Archive of Our Own

The tower room is small, claustrophobically so, and full of the musty scent of straw and dust. If Stiles had allergies, this would be an even more miserable experience, though not by much. Allergies or no, Stiles would be dead come morning. All because Scott had repeated his sarcastic remarks about spinning straw into gold.

For one hysterical moment, Stiles wondered why it was that he chose straw over hay. Hay would be for more pliable than the still yellow stalks piled throughout the room, and perhaps easier to spin. But it makes no difference. The sun will be gone soon, his very last sunset, and none of it will make a damned difference.

In the rapidly cooling room, Stiles curses his own sharp tongue and Scott’s good nature. He’ll be lucky if the king doesn’t kill Scott and his father, too. His skin feels numb as his chest tightens further and further, as if someone has shoved a turnkey between his ribs and begun to wind it to the point of breaking.

He can’t breathe.

He doesn’t want to breathe.

His eyes burn and his lungs are made of thick, heavy ice. He wants to scream until his throat is ripped to shreds, but he can’t force himself to make a sound. He is all at once distraught and furious. And then there is a cool, clawed finger tilting his chin up.

Brilliant red eyes stare down into his own brown ones, and he is startled into breathing again. “Who are you?” he asks.

“Well, wouldn’t you like to know?” the man drawls, looking Stiles over with a dark and humorous grin. He looks like a fantasy, if a strange one, all strong jaw and stubble, broad hands and mocking eyes. His clothing is simple, a loose white shirt with the laces half-undone and a pair of supple leather trousers, but he bears himself proudly. He wears a long topcoat, the outside well-worn and faded from black to a near dark-green, but the inside is lined with the most brilliantly colorful pattern Stiles has ever seen. Greens, purples, and blues swirl together in a pattern reminiscent of a peacock’s tail, and it looks so soft. He could travel the world in a coat like that, wrap himself up and pretend nothing could get in to harm him.

Stiles wonders if he would be anything like this man, if he had the chance to see his own maturity. But no, even if he lived to see adulthood, he would remain soft and pretty where the Alpha before him is hardened and handsome. He would remain prisoner, even if he managed to escape captivity with his soft throat intact. He shakes his head. “I’m hallucinating. Perfect. I’ve gone mad just in time for them to chop my head off.”

“Why would anyone do a thing like that?” The man actually looks put off by the notion. Stiles appreciates the concern, even if it’s only from a spectre.

“My tongue is too quick for the rest of me, and come morning, it will speed me to my own execution.”

“What could you have said?”

Stiles can’t help but laugh bitterly. “I made a joke. A bad one, about spinning straw into gold to solve all of our problems, and my friend had the poor luck to repeat it within earshot of the kingsguard.”

“You can’t spin gold, then?”

Stiles can’t tell if the man is teasing, but his cheeks flush all the same. He studies the pavers underfoot, littered with bits of straw and dirt. “I can’t spin.”

“That’s easy enough to fix, little spark. I’d be cruel to leave you helpless.”

He looks back up at the man, brow furrowed as he makes a sweeping gesture. “You’re going to help me spin this into gold.”

“Not without a price, of course. That would be foolish. Never do something you’re good at for free, boy.”

“Oh, certainly.” Stiles rolls his eyes, but the man plows on.

“What will you give me, if I help you with your spinning?”

“It can’t be done. It was a lie. Even if I could spin without maiming myself, it would just be straw.”

“What if someone could? What if you could?”

“Then I wouldn’t need you, would I?”

“No, I suppose you wouldn’t.”

“And even if it did work, which it wouldn’t, then I’d still be just as stuck! What if he wants me to do it again?”

“That seems awfully greedy, doesn’t it?”

“Have you met our king?”

“No, though I’m certain I don’t like him.”

“You and most of the citizenry.”

The man smirks. “Ah, well. We’ll have to cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“How?”

“Your doubt, while charming, is unwarranted. It can be done, and it will be done, but first we should come to an agreement, don’t you think?”

Stiles heaves a sigh, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his palms, and takes an abrupt step back when the man grasps his right hand between two warm palms.

“This.”

“My…?” Stiles breathes in sharply. “No. Not my mother’s ring. It’s the only thing I—it’s not even that valuable to anyone but—no.”

The man’s red eyes sweep him up and down once again, and Stiles wonders just what it is they see that keeps them so riveted. He refuses to lower his eyes in deference, as is customary, but the man seems pleased by his sudden confidence.

“I understand. A kiss, then.”

Stiles blinks at him dumbly. “What?”

“A kiss from you would hold value to me. Will you give it?”

Stiles is tempted to accept, tempted by the man’s strange charms and handsome form. But he’s not so foolish that he can ignore the potential consequences. He’s an Omega. He was raised choking on the consequences, and the thick stench they left hanging in the air. “How do I know you’ll stop?”

Again, that clawed finger tilts his chin up, and those brilliant eyes gaze directly into his own. “I could never take anything from you, sweet boy. Everything must be freely given, or it holds no weight. That’s the nature of a bargain, wouldn’t you agree?”

“You’re either a liar or a foreigner.”

“A bit of both, I think. Do you want this mess spun up, or not?”

Stiles bites his lip, toying with his ring before nodding. He doesn’t look away for a moment. “I do.”

“Very well. Gather your materials.”

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Stiles complies. It’s not as if he has anything more to lose if this doesn’t work, just a kiss. Only a kiss. He gathers a great armful of straw and straddles the bench by the wheel, tensing only slightly as the strange man settles behind him.

He guides Stiles’ hands through the motions, skillful and slow, and Stiles believes. Just like that, the wheel sets to spinning, the pedal rising and falling underfoot, the wheel turning smoothly. A glittering golden filament takes shape as easily as a silverfish darting through water.

Stiles holds his breath, his chest aching with wonder and horrible, burning hope.

“Would you look at that,” The stranger teases. “It looks like your tongue got ahead of you again, boy.”

“Stiles. My name is Stiles.”

“I’ve never heard a name quite like that before.”

“It’s a nickname.”

“And your given name?”

“You couldn’t pronounce it.”

“I could try.”

“And you could fail horribly. One miracle per day, sir.”

Stiles feels the man’s laughter rumbling against his back, and feels warmer for it. Ever since the man came into the cold tower, he hasn’t noticed the chill at all. It certainly isn’t the strangest thing to happen this evening. For a moment, the man’s chin brushes his shoulder, and he feels safe.

They continue like this for long hours, his companion periodically moving back so that Stiles might rise and collect more straw for the wheel. It’s a marvel to see the plain straw transform so easily into precious gold, almost as easily as conversation flows between them.

With little reservation, Stiles tells the man of his friends, his family, and especially his mother, may she rest in peace. The man responds thoughtfully, teasing occasionally, but always with an indulgent warmth, as if he values each and every thing Stiles has to say.

It’s unusual, to say the least.

By the time Stiles rises to gather the final load of straw for spinning, he feels a hollow, burning desperation in the pit of his stomach. His mouth is dry as he looks at his rescuer, and he doesn’t know quite where to begin.

“What about you?” He asks. “What’s your name?”

“I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

Stiles pouts, but continues on. “Where are you from?”

“You wouldn’t believe me.”

“You would be so surprised.”

“I very rarely am.” The man smiles.

“Maybe. You’re certainly insufferable.”

“Yet you’ve managed well enough.” The man pats the bench before him, and Stiles sets the straw down and reclaims his seat.

“I didn’t think…” Stiles lets out a shaking breath, feeling it rattle through him. “I was so sure I was done for.”

“I couldn’t let that happen to you, now could I?”

“Charmer.” Stiles grins, continuing to feed the straw into the wheel. “You know everything there is to know about me, and I know nothing about you.”

“It’s because you’re so interesting.”

Stiles pauses, glancing back at him. “You appeared out of nowhere and helped me magically spin straw into gold for nothing—”

“A kiss, Stiles. A kiss is not nothing, certainly not from you. Will I have to do the rest of the work myself? Keep going.”

Stiles does as he is told. “You might be an angel.”

“Hardly.”

“I’m inclined to think you are.”

“You’re inclined to be a dunce.”

Stiles smiles despite the gruff responses. “You’ve saved my life.”

“That remains to be seen.”

As the last golden fibers spin into their brilliant spiral, he feels almost transfixed. This is his life, suddenly much longer and impossibly brighter than he had thought. He doesn’t want to kiss the man at his back. He doesn’t want him to leave.

“And what will you do, now that you have done the impossible?”

“Something a little less difficult, I think.”

“Only a little?” Broad palms come around to cup his own sore hands, the pale skin raw from handling the rough stalks throughout the night. He hadn’t noticed before, and as he watches black lines appear and disappear under the man’s tanned skin, the pain numbs again.

Stiles turns to look at him, eyes wide but trusting. He lets himself be led into a kiss, not his first, but the first to have felt quite so significant. The man’s lips are warm and surprisingly soft, the drag of his stubble strange but not unpleasant. Stiles feels a warmth pooling in his belly that is certainly not unfamiliar, but definitely a bit embarrassing. He doesn’t even notice that his eyes have drifted closed until his companion pulls back and presses a kiss against each lid.

