#Lydia you dumb girl

[unknownuserinpain]

My affections and wishes are unchanged; but one word from you will silence me on this subject for ever.

Colin Firth as Darcy in Pride and Prejudice 1995 yesyesyesyes

[bamboozledbird]

𝒈𝒐𝒐𝒅𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒏 𝒈𝒐 // stiles stilinski imagine Characters: Stiles Stilinski, fem!reader, Scott McCall, Lydia Martin, Isaac Lahey, Malia Tate, Kira Yukimura, Allison Argent Pairing(s): Stiles x you, Word Count: 8.9k Tags: human!au, fluff, childhood friends to lovers Warnings: there are a few little nsfw mentions in the middle, so MDNI. Stiles does go out on a window ledge, but i have to make it clear he has no intention ever of jumping lmao.

A/N: this is basically just one day i thought what if stiles had a nick x jess first kiss because he seems stupid and awkward enough to jump out a window. and thus this nonsense was born. also the pov switching was new, so you’ll have to let me know if you’re a fan or not.

The thing is, Stiles isn’t an idiot. He’s stupid, but he isn’t dumb. He knows that it’s not normal to think about your best friend like this. That being so intensely attuned to the curve of her spine when she stretches or the hint of citrus that clings to her hair after she showers isn’t exactly platonic. 

And he really doesn’t want to be that guy. You know, the guy who just wants more, who gets upset when he can’t have more—the guy who can’t be friends with the girl who doesn’t love him back. So. Stiles stuffs it down. Deep down. And he’s content to die like this because he needs you. 

There are other girls. Boys too, after a latent discovery freshman year ( one that surprised no one but himself ). They come, and they go, and Stiles makes due with what he can have because he knows this is how it has to be. 

But they aren’t you. 

A blatant fact that ruins anything real before it even has the chance to start. 

So here he is: 24, single, and perpetually in love with one of his three roommates—but, hey, at least he does his own laundry now.

Stiles watches you on your bed, sitting on the floor like a child, while he pretends to work on a case report. He feels a little like a child too, the longer he stares at you—like a little boy with his hand in the cookie car. 

He plays with the fluff on your rug to keep his hand busy, tugging on it a little too harshly when you pull your hair back with the scrunchie on your wrist. Stiles feels like a cretin when his eyes follow the rise of your breasts as you fiddle with the knot on top of your head. They trail over the flex of your collarbones, and he sinks further into his shame when he imagines tracing the lines with his tongue. 

You catch him staring, and his throat bobs with his swallow. 

“What?” you ask with arched brows. You grin at him like you know something. 

Fuck, what if you know? 

You asked him something. Stiles knows you asked him something, but he can’t remember what. He just swallows again and fumbles for his coffee. Stiles knows that he should be desensitized to it all by now: your clever mouth, your deft fingers, your fluttering lashes, but he’s still startled by it every so often—like right now, when you look like you’re about to say something snarky at his expense. 

“Does it look that bad?” A few strands of your hair slip from their loose hold when you shake your head at him. “Are you moonlighting with the fashion police? I thought you’d be a little busy living in the murder capital of the world.”

Stiles laughs a little, mostly because of the simple fact that your hair always looks pretty. He said it the first time he saw you, blurted it out like a little lamb. Stiles knew, even at six, that he should be embarrassed, but he just couldn’t help it. He was so little and completely overwhelmed by his first case of puppy love; the words had nowhere else to go.

He’s gotten better at swallowing the praise-vomit, but he still notices. You’re always pretty. He’s doing his best to ignore it. 

“That’s St. Louis actually,” Stiles says. He burns his tongue on his coffee and pulls a face that he knows gives him a double chin. 

You slide off of your bed and kneel down next to him. Your knees press into his thigh, and it feels like something more, something profound, but he knows it doesn’t mean anything. You’re generous with your affection; you make everyone feel special when they’re around you. Stiles loves that about you, how you make him feel like he’s so smart, so vital when he knows that he’s moderately clever at best and really a lot closer criminally obsessive most days. 

“Can you tell me anything about it?” you hum, nestling your chin in the hollow of his shoulder. 

Stiles can smell your body wash. It’s sweet, fresh, and tickles his nose pleasantly—marigold and aloe. He’s seen the bottle in the shower. Sometimes, he has to bite his fist and turn the water to freezing when he accidentally imagines your wet, sudsy body, lathering the scent of marigold from neck to toe. It’s the in-between bits that make him especially nauseous with guilt. 

“Huh?” Stiles mumbles, pressing his singed tongue to the roof of his mouth. 

You poke his cheek and say, “You’re eating your lip. You only do that when you get stuck in a case.” 

Stiles can think of several other things that make him suck his top lip between his teeth, but he is stuck—most likely because he’s spent the last hour watching you. 

You frown, and he smiles a little at the wrinkle between your brows. You smooth out his own forehead wrinkles with your thumb and say, “It helps you sometimes—talking. You think best out loud.”

He does. Stiles swallows a little. You know him so well. You know everything about him. Everything except, of course, that the crush he had on you in elementary school has metastasized into an all-consuming, all-encompassing, honest-to-god, tried-and-true-blue, last-of-dying-breed, core-of-the-sun, probably-caused-the-big-bang kind of love. 

Stiles has tried, and failed, to think of a way to casually confess how he feels. How do you even begin to break something like that to a friend? Over Chinese food? After a few beers at your favorite bar? During one of your Buffy binge nights? How is he supposed to say, ‘Hey, so I’m kind of totally and irrevocably in love with you, and it’s ruining my life a little—but that’s okay ’cause I can’t be happy unless I know that you’re happy’ without blowing up his entire life? 

He can’t. So Stiles stuffs it down again with a sip of his coffee: black and bitter, a little like his heart when your not-boyfriend, boyfriend texts you. And he knows that’s so incredibly unfair of him. He knows that he’s needy, and pathetic, and far too possessive of your attention—it all makes him a little sick with self-loathing. 

You have every right to remove your warmth from his side to respond, and Stiles thinks that if a guy can make you smile like that, he must not be all bad. You seem happy. When isn't feeling sorry for himself, Stiles is happy for you. 

“The local police think it’s gang-related,” Stiles says eventually. His voice is raspy from his burnt throat and too loud in the silence of the near-empty apartment. 

You slide your phone back into your pocket, and Stiles tries not to feel victorious. “And you don’t,” you scooch back to his side, ducking your head over his shoulder to see his screen. 

“No,” Stiles combs his fingers through his hair and sighs, “I don’t. It’s too easy.”

“Follow your gut,” you say, poking his abs, “he usually knows what’s up.” 

“You know what he’s sayin’ right now?” Stiles’s back clicks as he stretches and rolls his neck around in slow circles. It does little for the perpetual ache along the ridge of his skull, but it gives him some space from you and your stupidly sweet smile. “It’s time for chimichangas.” 

You smile at him again, and Stiles blames the swooping in his stomach on hunger. “I think you deserve a little more than off-brand, freezer-burned Tex-Mex.” 

“Don’t knock Great Value,” Stiles grumbles, rubbing a hand over his face. His lips, swollen from an afternoon of tearing into them with his teeth, tug into a tired smile when you wave your hand impatiently in front of his face. He wraps his long fingers around yours and says, “She’s been there for me through everything.” 

“Higher standards, Stiles,” you roll your eyes, crinkled at the corners with your grin, “you’re in desperate need of higher standards.” 

Stiles wants to laugh, feels the impulse itch his throat. High standards are precisely his problem. 

“Maybe you should stop being such a brand snob,” Stiles pokes you in the side, a spot between your ribs that he knows is ticklish. You laugh and shove him away with a firm hand; Stiles goes willingly, stumbles into the doorframe just to make you laugh again. 

“I am not a snob,” you push yourself onto a barstool, socked-feet dangling below. He smiles as you swing them and then knock your ankles together. You used to do the same thing on the playground swing set. “Not liking over-salted garbage is not snobbery.”

Stiles reaches for the open bag of corn nuts on the island, needlessly resting his palm on your lower back under the guise of balance. Your skin is warm, and he’s too busy thinking about how his hand must’ve been molded around the shape of your hip to notice how hard you’re biting your lower lip. 

He tosses a few corn nuts in the air and catches them in his waiting mouth, smacking his lips together until they’re free of nacho cheese seasoning. He grins at the look on your face, and he wants to kiss the tip of your scrunched nose. “See,” Stiles sucks the leftover orange dust off of his fingers. His voice is muffled by his thumb when he says, “You’re snubbing my snacks right now—like a little munchie elitist. How dare you; they probably won’t ever recover.” 

You laugh, as expected, and snatch the bag from the counter, not expected. “You’re literally biting your thumb at me!”

Stiles leans against the counter, rests his forearms on the granite, and watches you chew with a dumb, fond smile on his face. You’re just so clever, all wrapped up in keen smiles and sharp wit. You keep him on his toes, always have—Stiles hasn’t ever met anyone else who can spar with him so well. He doesn’t think he ever will. Admittedly, he hasn’t looked that hard; his heart just isn’t in it—who else would paraphrase Shakespeare in the middle of a mock debate? Who else could possibly look so wily and wicked while doing it through a mouthful of, objectively, terrible gas station eats. 

“Purely accidental,” Stiles taps his fingers against the counter, and his shoulders lift with a small, oh-so innocent shrug, “it’s what we professionals call a ‘serendipitous turn of events’.”

“A professional what?” You grin at him. It’s one of his favorites, the one that says you’re about to tease him. “Sadist?”

“Oh,” Stiles’s brow quirks as he leans forward onto his arms, “so I torture you? Being around me is torturous?” 

“Yes.” Your chin jerks with a small, sharp nod, but the only thing Stiles can see is your pouty bottom lip. 

Sometimes, Stiles swears you do it on purpose—turn him on in the most inconvenient of moments. Make his heart swell into his throat until he devolves into a lovesick caveman. You have to know what you’re doing to him when you walk around in those little tank tops with the lace trim and the sleep shorts that ride up to the swell of your ass. It can’t be accidental, the cute laugh-snorts you’re so embarrassed of, or how you get so excited when you see a bird in a parking lot. It’s all too effective to be a coincidence.

Like right now, the way your lip balm shines under the kitchen lights and exaggerates your pout. You must know how completely and utterly kissable you look, and Stiles can’t do anything about it—now that’s torture. 

You give him mercy and tuck your pout away for a solemn line instead. “You’re evil; you never close the cabinets or take the trash out.” 

“Careful,” Stiles grins and snaps his teeth in the air, “I bite too.”

You lean across the island, and it’s torture, the way your arms squeeze your chest and push your cleavage to the neckline of your shirt. Stiles pointedly avoids looking at the round flesh. It just looks so soft, so plush—so ripe. His teeth ache. His tongue salivates. He craves with reckless abandon, and he’s never satiated. 

Stiles knows you’re a smart girl, but sometimes he forgets. You’d have to be pretty dense, after all, to not see the ravenous gleam in his eyes. You certainly don’t seem to notice it now, not with all that fondness twisting your lips into a grin. Stiles often wonders, worries, how you’d look at him if you knew. Disgusted most likely; he’s disgusted with himself half the time—but you’re so sweet, and so understanding, you’d probably forgive him. 

Pity, Stiles decides, if you knew, you’d pity him. He can’t decide if that’s worse. 

You rest your finger between his brows, and his dark lashes flutter, brushing against his freckles like they stamped the specks onto his skin. “Eat your nuts, monster,” you drag your finger along the slope of his nose and then ‘boop’ the tip, “and then preferably something with a single gram of protein.” 

Stiles grumbles to himself and searches the fridge for something that will placate your relentless bullying. He picks up the whipped cream and rolls the chilled can around in his hands, squinting at the label. 0 grams of protein. Stiles scoffs. Reddi Whip is, like, 75% milk, right?

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he forgets to shut the fridge door until it starts beeping at him like it's a personal offense. 

“Work?”

Stiles barely hears you, nose almost smooshed against his screen. “Huh?” He stares at his phone, eyes rapidly flicking back-and-forth, brain turning over how to counter the latest move on his ever-changing chessboard. 

Stiles finally registers what you said when he begins his reply to his unit chief. “Oh…yeah.” His thumbs fly over his screen at a speed that, frankly, shouldn’t be humanly possible, “One sec…”

“You need a break.” You stand and place your hands on your hips in an adorable show of strength. He knows that you’re going for stern, so he bites his twitching mouth lest he invoke your actual wrath. “You’ve been working 18-hour days for the last two weeks.” 

That’s an exaggeration, but Stiles doesn’t argue. He feels like it’s true. His stubble is out of control, and he’s afraid to look in the mirror and see exactly how dark his eyebags are. He only stopped by to shower and get a fresh change of clothes, but you came out of the bathroom in your little pink bathrobe and distracted him. 

Stiles hates that robe. Detests it. He wants to burn it. He wants to rip the flimsy tie off with his teeth. 

Mostly, Stiles wants to tuck you under his blankets and snuggle into the fuzzy fabric until he falls asleep. 

He wants, he wants, he wants. That’s the problem.

