Peter snarls into the kiss, all teeth and tongue and hard, gripping hands, lost in the hot, heady scent of arousal. Stiles fights him, grappling and tussling for dominance, his fingers hooking into Peter's sides and pulling him closer as he bites down hard on Peter's lower lip, hard enough that the copper tang of blood busts between them. Gasping, he shoves himself between the Spark's thighs, presses him back against the tree, and Stiles snarls right back at him, throwing his arms around Peter's shoulders and hiking himself up to wrap his legs around his waist.

He's just as hard as Peter, and something about that sends him a little bit crazy, because regardless of anything else, right up until that moment he hadn't been entirely sure; of Stiles, of himself, of the two of them together. It seems impossible, seems stupid, and thinking back to a time all those years ago it would have been, but here he is tonight, under a nearly full moon, and he's not the same person that he used to be.

He'd apologized to his nephew tonight, something he didn't think he would ever be able to do, and he'd meant it. Already he can feel that act starting to heal a wound he'd carried deep inside his chest so long it had become a part of him. The scent of pack clings to his skin and his shirt and the scent of mate fills up his head, and he doesn't realize he's gentled the embrace until Stiles purrs in his ear and cuddles against his front.

"Are we doing this?" he asks, his feet back on the ground and his voice rough as Peter pets his sides mindlessly, licking and nuzzling at the pale curve of his throat. "I'm into it, like you don't even know, but it doesn't seem worth starting if it's not gonna..."

"Last?" he pants desperately, scraping his fangs over Stiles' neck and relishing the shivery gasp he's rewarded with. "How long do you want it to last Stiles? Forever?"

Leaning back, he lets his eyes glow blue in the dark, looks at the young man standing flushed and hard before him, his own whiskey-eyes blown black.

"Besides," he murmurs silkily, rolling his hips forward, making Stiles whine. "I thing we've already started it."

"No shit," Stiles growls, grabbing his belt and dragging him in close again to nip sharply at Peter's mouth, his chin and his jaw. "But I want a hell of a lot more than just this."

Peter shivers, his wolf hideously pleased with the strong teeth biting at his throat.

He's more confident than Peter expected. He'd thought there would be waffling and whining, stacks of reasons why they had to keep this brief and in the shadows. The way Stiles' hands roam over his chest and over his shoulders though, down his back, is possessive in all the best ways, and just as that thought passes through his mind, the little shit bites down hard on his neck, hard enough to bruise.

Peter snarls, jolts in surprise, then whines high and loud and pushes into his hold, rumbling happily even as Stiles lets go and soothes the bite with a hot, clever tongue. It's sexy, he likes it, but it's smart too, a claim made and initiated by Stiles instead of him. Peter may have started the healing process with his nephew, may have started reconciling with the banshee and re-integrating with the pack, but that doesn't mean he's completely trusted, doesn't mean they'll accept this.

He tells himself he doesn't care.

Hell, yesterday he hadn't.

Tonight though, tonight everything is different, and he finds himself strangely reluctant to risk this new thing he's nurturing, this new place he's found.

Stiles smiles at him, seems to recognize his sudden melancholy, and snuggles against his front in a silly, stupid hug that shouldn't feel as good as it does until Peter scoffs and shoves him away lightheartedly. This leads to retaliation, and not three minutes later they're full-out wrestling as they tumble through the brush, scrabbling around and shoving against each other until Stiles is knocked off with a yelp by Derek.

They tumble over with the werewolf landing on top, his eyes bright red in the night, and Stiles grins underneath him, tilts his head and shows his throat. Derek grins back, looking happier and more hopeful than Stiles thinks he's ever seen him before, rubs his hand all over Stiles' face and shoves him playfully into the dirt. Peter comes to his rescue, knocking his nephew off as the rest of the pack come crashing toward them through the underbrush, and they wrestle each other roughly until very suddenly they break apart, a scant ten feet between them as they stare each other down.

Stiles can see Derek staring, scenting the air, and he can see too the bruising bite mark he'd left on Peter's neck, more vicious than a love bite but claiming all the same. It stirs something low in his belly that the werewolf is intentionally keeping it from healing, showing it off as it were, and both Hales turn toward him like he's fired a gun, nostrils flaring. He holds his breath, unashamed but cautious, then Derek smiles and laughs and the tension's gone just like that, Kira tackling Derek and Liam bouncing off Peter like a rubber ball in his attempt to do the same.

"What was that about?" Scott asks quietly, sidling up to Stiles in the dark, sniffing audibly. "Why do you stink like Peter."

"Because I scent-marked him," he replies with an easy shrug, watching as Jackson comes bursting through the trees to join in the fun, helping Liam to spin Peter in a circle before piling on top of him. "He's pack now, we all are."

"I don't like it."

"You ok?" Stiles asks, ignoring the comment and blithely changing the subject. "How you feeling?"

"Weak. It hurt more than I thought it would," he admits quietly, flexing his hand like it had been burned. "I didn't think... Derek did it so easy for Cora."