“Was that so bad?” he drawls.

Stiles huffs and makes a face. “I don’t know if I’d call it a kiss, but…”

The stranger narrows his eyes, and Stiles realizes that they’ve gone from fiery red to a bright, hypnotic blue. “It’s the habit of frightened children to say things they don’t mean.”

“Ass.”

“So I’ve heard. Perhaps you’ll see it some day.”

Stiles tries to make a swipe at him, but just as quickly he’s up off the bench and dancing out of reach. He follows, tripping over his own feet, and the man catches him as if he’d never been more than a hair’s breadth away. “Don’t fall.”

“I have the sneaking suspicion you wouldn’t let me if I wanted to.”

“Oh, I think I want you to.” The man grins, and there are his lips again, pressing harder this time. The contact is insistent and wet, his tongue sliding easily between the younger man’s teeth and urging him to participate. Broad hands grip Stiles’ hips, bringing him closer to tangle his own fingers in the soft fabric of the man’s shirt.

This is new, warm and slick and comforting. Stiles wants to feel him deeper, wants to take him inside completely. For a few precious moments, he drifts in the sensation of his rescuer suckling on his tongue and teasing at it with sharp canines. A firm thigh brushes against his stirring prick, and he realizes that he has grown wet. He stops abruptly, face hot as he presses it against the thick column of the man’s throat. “That was two,” Stiles rasps. “Cheater.”

“I’ve always had a bad habit of overindulging.” His hands are gentle as they run over Stiles’ back, calming him down in slow, steady increments. “But it has been done.”

“Thank you.”

“You already have.”

-

The first light of morning through the window finds Stiles curled up against the wall, trying for some measure of restful sleep, but there is to be no such thing. The heavy thudding of the deadbolts sliding free ring like an omen and sit heavy in his belly.

The stranger is gone, and Stiles is alone.

The steward stands in the doorway, a thin, unpleasant man with spectacles. Harris, they call him. He looks over the abundance of spun gold with a cross between disappointment and total shock. No doubt he was expecting an execution today.

Stiles can’t bring himself to care as the serving women usher him from the room and into the baths. They’re preparing him for another meeting with the king, they say, so he must be bathed anew. He has done well, they say, and Stiles could not possibly give less of a damn. At his insistence, they leave him to bathe his lower parts himself, put out by his batting hands and stubborn chin.

The rough cuts on his palm add an odd texture to the contact as he wraps his palm around his flushed dick, thumb brushing over the head in a careful tease. Slowly, his eyes close as he relaxes into the hot, soapy water, nipples peaking in the cool air above the surface.

It doesn’t take long for him to come close to his orgasm, imagining broad hands and a teasing smile, a firm presence at his back in place of the marble tub. His free hand wanders curiously down, fingers probing at his swollen hole, and without warning he comes so hard he hits his head against the side of the bath.

He doesn’t mind it, too busy panting and arching his hips desperately into a touch that isn’t there. His lips are still tingling, and his head is still full of that soft, rumbling laugh.

He has done an impossible thing.

-

The world has never been content to allow the extraordinary to pass unquestioned, and the king himself is particularly inclined to demand miracles. Stiles is not permitted to return home after his meeting with the king. This would be too merciful.

Honestly, he thinks he should have seen this coming.

He’s proven himself a novelty, a magical Omega, and the king has decided to reward this peculiar talent with marriage. But first, a test to ascertain that the ability had not been some fluke. Come morning, they mean to lock him away again in a larger room with a great deal more straw.

Exactly what he needs, with his palms raw and sore and his fingers cracked. In a perfect world, he would have socked the king in the jaw and run like hell, but this never has been a perfect world. Instead, he lies awake, staring up at the ceiling.

In the morning, they will lock him away, and his failure will prove him a liar.

“You can’t cheat death, I suppose.” He sighs.

A soft, rumbling voice corrects him. “It’s not so difficult, with the right set of dice.”

Stiles jerks upright, scrambling back against the pillows as he takes in the sight of his strange companion at the foot of his bed. “You!”

The man smiles pleasantly, taking a seat upon the mattress as if that alone were an invitation. Pompous bastard.

“I had thought you would be home by now.”

“Oh, how would you find me then?” Stiles retorts, then shrinks a bit. “...I wish I were.”

The man frowns. “You have accomplished the task, haven’t you? You spun straw into gold.”

“G—his majesty wants me to do it again.”

“You would think the man would pay for such tiresome employment.”

“He means to,” Stiles spits. “If I succeed again tomorrow, he means to marry me.”

Suddenly, the air in the room grows colder. The man’s expression is sharp and angry, his eyes once again flaring red as he hisses, “What gives him the right?”

“He’s an Alpha, and he wears a crown.”

“Did no one intercede?”

“No one wanted to die.”

“And this is how rulers behave here?”

“It’s how rulers behave everywhere, I imagine.”

“Not everywhere. Not where I come from.”

“Where do you come from?”

At that, the man pauses, studying him with a softening expression. “Aurus Losz.”

“Gesundheit.”

“Really? You won’t tell me your name because you think it’s difficult to pronounce, but my homeland is a trial?”

“My name isn’t that bad.”

“This remains to be seen.”

Stiles arches a brow, feeling the corners of his lips turn up involuntarily. His rescuer is here, and as long as he stays there is hope. “Will you tell me about it?”

“About…?”

He scrunches his nose, “Orr...Aurus Loz?”

“Close enough.” The man nods, reaching down to touch his foot where it forms a bump in the blankets. “Where do I begin?”

“Tell me about the stars. Do you have the same night sky?”

“Oh, not at all. Ours is far better.”

They spend several hours this way, Stiles listening with rapt attention as his companion regales him with tales of his fantastical world where night and day are so reversed, where wisps light the streets and the stars dance and skip about the sky (and occasionally wander the avenues.) He describes a world full of terrible beauty and warm-hearted monsters, carnivorous flowers and great beasts that foster lambs as easily as their own young.

According to him, there’s not a thing in Aurus Losz that could be rivaled by this mortal plane. In his homeland, the water is sweeter, the food more flavorful, and every sensation is magnified. It is as if his world is the brilliant soul of existence and the mortal realm stands as its shadow.

Stiles begins to feel very lacking until the man glances at him with another teasing smile. “Except for you, of course.”

“What does that mean?”

“You’re remarkable.”

“Right. Of course. That’s what got me into this mess.” Stiles rolls his eyes and flicks a hand toward the door dismissively.

And that’s when the man notices the state of his hands. Before Stiles can really process the movement, he’s seated just at his side, cradling Stiles’ raw hands between his own. “They didn’t bandage your injuries?”

“The maids gave me some salve.”

“And where would that be?”

Stiles jerks his chin at the bedside table, where the pot sits smeared with a semi-translucent, herbal paste. “I, uh...wasn’t very handy with it.”

“Clearly.” The man grumbles, thumb rubbing against the soft skin of his wrist, those black veins making a welcome reappearance. “They didn’t even think to bandage it.”

“They were worried linen would get in the way.”

“They’ll have to live with it, won’t they?”

Stiles pouts only slightly as the man pampers him, coating his scrapes and sores with the paste and wrapping them in a strange, thin material that feels cool to the touch.

“Spider silk.” He says, and Stiles wriggles his fingers in quiet fascination.

“Thank you,” Stiles mumbles. “Again. Will I...will you help me tomorrow?”

“For a price, of course.”

“Another kiss?”

“Perhaps.” The man grins lecherously, and Stiles swats his arm before yanking his hand back with a loud hiss.

His companion frowns and cradles the aching appendage again. “You really are horrible at keeping yourself intact, aren’t you?”

“It’s been an off couple of days.”

“I am sorry.” The man sighs, and Stiles smiles crookedly, letting his head fall forward so that their foreheads bump.

“It could be worse. They could make me wear a dre…hmmm” Before he can complete the sentence, his mouth splits open on a wide yawn, eyes tearing up slightly.

There are strong hands cupping his jaw, concerned blue eyes studying his face intently. “I forget that your kind are diurnal. You should sleep.”

“Will you—?”

“I will stay until you fall asleep. In the morning, you will insist on an audience with your king, and inform him that your ability is reliant on the light of the moon.”

“I’m not sure that’ll work. He’s not exactly known for his patience.”

“Mortal men are patient enough when it comes to matters of greed. Ask only that he give you until nightfall, and I will do the spinning.”

“You’d do it for me?”

“For a price.” One broad hand comes up to stroke the hair falling into Stiles’ eyes, and he feels his body grow heavy.

He slips quickly into a dreamless sleep, and when he wakes, the man is gone.

-

The castle servants react to his request to see the king as if he has asked for a stick with which to poke a particularly large bear, but the woman who seems to have been placed in charge of his care sees to it nonetheless.

She leads him to the king’s audience chamber, where the aged king is intimidating his courtiers as per usual. Just before the doormen allow him into the chamber, she places a hand on his arm. “Keep your eyes down, remember. It’s best to seem soft, even when you are not.”

Her lips curl slightly at the edges, and Stiles finds himself smiling back, even if he’s not feeling particularly joyful. “Thank you, Miss Marin.”