You pry his phone from his hands and slip it into your back pocket. “We’re getting drunk tonight,” you say, and you say it in a way that he can’t even argue with. You say it like it’s a fact—you’re informing him, not telling him. Stiles is usually happy to comply. 

That’s how you’ve always worked, after all: You point at a crocodile infested river, and he goes merrily, merrily, merrily down the stream, with a stupid, dreamy smile on his face. 

It’s just. He’s functionally useless at doing anything without you. You take care of him. Always have. 

Way back, when he was pre-Adderall Stiles, all baby energy and undiagnosed ADHD, you shoved a kid off of the swings when he made fun of Stiles’s babbling and twitching. He still babbles and twitches, but at least now he knows why. He doesn’t have some parasitic monster inside him; he’s just Stiles. 

You’ve always known that—how was he supposed to not fall in love with you? 

And after his mom died, you let him cry on your shoulder until your shirt was soaked through. He got snot all over your collar, and you just squeezed him tighter. Held onto him until he could breathe again, and then you said, “Want a grape soda?” and he almost started crying again because right then, at that moment, that was somehow the only right thing to say. Maybe because it was you, or maybe it was because you knew him so well. Maybe, it didn’t matter. 

You spent the rest of the night starfished over your bed, and after a minute of staring at your ceiling fan, Stiles whispered, “Do you think we’ll be best friends forever?”

You looked at him and grinned, all teeth and sparkly eyes, and said, “You better hope so, boy blunder. Who else is gonna watch Twin Peaks with you a zillion times?” And Stiles knows that he was only eight, and he knows that maybe it was just because you made him laugh after all the emptiness, but he thinks that he fell a little bit in love with you then, even if he was too young to put a name to the feeling. 

He finally figured it out when he was seventeen. Stiles wanted to be an adult so badly back then—and he felt like he was sometimes, after everything he’d gone through, but in so many ways he wasn’t. He definitely didn’t know how to handle his breakup with Malia like an adult—his first breakup, his first real relationship. 

Stiles drank a lot that night. He can’t remember exactly how much, or anything that happened after 11 pm, but he does remember how you stroked his hair. He remembers how you wiped the foul mix of bile and sweat from his face with a cool washcloth and tender hands. He remembers how you tucked him into bed and curled up next to him when he asked you to say. 

He remembers falling in love with you. 

The epiphany felt a lot better when he was warm and limp from his dad’s scotch. It hurt a bit, when he woke up hungover and in an empty bed. You were in the kitchen, making him breakfast: greasy eggs and hashbrowns. After he got over seeing you in one of his t-shirts, he wondered if you’d ever get tired of cleaning up after him and all his issues. 

Stiles still wonders that sometimes, even after you crawled into bed with him the night you found out your college sweetheart was cheating on you. He stroked your hair and ignored the wetness soaking into his neck, and you whispered against his skin, “Do you think we'll best friends forever?” 

Stiles wanted to laugh. And then scream. And then kiss you. He didn’t do any of those things. He just said, “Can’t picture it any other way.” He didn’t say that whenever he thought about the future, whenever he pictured forever, you were always there. 

He didn’t ask, ‘Is it okay if I’m in love with you forever?’

Stiles wants to ask it now, while you rattle off your plans for him this evening, but he doesn’t. He chews on a corn nut instead. 

“Lydia’s looking for the right opportunity to make a move on the guy in 2B anyway,” you finish, blowing a strand of hair out of your face. 

You’re looking at him like he’s supposed to say something, so he nods dutifully, “The guy with the mullet, right?”

You roll your eyes and poke around the cabinets, taking stock of the chips and tequila. “It’s not a mullet—you’re so obtuse when you’re jealous.”

Stiles blinks because…where the hell did that come from? “I’m good on the perm front, thanks,” he snarks through the food lodged in his cheek.

“Not of him,” you say, tongue trapped between your teeth and distracted by the mixers on top of the fridge. Your back is to him from your perch on the counter, and Stiles watches you with wary eyes. It would be so much easier if you'd just ask him to get things down from the top shelves, but you never do. Refuse to, actually. Vehemently. You'll do it yourself, even if it means breaking a limb.  

You manage to keep a hold of the pile of bottles cradled against your chest through your dismount, and Stiles breathes easier when your feet are pressed against solid ground. He’s glad your eyes are still on the kaleidoscope of sugar and citrus because you’d mock the relief in his eyes without mercy. 

You line the bottles up in order of emptiness and absently hum, “Well, yes of him, I guess, because—can you check on the vodka and gin?” 

Stiles sticks his head in the freezer, grateful for the blast of frigid air, and tries to untangle the crumbs of meaning in your flimsy accusation. He comes up with absolutely nothing—on every front of his mission.  “No gin.” 

You let out a long, heavy sigh and shake your head at the dangling light fixtures. “Lydia.”

Lydia was the only person in the apartment who liked gin, but Stiles didn’t have any room in his brain for commiseration. “So, I’m jealous of little orphan Annie from 2B because…?” He leans against the counter and tucks his hands under his arms, squinting skeptically, “Just so we’re on the same page n’ all.” 

You’re texting someone. He’s sure it’s Lydia, probably asking her to pick up more gin on her way home, but Stiles can’t help but wonder if you’re inviting your…whatever you call three decent dates and one evening of alright sex. ( Oh, how Stiles loved hearing all the details when you came home. ) 

“Hmm?” Your smile is lit up by your screen and the kittenish glint in your eye, but Stiles knows it’s not for him. He swallows his pettiness before he chokes on it. “Oh, right,” you put your phone down on the counter and smirk. This one is for him, but Stiles actually wouldn’t mind if it was for someone else; the look in your eyes is downright diabolical. “You’re so adorably, blatantly jealous that Lydia is into another no-neck, illiterate jock from the gym—but the perm is pretty bad, I’ll give you that.” 

Stiles’s jaw falls, and you laugh, completely misinterpreting his stupor. He stares at you and just shakes his head, scrambling for a grasp on at least one of the million questions pinging around his skull. “You think I want Lydia?”

“Uh-doy,” you roll your eyes like he’s said something particularly stupid, “only since forever.”

He’s struck again at how you can simultaneously know him so well and not at all. “You don’t think that would’ve come up in the last, I dunno,” Stiles’s head jerks with his choppy hand gestures, “eighteen years?” 

You wave your hand and then grab his wrist, “It’s been intermittent.” 

You lead Stiles back into your room by his hand like he’s a wayward dog on a leash. He’s grateful for it. Stiles can’t do much else besides blink and breathe when he’s like this—when he’s wrapped up in a case he can’t crack.

Stiles drops onto the edge of your bed with a solid thud, feeling a bit like someone slammed a 2x4 into his gut. His tongue seems to be useless, glued to the back of his teeth. All he can do is watch you flit around your room, gathering an armful of skirts and dresses. 

You hold up a black dress in one hand and a black mini-skirt layered under a red baby tee in the other, “Pick.”

Stiles wants to pick the sweats you’re currently wearing because they’re his, but he points at the skirt. He knows it’s your favorite; you’d pick it anyway. 

You sit down in front of your vanity and pull the scrunchie out of your bun. Stiles watches your hair tumble over your shoulders. You’re insecure about it, always have been. One day it’s the color, and then it’s the texture, and he, for the life of him, doesn’t understand why. Your hair shines so prettily under the light, and it always smells so sweet, like citrus and honeysuckle—Stiles can’t decide if he wants to bury his nose in it or wrap it around his spindly fingers. 

Graciously, you twist it into an artful arrangement before he can do either. 

“I don’t want to be with Lydia,” Stiles finally says quietly. 

You stop fiddling with pieces of hair framing your face and meet his gaze in the mirror, “It’s okay if you do.”

Stiles nods and stares at his lap, twiddling his fingers. “I know,” it’d be easier if he did, “but I don’t.”

You turn around in your chair and give him a little smile. It’s fond and sweet, and Stiles feels like a hand is closing around his heart and twisting it behind his ribs. “We’ll find you someone tonight, then,” you say, popping up from your seat. You grab your clothes off of the bed and squeeze his shoulder on your way to the full-length mirror next to your closet.

Stiles turns his head when you start to wriggle out of your shirt. He knows you don’t care what he sees after years of sleepovers and lake vacations, but you don’t know what it does to him. How all your dips and curves slip behind his lids when he’s alone with his fist and too much lube. If he’s really being honest, it also happens when he’s not alone, but that makes him feel like a piece of shit for a whole other list of reasons. 

All of it feels pretty awful when it’s over—when Stiles is left with the unpleasant sensation of drying cum on his stomach and the very unpleasant realization that you’d never wear a swimsuit around him again if you knew exactly what he does with the image. 

So. Stiles does what he can. He doesn’t look when you change, tries to avoid seeing you in a towel altogether, and watches so much porn of people who look nothing like you.

It doesn’t work, of course, but he tries. That has to count for something. 

Stiles swallows and taps his fingers against his thighs. “I can’t think of anything I want to do less than interact with a bunch of drunk strangers partying in my—”

“Not a bunch,” you say around a grunt, tripping over the dragging hem of your borrowed sweats, “and not a party. Just a chill get-together of like-minded peers.”

He scoffs and tips his chin up, rolling his eyes at the ceiling. “I’m sure I have so much in common with Lydia’s guest list. Yeah, we can talk about how they can bench-press two of me and that I also love me some stacking—pancakes, not steroids, but close enough.” 

There’s a whoosh of a zipper and then you’re in front of him with your arms folded over your chest and thinned eyes. “You better behave.”

Stiles grins; it’s decidedly obnoxious. “I’ll be perfectly cordial, promise. I’ll even speak slowly.”

You laugh, and Stiles knows you’re only pretending that you didn’t want to. 

“I think it’ll be good for you.” You return to your vanity and pilfer through your mess of earrings. “Y’know, to get out of your head for a little bit. It really is just gonna be us and a few plus ones. I know you, boy wonder, no parties shall ever be thrown in your honor. I solemnly swear.”

He smiles at the childhood pet name, a private little grin Stiles keeps tucked in his chest and at his feet. It falls, however, when he remembers the middle bits of your speech. “So,” Stiles gnaws on his thumbnail and jiggles his knee, “did you invite a plus one?”

You slide a gold hoop through your ear and grin at him, “Nah, I’m all yours tonight, Stilinski.”

Good. God.

Stiles wants to kiss you. He always wants to kiss you, but sometimes every inch of you rips the air from his lungs—cleaves him right in two. Like right now. He forgets how to speak, trying to remember what he can say and what he absolutely can’t say, while he imagines a life where you really are his and you know that he’s always been yours. 

You’re just so pretty in your little skirt and cherry t-shirt, and you’re so clever, and funny, and you’re looking at him like he’s your favorite person in the entire world, and Stiles feels all of it spilling over the edges of his restraint. He almost says something so heavy—so categorically, catastrophically stupid, it would ruin your friendship for good.  

Stiles swallows it back into his chest, but his voice is still thick when he says, “All mine, huh.”

He’s sick with yearning, and he’s petrified for a moment that you can tell. It seems so obvious to him. It would be obvious to anyone, Stiles thinks, if they heard how weak he sounded, how soft in his throat and reverent in your presence. 

But you don’t notice. You never do. It’s a relief, and it’s endlessly frustrating. 

“Yep,” you smack your lips together, blotting your red lipstick until it’s perfect, “I wanna win, and everyone knows you can’t win True American with a noob on your team.” 

His brow arches, and a lazy grin smears across his mouth, “Oh, so we’re getting drunk drunk tonight.”

You wink at him in the mirror, “If you play your cards right.”

Stiles does, in fact, play his cards right. He picks Scott as the third member of your cabinet, possibly because Scott can outdrink anyone…or maybe it’s because Scott knows that Stiles is pathetically into you and can’t keep his mouth shut at the best of times, but especially not when he’s drunk. 

Who’s to say, really?

Honestly, Stiles doesn’t need the advantage—Lydia’s voluntarily stuck with Isaac and the guy from 2B who can’t follow the rules no matter how many times they shout them at him, and Malia and Kira care far more about making goo-goo eyes at each other than they do helping their friend from yoga make any progress towards the King—but he’s competitive by nature and feeling exceptionally stupid tonight. 

Lydia introduced the Clinton Strip Rules solely to ogle her latest man candy’s aggressively sculpted six-pack and show off her bewitching décolletage, and it was going along swimmingly until the idiot forgot how to count. 

It was so simple. All the guy had to do was hold up three fingers—that’s all. He would’ve matched Lydia's count, and then they could've made out behind the Iron Curtain. But he didn’t. He held up two fingers and in doing so single-handedly crafted Stiles Stilinski’s demise.

Ironic. Considering the moron can't craft a compound-complex sentence to save his life. 

For a single, endless moment, you and Stiles just stare at each other, more specifically, at the four fingers plastered against your foreheads—and then the spell is broken by drunken cackling. Lydia grins like the cat who caught the canary, and Scott laughs until his face turns red. He’s loud and obnoxious with the four drinks he’s downed, and Stiles wants to shove him out the window. 

