You know that temporary amnesia after surgery prompt that’s been going around? I wish fandom would get more creative with it. I mean, hospitals are so limiting.
What if they were in the middle of a fight instead, running away from a baddie, and Stiles was trying to shake off the aftereffects of a spell or something? So they’re dragging him along, trying to dodge bad guys, and Stiles is, like, completely confused and loopy. He has no idea what’s going on. There’s a badass girl with a katana, Lydia Martin throwing molotov cocktails, a coyote running alongside them, and—and Scott! Who has monster entrails all over his claws - HE HAS CLAWS - and he says the guy half-carrying Stiles is—
“Woah, my husband?!” Stiles yells, taking the man in from head to toe. “Are you sure?”
His husband - HOW! - grunts and rolls his eyes at Stiles and eviscerates a goblin with just one hand.
Stiles is impressed. Disgusted, but impressed.
“You married me?” Stiles asks, forgetting all about the nightmare monsters coming after them. “But your eyelashes are so pretty.”
The guy - his husband - lets out another grunt and picks Stiles up - like, literally HE CAN PICK STILES UP - and places him behind a tree.
“Stay here,” he orders, with a resigned expression on his face that says he knows Stiles will not.
“Oh my god,” Stiles says. “You did. You married me. I married you. I married a fireman superhero pornstar!”
“Sweetheart,” his husband says through gritted teeth - holy shit Stiles is in love - “Stay behind the tree and be quiet.” And then he’s back in the middle of the fight, slaying monsters and roaring and basically being the hottest thing Stiles has ever seen in his life.
And then it’s over. The clearing is bathed in green blood, and the people - his friends? - are picking themselves back up, shrugging off bits and pieces of monster from their clothing, and Stiles has a pair of ridiculously strong arms around him, a nose buried in his hair, a kiss pressed against his temple.
He could get used to this.
Which, Scott apparently doesn’t want him to, because he says, “We need to get out of here,” and Stiles is suddenly being thrown over someone’s shoulder and woah, hello.
“Scott, oh my god. Look at my husband’s ass!”
“I’d really rather not, buddy,” Scott says. The katana girl laughs.
“It’s a work of art!” Stiles gushes. “Belongs in a museum! But no! It’s a Stilinski exclusive!”
“I’m going to drop you on your head,” his husband warns.
“Could help with the amnesia,” Scott chimes in.
“You wouldn’t,” Stiles says smugly. “You loooooove me.”
The hands around his legs tighten. “God knows why,” his husband grumbles.
Stiles can’t stop smiling, staring around the room. His room! In his apartment! That he shares with his husband!
“This is so cool,” he slurs. “So cool.”
“Mmm-hmmm,” his husband says, tucking the sheets around him tightly, and then climbing over him to take the other side of the bed.
“You’re really real.” Stiles runs his palm down one stubbly cheek. So handsome.
His husband, the handsome monster slayer who wears soft jammies to bed, catches his hand and kisses his palm. “You’ll be fine in the morning,” he says.
Stiles pulls him closer, snuggles in, and completely forgets to ask his name.
2087
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