Derek returns, in human form again, still barefoot but, thankfully, in at least a pair of jeans now. He throws a pair of sweatpants at Stiles’ head. “Get dressed.”
Which is rich, Stiles thinks, coming from the guy who seems to be pathologically allergic to clothes.
Still, without fur to protect him, Stiles begins shivering almost immediately, and is quick to pull on the sweats. They fit suspiciously well, and a quick sniff confirms they’re not Derek’s, but in fact Peter’s. Peter has definitely noticed as well, if the eyes Stiles can feel boring into his back are anything to go by.
“What happened?” Derek demands, stepping up close to Stiles. He runs his hands down Stiles arms as he looks Stiles up and down critically.
“Uh,” Stiles licks his lips, then shrugs, smiling sheepishly, “an accident?”
Derek gaze moves away, over Stiles shoulder, towards where Peter’s still sitting, while one of his hands drifts higher to cup the back of Stiles neck. Stiles chases the contect, humming appreciatively, until Peter’s sudden growl startles him into nearly falling backwards off the porch.
“What—”
There’s the tiniest, teasing smirk making Derek’s lips twitch, eyes still on his uncle. After a long, drawn-out moment, he finally looks back at Stiles, expression softening. “Go get some sleep.”
Stiles smiles back. “Thanks, Derek. For tonight, too.”
The words have barely left his mouth before he’s being herded into the house, Peter’s chest against his back, and his hands insistent on Stiles’ hips. Derek’s chuckle is quiet, but Stiles’ hearing has improved enough to pick it up, even from the couch, buried under a mountain of blankets.
And Peter.
3 - Scott McCall
Every bond is different, Stiles has discovered over the last couple of weeks.
The one he shares with his dad feels settled and comfortable, constantly pulsing with warmth and love. His connection to Derek is new and exciting, and Stiles can’t help but think of it almost as a cheat code, or a guide to guessing Derek’s moods in a more predictable way than watching what his eyebrows are doing.
Lydia is fond exasperation, Malia is affectionate sass, and the newer betas are all variations of friendship, buzzing around in Stiles’ already overactive mind and fitting in like they’ve always been there.
And Peter, well. Peter is impossible to pin down, as usual. Sometimes, he feels similar to Derek, as the other head of the pack, but there’s also something else. Something more.
Potential.
For what, Stiles doesn’t have a clue, and whatever it is, Peter is keeping a tight lid on it, somehow. Stiles itches to find out, to dive deeper into their bond, but he’s very aware that making himself vulnerable around Peter is always a risk.
Peter might not be a homicidal maniac anymore—for the most part—but there’s absolutely zero doubt in Stiles’ mind that Peter would tease the everlasting shit out of him if he ever found out about Stiles’ silly little crush on him.
So, yeah. Best not to go and poke that particular bear.
Despite that factor of the unknown surrounding Peter, the bond Stiles is struggling with the most is his and Scott’s. It’s a thin, frayed little mockery of a true pack bond, and it hurts. Not the bond itself, no, but the knowledge that they’ve drifted apart so far, that they’ve hurt each other so often, there’s barely anything left that still connects them.
It’s cold comfort that, according to Derek, Scott’s bonds to the rest of the pack aren’t strong, either. Scott was his brother, in everything but blood, for more than a decade, but now, Stiles only warrants a visit if he gets turned into a creature of the night?
“I still don’t get it,” Scott says, frowning at Stiles from across the table. “You just. Turned yourself?”
And, maybe, Stiles would feel worse about lying to his, supposedly, oldest friend if that friend hadn’t stormed into his apartment fifteen minutes earlier already in an angry fit, throwing around accusations before even hearing Stiles out, but.
Here they are.
Between one beat of his heart and the next, “Yeah.”
Scott’s frown deepens into a suspicious scowl. “But how?”
Longer lies are trickier, unless Stiles tells them word by word, matching them to his heartbeat, which is a dead giveaway in and of itself. He’s been practicing, though, and deliberately slows his breathing, his thoughts, his pulse. Let’s his wolf slip a little more to the front, and brings the world into a simpler focus.
“Well, you know,” Stiles says casually, with a little shrug, “I found the spell in a book in the Hale vault. It sounded kind of interesting, so I tried it, boom. Here we are.”
Scott’s eyes flicker from Stiles’ face down to his chest, back up, back down, and back up again several times. Eventually, he asks, incredulous, “Why, though? Why would you—why would you do this to yourself?”
Stiles sighs, and shakes his head.
Scott doesn’t stay long, after that.
He leaves for Seattle again the next morning.
Without saying goodbye.
4 - Lydia Martin
“— downright heroic, I might add. There was fire, and a sword, and—”
The call disconnects with a very final sounding click.
