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When It All Falls Apart

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Stiles shouldn’t be surprised.

The urge to interrupt Jackson before he’s finished ranting is overwhelming, but Stiles is patient, is calm. No amount of vitriol and half-assed insulting is going to change the outcome of this argument. Nothing is going to win this for Jackson, nothing is going to make him look good.

His phone is tightly clasped between Stiles' long fingers, his knuckles bone-white and his joints aching. The screen has long since gone black, but the texts are still firmly burned into Stiles’ mind.

Jackson, I’m pregnant.

No ur not

I did a pregnancy test, Jackson, five of them actually. I’m pregnant.

Wht do u wnt me 2 do abt it?

Do what you promised. Leave that idiot and be with me.



Fine! Dnt hve a mltdwn.

Stiles hadn’t known what to do when he’d first seen them. The guilt for looking at Jackson’s phone at all had quickly turned to rage, had quickly melted into a tight ball in his belly that curled hot and clawed at the back of his throat. He’d thrown up twice before the shakes had started, and the shakes had turned into a twenty-minute-long panic attack before the tears had choked him.

When nothing was left but the gaping ache of betrayal, Stiles had wished, not for the first time, that he drank.

Now though, now, with Jackson hurling his abuse, his accusations, Stiles is calm. He’s calm because if he lets himself be anything else, he knows only one of them will leave this room and Stiles really doesn’t want to go to prison.

He inhales, gives Jackson a moment longer to be his usual unapologetic self, before he sets the phone down, rounds the table separating them, and punches Jackson square in the nose.

He doesn’t even bother to hide his delight at the spray of blood, the crunch of cartilage. That Jackson looks stunned, victimized, only makes Stiles all the more pissed.

“You stupid fucking bastard,” Stiles seethes, his jaw tight against the tears that burn behind his eyes. He knows his eyes are shining, knows they’re red-rimmed and swollen, a splash of fresh color against the ever-present ring of black.

He should have left years ago.

His father was right.


Stiles hits him again, but the delight is bitter on the back of his tongue. He shakes with rage, but more so with pain, with the gut-wrenching hurt he should have seen coming.

Jackson keeps his mouth shut, licks tentatively at his now split lip. They stay silent, Stiles staring at this man he no longer even recognizes, while Jackson stares at his phone. That shame isn’t even present on his too-perfect face only makes Stiles feel all the more pathetic.

His father was right.

“Get out.”

Jackson looks at him, clenches his jaw and squares his shoulders as if he’s readying to fight, to start throwing around demands of his own.

Not now.

Not ever again.

“Get the fuck out, Jackson! Just go!” He shoves him, ignores the way his voice breaks, the way his vision blurs. He shoves Jackson again, this time harder, this time with clenched fists instead of open palms. “Get the fuck away from me!”


No!” Stiles screams, and the word crackles, frayed around the edges as his throat closes and his cheeks heat and everything just hurts. “I don’t want to hear what you have to say! Get out of my house! Get out of my life!”

“This is my home too! Where am I meant to go?”

“I don’t care! Go to England, go to Mars. Go directly to the lowest circle of Hell where you fucking belong! Heck, why not go to your whore, she wants you so fucking bad!”

“Hey, you don’t talk about her like that!”

Stiles throws a vase and only regrets that he’s the one who has to clean it up.

Along with his life.

What a fucking mess.

“Jackson, I swear,” he pauses, pushes down on the wave of sick that turns his mouth wet, turns it vile. He turns his back, wraps his arms around himself and hides his shaking hands in his armpits.

Jackson touches him, places his strong hand on Stiles’ shaking shoulder and it’s only then that Stiles acknowledges that he’s on the verge of breaking down. He pushes Jackson’s hand away from himself, whirls on him to shove him again and hates the way his tears burn in his throat when Jackson stumbles and almost trips over the sofa.

“Jesus, Stiles. What the fuck?”

“How long?”


“How fucking long, Jackson!? How long have you been fucking this bitch on the side? How long have you been lying to me? Was any of this even real?”

“Of course it was fucking real! Jesus Stiles, you think I’d marry you if I didn’t love you?”

“Love me?” Stiles is hysterical, he can’t calm himself down, can’t slow his heart. “You never fucking loved me, you egotistical prick! You don’t even know what love is! If you did, this wouldn’t be happening! How fucking long? How long has it been happening, Jackson?

“Stiles, it doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me!” He screams, and even his own ears hurt from the sound.

He can’t breathe.

Jackson stares at him, finally sees what he’s done, what it’s doing to Stiles, but he doesn’t look remorseful. He looks bored.

Stiles can’t breathe.

Tell me!”

“Three years, okay? Are you happy? I’ve been sleeping with her for three years.”



Stiles swallows. His eyes twitch.


“Three years?!” Stiles is afraid he’s going to shake apart, that he’s going to turn to ash right then and there. “Three fucking years?! Oh my God, Jackson! What the actual fuck?”

“What do you want me to say, Stiles? That I’m sorry? We both know that’d be a lie–”

“And perfectly in character, you piece of shit!”

Jackson scoffs and rolls his eyes, “I’m not sorry, Stiles. Not sorry for sleeping with Lydia, not sorry for going behind your back. I’m a guy, I have needs, and you weren’t fulfilling them.”

Stiles throws a remote, throws a coffee mug, a stack of magazines and a crystal bowl full of candy. He snatches up a pair of scissors in his rush and Jackson finally looks worried, his eyes wide as he holds his hands up.