“Good luck.”

He nods his thanks, takes a deep breath, and steps forward as the grand doors swing inward. His footsteps are muffled, but still clearly audible as the chamber falls silent, all eyes turned upon him. Not terrifying at all.

“Stop there.” Gerard barks as he comes to stand at the food of the dais. “Were you not meant to begin your spinning already?”

“If you’ll excuse me, Your Majesty,” Stiles simpers. “There wouldn’t be much point, at this hour.” He glances up at the king to see his eyes quickly narrowing.

“I fail to see how.”

Stiles takes a deep breath and draws his shoulders back, lifting his eyes to the king’s. Confidence, he thinks, No one believes a lie without confidence.

“This ability of mine relies on the power of the moon, and is just as inconstant, I’m afraid. I’m willing to attempt the transformation again tonight if it pleases you, but it will be difficult, Your Majesty.”

The king’s face is sour, but not filled with rage as Stiles worried it might be. “I was not made aware of this.” He grumbles.

I wasn’t aware you intended to kidnap me and force me to labor and wed, Your Royal Thickness. So we don’t always get what we want, do we?

“With all due respect, you were never lied to.” Just your gullible fucking guardsman. “No one ever asked about the circumstances, sir. I ask only that you wait until tonight to lock me in the chamber, and allow my sore hands a measure of rest. I’m coming up on a sensitive time, and can’t afford to keep this up.”

The king’s eyes light up at the suggestion of a heat, and Stiles’ stomach turns at the thought of the wrinkled bastard between his legs. He’d much rather lie beside his strange companion, and...well, again, he can’t always get what he wants.

Finally, the prince speaks up, clearly uncomfortable with his father’s blatant stare and his sister’s mocking laughter. “It should be no trouble, my king. Perhaps we might...make the tower more comfortable for him.”

He’s not about to feel grateful to the man who hasn’t spoken up about how truly ridiculous all of this has been, but it does take some of the weight off of his shoulders to count on both his companion’s appearance and some measure of comfort tonight.

“What is it that you propose, Christopher?” Gerard huffs as if this is, in fact, some amount of trouble.

“Perhaps a brazier for the chamber and a cask of brandy? It is quite cold these winter nights. A more comfortable chair and a loaf of bread couldn’t hurt.”

I deserve to be drunk for this, Stiles thinks. Bless him for his courtesy, at least. It’s not as if he’s ever gone hungry.  

Princess Katherine rolls her eyes, “Yes, give the simple breeder all the liquor he can drink. He’ll need to grow accustomed to things beyond his station.”

Stiles is sorry that he can’t throttle the royal tart, biting hard at the soft inside of his cheek instead, and rubbing the pads of his fingers against the stranger’s spider silk bandages. He has something to look forward to tonight, something far more special than her tiny reptilian brain could conceive of.

“Very well.” Gerard waves his hand. “See that this is done. But, Stephan—”

“Stiles, Majesty.”

The king’s eyes narrow again at the correction, but Stiles is not about to marry the crooked old bastard when he can’t even recall his name properly. “Stiles, see that you produce the desired result. If you do not, that pretty throat will not remain whole to bathe in the next moonrise.”

“Of course, Majesty.”

“Come here.”

The prince and princess both look at their father as if he’s lost his wits. Have the Omega approach the throne? Ah, but they’ll have to deal with it, won’t they?

Stiles takes a step closer, eyes cast down. “Sir?”

“I said come closer, boy. I have something for you.”

Stiles obeys, ascending the dais with measured footsteps. Before he can kneel, the king catches him by the wrist, turning a bandaged hand over for his perusal.

His lip curls with disdain, perhaps assuming that the fibers are a common method of dealing with injury, and Stiles feels a thrill of triumph at his secret knowledge. The old man has no idea what fantastical things have come to pass, what soft lips have touched his future consort’s before his own cracked mouth had a chance to trespass.

And then suddenly there’s cold metal slipping past the knuckles of his ring finger. It feels like a shackle as Stiles watches its progress, ornate and expensive and horrid in its finality. He is already owned. He belongs to this decrepit bastard and all he can say is—

“Thank you, Majesty. I will not disappoint.”

He retreats down the dais at his first chance, bowing to the royal family and retreating with his throat tight and fresh tears in his eyes.

What a reward.

-

With the brazier crackling off to the side and the straw stacked twice as high, Stiles feels a wild urge to burn it all. The last vestiges of sunlight are dying on the horizon, and he pushes one of the spokes to give the spinning wheel an experimental push. It casts a shadow on the flagstones, the treadles moving under ghostly feet.

It all seems so pointless, now.

The straw will be spun away into lengths of stunning gold, and Stiles will be stretched upon the bed of a man beyond old enough to have sired his mother and father, forced to bear children for the most unpleasant excuse for a human he has yet to meet.

Softly, he sings to himself, letting his fingers trace over the rim of the wheel as it spins along, giving it another push when it begins to slow. “Eyes want to cry. And do they undo? Upon your shore...”  

He doesn’t even jump at the touch of a hand on his shoulder. “I thought I was the one spinning tonight.”

“I won’t fight you.” Stiles answers, his lips tipping into a smile before he can even think about it.

“Of course you won’t. They’ve given you a chair this time. A proper fire and a cask of ale. How civil. Is this king having a sudden fit of conscience?”

“His son is. He thinks it’s the least they can do for his father’s future broodmare.”

The man stops short on his way to examine the cask, turning to stare at Stiles with angry red eyes. “Why do you allow this? What possesses you to stay?”

“I’m an Omega. It’s not...there are worse things that could happen to me.”

“That word again. I’ve heard it too many times. What does it mean?”

“Are there no Omegas where you’re from? People who go into heat in cycles and bear children more easily than others.”

“You’re one of Lupa’s children.”

Stiles blinks at him, confused, and the man shakes his head in frustration.

“You mean to tell me that you’re a life giver and it’s somehow common for you to be subjugated in these lands?”

“Got it in one.” Stiles sighs. “Is it different where you’re from?”

“Infinitely. Children of Lupa—people like you—are not so common as they are here. They are honored for their gifts and abilities.”

“Popping out children is really that valuable a skill?”

The man gives him a flat look. “People like you are able to create life, and tend to have a greater capacity for magic. Also for cowing people. You might be suited for a position as a star sweeper, with that tongue of yours.”

“What the hell is a star sweeper?”

The man smiles a little, as if he’s proven his point. “A star sweeper is an individual who ensures that the stars do their jobs properly. You see, stars are lazy by nature. I told you that they often wander our avenues, loitering and twinkling and being generally narcissistic and uniquely annoying. A star sweeper is something like an overseer, monitoring their activity, their needs, and seeing that they don’t laze about the town.”

“There’s really a person in charge of the stars?”

“Several. There are quite a lot of stars, you know.”

“I wish I could see them.” Stiles says, then shakes his head and goes to rip off a bit of the bread. His stomach has been sour for most of the day, and it’s beginning to cramp up now.

“Wait.” His companion calls. “I brought this for you.”

When Stiles turns around, the man holds up a bundle of what seem to be warm fruit pastries and meat rolls. He goes to take the food and sit by the wheel before the man gathers his materials and settles himself into the spinning chair. He moves as if to begin the night’s task, but pauses to remove his coat and drape it around Stiles’ shoulders. “There,” He says, and goes about his work.

Stiles watches intently as strong fingers move deftly, drafting and feeding the rough stalks as easily as if they were made of clouds. It seems so much more elegant when he’s the one doing it, almost hypnotic, and Stiles feels himself drifting slightly as he sates himself with impossibly decadent pastries and a tin cup filled to the brim with warm brandy.

They talk long and late into the night, exchanging stories this time rather than regaling each other with questions and answers. When the conversation lulls, they swap tall tales and random facts. Stiles tells his companion about the time he made Melissa so mad she passed out, and he tells Stiles about the time he and his sister’s husband were racing a wisp and ran headlong into a thorn bush.

Before too long, Stiles is full, warm, and content, resting his head on the thigh not presently engaged in treadling. The man sacrifices his drafting hand to card his fingers through Stiles’ hair, raking gently over his scalp.

“You’re entirely too brave for your own good.”

“D’nno,” Stiles yawns and snuggles against his thigh before lifting his head. “It pays off sometimes.” He grins up at the man sleepily, looking around at the now straw-free chamber.

“Sometimes, hm?”

“I’m glad to have met you. You’re kind.”

“You are perhaps the only person in the world to think so.”

“I don’t believe that. You’re helping me.”

“Not for free.” The man grins, and Stiles feels his face flood with heat.

“That’s right. Your payment.” He lets out a soft breath and lets his eyes slide shut, waiting eagerly for the warm press of the man’s lips, but it doesn’t come. Instead, he feels a firm palm come around to grip his ass. “Wh—?” His eyes pop open, only to find the man’s lips a hair’s breadth from his own.

“I’ll need a bit more than a kiss this time, I’m afraid.”

“I’m not.”

“You have entirely too much faith in me. Aren’t you going to ask the price?”

“Are you going to hurt me?”

“No.”

