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“Peter Alexander Hale!”
Peter flinched and turned to glance into the kitchen he’d been sneaking past. Talia sat at the table with a cup of tea and the newspaper, enjoying a quiet morning as James took the pups to school. Their parents sat at the other end of the table, his mother knitting and father napping in the warm morning sun flowing in the kitchen windows.
“Yes, alpha?” He asked.
“Where are you going?”
Peter sighed. “Out, I have errands to run.”
Talia raised an eyebrow and Peter threw up his hands. “What?”
“Stiles Stilinski is one of your ‘errands’, I assume. You’ve been spending a lot of time with him.”
“Well,” Peter said. “He is our emissary.”
“You never spent this much time with Deaton.”
Peter fought not to grind his teeth. “Deaton wasn’t from the future and struggling. He’s pack, Tally, and I am seeing to pack. I do believe that falls in my purview, if not as Left Hand then certainly as a packmate.”
“I only worry that your constant attendance on the young man will adversely affect your other duties.” Talia said, expression wry. “You seem to be obsessing, brother.”
“I am hardly obsessing. I would do this for any one of our pack.”
Grandma Hale laughed. “Peter, if I didn’t know you were a cynical idiot I’d say you’re being intentionally blind.”
Peter scowled in annoyance. “I beg your pardon?”
“Seems a bit out of character for the great Peter Hale to stoop to charity work,” she said.
“You all know perfectly well that it is instinctive,” Peter said, trying not to bristle at his mother’s words.
“He’s interesting,” Grandpa Hale said, blinking lazily. “The magic, the future thing, he’s full of mystery. You’ve always been a fan of mystery.”
“Yes, well. I can’t argue with that.” Peter said.
“And attractive!” Grandma Hale said with a grin. “He’s a cute kid, and you always smell like arousal when he comes around.”
Peter rolled his eyes. “Thank you for that assessment, Mother. Yes, fine, I find both his physical attributes and mysterious life attractive and interesting. And despite your assertions that I am not a very nurturing individual on occasion-”
“Or at all,” Grandma Hale muttered.
“-I can assure you it is instinct that is driving my interest, nothing more.”
Talia gave him an odd smile, mischief twinkling in her eyes. “How very strange. I certainly cannot argue with pack instinct, and I will trust you to be wise in the balance of it and your other responsibilities.”
“Of course,” Peter said. “May I go now?”
Talia nodded and he made his escape before she could changed her mind. He didn’t know what was going on with his family, why they seemed to find his sense of compassion for Stiles so suspicious, shouldn’t they be excited that he appeared to have finally forayed into that emotional field? True, nurturing was not one of his gifts, but the rest of the pack was quite proficient at it so he hadn’t needed to be.
It was a new and foreign feeling to suddenly have the instinctive urge to take care of someone in need. Honestly, he wasn’t sure he liked it. It didn’t quite match the attributes required of the Left Hand. The Left Hand was the pack’s enforcer, the one sent to deal with threats, to procure information, expected to always be three steps ahead of their allies and enemies alike. There wasn’t a lot of natural nurturing required in that role and that suited Peter just fine.
And then Stiles happened and Peter’s world suddenly shifted ever so slightly. Gained a focus point. It was unnerving and strange but not bad per se.
Peter slid into his car and buckled in. Stiles was definitely on his list of errands – the other man didn’t eat nearly enough and the werewolf had taken to bringing him lunch, but first he needed to make a quick stop at Mathilda’s place. He’d liberated one of her casserole dishes from Stiles’ ‘to wash’ pile, fully aware that the woman had a long list of other “poor things that need a little looking after!”
He was not expecting there to be a second car in her driveway, or for the front door to be flung open before he’d had a chance to knock.
“Peter Hale, speak of the devil-- No, Marge, goodness! It’s just a saying!” Peter could hear the muttering of Marge somewhere deeper in the house but couldn’t quite make out the words. Mathilda beamed and waved him inside, pulling the casserole dish from his hands and ushering him into the kitchen. “A pleasant surprise to have you here now, Peter, saves me having to call you.”
“Happy to save you the effort, Mathilda.” Peter glanced curiously around the kitchen. A woman who could only be Marge, sat at the tiny table near the window, piping hot cup of tea in front of her. She was long and willowy, skin pale and faultless. Her ebony hair was tied up in a precise bun and she wore a long sleeved pale green dress that draped over sensible leather boots. Her mouth was set in a thin line and she regarded Peter with clear suspicion. He smiled winningly.