“Holy fuck, Stiles! Jesus! Calm the fuck down!”

“Tell me why! Tell me why right fucking now!”

Jackson pauses, and Stiles lifts the scissors, pull his arm back, and Jackson breaks.

“Because she’s fertile!”

Stiles’ arm drops.

“I’m an Alpha, okay? I never thought it meant much when we were in school but we’re not anymore. We’re not in school and I’m not that same kid. I fucking get it now, I understand why they drilled all that crap into our heads as teens. It’s not just omega’s that want kids, Stiles. Alpha’s do, too.” Jackson inhales, hunches over and lowers his eyes. “I want kids, Stiles, and it’s not happening between us. And if it’s not happening now, it never will. I’m in my prime, and I’m not wasting that on a defective omega.”

The scissors hit the floor.

“Face it, you’re broken or something.”

Stiles hits the floor too, crumples like a house of cards. He feels numb, but at the same time he feels too much, feels everything all at once.



“Get out.”


“Leave,” it’s barely a whisper, but it’s full of hurt, full of tears. He stares at the carpet with blurry vision, jerks with each hitched breath he chokes on.

He distantly registers the exasperated huff, the scuff of boots on tile, the clatter of keys and the slam of the front door.

He sobs, a cut off gasp of pain that washes over him, curls its claws in his head, around his heart, and squeezes. It builds until he can’t think for the pounding in his temples, can’t see for the black spots blooming behind the tears, can’t breathe for the agony that clamps down on his chest.

He should have known.

He should have seen it coming.

The increased touches, the affection, the pride before every heat. And the disinterest after, the absence, the disappointment.

What’s wrong with him?

Stiles curls in on himself, hugs his middle and wonders what’s missing. He wails from the pain, the grief. It’s the pain of three years of marriage that meant nothing, four years he wasted in a relationship being loyal to a man who saw him as nothing more than a womb, as nothing more than a breeder.

And when Stiles couldn’t even be that…

Stiles curls up all the tighter and sobs until the pain consumes him, clutches at him sharply and drags him under.



 ˜”*°•.˜”*°• + •°*”˜.•°*”˜



His phone is ringing.

He’s still on the floor. He’s numb, a broken husk that still spills tears but doesn’t do it consciously. He stares at the side of the sofa, inhales shakily because his body is running on instinct.

Stiles wonders how long it will take him to die if he stays where he is.

Days, probably.

He doesn’t think he’ll even notice.

He certainly doesn’t care.



˜”*°•.˜”*°• + •°*”˜.•°*”˜



Someone’s bashing at his door.

He blinks, and distantly thinks he should hate the way his eyes are dry, the way they feel as if sand has been poured behind his eyelids. He doesn’t feel anything.

The door snaps open, bounces off the wall and settles when the intruder forces their way in. Stiles can’t bring himself to care, or move, or do much of anything.

And even when the intruder turns into his dad, and his dad all but bulldozes his furniture out of the way to get to him, Stiles feels nothing.

It’s not until his dad curses, picks him up and pulls him into his lap, wraps him in his arms and mutters, I’m here, kid, I got you, that Stiles finally feels again.

And feeling again hurts.

It burns through him and sets everything aflame and he’s eight years old again, screaming himself awake from the nightmare that was his mother dying right in front of him. He chokes on his sobs, on his gulping breaths as his father holds him, as he rocks him and shushes him and yells for Parrish to find that stupid son of a bitch so I can shoot him!

Stiles doesn’t hear the response, he fades out and sinks into darkness.

His dad has him.



˜”*°•.˜”*°• + •°*”˜.•°*”˜



He wakes again to hushed whispers, angry and tense.

It’s dark outside, quiet but for the chirp of oblivious and unfazed insects.

He stays on his side, drained of everything and bone-tired. He feels as if he’s inhaled his pillow, feels as if his head’s been cracked open and left to bake in the sun.

He doesn’t want to feel.

He hears what they’re saying and he doesn’t want to know. It slips in against his bidding, taunts him and scratches through his veins.

“What the hell do you mean there’s nothing we can do? We’re the sheriff’s department, for fuck sake!”

“Yes, sir, but we’re not the law. I’m on your side, John. What that joke of an alpha did was inexcusable, but the law is firmly on his side. Yes, he’s married to Stiles, but he’s mated to the Martin girl, and no matter what he’s done, no jury is going to punish a mated alpha over an unmated omega.”

“God damn fucking politics, what fucking use are they when it allows some spoiled little punk to do this to my boy? Stiles doesn’t deserve this! You saw him, Parrish! What gives anyone the right to do that? What makes anyone think it’s okay to break up a marriage just because an alpha found their mate elsewhere? What the fuck happened to loyalty? To commitment? Why the fuck is my son being punished when that smug little dick-hat is the one that should be hurting?”

“Dick-hat, sir?”

There’s a pause, silence that’s broken only by a shaky breath. Stiles thinks he should laugh, he wants to, deep down, but there’s nothing left in him for laughter.

“Sheriff, sir, John,” Parrish inhales, centers himself and continues in his hushed voice, “the law won’t help. Which means there’s only one option. We kill him.”

“Jesus, Parrish, what?”

“We could kill her, it’d certainly break the Whittemore boy, but I’m not entirely comfortable killing a pregnant omega, even if I’m not the one pulling the trigger.”