“I have no reason not to trust you. I want...I want you to touch me. I just haven’t...ugh, screw it. Just touch me, please?”

The grin he receives in answer is nothing short of predatory. Almost immediately, he finds himself spun around and pulled back onto the man’s lap in the chair, deft fingers pulling at the fastenings of his trousers.

Stiles takes a short, shuddering breath and relaxes into the hold, his head lolling back onto a strong shoulder as clever fingers tease at his rapidly filling cock. He doesn’t grip it fully at first, preferring to annoy the younger man instead.

But Stiles can be a hellion in his own right, and quickly moves to grind his hips back into the other man’s crotch, reveling in the sensation of a heavy weight pressing against him. He reaches beneath the seam and guides that large hand to grip his dick and pull it free.

“You’re not so shy after all, are you?” His companion chuckles, teething at the nape of his neck, and Stiles sighs at the prick of it against his skin.

“I’m a virgin, not completely clueless.”

“In that case,” The man rumbles, tapping his thigh, “turn around, sweet boy.”

“Easier said than done.” Stiles huffs, struggling with his pants a bit before finally kicking them off and turning to straddle him as requested. He settles into the man’s lap slowly, basking in the attention he’s receiving.

His companion runs his hands from his hips to his shoulders, applying pressure with his thumbs and the heels of his palms as he strokes over his abdomen and up to his nipples, pinching and teasing briefly before seizing his cheeks and dragging him down into a kiss.

The contact is hotter than Stiles remembers, their tongues sliding together sloppily, teeth sinking in subtle teases and groans muffled by contact. He continues to work his hips, grinding hard against his protector’s clothed dick and whimpering intermittently.

“I don’t even know your name.” He whines.

“Not yet.” The man answers. “I promise…ah. You are too good, sweet boy.”

As Stiles watches, he suckles on two of his fingers before reaching around to slide them against his tight hole, dipping and teasing even as Stiles’ body responds with the first rush of slick.

“Nnn, don’t. ‘S messy.”

“You don’t want me to touch you here?” The man drawls. “It feels like you do.” His middle finger pushes inside a bit further, aided by natural lubrication, and Stiles thrashes ineffectively.

“Huh-uh. I t-take it back. You’re not kind at all.”

“I can be.”

The finger slides deeper before withdrawing, and Stiles narrows his eyes at his partner. “Put. It. Back.”

The man snickers. “Aren’t you demanding?”

“Did it to yourself. More. Please?” He slows the pace, rolling his hips more languidly against the bulge in his companion’s trousers, slowly pressing against his chest and sucking on his lip. He whispers against his lips, “Feels so good. Please?”

“I think I’ve been had,” the man says, but all the same he draws Stiles into another filthy kiss and presses back in with two fingers this time, setting up a steady pace and rubbing at his prostate only sparingly. The steady push and pull creates a messy slide, Stiles’ slick coating his fingers liberally and quickly leaking down past his wrist.

The sounds are obscene, and Stiles feels his face heat further. He shakes his head uselessly. “Bastard. You deserve it.”

“Couldn’t agree more.”

Stiles laughs breathlessly, rocking between the bulge before him and the fingers burying themselves deeper and harder in his leaking hole. “So good to me. You’re so good.” He reaches down to cup the man’s dick, squeezing just this side of too tight and pulling away from his lips to watch his head roll back.

The man bucks his hips in answer, the fingers of his free hand gripping tight against the soft cheek of Stiles’ ass and pulling him into their grinding more forcefully. “Good boy,” He sighs. “Just a little more.”

“Mmhm.” Stiles leans in for another kiss, lazy and uncoordinated, and gives up quickly to whimper and moan into the other man’s mouth. He lets out a litany of profanity as those long fingers find and assault his prostate with single-minded dedication.

“Come on, then. Isn’t this what you asked for?”

“Ahhh huh.” Stiles nods against the thick column of his throat before rubbing his smooth cheek against the man’s rough facial hair. “Yes. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

His hips stutter and he lets out a high keen when the pressure tightens to a white, burning sensation in his cock and belly and releases with a force unlike any he’s ever felt. His orgasm leaves him loose and thoughtless, hips still grinding against the other man’s.

The seat of his companion’s trousers is wet with his cum, smearing with each rut of his hips, but the tight grip on his ass doesn’t let up. He watches, quietly fascinated, as the man’s Adam’s apple bobs in his tightening throat. He chokes a few times on a steady moan, gazing up at nothing, and finally releases a long, loud groan as he hits his own release.

Panting, he reaches up to touch Stiles’ face again, smiling and pulling him into a series of soft, sucking pecks. There’s slick and sweat and tears, and Stiles could not give less of a shit as his strange lover kisses him again and again.

Stiles doesn’t really think this man knows what a price is, but he’s happy to pay it.  

-

When Stiles wakes the next morning, he is clean, dry, and fully clothed. The only thing to suggest his lover’s presence is a room filled with woven gold.

He reaches up to stifle a sudden yawn and realizes that the damned engagement ring is missing. Stiles could not be happier for its loss; he only wishes that he could follow it.

-

Miserable as his looming wedding ceremony makes him, the crown prince’s intercessions on his behalf, however sparing, give him hope for the future of his country. Katherine continues to make a louse of herself, but Christopher pointedly insists that his father be allowed to give him away, and his close friends be allowed to attend the proceedings.

John isn’t happy about any of this, and Scott will not stop apologizing, but Stiles maintains a brave face. “It’ll be all right,” he says, and he makes believe that he means it. He’s able to spend an entire blissful hour with his loved ones before Marin gently urges them to take their positions in the grand hall.

The serving women who have attended him since his arrival take pains to remove what feels like an entire layer of skin when they bathe him and saturate his skin with oils. He coughs a little at the floral scents they apply to his pulse points, apparently meant to make him seem more appealing.

He smells like a whorehouse, or perhaps like someone attacked him with a florist’s cart, but he isn’t exactly in a position to argue. As they clothe him in ill-fitted finery, they sigh about how lovely he is, and how he seems to glow as he never has before.

Maybe the stench will drive the king away, he thinks, and licks at the phantom sweetness of warm pastries on his teeth.

-

The ceremony is not joyful by any stretch of the imagination. The Argent line is not known for its flair for celebration, and Stiles is fairly certain that his king—his husband, heavens guide him—will crumble in the light of the sun.

The decoration is altogether unrelated to the usual merriment of a wedding, no cheery flower girls or fidgeting ring-bearers, no swathes of fabric draped over the congregation*. The entire thing is grim but ostentatious, and Stiles wonders if they wouldn’t appoint the hall the same way for a funeral. The candles are a poor substitute for the sunlight that would otherwise cheer the proceedings, and the heavy blue and silver banners of House Argent terrorize onlookers with snarling lions tearing at pinned wolves.

His friends and family are all dressed in mourning colors, and Princess Katherine looks as if she might attack them with her freshly painted manicure. Crown Prince Christopher keeps looking at him over his father’s shoulder as if he’s so profoundly sorry, and it all feels like he’s going to the slaughter rather than a wedding altar.

The comparison is unnervingly apropos.

Stiles tries to block it out, for his part. With an Alpha and Omega pairing, especially involving the king, there’s not a lot to do with the Omega’s consent. At least he doesn’t have to lie.  

When the officiant tells Gerard to kiss his new consort, Stiles nearly bites off his own tongue. Instead he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and imagines warm, soft lips in place of the thin and dry ones of his new husband.

-

The reception is even more frightfully minimal than the ceremony, no music to be heard, and conversations stilted and hesitant. Everyone knows that this is not a love match. More than half of those gathered understand that their king is wholly incapable of love.

Stiles is to be bred, whether he likes it or not, and there’s no celebration in that.

At least there’s cake. He’ll have to make sure some of the leftovers are sent back with his family. The chef here seems to like him enough.

Stiles gazes out of a nearby window from his place beside his aged husband and sees the sun spilling bright colors in its wake as it sinks below the horizon. The moon will wane further tonight, and…

And Stiles has an idea.

-

As well known as the king is for his austere manner, his bed is as extravagant as one would expect from a member of the aristocracy. Stiles sinks into the bedclothes almost as soon as he’s shoved back onto them.

“Disrobe, Omega.” The king growls. “I don’t expect to do everything for you.”

Convenient, Stiles thinks. You do nothing for me.

But he swallows the barb and lowers his lashes, looking up at the man as coyly as he can. “Ah, but Majesty…”

“What?” Gerard huffs, pausing in the process of undoing his own ceremonial cloak. His entire outfit is too much, nowhere near as well-tailored as the simple garments his lover favors. Stiles himself is drowning in his own wedding clothes.

His gaze is sharp and belittling, but Stiles knows how he works. The man isn’t difficult to figure out.

One more time. Just one more time, and Stiles will lie back and think of home while this man has his way. Before that, there’s one last thing he wants.

“I wanted to give you a wedding gift.”

“Now? Can’t it wait?”

“Not without what remains of the moon’s power, Majesty.”

“You mean to spin me another room full of gold?” For once, the man seems pleased.