“This is my dear friend Marge Billings, we met many years ago in school. Been best friends ever since! She’s quite a sweetheart, though she hides it well under that prickly exterior!” Mathilda cheerfully ignored her friend’s sour expression. “Anyway, she arrived this morning demanding to see the Left Hand of the Hale pack, she’s had quite the upset and seems to think you can clear matters right up.”
“I will certainly give my best effort,” Peter said. “How may I be of service.”
“Well, you’re not dead.” Marge said, expression miffed.
Peter’s eyebrows arched. “No. Is that a problem?”
“If you’re not dead it means I have a trickster demon, wearing your face, knocking on my door. It’s bad for business! Keeps interrupting my séances.”
“I beg your pardon?” Peter glanced briefly at Mathilda
“Marge is a necromancer and medium,” Mathilda said. “Séances are her bread and butter.”
“Exactly!” Marge said, arms crossed. “It get’s difficult to make a living when every ‘loved one’ you summon is shoved aside by a demon pretending to be Peter Hale demanding that I take a message to Stiles, whatever the hell that is.”
Peter’s eyes widened. “It has a message for Stiles?”
“Isn’t that what I just said?”
“What’s the message?”
“I don’t have it.”
“Why ever not?”
Marge scowled. “One does not simply invite demons in to chat over tea, once the door is open it is so easily left ajar for others.”
Peter frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“You wouldn’t, werewolves so rarely dabble in the occult, leaving that to their precious emissaries. And they’re hardly any fun to possess.” She smirked.
Peter pursed his lips. “I’ll pay you for the message.”
Marge gave him a dubious look. “Perhaps you aren’t hearing me. It is a trickster demon! It feasts on chaos and bloodshed, it will unravel the world as we know it for fun. Just because it can. A message from such a creature is never an innocent gesture, it is a means to an evil end. Whatever your ‘Stiles’ is up to, it will not end well if he invites the demon in to play. Can you afford the end of the world, Peter Hale?”
“Yes,” Peter said. “$500,000.”
“For the end of the world? Not a chance. 2.5 million.” The werewolf scoffed but Marge just raised a brow. “He’s interrupted a lot of séances.”
“Fine,” he agreed, rolling his eyes. “2.5 million, and then you take down the message in its entirety and I will deliver it to Stiles.”
Marge sat in silence for a long moment, gaze drilling into Peter’s soul. He shifted uncomfortably. “You must have quite the bond with this Stiles, to risk so much for a message,” she said.
Peter waved a dismissive hand. “I’d say we are good friends.”
Mathilda snorted over at the kitchen island where she was buttering scones. “You’re an idiot, Peter Hale. Here, have some scones and tea before we move on. No, Marge, you will eat at least three! I know how exhausting séances can be.”
The séance was nothing like Peter expected, but perhaps that was due to Marge forgoing any unnecessary theater in favor of speed and efficiency, which Peter was all for. He didn’t need to be dazzled and coaxed into believing the dead could communicate, and he hadn’t paid 2.5 million for a flashy show. He just wanted the information.
Marge stayed at the tiny kitchen table-- Peter and Mathilda had been banished to the far side of the room-- with a pen and pad of paper laid out before her. She lit one candle, took a deep breath, and let her eyes go vacant. “Peter Hale?” She called.
The pool of sunlight he stood in did little to warm him when a chill went down Peter’s spine, like someone had stepped on his grave. Then the chair opposite Marge scraped against the floor, pulled away from the table by an invisible force, and then shifted and creaked under a phantom weight. Peter watched, fascinated.
“You have a message for Stiles?” There was no sound but Marge nodded. “And once delivered you will be satisfied and go your own way?
Silence.
“What guidelines do you have for the message?”
Silence.
“Understood. And you trust this man to deliver the message?” Marge pointed at Peter and the chair shifted, the werewolf could feel eyes on him and it made his chest tight.
Silence.
“Then let us begin.”
Marge picked up the pen in her long fingers and began scratching away at the pad of paper. There was the occasional hum, an inhale of surprise, Peter lost a couple years off his life when she unexpectedly burst out laughing, delighted cackles filling the room, but mostly she worked in silence.