"It wasn't easy," Stiles argues quietly, watching Derek join in the puppy-pile that has finally taken Peter to the ground. "But she was the only family he had left."

"Do you think she'll come back?"

"I think they'll ask her if she'd like to," Stiles answers honestly. "They're her family too, and we could always use more betas. I don't think Isaac and Ripley are gonna want to stay."

"Do you want them to stay?

"I don't want you to go," he says suddenly, the truth of that statement pushing up hard beneath his sternum. "I don't want you to go following him back to Europe, or wherever the hell he came from."

Reaching out, he grips Scott's arm tight, lets the warmth of his spark travel through his fingers.

"You're still my best friend," he says seriously. "I don't wanna do any of this without you."

Turning back to the pack, he jerks his chin toward the twisting pile, where Peter is tossing the others off one by one, not too gently.

"Accept them," he advises. "Accept Derek as your Alpha, and Peter as your pack mate, and this as your life. You can be happy buddy, if you let yourself be."

Beside him, Scott swallows hard, and offers him a hesitant nod.

"I guess I should probably try."

XXX

Tossing the pup off him for the fifth time, Peter extricates himself from the dog-pile he'd inexplicably found himself beneath and shakes his head to clear it, running claw-tipped fingers through his hair. Stupid, yesterday not a one of them would look him in the eye, let alone engage him in play, but here they are tonight climbing all over him like a jungle-gym. Liam circles around with sly eyes and Peter flashes his own, rumbles and shows his teeth, but it's not nearly the threat it used to be, and he both loves and hates himself for that.

His head and his heart all full up with the sound and the smell and the touch of pack, he pulls himself away and stalks off a bit, looking for some fresh air. Liam whines at him and shows him a puppy-pout, rolling over to flash his belly, but hell, they can't expect this much from him so fast, he can't...

Stiles follows, falls into step beside him, and it's disconcerting how calming his presence is, like a long stroke down Peter's spine. Derek looks up and reads the situation well, rounds up his betas and starts them headed back toward the house, passing ahead and leaving them to follow after in peace. Peter is perturbed to find his steps quickening, his instincts urging him to keep up, and Stiles laughs quietly in the dark when he scowls and purposefully starts to drag his feet.

"Come on Peter-wolf," he says quietly, bumping their shoulders together companionably. "It's not going to kill you."

Hooking their elbows together, he stars to haul him toward the house, which only makes Peter chuff irritably and scuff his feet even harder, leaning all his weight back on his heels. Stiles just laughs some more, light crackling in his hair and at his fingertips as he puts a little more oomph into it, and Peter lets himself be pushed, back to the Hale House where the rest of the pack is waiting, grouped up around a little bonfire that Lydia has started in their absence.

He expects Stiles to let go but he doesn't. Instead he keeps his hand clamped around Peter's wrist and pulls him into the circle, positioning him to his nephew's left and keeping him far enough away from the fire that he doesn't feel the familiar panic creep in. It's a crapshoot with flame most days – small, controlled ones like the lighter the faeries had given him back at bar were no problem, but the bigger and wilder they got, the more his wolf started to pace. He waits for the feeling, the anxiety that has haunted him these last few months, but it never comes, and when Derek and Stiles press in close on either side of him it feels like letting go of a breath that he hadn't known he'd been holding.

It hits him all at once what had really been happening to him lately – he'd been going feral.

Turning into a true omega, losing himself in his wolf and his more animalistic instincts.

He'd been so separate from any other being, any other werewolf or pack, that he'd been driving himself slowly wild.

It explained how this whole thing with Stiles had started at least.

Hell, a year ago, six months ago, the kid had probably hated him enough to torch him again.

He thinks perhaps that Stiles' spark had allowed him to recognize what was happening and spurred him on to save a werewolf in distress, but he finds that idea leaves a strange, bitter taste in his mouth so he discards it. If he doesn't examine the theory too closely, he can tell himself that Stiles merely recognized Peter as a good mate, an eligible match, just as Peter's wolf clearly finds him, and that he'd been doing it out of a genuine desire to feed and nurture him rather than some supernatural obligation.

Peter grimaces, shakes his head.

He doesn't want to think about that.

Anyway, it explained the limited healing too; he was sure there was something in that creature's venom that had contributed to the scarring lacerations crossing his belly, but it had been the lack of pack bonds, the lack of connection and group-strength that had kept him laid up for so long.

Standing here in this moment with all the others around him, no one actively pressing hate in his direction, he feels stronger and more whole than he has since...

Since before the fire.

Derek tips his head back and howls; a long, deep, beautiful sound that echoes off the hills, and as his second Peter follows right after him without thought. He couldn't stop himself if he wanted to anyway, the howl building up in his chest till it's like to explode out of him if he doesn't let it out, and his voice rises alongside his Alpha's until the whole pack is joining in, even Stiles and Lydia. Their cries are human but eerily ethereal, and together their packsong swells and rises in cohesive harmony, filling the Preserve as both a celebration and a warning.

Several miles away in the dark, something hears that warning and hisses under its breath.