“I do, sir. I feel that this marriage has blessed me with a new surge of energy. If you fill a room with straw, I am confident that I can spin a finer gold than ever before.”

Just like that, the king is flying from the chamber, calling for servants to once again make ready the tower room. Stiles’ heart seems to swell and sink all at once.

He was only half-lying.

-

Stiles does not wait for his companion to appear this night.

Instead, he takes a deep breath and gathers up several armfuls of straw before taking his seat and attaching the leader. He loops the thread through the orifice hook, pulls it neatly back through, and folds a stalk of straw around the leader.

Another deep breath, and he sets the wheel spinning, treadling with unnecessary speed. His stomach feels full of light, as if he’s careening through the air, and his fingertips sting so sweetly. Quickly, thread of the most brilliant gold he’s ever seen wraps itself around the spool.

Quietly he sings, “To the town we’ll go and to your hideaway, where the towers grow. Gone to be far away. Sit quietly alone.”

He imagines the gentle shine of spider silk against his skin, and he doesn’t think he’ll mind dying now, if the man doesn’t appear to him again. But he does appear, kneeling beside him as his hands feed and draft the straw. He whispers, “Don’t stop.”

Stiles does not.

When he begins to run out of straw, his companion brings him more, rising on quiet feet to bring him load after load of stiff fodder. When the spools fill up, he unwinds the gathered gold and adds it to the mass that has already been spun.

At first, they are quiet, but soon Stiles is filling the room with his fears, his dashed hopes, the secrets he thought he’d never tell anyone. He wants this man to have these feelings, just as he has Stiles’ first kiss, his first touch, and his damned engagement ring.

He will take good care of these things.

He listens carefully, occasionally brushing his fingers against Stiles’ wrists, shoulders, and knees. He doesn’t waste time with platitudes, but holds him tight when he runs out of straw, far more quickly than any night before.

The man kisses his hair and curses the name of the king, for the first time using truly foul language, and Stiles can’t help but laugh.

“I didn’t think you knew those words.” Stiles sniffles.

“I know these and more than these. Would you like to hear them? They all apply, I can assure you.”

Stiles shakes his head. “I have to pay you.”

“For what? What in the world would you pay me for?”

“For teaching me how to do these things. For telling me stories. For letting me believe that there was magic, at least for a little while.”

“Letting you believe?” The man sounds honestly outraged. “What do you think it is that you’ve done tonight, Stiles?”

“Stalled for time.”

His companion blinks at him as if he’s said something mind-numbingly foolish. “Do you really not understand?”

“I understand that I’ve been robbed of the last of my free will. I get that. I just wanted…” He sighs, reaching down with one hand to fiddle with the other. He comes away with his wedding ring pinched between his fingers. “Take it.”

“Is this man really dense enough not to notice?”

“You took the last one.”

“Because I couldn’t bear to see you wear it.”

“I don’t want to see it any more than you do. I’ll tell him a story. I’ll make up some bullshit story about how I had to sacrifice it. Just take it away.”

The man holds out his hand and Stiles drops the ring into his palm, watching intently as strong fingers close over the metal. It feels like the iron grip on his lungs has finally loosened, if only a bit.

“This isn’t enough.”

“What?”

“This ring. It isn’t enough.”

“For what?”

“You offered payment for my services. Wouldn’t you say that these gifts warrant more than a ring you never wanted?”

Stiles sinks in on himself, biting his lip as he tries to puzzle out what it is that the man is getting at. "What can I give you that means a thing to me?"

"Let me father your firstborn child."

Stiles opens his mouth to resist, but he can’t make the words come out. He’s been thinking of the possibility all night, of how desperately he wants this man to be his first. How desperately he does not want Gerard.

There’s no love or joy in this hellish place, at least not outside of this tower.

He closes his eyes and shakes his head, a wry smile on his lips. It really is a simple answer. “Yes,” he says.

“Open your eyes.”

Stiles does, and finds his lover kneeling just before him, the spinning wheel whisked off to the side and a soft bundle of blankets spread out just behind him.

“I hoped you might say that.”

“You were certainly prepared.” He scoffs.

“I like to think so.” The man grins. “But listen to me. My name is Peter.”

“‘Peter.’ How...normal.”

His lover’s eyes narrow, and Stiles laughs at his bemusement. “What?! You appeared out of nowhere and taught me about magic and star-sweeping. You gave me faerie food. Of course I thought you’d have some sort of mixed up troll name!”

“What?” Peter snips. “Like Świętomierz?”

Stiles squeaks. “Cheater!”

“I had to know.”

Stiles smacks him on the arm and Peter grabs his hand, lifting it to kiss his knuckles. “Not even the king knows that name.”

“It never ceases to please me to have so much that the king does not.”

“Like my name.”

“Like your heart, I think.”

“You wouldn’t be wrong.”

Peter smiles at him again. “Listen to me,” he says again. “My name is Peter.”

“You said that already.”

“I need you to say it again.”

“‘Peter,’” Stiles mimics. “‘Peter, Peter, Peter’.”

“Good. You’ll need to remember it if you change your mind.”

“About what?”

“You will have three chances, when I come for the child. If you can guess my name, you will be allowed to keep them.”

“And if I forget?” Stiles asks, softly.

“Why would you do a thing like that?”

Stiles’ stomach drops and twists as Peter pulls him down to kneel opposite him. His kiss is soft and gentle as he threads his fingers through Stiles’ hair. They stay like this for several precious moments, mapping mouth to mouth as Stiles shifts against the flagstones.

“Peter,” He whispers. “The floor is hard.”

Peter smiles against his mouth. “Ah, how careless of me.” He pulls Stiles along with him again, this time shuffling awkwardly back onto the blankets, clumsy in his refusal to part from the younger man.

Stiles doesn’t mind at all. He sighs deeply as Peter pulls him properly into his lap and lays back in the nest he’s conjured for them. Stiles enjoys the brief advantage, leaning down from his straddling position to nuzzle against Peter’s stubbled cheek.

“I suppose I could be tempted…” He drawls, continuing to kiss down the man’s chin and across his throat. He stays there for a moment, pressing against the warmth of Peter’s skin and pretending he’ll never have to move.

“I live to serve.” Peter grins above his head. “Stop worrying.” Strong hands brush over the thin material of his shirt, coming to trace over his chest and down his belly before stopping to cradle his hips. He doesn’t seem particularly eager to move either, breath rustling Stiles’ hair and lips pressing against his scalp.

“Peter.” Stiles grins down at him, and the man answers with a toothy smile of his own, leaning up for another proper kiss. Stiles grasp his chin, guiding him into a wet, filthy tangle of teeth and tongues. “Can we...like this?”

“You’re a bold boy,” Peter hums. “You want to ride me?”

Stiles nods, face not quite cherry red, and Peter closes his eyes.

“Now when did I become so lucky?”

“Luck had nothing to do with any of this.” Stiles huffs. “It’s more to do with my big mouth.”

Peter barks out a laugh, and Stiles sets about unbuttoning the man’s shirt, fingers parting the fabric for his hungry gaze.

“I want to bite you,” He mutters, and as soon as the words leave him, he feels claws digging at his thighs through his pants. “Is that upsetting?” Another look into Peter’s eyes reveals that they’ve changed again, glowing that otherworldly blue.

“I can think of nothing I want more.” Peter smirks. “But be prepared for the same treatment.”

Stiles laughs as he begins the slow slide down Peter’s torso, pressing his lips and teeth to the older man’s dark nipples in turn, suckling as Peter’s fingers (thankfully sans claw) slide ‘round to his ass and grip tight. As Stiles lingers, nipping and suckling just to hear the muffled groaning sounds that escape Peter’s lips, the man uses his grip to grind their covered dicks together, long and slow.

A breathy, shuddering moan rattles from Stiles’ throat, followed by a few short, high whines as Peter repeats the motion more quickly, rocking against him with purpose.

“Not yet, not yet,” Stiles whines. “I want you inside.”

“You’ll have to hurry then, won’t you?” Those gripping fingers slide up, catching at the hem of Stiles’ shirt, dragging the fine fabric up and up. The younger man rises reluctantly, lifting his arms to help Peter remove the garment.

He pauses to look down at his lover, face flushed and eyes just slightly glazed. It’s a strange sensation, wanting and being wanted. The slick heat of his hole has gone almost entirely ignored thus far, but he can feel the pressure of it. Stiles wants Peter to fill him, but not as desperately as he’d been led to believe was common.

He’s excited at the prospect of being tied with Peter for as long as he can, of feeling Peter buried inside him, holding him tight, but he’s not out of his mind with it. The sensation is too pleasant for words.

Again, he leans down to kiss Peter, delivering a series of soft pecks before taking one big hand in his own, guiding it down to finger his leaking hole. “For you,” he rasps, and Peter actually growls.

“Oh, sweet precious boy,” Peter croons, lunging up even as his hands tug at the waistband of Stiles’ trousers. The two of them work together in a near insensible flurry of limbs to divest one another of the last of their clothing before tumbling again into the blankets.

For a few moments, Stiles finds himself under Peter’s muscular form, drinking in sweet, syrupy kisses before he taps at Peter’s shoulder with the heel of his palm and the man obediently rolls them over again.