More silence, more tense breathing. Stiles wonders how bad he must look if Parrish, law abiding citizen, do-no-wrong deputy Parrish is considering murder.

Stiles doesn’t think he should feel warm over that, if anything he should probably feel distressed.

He doesn’t.

A few minutes’ pass before either of them speak again. It’s almost as if they were really contemplating the idea of hiring a hit-man, but it passes and Stiles isn’t sure how that makes him feel.

“The law won’t break them up, it will rule in their favor, but a marriage is a marriage. It’s still a legally binding contract. The only way Stiles can get back at Jackson is if he takes him for everything he’s worth during the divorce.”

“Parrish, Jackson’s a spoiled rich kid, his father wipes his ass with hundred dollar notes. Stiles will be lucky if he can get out of this with his sanity let alone anything else. Jackson won’t give anything up, he’s a brat. And he certainly doesn’t acknowledge that what he’s done is wrong.”

There’s a pause before Parrish speaks with a frown in his tone, “Tell me again why we’re not just taking this kid out the back and shooting him?”

“You’re a good kid, Parrish,” his dad has a grin in his voice, however strained it is. “And a damned fine deputy.”

They move out of range, their voices trailing off until all Stiles can hear are the bugs and the frail rattle of air as it forces its way in and out of his heavy chest.



˜”*°•.˜”*°• + •°*”˜.•°*”˜



It’s been nearly a week and Stiles hasn’t heard anything from Jackson, or his armada of prissy lawyers. He supposes his dad is probably playing proxy, fielding all calls and intercepting his mail, his texts.

Stiles doesn’t care.

He’s barely able to function, to do the basics. He hasn’t showered since their fight, has barely eaten or slept a peaceful wink. He’s spent his hours curled up on a bed that no longer feels safe, in a room that no longer feels welcoming.

He’s afraid, alone, everything aches.

The pain becomes too much and he staggers down the hall, moves like a ghost through a house that’s no longer home. A house he’ll no doubt lose in the divorce.

He should burn it down out of spite.

No one’s in the kitchen, or the living room. No one’s anywhere.

He finds a half-empty box of crackers on the counter next to a bag of other goods, finds a bucket of fried chicken in the fridge and a stack of pizza boxes. His hands shake with the urge to find his father and lecture him about his diet, but right now, with everything in tattered pieces, he can’t claw up the strength to truly care.

He takes the box of nuggets as revenge, munches on them absently, and wanders into his living room. He curls up on the sofa, sinks into the soft cushions and eats cold chicken nuggets as the fight swirls in his head, washes over him like a tidal wave of memory.

His eyes fall to the papers on the coffee table, mind skipping over words of hate from both sides of the political agenda. Everyone has a say, as if they were the ones slighted. Stiles finishes a nugget, leans over and snatches the pages, tosses them to the floor on the other side of the room.

His eyes land on divorce papers.

Well then.

He finishes the box of nuggets, ambles back into the kitchen and takes the box of pepperoni pizza with him, as well as a carton of mint-slice ice-cream and a packet of choc-chips.

He’s about to be divorced, about to lose everything.

What fucks does he have to give about his figure?

He settles back on the couch, crosses his legs and sets his food around him. He eats two slices of pizza, half the carton of ice-cream and returns to the kitchen for the bucket of chicken before he finally lifts the papers into his lap and sets about reading.

By the time he’s done, he’s finished the ice-cream, the pizza, half the bucket of chicken and he’s thrown up twice.



˜”*°•.˜”*°• + •°*”˜.•°*”˜



Stiles finds Jackson’s credit card three days after he starts boxing everything up. He hasn’t signed the papers, hasn’t answered calls or looked at texts or emails. He’s cut himself off from the world beyond his walls.

And he knows some would frown on what he does, how childish it might be, how vindictive, but if he signs those papers, and he has to, he’s going to be left with five percent of fuck all.

So he tells himself it doesn’t matter that it’s Jackson’s money, tells himself that it’s perfectly fine because the card is connected to a joint account, their account.

It’s not theft when they’re still technically married.

He buys his father a new television, a smart TV that takes up half of his living room wall and is crystal clear. He replaces the family fridge, has someone come in to fix the downstairs toilet, the upstairs shower.

He puts his beloved Jeep – one of the few things he gets to keep – in to be tuned up, her parts replaced. She comes out purring and Stiles grins for the first time since his world fell apart.

He buys a new bed, replaces the teenage furniture in his room. When his dad makes a comment about taking over his bedroom, Stiles fans himself with the credit card and buys his dad a new bed too.

He makes a few small donations to random charities, makes a large donation to an omega shelter that takes in and looks after battered, abandoned and mistreated omegas and any children they may have. He does it because they need the money more than Jackson ever will, but he also does it because he knows anything that helps omegas will just piss Jackson off.

That they open a second shelter in Beacon Hills, right near where Jackson's alpha elitist father works, is just icing on the fucking cake.

Stiles splurges on new clothes, new shoes, stocks up on expensive everything, and orders in from a fancy restaurant that charges fifty bucks for a steak. They get two steaks, a stack of ribs, two different pastas and three other sides. Also dessert, because why the fuck not.

They do it all again when Parrish makes a comment about how good the garlic bread is when John takes the leftovers in for lunch the next day.