“Guys,” Stiles whines, “you don’t really—”

You finish the beer in your hand and shrug your shoulders, “It’s fine.” 

Stiles’s head whips towards you, big-eyed and fish-mouthed. He can’t form words. Can’t speak any of the five languages he knows. He’s become a Stiles Stilinski skinsuit held up by a skeleton of gelatin and faulty survival instincts. 

You smile at him a little and shrug again, “It’s just a game, right?” 

You don’t say it, but Stiles can hear it with painful clarity: It doesn’t mean anything. 

Stiles doesn’t know how to say no without telling the truth. It’s not that he doesn’t want to, not exactly. Stiles wants to kiss you—of course he wants to kiss you, feels like the whole goddamn world knows he wants to kiss you and is conspiring against him—but not like this. He doesn’t want to kiss you when it’s nothing. He’s thought about it far too much, imagined it on his bedroom ceiling in the safety of darkness too many nights, to blow it all on a stupid drinking game. A stupid gym-bro’s mistake. 

Stiles had a plan. A plan he never actually had the courage to act on, but a plan nonetheless. 

He was going to hold your face with shaking hands, smooth his thumbs along the sleek line of your jaw, look you in the eyes so that you could see the disbelief, the wonder, the awe. You’d see that he was overwhelmed to the bone, to all the nerves shivering inside the marrow, and you’d have to forgive him for being so tongue-tied and awkward—for taking so long. 

And then, he’d kiss you. 

He’d kiss you again, and again, and again, until one of you started laughing, but that’d be okay because it would give him the chance to kiss your neck and whisper, 'You’re the sky, and the mountains, and everything in-between.'

'You’re dark matter; you’re gravity,' he’d kiss the words into your skin and sigh, 'you’re the only thing holding the universe together.'

But he can’t say that, so Stiles follows you into Lydia’s bedroom and wipes the sweat on his palms off on his jeans.

You’re a little giggly while you fumble for the light. It’s breathy, and you can’t meet his eyes. Stiles feels a little better knowing that you’re almost as nervous as he is. You aren’t usually the nervous kind, after all. That’s his thing. 

Stiles slides his hands into his back pockets and rocks onto his heels, “We don’t…we can just pretend that we…did it.”

“Did it?” you arch a brow, lips curling into a wry grin. “It’s just a kiss, Stiles. I thought you wanted to win? We gotta end Lydia’s streak, or she’ll be insufferable.”

Stiles’s mouth goes dry: cottony with wanting, brittle with misery. He can’t pretend anymore; he can’t pretend that he's not dying from this.  

You can’t look at Stiles’s face. Can’t see the panic. It’s why you shuffle closer to him, stiffly reach for his shoulders and awkwardly search for the least romantic place to rest your hands. Stiles’s back thuds against the wall, and you finally dart your eyes to his. “It’s fine,” you say weakly. 

There’s a loud chorus of, ‘Kiss, kiss, kiss,’ through the door, and Stiles watches the resolve harden your face. His chest rises and falls with quick, shallow exhales. He can hear his pulse ricochet around his ear canal, can feel the sweat gathering on his palms, can taste the anticipation in the air.

You roll your shoulders back a few times and shake your hands by your side, rotating your neck in a few slow circles. “Just kiss me, Stilinski. No biggie. I think we can catch up to Isaac if you hurry the hell up and plant one on—”

“Not like this!” 

Your mouth parts into a perfect little ‘o’, and Stiles’s eyes bulge when he realizes that the pathetic, desperate cry came from him. 

You fold your arms over your chest and tilt your head with an expression on your face that Stiles can’t read for the life of him. “What,” you lick your lip, and Stiles squirms with shame when he can’t stop himself from tracking the movement, “what does that mean?”

Stiles’s face spasms, and he can feel his IQ drop by tens the longer you stare at him. 

“No, I didn’t…” Stiles’s stutters, flicking his gaze to your forehead, your chin, between your brows—anywhere but your eyes. His nose scrunches as he shakes his head, “Nothing. I just—I didn’t mean like that.” Stiles isn’t entirely sure what you think he meant, but considering he can’t decide what he means, it’s a safe bet that you’re wrong.

Stiles's hands take over for his melting brain matter, gesturing wildly every-so often like the flexing and contracting add any actual meaning to his meaningless babble. “I just, we can’t like that because that’s not…Do you know, like…? It’s very, like, you don’t…” His eyelids seem to have forgotten how to blink, and Stiles thinks he’d do just about anything for a piano to fall out of the sky right about now.

The chanting outside the door gets louder; Stiles isn’t sure if it’s real or just his anxiety. Through his narrowing pinprick vision, the only thing he can see at the end of the dark, dark tunnel is Lydia’s window. The heavy purple curtains frame the opening like serendipitous velvet gift wrapping.

Stiles swallows and nods sharply, “If you’ll excuse me.”

Stiles steps around you, and you follow his path with your eyes. They’re pinched with suspicion, but mostly concern. “Stiles, what are you do—”

“I’m fine,” Stiles tries to wave off your worries with a shaky hand. 

And then he unlatches Lydia’s window and crawls on top of a chair to reach the opening.

“Okay, this makes sense. I just need a little air,” Stiles mumbles to himself. His dirty sneakers leave a clear outline of his soles on the white fur. Under any other circumstances, you’d both be desperately trying to scrub the fabric clean before Lydia found the stains and rained her wrath down upon your very fragile, bruisable bodies. Under these circumstances, you’re preoccupied with the half of Stiles’s body that’s hanging outside the window of your 3rd-story apartment.

“Stiles!” you stumble to the wall and freeze, unsure how to pull him back in without accidentally tipping him onto the concrete three floors below. 

Stiles manages to slip the rest of his body through the window without breaking any limbs. Yet. “This is what I needed. Yup, this is—” his eyes engulf his face, a wide pool of churning honey, when he finally realizes just how small the ledge is and just how far away the ground is, “ah, ha, ha!”

“Stiles!” You cover your face with your hands and shake your head over and over again. You hope, childishly, if you spin fast enough, you can rewind time back to 10 minutes ago—when Stiles was safe on the floor and you could stop yourself from giving into the silly, stupid desire to kiss him. Just once. To finally find out how it would feel.  

You peek through your fingers and wince as he stumbles towards the left. “You don’t have to kiss me!”

Stiles disappears from view, and you tumble into the hallway. You let out a low hiss when your hip slams into a sharp corner. The flare of pain is soon forgotten, however, when Stiles slams his hands against the living room window. Everyone turns to gawk at him, eight mouths wide open and not a single word is spoken until Stiles presses his entire body against the glass. 

The window hasn’t been cleaned since you all moved in, so you can’t quite make out his expression through grime and dirt, but you can hear the shrill urgency in his voice. “This is a regret—I immediately regret this.” It would be funny, how high his voice is—approaching autotuned chipmunk territory, honestly—if he wasn’t six inches away from certain death. You can all laugh about it later when Stiles is safe on the couch, you decide. After you’ve punched him in the arm for doing something so bone-shatteringly stupid, obviously. 

Malia does laugh, and Kira smacks her shoulder. You almost appreciate the levity; it reminds you that your brain needs oxygen to function.

Scott cups his hand around his mouth and shouts, “Don’t move!”

Stiles smooshes his button nose into the glass. He inhales and exhales with mad abandon, creating and erasing a cloud of condescension with every breath. “I've made a very bad mistake! I’m not trained for this!” his lips smear against the glass, muffling his cries for help. Stiles pulls back, and leaves a streak of saliva behind. At least, that patch of the window is clean now, biohazard be damned. 

It’s Scott who ends up saving the day. No surprise there. He gets Stiles through the window and shoves him onto the couch, teeth ground in what can only be described as parental frustration. 

Scott folds his arms over his chest and narrows his eyes, “You scared me half to death out there.”

Isaac snorts and rolls his eyes, quipping over Scott's shoulder, “Are you not getting enough attention?”

“I’m fine!” Stiles groans into his hands and pinches the bridge of his nose. It’s still red from being smashed against the window, and the rest of his face matches with his embarrassed flush. “I am fine! I was partly joking and at least 64% drunk!”

“Stiles, we will talk about this in the morning,” Scott’s face is stern, and his grip on Stiles’s shoulder is just as firm, “but right now, I’m gonna go do stuff with a girl.”

Scott’s face is still solemn when he high-fives Isaac, mostly out of habit. You do laugh then. Can’t help it. A little bit of relief creeps through your constricted chest when Stiles smiles. It’s brief, a little twitch at the corners of his slightly-swollen mouth, but it’s there. 

Allison rolls her eyes when Scott holds out his hand, but she still takes it and follows him towards his bedroom.

“Shut the door!” Stiles shouts at their backs. He slumps back against the couch cushions when the thudding of Scott's door closing echoes through the hall.

It’s quiet for a moment. Kira shifts awkwardly, clinging to Malia’s arm for balance when the fog of alcohol spreads from her flushed cheeks to her platform combat boots. Malia doesn’t look that concerned, but she’s always been cool under pressure…and any other emotion. 

You expect Lydia to look as worried as you do, but she has a strange, calculating look in her eyes. They’re sharp in the light of her brilliance; the jade almost looks feline. 

Lydia’s beaux ends up breaking the silence with a loose laugh. His head tips back with his chuckle, and he throws his meaty arm around Lydia’s shoulders. “That was freakin’ hilarious! I mean, dude jumped out on a ledge instead of kissing a 10. Can you believe that?”

Lydia looks wholly unamused and says flatly, “I really can’t.” She fixes Stiles with a look you can’t read, but Stiles seems to understand. 

“I know.” Stiles drops his face into his hands and digs his face into the cradle of his wide palms. "I’m an idiot.”

Everyone seems to hear a cue that you missed while watching Stiles’s chest rise and fall. Malia, Kira, and their plus one filter out the door one-by-one, and Isaac kisses your cheek before wrapping his scarf around his neck. You’re relieved again when you hear Stiles scoff; it’s something he always does when Isaac puts on one of his pretentious kerchiefs in the balmy, LA weather. It’s nice to see some things are still the same. 

Lydia stares at Stiles, and they have a silent conversation that ends with a patented Lydia Martin glare and a quintessential Stiles Stilinski squint. 

Lydia leaves with her late night delight and kiss to your other cheek, and suddenly it’s just you and Stiles. 

You wring your fingers together, gnawing on the lining of your cheek. You can’t think of anything to say. To Stiles. You never thought you’d see the day. 

The couch creaks with Stiles’s shifting weight. He pushes himself to his feet and stands in front of you. The redness in his face has faded, baring the smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose that you’re so fond of. His lips part. Your breath stills, waiting. Wanting. His silence washes over the room like a flood, and you close your eyes. You’re afraid of it, witnessing the inevitable wreckage. 

It doesn’t come. 

You hear the quiet padding of Stiles’s footsteps. When you open your eyes, he’s gone, slinking down the hall to his bedroom. You stare at the place he was just standing, feeling the chill of his absence, and then it’s gone. A glaring blaze of anger warms your face, and you allow it to carry you to Stiles’s closed door. What a metaphor; the thought grinds your molars together until they screech.  

You wrench his door open, and Stiles jumps, halfway out of his jeans. He stumbles over the cuffs and almost falls on his face. You wish you could tease him, laugh until you snort and Stiles glares at you through his pathetic attempt to hide his smirk. But you can’t. Not yet. 

“You’re really just going to leave it like that?” you say, closing his door behind you. It’s preemptive; you feel a little like yelling. “That was a whole other level of stupid, Stiles, even by your standard.” 

Stiles quickly yanks his pants back up and buttons them, struggling with the zipper and his twitching fingers. “Can we just not,” Stiles rubs a hand over his face, looking infinitely older than he is, and mumbles a hollow, “actually, can we never.”

The words hang heavily in the air. In the harrowing quiet, you think: Oh god, is this it? Is this really the end?

Stiles stares at his feet, at the hole he’s wearing in the oak floor. He hears it too, the weight of what he’s done. Fucking hell, he thinks, I didn't know cowardice could be so loud.

You smooth your hands over your hair, clasping for any semblance of composure. “I just…I didn’t realize that the thought of kissing me was so…traumatic.” 

Stiles jerks his head from the floor and tugs his fingers through hair. He pulls at the roots until it stings and shakes his head, “That’s not…you’re,” he gestures towards you helplessly and swallows the millions of things he wants to say, “you.” 

“Yeah,” your shoulder lifts in a tiny shrug, arms winding around your torso like a brace, “that seems to be the issue.”

Stiles just looks at you for a moment. The lamp on his desk bathes his skin in a wave of warmth when he tilts his head. The tip of his nose casts a shadow over his lips, and you want to trace the divot in his cupid’s bow, the little lines by his nose, the hollow space under his eyes. You want to trace them all with your fingertips and then memorize them with your mouth. 

Stiles's eyes are golden in the light, and they’re stuck on yours. 