They cling tightly to each other, still kissing deeply, hips still rolling together filthily. Stiles sighs into Peter’s mouth and Peter drags careful fingers up and down the delicate curve of Stiles’ spine.

When Stiles finally rises again, staring down into Peter’s eyes as he takes hold of the man’s cock, he feels fear and lust and thin hope all tangled up in his gut. A broad, familiar palm strokes over his shivering flesh, cupping the join of his hip and rubbing circles with the pad of a thumb.

“It’s all right,” Peter says. “As slow as you need, sweet boy. I’m not going anywhere.”

Except he is, and even now with Peter looking up at him with stars in his eyes, Stiles is anticipating the moment that Peter disappears and he is left alone and at the mercy of his husband.

Peter’s lips turn down, as if he can hear the gray bend of his thoughts, and he sits up, bringing them nearly chest to chest. He ducks his head to kiss Stiles’ cheek, then his forehead, then his lower lip.

Stiles closes his eyes, focusing on the sensation of Peter’s breath against his skin as the man brushes his lips against the tender flesh of his throat. He gasps as sharp canines sink against the column, hesitating only briefly before puncturing the surface.

He feels no pain, only a swelling rush of heat where they’re connected, an aching change that he can’t put a name to.

Peter’s tongue is almost rough as it sweeps up the pinpricks of blood, much like his voice when he rumbles, “I swear to you that you will be safe. I swear it.”

There’s no evidence to back up the man’s claim, but Stiles finds himself believing it. He opens his eyes again to find Peter staring into them, his lips tinted red where his blood has smeared the skin.

He leans in to taste it, dabbing at Peter’s mouth with kitten licks as the man reaches between the cheeks of his ass to finger his hole. The sound he makes when two fingers breach his opening would likely be embarrassing if he weren’t already occupied with panting against Peter’s mouth.

“There. Isn’t that so much better than worrying?”

“Bastard.”

“See now, that’s unkind.” His fingers hook inside the boy, pressing harshly against the spot that makes him wail with pleasure. The wet noises his actions produce are nothing if not lewd, nearly echoing in the quiet of the tower room.

Stiles struggles to breathe as Peter adds a third finger, rubbing mercilessly at his prostate even as he begs insensibly against the corner of Peter’s mouth. “I’m ready,” Stiles insists. “I want it.”

“Then take it.” Peter murmurs, withdrawing his fingers abruptly and pressing the head of his thick cock against Stiles’ aching hole. His fingers had helped Stiles prepare for the intrusion, but his dick is still a bit bigger around, and stretches him open with a heavy, burning pressure that leaves Stiles keening and shifting his hips uselessly.

This is what he needed.

In Peter's arms, Stiles sighs, moans, cries, and begs. He feels things, feels valued and loved and he doesn't want it to end, but it will have to, will it not?

“Stiles,” Peter whispers in his ear. “Thank you.”

He feels like laughing, but he’s afraid the sound would turn into something ridiculous, so he settles for humming a low note and lifting himself up on Peter’s dick.

There’s not much to talk about after that, just two slick, warm bodies pressing against each other. Peter’s cock is delicious inside of him, big and heavy and dragging against his walls.

Peter teases at his prostate like the magnificent bastard he always plays at being, grasping Stiles’ chin and forcing him to maintain eye contact even as he hiccups and gasps for air. He seems to bask in the choked noises stuttering up from Stiles’ throat, his own moans deep and resonating in his belly and chest.

Stiles reaches up to feel them, fingers skimming Peter’ nipples, plucking at the flesh like a little brat. Peter grins his wolf-like grin and mashes their lips together, teeth clashing and nipping even as clawed fingers force him up and down on his dick faster and faster.

Stiles’ cockhead rubs at the defined ridges of the man’s abs, precum smearing over skin as he continues to whine and beg in the man’s grasp. “Peter. Just a little...please please please, Peter.”

“Come on. Come for me, pretty boy. Just like this. You can do it.”

One hand releases its firm grip to thumb at the slit of Stiles’ cock, fingers pressing it harder against Peter’s belly even as a sharp claw dips inside. That’s all it takes to force him into a near painful orgasm, crying out a desperate series of filth even as his body locks down on the pressure inside.

He shakes apart in Peter’s arms, collapsing against his shoulder as Peter picks up the pace, continuing on for a good few minutes with no signs of fatigue. He supports Stiles’ shuddering weight as one might support a tired child.

Stiles groans softly as the man murmurs fragments of praise—what a good boy he is, what sweet sounds his little hole makes for him, how he cries so perfectly, how wonderful his begging—and finally knots up tight inside him.

The pressure hurts, but Stiles can’t bring himself to give a damn. His body releases a wave of endorphins as Peter’s seed pulses inside him, load after load of thick cum filling his hole and knocking him up.

Peter is gentle as he lowers him into their nest once more, pulling him up against him tightly and making him as comfortable as possible. He presses soft kisses to his hairline as Stiles regains some, if not all, of his senses.

Stiles lies still for a while, breathing against Peter’s throat and basking in the fullness of his ass and the tight ache at the curve of his shoulder. He’s going to have a child—a beautiful child—but he never intends to repeat Peter’s name before another living soul.

He’ll give this man his child. The baby will be better off.

Peter’s fingers massage his scalp again, soothing him with certain touch. “Our child will live a life filled with contentment and love. It will be all right.”

“I wish I could believe you.”

Peter’s laugh is a little sad, but he smiles as he takes Stiles’ palm and places a vial into it. “Next time your king tries to bed you, offer him a cup of wine and add two drops of this to the cup.”

“Poison?” Stiles whispers, shocked despite his own ill wishes toward the king.

“A sedative. He’ll be knocked out near immediately, with no memory. Feign a limp the next morning, and you’ll be fine.”

‘Fine’ is entirely subjective.

Still, Stiles lets Peter coax him into another sweet kiss. He imprints it carefully into his memory, and lets himself float.

He will not see Peter again for quite some time.

-

Months pass, and with each waxing and waning of the moon, Stiles watches his belly grow larger and larger, the skin firm and smooth. About five months into his pregnancy and very much against the advice of Marin and his other attendants, he makes the climb up to his tower.

The brazier and wheel are there still, as is the cask of brandy and the comfortable chair. With a little effort, he drags the chair over to the little window and plucks up a stray bit of straw before taking a seat. He runs the stalk through his fingers, transforming it to and from gold as he watches the starry sky.

“Hey,” he whispers to the child inside him. “Marin says you can hear me, now. Would you like me to tell you a story?”

The child in his belly squirms, and he smiles softly. He never expected to be here, not so young and certainly not wrapped in such fine clothing. It feels like living in a cage. Only one of them will have to stay, though he wishes it weren’t so.

“Did you know your father was from a place called Aurus Losz? I think it must be far away from here. He never did tell me the specifics. He says they have people called star sweepers. I’m going to tell you about those.”

Stiles falls asleep there and wakes up covered by a familiar coat. He lifts the collar to his nose and sighs, burying his face in the fabric.

-

The delivery is difficult, and Stiles can’t help but scream through the pain. He wishes that Peter were here, that Peter would stay by his side and tell him that it would be all right and that he would survive.

He does survive, and so does the child.

Marin smoothes his hair back and dabs at the sweat gathered at his brow and collarbone. She and the others coo about how strong and brave he was, and about how healthy and beautiful his baby girl is. They hand her to him gingerly, watching with smiles all around as he helps her suckle for the first time.

He presses a kiss to her tiny brow and feels his insides settle when she gurgles and coos. He loves her. He loves her so much it terrifies him.

Stiles is moments away from drifting into a brief and well-deserved nap when the king sweeps into the room, glaring down at the babe where she rests against him. He picks her up roughly, her swaddling clothes loosening in his careless hands, and she begins to cry again.

He hears one of the women urge, “Support the head, your Majesty” before the king is shoving the child into Marin’s arms. “A Beta.” He growls.

“A healthy baby girl,” Marin replies.

“Swarthy. And dark-haired. And a Beta.”

“But she is healthy and strong,” another woman adds. “She will grow into a beautiful woman.”

“I fail to see the advantage of having a female Beta born to my line. I suppose we can’t foster it out.”

The serving women hiss as Stiles swells with a fierce, violent pride. She’ll be taken far from here, where this beady-eyed bastard will never have the privilege of looking at her again. Marin places a hand on his trembling shoulder, perhaps not realizing that he’s shaking with contempt.

He knows that she understands when her fingers dig into his shoulder, her jaw set firm. He has no doubt that she would throttle the man, given half a chance, and he would very much like to see it.

The king storms out just as abruptly as he came, and the serving women crowd around Stiles once again. They hand his daughter back, and he smiles down into those pretty brown eyes.

She looks up at him, grumbling and fussing for a few moments before she finally settles. She blinks once, twice, and makes a soft rattling sound, and her eyes flare a brilliant gold. Stiles feels the thrill run through him, his chest swelling as if into a vast and light-filled chamber.

In that moment he is so, so happy.