Stiles spends what he wants, when he wants, where he wants, and he never lets himself feel guilty about it.

But spoiling himself never fills the hole that’s torn itself inside of him, it never soothes the ragged edges of his broken heart, never dulls the pain.

Spending Jackson’s money stops making him feel anything but tired.

He looks around at all their new stuff, and sure, they need it, he needs it, but it doesn’t make him less empty.

Nothing will.

He wakes crying, surrounded by his new bedding, his new furniture, his new everything. He clutches his flat belly, curls in on himself and mourns for something he never even had to begin with.



˜”*°•.˜”*°• + •°*”˜.•°*”˜



Of all the things Stiles uses Jackson’s money to pay for, nothing makes him feel as good as dropping ten grand on fertility testing.

He goes to the best of the best, doesn’t even bat an eyelash as they charge his card and lead him into a personal suite.

He feels warm inside as he waits, fingers clenched in a soft blue gown, but he also feels scared, nervous, utterly fucking terrified.

His doctor is a kind woman, an understanding omega with gentle hands and gentler eyes. She soothes him when he shakes, speaks to him in calming tones when his heart-rate skyrockets, and she holds his hand when tears slip free of his clenched eyes.

Ten grand means he doesn’t have to wait the two weeks’ others have to.

Ten grand means he only has to sit in the waiting room for an hour tops.

His doctor comes to him with a smile on her face, neither happy nor sad. She leads him to a small office, gives him cocoa he can’t drink, offers him a pastry he can’t eat.

And tells him he’s perfectly healthy.

She says nothing when Stiles breaks, when he cries. She gives him tissues, soft and expensive, and rubs his back when he asks her if she’s sure.

She tells him yes, that he’s at peak fertility.

She tells him he’s perfectly capable of falling pregnant, and that any pregnancy he has will be healthy and most likely easy.

And she tells him he’s just about to go into heat.



˜”*°•.˜”*°• + •°*”˜.•°*”˜



Stiles feels it, that first curl of needy claws that dig into his gut and pull. He tells his father, puts his shaky hands to work cooking a weeks’ worth of meals, and uses Jackson’s money to pay for a hotel room for the duration of his heat.

Everything is too hot, too loud, too much.

He’s scared, worried, unsure on what to do, or how to do it.

He’s spent the last four years of his life with Jackson, spending each heat with the alpha. He knows his body won’t accept anything less than the real thing.

He spends the day before his full heat scratching at the walls.

He can’t sleep, can’t sit still, can’t breathe.

He knows he has no choice, knows his heat will be nothing but agonizing pain unless he does what needs to be done.

He uses Jackson’s money.

Uses the last of his wits.

He doesn’t remember the phone call; doesn’t even remember the name of the company he calls.

All he remembers is yanking open the door to find blue eyes, broad shoulders, and a smirk to die for before everything else, all sense of anything, is dragged under by the pull of needmatealphabreed.



˜”*°•.˜”*°• + •°*”˜.•°*”˜



Stiles thinks he might die.

He thinks he should call his father, should scream for help, but all he can do is scream for more, beg for it, claw at the bedding and push back on the fingers buried deep in his aching body.

It shouldn’t feel so good, it shouldn’t starve off the pain, but it does.

He chokes on an inhale, whines as those fingers curl, rub over his slick-wet walls and drag songs of want from his lips.

He’s going to die and he doesn’t even care.



˜”*°•.˜”*°• + •°*”˜.•°*”˜



Stiles hurts.

Everything hurts.

It aches in places it’s never ached before; burns so low in his belly he doesn’t even know exactly what the feeling is. His mind is a hive of confused want, hazy need and an ever present chant of alpha.

It’s giving him a damned headache, but it won’t stop, just gets louder and more persistent until he’s choking on tears and curling in on himself.

The alpha at his back soothes him, pulls him against a broad chest and nuzzles the back of his neck. Stiles’ senses are beaten into submission by a wave of pure, possessive need.

Need to breed, need to mate, need to claim.

Arms thick with muscle wrap him tight, hold him close. Hands he’s falling head first into love with settle over his torso, one claiming palm against his rapidly beating heart while the other, gentle and tentative, rests over his flat middle.

It sets a fire in his veins, sets his fingers curling into the sheets. His body presses back against the heat of him, his hips arching, presenting.

Jackson is alpha, but he never smelled like this.

It’s never felt like this, either.

The air smells sticky-sweet, even to his nose, and he mewls when the alpha presses forward, rubs the thick length of him against Stiles’ backside.

His voice is rough, deep in a way that shouldn’t do anything to Stiles but does absolutely everything.

Stiles wants to roll around in that voice, the silky timbre of it. He wants this alpha more than he’s wanted anything else in his life.

His inhales turn frantic, that sticky-sweet scent intensifying until he’s graced with the sound of raw obsession.

The alpha snarls.

It’s animal and possessive and so fucking good.

Stiles needs it. All of it. In him, around him. He’s drowning in it and he wants to.

He shivers when the alpha shifts, he moves easily when his leg is pushed high, hugs the pillow to his face to bury his whines when talented fingers tease at his soaking hole. He claws at the bedding when the pillow is pulled away, tossed into the room without a care. He bites his lip to keep the sounds in as best he can, his moans growing pitched as those fingers dip in, push deep, stroke and curl and tease and–

Stiles screams when those fingers are replaced by a tongue.

