#➤ lydia martin — study | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bamboozledbird · 4 months ago

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𝕚𝕗 𝕚 𝕔𝕠𝕦𝕝𝕕 𝕝𝕠𝕤𝕖 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕚 𝕨𝕠𝕦𝕝𝕕 pt.2 // stiles stilinski imagine

Characters: Stiles Stilinski, fem!reader, Theo Raeken, Lydia Martin Pairing(s): Stiles x you, Theo x you (no use of y/n) Word Count: 5.3k Tags: a fix-it for y'all bc i'm a pushover Warnings: Underage drinking (at least in america rip, they're all 19+), creepy guys in bars, emetophobia, new jersey slander (please forgive me jerseyans)

Request: for all you people i made cry with part 1. this is my love letter to you. A/N: you don't necessarily need to read part 1 to understand, but this is a follow-up to if i could lose you i would.

The night starts well enough. Theo’s hand is a warm, steadying weight against your lower back, and his cologne cuts through the vague funky smell clouding the bar. Lydia chose it; somehow, no matter the city, she always knows about the coolest, underground spots that seem to only circulate within an elite circle of twentysomethings. It really isn’t all that shocking when you think about it as you nurse your bitter cocktail; every single person who catches a glimpse of Lydia immediately craves her attention. Unfortunately for them, Lydia always takes you as her date, though lately she’s been ending your nights out at a stranger's apartment more often than not. She’s never said it, but you know it’s because, ever since the disastrous end to her start-of-summer bash, Theo's made himself a permanent third-wheel on girls’ night. He’s never said it, but you know he started tagging along because you’ve been distant since Stiles poured into your bedroom and pressed on all the bruises his fingertips left behind when he left you. You really thought you’d washed them all away with 3,000 miles, 3 months, and 3 weeks of the scrape of Theo’s teeth.

You sip on your fourth drink of the evening, sitting on a barstool because your legs are too wobbly to stand on, and Theo watches you watch Lydia spin a girl with a radiant smile and glitter tinsel in her hair.

“You wanna dance?” he hums in your ear. You can barely hear him over the bass and the buzz of too much tequila.

You nibble on your straw and hiccup around it, “Don’t think I can.”

Theo makes a move to grab the drink in your hand, and you bend backwards to keep it out of his reach. “Come on,” he frowns, “you can’t even stand.”

“So?” you purse your lips petulantly and punctuate your point with a loud suck, draining the last few drops of your lime margarita through a few chunks of leftover ice.

Theo looks tired as he studies your face. “What the hell is going on with you? I see you every day, and I still don’t have a fucking clue.”

You’re too drunk to pretend you don’t know what he’s talking about. Hiccupping again, your nose scrunches, “I’m just…I wanna go home.” Theo pats his jacket pockets for his keys, and you shake your head a few too many times. “No, not there.” Your stomach turns when you finally realize what you actually mean. You want to hitch a ride on the melting ice in your glass and dissolve into knotted hair on Sunday mornings, freckled skin washed with the shifting sun, and pouted pink lips, cursing the snooze button and your cold toes. You don’t say that. You’re drunk, not cruel. “I wanna go back to Stanford. I hate it here.”

Theo’s eyes are shadowed in the dim light of the club, but they’re calculating. “You really think that’s far enough?”

Blinking slowly, your mind spins with the drinks in your stomach as you try and fail to think of something clever. “Feels far,” you mumble, and Theo doesn’t look reassured. It’s hard for you to differentiate pain from anger through watery eyes and the brume of tequila, but whatever emotion is darkening Theo’s expression, you think it’s justified. He’s smart enough to know what you mean.

His face goes blank as he searches for his keys again, “I think that’s enough fun for tonight.”

You shake your head and wriggle down further into the cradle of your hips, “I wanna stay.”

Theo exhales through his nose and runs a hand over his face, “I thought you wanted to go home.”

Your tongue is thick as you struggle for words, sniffling as they tease you from the fraying edges of consciousness. “Not there.” You know you sound like a baby, recycling the handful of words you can remember, and you know that tears will only make it worse, but they still bubble along your lash line.

“Stay at Lydia’s then,” Theo spits out through gritted teeth, but he shoves a napkin towards you to mop up your running mascara, so you forgive him. It’s your fault, after all. At least, you think so as you watch him leave.

“Boyfriend troubles?” Your head lulls to the side as you blink dumbly, all big-eyed and glassy, at the stranger leaning against the bar beside you. He’s tall, well-built too, but you’re mostly focused on his pungent cologne. It’s hard not to; you’re suffocating in it.

The man laughs and grabs your chin, shaking your head a little, “You’re adorable. How could anyone stay mad at you?”

You recoil, wrenching your face from his sweaty grasp, and run your tongue over your teeth. “He’s not…” your protest gets lost in your throat when he steps into your space and slides his hand along your spine, just shy of your ass. Your dress is backless, completely exposed to his wandering gaze, and your skin crawls with the sensation of his fingertips grazing your back.

His breath is hot and wet on the shell of your ear, “You want to forget about it for a while, angel?”

“No,” your head jerks from side to side, eyes screwed shut, “I don’t—I think I’m gonna puke.”

A wave of relief rolls over you when a red-taloned hand slithers between your bodies. Lydia shoves the stranger’s chest sharply, sending him stumbling into the stool behind him, and his hand falls from your hip.

“Does it look like she wants to contract something from a limp-dicked lowlife in tacky shoes?” The top of Lydia’s head barely reaches his shoulder, but her eyes are sharp and her sneer is venomous. The creep has the good sense to look a little afraid. “You have exactly two seconds to get the hell out of here before I personally ensure you’re on every public sex offender registry from here to Quebec.”

She grabs your hand before he has the chance to disagree and pulls you into the bathroom. In comparison to the loud, muggy dancefloor, it’s a wonderful reprieve: an oasis of cold air and muffled bass.

Lydia fusses over you for a minute; you wave off her concerns and push yourself onto the sink even though your arms feel distinctly gelatinous. You can tell she doesn’t believe you, but men preying on drunk women is a tragically large and present underbelly of girl world, so after a moment she turns her intense focus to the lighted mirror. She looks perfect—she always looks perfect—but she won’t believe anyone except her own reflection.

The aching strain in your arches slowly dissipates to a faint tingle the longer your feet dangle from the counter, your heels discarded below. They’re black strappy things from the back of Lydia’s closet, and so is the scrap of black silk that Prada has the audacity to call a dress. You are grateful, however, for the short hem and open back now that your skin finally has the chance to breathe.

You watch Lydia apply her lipstick with a precision brain surgeons could only dream of, smiling lazily. She’s graceful with the slender brush, like Botticelli stroking a swathe of red silk over a canvas of smooth skin. You envy her, with your eyeshadow already melting below your waterline, but mostly you love her. So proud to have such a goddess for a best friend.

Her head tilts as she smiles at you, and she must be at least a little godly because she doesn’t smear her lipstick when her mouth curves. “What?” she hums around her puckered lips.

“Nothing,” your words slur together, “you’re just perfect.”

She tucks her lipstick into her clutch and shakes her head, “And you’re so drunk. Lethal, babe.”

“I love it,” you sigh as she starts fixing your hair, clicking her tongue when you start to fidget. You slump into her careful touch and watch her fingers smooth through a few knots near your ends. “Being drunk is my favorite.”

She twirls her finger, indicating you should turn around, and begins twisting your flattened curls into an elegant bun. “I’ve noticed,” she mutters through the bobby pin clutched between her teeth, “you’ve been drinking more than you’ve sober lately.”

“It’s summer!” You blow a curl off of your nose and close your teary eyes so that your mascara doesn’t flake onto your cheeks, “You’re supposed to be drunk.”

Lydia hums and pulls a few strands of hair loose to artfully frame your face. “I didn’t realize alcoholism was seasonal.”

“You,” you bop her nose and giggle when it scrunches under your finger, “are being a major buzzkill. Don’t kill my buzz; that’s murder in the first.”

“Someone has to be.” Lydia leans her hip against the sink, and her brows curve, “Where’s Theo? I thought he was your DD tonight?”

You let the intoxication sweep over your senses because it’s easy and knock your ankles together like a child on the swings. “He left,” you chirp.

“He what?”

Your bottom lip juts out a little, “I think I hurt his feelings.”

Lydia is incensed. She tosses her hair over her shoulder and mutters a few choice words under her breath, “I’m going to hurt a lot more than that when I find him.” You curl in on yourself a little, and she sighs, unwinding her fingers from tight fists as her eyes soften. “He really left you here?” she asks quietly.

You shrug, refusing to feel sorry for yourself, and make grabby hands at her sleeves, “It’s okay. You’re here, and you’re my best friend, and I love you.”

She laces your fingers together and squeezes your hand, “It is not okay. That creep had you halfway to his car.”

You shudder at memory, and feel the ghost of the stranger’s clammy hand against your lower back, “But you rescued me. So it’s okay.”

You frown at Lydia’s frown and push her cheeks together, squishing her mouth into a crinkled half-smile. She rolls her eyes a little and takes your wrists in her hands gently, “He shouldn’t have left you. It was a shitty thing to do, babe.”

“I made him sad, I think.” You hiccup a little, “I think I always do.”

“He can’t leave you blackout drunk in a skeezy bar just because you’re in love with someone else,” she huffs.

You tease the tip of your tongue through your front teeth, swinging your legs back and forth below the sink, “It wasn’t skeezy when you picked it.”

Lydia huffs again and folds her arms over her chest, “That was before I saw tall, dark, and creepy try to take you home.”

Your playful grin crumbles as your drunk-numb mind finally catches up with the burning behind your ribs. “I’m in love with someone else,” you say, voice sticky and thick in your throat.