-

The night before his daughter’s Naming Ceremony, Stiles makes the journey up the steps again. He spends hours up there, whispering his hopes and dreams to the stars. He hopes that one of them will wander the streets tonight, and that they will find Peter.

He hopes one of them hears him say, “I love you.”

-

Gerard finds him before the ceremony, and for an awkward moment, Stiles thinks he might offer some sort of sentiment for the guest of honor. Instead, Gerard leans in close to his side and whispers, “Tonight I expect you in my chambers, properly prepared.”

He walks away just as easily as if he’s made some inane comment about the weather, and Stiles hopes there’s an assassination attempt today. He glances down at the baby girl in his arms, at her curious golden eyes and full lips, and runs gentle fingers through her soft brown tufts of hair.

It will kill him to lose her.

He supposes he’ll take his husband down with him. He does still have an entire vial of a very potent sedative in his possession, after all.

-

For once, the audience hall is appointed in some semblance of cheer. The young princess’ bassinet is swathed in white drapery and fine golden star garlands, fashioned from her father’s own spun gold. The baby is nestled happily in a colorful patchwork quilt made by her Aunt Melissa, a concession that the king was forced to make or face a truly tiring battle.

The drapes throughout the room echo the astral designs, and people seem pleased at the change. Stiles wishes he could share their enthusiasm. The ceremony goes as planned until he moves from his place kneeling at the king’s side, descending from the dais to his daughter’s cradle.

As if on cue, there is a pervasive, low roar echoing through the chamber. The attendees shout and mill about chaotically, but the young princess giggles and claps her hands. She knows her father’s coming for her.

The room fills with a billowing purple cloud, swirling from corner to corner as if searching for something. Slowly, it dissipates from the center, gathering along the walls where hundreds of eyes peer out at the assembly, all of them red, gold, or blue.

By the time the proper hush falls over the crowd, Peter is standing in the middle of the aisle, one toe pointed against the heavy blue fabric as he sketches a mocking bow. There’s no need for him to shout. His voice is amplified to carry through the chamber. “Ladies and gentlemen, there’s no need for alarm. We’ve only come to enjoy the celebrations! I hear it’s someone’s birthday.”

“Name day.” The king growls and stands from his seat. “Who are you and how did you get in here?!”

Peter shoots the man a look as if he’s a particularly special brand of idiot. He gestures around him, as a teacher with a dull student. Look at all the pretty purple clouds. Ooh la loo. Gerard remains dissatisfied.

Stiles snorts, and Peter finally looks at him, eyes full of a sad adoration as he examines him carefully. He knows that there are bags under his eyes, and that he must look horribly out of place. Still, he’s overjoyed that Peter is here. Peter is honest, and Peter is true.

He doesn’t even believe he’ll take the child today. He thinks that Stiles will say his name, easy as you please, and defeat the foul intruder. Perhaps it would give Stiles some measure of credibility here.

Stiles gives a little wave and Peter winks.

“Where is the guest of honor, then?”

Stiles hurries the rest of the way to the cradle, making a show of panic and protectiveness. (As if she needed protection from Peter.) He tucks her into the crux of his arm and holds her close, his head held high.

“I’ve come today regarding a gift.” Peter begins, and suddenly a coarse voice calls from the crowd.

“Not this rot again!”

“Not that kind of gift!” Peter barks.

“What’s with you faeries and infants, hey?” Another celebrant yells.

“Faerie?!” Peter actually looks scandalized. “Faerie?!”

Stiles clears his throat.

“Apologies.”

“Of course, sir.”

“You understand it’s a sensitive subject.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Fucking faeries.”

“Get on with it.” The king spits.

Peter glares at him before snapping his fingers once, twice, three times. Beside him, there appears a great golden wheel, rotating in the air. As he motions with his fingers, the movement grows faster and faster before halting abruptly. “You see, your bride and I struck a bargain, and I have come to collect my dues. Well,” he pauses, “My due.”

“And?” Gerard actually looks interested for once, as if the only things that catch his attention are greed and the suffering of others. Like it’s all some kind of sport.

He wonders what sort of face the man will make when he’s informed of his own impending death. The image is heartening as Peter begins to explain the terms, if a bit doctored.

“I taught him long ago to spin this way, you see. I told him there would be consequences. I would require something precious in return.”

“That something precious being…?” The king drones.

“His firstborn.”

The crowd gasps collectively, scandalized at the prospect of this sweet little child being swept away by the shadowed eyes and mouths at the edges of the room.  A few begin to cry ‘murderer!’ and ‘fiend!’ and Peter rolls his eyes.

“I’m not going to eat it!” He shouts. “The child will be well with me.”

“What other use could you have for it?” Gerard asks, and that seems to catch Peter’s ire.

“What?”

“It’s a girl-child, and a Beta. Not at all strong like Katherine here.” He gestures to his daughter who stands at his side, smiling all the while. “Won’t even be as fertile as its dam.”

Peter looks at Stiles as soon as the words spill from the king’s mouth, watching the way he winces and bounces the baby in his arms. As if she’s the one hurt by all of this, and Stiles is simply resigned to it.

How can the boy accept this for the rest of his life?

Peter takes a deep breath and smiles, “Still, are you prepared to play my game?”

He’s not prepared at all, but there’s no way in hell he’s letting his daughter suffer through this for the rest of her life. This is it. Soon, his baby girl and Peter will both be gone from him. He will be bred by this vile man who doesn't give a damn and who never will. He will be stuck with these simpering bastards who would never dream of interfering.

This is it. This is his life.

But his little girl will be happy. Peter promised. Their little girl will grow up with a father who will take care of her and love her. He's a little jealous, but mostly sad.

He looks Peter in the eye and smiles. “I am.”

“Very well, then.” Peter stopped and coughed, continuing dryly,“Today’s the day I dance for joy, for though I am fair rich in fame, today I best a mortal boy. I’ll have your child or hear my name.”

‘Really?’ Stiles mouths.

Peter arches a brow.

Stiles shakes his head, “Is your name...Paracelsus?”

A golden tally appears in the air, and the man looks mildly amused. He thinks that Stiles is putting on a show. “Not at all.”

“Perseus?” Stiles asks again.

Another tally appears, and Peter gives him a teasing look. “Again, you are incorrect. Perhaps a pretty face is all you have.”

It will be.

Stiles heaves a sigh and smiles sadly at his lover. “What about Pyramus?”

Peter actually looks stricken, his eyes wide with horror, as if he never dreamed that Stiles would fail. He hisses, “Did you forget?”

Stiles shakes his head. “Peter,” he whispers, and pets at his daughter’s downy hair. The third tally mark hangs heavy in the air and over his heart.

“So,” The king says, “Your name is not Pyramus?”

“No, Majesty.”

“Then you will take the child.”

“So it seems.”

There are tears in the boy’s eyes as the king insists, “Hurry it along, then.”

“You won’t fight me?” Peter hisses.

“Why would I? There will be others. Alphas, this time.” As if he has sovereign control over Stiles’ body. Peter looks as if he’ll enjoy organizing Gerard’s innards into fetching piles.

The man steps forward, into the curve set by Stiles’ shoulders, and carefully lifts the girl from his arms. He glances between the two of them, as if he can’t decide which to look at for long.

“What’s her name?” He asks quietly.

“Malia.”

“That’s beautiful.”

“I thought so.”

“Almost as beautiful as you.”

“Flatterer.”

“I’ll have you know that I’m the most honest man you’ll ever meet.”

“That’s terrifying, Peter.”

“Not at all. I’ll be around to protect you from the rest of them.”

“I’m sorry?”

Peter takes a step forward, further into Stiles’ space, and wraps the arm not holding their daughter firmly around the younger man’s waist. That gets the king’s attention. He leans down to press his lips to Stiles' in a firm kiss, and that draws cries of outrage.

"What are you doing?"

Peter turns them about to face the king properly, a wide grin stretching his lips. “Oh, now I have your attention. I’m fulfilling the wager, Majesty. I promised to provide the child a life of contentment and love. What better person to provide that then her dam?”

"You would dare to take my Omega? The bearer of my heirs?"

"This," Peter growls, hefting his child in his arm. "This is not your child. I know this in my bones, just as I've known this man's skin."

Gerard roars in anger, but Peter is unmoved. There is a howling chorus as the black shapes disappear.

He calls for the guards, but Peter is unmoved. The fog dissipates.

Stiles hisses in his ear, grasping at him, and Peter kisses his temple.

"You have such beautiful hands, love. They're the first thing I noticed about you."

And just like that, they disappear.

-

The trip is not a quick one, as Stiles imagined it to be. Nor does it take place entirely on the ground. He stays there, held tight against Peter’s chest with Malia between them, but there is no earth beneath his feet.

“Open your eyes, sweet boy.” Peter says.

Stiles shakes his head emphatically, “Oh, no. I don’t think I want to.”

“Come on, now. Have I ever steered you wrong?”

Stiles peeks open an eye, tilting his head slightly to glare up at the man, and loses his breath at the sight beyond Peter’s shoulder. They are moving through what seems to be the sky, slowly descending through blues, pinks, and purples, surrounded by hundreds of bioluminescent people. People with bright, inquisitive faces and flowing garments, laughing and waving as they pass by. One pauses near them, pulsing with a brilliant inner glow as it coos at them. “Estas bebo!”