Turns out, Lydia doesn’t even need to be on the same continent for Stiles to know she’s rolling her eyes at him.
The text he receives a minute later is only one word: Dumbass.
Stiles sends back a kissy face.
5 - Christopher Argent
“Oops, hey, sorry about that,” Stiles apologizes, bouncing off a solid chest. At least he manages to snatch up the carton of eggs the other man drops before it hits the ground. Looking up, a sheepish smile on his face, he goes on, “Here you go, no harm—oh. Uhm. Hi there, Mr Argent.”
“Stiles.” Mr Argent carefully puts the eggs into his cart, head tilted inquisitively. “Those are some good reflexes you’ve got there.”
“I mean, I did play lacrosse all through high school,” Stiles points out, then nearly snorts at the look of pure and utter disbelief that flashes across Mr Argent’s face. “Hey, it’s true!”
As he says it, though, he does let his fangs drop, just for a fraction of a second, knowing the former hunter will undoubtedly catch the movement. Which is confirmed when Mr Argent’s eyes widen just slightly, one brow quirking in silent question.
“It’s been a while, three months or so?” Stiles explains, shifting his basket to hang off his arm more comfortably. “I think you were in France? Peter mentioned something about it.”
Mr Argent’s eyes turn sharply focused at that. “And how, if you don’t mind me asking, did you come about your new—status?”
“Oh, you know me. Played with some Alpha claws I found in a chest of trinkets, was clumsy about it, stabbed my palm—”
“I know that’s impossible,” Mr Argent cuts in drily.
Stiles offers him an innocent smile. “Is it?”
Mr Argent is the first to glance away, after a few moments, with a resigned sigh. He digs out his wallet, pulls out a card, and holds it out to Stiles. “My current number. Or tell Peter to get in touch with me, if there’s ever something you think I might be able to help you with.”
It’s a genuine offer, Stiles can tell. He takes the card. “Thanks, Mr Argent.”
“And call me Chris,” Mr Argent—Chris says, mouth twisting wryly as he claps Stiles on the shoulder. “Stop making me feel even older than I am.”
“Sure thing, Chris,” Stiles chuckles, tucking the card into his back pocket. “Thanks, again.”
He finishes shopping quickly after that, checking the group chat again to make sure he’s got everything the kids want for pack night. He throws the bags in the back of his jeep, then circles around to the driver’s side to hop inside.
“You could’ve helped, you know,” he tells Peter, who’s sitting in the passenger seat with his phone out, as he fumbles for his keys. His fingers brush the card. “Oh, hey, guess who I—”
“Christopher,” Peter says, voice cold.
“Uh,” Stiles says, taken aback. “Yeah?”
Peter says nothing else. His eyes flash angrily.
“Okay, look, I have no idea why you’re being an asshole about this? I thought you and Chris were friends?
Peter’s head snaps around, mouth twisted like he’s just bitten into something sour. “Chris?”
Stiles rolls his eyes. “Oh, come on! I’m twenty-three, I can’t call the guy by his first name?”
For a moment, it looks like Peter’s going to say something else, but then he turns away with a huff to stare out of the window. “Just drive, Stiles. We’re late.”
“Whatever,” Stiles mutters, admittedly a little hurt, and starts the car.
+1 - The Pack
Peter refuses to engage in any sort of conversation the whole drive back to the Hale house, and jumps out of the jeep the instant Stiles puts it in park. Annoyed, Stiles goes and grabs the bags from the trunk, then follows him inside.
The only one in the kitchen is Derek, his brows furrowed in concern. At least he’s nice enough to take one of the bags from Stiles, unlike his uncle. He does sniff the air around Stiles, though, which is kind of rude, honestly.
“You ran into Argent?”
Stiles glares at him. “Don’t you start, too, Derek, I swear!”
But Derek only shakes his head, huffing out a little laugh Stiles has no idea what to do with. “Come on, I’ll help you set up. The puppies are getting hungry.”
Peter doesn’t join them for dinner, choosing instead to be a childish bitchy-wolf—which Stiles makes sure to declare loud enough for Peter to hear, no matter where in the house he’s hidden away to sulk—and only wanders into the den, in wolf form, halfway through the movie they’re watching.
Stiles scowls at him. Peter turns away, ignoring him.
Asshole.
Derek throws an arm around him, face sympathetic, and Stiles leans into him with a huff. He closes his eyes, tuning out the movie, and lets himself drift, basking in the feel of pack and safety, of family, warm and content surrounded by people he loves.
“—just really want to know! It’s weird he’s not telling anyone, right? I’m not the only one who thinks that?”