She lets out a sigh so soft you wonder if you just imagined it and takes both of your hands, “I know.”

Whimpering quietly, you turn your nose into your shoulder, slightly embarrassed by the sound. “I’m sad about it.”

“I know,” Lydia combs a few strands of your hair off of your tear-tacky face and smiles a little, “let’s get you home, okay?”

Another round of nausea hits you as you finally realize that you’re truly, really, horrifically drunk, and you still can’t forget him.

“I don’t think I know where that is anymore.”

Lydia was able to corral you into an Uber after you puked a few times. She held your hair back and helped you brush your teeth. You cried a little when she wiped the sweat off of your face with a makeup wipe, watching her take care of you with big wet eyes, as she tucked you into bed like the baby tequila and heartbreak had turned you into. She made you promise to call her in the morning, and then she left you to sleep off the ache in your throat and the six margaritas in your bloodstream—or was it seven, you can’t remember.

You can’t remember much, it seems. You scroll through your feed for a while and squint at the blurry splotches of color, trying to recall if you were good enough friends with the girl from software systems to leave a comment on her post about how hot she looks in red. Your fingers drift, swiping away from Instagram to the only thing you remember. The thing you’ll always remember.

The phone rings exactly two times.

“Hi.” It’s the only thing you can think of besides, ‘I love you. I love you. I love you. Please make it stop.’

“Hey.” You listen to Stiles breathe on the other side of the line and snuggle further into your pillow. “You there?”

His voice is soft in your ear, and your eyes go lidded, “Uh huh.”

He clears his throat, “What are you doing up this late?”

You twist around your sheets, and the tip of your tongue pokes out at your phone. Apparently, you’ve also forgotten that he can’t see you. “What are you doing up this late?”

“It’s uh,” Stiles pauses and there’s a rustling sound on his side of the line, “almost 8 here.”

You blink and frown at the time on your screen, “Nuh uh.”

There’s a pause; you hate it. You want him to keep talking until you fall asleep. He finally sighs, “Are you drunk?”

Your tongue pokes out again, “I’m not the one who can’t tell time.”

“Baby,” your heart skips and your breath hitches, and he must be tired because he doesn’t seem to notice the slip, “we’re in different time zones.”

Your heart stumbles over the skip this time, and it feels a lot like flatlining. “You went back already?”

“I, uh,” he shifts, must be in his desk chair because you can hear something rolling, “my lease started. Figured if I’m paying to live in Philly, I should actually, y’know, live in Philly.”

“Oh.” One little syllable, and it’s heavy with so many things you can’t bring yourself to dwell on it.

“Yeah.”

“So, uh,” you hear him scratch at something, most likely the back of his neck because he sounds anxious, “why’d you call?” He’s quick to correct himself, words overlapping like ripples in a creek, “Not that I’m not glad you called; I’m stoked you called—or maybe something a little less embarrassing—but I, uh,” there’s that scratching sound again and a quiet thudding of drumming fingers, “I really didn’t think you would.”

“Dunno,” there’s a smile in your voice, but you aren’t sure if he can hear it through the wobble, “just started dialin’, n’ I ended up here.”

He stands, and the phone shifts against his cheek as he starts to pace, “Where are you?” He sounds worried. You frown—you don’t want him to worry. You want him to hold you.

“Home,” you pause, nose wrinkling because that’s not quite right, and then add, “my house.”

“Did you drink anything?”

“Clearly.”

You can hear the eye roll from the other side of the country when he huffs into the phone, “I meant water. Did you drink any water?”

“Uh,” you nibble on your lip, “yes?”

He huffs again, but this time you can tell he’s smiling, “Get up and get some water—Advil too. Put it on top of whatever book you’re reading so it doesn’t get lost in your pile of shitty chapsticks and hair thingies.”

Your eyes cross, affronted, “They are not shitty.”

“They’re an endless cycle of chapped hell.”

“But they taste good,” you grumble, cuddling your pillow to your chest.

He’s smirking; you know it. “Oh, I know.”

You both just breathe through the line for a long moment, remembering the same slick slide of lips and tongues.

“I miss you,” you whisper.

Stiles inhales sharply, “I miss you too.”

“No,” you shake your head, smearing mascara on your pillowcase, “I miss you.” Your mouth is dry, and you can’t find the right words to explain it, how he’s apart from you even when he’s standing right there. There just aren’t enough words in the English language to explain the ache in the marrow of your ribs, how he still lingers inside your skin like some kind of fucked-up, agonizing osmosis, how you love him so tortuously, so effortlessly. Indefinitely.

You can’t explain, but when he whispers, “Yeah, me too,” you know he knows.

You sniffle and hiccup a few times, and a sigh crackles through your speaker. “Drink some water for me, okay?”

“Okay,” you whisper. You roll onto your stomach and sit up a little on your elbows, “Will you stay?”

“Yeah, baby,” his chair squeaks as he sits back down, “‘till you fall asleep.”

“Promise?” Your voice is thick, like you’ve been crying for hours, and Stiles’s voice is tight when he finally replies.

“Promise.”

You wake up with dry eyes and a rank taste in your mouth. There’s a glass of water and a handful of Advil on your nightstand, and you just know. You’ve known for a while actually, maybe forever, but you can’t pretend you don’t anymore.

Theo seems to know why you invited him over so early on a Sunday morning. He doesn’t even look sad when you officially end it, and you wonder if it’s because he knew it was over a long time ago. You wish, selfishly, that he would’ve let you in on the secret so that you could’ve avoided all this. You hug him before he leaves, and it’s stiff and awkward, and you feel a little shitty about the whole thing—but it doesn’t feel wrong.

You feel like yourself for the first time in a long time, and that feels good.

Summer is almost over, and you don’t have the time to obsess over all your wanting. All the air leaves your body sometimes, no room for anything but honey, veins, and new stubble, but you have so much to do. There’s no time for drowning in it when you’ve only got a few weeks before the semester starts.

You don’t even have the time to acknowledge the nerves wriggling up your esophagus until you’re standing in front of a black door. Your screen is lit with the address Scott texted you, along with roughly 100 exclamation points and a dozen or so brain explosion, party popper, and happy face emojis. They steady you as you knock on the splintering door. The unit is cute and quaint, and you distract yourself by getting a better look at the sage green columns.

Stiles opens the door, looking disarmingly soft in his worn sweatpants and stretched-out t-shirt—like cuddling on the weekend, like playing video games until sunrise, like home. He blinks at you slowly, pretty pink mouth slightly ajar.

You shift on the soles of your sneakers, jamming your hands into your hoodie pockets. “Hey.”

He blinks some more and seems to be only capable of repeating what he hears, “Hey.”

“So,” you dig the toe of your shoe into the porch, staring at a warped patch, curved from seasons of melting snow, and shrug, “I was in the neighborhood. Thought I’d drop by.”

He recovers from his stupor and leans against the doorframe, hands tucked under his armpits. “You were in the neighborhood,” his head tilts with his arched brow, “in Philadelphia.”

“Well,” you try not not to smile, “it was on my way.”

Nodding, Stiles rubs his chin and purses his lips. You want to kiss the smirk off of his stupid face. “Right, the classic eastbound Stanford route.”

“Not quite.” You adjust the strap of your duffle bag on your shoulder, easing some of the ache pinching at the base of your skull, “New transfer orientation is on Monday. Turns out Princeton’s comp sci department is decent.”

His face becomes guarded, but there’s a little something like hope behind the uncertainty, “4th in the country.”

Something warm inside your stomach flutters. He knows. Of course, he knows. He probably researched it all the way back in high school. You brush your hair out of your eyes and hum, “Mhm.”

Stiles slides his socked foot back and forth, slipping on the polished floor of his cozy entryway. He barely catches himself on the doorknob. You laugh until he says, “Stanford’s 2nd.”

Your shoulder lifts, “That's correct.”

His chin dips as he searches your face for something. You smile at him, and he swallows; it looks painful. “You turned down MIT because it was too far from home.”

“That's also correct,” you say quietly with a jerky nod.

His eyes go wide as he shakes his head, almost violently. He almost slips again with the dramatic effort, “MIT’s 1st in comp-sci.”

You steady him with a palm against his chest, swiping your thumb over his ribs. His heart thrashes under your touch, and your face lifts with a timid, tender smile. “Sure, but Princeton’s ranked #1 nationally. Overall champs, baby. Suck it.”

Stiles finally smiles, but it’s hesitant. “You don’t say.”

You let a breathy exhale and drop your hands to your sides, curling and uncurling your fingers into tight fists. He’s still looking at you, a cute little wrinkle in-between his brows, waiting for something more. Fair enough. He kind of laid it all out on the line the last time you spoke in-person—he kind of deserves to stew a little after everything he put you through, but you’ve forgiven him, decided you want to be happy more than you want to punish him.

You roll your shoulders back and tilt your chin to meet his gaze. “I don’t believe in soulmates.”

Stiles’s face goes sour, and he crosses his arms firmly over his chest, mouth twitching between a pout and a frown. “You stopped in Philly just to tell me tha—”

You rock onto your tiptoes to press a finger to his lips, biting back a smile when they pucker like a fish, and say, “Will you kindly shut it for a minute? I need to get through this. I practiced a lot on the plane.” His eyes narrow, sullen and irritated, but he keeps his lips pressed together, waiting impatiently for you to finish.

You slip your finger from his mouth to cup his jaw, thumbing just below his cheekbone, and his body goes lax, irritation slowly seeping from his lanky limbs to the floor. Grinning, you poke the tip of your tongue at him, and he swallows hard as he tracks the movement.