Finally she placed the pen on the table, folded the message, tucking it into an envelope, and smiled at the chair across from her. It was a kind smile, full of warmth, that caught Peter by surprise. “I will see that the message is delivered, and I apologize for the long wait. The dangers of my profession call for an air of caution.”
Silence.
Marge hummed. “I agree. Should you require another message sent I would be honored to help. For now, go in peace.”
The chair creaked. The candle flickered in an absent breeze. Marge’s eyes cleared. She looked at Peter and laughed.
Stiles pulled the baby ivy from its old pot, gently loosening the roots with his fingers. He was having a good day. It was repotting day, when all his quickly growing baby plants were transplanted to larger pots. The feel of the dirt between his fingers, the vibrant life of each seedling brushing against his spark, the clear measure of how far each plant had come, it all filled him with joy and settled his soul.
Peter had wanted their cabin to have a wraparound porch. Stiles had wanted it to have a garden.
The Nemeton hummed contentedly in the back of his mind, enjoying the overflow of Stiles happiness and sending tickle-y whispers of smiles through their bond. Stiles shook his head but returned the smiles. It never ceased to amaze him how sweet the Nemeton was, how kind and childlike. Before it had lived on the spilled blood of the innocent and guilty alike, it had been a dark and overbearing presence that filled Stiles with dread. And that had been without a bond to connect them.
This Nemeton had latched onto Stiles the moment he arrived, like an incredibly excited octopus, wrapping him tight and chortling in delight when the Spark had thrown up his hands and accepted the bond the tree was pushing at him emphatically. Dropping Deaton faster than a hot potato in the process.
Perhaps it was because the old Nemeton was part of the ritual used to send Stiles back, and this Nemeton recognized the magic as its own, even polluted by darkness. Or perhaps it simply recognized that Stiles, a powerful Spark, would be a much better caretaker than a sketchy druid that only took the job for the power boost he’d get. Either way, Stiles, while originally hesitant, had come to cherish the connection.
Sure, he had the whole Hale pack now, but that was relatively new, and before Peter showed up he’d been avoiding them like the plague. But he had the Nemeton to keep him company, which probably went a long way toward keeping him sane too. Relatively sane, anyway.
He dropped a handful of pebbles into the bottom of a pot for drainage and hummed to himself, wondering if Peter would spend the night again. Wrapped in Peter’s arms with the werewolf at his back was familiar, and it settled Stiles chaotic mind, allowing him to sleep. Sleep he wouldn’t get otherwise. And while he knew it wasn’t his Peter holding him, he drifted off so quickly that he barely had time to overthink.
Instead he saved all his worrying for when he was alone. On the rare night when Peter had other obligations. Or when it was a slow day at work and he had too much time to stew in his thoughts. Because, honestly, he was a little worried with how accustomed he was becoming to have the werewolf in his bed, even if it was only cuddling. Peter had successfully infiltrated every aspect of his life. He brought Stiles food most days, with the assertion that if Stiles refused to take care of himself then Peter would do it. He bribed and threatened his way into the seat next to Stiles’ at every pack dinner, the Spark was pretty sure Cora always sat next to him because she knew her uncle would give her a cool five dollars to hit the road. Nine times out of ten, when Stiles went to visit the Nemeton, Peter met him on the way or was already there waiting. The werewolf had even shown up at his shop one day with a small box full of new business cards, handing them to Stiles with a bow before grabbing the garbage and sweeping his old cards into it with a disparaging comment about their lack of information and “really, Stiles, how do you expect your business to grow if you don’t even have a website?” Which, according to the new cards, he did, and, when he checked it out, he had to admit that Peter had a good eye and the website looked great.
Essentially, Peter was everywhere. And it made Stiles uncomfortable because of how comfortable it felt. It felt untrue to his Peter, especially when he could see whispers of the man beneath the young werewolf’s features. When he could hear the same acerbic words said with a kinder tone. This Peter was like the Nemeton, lighter, sweeter. Full of friendly mischief. The contrast made his heart tight with conflicting feelings of joy and loss.
But he wasn’t thinking about that today. Today was a good day. It was sunny, he had all the windows and doors open, the warm breeze rustling the curtains. He had dozens of plants to repot, dozens of tiny lives to encourage and enrich. He had a Nemeton hopscotching its way up and down their bond. In that moment he didn’t need to think, didn’t need to worry, just needed to settle and focus and be.