“You are…” Stiles closes his eyes, and his voice is so soft, so devout, “you are so fucking...inescapable, you know that? You are…you’re so deep inside my head, I can’t do anything without thinking about you. It’s becoming a serious fuckin’ problem—a nuisance, actually, a nuisance. And it’s not like I haven’t tried to stop, y’know, like it would be fuckin’ awesome if I could just forget how you smell like going home and a goddamn spring meadow, or if I could go fuckin’ grocery shopping without looking for those impossible to find chips with the Elmer Fudd lookin’ fucker on ‘em—”

“Hot fries,” you whisper hoarsely. 

Stiles stops pacing for a moment and nods at you, “Thank you—hot fries. And I would love it if I could walk down the street, just once, and not look for a dog to take a picture of, just so I have an excuse to text you without looking like I was just thinking about you—even though I was obviously just thinking about you because, re my previous ranting, there’s literally not a single second of the day that you're not on my mind. You're just…inevitable.” 

“And…I am Iron Man?” your smile is wobbly. 

Stiles gives you a flat look over his shoulder, “You’re a smartass—but I love that. I love everything about you—even the way you talk through my favorite movies and force-feed me a vegetable once a week.” 

“Stiles,” you swallow shallowly and rest your hand on his chest. Stiles stops pacing and meets your gaze with big, endless eyes and blinking butterfly lashes. Tipping your head to the side, you swipe your thumb over his thudding heart, “What are you trying to say?”

Stiles rests his hand on top of yours, clunkily lacing your fingers together for a little stability. “I love you,” he whispers, because he has to. It has to be this soft. It has to stay just between you and him, in the little bubble of air between your lips. “I’ve been in love with you since…” Stiles chews on his lip, trying to pinpoint when he knew, when he knew that you’re it for him. There are so many moments that come to mind, and he can’t pick a single one. It’s just that the line between mud pies, and t-ball, and this is so blurry. Stiles can’t tell where it really begins and where it ends. 

It feels boundless, Stiles thinks, infinity. It’s something, somewhere, past the edge of the universe. He’s yours infinitely. There is no before he loved you, and there is no after. It’s just always.

Stiles breathes and sighs out his answer, “Forever. I’ve loved you since forever, and I couldn’t—I can’t kiss you if it doesn’t mean anything.”  

Your lips curve slowly. It’s a nervous smile, one that’s afraid of the rug being yanked out from under happily ever after. “You love me?” you say quietly, voice little and meek. 

The tip of Stiles’s tongue darts out, wetting his lip. He nods slowly and rubs the back of his neck—an anxious tick you know very well. You’ve watched Stiles for eighteen years, after all. You’ve studied the tendons in his neck, how they flex when he crooks his head down to read, how it makes your belly warm more than it should. You know he flexes his fingers exactly three times before starting a test, and you know that the long veins in his arms are the most stupidly attractive things you’ve ever seen. He’s the most attractive thing you’ve ever seen, and you’ve loved him for so long it’s written in your bone marrow. 

Stiles scratches his neck until it’s pink and raw, and you pull his hand away instinctively. He smiles at you so timidly it breaks your heart, “Is that okay?” 

You nod, and nod, and nod. “Very okay. Very, very okay. The most okay of all the okay’s.” It’s so fast, and it’s been so long, but mostly it’s right. Like this is the only logical conclusion, the answer to a cold case that took eighteen years to solve. Your life has always been youandstiles, and that sounds a whole like forever. 

Slipping a hand to the back of his neck, you run your thumb along the knobs of his spine and whisper, “I am so ridiculously in love with you, boy wonder.” 

Stiles grins. It starts small, fond, tender—but the more times he hears it, every time she loves me, she loves me, she loves me bounces around his ribcage, his grin gets a little bigger, a little brighter. Soon, it stretches across his entire face and swallows you whole. He looks more than alive like this; you want to taste the electricity in his mouth. 

You smile at each other for a long time, and you look at Stiles through your lashes. “So,” you tip your chin and bat your eyes, “you gonna kiss me?”

Stiles is going to kiss you. He swears. He’s just…he’s thinking too much after an evening of not thinking at all. He’s been waiting for this for forever, and what if his lips are dry—or, worse, what if they’re too wet? What if his hands are cold and clammy, and you can feel his sweat when he cups your cheeks. He definitely feels sweaty. And nervous. And—

You rock onto your tiptoes and kiss him. It’s a little kiss, soft and short, but everything goes static and neon around you. You let out a little sigh, start to pull away—and Stiles whimpers. His hands surges forward and latches onto the back of your neck, pulling your mouth back to his. 

Stiles slides the breadth of his large palm up and down your back, chasing the rhythm of your breath. There isn't much to chase, you think deliriously, you aren’t really sure if you need oxygen to survive anymore. You like swallowing his sounds and tasting his tongue far more than breathing. It feels like Stiles agrees with you when he wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you into his chest, digging his fingers into the small of your back until there’s nowhere else for you to go. Silly boy. As if you’d rather be anywhere else. 

He makes the sweetest little noises in-between your kisses, softening the wet smacking of lips and tongues. You chase them, learning what he likes by unraveling him one sound at a time, with a tug on his hair here, a nibble on his lip there, and your hands just about everywhere.

It’s hot. Literally. You can feel heat licking your skin—or maybe that’s just Stiles. Your head is a little fuzzy from his kisses and not enough oxygen, and logic is a distant thought. Breathing. People need to breathe. 

Stiles’s nose bumps against yours when he pulls back. He smiles drunkenly and leans in for one more kiss. It’s quick and open-mouthed, two little brushes of his lips, and it steals what’s left of the air in your lungs. 

Stiles brushes your hair back and rests his forehead against yours. His breath chills your spit-slick, swollen mouth, and you shiver at the look in his eyes. “I meant something like that.”

[perseephoneee]

Can you do a isaac lahey imagine where the reader us on her period and freaks out and doesn't know what to do so lydia tells him what to do

hehe yes omg

period talk (isaac lahey x f!reader)

warnings: fluff, period talk, dumb boy

a/n: try the drink mentioned if you want to imagine running through hogwarts on a winter day.

↳ masterlist ↳  want to be shipped with a fic character?

Isaac wouldn't admit it, but he loved the cold weather. He liked when the winter season would hit, and holidays were a topic of conversation. Holidays were the only time his Dad treated him like he was actually proud of him, and despite that fucked up relationship, Isaac couldn't help but romanticize the season. It's why, when Beacon Hills hit a new low for the weather, he was excited to see you at school. Perhaps he could even convince you to skip class and get hot coco with him.

Unfortunately for him, your period had started therefore your mood was sour. The cold just added to your discomfort, and you basically hissed at him when he came by your locker.

"Woah, what did I do?" Isaac recoiled, a nervous laugh on his lips. You took a deep breath before turning and facing him.

"Nothing, you did nothing," you sighed. "I'm just...not doing great."

"Whats wrong?" Isaac inquired, brows furrowed and concern evident on his face. You loved your cute werewolf boyfriend, and while he was very helpful, he probably couldn't do much for you right now.

"I'm on my period," you admitted with a twinge of shame. Talking about these things was never fun, even to someone you trusted. A blush coated Isaac's cheeks as he processed what you said.

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"Should I, uh, do something?" Isaac stammered, hands in his pockets.

"Just be you, I'm a big girl and can handle myself," you chuckled, lightly slapping his arm as you closed your locker and started in the direction of class. Isaac stood in the hallway a moment longer, before deducing a game plan and targeting the area of the school he knew the familiar red head would be. She was typing on her phone when he ran up beside her, backpack slung lazily over his shoulder.

"I need your help," Isaac said hurridly, earning a squeak of surprise form Lydia. She set two angry eyes at him, and he resisted the urge to run away. Women did not like him much today.

"Stop sneaking up on me like that," Lydia rolled her eyes, putting her phone in her purse. "What is it?"

"Y/N is on her period, and I want to help, but I don't know what to do, and you're a girl and you're smart so I thought you'd have some ideas?" Isaac rushed, lips pressed in a thin line as Lydia cocked a brow at him.

"Why do you have to make everything so dramatic?" Lydia huffed, flipping her hair over her shoulder. Isaac sent her a look though that showed that he wasn't going to figure anything out, anytime soon. "Look, unless she asks for products, don't bother trying to buy her them-- you'll likely get the wrong ones anyway. Get her her favorite warm drink, a heating pad, blanket, maybe an activity or something calming."

"Drink, heating pad, blanket, activity, got it," Isaac listed out everything, brows scrunched together in concentration. "Anything else?"

"Yeah, during this time, she's always right. Even if you think she isn't, just agree that you're wrong and she's right. Otherwise, she'll claw your eyes out," Lydia crossed her arms, daring Isaac to challenge her. He stayed quiet though, and she loosened up her stance. "I have to go, have fun, don't get killed."

Isaac was never that great at social cues, but he really liked you, and that was enough. Ignoring the uncomfortable feeling taking pit in his stomach, he skipped out on school to go get the necessary things Lydia listed. Starting off with a butterbeer chai, a concoction you created (two pumps caramel, two pumps toffee, caramel drizzle, and chai); going to CVS for a heating pad and a blanket; then finally the bookstore down the street where he found a book you wanted (after searching through his phone for fifteen minutes trying to find the text where you mentioned wanting a new release). By the time he had finished his grand adventure, school was out and he would be able to surprise you.

You were having a crappy day with a side of more absolute garbage, so you were very pleasantly surprised when your golden hair boyfriend comes bounding up the street as you exit the school building.

"Woah, where's the fire?" you chuckle. You finally take notice of the bags he's carrying, as well as the drink.

"These are for you," Isaac stutters, passing you the drink. You peer in the bag and can't hide the grin on your face as you take in the plethora of supplies he got. "I know you weren't doing well, and I felt bad, so I got some stuff."

"Isaac, you are the sweetest puppy of a boyfriend a girl could ask for," you smile, wanting nothing more than to pick him up and twirl him around (he is too tall, you are too small). "How did you know what to get?"

"I asked Lydia," he mumbles, staring at his feet. You fight back a chuckle.

"Probably the smartest thing you could've done."

"That was my thought process as well," he chimes, scratching the back of his neck and shooting you a grin. You lean up, kissing him on the corner of his mouth and looping his arm through yours.

"C'mon, lets go hide from the cold together and I'll bitch to you about life," you chime, the cold dusting yours and Isaac's cheeks in shades of pink.

"Sounds perfect, just like you," Isaac smiles, kissing the top of your head as you walk off back home.

[sibyllinebooks]

poly relationship between scott, stiles, and reader headcanons

a/n: holy cow uhm 35 likes on my first post ?? take this hastily made post as a thank you. if you want me to make a part 2 lmk 🫶🏻

a/n: also this is meant to be an afab reader but i tried not to use any gendered pronouns

you met them in middle school. you had just moved to beacon hills and since you had no one to sit with at lunch, stiles convinced scott to introduce themselves.

and somehow, it worked. you clicked with them instantly, seamlessly integrating into their lives like a puzzle piece they’d never known was missing.

the saying “two’s a party, three’s a crowd” has NEVER been applicable to the three of you. wherever you went, they followed. wherever they went, you followed.

intimacy had never been an issue for the three of you. sure, puberty was a little different for you and the boys but for some reason it was never awkward to talk about. maybe because stiles never had a filter when it came to anything.

you got your first period ? you whined about how badly it hurt and suprisingly, scott was the one who comforted you most. his mom’s a nurse, she taught him ( i know she did. mama mccall teaches her son to respect women and about anatomy. he had the talk very early. )

stiles had to learn a bit. but his adhd caused him to go down a health rabbit hole and now he’s always worried when you complain about cramps. “are you okay? did an ovary burst?” he’s stupid and he knows better but he means well and his mouth says things before he can think.

of course, stiles and scott did have their own conversations about their side of things. mostly about how you were the subject of a lot of their fantasies. but they’d never tell you that. they’re not weirdos.

as you grew up, you were always able to talk about crushes with one another. stiles had been in love with lydia martin forever and whichever girl caught scott’s eye for a time. you had the occasional fancy but it always passed. for some reason you always got bored. i wonder why.

sleepovers were always fun. star wars marathons and dumb sci fi movies and you forcing asking them to watch cute romance movies with you. and you’d always cuddle up between both of them, not wanting to have to choose between your two favorite boys. they didn’t mind.

at the start of high school, you realized just how handsome they had become. stiles with his adorable buzz cut that made scratching his head so easy during cuddles. and the soft tendrils of hair that would curl behind scott’s ears. you wished you could brush them back. but that was normal, right?

you were always their biggest supporter so when they said they wanted to try out for lacrosse, you were there. you even made a poster ( obviously both their names were on it. it was easier to hold one sign. )

the team made derogatory comments about how you must be a slut and you had to be giving it up. why else would you have two best friends who were both guys?

and that hurt you. but the implications of the statement burrowed somewhere in your mind and didn’t go away. i mean, you had always been together platonically. would it really be so different if you were romantically?

and you tried to ignore it. you did. it was illogical to feel that way for two people. to want two people in a way that made your heart hurt and your stomach ache. wasn’t it?

so you told yourself it didn’t matter because stiles still liked lydia ( or so you thought ). it would never happen anyway. and you’d been friends with scott for years. he probably only saw you the same way he did stiles.

you were wrong. you were so wrong.

after scott was bitten, things shifted between the two of you. he seemed more confident, more sure of himself, and he seemed to be around you even more than usual if that was even possible. you liked it. you liked it a lot.

the morning before the first lacrosse game, you and scott were talking before school. stiles was nowhere to be seen ( likely having broken down with roscoe again ).

that was the topic of conversation, actually. you two were placing bets on what had delayed your best friend’s arrival.