“As I was saying,” you smile through the snark and slide your hands to his chest, resting against the vibration of his thudding heart, “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately, and I don’t think there’s just one person out there for everyone—but that’s a good thing, right? I mean, the entire concept of a soulmate is basically just a blackhole. You’re falling, and falling, and falling—and there’s no end; you’re just trapped. There's no choice. I don’t want to love like that—I don’t want to love you like that.”

It’s cute, the way his face screws up around a theory. It’s a familiar expression, and you can’t help but melt at the knees while you watch his eyes flick back and forth, adding up all your expressions and trying to calculate the meaning. The corner of your mouth pulls into a slip of a smile, “If I turned around right now and never saw you again, I’d be okay. I mean, I wouldn’t drop dead or anything.”

He sucks in sharply, head jerking back, “What the fu—”

“Hush, I’m almost done.” You keep going before he can interrupt you again, rushing through the rest of your speech, running out of air and restraint, “I think that I could get over you, eventually, years and years from now—but the point is—what I realized is: I don’t want to. I don’t want to get over you. I don’t want to find someone else. Stiles, I love you—I’m in love with you, and I really think tha—”

His lips are wet and warm against yours, and you whine softly into his mouth at the familiarity. He hooks his thumbs in the belt loops on your jeans and yanks you closer, until your chests are pressed together and you can feel him breathe. You were right—the beard burn is delectable.

The kiss slows into something less desperate, something more like forever, and Stiles brushes his lips over yours in a few chaste pecks. When your lashes finally flutter open, you see that he’s grinning at you. It’s so wide, so happy, and his eyes crinkle at the corners as he says, “Sorry, you just would not shut up, so I figured it was either kiss you or shove something in your big mouth—and I’m not super confident in my CPR skills. Scott and I really spent most of the time figuring out how many pencils we could fit into the dummy’s mouth.”

“I take it back.” You push his face away from you, but a laugh bubbles past your swollen lips when Stiles pinches your waist. “I hate you.”

“Nope. No refunds.” Stiles shakes his head solemnly and wraps his hand around your hip, squeezing possessively, “You kiss it, you buy it. That’s what Coach said about the dummy.”

“Well,” your arms find their way around his neck, and your fingers wind into the soft hair curling behind his ears, “you are a dummy.”

“The dumbest,” he agrees. He’s smiling, but his eyes are sincere, cloudy with guilt. “Baby, I never should’ve—”

You take great satisfaction in your turn shutting him up with a kiss, tugging on his hair until you’re on your tiptoes and he’s groaning into your mouth. “I think we’ve been miserable for a long time,” you whisper, breath ghosting across his shiny lips. He shivers, and you press your temple against his forehead, “I think I’ve had enough of it. How ‘bout you?”

Stiles nods quickly and dips in to kiss you again. “Can I say sorry one more time?” he mumbles, kissing the ridge of your ear.

“I suppose,” you sigh and fall back onto your heels.

He takes your bag from your shoulder and guides you into his apartment, kicking the door shut so that he doesn’t have to let go of your hand. There’s a thud as he drops the duffle bag onto the floor, and you barely have the time to take-in the ratty little sofa and coffee table piled with empty pizza boxes before he’s on you again. “I’m,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, and it twitches with the contact, “so,” his lips trail to your cheek, “very,” he presses a kiss to your temple, “truly,” to your hairline, “forever-ly,” to the tip of your nose, “sorry,” to your mouth.

You sigh as he settles in for a real kiss and fall back onto the couch with him on top of you, disrupting his rhythm with a breathy giggle. He braces his weight onto his arms, and you wriggle down until your face is directly below his. “Hi,” you trace his bottom lip with your finger, smiling when he purses his lips to kiss it.

“Hey.” He looks drunk: cheeks flushed, eyes hazy with pleasure, body loose and free from critical thinking—and you think to yourself that you’d do just about anything to make sure he’s this happy for the rest of his life.

Stiles rolls, bringing you into his side with an arm around your waist, and presses against your lower back until you're crushed against him. Still, you squirm closer. Neither of you say anything for a long time, content with the sound of each other’s breathing, and then Stiles hums in his throat a little and plays with the ends of your hair, “So. You’re gonna live in New Jersey.”

“Yup,” your mouth pops with the ‘p.’

He grins, “Wow. You must, like, really love me or something.”

“Or something,” you tease, and he bites your shoulder in retaliation.

“Jersey isn’t so bad,” his voice is muffled against his teeth, still embedded in your sweatshirt. Well, his technically.

You laugh, “It’s not?”

“Nah,” Stiles pulls back to look at you and scratches at the back of his neck, lifting a shoulder, “wouldn’t mind living there for the…beaches.”

“The Shore, you mean?” you grin, trying to imagine Stiles with a bad spray tan and slicked back hair.

He grins right back and strokes your cheek, “Yeah, I’d move there for the Shore. I’ve actually been searching for just the right opportunity to show off my scrawny arms and pasty complexion. It’s like, what, a 40 minute drive from there to Penn?”

“Trenton would be around that, but I was thinking Pennypack would only be 30 from Princeton.” Stiles looks at you through lidded eyes, suspicious. You grin, “For the cheesesteaks, obviously.”

“Obviously,” he quips, but you can tell his heart isn’t in it. His face turns serious as he whispers, “You don’t have to do this,” into the quiet air humming between you. “I would’ve transferred to a school in California if I knew you still wanted me.” A flash of something ignites behind his eyes, warming the amber to whiskey, and he sits up a little, reaching over your head for his phone, “I’ll do it right now.”

You clutch his wrist and shake your head, pulling on his arm until he’s close enough to feel your lashes brush against his skin, “That’s why I didn’t ask. You’ve been dreaming about this program your entire life.”

Stiles is unusually still as he stares you down. His incisor digs into his bottom lip with a cruel bite, “What about your dreams?”

You huff, “What part of #1 don’t you get? I literally just told you to suck it. In case you forgot, I cordially invite you to suck it again, #6.” He smiles, but his eyes remain unconvinced. Your face softens, all the muscles and cartilage going gooey with affection, “It was never about Stanford, Stiles. It was about home. Guess it took you going away to figure out home sucks without you. S'not really home at all, actually.”

His lashes flutter slowly as he blinks, shaking his head, tongue running over his teeth as he struggles for air and words in equal measure. You kiss him until he finds them. “I know you don’t believe in it,” Stiles breathes out, “but I don’t think I could survive you being gone. Not again.”

You stroke over the planes of his face and hum thoughtfully, “I believe you wouldn’t want to.” Your shoulder twitches with a quick shrug as you add, “I know I don’t.”

His mouth chases your fingertips, pressing kisses to them every so often, and he closes his eyes heavily—like he hasn’t slept in months, maybe since the night he broke up with you. “These last few months have been just the fuckin’ worst,” he finally manages a smirk after you kiss his nose in agreement, “like a fuckzillion times worse than the summer I broke my leg, and you and Scott signed up for rec soccer without me.”

“You’ve got to let that go,” your voice is high and whiny, and Stiles’s smirk widens, “we didn’t even win any games.” You tickle him, heart leaping into your throat when he laughs and squirms away from your relentless fingers, “Didn’t have our good luck charm with us, obviously.”

“Obviously,” his grin is smug with satisfaction. Stiles tangles your legs together, legs clunking clumsily but that’s just part of the delicious charm, and hooks his chin over your shoulder, “So, Pennypack, huh.”

You nod, “I really don’t want to live in Jersey.”

You can’t see him, but Stiles peers at you, a little dubious, a lot fond. “And it’s not just for me?”

You grin, caught, and shake your head firmly, “Absolutely not.”

“It’s for the cheesesteaks,” his brow arches, and he seems to finally understand when the room becomes a swathe your smile, of your bubbling laughter: He makes you as happy as you make him.

“Obviously.” You mean, I love you, I love you, I love you, and I never ever want to stop. Stiles hears it, of course he does, and he says it back, sealing it with a kiss, “Obviously.”

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takaraphoenix · 5 months ago

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Thirteen Truths (and a Lie)

Tags: m/m/m, polyamory, True Mates, post Nogitsune, Emissary Stiles, Spark Stiles, Pack Mom Stiles, Alpha Peter, magic, truth spell (in a way), hurt/comfort, Fae/Seelies, Erica Lives, Boyd Lives, Allison Lives, Jackson Doesn't Leave, m/f, f/f

Main Pairing: Chris/Peter/Stiles

Side Pairings: Boyd/Erica, Jackson/Lydia, Scott/Allison, Malia/Kira

Teen Wolf Characters: Mieczysław 'Stiles' Stilinski, Peter Hale, Chris Argent, Derek Hale, Erica Reyes, Vernon Boyd III, Isaac Lahey, Jackson Whittemore, Lydia Martin, Scott McCall, Allison Argent, Cora Hale, Malia Tate, Kira Yukimura

@writersmonth Prompts: petal + theater

Summary: Seelies have invaded Beacon Hills and the pack goes to negotiate the terms of their surrender. The Seelie Queen agrees to leave, in exchange for a game. Stiles, as the pack's Emissary, is the one who gets to play. If he tells thirteen hard truths, in front of his pack, the Seelies will leave.

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Thirteen Truths (and a Lie)

Stiles Summer Stories 2024

Stiles yawned and folded his arms on the kitchen isle, resting his cheek on his folded arms and getting more comfortable. The others were droning on about something but Stiles couldn't find the energy to concentrate. He'd spent the past twenty hours on a research binge, he was sleepy.

"You should pay attention, Stiles," Derek frowned at him, looking somewhat concerned.

"Seelie Court etiquette, dos and don'ts with fae folk," Stiles mumbled, waving a dismissive hand. "I spent the past day studying up on it, I don't need the Alpha lecture – even though I'm sure Peter is doing a wonderful job explaining it to you guys. Go, Peter."