Peter sauntered into the store just as Stiles was finishing up. The werewolf came to a stop on the other side of the potting table, gently placing an envelope on the course wood. Stiles arched an eyebrow. “What’s this?”
“A message,” Peter said.
Stiles frowned at the envelope but made no move to take it. “Who from?”
“The other side.” Peter shrugged. “Marge, the necromancer slash medium, thought it was a trickster demon trying to contact you. I paid a lot of money to get the message.”
Stiles froze, cold filling his body. “A trickster demon? Are you shitting me, Peter?!”
“That’s what she thought--”
Green energy clouded Stiles gaze, sparks danced along his fingers as his heart rate spiked and he tried to suck air into lungs that wouldn’t expand. Vaguely he could feel his wards pulsing frantically, trying to expel any perceived evil, while the Nemeton sent thunderous worry up the bond. Its power flooded his veins and he knew if it came to a fight he might have a chance this time.
“Stiles!” Peter shouted, grabbing his sparking hands. “Calm down! It wasn’t a demon! Breathe, damn it! Breathe!”
Stiles gasped in a breath, fighting back the panic attack through sheer determination. The overwhelming desire to smack Peter helped, he focused on that and the fact that it wasn’t a trickster demon, which the werewolf should have fucking led with! The sparks and energy dissipated as fast as they came, but the Nemeton’s power still flowed through him, grounding him with its thousands of roots. Shielding him with its hundreds of branches.
“”What the actual fuck, Peter!” Stiles demanded, voice stronger than he expected. “Why the hell would you communicate with a trickster demon?!”
“It wasn’t a demon,” Peter said, rolling his eyes. “She simply mistook it for one.”
“Peter! That doesn’t change the fact that you paid for a message you thought was from a demon! Why the hell would you risk that? You never communicate with demons! You never open the door! That’s how people die, Peter! Fuck!” Stiles shook off the werewolf’s grip and stomped across the room only to stomp back and shake a finger under Peter’s nose. “You don’t ever get to do that again, you hear me? I will not lose anyone else to the nogitsune, so you better pull your head out of your ass and use your common fucking sense from now on! Got it?”
Peter looked surprised and worried. “Of course, Stiles. I apologize, I had no idea--”
“Whatever,” Stiles crossed his arms and scowled at the envelope. “So who’s it actually from?”
“A ghost,” Peter said. “I, well, I think I know which one, but there is a chance I could be mistaken. Perhaps it is wiser if you just read the message? Marge did promise it contained nothing harmful and I certainly paid enough for her to be truthful.”
Stiles’ scowl deepened but he walked back over to the potting table, snatching the envelope up in shaking hands. He took a deep breath. Then another. He stuck a finger under the flap and ripped it open, unfolding the papers inside and smoothing them out on the flat surface. His breath hitched.
Dear Stiles,
My sweet boy, how I have missed you.
It tears me apart that I could not be there to hold you through the months of loneliness and sorrow . I am glad to find my family has done right by you, has seen your power and potential and made you Pack, which you always deserved to be.
I suspect you’re too busy reflecting on the ‘how’ of this message to take in my words fully. So let me lay your fears to rest. It is me, your mate. I am here because you are incredible, one of a kind. So powerful that even in death you managed to take my soul back with you. I strongly suspect the blood ritual we prepared in advance, my blood and yours amidst the herbs, played a critical role. And the rest was simply you.
Above all else, I wish you happiness. And to that end there is a secret I have kept for many years, and now is the time to lay bare. We are True Mates, you and I. Similar to soulmates-- do not roll your eyes at me-- but completely different. It is instinct, it is biology, it is a need to provide and protect. It is so much more than just mates. Humans can feel the draw, though not as strongly as wolves. Wolves cannot walk away, humans can.
I never told you because it meant so much more to me that you would choose to be my mate, despite everything I had done and been. I didn’t want it to be a choice you were compelled to make because of my instincts, I cherished it all the more for being freely given. My younger self probably hasn’t realized what his instincts are trying to tell him yet. I was a cynical idiot at that age, I didn’t believe that the rare True Mate would find me. But then, we’re all works in progress.
This is why I can tell you, beyond the shadow of a doubt that I will never not love you, no matter what timeline you’re in. You will never be alone. There is nothing you could do that would make my younger self not want you.
And when you look at him, let the reminders he brings of me give you joy in the knowledge that the most important part of who I was-- my love for you-- lives on through him.