“i guarantee you he’s duct taping roscoe on the side of the road again.”

“that or his adhd ass forgot to set his alarm clock again.”

and you were both laughing. you were laughing so hard and you didn’t notice the way scott’s face had changed. like you were the one who made the sun rise in the morning and put the stars in the sky.

“can i kiss you?”

the question caught you off guard. it wasn’t something you expected him to ever say. you were silent for several minutes. it was the longest stretch of time scott had ever felt. and then you nodded.

he was so sweet. hesitant, at first. it was simple and short, but his lips were soft and you could feel him smile when you kissed back.

unfortunately, you two never had a chance to talk about it or what it meant as the familiar blue jeep pulled into the parking lot a few seconds later. you didn’t know if stiles had seen what happened between you and scott. honestly, you didn’t want to know. because even though you felt something for scott, you felt something for stiles too. and you didn’t know what that meant yet.

and with all the drama going on between trying to figure out who bit scott and surveiling derek and getting through classes, it wasn’t easy to find the time to talk things out.

and maybe it’s better that you didn’t. because then you kissed stiles.

you hadn’t meant to. honestly, you really, really hadn’t meant to. but scott was out with derek so stiles had decided to keep you company and do homework together.

except you both got very bored very quickly so you turned on a rerun of some old movie you’d seen a thousand times before. and stiles kept pointing out the inaccuracies which sparked a heated debate between the two of you.

you were rambling, trying to prove your point that it didn’t ruin the movie. and you noticed that his brown eyes were locked on yours and he seemed to be holding his breath. and he looked so pretty that you stopped mid-sentence and all coherent thought went out the window.

you kissed him first and it shocked the hell out of him. you took that as a bad sign and immediately pulled back, embarrassment causing a burn in your cheeks and a stammer as you tried to apologize.

“stiles i am so- i’m so sorry. i didn’t- i mean- i know you like lydia- shit i’m so sorry.”

he kissed you the second time. and all of your worries went out the window. you were still kissing when scott walked through your door.

for the second time that night, you wanted to crawl into a hole and die.

“i was wondering when that would happen.”

your mouth DROPPED as you gaped at scott’s words.

when you got your composure back, you three had a very lengthy conversation about what this meant for the three of you.

you knew you liked them both and you didn’t want to choose. thankfully, they didn’t make you. you’d always been their favorite and they’d give you anything you wanted.

now you have the two best boyfriends in the world.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Pick Me 1

Warnings: this is a dark fic which may contain noncon, violence, and other dark elements. Please keep in mind that all events and characters are fictional. Be mindful of the content you consume and pay heed to the warnings given.

Character: Tony Stark

This is a sister series to One

Note: Please feel free to leave a comment in the replies, a reblog, or my ask. I appreciate likes but I enjoy discussing with you all even more. Your time and feedback are truly appreciated 💞.

You sit in the front row, like you do in every lecture. Just like you’re top of the class in every course. You don’t miss a class or a reading or a due date. Unlike the rest of your peers, you’re not here for the party life, you are here for an education’; for a future.

As your fellow pupils type their notes on their laptops, if they’re even bothering too, you’re writing each word by hand. You listen intently, eyes stuck to Professor Stark as he speaks with his hands, curling his fingers to emphasize his points. His voice carries effortlessly around the airy space, echoing in your ears.

You watch him just as rapaciously as you cling to his every word. His dark hair is laced with gray and his handsome features are lined perfectly with age. A man seasoned just right by the passage of time.

And he isn’t unaware of the effect he has, even on girls barely half his age, though there are few among his audience. Engineering tends to be inhospitable to the quote ‘fairer’ sex.

Yet his first-year physics is overcrowded with girls agog at his devilish smirk. It’s not lost on you how a wink could make one feel something or another. But you remind yourself that this is an academic setting and you shouldn’t be thinking of your professor in that light.

Besides, you’re not his type, are you?

You grimace as you pull your thoughts back to your slanted writing. Ugh, focus. You don’t need to watch Julie twirl her hair as she tries to snare Stark’s attention or notice how Lydia shifts in her seat, crossing and uncrossing her legs. These girls are there for an elective, but this is a core course. You can’t mess this up.

As the three-hour slot comes to an end, a sigh of relief ripples through the rows of students. Lap desks are folded down and laptops snapped shut. A chatter buzzes through the lecture hall but you take your time packing up.

You close your notebook and pull your messenger bag into your lap. Lydia stands, hooking her purse on her shoulder as she fixes her skirt deliberately. She’s brazen enough to spend the lecture beaming up at Dr. Stark without taking a single word down. He doesn’t even seem to mind as she takes obvious selfies and pouts out her lips. It’s like a game to her. Not everyone has a rich daddy to buy their degree.

Julie gives a moping look but is dragged off by her sole companion. You spoke to them once on the first day but quickly realised they are too vapid to stomach. You curl your lip as you glance over at the steady tide of fleeing students. 

Lydia takes her chance to approach the podium. She leans on it as Stark powers down the projector. You can’t hear her churlish whispers but he chuckles in return. As he looks at her, a gleam in his dark eyes, you stare. It’s like you don’t even exist.

She reaches to touch his sleeve and he leans in. His silty tone rolls through the silence but his words are indiscernible. You bite the inside of your lip. You’re right there. How could he want those dumb girls and their overglossed lips? You have a brain, you have substance.

Uh, but aren’t you just as stupid? Thinking about it at all. Wandering off in your mind when you should be studying? Spending those moments before your staggered sleep picturing Dr. Stark and his trimmed goatee, wondering if his silvered hair is as soft as it looks.

Pathetic. You sling your bag on your shoulder and march to the door. You grab the handle and pull it open, the hinges whining. You cringe and glance back. You’re a ghost, you are air, you are nothing to them. How can that be?

Neither of them notice you. They are close, so close. You could stay and watch them and they wouldn’t even know. Professor Stark shamelessly reaches to hook his finger down the front of Lydia’s shirt, given a tug as he leers at her cleavage. She giggles and you leave before your stomach turns.

You don’t want to be like Lydia. Or Julie. Or the countless other girls who’ve passed over his office desk. You don’t want to be another tick mark. You don’t know what you want. You just want that knot in your chest to come undone. It’s a distraction you don’t need.

You could never be jealous of those girls. With their short skirts and crackly trills. You could never fawn over a man with that dumb look on your face. You don’t want to simper to Dr. Stark, you want to have a discussion with him, to learn from him, to witness his genius. Those girls signed up because they needed to fill a box and because they knew his reputation. You sat on the waitlist for a month because you want to be the best so you need to learn from the best.

No, you are not like them.

Your fists ball so tight your nails jab into your palms and your jaw aches from gritting your teeth. It isn’t envy, it’s indignity. They don’t deserve to sit in those seats, they don’t deserve to take in his brilliance all the while it slips in one ear and leaks out the other. 

You just don’t get why he humours them. You don’t get how they are his type. They are empty. They are dull. You might not have the experience but you highly doubt they offer much more on their backs.

Well, you’ll be there next semester, in Physics II and they’ll be off to their arts classes, learning verbs and writing redundant papers on the meaning of the colour blue. He doesn’t see you now but he will. How could he not? You are not like the other girls.

[rosiebeetle]

"Spinning on this infinite road, no idea which way to go no light above and theirs no hope below"

Lydia deetz mother was murdered when she was just 12. Her case being left as a cold one pushed Lydia to find her own answers. It's been four years and that scrawny teenage girl is still fighting to find her mother's killer and put him in jail. Maybe with the help of some raggedy dead guy she'll finally be able to achieve that.

YES MY BREAK IS OVER GRAHHH this little dumb idea was brought to you by watching pushing daisies and then seeing a nancy Drew edit on my fyp so here! Hope you guys like the pilot :3

[bitchesuntitled]

This is Halloween

Pairing: Frankie x F!Reader Summary: Frankie can't stand zombies but Nora wants to watch a scary movie. Warnings/Tags: Parents to Lovers universe but can be read as a standalone, Nora's a little shit, cussing, zombies, Frankie may be a little paranoid, Frankie hates zombies, scary movies, Goober gets her own Halloween costume, Humor, teensy bit of fluff, I think that's it. If I'm missing anything let me know! A/N: Everyone thank @whocaresstillthelouvre for letting me steal her idea. She unleashed one sentence and my brain went "OMG. NORA AND FRANKIE!" Thank you @beefrobeefcal for your eyes and for making me a moodboard! HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!!

Masterlist||Parents to Lovers||AO3

divider by @saradika-graphics

Goober perks her head up from your lap, hearing the garage door open.

“Are they home?” You ask her, scratching behind her ears. She gives a soft bark before using your thigh as a backboard to bounce off the couch to the back door, meeting the girls as they enter.

“Mom!” Nora says excitedly, digging into her bag, “Look what we found!” She pulls out a costume, proudly showing it off.

“A zombie?” You ask, “Since when do you want to be a zombie?”

“Since she saw it at the store,” Missy laughs, “She had to convince my dad to buy it.”

Nora having to convince Frankie of something isn’t anything new, but a halloween costume? That’s weird.

“What’d you get, Miss?” You ask, waiting for her to dig into her bag to present you with her costume.

“Beetlejuice!” You laugh, clapping your hands together, “That’s amazing!”

“Dad’s gonna be Bob!” Missy giggles, admiring her new costume.

“Oh Goober!” Frankie sings, laughing wickedly as he enters the living room, “We got you something!”

Goober wags her tail, listening to Frankie talk, flopping onto her side, showing him her belly.

“Missy wants to be Beetlejuice and then said I should be Bob,” Frankie says, kneeling to scratch Goober’s belly, continuing to talk to her like no one else is in the room, “And then guess what we found, Goob!”

Frankie looks to Missy who pulls out a Lydia dog costume.

“Poor Goober!” You groan, “You’re seriously going to put her in that?”

“Duh,” Frankie snarks, “That’s the whole point of buying it! Speaking of which, you need to think of a costume too!”

“I’ll go as a pregnant lady,” you huff, sticking your tongue out at him, rubbing your hand along the prominent bump of your belly.

“No!” Nora wails, falling to her knees, gripping her costume in both hands, shaking it, “You can’t just go as yourself!”

“Yeah!” Missy agrees, eyes widening with an enthusiastic nod, “You gotta dress up for Halloween!”

“I know!” Nora shouts, scooting towards you on her knees to the couch, “Frankie we should go back to the store and get Mom some of those fake zombie bite things and she could go as a zombie like me!”

“A pregnant zombie!” You laugh as Frankie stiffens beside Goober, “I think I’ve seen some of those costumes online.”

“Please Mom,” Nora begs, clasping her hands together and poking her lower lip out.

“Fine,” you smile, poking her nose, “Just for you, kid.”

—

“What do we wanna watch?” Missy asks, trading Nora the remote for the popcorn.

“What about this?” Nora asks, stopping her scrolling on the tv to some zombie movie.

“What’s up with you and zombies now?” Frankie huffs, laying his arm around behind you on the couch.

“What’s up with you and zombies?” You ask, smirking at his hesitance.

“Nothing.” Frankie quickly protests, shrugging, “I just think they’re dumb.”

“Dumb?!” Nora shrieks, whipping around to glare at him, “You’re dumb!”

“Nora!” You scold, “That’s not nice.”

“Yeah,” Missy scowls at Nora, “My dad’s not dumb.”

Things between Nora and Frankie have been less tense and they’re more civil now but they still have their moments. Nora’s sass and Frankie’s stubbornness like to buttheads every once in a while.

“Sorry,” Nora mutters, gently handing the remote to Frankie, “Here. You pick.”

“Thanks.” Frankie mumbles, taking the remote and scrolling through the selection of movies, “Any suggestions?”

“Maybe we should watch something scary.” Missy comments shyly, “It is close to Halloween.”

Frankie lets out a breath, “Okay.” He scrolls back to the zombie movie that Nora had found. “Do you guys really want to watch this?” He asks, clicking on the title to read the description.

“It’d help me and Nora know how to be zombies,” you nudge him with a small laugh. Nora nods her head looking at Frankie with those big round eyes of hers.

“You’re not gonna get scared?” Frankie asks, tapping against Missy’s shoulder with the remote.

“Nah,” Missy shrugs, “Zombies aren’t real.”

“Alright,” Frankie sighs, pressing play on the movie.

As the movie plays out on the screen, you can’t help but feel Frankie tense up every time a zombie is shown. His leg bounced as the growls and groans of the zombies intensified.