He gave the Alpha a playful thumbs-up and Peter rolled his eyes at him, though the man couldn't fight the small, bemused smile. He stood together with Chris in front of the kitchen isle. The rest of the pack was gathered in a circle around them, more or less. Erica was sitting on Boyd's lap on the couch, with Isaac sitting next to them, talking to Erica. Jackson and Lydia were sharing the love-seat, Lydia on his lap and a heavy book on the armrest next to them as she scanned through it while carding her fingers through her mate's hair, soothing Jackson (which was always a good thing to do during a pack meeting to keep him and Scott from going for each other's throats). Scott, Allison, Kira and Malia were sharing the other couch and oh god why was Stiles in a pack with so many happy couples, that was just disgusting. Kira was braiding Malia's hair. Why were they so cute.

Stiles' eyes found Derek, Cora and Isaac on instinct, seeking the companionship from the other singles in their paired-up pack. Cora offered him a grin and an exasperated eye-roll motioning at Scott and Allison while making gagging motions, which only made Stiles snicker.

Peter cleared his throat, raising his eyebrows at Stiles in a pointed manner. "As I was saying, we have to decide how we approach the Seelie Court."

Stiles just offered his Alpha a tired, shit-eating grin. Man, he'd never thought Peter would grow into being a good Alpha. But being brought back from dead had really helped the man. And he loved this pack so fiercely, with the fierceness of a man who had already lost one pack. So when the Alpha Pack had invaded their territory and when the Darach had poisoned Cora, forcing Derek to give up his Alpha Spark to heal his sister, Peter had gone ahead and killed one of those 'spare Alphas running around' (Peter's words. That man was horrible. Why was Stiles so deeply in love with him), making him the new Alpha of the Hale Pack. They'd rebuilt, together. Well, until the next big bad hit them. Stiles' breath hitched at the reminder of the Nogitsune and even without meaning to, he started pressing his thumbs against the pads of his fingers, counting them.

"Stiles?" Derek's voice grew softer as he watched the movement.

Startled, Stiles sat up when he noticed the whole room had fallen silent, everyone staring at him. Everyone watching his finger-counting. Damn it. He hated worrying them. He forced a smile.

"I'm fine, just didn't sleep," Stiles shrugged.

Which wasn't even a lie. Neither of that was. He was fine – his new normal, his new definition of fine, because he would never be 'fine' again, he knew that, it had settled deeply in his bones. He was as fine as he would ever be. Stretching long and cracking his back, he decided to focus on the pack-meeting after all. Better than to let his mind drift to dark places. It tended to do that, especially when he was on too little sleep, which he evidently was today.

"There isn't really much to consider," Lydia picked the previous conversation up again. "When negotiating with the fae, it's important to have one vocal point, particularly to avoid missteps. The chances of someone in this pack speaking out of terms and insulting the fae, or worse even, accepting something from the fae that will be taken as a bargain, is too high."

"Why—y is everyone looking at me?" Scott frowned. "Jackson insults more people than me."

"That's true," Jackson shrugged. "But you would just accept shit from them, McCall."

"Don't fight," Stiles growled annoyed, pinning both betas with a look. "Focus."

Both Chris and Peter regarded him with heavy eyes and Stiles avoided them both, instead turning his attention to the coffee maker to get something to keep him awake. He hated the way they'd look at him whenever he accidentally Pack Mom-ed a little too obviously. It made something anxious twist in his gut, making him wonder if they knew. It was probably wrong of him to 'secretly' be Pack Mom, without actually clearing that with the Alpha and the Alpha Mate, but… But then there were enough things kept between them so he didn't feel overly guilty for it. With a near vindictive energy did he pour himself a coffee before returning to the counter.

"I'll talk to the Seelie Queen," Stiles declared simply.

"Excuse you," Peter huffed out a near amused laugh. "Who's the Alpha."

Peter flashed those pretty, pretty red eyes at him. It was cute how Peter thought that'd get him Stiles' submission. Instead, Stiles simply rolled his own eyes and emptied the cup of coffee in one go, causing Isaac to make gagging sounds and Boyd to make a concerned noise.

"Who's the Emissary of this pack," Stiles countered, raising both eyebrows at Peter. "That's literally in my job description. I represent the pack in diplomatic missions and speak on the pack's behalf. Don't think it can get more diplomatic than a visit at the Seelie Court. Besides, with all due respect oh great Alpha, you tend to get… violent… when your pack is threatened."

"So," Peter narrowed his eyes at Stiles, demanding more.

"There's no way we won't get threatened there," Stiles blinked at him amused. "Seelies play games and they threaten with honey-sweetened words. The last thing we need is for you to take a threat a bit too personal and threaten them back, because we'd be in their realm. They'd not only have the home advantage, we'd be stuck in a whole different realm, Peter. You're good with words, you got a sharp tongue, but so do I. I know how to deal with this. I spent all of yesterday preparing for it."

"He's not wrong, dad," Malia offered with a shrug. "Stiles has a sharper tongue than you."

"From my own daughter," Peter muttered beneath his breath.

"He is the best pick, from a standpoint of his role in the pack," Lydia added. "I would have tossed my own hat in the ring, or even Kira's – kitsune are trickster spirits, so there might be a certain sense of kinship that the Seelies might feel toward her – but as Emissary, Stiles is best suited."

Kira ducked her head. "I would really rather not do a job that requires me to speak sharp and precise. I am more prone to word-vomit and I don't see that going over well."

Malia interlaced her fingers with Kira's and pulled her close enough to kiss. "I like your word-vomits, they're cute. But yeah maybe not vomit all over the Seelie Court."

"Are you sure, Stiles?" Derek frowned at him again.

"You are so way over-protective, dude," Stiles rolled his eyes.

"Don't call me 'dude'," Derek growled annoyed. "And I'm serious."

"So am I," Stiles raised both eyebrows at the former Alpha. "I mean, shit, I'm already best suited from an introductory perspective. It's rude not to answer when asked something and they will ask for our names first. Names hold power. If you give a fae folk your name, they have control over you, but if you just don't answer, you insult them. I'm the only one who can truthfully answer without giving my actual name, because I don't go by my actual name."

"Huh," Erica blinked a couple of times. "Didn't even consider that."

A broad, shit-eating grin spread over Stiles lips. "I was made for this one. Besides! No mortal danger! I mean, you know, not from attacks. Mortal danger from linguistic missteps, but I'm eloquent enough to fight that battle. This one? This one's for me."

His grin turned a little more wicked and Peter flashed his eyes red for a moment in a way that Stiles couldn't quite explain. But what he said was true. Ever since the Seelie Court had moved into Beacon Hills a few days ago, and people started disappearing, Stiles had mentally prepared himself for this. He was uniquely suited to take care of this problem.

"We're all going," Chris declared in a very final Alpha Mate voice. "We won't let you walk into a foreign magical realm on your own, Stiles. But nobody aside from Stiles will speak with the fae or make contact with them. You will not be provoked and you will not provoke. Am I clear?"

The betas all ducked their heads and nodded to varying degrees. Stiles' grin turned a little more soft at the trust from his Alphas, even as it made his heart feel uncomfortably heavy.

/break\

The fourteen of them walked deep into the preserve together the next day. No unnecessary accessories – jackets, scarves, jewelry – nothing that could be snatched or bargained. Nobody was to wander off and, as Chris had declared yesterday, nobody was to speak to the Seelies aside from Stiles. His heart was jackrabbiting in his chest. Peter rested a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"You can do this," Peter whispered in a warm voice. "I know that."

The confidence only made Stiles' heart beat even faster. He nodded sharply as he lead the pack toward the pond deep in the woods. Oh, he really hoped this was going to work. It'd be so much easier with magic, but—He shook his head sharply, he couldn't think about that right now.

"This is a powerful portal," Stiles motioned at the mushrooms growing around the pond. "Water is a bridge between realms already but this pond was turned into a fairy circle too. Do not get lost. I'll go in first, we will all hold hands, there will be no complaints."

His hand slipped into Peter's, who in turn took Chris', Chris holding Allison's, Allison holding Scott's, behind Scott came Isaac, Erica, Boyd, Derek, Cora, Malia, Kira, Lydia, Jackson. One by one, they stepped through the bond, falling through the sky and landing in a true fairy tale kingdom. Everything was a purple blue haze, beautiful. Glowing fireflies in blue and pink flying all around them, butterflies larger than normal circled them. Flowers and tall trees everywhere.

"This is stunning," Kira whispered in awe.

"Do not, under any circumstances, touch anything," Stiles reminded her in a steely voice. "Regardless of how beautiful and harmless it looks. Everything here is deadly."

The kitsune nodded sharply, holding a little tighter onto Malia and Lydia. No one had let go yet. Good. Safer that way, at least until they'd reach the Seelie Court. Stiles' eyes were hard as he regarded them all, counting his pack-members just to make sure they were all there.

"How do we find the Seelie Court?" Scott asked, looking around. "This seems… big…"

"He has a point," Jackson conceded. "I can't see a real path anywhere either."

Stiles smirked at the betas, before tilting his head back and calling out loudly. "In the name of the Nemeton of Beacon Hills, I evoke the Spark's right of an audience with the Seelie Queen."

"What," Peter's eyes were wide in surprise.

It made Stiles laugh and turn toward the stunned pack. "I told you, I am uniquely suited for this job. The Nemeton is what invited the fae folk. As its chosen guardian, I have the right of an audience and can not be harmed until I am before the queen."

"Aren't you full of surprises, little Spark," Peter's eyes danced with something that Stiles couldn't name, before he frowned. "Though I do not appreciate the half-truths. You could have told us."

"Eh, where's the fun in that," Stiles laughed and turned back again.