“Good evening, Evangeline.”

“Bonan matenon, Petro~!”

Stiles stares openly as Peter makes the introductions. “This is my Stiles, Evangeline.”

“Estilos.”

“He’s going to be a star-sweeper.”

“Hura!” She claps. “Saluton, Estilos.”

“He’s going to be the boss of you.”

Evangeline blows a raspberry before drifting closer to kiss Stiles’ cheek. “No, no! We will be friends!”

Stiles blinks at her dumbly, one hand coming up to touch his cheek. “Hello.”

“Yes!” She cheers, and floats backward. “What is the baby?”

“A girl,” Peter beams. “Malia.”

“Hello, Ma-li-a~” Evangeline sings. “Happy travels.”

Just like that, she flits off, leaving Stiles to gape at the astral field around them, bleeding with so many colors and sweet, chiming sounds.

“They’re happy to see you. She’ll be spreading the word now.”

“These are...they’re all stars?”

“Every last one of them.”

Stiles opens his mouth to ask another question, but the burn of cold air stays his tongue. He shivers a bit, and Peter kisses his forehead before opening his coat and wrapping Malia and Stiles in with him.

“Thank you.” Stiles sighs.

“You’re welcome.”

“No, I mean...just thank you. I can’t believe...I’m really happy right now.”

“As am I.”

Stiles smothers his grin against Peter’s collar, pressing a kiss against the warm skin. “I thought I’d be stuck there for the rest of my life.”

“Without our daughter, I understand. We’ll be talking about that later.”

“Is it really okay? For us to be here? With you?”

He feels the firm press of Peter’s lips against the top of his head. “It will be my privilege to look after you both from now on. For as long as you allow me.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Really, now? You don’t trust my feelings? That’s not fair at all. After all, I’ve only heard yours from a star.”

Stiles feels his skin heat and smacks Peter’s arm. “I mean that I have no faith that you’ll ever let us go. I’m counting on it, really, but you’re too spoiled to let us wander off, I think.”

“You know me so well.”

“Unfortunately.”

“I love you, too, you know. Both of you. It’s disgusting.”

Stiles pinches him.

“Oof. All right, all right. Look down.”

“Isn’t that the opposite of what you’re told to do when—?”

“Stiles. Look down.”

Stiles obeys, looking downward to find a large city built of near translucent stone. The effect is a milky golden white glow that catches light and twinkles back at the stars. A fair number of great structures are built directly into the mountain sides above rushing rivers, flowing under grand archways and aqueducts to pour into a series of waterfalls.

Beyond the city proper, there are abundant fields and woodlands, but it’s the structure directly below them that catches Stiles’ attention. They’re coming in to land on one of the terraces of a structure eerily like a palace. There are floating lights all over the place, and one of the far towers resembles a wolf’s head howling at the moon.

Stiles is uncertain of his footing here, but Peter is unperturbed.

They touch down gracefully on what appears to be a landing pad for just such a purpose, surrounded by what can only be the black shapes from the ceremony—wolves—spearheaded by a strong-featured woman with a frown on her face.  

“Peter,” she sighs. “We talked about this. Did you honestly summon the entire pack to witness your kidnapping?”

“Talia.” Peter smiles, but she’s having none of it.

“There are treaties, Peter. And rules, besides, that tell us exactly not to do what you just did. We can’t just go around abducting people. Eamon wants to go steal a human now, too. Do you know how hard it is to explain the moral dilemma of abduction to a nine-year-old that stubborn?”

“Talia,” Peter grumbles.

“I’m so sorry, young man. We’ll take you home, I swear it.”

“But I don’t want to go.”

“I...what?” Talia blinks at him. “Did he not…?” She gestures to Peter as one might flick at a particularly ill-behaved house pet.

“Talia,” Peter repeats. “Sister. I want you to meet my mate and child.”

“Your what?”

Peter presses another kiss to Stiles’ temple, finally letting him go so that he can better stand tall before his family. “This is Stiles. He can spin straw into gold. Isn’t that marvelous?”

Stiles stamps on his foot.

Peter hisses and hops a bit, upsetting Malia, who has been for the most part wide-eyed and quiet during their trip. She makes a disgruntled ‘wrrrrrgh’ noise, and Stiles reaches over to pet her hair. “It’s all right, little spinner. Everything’s okay.”

“I suppose that changes things.” Talia sighs. “Of course that’s what you were up to. Of course it was.”

“He saved me. Three or four times, actually. Please don’t be upset with Peter. You’re his sister, so I’m sure you know he can be an ass, but he means well. Probably.”

There’s a widespread snickering among the wolves and Talia beams at him. “Oh, you are perfect.”

“Me?”

She nods and takes a few graceful strides forward, wrapping her arms around him and folding him into her silky robes. “Derek told me Peter had a bit of a crush, to be honest. I didn’t think...can I see her?”

Peter holds Malia up for a proper examination and Talia turns to touch her cheek. She runs gentle fingers over the child’s nose and cheeks, tapping her on the forehead lightly. “She’s a wonder.”

“The most beautiful girl in the world.” Peter nods.

“Don’t tell Laura.”

Stiles shifts uncomfortably and Talia draws away. “I suppose we’ll have plenty to celebrate tonight. We’ll need to decorate the great hall, of course, and give the kitchens notice. And we’ll have a cradle brought to your rooms.” She wiggles her fingers at Malia, who makes another indecipherable baby noise, loving the attention.

The wolves begin darting off, presumably to accomplish these and other tasks.

“I’ll be off, then. But Stiles?”

“Yes, My Lady?”

“Welcome home.”

-

After quite a bit of twisting and turning through the bright and well-appointed halls, Stiles feels as if he should be tired, but he feels too much as if he’s still walking on air. He watches Peter’s broad shoulders, shifting slightly under his familiar jacket as he walks. Malia’s down-covered head pokes out from the crook of his elbow, occasionally wiggling up to peek at her dam.

He smiles at her each time, heart growing lighter with each cooing laugh Peter draws from her as they walk. At the next split in the corridor, he grows tired of waiting and hurries forward to press his face between Peter’s shoulders, arms wrapping tight around the older man’s waist.

“Overwhelmed already?” Peter teases.

“I can think of one or two things you might have mentioned.”

“Like?”

“I get the feeling you aren’t exactly a common man.”

“Oh, my dear. I’m anything but common.”

Stiles pinches his hip.

“All right, all right!” Peter laughs, turning in his grasp. He presses a kiss against Stiles’ forehead. “I’m the Alpha’s Second.”

“The what now?”

“The...Queen? My sister would be a Queen, yes? I’m her second in command.”

“Command of what, exactly?”

“The pack.”

“So all of the wolves…”

“Upright members of society. You can’t tell me this is giving you difficulty. We just fell through a cohort of stars.”

“I’m processing it.” Stiles grumbles, “Perhaps you’d be kind enough to not be a nit about it.”

Peter grins. “I live to serve, of course.”

-

Peter’s rooms—their rooms—are located in the tower that mimicked a howling wolf’s head. Stiles isn’t all that surprised, really. It suits Peter’s dramatic tendencies just perfectly, and the interior nearly screams of the man.

The open maw is actually a sweeping balcony that looks down onto a sheer cliff face, a waterfall opening up a short distance below. It’s accessed via a spiraling metal staircase that runs along the wall, and bordered by a decently sized loft that Malia will adore when she’s old enough to explore.

The structural supports are plastered with sketches and designs, excerpts of foreign manuscripts and other documents that have caught Peter’s eye over the years.

There are books all over the place, lining mismatched shelves throughout the place and rallying about the edges of the room. Travel trunks of varying styles and colors are shifted all around, as if a great deal of rearranging has very recently taken place.

Peter nudges Stiles forward as he turns in place, trying to take everything in at once, but it’s nearly impossible. It’s too good to be true. He must be dreaming, must be hallucinating the bassinet tucked back by the bed, wreathed in colorful fabrics from distant lands. A branch of vibrant pink-and-golden blossoms hangs over the cradle, a decadent mobile to catch their daughter’s attention and whisk her off to sweet-smelling dreams.

“I must have rearranged this place a hundred times. I just couldn’t decide…” Peter huffs in frustration, clearly put out at his own poor design skills. Stiles shakes his head, eyes bright and damp.

“Don’t cry about it. We can always move things around again.”

Stiles shakes his head, laughing as he throws himself into Peter’s arms, mindful of the confused infant in his hold. “It’s perfect,” He grins. “It couldn’t be any more perfect if the stars themselves had done it.”

“Well,” Peter drawls. “You see, they did help me with one bit.”

He points at a cozy corner by what Peter can only assume is Peter’s own well-used desk, and Stiles finally recognizes the chair draped with soft, colorful blankets. He stole the chair from the tower.

The chair where Peter first touched him, where Stiles first whispered his love to the stars. There are no words to describe the feeling that welling up in his chest, but there is certainly understanding in those mischievous blue eyes.

“I can go back for the wheel, too, if you like.”

Stiles pinches him again.