“You okay, babe?” You whisper in his ear, rubbing your hand on his thigh.

“Yeah,” he grunts with a nod of his head, leg stilling instantly, squirming as he watches a zombie bite someone, “Peachy.”

When one of the main characters of the film gets bit, Nora lets out a little cheer.

“That guy was mean!” She explains, when Missy gives her a funny look, “He deserved it,” she adds with a shrug of her shoulders.

—

Frankie jumps awake, breathing heavily. He glances over at you lying peacefully asleep, taking a deep breath. It was just a dream, he thinks, rubbing his palms against his eyes trying to rid himself of the images of you and the girls being torn apart by zombies.

He’s been on several tours fighting alongside his friends in wars he didn’t want any part in, seeing first hand what the government is capable of. His friends think he’s crazy for thinking the possibility of a zombie apocalypse happening is real.

He fucking hates zombies. Unpredictable, terrifying bastards. It’s the worst kind of horror Frankie could imagine. The helplessness on what to do, keeping the girls safe, keeping you safe, the list goes on.

The red numbers on the clock read 12:30am when Frankie glances over. The beating of his heart was not settling anytime soon. Half asleep despite what his heart decides to do he decides to get up and go get some water, making his way to the kitchen, he hears noises. Ticks of the clock on the wall, the breeze outside, Goober snoring from her dog bed, and a weird scratching.

Frankie grabs a cup from the cupboard, filling it with water before leaning against the sink as he takes a drink of the cool liquid. His heart rate starts to settle as he focuses on his breathing and drinking more water.

“Fraaaankie,” he hears a soft growl coming from the dark corner.

“What the fuck?” Frankie murmurs, squinting his eyes to see what’s there, the moon casting shadows in through the window of the kitchen, a lone figure is standing in the corner. His heart rate speeds up again, what the fuck is that. A snarl comes from the creature as it reaches its hand out.

Frankie lets out a high pitched scream, dropping the plastic cup in his hand to grab the towel laying next to the sink, throwing it at the creature. Goober starts barking and howling, hackles raised, with all the commotion in the kitchen. With the towel lying beside the creature on the floor, it starts to let out an ear piercing giggle.

“What the fuck?!” You boom, waddling into the kitchen, flipping on the light, “What the hell is going on?!”

Frankie stands next to the sink trying to catch his breath, while Nora continues to laugh, dressed fully in her zombie costume. Goober looks relieved as she registers it’s Nora, tail between her legs as she walks closer to her sniffing the fabric of the costume.

“Mom,” Nora laughs, “Did you hear his scream?!”

“Nora,” you yawn, trying to catch up on what possibly could have happened, “What did you do?”

“I thought it’d be funny.” She shrugs, taking a breath to try and calm herself, “Didn’t know he’d be such a baby about it.”

“I am not being a baby,” Frankie says, glaring at her. “I was half asleep and you scared the shit out of me, Nora.”

“What’s going on?” Missy mumbles, coming behind you, “I heard someone screaming.”

“I scared Frankie with my costume,” Nora giggles, twirling around so the ripped fabric of her costume flew in the air around her.

Missy starts to laugh, “That was you?!” She asks, looking toward Frankie. His ears and cheeks turning a bright red.

“Alright, everyone to bed,” you announce, ushering the girls out of the kitchen. Goober quickly followed behind.

“I cannot believe that happened,” Frankie admitted with a shake of his head, bending to grab the cup off the floor and swiping the towel over to soak up the water he spilled.

“It’s okay, baby.” You smiled, gently rubbing your hand between his shoulder blades, “Everyone’s scared of something. Yours just happens to be zombies.”

Frankie stood rolling his eyes, “Yeah, fake things that aren’t real.”

“Mmm,” you hum, making a face, grabbing arms to loop around your waist, “I don’t trust it.”

“What do you mean?” He asks, giving you a cautious look.

“You don’t think something like that could happen?!” You ask, flailing your arms.

“You think it could?” Frankie asks under his breath, squeezing your waist.

“Duh,” you laugh, “Anything could happen!”

Frankie smiled, leaning in to pepper kisses along your face as you let out soft giggles, he knew you were the one for him.

Tagging some people who I know like the series if you don't wanna be tagged just let me know!

@jay-zzle @soft-persephone @casa-boiardi @pastelpinkflowerlife @amyispxnk @desuidesu @yxtkiwiyxt @pinkypromisepascal @merz-8

[smol-lydia]

What gift would your favorite character most like to receive and what would they give to their loved ones?

Oh Babs I love your asks so very much!!!

I will do this for both Arcane and Bob’s I think! Maybe Beetlejuice too lol

—

Arcane—

Viktor: I think for presents to receive I could see him as the type to appreciate something made for him or something practical. He’s extremely practical when it comes to academic things and everyone gets him books and while one can never have too many books, you will win his heart by making him food from his culture (y’know I headcanon him as the Zaunite version of Jewish) or the practical type of stuff he won’t admit he needs like something to keep his Turkish coffee warm or the special blend of pain cream he won’t buy for himself because he thinks it’s too expensive. (Ask me how I know as a babe with a mobility aid)

When giving presents, oh Viktor is ***thoughtful*** he will absolutely scour the Piltover market for your favorite sweets or flowers or tinker in the lab to make you something special personalized to your interests. He’s not one to easily admit it but he’s big into quality time/physical touch when he has it (the time that is) so he’s going to the extra mile with affection when the two of you are alone.

Jinx: Jinx is like a magpie in her lab. She is always in want of anything interesting so she can build a new device, augment, or weapon, and plenty of paint and glitter and gems to make an entrance.

She’ll take some new records for her gramophone but only if you understand her musical taste.

In terms of giving, your present isn’t gonna be wrapped, it might explode on you, and it’ll definitely be colorful. Good luck.

—-

Bob’s Burgers

Louise: Louise wants either something Kuchi Kopi related or utterly diabolical there is no in between

In terms of giving presents, it really depends on if you are in her good graces or not, and questionable if she paid for it

Logan: Logan wants skate gear, or when he’s older, someone to get tattoos with him. Unfortunately his girlfriends keep getting him finance bro type gifts like expensive sweaters and cologne

In terms of giving presents, he gives most people gift cards. Except whatever girl he’s dating who gets some kind of slutty underwear.

He sends Louise a stupid shrimp themed gift every year as a dumb inside joke between them.

—-

Beetlejuice

Beej: Beej just wants affection from his babes (Lydia) and some validation but won’t admit to either

He won’t get you shit because his dumb ass is always broke and running from owing people shit

[i-stand-unshaken]

Pepper Ann appreciation post

So my bestie recently introduced me to the classic Disney cartoon Pepper Ann that aired from 1997 to 2000.

I'd seen it some as a kid, but for whatever reason I slept on it at the time and in the ensuing decades. Having finally watched the whole thing, and seeing how slept on this show is online? I wanted to make a post telling you why it's well worth checking out.

It's hilarious... much more hilarious than you may think at first glance. It seems like a fairly lowkey little slice of life show (and in several ways is), but the protagonist is such a girlfailure that her exploits always go to some hysterical places. And beyond that, the show gets downright batshit insane. Here's a sampler: Mark Hamill becomes President of the United States. And I'm not talking about a character voiced by Mark Hamill, oh no. It's literally Mark Hamill as voiced by Mark Hamill.

Despite this, the show has so much heart and can be genuinely emotional. It's also not afraid to tackle some mature subjects, like death, cultural appropriation, feminism, and even puberty.

The main characters - Pepper Ann Pearson herself, her best friends Nicky Little and Milo Kamalani, and her mother Lydia and sister Moose - are all very lovable with well-defined personalities who play off each other really well. And it is so refreshing that we have a dude who hangs out with two girls, and there's nothing romantic going on whatsoever. They're just really close platonic friends. (that said I have become shameless Pepper Ann x Nicky trash and this ship has taken over my mind please send help)

On that note, there are practically no unlikable characters. Even the more antagonistic characters are amusing and charming in their own ways.

To elaborate on Pepper Ann herself, she's such a fantastic, unique protagonist. It seems like a shows aimed at girls, especially around the time this one aired, were afraid of depicting their protagonists as anything less than basically perfect. Pepper Ann? Uh-uh. No. She's a total girlfailure who is somehow both REALLY smart and REALLY dumb at the same time (we're talking some WataMote tier cringe comedy at times) and can be a selfish jerk but also has a huge heart. She's just so fun and has an A+ character design and amazing voicework from Kathleen Wilhoite.

There are like zero bad episodes. And it got a proper finale that's a very satisfying and emotional ending.

So yeah, this is just a show that deserves way more love and attention. At least it's on Disney+, but can we get a Complete Series DVD release too?

[lyrenminth]

Quiet love 2/?

For this chapter I highly recommend to listen Ariana's song - we can't be friends - to get in the mood

And yet, Justin wasn't the type to make a move. So, you were screwed up.

"I had a great night" you said, heading toward your room. "What are you plans tomorrow?"

"I'm gonna go golfing with the guys"

You nodded.

"Have fun"

"We can have dinner here" he added.

"Yeah, sounds good"

And the sudden thought caught off guard. Did his friends knew about you? Tate knew because it was obvious. But people here in LA knew?

"Justin, your friends know about me?" you asked, regretting it at the moment.

He frowned, confused.

"What do you mean?"

"Your friends in L.A, not in Eugene"

"I don't think they care or why they should know?"

"Because it makes me feel unwelcome. The fact the you prefer to hide our friendship"

"That's not true" he argued "I don't want nosey people in my life, our friendship is something I treasure"

"And what's wrong with people knowing about me?"

"I want privacy in my life"

"I'm not going to spill anything"

"It's not about that!" he raised his voice, frustrated. You flinched and he ran his hand through his hair with exasperation. "The fanatics are crazy. And I don't want people stalking you, telling you insults and threatening you when things aren't pretty during the season"

You stayed in silence. You were arguing before bed again. How funny.

"I'm not talking about the fans, I'm talking about your teammates, people you know here in L.A"

He gulped, and crossed his arms against his wide chest.

"Mmm it's not common to present a friend" he said, suddenly shy "Only girlfriends and wives"

"Only...oh" you felt dumb, of course you wanted a space reserved for another person.

You let out a sigh. You were so stupid.

So, so stupid.

"Well, that's clarifying" you said, trying not to cry.

Really? Crying because your friend is your friend and gives you friend treatment? Then why...why he does those things that confuse your brain? Why he treats you so nice, invite you dinner and let you stay all the time you want? Made you feel wanted and loved?

You felt your eyes burn and blinked to keep the tears away.

"Are you ok?" he said, worried getting closer to you. You gave a step back, and he looked hurt.

"Yeah, it's...summer allergies I think"

"You don't have allergies"

"Mmm L.A weather is intense" you changed the topic. You looked at your room's door and bite your lip "I'm tired, see you tomorrow"

"Wait..." he call you but you were closing the door already.

Needless to say you couldn't sleep so much that night.

You couldn't stop thinking about what would happen if you tell him the truth. You dreamed about him a lot. You dreamed about his affections changing its course and realizing it has been you the whole time. You wanted to be his special person because he was yours. He was yours since childhood. He was yours since the gave you a Star Wars band-aid when you scraped your knee playing or when you searched for frogs during your walks in Oregon. He was yours during the Christmas exchange, and the family meetings. And what would you do with all your affection if he said no?

The thought made you cry harder.

You were bleeding your love at 3 am.

The next day, you avoided him like a plague. Yes, it was childish and immature but you couldn't look him in the eye without feeling a turmoil of emotions inside you, good and bad. If you dare to look at him you would started crying or threw him a shoe. You went straight to work, and since you seemed in distress you co-worker, Lydia asked you what's up.

You tell the story, his name was omitted in purpose. All the emotions, his behavior, your confusion, your friendship. At the end of your story, she wasn't happy.

"I'm sorry, but I think you should put your big girl pants and ask him" she said, sounding rational "it's not healthy for you staying in a situation like that. Pretty cool of him letting you stay, but if it's something bothering you, you should talk to him. The worse thing that can happened it's knowing you can't prolonged that situation anymore"

"How am I suppose to do that?"

"Hey, I think I catch feelings for you but we really haven't spoke about it so tell what do you feel so I can make decisions "

"I'm not brave like that " you regretted.

"You must, baby. You are dying in a "what if"

"But he is my friend, I don't want to lose him" it was true, you had so much story.

"It's better for you. You deserved to be loved by someone without limitations"

You were crying at that point, feeling pathetic.

"If he says no, where am I going to stay?"

"I have a friend who is looking for a roommate, the apartment it's closer to work, so you don't need a car" she said, compassionate about you.

"Can you send me the number?" you cried.

"Yeah"

When you arrived at the house he was in the kitchen which surprise you because you purposely took the longer route. He should be sleeping by now. WHY HE WASN'T SLEEPING?

You said the driest "hi" and went to your room. You felt his stare burning your skin. Your heart beating so fast you were scared of having a heart attack.

You changed your clothes for something more comfy, you grabbed a book and sat on your bed to start reading. You were two chapters in when Justin knocked your door.