His laughter died when two Seelie Knights approached them, wearing armor of hardened leafs and bark, adored with gold and gemstones. Their long hair was braided and decorated with poison ivy. They were easily the most beautiful creatures Stiles had ever seen, though he couldn't tell if they were men, women or neither. He just knew he was enchanted. His grip tightened.

"Do not let go until we're at the court," Stiles instructed the pack sharply.

"Spark," one of the knights greeted him, both of them bowing deep. "Our queen is delighted to receive you. If you would follow us, alone, we will bring you."

Stiles returned the bow and spoke while still bent down. "I thank your queen for her hospitality, however, where I go, my pack goes. As she surely can understand, for she would not receive me without her trusted knights present either."

The Seelie Knights exchanged a look, but in the end, they gave a reluctant nod and led the way. They walked through the forest and it felt as though the trees were bending their way, forming arcs for them to walk beneath. It was truly stunning. Until they reached the Seelie Court. Like a naturally occurring amphitheater, in a strange way. The stones and Earth seemed like they had formed the rounded shape all on their own, it was beautiful. The trees above them bore pink flowers, their petals raining down on everything ever so softly. Stiles could imagine being here forever.

At the center of the amphitheater stood a tree stump, the bark rising higher in the back, making it look like a throne. On the throne sat the most breathtaking woman Stiles had ever seen, her dress practically see-through in soft green, with flowers growing around it. Her hair was snow-white, her skin pale and adored with silver freckles like stars. Her eyes sharp and unnaturally green.

Stiles let go of Peter's hand to go down on one knee, bowing to her. The Alpha caught on and followed his example, and so did the rest of the pack after a moment. The knights walked to stand on either side of their queen, who made a delighted noise.

"I am Queen Faerynna of the Seelie Court and I am overjoyed to welcome a Spark in my realm."

"You are too kind, your highness. Your hospitality flatters me," Stiles remained kneeling.

"Rise, and tell me who you are," the queen instructed him.

"I am Stiles, Spark of Beacon Hills and Emissary of our local pack," Stiles said, motioning behind himself. "This is my pack and we thank you for your time."

He could hear one of them – Scott? Isaac? – gasp loudly now that everyone stood again. Stiles didn't turn away from the queen, but he still checked from the corner of his eyes. Ah. Humans, the missing people they were looking for. Dancing with bleeding feed, crying without noise.

"Do you like them?" Queen Faerynna asked excitedly. "They are new! They entertain me!"

Stiles instinctively reached out behind himself to grab Scott's wrist without having to look. He always knew where his betas were, Pack Mom instincts were great. Holding tight, he stopped Scott and jerked him back, giving a light shove and hoping the rest of the pack would catch on and help him keep a lid on this. He loved Scott dearly, but the guy's mortals often got the better of him. He wanted to help the people right now, but they couldn't. It'd incite the queen's wrath.

"They seem like… dull entertainment to me," Stiles offered after a moment. "Not worthy of a queen as beautiful and powerful as yourself, your highness."

The queen looked pleased and intrigued by this, leaning back in her throne. "What do you want."

"Their freedom, and ideally that you leave our territory," Stiles offered bluntly.

"And what do you offer in return?" Queen Faerynna's eyes sparkled eagerly.

"What is it you would want, in return for this," Stiles asked instead of offering anything.

"Mh…" Queen Faerynna's brows furrowed thoughtfully. "You want to take my entertainment away and you claim it isn't worthy of a queen like me, so… If you can entertain me better than they, I will grant your request. They can go and I will bind my realm to another place."

Stiles took a moment to consider. "What… kind of entertainment would you wish for, my queen? I assure you, I am not a graceful dancer, I doubt I would be able to entertain you with dance."

She laughed lightly and shook her head. "Play a game with me and if you play, I let them go."

Adjusting his stance, Stiles tilted his head. "Neither me nor my pack will die or be harmed in this game? And you will let us go too, when the game ends?"

"No physical harm will come to either of you."

"No harm at all will come to them," Stiles argued sharply.

The queen looked even more delighted at that. "No harm at all will come to your pack, if you play."

"And you will keep your end of the bargain regardless of how the game ends?" Stiles asked warily. "Not just in case I win, but also in case I lose."

"Oh, you will lose," Queen Faerynna pursed her lips amused. "But yes. As long as you play, start to finish, I will let you, your companions and the drool little dancers leave my realm."

"We have a deal," Stiles declared, followed by gasps from his pack.

No bargains with the fae. Well, no ill-advised bargains with the fae. He was content with these terms they had set and he knew they would not get rid of the Seelie Court without giving something. He whirled around when there were outcries from his pack. Vines shot from the ground, curling around them from the ankles up to the necks, keeping them all individually rooted to the spot. Blood-red roses sprouted on the vines as they tied the pack up.

"You promised no harm-" Stiles growled dangerously.

"They are not harmed," the queen stated matter-of-factly. "And as long as you play, they will not be harmed. See the thorns as… incentive for you to play along, young Spark."

A vicious snarl formed on his face as he saw the fearful look on Lydia's face, the concern on Chris', the panic on Isaac's. He whirled around, facing the queen again. So he wouldn't have to look at his pack, not feel guilty about the situation he'd gotten them into.

"I'm going to play your game," Stiles muttered, displeased. "Tell me the rules."

"It's simple," Faerynna smiled at him lightly. "I will ask you thirteen questions, one for each member of your pack, and with every hard truth you will reveal to me, to this court, and to your pack, I will release one of your pack-mates. You can, of course, end the game any time by refusing to answer me, but then I will keep every remaining pack-member I still have."

Her eyes were sharp and so were her teeth as she smiled even broader. He froze at the spot, his heartbeat skyrocketing as his eyes widened and his palms started sweating.

"What," Stiles forced the word out. "H… How is that entertaining for you."

He had genuinely considered chess or something along those lines. A game of wits and wisdom, worthy or a millennia old fae. Not this. The queen laughed, her smile growing more vicious.

"You have a sharp, silver tongue, young Spark," the queen pointed out. "You have mastered the art of lying to werewolves. That fascinates me and I think it would be greatly entertaining to see you stripped of your armor and forced to tell your truths."

"Stiles, listen to me," Lydia spoke gently. "It's going to be okay. Whatever you say, none of us will hold it against you. We know you're doing this to save us."

"What do you mean?" Scott sounded confused.

"Sometimes, we tell lies because truths hurt, even those close to us," Peter's voice was filled with bitterness. "Whatever the queen wants to pull out of Stiles, she does so to hurt him."

"Which means that these are things he chose not to tell us," Chris continued. "And that's his right. Everyone has a right to their secrets. So what Lydia means is that we will not hold those secrets against him, whatever they are, even if they hurt us."

"Especially if they hurt us," Peter corrected his mate. "Because it's most likely that that's why Stiles decided to keep them secrets, to not hurt us."

Stiles quirked his lips into a bitter smile at that. Wouldn't Peter know about secrets, mh. Still, the reassurance from his pack somewhat eased the queasy feeling in his stomach. He took a breath at the soft, understanding 'oh' from Scott. Okay. He could do that. Telling the truth.

"Bit rusty, but sure, let's give it a try," Stiles muttered beneath his breath before straightening to his full height, holding his head high too, not cowering before her. "I'm ready for your game."

There was a pause in everyone as the game was about to start. The pack, Stiles, the queen, even the knights. No, everything. Stiles noted the way the falling petals were suspended in the air for a moment. The binding magic of a fae contract was kicking in. And then everything came back to life.

"How can there be a Spark, in a territory where the local Nemeton has been cut down?"

Stiles tilted his head, furrowing his brows. That wasn't what he had expected. He turned to look back at his pack, all thirteen of them wrapped up in vines, thorns digging into their clothes. Blood-red roses adoring the vines. Some of them – Malia, Jackson, Derek and Scott – struggling more, like they could break free if they only tried hard enough. Others like Lydia, Kira, Peter and Chris knew better, stood relaxed, knowing that the vines would only tighten if they struggled.

"You can't ask questions that we don't know the answers to. That's cheating," Chris declared.

The hunter stared at the queen with steely, cold eyes, making Stiles shudder. The glare seemed nearly protective and Stiles felt warmth fill his belly at that thought. He knew it wasn't, but still.

"That's what makes it a hard truth," Queen Faerynna smiled bemused. "Because he knows the answer. He knows the answer but hasn't even told his pack. Delightful."

"Because it's mine," Stiles growled, keeping his head high.

"Not anymore," Queen Faerynna looked gleeful. "Unless you are fine with leaving this court without your friends… I wouldn't mind keeping them for my entertainment."

She curled her fingers together and the vines tightened around the pack. Stiles glared frustrated.

"The Nemeton only plants the Spark. But there have always been three parties. The Nemeton, the Spark, the pack," Stiles answered, raising his head, trying to look down on the queen. "The Hales just stopped looking for a Spark. I'm fairly sure there's always been a Spark, but the Spark has been forgotten by the pack. They thought there couldn't be one without the Nemeton. But the Nemeton still planted the Spark. It takes the pack to ignite a Spark. I only got access to my magic after I joined the Hale Pack, the first time I used my magic was to protect my pack, at the rave."

He could hear the confused noises, saw the looks his pack exchanged at that. Could see the questions in their eyes. His stomach felt like it was filling with lead, even as the roses around Isaac turned from their blood-red color into a pure white and the vines let go, leaving Isaac confused, stumbling forward and instinctively closer to Stiles. Stiles' own instincts told him to put himself between his pup and the threat. The queen. So he pushed in front of Isaac.

"And why is that a secret?" Queen Faerynna asked. "Why not tell your pack?"