Stiles shifts, disoriented for a moment, before he recognizes the chest under his cheek as Derek’s. Right. Pack night. He must have dozed off.
“It kind of is,” Mason backs Liam up, and Liam says, “See? Thank you!”
“Quit it.” Derek’s chest rumbles when he speaks up. His hand on Stiles’ shoulder squeezes gently, letting Stiles know that he’s noticed him waking up. “If Stiles wants to share how he was turned, he will. Until then, we’re all going to respect his privacy. Right?”
It isn’t really a question, but Liam and Mason still mumble out a string of reluctant agreements. Stiles blinks open his eyes, and of course, as luck would have it, they immediately meet Peter’s. Peter, who’s sitting in the armchair across the room, looking unrumpled, and acting as if he hasn’t had Stiles feel guilty for no apparent reason for the better part of the evening.
“You really want to know who turned me?” Stiles asks, suddenly furious. He sits up, eyes never leaving Peter, who holds his gaze, jaw clenched. Stiles makes a wide, exaggerated sweeping gesture towards him. “Well, he’s right there. Accidentally nipped my finger during a full moon while I was trying to pry a piece of plastic out of his mouth. Like a nice person, who cares about him, and didn’t want him to wake up with his stomach full of half-chewed dog toys.”
It’s Corey who starts laughing first.
“You’re full of shit,” Mason accuses, between giggles, toppled over against Liam.
Liam nods his agreement. “Yeah, c’mon. This one’s just obviously not true.”
Corey accuses, “And we know you know how to lie without us hearing it!”
They dissolve into bickering, but Stiles is barely listening to them, watching with a sudden lump in his throat as Peter slips out of the room.
Proper guilt. Right.
“Go,” Derek says, quiet, and nudges him in the side. “Go on.”
Stiles finds Peter on the porch, leaning against the railing. His expression is closed off, and their bond is eerily silent.
Stiles has to swallow, hard, before he manages to whisper, “I’m sorry.”
Peter doesn’t say anything.
“Look, I really am sorry, okay? I know you’re embarrassed about it, I get it, and yeah, you were a dick to me today, but just blurting everything out in front of half the pack? That was petty of me, I know, and—”
Peter’s lips are warm against Stiles’, and surprisingly gentle. Stiles leans into the kiss without a second thought, hands coming up to brace against Peter’s shoulders. Peter cups Stiles’ face, tugs him even closer, and kisses him again, hot and wet.
Stiles lets out a needy little whine, then slaps at Peter’s chest when Peter grins into the kiss. “Don’t be smug, it doesn’t suit you.”
“Don’t lie, sweetheart,” Peter breathes against his cheek, before pressing a kiss there as well. “You know perfectly well that it’s one of my best looks.”
It takes a significant amount of Stiles’ willpower to push Peter back, just a fraction, with Peter’s mouth right there, inviting and willing. He mentally pats himself on the back when he manages it.
“I don’t understand,” he says, and shudders when Peter slips a hand up the back of his t-shirt. “Like, don’t get me wrong, I’m into this, so much into this, like, obviously. It’s just. Sudden? And I thought you’d be pissed at me, about telling everyone? I mean, you’ve been acting all cagey about the fact that you accidentally turned me for months, so. Really, Peter. What gives?”
And Peter—Peter grimaces, looking about as awkward as Stiles has ever seen him. He bumps his forehead against Stiles’, and curls his free arm around Stiles’ waist, holding him close. And then—
Wow, okay.
Stiles had been so, so right about there being potential for more in their bond.
The flurry of feelings—care, adoration, affection, love, love, love—is nearly overwhelming in its intensity, but Stiles soaks it all up greedily, fingers clenching in Peter’s sweater. He gasps, breathless, when the word mates flashes through his mind, courtesy of Peter.
“Oh, so it’s like that, huh,” he chuckles, but brushes his lips against Peter’s again, unable to hold back a giddy smile. “Might be a little soon, though. My dad’s going to have a heart attack.”
Peter buries his face in Stiles’ neck, scenting him shamelessly, and holds on even more tightly. Stiles runs his fingers through Peter’s hair, kissing his temple.
“I was almost right, though. You were embarrassed, just not about the thing I assumed you were embarrassed about. But it’s okay, don’t feel bad, cuddly-wolf. Lots of people have crushes on me, I am very desirable, I am a delight—”
“And I can still change my mind,” Peter murmurs, nibbling the skin of Stiles’ neck.
Stiles shivers, hand tightening in Peter’s hair. “You won’t, though.”
He shrieks when Peter picks him up, but automatically wraps his legs around the other man. Peter kisses his chin, then his lips, then the tip of his nose, their bond singing between them.
“No, I won’t.”