Yet another from this long list of prompts, completely unprompted.
Number Twelve: “I’m pregnant.”
The text came in at 7:17am, and in the mean time, Stiles had made his way through four and a half breakdowns, all of them for different reasons.
Number One: Male werewolves could get pregnant, and tying into that:
Number Two: Derek had never found it relevant to their two year relationship to share this fun fact. That didn’t say much as to his thoughts on their future together, which stung.
Number Three: Stiles was going to be a father at twenty-four.
Number Four: Just the night before, with Derek in Argentina visiting Cora, Stiles ate a dinner of Cheetos, plain microwaved hotdogs wrapped in bread, and four beers before passing out on the couch with the tv remote in his hand. He was not ready to be a father.
Number Five (still ongoing, more or less halfway through): They were going to have to move because no amount of corner guards or stupid little outlet plugs could childproof the loft. The door to the kitchen was literally a jagged hole in a brick wall. Stiles caught his shins on it regularly, they were always a mess of scabs and bruises.
Actually his entire body was a mess of scabs and bruises, because that was his life now, had been since sophomore year: fighting off the forces of supernatural evil.
Too bad he couldn’t childproof his life.
Oh god, they were going to have to move out of Beacon Hills. Away from the pack.
Nothing was stable in Beacon Hills, it had been eight years of panic and anxiety and near deaths and actual deaths. They couldn’t bring a baby into their current lives, Stiles wouldn’t even bring an adult into this hellhole. Who was trained in firearms. With combat experience.