He doesn’t know how to act, how to move, how to feel. Jackson never did this, never touched to entice, never teased to push him higher.

Jackson never needed him like this, as if he’s the only thing in the world that matters, like he’s the only one that can sate the hunger.

Jackson only ever took.

This alpha, oh, he only gives.

Stiles arches, looks back at the man devouring his scent, his slick like a man starved, and whines. The sound is enough to drag his attention, ice-blue eyes snapping up to meet his whiskey-gaze. Stiles comes. He loses himself in the orgasm, drifts back from it shaking and with his fingers curled in a fist around dark hair.

He’s a panting wreck, holding on for dear life, and the alpha is growling into him, eyes alight with a smirk that’s buried between Stiles’ thighs.

Stiles pulls his hair, tugs at the strands until the alpha follows his lead. He drags him up his body, whines until his sounds are swallowed by eager lips. He tastes himself, wet and sweet, and beneath it, the alpha’s mouth is hot and demanding.

He takes as he gives, demands that Stiles holds nothing back.

Stiles pants into his kisses, spreads his thighs and wraps himself around the alpha like an octopus.

He’s sticky and soaked, sweat and slick-stained, but the alpha groans against his lips, kisses down his jaw and nips at his throat. Stiles’ skin burns from the rub of stubble, heats in the best way as finally, yes, the alpha shifts his hips and rocks down.

Stiles’ is so wet it makes things difficult, makes things messy, but he moans when fingers press into him, rub at his rim and pull.

Heat blooms in his belly, trickles down and soaks the alpha’s fingers, and Stiles mewls when the man uses it to slick his cock up, rubs it over his shaft, the heavy weight of his sack, and then grunts as he smears the last of it over his lower belly.

Stiles shouldn’t find that so sexy, shouldn’t pant for more as he watches tight muscles bunch and coil. His mind goes blank when he’s dragged back into a kiss, lips and teeth and tongues in a tangled mess as he curls around the alpha and opens for him.

He mewls against his mouth at the first press of him, gasps and pants and whines as he’s filled to the brim with a cock so thick he thinks he’ll tear apart.

Stiles is in love.

It’s too much, it’s not enough, it’s hot and perfect and Stiles can’t help the elated noise he makes when the alpha settles, his hips pressed flush to Stiles’ ass.

Stiles has never been so full in his life.

His blood sings, begs for more, begs for the rough of breeding, the hard and fast of a fucking he’s never been given. He wants it so bad, but the alpha remains still, and it’s only when Stiles opens his eyes that he realizes the alpha is watching him intently.

It’s only then, when he sees the look on the alpha’s face, eyes pinched slightly with concern, that Stiles realizes he’s crying.

It’s not him making that low, displeased keening noise, a noise that rips through him and has him cradling the alpha.

Reassure him.

Soothe him.



He licks the alpha’s cheek.

He nuzzles his jaw, rubs his face against his throat, and mewls into the muscles there.

Stiles never thought necks could be so fucking yum.

He’s brought back by a hand on his face, gentle but firm, and it’s only when his mouth closes that he realizes he was chanting alpha, over and over.

The man stares at him, considering, before he leans in, returns the scenting, slowly, possessively, and mutters in his ear.

“My name is Peter, I want you to use it.”



It shouldn’t settle in Stiles’ chest the way it does, it shouldn’t sound so right on his tongue when he gasps it, when he throws his head back and screams it as he’s shifted and pulled close and marked.

Peter shouldn’t sound so much like mate when Stiles cries it as he’s taken, a flush high on his cheeks as his thighs are held wide and his rim is so thoroughly stretched.

Peter shouldn’t watch him the way he does, eyes only ever leaving his face to watch his cock disappear into silky, soft, warmth.

Peter shouldn’t hold him close when he comes, shouldn’t kiss him firmly, shouldn’t cradle his head, one strong hand at the back of his neck while the other splays possessive fingers across the middle of his lower back.

Peter shouldn’t be so pleased when Stiles claws his nails down his back, his legs now wrapped tightly around his hips as he loses himself in ecstasy.

Peter shouldn’t call him anything when he knots him, shouldn’t bury his words into Stiles’ throat as he spills his seed, his claim, into Stiles’ waiting body.

Peter most definitely shouldn’t call Stiles his mate.

But he does.

And it’s everything it never was with Jackson, everything it should have always been.

Stiles finally feels whole.



˜”*°•.˜”*°• + •°*”˜.•°*”˜



Stiles doesn’t understand what it means when half a day into his heat, Peter goes into rut.

He doesn’t understand what it means when Peter leaves bites all over his shoulders, his fingers leaving possessive bruises on his hips.

He doesn’t understand what it means when everything hurts until that final moment, that final press of hips before Peter’s knot buries deep, presses firm and holds them tied.

Stiles doesn’t understand why Peter always crowds him, always pulls him close or presses up against him.

He doesn’t understand why Peter always has at least one hand splayed firmly over Stiles’ belly, doesn’t understand why Peter scents him even when they’re not breeding, or tied together.

Peter has taken instinct to a level Stiles never knew existed.

He’s gentle as he’s firm, he’s adoring as he’s possessive, he’s as lost in Stiles as Stiles is in him, and Stiles doesn’t understand that.

He preens as he’s taken care of, nuzzled and kept warm. He moans and presses back when Peter licks him clean when they’ve finally pulled apart. Stiles enjoys everything Peter gives him, but he doesn’t understand.