The delightful grin on her lips told him that she already knew. His pulse was picking up, he balled fists at the sides of his body, feeling tense and nervous. He didn't like where this game was going.

"Stiles," Peter growled. "Answer her question."

And not just because the pack was in danger. But because the Alpha was angry. He could hear it in Peter's growl. The master manipulator and hoarder of information hated not knowing. This was knowledge regarding his pack that had been deliberately kept from him by his Emissary.

"Because you already lost enough," Stiles forced out, turning to look at Peter, Derek and Cora. "You were already blaming yourself for the loss of your family. You didn't need to know that your family could have lived if the pack had kept looking for Sparks, if instead of the unreliable, weak druid, Talia would have had a Spark as her Emissary. I didn't want you to feel like there was something else you could have done to prevent what happened, not when the past is… in the past."

He pressed his lips together and looked away from the Hales. There was no changing the past and yet this was a fact. If the Hale Pack hadn't stopped looking for Sparks, had kept looking for them, they would have had Sparks as Emissaries for the past seventy years. Whoever had been the Spark before Stiles, they would have been at Talia's side, they could have protected the pack.

"Stiles…" Peter's voice softened. "That wasn't your burden to carry."

"It was," Stiles straightened his posture again, bracing himself for what would come after this. "I am your Emissary. Protecting this pack is my job. Even from emotional pain, Peter."

He chanced a glance at the Hales, seeing pain and pity in their eyes, even as the roses around Cora turned lily white and the vines fell off of her. She came to join Isaac in standing behind Stiles. He took a step forward, away from them. He didn't want comfort or support, because it would just make him more aware of the audience he had. If he had to give eleven more truths, he needed to compartmentalize. Lock away his own feelings in regard to this and focus on the task.

"Your job, mh," a bemused smile played on the queen's face. "What is your job in this pack?"

"I'm the Emissary of the pack," Stiles replied with narrowed eyes.

"Half-truth," Queen Faerynna chimed, shaking her head in disapproval. "Don't make me hurt them. You know exactly what I am talking about. What's your job in this pack, that you're hiding?"

"I'm…" Stiles' voice shook a little and he swallowed hard. "Pack Mom."

Noises of confusion came from behind him, startled gasps. He tried tuning them out, because he knew he wasn't done answering. She required elaborate answers. Painful answers.

"I've been Pack Mom since I joined this pack, back when Derek was still the Alpha," Stiles continued, focusing only on the queen. "I take care of my pack. I used my magic for the first time so I could protect my pups. I protected them from the kanima, at the rave. Put myself between them and the threat. Would do it again every day. Am doing it right now."

He squared up just a little, glaring at the queen and drawing emphasis to the fact that he did stand between her and Isaac and Cora. The two betas made curious noises at that. The queen laughed. Someone else was freed and moments later, he felt Derek's hand on his shoulder. He turned, just a little, looking at the former Alpha, seeing the wondrous look in Derek's eyes.

"I protected Boyd and Erica in the basement. I made them return to the pack. I blackmailed Jackson's parents into not leaving for London. I keep this pack together. It doesn't matter who's the Alpha, I'm Pack Mom and they are my betas first."

For a split second, his eyes flitted back to Peter, but he couldn't make out what the look on the Alpha's face meant. He hoped it wasn't anger. Swallowing hard, Stiles returned his attention to the queen, with Derek standing strong at his side, helping him shield Isaac and Cora. A small smile found its way onto Stiles' lips. The two of them had become friends, close friends, over all the times they'd saved each other's lives. Derek may not have been a good Alpha, but he was a good man and a good friend. He was much happier now, as a beta again, Stiles could see that.

"You keep protecting your pack, I'm sure you've given a lot for them," Queen Faerynna mused. "What else have you given, for that pack of yours? What is the most you have given for them?"

His whole body tensed as a flood of memories flashed before his inner eye, memories of every single time he had gotten hurt, tortured, abducted, tormented, and unable to stop it, he could feel himself starting to count his fingers. His thumbs pressed against his other fingers one by one, forcefully, and lastly pressing against his palm. One, two, three, four, five. Five fingers on each hand. Not a dream. Not a nightmare. Because it started to feel like a nightmare, like he was being tortured on purpose. He counted his fingers again. Derek, Cora and Isaac stepped up to him, careful.

"Stiles," Derek spoke softly, watching the movement of his fingers.

One, two, three, four five. He balled his hands into fists, albeit shaking. He knew what Derek was thinking, what they all were thinking, was acutely aware of the way they'd watched the movement. They knew what this was, what he was doing, why he was doing it. Which was why his actual answer was only going to surprise them even more. Because the Nogitsune wasn't something he had given, not really. It was something that had been forced onto him. That was different.

"I died," Stiles replied after another beat. "I gave my life for this pack. In the Argents' basement-"

He could see Chris and Allison flinch and Boyd and Erica still at his words and he ignored it, instead barreling on to get it over with. "I died in that basement. Because the level of electricity needed to keep wolves from shifting is too much for a human heart to endure. When I tried freeing Boyd and Erica, I got electrocuted. My Spark didn't allow me to stay dead, it restarted my heart."

"Stiles-" Chris' voice broke, sounded so wrecked, it made Stiles' heart ache.

"I died for this pack," Stiles repeated with emphasis, turning away from his pack again to instead look the queen dead in the eyes, his own gaze cold and serious. "And I'll do it again, as often as I have to, as long as I can keep them safe. I'll do anything to keep my pack safe."

And it wasn't just additional information, it was a thinly veiled threat. If she hurt them, he was going to kill her. As simple as that. Queen Faerynna laughed delighted, clapping her hands.

"I will be generous, young Spark. You gave me two hard truths, what you have given and what you are willing to give, so I will in return give you two of your pack-mates."

The vines fell off both Boyd and Erica and without hesitation did the mated pair rush to him and hug him from behind, from either side. He couldn't help but flinch. He'd never wanted them to know. His heart was hammering in his chest and his eyes burned with unshed tears. They let him go reluctantly, after a moment, when they noticed him shaking. Knowing that he couldn't afford to break down here, knowing that he needed the distance. He was eternally grateful to them when they stepped back to fall in line with Cora and Isaac, allowing him to gather himself.

"What are you most ashamed of, most afraid they will learn?"

There was something predatory to the queen's gaze at that, unnaturally long teeth showing in her smile. Stiles wrapped his arms around his torso, too aware of the way Derek, Cora, Isaac, Boyd and Erica were huddling around him, how the rest of the pack stood behind them, still tied up, still in danger, yet all of them watching him. He hunched in on himself, shoulders drawn close. The vines around the other pack-members tightened until there were some pained noises coming from Kira and Lydia. Stiles ground his teeth together, glaring viciously at her.

"I killed Allison," Stiles spat the words out, closing his eyes tightly.

"What are you talking about, she's right here!" Scott sounded desperate, worried. "And you didn't do anything, it was the demon, it wasn't you!"

"But it was me," Stiles growled, voice dripping with self-loathing. "I remember everything it did. It made me watch. I felt the resistance of her flesh when we drove the sword into her and I watched her die in my arms, I listened as she took her last breath. I was too late. By the time I could wrestle some control back from it, she was dead. Lydia didn't scream in warning because someone might die, she screamed because Allison did die that day because I killed her."

He made a wretched sound but managed to not throw up at the court. Yay, him.

"Stiles, I'm alive," Allison pointed out, gently. "M… Maybe it was just messing with you-"

"Go on, young Spark, and I'll let two go again," the queen offered generously.

"I gave up my Spark to bring you back," Stiles whispered, tilting his head down, feeling so small. "I poured all of my magic into you, into bringing you back, I clawed at your soul to drag it back into your body. That's why I haven't used my magic since the possession. I know you all think I'm just afraid of it because the Nogitsune was dark magic, but it's because I don't have magic anymore. I gave it up to bring Allison back. I don't know if it will ever recover, or if it's gone for good."

Shocked and pained gasps and when the five already freed tried to comfort him, he shied away from their touch. He'd never wanted to admit this, he never wanted to tell them that he was useless now, that he no longer had his magic, had no right to be Emissary of the pack anymore. He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling the tears running down his cheeks but choking on his sob.

"Stiles…" Allison's voice was so soft as her and Scott walked up to him. "Thank you."

She wrapped her arms around him, pulling him into a tight hug, and Scott was right next to her, his arms around them both and suddenly, Stiles couldn't fight the sob anymore, clinging onto her.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Stiles chanted until his voice broke. "I killed you."

"You brought me back to life," Allison corrected, gently caressing his hair. "You gave up your magic to bring me back to life, Stiles. I don't know how to thank you for that."

The queen waited patiently until his tears died and he gathered himself enough to face her again. He motioned for Scott and Allison to join the others, still wanting to keep them safe, needing to protect his pack. They reluctantly obeyed, after soft additional tugging from the other betas.

"Continue," Stiles ordered, voice rough. "Let's get this over with. I want to go home."

"You told me what you gave up for the pack, what you are willing to give up for it. What have you lost for this pack?" Queen Faerynna asked, tilting her head. "Not given, but what was taken."

Clarification, so he couldn't say his magic. He frowned annoyed. And then he paused when he noticed that he was counting his fingers again. Oh. Right, remembering the Nogitsune did that to him. Many things did that to him. He had too many triggers to keep track of at this point.

"My sanity. My mind," Stiles furrowed his brows, looking down at his hands. "The Nogitsune took my ability to tell reality from nightmare. Every single time something… not normal… happens, I have to count my fingers to make sure I'm awake. And in our lives, every day is a day that something abnormal happens and every time, I have a moment of panic that I'm not awake, not really here, that it's not real, that I'm still stuck in my mind, and I don't think that will ever stop."