I am so proud of you, sweetheart. Of who you are and everything you’ve accomplished.
The present is a gift, live into it and cherish it.
Always yours,
Peter
P.S. Perhaps, as a lark, hold off on telling my younger self you are true mates. How long will it take him to figure it out, do you think?
“Stiles?”
Stiles looked up from where he sat on the floor, legs given out sometime between the first two paragraphs of the letter. He sniffed loudly and scrubbed a hand across his eyes, the letter clutched tightly against his chest. Peter still stood across the room, looking anxious and stressed.
“I’m okay,” Stiles said, but his voice cracked and the werewolf clearly didn’t believe him. “Well, I’m not not okay, so.” He shrugged.
Peter took a tentative step forward. “May I?” He asked, indicating the floor near Stiles. The Spark nodded and next thing he knew Peter was sitting with him, arms wrapped tight around him, holding him close. They sat like that for a long time. Eventually Stiles rested his head against Peter’s shoulder and let himself be rocked back and forth.
“Thank you for the message,” Stiles said, finally breaking the silence.
“Hopefully it was less traumatic than it appeared,” Peter murmured into his hair. “You cried quite a lot.”
Stiles hummed. “It was cathartic, I think. And it certainly answered some questions.”
“Do I get to read it?”
“Nope.”
Peter looked affronted but Stiles knew it was mostly in jest. “I’ll have you know I paid 2.5 million for that message. I believe I’m entitled to a reading.”
Stiles whistled softly. “2.5 million, you must really like me. Or you got a shit deal and were played.”
Peter sighed. “I honestly don’t know which it was. Now come on, off the floor. I doubt you’ve eaten yet today, shall we order in? Chinese perhaps?”
Stiles let the werewolf pull him up to his feet. “Yeah, that’s fine.” He carefully stuck the papers back in the envelope before tucking it in his pants pocket. His head was achey from all the crying but that would pass, especially once he’d had some water. Stiles followed Peter up to his apartment, listening as he listed all the dishes they would order because Stiles was ‘far too thin’.
Later that night, laying in bed with Peter holding him tight, Stiles gazed out his window at the endless expanse of stars. For the first time since coming back he was feeling hopeful about his own future. He’d successfully saved everyone else’s but hadn’t seen much of a way forward for himself. But now he was feeling lighter, practically optimistic. It wouldn’t be easy, obviously. A switch wasn’t going to flip and make everything magically okay, and he knew that. Knew there would be bad days along with the good. But he soaked in the new determination that the good days would far outweigh the bad, that he had his Peter’s blessing and love.
He wiggled slightly, adjusting his view.
“Sweetheart,” Peter growled sleepily behind him. “If you don’t stop wiggling and go to sleep I’ll rip your throat out with my teeth.”
Stiles snorted. “Whatever, creeperwolf. Goodnight.”
Seven Years Later
Stiles sprawled on the living room floor of the cabin surrounded by stacks of books and a notepad. A pack across state had heard of the incredibly powerful Hale emissary and had requested help withmysterious disappearances and reappearances. Stiles had agreed to do what he could and had been in research mode ever since. He frowned, chewing on his pen absentmindedly. He had a sneaking suspicion it was fae related, which would suck. The fae were a pain in the ass to deal with.
“Stiles,” Peter said from the door to his study. “What is this?”
Stiles looked up and grinned at the sight of the book in Peter’s hand. “You found it! Finally!”
Peter arched a brow. “Someone has highlighted the section on True Mates. Someone took an actual highlighter to this ancient text that has been handed down though hundreds of generations of Hales and will, hopefully, be handed down through a hundred more. Tell me, Stiles, do you know whodefiled this tome?”
“Uh, not me?”
“There’s also a sticky note that says, and I quote, ‘This is us, Peter. XOXO Stiles.’”
“Huh, weird. Um,” Stiles fidgeted on the floor. “Do you think maybe you’re focusing on the wrong part of the discovery?”
“Trust me, sweetheart, we will be discussing that too.” Peter said silkily. “I thought I should get the subject of your punishment for defacing a priceless heirloom out of the way first.”
“Oh.”
“I’m taking away the jeep for a week.”
Stiles flailed. “What? Oh, come on, Peter! How am I suppose to get around?”
“I will drive you, obviously.”