Stiles doesn’t understand until he wakes up clearheaded after only two days.



˜”*°•.˜”*°• + •°*”˜.•°*”˜



Stiles is terrified.

He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do, or what he’s supposed to say.

Peter is content to ignore the problem until it goes away, content to bury his smug smile and happy little chuffs into Stiles’ throat, but Stiles is freaking out.

In the panic of pre-heat, he’d called an escort company, he’d begged for help with his heat, begged for an alpha that knew what he was doing and didn’t need anything but his pay.

Stiles had begged for discretion.

What he got was a mate and an unplanned pregnancy.

What was the protocol for that?

Did he still pay the company?

Did he thank Peter and go on his merry way?

Stiles doesn’t know he’s having a panic attack until Peter drags him out of it with a hand on his belly and a press of lips to the back of his neck.

He cries, buries his tears in Peter’s chest when the alpha turns him and wraps him in his protective embrace.

That Stiles never wants to leave is some kind of cruel joke.

He cries himself to sleep, wakes up to a foggy head and blurry eyes, and to an alpha that gives him water and a protein bar and helps him down both. Stiles cries again because Jackson had never been anything but negative towards him after a heat.

Peter curls around him, pulls him close and holds him securely, scents him and rubs a soothing hand in circles on his back.

When Stiles crawls into his lap, when he wraps his fingers around Peter’s thick cock and sinks down onto it with a needy whimper, Peter holds him close and says nothing but Stiles’ name.

It breaks him, just as it makes him whole.



˜”*°•.˜”*°• + •°*”˜.•°*”˜



Stiles breaks down on the fourth day and tells Peter everything.

He chokes on his tears, shakes through his words, and admits to how terrified he is that this is a dream, that he’ll wake up and be back there, that he’ll wake up next to Jackson and be back where he knew nothing beyond directionless misery.

Peter is comforting, a soothing presence at his side, but every time Stiles mentions Jackson, Peter always tenses, always growls. Stiles doesn’t notice, doesn’t see the looks Peter gets, doesn’t hear the dangerous noises the other man makes, he’s so lost in his grief, his hurt.

It isn’t until Stiles chokes on the last words Jackson said to him, spills tears and presses shaking hands to his belly, that Peter finally snaps.

It’s so sudden, so vicious, that Stiles flinches. Instinct tells him to go still, to make himself small and stay quiet.

He curls around his belly, wraps his arms around his middle and whines pitifully.

Peter’s at his front instantly, hands cradling his face. His thumbs wipe away the tears that mar Stiles’ face, and his eyes are dark, haunted, angry in a way Stiles has never seen before, but that anger, that rage, isn’t aimed at him.

Peter pulls him against his chest, all but crushes him in his arms. He nuzzles and scents, licks and nips and soothes Stiles’ doubts away with careful hands.

When he pulls away, he settles his palms over Stiles’ stomach protectively, meets his tear-filled gaze and calls him everything Jackson never did.





Stiles curls against Peter’s broad chest and cries again, but for once his tears aren’t for what he’s lost, but for what he’s gained.



˜”*°•.˜”*°• + •°*”˜.•°*”˜



Stiles returns home to find lawyers in his kitchen.

There’s nine of them, each dressed in immaculate suits and wearing the same bored expression. Jackson’s father is seated in front of them, lips turned down in open contempt for their home.

Stiles twitches.

He wants to shout, to spit, to claw.

He wants to fight.

They’ve turned his father into a defeated shell of what he was before Stiles went into heat.

John Stilinski has always had a strong spine but now, now he looks broken. His eyes are ringed with shadows, his shoulders pulled down, hunched over himself as if it physically hurts to keep them up any longer.

Stiles doesn’t hesitate.

He snatches up the papers, expects to find divorce forms, expects to see demands.

His blood runs cold.

He’s being sued.



˜”*°•.˜”*°• + •°*”˜.•°*”˜



Stiles loses days.

He cries himself sick, wails until he’s too weak to do anything but fade.

His father tries to console him but nothing he says helps.

They’re going to lose everything.

Jackson is going to take everything from him, from them both.

And its Stiles’ fault.

He falls into hysterics, falls into the pit of anxietydepressionpanicjustmakeitstop.

Everything hurts until he’s a screaming mess on the floor of his room.

He doesn’t come out of it until he’s pulled into a warm chest, surrounded by warm arms, soothing scent, and mate.

Stiles dreams of a little boy with mole-dotted pale skin, an upturned little nose and bright blue eyes that sing with the smirk that’s matched on too-wide lips.



˜”*°•.˜”*°• + •°*”˜.•°*”˜



Stiles is a nervous wreck.

His father hides it better, but so is he.

The office they’re in is too big, too sterile, and its filled to the brim with lawyers and the elite of Beacon Hills.

Jackson is sitting opposite him, smug and grinning as he rocks back on his chair and holds hands with Lydia Martin.

Stiles used to think Lydia was gorgeous, a goddess.

Now he wants nothing more than to jump the table and claw her eyes out.

Why the fuck is she even here?

Stiles wants to ask, wants to demand that she leave, she’s nothing but a home-wrecker and she has no legal right to be there. But he won’t speak, won’t demand anything, and she knows it.

Jackson knows it too.

Stiles is going to be sick.

Jackson’s father checks his watch, sits forward and clears his throat. The lawyers straighten at his back like henchmen.