This one felt good, in a weird way. Like a tight grip on his heart was easing off and he could breath just a little easier. Scott slipped a hand into his from one side, giving it a tight squeeze and looking at him with those big puppy-dog eyes, sad but supportive. Derek took his other hand. Allison, Cora, Isaac, Boyd and Erica were still standing in a half-circle behind him. Protective. Supportive. There.

The roses around Jackson turned white and the former kanima was free to first check on Lydia and… and then join the others in their protective little half-circle around Stiles. His heartbeat picked up and he raised his chin high to regard the queen coldly. Bring it on, his gaze said.

"What is the thing you are most afraid of?"

Mh. Stiles felt himself strangely detached as he considered this question. Near clinical.

"The Nogitsune made me think I was dying," Stiles whispered. "Dying of the same illness that took my mom. And that… That's my biggest fear. Every day I wake up and I am terrified that today's the day, today I'll start showing actual symptoms. That I'll fully lose my mind, forget all the knowledge I've gathered, forget the people I love, forget myself. That I'll die slowly and alone, even if everyone who loves me is around me, because I won't recognize them."

He blinked repeatedly, blinking away tears as he remembered his mother's vacant gaze. Scott gave his hand a squeeze but didn't speak, knew it wouldn't change anything. Nothing could. The vines let go of Kira and she stumbled up to the rest of the pack, finding her place among them.

The queen tapped her fingers against her chin, smiling. "Who do you love the most?"

"My dad," Stiles answered without missing a beat, this being a truth he didn't mind to part with. "He's the only one I have left. Ever since mom died, since her family turned their backs on us, he's all I have left. I love him more than my own life."

The queen pursed her lips and tilted her head. "That was not the love I was talking about, but it was such a sweet and genuine answer that I will accept it. And it is on me for not being specific."

The flowers around Malia turned from red to white. Ten down, three more to go. This one had been easy. Deceptively easy. Stiles felt himself tense in anticipation for what came next.

"Who are you in love with?" Queen Faerynna rephrased her last question. "Romantic love, dear."

Stiles' eyes widened and he squared his jaw, clenching a hand over his mouth, trying to physically keep himself from answering. No. Not this. Everything but this. She couldn't take this from him.

"Stiles," Lydia spoke softly, reaching out as far as the bindings allowed. "It's okay."

"Yeah," Jackson heaved a sigh. "Not like we all don't know it. You know I'm okay with it, you love Lydia, everybody knows. It's okay."

The rest of the pack made reassuring noises too. Like they knew him. Like they knew what was in his heart. They really thought he was still hung up on Lydia? After all this time?

"I'm not in love with Lydia," Stiles spat out. "I've never been in love with Lydia, it was just easier to be in love with a perfect girl who would never look at me twice than to confront that I'm gay."

He gasped at that, he'd never said it out loud, not even to Scott. His best friend made a confused noise, so did the majority of pack. Like being gay wasn't a big deal. Straight people really didn't get it. Even with the most supportive allies surrounding him, that didn't change the fear.

"Danny is gay, so is my dad, Peter and Malia are bi, Kira is a lesbian," Allison pointed out gently. "I just mean, none of us would have judged you."

"I've told myself that I'm in love with Lydia since first grade, since before I knew what gay even was, that boys liking boys was even a thing that could happen," Stiles snarled, his fists shaking next to him. "Good for everyone who had the emotional space and capability to come to terms with it before high school, I didn't. And when I was ready to come out, when I told my dad that I'm gay he told me not dressed like that, my own father couldn't believe that I could be gay because of the way I dress, so I shoved that back down where it's been for years and left it there. Because living a lie that nobody questions is easier than living a truth that people might reject."

Queen Faerynna regarded him with soft, warm eyes and that made it worse. "I'll accept it. It wasn't an answer to the question I asked, but it was a hard truth, so I will accept it."

The flowers on Lydia turned white, releasing her. She stumbled into Jackson's arms. Stiles marginally relaxed. Two more. He could do this. He felt raw and naked and vulnerable but he had endured eleven truths, he could tell two more and then they could get out of here.

"Now, let me rephrase again, then. One last time. If you do not answer me truthfully this time, I will keep you all here for eternity, young Spark. Who do you desire the most?"

"My mates," Stiles choked out, tears prickling in the corners of his eyes. "I want my mates. I know they don't want me, I know that, I learned to accept that, but that doesn't stop me from wanting them. I want them so badly, it physically hurts."

Stiles kept his eyes on the queen, ignoring the surprised gasps from his pack, ignoring Peter and Chris. He could see them in the corner of his eyes, he wished he couldn't. He didn't want them to know this, not them. He'd worked so hard to ignore this. Chris was released and went to hug Allison. He tried to reach out to Stiles but Stiles violently flinched away from his touch.

The queen didn't give Chris a chance to speak. "Why do you think your mates don't want you?"

"Because he has known for two years and never said anything and they've sealed their mate-bond a year ago and never said anything and how could they," Stiles spat the words out, shaking a little. "I killed him, I killed Peter. And I killed Chris' daughter. How could they want me. Half the time, I don't even understand why they let me be part of the pack, much less the Emissary, so that's already more than I deserve. How could they want me, I don't want myself."

His breathing was labored and he knew the look in his eyes was haunted. He pulled away from the pack, wrapping his arms around himself, trying to protect himself. Peter was free, they were all free, and Stiles felt like he was breaking into a million pieces, with all his well-guarded secrets laid bare before them all. He gasped out a sob, trying to gather himself.

"There," Stiles snarled. "I played your game. Now keep your promise."

"Of course, young Spark," Queen Faerynna smiled and it looked nearly merciful. "You played well, so I will reward you. Your Spark is not gone, you simply lost connection to it. Let me help you reignite it, as a thank you for a very entertaining evening."

She lifted her hand, and there was a sudden warmth in his chest. He gasped out as power flooded him, his eyes widened and he knew, in that moment, that they were flashing turquoise, as they hadn't in too many months. The next second, he found himself in the middle of the pond. Dripping wet, with his entire pack, and the previously dancing humans, sitting in the water.

"Stiles-" Peter spoke, his voice sounding unsure.

"No," Stiles shook his head violently and climbed out of the pond. "No. No, I can't. I can't… I… I… I can't have this conversation now, I can't, I need to… be alone, right now."

"I'll drive you home, Stiles," Derek offered in an unusually soft voice.

Stiles turned to glare at the former Alpha. But he knew he was shaking, full body shakes, and was about a second away from a full panic attack. He was also overwhelmed by this new, even stronger connection to his Spark, he felt like his nerves were on fire. After taking a shaky breath, Stiles nodded, giving up. Maybe he could use someone driving him home right now.

He let Derek lead the way back to their cars, where he took Stiles' keys from him and started the Jeep. Stiles slipped into the passenger seat, pulling his legs up, feeling small and exhausted. He rested his head against the window, tears running down his face.

"Tell me if there is anything I can do," Derek requested, voice low.

"G… Give me the weekend," Stiles pleaded. "I can't see them, I can't talk to them, I just… I just need time, please, I need… I didn't want to say any of this, these were my truths and she took them, forced them away from me and I can't deal with whatever Peter and Chris want, I can't."

"Of course," Derek rumbled softly, reassuring.

Stiles sagged a little in relief at the promise. He felt too raw. He needed time to stitch himself together again before he could face anyone, much less Peter and Chris.

/break\

Chris wanted to reach out for Stiles, wanted to comfort him, to hold him. Before he had a chance to did his own daughter step in the way. The look on Allison's face was hard and Chris was shocked to have it aimed at himself. The betas lined up behind her. Putting themselves between Chris, Peter and Stiles. Protecting Stiles from the Alphas. Chris startled as he realized that with a pang.

Derek led Stiles away to the cars, leaving the rest of the pack behind. Peter next to Chris ground his teeth together, keeping from snarling at their betas. Chris reached out, taking his mate's hand.

"Scott, Erica, Jackson, Malia, I want you three to take the injured people to the hospital," Lydia instructed in a stern no-nonsense voice. "I want you to also go and get rid of your aggression because I will not have this escalate into a physical fight. Boyd, I want you to take Kira, Isaac and Cora home. Me and Allison will go with our Alphas and have a conversation with them."

"Why do you think you get to command my pack," Peter asked sharply.

Lydia's eyes were steely. "Because you hurt Stiles. And right now, I'm the only thing between you and the sharp teeth and claws of your own betas, because – and you should know that – we love Stiles. Even if we may not have known that he was Pack Mom, the bond was still there."

Isaac whined at that, leaning into Erica and Boyd for a moment. Of course. The three first betas of the Hale Pack had the strongest bond to Stiles, aside from Scott. The strongest Pack Mom bond. Stiles had just admitted it, that he had become Pack Mom for them. Chris swallowed hard. He turned to look at Peter, who looked guilty and heartbroken.

"Fine," Peter forced out. "Do as she said."

The pack split up, Chris and Peter getting into Peter's car, together with Allison and Lydia. The drive back to the Hale House was tense and quiet, the two girls in the back seething.

"I love you, dad," Allison started as soon as they entered the house. "But you have some serious explaining to do, because I've never felt more protective of Stiles than right now, after he just told me that he brought me back from the dead."

She was shaking, Chris noted. Because she'd died. His daughter had been dead. Chris started shaking too. He reached out for her, wrapping his arms around her. Thankfully, she let him. A sob tore from her throat as he started crying. Mourning her own death.

"There is… a lot that Stiles has done for this pack, without any of us knowing," Lydia's voice was a sad whisper, her eyes on the ground. "And some where we didn't know the depth of his sacrifice. So yes, you two do have some explaining to do and don't you dare growl at me and deny me, Peter Hale. Stiles just bared his soul to us, you owe at least that much in return."