“Ugh fine!” Stiles pouted, but only a little because Peter had been trying to get his jeep into the shop for months, ever since Stiles found it at a cheap car lot and brought it home. It reminded him of his mother’s jeep. It reminded Peter of a deathtrap. So really this was just an excuse to have a professional look at the engine because Peter was an incredibly overprotective mate.
“How long have you known?” Peter asked. He walked around the couch and took a seat, expression unreadable.
“Um, so, maybe since I got that letter?” Peter’s face turned thunderous and Stiles scrambled to his knees and gripped one of werewolf’s hands in his own. “Wait, the letter explained it to me and I didn’t tell you because you, uh I- old you? We, we thought it would be kinda funny to see how long it took you to figure it out. So I waited for three freaking years but you never caught on, so then I started leaving clues! But you never saw any of those either, which, I gotta be honest, for the great Left Hand of the Hale Pack who probably skipped most of high school due to his superior intellectual prowess, it seems kinda weird you didn’t pick up on any of my clues. They weren’t even hard, not really anyway. Cora could’ve probably figured them out, and I only say that because she totally did and then she laughed at me for, like, three days straight.”
“So you didn’t tell me because you thought it would be funny?”
Stiles scrunched his face up. “Technically it was your idea. But to be fair, your older self was kind of a dick.”
Peter snorted. “So, True Mates.”
“Yeah,” Stiles said. “You’re not mad I didn’t tell you?”
“Stiles, I have you either way. This adds an extra layer to our bond, certainly, and it explains my sudden predilection for nurturing.” Peter paused and then groaned. “And it explains all those times my mother called me an idiot and refused tell me why. Moons above, does the whole pack know?”
Stiles coughed. “Yeah, pretty much.”
Peter dropped his head into his hands and sighed heavily. Stiles chuckled softly before pushing between the werewolf’s legs and slipping his arms around his waist, forcing Peter to sit up or bang their heads together.
“Look at it this way. We have seven years worth of True Mate sex to catch up on.”
Peter laughed. “I don’t think that’s how it works, our sex doesn’t get more incredible just because I know.”
Stiles hummed, hands already reaching for Peter’s belt. “Challenge accepted.”
Laura pounded up the cabin stairs and threw the door open without knocking. “Guys, guess what?!”
Peter growled, his eyes flashing, and Stiles sighed heavily. Having their own cabin on Hale land was awesome. And, most of the time, being close to the Pack house was incredibly convenient. But sometimes it made him want to strangle the Pack as a whole. He turned to the young woman. “You’re pregnant?!”
“What?” Laura spluttered. “No! God, Stiles what is wrong with you?”
Stiles felt his wolf perk up behind him. “That was a lie.”
“Wait, really?” Stiles looked back and forth between the two. “Wait, I thought werewolves could smell when people were pregnant?”
“After a certain stage, yes. But the first month or so the mother’s scent would not have changed enough to notice. However your quaint little pee sticks would be able to tell.” Peter grinned at his niece. “My congratulations and condolences. Have you told your mother yet?”
Laura blushed. “Ugh, you guys are the worst! No, I have not told Mom, David wants to keep it to ourselves a little bit longer. And that’s not why I’m here, we’re having pack dinner tonight to celebrate Derek’s full ride at Columbia.”
“Good for him!” Stiles said.
“Exactly, so if you guys aren’t busy.” She trailed off, taking in their positions. Stiles glanced back at his wolf and the smug smile on his face. “Holy fuck, Stiles, did he finally figure it out?!”
Stiles grinned happily. “Yep, I was just about to show him all the reasons I love him. And I was gonna show them to him naked!”
“Ew! Gross!”
“You don’t have to stick around.”
“Especially since you weren’t invited in the first place,” Peter said.
“Like I’d want to stick around and watch two old men go at it,” Laura said, nose in the air. Stiles squawked in outrage. “Remember to show up for dinner, and no excuses about pulled muscles because I will tell Mom exactly why you can’t make it.”
Laura turned and marched out, slamming the door behind her. Stiles turned to Peter. “If she tattles on us we’re just gonna bring up the pregnant thing, right?"
“Indubitably.”
“Good.” Stiles smiled and crawled into Peter’s lap, letting the werewolf scent him as he carded fingers through his hair. He hummed happily, placing a chaste kiss on Peter’s lips before reaching for his belt once more.
The present was a gift and he intended to enjoy it fully.