"Come in"

He appeared, in grey pants and a blue shirt.

"If you are hungry there tacos and soup" he said "Keenan's wife made it"

"Thank you" you said, still reading your book. Words didn't make sense but it was better than look at him because it was painful. He leaned at the door.

"Can we talk?" he asked. You stomach twisted.

You feelings were to intense after the talk with Lydia, but what she said it was true. You were dying of uncertainty.

"About what?"

"About...us" he replied.

You gulped, and it was like passing a stone through your throat.

"Okay"

He moved again, somehow staying in the same position. He put his hands in his pockets then decided it was better to cross his arms. You waited patiently.

"Are you mad at me?" you sighed.

"No, Justin" your voice was soft but firm. Good.

"Yesterday you were mad" he stated, you didn't blink. "What did I do?"

"Nothing" you felt like someone was cutting through your chest to get your heart out. "I'm more annoyed with myself than with you"

"Why?"

Why it was so difficult to talk about it?

"I misinterpreted our situation" you voice trembled and you cursed at yourself for being so weak around this man.

His face was blank. The same face he puts when a journalist ask a stupid question.

"How so?"

Oh, dear. If you could only talk without fucking crying. It was happening, wasn't it? Revealing your feelings and potentially losing a friend.

You were so scared.

You deserve a love without limitations.

"Gosh, Justin. I came here, you lend me your car, you bought me pickles, you treat me like more than a friend and then you say you want me to stay..." saying it out loud made you feel worse. It was nothing, it was kindness. It was friendship, wasn't it? "I... I know we haven't seen each other in years so I thought...I thought that you may feel something for me as I feel for you"

His throat bubbled. His gaze was on the floor.

Of course, how could you forgot? He was a man.

"I don't know what to say" he started. "You know, my work, my life is very different from yours"

What the actual fuck? What was he trying to say? Was a Mr Darcy type of proposal?

"Justin tell me the truth, do you like me back? Yes or no?" You asked, getting angry. You didn't deserved such disrespect. If he didn't like you back, well you would deal the heartbreak but prolonging these feelings until the end of season and beyond was madness.

"I'm not sure" he replied, you almost didn't hear him.

But it was all you needed to know. You exhaled deeply, feeling all the emotions at once. Luckily your face remain blank, you grabbed the sheet with such force your knuckles turned white.

"I guess... that's ok" you looked at your watch only to see it wasn't night yet. "Well, I'm going to continue with my original plans" you opened your book again trying to play it cool not reading a damn word "If you need something send a message"

"What do you mean?"

You raised your eyebrows in confusion.

"By original plans?" he prompted.

"Moving out, I mean" you replied not glancing once. You were acting petty, but he just said he didn't like you back. Of course you were ashamed, angry and desesperately in love.

"Oh, alright" he looked around, not even giving you a glance.

His short answer was like a stab in your heart. Sometimes he was so cruel, but he had the right to feel what he was feeling too. You could not force him to like you and that was even worse. Your eyes were burning, tears blurring your vision.

"Good night" he had the audacity to say before leaving.

And when he closed the door, was like closing all the posibilities you had to be something for him. Throwing years of friendship only because you misread him.

And you felt so so stupid. Of course you were only his friend. How could you even think to be more than a friend? He was Justin Herbert, young, rich, athletic. He had all the options in the world, why he would settle for you?

You started crying, leaving all those emotions out.

Just another sleepless night.

[sheryl-lee]

no because i just remembered a few extra things that make the teen wolf m*vie even more of a pathetic exercise in clownery:

allison staying Alive and getting back together w/ scott means that they’re doing a dan/serena in s3 of gossip girl (in that they are dating. while their parents are ALSO dating. ew. gross. what the fuckkkkk)

the age gap between malia and parrish is JUST as gross as when they tried to make lydia and parrish a thing in s5 and it’s disgusting and i hate parrish on the basis that he is an empty husk of a character who’s always Just There and Shirtless Whilst On Fire

speaking of, derek dies by setting himself on fire. FIRE. the same thing that killed HIS FUCKING FAMILY????? and he sets himself on fire in front of his own son which he would never do because he went through the same thing when he watched his family die???? 🥴 huh?????

isaac took the box that contained the nogitsune in it w/ him to like france or whatever. so how the fuck do liam and discount!kira have it with them in JAPAN????? 

the logistics of derek having a 15 yr old child is so ridiculously dumb like they didn’t even TRY with that it makes no sense and the only person who could be the mother is fucking kate argent (derek’s literal rapist) and i hate that so much

stiles would never leave the jeep behind. the jeep is the only thing he has left of his mother. why would he leave it in beacon hills and then never return to beacon hills. lmao.

in the s3 finale, the pack defeats the nogitsune with a WOLF BITE. because he “can’t be a fox and a wolf” (direct quote!). so how the fuck does the nogitsune come back and turn into a *squints* FOX WOLF HYBRID is this even real-

lydia said that her grandmother had banshee premonitions of her own gf dying, and even though she tried to prevent it, her gf died anyway. so how can lydia be 100% sure that if she breaks up with stiles, he still won’t die????? lmao

how are derek and scott both true alphas if there’s only 1 in like a 1000 years or whatever the fuck i forgot but. it’s still stupid

there’s probably more but yeah this is what happens when you can’t just leave well enough alone. let things end. not every piece of media needs a reboot revival requel sequel spinoff whatever. just let things go instead of sacrificing your fans and creativity for a soulless cash grab 🫥

[semicolonsspace]

hi hi, i saw that u asked for requests so i was thinking abt hate sex with stiles.. like u guys have hated eachother since elementary and now u guys are in highschool but there’s a lot of tension and reader does the last thing to tic him off and yeah. i didn’t really know how to put this in words srry😭

No No! I get you, Angry Stiles is hot; Let's try it! Warnings: Grinding, p in v, fingering, degradation Scott and Lydia hear everything from the other room, Blood kink if you squint?

Y/n was best friends with Lydia Martin her whole life. Ever since she bumped into Lydia at the playground when you were young. Y/n loved her, and she would do anything for Lydia. That being said, Y/n would scare the boys away for her. Lydia had this guy named Stiles Stilinski who was rumored to be obsessed with her. That being said, Y/n hated him. There was no way, this scrawny guy would get through Y/n to her. Not on her watch.

Stiles knew how close she was with Lydia, and he hated her that just more because of it. Like seriously, she was always there. Everywhere Lydia was, Y/n was there. That killed him, he had no chance with Lydia because of Y/n. Not like he even tried to go after Lydia. He liked Y/n, but she was mean to her so he was mean back.

Stiles had his eyes out for Y/n ever since he saw Lydia and you in science class in seventh grade.

Y/n sat at the lacrosse practice with Lydia as she was cheering for her friends Scott and Stiles. Unfortunately, Lydia made Y/n cheer with her, having you help her hold up a sign with her. Y/n didn't know why she had to do so, she didn't complain as it was pissing Stiles off even more somehow.

Stiles stood on the field, sweat dripping from his forehead. He glared at her from afar before he focused back on the game. Y/n felt his glare and smirked, having bothered him even more while not even having to try.

That was before Y/n looked up to the mystery sign that read "Scott for the win!" Y/n laughed knowing why he was angered now.

Y/n fixed her hair quickly, pulling it into a ponytail. A smirk was on her face, turning into a huge smile as Scott made a goal. The two girls cheered louder, Scott smiled before looking at his best friend and shaking his head.

"Damn, what is Stiles doing? He kind of sucks," Y/n says pointing to the face that he was just standing there glaring at you.

"Only you would notice how much Stiles sucks," Lydia smirks. Y/n rolled her eyes and flipped her off before the two laughed it off.

After the game, she followed Lydia; They ended up arriving at Stiles' house and Y/n groaned. "Why do we have to be at his house? His house smells like a hormonal teenager and axe body spray."

"You described his smell." Lydia stared at you. "And our team won, that's why; We're celebrating." She grabs her by the wrist and drags her into the house.

Y/n eyes follow the decorations around the house, noticing how it looked pretty homey. Her eyes landed on Scott and Stiles before glancing at the TV. Star Wars was playing. "You got to be kidding me. We're watching a kid's show."

Stiles scoffs and flips you off. Stiles sat on the couch, his legs manspreading. His arms are crossed as one hand holds the finger. "You can always just leave."

Y/n shrugs. "So, I won't be able to torture you with my amazing presence? I don't think so." She plops next to him, making his legs close. He groans before scooting away from you.

During the movie, her leg bounces fanatically. Stiles slaps his hand on her bare thigh and squeezes. She gasps. "I swear to gosh, stop shaking your damn leg. It's shaking the damn couch."

She punches his shoulder, "How was that for shaking? Shut the fuck up, can't you see I'm trying to watch this dumb movie?"

"If it's so dumb then why don't you go do something useful and get us some drinks?" Stiles sighs. She doesn't say anything, stands up, and walks to the kitchen. She searches the cabinets for drinks and groans.

"Are you that dumb? It's in the fridge." Stiles says grabbing your hand from the cabinet handle. His hand lingers, grabbing your wrist.

"Says you. I saw you at the game, you sat there staring at me the whole game."

Stiles groans at her her hand suddenly slapping his face. "Get off me."

Stiles grabs at her, holding her hands behind her back, and pushes her on the counter. She hissed at the cold contact against her stomach. She squirms trying to release her wrists and gives up after a bit.

"You look better like this," He whispers into her ear. His hot breath tickles her ear. "All helpless and pathetic, look at you," He purrs. His voice was low and raspy, showing how much enjoyment he was getting out of this.

Her mind submits to his words, going blank. The only words on her mind were him, his breath against her ears, His cock against her core.

"You know I can feel your excitement against me," She fights back. She squirms trying to release her hands again. He moves one hand, holding her wrists on her back. His other goes for her hair and he thrusts his jean-covered cock against her. His grip on her ponytail pulls her face toward him, her back arching in the process.

"You think this is for you?" He breathes into her cheek. She shutters at the feel.

A smirk forms on her face. "Yeah, I think I do." Her hips go backward into him. He groans low, his cock twitching at the sensation.

"Maybe it is, Maybe it's always been you," he admits softly against her ear.

Y/n pauses before continuing to struggle. His free hand goes to her shorts, shoving his finger behind the hem and pulling it. The slap of the hem against her hips makes her whimper. "You hear that? A pathetic whore is enjoying being toyed with."

Her hips grind back into him, wanting any pleasure that she could get. His hips back away, his hand slowly tickling down the sewn stitch. His fingers find her clit and start to tease her through the cloth. "I can feel how wet you are," he growls. "Who's the cause of that?"

She responds with a moan, the pressure against her clit going straight to her head. Her mouth is open and he turns her face to look at her. He licks her lip, his teeth grazing her lip. His lip pierces into it, a red tint oozing from her lip. In a growl, his lips connect with hers, his fingers still working his magic against her bundle of nerves.

His fingers move her shorts to the side, sliding two fingers into her. Her hole welcomes his fingers, clenching around his long slim fingers. His fingers curl, hitting her G-spot.

She moans into the kiss. The vibration emitted through his chest and to his twitching cock. His tongue rubs against her cut lip, the iron taste tainting his senses.

He releases the kiss, kisses following down her jaw. "I asked you a question, baby." His voice was stern.

"You're fucking dad did." Stiles' fingers pause, leaving the her pussy. He quickly licks the juices off before he unbuckles his jeans with his free hand.

"You're gonna regret that." His dick was at her entrance, teasing against her folds. He spread them, allowing his clock to enter her. His cock slams into her, his free hand covering her mouth so she couldn't scream. She moans from the stretch. His cock kisses her cervix before sliding out and kissing it once more. He thrusts into her making her go limp. Her head was held up by his hold on her ponytail was the only thing keeping it up.

"Be quiet and I'll let go." She nods frantically. His hand lets go and her hands grip on to the counter. His other hand still holds her ponytail up, and she locks eyes with him. Sweat trickled down his face, his mouth open with pleasure. His groans exit with each thrust. "You're the cause of it," Y/n admits. His mouth curls up and opens a smile.

"I know I am," He says cockily. Skin slaps were heard as he pounded harder into her. Her hands tighten against the counter as the rubberband builds. She attempts to talk but gets cut off from him.

"Fuck, I can feel you clench around me," His hand finds her back, pushing it against the counter. Stars visit her vision as the pressure of his cock rubs against her cervix and her wet ridges.

His hand removes from her hair and rubs her clit, her body squirming in pleasure. "Fuck, I-" She screams as she finishes. His thrust doesn't stop, going faster into her. The overstimulation burned inside of her. She clenches around him, her cunt gripping him tight. "You're so fucking-" His cock exits last second as warm thick liquid falls onto her back.

"You bitch, that was my shirt, asshole."

A hand slaps her ass, a squeak coming from her. "Shut it." His hands tear at the shirt, a new shirt going onto her post-orgasm-dazed body.

The shirt was warm, snuggling against her body. He picks her up and walks past Lydia and Scott. His naked torso was warm protecting her limp body.