Chris didn't let go of Allison, burying his face in her hair. He'd already lost his entire family, he only had her. The thought that he had lost her, that she would be dead if Stiles hadn't given up his magic for her. His grip on her tightened even more, desperate.

"He's been through so much," Chris admitted after a long moment. "When Peter and I got together, when I learned that we had a third mate in our bond, when I realized he's seventeen, he's… he's your age, Allison, I was… mortified of that. My mate is the same age as my daughter, I needed some time to digest that, I wanted for us to wait until he's at least eighteen."

Lydia heaved a deep sigh, but her eyes were on Peter, cold. "You don't have morals."

Peter barked out a laugh at that. "You're right. His age doesn't bother me. I would have claimed him on the spot, if I could have. But then I inconveniently died. And when I came back, well… There was always something, something dangerous to take care of."

"You found the time to court my dad," Allison pointed out.

There was a pause and a vulnerability to Peter. "He did kill me. I didn't think… I thought he deserved better. I worked very hard to become… better. Worthy of him. And by the time I thought I was a good enough Alpha, he was… possessed… He's still struggling with it. He needed the support of his pack, not the burden of this. You know him, you know he would have tried to put on an even braver face, not to worry us, would have forced himself to be stronger for us."

Both Allison and Lydia fell quiet at that. They knew he was right. They'd just been witness to the proof of it. Stiles kept all his pain safely tucked away, forcing himself to be strong for others. Peter and Chris had thought they did the right thing, didn't burden him with this.

"We need to go and talk to him, we need to explain this," Chris declared.

"You will not."

The four of them turned toward the door as Derek walked in, a dark expression on his face. Peter growled at his nephew, flashing his eyes red. But Derek flashed his eyes right back at the Alpha, growling, baring his fangs. Ready to fight. That was exactly what Lydia had wanted to avoid, any of the more volatile wolves to try and challenge the Alpha on Stiles' behalf.

"You will not keep me from my mate," Peter snarled.

"You kept yourself from your mate," Derek growled back. "You should have told him. You really thought Stiles wouldn't figure it out on his own? Stiles?"

Peter backed off at that, looking tormented. "I just… We'll explain it to him, we'll make up for it."

"But not right now," Derek raised his chin. "I asked him, if there is anything I can do to help him, and he asked me for time. He doesn't want to see anyone right now, much less you two. He earned the right to deal with what just happened, what's just been taken from him. You two didn't tell him for two years, you'll be able to wait three more days to talk to him. He asked for the weekend."

Lydia snorted and shook her head. "He didn't even ask for a full week."

"You know him," Derek huffed. "He's going to spend the weekend compartmentalizing and shoving his feelings back down where he usually keeps them locked up. And then he'll continue pretending that he's fine. I think he mostly asked for the weekend in hopes that we will do the same."

"Probably," Lydia conceded with a frown. "We will have to talk to the betas about this. We all should talk about this, together, so we can deal with our feelings on the matter on our own and don't put that on him too."

"Tomorrow," Allison nodded. "We'll have a pack-meeting tomorrow and talk this through."

Chris' eyes were on Peter and it was a testimony to how guilty Peter must be feeling that he let the three of them just decide this. Not that it was a bad decision. Chris reached out for his mate.

/break\

Peter was frustrated and annoyed. The pack had pretty much given him and Chris a verbal lashing for two days. Both Saturday and Sunday, they kept telling them off for not telling Stiles and picking apart their stupid reasons. They weren't wrong. Peter knew that himself.

He regretted not claiming the boy when he had first met him, but he'd been too feral. What little rational brain he had had been afraid that he would hurt his mate, so he kept Stiles at a distance. And then Stiles had helped kill him and Peter needed to earn the boy's trust first. And then, well…

"You ready for this, love?" Chris asked, holding Peter's hand.

It was Monday evening. They knew the sheriff was out. They also knew Stiles would be home. Allison, Cora and Isaac had told them Stiles had been at school. And that the betas had all wrapped him up in a puppy pile for the entire lunch break, apparently.

"Are you two going to stand there all night, or are you coming in? Door's open."

Both Chris and Peter startled and looked up at Stiles, who was leaning out of his bedroom window and regarding them with a near detached look, bordering bored. Peter hated that. He hated that Stiles felt the need to put up walls with them now. They'd been past that for so long.

Peter gave Chris' hand a tight squeeze before the both of them stepped into the Stilinski home and made their way upstairs to Stiles' bedroom. The boy was sitting on his window-sill, hands in his pockets, a guarded expression on his face as he regarded them.

"I didn't mean to say any of that," Stiles started before they had a chance to even say hello. "I didn't want you to know that I knew. We've had a great thing going of ignoring the mate-bonds. Let's just… pretend Friday night didn't happen and that I didn't say any of that."

"No, Stiles," Chris shook his head with a grave look on his face. "You didn't want us to know and… and we didn't want you to know, for… various reasons. But now that it's all on the table, we really need to talk about it. Don't sneer at me like that, brat."

Stiles ground his teeth together and raised his chin, much like he had done when facing the Seelie Queen. It made Peter's heart clench. He didn't want Stiles to look at them the same way he looked at the villain of the week. He'd worked so damn hard for over a year to prove he wasn't a villain.

"The last thing you said," Peter spoke softly. "The last 'truth' you shared, it may have been what you perceived as the truth, but… it's not the truth. That's a lie that you told yourself, twisted by… I don't know what would make you think so low of yourself, to be honest…"

"Don't act stupid, Peter, it doesn't suit you," Stiles offered him a cold, calculating glare. "I was possessed by a demon and killed countless people, killed an ally, killed Allison, I… Fuck, half the time I can't even look in the mirror because all I see is the Nogitsune."

He wrapped his arms around himself and stared down at his shoes. Looking so much more small and fragile than Peter was comfortable seeing him. His little Spark should be a spitfire of snark and sarcasm, loud and in everyone's face. Not withdrawn.

"We thought you should focus on healing," Chris offered in a reluctant voice. "You pulled away so much and we were scared that if we told you, you would only withdraw even more. You had so much to deal with, we didn't want to be something else you had to deal with."

"And before that?" Stiles raised his eyes to glare at the hunter, then at Peter. "And before that?"

"We're old enough to be your fathers," Chris sighed, rubbing his face. "You are literally in the same class as both of our daughters. When Peter told me, when Peter and I got together, I… How could you want us? You had a choice, the same way I did, because we're human, and I thought that you should have the chance at a normal life, normal teenage high school romance, instead of being stuck with two middle-aged, fucked up soulmates who were both scrambling to get their shit together."

"You… I didn't tell you when I came back from the dead, because I thought I had to become someone worthy of you first. You did kill me," Peter pointed out, causing Stiles to flinch. "I don't hold that against you, but I thought that you did. I thought you would resent me if I told you that oh yeah the guy who turned your best friend into a werewolf and mauled your first love is your soulmate, lucky you! You're not the only one who has doubts, Stiles. I'm sorry we hurt you, I truly am, but we didn't tell you out of the same reasons that you never told us. Because clearly you knew too, you knew about our bond but you never brought it up either – because you thought that we didn't want you. You're a clever boy, I need you to consider that maybe we had the same fears."

Stiles stared at them, with a fragile hope in his eyes. "I didn't… I felt it. Ever since I first connected with my Spark, got my magic, I've been able to feel the mate-bonds. And I didn't… I didn't think you would want to be stuck with an obnoxious brat like me, and then, well, then the Nogitsune happened. Are you… I need you to tell me, promise me, that you're not just saying this now, out of pity, because you're forced to confront this. I can't have hope and see it crushed."

"We had every intention of telling you, once you turned eighteen," Chris promised, his eyes a silent plea on top of his words. "We wanted you to have a… well, what constitutes a normal high school experience in this town, and then we wanted to tell you. When you're a legal adult, which would have also eased some of my worries, Stiles. But we always planned on telling you, we never meant to keep the bond from you. It's not something we are ashamed of or don't want. You are not something we are ashamed of or don't want."

Something in Stiles' posture eased and he started shaking just a little. Peter and Chris were at his side in two quick strides, Peter to his left and Chris to his right. They held their boy close, held him while he cried. He clung onto them both, sobbing into their chests.

"I never blamed you for what happened to Allison," Chris whispered, brushing a kiss against Stiles' head. "And neither does she. Neither do any of us. We all know it was the demon, it was using you. It wasn't you. You were a victim of it too, Stiles."

Stiles held onto them even tighter, shaking with tears. Peter nuzzled his neck.

"Our pack loves you so much, Stiles," Peter chuckled. "They all, individually, and as a group, threatened us. They were fully ready for a mutiny on your behalf. What you said at the court, that regardless of who the Alpha is, these are your betas? That was the truth. I can't believe you've been Pack Mom of my pack and I didn't even notice because I was too busy being smitten with you."

"Smitten," Stiles echoed, sniffling a little. "Nobody says smitten, you're so cheesy, Peter."

"He's also smitten with you though. Me? I am being much more mature and normal about it."

"Oh please," Peter gave him a pointed glare over Stiles' head. "You completely lost it the last time he used a gun against that rogue omega. You fully lost it because that was 'so hot, Peter, so hot'."

Stiles blinked up at them with those big doe eyes of his before he started laughing softly. He leaned into them more comfortably and placed shy kisses on both their lips, making them relax too. And in that moment, Peter thought that maybe they could be okay, together. Heal, together.

~*~ The End ~*~

#Stetopher #Stiles Stilinski #Chris Argent #Peter Hale #Hale Pack #Pack Mom Stiles #Emissary Stiles #Pack Alpha Peter Hale #Teen Wolf #Fanfiction #Phoe's Fics #Stiles Summer Stories 2024

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