Stiles sips water because if he doesn’t, he’ll throw up.

His dad sits forward, eyes tired but determined. He’s in uniform because he’s on the clock, but no one says anything. Their attention is on Stiles.

“Stiles,” Jackson speaks, a smirk in his words.

A smirk that only becomes more pronounced when Stiles sinks in his chair and starts to shake.

“What did you see in him again?”

“He’s got a pretty mouth.”

Stiles goes sickly-pale as they laugh, and John’s fingers itch to go to the Glock at his side.

He can’t do this.

“Sheriff Stilinski, Stiles–”

“Mr. Stilinski, if you don’t mind,” John cuts in, cheeks hot with anger.

Jackson’s father sighs, shakes his head and leans closer.

“We all know why we’re here. Mr. Stilinski has–”

“Done nothing wrong.”

The lawyers turn as one, their intense expressions wavering when they take in the new addition to the room.

Stiles looks up, and everything that was coiled tightly in his belly unravels. His hands settle in his lap, his heart stops trying to beat its way out of his rib-cage and the nerves calm to something closer to a background hum instead of the wriggling mass of snakes they were before.

“Who’s this asshole?”

“Jackson, keep your mouth shut.”

Peter rests a hand on the back of Stiles’ neck, squeezes and lingers for a moment before he undoes the button of his suit jacket and sits.

He’s the perfect picture of calm, his movements confident and easy. His eyes though, his eyes burn with hate and Stiles has to look away before arousal can settle beside the butterflies.

There’s silence for several long minutes, silence that sets the army of suits on edge. Peter lets it go on before he straightens, lifts the stack of papers outlining the divorce settlement, lifts the papers outlining why they’re suing Stiles and for how much. Peter throws them at Jackson and smirks when the younger alpha splutters and huffs like an angry toddler.

“What the hell!”

“Before we get started, I’d like that,” he barely gives Lydia so much as a glance before he continues, “removed from this room.”

“Excuse me?!” Her voice is pitched too high, indignant and insulted. She flips her hair, sets her steely gaze on Peter and snarls, “Do you know who I am?”

“As far as I’m concerned you’re nothing but a home-wrecking whore,” Peter ignores her gasp, ignores the start of Jackson’s ranting, and sets his eyes on the lawyer directly behind Jackson’s father. “Get her out of here before this gets embarrassing for you.”

Stiles feels glee warm his belly when she’s escorted from the room, her protests disregarded. That the lawyers snub Jackson’s protests too only furthers Stiles’ elation.

“Mr. Hale.”


Stiles stares.


How had he not seen it?

The man looks like a vengeful god, it’s textbook Hale.

He’s mated to a Hale.

He’s mated to Peter Hale.

The same Peter Hale that’s never lost a case.

The same Peter Hale that’s destroyed empires.

Before the whine of distress can even leave his throat, that wide-palmed hand is at his neck again, soothing and a warm comfort that calms Stiles down. He takes a minute to settle himself, to move passed the shock that rattles every bone in his body.

When Peter’s hand leaves his neck, it settles in his lap, and Stiles wraps his hands around it, clings to it for the lifeline it is. He gulps down air, keeps his eyes on the table and barely resists the urge to bury his face in Peter’s throat when the alpha leans into him and presses his lips to his ear.

“Enjoy the show, sweetheart. I’m going to look after you.”

Without Lydia at his side, Jackson looks terrified.

With Peter at his, the lawyers look terrified too.

By the time Peter is done with them, Jackson is a wreck at his father’s heels, his father is an agitated ghost of his former self, and the army of lawyers are falling over themselves to get out of the room.

The lawsuit is dropped.

The divorce settled.

Stiles feels calm, feels like for the first time in years he can finally breathe.

He thought he was going to lose, he thought he was going to cost his father his home, his life.

But Peter, Peter gave him everything.

Stiles buries his tears in his father’s uniform.

Then he buries more into Peter’s expensive suit.

Peter doesn’t mind.



˜”*°•.˜”*°• + •°*”˜.•°*”˜



Peter leaves him only long enough to take Jackson aside.

Stiles can’t hear what he says, but he watches the color leech from Jackson’s face and delights in the way he crumbles. He can see the difference now, the difference between not just the men, but the alphas.

Where Jackson was always smug and thought himself above everyone else, Peter is confident and knows he’s above everyone else. Stiles shouldn’t find that kind of arrogance appealing, but it does things to him anyway, settles hot in his belly and warms through him until he’s shaking with a kind of need he’s never felt outside of his heat.

Peter’s eyes are on him, and there’s something predatory in that look, something dark. It’s like he knows, can smell it on Stiles from across the room.

He continues to speak to Jackson, but his gaze never leaves Stiles and Stiles doesn’t have the will to look away.

And even when Peter approaches him, a wolf among sheep, Stiles can’t break his stare.

He holds his breath when Peter stops in front of him, holds it longer when the alpha pulls him in and scents his jaw, his throat.

Stiles positively moans when Peter nips at his pulse, and the sound should scandalize, should embarrass, but he’s too hot to think straight. Everything that happened in the office room replays in his head and he’s lost in the memories of Peter’s prowess.

Peter had thoroughly ruined them.

And for him.

They barely make it to the bathroom before he’s tearing at Peter’s clothes. The jacket, which probably costs more than Stiles makes in a year, hits the floor without a care. Stiles’ hands shake as he tries to open tiny buttons, and his whole body thrums when Peter growls low and rips the shirt open.