"Finally you guys are done, that was horrendous," Lydia yells. Scott's eyes were wide open, his face on the TV as his face was red.

[mslowlife]

Mad(e) For You - Part III

Part I Part II

Pairings: Yandere! Ethan Landry x Yandere! Reader

Warnings: Murder, blood, violence, stabbing, swearing, possessive reader

Summary: No one deserved Ethan, especially her. You were going to make sure of it. Only you deserved him.

Word Count: 947

A/N: This part is really short I'm sorry ;-; i've been so busy last few days but I still hope you enjoy <3 thank u all for the support as well <3

Lydia Marrol. What a name, you thought. You repetitively told yourself that of course he had an ex girlfriend, there would always be another before you, but it still made your blood boil. How dare he. He should have known, he should have just been patient and not given in and dated some lowlife like Lydia. Lydia just seemed so amazing, Lydia had the perfect nuclear family, Lydia was just so smart with her scholarship. Gosh, why are girls so dumb you thought, just accepting any follow request they get for the sake of another follower. She practically let you into her life, to her ‘private’ online world. She did this to herself. 

And even though they had been broken up for nearly three months, she still seemed so hung up on him. Always posting some cheesy breakup quote on her story with a sad song, or posting some stupid and unconvincing ‘i’m totally not in love with my ex’ motivation crap. Scrolling through her older instagram posts, you found old photos of Ethan and her together. God. She probably didn’t delete them because she thought they’d get back together. Well they weren’t, you were sure of it.

-

It didn’t take long to find out who Lydia was, you see with some simple sleuthing you could find exactly what school Lydia Marrol attended, what classes she took down to the exact times and days, and what dorm she stayed in. 

Adjusting your coat, you slipped your boots on and headed out the front gate. Finding where Lydia would be this time of evening wouldn’t be too hard, considering she usually spam posts what she’s doing at every time of every day. 

Looking at her timetable, you found she just finished class minutes ago. Perfect. Then, you went on her instagram, knowing she would have just posted some unrelatable crap on story, and yes of course, she did. “study timeeee someone bring me coffee and i’ll love you forever”  After her insufferable story post, you went back to her first story of day, showcasing her ‘OOTD.’ Perfect again. Now you know what to look for.

-

Winter was truly showing how harsh it could be, dark clouds rolled over the city, making the sky darker than it was. Droplets of rain fell from the sky, and in a matter of seconds, rain gushed down in violent showers, causing people to run for shelter or pull out their trusty umbrellas. Taking shelter in a nearby bus stop, you waited patiently. She shouldn’t be too far away now. Lydia took the bus home from school on days like today.

In just the corner of your eye, a blurry figure approached through the spitting rain, they wore a tan coloured coat, a grey beanie and dark blue jeans with a tote bag they kept under their arm. There’s Lydia, you thought. Wiping the seat with her hand, she sat down. Offering a friendly smile to you before reaching for her phone in her bag. You glared at her up and down, how could Ethan have loved her? Loved her? What if he loved her? Why would he? Just the thought of him loving her alone made you fuming.

But rather than losing your cool, just yet, you took a deep breath and scanned around you. Ensuring no one was walking nearby, or any cars were around. 

Lydia’s face lit up from the glow of her phone. She wasn’t going to see this coming. Reaching into the inside of your coat pocket, you pulled out the silver blade by the heavy wooden handle. 

Here goes nothing.

In sudden force, you twisted your body to Lydia, before plunging the knife into her stomach. Her body contorted, buckling beside you as she gasped for air and groaned. Her eyes bulged, swelling with hot tears. Using your free hand, you silenced her by grabbing onto her jaw and covering her mouth. In and out, in and out was the motion of the knife as it punctured her stomach. Blood covered your hands and shirt as you straddled her motionless body to get a better angle of her torso. 

“He’s mine. Only mine” You hissed.

Lydia couldn’t even respond, all she could do was gurgle and choke out incoherent words as blood oozed from her mouth.

“Fuckin’ bitch, think he still loves you?” 

Still no response. You twisted the knife in her guts, she deserves this.

As your adrenaline surged, you ploughed the knife hard and deeper into her stomach until your arms began to ache. 

“Can’t even fucking answer me, can ya?” You berated breathlessly.

Lydia spluttered her final breath, the entirety of her life in the last glimpse and blink of her draining eyes. 

You watched as the blood seeped down her torso, onto the bench seat then as it dripped onto the concrete. Her lifeless body spread on the bench, arms flailed apart from her body and painted with her own crimson red blood. 

The scene to you was beautiful. Your own artwork on display. 

Admiring your work was consuming and all, but as you came down from your adrenaline high, you realised you needed to go. Now.

Before leaving, you quickly changed coats with a new one stuffed away in your bag, then swiftly walked home.

-

Arriving home, all you could stare at yourself in the mirror. The intricate blood splatters on your body, the way it was smeared over your chest and arms. It was fascinating, surreal even. But what would Ethan think, would he hate you, or would he love you for this? Because after all, you did for him. You killed for him.  ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Taglist @volturi-girl-imagines @poisonousgem16

[thelunarbar]

How romantic sex on a school bus. Well ig just making out but my point still stands. And Ik it’s a dream but she’s all like ooh ok and I’m just like girl no. Make him take you to a bed at least. 

I love watching the way stiles opinion of Derek changes over time esp given that Derek doesn’t make a great first impression(not that stiles really did either but Derek’s was worse)

“Ate it?”

“Raw?”

“No you stopped to bake in a little werewolf oven.”

Scott’s hair is sooooooooo bad 😭

Also forgot how much I hate this teacher(biology or math maybe? Idk) he’s annoying

This may very well be the only time stiles tells Scott not to cancel a date. 

Danny deserves more love 

Lydia’s thing of acting dumb is really annoying like if he doesn’t want you unless you’re stupid you’re better off without him girl

Stiles reaction to Scott asking Allison about their hanging out with Jackson and Lydia

Jackson is such an asshole but Ik I end up liking him more later on

Of all things to lie about; your bowling skills???

Gotta love stiles needing to know if he’s attractive to gay guys(the answer is yes. Just ask Derek 😜)

Ngl I’ve never been sure how I feel abt deaton bc he’s like kinda helpful sometimes but also super weird more often than not

I fucking adore Melissa McCall 

Dude I tried for literal months(tho without rewatching bc I didn’t wanna do that at the time) to figure out where the pic of Derek standing behind broken glass came from and it’s from ep three when the police officer and then Scott show up the hale house 

I feel like rains too much for this show being set in California 

Derek is so nonchalant about Scott’s freak out I love it

“Why is this starting to feel like you’re Batman and I’m Robin? I don’t wanna be Robin all the time.”

“Nobody’s Batman and Robin any of the time.”

“Not even some of the time?” I love this lil convo and esp this last line bc stiles sounds so sad abt it 

Seriously why is the lighting so damn dark all the time even when I have the brightness on my screen turned all the way up and to my recollection it only gets worse

Scott and his fucking one track mind 

Yikes Allison’s closet is so bad all like boho chic and sequiny

Again a parent walking in without knocking 

I mean at least he acknowledged he forgot to knock but like teenage girl who could’ve been like changing or smth jeez

Love that he’s clearly getting ready to go out and they decide to sneak out before he leaves 

Man I wanna go bowling I haven’t bowled in so long (related even if it doesn’t seem like it, Jackson Lydia Allison and Scott go bowling)

Jackson’s laugh is so obviously fake and it’s so obnoxious 🤮

I can appreciate that being werewolf didn’t make him good at everything(just most things) 

I love love love Derek’s car 

Why does Chris argent wash Derek’s windshield for him??? Oh yes very intimidating good job Chris 

I can’t wait for argent to grow a beard he looks so much better with it 

Breaking the window on Derek’s car was so unnecessary and rude 

Ofc now Scott is great at bowling 

Lydia using Scott to make Jackson jealous is so annoying 

Ah innuendo 

“How do you cheat at bowling?”

“I don’t know, but you did.” But for real Jackson how does someone cheat at bowling 

And Derek’s being a creep again cmon man no wonder people don’t like you when this is the impression you always give 

Call a code? You have to specify which one Melissa. I’m not even a nurse and I know that 

Yay another cringey make out scene 

“Do either of you even play baseball?”

I love that they’re both super honest and just say no when she asks if they care there’s a police enforced curfew

Scott’s angry voice is not great 

Derek’s echoy voice thing wtf is that?

Love that Scott’s first thought is to try to get Derek arrested, again, for smth he didn’t do 

Ooh jump the whole staircase he’s so cool guys you don’t even know 

Ooh he’s losing the jacket things are getting serious 

The noise while he shifted was gross and not necessary 

Also I’m pretty sure they change his shifted makeup look later on bc he doesn’t look how I remember 

Love the choice of Destroya by MCR for this totally pointless fight between Scott and Derek tho 

I mean I say fight but it’s more like Derek beating the snot out of Scott 

and now we have the rational conversation after punching each other 

Oh now you give him answers after you beat the crap out of him

How come we never really discuss the fact that Scott is part of Peter’s pack? At least until he becomes an alpha himself

[lydiasfalling]

LOVER

percy jackson x aphrodite!reader

➸✧˖*°࿐ taglist : open!

˗ˋˏ warnings : fluff, some angst ˎˊ-

‧₊˚✧ lydia’s yap fest ! ✧˚₊‧

another post bc writing these are so fun. feel free to send recs! i’m happy to write stories to y’all’s wants. notes & reblogs are greatly appreciated. have a wonderful rest of your day !! ♡

percy was upset. you don’t know how or why, but something was just off. as you two sat on the beach together, you could see his body tense as he fiddled with his fingers. neither of you has spoken since you sat down on the sand, and it was really started to bother you.

“how was training?” you asked, hoping to break the silence somehow. this didn’t work, considering percy just raised his shoulders in a shrug before dropping them again. no words shared. “so . . . the silent treatment? what’s your problem?” you were getting fed up.

“nothing. i have shit to do. talk to you later.” percy started to get up, wiping the sand off his clothes.

you looked at him, confused as to why he was so eager to get away from you. you got up, following after him. “why are you acting like this? what’s going on?” you wrapped your hand around his wrist, pulling him to a stop.

“dude. nothings wrong.” percy looked at you bored, crossing his arms over his chest.

you scoffed, “dude? since when am i ‘dude’?” you were upset now.

“i don’t know. go ask conner.” he rolled his eyes in your direction.

“conner? from ares? why would i talk to him?” the confusion returned to your features.

“you two were together all day. seemed like you guys are close.” percy gave you a pointed look

“is that a joke?” you asked. if his anger was directed towards conner for you two talking, he was so insanely mistaken.

it was now perry turn to scoff. he found your oblivion quite frustrating. “gods, are you kidding? he’s such a flirt. he was giving you the eyes all day.”

“percy, no. you’ve got it all wrong.” your shoulders slacked, all the tension leaving your body as you realized the problem.

“really? enlighten me then.” percy kept his face hard, not letting any sort of emotion seep through the cracks.

you walked closer to him, “absolutely nothing is going on with conner. conner is dating my sister, juliette. he needed help planning their date for their two year anniversary. that’s why we were talking today.”

percy’s jaw went slack at this information. he couldn’t help the pink hue that overtook his face due to the embarrassment. his hand moved to rub the back of his neck. “well, shit.” he spoke.

“you’re dumb, percy jackson. i wouldn’t allow someone else to flirt with me. my heart is one-hundred percent yours. i haven’t even thought of anyone else since i met you.”

“i’m sorry, baby. i’m trying to work on the jealousy. t’s hard when you’re as beloved as you are. everyone wants you.” percy sighed, moving a hand to your waist and pulling you into him.

“i have everything i could ever ask for, percy. you’re all i need.” you wrapped your arms around his neck, embracing him.

“m’ sorry, sweet girl. won’t happen again.” he stayed wrapped in your arms for a moment, eventually pulling you back towards the beach so you two could watch the sunset. hues of pink and orange swirled in the sky, comforting the both of you as the sun said farewell.

taglist : @dancingwithourhandsuntied @laufeysvalentine

my masterlist

[asmoonlightthroughthepines]

I want a Maxton Hall spin-off that's basically the same story, but from Percy's perspective.

Him eavesdropping on the limo conversations, mentally losing it like "Lydia GIRL, that was your freaking pHilOsPhY tEaChEr's house that I drove you to all summer?!"

Him peeping on the school's group chat to figure out if he needs to pack more emotional support snacks for his favourite boy James, in case he cried in class again because Ruby called him a daddy's boy in public

Actually, do Percy and Lydia have a bet going about how many times James has cried since he swore he would 'take down that girl lickety-split'?

What do Percy and his limo driver mates talk about while waiting for their dumb millionaire kids at their coke parties?

Does he need to cancel his afternoon krav maga class again (always wants to be prepared in case he gets an opportunity to beat up Mortimer) because James wants him to deliver another handbag or Queen Victoria's dress to some girl's cottage?

Bonus: direct link to his full 'Meine Favourite Twins👫 👨‍✈️' limo playlist on Spotify

this show is so stupid i love it