Stiles bites his own marks into Peter’s glorious chest, licks and nips at abs that bunch and clench under his fingers, his lips. He finds Peter hard and waiting when he finally pulls him free of his pants, and he worships the heavy line of him with a clever tongue and the warm-wet of his mouth.

Peter’s fingers in his hair are soothing, gentle as he combs them through the sweaty strands. He whispers words of encouragement, touches everywhere he can with Stiles’ name a breathy hiss on his lips.

Stiles positively glows under such praise.

He wants to swallow Peter down, wants to bring the alpha to his knees with his mouth alone, but Peter urges him back with firm yet tender hands. He pulls Stiles to his feet, pulls him into a kiss that fries Stiles' brain and leaves him a panting wreck.

He goes easily, willingly, when he’s turned, rested against the tiles, and he buries the noises Peter drags from him in his arms.

Peter worships the line of his spine, crowds him against the wall and covers his shoulders in marks of claim, marks of mate. When he goes to his knees, when he kisses and bites and sucks that claim into Stiles’ hips, the swell of his ass, when Peter spreads him and licks into him, Stiles falls apart.

He’s easily picked up, easily held against the wall. He wraps himself around Peter, gasps and moans and holds on for dear life.

Lost in it, the moment, the heat, the intense stare Peter is pinning him with, Stiles isn’t sure what he sees is real. He gasps as he comes, as he digs his fingers into Peter’s shoulders, gasps again when Peter fills him with heat and snarls his name.

Stiles gasps when sky-blue bleeds red, but everything crashes, burns and roils as his eyes flutter closed and his body goes limp.

Peter doesn’t knot him, but he holds him close all the same, nuzzles and scents and easily holds Stiles against him.

Stiles asks him what he is, and Peter tells him.

I’m yours.



˜”*°•.˜”*°• + •°*”˜.•°*”˜



That the Hales are werewolves should probably shock Stiles more than it does.

They’re terrifying for all of five minutes, and then they turn to mush when they find out he’s expecting.

He hears tales of Peter’s youth, embarrassing stories and candid moments that paint the alpha in a different light.

Stiles only falls deeper into love with the man.

Peter, despite the swarm of family, or possibly because of, is a constant at Stiles’ side. A werewolf barnacle, Stiles takes to calling him, and Peter only pretends to be offended.

He’s showing, his belly small but round, and Peter growls a low warning whenever someone tries to touch him. Even Talia, the packs Alpha, is wary to get too close.

Stiles shouldn’t find it so appealing.

He does.

The first time they’re caught with their pants down, it’s by Talia’s husband, Stephen. He squawks, throws up his hands to cover his face and hurries away as if he’s seen something that’s likely to get him killed.

The second time, it’s Talia, and she just scoffs and scolds them and leaves them feeling like naughty children.

The third time, it’s Peter’s nephew, and Stiles almost dies laughing when the man’s eyebrows migrate to his hairline and stay there for several seconds while he stares. Then he’s gone, and he never meets Stiles’ eyes again.

The fourth time, Peter gives up because what’s the point of locked doors if people are going to barge in anyway.

Peter tells the gagging youth that it’s her own damn fault and that she should know better.

Peter tells everyone that yes, they fuck constantly, and that no, he doesn’t care what they think on the matter.

Talia tells him to keep it in his pants.

Peter bends Stiles over Talia’s grand piano and takes him twice just to spite her.



˜”*°•.˜”*°• + •°*”˜.•°*”˜



Stiles had always dreamed of his wedding day.

With Jackson, it had been quick, a signing of papers in front of a sweaty minister and three uncomfortable parents. Stiles had been a nervous wreck, and his hands had shaken the entire time.

With Peter, Stiles is calm.

There’s no musty office room, no old minister with yellow teeth and a bad hair-do. There’s no pressure at the back of his head telling him he’s making a mistake, no voice that sounds too much like his dad telling him he can back out if he wants to, that no one will think less of him.

His dad tells him he’s proud, his eyes shining with tears he doesn’t try to hide. He hugs him, holds him tight, and tells him Stiles’ mother would be proud of him too.

It’s not an extravagant event, but it’s beautiful, it’s perfect, it’s everything Stiles always wanted.

Peter spared no expense, and it shows.

The Preserve is lit up by lights that sparkle like fireflies, the strands of wire hidden away by the spill of moss from every branch. Jars of candles hang beneath them, set a different tone and keep everything soft.

The air is cool and it whispers of magic, brushes over Stiles as he walks beside his dad.

John never got this when Stiles married Jackson, but now, with his head held high, he walks Stiles down the aisle and hugs him tightly, gives his hand to Peter, and hugs him too.

It’s a full moon, the sky lit up by its magnificent glow, and it draws the wolves to the surface.

Stiles isn’t afraid, he’s never felt more safe in his life.

He speaks when it’s his turn, he bites back tears when it’s Peter’s, and he clings to the alpha when they kiss, wrapped up in each other, their unborn child protected between them.

The Hales’ howl at the moon, and accept Stiles as family.



˜”*°•.˜”*°• + •°*”˜.•°*”˜



Stiles gives birth to a beautiful baby boy with mole-dotted skin the color of milk, a tuft of dark hair, and crystal-blue eyes that sparkle with the promise of mischief.